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The door closes with a soft click and Robert slumps against it, lets his back slide down until he’s sitting on the ground, head in his hands as he groans.
He has every intention of wiling away the rest of eternity right here against his front door, crumpled in a heap like the embarrassment he is. He should just become a recluse, adopt a couple of stray cats and stay holed up in this flat until he eventually dies of loneliness or starvation or an overdose of whichever hormone in his body is unbalanced enough to make him such a fucking loser.
“So,” comes a Geordie accent, chirpy and entirely unbothered by his clear distress, “did’ya get it or what?”
Of course, he’ll have to get rid of his flatmates first.
Robert doesn’t even glance up, just throws a small plastic bag in the general direction of where Kerry’s voice had come from. “Yeah, I got it,” he mutters. “In exchange for my last shred of self respect.”
“Crackin’,” Kerry exclaims. “Nice one, Rob.”
“That’s a good deal, to be fair,” muses Bernice.
Her words are enough to make Robert lift his head, if only to glare at her blatant dismissal of his trauma.
He’s always liked Bernice — well, he’d been put off by her crush on Andy when they were kids, but then she’d thrown sand in Katie Addyman’s face at the park after she called Robert a banker with her fingers stretching the corners of her mouth, so he figured second chances were in order — but right now, he can’t conjure one single thing he likes about her.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” Bernice huffs as she brandishes her hair straighteners at him. She narrowly avoids burning Vanessa’s ear, who is too busy furiously texting on her phone to notice. “I mean, come on, Robert! You’ve been making a fool of yourself in front of that poor boy for months already; I’m sure if strange blokes aren’t his thing then you blew your shot with him a long time ago.”
That poor boy is Aaron — Robert’s neighbour in the opposite flat with a penchant for wearing tight black clothes and a body that thanks him for it. He’s the fittest person Robert’s ever encountered, and it was just a stroke of good fortune, or perhaps divine intervention, that the peephole on Robert’s door gives him the perfect view of Aaron’s door so he knows the most opportune times to knock.
God, he really wishes he hadn’t bothered today.
“You’re not helping.”
Priya appears from the kitchenette with two glasses of white wine. She click-clacks her way over to Robert’s pathetic form in her ridiculously high heels, and crouches down to offer him one. “I’m sure you weren’t that bad,” she comforts.
Robert takes a long swig, relishes the acrid burn of the cheap wine. He’s sure Kerry’s been drinking his good stuff and replacing it with the off-brand shit she buys with her Tesco clubcard, but for once he doesn’t have the heart to scold her about it.
He deserves to suffer today.
“He told me he liked my jumper and I said thanks Azza. I gave him a fucking nickname,” he bemoans, slamming his head back against the door. “I don’t even think he knows my actual name, and here I am coming up with nicknames like we’re best mates or something… He looked at me like I was an idiot.”
“Ah, so he does know you,” teases Vanessa.
“Go back to stroppin’ over Charity and keep your neb out.”
Vanessa rolls her eyes. The two of them have been best friends since fresher’s week when they met at the first meeting of the Taylor Swift Society, and they’ve been quite the double act ever since. She’s the one who first introduced him to Aaron, actually, and that alone is enough to solidify her as a permanent fixture in Robert’s life because clearly good things happen when he listens to Vanessa.
Sometimes, that is. More often than when he listens to Bernice or Kerry, at least. They should all probably listen to Priya more, but she’s usually too busy taking down the patriarchy or correcting the spellings on exam papers, or whatever it is law students do for fun when they aren’t being dragged on nights out by their much cooler friends.
“The main thing is you got the goods,” Vanessa points out, like a gram of cocaine is worth as much as Robert’s future happiness with the man of his dreams. And maybe it is, at eighty quid a pop — Aaron always puts his prices up on weekend nights, when demands are high and people are looking to join them.
Because Aaron is a drug dealer.
It might be enough to put some people off, but Robert is currently in his third year of a business degree, so he appreciates Aaron’s ingenuity and ability to turn a profit in the current climate.
Thankfully, in an ever-changing world, there’s but one guarantee: university students will always want to score some gear.
Robert frowns. “Well, enjoy it, ‘cos I’m never speaking to him ever again after that.”
Priya pats his arm, clutches onto his sleeve with her perfectly manicured nails and hauls him to his feet with a strength that belies her petite, five-foot-nothing stature. She drags him over to the dining table where Bernice is putting the finishing touches on Vanessa’s hair, and Kerry is already dipping her house key into the coke Robert paid for.
“In fairness, your underwear drawer is filled with more coke than a Tesco fridge, mate,” she comments, pausing to snort a rather generous amount of Robert’s hard-earned spoils. She swipes her nose with the back of her hand, then turns to grin at him. “At least if you never interact with him again, you’ve got a stash big enough to cheer you up for the rest of the year.”
It’s of little consolation, but Robert accepts it without further complaint because it’s clear his traitorous friends care more about their big night out tonight than they do about the tattered remains of Robert’s already fairly abysmal love life.
“Give us a bump then,” he sighs. If you can’t beat ‘em…
Bernice declines the coke, which is a blessing to them all because she’s unhinged enough without an accelerant, and Kerry doesn’t even bother offering it to Priya, who’s probably worried that her full time job of looking down her nose at people might be less effective if there’s white powder or droplets of blood around it.
It hits fast — the lights are brighter, refracting off the mirror and the television and the house key that glimmers in Kerry’s hand as she holds it up for Vanessa to join in the fun. The flat feels too small, or maybe Robert’s bigger somehow, inflated and floating, and the ceiling is the only thing stopping him from disappearing up, up, up into the clouds and out of this reality.
