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Chapter Text

London, 1 January 2002

The stubborn key finally turned in the lock of the flat with a begrudging hiss of grating levers and a well-aimed kick to the usual sweet spot in the bottom right of the cracked frame.

A fresh-out-of-university budget in London didn’t stretch to much in the rental market.

A faint perfume of stale sweat and leftover takeaway drifted lazily into the stairwell, causing his nose to wrinkle slightly in disgust.

The pale winter morning light was spilling idly through the gap in the threadbare curtains to reveal that Tim had indeed been marginally more successful than him in finding his way home from the previous night but was currently slumped face down and snoring lightly. He’d clearly made it through the door and onto on the ancient fabric sofa unaided, but his prone body rested at a bizarrely skewed angle which suggested he had probably passed out soon after sprawling into the relative safety of the mustard velour upholstery.

His right arm trailed messily off the edge of the seat, resting lightly within the half-eaten contents of a battered yellow Styrofoam box. A small amount of detective work would surmise that it was most likely a doner kebab. No traces of vomit on the carpet or him however; a welcome improvement on the previous week’s showing.

A low snore of a different timbre from the rear of the property indicated Mark had apparently been the most responsible of them all.

Alex Horne sighed gently as he closed the door and leant his head back against it, bracing his back against the safety of solid wood. His head was reeling, grateful beyond words to be back in the security of his shared abode, the world having taken on a bizarrely cinematic twist as he’d staggered several miles home across the capital in the icy fog of the early hours. Anxiety had twisted relentlessly in his gut, blood thumping in a loud ostinato in his ears as he attempted to navigate whilst moderately hungover and relying on nothing but a distinctly dodgy personal compass in order to find his confused bearings.

The night had been a revelation in more ways than one.

His hand ghosted thoughtfully up to the side of his neck which he knew instinctively by touch was decorated in a series of bruising bites. One look at that rapidly purpling Rorschach test etched into his flesh would draw a series of unanswerable questions from Key when he eventually regained consciousness. He ached in places that he didn’t know it was possible to; the night having taken the most surreal of turns. It had been dizzyingly good, so far out of his comfort zone, but illuminating nonetheless.

He hadn’t even been that drunk.

His throat burned, still hoarse from having screamed uncharacteristically loudly.

The stubborn odor of cigarette smoke clung unforgivingly to his day-old clothes as a stale perfume.

His shirt sat slightly skewwhiff on his chest, plastic buttons married hastily to the wrong holes as he’d attempted to redress in the dark.

Coward that he clearly was, he’d bolted from that scene without a word. Lain there, barely breathing in the darkness as the unfamiliar figure next to him in the bed succumbed to the lure of sleep before peeling the covers gently away from his naked form. He’d scrabbled around tentatively, shivering in the chilly air in a bid to find his scattered garments from where they’d come to rest in the unfamiliar surroundings. Pulled a face of mild revulsion as jeans still stained with a telltale blemish at the crotch slid unwillingly back up his thin legs and tiptoed away without a backward glance.

Guilt began to needle uncomfortably beneath his skin. Not the wisest of decisions he’d ever made.

He carefully toed off his shoes and walked slowly towards his awaiting bed, pausing only briefly to scoop up two paracetamol and a tumbler of water from the small dated kitchen.

Sleep was top of the immediate agenda, followed by a small personal crisis of sexuality.

“Happy New Year,” he raised the clouded glass thoughtfully to the immobile form who replied with an incoherent groan.

Clapham Grand Theatre, 24 February 2015

Alex fidgeted uncomfortably as yet another layer of powder was dusted carefully across his pinked cheeks by a hovering makeup artist.

Nerves always made him blush. He could feel his pulse whooshing anxiously in his neck as the backstage crew swept around him backstage like a well-choregraphed army of televisual ants bearing clipboards.

This was it, this is what it had all led to. His own show: commissioned, VT’s filmed, partial script written and nearly ready to go.

The assembled audience filled up the theatre with a noisy buzz of chatter.

He worried apprehensively at his lower lip, earning him a reproachful glare from the technician as her careful handiwork was slightly smudged.

It was all very well laughing away at the bizarre antics and creativity of a group of comedians within the safety of a small group of friends, most of whom had been present at those original late-night Edinburgh shows some years ago. Handing it over to the unpredictable hands of an unknown theatre audience felt like a big risk. Would it work?

Tim Key clapped him briefly on the shoulder as the five contestants were walked past by a runner to await their entrance from the opposite wing of the stage, pulling a daft expression and giving him a quick thumbs up of encouragement as the house lights dimmed and a booming announcement called for the audience’s attention.

A tall figure bedecked in a crisp new black suit sidled up behind him from the shadows, large hands grasping several hastily branded cue cards.

They were stood so close that Alex could feel the warmth of the other man’s body radiating into his back. Comforting, despite maintaining a proximity that would usually having him recoil slightly. 

A gentle aroma of a slightly familiar aftershave clung to the surrounding air.

“Ready?” he could hear the faint smile in the low voice without having to turn around. “It’ll be fine, don’t stress.”

Alex nodded, throat dry as he peeked out at the full auditorium.

A quiet chuckle of reassurance, “At least we’ve lost that bloody cane prop from the format- that was never going to work!”

“Hmmm.” A tense grunt of agreement was the best he could manage.

He still didn’t know Greg Davies overly well. They’d both been active on the comedy circuit for a little while now, although moving in adjacent yet different circles from each other. On vague nodding terms in a green room, but miles from the shared closeness that he had with Tim or equally Greg with Roisin. Despite this abundant lack of familiarity, Greg had still somehow been the first choice that lurked obstinately in the back Alex’s mind for the role of the Taskmaster: tall, commanding, authoritative, able to exude an appropriate air of disdain as well as gleeful enthusiasm for whatever was placed in front of him.

The compere summoned Greg to the stage with a loud roar from the crowd.

Alex nodded nervously to himself as the other man slipped past him. He surveyed the tall shoulders of the departing figure with a slight frown creasing his brow, which passed as fleetingly as it had appeared. 

He fidgeted idly with the gold band that adorned his hand.

There was something about him...

The comedic mask slipped on effortlessly as Greg stepped out into the awaiting spotlight and seemed to immediately grow beyond the confines of his already impressive six feet eight-inch frame, fully embodying the bombast of the low-level dictator as he swaggered slightly towards his awaiting throne.

A good choice.

31 December 2001

He could feel the heavy baseline pulsating deeply beneath his feet, as if the sticky floor had suddenly developed its own thudding heartbeat which resonated up through his legs and into his chest.

It was a visceral experience, being shoehorned into the midst of a writhing pit of people, each moving in their own chaotic choreography beneath the ethereal cascades of rainbow light.

Reality had long since been suspended, the outside world of money anguish, unemployment woes and the general listlessness of a recent young graduate still struggling to find his feet in the world were all left in a neat pile on the cold tarmac of the street outside.

“Horne! Yours, I think.”

Mark’s face surfaced tipsily from beneath the waves, beaming in the slightly haphazard manner of a man several drinks into the night upon locating the whereabouts of one of his best friends. His dark hair clung to the edge of his narrow face, faintly glassy eyes framed in an experimental kohl liner, slightly smudged by the exertions of the evening thus far, but a striking look nonetheless.

A shot glass, miraculously unsplit, was thrust clumsily into his outstretched hand.

“I think Key’s…” his bellow was swallowed by the roar from the crowd as a new song bled effortlessly into the old. Gesturing helplessly and abandoning his attempt at conversation, Mark’s lanky form slipped back into the murky obscurity of the crowded space.

Alex rose the proffered glass to his lips and immediately swallowed the contents, wincing slightly at the bitter hit to the back of his throat from the unidentified spirits.

Still somewhat shy by nature, he welcomed the warmth of the alcohol as it burnt slowly outward through his chest, numbing the worst excesses of his anxieties and inhibitions. A moderate social anesthesia.

Warm bodies pressed tightly against his own in a sweaty scrum and he dazedly lifted his arms in the air, freed and carried along by the moment of the intoxicated tide.

Suddenly, it no longer mattered that he was in the middle of a crushing period of uncertainty, no longer sure of the routines and rhythms of his life after graduating Cambridge on a high and swept to London in the hope of a bright new life. The journalism course which had promised much had soon felt like an ill-fitting suit: outwardly a sensible choice, approved of by many, but one which secretly chafed away at him day and night.

He could still feel the eyes burning into his back.

A tall figure in his peripheral vision, partially obscured in the flickering shadows had been leant casually against the wall, unmoving in his stance as he observed him dance, face half illuminated by the pulsating lights.

A perpetual stare which hooked beneath his flesh like a barb and held him captive as he danced, daring him to even try to step away.

It felt odd to be admired; desired even?

He allowed his hips to roll slightly, reached higher into the air and felt his shirt lift to expose a thin white stripe of skin above his belt.

An amused yet approving smirk curled wolfishly upon the lip of his mysterious observer.

There it was, that uncharacteristic urge to show off again.

The same fleeting desire that needled away slowly beneath his anxious persona, the one that repeatedly drew him against his better judgement to the awaiting mic on a stage like a curious moth to a flame. It was more intoxicating than any liquor stashed behind the metallic bar, the feeling of being held in such close unbroken regard.

He chose to sneak a glance over his shoulder. Surely this was courting insanity?

The gaze which held him betrayed hunger but a slight hesitancy; magnetic in its intensity, he couldn’t look away.

He wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing, was this flirting?

