Love, Hart

The thing Hart hated most about being a twin was his brother. 

That’s not true. 

For the most part Hart loved Nate, really, he did. It’s just that two weeks ago, after being gushingly informed by a woman at work that she had a gay nephew who had just moved to Manchester, Nate had done as Nate was wont to do. He’d dropped Hart in it. Because what was the point of having a gay brother if you couldn’t strong-arm him into a blind date with a random 27-year-old from London to curry favour with a 68-year-old woman in the finance department? And obviously these two people with next to nothing in common would somehow have relatives who were compatible, and the whole thing would turn out peaches and cream. After all, it is a fact universally acknowledged that the only two gay blokes you know are perfect for each other. Of course, this wasn’t the first time Nate had done this to him. In pursuit of a suitable partner for his sad and lonely brother, Nate had already set Hart up with every gay guy he knew, some very-much-not-gay-actually guys he barely knew, and memorably a butch lesbian who went by Alex and thought the whole thing was hilarious. After the last spectacular failure (Charlie, 26, works in HR for a microbrewery, hates dogs, despises politics, thought Hart was joking about being an author,) Hart had point blank refused to go on any more dates. And he had stuck by that…for like, 3 whole weeks. Until Nate did that thing siblings do where they promise that you’ll do something, and then make out that you’re a terrible brother for not doing it, and effectively back you into this horrible corner where your only options are ‘do the thing’ or ‘make your brother out to be a lying asshole’. And whilst Nate absolutely was an asshole, he was not a liar.

So here he was, less than two months from deadline. On a night where he could have been writing, or at least watching TV and thinking about writing, Hart was waiting for a man he had no interest in meeting, in a bar he had no desire to be in, on a holiday he hated. Having a blind date on Valentine’s Day was a little bit like having facial surgery on Halloween, you were definitely on theme, just in the least comfortable way. Hart fought the urge to check his watch again. He didn’t know what this guy looked like, all he knew was his name was Lovell (terrible name if you asked him) and he wasn’t one for punctuality. Lovell had surpassed ‘fashionably late’ about 10 minutes ago and was now hovering around ‘utter piss-take territory.’ Hart took another sip of his drink and regretted not buying a double. This was absolutely typical of his life, stood-up by a man he hadn’t even wanted to meet. A man whose face he didn’t know, but who could have come in here, seen him, and decided to leave posthaste. Maybe he’d even gotten close, close enough to notice how one of Hart’s eyes was a little bigger than the other? Or maybe he’d seen Hart check his watch and realized he still bit his nails at almost 30? Maybe he was one of those guys who was really into clothes, and he’d taken one look at Hart’s chino / t-shirt / shirt combination and decided they weren’t a good match? Or maybe he’d been early, and Hart hadn’t realized, and they’d both been sitting alone at tables in the same bar, and Lovell thought Hart was really late? God, what if he’d already told his aunt that Hart was late, and she thought he was massively inconsiderate, and took it out on Nate? And then this whole miserable evening would have been for nothing, worse than nothing, and Hart would still have been stood up by a guy he didn’t even want to meet. Anxiety made him sick and hot, buzzing through his veins. There were so many reasons someone might have rejected him, and the longer he sat here alone the harder they were to ignore. Hart could imagine himself, in his mind’s eye, like a troll sitting in a cave, all misshapen and gangly. Too large, and too angular, with legs too long, and eyes the kind of uncomfortable bright blue that novelists always made sound attractive, but which, in real life, just made him look alien. He finished the last of his drink, replacing the glass on the table. 

“Buy you another?” 

Hart looked up sharply. A man stood on the other side of the table. He was tall, pushing 6ft, with a mess of wind-swept auburn hair, and coffee dark eyes. He was angularly beautiful, with a strong nose, and a full mouth. He was the kind of person who got scouted by modelling agencies on holiday. Hart swallowed against a suddenly dry throat. 

“Lovell?” He had to shout a little over the music. The man cringed, as he shrugged out of a smart grey overcoat.

“Yes, sorry. I know I'm terribly late. I got caught up in a meeting and-” he cut himself off, looking abashed, “I’m making excuses. I’m really sorry.”

Lovell perched on the end of the booth, unwinding a long scarf. It looked hand-knitted, and soft.

“It’s ok.” Hart found himself muttering, absorbed by the beauty of the man in front of him. Lovell cringed again.

“It isn’t really. It was shitty. Let me buy you a drink? Make up for it?” Hart considered saying no. Leaving things on this note. Lovell was late, it was shitty, he could go home unrejected. Alternatively, he lets Lovell buy him a drink, he sees how things go… he vastly reduces the likelihood of going home unrejected. Lovell levelled a smile at him, and the bar around them became a few degrees brighter.

“Ok,” Hart relented.

