Page 31 of Electric Boy

The soft cascading sound alerted them both to the popcorn’s demise. Julian shook free of the kiss and tutted at the mess they’d made. He bent at the waist, trying to recover the spilled kernels, even as Michael’s middle-class nature got the better of him and he insisted Julian needn’t bother himself over something so trivial.

* * *

In the back most row of the cinema, Rahul observed with searing hatred as the black silhouettes collided in what was unmistakably a fevered kiss. His tightly folded arms and pursed lips could hardly contain his vitriol and he was just seconds away from intervening when the irregular lines of Julian’s hair suddenly sank into what was, no doubt, Michael’s crotch, in a clear display of cinema fellatio.

There was a great deal Rahul could stand, but at this he refused to sit idly by. Rahul flagged down a passing usher and alerted him to the depravities occurring in the middle row. Appalled, the usher took off immediately.

* * *

“And what do the two of you think you’re doing?” The Irish lilt of the usher’s voice came a fraction after the blinding beam of his torch hit them.

“I’ve gone and dropped all this popcorn, haven’t I?” Julian whinged, holding up pitiful fistfuls of floor-popcorn.

The usher had a bit of a laugh at that and Michael and Julian couldn’t help joining in.

* * *

None of them paid attention to the back of the cinema, where Rahul fumed.

* * *

The restaurant was rather nice. Michael had been feeling quite proud of himself until they were seated and Julian kept fidgeting in the way he did when he was feeling out of place. He moved his glass of water to the centre of the table, then to the side, then back again, refitting it into the water rings that had formed on the tablecloth. He brought his hand up to his mouth to chew on his already too short thumbnail. Michael circled his fingers over Julian’s bony wrist and pulled it down to the tabletop. Julian had the decency to look apologetic.

“Something the matter?” Michael asked redundantly.

“It’s just a bit… posh, innit?” Julian said under his breath, as if afraid he might be overheard. He looked round at the servers in livery and the candlelit dimness of the restaurant’s interior. Not to mention the other finely attired patrons.

“Don’t you deserve the best?” Michael replied just as quietly. But where Julian’s tone had been conspiratorial, Michael’s was schooled to be sultry. It had the desired effect of making Julian bite back a smile and duck his head. Michael lived to make him do that.

“I just feel a bit out of place, is all,” Julian insisted. “All the places you take me are, I dunno, middle class and the like. Everybody here’s been to public school. And I’m sat here having only barely scraped by state school.”

“No one has the foggiest where you went to school. I don’t have the foggiest where you went to school and I don’t care,” Michael said earnestly. Julian met his eyes then. “You’re clever. You’re beautiful. You’re here with me. That’s all that matters.”

It was confounding to Michael how someone who had shown so little regard for what others thought when publicly displaying affection for another man could also be so self-conscious about class. He supposed it spoke far more to his upbringing than even his accent did. Sexual liberation was in higher supply than upwards mobility, and clearly that had been ingrained in him young. It struck Michael then that a great deal of Julian’s bravado was covering for a deep-rooted insecurity. About where he came from, about his appearance, about his intelligence. He made himself bigger so people couldn’t see how small he truly was -- or thought he was. But Michael saw him, truly saw him, and he didn’t care. Julian was enough, just as he was. Beneath the table, Michael gave Julian’s knee a reassuring squeeze. He knew it couldn’t erase decades of insecurity, but he hoped it could be a start.

Julian smiled at him, hesitantly, but it was still a smile, so it was a triumph in Michael’s book.

* * *

Rahul was seated a few tables away from Julian and Michael who were sat in their own private booth at the back of the establishment. He hid behind his foldout menu like a spy on a park bench behind a newspaper, eyes peering suspiciously over the cardboard top. He was on them like a hawk, like a bad dream. He’d be there at every turn, waiting for the first slip-up so he could pounce. Make my best friend kiss you, I’ll show you, sir. I’ll show you what pain is. Yes, sir. I’ll be on you like Hepatitis C. You won’t be able to get rid of me.

They were having some kind of hushed conversation, the two of them, huddled all close. Then under the table, as if God himself couldn’t touch them, Michael placed his unholy hand upon Julian’s innocent thigh. The gall! The disrespect! The food at this so-called restaurant cost more than half Rahul’s monthly rent and here Michael was, feeling Julian up as if they were at a common whorehouse. Well, if he thought Rahul was going to sit by and just take this, he was sorely mistaken.

As a waiter began walking in their direction carrying a full tray of water glasses, Rahul acted on instinct and stuck out his foot.

The waiter, his sight blocked by the tray, tripped badly on Rahul’s outstretched leg and went flying forwards.

* * *

Michael stood in shock as several glasses of freezing cold water were flung onto him. The server looked on in horror while Julian was barely able to contain his laughter.

“I am so, so sorry, sir,” the server grovelled, coincidentally also Irish. “Your dinner tonight is on the house. Please, order whatever you like.”

“We will,” Michael said coldly, scooping up the table’s napkins to wipe at his damp chest. The server scampered off, tail between his legs, surely to receive a tongue-lashing from his manager.

Michael shrugged off his soaking jacket to reveal his white shirt clinging almost translucently to his extremely well-cultivated abdominal and pectoral muscles.

“Let me,” Julian said with a cheeky grin and stole the napkins off a nearby table, pressing them to Michael’s firm chest. It was only the most perfunctory excuse, as Julian was doing more stroking than sopping. Michael smirked. He’d doubtless be putting the young man’s naughty mind to task as soon as privacy allowed.