British QaF. Not my characters, no copyright infringement intended, no profit intended or made.


Another day.

Another drink, of course. Lots of those. And lots of others. Drink, drunk, boys, everywhere, boys. Drink up. Lots to get through tonight. Whole, hours, to get through tonight.

Stuart feels the dizzy rush, slight tingle in his cock and toes, and the dry-mouth.

He stares at Vince, dancing like a twat with Alexander, grins, looks away. Head a little dizzy. Mouth playing with a slightly-pitying smile-- and that bothers him, that most of him isn't pitying Vince. Because the question becomes, of course, what's the rest of him doing.

Waves at the bartender -- another.

It's always another.

Beautiful, Vince. Beautiful. Mood-swings.

Stuart aches inside, drinks his gin, puckers his lips at the sour taste. Considers going out to dance with Vince, but after sixteen years, if it wasn't going to happen, one more night of gin and tonics and cocaine and Alexander being a bigger twat, well. It isn't going to tip the scales.

Orders a shot, blinks blurry eyes. But, they were just two guys, just dancing in the. And the everything else, it couldn't be. The others, Stuart didn't want to order another Vince.

--couldn't take it.

Stuart gulps gin down, slaps his chest, and leans against the bar, eyeing a cock across the room. From the corner of his eye, he sees Vince grinning like an idiot.

You see, he thinks to himself with a bitter internal tone, you have to love people wisely.

The cock looking back at him is sculpted, perfect. Stuart makes a little nod, feels sick in his stomach. Better eat something before he shags, that queasiness won't do. Inner monologue says, yeah, love wisely, you cunt. Not too little, and never too much.

Vince catches his eye, Stuart grins slyly. Winks. The cock has almost reached him.

"Come back to mine", he murmurs, in a sweaty ear, down by the bar. Over the shoulder he's leaning on, Stuart spots Vince shaking his head, gazing from the balcony. Come back to mine.

There's that small way that waiting for a shag is always better than the shag itself. In the chase, in the seduction, in the knowledge they'd look at him later like they had been hit over the head and mean it when they say it's been bloody fantastic. In the way every fuck is the perfect one, just before -- up until -- it happens.

Mosty, the shag itself is the important part. But there's this little bit that just -- goes away, when it's not that in between time.

Stuart looks at Vince. Dancing, sweating, laughing; he shrugs. Looks away. It's not--

As he kisses the bloke, he thinks for a second or two, he wants to be happy with Vince. But he's convinced he wouldn't be.

If you love him just enough to be happy, you should have more than shags and less than this, right? It should be there. It's not.

Stuart wishes it was, for a second, and desperately.

There's a hand on his hard-on.

You can't love people too much, the neon lights above the bar shout at him, above the disco-trance-techno-beats and slaps of bodies and, yeah. Never too much, and always in just the right way.

Just the right way.

Stuart nibbles, grinds, feels heat and dancing and a pulsing of blood in his veins, dancing with the faceless man he's going to bring home. Smiles fondly in Vince's direction, once, before he leaves, but Vince isn't looking back.