Stockholm Syndrome [01] - Stockholm Syndrome (37 page)

You're... beautiful, exquisite, radiant, pick anything out the thesaurus for 'I fancy you' and there it is. Philip. Pip. I love you. Come back." 'I love you' is usually the skeleton key that gets him out of anything, but Valentine clearly thinks he's still taking the piss, although he seems to be stropping off a little bit more slowly and Lindsay manages to catch up with him easily enough as soon as he's managed to stand.

"You ain't sorry. Why should you be? It's true. You just don't have to go all fucking
patronising
and pretend I don't disgust you, that's even worse."

"Saying 'you're beautiful, I love you' is worse than saying 'hey marshmallow man, let's go shopping for some elasticated jeans' now?"

"Lindsay!" He tries to drag himself away but Lindsay tightens his grip on the kid's wrist and drags him back. "Get off! I'm going to bed, I fucking hate you today."

"No you don't." It's almost a wrestling match now, Valentine trying to twist away and Lindsay trying to hold onto him and keep him close. "I'm only mean to you because..." He doesn't have to finish with words, he only has to shove the still-unfastened jeans down,
with
his pants this time, and wrap his hand tight around Valentine's straining cock. "Heh. Just as I thought."

"Don't touch me."

"That's my line."

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"Lindsay!" He's struggling and wriggling like an eel, but Lindsay's got a good hold on him, both arms wrapped firmly around his body and the hand not stroking his cock gripping the half-finished jumper. "
Don't
, you'll drop the sleeve stitches!"

"So stop fighting me."

"
I hate you
."

"No you don't. Have you got anything?"

"What?"

"Where's your girly purse?" He finds it himself, the slim red leather wallet tucked into the back pocket of the kid's jeans. There's a photo of Lindsay inside, a photo of David Bowie, some till receipts, a credit card with a false name, and – bingo. "Yeah, I knew it. You Scouts are all the same. Be prepared, right?"

"Stop it. I don't feel like it."

"Yes you do."

"I've got a headache."

"No you haven't." He shoves Valentine at a tree again; he stumbles because his clothes are round his knees, and has to fling his arms around the trunk so he doesn't go face-first into the roots. Lindsay holds the little packet between his teeth so he can get his own jeans pushed down enough, then he bites the corner open and squeezes out the lube over his cock. Valentine goes very still at the slick little noises, then he starts struggling again until Lindsay pushes at the base of his back with his wet hand to bend him over better.

"I don't want to!"

"Course you do, you little slapper, why else would you carry Astroglide around in your wallet?"

"Consensual emergencies? I mean it, let me up."

"No." Midsummer twilight has shifted almost completely to night now,

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but the sky is clear and the moon is a few days past full; it's bright enough to see by, just about, but it's turned everything into vague shadows and shapes, especially here under the trees. Lindsay works by perfunctory touch, moving his fingers over Valentine's arse, parting his cheeks, sliding the side of his wet hand down the crease between, then grabbing his hips like earlier and easing inside him.

Valentine sags against the tree, breathing like he's crying. "I hate you."

"This says you doesn't." He rubs his thumb gently around the head of the kid's cock, settling into a steady rhythm of deep, hard thrusts that make Valentine whimper even more

"Please stop it."

"Say that again and I'll break your nose."

"Lindsay..."

He knows they're a good way from where they pitched the tent but he's not sure just
how
far, and how far the crack of his palm hitting flesh would travel if he slapped Valentine, so he pinches him instead, hard on the side of his hip, and Valentine breathes in sharply and lets his breath out in wet rags.

"Please stop it –
ow
!"

It'll bruise, that second pinch. He wonders what it'll look like, two semicircles of matching bruises on the kid's hips from where he wouldn't keep his mouth shut when he was warned.

"I don't
want
to – OW!"

He seems to get the message then. No more words, just shaking breaths and the snotty sound you get when you're trying not to cry.

"That's better," Lindsay murmurs, splaying his hand out on Valentine's back instead of waiting there ready to pinch, gritting his teeth against moans as he sinks himself as deep as he can, over and over. His skin feels like it's on fire, the telltale rush of tingles beginning to shoot through his nerves. "Don't move, stay still. Stay there, I'm-"

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"Lindsay?"

