Fic: Flying Lessons (3/12)
Flying Lessons (3/12)
by Me, doctorpancakes
Fandoms: Boosh/Barley crossover
Pairings: Dan/Jones and Howard/Vince
Rating: PG-13, this chapter
Word Count: 1112, this chapter (3670 so far)
Warnings: cigarettes and fresh fruit
Disclaimer: I own an industrial-sized box of Special K. It tastes like crunchy nothing! I don't own these fellas. They just whisper stories in my ear.
Author's Notes: Missed the bus this morning. Have another chapter!
Chapter One
Chapter Two
The hotel the publishers had reserved for them was so pretentious it made Dan cringe, but he had to concede at least that the room was clean and bright.
“It looks like Ikea threw up in here,” he said, pulling a cigarette out of his pocket and lighting up. “Is this a non-smoking suite?”
“Don't think so,” said Jones, dropping his bags, toeing off his worn blue and gold trainers.
There were muffled voices coming from elsewhere in the suite, though Dan and Jones could not yet see them. Their traveling companions had arrived some hours earlier. Dan turned the corner into the suite to investigate.
And there he stood, slack-jawed and dumbfounded. There he saw two men in, he guessed, their early to mid-thirties, stripped down to their pants and vests, chucking what appeared to be satsumas at one another.
The long-haired man had just snuck up behind the man with the moustache and shoved a satsuma down the front of his pants, giggling like a mischievous schoolboy, when he realized that there were now other people in the room.
“Oh,” he blushed, straightening himself up, “alright, mate.”
They probably weren't Idiots at least, thought Dan. They were just... just weird.
“I'll just...” he started, then turned, and walked, averting his eyes, back into the vestibule. Jones was digging through his carry-on bag, in search of something.
“You seen my electric kazoo, Dan?” he asked, pulling out a scarf he appeared not to recognize.
“Hm? No,” Dan replied distractedly. “Your, uhh, friends are already here.”
“You can come back, we're in trousers now!” came a voice from within the suite.
Jones dragged his luggage into the room, with Dan following uncomfortably after.
“Alright boys,” said Jones, hauling his bags into an unoccupied corner, then slumping into a minimalist blond wood chair with white cushions. “I take it you've met Dan?”
Vince recognised the DJ, Jones, from their previous meetings. The other man was a surly-looking fellow with a cigarette, whom Howard guessed to be about the same age as he and Vince, and Vince guessed to be somewhere in his fifties. You know, oldish. Who knows.
“Alright Dan,” said Vince. “I'm Vince, this here's Howard.”
Vince's introduction was punctuated with a grin that twinkled like 3563097890 megatons of glitter. Howard nodded cordially.
“Nice to, umm... you know, that flight was really... I'm going to go... sleep, or something,” said Dan, shuffling off with his baggage into the unoccupied bedroom.
“Night fellas,” shrugged Jones, following after his companion.
Howard and Vince were left facing each other in silence for a moment before Vince collapsed, doubled over, in laughter. Howard stiffened slightly, defensively crossing his arms.
“This isn't funny, Little Man,” he said. “That was by far and away the worst first impression I've ever made.”
“No it wasn't,” giggled Vince. “How about when you met Mrs. Gideon for the first time? You stammered something about the reproductive cycle of the herring and then you fainted.”
Howard felt a horrid blush coming on. “All right Vince, you win,” he conceded.
“And then the first day of big school when you met our teacher, Mrs. Sorenson, and you - “
“That's... enough pleasant recollections for tonight, Vince,” a very flustered Howard interrupted.
“You've still got a satsuma in your pants,” said Vince, waving towards the fruit-shaped bulge in the front of Howard’s tweed slacks. Howard blushed.
“Oh, I guess I should - “
“Wait, Howard,” Vince cut him off, grabbing hold of Howard's wrist, his soft fingers tracing the delicate flesh there, before Howard could retrieve the object from his trousers. “Let me.”
---
The light of jetlagged morning was too bright, too harsh, too loud. Howard rubbed his tiny eyes sleepily, padding into the main room of the suite. Jones was there, setting up his equipment; plugging things into other things, pushing buttons, untangling wires, hunting through cases of stuff.
“Morning,” said Howard. “I'm surprised to see someone's awake before I am, actually.”
“Haven't been to sleep yet,” said Jones, the tip of his tongue peeking out slightly from the corner of his mouth in concentration as he worked.
