Beautifully calloused, tingling and tormenting fingers trailed slowly down the burning, slick skin of his front man.
The bassist breathed in, shaky, and released it: in a perfect scale of moans.
The singer picked up his speed, dexterous fingers plunging lower, teeth nipping at the elongated column of his throat, tongue swirling, in a rhythm all of their own.
Those torturous fingers clasped his sides, skirting down the grooves of his cut hips and shoving the name of it deep into his ear: my bass god is here and John, he better not be running anywhere before morning.
His bass god groaned in response which screamed: he’s not, Charlie. He’ll never leave your side.
The kisses were hot, intense, wild and free; sharing moans and saliva as they rocked to their own beat.
Together they groaned, grinding together as the perfect crescendo washed over them: the perfect rhythm section.
Bright blue eyes pried themselves open, his huge hands felt around the bed. Nothing. Then, a choked off scream filled the air and Simon bolted upright, calling his name, practically sprinting to the open en suite door.
He glanced down at John, hunched over the toilet seat, his face turned away. He wretched, climbing up into his shaking knees and again emptied the contents of his stomach. Simon’s eyebrow’s furrowed and within moments he was at John’s back, rubbing his quaking shoulders.
“Johnny, Johnny! I’m here, babe. What the hell happened?”
John took a deep breath and- no, not this time. He slouched back over the toilet bowl heaving, breaths coming up short. He wretched again and muttered: Charlie.
“John, what is it John?” Simon asked, trying to hide the panic in his voice. “It’s been three mornings of this, what’s wrong?”
He was met by short breaths and pants, parted lips and- Simon’s heart clenched. It was too late until John realised what he had done: having angled his face up to Simon at his back. His eyes were dimmed red, bloodshot, his cheeks covered in tears. The usual beaming smile forced itself to appear on John’s quivering bottom lip. He cursed under his breath and again, faced the toilet bowl.
“Just some..” He engulfed some air, holding it tight in his throat, “bad coke. I- I took. Ands got some” John again paused, this time to hastily wipe his face, “Columbian shit, Simon, I.. I didn’t. Fuck, it didn’t agree with me.”
Simon’s weary eyes traced John’s hunched form, rubbing circles on the small of his back. With one deft hand he wrapped himself around John’s bed hair, brushing his golden bangs from his face.
“It’s okay, it’s okay. I’m here, John, I’ll stay.”
John, near breathless, cocked his head and was met with a warm and beaming smile from the singer. He tried to match it with one of his own but it lacked conviction that he was truly happy.
“Thanks.” He muttered in a short breath. “Thank you, Charlie.”
At that John felt his stomach finally stop its churning and slowly, cautiously rose to his feet. Simon helped him, wrapping two hands around his sides and easing him upwards.
Together they stood facing the mirror, Simon’s head resting in the sweat slick skin of where John’s neck met shoulder. John reached behind him and clasped at Simon tighter, bringing his hands to settle around his waist. He cracked a small smile as Simon nuzzled his perfectly cut cheek and let out a small moan as those plush lips caressed his temple.
“I love you.” John breathed, moulding himself into Simon’s grasp.
”I know, I love you too Nigel.” John chuckled at the use of his given name and Simon could feel it.
He couldn’t help himself, he brushed John’s bangs from his flushed face and hugged him tighter, his hands enclosing themselves around John’s sweaty ones. Simon bought John’s trembling hands up to his lips and kissed them, feeling John immediately relax into his secure frame and hum his adoration.
Filming for the Arena album was almost at an end. It had been a while ride of countless sessions and hours on their feet. John’s calloused fingers were raw, his bass strings burning in his hands. He sighed as a wave of nausea washed over him. Putting a hand to his forehead he shut his eyes tight and steadied his breathing, praying for the mini bout of hell to quickly end.
Out of the corner of his eye Simon could see him: tired and over worked. Somehow John appeared in a worse state than the others.
