Favours for Favours

Lately, when Jonny speaks, Thom hears other people's words coming out of his mouth.

They're in some godforsaken hotel room in the dark back streets of London, which is Jonny's idea. Just one night, to pretend that they aren't famous, that they aren't rockstars, that they aren't millionaires - that they're just Thom and Jonny like, once upon a time, they were. The curtains are stained with nicotine and the windows are dark with grime. The bed is barely wide enough for one person and Thom has already offered to take the floor, which is just as well because Jonny is folded like an oversized paper crane on the mattress with its yellow-grey sheets, his blue shirt darkened at the collar with hot sweat, and there's not much room for anyone else. Thom sits on the window ledge, looking out at the neon lights and sodium haze of the city, arms folded across his chest. Jonny has an ashtray balanced on one knee, the fingers of his left hand curled around an empty shot glass while the right is occupied with the cigarette Thom has passed to him.

"Would you fuck me, if I asked you to?"

Thom looks up. Jonny's watching him through sad eyes, pupils blown wide with the dim light and unseen things creeping through his bloodstream. Of all the people in the world who could have gone off the rails, Jonny is the last he would have thought of, but there you go. Jonny's as much a mystery as he ever was, and more.

"I don't know," he says honestly. And then: "Besides, you haven't asked."

Jonny's lips quirk into an artificial grin, and he holds out the shot glass. "More," he murmurs, like a child demanding sweets. Thom sighs, but he lifts the bottle of cheap vodka from the bedside table and pours it out. Some of it overspills and dribbles down Jonny's fingers, and his tongue darts out to lap at them as he drains the glass. Thom pretends he doesn't see the little coloured pills slipping from Jonny's palm to his mouth, because Jonny is twenty-five years old, enough to take care of himself, and Thom isn't his mother. The younger man puts the glass down beside the bottle, stubs out the cigarette in the ashtray and places it on the edge of the window ledge by Thom's bare foot.

"Come here?" he asks plaintively, patting the sheets. His hands are long and slim like empty gloves, and though he wants to resist, Thom clambers down from his perch and arranges himself awkwardly in the few square inches of available space. Their shoulders and knees brush together and he laughs nervously, but Jonny just gives that disarming grin again and ducks his head immediately to hide it. His hair is damp where it tickles Thom's bare arm, and Thom flicks at it.

"Y'need to get this cut," he says idly. "You look like a girl."

Jonny peers out from behind his fringe. His eyes are more green than brown in this light, though nearly eclipsed by inky blackness; he pouts a little, lips catching on crooked teeth, and his tongue pokes out to moisten them. "You don't mean that."

Thom looks at him, and frowns. "Yeah, I do. That's why - that's why you ask -"

"I haven't, though," Jonny says, eyelids fluttering dreamily. He bends towards Thom, and Thom can smell the alcohol on his breath, and other things, but what he feels is the warm hand that lands on his groin and squeezes gently, and what he hears is the low chuckle that escapes Jonny's throat at discovering he's hard. "But, maybe..." and his head drops to Thom's lap as clever fingers fumble with buttons and zips. His skin burns Thom through the thick denim.

"Jon, what are you doing?" Thom says. He should be stopping this, he knows, but his hands stay uselessly at his sides. He's a spectator in his own body.

Jonny's face is earnest and serious as he looks up at Thom. "This is me, asking," he says, plucking at Thom's waistband. His fingers hook inside and draw it down and something screams loud and red inside Thom's head - stop it, get off, tell him you can't - but his trousers are round his knees by the time he slaps Jonny's questing hands away.

"Don't. Please."

He hopes he imagines the tears in Jonny's voice. "Why?"

"Because - because you aren't you. You're someone else."

Jonny glances down at his hands, now lying passively in his lap, and shakes his head as though trying to clear it. There's a fine sheen of perspiration on his forehead which Thom tries not to worry about, because the room is cold and Thom's own hands are almost numb with it. "I'm me," he whispers.

"Do you even know who that is?" Thom knows he's being hard with him, but he can't help it. "Is that what all of this was about? Trying to find us again?"

Jonny doesn't look up, and it's an answer in itself.

