#fs in the chat for our boy JEFF

[sheepsandcattle]

Chapter 9

“Benders!”

Both of their heads whipped around at once, zeroing in on a group of four men across the street, chuckling among themselves as they walked on.

“You what?” Brandon scowled at first, squaring up his shoulders as he jutted out his chin. “You know what they say, mate; it’s fags that can sniff ‘em out best.”

“Gaydar,” Curly had supplied, giggling mostly for show.

They’d heard it all before, been pushed about a few times for being a bit camp, but they were seventeen and drunk on a Tuesday afternoon and had no reason to take life too seriously. Besides, they’d found a long time ago that carelessness is contagious; most people that would take the piss would end up taking a shine to them if given the chance.

That day didn’t seem like one of those times though, because the poor bloke’s mates were cackling, shoving him playfully to keep him sweet, but he’d gone red in the face and looked over the road at them like he was thinking about crossing it. He’d said, pathetically, “fuck off,” but couldn’t think of much more.

“To be fair, mate, you’re a bit of me, you are,” Curly snorted, pointing across the road, back at him.

The stranger, still glaring as his mates chuckled (at least they knew how to have a laugh), looked like he was about ready to fire a comeback their way, but Curly already had Brandon bent over a bollard as he humped him from behind. Brandon did his best to wriggle away, but was too busy laughing too and couldn’t quite straighten himself out.

“Fucking rank,” the bloke scoffed, then added, “you’re sick,” as he stormed up the street in the other direction while Curly and Brandon stood doubled over, snorting and whooping with laughter as the red-faced wanker stomped off.

***

Curly’s never fancied a bloke in his life. That’s how he knows he’s not gay — and, trust, he’s had plenty of opportunities (mostly since he moved from home, actually) to dabble in all that shit, but it just doesn’t… It’s not…

But then he’s never really fancied a bird before, either and he’s had chances there, too. He’s just always felt a bit too immature to be thinking about getting himself a girlfriend so, honestly, he’s not quite sure what it’s meant to feel like to like someone in that way. All he does know is he hasn’t looked at Jordan and wanted to snog his face off or anything, which he knows is a bloody big part of it.

He can’t really say he looks at Jordan and sees him in any kind of way other than wildly bold and just a bit too cool for him. Maybe that’s all it is though; maybe he’s just chuffed because some fella he thought was cool at a party now seems to quite like him and it’s got him all giddy. But then, he supposes, straight guys don’t go on dates with guys because they ‘seem cool.’

“So you are gay?”

“What? No, I aren’t gay. I don’t want to shag the guy, m’just…” Curly huffs, stunted in thought as he forgets where exactly he was going with it in the first place.

“You’re just…” Lola smiles, amused. He doesn’t know what he just is, but she’s waiting patiently — for his conclusion or for him to find the tabs he’s trying to dig from his inside pocket as he speaks.

They only met tonight, at a party he came to with the sole purpose of dealing then fucking off, but ended up staying until now, 3am, to talk to this lass called Lola about a love life he’s never had but might have soon but also might not because he’s not gay and, in fact, might not ever have because he in’t straight either, so where does that leave him?

“Curious.” He shrugs, satisfied for only a moment before he adds, “about him. Curious about ‘im, not about my… Preference. Or whatever— Where the fuck are my drugs.”

“I told you. I’m sure I saw you sell the whole batch,” she insists for the third time in the past ten minutes. “You should keep better track of your stash, Curly.” She still says it like she’s testing it out, even after never having heard his real name. “Listen, I have these pills. You let me try a line for free, so I’ll share.”

And she does. Fuck knows what she shares, but she does, and Curly loses some time but ultimately ends up sat in the living room as he watches some bloke talk obliviously to his mate as a long, black, thousand-legged creature shines beneath the ceiling light as it scurries out of his right ear and down his face and neck, over his shoulder, down his front, exoskeleton creaking as is bends, down his trouser leg, growing longer and wider as is crawls…

“Fuck me,” he mumbles, reaching blindly to his right to grab Lola’s wrist, get her attention and ask, “what the fuck is coming out of that geezers—“

Lola just laughs, powder pink hair falling into her face as she multiples right there beside him. He’s about to comment on that, but then he’s distracted again anyway, back to the giant insect, and his eyes wider than the black hole in the ground that the creature crawls into before it closes back up again, beige carpet growing back over like ivy.

It’s the shortest but most intense hallucination he’s ever had.

***

“What are you on?” Jeff tries to frown but ends up laughing as Curls plops into the passenger seat of his car.

