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Sweat dribbled down his neck and shoulders as he caught it with his palm, temporarily unburdening himself of the ever-recurring rivulets of sweat.
He meandered through to the next room and over to the bar area where Gethen and Ed were hanging out, Gethen slurping a Southern Comfort and lemonade, Ed hugging a bottle of Newcastle Brown Ale, nodding in time to anAlien Sex FiendB-Side.
It was approaching one am, and the likelihood of seeing Tim was fast becoming a distant possibility. It was unlike him to leave Lawrence hanging, to go home without saying a word, so Lawrence presumed he was still knuckling down in the studio. He tried to turn it into a positive. It meant that maybe Tim had found an elusive flash of inspiration and was now on a roll.
“Tim not coming, then?” asked Gethen, his gruff northern accent cutting through the snapping 808 snare.
“I haven’t heard anything yet,” shouted Lawrence, having to bellow over the sound system to be heard.
“Why don’t you give him a bell on that thing?” Ed nodded to the Motorola crammed into Lawrence’s satchel.
Lawrence hadn’t had much to drink but had bumped a little bit of speed, so was more than in the mood to get it on with Tim, even if it meant a bathroom fumble to avoid a thumping for it. His mates knew he was gay, but their friendlier ‘none of my business’ winks didn’t extend beyond where they stood, into the cold, lifeless looks that mostly came their way. It never did here: even the government and Thatcher poured fire into the barns where they tried to live. He smiled and nodded at the boys at the bar and sauntered down the labyrinthine stairs to a part of the building that was relatively quiet compared to the rest of the venue.
He searched his satchel for the piece of paper with Tim’s mobile phone number on it and found it scrunched up amongst a flock of Doublemint wrappers and rogue Payne’s Poppets, then he unfolded it and punched the numbers into the keypad, impatiently waiting for a connection. After a countless number of rings, he rang off, blaming the phone for not connecting him with Tim.
Seconds later, the phone rang for half a second before Lawrence keenly crushed the ‘Answer’. “Hey,” he exclaimed.
“Hey. Where are you, I’m outside,” shouted Tim down the line, amidst numerous drunken shouts of his stage name coming from the people around him.
One of the prices of fame was that wherever Tim went, somebody was going to recognise him, especially now he’d had a recent number one hit.Slimelinewas a pretty underground club, and the nature of Tim’s music was definitely well-suited to the place. The fact that he’d managed to bring an electro breakbeat record into the mainstream and furthermore put it together in his own bedroom only warranted respect from the muso punters that called this establishment their ‘church’.
Lawrence bounded down the last set of stairs into the lobby as Tim entered via the VIP queue, not that it was much of a queue. His record company had either wangled him free entry or one of the door staff recognised him.
As the bouncer waved Tim through, patting him on the back, he looked over to Lawrence as he casually leaned against the wall opposite, biting his thumbnail in anticipation. Last thing he wanted to do was give anyone ammunition to fire at Tim over his sexuality and add the papers into the hate mix.
But the crowd, music, weed and drink gave him a confidence he probably shouldn’t have enjoyed, and Lawrence tugged Tim into a hold, giving a soft laugh as he tightened it so much, just glad to see him and express it.
Tensing, giving a quick look around as the bouncer started to look their way, Tim briefly returned it, then pulled back, looking self-conscious.
“Whoa, okay.” Lawrence raised his hands defensively, backing off.
“Sorry, you know, me being… you know.”
Tim didn’t need to explain further: Lawrence got it. Tim was used to looking over his shoulder for the next call of faggot too, and with him being in the music industry where rockstars only got off with skinny women, it was harder. But where they’d both come from before in their past lives, there was no calls of faggot, no snide comments chasing a guy for even walking funny if he wasn’t gay, no stigma over falling into sex-same love… and it hurt not being able to be who they were. They were born this way time and time again: everyoneknewit back at the portal, but they chose to forget even that basic fact. So to go from that natural fit of souls to being made to hide in bathrooms either from a beating or to just find release, it made this planet… hell. So yeah, being in the public eye made Tim that much more stressed.
Almost angered by it all, on their way upstairs, Lawrence pulled Tim into an alcove in the corridor spiralling up to the main room—and kissed him, inhaling his scent, sending his senses into a tailspin. Anger instantly faded, and Lawrence blushed at his unmistakable smell of a hard night’s clubbing—that heady combination of sweat, hops and old London buildings—that seemed to get Tim going, his cock pressing hard into Lawrence’s.
His own backcombed hair had flopped throughout the evening, and he’d clipped it back, enjoying Tim’s closeness for a few moments more. Time seemed in no rush to pull away this time, but then this was who they really were. Lawrence knew his eye makeup was smudged, and he eased away, rubbing at it.
“Don’t,” said Tim, taking his hand away. “Looks sexy. Green puddles I could drown in.”
Lawrence kissed him again. Yeah, that was the Tim he got to see and hold.
Hating doing it, he led Tim upstairs to find the other revellers on the dancefloor, losing their minds to some Clan of Xymox. Tim seemed in an upbeat mood, clearly having made some progress in the studio this evening.
“So… you all good?” asked Lawrence.
“Yeah, I think so. I feel like I’m getting somewhere now. Sorry I’m so late, it’s just, I was on a roll and-”
“Sorry, are you Jim Tones?” A punter interrupted them, dancing up next to them and tapping Tim’s arm excitedly.
Tim nodded and smiled at the girl as she confirmed his identity to her friend behind them.
“Would you mind doing us an autograph?” giggled the girl.
Tim asked her for a pen and she glided over to the bar, telling the barman what was going on, who tried to seem nonchalant, despite not taking his eyes off Tim for a second.
When the girl returned, Tim signed a napkin she’d snatched from the bar, much to her delight, then she and her friend danced off open-mouthed towards the dancefloor, kissing and relishing their new prize.
