Fic: Flying Lessons (1/12)
Flying Lessons (1/12)
by Me, doctorpancakes
Fandoms: Boosh/Barley crossover
Pairings: Dan/Jones and Howard/Vince
Rating: PG-13, this chapter
Word Count: 1189, this chapter
Warnings: just the usual literary nonsense
Disclaimer: I don't own the Boosh and I don't own Nathan Barley either. Obviously.
Author's Notes: This will largely make more sense if you've read The World Just Keeps on Ending AND The Redeeming Qualities of Bad Techno and Spoon but I suppose that isn't strictly necessary. But you should read them anyway because I'll love you if you do.
Dan Ashcroft was still coming down from the buzz. It was a heady mixture of the kind of glow that normally followed after he'd come in, on, or around his lover, coupled with the excitement, terror, and (though a part of his consciousness deemed this ill-considered) happiness that accompanied the knowledge that his novel - especially considering that until recently, he wasn't even sure he had it in him - would be published very, very soon.
“You remember that band we saw a few months back at the Velvet Onion?” asked Jones, laid out on his belly, propped up on his elbows, feet dangling in the air, frantically jabbing naked text messages into his phone.
“Did I do a review of that one?” Dan cocked an eyebrow at Jones.
“Yeah, you know, those two blokes?” offered Jones.
“Did they do that space madrigal number?” asked Dan, squinting, trying to remember.
“Yeah, that's them,” smiled Jones. “Anyway, I ran into one of them at my gig last week, and we've been texting about working on a side project. They seem like really nice blokes, I think you'll like them.”
Dan just made a face that was something between a sneer and a look of incredulous discomfort, shaking his head.
“Don't be so judgmental, Dan. Just because they're in a band doesn't mean they're pretentious wankers,” said Jones. “Give them a chance, yeah?”
“Yeah, all right,” said Dan. “So they're going to be in your side project?”
“Yeah, we're called Dancing Banana Trees and I've just booked us a gig in New York the same week as your book launch,” said Jones. “It's gonna be massive!”
“You haven't even rehearsed with them yet,” said Dan.
“So?” asked Jones, tossing his phone on the nightstand.
Jones was one of those somewhat mysterious individuals who always seemed to have just enough money, in spite of never actually having a real job, and Dan suspected that while the gigs he played might have been paying enough for him to live on, it couldn't have been enough to support them both. Dan sometimes wondered if there was some kind of inheritance Jones didn't like to talk about. Dan didn't care if there was. He still felt guilty living on essentially no income while he worked on his book, apart from the occasional freelance review, and the infinitesimal advance given to him by the publishers. Indeed, since Dan expected that the royalties from his book would equal (if he was lucky) the cost of a cup of watery tea and one of those rock hard eccles cakes they sell at seaside cafes, he rather wished the publishers would forgo the ridiculous book launch they had planned and just give him a cheque for the cost of the event. He knew Jones would continue to support his endeavours, but he felt rather terrible about the whole thing, being of such little use. At least, he consoled himself, he was for once writing what he felt like.
When Dan had finally let Jones see the final draft of his book, just before sending it off to the publishers - he'd been very secretive about it up until then, not letting anyone see his work, on punishment of death, despite Jones' pleadings - Jones pored through it in an afternoon. When he'd finished reading the last page, he slung off his headphones, pumped his fists in the air, ran to the sofa, and crashed down next to Dan.
“Yeah!” he shouted over the loud beats emanating from his headphones, hugging the manuscript to his chest. “Dan! It's like Saul Bellow on Cornish acid! This is bloody genius!”
Dan swelled a little with pride. He wasn't yet sure how Jones knew of Saul Bellow, though a subsequent conversation would reveal that before they'd met, Jones had done a degree in twentieth-century literature. At Cambridge. Even after five years, life with Jones was a voyage of constant discovery. Jones placed the manuscript gently on the floor and snuggled into Dan's side.
“Really?” asked Dan.
“Of course really,” replied Jones, absentmindedly tracing circles over Dan's inner thigh with his thumb. Dan shifted slightly in response.
“Thanks Jones,” said Dan, bringing his arm around Jones' willowy frame, resting his hand on that little curve just under his ribcage. Dan loved that little curve. “I think that's the nicest thing anyone's ever said about anything I've ever written.”
“Well, I meant it,” said Jones.
Dan pressed his lips gently to Jones' forehead. Jones beamed. His hand wandered further up Dan's thigh, playfully squeezing. Dan inhaled sharply at the sudden glimmer of things to come.
