Boy's don't Cry - except J.B. bathing in self pity (rough draft)
Ah, I'm obssessed. Cute gay men come crawled from my brain and hold me in capitvity!!! Help! =^-^=
Here is the complete first chapter of the new (companion) story of Pictures.
Boy’s Don’t Cry
I.
The room was a symphony in grey. Not only the curtains held back most of the sunlight, but omnipresent dust, swirling in the air, or mixing itself with particles of ash, turned this tiny ray of light into something pale and unwanted. Nothing inspired a body the wish to stand up and start with whatever needed to be done. This could be, for instance, making the dishes in the kitchen: piles of dirty plates, mugs, ashtrays and other mysterious things right before generating intelligent life, were build up in the sink and daring the gravity through the pure form of this building. Or it could mean doing the laundry because heaps of clothes covered most of the floor, and soon, it would become difficult to find anything clean.
J.B. didn’t care about any of these things, laying half naked on his bed. The sleep had formed an unholy alliance with hang-over caused apathy, turning his body into some heavy, merely immobile machine. Not even the idea of a cigarette was exciting, because of the taste in his mouth. And the few times, his eyes opened on the grey and dusty landscape, even the tiny, pale light pouring in the room was like a flash in a lightening, causing him an headache. He closed the eyes again, and sunk back in the depth of apathetic dozing.
The phone started ringing. He decided to ignore it, and it decided to stop after a while. Good choice, he applauded the phone in his thoughts, and yawning he searched once more for the sweet embrace of sleep. In this moment, the phone resumed its calling for attention.
And it didn’t stop for a very long time, not at his growls, not at the dirty T-shirt thrown in its direction, not at a yell of pure annoyance just amplifying the pounding in his head, until he decided to have a word with the intruder into his privacy.
Then another thought flashed through his mind. It could be him. Why the heck did he not think of it earlier? Almost whining because of the headache, J.B. crawled out of his bed, and started rummaging though the heaps of garbage, searching for the phone. He ears seemed kind of damaged, because despite the ringing he needed an eternity to find the damned thing.
"Yes." He yelled, he rather believed to yell, because in reality he just rattled. What the hell had he done with his voice? "Dave?"
"J.B." It was him. For a second, J.B. seriously believed in God again.
"Dave, lo-"
"Whenever you dare again to annoy Helen you will be sued for intimidation and slander!" Angry was not strong enough to describe the sound of his voice.
"Dave." Really whining J.B. tried to make him stop to be so nasty. "I don’t know what she told you. I didn’t do anything."
At least, he couldn’t remember anything. Oh, he could remember drinking, getting a quickie in a public lavatory and throwing up in a park, but he had no idea why this bitch felt offended.
"She didn’t had to tell me anything, J.B., your monologue on the answer machine was obvious enough." No doubt, Dave was really angry, but hearing his voice, angry or not, woke up a wonderful warmth inside him making him shiver.
Oh god, he wanted him so badly, even with the pounding headache and the foul taste in his mouth. He didn’t want anything else but having him back. "I’m sorry, Dave, I was drunk." He laid down on the dirty floor, curling himself around the phone.
"I’m sorry, Dave, I was drunk." Dave imitated with a whining voice. "It’s the fifth time. For Christ’s sake, J.B., you have to stop it."
"But, I need you. It makes me sick to know that you are with her." Once more, the miserable sobbing, the familiar companion of the last weeks, shook his body. "I lo-"
"J.B." Now, Dave started speaking in this tone he used to talk at court. "How many time, I shall tell you that it is over?" The emerging anger almost beat the misery, but only almost. "I love her."
"But, I love you, Dave."
"I’m sorry, I can’t change my feelings."
"Me neither."
"I’m sorry."
"I’m sorry, too. I need you, I need you so much. I try to forget you, but every time, I get a fuck, I think it is you. Please, Dave." The words slipped out of his mouth faster than he realised. He knew that Dave hated crude words, and even more fucking in public places.
The next words came very coldly through the phone: "Rolling yourself in shit won’t change anything." Then he interrupted the communication.
J.B. placed the receiver back with shaking hands, before he curled up more, sobbing helplessly. Tears and snot mixed with dirt. How pathetic! Look at this worthless, whining creature crawling on the floor! There he was crying his eyes out for a stupid man who dumped him for a damned girl. Was this still J.B., the smartest and best looking man of Notting Hill? God, he hated himself so much, and Dave, and this damned bitch and the world and the life and just everything.
The renewed ringing of the phone broke in his bath in self-pity. J.B. sniffed a bit, before he took the receiver again.
"Yes." His voice sounded even more whiny then before.
"J.B." Oh god, it was a déjà-vu. "Do you do this very often?" And his voice sounded so worried. J.B. forget crying, his body reacting immediately.
"What?"
"Sleeping with other men."
Applause to this wonderful euphemism for fucking around! I’m a single now, J.B. almost wanted to say, I can get fucked by everyone I want. Though, the concern in Dave’s voice called back all these wonderful feelings, faster heartbeat, warmth in the stomach, and warmth in every part of his body.
"Yes, every night since two weeks." He admitted softly, feeling very bad and dirty all of sudden. Dave would be so deceived. "I go to dark places, because I don’t want to see the face. It could always be you, if I don’t see the face."
"For heaven’s sake, J.B." Dave sounded deeply touched now. "You have to stop this. I don’t want to be the reason that you destroy yourself."
Oh lovely lovingly Dave, he could be so nice. J.B. turned on his back, closing his eyes. "I need you, Dave. I don’t know what I shall do without you."
Dave didn’t answer at first. Dump the bitch, please, dump the bitch!, J.B. sung it in his head. He hadn’t considered pity before. Maybe, pity could be the key to Dave’s heart.
"Are you at least cautious, J.B.?"
J.B’s eyes snapped open, caught off guard by this question. He hadn’t given this idea one single thought, completely absorbed in self-pity and misery. A cold shiver ran over his back. How could he ever get Dave back when he got infected? The bitch was - he had to admit - a very pretty, harmless, well-educated girl, Dave wouldn’t dump her for a sick J.B.
Though, while his hang-over damaged brain was still chewing this thought, a strange bubbling build up in his stomach, beating the self-pity, the headache and, for a short lapse, even his love-sickness. It would be one hell of an irony if this happened to him after all these campaigns for save sex he had organised, regretting that the image of gay people was still tainted by Aids. Of course, he had also fought against all sort of discrimination, though, always being convinced that some people were too stupid for their own good. And now his self-righteousness pointed at himself accusingly, because he was as stupid as anybody else.
Covering his mouth with his free hand, J.B. started snickering, quickly gripped by a painful, overwhelming laughter. He tried to muffle it, but Dave seemed to hear something anyway.
"J.B." Alarm was arisen in his voice. "Hey, J.B., don’t cry. It doesn’t always happen. Please, don’t cry."
Still tears of laughter in his eyes, J.B. smiled wickedly. This was Dave: always fearing to cause a wrong, always caring that he had no reason to feel guilty, always so reasonable. So, pity was indeed the key, a very strange sort of pity mixed with fear did the job where reasonable talking, seducing whispers, dramatic yelling, laments and heart-wrenching crying had failed.
"Dave," J.B. added a hint of childish pleading to his voice husky from crying and whatever he had done last night. "I’m sorry to cause you worry." Dump the bitch! Or cheat on her, I don’t mind. "Dave," He lowered his voice a bit, conscious that sometimes it was still a turn-on for Dave. "Dave, would you go out with me one last time? For speaking." He added softly, calculating the effect of his voice, but also breathless in hope and anticipation. He needed only this occasion. Dave wasn’t completely indifferent, J.B. had managed one time to seduce him again, and since that Dave had avoided to meet him alone. "Dave, please, just - as a good-bye."
Waiting for the answer, J.B. closed his eyes. Every additional word would be too much. Finally, Dave sighed resigning, and the quiet sound rose goose-flesh on J.B.’s arms and back, his free hand ran impulsively down his chest bone.
"Okay, J.B., just one time. Let’s meet in Covent Garden, at eight."
"Thank you." J.B. let out in a deep breath, just thought about adding I love you, but keeping the words for himself. Maybe, they would ruin this precious moment he wanted to freeze and to put in his freezer, saving it for the hard times.
