(no subject)
Before the test writing: it is my birthday next week.
Also before the test writing: as I have signed up for NaNoWriMo it's now time for sign-ups from you. If you want this stupid novel in your inbox every day, comment. The deal is that everyone gets the first five days. If I don't get any kind of response I drop you. After that, same rules apply.
The [pub] was already heaving full, spilling customers out onto the windy pavement irrespective of cigarettes. There was nowhere to sit and, Ben was sure, nowhere to stand. There wasn't room to take his coat off, as far as he could tell, but Daniel seemed to have managed it.
"Great," Ben said, trying to squeeze between a bear and a beanpole, "I'm glad we got here before it got busy."
Daniel either didn't hear him - the roar of conversation and the wub f shit pop was loud enough to drown out an invading airforce - or pretended not to. "What're you having?" he bawled, still separated from the bar by six layers of flesh.
"A panic attack, probably," Ben said under his breath, but he shouted his order back.
"Good, I'm having a vodka tonic, go get it," Daniel said with a merciless smile that looked half shark and half cocaine. Ben wished then that he'd hunted someone down for a line before he came out: the only way to make the night bearable would be to make himself unbearable.
He wondered why he'd come.
Ben squeezed between two more bodies - warm and shirt-sleeved, and sweaty in the crush - and stumbled against the bar.
"I don't mean it," Daniel said, directly behind him, and threw his forearm onto an inch of bar to indicate his readiness to order. "Hi. Hello. Yes."
This last was addressed to the bartender.
Ben peered over the bar, into his own reflection - red-cheeked and dishevelled already - and beyond, into a mass of humanity reminiscent of Earls Court at rush hour. His throat began to close: some distance behind him he saw a friendly peck on the lips and couldn't extract the thought of invisible infection working its way to salivary glands from out of his mind. He reached in his pocket, pulled out a metal cylinder -
"Can't do that in here," said a disinterested but not unfriendly voice by his ear. "No vaping, minimal voguing -" he missed the third object required for good rhetoric as someone yelled:
"RICKEEEEEEEY!"
In obvious delight, and drowned everything else out.
"They don't have your stupid hipster beer," Daniel called over his shoulder, "so I'm getting you more vodka."
"I don't-" Ben began, but the crowd closed up around him like a healing wound and left him stranded only half-facing the bar.
Someone ran a hand over his back and vanished into the throng. Ben felt his face growing redder in discomfort and, staring up at the distant ceiling rafters, made a spirited attempt to struggle out of his coat.
He punched someone in the shoulder, blurted a "shit" but not a "sorry", and was subsequently helped out of his jacket by three strangers at once, two laughing and one only saying, "You're new," a little archly.
At some point in his unceremonious communal undressing, Daniel materialised in front of him with a clear, condensing glass in each hand and stood amid the cramped conversations, watching.
Once Ben had been presented with his coat, and before any of his rescuers could try to strike up further introduction, Daniel thrust a glass into his hand and barked, "This way," immediately plunging into an even thicker crowd.
"Is this vodka?" Ben asked, when he'd caught up. They were on the far side of a postcard-sized dancefloor that allowed the place to qualify as a club, pressed against a black-painted wall like twelve-year-olds at a school disco, rather unfortunately right next to a speaker.
"Plausibly," said Daniel, who'd already started on his.
"I don't like vodka," Ben said, trying to give the glass back.
Daniel glared at him. "Well it was eight-fifty," he said, swigging his own, "so you can fucking tolerate it."
Ben sipped, and winced. A thought occurred to him, and the current song faded into something older and more popular: men flooded out in front of them.
"Is this some sort of trial by fire proof of sexuality?" he asked, when he was sure Daniel could hear him.
"Yeah," Daniel said, sarcastically, "and if you fail I'm going to shove you in a massive fanny. Calm the fuck down. I didn't ask you here to make a martyr of yourself trying to be something you're not."
Grr, wub, thump, went the bass, right by Ben's head.
"Anyway," Daniel said, finishing his drink. "I wanted to talk about not-work. Whatever happens, I'm not discussing work." He slammed the glass down on the edge of the tiny DJ booth, where it was promptly knocked to the floor.
