exposeyou

Title: Just Hold Me Like A Gun
Author: exposeyou
Rating: No sex in this one, but it contains bad language, and references to drug use, mental health and depression.
Summary: What if Ewan McGregor, Jude Law, Jonny Lee Miller and Sienna Miller were in a band?
Author's Notes: This is dedicated to tiramau who set me off with her comment here.
I of course owe a debt of honour to Velvet Goldmine, where the title is from. The title of the forthcoming album is taken from Eminence Front which you should read right now. Tell Rock N' Roll I'm Alone Again by the always excellent Paperclipbitch showed me that band AUs could work and helped to spark this.

They didn’t have many fans yet, but the ones they did have seemed to harbour some misconceptions about the band.

Quite high up on this list of misunderstandings was the idea that Sienna was a slut. In fact, as she’d only had sex with one other band member, she was one of the least slutty in terms of intra-band promiscuity. It didn’t look good though, that when Sadie left the band, Jude jumped into bed with the next drummer straightaway, particularly as Jude was that the one all the girls screamed over. Sure, Ewan had his fair share of groupies, but as the frontman it was usually Jude that got the sexual limelight. He might be a moody git sometimes, but it’s what the public enjoyed. He played the part of rock star very well – and much better since they got Jonny in to play lead guitar. It was a decision made ostensibly so that Jude could ‘concentrate on his singing’, but largely because the fallout of Sadie leaving had taken its toll on him. The music press had hardly been kind about it.

Older than the boys, she’d been a driving force behind the band since the very early days (Ewan maintained that as they hadn’t even realised their second album yet, they were very much still in their ‘early’ days, and would go on to have long, illustrious careers) and although her departure had been publicly attributed to Jude’s occasionally diva-esque ways, it had affected him much more than people outside of the band had realised. He’d threatened to jack it all in, give up everything, until the record company had quietly ushered him into the Priory for a couple of weeks, and brought Jonny in so he would have less to think about.

So when they’d started work on Eminence Front – a bigger, more anthemic sound than the dirty, low-key rock that had characterised their early EPs and the first album, they were fundamentally a different band. Sadie, astute and cold and bright, was out, replaced by Sienna, her polar opposite in looks, background, and musical style. Ewan had never asked what she had been in rehab with Jude for, but he had a sneaking suspicion that it was an eating disorder. Now she pounded the hell out of the drums with a boundless, nervous energy that could be unsettling to watch. What the press would think if they ever found out that she regularly collapsed backstage after gigs (although not every gig, now) Ewan didn’t want to know.

Jonny was a surprising addition to the roster, but Ewan could see why the powers that be had thought it necessary. The whole reason they got signed to a major label was so that their status as underground darlings could be translated into mainstream success. When your frontman is famous for excessive womanising and your only other male member is still best-known for the drama that followed his telling the NME that he’d “love to do a song with Brandon Flowers, if you know what I mean... Something hard and fast and dirty,” and they’d ran the story with that photo from a couple of years ago, when he’d pulled down his leather trousers and mooned a difficult audience in Belgium...Well, yes, it made sense to have someone safe around for the mums and young girls to coo over.

Even though he was undoubtedly a good guitarist, Jude didn’t take his inclusion well. When they were starting work on Eminence Front – not long after Jude came home – and gone to a club to blow off steam, he’d vanished for too long. Ewan had panicked, convinced that he’d relapsed into that dark mood and must be in the toilets necking pills. He’d found him sat on a fire escape, clutching half a bottle of Champagne (was he even allowed to be drinking? Ewan had asked himself). He couldn’t tell if he’d been crying or not – his eye-liner could’ve run in the fine rain – but his voice was fragile when he spoke. “He’s here to replace me, isn’t he?”

Ewan had assured him that he was wrong, that the band would be nothing without Jude, not to the record company and certainly not to Ewan. He’d called Sadie a couple of weeks after what the music magazines had called ‘the divorce’ and had offered, now that one corner of the triangle had left, to rename the band. She had thanked him for the thought, a bit too formally. It wouldn’t be necessary, because now, Ewan and Jude, they were the band. The ah- what was the word she used? The nucleus, the hub. Anyone else, after Sadie, was just window-dressing. They knew now that other people were ephemeral.

