Thursday 25 August 1999 , 8pm
Charlie sat on the sofa in the living room, lost in thought, while the TV burbled in the background. He was thinking about the future, and it wasn't a very pleasant prospect: in only a few days, he would have to return to Liam's place, only this time he wouldn't even have his own room. It just wasn't fair.
He picked at a loose thread on his jeans. It wasn't his fault. Even if he had been free-loading off Liam ever since the job at the café had gone, it still wasn't his fault. Liam knew he'd been trying to get a job, but with there were too many people chasing too few jobs, and he didn't have much in the way of marketable skills – a year at Uni and four months as a short-order cook didn't make for an impressive resume. He hadn't even been able to do any interviews since Rory had been injured, and he'd got a pretty shirty look from the clerk the last time he'd signed on. He'd have to put a serious effort into finding a job once the month was over.
"Penny for your thoughts?"
Charlie started. He hadn't heard Rory come into the room. "Oh!" he floundered. "I-I’m just thinking about next week."
"Oh."
"When things... you know... get back to normal." He shifted around on the sofa and looked up at Rory, whose face was closed and neutral. He couldn't tell what Rory was thinking - nothing new there - but he wouldn't mind knowing if Rory was looking forward to the end of the month… or if he was looking for an excuse to prolong the Agreement. He wasn't going to ask to stay on, but if Rory asked him ... well, that was different, wasn't it? He'd stay if Rory asked him. It wasn't likely to happen, though. Rory wasn't going to ask someone like him to be his boyfriend.
He put on a determined face and said, "Yeah, I'll have to look for a job... I'll put a bit of effort into it. I'll be busy with the band, too, of course. Pat and Sinjin have been writing, so we're going to have a few new songs to practise."
"Is that so?"
Rory didn't sound all that encouraging, but Charlie was used to explaining the wonders of DriveShaft to unbelievers, and pressed on. "Well, I really want to give it a go. We made a demo tape a few months ago, sent it to a few of the radio stations and record companies. Not much reaction yet, though. I think we ought to do a couple more songs, maybe a proper video or two, and send them out again. Got to keep plugging the name, make people recognise us."
"You really think you can make it?" He sounded sceptical.
"Yeah, I do." Charlie was confident - he had to be. DriveShaft was his life. "Yeah. We've got the songs. We've got the songwriters. That's what counts. You can always get musicians if you need them, but you have to have the songs."
"You've got it all worked out."
"Yeah, well, it's not like I haven't thought about it. I want DriveShaft to be a success. I'll do whatever it takes to make sure it happens." Short of prostituting myself again, anyway, he added to himself. I'll never do that again as long as I live. No matter how close to starving I might be.
Rory looked at him, his expression unreadable. "Let me have a couple of tapes. I may be able to send them to some people I know."
"Really? That would be smashing." Charlie bounced up, surprised and pleased that Rory would even consider helping them out, after all that had happened.
"Don't get your hopes up," Rory said in a quelling voice. "I just said I'd pass the tapes on. I'm not going to be your manager or publicist."
"Well, no, I wouldn't expect you to. I mean - you've got your own business after all. But even if you're only handing out tapes it 's good. We really need the exposure. Once people listen, they'll realise we're good. We'll make it."
"There are plenty that don't."
"Yeah, well. DriveShaft's different. We'll make it. I know we will."
He caught a smile teasing at the corners of Rory's mouth, and gave him a wry grin in return. "Yeah, I know. Everyone says that." He frowned. "Still need to get my hands on a bass, though." He hesitated, then took a deep breath and asked the question that had been consuming him for the last three weeks "I don't suppose you stashed my bass away somewhere?"
Rory shook his head. "No," he said, and Charlie got the impression that he was sorry to have to say it. "I sold it the next day."
Charlie scowled. He didn't mean to, but that bass had meant a lot to him. He'd bought it with his own money, hoarding cash from his pocket money and a summer's-worth of odd jobs, and losing it hurt more than anything else Rory had done to him. He'd never get it back - he knew that - but where was he going to find another one in time for the band's first gig? Much as he hated to admit it, he'd probably end up borrowing the money from Liam or his father. Decent guitars weren't cheap, and he'd need one that he was comfortable with.
