Part the First

It wasn't long after his twenty-seventh birthday that Thom first set foot in the Club.

He wasn't quite sure why he capitalised it in his head, even back then: the only explanation he could offer when Ed and Phil poked fun at him or when Colin would get that look in his eye was that it was The Club, the only one that mattered or that ever would matter, like a long-term partner in a clandestine relationship. It was Colin's idea – naturally, because things like that always were. It was 1995, they were taking a breather before their UK tour, they were riding the crest of a wave, life was better than it had been for as long as Thom could remember, and as Colin had put it, it was about time they started acting like internationally renowned, world-famous rockstars. Of course, to any normal person this would have meant bedding groupies, holding orgies on luxury yachts (or at least punts on the Cherwell – beggars couldn't be choosers, after all), and being snapped by the paparazzi vomiting in the gutter after a particularly hedonistic night on the town.

There were reasons why no one had ever called Colin normal. In his own classy, erudite, inimitable fashion, he'd immediately obtained an invitation to one of Oxford's most exclusive private members-only clubs, and was acting irritatingly secretive about it. That was one of Colin's little affectations – he had many – that he loved to hide things: he liked to keep people guessing, and he was very good at it. If he hadn't taken up music, Thom rather thought his closest friend could have been a spy, a man of mystery, for he would never give anything away except in those little smiles that were meant for himself and no one else.

It didn't take long for the invitation to arrive on Thom's doormat.

He'd almost been expecting it. Colin had been dropping hints that Thom would enjoy the Club's entertainments, and that with Thom's reputation and Colin's influence it should not be difficult for him to acquire membership if he enquired. It was formal dress, Thom learned; he dug his only suit out of the wardrobe and had it dry-cleaned specially for the occasion. He wasn't sure why his palms sweated and his face grew hot when he wondered what these 'entertainments' were, what sort of clientèle the Club catered to: music? A stripshow? Or perhaps – he remembered the magazines on Colin's beside table in his room at university all those years ago – it would be something else. There was that familiar surge of heat again, and not only in his face.

The Club was down a nondescript side street in the shadow of the Radcliffe Camera. Different coloured lights spilled from the door and the few storeys of windows above it, painting the wet pavement in red, blue and green. A doorman in a black suit took the invitation and discreetly nodded him through the door into a small hallway, where he was met by a narrow staircase down which drifted gentle piano music, the sound of laughter and the smell of cigarette smoke. Thom swallowed and wiped his damp hands on his crisply-pressed trousers, feeling suddenly out of place, but he knew Colin would be up there somewhere and that Colin would be disappointed if he was a no-show, so he steeled himself and, putting one foot in front of the other as he had done all his life, he ascended the flight of steps.

When he pushed open the door at the top he was instantly assaulted by a raucous gale of laughter. The room beyond was large, high-ceilinged and wood-panelled, with a plush red carpet and a sparkling chandelier dangling over a scene of grouped leather armchairs and small, low tables; there was a roaring open fire at the near end of the room and a well-stocked bar running the length of one wall. The laughter had come from a cluster of young besuited men who looked no older than university students; there were several empty bottles of expensive champagne on the table between them.

Thom automatically scanned the room for Colin. He was rarely hard to find in a crowd unless he intended otherwise, and he didn't let Thom down – he was sitting in a high-backed chair close to the fireplace, surrounded by a group of men, some of whom seemed to be agreeing with whatever he was saying and some of whom seemed to be arguing heatedly with him. Colin, of course, looked quite in his element, a glass of red wine in one hand and a cigarette burned almost down to the filter between the fingers of the other, with which he was gesturing expansively. As Thom drew closer he could hear Colin's voice, speaking in that rapid-fire stream-of-consciousness way that he did when he was passionately engaged in a subject, hardly allowing anyone else a word in edgeways. Something derogatory about Camus, and another gale of laughter; Colin looked up, draining his glass, saw Thom and broke into a broad grin.

“Gentlemen!” he exclaimed, and Thom noticed the carefully-constructed faux air of abandon; Colin wanted these other men to believe he was drunk, not wholly in control of his own faculties. It was a little trick Colin employed when he was planning to do something more outrageous than the usual social niceties would permit; frequently it would be followed by a highly off-colour remark to a member of the group that Colin had taken exception to, or an instance of unexpected public nudity, or on occasion some unsolicited sexual favour that would either be forgotten or laughed off in the morning. Thom had been on the receiving end of all three, but tonight there was something not right; Colin's eyes, huge, liquid, expressive pools of darkness in the pink-white-grey of his smiling face, normally held a rippling undercurrent of humour, as though to him the world was a great amusement to be enjoyed at all costs. Tonight, when Colin's eyes met Thom's, there was no humour in them at all: they were cold, calculating, and almost black with desire. With sex; Colin fairly reeked of it, and the realisation almost sent Thom reeling.

