School Reunion, part 4 (Patreon)

Somehow, I lost sight of Andrew in the crowd. After an hour of fruitlessly searching the auction house, I had to sadly admit defeat and called a cab to take me home. For the next few days, I repeatedly tried calling, texting, and emailing Andrew, without luck. I went to his house more than once, looking through the windows when ringing the doorbell didn't raise a response – the house was bigger and much nicer than Andrew had made it sound, but there was no sign whatsoever of Andrew himself. I tried Andy’s known haunts (practically all of the restaurants and pubs in a ten-mile area), asking if he’d been in at all since Saturday, but either he had gone to ground completely or he'd asked them to conceal his presence. For all intents and purposes, Andrew had simply dropped off the face of the Earth.

After a week of this pointless endeavour, I was ready to punch the walls and scream with frustration and despair. My work was piling up, but I couldn't focus enough to deal with it. I was just so worried that something terrible had happened to Andy. I kept seeing his face just before he walked away... Finally sick of my own four walls, I put on my coat and headed out to the pub where I first encountered Andy. I bought a pint, and looked for somewhere to sit - the pub was unusually crowded that night. (This was a bad idea), I decided. (Every inch of this place just makes me miss Andy more. Even the old boy sitting at that table over there looks like –)

Andrew! I almost dropped my full pint when I realised that the object of my week-long search was sitting not ten feet away from me, holding his head in his hands, his posture that of abject desolation. The remains of a substantial meal – albeit not up to Andrew’s usual standards – littered the table around him. Worst of all, there was a bottle of house whiskey, two-thirds gone, on the table. (Andrew never drinks spirits, that’s what he said). I signalled the barman for a second pint. The miserable-looking fat man didn't even notice my approach, carrying a pint in each hand, until I gently placed one of them in front of him and quietly said “Here you go.”

Andrew’s head snapped up; he looked awful, face drawn and eyes red. His usually well-kept beard was a mess of tangles. He looked like he hadn't slept in a week, and worst of all… he looked like he had lost weight. I could see there was something terribly wrong – (Hell, a blind warthog could see that much). 

“Tommy?” the voice was slurred and dry-sounding - whether from drink, tiredness, or both, I couldn't say.

“May I sit... sir?” This felt like a formal situation to me. (Perhaps treating Andrew… treating Mr. Davies like the teacher he once was will bring out some of the strength I know is in there).

Andy stared for a few seconds, apparently unable to believe his eyes, then shook his head to clear it and indicated the chair across from his. 

“Please... please do.”

He looked like he was trying to find words, to explain himself. I just nodded towards the untouched pint and said “Drink up, sir. We’ve got all evening for words.” We simply looked at each other while we sipped at our pints - me keeping my gaze as cool and unthreatening as I could, in an attempt to disguise the welter of emotions surging within me; Andrew with an urgent desperation, as if - should he look away for one moment - I might vanish like smoke. We finished at the same time, and before Andrew could let go of his glass and retract it I grasped it hard, holding it on the table. 

“Want to talk about it?” My words sounded loud in my ears, echoing in the deafening silence which seemed to have descended around us. 

“No…" he sighed, "but I owe you that much, I suppose.” He gently disengaged his hand from mine, and leant back from the table, putting some distance between us. I signalled the barmaid to bring us two more pints. Once they had been delivered, Andrew took a large mouthful, and began.

“Remember the first night we met, in this pub? Seems like years ago, now. I believe I told you that my… wife and I divorced six years back. I’m sure you’ve been wondering what happened, even though you're far too polite to ask; she ran off with her dentist, of all people. A skinny little nothing with watery eyes. But she said he was more of a real man than… anyway, we got a divorce, sold the house, and I retired from teaching. I’ve collected antiques all my life, and I’d always had a dream of running a little antique shop in a small town somewhere… somewhere far away from my old life. Somewhere to start again.” He looked away. “I moved here, bought a house, found a little shop front to rent, turned my antique collection into the start of my business stock. The shop’s still just a hobby, really – something to keep me busy – and it doesn’t make all that much, but with my pensions and investments I live pretty comfortably. Enough to keep me in all the beer and food I could ever want!” A pale ghost of his smile flickered across his face and was gone, so quickly that I wondered if I'd imagined it. 

