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Metal clinked against glass making the sound of church bells, and Owen was standing in the middle of a church hall, or a cathedral; he didn't know. It was too dark, but he knew it was some sort of Catholic building; he could feel it in his bones, the cold and ghastly wind blowing his sins to the surface. There were cracks in the floor, and he felt safer crawling. Red poured out of his knees and palms and trickled down the cracks, he didn't know where he was going. He tried to pace his steps with the bells ringing, but then they slowed down and stopped, and he was blinded by a bright light in the distance which he knew was the headlights of a car whose engine sounded oddly like a blender.
That wasn't what woke him up. There was the sound of someone hissing, tutting, and swearing under his breath; the distressed sound of anyone trying to keep all the noise down but ending up making more. First thing Owen did when he woke up was look at his palms. They were fine; no scarring, no bleeding, just a red circle around his left wrist, the mark of Noel's dominance, and everything felt better. He was awake. He was safe.
He was in Noel's bed, wearing Noel's boxers. His shirt and jeans folded neatly on a chair, and the sun shined through the window, painting beautiful shadows out of Noel's plants. Noel was in the kitchen, clattering and chopping away, making more noise than what was appropriate. Carl was going to make a song and dance about the bruise, of course, but he didn't care then. He pulled the blanket over his body, and tried to drift back to sleep.
After the third spoon dinged against the floor followed by louder and louder grunts, Owen decided that, sod it, he may as well stay up. He checked his phone. There was a text message from David saying "rehearsal at 8:30. DON'T BE LATE." It was already 7:44.
"Fuck me." He sighed, and sat up. Noel came out of the kitchen with an empty bowl in his hand, looking as concerned as he sounded. He was wearing a light blue V-neck t-shirt that accentuated the magnetism of his blue eyes and sparkle of his golden locks.
"Hey, did I wake you? I'm sorry, I'm such a klutz."
"Oh, no. It's..." Owen waved him off. He felt too naked; too exposed. He tried to hide his morning look by rubbing his eyes, scratching his stubble, and combing his hair with fanned out fingers. "I had a bad dream."
"Oh." He looked even more concerned, "Are you-"
Owen interrupted him by another wave of his hand, and tried to divert the attention over to something else. "It's fine. How long have you been up?" Noel raised his eyebrows, "Over an hour now."
"Jesus Christ, you're an early bird."
"Had to make sure someone doesn't run off again." They both laughed, and Noel shook the empty bowl in his hand, "also needed to go shopping for breakfast."
Owen nodded at the bowl, and smirked, "Looks eventful."
Noel raised his eyebrows and shook his head in playful frustration. They paused for a few seconds before Noel spoke again.
"How are you feeling?"
It came at the same time as Owen yawning. He covered his mouth, and with the other hand, raised one finger, signalling to wait.
"Okay, I guess that answers my question." Noel laughed, and headed back to the kitchen, "Be right back. Don't move."
Owen threw himself back into bed, and scrolled through his phone. Time was going by way too quickly, he would need to hurry up and eat then get a bus home. He would need to shower, too. No time to shave or do the laundry. Texting David to postpone their session was out of the question; he'll never hear the end of it.
Noel returned with a tray in one hand, and a drink in the other. There was a bowl of oatmeal with fresh berries, and some sort of drink which was orange but didn't smell like orange juice.
"Sorry, it's nothing fancy."
"You shouldn't have bothered. Usually I just have scrambled eggs."
"I don't cook animals."
Of course he didn't, Owen thought. The way he said it made him want to roll his eyes. There was definitely not a single drop of milk in the bowl. Possibly no honey, either; just strawberry syrup and a mix of nuts and fruit he didn't even bother to look at. It was getting late, and there was no time for food tasting.
"Any plans for today?"
Noel sat at the edge of the bed, close enough to feel his warmth while still giving him room to move.
"Nah, just rehearsal. Must head off soon, or..." he trailed off, then continued, "You?"
"Work," he said, "then meeting up with some friends. Jay's having this little get-together over at his house."
Jay.
Of course it was fucking Jay. Owen immediately lost his appetite. Just as he'd almost forgotten that ray of sunshine and aggravating flamboyance existed, Noel mentioned him again, and was even going to his house. There was no time or energy for this. He didn't want Noel to notice anything, so he started shovelling food in, and washed it down with his unknown drink which didn't taste as bad as he'd imagined. What he didn't know was that Noel was able to see the disdain in his face.
"I'll probably get really high and fall asleep on his couch again," he lamented. "We usually put some ethereal music on, and talk about absolutely anything, it's surreal. You should come, too."
Owen was only half listening until the last moment. He thought Noel was joking. "Oh, no."
"Come on, you'll have fun. I can pick you up after practice. I'll let Jay know."
