Full Circle - 2. 2018

31 AUGUST 2018

Mark half perched on a barstool, lost in thought, twisting an ice-cold bottle of Asahi between damp fingers. Each time the group of six young men at the far end of the bar shouted with drunken excitement or roared together with laughter, he squeezed his eyes shut and felt his body stiffen, hopes of a quiet drink evaporating.

"You okay?" said Mel, the regular barman, who had wandered over during a slack period and now slouched back against the shelves behind the bar. Australian, six-foot-two, blond crew cut, and steadfastly straight, he had been head barman at Full Circle since the opening and had proven a popular choice with the punters. Mark and his friends, who had met his wife and baby boy early one Wednesday night, chatted to him freely. They also tipped him generously, aware of his plan to save up enough to move the new family back to Adelaide.

"Looking a bit down in the dumps, mate. Where's Tim and Raj?”

"Sunning themselves in Ibiza,” said Mark, pulling a face. "Escaping this god-awful summer weather. And Mitch is pulling an all-nighter. It’s just me tonight."

"So. You're flying solo,” he said, with a grin. "Anyone take your fancy?"

"Please!" said Mark, wincing even though he knew Mel was messing with him. "I'm past all that. Tonight I'm in for a quiet drink. Or not so quiet as luck would have it."

Of course the nights of checking out a bar's clientele never really went away. His friends around the same age, even those in relationships, would still scour the room at some point or another, an instinct embedded deep in every gay man's DNA. After a certain age, however, the hope of having a casual stare returned in any meaningful way was as likely as a lottery win.

"Yeah, sorry about the racket," said Mel, peering back at the group of young guys, one of them trying to get the barman's attention. "Might have problems at closing time the way this lot are raging."

"Good luck to them," said Mark, as Mel stood up to leave. "School night, too. That might have been me fifteen years ago."

Tucked away down a side street at the north end of Chelsea Bridge, Wednesday nights at Full Circle remained generally quieter, with unobtrusive chill-out music, and a diminutive crowd of after-work gays and admirers stopping off for a quick sanity fix before heading home. His small circle of three friends had made the night theirs, avoiding Thursday and Friday when the younger set crammed the place with all the loud and wild excitement of a battlefield.

Mark had been looking forward to a night of drinks and distracting banter, having been told to take the rest of the week as holiday to clear his annual leave before the end of the year. More importantly, today of all days, he desperately needed the diversion. Twenty-three years ago to the day, the love of his life had been wrenched from him. So when Mitch phoned at five, crying off because of a late one at his rival law firm, he had been crestfallen. Poised to head home to his empty flat in Battersea, he had pulled himself up and rebounded at the last minute, deciding to stop off for a few drinks, despite his aversion to drinking alone.

Peering up from his beer, he had forgotten about the mirrored wall behind the bar where Mel had been standing, and had an unpleasant surprise when he realised the man staring back was himself. Two years off forty, he had seen better days. Greying temples on a receding hairline, which in his mid-thirties had been described as sophisticated, today made him appear simply old. And despite wild claims to the contrary, no men's miracle product could stop mother nature's ravages; dark bags beneath the eyes, carved troughs around a mouth that had long ago forgotten how to smile, and an almost non-existent jaw line. On the plus side, he had managed to keep his health and weight in check even if his exercise routine had become less feverish. Together with business attire of black designer suit, white cotton shirt and scarlet silk tie, mostly covered up by the grey woollen overcoat that he still wore, he liked to think he resembled a mature boardroom executive—but probably looked more like a funeral director or a hired assassin.

Having foregone the process of coming out during his college years—he had seen little point—meant him channelling all his energies into his law studies. Instead he experienced the euphoria of being newly out in his mid twenties, sampled the dubious joys of first encounters, had fallen into a long term relationship of six years—not for any better reason than to experience consistency—which involved selflessly sharing everything, and which transformed over time from congeniality, to hostility, to cold indifference, before irrevocably collapsing four years ago. After that, he had deferred to a single life of celibacy, burying himself in work and maintaining a few close and loyal friends.

He had done the lot. Ticked all the gay boxes.

Game over.

Except something had always felt missing—like typing with one hand, or cycling with only one foot on the pedal. You could make it work—of course you could—get used to it even, but you’d always instinctively know that something wasn’t right. And he knew what, but refused to go there tonight. This was exactly why he hated drinking alone. Had he not lost enough days, weeks, months even, either drunk, or in therapy, or broken down in tears, reliving the day when every wonderful thing life had promised came to an abrupt end? God had a lot to answer for. And even though he couldn’t see it at the time, his late mother had been right. He’d used that one awful moment to define the rest of his life.

Another round of raucous laughter wrenched him from his thoughts. Mark turned to look at the young men forming a circle at the end of the bar. At that moment, each of them handed over banknotes, probably drinks money, to one of the group members. One or two of the faces he had seen before, on a Wednesday night a couple of months ago during his regular meet-up. In their early twenties, they had the invincible air of youth, each good looking in his own unique way, fresh faced, primped façades, supple-bodied, and with the easy confidence of their generation. A cruel part of him wanted to tell them how quickly all that promise could be stripped away, but he would not spoil their illusion.