"But, J.B., you should make a test."
"Yes." J.B. answered, knowing that it was too early for a test to reveal anything, but not wanting to discuss this with Dave. He would have to buy condoms for tonight.
"Alright. See you tonight, J.B."
"See you, Dave." He kissed the receiver, his heart racing and his hands sweaty. Tonight, tonight ... J.B. felt like falling in love again.
After a few more seconds, he opened his eyes, looking around in his room, cursing. Whenever he got Dave to accompany him home, he better had to clean. Though, before this he called the newspaper.
"I’m sorry, but I need two more days of holiday. Oh yes, bronchitis is such an annoying disease." He didn’t care the slightest if they believed him or not.
*
Their meeting point in Covent Garden had always been the Bar of the Opera Terrace Café because of the French food and wine, and J.B. knew that Dave couldn’t have forgotten it, not in just two months. So, drinking wine like water, and smoking the half of a pack cigarettes, he thought, Dave must have another reason to let him wait for more than two hours. And while on the market of Covent Garden, the street lamps announced Nightfall, the Bar growing fuller with happy and well dressed people coming from the Opera, his mood sunk at the same level as all the other nights.
J.B. looked at the dark windows, not really seeing the awakening of the city’s nightly life, his reflection gazing back at him. Of course, even before, he had lived months or weeks without Dave, the worse time having been the one year Dave had passed a training session in the United States. Though, in a world of phones and internet, distances melted, and a good round of phone sex could do wonders, helping to bear the absence. It was nothing in comparison with this awful situation when even these little pleasures were banned from his life, let alone the endless nights of sex, wine and philosophical discussions. Two months were not enough to forget it, even more as J.B. still wanted this man with desperation.
A strange expression appeared in his eyes reflected by the window, their blue almost changed into black, while the feeling inside him was just the familiar misery of these days. J.B. swallowed, then called the waiter, paid for his three glasses of wine and left.
Down in the street, he had no idea what to do, not yet feeling desperate and drunk enough to look for a casual lay, still scared by the idea of a possible HIV infection anyway, though too tensed for going home. Then his eyes fell on the phone cell, and he decided to call Dave. Of course, he wouldn’t use a phone cell while having a cell phone. The bad word game made him smile while he searched for a bench, choosing the well-known number which, since three weeks, was the number of the bitch, too. Sitting down, J.B. waited for a reaction.
"Helen Richmond," said the well-hated, oh so damned friendly voice.
"I want to speak with Dave."
"Who is speaking?"
Bitch, J.B. ranted. Of course, she knew it, she had heard his voice often enough, they even had met, and J.B. didn’t believe her ignorance for one second.
"Just call him!" Getting up from the bench, he started walking again, his whole body vibrating in anger.
"He had to stay longer in the office."
Utterly astonished, J.B.s mind went blank. "Oh," he said. "well, thank you." Barely comprehending that he had just thanked the bitch, he cut the communication. It could be true, and it wouldn’t be the first time Dave stayed at the office until midnight. The law office he was working for now, an extremely well reputed law office, demanded hundred pro cent of loyalty and flexibility. Even complaining a bit that Dave could have called him just for a second, J.B. knew that he sometimes forgot everything while working.
A cigarette later, he called the office, and only when a sudden and annoyed voice barked: "Alwin.", he realised that the phone must have ringed for ten minutes.
"Could I speak with Mister Fergueson?" He asked, although a feeling of doom began to strangle him. Richard Alwin was Dave’s colleague, and he would never use the phone when Dave was still there.
"Is this you, Barclay?"
J.B. cut the communication before he might say something stupid, hating Richard Alwin much more than the bitch. Alwin had infected Dave with this strange fear that his relation with J.B. was bad for his career, a waste of all his talent and future opportunities, and even worse, he had invited him to this party where Dave met the bitch. The bitch was rich, intelligent, pretty and definitively not a man, therefore no risk for a career.
And she had just lied to J.B.
Tears of anger and distress in his eyes, J.B. chose Dave’s number again.
"Helen Richmond."
"I want to speak with him. Now."
"He is - "
"No, he is not."
"I see. I regret but he won’t speak with you nor meet you, until you’ve come to your senses." The subtle hint of sympathy in her voice enraged him even more. "Listen, James -"
"Who gave you the permission to call me James?"
"Listen, Mister Barclay," She imitated a secretary. "it is not fair to psychically blackmail a sensitive man like him. He is not responsible for your actions."
The helpless sound escaping J.B.’s mouth reminded of some dying animal. The other times, she had never talked like this, shocked and confused by what he threw against her head. What made her change?
"I love him." His legs growing wobbly, J.B. settled down on the bench again.
"You have a strange way to show it, James."
"I - " It was definitively over, this moment he knew it. Dave hid behind his woman, while she had decided to take up the fight. They had come to a conclusion with each other. "I - " What the hell had he said on their answer machine last night to make change the whole situation? J.B. took a deep breath, then said, barely as nasty as he wanted. "You will never be enough for him. He loves fucking men, and he loves -"
"You don’t need to repeat this, James."
"Don’t call me James!"
"and you don’t need to worry for me," she finished her sentence. "This is not your business." Curling up in the shadow like a hurt animal was all he wanted to do, his eyes filling with tears. He barely heard the voice in the phone anymore. "Listen, James, you shouldn’t call anymore until you feel better."
"How can I feel better without him?" J.B. let out, then threw his cell phone against a tree without waiting for an answer. It broke neatly.
Laying his head on his knees, he finally surrendered to the distress, weeping like a child. It was over, his last chance was gone, like the rest of self-esteem. Before, Dave’s hesitation to tell her about his bisexuality was J.B.’s greatest advantage, but now, he was checkmated just because of this. Now, Dave looked like the poor sensitive man, struck between love and temptation, while J.B. appeared just like the evil in person.
God, why had he to fall for such a coward?
The thought, just a shadow of his usual piercing perception, was enough to stop the crying. J.B. swallowed the last miserable sobs, searching for a new cigarette. Then he rose from his bench, and started walking in no precise direction. He wanted a drink, as the three glasses of wine hadn’t been enough to put him in the drunk stupor he needed to find sleep, but none of the bars he crossed inspired him. Finally he noted that he was near Charring Cross. Remembering that someone had once told him about a gay disco here, he gave it just one thought, before deciding against it. Such a place wouldn’t help to lift his mood, because he hated loud and crowded places, except for the Globe Theatre. But this was Shakespeare, and Shakespeare was just divine in whichever form and place.
Continuing aimlessly and restlessly, he finished his pack of cigarette, leaving the bigger streets for the smaller ones, because of some strange looks he received. Then, in the middle, of a small and dark street he stopped abruptly, struck by the absurdity of the last weeks, and his own behaviour. Running around in the city without any goal, looking for sex in a park or a public lavatory, risking infection were the stupidest things he had ever done in his life. Nothing of it had helped him at all to get Dave back. The best was to take the bus or the subway home, buying a bottle of red wine at a kiosk and having a nice night with candles, wine and good music, maybe even reading a book.
Though, before heading for the nearest station he decided to buy some new cigarettes, and went to the next door from which he heard a dull pounding rhythm. Not looking at the name, nor the dirtied announcement at the door, he shoved away the curtain behind the door, and found himself in - what? Dante’s inferno, a grotesque, the Grand Macabre, Bram Stoker’s brain, or a mausoleum? The light imitated flickering candles, it shimmered on the silvery surfaces of mirrors, the long bar and the candelabras. Though, the predominant colour was black, the style of the clothes was Victorian, but made of black leather and tons of black lace, and most of the people had pierced several parts of their faces, and bodies.
The pounding rhythm turned out as the underground for some spherical sounds, even somewhat medieval, apparently mixed by the two men on the stage. Some people swayed like entranced to the music, some moved so ecstatically that J.B. asked himself amused if they had already lost their hearing. Others were speaking, embracing or kissing, though J.B. avoided to look at those.
The first shock fading, J.B. went to the bar to ask for the cigarettes, and for the lavatory. He knew what kind of place this was: a gothic club, and he felt somewhat strange, with his neat and expensive clothes. Though, the looks he got were a bit amused and surprised, but not aggressive. J.B. risked a smile.
