Nox est perpetua una dormienda

There was a ray of sunlight cutting through one of the high gymnasium windows, falling directly onto his exam paper. He squinted at it while he finished his final line of writing with a flourish, a small inner part of him leaping in joy as he glanced at the big clock in the front of the exam hall, where the hands were ticking down the last three minutes until half past four and blessed freedom.

The boy at the desk in front of him had red-blond hair that caught the sunshine like spun gold. He was tapping a rhythm against the table leg with the side of his shoe, and Jonny surreptitiously underlaid it with the syncopated beat of his biro on the edge of his pencil case. A bee was buzzing lazily around one of the light fittings; some students who had completed their papers were following its languorous path with dulled eyes and slack mouths, their blazers abandoned over the backs of chairs and their ties loosened in a futile attempt to cool down. The almost intolerable heat of the room was barely alleviated by the open door onto the playing field.

“Please stop writing now,” came the voice of the invigilator from the front desk, and like a ripple spreading on the surface of a stagnant pond, a shuffle and murmur echoed around the hall as a hundred pens were set down and a hundred answer booklets were closed. Jonny sat back, stretching out with legs extended and arms folded behind his head, until papers were collected and they were dismissed; and then he unfolded himself from his chair, Latin anthology clutched under one arm, gathering his schoolbag from the back of the hall and discarding blazer and tie even before he'd escaped through the door and was haring off across the field towards the wall, and the road, and summer.

A small group of older boys waited for him in the shade of one of the trees that lined the avenue in front of the school. They looked like the kind of group that boys of his age were warned about: a Bad Influence, the Scourge of Society, lackadaisical layabouts who would Come To a Bad End. Jonny, of course, knew better; those boys had been his only real friends for the past four years. There was his brother, heading the little welcome committee, and his insides gave an uneasy jolt at the duality of emotions that seeing Colin always stirred in him. Colin's hair had already grown long enough during his first year at university that their mother had threatened to take a pair of shears to it when they'd greeted him off the train in Oxford, and he was wearing a stripy boatneck top that he'd pilfered out of their sister's wardrobe. Jonny, at two and a half years younger, already had to bend down into the brief hug that they exchanged, relishing the comforting sensation of the slim hard body pressed up against his, the familiar scent that both calmed him and quickened his pulse in a way that made his stomach churn.

“Ahhhhh, little Jon-Jon, all grown up,” Thom snickered, hovering at Colin's elbow and shattering the moment. He was the only one of the group who'd watched Jonny's gradual metamorphosis in the past nine months from awkward, gangly teenager into something more self-assured, having taken a year out from school; his hair was the same red-gold as that of the boy who'd sat in front of Jonny, and it caught the sun in the same way. Philip, on the other hand, the oldest of their group, appeared to have lost even more up top, and was hiding the fact under an ill-advised Indian-style hat. Ed, someone that Jonny had always regarded with something approaching awe, was slightly fuzzy in a vague cloud of pot smoke, but less coolly aloof than he'd ever seemed before. This was the first time they'd all been together since Christmas, and Jonny could already sense the changes happening, giving him a pleasant tingle in his stomach.

“Leave the poor boy alone, Thom.” That was Ed, he and his awful bowl-cut looming large over the heads of the others; he leaned over and plucked the Latin anthology from Jonny's hands, snorting as he did so. “Just think about it, Jon – no more Latin, ever!”

As they began to drift towards the town centre, Ed flipped through the book, with Thom adding snide interjections whenever they came across something that amused them.

“I like Latin,” Jonny protested faintly, aware of Colin's presence bristling at Ed and Thom's attitude.

“Yeah, but, it's dead, isn't it?” Thom reasoned. He had a cigarette out now, pinned between short nailbitten fingers, dragging on it furiously as they walked. “You seriously aren't taking it next year, are you?”

“Well, no, but -”

“Ha, see?” Thom interrupted triumphantly. “Dead.”

“It's not dead, Thom,” Colin said, reaching for the book, which Ed held out of reach until the smaller boy gave up. “You two are such philistines. And since when aren't you taking it next year, Jon?” he added in an aside to his brother. “You ought to study one foreign language at least, and I know it's not going to be French...”

Jonny blushed. He was notoriously awful at French, something which had been a constant source of irritation to Colin, and was dreading exam results day and Colin's inevitable disappointment at his French marks. “It was Latin or psychology, Cozzie,” he said pleadingly. “And, well, I thought psychology would be more useful in the long run...” He trailed off under Colin's searching gaze, holding his breath until Colin nodded and gave him a fond smile.

