Chapter 6: Chapter 6
Jimmy walked up to the front desk, his and Gaz’s eyes locked on to each other. The dim fluorescent light seemed to warm, the dust motes hanging like tiny, shimmering constellations.
“Alright?” Gaz asked, his cheeks flushing slightly, an endearing and unexpected vulnerability on his broad face. His hands were jammed deep in the pockets of his hoodie.
“Alright,” Jimmy replied, the single word imbued with a wealth of feeling, his eyes twinkling with a pleasure so pure it felt fragile. They stood for a moment, just looking, drinking each other in, the low murmur of an elderly patron at the front desk a distant hum.
“Did you need a book, or…?” Jimmy asked teasingly, a small, daring smile playing on his lips.
Gaz leaned a fraction closer, the scent of fresh air and clean cotton replacing the musty paper smell for a moment. “Actually, I do,” Gaz whispered, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in Jimmy’s chest. “Do you have I Need to Kiss You As Soon As Possible by Gareth Edwards?”
Jimmy stifled a giggle behind a small cough, feeling a surge of dizzying delight. He looked around, a conspirator. “Uh, yes, I believe that’s in the erotic fiction section. If you’ll follow me.”
He turned, his legs not quite steady, and led Gaz away from the desk, past the oak-stained history carrels. He took a sharp left into a narrow corridor lined with windows opaque with grime, his heart hammering a rhythm against his ribs. At the end was a heavy, varnished door with a simple push-bar. The staff storeroom.
He pushed it open and slipped inside, Gaz following, filling the doorway momentarily before the door clicked shut behind them, plunging them into a dusty, semi-darkness. The room was a chaotic landscape of stacked wooden pallets laden with boxes of unsorted donations, a jumble of broken chairs awaiting repair, and towering, unwieldy carts loaded with books bound for the shelves. The air was thick with the scent of paper pulp, lemon polish, and damp cardboard. A single bare bulb in a wire cage hung from the ceiling, casting a weak, moth-filled light over the scene.
“This is a weird place to keep the erotic fiction section,” Gaz whispered, as his hands came to rest on Jimmy’s hips, his touch warm even through the fabric of Jimmy’s shirt. A sly smile played on his face, but his eyes were intensely focused.
Jimmy leaned back slightly into the hold. “Yes, the erotic fiction section is a special area of the library,” he replied, trying to look serious, his voice betraying a flutter. “To help people engage with kinetic reflexes and gentle tactility.”
“Fuck off,” whispered Gaz, but the words were soft, affectionate.
He didn’t wait for another smart reply. His hands slid from Jimmy’s hips to his lower back, pulling him in until their bodies aligned. The hugeness of Gaz, the solid, unyielding wall of him, was a shock every time. He lowered his head, and his lips found Jimmy’s.It started gentle. A soft press, an exploration. Jimmy’s hands came up to grip Gaz’s thick shoulders, feeling the powerful muscles shift beneath the soft hoodie. Gaz’s mouth was warm, his lips slightly chapped, and he tasted of spearmint gum and something inherently, essentially him—a clean, male saltiness. The simplicity of it, the focus of two mouths just learning each other, was astonishingly intimate. There was no rush to get anywhere, no frantic groping. Gaz’s tongue swept along the seam of Jimmy’s lips, a quiet request, and Jimmy opened for him with a soft sigh.
The kiss deepened, became a slow, thorough claiming. Gaz’s hands moved up Jimmy’s back, tracing the knobs of his spine through his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer, one hand cupping the back of his head, fingers tangling in his fine hair. Jimmy surrendered to it, rising on his toes to meet the pressure, his own tongue venturing out to tangle with Gaz’s. He could feel the hard ridge of Gaz’s erection against his stomach, a promise held in check. The heat between them built, a sweet, swelling pressure, but Gaz held the line. He kissed until Jimmy was breathless, until the dusty storeroom seemed to spin, and then he gently broke the contact, pulling back just enough to rest his forehead against Jimmy’s. Both of them were breathing heavily, sharing the same air in the small, paper-scented space.
“I’ve never had a stalker before,” Jimmy whispered with a giggle, his voice shaky with wonder.
