“Did you get a shag out of last night, at least?”

  “No,” Ben said, carefully slotting two pieces of bread into the toaster. It was a death trap and even touching the outside could give a mild electric shock. “I think I need to take it slow with this one.”

  “That sucks. Not literally, of course.”

  “It’s alright. I’m gonna see him again.”

  “You sound pretty sure about that.”

  Ben leaned against the counter and crossed his arms over his bare chest, feeling the sticky edge against his back. The kitchen was fucking disgusting, but that’s what happened when five blokes lived together. The rent was cheap and the landlord didn’t bitch, and that was the best they could ask for, really.

  “He was really nice,” Ben said. “We had a good time.”

  “Alright. No need to be so defensive.”

  “I’m not defensive,” Ben said, realising too late that he sounded exactly that. Jez’s raised eyebrow told him the same. “Stan is….”

  “Different?”

  “You’ve been talking to Tone.”

  It was a simple matter of fact, not an accusation. Ben turned and opened the fridge, extracted jam, scraped the mould off the top before smothering it over his toast.

  “All Tone said was that you were seeing the hottest non-girl he’d ever seen in his life.”

  “Stan isn’t transgender. At least, I don’t think he is. He’s just a guy who looks like a girl.”

  “Ben.” Jez grasped his bicep and squeezed. “If this guy makes you happy, I don’t care if he dresses in drag to dance a hula every Saturday night.”

  “We’re nowhere near that yet.” Ben shrugged off the hand that was still gripping his arm.

  “What, dancing the hula?”

  “No,” Ben said with a laugh. “Him making me happy.”

  “Oh.”

  Ben took a big bite of his toast and crunched on it while Jez finished making cups of tea for them both. He hadn’t asked for one—Jez was just like that. Officially, Ben didn’t have anything to do until later in the day, then it was back-to-back tutoring sessions for nearly six hours, with only a short break to dash across Hampstead from one appointment to the next.

  “What time is it?” Ben asked. The clock on the oven had never shown the right time, not since they’d lived in the house.

  “Uhh, twelve thirty,” Jez said with a grin. “You got plans?”

  “Not really. I might go down to Russell’s and piss about on his guitars.”

  Russell was an old friend, their relationship forged on a mutual love of heavy metal and Russell’s relaxed attitude about letting Ben and his friends sit around his shop and try out the instruments Ben thought he’d never be able to afford.

  If Russell’s place was close to one of Ben’s favourite clothes shops, then that was just a fringe benefit.

  “Don’t forget rehearsal tonight. Starting at ten. Summer wants us to work on this song she wrote.”

  “Is it shit?” Ben asked around a mouthful of toast.

  “Dunno yet. I guess we’ll find out later.”

  Stan rolled his shoulders and finally pushed himself away from his desk. For the first time in hours he looked up and almost did a double take at the time. The day had run away from him.

  As was the nature of things in journalism, he’d been pulled in to help out a project for the past few days, meaning his day-to-day work had slipped. He had pages of notes, scribbled in his favourite notebook at the launches he’d been invited to by designers. Those things weren’t easy to get into, and Stan was eager to get his article written up and submitted to Victoria for approval.

  The London fashion world was such an interesting place to be immersed in. Although the haute couture scene existed and operated in pretty much the same way it did in other major fashion cities, the underground, indie artist scene was another world entirely. That world was capturing Stan’s imagination in a way nothing had for a long time, and he wanted to shine a light on the designers working in garages and basements and, in one case, his mother’s attic. Unlike in haute couture fashion, these designers were creating incredible garments with no money, little training, and hardly any facilities. It was fascinating.

  Stan reached for his phone and thumbed in his password to scroll through the list of messages and notifications. At least three missed calls were from Ben, and one “call me” text.

  Stan grinned to himself and hit the button to call Ben back.

  “Hey,” he said, answering after the first ring.

  “Hello. Sorry I missed your call. I’ve been busy.”