Thom leans across and kisses him, and tastes chemicals on his lips. Jonny smiles a funeral smile as he falls back on the blankets, long lashes dusting his cheekbones, and Thom has an inexplicable urge to slap the expression right off his face. He doesn't. What he does is to roll Jonny over and tug down his jeans, dig one sharp elbow in the small of his back and pin him to the bed. Jonny mumbles quietly, words too slurred to make sense. His long limbs are limp and heavy when Thom pushes his thighs apart; he's too far gone now to struggle. Thom licks a line up his spine, salt and sweat and something that isn't Jonny at all; and then he spreads Jonny open and lets his tongue drag lower, with a sick thrill of satisfaction when the body beneath his shudders in protest.

"Thmmm -" Jonny begins. Thom raises his head and sees the familiar achingly beautiful face turned against the pillow, lips parted on a moan; Jonny's eyes are wide open but unseeing, fixed on middle-distance as his brow creases in confusion. He licks again, turning the moan into a high whine, and slips in his fingers where his mouth was before.

"Thom," Jonny hisses. "Hnnnnnhh... nnnnno..."

There's a small, vicious place deep inside Thom, and that's where he retreats now. "Shut up. You wanted this. Be fair -" and he kneels up, hands finding purchase on Jonny's wrists, and pushes into him in one long, slow stroke.

Jonny doesn't scream or cry like he would have done in Thom's head. He lies there, patient, while Thom settles against his back, and murmurs a soft 'oh' when Thom brushes that secret spot inside him. Thom lays his head between the other boy's shoulderblades, their racing heartbeats pounding in his ears, and feels unnaturally warm skin and the trembling of overwraught muscles beneath his cheek. Jonny's breath hitches with the tiniest of dry, broken sobs. It isn't love; it isn't sex; it's not even fucking like Jonny asked for; it's the sound of two people falling apart together.

Later - seconds, minutes, hours - Thom comes. Jonny doesn't. Thom helps the younger man to the cramped bathroom, sits him up beside the toilet, makes sure Jonny doesn't choke to death when he vomits, tilts a plastic cup of cold water to flushed lips, and realises this is enough for him. Just to watch as the other man puts one foot in front of the other, just to hold his hand through bad times, just to pick up the pieces when he breaks. He smiles when Jonny tells him he loves him, because he knows they're not Jonny's words.

They can go on pretending, just for a while.

Radioshoulder

A LAMEASS NON-CAKEY BIRTHDAY CAKE FOR KORA (WARNING: DOES NOT CONTAIN RH MEMBERS)(BUT IS LAME)

Once upon a time there was a boysband called Radioshoulder, who had massive hits with their happy up-tempo Eurodance music. They’d been best friends for ages, but for the first time ever there was a certain tension in the air. Their new album, Cancel PC, had just come out, but the music press didn’t appear too interested in them. Poor Thod was on the verge of a breakdown when the others decided to gather for a serious meeting. The future of Radioshoulder was in their hands.

On a sunny Monday morning, eight o’clock sharp, all four members filed into the studio. Well, five, since Rodney had decided to come along. But Rodney wasn’t –really- part of the band. He only made sculptures for the stage design. They just didn’t have the heart to tell him.
Jimmy was the first to speak.

“Alright guyth, we need Thod to feel better, ‘cauthe I can’t take it anymore. I have needth too! He won’t even let me blow him anymore,” Jimmy sulked. At this, Rodney automatically clasped his hands around his ears and started murmuring to himself, a cloud of dust surrounding him when he moved his arms. Rodney’s clothes were always dusty from sculpting. Colan, who was sitting next to him, broke out in a coughing fit.

“I could take him to play cricket with me? Playing cricket always makes my day,” Ted offered, “I have a set in the storage room here.” At these words, Jimmy turned beet red and looked down at his hands.

“What?” said Ed. Jimmy coughed.

“Er, Ted, you er… might want to buy a new paddle for that,” he mumbled, not looking up.

“That’s not a paddle, that’s a cricket bat!” Ted shouted. Ted was rather defensive when it came to cricket.

