hbnotagain
Not Again
Disclaimer: Nothing here is mine.
Donald walked up behind David and started to read over his shoulders, his hands sneaking onto David’s back at the same time and rubbing circles into the tense muscles.
“I can’t believe I’ll be thirty-five this Sunday,” David said, glumly flipping over to the next page of the essay he was marking.
“Hey, I turned thirty-five first,” Donald reminded him, “Did I suddenly become an old, un-sexy man?”
David looked up at him and smiled, then pulled him down by his tie for a kiss. “Not at all,” he said. “It’s just bizarre to think that I’ve been on the planet for that long; that in five years I’ll have been living for four decades.” He twirled his pen in his inky fingers. “Don’t you find that surreal?”
“I suppose it is,” said Donald, wandering over to his chair and pulling their cat, Marlowe onto his lap. Marlowe let out a disgruntled mew and jumped off his knees, running instead to rub against David’s legs.
“That cat likes you better,” Scripps picked up a newspaper.
“You’re too rough with him,” David said, nonchalantly. “You just want to be loved, don’t you puss?” He leant down to scratch Marlowe’s ears. Then he straightened up, clearing his throat. “Spoken to Stuart recently?”
Donald looked over his newspaper. “Yes.”
“How…How is he?”
“As well as can be expected, I suppose.”
David shifted in his seat. “Look, I still say we ought to - “
“It’s none of our business, Dave!”
David smiled grimly. “Oh yes it bloody is. He’s the one who’s over here all the time - “
“Because you gave him a key. Were you out of your mind?”
“I gave him the spare key in case we ever locked ourselves out! How was I to know he’d use it?” David sighed and wrote something rather emphatically on the essay.
“Because he’s Stuart Dakin,” said Donald. “And because for a man with so many friends, we seem to be the only ones who actually care.”
“Well, bully for us.” David picked up the next essay. “Oh, for fuck’s sake! Sixteen years old and can’t use semi-colons?”
“You’re so sexy when you grumble,” came a voice from behind the newspaper.
“Quiet, Don,” David pulled his red pen out of his pocket.
Donald rubbed here’s eyes and put down the newspaper. “Here, Marlowe! Psst, psst.”
Marlowe stopped attending to David and stared for a moment at Donald, considering him, then waltzed away into the kitchen. Donald sat back in his chair.
“Do you really think I should call him?”
“Yes,” David said, without a moment’s hesitation.
“Stuart will be pissed off.”
“Stuart is always pissed off.”
Donald looked at the ceiling. “Fair enough.” He got up and walked to the phone, flipping his diary until he found the words ‘Tom Irwin’ in stark, black letters, followed by a number. He dialed.
“Hello?”
“Tom?” Even after all these year, Donald still felt weird calling Tom by his first name.
“Donald?”
He bit his lip. “Yeah, it’s me.”
“Oh,” Tom sounded taken aback. “Hello…How are you? How’s David?”
“David and I are well, thanks. But that’s actually not why I’m calling.”
He heard Tom sigh. “Yes, I gathered as much. What is it now?”
“You should really go and see Stuart.”
“I’d really rather not,” Tom snapped. “We’re finished.”
“Yeah, until next month,” Donald said, rather irritably.
“Well,” Tom said tersely, “I’m sorry, Donald but Stuart isn’t any of my concern anymore.”
“Look!” Donald tried to grab him before Tom hung up. “Look,” he said again, “Stuart, really, really needs you at the moment. You have to see him.”
He heard Tom sigh again and knew he’d won.
Tom knocked on the door of Stuart’s flat. Formerly his flat. With Stuart. He couldn’t believe he was back here again.
The door opened and Tom had to stop himself from gasping. Stuart looked awful: his eyes were sunken, his skin sallow and he had at least three days of stubble on his face. In all the time they had lived together Tom didn’t think he had ever seen him looking so bedraggled.
“Tom,” Stuart said, masking any surprise he may have felt. “Come in.” Stuart walked away, leaving the door wide open. He lit a cigarette and tossed the pack to Tom, who refused and put it on the table.
“So,” said Stuart, easing himself into a chair. “Why are you here?”
Tom sat down. “Donald called me.”
Stuart snorted. “I was wondering what took him so long. What did he say?”
“That I should come and see you.”
Stuart took a deep drag on his cigarette. “Left the dirty work to me, then. Charming.” He got up and walked into their - his - bedroom. Tom followed him, nervously.
“Stuart? Stuart, what’s wrong?” Stuart was sitting on the bed, staring at the wall.
“I’m sick, Tom.”
Tom almost stumbled. Please, he thought, please don’t let it be what I hope it isn’t.
“Sick?” He asked.
“Yes,” Stuart said quietly.
“Wh-what do you - “
“HIV,” said Stuart. “You should probably get tested.”
Irwin felt his entire world crashing around him, and felt his lips saying, “I - I’ve been tested,” but heard nothing.
“You have?” Asked Stuart.
Irwin was slammed back into reality and nodded. “Every few months or so I…Oh, Stuart!” He sank to his knees and grabbed the other man’s waist. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah?” Stuart’s voice was wobbly. “Don’t feel too bad,” he said, “At least - at least it’ll solve this whole on-again, off-again thing we have going on. You’re free to do your own thing now…’Cause who…” He broke off, choking back tears, “Who would want to touch me, now that I’ve…” He covered his face with his hands.
Tom grabbed his hands and lifted them away from his face. “I love you,” he said.
“I love you too.”
“And I’m not leaving you,” said Tom, “Not again.”
Years later, Dakin’s last words to him would be, through an oxygen mask, “Now, don’t go and do anything stupid, you ponce.”
Irwin didn’t. He wanted to, but didn’t.
