#don't wanna get flagged so read the naughty bits on ao3

[nomiliy]

The Devil’s Holed Up in Redcliffe

Darren Shan shot back the first half of his second Rob Roy. He had asked the bartender to pour boozy, be generous with the scotch, and cheap with the bitters.

But he wasn’t feeling a damn thing.

The night was still young by university and baby-alcoholic standards, but he desperately wished his tolerance was lower. Maybe then he’d forget the absolute hellscape this day had become.

He found himself in a musty corner booth of Seven Star Pub in Redcliffe. It was Saturday night, approximately 11:15 pm —peak pub crawl hours—and not even the bar’s basement lighting and thick, cancerous clouds of Newport smoke could hide his crumbling disposition. Smashed between grimy leather upholstery and Steve Leonard’s grimy leather jacket with barely legal freshers from Bristol University and Chelsea fans screaming their heads off over missed goals was not how Darren envisioned his Valentine’s eve.

But what can you do when the love of your life is an arsehole?

Honestly, Darren was more surprised by the fact that Tom Jones and Alan Morris even wanted to go out tonight. It made sense for Tom since this was the first Valentine’s in two years that he’d be alone. But Alan was so married to his studies at Bath University he barely had time for anything that wasn’t lizard scale samples.

But when the redhead texted Steve and Darren about cheering up their mate, Steve being the good friend he rarely is, answered for them—as if they didn’t already have plans!

Darren cursed Tommy’s superstar status. If not for Tom Jones, the four would have never gotten a table. But as the star goalie for Bath’s football club, Jones and company enjoyed pseudo-celebrity perks after rumor got round that Chelsea, Manchester United, and Tottenham were scouting him.

Darren wanted nothing more than to go home to their little flat and roll between the sheets with his handsome Jewish boyfriend. Instead, he sipped on weak cocktails and silently glared at said handsome prick.

Steve sat on the outside of the booth with his arm spread over the back. His legs mirrored the care-free stance and took up most of the real estate underneath the table as well. His face held a gentle flush that colored the top of his broad chest. He was already intoxicated; the fact that he chose stout drinks only hammed up his low tolerance.

Darren occasionally felt his thigh rub against his own, as if to say “sorry, babe” without having to out themselves to Tom and Alan. Or without having to apologize or admit he was a jerk.

Darren sat closer than he knew he should for public outings. He found himself, at times, resting his head atop a built arm or leaning into the partly open embrace despite Alan and Tom chatting across from them. But Seven Star was so crowded, and the February winds stuck to his bones in a perpetual chill. How could he not cuddle up with that platinum blond devil?

He told himself that the guys would think it a consequence of too many drinks, the cold, and the fact that Steve had virtually no sense of personal space.

With how Tom barreled through his third pint of Guinness and Alan nursing his watered-down rum and coke, he doubt they’d notice.

Darren and Steve had managed to keep their friends and family out of the loop for the past few years. Not by fear of rejection from the community at large, but more so by anything interrupting their routine. Steve was convinced that Alan and Tom wouldn’t treat them the same if they knew; they would tiptoe around the subject, give them glances every time they did something remotely ‘cute,’ buy them those stupid ‘His & His’ coffee cups and towels that Steve just loved to pitch a fit about every time they popped up in his recommended search history.

“Are you searching for this shit, Dare?!”

They had their fair share of rows, but whether to tell their friends was always an all-out battle. Usually, it would end with Steve storming out of the flat to cool off with a smoke. He’d come back after an hour or so, curl up with Darren in bed, and give a quick apology shag before passing out for the night. Honestly, it was a routine that Darren thoroughly enjoyed.

The platinum blond terror had calmed down quite a bit since they got together, mellowed by domestic bliss and brain-frying university life to cause much trouble. He didn’t throw things like when he was a teenager, he talked his feelings out (for the most part), him and his mum were on wonderful terms, and he kept up with his aggression therapy after all these years.

But Steve was still, as Officer Crawley put it, ‘a bloody menace.’

Now, Steve didn’t do anything to get himself arrested anymore (like attempted arson, public battery, and joyriding) but he was still a royal git. Which was particularly infuriating with Steve being so bloody charming. The way he belted Black Sabbath and Metallic in that crooning baritone on the train, how he didn’t give a rat’s arse about the sideways glances, how he re-enacted whole scenes of An American Werewolf in London right down to the American accent and blood-chilling howl in the dead of night stalking Kings Street.

Darren always thought Steve would’ve made a spectacular actor. He had the face, the smooth vocals that were damn sinful in Yiddish, the body—Lord, his pecs and arms!— a flair for melodramatics, a sharp grin, but yet a soft smile, a real smile that he’d toss over the kitchen counter while nuking a box of hot pockets at 3:00 A.M. or when he’d roll over in bed and pull Darren tight to his chest just to smile into his neck and grind his morning wood into—

“Think that girl’s got the look on you, Steve,” Alan noted over his straw before sucking down the last of his rum and coke.

