Chapter Text
The doorbell’s been broken for months, but it tries anyway. It’s a valiant effort, but Reece can barely hear it over the not-so-dulcet tones of Freddie Mercury’s Barcelona being spit out of the hi-fi.
“Door!” he shouts, elbow-deep in lukewarm water as he’s frantically trying to finish the washing-up before the guests arrive. Someone’s early — almost certainly Mark. He usually shows up fashionably late, except when he’s ten minutes early to help out.
Steve’s lounging on the sofa, legs akimbo, working his way through a Rubik’s cube. He looks like he hasn’t got a care in the world.
“Better get it, then,” he says, absent-mindedly.
“Why have I got to do it?” he whines, wiping his hands on his jeans and hurrying to the door. He pulls it open, revealing Mark in a waistcoat, hair combed back neatly and holding a bottle of wine in front of him.
“Tesco’s finest vintage,” Mark says, in that infuriating way he always speaks like he knows something you don’t. “May I?”
Reece steps aside, holds the door open. Mark leans down to kiss Reece on the cheek like his gran coming round for Christmas, then brushes past and enters the flat.
“Well well well, look what the cat dragged in!” Steve crows from the sofa.
Mark raises an eyebrow, then looks down at himself, his immaculate waistcoat and shiny shoes, then looks pointedly at Steve, in his ragged t-shirt and threadbare jeans.
“Cheeky,” Steve laughs, going back to his Rubik’s cube.
“I told him to put something nice on, but clearly he didn't listen to me,” Reece says waspishly, closing the door and scurrying back to the kitchen.
Mark puts the wine on the worktop, then leans forward on folded arms.
“At least you put some effort in, Reece, you look lovely,” he says, smiling softly, in the voice he uses to talk to the stray cats that sneak into the building sometimes.
“He’s the trophy wife, means I don’t have to dress up,” Steve says, giggling.
Reece scowls, putting the last of the mugs to dry. “I’m not a trophy wife, because I do all the work around here!” he snaps, picking up the bowls of crisps and party rings and carrying them to the coffee table, stopping halfway to lean down next to the sofa and shout in Steve’s ear. “And it’s not even my fucking flat!”
“This one’s my favourite,” Steve cackles as Rent by The Pet Shop Boys comes on with cosmically good timing. “Can’t hear anything over it, sorry!”
He starts singing along, loudly and badly. It annoys Reece how endearing he finds it, how endearing he finds everything Steve does.
He curses Now That’s What I Call Music 10 and resists the urge to chuck the cassette player out the window.
As Reece storms back towards the kitchen, Mark grabs him by the shoulder.
“Deep breaths for me, love,” he says, stroking his thumb over the collar of Reece’s button-down, barely brushing over his skin. “It’s just us and some friends, yeah?”
“They’re your friends, not mine,” Reece mutters, but forces himself to breathe slower, feeling his ribcage expand, holding it until his lungs start to ache, then a long exhale that ruffles Mark’s collar. After a few rounds of this, he lets Mark pull him closer, cupping the back of his neck, and rests his forehead in the hollow of Mark’s collarbone, feels the soft fabric of his waistcoat.
Mark tightens his hold, pressing his thumb and index finger into the tense muscle on either side of his vertebrae at the base of his skull. It feels— so good.
Reece lets out the most embarrassing sound of his life, this pathetic, reedy whine. He blushes, and then blushes harder when he realises that Mark will be able to feel the blood-rush at the back of his neck. He doesn't understand how it's so good, the insistent, consistent pressure, the deep, satisfying ache of it, sending heat down his spine.
He feels Steve’s gaze on him — the Rubik’s cube noises have stopped under Neil Tennant.
Reece steps back hastily, a wave of— shame, or guilt, something hot and roiling and bad washing through him, wiping him clean of affection, leaving sharp clarity in its wake. He clears his throat.
“Thanks, Mark. The others—” he says, voice strangely high. He licks his dry lips, tries again. “The others’ll be here soon. I should— go,” he finishes lamely, turning back to the kitchen to start getting drinks out of the fridge.
It feels like running away.