"Jesus,
what
?"

Very quietly, with an audible smirk in his voice: "I love jazz."

"
FUCK!
" he snarls, and shoves the kid away from him. He can hear Valentine laughing, the hiss of his zip and the crunch of his footsteps as he turns to run back to the tent. Lindsay just squeezes his eyes shut and leans his forehead against the rough bark of the tree, swallowing hard and fighting for breath – for control. He remembers that first awkward conversation a couple of years ago, after the time Valentine got annoyed when Lindsay actually stopped when the kid told him to, and the time he sulked for days because Lindsay
didn't
stop when he told him to.

"I need a word," Valentine said in bed, rubbing moisturiser into the raw red mark on his wrist where he'd been tied too tightly to the bedstead. Lindsay pulled a face and turned onto his side so he didn't have to look at him. It was alright, all of this playing rough, but giving it rules made it
real
and that made his stomach churn. "No, don't be a dick, I'm just
saying
. Just... something I'm never ever gonna say accidentally, so you
know
it means real-no, not just playing-no." He leaned over, then, and whispered something against Lindsay's ear, laughing.

One of the lamps is still alight, when he finally navigates out of the trees and onto the long stretch of grass where the tents are, but he can't see anybody.

They must have finally drunk themselves sleepy and turned in. He lurks around outside the tent for a while, listening to the quiet noises from inside –

movements, the shift of sleeping bags, gentle snoring, a cough. He kind of wants to sleep in the car, but that'll mean Valentine's won. Whatever the game is.

When Lindsay unzips the front panel and steps through to their bit of the three-room tent in his socks, Valentine's already in there dressed in Superman pyjamas and pulling a woolly bobble hat down over his ears. He looks up at Lindsay and half-smiles, looking like he's wearing a Halloween horror mask in the strange light and shadows created by the torch he's propped up against his

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bag.

"Bit nippy, innit? My hands are going blue."

"You know what else is blue, you little bastard?"

"Haha, yeeaah." He sits there on the airbed, quiet, just watching Lindsay fling his clothes off and pull on a long-sleeved t-shirt and the bottoms of an old tracksuit he always brings to sleep in when he's camping. "Is this gonna be weird?"

"What?"

"Double sleeping bag when you're in a mood with me?"

Oh great. He'd forgotten that. "Another one of your genius ideas. Turn the torch off."

"Shut
up
, you fucking benders," Danny calls from the next section, sounding scratchy and tired. "I was dreaming about Jodie Marsh."

"We saved you, then. She's a fucking
minger
!"

"Yeah, but she looks like she knows some tricks. You wouldn't understand."

"I might," Valentine says, but he's looking at Lindsay. "Night, Danny."

"Queer."

"Does that mean he likes me or thinks I'm a twat?" Valentine whispers, when Lindsay zips himself into the sleeping bag next to him.

"Shut up." He tries to get as far away as possible, stretching the fabric taut in his effort to put at least a mile between them. "Go to sleep." Silence, for a long while. He tries to sleep but he's just lying there wide awake for half an hour at least, listening to the night-sounds of owls outside and the others' steady breathing in the other half of the tent.

Then the airbed starts up like a bouncy castle, rolling him around as Valentine shuffles himself closer.

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"Oh, fucking hell. I mean it, get lost."

"Maybe you should have a no-word, too." His voice is just the barest sound, even less than a whisper, just a warm breath against the back of Lindsay's ear. "Cos you always tell me to fuck off, but... sometimes you don't mean it, yeah?" Lindsay kicks him, but can't get up the energy to put any force into it. His cock still feels heavy and aching, even though he's not really that hard any more

– he should have just got himself off in the trees and have done with it.

"I mean it this time."