Why not?

A small smile inched cautiously across his lips.

An invitation.

A subconscious part of his brain had clearly taken over this evening.  He’d definitely been slightly jealous of the effortlessly experimental Tim and Mark who had taken the time to explore all of the sexual whims and fancies available to them as students with a mild curiosity. And yet here he was, apparently giving serious consideration to the advances of a tall, dark distinctly male stranger.

The tall figure broke first, navigating a slow yet deliberate course through the darkened sea of bodies in a series of snapshots taken through the flickering strobe light.

Large hands came to rest lightly on his waist from behind and he gave an experimental wiggle of his hips, enjoying the thrill of anonymous fingers squeezing tighter into his skin, holding him closer in a selfish gesture that seemed to broadcast “Mine.” to any bystander.

It felt good.

He could have escaped if he’d wanted to, and yet, nothing could summon the inclination to even want to attempt to break loose from the possessive grasp.

His head lolled back passively against the warm anchorage of the solid chest behind him as they continued to dance; a slower, more sultry moment than a passing observation of the heaving crowds around them would betray. Two people completely lost in a moment.

Breath tickled lightly against the side of his throat, sending a slight shiver down his back.

Kisses of increasing intensity peppered mercilessly into his skin as he exposed his jugular with a soft moan, surrendering immediately to the physical onslaught with the needy urge to press himself further back into the embrace; melting two frames into one.

Mark me.  A wild thought swam fuzzily upward from the murky depths of his bewildered brain as a pair of teeth grazed fleetingly against his exposed neck. His hand ghosted up behind the neck of the other man, urging him closer, fingers winding tightly into the surprisingly soft hair that he found beneath his touch.

He was achingly hard, floating out of himself amidst the hedonistic thrill of being slowly teased and wound in plain sight of a room full of oblivious spectators.

Perhaps a little bit of chaos was what he had been seeking.

He turned around, raising his eyes almost coyly and immediately let out a small gasp which was rendered inaudible by the noisy thrum all round as two large fingers gently tilted his chin upward before a pair of lips bent down slightly in the dark to meet his own in an exploratory kiss that tasted faintly of whisky and cigarettes.

A faint edge of stubble rasped against his youthful skin in a delicious burn as his tongue slid languidly into the mouth of a complete stranger, wordlessly conversing in an obscene introduction.

Time blurred; lost in sensation.

A dark thrill spiked dangerously within his stomach as his free hand was taken and guided slowly, agonizingly, downward against the other torso to stop against the distinctly interested bulge that sat proudly in the crotch of the jeans opposite.

Desire won out.

Emboldened, he squeezed the heel of his hand experimentally against the coarse denim and felt a deep groan emit from the mouth of his unknown assailant as hips bucked up into his touch; the vibrations resonating hotly against his own lips.

Two hands slid beneath the thin cotton of his shirt; burning warmth against his skin as they continued to kiss.

1 January 2002

Trembling fingers slipped on the latch, praying that the loud clunk wouldn’t disturb the other occupant of the flat as the door closed behind him.

Flee.

The fresh air hit him in the face with an icy punch of reality as he staggered listlessly down concrete steps that were still decorated with a sparkling surface of frost; almost breaking into a haphazard run as he made unsteadily towards the pale threads of yellow headlights that were already starting to illuminate the city ring road.

Several floors above, the large man shifted slightly in his sleep; subconsciously aware of loss as the abandoned pillow cooled beside him.

Chapter Text

1 January 2002

The only sound that permeated the still air of the grimy bathroom was the harsh rasp of a razor cleaving slowly through raised stubble that dotted the perimeters of the young man’s face. The offending day-old miniature shoots that graced his jawline were swiftly felled in a deft series of strokes to reveal the smooth skin below.

A quick pause to rinse the blade in the steaming water that sat in the dated porcelain basin –the whole suite was decorated in a nauseating shade of avocado ceramic that had been in vogue at some point thirty years prior– before continuing once more.

A scum of shaving foam floated lazily on top of the greying water.

Two pale blue eyes blinked slowly at their hungover reflection in the cheap plastic-framed mirror.

Marginally better.

Alex sat down the blade thoughtfully and buried his face in a nearby towel, breathing in a faint hint of floral fabric conditioner through the soft fibers and enjoying the dark temporary sanctuary of the linen cocoon.

Why did you run?

He exhaled quietly, chucking the damp towel to the floor in frustration; hands balling instinctively into fists.

Idiot.

Typically an early riser, he’d finally staggered out from the gloom of his bedroom at nearly half past two. Even Key had dislodged himself from his comatose stance on the sofa by then and had been busily occupied with a notebook and pen; scribbling away, as was his habit, with his tongue poking slightly out of the corner of his mouth in concentration.

Mark had met his gaze in a knowing smile over the top of his glasses as Alex had lumbered past blearily in search of the bathroom.

“Good night last night?”

A quiet grunt to the affirmative and Mark reluctantly returned his gaze to open pages of his novel, shaking his head in a fond grin at his friend’s sudden bashfulness.

“Hungry, was he?” A knowing smirk from the other voice in the room paused Alex instantly in his stride.

“Sorry?” his voice stuck in his throat at the glaring presence of the unfamiliar pronoun attached to the sentence. Panic seeped icily into his stomach, unsure of how this particular piece of new knowledge about himself had been received by his two best friends.

“Umm…mate...” a mischievous grin which bore no malice from Key was coupled with a sly gesture towards the prolific souvenirs from the previous night that littered Alex’s throat, leading in an incriminating trail across his collarbone before disappearing beneath the cotton crewneck of his top.

Alex glanced down and swore quietly to himself, tugging the fabric upward in a fruitless attempt to hide the evidence.

“Glad to see you having some fun last night…” the would-be poet chipped in, smiling reassuringly as he stretched idly from his seat on the floor and stifled a faint yawn behind his fist.  “Mind you,” he added thoughtfully as he scratched his chin with the plastic cap from his biro, “You’ve probably given the poor bloke a hernia from half-carrying you out of there…”

Grinning impishly and resembling a somewhat overgrown elf from his cross-legged perch on the threadbare carpet, Tim cleared his throat with a faux grandiosity as he leant his back against the sofa and proceeded to recite gleefully from the hastily scribbled doodles in his notebook.

“A New Year’s haiku for Horne…

Shagged by a tall bloke

Skin painted with tell-tale marks

…did you get his number?”

The bathroom door closed firmly by means of answer.

“Apparently not... ouch!” Tim had shrugged nonchalantly to himself before the edge of a hardback novel connected with the back of his skull in a sharp crack.

“Go easy on the poor boy, he’s got a lot of processing to catch up on…” Mark added mildly as he raised a cautioning eyebrow in Tim’s direction. He flicked his book open again and leant back, continuing to read whilst seemingly oblivious of the indignant glare directed at him.

His wayward friend continued to violently massage the back of his smarting head.

  Several miles away, 1 January 2002

 London spread out for miles before Greg Davies as he stepped onto concrete balcony of his flat; cool wind ruffling his hair faintly in the breeze from six floors up.

Even on New Year’s Day, whilst the usually bustling roads that interweaved below his lofty vantage point like tarmac snakes were noticeably quieter, the pale blue skies above were still crisscrossed with the white kerosene doodles of the planes idling far above.

His large hands were wrapped thoughtfully around a large mug of coffee which gently warmed his fingers; steam rising into the chilly air in pale wisps.

New year, new start?

Bollocks to that. This situation was becoming depressingly familiar.

He’d woken up to the empty bed, heart sinking slowly as he rolled over sleepily to find surprisingly more mattress available than his slumbering memory had informed him of. There was nothing to mark the presence of his visitor from the night before apart from a small impersonal dent left in the fibres of a pillow.

It wasn’t as if this was a particularly new phenomenon; he’d hardly been lucky in the world of romance recently, with yet another long-term girlfriend packing her bags and deciding that “things weren’t working out.” Despite last night obviously now being nothing more than a casual one-off, clearly there was something that had stung a little more deeply about this disappearing act than perhaps more than it should have done.

New Year’s Eve had been a chance for a bit of mindless escapism. A chance to leave the pile of marking and school correspondence that he had steadfastly ignored for the duration of the Christmas holidays stacked untidily upon his desk, round up a few nearby friends and down a sufficient quantity of alcohol to dance the night away in a slightly dodgy nightclub without feeling mildly ridiculous.

Was it a bid to capture the vanishing sensation of freedom from his student years that was slipping rapidly into the past beneath the crushing weight of mundane responsibilities and obligations?

Who knew.

Teaching had been a natural progression from a degree in drama, but he could feel the monotony seeping into his reluctant bones from the minute he walked into the classroom on a Monday morning.

Something was going to have to give eventually.

He set the empty mug down and sighed wistfully before pulling his dressing gown slightly tighter around his tall frame.

Blunt fingers drew a cigarette from the crumpled packed of Marlboros in his pocket and anchored it between expectant lips.

The flint of the lighter spun a few times with a quiet sneck, prompting an impatient tut from its owner before a spark finally flew from the begrudging stone.

A deep inhalation; instant calm to his jangling nerves.

The resolution to quit smoking had lasted less than a day into the New Year; a new record.

Was he out there somewhere now, sat in one of those thousands of buildings below?

He took a thoughtful drag, the end of the cigarette glowing a faint amber.

Despite his bisexuality being an open secret since his late teens, admittedly, it had been a little while since he’d bought a bloke home with him from a night out.