He hunts down the can opener, rummaging around in Steve’s poorly-organised drawers. He’s quite neat but his flatmates aren’t, much to his annoyance. When he finds it (hiding in the drawer under the oven along with a half-empty bottle of tequila, a pair of stripey blue socks and a tin of Quality Street that went out of date four months ago) and turns back around, Mark’s leaning over the back of the sofa, saying something in Steve’s ear, hands covering the Rubik’s cube to stop Steve from playing with it.
“Oi, what are you saying about me?” Reece says, hating how whiny his voice is.
“Nothing, dear,” Mark says smoothly, standing up and patting Steve on the shoulder. Reece opens his mouth to push it but Mark’s scrawny arse is saved quite literally by the bell.
Reece scowls at Mark as he swans past and winks at him, then opens the door. Their guests trickle inside over the next twenty minutes, Reece rushing around to get people things, making snide remarks about being a good host when the flat isn’t even his. Steve wanders over to get a beer. He takes a swig, then puts his hand on the back of Reece’s neck to pull him closer. It’s damp with condensation, wetting his shirt.
“Reece, love,” he says, lips brushing the skin of his ear. “Time to shut up about that, don’t you think? Everyone knows you’re round here often enough that it’s basically your flat too.”
Then Steve pulls away, leaving Reece suddenly cold and hot and shivery and he walks away like nothing happened. What the fuck is with Steve and Mark being so fucking weird today?
By the time Reece gathers himself enough to get himself a glass of wine — who brings wine to a party? — and leave the sanctity of the kitchen, everyone’s arrived, the room thick with smoke from the fags, and he realises that they’re out of chairs, crammed around the TV in the living room. He looks automatically for Steve and Mark, drawn to them like they’re magnetic north, hoping they’ve saved him a seat — Mark has the decency to look apologetic, sat next to Steve who looks decidedly unapologetic, face red and smile wide.
“I’ll get the fold-out from the airing cupboard,” Reece grumbles over the noise of fifteen boys chatting and laughing.
“No, Josh has already got it,” Steve says.
Reece feels out of place, standing up. “Well, where am I supposed to sit, then?"
Steve laughs, tapping his cig over the ashtray perched precariously on the arm of the sofa. “Have to sit on the floor, won’t you?”
“Or my lap," Mark offers, winking.
For a split second, Reece thinks he's being serious, and he actually wants to, but then the group bursts into laughter. Reece scrunches his face up to signal to the group how much he would not like that, because it's a joke and not— a real offer, and that he doesn't want it, he doesn't.
“Piss off, I’m not sitting on your bony legs, ta very much,” Reece says with as much fake scorn as he can muster.
“Well, I don't want your bony arse anyway,” Mark says, then turns to Steve. “Looks like the floor’s the only option then.”
Reece scowls, crosses his arms. “Spent all evening slaving away, and this is the thanks I get? Sitting on the floor like a fucking dog until my legs go numb?”
“You can have my seat," one of the boys speaks up, going to pick up his drink and coaster.
“Oh, don’t worry, he’s just being a drama queen,” Steve says breezily, waving a hand in the air. The boy shrugs and settles back.
Reece has done worse in front of a group and not felt embarrassed — fuck’s sake, what's a drama degree if not methodically calculated torture in front of your peers, all the stupid “games" and “exercises" that consist of rolling around on the floor pretending to be a leaf or a worm or whatever. He has a high tolerance for shame, now, with his dignity being overriden by the instinct to perform, to commit.
Despite that, he is starting to feel genuinely embarrassed and he fucking hates it, because Steve is always doing this, laughing at him, making him seem like an idiot.
“Steve,” Reece says, quietly, biting his lip, hoping Steve will do what he always does and take the cue. Make me make me make me.
Steve's gaze softens, and he reaches behind himself and pulls the cushion out, then puts it gently on the floor between his legs.
“Come on, Reece, let's just watch the film, yeah?" he says, coaxingly. “I'll do all your chores for a week."
Reece cracks a smile. “It's your fucking flat, you lazy bastard!"
“What are you still doing standing up?” Steve says, mischievously. Then, he puts on a posh, officious voice. "I do believe I gave you an order, Private Shearsmith!”
