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“Evening, stranger,” A honey-smooth voice approached my perch upon the steps of Number Nine Downing Street, “I’m absolutely gasping, care to lend a fag?”
“Not at all, dear boy.” I tapped a cigarette out of the pack and offered it to him, following with my zippo (a gift from my brother). “Sit down.”
“Don’t mind if I do, sir.” As he dropped himself onto the concrete steps, his hair fell and I had to restrain myself from reaching out and moving the fringe from his handsome face. Though a strong hand did it for me, only for it to stick up at odd angles. “After over twenty years on this planet, you’d think I would know how to fix my hair for a humid night.”
“Practise makes perfect.” I smoothed back my own well-kept locks. “What brings you around Downing Street? It doesn’t seem to be quite your style. This place is bogged down and dreary, you’re more of the bright kind. Soho maybe?”
He tapped the end of his nose before taking a greedy drag of the cigarette, the amber glow illuminating the soft curves of his face. His ice-blue eyes absorbed the colour and created a bourbon hue that I could drink all night. Those eyes, Lor. “Just thought I’d take a little walk around London, get lost.”
“A pretty thing like you get lost in London?” I mused, examining the stick of nicotine between my long, pale fingers. “Dangerous business, that.” Warm tan skin lay beneath the designer clothes on his body, the faintest traces of a camisole tan-line was visible from his exposed shoulder. The jumper he wore did well on hiding his thin, fit frame. I wanted to trace my lips along his clavicle, he looked absolutely delicious tonight. “Want to pop inside?”
“No, well… not yet at least.” He blew a gentle puff of smoke from his mouth, small whisps curled around his lips. “Too bad we’re in the city.”
“It’s a bit noisy, isn’t it?” Expansive fields in Italy came to mind. Acres upon acres of wheat and barley, vineyards as long as the eye could see, pastures with cattle and goats. A quiet farmhouse with a little garden that contained more flowers than I could name, the soft touches of a lover upon my shoulders and waist.
“Can’t see the stars here.”
We looked up in tandem, examining the eerie orange-purple sky above our heads. An aeroplane passed above, the London equivalent of a shooting star. “Shame.”
“The greatest shame of man.” I snapped my head to look at the gorgeous boy who sat on the step below me, the philosophical notion giving me quite the start. “Snuffing out the stars, only to replace them with lamps. It’s bullshit, in my humble opinion.” Sarcasm, we spoke it well.
I nodded, contemplating my cigarette once more. The glow was creeping dangerously close to my fingers, the threat of a burn warmed my skin, so I suffocated the ash on the step. “You really shouldn’t be having these things, they’ll kill you.”
“Speak for yourself darlin’.” Contempt seeped into his voice, his charming London drawl flattened. “I’m a bloody model,” he grimaced, tilting his head to look at me from the corner of his eye, “I’ll live forever on the covers of magazines and fashion brands.”
“Charlie-”
“Don’t, Lucifer…” He used his smoking hand to rub at his hair, ruffling it once again. I couldn’t help but store the perfect silhouette of his wild locks in my mind, it would be a lovely addition to my muse-inspired sketchbook.“I’m not in the mood.”
Ah, a day at the studio gone bad then. I licked my fingers and pinched his cigarette out, seeing as he wasn’t paying attention. And before he could protest, I offered another. He flicked the filter into a stagnant puddle a few feet away. “Just didn’t want you to get burned.”
“Too late for that.”
“What happened?”
Charlie leaned back, his head resting on the hard steps, and groaned. “It’s just…” He pinched his fingers together and rocked his hand back and forth, vigorously. “What’s the word?”
“I can’t interpret Italian hand shaking just yet, give it another year or so, lovely.” I playfully chided, earning a hearty laugh from him. “Frustrating?”
“Yes!” He quickly sat up, putting his hand on my leg for support, eyes wide.“Frustrating, annoying, and just shit .”
“Twice in one conversation, that’s a record.” I put my own bony hand over his, squeezing a little. “Tell me about it, amore.”
He breathed in another stifling suck of his fag, needing to hide a cough. “Have you ever… well…” Charlie searched for the words, furrowing his brows in concentration. “Have you ever done something, and then immediately get backhanded in the most humiliating, degrading way possible?”
I quirked my brow, tilting my head away. “A couple times.”
Charlie’s hand shook, ash falling on his cream-coloured jumper, and tears began to form in his eyes. “They fucking used me, Lucifer. I created the prompt, I pitched the ideas, I modelled and posed and did every single absurd thing they asked of me. And what did they do?” He took a shaky draw, blowing the smoke out in a broken laugh. “Not even a damn credit. Because I can’t have ‘ideas’, I’m just a pretty face for them to dress up and paint as they like.”
Now, as his partner, I could say I’m biassed towards his designs. Though when a professor at the Royal Academy of Arts says that he’s genuinely impressed and delighted at Charlie’s sketches and mockups? When Christopher Miracle wants to see more: that’s no laughing matter. Of course, his specialty may have been portrait and life painting, but his word has changed many faces of fashion. And for a ‘Miracle approved’ portfolio to be stolen and taken advantage of in this manner? Charlie’s portfolio? I smell a lawsuit and a glorious legal battle that my boy will win.
“Of course, I’m suing.” He smiled at me, those teary blue eyes sparkling with hope. “God, I love to sue people. It’s so fun to see those shit-eating grins turn sour.” Charlie leaned back again, looking up at the starless sky. “Of course I’ll have to find another brand, but that’s easy enough when everyone wants to sign me on. All I have to do is say I’m on the market and they’ll come flocking, like sheep.”
“I’ve got to stop letting you go to The Savoy on weekends,” I chuckled and ran my hand through his untamed curls, earning a small purr, “You sound like my brother.”
“He’s a smart man, Lucifer.” He put out the cigarette, only halfway through. “Nobody stabs Charlie Jackpot in the back without getting a taste of their own medicine.” He sat up, leaning his cheek on my thigh, using his hand to trace up into dangerous territory. “I think I’d like to go inside now, amore.”
I hummed, lifting his head up with a finger. “Care to enter Lucifer’s Domain?”
“Lead the way, sir.”
His lips tasted of smoke and wine, skin soft as a babe, his clothes fell away to reveal a canvas in which I’ve had the honour to paint and behold many a-time. There would surely be bruises, small and round, where his fingers dug into my biceps as I gave him the love I longed to give. I massaged away the stresses of the day, bringing him to ecstasy with every fibre of my being. I swallowed his keens like mead, aged with the sweetest of honeys. We settled in a lover’s embrace that I dared not to break, his breath panting in time with my heart.
“Il mio amore, per sempre.” Charlie muttered against my skin, resting his head upon my chest.
“Forever, indeed. My love.”