“I’m not fucking…” Gaz stammered, the flush on his neck deepening. He huffed out a breath. “I just… Fine. I fucking missed you. Twat.”
“I missed you too,” Jimmy said, the sincerity raw and unguarded in the dim light. And with that honesty, his most recent concerns, the greasy shame of Tom’s visit, seemed to seep out, a subtle shift in his posture, a fleeting shadow in his eyes.
Gaz saw it instantly. His brow furrowed. His thumbs stroked Jimmy’s jaw. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing, nothing,” Jimmy said, shaking his head slightly, forcing a small smile. “I can handle it.” He needed to push the ugliness away, to preserve this perfect, stolen moment. “Did you need something other than to blow my mind with a soul-shattering kiss?”
Gaz’s expression softened, but the concern lingered at the edges. “I just wanted to let you know that I have to go away for work for a couple of days. Plumbing job up in Derby. I’ll be back for the training Friday, but…” He paused, struggling. “I didn’t want you thinking you were just some shag, like I was ignoring you, like I didn’t…” He faltered, unable to articulate the complex tangle of new feeling.
“Thank you,” Jimmy said, the words simple and powerful. “I’m glad you did.”
They gazed at each other, the profound understanding hanging between them like the dust motes in the slanted light. Jimmy’s practical side reasserted itself with a pang. “I should get back to work though…”
“Yeah, of course,” Gaz said, his hands sliding regretfully to Jimmy’s waist, holding him for a second longer.
“Oh,” Gaz started, his grip tightening a fraction. “And I was thinking, after the training, if you wanted to…?”
A familiar, defensive script reared in Jimmy’s mind. He braced for the crass, expected offer, the transactional nature that felt, now, like a violation. “Go back to your van and fuck you senseless again?” he finished, a brittle edge to his voice. He was starting to think this was all his newfound sexuality was going to offer him.
“No,” said Gaz, louder than he intended, his voice echoing briefly off the cardboard boxes.
Jimmy shushed him, instinctively placing a finger to his own lips, the perfect image of a flustered librarian. Gaz grimaced an apology, lowering his voice to an urgent whisper.
“Well, yes, but…” He took a steadying breath. “I thought you might want to stay over. At mine. And we could do something Saturday. Like, a date type thing… I don’t know, the pictures or a meal or just… something.”
The words hung in the dusty air. Jimmy’s brain stuttered, then restarted, flooding with a warmth that had nothing to do with arousal. His cheeks flamed a furious, happy red. He stifled a massive, helpless smile, trying to maintain some decorum in the storeroom.
“Yeah,” he breathed out. “Yeah, absolutely. I’d like that a lot.”
“Good,” said Gaz, the word heavy with relief and a tentative joy. "Can I have your phone for a sec?" He added, some nervousness showing through his usually controlled demeanour. Jimmy fished his phone from his pocket, unlocked it and handed it to Gaz, knowing he could trust him. Gaz tapped on it a few times and handed it back. Gaz looked down and saw a new contact entry, Hopeless Romantic. Jimmy smiled and his face blushed. "Text me yours, yeah?" Gaz asked. Jimmy nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
He leaned in again, and this time his kiss was different. It was possessive, sure, but layered with a sweet, aching promise. He captured Jimmy’s mouth again in one last deep, thorough kiss, his tongue stroking in a slow rhythm that made Jimmy’s knees weak. Then he pulled away, his eyes dark and serious.
“See you Friday, kit man,” he whispered.
“You definitely will,” Jimmy said, his voice thick.
Gaz gave his hip a final squeeze, then slipped out of the storeroom, the door clicking softly shut behind him, leaving Jimmy alone in the quiet chaos.
He leaned back against a stack of crates marked ‘WITHDRAWN’, the cold cardboard seeping through his shirt. He brought his fingers to his lips, which felt bruised and wonderfully alive. The taste of Gaz was still there. A slow, broad smile spread across his face, unstoppable this time. It wasn’t just the kiss, though that was a heaven he could still feel trembling in his limbs. It was the deliberate care of it, the awkward vulnerability of Gaz’s explanation, the offer of a date.