“I started going to the pub regularly, as it was the best way I could think of for making new friends; I was lonely. I made a few drinking-buddies, but not real friends - all I really achieved was to get into bad habits, drinking too much, eating out more often than I cooked.” He looked at me again. “I told you I was a rugby player in my faded youth, I think; it keeps you fit and strong, but it gives you an appetite like nothing else. I’d kept my gluttonous urges in check while I was teaching, more or less, but living alone here… I decided why not? And watched my belly get bigger and rounder by the month.

“I still wanted friends, and maybe more eventually… so I started associating with the other antique dealers in the area. There’s more than you’d think! They were nice enough, once I convinced them that I wasn’t really a rival for their business, but just too insular to be real friends.

“Then, I met… Alastair.”

“Alastair? Is that – “

“- the fellow you gave a bloody nose and fallen arches to, yes.” Andrew really did smile this time, just for a moment. “Are you really a brown belt, Tommy?” 

“I am. And I really was the Cambridge boxing champion – Bantamweight, back then.”

“Amazing.” Andrew’s eyes dropped once more, as did the corners of his mouth. “Well, Alastair was a charming fellow when I met him – always joking, always laughing, quite the bon viveur – we got on famously. He was far more successful at the antique racket than I was, but it didn’t matter. He was always coming to my place, or we’d go and eat somewhere; I never got invited to his flat, not once, but it didn’t really bother me. We spent every other day together, it felt like – and eventually… I asked him to move in with me.”

My eyes widened in surprise. “You, ah, mean like a... a flatmate?” I found myself hoping that was the case, but… (is he saying what I think he’s saying?)

Andrew’s eyes looked even sadder, if that could be possible. “Aye, 'like' a flatmate. And in no time, that 'flatmate' was sharing my bed and bath.” He squeezed his eyes together, seemingly willing me not to be there by the time he opened them again – which of course didn't happen, so Andrew was obliged to continue. “My divorce? It wasn’t just Marjory’s infidelity. I accepted I was gay about five years into our wedding. I never acted on it, I swear to you, but my… interests clearly weren’t focused on the woman lying next to me, and she knew it, although things weren't said out loud. It was very much a marriage 'in name only' for the last few decades, and while I did my best to remain faithful, she felt no such compunction. Still, that’s not pertinent to the current tale.” He took a deep gulp of the beer before him. 

“Alastair was a revelation to me – well no, not Alastair himself, but the sheer fact of sharing my bed and my body with another man for the first time felt like a gaping hole in my life had been filled. I was so happy, Tommy, to have found a friend and a lover in one package… and that happiness blinded me to the truth.” He drained the pint. Wordlessly, I pushed my own, untouched pint towards him, my eyes never leaving Andrew’s face. 

“Within a month of moving in, his playful comments about my appetite and my expanding paunch turned into snipes, then into vicious cruel barbs. A month later, he walked out on me, telling me in no uncertain terms that the sight of me turned his stomach, and a fat old drunk like me would never find a lover after him. A month after that, I discovered that he’d stolen a number of very valuable pieces of antique jewelry from the shop; about £6,000 worth. Chances are the whole toxic “relationship” was just a way to get access to those in the first place.”

“Did you – “

“Report the thefts to the police? No. I had no proof that he’d been the thief, after all, just my suspicions. More to the point, I didn’t want any more contact with him. He was cruel, Tom. Crueler than anyone I’ve ever known, and he knew all the ways to shred my veneer of self-confidence. I did hear from him once, by telephone – he threatened that he’d tell the world I was a disgusting sexual pervert, in copious detail, if I ever tried to go to the police or tell anyone the “lies” about him stealing from me. He said the antiques world and the townsfolk would shun me, and my life would be ruined.” Andrew’s voice cracked, and his hands began to shake. “I wish I’d recorded the call, but I didn’t think of it at the time, and I was so low… so scared… it was easier to let him get away with it. Just so long as he was out of my life.” He looked up, the self-disgust evident on his face. 

“Well, after that, I did my best to pick up the pieces… but I didn’t try to make any more friends. I couldn’t bear the thought of getting hurt again… or of revealing my shameful secret.”

