Chapter Text
“James?” Richard calls from the other side of the kitchen.
“Clarkson,” James growls impatiently as he snatches a piece of Scalextric track from out of Jeremy’s hand. “Look at it. It can’t possibly go there.”
Jeremy begins to argue, but James turns his attention toward Richard, who is leaning against the counter, arms folded across his chest. “Yeah?”
“Where’s your juicer? Is it – did you put it away in one of the cabinets?”
It was never my juicer, he wants to mutter. “Don’t have it any more.” Before Richard can question why, James continues, sarcastically, “Why? Were you wanting to juice something?”
Richard shrugs. “Was thinkin’ about it. But never mind.” He grabs another beer and settles down next to the other men. “No, Jeremy,” he argues with a laugh. “It really doesn’t go there.”
Both men begin pointing out the shape of the track piece needed versus the shape of the piece Jeremy is adamant about attaching as Jeremy mutters, “Stupid fucking toys” over and over under his breath.
“Jeremy,” James begins, as calmly as he can.
“What?”
“When I asked you what you wanted to do today, what did you say?”
“Sd it din mana.”
“I’m sorry. I’m not fluent in oaf. Can you repeat that?”
“I said it didn’t matter.”
“Right. And Hammond and I want to race cars.”
“And I want to race cars, too, James. What I don’t want is to follow some stupid diagram and snap together some stupid plastic pieces just so….”
“Jeremy!” That’s Richard, the laughter in his voice outweighing his frustration with the same row they’ve been having for nearly an hour. “How do you reckon you can race the cars without first building the sodding track?!”
Jeremy sighs and leans back against the wall. “I’ll just sit here. Let me know when the two of you are done.”
A wave of fond exasperation wafts over James, and he can’t help but smile as he responds, “That’s what we’ve been saying.”
Jeremy smiles back and rubs his eyes tiredly. With his chuffing awful teeth and saggy jaw, his smile really shouldn’t be so gorgeous. It’s not the first time James has had that thought – it’s not even the first time today – but he still drops his head as if Jeremy might be able to see it in his eyes. He runs his fingers through his hair as if to push it away from his face, and it isn’t until they’re tangled in the strands that he remembers it’s only from habit now, not necessity. He’s entering, very reluctantly, a new chapter in his life. Might as well top it off with a new, shorter, hairstyle.
“Why is it so hard?” Jeremy whinges, and James says – not for the first time – a brief, silent apology to the man’s mother. He really should get his mum to bake Mrs. Clarkson a fruitcake. Or twelve.
Richard reaches behind him for the empty Scalextric box they’d set aside earlier and tosses it in Jeremy’s direction. James can’t hold back a snort when it hits him in the face. “What does it say on the box, Jezza?”
“Not recommended for children under 8 years of age,” Jeremy reads, drawing each word out like an uncertain child.
“And you are…?”
“Much older than that. It’s still bloody difficult.”
James lifts his head, then, sharing a smile with his other friend. Richard shakes his head in bemusement, his stringy hair flopping. James can hardly wait until Richard cuts his hair. It doesn’t stop the man from being bloody attractive, but James has had more than enough of this particular midlife crisis. You fucking imbecile. Stop thinking like that. Fuck. Why did I think it was a good idea to invite them over? Now, of all times, when I’m feeling lonely. And pathetic. Oh, right. Because I’m lonely and pathetic.
And they really are the best mates I’ve ever had.
--
“Mate?”
James glances up from the film to see Richard standing uncertainly in the doorway. He looks ready for bed now, having changed into an old, faded t-shirt and pajama bottoms, his hair damp from the shower.
“Hmm?”
“Where…? Is there something…? Why…?”
“Christ, Hamster,” Jeremy groans. “Spit it out.”
Richard sighs and bites his lip, and James isn’t sure exactly what’s coming, but he has an idea. Damn. “Where’s Sarah, mate?”
“France. Like I told you.” At least, James assumes she’s in France. She’s gone there this time of year for as long as he can remember. He can’t imagine why it would be any different this year.
“And when’s she coming back?”
At the hesitancy in Richard’s voice, Jeremy shifts beside James and murmurs, “May?”
“Back to London? Week or so.”
