Midnight Whispers
QAF Brian and Justin Fanfiction

 


 


 


CHAPTER TWELVE


 


DAPHNE


 


- So what’s the name of this guy?


 


- Boot.


 


- Boot?  What the fuck kind of name is Boot?


 


- It’s a nickname, Daph.


 


- And how is he a friend of yours?  Justin, he’d better not be some ex-trick …”


 


-  No, of course not.   Boot’s straight. He’s a doorman at nightclub I go to.  I’ve told him all about you.  He’s an amazing guy … you’ll love him.


 


- You’re not setting me up on a blind date, are you?


 


He’d laughed.   


 


- No, he’s in London for his sister’s birthday.  When I told him you were at Guy’s, he said he’d like to meet you.  So I gave him your cell number and told him to give you a call.


 


I’d sighed.


 


- Well, you’d better give me a description, so I know who to look out for.


 


- Don’t worry, Daph, you’ll know Boot when you see him.  Trust me.


 


 


**************************************************************


 


 


 


That conversation had been a couple of weeks ago, and is the reason why I’m sitting in this bar (oops!  I mean pub) on a Saturday afternoon waiting for some guy named Boot who I’ve never met before. 


 


I love London pubs.  A lot of them have been taken over by the big breweries, and have become generically cloned with their wide screen TV, endless boring soccer matches and karaoke nights, but there are lots that still have their own character.  The Black Horse is my local (as they say round here) and is Victorian.  It has a real fireplace with a real fire burning in it, bare wood floors, a polished mahogany bar.  All the beer pulls are original, and the walls are covered in these really cool black and white photos of the area dating from the nineteenth century.  Justin would love it.  There’s even a guy on the street outside selling hot chestnuts!  I mean, Dickensian or what!


 


Boot had called me yesterday evening, and that had been the first shock.  I’d assumed that Justin’s friend was an American coming to visit London and I’d that I’d be someone familiar to talk to in a strange city.  Duh!  The guy is a Brit, from London, as I realised once he started talking.  He seemed to know Southwark quite well – at least, he knew how to find The Black Horse – and said he’d like to meet me for a drink.


 


So here I am, toasting my knees by the fire, nursing my lager – I haven’t developed a taste for warm beer yet - and trying not to look too much as though I’ve been stood up.  British guys (contrary to everything I’ve been told about them) aren’t slow to hit on a girl if she looks like she’s on her own.


 


I’m eyeing every man who comes in alone, trying to spot my visitor.  I mean, he’s got to be pretty big if he’s a doorman, right?  I wonder if he’s blond or brunette.  Ooh, it could be that one … he’s certainly big enough … and really hot … no, rats, he’s gone over to that group by the bar … pity.


 


Then the door opens and this guy comes in who’s, like, huge.  He’s so fucking tall that he has to duck his head a little so as not to bang it on the frame.  And he’s not skinny like so many really tall guys are; he’s built like a fucking wrestler.


 


He stands looking around for a second and then his eye lights on me in my corner.


 


Oh no.  Please God, no.


 


He’s not pretty.  He’s got a nose that looks like it’s been broken more than once, a heavy jaw, deep-set eyes.  His head’s close-cropped at the sides, balding on top.  I’d put him in his fifties.


 


And oh, God, he’s coming over.


 


“Daphne?  Pleased to meet you, love.  I’m Boot.”  And he holds out a hand that looks the size of a gorilla’s.


 


I’m so going to kill fucking Justin Taylor when I get my hands on him!


 


***********************************************************


 


                    


      


Boot is a surprise in more ways than one.  I mean, once you get over the way the guy looks he’s actually very nice; he’d shaken my hand gently and carefully and bought me another lager while he had orange juice … which is all he seems to drink.  I wonder if he’s a recovering alcoholic?  And he’s very polite, and obviously intelligent and articulate in his own way.  Which kind of pisses me off that I’d thought in those terms … just because a guy’s big and ugly, doesn’t make him an asshole, right? 


 


We start off making small talk because I don’t know what else to say.


 


“Have you been in the States long, Boot?”


 


“Ten years or so.”


 


“But your family’s still here?  Why did you leave?”


 


He shrugs, and his grey eyes are suddenly veiled.  “London changed,” he says quietly.  “England changed.  No jobs for working men, but Yuppies were making fortunes and bragging about it.  You had Yardies coming over from Jamaica and starting turf wars over drugs; gangs; kids sniffing glue and pulling knives on each other in the streets.  The Old Bill couldn’t stop it then; they still can’t.  So when my old man dropped dead with a heart attack in ’93, there was enough insurance money to get me mum a nice little cottage in Kent.  Nice village, nice neighbours.  I didn’t have to watch out for her anymore.   And I was sick of being on the dole.  So I took all me savings and got on a plane for the first time in me life, and I’ve never looked back.  I’ve worked all over, I’m not proud.  I’ve worked in construction, I’ve hauled trucks; I’ve even worked on a ranch, if you can believe that.  Right now I’m a doorman; glorified bleedin’ bouncer, really.  Pardon my language.”  He grins.