“I'm glad you're thinking of your future, Jon,” he said, reaching over and ruffling Jonny's hair affectionately until the younger boy ducked up from under his arm and hid behind Phil.

“Psychology?” Thom said curiously, pulling a strand of green licorice from somewhere about his person and chewing thoughtfully on the end of it in between puffs from his cigarette. “Does that mean you're going to start psychoanalysing all of us?”

“No one needs to psychoanalyse you, we already know you're a nutter,” Ed put in without looking up from the Latin book. “Hey Jon, is there any sex in all this rubbish? I've forgotten most of my Latin.”

Thom stubbed the cigarette out on the wall of the next house they passed, looking over Ed's arm at the book and rolling his eyes. “There's never any sex, Ed. They don't put that stuff in the O-level books.”

“It's GCSEs now,” Jonny pointed out quietly, and Thom grinned.

“It's all the same thing. Anyway, yeah, they don't put sex in books for sixteen-year-olds, you're not supposed to know that stuff yet. I bet Jon-Jon doesn't, he's still pure as the driven snow, aren't you? You should see him, it's hysterical, every time a girl talks to him he practically falls through the floor in mortification...”

Colin punched him on the arm hard enough that Thom yelped in indignation. “That's my little brother you're talking about, watch it.” But his eyes had turned to Jonny, questioning. “What's this about girls, Jon? What girls?”

Jonny could have sworn that time slowed down in the few yards that they walked between Colin's question and his own answer. He looked down at his hands, clutching his blazer and tie and the strap of his bag, feeling the familiar sensation of colour rising in his cheeks. “It's nothing. Just some townies.”

Thom was half-howling with laughter. “They think it's funny to ask him out and see his reaction,” he explained, the string of partially chewed licorice hanging disgustingly out of the corner of his mouth. “They're a bunch of ugly slags, anyway. Nowhere near good enough for our Jon-Jon. Anyway, maybe you'll meet some girls who are worth it at Ed's party tonight, he knows all the laydeez.” He nudged Jonny's side with the point of one sharp elbow and Jonny squirmed away, knowing that Colin was still watching him.

They had reached the pond where they'd frequently hung out the previous summer, sheltered from the worst of the afternoon sun by tall, broad-leafed trees whose branches waved languidly in the gentlest of gentle breezes. In the shadows, the occasional silver flash of a timid fish could be seen; Thom and Jonny had been in the habit of feeding them bits of bread back in the spring, when boredom gave them nothing else to do.

“Why don't you chuck the bloody book away?” Ed suggested, holding it out with one long arm over the still surface of the water. “It's not like you need it any more, is it?”

“We could burn it,” Thom said encouragingly, sucking the end of the licorice through his lips like a strand of spaghetti and licking his sticky fingers.

“I don't believe you lot,” Colin said huffily, as Jonny jettisoned his schoolbag and blazer and sank to the ground at the foot of the wall around the pond and Ed continued to leaf through the Latin anthology. “Just because he's finished his course doesn't mean he should chuck away all his material. If you're going to discard things as soon as you've learned them you might as well not bother in the first place.”

Jonny silently considered jumping into the argument to point out that although he liked Latin he didn't exactly plan on committing everything he'd learned to memory, but since Colin always acted so hurt if Jonny backed up any of the others instead of him, he decided that it wasn't worth the trouble, especially since Colin was already so worked up over the stupid book. He picked up a stick and sketched a flower in the dirt at his feet, pretending that he wasn't listening to the others.

“It's paper, it's biodegradable, if that's what you're worried about,” Thom was saying, as he kicked off his battered trainers and clambered onto the wall so that he could throw stones and skim his bare toes in the water.

“I don't think any fish ever died from eating Latin,” Phil added helpfully

“Hey, this one's got lesbians in it,” Ed piped up, squinting at one dog-eared page, and Phil and Thom's attentions were diverted. “Catullus 5...” He put on a dramatic voice. “Vivamus mea Lesbia... my lesbians?”

Colin gave a loud, long-suffering sigh. “Edward, if you'd paid any attention in Latin at all, you'd know that was a singular and not a plural. Mea Lesbia... my Lesbia, Ed. It's a woman's name.”

Thom sniggered. “A dykey woman's name.”

“No, it's not,” Colin snapped, snatching the book from Ed's hands and clearing his throat. “Lesbia was the woman that Catullus was in love with, and a lot of people think she was actually a woman called Clodia, who was the wife of a Roman senator. In the poem he's urging her to disregard the rumours in the senate, saying that they should live only for each other, because they have so little time in the grand scheme of things. Here, listen...”

