TO SPREAD THE WINGS VI: Fire

A couple of weeks later Mick and Owen turned up together at the Under 111. Those days had been fairly tense, with all that business about Jang's return and their respective attitudes towards the new situation. To give themselves a respite the lawyer had accepted Toller's invitation for a party he was hosting in the private hall of the club, commemorating the eleventh anniversary of its opening... Yes, the eleventh; the extravagant owner was original even in that respect. Nothing too ostentatious: just several dozens of friends, business partners, artists and some important figures he wished to impress or regale. And Faulkner, of course; Toller was one of those people with the firm conviction that nothing should be done or said in the absence of his lawyer. More than once, in fact, he had toyed with the idea of bringing him along to supervise some particular meeting in bed with a partner who happened to be as seductive as thorny. And deepening in the subject, it was quite true he had tried to push him into bed... and then he could have killed two birds with a stone. But Faulkner would never took his equipment out of his trousers at work, and was annoyingly faithful to his golden-haired ephebe... The businessman used to ask himself, without guile -not too much-, what was needed to tempt that efficient and Apollonian paragon of virtue.

The private hall was the smallest of all and its decoration kept changing, according to the taste or needs of whoever was using it at any given moment. It also had a stage, a bar and a couple of private rooms. The lawyer pondered, while he was in the lift with his companion, about the party theme chosen by his client; he hadn't said a word and Owen hadn't insisted either. Knowing him, he was thinking while crossing the hall entrance, I bet it's something like...

Black Leather. The answer was there. A morbid and monochrome display of props that would have delighted a second rate dominatrix... and not because Toller didn't know how to do things right and satisfy a first rate one's most hardcore palate, not at all. He loved to provoke, but he wasn't a nutter and didn't want to make half of those guys' hair stand on end. Hiding behind a mask had always been a need during his daily life; nevertheless, the more the mask could reflect a pinch of the bizarreness he was so fascinated by, the better.

Faulkner didn't certainly believe his client would have dared to hold a party like that in any of the other venues, except the private one. The bastard... He was starting to understand why he had sent Mick black clothes for the occasion: the long-sleeved, impossibly skin-tight t-shirt, the leather gloves, trousers and boots... Leather, for Pete's sake, it's summer now, he had complained upon watching the young man dressed in such way. Good thing the air conditioned refreshed an atmosphere in danger of becoming too torrid at any time... although that had its drawbacks. The shaven-headed guy that had just walked past them, wearing nothing but those shorts made of... well, of black leather, of course... proudly showed a couple of nipples so hard with the freshness that they could have popped anyone's eyes; and he would be lucky if his piercing wouldn't freeze and melt into the flesh... To top it all -and he wouldn't have confessed this even if they had tied him to that rack at the back and used one of those cats o'nine tails on him- he was starting to feel out of place in his clothes, fortunately casual but definitely in a colour that wasn't the leitmotiv of the event.

Their host approached them after they gazes had spent some time wandering around the hall. They barely noticed it, since the visual tour was really suggestive for both; it brought to their minds images of certain activities they practised, from time to time, in the privacy of their bedroom; and in the living room; and in the bathroom; and once, cause Mìcheal had endlessly insisted, outside on the balcony at three a.m. during a rainy day...

'What do you think, my dear boys?' asked Toller, with a sardonic shark smile. 'Keep your mouths closed, gorgeous, cause I can't guarantee the safety of any uncovered orifices... You're breathtaking, Mìcheal, I want to eat you all up, leather looks terrific on you... I bet your owner here will have the time of his life later, removing that sexy wrapping of yours...'

The young man shot an enigmatic look at him. Oh, he had no idea how familiar that material and that colour were for Owen...

'You could have warned me, C.C.,' remarked an upset Faulkner. 'Apart from the fact that I don't seem to fit at all in this environment...'

'Warning you? And giving you time to prepare an excuse not to appear? Ah, no, no way. Besides I doubt you would have compromised on wearing the latex catsuit I had prepared for you... Relax, big boy,' asked the businessman when he noticed the twitch in his legal advisor's eye. 'An extreme show isn't part of my plans, if that's your concern; it's just innocent decoration...'