The man from last night hadn’t been quite his usual type; most definitely his junior by several years and full of the nervous, lanky energy of a youthful body still filling out its skin and shedding the final hangovers of teenage gawkiness.

Early twenties, to hazard an approximate guess?

Tall and clean shaven, his upper lip had been cut in a clearly defined cupid’s bow, dark hair in a very short buzzcut. There had been definite twinkle present in a large pair of blue eyes. Perhaps not the most stereotypically attractive of the men in the room, but there was something delightfully intriguing in the awkward energy that he exuded as he danced away in an enthusiastic but slightly haphazard manner, arms thrown up in the air above his head. A look of cheeky rebellion –perhaps aided in part by the shot Greg had just witnessed him down– had been thrown bravely over his shoulder in an unspoken challenge as he had finally detected Greg’s interested gaze.

Go on. Come and get me.

A series of breathy moans had greeted him as he’d sunk his teeth slowly into the warm flesh below; tasting the faint tang of salt upon skin as he deftly set about reducing the shorter figure to a pliant mess by alternating a few well-chosen nips and then lavishing the crimsoning skin with gentle, persistent attention.

There was something so satisfying in how much of an effect that action seemed to have, feeling the full weight of the other man sag limply back into his chest.

Finally, the object of his attention had chosen to spin around fully; breathing heavily, eyes wild with a potent cocktail of flying emotions that a reeling young brain was struggling to adequately process.

He hasn’t done this before; not with a bloke

Greg had detected the faintest tinge of nervous apprehension that lingered beneath feigned confidence. He too had remembered that first intoxicating experience, the dizzying thrill of finally allowing the protesting voices of doubt in his head to die away to nothing as he’d felt himself surrender into sensation of allowing his lips to meet the lips of another man; drinking in the heady experience as deeply as his reeling senses could manage.

A sudden rush of protectiveness had overtaken him.

He’d reached out gently, lifted that face almost tenderly and guided him closer in silent reassurance, using his height and frame to attempt to slightly envelope the younger man; shield him from the distractions of the heaving dancefloor around them, allow him a moment’s pause to find an equilibrium in the situation.

He’d been rewarded immediately by this wordless gesture of support as he’d felt his lips part, a shaky hiss of warm breath against his mouth before his tongue had been drawn into wordless dialogue and found an equally willing partner to converse with.

Clapham Grand Theatre, 24^th February 2015

Bright stage lights burned intrusively into Alex’s vision as he settled quietly into the throne adjacent to Greg’s and tried desperately not to knock his iPad off that infuriating clip stand like he had in rehearsals earlier.

Despite the fact that the show was his baby, he’d been more than insistent in early planning meetings that he was not willing to take on the role of the Taskmaster character. Partly because of the logistical nightmare that it posed in terms of being not being present for the filming of individual tasks, and partly because he genuinely had believed that he’d struggle to embody the character details that he’d sit and sketched out thoughtfully to himself on the back of an old set list after a gig one night.

Taskmaster (him):

Noun

1. Tall, Imposing, Dominating even? High status tyrant, not afraid to bend the rules and reward cheating and rule bending, as long as it’s done in a creative manner that catches his interest. Fickle, a little vain. Flattery might get you everywhere if executed in the right way…

Greg was stood centre stage, delivering his opening monologue to camera as he introduced the show.

One take. Done. Professional work, well done.

Alex felt himself relax marginally as Greg moved his attention to the contestants.

The warm ripples of laughter from the audience were a good start, washing pleasantly into his ears and helping to quell the rippling anxieties at the pit of his stomach.

“And as always, I am both aided and fluffed by my personal assistant, Alex Horne…”

Greg turned to him expectantly.

“So, uh, thanks for giving me this opportunity…” Alex shuffled meekly in his seat, only half-acting in his apparent nervous discomfort.

Keep-talking-keep-talking-keep-talking….

“You’re welcome,” a fairly brisk retort as Greg shrugged and briefly flicked his gaze over him. “So Alex, tell us about the first task…”

“Ok, well, I think you’re tremendous…and as always the first task is…”

He could feel the blush creeping into the tips of his ears again as the throwaway line landed with a notch more sincerity than he’d originally intended to play it with. He frowned slightly, dropping his gaze down to his lap. Greg, to his credit, beamed.

Thankfully, the audience’s laughter came to his rescue once more.

The next hour or so flew by in a bizarre flurry of reindeer skulls and watermelon, but as each segment landed, Alex could feel his jangling nerves start to settle slightly as the world that he had started to sketch out so many years ago began to fill in in a multitude of shades and tones around him. He never knew exactly how an idea was going to work in reality until it was set free on a stage, but, there was a tentative hope to suggest that this seemed to feel right, enough of a natural sort of rhythm starting to emerge.

He acknowledged the Taskmaster’s thanks to his Assistant with a swiftly blown kiss as the theme music played through the auditorium and then stood with the others to take the applause from the assembled audience. He finally allowed himself to break character and smiled broadly in a toothy grin at the loud whoops of encouragement from friends and family that came from the darkened edges of the stage.

1 January 2002

Several miles away, the silence of the early hours of the new year was punctuated by a taxi door slammed with a dull thunk and the rumble of a diesel engine trudging back into the night.

Two men began the arduous stumble up several flights of concrete steps, unaided in part by the alcohol and adrenaline coursing through their veins.

Life returned to the still air of the empty flat with a hefty crash as the front door buckled open and smacked violently into the wall behind; felled instantly beneath the combined weight of two men still locked into an intense embrace as they had leant heavily against it for support.

Alex’s eyes remained mostly closed to this new landscape, entirely uninterested in anything other than the feel of his swollen lips still hungrily locked against his unknown pursuer’s. He felt completely lost in the reckless desire to taste and explore every inch of the body in front of him, inwardly trembling with a heady combination of passion and fear at the unexpected opportunities had arisen from the night. 

Hands snaked lower down his body, slipping between the waistband his of his denim-clad backside and his underwear with a determined squeeze against his flesh that sent an electric jolt straight to his throbbing cock that was trapped tightly in his trousers.

“Fuck, yes…”

A delirious wish to be bodily lifted onto a higher surface and utterly ravished floated fuzzily through his distracted brain before the inevitable practicalities of such a situation won out. It translated instead into an eager grunt and the urgent fisting of his hands into the hairs around the nape of the other man’s neck, rocking his hips upward and trying to draw him even closer.

The warmth of another body–especially one so distinctly male, so much like his own yet still completely alien from his experiences so far– pressed close against his own was an incredible experience, a hard bulge grinding tightly against his own hip as sobering evidence.

He felt momentarily bereft as the cool air hit his face, chilling the little flecks of saliva that still remained dotted upon his assaulted lips. The other mouth tore away abruptly, only to be replaced by a light graze of stubble against his ear that sent shivers down his spine.

“Bed. Now…” a low voice growled urgently, steering him backwards by the hips through one of the doorways adjacent to the hall.

He felt the back of his knees hit what felt like the edge of a mattress with a dull bump as they navigated carefully back through the dark of the unfamiliar bedroom and onto the middle of a large duvet.

A table lamp flared dimly into life, casting yellow shadows around them.

“God… you look utterly…” a flustered hand was dragged through the hair of the other man as he fished for an appropriate adjective, “incredible right now…”

Supine before the intimidating height of the other figure; Alex gazed up hungrily at the compliment, subconsciously spreading his knees open wider in invitation before the hefty bulk of the other torso joined him on the bed, resting heavily against his chest in a way that made his breathing constrict ever-so-slightly, but not quite into the realms of being uncomfortable.

Straddled, he desperately tried to grind up into the much-needed friction, inwardly pleased by the tight moan that he managed to generate from his actions.

Testing the range of movement available to him, he immediately found himself pinned back into the sheets; acceding at once to the unspoken ministrations of the larger man’s surprisingly soft hands as they trailed beneath his clothes, willingly melting back into the soft sheets in a delirious bliss at the additional sensation.

Tentatively, he set about wiggling his arms free and reached up to stretch them around the broad expanse of the back and shoulders above him, marvelling at the sheer width, the muscles that he could feel contracting beneath his touch. The cotton shirt bunched up easily beneath his grasp, wordlessly trying to communicate to his companion that clothes were now most definitely proving to be a hinderance.

A filthy chuckle and items of clothing started to disappear in a frenzy, tossed frantically aside until neither man was wearing more than underwear.

“What would you like?” a soft murmur in his ear as gentle fingers traced across his hipbones, teasing the elastic at the top of his pants.

“I–” Alex’s breath was escaping in hurried little gasps, unable to think straight as his brain felt like it was short-circuiting beneath the feel of so much naked flesh pressed warmly against his own.

“Do you want me to suck you off? I think you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” a quiet suggestion.

A whine to the affirmative and he felt his previously untouched cock hit his stomach with a wet thud as any remaining scrap of modesty was removed and cast aside.  

He could feel his pulse thudding madly, so wildly turned on that he was desperate to be touched in absolutely any way at all.

“Yes…please…oh fuck…” strangulated words fell breathily from his lips.

A gentle stroke was enough to have his hips buck impatiently into the large hand that slowly enclosed around his cock, a satisfied grunt echoed by the other man as his fist began to move at a teasing pace, sliding easily across the silky flesh in a tantalising rhythm that made Alex’s head loll.

A slight shuffle against the crisp linen as the other man made to change his position and Alex’s eyes opened wide at the intoxicating sight of a large shadowy figure working its determinedly down his body in a bruising series of little nips and kisses.