Jonny still rubbed Jude up the wrong way though, for weeks. It was true that they looked quite similar, and that one time when a photographer had got their names confused, Jude had had to leave the room to calm down and have a smoke. If he hadn’t, he probably would’ve punched the poor kid. That incident hadn’t been Jonny’s fault, but when he bleached his hair and shaved the sides, Jude still wasn’t happy. It was a play for attention, an attempt to steal the limelight, and Jonny was a snake in the grass.

Ewan had watched as Jonny took verbal abuse in trickles, then torrents, over a few months, with the demeanour of a Hindu cow. What Jude didn’t seem to realise was that Jonny wasn’t turning the others against him, his outbursts were doing that. Jonny himself was calm, unflinching, and looked as if he never heard a word of it.

Until the night when they played a gig to a student crowd in Birmingham, and Sienna, too hot under the lights in black spandex, had fainted once again. In an ill-lit corridor, she’d dropped her drumsticks, tried to speak, then sank to floor in slow-motion, almost. The height from her heels, and the slenderness of her ankles had made Ewan think of a young tree being felled. He made a mental note of the metaphor, in case it was good for a song, and watched Jonny scoop her up from the floor. It was a brotherly gesture, devoid of intent, but that hadn’t stopped Jude making something of it when they got back to the hotel.

Ewan had rolled his eyes, it was ridiculous, really. Anyone could see that Sienna was hopelessly devoted to Jude, despite his coldness and what internet fansites might say. But Jonny, for once, bit back. He’d practically hissed at Jude, but so quietly that Ewan, stood right next to him, was the only one who could hear what he’d said. “Because you hate clearing up your own messes, don’t you?”

When Jude thundered back, Hollywood thriller-style, that he should come right up to him and say that again, Ewan had expected a fight. But Jonny remained calm. Nature similes being the theme of the night, Ewan had thought of how a lake, calm on the surface, still holds the threat of drowning. He’d offered Jude outside to talk about this ‘like men’, and Jude, spoiling for a fight, agreed.

Ewan had watched them in the car-park in a pool of orange streetlight. His window was too high up, and the noise from the motorway too loud, to make out what they were saying, but he could read the aggression in their movements even from the fifth floor.

The Jude took a threatening step forwards, flicking his cigarette behind him, and they were in the shadows, lost to view. But Ewan, if you’d asked him, would’ve sworn that before he was out of sight, he’d looked straight up at him.

In the morning, Jonny’s split lip told the story. Perversely, Ewan was fascinated by his bloody mouth. It should be hideous, but instead the swelling and the blood make his mouth look redder and glossier, as if Sienna had painted his mouth with lipstick. He had to look down at his toast to ward off the thought of the things he would like to do to that mouth. When he looked up, Jonny was wincing, the hot coffee he was drinking burning his tender lips. It was an injury again, and the spell was broken.

Whatever went on in that car-park, it cleared the air. Even if Jude barely looks at Jonny now, at least he’s not spitting insults at him. When Jonny offers some input on the new songs, he doesn’t get shot down.

A label-enforced trip to the doctors left Sienna with a diagnosis of low blood pressure, a box of multivitamins, and orders to have an early night, which made them laugh. Ewan had driven her to the surgery: as Jonny’s concern for their drummer had sparked the fight, Ewan thought he would relieve him of the duty for once, for fear of a rematch. He didn’t get to spend much time with her alone, and had never really wanted to before. He hadn’t felt like this about Sadie. He and Jude would never have got themselves organised enough to play even the smallest pub gig if it hadn’t been for her. Sadie had been necessary. Sienna...Well, when Sadie had left, he had been vaguely concerned about finding a new drummer, sure, but at the same time he had anticipated spending more time with Jude, just the two of them. Getting back to how things were when they were just flatmates, not colleagues. But then things started to go wrong, and when Jude came back, he had this bit of blonde fluff in tow. But then she’d disproved that assessment early on, hadn’t she, the second he’d heard her play? And the way she’d handled all this being ill...Never once calling off a gig, even though for a while it was pretty much a given that she’d be a state afterwards. She’d be remarkably unfazed by the things that had been said about her dating Jude, too, not even when those girls at the signing on Oxford Street had called her a whore to her face.

