the height of vanity | w r i t i n g

A THOUSAND MILES
The first time I wrote this fic, I thought JJ72 were Scottish, not Irish. It was the most embarrassing thing ever. (My Scottish friend Roberta said, "They won't mind, everyone wants to be Scottish!") Luckily my mistake was gently corrected by a lovely Irishwoman who lived not five minutes from Fergal. I owe her my dignity. Also, this is unfinished, but I posted what I had as one long go, instead of breaking it up into chapters, because I'm lazy.

The rain was never-ending. Though it had been coming down for nearly six days, it was no relief from the offensive heat of summer. The pavement was still warm - almost burning - underneath Mark's bare feet, the air was still thick and heavy and hot. Even the raindrops themselves were stinging.

The sweat on Mark's palms made it hard to hold the guitar properly in his lap. He cussed at it for a moment, wiping the sheen of wetness off on his jeans and out of his eyes with a forearm. Ireland summers were never exactly sweltering, and this was unusual. All day, every day, it was like a sauna. Mark didn't know how much longer he could stand it.

Abandoning his guitar on the couch, he padded into the kitchen and pulled a cold can of soda from the fridge. He knelt before the open door, breathing in the cool air deeply and letting it caress his sweaty, sticky skin. When the phone rang, he jumped and knocked his head on the freezer door handle. Swearing shrilly, he grabbed the receiver and put it to his ear. Fergal's cheery voice assaulted him.

"Mark! Hey!"

"Hi." Mark trapped the phone to his ear with his shoulder and popped the tab on his can of soda. He whined as it fizzed over, licking it off as Fergal went on. "I just called Hilary too, but she was out - probably with Catherine, y'think? - and I was just thinking... Well, we're not touring right now --"

Mark chuckled, sitting down at the kitchen table and licking sweat off his upper lip. "Fergal, master of the obvious."

"Shush. Anyway, like I was saying, since we're basically sitting around on our arses, doing nothing, and I can't stand another fucking day like this... Well... Let's go somewhere."

The bubbles from his gulp of soda went up to Mark's nose and he hiccup-sneezed. Fergal took this as a bad sign.

"Hey, no need to get defensive, Mark!" he said. "I just suggested it!"

Mark threw back his head and giggled, putting his can of soda down on the table - the cold metal was sweating too, Mark noted with childish curiosity - and leaned on his elbows. "I wasn't getting defensive, you ninny," he chuckled. "But... I mean... Go somewhere? What did you have in mind?"

Fergal loved adventures and spontaneity, and Mark almost knew his answer before it even came out of his mouth.

"I dunno!" Fergal chirped. "Anywhere. Someplace where I don't sweat half my weight in water every day."

Mark nodded to himself, smiling. He wiped off the wet ring the soda can left on the table while he thought. "Anywhere."

"We could go on a road trip."

"Hilary hates that," Mark pointed out.

"So what! Stupid girly girl crap! We don't have to take her!" Fergal stormed.

Mark nearly dropped the can in his hand as it made its way to his lips. Not take Hilary? The idea was preposterous! What the hell was Fergal thinking?! Hilary was part of the band; Mark was dating her sister, for fuck's sake! She was their best friend!

Well, she also was a girl, as Fergal had so succinctly pointed out. A girl who disliked spontaneity as much as Fergal treasured it.

"Look, Fergal, this all sounds well and good... but why take a road trip? Why not just get air conditioning?" Mark sighed. The idea was quite interesting, but he knew Hilary would be nothing less than pissed as all hell if she got left behind - whether she wanted to actually go or not didn't matter - and he didn't want to make Hilary mad. Especially since both Woods sisters, one of whom was his beloved girlfriend and the other of whom was the sex symbol bassist of his successful band, had hellish tempers.

"Air conditioning is for pussies!" Fergal told him. "And this isn't just about getting away from all this stupid heat and rain... It's about... well..." He cleared his throat and took on an authoritative tone: "Mark, for the last year, you and me and Hilary have done everything together. And while the experience has undoubtedly been a great one, I need to get the fuck away! I need to GO! Just go without managers and lights and crowds and schedule! Just... fuck everything! Burn the world!"