“Please…” a faint plea escaped into the air.

I want you. I need you.

A pause as two grey-blue eyes collided with his own. The mystery figure stared up at him from between his bare legs with a burning intensity before slowly and deliberately taking Alex’s cock between his lips without breaking eye contact and sinking down the length of the shaft to encase him completely inside the scorching heat of his mouth.

When he began to suck; Alex saw stars.

Chapter Text

11 May 2015: Buckinghamshire

The sun was beginning to rise slowly behind the Chiltern Hills; golden fingers of light slowly creeping through the leaves of the wooded hillside and illuminating the sleeping world beneath.

A chorus of birdsong began to fill the silent morning air with little flurries of sound as the avian occupants of the various hedgerows neatly carved into the landscape began to converse with their various feathered neighbours once more.

Further into the valley, a deer patrolled through the faint mists which hung over the lush green fields, her young calf tottering along on unsteady legs behind her.

It was temporary stillness, a natural world which would slowly fade into the background in the next few hours as the human occupants of the Buckinghamshire village below rose from their collective slumbers. The thrum of traffic would start to punctuate the background of every scene. Hundreds of doors slamming as families dispersed in their multitude of different directions for the day. Shop blinds rising one by one. Thousands of keys turning in thousands of locks as the residents of Chesham began to move to the rhythm of a new day.

The first weak threads of sunlight were starting to spill through the gap in the grey curtains of one such house, creeping slowly across the floor and then moving stealthily up the edges of the cotton duvet cover, persistent rays climbing inch by determined inch until they eventually reached the edge of a long thin face barely visible above the covers, illuminating the greying threads that were starting to punctuate a once entirely auburn beard.

Alex slept soundly, curled up and looking slightly younger than his years in a baggy t-shirt with a comic strip print and grey jogging bottoms, a tired arm flung casually behind his head upon the pillow.

A hand on the other side of the bed reached out from beneath the covers and silenced the alarm clock after only one insistent digital bleep had been uttered.

Rachel Horne rolled over blearily and smiled gently as her husband slept peacefully on.

Despite the hideously early starts that her job required, there was a small part of her which appreciated the stillness of the daybreak hours where three small children and one husband were usually still quietly snoring, and the house was her own space to pad around quietly and get herself ready for the day ahead.

She swung her legs out from the bed, noticing a faint shiver as her bare legs came into contact with the cooler air of the room and set about getting ready as quietly as she could manage.

A rucksack sat unpacked in the corner of the room, a collection of relics from a busy weekend still stuffed haphazardly into its bulging seams.

They’d met several years ago on a journalism postgraduate course and had quickly become inseparable; a sweet, all-encompassing bond of love which had only grown in the subsequent years of marriage, arrival of children and increasing successes of their individual careers. It was a rarity, she had mused to herself on several occasions, to been so lucky to have met someone that just knew her so well, and that in turn, she knew equally. The patterns of their every little quirk, every dream, every fear known and shared and understood.

It was good to see him so happy at the moment; alive with the excitement of seeing his project commissioned, made and soon to be edited and aired. The product of many years of work and thought… sometimes all it took was one “yes” to change the direction of everything.

Rachel turned as a small groan slipped from between Alex’s lips. His eyes danced erratically beneath their closed lids, skittering and twitching incomprehensibly as the reverie below played out in a cinema for one. Little muscular twitches in his arms rippled visibly beneath the pale skin like waves upon water. A smile tugged briefly at the corners of his lax mouth before calm was restored once again to his sleeping features.

Dreaming again, clearly.

She placed a soft kiss upon his lips and tiptoed out of the room, closing the door with a soft click from the latch.

4 January 2002: London

“So… we were thinking….” Mark began tentatively, addressing the room as he cautiously added a well-thumbed copy of A Tale of Two Cities to the teetering tower of volumes which was now approaching chest height. “Key and I, that is… would you be up for another little trip out this evening? A little wander past a certain nightclub, maybe even into a certain nightclub?”

A spontaneous initiative to tidy the small living room of the cramped flat and restore some decorative order to the post-Christmas slump had turned into an unexpectedly tense competition of who could create the largest free-standing tower of books.

Tim, bored of the process of trying to align a particularly beaten up copy of Gogol’s The Overcoat with the assorted volumes of Russian literature below, surreptitiously aimed a kick at the base of Mark’s tower whilst his friend was otherwise distracted.

“Could do…” A non-committal shrug of reply from the other lanky figure in the room who was seated upon the mustard sofa.

Alex was, ostensibly at least, taking on the role of adjudicator in the little game unfolding in front of him, but was in fact paying more attention to an episode of Countdown that was airing on the ancient static-ridden television set with the fuzzy picture that sat slightly mournfully in the corner of the room. He toyed thoughtfully with the series of nine letters (S V L U I E P R O), scribbling away on the faintly ruled lines of a little notebook only to quietly mutter “perilous” to himself with a quick nod of approval before the infamous theme tune had finished ticking down.

Mark was currently winning the impromptu challenge, making perhaps the wiser choice to use the hefty-yet-broad volumes of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales as a solid base for his campaign and was currently working his way chronologically upward through the assorted copies of Milton and Pope, carefully balancing the mismatched volumes of various Brontë’s with a degree of patience distinctly lacked by the competitor to his right.

“You never know, you might bump into a certain giant again Horne… you’ll have to see if he can make a neater job of the other side of your neck this time…” Tim waggled his eyebrows suggestively as his rather flimsier turret gave an alarming wobble beneath the unexpected addition of a heavy volume of Tolstoy that had been dumped unceremoniously upon it.

“Subtlety really is lost on you, isn’t it?” Mark sighed despairingly, raking his fingers through his hair as Alex’s shoulders tensed slightly.

“Hey, I can be subtle! Sorry mate. I just– oh for fuck’s sake!”

The gravitas of Tim’s apology was sold somewhat short as the poet flailed wildly, attempting and failing to catch a descending library of aged pages and print. Gravity had chosen to punish his earlier mistake and sent his books thundering down in a dusty clatter to the floor.

“Bugger.”

The silence was broken by a delighted snigger from Alex as he continued to scribble within his notebook.

10 May 2015: Somewhere in the skies above mainland Europe

Settling back into the uncomfortable seat of the budget airliner with a large yawn, Alex Horne slipped his headphones over his ears and turned to survey the drifting sea of cumulous clouds that appeared within neat oval horizons of the tiny pressurised window to his left.

An endless expanse of Cerulean skies scattered idly with a plush carpet of fluffy white cotton drifted past beneath the gleaming metallic wings of the soaring aeroplane.

The sun, masked out of sight until they’d reached their current altitude, now bathed the metallic fuselage in a dazzling pure white light that had other passengers almost simultaneously reaching for the blinds which fell in a muted plastic clatter. Alex had resisted, opting instead to squint slightly as he gazed down at the sprawling tapestry of lands spread out far below him.

He’d always liked flying. There was something almost slightly ethereal about drifting along through the heavens, a rare lofty perspective granted from being able to see the tops of mountains far below. Even the wander through the airport beforehand held a certain level of excited anticipation, wandering around knowing that something distinctly out of the ordinary was about to happen. He loved to walk through the crowds of people amidst a background thrum of different languages, watching the scenes play out of loved ones reuniting and departing, an entire spectrum of humanity passing through the vast concourses every single minute of every single day.

He suppressed another yawn, leaning his head gently against the side of his seat. His eyes ached with a sore tiredness that pulled insistently at their lids like a leaden weight. A sullen headache was already percolating ominously within his skull.

On the face of things, it had been a spectacularly daft idea to catch a 6am flight to Cologne, especially as he’d only crept back through the front door of his home in the early hours of the same morning for a post-gig visit so fleeting it would be an insult to call it a nap, let alone sleep. The pillow had barely had the chance to grow warm beneath his head before the quietly insistent beep of the alarm in his ear had summoned him to wakefulness once more. Embarking on an eight-hundred-mile round trip purely for the sake of a slightly underwhelming brunch and a wander around a cathedral, albeit with some delightful company and beautiful architecture, was surely the act of a prospective madman.

The epic trip– Key’s idea of a post-Taskmaster recording celebration– had originally been intended for the full septet involved with the studio recordings but had slowly dwindled in numbers as busy diaries filled with the inevitable unavoidable work clashes. It had still been an amusing visit, if anything to see Josh and Tim hanging eagerly on Frank’s every word as their surprisingly knowledgeable de facto tour guide. Any chance to spend time with friends new and old was a welcome distraction from the stresses of navigating the logistics of a run of tour gigs, but there was a faintly niggling feeling of something in the pit of his stomach that Alex couldn’t quite place. Perhaps even a mild sense of disappointment?

He’d thoroughly enjoyed the run of filming for Taskmaster, quietly ecstatic to see the labours of several years’ worth of effort finally piecing together in one vibrant, gloriously insane jigsaw, one which had just felt naturally right, rather than a new show nervously attempting to find its way.

The cast and crew had grown quite close over the duration of the week, tightly huddled together post-filming in the theatre bar with friends and family and chattering late into the evening over a growing pile of empty glasses which littered the dark wood tables in front of them. Quite often in those carefree evenings he’d somehow found himself shoehorned into a corner next to Greg, everyone present in that cramped room pressed tightly against each other in the scrum of bodies caught up in the attempt to see how many chairs it was physically possible to fit around one table.