Andrew automatically picked up my pint, gulping down half of it. His eyes started to tear up. 

“The four years since have been horribly, bitterly lonely, but I kept all my contacts shallow. Oh, I could still give off the larger-than-life character, and people found it easy to like him… but I didn’t let anyone close. In fact, the closest thing to friends I’ve allowed myself are the managers and staff of my favourite restaurants and pubs. I know they laugh at me behind their hands, of course – “Here he comes again, the big fat Welshman who always eats alone.” 

Andrew's face twisted into an ugly expression of self-hatred. He slammed down his pint glass and grabbed his gut with both hands, shaking it up and down – but with revulsion on his face, not his usual satisfaction. He snorted harshly. “By God, I’ve turned into a vile, disgusting sack of guts since I came here! Marjory used to nag me constantly about my rugger-bugger’s appetite when we were married; she said if she had to be wed to half a man, he wasn’t going to be an elephant, no thank you.” He looked up at me and spread his arms out, palms up. 

“Here I am, Tommy. An old, bald, broken-down ex-teacher, a closeted queer, frequently drunk, fat and getting fatter all the time.” He pounded his belly repeatedly, tears beginning to drip from his eyes. “Not so impressive as I was when you were a boy, am I? Not what you expected to find, I’m sure. Not what I expected, either. It’s sorry I am, so sorry, to be s-such a disappointment to us b-both – “

“Mr. Davies, you stop that right now,” I said, in a voice that commanded attention. In the back of my mind, I realised that I was emulating Mr. Davies himself on the sports field, years back. Hearing me use the formal name pulled Andrew up short, and his arms dropped to his sides, his red eyes staring.

“That’s better. I’ve listened to your story, and I think I understand what’s been going through your head. You trusted someone with your deepest secret and opened your heart to him, only to have him tear it out of you. Because he was able to hurt you once, he’s left an open wound in your heart that he thinks he can use to hurt you without consequences to himself, because you’ve already shown that you won’t stand up to him. You’ve avoided making close links with others, because once bitten, twice shy, I suppose – but that just leaves you even more vulnerable to him.” I leant in, warming to my subject; Andrew didn't move to stop me, and seemed to be taking in what I said. Emboldened, I continued.

“All right, so far so horrible. But there’s some facts that you’re not seeing. Fact one: Alastair is a short, stupid, mean, cruel, unlikeable thief. You wouldn’t have seen it, but I did - when he was insulting you, no-one there was on his side, and most people looked at him with disgust. I get the distinct feeling that most people tolerate him at best, perhaps because he’s not worth confronting. I’ve met that kind of toxic personality before. They applauded when I drove the little shit off, Andy! Fact two: you are as likeable as Alastair is hateful. You are kind, thoughtful, generous, entertaining, and good company. I’m betting there’re dozens of your “acquaintances” who’d love the chance to get to know you better, if you’d just let them get close enough. Any one of them would believe you over him, if he tried to peddle his lies.” Andrew tried to speak, but I was on a roll. “Fact three: you are not alone anymore. For whatever reason, you’ve welcomed me into your life… and saved me from the same feelings of loneliness you felt when you came here. You weren’t alone at that auction, and I hoped you’d realise that. I will defend you and support you. Dammit, Andy, I’m on your side! Always and forever! Can’t you see that?” I realised that, sometime during my tirade, I had grabbed Andrew’s hands and was holding them tightly, willing the big man to believe what I was telling him.

Andrew swallowed and tried to speak, his voice coming out very small and meek, his eyes looking back into memory. “When I spotted you at the bar that first night, I thought to myself “Why, that’s young Tommy Greene, surely! I wonder if he remembers me?” So I introduced myself and we had a lovely chat, and a lovely meal afterwards. When I woke up alone in the taxi, I thought “Ah, well, it was nice while it lasted.” I was sure you’d measured me against your memories, and found this greedy, drunk old fatty to be a poor comparison. When you showed up again on Wednesday, I called your name by reflex – but you came over, and it was just as good – better! – than the first night. You even gave me your contact details! I figured that perhaps you still had a bit of childish respect for the man I used to be, so I played off it to the hilt, taking charge and inviting you out, convinced you’d disappear on me eventually. That golf game… it really was one of the best days I’ve had in years, Tommy. I called you friend, and you named me so as well. I thought, well, at least I’ve got someone to share meals and drinks with now, but probably nothing deeper. Then you….” His voice cracked again, and fresh tears welled up in his eyes, “… you welcomed me into your home. I never expected that! Alastair never did that, not once. And you let me sleep there! I-I started to dare to hope… maybe this might be something real and truthful? And... forgive me, Tom, but in my deepest heart, I couldn’t keep from hoping that one day it might go further.” 