  “No worries. I just wanted—I was supposed to be tutoring tonight,” Ben said, slightly breathless. “But they called it off last minute. There’s a band playing at the venue, at the back of the Buck Shot, and I’ve been dying to check them out, if you wanna come with?”

  “Oh,” Stan said. “Um….”

  “I know it’s last minute, but I thought you could just come over straight from work. I can make sure we both get dinner too.”

  “Um, Ben—”

  “I’m sorry. I know you’re probably busy at work.”

  “Ben!” Stan exclaimed, laughing. “I cannot answer you while you are talking.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Shh. I’d like to come. But I don’t have time to go home and get changed.”

  “That’s fine. Wear whatever you went to work in. No one will care.” Stan was quiet for a moment. “Stan?”

  “I’m wearing a dress.” He sounded oddly defiant, even to himself.

  “Oh. I don’t care. Wait—I meant—”

  “I know what you meant,” Stan said. “Others might not be so generous, though.”

  “Stan. I want you to come. If you’re not comfortable, that’s fine. We can do it another time. But please don’t think that what you wear makes any difference to me.”

  “Um. Okay.”

  “Great.”

  Stan said his goodbyes and put the phone down on his desk, then smoothed the silky fabric of his dress over his knees. He wasn’t self-conscious. He’d worn dresses plenty of times before. It was just Ben’s friends—a lot of them worked in the pub, and they hadn’t been introduced officially yet. They probably already thought he was weird.

  For some reason he cared a lot more about Ben’s friends thinking he was weird than any of his work colleagues, or random people on the street thinking he was weird. Not that he would readily admit that out loud. Stan liked to project an aura of not giving a shit about anything.

  For the rest of the afternoon, he answered emails and did research for an article he was working on. He was supposed to be booking models for the shoot that would accompany it, but the photographer kept changing his mind on what he wanted, making the job much harder than it should have been.

  He logged off and waved goodbye to his colleagues at four, wanting to make it across to Camden in time to get some dinner with Ben. Once again, he’d been surviving on green tea all day and his stomach was reminding him—loudly—that it was empty.

  A man on the Tube stared at his bare legs for the entire journey. Stan stood, feeling more in control like this when the trains were busy than he did squashed between people on the seats. With his oversize bag hanging elegantly from one elbow, black, heeled ankle boots on his feet, and big, buggy sunglasses holding his hair back from his face, Stan felt decidedly glamorous. The guy was still a creep for staring though.

  Stan tossed his hair over his shoulder and nudged his sunglasses down onto his nose as he strode out of the station. Ben was outside the pub, leaning against the wall across the road where the smokers congregated. His mouth dropped open as Stan walked up. Flattered, Stan added a little wiggle to his hips as he sauntered over.

  “Holy shit,” Ben muttered. He dropped the cigarette butt and ground it out with the heel of his boot. “You look incredible.”

  Stan laughed. “Thank you. You look pretty good yourself.” He put both his hands on Ben’s chest, spreading his fingers over the soft cotton of the cut-up T-shirt. He leaned in and kissed Ben’s cheek in greeting.

  “Yeah, but seriously….” Ben frowned. “Tone is going to perv on you all night. I hope you know that.”

  “What does ‘perv’ mean?” Stan asked, rubbing away the faint lipstick mark from Ben’s cheek with his thumb.

  “It’s like… to be all lecherous. Looking at you like he wants you.”

  “Well, he can’t have me,” Stan said with a little smile.

  “Good. I’ll make sure he knows that.”

  “What time do the bands start?” Stan asked, secretly liking when Ben reached for his hand and laced their fingers together.

  “Not for half an hour yet. The first one is rubbish, though. I don’t mind if we miss them. Did you eat yet?”

  Stan shook his head.

  “Okay. We should do that.”

  “We don’t have to,” Stan said, even as his stomach growled again at the mention of food.

  “Stan, I need to eat. I don’t mind if you don’t, and I don’t mind if you want to sit in the bar without me. But I haven’t had anything since breakfast, and I’m starving.”

