#flirty dancing

He scoffs. “If I was going to subject him to online dating I’d have put him on SCRUFF.” Dev leans back on the sofa, laptop balanced on his thighs. “This is better. The potential for embarrassment is so much higher on national television.”

“I thought the point was to get him into a stable relationship. Not embarrass him in public.”

“Well, this way we potentially get both. And you know as well as I do he won’t actually embarrass himself. Baz may be a repressed git but he knows how to dance.”

Uni graduation. Three best mates. A drunken bet.

None of us ever anticipated that Dev and I would be the ones who ended up engaged first.

To each other, no less.

Which leaves jump-starting Baz’s depressingly sparse and overwhelmingly chaste dating experience in our hands, thanks to poor choices made when completely sozzled.

I don’t know why any of us agreed to it, least of all Baz. But, in our defense, it did seem quite unlikely at the time that Dev was ever going to settle down or that Baz and I would successfully venture into the fraught London dating scene.  

I doubt any of us would have even remembered we’d made the bet, if Dev hadn’t scribbled it all out on the back of a coaster he nicked from the pub. And if our signatures weren’t clearly scrawled below his spidery script.

Fast forward two years. Dev and I have been dating each other for over a year and he popped the question two weeks ago.

I said yes.

So now we’re in charge of Baz’s love life and I can’t say he’s receptive to the idea.

“Fuck off. I didn’t agree to this.”

“You bloody well did.”

“I’m not taking a manky coaster as evidence.”

“Your signature’s on here, mate. It’s on. Niall and I are on the job.”

“Fuck. Off.”

“Those are long odds.” I shake my head. “You can put in the application for him but that doesn’t mean he’s going to get chosen for the show, Dev.”

“He’ll get chosen. Once I upload a photo of him, he’s in. Trust me.” Dev keeps clicking at the keyboard. “With a vastly superior payoff if he does make it.” Dev stops pecking at the laptop and turns to me. “You know he’ll never go on any dates we set up for him on an online site. Baz swipe right? Not bloody likely. But a challenge? He’s never backed down from one in his life.”

He settles back on the cushions. “It’s got everything Baz loves. Music. Dancing. An element of mystery. And if it’s not a match he gets to walk away with no commitment. Doesn’t even have to talk to the bloke. It’s actually bloody perfect for him.”

Dev may have a point.

“Is this it then? If we do this and it’s a fucking disaster, like you know it will be, are we done?”

He laughs.

“Not bloody likely. We made a vow.”

“We did not make a vow, you blithering idiot. We made a drunken bet.”

Dev shrugs. “Same thing.” He leans forward to squint at the laptop screen. “Someone’s got to take charge of him. Baz is absolute shit at dating.”

He’s not wrong.

The keyboard clicks pause. “Fuck. What’s his Insta handle again?”

“@Black-as-pitch. Put a hyphen between the words.”

“He’s five foot eleven?”

“He’s six foot one and you know it.”

“Sod off, Niall.”

I sit next to him on the sofa, peering over his shoulder. He’s on the Flirty Dancing website, with the extensive and apparently highly inquisitive application open on the screen.

“Occupation. Can I say ‘being a twat? ’” Dev asks.

I grab the laptop away. “Let me do it. You’re only going to fuck it up by filling it in with arsehole replies.”

Dev rests his head on my shoulder. “I knew you’d come around.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m not coming around. I’m being efficient. If you’re going to ask me the answer to every one of these sodding questions I may as well fill the damn thing out myself.”

“And I can make sure you’re being accurate.”

“You can continue being the irritating twat you always are.”

Dev presses a kiss to my cheek. “And that’s why you love me.”

I lean into him. I do love the scheming bastard.

I move to the next question: Are you single? How long since your last serious relationship? Easy to answer for Baz. Yes and never had one .

Describe your dream date. “Fucking hell.”

Dev leans over to look at what I’m typing. “Put down fit . Muscular. A bit thick. In every way.” He raises his eyebrow again.

“I’m not writing that! They want dream date, not dream bloke.”

Dev shrugs. “Same thing.”

I stare at the laptop for a moment before I start typing. A simple night out. Dinner. Conversation.

“That’s boring as fuck, mate.” Dev elbows me in the ribs.

“That’s Baz. He’d take someone to the British Museum library and think that’s a smashing idea for a date.”

“Christ, Niall. Let me do it.” Dev grabs the laptop back and we have a brief struggle before I wrestle it away from him.

“Hands off. I’m doing this.”

I delete my previous answer. What the fuck would a dream date be for Baz? I’m not wrong about him. He loves the British Museum.

And this show loves shooting at iconic locations.

I start typing again. A simple night out. A walk through the British Museum. Dinner. Conversation. “That’s Baz, don’t even try and argue with me.”

Dev huffs but remains silent.

Describe your past three most recent relationships. When were they? What made you attracted to them? Why did they end?

That’s going to be a sparse answer. He hasn’t really ever had a meaningful relationship. A few dates here and there. Some short-term infatuations. Them being infatuated with Baz, I mean. Not him.

He’s not been interested in anyone that way, really.

Except for Snow.

But we don’t talk about that. It’s an old heartache from secondary and not worth stirring up.

Although, maybe that’s just the thing to do. Find someone who looks like Snow and let Baz finally get it out of his system, once and for all.

I’m energized now as I start filling in the answers.

Describe your relationship personality. “Being a twat,” Dev suggests.

“Are you just going to shout out the same shit answers or are you going to actually make yourself useful?”

“I’m giving you the accurate answers. It’s your job to find a way to make that intriguing and attractive.” Dev smirks up at me. “You volunteered for this.”

Fuck. I did.

I start writing answers again.

I would describe myself as reserved. Introspective. Affectionate once I get comfortable with someone. 

I’m looking for a partner who is caring, loyal, more outgoing than I am, someone who can brighten my days and get to know the person I am, behind the façade I use to protect my soft heart.

I’d be open to dating outside my usual type because my usual type has only managed to break my heart—I tend to fall for unattainable straight men.

Blue eyes, brown hair. Fit. Muscular. Preferably just a bit shorter than me. I’d like him to be able to rest his head on my shoulder when we slow dance.

Top celebrity crushes: Hugh Grant, Colin Firth, Matt Damon.

My perfect match? I don’t know if there is one. But someone who can accept me for who I am. A bloke who’s fit but funny. Smart but not necessarily in conventional ways.

Dealbreakers—racists, fascists.

Finding my ideal match will quell the loneliness of my solitary life.

I’m probably still single because I’m such a hopeless romantic. I want to be swept off my feet, feel the thrill of a connection, light a match in my heart, see the stars through new eyes.

“That’s all complete rubbish. You make him sound a right sap, Niall.”

“Well, he is and we both know it. And this is what will get him on the show—the lonely, hopeless romantic, nursing an old heartache but finally ready to fall in love again. Throw in the British Museum and one of his brooding photos and we’ve got Baz dancing on Channel Four in no time.”

“You’re brilliant, love. I knew I could count on you.”

Read the rest at Ao3!