“Gentlemen!” Colin repeated, allowing Thom no time to regroup. He rose to his feet, swaying a little, but his gaze never left Thom's face. He was wearing a dark suit that Thom had not seen before, and a tie, something he hadn't considered since their schooldays; briefly, Thom caught a hint of the boy who'd turned in pornographic novellas for English assignments and quoted word-for-word from 'Fanny Hill' on toilet walls. But the attention of Colin's companions was turned to Thom now, expecting an introduction, and he shifted anxiously, looking to Colin for help. Colin didn't fail him. “This,” he announced loudly, lurching forwards and stopping his downwards momentum with an arm around Thom's shoulders, “is the first boy I ever kissed.” And as if to punctuate this, he took Thom's face in both hands and kissed him full on the lips.

Colin's – friends? Acquaintances? Thom floundered for the correct word to use – were watching with amused resignation as the pair of them drew apart. “So, does he pay or does he watch?” a tow-headed boy close to them asked: he could not have been a day over twenty, Thom thought abstractly. But a few pieces of the jigsaw had just fallen with resonating clarity into place. There were no women in the Club, yet beneath the stench of testosterone-fuelled virility that always accompanied large groups of men there was a highly-charged pulse of barely restrained sexual tension. And Thom had noticed that some of the men had younger boys, perhaps not yet past their early twenties, hanging on their arms or hovering at their elbows; boys in tighter trousers and shirts, some Thom was sure were wearing rouge or eyeliner, and there was even a boy with a thick black strip of leather around his neck clearly visible at his open collar.

And he knew with the cold creeping dread of certainty that the entertainment was not to be found in the drink or the music or the conversation. He'd suspected – even known – Colin's inclinations before, and this was only the confirmation; and he had taken up Colin's invitation anyway, and confirmed a suspicion about himself.

The way Colin had kissed him, tasting of wine and cigarettes; his smell, like dark chocolate and old paper; and the caress of his mouth: these had all provoked a primal, almost Pavlovian response in Thom, and Colin had slipped one hand down to cup the evidence, cleverly stroking and squeezing until Thom's mouth opened on a silent moan.

“I think he'll watch for now, won't you, Thom?” he murmured, his lips very close to Thom's ear. Thom nodded, throat dry, unsure of why he had done so.

If the other members of the group thought anything of this, they kept their opinions to themselves. Colin's fingers laced through Thom's and, in a slight daze, Thom allowed himself to be led through the crowded room to a second door at one of the bar. Colin leaned across the counter and caught the attention of the bartender with a flutter of his free hand.

“Could you ask Florian to come along to the Green Room, please?” he murmured, toying with the man's top button. There was a blush and a nod of assent, and Colin was pulling Thom through the door and down the corridor to another, much smaller room. The walls were painted in light green, the carpet and the curtains were a darker shade, and in pride of place was a large double bed with a green satin coverlet and a heap of matching cushions. An armoire – not green, thankfully – stood in one corner, but Thom doubted it contained clothes; there was a bottle of red wine on the bedside table, accompanied by two glasses.

Colin's drunken guise evaporated as let go of Thom's hand and dragged a chair into the middle of the room, leaving it facing the foot of the bed. “Sit down!” he said, waving to the heap of cushions. “Make yourself comfortable, I'll just -”

“Colin.”

“- rearrange them, there you are -”

“Colin.”

“- far too fussy, I'm not sure why they bother -”

“Colin!”

Colin stopped, turning to Thom with an innocent expression that said plainly that he'd heard every word Thom said. “Yes?”

“What are you doing?”

“Rearranging your cushions.”

Thom reined in his temper just in time. “Don't be obtuse. You know what I mean.”

Colin straightened up, and for the first time Thom saw that diamond-hard veneer crack just a little – there was a flash of something like despair in his eyes. “I'm teaching you to act on your feelings, because you won't teach yourself,” he said. “Trust me. In a few weeks you'll understand, I promise.”

There was utter silence. Thom was staring, he knew it, but hardly cared, and apparently neither did Colin, because he gave a small shrug and went back to the cushions.