Then, suddenly, he remembered Simon Henthly, the first man he had fallen in love with during his first year in Cambridge, but after all it wasn’t such a surprise to think of him just now. After all, this relation with Simon had ended after several months just because Simon went to London so often for his gothic parties, and - J.B. had to admit it - because of Dave. And then he had lost sight of Simon for over six years, until, one day, Simon had phoned him because he was HIV positive and needed someone to speak with. This was already three or four years ago, and he had never seen him since that. J.B. felt uneasy because of these memories. He should better not give this idea too many thoughts.
"I see, a wanderer has lost his path, now lead to the centre of the enchanted wood, he is looking for wisdom and refreshment." The barkeeper, tall man with long black hair and a short beard, said smiling, then grinning after a moment of irritation and another surprised look at J.B.
At first, J.B. was confused by his words, then understanding that it must be a game, he recalled the memories of his role game time, answering: "Worthy Master Landlord, would you have the kindness to give me a pack of your weeds in exchange for these lovely tingling silver coins."
He took out his wallet, and shook it. It didn’t make a tingling sound, but the barkeeper laughed.
"But be careful, Master Landlord," Another voice said beside J.B., with a mixture of mysterious whisper and detached amusement. "don’t give him the weeds of sweet illusions he might get more lost, nor give him the weeds bounding the poor soul in desperate love or unsatisfying desire - he might never find back to the real world."
The smile that twitched J.B.’s lips at first faded quickly at the last words. He stared in amazement at the man with the black-green hair and an impish, goblin like face, accented by the make-up he wore.
"And who are you, stranger?" tried J.B. to get back his nonchalance by continuing the game.
"I am Puck, the merry wanderer of the night." The goblin answered with a mischievous smile, and, surprised, J.B. took some time to look more attentively at him.
The man was smaller than himself, compactly build and by this appearing taller than he really was. Compared to most of the other people his clothes were simple: a wide black shirt with red laces, tight, black leather trousers and black boots, and he wore no visible piercing. The only special cloth was a dark cape with a red inside hanging around his shoulders. Then, while J.B. still thought how strange and exotically his face appeared, he wanted to slap his forehead, realising that it was due to the fact the he was at least partially Asian. Puck noted his gaze with a smile, his own look openly appreciating what he saw. Though, the hint of amuse still glittered in his eyes.
Finally, he took a pack West from his pockets, and held it offering towards J.B.. "Is this the kind of weed your aspire?" His question reminded J.B. that he hadn’t still yet got his own cigarettes.
"Though, my preference tilts clearly to the French, I freely accept your kind offer." He replied, taking a cigarette.
"So, your preference tilts towards the French." He repeated, lighting J.B.’s cigarette, before he lit one for himself, then licking his lips.
J.B. snickered, the situation was strange and funny. As if they were doing a performance, play and serious flirting melted that J.B. wasn’t sure what to think of this conversation. Though, he highly appreciated the distraction from his other worries.
"Might you tell me, worthy Puck, where are the places to get relief?" He asked, needing a lavatory anyway, and curious how the other would react at the ambivalence.
"It depends on what relief you are searching for, lovely wanderer." The goblin answered with his slightly wicked smile, and his hand, leaving the bar, brushed J.B. thigh with a gentle teasing, before returning at its former place. "There are so many kind of relief to be get, and all of them you might receive at the same place. Just take the way to the end of this table and follow the shining sign; you won’t err." J.B. chuckled again, and when he turned to leave, Puck held him back at the shoulder. "And don’t forget to question the wisdom of the shining, truth telling glass, it might grant your the answers to some of your riddles."
Smiling to cover his confusion, J.B. left him, and heard him laughing with the barkeeper, until the music swallowed the sound of it.
The look in the mirror gave him the promised answers. The make-up he had put on his eyes: silver eyeliner, dark mascara and grey eye-shadow, was completely ruined because of his crying, making him look like funny racoon, or a cobra. J.B. gaped at first, then blushed in retarded embarrassment and finally started laughing, before he used the papers, soap and water to remove most of it. His eyes stung at the procedure, but he deserved this punishment. Completely forgetting about it was the clearest sign for his disturbed mental condition.
More or less satisfied with his looks, and relieved, he returned at the bar. Unfortunately, the merry wanderer of the night was gone, but the barkeeper grinned at him.
"Why didn’t you tell me that I looked like a racoon?" J.B. asked somewhat embarrassed.
"I never question the looks of my guests. Who knows, it could be a part of their lifestyle?" The barkeeper replied.
J.B. shook his head, bought his pack of Gauloises, and commanded a cocktail with the adventurous name "Death after Midnight", not so eager anymore to go home. He was in high spirits, curious about the man who cited Shakespeare by heart, and generally interested because Shakespeare didn’t seem so far in this place of dreams and nightmares, games and disguises. He could have found himself at worse places than this one.
The first drops of "Death after Midnight", dark-blue and blood-red, started their infernal work in his body, when the music stopped. The audience applauded the two men who disappeared in the darkness while a single light flashed on a keyboard and its player at the side of the stage. Another kind of music, reminding J.B. of Nyman or Rota, started filling the room, it evoked in J.B. the pictures of nightly dew on spider webs glittering in the light of the moon, lakes reflecting the nightly sky, millions of stars, while little creatures darted through the dark woods. Then the light turned bigger and greenish, revealing the shape of a person sitting beside the keyboard.
we shadows have offended,
J.B. recognised Puck’s voice immediately when it whispered, but clearly audible, mixing with the music:
Think but this,--and all is mended,--
Amazed, J.B. took one more sip from the Death after Midnight.
That you have but slumber'd here
While these visions did appear.
Puck rose from his low position with a swift movement, slowly going to the middle of the stage, accompanied by the light, but still remaining shadowy. J.B. felt like projected in a weird fantasy, the place transforming itself into the lovely grotto of the fairies.
And this weak and idle theme,
No more yielding but a dream,
Gentles, do not reprehend;
J.B. laughed for himself. Fairies could be lovely creatures, not just a word used for derogation.
If you pardon, we will mend.
And, as I am an honest Puck,
If we have unearned luck
Now to 'scape the serpent's tongue,
Feeling very tired, as if the fairies had just put a spell on him, J.B. gazed at his glass, wondering why it was empty. He couldn’t remember drinking the whole cocktail.
We will make amends ere long;
Else the Puck a liar call:
The light grew brighter, and now Puck was completely visible. Clutching his glass to focus his somewhat blurred perception, J.B. thought that the impish smile was very nice.
So, good night unto you all. ..."
Good night, all you lovely creatures!, J.B. wished, than, heavy of slumber, his head sunk on a big trunk in the forest.
*
The dull pain behind his forehead, heavy limps and a feeling of cotton in his mouth were familiar symptoms. His throat seemed somewhat raw, but at least, he didn’t feel like throwing up.
J.B. had woken up in worse conditions than now in a worse looking room. Lazily, he gazed at the dust filled rays of sunlight pouring in the room, just a little bit blinded by them, and snuggled deeper in his blanket, satisfied with its fresh and clean smell. He remembered cleaning his apartment yesterday in anticipation of a night with Dave, and very, very faintly, he remembered drowning in kisses.
Yawning, J.B. stretched like a very content tomcat. It looked as if everything had passed according to the plan, even if he somewhat missed the familiar scent. Though, Dave seemed to be in the kitchen, because J.B. could smell tea. He wasn’t a morning person himself, never getting something in his stomach before nine, or ten, and after his inner clock, it couldn’t be later than seven. But the idea of tea appealed him.
Wrapping the blanket around himself like a toga, J.B. went in the kitchen, stopping net at the entrance. Never in his whole life, Dave had spend one single thought at dying his hair, let alone green. Aside from this, he wasn’t Asian, and he wasn’t the man standing in J.B.’s kitchen.
"Who are you?" J.B. asked, dumbfounded. "And what are you doing in my kitchen?"
The other man rose an eyebrow, amused and slightly worried. "I am Puck, the merry wanderer of the night. Do you remember? And well, as you see, I’m making some tea. I hope it doesn’t bother you."
