At nine Daniel called Ada again.
He stood in the workshop to do it. Upstairs Julian had taken his shoes off and was spreading a blanket over the sofa. Coming downstairs felt like giving the call privacy, although Ada's voice had become the least private thing in his day.
Leave me something good, her greeting said.
He waited for the tone.
“It's me. Julian's here.”
He had intended to say come home. Now it sounded like a threat.
“Please ring. You don't have to explain anything first. Just tell me you're all right.”
He stopped the call before the machine could stop him.
On the bench, a half-restored pane showed a bird with a bent red beak. A customer had asked him to make the beak less angry. Daniel had spent twenty minutes explaining that it wasn't angry, it was medieval. Ada had said perhaps medieval birds had a lot to be angry about.
Julian appeared on the stairs with two mugs.
“I found tea.”
“I thought you were going to bed.”
“I was. It turned out to involve lying down.”
Daniel took the mug. Julian was barefoot, his trousers loosened at the waist. The vulnerable change in him made Daniel remember a man called Paul, years ago, leaning against a pub wall after everyone else had gone inside. Daniel had wanted to kiss him. Paul had wanted it too, Daniel thought, but neither had been certain enough and they'd spent the rest of the evening being excessively polite.
He hadn't thought about Paul for months. It was an odd time to retrieve him.
Julian studied the red-beaked bird.
“Is it meant to look like that?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent.”
He put his mug down and leaned back against the bench. Daniel watched his bare foot move away from a tiny sliver of glass.
“Careful.”
“Occupational hazard?”
“I sweep. Then it breeds.”
“Like glitter.”
“More expensive in the foot.”
Julian smiled. This time he kept it small to spare the bruise.
Daniel pointed at his cheek. “Have you put anything on it?”
“It's fine.”
“It isn't fine.”
“I've had worse.”
“Ada?”
“No.” Julian shook his head. “That wasn't what I meant.”
Daniel went upstairs for a bag of frozen peas. When he came back Julian was looking at the invitations Ada had left on the corner of the bench for Daniel to admire. The letters were white on dark blue. There was a nick in the long stroke of one name.
“She'd hate that,” Julian said.
“She left it.”
“She left a lot.”
Daniel handed him the peas. Julian held them against his cheek and closed his eyes.
“She used to be so particular,” he said.
“She's still particular.”
“Yes. Of course.”
He looked tired enough that Daniel regretted making everything into a contest. Daniel wanted to believe Julian was as bewildered as he was.
They sat on the stairs because there was nowhere downstairs comfortable enough for two. Julian put his foot on the step below Daniel's and turned slightly towards him.
“Do you think she's laughing?” he asked.
“No.”
“Good. I don't either. I keep seeing her somewhere being perfectly herself while we're here feeling—”
He pressed the peas harder against his cheek.
Daniel said, “I don't know what to do with being angry. If she's hurt somewhere.”
“I know.”
“You can't do both properly.”
“Perhaps badly is all we get.”
The words loosened something. Daniel bent over his mug. Julian waited. He didn't touch him until Daniel's hand began to shake and tea ran over his fingers.
“Here.”
He took the mug and put it on the stair. His other hand came to Daniel's wrist.
Daniel looked at it. Ada had held him there yesterday. Julian's hand was warmer, the fingers longer. He ought to have pulled away. He moved closer instead.
Julian said his name.
Daniel had been looked after all evening. His potatoes cut, his plate filled, his tea made. He wanted the hand to stop being careful.
He turned towards Julian and kissed him.
For the first moment Julian didn't move. Then the peas slid onto the step and his fingers tightened at Daniel's wrist. He kissed back, slowly enough for Daniel to stop. Daniel did not stop. He touched the unbruised side of Julian's face and felt the roughness at his jaw, unfamiliar and pleasant.
A car passed outside. Its lights ran across the glass on the bench, catching the bird's red beak before leaving it dark again.
Daniel drew away.
“Sorry.”
“Don't say that if you don't mean it.”
He didn't. That was part of the trouble.
Julian breathed out, a small uneven breath. “I didn't come here expecting this.”
Daniel couldn't decide whether that made it better.
“She might be somewhere needing us,” he said.
“Yes.”
“And I'm—”
“I know.”
“No, you don't.”
Julian took his hand off Daniel's wrist.
“All right.”
The withdrawal was unbearable for about a second. Daniel reached for his fingers and held them. He wanted to say it didn't mean he didn't love Ada. He wanted Julian to understand without making him say it.
They stayed on the stairs until the tea was too cold to drink. The peas had leaked through the cloth Daniel had wrapped around them. Julian picked them up and said there would be one less item in the fridge to mourn.
Upstairs, Daniel gave him another pillow. At the bedroom threshold he paused, aware of the old key beside his shoulder and the mirror beyond the door. For a moment he wanted to ask Julian in. The desire was clear enough to frighten him. He could imagine their bodies without anything having to be explained.
He said goodnight instead.
In bed he turned towards Ada's pillow. He put his face where her face should have been, then lay back, ashamed of wanting two different people to come through the door.
Outside, the sea went on being invisible.