Page 37 of Electric Boy

“You do neither.” Michael quickly recovered his usual slick flattery and pulled Julian close, dipping down to kiss him thoroughly now that he was allowed. He put that earlier hiccup out of his mind. He had time yet to work on Julian’s self-esteem.

When they parted, Michael said, “But if you’re going in, I’ll join you.”

Julian grinned wickedly up at him.

The shower was not strictly about getting clean. It was mostly, in fact, about giving each other soapy hand jobs. Soap didn’t make the best lubricant, per se. It even stung a bit over a prolonged period of time. But it did in a pinch, and was better than water.

When they were as clean as they were going to get, Michael shut off the water and set about drying Julian as if he were a stray he’d just brought in off the street. Snatching the towel away from Michael with a laugh, Julian tied it around his waist and swiped a palm over the steamed-up mirror. He scrutinised his reflection in the hand-sized window he’d made. Michael made an effort to pre-empt his needs and handed him a razor.

“Cheers,” Julian thanked, but appeared unappeased. “D’you have anything for hair? Like a pomade or hairspray or anything? Soon as this dries, it’s going flat. And let me tell you, you won’t fancy me with flat hair. I look like Joey Ramone in traffic court. I look like an oil slick with eyes. I’m like a melted Blackjack.”

“I have pomade,” Michael quickly interjected to cut off his litany. “It’s in the cabinet with the shaving cream, and I, ah, hope this will do?” He lifted his blow dryer from its basket above the toilet. A powerful, sleek, French model that had been a vanity purchase he had yet to regret.

Julian’s eyes widened and sparkled. “Michael, you’re a diamond.”

Julian took long enough making himself presentable that Michael had time to cook breakfast. Eggs in a basket. Made with his particular flair of pimentos and rosemary. Not to mention bacon as an accompaniment. As much as he enjoyed having Julian sleep over, he hoped he didn’t make a habit of it. It would simply wreak havoc on his diet. Somehow, Michael thought, feeding Julian his usual fare of yoghurt and granola or a lean spinach and blueberry smoothie would go down about as well as a lead balloon.

Julian emerged at last, looking very much as he had the night prior. He’d redressed in his clothes and smelled not only of Michael’s deodorant but his aftershave as well. It was slightly surreal. Michael had never had a romantic guest help himself to the scents Michael thought of as his own. Then again, he had never allowed another gentleman caller, as it were, to spend the night.

“Eggies in a nest?” Julian exclaimed, delighted, as he came round to the kitchen counter. “Genius! Michael, you’re --”

“A diamond?”

“Cheeky,” Julian scolded happily, giving Michael a playful pinch to same-said cheek.

Michael watched Julian slide onto the stool and begin shovelling food into his mouth, almost without a pause for breath. He looked so out of place in Michael’s kitchen. He was a black and purple wound upon the pastel creams, pinks, and greys of Michael’s flat. He was a motorcycle in a country village. A blackbird in a robin’s nest. What right did Michael have to bring him here? Why separate him from his own kind? Why try to make his non-Euclidean shape conform to the square peg of Michael’s existence? Was he trying to make him conform? He hadn’t thought so. He’d thought he was merely appreciating him and his wild existence. But by bringing him into his spaces, his home, his haunts, he was inadvertently forcing him to integrate with them. Would Julian eventually become as pastel as these surroundings? Would enough time around Michael and his colourless life turn him colourless as well?

“Aren’t you having any?” Julian asked around a mouthful of eggs and toast, gesturing at Michael’s untouched plate with his fork.

“Sorry, yes.” Michael smiled thinly. “I was only thinking.”

* * *

Rahul was cold. He’d been cold for the past two hours and thirty-six minutes. He was rather damp to boot. He didn’t mind either, to be honest, nearly as much as he minded the boredom. He was kicking himself for not having had the foresight to bring a book or, barring that, one of the many notepads and Biros he habitually used to scribble down his ideas and, yes, poems -- something he hadn’t ceased doing since his moody teen years.

Alas, he was sat on the steps in front of Julian’s flat door, cold and damp and bored. And he had been sat there long enough that he was fully willing to continue to sit there until Julian either returned or he was consumed by the heat death of the universe. In Rahul’s defence, he hadn’t thought Julian would still be out at half past ten in the morning. The only things that kept Rahul rooted to the spot were sheer stubbornness and a horrific, stomach-gnawing guilt.

He’d returned to his flat late the night before quite out of sorts -- if “out of sorts” were a euphemism for crying like a snot-nosed little girl. Kwambe had found him some time around two in the morning, lying in the foetal position on the kitchen floor, wrapped around a bottle of Scotch. Like a saint, he’d sat him up, made him tea, and asked him what Julian had done now.

“What do you mean by that?” Rahul had asked, red-eyed and belligerent.

“Whenever you’re in a state, it’s always something to do with Julian,” Kwambe had explained calmly as he’d loaded his tea with an ungodly number of sugars. “And don’t bother playing the fool with me, Chaand. I’ve known you for too long. I’ve known you both for too long,” he added meaningfully.

Rahul had sniffed, eyes stinging as tears re-formed in them. “I’ve done it this time. I really have. I’ve made a right dog’s dinner of it. Jules’ll never forgive me now.”

“I’m sure that isn’t true,” Kwambe had said, ever patient. “The two of you have been mates since before Jesus were born. Whatever it is you’ve done or Julian’s done, you’ll make up soon enough. I know you will.”

“You reckon? I’m not so sure. I really messed it all up this time, Kay.”

“Look, just go on and say you’re sorry,” Kwambe had offered around a yawn. “That usually fixes most things, don’t it?”

Rahul hadn’t been able to sleep much that night. That he’d fallen asleep at all had been more of a testament to the alcohol in his system than any exhaustion he may have felt. At eight in the morning, he’d given up any pretence of sleep, showered, breakfasted, waited on pins and needles for an appropriate time of day to go round his friend’s flat, and left. On the walk over, he’d rehearsed what he was going to say. By the time he stood in front of Julian’s door, he was quite confident in his apology. It was sincere and urgent but not too blubbering or saccharine. He had knocked on the door, knowing that the ringer was knackered, and waited. And waited. And waited.

He’d quite made up his mind to sleep there if he had to, when he heard the telltale click of Chelsea boots against pavement coming to a stop. Rahul stood and turned to face him. Julian looked down at him, a dark, silhouetted shape of a man against the pale, overcast sky.

“Hi,” Rahul offered weakly with an even weaker smile.

“What do you want?” The way Julian said it, it ran together like one word.