Well, he had reached the correct stop - and with time to spare, as neither of the lads were there waiting for him. Yawning, Nathan raised his hands behind his head, through his short, dark brown hair, before stretching and resting his back against a utility pole beside the bus shelter.
He glanced at his watch: 6:30, which meant he was 10 minutes early, which meant that he had about 5 minutes to kill until Jon and Harry arrived.
One of those minutes he would spend deliberating whether to end his message to the group chat that Jon had made just a few days ago with a smiley face or a thumbs up; he opted for the latter. The rest, Nathan chose to devote to the present, even if doing so meant reckoning with his unusually quick heartbeat.
All throughout his walk to Nangreave Road - a good fifteen minutes, at a pace, from his semi-detached in Woodsmoor - the familiar sodium glow of the streetlights had accompanied him; every stretch of pavement, doused in orange. So, too, was this street, though the foliage of the many trees about him saw the projection of maple leaves onto the road, their silhouettes swaying. He smiled at the scene: there was comfort to be sought in the way the shadows danced to a soundtrack of whirring engines, distant exclamations and that of their own rustling.
The sight could've been even prettier, were it not for the state of the bus shelter itself. Someone, presumably last night, had shattered the glass at the back of the booth, leaving countless shards glistening on the floor and spots of blood, long dried, in amongst them. Nathan, back still against the utility pole and hands hiding from the chilly September evening in the pockets of his black Harrington jacket, tried to visualise the event, in his mind a drunken scuffle, to have caused such destruction.
He was pondering the appearances of those involved when he heard his name being called. Turning in the direction of the noise, Nathan caught sight of Jon, waving at him and bearing the toothy grin he'd been known for since they were kids - pretty much every teacher at their primary had fawned over Jon's smile, so endearing had they found it. And its magnetic effect remained: he couldn't help but grin back. Nathan walked towards him and they hugged, the contact fleeting and ending with a firm pat on the back. He was about to engage in the usual meaningless dialogue enacted upon seeing someone you haven't in a while with Jon, when his pupils settled on the man behind him.
Nathan hadn't seen Hamish for close to a decade. He had known that he would be there, given that he was partaking in what was apparently an established, near-weekly ritual of his and Jon's, that being watching Stockport games at The Golden Hind; a local pub that, rather than having played any significant role in either of the lads' lives, they had simply chosen to go to on a whim one day and liked enough to return to on a regular basis.
Despite his anticipation of Hamish's presence, it was still a shock to come face to face with him, 7 years on from when they'd been in the same primary class. He'd had a fair bit of time to take in the changes the years had brought about in Jon's appearance, for instance, at the house party at which they had bumped into each other a few weeks ago. Before, Nathan could only visualise him as being a brown-haired and cheerful child, but Jon now stood at 6 feet and 2 inches, his afro recently buzzed and his features, attractively angular. Right then, though, Nathan could only stare ahead at the person he had once known - he could identify him from his dirty blonde head of hair alone a mile off - but who now looked eighteen instead of eleven.
Hamish, hands shoved into the pockets of his chestnut hoodie, briefly met Nathan's gaze, although just as the brunette registered the wistful look his eyes had so swiftly betrayed, his head was bowed towards the ground. "Y'alright?" The intonation with which the question was delivered suggested it was more of a greeting, but Nathan felt an answer was needed. "Yeah...'s nice to see you." Hamish nodded, offering a quiet "likewise" in response before addressing Jon. "When's this bus get here then, J?"
"It can't be far now. I'll check the app." As Jon entertained Hamish's enquiry, Nathan found himself unable to look away from the man he had once considered a close friend; reacquainting himself with the rhythm of his voice, the laidback way in which he carried himself, the expressiveness of his brown irises and his mouth, bracketed by laugh lines that undermined any attempt he had ever made to appear discontented. This was a person he used to know, whose experience of life over the last 7 years he had no conception of. This person was, now, a stranger to him, and Nathan wanted nothing more than to meet him again.
The wheezing of the 385's exhausts interrupted Jon's investigation. "Now, what you don't know is that I just summoned our carriage at the touch of a button," Jon winked. "Right," nodded Nathan, "and I'll bet we get in just in time for the pre-match commentary." "Eh, I'd put a fiver on it," Hamish shrugged, to a hum of agreement from the others. "Alright, you've got 5 quid each if we're not there for 7 exactly - which we will be," Jon assured them with the wave of a hand as he stepped onto their double-decker.
There may as well have been a curtain before the bus driver's window, so minimal was the interaction between her and the lads: they merely had to utter a short 'single please' and swipe their cards with little more than a nod to the woman behind the glass to get on. Jon, having been the first to board, ascended the steps to the top deck before making a beeline for the back of the bus, where he claimed a forward-facing seat; Nathan, taking the seat facing him and Hamish, the one beside him.
"So...I'm right in saying it's been a while since you two hung out, yeah? How long are we talking?" Nathan and Hamish glanced at each other. "7-" "7 years." "Crikey," Jon muttered.
"What, and you didn't communicate or anything after primary?" Again, their pupils aligned. Hamish's smile began to strain; Nathan, not wanting the question to linger in the air, averted his gaze before he spoke. "We just never got around to it, I guess."
"Huh," Jon nodded, his lips pursed. Sensing the conversation careening towards a dead end, Nathan brought up the night's match, a topic superseded by that of their bet as they approached their stop opposite the Hind.
Having practically begged the driver to open the bus doors upon arrival, Jon bolted from the bus to the pub, leaving Nathan and Harry to jog through the dust he left rising from the gravel outside. They'd just about reached the entrance when they heard an exclamation - a succinct and impassioned "bollocks!" - from inside, quickly followed by Jon storming past them.
Nathan's watch read a minute past seven. "Sky's still on fucking adverts too, so there goes my get out of jail free card." "Cough up, bro," Hamish smirked, one hand beckoning towards him, the other resting on his hip.
"Alright, alright, I'm getting it. Wouldn't turn down a pint from either of you with this, by the way, if you'd be so kind." With a sigh, he pushed £5 notes into both of their chests and re-entered the pub.
"One of us should probably indulge him." Hamish tilted his head to look at Nathan. "By one of us, I mean not me." Lips curled upwards, he went in after Jon.
Nathan took the brief window of time he had to himself to breathe: one deep breath in and one deeper breath out. A few repeats would've helped but any longer and his absence would be suspicious so, running his fingers through his fringe, he continued through the doors.
The charm of the maroon Axminster carpet inside helped to assuage the anxiety that had clenched at Nathan's insides since he and Hamish first locked eyes at the bus stop. He was only allowed ten seconds or so to take in its regal, if matted, surface before he was reeled back to reality for the second time that night.
