#pipps

“So… still writing?”

The bottle is half empty, the glasses soon to follow, both shining with a politely reserved gleam in low light. ‘Politely reserved’ seems to be a theme tonight. Scripps nods, swishing his wine around like posh tossers do with brandy. Feels apt, given they’ve been small-talking their way through a stilted conversation like posh tossers for the last half hour. “Yeah, yeah. Well, if you can call it that. Journalism, you know? Not the proper stuff.”Posner smiles- a mischievous little twist, aged in maturity but not modesty since their school days. “Proper journalism? Or are there rumours of an undercover celebrity in my school I ought to know about?”Oof. Scripps groans, clutching his heart as he slumps back into the well-worn sofa. “Davey, you wound me- to think I’d fall so far from grace…”“Oh, shush,” Posner tuts, sipping his own wine, teasing smirk still firmly in place. “If you want to make your living stalking Cheryl Cole, that’s your lookout.”“Surprised you know who that is.”“I could say the same about you.”“Yeah, well, I work in the media- what’s your excuse?”Posner’s eyebrow quirks with his smile. “I’m a flaming homosexual,  dear.”Not even a tremor. Scripps can’t help but grin. “Oh, aye. Never did grow out of that then, eh?”“No,” says Posner primly, crossing his legs. “And I don’t intend to.”“Good lad.”There’s something guarded in the smile Pos offers. He can’t put his finger on what, exactly, and for all he knows he might be pulling observations out of his arse; after twenty years, his Pos-reading goggles are probably a mite foggy. But, that’s what tonight’s all about, he supposes. Reconnecting.Some Dutch courage ought to help with that.“So,” he says, mirroring Pos in tone and awkwardness as he reaches for the bottle. “Refill?”

“My god,” he laughs, and the crinkles round his eyes are new but the gleam in them is a fond memory. “Scrippsy, it’s- what brings you here?”

"What d’you think? Work, work, work,” Scripps responds, grin stretching his face as his feet carry him without being asked, closing the ever shorter stretch of hall as if pulled by gravity.

“You? Working?” Posner quips, a lot closer than he ought to be- it’s about that moment that Scripps realises he isn’t the only one advancing. “Will wonders never cease?”

“Cheeky sod,” he says, face hurting.

Pos rolls his eyes. “You love it.”

Christ. He really does.

“So, as long as you’re ‘working’,” says Posner, graciously not miming the air quotes in his voice. “Might you have a gap in your busy schedule for a drink with an old friend?”

If he didn’t he’d bloody well make one. “Reckon I can manage that. Where’s good?”

“Round here? Absolutely bloody nowhere,” Pos snorts, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. The big round things are dated even by what Dakin calls Scripps’ ‘old man glam’ standards, but he wears them well. “Personally, when the need to drown my sorrows arises I find my sofa and a bottle of Tesco plonk is the way to go.”

“S’pose the sofa’s where we’re bound, then- but I’ll bring the booze. Sainsbury’s finest.”

Pos whistles, eyebrow quirking mischievously. “Pushing the boat out.”

“Well, it’s a special occasion,” Scripps shrugs, playing it off as a joke. He’s likely not fooling anybody. “Not every day you bump into an old mate. Got an address? Or is this infamous sofa in the skip round back?”

“And where are you living? Back seat of your car?”

“Don’t be daft. Cat’s got the back; I kip in the boot.”

Pos beams, squeezing his books close to his chest. He’s holding rather a lot of them- Scripps feels rude for not offering to take some, but shrugs off the instinct. That’s the sort of thing you do for ladies, or when you’re walking somewhere with someone, not during an impromptu catch-up with an old school mate in the hall… right? “Well, you’ll be pleased to know my sofa’s in a flat,” Pos continues, drawing Scripps back to the present and away from inner debates on the in and outs of chivalry. “Four walls and a roof.”

“Big spender.”

“Looks like we’ve both gone up in the world, eh, Sainsbury’s?” Pos teases, shifting his books onto one arm so he can playfully shove Scripps with the other. It actually rocks him back a little; ol’ Pos isn’t quite the weedy scamp he was twenty years ago. “So, are we on?”

