Page 4 of Sunshine Boy

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Rahul was fascinated. Chatting with this young man was so natural that before he knew it they were entirely apart from the others, sitting on the defunct amplifier and a stack of folding chairs, entirely engrossed in their conversation. He couldn’t even gauge how long they’d been talking, except for noting that Mel and Kwambe had long since finished their post-gig spliff and were in the process of rolling another one.

“Pardonnez-moi,” Henri said, smiling, his French liquid and warming like a fine whiskey. “I have -- how do the English say? ‘Chewed your ear off’? You must want to get back to your friends.”

“I --” Rahul looked for Julian out of habit. He was nowhere to be seen. An echo of their conversation at the shop struck his heart like aftershocks. I think I could live with you having feelings for me, even if I don’t feel ‘em back.

Rahul shook himself and smiled for this charming, attractive young man who seemed to genuinely want to talk to him. “Ah, no. Actually, would you like a drink?”

They found themselves at the Mango’s bar. After shows, the stage darkened and the floor opened up for dance as flaccid punk and watery New Wave music played over the speakers. The dancing club goers all seemed to Rahul to be baby-faced pubescents playing dress-up. At least the bar was decent. He was sipping from a sensible lager while Henri was knocking back courageous swigs of a Sahara-dry martini.

“What was that you were saying about Nabokov?” Henri asked, his words perfect but accent thick as rich cream. “I love the -- how do you say? Self-reflexive nature of postmodernism.”

Rahul beamed in the way he so seldom did, the way he did when he was firmly rooted in an area of his expertise. “So do I! I find meta-works to be some of the most introspective, even more so than satire. Though, of course, those lines are often blurred.”

They lost themselves once more in conversation. Rahul marvelled because he had so rarely found someone he could speak with so freely. The only other person in his life it was this easy to banter with was Julian, but that was entirely different. He and Jules spoke their own language, abstract and strange and exhilarating, but altogether substanceless. Henri shared all the interests of Rahul’s that Julian couldn’t stand: black and white films, jazz, literature, theatre. He could scarcely believe that a man so young and handsome would enjoy what Julian often referred to as “old man hobbies.”

And he was terribly handsome, at that. He was about Mel’s age, so at least four years Rahul’s junior, Henri had the beauty of a sleek racehorse or a polished obsidian dagger. He had all the ingredients of a man that would be too cunning and go too fast for simple, ordinary Rahul. But somehow this stallion built for speed kept at a trot alongside Rahul’s knackered old mare and he didn’t seem to mind one bit. In fact, he seemed to prefer the slow lane.

The fact that this stunning creature’s attention shone exclusively on Rahul like a homing beacon was simultaneously thrilling and terrifying. He felt like he was playing outside of his league. Any moment now, Henri would broach a subject too esoteric for him and would inevitably lose interest, moving on to someone who could keep pace with him. But the minutes, then the hours, ticked by and they remained shoulder to shoulder, as absorbed in each other as ever. More so, even.

As pint after pint disappeared down Rahul’s gullet, he found the drink loosening his lips and the topics straying to ever more personal territory. They’d moved away from postmodernism and onto Henri’s background, the town he’d left behind, the future he was pursuing here in London. He was a writer, Rahul learned, an abstract experimentalist who sought to gain more traction in the bleak, industrialist cityscape than in Nimes’ provincial pastures. He was also fresh out of a break-up with a young man he’d left in France.

“Un putin,” he cursed without heat as he daintily pulled an olive off its toothpick with his teeth. “Cheated on me with my uncle.” Henri chuckled at Rahul’s indignant expression. “You puritanical English. I can’t blame him. My uncle is thirty-six and looks like the Farnese Hercules. More surprising he did not cheat on me sooner, n’est-ce pas?” He threw back the remains of his martini and signalled the bartender for another.

“I’m getting over someone,” Rahul blurted, bolstered by drink and Henri’s frankness -- and his hypnotic green eyes. Henri raised his thick, dark eyebrows, indicating that Rahul continue. “My best mate.”

