The Great Grey

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Jesús overlooked Rafael’s true tenderness if but for a moment, if only because it sought to use up all excess energies he needed to smoke a single cigarette. Well, what had he expected? By the lull in their conversation he summerized without ceremony that Rafael yearned for Jesús to fuck Zelda, and then him, in some joyous play of passion — one that they had performed time and time again with women quite like Ms Rhodes who had spurred the imagination into practice. All in all, it should’ve been something like a routine fuck, one that Jesús could enjoy if only to fully satisfy the release needed in such a tangled knot of longing. If only it hadn’t been her, she who had bruised his ego and as such remained something of a splinter in his side.

Rolling the cigarette between his fingers, he stared off into the mid-distance, as if he could see past the walls of that establishment even if they were found in the privacy of a secluded dining room. When he released the truth into the world he suddenly felt very ashamed, as if the guilt that had stewed beneath had suddenly spilled over onto the table before him, for he had no right to be so pent up over such a woman! Nor had he any use for the envy clad in dismay that Rafael had indeed had her before he had ever touched her in such a way. When he had been her father’s secretary pulled tight by deadlines and the need to impress a superior, he had thought the catch almost to be too easy for his delighted sensibilities — before Amira, before the passion of Tarragona and before the loss of Father Pedro Huya — so he had danced around it, before she had left and when he had made his approach all the more clear. No, she refused him, and he was left to tend to his wounds like a tom-cat after a street fight.

Even as Rafael plucked at his sleeve like a boy, Jesús could not quite draw himself away from that moment of shame. What would he see in him, then? A fool? A sordid creature who ought to draw himself upright with strength of spirit and know-how? Whatever it was, Jesús felt his cheeks grow hot with some cocktail of annoyance and self-pity, for to his knowledge Rafael had never quite been afforded the malaise of a rejection, for the furthest he had seen put to play was Nellie when she acted unapproachable and full of rage… But even then, he had only ever retaliated, and had never stayed still long enough to remain utterly and totally hurt. At the same time, however, Jesús saw himself as little more than a boy, a boy bruised like a peach rather than a man strong enough to withstand the blow.

He shook his head, laughing a little in order to try and push the question aside despite the fact that he knew very well how Rafael would pluck at his cover till all was available to him. He rolled his head to one side to look at him, tapping the cigarette away with the shift of a single finger before he placed it lazily between his lips. Had she treated him ever so cruelly? No, not really, not totally. If anything it had been a self-inflicted pain, a need to remember how it had felt and how to never look at her with the fullness of his beating heart again. Only the Lord knew that Jesús had not been prepared to see her in London again, with his daughter picturing the woman as some figure of aspiration in her eyes alone.

“I have no ill will toward you for having her, my friend, that would be stupid and immature of me… For she is…” Jesús began, a sigh leaving his body to fall in the chair before he slipped his spare fingers to his eyes, rubbing them for clarity or to merely will himself into a sense of comradery, a confusion even to him. “...she is beautiful, no? How can I keep a pretty woman from your hands, mmm? But would you give me her address? I should go to apologise tomorrow, I think,” Jesús hummed, removing his hand, replacing the cigarette with what was left over of the wine before pouring it down his throat, forgetting to taste the substance in such a greedy act of want; for the oysters would be there soon and Jesús was not one to turn down a meal even if he no longer felt as hungry as he had been before.

Rafael was torn; torn between the need to know more, to delightedly revel in the drama and sordid gossip of it all, and to be the friend and brother whom Jesús deserved and seemed to need. He saw the non-answer for what it was, and was not particularly put off by it. Whatever it was that had happened between the two of them, Jesús and Zelda, was clearly more than the archeologist wished to speak of. It would not be so difficult to tease the truth of it from him – though how much truth there was to tease forward, the playwright had little notion – but the man seemed so lost in the moment before that false smile.

Lips pursing in consideration, he wore his uncertainty (and disbelief) openly. "She is beautiful, but I do not think that is what you mean." He did not have a chance to say anything further before the door opened after a quick knock, admitting the waitstaff who brought with them a plate of delicious-looking oysters and a new bottle of wine. Only when the food had been settled and their drinks refreshed did Rafael speak again.

"I will give you her address, but only after you have been honest with me, Jesú. If it were merely about how attractive she was, you never would've blustered so." The playwright wagged a fork at his friend, not overly eager to partake. His appetite had been dulled in the face of his excitement before; now it was still dulled in the face of disappointment, and an enticing story having been dangled before him so expertly.

Instead he sipped his own wine, still eyeing his friend. Zelda was something special – that much had been obvious from the moment he had met her – but that kind of special alone did not seem to warrant this kind of behavior from Jesú. If Rafael did not know the man better, he would say that this was some kind of obsession all his own, so very different from Rafael's own fleeting hungers, and yet with teeth sharper and longer for the depth of it. But had Jesús not just the other day proclaimed how satisfied he was? Had he not sat and reassured Rafael that he had no desire nor plans to be wed again (or for the first time, rather)?

