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Fervour for Fever

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John Travolta in a white suit and black shirt, moving impossibly, slight and slick and somehow boneless, snake-hipped, hip and mean as he is lean, and Jonathan watching, an acolyte, eyes hungry and, suddenly, Gethin can’t bear to watch him watching, can’t bear to see what looks like longing in Jonathan’s face...

‘Can we turn this off, please, I’ve got the books to do?’

‘Sorry.’ Jonathan turns down the sound on the TV. ‘There, don’t really need the music, I just want to see the moves...’

Gethin sighs, suddenly ashamed of his shortness of temper, his jealousy of a man who isn’t that good looking anyway but who seems to have all Jonathan’s eyes on him. He turns the volume back up.

‘I’ll be in the back room with the accounts,’ he says. ‘Enjoy.’

‘Gethin...’ Jonathan bounds up from the sofa, drapes his arms over Gethin’s shoulders, effectively keeping him in the sitting room. ‘It’s not, you know, him. Not Travolta, I’m not lusting after a bloke on telly...’

‘Didn’t think you were, actually.’ Jonathan is a substantial presence, holding on, breath sweet and smoky on Gethin’s neck. ‘Go back to your film, it’s only got another, what, an hour to go...’

‘It’s the dancing, Gethin, the moves; I just want to learn how he does it, how he manages to look so sinuous... I’d love to be able to do it like that, I love it...’

‘You love dancing, all the Disco stuff, yeah, I know.’ And Gethin hugs his boyfriend tightly, wondering how can he not see, not know...? ‘You are sinuous, you, the way you move. Watch you for hours, I could. Beautiful.’

‘Now, you’re just saying that...’

‘Because it’s true.’ Gethin abandons all thoughts of the books, finds the whisky, the glasses, sits down on the sofa and pats the seat next to him. ‘Come on, then. Watch it with me, tell me, what you think he’s got that you haven’t? What is it about him doing that thing with his hands linked together that’s different from you?’

‘He’s quicker.’

‘You’re smoother.’

‘And... and there, see that thing he does?’

‘Down on his knees and up again? Looks painful. Besides, you’ll never have room to do that down at Ruroo’s...’

Jonathan laughed. ‘And there was me thought you loved it when I got on my knees...’

‘Yes, but no need to pop your kneecaps out for me. And if you bobbed up like that, might do me an injury...’

‘And there, look, look! Those hips!’

‘Nothing to them, nothing to get hold of, not that anyone’d want to, God, no...’

Jonathan turns towards him, whisky still wet on his lips.


‘No.’ Somehow, Gethin manages to make it sound like an invitation, because Jonathan smiles his heart-stopping smile. ‘Mind, I’d like to hold you while you moved like that.’


‘Maybe. If you liked. After the film, of course.’

‘Of course. Well, it’s mostly talking now, I think. Only a couple of dances left.’ Jonathan leans in, smiles. ‘How about, you, me, the whisky, upstairs now? See if I can get my hips going for you. Just for you?’

Gethin smiles back and kisses the corner of Jonathan’s mouth, just how he likes.

‘Sounds like a plan,’ he says.