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planetbanjo a.k.a. LB
Pairing: Dan Ashcroft/Jones, Dan/Sasha (implied)
Summary: Happiness is a transient state. But how much is Dan to blame?
Word Count: 3465
Rating: NC-17
Warning: for graphic sexual description and references to drug-taking.
Author’s Note: Although there is a change in tone from the first part, the story continues to be written from Dan’s POV.
Part One The first part can be found here: http://community.livejournal.com/booshslashhaven/323664.html
The third and final part will appear here soon.
Disclaimer: These are the fevered babblings of a Dan Ashcroft obsessive, written for entertainment only. I don’t own the original characters and I make no profit from slashing them up. No siree.
Thanks: toaccio_arse for encouragement and beta assistance on an earlier draft.
Comments are very welcome.
Dan perched on the second floor window ledge, shivering. Seized by panic, he shifted further along the cold concrete and peered down at the ground below, seeking escape from...what exactly? The seat of his jeans felt slightly damp. The ground appeared to rise up and then retreat. His throat felt parched and his heartbeat pounded in his ears.
Glancing back into the dark room, his vision blurred, Dan sensed the presence of two unidentifiable figures. He felt them watching him, seemingly willing him to leap. He had to get away from them. There was nothing else for it; he’d have to jump.
As Dan took a deep breath and pushed himself from the ledge, he heard his sister’s voice, but by then he couldn’t stop. He was already falling steadily, inevitably, not knowing where he would land...
OoOoO
Falling against the mattress, turning and tumbling in their passionate, needy embrace, Dan’s hands clawed around Jones’ lower back. Jones ground his crotch against him, nudging his own already very erect cock, which rubbed pleasingly against Jones’ bare thigh. Releasing his grip on Dan, Jones fell forwards against the pillows, bunching them up beneath him. He parted his pale, lean legs and glanced back at Dan, his eyes wide in anticipation. Dan momentarily took in the sight before him and slid his hands around Jones’ muscular buttocks, parting the cheeks with his thumbs, revealing Jones’ dark pink anus. Leaning in and parting his lips, Dan pushed his whiskered chin between Jones’ buttocks and thrust his tongue forward; probing, flicking it in a rapid side-to-side motion. He felt Jones writhing beneath him, making short, sharp panting sounds and twisting the bed-sheets in his hands. With his face pushed into the pillows, Jones gave a muffled, almost desperate plea: “F...fuck me, Dan. Fuck me...p-please.”
As Dan ceased his explorations and searched the bedside cabinet for lubricant, Jones flipped over, his cock springing up, fully engorged. Sprawling on his back, he raised and parted his legs, resting the back of his calves on Dan’s shoulders. Dan knelt between Jones’ legs and squeezed a generous helping of lube along two of his fingers. Slowly, Dan reached between Jones buttocks and teased the cold lube around Jones’ anus, pushing the tip of his forefinger just inside. He relished the sight of Jones as he took a sharp intake of breath and then whimpered and arched before him, bringing a fist down onto the bed. Dan removed his lubricated digits and clasped Jones’ legs, shifting his weight, pulling him closer, his thighs shuddering. Guiding the tip of his cock, Dan gently eased himself into Jones, slowly at first, feeling Jones’ clench and buck. With a firmer thrust, Dan pushed forward, seating himself inside with a deep groan of satisfaction. Jones exhaled loudly in response then relaxed and rode the pleasurable waves as Dan began to move his length, slickly in and out of him. In between grunts and gasps, Dan caught Jones’ gaze, peering up at him, heavy-lidded, his dark eyelashes brushing against his cheeks. With his chin jutted upwards, Jones moved his hands to clasp the edge of the mattress and widened his legs further, willing Dan to thrust even deeper into him, increasing the speed of his penetrations.
Moving a hand to Jones’ hips and grasping him even tighter, Dan threw back his head and looked up to the ceiling, strands of shaggy hair falling across his eyes. He thought he could stretch up and bust right through the ceiling, reaching up into the stars and flying across the night sky.
Maybe if he leapt high enough...
OoOoO
With a huff of irritability, Dan snatched up his mobile phone as it vibrated on the coffee table. An unrecognised number flashed at him from the display. Frowning in response, he glanced at his wristwatch. Who the cock was this, phoning at eleven o’clock on a Tuesday night? He took one last drag of his cigarette and, with a loud sniff, pummelled the stub into the ashtray, vowing to keep his greeting brusque and business-like. There was a remote chance it might be something to do with work.
“Dan Ashcroft.”
Shrill voices, laughter and a tinny blast of jukebox music met his ear, followed by a male voice with a strong Leeds accent.
