Oh, true love.
To be together always,
We sealed with a kiss.
Why can't I see you,
My love?
Why can't I hear you,
Oh, true love?
When will we meet again?
Separated as time goes by.
I want you always by my side.
My love, oh my truest love.
When can I touch you,
My love?
When can I kiss you,
Oh true love?
Oh, my truest love.
Cole was crying as he hit the last chord, but so was Dayton. He gave the rest of the crowd a brief smile before hurrying off of the stage. Dayton was headed backstage in a hurry, and Cole threw himself into Dayton's arms the second he passed through security.
Basic training, vector assignments, and covert operations be damned. He was home with his husband. Nothing else mattered any more.
CAPSICUM HEAD
L.J. LaBarthe
"Fuck!" Jon gasped as he stepped back from the wall. Pete stood there leaning against it, his shoulders heaving as he panted, his jeans still down around his ankles. Jon grinned and lightly slapped his bare ass, which made Pete yelp in surprise and shoot him a dark look over his shoulder.
"What?" Jon feigned an expression of innocence and was rewarded with an eye roll from Pete. He laughed, tugged up his jeans, and looked down the alley as he pulled a cigarette packet from his pocket. With deft fingers, he removed one and lit it. "Hurry up and get dressed. We're on stage soon."
"I'm moving, I'm moving," Pete huffed, finally pushing himself off the wall and pulling up his jeans. He reached over and ruffled Jon's mussed hair, an affectionate habit he'd developed years ago. "You sure no one saw us?"
Jon batted Pete's hand away even as he shook his head. "Positive. I made fucking sure. No way I want to get into a fight because some drunk wanker thinks that just because I'm gay, I'm an easy target."
"Yeah, same." Pete sighed. "Sometimes I hate this town."
"Bloody crap lot of good that does," Jon retorted. "Seeing as this attitude is everywhere. They got rid of the Sodomy Laws, but it doesn't feel like it sometimes, even though being gay isn't illegal anymore."
Pete shrugged. "Whatever. I don't need a history lesson right now. Come on then, let's go inside."
"Come in five minutes after me," Jon instructed as he started down the alley towards the street. He didn't wait for Pete's answer; he was already straining to hear or see anyone who might have noticed what they had been doing.
Jon hated the sneaking around, stealing a moment here and there for a quick kiss or grope or frantic sex against the wall of some stinking alley. But he was finding that the prejudices of the Eighties were leading more to violence than towards any sort of acceptance of anything considered different. Pete already had a target on his back for being Chinese—the skinheads who frequented the pub the band was playing at had not stopped staring at him and fingering their Swiss Army knives. Jon knew what they were thinking; get the Chink alone and cut the motherfucker.
Not as far as Jon was concerned. That wasn't going to happen, not on his watch. Even if Pete wasn't his lover, he was Jon's best friend from the days back in high school when they'd snuck out of class and hidden down the back of the grassy school oval. They had hidden behind a tree, ignoring the shouts of other kids playing football, as they'd smoked their cigarettes and talked about music. Pete had been into Joy Division and Jon had been into the Sex Pistols; their arguments about music had been conducted in hushed, indignant tones. Each of them had tried to overwhelm the other and not get caught by any of the teachers patrolling the grounds looking for kids playing hooky.
Now in their mid-twenties, Jon and Pete had the rather dubious privilege of being guitarist and drummer, respectively, of hardcore punk rock band, Capsicum Head. The rest of the band—Adam, the singer; Danny, the bassist; and Greg, the rhythm guitarist—were all aware of Pete and Jon's relationship. None of them were particularly concerned about it; Danny had admitted to Jon on one quiet night of binge drinking that he himself was bi. However, acceptance within the band didn't necessarily translate to acceptance within the community, and Jon was always on the alert for trouble.
He entered the pub, wrinkling his nose in distaste as the stench of stale beer and urine assaulted his nose. There were nicer places to play, but those places tended to be managed by individuals who'd clutch their pearls in horror at the idea of a band who didn't play Top 40 Pop—cover bands were all the rage. And Jon refused to play that music, not for any amount of money or fame. It wasn't just that he didn't like it; no, it would feel like an insult to his friends and his own integrity to play music like that, music that Jon considered dull, repetitive, and lacking in passion.