"Nathan!" Jon and Hamish were perched in front of the bar to his right. "Hamie says you're sparing a few pennies for me, are ya?" Nathan rolled his eyes and offered Jon, whose fist supported his temple as he leant smugly on the bar, a resigned smile. "G'won then. Three pints of San Miguel, thanks." In his periphery, he perceived the turning of a blond head towards him, then back to the bartender, a beefy guy by the name of Darrell.
"Nah, he just meant two," Hamish said, adding quietly, "I'm not really feeling alcohol tonight." Jon furrowed his brows in a manner that was nigh on comical. "When have we watched a game without having a pint?"
"I know. Just not tonight."
"So what'll it be, then?" Nathan asked, looking over Jon's shoulder at the other man.
"I'll buy my drink, don't worry about it," came Hamish's response; one that he wasn't having. "I want to, though - you're letting me in on your," he gestured at the two of them, "weekly thing. It's only right."
Hamish rolled his eyes. "Oh, just leave it, Nathan," he sighed, before asking Darrell for a glass of coke and placing his fiver in front of him, which put the prospect of any further debate to bed.
Nathan took his seat, face rigid as stone; forcing a smile as he offered Jon, whose forehead was still creased in confusion, a sidelong glance.
"Honestly, I'm not feeling booze tonight either. One coke and a pint, cheers." His request was met by a bemused look on the faces of both the bartender and Jon, who muttered something along the lines of "I'll be needing more than one tonight" under his breath.
The three of them let the silence that ensued hang in the air, despite the discomfiting effect it was so evidently having on each man: Jon and Hamish taking refuge in their mobile phones; Nathan looking absentmindedly up at the television screen above the bar, the pre-match punditry already well underway. For a while, the only sound to break it up was that of their glasses making contact with the bar, which Jon's seemed to the most. He was three quarters the way through his pint when Hamish, breaking their brief spell of quietude, suggested he slow down a little. "One," Jon raised his right index finger in a wobbly 'one,' "you didn't get a pint with me so you can't tell me what to do." He then raised his middle finger. "And two...give me a reason to."
Hamish's gaze moved to Nathan, who gave him a closed-mouth smile. Looking at the bar, he put the question to the both of them. "Score predictions?"
And thus the night saw no more prolonged periods of silence as the three lads - Jon, the loudest and growing louder as he sipped at his second pint - conversed, first with regard to Harry's talking point, before branching off into more tactical discussions, which, Hamish had noted, were considerably more animated than usual.
"I mean, they were talking on the telly before about the need for us to focus on Crewe's front three," Nathan shrugged, "so I reckon the 4-5-1 formation'll more than keep them under control."
Jon lolled his head to look at him. "Give over! They're clearly just bigging them up to up the pre-match drama. We're second in the league, they're sixth, we've got this in the bag."
"Think the beer's making you a little over-confident, J," Hamish chimed in, "and inaccurate - they're fifth."
The blond smirked and took a sip of his coke as the other man whipped around, so fast he almost fell off his stool. "Right, sue me for having a bit of fucking hope in my team!"
"Dude, I literally told you Stockport'd win this 3-1." Jon's eyebrows rose and he gesticulated sloppily. "Exactly! Three...ONE! Some fan you are, eh, thinking we'll concede to this lot?" Harry laughed, pointing the glass in his hand towards Nathan.
"If you're having a go at me for being a fake fan, you should give Nate-" Hamish corrected himself, eyes briefly returning to the bar's oaken surface, "Nathan, a bollocking. He predicted a draw!"
Nathan's smile faltered slightly at Hamish's correction; almost imperceptibly, save for the sobriety of another pair of eyes. In the next instant, however, he'd adopted a look of shock, his mouth agape.
"Wow. Cheers for that!"
Jon flung an arm around Nathan's shoulder. "Nah. Think I'll go easy on him on his first night at the Hind."
By that point, the match was starting and, within a few minutes, their conversation had become an occasional exchange of monosyllabic words: Nathan echoing the strategic rhetoric shouted by the flat cap-donning geezers at the tables behind them, Hamish mumbling the odd pejorative whenever one of Stockport's players was fouled, Jon yelling "COME ON" at the screen and clapping every 30 seconds. When Stockport scored at the 35th minute, the latter of the three exploded out of his chair, cheering victoriously and performing a drunken jig to the amusement of Hamish and Nathan.
The rest of the match was relatively uneventful: half time came and went, as did Nathan, for a piss, Hamish, for a smoke, and Jon, in the absence of the others, for another pint; a Stockport defender ended up getting the red card for an especially rough slide tackle. Ultimately, no further goals were scored, sending Jon, now completely bladdered, into a strop.
It was at this point that Hamish and Nathan made the executive decision to call the night there, given Jon's state and the degree of energy the game had sapped from them. Exiting the Hind to dusk, they stood side by side on the gravel, Jon kept upright by Hamish's arm. "I'll call us an Uber home. No way he's going on a bus like this," Hamish said, pursing his lips in frustration at Jon. "Can't believe you chugged another one the second we left you alone!"
Too sloshed to verbalise his thoughts, Jon just gave them his signature grin and shrugged. Nathan turned to Hamish, scratching the back of his neck. "Just get one for you two - I'm alright getting the bus back."
"You sure?"
"Yeah. I'll message the GC when I get in, so you know I haven't had my head kicked in by a Crewe fan on the walk from my stop."
Hamish chuckled. "Alright."
Then, Hamish looked at him, and he at Hamish. They stood, smiling faintly at each other; something in the both of them happy to have seen the other after so long. Nathan felt a twisting sensation in his stomach when Hamish inevitably wrenched his gaze away, murmuring that he had to input their location into the Uber app. Looking at his wristwatch - reading, in glowing red digits, 9:50 - Nathan realised his bus would be due in less than five minutes and so, waving the two lads goodbye, he moved to leave.
"See you next time, mate."
It took him a second to recognise that Hamish hadn't said what he'd thought he had. Another, to admit to himself that he had wanted him to say what he'd thought he had. Still, Nathan swivelled himself around as if that weren't the case and goofily saluted to Hamish.
"See ya."
On the deserted top deck of the 385, having taken a seat right of the aisle, Nathan spent the short journey home with his head against the window, glaring at his reflection as he thought to himself - or, more accurately, spiralled. Firstly, for Christ's sake, why did he salute to him? A nod, heck, a thumbs up would've sufficed, but no, he had to be a muppet and fucking salute to the man. Nice one, Nate. Then, there was that awful silence that he brought on in being too bloody persistent. No wonder Jon ended the night 3 pints deep.
And that look they had shared outside...