And as he began to read from the book, Jonny found himself pinned against the wall by the force of his brother's gaze, the passion in his voice matching the cold fire in his eyes as his lips and tongue formed the strange, foreign words.

“Vivamus mea Lesbia, atque amemus,
rumoresque senum severiorum
omnes unius aestimemus assis!
soles occidere et redire possunt:
nobis cum semel occidit brevis lux,
nox est perpetua una dormienda.
da mi basia mille, deinde centum,
dein mille altera, dein secunda centum,
deinde usque altera mille, deinde centum.
dein, cum milia multa fecerimus,
conturbabimus illa, ne sciamus,
aut ne quis malus inuidere possit,
cum tantum sciat esse basiorum.”

There was a brief silence after that; and then both Ed and Thom dissolved into helpless giggles.

“You're the gayest nerd that ever lived, Coz,” Thom informed Colin, jumping down off the wall, pulling on his trainers and grabbing hold of Jonny's arm to haul the younger boy to his feet. “Come on, up you get. Don't want to be late for the party, I know what you girls are like.” At which he and Ed started giggling again, and didn't stop until they had parted ways for their respective houses, leaving Colin and Jonny to complete the journey to their own home alone. Colin was cheerful enough, chatting away about things that went in one of Jonny's ears and out the other; but later, when they were home and Colin was fixing cold drinks and snacks for the pair of them, there was a calculated iciness to the hard glances he threw Jonny's way that left Jonny in no doubt of what that earlier display had been about. It was a warning; a warning to remember who he belonged to, to be certain that he wouldn't forget himself at the party. A reminder of where his loyalties lay.

Unfinished stories

“You ‘picked up writing’.” Thom blinks, then goes back to tracing patterns on Colin's bed sheets with his index finger. It's four a.m., and they're both more drunk than they think they are.

“Yes,” says Colin, sipping from an almost empty glass of wine. It’s his fourth.

“What kind of writing? I bet it’s all smart-arsed Cambridge-y columns you’ll end up getting published at forty-six,” Thom snorts, and lets his head fall back against the wall with a thud. He doesn't realise he's emphasising the name of the university in a snotty, childish way. It's how he says it in his head all the time.

“Actually, no. Stories.” Colin fills his glass for the fifth time and Thom’s for the sixth.
“People’s stories, you know. As in, the stories behind people.” Colin is slurring a bit. Thom just nods drunkenly and tries to keep his hand still when his glass is filled with more wine.

“What about our story?”

Colin appears to be thinking deeply.

“Ours is… unfinished. I’m waiting for it to finish.” He waves the hand that’s holding the wine glass, for drama.

“D’you want me to show you how it continues?” Thom asks, grinning, and spills his glass on the sheets as he leans over.

Colin already knows how it’ll finish. And he knows it isn’t pretty. He’s seen the first signs of a looming plot, dark and full of pain. But he decides that for now he’ll play along. And who knows, maybe he’ll succeed in stretching out this chapter a bit further. After all, he’s the writer.

We Are One, Madly

the more that i struggle
the further i get in trouble
the more i erase you
the more you appear
any other time
any other time
please
not now

never ever never
ever never ever
pick up the phone

calm down
take three of these
with a glass of water
shut up

oh no it doesn’t
oh yes it does
you should be with me
we should be together
no we shouldn’t
no
we shouldn’t

oh dear how sad
never mind
oh dear how sad
never mind

pass it round
down is the new up



I can’t remember us deciding to come down here. Maybe it was a silent agreement, a sense of mutual understanding. We have our moments. I think you said something about your flat and I somehow ended up buying tickets. I still don’t know what we were thinking. It’s November, for Christ’s sake. The town is full of old, retired people, some in wheelchairs, some with a raspy cough, some bent over as if they were carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders. In a way I feel like I’m retired, too. Well, money-wise I could retire about seven times in a row, but that’s not the point. The point is that the band is on hold for an indefinite time and I don’t even know whether we’ll ever start up again. I want so desperately to get started again, but the fear is completely mind-numbing. I can’t do anything these days. Except write. Not lyrics, sadly. Just… anything else. The only data my laptop is currently carrying is music and text. File after file full of thoughts, observations, desire, fear, the occasional silly rant I almost delete before I remember I promised myself I wouldn’t. But I can’t write lyrics, can I, when there’s no music to carry them?

