Soft - 1. Soft

After asserting that he really can’t be all that drunk because he only had two fingers of whisky and a few beers, and there must be some other reason he’s draped over Marcus like some stumbling zombie, what Jacob means to say is, ‘Who am I shitting? I am utterly carparked.’

What he says is, ‘Fuck! Who am I fucking? I’m not drunk!’ He realises as he’s saying it that that’s not what he meant to say at all, but it seems a bit late for that, and anyway, how can he be expected to think properly with Marcus’s arm wrapped around his waist like that?

Jacob takes a stumbling step, trips over his own feet and, in spite of Marcus’s support, falls flat on his arse, giggling.

‘Oh, get the fuck up, fucktard!’ Marcus complains. ‘Or I’ll leave you here, you jizz-guzzling twat!’

Most people find Marcus’s manner intimidating. Jacob does not. He laughingly raises two fingers at him and says, ‘Fuck off, Marcus!’ He takes the hand that Marcus offers him and pulls himself to his feet, still laughing.

Pulling a fag out of his pocket and lighting it—his asthma has never stopped him from smoking and, he’s decided, it never will either—he continues, ‘What I meant to say, obviously, was that I am really fucking pissed!’ He laughs again. ‘How the fuck did I get this pissed, Marcus?’

‘Well, I don’t fucking know, do I? Fucking lightweight . . . Can we get a shitting move-on now, please?’ Marcus grabs Jacob roughly by the arm and drags him along through the night. Jacob thinks, that’s gonna bruise, but he’s okay with that. He’s okay with a lot of things, if they come from Marcus.

* * *

‘Why is he so mean to me?’ Fiona is sobbing like a baby, snot running down her upper lip. She looks a bit like a cross between a toddler and a fish.

‘Oh, he’s like this with everyone, Fi!’ Sami assures her, comforting arm around her shoulder. ‘He’s like some kind of evil demon from hell, yeah?’

‘Yeah, pet, pull yourself together,’ says Jacob, handing her a Kleenex. ‘No, seriously, stop fucking crying before I thump you.’

Sami glares at him. ‘Don’t you start too! It’s bad enough she’s being bullied by Marcus!’

‘Yeah? Well, if she’d do her fucking job he wouldn’t have to bully her, now, would he?’

‘Fuck off, Jacob!’

Jacob grins. He’s spent enough time in Marcus’s presence that he’s beginning to channel him. It’s liberating.

Jacob’s pretty sure that Marcus made it to editor-in-chief of the campus paper through a combination of bribery, intimidation and good old-fashioned blackmail. The university is a breeding ground for gossip, and no one can get dirt on people like Marcus. Either way, Jacob can’t imagine that most people would work with Marcus Allen voluntarily. All that aside, though, the fucker’s actually doing a good job. He’s got the scoop on everything from the candidates for the SU elections to the university staff. Under his leadership the paper has shed light on several important issues, from the poor state of the campus library to a member of the security staff who was going through students’ mail and stealing any cash he found. This on top of studying toward a law degree and working part time to afford rent. It’s no wonder the tall twenty-two-year-old is wiry thin and has a pair of black fucking suitcases permanently residing under his eyes.

Now he comes striding back into the room like he’s got the moves like Jagger, and grabs Jacob by the shoulder. ‘Enough of this, yeah? Get the fuck back out there and do what you’re told before I cut your bollocks off with a chainsaw and feed them to my nan’s yappy little terrier.’

‘I’d like to point out that if you castrate me with a chainsaw there won’t be much left for the terrier.’ Jacob tilts up his chin in smug defiance, but he follows Marcus out of the room anyway.

For someone so thin, Marcus’s long fingers are remarkably strong.

‘You can let go now, you know,’ says Jacob airily and Marcus stops in his tracks. He doesn’t remove his hand, however.

‘Just making sure you know where you’re going.’

‘I know where the fuck I’m going, I’ve been at this campus for two fucking years!’

‘Yeah, well, I don’t want you cunting things up, now do I?’

‘Piss off!’ Jacob shakes the hand off. ‘You up for drinks tonight?’

