When did all of his words become
angry? Dan was supposed to be a word smith, a genius at combining consonants
and vowels into something coherent and cerebral. And yet, lately there had been
a darkness covering his soul that could only churn out words like “idiot” and
“wanker” and “rubbish”, words vomited onto the page in lengthy rants. Words
that delighted Jonatton Yeah? because anger sells and the Idiots loved because
they took them as praise instead of the condemnation they were meant to be. He’s
always found it easier to find the negative side of things; it’s more of an
effort to find the positive. He finally gave up even trying.
Dan had felt
himself spiraling down and down over the last year, and during his more soberly
lucid moments had been horrified at what he had become. He wraps his arms
around the sleeping DJ in an attempt to stop the tears he feels forming at the
back of his eyes. He can’t see him in the midnight dark of the room, but he’s
solid and real and warm and he isn’t surprised to feel a small hand snake its
way up under the sheets to journey across his face to find his mouth and then
replace his fingers with his lips. Jones has been the only light in his dark
world for a long time, a stray beam that had begun to fade, blocked out by the
fog and smoke that had become Dan’s world. Until that day, the day that had changed everything.
The doctors had
kept him in a near comatose state the first two weeks, partly to block the
pain, and partly to control the shakes as his body adjusted to the sudden
absence of alcohol. He had vague glimpses of Claire by his bed, sprinkled with Sasha
and Jonatton; and Nathan, of course. Always Nathan, everywhere he went. Even
the humiliation of being trussed up like a Christmas turkey had to be witnessed
by the wanker. And when he finally came fully awake he found Jones by his side,
newly returned from a stint in Edinburgh
to discover that his flatmate was damaged and broken.
He didn’t ask
until later why Dan had jumped. They were sitting at the kitchen table, the bulky
casts gone, but smaller, lighter ones still holding his skeleton together as it
healed. There was no condemnation in the younger man’s voice, no angst or
judgment, just a matter-of-fact question. And Dan shrugged his shoulders and
grimaced as pain shot through his frame with the movement and told him it was
just a way out. He had panicked. He had painted himself into a corner and Pingu
had gone out the window and landed on the van. It seemed safe enough, except an
hour’s worth of thoughts had flashed through his head in those few seconds as
he hit the edge instead of the middle and slipped on down to land on the hard
ground; thoughts that screamed at him that he had made a huge mistake. More
than one, really. Jones had given a small shake of his head, a flash of relief
passing across his face and Dan realized at that moment that he, maybe
everyone, thought he had tried to
die.
After two weeks of
staring at white walls, he had been allowed to go home to continue mending.
Claire had given up the bed, spending her nights on the couch, although more
and more she spent her nights elsewhere. Dan didn’t ask where; he was too
afraid of the answer. She never said anything when Jones started sleeping on
the bed, curled up like a cat, eventually unfolding himself to press into Dan’s
side as each cast was removed, the heat from his body sinking into the newly
mended bones, easing the ache. Jones would slip in next to him on the nights he
had worked some club, cigarette smoke clinging to his hair but no taste of alcohol
as his lips found Dan’s in the dark, a silent hello and good night to let him
know that all was well.
This was nothing
like the times before Claire, when they would tumble into bed after a night of
alcohol and pills, fumbled fondling that usually went nowhere, ending as one or
both passed out. Neither mentioned those groping sessions, bleary eyed in the
morning and silently moving around the kitchen, searching for a clean cup and
hoping there was nonmoldy bread to toast to help settle flipping stomachs.
Somehow, Jones’
soft late-night kisses graduated into something more, rubbing against each
other, soft noises as their breath mingled, hands sliding over skin until one
morning after all of the casts were gone, Jones’ fingers, so clever on his
decks, didn’t stop until Dan was gasping and pleading. Satisfies with his work,
he rolled over on his back and Dan couldn’t help but notice how the boxers he
slept in were tented and worked his own hand under the waistband to press it
against Jones’ hardness. It became a morning ritual; Dan justifying it as good
therapy for his wrists.
It all came
together one cold damp night when the painkillers refused to relieve his pain
and Jones slid off the couch to fit himself between the older man’s knees. Dan
had worn trousers with elastic since his release from the hospital,
unattractive but much easier while he was still carrying the added weight of
fiberglass and plaster and had little use of his hands. Convenient, as it turned
out, for other things as well, as Jones pulled them down off his hips and
proceeded to take him in his mouth, all suction and spit that had him moaning
in pleasure instead of pain, relief that lasted for hours after. Two days
later he tried to reciprocate, sloppy and unpracticed, but with Jones’ fingers
twisted in his again longer hair and the amazing noises escaping his open
mouth, he felt a pressure in his chest and stomach, a feeling of wellbeing and
satisfaction that had nothing to do with the physical act he was attempting but
instead came from somewhere deeper.
His relationship
with Claire had returned to something more like when they were teenagers, the
sniping and insults replaced by actual conversation. She told him about the
work she was doing with Nathan, something that wasn’t obscene and callous. She
told him how the arse had helped her finish her documentary and that she had
been asked to show it at a local film festival. She mentioned in passing how
Pingu had packed up his stuff the day after “that whole bloody debacle” and
found a job with a small company in Cardiff,
effectively shutting down Trashbat.co.ck, but not before deleting the tapes
from that fateful day. Dan wished he could give the kid a hug in his gratitude.
One evening as they sat talking, Jones had plopped himself down next to Dan and
not thinking, he wrapped his arm around the slender shoulders and planted a
small kiss in the highlighted hair. He froze but when Claire didn’t so much as
blink, he relaxed and tightened his embrace, knowing everything was okay
between the three of them. (How had he not noticed that Jones and Claire had bonded
over shared nursing duties?)
Only yesterday,
Claire had come in through the front door with Nathan in tow, not even throwing
a glance at the two as they sat on the couch, Jones’ legs thrown across Dan’s
lap as they had talked and laughed and snogged the afternoon away. Nathan, on
the other hand, had stopped in his tracks, staring and speechless, until Claire’s
voice had shrilled back at him to “come on, Barley, move it!” A smirk had spread
across his face as he headed into the kitchen, ‘that’s well Mexico’ his only comment. ‘Twat’,
Dan had mumbled into Jones hair. The younger man had leaned back and with a
serious look on his face had announced ‘we’re well Mexico’, and broken into giggles that
were harmonized by Dan’s low chuckle
This morning Dan
had found himself with a notebook and a pen writing nonsense that turned into
meandering romance. There was no edge or anger; Jonatton would hate it. Somehow,
the light that is Jones had fanned the last spark inside Dan and found some corner
that is glad to be alive until words like happiness and love and peace are now
bubbling in his brain; simple words, true, but they give him hope.