'Going to fetch some drinks. Do you want anything else, Toller?' asked the youngest as he saw the multi-coloured glass he was holding.

'No, sweetheart, I'm okay for now.' And after he saw him leaving, carefully dodging the people, he turned to his tall companion. 'I know I am shameless but... your young man is so decorative in these occasions...!'

'Aren't you asking me about the Finisatron case?' said the lawyer, wishing to change the subject.

'Ah, that... yeah... how's it going?' he questioned without interest.

'Everything is going faster than we expected, but the girl's parents will surely give in to an agreement not to continue with the criminal action. Of course the prosecutor's office won't... are you listening to me, C.C.?

'Frankly, not really... Look, no offense, but my mind is on other things today. Owen, this is a party! Don't you ever relax in public? Moreover... I'm not clouding my intimate satisfaction with your boring legal monologues; you should congratulate me, in fact.'

'And why is that?' Faulkner raised an eyebrow.

'Oh... I got myself a new lover,' announced Toller, with the pleased smile of the cat that ate the canary.

'Really? Something serious, this time?'

'No, by Mr. Mercury's knickers, stop talking nonsense... You know I'm a free spirit... and so is he, I must add with resigned amusement. But it's serious enough as to allow me to see things through brand new rose-tinted spectacles... or rather, black-tinted... faced with the prospect of a night of passion... I'm still a lucky being, my dear Owen...'

'Wow... and where's that wonder?'

'Well...' Toller scanned their surroundings until he found something that automatically arched his lips; 'there. Hard for him not to stand out in this dark den of iniquity... and I mean the iniquity as much as the darkness...'

The man was pointing at a figure standing back to them on the stage while talking to the sound engineers and a musician. The lawyer couldn't see much except that he was wearing nothing but trousers, his fair skin and an eye-catching mane in the most vivid and flaming copper colour, hanging down past his shoulders; the right corner of his mouth displayed a mocking half smile.

'Christ, C.C., a gingerhead? You certainly lowered your standards...'

'Ah, you think so?'

'I doubted there could be a redhead that fulfilled your expectations... I'd swear you yourself told me once...'

'Good.' Toller's smile also became slightly wicked. 'I'm happy to hear you think like that. Not that I would ever believe that you'd consider cheating on your soulmate, but it's good to know I can cross you off the list of potential rivals. Remember your words when you have a close look at him...'

Mìcheal joined them with a couple of drinks. His eyes followed the direction of his companions' ones.

'Mr. Toller decided to paint his life in orange,' mocked Faulkner, accepting one of them.

The blond took a sip and cast a blank look at the subject of the conversation over the rim of his raised glass.

Munro didn't know the musician hiding behind the column of keyboards, the synthesiser, the drum machine, the mixer, the couple of MacBooks and the rest of the equipment. He preferred not to get too close to the stage, since most of the guests had gathered around it after he started to play; he could barely see him, and he was a black young man, with amazing dreadlocks that almost reached his waist tied up into a ponytail. But he could listen to him, and his body moved on its own; the breakbeat with sinister tones fitted the atmosphere of the hall like a glove... a glove in the easiest to imagine colour and material.

There were four dancers around, two boys and two girls, and Mìcheal realised the redhead Owen and Toller had been talking about was one of them. He couldn't say he was surprised; he had already caught the businessman glancing at his dancers, and sometimes, more than glancing...

But that fellow looked like a pro. At least that's what the young blond was thinking while watching him moving on the stage, between those two columns and the chains hanging down the ceiling. He was shaking his body to the changing rhythm of the music, as if he were absorbing it through his pores and performing simultaneous translation, sound waves into undulations of that sensual frame of muscles and skin. His loose hair would cover his face like an untameable coppery curtain, then he'd violently toss his head and it'd flew in all directions, resting upon his shoulders just for some seconds but obstinately returning to its former position. Getting hold of the strings of silvery metal links the young man pushed himself up and performed a giant swing, and then another one, landing on his bate feet.