Surprisingly, only one of them had his head bowed into a gadget, thumbs bouncing off the display. At the bar, a younger blond boy—arrogantly beautiful—commanded the attention of the group and collected their money. Another handsome member with curly auburn hair, a little older than the rest, stood at the far end of the circle. As though sensing something, he turned and met Mark’s stare. Embarrassed, Mark yanked his gaze away and finished his beer. When another explosion of laughter went off, he ordered again and decided this bottle would be his last.

Almost as soon as Mel had put the fresh one down in front of him and took his empty away, he sensed someone come and stand to his left. At first he assumed the person was waiting to get Mel's attention, but on looking in the mirror, spied the blond boy.

"Hi," said the youth, to Mark's reflection. "How's it going?"

"Fine," said Mark, turning, slipping on a cursory smile and nodding to the younger man. Up close the boy looked nothing short of beautiful, but clearly knew as much. An air of bored aloofness radiated from him, his face held a mien of thinly disguised disgust, which dragged down the corners of his mouth when he spoke. One hand clutched the bar, an attempt to anchor himself, trying to prevent his body from betraying its unsteadiness.

"Thought I'd come over and say hello.”

"Hello," said Mark, politely, offering no more.

"Want some company?"

"I'm fine, thanks.”

Mark glanced along the bar and noticed Mel observing the interaction. To signal an end the discourse, Mark returned his attention to the bar and took a mouthful of beer.

"Get you another?"

“This is a fresh one.”

"How 'bout another for later then?"

"I said I'm fine.”

"Nice bit of cloth there," said the boy, after a pause, touching the sleeve of Mark's jacket. From his confident persistence, Mark had the impression he was rarely used to being refused. "Must have cost a pretty packet. Is that from Savile Row?"

"Look," said Mark, turning abruptly to face him. "I don't know you want, but I'm not interested. Go back and join your friends. I'm trying to have a quiet drink."

"What is your fucking problem?" said the boy, raising his voice now, and slurring badly. "I'm jus' trying to be friendly."

"Everything okay over here?" said Mel, who had strode over during the boy's outburst.

"Brandon," came a deep voice from behind. The dark haired man had stepped over, placed a hand on the blond boy's upper arm and begun pulling him away. "Come on, mate. Give it up."

"No worries," said Mark, nodding to Mel. "We're fine. All done."

Mark watched in the mirror as the friend tugged the scowling blond boy away. He staggered a few steps and, turning back to his circle of friends, signalled something to them adding a shrug. While most of them appeared amused, the dark-haired friend seemed annoyed, shaking his head as he re-joined the group. Ten minutes later, however, as the larger group broke into small clusters of casual chatter, the blond boy sidled up again.

"Okay. Look mate," he said, his voice a low whisper, the arrogance gone. "Cards on the table, right? Name’s Brandon. My mates and me are playing a game. Bit of harmless fun. If I can get you to come home with me, I win the dare pot."

"The what pot?"

"Dare pot. Five hundred quid.”

"If I go home with you?"

"Yeah.”

"And do what?" said Mark, now facing the boy.

"You know.”

The boy added a one shoulder shrug.

"So what? Sex for money?"

"Not your money," said the boy, obstinately, crinkling his brow.

Mark felt an overwhelming urge to tell the boy to piss off, but instead held his tongue. His eyes scanned the bar at the other, much younger clientele.

"Why me?" he asked.

"What?" replied the boy. At first he appeared confused by the question. "Oh, that. Dare was to pick the oldest bloke in the bar. Which is obviously you."

"Fuck you very much.”

"No, I mean… I don't mind. You're sort of okay looking really, I suppose. For an old geyser. In a George Clooney kind of way," whispered the boy, swaying in and grinning obscenely. Mark shuddered as the boy placed a hand on his shoulder and leant in closer to whisper. "Seen you eye fucking me. An' let's be honest, mate, it's the best offer you're going to get tonight."

"First off, I'm not your mate," said Mark, firmly removing the boys grip and barely suppressing the full force of his anger. "Secondly, I don't date children."

"Who said anything about a date," said the boy, missing the jibe completely. "It's just a shag."

"Whatever it is you're selling, I'm not buying," said Mark, before standing, yanking up his briefcase and raising his voice loud enough so that the circle of friends along the bar could hear. "And a piece of advice from a geriatric who’s been around the block, Brandon. If you need to make some quick cash, and you don't care how or with whom, why don't you go and pimp your arse outside King's Cross Station. I'm sure the perverts there will eat you up. Mel, here's forty. Keep the change."

Leaving the blond boy wobbling bewildered amid a roar of laughter, Mark strode seething up the staircase and out into the wet night. According to Tim, some millennials—the Facebook and YouTube Generation—had zero respect for privacy. People in the office bemoaned that fact all the time and now, finally, Mark had experienced their complaints first-hand. More importantly, they had ruined a perfectly pleasant evening. Would they have singled him out if Tim and Mitch had been there? Perhaps, and Mitch being the oldest might even have considered taking the boy up on his offer. Not Tim though. What would he have called it? A mercy fuck. Was that it? Had he been offered a mercy fuck by a young blond twink? Maybe some of his generation would have accepted, grateful for the attention, but Mark had too much pride, too much self-respect.