Personas dissembled, black suits pressed and packed away post-record, he’d sat there giggling freely away at the larger man’s observations until he could feel a pleasurable ache in his ribs from sustained laughter.

“You know…” Greg had turned to him thoughtfully on their last evening, eyes slightly shining with the glaze afforded to them by several pints of alcohol, “That was the most fun I’ve had in ages.”

He’d changed into one of his many plaid shirts and a loose-fitting pair of dark jeans and had sat holding court in the corner of the room. He’d grinned broadly, patting Alex briefly on the thigh in one of his typically casual touches and seemingly not noticing the momentary twitch of tension in the wary muscles that lay beneath his fingers.

“I don’t know where you get your frankly idiotic ideas from, but, it just works, doesn’t it? This weird little world that you’ve created where it actually feels possible that this mad tyrant–” he’d broken off to gesture slightly haphazardly towards himself, “has somehow kidnapped five comics and made them do stupid things in order to impress him, whilst his little lackey stands there silently judging with a clipboard!”

He’d smiled and taken an approving sip from the dwindling glass sat in front of him.

“Clever little sod, aren’t you?”

Alex, still unable to master the art of accepting a compliment, had chosen not to reply but merely to blush and duck his head slightly, fiddling awkwardly with the cuff of his oversized hoodie. The display of shy modesty was undermined slightly by the delighted grin which crept across his face at the unexpected praise from Greg.

Walking into the Cologne piazza that morning, he’d felt the slightest pang of disappointment wash over him momentarily as he took in the trio of beaming faces waving enthusiastically at him from outside a nearby café. He’d known that Romesh and Roisin had both already bailed out early on the trip due to various TV recordings, but a certain tall figure was conspicuous in his absence.

  No Greg?

 The feeling had soon dispersed as he’d slid into the empty chair at the table and began to recount the convoluted tale of airport woe that had nearly led him to miss his flight before sidestepping into a healthy tangent of bickering with Key as to what actually constituted being in the act of flight as opposed to being merely sat in a plane on the tarmac.

A couple of hours later, a faintly disorientated Alex woke with a slight jolt as the cluster of wheels below him touched down upon the grey tarmac sprawl of Luton Airport with a soft thud and announced their safe return.

1 January 2002

Greg could feel his heart beating with a frenetic hum, a heady cocktail of excitement and nerves as he surveyed the naked form of the tall young man spread out tantalisingly into the mattress beneath him.

His own warm breath echoed back against his face as he slowly lowered his mouth to the soft skin of the inner thighs and sank his teeth into gently yielding flesh, sucking slightly to deepen the sensation and marking the pale canvas in front of him with the first purpling bruise.

Greg took his time, enjoying the cascade of increasingly breathy gasps from above him as he set about licking and teasing his way upward in a scalding trail of sensation. His large hand slid slickly up and down the shaft of the straining cock in front of him in a varying, teasing tempo that made the other man thrash impatiently, hips bucking of their own accord in pursuit of non-existent friction.

He paused before his tongue took an introductory swipe and tasted the little salty beads of precome that were leaking helplessly from the tip.

“Fuck…please…” a startlingly urgent plea was extracted from the other man’s lips in a high whine. “Please… I need…”

Greg grinned wolfishly, taking an agonisingly slow route towards encasing him with his mouth, free hand falling to gently massage beneath his balls.    

A pair of sapphire eyes locked burningly with his own; widening to almost comically large proportions as Greg sank down and began to suck.

“Yes! So good… so… yes!” a babbling stream of broken speech fell messily from between the flushed lips of the usually eloquent man as Greg began to increase the speed at which his head bobbed up and down, tasting the faintly musky flavour of his new-found lover for the first time as the weight of the unfamiliar cock slid heavily against his tongue.

A deeper suck, one that threated to sink temporary little hollows into his cheeks, managed to coax an entirely new opus of indecent noises to fill the empty room. A varied repertoire of sorts, mostly consisting of animalistic grunts and a slew of broken obscenities as scrabbling fingers tried unsuccessfully to burrow into the sheets below in a fruitless attempt to anchor the wildly thrashing body.

He could feel the muscles begin to quake in the thighs that sat trembling either side of his face; savouring the knowledge that his actions could yield such a tangible change in state.   

He pulled away suddenly, the engorged cock falling from his lips with an obscene pop, bathed in a shining coat of saliva and precome.

“Don’t stop!” a quiet wail that sounded genuinely desperate.

The half-light of the room glowed a dark yellow casting half of his younger accomplice’s face into shadow, but even this restricted view was enough to highlight the disorientated anguish that had spread across the narrow features as he lifted his head from the mattress.

“Hang on… I think you might like this…” Greg murmured soothingly, his hands sliding beneath Alex’s rear and squeezing the flesh tightly, large fingers pulling the cheeks slightly open to an accompanying low moan.

“Do you want to try?” His fingers ghosted lower and came to rest caressing softly beside Alex’s hole.

“Yes!” an instant enthusiastic nod of approval which then immediately seemed to slightly shock the other man in its audacity as he heard the word jump eagerly from his lips… “But, I haven’t.. not like..” he tailed off slightly shyly, gesturing absently with his hand, a pink flush creeping across his face.

“It’s ok…” Greg nodded calmly, his fingers subconsciously stroking the skin beneath them in reassurance. “Trust me. And, if it’s too much, tell me to stop and I will, straight away…”

Another nod granted him permission.

He reached for the drawer, collecting a small bottle and placing it next to him on the bed. Greg returned swiftly to lap gently around the puckered skin, lavishing the area with soft attention, taking care to allow his less experienced partner to relax into the slightly alien sensation. He could feel the muscles slacken with every stroke, slowly melting the younger man further into the bed with every deliciously slow strike of his tongue against skin.

His licks finally skated directly over the top of the hole to a hissed cuss from above.

A sharp snap as he flicked open the bottle and drizzled a generous amount of lube across his large fingers, the cold viscous liquid warming slightly against his skin.

“Ready?”

He slowly wiggled the tip of one finger inside, pausing to allow the unfamiliar sensation to register.

A soft breath came from above as he started to gradually rock his finger back and forth, teasing and opening up gently. A slow dance, punctuated only by the slick noise of his finger sliding in and out.

“More?”

“Yes…” a slight frown crossed the other man’s forehead as he took stock of the situation, but he nodded again, a little huff escaping his lips as he felt the additional stretch and burn.

An experimental rock of the hips coincided with Greg curled his fingers and brushing agonisingly against his prostate.

Sparks crackled up his spine and into his unsuspecting brain with an electrifying jolt.

“Oh! Oh…god… fuck!”

Greg allowed a proud grin to trace across his lips as he began to increase the tempo, meeting every thrust towards him from the other man in a devastating rhythm. His mouth closed once again around the hard flesh, sucking him down greedily and adding an additional layer of intoxicating pleasure to each urgent thrust from his fingers.

The younger man was breathing in heavy grunts now, his face a portrait of exquisite arousal as he ground down tightly against Greg, eyes shut in bliss as he approached a dizzying climax.

Come for me…

Greg could feel his pulse thudding in his achingly hard cock that was pressed tightly against between him and the mattress as a trembling hand flew down and tangled itself into his short hair, holding on to him for dear life as he finally tasted salt in his mouth and his unknown lover came with a strangled scream, trembling young limbs thrashing wildly before dropping quietly into a post-orgasmic stupor.

11 May 2015: Buckinghamshire

Alex Horne awoke with a jolt: a frown of confusion etched into his brow and an as-yet-undetected damp stain at his crotch.

What had woken him? The alarm clock ticked softly, a quick glance rendering it far too early for the familiar background hum of the morning peace about to be disturbed by small-footed invaders. Rachel had most likely only just left for work.

Tired fingers rubbed his eyes, desperately trying to cling onto the fading details of the dream as they slipped through his grasping digits like water passing through a sieve.

Glorious technicolour landscapes dissolved into broken monochrome pieces which washed away beneath the surface of his dawning consciousness.

All thoughts of large hands sliding easily across his bare flesh, of blue eyes gazing hungrily back at him from the depths of a darkened flat, slowly slipped away to the shadows.

Dispersed memories scattered themselves far and wide beneath his conscious thoughts like flotsam and jetsam washing up on the shores of a distant beach.

Thirty miles away, an oblivious Greg Davies continued to sleep soundly in his London flat.

Chapter Text

12 May 2015: South London

A soft breeze rolled invitingly through the open balcony doors, carrying with it the faint aromas of the ornamental cherry blossom trees from the park opposite.

Cotton clouds drifted lazily across a perfect blue sky.

A background burble of traffic grumbled slowly past, punctuated by the occasional distant wail from a siren.

Sporadic bursts of idle chatter and carefree laughter from the milling pedestrians below floated tauntingly upward as they crossed the road towards the recreation ground, keen to make the most of an unexpectedly beautiful spring day.

Several feet above the typical bustle of the capital city, a large figure restlessly patrolled the seven steps back and forth across his small balcony like a lion in captivity, pausing occasionally to glower at the figures below.

He was sure he’d worn grooves in the concrete by now.

Look at them! Look at them out and about enjoying their lives without a care in the world!

Smug bastards.

It had been precisely four days, eleven hours and forty-five minutes since Greg Davies had last ventured outside of the confines of his flat.

A self-imposed curfew was firmly in place until he presumably finally finished the slow, agonising descent into utter madness that was induced by script-writing and completed the excruciating process of finishing the last episode for the proposed third series of Man Down.