Reece sighs performatively, then sits down on the cushion in a huff. Now it's funny, just messing around, instead of— well, what it is, he supposes. Him being pathetically obedient. He wriggles around a bit to get comfortable as Mark fiddles with the VHS player, getting the tape out the case and sorting the film out. He sets it to play, then crosses the room to turn the light off, casting everything in the eerie blue glow of the screen.
Mark sits back down next to Steve, squeezing Reece's shoulder. He hates that it reassures him. He wants a cigarette, feels like he's the odd one out, like he's got nothing to do with his hands, like his mouth is too empty.
The film starts to play — The Lost Boys, something they've been wanting to see since it came out. Someone on the sofa opposite Reece whoops loudly, then groans in pain as they're presumably elbowed in the ribs.
“See, not so bad, is it?” Steve says quietly, reaching down to ruffle Reece's hair.
Reece goes to bat his hand away but Steve just grabs his wrist and pins it to the sofa, next to Reece’s head.
It sends a shock of electricity through Reece, sinking leaden and heavy in the pit of his stomach. Steve's fingers are tight and warm and solid, the pressure strangely… comforting.
Reece wants to lean into it like a cat in the sun, give Steve his other wrist and ask him to pin that one too, he feels dizzy, confused, and then he remembers he's in a room full of idiot boys who'll tear him to pieces and pick at his bones if they see, if they know, and they probably already know he's a filthy queer just by looking at him, like his dad always said—
Reece starts to panic and struggles against Steve's grip. “Get off, you prick, let go!”
“Will you behave if I let go?” Steve says teasingly.
Reece glares up at him, ignoring the awkward angle, the strain in his neck.
“Yes! Fucking hell, yes, fine, just let go, you fucking creep.”
“Shut up, Reece," Josh laughs from the stolen fold-out chair. “Some of us are trying to watch a film!"
Reece scowls, all flustered now, cheeks pink and far too breathless for the level of exertion it’s taken just trying to wrestle his arm free, and— shit, fuck, he's— getting hard in his jeans. On the floor, with Steve's hand on his wrist. He prays to god that it isn't noticeable in the dimness of the room.
From above him, he hears Mark speak quietly. “Alright, Steve, let the poor boy go.”
Steve squeezes hard, achingly hard, and Reece could swear he feels the bones in his wrist grating against each other, and then that lovely painful pressure is gone as Steve lets go.
“Bastard," Reece hisses, elbowing Steve's shin, then settling back against the sofa and crossing his legs in front of him, hoping to stop himself from getting any harder.
Max goes for tea at Lucy's house, and Steve puts his hand on Reece's head. He tries to turn to look at Steve to ask just what he thinks he's doing but the hand grips his hair tightly, forcing him to stay looking straight ahead at the TV.
Reece blindly fumbles for Steve's leg, the only part of him he can reach, and just— holds on to his ankle, thoroughly confused what Steve's playing at, but with no way to ask without causing a scene and drawing attention.
Steve starts— petting him, playing with his hair, toying with the curls at the base of his neck, running his fingers through the long waves on top. It feels so good, embarrassingly good, the gentle scratching of nails, having Steve's attention like this. He imagines his hair, black streaked with grey ash from Steve's cigarette, smelling of smoke.
It gets difficult to concentrate on the film — one of the vampire gets staked, another's impaled on a set of antlers — with Steve's hands in his hair. He doesn't remember when it became both hands, but it clearly did at some point with Steve becoming more sure of himself, stroking him like a beloved pet. Then a third hand threads itself through the curls at the back of his head, cupping his skull, so warm and soothing. Mark’s thumb moves in tiny circles, and Reece can suddenly see himself as their pet, sat on the floor between the two of them, their hands all over his body, in his hair, on his shoulders, his hips, his thighs—
Reece makes a small noise at the back of his throat, and he's mortified even though he's sure no one heard, getting so turned on at the thought of being Steve's pet, or— Steve's and Mark's—
And oh, fuck, that's good, and he hates it, hates himself for liking it, for wanting it, for getting hard at the idea of the two of them treating him like their pet, their puppy, taking care of him, letting him curl up on the sofa between them, eating out of their hands. Maybe they'd let him wear a collar for them— or make him get his ears pierced, one little stud for each of them, and he salivates at the idea of the needle, so sharp and cold and the pain of it, Steve and Mark holding either of his hands, being proud of him, telling him you’re such a good boy, look how much you can take, you're making the same noises as when we fuck you—
Reece eventually gives up trying to concentrate on the film, closing his eyes and letting himself relax, sinking into the feeling of hands in his hair, golden-warm and smooth like an egg yolk, cooked sunny side up.