A fascinated Munro observed him, knowing how hard it was to make believe he could ignore the law of gravity... without the help of certain supernatural means. He admired his technique while he was suspended in the air in a mighty front split jump, frozen as if time around him had stopped as well, and also when he slid along the wooden surface to the very edge, repeating that perfect split with his legs completely stuck to the floor. The young blond bit his lower lip and grunted with envy: he wasn't still able to do it, not with that mastery, despite he had been trying for months.

'Toller can be happy: his gingerhead is very good at that, at least,' shouted Faulkner at his ear, with irony.

Taking his arm, he dragged him to greet some people Mìcheal wasn't interested in. He couldn't complain; after spending such a long time locked at home that's what he wanted, right? And yet, that day he had to fight the frustration of not focusing on the show.

Once we was finally released the stage had been taken over by a gothic metal band that the businessman was promoting. He decided to have another drink and listen from a sensible distance. The dancers kept entertaining the audience, although in a more suggestive way: the boy had wrapped some leather strings hanging down a pole around his wrists, and was rubbing his body along the narrow metal surface, very slowly and sinuously. His crotch first. The young man was divided between the morbid curiosity and the disturbingly familiar images that scene suggested him.

But there was no trace of the redhead. Mìcheal supposed he'd be busy with his host... Yet he wasn't: Toller was there, trying to chat with some guests. The answer to his question arrived later, when another band replaced the gothic one on the stage. In fact it was the same young man with the awesome dreadlocks, standing at the other side of a Yamaha, along with a drummer, a violin, a bass and a guitar... no, two guitars. And the second one was the dancer with the orangey hair, shielded behind a very curious black and red instrument. Fancy that, so he also plays, thought Munro, unconsciously approaching to enjoy a better view.

A new pang of envy pierced him upon having his eye on the superb customised ESP guitar hanging down his neck. A stylised red dragon twisted on the matt black surface, its tail reaching the neck, its head over the bridge. He was wondering how much he had paid for that bagatelle when the group launched into their first song.

The guitars made vibrate the soft first chords of a metal ballad; the keyboard and violin joined them, discreet the first one, high and ethereal the second, floating above the rest like a spiral of smoke.

The redhead started to sing.

Do you remember the first summer?

She, you and me, on a bed of white sands.

She's so beautiful, you'd say...

I do remember

her blond mane, your blond mane

blinding like the trail of diamonds

dropped by the pallid hand of dawn.

Still in my mouth, the flavour of that summer.

It tasted salty, and bitter.

I'll face love in all its length,

I'll face love as deep as it comes.

Do you remember the first time?

The wind blowing while you pushed her into my arms.

She's so beautiful, you'd say...

I do remember

her blue eyes, your blue eyes,

my gaze lost in that horizon...

floating above, two small black suns.

Still in my mouth, the flavour of that summer.

It tasted salty, and bitter.

I'll face love in all its length,

I'll face love as deep as it comes.

Do you remember the way we loved?

The salty water, the bitter foam?

I'll face love in all its length,

I'll face love as deep as it comes.

I'll taste love in all its length,

I'll taste love as deep as it comes.

The singer's voice was masculine, mighty, and raised above the instruments, even above the weightless violin; still it was gentle and evocative at the same time, and the way it made words ripple unfolded in his mind the sound of the sea, the coming and going of the waves, the coming and going of...

Love at first sight existed, they said. Could anyone fall in love with a voice at first hearing? Because, Mìcheal was thinking, that was what he was experiencing right then. It was such an intense sensation as never before had run down his spinal cord. And it could deceive all his senses: hadn't he had the impression that visage turned towards him in the middle of the song and looked at him?

The group started a second, much heavier theme, and that time it was the other guitarist the one singing. The artist with the dragon guitar had disappeared.

Munro was woken out of the trance. The music was very good, but he felt unable to enjoy it right then; not when that voice still echoed in his ears. He decided to escape to the terrace. A bit of non-conditioned air and a bit of smoke would do him good.