He felt a bit bad about doubting her, actually. It wasn’t her fault that he had harboured secret hopes of the band being an all-boys club again. And she’d put up with him pretty much ignoring her because of that. She must be pretty lonely, he realised. She probably thought she’d been given a great opportunity when she started playing with them, only to find out that her boyfriend only spoke to her when he was horny, and the only person in the band who really treated her like a person was the other newcomer.

Despite being quietly praised as one of the most interesting young lyricists in England at the time, all of this left his mouth as “you’re pretty cool, you know that?”

Even though he was driving, he could see that she visibly lit up at that. He couldn’t resist grinning back. Maybe they could be friends. It would certainly make life a bit easier.

“You’re pretty cool too”.

“I’m sorry that Jude has been of a bit of dick lately” I’m sorry that I’ve been a bit of a dick.

“It’s not like it’s your fault”.

And things went back to being awkward again. Where did he go wrong there? He attempted to salvage the situation. He’d enjoyed those thirty seconds of getting along. He blurts out the first thing he thinks of.

“Would you show me how you do Jude’s eye-liner?”

“Sure”

She didn’t, though. In the end he asked Jude himself, although Jonny had taken to doing some smudgy thing with eyeshadow that was more subtle but looked a bit fiddly.

They were back in London, for a gig in Camden. They’d gone for a walk earlier, just the two of them, like the old days, and had, on a whim, taken the tube to Brixton. They’d lingered outside the Academy, remembered gigs they’d been to there and talked about the ones they would eventually play there. It was actually only a matter of time, provided they didn’t screw up. Ewan was giddy at the thought of playing amongst all that faded glory. There was history here, even if it was covered up in plastic signage with a lager company logo on it. It wasn’t long until the deadline for Eminence Front, and bigger, more popular venues would be the plan of attack. The label would, naturally, want them out there as much as possible to promote it. Writing and recording these few months had felt stressful, and the few gigs that they had had dotted about had felt like refreshing breaks, but Ewan knew that touring would be more gruelling physically, at least. So he enjoyed walking around what was really his hometown, now – well, not Brixton, but central London certainly felt familiar enough – and remembered how things used to be, playing in pubs and people’s houses.

Sadie had got them – through her inexhaustible supply of ‘connections’ – bigger, more interesting things, playing at student balls and shows by edgy young fashion designers working out of Shoreditch. He remembered the time at a promo party for a boutique vodka brand when a girl with a Mohawk had told them that they reminded her of The Libertines, the pair of them, and had they ever fucked? And at that exact awkward moment, who should walk around the corner but Carl fucking Barat, and they’d quit the place to hang out in a shisha bar God knows where, and Carl had told him he liked his lyrics, and Jude had taken the punk girl home, and Sadie had come home the next day with the bad news that hey, they weren’t getting paid but the company had given them a case of the stuff...

He didn’t talk about it, though. He didn’t like to remind Jude about Sadie and how the band was so different now. So in the dressing-room backstage, back in Camden, he’d asked Jude to do his eyeliner for him. After a few false starts and scrubbing his eyes with his sleeves, they’d changed tactic. Jude wasn’t used to putting make-up on someone else, it felt ‘the wrong way round’, so he stood behind Ewan, and did it looking in the mirror instead.

He’d pushed Ewan close up against the chipped sink so that he was near enough to see what he was doing, arms around his chest, one hand on his chin to keep him still while he smudged ashy black slashes under his eyes.