He could've stayed like that, dopily staring and smiling at Hamish: into his brown eyes, the same coffee colour as his own hair; at his hairdo, as messy as it always had been when they were younger. When they were friends.
Nathan propped up his elbow on the rubber beneath the window and rested his chin on his hand. What were they? They'd just re-acquainted themselves with each other after 7 years, so, by definition, they were acquaintances. Friends, though? There were a few conversations as yet unhad that would have to happen before they could dust off that descriptor - both of them knew this. Only question was, when? Scrap that, of course there was more than one question: where would they have such discussions? Who would initiate them? How?
That train of thought would have rumbled on interminably, were it not for the familiar sight of the A6, which the 385 turned onto from Nangreave just before it arrived at his stop. In a blur of movement, Nathan pressed the red button on the chair to his left, pushed himself off his seat and down the stairs, nodded at the bus driver and exited into the bracing evening.
After the fifteen minute walk back, Nathan grabbed his keys out of his jean pocket and, using his other hand, messaged the group chat: 'managed to get home unscathed! Let me know when you guys get in.' Jon responded first, though it had clearly required some effort - his text simply reading 'yes i in' - while Hamish's confirmation arrived a few seconds later.
Satisfied, Nathan was about to put the device away when Hamish sent a second message, this time to him directly: 'gn,' accompanied by a smiley face. In the company of no one, on the empty, sodium-lit street, Nathan smiled back at the screen; his corners of his mouth remaining upturned as he returned the phone to his back pocket, unlocked his door and went inside.
He wasn't sure what time it was. Perceiving the dull blue shade of his ceiling, he supposed it was nearing dawn, so around 5, an hour at which he usually found himself awake. Exhaling through his nose, Hamish pulled himself up into a sitting position on the bed, leant back on his right hand and rubbed at his eyes with the other.
As he had long taken to doing whenever he woke up in the night, he tilted his head back to peer out of his bedroom window, which took up a large chunk of the space on the wall to his left. A familiar tableau greeted him: rows of semi-detached houses almost identical to his own, overlooked by a crowd of hills, enshrouded by the night save for the odd dot of light where, presumably, a dwelling stood.
The sight, immediately tranquilising, brought a small smile to his face. While staring dazedly out, Hamish would contemplate those lights in the distance: more often than he would like to admit, he would insert himself into a family that he imagined lived out there, in a charming old cottage, who had doughy, cheerful faces and ate shepherd's pie around the fireplace every Sunday. Sometimes, if he was feeling especially frustrated at his sleep having been interrupted, he would have to fight off the impulse to get dressed, sneak out of the house and hop on the next bus capable of transporting him into the scene framed upon his wall.
This time around, however, he felt fine where he was: painted in the faint blue hue of the sky, serenaded by the conversations of the blackbirds, robins and nuthatches outside. It was these moments - and these moments alone - from which Hamish found he could derive some smidgen of pleasure in the context of his depressingly non-existent sleep routine. Despite this, the window of time during these moments, when he felt suddenly and overwhelmingly cognisant of the world's beauty, seemed to narrow every time he woke up in the night, which was nigh on every night.
And so, within two minutes of waking up, Hamish's wonder had largely dissipated, exchanged for a combination of listlessness and dread for the coming day; for which nothing had been planned, but which he dreaded nonetheless. Turning away from the scene outside, he scanned his bed for his phone through the gloom, recognising after a few seconds the black, rectangular object on the pillow to his right. Grabbing it, he tapped the screen, blinding himself in the process - the unnatural light an affront to the morning's softer tones, even on the lowest setting.
He groaned, reflexively looking away from the source of the brightness before turning back, his eyes slit. As he adjusted to the glow, Hamish noticed the top-most notification on his phone - a voice message from Nathan, sent a few hours ago - and inhaled. He let the screen fade to black.
It would be futile to deny the significance the previous night had held for the both of them. Hell, they basically acknowledged as much in the look they shared before Nathan had left to catch the bus. Hamish, though he thought he concealed it well enough, had taken a while to process his old friend's appearance: stealing glances in the few instances where Nathan's head wasn't turned towards him to absorb his tousled, dark chocolate hair, and his slick fashion sense, and his confidence; a descriptor he would never have anticipated using to refer to Nathan.
He had felt simultaneously captivated and, quite honestly, disturbed, upon seeing the man: this was a person he genuinely would not have recognised had he not known that he would be joining himself and Jon to watch the match. This was a person he no longer knew.
He couldn't lament this truth too much: both of them also knew that a lot of the reason they had drifted in the first place was to do with him; how he had dealt with things. Hamish cringed at the thought of that iteration of him, of that period of his life. He supposed that he wasn't afraid of Nathan himself - forget 'supposed,' his happiness to see him had to have been obvious in that little staring contest they had outside the pub - but of what confronting him would inevitably entail: confronting that Hamish, that time, all of that which he had scrubbed from his mind in the years since.
He placed his free thumb and index finger on the bridge of his nose, applying enough pressure to stem the flow of thoughts, or so he hoped it would. Of course, it didn't, and he figured that his brain would only continue to distract him so long as he remained in his position on the bed. With the assistance of the light emanating from his phone, Hamish lowered his feet until they made contact with the carpet and dragged himself from his room to the landing and into the bathroom on his left.
In the cold, dull half-light, he decided to play Nathan's voice message. Sitting on the lid of the toilet, Hamish tapped the 'play' symbol, balanced his phone on the edge of the sink beside him and leaned back against the cistern. The voice that ricocheted off the porcelain tugged at his lips the moment it reached his ears.
"Hey...first off, I know I'm sending this at stupid o'clock, but I just can't get to sleep. I've tried everything, too, like, I didn't touch my phone from 12, and it's 2 now, so you can guess how well that idea worked. Thought I'd clarify, you know, assuming you'll be hearing this in the morning, thinking 'what on earth was he doing up at that time,' or something...
I just wanted to say how, uh, good it was to see you tonight. I'm guessing you found it as crazy as I did, seeing someone who was 5 foot the last time you saw them. You look great, too, by the way - or, err, you look well, is what I mean.
Anyway, things are obviously different, with what happened - I'm still kicking myself over that whole thing." Nathan laughed humourlessly. "But, you know, I'm hoping that we could - well, not move past it, because it happened, and we'll probably have to discuss it at some point - but...I don't know. Build up from it?
It just...seeing you again, it feels like I've missed out on so much. And, like, yeah, there's no going back. Obviously. But, you know, there is going forward, and...I guess, going forward, I want you back in my life.
Christ, I can't be sounding this dramatic at 2 in the morning. Basically, if we could look to becoming friends again, however long that takes, I would be really happy. Alright. Thanks for listening to me go on, man. See you next week."