“That’s how it’s done,” Jimmy whispered to the silent, book-filled room. He closed his eyes, letting the sweet rightness of it soak into his bones, washing away the lingering grime of the weekend. A clean slate, a different path. His heart was light, but it soared on a new, strong current. More of that, he thought, a fierce, private resolution solidifying within him. And a fuck tonne less of Tom.
He took a deep, steadying breath of the dusty air, straightened his shirt, and pushed the door open, stepping back into the hushed, sun-dappled world of the library, a man with a secret that tasted of spearmint and possibility.
The rest of his shift passed in a pleasant, distracted haze, every recall notice and book stamp accompanied by the phantom pressure of Gaz’s hands on his hips. When the clock finally ticked over to five, he practically floated out of the staff entrance into the cool evening air.
On the bus ride home, he felt lighter than he had in years. He pulled out his phone as the suburbs rolled past, a smile playing on his lips. He sent a text to the new number Gaz had put in his phone. What did you save my number as?
The reply came almost instantly. Jimmy Lips.
Jimmy’s smile widened. Why?
Cos you've got the sexiest lips I've ever kissed. The words glowed on the screen, simple and devastating.
A warmth spread through Jimmy’s chest, a fizzy, reckless joy. Careful, he typed back, or one of us is going to end up pregnant.
Lol, Gaz responded. Then, a moment later: I think we should keep trying tbh.
Agreed, Jimmy sent, leaning his head against the cool bus window, the streetlights blurring into streaks of gold. He closed his eyes, savoring the pure, uncomplicated thrill of it. Then, like a dark smudge on a clean page, he remembered Tom’s unread messages.
The happiness curdled slightly around the edges. He hated being rude. Maybe Tom was just having a bad day, maybe Jimmy had misinterpreted the ugliness. He opened the thread with Tom. Hey. Sorry for not replying. It all got too much. Hope you're ok.
The response was swift, a cold dash of reality. I'm not bothered, mate, you do you. There's always more where you came from. See you at the club Friday.
Jimmy stared at the words, ‘more where you came from’ landing like a slap. Well, he thought, I guess I’m not getting a lift on Friday then. He considered asking Gaz, but he didn’t want to ask too much of him, especially with the plumbing job in Derby. He decided the bus was fine; he was used to it. He’d only need an overnight bag anyway. His stomach fluttered with thoughts of Gaz, of staying over, of an actual date.
He felt silly, like a teenage girl with a crush, but then he chided himself. He never got to do this as a teenager. Why not now? The rest of the week trudged by in a pleasant, anticipatory blur. Gaz sent the occasional message—a picture of a frozen pipe, a simple Missing those lips—but he wasn’t one for constant texting, which Jimmy liked. He much preferred face to face.
Friday evening, Jimmy arrived at the rugby club half an hour early, wanting to account for the unreliable bus. He headed to the kit room, which was dark and empty, the familiar scent of damp mud and cheap detergent hanging in the air. He flicked on the lights, the fluorescent bars flickering to life with a persistent hum. He stowed his overnight bag under the counter, and turned his mind to his work.
He busied himself sorting and organising the shelves, tidying straggling tape rolls and neatening stacks of freshly laundered shirts. He was aligning a row of club ties when the door banged open against the cinderblock wall.
Tom sauntered in, his presence immediately warping the room’s atmosphere. There was a swagger to him, but it was sharper, more jagged than before. His eyes were bloodshot, his movements loose-limbed and deliberate. Was he pissed off? Drunk? Both? He surveyed Jimmy with a cold, appraising smirk.
“There's my sexy boy,” Tom tried to whisper, his voice a gravelly stage-whisper that carried across the room. He moved in close, the smell of stale lager and sharp cologne enveloping Jimmy.
Jimmy stepped back, his spine pressing against the cool metal shelving. “Tom, give it a rest. I told you it was too much.” He forced his voice to stay level. “Take the hint, please.”
Tom’s face clouded, the smirk twisting into something ugly. “Oh, so I was good enough for you before big balls got hold of you.” He took another step, crowding Jimmy against the shelves. “I know my cock is as big as his. I'm pretty fit. So what's the fucking problem?”
Before Jimmy could answer, Tom’s hand shot out and grabbed a handful of his arse, squeezing hard through the fabric of his chinos. The violation was instantaneous, a familiar dread laced with a new, cold anger.