“We’re on,” Scripps confirms, smile hurting his face as Pos, with bright eyes and a brighter grin, grabs Scripps’ hand and plonks it down atop his book pile. He carefully selects a pen from the neatly arranged row in his cardigan pocket, and with it jots an address on the back of Scripps’ hand in pretty green ink.

“Eight o’clock?” Pos asks, and maybe it’s just Scripps’ imagination but it seems there’s a new tentativeness in his voice.

“Eight o’clock,” Scripps agrees.

“Good,” says Posner, voice thick with… anticipation? Fear? Hope? Impossible to tell. “Drinks are on you.”

“Aren’t they always?”

They share a smile, softer than the previous- it feels bashful, coy. Feels like the sort of smile they’d have been better suited to sharing when they were both fresh-faced sprogs in school uniforms. Well, they are in a school corridor, so at least there’s that. And Pos is hugging books to his chest like a shield over his little spaniel heart. Smooth away some creases and do away with the sensible cardigans, and they could very well be schoolboys again. Scripps certainly feels like one.

And then Pos clears his throat, and nods. “Well, then… See you later.”

Scripps nods, pulling his hand back and resisting the urge to cup it to his chest. “Eight?”

“Eight.”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

He nods and bids goodbye, eyes following Pos as he turns his back and walks away. Watching him because it’s good to see him, he reasons. Good to see the defeated slump gone from his shoulders, good to see him healthy and seemingly happy in his own skin.

There’s no such simple explanation for the way his heart skips a beat when Pos turns round for a last smile.

“Who’s this?”

Pos laughs, pouring another glass. “Fred.”

“That’s not a cat name.”

“No, but it’s a good one!”

Scripps gives him a look as he scratches the cat’s ears, well aware that the loud purring makes it hard to deliver with gravitas. “You would think so, wouldn’t you, Laura.”

Pos ducks his head, giggling bashfully- and a tad tipsily. “Heh. Thought I was being subtle.”

“As a brick.” Scripps oofs as the cat, with a steady wiggle of his hindquarters, launches himself from the coffee table and onto his lap, winding him with his bulk. “Speaking of; what are you feeding this lad?”

Waving his hand dismissively, Pos tucks his feet up beneath him as he nestles into the arm of the sofa with his wine cupped in both hands like a mug of tea. “Oh, hush. He’s my oldest friend- I need someone to spoil.”

Scripps hesitates, glad of the cat’s presence; gives him something else to look at, something to do with his hands as he mulls that statement over. It’s been easy to forget tonight, looking at Pos all grown-up, what a lonely boy he was. He’d thought… well, he’s not sure what he’d thought. Obviously he doesn’t have a live-in fella, this isn’t the one-bed walk-up of a taken man, but he seems so much taller now, seems to carry himself without the weight of the world on his shoulders and he thought at least he’d have… someone. People; friends, close colleagues, raucous girlfriends he met when they crashed his favourite gay club and initially despised but grew invested in. People he’s close to, people who sleep over when they talk into the night, people he buys presents for on birthdays, people who check in on him. And maybe he does, maybe Scripps is just reading unheeded pessimism into that comment, but… the shy hunch of Pos’ shoulders tell him that even if he does have those sort of people, he likely doesn’t know it.

“So…” says Scripps, watching Fred’s paws as they knead his stomach like bread. “There isn’t anyone, then?”

Pos smiles dryly, sipping his wine. “I’m not hiding a fella in the breadbin, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Scripps snorts, cupping the cat’s chubby face and rubbing it to a chorus of happy purrs. “Yeah, well, s’pose there’s merits to being unattached.”

“Speaking from experience?”

“Oh, yeah. Practically a monk, mate- although technically that ship sailed a while back.” He digs his fingers into the fur of Fred’s pudgy belly, grinning as the great hairy thing flops down on his lap like a happy puddle. “This is the most action I’ve seen in months.”

“Months? Oof, lucky sod,” Pos huffs, adjusting his specs. “Wait ‘til you’re pushing the three year mark. Then you’ll be considered for monkhood.”

