#has any clearly autistic guy been this fuckin adorable

[hussyknee]

I'm begging y'all to read this book 💀💀

---Excerpts under the cut--

Giddy from a rare sense of accomplishment, and swept along by a rush of something that was either optimism or masochism, I unlocked my phone and pinged a message to Oliver: do fake boyfriends fake text

I’m not sure what I was expecting in return, but what I got was Not when one of them is due in court. Including the punctuation. Which was mildly better than no reply at all, but mildly worse than a flat no since he’d basically said “No, thanks, also don’t forget I’ve got a better job than you.”

It was close to nine that evening, and I was eating kung po chicken in my socks, when he followed it up with Sorry to keep you waiting. I’ve thought about it and we probably should text each other for the sake of verisimilitude.

I left him hanging for a while to show that I, also, had important life stuff to be getting on with. Never mind that I actually watched four episodes of Bojack Horseman and had a vindictive wank before replying Sorry to keep you waiting and no wonder you’re single if the second text you send a guy includes the word verisimilitude

There was no reply. Even though I sat around ’til half one definitely not caring. I was unexpectedly de-sleeped by a buzzing from my phone at 5:00 a.m.: My apologies. Next time, I’ll send a photograph of my penis.

And then several further buzzings.

That was a joke.

I should probably make it clear that I’m not intending to send you any pictures.

I’ve never sent that sort of thing to anybody.

As a lawyer, it’s hard not to be aware of the potential consequences.

I was awake now, which normally I’d have found profoundly objectionable. But you’d have to be a way better person than me not to enjoy the hell out of Oliver losing his shit over a purely hypothetical dick pic.

I also realise you’re probably asleep at the moment. So perhaps if you could just delete the previous five messages when you wake up.

Of course, I should emphasise that I am not meaning to imply any judgment about people who do choose to send intimate photographs to one another. It’s just not something I’m comfortable with.

Of course if it is something you’re comfortable with, I understand.

Not that I’m suggesting you have to send me a picture of your penis.

Oh God, can you please delete every text I’ve ever sent you.

The influx of messages paused just long enough that I could pop off a reply. Sorry I’m confused am I getting a dick pic or what

No!

There was another pause. Then, I’m very embarrassed, Lucien. Please don’t make it worse.

I honestly don’t know what possessed me. Maybe I felt sorry for him. But he had kind of, admittedly accidentally, made my morning? I’m looking forward to seeing you tomorrow

Thank you.

Okay, now I wish I hadn’t bothered. Except a second or two later, I got: I’m looking forward to seeing you too.

...

And while that felt better, it was, if anything, even more confusing.

“There’s still time to catch the last Tube,” he went on, “or I can call you a cab, if you like.”

“It’s fine. I can grab an Uber if I need to.”

“I’d rather you didn’t. Their business model is deeply unethical.”

I rolled my eyes. “I think we’ve just worked out why nobody’s going out with you.”

“Because I don’t use Uber? That seems fairly specific.”

“Because you’ve got an opinion about everything.”

“Don’t most people have opinions?”

At least I wasn’t thinking about kissing him anymore. “I don’t mean opinions like ‘I enjoy cheese.’ Or ‘John Lennon is overrated.’ I mean opinions like ‘You shouldn’t use Uber because of the workers’ and ‘You shouldn’t eat meat because of the environment.’ You know, opinions that make people feel bad about themselves.”

He blinked. “I don’t want anyone to feel bad about themselves or that they have to make the same choices I do—”

“Oliver, you just told me not to get an Uber.”

“Actually, I said I’d rather you didn’t get an Uber. You can still get an Uber if you want to.”

“Yeah”—somehow we’d got all close again, making me aware of the heat of him, the shapes his mouth made when he was arguing with me—“except you’ll look down on me if I do.”

“No, I won’t. I’ll accept you don’t have the same priorities I do.”

“But your priorities are clearly right.”

His brow furrowed. “I think now I’m confused. If you agree with me, what’s the problem?”

“Okay.” I drew in a calming breath. “Let me try to explain. Most of the people who aren’t you understand that capitalism is exploitative and climate change is a problem and that choices we make can support things that are bad or unjust. But we survive by a precarious strategy of not thinking about it. And reminding us of that makes us sad, and we don’t like being sad, so we get angry.”

“Oh.” He looked crestfallen. “I can see that being terribly unappealing.”

“It’s also kind of admirable,” I admitted reluctantly. “In a really infuriating way.”

“I don’t mean to cherry-pick, but did you just call me admirable?”

“You must have imagined it. And now, ironically, I’ll have to get an Uber because I can’t make the train and I’ve got no cash for a cab.”

He cleared his throat. “You could stay the night if you wanted.”

“Wow, you are seriously committed to me not supporting Uber’s business model.”

“No, I just thought it might be… That is.” A self-conscious little shrug. “For the sake of verisimilitude.”

“Who do you think is going to notice where I sleep? Do you think we’re being monitored by the FBI?”

“I believe surveillance outside the United States is more likely to be carried out by the CIA, but actually I was mostly considering the paparazzi.”

That was a fair point. They’d caught me leaving various people’s houses on various mornings down the years.

“And it would be no inconvenience,” he added awkwardly. “I have a spare toothbrush, and can sleep on the sofa.”

“I can’t make you sleep on the sofa in your own house.”

“I can’t make you sleep on the sofa when you’re a guest.”

There was a long silence.

“Well,” I pointed out, “if neither of us can sleep on the sofa, then either I go home or…”

Oliver faffed with a sleeve of his jumper. “I think we’re mature enough to share a bed without incident.”

If you're not reading Boyfriend Material by Alexis Hall, you should be. I'm a 100 pages in and in absolute splits. Top-tier British queer comedy. 💀💀

(I'm also convinced the character the protag is trying to hook up with is autistic as hell.)

“No. God no. My mother’s French.”

“Ah. Lucien, then.” He said it perfectly, too, with the half-swallowed softness of the final syllable, smiling at me—the first full smile I’d seen from him, and shocking in its sweetness. “Vraiment? Vous parlez français?”

There’s really no excuse for what happened next. I think maybe I just wanted him to keep smiling at me. Because for some reason I said, “Oui oui. Un peu.”

And then, to my horror, he rattled off God knew what.

Leaving me to scrape the bottom of the barrel of my GCSE French, for which I’d received a D. “Um…um… Je voudrais aller au cinema avec mes amis? Ou est la salle de bain?”

Utterly perplexed, he pointed. So I was obliged to go the bathroom.

When I slunk back, he immediately confronted me with “You don’t speak French at all, do you?”

“No.” I hung my head. “I mean, my mother used both when I was growing up, but I still turned out stubbornly monolingual.”

“Then why didn’t you just say that?”

“I…don’t know. I guess I assumed you didn’t speak French either?”

“Why on earth would I imply I could speak French, when I couldn’t?”

I stuffed a teetering forkful of pie into my mouth. “You’re right. That would be a deranged thing to do.”