Danny sat back down slowly then said, “I’m in the old hayloft…” He stopped, dragged on his cigarette, already feeling the suffocating anxiety of the dream, then said, “There’s this weight pressing down on me. I can’t see, but I know where I am. I just can’t move. At first I don’t know why, then I realise someone’s on top of me. I feel him move, that’s how I know. He’s heavy, really heavy.” He stopped.

John urged him, “Go on.”

“At first I don’t realise what he’s doing.” Danny heard the embarrassment in his own voice and got it over with. “But he’s hard, y’know?” He stopped again, searching for his drink, finding it empty.

John’s voice sounded rough in the dark, uneven. “Then what?”

“Then I get turned on too. You know the way you do in dreams? Just instant, no build-up?”

John made a small noise that indicated he did know.

“Well, like that, and he’s calling my name all the time like he’s trying to get through to me or something, and I can’t hear him. I recognise his voice, but I can’t see who it is. Then I can feel his breath on my cheek, burning, really close, and he starts rubbing up hard against me. Then I come.”

He delivered it flatly, trying to deaden the embarrassment of telling it.

“What does he do to you?”

Danny was thrown. “What do you mean? I just told you.”

John’s voice was soft, furry with drink or sleep. “No. What does he do to make you come?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh come on. In real life, in dreams, there’s always something that pushes you over the edge. What is it?”

“I told you, it just happens.”

“Come on.” John’s voice lowered. “What is it?”

“Alright,” Danny snapped. “He sticks his tongue in my mouth, like he’s trying to fucking rape me with it, and I go off, firing on all cylinders – that satisfy you?”

“His tongue…”

His dirty whispering voice. Danny felt engulfed in waves of revulsion. I hate that dirty, insinuating voice. I hate every fucking thing about him. He pushed up from the table. “I’m going to bed.”

“No, wait…”

Something not right about that voice, and I’ve had too much to drink. But Danny got up.

John was round the table and in front of the kitchen door before Danny had even thought of it.

Dimly, Danny was surprised at his agility. Still fast as a cat, even after all that drink. He was suddenly tired, burnt out of all emotion. “Don’t fuck me about, John,” he said wearily, without animosity.

“Danny.”

Just that and no more. It could have meant anything.

Danny squinted at his face, trying to read it in the dark. He couldn’t see anything at all. “Let me out.”

“No way.” Definite, without malice or arrogance, just absolute. Danny could hear his smile rather than see it. What the hell was going on?

“What?”

“I said, no way.”

“Get out of the way, John.” Danny felt no fear, not even anger, only an irritation that everything seemed to be sliding through his fingers. He didn’t understand any of this. John said nothing. His smile had faded like a brief flowering.

“You’re drunk, John. Now let me past, I want to get to bed.” He pushed in behind him, trying to get at the door handle, but John’s body blocked him.

Suddenly John was up close against him, Danny’s face in his hand. “Then get to bed… with me.”

Danny’s stomach dropped right into his bowels in one instant liquid movement. “Oh no, don’t start.”

John said nothing.

“No more of your fucking jokes, John. You’re really getting on my tits with this. Grow up.”

“Who’s joking?” The grip on his face tightened.

Danny felt himself go hot and cold like he’d heard it told. “Are you completely off your head?”

“You said it yourself once, take it where you can get it. Well you can get it here, what’s the problem?”

“In your bed, I suppose?” Danny hung onto anything that made it ordinary, avoiding the realities, obsessing the detail.

“Here in the fucking kitchen if you like.”

Danny jerked his head free. “No.” He shook his head. “Definitely, categorically no. You’re going to regret this in the morning.”

“Not as much as you will if I let you go out that door.”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“We all know what your bad dreams are, want to know mine?”

“No, I fucking don’t.” He began to cajole, fighting the first twitchings of panic. “Come on, John, let me out.” He had to get out. On the heels of that thought came the realisation that there was more than one way to do it.

He slid out from under John’s body like an eel from under a rock and ran for the back door, unlocking it and almost falling over the dog before John realised what he’d done.

He ran across the yard, making for the tractor shed. The milking shed would be better, it had a back door, but it was often locked, and tonight would be the night. He didn’t risk it.

He dived into the darkness and ran behind the cover of the tractors. He stood there watching the doorway, breath rasping, trying to conceal it. Maybe John wouldn’t follow.

But he did.

He saw John’s body silhouetted in the doorway. He pressed himself back against the wall, trying to blend further into the darkness.

