The glowing red digits flashed from 12:34 to 12:35 and Dan tried to pretend that it didn't matter. His body wanted to sleep so desperately that his head kept lolling forward and jolting him awake. His body was tired, it was just his brain that wasn't cooperating.
"Jones?"
It was just a mumble, his body's reaction to the need for sleep versus the need for Jones - his music or his presence - to switch his brain off, but he couldn't stop worrying. Back before midnight, Jones had said, so where was he?
If he was realistic, Jones would have had to really rush to be home by midnight. His set finished at 11:45 and the club was a ten minute walk from their house, and Jones would be dragging his stuff. Really Dan had expected him home around quarter past, but that was twenty minutes ago, and even though he knew there was probably a perfectly good reason for Jones to be somewhere other than in bed beside him, his brain just wouldn't stop coming up with all the possible disasters which could have befallen him. He desperately wanted a drink but there was nothing in the house, which was for the best, he knew, but still incredibly frustrating.
Claire and Jones had taken perverse delight in searching the house for every single, hidden bottle - like some sort of ridiculous game of hide-and-seek - and pouring it all down the drain. Dan had railed at them from his place on the sofa, fresh out of hospital and unable to move to stop them, and Claire had lectured him about what he was doing to his body and how embarrassing he got when he was drunk: dancing like a dad at a disco and falling asleep in paint. Jones had grinned like a madman as Dan cringed in embarrassment, mortified that anyone, especially his sister, actually remembered the way he acted when under the influence of his favourite poison.
He'd wanted to be furious - unspeakably angry, stoic and silent in his spleen - but Jones had been blowing kisses at his vodka as it gurgled down the plug hole and waving to it like he waved at babies, all waggling fingers and big, round eyes and Dan had laughed in spite of himself.
Claire had called him mental and informed him that while he was out of it in the hospital she'd sold his television to pay his video club debt, but Dan couldn't make himself care. He never watched the damned thing because he could never hear it over Jones' noise, and when Jones wasn't making noise at his decks he was usually forcing noises out of Dan, either on the couch or in their bed (or on the kitchen counter, or the shower, or that one time leaning up against the front door so that it couldn't be opened in case Claire came home early). He was fairly certain that his T.V. wouldn't have cleared the debt anyway, but she hadn't bothered him about it since, and he hadn't asked, which suited him just fine.
Dan closed his eyes tight, scrunching his whole face and then releasing it and widening his eyes to try and clear the headache building in his skull. Watching Jones dispose of his vodka, rum, schnapps, whiskey, port, beer, and tequila had been both upsetting and funny, but Jones had made it worth his while later, covering him in delicate kisses and giving him a back massage that had put him to sleep the way that only alcohol or Jones' music could usually do, but now he was on his own and making himself nauseous with worry because he was almost sure Jones would be fine, but not completely sure, and the only way he would be able to get any sleep right now would be through serious alcohol consumption.
Instead, sitting on the bedside where his trusty bottle of vodka should have been was fucking SugaRape, the magazine that had come so close to destroying his mind and life and the little faith he still had that humans were actually evolving rather than going backwards into monkeydom. His mobile phone was there too, making occasional, sick sounding beeps as it tried to tell him that yet another idiot had read what Jonatton had written about him and that they had an opinion on it. And Jones was out there somewhere, surrounded by the idiots with nothing to protect himself except a crate of broken kids' toys and some trashed records.
Dan checked the clock again then forced his eyes closed. The not knowing was driving him insane.
Jones' usual crowd weren't SugaRape's target audience - they weren't interested in Brit Pop and tits like Barley with his sad, bastardized excuse for music, and probably saw Jones' forced outing as the final reason to hate the magazine and everyone who read it, but that didn't mean that Jones might not have to deal with people recognising him and wanting to make trouble.
Or simply the fact that anyone who had seen the article had also seen basically all of Jones' body. Without his permission. And that had really put Jones on edge. Dan would be the first to admit that Jones had a body that could make mouths water (in the privacy of his own head, to himself) but he also knew that Jones was actually quite shy about the way he looked. He used layers and strange fabrics and bright accessories to draw attention away from a body that Dan thought of as 'lithe' rather than skinny these days, and the only time he really wasn't self-conscious was when he got carried away in his music. Or when they were having sex.