Mark was frightened.

"I want to take my car and my music and you and drive through Dublin and not stop, maybe even all the way out of Ireland and not stop. So far away no one even knows who we are. Just go and see and touch and then turn around and come back and start all over like it was, you know, with the managers and lights and shite." Fergal was beaming; Mark could hear it in his voice. He was really into it. He had obviously thought about this well before he had even picked up the phone to call his bandmate.

"Road trip," Mark parroted, slowly.

"Road trip."

"Through Dublin."

"Yeah."

"Nonstop, maybe even past the Ireland border."

"You got it, Marky."

Mark drained his soda can, swallowing the bubbles, and tossed it at the wastebasket. It bounced off the rim, but he pretended not to notice. "Sounds good to me. Let me put on my shoes."

___________

The sun had just started to set and the rain was coming down in heavy, stinging sheets as Fergal's car pulled up outside Mark's apartment building. Mark took the three flights down, two steps at a time, and darted out into the pounding rain. Fergal reached over and opened the door and the petite singer vaulted in, slamming the door shut and shaking rain out of his hair.

Fergal smacked the back of his head. "Stop it! You're getting my car wet!"

Mark stuck his tongue out, laughing. He was breathless from his sprint. Water coursed down his pale cheeks and dripped off his chin. "Drive," he barked, playfully.

Drive Fergal did - all night, with the windows open, letting in damp wind that Mark breathed in slowly, appreciatively. Neither of them knew how long they'd be riding, so at first their talk was full of laughter and nervous excitement. Fergal pressed hard on the gas pedal, speeding along so fast the scenery was a blur, and road signs passed too quickly for Mark to read. After nearly five hours, though, it was silent save for the rushing wind outside.

Mark was dozing lightly, his feet propped on the dashboard, and Fergal was tapping a beat on the steering wheel when the fuel tank's needle dropped to E. Fergal pulled off the highway into a small alcove-like town. Under the pale, flickering light at the petrol station, Fergal tugged at the leg of Mark's jeans.

Blearily, half-asleep, Mark glanced at him. "What?"

"How much money y'got?" Fergal looked slightly desperate.

"A couple hundred, I think," Mark said cautiously. "Why?"

Fergal blinked. "Hundred?"

"I knew we'd be going far." Mark pulled a soggy green wad of cash from his back pocket and thumbed through it. Fergal was in awe. "I stocked up."

"Mark, what would I ever do without you?" he crowed, ruffling the singer's blonde locks. Mark ducked away, laughing, and tucked the money back in his pocket. Fergal started the car again and pulled onto the deserted, moonlit road.

"Want to switch?" Mark asked later, as Fergal's chin started to drop to his chest every so often. The drummer's strong shoulders were slumped wearily.

Fergal shook his head, knuckling his eyes. "We should just stop at a motel or something."

"Stop? This coming from Mr. 'burn the world'!" Mark laughed musically, reaching over to pinch Fergal's ear. Fergal turned and snapped playfully at his fingers, then elbowed him. "I've got to watch the road," he admonished. "Keep your paws to yerself."

"We're actually doing this," Mark murmured softly. "I bet Hilary doesn't even know we're gone yet."

"Should we call her tomorrow?" Fergal asked. Mark knew he was saying it just to tend to Mark's own inherent responsible side - Fergal rarely, if ever, called anyone to alert them of his whereabouts. He just never thought to.

Mark shrugged, yawning. "Dunno. If we feel like it."

Fergal grinned and reached over Mark's lap to pop open the glove compartment and pull out a pack of cigarettes. He fumbled with one, finally yanking it out and putting it between his lips. He tossed the pack back into the compartment, and jerked his head at the Zippo on the dashboard. "Light this for me; my hands are full." It wasn't really a request - but then again, Fergal never asked for anything. He straight out told you what he wanted, no pussy-footing.

Mark didn't mind. He liked Fergal's gruff bossiness. It was cute. He flicked the wheel on the lighter, calling up a flame, and held it to the tip of Fergal's cigarette. Mark was careful his hand didn't wobble and burn off Fergal’s nose or something (it had happened before).