“Someone should book the Uber,” Vanessa declares. “I’m ready to get my dancing shoes on!”
Robert grins, all teeth and euphoria. There’s still the sharp tendrils of mortification wound around his heart like thorned vines, but the pleasant buzz of wine and cocaine has mellowed it to a degree that he supposes painting the town red might be as fruitful a distraction as throwing himself into the River Irwell.
“Shotgun not payin’!” he shouts, probably an octave or three higher than necessary considering their open plan kitchen / living room is small enough that he could whisper and someone would hear him across the room.
“I paid last time,” argues Kerry.
Priya scoffs. “Your fling for the night paid, you mean — and we were all forced to watch the two of you try to swallow each other the entire way home.”
“Yes, if anything you should be banned from joining us altogether,” agrees Bernice with an exaggerated shudder. “Honestly, have you no shame?”
Kerry pokes herself in the chest, her pointed nail landing in the middle of one of the leopard print spots on her crop top. “Me?” she exclaims, incredulous. “Are we all forgettin’ the time we came home to find Rob havin’ a threesome on our sofa?”
What a bitch, Robert thinks. He was rather hoping they had forgotten that, because he’d gotten more than enough shit for it already considering he forked out for a new sofa afterwards and gave them one helluva show before they all stumbled back out into the hall like melodramatic drama queens.
“I didn’t think you’d be home so early,” he argues for the umpteenth time.
“It was three o’clock in the morning.”
Robert huffs. “Exactly! You’re all borin’ when I’m not around. Lightweights, the lot of ya.”
“Oh, I’ll book the bloody taxi if it means we can stop talking about this,” Priya cuts in, exasperation clear in her tone and the deep sigh that follows. “I don’t need that mental image following me around again.”
Honestly, Robert doesn’t see what all the fuss is about. So, he had a threesome — it’s hardly groundbreaking news. They’re at university, for crying out loud! It’s one of the fundamental experiences he was eagerly anticipating when he left the conservative postage stamp village of Emmerdale and ventured into the big, wide world of Manchester.
Besides, Chrissie and Rebecca were both incredibly beautiful, so it’s not like they walked in on three munters goin’ at it. If anything, they should be thanking him.
True to her word, Priya books the Uber, and the five of them pile out onto the street to wait for it when the driver is two minutes away.
Robert lingers outside Aaron’s door, coming down enough now to know that knocking would be a terrible idea, but the constant thrum of pleasure under his skin caused entirely by seeing Aaron makes him itch to reach out anyway.
“Oh no you don’t, Robble,” chides Vanessa, coming back ‘round the corner to retrieve him just as he raises his fist. She grabs him by the collar of his jumper, and Robert has the presence of mind to let her drag him away — if only because Aaron had complimented this jumper, so if Vanessa ruins it he might actually have to murder her, and he quite likes his best friend most of the time.
“You know,” she murmurs as they descend the stairs, “Adam texted before. He’s gonna be at G-A-Y tonight.”
Robert grimaces. “Right. Know where to avoid then, don’t we?”
He hates Adam Barton and his stupid face and his stupid friendship with Aaron that gives him free reign to touch him and make him laugh and flaunt it in Robert’s face. He hates that Vanessa’s become mates with the bloke, just because they hooked up once and had a pregnancy scare as a result of it.
There’s no sprog tying them together, so the fact that Vanessa still chats to the guy feels like a betrayal, really.
“Adam’s straight, Robert,” she says slowly, like she’s talking to a particularly dim child, which is just plain rude because Robert is top of his business course, thank you very much, and it’s only partially because Professor White wants to fuck him.
If only he knew the infamous threesome incident involved both his daughters… He can never find out. He’d probably flunk Robert just to spite him in his big, closeted breakdown.
“Adam’s a lot of things, Ness. A pillock, a prat, a permanent reminder of why you should just fully commit to the lesbian part of you…”
Vanessa shoves his shoulder, but he sees the fondness in her eyes as she rolls them — she’s incapable of staying mad at him, which is good because Robert is self aware enough to know that he’s routinely a thorn in her side.
“He’s also straight, Robert. And he’s going to a gay club. I wonder what, or rather who, convinced him that was a good idea.”
Robert’s brain is still sort of fuzzy, and he’s become intensely aware that his mouth feels drier than the Sahara, but there’s always a part of his mind that’s tuned into a frequency that just plays a loop of Aaron, Aaron, Aaron, so he cottons on fairly quickly.
The two of them clamber into the Uber just as the others were about to slam the door shut and leave without them. It’s one of those fancy cars; an XL with plenty of space for them all to be comfortable, yet somehow always ends with them sprawled across each other, be it from drunkenness or the natural codependency they’ve fostered that probably borders on concerning.
They’re Robert’s girls, though, and he loves them.
“I just booked it to go to the gay village,” Priya tells them. “Figured we’ll go from there.”
“We’re going to G-A-Y,” Robert replies firmly, leaving no room for arguments.
Kerry cheers. “I love gettin’ my flirt on with the lasses.”
“At least your taste in women can’t be worse than your taste in men,” Bernice mutters, squawking in protest when Kerry drives her elbow into her ribs in retaliation. “What? I’m just saying…”
“I’m not the one who fancied me stepbrother, like, but yeah, carry on,” Kerry retorts. She reaches into her handbag and pulls out a bottle of water, swallowing half in one impressive gulp before holding it out to Robert.