“You should take better care of yourself, sir,” said Howard, screwing his face up disapprovingly. “A good night's sleep is the foundation of a productive day.”
“Nah,” said Jones, “this time zone stuff fucks the circadian rhythms right up anyway, so I figured I'd ride it out until I hit my second wind, and get some setting up done while I'm at it.”
“Oh I see,” nodded Howard. “Once, Vince accidentally drank a possessed can of redbull that kept him awake for two weeks straight. By the end of the first week, he'd begun talking to invisible flamingoes and couldn't remember his own name. Even the most powerful sedatives couldn't knock him out.”
“You should've rang me!” said Jones. “Anytime Dan can't sleep, I put together a little sleepytime mix for him, puts him right out, like a bottle of trazodone, turned up to eleven. Sleeps like a tuckered out kitten. It's well precious!”
Howard was palpably uncomfortable. “Yeah. So, how long have you two been, you know, gay together?”
“You mean lovers?” laughed Jones, smiling up from his equipment for the first time. “About five years, I guess.”
Five years ago, thought Jones. Fuck, it had been five years since that gig in Mykonos. He still kept the polaroid of the two of them from that night with his turntable treasures. DJ Tiesto had taken it for them. His aim was a bit wonky and they were somewhat diagonal and out-of-focus, but Jones loved that photo. He had a huge shit-eating grin on his face, and his arm slung around Dan, who was actually genuinely smiling, in spite of himself.
“My most heartfelt congratulations to you, sir,” said Howard, fishing a well-worn LP out of his carry-on bag.
“Cheers, mate,” Jones smiled. “What record's that?”
“This,” said Howard with great reverence, proudly brandishing the album, “is serious jazz fusion. This is the Mahavishnu Orchestra's extremely rare live album. Each member of the band plays a solo, all at once, each from a different song, over 4 LPs. You need a special Jazz Specialist Certificate to be allowed to purchase it. Sometimes I like to listen to it when I'm in need of an especially powerful morning jazz trance.”
“Jazz trance?” asked Jones.
“Yes, jazz trance,” said Howard, making profound jazz hand gestures and pulling a serious jazz face. “I try to have one every day. Care to join me?”
“Yeah, all right,” said Jones, strapping on a pair of headphones. “Let's give it a go.”
Chapter Four
by Me, doctorpancakes
Fandoms: Boosh/Barley crossover
Pairings: Dan/Jones and Howard/Vince
Rating: PG-13, this chapter
Word Count: 1112, this chapter (3670 so far)
Warnings: cigarettes and fresh fruit
Disclaimer: I own an industrial-sized box of Special K. It tastes like crunchy nothing! I don't own these fellas. They just whisper stories in my ear.
Author's Notes: Missed the bus this morning. Have another chapter!
Chapter One
Chapter Two
The hotel the publishers had reserved for them was so pretentious it made Dan cringe, but he had to concede at least that the room was clean and bright.
“It looks like Ikea threw up in here,” he said, pulling a cigarette out of his pocket and lighting up. “Is this a non-smoking suite?”
“Don't think so,” said Jones, dropping his bags, toeing off his worn blue and gold trainers.
There were muffled voices coming from elsewhere in the suite, though Dan and Jones could not yet see them. Their traveling companions had arrived some hours earlier. Dan turned the corner into the suite to investigate.
And there he stood, slack-jawed and dumbfounded. There he saw two men in, he guessed, their early to mid-thirties, stripped down to their pants and vests, chucking what appeared to be satsumas at one another.
The long-haired man had just snuck up behind the man with the moustache and shoved a satsuma down the front of his pants, giggling like a mischievous schoolboy, when he realized that there were now other people in the room.
“Oh,” he blushed, straightening himself up, “alright, mate.”
They probably weren't Idiots at least, thought Dan. They were just... just weird.
“I'll just...” he started, then turned, and walked, averting his eyes, back into the vestibule. Jones was digging through his carry-on bag, in search of something.
“You seen my electric kazoo, Dan?” he asked, pulling out a scarf he appeared not to recognize.
“Hm? No,” Dan replied distractedly. “Your, uhh, friends are already here.”
“You can come back, we're in trousers now!” came a voice from within the suite.
Jones dragged his luggage into the room, with Dan following uncomfortably after.
“Alright boys,” said Jones, hauling his bags into an unoccupied corner, then slumping into a minimalist blond wood chair with white cushions. “I take it you've met Dan?”