Marcus looks at him as though he only has half a brain and that half is slowly rotting into goo. ‘No, you sorry excuse for a social leper, I’m not, I’ve got a fucking assignment to write, haven’t I?’

‘Mind if I come around?’

‘Yes, I do mind. I mind very much indeed. Since when are we fucking BFFs, eh? Are we gonna braid each other’s hair and talk about boys?’

Jacob shrugs and sticks his hands in his pockets, turning away. ‘See you later, twatface.’

‘Not if I can fucking help it, Twinkletoes McFapmuffin!’ comes the reply. ‘You!’ Marcus shouts to some hapless fresher. ‘Get your gaping arsehole over here, I need you to get some copies of these papers!’

He knows it’s not healthy, but hearing Marcus shout abuse at people is kind of a turn-on for Jacob. What’s even more of a turn-on is having Marcus shout abuse at him, crowding him against a wall, grabbing his arm hard enough to bruise, and that’s even less healthy. It’s not even like the guy is especially attractive, physically, but when those blazing green eyes are fixed on him, gaze steely and furious, Jacob gets harder than fucking Chinese algebra. He’s had to take many a respite in the gents’ to rid himself of that problem.

Getting Marcus to shout at you takes very little effort, but Jacob still provokes him, goads him, trying to get him to go that extra mile in his abuse, and he likes to think that, in some strange way, Marcus respects him for that.

* * *

It’s eleven o’clock, and the Student Union is closing, and Jacob knows it’s a bad idea but he’s had a few, and Marcus’s room is in Block C, just across the Circle. Jacob knows where it is, because he’s been there twice, after late running editorial meetings.

He lights a fag as he makes his way towards the entrance. A few people are standing out there smoking, and Jacob hangs out with them for a while, chatting about nothing at all. He recognises Daniel, who lives in Marcus’s corridor, and when everyone’s finished their cigarettes, he follows Daniel inside and asks if he’ll let him into the corridor as he just needs to have a word with His Obstinate Cuntishness.

‘Sure, just don’t tell him I let you in or he’ll fucking crucify me.’

Jacob knocks out the rhythm of Back in Black on Marcus’s door. When that gets no response, he knocks more persistently and accompanies the knocking with a shout of, ‘Marcie-Marc-Marcus! Lemme in, will you?’

‘Fuck off!’ comes the muffled response from within, but Jacob does not cease his knocking, and soon the door is wrenched open.

Marcus is wearing a pair of black-rimmed reading glasses. He looks furious, but then he always does. ‘What the twatting hell are you doing here, Fuckface?’

‘I said I was gonna come around.’

‘And I said you fucking well were not!’ Marcus shoots back.

‘Let me in?’

Marcus rolls his eyes, but then he takes a step back. That was easier than Jacob had expected, and he walks into the room. Marcus shuts the door behind him, then turns, arms crossed, and glares.

‘Well? What do you want?’ he asks impatiently.

Jacob shrugs. ‘Just fancied a chat.’

Marcus takes off his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose, and laughs. It’s not a pleasant sound. It’s not the kind of sound a person makes when they’re amused. It’s the kind of sound an angry tiger might make when you’ve invaded its territory and are about to become lunch. Then he explodes.

‘Does it make you feel good, huh? Wasting my fucking time? Does it make that tiny piece of flesh you call a cock hard to know that you’ve pissed me off, eh? Is that why you come in here and fucking bother me?’ There’s a vein at his temple, throbbing, and his face has gone red.

Jacob makes no reply. He simply smirks.

‘Well, let me tell you something, shit-for-brains! You are nothing. You are less than nothing, okay? You’re a fucking waste of fucking space!’ Marcus takes a couple of steps towards him. Jacob stands his ground. His heart rate has increased and he can feel his breath coming more rapidly, but he stands his ground, arms folded over his chest, mirroring Marcus.

Marcus stops, a few inches away. He cocks his head to one side and studies him. Lowers his gaze.

‘It does, doesn’t it?’ His voice has lowered to a purr. ‘It does make you hard.’

Jacob licks his lips. ‘And if it does?’

