TruthDare

Sonny

Claude bit his bottom lip—I did not fixate on it—then he glanced up at the rafters as though consulting with a deity. “If this had been your intention all along, for us to share a bed, you could have chosen a better time than after we’d both eaten a tonne of sprouts each.”

I looked around the space for a third person. Found nobody. “Are you talking to the house?”

The sprouts, urgh. I hadn’t even considered the gas. Damn, this was turning more awkward by the second. There I stood, in my ugliest sleep tee, my pasty bird legs on show because I never wore PJs, and a stomach full of potential silent-but-deadlies.

“I think I’ll just ask Willow and Oggy if there are any rooms left in the B Claude had already seen my boxers. He tore his eyes from my legs and glanced at the ceiling once again in a very clear demonstration of exactly how much he was not looking.

Even with the PJ pants riding low on my hips, they still ended a good four inches above my ankles.

Claude crossed over to the right side of the bed and freed the corner of the duvet. He sat down with his back to me, and put something away, or took something out of his nightstand. I couldn’t tell.

The bed was actually pretty big, which brought me a little relief. It was a four-poster with brown satin drapes that bore a gilt-embroidered mushroom pattern. I had enough time between wallowing in swells of shame to admire the beauty and craftsmanship in them.

“I’m sorry,” I said, sensing I’d stepped over the line of being slightly burdensome into annoying as fuck. “Tomorrow I’ll find something a little less... intimate.”

“You don’t need to apologise.” He slid under the bedcovers, his back propped up against the headboard, and he turned to look at me, still standing there, dumbfounded, wearing too-short pyjama pants next to the bed. “What kind of host would I be if I invited you into my”—he waved a hand vaguely—“cock mansion, and left you to sleep on the dusty rug?”

“But . . . the sprouts . . .”

“In case you weren’t paying attention, I have also consumed an inordinate number of the little green wind machines. I suggest you get into bed, and whatever happens tonight in this bed stays between us and the bloody dick palace. We tell no one.”

I nodded my agreement. I guessed it wouldn’t be as embarrassing if we were both farting up a storm all night. “Okay.” I slid under the covers on my side, and nestled my head onto the pillow. “Do you think the house will let me sleep elsewhere tomorrow night?”

Claude shrugged. The movement pulled at the duvet and reminded me we were sharing a bed. Sharing a bed! Forty-eight hours ago I couldn’t even get the man to have coffee with me, and now we would be sleeping next to each other. Would I even be able to sleep? Or would I spend the entire night tossing and turning, fretful and self-conscious?

I realised I hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in a while. First there was Mash’s party and cute-but-not-the-one Josh, then the train ride where I’d been too awestruck to sleep. And now this.

Essentially, a slumber party with a man I’ve had a three-year-long borderline obsession with.

“Are you okay if I turn the light off?” he asked.

“Sure.” I rearranged my limbs into a more comfortable position, but one that would leave them very firmly on my half of the bed. “Good night.”

Claude clicked the lamp off, throwing us into darkness. The mattress bounced as he slid down to lie on his side, facing away from me. I thought about all the sprouts Claude had eaten and also turned to my other side.

We were quiet for a few minutes. My mind raced. Claude’s snuffly, shallow breaths told me he was still awake, probably pondering everything that went wrong in his life that had led to this moment.

“Hey, Claude?” My voice sounded like a gunshot in the stillness of the room.

“Yeah.”

“Does the house ever talk back to you?”

The bed wobbled again as he turned to face me. I turned to face him too, not that I saw much in the lack of light. “No. It doesn’t. But it definitely understands me when I talk. It’s... the reason you’re here. I asked for a mycologist to help with the ritual and it threw—literally threw—your business card into my face.”

“Oh. Wow, that’s fascinating.”

Claude sighed deeply, and we were quiet for a few more moments.

“Sonny?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry. About everything that happened before. About what I said. Accusing you of... stuff. I mean, I was right, but I dunno, I feel guilty.”

