Author: Steph

Title: Birthday Boy

Rating: PG-13

Author's note: Much thanks to Alexis for the quick as lightening beta. It proved very useful. This story is kind of an AU from both my series "Sherlock Jones" and also the story "Ruminations of a Could-Have Been" which briefly mentions the situation. It could be taken as part of either story, or simply stand on its own, whichever you'd prefer.

Also note, I think I imagined the house wrong, so for this particular story, Vince's room in Hazel's house is on the first floor (either that, or Stuart's learned to fly!) and also, Vince's birthday is somewhere around late November or early December.

Feedback: Yes, please! I like to print it out and roll around in it
a la Scrooge McDuck. Make me happy!

Disclaimers: QaF, the series, characters and concepts are the property, copyright and trademark of RTD and Channel Four. No ownership is claimed by the author, this work is non-profit, non-commercial and not for sale and may not be reproduced or sold for commercial purposes. Characters and situations not specifically owned by the creators of QaF are the sole copyright of the author.

Summary: AU based on a scene from "Sherlock Jones" and, originally, "Ruminations of a Could-Have-Been." Stuart forgets about Vince's seventeenth birthday, and then swans off at the party to shag two blokes in the bathrooms. The fic takes place as soon as Vince gets home from the party. That's really all the necessary background info you need.


Vince didn’t waste any time bounding into his room when he and Hazel entered the house.

“Vince…” Hazel tried.

“I don’t want to talk about it!” Vince yelled before slamming his door shut. As soon as the bounce of wood on wood reverberated throughout the room, he cringed. Cautiously, he opened the door and stuck his head out. Hazel stood across the hall. “Mum…”

“It’s alright, Vince,” she forgave him, a small, reassuring smile on her face.

He didn’t respond, only closed the door carefully and leaned his forehead against it. He took three deep breaths and squeezed his eyes shut briefly, then pushed away and walked across the room. He upended his bag of birthday presents and sifted through them until he found the copy of *Alien* his mum bought him. He’d seen it twice at the cinema when it originally came out, and had hired it dozens of times since then, but it was still one of his favourites. He reckoned if he ever fancied a woman, it would be someone like Sigourney Weaver.

Hoping for a distraction from his terrible night, he slipped the video into his VCR and slapped the play button. He changed into his flannel pajama bottoms and a white shirt during all the rubbish before the movie, and then crawled up on his bed. For nearly half an hour, he pretended to concentrate on the film before giving up all pretenses and muting the telly.

Vince wrapped himself up tightly in his duvet. A moment later, he was horrified to feel hot tears stinging the corners of his eyes. They slid over his nose and down his smooth cheek, landing somewhere near his right ear. Jamming the heels of his hands against his eyes, he cursed at himself. He just turned seventeen, for fuck’s sake. He wasn’t allowed to cry anymore, like some fussy child. Stuart was right. Saddest bastard in the entire world, that was Vince.

But it hurt so much, watching Stuart cop off, not with one, but two blokes. He could forget about it on any other day, and ruthlessly quell the pain or jealousy he felt when Stuart left him alone in order to shag. It’s only…today was his *birthday*, and he’d thought…so stupid now that he looked back, but he thought that meant something. Thought it meant he’d have Stuart to himself for the whole day, possibly the last time that would ever happen. Could he be a bigger twat?

Why did he assume something little like his birthday would stop Stuart from copping off in Via Fossa, of all places? ‘Cos he doesn’t care, Stuart. He’s a right fucking bastard without feelings for anyone except himself.

He’d forgotten the day completely, Vince knew. He could see it on his face when he entered Vince’s house earlier that day and saw all the balloons and things from Hazel and Bernie. He looked bemused for a moment, then guilty, and finally blank again, the emotions flitting by so quickly across his face that Vince was sure he’d been the only one to notice.

He’d hugged Vince warmly and whispered happy birthday. Not wanting him to feel awkward about forgetting--after all, school was a bit hectic, and Stuart busied himself doing all sorts, not the least of which included heading to Canal Street four or five nights a week—Vince blathered on and endlessly on about this wrapped pressie and that one, making it seem as though he hadn’t expected anything. Stuart either fell for Vince’s ploy, or else decided to go along with it, because he acted normally.