Marcus shakes his head. ‘Then you are more fucked up than I thought you could possibly be.’ He takes a step back. ‘Get the fuck out of here.’

But Jacob, slightly drunk and feeling bold and stupid, takes a step forward and crashes his lips into Marcus’s.

There’s a moment where Marcus stands stock-still, frozen, not moving a single muscle. Then his hand is in Jacob’s hair, pulling hard, and he’s turned them around and is pushing Jacob up against the door to the loo. His thin lips are firm and unyielding. He pulls back slightly and whispers hoarsely, ‘Is this what you fucking want?’ Then he bites down on Jacob’s neck, hard, and Jacob bites his lip in an attempt not to cry out, because these walls are paper-thin. He can feel that Marcus is hard too, now.

Then, as quickly as it began, it’s over. Marcus has let him go and taken several steps back and is wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘Fuck off,’ he says, softly. ‘Go home and have a wank. And if you dare mention this to anyone I will fucking tear off your head and shit down your neck, all right?’

Jacob won’t admit defeat, though, and he closes the distance between them and cups Marcus’s hard-on through his trousers. ‘You’ll need to do the same, I think,’ he murmurs.

Marcus glares down at him in disgust. ‘Get. Out.’

There’s no mistaking that tone, and Jacob takes his hand away, nods his head once and leaves the room. The next morning he will wake up with a headache and remember what happened and for a few minutes he will panic badly enough that his sister will ask if he’s having an asthmatic attack and whether to drive him to A&E, but right now he feels smugly confident in his knowledge that he has snogged Marcus fucking Allen, and Marcus snogged him back, even if it was only for a minute.

* * *

For the rest of the week, Marcus appears to be avoiding him. He doesn’t shout at him, doesn’t even talk to him, and avoids eye contact whenever they pass one another. On Friday Jacob has a late lecture on twentieth century literature and when he comes out it’s absolutely pissing down. He hasn’t brought an umbrella, so he pulls his jacket up over his head and runs to the Student Union.

The place is almost deserted. A lot of campus-dwellers go home on the weekends, and most lectures ended hours ago. The bartender looks like she’s about to close early, but still fills the glass of the bar’s only occupant.

Jacob trots over and sits down next to Marcus, glancing at him. He’s looking even more tired than usual, ageing prematurely from all the stress, and Jacob briefly feels sorry for him. ‘You look like shit,’ he remarks.

‘And you look like Satan took a piss on you,’ Marcus replies, taking a sip of his cheap whisky.

‘Rain surprised me.’ Jacob orders whatever Marcus is having. ‘Finish your assignment on time, then?’

‘No, I’m sitting here because I still have a fucking deadline.’ Marcus rolls his eyes. ‘Yeah, I finished it.’

‘Good, you’ll be returning with renewed gusto to the clusterfuck that’s the campus paper on Monday, then.’ Jacob raises his glass. ‘Tally-fucking-ho.’

‘Fuck off,’ says Marcus, mostly automatically. ‘Or I might fucking strangle you.’

‘Okay, you guys, I’m closing the bar,’ the bartender cuts in. ‘Drink up and piss off, both of you.’

Jacob drains his glass, grimacing at too much whisky at once. ‘Cheers, ducks,’ he says hoarsely.

It’s still raining. They stand outside the Student Union, protected by an outcropping of roof. Jacob lights a cigarette. ‘Fucking rain,’ he mutters. ‘I’m fucking soaked already.’

Marcus glances at him. Then he sighs. ‘Fuck it. Come on, I’ll lend you a towel.’

* * *

‘I’ve only got cheap gin,’ Marcus informs him once he’s handed him a towel. Jacob shrugs.

‘Cheap gin is fine.’ He begins to towel his hair dry. He’s seated on Marcus’s bed, wearing only jeans. His t-shirt, jacket and socks are drying in the bathroom.

Marcus pours some of the clear liquid in two glasses and hands one to Jacob. Then he tosses his, fills it up again and sits down next to Jacob on the bed.

