Vodka and Spooning

In my head, it had been an easy plan. In reality, people were everywhere, and it was Friday, and trying to walk through the back corridors, navigating people and trolleys with The Dieter was Mission Impossible. He kept his head down and hoodie up, but people still stared. As you would. I was in my civvies, no ID, because I was an idiot. My heart was beating a bit too fast, but at least nobody had questioned why I was dragging this dude all clad in black, with no ID either, down the corridor at the back of engineering. For security reasons, we had to have IDs visibly pinned to our clothes whenever we roamed the back of the hotel, and we were all trained to approach anyone without one, question why they were where they clearly shouldn’t be, so it was a relief to finally push him through the door to the stairwell down to the garage. More people. Laughter. A voice calling someone’s name. Just walk. Please don’t look up.

I had to stop at the machine and pay for my parking. I wasn’t supposed to park here either, but I hadn’t planned this. At all. It was my day off, and I should have been in my bed snoring away happily, okay? I should not be here…at work…with…

Ta-da! Ticket. Good.

“Get in the back,” I ordered. I wasn’t doing this for my health or sanity.

“We’re not in a movie, Reubs. I’m in the front.”

I wanted to fight him, take charge. This was my car. I was driving. I certainly didn’t fancy crashing into a bollard or something over some pap trying to climb my bonnet so they could get a clear shot of The Dieter’s ugly mug.

He wasn’t exactly ugly.

Well.

I snarled at him as he got in.

“Seat belt, mate,”

He looked confused but did as he was told. Pushing the hood off his head, he shook those messy blond strands of hair around like he was in some kind of shampoo advert. Dick.

“Keep your head down,” I suggested as I rolled down my window so I could put the ticket in at the barrier.

“Yeah,” was all I got in response.

At least he’d drunk his coffee and crammed a croissant down his neck. A bit of energy. I knew what I was like without food in the morning. I may have survived school on air and stupidity, but these days, I needed my three decent meals, as my meds made me feel nauseous without the padding of food in my stomach.

I was such a grown-up. It was kind of…scary.

I managed to drive up the ramp and onto the road without any interruptions. Not that me and my rust bucket would have attracted attention anyway, but you never knew. Those paps could be brutal, and it wouldn’t have been the first time they’d lurked around the parking garage, in the lifts, down the back corridors. Some even paid for rooms so they could be on the lookout at all times.

I glanced over at him when I stopped at the lights. His head was still bowed, and he was wringing his hands.

“You okay?” I asked gently. He didn’t look okay, and this was fucked up. What the hell was I doing?

“Look. I’m not kidnapping you or anything. You can go wherever you want. Just say the word and I can drop you off.”

“Nowhere to go,” he muttered.

“You keep saying that, but that, my friend, is bullshit. You have property. I read stuff. And your parents live somewhere up north. A quick Google told me you have plenty of places to go. Not that I can drive you all the way up there, because I have work tomorrow. But, man. Talk.”

“I…” he started. Then the silence once again filled the car, like there was so much he wanted to say but couldn’t make his mouth do it. Not like me. Because this was me. Impulsive and stupid and…ahghthg.

“There’s a place up here on the left,” I said. “Tube station. I can just dump you there. Find your own way to wherever fuck you want to go. Is that an option?”

His hands shook. Good. I was getting to him.

“You have to talk to me. I’m not stupid, G, but I’m also not a bloody clairvoyant. What are you hiding from?”

“I don’t know!” he shouted. Oh, we were unhinged, all right.

“Okaaay.” Smarmy. That was also me.

“I can’t do this anymore. I’m just so tired of it all, and I’m trapped by all these contracts and things I have to do and I have to rock up to the studio on Monday and I have nothing. Zero. No ideas. And they will have some contracted songwriter lined up to put tracks down because they know I’ve lost it and can’t produce shit and everyone just wants to squeeze the last drops of sanity out of me and I can’t…fucking…”

“It’s okay.” I tried to sound soothing, but in reality I was as rattled as he was. This Dieter was not just unhinged. He was depressed and off his head.