“Fuck, Jones,” he breathed. Jones stood abruptly, marching with great determination toward his turntables. Dan bashed his head against the back of the sofa in confused frustration. Jones was madly pushing buttons and turning things and frantically searching through crates of records, ostensibly oblivious to Dan's frustrations.
“That's it!” shouted Jones, pumping his fist in time with the bleepy bloopy beats emanating from his turntables.
“Jones, what the hell are you doing?” squinted Dan.
“This bit is well sexy!” shouted Jones, pointing to his array of equipment. “But it's only three or four hours long, so hurry up and get your kit off, babe!”
Dan grinned with a combination of sudden understanding and pure, unfiltered Northern horniness. Jones was orchestrating a cacophonous soundtrack to make love by. “Right,” said Dan, frantically unzipping his trousers as he made for the bedroom.
---
Howard Moon stood at the front door, dressed in his traveling clothes, with a small rucksack slung over his shoulder. He tapped his foot impatiently, in time with an invisible jazz beat.
“Vince!” he called. “Check-in's in an hour, we have to go!”
“Coming!” shouted Vince from upstairs.
There was a clatter, then a heavy thunk thunk thunk sound, and a series of unattractive grunts and heaving noises, as Vince lugged a suitcase the size of a small elephant down the stairs behind him.
“Vince,” sighed Howard, “they'll not even let you on the plane with that thing, you know. There's weight restrictions on luggage and they're very particular about these things.”
“But I need all this!” protested Vince. “You know how much fashions can change in a week! I can't risk being caught off-guard!”
“There'll be no chance of being caught on-guard either if you never make it out of Gatwick,” cautioned Howard. “You should try traveling like me. All my essentials fit into this one compact unit,” he said, proudly patting his rucksack.
“Yeah, well, it's dead easy for you, isn't it? You only have that one... look,” grimaced Vince.
“And they do have shops in New York too, Vince,” observed Howard.
“Shops,” said Vince dreamily, his eyes drifting off into a very happy place indeed, “right.”
He quickly stuffed his ticket, money, and passport into a small red leather satchel and threw it over his torso, bicycle messenger-stylie.
“Onward!” he declared, pointing in what he probably thought was the direction of New York, but was in fact a route that, had they followed it, would have led them somewhere in the vicinity of southern Botswana.
Chapter Two
by Me, doctorpancakes
Fandoms: Boosh/Barley crossover
Pairings: Dan/Jones and Howard/Vince
Rating: PG-13, this chapter
Word Count: 1189, this chapter
Warnings: just the usual literary nonsense
Disclaimer: I don't own the Boosh and I don't own Nathan Barley either. Obviously.
Author's Notes: This will largely make more sense if you've read The World Just Keeps on Ending AND The Redeeming Qualities of Bad Techno and Spoon but I suppose that isn't strictly necessary. But you should read them anyway because I'll love you if you do.
Dan Ashcroft was still coming down from the buzz. It was a heady mixture of the kind of glow that normally followed after he'd come in, on, or around his lover, coupled with the excitement, terror, and (though a part of his consciousness deemed this ill-considered) happiness that accompanied the knowledge that his novel - especially considering that until recently, he wasn't even sure he had it in him - would be published very, very soon.
“You remember that band we saw a few months back at the Velvet Onion?” asked Jones, laid out on his belly, propped up on his elbows, feet dangling in the air, frantically jabbing naked text messages into his phone.
“Did I do a review of that one?” Dan cocked an eyebrow at Jones.
“Yeah, you know, those two blokes?” offered Jones.
“Did they do that space madrigal number?” asked Dan, squinting, trying to remember.
“Yeah, that's them,” smiled Jones. “Anyway, I ran into one of them at my gig last week, and we've been texting about working on a side project. They seem like really nice blokes, I think you'll like them.”
Dan just made a face that was something between a sneer and a look of incredulous discomfort, shaking his head.
“Don't be so judgmental, Dan. Just because they're in a band doesn't mean they're pretentious wankers,” said Jones. “Give them a chance, yeah?”
“Yeah, all right,” said Dan. “So they're going to be in your side project?”
“Yeah, we're called Dancing Banana Trees and I've just booked us a gig in New York the same week as your book launch,” said Jones. “It's gonna be massive!”
“You haven't even rehearsed with them yet,” said Dan.
“So?” asked Jones, tossing his phone on the nightstand.