“Dan-bo! ‘ow yer doing, mate?”
The voice on the phone brought Dan up short. Its familiarity gnawed at him as he struggled to place it. It was so long since he’d heard his native tongue that he had almost forgotten what it sounded like. Even the East London accent no longer had the ring of Bow bells; nowadays it was a mixture of immigrant dialects, Mockney and Essex nasal twang.
“Er...who’s this?”
The voice broke into jovial laughter.
“It’s me, y’daft get! It’s Steve! Fookin ‘ell, Dan! ‘as your mind turned soft as well as yer accent?”
Dan exhaled and smiled, reaching towards the pocket of his jeans for another cigarette. He was suddenly conscious of the change in his own vowel sounds.
“Bloody ‘ell. Sorry, mate. It’s just a bit of a....Steve friggin’ Hill. How y’been, y’great twat?”
As Steve laughed and talked enthusiastically but somewhat drunkenly about being in town for some conference or other, Dan slouched on to the sofa, trying to recall the last time they had seen one another and wondering what on earth could have triggered this phone call.
Years ago, Dan and Steve used to frequent the rave scene up North. Inevitably, memories came flooding back between them of a particularly hot summer’s night in Gildersome that had ended somewhat abruptly.
Outside a disused factory, Dan and Steve had taken a break from the all-night party taking place inside.
“Christ, Dan. You’re the only bloke I kno’ ‘oo can neck two disco biscuits and still ‘ave a downer.”
As Dan stood round-shouldered, his eyes hidden under his Bill & Ben hat, he jabbed the toe of his scuffed Timberland boot against the crumbling brickwork, exhaling heavily. Steve, making a vain attempt to raise his best mate’s spirits, leant against the wall and took large gulps from a bottle of water. The moisture from their baggy, sweat-saturated t-shirts evaporated fast in clouds of steam around them. Dan recalled how Steve had gestured encouragingly towards him: “Come on, mate. Come back inside. They’re just a daft bunch o’ twazzocks who won’t last the night. You’ll see I’m right.”
Dan had wrinkled his nose and taken another drag on his cigarette. The deep bass-line of an LFO track reverberated from inside the building. He knew there would be hundreds of people dancing, uplifted in ecstatic rhythm, bathed in pulsing strobe-lights and dry ice. The bass-line tugged at Dan’s chest, pulling at him to go back inside and embrace the music.
But he couldn’t. Not while they were in there.
That night’s problem had started back at the pub. Since the tabloid newspapers ran horror headlines about illegal raves and the supposed endless supply of drugs to be found there, the scene had been infiltrated with people who were just out to get beered-up and then trip off their tits on as much cheap speed and E’s they could get hold of. As far as Dan was concerned, these people were utter twunts. They weren’t interested in the music, they weren’t interested in creating a good vibe and they certainly didn’t give a fuck about the personal-political act of exerting individual freedom and the right to party.
Dan had sensed that the group of drunken twats would be trouble as soon as he had seen their uniform, highstreet-styled Smiley t-shirts, over-sized neon-rimmed plastic sunglasses and designer-ripped stone-washed jeans. From their moronic attitude and general braying, he’d concluded that they were probably looking for the same illegal rave that Dan and his mates were going to, and that they were out to cause disruption. Then they had started hassling Dan and his drinking companions for details about the location of the warehouse party just outside Leeds. They’d kept tight-lipped about the location but somehow these prannocks had found someone who filled them in and now they were bloody well here – being total candles, ruining his night and determined to increase the negative exposure of the acid-house scene in the tabloid press. The underground had become over-hyped because of piddle-brained prannets like that.
Dan remembered how he had silently fumed outside the factory.
Was this how the rave scene was going to be from now on? Am I going to be hassled by intoxicated twunts in smiley t-shirts every weekend?
Steve had placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, concerned. “This ‘as really got to you, ‘asn’t it, Dan?”
Dan shrugged and pouted. “I can’t help it. They get on me wick.” Dan hung his head and stared at the ground, sniffing. He mumbled: “They’re...idiots.”
“Everyone’s an idiot in your opinion, Dan,” Steve laughed gently and smiled into the bottle as he took another swig of water. “Are you coming back inside or what? I’m coming up on another E. I need to get moving.”
Steve had offered him the water bottle and Dan had accepted, taking two gulps then passing it back. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his baggy jeans and leant back against the wall, taking a deep breath and staring up at the night sky from under his hat. Even now, years later, sitting in the living room of the House of Jones, he remembered how the vibrations of the music from inside the club had shaken the brick wall, travelling up his spine. The pills he’d taken earlier slowly began to take effect; he suddenly felt as though he could stretch up into the stars and fly across the night sky. Somewhere up there was his destination, his future. All he had to do was get up there. Maybe if he leapt high enough...