Scripps gives him a commiserating mumble, glancing up at him. “Don’t meet many decent blokes, then?”

“A few,” Pos shrugs, fiddling with the stem of his wine glass. “S’pose the timing never feels right. Other things need be considered, things it’d be… best not to show off.”

Ah. Scripps nods slowly along with his ponderous rubs of Fred’s fluffy belly, not meeting Pos’ eyes. “Y’know… people’re a lot more understanding of that sort of thing these days.”

Pos snorts. “Not with teachers they’re not. They get so much as a sniff and they’ll assume I’m, well…” Scripps can see him glance his way out of the corner of his eye. “A Hector.”

“Which you’re not.”

“No. Or at least, not in that respect,” says Pos. “I’d be lying if I said I never thought about him. And there are some things, the way he taught, I…”

“I know,” murmurs Scripps, looking up with an understanding smile. “You proper looked up to him, didn’t you?”

“He was an arsehole. I know that now, just… a sad, lonely arsehole. There’s no excuse for what he did. But… he was a good teacher.” He snorts, running his hand through his hair. “Even if what he taught us was a load of bollocks.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Scripps chuckles, with a quiet grunt as he bends over the cat to pick up his glass. “‘Least it was fun bollocks.”

Pos laughs, raising his glass. “To fun bollocks!”

Scripps beams over the clink of their glasses in the quiet, falling back into easy conversation as naturally as his hand falls into slow pets of the cat’s silky tummy. It’s far too easy to look back on that time in his life with fondness, even with the bits a responsible adult would revisit in a therapist’s office. It was fun bollocks, as Fred would attest.

And it was never more fun than with Pos.

It feels like he’s been here before.Of course he has, technically. He’s an adult man with a social life as well as secret depressive episodes not talked about in polite society; this isn’t the first time he’s had a staring match with a supermarket wine selection. But those occasions aren’t what this reminds him of. No, in this instance the image in his mind is of the secret and usually locked cabinet in his parents’ kitchen. He can almost feel the pinch of his old school shoes on his feet, the hot, risky weight of the stolen key in his hand. His inexperienced eyes scan the labels on the forbidden treats, jumping restlessly between the bottled dregs of spirits and liquors before finally alighting on the bottle nearest to full, dark liquid encased in green glass. In his mind’s eye the image overlaps with the present, that label doubled up and fuzzy round the edges like one of those fancy new 3D films as it hangs in the air, echoing itself through time.

He picks up the bottle thoughtfully, turning it over in his hand. Same name, different year. Not a perfect match but, well, more familiar than he expected to find tonight. Not as expensive as he’d thought it back then, when he’d filched it from the cupboard and smuggled it into school in his bag like a dirty little secret, knowing he was in for a right bollocking when he got home. Still a mite pricier than anything he buys for himself these days, mind.

Scripps runs his thumb along the edge of the label, smooth and unblemished, like the first one had been for a good few hours before Pos got his hands on it. If he concentrates he can recreate the little curls and rips left by anxious fingers in his memory, the bottle’s identity peeled away over the course of  a dreary September afternoon as the contents evaporated swig by swig. For about an hour that Thursday, they’d experimented with drowning their sorrows like the grown-ups did, bottle swapped hand to hand, just between the two of them. While one drank, the other droned- a nice even split, in theory. In practice, Pos spent more than his fair share of time talking, and Scripps took his due in extra booze. He’d bloody needed it, frankly; anyone would after being forced to listen to such a long and involved rant about Dakin.

Bloody Dakin.

This was before Pos knew he’d fallen for the tosser, obviously. When he’d still been labouring under the flimsy notion of his own heterosexuality, and convinced the heat in his cheeks when Dakin walked in the room was a product of irritation alone. Scripps probably could have put him right on that, but… well. He wouldn’t want to be accused of giving the lad ideas. He’d have lied if he said he wasn’t tempted, though. Tempted to end the poor sod’s confusion, even if just to replace it with a new strain. Maybe just tempted to have someone with which to commiserate about his own confusion, new and nebulous as it was. Sometimes, even the idea of talking to someone in the same miserable boat made it easier to sleep at night. But even as Pos made that connection by himself, even as his admiration of Dakin sprung forth anew in flagrant flirtations and ballsy public ballads, commiseration wasn’t in the offing. How could it be? It wouldn’t be fair. After all, Scripps knew the identity of the object of Posner’s affections.