Oh well, it was a problem that could wait another week or so. Liam was only just out of plaster, and was attending physio twice a week to get some mobility back into his wrist. Their first non-cancelled gig was more than a fortnight away, and a lot could happen in that time.
Something would turn up.
Friday 27 August
Charlie was walking up the street to Liam's place... again. He wished that Rory had let him stay behind in the flat – it wouldn't have been the first time, after all - but he'd been chivvied out and dropped off at the office with no further instructions. Rory had just said he'd call him later, if he needed him. Hardly encouraging, especially since the holiday weekend was coming up, and Charlie had no idea if Rory intended to stay in Manchester or go away. He couldn't do anything until he knew Rory's plans, and it was driving him insane, not knowing where they'd be or what they'd be doing.
He wondered if he'd have time to see his family – they were coming back from Ireland the next day and he wanted to go over and catch up with all the news. If he got a free meal out of it, then so much the better. On the other hand, he didn't want to face an inquisition on the subject of his absence from the last Sunday lunch before they'd left, the one he'd promised his mother he'd attend. He'd been looking after an injured Rory at the time, so he didn't have a particularly guilty conscience, but he didn't want any searching questions, either.
He let himself into the house and dropped his backpack in the middle of the floor, then slumped down on the couch and put his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling.
Truth to tell, he was almost hoping that Rory would demand his attendance for the entire weekend. Not only would he have regular meals and a comfortable bed to sleep in (he hated the couch even as a couch, and it made a bloody awful bed), he'd be safe from Liam's taunts and his parents' enquiries. All he'd have to do in return would be to keep a hold on his temper and let the man fuck him as often as he wanted - and only the first of those would be difficult.
He had to admit that Rory was a bloody good shag. He was strong and forceful; he made it plain that Charlie was to do what he was told, but he wasn't rough or abusive. If Charlie had been able to tell himself a month ago that he'd be viewing the first of September with something close to regret, he'd have called himself barking mad, but there it was. Rory was a good fuck, and Charlie wouldn't mind the prospect of that continuing, even if he hadn't fallen for - well, even without all that other stuff. There was nothing wrong in wanting good shagging to continue. After all, he was a normal red-blooded twenty-year-old man, and a shag was always a shag, whatever the circumstances.
It had nothing to do with the colour of Rory's eyes. Nothing at all. And even less to do with the way his voice growled at Charlie when he was about to come, or the way he could bring Charlie to the brink of delirium with his cock.
Without realising it, he'd leaned back and stuck one hand down his trousers, reaching for his dick, fisting it hard and fast. Oh fuck. Who was he trying to kid? He wanked himself off to the picture of Rory's green eyes, his beautiful hands, his hard thick cock, the feel of that cock in his hand, in his mouth, in his arse...
He drew his hand out, looking at the gooey mess with distaste. This was getting to be a habit, tossing off to thoughts of Rory. It had to stop.
He dragged himself off the couch and into the bathroom, where he washed his hands, drying them on Liam's bath towel. He looked at himself in the mirror - the untidy hair, the squashed nose, the crooked jaw. How could he ever kid himself that Rory would want someone like him around permanently?
The phone rang, startling him out of his reverie, and he raced for the phone. "Charlie Pace."
"Where are you?"
"Home. Liam's place, I mean."
"Be at the office by five. Bring whatever you need for the weekend."
"Sure. Are we going anywhere?"
"What do you mean?"
"Beach? Hiking? Skiing in New Zealand ? What gear do I bring?"
Rory snorted. "None of the above. Just normal gear."
"OK." Charlie ran through the bus timetables in his head and got up off the sofa. He had plenty of time, but it didn't do to dawdle when Rory McManus gave an order. "Is there anything else?"
"Just be there." Rory broke the connection, leaving Charlie mystified - as usual.
* * *
The city was almost deserted when Charlie got there - well, it was five o'clock at the start of the August Bank Holiday Weekend, so he guessed that most people would have left early. He climbed the stairs to the second floor and entered the plainly-decorated waiting room. It was empty - neither Ken nor Chris in sight. He walked over to Rory's office and knocked on the open door.