Once on the street, he stopped on the pavement and buttoned his coat, pushing his chin into the collar to shield his face from the summer rain. Toying with the idea of walking to the train station, he decided instead to brave the weather and catch the bus. No other commuters waited in the bus shelter which probably meant he had just missed a bus. He settled himself on the red metal bench and pulled out the tablet e-book reader from his inside pocket. A good dose of his favourite murder mystery novel would soon put the world to rights. Hopefully there would be a scene describing in graphic detail the gruesome murder of a beautiful but conceited young blond man. After around five minutes, he sensed someone else join him on the bench.

"Hello," came a male voice.

When he looked up startled, the man with the curly brown hair from the bar sat grinning at him from the end of the bench. He wore a dark quilted jacket and held up a leather gloved hand in greeting.

"You've got to be fucking joking. Didn't you hear what I said to your friend?" said Mark, irritated and probably overly hostile. Instantly the man's smile dropped, his gaze falling to the floor.

"I came to apologise. That was bang out of order. If it's any consolation, I told Brandon not to do it. But he can be a stubborn shit at times."

"And he's going to get into some serious shit one day, pulling stunts like that," said Mark, putting his tablet computer back into his pocket. "Did your friends put you up to this?”

"No. And they're not my friends. But I do work with Brandon."

"For that, you have my sympathies. What was that puerile game all about, anyway?”

"Harmless enough to begin with. Just a bit of fun. Mostly downing shots if you didn't manage a truth or dare, or making the person posing the question drink one, if you did. Until that money thing. Brandon suggested the stupid challenge and then his name got picked. Shame it wasn't mine."

"Why? You need the money?"

"No! I meant I would have refused, and be done. Mind if I move down?"

Somebody else had approached the bus stop and without waiting for a response, the young man shuffled down next him. Mark had begun to feel baffled by his presence. Mesmerised, he watched him peel off a glove and hold out a large hand in greeting.

"I'm Kevin," he said. “Kevin Whittersby?”

Mark had no gloves, and the hands thrust into his pockets remained cool from holding the tablet computer. Rather than ignoring the outstretched hand—his first instinct—he decided to demonstrate civility. After all, the guy appeared to be genuine enough.

"Mark," he said, placing his hand into they man’s, surprised at the size and warmth. “Mark Falconer.”

Even more surprising, the guy brought his other hand to his mouth, bit off and held the glove between his teeth and then encased Mark's hand completely within his own. The simple intimate gesture threatened to overwhelm Mark, and he quickly pulled his hand away.

“Mark Falconer? As in Millenium Falcon?”

At the remark, Mark quickly swung his gaze away, too.

"Okay, apology accepted. Now if you've finished, you can head back to your friends.”

“They’re not my friends. And I’m not going back inside now. I'm waiting for my bus. Number forty-four. Same as you. Here it comes.”

As the bus loomed towards the stop, the man—Kevin—stood. He seemed amused by Mark's confusion but said nothing. They boarded together, even though Mark hesitated for a moment before taking a seat with him on the lower deck. Kevin stood, waiting to usher Mark into the window seat.

"I've seen you a couple of times," he said, pressing his shoulder playfully against Mark's, once the bus had rumbled away from the stop. "Heading to Victoria Station in the morning. And on the way home you get off at Battersea High Street. I carry on to Tooting Broadway."

"I see. I'd probably have been reading or day dreaming.”

Over recent years, he had become aware of less and less around him. He put the blame for this general malaise down to his mind-numbing routine and the creeping invisibility that comes with ageing, like the slowly misting bus windows. The days of being surprised by anything or anyone had long passed.

"Or asleep," said Kevin, chuckling. "Yes, I've noticed."

Mark ought to have found this admission intrusive, but instead found it endearing, and could not help grinning. In the full light of the bus, he turned to study Kevin while the man spoke. A little taller than Mark and with a larger frame, his face bore none of the petulance of the blond boy, but had a friendly openness, maturity, and even a little shyness. Eyes of Mediterranean blue bordered by long dark lashes and thick brown eyebrows shone with enthusiasm as he talked about himself.

"Then after college, I joined a firm of accountants off Tottenham Court Road. Not really right for me but the job pays well enough. More of a sports junkie at school. But my parents encouraged me to take accounting. Told me there’s not many jobs in the sports line of work.”

“Sports teacher? Fitness instructor? Outward bound instructors. Hospitals and local governments have fitness staff providing meaningful work for people going through rehab. There are lots of jobs out there.”

Kevin’s eyebrows scrunched together as his mind wrestled with these suggestions, his face endearingly confused, until eventually he smiled.

“I never even thought of that. Where were you when I needed career advice? Well, anyway, I’ve been at the firm now for three years. So I take the bus into Victoria Station and then change. I know the Tube would be quicker but I'm not good with crowds. And anyway, sometimes I’m lucky enough to get a seat on the bus. You work somewhere around Victoria, don't you?"

"I do. Near Pimlico."

"I've seen you walking off down Wilton Road while I'm waiting for my next bus. You’re a lawyer, aren’t you?”

“How did you know?”

“No idea. Just seems right that you should be.”

While Kevin carried on talking, Mark felt an odd disappointment in himself that he had never been aware enough to notice this good looking young man before. Absently he wondered if his self-preservation mechanism had kicked in a few years too early.

"Your stop's coming up.” Kevin stood and reached for the bell. "Fancy a quick drink at the Woodman? It's only eight-thirty."

