TO SPREAD THE WINGS I: A bird in a cage

At 7 A.M. started the typical and continuous flow of people leaving their houses and jumping into their vehicles, or running to the nearest tube station entrance, to go to work. It was barely two hundred metres away, but a last minute sprint could save you from the packed trains coming from the Northwest area. It was a fairly quiet neighbourhood, except during those hours when everyone seemed to tacitly colonise the streets. Trees and low hedgerows along the road; a park with a children's playground around the corner; a supermarket, a bank and half a dozen of phone shops... plentiful, obvious and glorious boredom.

It was quite far North, an obscene numbers of stops away from the centre, and wasn't exactly the most elegant part of the city. Mainly three-storey apartment buildings alternated with some houses. At a certain point the architects seemed to have agreed that continuous balconies fronts with glass partitions would give that street a special quality, God knew why. Once somebody had had the bright idea of stealing the numbers of a whole row of those buildings; chaos spread among the visitors during the time it took to replace them. They should have realised the trick, as the locals knew, was taking the colours of the partitions as reference.

Summer was close and the mornings were miraculously mild. That might be the reason why a figure not wearing much didn't care about appearing like that in one of those balconies, separated by steel frames with wired glass.

The figure was clearly a male; that was easy to see, since the only garment he was wearing were his black boxer briefs; around one eighty tall; slender body, whose fair and hairless skin showed off his muscles, built up with exercise; blond, messy hair, long past his shoulders; delicate features that would have pleased DaVinci beyond expectations. He was leaning on the stone rail and amused himself by watching his neighbours as they quickened their pace down the street or were off like a shot on their bikes.

The young man took a cigarette out of the packet that was unstably resting besides him, gently tapped it a couple of times against the stone and lit it, anxiously savouring the first puffs of the morning. A light breeze moved the curtains beyond the sliding door, and the stone tiles were still frozen under his bare feet. He shivered, but his brain didn't even noticed the cold, busy as he was with looking at the people down there. He imagined they were a huge colony of active ants, a row of dark workers that seemed to find their way by tracking the ones preceding them. Unlike them, he had all the time of the world to do whatever he wanted. He could have a several courses breakfast, hobbit style, or go for a stroll, or go back to bed if he fancied it and sleep a few more hours. He laughed up his sleeve; he laughed, ignoring the small and usual pang of bitterness.

He finished off his cigarette, dropped the butt to the floor and lit another one. No, the magnificent breakfast plan had to be discarded because the fridge was empty. He'd had to go to the café, and maybe pay a visit to the supermarket before going to the gym. Or he could stay home, phone for takeaway food and skip the fencing class... and that would make it three times in a row. Either he was utterly wrong or someone would come soon and force him to go at sword-point... Interesting metaphor, he thought to himself, both in the usual sense and in the slightly perverted one. Except that in none of them was actually a metaphor.

He turned around and his eyes inspected the view of the living-room that was visible through the door. It was very untidy, because he hadn't bothered to open the door to the cleaning service the previous day. He better removed the empty pizza boxes, the cans, the clothes on the chairs, the guitar and, above all, the ashtrays full of cigarette butts. He was hoping the open windows would ventilate the room conveniently.

The guitar. Those last three days had been very intense, testing the new Carvin he had given him. He wasn't a guitar expert but that one sounded incredibly better than any other he had played before. Were it not for the colour... It was a too flashy blue, and he had had to bite his lip upon hearing him confess he had chosen it because it reminded him of his eyes; that had made him waste his share of cheesiness for the next twenty years. He had felt tempted of asking him to exchange it, but after checking in Internet how much he had paid for it, the boy had turned pale. Any complaint would have been stingy, so he had kept it. He couldn't even remember where he had left the headphones: three glorious days listening to the sound coming straight out of the amplifier, without leaving the house, ordering takeaway food... That night he had even fallen asleep on the sofa.

'It's a pleasure getting up early and going out to enjoy a view like this.'

The boy turned to his right, in surprise. Ah, that was his neighbour, Evan, who had managed to go out to the balcony unnoticed. Such a habit he possessed of becoming lost in thought...