Tears flowed freely down his nose. I opened my mouth to tell him I’d like that, too! - to tell him I was also gay - but he was already continuing; the moment passed. 

“And, and, and then Alastair happened. I stood like a coward while he tore my heart open all over again, I did nothing when he insulted you… and then you stepped forward to defend me, and I felt like the lowest worm who ever crawled in the dirt. This wonderful young man fighting my battles? I knew I’d die when you turned around and saw me for the dishonourable weakling I was, so… I ran. Ran and hid. Like the basest coward. I ignored your calls and texts and emails, I lay upstairs in the dark when you came to my house. I only came here tonight because I couldn’t bear to be alone at home anymore, so I thought I’d try being alone amongst strangers instead. And then… you..”

I couldn't listen to any more of this. I stood, walked around the table, raised Andrew to his feet, and gave this weeping fat man the strongest, warmest bear-hug I could manage, squeezing his flab between my arms, feeling his helpless tears running down my neck. I held Andrew's head between my hands, and looked him square in the eyes.  “Come home with me, Andrew. Come to where you’re loved and wanted. Come in from the cold.” My mouth quirked. “You look like you need some feeding up to me.” I grabbed hold of his hand, led him meekly to my car, and took him home.

The drive home was utterly silent; Andrew just stared down at his shaking hands, while I tried to get to us to my house as fast and as safely as I could. (He’s so low, so depressed), I thought to myself. (He’s been living a lie for so many years, and the one time he reaches out to feel loving warmth, he gets scorched. I have to bring him back, however I can). 

We arrived home; I led him up the path, into the house, and sat him down on the sofa in the lounge, I made up a pot of tea and a plate of biscuits, then turned on the oven and put in a couple of frozen lasagnes and some garlic bread – I didn't want to leave Andrew alone long enough to make anything more complex. Andy was still sitting bemusedly on the sofa when I returned, looking stupidly at the tea and snacks I placed on the table before him, not moving to take them. I gently pressed a mug of tea into his hands before sitting across from him, and the warmth seemed to thaw him ever-so-slightly. He looked like he was trying to say something. I waited patiently to see what it was. 

“I don’t deserve this kindness.”

“You deserve a hell of a lot more than just kindness, Andy. Actually, you deserve a thick ear for making me worry so for the past week, but I’ll let it go this time - if you promise me that you’ll never doubt my feelings for you again. Can you do that?”

The big man sipped his tea, and smiled shakily at me. “Aye, I think so. I’ll try, anyway. You’re a good lad – no, you’re a good man, Tom. The best I’ve ever met.”

(Good). I sat back. “I’m the man you made of me, Mr. Davies,” I replied. “I’m your friend, now and always, and you’re mine – the best friend I have ever had, or ever will have. I’ll keep repeating myself until you believe it.” I stood up. “I’m doing lasagne and garlic bread for supper, and you’re going to eat it all, got it? Food’s the best comforter for men like us, and you look like you haven’t eaten in a week. What’s more, you’re going to stay here, with me, until you’ve got your emotional strength back. Tomorrow you’ll close up the shop for a couple of weeks, while I put off all the work I can, and we’ll spend the time getting to know each other all over again.”

“I can’t ask – “

“You didn’t ask, I’m telling you. Finally, Andy, you’re sharing my bed tonight – and before you say a word, this is so I can comfort you properly. Your emotions are all over the place, and I’m not having you sobbing into your pillows alone down here. It’s not a sexual come-on, so get those naughty thoughts out of your head!” I wiggled my eyebrows in a passable impersonation of Andrew himself, back at school. To my great relief, Andrew laughed - a pale imitation of his usual guffaw, to be sure, but a big step up from minutes earlier. 

