by Josh & Sadie Rose
Part Two LAST CALL FOR THE REAL WORLD
Rayne was curled up on the rumpled, spunk-stained sheets of the bunk with his earphones in and the battery-powered laptop propped against his knees when Marc came back from the shower room feeling quite refreshed for that blast of alternate hot and cold jets. He had been slightly disappointed that the singer did not volunteer to join him but, with hindsight, supposed that the other man was probably dog-tired after last night, and in any case had already taken a shower whilst he was sleeping. If he was feeling as raw and sore as Marc did right now, he could not be entirely blamed for passing.
Now, as he let himself back into the compartment, still towelling his wet hair, a pair of ice green eyes, so pale they were virtually colourless, flickered upward briefly in acknowledgement. The singer did not speak, only smiled very slightly, and carried on tapping the keys with fast, deft fingers. Marc closed the door and stripped out of his jeans and t-shirt, rummaging in his holdall for fresh underwear and clean t-shirt. He pulled them on casually before coming over to slump down on the bed beside the lean, naked Englishman.
For a while he lay with his damp head cradled in the crook of one arm, watching the way Rayne's fine, sable hair tumbled forward in delicate fronds, framing his fine, angular, alabaster features. His sensuous mouth was relaxed, the full, bloodless lips slightly parted as he hummed almost inaudibly to the song playing in his headphones. Occasionally he smiled to himself as the keys clicked softly under his fingertips. His teeth were small, perfect ivory pearls in the pink, lush warmth of his mouth. The memory of those soft, warm lips wrapped around the shaft of his cock, sucking hard, got Marc semi-erect again, in spite of the cold water. He rolled himself quickly onto his belly to hide the conspicuous bulge in the crotch of his pants.
Almost absently, Rayne's left hand moved off the keys and the backs of his fingers stroked Marc's wet hair; a brief, tender, affectionate gesture which brought a smile to his mortal companion's lips. Even with the air conditioning turned up full it was sweltering in here and finally Marc pushed up the hem of his t-shirt to his ribs, considering that Rayne had the right idea. The Englishman's fingers caressed the exposed flesh of his bare back responsively, although he carried on typing with his right hand as if this was something he did every day of his life. His aqueous, peridot gaze was intent and preoccupied; long black, girlish lashes almost fanning his ashen cheeks as he worked. Through the ragged tumble of his near-shoulder length mane, his tip-tilted nose protruded slightly, adding to the elfin sexiness of his appearance.
At last, Marc tired of being ignored and tugged on one of the dangling wires which trailed down from his hair. Those enquiring eyes met his own again, silently.
"What are you listening to?" the boy wanted to know.
Rayne Wylde reached up to his left ear and removed the small, black nodular headphone. Gently, he swept Marc's damp hair back from his neck and put the miniature amplifier into his ear. At once, David Bowie's dulcet, gravelly tones sang; "I've been putting out the fire with gasoline....."
The young man settled down beside him once more in companionable silence, tapping his feet to the song. When it ended, he mused; "What are you writing?"
"My diary," Rayne said, in a distracted tone nearly as husky as Bowie's... the first words Marc had heard him speak all morning.
"You keep a diary?"
"I have to... it's part of the conditions of my employment. I e-mail it back to my editor in daily instalments, so they can see that I'm working..." He turned his head slightly and winked at Marc in the manner of a conspirator. "Then they decide what gets put in the final article."
Marc looked up at him, intrigued. "Am I in it?"
A wry smile twisted his companion's lips as he bent his head over the keyboard once more. "You might be..."
"Let me see." Marc pushed himself to his knees at once, trying to peer over Rayne's shoulder. At once the other man clicked on 'save' and flipped down the lid of his machine, shaking his head adamantly. Marc made a grab for the laptop, refusing to be denied and the singer wrestled it away from him, setting it down on the far side of the bunk whilst he held the young man off with his left hand.
"No... Be told..."
"Not fair! If I'm in it I wanna look," Marc protested, still trying to get around him and reach the machine. "You could have said anything! D'you think I like the idea of people reading about what we did last night? Or am I not supposed to matter?"
"It's a monthly English minority rag, not fuckin' GQ!" Rayne snapped at him, losing his temper without warning. "I didn't put your full name... let's face it... I don't even know your last name! Who the fuck d'you suppose is gonna read it and guess it's about you?"
"I wanna know what you said," Marc persisted, making a last game attempt to scramble over him and reach the laptop.
This time, Rayne grasped him by the shoulders and slammed him back down hard on the bed. Marc's eyes went wide, more with shock than pain, but the singer must have registered that tiny instant of fear in his dark gaze as he realised how vulnerable he was. Time stopped for a moment and he was allowed a world in which to regret his reaction. His hands released Marc's slender arms and the young man scrabbled backwards, away from him, almost automatically.
"I'm sorry," Rayne told him neutrally, sitting back and reaching for the machine to turn it off. "I over-reacted. I shouldn't have done that. Sometimes I forget my own strength."
"You're telling me!" Marc exclaimed huskily, rubbing at his upper arms with both hands to dispel the tingling sensation there. No doubt, by tonight there would be more bruises there to add to the dark mottling on his hips and thighs where Rayne had gripped him as he pulled himself deeper last night. Marc made himself think of something else, with difficulty.
"I didn't mean to hurt you," the singer swore with apparent sincerity.
"If that was a love tap, I'd hate to be around when you really lose it." The young man was shaking his head unhappily now. "Look, if having secrets is so damned important to you, just forget it... 'kay? I don't wanna know!"
Rayne lowered his head, looking suddenly contrite. "I was out of order... I shouldn't have written about it in the first place," he said in that mellifluous, lazy, smoky voice that made him sound like the love child of Michael Caine and Marianne Faithful; albeit an adult lovechild, who was busy getting his cock sucked and adoring every minute of it. "Last night was out of this fuckin' world, darlin'. The best thing that's happened to me since I got here! My editor'll love it... but if you'd prefer I can get her to change your name."
When he lifted his head, Marc was gazing at him speculatively. Rayne forced a smile he clearly wasn't feeling.
"Did you tell her everything?" the young American asked him in mildly incredulous tones.
A small shrug presaged his answer. "More or less."
Marc tried and failed to suppress a nervous grin.
"D'you think she gets off on it?"
Rayne's own smile grew more contemplative. "Actually... I reckon she's a lesbian. She probably thinks that I make it all up to shock her."
Across the bunk from him, Marc bent his head, twisting tendrils of his dark hair around his fingers.
"We could send photographs!" When he looked up at the singer, the expression on his face was incontrovertibly wicked.
Rayne met it with an astonishing, brilliant, fanged smile.
"Fuckin' hell! Why didn't 'I' think of that?"