At that moment, Steve had nudged Dan: “Maybe you should write about it, if it annoys you that much. Send it to one of those magazines you’ve always got your ‘ead in.”
Dan recalled how he had considered this as he followed Steve back into the building. As the music tugged and tickled at his rib-cage, Dan had felt an unstoppable wide grin break out across his face. They had pushed into the centre of the bouncing, smiling, hugging crowd, whooping in appreciation of the music and raising their arms to the roof, submitting to the rapturous house and acid beats. The dry ice rose up and carried them aloft, a thousand people moving together in ecstatic rhythm. Dan gazed around in wide-eyed glee as the drugs rushed through him, removing all thought of the drunken twats with their over-sized neon glasses. Everything was right and everyone came together in one pulsating, never-ending techno-beat.
Happy times.
Suddenly, their stroll down memory lane was interrupted as unexpectedly as when the police had arrived that summer’s night, closing down the party and arresting everyone in sight.
“So, Danbo. Got yourself hitched yet or what?”
OoOoO
As Dan stood in the shadows of the bar, he felt hypnotised, aroused, elated.
Jones was at his most beautiful and dazzling when he was in movement; whether he was whirling on a dance-floor or whether they were in the privacy of their bedroom. The music thrummed through Jones’ body, rising upwards as he moved his hips in close-eyed rhythm to the bass-line, raising his arms above his head then bringing them down, running his hands around his neck and stroking down his body, as if caressed by the beats, bathing in the sea of sound.
Dan liked to imagine his own hands following the path of Jones’ own. He noticed how other men and women gave Jones admiring looks and, as he sipped at his lager, he would feel quietly possessive and proud. Jones was utterly out of their reach but very much within his own. He felt like one lucky bastard.
Stubbing out his cigarette into an ashtray, Dan realised that he’d almost forgotten how great it was to feel like this: the shared intimacies of a relationship, the mutual trust, feeling able to deal with the world...feeling safe. He’d had less headaches, just lately. He felt parts of him inside that had lain dormant for years opening up again. He’d taken a leap that had finally paid off.
The music changed gear and mixed in tunes he recalled from his own clubbing days. Dan considered his current circumstance and his mind drifted back to when he had first moved in to the House of Jones. They’d spent almost a month of stolen, curtain-closed afternoons together, cocooned in the seclusion of their bedroom. The outside world became a distant memory, almost an irrelevance. Dan had phoned Sasha at ‘sugaRAPE’, telling her that he was working from home. He couldn’t tell her that his days were spent laughing into the pillows at Jones’ silly jokes, exploring the DJ’s lithe, pale frame and succumbing to his warm, naked embrace. They didn’t leave the house unless it was to pick up some cigarettes or fresh coffee, to collect something from work or if Jones had a gig at a club.
As Dan quickly discovered, Jones had a lot of excess energy after each gig. Jones’ existence was fuelled by copious amounts of caffeine, recreational drugs and his passion for techno music. All of that energy needed to go somewhere. Initially, Jones’ physical demands took Dan by surprise, but he soon learnt to keep up. He had to.
Every so often, Jones weaved through the crowds, beaming. He headed straight towards Dan and stretched up towards him, pressing his mouth to his lips in a kiss. In the shadows of the club, they would share intimacy over a drink; Jones stood closely to Dan, leaning against his broad chest, as Dan rested his large hands around Jones’ skinny-jeaned hips and mumbled words of affection to him. Dan was always aware that other clubbers would glance at them, casting disparaging looks, as if to say “what is that young guy doing with that old tramp?” but Jones never seemed to pay any attention to those people. He was always totally absorbed in the music, bobbing on the spot and grinning back at Dan. When Jones had finished his drink, he would nuzzle Dan’s bristly chin, give him another kiss and then spin back on to the dance-floor.
As Jones embraced the dance beats once more, bathed in blue strobe lights, Dan looked on and felt a rush, more powerful than any drug.
This is right. This is more right than anything before now. Nothing else matters...nothing...
OoOoO
When she’d asked him out for a friendly drink, he had tried to kid himself into believing that it was nothing more than a cordial meeting between colleagues in arms against the office donkeys.
The vodka kept flowing and she was being so nice to him. She was always so nice. How did a girl like that end up working in a shit-hole like ‘sugaRAPE’?
There had been a spark between them from the start; he couldn’t deny it. He knew it was inevitable that she’d ask if he was seeing anyone. As she reached across the table and slid her delicate fingers across the back of his outstretched hand, he’d made an excuse and bolted for the toilets.