“That’th not what we uthed it for,” Jimmy said smugly, before turning an even darker shade of red. Colan started coughing again as a cloud of dust floated his way. Ted was about to open his mouth when Colan interrupted him.

“RODNEY! Stop moving!” he yelled at Rodney. “Anyway, I have a better idea. I read a maaaaaaaarvellous book on pre-Columbian civilisation in Latin America and there’s this ancient village called Nasca where the people used to make drawings in the sand-“

“Drawings in the sand? Colan, are you serious? Thod’s having a breakdown and you suggest drawing stuff in sand? What’s wrong with playing cricket? It’s a scientific fact that sports release endorphines-” Ted began, before he was cut off by Bill.
Bill hadn’t said a word since they came in. However, that’s just how Bill was. Always the quiet one. When Bill took the effort to speak up, you listened. So as Bill opened his mouth, the others fell silent immediately.

“What if-“ Bill coughed a bit, his voice wasn’t used to speaking a lot, “what if we shave his head?”

The other members of Radioshoulder gaped at him. No one dared suggest that it might be a silly idea. Not to Bill. After all, his nickname wasn’t Mad Cow for nothing. After a long moment of gaping, Colan was brave enough to ask him how he thought Thod would benefit from it.

“It’s pure logic. I’ve never had a breakdown. And what do I have that Thod doesn’t? It’s easy, he just needs to get rid of that horrid mullet."

At hearing this, the others gasped. Mullets were totally in fashion and they were all convinced that they were the secret behind Radioshoulder’s success. Apart from Bill, everyone had a mullet. Except Rodney. But Rodney wasn’t –really- part of the band. He only made sculptures for the stage design. They just didn’t have the heart to tell him. Jimmy started sobbing, saying he couldn’t live without Thod’s mullet.

“I need thomething to hold onto when he blowth me,” he sniffed. Colan was quick this time and kept Rodney’s hands pinned to the table.

“Well, I guess we’ll just have to go on tour and see how he takes it,” Ted sighed. Colan’s face lightened up.

“That’s it!” he exclaimed, and started jumping up and down, flapping his arms. “Ted, you have the most maaaaaaarvellous ideas,” he swooned and stroked Ted’s manly chest through his pink stripey tank top.

“I don’t underthtand,” said Jimmy whilst blowing his nose in Ted’s scarf.

“Thod loves touring! We just have to go on a long crazy world tour and everything’ll be fine! We can fly straight to Japan! We’ll travel to the future, it’ll be maaaaaaarvellous!” Colan couldn’t stop jumping, so Ted had to pull him onto his lap to keep him still. They shot each other shifty glances whilst Bill spoke up again.

"We can't go on a world tour if people aren't interested in us, boys. We need publicity."

The others nodded knowingly.

"I know!" Colan yelled. "We'll just leak the pictures of Thod paddling Jimmy! A sex scandal always does the trick," he added knowingly.

"What??" said Ted and Jimmy simultaneously. "There are pictures?" Jimmy asked.

"You knew about my cricket bat?" Ted asked. He looked a little hurt.

"Great idea, Colan," said Bill. "Let's go to the Sun editors right now!"

"But-" said Jimmy, and Colan cut him off.

"Indeed, Jimmy, and not just anyone's butt, YOUR butt! It'll be famous! The entire world will want to see it for themselves, we'll have millions of fans!" Colin tried to jump up and down again but Ted had him in a firm grasp, which resulted in Colan grinding against Ted's crotch. Ted's eyes rolled back and he quickly stood up, dragging Colan after him, and all four Radioshoulder members (five, if you included Rodney. But Rodney wasn’t –really- part of the band. He only made sculptures for the stage design. They just didn’t have the heart to tell him.) went straight to the Sun office.

Two days later Radioshoulder had a full world tour schedule which was sold out in minutes. Thod was pleased with the sudden attention from press and fans and the coming two years of touring were a great success. Thod never shaved his head, for which Jimmy was glad. Bill was just glad he could tour. Ted and Colan, well... they hooked up, and since Rodney from then on had to deal with two gay couples in front of him, he was permanently surrounded by a cloud of dust.

THE (LAME) END