Now it seemed like the matter was not the idea of a woman at all, but rather which woman it was that had caught his eye; years ago, it seemed, though he had never seen fit to mention her (except maybe in passing, when Rafael was too busy with his own work to pay it much mind). His sense, then, had been a good one: They were of a kind, so much so that they already had a history. "And if your planned 'apology' is similar to what you did here, you should gag yourself before knocking upon her door." That warning (half joke, half truth) was accompanied by the pointing of his fork, eyes narrowed even as his lips began to curl in a smile. All was not forgotten, nor forgiven quite yet, but it was easier to be mollified when Rafael was beginning to realize just the depth of his dearest friend's feelings for the woman.

It was always the case that Rafael managed to coax out the answers needed from his person — sometimes it was a talent, at other hours it was a pain in the ass. That was how it felt then, to know that soon Rafael would need to know everything and that the cards that Jesús had held so closely to his chest were due to be spread out between them for his friend to read at his pleasure. He tapped the excess of his cigarette ash onto the awaiting ceramic dish before he popped it back between his lips, drawing on the vice as one did when stressed or overworked — a habit that he had developed more furiously in recent years during his tenure and the signed admission that Jesús was due to be at the College rather than anything else for the near future.

He struggled against unwanted words as Rafael said his part in a contemplative tongue, his own dark eyes darting over to him and then the door that opened to reveal oysters and wine, a choice that would’ve been somewhat frowned upon when faced with two men alone — alas, the restaurant had come to know the peculiarities of the pair during their constant visitations, when they would either entertain or drink one another under the table in an act of comradery. Licking his lips in favour of making his own comment, Jesús picked at an oyster and tipped it into his mouth, his brow heavy with the worry that he had already said too much. Still, what was the harm in it? Rafael wouldn’t do anything to purposefully hurt him, he knew that more than he could ever know himself! And yet, the taunting face of Zelda Rhodes haunted him, leaving him almost frozen to the chair as one did when faced with a figure from the past. His daughter, sweet Farah, had met Ms Rhodes on occasion and had come to admire her as a girl ought to do with such a woman, but Jesús had not been overly fond of the idea, and had left Farah to conduct her own business with the elder, as if Jesús was not there at all… The result had left him ridden with guilt, if only because he had always tried to be a supportive, active father compared to the many who washed their hands of such children.

His brow crinkled as Rafael wagged his fork like a conductor, for he knew what the other had come to hope and expect. He imagined that he would have liked Zelda and Jesús to treat him as if it were the day of his birth, for the two of them to wax attention upon his person like no other! Though he knew this, and knew how deeply Rafael could take disappointment into his soul, Jesús did not entertain it — he hadn’t agreed to it, despite their past history of sharing lovers without question, and at any rate, Jesús could not help but feel a malaise come upon him, as he filled his glass for the second time.

“What do you want to ask? What do you want to know? There isn’t much to tell, other than we have known one another since…” He paused, holding his glass in his hand as he counted back the years till he came to the time of his Masters graduation. “Around 1866 maybe… But we only knew one another for six-ish years, and we never… She did not want me, that is all, and who can blame her, ey! I remember I had an awful affair with hashish around that time,” Jesús teased, lifting his spirits as he filled his mouth with the prepared wine, swallowing before taking a second oyster. Though, he thought to himself, perhaps he should have tried harder, and have been more willing to follow her rather than to stick his head in the sand of Tarraco. Alas, without Tarraco, there would never have been Amira or Farah, and that was the truth of it. So he shrugged it off like a blanket, and went to eating before lifting his head again.

With the intention of saving his ego, Jesús smiled back at Rafael’s somewhat soft warning, and as easily as if nothing had happened a mere half hour previously, he put his spare hand to his friend’s cheek in a familiar, tender expression. “I think she would like that too much, Rafael, if I turned up with a ball in my mouth, ey?” Jesús laughed, caressing his friend’s cheek before lowering his hand to return to the luncheon

Oh. Oh, Jesús.

The man was far more wounded by the apparent rejection than he was aware – than he allowed himself to be aware. It was enough to move one to pity. It certainly touched Rafael's heart, left him wanting to pull his friend into his arms to soothe him and reassure him. Such a thing was wholly inappropriate, of course; not because he thought that Jesús would take offense, but rather because it was clearly not the right response at this particular moment in time.

He should have paid more attention at the time; should have helped guide Jesús, helped him bite his sometimes waspish tongue and cowed his ego. But '66... He had been well-consumed by his own vanity and ego, hadn't he? Far too busy with his own success to have a care for Jesús' failures. The guilt of it did not linger over-long, but Rafael did mourn the time that he had neglected his friend.

Even still – six years! What on Earth had Jesús been doing all that time? Merely staring at the woman longingly across the room? Rafael knew that his friend has a tendency towards putting (in Rafael's opinion) far too much importance on the idea of intimacy, but this had to be some kind of record set. The playwright busied himself with eating for a moment, not trusting himself to say what was on his mind without causing his friend great offense.