Ewan, normally languid and louche and loose with his movements, was focussing on keeping perfectly still after messing up attempts one and two. It was harder than he thought it would be, somehow. Since Jude had ‘been away’ as they all euphemistically referred to his spell in rehab (if they dared mention it at all) they’d not been in such close proximity. And though he was too young a man to indulge in so much nostalgia in one day, it took him back to how things used to be, sleeping on floors and sharing a bed for warmth when they could afford money for the meter, Jude too proud to ask his parents for anything. Touching like this used to be natural. This time Ewan was painfully aware of it, and painfully aware of his own awkwardness. Friendship wasn’t supposed to be painful, was it?

Jude never used to be so thin, not even when they were so skint that they joked about living off of dog food, (but wasn’t their poverty just another affectation to Jude), and he wasn’t so far away, they were close, they were brothers, they were good. Ewan told himself to shut up. Jude was here, Jude was fine, this was just his nerves talking, babbling. “We’re gonna play a good show, aren’t we?” he asked, their usual roles reversed.

“You bet, we’re gonna kick ass”

Ewan laughed at the American pronounciation. They were good. They were still brothers, still a team. They were gonna be good tonight, scruffy jeans and t-shirts exchanged for leather, in his case, and a pair of designer jeans (a present from Sienna), and an elegant, open-necked white shirt, for Jude. The girls were going to go wild tonight. The flare of Jude’s lighter illuminated the dingy room as he lit them each a cigarette, and he looked suitably devilish. Shadows made his cheeks look hollow and his eyes darker. The momentary glow highlighted his cheekbones, and a black bruise on his neck, then his first exhale hid him behind a veil of smoke.

“You look good tonight, man, really good... Do you have a pen?”

Ewan scribbled most of a song in the forty minutes before they’re needed on stage. It was in green Sharpie (Jude kept one on him for autographs, the smug bastard) and scrawled on the back of a phone-bill that Ewan had found stuffed in the pocket of his jacket, but he thought it had potential. He gave it to Sienna to work out a tune. He thought it would be a nice gesture.

Title: Bow Ties & Black Eyes
Author: exposeyou
Pairing: Ewan McGregor/Jonny Lee Miller, Jude Law/Ewan McGregor
Rating: NC - 17
Summary: Flatmates Era - Jude takes it badly when he feels his friendship with Ewan is threatened.
Warnings: RPS
Author's Notes: This is part of the series I Used To Know You When and a kind of a sequel to Red Light

Ewan looks amazing in black-tie, Jude thinks. It’s hard not to stare as he fusses in the hall mirror, straightening his lapels, fiddling with his cufflinks, but after a while it stops being fascinating and veers into annoying. “For fuck’s sake Ewan, you’ve retied that thing ten bloody times. Let me do it.” He strides over and sorts out the tie, and his hands are on Ewan’s chest, and he’s looking into those eyes, and yes its a cliché but the world does stop, dammit, and he says “I’m so fucking proud of you”. I love you. And Ewan pulls him into a hug and kisses him on the cheek, breathes “thanks mate” into his ear, then he’s out the door to the waiting car.

He’s tired, irritated with the girlfriend and irritated with himself for feeling that way, so he’s less than pleased when he comes home to Iggy fucking Pop blaring out of the living room speakers, even though its only midnight and Ewan should still be at the after-party, or whatever. So he strides towards his open bedroom to tell him to have some tiny shred of respect for the neighbours, and he sees them. Ewan pumping away, obscenely, at the body underneath him, and a shock of blonde hair against the dark sheets.

Fuck.

Jonny. Of course it’s Jonny. Legs in the air and panting like a bitch in heat.

Jude is physically, viscerally jealous.

He goes to bed and lies there fuming, listening to them. Someone stumbles across the room to shut off the music, and he resents the silence even more. In his mind, Jonny becomes a monster, a Judas, a usurper who is asleep in his rightful place. Never mind that a few days ago he thought he was a decent bloke, or that Jonny doesn’t have a clue how he feels about Ewan.

