"Frannie. If you knew you'd snuff it in the next ten years. If you had just ten years of life left. Would you want to spend them married to me? Or would you want to strike out, give it a go, try to find real happiness somewhere else?" Michael touched her cheek at last. "We married young. We had two beautiful children and I'll always be grateful to you for that. I don't want to take anything from you. I just want to move on. Don't you?"
She looked at his red, swollen right hand as if seeing it for the first time. "What happened to you?"
Michael got dressed—he never knew when Viv and one of her preteen friends might appear around a corner—and retrieved his printed narrative from the office. Returning to Frannie still sitting on the bed in her pink silk robe, he held out the pages.
"Edward's fine," he blurted. "You need to know that. He's completely fine. As for you taking the kids to see Sharon—that was my fault, I know that. I should have told you the truth. I was just too ashamed. But I wrote it out for you."
Mystified by his preamble, Frannie took the pages and began to read.
***
James woke early on Monday morning. He had everything ready in the fridge—six eggs, grated cheddar cheese, sausages, coffee, butter and cream. Plus a loaf of sliced oat bread on the counter, ready for toasting. The only question in James's mind was, would he fuck Michael the moment he came through the door? Or feed him breakfast first, then fuck him?
But Michael didn't turn up at 7:30, or 8, or 8:30. James was just starting to imagine disaster scenarios—derailed trains, terrorist bombings, Michael collapsing with a heart attack and dying on route to hospital—when his mobile rang. It was Michael.
"How are you?" Michael asked in his habitual tone, gentle with a hint of dry humor.
"Little worried, mate. Where the fuck are you?"
"Something came up at home. I have to deal with it and it won't be quick. So I won't make Shepherd's Bush before midafternoon." Michael paused as if weighing his words even more carefully than usual. "Is everything all right?"
"Fab. Is—" James started to say "wifey," but stopped himself. No more talking to Michael like he was a client. "Is Frannie next to you?"
"Yes. But don't worry. I'll be there as soon as I can."
James tried not to pout after Michael disconnected. But had Michael forgotten what today was? The depth of James's irritation surprised him. By rights he should have been heartbroken over what happened at the Hitching Post, the realization that Kevin only wanted his help securing the interest of another man, but James had already put that aside. His pursuit of Kevin had been a bit like the time James had tried to convince everyone in his study group that the word "knot" was "coat." After finally being made to see the light, Ms. Kakowski said James tended to make rapid assumptions about disconnected words instead of working them out in the context of the sentence. Even if the "k" confused him, he should have guessed the sentence "I can tie a—" wouldn't end with the word coat. It was the same with Kevin. No matter how attractive James found Kevin, he should have guessed a bloke who only went for nonverbal gladiators would never fall in love with a cheeky, chirpy pretty boy.
But Michael not turning up on time... Michael off and doing God knew what with his wife, something that couldn't wait... James felt agitated, disappointed, toyed with. Only by taking out a certain memory and examining it—the night Michael begged for his cock—did James manage to soothe himself. During his stint as a professional, James had learned that men said all sorts of things as they ejaculated, including calling for Mum and asking God for forgiveness. And in the post-orgasm halo they promised, flattered and swore devotion. Michael's words—"Of course not, I love you"—probably fell under that category, the noises a man's mouth made when his brain translated, "My cock is happy. Thank you," into something needlessly ornate. Only an idiot took what was said then as real; real was material. Real was concrete.
Real was paying for dental implants and making a second bedroom and installing a deadbolt
, James thought, re-examining Michael's words in the context of all that came before. Afterwards he was strangely lighthearted, strangely energetic. And since Michael would be very late, James had a quick breakfast and embarked on his day.
***
Michael had barely been in the flat for ten minutes when James returned. He had an armful of new books from the Learning Annex. He also carried a composition book that he tucked carefully beneath them, as if it contained top-secret information.
"About time you turned up," James said, sauntering slowly up to Michael with a wide, delighted grin.
"Look at you." Standing up, Michael went to the other man and slid his arms around him. He kissed him on the neck, then pulled back for another look. The implants looked flawless, but James's upper lip had a swollen, bee-stung appearance.
