Chapter Sixteen Bête Noire #2
“Roy Rogers? I’ll thank you not to compare me to such a plebian. I’m Clint Eastwood, if anything.”
“You’re ‘The Good’ are you?”
“The Bad, and the Ugly. I’m a triple threat.”
“You’re a triple berk, you are.” But it was said with a grin, so Rahul grinned back.
Their friendship had been stalling slightly since Michael came into the picture, just like when Rahul had returned from Leeds to find Julian dating Aisling.
But now, with just the two of them, it was starting to feel like old times again.
“You go on and set everything up. I’ve just got to finish this…” he gestured to his head situation… ”Then I’m all yours.”
Rahul’s heart skipped a beat at Julian’s turn of phrase but Julian had already turned and was well on his way to the bathroom.
Rahul did set up. He took out the curry containers and spooned them onto paper plates he’d remembered to ask for at the restaurant.
Julian had never gotten around to buying plates when he’d moved in and, honestly, it was too late now.
He shook the vinyl carefully free of the sleeve and placed it upon the turntable, ready at a moment’s notice to set the needle down.
He removed the baggie from his pocket and cleaned the pot with big, clumsy fingers before painstakingly sprinkling it into two cigarette papers and adding in a liberal amount of tobacco, finally rolling them into fat, happy blunts.
Even after all that, Julian didn’t re-emerge until Rahul had begun tucking into the curry. All told, it was already half past five when Julian clapped his hands together and brought the cans of Fosters to the sofa.
Rahul noted grimly that he’d gone ahead and gotten dressed, as well as put a little eyeliner under his eyes, in addition to finishing up his hair. So much for that part of the plan anyway.
“All right!” Julian declared, holding out a hand for a blunt. “I’m ready. Blow me away with Bryan. Ferry me to the land of Ferry. Roxy my music.”
“Plain your Virginia?” Rahul placed the blunt between Julian’s fingers and brought out his battered lighter.
Julian blew out the flame. “Not until the first notes hit mine virgin ears!” he cried like a medieval lord.
“Yes, my liege.” Rahul rolled his eyes fondly and crawled along the carpet to the record player, placing the needle down and letting the room fill with the haunting strains of the first track. He scooted back fast and lit Julian’s spliff just as Ferry’s voice rang out.
Julian leaned back, head thrown over the couch cushions. After a beat, he exhaled a fragrant plume of marijuana and tobacco. “Fucking hell,” he groaned, so wanton and satisfied it was nearly pornographic. Rahul had to turn his attention to his own blunt in order to keep from blushing furiously.
Rahul stayed on the floor, leaning against the sofa to one side of Julian’s legs. Julian remained on the sofa seat above, looking dreamily up at the ceiling through half-lidded eyes. And they listened.
Rahul hadn’t lied when he’d said it would be like the old days.
Early on in their friendship, ten thousand years ago, Rahul had mentioned once that his father had given him a brand-new record player as a sort of going away present.
It hadn’t been long before Julian was following him home with records he’d nicked from his mum’s collection, begging Rahul to let him come in and have a listen.
Why Julian’s mum had records and no record player was a complete mystery to Rahul.
He assumed, in later years, that in a moment’s weakness she had pawned the thing but hadn’t had the stomach to pawn her record collection, too.
If there was one thing Julian had inherited from his mum, it was her love of music.
Knowing his mother wouldn’t be home for another hour or two at least, Rahul would invite Julian in and the two of them would shirk their homework and lie across Rahul’s bed, staring up at the popcorn ceiling, lost in a music trance.
David Bowie, Roxy Music, T. Rex, The Velvet Underground -- Julian’s mum had it all, and the two pubescent boys discovered glam rock icon after glam rock icon there in Rahul’s sepia-toned little room, lying on the cowboy-print duvet he’d been so embarrassed over.
Rahul had only ever been exposed to jazz music from his father, and classical music from his mother.
He’d heard of rock. Of course he had. He wasn’t a shut-in.
He’d just never properly listened before.
And he didn’t always like what he heard in the exotic wonders Julian brought over.
But sometimes, and increasingly more as the years wore on, he found something to latch onto.
A refrain, a vocal riff, a truly clever bit of music that made the hairs on the backs of his arms stand up.
He knew Julian could feel it, too, lying beside him.
He knew because his friend’s body would shift ever so subtly, like the tensing of a bowstring, like he was a chord being plucked by the musicians they were listening to.
After Rahul left for uni, the habit had fallen by the wayside.
He’d hoped, when he returned, that they might go back to it.
It had taken them a while, but they had given it a shot a couple of times.
It wasn’t really the same though, the magic somehow gone, and they’d given it up after a few attempts.
But today, today, the magic was back. Maybe because it was Bryan Ferry, maybe because they were high off their tits, maybe because they’d put away a case of Foster’s between the two of them, maybe because Rahul just wanted it so badly.
Whatever the reason, they were transported now just as they had been as kids.
They were as attuned to the music as they were to each other.
Rahul could feel the way the music coursed through Julian’s body.
Even with his eyes closed, he could sense it.
It was the same live-wire connection he felt when they were on stage.
Even focusing entirely on his own instruments, he could feel Julian just beyond his periphery, convulsing with music.
He became music, all erratic rhythm and spasmodic melody.
It was right under Julian’s skin even now, like a swarm of bees that Rahul could hear humming and feel buzzing.
He wasn’t sure when Julian had slid off the sofa and joined him on the floor.
Time was a flat circle. Then was now and now was then.
Julian had always been beside him on the carpet.
Julian had never been beside him on the carpet.
There was no Julian. Everything was Julian.
Had the food gone cold? Rahul was terribly peckish but he couldn’t seem to muster up the energy to lean forwards and grab a plate.
Or maybe he didn’t want to break the spell that had taken hold of them.
He chanced to open his eyes and found Julian in virtually the same position he’d been in before, only now at a lower altitude.
His head was still back against the cushions, making his Adam’s apple stand out like an angular white peak, the ghost of the memory of stubble stood out against it.
Julian had just shaved. He could tell. He didn’t need to shave often, being one of those Anglican blonds who was more likely to sprout three heads than a moustache.
But he liked to shave all the same. Whether to keep his alabaster complexion as smooth as possible or because it made him feel manly when very little else did, Rahul could only begin to guess.