For Worriedeye, cos I promised her I'd do it quick so she doesn't have to wait.

The beat was pounding, pulsing through his veins like oxygen, and Jones looked out at the crowd, a blur of colour and movement, jumping and swaying in time to the sounds that were pouring forth from his brain. It was a kind of madness, he knew, the noise and music he heard and saw and felt that other people didn't, but as long as he could use it keep himself afloat, and make people happy, it didn't really matter. As long as Dan didn't mind and smiled at him when he pointed out the way bird sound was soft and yet always louder than the traffic noise as long as you had your eyes closed, it was fine.

He looked out at the heaving club but could no longer make out any particular face in the mass of people, they were just a moving haze of skin and hair and clothes and suddenly Jones felt his chest tighten.

He needed to find Dan. Dan had come along tonight, to see him DJ, and Jones desperately wanted to know that Dan liked what he was hearing, that he didn't think Jones' music was shit or childish or worse, boring. He flicked some switched, changed the levels, and amped up the bass line as he let the next track bleed in. It had a dark, pulsing beat and reminded Jones of foreplay when you were drunk on red wine, all heavy breathing and stained lips, hip bones pushing against thighs and leaving bruises that would last 'til the morning as tiny reminders of the black and purple desperation you were feeling in that moment.

He tried to balance his levels, get the timing perfect, but something was wrong. There was a static that he couldn't seem to get rid of, feedback buzzing through the speakers and ruining the mix and the crowd, which had been a bright, golden sort of smudge in front of his eyes, was turning dark, like smears of umber and grey and the movement looked less like dancing now and more like a storm rolling in, rolling toward him.

He pulled back from the decks, tugging to get his fingers free from a surface that was suddenly tacky like old gum against his skin. He searched the room again, his eyes going to the bar and the spot where Dan should have been but wasn't, and felt his throat tighten. He stumbled off the stage, tripping on the stairs that were at once too long and too short, trying to get to the exit without getting near the faceless crowd that loomed over him.

The air was thick, like campfire smoke, and it made his lungs seize up and he wanted to cough, but there was something blocking his throat and mouth and he couldn't get breath in or out. He backed up against the wall of the club but the simple movement caused his back to explode in pain and he tried to gasp but couldn't and stars the colour of gun metal and rust began to dart in front of his eyes while his neck felt so hot it burned but his chest was cold and prickling with goose bumps and he wanted to sob but there was still the invisible something in his throat, choking and suffocating.

He crept his hand along the wall, knowing the door was there somewhere, desperately feeling for the wooden frame and worn, metal handle that would get him out of this place and away from the wall of heaving bodies that were getting bigger and closing in and made him want to scream.

He could barely see now. His eyelids were shutting themselves, even as he tried to force them to stay open, and what was left of his vision was filled with the angry, cinereal sparks, darting about in front of him like flies in an alley. His face was throbbing, his own music drumming into his skull and hurting him, forcing him hard against the brickwork and causing his back to twitch in pain.

He needed to find Dan. He needed to get to the door. Hot tears were spilling down his face and he'd never felt so scared in his life and, oh god, he was wet all over. Sweat or piss or tears, he couldn't tell, and the door wasn't there!

A beeping started, blasting out from his decks, making his heart jump and stutter and it hurt, oh god, it hurt. But then he heard another sound. It was faint, it was barely there, but with his eyes tight shut he could hear it, like bird song.

"Jones! Jonesy! It's alright. I'm here!"

"Dan?"

Jones felt his body jolt and another streak of pain went through him but his back didn't hit brick, like he expected it to. There was a mattress beneath him, and a pillow under his head but he still couldn't breathe, or see properly and the room was a fog of pale blues and odd, unfocused light. But Dan's voice was clear, that at least was real and solid and when he felt long fingers squeeze his hand he let out a relieved laugh that made his throat spasm around the tube inside it.

"Jonesy?" Dan whispered hoarsely, and Jones tried to follow the sound and focus his eyes on the blurred, brown shape that he knew was his Dan. "You awake? Jones?"

He tried to answer but the tube made him gag and the harsh beeping started up again and he felt panic rising.

"Calm down, Jonesy," Dan whispered, cutting through the fear like cream through coffee. "You're ok, you're... you... Christ, don't ever do this to me again, you little shit," Dan huffed and Jones tried to squeeze Dan's fingers. He hated to think that Dan was sad because of him. "Don't... I'm not good at this, Jones. When it was me in here, you got things done. I can't even talk to the nurses without tearing up like a big girl. It's just..."

Jones tried to focus his eyes again. Dan was running the pad of his thumb back and forth across Jones' knuckles and his voice was rough and tired and so broken, Jones just wanted to hug him, but he really couldn't move. He slid his tongue sluggishly against the tube in his mouth. Even swallowing around it hurt, talking was out of the question. He had to concentrate on not gagging around it and it was a shock to realise that it seemed to be doing most of the breathing for him. There was something in his nose too, and tape and wires everywhere. It was strange and he didn't like the feeling of being invaded by so many pieces of equipment but tried to focus on the brush of Dan's thumb instead.

