Chapter Eleven Just Like Heaven
Rahul had a massive blinder on the next morning.
He actually knocked back a little whiskey after breakfast to take the edge off.
Not that the hangover was the only thing that needed its edges sanded.
His nerves were all over the shop. If it hadn’t been for the copious amounts of alcohol in his system the night previous, he’d have never gotten to sleep.
He’d even found himself dreaming about Julian, and he hardly ever dreamt when he was shitfaced.
He couldn’t remember the dreams in any great detail, just fleeting images of pale skin, echoes of sensation.
He wasn’t due to meet Julian at his flat until five.
Even with sleeping in until noon, after breakfast he still had four hours to kill.
If he stood still for even a moment his thoughts began to run away with him.
Thinking and over thinking Julian’s invitation.
Replaying last night’s alleyway encounter in his mind over and over again.
As drunk as he’d been, he could still clearly remember Julian’s heavy-lidded eyes, the shine on his lips that caught the streetlight.
He could remember the way his blood had boiled and his body had longed for Julian’s.
He was so fucked.
He made an executive decision to shower, which turned out to be a piss-poor idea.
In the comforting warmth of the water’s embrace, his thoughts strayed back to his best friend and hung there like a needle stuck on a record.
He could try all he wanted to move on, but the fact remained that he was and always would be in love with him.
Henri had been a good idea -- a great idea, in fact.
Henri had been patient and kind and had taught him things about himself, about what he liked and didn’t like.
He’d also taught him that as great as anyone else could be, they would never be Julian.
Perfectly imperfect Julian. Gorgeous and funny-looking.
Clever and positively mental. Who didn’t give a toss what others thought, except the only thing he cared about was what others thought.
Who’d been the one to ask to kiss Rahul when they were boys, then had adamantly denied anything happening between them when they’d slept together in uni.
Who’d said he didn’t have any feelings towards Rahul only to begin flirting with him as soon as he’d shacked up with Henri.
Perfectly imperfect Julian, with his flat nose and gap-teeth.
With his daft, dyed hair and too-tight trousers.
With his sharp cheekbones and kissable lips.
His slender but athletic frame, his cheeky grin, his sparkling blue eyes.
His enormous, electric blue eyes. His everything eyes.
After a too-short, too-rough wank, Rahul exited the shower to a steam-filled bathroom and spent far too long shaving.
He was baby-faced by the time he was done, with the exception of his moustache.
(You didn’t actually think he’d shave off that beauty, did you?
By this point, Rahul and his moustache were practically the same entity.
If he shaved that bad boy off there’d be riots in the streets).
He scrutinised his reflection. Decent. He hated the grey hairs at his temples and his overlarge nose, but nothing could be done about those.
He looked all right for what he was working with, he decided.
Whatever confidence he’d gained left him the moment he entered his bedroom and opened the wardrobe.
His clothes were dismal. Not to mention he could hardly begin to guess what someone was supposed to wear to their best mate’s flat for a not-date that was filled with enough sexual tension to sink the Lusitania.
He ended up laying out three separate jumpers on his bed that were virtually indistinguishable.
It was green and beige knitwear as far as the eye could see.
He really ought to update his attire, especially considering how the band was taking off lately.
He dove deep into the back of his wardrobe and managed to retrieve the nice blue shirt he’d worn to his university graduation (it still fit -- barely) and a black waistcoat that had once been part of a three-piece suit that had long since disappeared.
Not owning a mirror, he ran back to the bathroom to consider his outfit choice.
The mirror above the sink was, unfortunately, not large enough to convey the scope of his ensemble.
He wished Kwambe had been home to opine, but oddly, his flatmate was nowhere to be found.
He wondered if the drummer hadn’t absconded with one of the keen girls from last night.
Lucky dog. Though if Rahul was as lucky, he’d find himself…
what? He stopped in the midst of fussing with his thick hair.
What was he hoping for exactly, dressing like this, shaving so closely, wearing the cologne Julian had given him for Christmas?
Was he really hoping that the two of them would cheat on their partners with each other?
Did he think that after all this time Julian would just suddenly change his mind and decide to shag him?
