Chapter Text
Summer in Glasgow is a cool blue-grey, interlaced with moments of sunshine like the colours in a cathedral window. Light shimmers through a haze of translucent cloud on the glass exterior of Queen Street station, on the seagulls shitting on the heads of imperialist statues in George Square, and on Paddy himself, just back from London, where he got the tip of his nose sunburned. C’est la fucking vie.
It’s still bright when he gets to Delmonicas, the air already cocktail-scented, the pavements echoing with the tap-tap-tap of stiletto heels. On the street corner, a tall, dark-haired queen hands Paddy a flyer for Polo next door, which he tucks into the back pocket of his trousers. Reggie waves him through without a second glance, and Paddy takes the steps two at once, pushing the door open just in time to catch Johnny’s distinctive voice raised in outrage.
‘Mate, I’ve been coming to Dels for years, I was in here last Saturday, you know I’m over eighteen—’
‘ID,’ says the Wee Lad behind the bar, unmoved.
‘You think Reg would’ve let me in the door if I was underage?’ Johnny demands.
The Wee Lad rolls his eyes. ‘Reg’s an idiot. You look twelve.’
‘You look twelve!’
Paddy saunters over to intervene, propping his elbows on the bartop. ‘I’ll vouch for Johnny-boy. He’s twenty.’
‘Why would I trust you?’ the Wee Lad mutters.
‘Twenty-one, Paddy, thank you very much,’ says Johnny primly, ‘and I haven’t forgiven you for missing my birthday.’
‘I was in London for work!’
‘That’s right, you blew me off for fucking London of all places—’
Paddy cuts off Johnny’s schoolboy tirade with a wave of his hand. ‘I’ll have a whisky coke.’
The Wee Lad studies Paddy with those eyes the colour of a Glasgow summer, his cheekbones glinting under the fluorescent lights. ‘Can I see some ID, please?’
‘Seriously?’ says Paddy.
The Wee Lad inspects his fingernails. ‘No ID, no whisky. Sorry.’
He doesn’t sound sorry.
Simmering with resentment, Paddy hands over his driving licence. The Wee Lad pinches it delicately between forefinger and thumb, glancing at the birthdate without a flicker of interest, and hands it back.
‘What can I get you,’ he says, one fair eyebrow flicking upwards, ‘Robert Blair?’
‘Whisky coke, I said.’ Paddy wrinkles his nose. ‘And it’s Paddy to you.’
‘I was here first,’ Johnny protests, indignation sharpening his English accent, and Paddy slings an arm around his exposed shoulders.
‘Johnny-boy was here first. You’ll serve him, won’t you?’
The Wee Lad ignores Johnny. ‘What kind of whisky would you like?’
‘Drop the fancy act, Fraser, you haven’t got anything nicer than Famous Grouse,’ Johnny scoffs.
The Wee Lad—Fraser—doesn’t break eye contact with Paddy. ‘Fuck off.’
‘Over here, Johnny,’ the other bartender calls. Smirking, Johnny spins on his heel and swans off to the opposite end of the bar.
Fraser’s pouring his whisky when Paddy turns back around. His razor-sharp focus is unsettling; he never stops watching Paddy, even when his colleague leans over the bar to kiss both of Johnny’s glitter-dusted cheeks.
‘I didn’t tell you what kind I wanted,’ Paddy says.
Fraser shrugs. ‘I got bored waiting for an answer.’ He slides the card machine across the bartop.
Paddy taps his card against the machine and takes his first sip. It is definitely Famous Grouse.
He spends a contemplative half-hour folding origami elephants out of the scrap paper in his rucksack. Meanwhile, the bar grows busier. Fraser gets into a rhythm with pouring drinks, bobbing along to the music till he notices Paddy watching him, at which point he becomes self-conscious and stops. Paddy takes out a book.
‘Really, Paddy?’ asks Augustin, sliding up beside him in a cloud of cologne and contempt. ‘On a night like this?’
‘T. S. Eliot suits all nights,’ Paddy replies. ‘Will I suck your cock in the downstairs bathroom, then, or are we still pretending you’re in a committed relationship?’
‘Fuck you, Paddy.’
‘Aye, you’ve tried,’ Paddy mutters.
Augustin’s jaw slackens, but before he can retaliate, Fraser’s hand comes down on the bartop between them.
‘I don’t care whether you fight or fuck each other,’ Fraser informs them, his voice impossibly weary, ‘just do it somewhere I don’t have to look at you.’
Augustin blows a strand of hair out of his face. ‘We can behave.’ He leans towards Fraser, who tilts his head attentively. Paddy doesn’t hear Augustin’s drink order, too busy admiring the origami angles of Fraser’s bone structure, but it’s always the same anyway—a bottle of Nero d’Avola. One glass.
‘No one to share it with,’ Augustin explains, gesturing expansively at the now-crowded bar. ‘Unless I join that party of old ladies celebrating their friend’s hip replacement.’
‘“And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,”’ Paddy murmurs in agreement, ‘“when I am pinned and wriggling on the wall…”’
‘“Then how should I begin to spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?”’ Augustin finishes. ‘Dull as always, your Eliot. I quite like him in translation, however. Dance with me.’
‘I’d rather choke,’ says Paddy amiably enough. He turns a page.
‘Paddy, if you’re just going to read all night, you should vacate your premium spot at the bar,’ Fraser warns.
‘You’ll have to beat me off with a stick, Wee Lad,’ Paddy says.
He’s gratified when Fraser’s eyes widen.
‘What did you just call me?’
Paddy bares his teeth and doesn’t respond. Fraser’s lips move silently as he begins to form a retort, a flush rising to his cheeks. But he doesn’t get a chance to deliver it, scathing as it must be; he has to dart off to the other end of the bar to serve the women who’ve been waiting patiently for some minutes. Paddy chews his thumbnail, noticing that Fraser doesn’t lean in nearly as close to take drink orders which come from women.
‘You used to watch me like that,’ says Augustin with a kind of exasperated fondness, and squeezes Paddy’s shoulder. ‘Your next drink’s on me.’