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“Hey.” Smith slides himself in front of Ross’ desk, hands in the pockets of his shorts. His keys roll themselves around the fingers of his left hand, jangling softly within the fabric as he absently plays with them. Ross looks up at him from his phone, thumb paused over Instagram mid-scroll, and clears his throat to banish the obscure bubble of laughter that rises in his chest. Smith has a streak of sunburn across his nose and cheeks; the heat wave had caught them all off-guard and had left an easy mark on Smith’s fair skin.
“Alright?” Ross greets back. His feet are up on the desk, and he stretches them forwards, relishing the pull in his calves. Smith isn’t meeting his eyes for some reason, but the office is far too hot for it to bother Ross too much.
“I’m heading into town to grab lunch, d’you wanna come?” Smith asks, bringing his hand out of his pocket to pick at a peeling sticker on the edge of Ross’ monitor. The sticker is some gaudy orange freebie they’d been sent in a package, the logo of the company barely readable in the too-large font the designer had picked. Smith has apparently never seen anything so fascinating.
“Uh.” Ross locks his phone and slips it into his pocket as he stretches his arms above his head, exhaling noisily through his mouth. He gazes at Smith out of the corner of his eye, confused by the lack of eye contact and intrinsically aware of how much it grates on him that Smith isn’t looking at him; why not? Smith isn’t known for being shy, or feigning casual, and the behaviour looks strange on him.
“Yeah go on, I could use the walk.” Ross shrugs and swings his legs down from the desk. As he gets to his feet Smith’s eyes drag over him, lingering a beat and leaving a mark in their wake. Ross straightens and finally meets them, getting a static shock down his back for his trouble. Smith freezes, still absently picking at the garish sticker, and for a moment Ross thinks he is about to say something to him, but instead he turns away from the odd tension.
“Trott, mate, you coming?” Smith shouts across the room. His hand rests on Ross’ monitor, tapping a disjointed tune on the hard surface.
“What?” Trott pipes up from behind his PC, brow furrowed at the interruption.
“Lunch. Outside. Town?” Smith wanders off towards Trott’s desk, no doubt to try and annoy him. Ross watches him go, lingering over where Smith’s shorts have started drifting southwards and considering whether Smith actually owns a belt or not. The conversation on the other side of the room mutes itself at the back of his attention, not even coming back to him when Smith laughs at something Trott has said. Only when Smith turns back around and catches Ross staring does the room come back into focus. As Ross drags his eyes away from what is now the front of Smith’s shorts and meets his unreadable gaze, the odd humidity settles between them again.
“Like what you see, Mr Hornby?” Smith jokes but the edge is missing. Ross laughs and wiggles his eyebrows, trying to break through the tension, and for a moment it dissipates. But then, as they fall into a well-worn, overly sleazy routine and slip through the office door he can still feel its presence under his skin.
+
Queen Square is bustling in the midday heat; students falling over each other whilst day drinking, kids kicking a ball around in a loose football game, elderly couples taking a leisurely stroll in the sun. The park is alive with colour, painted in its natural verdant hues and highlighted with the vivid tones of summer clothing. Ross watches the lucky people who don’t have office jobs enjoying life, and Smith watches Ross as they walk. He wonders whether the heat is getting to him as he admires the curve of Ross’ jaw, the light creases at the corners of his eyes, and is all-too-aware of how his heart stutters a little in his chest. As they approach the corner, and the street that leads off to the harbourside, Ross’ neck prickles with the knowledge of being watched and he slowly turns his head to find the source of the staring.
“Where you thinking for lunch?” He asks, trying to ignore his intuition as it tells him that yes, Smith was staring at him and not at the crowds in the park.
“Oh, uh, I hadn’t thought about it.” Smith blows upwards into his fringe and pushes his glasses back up his nose where they’d slipped down. “Was just gonna grab a meal deal from Tesco or something, eat it in the park?” He looks side-long at Ross, gauging his reaction.
Ross nods his head, hands slipping idly into his pockets. The sun has started to burn at the back of his neck, and he glares up into its hazy light wishing he’d worn something with a collar so he could turn it up. The heat has made him thirsty he notices, and as they cross the bridge towards the harbourside’s mix of restaurants and bars only one taste springs to mind. He stops on the bridge, gazing out over the gently bobbing boats and barges towards M Shed.
Smith stops too, turning back to linger over Ross in the sun. Sweat trickles down his spine, jumping over his lower back, but underneath the heat wave’s fervent touches his chest squeezes itself around the haloed image of his friend. More and more frequently these days, bathed in the comforting warmth of the summer, he finds himself in the same situation: watching Ross from afar and unable to ignore the waves of something deep within his stomach. He doesn’t know when it started, or where it came from, but the unwavering attraction is as clear to him as the glasses on his face.
“D’you fancy a pint?” Ross is grinning, catching the sun with it. Smith is breathless and beaming back before he can stop himself, caught in the glow of it all.
“Yeah alright.”
+
“Come on Smith, that movie was so boring!” Ross groans, smirking despite himself. They are standing at the waterfront, around a corner and through the side streets to avoid the crowds. Smith’s shoulder is pressed against his and bleeding heat through their t-shirts as they lean on the railing. They don’t need to be stood so close, Ross knows that there is more than enough room on the railing for both of them to stand comfortably, but he if he is being honest, he does not want to move away.
“Alright, sure, it was a bit dull, but the historical accuracy, Ross!” Smith laughs brightly, cider sparkling under his skin. The alcohol has barely touched the sides, he is no Chris Trott when it comes to tolerance, but Ross is so close that he feels drunk on the vibrancy of him.
“Historical accuracy or not, Channing Tatum and whatshisface. Billy Elliot.” Ross gestures broadly out over the water, the back of his knuckles bumping against Smith’s forearm as his hand arcs through the air.