Jeremy chimes in, and it’s one thing to hear the anxious tone of Hammond’s voice. It’s quite another to hear something similar in Jeremy’s. “And here?”
James takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “She’s not.” He frowns up at Hammond. “How’d you know?”
Richard crosses the room, and, instead of settling back into his spot in the armchair, motions at James. “Budge up.” James does so, reluctantly, and Richard sits in the open space. “There’s only one toothbrush in the…thing,” he says to answer James’ question. “I didn’t go through your…drawers or anything, I just…. And the juicer’s gone. I know you hated it, but…. And….” Richard pauses as he glances around the room, his eyes finally settling on the bookcase. “Things were different. I didn’t – I wasn’t sure what, but something….” He trails off, before continuing, “Your pictures. The ones of her. They’re gone. And that clock that….”
“Yeah.”
Jeremy touches his knee – just lightly, and just for a second, because even though his friend likes to push James’ boundaries, he won’t want to upset him, not like that, not now – and asks, “What happened, May?”
“Nothing. Just…nothing.”
“Almost ten years down the toilet,” Richard argues, his voice getting strident - and James knows he’s thinking of Mindy, imagining that ending, and James wants to assure him it’s not the same, could never be the same, but he can’t, can’t tell, can barely admit it to himself – “that’s not nothing, mate.”
James leans back, folding his arms over his chest. He knows it’s a defensive posture, knows it’s going to do nothing to assuage his mates’ worries, but he can’t help it. It’s either this or bolting. “It just wasn’t working anymore,” he says, eyes staring blankly at the television.
“But…you loved each other,” Richard insists in a small voice.
“We did.”
“And…and you just don’t anymore?”
James rubs at his forehead, feeling the creases there, and it’s just one more thing that makes him feel old. That reminds him that it’s pretty much too fucking late now. He should have…. No.
“I still love her,” James says quietly. “M’not sure what she feels about me right now, but….” He swallows dryly. “It’s not about that,” he insists. Then he stands and walks to the kitchen.
They leave him be, for a while, and James is grateful, but by the time the tea has steeped, they’re sitting quietly at the kitchen table. Jeremy opens his mouth to say something, but James suspects Richard has kicked him under the table when his mouth drops closed and his eyes shoot a glare in Richard’s direction. But both men remain silent until James has poured three mugs and joined them at the table.
“Why didn’t you tell us, Slow?” Jeremy grimaces slightly as he takes a sip of tea, and James feels a brief flash of guilt for apparently forgetting exactly how the other man takes it, but pushes the feeling aside. Jeremy can drink the tea or not; James doesn’t sodding care.
“I didn’t – I don’t want to talk about it.”
Jeremy’s fingers tap on the table as he forms his argument - tap, tap, ta-tap, tap, ta-ta-tap - and James clenches his fingers around his mug to stop himself from yelling at Jeremy to “find a fucking rhythm, fer Chrissake!”
“May,” he begins, and Richard says, “Jeremy…” in a warning tone that Clarkson ignores. “May, I know you’re emotionally retarded and have this maniacal idea that being a man means never admitting to having a feeling, ever, and never sharing a single personal thing about yourself, lest you…I don’t fucking know, lest you become attached or make a connection or some fucking thing. But we’re you’re goddamn friends.”
The table is silent. James leans back in his chair and empties his mug in two long swallows before setting it down with a thump. Then he leans forward, elbows on the table, one finger stabbing the air at Jeremy across the table.
Richard’s eyes grow wide, and, before James has a chance to speak, he squeaks, “What I think Jeremy meant to say was, ‘We’re you’re friends, James, and we’re here for you if you need anything. And we’re really sorry about you and Sarah.’”
“Don’t pretend you know me, Clarkson,” James says, voice shaking on the last word, as if he hadn’t heard Richard.
“I would never even begin to suggest such a thing. How can anyone ever know you, James? You talk and talk and talk, and you never fucking say anything.”
James knows Jeremy’s getting a rise out of him intentionally, trying to goad him into cracking, into spilling his feelings. He’s done it before, and in the end even James had to admit it helped. But not this. Not now.
James stands, wiping sweaty hands on his trousers as he says quietly, “You know where the spare linen is. I’ll see you both in the morning.”