Mark felt unsure, but Kevin intrigued him, and he found his playful attention mildly flattering.

“Go on then. One drink," said Mark, eventually, making a decision he hoped he would not regret. "And then I've got things I need to do."

"Excellent.” Kevin smiled and stood aside to allow Mark to rise. “Let’s go then, Han Solo.”

“Don’t call me that! Seriously.”

Kevin appeared genuinely taken aback for a moment. Crestfallen, his smile had slipped and he stuttered out an apology. Instantly Mark felt mean spirited and offered an excuse.

“I—I used to get called that back in school,” he said, as they stepped off the bus.

“Ah. Okay. I understand,” said Kevin, although his voice didn’t indicate that he did.

After walking silently to the pub, they resumed their conversation at a small table near the front entrance, Kevin nursing a pint of lager, and Mark, a gin and tonic. Before long, Mark moved on to the behaviour of Kevin's group of acquaintances citing generational issues. Kevin, who let him rant for a good ten minutes, waited until he had finished.

“Okay. If you want my ten cents’ worth? Stereotyping anything or anyone is not right, but people do it because they need to make sense of the world. The problem is that the end result can be misleading and dangerous. Gay people should know that better than anyone. And yes, maybe there's a lot to dislike about people my age—some of us, anyway—but in the new gay world order, at least, we're a lot more open and accepting, much less exclusive, clandestine or self-loathing than past communities. In my world, it's okay to fancy fat guys, or thin ones, hairy or bald men, older guys, or any race come to that. As long as the attraction is mutual and within the law. There's no longer any stigma attached."

"You have the struggles of previous generations to thank for that.”

“Maybe you’re right. But it takes the courage of a new generation to take that freedom, that liberty, and to breathe life into it, to make it work. Otherwise the struggle would have been in vain. I hear people moaning that my generation spends all their time staring at their phones instead of communicating with each other. They say we don’t want to work long hours, and when we do work, want to have fun and be more involved at work, that we demand that conservation and sustainability is at the forefront of any commercial decisions. And most importantly, we hear that what we ask for is impossible.”

“But let me ask you this. Who invented the internet and the mobile phone? Millennials? No, they were invented by our parents—or theirs, even. We simply refined them, made them easier, more attractive, and more useful. We’re also the product of a generation who preached about work life balance, employee engagement, and corporate social responsibility, who may even have thrown a bit of money at the ideas, but never really instilled them into the minds of employees. Well, guess what? We’re here, the millennials, and that’s exactly what we’re doing. So you’d better get used to the idea, because we’ll be the ones running future businesses, running them our way.”

Mark laughed aloud. Perhaps a symptom of seniority—or maybe the conventional austerity of law firms—many of Mark's younger work colleagues rarely challenged or corrected him even when he said something controversial or potentially inaccurate. Kevin had a self-assurance, a confidence about him, that made him sound older than his years, something Mark instantly admired. He talked informatively about world news, politics and sports, and Mark discovered they had a lot of common ground. Unwittingly, Kevin had provided the type of genial conversation Mark had hoped to enjoy with his friends that night.

“Sorry. Promise I’ve stepped down from my soapbox now,” said Kevin, as he stood laughing outside the pub, gloves in hand, wrapping his arms around his upper torso. "I'd better go catch my bus.”

“Look, it was really nice to meet you, Kevin. And I’m sorry I was a little short with you earlier. You're obviously one of the good guys.”

After a pause, Kevin thrust a hand out and Mark obliged by shaking hands. However, this time Kevin did not let his hand go, and instead leant forward and kissed him lightly on the lips. Mark had not expected the embrace, and stumbled backwards a step.

"What was that for?" he asked, touching his fingers to his lips.

“No idea. Just felt like the right thing to do.” Kevin shrugged, completely unfazed by his random act, a tender smile forming on his face. "So are you going to invite me back for coffee, or what?”

Mark faltered. He could not believe how nervous he had suddenly become. Having a drink with Kevin had been nice, but he had expected nothing more.

“Okay, sure. If you want.”

“I do,” said Kevin, beaming. Right then his mobile phone began to ring from somewhere inside his coat. "Sorry, let me get this."

Once Kevin had located the phone, he scanned the display and then walked several paces away before taking the call.

Mark turned, walked to the roadside and waited. Strange thoughts clustered for attention. Old feelings of attraction had been stirred, ones he had locked away and learnt to protect against. Part of him welcomed the attention but another, the cynic, warned of caution. Why had Kevin called him Hans Solo? Only one other person had ever done that. After a few minutes he peered over, and found Kevin staring directly at him while talking into the telephone. At that moment, Kevin turned away and started laughing harshly, a sound he recognised from Full Circle earlier that evening.

A shudder went through him, in part from the chill air but mainly from the brutal sound. To clear his head and lungs, he gulped a deep frozen breath, which brought his thoughts back into focus.

Nothing had happened, he told himself, and if he didn't want it to, nothing would. But, more importantly, what did he have to lose? As he stood staring out into the traffic, a hand touched him gently on the forearm.

"Ready?" came Kevin’s voice.

When Mark turned around to face Kevin, he noticed his brow had furrowed.

"Not having second thoughts, are you?”

"I'm not sure this is such a good idea, Kevin.”

"Of course it is," said Kevin, his concern softening. “Promise I won't stay long. Just a quick coffee. And I might need to use your 'loo."