He chose a discreet spot right outside the circle of strong light projected by the spotlight, removed his gloves, and five seconds later he was inhaling a mouthful of fresh poison for his lungs. The night was warm, even hot. Laughters came from the other side of the terrace, a group of guests who had had his same idea, although he didn't think anybody would notice him.

He was wrong.

'Hey.'

The voice arrived from the very centre of the circle of light; he turned his head and there he was: the copper-haired guy. Him, among all the people... Munro got startled, his cigarette slipping out of his fingers and quietly floating down to the street. He watched it falling until a movement beside made him face the newcomer again, who was holding another one in his right hand and offering it to him. Upon seeing the white colour of the paper, he had on the tip of his tongue telling him he didn't like to smoke black, but the other young man seemed to read his thoughts.

'It's a roll-up, try it. I scrounged some from my mate; it tastes better when it's stolen.'

He smiled, his arm still stretched. Mìcheal had no chance but walking inside the space of light and accepting the cigarette, which he carefully took to avoid brushing his fingers.

'Thanks...'

Much to his regret, he was feeling intimidated. Of all the people who could have approached him that night, it had to be him, the accomplished dancer with the impressive voice... He didn't even dare to look him in the eye. The redhead took a second cig out of a leather pouch he was carrying in his pocket, and in the meanwhile Munro fished his lighter. An instant later he gave a start, as he found his personal space totally invaded by his companion. He almost jumped back. The young man stared at him in surprise, holding his cigarette very visible, in a mute gesture that indicated he only wanted fire; Mìcheal passed him the lighter, but instead of in his hand he placed it on the handrail. After an expressionless gaze at the device, and then at him, he took it without a word, used it and left it back there.

The blond would have willingly slapped himself; he always had to look like a crackpot, with his stupid need of shunning contact. It would take three or four drags for that bloke to decide he had lacked of oxygen at birth and leg it, Munro was sure about it... and he wanted... he wanted to talk to him, dammit; he wanted to question where he had learnt to dance like that; he wanted to cast a glance at his guitar; he wanted to tell him his voice was the most fucking amazing one he had ever heard... Would he dare to freaking look at him? His pupils slid to the corner of his eyes and rested, without noticing, on the t-shirt the redhead had bothered to wear to go out. It was a bit worn-out, but the printing on the dark green fabric was funny: a little white rabbit with huge, bloody teeth, chasing a group of knights on top of whom it was written 'Run away!'. Mìcheal smiled broadly, getting the reference, and faced him still staring at the garment.

'Not bad, huh?'

'It's cool,' agreed Munro.

'My favourite. I managed to keep it for several months... what?' he asked with ease, watching him raise his eyebrows. 'Eh, that's a record for me, I'm a disaster with t-shirts: lost, torn, burnt... Whatever you can think of.'

Mìcheal relaxed instantly. He still liked that voice, even when he wasn't singing; his English sounded almost perfect but a slight accent betrayed it wasn't his native language, although he couldn't recognise the nationality. After the t-shirt, he finally decided to study the rest of him.

The boy was more or less his size, except that he possessed two or three extra kilos of muscles, and seemed to share his indifference or fear of the sun. Apart from the top he was only wearing fairly tight-fitting black leather trousers, with two rows of rivets along the sides. They showed off his silhouette pretty efficiently... and left no doubt about what they hid was worth seeing. He had already watched him without the top inside, though the distance hadn't allowed him to make out the details; the only sure thing was that what the short sleeves brought to view could be reproached for nothing.

But when he dared to raise his eyes and take a good look at his face, the last bit of the picture of Toller's satisfaction was revealed in front of him. The slightly messy tresses displayed that bright orange colour that evoked images of autumn, and framed very attractive features: delicate eyebrows and eyelashes, slightly darker than his hair, thin and straight nose and sensual, well-proportioned lips curved up in a little smile. He wasn't close enough to study his eyes with detail; they seemed dark, yet a clear green gleam surrounded his pupils. The boy calmly studied him in return, until he broke the silence once more.