“Then I’m apparently writing a novel, only I have three people writing it for me and I have no idea what it’s about and then I have to go on some book tour and speak to people. They want me to go on TV and talk books.”

“Terrifying.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever even read a bloody book. Not since school. I’m a fraud, everything is a fraud, and I flunked this movie thing from the start. They were all talking behind my back, and the director was in tears at one point. I can’t act. I really can’t. And they’re going to release this shit and the whole world will laugh at me, and I just…”

He stopped. Dropped his head into his hands.

“I’m fine,” he said, followed by a stream of shallow, noisy breaths.

“You’re not. And that’s okay.”

“I should go admit myself to some rehab place. The press would love that. Have a field day with the fact that The Great Dieter is having some kind of breakdown.”

“Well.” I cleared my throat. This was way out of my league. “I have absolutely no experience with people having breakdowns. So fuck that. But what I do know?”

I looked at him. He actually looked back.

“Trust me.” I smiled.

“I do,” he whispered. “You talk to me like a human being. You’ve always been nice to me, and you know that first time we stayed at The Clouds?”

“The brITS gala, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah. You remember?”

“Of course I remember. You’re The Dieter. You’re super famous, you know.”

He smiled.

“I am. I’m super famous and super important. You remember I got drunk?”

“Dude, I remember everything. It was three in the morning, and your security had to carry you upstairs, and everyone was in a right panic. Then I had to get your jacket up to your room, since you’d hurled it across the lobby and your security dude went off to get something to clean up your puke with. I tucked you into bed and sat there and held your hand while you cried like a baby. Like I could forget. You really shouldn’t drink vodka, mate. Or not a whole bottle at any rate.”

“I’m a pop star. We’re supposed to raise hell and break stuff. Trash hotel rooms.”

“You spilt most of that vodka on the lobby floor.”

“And cried about it.”

We both laughed. Good. This was better.

“That’s why I trust you,” he said. “You cleaned it all up for me and put me to bed. And you didn’t tell a soul.”

“Why would I have told someone?” I laughed. He did too. “Ah, yeah. You’re super famous.”

“Yeah.”

“What I meant to say was…” I let my hand drop onto his thigh, which was risky, but I thought maybe he just needed a little contact. Reassurance. He put his hand on top of mine, clumsily held onto my fingers.

Freaky. But. Whatever.

“My dad does a mean roast. And it’s kind of our thing. If we’re off together, we have a roast. Even if it’s not Sunday, but who cares? Nobody makes the rules here. So, you up for a roast dinner?”

“Can I stay?” he asked. Hearing him say that felt all weird. Like I was suddenly warm on the inside.

Trust.

He’d said it. I said it all the time. It was one of those words that meant nothing in passing, thrown about like it was specks of dust.

“You trust me?” I asked.

“Do I have a choice?” He grinned. There he was, the snarky little shit I knew he was on the inside.

On the outside, it was becoming harder and harder for me to even see a connection. I flicked the radio on, only to get blasted by one of the Blitz megahits.

He cringed. I did too. Then he laughed, and it was…actually…nice.

I sang along, in my very worst voice, because the lyrics were truly stupid. Maybe he wasn’t quite losing it, because if he’d come up with those lyrics?

“You wrote this?” I shouted over the beat.

“Yep. One of my many best-selling creations.”

“And now you think you’re having a breakdown? I mean, what the hell does that lyric mean anyway?”

“You mean, the bit about twisting my brain into submission? Holding my heart with the claws of your tongue?” His singing voice felt too close to the bone. I didn’t like it.

“Shut the fuck up, mate.”

He just laughed.