When the knock at the door came, however, Colin's head jerked up as suddenly as that of a cat scenting a bird. “Sit down,” he said to Thom, gesturing to the bed.

“I -” Thom considered arguing, but at the look in Colin's eyes he shut his mouth and moved to the bed, kicking off his shoes before clambering onto it. It was layered with sheets and quilts and throws, far too many to be practical, and his hands and knees sank into it as he settled against the cushions with his legs stretched out in front of him – his feet didn't come anywhere near to the footboard – and his hands resting awkwardly in his lap, unsure of what to do with themselves.

Colin was letting a younger man into the room. The newcomer was clearly one of the boys who'd been hanging on someone's arm in the main room; he was about the same height as Colin, with the same kind of wiry yet soft physique which had been poured into indecently tight trousers and a pale blue tailored shirt the same colour as his eyes, which were set in a cherubic pink-cheeked face haloed by wispy white-blond hair. He looked every bit as apprehensive as Thom felt, his fingers twining into knots behind his back as Colin went to the table and uncorked the wine, pouring it into the two glasses. He passed one to Thom, who almost dropped it as all communication between his brain and hands seemed to come to a screaming halt; the other he took with him as he stalked towards the boy, who resolutely stood his ground despite the fear evident in his stance. Thom couldn't understand why he seemed so nervous. It was Colin, after all; Colin inspired a great deal of feelings in a great deal of people, but as far as Thom knew fear had never been one of them.

“This is my friend, Thom,” Colin was saying to the boy, waving with the hand that didn't hold the wine. “Thom, this is Florian. Well, he tells me that's his name, anyway, don't you? But then, he tells me he's twenty-five, and really, does he look twenty-five, Thom?”

He looked to Thom as though expecting an answer. Thom fidgeted. “Um. No, he doesn't, Coz. He's hardly older than Jon-”

“- if that,” Colin cut him off, eyes flashing dangerously. “Drink your wine, Thom. It's really rather good – it should be, for how much I'm paying for it. Now...” he redirected his attentions to Florian, who blushed almost as dark as the liquid in Colin's glass. “Come here, love. And don't look like that; you knew this was coming.” Because, at Colin's invitation, Florian's lip had trembled, almost as though he was about to burst into tears, and his glance had flickered between Thom and Colin like a cornered rat. However, he walked over to Colin, who put one proprietary hand on the boy's hip and tilted the glass to plush, beestung lips with the other. Thom found himself fixated by the movement of Florian's Adam's apple as he swallowed, draining the glass in one, and by the flex of Colin's fingers against the delicate promontory of bone that he was holding on to.

He knew what he'd walked into, of course. Colin's little comment earlier about acting on his feelings made more sense now: a gentleman's club fronting as little more than a brothel, although instead of painted ladies in fancy underwear, there were soft-faced boys in revealing trousers and leering old men with whiskers and a predilection for barely-legal teenagers. And then there was Colin, who fitted neither category yet seemed more at home than any of them; and Thom, who fitted in nowhere.

He'd been caught unawares by the strangeness of the situation. He knew about Colin – they all did, really, it was hard not to notice when there was a new boy almost every week, and even when Colin went for the girls that threw themselves at them on tour, he'd leave Ed to the soft, fluffy blondes with their batting eyelashes and heaving bosoms, and pick out the petite, elfin figures, flat-chested and narrow-hipped with cropped hair and bitten fingernails. It was something they'd all become used to, so much that it barely registered. But there was a gulf of difference between tolerating minor indiscretions behind the tour bus and being forcibly dragged into a bedroom where one's best friend was acting out some bizarre scene straight from a pornographic b-movie; a gulf that Colin, apparently, chose not to acknowledge.

Colin set the empty glass down on the floor by the chair, and snaked his free hand into the candy floss hair at the base of the boy's skull, reeling him in like a fish on a line. With the barest flicker of a glance towards Thom, transfixed on the bed, Colin ran the tip of his tongue over the boy's lips, tasting the wine. A faint whimper issued from the boy's throat and Colin drew back with a predatory smile.

Thom's cock, which had up until then been quiescent between his thighs, gave an interested twitch.

Some of the wine spilled from his glass to spatter across the quilt, leaving a trail of dark spots like fresh blood on the moss-coloured silk. Colin looked up, gauging his reaction, and his smile broadened, but he gave no other sign that he'd noticed. It would have been the easiest thing in the world for Thom to flee, to save himself; but there was a twinge of sick fascination behind his horror now, and he was caught up in the unbearable tension between Colin, cool and unruffled and elegant, and Florian, red-faced and flustered and looking as though he would rather be anywhere but there.