Vince didn’t really care about the present anyway. He already got LOADS from his mum, and his dad had sent him fifty quid in the mail. The last two birthdays since he’d met Stuart had been so brilliant, just the two of them together all day. He’d looked forward to this day for months, and what did Stuart do? Fucked off after ten minutes. He spotted a completely gorgeous bloke in a tight black shirt and even tighter jeans, and then eventually pulled the lanky, eager looking dark-haired man he’d seen Vince eyeing when they first entered.

Vince should have known. Ever since discovering the carnal wonders of Canal Street, he saw Stuart three, maybe four times a week outside of school at the most. Stuart grew up too much in the last year to bother with balloons and birthday cake, and Vince was an utter twat for entertaining the belief that he’d consider this day any different than all the others.

It had crept up on him for months, this feeling that he and Stuart were growing apart. Stuart was destined for something bigger than Vince could ever hope to be. It made his throat ache to realize that the two of them, their unlikely friendship, couldn’t last forever. He tried to ignore the warning signs: Stuart didn’t call him as often, and when he did it was to report on some fantastic shag he’d pulled or to invite him down to Canal Street. He snapped at Vince more than usual and proclaimed his boredom at staying in and watching telly like they used to.

When Stuart first came to Manchester from Dublin, it shocked Vince out of his mind that Stuart picked him out of everyone. Instead of the girls who wanted to giggle and hold his hand, and the blokes who wanted to dress and act like him, he’d chosen the quiet, wide-eyed boy in the corner holding a copy of *The Restaurant at the End of the Universe*. Unbelievable. Vince STILL had trouble after almost three years, and maybe that’s what made it so easy to believe that it was over.

Regardless, the way Vince had acted earlier that day—his face flamed red at the thought. He’d thrown a tantrum like a jealous girlfriend, and caused a row where there needn’t have been one. He could still remember the way Stuart circled his arms around his waist and purred, “Give us a dance, birthday boy” into his ear after he’d finished with those two men. By that time though, Vince felt furious and hurt and humiliated. His stomach had plunged down around his knees. The whole night seemed like his worst fear coming to fruition. He should have given in and danced with Stuart instead of making the scene he did.

If he kept acting up that way, letting his feelings show, Stuart would know how much Vince fancied him, and Vince couldn’t stand that. He realized years ago, after their disastrous near-wank, that he couldn’t ever let Stuart find out. His claim that he would never get a boyfriend or settle down only strengthened Vince’s resolve on that subject. If Stuart did find out, he’d leave for sure.

Still though, even knowing he should calm down, his throat tightened and his eyes blurred at the recollection of Stuart slipping into the bathroom, the two men trailing behind him. It *hurt*, as much as it shouldn’t have, because Vince had no right to expect anything better from Stuart.

A light, familiar tapping coming from the front door pulled Vince from his thoughts. Stuart used the same knock often, because it was quiet enough not to wake his mum or Bernie upstairs, but could still be heard by Vince. Vince ignored it this time, though, and instead concentrated on breathing in and out, in and out. He knew from experience that if he didn’t answer the door, Stuart would try his bedroom window next. Working quickly, he hopped out of bed and flicked the clasp to lock the window, then he un-muted the telly and shut off the lights. He dived into bed, his back facing the window, a moment before he heard the telltale sounds of Stuart’s shoes cracking the twigs and bushes that lined his house.

The tapping there wasn’t any louder than at the front door, but now Vince could feel Stuart’s dark blue eyes boring into him from behind the plane of glass. He pretended to sleep, but he winced and bit his lip harder with each quiet entreaty from Stuart. He clutched the duvet in an effort not to get up and let him in like nearly every part of his body screamed for him to do. It was unnatural, him ignoring Stuart this way, and all of his muscles were taut and aching from the denial.

The first quiet, “Vince…!” came through the thin glass. It reached his ears over the sounds of his video on the telly, and he exhaled a loud, shaky breath, happy Stuart wouldn’t be able to see it because he hid under his navy duvet and the shroud of darkness.

Vince knew he only had to hold on a minute or two more. Stuart wouldn’t be bothered to try any longer than that. As he suspected, Stuart made two more whispered commands for his attention, and several more taps, each increasingly more persistent, and then gave up.