Jimmy shoved him away, both hands flat against Tom’s chest. “I told you no. Stop.” He locked eyes with Tom, his voice gaining strength. “Hear the words, Tom. We had a fun moment, but it’s not for me.”
Tom stood there, his face a mask of furious disbelief. Then, like a switch flipped, the fury vanished. His expression went blank, drained of all emotion. “Suit yourself,” he said, the words flat and dead. “Your loss, mate.”
He turned on his heel and left, the door swinging shut behind him with a softer click than its violent entrance. Jimmy let out a shuddering breath, the tension leaching from his shoulders. He hoped, desperately, that this was the end of it.
A few minutes later, the door swung open again, and players began to trickle in, the room filling with the sounds of banter and the rustle of kit bags. Jimmy handed out shirts and shorts, keeping a keen eye on the door. His heart jumped with every new arrival, then settled back into a dull thud when it wasn’t Gaz.
Then, with only minutes to spare before training, the door flew open and Gaz burst in, a whirlwind of coiled energy. He was dressed in work gear—dusty boots and a hi-vis jacket streaked with grime. He looked tired, but his eyes immediately found Jimmy.
He strode straight to the counter, not taking his eyes off Jimmy. He reached the barrier, leaned way over it, grabbed Jimmy by the front of his shirt, and pulled him into a hard, claiming kiss.
It wasn’t the soft exploration of the library. This was all possession and promise, a hot, desperate press of lips that spoke of days apart and a weekend ahead. Gaz tasted of road dust and cheap coffee. Jimmy melted into it, a soft noise escaping his throat, his hands coming up to grasp Gaz’s solid forearms.
Gaz pulled back just as suddenly, a huge, stupid grin splitting his grimy face. He snatched his uniform from the counter top, winked, and turned to dash for the changing rooms. “See you after, kit man!” he called over his shoulder, not looking back. The room felt charged in his wake, a pocket of unstable air. Jimmy touched his lips, still tingling, and got to work.
He finished tidying the kit room, his mind awhirl with the taste of workman's dust on his lips and the promise of the weekend in his heart. Once everything was ready, he decided he couldn’t just wait in the stale, fluorescent-lit room. He needed to see him move. He slipped out the side door and made his way to the edge of the training pitch.
The evening air was cold and carried the scent of damp earth and cut grass. Under the bright floodlights, the pitch was an island of violent green, the players moving across it in a chaotic, grunting ballet. He found a shadowed spot near the clubhouse, leaning against the brick wall where he could watch without being too obvious.
Gaz was a force of nature. Even amidst the other large men, he was a titan. He drove into tackle bags with a sound like a truck hitting a wall, his powerful legs pumping as he ran relentless drills. During a rucking exercise, he cleared three opposing players with a single, brutal shunt of his shoulders. Each explosive movement was a raw display of controlled power, and Jimmy felt a visceral thrill watching him, a secret pride blooming in his chest. This magnificent animal had kissed him breathless in a dusty storeroom.
A few people wandered in and out from the clubhouse, clutching pints, stopping to watch a few phases of play before returning to the warmth and gossip inside. Jimmy noticed a couple of older men in club blazers lingering near him, their murmured conversation just audible over the thud of boots and shouted calls.
“...heard it from Tom himself,” one said, sipping his bitter. “Said the lad was coerced, practically cornered in the back of a van.”
“Gaz? Never,” the other replied, though his tone was doubtful. “Bit rough around the edges, but not a wrong ’un.”
Their eyes slid towards Jimmy, standing alone in the shadows. He shrank back, his earlier joy freezing into a sharp, cold sliver in his gut. Coerced. Cornered. He looked at Gaz, currently laughing as he helped a younger player up from the mud, clapping him on the shoulder. It was a lie, an ugly, twisting lie. He told himself he was being paranoid, that they were just gossiping old men. But the seed of dread was planted.
The training session ended. Jimmy hurried back to the kit room, the earlier warmth replaced by a creeping anxiety. He busied himself, laying out the large, wheeled bins for the muddy gear, the ritual a comfort. The door burst open, and as usual, Gaz was first in, still damp and flushed from the shower, his hair dark and curling at his neck.