"Of course, it bothers me. I have no idea who you are. What Puck, I don’t -" He stopped, his mouth gaping open. Pieces of the broken mosaic called "The last night" returned to his memory. Weak in his knees because of the shock and almost twelve hours without solid food in his stomach, J.B. slumped on a chair. Faintly he remembered waiting for Dave who didn’t show up, who probably would never again show up, he recalled walking, then finding himself in this strange place or club. "And this weak and idle theme, No more yielding but a dream." He mumbled, now remembering "Puck".
"Death caught you after midnight." This one said, handing J.B. a mug with tea. Holding something solid in his hands was very comfortable, but he had no idea what his strange guest was speaking about, before the man cleared the haze in J.B.’s head. "Death after Midnight is a special mixture of the house and you have drunk this cocktail in less than three minutes. Gus just wanted to applaud you for this courage, when you spaced out."
"And who is Gus?" J.B. sighed, carefully setting the mug on the table.
"The barkeeper."
"If you say so." Numbly, as if he had just got a hit on his head, J.B. stood up, and padded in his living, but he couldn’t remember where he had put his cigarettes and froze in the middle of the room. What was going on with him? He was just a brainless idiot, getting drunk in some strange club, and now a punk was hanging around in his apartment who might be a drug-addicted, or a rapist, or a thug, or a psycho. Admitted his rather cultivated language spoke against this supposition, and after all, he knew Shakespeare by heart.
A hand touching his shoulder startled J.B.. "Hey! You look bloody lost." The stranger said friendly. "Do you want a cigarette?"
"Yes, please. I have no idea where I have left mine."
The punk took a pack from his leather jacket and held it towards J.B. "It’s in your jacket, in the corridor." He explained, lighting the cigarette.
When he was this close, J.B. remembered this smell of tobacco, leather and nice, clean maleness, and the feeling of leather against his cheek. This must have been later, in the bus, or in the tube. "Didn’t you wear a sort of cape, last night?" He asked after the first draw.
"Yes, but I only wear it for special occasions." The other said, lighting a cigarette for himself, visibly relieved that smoking was allowed in J.B.’s apartment. "And I didn’t want you to puke on it."
"Nobody asked you to bring me home."
"Believe me, lovely, you hadn’t want to wake up at this place. It doesn’t look as nice as your rooms in the morning."
The sound of the voice and this try to dictate him annoyed J.B., and turning to go back in the kitchen, he said: "Nobody gave you the permission to call me "lovely"." The answer was a soft chuckling, absolutely no offended. Shaking his head, J.B. took an ashtray from the cabinet, relieved that he had cleaned the kitchen yesterday. It wouldn’t half as easy to feel in his shape, if it would still looking like the last weeks. Finally, he set down again, and asked in fake indifference. "And did we do it?"
"Oh yes." The punk said with a sly smile. "I hadn’t thought what wild thing you are. All these dirty fantasies, I had almost problems to satisfy them, but I think, you liked it a lot." J.B.’s jaw slacked open. Heat crept over his face and whole body, and the consciousness of being half naked, just clad in a blanket, was not helpful to keep up calm and coolness. "And obviously, you like being dominated. Your suggestion of a little slave game surprised me, I hope you found it pleasant." His eyes shining suggestively, the evil goblin sipped his tea. "At least, you screamed loud enough to wake up your neighbours."
J.B. let out an helpless, little moan, and one second later, his guest started chuckling, getting tea in the wrong way and coughing huskily. J.B. stared at him in shock, then felt the urge to kill him, glaring daggers which just stirred the chuckles into laughs, before he gave up, giggling too, immensely relieved.
"This was so evil." He said, when he found his voice.
"I know," The other answered still grinning. "but I couldn’t help myself. The occasion was just too perfect." Finally, he grew a bit more serious. "No, seriously, we didn’t anything interesting, although you made some attempts. You were freaking sloshed."
Now J.B. blushed. Obviously, the memory of kissing had a real base. Half hiding his face behind his hand with the cigarette, J.B. mustered at the stranger. The man looked back at him, still smiling. Even without make-up, his face had this impish treat giving him some charm despite the lack of real beauty, or prettiness, and the way how he leaned against the kitchen counter revealed that he was very conscious of his body.
"Well, thank you." J.B. broke the silence after a while.
"Don’t bother. It was not my idea, but Si’s. He -"
J.B.’s eyes grew wider at last words: "Si like Simon Henthly?" He asked, remembering thinking of him.
"Yes."
"Oh, I haven’t seen him last night. And how do you know him?"
"He is one of my best friends."
"Oh." J.B. stubbed his cigarette in the ashtray. "I see. How is he doing?" The stranger shrugged, then made a move as if he wanted to go, his smile growing hollow. "Tell me!"
"No, I don’t think so. You should call him. I’m sure it will cheer him up. He was very worried about you, but I preferred to do it, because he just made the acquaintance of this nice bloke and had a later date with him."
J.B. let out the breath he had been holding back. "So, he isn’t sick."
Puck laughed without humour. "No, not what you mean. He has problems with his health assurance, it really depresses him."
Maybe, calling Simon was a good idea, J.B. thought, maybe he could help him, it would distract him from his own worries. He looked at the stranger again, without any doubt, he knew about Simon’s problems. Though, there was something more, his whole body radiated some sort of tension he tried to cover with a slight smile. Irritated, J.B. opened his mouth to ask him what his problem was, when the phone started ringing.
"Sorry!" J.B. stood up from his chair, smoothing his self-made toga and went back in the living room. Rubbing his eyes, he took the receiver. "James Barclay."
"J.B." It was Dave, and hearing his voice had the same effect as a punch in the stomach, before the warmth spread through his body. "I’m sorry for last night."
J.B. closed his eyes for a second.
"Are you? I thought you had decided to hide behind this woman of yours."
"I’m sorry. She said it would be better for you if we don’t meet."
"So, she is worried about me." J.B. rubbed his eyes with his free hand, this time because of the stinging.
"Yes, she is a wonderful girl. I wouldn’t love her if she wasn’t."
"Dave, why do you call?" He really felt like crying again.
"She said you interrupted the communication, and we were worried about you."
"Oh, the both of you were worried about me. How touching!"
"J.B., you are my best friend, of course, I can be worried about you."
Oh yes, this was the way how Dave wanted it. He wanted J.B. to be reasonable and generous, sharing the joy about his new love.
"Dave, I’m not your best friend. I love you, I desire you, I want to have sex with you, and I’m sick with jealousy of this woman of yours." J.B. took a deep breath. He would not cry like the other time. It was over, and a clean cut was the best he could do. "Does she know that you are calling now?"
"What?" The question seemed to surprise him. "No."
"Do you know what she told me yesterday?" He didn’t wait for Dave’s answer. "She said, I should better not call or meet you again until I feel better. She is right, and therefore I ask you not to call me anymore. Bye, Dave!"
"Wait, J.B.!"
"What?" J.B. wiped his face, wanting nothing else but ending this conversation. The gentle sound of Dave’s voice just increased his misery with every word.
"Would you tell me whenever the test is positive?"
"Why?" J.B. hadn’t doubted that Dave would give him support in such a situation, even if he wouldn’t want to have him back. The question irritated him, though. "Why, Dave?"
"Maybe, I should make one myself."
J.B.’s mouth gaped open, then he gasped for air.
"You are kidding, There is no risk for you."
"I never could be sure. You were always flirting with so many men, I could never know -"
"Dave, don’t tell me that this is the reason why you call me? Don’t tell me you called because of your strange suspicions?" Tears streaming down his face, J.B. yelled in the phone. "I have never - not one single time - cheated on you. You cheated on me with this woman. For two months. I know, I’m stupid because I love you, but this, Dave, this is so - fucking - disgusting."
J.B. slammed the receiver on the phone, throwing himself on his bed and burying his face in his pillow. Though, in the middle of crying, sobbing and pitying himself he remembered his guest. Embarrassed and shameful, he wiped his face and went back in the kitchen. What must he think now?
Though, the kitchen was empty. The stranger was gone like the wild spirit whose name he had taken, and J.B. hadn’t even heard him leaving. Numbly, he slumped on the chair. At least, he didn’t have to explain things, nor to face the man with these red eyes.
J.B. took the mug of tea standing on the table and drank. Though, the teas was cold and already bitter. Getting up to throw it in the kitchen sink, he regretted that he had forgotten to ask for the name.