Rory was seated at his desk, looking at some papers. At Charlie's knock he gestured to the seat in front of the desk, then returned to his reading.
Charlie sat down, setting his backpack on his knee. He was a little unnerved by Rory's silence, by Chris's absence, by the feeling of isolation in the building. He wondered if he'd done anything wrong in the last couple of days - and, if he had, what the punishment was likely to be.
He started fiddling with his hands, picking at loose bits of skin, biting off a hangnail, then playing with the zip and some loose threads on the backpack. He kept half an eye on Rory, trying to gauge the man's mood. As usual, Rory was giving little away - he didn't seem hostile, but then he didn't seem particularly welcoming either.
Patience didn't come easily to Charlie, but he was definitely learning.
Finally, Rory closed the folder, set it to one side and rested his forearms on the desk. He looked Charlie in the eye and spoke a single word. "Strip."
"What?" Charlie asked, then realised he'd been given an order. Rory was staring expectantly at him, waiting for him to comprehend and do what he'd been told - as if I'm a half-trained dog, he grumbled to himself. He placed the backpack on the ground and stood up. Rory watched with barely-masked approval as Charlie took off his T-shirt, then shoes, socks and jeans. At Charlie's inquiring look he nodded, and Charlie took off his briefs, placing them on top of the pile of clothes, before standing rather nervously beside the chair.
"Go over to the window."
Charlie swallowed. There were some taller buildings across the street and he was fairly sure that his naked body would be clearly visible to anyone looking down - but Rory had given him an order, and he really didn't want to antagonise him at the start of what could be a very long weekend.
He reached the window and looked over his shoulder - he wasn't sure whether he should turn or not. At Rory's gesture, he turned back to the window and looked out into the street. At least it was Friday afternoon and not a busy morning. As long as no one walked in...
He cleared his throat.
"What?"
"The door," he ventured. "Shouldn't you lock the door?"
Rory grinned - the familiar shark-grin that did nothing to reassure Charlie. "You let me worry about the door. You just concentrate on staying nice and quiet."
Charlie swallowed and tried to fix his attention on the building opposite. He heard the sound of a drawer opening and closing, and a zip being undone. He knew what was coming next and put his hands on the narrow window-sill to brace himself. Rory stood just behind him and place a warm hand on his hip, pressing into his back. Charlie could feel that Rory was still fully-dressed, but his cock was free and rubbing against Charlie's buttocks.
"Spread your legs," Rory growled into his ear.
Charlie shivered and complied. He widened his stance and was rewarded by Rory's slick fingers between his buttocks, the fingertips reaching and teasing at his entrance. He wriggled his feet a little further apart to give Rory more room and heard a quiet chuckle.
"You can't wait for this, can you? Such a slut for my cock, Charlie Pace, such a fucking gorgeous slut."
He tried vainly not to moan. The soft burr in his ear was doing as much to get him hard as the hand between his legs. Even the words... he'd never thought that the word slut could be so erotic.
Rory's other hand reached around for his cock, and he let out another low moan as he was gripped and pulled. His head dropped back and he opened himself up completely. He trusted Rory - heaven only knew why - but he knew that this would be good for both of them.
"Bend over," was the next order he was given, and Charlie didn't even hesitate. He leaned forward and took his weight on his hands, hoping that the window would hold out, hoping that there was no one watching him.
He felt Rory spreading his cheeks and them the firm, blunt head of his cock pushing in. Charlie took a couple of slow, deep breaths, forcing his muscles to relax and accommodate the intrusion. He tried to lean forward a little more, but the window stopped him, so he pushed back with his hips, which had the combined effect of pulling Rory's cock more deeply inside him and changing the angle. He groaned as his prostate was brushed, then again as Rory pulled back.
"Yeah, just there," he groaned, hoping that Rory would take the hint and keep thrusting at that angle.
"Quiet," Rory admonished him, but he kept on moving just as Charlie wanted, and Charlie spent the next few minutes trying to choke back more groans and exclamations as Rory's thrusting grew more and more powerful. He could feel Rory's hands gripping his hips, tightly, and knew that he'd be wearing the bruises for weeks.