‘So . . .’ Jacob holds out the ‘o’ for a long time, tapping his glass with his fingertips. ‘About Monday—’

‘Shut the fuck up about Monday!’ Marcus growls. ‘Just leave it.’

‘Fine.’

They sit in silence for a few minutes, sipping their gin, but then Marcus looks at him, and Jacob can’t fucking help himself because his green eyes are full of fire. He puts his glass on the bedside table and grabs Marcus by the back of the neck, pulling him towards him for a kiss. Marcus seems to respond in sheer surprise.

When they come up for air, Marcus hisses, ‘The fuck do you think you’re doing?’

‘What I want. And what you want.’

Marcus places a hand on Jacob’s chest, pushing him away. ‘I don’t . . . I don’t fucking want—’

‘Yes, you fucking do, you cunt!’ Jacob feels annoyed now. ‘You touch me any chance you get! You don’t grab anyone else by the arm like you do me. You don’t stand so close to anyone else when you’re giving them a verbal thrashing. Your whole fucking body-language is screaming that you want me—’

‘Don’t tell me what I do or do not fucking want—’

‘Why not, when it’s so fucking obvious?’

Marcus says nothing. He doesn’t even look at him.

Jacob scoffs. ‘Fuck you, Marcus.’ He pulls away again.

‘Jacob.’ Marcus’s voice is soft, and Jacob is taken aback at hearing him speak his name. He’s not sure when he last did that. Their eyes meet once more, and now Marcus is kissing him, pushing him down into the mattress. He’s got him by the hair again, and Jacob gasps.

This is, of course, ultimately what Jacob wants. To be held down by this tall, thin man, to be used and abused by him, but he’s not going to give it up so easily, and soon he’s reversed their positions again. He finds it horribly unfair that he himself is shirtless while Marcus is still wearing his grey button-down, and aims to rectify this error as quickly as possible.

As soon as Marcus’s shirt is open, Jacob licks and bites a trail down his sparsely-haired chest and stomach, and Marcus swears loudly. Jacob wonders fleetingly if anyone else is home but finds he doesn’t care. Before he can get to his goal, however, Marcus is wrestling him to his back again, and now he’s undoing Jacob’s belt.

Marcus gets him off without ceremony, staring into his eyes. Jacob’s cock is already dripping with pre-cum and it feels like a fucking dream, Marcus’s hand on him. Soon he’s shaking and swearing and very close to begging. Marcus’s green eyes are still fixed to his, and his thin lips curl into a smile.

‘You’re fucking loving this, aren’t you?’ he purrs. ‘Bet you want me to fuck you, too, like the little bitch you are.’

Jacob can do nothing but nod.

‘Say it.’

Jacob swallows, and lets out an undignified little whine before he manages, ‘It’s . . . It’s what I came here for. I want . . . I want you to fuck me!’

‘Yeah?’ Marcus smirks. ‘Well, too fucking bad!’ And he picks up speed, stroking him faster, and with a string of moaned profanities, Jacob comes, so hard his eyes roll back in his skull.

Marcus wipes his hand on the towel, and Jacob reaches out to touch him, to return the favour, but Marcus pushes his hand away. ‘It’s stopped raining. You should go home.’

‘What about you?’

‘Nothing about me, I don’t want your hands anywhere near me, you understand? Now, fuck off!’

Jacob shakes his head, staring at the man before him. Marcus now refuses to meet his gaze. ‘What the fuck happened to you, Marcus?’ Jacob keeps his voice soft. ‘How’d you get this way?’

Marcus’s gaze snaps up to meet his again, and it’s seething with more acute fury than Jacob has seen to date. ‘None of your fucking business, you stupid little poof! Now put your clothes on and get the fuck out!’

For once, Jacob does as he’s told.

* * *

Jacob sees Marcus in the corridors. He sees him at the editorial meeting on Monday, where he shouts abuse at everyone, but doesn’t spare Jacob a glance, and it begins to dawn on Jacob that he really shouldn’t have said that. But he can’t apologise either. Apologies aren’t part of Jacob’s repertoire.