Jones was one of those somewhat mysterious individuals who always seemed to have just enough money, in spite of never actually having a real job, and Dan suspected that while the gigs he played might have been paying enough for him to live on, it couldn't have been enough to support them both. Dan sometimes wondered if there was some kind of inheritance Jones didn't like to talk about. Dan didn't care if there was. He still felt guilty living on essentially no income while he worked on his book, apart from the occasional freelance review, and the infinitesimal advance given to him by the publishers. Indeed, since Dan expected that the royalties from his book would equal (if he was lucky) the cost of a cup of watery tea and one of those rock hard eccles cakes they sell at seaside cafes, he rather wished the publishers would forgo the ridiculous book launch they had planned and just give him a cheque for the cost of the event. He knew Jones would continue to support his endeavours, but he felt rather terrible about the whole thing, being of such little use. At least, he consoled himself, he was for once writing what he felt like.
When Dan had finally let Jones see the final draft of his book, just before sending it off to the publishers - he'd been very secretive about it up until then, not letting anyone see his work, on punishment of death, despite Jones' pleadings - Jones pored through it in an afternoon. When he'd finished reading the last page, he slung off his headphones, pumped his fists in the air, ran to the sofa, and crashed down next to Dan.
“Yeah!” he shouted over the loud beats emanating from his headphones, hugging the manuscript to his chest. “Dan! It's like Saul Bellow on Cornish acid! This is bloody genius!”
Dan swelled a little with pride. He wasn't yet sure how Jones knew of Saul Bellow, though a subsequent conversation would reveal that before they'd met, Jones had done a degree in twentieth-century literature. At Cambridge. Even after five years, life with Jones was a voyage of constant discovery. Jones placed the manuscript gently on the floor and snuggled into Dan's side.
“Really?” asked Dan.
“Of course really,” replied Jones, absentmindedly tracing circles over Dan's inner thigh with his thumb. Dan shifted slightly in response.
“Thanks Jones,” said Dan, bringing his arm around Jones' willowy frame, resting his hand on that little curve just under his ribcage. Dan loved that little curve. “I think that's the nicest thing anyone's ever said about anything I've ever written.”
“Well, I meant it,” said Jones.
Dan pressed his lips gently to Jones' forehead. Jones beamed. His hand wandered further up Dan's thigh, playfully squeezing. Dan inhaled sharply at the sudden glimmer of things to come.
“Fuck, Jones,” he breathed. Jones stood abruptly, marching with great determination toward his turntables. Dan bashed his head against the back of the sofa in confused frustration. Jones was madly pushing buttons and turning things and frantically searching through crates of records, ostensibly oblivious to Dan's frustrations.
“That's it!” shouted Jones, pumping his fist in time with the bleepy bloopy beats emanating from his turntables.
“Jones, what the hell are you doing?” squinted Dan.
“This bit is well sexy!” shouted Jones, pointing to his array of equipment. “But it's only three or four hours long, so hurry up and get your kit off, babe!”
Dan grinned with a combination of sudden understanding and pure, unfiltered Northern horniness. Jones was orchestrating a cacophonous soundtrack to make love by. “Right,” said Dan, frantically unzipping his trousers as he made for the bedroom.
---
Howard Moon stood at the front door, dressed in his traveling clothes, with a small rucksack slung over his shoulder. He tapped his foot impatiently, in time with an invisible jazz beat.
“Vince!” he called. “Check-in's in an hour, we have to go!”
“Coming!” shouted Vince from upstairs.
There was a clatter, then a heavy thunk thunk thunk sound, and a series of unattractive grunts and heaving noises, as Vince lugged a suitcase the size of a small elephant down the stairs behind him.
“Vince,” sighed Howard, “they'll not even let you on the plane with that thing, you know. There's weight restrictions on luggage and they're very particular about these things.”
“But I need all this!” protested Vince. “You know how much fashions can change in a week! I can't risk being caught off-guard!”
“There'll be no chance of being caught on-guard either if you never make it out of Gatwick,” cautioned Howard. “You should try traveling like me. All my essentials fit into this one compact unit,” he said, proudly patting his rucksack.
“Yeah, well, it's dead easy for you, isn't it? You only have that one... look,” grimaced Vince.
“And they do have shops in New York too, Vince,” observed Howard.
“Shops,” said Vince dreamily, his eyes drifting off into a very happy place indeed, “right.”
He quickly stuffed his ticket, money, and passport into a small red leather satchel and threw it over his torso, bicycle messenger-stylie.
“Onward!” he declared, pointing in what he probably thought was the direction of New York, but was in fact a route that, had they followed it, would have led them somewhere in the vicinity of southern Botswana.
Chapter Two