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You're Special, So Special, but I'm A...	By : BernieLaraemie Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Elton John Views: 4827 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know Elton John. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-You're Special, So Special, but I'm A...
- 1
Title: You're Special, So Special, But I'm A . . .
Author: Heh Pox
Summary: More than one person saved Elton's life that night.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Elton John/Bernie Taupin
Feedback: Yes, please
Characters: Elton John, Bernie Taupin, Elton's finacée Linda, and some people I made up.
Betas: Captain Spastastic
Disclaimer: Not making money off of this. Really, I'm not sure how I could make off of this. Real Person Slash. Slash.
     Bernie sat, with his notebook in front of him, trying to think. He tapped his pen against the completely blank paper. He stared at the wall. He let favourite songs run through his mind. The paper was still blank.
     He swatted the book to the floor, putting his head down. He couldn't shut out the arguging voices just outside his door.

~ ~ ~

     The pub was calmer. Even the carpet seemed serene after Bernie's escape. He'd picked a secluded spot, away from the few other patrons, some of whom he vaguely recognised. He still didn't have any ideas, but he had his sanity back, certainly. And now he'd be able to hear any ideas that came.
     He looked at the notebook. He hadn't come here to write; he'd come to get away, and only to get away, he realised. Had it gotten that bad? Sharing a flat with Elton and his belligerent fiancée had never seemed a good idea, just a practical one. And his empty notebook sat proudly, vested in empirical evidence.
     Stretching his feet, he sipped his drink. A lack of funds on his account had made it orange juice, but that was fine. He'd make Elton buy him a beer later.
     "Bernie! There you are. I knew you were here." He took a seat, uninvited.
     Blankly, Bernie looked up. He blinked. It was dangerous to think about Elton—especially since he tended to show up, unannounced. But he could always announce himself.
     "Fine, don't say hello." He took a sip of Bernie's orange juice. "That better not be cranberry," Elton said, putting the glass back down.
     That was followed by another blank stare. "Does it look like cranberry juice?"
     "You never know, Bernie. The cranberry is a wily creature." Elton bounced in his chair for a minute, then settled, his excess energy sufficiently dispersed for the moment. "You're not going to say hello?"
     "I'm trying to get over the fact she let you out. All I know, you're not Reg and you could just be his long lost twin, here in front of me."
     Elton looked confused and enlightened at this prospect. "I'm pretty sure I'm me," he decided.
     Bernie looked under the table, and behind Elton. "And she let you out without your leash."
     Elton frowned. "When they say 'get hitched', they don't mean literally, Bernie."
     Cocking an eyebrow, Bernie leaned back in his chair, tipping it a little. "Don't they?" He made a tightening motion around his neck.
     "Oh, come off it! Ooh! I'd like a collar. A nice black one with my name in silver glitter." He looked satisfied with that, but that was only for a moment. "No! No, with white, pearly glitter. Elton," he said, dramatically breathless and spreading his hands.
     Bernie returned to his notebook, and pretended to write. Almost to his amazement, words actually did make it to the paper this time.
     "See, if it was white and black," Elton continued, "it'd go with anything. Except things that don't go with collars, but then it wouldn't matter anyway. No matter what colour it was, it still couldn't go anyway. So it's all versatile–like.
     Bernie sipped his juice, absently nodding and half-heartedly scribbling words on the paper.
     "And I want a crown. A nice big crown. With crystals. No, no—diamonds. A big crown with diamonds. And I could wear it with my collar. And I'd be a very open minded king."
     "Queen," Bernie muttered.
     "Oh, be quiet, Bernie. I didn't ask you." Elton peered at the notebook. "Whatcha writin'?"
     Bernie studied the page. "A song . . .I think."
     "It looks like a song," Elton agreed. "May I see it?"
     Bernie shrugged, tossing the weathered book across the table. "Sure."
     After studying it, Elton deemed them satisfactory lyrics. "It. . .it could use a bridge," he suggested.
     "I'm going to visit my parents next month," Bernie said, taking back the book and contemplating a bridge. "I'm borrowing your car."
     "Too good to take the train?"
     "Yes."
     Elton frowned. "Why does everyone want to borrow my car?" he asked, sounding injured.
     "Because you're the only one anyone knows who actually has a car. Within a five block radius," he added. "Well, a working car, anyway."
     "Mrs. Whitaker in number thirteen has a car," Elton countered.
     "Would you ask her to borrow it?"
     "No," Elton said. "She knows I have a car."
     Bernie shook his head.
     "Lots of people on our floor have a car. That's within a five block radius. And we know lots of them."
     "You know lots of them," Bernie corrected.
     "It's not my fault I'm a social butterfly," Elton replied.
     "The Queen has a car too," Bernie continued. "Would you ask her to borrow it?"
     "No. I wouldn't want to break it. I'd like to play with her dogs, though. They're rather lovely little poochies and puppies, you know, Bernie. I want to get a puppy."
     "Take it up with Linda."
     Elton wasn't really listening, but he was tapping the table, an indication something was on his mind.
     "Yes?"
     "Bernie," Elton started slowly, "Bernie, do you like parties?"
     He shrugged. "Sure, why?"
     "Just curious."
     "I mean, there's different kinds of parties," Bernie said, restlessly looking around the old pub. "But it doesn't matter. Linda's not going to let you go to any."
     "Sod off, Bernie. She's my woman. I mean, I'm a modern man, and I'll treat her right, but she does not tell me what to do."
     "Better tell that to her."
     "You're just jealous because you don't have a woman, Bernie."
     "Oh, why would I need a woman when I have you Elton?" he asked with a shit–eating and sickly sweet smile.
     "I said, sod off, Bernie!"
     "I was here first."
     "It's not my fault I'm a little soft!" Elton continued. "I like a little pink. That doesn't make me a woman."
     "If you say so, Ellen."
     "Dammit, Bernie! If you're going to be like that," Elton picked up the cup of juice and stood, "your orange juice and I are going elsewhere."

