How did we end up like this? (pt. 2)

The shrill electronic beeping of my phone wakes me from the dreamless sleep that I fell into as soon as I got home. I turn over, pick up the phone and the ringing stops. I look and see that its 10am; I've only had 4 hours of sleep. Grabbing the glass by the side of my bed, I take a big gulp of water. I sit up, rub the sleep out of my eyes and head into the bathroom for a shower.

10 minutes later I'm standing in my room naked, choosing a T-shirt from the pile of unfolded laundry in the corner. My phone alerts me to a text message. I pull on my jeans and sit on the bed, flies still unbuttoned as I grab my phone and check the message.

I'm feeling like death. Come over?

I smile despite myself, and finish dressing. I type back: On my way. Breakfast?

Almost immediately: Hair of the dog.

Soon I'm standing in his kitchen, mixing up some bloody marys and stirring up some scrambled eggs. I've done this hundreds of times, always at his beck and call, playing the role of the caring friend, never expecting anything in return. This time however my heart is racing as I don't know what to expect from him after the events of last night.

He comes into the kitchen, freshly washed, in jeans and a plain white T-shirt. My heart skips a beat at the sight of him, even though he looks rough with bloodshot eyes. He comes up beside me and turns the heat under the pan of eggs off, grabs the tops of my arms and turns me towards him. He looks into my eyes for a while, searching, then envelops me in a big hug.

'Sorry I got so wasted, mate," he says to me, still hugging. I tentatively pat him on the back, remembering the feel of his lips and disappointed it was only a drunken kiss. I smell him: tobacco, fresh laundry, mint shower gel. He pushes me away, looks at me and smiles that smile again. 'Let's eat, I'm ravenous!' The silence is broken as he grabs plates off the draining board and grabs the toast from the toaster on the way. I pick up the pan, pop it onto a tray and load the bloody marys onto it and head into the other room. The TV turned on, we eat and watch the news. War, suffering, politics, a music channel, the banal shopping TV selling crap, a comedy from the early 90's. He points the remote at the TV, turns it off, and aims another remote at the hi-fi and some music comes on instead as plates are stacked back on to the tray.

'Man, I wish I could sing this beautifully,' he says, slouched on the sofa. Summertime is playing, a duet by Billie Holliday and Louis Armstrong. Its approaching winter outside, the leaves are falling as the wind shakes them from the branches. We discuss the previous night's performance, and the reaction of the crowds. He's still riding on the wave of euphoria and I smile at the passion in which he relives the performance. A couple of hours pass as we're just slumped there, chilling out with an eclectic array of music from his extensive library playing as a soundtrack to our banter.

Soon we decide that a walk would do us some good, and we decide to head for the pub to have a few pints by the old fireplace available, along with a few cigarettes. He heads into his room to get a jumper and a jacket. I casually loop my scarf on as he comes back. I turn to grab my jacket and suddenly feel him grabbing my waist and turning me back to face him.

'Hey, I was drunk last night,' he says to me, winking, still holding on to me. The straight man with the gay friend, the balance of power clearly in his favour as we're standing too close to each other for normal, friendly comfort. My heart is pounding.

'I... I know,' I stammer, unsure of what is going on.

'Friends?' He looks at me, that puppy-dog look.

'Sure,' I reply. I throw in a wink which I hope looks cheeky for good measure. He lets go of me.

We head out of the door.

(To be continued...)