"And I know we have to go,
I realise
We only get to stay so long
We always have to go back
to real lives
Where we belong" 
 

The Cure "Out Of This World"

The lights of the nightclub pulse like a heartbeat, the bass of heavy techno beating at my aching head.  I don't want to be here.  I tried valiantly to talk my way out, I pleaded headache, exhaustion, emotional trauma, but they wouldn't buy it. Just shook their heads and dragged me out of the dressing room, putting my reluctance down to diva dramatics. Leonie ringleading, Karl, Lee and Elisa in tow.

"It's the last show." They argued, not taking no for an answer, "It doesn't matter if you get trashed."

So that's what I'm doing. They're out there on the dancefloor getting all sweaty again and I'm here at the bar seeing how many spirits I can mix before I am too dizzy to stay upright.  You are conspicuously absent and I'm not sure if this relieves or disappoints me. Your presence would give me the excuse I need to really fall apart, instead of just teetering on the brink like this.

Somewhere between the B-52 and the Hot Sex, I get a reason to fall over the edge.  Ben's arrived, and he's leading you through the crowded club, hand loosely clasping your wrist as he wrests his way through the swaying mass of bodies. I envy him even that casual, superficial contact with you.

You've changed out of your stage clothes into a less glamourous long-sleeved shirt and dark jeans, and I can see your hair is still damp from the shower.  Were you that eager to wash my touch from you? You look so good it pains me to watch you, but I can't tear my eyes away.

I know you know I'm here. I can feel your awareness of me. Yet you don't look in my direction, in fact making a special effort to keep your line of vision away from where I stand at the bar. How long do you think you can keep this up? We're partners, Dan, Darren & Daniel, the two halves of Savage Garden, the washed up, destined for stinking oblivion, savage fucking garden. You wont be able to ignore me all night. At least, not unless you want everyone to realise we're suddenly not on speaking terms. Want to fuel a few break-up rumours? Keep it up, boy.

Ben claps you on the back and you both start laughing, Ben in that abrasive wide-open-mouthed way that I can't hear from here but from experience I know sounds remarkably like a possum with hiccups. You've got the face-splitting grin happening and I wonder sadly if you'll ever smile at me like that again. Probably not. I'd give everything to trade places with Ben right now, to take it all back and re-instate myself to "friend" status in your life. Sure it was heartbreaking and frustrating, but at least you still talked to me.

Oh shit. Ben's seen me. He's giving me the wave and I wave back half-heartedly, watching as you pretend you've just noticed I'm here and give me the up-nod. The fucking up-nod. I wave at you also, flashing a smile that feels more like a baring of teeth. And now Ben's heading over, dragging you behind.

I want my heart to shut the fuck up. It's beating louder than the kick-drum of whatever this bloody techno-crap song is. Ben gets within a metre of me before he abandons the idea of walking and launches himself at me, almost toppling me in a crash tackle.

"Fucking yeah!" He cries, banshee-like. Christ, he's thrashed already. Must've gotten into the tour bus grog-stash.  I endure his drunken chumminess with only a slightly forced smile, wishing it was your arm draped clumsily across my shoulders.  I peer at you over the rim of my Illusions,

"Hey Daz," your greeting, like your smile, is forced.

"Hey yourself."

"Come on fellas!" Ben's ecstatic shrieking kind of soils perfect misery of it all, "Let's get trashed! This supposed to be a party!" It must be exhausting to talk in exclamation points all the time.  Fortunately, or unfortunately (I'm not sure which) he spots Lee and Karl burning up the dance floor and decides to go and shatter their eardrums instead.  I expect you to accompany him, but to my utter shock, you remain.

I'm staring at you a while before I realise your mouth is moving. 

"What?" I yell, trying not to notice the way you draw back slightly as I lean in to try and make out the words you're attempting to shout over the pulse of Fat Boy Slim.

"What... are... you... drinking...?" You repeat.

I look at my glass in vexation.

"I don't know." I've just been trying to work my way through the cocktail list alphabetically. I think I'm up to J or K.  

You lean across the bar, flagging a bar tender,

"One of those," I hear you tell him, pointing at my glass.