 


I laugh, too.  It’s so cute that he thinks I’d be offended!  “That’s how you met Justin, right?”


 


He nods, and smiles.  “Yeah.  One night last October I’m on the door at Tramps and I suddenly hear this bloke yelling.  So I walk over to find out what’s going on, and I see this little blond kid giving these three drunks all kinds of shit.  Turns out one of them had pissed on a tramp sleeping in a shop doorway.  So I knock their heads together and send them on their way, and then I says to this kid, You ought to pick on people your own size, sunshine.  You’re going to get your head kicked in one of these days.  He sort of blinks, and then he straightens up and says, Maybe something’s been lost in translation, because I don’t remember asking you for help.  And don’t call me sunshine.”   He chuckles and shakes his head.  “Made me laugh.  I liked his bottle.   He reminded me of someone.”  Suddenly he looks sad and distant again.


 


I watch him gazing into his glass for a moment, until he sits up and looks back at me.  “So you and Justin have been mates for a long time, right?”


 


I nod.  “Since we started school.  Neither of us were exactly popular with the other kids … him, because they always seemed to sense he was different, and me, well.  Not many black kids went to St. James Academy.  We just … formed an alliance, I guess.  A mutual appreciation society.”


 


He nods, seemingly thinking.  Then he says, “What about this bloke he was living with in Pittsburgh?  The one he’s besotted with.  They were supposed to be getting married, weren’t they?  What went wrong?”


 


I don’t get it.  I know Justin can charm just about anybody if he puts his mind to it, so it’s not really surprising Boot likes him, but this is more than the casual conversation he’s trying for.   Justin says the guy’s straight, and I have no reason to doubt it, but he’s trying to pump me for some reason … and I’d really like to know what it is.  “Um, usually I leave talking about Justin’s private business to Justin.  Unless I’m sure he’d want me to answer.”


 


He gives me a quick look, and then suddenly laughs.  “Yeah, well, he said you were a good mate.”  He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table.  “Right, Daph.  I’ll come clean with you.  I’m worried about the kid.  When I first met him, he was okay.  I mean, he wasn’t happy living in New York; he missed his friends and his boyfriend and all, but he kept his pecker up.  He didn’t expect to be there long.  And then one night a couple of months ago he turns up and it’s like someone’s broken his little heart.”


 


Well, I can give him the reason for that.  “That would be when Brian split up with him.  Justin said he went home and found some other guy living there.”


 


Boot stares at me.   “Some other guy?”


 


“Well, Brian dumped him over the phone.  Which totally isn’t surprising because Brian isn’t good at communication.  So Justin went racing home to find out what was going on, and that was when he walked in on the new guy.”


 


“Hang on a minute.  You’re telling me this prat let Justin think everything was pukka for months and then just dropped him like that?  Over the bloody phone?”  I nod and his face hardens.  “I think I’d like to meet this bloke.   Bloody hell.  No wonder the kid was so upset.”


 


I can’t help but laugh.  “Oh, he’s been a lot worse, believe me!  I mean, he was pretty hurt when it happened, but Justin’s used to Brian’s bullshit.  They’ve been on and off ever since they first got together.  And it’s not like they’ve ever been monogamous.  I speak to Justin at least once a week; he’s bounced back, same as usual.  He and Brian will go their own ways for a while, until the morning they wake up and remember they can’t live without each other.  And then Brian will turn up and sweep Justin off his feet with some grand gesture and everything will be forgiven.  Until the next time.”


 


Boot shakes his head.  “Look, I don’t mean to imply that I know him anywhere near as well as you do.  But I’m there and you’re not; and I don’t care what he tells you, he’s messing up.  The kid he’s living with is a tosser.  He’s got more money than sense.  Goes around with all this makeup on his face, dresses in black like a bloody vampire or something.  And now Justin’s doing the same thing … he’s even dyed his hair black!  I bet he didn’t tell you that, did he?  I couldn’t believe it.  I said to him, you’re having a laugh, sunshine.  And that’s what he did; laughed.  But not the way he used to."


 


I sit goggling, trying to imagine Justin with black hair.  And no, he hadn’t told me.


 


“But if it was only that I wouldn’t worry,” Boot says.  “I mean, your bloke dumps you, you go and change your hair and your look and take up with a younger model.  That’s only natural.”  He leans forward and lowers his voice.  “But this Dylan kid, he’s into coke.  He’s got a bad habit.  And he’s got Justin doing it, too.”


 


I shake my head emphatically.  “No.  Justin wouldn’t do that.  He’s not stupid!  And if there’s one thing Brian did teach him, it’s that you don’t touch addictive drugs.”


