It was such a cliché, wasn’t it? Wrestling for the remote on the sofa like the teenagers they still were and ending up on top of each other. Jamal still had the remote, stretched far away from Eggsy’s reach, but the game had stopped. Time had stopped. Everything had… stopped.
Eggsy felt Jamal’s chest rise and fall under him. A small streak of skin touching just above the waistbands where their t-shirts had slid up. He felt the blood rushing to the very last place he wanted it to go.
Jamal must feel that. There was no way he couldn’t. Yet time had stopped and no one moved. There was a very real possibility that this didn’t happen. Except for the painful fact that Eggsy’s groin told him that it did.
Even after all the vodka and Red Bull Eggsy knew that following through here would be catastrophic, but at the same time, it was the vodka and Red Bull that made it impossible for him to stop. So he leaned down and he kissed Jamal.
He kissed his best friend on his dad’s sofa as Strictly Come Dancing played on the telly. Because he was nineteen. Because his mum had just started dating another idiot. Because he was horny and lonely and lost. But mostly because he was drunk and didn’t have more sense.
He kissed Jamal. And Jamal didn’t push him away.
Jamal didn’t push him away! He opened his mouth and kissed him — actually kissed him! — which made Eggsy jerk back so violently he almost fell off the sofa. Eggsy’s heart was beating hard and Jamal looked about as shocked as Eggsy felt.
“I’m not gay,” Eggsy blurted out. It was what he’d told himself for seven years. Thirteen years, maybe. Since they had started throwing that word around as an insult. Gay, faggot, queer, bender. Buttfucker. All of them.
But he was none of them.
Jamal pushed them both up to sitting and then kissed him again, knocking the cap off Eggsy’s head. The remote fell to the floor too. The lid to the batteries fell off and the batteries flew out. Eggsy’s hand went to Jamal’s neck, pulled him a little closer, held him a little closer, felt a little closer.
He had kissed girls before. All five of them. Or three, if you only counted kisses like this. Kisses with tongue. Kisses where hands could wander. Kisses that made his dick hard. This was the same. Exactly the same, but with less soft hair and a different perfume. The same, but with a stubble and no breasts.
The same, except it was completely different and Eggsy couldn’t tell why.
Except that he probably could.
They broke apart, both of them breathing heavily. Eggsy wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes wandered to Jamal’s crotch and saw that he too was hard. He forced himself to look away.
He wasn’t gay. He wasn’t. He— he wasn’t. Gay.
He pulled Jamal to him again, pressing himself against him in an attempt to silence the voices and the doubts. It worked like shit, but he found himself once again lying on top of Jamal on the sofa. Through two layers of jeans he could feel his friend’s erection. His friend’s hard cock. And when he moved against him they both moaned. And Jamal’s hands were finding their way in under his shirt.
But he wasn’t gay.
He was about to come, though. In his pants. On top of his friend. While Strictly was on the telly. He held up, pushed himself away from Jamal’s body, but rested his forehead against his shoulder. His breath was ragged. His dick painfully hard, his pants wet with pre-come.
“Eggsy?” said Jamal, he too out of breath. “You ‘kay?”
Eggsy shook his head. “‘m sorry.”
“Gonna be sick?”
Eggsy shook his head again. He wasn’t that drunk. Part of him wished he was. Part of him wished he would throw up and blackout and not remember anything tomorrow. He wished even more that Jamal wouldn’t remember this.
“I should go…” he mumbled.
“You don’t have to.”
“Yeah, I do, I…”
Eggsy pushed himself off Jamal, sitting back on his heels and avoided looking at him. This didn’t feel like a “let’s pretend it didn’t happen” thing, but Eggsy didn’t know what say. Instead he stumbled off the sofa and almost tripped over the table in his haste to get out of there. He grabbed his jacket and didn’t bother putting it on, but just as he was about to jerk the door open he stopped.
This wasn’t how he was going to leave this.
He took a deep breath. “Later, yeah?”
“Yeah” Jamal called back. “Don’t get stabbed on the way home.”
“Do my best,” said Eggsy, daring a quick glance over the shoulder to see Jamal reach for the remote on the floor before he slipped out of the flat and hurried out of the building.
The evening was chilly, but he had reached the big road before he realised he still hadn’t put on the jacket. And that he had left his cap. He thought about going back and fetch it, but instead he pulled up his hoodie and put his hands deep in his pockets.
He didn’t go home. His mum and Dean would most likely be drunk and all over each other in the sitting room and he really wasn’t up for that. That was one of the reasons he had gone to Jamal’s in the first place.
He kept walking, aimlessly, looking for something he didn’t know what it was. A distraction? A fight? That person who would actually stab him? The night kept looping in his head again and again and again… Jamal’s lips, his tongue, his hands, his touch. What had he done? Why had he done it? And why couldn’t he stop thinking about it? And why— Just why...
He saw his face in the reflection in a shop window. He looked wrecked, eyes red and lips a bit swollen. A young man from the estate refusing to accept who he was. He sighed.
Such a cliché, wasn’t he?