“You are my Guardian Angel, Tom”, he chuckled. “Truly. I don’t know why it happened, but I am thanking God and all his Saints that you’re in my life right now. Your plan sounds wonderful, and if you’ll have me, I’ll put myself in your hands.” His stomach chose that moment to rumble loudly, and we both laughed, the mood lightening. “I think my belly just got wind of the delicious smells coming from the kitchen. Do you… do you think it will be ready soon?” His wide-eyed, hopeful look made me laugh once again, and a clenched part of me eased. (I think we’re on the right track…)

After dinner, we sat and talked – about inconsequentials, mostly. It was past 1am before Andrew’s yawns told me it was time for bed. I preceded the big man upstairs, and went into the bedroom – only to find Andrew stopped at the door. “Tom… I’m afraid there’s a problem,” he started. “I’ve no nightclothes with me. I’ll have to sleep naked… I can’t share with you naked.” 

“Sure you can. It doesn’t bother me. If it makes you feel better, I’ll sleep in the nuddy too.”

“Tom!”

I sighed to myself. (Too much, too soon). “We’re just sleeping, Andrew. If you find me cuddling you in the night, it’s because you needed me to. If you want to cuddle me, that’s fine. We’re grown men, and no-one’s going to know, or care, if we share a bed tonight, or every night for that matter. You’re my best friend, and in my expert opinion, this is what you need right now. What kind of friend would I be, to refuse my best mate physical comfort when he needs it, eh? Now come on, I’m tired too. You can strip here or in the bathroom, if you’re shy.” My matter-of-fact summation seemed to reassure Andrew, and slowly, slowly, he removed his clothing. The shoes and socks went first, followed by the trousers, to display a pair of stocky, hairy legs. Then the shirt, the buttons undone almost teasingly slowly, revealing the glorious, perfect body which I had been dreaming of since I first re-encountered Andrew. His pectorals had sagged into a pair of very sumptuous breasts, with rolls disappearing beneath his arms.  His chest and belly were both well-coated with grey hair, the belly-hair somewhat sparser to cover the massive, globular paunch. Andrew’s gut bowed out forwards and sideways from just below his moobs like an overinflated balloon, firm, but also soft and inviting. His broad shoulders and powerful arms were clearly well-covered with flab, and any other sign of the muscular rugby-teacher he used to be were long gone. 

I had to fight the urge to jump on this paragon of beauty with all my strength, and somehow I managed; Andrew’s obvious discomfort helped. (Not the time, Tom. Absolutely not the time). I stripped off myself, revealing my punier, smoother, slightly-paunchy body, but unlike Andrew I carried on and donned pyjamas to make him less uncomfortable. “Do you need the bathroom, Andy? No? Well, I do. I’ll be back shortly.”  By the time I returned, the older man was under the duvet, facing the wall, his body-language stiff and scared. Refusing to look at me. I sighed, turned off the light, and slipped under the covers, facing away from Andrew. 

“’Night, Andy”, I said, closing my eyes.   

Sunlight through the curtains awakened me, and a bleary-eyed glance at the wall clock told me that it was 9:45 in the morning.  I was lying on my left side, facing Andrew's broad, hairy back, spooning with him. My right arm was trapped by the wrist beneath Andrew’s soft, heavy bicep, my hand clutched loosely in the older man’s own. 

While I would have liked to stay in that position until Andrew woke up, a sixth sense told me this wouldn’t be helpful just yet. I gently disentangled myself, padded out of the room, and went downstairs to put the kettle on. Fifteen minutes later I heard the heavy tread of my new houseguest heading towards the bathroom, so I started to make a fry-up for breakfast – one that would dwarf the one I gave Andrew last time he stayed. I felt that food-as-comfort would be the best and fastest way to help Andrew recover. My timing was excellent – I was just shovelling the first helping onto Andrew’s plate when he entered the kitchen. I greeted him with a bright smile.

“Morning, big man! Sleep well?”

“Ah…” Andrew looked a bit nonplussed. “Yes. Yes, I did, thank you. Better than I expected.” He looked around, as if he had only just realised where he was. “What’s all this, then?”