Dan had seen Jones working the decks down at H8NuPx a couple of times, and was well aware that Jones had a small, but intense, following, and that he had a hypnotic affect on people watching him in all his aneurism-inducing-noise glory. He toned himself down a lot when working at Stanley Knives, doing background noise at low volume and using the time to work on new ideas and beats, but when he let loose at H8, known for as the place for Happy Hardcore in London, he created something that was difficult to describe. It was loud and a bit frightening but full of life and innocence and joy as well. Like Jones himself.
And the people there were fairly protective of Jones. His boss, who'd taken over the place four years ago, knew Jones' full name, age and backstory and had taken it in his stride, respecting the odd boy who managed to make people love him without even trying. He'd seen Jones with Dan and made approving nods, and generally treated Jones like he would a nephew, quietly protective and ever watchful. Most of the time Dan found it a bit creepy, but tonight he tried to reassure himself that there was someone watching out for Jones when he couldn't.
He took a few deep breaths, telling himself again that Jones would be fine, even if it was now 12:39, then a banging began on the door and he jumped so badly his leg began throbbing like he'd hit it with a hammer.
"What the fucking... who's there?" he yelled in his most Northern, intimidating voice. "What d'you want?"
"Dan? Ashcroft? It's, like, Rufus-"
"And Ned!"
"Yeah, from work?"
"Fuck off!"
He did not need this. He had been very careful in ensuring that no one he worked with knew his address. Jonatton had only found it out by following Claire home from the hospital and then the bastard had gone and published the fact that he lived in "The House of Jones" on Wellington Row and now the two Princes of Idiocy had found him.
"But we've got your boyfriend."
"What?"
Dan was out of bed and down the hallway so fast he barely realised that his leg was screaming at him. He didn't normally move this fast without broken bones and he suddenly thought that he should probably slow down before he did extra damage to his healing tibia. Then he heard Jones.
"Dan, don't move! Don't get out of bed, I'm fine. I just need to get my key out of my pocket - oi, fuck off, Glasses!"
"I was only trying to help," Dan heard Ned's whiny protest and smiled at the fact that he sounded a bit scared.
"Yeah, well nobody sticks their hand in my pockets without my permission, right? So back off!"
Dan limped the rest of the way down the hall and opened the front door with a look on his face that was probably a bit too much like his dad's. He was going to say something stupid, like 'What sort of time do you call this, then?' but it died in his throat when he saw Jones' face.
"I said make them bleed, not you, you idiot!"
Jones face was smeared with blood, most of it dry, but there was still a trickle moving sluggishly from his nostril to his lip. There was a bruise forming along the bridge between his eyes and his make-up was badly smudged but he looked more angry than upset.
"You should have seen what he did to the butt-munch who tried it on, though," Ned piped up with a grin, staring at him like a fucking fool in his stupid, fake glasses. He still looked terrified and was fidgeting with his phone and when Dan glared in his direction he nearly dropped it and had to fumble about as he apologised. "Oh, shit! sorry. Is butt-munch like, homophobic to you guys?"
Jones heaved a sigh that Dan recognised as the result of having to spend an extended period of time in the company of Ned and Rufus and motioned for Rufus to take his stuff up the steps and into the hall.
"I told 'em, Dan," he said, and sounded suddenly so tired and wobbly, Dan actually worried he'd start crying in the street. "No point in not. They'd just seen me nutting a guy for trying it on after the show, and they helped me get my stuff home, so..."
Rufus placed the crates next to Dan before scurrying back out into the street like a rat and Dan desperately wanted to kick him.
"I didn't believe what Jonatton wrote," Rufus told him when he was safely standing behind Ned and out of kicking range. "Even if you guys are like... an item... I told everyone the photos are fakes."
"Yeah," Ned nodded squinting in the dim light and trying to edge back behind Rufus. "And I told 'em that there's nothing wrong with wanting to kiss blokes if that's what you're into, 'cos it's the naughties, isn't it."
"Is it?" Dan said in the usual, sharp tone he used when restraining himself from telling people exactly what he thought of them, and focused instead on the way Jones was holding his arm close to his side.
"Yeah?" Ned said nervously, mentally checking and rechecking the year. "It's 2003, Dan. I'm like, 98% positive about that, uh..."
Dan wanted to yell at them to go away but they had just helped Jones home which probably meant he had to be at least civil. And they weren't laughing at him either, which was an unexpected bonus.