Stumbling into the empty cubicle, he retched repeatedly into the toilet basin. As his stomach lurched and expelled its contents, all he could think about was how much of a lying shit he was. He slumped against the cubicle wall, gasping for breath, holding his head in his hands, feeling utterly wretched and full of self-loathing.
When he returned to the restaurant, he was relieved that she’d gone. A scribbled note on a serviette read: “Thanks for the drinks. See you on Monday.”
He picked up the serviette and stuffed it into his trouser pocket, then tossed some money on to the table and staggered from the restaurant, heading for the nearest off-licence.
OoOoO
Dan swept a hand across Jones’ taut stomach, along his hairline down to his cock, which swayed between them with each vigorous thrust. Jones’ hands fell around Dan’s and they pumped Jones’ cock together, both men moving back and forth with a steady, pounding rhythm. Sweat broke out around Dan’s neck and trickled down his back and his straining thighs, gathering at the back of his knees. He leant forward and pressed his mouth to Jones’ panting gape, plunging his tongue inside and feeling the air expel forcefully from his nose and he pushed himself into him. His knees ached and grew tired but as he broke the kiss and glanced one last time down at the beautiful man beneath him, Dan screwed up his eyes, threw back his head, moving closer to orgasm. A warm wave of a thousand tiny fingertips rushed up and down Dan’s torso and then flew between his legs, where it slammed into his balls, feeling so tight and intense that he thought his mind would explode.
OoOoO
“So, Danbo. Got yourself hitched yet or what?”
The phone call from Steve continued to echo around Dan’s brain; springing from the depths of his memory in the middle of the night, causing him to lie awake, wracked with anxiety. As Dan readied himself for work, threading his belt through the waistband of his jeans, he gazed across the room at Jones’ sleeping form: his adorable Jones, who apparently meant the world to him and yet...his throat filled with nausea and he hurriedly fetched up his keys and wallet, leaving the house quickly.
As he sucked hard on a Marlboro and made his way along Curtain Road, he continued to beat himself up, feeling thoroughly sick with guilt.
Fucking sell-out. Fucking hypocrite. Fucking coward.
He buzzed on the office intercom, gave his usual sarcastic, world-weary greeting and hauled open the metallic outer door with a heavy sigh. Tossing his cigarette stub to the ground, he headed slowly up the stairs, his shoulders hunched and his gaze cast down, avoiding eye contact with Sasha.
“Morning, Dan.”
As Sasha handed him his messages, she was completely polite and professional. He envied her for that. She was such a nice girl. How could he have dragged her into his private hell? She’d been there barely a month and he’d already abused their friendship. What a dick.
Grabbing a black coffee from the office kitchenette and settling down at his desk, Dan tried to stem his waves of self-loathing by focusing on the work he needed to complete that day. He groaned as his computerised diary bleeped to remind him of an editorial meeting scheduled for later that morning. Slumping forward on to the desk, he buried his face in his arms and closed his eyes, wishing the world would go away and that the voices in his head would stop torturing him.
His answer to Steve’s question bounced around on never-ending reverb...
“So, Danbo. Got yourself hitched yet or what?”
He had picked frantically at the arm of the sofa, teetering on the edge of deception.
“Yeah. I’m, er, seeing Sasha. The receptionist at sugaRAPE. She’s a really nice girl.”
Fucking sell-out. Fucking hypocrite. Fucking coward.
OoOoO
Dan cried out, loudly and gutturally in release, feeling his cum leaving him, hot and forceful, filling Jones with an almighty hip-bucking movement that gradually slowed as his shudders of pleasure become less acute. He held Jones fast as he craned backwards against the mattress and emitted a low throaty moan; his warm, thick spunk erupting fast and running down his fist as his bucking and arching slowed and finally ceased.
They collapsed against the bed and lay together in the semi-light, perspiration and semen cooling on their skin, staring up at the drape-covered ceiling, listening to the silence and blinking back the white lights that blinded their vision. The world did not exist beyond the four walls of their bedroom.
“Fucking hell,” laughed Jones and wriggled closer to Dan, pushing his face against his beard, “I love you so much, you great lummox.”
The French called it “la petite mort” but in the semi-darkness, entwined together, pushing his face into the hair at the nape of Jones’ neck as they dozed, Dan felt utterly elated and very much alive.
OoOoO
If he turned his head slowly to the left, wincing against the pain, he could just about see a glimpse of blue sky through the window at the far end of the ward.
Dan knew that Jones hated hospitals. He closed his eyes and imagined him walking past the building every day.