"Do you, though?" He's so warm, the whole length of his body pressed up against Lindsay's back, and when he puts his arm over for a cuddle Lindsay starts to relax a bit, although he's trying not to. The aggravation doesn't exactly seep out of him, it just sort of retreats to somewhere far enough away for him to ignore it, and then he breathes out slowly and reaches up to clasp Valentine's hand. The kid smiles. He's still so close Lindsay can feel the curve of his lips against his ear. "Yeah, I didn't think so." Then: "Lindsay..."

He waits, but the kid's just breathing. "What?"

"Just..."

"What?"

"I didn't mean no. I wanted to know if you'd stop."

He feels strange, like he's spinning or falling. It's not
all
the alcohol. "I said I would, didn't I?"

"Yeah. I just. I dunno. I wanted to
know
." Lindsay doesn't know what to say, so he stays quiet. "Lindsay?"

"What?"

"Do you think they're asleep?" He pulls his hand gently out of Lindsay's grasp, and moves it down and inside his trousers.

"Don't, I've not washed."

"Don't care. Occupational hazard, innit? Turn over." They're kissing

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then, slowly, trying not to make too much noise as they kick their trousers down and start stroking each other hard again. "Do you think they are?" he repeats, squeezing and stroking gently until Lindsay thinks he's going to explode with the effort of keeping all sound inside.

"Don't know," he breathes back, voice trembling and strained. "Fucking hope so."

"Yeah, ain't very supportive, is it? Having it off in the same tent when the whole point of getting away is cos your mate's having wife issues."

"Oh god. Shut up, now I feel like a bastard."

"You are. You called me fat."

"I also called you beautiful."

"...Oh yeah. Yeah, you did. And you said 'I love you'."

"In two languages."

"Tell me again?"

He's moving his hand steadily, just the right pressure, and Lindsay rests his burning forehead against the kid's shoulder. He closes his eyes and tries to match his strokes, tries to keep his breathing and his voice quiet. "I love you furiously,
I love you
, knowing my pain is fatal..."

"Fucking melodramatic old drama queen," Valentine murmurs. He goes quiet then, holding his breath and letting it out, spilling warmth over Lindsay's hand then kicking his pyjama trousers up to wipe the mess so it doesn't get all over the sleeping bag. Lindsay follows minutes later, panting
oh
into the kid's neck and clutching his wrist.

There's a very quiet, awkward cough.

"Fucking Christ," Ty mutters.

Danny sounds murderous. "You're bringing your own tent next time, you dirty fucking cunts."

Lindsay puts his head under his pillow and tries to suffocate himself.

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"Maybe you could've interrupted earlier instead of listening in like fucking CREEPS!" Valentine suggests, as he's finishing his clean-up attempt, but nobody replies to that, and nobody speaks again until morning.

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The campsite facilities
look
old and grotty, but there's nothing wrong with the water; it's steaming hot, thundering out of the shower head like massaging fingers easing out all the cramps and tension Lindsay's got after spending the night sleeping on an air mattress half the size of the bed he's used to. He managed to unzip the sleeping bag quietly and nip away without waking Valentine, thank Christ. There's been more than enough oversharing on this trip already, without the kid insisting on sharing a shower as well.

The tap squeaks and drips when he shuts it off, and there's an obscene sucking gurgly noise as the plughole draws the rest of the suds away. He reaches for the towel he's slung over the cubicle door and hesitates, listening to the quiet noise of somebody else in the block, trying to work out whether it's one of the strangers from the other couple of tents.

"It's me, you fucking prude."

"Oh, right." He swings the door open and steps out, not bothered any more that he's only got the one towel, and starts scrubbing his hair dry. Ty's reflection half-smiles a good morning to him in the mirror, mouth full of 307

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toothpaste.

"Glad you've washed your hands," he says, muffled by foam. "You're making breakfast."

"Is everyone up?"

"You kidding? Lazy fuckers, they'll sleep all day if nobody wakes them."

"I get it, sausage and bacon alarm clock."

"Yeah." He finishes brushing. Lindsay tucks his towel round his waist and starts going through his bag for clean clothes, taking his time over it because having something to do means he doesn't have to speak. It doesn't feel
awkward
, exactly, but any time they're alone in this place he feels like he needs to be all understanding and helpful and ask Ty if he wants to talk, and that's just so... gay.