Commitment Issues by Ali Ryecart
Chapter Thirty-One
Freddie
I take a very quick look around to make sure the prissy librarian isn’t anywhere in sight, before I duck down and take a massive bite out of my sandwich. Home-made hummus and grated carrots. Lots of home-made hummus and lots of grated carrot. The supermarket was doing a buy one get one free deal on tinned pulses and the carrots were dirt cheap because they’d reached their sell by date. Getting all this stuff with my staff discount is one of the perks. Chick peas and carrots, I know how to live.
On a warm, late Thursday afternoon, the university library’s quiet. I’ve been here for what feels like hours, and I think I’ve had my fill of the role of hallucinogenic drugs in Norse warrior culture for today. I’ve unearthed some fascinating stuff, though, and I know Elliot will be interested, when I see him later. I take another illegal bite of my sandwich and think about the conversation I had with my Prof. earlier.
My application for one of the gold dust placements at the Institute in Oslo is being favourably considered — very favourably, she’d emphasised. But although the prize is within my reach, there’s a lot of competition. I’m nearly there, and if I do get a place, it’ll be a massive plus on my CV and a big step towards the career in academia I’m working towards. Then why don’t I feel more excited?
In my jeans pocket, my phone buzzes and I pull it out, taking a quick look around for Miss Prissy but she’s nowhere to be seen. The handful of other people who’re here are far enough away for me not to bother them. I look at the caller name and smile just as I always do.
“Hello,” I say quietly.
“Why are you whispering? Are you in the library?”
“Yes, I’ve been here all afternoon but I’m just finishing up now. Where are you?”
“Heathrow. My taxi will be here soon.”
“Okay. Should I see you back at the house? I’ll get the kettle on,” I say with a laugh.
And I can have the kettle on because I’ve got a key. Well, that’s not quite true, I suppose, but it’s close enough.
Elliot’s got one of those outside electronic safe things, where you keep a spare set of keys. He’d given me the code when he’d been away on business, a month or so ago, when there’d been a Jasper-related emergency.
Rosa, Elliot’s cleaner, was supposed to have been keeping an eye on the crazy mutt, but she’d had a sudden family-related crisis, and couldn’t do it. Elliot had been frantic, and asked if I could help. I’d ended up staying at the house, because it was easier if I was there to feed Jasper and take him for walks. Elliot didn’t change the code when he got back, and we kind of agreed, without explicitly agreeing, that I could carry on using the key.
“That’d be good. Unless you’ve got other arrangements, of course?”
I hear the unspoken words in his voice. Unless you’re going out with friends… Unless you’re seeing somebody… We’ve never explicitly agreed exclusivity because we’re not in a proper relationship. We’re friends, friends with benefits. But exclusive is what I’ve been, and I know it’s been the same for Elliot.
“No, no arrangements of any description. I’ll have the kettle on, and your slippers waiting.” I laugh, but the laughter catches in my throat because I quite like that vision.
“What’s that?” I ask. He’s talking to me and I’m lost in a day dream featuring cups of tea and slippers.
“I said we can order in some food. There’s that new Thai place down the road which is pretty good.”
“No, you’ve got a house full of grub. The order came in yesterday. I can cook if you like?”
“You don’t have to do that,” he says, but I can hear the smile in his voice.
“It’s not a problem.” And it’s not, it’s not a problem in any shape or form, because I like cooking for him. But I don’t tell him that, and instead I make my voice extra cheery. “Shepherds pie all right?”
One of the things I’ve learned about Elliot is his soft spot for all the traditional home-cooked dishes.
Shepherds pie, toad in the hole, Lancashire hot pot, and Sunday roasts. I’ve cooked them all for him and he’s been appreciative. Very appreciative. I shift in my seat as my dick stirs in its denim prison. My balls are heavy and achy with their unshed load. Heat curls up in tendrils in the pit of my stomach as I think of being naked in Elliot’s bed, and a small groan escapes my lips.