The deadline for the meeting with the commissioning team was looming threateningly in his diary, overshadowing every waking minute of his day with a dark haze of anxiety, and yet he simply could not find a way of neatly tying all of the series threads together in a meaningful way.

 Resisting the creeping urge to bellow something loud and crass at the unsuspecting bystanders, he instead chose to turn wearily and trudge back towards his living room, mentally steeling himself for the umpteenth round of staring blankly at an empty screen.

“Come on…” he cajoled himself into movement.

A long gulp of scalding coffee was followed by a quiet exhale as he seated himself at his desk and opened his laptop once more.

Drawing from his previous experiences in teaching had never left him short of material to lightly embellish for the sake of the series… he’d even returned to film scenes in the very same lonely classroom that he’d inhabited for several years previously. It had been a cathartic process that reminded him that despite his multiple gripes over committing words to paper that he was still by far and away in a much better place than when he used to inhabit those old haunts.

He rolled a blue biro idly between his fingers, occasionally tapping it in a non-descript rhythm against the side of his pad of paper, desperately willing the half-shaped ideas to begin to pour from his brain onto the page in a series of inky hieroglyphics.

Today. Surely it had to happen today?

The useable word count on this particular episode was so far a grand total of ten (including the title) after he’d just deleted an entire file of gibberish written after ingesting far too much caffeine the previous evening.

Any pretence of idyllic calm that Greg had managed to construct for himself within the flat was abruptly shattered by the beginning of a particularly jarring overture outside.

An ear-splitting ensemble of pneumatic drills and assorted road-mending equipment began to bellow simultaneously at the top of their mechanical lungs in a form of discordant glee as the assembled workforce below chose that precise moment to start digging up the asphalt outside.

Perfect.

Just perfect.

His knuckles whitened to a deathly pale hue as his large fingers closed in a choking grip around the handle of his coffee mug.

“Seriously?” a dark growl, more to himself than anything else.

He threw his pen down, crossed the floor in several lengthy strides and took a petty satisfaction in vindictively slamming the balcony doors closed with a loud bang.

Gritting his teeth, he turned his attention to the laptop screen once more, mashing each letter on the keyboard beneath his fingers with rather more force than was strictly necessary.

“Right. Come on.” he nodded encouragingly at the faint reflection that he could see scowling back at himself from within the screen and summoned up the final shreds of his dwindling patience.

“Get on with it.”

1 January 2002

A loud scream tore from Alex’s aching throat as his trembling body arched tautly and then snapped as suddenly as a bowstring releasing as he climaxed beneath the talented ministrations of his lover’s mouth and fingers.

He slumped back in a sweaty spread-eagled heap upon the large mattress, pulse thudding wildly within his chest, each violent beat beneath the pale skin feeling like his heart was attempting to kick its way out from between his ribs.

His racing brain slowed.

His eyes lolled dazedly back into his head. 

Falling; drowning beneath the tumbling haze of endorphins which slowly began to flood through his consciousness and sedate him into a fuzzy delirium, melting his flesh and bones into a pliant mess.

Long fingers that were still tightly wound into the other man’s hair relaxed and fell limply to his sides.

Awareness returned in layers.

He could feel the radiating warmth of another large naked form curled up close to his own.

There was a soft tickle of wiry body hair against his bare cheek as a strong arm slipped protectively beneath his neck, drawing him in closer to the comforting warmth of a colossal expanse of broad chest.

He could feel the muscles flex slightly beneath the skin as they adapted towards supporting the weight of his upper torso.

A faint musky smell of sweat mingled pleasingly with a light unfamiliar cologne as a large cool hand swept gently across his cheek.

It felt a slightly bizarre juxtaposition to be the one being held gently like this after sex, especially within the safety of a distinctly unfamiliar, definitely masculine pair of arms, but Alex found that he rather liked it.  

Eons passed before a quiet almost undetectable murmur came from above him and a light kiss was placed upon his brow. He felt himself lowered gently back into the bed as the mattress dipped and rose as the other figure moved away into the shadows.

The comfort of the cold pillow hit like an unexpected slap.

He threw his eyes open in a panic; quiet reverie shattered.

He blinked confusedly, sitting up and frowning into the semi-darkness at the slight tightness he could feel in his face.

Were those tears that had dried onto his cheeks?

There was uncomfortable sensation of wetness in the sheets below him.

He tried to swallow and his throat felt raw.

Suddenly the unfamiliar landscape of the flat, littered with small details and features that his otherwise-distracted brain had outright ignored upon his first introduction began to assemble in front of him.

A faded rainbow of slightly-creased shirts hung limply from thin wire coat hangers, peeping out from behind a half-closed wardrobe door.

A line of polished black shoes stood patiently by the door in a guard of honour.

A number of paperback books with broken spines occupied the bedside table in a haphazard pile.

An assortment photographs depicting a younger version of the tall man with various friends and family sat carefully in collaged frame that hung from the wall.

His own abandoned jeans, shirt and underwear lay mingled upon the floor, crumpled up haphazardly and intertwined with the other man’s clothes in a polyester orgy.

Suddenly everything felt real, carried real consequences…. he’d just let himself be carried along with a rapidly escalating train of events, swept up in a dizzying madness until he’d jolted to his senses after sleeping with a stranger… a man…. albeit a particularly attractive man…

“Ok?” a concerned low voice came from beside him, interrupting his thoughts as the other figure slid back between the covers.

“Thought this might be helpful…” a large hand rested briefly on his arm as a warm flannel slid comfortingly across his bare skin, cleaning away the excesses of the evening.

He nodded mutely, letting himself be washed whilst desperately trying to still his twitching long fingers from clenching into fretful fists within the sheets.

A thunderstorm of racing doubts and insecurities began to explode into life inside his skull, malignant anxieties doubling away like a festering colony of bacteria within the depths of his brain.

“Perhaps a little late for pleasantries…” a wolfish grin from his bedfellow as he set the flannel down and placed a gentle kiss upon Alex’s mouth, “but I didn’t catch your name earlier?”

 “James.” he supplied hurriedly, a pink flush colouring the tips of his ears as his flustered hand rose to rake unsteadily through his hair. 

He felt the lie fall easily from his lips, confusedly wondering why his panicking brain had chosen to hide behind the pseudo-anonymity of one of his middle names.

His stomach dropped sickeningly.

Idiot.

A broad smile from his oblivious partner greeted his falsified information.

 “I’m–” the other man’s name was lost to the ether as Alex’s lips landed tightly on top of his mouth, roughly kissing him into silence in a helpless bid to drown out the volley of doubts from his shrieking brain.

Names somehow made this too real.

Somewhere within the panicked tussle of emotions that was happening within his head, a dark thrill of excitement spiked deep within his chest as he climbed across the other man to straddle his thighs.

A low moan escaped hotly against his lips as he set about devouring the other man’s mouth, lost in the warmth and sensation as he felt the intoxicating heat of a large pair of hands–more than capable of nearly spanning width of his back– snake possessively up behind him to steady him.

Consequences be damned; he tried to assuage his senses.

He wanted this.

12 May 2015: South London

 “Arrrrgh…”

Greg rested his aching forehead on the cool surface of the desk and let out a loud groan of frustration.

He satisfied himself slightly by violently ripping the latest useless page of scribbled ideas and dead-ends out of the lined notepad, scrunching them up into a tight ball and lobbing it as far as he could across the flat.

The tiled floor of the hallway was littered with little paper snowballs, each fledgling idea rejected and jettisoned with an increasing sense of despair.

He temporarily gave up on any hope of achieving any further contribution towards the morning’s dismal word count and pulled his phone out of its enforced isolation from within the desk drawer.

A group email from a lengthy thread titled “Cologne” was sat invitingly at the top of his inbox.

He opened it to view a photo of a beaming Tim, Josh, Frank and Alex waving at the camera from outside an impressive dark brick building (presumably Cologne cathedral), captioned “Task complete!”

Three printed pictures of Roisin, Romesh and himself, which looked like they’d been hastily snipped out from a Taskmaster promotional shot were held up to the lens to create the illusion of a full septet of people in attendance.

Bored impulse overtook him and Greg found himself inexplicably typing a message to Alex Horne.

They hadn’t spoken much since the recordings. Short, business-like messages to clarify a few post-production decisions as well as a few brief pleasantries had been exchanged, but nothing particularly regularly.

      Hope the Cologne trip went well? Apologies that I had to bail at the last minute. Wretched script still isn’t playing ball!

He set the phone down, half expecting a brief yet courteous pleasantry to arrive in a few hours’ time but surprisingly two little ticks illuminated next to the message almost instantly.

      Not a problem. I was there for a grand total of six hours in the end!

Another message followed shortly after.

      Admirable persistence, but I’m not sure that scripts have yet developed the levels of sentience needed to participate in sporting activities?

Greg rolled his eyes and muttered “Fucks sake…” gently beneath his breath, but without malice as he re-read his first message through Alex’s eyes. He shook his head slightly, a small fond smile threatening to evade the background frustrations of the day and sneak onto the corners of his mouth for the first time that morning.

      You really can’t help yourself, can you?

Typical Horne behaviour. Exasperatingly contrary at times, but somehow instantly forgivable. Likeable even.

He’d initially wondered if Alex’s little eccentricities had been a particularly well-acted stage persona but having spent several weeks in Alex’s company during the course of the Taskmaster filming, he either have to concede that the gently-spoken bearded man sat to his left was the finest thespian of the present age, or he really was just that comfortably happy within his own weird little skin and the intriguingly bizarre world that lay beneath it.