Jon made his way to the bar and leaned against it, ignoring the stickiness he could feel against his leather jacket and the way his Doc Marten booted feet seemed to squelch in the garish brown and orange carpet. He kept one eye on the door and one on the group of skinheads who were loitering not far away. A few moments later, Pete entered the pub, cigarette between his lips, and made a beeline for the bar.
So did the skinheads. Jon stiffened, his eyes narrowing. Pete shot him a confused look, but Jon didn't react, too focused on the skinheads.
And then Angie, the band's best friend, was there, all five foot nothing of her, with her short black hair with purple streaks. Adam's nineteen-year-old girlfriend Ellie was with her. She moved to stand beside Pete, lounging against the bar with all the innocence of a hunting tiger. Angie wasn't just the band's best friend; she was their mother figure too, cooking meals for them, bandaging their cuts when they got into fights, and often deflecting a great many potential brawls. How such a woman had come to be involved in the punk rock scene was a mystery to Jon.
"Trouble, huh?" Angie jerked her head in the direction of the skinheads milling around a few feet away.
"Possibly," Jon said. "Probably," he amended.
Angie shook her head. "Wankers. I'll go talk to the bouncer and have him chuck them out. They can go and fall into a bottomless pit."
Jon looked at her in relief. "Thanks, Ange."
"Don't mention it, Jon. Gotta keep you boys safe." Angie headed off to talk to the bouncer.
"What's the problem now?" Pete demanded, looking first at Jon and then at Ellie.
"Skinheads," Ellie drawled. She reached over and took Jon's cigarette from his fingers. Then she reached over again and took his beer. He silently protested her audacity with a quirked eyebrow.
Pete bit his lower lip, nervously jiggling one leg. "Is it going to be a problem?"
"Nah. Ange has gone to get the bouncer," Jon said, trying to sound more lighthearted than he felt.
Pete looked around, seeing the group of skinheads with their white supremacy t-shirts, a combination of swastikas and slogans, glaring at him, and winced. Jon moved closer and so did Ellie. Together they drew up into a protective knot, the two of them glaring at the skinheads as Pete looked down at the floor.
"All right then, out," roared the voice of the bouncer. The skinheads glared at him, belligerent and preparing for a fight, but the bouncer simply grabbed two of them by the arm and forcibly propelled them out of the pub. The rest of the group followed, yelling abuse, having found a new target for their hate in the shape of the bouncer.
Angie returned then, smiling. "You boys are on soon," she said as if nothing had happened. "Go and get ready for your set."
Jon nodded, and Pete smiled at her. "Thanks," he said. "And to you, Rugrat," he added, ruffling Ellie's bright purple and red hair.
"Oy!" she objected. "You messed up my hair!"
Pete laughed and she stuck her tongue out at him. Jon walked towards the low rise stage to join the rest of his band, feeling more relaxed than he had that entire night.
*~*~*
"So we got asked to do a tour," Adam announced. It was a few days after the gig, and the band was lounging around
Adam's flat, drinking beer, smoking cigarettes and pot, and tossing balls of aluminum foil to Adam's cat. The cat was enthusiastically playing with the shiny balls, seemingly unaffected by the perpetual miasma of smoke that hung in the air.
"A tour?" Jon was surprised. "To where? Why?"
"What do you mean, 'why'?" Adam blinked. "We're a bloody rock band, there's your why."
"Well, yeah, but we're a band that only a handful of people have heard of, and most of them think we suck!" Jon screwed up his nose.
"Not in Port Pirie, they don't," Adam said.
Jon stared at him. "Port Pirie? Are you serious?"
"Yeah." Adam went into the kitchen and came back a few moments later with a cold six pack of beer. He passed it around, and once everyone had a bottle, Adam placed the lone sixth on the rickety wicker coffee table, then he dropped gracelessly onto the mustard colored beanbag and unfolded a piece of paper.
"Okay, so the high school there is having a school dance and they want us to be the music," Adam began. "The dance is on a Friday night. They'll pay us five hundred bucks and we can stay in the school hall."
"Wait, let me see if I've got this right," Jon said. "We're going to Port Pirie, which is a ten bloody hour drive from Adelaide, to play a gig to a bunch of kids who probably have no idea that music exists outside of Top 40, for five hundred dollars, crashing on a bloody school hall floor, and coming home after. Is that right?"