'I saw you dancing up the platform a couple of times.'

Munro stared at him with renewed surprise. How the heck someone like that had noticed someone like him?

'You're kidding me...' was all he could say.

'Last Friday and Saturday. On Saturday you were wearing... grey t-shirt and camo trousers. Don't worry, I'm no stalker, I remember cause I have an identical pair.' He paused. 'You dance very well.'

'That's funny, coming from you... How can you say I dance well?' The blond looked away once more. 'If I could move like you, I wouldn't get my eyes off the mirror of the damn academy where you surely practise eight hours a day...'

'I do have mates working in an academy... though i only go once or twice a week, except when I rehearse. A couple of months there and you'd do it like me, or even better. I'm Rafael, and you?'

'Mìcheal...'

'A couple of angels, hmm?' Munro fixed his intense blue gaze on him again. 'And besides, cool, a Celtic pal.'

'Really? Sorry, I don't get your accent...'

'I'm Spanish.' As he saw his confusion he added: 'from the North, Asturias, land of Celts. Your name is Scottish, right? Well, you have your bagpipe and I have mine.'

He pronounced those words with all the seriousness of the world, drawing on his cigarette, even if his eyes sparkled with deviousness. Mìcheal had to smile.

'Aye... Truth is you look more Celtic than me.'

'Scotland it is, then. Which part?'

'I was born here, but my parents were from Orkney.'

''Were'?'

'They died when I was a kid.'

'Mine too.'

'Ah...'

'Lots of coincidences, huh? I'm nineteen. You?'

More amazement in the blond's eyes.

'You're nineteen as well?'

The redhead returned an equal gaze. Finally he said:

'Fuck... I'm afraid of keeping on asking.'

'I bet coincidences end there... except that... well... I'm fond of music too, and guitars, though I can't reach your level by far.'

Mìcheal remained silent for an instant. He had just realised Rafael's voice had monopolised his concentration and had prevented him from noticing his way of playing that instrument.

'Why didn't you keep playing with your band?' he asked.

'Not my band, just fiends. I don't have enough patience to join up any long-term project, I go pecking here and there.'

'But that song was...'

'Liked it?'

'It was... amazing. You sang as...' he looked down, slightly ashamed, 'as if you were really at the beach with those... that person you were talking about, listening to the sea and doing... whatever you were doing...'

Again silence. Munro noticed a shadow cast on him; and when he turned his head again he found that young man barely some inches away, in search of his gaze, his expression so intense he almost forgot to move back. Those eyes... he had never seen something like them; they seemed two shiny pieces of veined malachite, and the dark green rings became more and more transparent until they turned into two bamboo-coloured circles around the pupils. He was familiar with those stones because he had found them often at Jang's establishment... but they were nothing compared to the vivid irides penetrating him at that moment. He stood still, like a rabbit caught in the headlights, until he realised how close his face was. He quickly took a step back.

'I'm sorry... I'm used to look at people in the eye when we talk,' seriously said the redhead. 'Can't understand why you avoid mine.'

'Unlike you I...' the young man dropped the cig butt and crushed it with his foot, 'don't usually do that. I'd rather not to..'

'A hot guy like you who doesn't walk through life head on... can't get it.'

Mìcheal felt compelled to look at him, right what he wanted... but no, his face was still serious, he didn't seem to be mocking. Apparently he had scored with one of the sexiest guys he had ever met...and there wasn't a bloody thing he could do about it.

'I lied to you,' confessed Rafael. 'I didn't remember the clothes you were wearing last Saturday cause I had similar ones. Truth is I saw them inside a bag in C.C.'s office, and later, happily jumping over the walkway...'

'Oh, that... listen... don't you think there's something going between Toller and me... I think he just does it cause he doesn't trust my taste to choose what I should wear... We don't...'