The Frenchman’s bow-shaped lips formed an “o” shape. In his tipsy stupor, Rahul couldn’t tell if it was surprise or comprehension.

“Been in love with him since we were in school,” he went on, probably revealing more than he should, but he hadn’t really talked to anyone about what happened, or his feelings surrounding the whole incident. It was freeing, in a way, to have someone who was interested in hearing what he had to say, interested in him, someone who was willing to listen to his account and would take his side. “I finally got up the nerve to tell him how I felt and he threw me over for another bloke.”

“Un moment,” Henri said, holding up a hand. “You told this friend of yours that you loved him, but he gave you up for someone else?”

Rahul nodded glumly. It wasn’t, strictly speaking, exactly what had happened. But it was the spirit of the thing. And anyway, he was too drunk to go into the whole story -- not to mention that the whole story didn’t paint him in the best light and he still wanted this boy to like him.

“Then fuck him,” Henri said with feeling and Rahul couldn’t help snorting. “Vraiment! To hell with him. If he can’t see what he’s missing, then he doesn’t deserve you.” He rested his hand on Rahul’s knee under the bar and squeezed. He didn’t immediately remove his hand.

Rahul looked from the hand to its owner and back. No one had ever said anything remotely like this to him before. That Julian didn’t deserve him? That alone filled him with champagne bubbles and summer warmth. This amazing young man thought Rahul was worthy. More than worthy. Desirable. And he showed it in his actions. Even through Rahul’s naive and beer-addled mind, he could tell a come-on when he felt it through his jeans. Even if no one had ever made a pass at him before, let alone someone this gorgeous and intelligent. And male.

Rahul had assumed himself to be gay because he’d never been interested in anyone other than a male before. But that male had always been Julian. Since his sexual awakening at puberty, he had been blinded to anyone but Julian. His whole world had revolved around Julian. It still did. Or it had until Julian made it clear he didn’t return Rahul’s feelings. These were now uncharted, Julian-less waters. His libido was untethered. And now that there was an attractive man flirting with him, he found himself responding in kind even before he could entirely register what he was doing.

“That cheating bastard doesn’t deserve you either,” Rahul responded, a little ham-fisted.

“I know.” Henri smirked. “This is why I left. And this is why I am here.” He let his hooded gaze travel the length of Rahul, his eyes ending their long journey at Rahul’s parted lips.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he heard himself say.

“Are you?” Henri took a drag from his cigarette and let the smoke curl lazily out of his mouth. His hand was still on Rahul’s knee.

“Very.” Feeling quite daring, or quite drunk, or both, he put his hand over Henri’s under the bar. His skin felt smooth and cool. He wanted to put his lips to it.

At that moment, he realised there was an uncomfortable tightness in his bladder, one that had been there for some time. “Er, sorry, I -- I’ve got to use the loo. You -- don’t go anywhere.”

“Where would I go?” The dark-haired boy smiled enigmatically as Rahul rose and made his way towards the back of the club.

After relieving himself, he stared at his reflection long and hard in the mirror above the sink. The alkaline light cast him in harsh white light and stark black shadows, making his warm skin appear sallow. At least his thick hair was behaving. But, beneath it, his face looked foreign and forgettable. The moustache he’d long hoped would add interest to his features and an air of gentlemanly distinction only made him look like a washed-up geography teacher. What would that beautiful boy back at the bar want with him? He splashed water on his burning cheeks and dried his face with the paper hand towels. When he looked up, his face was still there, staring back at him with its unfocused brown eyes.

Feeling much worse than when he’d walked in, Rahul pushed his way out and found himself in the narrow hall that led back to the toilets with his way blocked. Henri lounged against the corridor wall, smoking his slim French cigarette, hand in the pocket of his tight black jeans, looking for the world like a trendy, bored, Parisian bohemian.