The sentence echoed faintly about the room before Hamish was left in silence. Back still against the cistern, he stared into the darkness for he didn't know how long, only that it was long enough to have been able to witness the room become brighter; the baby blue of the early hours heated up to a warm, honey shade. This he took as a sign to get up, which he did sluggishly with the assistance of the sink's edge. Pocketing his phone - and resolving to respond to Nathan's message before falling back asleep - Hamish turned the tap on and washed his face with some of the freezing water. He wiped away the remaining droplets with his hand, running them through his hair before looking, this time with purpose, at the mirror in front of him.
Hamish's face was glazed with orange light, though no amount of nature's flattering could gloss over the deathly grey bags slouching beneath his eyes. He yawned, clearing the sleep from his lids as he did so, and returned his own glance. Before he could process what he was doing, his mouth began to move.
"Nate...you don't know how much I missed you. You said you're still kicking yourself over what happened? Over what, man? It was all me."
The glance became a glower at his reflection. "All me, being a cunt, not knowing how to be after he..." He trailed off. "He died. And then, genius that I am, I went and pushed another of the few people I cared about out of my life, too."
Head lowered to look at the sink, as opposed to the guilty expression he knew had conquered his face, Hamish muttered, "Honestly, I don't think we'd have seen each other again if it wasn't for Jon inviting you.
He held himself up using the edges of the sink and, his gaze softening, met the familiar, tired eyes in the mirror once more. "And I'm so glad he did." He repeated the sentence under his breath, before turning to leave the room. Grasping and twisting the doorknob, the hallway...should've come into view, were it not for a figure obstructing it.
"AAAGH! MUM, WHAT THE FUCK?"
"Hamish! Language!"
He could just about make out the scolding countenance of Marion in the darkness, the fraction of sunlight escaping from the bathroom instead illuminating his mother's outfit: an unassuming off-white jumper, slim fit navy jeans and the beige apron she was rarely seen without at the bakery, which she was tying behind her back.
"What are you...wait." He raised a finger in confusion, the horror of what he had just realised setting his face alight.
"Were you listening to me?"
Marion replicated Hamish's incredulous expression. "What? No!"
"Liar. You were listening to me."
Her façade crumbled instantly. "Well, love, I was just getting ready for work," she pointed behind her to bedroom door, "when I heard the sound of talking coming from the bathroom. I was concerned!"
Hamish rolled his eyes. "Oh, give over. I'm going back to bed."
Thinking he couldn't possibly feel any more embarrassed, just as he had reached his bedroom door, Hamish heard Marion's voice, reduced almost to a whisper, resound behind him.
"You know I'm always around if you want to talk about things, son." Placing his head in his hands, she could make out a muffled "yeah" from Hamish, who was already one step into his room.
"Alright. Love you." He stopped at this, turning his head to look over his shoulder. "Love you too," Hamish mumbled, half-smiling, though failing to meet his mother's eyes.
And then he was gone, leaving Marion alone in the hallway. She lingered there, a vacant expression upon her face, for a moment - long enough to hear Hamish sigh to himself behind his door - before returning to her room, grabbing her bag and descending the stairs. Face down on his pillow, Hamish registered the jangling of keys resonating from downstairs; that particular sound, the pair's unspoken signal for leaving the house. He waited for Marion's deliberately quiet opening and closing of the door and, feeling the house shudder at the action, rolled over.
The ceiling now his only witness, Hamish groaned through a smile.
"For fuck's sake..."
"So will Hamish be with you for the match tonight, love?" Jon's mother asked him, as he carried her up the stairs.
"I couldn't tell you the last time we didn't watch a match together, Mum," he chuckled, "so yeah, I expect he'll be there. Our mate Nathan's coming again, too."
"Nathan...?"
"From primary."
"Oh, Nathan! Lovely lad, from what I can remember. You should bring him round sometime - it'd be nice to see him." Jon reached the top of the stairs and walked straight ahead into his mother's room.
"Yeah, well, if the pub shuts its doors, I'll consider it."
Tina scoffed at Jon. "I mean, I don't see why you always go there. If it's about the drinks, they're a whole lot cheaper at the corner shop."
Jon gasped at his mother as he lay her down onto her single bed. "Tina! That's a 5 year old tradition you're suggesting I scrap, just like that - just to save, what, a pound? Not happening, I'm afraid."
Cocking her brow, Tina smirked, "I didn't know you were such a stickler for 'tradition.' Next think I know you'll be voting Conservative."
Jon guffawed. "Yeah, right. Although..."
He trailed off, to his mother's alarm.
"What, Jonathan?"
"No, I was just going to make a daft joke," he muttered, head bowed as he buttoned up his blue plaid shirt. Melodramatically, Tina exhaled a breath of relief, before - to Jon's dismay - probing further.
"Wait, you do know I have a sense of humour, don't you? You didn't get that funny bone from your father, that's for sure."
"No, no - it was just a naff gag, is all."
"Try me."
With eyes resigned, he looked at her.
"Well, I was just going to say, like, were I a Tory, some of the old geezers at the pub might actually like me, but..."
"But...what?" Tina returned his gaze with a blank expression.
"Well, it doesn't really work, does it?" She shrugged confusedly at her son, whose resignation had now developed into exasperation. "Come on, Mum..." He drew a circle with his finger around his face, averting his eyes when, as he anticipated she would, his mother sighed at him in frustration.
"Jonathan, love, don't be daft! You know full well that things aren't as bad as they used to be. I mean, heck, when I was your age..." Jon half-listened to Tina as she recited, practically verbatim, what she would always say to him whenever the topic of the colour of their skin - and the less-than-completely-positive reactions that, contrary to what she would assert, it continued to cause - arose. He took his mother's use of the phrase 'you kids these days' as his signal to, as politely as possible, vacate the conversation and then, the building, as quickly as possible.
"Sorry Mum, I best be getting off - bus'll be leaving soon. We'll talk about this later" - like hell they would - "okay?" He kissed Tina on the cheek before she could get another word in; an apparently successful tactic, as he only sound he heard after exiting the room was that of her clicking her tongue.
"Oh, god. Doesn't sound like there was any getting out of that one. Well, not if you hadn't had somewhere to be."
His fingers interlaced behind his head, Jon hummed in agreement.
"Yeah. Thank fuck for that."
Hamish, eyes glued to his phone, let out a light snort.
"Anything else from Nathan?"
"Here's there now. Said he's saving us seats - very generous of him."
"Very generous."