He snatches it eagerly, savouring the way it soothes the sandpaper roughness of his throat.
“You’re not supposed to drink in here, mate,” the driver calls from up front.
Robert frowns. “It’s water, mate. What’s your problem?”
“I don’t want you spillin’ it, that’s all,” the driver replies.
“Don’t worry,” Robert drawls, a lazy smirk stretching across his lips, “I always swallow.”
Priya groans. “There are some things we just don’t need to know, Robert,” she whines, which is basically her admitting to being a spitter, and Robert isn’t about to take criticisms from a spitter, thank you very much.
They spend the rest of the journey doing their typical night out routine — deciding who’s going to stay sober enough to get them home (Priya, always Priya), placing bets on who’ll be the biggest embarrassment (it will not be Robert, that’s defamation of character) and mentally calculating how many men Bernice will hit on who turn out to be gay (the taxi pulls to a stop just before she can thump them all for ‘jinxing’ her. Again.)
The street is bustling with life, the hour nearing eleven as they stumble down the street to their chosen venue. It’s the middle of November, and Robert gets secondhand shivers from the sight of so many scantily-clad girls milling about, their mesh shirts and mini skirts a pretty picture now, but probably not so much come morning when they’re being carted off to A&E with hypothermia.
Each to their own, he supposes, as he tugs the sleeves of his blue jumper over his hands, but he’s not looking to catch anything tonight, even if it’s something as innocuous as the common cold.
There’s a group of lads across the street wearing cheap plastic golf visors in a plethora of colours, all rowdily cheering each other on as they chug down pints of Stella — hide your wives, Robert snickers, as though any of those losers might be cool enough to attract a woman they haven’t hired the services of.
“D’ya reckon we should do pub golf one day?” Kerry suggests as she adjusts her shirt, cleavage now on full display.
Ordinarily, Robert wouldn’t give a shit if his friend wants to ‘free the nips’ or whatever Kerry harps on about after a few jaeger bombs, but she’s got his coke for the evening stashed away in her bra, so he’s got a vested interest in keeping her covered up, at least until they’ve made it into the club.
“Two rounds and Ness would be on the floor,” Robert points out.
“I resent that!” the girl in question objects, but the fact that she’s only had three wines and is already slurring her words proves his point precisely.
They reach G-A-Y within a matter of minutes, presenting their IDs to the bouncers who look between the plastic cards and their faces with disinterest, which is disheartening considering Robert might be the only person in the world who looks hot in his driving license picture.
Well, Bernice looks alright, but hers is still only a provisional, so the embarrassment of carrying that around with her more than outweighs her perfect hair day, in Robert’s opinion.
The place is dark, illuminated by neon bursts of red and green from the strobe lights overhead, and a string of amber fairy lights strung up above the bar. In one corner, the DJ is set up in his booth, obviously halfway to wasted himself considering he’s already blasting Mr Brightside, despite it being nationally recognised as an end-of-the-night banger.
Vanessa holds her hands up, forms a T with them as she yells, “Tune!” an inch away from Robert’s ear. “Dance with me, Robble!”
Robert is an excellent dancer, is the thing. If he weren’t so set on sticking it to the old man by making it big in the business world, he might’ve considered a career in busting his moves on the dance floor, even. He’s agile and graceful and always perfectly on the rhythm, and he loves it.
The issue is that Vanessa sucks at it. She’s all flailing limbs and whipping hair, and something that vaguely looks like a distant cousin of the robot. Very uncool, very style-cramping.
“Er, I’m gonna get a drink first.” And then about six more, he adds mentally. The alcohol will help numb the pain when she inevitably injures them both.
Somehow, this ends in Robert buying the first round for everyone; like Priya’s pockets aren’t overflowing with old money, and Vanessa’s dad doesn’t send her a hefty monthly allowance to make up for being in the running for world’s most absentee father award.
Robert’s only got his student loan and his inheritance from his mother, and he’s supposed to be investing the latter. If Jack Sugden had his way, it’d all be squandered on tractor repairs and chicken feed, but Robert has actual aspirations beyond mud and manure and impossible expectations.
It’s just — well, they’ve fallen to the wayside recently.
Instead, Robert has been perhaps spending a little too much on cocaine and weed, lining Aaron’s pockets and shortening his own lifespan at an alarming rate.
Maybe if he consumes enough drugs he’ll have some sort of grand epiphany — ‘The artist's consciousness is expanded by derangement of the senses’, was a core philosophy that inspired the Beat Generation, after all. He could write a novel or a play, become published and successful like Jack wanted to be in his youth, before he sank knee-deep into the dirt on the farm and never managed to haul himself out.
Wouldn’t that just be the ultimate fuck you to the lot of ‘em?
Robert is in the middle of brainstorming the title for his first bestseller when Vanessa yanks his empty plastic cup out of his hand and tosses it to the ground. “You. Me. Dance floor,” she commands, “no excuses.”
Which is a shame, really, because Robert has at least five on the tip of his tongue poised for action.
He swallows them down because he’s a good friend and drunken Vanessa always gets what she wants in the end anyway, so arguing is futile. He lets her lead him to the centre of the dance floor, his hands finding her waist when she loops hers around his neck.
“Nice to meet you, where you been? I could show you incredible things…”
Robert doesn’t scream when Taylor’s voice blasts through the speakers, but he’ll admit it’s a near thing. On the other hand, Vanessa almost bursts his eardrum when she squeals.