With all the easy grace of a cat, Colin slid into the chair, and patted his lap. “I think you know what to do,” he said to Florian, who moved forwards like a man condemned to the gallows. Before Thom was quite sure what had happened, the boy was draped face-down over Colin's thighs with his trousers bunched around his knees, and his mouth went horribly dry. The boy wasn't wearing anything under the trousers, and his bared behind was flawlessly smooth, pale as alabaster, like that of a statue or a runway model; that changed quickly, however, as Colin raised his hand and brought it down sharply on the exposed skin, leaving an imprint that turned almost instantly the same shade of scarlet as the boy's face. He didn't make a sound, though; instead, he'd grasped onto the legs of the chair with both hands, so hard that his knuckles were white.

Thom said nothing, although he couldn't help from flinching when the second blow landed with a noise like a whipcrack, right beside the first. There was nothing he could say, and Colin clearly meant this to be for him, set up so that he could see and hear everything; he wasn't about to hurt Colin's feelings, even for the sake of comfort and decency. Colin's own face was expressionless, his mouth a firm thin line and his eyes like chips of black ice, pupils heavily dilated. He didn't speak either, so the only sounds were those of flesh against flesh, the hiss of cotton and nylon as the boy squirmed, the occasional creak of the chair, and the pounding of Thom's heart in his ears. He felt ill; he couldn't tell whether it was because what he saw disgusted him, or whether he was disgusted by his own visceral reaction to it, because his body couldn't lie to him and it was telling him that regardless of his conscience he liked this a lot.

Was it the flex of long, slender fingers in stark contrast to the dark woodgrain of the chair? The shades of the boy's skin, creamy white bleeding gradually into hues of pink and red? The slight darkening of the boy's hair at the nape of his neck where it was dampened by sweat? Or was it instead the clinical precision in the fall of each blow, the rigid control of that small, deceptively delicate hand? That familiar face, so motionless in its concentration, sheet-white but for the blush of colour across the high cheekbones?

He tried desperately to ignore the rising heat in his groin. It had to be Colin's intention that he would feel this... a need to climb down from the bed and force the two on the chair apart, although he wasn't sure whether he would take over from Colin or ignore Florian completely, push Colin back and cover that prim mouth with his own. Colin didn't stop until he was drawing a gasp from the boy with each slap, a breathless, choked sound that aroused Thom beyond all reason. When he finally lowered his hand, the boy lay there a while longer, hands clenching and unclenching jerkily, trying to disguise his stifled sobs.

“You can go,” Colin said eventually, standing up so that Florian slid to the floor at his feet. The boy scrambled up quickly, buttoning his trousers and averting his eyes from both of them. “I hope you'll do as you're told in future. I won't forget,” Colin added ominously, and the boy bolted for the door, slamming it shut behind him.

Colin stretched and yawned, loosening his tie with one hand while looking down to inspect the palm of the other. “I think this calls for more wine,” he said to no one in particular, apparently impervious to Thom's shocked gaze. He picked up the glass he had used previously and walked round the side of the bed to the table where the bottle still stood, filled the glass and passed the bottle to Thom, who continued to stare at him. “Is there a problem?” he asked innocently, rolling the glass between his hands to soothe his sore palm.

Thom opened his mouth, realised that he hadn't a hope of expressing himself adequately in that moment, and stuttered. “Um... no,” he mumbled, feeling his cheeks turn the same colour as Florian's backside had been. He looked away, drinking the wine straight from the neck of the bottle, and Colin tsked, sitting down beside him and gently taking it from him.

“You can't drink something like that from the bottle, Thom,” he said, sounding vaguely scandalised. He put the wine and the two glasses back on the table, and let one hand rest on Thom's shoulder, trying to turn him to face him; when Thom couldn't meet his eyes, he let the hand fall, drifting down Thom's front where the crisp material of his shirt was damp with cooling sweat, to rest lightly on the hot mound in Thom's trousers. “Oh, Thom. I told you I'd teach you.” To Thom's surprise, he sounded a little sad, and reluctantly he raised his gaze to Colin's face. Colin was looking at him with an odd mix of frustration and tenderness.

“What was that?” Thom asked, gesturing helplessly to the chair. Colin sighed, giving a rueful smile.

“A lesson. For him. For you. Perhaps even for me. One of many.”