If Scripps were to reveal the object of his, it could spoil everything.

But, oh, temptation. Temptation, he’d mused as Pos had licked his red wine stained lips, was a persistent thing.

The bottle in his hand is heavy with the weight of regret. Regret for a wasted opportunity for solidarity with another confused boy with weight of religious guilt on his shoulders. Regret for years of voluntary solitude, senseless and self-perpetuating. If only he’d said something. If only he’d know what he wanted to say.

He thinks he knows now.

The question, he muses, bottle clutched to his chest, is am I wiser, or just older?

“You know there’s more compact ways of collecting music these days, yeah?” Scripps teases, rooting through Pos’ collection. Though he hasn’t bought an LP himself in years, the flicking motion of sifting through the box is as good as muscle memory.

“I know- I’m not an utter geriatric,” says Pos- a bold statement when he’s swaying around with Fred the cat purring on his shoulder, every bit the mad old cat lady. “I still have my Walkman, and a CD player, but the speakers are shite. And I’m not fussing about with those poxy little headphones in my own flat.”

“The Walkman?!” Scripps snorts, adding another record to the pile- not as convenient as a playlist, but he appreciates the authenticity. “That thing’s still going?”

“Oh, yeah- she’s a tough old bird.”

“That she is. Ooh-” he pulls out a sleeve, holding Ella Fitzgerald’s face up beside his own and waggling his eyebrows- “This one’s familiar.“

Pos blushes. “Yeah, well. She’s a tough old bird, too.”

Scripps chuckles, plonking it in the ‘maybe’ pile. “Can’t believe you sung it to his face. You were a ballsy fucker, y’know that?”

“Or just a stupid cock.”

“Can’t have one without the others, eh?”

Pos giggles, warm and merry with wine. Five glasses down and still standing; he’s come a long way from his days as a teenage lightweight. “Well. I was lucky everyone was so relaxed, really- if I’d pulled that shit anywhere else…”

Scripps winces. It’s true; for a small, Jewish gay boy from Sheffield, Pos had managed not to be as monumentally fucked as anticipated. “Yeah, they were alright,” he mumbles, eyes on the task at hand. “S’pose it was all good fun.”

“Better a laughing stock than a punching bag,” Pos sums up, pressing a little kiss to Fred’s furry head before depositing him on the sofa. Chunky lad must get a bit heavy.

“Aye.”

Scripps glances up at the record player at the sound of a jumping needle, watching it hover patiently in the middle. “How ‘bout something with a bit of life?” he suggests, carefully lifting the spindle aside to put Joni Mitchell back in her sleeve.

“My tragic spinster collection not good enough for you?”

“Oh, I’m all aboard for the tragedy,” Scripps snorts, rifling through his selection. “But if we’re gonna sit here moaning like a lonely hearts’ club, we may as well do it to something danceable.”

He can feel Pos’ eyes on the back of his neck as he settles on The Innocents. “Y’know what, Scrippsy,” he says lightly, and Scripps can see him fiddling with the stem of his wine glass in his mind’s eye. “You’d make a terrific homosexual.”

Scripps pauses, hand over the needle. There it is, suddenly. An opportunity dropped right in his lap, a chance to come out without making a big song and dance about it. He wouldn’t even have to take it seriously; a quick ‘reports of my heterosexuality have been greatly exaggerated’ and he’d be done, right back to fussing with the turntable.

Instead what comes out is a nervous laugh, and something that sounds a little like ‘you wish’.

Bollocks.

Red-faced, he guides the needle into place as slowly as possible, wishing there was more to do to keep his hands busy and his eyes away from… whatever Pos’ face was doing right now.

But before he knows it A Little Respect is pounding out in synthesised insistence, and there’s naught to do but face the music.