He looked at his friend, sat opposite him; courtesy of a formation exclusive to the back of the bus, which they had long preferred to the cramped aisle seats. Jon was conscious of the peculiarity - no, the palpable and, at times, excruciating awkwardness - of last week. He'd felt a twat the moment they met with Nathan on Nangreave; had cringed internally as, externally, he pretended not to register the stilted body language and shortness of speech as what they were: symptoms not simply of distance, but of some unspoken, past conflict. He'd left the Hind a disgraced chemist, bladdered and embarrassed by the utter inaccuracy of his original hypothesis, which had naively stated, 'these guys were good friends, once - with a footie match to break the ice, they'll forget they ever drifted in no time.'
In the haze of post-inebriation, Jon had felt so disappointed in himself. For one, he hadn't once thought to ask Hamish how he felt - how he really felt - about Nathan coming with them to the pub. Heck, he had never conceived of there being a reason behind the dissipation of their friendship in the first place; all it had taken was Nathan telling him at a house party they both happened to be at that he and Hamish knew each other, had even been close once, for him to jump to the conclusion that, of course, they would be willing to spend time together, let alone want to see each other again.
The lager slow to exit his system, he had called his friend that day, apologising profusely and asking, repeatedly, if he was okay after the previous night. "Jon, calm down, I'm absolutely fine. You're overthinking this," went one of Hamish's many attempts to reassure him, after about ten of which Jon stopped rambling, apologised for saying sorry so much and hung up.
Regardless, the ordeal had refused to leave his mind and, as he looked at Hamish, who was now returning his glance with one eyebrow raised questioningly, he allowed for the enquiry his mind was badgering him to ask to exit his mouth.
"So...you are alright with him coming along again, yeah?"
Hamish huffed bemusedly. "Not this again. I'm fine with Nathan, man. I mean, at this point, I'm wondering if you are."
"Nah, I'm glad for him to be there. But, Hamie, if you're not comfortable, then..."
"I don't see why he shouldn't come along again. He's a nice lad. What, do you not want him to?"
Jon took note of the more combative tone present in Hamish's voice before proceeding. "I agree, he's a nice lad, it's just..."
"What?"
Jon sighed. "Bro. Don't play dumb. I never usually get that drunk and you know it. Sure, it got better as the night went on, but that first hour was fucking painful to get through."
Hamish sank back into his hoodie, gaze averted.
"And when you said you weren't drinking, and then he said the same, I knew I'd need a few pints to keep me from, I don't know, exploding - I seriously could've, sat between you two."
Hamish raised his right elbow to rest on the sill of the bus window; his hand propping up his chin, he looked out at the rows and rows of houses on Offerton estate - an indication of their stop's proximity.
"It was just...given how long it's been, and the stuff I mentioned over the phone...it was bound to be a bit weird at first," he spoke into his fingers, before he moved his head to have them sit under his cheek.
"But, and you can put this on record as being a rare instance of honesty on my part...I'm, uh, glad you suggested he watch the match with us. If you hadn't, Nathan'd probably have stayed a memory, and, uh..." Hamish trailed off briefly, though not briefly enough for Jon to miss his face flicker with feeling; he couldn't put a name to the emotion, only that it was negative, and strongly felt.
"Well, if that means the levels of awkwardness won't be as lethal as they were last time, I'm happy."
Hamish scoffed and rolled his eyes. "Dude, come on - we hadn't seen each other for seven bloody years!" Then, looking down to conceal a smile, he continued, "anyway, I'll be back on the drink tonight, so you can stop your whinging."
"Get in!" Jon grinned and rubbed his hands together like a dastardly cartoon villain as they stood up to exit the 385 which, with its signature shuddering wheeze, bid the lads farewell.
Having reclaimed the same stool on which he had ended up last week, Nathan waved Jon and Hamish over with the hand not tucked into the pocket of his jacket; about three quarters of a pint had yet to be drank from the glass before him.
"Y'alright, pal? How's it going?" Jon slapped him on the back before taking the stool at the other end of the bar.
"Good, cheers - bit knackered from work, but, as you can see, I'm taking a bit of respite in this pint here," Nathan responded, threading his fingers through his fringe. As Jon posited a question about what he did for work, Hamish nodded at Nathan, a gesture met with a softly murmured "hey" from the brunette before he answered Jon.
"Lifeguard at Grand Central. Usually it isn't so bad - spend most shifts chilling on my big chair the whole time - but today there were these kids, and..." He threw up his hands in annoyance. "Course, the rowdy fuckers went out of their way to make the job just that bit harder for me for their own sick enjoyment."
Hamish turned to him, his face betraying his immense amusement at Nathan's experience. "What, did they have you chasing after them?"
"Don't," Nathan sighed, putting his head in his hands as Hamish guffawed at the mental image of the grown man to his left slipping and sliding around the swimming baths in pursuit of some giggling mini-humans.
"Wow, Hamie, way to kick a guy while he's down," tutted Jon. "Nathan, bud, it's the wonderous ability to wipe days like today from your memory for which alcohol is so celebrated! Speaking of alcohol, where's our mate Darrell..."
Finally catching the bartender's eye after minutes of trying - during which Hamish remarked that he had looked like a smackhead, staring straight ahead like he was - Jon managed to secure both his and Hamish's pints just in time for kick-off. Stockport were facing Stevenage away and, given their opponents' position at the bottom of the league, the lads collectively agreed beforehand that the result was sure to be a win, and then some. Which, for the most part, it was: Stockport's 4-3-3 formation allowed for the near constant funnelling of opportunities to the front three, who netted three goals in the first half; riding on the high of which, the boys each indulged in a second San Miguel at half time. Two further goals were scored in the remaining 45 minutes - the lads' elation at these bringing a smile to Darrell's face as he undertook the menial task of washing the dishes from behind the bar - leaving the result a decisive, if anticipated, 5-0.
Jon was whooping as he skipped out of the Hind, with a laughing Nathan on his heels and Hamish, so embarrassed he had physically receded into his hoodie, trailing behind. At the sight of the 385's fluorescent orange text on the horizon, however, all three of them broke into a sprint; goofily flailing their arms and shouting as they crossed the road in a bout to capture the driver's attention. Their pace slackened when, either as a result of their acrobatics or the pressing of a 'stop' button by a passenger, the bus, with a low, gruff sigh, began to slow. Out of breath and pumped full of adrenaline, the boys looked at each other and guffawed as they waited for the doors to open.
The jubilant mood instilled in them by the night's result followed the lads for most of the journey home, their raucous conversation - a dominant force on the otherwise empty top deck - revolving almost exclusively around the fourth goal: a screamer in the top left corner which rounded off new signing Lewis Johnson's first hattrick for the club.
There were only a few stops left to go when, in the process of rummaging in his pockets for his phone, Nathan made a realisation.
"You're shitting me."
