It did mean that he often found himself without something that he wanted or needed in that particular moment. Not the worst problem in his life—more of a minor inconvenience.
Right now, for both his sake and Ben’s, Stan wanted some pretty underwear.
Maybe not pretty. Maybe something that would blow Ben’s mind.
That was a pretty tall order. They had been together for almost three years at the point when they broke up, so Ben had seen Stan in a lot of pretty things.
London had plenty of places to go and buy racy lingerie. He’d made a stop on his way to Harrods at a place where they had a line of very luxurious leather, pleather, and rubber offerings, but that really wasn’t his style. He could sometimes make an exception for leather.
Ben had always liked him in lace.
Stan hadn’t bought anything at the boutique and was pleased with that decision as he browsed the Harrods lingerie section. There were some truly ridiculously impractical offerings here too—Stan had never understood the appeal of bodysuits that were impossible to get off easily or sexily.
He paused at a display of floor-length, totally see-through dressing gowns that he could happily wear with nothing underneath. It was certainly one way to make an entrance.
Stan had always avoided bras with an underwire, since he didn’t have anything to hold up and the empty cups made him feel self-conscious. The rise in popularity of wireless bralettes had definitely been a benefit.
Ben had been gently encouraging him to dress more like he used to since they started dating again, and Stan was still mentally unpicking why. He didn’t think it was because Ben preferred it when he dressed more feminine, though he frequently caught Ben staring at his bare legs if he was wearing shorts or a skirt.
He had a feeling it had something to do with authenticity.
Or to put it more succinctly: Ben saw through the bullshit.
There had only been one period in his life when Stan had dressed completely however the fuck he’d wanted, and that was when he first moved to London with nothing to lose, and the few years after that when he was with Ben. If anyone could tell that Stan was hiding behind boring, inoffensive clothes, it was Ben.
Stan couldn’t deny that he was loving being able to do that again, even if it did mean his morning routine took more like forty-five minutes rather than fifteen.
He picked up one of the ridiculous dressing gowns, two lacy underwear sets—one in black and the other vivid purple—and one of the impractical bodysuits. He’d fallen in love with the white mesh, embroidered with peach-and-lemon-coloured flowers and tiny delicate green leaves, with cutouts in interesting places. God only knew how he was going to get into and out of it, but he had a feeling they’d have fun figuring it out.
Stan was back downstairs in the Food Hall to pick up his pastries, laden with bags, when he got the text from Ben to say they’d accidentally made enough chilli to feed a small army and the whole band was now invited to dinner. Stan went back to the counter and ordered more desserts.
He wondered what the hell was going on between Ben and Tone and Summer and the boys. They really weren’t good at communicating. Maybe he’d get them to sit in a circle and talk about their feelings again.
Ben’s text made it clear that Stan was expected to join them when he was done, but he didn’t much fancy heading into the house with bags emblazoned with lingerie brand names. So he got the cab to drop him off at the flat first, hid all the bags in his wardrobe—it wasn’t Tone’s room anymore, it was his again, and Stan was making the most of it—and got changed into one of his new outfits. Mostly because he’d splurged on the Moschino skirt and wanted to show it off.
He would have walked to Belsize Park—the weather was mild, an Indian summer settling in after their washed-out August—but he’d put on heels and didn’t feel like dealing with the blisters. So he got into another cab and fiddled with his bracelets all the way there.
The front door was unlocked, again, and Stan was going to have to have a conversation with them about safety. He locked it once he’d let himself inside and went back to the kitchen to put the desserts in the fridge.
Someone, and Stan guessed it was Tone, had left the huge pot of chilli on the stove on low, and a note next to it to say they were all back in the recording studio.
Stan folded the note up and put it in his pocket—the skirt had pockets—and went back to the studio. The band had had it built not long after they’d moved in and it became clear that they would need somewhere because the basement was fine for rehearsing, but the sound quality was nowhere near good enough to record. The studio had been built on the foundations of the old garage, which no one needed because who the fuck had a car in central London?
It was a wooden structure, because Jez had been reading about the old Motown studios in Chicago where all the greats had recorded. The space wasn’t huge—the size of a double garage, funnily enough—but they didn’t need much more than that.
Stan checked for the red recoding light above the door, which was off, so he let himself inside.
Maybe unsurprisingly, he walked into an argument.
“Stan,” Summer said, bringing the racket to a halt.
“Hi. Should I come back later?”
“No, stay,” she said, so he went and hopped onto one of the tall stools near the sound desk.
“You look nice,” Tone said from behind his drum kit.
“Thanks. I went shopping.”
Ben put his guitar down and came over to give him a kiss on the cheek. “You look incredible,” he murmured against Stan’s ear, too low for the others to hear.
Stan wrapped his arm around Ben’s waist to keep him close.
“What’s happening?”
“Not much,” Geordie grouched.
“We’re trying to write Tone’s eleven o’clock number,” Summer said.
“That sounds like a terrible idea,” Stan said brightly.
“Why?”
Stan shrugged and took Ben’s bottle of water from his hand and took a sip. “What was it that Tone always used to say? Music’s like a fart—if you force it, it’s probably shit.”
Tone gave him a ba-dum-tish! in appreciation.
Stan had been part of enough jam sessions and recording sessions now that he knew the drill. They’d usually fuck around for an hour or two, then realise they were running out of time and pull something out of thin air at the last minute. By the shared looks of frustration on Jez and Geordie’s faces, they’d been at this for a while already.
“This is normally when we’d break out the booze and weed,” Tone said, not altogether helpfully.
“Don’t give it up for my sake,” Ben told him.
“Ben,” Stan admonished.
“I’m addicted to prescription painkillers and cocaine,” Ben said. “I think that’s fairly well documented by now. Weed is less addictive than tobacco.”
“Great,” Tone said and vaulted over his kit. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
“Pee break.” Summer followed him back into the house. There wasn’t a toilet in the studio.
“Is this a good idea?” Stan asked Ben. He shrugged.
“I can’t get any shit even if I want it. I figure this is a good test environment.”