He doesn’t look at either man before turning toward the stairs. Behind him, he hears the thump-thump of Fusker jumping off the worktop to follow him and Richard’s whispered shout at Jeremy: “You bloody pillock! What the fuck were you…?” The last word is cut off as James shuts the door quietly behind him. He wants to slam it, to show his displeasure. He wishes he were that kind of person.
It isn’t until he’s changed and under the covers that he remembers he didn’t rinse out his mug. In the morning, tea will be dried to the inside, and…. Sod it. Just don’t think about it.
--
Bleary-eyed, James enters the kitchen the next morning, his stomach and every one of his muscles in knots. The sink is half-full of hot, soapy water before his brain catches up to his eyes and he realizes there are no dirty dishes in the sink. He turns around, expecting to find three dirty mugs, but the table is empty.
“Mornin’, James,” Richard mumbles as he stumbles into the room. “Got any coffee?”
“Some instant stuff in the back of the cupboard. How was the sofa?”
“All right. I’ve had worse.”
James pulls the stopper out of the sink. “Thank you.”
“F’what?”
“Washing up.”
“Was Jezza.” Richard smiles at the surprise on James’ face. “Speak of the devil,” he laughs as groaning and grumbling from the hall grows louder and finally turns into a loud, “What’s for breakfast?”
With a tired grunt, Jeremy leans against the counter next to James. He shifts his weight, until his shoulder is pressing warm against James’.
James smiles down at his feet. It’s a game Jeremy likes to play, one that James is reluctant to admit he doesn’t hate: how long can Jeremy invade James’ personal space before James won’t stand it anymore and complains or moves away? He thinks the record is about three minutes, but that was when Richard’s accident was still fresh in their minds.
After a moment, he tilts his head toward Jeremy without lifting it. “Sorry, Jezza.”
“Yeah.” Something in the way he says that single syllable makes it clear he means both “you’re forgiven” and “I’m sorry, too.”
James pushes back against Jeremy’s shoulder until the other man stands straighter, ending the game. He can still feel the warmth, but with a small space between them, his pulse can begin to steady.
Jeremy takes a couple of long, slow breaths, whistling like a tea kettle – when the very idea is not busy terrifying him, the sound is almost as comforting, somehow, as the kettle; it means the other man is relaxed and there – then finally speaks. “I – I know there’s something, James. I’ve known it for a while. Last night I thought it was just, you know, this thing with Sarah – I don’t know, maybe I just hoped that was it.”
James wonders whether he should be offended that Jeremy thinks breaking up with his long-term girlfriend isn’t enough, that it can’t be this thing that’s wrong with him, but he knows that’s not what Jeremy means.
“But it’s not, is it?” he continues. “There’s more?”
James nods. There are light footfalls on the lino and a shadow creeps into James’ vision. He looks up into Richard’s worried brown eyes. “Not today, though, all right?”
“Whenever you’re ready, mate,” Richard assures with a quick, friendly tap to James’ shoulder. “We’ll be here.”
--
It’s at a pub – not James’ local, he’d made sure of that, thought it might finally be time and if it went badly, he didn’t want to have to remember every time he wanted a pint – three weeks later the next time they’re all together. Richard had been over twice to help James with a new-old bike, and James and Jeremy had spent a day with Fin at a classic car show. They’d given him concerned glances, but neither had said anything. Yet.
“It’s an ugly car, Hammond.” Jeremy’s voice rises from across the table. James glances up to see if anyone’s looking at them, then sets back to work demolishing his napkin, leaving strips of paper in a steadily-growing pile on the table.
“I’ll admit. There are a couple of design flaws. But….”
With a sigh, James swallows the last of his beer and sets the glass down with a thump. Richard stops his monologue and both men look warily at James. “’M getting another one.” He gets up, steadier than he’d like to be. “Want anything?” Without waiting for an answer, he heads toward the bar. As he’s waiting, he makes conversation with a woman, gives her a recommendation for an inexpensive red wine. She’s pretty, and before Sarah he would have flirted a bit, maybe thought about asking her out. But not anymore.
“Slow,” Jeremy says after he’s returned to the table, the syllable drawn out in a way that means Jeremy can’t believe how well James is living up to his nickname.