He could see Dan more clearly now, that nose was hard to miss, and Dan's hair was sticking up all over his head, like he'd been dragged backwards through a hedge, and not in a stylish way. He had his back to the light, so Jones couldn't see his eyes (no surprise there, a voice in his head whispered, and he couldn't stop the slow, half-smile that flitted across his face) but he could make out his general shape. Dan's shoulders were hunched and tense and he looked very much like he was about to start doing that silent crying thing that scared Jones more than any nightmare his brain could conjure up.

Dan leaned forward to brush a stray lock of lank hair away from Jones' face, so careful that Jones barely felt it and it was a long moment before it clicked in his head that Dan's hands were both free. His cast was gone. He tried to ask about it but all he could produce was a gurgle.

"It's alright, Jonesy," Dan mumbled, pressing a rough kiss to Jones' forehead, his voice cracking again. "Well, no, it's not alright, it's all a bit... shit, actually... but you're going to be ok. I promise."

He leaned in so that Jones could finally see him clearly, even though his eyes were still watery and a little unfocused. Dan looked the way he used to look in the days when he would spend the entire night drinking, forgoing sleep in favour of beer and self-loathing before heading back to work without a shower or even clean clothes. His shirt was so rumpled Jones wondered if it was actually on inside out and his face was stubbled and dry and tired. His eyes, small but always so sharp, were red and swollen and Jones felt a tear slide down the side of his face and into his hair at the thought of Dan upset and alone.

He opened his mouth but Dan shook his head and wiped the tear track from Jones' face with the back of a finger.

"Don't try to talk. They got you in the throat. Broken ribs too, and... but the doctor says you're going to be fine, eventually. And I swear you're getting the best service this place can provide. Not because I'm paying them anything, just, all the nurses remember you and they're clucking around you like a brood of mother hens."

He sniffed and looked away but Jones squeezed his hand. He couldn't talk or move and he hated that Dan was suffering on his own, trying to be a proper, stoic man about it all, when really he needed a good old cry.

Jones tried to shift his hips but a sudden burst of pain stopped him and he let out a gurgling moan as his lower back began to throb like an obnoxious beat from a dodgy backing track. Dan was on his feet in a moment and there was someone else there too, fiddling with his wrist, plugging something in, clicking, twisting, and telling him gently that he would be fine in a minute. She was right too. Jones felt his body begin to relax, turning warm like caramel fudge. His eyes began to droop but he didn't want to fall asleep. He wanted to be with Dan and make him feel better. But his body had gone fuzzy and sleepy and Dan was brushing gently at his hair again and whispering to him quietly, so the nurse wouldn't hear.

"God, I love you, Jones. I'm sorry. I'm... I love you. It'll be alright... They got the shit heads that did it, that-" he sniffed. "They're out on bail, though, so... and I thought... My parents have a house, a little place on the coast... Hornsea... and I thought, when you get out of here, I thought... D'you feel like taking a holiday, Jonesy? 'Cos I think I... London's lost some of it's hold on me and... I think I'd quite like a break. And my mum says she'll pay for our train tickets."

Jones smiled at Dan's attempt at a casual tone. He could see how hard Dan was trying to hold it together, the way this throat was moving, his adam's apple bobbing up and down with all the other words he couldn't get out, and a voice like cigar smoke. He couldn't get the smile to stay in place though, it slid away like melting ice cream off a spoon and he couldn't even nod. He tried to tell Dan with his eyes that a holiday sounded good, that he loved Dan back, that he was sure it was going to be ok, but he wasn't sure that Dan got it.

He mouthed 'I love you' around the tube but it just made Dan's whole face crumple and he hid it in his large hands, one of which was strapped and pale from it's weeks in plaster.

Jones tried to focus on that fact, to try and slot the events from the last day, or days, back into order. Monday morning Dan had been in bed when he left for work. Dan hadn't wanted to get up before his appointment with the doctor but had said he was going to have a shave before he went so that he looked a bit presentable. He'd offered to help Dan shave but Dan'd been adamant that he'd be fine. He was perfectly capable of shaving his own face. Now he looked like his face hadn't seen a blade for almost a week.

There had been a chance he'd get the cast off, Jones remembered now, in favour of strapping and a sling. Jones hadn't been sure it was a good idea but Dan had been keen to get the thing off. He had a bruise on his forehead from where he kept trying brush his hair away - and from trying to cover his eyes when he was about to orgasm - and he wanted the thing gone. He was still going to have the leg cast on for a few more weeks and that was the one they really needed to keep an eye on.

Jones had finished early, because it was a Monday and Stanley Knives was open on Monday mornings to deal with weekend hair emergencies but shut at one pm. He'd dropped in to see Sasha, grabbed a coffee, and then had begun to head back home, dawdling because he knew Dan wouldn't be back yet. Then he'd seen those blokes throwing rocks through his windows, and he'd seen...

"Jonatton," he tried to whisper but coughed weakly instead.

Dan's head shot up at the sound though, and Jones willed him to understand.

"What?"

"Jonatton," he mouthed, not bothering to make any sound and putting his remaining energy into getting his lips to work properly.

"Jonatton?" Dan whispered back and Jones did his best to nod. "Was he- He was there? When you got..."

Jones gave the barest of nods. He could feel the painkillers pulling him back down into sleep but it was ok now. Dan's face didn't look so crushed and hopeless any more, he looked determined. Absolutely furious, but determined too. Dan always needed something to do or think about so that he didn't lose himself in his hatred of the world and humanity in general. Jones just hoped he didn't do anything stupid.