  “Me too,” Stan said in a very small voice. Ben didn’t acknowledge the admission and instead squeezed his hand.

  “So, I was talking to Lena, who’s one of the regulars, and she said there’s a good place down at the Lock, if you’re willing to risk street food.”

  “Sometimes street food is the best you can get.”

  “I completely agree with you,” Ben said, leading them away from the pub and down towards Camden Lock. “How do you feel about spicy food? This place is Thai.”

  “No, I like Thai food. Sounds good to me.”

  Ben squeezed his hand again and swung their joined hands back and forth as they walked the short distance to the rows of food stalls, the smell of a hundred different cuisines mixing in the early evening air.

  The food was served in foil containers, rice piled with some kind of vegetable curry that was made with coconut milk and spices. Instead of traditional seating areas, the Lock was lined with static mopeds and a long bar, so once Ben had collected—and paid for, at his insistence—the food, Stan took a seat gingerly, opting not to swing his leg over the wide leather seat.

  “Are you wearing anything under that?” Ben asked cheekily, wiggling his eyebrows as he pushed one of the foil containers and a fork over to Stan.

  “I’m sure you’d like to know,” Stan told him with a smirk. He dug into the food, gasping at its heat. “Oh wow. This is good.”

  “Mm.”

  As well as being hot, there was a subtle chilli heat to the curry, which left Stan’s mouth tingling. It was delicious—delicately flavoured with lemongrass and ginger and another flavour he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

  “Do you like it?” Stan asked. It was a mostly redundant question—Ben was shovelling the curry into his mouth with great enthusiasm.

  “Yeah. This is good. We should come back here.”

  Stan laughed and delicately speared a snap pea with his plastic fork. Ben was so unashamedly interested—it was nice to be with someone who wasn’t into playing games.

  By the time they’d finished the food and cleared their table space, the sun was starting to set over the city, and Ben once again took Stan’s hand as they walked back up towards the pub. They were both quiet, reflective, and Stan wondered just what it was about this man in particular that made him feel so light, so alive.

  A small, fairly unenthusiastic crowd of people had gathered at the pub, spilling between the bar and the music venue, which had thrown its doors wide open.

  “Ben!” someone yelled, and Ben turned just in time to avoid being barrelled over by Tone, who was wearing a Cult T-shirt and a wide grin.

  “Alright, Tone?” Ben mumbled.

  “And, Stan, right?” Tone asked, holding his hand out for Stan to shake.

  “Yes, hello.”

  “You’re far too good-looking for Ben. If you fancy a bit of rough, I’m sure you can figure out where to find me. ”

  “Fuck off, Tone,” Ben said with a weary sigh and threw his arm around Stan’s shoulder.

  Stan laughed and turned his face against Ben’s chest for a moment, hoping to hide the heat in his cheeks.

  “Ah, you’re alright, me babber,” Tone said, giving Stan a hearty slap on the shoulder before ducking back behind the bar.

  “What on earth does that mean?” Stan whispered as Ben guided them over to the bar, his hand slipping from Stan’s shoulder to the dip in his lower back.

  “It’s Bristolian,” Ben said with a laugh. “You learn to speak it after a while. It’s an affectionate thing, from what I can figure out.”

  Tone let them skip the queue and poured two tall glasses of ale, charging them staff prices even when Stan insisted on handing over the money for the drinks. Ben had paid for dinner.

  “Would you watch mine for a moment?” Stan asked after taking the first, refreshing sip. “I just want to go freshen up.”

  “Of course. The loos are over there.”

  He pointed to a door in the corner, and Stan nodded, quickly moving through the crowd.

  After ducking into the female bathroom, Stan carefully set his bag down on the side of a sink and dug out his make-up bag. Things weren’t too bad, since he’d touched up his make-up before leaving work.

  Instead of reapplying his lipstick, Stan rubbed it away with a tissue and replaced it with a little touch of concealer, blending the colour to hide the rawness on his lips from the curry. If they were going to have a few drinks tonight, and maybe kiss a bit too, Stan didn’t want to have to worry about the colour rubbing off.