Adam nodded.
"Bloody hell," Jon shook his head. Then he suddenly laughed. "Why not? Be something to talk about, if nothing else."
"I'll have to fly up after work," Danny mused. "I don't think I'll be able to get the time off."
"That's what you get for being the only one of us with a full time job," Pete said. "I'll be able to get time off, no worries. Mum and dad won't mind."
"Yeah, and not all of us are lucky enough to work for their parents and get free, awesome Chinese food," Danny retorted. "Seriously, Pete, you are one lucky bastard."
"Yeah, I know. Dad wanted to know if you guys were coming in tomorrow night, too," Pete said.
There was a chorus of 'yeses' to that—Pete's family owned a popular Chinese take-away restaurant, and the band was happy to cadge free food by virtue of being Pete's mates. Jon wondered if Mr. and Mrs. Chen had ever imagined that their only son would end up in a rock band, in love with another man, and drinking almost his body weight in beer every week.
"We'll have to rent a van," Greg mused. "Can anyone drive stick?"
"I can," Jon said.
Greg snorted as he exhaled a lungful of smoke. "Well, yeah, but I meant a car, Jonny."
Jon blinked and then blushed as everyone else in the room burst out laughing.
"Shut up, you wanker," Jon chuckled, still red with embarrassment. "So four of us drive up and then the five of us drive back?"
"Yeah, sounds good." Adam looked around. "We need a mixer, too."
"Shit, anything else?" Danny drawled. "How about a bloody photographer? A hairdresser? A personal shopper?"
"Shut up," Adam said, leaning over to lightly hit Danny's knee. "Maybe we can get Tom to mix."
"What are we paying him?" Greg asked.
"I don't know, a bag?" Adam shrugged.
There was unanimous agreement to that, so with Tom's payment in pot settled, all that remained was to make sure he wanted to go along and be their mixer. Tom was the go-to guy for mixing anyway; his rates were cheap, and he did mates rates, so a bag of good quality weed would no doubt be acceptable payment along with a trip to the country. Jon stretched out his legs, suddenly feeling very relaxed, as Pete leaned into him.
"When's the gig happening?" Pete asked.
"Huh? Oh! Right, yeah, that'd be useful information." Adam rolled his eyes at himself for getting lost in his own thoughts, and looked back at his piece of paper. "Okay, it's in two weeks."
"Okay, cool." Pete stretched. "Jon and me are going home. Call us if there's an emergency." He stood up, tugging at Jon's hand, and Jon grunted, getting slowly to his feet. "See you guys at practice."
"Will do," Adam said cheerfully.
"Just remember, guys," Greg added. "If it's not on? It's not on."
Jon threw a cushion at his head, and Greg's laughter followed the two young men out of the flat.
Pete grinned at Jon as they closed the door of Adam's home behind them. "It makes a bloody nice change not having to worry about whether or not our mates hate us," he said.
"I know." Jon started towards the street. The two of them shared a flat that was only a few blocks away from Adam's. "We're pretty lucky."
"Yeah, and you know, if they stopped teasing, we'd know shit got serious."
Jon looked at Pete with mild surprise. "I never thought of it like that before, but you're right."
"I'm not just a pretty face," Pete agreed.
Jon snorted. "When did you get an ego?"
"I'm stoned, baby," Pete said. "I'm stoned, and I have the three H's. Hungry, happy, and horny. So let's get some food, go home, and fuck."
"Can't argue with that," Jon said, laughing. "Servo's got the fish and chip truck out already." He pointed at the gas station across the road, where the food van that sold hot food was setting out an "Open for Business" sign.
"Fuck yeah! Hot chips with chicken salt. I want that," Pete said.
"Fine," Jon laughed. "Come on, then."
*~*~*
"You are so fucking hot." Jon stared at him from his position on their bed. Pete was naked, his short black hair standing up in tufts and spikes. "You look like a Chinese Sid Vicious."
Pete snorted. "Thanks, I think."
"C'mere," Jon slurred, holding his arms out to him. Pete crawled onto the bed, and kissed him. "Mmm," Jon purred into the kiss, wrapping his arms around Pete's wiry torso. He groaned as Pete rocked into him, their cocks rubbing together, and his embrace tightened as the kiss grew artless.