Mark stared into the handsome face and finally succumbed. On the meander back to his apartment they chatted amiably again, and Mark found himself pleased with his decision. At one point, Kevin's phone beeped a message, which he glanced at quickly, grimaced, and then deleted.

Inside his toasty second floor flat, Mark switched on the lights in the hallway and living room, and then told Kevin to make himself at home. Never before had he felt nervous is his own apartment, but apprehension breezed through his at having another person moving through his space. If anything, he was used to having a larger number of people and recalled the last time he had entertained, a dinner party at Easter, with ten colleagues in his team seated around his dining table or spread out in his living room. To distract himself, he went to the kitchen to switch on the kettle before joining Kevin.

In the living room, Kevin had already made himself comfortable, hanging his coat over the back of a dining room chair and lounging on the sofa.

"Nice place," said Kevin. In contrast to Mark's anxiousness, he appeared entirely relaxed. He stretched his legs out in front of him, crossed at the ankle, and placed his arms along the back of the sofa.

"Tea or coffee?” asked Mark.

“Coffee. Milk, three sugars. Where's your toilet?"

"Down the hall. On the right.”

Mark watched as Kevin bounced down the hall and disappeared into the bathroom. He stood there a moment, his head resting on the doorframe. Unused to company, he had not even put on the television or music. While the kettle clicked off in the kitchen, he went over and switched the sound system to a late night radio station. Mellow sounds of jazz music filled the room, soft enough to allow conversation.

As he stood to head back to the kitchen, he heard the ping of a new message from the telephone in Kevin's coat pocket.

Stood frozen for a moment, his suspicions aroused, he wondered about the source of this late hour message. Something about the whole encounter had seemed unreal from the beginning. Making up his mind, he walked to the door and checked the hallway. The bathroom light remained on, the door closed, the constant sound of someone peeing into the bowl. He returned to the living room and placed his hand in the jacket pocket. When he brought out the phone, the display flashed a message from Brandon S:

‘Nice 1 kev make da sad 0ld fuck beg f0r 1t.'

With a deep sigh, he popped the phone straight back and went to the kitchen. In the process of stirring milk into a mug of coffee, he heard the bathroom door click open.

"Need a hand?" said a voice from the doorway a moment later.

"No. All sorted," said Mark, without turning. "Go and sit. I'll be there in a moment."

When he returned to the living room carrying two mugs of coffee, Kevin stood by his sound system, searching through his various shelves of CDs.

Mark placed the mugs onto the small smoked glass coffee table in front of the sofa, then sat down on the easy chair at the far end.

"Thanks," said Kevin, scouring through . "I can't believe your collection. Talk about eclectic. Thought I had a pretty good knowledge of music but I haven't heard of most of these."

"Misspent youth. Some have never been played. At some stage, I need to get around to weeding them out."

Kevin stopped with a hissed ‘yes’ and lifted a cover above his head.

“Kylie. Every gay man’s go to. Favourite song?”

Mark turned to see he had plucked out his original copy.

“No sure I have one.”

“Confide In Me. Has to be. ”

Once again a ripple passed through Mark as he stared at the back of the man in his flat. Sadness filled him at the same time, and he shook the feeling away.

“If you’re really tossing them away, I’ll take any you don't want.”

Finished scanning, Kevin threw himself back down on the sofa and leaning forward to grab his coffee mug.

"Let me know if you need more milk.”

Mark watched him blow on the surface of the mug and take a tentative sip.

“Perfect,” said Kevin, putting the mug down. He threw his right arm across the back of the sofa and grinned at Mark. "Why don't you come and sit over here?"

"In a minute. By the way, I think someone's trying to get hold of you. I heard your phone beep while you were in the toilet."

Mark watched closely as Kevin stood and went to his jacket. When he pulled out the phone, he checked the display briefly before pressing his thumb to delete the message.

"Everything okay?" asked Mark, observing his reaction.

"Yes. Nothing important.”

"Popular tonight.”

"Not really. Just nonsense," said Kevin, turning on his smile again. This time he came over to sit on the right armrest of Mark's chair, placing his arm along the back. "So what do you want to do?"

"How do you mean?"

"You didn't invite me back just to drink coffee, did you?"

"I suppose not.”

"So? What are you into?"

"Let's see," said Mark, leaning forward and putting his coffee mug down on the table. "You like the whole truth or dare thing, don't you?"

"Sorry?"

“Truth or dare. You like the game?”

“I—I suppose so.”

“Okay, so I dare you to strip for me," said Mark, pulling his wallet from his pocket and producing a pair of fifty-pound notes. "A hundred pounds says you won't."

"Are you serious? Is this still about earlier?" A pained expression transformed Kevin’s face. Unsure, he pulled his arm away from the back of the chair and leant forward to register Mark's expression. "I thought you'd accepted my apology."

"I have. But you asked me what I'm into," said Mark, shrugging, measured and calm, waving the banknotes in the air. "And I told you."

"I don't want your money," said Kevin, annoyed for a second. He stood and stared in disbelief down at Mark. "You really want me to do this?"

"No. Not want," he replied, turning up the volume of seductive tune on the radio with a remote control. "I dare you to do this."

Kevin's wounded expression seemed almost genuine as he stood still for a moment, before beginning to unbutton his shirt. As he reached the third button, Mark held up a hand to stop him.