Jude spends as long as he possibly can in the bathroom the next morning, hoping he’ll have fucked off home. Of course, he hasn’t. He’s sat in the kitchen eating a bowl of cheerios, wearing Ewan’s plae green shirt unbuttoned, as if it were a trophy. Jude knows its Ewan’s because his sister bought in exactly the right colour to bring out his eyes. Its so much Ewan’s that to see it on someone else looks wrong. Then it occurs to Jude that they must be Ewan’s jeans too, as Jonny would have been wearing a suit last night.

Somehow he takes all of this in whilst managing to avoid looking directly at him. He’s quietly certain that he’ll see a smug, shit-eating grin on his face if he does. On the other hand, it is somewhat impractical to ignore someone who is in the same room as you, particularly when they’re balanced on a barstool near the fridge, blocking your access to the kettle and much-needed coffee. “Where’s Ewan?”, Jude asks, managing to make two words sound confrontational.

Jonny, oblivious to his foul mood, answers around a mouthful of cereal “’Went out to buy painkillers and more milk. We had a bit too much Champagne last night”. So he’s fucked his best mate and used the last of the milk. Great. Jude can’t even have a decent cup of coffee, and the wanker is still in the flat. He can feel himself bristling with irritation and jealousy. He feels transformed by this anger – ugly and contorted and grim, like some sort of gargoyle. He wonders if he might look different to Jonny. He wonders if he might move out of the fucking way so that he can get to the kettle.

Jude, by this point, sleep-deprived and feeling strangely vulnerable without a shirt (I’d’ve put one if I’d known he was still here) is far too stubborn to say “excuse me” or “do you mind” like a civilised person, and just barges past. Jonny, not expecting to be shoved by a tense and vengeful insomniac, overbalances and has to grab the cheap formica counter. “What the f- did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed this morning?” Oh yes, good old Jonny, acting clueless, looking like a kicked puppy. Jude watches as he paints a concerned look on his face, wearing it like foundation. “Jude, are you okay?” Still half on the stool, half off, he puts out a hand to touch his bare shoulder.

“Don’t touch me.”

It comes out as a snarl, and even Jude is surprised at how fierce he sounds. Jonny doesn’t flinch away, though, even as Jude is balling his fists, jutting his chin out, clearly wanting to hurt him. He just leans there, hand still suspended in the air, keeping his ground just long enough to show he isn’t scared, to study Jude’s face and work out what the hell is going on.

And then, as Jude’s ire cools, to be replaced by the cold, sickening realisation that, somehow, Jonny knows and, fuck, he’s going to tell Ewan, as if summoned, the door slams and he returns, cheerful, perky, fully awake, normal, well-adjusted. “They didn’t have any semi-skimmed left, so I got normal milk and skimmed, I thought we could sort of mix them together”, he yells from the hallway, kicking off his boots. Jude is still paralysed when he walks in, his back to him, but Jonny is composed and serene. The bastard. ‘Actually, love” (Jude winces at that) “I can’t stay for breakfast. Just remembered I’ve got a meeting. Walk me to the tube?” And a few minutes later, once the troublesome milk is put in the fridge, Jude is finally alone.

He spends the day wandering about the empty flat like a caged lion. He’s a ball of restless, directionless anger, and there’s only so many cups of coffee one can drink and cigarettes one can smoke in a day. He manages to avoid it til it gets dark outside, then he gives up trying. One minute he’s hovering on the threshold of Ewan’s room, lip curling in disgust, and the next he’s lying in his bed, breathing in the smell of him with one hand down his jeans. In his hurry to get his fingers round his cock, he catches the back of his knuckles on the zip. The short pain seems to go nicely with his arousal and his anger, though, and soon he’s getting himself off in short, sharp jerks. He’s rougher than he’d let any girl be, and he tangles his feet in the sheets, thinking of what they did there, what they’re doing now, angry with Ewan, jealous of Jonny, disgusted with himself, and thoroughly turned on by the memory of what he saw. He feels out of control in a way he hasn’t for years, and when he comes his orgasm tears right through him. He’s not sure how, in the midst of all that, he managed to grab a white shirt from the floor to contain any mess, but he’s bloody glad that he did. What he’s just done is bad enough without leaving evidence behind.