"Paul did a great job. Does your mouth hurt?" Michael asked.
"It would, but I have oxycodone," James said, withdrawing a bottle from his jeans pocket and shaking it at Michael. "Hear that sound? Mating call of Bethnal Green, mate." Still grinning, James slid back into Michael's arms, pressing his head against his chest. Delighted, Michael squeezed back.
"Thank you," James whispered against him.
"You're welcome. So all you have to take is some painkillers?"
"And more antibiotics. And this," James said, going to the kitchen and picking up another plastic prescription bottle. "An antiviral. Saw my GP today. He said if a patient takes one of these daily, quite often the herpes goes to sleep and never wakes up. So I might never have a breakout, and you might never catch it."
Michael nodded. It was the furthest thing from his mind, but James was transparently thrilled with the news, and Michael didn't want to detract from the other man's pleasure. "Are you up for a kiss on the lips?"
James shook his head. "I'm game for anything else, though. Well—except it might be a while before I fellate you."
Michael surprised himself with how heartily he laughed. "Let me guess. You've been issued a dictionary."
"Not one of my own yet," James said, shy and proud and preening all at the same time. "But Ms. Kakowski helps us look up words. I told her I was searching for a really posh term for playing the skin flute. She went to fellate straight away."
"Was she shocked?"
"I'll say. She said everyone else tries to look up blow job. I told her my boyfriend's a writer. Not quite sure she believed me."
Before Michael could quite digest how he felt about casually being referred to as a boyfriend, James caught sight of Michael's suitcase beside the sofa and made a high, delighted chirp. It was the same noise he'd made when Michael revealed he'd booked them a room at the Green Park Hilton.
"Oh my God," James cried, spinning around as if he'd just won the lottery. "You're not going back on the tube tonight, are you? You've come to stay!"
Michael pulled James back into his arms. Mindful of his sore mouth, Michael kissed James's white throat instead, licking and nipping along the line of his jaw. Digging his fingers into James's thick brown hair, Michael let his mouth travel up, tongue working along the soft brown fur of one sideburn. Then he was nibbling James's earlobe, tugging at it, thrusting his tongue in the earhole as James let out a little moan.
"Did you fuck another man this weekend?" Michael whispered. He was hard no matter what the answer was, but he had to know, had to hear the answer.
"No. I saw Kevin. I don't—he's not—he's not you. I left him sitting with his drink and came home again..."
Michael pulled James's T-shirt up over his head and cast it aside. He loved those pink nipples, the way they stood out on that pale chest. Putting his lips to one, he sucked the nipple, feeling it harden against his tongue and then twisting it cruelly.
"Oh!" James undid the top three buttons of his jeans, opening his fly enough to free the head of his cock.
"If you're not fucking anyone else, and I'm not fucking anyone else, we don't need condoms anymore," Michael said, pressing his hand against James's flat belly. That cock was just beneath his fingertips, straining toward him, but Michael resisted the urge to seize and pull it. "I want to be inside you with nothing between us, nothing but you and me. I want to see my cum drip out your ass."
"Michael..."
Michael worked James's jeans off, then his shorts, overwhelmed as always by the sight of this perfect nude male. "Let me fuck you. Let me fuck you raw, just this once, let me come inside you and make you feel it..."
James made a little sound and Michael, drunk on the moment, sure of himself as he hadn't been sure in years, lifted James in his arms and carried him to the bed. Placing the other man on his back, Michael kicked off his shoes and stripped quickly, tossing down coat, waistcoat, tie, shirt, pants, socks and shorts. It didn't matter what got creased. Cock so hard it hurt, Michael threw a leg over James. The plastic bottle of lube was right where he left it, tucked in the space between mattress and frame. Squirting lubricant over himself, Michael passed the bottle to James, who spread a fair amount between his cheeks, working three fingers into himself and groaning. It was gorgeous, this beautiful young man impaled on his own oiled fingers, spreading his asshole, making soft sounds as he worked himself loose. Then he tossed the bottle aside and gripped Michael's cock so hard it throbbed desperately, guiding the organ down even as James lifted himself.