The clock on the nightstand says 19:38 and I’m too tired to convert the data to the twelve-hour system, but it must be rather late ‘cause the curtains are a yellowish shade from the street lamp outside. And my stomach is rumbling. I haven’t eaten since this morning, I realise suddenly. I turn my head to the side and look at you, but you keep breathing in the same comatose pattern. I remember that I used to be scared. I used to think that it was simply impossible for someone to breathe this slowly and still get enough oxygen to get through the night. Now I’m at the point where I recognise your various breathing patterns, and that brings me back to the initial cause of my insomnia.

This very flat has brought me so much despair for the past few years. Now I’m here myself, and not separated from you by three thousand miles of land and sea and family bonds, waiting for a postcard in the mail with a cryptic message only I’d be able to understand, and laughing maniacally in front of everyone else when it arrives and cry silently on the toilet after because it hurts so much. So many times I’ve envisioned myself here. In desperate attempts to escape reality I’ve been here numerous times, my dream self knows the place inside out, yet when I stepped through the door yesterday I felt nauseous and uncomfortable, and I almost took my shoes off in the hallway until you looked at me, lifting an eyebrow.

We dropped our bags and left to go for a walk on the beach. It was windy outside, but the sun was still shining rather stubbornly for a November day. The beach was rather deserted, but then I guess people here in Israel have different standards on what’s a good day to go to the beach. We spent some time digging a hole a few inches deep, big enough to fit the both of us in there and shield us from the wind, and we let the rest of the afternoon creep by, curled up in our own little spot, dozing off in the sun, our hands barely touching.

When we were back at the flat I think we both suddenly realised what we had done. You were looking incredibly uncomfortable, and when the phone rang I swear you jumped so violently you almost knocked a hole in the wall. You let it ring twice before picking up, all the while pointing between me and the guest room almost in an angry manner. As if I wanted to stay. I can think of about a million things I’d rather do than listen to you lying to your wife because of me. I grabbed my bag and silently closed the door behind me before flopping face down on the bed. I distantly remember you opening the door and murmuring something about groceries, and when I woke up after not realising I’d fallen asleep, the place was filled with a fantastic smell. My stomach growled in agreement when I lifted myself up to hunt down the scent.

Still in my sandy clothes but barefoot now, I stepped into the half-open kitchen and found you hunched over the furnace, humming along to a jazzy tune, your shoulder blades moving with the rhythm of your hand rummaging in the pan before you. I felt a sudden rush, a painful want, to slide up against you from behind and run my hands down your chest, just feel your body heat. Just… smell you. Just bury my nose in that spot between those bony shoulder blades and inhale deeply. But it had been too long and I didn’t want to ruin things. I hated myself for not knowing where we were standing. I didn’t know what to do to make things back to what they used to be. Less cautious, less thinking, more feeling.

A whiff of pepper flew in my direction and I sneezed. You jumped, but stayed where you were, your back to me.

“Sleep well?”

“Yeah.” I wanted so desperately to move closer. “Pancakes?”

“Melawach.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’ll like it, I think.”

You know me. You know what I like before I’ve decided on it. I’ve learnt to trust you when you say I’ll like something, even if it has a name that sounds like a terrorist organisation. So I set the table and waited. And waited. And when I was about to burst, I walked up to you just as you turned around with a pot full of hot water and two boiled eggs, and I felt so clumsy as I saw you step back and spill a bit of water on the floor. I just stared at you with what must’ve been an extremely sad puppy face, because you set the pot down on the table and slowly pulled me into a hug. I shivered at the contact, but my shoulders relaxed by themselves after a few moments. You planted the softest of kisses in my hair.

“Let’s eat first, okay?”

I sniffed and dipped a sweater-covered finger in the corner of my eye.

“Yeah,” I said, my voice wavering a little.

Le tablier

Immediately after arriving at Colin's place, Ed smelled something tasty coming from the kitchen. A very pleasant smell was filling the whole house and promising an enjoyable dinner. He hurried over to the kitchen straight away where Colin was standing showing his back to him, wearing the apron Ed bought him for his birthday. When Colin realised that he wasn't alone anymore, he turned around, with a big smile on his face.

"What are you cooking?"

"You know, I have found this amazing recipe in that old French cook book you had lying on a bookshelf in your bedroom. How could you not tried some of them throughout all these years? I've been literally drooling over them for the past three hours!" he exclaimed enthusiastically.

Ed glanced over at the kitchen table and there he saw a bottle of champagne, accompanied with two glasses, and a plate full of cheese and olives.

"So what I'm making now is called coq au vin. You've come just in time; it's ready now." Colin added, put the chicken on two plates and put them on the table. "Would you like to sit down? Don't start eating just yet, close your eyes and I'll be right back!"