~ End part 1 ~
Here is the complete first chapter of the new (companion) story of Pictures.
Boy’s Don’t Cry
I.
The room was a symphony in grey. Not only the curtains held back most of the sunlight, but omnipresent dust, swirling in the air, or mixing itself with particles of ash, turned this tiny ray of light into something pale and unwanted. Nothing inspired a body the wish to stand up and start with whatever needed to be done. This could be, for instance, making the dishes in the kitchen: piles of dirty plates, mugs, ashtrays and other mysterious things right before generating intelligent life, were build up in the sink and daring the gravity through the pure form of this building. Or it could mean doing the laundry because heaps of clothes covered most of the floor, and soon, it would become difficult to find anything clean.
J.B. didn’t care about any of these things, laying half naked on his bed. The sleep had formed an unholy alliance with hang-over caused apathy, turning his body into some heavy, merely immobile machine. Not even the idea of a cigarette was exciting, because of the taste in his mouth. And the few times, his eyes opened on the grey and dusty landscape, even the tiny, pale light pouring in the room was like a flash in a lightening, causing him an headache. He closed the eyes again, and sunk back in the depth of apathetic dozing.
The phone started ringing. He decided to ignore it, and it decided to stop after a while. Good choice, he applauded the phone in his thoughts, and yawning he searched once more for the sweet embrace of sleep. In this moment, the phone resumed its calling for attention.
And it didn’t stop for a very long time, not at his growls, not at the dirty T-shirt thrown in its direction, not at a yell of pure annoyance just amplifying the pounding in his head, until he decided to have a word with the intruder into his privacy.
Then another thought flashed through his mind. It could be him. Why the heck did he not think of it earlier? Almost whining because of the headache, J.B. crawled out of his bed, and started rummaging though the heaps of garbage, searching for the phone. He ears seemed kind of damaged, because despite the ringing he needed an eternity to find the damned thing.
"Yes." He yelled, he rather believed to yell, because in reality he just rattled. What the hell had he done with his voice? "Dave?"
"J.B." It was him. For a second, J.B. seriously believed in God again.
"Dave, lo-"
"Whenever you dare again to annoy Helen you will be sued for intimidation and slander!" Angry was not strong enough to describe the sound of his voice.
"Dave." Really whining J.B. tried to make him stop to be so nasty. "I don’t know what she told you. I didn’t do anything."
At least, he couldn’t remember anything. Oh, he could remember drinking, getting a quickie in a public lavatory and throwing up in a park, but he had no idea why this bitch felt offended.
"She didn’t had to tell me anything, J.B., your monologue on the answer machine was obvious enough." No doubt, Dave was really angry, but hearing his voice, angry or not, woke up a wonderful warmth inside him making him shiver.
Oh god, he wanted him so badly, even with the pounding headache and the foul taste in his mouth. He didn’t want anything else but having him back. "I’m sorry, Dave, I was drunk." He laid down on the dirty floor, curling himself around the phone.
"I’m sorry, Dave, I was drunk." Dave imitated with a whining voice. "It’s the fifth time. For Christ’s sake, J.B., you have to stop it."
"But, I need you. It makes me sick to know that you are with her." Once more, the miserable sobbing, the familiar companion of the last weeks, shook his body. "I lo-"
"J.B." Now, Dave started speaking in this tone he used to talk at court. "How many time, I shall tell you that it is over?" The emerging anger almost beat the misery, but only almost. "I love her."
"But, I love you, Dave."
"I’m sorry, I can’t change my feelings."
"Me neither."
"I’m sorry."
"I’m sorry, too. I need you, I need you so much. I try to forget you, but every time, I get a fuck, I think it is you. Please, Dave." The words slipped out of his mouth faster than he realised. He knew that Dave hated crude words, and even more fucking in public places.
The next words came very coldly through the phone: "Rolling yourself in shit won’t change anything." Then he interrupted the communication.
J.B. placed the receiver back with shaking hands, before he curled up more, sobbing helplessly. Tears and snot mixed with dirt. How pathetic! Look at this worthless, whining creature crawling on the floor! There he was crying his eyes out for a stupid man who dumped him for a damned girl. Was this still J.B., the smartest and best looking man of Notting Hill? God, he hated himself so much, and Dave, and this damned bitch and the world and the life and just everything.
The renewed ringing of the phone broke in his bath in self-pity. J.B. sniffed a bit, before he took the receiver again.
"Yes." His voice sounded even more whiny then before.
"J.B." Oh god, it was a déjà-vu. "Do you do this very often?" And his voice sounded so worried. J.B. forget crying, his body reacting immediately.
"What?"
"Sleeping with other men."
Applause to this wonderful euphemism for fucking around! I’m a single now, J.B. almost wanted to say, I can get fucked by everyone I want. Though, the concern in Dave’s voice called back all these wonderful feelings, faster heartbeat, warmth in the stomach, and warmth in every part of his body.
"Yes, every night since two weeks." He admitted softly, feeling very bad and dirty all of sudden. Dave would be so deceived. "I go to dark places, because I don’t want to see the face. It could always be you, if I don’t see the face."
"For heaven’s sake, J.B." Dave sounded deeply touched now. "You have to stop this. I don’t want to be the reason that you destroy yourself."
Oh lovely lovingly Dave, he could be so nice. J.B. turned on his back, closing his eyes. "I need you, Dave. I don’t know what I shall do without you."
Dave didn’t answer at first. Dump the bitch, please, dump the bitch!, J.B. sung it in his head. He hadn’t considered pity before. Maybe, pity could be the key to Dave’s heart.
"Are you at least cautious, J.B.?"
J.B’s eyes snapped open, caught off guard by this question. He hadn’t given this idea one single thought, completely absorbed in self-pity and misery. A cold shiver ran over his back. How could he ever get Dave back when he got infected? The bitch was - he had to admit - a very pretty, harmless, well-educated girl, Dave wouldn’t dump her for a sick J.B.
Though, while his hang-over damaged brain was still chewing this thought, a strange bubbling build up in his stomach, beating the self-pity, the headache and, for a short lapse, even his love-sickness. It would be one hell of an irony if this happened to him after all these campaigns for save sex he had organised, regretting that the image of gay people was still tainted by Aids. Of course, he had also fought against all sort of discrimination, though, always being convinced that some people were too stupid for their own good. And now his self-righteousness pointed at himself accusingly, because he was as stupid as anybody else.
Covering his mouth with his free hand, J.B. started snickering, quickly gripped by a painful, overwhelming laughter. He tried to muffle it, but Dave seemed to hear something anyway.
"J.B." Alarm was arisen in his voice. "Hey, J.B., don’t cry. It doesn’t always happen. Please, don’t cry."
Still tears of laughter in his eyes, J.B. smiled wickedly. This was Dave: always fearing to cause a wrong, always caring that he had no reason to feel guilty, always so reasonable. So, pity was indeed the key, a very strange sort of pity mixed with fear did the job where reasonable talking, seducing whispers, dramatic yelling, laments and heart-wrenching crying had failed.
"Dave," J.B. added a hint of childish pleading to his voice husky from crying and whatever he had done last night. "I’m sorry to cause you worry." Dump the bitch! Or cheat on her, I don’t mind. "Dave," He lowered his voice a bit, conscious that sometimes it was still a turn-on for Dave. "Dave, would you go out with me one last time? For speaking." He added softly, calculating the effect of his voice, but also breathless in hope and anticipation. He needed only this occasion. Dave wasn’t completely indifferent, J.B. had managed one time to seduce him again, and since that Dave had avoided to meet him alone. "Dave, please, just - as a good-bye."
Waiting for the answer, J.B. closed his eyes. Every additional word would be too much. Finally, Dave sighed resigning, and the quiet sound rose goose-flesh on J.B.’s arms and back, his free hand ran impulsively down his chest bone.
"Okay, J.B., just one time. Let’s meet in Covent Garden, at eight."
"Thank you." J.B. let out in a deep breath, just thought about adding I love you, but keeping the words for himself. Maybe, they would ruin this precious moment he wanted to freeze and to put in his freezer, saving it for the hard times.
"But, J.B., you should make a test."
