There was a plastic tray digging into his knees and his legs were squashed up against the seat in front of him. This was of little consequence, because in the next fifteen seconds he was going to die. On fire, screaming. The wings were metal. The entire plane was metal. People were pretending they were in a cafe, but they were all going to die.
"I don't like this. I thought I could do it, but I can't," he said holding the armrests in a death grip.
Jones looked at him bemusedly.
"I wish you'd told me, I wouldn't have made you come," he said patting Dan's hand.
"I need to get off, I'm getting off now," Dan replied, fumbling with his seatbelt, "I'll see you back at the flat when you come home."
The plane started to inch it's way down the runway and an air hostess (or whatever it was you called them now) told him off for unfastening his seatbelt. Dan screwed his eyes shut and grabbed Jones' hand tightly.
"Jones, if I die, I just want to say sorry for treating you like shit for so long. And stringing you along. And ignoring you. And-"
"Dan, shut up. We're not going to die," Jones said and squeezed his hand.
Dan let out a small, decidedly unmanly whine, just loud enough for Jones to hear. The DJ rolled his eyes and leaned closer to Dan, putting his arms around him and whispering in his ear.
"What are you playing at confusing these poor people by subverting the stereotype? I'm supposed to be having hysterics and you're supposed to be comforting me like a big strong man."
Dan made a token attempt to shake him off, but allowed himself to be cuddled and petted by Jones while the plane tipped the world sideways and lurched into the air.
"That wasn't so bad," Jones' warm breath tickled his neck.
"Maybe not for you," he replied in a fierce mutter.
He felt a blanket covering them and looked over to see Jones smoothing it around himself, before slipping his hands underneath it. Within seconds there was a hand unbuttoning his trousers and fingers sneaking past the waistband of his underpants.
"What are you doing!" Dan whispered desperately.
Jones kissed his ear and whispered back softly.
"You said you wanted to get off. Stop wriggling, you'll give the game away."
"Jones, this is neither the time or the place," Dan said weakly as his traitorous cock hardened in Jones' light grasp.
"Come on Dan, I always wanted to join the mile high club. And you need something to take your mind off things," Jones smiled evilly at him and brushed his thumb over the head.
Dan sucked in a breath through his teeth and looked murderously at Jones.
"If the plane crashes and they find my body like this, I'll die of shame," he said facetiously.
"Le petit mort," Jones said and twisted his wrist.
"I thought you couldn't speak French," Dan muttered into the seat.
"I can't, I just heard that somewhere. Pretty wicked though, the little death. S'what it's like," he replied.
His face was cradled against Dan's neck. To the outsider it would look like he was murmuring comfortingly into his ear, instead of nibbling and licking at the delicate skin of Dan's throat.
"You need to stop thinking," Jones went on against his throat, "You like that don't you?"
"Get a napkin or something," Dan said urgently.
Jones grabbed a wad of paper napkins and wanked Dan's pulsing cock into them furiously. Dan bit his lip and climaxed under the blanket. His mind went blissfully blank for a fraction of a second and then he was back and Jones was zipping him back into his jeans in a business like way and discretely putting the balled up tissues into his carry on luggage.
"That's disgusting," Dan muttered at him weakly.
"I'll throw it out later, I didn't want to upset that poor little thing when she was cleaning up," Jones nodded at the air hostess.
"Thank you," said Dan with reluctance.
"You calmed down now?" Jones asked him.
"Yeah."
"Wanna blow me in the toilets?"
Dan rolled his eyes and unbuckled his seatbelt.
"I'll just be going to the loo then," he said and stalked off in the direction of the toilets.
Jones smiled and waited three minutes and twenty six seconds before following him.