“What does it look like? Breakfast is served, Andrew. Go and sit in the dining-room, I’ll bring it through.”

Without another word, the Welshman did just that. He perked up a bit when he smelled the plate I placed before him, and tucked in hungrily. When I tried to refill the plate, however, he held his hand up, stopping me.

“Ah… no, thank you, Tom. That’s more than enough for me.”  

My eyes widened in disbelief. “You’re kidding!” I blurted out.

“No, no, I’m serious.” Andrew looked up into my eyes. “I need to lose weight, Tom, get myself back to what I was in my teaching days, or as close as possible. I know I'm old and grey and bald as a coot, but I can't do too much about that. I’ll be giving up the beer, too. No more gluttony for me.” 

“Why, for heaven’s sake?” My cry was almost anguished. (Where is this coming from?)

Andrew’s brow darkened. “I thought a lot about it in bed last night. I want to be a proper friend to you, like you are to me. I want to be the good-looking man who deserved your respect at school again.” He looked away. “I know you’d never deliberately hurt me, Tommy, but couldn’t bear it if you were ever to look at me like – “

“Like Alastair? Is that what this is about??” I sat and grabbed Andrew’s hand. The penny had dropped. “Listen, you silly old Welsh duffer”, I said, with as much kindness in my voice as I could manage. “I admired you at school, yes – I had a boy-crush on you, we all did in my year – but I was terrified of you, too. My relationship to you was student to teacher, nothing more. I could never have called myself your friend back then. Is that really what you want now?”

“Well, no, but – “

“But nothing. You know what I thought when I first saw you in that pub? I thought 'Wow, Mr Davies has aged well. He looks fantastic!'” I reached down and patted the rounded side of Andrew’s belly lovingly. “I like the fat you, stupid! I love watching you gorge yourself, downing pint after pint, living life, not caring about your waistline. “This is the real secret of relaxation, boyo. Eating and drinking whatever you want without worrying. Not giving a stuff what people think of you.” Isn’t that what you said, that day at the golf course? Did you mean it, or was that just bullshit, Andy?” 

“No! No, I meant it at the time – “

“And I believed you.” Suddenly, from nowhere I found myself getting really, honestly angry. I stood, looming over Andrew. “I loved that you felt that way. I wanted that life for you… and to be honest, I wanted it for myself, too. Look at me!” I slapped my own, small belly for emphasis. “I’ve put on nearly a stone in weight since I started hanging around with you, and I’ve never felt more manly. I was looking forward to both of us growing bigger and fatter together in the years to come, secure in the knowledge that this is what we both wanted… and you think I’d want you to slim down? Fuck that, I wanted to see you at twice this size one day!” I sat heavily down on my chair, my sudden ire spent. (Where did all of that come from?) I wondered. (I mean, it’s true, every word. But I never meant for Andrew to know it – especially when he’s so fragile! Oh shit, I’ve screwed it all up –)

A small voice reached my ear. “You... really like me all fat and flabby like this? Truly?” 

“Of course I do. You’re a handsome man, Andrew, and the grey hair, bald head and fat belly only make it better in my eyes. I love how relaxed about it all you can be, when you want to be; it’s very attractive. I want that self-confidence in my life.” 

“You want to see me get twice as fat as this?”

I sighed. “Yeah, I’d like that, but – “

“Fill my plate, Boyo.” The voice had the bark of command in it, and my head snapped up automatically. Andrew looked like an angry Zeus, about to fire off a lightning bolt if he wasn't instantly obeyed. “And if you don’t have more food warming in the kitchen, then by God, there’ll be trouble, see.” His mock ire was slightly spoilt by a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. I found myself smirking, too… and in seconds we were both laughing helplessly, arms around each other. Our helpless hilarity abated after a minute or two, and we both smiled as we wiped our eyes. Andrew looked almost normal, now, and I began to hope that things might actually work out.

“Ah, by God, I needed that!” Andrew sighed. Then he looked at his plate with an exaggerated pout. “Well, Tommo? Where’s my second helpings, then? If you want to turn me into a massive porker you’ll have to do better than this!”

“Hold your horses, greedy guts, It’s coming!” 

I slapped my friend’s belly once again, stood up, and headed back to the kitchen with a much lighter heart.