Over the course of the week, he tries to get Marcus to talk to him, but Marcus ignores him completely, and the bastard doesn’t answer his texts either. Jacob is starting to get properly angry. Where does Marcus get off fucking with his head like that?

On Friday afternoon, Jacob sees him outside the library on the phone, looking agitated. ‘Yeah? Well, I hope you fucking die!’ he shouts before hanging up and shoving the phone into his pocket. Then he starts off across the Circle towards Block C in long, angry strides.

Ignoring the fact that he still has a lecture, Jacob sees his chance and sprints to catch up.

‘Marcus, I need to talk to you.’

‘Fuck off!’

‘You can’t just ignore me forever, you twat!’ Jacob’s legs are shorter than Marcus’s, and soon he’s out of breath, but he keeps in step with the taller man. ‘Seriously, who do you think you fucking are that you can just do what you did and then not talk to me?’

‘I don’t need to make excuses to you, you little cunt rag!’ Marcus retaliates, opening the door to his block. Jacob follows him in, up the stairs, seriously angry now.

‘Yeah? Well, fuck you! I’m not letting this go! We’re gonna fucking talk about this whether you want to or not, you bastard!’

One flight of stairs, two flights of stairs, and Jacob follows Marcus into his corridor and when they get to his room, Marcus tries to slam the door in his face, but Jacob pushes past him and turns to face him, arms crossed.

‘Get out of my room!’

‘No.’ Jacob stares him down. ‘No, I won’t fucking get out of your room! Fine, maybe I overstepped my bounds, but I don’t fucking care! You’re acting like a poncy little tit and I want to know why! You think you can just fucking tease me, lead me on and then not talk to me again? I won’t fucking accept that, and I want to know why you’re being such a fucking dick!’

‘You wanna know? You want my fucking sob-story, eh? Is that how this is gonna go, you think, that I’ll break down and weep little girl’s tears and tell you all about my fucking miserable life? How dare you think for a minute that I owe you even a moment of my time when my dad, the same alcoholic fucktwat who made my fucking childhood a living hell, has a tumour the size of a fucking watermelon in his liver?’

There’s silence. Jacob stares in disbelief at the man before him. There’s spittle on his upper lip, from the shouting, and his breathing is coming fast and hard. He looks even more tired and emaciated than usual. It makes him look ten years older at least.

‘Marcus . . .’ Jacob’s mouth feels dry, and he suddenly has no idea what to say.

Marcus looks away. ‘Don’t fucking give me that, I don’t want anything from you, least of all your sodding sympathy. Will you just fucking get out of here?’

Jacob opens his mouth to argue, but then he closes it again, and in defeat he starts towards the door. When he passes Marcus, however, he stops and looks up at him. For a wild moment he wants to hug him, but one does not simply hug Marcus Allen. He’s not at all certain what will happen if he does. But now Marcus raises his gaze to his, and within seconds he’s on him.

Lips, tongue, teeth, hands. Everything’s a blur, and soon Marcus has Jacob on the bed, shirtless, holding his wrists above his head with a grip hard enough to bruise and biting savagely into his shoulder.

Marcus licks his earlobe and whispers, ‘Don’t think for a second that I like you. And don’t try to fucking psychoanalyse me, thinking that I’m doing this because I’m vulnerable or some shit. I don’t care that my dad’s got cancer, and I don’t care about you, I just wanna get off, understand?’

Jacob nods. ‘Yeah,’ he gasps. ‘Fine. I don’t fucking care, just do it!’

After a short but fierce battle to get his own and the rest of Jacob’s clothes off, Marcus is doing things with his fingers and tongue that Jacob only thought people did in pornos. Jacob throws back his head, panting, grasping at the sheets. And then Marcus is in him, finally, slowly sinking in to the hilt, and it’s all Jacob can do not to wail like a bitch because it feels so fucking good and he’s wanted it for so long.

Without thinking at all, Jacob reaches up and grabs Marcus by the back of the beck, pulling his face towards him and kissing him, deeply. Marcus’s jaw is set, his expression as furious as ever, but he kisses him back, eyes slipping shut as he begins to move.

