Jones couldn't actually remember being this happy. He knew people said that, like 'this is the happiest I've ever been!' but he was serious. Things had never been this good. He'd done two gigs, just to fill in for another DJ, and had somehow scored himself a regular spot at a club that was so cool most people couldn't even pronounce its name properly. And he had his shifts at Stanley Knives, which meant heaps of exposure and steady money and... he was so excited he wanted to jump around the house like a little kid to his Ziggy Stardust album until he was too tired to even stand anymore!
Dan was leaning against the kitchen counter with that funny half-grin playing across his lips, flitting about, one minute there, the next minute gone 'cos he was trying to be serious and grown-up. He was clean shaven at the moment, trying to look more respectable, and Jones liked it because Dan's smile, when it appeared, had no where to hide. He didn't smile much, Dan Ashcroft, he was mostly known for being a super cool, moody bastard, but he smiled for Jones, and suddenly that seemed like an even more important reason to celebrate than the DJ gig.
Through all the shitty feelings and nightmares and weird sad days over the last year Dan had been there to remind Jones that he was brilliant and they just had to figure out how to show that to the world. He didn't always say it in words, sometimes it came in the form of a kiss to the top of his head that he then got all embarrassed about, or a fancy coffee from down the road, or a toy he'd found to decorate the decks. Quite often he just pointed out all the ways that every other disc jockey on the scene was utter shit. However he did it, Dan had a knack for making Jones smile.
He also had a way of licking his lips that made Jones really want to kiss him, and right now he couldn't think of a good enough reason not to.
He bounced over to Dan, who gave a throaty chuckle that made Jones shiver. He stood as close as he could, pressing himself against Dan's chest and stomach and wrapping his arms around the older mans' neck and Dan responded by putting his mug down on the counter and wrapping his own arms around Jones' waist.
"Are we slow dancing now?" Dan asked softly as the gentle strums of 'Rock'n'Roll Suicide' began to play and Jones bit his lip to stop what would either be a laugh or a sob, and embarrassing either way.
"I think I wanna kiss you, Dan," he replied and watched as Dan licked his lips again, like a temptation or an invitation. "No, scrap that, I know I wanna kiss you, Dan."
"I'm too old."
Dan shook his head but didn't move his arms away and Jones leaned against him more firmly, noting how Dan held him there, his big hands gripping firmly at Jones' pointy hip bones.
"You ain't that old, Dan," he whispered. "You always think you're old but you ain't. And eighteen and twenty-five ain't that bad. And I'm twenty-two now anyway, my write-up says so, so we're practically the same age an' all."
Dan laughed and moved his head a little closer but not enough to let their lips meet so Jones figured that bit was his job, since he'd started it. He leant in, tilting his chin until it felt like it was at the right angle and then pressed his lips against Dan's, letting his eyelids flutter closed as he did.
Bowie was singing to him that he wasn't alone and for the first time Jones actually believed it; standing in a kitchen that had used to feel like the sound of boots on gravel and now felt like bare feet in warm sand, with a man who smelt like cigarettes and coffee but tasted like tea and had a heart beat that seemed to match the rhythm that was forever playing in Jones' head.
Dan's lips weren't soft - he hadn't expected them to be, hadn't wanted them to be, because that wasn't Dan - Dan wasn't soft where people could see. But when Dan's tongue pushed against his lips, begging entry, then sliding into Jones' mouth to move against his own - that was soft - and so hot it made Jones moan and twist his fingers into Dan's hair so hard that Dan gasped and moved his hands from Jones' waist to his arse.
They'd stayed like that, kissing and grinding against one another, desperate for the feeling of need and want and almost-there pleasure to never stop. They kept going even after Dan's tea had gone cold and the record had played out. The skipping of the needle, the delicate scratch and spin of a record that was done but still turning, made Jones smile, and he'd laughed breathily into Dan's mouth, which only made the man pull him closer and kiss down his neck so that he could suck a deep, red, love bite on the pale skin there, which had made Jones laugh and gasp and giggle all the more.
They hadn't done more than that. Dan had been adamant. He'd sent Jones to bed with a hot chocolate and a sleeping pill, like always. And the promise that there would be more kissing in the morning. And there had been.
