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"This is very disappointing, Christopher. Your grammar is getting worse." After the final swish of her red pen, the one his mother always used for correcting his work, she handed the paper back to him. "Now, make sure that you learn from your mistakes this time." Chris looked at the poem, now covered in red, and wondered what she'd thought of it. He had tried very hard to write something better than last year's attempt, but of course, his grammar had let him down. Again. Maybe next year, if he got it perfect, she'd be pleased enough to read the poem itself. Say that it was a very reasonable piece of poetry. Perhaps even a brief pat on the back if she really liked it.
Looking at the brutally worked over paper, unable to lift his eyes from the red glaring at him to look at his tutor, Chris felt that pain he sometimes got. Was it his shoulder again? It was all healed up now, merely a phantom ache, but occasionally it would throb like it was still healing. Not like it had on the way to A&E in the back of Trevor's van, because the ambulance service always gave them a four hour wait time even when it was quiet. But the pain still lingered. Chris cleared his throat.
"Can I go outside for five minutes?"
"I don't know, can you?"
"...may I go outside for five minutes?" Reluctantly she nodded, and Chris fled before she could change her mind. It was still chilly outside, enough to make him immediately regret not taking his coat. He should go back in and get it, but the thought of returning made something spike inside him. Some fresh air would do the trick. Leaning against the wall that marked the boundary of the block of flats, for want of anything else to distract him from the cold, Chris took out his phone. Just something to pass the very precise five minutes he had to himself before he had to face it all again—
No, it would be fine. They would watch Tabitha the Administrative Owl take her mandatory holiday leave now that he'd eaten his lunch, much to his mother's disapproval. That would be a nice reminder of when he was younger.
The drama society's group chat was spamming his notifications. Despite knowing it would have nothing to do with its actual purpose, and everything to do with Mother's Day, he opened it. As he'd expected, it was all about everyone spending today with their families. Lunches were being eaten together, gifts were being given and appreciated, and Sandra had sent multiple photos, all of them taken from her best side, with Max's family distant mountains in the background. Dennis had merely sent everyone a blurry photo of his foot without any further explanation. It looked like everyone was having a grand old time.
Well. Nearly everyone. One member of the society was markedly absent like he rarely was. There was a limit to how long Robert could let a conversation progress before interrupting and turning it back to his favourite topic: himself. Usually it was about five messages, one if it was from Chris, and half the time he would hijack the conversation as soon as he saw Chris typing.
Today, however, Robert was silent. Hadn't said anything since yesterday, Chris realised as he scrolled back to check, which was strange when it was so busy. Not a single bit of bragging, or even just interrupting with how his day was going. Ignoring Jonathan, he opened Robert's profile. His best headshot was his photo, and the black and white didn't make Robert look half as sophisticated as he thought it did. It wasn't that long since he was last online. Chris tapped his phone in the palm of his hand as he looked at his photo.
The rehearsals for their next production started on Tuesday. Robert had been elusive about how far he was in learning his lines the last time they'd talked. Perhaps Chris should check on that and avoid any nasty surprises.
Have you learnt your lines yet?
The little bubble that immediately popped up, three dots of waiting, made something stick in his throat. Whatever Robert was typing wasn't what he wanted to hear, and not just because he was taking too long for it to be 'yes' and nothing else.
I can run through them with you tonight, he added before he could stop himself. The bubble vanished. Stupid, Chris thought to himself. He was being incredibly stupid, it could wait. Just because he knew that Robert found Mother's Day difficult, didn't mean that he was looking for the first excuse he could find to get away. Chris would be the last excuse he would ever want to use. It was already over five minutes since he'd left the flat, it was freezing, he should go inside before he froze to death and forget this whole ridiculous business.
Your place at seven.
Typical! Not a polite request, or even a question, just a demand. Robert must have been desperate to escape if he was agreeing. Glancing at the time, Chris considered when he should leave. They could watch the episode and then he could go after that. It would give him enough time to make sure his flat was fit for visitors. Even one as ungracious and rude as Robert.