“Ok.” Lovell repeated, his smile growing, his eyes combing over Hart’s face in a way that made him feel bare. In his anxiety induced fog Hart didn’t so much order, as mumble something about being happy with whatever. He watched as Lovell crossed to the bar, immediately drew the attention of a bartender, and ordered in record time. He exuded confidence, the kind of sure-footed certainty that other people noticed. It should have made Hart nervous, that kind of easy social aptitude had always heralded difficult break-ups in the past. The kind of people that cheated on you, and still managed to take the entire friendship group with them. The kind of man who tells you you’re both boring and unmortgage-able, and you both pretend that explains why his bags are packed and he’s leaving you to cover both halves of the rent with no notice.

“I went for the cocktail of the week,” Lovell said, sliding a highball glass of sparkly pink something towards him. 

“Thank you,” Hart said on instinct, he peered into the top of the glass, “what is it?” 

Lovell swigged his own raspberry coloured cocktail before he replied.

“The board called it a Swipe Right, I think it’s vodka.” 

Hart braved a mouthful of his own drink. Vodka seemed right; vodka, lemonade, and something that was definitely meant to be berry-themed in flavour, although it was impossible to tell which berry.

“So…” Lovell started. He seemed unsure which direction he wanted to go in from there. They lapsed into an awkward silence.

“What was the meeting?” Hart tried; it was an easy opening. Jobs were the kind of thing you could small talk about.

“Oh,” Lovell seemed embarrassed again, “It wasn’t even that important. I just totally lost track of time; we were brainstorming some marketing options for a book we have coming out in a few months. The deadline for last edits is in a few weeks, and we think it could be a huge seller. It’s his second book, but his first did way better than we thought it would.” 

Lovell was enthusiastic, his tone flippant, but oddly emphatic. He drew huge out to at least three syllables. Hart’s curiosity was piqued, he wondered who it was. His own debut novel had come out almost 18 months ago, the first in a series. He’d been worried it wouldn’t find its audience, but apparently ‘James Bond but racially diverse and queer’ was a gap in the market.

“You’re in publishing?” Sometimes the best question was the rhetorical question.

“Yeah, yeah. That’s why I moved. Birdhouse, I don’t know if you know publishing, they’re a big 4?” 

Hart’s pulse spiked. Birdhouse was his publisher. He considered cutting in, but Lovell was in full swing, excitedly chattering in a way Hart was loath to interrupt. 

“I used to work in London, but they just set up a new office in Manchester and offered me a promotion. It’s all quite exciting actually; new Northern office, proper expansion, varied talent, new opportunities. I think it’s going to be really good for the company. Plus, we have some amazing authors based up here, and now we can be way more hands on, without them having to travel down to London.” 

Hart considered asking him just how ‘hands on’ he wanted to be with their authors. It occurred to him that Nate might not have shared his name. Admittedly, Hart knew basically nothing about what regulations Birdhouse might have on staff / author fraternization, but he was concerned that his being here might be the kind of thing that could get Lovell in trouble. He took a nervous swig of his drink, bolstering his courage, and then asked a deeply awkward question.

“Sorry to like, put you on the spot, but uh, do you not know my name?” Lovell’s smile shrank, and his cheeks flared pink. 

“I don’t, no, but I really thought I was getting away with it.” To his credit, he sounded embarrassed.

“You were, or you would’ve it’s only. Well, confession time I guess, but Birdhouse is my publisher.”

Oh, that got his attention. Lovell’s head shot up, a look of mortification on his face, his eyes wide. After a moment Lovell dropped his head into his hands.

“Please, God, tell me you’re joking.”

“No, I’m not,” Hart smiled when Lovell finally dropped his hands, “sorry.”

“No. Gosh, no, don’t you apologize. I showed up almost 40 minutes late, implied you knew nothing about an industry you obviously know a bit about, and inadvertently revealed that I didn’t know your name. If anyone should be apologizing, it should be me. I am so sorry; I have made a complete hems of this.” 

His cheeks were still flaming. It cut through some of the suave confidence, made him look more human. 

“It’s ok, if it’s any consolation you're still doing way better than the last guy I went on a date with.” 

Lovell smiled through his embarrassment.

“I am absolutely going to ask you about that, but first I think we should probably do some proper introductions,” he took a deep breath, “My name is Lovell Darling, everyone calls me Love.”  

For the second time in as many minutes Hart’s pulse skipped a beat. He almost choked on his surprise. He’d assumed, largely because of the nickname, that the person in charge of marketing for the Leo Scarlett series was a woman. They’d been emailing for months, from when book 1 was a faint glow on the horizon, to now, when he was basking in the full noon-sun of authorship. And seeing as l.darling@birdhouse_publishing.co.uk (AKA. Best wishes, Love) had been variably sick, on holiday, and stuck in a lift during Hart’s three treks down to London to discuss the first book, he’d had no evidence to the contrary.

“No fucking way.”

“What?” Love was visibly baffled, eyebrows pulling together in the middle. Hart couldn’t respond for a moment, laughter bubbled through him. It had a hysterical edge he did nothing to curb. He allowed himself a few seconds to giggle, and then he put Love out of his misery.