John’s blazing red jacket was hanging loose, his shirt had crumpled and was half hanging out of his leather trousers. It appeared that he was gaining weight which Simon guessed he was thankful for, hoping that the weight was being put on for the right reasons. John’s usually hypnotic chocolate brown eyes weren’t as wide and awake as Simon figured they ought to be. The dark circles, the mussed mullet, it all sang of a plea for help. A plea that every band member knew that John himself would never let on.
“Think we got it.” Somebody, probably Russell, called.
He had been snapping more, Simon had noted, his patience wearing thin over the most pointless things. Simon had hinted to Nick who too had sensed a change. Simon had cursed, of course he had noticed the change in John. Nigel John Taylor and Nicholas Bates had been the best of friends since they were thirteen and eleven. Nick knew John better than anyone and together he and Simon worried endlessly about the bassist and his proclivities.
The cocaine. They’d settled on the cocaine both seemingly not convinced that it was the answer at all. At least, not this time.
He had first been exposed to it sometime in ‘82. Together he and Andy has experimented: Cocaine and John himself ecstasy at one of his countless parties with one of his countless birds. Or lads, Simon refused to dwell on it.
Every band member knew he was out of control, falling deeper and deeper into the drinks, balancing himself out with line after line, night after night. How Simon could keep himself by his man truly astounded him sometimes. It was the lifestyle, the schedule, the endless travelling and for John, boredom. His demise.
It has only been two years. Who knew how much life John still had pulsing through his veins.
The following evening the band stalked off back to their hotel rooms, first stopping off at the bar.
Drinks were poured and laughter was shared. It was a well earned celebration for completing another day of recording and John’s inner turmoil.
“The usual, John?”
“Do you even need to ask?!” He barked back, taking in the crooked smile of Andy.
Within moments he returned, two beers in hand.
“Start light, Nigel.”
“You’re the boss Mr Taylor.”
“As are you, fellow Mr Taylor!” They clinked bottles as the rest of the band surrounded them at the table. John downed it.
“Hey, luv!” He beamed, immediately wrapping an arm around Simon.
Simon lips caressed his cheek. They all new about them, Simon and John, their love and intimacy and although they both couldn’t care as to what the boys thought of them, they still tried to hide themselves from the fans. From the world. Which, of course, was no easy feat.
“When is it coming out again?” Roger asked, before taking a swig.
“November.” Nick replied, in his calm yet booming voice.
The beers flowed and the voices were becoming a blur, the alcohol seeming to hit John quick. He pouted, looking down at his leather clad lap and he frowned. Excusing himself he felt his head spin.
He practically ran to the bathroom, barely making it and he was on his knees with his shoulders slumped and cursing anyone and everyone.
“Fuck, not again.”
“Your damn right not again. Johnny, baby, this isn’t right. Let’s head back to the room.”
John hadn’t even noticed that Simon had followed him. He clambered to his feet, almost tripping on the tail end of his red jacket as he did so.
“I’m sorry luv, I don’t know what’s going on with me.”
“Just get some rest. We’ll talk in the morning, okay?” Simon was met with a nod, a small smile from John.
They passed the other members on their way back with John hunched, clutching tight to Simon’s shoulders. His nails bit into the white leather of his jacket but Simon didn’t seem to mind. He held John tighter and he coughed out something about him needing a good rest to the other boys.
“Too much cock if ya ask me!” Andy laughed, his thick northern accent ringing through the air. “He’s bloody exhausted!”
“More like nowhere near enough, man.” Roger muttered which earned a hearty bout of laughter from both Nick and Andy.
“Just piss off.” John screeched, half into Simon’s shoulders. “Wankers.” At that, all the men stopped laughing. Appraising eyebrows were raised. Even from Nick, behind the eyeliner, his eyes sang of concern and irritation.
He turned to Nick and immediately the guilt sunk in. “Sorry, I.. I.. uh, I’m sorry Nick.”
“Charlie” Nick began, “do you want me too-“
“-No Nick, I’ll look after him. You’ve been doing so for far too long.” Simon cracked a small smile.