Jacob shuts his eyes. In the darkness of his own head, he feels everything so acutely; Marcus’s fingers digging into his thigh, his other hand holding his wrist, holding him down. And his hard cock, fucking into him, filling him, a little painful, but so fucking good. Jacob grabs his own cock, stroking it slowly.

Then Marcus lets go of his thigh and, pushing Jacob’s hand away, takes over. Jacob opens his eyes to find Marcus’s gaze fixed on his face. Marcus is utterly quiet, panting but not moaning. Then he picks up speed, moving both his hips and his hand quicker, and Jacob can’t, he just fucking can’t, because Marcus’s face is swimming above him, green eyes, thin lips, angry and beautiful, and Jacob comes.

Marcus lets go, thrusting into him a few times more before he comes as well, with a groan and an expletive, head falling forward to rest on Jacob’s chest.

He only stays like that for a few seconds. Jacob fights the urge to run his fingers through short, chestnut curls. He can feel Marcus’s hot breath against his skin as he tries to control his own breathing. The fact that Marcus must be feeling Jacob’s heartbeat against his forehead makes the whole thing feel impossibly and dangerously intimate.

Then Marcus shifts, sliding out of him and sitting up, removing the condom. Jacob stares up at him, slightly dazed, still panting.

Marcus cocks an eyebrow. ‘What, do you want a cuddle and a fag? Get up!’

Jacob does as he’s told, gathering up his clothes. Marcus sits down at his desk, stark naked, and opens his laptop. Jacob tries not to feel disappointed. It’s not like he wants some sort of relationship with the fucking twat, but he had perhaps hoped that he could at least treat him like a mate rather than a nuisance.

He brings his clothes into the bathroom and cleans the cum off his belly with toilet paper. Then he pulls his clothes on before stepping back out into the room. Marcus has put on his reading glasses and is staring at the screen of his laptop.

‘I’ll be off, then, I suppose,’ says Jacob. Marcus makes a noncommittal grunt in response.

On his way to the bus, Jacob lights a cigarette. He wants to go back. It’s irrational and it’s stupid and it makes him feel like a fucking girl, but he wants to go back and hug Marcus and kiss him and make him see that he doesn’t have to be alone and angry and miserable all the time, which is ironic since Jacob himself is mostly alone and angry all the time, though perhaps not quite so miserable.

He coughs and wheezes and puts out his cigarette.

* * *

Jacob spends his weekend working on an assignment. On Sunday he has a coffee with an old classmate (read: one time on and off boyfriend), and he couldn’t tell himself why he agreed to it, because Oliver is boring as fuck and always has been.

His own coughing wakes him up in the wee hours of Monday morning, and when he finds that he can’t breathe, he grabs his inhaler from the bedside table. It helps a little, but he’s still coughing, and he’s still having trouble breathing, and after a few minutes he decides he had better ask his mother or his sister to take him to A&E.

They both come with him.

By the time symptoms have subsided he’s missed most of his lectures and is late for the editorial meeting, and so decides he just can’t be arsed. He goes back home and spends the rest of the afternoon in bed, reading.

He is very surprised when his phone rings and it turns out to be Marcus.

‘Where the fuck were you today? I need you at those meetings, you’re the only one who’s not about as fucking useful to me as a porno on fucking betamax!’

‘Fuck off, Marcus, I had a fucking asthma attack this morning, all right? Spent the day in A&E.’ Jacob scratches his head and yawns.

Marcus is quiet for a moment. ‘Oh . . . I didn’t know you had asthma.’ Pause. ‘Don’t you smoke like a fucking pack a day?’

‘My asthma and my smoking habits are none of your fucking concern!’

‘Well, sure, if you want to land yourself in an early fucking grave, don’t let me stop you!’

Jacob almost laughs. ‘You’ve made it pretty fucking clear to me that you don’t give a shit about me, so leave me the fuck alone, yeah?’

Marcus makes a frustrated sort of noise. ‘I don’t give a shit about you. Forget I said anything, just . . . Let someone know if you can’t make it to the meeting, okay?’

‘Fine.’

‘Good.’

There’s another pause. Jacob rolls his eyes. ‘Piss off, then,’ he prompts.