Evan Torres lived next door since the former tenants had left; they never spoke clearly, but apparently they complained about the annoying noises their young neighbour was fond of causing. He was a graphic designer about twenty-five years old, and he used to work at home. Tall, slim, dark skin and eyes... fairly attractive behind his modern thick-framed glasses. Gay; he had admitted it after hearing him engaged in bed, or more precisely, on the sofa. And he was crazy about him, no doubt about it. His head was sticking out of the glass partition and obviously he was inspecting the exposed parts of his anatomy, while his imagination made up for the ones hidden under the tight black garment. Right then it was hard to say if his eyes were fixed on his crotch or on the little embroidered tiger that decorated the elastic waist of his underwear. Not that he really cared, as he found it flattering when people paid him attention, and Evan was a model neighbour. He stood stoically his annoying noises, including the last days of bashing away on the guitar; in fact he had come to see him playing with a bag of hamburgers and a pack of imported beer. He notoriously flirted, although the boy had made it very clear for him from the very beginning. Torres knew he didn't stand a chance but that wouldn't intimidate him, as he was probably an adept of living in hope.

The dark-haired man was making his best out of watching that godsend displayed in from of him. Mìcheal Munro's features would get attention wherever he went, and he used to wear hats and dark glasses right to deprive the world of that wonder, such a paradox life was. But he would always behave so relaxed at home, and it was worthy to go out to the balcony and spy through the transparent glass or stick the head out, with the risk of becoming dislocated, just to have a better view of that eye candy. And when he turned to him and cast that killer aquamarine look on him, and smiled, he blessed his luck for having rented that apartment in the middle of nowhere. He could be grateful his landlord didn't suspect about it; if he had doubled the rent Torres would have surely paid not to have to leave.

'Ah, hi, Evan,' greeted the young blond with one of those smiles. 'Was I too loud yesterday? I think I went too far with the volume.'

'Nah,' blatantly lied the other. 'Besides I love hearing you play. How's your composition going?'

'Composition...' He looked down and hid his embarrassment behind a deep puff. 'I wouldn't dare to call it that. Hey, please don't tell anyone I play, or anything of the like, I'd die of shame. You're the only one who listens, and that's cause you're my neighbour, and sometimes I'm merciless and don't plug the headphones in.'

'No worries, I'm the soul of discretion. And what the heck, I feel honoured...'

'You'd feel honoured if I were good, which is not the case.'

'But I do think you are...'

'Thanks a lot for the mural,' interrupted the younger man before he started to compliment him. 'It's fantastic.'

'It's nothing, really. Call me again when you want something else.'

'Sure, whatever... I owe you too much already. I wish I could give you something in return, but let's say I suck at artisan works.'

'I always drink for free every time I go to the club, and drinks aren't cheap there. I bet you already bought me my weight in twelve-years-old Scotch.'

The boy smiled broadly, dropped the second butt and turned around in search of a third cigarette. Torres took advantage to ogle at his butt, although his eyes were unavoidably dragged to the only detail of his body that slightly disturbed the harmony: two scars, barely two discreet whitish lines, perfectly symmetrical at both sides of his shoulder blades. He had seen them before, since it wasn't the first time the blond went out without a shirt. They were a mere white spot on a white background, and yet...

'How did you get those?' he asked as his neighbour flicked his lighter.

'What?'

'The scars on your back.'

The boy stiffened. It was barely a second, but the glasses young man noticed the question had surprised him and hadn't been pleasant. He took his time to answer, drawing on the cig so deeply it looked as if he'd only need a couple of drags to finish it. And then someone crossed the sliding door.

The newcomer was as eye-catching as young Munro in his own way; tall and impressive, the kind that seemed to fill all the space in a room upon entering; one of those men who stirred women's primary instincts and implanted in their brains the idea it was time to breed and they wouldn't find better raw material... If Evan Torres had ever considered what was his type, it had to be him no doubt. He had dared to fantasise sometimes, getting excited with the idea of being rendered breathless while trapped under that incredible body. But the looks he used to pierce him with were so murderous that the sole memory was enough to shoo his impure thoughts away or to make his fingers stiff in the middle of the job. That was the guy who owned exclusive rights to make his delectable neighbour yell.