Title: Red Light
Author: exposeyou
Pairing: Ewan McGregor/Jonny Lee Miller, Jude Law/Ewan McGregor
Rating: NC - 17
Summary: How Ewan met Jonny, and the realisation of a dirty fantasy. In an alleyway. With leather trousers.
Notes: This is a prologue to Bow Ties & Black Eyes, the fic that is currently nameless, and White Lies & Weddings although you don't need to have read any of them to enjoy this. If you want to, they are at my LJ (also exposeyou) and will soon be uploaded here.
Disclaimer: Never happened, no profit made, no harm intended.

Jonny isn’t actually the first man that Ewan has slept with, but really, he’s the first one that counts. Sure, he’s had a couple of fumbles, teenage ‘exploration’, and the odd one night stand since coming to London, but Jonny is really the only man he’s liked as a person – and before they fucked, too.

+++

The first time he remembers seeing Jonny Lee Miller was as he stumbled out of a flat in Camden at six in the morning. As Ewan was making good his escape from the bed of last night’s conquest, Jonny was coming home. Their hair was in similar states of just-been-fucked disarray, but as they did an awkward little dance, weaving around each other in the hallway, Ewan couldn’t help but think he was the boyfriend of whoever the hell he just screwed. In a flustered attempt to avoid getting punched in the face, he blurted out something ridiculous about the weather. Quite how he thought that would avoid a “who the hell are you?” confrontation, he didn’t know, but it worked. The tall, platinum-haired stranger instead leaned against the doorframe, squinted, and said “Ewan, right?”

“Yeah, how do you...” he momentarily entertained the crazy idea that this bloke might have seen him in rep, might be a fan.

“You gave me a light at an audition for...some ITV shit? It was months ago now”, he added almost apologetically.

Ewan was equally apologetic – as much as he thought he would remember this rangy, charming guy, he doesn’t have any recollection of him. The name Jonny didn’t help, it’s nowhere near as distinctive as his own. Then Jonny, as it was, scrubbed a hand through his fringe and made a noise of realisation. “Oooh. It’s the hair. I was natural back then. Had to dye it for a film”. Ewan remembers envying the nonchalant way that he tossed that piece of information out there. As a struggling actor, filming a Hollywood blockbuster was the stuff of dreams. Hell, he was lucky to be living at Jude’s parents’ flat; otherwise a job that meant he could pay the rent would be the stuff of dreams.

It was this veneer of glamour and success that made Jonny stick in the mind the second time around. When he spotted him in a bar in Primrose Hill a few weeks later, he was sure to say hello, and put extra emphasis on his name, flush with the triumph of having remembered it. Jonny bought him a pint and told him he’d got his own place now, with the money from Hackers, just down the road. Would he maybe like to come to his flat-warming? He didn’t know many people around here, but it was the place to be, wasn’t it? Full of creative types.

Ewan went to the party, with Jude. There was an awkward moment when they arrived, both reacting to the look on Jonny’s face with assurances that they weren’t dating that only managed to make it seem as if they were lying.

++++

Four hours later, Jonny kisses him up against the kitchen counter. Ewan stumbles back with the force of it, grabs at the worktop, plunges his hand into a trifle. They laugh at the absurdity of it. Why the fuck does Jonny have a trifle just sat there? Why did Ewan’s hand have to find it? They laugh about it, Ewan licks the cream and jam off of his fingers, and they return to the party.

They wind up being good mates – drinking in the same pub, sharing takeaways – but they don’t touch each other like that again until Trainspotting.

