Geoff Ryman - Lust Or No Harm Done

Another Michael came in wearing a striped shirt that our Michael remembered. He was a fresh smooth square Michael, glowing pink with happiness.

Old Michael sat on the sofa bed that had not been in their version of the flat, and he was invisible to them. They thought that this was their first day. Michael had given them the grace of seeing nothing else.

Young Phil had to jump up to kiss young Mike, who was so much taller than him. Thank you thank you thank you.' Phil hugged him, and then leaned back to drink in Mike's face, the helpless stretched smile, the crumpled eyes brimming with love. They lunged at each other's lips and chewed them, making a smacking noise a bit like toffee.

An anguished flood of memory poured over old Michael. He had found this flat because he had found Phil. He had wanted Phil to have somewhere nice to live. Otherwise Michael would have stayed out in Harrow near the Poly. He remembered how they bought the sofa bed. They had bounced on it together in Heal's. They had wanted the staff to know they were lovers.

Young Mike shook Philip and chuckled. 'Oh, baby,' he said, words flowing thickly from a grateful heart.

'I love you,' said Phil, quietly.

Young Mike rested his head on top of Philip's.

'You said let's play house,' said Phil. 'But I had no idea you meant something full-size.'

'There's plenty of things around here that are full-sized,' said younger Michael. He sounded debonair. 'There's a full-sized fridge and a full-sized shower…' His body said that something else was full-sized too.

Oh you lucky guy, old Michael thought as the young Mike enveloped his lover, and was gratefully received. The kiss this time was long and silent, and when they parted, there was unspoken agreement in their eyes.

'I'll show you the bedroom,' said Michael.

The apartment had not changed much in thirteen years. The Angels could not see the paintings on the wall that the young Phil had not yet painted. They hadn't seen the huge TV in the corner of the sitting room. They didn't see Michael's computer on the desk in the bedroom.

Their big four-poster bed had been there, though.

'My God!' exclaimed Phil and ran coltishly towards it. 'Wherever did you find that?'

Young Michael was beaming, flushed with pride and love and the pleasure of making someone happy. 'A barn in Lancashire,' he replied.

This may not have been their exact words at the time, but the spirit was right, the people were right. Young Philip flung himself onto the high mattress and kicked off his shoes, and young Michael went and pulled the bedroom curtains shut, and the wooden rings made a clicking sound that always meant they were about to make love. Then he rested his head, as if in prayer, on Phil's tummy.

The real Michael watched them make love. They were young, excited: young Michael almost got it up, Philip tried to allow him to penetrate him. Doubt crossed both their faces. Michael collapsed and groaned, and rested his head on Philip's shoulder. Philip kissed the top of his head.

'Don't worry, we'll get better at it,' Philip said. Michael leaned back to look at Philip. 'For some guys a hole is just a hole. You're not like that.' Somehow light danced in Philip's eyes. Young Michael breathed. Their eyes latched together, love and gratitude beaming out of them as steadily as headlamps.

They were too young to know who they were or what they wanted, so they were free to keep on trying.

Michael's heart ached all day as he haunted them, ached for what he'd lost and could not yet accept losing.

He watched them cooking lunch excitedly in their new kitchen. He watched them eat it without a table, plates resting on a towel on the living-room carpet. They ate it naked, passing the chewed food between them as they kissed. Entangled, they went into the bedroom again and failed again, and once again that made no difference.

They washed up and dusted and hoovered, delighted with their new domesticity. They read and reread the listings magazine and decided to see Platoon.

Day became early evening. They tried on different bum-freezer jackets. Philip decided to wear the brown trousers he later gave to Henry. They were new and crisp and sharp. Phil thought they were listening to Jane Siberry and went to turn it off, and then they both chattered off into the night, to hold hands (and indeed if memory served, something else) all through the film.

And suddenly old Michael was alone, in the dark. The weather had changed. In the real world, it was raining, heavy drumming rain that smelled of leaves.

Michael walked back into the bedroom, calling quietly. There was a sound like wind in the curtains around the bed.

'Hello, Phil,' he said to a shadow.

'Who the fuck are you?' It was the younger Phil. He scuttled back naked across the surface of the bed. 'Michael?'

'Yes,' said Michael, sounding uncertain of that.

'You look so old.'

Michael sat shyly on the edge of the bed. 'I am old, baby. Thirteen years older.'

'You should start working out.'

Michael sighed. 'I do. Regularly. This is me looking fit.'

The Angel grew confused. 'This isn't a joke, is it?'

Michael shook his head, and tried not to get weepy. 'No, baby, it isn't.'

The Angel lost its innocence. 'What am I?'

'You're Phil. You're the Phil that was. My Phil.'

'I… I'm not understanding this,' warned young Phil, with a scared chuckle.

'We got older and different. So I called you back.'

There was a long pause. The darkness outside was as if all the lights of the world had gone out from neglect. The Angel looked about the room, processing sensations, how the world now looked. He looked at the tapestries that hung from the four-poster and seemed to see something new in them.

'I'm not the real Phil, am I?' he said, in a voice as low as the light.

Michael couldn't help but edge closer to him. He couldn't help but take him in his arms. It seemed such an imposition, a terrible thing to do to a young man in the first throes of love, finding the first anchorage of his own in the world.

'We broke up,' said Phil, his voice frail with disappointment.

Michael tried to cradle him, comfort him. 'We had more than twelve years, baby. That's pretty good going.'

'Why?' Phil pushed him away.

Michael retreated from him. 'You started to go places. You didn't need me there. I looked different. You didn't like what I did for a living, you were bored… and…' He sighed. 'Someone beautiful, something beautiful came along and took you. You tried to be good about it. Which only made it worse in the end.'

There was the sound of traffic, of tyres shushing over wet streets. Where had the day gone? He hadn't gone to work, or even rung them to say he was ill or whatever. This was worse than illness.

The young Phil looked askance at this strange man who had suddenly swollen out of the Michael he knew.

'You want to live with me,' the young Phil said, leaning backwards.

'I want you back,' said Michael, pleading against life itself.

'No,' said Phil.

'Why not?'

'Because you're not Michael.'

'I'm still Michael inside.'

Phil shook his head. 'Michael would never do this to me. And… I would never do to Michael what your Phil did. So things must be pretty poor where you are. You must have let things go pretty far.'

'Yes,' whispered Michael.

'Beyond repair?' Phil leaned forward, enquiring, like a friend listening in a coffee shop.

'And out the other side. I'm sorry. I'm sorry to do this to you. I want you to have hope. I want you to have joy.'

'I will, as soon as you put me back where I'm supposed to be. With my new boyfriend in my new flat.'

Michael nodded, once, yes.

'Will I know?'

My God, what if he did? What if he could sense it, back then?