"Fuck, Jon, want you," Pete panted as Jon broke the kiss.
"Want you too, baby." Jon fumbled for a condom and lube on the messy nightstand. Finding what he wanted, he ripped open the condom packet and slid the latex onto his cock, then coated it with lube. Pete watched him with dark, hungry eyes, licking his lips as Jon stroked his cock.
"Jon," Pete pleaded, "please. I want you now."
Jon pulled Pete onto his lap. "Sit on my dick, baby."
"Oh fuck, yes," Pete said, and wriggled into position, reaching behind him to take Jon's cock in hand. He slowly lowered himself down. Jon groaned loudly, arching as tight muscles gripped him, clenching around him. Pete hissed at the penetration, biting his lower lip as he took Jon's cock all the way into him, and he clawed at Jon's chest, making Jon moan again, louder than before.
One hand went to Pete's hip, the other to his cock, and Jon began to stroke as he rocked up into Pete's body. Pete moaned, his head falling back, and Jon bit his lip as he gazed at Pete's body, feeling a surge of lust at the sight. Pete was usually restrained in public, quiet and shy, but when they were alone he came out of his shell. And when they were fucking, Pete was the sexiest man that Jon had ever seen.
Still a little stoned, Jon fuzzily admitted to himself that he loved Pete. Not that he'd ever say so, because that just wasn't Jon's way. Jon had never said the word love to anyone—not even to his family. He'd known Pete for seven years, three of those they'd been lovers, and Jon couldn't imagine his life without Pete in it. Playing music together, being in a band, living together, sleeping together—Jon's life was perfect.
"I feel the same."
"Huh?" Jon blinked owlishly at Pete, pausing mid-thrust. "What?"
"You said you love me and that your life is perfect." Pete beamed down at Jon as Jon realized, to his horror, that he'd spoken his thoughts aloud. "I feel the same."
"Uh, yeah." Jon flailed mentally, feeling his cheeks grow hot as he blushed.
Pete laughed. "Don't worry, I won't tell anyone."
"Good." Jon thrust hard and Pete whimpered. "And we'll never
bloody speak of this again, right?"
"Anything you want," Pete agreed, rocking into Jon's hand as he ground down onto Jon's cock.
"Good." Jon gave himself over to his lust then, and fucked Pete hard and fast, crying out wordlessly when his orgasm crashed over him in a delicious wave of pleasure. Several moments later, Pete moaned raggedly and came as well, hot and thick on Jon's hand and stomach.
With a happy sigh, Pete laid down on top of Jon, nuzzling his neck. Jon smiled in spite of himself—he could be embarrassed at himself for thinking out loud later—and wrapped his arms around Pete's body.
"We're going to be really sticky," he noted.
"Don't care." Pete snuggled close. "Three H's, baby. And now I need a nap."
"You lazy bugger," Jon laughed.
"Your lazy bugger," Pete agreed. "Shush now, let me sleep."
"Okay, okay." Jon shook his head, amused, running his hands up and down Pete's back as he felt Pete relaxing on top of him.
*~*~*
Before Jon knew it, he was driving a battered van into the coastal town of Port Pirie. He was comfortable with long drives, and the ten hour straight drive, with stops for fuel and food, had come to an end as he pulled the van into the parking lot of the local high school.
Getting out of the van, Jon wrinkled his nose. The scent of the sea was overlaid with the scent of metal; Port Pirie was a lead smelting town, and it smelled like it. Lighting a cigarette, Jon looked around, wondering when their employer was going to show up and let them into the school hall.
"So this is Pirie, huh?" Tom, the band's mixer, was looking around with interest. "I wonder if the pot's cheap here."
"Why would it be?" Danny asked, looking puzzled.
"I don't know, I just thought it might be." Tom pointed towards the school. "Reckon this is our guy?"
A tall, young man with close cropped hair walked towards them, smiling broadly. "Are you guys Capsicum Head?"
"That's us," Adam said, stepping forward. "I'm Adam."
"I'm so glad you made it okay. I'm Paul, we spoke on the phone. If you guys want to follow me, you can drive to the side entrance of the hall and we can get you all set up."
Rocking Hard, Volume 2 Page 19