~ ~ ~

     Dinner. If there was ever a five-wheeled vehicle in the odd little flat, it was dinner time. Elton, as usual, seemed oblivious to that.
     "Mm, fish. Mm . . .chips." Elton munched on his dinner over-enthusiastically. He mucked the pieces of fried fish and potatoes in various sauces he kept about for just such experiments. "Mm, fish. Fish. Mm . . .chips."
     If he ever needed to hear Elton's internal monologue, Bernie was quite sure that was it. Linda just glared across the table at the display, then to her food. "Do you have to scratch your plate with your fork?" she asked, nearly irate.
     The pair looked up, and noticed she was addressing Bernie.
     "Erm, sorry," he mumbled.
     Elton looked halfway intrigued. "Why are you using a fork to eat chips?" he asked.
     Bernie shrugged. "Something different."
     Shrugging, Elton returned to his own eating endeavours. "Chip," he declared.
     Linda rolled her eyes. Used to it, Bernie was amused.
     "Mm, chip," Elton repeated, picking one up a regarding it in all its greasy splendour. "Chip," and he slid it into his mouth in a particularly phallic display.
     And he and Bernie collapsed into giggles over their dinner.
     "Chip," Bernie stated, picking up the narrative, along with one of his own slivers of potato. "Chip," and he repeated Elton's show, determined to outdo him. Again, fits of giggles.
     Elton's next chip, slated to be even better a show, never made it to his lips.
     "What are you both, twelve?" Linda interjected.
     "Ah, come on." Elton popped the never to be sexual food in his mouth. "We's just havin' some fun."
     "I've got better things to do than watch the two of you fellate your dinners."
     Their smiles fell in unison. Elton blushed. It wasn't fun if she knew.
     "God, do you think I'm stupid?"
     They both knew better than to answer that.
     She settled back to eating her dinner. Assured she wasn't looking up, Elton looked her over shortly. What happened? What was that? They were just having fun—wasn't fun allowed? He recalled her smile and frowned, wondering why he hardly ever saw it anymore.
     "Mm, fish," Elton decided, with less vigour than before.
     Bernie laughed, only a little.

~ ~ ~

     A particularly quiet afternoon. Bernie was sitting on the living room sofa. He was idly involved in his specialty—doing absolutely nothing at all.
     Elton came in, quickly, and peeking around the door before entering like a bandit. He slid in the room with uncharacteristic grace, and dropped to a kneel in front of Bernie. Bernie watched with curiosity. Hadn't Elton had a gig? Hadn't Elton a certain charming awkwardness? He just looked at him; not expectant, not uninterested.
     "Bernie," Elton whispered, leaning forward. "Bernie, do you like parties?"
     "Don't you have a gig?"
     "Shh, and never mind that," Elton hushed Bernie. "Cancelled. Doesn't matter anyway. You like parties?"
     "Why are we whispering?"
     "Bernie! Parties, Bernie!"
     "Okay, okay—but first, why are we whispering?"
     Elton pointed to the hallway. "Linda's in her room. Don't want her to know I'm here. In our room," he corrected.
     "What kind of party?" Bernie asked again. "Is there booze?"
     Elton shrugged. "Not really."
     "Is there music at this party?"
     "Not exactly," he said.
     "Well, are there . . .drugs?"
     "No," Elton replied flatly.
     Bernie gave Elton his 'you're cracked' face. "Then what kind of party is it? No booze, no music, no drugs? Is it a strawberry social? What's at this party that's got you so interested?"
     "Girls, Bernie. Girls!"
     Bernie raised an eyebrow. "That's got you interested?"
     "I like girls plenty, Bernie, don't you start with that." Elton put a hand on the sofa, next to Bernie's thigh, to steady himself. "And there's two girls at this party, Bernie."
     A noise from the vicinity of his bedroom made Elton shake and turn, but he quickly regained composure. "Come on."
     And he pulled Bernie out of the flat, and into the hallway. He stopped near the stairwell, some ten feet from their door. "You like girls; I like girls; there's two girls. Just 'cause you didn't go to school doesn't mean you can't figure it out."
     "I went to school plenty," Bernie refuted.
     "Girls, Bernie."
     "I heard you the first time."
     "Well, you don't sound near interested as you should be—these girls are willing to do things with us."
     "A girl willing to do things with you? She was probably a little strung out, there, Reg."
     "Dammit, Bernie! These are nice, pretty and clean girls. They were talking to me, and they said they wanted some male company. They're lesbian girls, Bernie, and so I guess sometimes they need a man around to do things for them. Are you interested or not? Dammit, Bernie, there's something wrong with you if you're not interested."
     "All right fine, I'm interested. It's just odd. Fishy, even. And what about Linda?"
     "She's never going to find out." Elton leaned closer. "You in?"
     Bernie shrugged. "I guess."
     "Okay. But . . .but there's a thing."
     Instant suspicion garnered in the area of Elton's party invitation. "What kind of thing?" Bernie asked skeptically.
     "They'll do . . .things, if we do something first."
     "What are you talking about?" Bernie asked, hurried.
     "Just a kiss, okay?" Elton raised both hands in a gesture of mute. "Calm down. Just a kiss. But a good kiss, Bernie. An actual kiss."
     Bernie frowned. Lesbians indeed.
     "Oh come on," Elton continued, sounding injured. "We've kissed before."
     "Not in front of anyone!" Bernie countered. "And not a real kiss, either."
     "What do you mean, not a real kiss? Are you saying you didn't mean it?"
     "No, I'm saying that there wasn't a lot to it."
     "You kiss me all the time," Elton replied.
     "On the forehead, on the cheek—"
     "On the mouth," Elton interrupted.
     "Rarely," Bernie added with a drawl.
     "Look, fine," Elton replied. "Just a bit of acting, okay? Kiss me for half a minute, it's over, and then you can watch them and kiss them, okay?"