Taskmaster had been a genuinely warm and happy shoot; the cast and crew had gelled well, and the organised madness had unfolded in a genuinely pleasing manner that had felt comfortingly different from the competitive bearpit atmosphere of the panel shows that he’d been used to previously inhabiting.

Pure insanity; but the absolute best form of chaotic lunacy. He’d known from the moment that Josh Widdicombe had rather unceremoniously plonked his bare foot down next to him to reveal his somewhat striking new tattoo that he’d unwittingly stumbled across his dream job.

Hopefully they’d get a second series. He knew that Alex and the two Andys were in the early stages of discussions with the channel but viewing figures would ultimately come into play as well once the series aired.

His phone buzzed again.

      In all seriousness though, it sounds v frustrating. Good luck!

Greg pursed his lips.

      It's  set up camp in my brain and is simultaneously determined to ruin my sleep, steal my social life and rid me of any remaining joy or excitement from my life until it’s finished.

     Needy little bastard.

“Yes, you!” he looked up and hissed darkly at the cursor that was blinking tauntingly upon the empty page of the computer screen before gesticulating wildly at it with a raised middle finger. “Fuck you!”

He tapped ‘send’ before running a weary hand across his eyes.

Clearly the day was going downhill fast if he was already at the “hurl profanities at a screen” stage and it wasn’t even lunchtime.

A few moments passed before another ping diverted his attention.

Alex was clearly in a chatty mood.

      Oh dear. Time to serve an eviction notice?

He gritted his teeth.

      If only.

 Another message chimed through swiftly.

      If it makes you feel any better about your day, I’m currently stuck trying to find a replacement prop in under two hours before a photographer comes along to take some new shots for the MB tour. No joy so far.

        ? 

       What’s the problem?

He wracked his brains slightly, a hazy recollection of Alex explaining the intricacies surrounding the construction of a Rube Goldberg machine for his latest show over a post-recording drink eventually coming to mind.

      Managed to break one in the show the other night and didn’t get a chance to fix it before flying out to Cologne.

       [image]

A pathetic rending of the crumpled item in question appeared on his screen causing Greg’s eyebrow to contort in an acute angle of disbelief.

A loud snort of laughter echoed slightly around the minimalist flat.

     How the bloody hell did you manage to break that?

    Not sure. Usual laws of physics didn’t seem to apply in these circumstances!

A decidedly insane solution to Alex’s predicament chose that precise moment to break free from its restraints within the murkier depths of Greg’s frazzled brain and run around triumphantly in his consciousness, screaming loudly at him in a bid to catch his attention.

It was amazing the depths he’d apparently willingly consider sinking to in order to escape the agonising tedium of committing words to paper.

Technically he’d be “borrowing” it... it would be returned… eventually.

Fuck it.

He picked up his phone and continued to type. Even if this bizarre plan went wrong, it was still at least a half-decent ‘Would I Lie To You’ anecdote to have up his sleeve for a future date.

     I might know where I could get one. Give me an hour or so. Where’s the shoot?

Central London. Several hours later.

“Don’t ask.” Greg Davies said grimly by means of greeting as he dropped the offending item at Alex’s feet with a hefty thud. “You owe me.”

Alex Horne’s lanky frame peered curiously around the edge of the stage door of the theatre, a perplexed frown present upon his brow as he inspected the contents of the narrow alleyway.

“Ha!”a short exclamation of laughter escaped in a loud bark as his disbelieving eyes caught sight of the result of Greg’s hasty endeavours.

A pristine traffic cone sat expectantly upon the pavement.

Greg had felt like a particularly niche form of smuggler after he’d pulled up at the offending roadworks that were stationed directly beneath his flat’s balcony and hastily bundled his immobile orange and white hostage into the back of his car before speeding off with it across the city.

His heart had been beating ridiculously fast as he attempted to avoid detection from the reflective jacket-coated workforce who had helpfully chosen to break for lunch at a cafe nearby and thankfully not witnessed the low-stakes heist that had taken place.

“How on earth did-? I mean…. thank you?...” Alex chuckled delightedly, his hand absent-mindedly rising to briefly pat Greg’s forearm in appreciation.

An elated beam spread across the younger man’s features as he surveyed the contraband. A smile which highlighted the little gap between his front teeth and the soft little crinkles which framed a pair of grey-blue eyes sparkling with mischievous joy as Greg relayed the adventures of the traffic cone and the perilous escapades that it had taken to get it across the city to its current location. It was delightful image, perhaps only aided by his current rather endearing outfit of an oversized hoody and loosely-fitting jeans– a million miles away from the dark Assistant’s suit that Greg was most accustomed to seeing him wear.

Quite adorable, really.

Oh.

Something about that particular observation caused Greg’s insides to momentarily flutter and plummet with a slight jolt.

Oh dear.

He inwardly attempted to swat the intrusive thought out of the way before it could land and take root into something more conscious.

There was something familiar yet frustratingly impossible to place in that toothy grin. A half-memory of sorts, Greg pondered briefly to himself as he finished his tale with a flourish and Alex dissolved into helpless giggles of disbelief, clutching against the doorframe for support.

“Well, um, thanks?” Alex eventually recovered enough to tilt his head quizzically at the traffic cone which still sat politely in front of him. “It feels like it should have one of those “kindly donated by” plaques attached to the base, although I’m not sure that would necessarily be a good idea in this instance…”

“Perhaps not...” Greg moved to one side to allow Alex to haul the prop through the doorway.

“Still…a good diversion from the script writing?” the younger man smiled knowingly back over his shoulder at him.

Greg could have sworn that he’d winked fleetingly.

“Something like that….” he muttered hastily in reply, still not quite entirely sure how his day had escalated from swearing at a computer to delivering stolen goods to a stage door on the other side of London.

Alex Horne had a lot to answer for.

Chapter Text

15^th August 2015, Edinburgh

Warm evening sunshine filtered lazily through the cotton fabric of the faded brewery-sponsored umbrella, a background hum of conversation from the fellow patrons of the garden burbling idly in the background.

A chattering group of smokers sat at the picnic table at the opposite side of the garden, surrounding a solitary overflowing ashtray like bees congregating around a hive.

The rear door of the pub swung open impatiently, a brief snatch of music from the live band inside escaping raucously out onto the breeze.

A tattooed young woman with electric blue hair (and the slightly world-weary expression of someone who had been serving alcohol to what seemed like half of the world’s population in the last fortnight) ducked out from beneath the low lintel of the ancient building and began to hastily round up abandoned pint glasses onto a large tray with a brusque clattering accuracy.

Clearly a busy evening.

The observer smiled, and a large hand stretched out to claim a pint glass in front of him that was adorned with little beads of icy sweat, a watery ring of condensation soaking into the wooden table as he lifted the glass to his lips and took a slow draught.

Not much tasted better than a cold beer on a warm, sticky summer’s evening.

A gentle exhale and Greg Davies felt some of the omnipresent tension begin to lift from his shoulders.

Visiting Edinburgh had been a last-minute decision after a whirlwind few weeks of writing and meetings. He didn’t have a show to tour this year, but it was nice to do the Fringe as a tourist for once rather than a gruelling month-long run of desperately trying to stand out amongst the thousands of hours of live shows. Instead, he’d managed to catch up with a few friends, watched a few shows, found a few new names and faces that had genuinely left his ribs aching with laughter.

He’d even left his laptop at home.

A hand rose thoughtfully to the back of his neck. He had caught the sun whilst out wandering around the city today; a crimson postcard of his travels that would now show the invisible outline of his t-shirt neckline for several days.

He sank the remnants of his glass and clambered to his feet; the relative anonymity offered by his black t-shirt and peaked cap lost immediately as his 6ft 8-inch frame rose head and shoulders above anyone else in the immediate vicinity.

A short walk through the bustling streets led him to the venue for the evening, and he smiled quietly to himself as he walked into the darkened auditorium to see what looked like the contents of a Wickes hardware depot spread across the stage as well several traffic cones.

He’d started to text Alex more after that bizarre incident; sometimes about work, but more often than not just random little thoughts and ideas as they came to him. He’d find himself smiling and often rolling his eyes in mild irritation at the pithy yet amusing little replies that came through in a scattergun of thoughts to his inbox. In return, he’d sometimes receive the occasional bizarre picture of whatever Alex was up to that day, often presented entirely without context, or indeed if an accompanying text arrived it often only served to muddy his confused understanding even further.

It had been nice to get to know him a little better. He’d all but given up trying to understand the bizarre little quirks that fuelled Alex’s rather unique sense of humour, but he was pleased to have the chance to begin to appreciate the kindness and intelligence of the quietly-spoken man.

There was definitely something slightly captivating about Alex Horne.

Something irritatingly familiar, yet entirely un-placeable.

A wave of clapping built noisily through the room as the lights dimmed slightly, and Greg felt an unexpected little thrill of excitement surge deep in the pit of his stomach as a tall bearded figure walked out from the wings and carefully wound his way through the hotchpotch obstacle course to the microphone stand that waited patiently the front of the stage. He beamed at his audience, waving cheerfully in acknowledgement of the applause.

A pair of twinkling blue eyes swept the room from their lofty vantage point on the stage, widening slightly with surprise as they collided with Greg’s familiar visage buried unexpectedly within the anonymous sea of audience members.

Alex’s boyish grin widened instantly into a broad toothy smile of recognition, his head inclining momentarily in Greg’s direction, briefly mouthing a private little ‘hello’.