  He quickly fluffed up his hair, spritzed himself with a light cologne, and checked the dress for any marks or stains. It was a shift-style T-shirt dress, made with a fairly stiff satin fabric. Over the white background, huge brightly coloured flowers completed for space. It was one of Stan’s favourite dresses, one he’d been given by the designer after he’d worked on a shoot for them.

  A girl came into the bathroom behind him, nodded, and ducked into a stall. He nodded back, making eye contact in the mirror, then washed his hands and left. For a while now, he’d felt safer using the female bathrooms when he was out in public. Most of the time, the girls didn’t mind him being in there, even when they could see that he was a boy.

  The men, on the other hand, too frequently took exception to how he dressed.

  Ben was looking slightly worried when Stan eased himself back into the space between Ben and the bar. Instead of saying anything, not when these words were still so unfamiliar to him, Stan leaned up and pressed a small kiss to Ben’s cheek.

  “You look incredible,” Ben said, leaning down to whisper the words into Stan’s ear.

  “I think you told me that already.”

  “It bears repeating.” He straightened and tucked a lock of Stan’s long, blond hair back behind his ear. “The next band is starting in a minute. Do you want to go in?”

  Stan nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Okay. Come on.”

  The second band was good, the third very good, although Stan found himself spending an equal amount of time watching the musicians and the man he was with. They stood off to the side, and Ben kept a part of his body in contact with Stan’s nearly all the time. It was affectionate, yet not overwhelming, and Stan felt himself relaxing against Ben’s slim torso.

  By the time the venue started to empty out, it was creeping up to eleven o’ clock, and Stan, who had been awake since five that morning, was yawning.

  “Let me walk you back to the Tube station,” Ben said.

  “Okay.” It was easy to agree. Stan led the way this time, out onto the main road, where cars whizzed past at breakneck speed. A light rain had just started to fall over the city, and they ducked into the cover of the Tube station.

  “Thank you so much for bringing me out tonight. I think I needed it.”

  “Anytime.” Ben hesitated, and Stan wondered if he was going to be invited somewhere else again, so quickly after their date. “I’ll give you a call soon, yeah?”

  “I’d like that.”

  He let Ben kiss him goodbye, a sweet, lingering kiss with fingertips that gently clutched his hip bones. Stan forced himself to leave before Ben offered something more… something Stan wasn’t sure he would be able to refuse.

  The Tube journeys had become meditative already, even after such a short time in the city. Stan tuned out and got lost either in his imagination or in the echoes of music that filled his head while he reclined on one of the narrow seats, long legs stretched out in front of him.

  Thoughts of the evening lingered in his head—the thick, cloggy air in the music venue, the thumping bassline he could feel through his feet, the warm reassurance of Ben leading him through the very new experience. This was so different to anything he’d had before. Not even in New York, where he’d discovered his independence and lost his virginity, had he felt so alive.

  It took a little over half an hour to complete the journey, forty-five minutes by the time he walked past Bow Church to his apartment complex. Heavy-lidded and with aching limbs, Stan forced himself to take the stairs instead of the elevator and slipped inside his precious flat.

  In here, things were just the way he liked them, his little cocoon safe from the world. Stan kicked off his heels, leaving them by the door, and walked barefoot through to the kitchen to make his habitual last cup of tea before bed.

  It was much later than he would normally stay out, especially since he had work in the morning. Something about this kind of spontaneous night out felt very London—throwing caution to the wind and doing whatever he liked.

  With the radio providing background noise, Stan took his tea through to the bathroom and showered with the cup balanced on the edge of the bath. Eyes closed, Stan let his hands trace the contours of his body, mapping out what each bone felt like under its thin covering of skin. This was how he measured himself; not with a tape or clothes or on a scale, but what his body felt like. He was putting on a little weight, around his middle and on his hips. He tried not to care and sipped some more of his tea before thoroughly washing his hair.