'Take it easy. We don't have a relationship or anything like that. We met recently, he likes what I do, we met couple times... nothing else. He's not the kind that settles for one alone. As for me... I fool around until the day I find someone worth keeping. Then no more bollocks.' He cast a speculative glance at the blond that gave him goose pimples. ' That tall guy with brown hair, is he your partner?'

Mìcheal swallowed. Therefore, he had been watched in the hall... He nodded.

'I see.' He took another couple of cigs out of the pouch, put both of them in his mouth, grabbed the lighter that was still on the handrail and switched it on, mumbling: 'how long have you been going out?'

'Three years...'

Rafael's hand froze for an instant, the flame dancing in front of his lips. Once he remembered to keep on breathing he lit both cigarettes inhaling deeply and offered one to his companion, who accepted it without thinking.

'I guess we'll meet enough around here,' the redhead said. 'I'd like to hear you playing. We'll surely be coming in the afternoons and mess around the Dj booth... want to join?'

'...Sure, Rafael,' finally answered Munro. 'Cool...'

'Rafa; call me Rafa.'

'Call me Mick then...'

The Spaniard curved his lips and held out his flexed arm to him, hand up, to shake it. Mìcheal looked at it as if he were watching the jackpot slipping out of his fingers... Okay, he thought, if he has to fly off better be now, when I still haven't...

'Look,' he started, 'you'll think I'm a freak, but... I can't touch people. I have a...' he bit his lips; somehow he loathed to tell him that sodding story of the haphephobia; he took his gloves out of his pocket and showed them to him, sadly wearing the right one. 'I have to walk around covered with fabric to avoid accidental rubbing. If that's too much for...'

He couldn't continue, because Rafael's eyes made his heart shrink. For a moment he read such disbelief, such sadness... such desperation in them, that he though his were deceiving him. Whatever it was it finished soon; the copper-haired young man made up a smile and moved his hand even closer.

'Well... if it's okay for you, it's okay for me, I guess.'

Mìcheal's jaw dropped again, but held out his gloved hand, and he shook it firmly and for a long time, as if he didn't want to let go. Then he reluctantly released it and both men's smiles became bolder.

'You know,' dared to say the blond, gathering courage, 'It's hardly surprising Toller is in seventh heaven; you're...'

He broke off. As an confession of admiration it sounded pathetic, and he had the impression he had used up his share of pathos for the night... rather, for the whole month. But the other man didn't seem to think the same; he was too busy piercing him with that malachite gaze.

'The fact that there aren't several portraits of you at the Uffizi is a mere time and space error, Mìcheal.'

Rafael's voice sounded different, solemn; his accent disappeared. Munro didn't understand that change of tone... nor even his words. He was simply aware of the feelings they gave him, and they were intoxicating.

'There comes your friend. See you, Mick.'

The redhead vanished before Owen could reach his partner.

***

It was four in the morning. Rafael Cienfuegos couldn't sleep; curled up on a windowsill, a cigarette burning between his fingers, he looked outside without really seeing anything. Not that there was anything worth seeing either: the wide and dirty street was poorly illuminated; the lights of the city, as always, wouldn't allow watching the sky.

He recalled that gloved hand he had shaken, the soft, too soft pressure of his fingers. He thought of the skin underneath. He thought of... And I used to believe I knew what it was suffering Tantalus' punishment...

And the gaze avoiding him, not daring to look at him in the face... That chin, those blue eyes had always been kept proudly raised. They had always pierced anyone in front of them. And now... Mìcheal... what happened? What has he done to you this time...?

Faulkner. Oh, Christ... He had had to run away from there; he had had to leave before facing him cause he wouldn't have been able to hold back. He'd have beaten seven shades of shit out of him, he'd have smashed him into a bloody pulp. He had dared to do that to him...

He was trying to think straight. He was trying to process the data he had given him, sort his ideas out, start to set plans, decide his first movement...

But he couldn't; not that night; not while his heart still pumped so violently that it hurt...

So many years had passed since the last time he had touched him... And when he had been finally able to hold his had, a leather glove had come between them...

One hundred and four damn years...

Rafael

         Previous chapter                                                                                                         Next chapter