But this time his face was not what Jimmy was used to. No grin, no wink. A dark, serious frown marked him, etching lines around his mouth and eyes. He stood there, dripping on the concrete floor, looking at Jimmy for a long, silent moment. The air between them crackled with a wrongness.
“What did you tell him?” Gaz asked, his voice low and strained.
Jimmy was confused, stumbling over his words. “Tell who? What?”
“What did you tell that nasty fucking cunt Tom?” Gaz took a step closer, his presence suddenly intimidating. “About us?”
Jimmy’s mind spun. He remembered the awful, beer-scented living room, the poppers, the plug, the shame. He remembered trying to deflect, to make it sound casual. “I… I just said we’d been together. That one night. That’s all.”
“That’s all?” Gaz asked, clearly expecting more. The disappointment in his voice was a physical weight.
“I… I did say that I’d… I’d fucked you,” Jimmy admitted, the words tasting like ash. “But not in a bragging way. It just came out. It was a weird situation and…”
Gaz interrupted, his voice rising. “Then why is he telling everyone that you said I molested you?!” The word hung in the air, vile and monstrous. “That you said I forced you to do things you didn’t want to?! What the fuck, Jimmy?! I thought we had something.”
Tears sprang to Jimmy’s eyes, hot and immediate. “No, it wasn’t… that was him. He did that! To me. Not you.”
Gaz looked stunned, his anger momentarily derailed. “What do you mean? Why are you hanging out with that fucking perv? I thought he was just showing you around that first day cos he likes to check out any fresh meat. I didn’t think you were…”
Jimmy interrupted this time, the words ripping out of him. “We are not doing anything. He’s my fucking uncle.”
Gaz paused, the new information shifting something behind his eyes. “So, nothing happened between you two?”
A fresh wave of shame crashed over Jimmy. He couldn’t lie, not to Gaz. “Well… yeah. I mean it was… it’s complicated. But he knows now that I don’t want anything. That’s why he’s saying that. To fuck with me.” Jimmy babbled, trying to compose himself, wiping at his tears with the back of his hand.
Gaz’s face was unreadable, a storm of betrayal, confusion, and a dawning, sickening understanding. “I need some air,” he said, the words tight. He turned and walked out, leaving Jimmy alone in the buzzing silence.
Jimmy was devastated. He could hear the other players heading in, their laughter and shouts growing louder. He pulled himself together as best he could, drying his eyes on his sleeve, taking deep, shuddering breaths. He forced himself to work, collecting the muddy, stinking kit with robotic efficiency, keeping his head down, avoiding eye contact. The players were louder than usual, their jokes feeling pointed, their glances lingering. He felt translucent, judged.
Once everything was collected and the last player had clapped him on the back a little too hard, the room was finally empty. The silence was worse. The fluorescent light hummed its electric dirge. The enormity of it all crashed down—Tom’s violation, Gaz’s disgust, the poisonous gossip now slithering through the club. Gaz was probably gone for good, thinking Jimmy was complicit in some sordid family secret, or worse, that he’d spread lies about him.
His heart wrenched, a physical pain in his chest. He couldn’t face walking home, couldn’t face the empty house. He slid down behind the high counter, into the narrow space where the spare plastic bins were stored. He pulled his knees to his chest, buried his face in his arms, and let the sobs come. They were silent, heaving things that shook his whole frame. Then the tears dried up, replaced by a hot, boiling anger. At Tom. At himself. At the whole fucked-up situation. But he was powerless, a soft boy in a world of harder, crueler men.
He heard the door to the kit room open again, the creak of the hinge unmistakable. He froze, hoping whoever it was would just leave, assuming the room was empty. Footsteps entered, slow and deliberate. They moved around the front of the counter, paused, then walked behind it.
A pair of legs, muscular and familiar, clad in tracksuit bottoms, stopped right in front of his hiding place. Then the person crouched down.
It was Gaz. His expression was ravaged, his eyes red-rimmed.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice rough. “I have a bad history with your uncle. And I am not exactly out of the closet. Well, until now.” He gave a hollow laugh. “Although everyone thinks I’m a fucking rapist or something.”
“You aren’t the only one who has a bad history with him,” Jimmy sniffed, his voice thick.