"Did you write this?" Robert asked, waving the paper with enough red lines covering it to make it look like a map to somewhere. Chris paused in the doorway, two coffee mugs in his hands, and watched Robert. Despite his lack of confirmation, he was already reading it.
"Yes," he replied, stating the obvious as he put the mugs down on the table. Tried to seem disinterested, like he didn't care. He did. Chris cared a lot, itched to know what Robert thought, hoping that perhaps he might like it even if his mother hadn't.
"Let's see. I am your son, care for you a ton. My name is Chris. And I'm sure sometimes you do actually miss, me when I'm gone." Robert shook his head. "This is terrible, Chris, good god." Chris snatched the paper out of his hands, feeling like an idiot for even considering that he could get anything but mockery in response.
"Yes, yes, let's get on with what you actually came here for." Screwing up the paper, Chris aimed to throw it in the bin but found he couldn't. Instead, resigned, he smoothed it out then put it down before turning to Robert. "How are you doing with your lines?"
"I want to play Johnnie." Not this again. Chris picked up his copy of the script before replying.
"We've been over this. You're not playing him."
"Why not?"
"Because that way we have enough actors to cover all the roles."
"You're just afraid I'll show you up in the dance sequence." Chris sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. It wasn't like Robert wasn't already in that scene! He just wasn't the centre of attention.
"I'm not discussing this with you again. The casting is set, I'm not changing it."
"You'll regret this," Robert threatened.
"That will hardly be a change, then, since I'm already regretting this. Have you learnt any of your lines?" The sullen silence was suspicious, speaking louder than the "yes" that followed. "Let's start from the first scene, since you have a lot of lines there. I'll play everyone else. Can you remember who you're playing?"
"Chris, I'm a professional," Robert replied condescendingly. "Of course I know who I'm playing." Chris didn't fully buy it, but he wasn't going to argue any further. They were here to rehearse and rehearse they would.
"Father, I hate working in the mines," Chris opened with.
"You'll do as you're told, son."
"What are you doing?" Chris asked in disbelief.
"What do you mean, what am I doing?"
"That accent. Why on earth are you doing a Scottish accent?"
"It's up north, isn't it?"
"Not that far north! Why did you think I was doing a Scouse accent?"
"...that's what you were doing? I thought you were Welsh."
"No! Why would I be doing a Welsh accent? This play is set in the north of England!"
"Where?" Chris paused. That was a good question. He looked for the answer in the opening stage directions.
"It's set in Luton."
"Where's that?" Chris shrugged.
"Somewhere up north. Ah, it says here it's in Yorkshire."
"Huh. I didn't know Luton was there." Neither did Chris.
"Well, it's not in Scotland, so don't do a Scottish accent." With that cleared up, they carried on. Even if Robert's Yorkshire accent sounded more like he'd come from Somerset via the pub. He stuck to his lines, right until it got to the moment where the young, ambitious twenty-eight-year-old Johnnie declared his desire to become a professional dancer while working at the coal face.
"No son of mine is becoming a bloody poncy Southerner who dances for a livin'! What do you think this is, Strictly Come Dancing? You'll work in the mines till Thatcher closes 'em, just like everyone else." Swinging his arm for dramatic emphasis, even though he'd have a pickaxe in it, Robert swung it so dramatically that his hand smacked Chris right in the face. Chris staggered back with an "ow", dropping his script to hold onto his nose. No, he hadn't broken it. In fact, beyond the stinging, he wasn't hurt. Oh, good, they could continue then.
"You're bleeding."
"What?" Robert cautiously reached for his face. Chris flinched instinctively, and Robert hesitated for a second before deciding to touch him anyway. His thumb carefully brushed just under his eye and the sudden pain that bloomed under the press of Robert's thumb made him wince.
"Caught you with my nail."
