Call Me Back Again

CHAPTER 1

Someday soon, John thought, he'd have no choice but to commit homicide. And he'd get away with it too because clearly, not a single judge in the world would blame him for strangling Harrison with the power cord of the amplifier the insufferable git just plugged in. After some feedback, which in and of itself was like nails on a chalkboard, the familiar arpeggiated chords he'd been listening to for days on end started to blare through the flat. John groaned loudly, tried to block out the sound of that bloody guitar solo George had practised every day for the past week by covering his head with his pillow, and failed. Too much noise, not enough pillow. Life was unfair.

John sighed in defeat as he extracted his face from the warm skin of the bloke snoring softly in his arms - Brad? Eric? No, Xander. No wait, that was last week. Dimitri, that's it... - and released the lad's thin frame to grab the alarm clock. He wasn't wearing his contacts yet and would be damned if he put on his glasses so John held the thing about an inch from his nose and squinted hard, eventually reaching the conclusion that the numerous red dots formed the numbers 8:27. With a frustrated yell, John threw the clock at his bedroom door. It never even reached that far and softly landed on a discarded pile of clothes, from where it seemed to mock him. Such, John lamented silently, was his life: one failure after the next on such an absurd level that he couldn't even wreck his own possessions when he tried.

"Get up," he finally murmured at the comatose figure to his right. If John wasn't going to be sleeping anymore, then neither would his latest fling. It took a few efforts, ending in John giving the lad a good, firm slap on his bare arse when none of the more gentle pokes and prods seemed to cause much effect. That, at least, elicited a response, even if it was little more than an aroused-sounding moan which brought back fond memories of the previous night's kinky tryst. "Oi, Dimitri. Wake up, you lazy cunt."

The blond mop of hair shifted, and a pair of bleary green eyes blinked slowly at John. "Who the fuck is Dimitri?"

"Erm... You?"

"I'm Gareth, John. Fucking hell." Shaking his head in unveiled disapproval, the bloke slowly got out of bed, clearly still overcome with sleep, judging by the way he'd teeter to the point of nearly losing his balance every few seconds.

Little by little, he shuffled through the room, picking up clothes until finally, John began to remember chatting him up. It was the sight of Gareth - what a stupid name, anyway - putting on the faded tank top with a picture of Bob Dylan that refreshed his memory: the main reason John had noticed him in the crowded club. They didn't seem to have a lot in common but John thought him rather cute so he pulled him anyway, as one does. He hadn't had any complaints, in any case.

After having momentarily disappeared from view to gather and put on his Vans, Gareth eyed John and grumbled, "I guess you won't be texting me, then?"

"I reckon not," John confirmed, flopping back down onto the bed. Well, he might have if he actually had Gareth's number. Then again, he probably wouldn't. The shag was great and all, and it was certainly a nice change of pace to fuck someone with a pain kink, but the lad didn't look half as good in daylight (in other words: when seen through sober eyes) as he did last night at the club (meaning: when John was drunk and randy) and frankly, John had his fill of posers who pranced around in band T-shirts without being able to mention three of their songs. There ought to be a law against that, he thought as Gareth walked out of the room - and, going by the loud slam of the front door, straight out of the flat - without so much as looking back. Fucking rude prick.

"Dimitri not a keeper then, is he," George smirked upon John's arrival in the tiny kitchen, interrupting his playing long enough to make sure John would hear the little taunt.