Ed obeyed him without a question and waited patiently for Colin to return. It didn't took long for him to return and say "Ouvre les yeux, c'est fait!" He lay two small bowls filled with mousse au chocolat and looked Ed into his eyes.

"It's perfect!" he said.

"No, you should say 'C'est parfait.'" answered Colin in impeccable French and sat down. "Bon appétit!"

With the dinner nearing its end, Ed was getting impatient to see what was following. Colin wouldn't invite him to come over just to eat dinner, would he? He wanted something more and couldn't wait to take off Colin's apron and explore what was under it.

"It's called le tablier, Ed." Colin said as if he was reading Ed's mind.

Birthday CAKE for Lee

Thom came stumbling in the hotel room, flushed and soaked with sweat. No, on second thought, that was probably sunburn. The white shorts Ed had lent him were clinging to his legs for dear life. Probably the only reason why they hadn't slipped off his hips yet.

Jonny turned slowly away from the laptop and stared at him.

"You went jogging."

"Yes," Thom replied happily.

"On Ipanema Beach."

"Yes," Thom said again, grabbing a towel from the rack in the bathroom and starting to dry his forehead.

"You're all over the internet."

"I know. Well, I would've thought so."

Jonny rubbed his eyes.

"Are you coming tonight? We're going swimming in the ocean," Thom announced.

Jonny let out a barking laugh, then screwed his face back to serious.

"No."

"Your loss."

"My loss? They're going to pap you incessantly! Everyone knows you're here now. Every fan in the mere vicinity of this place will be waiting for you to show your face, they'll have a field day over your half-naked body!"

Thom laughs at this.

"That's what it's about then."

"That's no- what?"

"You're jealous. You want my sexy half-naked body all to yourself. Greed is a deadly sin, Jon-jon."

"So is stupidity, Thom-Thom. Look, just don't complain when your kids are home from school, crying after being bullied because of their father's back hair."

"Hypocrite. You always say you love my back."

"I say I don't mind it. I also say that if I close my eyes, I never know whether I'm touching your front or your back."

Within a second, Jonny was flat on his back on the bed, his face covered with a white hotel towel and his hips straddled with another pair.

"Mmdlbmdb!"

"What was that? I can't hear you," Thom smirked, then groaned after getting a knee in his back.

"The laptop, you fucker!" Jonny gasped after pulling off the towel.

"Your precious little Macbook Pro is doing just fine on its own, don't worry. You, on the other hand, could use a lesson."

Jonny moaned involuntarily as Thom rolled his hips.

"Get off me, Wolverine," he spat.

"Shut up and take it, Austin Powers," Thom growled as he shoved both Jonny's jeans -jeans, in this weather, jeez- and his own (well, Ed's) basketball shorts down, and with little preparation pushed in.

When Jonny was obviously near the edge, high-pitched whimpers almost inaudible due to stubborn repression, Thom decided it was time. He stopped moving completely and held Jonny's wrists above his head. He bent down and let his sunburnt face hover above Jonny's.

"Say it," he said calmly. "Say you love my back hair. Say you whisper loving praises to it when I'm asleep and you weave your fingers through it. Say it or I'm leaving right now."

Jonny closed his eyes and kept his lips firmly shut.

"Ten, nine, eight," Thom started. No sign from Jonny.

"...threee, twoo, oooone," Thom had slowed down to give Jonny a chance to give in.

"Zero," Thom yelled, let go of Jonny's wrists and started pulling out, as much as it pained him.

"Wait!" Jonny said, grabbing Thom's hips and securing them onto his own.

"I um."

"I'm waiting."

"I... love your back hair," Jonny sighed, obviously defeated.

"Stroke it lovingly."

"What?? Thom, I just-"

"Do it or I'm out," he commanded, rolling his hips a bit more for effect. Apparently that did the trick.
Jonny closed his eyes, pulled a face and trailed one hand along Thom's back.

Thom's face lit up in satisfaction and his hips started moving again, this time in forceful thrusts.

When Jonny was close again, Thom whispered in his ear:

"It wants me to tell you it loves you back."

"Aw Thom, that's gross!" Jonny whined, his erection distinctly softer.

Thom felt a tiny hint of pity and kissed him deeply while working his hand over Jonny's cock, giving him the orgasm he had deserved.

THE END.

We think the same things at the same time

Jonny was thirteen and thrown head first into puberty. He knew about the former, but was completely oblivious to the latter. He wasn’t blind, he had noticed hair developing in certain places on his body, he just didn’t think much of it. He’d started unconsciously picking out clothes to wear instead of just grabbing the first item from the T-shirt pile and combining it with the first item from the trousers pile. Even after waking up with a tented bedsheet Jonny still hadn’t clued in.