"Oh, God, no!" He shot back, and then continued in a calmer tone, "Don't think it's for me."
"Why not?"
'Because I want to watch Jay die in a fire' was what he wished to say. On further reflection, he knew that wasn't the only reason. Noel's friends were probably hippie world travellers like he was, and he felt insecure about his lack of experience regarding anything they did --anything anyone did, for that matter. His life was limited to school and music, and the furthest he'd ever travelled was thirty minutes by train away from home which in itself seemed like a big deal. He was afraid he'll have nothing to talk about, and then Noel would notice how lame and boring he was.
"I don't do drugs," he said, "I won't be fun really."
"You don't have to. You're already fun."
Owen scoffed.
"Do that all you want, but I'm sure they'll love you. You'll add some diversity."
"I won't. I have nothing to talk about." There was no backtracking, so he continued, "I haven't really been anywhere..."
Noel laughed, "It's not about where you've been. Trust me, after hearing a traveller's story for the hundredth time, you get sick of it. Maybe that's why we do lots of drugs, you know, to put up with each other."
Owen was listing in his head the things he'd done which would be considered interesting, and was already running out of stories. There was that one time they performed a song, and another time they performed that other song. One time he got drunk and sang the lyrics of one song to the music of another. The drinking thing probably wouldn't be a pleasant story to tell, and not many people would think that getting the wrong train five days in a row was funny, so that was also scribbled out. He couldn't go; he'd be a nightmare. He finally let Noel know they'll practise all day and have an early night, which was true, and Noel stopped egging him on.
When he finished eating, Noel insisted on taking the tray to the kitchen himself. He was being sweet, and Owen couldn't stop admiring him. It was the little gestures that got him. Normal things that anyone would do, like the way he held the tray one-handed, the way he untucked his wrinkled top, and the way his muscles moved as he walked. The way he so intently watered his plants and smelled blooming jasmine flowers like they held the answer to everything. He loved how his fingers moved, and how his lips pursed. He could watch him all day, but he needed to go. The idea of putting off rehearsal was becoming more and more appealing.
Noel sat by him again, and on his face there was a warm and confident smile.
"Don't ever be intimidated by anyone, Owen." He said. It sounded so serious, so personal, and completely out of nowhere, "I've met so many travellers in my lifetime. It doesn't impress me anymore."
Owen opened his mouth to speak, and then stopped as there was no point in denial. He forgot how much of a terrible actor he was; how much his face could give him away. He cleared his throat, bit his nails, and asked, "What impresses you, then?"
"Art." He said without thinking, and heat and colour were displayed on Owen's cheeks.
Noel couldn't possibly be talking about him, no.
"Beauty."
Owen's cheeks burned, and his chin started to tremble. Noel tied his hair back with his wristband, and Owen remembered the last time he'd done that. He immediately felt throbbing between his legs.
He could text David. He should text David.
"Sometimes," Noel reached a hand to his pink cheeks, "they're not mutually exclusive."
Owen was incredulous, but he hoped and prayed to all that is mighty, that Noel was talking about him. Noel's intention was not to initiate anything sexual; he simply wanted to feel the angles of Owen's face, stroke the heat with the back of his fingers, run his thumb over the little bruise under his lip that looked like tiny purple footsteps on a green and yellow background, or the other one on the side of his neck that was shaped like a tulip and was still tender.
Owen closed his eyes and leaned against Noel's palm, gently pushing his face further against it, and Noel took his jaw in his hand and drew him so tenderly closer. Owen let out a soft sigh, waiting for the delicate warmth of Noel's lips to engulf his own, disregarding all his fear and responsibilities. When they finally did; when Noel's lips pressed a lingering kiss on him, he only then remembered how nice it felt. Every single time Noel took his lips, it felt like the first time, over and over again, as if the passion he had for him was not exhilarating enough to experience once.
Noel tilted his head, and his other hand grabbed the back of Owen's neck, for a better angle to delve more into the kiss, and allow himself to bury his fingers in the voluminous streaks of his hair that matched the colour of the sky on moonless nights. He took his lips one at a time, pressing so softly, and Owen just gave in, his whole body shuddered with a fuzzy feeling; so light, yet so heavy. He wished he could sneak a look at Noel's face, but it was too overwhelming to open his eyes even for one second.
As if he got a sudden rush of impatience, Noel lunged forward, placed one hand on the small of Owen's back and pulled him closer, while his lips still brushed lightly as if they had a mind of their own. His tongue darted out and slithered between Owen's lips demanding entry, and Owen could feel his will getting weaker. He used the last bit of self-control he had to tear his mouth from Noel's, long enough to whisper his name, before Noel claimed his lips again with a little more ferocity than before.
"I have to go."