Entry was hot, delicious, perfect. Aware that the visual could push him over the edge, Michael closed his eyes, focusing on the physical alone. He'd never felt James from within, never really been inside him, and pleasure was so intense Michael kept pushing his way within until James gasped.
"Michael... please..."
Michael opened his eyes. Leaning forward, he covered James with his own body, kissing the other man's throat again, watching James's Adam's apple ripple with pleasure or pain. Now entirely inside James, Michael began rocking, the gentlest possible lovers' rhythm. James made a little noise.
"You're so big..."
"Can you take it?" Michael whispered, hips moving a little faster.
"Give it to anyone else and I'll kill you." James kept rising up to meet him, lifting perfectly with Michael's cadence.
"Squeeze me." Michael groaned as James clenched inside, white-hot and tight as a bear trap. Now they were rocking faster, Michael supporting himself on his elbows, James groaning, eyes shut tight. It was the pinkness spreading across James's chest, the trembling in his rock-hard cock, that made Michael come up suddenly, rising to his knees and fucking James with fresh brutality.
"That's it," Michael said as James grimaced, gasping low in his soft white throat. "Take me, take all of me, take me—"
"
Oh
," James cried again, back arching.
"I love you, James," Michael gasped, dealing a final battering thrust. James screamed, his cum hotter than piss against Michael's belly. Then it was Michael's turn, pressing in deep as he could, pumping his cum into James. Time shifted, blurring things between them, putting Michael into another place where there was no need for ego, reassurance or even reciprocity. He felt what he felt for James and took the deepest possible pleasure in it; the emotion was its own reward. Finally when he was completely soft, Michael withdrew, rolling onto his back beside James. He was almost surprised when the other man curled into his arms. But he let himself enjoy it, let himself go half-weak with pleasure. This was sublime, loving, truly loving, and expecting nothing but the freedom to express it.
"Did you leave Frannie?" James whispered, clinging to Michael with his cheek pressed against Michael's chest.
"Yes. We chose a solicitor and started proceedings this morning."
"You didn't—you didn't hit her, did you?"
Michael made a soft sound of amusement. "She's the mother of my children. I'd never hit her. Any more than I'd ever hit you."
"So what happened to your hand?"
Michael wasn't sure how long the silence stretched between them. But finally he realized he had nothing to fear. Then he began to speak.
***
Within two weeks, James's mouth had fully healed, making his previous regiment of soft foods unbearable. Michael suggested dinner at Gardenia, an East End bistro not far from the London Eye. James protested he had nothing to wear, and Michael was surprised at his own insensitivity. It was true, James had hardly any wardrobe to speak of.
"You can't keep buying me things," James protested as the tailor went off in search of a certain fabric. When he bit his lower lip that way, his eyes looked even wider, even bluer. "After I finish the literacy program and get a job, I'll be hopelessly behind. Never earn enough to pay you back."
"Is that what you think I want?" Michael lifted James's hand, brushing the knuckles with his lips. That had started as a joke between them, a way for Michael to kiss James while his mouth healed, but now it was a private gesture, something they both enjoyed. "To balance my checkbook at some point, even stevens?"
"Things should be equal between us." James turned away from the haberdasher's triple mirror, avoiding his own reflection, handsome though he was in the tacked-up suit pieces.
Michael smiled. Since splitting with Frannie, he'd become a little too frank—more than one person had made the observation. Yet he couldn't stop himself from saying exactly what he meant.
"Things can never be equal between us, not financially. I've had a fund settled on me since I was a little boy. Plus I've made a good living at technical writing. Your family had nothing left over to give you and you haven't been trained for any sort of work."
"Thanks for that," James muttered, suddenly fascinated by the carpet.
"Can you really not understand?" Michael slid his arms around James from behind.
"Too stupid to understand."
"None of that, or I'll tell Ms. Kakowski." James's tutor had challenged him to go seven days without once referring to himself as stupid. So far he was failing miserably. It would take more than a week to shake off the conditioning of a lifetime.