It was a sunny yet still mildly cold April afternoon break at school when the jigsaw fell into place. A boy called Nathan, a classmate of Jonny’s, an entire head taller and the proud owner of leg hair, had been talking and laughing to a few of his friends, when he suddenly turned around and faced Jonny.

It wasn’t the fact that he talked to Jonny that had startled him. Nathan was a fairly nice guy, despite his popularity. He had made it his mission to be liked by absolutely everyone, even the quiet wallflowers. So every once a while he would have a little chat with Jonny, though it was mostly about himself.

It was what he said that made Jonny stare back at him like he’d just been asked to solve the million dollar question.

“Come on, you can tell me.”

“Er.”

“I won’t tell her, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

But Jonny simply couldn’t come up with any girl he liked. A few seconds passed by with Jonny’s head being horribly empty. But Nathan was still there, smiling down at him.

“Out with it, Jonny, I’ve asked everyone and they all answered. It’s your turn.”

Jonny snapped back and started thinking a mile a minute. Everyone had answered. At least half of them would have chosen Elly, right? She was the female equivalent of Josh, in a way, and though she wasn’t very bright, somehow she had the gift of making everyone listen to her.

He quickly blurted out her name and crossed his fingers in the pockets of his jacket, hoping he’d said the right thing.

Nathan’s smile widened, and he nodded approvingly.

“I know, right? She’s hot. Bad luck, though, Ben saw her making out with Peter last week. Take care, Jonny.”

A pat on his shoulder and Nathan was off.

***

That evening found Jonny standing naked in front of the bathroom mirror. He was trying to see himself the way other people saw him.

Black hair. Brown eyes. That was easy. These were facts.
He was rather skinny, too, he figured. Nathan had shoulders. Jonny had bones wrapped in skin.
He looked down at his legs. There was a bit of hair growing on his thighs. Had it always been there? Jonny couldn’t remember. Jonny also couldn’t remember whether Colin had hair on his thighs. Colin definitely had pubic hair, though. He’d seen it more than once when stepping into the bathroom unannounced.
He checked his groin. A bit, yes. Not as much as Colin, though. His eyes fell onto his willy. No, his penis, that’s what it was called now, according to the sex education video they saw last year.
Definitely not as large as Colin’s. Yet. It was probably still growing, like the hair. He hoped it was, then realised he didn’t know exactly why he was hoping for that, actually.

Jonny looked back up to his face. His eyes were average, he thought. He decided that his nose was a little large, but still okay. He did have rather girly lips, didn’t he? He tried to suck them in a bit. Yes, that was better. That was more normal. He couldn’t keep them that way for long, though.
Jonny pulled the corners of his mouth up in a forced smile.
His teeth. There was something about his teeth that wasn’t average. He didn’t notice other people’s teeth as much when they opened their mouth. They were tucked in a bit better than Jonny’s were. He thought of the boy two years above him, with the braces. He had metal wires running around his head and into his mouth. They said that it was very expensive and would make his teeth look better. If nothing else, it looked extremely painful and silly. Jonny decided that even if they would be able to afford it, he didn’t want to walk around school wearing that on his head.
Jonny closed his mouth again. This was better. Now his face looked fairly normal. He turned ninety degrees to check his profile, peering at the mirror with one eye. Nothing wrong there. He turned back and tried the smile again, now covering his mouth with his hand. Also okay. He pulled his hand down again. Not okay. The teeth were rather difficult not to notice. Other people would certainly notice them, too. He tried the smile with hand once more. Definitely better.

***

There were battered black boots under the stairs in the hallway. Those were definitely not Colin’s. Besides, Colin’s were neatly placed next to them. Jonny looked up, but his brother’s door was closed. Which didn’t stop the sound of a distorted guitar from filtering through. Jonny shrugged and went into the kitchen.

Not much later, the kitchen door opened and Colin walked in, followed by someone Jonny didn’t know.

“Jon, can you peel the potatoes today? I’ll be back before dinner. Do you need something to drink?”

Jonny started to reply a no, thanks, but his answer was cut off by an identical one, coming from the boy Jonny didn’t know. It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen him before. He went to the same school as Colin and he did, but that was all he knew.

“That’s your job. I set the table,” Jonny replied honestly.

“Don’t be a prick, Jonny, it’s not like you have homework or anything. And peel them, don’t just make them square.”