Owen Faulkner was a gym product more than one ninety tall, whose wide shoulders matched his remarkable height. His brown hair had been recently cut and was neatly combed back; obviously he had put himself in a hairstylist's hands. His forehead was high and his eyebrows conferred even more personality to a couple of steel-grey eyes, as sharp as the edges of his strong jaw. He was wearing an impeccable and fashionable grey suit that fitted his body like a glove, silk tie and charcoal grey shoes, both slightly flamboyant but within the boundaries of smartness. He was twenty-eight years old and his whole appearance proclaimed that his occupation ought to be out of the ordinary, like model, actor or the trophy husband of a millionaire in her fifties but well-preserved woman. But the truth was that Faulkner was a lawyer; although to be fair and in defence of appearances, he was a lawyer of artists.

Right then his eyes were reprovingly fixed on his partner's very lightly dressed silhouette, yet his gaze moved soon towards his dark-haired neighbour, whose figure was clearly visible behind the transparent glass partition. In front of that object he had to suppress a grunt once more: it was still a mystery how the younger man had managed to break a wired glass. But he had been the fool of the story, because he had let Mìcheal take care of the repairs instead of doing it himself; and the boy had allowed the workers to replace it with that transparent, insecure glass that offered no privacy. He was pretty useless when dealing with the practical aspects of life.

'Owen...' the young blond was taken by surprise. 'I thought you'd arrive later...'

'Hi, Mick. I wanted to pay you a visit on my way to the office.'

Faulkner approached his companion, who was putting the cigarette away and stretching his neck to answer the kiss he knew he'd be receiving. There was a third person and he wished to escape with a slight brushing, but the lawyer had his own ideas; he wrapped his arms around the youngest man's sides, squeezed him and leaned over, seizing his lips in a hungry, thorough kiss, forcing him to separate them to visibly slide his tongue between. The typical way of marking his territory. The boy let him do, not without a certain discomfort; on the other hand he had to admit his kisses were intoxicating... A few more seconds and his legs would start to shake, so he tried to move away little by little, lowering his head and softly pushing his shoulders back. Once he judged he had caused the desired effect, Faulkner released him.

'What's up, Torres,' he said unwillingly, without intonation. 'If you don't mind we're going back inside, we have to talk.'

And leaving the frustrated neighbour on the other side of the glass, he dragged the blond to the living room and closed the door behind them.

'Where are you going?' he asked holding the boy, who wanted to leave the room.

'To brush my teeth, because I've been...'

He didn't let him finish. He pressed his lips again on the young man's pink arches, although he didn't want to flaunt his property this time, but showed a genuine interest in savouring once more a mouth he hadn't tasted in days. His hands sank into his wild blond hair, trying to tame it.

Mìcheal let himself go, enjoying the kiss. During his partner's absence he hadn't touched anyone else and he always longed for the contact of another skin on his... and that was the only one he had ever known. His arms surrounded his lover under the jacket, but the thin fabric bothered him, so he slipped his fingers under the waist of his trousers, pulling softly.

'Stop...' asked Faulkner, reluctantly releasing his tongue. 'I have to leave soon. Do you want me to arrive to the office hoisting the flag to full-mast?'

'God save the queen...' crooned Munro, grabbing the buckle of his belt.

'No. Stop.' He commanded this time, holding his shoulders tightly. His voice was firm, although he wouldn't have disliked him to continue. 'Tonight I have plenty of time for us both. God, Mick, have you been smoking for hours or what?'

'I told you I had to brush my teeth,' answered the blond, slightly bothered.

'And clearly you've been smoking inside the apartment all this time. It reeks of cigarettes... shit, look at those ashtrays. I told you a hundred times I don't want you to smoke inside, it's like sinking the chops into a heap of ashes...'

