by Robyn Elliot
“Coffee’s getting cold,” he said, and breezed back into the kitchen.
He wouldn’t have heard, Danny reasoned; he emerged, after all, when the madwoman of a sex fiend was finishing. Tentatively, Danny joined Stephane in his kitchen, sat down, and sipped his coffee. They sat quietly for a few moments, Danny taking sly glances over the rim of his mug.
“I’ve got to go shortly, Danny…I’m already an hour late for my shift.”
“Sorry, of course, Stephane.”
Stephane gave him a warm, but exasperated look. “There’s no need to be sorry.”
Danny heated up again, opened his mouth to speak, then clamped shut.
Stephane shook his head. “Were you about to say sorry?”
They looked at each other again. They were doing a lot of that. Silence. Gazing.
Silence. Bit more gazing.
Danny smiled, the second time Stephane had seen him do so, and it changed him. Completely. The pale, serious, rather imperious face, transformed into something more gentle, even peaceful. Wow, he is simply beautiful, thought Stephane, I think I really need to see this guy again.
“What happened today?” Stephane asked, looking at Danny intently.
Danny shrugged, feeling suddenly so tired he thought he could just drop his head onto the table and doze.
“I fucked up,” came the prosaic answer.
“Can I make an observation?” Stephane asked. Danny tensed his body, then nodded. “Why the hell did you become a barrister, Danny?”
For a moment Danny was furious. But it was only a moment, and it passed quickly. He could hear no mockery or reproach in Stephane’s voice.
“Do you know something,” Danny started slowly, shaking his head, sighing “I really don’t know; I wasn’t always like this, though,” he added, giving Stephane an earnest look.
Stephane sat back in his chair, his eyes narrowing slightly, studying Danny. The paleness of him suited him. At Guillaume's, the light had been all wrong, making him look drained and pasty. Here, Stephane thought, he could have stepped from a painting by Millais.
“I think you do know, Danny; and the real Danny is still there, beneath all that stress and unhappiness…beneath that defensive exterior. Definitely beneath that old man’s coat you wear,” Stephane laughed gently.
Danny bristled, sitting up straight, his spine ram rod stiff. “That was an expensive coat.”
“Still would look great on an old…as you would say, geezer?!”
Danny pulled a face as Stephane laughed again. “I personally wouldn’t say geezer, it’s not a word I use myself,” Danny offered sniffily.
Stephane mimicked Danny’s expression and clipped accent. “Oh, I do beg your pardon, how could I forget I am speaking to an Englishman!”
Danny stared at him. Then, slowly, another smile, tentative, broke through the barriers. That, and a suppressed yawn. Stephane could see how exhausted Danny suddenly appeared.
“Bed, Danny.”
Stephane watched as Danny flushed vermilion again. Stephane stood up, carefully, and began pulling on his jacket. “I imagine you’ve been sleeping badly?”
Danny nodded, getting up with him, hovering. “Like you wouldn’t believe, Stephane.”
Bustling out of the kitchen into the passageway, Stephane led Danny to the front door.
“You will see your doctor, won’t you?”
Danny remembered the sealed letter, planning to read it once Stephane had left. He nodded obediently.
“And you will stay off work, and you will rest, and take better care of yourself?”
Danny smiled, and let himself look at Stephane properly. He was still wondering why such a stunning guy was bothering with him, even if it was just polite concern.
“Yes, Dr Stephane.”
“It’s been a while since I’ve been called that,” said Stephane, putting his hand on the latch of the door. Danny inclined his head slightly in enquiry but no further data was heading his way.
Stephane thought for a few moments, aware how close Danny was standing to him. Not enough for an official invasion of personal space, however; Stephane knew he would have to move a step or two forward, to kiss him. Kiss him? Not yet. Too soon. Besides, Stephane was trying to work out if he wanted to kiss such a geeky guy. He looked at Danny and thought, oh yes!
But let the guy absorb everything. Like I need to absorb that Danny is really turning me on, groaned Stephane inwardly; that, and face a furious Guillaume in approximately 30 minutes. “I prefer Dr Clermont, if you don’t mind, Mr. Hastings.”
Danny smiled again. This time, it reached his eyes, and they twinkled with light.