Vince heard the crushed shrubs announcing Stuart’s departure, and his body relaxed into the mattress. For one panicked moment, he thought ‘What if that’s the last time I ever see him?’ Then reason returned and he remembered they had school together everyday. Anytime Vince needed to look at the smooth, sharp planes of Stuart’s face or the contrasting soft, inky curls on his head he could. He had only to turn his head in class.

Sleep came easily then, the emotionally taxing day taking its toll on his body.

***

He slept heavily; waking only once at around two-thirty to shut off the telly, because the movie had ended and the loud crackle of static snow had polluted the room. He slept so soundly, in fact, that he woke the next morning to someone crawling under the blankets with him. He didn’t need to open his eyes to know Stuart sidled up beside him, his trouser-clad legs intertwining with Vince’s flannel-clad ones.

In the winter his house was always cold because his mum never had enough dosh to run the heat very high, so the jumper covered arms that went around his middle and the warm breath that coasted over his neck felt absolutely brilliant. Usually, an awakening like that would chuff him to bits. That day, it made him stiffen within the snug, comfortable embrace. On one hand, Stuart was THERE, in Vince’s house where he belonged. On the other, Vince still couldn’t look at him without wanting to cry.

Stuart noticed his reticence and only clung tighter. “Morning, Vince, you lazy sod. It’s nearly noon.”

He must have used the key under the mat to get in. Hazel and Bernie went off to the town center for Bingo at ten on Sundays, and wouldn’t be back until tea. Usually, his mum woke him before they left, but she must have thought Vince could use the sleep.

“Hiya, Stuart,” he responded, his voice barely a whisper murmured wearily against Stuart’s hairline.

“I came here looking for you yesterday,” Stuart said.

“Oh?” Vince replied in a failed attempt to sound surprised.

As he expected, Stuart didn’t buy it a moment. “Why didn’t you let me in?”

Vince shrugged as best he could within Stuart’s hold. “I felt knackered last night, that’s all.”

“So we could have gone to sleep,” he answered.

Suddenly, the nonchalance with which Stuart treated the whole situation infuriated him. Vince’s whole world felt like it was falling all around him, a shower of brick and ash, and Stuart didn’t even care. He pushed out of Stuart’s hold and off the bed. The air felt so cold that the hair on his arms stood up. He wrapped them protectively around himself and searched the floor for the jumper he’d taken to wearing around the house. He hauled it on over his white shirt and felt a bit better.

To busy himself, he tidied his presents on the floor while Stuart watched from the bed, his head propped up on one hand.

“I’ve really got loads to do today,” Vince said, not looking at Stuart.

“Bollocks, Vince. It’s Sunday.”

“I know, but I have homework, like. I didn’t do any all this week because I was too exci…busy with other things.”

Something flickered across Stuart’s face, but Vince refused to look at him long enough to identify it. “We could do our homework together,” Stuart answered stubbornly.

“I’d rather not. I mean, we never get anything done when we say we will, and I have this Chemistry test coming up. It’s going to be brutal. I should study.”

He walked briskly to the bathroom with Stuart trailing behind him.

“Vince…” he started seriously.

“And,” Vince went on loudly, cutting off what Stuart tried to say, “I’m not feeling very well. I thought maybe it was those four gin and tonics last night, but my throat’s sore too. I might be coming down with something. You’ll get sick if you stay.”

Stuart leaned against the doorframe. “I don’t fucking care,” he replied.

Vince concentrated all his attention on the careful layering of toothpaste on the bristles of his toothbrush. He quickly scrubbed his teeth, and rinsed his mouth out. When he finished, he stared down at the water running from the tap.

“You should leave.”

He moved passed a frozen Stuart and headed towards the front door. His hands shook violently. He scooped up Stuart’s jacket draped over the banister and held it out for him.

“Here you go,” he said.

“Vince…” Stuart tried again, eyeing him carefully.

“It’s nothing, yeah? I’m busy, that’s all. And not feeling good, and I’m still well knackered. I’ll see you in school tomorrow, right?”

Stuart took the coat and then snatched one of Vince’s trembling hands in his before Vince could pull it away, linking their fingers together. Vince closed his eyes and swallowed.

“I want to see you now,” Stuart said persuasively.