He knew Jones would be trying not to step on any of the cracks in the pavement.
Just in case.
planetbanjo a.k.a. LBPairing: Dan Ashcroft/Jones, Dan/Sasha (implied)
Summary: Happiness is a transient state. But how much is Dan to blame?
Word Count: 3465
Rating: NC-17
Warning: for graphic sexual description and references to drug-taking.
Author’s Note: Although there is a change in tone from the first part, the story continues to be written from Dan’s POV.
Part One The first part can be found here: http://community.livejournal.com/booshslashhaven/323664.html
The third and final part will appear here soon.
Disclaimer: These are the fevered babblings of a Dan Ashcroft obsessive, written for entertainment only. I don’t own the original characters and I make no profit from slashing them up. No siree.
Thanks: to
accio_arse for encouragement and beta assistance on an earlier draft. Comments are very welcome.
Dan perched on the second floor window ledge, shivering. Seized by panic, he shifted further along the cold concrete and peered down at the ground below, seeking escape from...what exactly? The seat of his jeans felt slightly damp. The ground appeared to rise up and then retreat. His throat felt parched and his heartbeat pounded in his ears.
Glancing back into the dark room, his vision blurred, Dan sensed the presence of two unidentifiable figures. He felt them watching him, seemingly willing him to leap. He had to get away from them. There was nothing else for it; he’d have to jump.
As Dan took a deep breath and pushed himself from the ledge, he heard his sister’s voice, but by then he couldn’t stop. He was already falling steadily, inevitably, not knowing where he would land...
Falling against the mattress, turning and tumbling in their passionate, needy embrace, Dan’s hands clawed around Jones’ lower back. Jones ground his crotch against him, nudging his own already very erect cock, which rubbed pleasingly against Jones’ bare thigh. Releasing his grip on Dan, Jones fell forwards against the pillows, bunching them up beneath him. He parted his pale, lean legs and glanced back at Dan, his eyes wide in anticipation. Dan momentarily took in the sight before him and slid his hands around Jones’ muscular buttocks, parting the cheeks with his thumbs, revealing Jones’ dark pink anus. Leaning in and parting his lips, Dan pushed his whiskered chin between Jones’ buttocks and thrust his tongue forward; probing, flicking it in a rapid side-to-side motion. He felt Jones writhing beneath him, making short, sharp panting sounds and twisting the bed-sheets in his hands. With his face pushed into the pillows, Jones gave a muffled, almost desperate plea: “F...fuck me, Dan. Fuck me...p-please.”
As Dan ceased his explorations and searched the bedside cabinet for lubricant, Jones flipped over, his cock springing up, fully engorged. Sprawling on his back, he raised and parted his legs, resting the back of his calves on Dan’s shoulders. Dan knelt between Jones’ legs and squeezed a generous helping of lube along two of his fingers. Slowly, Dan reached between Jones buttocks and teased the cold lube around Jones’ anus, pushing the tip of his forefinger just inside. He relished the sight of Jones as he took a sharp intake of breath and then whimpered and arched before him, bringing a fist down onto the bed. Dan removed his lubricated digits and clasped Jones’ legs, shifting his weight, pulling him closer, his thighs shuddering. Guiding the tip of his cock, Dan gently eased himself into Jones, slowly at first, feeling Jones’ clench and buck. With a firmer thrust, Dan pushed forward, seating himself inside with a deep groan of satisfaction. Jones exhaled loudly in response then relaxed and rode the pleasurable waves as Dan began to move his length, slickly in and out of him. In between grunts and gasps, Dan caught Jones’ gaze, peering up at him, heavy-lidded, his dark eyelashes brushing against his cheeks. With his chin jutted upwards, Jones moved his hands to clasp the edge of the mattress and widened his legs further, willing Dan to thrust even deeper into him, increasing the speed of his penetrations.
Moving a hand to Jones’ hips and grasping him even tighter, Dan threw back his head and looked up to the ceiling, strands of shaggy hair falling across his eyes. He thought he could stretch up and bust right through the ceiling, reaching up into the stars and flying across the night sky.
Maybe if he leapt high enough...
With a huff of irritability, Dan snatched up his mobile phone as it vibrated on the coffee table. An unrecognised number flashed at him from the display. Frowning in response, he glanced at his wristwatch. Who the cock was this, phoning at eleven o’clock on a Tuesday night? He took one last drag of his cigarette and, with a loud sniff, pummelled the stub into the ashtray, vowing to keep his greeting brusque and business-like. There was a remote chance it might be something to do with work.
“Dan Ashcroft.”
Shrill voices, laughter and a tinny blast of jukebox music met his ear, followed by a male voice with a strong Leeds accent.