It had been Jones' first kiss, and it had been more perfect than he reckoned any first kiss had the right to be. It had been wonderful, and he couldn't hear that song, or taste tea, without being transported back to that feeling of exciting, hard yet soft, need. No matter where he was or what he was supposed to be doing.
Which was sort of embarrassing actually, but still nice.
And now that feeling was there again. Dan was kissing his neck and rubbing his uninjured hand over Jones' chest like he wanted to calm the frantic beating of Jones' heart, and it felt so good, like he had his old Dan back. The Dan who was grumpy and a bit rude but also patient and caring and worried about doing the right thing and producing work he was proud of.
Knowing that it'd been the depression causing Dan's change in behaviour, that it was a illness that Dan couldn't control on his own and that there was no way Jones could have known what was happening, made it somehow less scary. Dan didn't hate him or resent him, Dan had depression. He needed lots of care and love - one of the nurses had explained it to him - so that he could get better and feel like himself again, as well as his pills to bring his brain chemistry back into balance.
Jones hoped so, anyway. The last six months had been unpredictable and Dan had barely touched him beyond drunken cuddles and occasional, desperate kisses, which usually indicated that Dan was about to go out and do something that went against his moral compass and everything he stood for.
There had been one night, after Dan had heard Jones yelling at Barley that he was shit, at a party that Jones had only gone to because Dan felt sick at the thought of facing it alone, when Dan had actually wanted him. The words had set off a spark in Dan's brain, and he'd been so full of self-loathing, and alcohol, that he'd pushed Jones against the door of their room and kissed him with such force that Jones had imagined he could feel the pain Dan felt in just existing.
Dan had spent the rest of the night worshipping Jones' body, kissing and biting and sucking and submitting and the next day Jones had walked around in a daze, wondering why he felt so strange - like, a little bit happy but also unbearably sad - until he realised that he really missed Dan, even when they were in the same room. And he didn't know what to do.
Dan was doing weird shit, hanging around with the people he hated, getting so drunk that a couple of times Jones had actually had to drag him most of the way home, and doing just about anything for money. He could have asked Jones for help, but he didn't. He wouldn't even tell Jones why he needed the money or how much. When Jones tried to just give him some Dan had come close to tears. He'd been drunk but he was nearly always drunk now and he'd told Jones that there'd been enough prostitution in this house, and he wasn't going to involve Jones in anything so sordid.
He'd called Jones precious and special and beautiful and had touched his face while his eyes were glassy with tears and it had made Jones want to cry too.
Then Dan'd fallen to his knees and puked all over Jones' jeans before passing out on the hallway floor.
Dan jumping out of that window hadn't actually been that much of a surprise, when it had happened.
Jones had wondered whether Dan would ever get back to normal or whether the nightmare was creeping back in and they were both being sucked down for good. But over the last two weeks Dan had changed. He'd been more relaxed about his world, more interested in what Jones was talking about, more easily drawn in to conversation, quicker to smile (and actually smile with some warmth), and determinedly sober.
Yesterday Jones had felt like things were actually getting back on track. They'd shared a good morning snog, which they hadn't really done in almost a year, and they'd shared breakfast. Jones had been able to lure Dan into a debate about music and bands that neither of them liked anyway and then he'd been able to lure Dan into bed. And they'd stayed there for hours.
Dan had seemed (not back to normal) ...different. But good. And when he'd pointed out that their relationship was still not public knowledge, and that he wanted to change that, Jones had been ready to take that step. He had worried, when he was younger, that people would think he was with Dan just to improve his prospects as a DJ, or that their relationship was strange because of the age difference and the circumstances of their lives, or that he'd be beaten up again, for being queer. He didn't want people looking at him and judging him. Now he didn't care, he just wanted Dan to be happy, to smile again the way he used to when Jones told him about the music different coloured scarves made in the wind, or the fact that every note on his beat up, old, guitar was a different shade of purple, from lilac to violet.
And now Jonatton Yeah? had stepped in to ruin their lives by twisting everything they had into something perverse when it had always been wonderful.
Jones didn't know what to do. So he let Dan keep on kissing his neck and when Dan rubbed his erection against Jones' thigh, he pulled him to the bedroom and told Dan he loved him as many times as he could before Dan laughed and smothered the words with his mouth.