Vince’s hand clutched Stuart’s desperately for a moment. Then he ripped it away and opened the front door. He turned his back to Stuart and said with false brightness, “Don’t forget to do your maths homework, or Mr. Fredericks will be pissed. Get home safe.”

He walked back to his room, and without turning to look, shut his door. He slid down gracelessly, all of the adrenaline and anger controlling his actions leaving his body with a single breath. He pressed his ear against the dark wood and waited until he heard the sound of the front door closing before he relaxed.

He shuffled on his knees to the foot of his bed and rooted under it until he felt his collection of cassette tapes. He pulled the box out and looked through it, finding his current favourite one, “Meat is Murder” by The Smiths.

Stuart hated The Smiths. He said Morrissey was a boring, depressed cunt, and he couldn’t stand listening to him whinging song after song. He liked louder, sharper, faster music like The Clash and The Sex Pistols and that lot. Vince thought Morrissey was brilliant, but he never said so in front of Stuart, who changed the station whenever “Heaven Knows” played on the radio.

Vince put the tape in his cassette player and pressed the play button. He made sure to hold it down. His mum bought the radio for him on sale and it tended to stick. After a few seconds of clever rewinding and fast forwarding to find the right place, Vince felt satisfied. Without his mum or Bernie home, he didn’t hesitate to blast the music, turning his volume up to ten, smiling when the first strains of “How Soon Is Now?” began.

He stood up and closed his eyes, willing his racing mind to fill with the music. He did his best to block out any thought of Stuart and lost best mates, and instead focused on Morrissey’s smooth, tortured voice.

“I am the son and heir of nothing in particular,” Vince sang, his voice drowned out by the loud music. That was his favourite bit, because he’d sang it wrong for ages, until he’d looked at the lyrics.

Tentatively, he let his hips swing back and forth, dancing alone to the mildly depressing song. He swayed through the long musical interlude.

Just as the line, “There’s a club if you’d like to go” started, Vince felt arms wrap around his waist. His whole body jumped and he screamed. The music had been so loud that he hadn’t heard Stuart enter the room.

Stuart’s right arm disentangled momentarily to turn the music down to a more normal level, and then replaced itself.

“I thought I told you to leave,” Vince said, but his words held no heat. He’d used up all his resolve opening the front door, and couldn’t summon any more with Stuart wrapped around him and the sting of embarrassment at being caught in that intimate moment making his whole body flush. Vince could deny Stuart nothing, after all. Not for long.

“Next year,” Stuart said, ignoring Vince’s comment. “Eighteen, yeah? We’ll have the biggest and best fucking party anyone’s ever seen. It’ll be brilliant, a night to remember.”

“Yeah,” Vince replied sadly. Inwardly, he questioned whether or not he’d still be talking to Stuart by his eighteenth birthday.

“You like The Smiths?” Stuart asked abruptly.

“A bit,” Vince admitted.

“Why didn’t you ever say?” he asked.

Vince shrugged within Stuart’s hold. “You always slag them off.”

“But that doesn’t mean…” Stuart stopped himself. “I didn’t know you liked them.”

Vince moved to stop the tape, but Stuart tugged him back.

“Don’t,” he said. “It’s not bad.”

Vince broke out of Stuart’s hold and gave him an odd look before switching the radio off. He wrapped his arms around himself, the combination of cold, anxiety and awkwardness making him shiver.

“I shouldn’t have swanned off on you like I did,” Stuart admitted.

Vince almost laughed. The closest Stuart would probably ever come to an apology, and he couldn’t accept it.

“’S alright,” he muttered, staring at the ground, “I understand.”

He glanced up quickly to see Stuart’s brow furrow.

“Understand what?”

“That we’re, you know, different. Not meant to be friends. It was stupid to think…”

“Vince?” Stuart said, and his voice sounded funny, higher than usual.

“We’re just different.”

“That’s not true,” Stuart argued. “We’re exactly the same.”

Vince pushed out a self-deprecating, mirthless laugh and shook his head. “Because we’re both queer? Please Stuart, you’ve seen Canal Street. We come in all shapes, sizes and types. I’m all birthday parties, balloons and science fiction while you’re shagging men two at a time in the bathrooms at Via Fossa. Who’ve I had? That one bloke in Penzance nearly six months ago. I don’t expect you to hang about with me forever.”