He turns round, nervous of what he might find. But Posner doesn’t look offended, or sad or really swayed in the slightest. Rather he looks curious, head cocked like a budgie as he gives Scripps a once-over.

Then he puts down his glass, and holds out his hand. “Shall we?”

Scripps gives it a bemused smile. “Really?”

“Yeah- I’ll be Ginger Rogers,” he teases, wiggling his fingers invitingly. “And you can be another famous Fred.”

“Mercury?” Scripps jokes, taking his hand and tugging him close. “Don’t know if my voice can go that high.”

Pos tuts, resting his free hand daintily upon Scripp’s shoulder. “Ever the class clown.”

Scripps smirks, catching him by the waist. “Ever the leading lady.”

“Too bloody right. Now, Freddie dearest,” he cooes, eyebrow raised in challenge. “Think you can lead, or shall I do the honours?”

“Reckon I can manage, ta.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Prove it.”

“Will do.”

It occurs to him quite quickly that this song doesn’t have quite the right time signature for this sort of thing- especially as Scripps’ right foot seems to have mutated into another left from disuse- but he makes a bloody good go of it, if he does say so himself. There’s no room for anything more fancy than a clumsy little box step round the living room, but Pos doesn’t seem to mind, eyes crinkling with bright laughter, warm pink cheeks dimpled and luminous as his smile.

“Not bad,” Pos concedes, matching him step for tipsy step.

“Good as Freddie?”

“Mercury? Undoubtedly,” says Pos, snorting as Scripps attempts to add in a little shimmy to his hips. “Astaire? In your dreams.”

“Cheeky sod,” Scripps laughs, squeezing his hand. “I’ll show you Fred Astaire, mate.”

“Wha-Scripps!”

He giggles, high and startled as Scripps releases his waist and twirls him away from his body. It’s pretty bloody far from graceful- Pos knocks the coffee table with his shin, toppling an empty Celebrations box and sending the reclining Fred scarpering. But he twirls back in without complaint, breathlessly laughing even as Scripps manages to get his arm twisted up awkwardly behind his back.

“See?” Scripps brags, wheezing as he sets the stumbling man to rights. “I’ve got moves!”

“Moves? You almost brained me!” Pos argues, smacking his chest.

“Yeah, that’s my move.”

“Oh, wow. Winning. Aren’t you a prince charming?”

“Yeah, surprisingly not many g-” he frowns, aware that this may be another subtle coming out opportunity and determined not to brush it off quite so readily- “not many people go for it.”

Pos raises a pencil-thin eyebrow. “Well. Then people are missing out,” he says matter-of-factly, stepping back from Scripps and gesturing to the table. “And by that, I mean missing out on getting concussion. I think I need another drink to soothe my nerves- be a gentleman, eh?”

Scripps shakes his head and rolls his eyes, but his cheeks hurt from the force of his grin. “Foisting the husbandly duties on me, again, Davey; that’s low, that is, exploiting my chivalrous nature.”

Pos tsks lightly, biting his tongue in such a way as to make Scripps’ heart hasten to a jog. “Well, if you’d like a break from wearing the trousers in this relationship, you need only ask.”

Oh, Ginger, you little minx.

“Nah, you’re alright,” Scripps brushes him off, busying himself with the wine glasses and studiously keeping his eyes away from David bloody Posner. “I’d look crap in a skirt.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” says Pos, brushing his hand over Scripps’ shoulders as he wonders past him to the kitchen. “Reckon you’ve got the legs for it.”

Yep. Still a ballsy fucker.

Scripps chuckles nervously, ducking his head. God, he won’t survive long around Pos if he keeps this up.

He surveys the now empty bottle, considers. He reaches for his satchel, shoving aside his spare jumper to find the second bottle he’d bought. The one he’d been in two minds about revealing at all; the one with the familiar label and the heavy weight of bittersweet memories.

Then again, he thinks, tapping the neck in an anxious tattoo. Like it better than my chances of surviving without him again.

“Pos?” he calls, decision made. “Next round’s on me.”