Of course, once he had swallowed the mouthful of oyster and wine, he couldn't quite still his tongue. "Well, if it was only six years, I'm surprised you even learned her name!" The primness of the jest removed some of the humor, but really–! "I love you, Jesús, and we are both lucky that the Lord loves a fool." That at least was said fondly, and indeed if Jesús was a fool, he only was such knowing that Rafael was far more foolish in almost every regard.

There was little else to speak of about it, though. Rafael had learned all he needed to, and to speak about the woman invited far too many hurtful words to his tongue. The passions they were both far too capable of would not suit this topic well, he thought, and there was clearly nothing he could do to see the two of them united. He would mope about it later, no doubt, when Jesús was not there to be guilted by his poor mood. For now, he ate and drank and leaned into the hand pressed against his cheek – turning to press a quick kiss into Jesús' palm before he retrieved it. "All the more reason to do so, you impossible man."

If it had been some twenty-two years since they had met, maybe there was some hope for Jesús yet. Oh, he'd certainly put his foot right into it earlier, but that was Rafael's fault as much as Jesús'. Perhaps the more accurate assessment was that it was no one's fault; Rafael could not have known about their previous encounters, such as they were, and Jesús did not seem to have a reason to tell Rafael about Zelda – and in fact had many reasons not to tell him. "You know that she is not unreasonable, Jesú. Your ego will survive subservience. Mine certainly has." Now Rafael teased his beloved friend openly, eyebrows raising along with a saucy smirk as he sipped his wine.

Whether it had been six or four years spent pining over a woman, or any person at all, Jesús stubbornly refused selfish introspection. Like any true Catalan, when the ego was pierced or bruised, he could not help the lingering resentment — nursing it as one would a coffee that had long since gone cold. And was he ashamed by it? No! It was the natural order of things, only he wished he had not been so brash in that moment, but then, had this meeting not been to the satisfaction of his body? So what if he didn’t get his intended threesome? Had they not had their fair share, at that point? Jesús lowered his gaze to his drink and that precious plate of oysters instead, his ear twitching as Rafael went to tease him some more. As similar as they were as brothers in arms and souls intertwined, their differences remained, this being but one as he poked at the fish with his silverware.

The roll of his eyes was paired with a smile that wavered beneath his facial hair before he popped one of the oysters into his mouth, savouring the taste as one must when in such a beautiful restaurant. Zelda should’ve stayed for them at least, if not for him and his rudeness. Taking his hand from Rafael’s face, Jesús held himself carefully, resting an elbow against the table in order to hold his chin on his curled fist.

He would take Ms Rhodes’ address and pay a visit in order to right the wrong of his behaviour, but he could not promise his friend that all would settle and take root in peace. For all that Zelda and Jesús had done during their time beneath her father’s roof had been swollen with constant tension, arguments and teasing words that were better suited to a playground than an academic study. Still, there was hope, if only to please Rafael. For though Jesús had felt himself enamoured back in the day, much had changed. No longer was he the twenty-something secretary but a Professor and Archeologist himself! He told himself, as he finished his glass of wine, that he thus held his own power, he only had to straddle it.

Attentively he noted the smirk that pressed itself against Rafael’s glass, and the eyebrows that raised in an act of tomfoolery — an expression that promised more trouble than what it was worth as he sucked in a breath and pushed his glass aside. “Eat up, then write that address down, I will make good on it Rafa, I promise.”

There was a look in Jesús' eyes, and Rafael did not trust it. It reminded him nothing less of times in the past when the other man had determined to do something foolhardy, pointless, and reckless – most often to impress a girl, which was especially worrying when the subject of their conversation was indirectly Ms. Rhodes.

She would not hold his beloved friend's actions against him, Rafael was certain; the woman was so very evenly keeled that one must wonder at times if she was Catalan at all! Even so, he would be incredibly cross if Jesús was given another chance at redemption only to handily throw it away as well.

"And if you do not, you will owe me a very sweet apology twice over," he warned, again waving his fork in vague threat. If there was any consolation, he noted with a slight sigh, it was that the meal was excellent, as was the wine. It would have been deemed a better investment if the entire thing had not been soured by Jesús' temper and Rafael's own ignorance about the history between his friends, old and new.

But that cat could not be put back into the bag, no matter how much he buffeted it about the ears. So he would eat, he would drink, and he would try not to be too entirely cross with Jesús. He would even oblige him with Zelda's address, with the promise of behaving himself. It was not as though he thought Zelda couldn't handle herself; of course she could. Rafael only feared for the vision of the future that had been so vibrantly laid out before him, as though delivered by Apollo himself.

He had Nellie, after all; Jesús had Farah, but only the memory of Amira. A memory was fit as neither mother nor wife, and even if Ms. Rhodes remained Ms. Rhodes, Rafael would rest far easier knowing that a true effort had been made. And, though he would not admit as much to Jesús now, when he had that look on his face, Rafael had to privately wonder if a firm hand wouldn't serve his dear friend well.