"Half a minute? You want me to kiss you for a whole thirty seconds?"

Elton put his thumbs in the belt loops of his faded jeans. "Thirty seconds is a short time."

"Thirty seconds is a lot of seconds, Reg."

"It's not a timed thing!" Elton stepped closer, lowering his voice. "You should be interested."

"In kissing you?"

"Just kiss me, go with it, and then that's it. All right? We get to watch them and join in if they like us. Why are you making this so difficult?"

"Why are you hiding all these catches?"

"Catches? It's just a kiss. You've kissed me before. I'm hurt, Bernie."

"Great."

"It's not like we haven't kissed on the mouth before."

"We were drunk."

"Not the second time," Elton fired back.

Bernie opened his mouth, but the planned reply didn't come. "Touché."

"So . . .?"

"Fine."

"Great!"

And Elton pulled him again, down the hall.

~ ~ ~

     "Beer, Bernie?"
     He looked at Elton, taking the bottle desperately, as if it were lifeblood. Together with their neighbours—apparently the closeted lesbian couple Cynthia and Sophie—they sat a well-stuffed and large cream blanket on the floor.
     "Thanks for the beer," Elton said, partaking of his own.
     "We'd have gotten wine, but you didn't give me much time," said the red head. Bernie had neglected to remember their names. It was almost completely surreal here.
     "They cancelled the gig on short notice," Elton explained. "Not many people comin' out tonight."
     "You're not very talkative," the other one said to Bernie.
     "He's just a bit shy," Elton replied for him. "He'll warm up soon enough." Elton giggled shortly. "And then he'll still talk just as much!"
     Bernie smiled weakly and shrugged.
     "He's cute when you get to know him," Elton continued, "and he's a little smarter than he looks. A little."
     "Thanks."
     "And he's just cute," Elton tweaked Bernie's nose.
     "Very cute," the brunette concurred.
     "Sophie, could you hand me that glass?" Elton asked.
     The red head did so. "Where'd you find him?"
     "In the newspaper," Elton said. "They were advertising cute little Bernies with button noses for sale."
     With a laugh, Cynthia stood. "I'll change the record."
     "So, what do you do?" Sophie asked Bernie.
     Bernie turned to Elton, either having a memory lapse or expecting him to answer for him automatically. Or both. "I'm, er . . .I'm a lyricist."
     "Is it easy finding work doing that?"
     "No," Bernie replied.
     "It is when you live with a composer," Elton continued.
     Bernie smiled at Elton.
     "See, he can talk," Elton said. "He's really quite remarkable that way." He playfully leaned over, giving Bernie a suffocating bear hug. Unplanned and childishly, the pair fell over laughing.
     "Are you two drunk?" Cynthia asked. "You've only had three beers between you."
     Elton and Bernie recovered, still half what lounging on the floor. "No, no," Elton said, "we're always like this. He's like a brother." After a second his face fell hot, and he blushed. "Well, sort of a brother." He gave Bernie a hair tousle. During the display, a lamp seemed to have turned itself on and the main light went off. The light levels a direct contrast to before in the now muted room, the pair sat up.
     Sophie leaned forward a little, impish. "You two want to start?"
     Bernie looked alarmed. Elton looked sheepish.
     "Or we can—"
     "No, no," Elton interjected, shaky. "We can start." He turned to Bernie, adjusting his fuzzy orange shirt as he did so. Bernie's clothes also looked a little askew from their playful tumble, so Elton reached over and pulled Bernie's t-shirt back in place. He smiled, with a hint of flirt; Bernie looked nearly ill. "Lighten up, Bernie," Elton whispered. He put a careful hand on Bernie's chest, and moved the other slowly to his shoulder. "We've kissed before."
     Bernie swallowed. "Yeah."
     "You ready?"
     "Would it stop you if I wasn't?"
     Elton flashed a quick, dark smile, shaking his head a little. He moved from sitting to kneeling, using Bernie for leverage, and pressed his tongue to Bernie's mouth. He did not let the barricade of teeth stop him.
     "Wait, wait," Bernie said quickly, reflexively pushing Elton away and nearly knocking him over. "If they . . .if they like girls, why do they want to watch us kiss?"
     "Bernie—" Elton protested.
     "No, no," Sophie said, "we like it."
     Elton turned back to Bernie, completely satisfied with that answer. Turning on some seductive charm, which worked to a point, he put his hand back on Bernie's chest. "Bernie," he put the other hand back on Bernie's shoulder. "Bernie," he whispered.
     Trembling, Bernie leaned back, gripping the blanket with his fist to stop his growing tremours.
     "Bernie," Elton whispered one last time, pushing their mouths together. Elton's hand drifted to Bernie's waist, pulling him closer. Bernie responded by pausing in his shaking, leaning back further.
     "Bernie," Elton said again, during a catch breath. Both hands at Bernie's waist, Elton emitted a quiet moan, moving closer.
     "Elton . . ." Bernie replied in a drifting tone. "I—"
     "Shh," he soothed. "Just relax, Bernie."
     Bernie tried, desperately. Then he started to shake again.
     "Bernie," Elton whispered, almost a question, "Bernie, do you like this?"
     He tried to think of an answer. He didn't have one.
     "Bernie," Elton repeated, softly. "I—"
     Bernie jumped, nearly kicking Elton in the teeth as he stood and backed away. "What the hell was that??"
     "Wot was wot, Bernie?" Elton asked, confused, swallowing and kicking in the gutter accent to add some levity to the increasingly bizarre situation.
     "Your hand!"
     Elton looked at his hand as though he'd never seen it before.
     "Don't think I didn't catch you!"
     "Bernie, I—"
     "I know what you were going to do! Dammit, Elton! I knew it! Look, I'm leaving, all right?" Bernie straightened his clothes and headed for the door. "Goodbye."