“Dan-bo! ‘ow yer doing, mate?”
The voice on the phone brought Dan up short. Its familiarity gnawed at him as he struggled to place it. It was so long since he’d heard his native tongue that he had almost forgotten what it sounded like. Even the East London accent no longer had the ring of Bow bells; nowadays it was a mixture of immigrant dialects, Mockney and Essex nasal twang.
“Er...who’s this?”
The voice broke into jovial laughter.
“It’s me, y’daft get! It’s Steve! Fookin ‘ell, Dan! ‘as your mind turned soft as well as yer accent?”
Dan exhaled and smiled, reaching towards the pocket of his jeans for another cigarette. He was suddenly conscious of the change in his own vowel sounds.
“Bloody ‘ell. Sorry, mate. It’s just a bit of a....Steve friggin’ Hill. How y’been, y’great twat?”
As Steve laughed and talked enthusiastically but somewhat drunkenly about being in town for some conference or other, Dan slouched on to the sofa, trying to recall the last time they had seen one another and wondering what on earth could have triggered this phone call.
Years ago, Dan and Steve used to frequent the rave scene up North. Inevitably, memories came flooding back between them of a particularly hot summer’s night in Gildersome that had ended somewhat abruptly.
Outside a disused factory, Dan and Steve had taken a break from the all-night party taking place inside.
“Christ, Dan. You’re the only bloke I kno’ ‘oo can neck two disco biscuits and still ‘ave a downer.”
As Dan stood round-shouldered, his eyes hidden under his Bill & Ben hat, he jabbed the toe of his scuffed Timberland boot against the crumbling brickwork, exhaling heavily. Steve, making a vain attempt to raise his best mate’s spirits, leant against the wall and took large gulps from a bottle of water. The moisture from their baggy, sweat-saturated t-shirts evaporated fast in clouds of steam around them. Dan recalled how Steve had gestured encouragingly towards him: “Come on, mate. Come back inside. They’re just a daft bunch o’ twazzocks who won’t last the night. You’ll see I’m right.”
Dan had wrinkled his nose and taken another drag on his cigarette. The deep bass-line of an LFO track reverberated from inside the building. He knew there would be hundreds of people dancing, uplifted in ecstatic rhythm, bathed in pulsing strobe-lights and dry ice. The bass-line tugged at Dan’s chest, pulling at him to go back inside and embrace the music.
But he couldn’t. Not while they were in there.
That night’s problem had started back at the pub. Since the tabloid newspapers ran horror headlines about illegal raves and the supposed endless supply of drugs to be found there, the scene had been infiltrated with people who were just out to get beered-up and then trip off their tits on as much cheap speed and E’s they could get hold of. As far as Dan was concerned, these people were utter twunts. They weren’t interested in the music, they weren’t interested in creating a good vibe and they certainly didn’t give a fuck about the personal-political act of exerting individual freedom and the right to party.
Dan had sensed that the group of drunken twats would be trouble as soon as he had seen their uniform, highstreet-styled Smiley t-shirts, over-sized neon-rimmed plastic sunglasses and designer-ripped stone-washed jeans. From their moronic attitude and general braying, he’d concluded that they were probably looking for the same illegal rave that Dan and his mates were going to, and that they were out to cause disruption. Then they had started hassling Dan and his drinking companions for details about the location of the warehouse party just outside Leeds. They’d kept tight-lipped about the location but somehow these prannocks had found someone who filled them in and now they were bloody well here – being total candles, ruining his night and determined to increase the negative exposure of the acid-house scene in the tabloid press. The underground had become over-hyped because of piddle-brained prannets like that.
Dan remembered how he had silently fumed outside the factory.
Was this how the rave scene was going to be from now on? Am I going to be hassled by intoxicated twunts in smiley t-shirts every weekend?
Steve had placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, concerned. “This ‘as really got to you, ‘asn’t it, Dan?”
Dan shrugged and pouted. “I can’t help it. They get on me wick.” Dan hung his head and stared at the ground, sniffing. He mumbled: “They’re...idiots.”
“Everyone’s an idiot in your opinion, Dan,” Steve laughed gently and smiled into the bottle as he took another swig of water. “Are you coming back inside or what? I’m coming up on another E. I need to get moving.”
Steve had offered him the water bottle and Dan had accepted, taking two gulps then passing it back. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his baggy jeans and leant back against the wall, taking a deep breath and staring up at the night sky from under his hat. Even now, years later, sitting in the living room of the House of Jones, he remembered how the vibrations of the music from inside the club had shaken the brick wall, travelling up his spine. The pills he’d taken earlier slowly began to take effect; he suddenly felt as though he could stretch up into the stars and fly across the night sky. Somewhere up there was his destination, his future. All he had to do was get up there. Maybe if he leapt high enough...