"What's up?" Hamish asked, staring ahead at Nathan, his hands hastily revisiting every jacket and jean pocket. Concluding that what he was in search of did not sit in any of the crevices of his clothing, Nathan gripped the bridge of his nose and exhaled.
"Gone and left the bloody keys at home, haven't I? Must've left them by the door when I got back from work and assumed they were still in my jacket when I went out again. Idiot."
Jon shook his head beside Hamish and assured him, "you're not an idiot, mate - we've all done it. Real question is, what're you gonna do?"
"No idea. My parents are having a meal in town - don't know when they'll be back - and the only other person who has house keys is my sister, but she's always out clubbing on a Saturday with her flatmates, so-"
"Sorry to interrupt, but this is us, guys," Hamish said as he stood up and pressed the nearest 'stop' button, before heading down the aisle; Jon close behind and Nathan, having checked his pockets for a third time after rising from his seat, catching up with them at the stairs.
A pensive silence permeated the air as the three of them watched the 385 - the last of the evening - continue down the A6, fading and re-appearing under each streetlight's sodium glare.
"I've got an idea," said Hamish, his eyes still trained on the bus. "Hang at mine until you hear from your parents, your sister, whoever. Can't imagine they'll be around anytime soon from what you've said, so, you know."
Nathan turned to meet the brown irises that were now focused, quite intensely, on him.
"Are you sure? What about your mum, would she mind?"
"Would she heck. She'll be asleep now, anyway, so it doesn't really matter."
"Are you sure, though?"
Hamish chuckled, his breath visible in the frosty air.
"Yes, man, I'm sure. And, I mean, it's either you chill at mine or you chill to death out on your front step."
Jon tutted, rolling his eyes at Hamish. "Ever the drama queen. He is kind of right though. I'd make you the same offer, but you know how things are with my mum, and, uh..."
His pupils darted from Nathan, to Hamish, then to his and Hamish's street. He started to walk down it, backwards so as to face the others as he spoke.
"Come on, then. I hereby sentence this man, a Nathan Beswick, to a brief spell of confinement within the residence of Sir Hamish Swetnam which will cease only when he is able to safely return to his own. Does the defendant accept this verdict?"
Hamish cast an amused sidelong glance at Nathan, who tried and failed to supress a grin as he responded.
"I do, your Honour." Jon nodded and, stoic as any real KC, proceeded to 'bang' an imaginary gavel.
"Then court is adjourned. Good day!"
He swivelled around, his deportment perfect as he strolled towards his house on the other end of the street; breaking character only to look over his shoulder and wink in the other lads' direction. Hamish raised an eyebrow at Jon, whose focus had moved to relinquishing his keys from his jean pocket - the thought that crossed his mind, vanishing as swiftly as it had appeared.
Within a few seconds, the door was unlocked, entered and shut again, though not before Jon had bowed at his friends with an air that was more regal than legal.
"And he calls me a 'drama queen,'" Hamish scoffed affectionately. Alone on the street, they stood, for a moment, just shaking their heads and smiling. The action, though initially genuine, quickly became more of a means of prolonging that moment and, in doing so, delaying whatever was to follow.
"So..." Nathan started, facing Hamish yet unable to quite meet his eyes.
"So...oh, right, house. It's just up here." Hamish raised a finger in the direction of a black door, on which the number '42' could be made out in silver lettering.
"Oh, yeah! Number 42. I remember. That isn't the same door you used to have, though, is it?" Nathan posed the question in the knowledge that no, it definitely wasn't - he'd noticed the change around the time it had happened, a few years back, during a walk - but, having sensed an opportunity to avoid another stretch of silence, he asked it regardless.
"Yeah, you're right, it isn't," Hamish chuckled, grabbing his keys from the back pocket of his jeans. "We used to have a white one."
"Yeah...I liked that door."
"Uh...you did?"
Nathan, realising how awkward he sounded, felt the blood rise to his cheeks.
"Uh, yeah, hah. The window was weird - made the people you saw through it look all...distorted." He looked down and scratched the back of his head. "I don't know, thought that was cool when I was younger."
Hamish's face lit up at the honesty - and the goofiness - of the admission. This went unnoticed by Nathan, however, as the blond of the two of them was in the middle of unlocking the door.
"To be fair, I'd have that door over this one if I had the choice - Mum just had it put in one day and that was that. Talk about democracy." Gently opening the subject of their discussion, Hamish turned around and brought a finger to his lips; the gesture, affirmatively mirrored back to him.
Their footsteps light, the two of them drifted into the porch, an area of his house so accustomed to the sight of Hamish kicking off his shoes without hesitation and which, now, was witnessing him remove his trainers with as much care as Nathan, his guest, had extracted himself from his. The door separating the porch from the hallway conveniently ajar, Hamish gave it a push and gestured for Nathan to walk through.
Though he could barely make out any unique details of the dark hallway in which he now stood, Nathan felt a strange sensation take hold of him and, momentarily, render him stationary: it could've been the distantly familiar smell of autumnally-scented candles - firewood, roasted chestnuts, cinnamon spice - that greeted him inside, or the abstract painting on his left, faintly illuminated by a streetlight outside the lounge's front window and in which, as a child, he had always seen a face. Maybe it was just the thought of being back in a building he had not set foot in since he was eleven; back in the building he found himself yearning to return to whenever he passed it on walks, just to check if it smelled the same, or if that painting was still on the wall - or so he told himself.
It had taken the appearance of Hamish's blond head of hair in his periphery for him to remember that he could move. "We'll just chill in here for now, yeah?" Hamish whispered, nodding his head right in the direction of the lounge. Nathan mustered a smile and, trying as best he could to push the emotion, almost overwhelming in its potency, out of his mind, he followed Hamish into the room.
Closing the door after Nathan, Hamish rested his forehead against it and breathed a sigh of relief.
"Well, I'm happy to declare mission 'get into the gaff without rousing the dragon,' a success."
Nathan half-gasped, half-laughed.
"Hamish! You can't call your mum that!"
"You haven't seen her when someone disrupts her 'beauty sleep'. Not a person you ever want to be faced with, I'll tell you that much."
Humming with slight alarm, Nathan turned to look around.
"Oh, I should probably turn a light on, shouldn't I," Hamish mused, before walking over to a lamp on a table just right of the door and switching it on.
The room, now painted in a soft, honey glaze, revealed itself to be two distinct rooms: the wall that used to separate the kitchen from the lounge, knocked down to create a more open, more social space.
"Oh, wow," Nathan breathed, gravitating as if pulled by a magnetic force towards the point at which the wall once stood.