~ ~ ~

     Elton returned to the flat, shortly after Bernie did. He found Bernie in his room, sitting quietly on his bed.
     "Bernie?" he prodded. "Bernie, I'm sorry."
     Bernie was still quiet, moving to lean against the headboard of his sizable bed. Well, sizable for one person, anyway. It had been a present from his mother.
     "Bernie, look, I didn't mean nothin' by it . . .I'll be out here in the main room, if you want to talk to me, all right? Or just come out and have a beer. Maybe that whole party thing was a bad idea. I'm sorry, all right? I'll be out here." Not waiting for a response, Elton shut the door carefully, taking a seat on the plush living room sofa.
     It was about fifteen minutes later that Bernie emerged from his room, plunking himself beside Elton. "It's all right," he said, hoarse and near silent.
     "Are you all right?"
     "I'm 'peachy'," Bernie replied, awkwardly.
     Elton frowned. "Okay. But look, I just . . .everything's all right between us, right?"
     Bernie shrugged. "Yeah."
     Elton nodded, knowing that that would have to do. "Good."

~ ~ ~

     "Reg," Bernie called from his room.
     Elton looked up from the television set. "Yeah?"
     "Reg . . .Reg, could you come here? I want to talk to you."
     The confusion at that prospect vanished quickly as Elton flipped the telly off and started for Bernie's bedroom. "Yeah?"
     Bernie leaned over from his bed, swinging the door shut, and locking it. "Sit down."
     Elton hopped on the bed, near the foot. "What's on your mind?"
     "About the other night—"
     "Hey, if you don't want to talk about it, that's your place."
     "No. . .no, i want to explain. And apologize."
     "I pushed you to do something you didn't what to do, I understand. You don't need to say sorry."
     "It's more complicated than that."
     Elton sighed, looking quite nearly wistful. "Isn't it always?"
     "I . . .I wasn't ready."
     "For the wotsit's time, Bernie, I wasn't aimin' to try nothin'. I was just moving my hand, that's all. I mean, I was trying to balance—"
     "That's not what I meant." Bernie looked at Elton, noting his expectant look. He sighed. "I wasn't ready to do anything. Not with you, and . . .not with them either."
     "I can understand that, I guess," Elton replied. "Not everyone likes a crowd, or an audience."
     "Elton," Bernie began, instantly gaining Elton's attention, "Elton, I'm a virgin."
     Set to yammer, Elton instead looked shocked. "But Bernie, you're beautiful!"
     Bernie laughed a little. "Yeah," he barely agreed.
     "It's admirable of you, at any rate," Elton started again, finding his next vein of thought. "If you tried to keep it, it is. Some people, some people just never lose it." Elton was about to continue that, but another thought popped up. "But Bernie, what about the girls? The town girls and the farm girls and the wotsits."
     "What?"
     "You said back home there were girls, town girls and farm girls and easy ones and wotsits."
     "I lied," he replied flatly.
     "Oh." Elton looked around Bernie's room, suddenly filled with nervous energy. "Okay. So do I get to make fun of you now, Bernie?"
     "No."
     "Ah, come on. I've done something you haven't. That's worth something."
     "Is it?"
     "Sure! It means I have experience and all."
     Bernie frowned, leaning against the upright pillow. "Yeah."
     "So . . .is that what you called me in here to tell me? I mean, I'm not saying it's nothing, but, you know, I was just wondering because you seemed really serious and all."
     "Sort . . .of."
     "All right, I'll bite. What else is on your mind?"
     "I meant to keep it," Bernie continued, looking away. "I wanted to wait."
     "Oh, you mean on that virginity thing. So, you'll wait 'til you're married? I hear some people still do that."
     Bernie frowned, inhaling and exhaling deeply. "At one point . . .at one point that's what I wanted."
     "And then?"
     "Divorce."
     "Wot's that?"
     "Divorce," Bernie repeated. "I'd seen so many people get divorced. So many people unhappy in marriages they were stuck in. So many people that didn't like where marriage had taken them."
     "Well, I don't think it's so bad. I mean, Linda and I are all set. Mind you, we've already slept together, of course."
     "I'm not saying anything against marriage. I've seen happy couples. Couples that greatly benefited from each other. My parents are still married and they still care about and nurture each other."
     "So, what, I'm getting a mixed message. You don't want to wait until you're married? Or you do?"
     "I . . .I decided it didn't matter. I could wait until I was married. But I decided that it shouldn't be that simple. I wanted to wait for someone who was special. Someone I could relate to; someone that respected me and cared about—" Bernie swallowed, nervousness cascading at that moment. He scratched the back of his neck. "Anyway, marriage was a possibility. If I found a girl I liked, then I'd wait until I'd married her, and all that."
     "So . . .then," the same nervous cascade was becoming evident in Elton. "If you find a girl you like, you'll marry her and wait until your wedding night—but wot's that got to do with divorce?"
     "It doesn't. Not in that scenario, anyway."
     "What if she's married, then? Is that your scenario?"
     Bernie shrugged. "It could've been."
     "It's not?"
     "Not anymore."
     "So what's changed?"
     "I . . .I don't really . . .really want to wait, anymore," he choked out.
     Elton smiled. "I wouldn't want to wait anymore either," he agreed.
     "I waited for someone special," he repeated, more to himself.
