Chapter Two Every Breath You Take
Michael had first laid eyes on the young man nearly four months ago.
He hadn’t been to this pub much before that.
It was close to his flat, true, but there were pubs that were closer, pubs that had better ambiance, pubs whose pints weren’t watered down.
But he’d come in from the rain and hadn’t felt like venturing out again to find another drinking hole.
He’d sat at the very same booth he currently found himself occupying.
He’d only just begun tucking into his watery lager when his gaze had landed on a mane of dark hair at the bar.
Skinny under a faux-leather jacket speckled with hand-sewn patches.
His knobby, pale wrists protruded out from under the too-short sleeves.
He’d been on his own then. When he’d turned to order a drink, Michael could just make out his Roman-coin profile, nose as flat and straight as a penknife.
He’d nearly gotten up then. To talk to him.
To buy him a drink. To just be near him.
Nearly gotten up. It was a good thing he hadn’t, because moments later the young man was joined by a young woman, a tall, buxom brunette with more curves than a country road.
She sidled up to him, arms snaking around his narrow waist. They made a handsome couple, the sort of trendy Camden couple one might see in magazines or smoking outside an avant-garde art exhibit.
Michael had wanted to rip her darkly painted fingers off him.
But that feeling soon passed. It was clear there was nothing he could do but watch, and what use was there in feeling propriety over someone he could never approach?
Instead, he chose to enjoy the couple’s attractiveness, their effortless coolness, the endearing way in which they seemed to be lost in each other, oblivious to the rest of the world.
They talked, they kissed, they cuddled. The boy’s hand sneaked up the girl’s skirt and she tucked her head beneath his chin.
Michael watched them until they left. They were so engrossed in each other that he was sure they were leaving to make love.
He waited until the rain had somewhat calmed, then made his way home through damp Hoxton streets.
He returned the following night, around the same time.
He didn’t see what harm could come from having a look, just a peek, to see if his boy might be back.
He could be a regular. One never knew unless one tried to find out.
Michael’d been waiting nearly an hour before the young man made an appearance amidst a loud, already slightly drunk group that came through the door humming and hanging onto each other.
The boy’s hair was sprayed and teased, smeared eyeliner making his already enormous eyes appear massive, and with leopard-print leggings straining over his toned legs.
The group must have been out clubbing or at a party.
It hardly mattered. All Michael cared about was that he was here.
He was back. And he was sure to be back again.
From that moment onward, Michael was at The Barber long, black coat swirling about her like thunderclouds.
The young man had ordered another drink and gotten down to the serious business of getting as pissed out of his mind as he could reasonably manage.
Much to Michael’s surprise, one of the boy’s friends -- the tall one -- made an appearance, clearly there to offer comfort.
He had that concerned look about him, and the gingerly manner of a man trying to approach a frightened, wounded animal.
But then Michael watched as the two friends proceeded to have their own row, something he’d never see them do before.
Things escalated until at last the tall man had had enough and, throwing up his hands, left in a similar, if not as showy, huff as the girlfriend had.
This was when the boy’s dark mood had worsened considerably, and his drinking took a dramatic shift from excess to danger.
Michael watched from his dark corner as the boy downed pint after pint.
When he stood to go to the toilets, his legs could barely carry him.
Michael knew without a doubt this would be a night to clandestinely escort him home.
He finished his own drink and shrugged on his coat to ensure he was ready for the boy’s exit.
The young punk returned from the toilets and tried to don the heavy parka he’d recently taken to wearing since winter had begun in earnest. He was so out of it that he couldn’t even find the armholes and kept going around in a circle trying to reach them.
Michael began a silent debate with himself on whether or not to break through the invisible barrier that separated them in order to help the poor young man just get his fucking coat on.
There was a reason he’d put up this barrier between them.
And it wasn’t just because the boy had a girlfriend.
But with his moment’s hesitation, his opportunity vanished.
The bartender had taken pity on the young man and rounded the bar to help him into his ridiculously oversized parka.
They had a brief conversation, one likely about the boy’s ability to get himself home, but the boy blew a raspberry at him and stalked off, legs crossing in front of each other like a foal’s.
Michael sucked in a breath. There was no chance that man was getting home on his own.
After the doors had closed behind him, Michael gave himself a beat so as not to be overly obvious, then left the safety of his dark little booth and followed the young man out.
As the frigid air and light drizzle hit him, he came up short, seeing no sign of the boy.
He started up the street, intent on looking for him, when a flash in the narrow alley beside the pub caught his eye.
A lighter was trying and failing to flick to life in the damp evening air. “Little bugger,” a voice slurred.
Michael stepped into the alley and as his eyes adjusted to the dark, he could make out the white oval of the familiar face.
A cigarette clung to his lips, getting soggier by the second.
It took him a moment, but the boy finally noticed him, turning eyes on Michael as big and bright as car headlights. “You got a light?”
Michael opened his mouth to reply but the words that tripped on his tongue fell away.
For all that he felt he knew this person as well as a friend, a lover, a family member -- for all the wealth of emotion and passion invested in him…
He didn’t know him. This moment, this defining moment, would change all that.
He wasn’t sure he wanted it to change. After all, what good could come from someone like this boy knowing someone like Michael?
He wordlessly retrieved his lighter from his coat, the words still trapped like fluttering birds in his throat.
He flicked the flame into being, sputtering under the shelter of his board palm, and the young man leaned forwards.
The flame reflected like two burning pinpricks in his enormous eyes.
He sucked in a lungful of smoke as the cigarette caught, then grinned blearily up at Michael.
“Cheers,” he said. And he promptly fell unconscious, his cheek scraping against the brick wall as he sank bonelessly to the filthy ground.