“It’s nice to finally meet you in person, Love. I’m Hart Richardson.”

Hart did nothing to hide his amusement, a smirk growing as Love’s eyes widened to a comic extent.

“You’re shitting me.” 

He went about 4 degrees more East London.

“Nope.”

Hart was grinning now. This date had gone from pure awkwardness, to ‘at least it’s a good story’ awkwardness, and Hart was all about good stories. Love was at a loss for words, he stared at Hart, swept his eyes like fingers across his cheeks. Blood rose to the surface, staining Hart’s cheeks red. Love was the kind of beautiful that made you self-conscious, and he was fairly self-conscious to begin with.

“You can’t be Hart Richardson.”

Love announced, after a pregnant pause in conversation. Hart barked a laugh.

“I very much can be, in fact,” He fished his wallet out of his back pocket, and withdrew his driver’s license, handing it over. Love shuffled in closer to view it under the dim light hanging over the table. There was less than a foot of red pleather separating them now. The license only confused Love more.

“But you’re hot. Properly hot too, not just nerdy hot.” 

Hart’s cheeks flamed. Embarrassment and indignation tussled inside of him.

“Thanks? Was I not meant to be?”

He asked, because he just couldn’t help himself. It did occur to him this was a ‘gift horse in the mouth’ situation, but Hart was a glutton for brutal honesty.

“No,” Love realized what he’d implied too late, “God. Sorry. I’m a mess tonight, I just meant- I mean, when you refused to do the cover photo, I thought you were… shy?”

Hart raised an eyebrow in response, his smirk tensing at the corners. There was a natural ease here. Nothing had felt so comfortable since his first date with Daniel, who’d turned out to be a pathological liar. Still, Hart found himself wanting to play along.

“You can say it,” he kept his tone light, a laugh in the words, “you thought I was ugly and self-aware.”

“No, no,” Love came back quickly and emphatically, “not ugly just like… you thought your face didn’t match the book. But it does, I mean, so well. Gay Bond vibes? Completely. If you don’t mind my asking, why were you so against it?”

Hart shrugged, abashed by Love’s words, even more so by the warmth of his gaze. They were sitting so close together now that he could feel his breath on his face. In the darkness, speaking to someone he’d technically known for over a year, it was easy to be vulnerable.

“I don’t know, I think I was just worried that if the book flopped, I didn’t want my face attached to it.”

It was more admission than anything, another confession between them.

“You thought the book would flop?”

Love’s voice dropped, his eyes open, his mouth sympathetic. Hart found his eyes caught on that mouth, the plushness of the lower lip, the arch of the cupid’s bow. If they’d met all those months ago, what would tonight look like? He itched to touch Love. Hart lightly punched his shoulder, felt the warmth and the firmness of a well-muscled body.

“No, you thought the book would flop. You weren’t as subtle as you think either, all those emails about managing my expectations.”

It was easy now, all eyebrows and glances at lips.

“I resent your implication, Richardson.”

Breathy.

“I resented your lack of faith, Darling.”

Flirty.

“I’d apologize again, but I’ve done a lot of that so far tonight.”

Closer together now, close enough that Hart could smell the sandalwood in Love’s cologne.

“You don’t need to apologize, I’m joking. You did a great job.”

Softness, honesty.

“You made it easy. It was a great book.”

Matching smiles.

“Thanks.”

Blood rush.

“Are you blushing?”

Another sock to the shoulder, lingering this time.

“Oh, shove off. It’s just nice to hear.”

Hand catching his, fingers intertwined.

“Can I make a confession, seeing as you did earlier?”

What’s another, between them?

“Shoot.”

A bashful smile.

“When we first started emailing, I had a bit of a crush on you.”

So close now Hart could smell the berry liqueur on Love’s breath.

“Really? But you thought I was ugly?”

A return sock to the shoulder, two burning points of contact. Knuckles against shirt, and hand against hand.

“I never thought that. And anyway, it was one of those imaginary crushes where you picture this whole pretend life. You know what I mean?”

Hart could imagine them at a breakfast bar on Sunday mornings, coffee and croissants between them, the light streaming in through large windows, setting Love’s reddish hair alight.

“I know exactly what you mean.”

Eyes focused on the hand in his, thumb over knuckles,

“This is better though,” Hart looks up, meets Love’s eyes, sees in them a similar intoxication, both of them drunk on the other, “Even in my wildest fantasies I don’t think I could come up with you. Is that too much?”

It should have been. It wasn’t.

“I’m good with too much.”

Another confession. Last of the night.

“We should get out of here.”

So close now he’d almost said it against Hart’s lips.

“Why?”

Flesh on flesh, the space between them hardly enough to breath,

“PDA on Valentine’s Day, it's a bit of a cliché.”

Hart grinned against Love’s lips.

“I write spy novels; clichés are kind of my thing.”

Lips against lips, the taste of artificial berry doubled. Soft, an introduction to each other, another confession. A joint one. Or a promise, that for tonight, at least, they belonged to each other.