Page 9 of Electric Boy

Michael could feel Julian’s lips on him as clearly as if he were that very card, the sharp, hard edge of his teeth grazing his skin.

The young man reached for the phone on the amplifier which served as his end table. He got as far as lifting the receiver before he paused, looking at the card in one hand and the phone in the other. Michael didn’t dare move a single muscle, not even to breathe. Julian’s fingers had just begun reaching for the dial when he abruptly looked over his shoulder, as if startled by a sound. He called back something Michael couldn’t hear and replaced the receiver in the cradle, returning the crimson card to the safety of his wallet. He rose and left Michael’s field of vision. Within moments, darkness fell, and Michael was left staring at his own reflection in an opaque, obsidian mirror that had once been a portal into the life of a vibrant, mysterious, beautiful stranger. Not a stranger. A boy. His boy.

* * *

It was nearly a week before Michael heard from Julian. He’d rather given up hoping to receive the phone call which had felt so tangible for a fleeting moment. He’d begun the long, arduous process of talking himself down. It’s better this way, he’d told himself. What had he expected would happen with Julian anyway? The young man was clearly straight. Had he wanted a chance to admire him from up close instead of from afar? No, that sort of life would be torturous for someone like Michael. He knew himself too well to think that would sate him for long. Better that things remain the way they were, the way they should be -- the observer and the observed. So he filled his days with writing and rigorous exercise, building back up the courage to eventually return to The Barber & Pony.

But then, against all odds, one day Michael came back home from the shops to find the angry red eye of his answering machine blinking urgently at him. His editor never rang him. She knew never to disturb him before his writing was finished. And his family certainly never bothered to call. Curious, he set down his brown grocery bag on the kitchen counter and engaged the machine. A stilted, tinny voice filled the flat.

“Uh, hi, it’s, um, it’s Julian -- the bloke from your couch. I, ah, I wanted to see if you wanted to grab that pint, you know, to pay you back or whatever. Or, like, not to pay you back, ‘cause I know you weren’t expecting anything, you were just being nice. I mean -- Christ --”

Michael chuckled to himself.

“-- Look, let’s just get that drink, yeah? Tonight, or -- no, I reckon that’s too soon, innit? Tomorrow? No. Whenever. Whenever’s fine. Um. Just, uh, ring me back.” He proceeded to leave his phone number and hung up after an equally awkward goodbye.

Michael’s cheeks were flushed with unbridled joy. He rewound the tape and listened to the message three more times before he even got around to jotting down the number. He was floating on air as he punched the digits into his phone and listened to the promising rings of one connection reaching out to another over the eager black lines of telephone wire that crisscrossed the city.

“All right?” came the friendly voice on the other end of the line.

The hair on the back of Michael’s neck stood on end at the intimate sound of Julian’s voice right in his ear. “Julian. It’s Michael. The man whose sofa you slept on.”

“Michael! Hi…” His voice dropped away at the end as if breathless. “You got my message.”

“I did. And I’d very much like to grab that pint. Tonight, even. I’m up for it if you are.”

“Yeah! Yeah, yeah, yeah, definitely. I’m well up for it.” He paused, probably catching the innuendo in his phrasing just as Michael had. “Uh, yeah… When, erm, where do you want to meet or should I come --”

“There’s a pub I enjoy on the corner of Sturt and Wenlock,” Michael cut in, saving him from his stammering. “Why don’t I meet you there at half past seven?”

“Brilliant. I can’t wait.” Michael fancied he could hear the grin in Julian’s voice.

* * *

Julian fidgeted in his seat across from Michael. They were ensconced in a dark little booth towards the back of the pub, a pub Michael used to frequent before he discovered The Barber & Pony. Julian had made a real effort with his appearance tonight, Michael noted with some satisfaction. He wore a stiff-collared shirt buttoned all the way up to his pale throat beneath a soft velvet jacket, in addition to a hint of eyeliner and the faint scent of some floral cologne. He was also a vibrating bundle of nerves.

Julian gnawed on his thumbnail while his knee bounced restlessly under the table. “This place is well posh,” Julian said. “I mean, more posh than anywhere I’d go. I’m like a weed in a rose garden. I’m a Cockney fox in a middle-class hen house. They shouldn’t have let me through the door. Just seeing me could send the patrons into a faint.”

“I think you’re far more like the rose amongst the weeds,” Michael responded smoothly.

Julian looked at him then, startled, cheeks turning a little pink. Michael raised his glass of wine to his lips to hide his pleased smile. Julian did the same, looking down at the wine in his own glass with some distrust before drinking.

“When you said pint, I’d thought you meant beer, lager, Guinness. You know, pint-glass drinks. But you’re cultured, aren’t you? A cultured bloke ought to like wine, eh? Er, man. Not bloke. Sorry.” He looked around guiltily as if someone might have overheard his slang and been offended.

“I’m not as cultured as all that.” Michael offered him a kind smile he hoped would put him at ease. “I’m from London, just like you. And my parents were solicitors, not dukes or duchesses. They’d hoped I’d become a solicitor, too, actually. I attended King’s College with the intention of doing just that.”

Julian was sitting forwards in his seat, listening with rapt, wide-eyed attention. “So how’d you go on to become a crime writer?”

“It was during my criminology studies. I found that I enjoyed writing papers on criminal behaviour far more than any of the legalese I was being forced to study. And I was damned good at it, too. So I dropped out. As you can imagine, my parents were none too happy.”

“Christ, I bet. What did they do?”

“Well, they had no faith in me, for a start. In addition to being well-respected solicitors, they own quite a few properties, you see. They handed off one of the lesser holdings for me to manage while I got my career off the ground -- fully expecting my career to do no such thing. I moved into the property in order to get some distance and dedicate myself entirely to my writing. Not to mention, being able to forego the need to pay rent was helpful while I sorted out my financial arrangements. Much to my parents’ chagrin, however, I became quite successful and did a fair job of renovating the property to boot.”

“If you’re successful now, why don’t you leave? You could live anywhere and be a writer. And with the money from the flat block too you could live someplace really nice. Like a castle in the country or something. One of those massive Jane Austen-types with the butlers and the valets.”

“You’re right. I could. But I’ve gotten used to Hoxton over the years. As it turns out, I’ve fallen quite in love with the local colour.” He took a long, indulgent sip of wine as he gave Julian an equally long, indulgent look. Julian took his bottom lip between his teeth, gazing back at Michael for much longer than was decent.

Michael had a suspicion that had been growing for some time now. It had waned slightly in the interval between giving Julian his card and receiving Julian’s message, but the more evidence he gathered, the more he formed a working theory that Julian might not be as straight as Michael had previously thought.