“Freddie? You okay? It’s so noisy here and it’s not a great line—”
“Yes, I’m fine,” I rush out, but I’m anything but if the throbbing in my balls is anything to go by. “I’d better go, I’m getting the evils from the librarian,” I whisper. “I’ll see you back at the house.”
Back at the house, where he’ll be hot and sweaty and in need of a shower… The scene opening up before me is reminiscent of one of Cosmo’s porn stash. For years we’ve had weekly sessions, with cold beer and a delivery pizza. Some of it’s hot but mostly it’s cheesy and makes us laugh. The porn, not the pizza. We’ve not done that for a while, in fact I’ve not seen too much of Cosmo lately. He’s recently got a promotion, and he’s away on business a fair bit. We’ve become ships in the night. I know he’s home tonight, though… trouble is, I’m not.
My phone pings with a message, and there he is, as though I’ve summoned him.
You home tonight?
No, staying at Elliot’s.
Okay.
And just like that, I’m feeling guilty as hell.
I thumb in another text.
We’ll go to The Breaker’s Yard tomorrow night. It’s pricey so you can buy the drinks.
A second later my phone pings again, and I can’t help laughing when he replies with a row of two fingered salutes, and a smiley emoji. It’s a date, and I’m going to make sure I keep it.
As quickly as I can, I gather my things together and stuff everything into my rucksack. The prissy librarian’s glaring at me, and I throw her an apologetic smile as I escape into the warm high summer evening.
* * *
A long delay on the Northern line means Elliot’s at the house by the time I arrive. He’s standing by the window of what I think of as his room, the one with books and vinyl, talking on the phone. He sees me and waves before he moves away and I know he’s coming to answer the door. Because if he’s at home, I don’t let myself in. I know it’s odd. I’ve got free access to the key, but I just don’t do it. And he’s never said I should, and so I don’t.
When he opens the door, he looks tired, but his grin tells me he’s happy to see me. He’s glad I’m here and that simple thought turns something to mush deep in my chest.
He all but drags me in, bundling me into his arms. Our mouths find each other’s, our kisses are long and deep. I want my mouth on every inch of him and I’m about to drag him upstairs to the bedroom when he breaks the kiss and nuzzles into my neck.
“That’s nice,” he murmurs.
I ease back and take a long look at him. He looks more than just tired, he looks worn out. The creases at the outer edges of his eyes seem a little deeper, a little more ingrained. He’s tired, so tired, and I know without knowing that what he needs more than anything isn’t sex, it’s for me to be here with him.
“How was your trip?” I ask, but I already know the answer.
“Fractious. Difficult. But I expected it to be. The main thing is, we’ve reached terms and now it’s in the hands of the lawyers.”
I follow him into the kitchen, the place we always head for first, and he hands me a beer from the fridge which I take with a smile and thanks as we chink bottles.
I get on with making the dinner. Shepherds pie, one of his favourites and one of mine too, and we talk not about his fractious business deal but about the Norse and their use of magic mushrooms. Elliot’s fascinated, as I knew he would be, and he asks me lots of questions I’m more than happy to answer, as we open up some more beer. In the corner, Jasper’s in his basket playing with his squeaky chew toy. It feels cosy and domestic and if I let myself, I can almost believe it’s real.
He takes the heaped-up plates out into the garden, and I grab the ketchup he likes with it, from the well-stocked cupboard. The cupboard, fridge and freezer are always well stocked, as I’ve taken over the online grocery order from Perry.
“That’s me done,” he says when he’s finished, pushing away his empty plate. He yawns, catching my eye and giving me an apologetic smile.
“It’s been a long day, a long bloody week,” he says, stifling another yawn as he stretches.
He looks loose and relaxed, now, so much better than when I arrived and the heat in my belly fans out into my groin telling me I can make him a whole lot looser.
“Do you want anything more? Any – dessert?” I say, giving him an exaggerated salacious look that’s pure cheese.
“Tempting though dessert is I’m not sure I could do it justice.” He smiles, and it’s kind of apologetic, and as much as I want to rip his clothes off and get sweaty right here in the garden, I don’t want him to have to apologise to me. Truth is, I’m just happy being with him.