     "And now you're not?"
     Bernie nodded.
     "Loss of resolve? Will?"
     "When do you stop looking for something?"
     "When you give up?"
     "When you've found it."
     "Like when—" Elton's jaw dropped.
     Bernie looked at him intensely. "I've never been closer to anyone in my life."
     "Bernie—"
     "If I wait until I find someone I connect with more, I'll die a virgin," Bernie finished with a frightening and serious air.
     Elton's eyes darted from side to side. "Erm, then . . .Bernie, I'm getting an odd signal here."
     "You should be." Bernie sat up, and crawled over to sit next to Elton. "I can't think of anyone I'd . . .that I'd want to . . . ."
     Elton was still. "Bernie, look, I don't know what you're thinking. I'm not . . .it's not like—it was just a kiss the other night, and that hand wasn't going anywhere—"
     "Elton," Bernie said firmly, silencing the tirade. Bernie carefully took one of Elton's hands, placing it between his own. "Elton, when you kissed me," he forced out, "it scared me. I was thinking about you for awhile and I wasn't sure if that's what I wanted. I'm still not sure. But I know if I wait, I'm just going to keep thinking about it."
     "So now I'm just something you dwell on?" Elton asked, injured.
     "No, no. I . . .I just don't know what to tell you. I'm . . .I find you . . .attractive," Bernie choked on the words.
     "You . . .you do?"
     "Yeah," Bernie said with a laugh.
     "Aw, come off it. Look. I'm all fat and bald," he said poking at his hair, "and four-eyed."
     "You're so hard on yourself. You're not fat, you're not bald and you know how to wear those glasses."
     "I'm not attractive, Bernie. You've been spending too much time around me, or sniffing glue or something."
     "You've got a great smile," Bernie started, looking at his feet. "And you should smile more. And you've got a great laugh, and your eyes."
     Elton smirked. "The ones you can't remember the colour of?"
     "I told you I was sorry."
     "And I said it was okay, silly."
     "And you're not fat." Bernie put a hand on Elton's waist. "How about comfortably round?"
     "Oh, thanks, Bernie."
     "No, really. I mean it. You're not incredibly thin, but you're not fat either. You've got some pounds on you and you carry every one of them with such confidence." Bernie mustered up the courage to face Elton. "I envy that."
     Elton gave up a small smile, taking off his glasses and placing them on the night table. "It's a sad world when someone envies my confidence," he said sourly.
     "You don't give yourself near enough credit. You're talented—"
     "Oh, that again! That's all anyone says I'm ever good for. 'You're so good at that, Reg.' 'You sing pretty well, Reg.' 'You must have taken lessons for a long time, son.' "
     "I think they just see something in you that you don't. You are talented—and not just at the piano. You make people happy. You know how to relate to people. You know what to say. You know how to get things together, to get things moving. That takes a special person, Elton."
     Elton frowned. "So I can work with people. I'm still fat and bald and all that. What's so great about me," he finished, his voice about to break.
     Bernie started to cry. "Reg, you're special. Admit that. At least to yourself. Please."
     Elton started crying too. "No, I'm not! I'm not anything. I won't be anything! Dammit, Bernie! It's all just nothing, all right? Nothing ever happens, nothing ever goes anywhere—"
     Bernie pulled Elton to his shoulder. "Calm down, shh," he whispered. "You're much too hard on yourself."
     "So? I should be. No one else seems to be."
     Bernie held him at arm's length. "Because they see the great person you are." He handed Elton a tissue. "You're a beautiful person."
     "No, I'm not."
     "Beauty isn't skin deep. Beauty is in the flesh as much as it's in the soul, and all anyone ever sees when they look at you is that complete, full and special beauty that you can't help but exude."
     Elton's tears halted. "Bernie—"
     "I'll be waiting the rest of my life to try and find someone more special to me than you are."
     Elton shivered. "Bernie, I . . .I'm nothing compared to anyone else."
     "You don't compare at all to anyone else. I've told you things I've never told anyone else. I spend more time with you than anyone. I care about you more than I care about anyone else. So we don't need to talk about anyone else."
     Elton tried to speak, but could only cry a little instead.
     "It's up to you, Reg. I hope you can learn to love yourself as much as I do, and I'd be honoured if . . ." Bernie choked, forcing out the last words, "if you'd have me."
     Elton swallowed again. "I'd—I'd . . .I don't . . . ."
     "If you don't want—"
     "No, no, I. . .I . . . ." Elton started crying again in earnest. "I can't, Bernie! I mean, I'm not, Bernie. I don't . . .it's just that, I mean, oh God, Bernie," he whimpered, letting Bernie stroke his back.
     "I'm not going to make fun of you if you do," Bernie replied. "I'd be in no place to call you a woman after that."
     Elton looked up. "You're serious about this," he said blankly.
     "Terminally."
     Elton sat up, moving back from Bernie a little. "Where . . .where should I start, if you're really serious about this?"
     Bernie shrugged. "You're the one who's done this before. You're the one who seemed eager enough the other night."
     "That was different," Elton insisted. "That was because it was part of the . . .of the whole, thing," he decided.
     "It doesn't matter what it was," Bernie finished.
     "You didn't seem to like it."
