AUTHOR:  Louise
FANDOM:  Still Crazy
PAIRING:  Not telling! :-} Well okay, Les Wickes (Jimmy Nail) is involved...
RATING:  Well, PG-13...maybe even U - but then again...
SUMMARY:  A Midsummer Night's Nightmare? <eg>

Email: louiseaquaesulis@supanet.com

A Kiss Is Still A Kiss


by Louise

It was a hot, sticky night.

And Les wasn’t in the best of moods.

English summers were notoriously fickle and in general the fields of Albion
were rarely bathed in blistering sunshine and sweltering temperatures.

Unfortunately, this *was* one of those summers...

Summertime travelling from gig to gig in Hughie’s beloved “land yacht” was
fine when the air conditioning was working and the standard aromatic
combination of cigarettes, alcohol, exotic cheroots, sweat, perfume (Luke’s
endearing penchant for patchouli oil was nice, but not in confined
spaces...) and the after-effects of much macho posturing on the lines of
“I-can-eat-a-much-hotter-curry-than-you-can-oh-no-you-can‘t-oh-yes-I-can” in
late-night curry houses was being effortlessly sent on its way to work its
magic on the Greenhouse Effect.

But tonight the air-conditioning *wasn’t* working and the only way Les could
escape was by closing his eyes and hoping to drift off into sweet oblivion
until they reached whatever hell-hole they’d be staying in that night.  His
slumber was fitful and full of strange, surreal dreams -- but it was a hell
of a lot better than trying to compete with the smoke and the noise and the
smell from further down the coach.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

He had just woken from a confused dream about Carol Vorderman, a can of
whipped cream and half a pound of kippers when he realised that it had gone
preternaturally quiet on the bus.  Les managed to raise himself off his bunk
sufficiently to peer with sleep-filled eyes down the length of the coach and
saw that the rest of the band and the roadies were fast asleep, finally worn
down by the effects of exhaustion, heat, booze, adrenaline drainage and
marijuana.  A mellifluous chorus of snores attested to the state of his
companions, although he found it hard to believe that *some* of the sounds
he was hearing could possibly be made by human beings...

“’Bout bloody time,” Les mumbled to himself as he settled down to sleep
again, idly wondering why it was he hadn‘t seen Ray amongst the others.

He thumped his pillow savagely.  It didn’t seem right that the bastards had
seemed not to notice the heat which had forced him into vest and y-fronts in
an effort to escape the humid night, sweat still trickling down his chest,
back, arms, groin and thighs regardless.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

He didn’t know how long he’d been asleep, but something had yet again woken
him from his slumbers.  Only just succeeding in even partly opening his
eyes, Les could see that Hughie had turned off all but a few of the lights
on the coach and they were now in semi-darkness.  All seemed quiet and
peaceful, and he couldn’t work out what had woken him.  Sighing, Les
snuggled down again, wishing the temperature would drop even a little.

And then...

He felt it again.

Someone was stroking his inner thigh, the circular movement of the fingers
lightly brushing over his cock and balls as they did so.

Still unsure if he was still in a state of semi-consciousness, Les turned
over -- but the hand continued to stroke him.  Was he then touching
*himself* he wondered, reaching down to find out.

But no.  It *wasn't* his hand -- he could account for both of his, so who
the hell did *this* one belong to?

He opened his eyes and tried to make sense of the shapes in the gloom.  And
then his heart leaped.

He could see very little, but what he *could* see was a head, features
hidden because the figure was standing with its back to what light there was
on the coach.  And that light showed Les a cloud of fine, blonde hair.

“What the fuck...?”


It couldn't be -- *Ray*?

“What’s going on?  Is there something wrong?”

“No, nothing wrong at all -- quite the opposite in fact.”  Warm hands
suddenly cupped Les’s face.

Les’s cock leapt in unison with his heart.  Oh god, it was what he’d always
dreamed of -- <but please god, don’t let this be a dream...>  “Ray?  I -- I
never realised you knew...”

A soft chuckle.  “Of *course* I knew.  I’ve *always* known.”

“Oh god, Ray...”

Les reached up and buried his fingers in soft hair, pulling down the eager
mouth to his own.  Melding his lips to those of his unexpected visitor, Les
opened his mouth and let his mouth be plundered shamelessly by an
enthusiastic tongue that battled fiercely with his own.  Caressing the warm
skin and smooth strands of fine hair, Les revelled in the sensations of
something he’d desired so often and for so long...

...Until his lust-fogged brain slowly began to register the fact that
something didn’t seem right.  Surely Ray’s hair wasn’t *that*
long...and...oh shit...that wasn’t stubble and Ray *definitely* didn’t have
any facial hair...

A sudden appalling, horrific suspicion hit him.  “WHAT THE *FUCK*...”

Immediately the lights in the coach snapped on, flooding Les’s bunk with
clarity and revealing to him the full awfulness of his situation.  Behind
him the others were guffawing with school-boyish glee -- and above him...oh
god...  Above him...was Beano.

Beano took in Les’s dismayed expression and gave a cheerful shrug.  “Those
buggers put me up to it,” he explained.  “No need to take it personal,

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

By the time Les had finished bawling the rest of the band and the road crew
out to his satisfaction, they did at least have the decency to look ashamed
of themselves.  Beano, as ever, didn't seem *entirely* repentant, but
knowing him of old Les knew that beneath that loutish exterior the portly
drummer was definitely chastened.

As he made his way back to his bunk, he suddenly noticed a familiar figure,
golden hair glowing in the muted light and sunglasses on despite the
darkness, reclining across two of the coach seats.  With a jolt of
embarrassment he realised that Ray must have been sitting there all along --
must’ve been aware of *everything*...  Oh *shit*...

“Ray...mate...”  Les leaned across and cautiously put his hand on Ray’s
broad shoulder.  He made ineffectual gestures of mortification.  “I don’t
know what to say, like...”  Oh Jesus, he’d never felt so humiliated in all
his born days.  “I’m really sorry, man,” he finished lamely.

He expected Ray to flinch away from him, to look at him with disgust.  He
knew that Ray hadn’t exactly been averse to homosexual experiences, but
knowing how their relationship still wasn’t exactly the friendliest in town
he felt certain Ray would treat him with icy disdain -- would dismiss him
coldly and they’d be back to square one.

“Ray...like I say, sorry, man...”

For a moment there was silence -- then Ray raised his sunglasses...and
almost blew Les away with the darkness in his eyes and the heat of his
crooked smile.  And when he spoke, Ray’s voice was all shadows and promise,
deep and low and as delicious as chocolate.

“Don’t worry...”  Ray replaced the sunglasses with effortless elegance.  “I’
ll help you make it up to me later...”



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