“Yeah.” He brings the drink up to his mouth, upper lip dipping into the froth as he takes two long swallows.
“Did you get her number?”
James furrows his brow in confusion. “Did I get whose number?”
“The girl at the bar. The one who was flirting with you!”
“Christ, Jeremy. Keep your voice down. Anyway, she wasn’t flirting with me.”
“She was, mate,” Richard chimes in, glancing almost nervously back and forth between his friends. “Could tell from here.”
James shrugs. Now. This would be a good time. He opens his mouth then closes it against a sudden wave of nausea. With deep breaths, he pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes closed.
There’s a short, light pat just below the sleeve of his jumper. It’s Richard, he can tell immediately, but that doesn’t stop his arm from twitching. He opens his eyes then, shoots Hammond an apologetic look, but the other man just smiles and turns toward Jeremy. “Leave him alone, Jezza,” he says. “If he’s not ready to date again, that’s fine. It’s early.”
“Take it from someone who’s ruined a serious relationship.” Jeremy’s voice is quieter than James might have expected, but he doesn’t talk about his first marriage much. Or anything pre-Francie. “The longer you wait, the harder it is to get back on the horse. Err, so to speak. Find a nice woman, ask her out, and….”
“I’m gay.” The words come out quietly, directed toward the dark beer in front of James.
“…see where it goes,” Jeremy finishes. “Wait, what?”
James takes a couple deep breaths then lifts his head slowly.
“You – you didn’t say what I think you said.”
“Okay. Fine. I didn’t.” He wraps his hand around his glass and begins to lift it toward him. After a moment, a large hand takes the drink from his grasp and sets it carefully in front of him.
“You’re shaking, Slow,” Jeremy says softly.
He is. Quite a lot. And he can’t bear to look across the table at his friends, couldn’t stand to see disappointment or revulsion on their faces, or that look that means they’re worrying that he fancies them, replaying in their mind every time they’ve been close, every time he might have been checking out their arse or smelling their cologne.
Neither man is saying anything, and that’s the worst bit. Good or bad, Jeremy and Richard aren’t known for keeping their thoughts to themselves.
James covers his mouth with a trembling hand and closes his eyes. He hears the screech of chair legs pressing against tile. This is it. I wonder which of them is leaving. It’s most likely Jeremy, but….
Then the bench he’s sitting on wobbles slightly as a weight drops onto it.
“Mate.” It’s Richard, his voice coming from next to James now. “You okay?”
It’s honestly the last thing he’d expected either of his friends to say. He wonders briefly if it’s his opinion of his friends or himself that’s so low.
He finally manages to pull his hand away from his face and open his eyes. His hand drifts under the table, clutches tightly and unseen at the leg of his jeans. He wills his voice not to quaver as his answers, “Yeah.”
“Bollocks.” That’s Jeremy, something in his voice James isn’t sure he’s ever heard. “You can’t even look at us.”
He swallows. “You’re right.” He laughs bitterly. “I can’t.” They’re talking to him, they don’t seem angry, but he can’t look.
Now he can hear Jeremy getting up, then the clunk of a chair being set onto the floor in front of him. With a quiet sigh, the older man sits and leans forward, elbows on his knees. He stretches until one hand rests on the edge of the seat near James’ knee: not touching, just being close.
“May. You’re not getting fired, we’re not going to stop being your friends. We’ll still take the piss out of you for being slow and pedantic and you, but we’re not going to stop….” Jeremy trails off and sniffs loudly before continuing, voice cracking, “not going to stop being there. Is that what you need to hear?”
James glances up then, into Jeremy’s suspiciously wet eyes, then back at Hammond who gives him an encouraging smile. “Apparently,” he says, eyes tracking back to Jeremy.
He smiles warily at the other man, relieved, but still somewhat on edge, as he brushes the fringe away from his forehead.
Jeremy watches him and chuckles warmly. “Is that why…the new haircut. I gotta tell ya, mate, as a man, I don’t think it’s going to help.”
“Jeremy!” Richard admonishes. “You’re supposed to be helping, not lowering his self-esteem.”