Jonny actually did have homework. Also, he didn’t know how to peel a potato the way Colin and his mum did. That’s why his job was to set the table. But he said nothing. Anything he would’ve said would’ve been too late anyway, because Colin was already out the door, his friend following suit.

***

The next week the boy was back. He was wearing a t-shirt that said W.A.S.T.E. and had a drawing on it that looked like it was made by Jonny’s three year old cousin Ricky. This time Colin and him were talking in the kitchen, and Jonny couldn’t help but notice how deep the boy’s voice was. He was rather short and looked younger than Colin, but the voice evened it out again. Jonny liked the sound of it. It buzzed at a low frequency somewhere in his throat, something Colin’s voice didn’t do.

Jonny pretended to just grab a glass of water to be able to hear what they were talking about, but they stopped talking as soon as they noticed him.

“Very good record,” Colin then said a little enthusiastically, but his eyes were saying something else.

“Very,” the boy agreed immediately, and laughed.

“That’s Jonny,” Jonny heard Colin say as he poured himself a glass. He turned around and noticed that they were both looking at him. He felt the blush creeping up from his neck to his cheeks and quickly averted his eyes again.

“Jon, this is Thom,” Colin said, and excused himself to the bathroom.

Jonny wanted to curse his brother for leaving him alone with a stranger, worse even, introducing him to a stranger and then leaving him alone with him. Jonny wasn’t good with strangers. Especially not when they had blue eyes that were practically piercing through him. Well, to be fair, he wasn’t sure about the right one, ‘cause it was half shut.
The boy called Thom then approached Jonny.

“Hi,” he said in his buzzing voice.

“Er, hi,” Jonny said, then took a sip from his glass just to give himself an attitude.

“I’ve seen you around in school,” the boy said, and it was obvious he was trying to make conversation to pass the time until Colin returned.

Jonny didn’t reply. He was secretly still looking at the boy’s right eye. It looked tired.

“What,” the boy called Thom asked, a hint of annoyance entering his voice.

“You have a weird eye.”

Jonny could’ve slapped himself. He was just being honest, but sometimes honesty wasn’t the right decision. Like it wasn’t now.

“You have weird teeth.”

Thom hadn’t missed a beat. He was looking at Jonny in a bit of a challenging way.

“I know.”

Jonny couldn’t help but smile a bit. They were definitely bonding. Over their flaws, of all things.

“You’re also rather short,” Jonny offered.

“You-“

Thom looked him up and down. And again. His mouth was hanging slightly open, still mid-speak.

“Don’t push it,” he snarled, and turned to the door when he heard Colin entering. They left soon after, leaving Jonny with his glass of water.

Whoops. That hadn’t ended well. Jonny made a mental note not to ever start a conversation with a stranger about flaws again. But. Did he just… Jonny couldn’t know for sure, but it seemed for a minute as if Thom hadn’t been able to point out a second flaw about Jonny. Jonny thought about all the things the boy could have mentioned, all the things about his body that had started to annoy him lately. His lips, his hair, the dent in his chin. His skinniness, the way his shoulders hung a bit, the way his knees would point towards instead of away from each other when he walked.

Maybe all those things weren’t as bad after all.

"Thom Yorke, you are a fucking bastard."

Thom Yorke, you are a fucking bastard.


Well, maybe I am too, I don’t know. I mean, after all, you’re the one who finally had enough courage to try and make a move on me and I’m the one who pushed you away so roughly you nearly fell. The image of the sheer hurt on your face after I pushed you is stuck in my mind and will be haunting me forever.

But then again, it was only a few hours ago. And there you are already, flirting shamelessly with some girl, a girl Thom, really? Who the fuck are you trying to fool?

You’re putting up a whole show for me, and it’s not even a bad show, I must give you that. Watching you as you half smile at that girl, as you keep touching your lips when she speaks, as you lean closer to her with every sentence is quiet fascinating and I lean back, taking another sip from my drink.

You’ve been drinking, of course you have, you had to drink to bring yourself into this state, you had to drink so you could start pretending you’re actually interested in her, to forget about the insult of my rejection.

Why did I reject you then?

I know it sounds stupid, and you’re probably not even going to believe me, but I did it because I want you too much, because I’ve been wanting you for too long and because somewhere in my mind it just didn’t make any sense that you might want me back. So my instinct was to push you away and then it was too late, you were gone, didn’t even give me a chance to regret.

Now I’m sitting in this god forsaken club alone, watching the back of your skull as you whisper something into that girl's ear. She really doesn’t know what hit her, the poor thing, one moment she was just sitting there all by her self, having a drink, and the next- a half drunk rock star with red hair and an attitude is all over her, trying to win her as a comfort prize.