"Oh. Just be more careful with how you move your arm, you'll have a pickaxe once we're in dress rehearsals." Ready to carry on, Chris picked his script, backing away from Robert’s hand. "Where were we? Ah." Clearing his throat, he started, "but I don’t want to stay in this ho-hum town that's so far away from London—" Robert's hands on his face made him stop mid-sentence as he cupped his face. Chris swallowed, his heart loud in his ears, before he asked, “what are you doing?”
"You're bleeding, Chris."
"And?" Chris asked, confused. It hurt a little, but it wasn't that deep, it was just a scratch. Hardly warranted all this fuss. Robert's eyes narrowed before he let go of his face and vanished off to the kitchen. The warmth of Robert's hands lingered in his cheeks as he waited for Robert to return. The fact he'd come back with the first aid kit he kept in there was a surprise.
"Sit down." Chris sat, even if he didn't understand why Robert was making such a fuss over it. Pulling up a chair opposite him, Robert sighed before opening the box and getting some disinfectant. The sting of it on the scratch made him flinch but he stayed still, even without Robert holding onto his other cheek to stop him from getting away.
"Why are you doing this?" Chris asked as Robert stuck a plaster over it.
"It's on your face. Getting a scar won't make you look any better. For God's sake, why are you always like this?" Screwing up the little tabs and throwing them into the bin, he added angrily, "you're hardly macho, Chris, why do you even try to act like you are? It's just pathetic." Being accused of not acting manly was hardly new for Chris, he'd had that thrown at him since nursery, but being accused of acting macho was.
"When do I act like I'm macho?"
"Whenever you get injured and insist you don't need any treatment, or that you don't need to go to hospital when you clearly do. Do you think it impresses anyone? It really doesn't." Chris blinked.
"But I do go to hospital?"
"Now you do, sometimes. You never did at the start."
"I didn't need to if they would heal up by themselves. Going to hospital would just waste the valuable time of the medical staff and everyone's taxes."
"Jesus Christ. Do you really believe that?"
"Yes? If I get injured, that just means I should have been more careful, and I'll just have to heal up by myself instead of bothering other people about it." Robert inhaled sharply, like he was the one who'd had disinfectant applied to a cut.
"What about m—I mean, what about everyone else worrying about you?"
Everyone else worrying about him, huh. Chris thought of how, when he was admitted to the hospital after the festival, Robert had shown up out of nowhere, shortly after Trevor went home, to see him. It was probably just the painkillers scrambling his brain, but there might have been something that looked like regret on Robert's face. Robert had sat down by his bed and didn't ask how he was or mock him. In fact, he'd said nothing at all, which was the longest time Chris had ever heard him keep his mouth shut. Despite how much his shoulder hurt, even with the painkillers, Chris hadn't asked Robert to leave, even though it was entirely his fault that he was there.
The nurse who'd come to check him over hadn't asked Robert to leave, either. At one point, when the nurse had been checking his bandages, her touch, as careful as it was, drew a hiss of pain. Robert's hand had shot out and grabbed his own. Chris held on tight. Robert hadn't pulled away, even when his grip was so tight it made his knuckles go completely white, hurting Robert (though not as much as Robert had hurt him). Chris didn't let go of his hand until, long after the nurse had left them, Robert finally stood up.
"I hope you don't use this as an excuse for why your acting's got even worse," he'd said. They'd bickered until Robert leaned in against his ear. His breath had been hot against it. It sent something through him, though he knew it would just be an insult whispered into it. What Robert said was a first, so shocking that Chris knew, even with the painkillers, that he hadn't imagined it. "Sorry about that, I panicked. Didn't mean to actually shoot you." An apology? Robert was gone from the room before Chris could even follow up with "if you are actually sorry, then don't ever bring a gun with you on stage again."
Chris had been exceptionally pissed off with him—his silence was because he wanted to ignore him as much as it hurt too much to talk—but at least Robert had, eventually, shown up to see him. Had stayed while the nurse tended to him. Had not said at any point, "it's your own fault that you got hurt, you should be more careful. Do you think it's acceptable to waste other people's time like this?" Instead, Robert had held his hand the whole way through. Had, maybe, just maybe, even been worried about him.