He felt his climax building up inside him. He pushed himself back from the window with one hand and grabbed at his cock with the other. He heard Rory's growl, but was beyond caring as he shuddered and came, his semen splattering all over the window.
Rory thrust several more times and then came himself, a guttural sigh being the only vocal sound he made. He arched back and then fell forward, resting his forehead against Charlie's back.
They stood almost motionless for nearly a minute, both of them out of breath, neither of them speaking. Charlie didn't want to move; he didn't want Rory to move. The thought of Rory resting against his body like that made his insides squirm in very peculiar ways. He wanted to turn around and take Rory in his arms, to hold him and kiss him and murmur things into his ear.
He couldn't, of course. He couldn't ever let Rory know that he'd fallen in love.
* * *
Half an hour later, the car pulled into Rory's set of flats. Charlie got out of the car and waited until Rory had locked it before turning and heading for the main entrance.
"So, are there any big plans for the weekend, or are we just going to fuck like bunnies?" he asked.
Rory looked taken aback at Charlie's bluntness. "I haven't decided yet," he answered as he keyed open the door.
They walked up to the flat in silence. Charlie risked a sideways glance: Rory had tidied up after their little office adventure, but he still looked warm and slightly dishevelled. In fact, he looked properly shaggable, and Charlie almost ached with the desire to fuck him, to show him how good it could be. He knew that the chance of that happening – ever - was close to zero. Still, it would be wonderful fantasy material: Rory lying on the bed, looking up at Charlie as he was entered, feeling Charlie's climax inside him, holding him close as they cooled down... Charlie stumbled on the stairs and took a deep breath as he tried to reign in his treacherous imagination. Fuck it, he was stirring again, and he'd already come twice that afternoon.
Rory opened the front door and they went into the kitchen, where Rory grabbed a couple of cans of beer from the fridge and handed one to Charlie. They drank in silent appreciation. Charlie pulled out one of the chairs and was about to sit down when Rory beckoned him through to the living room.
He followed Rory and watched him sink down into one of the deep armchairs. Charlie toed off his trainers and sat on the sofa, pulling his legs up beside him. He sipped his beer and waited. That was probably the worst part about being with Rory – he couldn't just do what he wanted. He had to wait until Rory decided what they were going to do.
At least this evening didn't look like it was going to be a frantic race to the coast or the continent. Charlie could remember when he was little, when the family had often gone away for long weekends - he'd never got used to the frustration of holiday traffic, sitting in traffic jams a mile long, sweltering in the sun or shivering in the rain, all the children squashed in together. Then Kevin had been born, and Bank Holiday weekends had become stay-at-home affairs, or they'd travelled by bus, or by train. The seaside had been nice - he remembered them going to Blackpool once - but it had got too expensive, with the five of them, and his Mum had said they'd have to be content with the school or church outings. They hadn't been nearly as much fun.
He looked over at Rory, who was leaning back in his chair, his eyes closed and his beer can tilted over at a precarious angle. The can was actually slipping out of Rory's grasp, and Charlie made a dive for it as it started to fall.
The sudden movement startled Rory awake - he blinked a few times and stretched.
Charlie set the can down on the coffee table and stood up. He held his hand out to Rory and said "Come on. You need to go to bed or go for a walk."
Rory closed his eyes again. "Comfy here."
"Not for long, not if you fall asleep like that. And I haven't nursed you for the last two weeks to have all my hard work undone by an armchair." He smiled, hoping that Rory would take his mock-admonishment the right way and not lose his temper.
"Don't push your luck, kid," Rory grunted, but he did straighten up and run a hand over his face.
Charlie extended his hand again. "Come on - come out for a walk. It's a glorious evening, and the weather'll probably turn cold tomorrow, so we might as well get out while we can."
Grumbling - more for form's sake that because of any real resentment, it appeared - Rory allowed himself to be cajoled into changing his work clothes for track pants and trainers, and then they set off on a walk. Charlie was careful not to set the pace too hard, as Rory's ribs were still not fully healed, and they made a leisurely circuit of the estate without encountering any problem more serious than a loose shoelace.