Disclaimer: Nothing here is mine.
Donald walked up behind David and started to read over his shoulders, his hands sneaking onto David’s back at the same time and rubbing circles into the tense muscles.
“I can’t believe I’ll be thirty-five this Sunday,” David said, glumly flipping over to the next page of the essay he was marking.
“Hey, I turned thirty-five first,” Donald reminded him, “Did I suddenly become an old, un-sexy man?”
David looked up at him and smiled, then pulled him down by his tie for a kiss. “Not at all,” he said. “It’s just bizarre to think that I’ve been on the planet for that long; that in five years I’ll have been living for four decades.” He twirled his pen in his inky fingers. “Don’t you find that surreal?”
“I suppose it is,” said Donald, wandering over to his chair and pulling their cat, Marlowe onto his lap. Marlowe let out a disgruntled mew and jumped off his knees, running instead to rub against David’s legs.
“That cat likes you better,” Scripps picked up a newspaper.
“You’re too rough with him,” David said, nonchalantly. “You just want to be loved, don’t you puss?” He leant down to scratch Marlowe’s ears. Then he straightened up, clearing his throat. “Spoken to Stuart recently?”
Donald looked over his newspaper. “Yes.”
“How…How is he?”
“As well as can be expected, I suppose.”
David shifted in his seat. “Look, I still say we ought to - “
“It’s none of our business, Dave!”
David smiled grimly. “Oh yes it bloody is. He’s the one who’s over here all the time - “
“Because you gave him a key. Were you out of your mind?”
“I gave him the spare key in case we ever locked ourselves out! How was I to know he’d use it?” David sighed and wrote something rather emphatically on the essay.
“Because he’s Stuart Dakin,” said Donald. “And because for a man with so many friends, we seem to be the only ones who actually care.”
“Well, bully for us.” David picked up the next essay. “Oh, for fuck’s sake! Sixteen years old and can’t use semi-colons?”
“You’re so sexy when you grumble,” came a voice from behind the newspaper.
“Quiet, Don,” David pulled his red pen out of his pocket.
Donald rubbed here’s eyes and put down the newspaper. “Here, Marlowe! Psst, psst.”
Marlowe stopped attending to David and stared for a moment at Donald, considering him, then waltzed away into the kitchen. Donald sat back in his chair.
“Do you really think I should call him?”
“Yes,” David said, without a moment’s hesitation.
“Stuart will be pissed off.”
“Stuart is always pissed off.”
Donald looked at the ceiling. “Fair enough.” He got up and walked to the phone, flipping his diary until he found the words ‘Tom Irwin’ in stark, black letters, followed by a number. He dialed.
“Hello?”
“Tom?” Even after all these year, Donald still felt weird calling Tom by his first name.
“Donald?”
He bit his lip. “Yeah, it’s me.”
“Oh,” Tom sounded taken aback. “Hello…How are you? How’s David?”
“David and I are well, thanks. But that’s actually not why I’m calling.”
He heard Tom sigh. “Yes, I gathered as much. What is it now?”
“You should really go and see Stuart.”
“I’d really rather not,” Tom snapped. “We’re finished.”
“Yeah, until next month,” Donald said, rather irritably.
“Well,” Tom said tersely, “I’m sorry, Donald but Stuart isn’t any of my concern anymore.”
“Look!” Donald tried to grab him before Tom hung up. “Look,” he said again, “Stuart, really, really needs you at the moment. You have to see him.”
He heard Tom sigh again and knew he’d won.
Tom knocked on the door of Stuart’s flat. Formerly his flat. With Stuart. He couldn’t believe he was back here again.
The door opened and Tom had to stop himself from gasping. Stuart looked awful: his eyes were sunken, his skin sallow and he had at least three days of stubble on his face. In all the time they had lived together Tom didn’t think he had ever seen him looking so bedraggled.
“Tom,” Stuart said, masking any surprise he may have felt. “Come in.” Stuart walked away, leaving the door wide open. He lit a cigarette and tossed the pack to Tom, who refused and put it on the table.
“So,” said Stuart, easing himself into a chair. “Why are you here?”
Tom sat down. “Donald called me.”
Stuart snorted. “I was wondering what took him so long. What did he say?”
“That I should come and see you.”
Stuart took a deep drag on his cigarette. “Left the dirty work to me, then. Charming.” He got up and walked into their - his - bedroom. Tom followed him, nervously.
“Stuart? Stuart, what’s wrong?” Stuart was sitting on the bed, staring at the wall.
“I’m sick, Tom.”
Tom almost stumbled. Please, he thought, please don’t let it be what I hope it isn’t.
“Sick?” He asked.
“Yes,” Stuart said quietly.
“Wh-what do you - “
“HIV,” said Stuart. “You should probably get tested.”
Irwin felt his entire world crashing around him, and felt his lips saying, “I - I’ve been tested,” but heard nothing.
“You have?” Asked Stuart.
Irwin was slammed back into reality and nodded. “Every few months or so I…Oh, Stuart!” He sank to his knees and grabbed the other man’s waist. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah?” Stuart’s voice was wobbly. “Don’t feel too bad,” he said, “At least - at least it’ll solve this whole on-again, off-again thing we have going on. You’re free to do your own thing now…’Cause who…” He broke off, choking back tears, “Who would want to touch me, now that I’ve…” He covered his face with his hands.
Tom grabbed his hands and lifted them away from his face. “I love you,” he said.
“I love you too.”
“And I’m not leaving you,” said Tom, “Not again.”
Years later, Dakin’s last words to him would be, through an oxygen mask, “Now, don’t go and do anything stupid, you ponce.”
Irwin didn’t. He wanted to, but didn’t.