I pulled up outside our house and did a perfect reverse into the conveniently empty parking space. Weekdays, people were at work. On the weekends, I sometimes had to park a twenty-minute walk away. Dad had a posh car and paid for a private space around the back of our building. I couldn’t afford that. Besides, I didn’t need it. I could walk. I liked driving. Driving was good for me, kept all my neurons firing nicely. I could concentrate now. When I’d bought my first car…well. My first two cars were written off when I lost the little concentration I’d had back then. I could be scatty AF. The third one got stolen. I didn’t blame whoever had nicked it because no doubt I’d forgotten to lock it, seeing as that was when I was into driving off and sitting in the car smoking until I barely knew my own name. Then I’d tried to drive home again.

I could smile about it now, and apparently I was doing, as he looked at me over the top of the car as we got out and asked, “What’s funny?”

“Old me. The tricks I used to get up to. The stupidity of youth.”

“You sound like your dad.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m barely twenty-six and already speak like a mature silver fox.”

“He’s handsome, your old man.”

“Stop,” I said sternly. “If you’re into an older man, fine, but this is not how we’re going to play this. I’m not going to push you into my very straight father’s loving arms, and there will be no happily ever after.” I wasn’t even laughing. Trust? Fuck that.

“Dude!” He shook his head at me. “You have the gay bit right, but God. No. Nope. Please don’t ever mention that again.”

“Mention what?” I laughed as I stuck my key in the door and hollered for my dad.

We lived in a ground-floor flat—the bottom storey of a house. There was a single mum upstairs with a bunch of kids and some wannabe gangsters in the house next door. The neighbours three doors down sold every drug under the sun. This was no idyllic existence, but it was where Dad and I lived. Where we slept and ate and laughed and actually got on. I hadn’t been an easy kid, but my dad was no bloody saint either. We’d both fought our battles. Neither of us had won.

We’d compromised. A very adult thing to do, I’d learned. And it worked. Like I’d given up the weed and he’d given up the booze. We were both better off now. We coexisted, supported each other. Held the fort.

My dad needed a girlfriend, someone who would take over so I could move out because I didn’t want to leave him here alone. I couldn’t afford to move out either, but that was a completely different story.

“Hey!” Dad appeared in the hallway, in his apron. Like always. My dad was rather prim and proper and wore slacks and a shirt at all times, even on days off, while I tended to mope around in my boxers. Not that either of us cared.

“And hello…Mr Dieter…Graham?” He looked a little perplexed, to be honest, as I dragged our guest through the door.

“Graham,” I said. “We’re going to feed him and let him stay the night, and then…?”

I looked questioningly at Gray. That was what I was calling him now in my head.

“Thanks for having me,” he said like he was a seven-year-old having been invited for a playdate.

“You’re very welcome here,” my dad replied, doing that caring voice. One of the many reasons why I loved my dad. He cared. His home was his castle, but if someone needed something, he was always there with open arms and a plate of food.

“The chicken needs another hour, so go relax.” Dad waved his arm to dismiss us. “I assume you’ll need tea?”

“Yes, please.” I grinned. I was polite. Told you. “How do you take your tea, G?”

He shrugged. He couldn’t have looked more confused if I’d asked him something about advanced chemistry.

“Just milk for G here,” I answered for him. He drank lattes. A bit of milk would do.

“G,” Dad muttered. “What kind of name is that? I thought The Dieter was bad enough.”

“It sounds like something an Austrian graphic designer would be called,” Gray said.

“It’s a name.” The last thing I wanted was for my dad to offend Gray and have him retreat back into the state he’d been in earlier.

I pushed him ahead of me, towards my room. “I feel like your deranged bodyguard or something.”

I should probably have been embarrassed, but I wasn’t. At all. This was my place. It had a bed, a few shelves of things, my laptop charging on the side and my clothes scattered all over the floor. Just the way I liked it.

“Who’s this then?” he asked, picking up Mr Snuggles from my bed.