“Don’t think on it anymore. I’m sorry I wasn’t upfront with you from the beginning. But I’m glad I’m here, glad the house yeeted my business card in your face.”

He made a confirmational hum-chuckle. My heart did a funny little quickstep.

I shut my eyes, gave myself three seconds to attempt sleep, then opened them again. “Doesn’t this feel a bit like a sleepover? You know, the ones you had when you were a kid, where you’d stay up all night with your friends talking about just any old shit, eating snacks, getting crumbs and sweetie wrappers in the bed?”

He laughed. I didn’t know the guy, not really, but his smiles and laughter felt rare. Like each one should be treasured. “Yeah, it does a bit.”

He didn’t have dimples, I realised, but that didn’t matter.

I threw caution to the wind. “Truth or dare?”

Claude made a strangled sound which may have been a laugh or a choke, or a combo of the two. “I’m five hundred and ten years old. You’re three hundred and sixty-six-ish. We’re a little too old to be playing truth or dare.” A cry of indignation, I guessed.

“Oh, okay. Night, then.”

The sheets rustled. There was a pause. Another rustle. “Truth.”

A jolt of victory speared my stomach. “Who was your first crush?” He could probably hear the smile in my voice.

I heard the smile in his. “When you were a kid, did you ever watch The Agnes and Tristan Show ? Do you remember Rocko, the bonkers old man?”

“The incubus? Wasn’t he the lead singer from Hell in a Hand Basket?” I hadn’t pegged Claude for a grunge-metal fan.

“Yes, but specifically him as the bananas doctor-scientist guy in A&T. I don’t know, something about the spectacles and the spiky grey wig. It... did things to me. It was an awakening.”

Claude laughed, and I found myself laughing too. Perhaps it was that I couldn’t see him well. Could only make out the silhouette of his ear, his cheek, his neck, and the duvet pulled up to his chest. Perhaps the darkness was lending us—him—the protection to be earnest and free.

I ignored the wave of butterflies that had stirred in the wake of learning Claude liked men, and pretended that finding this out hadn’t been my intention all along.

“What about you?” he asked.

“You have to say truth or dare first.”

I felt him roll his eyes. “Fine, truth or dare? And don’t say dare because I’m extremely comfortable right now and I don’t want to move.”

That Claude had admitted he was comfortable enough sharing a bed with me and didn’t want to leave it caused the butterflies to stir again in the most delicious, agonising way.

“Truth,” I whispered.

“First crush?”

“My grade-ten biology teacher.”

The sheets rustled again. Bed bounced. “What was their name?”

“Dr Sampson.”

“First name?”

I smiled, so hard my cheeks ached. “Caddy.”

“Oh,” Claude said. “What . . . um . . . sir, or . . .”

He was doing it, too. Claude was trying to find out if I liked guys. The butterflies in my stomach were practically climbing up my throat. I placed a hand on my face to physically smother my smile. “She was a woman, is a woman by all accounts, is still alive.” Claude tensed. “But like, I’m bi, pan, whatever label you want to attach to me. Not sure what you’ll do with the information, but there is it.”

I was certain I imagined the little “whew” that escaped his lips.

“Another one. Truth or dare?” Claude said.

“Truth.”

“What’s your favourite . . . uh, biscuit?”

“Woah, holy gods. Can you really just ask a man that? Awfully personal, don’t you think?”

He slapped my arm. He actually slapped my arm. I had no idea he could be playful. “Shut up,” he whispered. “But... tell me, I want to know.”

“Shortbread. That’s my favourite biscuit. What about you?”

Claude sucked in a breath like he was putting serious heavy thought behind his answer. “Probably ginger nuts. But anything spiced. Winter Fest cookies. Those little Harvest Fest ones with apple and cinnamon. Wait... whose go is it?”

“Um, I think it’s my go to ask you something.”

