Wish You Were Here

Dan goes away, leaving Jones all alone. Then Dan comes back. Don’t you find postcards always arrive at the same time you get home? Tsk.


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Length: words

Notes: Date posted on BSH: August 2006

Wish You Were Here by The Lizard

Jones was not his usual happy-go-lucky self.

It was mid-August. Dan had been gone for four days. This was the longest time they had been apart from one another since he had moved in, two years ago. And it was eating Jones up.

On Monday morning, Dan had told Jones that he needed a break from Hoxditch, that he needed to get away for a while. He had hurriedly gathered some possessions in a carrier bag, gave Jones a scratchy peck on the cheek and then slouched out of the front door, without saying a word. Confused and speechless, Jones remained on the doorstep, watching Dan walk down the path and disappear around the corner of the street. He didn’t look back. Once back inside, Jones had thrown up.

Jones wracked his brains. Perhaps Dan had left as a result of the argument they’d had, the previous week? Jones had wanted sex, Dan had spurned his advances. It had been a month since they last fucked, mainly due to Dan’s constantly going AWOL and arriving back drunk at the squat at erratic hours. Jones felt neglected and told Dan so. He was tired of masturbating to distant memories of their sex life. Dan had been aloof and unaffectionate of late and the lack of any recent sexual activity between them only served to make Jones feel more depressed. Dan accused Jones of suffocating him and being needy. They had a verbal slanging match (Dan won, as usual) and did not speak to one another again for six hours, until Dan needed to borrow money from him. Jones reluctantly gave him the cash and Dan paid him back in kind, by sucking him off.

Jones wondered whether Dan was in trouble. Maybe a money lender was after him – it wouldn’t be the first time Dan had got in debt to one. But there had been no heavy-handed knocking at the door, this time. No threats shouted through the letterbox. No hiding quietly in the dark until they went away.

A lack of any explanation for Dan’s sudden decision to take a holiday left Jones feeling totally abandoned. He moped about the squat all day, tinkering half-heartedly with his record decks and music equipment, but it wasn’t the same without Dan there to ask him to turn the volume down at four in the morning. Usually he loved getting into the mashed-up beats of a techno riff that carried him through the night, gleefully cutting in random samples as he watched Dan in blissful slumber on the sofa. Now it hardly seemed worth the bother. Even drinking 9 coffees had lost its ability to spark his creative streak. Caffeine had become nothing to him but a hot brown liquid that made him go to the lavatory a lot.

Jones flopped down on the sofa and ran the palm of his hand over the sunken seat cushions, caressing the Ashcroft-shaped dent. He picked up Dan’s discarded blanket and raised it to his face, burying his nose in it, sniffing deeply. It smelt of sweat and cigarettes: it smelt of Dan.

The black heart-shaped ashtray on the arm of the sofa over-flowed with Dan’s old cigarette butts. Jones saw Dan in his mind’s eye: coming home from the ‘Sugar Ape’ office, more often than not he would be ranting and raving about the office idiots and what a gibbon-faced cunt Jonatton Yeah? was. After some pacing around the room, Dan would eventually sit down on the sofa (right where Jones was sitting now), exhaling loudly and making guttural noises with his throat, then take out his ever-present cigarettes.

He adored the way Dan lit his cigarettes with matches. Not with a lighter. Striking the head of the match against the box, the cigarette hanging off Dan’s bottom lip as he cupped his hand around it, then raised the flame and ignited it, inhaling deeply, narrowing his eyes and shaking the match until it was extinguished, flicking it casually into the ashtray beside him. Ashcroft would then lean back in his seat and expel the smoke through his nostrils: a loveable dragon clouded in a blue fug, gradually unwinding, calming down, and falling silent in his own thoughts.

Jones stretched out on his side and closed his eyes, resting his head on his curled arm. Hearing Dan’s voice in his head, he smiled to himself. He recalled the Ashcroft sharp snort of derision, as well as the wolfish grin and low chuckle that he would occasionally be rewarded with when Dan was in one of his better moods. He missed the sound of Dan yawning, then rubbing his face and thoughtfully scratching his beard hair. He even kind of missed Dan’s flatulence. Jones just wished the moody bastard was there with him, right now.

He longed to feel Dan’s arms around him again as he drifted off to sleep. He wanted to taste Dan’s mouth, feel the roughness of his hands, smell the back of his neck, feel his cock inside him. His throat tightened and his stomach lurched as he considered whether Dan had actually left him. Jones clasped his arms tight about himself and tried not to cry in the silent semi-darkness of the shabby lounge. He fell asleep thinking about the smell of Dan’s tousled mop of hair and his rusting razor in the bathroom.

Jones woke up suddenly. He was still lying on the sofa and had saliva running out of the corner of his mouth. He sat up, wiping away the dribble with the cuff of his jacket and rubbed his eyes, stretching. According to his Jones face-shaped digital clock, it was just after two in the morning.

Dan emerged from the kitchen, holding two mismatched mugs of coffee. He placed the mugs on the floor by the sofa and sat down next to Jones, placing a nicotine-stained hand on his thigh, rubbing it affectionately. “You were out for the count there, mate.”