How far will you go, Thom? Will you kiss her, will you take her to the back and fuck her in some dark sticky corner? How long until your senses will be blurry enough that it wouldn’t even matter to you anymore whose lips you’re kissing?

Just like you were reading my thoughts I see you jump off your chair, emptying the remnants of your beer down your throat as you grab her hand and pull her along with you to a corridor at the back of the club, a little smile of victory on your face. You're looking at me, straight into my eyes with that smile and I know what you’re thinking.

He deserves it.

Maybe I do deserve it, I don’t know. Maybe you’re just an idiot. Either way, there we are, you’re with that girl and I’m here on this couch and I feel like I have to do something or I’ll explode so I jump up and follow you, whatever it is I’ll have to do, I’m going to stop this sick little game of yours right now.

I can see you now but you can’t see me. I freeze at my spot and watch you for a couple of moments before making my move. You're standing in a deserted dark loading area at the back of the club and you’re already at this girl, both of your hands in her hair and your lips at her neck while she starts pealing your leather jacket off your shoulders. I hear you moan and something inside me falls off and shutters into a million pieces and I can’t stand still anymore so I jump right in front of you and scream:

“Thom!” And I slap your stunned face before you have any chance of reacting. The girl shrieks and jumps away from you as you run a hand over your reddening cheek and I can almost appreciate the comic value of this scene.

The rage on your face is something that might return to me in my nightmares and I only have a second to admire it before you pin me against the wall, your hands gripping my shoulders and your forehead pressed to mine. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing Jonny?!?”

The girl is screaming by now and you take a moment to turn over to her and scream at her to fuck off, how very noble of you. She follows your orders because you don’t really mess with someone that has people pinned into walls and four different types of red on the skin of their faces.

You’re fucking scary when you’re angry, Thom.

But I’m not afraid of you. I just look you in the eye until you let go of me and then I double up, my hands dramatically gripping my stomach and a scream of pain is hanging in the air above us as you follow me to the filthy ground, a look of horror on you face.

"Jonny, Jonny?!" is all you manage to say out of your shock and you grab me in your arms and move my hair away and then it's one of those moments that in real life last only half of a second but in our minds we see them in slow motion, because we already know how they will change everything, perhaps forever, because in our minds we are already regretting them. But I have no time for regret now, I need to be focused and sharp as I take advantage of your absolute vulnerability to flip us over and watch the worry in your eyes turn into complete amazement, shock and then rage, just pure rage, and then-

then you struggle.

God how you struggle, using your nails and teeth like a trapped animal but I'm stronger and I manage to somehow pin you beneath me. I try kissing you but you only struggle more, cursing me and the day I was born and I look around us to find something, anything that would help me calm you down, I think I can see blood now but I don't know if it's yours or mine and then my eyes spot your tie, of course, your tie! It's hanging around your neck, loose enough so I can easily take it off and try using it to tie your slender wrists together.

At first, when you realize what I'm doing you just stare at me amazed and your struggle dies out. But that blessed silence goes on for a mere second and then it's all teeth and curses again so I just cover your lips with mine, not in a kiss yet but just in a firm notation that you're mine now, that you don't have a choice, that you should give up the struggle.

But you're Thom Yorke, and you're the most stubborn person I know, and somewhere deep inside I do know that you won't give up so easily. It's when you bite my lip and I taste blood (I know it's mine now) that I decide to shove my hand down your trousers and to my surprise you're fully hard, I smile against you as you try to wriggle yourself away from me with not much success. I am stronger, Thomas.

I stroke you and I can almost feel your inner struggle, the part of you that is still hurt, still angry with me is making you move your head away from mine and a breathy "Stop" is all you manage because the other part of you, the one that has been wanting this for years now is taking you over and making you move against me in need, flutter your eyes shut in pleasure and bite your own lips. You want this more than anything, I can tell.

Your neck is exposed to me now and I lean down and lick my way up to your ear and then I whisper that I'm sorry, that I want you and that I never meant to push you away and as I confess my need for you I'm stroking you even harder and you allow yourself to completely collapse in front of me, you let go and you moan my name and kiss me back and neither of us care anymore that we're surrounded by cigarette ends and empty beer bottles and it's so messy and beautiful that I feel myself laughing against your lips. You shiver, moan, and then you come in my hand so I untie you and I let you wrap your arms around me.

We both look like we've survived a plane crush, our clothing torn and our skins red with teeth marks and scratches but it doesn't matter now, that I can lean over and kiss your bruised lips and whisper in your ear:

"Thom Yorke, you are a fucking bastard."