Mark kicked the glove compartment closed once more and Fergal took long, relieved drags from his cigarette. It was quiet again, calm, and Mark was content to watch the white dashes painted in the center of the road fly by. He was tired to the center of his bones - which was puzzling, considering he really hadn't done much for the past five hours except sit in the same seat, unmoving - but it was a good kind of tired. A giddy, happy, content kind of tired. Mark loved this release; he wondered why he and Fergal hadn't done this road trip thing sooner.

A smile broke over his face as he heard the first few swaying notes of Jeff Buckley's "Grace" on the car speakers. Fergal knew how much Mark loved this record. It was a sweet gesture. The sound of the rain, the purring engine and Jeff Buckley's reedy voice slowly lulled him into sleep.

__________

Mark awoke to find that Mr. Fuck Everything had indeed stopped - but not at a motel. He had just stopped on the shoulder of the road. Mark's neck felt like twisted wire, his back ached fiercely, and his legs were asleep. He didn't know if it was a safe idea to stand. And fucking Fergal was nowhere to be found.

Bitching, Mark slapped the dashboard angrily. He had no idea what time it was, but the sun wasn't very high in the sky, so it was likely early in the morning. The air was cool and wet, not yet simmering. The keys were missing in the ignition and Fergal's window was rolled all the way down.

Mark sat back, wincing in pain as his neck cracked and the muscles spasmed in pain. Fucking hell. Fuck. Stupid shit-for-brains -- ow. He sighed and flexed his toes, waiting sullenly for the pins and needles to recede. Perhaps this adventure would make a good song. Or maybe it would be the death of him.

Fergal suddenly appeared, walking around the far end of the car. He yanked open the driver side door and slid in, leaning over to plant a big, wet, good morning kiss on Mark's lips.

"Hello, sunshine!" he cackled. "You look absolutely chuffed to be here."

Mark grimaced and wiped his lips with the back of his hand, glaring painful death at Fergal. "One: don't ever kiss me, it's disgusting. I don't know where you've been. Two: my neck feels as if it's been picked apart, vertebrae by vertebrae, and put back together again by a dyslexic two-year-old. My legs are completely numb. I'm hungry and I have to pee and I hate you!"

"That's not what you said yesterday, Greaney," Fergal retorted.

"Today is not yesterday," Mark pointed out, adding contemptuously, "Matthews."

"If you've got to pee, there are plenty of bushes right out there. Don't be such a puss." Fergal shifted so his back was to the car door and he was facing Mark. He rested his forearm on the steering wheel and watched Mark with a contemplative gaze.

"I can't walk!"

"Are you suddenly a cripple?" Fergal snorted.

Mark pouted grievously. "My legs are asleep still... It's because I slept in that weird position all night! You should have woke me up, at least let me into the back seat!"

Fergal laughed and shook his head. "Come on. Gimme your legs."

"What?"

Fergal reached over and hooked Mark's legs behind the knees, pulling them into his lap. He massaged the skinny calves, his fingertips working deftly. Mark squirmed uncomfortably, hating the feeling of the blood rushing back into his legs - it tingled painfully, tickling and eerie. However, as soon as the unpleasant sensation was mostly gone, the feeling of Fergal's hands on his tired muscles was nice. Though a back massage would have been nicer, Fergal was no good Samaritan, and Mark was glad he was getting even this after his bitchy little tirade a few minutes earlier.

"Okay, Marky," Fergal huffed. "Now can you go pee so we can get going?"

Mark gave him a dirty look and swung his legs off Fergal's lap and stumbled out into the morning air. As he trotted down the small slope, he heard the car start, so he ducked hurriedly behind a bush and emptied his bladder. Fergal honked twice, breaking the stillness of the air, and Mark yanked his jeans back up on his hips, buttoned them, and clambered up the slope back into the car.

"Ready, mate?" Fergal was grinning from ear to ear, ready for another day of driving.

Mark sighed, rolled his eyes, and crossed his arms over his chest. "Ready."