The younger man escaped his arms, since he wasn't going to taste them; tucking his long tresses behind his ears he took the overloaded ashtrays, dropping some cigarette butts. The brown-haired man cast an oblique gaze at him under his knit brow.

'Must you go out to the balcony like that? Is there anyone left who hasn't seen you in your underwear? It looks like you enjoy turning the folks on, including that four-eyed neighbour of yours.'

'He may hear you...'

'Let him hear me. Always spying behind the glass... something it wouldn't happen so often if you went out properly dressed instead of...'

'What's it to you, Owen? It isn't as if he were going to lay his hands on me.' That was Mìcheal's answer to everything. 'Moreover, the only thing I do is sharing with the world the amazing collection of pants I'm gathering thanks to you.'

The boy entered the kitchen. His companion sighed; it was hard to confess but, truth be told, he was fond of buying him underwear. Since he had the fixation of never using belts, saying they were too uncomfortable for him, the waists of his trousers always revealed more than they should. It was was going to be the case he'd take care, at least, of making him wear classy stuff down there, instead of those cheap street market horrors he used so indifferently.

He looked around. The house was a disaster, and not that he had expected less. It was always the same when he was alone: he smoked, ate anything and listened or played music. His eyes wandered towards the brand new guitar. At least, he thought, he had liked it. A smile fluttered on his lips. He picked the big empty boxes and started to pile garbage on top of them.

Faulkner was a young, brilliant lawyer, as his father had been before that car accident in which he had lost his life. Faulkner Snr. had taken care of the legal aspects of his family's consulting and investment company, and his eldest son had taken over that position. They never lacked of money; if Owen had wanted it, he could have held a carefree life at his deceased father's expense. But he was ambitious and had decided to follow the tradition, although his interests had headed to the artistic area, the bohemian one... or at least that was his conservative relatives' opinion. All his customers had some kind of relationship with music and show-business, one way or another. Well, that wasn't any crime as far as he knew, and money was money no matter where it came from. And anyway he was barely on speaking terms with his family.

Owen Faulkner could lack of his colleagues' long years of experience, but he was intelligent, immensely talented and his persuasiveness knew no limits. Probably the latter had specially helped him to start his own firm, with two associates and in the process of hunting a third one. He owned a large and luxurious apartment in the centre, a Porsche that would barely leave the garage and a current account as enormous as to lie down to sleep on top of it. And despite all that he had to run across half the city, to this neighbourhood in the sticks, if he wanted to see his nineteen-years-old lover who refused to live with him, but wouldn't accept a more expensive apartment closer to the centre. Enough to drive him crazy. And he kept being cool with it, displaying that newly-acquired madness. His mind continued quietening that little inner voice whispering guilt, and he fooled himself with the chimera of his own magnanimity. After all, he'd tell to himself, it's the only serious thing he ever asked for, and I understand he wants some independence. Moreover the club is half way and he spends every other night there. And besides... it's very true I don't have to worry as nobody will lay his hands on him. I'll let him play to be an adult some more time; in the end he'll grow tired of living alone and will come home with me.

The lawyer carried the rubbish to the kitchen, where Mìcheal finished washing the ashtrays. In contrast to the rest of the house, that room was spotless, maybe a bit dusty due to the lack of use. The young man stood back to the door, leaning over the sink.

'How was the trip?' he asked, continuing with some glasses.

'Annoying. That junkie brat not only got into bed with a girl who happened to be several years younger than she had said; he also had to do it in Sweden. Fuck, it's been two years since I last dealt with criminal proceedings, and he already has a Swedish female lawyer. They could have spared me the pain.'

'And why did you have to go yourself? One of your associates could have done it.'

'Because he's one of Finisatron, the music company, and the CEO begged me to do him the favour with tears in his big dead fish eyes.' Approaching that bare, unprotected back, Faulkner stroked slowly one of his shoulder blades and kissed it. 'Probably he wanted me to make sure the guy wouldn't shag his Swedish lawyer as well, though at least she's of legal age.' His index finger gently traced the furrow of the scar flanking it. 'I mostly went because it didn't coincide with any Marked Day, or I'd have told them to get lost. Did you miss me?' His tongue replaced his finger; Mìcheal trembled.