The sun was setting as they returned to the flat, and the deep, golden-red glow gave a warmth to Rory's features that made him look like a teenager. Charlie allowed himself a brief, appreciative look at the man as he keyed the main entrance lock. The way his hair grew on the nape of his neck, the curve of his ear, the hint of stubble on his cheek - these were all beautiful to Charlie, and he stored up the memories so that he could recall them in the empty weeks to come.
Saturday 28 August 9:15 am
Charlie looked at Rory in astonishment. "You're not seriously proposing to go into the office, are you? It's a long weekend!"
Rory looked at him disapprovingly. "I've missed enough already. I've got some contracts to go through." He stirred some more sugar into his tea and took a sip. His expression softened. "It won't be for long, though. And you can stay here if you want."
Charlie snorted. "Aren't you afraid I'll run off with the silver?"
Rory raised an eyebrow. "Are you that stupid?"
Charlie flushed. "Well, no. I was just trying to make a joke."
"I don't do jokes."
"I've noticed."
There was an awkward pause, then Charlie continued, "Well, if we're going to stay here all weekend, I might do some cooking. What do you fancy?"
"I don't know. Surprise me."
Charlie gave a sardonic laugh. "No, thanks. You don't do surprises very well either."
Rory had to smile at that. "True," he admitted. "All right… seafood, then. I fancy a bit of lobster or crab. Think you're up to it?"
Charlie regarded him with interest. So Rory wanted to challenge him, did he? "Hot or cold?"
"Hot."
"OK. Lobster with salad."
"And pudding."
Charlie snorted with amusement. "I'll see what I can find."
Rory smiled happily at him and Charlie's heart gave a lurch. Dammit! It just wasn't fair that Rory could do that to him without even trying. He drained his coffee to hide his confusion and choked as half of it spilled over and down onto his shirt. At least it was a T-shirt, he told himself, as he got up and grabbed a cloth from the bench, and not one of the button-down shirts Rory had bought him.
Rory laughed at him, but not unkindly, then drained his own cup and stood up. He took out his wallet and dropped a few notes on the table, saying "You get whatever you need for the meal. I should be back by five."
Charlie threw the cloth in the general direction of the washing machine and nodded. "I'll see what I can get. I don't know what's going to be available."
"No matter. I'm sure it'll be good."
* * *
Charlie was at the sink, washing the lettuce, when he heard the sound of Rory's key in the lock and smiled. He hoped that Rory would like what he'd done with the money - all fifty pounds of it. It was a week's dole money and more, but it would be a great meal, and he'd even been able to buy meat for the next day as well.
Rory stepped into the kitchen, carrying a bottle of wine that he placed in the fridge. At Charlie's curious expression he said, "Well, you're making a special effort on the food. Seemed like a good idea to get some wine."
"It'll be quite the celebration," laughed Charlie. "What's the occasion?"
Rory tensed up and glared at him. "What do you mean?"
Charlie was flummoxed. It had only been a light-hearted remark; he hadn't expected Rory to react so violently. "I didn't mean anything!" he protested, automatically. "It's just… well, lobster's a bit special, you know, and then you go and bring in a bottle of wine. It's like we're having a party or something."
Rory appeared to be slightly mollified, but said, "Well, it's not a party," in a quelling voice, "and don't go jumping to conclusions." He turned and left the room.
Charlie heard him going up the stairs, the footsteps sounding heavy with resentment, and wondered what the matter was.
Half an hour later Rory was back down in the kitchen, having had a shower and changed into a T-shirt and shorts, his temper much restored. He leaned over Charlie's shoulder to see what he was doing, and pinched a bit of capsicum from the salad Charlie was making.
"Hey! None of that. You'll spoil your appetite."
"Fat chance! I'm starving."
Charlie looked at him, concerned. "Didn't you have any lunch?" he asked.
Rory shook his head and took a wedge of tomato from the bowl. "Forgot. Too busy."