"Look, thanks for helping Jones home, I'm sure he's very grateful but-"
"Yeah," Jones interrupted, giving Dan a look that meant he should shut the fuck up for a bit. "Thanks. But don't let me stop you, right? It's only gone twelve an' the night's young. And think about what I said, yeah? Viva la Revolution, and all that. Night."
Rufus and Ned were nodding like a pair of annoying desktop toys and didn't seem to be making a move to go anywhere but Jones just walked up the steps, gave them a wave and shut the door, his easy grin dropping as he slid down the wall to sit sprawled out on the floor.
"I dunno how you put up with them, Dan," he whispered, like he'd just woken up from a bad dream. "I know they're, like, technically smarter than me, cos they finished school and have proper jobs and all, but, fuck they're hard work."
Dan chuckled. He wanted to sit down beside him but knew it'd be more hassle than it was worth and that he wouldn't be able to get back up again afterwards. Besides which, in the slightly brighter inside light, he could see that Jones' nose wasn't the only thing that needed cleaning and bandaging.
"Get up. We need to get you cleaned up. I get to play nurse this time."
"Ooh."
"Shut up."
Jones let out a giggle but instead of being reassured, Dan began to worry more. He used his good arm to heave Jones back onto his feet and practically dragged him to the couch. Jones didn't speak when ordered to sit and not move and stayed still and silent while Dan fetched the first aid kit (restocked since Dan's accident) and sat down beside him. It wasn't a good sign.
He started by cleaning Jones' face, hoping to get a glimpse of how the younger man felt by looking in his eyes, but Jones kept them shut as Dan wiped away the dried blood and dabbed at the area with antiseptic lotion. He winced a bit when Dan's fingers poked him but there was none of his usual fidgeting and Dan was getting more and more concerned about his lack of response.
When Jones' face was clean Dan moved to take off the grimy t-shirt but the movement made Jones flinch and his arms flailed, hitting Dan's broken arm and making him cry out.
"Oh fuck, Dan! I'm sorry!" Jones said, his eyes flying open as Dan tried to bite back the curses that he wanted to fling because, while they might make him feel better, he knew that Jones would take them the wrong way and think they were aimed at him, and not just at the world at large.
"It's alright," he said through gritted teeth. "It's my own fault, trying to touch the most ticklish man in all of England without sending up a warning flare first."
Jones smiled, quick but brilliant, a thank you for not using his skittishness to start an argument.
"That is true," he said in mock seriousness. "You know the rules, Mr Ashcroft, what's your excuse?"
Part of Dan wanted to play along, to be silly and naughty and laugh and let Jones win, but part of him... part of him was so tired his face hurt. He just wanted to clean Jones' scrapes and see for himself that the boy was safe, and then, hopefully, finally, sleep.
"I was trying to get your top off," he growled, hoping that if he made it seem sexy Jones would play along.
"It's fine."
Dan frowned. Jones wasn't usually this brusque but he didn't usually come home with a bloody nose either, after spending the day worrying because his personal life had been flayed and laid out in a trashy magazine. Dan tried for calm.
"No, but-"
"It's fine."
"I think it's not. I think you're hurt."
"Fuck off, Dan."
Jones darted away, getting to his feet and drifting, as he always did, toward his precious decks. There were missing parts and gaps where toys usually sat, all still in the crates and needing to be unpacked, but that could wait until morning. He watched as Jones ran his hand across his equipment, so loving and careful, the movement at odds with the chipped black nail paint and studded wrist band he wore.
For a moment Dan thought Jones meant to go behind them and start up his music and decided that at least that way he might get some sleep but Jones moved past the desk, slowly, and went into the kitchen instead.
"Jones," he called, trying to sound firm but only sounding old to his own ears. "We're out of coffee, Jones."
He winced at the sound of a tin being hurled at the wall and a mug and spoon hitting the sink with enough force that he heard porcelain shatter, but decided to let Jones have his tantrum in private.
He maneuvered himself down onto the sofa, trying to ignore the dull, constant pain in his arm and leg and closed his eyes. Jones was kicking the cupboards, picking up the empty coffee tin and hurling it, over and over, and generally making noise, and even though it was an angry and hurting kind of music, it was music, and Jones was home.
And Dan slept.