"I said strip. Not undress. Put some effort into it, for fuck's sake."

"I'm really not comfortable with this," said Kevin, but carried on when Mark remained silent. By the time he had fumbled the cuffs while removing his shirt, caught his ear while pulling off his undershirt, and tripped backwards while beginning to prise off a shoe, Mark could not bear to watch his misery any longer. A sudden wave of remorse filled him.

"Stop," he shouted, as Kevin's trousers dropped to his feet. Kevin did as asked and folded his arms across his bare chest. "Now get dressed and go home."

"What's going on?"

"This sad old fuck wants to go to bed, Yes, I read that text message from your delightful friend. Fool as I am, I thought you were better than that. I misjudged you. Get out."

"You looked at my messages?" said Kevin, suddenly angry, pulling up his trousers and then swiping his shirt from the floor.

"Don't you dare start lecturing me on privacy. When you and your voyeur friends have no respect whatsoever for mine. Tell me, were you supposed to snap a phone picture or video of me sucking you off to prove to that little shithead that you'd made me—what were his words now—beg for it?"

"No! That's not the reason I came home with you. I'm here because I like you."

"You expect me to believe that now? So what happened? Brandon sent his message to the wrong buddy? There's another sad old fuck out there?"

"Stop saying that.” Kevin sighed deeply and finally brought his voice under control. When he spoke again, he sounded defeated. "Okay, you're right. Brandon sent me the message. That was also him on the phone earlier. You don't know him. When he bears a grudge he won't let go until he gets his revenge. I've seen him at work. And you made him look a prize prick in the bar tonight. Everyone laughed. Yes, I told him I'd finish the dare for him. But I did that to save you any more grief. And for selfish reasons. As usual I've messed everything up."

Mark listened, angry and confused, still trying to bring his temper under control. After the many deceptions of the night, he didn't know whether to believe him.

"Look, Mark. Cards on the table. I’ve always warmed to older guys—and one in particular. And it's not about security or money—I do very well, thanks—it just happens to be what I like. I feel I have more in common with them than with men my own age. Older men I've known talk far more sense, are more emotionally stable, don't take themselves too seriously, or turn relationships into a competition. And let me tell you, I have fantasised about you for the past five months, two weeks and four days."

"You've done what?" said Mark, suddenly wide-awake.

"I told you I'd seen you on the bus once or twice," said Kevin, with a deep sigh, fumbling to do up a button on his shirt. "Well that's not strictly true. It's more like forty times. I've sat behind you, next to you, even skipped buses so that I could get to see you. There have been times I've watched you almost miss your stop because your head's been glued to your tablet computer. On a couple of occasions I've even rung the bell for you, because you'd forgotten. Last month on the way home I even got up and nudged you awake because you'd nodded off. In all that time you've never once noticed me, and I thought it was because you had a wife and kids tucked away somewhere."

"I don't remember you," said Mark, his earlier anger dissolving into bewilderment. However, small things came back to him. Someone had bumped into him and woken him up recently just before his stop, as he returned from a Wednesday night out. "Have you been stalking me?"

"Let's just say I've been looking out for you.”

"Look, I'm flattered," said Mark, his thoughts in a whirl. "But—"

"If I show you something, don't freak out.”

Kevin pulled his phone from his jacket, flicked his forefinger along the display and then turned the main screen to Mark's face.

"What am I looking for?" asked Mark. A couple of familiar icons were all he could make out.

"The background wallpaper.”

When he refocused, he saw that the enlarged face in the photograph was his own, in a queue at the bus stop one morning, smirking up into the camera.

"You can't imagine how I felt when I saw you tonight," said Kevin, pocketing the phone in his jacket. "In a gay bar, of all places. I've never been there before, it's not really my kind of scene. Brandon goes all the time. He's pestered me for ages to join them, but his friends are not my kind of people. But I finally agreed to go tonight. And then, when I saw you sitting there on your own, I thought all my Christmases had come at once. Problem is I didn't know how to get away to talk to you. So when you hurried out, I pounced on the idea of the swap with Brandon. When I followed you, I just hoped and prayed you'd decided to get our bus back."

"Our bus?" said Mark, with a smirk.

"And after eventually getting up the courage to talk to you, I've had the best evening in as long as I can remember. Apart from the last part, which, to be honest, kind of spooked me."

"My turn to apologise. But, as you can probably tell, I don't like people making a fool of me.”

"I understand. I just didn't know how to explain to you. Thought you might freak out."

"Think I just did.”

"Look," said Kevin, tucking in his shirt. "Maybe I should go and let you—"

"No.” Mark stood quickly then, walked across the room and stopped in front of Kevin, who appeared hesitant but stood his ground. Mark reached for his right hand and placed both of his around Kevin's. "This is a lot to take in. But I'd like you to stay, if you want to."

At first Kevin frowned down at their joined hands but as his gaze drew level a broad smile transformed his handsome face.

“This is going to sound weird, but I feel as though I’ve known you all my life—”

Before Kevin could finish, a wave of relief and affection overtook Mark. He stepped forward, cupped his hands around Kevin’s face and pressed a kiss to his lips. Kevin returned the embrace with a passion that outmatched his own. After a few minutes, Kevin pulled away and placed the side of his face against Mark's, his chin resting on Mark's right shoulder.