Charlie actually got as far as opening his mouth to say he should have made Rory a sandwich to take with him before he realised what he was doing. He clenched his teeth shut and tried to control himself. I have to stop doing this, he told himself. I am not going to turn into a fucking housewife. Absolutely not.
Rory backed away slowly, and Charlie looked at him in surprise. He followed Rory's gaze to the sharp knife he held in his hand, the knuckles white with the pressure he'd exerted in the effort to get his thoughts back under control. He had to admit, it did look a bit suspicious. He relaxed his grip and put the knife down slowly and calmly. "Sorry," he muttered. "I didn't mean to scare you."
"Does someone missing lunch always send you into a murderous rage?" Rory asked with wry amusement.
Charlie laughed. "No. Not finishing what's on your plate does, though.'
"Not much of a risk with your cooking, lad. I think I'm safe." So saying, he grabbed a stick of celery and turned away to the fridge, reaching in for the jug of ice water.
Charlie felt himself reddening at the compliment which Rory had uttered so casually. He picked up the knife again and bent his head, concentrating on the celery he was cutting.
Sod it. I make a bloody good housewife .
* * *
The meal was perfect: a beautiful lobster, in a Malaysian black pepper sauce (the recipe had been in last Sunday's paper, but Charlie was fairly sure that Rory hadn't seen it, since he never read the "Good Living" section) with a green salad and fresh crusty bread, and the bottle of wine. Rory's appetite was certainly not impaired by the pieces he'd stolen before dinner, and he consumed over half the lobster, licking the juices off his fingers with an enthusiasm that both gratified and disturbed Charlie, who was led into fevered imaginings of what Rory's tongue might do to him... one day...
Rory belched, long and loud, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied smile on his face. "That was good, lad." He patted his stomach and sighed. "I don’t think I could eat another thing."
Charlie beamed. "That's a pity," he said, teasingly, "as there's more to come. Couldn't forget about that sweet tooth of yours."
"Pudding?" asked Rory, hopefully.
Charlie chuckled. "Not exactly." He got up and went to the freezer, pulling out a white box, which he opened and showed to Rory. Inside was an ice-cream cake, white with red accents. "Vanilla sponge with layers of raspberry ripple ice-cream. And fresh raspberries to go with it. Couldn't resist."
"Oh, fantastic, I love raspberries," breathed Rory, gazing on the confection with an expression that bordered on adoration. He reached in with a finger, but Charlie whipped the box away.
"Oy! No sticking fishy fingers in the cake. You go and wash your hands and I'll serve it out."
Rory, surprisingly, obeyed him while Charlie took a knife and a spatula and served up two large helpings of dessert.
Ten minutes later they were both leaning back in their chairs. "Now I really can't eat another thing," groaned Rory.
"Not even a teeny-weeny after-dinner mint?
Rory shook his head. "I think I'll go and sit down before I explode." He wandered through to the living room, surreptitiously pulling on the waistband of his shorts.
Charlie put the remainder of the cake in the freezer and loaded the dishwasher. He thought about putting the kettle on for tea, but decided that they could wait for half an hour or so.
They sat in the living room and watched a video while their meals settled – it was Rory's choice, of course, but he picked "Hard Boiled", which Charlie didn't mind seeing again, though he had to disagree with Rory on the relative merits of John Woo and Tsui Hark. They watched avidly as Chow Yun-Fat and Tony Leung systematically destroyed a hospital, cheering them on as the body count climbed into three figures.
Charlie got up as the credits started to roll, and reappeared with two steaming mugs of tea. "Do you want to watch another film?" he asked.
Rory shook his head. "No, I'll just drink my tea and then we'll go up to bed."
Charlie nodded. He found himself quite looking forward to it - Rory in a good mood made for good sex, and he wanted to make the most of the few opportunities they had left. Every night brought them closer to the end of the month, and he had a desperate need to remember every hour, every minute, every good moment from now until Wednesday.
Half an hour later, he found himself bent over the sink in the bathroom, watching the unbelievably hot image of Rory fucking him slowly from behind. He tried hard not to beg and plead as Rory pushed him to the brink of oblivion, and kept his eyes open for as long as he could, looking at himself, looking at Rory. Remember this, he told himself. Remember this night.