They jump around in an uncoordinated tangle of limbs, almost knocking over a couple of lads who were too busy eyeing up the girls in front of them to look out for impending danger.
“You're the king, baby, I'm your queen,” Vanessa sings, holding Robert’s face in her hands so he’s forced to watch the way her mouth struggles to form the words in her drunken stupour.
It’s fun, just being silly and letting loose with his best friend like this, and Robert hadn’t known how much he needed this moment until now — when the stress of finances and deadlines and his professor’s borderline obsession with him have melted away, lost behind the cloudy haze of alcohol and the literal cloud of smoke billowing above their heads from the various Lost Marys which are being passed around the crowd like joints.
Speaking of, Robert scans the crowd for Kerry, figures now is the perfect time for another hit of the good stuff. It’s nearing midnight and the transition from wine to vodka has his vision blurred and his inhibitions lowered to the point that he’s even considering flirting with Joe Tate — a bloke from his course who’s lurking by the photo booth, no doubt waiting for some superficial girl to duck in with him for a quick fumble and some photographic evidence that he can store away and whip out the next time someone tells him he’s an unlovable prick.
Robert wouldn’t piss on Joe if he were on fire, but it’s been over a week since he’s gotten laid, so he’s willing to put the feud on pause if his options become too thin on the ground.
“Where’s Kerry?” he asks Vanessa once the song’s come to an end, and she’s calmed down a fraction. She’s still clinging to him like a limpet, but it’s more out of necessity now. “Y’know what? Forget Kerry. Where’s Priya when you need her?” he mutters.
Vanessa groans. “She’s makin’ out with that boring bloke. The one who isn’t even that fit.”
That pretty much sums up every bloke Priya’s ever shown an ounce of interest in, but Robert doesn’t press for more details because he honestly couldn’t care less. It’s not like him and Priya were ever on the cards for his afterparty pleasure; there are some places even he has to draw the line, and flatcest is firmly at the top of that list.
“Well, let’s go find her then,” he coaxes, trying to make his way through the crowd while Vanessa shuffles her feet, his arm held between both of hers in a vice-like grip.
“Can we have shots?”
Instinct says no, but Robert is a good friend first and an upstanding citizen second, so he makes a detour and starts leading them over to the bar instead. Chances are she’ll perk up with a round of tequila rose and a bump of coke anyway, so he’s just prolonging everyone’s joy, really.
“Two tequila shots, please!” Vanessa yells at the server, her forearms rested on the sticky bartop. “And two vodka cranberries!”
Robert grimaces. “You know I hate cranberry juice.”
“Because you’re already bitter enough,” Vanessa says with a nod, all serious concentration.
“What?”
“What?” Vanessa repeats, and Robert can’t tell if she’s playing dumb or if the toxins in her system are actually killing off her brain cells. “They were both for me anyways, to ward off the UTIs.”
Robert rolls his eyes. “Right, cheers for that.” He shoots the bartender an apologetic smile. “Two tequila shots, two vodka cranberries, and two gin and tonics please, mate.”
The guy looks between Robert and Vanessa, who’s propped her chin on her arms and is staring at one of the girls behind the bar with hearts in her eyes.
“Is she alright?”
“No worse than usual,” answers Robert with a nonchalant shrug and a ‘What can you do?’ expression.
The bartender goes about making their drinks, and Vanessa perks up once she’s downed one of the vodkas in record time. Robert sips his first slowly, like the respectable young man he is, glancing out into the crowd to see if anyone catches his eye.
Unfortunately, he’s too busy weighing the merits of some spunky-looking redhead to spot the imminent threat until he hears a chirpy “Add another tequila to that, would you? It’s on me.”
Time seems to stand still then warp into double speed, as Robert slowly turns his head to lock eyes with the beautiful, insufferable Rebecca White.
“Hello, Robert,” she purrs, the jangling of her seemingly endless amount of bracelets almost as loud as Olivia Rodrigo’s Good 4 U as she places her hand on his bicep, squeezing just enough to make it obvious.
Vanessa snatches her shot, knocks it back with nothing more than a wince, and staggers into an upright position. “Right, this is my cue to be,” she pauses, looking around but clearly not recognising anyone, “literally anywhere else…”
Robert’s eyes widen and he leaps forwards, trying and failing to grasp Vanessa’s sleeve. “You shouldn’t be wanderin’ off on your own,” he shouts after her. “It could be dangerous!”
She pivots to face him. “I’ve seen you throw a punch; I reckon I’ll be better off fending for myself. See ya later, Robble!” And then she flounces away like a buoy drifting off into the sea, while Robert drowns in the middle of turbulent waters.
“Why do I get the feeling she’s still mad at me?” Rebecca asks, her glossy lips curved into a smug smile, like she’s pleased that her mere presence sent his friend fleeing into a crowd of drunken strangers.
“She’s still not over walking in on the threesome,” Robert informs. “None of ‘em are, come to think of it.”
Rebecca pouts, and Robert knows he found those lips kissable in the past, but he’s had the rather unfortunate displeasure of hearing words come from them since then.
“But you paid for a new sofa,” she points out.
“Apparently that doesn’t fix the mental damage,” Robert quotes with a scoff.
“Well, there’s a perfectly good bed back at my place,” Rebecca hints with the subtlety of a bull in a china shop. She trails her fingertips down his arm, a coy expression on her soft features that reminds Robert a little too much of Lawrence White.