     "I told you," Bernie repeated, "I was scared. I'd thought about it, it wasn't real and then you . . .you kissed me and then it was and it was all . . .all so different about it then. It threw me off of everything that I thought I was and everything I thought I knew and believed."
     "How much time do you spend a day thinking about yourself, the universe and everything?" He sniffled as his tears subsided.
     "About as much time as you spend talking," Bernie replied with a smirk.
     Elton smiled, his depression fading. "Where . . .where should I start?"
     Bernie shrugged. "You could kiss me."
     Elton beamed. "Bernie," he breathed.
     "Reg," Bernie said quietly, trembling and sounding distanced.
     Bernie hit the pillow before he realised what happened. Elton's hair, somewhere between brown and dirty blonde, moved across his face, tickling his lips and nose. He felt Elton's wet tongue on his neck, followed by the slight pressure of his teeth in the same spot.
     He gasped, nearly whispering Elton's name, but bit his lip.
     Elton continued, his smooth hands sneaking into Bernie's shirt. "Bernie," he whispered, his lips close to Bernie's ear and sending a chill down his spine. "Bernie," he repeated, pressing his lips to Bernie's ear.
     He yelped, which surprised him. The tremours were back in his hands, and worsened as he held back every reaction Elton caused.
     "Bernie," Elton said, shifting and squatting to kneel beside and slightly on top of Bernie. He undid some of the buttons on his trousers. "Touch me, Bernie."
     Bernie stared. His hands were nearly shaking too much to control their movements, but he managed to rest one of them on Elton's forearm.
     "No, no," Elton lowered himself, half lying on top of Bernie but keeping both his hands free. "No, Bernie, touch me."
     Bernie jumped, moving away. "I . . .I can't." He stood, getting off the bed and standing near his window. The moon didn't offer him advice; couldn't tell him where to go or what to do. The stars offered no solace, and the sky looked too calm. There was unrest—and, dammit, but nature was to reflect that. In all of Bernie's readings, the night sky had been a place of unrest for the tempestuous heart. No mirror, no help. The calm itself beckoned him, it was all right, to continue. "I can't," he repeated.
     Elton sat up, straightening his clothes. He tried to do up his trousers, but they were tight enough as it was, let alone in the state he was in. He compromised, pulling the blanket over himself, suddenly feeling very naked. "I don't know what you want Bernie." There was a weak point sounding in his voice. "You say you want me; you push me away; you tell me you love me and care about me, tell me it's not like that; tell me it is like that—"
     "I'm sorry," Bernie said, shutting his eyes tightly. "I thought I could."
     "Maybe you don't want to do this." Elton twisted his hands into the plush comforter. Some comforter it was, not living up to its name. "Maybe you don't want me."
     "I . . .I do," Bernie admitted softly. "I, I . . .that is . . .I just . . .it's not, Elton, I don't . . . ."
     "I understand," he replied, with more pain torturing his voice than Bernie had ever heard. "It's all right. I get it."
     Bernie heard the rustling of blankets and feet hitting the floor. "No, don't," he pleaded softly through tears as he heard the knob begin to turn slowly.
     "Bernie," Elton said, clearly sobbing, "Bernie, I can't do this. You tell me . . .you tell me," Elton's voice cracked, unable to sustain itself with such a loss of moisture so quickly. His throat hurt, and it scratched. "You're crushing me," Elton's sobs reached a very audible level, and even his breathing could be heard, frighteningly laboured. "Do you think—" Elton choked, a very ugly noise that sounded as painful as it was. "I don't want to sleep with . . .with blokes, you know," he sniffled, "Bernie, I don't want to. But you're . . .you're . . .special," he admitted. "I love you so much." That admission helped to calm him. "And you don't want to sleep with blokes," the sobs returned, full force, along with the cracking voice that barely kept together. "So why are we bothering? Why, Bernie, is this so perverted?"
     Bernie wasn't sure what Elton meant. It hadn't been coherent, but his thoughts were zipping around so fast he could hardly blame Elton for being in a same place. Maybe it did make sense, and his comprehension was too foggy to grasp it. The knob started to turn again.
     "Don't go," Bernie begged softly.
     Elton cried so deeply Bernie could hear the chest heaving it required for him to breathe through dried lungs. "Bernie," he cried, higher in pitch. "Bernie, please—"
     "Please, Elton," Bernie pleaded. "Please, stay."
     The knob made some more noise, but the noise of returning to its normal, idle position. From the noises, Bernie determined that Elton was still standing at the door.
     Using every ounce of courage, Bernie turned around. He still couldn't bring himself to look at Elton. "Maybe if we put on some music?" he suggested.
     Elton wiped his tears on his sleeve, trying to get a hold of himself before turning to face Bernie. He didn't look at him though. "Something angry," Elton said. "Something . . .dark and idle."
     Bernie looked confused and looked up, noting Elton's disheveled and red-eyed appearance. "What?"
     "I want to hear something dark and idle," he said.
     "You said something angry," Bernie replied.
     "No, I want to hear something dark. Not angry."
     "Dark and idle," Bernie said to himself, fishing through his albums. He selected one, placing it on the dusty turntable and setting the needle. "We have to keep it turned down," and a voice, guitars, piano and drums rang out over the tension.