Exactly why he should be more careful, not to bother other people with his problems or pain.
"It's kind of them to be worried, but they shouldn't be. It's my fault if I get injured, it's not anyone else's problem."
"How is it—how is it not anyone else's problem? Yes, I'm a much better director than you, so it would be better if I was in charge again," Chris scoffed loudly but he carried on, "but other people care about you. For some reason. What about them?" Chris thought, that dull ache growing in his shoulder again, of what everyone else was doing today. They were off with their families, with people who they cared about. With people who cared about them.
"I don’t think they care that much."
"You don't think they care that much," Robert repeated in disbelief.
"Well, it’s like someone told me: 'you're just not lovable now that you're older.'" Chris tried to laugh because Robert would agree with that. Of course he would. He ignored the ache in his shoulder as he tried, failed, and fell silent instead.
Robert did not. Instead, he took a deep breath, as if trying to calm himself, before going, "oh, for God's sake" and grabbing his cheek much more roughly than he had before, pulled Chris in and kissed him.
Robert's free hand went to his waist and pulled him in closer. Holding him, touching him, acknowledging him. Chris felt himself suddenly shatter. A hairline crack inside him split apart as he fell out of his chair and onto him in desperation. Robert caught him, hauled him into his lap, arms tight around him as Chris straddled him, and refused to let go. Chris held on, his mouth sliding against Robert's, the kiss messy, uncoordinated, needy.
Everything was spilling out of him now that whatever held it all in before had cracked. The need, the want, the hurt, the shame (of not being lovable, of never being good enough), was going everywhere and yet Robert didn't let go or back away in disgust. Instead, he was as pushy as always, sliding his tongue into his mouth, demanding that Chris pay attention to him and nothing else. His big, warm hands that Chris had watched so many times, holding onto props, onto their fellow actors, holding onto what sometimes felt like was everything but him, were running up his body, then feeling their way back down and grabbing his arse. Please don't let go, Chris wanted to ask but held back, wouldn't say even if Robert's mouth wasn't swallowing down every noise he tried to make. Don't stop touching me.
When Chris finally broke away, needing to breathe rather than wanting to stop, his chest was heaving. He could feel the scratchiness of where Robert's beard had rubbed against his cheek, his chin. The blood was as close to the skin in his lips as it was on his cheeks, and between his thighs as it pooled in his cock. How he ached to have even more of Robert against him, to hold onto him as he spread his legs for him, to let Robert bury himself inside him, wrap his thighs around him as Robert fucked him. Ached for Robert to fill up at least one of the hollow places inside him as he met his eyes, darkened with want.
"Chris," Robert said. His voice cracked a little, looking at Chris with a needy kind of expression he'd never seen on his face before, but like always, looking directly at him. Robert, without fail, always did. For better, for worse, he looked at Chris. He saw him, didn't look beyond him, or slightly to the side, as if waiting for someone less disappointing to pass by.
Please look at me, Chris thought. Hold me, refuse to let go of me, be as stubborn, difficult, and annoying about me as you are about every other bloody thing.
(Please love me.)
What Chris actually said, as Robert's hands squeezed his arse and the need grew hotter inside him, to touch and be touched, to feel every single inch of him, with a voice that only wavered a little, was "bed?"
The hands ran up his sides, lingered on his ribcage like they were feeling to see if he was missing a rib before they lifted him up off Robert's lap onto his feet. The sensation of standing on his own two feet was disagreeable. Chris didn't want it. He wanted to be held, to be cocooned, and went straight back to grab Robert, held onto him with arms tight around his wide chest. The sigh that followed merely made Chris bury his face in his chest, refusing to let go, pressed up against his warmth.
"Weak, Chris." Despite his words, Robert's hands grabbed him, pushed him back before lifting him again, but this time to sling him into his arms, to carry Chris like a bride on the way to the wedding bed. Chris reeled in for another kiss, hard and needy, as Robert carried him to his bedroom, not pulling away even as Robert struggled to open the door with no free hands.