James snorts a laugh. “Don’t worry. I’m not under the impression that I’ll find dating men any easier than dating women has been. Quite the opposite, in fact.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Richard butts in. “You like cars and bikes and planes. And I think another man would have an easier time dealing with engine parts in the bath.”
James chuckles along with them, but he knows it won’t be that easy. Richard and Jeremy are thinking as a friend, not as a life partner, not as a man who enjoys the company of other men.
The laughter dies down, and James finally manages a sip of his drink, glad to see that the shaking is down to a barely noticeable tremor. “Can I just ask one thing?”
“Of course,” Richard answers brightly.
“Can we do more drinking, and less talking about my personal life?” The other men laugh again, then James continues, “I know there’s more you want to know, but…. For right now, it’s too much, and…go, go sit back across the table, please.”
“That’s our Slow,” Jeremy wheezes, and, to James’ astonishment, reaches over and pats him softly on the cheek. Had it been almost any other man – pretty much anyone other than the two sitting with him now, really – he’d have been tempted to slap him, but with Jeremy he merely rolls his eyes and hopes his face isn’t too flushed.
“Later?” Hammond asks as he drops back into his chair. “When we get back to yours?”
James sighs and nods, not looking forward to it. “Later.”
--
“Hurry the bloody hell up, May,” Jeremy yells from the front door as James ambles up the walk. “I’m getting soaked.”
Richard ducks his head in an attempt to shield his ears from the rain and hops up and down, hands in his pockets. “I’ve gotta piss, mate.”
“Dear lord,” James grumbles as he slides past them and works on fitting the key into the lock. Fusker greets them at the door, glancing suspiciously up at his friends as though he’s never seen them before, and winds his way between James’ feet as he heads to the kitchen. Jeremy follows him, blowing on his hands cupped in front of his face.
“Missed you, you little shit,” James murmurs to the cat, rubbing the soft fur between his ears as Fusker attacks his food dish like he’s been starved half his life.
He begins to stand, intent on making some tea – it’s the only way he’ll get through this – then hears Jeremy’s, “So, you’re fucking blokes now, May? Or…is it the other way around?”
James swivels his head around quickly – too quickly – toward Jeremy and conks it on the side of the open cupboard door. “Ow, cock.”
“Fuck, Jeremy!” That’s Richard, back from the loo. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you tact?”
James’ eyes are closed, fingers probing gently at the sore spot on his head. “Here, James.” Something cold and flannel-covered is pressed into his hand, Jeremy’s warm fingers covering and guiding his. “Ice,” Jeremy mutters quietly at James’ questioning glance.
“Oh.”
There’s laughter in Jeremy’s eyes and James rolls his own in response. “S’okay. Laugh.”
Jeremy does chuckle then, but barely. “You’re hurt.”
“I’m fine.” It’s not until then that he realizes Jeremy’s hand is still on his. Clearing his throat awkwardly, James steps away and sets about making tea one handed. After a moment, an arm brushes against his.
He turns toward the touch, and Richard pushes him carefully toward the table. “Sit. I’ll make the tea.”
“Remember to let it get hot enough,” James directs as he heads for an empty chair. “And….”
“I know how to make a sodding cup of tea, mate. Had to listen to you rhapsodize about it enough, haven’t I?”
“Right.” After a moment, James pulls the makeshift icepack away from his head and touches gingerly at the bump.
“Gonna live?” Jeremy asks as he settles heavily into the chair next to James’.
“Unfortunately,” he mutters absently.
“James,” the other man breathes, and James’ eyes snap up at the worry in his voice.
“Was just a joke. Promise.”
“So you’re….”
James sighs. “Wait for the tea?”
Jeremy grins at him. “Can’t have an important conversation without tea.”
James smiles back tiredly. “I meant it more so I don’t have to repeat anything once Hammond gets back. But, yes.”
Richard has to ask each of them how he takes his tea, but once James has it in front of him and takes a sip, he has to admit the other man isn’t entirely useless. With a murmured thanks, James takes another sip then sets the mug onto the table in front of him. He leans back into his chair and lets out a quiet “oof” when Fusker decides to jump into his lap.
He looks down at the animal gazing up at him and strokes the fur behind the cat’s ears, where it’s the softest. Fusker is unique in many ways, but in one he’s stereotypical cat: affectionate when it suits him and standoffish when it doesn’t. Climbing into James’ lap when he’s sitting at the kitchen table, visiting with his boorish friends, just isn’t Fusker’s style.