     "Okay," Elton deemed the music selection good.
     Bernie made it back to his bed with heavy steps. "Join me?"
     "So you can push me away? Again?"
     A tear fell down Bernie's cheek. "I . . .I won't."
     "I can't take it if you do, Bernie."
     "I won't, Elton," he said firmly. "I swear I won't."
     "Words are splendid, Bernie," Elton said, still standing in the dark, by the door, away from the light of the moon.
     Bernie shook his head. "I'm sorry, I'm . . .I'm getting used to this."
     "Why should we? It's wrong, Bernie." Elton sniffled again. "Blokes don't . . .they don't, Bernie." A criminal amount of loathing scraped his voice.
     "I don't know why," sang the voice from the speakers, "nobody told you," it continued.
     "Why not? It's been done for ages."
     "That doesn't make it right."
     "How to unfold your love . . ."
     "You wanted to kiss me for the girls," Bernie insisted. "You're the one who licked my ear; you're the one said to touch you."
     "Shut up, Bernie," Elton snapped back.
     "Look, we're friends. Sex is a gift, Elton. Look at it that way. This is something we can do for each other."
     "Wot, are you queer or something, Bernie?"
     Bernie was taken aback. "You've never looked at man and thought anything of it, Reg?"
     "Wot's it matter if I have? Everyone does."
     "What about John? He doesn't seem to appalled to be—"
     "You leave him out of this," Elton snapped again, "he's a good man. Just a misguided one."
     "Misguided?" Bernie laughed a little, somewhere between bitter and ironic. "Elton, you were just licking my ear. You wanted me to touch you."
     "I was wrong," he stated darkly.
     "Come to bed," Bernie asked. "Poet's prerogative, you know. Artist's prerogative."
     "Doesn't matter," Elton decided.
     "I won't push you away. I won't."
     Elton moved slowly, sitting on the edge of the bed. "It's wrong."
     "It's not. I'm the closest to you I've ever been to anyone. Please, Reg, let's give this a try." Bernie hazarded the dangerous territory skilfully, but still taking risks. "You can't tell me you don't want to."
     Elton gave Bernie a pained look, turning to face him and moving the rest of him likewise. "You wouldn't respect me."
     "I'll respect you more," Bernie insisted.
     Elton looked at him, feeling that panic well up inside him. He let himself sink into the infectuous melody, paining to stop the attack. "Promise?"
     "Promise," Bernie said with a smile, fighting off his own nerves.
     Elton moved closer, into the light from the window, which highlighted both his reddened eyes and soft, ivory cream skin. Closing his eyes, he pushed their mouths together.
     "I don't know why, you were diverted," sang the disembodied voice, "you were perverted, too," it commented, perhaps apt.
     "Bernie," Elton whispered, putting his hands on Bernie's waist, "Bernie, I don't know—"
     "You will."
     "No one alerted you . . . "
     Bernie pulled Elton's arms until he was closer; he moved his legs so that Elton was effectively sitting between them. "I'll touch you," he decided, torn between his mind's assualt and the actions of his hands.
     "Bernie—"
     Bernie pushed himself closer, and his hands inside the front of Elton's already open trousers, instantly meeting hard flesh and heat.
     "Bernie," Elton gasped, breaking the kiss.
     "Elton," Bernie replied impishly, "Elton," he repeated, near breathless.
     Elton, unaware of the internal war that Bernie waged, tried to find a place he'd been before—the one where kissing Bernie was easy, effortless and extraordinary. The place where having Bernie was a delicacy fit for royalty. He couldn't find it, not mentally, but his hands were willing to shoot for it in the dark.
     "Elton," Bernie said again, as an address, "sit like this," he commanded, moving Elton to a half lounging position. "Take off your shirt."
     He paused, uncertain, afraid. He looked to the door, petrified he was going to get caught. On auto-pilot, he removed the light shirt and tossed it to the foot of the bed. "Shut the curtains," he demanded.
     "Why?"
     "I don't want anyone to see."
     "We're five floors up, Elton. No one's ever going to see. Besides, we need some light."
     Elton pulled up the blankets to his chest, a security blanket wall between himself and supposed immorality. "Shut the curtains," he repeated.
     "Linda's not going to see or hear; she's still on the next floor up—"
     "Bernie," Elton insisted firmly.
     Bernie stood, walking again to the window, his previous gaze at the stars only five minutes before seeming a century past. He pulled the sash, bidding a silent goodbye to the moon. The curtains drawn, Bernie walked back to the bed that took up so much of his little room.
     "I'm not afraid she'll see," Elton continued, perhaps trying to diffuse a situation with his constant talking ability as he often did. "She often up there, with her friends, and she never comes back until morning."
     "She might be cheating on you," Bernie said, much more seriously than he'd intended. "I mean—"
     "If I could be so lucky," Elton replied. "She'd fry me as it is for being like this, about to . . .play about in your room, like this."
     "Death by firing squad," Bernie suggested.
     "Torture," Elton said with a shake of his head. "Being shot is too quick."
     "Should we worry about that now?"
     Elton looked at Bernie intensely. "We've got plenty else to be concerned about."