Fergal pressed dramatically on the gas and the car shot forward, swerving out into the middle of the road and launching them back into laughing, companionable conversation. Tired and hungry and aching all over though he was, Fergal's throaty laughter was infectious, and it wasn't long before they had the radio turned up loud, Westlife blaring. Mark wailed mockingly along with the music, breaking up in giggles as Fergal danced in his seat and jerked the car from one lane to the next and back again in time with the beat.

Mark just wasn't a morning person, especially not after spending a night cooped up in the front seat of Fergal's rather tiny car. But now they were both back in good spirits, with the whole world out before them and anywhere they wanted suddenly within reach - his aching shoulders and growling stomach didn't matter. He bathed in Fergal's boyish smile and forgot all about Hilary and Catherine and JJ72.

__________

In the middle of their second day of their current big adventure, Fergal suddenly mashed the 'off' button on the car stereo and drifted to a stop right in the middle of the highway. Mark glanced over at him uneasily, wondering what the man was thinking now.

"Fergal?"

Fergal was chewing his lip, glancing about, his eyes narrowed. "I've been here before," he murmured.

"Where's here? Where are we?" Mark sat up straight, leaning across the dashboard. The farther away from Dublin the duo had gone, the more the rain had dissipated. Now the sun shone down in warm splotches, through the leafy reaches of the overhead trees, on Mark's shoulders.

"I dunno." Fergal pulled forward slowly, cautiously, as if he were afraid of what was coming next. "But I know there's a lake around here somewhere... Me dad used to catch bloody fucking huge fish there. And the water was always warm."

Mark grinned, watching Fergal's face as it softened in the light of childhood memory. His blue eyes creased at the edges in a smile and worry line between his brows disappeared. Fergal edged the car forward onto a grassy slope and pulled the keys out of the ignition, up and out of his seat in a second. Mark yelped for him to come back, debating whether to stay in the car and wait for Fergal to finish his romp down memory lane, or follow him.

"Come on, Greaney!" Fergal called. "We haven't got all day!"

The best thing about that was... they did have all day. Mark laughed and kicked open his door, stumbling, starry-eyed, down the mild hill after his friend.

When he reached the bottom and wriggled his way through the close-grown trees, Fergal had disappeared. "Oh, bloody hell, not again," he murmured, his pale eyes scanning the overgrowth. Fergal had been right - the lake was there, big and beautiful and glimmering in the heat. He could see fish nip at the surface every so often, causing ripples. It was quiet except for the sound of insects and birds.

And then Fergal fucked it all up, crashing through the knife-grass, shirtless and whooping happily. He skidded to a stop beside Mark, his chest heaving, and kicked off his trainers and jeans. He sprinted towards the water and dove in, back arched gracefully like a dancer - so unlike Fergal, Mark thought - and caused the biggest ripples of all.

Mark clapped his hands and cheered as Fergal came back up, gasping for air and shaking water out of his hair. "Good work, Matthews! I give it a ten!"

"Jesus, Mark, do I have to tell you to do everything?" Fergal spat, feigning anger. "Get in the water, you pasty-assed little twit!"

"I am not pasty-assed!" Mark shot back, pulling his shirt over his head and toeing off his shoes. He stuffed his socks in them and then dropped his jeans, and then...

Mark cannonballed into the water, enjoying the warm rush, floating spread-eagled towards the bottom a second before kicking for the surface. He took a gulp of air and tread water, rubbing it out of his eyes.

"You got me all wet!" Fergal whined.

Mark laughed. "You idiot! You're in a lake, what the bloody hell do you expect?"

Fergal wagged his head from side to side, looking around. "It's completely deserted."

'Master of the obvious,' Mark thought, his mind traveling back to the first day of this adventure... When Fergal had first suggested it. Mark hadn't planned on actually going through with it - he expected Fergal to come by to pick him up, and Mark would get in, and Fergal would clear his throat and say, "Well, Mark, I know you wanted to, but..." And then Mark would get out, Fergal would follow him inside, and they'd have coffee and laugh together and not go anywhere.