Vince recognised the DJ, Jones, from their previous meetings. The other man was a surly-looking fellow with a cigarette, whom Howard guessed to be about the same age as he and Vince, and Vince guessed to be somewhere in his fifties. You know, oldish. Who knows.
“Alright Dan,” said Vince. “I'm Vince, this here's Howard.”
Vince's introduction was punctuated with a grin that twinkled like 3563097890 megatons of glitter. Howard nodded cordially.
“Nice to, umm... you know, that flight was really... I'm going to go... sleep, or something,” said Dan, shuffling off with his baggage into the unoccupied bedroom.
“Night fellas,” shrugged Jones, following after his companion.
Howard and Vince were left facing each other in silence for a moment before Vince collapsed, doubled over, in laughter. Howard stiffened slightly, defensively crossing his arms.
“This isn't funny, Little Man,” he said. “That was by far and away the worst first impression I've ever made.”
“No it wasn't,” giggled Vince. “How about when you met Mrs. Gideon for the first time? You stammered something about the reproductive cycle of the herring and then you fainted.”
Howard felt a horrid blush coming on. “All right Vince, you win,” he conceded.
“And then the first day of big school when you met our teacher, Mrs. Sorenson, and you - “
“That's... enough pleasant recollections for tonight, Vince,” a very flustered Howard interrupted.
“You've still got a satsuma in your pants,” said Vince, waving towards the fruit-shaped bulge in the front of Howard’s tweed slacks. Howard blushed.
“Oh, I guess I should - “
“Wait, Howard,” Vince cut him off, grabbing hold of Howard's wrist, his soft fingers tracing the delicate flesh there, before Howard could retrieve the object from his trousers. “Let me.”
---
The light of jetlagged morning was too bright, too harsh, too loud. Howard rubbed his tiny eyes sleepily, padding into the main room of the suite. Jones was there, setting up his equipment; plugging things into other things, pushing buttons, untangling wires, hunting through cases of stuff.
“Morning,” said Howard. “I'm surprised to see someone's awake before I am, actually.”
“Haven't been to sleep yet,” said Jones, the tip of his tongue peeking out slightly from the corner of his mouth in concentration as he worked.
“You should take better care of yourself, sir,” said Howard, screwing his face up disapprovingly. “A good night's sleep is the foundation of a productive day.”
“Nah,” said Jones, “this time zone stuff fucks the circadian rhythms right up anyway, so I figured I'd ride it out until I hit my second wind, and get some setting up done while I'm at it.”
“Oh I see,” nodded Howard. “Once, Vince accidentally drank a possessed can of redbull that kept him awake for two weeks straight. By the end of the first week, he'd begun talking to invisible flamingoes and couldn't remember his own name. Even the most powerful sedatives couldn't knock him out.”
“You should've rang me!” said Jones. “Anytime Dan can't sleep, I put together a little sleepytime mix for him, puts him right out, like a bottle of trazodone, turned up to eleven. Sleeps like a tuckered out kitten. It's well precious!”
Howard was palpably uncomfortable. “Yeah. So, how long have you two been, you know, gay together?”
“You mean lovers?” laughed Jones, smiling up from his equipment for the first time. “About five years, I guess.”
Five years ago, thought Jones. Fuck, it had been five years since that gig in Mykonos. He still kept the polaroid of the two of them from that night with his turntable treasures. DJ Tiesto had taken it for them. His aim was a bit wonky and they were somewhat diagonal and out-of-focus, but Jones loved that photo. He had a huge shit-eating grin on his face, and his arm slung around Dan, who was actually genuinely smiling, in spite of himself.
“My most heartfelt congratulations to you, sir,” said Howard, fishing a well-worn LP out of his carry-on bag.
“Cheers, mate,” Jones smiled. “What record's that?”
“This,” said Howard with great reverence, proudly brandishing the album, “is serious jazz fusion. This is the Mahavishnu Orchestra's extremely rare live album. Each member of the band plays a solo, all at once, each from a different song, over 4 LPs. You need a special Jazz Specialist Certificate to be allowed to purchase it. Sometimes I like to listen to it when I'm in need of an especially powerful morning jazz trance.”
“Jazz trance?” asked Jones.
“Yes, jazz trance,” said Howard, making profound jazz hand gestures and pulling a serious jazz face. “I try to have one every day. Care to join me?”
“Yeah, all right,” said Jones, strapping on a pair of headphones. “Let's give it a go.”
Chapter Four