“Jamie Bell?” Smith’s cheeks ache from grinning, the good kind of ache that comes from an afternoon of making stupid jokes and telling daft stories.
“Billy Elliot.” Ross reiterates, prompting a rough laugh from Smith, “Channing Tatum and Billy Elliot wandering through fields, and fields, doing absolutely fuck all.” The arcing arm comes back to rest on the railing and Ross leans his shoulder again Smith’s for emphasis, head tilting dangerously close as though sharing a deep secret. “So. Boring.”
Smith’s laugh catches in his throat. Ross’ breath is sweet with cider, his eyes full of mischief, and Smith has never felt so desperate, so needy in his life. Ross could throw him over the railings into the stinking, moss brown water of the Avon and he would probably thank him for the contact. Sunshine makes Smith stupid and slowly edges his hand across the boundary of a friendship almost half his age. Ross’ forearm is sun-warmed and slightly tacky as he makes contact, just lightly brushing fingertips against skin.
Ross glances down at the touch. A resonating chime sounds in his chest, and his thoughts are immediately clear. Slowly, painfully, he looks back up and can read the shaded look in Smith’s eyes without hesitation.
“Oh, fuck.” Ross breathes. Flight or fight pumps adrenaline through him, the green and gold blur of Bristol swimming at Smith’s edges like wet paint running together. The world slows to an almost stop and then speeds up again. All at once Ross reaches forward and grabs a fistful of Smith’s t-shirt, hands clammy around the cotton, and pulls towards him. Smith’s hand flies away from the railing to clutch at Ross’ elbow.
Ross’ aim is thrown off by the moment, by the giddy thud of his blood in his ears, and instead of finding Smith’s mouth he gets his cheek. Sharp embarrassment makes him laugh, apologetic, but then there is no room for speaking his mortification aloud because Smith’s hand is tight on his elbow, and Smith is kissing him with shaky confidence.
There is a single, bright, shining moment that lasts an eternity. Everything makes sense, every question answered as Ross clutches at Smith’s t-shirt and clutches at the burst of feeling taking root in his chest. Smith pulls back, breathless and laughing softly as though in disbelief, and Ross can see his own bemusement reflected at him by Smith’s glasses.
“Well.” Smith clears his throat. His thumb rubs a lazy arch into Ross’ elbow.
“What happens now?” Ross asks, loosening his grip on Smith’s t-shirt and smoothing out the crease he has left behind.
“I guess… I wanna see where this goes?” Smith skims his hand down Ross’ arm as he backs a little away. His eyes glance this way and that, conscious of being seen, and with the furtiveness Ross finds himself equally paranoid that any onlooker could be a fan, ready and waiting with their phone to capture their moment.
“I think we’re alone.” Smith steps further away however, putting a distance between them that had not existed prior to the kiss. He turns his back to the water, leaning against the railing and scanning the path around them with a wary eye. Ross mirrors his stance, tucking his hands into his pockets when he would rather be running them over the tense line of Smith’s shoulders.
“What time is it?” He asks. There is a sense of wrong-footedness in the air; neither of them know how to act now. Smith flicks his wrist to activate his watch and is quick to grimace.
“Time we were back in the office.” He winces and puts his arm back down. He looks at Ross, and Ross stares back. There is a beat between them filled with words unspoken, and Ross is keenly aware of the heat of the sun burning his skin, the nervous twist of his guts as he wavers between wanting to grab Smith again and wanting to head back to the privacy of the office building. Smith seems to be suffering the same dichotomy, but his willpower falters a little easier and once more closes the gap between them.
As his hands find the curve of Ross’ jaw, Ross hooks his fingertips into the collar of Smith’s t-shirt. As Smith’s mouth presses lightly against his own he can feel the soft stammer of Smith’s heartbeat against the back of his knuckles. The sensation makes him smile, breaking the kiss and peppering joy over Smith’s skin.
+
As hard as it had been keeping his hands away from Ross before the kiss, it was nothing compared to walking side by side on the way back to the office. Smith tries to keep the conversation light, but every time he glances at Ross and catches his eye the two of them split into identical, goofy grins that cannot be restrained. By the time they reach Queen Square, still bright and alive with summer antics, they are walking in-step and practically joined at the shoulder.
The air conditioning is an ice bath as they enter the building and stride with new confidence towards the lift. As the doors close behind them, bolstered by the new privacy, Ross turns to Smith and pins him against the mirror, hands grabbing desperately at his hips. Smith makes a small noise between a laugh and surprise, muffled by Ross’ mouth as it opens against his own and swallows the sound. He finds then that there is nothing sweeter than the feel of Ross’ hair falling around his fingers, or the sharp push of Ross pressing against his front.
“Oh, okay, I see how it is.” Trott raises an eyebrow as the lift doors open, barely able to contain the burst of laughter behind his teeth as he sticks a leg in front of the door sensor to keep them open. Ross and Smith immediately spring apart, t-shirts rumpled and hair dishevelled.
“Good lunch?” Trott smirks, flicking his hair out of his eyes. Smith is immediately cocky, pushing out of the lift and ruffling Trott’s hair as he passes him.
“You jealous, Trotty?” He laughs, spinning away to avoid Trott’s swipe at his arm and striding off down the corridor. Trott swears at Smith’s back and turns to Ross. Ross, who had been fixing his hair in the lift mirror, grins through his reflection, not even pretending to be embarrassed.
“Don’t say you didn’t see it coming, Trott.” Ross smirks as he slips out of the lift, swapping places with Trott.
“You’re not subtle in the slightest.” Trott grins, pressing the ground floor button. As the doors slink closed, and Ross disappears in Smith’s wake, he casts his eyes up at the chrome ceiling. About damn time he thinks to himself.