Robert extricates his arm and takes a step back, bumping into a girl with a neon flashing headband on. “Sorry,” he mutters, giving her a quick once over and deciding she’s not quite what he’s looking for either. Louder, he tells Rebecca, “I’m not really lookin’ to pull tonight, Becs. I'm with my friends.”
Rebecca glances left then right. “I don’t see them.”
That’s because they’re the worst friends in the world, Robert thinks, and wonders if maybe Vanessa was right about him being bitter. Then again, he wouldn’t have to be if he hadn’t been ditched by no less than four of his friends since they rocked up to the club, so it’s on them, not him.
Robert opens his mouth to spout off some story about a meetup spot they’d previously arranged, but the words die in his throat when a hand reaches out to snatch his spare gin and tonic. The fingers are broad and calloused, like they’ve seen manual labour and have the physical reminders to prove it, and Robert’s gaze travels up the arm of a black hoodie, across broad shoulders, and stops, disbelievingly, on the face of Aaron.
He’s like a mirage, an oasis in this wasteland of a club. If Robert was in love with him before, he’s about ready to drop on one knee now.
Or both, should the situation call for it.
“Cheers for gettin’ the round in,” Aaron says gruffly before facing Rebecca with his trademark scowl. “Can we help ya?”
“We?” She looks down her nose at him, and there’s an intense moment where Robert just looks between the two of them, wondering whose volatile personality will be the first to break the surface.
He’s seen Rebecca angry — after the threesome incident, funnily enough; when she and Chrissie had fought over which of them was Robert’s actual girlfriend, to which he’d very politely turned them both down, lest he be invited to tea at their old man’s house — and Aaron seems like the sort of tough, no nonsense bloke who breaks noses and busts kneecaps when someone looks at him the wrong way.
“Yeah, we,” Aaron repeats. “Is that a problem?”
“No, of course not,” Rebecca says, “it’s just, I’ve never seen you and Robert hanging out before.”
Aaron shrugs. “So what? Didn’t realise we needed your supervision.”
Rebecca looks like she’s one breath away from throwing an actual tantrum, with her hands folded across her chest and her face scrunched up. “Who even are you?”
“Aaron.”
“Aaron who?”
It takes Robert a second to realise she’s asking him, like Aaron isn’t someone worth addressing directly anymore. And the thing is — well, Robert doesn’t actually know Aaron’s surname.
They’ve only ever conversed about drugs, of which Robert knew frighteningly little about until he hastily consulted his trusty companion Wikipedia, and that hadn’t exactly warranted an exchange of surnames or birthdays or anything personal at all.
He knows precisely three things about Aaron, and one of them is that his first name is Aaron.
“None of your business, Becs,” he says with a put upon sigh. “Look, thank you for the drinks, but we’re sort of in the middle of something.”
Rebecca rolls her eyes. “You won’t have unlimited chances with me, Robert Sugden,” she warns.
They both know that’s a lie.
“Right, okay,” he says instead, because it’s easier than arguing. “Bye, Becs.”
She storms away without another word, but Robert can still hear her bracelets rattling around in his brain long after she’s disappeared from sight.
When he turns back ‘round, it’s just in time to see Aaron take a large swig of the drink he’d picked up, his face contorting into a disgusted frown. He wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve before asking, “What the hell is that?”
“Gin and tonic,” Robert answers defensively. “What’s wrong with it?”
“What’s right with it more like,” Aaron retorts. He grabs the tequila shot Rebecca had ordered for herself and gestures with his head for Robert to pick up the second. “Salt and lime?”
Robert shrugs. “Not bothered if you’re not.”
“Sound.”
They clink the shots together, slamming them on the bartop then swallowing them down in perfect unison. Robert watches as Aaron swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing, skin slick with a light sheen of sweat that he has the sudden desire to taste.
“Thanks for the save,” Robert manages to say, his silver tongue turned to lead in his mouth.
Aaron offers up a small smile that Robert thinks might be considered bashful. It’s a nice look on him, though Robert’s fairly sure there isn’t an expression Aaron can’t pull off.
“Saw your mate, Vanessa, doin’ a runner,” he admits, “figured you might need rescuin’.”
“Proper damsel in distress, me,” Robert agrees. “Suppose that makes you my knight in shining black hoodie.”
As soon as the words leave his mouth, Robert cringes. He’s usually the epitome of suave charm, easily able to seduce or impress at the drop of a hat, but there’s something about Aaron’s presence that has him reduced to this pathetic loser version of himself.
“Whatever you say,” Aaron responds, lips quirked up in amusement. “Are you always this weird?”
Robert feels like his cheeks are on fire, glad for the dim lighting of the place, though he gets the feeling that Aaron can see straight through his skin to his soul somehow. His blue eyes are piercing, the sort of eyes the poets would say are oceans you can drown in.
If only. Then maybe Robert could end it all and stop making such a complete embarrassment of himself in front of the bloke he’s been lusting after since he moved in across the corridor last year.
“Would you believe me if I said no?”
“Probably not.”
“I’ll have you know I’ve been described as the best bloke ever more than once. People want to walk like me, talk like me… so handsome, so fit, they chant when I enter rooms.”
Aaron laughs, and Robert’s already planning how to make him do it again. His whole face lights up when he laughs, and there’s something about his smile, open and carefree, that makes him look younger — he’s cute, Robert thinks, but has the presence of mind not to say as much. Aaron would definitely lamp him one if he did.
“Do they now?” Aaron asks, voice pitched low, tongue darting out to lick over his bottom lip. Robert stares at his mouth, transfixed. “That’s funny, ‘cos the only thing I heard Vanessa call you was Robble.”
