Page 13 of Sunshine Boy

“Ah, yes, this is why you write about murderers,” Henri said, not unkindly. “Sensualisme sells books, does it not?”

“Of course. Why else publish if not for the profits? Else I could write to my heart’s content and keep every manuscript in my wardrobe while making a living as a solicitor -- A bottle of Chateau Latour for the table please,” Michael added to the server, handing back his drink menu.

“Yes, sir,” the server replied with a slight bow before retreating. Rahul watched him go with some remorse. He was absolutely starving.

“Ah, a fan of Pauillac, I see,” Henri commented enigmatically from behind a curtain of smoke.

“I do prefer Pauillac over Pomerol. I find it to be much less acidic, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Bien sûr. Only, I have not met many who think the same.”

“You’ll find that when it comes to the Cabernet Sauvignon I am of singular mind.”

By now, Rahul was hopelessly lost. He looked across the table to find Julian’s eyes similarly glazed. Neither of them could have anticipated the two of them getting on so famously. Though it stood to reason, as both were erudite writers and gentlemen of formal education.

Rahul let the conversation recede into a background drone. He focused instead on Julian, whose appearance still struck him. He was just about to compliment him in a very platonic, friendly way when Julian leaned in and said quietly, “You look quite nice.”

Rahul’s heart leapt despite itself. Platonic friends, he reminded it sternly. He had taken pains in his appearance tonight, of course. He’d combed his hair, worn a shirt and jacket, just like a proper adult. He was positively chuffed that Julian had noticed. Chuffed in a platonic, friendly way, of course.

“Thanks,” he replied just as quietly, trying not to disrupt Henri and Michael’s animated conversation which had moved on to French revolutionary politics or something. “You don’t look half-bad yourself.” That was platonic, right? Plato himself might have neutrally commented on his mates’ looks, right?

Julian ducked his head, twirling a strand of his hair around a finger. Rahul frowned. That was Julian’s flirty mode. Was he… No. He wasn’t flirting. Not with Rahul. Couldn’t be. His boyfriend was sat right next to him.

“Cheers,” Julian responded coyly, eyes lowered. “Looks like our boys are getting on, eh?”

“Seems like. They sure can gab, can’t they?”

Julian snickered. “What was that about wine? Only thing I know about wine is white or red. And just barely, at that.”

Rahul laughed. “Me, too. Give me an honest pint any day of the week.”

“Right? Wine lists and all -- put a trough of beer in front of me, and I’ll lap it up like an alcoholic pony. I’ll go clobbering off, all four hooves out of joint.”

“Put a saddle on you and you’ll fall right over.”

“Oooh, what’s that?” Julian did an impression of a drunk horse -- which sounded more like Terry Wogan with a head cold. “Saddle? Geroff! I’m meant to run free like the wind.”

“Tout bien, mon coeur?” Henri said suddenly, turning to face Rahul.

“Mmm,” Rahul hummed. Henri gave him a chaste kiss before returning to chatting nineteen to the dozen with Michael.

When Rahul looked back at Julian he found him pulling a face, tongue stuck out sideways and eyes crossed. Rahul had to bite back the raucous laugh that rose in his chest. He’d missed this. He’d missed him. Henri was great and all, but no one could make him laugh like Julian could. And as wonderful as an intellectual discussion was, sometimes you just needed to let loose.

Michael and Henri kept it up throughout the meal, discussing subjects Rahul and Julian couldn’t even begin to understand. At one point, Henri had raised the topic of pre-war Russian literature and Rahul’s ears perked, but they quickly barrelled past Tolstoy and he found himself unable to keep up. He had to admit to himself that his intellectuality was surface level at best, cultivated mostly for the purposes of impressing those around him rather than growing his own acumen.

He turned sullenly back to his plate, full of pasta swimming in a succulent cream sauce which he could hardly appreciate. Under the table, he felt a foot nudge his leg. He looked up to see Julian biting back a smirk.

“What?” Rahul demanded, even as his own face cracked into a smile.

Julian shrugged. “Right boring, innit?”

“It’s cultured conversation,” Rahul said airily, unwilling to admit how pretentious he found it.

Julian rolled his eyes exaggeratedly, going so far as to pitch his head back. Rahul allowed himself to laugh at this. It didn’t seem to matter, anyway, as Henri and Michael’s attentions were entirely absorbed. Self-absorbed, Rahul thought uncharitably.

“If that’s cultured, I’m fine being a caveman, thank you very much,” Julian griped good-naturedly.

“Caveman,” Rahul snorted. “If you were a caveman, you’d have an Archeopteryx’s feathers in your hair and a loincloth made out of glitter leopard print.”