Ah, he thinks I’m joking, observed Stephane. Too pretty to be clever, I guess. Just good for one thing, hmm?
Stephane opened the door, the cold, rain swept street less inviting than Danny’s warm flat, and even better, lying next to Danny in his warm bed. As they drifted off to sleep, some gentle kissing, slow caressing. Slow and gentle…the doctor had had no problem with that, after all.
Shit, he’s going, Danny’s thoughts racing, and I don’t know whether I’m relieved or gutted. I might not see him again. Hold on, I’d have to go back to Guillaume's, scene of my utter humiliation. Well, that and Court Number Three, of course. Oh, and Chambers. An unholy triptych of Danny’s despair. Just not going to happen, no way, no way am I stepping foot in that place. Any of them, if I can help it…
He had taken the useful opportunity to move his eyes over Stephane’s back, and more importantly, his evidently firm buttocks in black jeans, as he’d followed Stephane from the kitchen. He’s taller than me, Danny observed, by an inch or two, and I’m a tad over 6 feet. Great body, I bet, though he doesn’t look like he’s packing much hard muscle; wonder what else he’s packing.
They were doing that gazing thing again. Stephane turned away first, to look out onto the street. A black cab ambled past.
“There are plenty that pass here,” Danny said, “you can be at work in about fifteen minutes…here, let me cover your taxi fare.”
“Absolutely no,” Stephane said sharply, looking back at him, then saw Danny’s slightly crestfallen face “no, there’s no need…Guillaume will still pay me some wages, late or not.”
“I can see it now, that you’re brothers, I mean.”
“Hmm, although I’m the good looking one, of course,” Stephane teased gently, his eyes moving over Danny’s face. Danny allowed a shy smile to graze his lips.
“Yes,” was all he said in shocking understatement, his voice quiet, but it was enough. Stephane reached out, and stroked Danny’s face, his fingers gently circling his cheekbone. He could feel the heat of Danny’s skin beneath his fingertips. The warmth of their skin melded. Stephane saw Danny’s Adam’s apple bob nervously in the slenderness of his throat, the pulse beating noticeably, Danny’s breathing quickening.
“Will you promise to take better care of yourself?”
Stephane’s voice was low, his accent rolling and sensuous, and Danny loved how he said his name.
“Yes, Doctor Clermont.”
Stephane smiled broadly, liking the spark he was seeing. “You’re learning.”
Stephane opened the door, stood on the doorstep, Danny shivering there, folding his arms, looking expectantly at Stephane. He watched the Frenchman, could see he was thinking over his next words, his next action, and hoping that it involved him, and seeing each other again. Dream on, Danny, he was thinking.
“You should get some rest for a few days.”
“I will, lots of rest, and lying in warm baths…” Danny’s last words trailed away, as he saw the look Stephane was giving him. Danny swallowed, and tried to dampen down the image of Stephane bathing him, massaging his skin lovingly, in candlelight.
Stephane stood for a few more moments, as if unwilling to leave. Danny stood waiting and shivering.
“On Friday I am on early shift again, unless Guillaume sacks me…I’m finished at 2.”
“Yes?”
>
“Can I see you again, Danny?” finally, the words were out, and Danny noticed that Stephane was breathing quite shallowly, his eyes going dark, almost black.
“Yes,” came the answer, without hesitation.
They smiled at each other, Danny suddenly beaming. He felt a dull aching feeling in his jaw. I can’t remember the last time I smiled like this, he realized.
“Then meet me at Guillaume's, around 1.30? I can bring you a coffee, while you’re waiting!”
With that, Stephane winked at him, and started to move down the pathway, leaving Danny open mouthed and mildly frantic again. Go back there? To the scene of coffee gate? To face Guillaume, after I ransacked his office? Why not just meet somewhere anonymous?
Danny watched as Stephane quickly retraced his steps, and for a moment was standing on the doorstep again.
“I know this terrifies you,” he murmured, then walked away once more, leaving Danny staring in his wake.