Robert and Vanessa’s friendship had a good run, but he’s officially terminating the contract and hiring someone to take her out when she least expects it. Professor White seems like the sort of bloke who has contacts like that — you know, just in case anyone threatens to out the dirty little secret he’s been hiding away in the closet.
“Vanessa slept with Kirin Kotecha last week; everything she says and does should be taken with a whole heap of salt.”
Aaron tilts his head, adorns this strange expression like he’s looking at a particularly complex piece of artwork. It’s an expression Robert knows well enough on his own face, from hours spent trawling art exhibitions showcasing Kerry’s creations, and trying to decipher the hidden context of a bunch of paintings of vaginas and burning buildings.
It’s probably to do with her terrible taste in men always coming back to blow up in her face, come to think of it.
“You talk a lot,” observes Aaron, his tone not giving away whether he means it as a compliment or an insult. He takes a step closer until the toes of their shoes are touching, and Robert can see the dilation in his pupils.
Robert swallows. “I tend to keep going until someone shuts me up,” he admits, raising a hand to rub at the back of his neck. He felt warm before — it’s hard not to in a place like this, where body heat is shared as easily as drinks and saliva and STDs — but it’s different now, the intense feeling of Aaron’s full, analysing attention on him enough to have Robert adjusting the collar of his jumper.
Aaron tracks the movement with his eyes. “Bit warm in here for a jumper, innit?”
“Says the one wearing a hoodie.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve got precious cargo to carry ‘round.” Aaron unzips his jacket and pulls one side open, reaches into a hidden inner pocket to pull out one of the small plastic bags Robert’s come to know so well.
“Tonight is business then, is it?”
Aaron makes a grand show of looking Robert up and down. “I could be open to some pleasure,” he murmurs, acting all coy like he hasn’t just short-circuited every wire in Robert’s brain.
The roving strobe lights paint the powder in a kaleidoscope of reds and greens and blues, but Robert knows it’s white. The colour of innocence and purity.
One glance at Aaron’s face shows he’s got no intention of being innocent or pure. He’s smirking as he tucks the cocaine back into his pocket. “D’ya want a bump?” he offers.
Robert wants lots of things from Aaron, and he’s willing to take just about anything he’ll give.
White also represents surrender, after all, and Robert will concede every part of himself if it means he might get an ounce of Aaron in return.
He knocks back the rest of his drink, placing the cup upside-down on the bar. “Yeah, go on then.”
There’s a circle of people dressed as angels and devils, and Robert doesn’t have a chance to appreciate the irony of that before Aaron is clamping a hand around his wrist and pulling him through the crowd.
His skin tingles where Aaron touches, a trail of goosebumps forming up his arm. It feels a bit like an out of body experience, like he’s looking down on himself with Aaron touching him, leading him, and Robert doesn’t even know where they’re going but it might just be his favourite place on earth because it’s Aaron taking him there.
Aaron turns to look back at him for a moment. “It’s Dingle, by the way.”
“What is?”
“My surname.”
Aaron Dingle.
Why has nobody written songs or sonnets or entire novels about Aaron Dingle? Robert is going to.
He’s going to share drugs with Aaron and he’s going to get cracking on writing his book, where the central character is called Aaron Dingle and he’s the most wonderful protagonist any literary work has ever known.
Just as soon as he can see straight again, it’s game over for every other writer in history. Robert Sugden is going to take the literary world by storm.
He doesn’t realise they’ve reached their destination until Aaron is pushing him through a door and into the men’s toilets. There’s graffiti on the walls and wet toilet paper stuck to the ceilings and blokes selling sprays of aftershaves Robert couldn’t be paid to wear for a fiver.
There’s a fit redheaded lad sitting on the counter between two sinks while a bloke two leagues below him has his tongue rammed down his throat and a hand up his shirt. Robert’s almost tempted to tap the latter on the shoulder and say ‘well done mate’ but Aaron is yanking him into an open stall before he can open his mouth.
As far as personal space goes, there isn’t any. The place is just about big enough for them both to take two steps back in, and Robert wonders briefly if they’re hogging the accessible stall, but he finds he doesn’t much care as Aaron shirks off his jacket and reaches into the pocket to retrieve the stash of coke he’d somehow smuggled in.
“You’re very close,” Robert murmurs.
Aaron shrugs. “Not much space.” Like he hadn’t been the one to lock them in here, detach them from the outside world and trap them in this little bubble where it’s just the two of them.
“How’d you wanna do this then?” Robert asks, glancing around.
There’s a small shelf-type space above the toilet where people tend to leave their phones or vapes or whatever else they’ve deemed as essentials for their night out as they take a piss, so he supposes doing lines isn’t completely off the cards.
Except Aaron just opens the bag and stares at Robert for a long moment, unblinking. He’s not holding a house key or a credit card or a rolled up note; he’s just staring.
The pounding bass of the music seems to fade away under the scrutiny of Aaron’s gaze, Flo Rida’s lyrics about baggy sweatpants and Reeboks with the straps inconsequential in comparison to the way Aaron’s black shirt stretches across his shoulders, just tight enough that Robert can detect the deceptive bulge of his biceps. It’s a long-sleeved shirt, but that doesn’t stop him imagining the arms hidden beneath the material, slightly more tanned than Robert’s own pale complexion, dark hairs and smooth skin and —
If a dry mouth was a concern earlier, Robert’s more than making up for it now, practically salivating as he openly ogles the young man in front of him.