James is grateful for the distraction, eyes locked on his cat as Richard begins to speak.
“How – how long?”
“How long what? How long have I been gay? It doesn’t work like that, you don’t just suddenly ‘become gay’ no matter how often Jeremy worries about it.”
He looks up, expecting a token protest, but Jeremy just raises an eyebrow and wraps his hand around his mug. Richard had given him the one with the chip in the rim, the one James is always meaning to throw away but hasn’t, will probably never, because Richard’s daughters gave it to him for his birthday two years ago – it has a photo of Fusker on it, they made it at one of those machines at Tesco’s, and….
“How long have you known?” Jeremy interrupts his thoughts. James really wishes he hadn’t. “You’re not the most perceptive person on the planet, but even you’re not so oblivious, to not notice you crave cock.” The words are insensitive, but the tone isn’t unkind.
“I’ve always known.” James stares blankly at the tabletop as the words begin to pour out. “I just…pushed it down,” he taps at his chest with his fingertips, “tried to convince myself that I was just as attracted to women, that I could be happy…happy if I just ignored that side of myself, concentrated on…on the normal side of me.”
“Oh, James,” Jeremy begins, and James folds his arms over his chest; the last thing he wants is Clarkson’s pity. “Nothing about you is normal, mate.”
James can feel his lips widen into a smile. He looks up into his friends’ faces – they’re smiling, too, a little hesitantly, but real – and begins to laugh. It starts quietly, but soon arrives at that horrible seal’s bark of a laugh he gave up trying to hide years ago. It always used to make Sarah duck her head in embarrassment, and that thought just makes him laugh harder.
Richard and Jeremy join him in laughter, and he has to place a hand on Fusker’s back to keep the animal from scurrying away from the sound.
After a moment, his laughter tapers off into the occasional snicker, and he wipes away a laughter-tear from under his eye.
“When…when did you decide…?” Richard trails off. James hates that this is making his friends so faltering, but he can’t help but be glad – and somewhat amazed – they’re treating him so carefully. Richard is ignoring his drink, concentrating instead on his hands: twiddling his fingers, picking at his nails, spinning his wedding ring. It’s a nervous habit he picked up sometime after the accident, and James finds himself thinking – not for the first time – that he wishes he could lay his hand over Richards’ and still the action.
It was never something he could have done before, but only because that isn’t who he is, he doesn’t do things like that. Now he’ll never be able to do it because of what Richard will think it means. James isn’t sure why that makes him so sad.
“When did I decide that other side of me didn’t, in fact, exist? That I’d fabricated it to protect myself?” James can hear his voice tremble; he takes a deep breath and reaches for his tea. This time his hand doesn’t shake. He’s prouder about that than he should be. “I – I, I’m almost fifty, and I wasn’t happy. I love Sarah – that part was never a lie – but when I was…with her….” He tugs at his hair in frustration. He doesn’t talk about the images he’d had to conjure up, doesn’t talk about who he’d needed to picture and doing what, to be able to please her. He’d like to be able to look his mates in the eye again.
“If I wasn’t happy with her, someone I loved that much…. I had to stop pretending. If I didn’t, I was going to die unhappy, my entire life a lie. I – I told her a couple of months ago. She….” James leans over Fusker, elbows on the table, and steeples his fingers over his mouth and nose. “She didn’t take it well. How could she? I hurt her, and I am deeply sorry about that, will never forgive myself for it, but….”
“Couldn’t be helped,” Jeremy murmurs softly.
“It fucking well could have,” James exclaims loudly, sending Fusker bolting off his lap and into the other room. He’ll have claw marks on his thigh, and he can’t help but think he deserves it. Even Fusker knows how horrible he is. “I could have not been such a fucking tosser.”
It’s completely silent except the tick of the wall clock and the quiet, slightly disgusting sound of the cat cleaning himself in the doorway, until Richard says with a cheeky grin, “Well, that can’t really be helped, either, can it?”
“Fuck you,” he replies without malice.
Richard smiles softly. “There’s one thing you’re wrong about, mate.”
