Lockie x John Paul, Hollyoaks season 2016

2016 comes to Hollyoaks: with his marriage to Ste finally over, can John Paul move on? And who with? Lockie has his own trouble; forsaken by Porshe (his wife), betrayed by his brother Cameron, he fights for his life.

Happy 2016, Mate

The floor was ice cold, the mattress soggy with fresh urine and Lockie's pubic hair stuck to his legs under his boxers - it hurt to move. Tears had dried and formed a crust film on the rims of his eyes. His throat hurt. He attempted talking to the wall, only to get his voice back. Nothing but a low pitched wheeze came out. Pathetic. He was pathetic. This situation was stupid, pathetic.

He should have gone to the police when he had the chance. Shouldve gone straight to the station.

Lockie cringed. And yet he hadn't. He had looked out for Cameron, his older brother, yet again. He'd stuck his neck out for him, ignored his faults, he forgave him. And now he was here. Locked up in a tool shack of some sort. Cold, hungry, alone. Funny in a way: locked up Lockie. Lock the door and toss the key. He shivered; lucky the weather was mild this year. Last winter the temperature in Hollyoaks had dropped far below zero. Lockie remembered walking down the streets linked by the arm with Porshe (who had dragged him from one shop to the next - in search of Christmas presents for the copious McQueen family). It had been so cold that year, he had hugged Porsche for her body warmth. He smiled. The mattress squeaked as he rolled over with a groan. He had screwed that up royally as well.

Even if he did escape from this new mess he'd gotten himself into, and suppose he could get Cameron off his back and get him to stop this insane vendetta, even then, - Porsche would want nothing to do with him. It was over.

Lockie lifted his chained hands over his head and fumbled for the little metallic bowl with leftovers. Carefully he picked out a strand of noodles and put it in his mouth. He chewed the damp dough. His mouth full of sticky saliva and pasta pieces. He swallowed. Slowly. Slowly he lowered his arms again, rolled over on his side, closed his eyes and told himself to sleep.

Fireworks went off in the distance. He knew he was far, far away from any inhabited place. And no one would come to rescue him. Tears streaked down Lockie's cheeks onto the pillowless mattress and the stained, reeking coverlets.

"Happy 2016, Lockie," he whispered to the wall.


John Paul met the New Year in a gay bar - celebrating the fact that once again, a new year had started, and he was single. Not the Flying Rainbow - that place was full of wannabe bears with thin irregular growing chest hair, and sixteen-year-old twinks (with fake IDs claiming they were at least 20) who dreamed of going down to Hollywood and becoming the next Chris Colfer. And besides, John Paul had had it with Hollyoaks. Ever since he returned to the village four years ago, it had given him nothing but grief. So he had hailed a Daz cab (Darren wasn't driving that night) to take him on a one-way ride as far away from Hollyoaks as the driver possibly could. That's how he ended up in Blackburn, of all places. Once there, he went on a long stroll from street to street, and, following the rainbow colored flags, walked into something called Los Tres Amigos. John Paul claimed a high stool at the bar, ordering one of the locally brewed beers - and was 5 pounds poorer for it.

The ice cold beer gobbled down his throat. John Paul licked his lips and had a look of the place. It was crowded with bodies standing and talking over the hip disco music that echoed all over. The acoustics of this place was terrible. A few guys were dancing. Swaying their hips sensually to the subdued beat of a drum in the background.

One guy especially caught John Paul's eye. He was dancing in the center of the room, hands at his sides, eyes closed, feeling the music. And as he moved, fluidly gliding over the floor, he was in tune with the music, never missing a note or even a single beat. Dancing was an experience for him; not merely an ostentatious mimicking of bedroom techniques. The guy wore a button down shirt with frilled collar, skin tight pants, and - to John Paul's surprise - cowboy boots. John Paul burst out laughing. It was so crowded and loud (sound filled every nook and cranny in the wall to the brim with need and want) that nobody cared to notice.

A flare from outside lit up the bar through the windows. For a moment it was bright as daylight. John Paul saw the guy was blond, his button down shirt was a bright canary yellow, his pants were of a ruddy brown color, and the cowboy boots - pink.

A smirk manifested on John Paul's features. He set his half empty beer glass on the counter, threw his jacket over one shoulder, and weaved his way between the dancers and the obnoxiously talking drunkards.

By the time John Paul had reached the guy, a slow song had come on, and most people were clearing the dance floor - going back to their seats with shy smiles and shaking faces. It appeared they were the only ones still left standing. John Paul studied the guy's face (his eyes were still closed, his head was cocked to one side, and he was listening intently, feeling the music). John Paul felt bashful about disturbing the guy's peace. Fireworks went off outside. The bar lit up. The man's pale face was covered in blue hues, his hooked nose quivering, his soft well shaped lips just slightly parted.

John Paul felt a hammering in his chest, and was about to turn and head back to his seat at the bar (if it was unoccupied still), when the guy opened his eyes. It was dark again. And in the dark, they watched each other, eyes locked - two predatory gazes waiting for the pounce. The guy stepped forward, reached out and traced his hand lightly down John Paul's arm.

"Hello stranger," the guy said with a lift of one eyebrow, and an upwards tug of his lip.

John Paul grinned. "I didn't know this bar served fifth formers," he said, giving the guy a wink with his right eye.

"Thanks for the compliment," the guy said. "Though in truth I'm 26 years old and can hold my liquor well."

The implication was he could hold his liquor better than John Paul could. Sweat dribbled down John Paul's forehead when he realized he was practically leering at the guy. The guy must have noticed him awhile ago. He felt like sinking through the floor in shame. His palms were damp with sweat, his pulse was quickening, and his face was growing hot. John Paul looked around the bar for the nearest exit. This was a mistake. A lapse in judgment. Coming here had been a mistake.

His feet started to walk away when the guy grabbed his arm. With wide eyes, John Paul stared at him. He was led into a slow dance. Scurrying to keep up, John Paul found his feet flying over the vinyl floor, one hand pressed against the man's chest, his other arm laced just above the guy's left buttock. Their dance was sensual, and required quick footwork despite the slow song. It was not a dance - John Paul realized, - this was an experience. He suddenly felt compelled to offer something in return.

"I'm 27," John Paul said hastily, his voice uneven, showing how out of breath he was.

The guy smiled at John Paul. The frills of his shirt fluttered from the movement. He leaned back, pulled John Paul closer, and whispered in his ear

"Pleased to meet you, 27."