INTO THE DARKNESS Christ Sol
Dislcaimer: Contains violence, m/m, m/f sex and some drug refs.. Intended for a mature audience.
Fan mail to webtrash@unpunk.com
It had been that one moment, that moment in which Dale had cast the second glance, the casual and appraising look across the crowd and into the eyes of Leigh Stroud.
Broad-shouldered, hair matted and shiny across his face, his eyes an electric blue, the glare of the yellow spotlight rendering his sweaty body in a glow which seemed to hold an energy of it's own.
Leigh looked back as well, smiled over his shoulder, turned back to the band on the stage. Unrelenting, the tide of bodies in the mosh pit enveloped the stranger, carrying him forward to the barrier, again and again, a wave of young men and women, thrashing, screaming, heads and fists held high, battered by the sound of the gig.
Dale was nineteen years old, old enough to know what he wanted, and young enough to get it. He was a regular at the club, and had never seen him before. Where did he come from? Who was he with?
And what should he make of that smile?
Leaning over the bar, Dale helped himself to another pint from the jug under the counter. He leaned back against the damp wood, letting his mind drift, the music hammering away around him. His eyes defocused and he stared into nothing, relaxed and content.
This is where he belonged. This was what he loved.
"So who's the blond guy?" The barmaid turned around, glanced down the bar to the newcomer/ "The honey with the nose piercing?" "Yeah." "His name's Leigh. Came here to see Ironfist. Came alone." "See him around before?" "No, he's just moved here. Was talking to him earlier." "Refill his drink."
Dale grinned. "On my tab."
Aeisha rolled her eyes and grabbed a Heineken from under the bar.
"Your tab's nearly as big as the national deficit. Steve's going to slay me." "You'll come back on the next level." Winking at Aeisha, he turned back around and finished his pint. He turned and watched as Aeisha leaned over the bar, gave him his drink, motioned his way.
Again, that smile.
The blond guy sauntered over, drink in hand.
"Do I know you?" "Should you?"
A proffered hand. Dale shook it.
"Leigh. Good to meet ya." "Dale. Pleasure's all mine."
They drank in silence for a while, standing side by side at the dimly lit bar. Dale eventually broke the silence.
"Aeisha tells me you've just moved here." "Yeah, I moved up from the flats." "Neighbours tried to blow you away?"
Dale smiled wanly. The southern area known as The Flats was the centre of recent civil unrest between the Quakers and the Liberals. Entire farms were burnt, the army had been called in last week.
"Not yet. But I wasn't going to risk it. You a Quaker?" "Actually, I'm a Buddhist." "A New Ager. I should be pulling a knife on you right now."
Dale looked over and into Leigh's blue eyes, glowing with a mixture of coyness and beer.
"What's stopping you?"
Leigh barked a short laugh, finished his beer. He stepped towards Dale, facing so that he could smell the acrid Heineken on his breath.
"That wouldn't be polite now, would it bro?"
Dale smiled again, a different smile. The dark, sensuous smile of a man about to make his intentions clear.
He leaned over and kissed Leigh on the lips, hands reaching out to grasp his arms. Leigh immediately responded, tasting Dale and slipping into his outstretched arms. They kissed for a very long time, parting only to recover their breaths.
"Come back to my house."
Leigh looked at his watch, and across to the exit.
"You sure you want me to?" "Why not?"
A strange look came across his eyes. Dale leaned forward and kissed the young man again, a gentle touch of lips. Leigh recoiled guiltily.
"I'm a Quaker. From the South Banks."
Recognition flooded Dale's eyes.
South Bank Fever. No cure. Spread from farm to farm by Quakers. Liberals scapegoat Quakers for spreading "seed of Satan".
"You infected?" "I don't think so. But-" "I'm willing to take the chance, then."
Leigh smiled, relaxed.
An arm around the rough leather of Dale's jacket, he left the Portsmouth Tavern.
The door swung open with a yapping squeak and Dale entered his flat, Leigh in tow. A lamp flickered on, and dale tossed his jacket careless onto the stack of papers and folders on the couch. The cat mewled and rubbed against his legs as he turned to kiss Leigh again, his hands roaming up over his lower back, up under his damp shirt. Fingers gently clawing at the sinews lying beneath his skin, his soft breath on Dale's neck.
Drifting towards the bedroom, Leigh murmured into Dale's ear.
"I've wanted this since I saw tonight." "Will you respect me in the morning?" "You want me to stay for the morning?"
The answer wasn't necessary. They made love.
Sun beat down through the dirty window, individual beams of filtered light that warmed the two bodies curled up on the futon bed.
Dale opened a lazy green eye, glanced at the clock. Ten thirteen. He lived for Sundays.
He ran a hand over Leigh's pale skin, cupping his shoulder in his broad hand. Not opening his eyes, Leigh smiled.
"Morning." "Morning, Leigh."
Dale reached over and lifted the syringe from the floor near Leigh's pants. He had found it when going to the toilet early that morning.
--to be cotinued--