At that moment, Steve had nudged Dan: “Maybe you should write about it, if it annoys you that much. Send it to one of those magazines you’ve always got your ‘ead in.”
Dan recalled how he had considered this as he followed Steve back into the building. As the music tugged and tickled at his rib-cage, Dan had felt an unstoppable wide grin break out across his face. They had pushed into the centre of the bouncing, smiling, hugging crowd, whooping in appreciation of the music and raising their arms to the roof, submitting to the rapturous house and acid beats. The dry ice rose up and carried them aloft, a thousand people moving together in ecstatic rhythm. Dan gazed around in wide-eyed glee as the drugs rushed through him, removing all thought of the drunken twats with their over-sized neon glasses. Everything was right and everyone came together in one pulsating, never-ending techno-beat.
Happy times.
Suddenly, their stroll down memory lane was interrupted as unexpectedly as when the police had arrived that summer’s night, closing down the party and arresting everyone in sight.
“So, Danbo. Got yourself hitched yet or what?”
As Dan stood in the shadows of the bar, he felt hypnotised, aroused, elated.
Jones was at his most beautiful and dazzling when he was in movement; whether he was whirling on a dance-floor or whether they were in the privacy of their bedroom. The music thrummed through Jones’ body, rising upwards as he moved his hips in close-eyed rhythm to the bass-line, raising his arms above his head then bringing them down, running his hands around his neck and stroking down his body, as if caressed by the beats, bathing in the sea of sound.
Dan liked to imagine his own hands following the path of Jones’ own. He noticed how other men and women gave Jones admiring looks and, as he sipped at his lager, he would feel quietly possessive and proud. Jones was utterly out of their reach but very much within his own. He felt like one lucky bastard.
Stubbing out his cigarette into an ashtray, Dan realised that he’d almost forgotten how great it was to feel like this: the shared intimacies of a relationship, the mutual trust, feeling able to deal with the world...feeling safe. He’d had less headaches, just lately. He felt parts of him inside that had lain dormant for years opening up again. He’d taken a leap that had finally paid off.
The music changed gear and mixed in tunes he recalled from his own clubbing days. Dan considered his current circumstance and his mind drifted back to when he had first moved in to the House of Jones. They’d spent almost a month of stolen, curtain-closed afternoons together, cocooned in the seclusion of their bedroom. The outside world became a distant memory, almost an irrelevance. Dan had phoned Sasha at ‘sugaRAPE’, telling her that he was working from home. He couldn’t tell her that his days were spent laughing into the pillows at Jones’ silly jokes, exploring the DJ’s lithe, pale frame and succumbing to his warm, naked embrace. They didn’t leave the house unless it was to pick up some cigarettes or fresh coffee, to collect something from work or if Jones had a gig at a club.
As Dan quickly discovered, Jones had a lot of excess energy after each gig. Jones’ existence was fuelled by copious amounts of caffeine, recreational drugs and his passion for techno music. All of that energy needed to go somewhere. Initially, Jones’ physical demands took Dan by surprise, but he soon learnt to keep up. He had to.
Every so often, Jones weaved through the crowds, beaming. He headed straight towards Dan and stretched up towards him, pressing his mouth to his lips in a kiss. In the shadows of the club, they would share intimacy over a drink; Jones stood closely to Dan, leaning against his broad chest, as Dan rested his large hands around Jones’ skinny-jeaned hips and mumbled words of affection to him. Dan was always aware that other clubbers would glance at them, casting disparaging looks, as if to say “what is that young guy doing with that old tramp?” but Jones never seemed to pay any attention to those people. He was always totally absorbed in the music, bobbing on the spot and grinning back at Dan. When Jones had finished his drink, he would nuzzle Dan’s bristly chin, give him another kiss and then spin back on to the dance-floor.
As Jones embraced the dance beats once more, bathed in blue strobe lights, Dan looked on and felt a rush, more powerful than any drug.
This is right. This is more right than anything before now. Nothing else matters...nothing...
When she’d asked him out for a friendly drink, he had tried to kid himself into believing that it was nothing more than a cordial meeting between colleagues in arms against the office donkeys.
The vodka kept flowing and she was being so nice to him. She was always so nice. How did a girl like that end up working in a shit-hole like ‘sugaRAPE’?
There had been a spark between them from the start; he couldn’t deny it. He knew it was inevitable that she’d ask if he was seeing anyone. As she reached across the table and slid her delicate fingers across the back of his outstretched hand, he’d made an excuse and bolted for the toilets.