‘Yeah. Bye.’

* * *

Jacob can’t help but feel like something is up. For the past couple of weeks it feels like Marcus has been keeping a very close eye on him. They’re back on regular speaking terms, but Marcus seems somehow nicer. Jacob doesn’t like that at all. Marcus doesn’t rise to his baits the way he normally does. He still shouts at him, of course—anything else would surely be a sign that the whole fucking world’s about to explode—but it takes a lot more to get him going, and sometimes he just smiles at Jacob’s quips.

It’s very unsettling. Marcus is a very hard man. Everyone knows that, and most respect it, because even if he’s a cynical, foul-mouthed, evil bastard, at least he’s like that to everyone. Jacob doesn’t think anyone else has noticed yet, but it’s only a matter of time if Marcus keeps being so fucking soft on him all the time.

Then comes a day when Jacob is standing outside the SU having a fag with some people, and he gets a coughing fit. He doubles over, gasping for breath, and drops his cigarette. He pulls his inhaler out of his pocket and uses it, and he feels his airways clear immediately, but before he can stand up properly and announce that he’s all right, someone has grabbed his arm to steady him, and Marcus’s voice is saying gruffly, ‘You’ve got to quit fucking smoking, you twat!’

‘I’m fine,’ says Jacob, a little wheezily, and it’s mostly true. ‘I’m all right.’ He stands up properly, takes a deep breath and clears his throat, but Marcus still has him by the arm, just a bit harder than necessary. He looks up at him, one eyebrow raised. ‘I said, I’m fucking fine.’

Marcus lets go, slowly, but he still stands very close. ‘You need anything?’

Jacob stares at him in amazement, hardly able to believe what he’s hearing. The other people around them look on in bemusement. Jacob opens his mouth, but Marcus grabs his arm again.

‘I need a word,’ he says. ‘Come with me.’

He steers Jacob unceremoniously across the Circle, to Block C, up the stairs, into Corridor 2b, and to room 217. The whole way, Jacob says nothing, because he doesn’t know what to say.

Marcus sits him down on the bed and fetches a glass of water from the sink, which he hands to him. Then he sits in his desk chair, green eyes fixed on Jacob as he hesitantly drinks.

‘Are you gonna tell me what the fuck’s going on?’ asks Jacob after a minute.

Marcus shrugs, crossing his arms. ‘I just, er . . . wanted to make sure you were okay.’ He licks his lower lip.

Jacob stares at him for a few seconds, and then bursts out laughing. ‘Okay, do me a favour, Marcus, and spare me your fucking pity, all right? I’m not fucking enfeebled!’

‘You need to quit smoking.’

‘You need to mind your own fucking business!’

‘You should have told me!’ Marcus’s voice is no longer calm. ‘Before we fucked, you should have fucking told me that you’ve got a worse wheeze than Amy Winehouse’s fucking hairdresser after emptying three cans of fucking hairspray!’

‘My asthma barely even registers, all right? I—’

‘What would I have done, eh? What would I have done if you’d had a fucking attack while we were—’

‘Oh, so that’s what this is! You covering your own arse!’ Jacob puts down his glass. ‘Well, thanks for your fucking concern, Marcus, but as previously established, you don’t give a rat’s dying shit about me, so . . .’ He stands up to leave.

Marcus stands, too, and grabs his arm again, fixing him with his hypnotic gaze. There’s rage there, and determination, and perhaps just a small hint of desperation, before he grabs Jacob’s head in his hands and kisses him.

Very confused and just a little bit annoyed, Jacob pulls away. ‘You know, you’re sending some pretty mixed signals here.’

‘What are you, a fucking girl?’ Marcus retorts. ‘You want a pledge of undying fucking love or some shit like that?’

‘No! I just . . . I don’t get what you want.’ It’s stupid, because he knows Marcus will never say that he wants him. He’s not sure he even wants to hear it. Anyway, all the answer he really needs is in Marcus’s blazing green eyes, and before he has time to think about it any more, he leans in and kisses him.

