Page 40 of Boyfriend Material
“So will you be sleeping fully clothed or completely naked?”
“I…did not think this through.” I flailed mentally for a moment. “Look, do you have a spare top or something?”
He rummaged around in a drawer and threw me a plain, grey T-shirt that had clearly been ironed. Refraining—with some difficulty—from further comment, I retreated to the bathroom to change. Normally, I put a bit more thought into what underwear I have on the first time a guy’s going to see it, not least because it might end up in the papers. One of the few upsides of my self-destructive manslut phase is a largeish collection of sexy underpants—I mean, sexy in the sense of making my dick look big and my arse look perky, not in the sense of crotchless or edible. Of course, today, safe in the knowledge that they would go entirely unobserved, I was wearing my comfiest pair of schlumping shorts.
They were a slightly faded blue, with tiny hedgehogs picked out on them in white. Oliver’s T-shirt, which smelled of fabric softener and virtue, was long enough that it mostly covered the design, but it was a good thing I definitely didn’t want to get it on with him because Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle—the hedgehog design, that’s not what I call my penis—would have nuked my chances.
By the time I emerged, Oliver was already in bed, propped up against the headboard, his nose buried in a copy ofA Thousand Splendid Suns. I darted from the doorway and dived under the covers, wriggling myself into a sitting position and trying to get close enough it wasn’t weird but not so close it was weird.
“I feel like Morecambe and Wise,” I said.
Oliver turned a page.
“You know you’re wearing pyjamas wrong, right?”
He didn’t look up. “Oh?”
“Yeah, you’re supposed to just wear the bottoms, and have them hanging low on your hips, displaying your perfectly chiselled V-cut.”
“Maybe next time.”
I thought about this for a moment. “Are you saying youhavea perfectly chiselled V-cut?”
“I’m not sure that’s any of your business.”
“What if someone asks? I should know for verisimilitude.”
The corners of his mouth twitched slightly. “You can say I’m a gentleman and we haven’t got that far.”
“You”—I gave a thwarted sigh—“are a terrible fake boyfriend.”
“I’m building fake anticipation.”
“You’d better be fake worth it.”
“I am.”
I hadn’t quite been expecting that and didn’t quite know how to reply. So I just sat there, trying not to think too hard about what Oliver’s idea of “worth it” might be.
“Good book?” I asked, to distract myself.
“Relatively.” Oliver glanced my way briefly. “You’re being very talkative.”
“You’re being very…not talkative.”
“It’s bedtime. I’m going to read and then go to sleep.”
“Again, starting to see why people don’t stick around.”
“For God’s sake, Lucien,” he snapped. “We’ve made an agreement to be useful to each other, I have work in the morning, and you’re in my bed, wearing rather skimpy hedgehog boxers. I’m trying to maintain some sense of normalcy.”
“If it’s upsetting you that much, I can take my skimpy boxers and leave.”
He put the book on the bedside table and did that massaging-his-temples thing I was seeing way too often. “I’m sorry. I don’t want you to leave. Shall we try to sleep?”
“Um. Okay.”
He flicked the light off abruptly, and I tried to settle myself down without impinging on his personal space or sense of propriety. His bed was firmer than mine, but also way nicer, and probably way cleaner. I could just about catch the scent of him from the sheets—fresh and warm, like if bread was a person—and I could just about feel the shape of him beside me. Comforting and distracting at the same time. Damn him.
