Title: Hot One (Part Three of Nancy Boy)
Author: mao
Disclaimer: Velvet Goldmine characters, likenesses, and plotlines belong to Todd Haynes, Michael Stipe, and the rest of those crazy kids. The song "Hot One," which is featured in the film is the source of the lyrics. I'm making no money off this (at least, not that I know of), nor do I get credit for any of that stuff. Suing me will accomplish nothing. So there. :P
Author's Notes: From Ray's point of view again.
Warnings: Slash. Men engaging in sexual actitivities together. Yum.
Dedication: for Katy. At last, my queen, this is what you've been waiting for.
***
He's dancing, his lithe young body undulating in the twirling lights, and you can't take your carefully lined eyes off him. He's glammed up in all of your band's clothing - one of Billy's slinky, sequined shirts, one of Pearl's jackets, shoes donated from Malcolm that make him your height, and your pants, tight against his ass and groin as he twirls and grins, his face tainted purple, then red, then flashing gold.
You grin back at him, lighted by his youthful exuberance, by his bouyance at being out in the world, a feather boa trailing over his jacketed shoulders and onto your's. He's been dancing since you all arrived at the club a couple hours ago, cheerful and full of the music around him. His eyes are spinning as a Brian Slade song comes on, his breathing is heavy with dehydration, and you grab his arm and pull him off the dance floor for a moment. He protests weakly but allows you to pull him through the crush of writhing bodies, away from the bright lights and sweaty heat.
You drag him behind you to the bar and order a pint and a large glass of water, then take him to a high table, secluded in the corner. You more or less force the water on him, but he drinks it all down and, calmed a bit, goes back to the bar to get a pint for himself. You watch him as he goes, watch that perfect round ass in your satin pants, that crop of mahogany hair that's nearly plastered to his skull with the effort of dancing, and sip on the beer, the gentle bitterness of the pint cheering you.
He finally returns, and like a true queen, he holds not a pint but a strawberry daquiri, sipping it from a tiny red straw. You can't help but smile at him as he climbs back into his seat and sips on the drink.
There's a long moment where you can't speak and he's silent, but it's not as awkward as earlier, when he'd appeared in the doorway of your room.
"Hi Arthur," you'd said softly, putting down the glossy magazine you'd been reading, ready for any diversion he could offer. "What is it?" But he hadn't had a reason to come, except that he seemed lonely. Until you'd thought to offer to do his makeup, the two of you had sat in awkward silence, letting the quiet stretch out like twine between sentances - and those were short, the words clipped.
Now it's companionable, almost. Or perhaps it's simply that the noise of the club makes it too loud for talking, but he brushes your shoulder with his own, and the velvet of the coat he's borrowed reminds you of the last time Pearl wore it, with his caramel hair blown back from his face and his candy lips speaking poison.
"Can we go outside?" He asks you, shouting to be heard over whatever's playing now - you don't even know what it is, didn't hear it come on, and don't really care. "It's just so loud in here." You nod, grasp his hand gently in your own - barely realizing the innuendo of the movement as you do it - and lead him through the club.
As you go, Malcolm catches your eye and sends you a broad, glittering wink of good fortune, and you send him a grin back, trying to focus on something besides the electricity of his hand in yours, of the finger curled around the back of your hand, of the thumb gently brushing circles on your skin. You focus instead on little things as you travel through the club - on the swirling of the lights, the weight of your jacket on your shoulders, the proximity of the door.
And then you're outside, and so is he, and the cool air rushes into your pores. You stop for a moment to think, looking up and down the road. It's late, but glitter children still congregate everywhere on the narrow road, huddled together against the cruelty of the wind at their backs. Arthur starts wandering slowly, and you follow - this is his whim after all, not yours. You gently let go of his hand, but - miracle of miracles! - he doesn't let go of yours, keeping his fingers firmly locked in place to stop your hand from falling through. He's still a bit shorter than you, even with four inch heels, and you can see over his head, but when you look down, he's looking at your face.
You smile, slowly, as you walk into the light of a streetlamp. The light casts its glow over his head like the nimbus of an angel in an old Catholic painting. You can almost see the wings rising off his back, and you smile wider.
"What're you grinning at?" His voice is soft, and you realize suddenly that his nerves are threaded through it. With a jolt, it comes to you that he's attracted to you, that he's as scared as you are, that he has no clue the phenomenal beauty his angelic quality lends to him.
"You're an angel. You're magic," you tell him, and a smile slowly makes its way over his face, beginning with the corners of his mouth, then spreading out and upwards, and finally taking residence in the sadness of his puppy dog eyes.
You realize that you've stopped walking, and that he's dropped your hand. Pale and shimmering in the lamplight, he looks down, still smiling. And indeed, in that moment, he is an angel, a beautiful benevolent fairy, resplendent in borrowed glamour and glittering in his natural iridescent beauty.
You reach out one hand, paler than any of his skin, and slowly run it from the edge of his forehead down over one silky soft cheek to cup the edge of his chin.
Your thumb plays over the pillows of his lips, testing their softness and wiping away the vestiges of his lipstick, before you move in and touch his lips with your own in a chaste kiss, afraid to wake the statue. Once, twice your lips meet his, dry and only slighty parted, before you move away and look at him.
His eyes open slowly, and for a moment you think he's angry with you for what you've done, but then you realize he's glowing, he's absolutely delighted, that your alabaster saint has cracked his mold and is grinning at you, fairly shaking in desire, and then he's on top of you, rocking you back into a wall, his lips on yours, his hands on your shoulders, tongue thick in your mouth and tasting of strawberries, and you love it because his energy is so strong, fairly flowing into you.
You move slowly, forcing him into the alleyway, back from the light, where you collapse on a forgotten heap of sacks that no one will want to claim tomorrow. He's forcing your jacket off of you and his is gone, but who knows where it is and will Pearl really care? A million thoughts are jostling through your brain, vying for prevalence and riding the crest of your desire, but you can't stop the think about them because that mouth - oh, that mouth! - has descended on your neck, on the soft skin of the underside of your chin and he's sucking and biting and you can feel yourself losing control as you grab him round the waist and crush his slender body into your own.
He gasps into your mouth as you trail a single finger up his leg to the bulge at the center of his borrowed satin trousers. And then you lean back a moment and murmer, gently in his ear, "Do you want me to stop? I mean, is this too much?"
And you mean it - if he wanted you to, you would force yourself to stop right now, content with just the soft brush of his lips against yours, with the trembling intensity of the last few minutes in the darkened alley, the roughness of the sacks etching itself into your back.
"No, never," he gasps into your ear as his mouth - warm, wet, the tongue tracing its way oh so delicately across your skin - comes down on it. As much as you love the teasing sensation of his tongue on your ear - sending delicate, lacy shivers down your spine - you pull back to look him in the eyes.
His eyes are two bright points of light in the dimness of the alleyway, surrounded by the winking hints of the glitter you spread over his eyelids earlier. You look at him carefully as you speak, wanting your words to have the impact you think is necessary with him, with his fragile innocence.
"Are you certain? I don't want to push you."
His eyes blink, then the shimmering lids drop again as he moves one hand roughly to the zipper on your pants. In response to your question he slides it down slowly, tantalizingly, and you let your hands slip off his shoulder as his mouth goes down as well.