“Vince, you’re talking bollocks,” Stuart said, his voice rising exponentially. He took a step forward.

“Still though,” Vince continued, running a bare foot over the pale, worn carpeting, “we’ve had a laugh.”

“No,” Stuart protested. “Nononono.” He closed the space between them and lifted Vince’s chin up. “Is that what this was about? Is that what you thought this was about?”

He didn’t wait for Vince to reply, instead he wrapped his arms possessively around Vince’s shoulders, nestling his face into the crook of Vince’s neck. “I’m such a twat. You are too, mind,” he declared, pulling back a bit to look at Vince, “but this time it’s mostly me. It was a mistake, a stupid, thoughtless mistake. I saw those two blokes and they were both so *nice*, so I said, ‘Why not?’ I didn’t think…” He paused to take a deep breath. “We’re gonna get a flat together when we’re done with university. Right on Canal Street, like we talked about. It’ll be fab. We’ll go out every night and shag loads of beautiful men. You and me, Vince, and fuck the rest of the world.”

Vince sighed, feeling some of his anxiety melt away as the breath left him. Stuart sounded so serious, so stubbornly sure of himself, that Vince couldn’t help but believe it too. He relaxed into Stuart’s embrace and Stuart shifted his stance, steadied and balanced the extra weight. Vince hesitantly wound his arms around Stuart’s waist, and Stuart pulled him even closer.

“You’re a right bastard,” Vince mumbled into his shoulder.

“I know,” he agreed easily. “But you love me anyway.”

Vince didn’t respond. He couldn’t deny that immutable fact.

After a few moments, Stuart asked, “Was that *Alien* I saw playing last night?”

“Yeah, my mum bought it for me.”

“What else did she get you?” he questioned. He ran a hand down Vince’s back, an act that served to simultaneously calm Vince and soothe away even more of his fears.

“Loads,” he responded. “Too much, I think. Don’t know how she afforded it.”

“Vince, you’re the only person on Earth who would complain about his mother buying him too *much* for his birthday,” Stuart replied affectionately.

“It’s true,” Vince insisted. “Don’t bother telling her that though.” He paused a moment, then admitted, “She did get me some “Doctor Who” tapes. I haven’t watched them, but they’re sure to be brilliant. Very rare.”

Stuart stepped away from Vince and shot him a critical look. “How long?”

“Oh, five or six hours, at least.” Vince couldn’t stop the excited grin that split his face.

Stuart sighed long-sufferingly. “I suppose I know what we’re doing the rest of the day, then. Go on, get the tapes. We’ll watch in the living room where the telly’s bigger.”

Vince lunged for his bag excitedly. Stuart never agreed to watch “Doctor Who” without more of a struggle. He knew guilt propelled his friend’s actions--Stuart trying to apologize without saying the words--but he could still take advantage of the situation.

They sat companionably side by side as the first tape started. Vince rubbed his arms through his jumper. Even with it on, he still felt the chill of the cold outside. Stuart noticed his fussing, and gestured to him.

“Come here, Vince.”

He looked questioningly back at him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he said, “come here, you bloody twat.” He reached his hand out and grabbed Vince by his jumper, hauling him down to his lap.

“Ow!” Vince cried when the side of his head crashed into Stuart’s knee. “What in the bleeding hell…”

The afghan lying along the couch came down around him, and Stuart’s fingers trailed through his slightly floppy brown hair.

“Oh,” Vince whispered.

“Yeah, ‘oh,’” Stuart snarled. Then after a moment, he grudgingly asked, “Better?”

“Yes,” Vince admitted. Stuart’s hand slipped and brushed softly against the tip of Vince’s ear. He shivered.

For a brief, sickening moment, Vince got an image of the rest of his life; following Stuart around like a good lap dog, always his number one fan, and forever his one-man audience. All the rivers could turn to blood, evil alien insects could attack the planet, the entire bloody world could end, and through everything, Vince would still love Stuart.

After a moment, he relaxed. It might hurt, this unrequited love, but Vince knew quiet moments like this with Stuart would make it all worth it in the end.

Here he was, seventeen years old with Doctor Who on the telly and his head in his best mate’s lap, Stuart’s lovely, elegant fingers slipping through his hair. It was the best birthday ever.

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