Chapter Three
Stephane wasn’t given to understatement. There was indeed terror in the air, not that he could notice. Seemingly unawares, he busied himself in the café, serving customers industriously, as Danny hovered outside on the opposite side of the busy road. Smoking a cigarette, feeling guilty that he was doing so considering he’d given up two years ago, Danny kept pacing back and forth, glancing as casually as possible over at the long glass window.
The daylight refracted shadows instead of anything tangible for Danny to see. He dragged on his cigarette, the poison reaching into his brain and making him woozy. He dodged people on the pavement trying to get on with their lives, people who were passing him and looking at him loitering. Not that he appeared sinister or up to something; but the degree of loitering Danny was indulging in was worrying, it had to be said. 30 minutes he’d stood there. Rather, paced there, and it was his second cigarette he was dragging on.
He put his hand in his pocket. Fumbled for the tube of mints, for fresh breath and to obscure the aroma of eau de carcinoma. He was wondering why he would need the mints. A kiss? Lots of kisses? Pecks, or full on tongue sucking? The thoughts of kissing Stephane, or more accurately, Stephane kissing Danny, made Danny feel slightly nauseous. Not from any sense of revulsion, Jesus, the opposite, he hadn’t been able to think of anything else, but from knowing that if Stephane did decide to kiss him, would the Frenchman think he’d just been sucking face with Mother Teresa’s long lost grandson (make that great grandson – she’s been dead a while).
Danny turned to resume his pacing to the left side, when he bumped into someone who, irritated by the intrusion into their personal space, told him to 'effing watch' where he was going, 'mate'. As Danny stood open mouthed, apologetic, he threw down the cigarette and crossed Rubicon Road. He took a look at himself in the glass window behind him now, panicked momentarily that the damp weather had caused his hair to do a Shirley Temple, and took a deep breath. Okay, he thought, okay…I’m going in.
The invasion of a foreign state hadn’t taken as much preparation as Danny crossing the road, and approaching the heavy, wooden doors of Guillaume's. His free floating anxiety returned as he stood there, gathering himself. His anger with Stephane had quickly passed, at making him come here to see him again. Danny knew it was a kind of Francophile therapy that Stephane was offering him.
And the last three days had been okay. Only two panic attacks. A record for Danny, over the last twelve months. The first when Stephane had left, Danny sitting in the hallway trembling and trying not to hyperventilate with the spectacular results that had landed him in hospital. The second, in the bath, the following day. When he remembered that he now technically had no job, no income and the rent to pay. Savings weren’t in Danny’s vocab. All his money went on his painting materials, his canvasses, and travel to exhibitions, not forgetting the money he’d spent on art – and dreaming of the day someone would be buying his own.
Slowly, over those three days, however, things improved a bit. Sleep. That sacred balm to the tormented, or something along those lines, Danny had thought poetically, when he’d woken up, and had had to do a double take when looking at the clock on the bedside table. He’d slept solid that first night for twelve hours.
Feeling slightly euphoric from the realization, Danny had treated himself to a long soak in the bath, lying back in the soothing heat. That’s when Stephane had walked into the bathroom, looking down at Danny, his steel gray eyes moving slowly over the wet skin of Danny’s thighs. It was one of the best masturbation sessions Danny could remember; twice, in twenty minutes, all courtesy of the Frenchman standing watching him.
It got better. Danny had cooked himself a meal – the first time in months – poured a glass of wine, had sat down and watched some TV. In the Frenchman had walked again, standing there, watching Danny, tall, lean, a wicked, dark gleam in his eyes. Danny had masturbated to the tones of Musician of the Year on the BBC, and not a shred of guilt had troubled him, when his climax had coalesced with the award being given to a bland faced 18-year-old brandishing an oboe. The screen had faded for a few moments, Danny
closing his eyes, then opening them again, dazed, breathless, to see the savant making a short speech about how inspired she was by some composer and his organ. He had finished the bottle of wine, lay on the sofa and hadn’t woken up until six the next morning.
The day of reckoning had approached. Deeply crucial things needed sorting and organizing. What to wear. Danny had rummaged through his wardrobe and drawers, giving a snort of contempt at his dark suits, and the two long black court gowns hanging there. Groaning, he’d shut the door on the wardrobe, and had taken out a pair of black jeans from a drawer. He’d pulled them on, and kept turning, this way and that, in the mirror in the bathroom, moving his bottom in the most bizarre gyrations. He knew he’d lost weight. In fact, Danny had realized, despairing, a load of bloody weight. And as a consequence? Skinny arse. Nothing for Stephane to grab onto, Danny had mused, he’s going to either throw up from revulsion, or take me to the nearest clinic for anorexics.
