Date: Sat, 8 Jan 2005 16:01:58 EST
From: Thepoisonpixie@aol.com
Subject: DANNY by Chancery Stone

  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.


Danny by Chancery Stone is available from www.poisonpixie.com

Extract copyright Chancery Stone 2005