And Aaron just lets him, leaning back against the wall with an amused grin, like he knows exactly where Robert’s fantasies are drifting and he doesn’t mind one bit.
It’s starting to feel a bit like Robert’s on a promise, and just the thought of it makes him giddy.
“Open your mouth.”
It takes a moment for the words to register in Robert’s brain. When they do, he can only utter a puzzled, “What?”
Aaron rolls his eyes. “Open your mouth,” he repeats slowly.
When Robert doesn’t comply quickly enough for his standards, Aaron reaches a hand up to grip his jaw, pushes his thumb into Robert’s lips, the pad of it pressed against his Cupid’s bow, until they part.
Robert’s tensed up, unsure where this is leading but desperate to succumb to it nonetheless. If Aaron wants to hurt him, Robert will accept the pain without complaint, just pathetically grateful to have Aaron’s hands on him at all.
“Relax,” whispers Aaron, leaning in until his mouth hovers a centimetre from Robert’s own. “Trust me.”
Robert does, is the thing. He doesn’t know Aaron at all but he trusts him with this; with his pleasure and his body and probably his heart, though that hardly seems like first date conversation territory — if sharing a stall in the gents in some gay club in central Manchester can be described as a date…
Robert’s hooked up in worse places, to be fair.
He lets his eyes flutter closed, content to let Aaron take the lead. There’s a sharp intake of breath that could’ve come from either of them, the sound swallowed halfway when Aaron closes the gap, kissing Robert with a hint of hesitation that he simply can’t allow to fester.
Robert’s hands come up to frame Aaron’s face, one on each cheek, thumbs stroking the stubble on his jaw while his fingertips card through the fine hairs on his nape. Even now, with Aaron warm and solid under his hands, this doesn’t feel real.
Like it’s a high he’s about to come crashing down from.
He can’t hear the music anymore, lost under the symphony of his accelerated heartbeat and the blood rushing in his ears and the smallest of groans that comes from low in Aaron’s throat, vibrating between their mouths in a way that goes straight to Robert’s cock.
He feels dizzy. He can’t breathe.
He might actually die right here and now — collapsed in a gay club with another boy’s hands on his waist and his tongue in his mouth, a portal to heaven designed especially for Robert Sugden.
Oh, if only Jack could see him now… the shock alone would finish him off.
It’s Aaron who pulls away first. He holds the bag up and flicks it once before opening it.
“You feeling more relaxed now?” he asks.
Robert nods. The tension has melted out of his bones, shoulders sagging and breathing as even as he possibly can with the most beautiful person he’s ever seen standing so close to him.
“Good,” Aaron says, and Robert realises that the kiss was a tactic, a technique used to distract him from his nerves, get him out of his head and into the moment.
It’s sneaky and underhanded and it makes Robert want to do so much more than kiss him. Nothing turns him on quite like a scheme, it has to be said.
Aaron dips his index finger into the powder, coats it generously before holding it up to Robert’s mouth in wordless command.
Robert’s kiss-swollen lips part again by instinct alone, a natural urge to please Aaron. He doesn’t dare to so much as blink, lest he break the spell of the moment as Aaron’s finger glides across his gums, mapping out the ridges of his teeth with precision.
Numbness spreads in his wake, and Robert knows it’s the effects of the cocaine taking hold but he’s also sure that Aaron is some sort of drug in his own right, and Robert has had one hit straight into his veins that’s already left him twitching for more.
Aaron’s looking at Robert like he’s some grand revelation, and it’s exhilarating.
His finger sweeps the back of Robert’s mouth, the final traces of cocaine dissolving on his tongue when Aaron moves to pull away.
Except, with his confidence bolstered by the onset high, Robert closes his lips around the digit instead, lets his tongue swirl around it, never losing the eye contact with Aaron that feels like a lifeline.
There’s a bitter, chemical taste on his tongue, but God, this moment still tastes so sweet. Like every saccharine daydream he’s had about Aaron over the last year has been poured into this, a syrupy moment of pure elation.
Aaron groans. “God, if this is what you’re like with one finger…”
Robert hums around it, lips spread into a grin that leaves his chin slick with spit. He sucks once more, hard, for good measure — dares Aaron to let him have more, to let him have everything.
I’ll show you a good time, Robert says with his eyes, ducks his head so he can look up at Aaron through the lids, all coquettish.
Eventually, Aaron eases his finger out, dips it straight into the powder and makes quick work of chasing his own high, though the crazed look in his lust-blown pupils and the frantic way his hands move tells Robert he’s already plenty affected.
Aaron reseals the bag and tosses it down to the ground on top of his hoodie. He tangles one of his hands in Robert’s sweat damp hair, gentle at first before he tugs once, twice, seemingly revelling in the whimper it pulls from some broken part of Robert that can only be fixed by Aaron’s hands and mouth and eyes on him.
When they kiss this time, it’s like being struck by lightning.
There’s electricity crackling in Robert’s veins where the blood should be, though that all seemed to vacate south a long time ago. Heat and desire pool low in his stomach, and his entire body feels heavy under the weighted anticipation of what’s to come.
Which is probably why it’s so easy for Aaron to push his shoulders down, down, down until Robert is on his knees on the tiled floor, too far gone to care about the fact that his favourite jeans are being subjected to more grime than when their flat had been forced to endure Kerry’s Aitch phase.
“I’m gonna marry that bloke,” she claimed, and they’d all laughed and called her mad, but hadn’t they all done the same when Robert first came home from meeting Aaron? When he said he was going to shag him if it was the last thing he did?