'If... if you aren't finishing what you're starting... you better stop...'

'Why? As long as I don't get a hard-on myself, there's no problem. I want to leave you a souvenir until tonight.'

The lawyer's hand slid along the black cotton to the youngest man's groin. Yes, the souvenir was there, stiff on his lower abdomen. His fingers brushed it playfully, with satisfaction.

'Tonight I'll thoroughly see to pay you for all the arrears of the days I've been abroad,' he whispered to his ear, the blond hair tickling his nose. 'Mind you... it's going to be a very long day...' The sensual lips closed around the lobe of his ear, nibbling it. 'I can't wait for...'

'Tonight I'm going to the club...' Faulkner's mouth froze abruptly. 'I've been locked up inside the house since last Monday, and one of the dancers can't go and I promised I'd be there... You wouldn't want me to disappoint Toller...'

'Screw Toller. I'll call him and tell him to look for someone else.'

'No. I have to go. I know what you think about this, but it's the only thing I do and I don't want to be unreliable. Besides this Saturday is a Marked Day and I won't be able...'

The lawyer exhaled deeply and straightened, moving away.

'All right. But you won't stay until very late; don't make me go to drag you out of there... because I assure you today I would. And try not to exhaust yourself too much, don't you think I'm offering you any compassion.' He snickered.

'I don't expect nor want any.' Mìcheal also smiled deviously.

Faulkner stared at him, a shade of concern in his grey eyes.

'I left a bag of home-made food in the living-room,' he finally continued. 'And then you'll go to fencing practise. You know it isn't a game, Mick.'

Ah, the young man thought, he already heard about it. He took his time to drop it.

'Aye, Owen.'

'I must be leaving or I'll be late. If you didn't live in the back of beyond I wouldn't have to rush that much.'

He also took his time to drop that one. Mìcheal didn't say anything, but fished a cigarette and a lighter and accompanied his partner to the entrance. The entrance hall was spacious yet empty; a wide white wall was the visitors' first view when they crossed the door and the additional black grille the lawyer had insisted on getting installed. It always used to be in half-light; in that darkness Faulkner leaned towards his companion and kissed him, before pressing the button that opened the grille with a whirring. Mick lit the cigarette and his big blue eyes also lit up upon remembering something.

'Hey Owen, look at this.'

He pushed the light switch and the wide wall became clearly visible. Someone had painted a couple of huge black wings, with such realism and impressive detail that one felt tempted of walking there and caressing the stylised outlines, and study in great detail the veins of the feathers, as dark and shiny as obsidian.

'I told you I don't want you to smoke...' automatically said the lawyer from the other side of the grille. As he turned around and saw that fresco, the rest of the sentence got stuck in his throat. He watched it, knitting his eyebrows, until his eyes turned to the blond man and he asked: 'Who did this?'

'It was me. Like it?' he answered, after giving it some consideration.

Owen studied the wall again.

'Don't lie, Mick.'

'... Okay, Torres did. As a token of good neighbourliness.'

'I don't... I don't think much of you letting him sniff around, certainly less to do... that. Moreover you give him false hope...'

He left the sentence unfinished again, because Mìcheal leaned on the wall, right in the middle of the impressive wings; he dropped the cigarette to the granite floor, stretched his arms at both sides of his body, flexed his left leg and tilted his head backwards. The blond locks partially concealed his charming face, but not enough to hide his broad and defiant smile. The lines of his body, barely covered with his underwear, clearly stood out against that dark, feathery background.

Faulkner watched him in silence through the grille. How much he wanted him... as much as three years ago, and even more... He unconsciously pushed the bars but the latch was already closed, putting him out of his reach. He seemed to be a beautiful bird, as the first time he saw him right after...

A beautiful bird in a cage.

The steel in his eyes shone as his gaze hardened. He pursed his lips and released the cold metal bars.

'See you later, Mick. Don't be late.'

The lawyer opened the door and banged it close behind him.

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