Small. Unassuming. Weathered Magnolia paint, fraying at the edges and revealing flecks of red, black, old layers no one bothered to strip. Already he knows it’s the type of door that sticks, that ‘has a bit of a knack to it’, that let’s in a stiff draught in the winter that the landlord always makes empty promises to fix.In other words, it’s just about as far from what Scripps expects- what he hopes- to find within as can be.His eyes flicker to the buzzers, a modern touch in an antique building. But not modern modern; more like something he’d have thought modern back in the eighties when no one knew any better. Grime collects about the edges of the nondescript plastic box, a small, dusty cobweb forms a trim like tattered lace. Three buttons present themselves- the bottom is blank, old stickers ripped away and the white plastic clogged with dirt. The top is in the best nick of the three, the button well-worn beside a sticker scrawled with a long Polish name that Scripps doesn’t fancy trying to pronounce without guidance. And the middle…Scripps stares at the familiar handwriting, chuckling. It’s not a perfect match- Pos’ writing has morphed to match his vocation, cautious loops accelerated to a hasty swipe with the weight of his workload; one hardly gets to concentrate on calligraphy with a couple of hundred papers to mark of a weekend. But there’s just enough commonality to give Scripps pause, comparing the swooping little ’D. Posner’ to an age old moniker in the margins of school textbooks and finding once again the images overlaid with little disparity. The bell itself sits perfectly in between its partners- cleaner than the disused ground floor, well maintained, though in comparison to the top barely touched. Scripps would wager it’s been a long time since anyone rung it.He’s beginning to doubt his courage to do so, himself.His hands tighten on the bottle in his hands; the cheap and cheerful bottom shelf plonk. On his shoulder, the strap of his satchel digs with the weight of the second bottle, the secret one, the one he’s not sure his courage will hold out long enough to reveal. He doesn’t have to, of course. He can just go in, catch up and natter like old friends, then say his goodbyes. Maybe they’ll keep in touch as friends, maybe they’ll just go their separate ways but… either way, this doesn’t have to be the dramatic step he’s making it out to be. He has an out, if he wants it.

God, he hopes he doesn’t take it.

He takes a deep breath, steadies himself, and rings the bell.

“What the bloody hell am I doing?” he mutters, almost as a measure of comfort. A reassurance that this is every bit as scary as he’s been building it up to be, but he’s doing it anyway. “What am I doing-?”

And then the lock rattles, the door opens, and David Posner squints at him- and then grins in warm recognition when he remembers to pull the glasses on his head back over his eyes.

“Hello, stranger,” he says, stepping aside to welcome him into his home.

And why didn’t he do it years ago…?

"At last… my love has come along…”