"Not the best way to start a relationship," said Kevin, a breathless whisper in Mark's ear. Mark pulled away and staring at him.

"Is that what this is?"

"I bloody well hope so," said Kevin, smiling into Mark's eyes. "I've waited long enough."

In the midst of another embrace, Kevin's phone pinged again. Kevin sighed with irritation and turned towards his jacket. Stepping away, he reached over and pulled out the phone.

"Sorry about this.”

"What do we need to do? To get him off your back?"

Kevin considered this for a couple of moments before smiling and place the phone on the table in front of Mark.

"Take my phone. I’ll wait here. Go to your bedroom and get changed. Take a photo of your discarded clothes. I'll send it to him and that should do the trick."

Pleased with himself, Kevin sat down and relaxed again, leaning forward to pick up his coffee mug. Mark remained standing there for a moment before starting to remove his tie, slowly pulling the thin silk strip from his neck and tossing it over his shoulder. Stepping unhurriedly backwards, one step at a time, he began to unbutton his shirt in time with the tune on the radio, while simultaneously kicking off his shoes. Kevin stared mesmerised and in complete confusion.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Showing you how it's done," said Mark, grinning and ripping open his shirt superman-style before taking another step backwards and colliding painfully with the doorframe. When they had both finally stopped laughing, Mark looked up and said.

“You coming or not?"

Kevin’s laugh melted away, his eyes turning dark with desire. Thumping down his mug, he jumped up and chased Mark along the corridor and into the bedroom.

After hastily snapping a phone shot of both sets of clothes on the floor, Kevin fired the message off before throwing himself at Mark, a wild animal released from his cage. At one point, Mark had to slow him down, take the condom packet from his shaking hands and tell him to take a few steadying breaths. Mark put Kevin’s enthusiasm down to the boundless energy of youth, but something else drove him, maybe the anticipated fantasy-come-true with someone he had desired for so long: Mark. The mere thought removed all inhibitions in Mark, allowed him to taste and feel and explore freely. Ramped up with arousal, Kevin orgasmed quickly like a teenager, but also recovered quickly. Wasting no time, he snapped on another condom, and came a second time not long after Mark, as his face contorted in ecstasy over Mark’s, a tear dropped down onto the older man’s cheek.

“I haven’t done this in years,” said Mark, later, as they lay in bed together. Kevin rested his head on Mark's chest, probably listening to his heart racing still after the night's exertions.

“You don’t seem out of practice to me.”

When Mark laughed Kevin looked up and grinned at him.

“Thank you for the compliment. But I meant I don’t jump into bed with someone I’ve just met. Not my style.”

“Relax, you haven’t. We’ve met lots of times before.”

Mark closed his eyes and thought about that. Such a strange evening but in a good way. Having Kevin wrapped around him felt like the most natural thing in the world. And he wanted Kevin to stay but felt nervous about asking him.

"Can I stay the night?" asked Kevin, reading this mind.

“I’d really like that.” Mark kissed the top of his head. Somewhat out of practice, he had let Kevin take charge during sex, which seemed to work better for both of them. "We're in a relationship, remember? Out of interest—and not that it really matters—how old are you?“

“Funny you should ask. I’m twenty-four tomorrow.”

“Your birthday’s tomorrow?”

“Yep.”

While Mark’s mind processed the significance of this, Kevin must have interpreted his comment as something else.

“I don’t care about our age difference either, if that’s what you’re worrying about.”

Mark smiled broadly and looked sidelong at him.

“Mitch once lectured me about the laws of gay dating, saying an older men should never go out with anyone younger than half their own age, plus five. Which means I shouldn’t be dating anyone younger than twenty-four.”

“Even though I make the grade, that’s a stupid law. Look at us. We fit perfectly together.”

Mark tightened his arms around Kevin. He couldn’t agree more and let out a contented sigh. After a short pause, Kevin spoke, a little caution in his voice.

“Can I ask you a question? You don’t need to answer, if you don’t want to.”

“Go on.”

“Why did you get all funny when I called you Han Solo?”

Ignoring an initial reaction to deflect, a few moments passed before Mark found the courage to reply. Enough, he told himself, taking a deep breath. Time he told somebody other than his therapist the truth.

“Back in 1995, on this very day, my best friend, Brad—my best friend who had become my lover—died in a car crash. Both of us were only sixteen. His nickname for me was Solo.”

Kevin stayed silent, listening carefully while Mark told his story,

“The funny thing is there’s something about you that reminds me of him. His favourite Kylie song was Confide in Me, he took his coffee with milk and three sugars. He danced like someone having an epileptic fit without any sense of rhythm—”

“Hey! I’ve got rhythm. It’s just more—internalised.”

Mark laughed. That was another thing they had in common. Kevin knew how to make him laugh, too.

“So I was born the day after he died,” said Kevin, suddenly thoughtful.

“Don’t worry. I bet there are thousands of men who share the same traits. There’s just something about you that seems—uh—warm and familiar. Am I sounding like a dork now?”

“Not at all. Hey, what are you doing tomorrow?” asked Kevin. “I’m not working. Birthday leave.”

For the first time, Mark realised that since Kevin had sent the photo, his phone had fallen silent.