"Yes." J.B. answered, knowing that it was too early for a test to reveal anything, but not wanting to discuss this with Dave. He would have to buy condoms for tonight.
"Alright. See you tonight, J.B."
"See you, Dave." He kissed the receiver, his heart racing and his hands sweaty. Tonight, tonight ... J.B. felt like falling in love again.
After a few more seconds, he opened his eyes, looking around in his room, cursing. Whenever he got Dave to accompany him home, he better had to clean. Though, before this he called the newspaper.
"I’m sorry, but I need two more days of holiday. Oh yes, bronchitis is such an annoying disease." He didn’t care the slightest if they believed him or not.
*
Their meeting point in Covent Garden had always been the Bar of the Opera Terrace Café because of the French food and wine, and J.B. knew that Dave couldn’t have forgotten it, not in just two months. So, drinking wine like water, and smoking the half of a pack cigarettes, he thought, Dave must have another reason to let him wait for more than two hours. And while on the market of Covent Garden, the street lamps announced Nightfall, the Bar growing fuller with happy and well dressed people coming from the Opera, his mood sunk at the same level as all the other nights.
J.B. looked at the dark windows, not really seeing the awakening of the city’s nightly life, his reflection gazing back at him. Of course, even before, he had lived months or weeks without Dave, the worse time having been the one year Dave had passed a training session in the United States. Though, in a world of phones and internet, distances melted, and a good round of phone sex could do wonders, helping to bear the absence. It was nothing in comparison with this awful situation when even these little pleasures were banned from his life, let alone the endless nights of sex, wine and philosophical discussions. Two months were not enough to forget it, even more as J.B. still wanted this man with desperation.
A strange expression appeared in his eyes reflected by the window, their blue almost changed into black, while the feeling inside him was just the familiar misery of these days. J.B. swallowed, then called the waiter, paid for his three glasses of wine and left.
Down in the street, he had no idea what to do, not yet feeling desperate and drunk enough to look for a casual lay, still scared by the idea of a possible HIV infection anyway, though too tensed for going home. Then his eyes fell on the phone cell, and he decided to call Dave. Of course, he wouldn’t use a phone cell while having a cell phone. The bad word game made him smile while he searched for a bench, choosing the well-known number which, since three weeks, was the number of the bitch, too. Sitting down, J.B. waited for a reaction.
"Helen Richmond," said the well-hated, oh so damned friendly voice.
"I want to speak with Dave."
"Who is speaking?"
Bitch, J.B. ranted. Of course, she knew it, she had heard his voice often enough, they even had met, and J.B. didn’t believe her ignorance for one second.
"Just call him!" Getting up from the bench, he started walking again, his whole body vibrating in anger.
"He had to stay longer in the office."
Utterly astonished, J.B.s mind went blank. "Oh," he said. "well, thank you." Barely comprehending that he had just thanked the bitch, he cut the communication. It could be true, and it wouldn’t be the first time Dave stayed at the office until midnight. The law office he was working for now, an extremely well reputed law office, demanded hundred pro cent of loyalty and flexibility. Even complaining a bit that Dave could have called him just for a second, J.B. knew that he sometimes forgot everything while working.
A cigarette later, he called the office, and only when a sudden and annoyed voice barked: "Alwin.", he realised that the phone must have ringed for ten minutes.
"Could I speak with Mister Fergueson?" He asked, although a feeling of doom began to strangle him. Richard Alwin was Dave’s colleague, and he would never use the phone when Dave was still there.
"Is this you, Barclay?"
J.B. cut the communication before he might say something stupid, hating Richard Alwin much more than the bitch. Alwin had infected Dave with this strange fear that his relation with J.B. was bad for his career, a waste of all his talent and future opportunities, and even worse, he had invited him to this party where Dave met the bitch. The bitch was rich, intelligent, pretty and definitively not a man, therefore no risk for a career.
And she had just lied to J.B.
Tears of anger and distress in his eyes, J.B. chose Dave’s number again.
"Helen Richmond."
"I want to speak with him. Now."
"He is - "
"No, he is not."
"I see. I regret but he won’t speak with you nor meet you, until you’ve come to your senses." The subtle hint of sympathy in her voice enraged him even more. "Listen, James -"
"Who gave you the permission to call me James?"
"Listen, Mister Barclay," She imitated a secretary. "it is not fair to psychically blackmail a sensitive man like him. He is not responsible for your actions."
The helpless sound escaping J.B.’s mouth reminded of some dying animal. The other times, she had never talked like this, shocked and confused by what he threw against her head. What made her change?
"I love him." His legs growing wobbly, J.B. settled down on the bench again.
"You have a strange way to show it, James."
"I - " It was definitively over, this moment he knew it. Dave hid behind his woman, while she had decided to take up the fight. They had come to a conclusion with each other. "I - " What the hell had he said on their answer machine last night to make change the whole situation? J.B. took a deep breath, then said, barely as nasty as he wanted. "You will never be enough for him. He loves fucking men, and he loves -"
"You don’t need to repeat this, James."
"Don’t call me James!"
"and you don’t need to worry for me," she finished her sentence. "This is not your business." Curling up in the shadow like a hurt animal was all he wanted to do, his eyes filling with tears. He barely heard the voice in the phone anymore. "Listen, James, you shouldn’t call anymore until you feel better."
"How can I feel better without him?" J.B. let out, then threw his cell phone against a tree without waiting for an answer. It broke neatly.
Laying his head on his knees, he finally surrendered to the distress, weeping like a child. It was over, his last chance was gone, like the rest of self-esteem. Before, Dave’s hesitation to tell her about his bisexuality was J.B.’s greatest advantage, but now, he was checkmated just because of this. Now, Dave looked like the poor sensitive man, struck between love and temptation, while J.B. appeared just like the evil in person.
God, why had he to fall for such a coward?
The thought, just a shadow of his usual piercing perception, was enough to stop the crying. J.B. swallowed the last miserable sobs, searching for a new cigarette. Then he rose from his bench, and started walking in no precise direction. He wanted a drink, as the three glasses of wine hadn’t been enough to put him in the drunk stupor he needed to find sleep, but none of the bars he crossed inspired him. Finally he noted that he was near Charring Cross. Remembering that someone had once told him about a gay disco here, he gave it just one thought, before deciding against it. Such a place wouldn’t help to lift his mood, because he hated loud and crowded places, except for the Globe Theatre. But this was Shakespeare, and Shakespeare was just divine in whichever form and place.
Continuing aimlessly and restlessly, he finished his pack of cigarette, leaving the bigger streets for the smaller ones, because of some strange looks he received. Then, in the middle, of a small and dark street he stopped abruptly, struck by the absurdity of the last weeks, and his own behaviour. Running around in the city without any goal, looking for sex in a park or a public lavatory, risking infection were the stupidest things he had ever done in his life. Nothing of it had helped him at all to get Dave back. The best was to take the bus or the subway home, buying a bottle of red wine at a kiosk and having a nice night with candles, wine and good music, maybe even reading a book.
Though, before heading for the nearest station he decided to buy some new cigarettes, and went to the next door from which he heard a dull pounding rhythm. Not looking at the name, nor the dirtied announcement at the door, he shoved away the curtain behind the door, and found himself in - what? Dante’s inferno, a grotesque, the Grand Macabre, Bram Stoker’s brain, or a mausoleum? The light imitated flickering candles, it shimmered on the silvery surfaces of mirrors, the long bar and the candelabras. Though, the predominant colour was black, the style of the clothes was Victorian, but made of black leather and tons of black lace, and most of the people had pierced several parts of their faces, and bodies.
The pounding rhythm turned out as the underground for some spherical sounds, even somewhat medieval, apparently mixed by the two men on the stage. Some people swayed like entranced to the music, some moved so ecstatically that J.B. asked himself amused if they had already lost their hearing. Others were speaking, embracing or kissing, though J.B. avoided to look at those.
The first shock fading, J.B. went to the bar to ask for the cigarettes, and for the lavatory. He knew what kind of place this was: a gothic club, and he felt somewhat strange, with his neat and expensive clothes. Though, the looks he got were a bit amused and surprised, but not aggressive. J.B. risked a smile.