“I d’know mate. I didn’t ask,” Curly grumbles and buries his head between his legs, shutting his eyes because he’s about three wrong moves away from yoshing in on Jeff’s car mat. “I think I saw Beelzebub.”

Jeff scoffs. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Buckle up.”

“Can’t.” He groans. “I’ve never in my life… esveranced—” Air gets trapped in his throat. ‘No,’ he thinks, ‘no sick in the car,’ and breathes.

“Esver-what?”

“These girls I met tonight,” Curly wines. “She was about fifty of them.”

“I have no idea what—“

He groans, head shaking in his hands. How is Jeff not understanding how mortifying this situation is? “Then this bloke ‘ad a thing in his ear an’ then the floor went. And I looked like a twat.”

His mate chuckles then and says, “well, yeah.”

“Have y’got milk in? I need coffee and maybe a… What’s them things with—“

“Sorry, pal, I may be your cabby but you’re not my lodger tonight. Couch is taken,” Jeff says as the car turns left and Curly falls sideways against the door. “And we thought J was wasted.”

“J,” he repeats and then slowly raises to sit back in his seat. All the streetlights smudge together. “Jordan, J?” Jeff hums and oh God, he can just see it now; Jeff going home and telling Dean about this, Jordan overhearing, all of them getting a right kick out of it. Jordan will never text him then because he’s a weirdo that gets high, has a gay crisis and sees the devil in strangers’ ears. “Don’t tell ‘im I’ve seen the Devil.”

“You got it, pal,” Jeff says.

"No, serious,” he insists as he flails his right arm before something flies out of his sleeve and onto the floor between his feet

“What the hell was that?”

He looks down, feels about until his hand touches plastic and he retrieves a small baggy. “Are you taking the piss,” he scoffs. He knew he never sold a whole batch.

***

“I’m telling you mate, I’ve never known anything like it.” Curly shakes his head, slouched back on the couch as Oscar presents him with a mug of coffee. “It -cheers- it lasted about thirty seconds; monsters; back holes; seeing doubles; everything, and then it was just… Done. Proper creepy.”

“You’re not cut out to be a drug dealer, Curly,” Jules mocks as he spreads out in the recliner. “You don’t have the self-discipline or tolerance.”

Oscar chuckles as he sits beside him on the couch. “Or the stomach for it, if the steps outside have anything to do with you.”

“Better than yoshing in the kitchen sink,” Curls shoots back, and Oscar can’t argue with that because, yep, that was fucking minging and Curly thanks his lucky stars often that it was Oscar and not him that clogged the sink with—

His phone buzzes as Jules goes on a rant about said sink fiasco, suddenly reliving the fury of that night, and Oscar has to defend himself all over again.

Curls digs his phone from his pocket, just glances at first to see— Fuck sake.

Jordan.

He knew that dickhead wouldn’t be able to keep his mouth shut and, although his dramatics left with the contents of his stomach last night meaning he’s not so convinced now that Jordan would cut him off over his drug-induced (un)holy experience, he’s positive he’s not going to enjoy reading whatever punchline the guy has about Curly’s antics. He’s heard how brutal Jordan can be.

15:24 - guess i’m texting first - game over

Oh. Oh, okay. Curly can feel himself grinning already, shit, and has to excuse himself to his bedroom because he can feel Oscar frowning over his shoulder and needs a minute to just… Smile like a twat. He perches on the edge of his bed, tries to think of something exciting to say but his mind is blank.

15:25 - youre a good sport

Is that funny or rude? Both? None? Should he have said ‘lol’ or is that not cool anymore? What if—

15:25 - 2 questions

Okay, fast replies. Curly likes that but also kinda needs time to gather his thoughts because apparently Jordan is even cool over text and he needs to work out how to match that and how not to make it obvious that he’s usually the type to use text-talk and excessive smileys.

15:27 - just no maths pls

15:28 - deal. 15:28 - 1. will you be free at 7pm friday?

15:31 - yep thats good for me!

“Curly your coffee,” Oscar calls through the door.

“In a minute,” he shouts back, maybe a little too harshly, but he’s too busy stressing over whether or not exclamation marks are stupid. “Sorry, just. Hang on.”

15:32 - cool 15:32 - 2. will beelzebub be free at 7pm friday? :(

Heat rushes to his face before he ever reads past ‘Beelzebub’ and he physically slams his phone into his mattress as he groans.

“Curls? You good? You sound like a dying—“

“I’m fine,” Curly groans as he lays back on top of the sheets. “I’ll be back out in a second,” he adds and feels for his phone.

15:35 - jeff will die.