"It's a nice change, isn't it? Feels less claustrophobic than it used to," Hamish smiled at Nathan, one hand resting on the table beside him.
"It...is, yeah. Really nice," Nathan muttered, his back turned as his pupils darted around the kitchen.
"You don't have to agree with me, Nate," Hamish said, still smiling at Nathan, who whipped his head around upon hearing that last word. "If you don't like it, just say so, you know? I'm not bothered."
"No, I'm serious, it looks great," Nathan said earnestly, meeting the other man's eyes as if to prove it.
"Then why did you sound so...I don't know, sad, when you said it?"
Nathan looked down, gulped - an action he hoped Hamish didn't see but which, ultimately, he knew he had - and leaned his back against the kitchen's granite table-top.
"I mean, it is sad, isn't it? All the time that's just...passed us by. The seven years that I can only ask how you spent, and you me, not..." He flicked his fringe from out of his face, eyes flitting towards the ceiling. "Not, you know, experience them again with each other in our lives."
The brutal honesty of the statement brought Hamish's gaze to the floor and, with each second of silence that succeeded it, Nathan feared he had made things irreparably awkward. Already having a go at himself in his head, he prepared himself to try and salvage the conversation but, just as he opened his mouth, Hamish had begun to speak.
"Yeah, you're right. Spent most of my time thinking about it after seeing you - how different things could've been, had I not been such a dickhead." Nathan looked at him disapprovingly, but he continued.
"I was, Nate. You and I both know it. Was also a little twerp, mind you, but that doesn't mean anything: I still fucked up our friendship and, because of that, it was radio silence until last week."
Nathan stared sadly ahead at the other man, frustrated at how willing he was to place all the blame for what happened on himself.
Shoving his hands into his hoodie's pockets, Hamish took a small step forward and smiled nervously. "There's no changing that, but, uh...hey!" He gestured to the room around them. "Here you are, back in my house! And that's got to mean something, right?"
Watching the corners of Nathan's lips rise until they couldn't go any higher, Hamish felt the anxiety that had been twisting at his insides since Jon had left them alone finally begin to evaporate.
"Anyway, you want a drink? I've got some Carlings in the fridge. We could crack them open and, I don't know, talk about how the hell we've spent the last seven years?"
Nathan beamed. "G'won then. A Carling sounds pretty fucking good right now."
While Hamish went to grab the cans, Nathan left his jacket on the island and made his way over to the sofa situated before the lounge window, right of the door through which they'd entered just minutes earlier. A quick glance at his watch told him that it was quarter to 12 and, after he had plumped down on the right side and Hamish, the left, it would be the ringtone Nathan had reserved for his mother - jokingly set to an alarm sound effect one day and as yet unchanged, though he had meant to several times - that would force him to reacquaint himself with the concept of time, almost two hours later.
In the meantime, the two regaled each other with stories of their adolescence - many of which had almost made them thankful that the other wasn't around to witness the array of embarrassing things they had done when they were younger - and, as they did, the lager in their cans seemed to vanish. Of course, two more materialised on the coffee table before them; these both emptying over the course of an episode of an American sitcom from the 80s Hamish had suggested they stick on.
From the moment he put it on, however, it was clear that neither of them were really intent on paying it any mind. Rather, reminded by the show's interstitial laughing track to chuckle at the screen when expected - this, to their minds, suggesting a degree of attention where there was none - they allowed themselves to drift closer together.
Each action was tentative, subtle: a light push on the shoulder at some silly quip one would make, doubling as a movement further inward; one rising to grab his drink and sitting back down a centimetre nearer to the other man than he had been before.
It was only a matter of time until something happened and, halfway through the second episode, the TV went black.
Nathan's focus returned to the grey box for the first time in a while, a quizzical expression twisting at his face. Turning to look at Hamish, who was staring ahead at the screen with the TV remote balanced in his hand, his features softened.
"Uh...you sure? We can keep it on if you-"
"Give over, Nate," he breathed, the side of his mouth curled slightly upward. "We weren't really watching it, anyway."
Flushing, Nathan wrenched his gaze to look at their fuzzy reflections on the screen, only to have it reeled instantly back to Hamish when he turned and rested his arm on the back of the sofa in one careful, calculated movement; dropping the remote to the floor as he did.
They locked eyes, and locked they remained for what felt like a day: Nathan, placated by the half-lidded, coffee-brown irises in front of him which seemed to radiate warmth on an endless supply and Hamish, transfixed by every little intricacy of the other man's face.
At first, he was just looking - losing himself in the many ridges, outlines, sills and slopes that composed Nathan's countenance. As the line that had previously separated thoughts and actions in Hamish's head had long been blurred by the drinks he'd consumed at the pub and afterwards, however, he discovered in the next instant that the hand that had been draped over the side of the sofa was now on course to make contact with the subject of his fascination.
His breath hitched, pupils wide as they returned to those fixed on him to gauge if what he was doing was okay. Recognising the look of trepidation in Hamish's eyes as one he knew he himself had worn several times since they had been alone together, Nathan met his expression with one of tenderness; his eyes and his smile, soft, unquestioning, even - though Hamish dismissed the thought as a product of the alcohol - somewhat encouraging.
The moment Hamish's fingers brushed against the edge of Nathan's jaw, the bulb of the lamp behind them might as well have gone, casting them in near-total darkness. All sounds - the muffled gusts of wind outside, the whirring of electronics behind the television - might as well have ceased, leaving them in a silence punctured only by their own shallow breath. So, too, could the bitter taste of lager lingering on the men's tongues have dissipated, could their respective scents - Hamish's, that of cigarette smoke and Nathan's, faintly citric aftershave - have taken leave of each other's nostrils, so overwhelming was the sensation of skin on skin.
Guided, no, spurred by the feeling, Hamish cupped Nathan's jawline with the length of his palm, thumb just grazing the dark spots of stubble missed by brunette's razor that morning.
"Man, you have to get better at shaving," Hamish whispered, half-smiling; the laxity with which he did, striking in its incongruence with the palpable degree of care instructing each of his movements. Breathless, Nathan mustered a laboured chuckle in response, the hot air he exhaled holding Hamish's hand in a brief caress before his index and middle fingers drifted up Nathan's face to rest on his pronounced cheekbone.
Pupils trailing his digits as they proceeded on their upward trajectory, Hamish found himself returning Nathan's gaze the moment the grey-blue shade of his irises entered his line of sight. Strange though the scene must have been to witness - he'd surely have laughed had he seen how they looked, one touching the other's face as they stared at each other, from a third-person perspective - the butterflies slamming against his chest and the eyes swaying in front of him like pendulums left the stream of wry asides Hamish usually would have come out with amidst such sincerity unspoken; a million frenetic thoughts, unmade.