Then, reality had returned. Shit, what the hell are you doing, he’d thought, turning to his side, patting his very flat stomach. I’m going for a...er, coffee, I think...with a guy who helped me out the other day, not for some marathon sex fest where he’ll be required to slowly undress me, touch me, taste me…okay, enough!
Further logistical preparations had ensued. A thorough shower with every orifice known to the human body cleansed to operating theater standards. Teeth cleaned and flossed with such obsessional detail that Danny’s gums had ached in protest, demanding he take mercy on them at once. Hair gelled, then the gel washed out, then put in again, until Danny, shaking with nerves by now, had taken a towel, mussed his hair, and blasted it with the hair-dryer. Peering into the mirror, the waves turning slowly into stubborn curls, he decided to let nature – and the damp weather – take its nefarious course.
Another thing he saw in the mirror had him frowning. Why oh why, came the familiar refrain, did low light always make his hair look…wait for it: red. Strawberry blonde, darling, his mother insisted, and so beautiful too; someone will love running their hands through your lovely waves and curls. Danny had accepted the compliment but realized his mother would adore him even if every hair on his head had dropped out. Would guys feel the same, he’d agonized. And anyway, his mother had to think he was wonderful; it was her fault, seeing as she had given him the rogue gene in the first place. And had the brass neck to dye her hair ash blonde within an inch of its life.
Danny's few past girlfriends had not seemed to mind the strawberry blondness of him. But Stephane was on another level. He’d just stepped off the intergalactic spaceship of perfection. Oh, and he was a guy, of course. There was that little detail to consider.
Danny, a gay man, 27 years old and never been kissed. Or touched, caressed, not so much as a quick peck on the cheek, from another man. To keep the intergalactic theme up, it was safe to say that Danny’s body was the final frontier to w
hich no guy had been allowed to boldly go. The girlfriends had been safe, steady. Soul sapping. Bone breaking in the effort of being straight, Danny had spent months – okay, years – so deep in the closet, he’d set up a sofa and kettle in there. It had taken performance anxiety with women and rock hard erections at just the thought of a guy touching him, that had made Danny blurt out one day to his mother that he was bloody well queer, and there was nothing she could do about it.
And the fact Peter the Great had been in his grave for two years was helpful in Danny's self-outing. It helped that the pater-unfamilias, the most heterosexual man to have ever graced a courtroom, was no longer the key holder to Danny’s closet.
“I knew, Danny,” had been the calm response of his mother, Caroline. She had continued drinking her tea, not glancing up from perusing the newspapers on the table, as if her son had told her the price of bread had gone up, rather than a life changing bit of news about his sexuality.
“This is my life we’re talking about!” Danny had tried again, slightly disappointed that no drama had ensued from his revelation.
“Darling, don’t you feel better now it’s all out in the open?” Caroline had said, completely missing the irony, as Danny had spluttered helplessly.
“Well…yes,” Danny had said, the anti-climax of it hardly comparing to the ‘get ye from my door and ne’er come back until you’re cured’ nightmares he’d been having. Not that Caroline would have ever behaved in such a way. If anything, she reveled in the knowledge Danny was gay.
“Now you can find yourself a handsome man to love you, darling; as long as I can meet him. And do make sure he’s very good looking...oh, it’s so exciting!” had been Caroline’s motherly advice, and it had all been downhill furthermore
Nothing uphill had gone on since his revelation, that was for sure. If Caroline had expected him to morph into a skin tight t-shirt wearing, clubbing, sex maniac, Danny suspected he’d disappointed her need to live the life vicarious. Instead, life had gone on for Danny, in loneliness, and denial. Still, a new world had revealed itself to him by way of those toys he had discovered, bought and played with assiduously. Some of them he still couldn’t work out how to use; but one thing remained completely reliable. His right hand assumed the proportions of lover, comforter, confessor, and therapist all in one.