Stumbling into the empty cubicle, he retched repeatedly into the toilet basin. As his stomach lurched and expelled its contents, all he could think about was how much of a lying shit he was. He slumped against the cubicle wall, gasping for breath, holding his head in his hands, feeling utterly wretched and full of self-loathing.
When he returned to the restaurant, he was relieved that she’d gone. A scribbled note on a serviette read: “Thanks for the drinks. See you on Monday.”
He picked up the serviette and stuffed it into his trouser pocket, then tossed some money on to the table and staggered from the restaurant, heading for the nearest off-licence.
Dan swept a hand across Jones’ taut stomach, along his hairline down to his cock, which swayed between them with each vigorous thrust. Jones’ hands fell around Dan’s and they pumped Jones’ cock together, both men moving back and forth with a steady, pounding rhythm. Sweat broke out around Dan’s neck and trickled down his back and his straining thighs, gathering at the back of his knees. He leant forward and pressed his mouth to Jones’ panting gape, plunging his tongue inside and feeling the air expel forcefully from his nose and he pushed himself into him. His knees ached and grew tired but as he broke the kiss and glanced one last time down at the beautiful man beneath him, Dan screwed up his eyes, threw back his head, moving closer to orgasm. A warm wave of a thousand tiny fingertips rushed up and down Dan’s torso and then flew between his legs, where it slammed into his balls, feeling so tight and intense that he thought his mind would explode.
“So, Danbo. Got yourself hitched yet or what?”
The phone call from Steve continued to echo around Dan’s brain; springing from the depths of his memory in the middle of the night, causing him to lie awake, wracked with anxiety. As Dan readied himself for work, threading his belt through the waistband of his jeans, he gazed across the room at Jones’ sleeping form: his adorable Jones, who apparently meant the world to him and yet...his throat filled with nausea and he hurriedly fetched up his keys and wallet, leaving the house quickly.
As he sucked hard on a Marlboro and made his way along Curtain Road, he continued to beat himself up, feeling thoroughly sick with guilt.
Fucking sell-out. Fucking hypocrite. Fucking coward.
He buzzed on the office intercom, gave his usual sarcastic, world-weary greeting and hauled open the metallic outer door with a heavy sigh. Tossing his cigarette stub to the ground, he headed slowly up the stairs, his shoulders hunched and his gaze cast down, avoiding eye contact with Sasha.
“Morning, Dan.”
As Sasha handed him his messages, she was completely polite and professional. He envied her for that. She was such a nice girl. How could he have dragged her into his private hell? She’d been there barely a month and he’d already abused their friendship. What a dick.
Grabbing a black coffee from the office kitchenette and settling down at his desk, Dan tried to stem his waves of self-loathing by focusing on the work he needed to complete that day. He groaned as his computerised diary bleeped to remind him of an editorial meeting scheduled for later that morning. Slumping forward on to the desk, he buried his face in his arms and closed his eyes, wishing the world would go away and that the voices in his head would stop torturing him.
His answer to Steve’s question bounced around on never-ending reverb...
“So, Danbo. Got yourself hitched yet or what?”
He had picked frantically at the arm of the sofa, teetering on the edge of deception.
“Yeah. I’m, er, seeing Sasha. The receptionist at sugaRAPE. She’s a really nice girl.”
Fucking sell-out. Fucking hypocrite. Fucking coward.
Dan cried out, loudly and gutturally in release, feeling his cum leaving him, hot and forceful, filling Jones with an almighty hip-bucking movement that gradually slowed as his shudders of pleasure become less acute. He held Jones fast as he craned backwards against the mattress and emitted a low throaty moan; his warm, thick spunk erupting fast and running down his fist as his bucking and arching slowed and finally ceased.
They collapsed against the bed and lay together in the semi-light, perspiration and semen cooling on their skin, staring up at the drape-covered ceiling, listening to the silence and blinking back the white lights that blinded their vision. The world did not exist beyond the four walls of their bedroom.
“Fucking hell,” laughed Jones and wriggled closer to Dan, pushing his face against his beard, “I love you so much, you great lummox.”
The French called it “la petite mort” but in the semi-darkness, entwined together, pushing his face into the hair at the nape of Jones’ neck as they dozed, Dan felt utterly elated and very much alive.
If he turned his head slowly to the left, wincing against the pain, he could just about see a glimpse of blue sky through the window at the far end of the ward.
Dan knew that Jones hated hospitals. He closed his eyes and imagined him walking past the building every day.
He knew Jones would be trying not to step on any of the cracks in the pavement.
Just in case.
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