James folds his arms across the table and rests his chin on top. “What’s that?”
“Your entire life, it wasn’t a lie, just that one part. You still love cars?”
A corner of James’ mouth quirks up. “Yeah.”
“And bikes? Airfix models, Scalextric, and really far too many toys for a man your age?” James nods. “Drink and pies and Spam, your tools, the piano?” Another nod. “You still love Fusker?” Richard nods at the cat, who has suddenly taken residence in the empty chair across from James, tail twitching as he stares uncertainly at Jeremy.
James bites down on his lip then clears his throat. “Yeah.”
“You’re still you, then,” Richard declares firmly.
“You’re not going to suddenly leave us to, I don’t know, star in a Broadway musical, are you?” Jeremy asks, eyes narrowed as if he were actually unsure.
James huffs a laugh. “No.”
“Start listening to Lady Gaga?”
“Lady who?”
Jeremy snorts. “Honestly, Slow…. Never mind.”
James reaches his right hand out in front of him, chin still poking uncomfortably into his other arm, and traces his finger in invisible patterns across the surface. “This conversation didn’t go nearly so well when I had it with Colin the other day,” he mumbles.
When no explanation is forthcoming, Jeremy has to ask. “What happened, May?”
“Not – nothing specific. He listened, he nodded, he looked slightly horrified, but said he was fine. He – but – he didn’t stick around much longer, though.”
“Give him time, mate,” Richard suggests.
“Yeah.”
“He – he the only one you’ve told? I mean, other than Sarah?”
“Told Oz. Not – he called, to tell me about this wine he found he thought I would like, and it was a couple of days after Sarah left, and I just…. I had to tell someone. Knew he wouldn’t…judge, or be scared of being in the same room with me.”
“Not your family?”
James shakes his head quickly.
“They love you, James. They’ll still love you.”
“I know. I just don’t know what they’ll say about the certainty of no more grandchildren.” Even as he says it, he knows it’s ridiculous.
“I think they’ve probably already given up on that,” Jeremy teases.
James nods at the table then finally sits up. “I’d appreciate it if we could keep this between us. For now.” He’s trying to be adamant, in control, but he can feel himself begin to tear up. He bites his lip again, but it doesn’t help. He presses his palms flat against the tabletop, preparing to push himself up, and away, but a muffled sob escapes his lips before he can disappear. Burying his face in his hands, he concentrates on breathing steadily and holding back the cresting wave of emotions.
“Mate, I – I really want to hug you,” Richard murmurs.
And James finds himself really wanting to be hugged. If he’d felt like this a few months ago, he’d have wrapped his arms loosely around Sarah and she’d have squeezed him tightly in return and let him bury his face in her hair. Her hair always smelled like strawberries; he’d bought some recently – he’d had a French red wine he suspected they’d pair excellently with – but he hadn’t been able to eat them. One whiff of that aroma, and hurting her was all he could think about.
“Quickly,” he mutters.
With a quiet laugh, Richard gets up from the table and takes the couple of steps to James’s chair. It’s an awkward hug – it’s not really a hug at all, honestly, with Richard standing and James still sitting, Richard’s arm curved around James’ shoulders, his other hand resting where James’ shoulder meets his neck, cheek pressed against James’ hair – but it feels good to be held. He closes his eyes and allows himself to enjoy it.
Soon – too soon, and it’s probably because James told him to be quick about it, or because he knows how James is about too much physical contact, or maybe just because Richard has had enough – Richard pulls back and straightens. “You all right?” he asks quietly.
“Will be. I….” He glances at Jeremy to include him in what he’s about to say. “Thank you.”
“No problem, mate.”
“But now,” he says, standing for real this time and swiping his hand across his eyes, “I need to sleep.”
“Yeah. Me, too. Spare bed made up?” It is, it always is, and Richard knows it, but James just nods. “All right then. See you in the morning, James. Jezza,” he says, patting the other man on the shoulder as he walks past. They exchange a look that James doesn’t quite understand, but Jeremy nods.
“Walk me to the door, Slow?”
James raises an eyebrow but inclines his head in agreement.
“You’ll be careful driving?” he asks, needlessly, as he waits for Jeremy to tie his shoes.