Marcus soon has him up against the wall. He moves his lips to Jacob’s throat while he opens his shirt, one button at a time. He’s working slowly, and he’s nibbling and licking more than biting at Jacob’s throat.

Jacob narrows his eyes. ‘Are you being gentle with me?’

Marcus stops. Looks at him.

‘I’m not made of fucking glass, all right? I don’t want you to be gentle with me. I don’t like gentle.’

‘Well, too fucking bad!’ Marcus resumes his work.

Well, thinks Jacob, two can play that game, and he raises one hand, running it softly through Marcus’s hair, and kisses gently behind his ear. ‘See how you like it, arsehole,’ he whispers. ‘Me being soft,’ kiss, ‘sweet,’ kiss, ‘and gentle with you.’ He makes his lips soft and pliant and kisses Marcus, gently running his tongue along his bottom lip.

Marcus pulls back. ‘Stop that!’ he complains. ‘Or I’ll—’

‘Or you’ll what? Fuck me gently, like the song? Piss off, Marcus!’ It occurs to Jacob that this may well be the most bizarre conversation two people have ever had.

‘Fine.’ Marcus grabs him by the hair and pulls. He speaks through gritted teeth. ‘Have it your way!’

It’s hard and it’s fast. Marcus’s body is like marble, unyielding, and his hands and teeth are merciless, leaving red marks in their wake. Jacob gasps at every hard touch. But then, occasionally, it’s as if the cold marble that is Marcus yields to Jacob’s chisel, changing shape just a little. Just enough.

When it’s over, Marcus lies down next to him in the narrow bed, pushing him over onto his side and wrapping himself around him. He’s not being sweet or gentle, not kissing him or saying anything at all, but he holds him tightly.

Jacob feels uncomfortable in the silence. In the end, he asks, ‘How’s your dad?’

Marcus stiffens against him, but he doesn’t push him out of the bed, or shout at him. ‘He’s started chemo. With any luck he’ll be puking and cursing his maker by now. No less than the fucker deserves.’

Jacob hesitates. ‘And you? Are you okay?’

Marcus laughs. ‘Of course I’m fucking okay!’ Then he murmurs something that may have been ‘retard’ or possibly ‘twat fart’, and Jacob’s third guess is too ridiculous to even consider.

* * *

Marcus is leaning over a desk. The sleeves of his chequered shirt are rolled up to his elbows, he’s wearing his reading glasses and he has a pencil tucked behind his ear. Looking up, he catches sight of Jacob and waves him over.

‘You! Fucking Ben Whishaw’s retarded cousin! Get over here!’

Jacob tries not to smile as he saunters up to the desk. ‘What do you want, Fuckface?’

‘Have a look at this layout, it looks all fucked up, doesn’t it?’ Marcus takes the pencil from behind his ear and starts pointing out everything that’s wrong with the layout of the front page of this week’s edition. ‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah.’ Jacob leans against the desk, studying the page. ‘Yeah, I see what you mean.’

‘Well?’ Marcus glares at him, one eyebrow raised.

‘Well, what?’

Marcus grabs Jacob’s arm, squeezing it hard. ‘Take this fucking train wreck of a front page back to Fiona and tell her to sort the layout, or I will personally beat her to death with a shovel!’

‘Yes, sir, your eminent cunt-hose, sir!’ Jacob makes a mock salute and picks up the edited page. ‘Drinks tonight?’ Sex tonight?

Marcus stares at him for a moment. ‘Do I look like I have the fucking time to fuck around with you? I’ve got fucking deadlines!’ Come around late, don’t make too much noise.

Jacob grins. ‘Laters, twat!’

‘Yeah, try not to let Fiona lower your fucking IQ too much, dickface!’

Jacob has the distinct feeling that Marcus is discreetly checking out his arse as he walks away.

Nobody knows they’re fucking, and even if they do, they’re not going to say anything. They’re not boyfriends, they haven’t made any promises, there’s no forever or silly little words or dates or flowers or anything like that. But—and if Marcus asks, Jacob will categorically deny ever having thought any such thing—Jacob doesn’t want to fuck anyone else.

Not ever.