For a moment, Jones felt as if he had seen a ghost. He suddenly felt incredibly angry. Twisting away from Dan, he stood up, glaring at him in disbelief. “Fuck you, Dan!” Jones yelled, knocking over the coffee cup with his foot, the brown liquid seeping into what little pile remained of the worn carpet. “What the hell are you on, Jones?” Dan retorted, frowning. “What’s your fucking problem?”

Jones pointed an accusatory finger at Dan: “YOU are the fucking problem, Ashcroft! You can’t just drift in and out of here when you feel like it!”

Dan sighed and fished in his pockets for cigarettes, retrieving an almost empty packet and studying the meager contents: “Calm down, you hissy bitch! We’re not married!”

Jones continued to rant at Dan: “I had no fucking idea where you were! You could have been dead! There are all kinds of people after you!”

Dan took a drag on a cigarette, speaking in measured tones: “I just needed to get away for a couple of days. I needed a little holiday. Don’t start throwing your toys around the place.”

Jones went on with his tirade, his eyes ablaze: “A holiday!? Why didn’t you send me a fucking POSTCARD, Dan?”

At this remark, Dan’s eyes grew dark. He leapt up, snatching the cigarette from his lips and throwing it to the floor, leaving it to smolder on the damp carpet. He lunged towards Jones and grabbed him by his shoulders, pulling him up close. Jones looked terrified as Dan hissed into his face: “So, you want a fucking picture postcard, do you? Alright then!”

In one swift movement, Dan twisted Jones’ body around and away from him, bringing his wrists together and forcing them up Jones’ back. Jones struggled but Ashcroft’s grip was strong. Dan pressed his bristly chin against Jones’ left ear, and whispered menacingly through nicotine breath: “You want to know all about my holiday? I’ll give you every fucking detail, mate, don’t you worry about that. Come here, you horny bastard.” He grabbed Jones’ face with one hand and squeezed it, forcing his mouth open. Jones groaned with muffled pleasure as Dan aggressively circled his tongue with his own, stopping to bite his lips. “For a start, the food is very good,” Dan sneered as he broke the rough kiss with a sinister smile.

Dan dragged Jones across the room towards the corner where his DJ equipment stood. He felt dizzy in Dan’s firm grasp – this was exactly the kind of rough sex game that he and Dan used to have all the time, which he sorely missed. He could struggle some more, he could pretend he didn’t want Dan to fuck him senseless, but he wanted Dan’s cock inside him so badly. Had he started the argument subconsciously, perhaps deliberately, taunting Dan into this? He let the thought float away and submitted to Dan, allowing him to toss him about like a technicolour rag doll.

Dan snatched at the waistband at the back of Jones’ trousers and shoved him forward so that he bent over his record decks, the equipment clattering together, parts falling on the floor. The turntables rotated slowly as Dan pushed Jones face down towards them. Ashcroft reached round to Jones flies and wrenched down the zip, roughly tugging down Jones’ trousers and underwear. Jones clung to the decks, naked from the waist down, as Dan took a step away from him. His breath quickened in anticipation as he heard Dan undoing his belt and loosening his clothes: “And there’s a bloody fantastic view from here.”

Jones felt Dan’s warm naked thighs pressing against the back of his legs and his buttocks. Dan spat into the palm of one hand and clumsily applied the glob of saliva to Jones anus, teasing the rim, thrusting his other hand further between Jones legs, gently scratching at his ball-sack. Jones’ hips jerked forward as his semi-erect penis hit against the bass bins, jism flowing from the tip. Dan continued to verbally write home. “The accommodation is great, and I have a very large balcony.”

Dan guided the head of his cock to meet Jones anus and thrust it forward, hard and deep. Jones gripped the decks and gasped in pain as Dan repeatedly and roughly pushed himself into him again and again; his rectal muscles gripped tightly around Dan’s erect dick. Dan held Jones tightly by his hair and wrenched his head back, growling the words through gritted teeth with each forceful buck: “WISH! YOU! WERE! HERE!” Dan spat out each word again and again, each time growing more violent. “WISH! YOU! WERE! HERE! WISH! YOU! WERE! HERE!”

Jones clenched his teeth, straining to physically support Dan’s weight, as the pain traveled up his body in pleasurable waves from his buttocks. The stack of DJ equipment shook and wobbled with each thrust. As Dan finally reached orgasm and delivered his load into Jones, they almost toppled sideways. Jones stuck out an arm to prevent them crashing into a heap on the floor. Dan fell forward on to Jones’ back, sweating profusely, breathing heavily. “I think that’s my postcard delivered, don’t you?” he muttered and slowly withdrew his cock from Jones. He hoisted his trousers back up and walked across to the sofa, slumped backwards onto the seat, pushed back his hair and ignited another cigarette.

Jones remained bent forward for a few moments as the pain in his rectum subsided. Then he gingerly crouched down to collect his clothes from the floor, and gently slid his legs back into them, wincing a little as he refastened his flies. He limped as he crossed the room to join Dan on the sofa. He lowered himself slowly on to the seat next to Dan, who put out his right arm and placed it around Jones’ shoulders, drawing him close. Jones snuggled into Dan’s body, breathing his musky scent.

“Maybe I should go away more often,” Dan said, kissing Jones gently on the forehead, “I missed you, Jones.”

Jones looked up to meet Ashcroft’s brown-eyed gaze: “Welcome home, Dan..” Then he fell asleep with his head on Dan’s chest, the thump-thump-thump of his heart like a techno beat.

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