Ben highly doubted that.
Also before the test writing: as I have signed up for NaNoWriMo it's now time for sign-ups from you. If you want this stupid novel in your inbox every day, comment. The deal is that everyone gets the first five days. If I don't get any kind of response I drop you. After that, same rules apply.
The [pub] was already heaving full, spilling customers out onto the windy pavement irrespective of cigarettes. There was nowhere to sit and, Ben was sure, nowhere to stand. There wasn't room to take his coat off, as far as he could tell, but Daniel seemed to have managed it.
"Great," Ben said, trying to squeeze between a bear and a beanpole, "I'm glad we got here before it got busy."
Daniel either didn't hear him - the roar of conversation and the wub f shit pop was loud enough to drown out an invading airforce - or pretended not to. "What're you having?" he bawled, still separated from the bar by six layers of flesh.
"A panic attack, probably," Ben said under his breath, but he shouted his order back.
"Good, I'm having a vodka tonic, go get it," Daniel said with a merciless smile that looked half shark and half cocaine. Ben wished then that he'd hunted someone down for a line before he came out: the only way to make the night bearable would be to make himself unbearable.
He wondered why he'd come.
Ben squeezed between two more bodies - warm and shirt-sleeved, and sweaty in the crush - and stumbled against the bar.
"I don't mean it," Daniel said, directly behind him, and threw his forearm onto an inch of bar to indicate his readiness to order. "Hi. Hello. Yes."
This last was addressed to the bartender.
Ben peered over the bar, into his own reflection - red-cheeked and dishevelled already - and beyond, into a mass of humanity reminiscent of Earls Court at rush hour. His throat began to close: some distance behind him he saw a friendly peck on the lips and couldn't extract the thought of invisible infection working its way to salivary glands from out of his mind. He reached in his pocket, pulled out a metal cylinder -
"Can't do that in here," said a disinterested but not unfriendly voice by his ear. "No vaping, minimal voguing -" he missed the third object required for good rhetoric as someone yelled:
"RICKEEEEEEEY!"
In obvious delight, and drowned everything else out.
"They don't have your stupid hipster beer," Daniel called over his shoulder, "so I'm getting you more vodka."
"I don't-" Ben began, but the crowd closed up around him like a healing wound and left him stranded only half-facing the bar.
Someone ran a hand over his back and vanished into the throng. Ben felt his face growing redder in discomfort and, staring up at the distant ceiling rafters, made a spirited attempt to struggle out of his coat.
He punched someone in the shoulder, blurted a "shit" but not a "sorry", and was subsequently helped out of his jacket by three strangers at once, two laughing and one only saying, "You're new," a little archly.
At some point in his unceremonious communal undressing, Daniel materialised in front of him with a clear, condensing glass in each hand and stood amid the cramped conversations, watching.
Once Ben had been presented with his coat, and before any of his rescuers could try to strike up further introduction, Daniel thrust a glass into his hand and barked, "This way," immediately plunging into an even thicker crowd.
"Is this vodka?" Ben asked, when he'd caught up. They were on the far side of a postcard-sized dancefloor that allowed the place to qualify as a club, pressed against a black-painted wall like twelve-year-olds at a school disco, rather unfortunately right next to a speaker.
"Plausibly," said Daniel, who'd already started on his.
"I don't like vodka," Ben said, trying to give the glass back.
Daniel glared at him. "Well it was eight-fifty," he said, swigging his own, "so you can fucking tolerate it."
Ben sipped, and winced. A thought occurred to him, and the current song faded into something older and more popular: men flooded out in front of them.
"Is this some sort of trial by fire proof of sexuality?" he asked, when he was sure Daniel could hear him.
"Yeah," Daniel said, sarcastically, "and if you fail I'm going to shove you in a massive fanny. Calm the fuck down. I didn't ask you here to make a martyr of yourself trying to be something you're not."
Grr, wub, thump, went the bass, right by Ben's head.
"Anyway," Daniel said, finishing his drink. "I wanted to talk about not-work. Whatever happens, I'm not discussing work." He slammed the glass down on the edge of the tiny DJ booth, where it was promptly knocked to the floor.
Ben highly doubted that.