Hiya, I hope you’ve had a splendid scoffalot… I have finally started work on the last edits of Hangover #3: Hangover the Rainbow.
As I’ve inundated you with Beastly Business since Halloween, Easter—season of renewal—seemed the perfect time to start afresh with a new snippet of an old favourite…
(Please excuse errors…my own edits.)
Hangover The Rainbow
“Welcome home, I left in a hurry, so it might be a bit of a mess…” Callum admitted, unlocking the front door.
“A mess? Blimey…” Daniel gaped in mock shock; wide-eyed, lips parted in a soft ‘o’. “Are you trying to finish me off today, dear hubby?”
“Less hassle than a divorce…and I get to keep the house.” Cal shrugged.
“Skint-flint. You’re bloody loaded. I’d be left squatting in the shed.”
“Starving artist, you are not. No matter how rosy-tinted your specs are.”
“Am too. Famished, in fact.” Dan sniffed, wriggling out of his coat. His hat had…seen better days but survived. Just about. If only that remained true for the foolhardy scraps of Cal’s sanity.
“When did you last eat?” Callum couldn’t help but smirk, the answer being a dead cert.
“I dunno…but you know that’s got doodly-squat to do with it.”
“You were full-up an hour ago,” Callum pointed out. Pointlessly.
“Hmm…so I was. But I have a fast metabolism…” Everlasting arms wound around Cal’s waist, for all the world as if to proffer proof of that fact. From behind.
“D’you suppose I hadn’t noticed before you parked that there? Wouldn’t you rather have your wedding present first?”
“Really! You’ve written it!?”
“Put me down, you pillock!” Cal shrieked when he found himself whisked off his feet and whirled in sick-bucket circles. “I’ve got a few lyrics worked out, that’s all!” A sudden halt later, his hand was snatched up as Dan all but sprinted for the spiral stairs.
“Let me get my jacket and boots off, y’nutter,” Callum chuntered, yanking his fingers free after staggering into the studio. “Go and pour some drinks.”
“Okey dokey. Hurry up, though.” Dan called over his shoulder as he scurried off to fetch a couple of glasses.
After shrugging off said accoutrements, Cal collected his guitar from its customary corner. Excellent. Now he had to sing the bloody thing without even road-testing it first. He clearly hadn’t thought this through…again; a fact he’d found himself thinking far too often of late. Of late…? Five years just about covered it. Odd that. Even then, Cal sure as shit hadn’t expected to eclipse his former efforts quite so spectacularly. F’fucksakes…
‘I’ve dumped too much crap on you over the last few days to work out what finally put the tin hat on it…’
‘You haven’t, you daftie. You married me. There was nothing I wanted more in all the world…’
A desire Cal had somehow remained oblivious to. Daniel had never even hinted around the subject but then, he’d never asked Callum to ‘come out’ either. There had been specific incidents that made Dan throw a fit—or shutter himself off—when they couldn’t attend functions as a ‘couple’…but he’d never issued an ultimatum. Nor pleaded for the public recognition he deserved.
The only convention Cal had ever known Dan to abide by was sticking his paintbrushes in a pot of white spirits to soak. He paid no mind whatsoever to his effect on others, if he even noticed. Callum could only affect nonchalance—Dan’s oft cited ‘cool as fuck’ was but a façade Cal slipped on with some shades and his leather to face the world. Or indoors, for Daniel—worn with sod all else—on occasion. ‘Callum Carter’ was poles apart from the man Cal knew himself to be.
Not a single thing had led him to expect that Daniel Flynn, enfant terrible, might yearn for something as conformist and confining as marriage. The workings of that brilliant, baffling brain would forever perplex lesser mortals—that much was a given—but married? Dan? Cal had never imagined those two words might ever share the same page, let alone sentence. Particularly as a declaration of status.
Discovering that Dan was in fact a Martian would’ve been less staggering than the dreams he’d never once let slip from the loosest lips on the planet. Lips that had been dead set on driving Cal demented from the day they met. In every way Dan elected to wield them. Nevertheless, Callum sure as hell hadn’t expected them to excel themselves by…keeping schtum. In truth, Cal had thought them as incapable of restraint as the rest of his deadly beloved. Would Daniel ever cease to astound him? That seemed about as probable as Callum Flynn-Carter reclaiming his single surname status.
Weary of mental machinations (which rarely went anywhere worth visiting) on the drive home, Cal had determined on rustling up some lyrics for Dan’s ‘wedding present’. Efforts that didn’t prove as unproductive as he’d feared. Upon arrival in Hampstead, Cal had managed to cobble a few verses together: enough to play for Daniel…as a welcome home surprise of sorts. Strewth, their only day off for the foreseeable, and matters had spiralled horribly out of hand. Oddly ’nuff…
“Okay, I’m ready,” Dan announced, plonking himself on the sofa, all eyes. Ears.
“It’s really rough, don’t expect much,” Cal warned.
“Oh shurrup, I only care that you’ve written it, I’m not fussed if you bloomin’ gargle it,” Dan promised, picking up his gin…in order to demonstrate. With forty percent proof mouthwash.
Callum sat down and hefted his guitar into his lap, downing a healthy gulp of whisky to wet his whistle before strumming the opening bars. The subject of the song was lit up like Christmas, even before Cal started to sing…