Well, just look at him now.
Or don’t. Robert doesn’t want this moment tainted by his friends’ overdramatic spiels about his exhibitionism — they’ve already tried ruining threesomes for him, they’ll have to pry this experience from his cold, dead hands.
Robert’s fingers tremble when he reaches out to unzip Aaron’s black jeans. He tugs them down alongside his boxers by the waistband, leaves them ‘round his knees, and finally gets a look at his cock.
It’s impressive; long and thick with a vein running alongside the underside of the shaft that Robert’s eager to trace with his tongue. Aaron’s already hard, precome beading on the tip, flushed red and begging for Robert’s attention.
He can already feel the phantom ache in his jaw, knows he’ll be feeling it tomorrow and welcomes the thought. Anything to remind him that this is real, and not just some sinfully divine dream.
“Go on then, Robble,” Aaron bites out.
“This is revenge, isn’t it? For callin’ you Azza?”
Aaron chuckles, breathless. “Are you complainin’?”
Robert intends to say something cool, one of his trademark quips that always lands. Instead, he whispers a soft “No” and wraps his lips around the head of Aaron’s cock.
He can vaguely hear the dull thump of Aaron’s head hitting the stall door, and the commotion outside as blokes mill in and out, going about their business before heading back out to where they think the fun is.
They don’t know that all the joy is here — with Robert on his knees, sucking Aaron’s cock like he might be able to fuse the two of them together if he takes him far enough down the back of his throat.
“God, Robert.”
Aaron’s broken mutterings only spur him on, and Robert builds a steady pace, doesn’t even complain when Aaron holds his head in place and speeds it up a bit, fucking Robert’s throat like he’s making a home for himself there.
“Been waitin’ for this, haven’t ya?” babbles Aaron, alternating between pulling and stroking Robert’s hair, a juxtaposition of pain and pleasure that’s fast becoming Robert’s favourite state of existence. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed. ‘Course I have. Been watching you too, d’ya know that?”
Robert hadn’t known that, but it strengthens his determination to blow Aaron’s mind, shift his centre of gravity until he can do nothing but let Robert consume his every thought and sensation.
He palms at his own cock, works his buttons open and strips himself like a man possessed — or, rather, a man high on the buzz of too much liquor and cocaine and more of Aaron Dingle than any one man should be allowed to possess.
He hums around Aaron’s cock, feels it twitch against his tongue and knows he’s got him right on the precipice as his lips slide up the shaft, his attention solely focused on the head.
“You take me so well,” praises Aaron, and Robert wonders if the toxins pumping ‘round his systrm make Aaron think he sounds all strong and sexy right now, or if he knows he’s just forcing out words between groans and whimpers, most of them entirely unintelligible.
Robert brings a hand up to grip the base of him, works the thrusts in time with his mouth until he’s built up a steady rhythm that has Aaron writhing and mewling against him, pushed over the edge when Robert drags his other hand away from his own cock to roughly scratch his fingernails over Aaron’s thigh.
When Aaron comes, Robert swallows obediently, licks away the remnants from the flushed head of Aaron’s cock after he’s pulled off with an obscene wet pop.
He looks up through his lashes, meets Aaron’s gaze, sees the blown pupils, where black seeps into ocean blue, and thinks I did that with such pride that it almost bowls him over. Instead, he comes in thick, white ropes over his own fist, watches the way Aaron’s eyes widen at the sight, like he’s just as awestruck by all of this as Robert is.
“You’re so beautiful,” Robert rasps, and he hadn’t meant to say it aloud but he doesn’t take it back either.
Aaron’s cheeks are flushed. “Shut up,” he mutters, but he’s simpering like an idiot.
Aaron pulls his boxers and jeans up as Robert hauls himself to his feet and wipes his hands clean on some toilet paper. Robert’s just turning ‘round to unlock the stall door when Aaron slams his palm against it.
“Come back to mine?”
“You mean, like, share an Uber?”
Aaron huffs. “I mean, come back to my flat.”
“Yeah?”
“If ya want.”
Robert’s cheeks may well be permanently stained crimson from all the blushing he’s done this evening. “You know I do,” he says, because Aaron had said as much, hadn’t he?
“Been waitin’ for this, haven’t ya?” That’s what he’d said.
“How long have you known?” he dares to ask.
Aaron laughs, that mellifluous sound back at full volume and dialled straight into the frequency of Robert’s soul. “You’ve never been subtle,” he admits. “And I don’t get many people knockin’ twice a week every week.”
“Maybe I’m just a drug addict,” Robert jokes.
“I did wonder,” Aaron replies, amused by whatever expression Robert pulls at that confession. “But then I gave you my number to text before you’d come over, and — well, not many people send two kisses to their dealer, Robert.”
“Right, yeah.” Robert clears his throat. “I’m just very friendly.”
Aaron snorts. “I sold some gear to Joe Tate earlier. He seems to think you’re a right prick, actually.”
“Well, that should be another tally in the Robert is a god amongst men column then.”
“Oh, it is,” Aaron confirms, his hand moving from the door to the side of Robert’s neck as he leans in close, mouth an inch away from his ear as he mutters, “I fully intend to worship you when we get outta here.”
Robert’s heart flips. He’s used to feeling like that around Aaron, of course, but this time he doesn’t feel so shy about showing it, letting himself beam as his fingers hover over the latch on the door once more.
“Well then, what are you waitin’ for?”