“The flat’s not far. But, yes, Mum.” Jeremy finishes tying his shoes and stands. James finds himself unable to tilt his head back and look at the other man’s eyes and wishing, not for the first time, that he had his curtain of hair to hide behind. “That isn’t going to be a problem, is it?” Jeremy asks in a low mutter, nodding his head in the direction of the kitchen.
James crosses his arms over his chest and frowns. “Is my being gay going to be a problem? Are you going to make it one?” What was this? He’d seemed fine, just a minute ago, but…. Was he just following Richard’s lead? Unable to show his true self in front of their mate?
Fingers curl tightly around James’ bicep, and he resists the urge to jerk away. “Not that, May. I meant Richard.”
James shakes his head in confusion.
“You fancy him.”
“I – what?”
“When he hugged you. It’s obvious. I don’t think he noticed – he couldn’t see your face – but I did.”
James ducks his head, but he knows Jeremy has seen the flush on his cheeks. He can’t deny it. But he’s also angry. “My being attracted to Richard isn’t a new thing.” He lifts his head and sets his jaw. Takes a deep breath. “And neither is my being attracted to you. And I resent the implication that just because I’m no longer living a lie, that will suddenly become a problem.”
Jeremy blinks twice then sputters, “You’re attracted to me?”
“It’s not something I’m proud of.”
Jeremy grins, and James’ flush darkens. “Why?”
James stuffs his hands in his pockets. “No. I’m not doing this. Your ego knows no bounds as it is, Clarkson. And I don’t intend to give you any more ammunition.”
“I wouldn’t use that to take the piss, James.”
“You would.”
Jeremy smiles sheepishly. “All right. I would. But in a nice way.”
“I know.”
“And I didn’t mean, about your…you know…being a problem…. I just don’t want you hurt.”
“You’re both married. And straight. And it wouldn’t work out, anyway. I’ve never considered it even within the realm of possibility.”
“Can’t say it’s the worst idea I’ve ever heard,” Jeremy says, twisting his mouth in thought. “I wouldn’t always have to hire someone to fix things.”
“You’d always be yelling at me to ‘stop droning on and on and being boring, Slow.’”
Jeremy shakes his head and smiles almost shyly. “Nah. I don’t hate it nearly as much as I pretend. Why do you think I ask you so many questions? If I don’t like listening to you talk?”
“Because you like yelling at me to shut up?”
“Maybe a bit.”
“Maybe a lot.”
“All right.”
Both men snort quietly, then James asks, “Was that it? Was that what Hammond asked you to talk to me about? With the….” He points two fingers at his own eyes then at Jeremy’s, pantomiming some sort of communication with eye contact.
“No. Like I said, I don’t think he knows.”
“Then what…?”
Before James can get the sentence out, Jeremy’s fingers are buried in the hair at the back of James’ head, and the other man’s lips are pressed against his forehead. Jeremy’s lips are chapped, but they’re warm and surprisingly comforting.
“What…?” James tries when Jeremy pulls back. “How did you get ‘kiss May on the forehead’ from that look?!”
Jeremy shrugs. “I improvised.”
James drops his forehead against Jeremy’s shoulder and rubs against the soft fabric of his shirt. “Ew, Clarkson, you’ve given me the lurgy.”
Jeremy chuckles fondly and takes the bait, wrapping his arms loosely around James’ waist. James allows his hands to curve around Clarkson’s hips and turns his head until his nose is buried in the taller man’s neck.
“I like this new, gay, touchy-feely James,” Jeremy remarks quietly.
“This will not be a common occurrence,” James grumbles. “I’ve had a rough day.” Jeremy smells nice, like tobacco and mild sweat and the same soap he always uses, and James inhales once deeply before pulling away, neatly filing away his emotions once again.
“I’d better be going. See you at the airport, then?”
James winces. “Fuck. I forgot.”
“Forgot what?”
“The next time I see you two. We’ll be stuck together in America.”
“Good job this went all right then.” Jeremy chuckles.
“Fuck you.”
Jeremy’s eyes twinkle evilly. “Oh, you wish, May.”
“I can tell already I’m going to regret this. Go home, you spanner.”
With a grin, Jeremy blows a kiss at James as he backs out the door. “Sweet dreams, Slow.”