Scripps chuckles,  squinting at the ceiling. “Most optimistic thing you’ve played all bloody night.”“I shan’t apologise for my good taste in music.”“Or for being a drama queen.”Pos giggles as he flops back to the floor beside Scripps, settling in. “Never.”The two of them, drunk on wine and good company, gave up the pretense of being upright an hour ago. Instead they’ve been lying on the clean but threadbare carpet, legs up on the couch and the cat curled up fast asleep between their feet. It feels familiar, safe. Replace the wine with a bottle of corner shop lemonade and Fred with their abandoned homework and they could be back in Sheffield, whiling away the hours together under the guise of study sessions. Only now with no parents in the room above (except the Polish family, of course, who are apparently very nice and easy-going and often offer Pos a place at the dinner table on the Sabbath) they can play their music as loud as they like.“You used to love all that synthpop rubbish,” Scripps says in mock judgement. Truth is, he doesn’t much like how much Pos’ pop music collection has dwindled- he can only imagine the sort of state of mind the man’s been living with to part with his beloved Soft Cell. His brief victory in digging up Erasure was short lived, and he’d not struck lucky since. Not that he has anything against Etta or Ella, of course, but… He doesn’t like the idea of this being all Pos listens to, alone in his flat every weekend.“Still got it all, somewhere,” Pos says, the simple statement more comforting to Scripps than he would ever know. “Think it’s in a cupboard… s'pose I grew out of it.”“Maybe you’ll grow back into it.”He feels Pos’ eyes on him. “Maybe…”A moment’s silence passes, and Scripps turns his head. Their eyes meet across the short stretch of olive green carpet, and he feels Pos’ searching him.“Scrippsy,” he says, soft and hesitant. “If I ask you something… Do you promise not to take the piss?”“You think it’s something I’ll find funny?”“Hm, poor choice of words- I don’t think it’s funny, it’s just… perhaps not something I ought to ask. Not the sort of thing you ask a school friend after twenty years of radio silence. It might be… invasive. So you don’t have to answer, if you don’t like, but just promise me you won’t get… funny about it. Please?”Scripps pauses, and nods. “Certainly do my best.”Pos glances down at his hands where they fiddle with the hems of his cardigan sleeves, restless fingers worrying the yarn. Then he looks back up, glasses askew, and asks:“Are you happy?”Silence falls between them. Scripps stares back at him, mouth open. He’s not sure why but he was expecting something more… specific. Maybe expecting Pos to go digging for clarification on the sexuality hints he’d dropped, or ask him about his relationships, his family, maybe even his religion- he knew they’d both been struggling with that, once upon a time, maybe he’d be curious to know if any progress had been made. But the question was unique in being simultaneously broad and pointed, forcing Scripps to take stock of his entire life and condense his findings into a yes or no answer. He thinks about taking the option not to respond. But he looks Pos in the eye, sees the buried shadows of longing and confusion there, and wonders how many nights he spends awake pondering on whether happiness is a fallacy.“I think so,” Scripps replies, carefully, turning his face back to the ceiling. “I mean, I’m still not exactly doing what I want to do. I’m working hard, and I don’t get to settle and… well, I s'pose it gets lonely sometimes. A lot of the time. But I know there’s something better round the corner; one of these days my work’ll pay off and in the meantime I’ll just try to make the best of it. So maybe I’m not happy, but… I’m going to be.”He doesn’t say what he thinks will make him happy, specifically. There are a lot of things that could; enough money to focus on some proper writing, a steady home with a study and maybe a small vegetable garden, perhaps a pet or two. He definitely doesn’t say that one particular thing thing might, if he plays his cards right, be in this very room.“Oh.”It’s soft, barely above a whisper. Scripps turns to Pos again, watching his eyes dart behind his specs as they avoid making contact. Aware of his scrutiny, Pos glances back at him with a small smile and a nod. “Good. That’s… good.”Scripps hesitates, and raises himself up on his elbows, looking down thoughtfully on his reclining friend. “Davey?”Pos quirks his eyebrow.“Are you happy?”He thinks he already knows the answer, but it takes a few moments to come, Pos’ mouth moving silently and his brows furrowing as he constructs it in his head. “Well… I like my job. I like my school. I like the boys and the teachers. I have books, and a cat and a roof over my head. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s comfortable. It feels very empty, sometimes. If I don’t bring my work home with me there’s seldom enough to fill an evening, but… I can’t complain. I’m not happy, but… I’m not unhappy about it.”Etta James croons, Fred the cat snores, the wine grows warmer by the second on the table and Pos lies, prone like Ophelia in the river, with his lonely little heart in his hand for Scripps to see.