Nathan had been rendered speechless by Hamish's touch and, the longer his fingers, feather-light, danced upon his skin, the louder a disturbing truth became in his head: how all of it, the seeing one another after such a long time, the becoming friends again and then, this interaction, could so easily not have happened.
To his surprise, the hundreds of hypotheticals he anticipated would torment him in the wake of this thought didn't appear, for Hamish's placement of his thumb on Nathan's lower lip sent so powerful a current coursing through his body that Nathan raised his arm over the top of the sofa to steel himself - his logic being that, had he not, he'd have come crashing to the floor. He exhaled, his breath short and ragged and echoing Hamish's own, before inching closer to the other man, whose hand slid from Nathan's face, travelling down his shirt and settling on his left leg in the space between his knee and the upper half of his thigh.
Now too close to maintain proper eye contact, the men gazed at each other's lips, one's pupils occasionally flitting up to assure themselves that the other was comfortable with where things were going. After what felt like minutes just sitting there, their inhalations and exhalations serving as a countdown to the inevitable, Nathan - finding the rich, smoky scent of Hamish too intoxicating to resist any longer - began to lean in.
Hamish's breath hitched as the distance between himself and Nathan narrowed. Nathan's eyes fluttered shut as he moved to close the distance.
'*BLARM* *BLARM* YOUR MOTHER IS CALLING! *BLARM* *BLARM* YOUR MOTHER IS CALLING!'
"AAAAAGH!" Hamish yelled, jumping out of his skin and colliding unceremoniously with the side of the sofa.
Stunned, Nathan declined the phone call to silence the blaring ringtone and looked at Hamish. Hamish, still crumpled against the sofa's left arm, looked back at him. Then, their mouths started to curl upwards with a synchronicity that made them smile even wider until they were having to stifle their laughter, heads buried in their hands.
The sound of creaking emanating from the hallway thrust Hamish into the present, however, and, scrambling to upright himself, he turned towards the door.
The men watched, the intensity of their gazes elongating each second they spent waiting, as the knob began to rotate, before the highly-anticipated 'click' rang out.
"Hamish, what in the bloody-"
Marion, adorned in pastel pink pyjamas, slippers to match and a white, fluffy dressing gown she'd thrown on before heading downstairs, had one hand resting on the handle and was rubbing at her eyes with the other as she entered. When it became apparent that another person - a person she recognised, no less - was also present in the room, she froze.
"Oh! Hello, Nathan!" She smiled, her hands flying up to fix her hair. "Crikey, look at you! Hardly the young'un I remember picking up from St. George's anymore, are you?"
Switching out her amiable expression for something bordering indignance, she addressed her son through gritted teeth.
"Christ, Hamie, could've told me you had a mate coming 'round! And at this hour? What're you playing at?"
Hamish sighed. "I can explain."
"Yeah, I should hope you can, waking me up at 2 in the bleedin' morning," his mum huffed, palms cinching her waist.
"We were on the bus back from the pub when Nathan realised he'd left his keys at his and, what with his parents being out, I offered for him to stay here until they got back."
"Which, I think, they are," Nathan murmured, slightly rouge in the face. "I have this stupid alarm ringtone set for my mum and she just called. It's my fault you woke up, basically - sorry, Mrs Swetnam."
Marion shook her head. "Don't be daft, love, it's nothing. And call me Marion."
"Bet you wouldn't have been like that if it was my fault," Hamish grumbled under his breath.
"Yeah, you're right, I'd have bollocked you," she retorted, "but he's not my son, is he?"
"What, so everyone but me gets the cosy treatment then?"
"I don't make the rules."
"Yeah...only, you do."
As mother and son traded glowers, Nathan stood up and, gesturing towards his jacket hanging off the side of the kitchen island, went to retrieve it. As he was putting it on, Marion whipped around and addressed him once more.
"Anyway, Nathan, it's nice to see you after all this time! Maybe we can catch up when you're next round." She smiled, her pupils dull, weary. "At a reasonable time of day, preferably."
Nathan chuckled, scratching the back of his neck. "Yeah, of course," he responded, eyes trailing over Marion's shoulder to look at Hamish, whose gaze was trained on him.
"I'll just go and, uh, get my shoes on. Call my mum back, too."
Nathan slipped out into the hallway, leaving an uncomfortable silence to descend on the lounge; Hamish, too overwhelmed by the events of the past five minutes to make an attempt at conversation and his mum, too groggy.
Reeled back into the present by the muffled sound of a dial tone emanating from the porch, Marion yawned and tilted her head to peer at her son.
"Well, go and say bye to your friend," she grumbled. "Me, I'm off to salvage what's left of my beauty sleep." Casting Hamish a final, withering glance, she vacated the room, switching off the lamp at the mains as she did.
With a sigh, Hamish put his head in his hands. It took a considerable amount of effort for him to swallow the impulse to curl into a ball and let Nathan leave without another word, but he managed it: pulling himself up from the sofa and reaching the hallway in time to catch him returning Marion's wave as she ambled up the stairs.
"Alright Mum, I'll be out in a sec. See you." Two noises - that of a door latching, followed by three monotone beeps that sounded after Nathan hung up - announced to the hallway, once again consumed by shadow, that they were alone.
As he slipped his phone into the back pocket of his jeans, Nathan looked towards the doorway in which Hamish stood. He marvelled at the sight that greeted him: the streetlight outside of the lounge window illuminated half of the man, his head tilted slightly back and his back straight against the doorframe, in faint orange light; he hadn't thought he'd ever feel more compelled to kiss him than he had on the sofa just minutes prior, but there in the hallway, he learned otherwise.
Under Nathan's gaze, Hamish felt the thrill that had rushed through him more times that night than it had in his entire life take yet another hold of him. Rather than letting it direct him like it had, so easily, before, he suppressed the sensation and stepped forward with his hands tucked away in his hoodie pockets.
Itching the back of his neck - an action Hamish had identified as being more of an awkward mannerism of his than an actual need to itch - Nathan winced.
"Haym...ugh, I'm so sorry for all that - waking your mum up, disrupting every-"
"Shh, Nate. Don't worry about it." They stared at each other for a moment, both turning to look anywhere else at the recognition of smiles developing, exponentially and uncontrollably, on their faces.
"Well...um." Nathan gestured to the door behind him. "My mum'll have a go if I leave her hanging around much longer, so..."
"No, yeah, 'course. Go."
A final locking of eyes. Goodbyes, whispered. The front door, reluctantly opened and then, reluctantly closed.
Hamish rested his temple against the door and listened as Nathan left to an engine-fuelled fanfare; his heart, pounding, as it would continue to for the rest of the night.
