#chav!verse

Arthur peels the clingfilm off the plate. He stares at the burgers and wonders, yet again, how it has come to this. Despite all the noise about British beef, these patties will never compare to the ones he could buy at home. And that means that his burgers will always be inferior. It is something he has had to resign himself to now that they are full-time in the UK.

He stares around at their little strip of a yard. The patch of grass that leads up to the decking is brown and shrivelled and half the plants are dead in their pots — they’re in the middle of a heatwave and the hose pipe ban’s still on. It’s actually a large yard for a terraced town house in Bethnal Green, but compared to what Arthur used to have in Los Angeles, its a pitiful amount of space.

Jay-Z is slumped in the shade beneath the wrought iron table that sits on the six measly squares of paving outside the kitchen doors. He lifts his head when Arthur uncovers the beef, but quickly decides that inferior burgers are simply not worth his effort. He drops his chin back down onto his folded paws and gives Arthur a look that seems to say: ‘I mean, I would, but…’

“I know,” Arthur tells him, before turning back to the grill.

The grill, at least, is something to be proud of. It’s a thing of beauty, shipped from the states. Now that he’s finally managed to get hold of the right kind of gas bottles, Arthur can get the flames going with the flick of a switch. No more fucking about with firelighters and digging around up to his elbow in bags full of half-crushed charcoal.

He tongs the burgers onto the bars and listens to them start to sizzle. It’s a soothing sound, he has to admit. And, he thinks, as he turns to pick up the plate of pork sausages, whatever you want to say about their beef, the Brits know do how to make a good banger. 

The meat is just starting to get some good colour when the echo of the front door closing rings through the house. 

Arthur pauses in prodding at a burger. 

For the past three days, Eames has been sulking around the house, smoking too much and shouting at the radio if anyone so much as mentions the World Cup. Being in the pub off Victoria Park for the match that England lost against Croatia had been, quite frankly, terrifying. Arthur kept having to reach for the die in his pocket — the atmosphere in the crowds around the TV screens had felt just like it does in a dream right before a pack of projections turns rabid.

Eames has yet to recover from the disappointment. 

And, after the latest game with Belgium, he had simply stood up and walked out of the house, not even taking Jay-Z with him.

So, Arthur is surprised when his husband steps out into their yard a moment later, with an enormous grin on his face, holding an open bottle of ice-cold cider in each hand. He tramps up the yard, seizes Arthur around the waist, careless of the greasy tongs in his hand, and plants a kiss on his lips.

Arthur narrows his eyes, immediately suspicious. “What’s happened?” he says.

“I’ve scored,” Eames says. He pushes one of the ciders into Arthur’s hand, clinks the bottle necks together and then takes a big, triumphant swig.

Possibly the heat has become too much for him. The real world they live in and the tiny men running around a field on the TV screen have finally merged into one. Arthur scrutinises Eames’s face for any Cobb-style signs of insanity.

“Scored how?”

Eames grins again and holds up one finger, the universal gesture for ‘wait just a minute’. He digs into his back pocket and comes up with a tiny plastic bag full of what looks like…

“Is that weed?” Arthur asks. “Or tea?”

“This, right here, is top-quality gange, blud.” Eames shakes the little bag. 

Arthur pushes his arm down, to get the bag out of his face. 

“Sorry. What’s happening here? Have you somehow reached your late thirties without trying weed before?”

“Nah, pengting, that ain’t even it. Ain’t even it, fam.” 

“What is it, then?” 

To Arthur’s dismay, Eames reaches out and takes hold of him by the arms, still holding the bagful of drugs and the damp cider bottle. He can feel the condensation soaking through the sleeve of his shirt. 

Eames eyes are wide as he says, “I’m there, right? In the park. Havin’ a fag. Mindin’ my own business. And this little roadman comes up to me all like, ‘wa-gwan grandpa, you wanna score some draw?’”

To impersonate the teenage dealer, Eames puts on an exaggerated version of his own accent, the words becoming practically indecipherable to anyone without Arthur’s years of training.

“Yeah…”

“And I was like, fuck it. Yes, bruv. I do want some draw.”

Arthur blinks, scanning to make sure he’s got all the pieces. “You bought street weed from a kid,” he says, just to check. “Buying the weed. That’s what’s made you this happy.”

“He didn’t think I was past it, though,” Eames says, delighted. “To him, I’m still well in the game. And if the kids still think I is street, ain’t nothin’ to worry about, isit?”

“Got it. It’s a borderline mid-life crisis thing. A thug-life crisis.”

“Not just that.”

Arthur frowns. He’s starting to worry about the burgers. He wants to turn and check on them, but Eames still has him by the arms, and a worryingly flirtatious note has just crept into his voice. 

Eames sets his cider down next to the grill with the bagful of weed and then takes Arthur’s bottle and puts that down too. Then he leans in and presses his lips to Arthur’s throat, all stubble and wet tongue and the smell of fresh sweat and cigarette smoke. 

“Our food is going to burn,” Arthur murmurs, though he can’t stop himself from tilting his head, giving Eames better access to keep doing what he’s doing. 

That’s always been the problem with Eames. It is so hard not to give into the desire to enable him.

“I thought we could do it together, innit,” Eames says, in between the kisses he is laying up and down Arthur’s throat. “Cook it up. Make some disco brownies. Act like we’re eighteen again.”

Arthur can’t tell if it’s the heat of the grill behind him making him feel so hot, or the way that Eames’s hands are trailing around his waist and down to knead the muscles of his ass. 

“Eighteen-year-old Arthur would never have even looked at you,” he says, trying to keep his cool. 

But then Eames lifts his head and their eyes meet.

“I would have made him look,” Eames says. He strokes a calloused thumb gently along Arthur’s cheekbone, the metal of his wedding band brushing Arthur’s jaw. 

The grill tongs fall from Arthur’s hand and clatter to the deck. 

Jay-Z seizes the moment. He heaves himself to his feet, scurrying over to get in at least a few good licks of burger grease before he gets chased away. 

Arthur sees it happen, but he doesn’t care. He is too busy wrapping his arms around his husband’s shoulders and leaning in to kiss him, remembering suddenly all the reasons why he lives here in London, with its tiny houses and inferior meat.