“And... he likes that? He lets you do that?”

Colin shrugged, his hand moving backwards and forwards a little, and Thom shifted, unconsciously giving him better access. “He could have walked away at any time. I won't force anyone into it, if that's what you mean – physically or otherwise. I don't know that he likes it, exactly, but... it's... well, it's necessary.”

“And you -”

“I am not the issue, Thom,” Colin said, cutting him off swiftly. “Now... you can't go back out there like this. Hmm.” He was undoing the button of Thom's trousers one-handed as he spoke, sliding down the zip, slipping cool fingers through the opening of Thom's boxers to skate tantalisingly along his length before drawing it out. A small voice in the darkest recesses of Thom's head was screaming at him to stop it now while they could still laugh it off, but for some strange reason he paid it no heed; and when Colin ducked his head down and Thom's cock was suddenly enveloped in the velvety wet tightness of a warm mouth, it took only a few passes of an artful tongue and the barest hint of suction before he was coming harder than he could ever remember coming before.

Colin swallowed, his dazed mind registered with the intent of filing that information away for future reference. His oldest friend was wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning at him giddily as he sat back. “There, now. That was tidier than the alternative, wasn't it?” He picked up the full glass of wine again and took a sip, lounging against the cushions. “Close your mouth, for heaven's sake. You look like a startled guppy.”

Carefully, Thom tucked himself back in and made himself as presentable as possible given the circumstances, all the while painfully aware of Colin watching him appraisingly over the rim of the glass. “I think I'm going home,” he said eventually, crawling to the edge of the bed and shoving his feet into his abandoned shoes.

Colin looked for a moment as though he was going to object, but then, unexpectedly, he nodded. “I think that would be the best solution, for now,” he murmured, running the tip of one finger over his lower lip. “Go on, then. You'll be here on Monday, I trust.” He took another sip of the wine, his expression thoughtful. “There's someone I'd like you to meet.”

Thom couldn't understand the little chill that rippled through his chest, spreading out from his heart. He shook himself. “Er... yeah. I guess so. Well... g'night, Coz.”

“Good night, Thom,” Colin said softly, staring into the depths of his glass.

---

Back in the confines of his own home on the other side of the town centre, Thom splashed cold water onto his face as he stared at his reflection in the mirror over the bathroom sink. He'd almost expected that he would be able to see a change in his appearance, that the evidence of what had happened at the club would be scribbled all over his features, but he looked just as he had always done. He wasn't sure whether to be disappointed or relieved.

He changed out of the suit, dragging on a ratty old t-shirt and jogging bottoms, and resolved to visit the dry-cleaners again tomorrow. The suit wasn't necessarily dirty, but he had no doubt that it would feel odd to put it back on given what he'd done in it less than an hour before. He wondered if he ought to buy a second one; from what he'd seen, he wasn't entirely sure that it would be deemed acceptable to turn up time after time in the same old suit and tie. He wondered if Colin had more than one suit – he seemed like a one-suit man, if there was such a thing, especially given the fate that most of his classier garments seemed to suffer.

There was a message from Jonny on the answering machine. “Hi, Thom... I tried calling, but Cozzie mentioned you two were going out tonight. I guess you've already gone. Um, you wanted me to remind you to schedule rehearsals for this week. Coz says not for next Saturday because he's got to go down to London for something. Um... I think that's it. See you.” Thom barely registered a word of it, digging through the kitchen cupboards for a handful of dry Frosties; it was only when the tape started to repeat itself that he took notice.

Jonny's voice sounded a lot like Colin's on the phone.

Thom's cock stirred, and he dropped the cereal, which flew across the floor in all directions. It was Jonny. He shook himself violently. Jonny. Jonny who blushed at the mere mention of sex, who was thankful for missing luscious naked groupies at his hotel room door, who Thom most certainly shouldn't be springing an erection over just because of an answerphone message. It was the voice, that was it; that and the resemblance to Colin, who was naturally associated with sex in Thom's addled mind at present. Coming to a decision, he opened the freezer and stuck his hands into the icebox, counting to sixty; then he withdrew them and shoved them down the front of his trousers, an old trick he'd learned while he was still in school. It never failed to work, and tonight was no exception. He hastily shut off the answering machine before the tape rewound, although his hands were shaking hard enough that even that simple task was difficult. He needed sleep. He needed to sleep for a month. No, a year. Then perhaps he could wake up and everything would be back to normal.

It was going to be a long week.