+++

When Ewan finally fucks Jonny, it’s the culmination of a month of outrageous flirting. He knows it’s a stupid idea, to fuck his co-star, but Jonny is so eager to thank him for talking Danny into giving him the part Ewan is actually starting to feel rude refusing...He did try to ignore the obvious innuendo, the suggestive smirks, and the overt touches, but at the end of the day, he’s only human. As two gay men in the same business living five miles apart, he figures it was only a matter of time, really. So he stops resisting temptation, as unprofessional as it is, and soon they have a nice, chilled- out arrangement going on. They do their job, cool as ice on set, then as soon as they’re both off-duty, it’s a matter of minutes before they’re in a trailer and Jonny’s hand is working its way into his jeans.

Its bloody perfect, Ewan thinks. Away from home, Jonny is his Jude. A mate that he really clicks with, can have a good time with, and, as an added bonus, a really good fuck. And he really is good. He’s eager and responsive and shudders and moans under Ewan’s hands and mouth like a porn star. He knows how to make a man feel valued, that’s for sure. And when he returns the favour, eyelashes fluttering and tongue working the head of his cock, he’s bloody brilliant. Ewan’s worried to find himself a bit addicted to this, to frantic, furtive fucking every time there’s a lull in filming, but why should he turn down a good time?

+++

Soon Ewan realises just how adventurous Jonny is. The man amazes him; he seems to be a connoisseur of sex. He’s been everywhere and tried everything, which explains his obvious talent. He asks Ewan to tie him up, they mess about with leather and feathers and knives and candlewax, and pretty soon he’s hooked. Just as he thinks they’re losing steam and the fling has run its course, Jonny will pull something new out of the bag to keep his interest going. When shooting wraps and they get back home to London, he doesn’t even bother going out on the scene to pick up casual fucks. Jonny’s a sure thing. A sure thing with handcuffs.

+++

Shivering on the dark street corner, Jonny wonders why the fuck he agreed to this. Sure, it seemed like a hot idea at the time, this rent boy fantasy, but now, stood by the carefully selected alley in skin-tight leather trousers and a tank top so flimsy he’s sure his nipples are visible through the thin cotton, he feels ridiculously self-conscious. He crosses his arms over his chest and leans back against the wall. Where the fuck is Ewan? He knows that the entire point is that he looks like a prostitute, but the reality is pretty uncomfortable. What if someone sees him? This isn’t Notting Hill, this is an appropriately rough part of town, and he is practically asking to be beaten up for being a pouf. This is supposed to be fun, turning him on, not making him feel sick. He has goosebumps on his arms, bare in the night, and sweat on the back of his neck. He watches a pair of teenagers walk past on the other side of the road nervously. Stuff it. He’s going to have a smoke, and if Ewan hasn’t showed by the time he’s done, he’s leaving. It takes him a couple of minutes to fish his cigarettes out of the practically painted-on trousers, which pisses him off even more, so he’s grateful when he finally gets one alight, closing his eyes as he enjoys that first drag. The nicotine soothes his nerves. They snap back when a low voice rumbles near his ear.

“Got a light, mate?”

Ewan. Somehow he had sneaked up whilst he was distracted. Jonny can’t hold back a relieved grin, then he remembers what they’re doing here and gets into character. He is an actor, after all.

“Sure I can’t offer you something else?” Now it’s Ewan’s turn to grin. “Well...that depends on how much you charge”.

He plays the hard-bitten whore, stating his terms, and they haggle for a few minutes before Ewan caves, too desperate to touch him to argue any more. Jonny deliberately counts the wad of notes slowly to drag out his frustration – a petty revenge for making him wait for him. Satisfied with the “payment”, he licks his lips and leads Ewan into the alleyway. He can feel his eyes burning into his back and knows now that this is going to be worth it.

Ewan doesn’t kiss him; he bites his lips hard enough to bruise instead. He twists his hand through Jonny’s hair, looking incandescent in the dark, forces him to his knees, fucks his throat. He’s in the role, playing cruel like he was born to do it, but it’s worth it a few minutes lately, when he gives up on teasing and finally fucks Jonny.

His face pressed up against the brick, Ewan deep in his arse, hissing in his ear “you little bitch, you slut, you whore.” Jonny doesn’t even care that he feels cold and dirty, that voice sends him right over the edge.

It isn't love, but it feels good.