It’s a warm, close evening and the first drops of rain fall from the fat, deep grey clouds that have scudded in and we gather everything up and head indoors.
We hunker down in the room across from the book and vinyl stuffed one. The Roxy, I call it, in deference to a retro-style cinema, because with its enormous, massive, humongous TV up on the wall and its big plushy sofa, it makes me feel like I’m at the pictures, minus the stink of popcorn, slurping of fizzy drinks and constant background chat. Elliot had all but doubled up in laughter when I’d first called it The Roxy but I’ve noticed that he does, too, now.
We set up a film to watch, and loosely cuddle up on the sofa. It’s only a matter of minutes before he slips down my body and rests his head in my lap. He’s only a breath away from my half-mast cock, but it’s not a prelude, much as I’d like it, to him unzipping my jeans and taking me in his mouth. Instead, he sighs as he snuggles down, and I drift my fingers through his hair. It’s not long before I know he’s sleeping, and I switch the TV off, plunging the room into silence.
I gaze down at him, drinking in every inch of his face. There’s a hint of dark smudge under his eyes, reminding me of how he’d looked when we arrived in France. He needs his sleep and it should be restful but instead his forehead puckers as though his dreams are disturbing, and he mutters one or two words I can’t make out. I run my fingers through his hair again, and he settles. There’s not a lot of hair to play with, not because it’s thinning, because it’s not; it’s thick and heavy, but he likes to have it cut short, almost severe. There’s more grey there, I’m sure, but it suits him and I smile as I stroke the steel-coloured strands.
He jerks, his body suddenly tight and tense, but settles almost immediately. I could’ve relieved him of all that tension, he could be sleeping sated and satisfied, and with a smile on his face, but that wasn’t what he wanted and I wasn’t going to push. He mumbles something again, his brow furrowing once more, and without thought I circle my fingers over the creases, as gently as I can, to ease away the worry. And it works, as under my hand he loosens and the tightness in his face begins to melt away. But I don’t remove my hand. I like to touch him, and if this is the only skin on skin I’ll share with him tonight, then I’m happy with it.
As Elliot settles, I think about the placement in Oslo which is dangling in front of me, almost within reach. It’s been the golden prize I’ve been chasing for what feels like forever. I glance down at Elliot, lying still, his breathing steady as he sleeps easier. My heart clenches, because that golden prize is no longer quite so bright. And I know why. It’ll mean the end of this, whatever this is exactly. With me in Oslo for a year and Elliot in London, our arrangement will come to its natural conclusion
He knows I’m likely to be leaving at the end of the summer, but we’ve not really talked about it. There’s no need to, I suppose, when we both know what it means. We’ll pull apart and go our separate ways because there’s nothing to bind us, other than the relationship we agreed from the outset isn’t a relationship.
My heart thumps hard, a fist smashing through bone and muscle and I gasp. My eyes mist and I blink to clear them. I know the deal, we both do. Just like I know what’ll happen when I go in just a few weeks, because that’s how long we have left, just weeks.
Elliot will meet a man like him, somebody urbane and cultured and sophisticated, somebody with corporate running through him like the words in a stick of rock. That’s the kind of man he should be with, not somebody like me. I’m too far removed from his world to be anything other than a passer through. I’m the breathing space he talked about.
Or a sticking plaster.
That’s what I am, a sticking plaster, just something to cover the wound while it knits and mends, until he’s strong again after the catastrophe of Gavin. And I know it, I knew it when I agreed to our arrangement, because aren’t I getting something from it too?
My hand slips from his brow, only to be caught at the wrist in his strong grip.
“No don’t stop. It feels good.”
He shifts and looks up at me, his gaze warm.
“Will you stay the night? Just to sleep?” A rueful smile tugs his lips.
We make our way up to bed. It’s still early but I’m happy to climb under the duvet, lay close to Elliot and feel the heat from his skin, and to hear his heavy, steady breathing as he falls into a deep and much needed sleep.
I’m happy to just be with him as I wish for more that I know will never come.