Thrown down on the bed carelessly, he hardly felt the objection his back gave from the rough treatment when he saw Robert rifling through his bedside drawer, like he knew where he'd find what he needed. Chris' breath hitched when he climbed onto the bed over him. Ghosts, half remembered dreams and fantasies of Robert in his bed, about to pin him down, overlay the real sight in front of him. Chris trembled. Not from fear, but with something else that had escaped through the crack when he'd split apart.
Chris reached up and pulled Robert down on top of him. The weight, the heat of him sent electricity spiking through him. Chris kissed him again, only for Robert to retreat, to move down Chris' body, hands pawing their way until they reached his fly and started to work it down.
"You're wearing too much," he explained, a response to a question Chris didn't ask. Pulling down his trousers, Robert paused at Chris' visible, straining erection, before letting his breath puff against it. Chris shuddered, hips pushing towards his mouth, needing to be touched. Robert’s tongue licked a stripe along his prick through the fabric of his pants, hot and wet, drawing out a groan before he demanded, "take off your shirt."
"What?"
"Take off your shirt." Chris did, reluctant when what he wanted, needed was for Robert to touch him. Throwing it aside, his eyes returned to Robert nestled between his thighs. This sight, too, made him tremble. The hunger in his eyes as he looked up at Chris. Robert pulled down his pants, working them down and off, before his hands travelled up Chris' calves, then lingered on the most sensitive skin of his inner thighs. Chris squirmed from the touches, his cock aching, before, without any preamble, Robert licked the slit of his aching prick and then swallowed him down. The slick heat of his mouth around his cock made Chris jerk, reaching for something to hold onto and finding Robert's hair. His fingers dug into the loose strands, pulling as Robert sucked his cock hard and Chris' head fell back with a thump onto the pillow. Just as relentless and pushy when giving head as he was when angling for the lead role. Here he could let Robert have exactly what he wanted.
The finger brushing against his entrance, slick with cool lube, made him jump. It didn't stop Robert, he kept sucking as Chris' fingers dug into his scalp, as he pushed a finger slowly inside him. Chris shuddered from the sensation. From feeling Robert press inside him, just a finger but still closer than he'd ever been to him before. It wasn't his first time, but the other times hadn't been like this. Any greed had been purely his partner wanting to get off, not greed to have him, devour him. Anyone would have done for them.
A second finger pushed inside him, twisted its course, working him, stretching him. Chris groaned in-between his little, shuddery breaths. Opening his eyes, his mouth felt dry as he looked down at Robert. He dared to think that anyone would not do for Robert. That it had to be him, and just him. His prick twitched in Robert's mouth, a different ache from the one in his heart. He wanted to touch him. Wanted Robert to press down on him, to obliterate any thought that wasn't of him or of this moment, to show him something that he'd always assumed was impossible for so many reasons.
Robert pulled back, a loud wet noise escaping as Chris' cock slipped out of his mouth. His eyes were a much darker shade of blue than usual, pupils blown wild with want. Getting up on his knees, Robert started to work his shirt off. Chris watched him as it came off, couldn't look away even if he wanted to. He leaned forward to run his hand up Robert's chest, feeling his hair under his palm. Robert didn't stop stripping. His hands worked his trousers off in a hurry, cursing as he fumbled the button while Chris rubbed circles into his chest. His eyes flitted down to see the sizable bulge in Robert's trousers before he pulled both them and his pants off. Proof that it really was him he wanted before he pushed Chris flat onto his back to loom over him. More idle, imagined phantoms of the past bared down on him, now made very real. This was happening, this was really happening to him.
"Oh my god," Chris mumbled to himself, overwhelmed as he heard the tear of the wrapper, felt the shift of the bed as he finished rolling the condom down over himself.
"Yes, I guess I am for you." Even in this state, Chris glared at that statement. Really?