 


“Then it’s a lesson he’s forgotten,” Boot says grimly.  “Daphne, I spend most nights watching drunks, pot heads, and tripping kids.  I know how they look, how they talk and how they act.  Justin’s doing more coke than is good for him.  And I like him too much to see him go down the pan like that.”


 


“I don’t know what to say.”  My God, have I really missed this?  I mean, I know I’ve been wrapped up in exams and living in London and everything, but I’m not that easy to fool, am I?  I honestly haven’t picked up on anything off in my recent conversations with Justin … but then, thinking about it, maybe that’s partly because he rarely gets a word in edgeways,


 


“Justin’s a chatty little bugger,” Boot continues, “and he’s told me a lot.  I know he’s an artist, and I know he’s bloody good because I’ve seen his work.   I know about his family and the way his old man disowned him; I know about you.  I know that this Brian bloke was his first, and that he tried to give Justin the cold shoulder afterwards because he didn’t believe in relationships.  I thought he sounded like a dick-head right then.  I know Justin nearly got killed at his Prom and I know how Brian helped him use his hand again.  I know they had a pretty colourful relationship.  I know about the violin player.  I know about Rage and how Justin went to Hollywood to make a film about it. I know about that club of Brian’s getting bombed, and how he asked Justin to marry him and then packed him off to New York to make his fame and fortune.  I know Justin always meant to go home and pick up where he’d left off; but I didn’t know what happened to change his plans, and to change Justin, because after he came back from Pittsburgh he stopped talking to me about what was going on with him.  Probably because I didn’t bother to hide what I thought about his new life-style.   But there wasn’t anybody I could ask because I didn’t know any of his old mates.  Until I told him I was coming back to The Smoke, and he said you were studying at Guy’s, and Bob’s your uncle!  Here we are.”


 


“I feel like a total idiot!”  I do, and not only because Boot has just shown me in no uncertain terms that he’s someone Justin both likes and trusts.  But I’m the one who witnessed that story, and if Justin has the Brian Kinney Handbook, then I have the one for Justin Taylor!   “I should have known Justin was more upset than he was letting on!  Like, I haven’t seen him before breaking his heart over Brian Kinney!  And of course he’s not going to worry me with it, not when all I can do is tell him how incredible it is over here, and about the latest hot British guys I’ve dated, and how amazing Guy’s is!”  


 


He reaches over and pats my hand, his eyes concerned.  “Don’t take on, there’s a love.  Justin knows what a good mate you are.  He’s proud as punch of you, you know that?   That’s why he was so chuffed when I said I’d like to meet you.  So I could see what a great … what was it?  Oh yeah.  What a great fag-hag you were.  Didn’t sound very complimentary, but I expect he meant well.”


 


I can’t help but laugh, and he looks relieved.


 


“What can I do, Boot?  We’ve always been there for each other … he needs me and I’m like a million miles away!”


 


“Daphne, what you are going to do is concentrate on your studies and pass your exams.”


 


“While my best friend is turning into a junkie?  That’ll be easy!”


 


“Well, there’s not much else you can do, is there, love?” he says kindly. 


 


“I can call him and kick his stupid ass for him!” 


 


“You’re having a laugh, aren’t you?   That’ll just let on that I’ve told you things he didn’t want you to know.  And that’s not going to make it any easier to get him to listen to me, is it?”


 


No.  He’s right.  Justin will feel betrayed, and he’ll be furious and pitch a fit and be even more stubborn and closed up than usual.  He and Brian are so alike in many ways.  “Then what?” I sigh.  “I can’t make out like I don’t know!”


 


“Just do what you always do; talk to him.   Make him laugh.  I’m flying back next weekend, so I’ll be there to keep an eye on him.  And cross me heart I won’t let him turn into a junkie.  Even if I have to kick his stupid arse!  Now I know what’s wrong, I’ll sort it.  Don’t you worry.”


 


And somehow I believe him.  He’s so solid and certain and calm, and I feel such a schmuck for ever having been scared of him.


 


Boot gets to his feet.  “Well, I have to be going.  My sister’s expecting me for dinner, and she’ll give me hell if I’m late.”  He towers over me uncertainly.  “I’m glad to have met you, Daphne, even if I didn’t bring good news.”  He smiles, an oddly shy expression for such a big man.  “You’re a great girl.   I can tell Justin I’m well impressed with his fag-hag.”


 


“Boot … will you call me?  Let me know how he’s really doing?”


 


He laughs.  “Try stopping me.”  He picks up a beer mat and cocks an eyebrow at me.  “Got a pen?”


 


I dig one out of my purse and he scribbles quickly, then pushes the mat across the table to me.  “That’s my number.  You call me too, if you’re worried.”


 


I stand up and go to hug him.  We must look totally ridiculous because I hardly reach higher than his midriff, and he has to bend right down to kiss the top of my head.   But I don’t care what anyone thinks.   I’m so glad that Justin has this man for his friend.


 


 


 


TBC


 


 


 


 

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