“I’m not working either. But I’ve nothing planned," said Mark. “Apart from making you breakfast. You want to spent the day together?”

“I would love that more than anything. Was supposed to be meeting Brandon and his mates back at Full Circle tomorrow night but…” Kevin stopped, his mind working. “Actually, can you do me a favour?Can you come to Full Circle tomorrow—on your own, in your usual seat—for around six-thirty?”

Mark peered down at Kevin, concern in his eyes.

"What for?"

"Payback," said Kevin, a grin transforming his face.

As promised, Mark made breakfast and then they spent the day in London, Mark taking Kevin for a birthday lunch at one of his favourite restaurants in the Oxo Tower overlooking the Thames. Kevin turned out to be such easy company as he chatted on about his life and his dreams for the future. At one point, as they strolled down towards the concrete Southbank buildings, Kevin pulled Mark into a small recess and kissed him deeply.

“What was that for?”

“I’ve been wanting to do that since lunch. To say thank you for the best birthday ever.”

“It’s not over yet. Fancy a ride on the London Eye?”

At around four, they agreed that Kevin would head back to his apartment to change before meeting up with Mark that night. Mark felt a pang of loss when he waved him off.

At exactly six-thirty, Mark descended the stairs into the depths of Full Circle—a far busier, livelier crowd than the night before—and took the one empty stool at the counter. At the other end of the bar, serving customers, Mel gave him a quizzical look before lifting a bottle of Asahi off the cold shelf and holding it up for Mark’s approval. Mark grinned and nodded. At the same time, he realised that behind the three men gathered at the bar getting a round of drinks, stood Kevin and his friends. He could hear the voice of the arrogant blond, Brandon.

“Hardly proof though, is it?”

“Fuck off, Bran,” came Kevin’s. “What more do you want? Used condoms?”

“Seriously, though? You really went through with it?" came one of the voices.

"Twice," said Kevin, pride in his voice.

"Bollocks," came Brandon’s voice.

"Bloody good, too.”

"That’s ‘cause the oldies are always grateful," came a different voice.

“Like you would know,“ said Brandon.

Right at that moment, the three men in front of Mark moved away, leaving Mark in clear sight of Kevin’s group. Sensing this happening, Mark remained facing front. In the mirror, he saw that Brandon had noticed him first, an ugly sneer appearing on his face.

“Well, well. Look who’s here,” he said to Kevin. “Maybe we should hear it from the horse’s mouth.”

For the second night running, Mark sensed the blond boy sidle up next to him. This time, however, Mark swung around in his stool and gave him his full attention.

“My colleague over here says he went home with you last night.”

“Did he?”

“And he said you two shagged. Is that true?”

“No,” said Mark, bluntly.

“Ha! Knew it,” said Brandon, turning to Kevin. “Hand back the dosh.”

“We didn’t shag,” said Mark, to the back of Brandon’s head. “We made love. There’s a difference.”

Mark noticed most of the throng either glaring or frowning at Kevin, who simply smiled at Mark.

“And I’m hoping,” added Mark. “That if I play my cards right, we might be doing the same again tonight.”

“You must be fucking kidding. It was just a dare,” said Brandon, turning back to him. “He’s not interested in—”

“Don’t answer for me, Bran,” said Kevin, coming forward, pushing past Brandon and standing before Mark. Reaching down, he put a hand on either of Mark’s knees and then pulled them apart. Another step forward, he crushed their body’s together and placed his arms around Mark’s neck.

“Any chance I can home with you again tonight, Mr Falconer?”

Mark winced and hissed in a breath. “Now you are making me feel old. Can we stick with Solo?”

“Really? I thought—”

“No, it sounds good coming from you. Any chance of a kiss, Chewie?”

“Chewie, eh?” said Kevin, chuckling.

He didn’t hesitate but leant in and kissed passionately. No doubt could be left in the minds of those gathered and, deepening the kiss, Mark waited for a couple of them to groan with disgust, surprised slightly when nothing came. When he finally pulled away and saw the look of complete contentment in Kevin’s eyes, his heart filled. Raising his head, he scanned the gathered faces, all looking at them.

“Wow, that was fucking hot,” said one of the men.

“Shut up, Skunk,” said Brandon. “So that’s it, Kev. You’re into daddies? Why didn’t you say?”

“Because I’m not,” said Kevin, staying crushed up against Mark, but twisting his head around. “But I am completely and utterly into Mark. Totally in over my head and loving every minute of it.”

When he turned back to Mark, he spoke so only they could hear.

“When I got home, I made a call to work and packed an overnight bag. I’m not back to work until Monday. Hope I’m not being presumptuous but I wondered if I could stop over again.”

“As if you even need to ask.” Mark leant in and kissed him again, but after a second Kevin pulled away and reached into his jacket pocket.

“Before I forget” he said, pulling out a bundle of fifty pound notes. “Five hundred pounds. I think this belongs to you.”

“Keep it. I’ve got what I want.”

“I don’t want the money either. Never did. I only wanted you.”

“Then I’ve got a great idea.”

Just after eight o’clock, they bid their farewells to the group. Mark had chatted amiably with a couple of them, had even managed a short, if taut, conversation with Brandon. But as Full Circle became increasingly loud and raucous they decided to go, leaving behind a happily smiling Mel.

He held a bundle of notes in one hand and gave them the thumbs up sign with the other.