"You are not God!"
"Shh, you've got plenty of time to realise that I'm right." Robert kissed him quickly before adding, "you'll be calling my name like I am soon enough."
"I will not—" the press of the head of Robert's cock against his entrance, catching on the ring of muscle made his breath catch too. His legs lifted instinctively, wrapped around Robert's waist without him needing to ask, his thighs tightly gripping onto him as his cock started to sink into him. Too much. He'd needed a little more time to prepare, he was a little too tight, the stretch was a little too much, but Chris didn't want to let go. His hands clung onto his back, his fingers digging into Robert as his cock pushed deeper inside him, as Robert pressed down harder on top of him, dug deeper and deeper inside him. "Oh, god." Robert paused, halfway inside him.
"Chris—"
"Keep going," he forced out, his voice breathy and a little pained. Chris could handle this, could feel the pain from the stretch shifting, turning into pleasure. It wasn't like an injury, just something to ignore. It was morphing, it could be and would be better. He couldn't bear it if Robert stopped now. "For the love of—anything, do not stop now." Meeting his gaze, he could see some hesitance, as if Robert was reluctant to hurt him. Chris' fingers dug in even tighter into his back. Robert had never been careful with him before, hardly worried about such minor things as Chris getting hurt. How come he cared so much now? Wetting his lips, he followed with, "Robert, I want it." 'I want you' wouldn't come out.
From how Robert kissed him as he moved again, that was enough. His cock slowly pushed all the way in until he finally bottomed out inside Chris. Chris' breath was shaky against his mouth, kissing back, even as his mouth tried to slide away. His body was reassuring. So was his strength, pressing down on him, holding him down and close. His cock was hot and solid inside him, filling one empty space in him as his mouth filled another, as the way Robert held him filling up other holes and cracks that were far deeper inside.
Something in him felt tightly wound up. He was on the edge of tears; something might push him over. Despite being balls deep inside him, Robert hadn't moved. For all the desperation that'd brought them here, Robert hadn't started fucking him as soon as he was all the way in. It was like he wanted to savour being deep inside Chris, feel the connection between them as their bodies joined together, too.
Too much. Something spilled out that shouldn't.
"Robert, I," he couldn't finish it, not even when Robert tilted his head with the palm of his hand to meet his eyes again. It would be too cliché to admit it now, the obvious statement drawn out in a flurry of passion.
"You know what's really annoying?" Chris gave a slight shake of his head. He had no idea what could be annoying when he was this on edge. It could be anything. "The idea that you, Chris Bean, are just not lovable now you're older." Brushing his thumb gently over the plaster he'd applied over his scratch, without any pain blooming under his touch this time, Robert added, "it's complete bollocks. Much to my continuing annoyance, it's the opposite." His voice dropped to the kind of low volume that Chris once would have assumed was simply impossible for Robert to achieve. "Every year you get more so, despite everything. It's highly irritating just how lovable you are." Chris shut his eyes. "Tell me."
"No, it would be cliché," he managed to reply without sounding too much like he was about to cry.
"So is half the dross you put on; I'm used to it. Tell me." Swallowing down the tears stuck in his throat, Chris opened his eyes. Tried to compose himself. Found it very, very hard to when Robert was looking at him like he was, was on top of him and they were halfway through having sex. Tried anyway, after taking a deep breath.
"I love you."
"Of course you do, why wouldn't you?" Despite how smug he sounded, the git, Robert didn't look anywhere near as smug, instead more relieved, before kissing him again. "Now," he added with a thrust of his hips that made Chris start, "shall I show you just how lovable you are, darling?" Chris nodded, heat coursing through him from both the press of his cock deep inside him, and being called darling, that his love wasn't refused as not good enough.
Clinging onto him, Chris groaned as Robert started to fuck him. Slowly at first, with his head buried in the crook of Chris' shoulder, kissing up his neck and the scratch of his beard against his skin. Then harder, faster, the friction of Chris' cock pressed tight between their stomachs adding to his need, aching against his skin. The man he loved, almost despite himself, was fucking him like their lives depended on it, like he couldn't bear not to have him.