This is too weird. You are being way too normal. I was primed for some neglect, some cold shoulder, a little bit of avoidance or at least weirdness. Instead you're grinning at me over the rim of your glass and still attempting to make small talk despite the music that thrums deafeningly around us. What are you playing at, Daniel?

"I can't hear you!" I shout, having to lean close to your ear to even have a hope of you hearing me. Again, I see you flinch backwards as I am forced to invade your personal space. "Godammit Dan, I'm not gonna attack you." I can't hide my annoyance at your bloody cat-and-mousing.

You give me a confused look. Playing dumb? I open my mouth to accuse you but decide I can't be fucked shouting anymore.  I grab your arm and drag you through the crowd to find a quieter part of the club.  Lotta bloody luck I'm having. Finally, a door to a small balcony offers me an exit. I drag you ungently out there and you don't even wait for me to stop walking before ripping your arm from my grip.

Ok. So here we are. You're gaze is flicking erratically all over the shop, anywhere but at me.  Away from the pounding noise I can hear myself breathe again and I realise I'm panting. I'm nervous. I'm even pacing. Shit, I just wanna get this out, fuck waiting.

"Look, Daniel, about what happened before-"

"It's alright, mate, I understand." You don't let me finish. "Last show nerves and all. It's fine. Don't worry about it."

Your tone is casual but your face is tense. You're still not looking at me. So this is how you're going to play it. If you pretend it didn't happen then it didn't happen? 

You start to walk away, but I grab your arm.

"That's it?" I spit it out before I think about it. //What are you doing? This is what you wanted! He's willing to forget it ever happened.//

"I think there's something more we need to talk about."  //What are you saying? Shut up!//

"What do you mean?" Your expression of blank curiosity is fake, I can tell. Everything about your manner screams at me to shut up and let it be. You don't want to face this and forcing you to is only gonna fuck things up worse.

"I mean what happened in the dressing room." I demand, not sure why I'm pursuing this.

"What, nothing happened."

"Nothing?" My voice is peaking. I wince.

"Nothing." There's a finality in the way you say it.

"Is that the way you want it?"

"Yeah." Your mask of ignorance slips, and for a moment I can hear the threat in your voice. Being you, you realise immediately the harshness of your tone and rush to make it up.  "It was a rough show, you were tired, you weren't thinking straight, it's ok." I wonder errantly if you realise the irony of your own words.

"Dan, I tried to kiss you. I'm not going to pretend it didn't happen."

"Well what do you want me to do about it?" You half-shout back before I've even finished speaking. I know that tone. You're wired. You sound angry but I can tell you're scared. Scared shitless. Well, welcome to my life.

"I want you to kiss me." I shoot back, barely letting a moment pass.

You stare at me, eyes wide, shocked but comprehending.  I know how I must look, face flushed, hair wild, shaking slightly with rage and intoxication.

"So was I thinking straight just then?" I bark with misplaced triumph, my mouth twisting on the word 'straight'.  I know I'm out of line, but in a strange way I'm enjoying this. It feels good to put into words all the shit thats been tearing through my head //and heart// all these years. It's such a release. And your reaction was priceless.

You choose not to answer me, instead you level me with a severe look.

"Darren, you're drunk." You sigh, like a parent with errant child. "Go back to the hotel."

"No!" I shout back insolently. You want to treat me like a child then I'll behave like one. "It took a lot of effort to get this pissed and I don't plan on wasting it. You don't wanna fuck me, well fine, I'll find someone who will."  

I'm serious too. I really, really need that release tonight and if I can't get it from you, anyone'll do. It wouldn't be the first time I've had to substitute for you. Surely, one of our more "open-minded" fans would be only too happy to comply.

You're just gaping at me now, shock and the growing-ever-more-familiar disgusted look on your face. I know I'm behaving like an outrageous slut, but I'm in that nice place where I'm too drunk to care. If I even remember this conversation come tomorrow I know I'll wince, but for now I give you my best "fuck you" look and go to head back into the nightclub.

You don't let me go.  You grab my arm and I try violently to shake you off. Still, you refuse to release me.

"Come on, Daz. You're tanked. I'll call you a cab."

"No."

"Fine, then. I'll drive you."  You're not giving up. I flick a glance up at you from beneath feathered lashes.

"Changed your mind?"  I challenge, dripping with invitation.

You hesitate for a whole six seconds.