But they did. They were here. Dublin was far, far behind; everything was far behind. Except for the Right Now, the Present. The Present was this, swimming together in a glassy, warm lake, splashing water at each other and giggling like schoolchildren.

Fergal spat a mouthful of water at Mark and started swimming for the center of the lake. He was fast; his powerful arms and long legs propelled him faster than Mark's considerably less built body.

"Wait, you big lug, wait!"

But time waits for no man, or something like that, and neither did Fergal Matthews. He dove beneath the surface, kicking harder, and only came up for air when his lungs began to burn desperately. Mark was several yards behind, dog-paddling and yelling Fergal's name.

As Fergal got closer to the center, the water got darker and colder. He went under once more, and Mark lost sight of him.

"Fuck! Fucking... He always fucking does this! I should just kill him; make our lives all a little easier!" Mark grumbled, spitting out mouthfuls of metallic lake-water and swimming as hard as his tired muscles allowed. He froze, eyes wide, as a pair of shorts floated past him. Blue. Blue plaid shorts.

Fergal's boxer shorts.

Mark squealed and knocked the soggy shorts away, coughing and spluttering. "Fergal?" he yelled. "FERGAL! Where are you? Lecherous old man!"

The lake was quiet and still again. Mark shivered as the cold water traveled up his legs. Maybe one of the huge fish Fergal had told him about was down there. Maybe it snacked on arrogant, potty-mouthed Irish drummers. Maybe it snacked on pale, skinny Irish singers too.

The water beneath him stirred a little and Mark shrieked, peering futilely into the murk. And then suddenly something wrapped its arms around him and dragged him underwater, struggling and squealing and kicking.

The something lifted him out of the water and plopped him on a sun-warmed rock as he coughed. Hands held firmly to his hips and a familiar laugh reached his ears.

Typical. Fucking typical. The "something" was Fergal. And, according to the shorts Mark had spotted floating in the water, the something was also quite naked.

"Gyah! Get away!" Mark kicked at Fergal, making a face. "You're naked!"

Instead of getting away, Fergal laughed and hefted himself up onto the rock. Yes, he was indeed naked. Mark turned his face away quickly, blushing and giggling, and covered his eyes. "That's disgusting!"

"What!" Fergal stretched out on the rock, completely at ease. "It is not."

Mark thought he might faint. "It is too! I don't want to see that!"

"What's wrong with it? You've got one too. It's not so bad."

He had a point. Mark didn't say anything, only huffed and refused to look. Injustice, this was.

They were quiet for a few moments. Fergal's eyes drifted closed and Mark finally relaxed enough to lie down beside him. The sun felt great - not too hot, warm and thick and soporific.

"I dare you," Fergal murmured softly.

Mark knew he was talking about the remaining shorts. He glanced down at them - black, they were, and fairly new - and then squinted up at the sky. "No."

"Double dare you."

Mark shook his head. "Nuh uh."

"I'll tell Catherine about that night when you and Hilary got really drunk and --"

"That's blackmail!" Mark cried, his face getting hot. But he knew Fergal wasn't above it. Bastard.

"Bedwetter," Fergal chanted tauntingly. "Bedwe -- mmph!"

Mark had wriggled out of his boxers finally, and dropped them right on Fergal's face. The broad-shouldered drummer tossed them into the water, spluttering. "You kinky little twat!"

He giggled, blushing furiously, and resisted the urge to cover himself up. As a kid, he had skinny-dipped often enough, but that was when he was seven or eight. That was before he was old enough to care who saw his willy, or before he learned that being naked in front of other people wasn't such a good thing. Now, it was different. Mark could feel the sexual charge running between them. This would have been fine if Fergal didn't have bits dangling between his legs the same as Mark did. It would have been fine if they weren't lying splayed out on a rock in the middle of nowhere. It would have been fine if Mark didn't have the distinct impression that Fergal was watching him. And though Mark loathed the attention, his dick certainly didn't.

Mark reasoned that not just Hilary had been left behind in Dublin. The minute Mark agreed to this road trip idea, he had agreed to something bigger - something deeper. Something profound.