Then, suddenly, he remembered Simon Henthly, the first man he had fallen in love with during his first year in Cambridge, but after all it wasn’t such a surprise to think of him just now. After all, this relation with Simon had ended after several months just because Simon went to London so often for his gothic parties, and - J.B. had to admit it - because of Dave. And then he had lost sight of Simon for over six years, until, one day, Simon had phoned him because he was HIV positive and needed someone to speak with. This was already three or four years ago, and he had never seen him since that. J.B. felt uneasy because of these memories. He should better not give this idea too many thoughts.
"I see, a wanderer has lost his path, now lead to the centre of the enchanted wood, he is looking for wisdom and refreshment." The barkeeper, tall man with long black hair and a short beard, said smiling, then grinning after a moment of irritation and another surprised look at J.B.
At first, J.B. was confused by his words, then understanding that it must be a game, he recalled the memories of his role game time, answering: "Worthy Master Landlord, would you have the kindness to give me a pack of your weeds in exchange for these lovely tingling silver coins."
He took out his wallet, and shook it. It didn’t make a tingling sound, but the barkeeper laughed.
"But be careful, Master Landlord," Another voice said beside J.B., with a mixture of mysterious whisper and detached amusement. "don’t give him the weeds of sweet illusions he might get more lost, nor give him the weeds bounding the poor soul in desperate love or unsatisfying desire - he might never find back to the real world."
The smile that twitched J.B.’s lips at first faded quickly at the last words. He stared in amazement at the man with the black-green hair and an impish, goblin like face, accented by the make-up he wore.
"And who are you, stranger?" tried J.B. to get back his nonchalance by continuing the game.
"I am Puck, the merry wanderer of the night." The goblin answered with a mischievous smile, and, surprised, J.B. took some time to look more attentively at him.
The man was smaller than himself, compactly build and by this appearing taller than he really was. Compared to most of the other people his clothes were simple: a wide black shirt with red laces, tight, black leather trousers and black boots, and he wore no visible piercing. The only special cloth was a dark cape with a red inside hanging around his shoulders. Then, while J.B. still thought how strange and exotically his face appeared, he wanted to slap his forehead, realising that it was due to the fact the he was at least partially Asian. Puck noted his gaze with a smile, his own look openly appreciating what he saw. Though, the hint of amuse still glittered in his eyes.
Finally, he took a pack West from his pockets, and held it offering towards J.B.. "Is this the kind of weed your aspire?" His question reminded J.B. that he hadn’t still yet got his own cigarettes.
"Though, my preference tilts clearly to the French, I freely accept your kind offer." He replied, taking a cigarette.
"So, your preference tilts towards the French." He repeated, lighting J.B.’s cigarette, before he lit one for himself, then licking his lips.
J.B. snickered, the situation was strange and funny. As if they were doing a performance, play and serious flirting melted that J.B. wasn’t sure what to think of this conversation. Though, he highly appreciated the distraction from his other worries.
"Might you tell me, worthy Puck, where are the places to get relief?" He asked, needing a lavatory anyway, and curious how the other would react at the ambivalence.
"It depends on what relief you are searching for, lovely wanderer." The goblin answered with his slightly wicked smile, and his hand, leaving the bar, brushed J.B. thigh with a gentle teasing, before returning at its former place. "There are so many kind of relief to be get, and all of them you might receive at the same place. Just take the way to the end of this table and follow the shining sign; you won’t err." J.B. chuckled again, and when he turned to leave, Puck held him back at the shoulder. "And don’t forget to question the wisdom of the shining, truth telling glass, it might grant your the answers to some of your riddles."
Smiling to cover his confusion, J.B. left him, and heard him laughing with the barkeeper, until the music swallowed the sound of it.
The look in the mirror gave him the promised answers. The make-up he had put on his eyes: silver eyeliner, dark mascara and grey eye-shadow, was completely ruined because of his crying, making him look like funny racoon, or a cobra. J.B. gaped at first, then blushed in retarded embarrassment and finally started laughing, before he used the papers, soap and water to remove most of it. His eyes stung at the procedure, but he deserved this punishment. Completely forgetting about it was the clearest sign for his disturbed mental condition.
More or less satisfied with his looks, and relieved, he returned at the bar. Unfortunately, the merry wanderer of the night was gone, but the barkeeper grinned at him.
"Why didn’t you tell me that I looked like a racoon?" J.B. asked somewhat embarrassed.
"I never question the looks of my guests. Who knows, it could be a part of their lifestyle?" The barkeeper replied.
J.B. shook his head, bought his pack of Gauloises, and commanded a cocktail with the adventurous name "Death after Midnight", not so eager anymore to go home. He was in high spirits, curious about the man who cited Shakespeare by heart, and generally interested because Shakespeare didn’t seem so far in this place of dreams and nightmares, games and disguises. He could have found himself at worse places than this one.
The first drops of "Death after Midnight", dark-blue and blood-red, started their infernal work in his body, when the music stopped. The audience applauded the two men who disappeared in the darkness while a single light flashed on a keyboard and its player at the side of the stage. Another kind of music, reminding J.B. of Nyman or Rota, started filling the room, it evoked in J.B. the pictures of nightly dew on spider webs glittering in the light of the moon, lakes reflecting the nightly sky, millions of stars, while little creatures darted through the dark woods. Then the light turned bigger and greenish, revealing the shape of a person sitting beside the keyboard.
we shadows have offended,
J.B. recognised Puck’s voice immediately when it whispered, but clearly audible, mixing with the music:
Think but this,--and all is mended,--
Amazed, J.B. took one more sip from the Death after Midnight.
That you have but slumber'd here
While these visions did appear.
Puck rose from his low position with a swift movement, slowly going to the middle of the stage, accompanied by the light, but still remaining shadowy. J.B. felt like projected in a weird fantasy, the place transforming itself into the lovely grotto of the fairies.
And this weak and idle theme,
No more yielding but a dream,
Gentles, do not reprehend;
J.B. laughed for himself. Fairies could be lovely creatures, not just a word used for derogation.
If you pardon, we will mend.
And, as I am an honest Puck,
If we have unearned luck
Now to 'scape the serpent's tongue,
Feeling very tired, as if the fairies had just put a spell on him, J.B. gazed at his glass, wondering why it was empty. He couldn’t remember drinking the whole cocktail.
We will make amends ere long;
Else the Puck a liar call:
The light grew brighter, and now Puck was completely visible. Clutching his glass to focus his somewhat blurred perception, J.B. thought that the impish smile was very nice.
So, good night unto you all. ..."
Good night, all you lovely creatures!, J.B. wished, than, heavy of slumber, his head sunk on a big trunk in the forest.
*
The dull pain behind his forehead, heavy limps and a feeling of cotton in his mouth were familiar symptoms. His throat seemed somewhat raw, but at least, he didn’t feel like throwing up.
J.B. had woken up in worse conditions than now in a worse looking room. Lazily, he gazed at the dust filled rays of sunlight pouring in the room, just a little bit blinded by them, and snuggled deeper in his blanket, satisfied with its fresh and clean smell. He remembered cleaning his apartment yesterday in anticipation of a night with Dave, and very, very faintly, he remembered drowning in kisses.
Yawning, J.B. stretched like a very content tomcat. It looked as if everything had passed according to the plan, even if he somewhat missed the familiar scent. Though, Dave seemed to be in the kitchen, because J.B. could smell tea. He wasn’t a morning person himself, never getting something in his stomach before nine, or ten, and after his inner clock, it couldn’t be later than seven. But the idea of tea appealed him.
Wrapping the blanket around himself like a toga, J.B. went in the kitchen, stopping net at the entrance. Never in his whole life, Dave had spend one single thought at dying his hair, let alone green. Aside from this, he wasn’t Asian, and he wasn’t the man standing in J.B.’s kitchen.
"Who are you?" J.B. asked, dumbfounded. "And what are you doing in my kitchen?"
The other man rose an eyebrow, amused and slightly worried. "I am Puck, the merry wanderer of the night. Do you remember? And well, as you see, I’m making some tea. I hope it doesn’t bother you."