Steve leans down to speak into his ear. It sounds hazy, like he's underwater, and how apt that is, considering how he feels like he's drowning.
"You're being suspiciously quiet down there," Steve says, teasingly. Reece hums non-committedly, trying to tilt his head so Steve’s nails scrape over the sensitive spot at the base of his skull. He’s floating, buoyant, like his bones have liquidised and evaporated, leaving only his soft, unprotected insides, raw and bloody. It feels right, being on the floor, hearing Steve and Mark chattering quietly above him, which is strange, considering how he’s always hated being small. Maybe it’s because Steve put him there, in his place, and— and he knows best, doesn’t he? Steve and Mark, looking out for him, looking after him—
And he feels electrocuted as his head is pulled back sharply by the hair and he moans, open-mouthed and blissful because fuck, that was good, stinging down his spine and lighting each bone on fire and he’s so hot he wants to crawl out of his clothes, his skin, and he can hear Steve breathing quickly above him and he’s not moving so Reece does it for him, tilting his head forward against Steve’s grip which causes another flash of heat through his core like a bolt of lightning as the pain intensifies and then there’s the ghost of a hand around his throat and he whines—
“You okay, Reece?”
It's Josh, sat across from him, staring. He’s never felt panic like it.
He doesn’t even think, he’s just up, legs weak and he stumbles in his haste to get away, and he stood up too fast so he feels dizzy, faint, and he can’t breathe, it’s stifling, the leaden weight in his chest, bad wrong broken no son of mine he has to get out—
“You’re a mind reader, Reece, another of the same!”
Reece is thinking through amber, crystallised like a beetle, frozen in time. Steve’s voice cuts through.
He looks, properly looks, past the blur of colours, to Steve. He’s holding out his empty bottle of beer expectantly, and it’s too dark to see his face. Mark’s next to him with a hand on Steve’s knee, white-knuckled like he’s holding him down. Most of the boys are still just watching the film but there’s a few looking quizzically at him and if he runs away then they’ll know, they’ll ask questions—
Reece nods through the haze of tears pricking at his eyes and goes to the kitchen. He opens the freezer and presses his face against one of the drawers. It’s cold and the buzzing noise sets his teeth on edge but it’s shocking, it hurts, and it centres him back in his body, a grounding rod amongst the sparks, cutting through the panic.
He breathes in and out a few times, as slowly and quietly as he can manage, then fumbles around in one of the drawers for a piece of ice — why is it loose, who keeps loose ice cubes — and then grabs a beer off the worktop, getting the lid off with shaking hands, and walking back into what feels like the lion’s den.
“Reece," Steve murmurs as he hands him the beer. "I—”
Reece shakes his head and doesn’t look at Steve, just sits back down on the cushion, lets the ice in his palm keep him tethered, focuses on the sensations of it, cold and smooth and melting.
The film goes on and once Reece gets himself under control, he's seething. How could Steve do this to him? God, he feels sick, and trapped, and angry. To lure him into such a lovely state of relaxation in front of people, to coax his guard down and then let him make a fool of himself? It's like Steve wanted to embarrass him.
The film ends and Reece still feels like a shard of ice, cold and like he could snap at any moment, on the verge of tears and staring at the floor, just waiting for everyone to leave so he can run away. It's like he's frozen while the world moves on around him.
(He doesn't see Mark shooing everyone out, claiming Steve's feeling ill and might throw up violently at any second. As he picks up his coat, Steve grabs his arm and looks pleadingly at him. Mark shakes his head and kisses Steve's forehead.