Then again, he mused, glancing over at Fergal's sun-flushed face, it could just be a lark. Spontaneity at its kinkiest. Fergal had always been adventurous. It made sense that the recklessness applied to his sex drive as well.

Again, he murmured: "I dare you." Except this time, Mark didn't know what he was talking about. Something tingled in the pit of his stomach. This couldn't be good.

"Dare me?"

"Aye." Fergal propped himself up on one elbow, peering at Mark and shielding his eyes from the sun.

Mark kept his gaze rooted firmly to Fergal's face, not allowing it to stray downward, though it tempted him terribly. Though they had been friends for nearly six years, they were both careful to keep their private, underground lives quite separate. Fergal had spent the night at Mark's flat only once, and that was because he was too drunk to walk to his own flat. This wasn't to say they weren't close - they were - but they just weren't... too close.

Mark suddenly got it - he knew what Fergal was talking about. The charge grew stronger, more lascivious. And his curiosity got the better of him. His small hand crept forward and rested on Fergal's long stretch of torso, right above his belly button. Underneath his palm, Fergal shivered slightly. Mark felt a rush that curled his toes and stiffened his dick.

His fingers slowly traveled downwards, stroking softly. Their eyes were locked, Fergal's unreadable and Mark's wide with tentative fright. The jagged surface of the rock was digging into Mark's shoulder and his chest was tight with apprehension, but he couldn't stop. He refused to stop, refused to let the arrogant Matthews get the better of him.

The arrogant Matthews' bright blue eyes widened for a split second as Mark's small fingers wrapped around the base of his cock and tugged, just a little, insistently and curiously. Then they fell closed in bliss as the fingers explored further - up and down the length of it, the pad of Mark's thumb gliding easily over the head and tracing the ridges, stroking so lightly it made him squirm. His head dropped forward, jaw slightly slack, tongue pressed against his teeth. He let Mark touch him - well, not touch, really; more like explore - and then grew impatient. He reached down and covered Mark's smaller hand with his own, curling the pale fingers around his erection purposefully. Despite his earlier reluctance, the blonde boy was an apt and willing pupil, and as soon as Fergal directed him what to do he took to it with ease. Measured, up and down six-o'clock strokes, from the base to the head and over again. Though his method wasn't exactly kinky or out of the ordinary, the mere fact that it was Mark doing it brought Fergal to the edge and over it quickly enough.

His back arched almost painfully and a cry grew in his throat as he coated Mark's hand - and a good part of his soft, flaxen-haired forearm - with sticky come. Mark nearly made a face of disgust, but masked it before Fergal could notice. The urge to stick his arm in the water was tempting, but it looked as if Fergal had other ideas: he took Mark's wrist and pulled their bodies together, Mark atop him, and licked his arm clean from the tip of his fingers to the crook of his elbow. He had an extremely talented tongue, and though Mark had never really considered his forearm (of all places!) an erogenous zone... once Fergal was finished, the blonde boy was gasping and begging for more.

Fergal hooked Mark around the back of his neck and pulled him downwards, lifting his thigh and balancing it on his hip so Mark straddled him, and licked his way down Mark's breastbone. He circled one peaked nipple with his tongue, coaxing a shrill moan from his quarry, and scraped the skin with his teeth lightly. He could taste sweat and lakewater and he could smell Mark's scent - incense, a touch of cigarette smoke (Fergal's fault), and a musky element that Fergal couldn't identify - and the feeling of his smooth skin under his tongue was a cheap thrill. He let his hands go everywhere, stroking the nuances of Mark's compact body, up and down his back, over his hips, his cute little butt, the backs of his legs...

Mark gasped when one of Fergal's strong, deft fingers stroked the inside of his thigh. It traveled upwards slowly, making small, teasing circles, until he reached the jag of his hipbone. Mark began to shake, just slightly - it had been okay giving Fergal a handjob, there was nothing objectionable about that (okay, well, a few things objectionable) but when Mark let Fergal return the favor... It meant all sorts of things that Mark didn't want to think about.