Darren’s blood flared through his cheeks in a rolling boil. He didn’t even try to hide behind his jumper sleeve.

Tommy’s perked expression and sharp, goalie-box trained eyes revved on him. “Oi, what’s with the face, Darren?” he asked with some frothy head caught in his baby-stache.

His ex Sharona hated that fuzzy upper lip, but now that she was gone, Darren noted, Tommy let that, and a multitude of other things, slip. His ash-brown crew cut had gone shaggy along with his untrimmed whiskers. He reeked of the field, he developed dark bags under his eyes, and he never seemed to have a clean shirt.

Steve glanced at the flush on Darren’s cheeks, then made a clipped, rolling cackle low in his throat. His shoulder lazily bumped the black-haired Irishmen, and Darren just knew he was bloody smashed.

“That iron tolerance failing you, Shan?” Steve cackled again, losing nearly half of his third Old Fashion over the rim with each jerky sway. “Or you jealous?”

“Oh, definitely,” Darren snapped, “just positively green over here from all the jailbait they were too stupid to card drooling over your Jewish prick.”

“Deepest apologies, mate,” he grinned, “maybe while I’m shaggin’ one of ‘em you can swoop in and comfort their poor, cryin’ beaus with your arse.”

Darren went about nine shades of red ranging from ‘embarrassed’ to ‘furious.’

Then the absolute evil laugh that rumbled out of Steve’s chest added the shade murderous.

He saw Tom go red from secondhand embarrassment, and Alan wouldn’t make eye contact over the rim of his glass. On top of the guys not knowing about their relationship, they also had no idea that Steve wasn’t completely straight. Darren could gather what this looked like: Childhood best friends having a go at each other and one going way over the line. But if they knew what this was (a closeted bi-man hamming up his straight-schtick) then maybe they’d feel a bit of pity.

But all Darren could feel was rage.

“You’re sloshed, Steve,” Darren downed the last of his Rob Roy in a smooth toss. “Maybe you should slow down before you get yourself killed.”

“Think I’m a shot away from that,” Steve said with a shake of his now empty glass. “Hey,” he called over the throngs of people, “in the Megadeath jumper!”

The waitress, a thin woman with fake tits that could double as floaties when the breeze knocked her imbalanced arse into the Thames, glanced the boys’ way.

She nearly dropped.

Darren gave himself an aneurysm suppressing an eye roll. Yes, Stephen Ezekiel ‘The Leopard’ Leonard was bloody fit; get it together and take the damn order!

But he couldn’t really blame the girl. When a Jewish bad-boy with a shocked-blond undercut, two-day stubble, suped-up glamour muscles busting through a (lifted) leather jacket, and a deadly grin leers at you over several empty cocktails, what else can you do?

Frankly, despite the waitress having no fault in this, she was kindly welcome to go drop her arse on someone else’s boyfriend.

“Hi there, love,” his voice dropped another octave when the waitress slid between the booths.

She leaned over the table right into Steve. Her band jumper was torn up and distressed around the neck, letting her ample cleavage spill through and work for those extra fivers. Her name tag said ‘Gina,’ but the occult tattoos rolling up her arms in complete sleeves, splotchy dye-job, and vampy, silicone plumped lips screamed ‘Sex-Metal Barbie.’

“What can I get you, boys?” she asked out of politeness. Darren could see that her attention sparked only on Steve.

“Can I get another old fashion here? Still a bit thirsty,” he jingled the ice cubes in his glass with a wink.

Darren rolled his eyes, shoved his empty glass to the end of the booth, and willed the goth centerfold out of existence.

“An’ a Rob Roy for my mate here,” Steve quickly added, “Famous Grouse scotch, light on the vermouth, three black cherries.”

Gina giggled at the order, possibly finding the specificity endearing. “Wish my girlfriends knew me like that,” she said with an effortless smile. She wrote it down far too quickly on a loose napkin. “I’ll have those right out.”

When she stepped away, Darren saw her hand smooth over Steve’s shoulder.

He bristled at the sight. Her fingers gripped at the taut muscle, massaging the stress knots drilled in by his engineering course load.

Then she left the napkin there, right in front of Steve. Clear as day, for all the table to see, was her phone number and her name with a little heart over the ‘i’ in ‘Gina.’

Tom clapped his thick-bottomed glass on the table with rounded out laughter. “On the prowl already!”

Alan roused back up from his one-drink stupor, jostled his tragic bowl cut around looking for the waitress. “Did she take our drink order? I want another rum and coke,” he asked in a sleepy tilt, sprawling flat on top of the table once more.

Steve looked over the booth, and Darren just knew he was watching her walk away in those skin-tight jeans. But then, the blond tossed a sly smile to Tom and Alan. He slipped the digits right inside his jacket pocket then tapped it with a knowing look.

And that was the final straw for Darren Shan.

Read the rest on AO3~!