“Mr Snuggles,” I said. “I’ve had him since I was a kid, and don’t even start. He fits nicely in my arms, and I can’t sleep without him. He’s, like, just the right size.”

He held him against his chest. I tugged at Mr Snuggles so his head was up under Gray’s chin.

“He’s a cat…I think. Not sure anymore. I had to stitch him back together at some point because Dad washed him and he’s kind of old.”

And there he went, down onto my bed, still wearing his shoes. He rolled over on his side, exactly the way I would sleep, with Mr Snuggles tucked up against him.

It made me laugh. Because if I had been ridiculous from the start, now my life was truly absurd. On every level.

“What the hell are you doing in my bed? At least take your shoes off, man!”

“Comfy.” He grinned, even though he had his eyes closed.

“Dude!” I sighed and sat on the edge of the bed. “You’re still wearing your shoes.”

“Oh, I do apologise.” Bam. Dunk. Problem solved, he turned over so he was facing the window, leaving me nothing but a sliver of mattress.

“This is my room. My bed.”

“Yup.”

Spoilt idiot.

“If you hadn’t noticed, this is a two-bed place. My dad is in the front room, I’m here. You’re on the sofa, mate.”

“Nope.” He was laughing, which was good, but still.

“Gray,” I pleaded. I had no idea where we were going with this. I thought I was the impulsive, nutty one, but Gray was in a whole other league. And in need of therapy or something.

“I like your bed. And you said I could stay.”

“You can stay. On the sofa. Or I can drag some blankets in and you can kip on the floor.”

I wasn’t going to give in here.

“Well,” he said, sounding saner, calmer. “It’s a bed.”

“Yeah, and I used to share it with my cousin Luis when I was fourteen and he was, like, ten.”

“I’m twenty-eight,” he said.

Oh. I hadn’t known that. I’d thought he was only about twenty.

“Officially, they’re saying I’m twenty-two, which is total bullshit, but whatever.”

“Still doesn’t magically make the bed suitable for two grown men. I’m twenty-six, dude. We’re big, smelly, farty idiots. Far too big to share beds with other dudes.”

“I’m gay, Reubs. You know that, right? Even if I wasn’t, I’ve shared beds with blokes before. It’s just a case of spooning the right way and tucking your legs in. Easy. You should try sleeping on some of the tour buses we had in the States. Crazy times. Sometimes we had to take turns. Sometimes, we’d just squeeze in and pass out.”

“I’m not spooning with you.” I had my limits. Boundaries. “And I’m not gay. Just for the record.”

That cleared that up then.

“I trust you,” he said. I could hear the laughter in his voice.

“I’m not sure I trust you back,” I muttered. But yeah, I was laughing too. It was nice having a friend. Someone who laughed with me instead of making fun of me.

“I’m keeping Mr Snuggles, by the way. Might take him with me to the studio next week. I can hang on to him while I write some more pathetic love songs.”

“Mr Snuggles, The Love Song,” I teased. He retaliated with a slap on my thigh. Oh, so we were doing this now. Touching.

I gave him a shove. “Budge over.” I was tired. It was my day off and I hadn’t had my obligatory lie-in.

I put my back to him and kicked off my shoes, let them drop to the floor. Grabbing the blanket from the bottom of the bed, I tucked it around us both. Then he rolled over, pushed Mr Snuggles up my back and wrapped his arm around me.

“Chaperoned by Mr Snuggles,” he said.

“Sounds like a romance novel. A really dodgy one.”

“Oh, have you read many of those?” He held me tighter, his warm breath on my neck.

“I don’t read, mate. And this isn’t even spooning. This is full-on cuddling.”

“Do you mind?” He yawned. I felt the softness of his lips against my skin.

Fucking hell.

“I do, actually, but I’ll let it slide for now.”

I was comfortable, and the next thing I knew…

…was my dad laughing his head off in the doorway, telling us to get our arses in the kitchen for lunch.

Fuck my life.