“Pos?” he says, closing his own hand over it. “With respect… that sounds like absolute wank.”Pos looks at his hand, their fingers loosely twined, and back up to his face with caution- and, what Scripps can only pray he’s correctly reading as hope. “Do you have a better offer?”And Scripps looks back at him, drinking him in from wide eyes to wine-stained lips, and nods. “Yeah,” he says, all the liquid courage in the world not enough to save his throat from the dry rasp of nerves. “Reckon maybe I do.”The world narrows down to the slightest of anchors when he leans in, eyes closed as their warm lips meet, the taste sweeter and darker than the reddest wine. To the short, shaky exhale as Pos breathes into his mouth, caught between a startled gasp and a longing sigh. To the tremor of his own hand as it cups Posner’s cheek, to the rough slide of coarse fabric as Pos drags their legs into alignment with a fist in his jumper, palm smoothing out over his waist in satisfaction despite the ungainly tangle they find themselves in. Scripps’ back is twisted, their legs half aloft and what’s more he just doesn’t bloody care. And best of all, neither does Posner. He can’t even guess how long the kiss lasts, how long they spend wrapped up in one another’s warmth, sleepy affection passed mouth to mouth like tender words and playful banter. But when they separate with a dry rasp of lips he can feel his back complaining, feel the beginnings of pins and needles in the leg trapped against the sofa cushions. But frankly, the aches and pains can stuff it, because David Posner is smiling up at him like he hung the moon.“Oh,” he says again, breathy and delighted, glasses even more crooked than before.Scripps makes sure to politely right them before going in for another kiss.Pos hums happily, hands burrowing into Scripps’ hair like he wants to hold him there forever; and Scripps can’t think of a reason not to just bloody let him.When they surface again Scripps feels breathless, lungs empty but heart so very full as he runs his fingers through Pos’ honey-gold hair, light catching the glint of silky silver sneaking in at the temples. All grown up now, the spaniel-hearted boy. God, when did that happen? When did they both get so old?And more importantly, why weren’t they doing it together? Pos smiles up at him, pink cheeked and effervescent, and runs his hands across Scripps’ shoulders.“Why, Scrippsy,” he teases, casual tone belied by the heaving of his heart under Scripps’ hand. “Not very chivalrous of you, taking advantage of a lonely shit-faced spinster.”He looks so bright, so warm and inviting, happiness bubbling in his eyes and voice in a way Scripps hasn’t seen all day. In a way he’s not even sure he saw in their youth.Scripps grins, and pats his cheek. “Well, it’s about time someone did.”Pos cackles, loud and ungainly as if he can’t hold it back, neck arching invitingly as he hugs his stomach. Scripps pounces at the opening, nuzzling into the crook of his neck as his throat vibrates with laughter, running his hands down shaking arms, grinning shamelessly as he tickles and teases more noises out of the man; the best laughter he’s heard in years.“You fucker,” Pos wheezes, slapping at his arm half-heartedly. “That was- that was the worst joke I’ve heard in… in- in ever. In my entire life. Crude, offensive, utterly unfunny-”“I know,” says Scripps, smirking. “Good thing your sense of humour’s as tasteless as mine, eh?”Pos, still giggling breathlessly, cups Scripps’ neck in both hands tenderly, scratching through the hair at his nape in gentle admonishment. “True. I suppose you’re stuck with me.”He’s too drunk and happy, Scripps thinks, to even voice the comment in his usual self-deprecating manner. For this one moment in time, he likely doesn’t mean anything sad by it.But Scripps kisses him again in assurance anyway. Just in case. “God, I hope so…”He thinks he’ll stay here tonight, if Pos will have him. Not necessarily in the same bed, or even the same room if that’s what it takes to avoid taking a step they’re not ready for in the night. But he’d very much like to fall asleep here, surrounded by Posner’s little life. Very much like to wake up, and have his inevitable beast of a hangover tempered by the pad of Posner’s slippered feet in the kitchen as he puts the kettle on. To wake up in someone’s company- in David Posner’s company, no less- and have the immediate, comforting assurance that this night wasn’t just a dream. That whatever conversation they have to have when they’re both awake and sober, they had this.And hopefully, hopefully, they’ll have it for a long time to come.But tomorrow’s a long way away, and Pos’ smiling lips are so close, warm and sweet and red with Scripps’ sentimental wine.And Scripps is done denying himself what he wants.Leaning down to taste him again, he settles in comfortably for a long, gentle night. Content to do this for as long as Pos will have him, content to explore the cherubic swell of his lips, to run his spun-gold hair between his fingers. Content, he thinks, to kiss him 'til dawn and watch the rosy fingers of it illuminate Posner’s face like a daydream; set alight every crease and crinkle, contrast lines of hard-earned experience with the soft, peach-pink lustre of his skin and the foreign laughter lines as Scripps etches them there with kisses and jokes. They can lie here all night, just making up for lost time for all he cares. Work can wait, the world can wait. Tonight belongs to them, only them.

And they’ve done enough waiting to last a lifetime.

“And here we are in Heaven, for you are mine…