Danny

John sat in the living room. He had the fire built up high, blazing in the darkness. He had been trying to read but had abandoned it. He put out the light and lay watching the firelight dance on the walls. He didn't know where the others were and cared less.

He felt the same way as he felt when he'd first seen Rab and Danny together. That same blind, head aching hatred. The thought of food made him sick. He couldn't sleep. He couldn't read. He couldn't even think. The door opened and closed again. He felt a hand on his hair. He frowned, trying to look round.

"Is he fretting then?" Ian moved round in front of him. "Your hair looks just like Danny's in the firelight."

John stared at him, willing him to go away.

Ian toasted his backside at the fire, letting his eyes roam up and down John's body. "Very seductive." His voice was treacly, unpleasant, as if it might stick to your skin.

"Isn't it a bit late to take a crush on me?"

Ian shrugged. "You just look good."

"You spastic little queer."

"Couldn't agree more." Ian was smiling. He looked almost pleased by the insult.

John turned back to his meditation. "Go away."

"He wants to be alone."

John ignored him.

There was a long, warm silence. John had almost forgotten he was there when he spoke again. "Missing him?"

"I told you to go away."

"Hurting?"

John closed his eyes and re-crossed his ankles. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, put his arm back behind his head. For some reason he could see vividly the way Danny undid buttons; a strange little lift and push, always one-handed. He couldn't chase those buttons from his head.

"What are you thinking about?" Ian asked.

"The way Danny undoes buttons." John felt the dangerous build-up of it, a longing to confess, to unburden, in the darkness, over a phone, to a face you couldn't see. Ian wasn't the man for it but John couldn't raise himself. It was like being doped.

"What about it?"

"He has an odd quirk, one-handed."

Ian nodded. "He always watches you while he does it."

John thought about it. "Yes..."

"He's a natural performer, our Danny."

"He's a whore."

"Uh-huh," Ian agreed, satisfied with that, happy to hear John say it. He sat down on the fender.

John felt the anger run up behind the thought. He wanted to dirty-mouth him. He wanted to sit here and spew out his hate.

"He's a lying motherfucking little whore. He'd mount any stinking bitch that pushed her crack in his hand. He's a rabid stinking little goat, a festering degenerate little..." He ground to a halt, tripping over his own emotions. He could feel tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. His throat was a single convulsive lump. He couldn't swallow. He couldn't breathe. He opened his lips to suck in air as if he'd been crying.

Ian watched his face working, was stupefied to see the intensity of his emotion. Something more than anger. Loss? God, even grief? Ian hugged his knees quietly, saying nothing.

"He's been putting on the performance of his life, saying he doesn't want her, pretending he doesn't even want to see her. He's dreamt about this one for years. He's been biding his time and now the first bit of cunt he sees and I can..." He stopped, hearing himself almost voicing it.

And you can fuck off, Ian thought. Big bad John is scared shitless, like the elephant and the mouse. Ian laid his head on his knees and hugged his happiness into himself.

John lay there feeling the cold sweat on his skin, his guts churning. He put an arm over his eyes, blocking out the light, hiding himself.

Ian crawled over to him, put his arm across his chest. John pressed both arms tighter across his face, like a saint penitent under the extremes of guilt.

"He isn't worth it." Ian's hand soothed up and down his ribs like a woman easing a child's colic.

John let the words wash over him. They were telling him what he wanted to hear. He let the hand ease him, giving him what he wanted to feel; a little pity, a little love.

Ian luxuriated in the hard feel of him under the thin shirt. His body had the flavour of everything destructive about it. If death was a man with a scythe he looked just like John, no skinny skeleton, but big and powerful, destroying souls without either pleasure or pain, just soaking up numbers, ugly as sin and twice as enticing.

Ian could see his mouth under his arms like a fetish, like the lips in the credits of that spoof horror film, the only visible part of him, full, broad, the edges of his teeth showing, his breathing harsh.

He watched the lips, waited to see them speak. John's tongue moistened them. Ian felt his cock swell. He wanted to kiss him. If only there was a way. Without being punched in the mouth.

Time was fragile. Ian could feel it trickling through his hands as he kept one hand moving on John's chest, lulling him, easing his pain, knowing it would ease out of him entirely soon, be replaced by sleep or irritation before he could do it.

There must be a way.

"He doesn't love you." He heard himself murmur the words, so softly, saw John move his head, burying it deeper under his arms. "He isn't ever going to love you. He doesn't know how to." Ian leaned over him, running both hands up over his chest.

John's hand came down suddenly, clutching Ian's, holding it.

He'd fucked it. Time had shat on his head.

John lifted his hand and pushed it down over his crotch. He held it there a moment, his face still hidden by that one arm, then he let go and covered his face again.

Ian was afraid to move. Did he actually want him to...? He wasn't erect, just a little warmed-up perhaps, vaguely desiring, nothing more. Ian squeezed him tentatively. John didn't move. He was still breathing through his mouth.

Ian knew that all he wanted was the sensation of it, the consolation, something to take his mind off the pain. He wasn't going to ask, and he wasn't going to allow any talk. Either Ian did it with his mouth shut or he wouldn't get to do it at all.

But John would owe him.

And John would know he owed him.

Ian unzipped him carefully, one eye on his face, waiting for any sign of displeasure. He undid the buckle of his belt, equally slowly. John did not move. He could see the rise and fall of his chest. He pulled his jeans open, saw the thick brown hair of his belly. He pulled his shorts down. He was coming up under Ian's gaze. He knew he was being looked at, knew he was going to be touched. Ian took the weight of it in his hand. He looked at it minutely, pulled the soft skin down, squeezed the head, feeling the way it stuck to his fingers.

Ian was so stiff it was hurting him.

He stroked it slowly, soothingly. He thought of everything he could to give him pleasure. John stayed deep inside his arms, only the speed of his breathing giving away how he felt.

He grew massive. Ian marvelled at the sheer mind-boggling dimensions of it. The veins stood up in heavy relief. He seemed to be overfilled with blood. It looked almost painful.

Ian took longer, stiff strokes, squeezing the blood out, only to let it swell up again.

John began to push up into his hand and Ian knew he was near.

"Love me." John's voice was a whisper. Ian looked at him, wondering if that was what he'd said.

He said it again, clearer this time. "Love me."

He began to thrust up into Ian's hand. Ian's grip was so greedy he felt it come up from his balls, watched fascinated as the first spurt struggled out. He felt it, hot and glutinous, slide over his hand.

"Love me," John urged with each ejaculation, and Ian knew he wasn't talking to him, knew he wasn't even with him. He was seeing something else in the red darkness of his buried arms, seeing someone else, talking to someone else, urging someone else.

Ian didn't need to ask who because John told him.

His voice died on a whisper, "Danny..."

Ian put a hand firmly down over John's mouth, held it there like a hand pressing a pillow over his face, while John's body twitched under his suffocating hold.

Finally he went limp.

"Good boy," Ian murmured then pressed his mouth thirstily to his belly.

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written by thepoisonpixie