"No."

"Well then fuck off." I spit, wrenching my arm away and ploughing crookedly back into the club, flushed with what feels a lot like success. //God, that felt good.//

And I don't look back.

He's a pretty one.  Sleek shoulder length bob of hair black as ink. Skin too pale to be natural. Dark eyes enhanced with kohl. Rosebud mouth.  He looks nothing like you, which is good. I'd never find anyone with the same smile as yours, the right hair, the right eyes and I don't need any reminders that I'm settling for a substitute.

No, if anything the boy looks more like me, in one of my earlier incarnations. That's good. I can handle that. Less chance of me slipping the word "Daniel" out in momentary mistake.  He wears the look better than I did, opting for leather rather than the fashion mistakes I made. Leather pants, leather wristbands, leather studded collar, a fine choice. I'm surprised he's alone.

He's noticed me now. Sends me a little smile before turning his head coyly to puff at a cigarette. //Daniel's a smoker too.// I will myself not to think about you. As much as this is about you - about you and me - I want to be able to pretend this part isn't.

I down the last of my bourbon (having ditched you and the entourage back at the other club I had a whole new cocktail list to deal with here, so I opted for spirits) and make my approach on not-quite-so-steady legs.

I buy him a drink. I find out his name. (It's Damien.) I send him a hundred little inviting looks from beneath my lashes, and find a thousand little reasons to touch him. Brush his shoulder with the back of my hand, brush my knee against his leg.  He plays along, flirting right back, and it feels nice when he rests a hand on my shoulder, brushes the hair from my eyes.

He stubs out his cigarette and leads me onto the dance floor. It's not exactly a dancy tune, but then I guess I can't expect Madonna at an queer/goth niteclub. The slow throb of the music lends itself more to sensual swaying and that's what we're both doing, the liquor in my veins helping me get into it, give myself up to it.

Soon we give up the pretense of dancing and I'm in his arms (or is he in mine?). His fingers are light on my neck, his legs between mine, our chests brushing. So close I can feel his breath on my face. It feels good. He's not you, but he's pretty and willing and at the moment my dick can't tell the difference.

The music stops momentarily, that awkward moment between songs as the DJ tries to switch over. Damien flicks his eyes up at me and smoulders. Liquid green. Just like yours. And as I lean down to claim his lips in the back of my mind I'm chanting his name over and over, reminding myself who I'm really kissing... Damien... Damien... Damien... Dan-

Shit.

I can't even lie to myself properly. 

With my brain floundering, I increase the pressure of my mouth on soft giving lips, my hands tightening around a slender body. Our tongues entwine, and I taste cigarettes and whiskey as I plunge mine in further. The scent and taste of maleness invades my mouth and nostrils and I'm kissing desperately wanting to consume this giving body whole.

The next song is rough one and soon we are surrounded by a jumping thrashing mosh of heated bodies.  Yet still we kiss. Hands grope my arse and rub up my back and I reciprocate, feeling hard muscle through leather.  My hand slides upwards to cup a silken jaw, pressing closer, closer.

You taste so good.

//Stop it, Hayes//

I draw back, biting my lip to keep from speaking your name, forcing my eyes open to remind my unco-operative brain who's really making me feel like this.  I see a pale boy with messy black hair and smudged lipstick. Still pretty, still desirable. Still not you.

I almost pull away, apology ready, but he's pulling my head ungently down and devouring my mouth again. And I'm letting him. Because he wants me, and it feels good to kiss him and be desired and my cock certainly doesn't care. And I need this. I really really do.

Bodies are bashing us from all sides, we're caught in the middle of some hard core mosh action but it's not stopping us. If anything the teeming mass of bodies pressing from all sides just rub our bodies together in exciting and interesting ways. Soon though, I become aware of a physical presence that's more than just an accidental brush or knock. Someone's grabbed onto me this time and they're pulling at my arm. At first I ignore it and try to pull subtly away, not willing to give up contact with the sensuous pair of lips massaging mine.

Whoever the drunk bastard is, they're not letting go. I try shaking and wrenching my arm away and when that doesn't work I thrust my arm back to try and elbow them away.  I'm about to turn around and try out my boxing skills when I hear it.

Someone shouting my name, close to my ear, voice straining above the deafening music.

It's you.