Gaz turned and, with some difficulty, squeezed his large frame under the counter next to Jimmy. Their shoulders touched in the cramped, dark space. It felt like a bunker.
“What do you mean?” Gaz asked quietly.
So Jimmy told him. Haltingly at first, then in a desperate, whispered rush. He described the first time, in Tom’s flat—the excitement, the newness, the illicit thrill of something he’d only ever done by himself. He described how Tom had seemed like a guide, an introduction to a world he'd only just discovered. Then he described the second time, in his parents’ house. The poppers, the plug, the stain on the towel. The feeling of being used, of being a receptacle for Tom’s frustration. The crude, transactional feel of it all. The way Tom had talked about Gaz, called him a slag. The ugly texts.
“He would have left a shit stain on our sofa,” Jimmy finished, the absurd, degrading detail somehow the worst part. “And I still had to wash it out before my parents got home.”
As he spoke, Gaz’s face darkened. The anger wasn’t directed at Jimmy anymore; it was a slow, gathering storm behind his eyes, a tectonic shifting of fury. His jaw clenched so tight a muscle jumped in his cheek. When Jimmy finished, Gaz didn’t speak for a long moment. He just stared at the underside of the counter, his breathing measured and deep.
“Right,” Gaz said finally, the single word loaded with terrifying finality.
He excused himself, his movements suddenly sharp and controlled. He unfolded himself from under the counter and stood up. Without another word, he walked out of the kit room, his exit quieter than before but charged with a deadly purpose.
Jimmy stayed curled in the dark, listening to Gaz’s footsteps fade down the corridor. The dread was back, colder and sharper than ever. He had no idea what “right” meant. But the look on Gaz’s face hadn’t been one of comfort. It had been the look of a man going to war.
He waited, his heart pounding against his ribs. Five minutes passed. Then ten. The club was quiet; training was long over. He finally uncurled his stiff limbs and crawled out from his hiding place. The kit room was exactly as he’d left it, the bins of muddy gear waiting to be sorted. The normality of it felt like an insult.
He had to know. He slipped out into the corridor. The main clubhouse bar was still open, the sound of chatter and clinking glasses spilling into the hallway. He peeked around the corner.
Tom was at the bar, holding court with a few hangers-on, a pint in his hand. He was laughing, a loud, performative sound. Then Gaz walked in from the other entrance. He’d finished getting changed and had his bag with him. He moved through the crowd with a singular, unstoppable focus, men unconsciously shifting out of his path.
He walked right up to Tom at the bar. Jimmy couldn’t hear what was said. Gaz leaned in, speaking directly into Tom’s ear. Tom’s smile vanished, replaced by a look of smug derision. He opened his mouth to say something back.
Gaz’s fist moved faster than Jimmy’s eye could follow. It wasn’t a wild swing; it was a short, brutally efficient piston driven from the shoulder. It connected with Tom’s mouth with a wet, cracking sound that cut through the bar noise like a gunshot.
Tom crumpled backwards over a bar stool, crashing to the floor in a tangle of limbs and spilled beer. The bar fell silent. Gaz stood over him, not yelling, not posturing. He just looked down, his chest heaving once, twice.
“If you ever go near him again,” Gaz said, his voice cold and clear in the sudden quiet, “if you ever say his name, or mine, I will fucking end you.”
He turned and walked out, his boots ringing on the tiled floor. He didn’t look at Jimmy, still hidden in the corridor shadows. He just left. Tom stayed on the floor, moaning, a hand to his bloodied mouth, his friends hovering uncertainly around him.
Jimmy turned and fled back to the kit room, his legs weak. He leaned against the counter, his mind reeling. A part of him was horrified by the violence, the public savagery of it. A larger, uglier part thrilled with a fierce, primal vindication. Gaz had chosen a side. In front of everyone.
He didn’t know what to do. He just stood there, shaking, until Gaz returned a few minutes later. He’d washed his hands; Jimmy could see the damp patches on his jeans where he’d dried them.
Gaz looked at him, his expression exhausted, the fury spent. “Get your bag,” he said, his voice soft now. “If you still want to stay with me tonight?” It was a question Jimmy felt didn't need asking.