The Incredible True Story Of Two Not-Entirely-Gay Boys In Love

The Incredible True Story Of Two Not-Entirely-Gay Boys In Love
“Would you do me?” Dakin slurred loudly over the hubbub of other people’s conversation, sitting in the old pub just across the road from his temporary residence.

Scripps let his head fall onto the table in a gesture of manly defeat; there was no way to answer this question without one of them regretting it in the morning.

Thankfully, Dakin took the responsibility off his hands.

“I bet you would,” he said, looking at him, considering, if also a little bleary-eyed. “I bet both of you would!”

More than a bit bleary, then.

“Yes,” Scripps groaned in resignation, “I can hardly keep myself away from your manly body. Hold me. Hold me now.”

Dakin frowned in suspicion. “…Are you making fun of me? ‘S’not nice. I’m plastered.”

“Oh, yes, you bloody are,” he sighed. “I think we need to take you home.”

* * *

“You would do me,” Dakin giggled from his bed, having given up all pretence at sobriety half-way up the stairs. “I saw you looking at me sometimes at school. Not like Posner, all pathetic and doe-eyed. Smouldering,” he giggled again.

“Dakin, you are not a Harlequin romance novel.”

“You should know,” Dakin retorted with childish enthusiasm.

Scripps sighed, for what felt like the fiftieth time in the last hour, and walked determinedly back to the bed.

He leaned in close, as if about to reveal some important secret. “If I leave you here alone now, do you promise to go to sleep quietly and try not to choke on your own vomit?”

Dakin laughed up at him, grinning far too much for someone about to wake up to the hangover from hell. “Depends. Are you going to give me a goodnight kiss?”

“I-”

Unfortunately (or maybe not), he wasn’t given a choice in the matter, for the next moment Dakin’s lips were attached to his face, firm and dry and moving over his for the shortest of moments before he flopped back down on the bed, expression satisfied and eyelids drooping.

“Goodnight,” Dakin stated, before falling asleep as if someone had suddenly flicked a switch in his head.

…This could get confusing, Scripps knew, or it could equally easily become one of those ‘things-that-happened-at-Uni’, never to be talked of again.

It only remained to be seen which one he wanted it to be.

* * *

“He kissed you?!” Posner spluttered incredulously, spilling hot coffee in his astonishment.

Scripps closed his eyes tightly as they drew the attention of what was possibly the entire café. “Yes. He kissed me. I’m sorry.”

This time Posner was spluttering in laughter, which had the benefit, at least, of getting Scripps to actually observe his surroundings again. “What’s so funny?” he grumbled, irked that his attempt at being gracious and sympathetic was met with hilarity.

“It’s just…” Posner grinned, trying to find the right words. “You don’t need to be sorry. In fact,” and at this his smile turned secretive, “I believe I’ve got the better deal.”

Scripps squinted at him suspiciously.

The other man merely replied by sipping his coffee and looking away.

“So…You don’t like him any more?”

After having to deal with Posner’s painful, unrequited love for five years or more, this notion that it was just – just gone seemed incomprehensible and even faintly ridiculous.

“Well,” Posner replied, considering his answer carefully. “Of course I like him…I’m just not in love with him any more.”

“But – Why?”

Posner laughed again. He seemed to do that a lot more, nowadays.

“Because I don’t need to be.”

It was simple, and honest, and Scripps was completely stunned.

His companion took pity on him: “There are other men out there that aren’t Dakin, but they’re just as amazing. Maybe more, because they actually notice me back.”

“Wait…” Scripps pondered this, “Does that – Does that mean you have a boyfriend?”

“…No,” Posner answered slowly, calm and unruffled in the extreme.

Posner didn’t lie; it was a fundamental flaw – sorry, merit – of his character. Which is why Scripps took this at face value and proceeded on to his own dilemma…

“Yes. I was thinking…”

* * *

“You kissed him?!” Lockwood sprayed Coke all over his textbook, cursing.

“Yes, alright?” Dakin grumbled irritably. “It doesn’t make me gay, or anything.”

“Ok,” Lockwood suppressed a grin, “No, having a another boy in love with you, lusting over a male teacher, and then kissing your distinctly man-like best friend, none of these add up to homosexuality. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Dakin threw a cushion at him with more force than was strictly necessary. “The Posner thing was not my fault! I can’t control who is or isn’t attracted to me.”

“Ha, but you’d like to,” Lockwood replied shrewdly.

“That is beside the point.”

“Besides,” Lockwood attempted to console him, “It’s not like Posner’s in love with you any more.”

“He’s not?” Surprise etched itself onto Dakin’s features. “How do you know?”

“Well.” Lockwood seemed stumped. “…He hasn’t seen you for nearly a year, has he? He must’ve gotten over it by now.”

His friend laughed arrogantly. “Oh, I doubt it! He’s probably sitting in an attic somewhere, cutting out pictures of me and brooding in a lovesick sort of way.”

Lockwood narrowed his eyes at Dakin. “I’m sure he is, because we all know you’re so irresistible.” Moving on before Dakin could make another retort, he continued, “You were here for advice, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” Dakin answered warily.

“Right. Here it is: Why don’t you try talking to him? I’ve heard that helps when you want to, y’know, tell people things.”

“Ha, ha,” Dakin replied snidely, throwing another cushion at his head. “Very funny.”

* * *

As Scripps had predicted to himself, it was very hard to avoid Dakin (not that he really wanted to) from then on.

He popped up everywhere, with several awkward conversation-starters, before disappearing as quickly as possible from whence he had come.

It was getting, to be frank, a bit frustrating.

Which is why one evening, while they were sitting in the common room in awkward silence, Scripps came out with:

“Do you regret kissing me?”

“Um – Er – Well – Um –” he floundered desperately, caught completely off guard by a topic entirely unrelated to the rise and fall of the Bourbons, of which his mind had been occupied until that moment.

Scripps sighed (a habit somewhat more related to the present company than he’d previously thought), taking pity on him. “I know you were drunk, but…”

The sentence hung, unfinished, in the air between them.

“It’s not like…” Dakin began, choosing his words carefully, “…It’s not like I don’t…want to…do…do things with you.” He’d never felt this awkward with Irwin. With Fiona. With anyone. “…But you’re my friend. My best friend. What if…What if it doesn’t work?”

He looked pained at having to admit this. Scripps couldn’t help spoiling his confession.

“Is that it? Of course it won’t work if we don’t bloody try!”

Dakin immediately started sulking. “Fine, if you want to-”

But Scripps never got to find out the end to this conditional, because he decided to make the first move this time, twining his tongue possessively around Dakin’s and thoroughly exploring the other’s mouth.

Taking the initiative felt surprisingly good.

* * *

“I can’t believe we’re doing this!”

“You’re the one who said they had a right to know!”

“But, making the rounds? Like it’s some sort of formal announcement? We’re not getting married.”

“Oh, shut up, what do you suggest we do? Get them all down the pub and yell – Posner?!”

This, contrary to what someone listening in might be believe, was not what Dakin was originally going to suggest that they yell. It was, in truth, the person who appeared at the door to Anthony Lockwood’s room at nine o’clock on this Saturday morning, wearing the aforementioned’s hastily-tied dressing-gown and looking ever so slightly flabbergasted.

“Well,” Scripps rallied himself admirably, “Looks like we’re not the only ones with something to say.”