As he got close, as Robert pounded into him, Chris felt like he was sinking even as he held on tight. "Robert," he breathed out, and felt his cock throb inside him. "Robert," he tried again, only for Robert to fuck him even harder in response. Every time Chris said his name, he got harder, fucked him deeper, until Chris' cock was slick between their stomachs as he repeated it like a mantra, relishing the taste of his name in his mouth and how it drove Robert wild. Until he came, almost by surprise, the sudden reach of the highest point before he crashed down into a blissful nothingness, landing in a white space with, "oh, Robert", on his lips.
Chris only just about heard the mumble of his own name when he was so deep in that white space inside his head, feeling a completeness he could only just about comprehend. He held onto Robert as he came inside him. Was this, he wondered as he finally came back down to the real world where his hand was stroking Robert's hair while he collapsed on top of him, what being loved felt like?
He hoped so. It felt so fragile, like glass. Despite it being like handing a box labelled 'FRAGILE—THIS WAY UP' to a careless courier, Chris leaned down and kissed the top of Robert's head. For once Robert was silent, out of breath, even his exceptional lung capacity worn out, and buried his face against Chris' collarbone rather than saying a single word.
"Happy families are all alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way." Chris handed the glass of water to Robert before joining him under the covers with his own glass. They'd stayed all cuddly for a good fifteen minutes before Robert had started whining about water, so Chris had got up to get some. "That's Tolstoy, you know."
"Yes, I know. It's the opening line of Anna Karenina." Chris paused to drink his water. It was a strange quote to pick after they had, slightly embarrassingly in retrospect, made love. Finishing his glass, he put it on the bedside cabinet before turning towards Robert, then stopped. Robert, as if sensing him pulling away, grabbed him and dragged him in closer.
"Mother's Day is a bunch of crap."
"It really is," Chris finally admitted. He hated it.
"Mawkish nonsense. You know who benefits from it? Terrible pubs. They fob you off with bad service because it's busy, and the food is dire despite paying a small fortune for it. There's a bunch of three-year-olds running around screaming, one of them knocks over your drink, and they refuse to replace it because 'the children don't work for us'. I know! The service might be better if they did! Awful. Did you see the photos Sandra sent?"
"What, the ones that were allegedly of her with Max's family? I could hardly tell with the way she was hogging the camera."
"Exactly! Dennis got his mother the same gift as he got her last year, too. She didn't even like that much the first time around." Chris laughed, letting Robert drag him to lie down with him, tucked in under his arm.
"Maybe she'll like it more when she gets it for a third time next year."
"I'm not doing it next year. I'll come up with some excuse instead," Robert declared after a moment of consideration. Chris rolled over to lie half on top of him, and saw that, despite the certainty in his voice, Robert wasn't sure. There was still hope in his eyes, just a sliver of it, that next year would be different. Next year, he would finally get the approval he craved so deeply from his mother. Chris recognised it. It was the same look he would catch on his face in the mirror after his mother returned his work that was still not good enough.
It would never be good enough, Chris now realised. It didn't matter how much he tried. Even if he somehow managed to become the perfect son his parents always wanted, it wouldn't be enough in their eyes. They would never approve of him. His mother would never tell him "well done" or give him a hug.
The realisation made him recoil. It hurt, even if he'd always known deep down it was true. He would never be the son his mother wanted. It was impossible, no matter how hard he tried.
"Me neither," Chris forced out, trying to believe it. "I'm not going next year."
"Good. If you must write poetry, it should be for me. Although it better be an improvement on the tripe you wrote this year. I'm a perfect subject for poetry, I deserve better, even if it's from you."
"Really," he replied, a little scathing even as Robert's fingers played with his hair. He considered it, rather than anything else, letting his head rest against Robert's shoulder. "There once was a young man called Robert," Chris stopped, realising the trap he'd immediately walked himself into.