“I can't help you with this one, love," he says gently. “I know it was an accident, but he'll feel like you told him to jump and didn't catch him, so it's up to you to fix it. Call me after, okay? You'll figure it out.")
Then the door closes, leaving a room dark except for the glow of the TV, blue screen illuminating the haze of smoke and dust mites in the air.
Reece pushes himself to his feet. He feels like a pot of water on the hob that's bubbling over, like he's been flayed alive.
“What the fuck was that,” he demands.
Steve's voice is terribly condescending as he walks back to the lounge. “Reece—"
“Don't," he says, voice shaky with anger and shame. Steve stops where he is, just on the outside of the haphazard little cinema they created. "Don't you fucking dare try and, and, calm me down because I have every right to be pissed off.”
Steve eyes him warily. His face is ghostly blue, all harsh shadows and icy highlights. His expression is painfully neutral, in the way that he's trying so hard to look neutral that it's painful.
“I'm sorry.”
Reece barks a laugh, short and bitter.
“What for, Steve? What fucking for? Are you sorry for making me do all the work for you? Or for forcing me to sit on the floor—”
“Reece—"
“—or is it for being fucking weird and treating me like— like your dog, stroking my fucking hair—”
“Look, d’you want me to explain or not," Steve says irritably.
“I'd love nothing more!" Reece spits.
“Right," Steve says. He closes his eyes, sighs deeply. "Okay.”
The TV hums in the background. There's the muted thudding of electronic music from the flat below. The symphony of a Saturday night in student accommodation.
“I was being selfish. I just— wanted to touch you. And I thought you'd like it.”
Steve pauses, gives Reece a moment to speak.
He doesn't.
It's very loud silence.
“You… seem to like it, when me and Mark touch you,” Steve says carefully. "You hate it from other people, I know you do, I see how you flinch and get all twitchy about it. But when it's me and him, it just… I don't know. It seems okay. And—"
Reece hates how Steve's walking on eggshells. They joke and they push each other and they don't do this.
“I thought you'd like it," he says, finally. “And you did."
Reece says nothing. What is there to say that isn't damning?
Steve waits, then shrugs and walks through the lounge towards his bedroom door.
“Look, if you're not going to talk to me, then I'm just going to bed. Night, Reece."
“Coward," Reece snaps.
Steve stops, hand on the door. He doesn't turn around.
“You can't run away from this. You started it, so fucking finish it!”
Reece hates how pleading he sounds.
Steve turns, walks towards Reece. He scoffs.
“Running away? Bit rich coming from you. If I’d not made you get that drink you’d have been off like a shot, hiding in the bathroom!”
“And whose fault would that have been?” Reece shouts, breathless. He doesn't like being angry with Steve but he likes the fight. "You humiliated me in front of your friends!”
“It was an accident," Steve says. "I didn't think you'd react like that!”
Reece feels blood rush to his face. He's breathless. “Like what? Like fucking what, Steve?"
It's Steve's turn to fall silent.
Reece's voice is so bitter and scathing it's caustic. “Oh, let’s make little Reeson sit on the floor and be my fucking lap dog, let's play with his hair like a fucking Barbie doll until he, he gets all hard in his jeans and embarrasses himself, isn’t that hilarious—”
“You liked it!” Steve says, exasperated, looking at the ceiling as if the heavens will open up and deliver him from suffering. "I didn't think—"
He stops abruptly, then looks directly at Reece. It's piercing, like he's perforating skin and cutting through to bone.
“You were hard?”
Reece licks his lips. He can hear his heartbeat in his ears, hyperaware of his damp palms, wanting to crawl out of his body and hide in the hot water pipes.
There’s nothing he can say, so he glances at the door.
Steve steps closer.
“Ah ah ah,” he says, sardonic and condescending like a primary school teacher. “If I'm not running away then you're not either."
“We can forget about this,” Reece whispers. It’s like one of those bad dreams where he’s got stage fright, reaching for his lines and coming up empty like sand falling through his fist, stood frozen in front of the audience, suspended in that awful, icy moment of not-knowing.