"Of course, it bothers me. I have no idea who you are. What Puck, I don’t -" He stopped, his mouth gaping open. Pieces of the broken mosaic called "The last night" returned to his memory. Weak in his knees because of the shock and almost twelve hours without solid food in his stomach, J.B. slumped on a chair. Faintly he remembered waiting for Dave who didn’t show up, who probably would never again show up, he recalled walking, then finding himself in this strange place or club. "And this weak and idle theme, No more yielding but a dream." He mumbled, now remembering "Puck".
"Death caught you after midnight." This one said, handing J.B. a mug with tea. Holding something solid in his hands was very comfortable, but he had no idea what his strange guest was speaking about, before the man cleared the haze in J.B.’s head. "Death after Midnight is a special mixture of the house and you have drunk this cocktail in less than three minutes. Gus just wanted to applaud you for this courage, when you spaced out."
"And who is Gus?" J.B. sighed, carefully setting the mug on the table.
"The barkeeper."
"If you say so." Numbly, as if he had just got a hit on his head, J.B. stood up, and padded in his living, but he couldn’t remember where he had put his cigarettes and froze in the middle of the room. What was going on with him? He was just a brainless idiot, getting drunk in some strange club, and now a punk was hanging around in his apartment who might be a drug-addicted, or a rapist, or a thug, or a psycho. Admitted his rather cultivated language spoke against this supposition, and after all, he knew Shakespeare by heart.
A hand touching his shoulder startled J.B.. "Hey! You look bloody lost." The stranger said friendly. "Do you want a cigarette?"
"Yes, please. I have no idea where I have left mine."
The punk took a pack from his leather jacket and held it towards J.B. "It’s in your jacket, in the corridor." He explained, lighting the cigarette.
When he was this close, J.B. remembered this smell of tobacco, leather and nice, clean maleness, and the feeling of leather against his cheek. This must have been later, in the bus, or in the tube. "Didn’t you wear a sort of cape, last night?" He asked after the first draw.
"Yes, but I only wear it for special occasions." The other said, lighting a cigarette for himself, visibly relieved that smoking was allowed in J.B.’s apartment. "And I didn’t want you to puke on it."
"Nobody asked you to bring me home."
"Believe me, lovely, you hadn’t want to wake up at this place. It doesn’t look as nice as your rooms in the morning."
The sound of the voice and this try to dictate him annoyed J.B., and turning to go back in the kitchen, he said: "Nobody gave you the permission to call me "lovely"." The answer was a soft chuckling, absolutely no offended. Shaking his head, J.B. took an ashtray from the cabinet, relieved that he had cleaned the kitchen yesterday. It wouldn’t half as easy to feel in his shape, if it would still looking like the last weeks. Finally, he set down again, and asked in fake indifference. "And did we do it?"
"Oh yes." The punk said with a sly smile. "I hadn’t thought what wild thing you are. All these dirty fantasies, I had almost problems to satisfy them, but I think, you liked it a lot." J.B.’s jaw slacked open. Heat crept over his face and whole body, and the consciousness of being half naked, just clad in a blanket, was not helpful to keep up calm and coolness. "And obviously, you like being dominated. Your suggestion of a little slave game surprised me, I hope you found it pleasant." His eyes shining suggestively, the evil goblin sipped his tea. "At least, you screamed loud enough to wake up your neighbours."
J.B. let out an helpless, little moan, and one second later, his guest started chuckling, getting tea in the wrong way and coughing huskily. J.B. stared at him in shock, then felt the urge to kill him, glaring daggers which just stirred the chuckles into laughs, before he gave up, giggling too, immensely relieved.
"This was so evil." He said, when he found his voice.
"I know," The other answered still grinning. "but I couldn’t help myself. The occasion was just too perfect." Finally, he grew a bit more serious. "No, seriously, we didn’t anything interesting, although you made some attempts. You were freaking sloshed."
Now J.B. blushed. Obviously, the memory of kissing had a real base. Half hiding his face behind his hand with the cigarette, J.B. mustered at the stranger. The man looked back at him, still smiling. Even without make-up, his face had this impish treat giving him some charm despite the lack of real beauty, or prettiness, and the way how he leaned against the kitchen counter revealed that he was very conscious of his body.
"Well, thank you." J.B. broke the silence after a while.
"Don’t bother. It was not my idea, but Si’s. He -"
J.B.’s eyes grew wider at last words: "Si like Simon Henthly?" He asked, remembering thinking of him.
"Yes."
"Oh, I haven’t seen him last night. And how do you know him?"
"He is one of my best friends."
"Oh." J.B. stubbed his cigarette in the ashtray. "I see. How is he doing?" The stranger shrugged, then made a move as if he wanted to go, his smile growing hollow. "Tell me!"
"No, I don’t think so. You should call him. I’m sure it will cheer him up. He was very worried about you, but I preferred to do it, because he just made the acquaintance of this nice bloke and had a later date with him."
J.B. let out the breath he had been holding back. "So, he isn’t sick."
Puck laughed without humour. "No, not what you mean. He has problems with his health assurance, it really depresses him."
Maybe, calling Simon was a good idea, J.B. thought, maybe he could help him, it would distract him from his own worries. He looked at the stranger again, without any doubt, he knew about Simon’s problems. Though, there was something more, his whole body radiated some sort of tension he tried to cover with a slight smile. Irritated, J.B. opened his mouth to ask him what his problem was, when the phone started ringing.
"Sorry!" J.B. stood up from his chair, smoothing his self-made toga and went back in the living room. Rubbing his eyes, he took the receiver. "James Barclay."
"J.B." It was Dave, and hearing his voice had the same effect as a punch in the stomach, before the warmth spread through his body. "I’m sorry for last night."
J.B. closed his eyes for a second.
"Are you? I thought you had decided to hide behind this woman of yours."
"I’m sorry. She said it would be better for you if we don’t meet."
"So, she is worried about me." J.B. rubbed his eyes with his free hand, this time because of the stinging.
"Yes, she is a wonderful girl. I wouldn’t love her if she wasn’t."
"Dave, why do you call?" He really felt like crying again.
"She said you interrupted the communication, and we were worried about you."
"Oh, the both of you were worried about me. How touching!"
"J.B., you are my best friend, of course, I can be worried about you."
Oh yes, this was the way how Dave wanted it. He wanted J.B. to be reasonable and generous, sharing the joy about his new love.
"Dave, I’m not your best friend. I love you, I desire you, I want to have sex with you, and I’m sick with jealousy of this woman of yours." J.B. took a deep breath. He would not cry like the other time. It was over, and a clean cut was the best he could do. "Does she know that you are calling now?"
"What?" The question seemed to surprise him. "No."
"Do you know what she told me yesterday?" He didn’t wait for Dave’s answer. "She said, I should better not call or meet you again until I feel better. She is right, and therefore I ask you not to call me anymore. Bye, Dave!"
"Wait, J.B.!"
"What?" J.B. wiped his face, wanting nothing else but ending this conversation. The gentle sound of Dave’s voice just increased his misery with every word.
"Would you tell me whenever the test is positive?"
"Why?" J.B. hadn’t doubted that Dave would give him support in such a situation, even if he wouldn’t want to have him back. The question irritated him, though. "Why, Dave?"
"Maybe, I should make one myself."
J.B.’s mouth gaped open, then he gasped for air.
"You are kidding, There is no risk for you."
"I never could be sure. You were always flirting with so many men, I could never know -"
"Dave, don’t tell me that this is the reason why you call me? Don’t tell me you called because of your strange suspicions?" Tears streaming down his face, J.B. yelled in the phone. "I have never - not one single time - cheated on you. You cheated on me with this woman. For two months. I know, I’m stupid because I love you, but this, Dave, this is so - fucking - disgusting."
J.B. slammed the receiver on the phone, throwing himself on his bed and burying his face in his pillow. Though, in the middle of crying, sobbing and pitying himself he remembered his guest. Embarrassed and shameful, he wiped his face and went back in the kitchen. What must he think now?
Though, the kitchen was empty. The stranger was gone like the wild spirit whose name he had taken, and J.B. hadn’t even heard him leaving. Numbly, he slumped on the chair. At least, he didn’t have to explain things, nor to face the man with these red eyes.
J.B. took the mug of tea standing on the table and drank. Though, the teas was cold and already bitter. Getting up to throw it in the kitchen sink, he regretted that he had forgotten to ask for the name.
~ End part 1 ~