With a small yelp that echoed all the way across the lake, Mark knocked Fergal's hand away and sat back on his heels, suddenly shivering despite the heat of the sun on his naked back. Fergal looked surprised - hurt, even - but made no move to stop him. Mark waited for his heart to slow, gazing wordlessly out at the faraway shore. They'd have to swim awhile to get back.

"Mark?"

"Why?" Mark glanced at Fergal, looking for all the world like an ashamed child.

Fergal looked his fair share of ashamed as well. "I... don't know. I don't know. Because I thought out here, it was different."

Mark had always wondered why Fergal didn't have a thousand and one girlfriends, and now he knew why. (Not just because he had only moments ago coerced Mark into jerking him off, either.) Mark's earlier assumption had been correct - Fergal's recklessness certainly did apply to his sex drive, and every other aspect of his being as well. The word commitment probably didn't even exist in his vocabulary.

'I don't fucking care,' Mark thought. His arm still felt sticky, even though Fergal had cleaned it with his tongue. He slapped it palm-down on the rock and glared at Fergal.

"You shouldn't've." Mark knew Fergal was the real culprit here. Despite his own willingness, Mark himself was just an accomplice. A boy whose naivety was a blindfold.

Fergal looked away. Didn't say anything. Didn't want to give in.

Mark was still hard, and he knew it, and it embarrassed him a little. Both their shorts were floating around somewhere, likely at the bottom of the bloody lake, and his clothes were at the opposite shore, lying in a bed of grass. And it was a long swim back.

Mark shifted, hung his legs over the side of the rock, and slid into the water with a quiet splash. Now it was freezing cold on his sun-warmed skin, but he braved it and kicked hard for the shore. He felt the water break as Fergal followed him in, and then felt hands grab his ankles and pull him back.

'Not again!' he snarled silently, and tried to kick free, but Fergal's grip was strong and unforgiving. Mark twisted and wiped water from his eyes, glaring hotly at his captor. Fergal yanked him closer until their foreheads touched and wrapped one arm around his slim waist and used his free hand to take Mark's chin gently in his fingers. No words passed between them, but Mark knew what was happening. He let it happen.

He let their lips brush, quietly at first, almost an accident. Then again - deliberate, longer, wetter. Mark could taste cigarette smoke and the metallic dank of the lake in Fergal's mouth.

Kissing a girl and kissing a boy were two very different things. And then kissing Fergal was a whole new thing. His mouth was gentle and searching and he could do all sorts of little tricks with his tongue; his hands moved everywhere so you were always distracted.

Mark saw he was balanced on a shelf of rock that jutted out underwater, his back up against the part of rock that was abovewater. Convenient.

And then Fergal just stopped, pulled away, and Mark could feel the beat of his heart under his hand. "Sorry," he murmured, not sounding very sorry at all. More like the cat who swallowed the canary and then some. "Shouldn't've." He pushed Mark back and kicked off from the rock and was twenty or so feet away before Mark got his voice back.

"Bastard!" he shouted, his voice cracking. "Sneaky horny bastard!"

Fergal laughed.

__________

Shorts or no shorts, Fergal was back in his jeans, smoking a cigarette, and slouched easily in the front seat of his car when Mark got back in. Mark was still wet and uncomfortable and his trousers tugged and pulled and pinched in all the wrong places if he wasn't careful, but it was better than being naked again. He dumped his t-shirt and trainers onto the floor and got comfortable, heaving a dramatic sigh.

"That was odd, wasn't it." Not a question. Fergal expelled a lazy stream of smoke.

"It was your fucking fault, that's what it was!" Mark shot back.

He chuckled, a smoky, sex-drenched sound. "Mm. You're right."

"We need to call Hilary," Mark reminded him. "And I need a shower and something to eat. And the car's gonna need petrol soon."

Fergal sat forward, cigarette between his teeth, and muttered, "Yes, master."

Mark didn't punch his shoulder or giggle an equally sarcastic reply. Instead, he plucked Fergal's cigarette from between his teeth and took a long, long drag. Fergal regarded him with surprise.

"You don't smoke," he said, slightly bewildered.

"Now's as good a time as any to start," Mark said simply.

TO BE CONTINUED! YES!
Back to Band Fanfiction