Steve laughs breathily, taking another step closer. His eyes look black in the darkness, only half of his face visible, painted an unearthly blue by the TV. “I'm tipsy but I'm not drunk. I'll remember everything."
He steps right into Reece’s space like he owns it. Reece stumbles back instinctively, gripping onto the sofa behind him for support as Steve crowds him against it, looming over him with the cold, wide smile of a shark tasting blood in the water.
“I'll remember," he says, sounding dazed, ”you getting hard from me and Mark pulling your hair.”
“Steve,” Reece whispers, chest heaving, so frightened that he can hardly string two thoughts together.
He thinks of ulcers and fevers and a navy blue leaflet being posted through his door last year, his roommates laughing and throwing it away and how he'd gone scrabbling through the recycling for it, desperate for any scraps of information that might save his life.
He thinks of Maggie Thatcher’s pearl earrings and being kicked on the ground at school. He remembers the taste of gravel and chalk, the pain of his ribs fractured in two places, the way his dad had told him he'd deserved it.
“Why are you so scared? We’re just having a chat,” Steve says, all quiet and gentle and menacing. Steve, who's best mates with Mark, who isn't exactly the hate crime type. He doesn't have to worry about getting beaten up, only ruining their friendship. Great. Lower stakes.
Reece squirms like a fish on a hook, trying to push Steve away. “There’s nothing to fucking chat about!”
Steve’s hand comes up so quickly it’s like he was waiting for an opening, castle takes bishop, and he pulls Reece’s hair so hard his neck aches with the force of it. His mouth falls open in a loud whine because god, the sting of it is so good, burning through the mental fog like the sun on a February morning, sharp and perfect as Steve just holds it, the pain getting deeper, radiating down his spine.
“Oh, so this is nothing, is it?” he asks, unbearably smug.
“Steve,” Reece whimpers, hands white-knuckled on the sofa behind him, drawing out his name because he loves how it feels on his tongue. He realises distantly through the bright clarity that he’s hard, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes as he stares at the ceiling. The entire world is reduced to this square metre of the flat, awash in shades of blue, a room of ozone and static, a shard of the atmosphere fallen to earth. It's electric.
When he was a fifth year back in secondary, the only part of biology lessons that he’d enjoyed was getting to use the microscopes. He’d loved the intricacies of the machines, all the dials and knobs, the lenses, the slide shifting in-and-out of focus. He’d sneak into the lab at lunch and prick the tip of his finger with the needle of his school badge, let a bead of blood well up, then press it reverently to the glass slide. He’d watch the cells down the microscope with wide eyes, mesmerised. He’d found an ant in the windowsill flowerbed and pierced it, then prepared the specimen, feeling like a mad scientist from the films with his saline pipette and methylene blue, his heart pounding as he watched the fuzzy shapes move.
That’s how he feels now. Sliced open, stained indigo and mounted on glass for Steve to peer at.
Steve lets go.
Reece gasps and immediately collapses in on himself, scrabbling at Steve’s shirt and pressing his face into the open collar, shuddering breaths against the hot skin there. He feels the tears cling to his eyelashes and then run down his face, so ashamed and confused and euphoric that he can’t even think. It’s the world’s strangest cocktail of emotions, like mixing vodka, coffee and pineapple liqueur and serving it with a tiny umbrella.
Steve's stroking his back, he realises, and his other arm is wrapped tightly around Reece's waist, holding him close. His heartbeat is almost as fast as Reece's.
“I don't—” Reece starts, breaks off into a sob. He feels empty and untethered without the pain. “I don't know—"
“Me neither, love," Steve murmurs, lips pressed to Reece's temple, voice reverberating through Reece's skull like an organ in a cathedral. He likes the idea of that — his bones, a place of worship to Steve, ringing with echoes of devotion.
Reece unclenches his hands, releases the now-creased fabric of Steve's shirt. It smells like smoke and cheap washing powder.
'“But we'll— work it out, yeah?” Steve says quietly.
Reece lets out a shaky breath.
“Yeah," he says.
He can feel Steve relax and smile against his neck, and he wants the imprint of it branded into his skin. He moves his hands beneath Reece's shirt and presses his nails into his waist and his shoulder. It hurts. It's perfect.