He clutched the sink and let his shoulders sag.
This was nothing. This was Julian reasserting his vain control over Rahul because he thought he might be losing him to someone else for the first time in their friendship.
This wasn’t whatever Rahul dreamed it was.
And he was ashamed of himself for hoping otherwise.
Just as he was plummeting into the pits of despair, the harsh ring of the telephone cut through his thoughts. He flung himself into the kitchen, snatching up the phone, thinking it might be Julian cancelling their date -- er, not-date. “Hello?” Did he sound out of breath?
“Mon coeur,” came the staticky voice on the other end of the line.
Rahul chastised himself for the disappointment that welled in him at not hearing Julian’s voice. “Hey, hi. Hello, darling. What’s up? What’s happening? How’s it hanging?” He winced. Why couldn’t he just sound normal?
“Bien,” Henri said, apparently oblivious to Rahul’s babbling. Or maybe that was just how Rahul normally sounded on the telephone, which was almost more troubling. “What are you doing tonight? I have Caravaggio on VHS and a bottle of Bordeaux. Interested?”
Rahul banged his head against the tiled kitchen wall.
Any other day and he would have been on it like marmite on toast. But this day, this day of all days, he had plans which boldly conflicted with his relationship.
His relationship with the very patient and understanding Henri who didn’t deserve Rahul’s infidelity, even if it only took place within the confines of his own mind.
“Sorry, I -- ah, I can’t, I’ve got something on with my mates,” he stammered, not quite lying but still feeling like a flaming sack of shite.
“That is a shame,” came Henri’s musical voice. “Tomorrow night, perhaps?”
“Yeah, maybe.” Rahul knocked his head against the wall hard enough to make him see stars. “We’ll see. I’ve got a lot going on. The band’s taking off and we’ve got rehearsals and meetings and things.”
“Ah, très bon,” he said, sounding genuinely pleased and making Rahul feel worse than he thought possible. “Ring me when you are free then. We can make plans. Bisous, mon amour.”
“Yeah, kisses.”
After hanging up with Henri he felt like even more of a twat standing around his flat in a waistcoat and shirt.
He was a real son of a bitch for even contemplating what he was contemplating.
Henri had done nothing but fancy him and be there for him and let him bum him.
The man should get a fucking medal, not infidelity.
As hung up as he was on Julian, it wasn’t fair to the partner that he had.
As he stood in his kitchen, glaring daggers at the phone in its cradle, he made up his mind not to let anything go too far tonight.
As much as he might want it to, he was going to keep himself from crossing that line.
He owed Henri that much at the very least.
He felt like a greater twat still when he knocked on Julian’s door.
He smelled too good, looked too polished.
He didn’t seem like a bloke going to hang out with his mate.
Even the case of Heineken under his arm couldn’t disguise the fact that he looked like a man on a date.
He smoothed his unruly hair back for the millionth time just before the door swung open to reveal the crux of his obsessive thoughts.
Both to his relief and concern, Julian seemed to have taken pains with his own appearance as well.
He’d done that eyeliner thing in addition to wearing a frilly top he might have otherwise reserved for a stage performance.
He answered the door a little breathless too, as if he’d just run from the bathroom.
He smiled at Rahul, but in a wobbly, nervous sort of way that was entirely unlike him.
“Rahul. Hey. You’re early.”
“I’m not.” He flicked his wrist to double-check his watch. If anything he was five minutes late. “Everything… all right?”
“Yeah. No. Yes, come on in.” He retreated into the flat, leaving Rahul to follow.
It might have been Rahul’s imagination, but Julian’s flat seemed oddly tidy. The few books he owned were in neat rows beneath his TV, not a stitch of dirty laundry to be seen. Even the ashtray on the coffee table had been freshly emptied.
“All right?” Rahul asked again, with a tad more concern.
“All right,” Julian replied cheerily, misunderstanding. “Make yourself at home. I got some hummus and pita for us.” He sashayed into the kitchen, leaving Rahul gobsmacked. He’d tidied up and he’d gotten food? Who was this impersonator and what had he done with his best friend?