“Okay,” he said. The bed wobbled again and Claude settled onto his back. I stared at the sliver of light kissing the line of his nose, the slight bump on the bridge, the pout of his resting mouth, his relaxed, stubbled jaw. “I’m ready.”

“Truth or dare?”

“Truth.”

I wanted to ask him why, if he was this easy to get on with now, he’d never given me a chance previously. Why he’d spent so much effort doing everything in his power to make our interactions as brief as possible. I wanted to ask him if he was having fun with me. If he liked me. If he could ever see me as a friend. If I could hang out with him in this bed every night.

Instead, I went with, “Did you always want to be a train conductor?”

“Since I was a kid,” he said in a whisper.

“Do you enjoy it?”

“I . . .” He paused. “I used to.”

I stayed quiet, waited for him to fill the silence.

“It’s a lot different from when I first started. A lot busier. So many more people in the city, and they’re all in such a hurry. You know? Super-serious people, with their super-important jobs, and their super-meaningful lives. Nobody ever notices me. I’m just... there. Part of the furniture. Well, nobody except y—” Abruptly, he stopped speaking. “Truth or dare?”

I didn’t let myself consider why Claude finished his sentence there. “Truth.”

“Do you like living in the city? Do you think you would ever leave it?”

Woah, where did that come from?

“Honestly, I’m not sure. I moved to Remy because of its world-class bioscience department, and I love my job. And I feel as though I’m on the cusp of something huge. The city itself, well, I guess it’s good if you’re young and single and carefree and living a much wilder lifestyle. I’m not that person anymore, but I wouldn’t want to risk my career by moving too far away from it.”

Claude was quiet, motionless.

I opened my mouth to speak, but he cut me off.

“My turn again. Truth or dare?”

“Truth.”

“Choose dare.”

“Okay, dare.”

“Tell me about . . . mushrooms, microbes, your allotment. Tell me how you grow . . . anything . . . potatoes, thyme, sprouts even. Just . . . talk.”

I didn’t need to ask Claude why. He wanted, or maybe needed, something to drown out his thoughts. Luckily, I was very good at making idle chit-chat.

“So, sprouts. I’ve never managed a decent crop of sprouts, but usually I get enough for our Winter Fest dinner.”

As I spoke, Claude wriggled down on the bed and pulled the duvet higher around his neck.

I continued my sprouty lullaby. “Basically, you start with a seed. I always sow them into modules and grow them on in the greenhouse. I sow them early spring. Actually, that reminds me, I need to do them when I get back. Usually sow a lot of things during Spring Fest and I won’t be around for this one. Anyway, once they’re ready to go in the ground, you can plant them in rows. They like a firm soil. Pat them in firmly. Stake them, ’cause they can get quite top heavy. And you’ll want to protect them from cabbage white butterflies, so I plant them under a net or cage. Water them, and if they need feeding, give them some high nitrate food. Best thing is my pee-bale.”

Claude didn’t react to my mention of the pee-bale, so either he was not immediately repulsed by a pee-bale as most people were, or he’d misheard or misunderstood, or wasn’t listening to me.

Or he was—

“Are you asleep?” I whispered.

“Not asleep,” he said, though his voice was gravelled. “Tell me more. So you put pee-bale on the sprouts?”

“Well, on the soil around the sprouts, but yes.”

After I finished talking about sprouts, I moved on to tomatoes, because they were another thing I typically planted right about now, and had forgotten all about in my haste to leave Remy and learn more about mushroom magic. Then I spoke about rhubarb, and got overly excited about these antique cloches Holly had bought for me from a reclamation yard.

It was impossible to tell who fell asleep first. Did Claude finally tire of my dulcet tones? Or had my body given up before my mouth?

All I knew is that I woke up with a mop of rust-coloured hair splayed out on the pillow next to mine, an almost painfully hard morning erection, and the contentment of the first good night’s sleep I’d had in absolutely ages.