"Nothing rhymes with Robert," he pointed out gleefully. "See, you're terrible at this. Terrible!" Despite his declaration that he wanted perfect poetry about himself, Robert seemed more pleased by him failing entirely. That was just like him. It wasn't the dismissiveness of his family, and as Robert wrapped his free arm around him, Chris shut his eyes and settled in. Robert might be, well, Robert, prone to sabotaging him, incredibly difficult to work with whenever the whim struck him, and sometimes he'd hurt Chris even more than he would ever admit, but he was looking at Chris the whole time, even at his worst. Today Robert had given him an escape when he needed it. Had held him when he'd needed to be held so badly.
Chris loved him. It was mortifying for it to come out during the middle of sex, and not just because it was cliché. Chris had been too caught up, too desperate to be afraid, to remember what the consequences could be. Robert hadn't refused his love, was tender in response, but he hadn't said it. He might have called him lovable, might have made love to him, but that didn't prove anything. It might be fragile, and this question could smash it entirely, but he had to know.
(He couldn't love this much, only to find it was unreturned again.)
"Robert," he asked, screwing his courage to the sticking place, "can you tell me?"
"Tell you what," Robert replied boredly, as if he didn't know exactly what he meant.
"You know what."
"Oh, come on. You already know."
"No, I don't! Tell me. I told you, didn't I?" Robert shifted awkwardly, before sighing like Chris was being incredibly difficult. He was not! It was a perfectly reasonable question to ask afterwards. Feeling a little snippy, he was about to open his mouth to start an argument about just how unreasonable he was being when Robert pulled slightly on his hair to get his attention.
"Chris, it's so obvious that even you can get it, but I'll make it very clear anyway. The reason why I know exactly how irritatingly lovable you are is because I love you." The fact that Robert sounded disgruntled about admitting it was, strangely, what made it convincing. Chris believed him. Robert loved him. Which meant that he was finally loved in return. The fight dropped straight out of him.
"I think this is the first time someone's loved me," he said, more to himself. Robert took a breath before grabbing his head and pulling it in against his neck, kissing the top of his head as he did.
"Don't be an idiot, there's other people who love you, too. Obviously, I'm the best out of all of them, but they do exist. Apparently. Forget about those idiots who didn't love you, who thought you were," he snorted, "unlovable, whatever that means. You know that I'm better than them, too, so you should listen to me instead." After a pause, he added, "which also means I should be Johnnie."
"You're not being Johnnie," Chris replied instantly. "I told you, the casting's set."
"Really, is this any way to treat your lover?" The term, used without hesitation, was unexpected. Even if it was part of an attempt to soften him up so he'd give into his demands, Chris liked it. Not that it was going to succeed.
"That's even more reason not to give you preferential treatment. It would be unprofessional." Robert snorted dismissively but didn't let go of him, fingers stroking along the nape of his neck.
"Is this what I get in return? You didn't even give me a proper poem," he groused. Chris rifled through his memory, trying to recall one. His own attempt had failed, but another poem came to him.
"As an unperfect actor on the stage," he started, "who with his fear is put beside his part, or some fierce thing replete with too much rage, whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart." Robert listened, not even the slightest hint of gearing up to mask him, like he often did when Chris tried to read like this. "So I for fear of trust forget to say, the perfect ceremony of love's rite, and in mine own love's strength seem to decay, o'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might. O, let my books be then the eloquence, and dumb presagers of my speaking breast, who plead for love and look for recompense, more than that tongue that more hath more expressed. O, learn to read what silent love hath writ. To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit."
"...better," Robert concluded after he'd finished. "It's an improvement on your poetry, anyway." The shine in his eyes said Robert might like having love poetry recited to him by Chris, actually. Maybe if Chris worked on his own poetry, then one day he might be able to get that reaction with his own words. For now, Chris tried something else of his own that he realised, now that he was loved, would get a similar reaction.
He kissed him.
(The reaction to his kiss was, in fact, better.)