Maybe picking up on the tension, Ash said, “I’m sure he appreciated your help tonight, you know.”

Fizz looked at him. He hadn’t thought of that before. How dense...

“Yeah,” he said. “I hope so. He’s...he’s a good guy.”

“Definitely,” Ash agreed. “Him and Pete let us practise for free.”

“Yeah.”

They were both smiling again. Fizz marvelled at how easy it felt, to smile at Ash and watch him

smile back. Scary, but easy. Don’t rush, he pleaded silently. Don’t rush.

“Relax.”

Fizz tensed. That voice. Before, it had calmed him, but now... Where the hell was it coming from?

He had this crazy urge to ask Ash if there was someone stood behind him, perhaps leaning down,

whispering in his ear. Fizz knew that was ridiculous, but now he’d pictured that image in his head, he

had trouble not thinking about it.

Chapter Eight

The dream was so vivid, it almost felt real. Ginger was there. Of course, pretty much all of his

dreams revolved around Ginger. The dream started with them talking then, just like that, they were

kissing. Ryan felt the warm press of lips against his, the hard planes of Ginger’s body. He wrapped his

arms around Ginger’s neck, and clung on tight. His feet weren’t touching the ground, he simply

floated. “Daniel.” He spoke without words, somehow knowing he’d be heard. “Daniel, I love you. I

love you so much, please –”

It wasn’t real. Even as he held onto Ginger, relishing touching him, he knew it wasn’t real. As much

as Ryan wanted this, it was never going to happen. A sob wracked his throat, and he felt an

overwhelming urge to cry.

Ryan opened his eyes, and the dream was over. He stared up at the wall. Posters of Jake Gyllenhaal

and Johnny Depp stared impassively back at him. Waking so suddenly brought mixed feelings. While

Ryan had been happily living in his own fantasies for some time now, he couldn’t deny they were

starting to do more bad than good if he woke up feeling this depressed. His face was wet. Scrubbing at

his eyes, he kidded himself that he hadn’t been crying.

No point going back to sleep. Light shone around his curtains, which meant it wasn’t night any

more, and that meant he could finally go to the bathroom without worrying about any strange noises,

or footsteps or...

Anything else.

Ryan felt uneasy about those noises, especially at night. He could’ve sworn he kept hearing

someone laugh. It wasn’t a happy laugh either, it was more of a mocking laugh. Like someone was

laughing at him. The sounds filtered up the stairs, along the halls, but never seemed to come from one

direction at any one time. It was just everywhere. And always when he was on his own.

To combat lone trips to the bathroom at night, Ryan had stopped drinking fluids before going to

bed. During the night, he held onto his full bladder as long as possible. At this rate, he’d need to buy a

bed pan.

Ryan stretched in his bed, about to get up. Then he frowned, and looked down. What was that wet

patch? He pulled back the duvet. In stunned horror, he stared down at himself and the sticky mess all

over his pants and sheets. He hadn’t had a dream like this in years. Not since he was a teenager. Now

he’d have to wash his sheets and have a shower. And hope nobody found out about it.

“Great,” he muttered. “Just great.”

Dragging himself out of bed, Ryan tried to think about other things as he bundled his laundry into a

pile. He’d put new sheets on his bed later; he couldn’t be bothered right now. He stripped off and

grabbed his towel. Holding it loosely around his body, he poked his head out into the hall.

Quiet. But that was normal, as it was still early. Well, early for the pub. Obviously no one else was

up yet, which hopefully meant there would be lots of hot water.

Tip-toeing over the carpet and down the hall, Ryan slipped into the bathroom, closing and locking

the door. He turned on the shower head and pulled the curtain across the bath, waiting for the water to

heat up. Sometimes it took forever and a day.

In the meantime, he hung up his towel and relieved his aching bladder. Ryan tried not to stare into

the grimy filth of the toilet bowl as he peed. Someone was going to have to clean that soon. Someone,

as in, him. He sighed, closed the lid, and flushed. The cistern made a clanking sound, then the most

horrendous noise. Ryan frowned at it, wondering what was wrong. The pipes seemed to rattle, and

Ryan jumped in fright when a deep, long note reverberated through the pipe work. That was bound to

wake everyone up. Ryan thought it rather sounded like a ship coming in to dock. He prayed this didn’t

mean the toilet was about to break down.

Well, there was nothing he could do about it right now.

Sticking his hand under the shower spray of water, Ryan was quietly amazed to find it was hot. He

stepped into the bath and stood under the shower head. He used a blob of his two-in-one shampoo and

conditioner to wash his hair, which made multi-coloured streams of dye run down his body. The

colours pooled in the soap suds at the base of the stall, dyeing the bubbles rainbow shades. Ryan didn’t

care much about his hair. He needed to re-dye it soon anyway. He grabbed shower gel next, and

washed away all the sticky remains from his skin.

Idly, his gaze fell on the items balanced precariously along the rim of the bath. As it was all blokes,

there were a lot of Lynx products, as well as Pete’s L’Oreal for men. Sammy tended to favour the

more extravagant, girly-looking products. He had a collection of interesting looking bath oils and

some glittery, handmade soaps from Lush. The slightly grubby ring around the bath tub also had

remnants of Sammy’s glitter bath-bombs, which everyone knew Matt hated with a passion. Matt was

not a glitter fan.

There were also hair clips, combs, latex gloves and discarded, empty hair dye pots, as well as brand

new pots. Some of them were Ryan’s; he’d started to buy the same brand Ginger used, La Riche. The

little pots of dye were only temporary, but the colours were bright and vibrant. They smelled good too.

Whenever Ryan saw one of those pots, he thought of Ginger’s hair. Ginger had all the best shades

of red, streaks of each one in his hair, so the overall colour was deep and varied. Ryan knew Ginger’s

favourite colours off by heart, as he’d memorised the names printed on their lids. Pillar-box red,

poppy red, fire, rubine, dark tulip, vermilion red.

Sometimes Ryan borrowed a little of Ginger’s pillar-box red to use on his own hair. He liked to

have the streaked rainbow effect in his mowie, and secretly loved having one of Ginger’s colours in

his hair. Ryan caught himself staring at the dye pots, feeling sorry for himself. God, he had to get out

more. He should go on the pull, put himself out there.

How long had it been since he’d had sex anyway? Six months? Seven? The worst part was, he was

starting to get used to it. The dream came back to him, along with the feel of holding Ginger, and

being held in his arms.

Ryan wanted that contact so badly. His body responded to thought, and very quickly he found

himself with a hard on. He stared down at himself. Great. Now what? Although...he was alone.

Under the spray of warm water, Ryan closed his eyes and wrapped his hand around his cock. He let

the memory of the dream invade him; Ginger holding and kissing him. His imagination took hold as

he began to stroke himself purposefully. A sigh escaped his mouth, then turned into a squeal as the

water abruptly lost its heat. Ice cold water now lashed over him, and Ryan fumbled to turn it off. He