“Danny?” John’s voice was low and carrying in the night’s stillness. It sounded almost uncertain. Danny pressed himself further back. The shed was hot and airless from the day’s sun pounding on its tin roof. The tractors were pungent with hot diesel.

John stepped into the dark. Danny darted behind the wheel of the nearest tractor. It was almost as tall as his head.

“Danny, you here?”

Danny held his breath. He could feel the oily dirt beneath his fingers. He pressed his face to the tractor’s side, trying to become smaller.

“Come on, Danny.” John sounded as if he were smiling. “Forget it. It was a bad joke anyway.”

Danny didn’t move. He couldn’t trust him, didn’t dare. He heard John’s foot hit something – oil can, maybe – prowling.

When he spoke next Danny jumped, his skin breaking out into a cold sweat. He was closer, much closer, and moving this way. “Come on, baby. I’m sorry.”

Danny panicked and darted forward. He heard John’s grunt behind him and turned, desperately trying to place him, and ran full tilt into the wing mirror. It knocked him back, clutching his head, hissing, “Shit.”

John grabbed him round the neck, hauling him back towards the tractor. Danny gurgled like a baby, scrabbling at John’s hands. He couldn’t breathe. He was thrown hard against the back wheel. The wind came out of him in a grunt.

“Don’t ever try that again.” John’s breath was sour from too many cigarettes.

Danny tried to squeeze out a reply, but nothing would come.

John grabbed his chin, jerking it up, banging his head against the wheel. “Don’t you ever run away from me again.”

“John…” he croaked. But John was up against him and suddenly he could feel his hands on his bare chest, his thumbs, rough and callused, deliberately insistent, brushing purposefully over his nipples.

His head came forward, equally deliberately, but Danny yanked his face away and the kiss landed on his cheek. But the contact was enough. John pressed against him, forcing him back against the hub of the wheel. Danny lost his footing, tried to regain it. John’s mouth hovered over his ear. He kept whispering his name, as if he was trying to somehow make the whole thing more real, more normal. He took Danny’s hand and pressed it against the front of his jeans. “Feel that?”

Danny pulled his hand back as if it had been burnt. “John, don’t, for fuck’s sake.”

But he might never have spoken. John’s hands slid down Danny’s body and began working at his belt.

Danny grunted, “Don’t.” But John undid his trousers, dragging them down to his thighs. Danny had no underpants on. He felt John’s hand grip him tight then unmistakably begin to masturbate him.

Danny tried pleading, begging. He didn’t even know what he was saying. He wasn’t listening. “John, don’t. Don’t do this, John… please.” Incoherent, useless.

John whispered against his face, “What’s this I feel?” He was pressing himself hard against Danny’s side, tugging Danny’s cock as if it was made of rubber. “Christ, you have got an itch, haven’t you?”

Danny tried not to listen, but John’s mouth was against his ear, the words burning right inside his head. And he was right. Danny had an itch alright, an itch he couldn’t scratch, was desperate to scratch. God, he’d never wanted to satisfy an itch so bad in all his life. John’s hand was pulling, teasing, drawing him out.

Danny didn’t answer. Instead every muscle in his body suddenly went limp. He let his head roll back against the wheel. He closed his eyes. He didn’t need to answer. He was no longer resisting. Danny had said yes. He wanted it.

The relief of it was immense.

“Oh boy…” There was elation in John’s voice now. His weight eased off him, knowing that he was captive, pathetic, enslaved to his own need.

Danny spread his arms out wide against the wheel, pressing himself up towards him, thrusting towards the relief of John’s hand. John moved off him just long enough to pull his own belt out of the buckle and drag his clothes down, then the feel of his erection pressed hard against Danny’s thigh, hot and sticky, long and hard, already humping against him, spreading his legs for better leverage. He groaned, “Christ…” then he began to keep time, his body moving to the rhythm of his hand. Masturbation in synchronisation. “Christ…”

Danny trembled, hovered there, already, already. “Don’t. I’m going to… John.”

John’s hand gripped his shoulder, slid round his neck. Danny lifted his hands bonelessly to fend him off. John pulled him to him, humping harder, fiercer, hurting him and kissed him full on the mouth, pushing his tongue in deep.

Danny grunted, hands grabbing at John’s blindly, sucking on his tongue like a starving infant and felt it all come up. It was like vomiting. He could no more have stopped it once it started than become God.

He came, John’s semen spurting hot over his leg, lubricating his thrusts, his own boiling over John’s fingers.

That was all it took. It was over in seconds. Like a bomb going off. And after that there was only their ragged breathing, and the slow drip of semen on the shed floor.

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