Greg’s innards lurched slightly at the greeting as he felt an equally daft grin plaster itself delightedly across his own face in return.

He held the other man’s gaze for what felt like an eternity, unaware of his clapping palms ticking away in a metronomic rhythm of applause until the acute realisation that they were suddenly the last sounds echoing within the large space.

It was a long time since someone had been that obviously pleased to see him.

1 January 2002

Alex was aware of his breath coming in little fits and starts, panting slightly as his hungry mouth set about devouring the lips of the man sat beneath him, heart thudding wildly within his chest.

A dull clunk as two front teeth accidentally clashed together in the rough tussle.

A silent apology as Alex automatically turned his head in search of a better angle.

If I kiss him hard enough, perhaps he won’t ask my name again.

He’d surprised himself with this uncharacteristic display of boldness and was now having to think fast to deal with the consequences of his latest erratic decision.

More kissing; less thinking.

His companion was seemingly unaware of the internal dispute currently taking place deep inside Alex’s skull.

He’d responded eagerly if anything to the sudden change in demeanour, groaning loudly as Alex had jolted unexpectedly from his horizontal position, ripping back the duvet and all but vaulting into his lap, suddenly desperate to drink him in like a man possessed.

He could feel the moans vibrating back against his open mouth, deep and resonant, and tried to lose himself inside them once more, attempting to shove himself back into the languid ease of the events from earlier that evening, the glorious hedonism of just being, rather thinking.

Frustration rose as he mentally tried to out-sprint the reawakening anxiety in his brain, bewildered senses starting to piece together a coherent narrative for the night.

So big… so solid… so masculine?  

Distracted little half-thoughts bobbed momentarily to the surface as his scrabbling brain fought for a point of reference from his previous experiences and failed resoundingly in light of the newness of the situation.

Different… but good?

 He ground down tightly, quietly pleased with the hiss of need that he’d managed to extract as the hips below him bucked in response.

It was rare that at 6ft 2" that he was made to feel small and comparatively vulnerable, but the knowledge that the other figure in the bed could easily knock him away with a swipe of his arm and pin him to the mattress again sent a not-unpleasant squirm spiralling through his belly before the idle thought dissipated into smoke.

Really?

A quiet yet persistent question.

You know nothing about him…

He could feel large muscles contract slightly beneath his weight as he sat atop the broad pale thighs, quietly marvelling as they supported his slowly shuffling weight with apparent ease.

Thick fingers splayed across his back, gripping tightly enough he could feel the heat from each individual digit burrow beneath his skin and pull him closer to the steadying rock beneath.

No. I want this…

 An anxious tremor shook unexpectedly through him, a quake that threatened to tear him down.

“Fuck…” a shaky expletive from below him as Alex rolled his hips once more, meeting an interested bulge that sat proudly at the apex of the other man’s thighs.

He fell into a slow rhythm, pushing closer into the warm naked embrace, rocking slowly up against the hard flesh, enjoying the breathy encouragement from the other man as slick skin met slick skin in an agonisingly deliberate grind.

A whimper fell from between his lips.

Too much.

Kisses, increasingly urgent in nature rained down upon the bruised lips below as the panic rose sharply within his chest again like mercury coursing up a thermometer.

  Kiss it away, just keep on…I-I, can’t….

  Enough!

He paused and momentarily scrunched his eyes closed in frustration, attempting to block the intrusive thoughts that were still hissing poisonously into his consciousness.

He was achingly hard but inwardly trembling like an electric voltage was passing through each and every one of his nerve endings; almost vibrating with overstimulation.

Chest heaving, he took a deep shuddering breath as he attempted to resurface, leaning forward and resting his forehead lightly against the other man’s in a quiet bid to ground himself.

A large hand rose behind him and wordlessly cradled into the back of his neck, pulling him closer.

A faint aroma of sweat and cigarettes mingled gently with a burst of fresh citrus from the flannel that had been used to wash them both with earlier and wrapped gently around Alex’s nostrils, soothing his agitated brain.

Being cleaned had felt nice.

Unexpectedly tender, just to be looked after.

Put back together again.

It took considerably more effort to wrench his eyelids open again.

The yellow light of the bedside lamp bled into the darkness.

What felt like an hour’s reverie had probably only lasted seconds in reality

The room reappeared, and two blue eyes met his own in wordless concern; the other man’s chest still rising and falling in arousal; Alex’s circling hips still clearly acting of their own accord.

Ok?

A slightly hesitant nod of confirmation, almost more to himself than anything else.

He raised a gentle hand to rest against the heavy jawline, long fingers mapping the bristly stubble beneath them with a quiet fascination, trailing lower and lower in his exploration until he brushed across an Adam’s apple that bobbed slightly beneath him as the other man swallowed.

“Bit much?” he could feel the quiet question hum into life in the vocal cords beneath his fingers moments before it escaped from the man’s mouth.

“N-no. All good,” he breathed softly, a thoughtful frown ghosting across his face.

His stammer was challenged with a slightly raised eyebrow.

“Sure?”

He nodded again, this time imbued with slightly more confidence as another mad impulse flickered into his brain.

Without breaking eye contact, his gaze locked almost defiantly with the older man’s before he removed his hand from his throat and spat deliberately into his palm, stomach flipping tightly at the neat little “o” of surprise that he’d managed to create upon his face as Alex’s hand sank between their two torsos and took them both into a loose grip before slowly pumping his fist.

“Fuck… yes… more…” a low hiss.

Alex leant forward almost curiously, briefly capturing the man’s soft bottom lip between his teeth and biting down carefully upon the fragile skin, tightening the grip of his hand as the shallow movements of his wrist began to increase in speed.

God…

It felt so shockingly intimate.

The other man was slightly bigger than him, a thick girth that sat heavily in his curled hand.

He could feel the twitch of a pulse flutter beneath his fingers, blood rushing into the engorged cock, mirroring the heavy thud of his own heartbeat.

Exquisite sensation; surrounded by tight, warm, naked flesh.

Gruff moans and the slick movement of his own flying fist were the primary sounds which punctuated the silent air as he clung tightly to a broad shoulder with his free hand to steady himself.

The other man had thrown his head back: neck exposed, mouth slightly open, eyes half-closed as he muttered a broken stream of curses and grunted appreciation.

The hips below him jerked unsteadily as the other man eventually shuddered in an intense climax.

Rather beautiful, in a way…

Alex thought to himself in dazed realisation shortly before he gasped and came violently over his hand.

15 August 2015, Edinburgh

As the theatre crowds slowly milled and dispersed back out into the dying heat of the summer night, Greg Davies waited impatiently in the emptying pool of bodies in the lobby for what felt like an eternity before he spied a freshly-changed Alex Horne slip out quietly from a side door, now clad in a soft blue linen shirt and lightly crumpled jeans. He was hastily stashing his phone back into his pocket as he merged anonymously into the crowd, quietly shuffling unnoticed past the very people who had been in hysterics watching him onstage mere moments beforehand.

Greg slightly envied him his current anonymity- he’d been spotted for five autographs and a picture in the ten minutes that he’d been stood waiting. Clearly the baseball cap was losing its effectiveness.

“Alex!” he waved enthusiastically, enjoying the little startle that his resonant voice generated as the shorter man flinched and nearly dropped his phone, before turning around to find the source of the familiar voice.

“Fantastic show tonight, I–” his words of praise were lost permanently to the ether as Alex bounded over, gesturing wildly at his phone with a slightly deranged expression of glee.

“Andy just said we’ve got the second series!” he blurted out immediately by means of greeting, beaming brightly, an uncontrollably excited little bounce present in his step as he moved towards Greg. “Hello, by the way! I didn’t think you’d be up this year?”

“Had a spare weekend, nothing to do…. call it a flying visit!” Greg shrugged as he felt his face split into a huge grin before casually draping a friendly arm around Alex’s narrow shoulders and squeezing him tightly into a half-hug.

“That’s absolutely brilliant!” he paused, suddenly aware of the slight tension he’d felt creep into Alex’s body.

The tips other man’s ears were rapidly turning a bright scarlet.

“Oh, sorry mate…” he removed his arm hastily, “I forget that not everyone is quite as well... y’know…” He gestured vaguely at himself before shrugging lightly.

“What? Oh, no, don’t worry–” Alex frowned indistinctly at Greg’s half apology before reverting to his broad grin.

“Strictly under wraps still, of course, and he’s going to have to wait until the meeting next week for it to be finalised, but it’s looking good! Just need to get the press release drafted apparently, and then sign a lot more paperwork… but we did it!!”

“You did it, you clever sod!” Greg clapped him on the shoulder again.

Alex paused, slightly breathless with excitement, a pink flush creeping across his cheeks as he dragged a disbelieving hand through his hair and slowly shook his head with a wide-eyed expression.

“No, we all did it,” he eventually added with a modest shrug.

“But,” he paused slightly, a faint note of hesitation creeping into his voice as he looked up at Greg, “Andy said that the Avalon crew are throwing a bit of a celebration tonight, do you want to come along too? I don’t think he knows you’re here this week, otherwise I’m sure he’d have asked you along too…”

Several hours later, Greg Davies would come to regret the answer he gave to Alex’s question as he walked home alone through the emptying streets of Edinburgh.

He stumbled distractedly past the late-licensed bars which still thudded with bass-heavy music, absently dodging the broken glass from bottles that littered the pavement in a glittering puddle as his mind raced with a series of uncomfortable thoughts.

Fuck.