     "Don't worry about it," Bernie said, leaning back for kiss. "Don't let on," Bernie kissed Elton's cheek softly, a motion he'd done countless times before that thankfully did serve to return the mood. "Elton," he breathed.
     Elton said nothing, instead moving his hands impulsively to Bernie's waist, fiddling with the buttons. He wrestled with Bernie's trousers, and after mild acrobatics they reached the floor.
     "Elton," Bernie stroked his chest, "are you afraid?"
     "Why?"
     "I didn't want to be the only one," he admitted, sliding his hands along the base of Elton's neck. "I have no idea what I'm doing."
     "It's nice," Elton said unconvincingly. He toyed with the top of Bernie's pants, sliding his finger just a little inside, wondering what happened to the energy that had been so strong only a few minutes before.
     Bernie took Elton's face in both hands, kissing him firmly and pulling back. He smiled, nervous, and laughed. "God, Elton, I have no clue what I'm doing."
     "Just pick something and stick with it," Elton advised. "Like anything you were doing before, but just keep doing it."
     Bernie looked at Elton curiously. "Why aren't you smiling? Why aren't you doing anything? Aren't you into this?"
     "I'm just . . .I'm waiting for you to push me away again," he admitted.
     Bernie hugged him, moving his hands back to between Elton's legs. "I won't."
     Elton gasped, first looking in pain, and then licking his lips. "Lick your fingers," he commanded.
     Bernie looked at his hands strangely, then did as he was told. "Is that better?"
     "Just do what you'd do to yourself," Elton said, leaning forward. "And I'll . . ." he chose not to continue speaking, sticking his tongue into Bernie's mouth as far as he could, sinking into the feeling.
     Bernie used his free hand to take off his shirt. As soon as it was off, Elton's hands made quick work of feeling around. "Touch me," Bernie begged, slowly stroking Elton's cock.
     Elton kept his eyes closed, pressed their cheeks together, and grabbed Bernie tightly in his fist. Spitting on his hands, Elton rubbed the head of Bernie's cock until Bernie couldn't bite back the noises his body screamed to make.
     "Fuck me, Elton, please," Bernie pleaded suddenly, barely able to catch breath.
     Elton sat back just as suddenly, pulling his hands away. "You want . . ."
     Bernie, too, was just hearing the words he said. He couldn't bring himself to say them again, so turned away, blushing, and nodded.
     Usually regarding himself as equal in most ways to Bernie, Elton saw a façade vanish and Bernie was revealed to be the still young, virginal teenager he really was. Elton often thought of Bernie as much older, suddenly he was much younger. Just a boy, even.
     "Please," Bernie whispered, stripped of the maturity beyond his years.
     Elton slowly moved his hands to his mouth, working up the spit before he released it on his hands, and spread it on his cock. "Lay down," he commanded.
     Bernie did so, stretching out. "Lie down," he corrected.
     "Don't play smart with me, boy." Elton looked around, eyeing the cushion on Bernie's bedside chair. "Pass me that cushion."
     "Why?" he asked, handing it over.
     "You want this, don't you?" he asked, motioning Bernie to move so he could put the pillow underneath him. "This might hurt a little bit. I don't know." Elton took a saliva covered finger and pushed it in.
     Bernie's eyes bugged out of his head momentarily. "I don't—" He gasped and shuddered as a bolt of hot energy shot through him. Pain followed, but it quickly dissipated.
     "Did that hurt?"
     Bernie shook his head, eyes shut. "Not really." He opened them. "Don't you know?"
     Elton shrugged. "I've never done this before."
     "Then how do you know what to do?"
     Elton frowned. "Never you mind," he said sharply.
     Bernie closed his mouth shut, concentrating on Elton's movements inside him. A second finger was added, increasing the pressure he felt. The same shudder came again, greater this time, as it dispersed it landed most its waves along his cock. He grabbed it firmly, slowly running his hand along it, matching the rhythm of Elton's two then three fingers.
     "Spread your legs further," Elton said.
     Bernie did so, his feet shaking and feeling on a balance beam or tightrope. "I can't move them anymore."
     Elton nodded, moving closer, his voice soothing. "It's enough," he said, a sudden silk evident under a purr that made Bernie shiver just as much as he had when Elton's fingers had explored inside of him. "Breathe in deeply, then breathe out."
     Bernie nodded with a force that could snap his neck, placing his head against the pillow and breathing deeply as Elton moved over top of him. His hands clenched into fists as Elton pushed inside of him.
     "Holy shit," he gasped, his hand returned flatly over his cock, paused in the rubbing motions. "Elton," he called.
     Elton shuddered likewise, stumbling to regain his balance and pushing further in, gauging Bernie's reactions and pumping faster.
     Bernie moved his legs, wrapping them around Elton and using his hand to keep himself in such a position. He kept shaking, feeling open somehow, and he tasted blood on his tongue he was biting his lip so hard. He dared not say Elton's name again. He couldn't bear to hear it from his strangled, ecstatic voice again.
     His eyes snapped open as he felt a wetness—Elton's tongue circling around his nipples as Elton slowed a little. Careful, Bernie moved his hands to place in Elton's hair. "God," he cried, still trying to bite it back.
     "Bernie," Elton whispered huskily in response. "Oh, Bernie," he murmured, speeding up.
     With an escaped squeal, Bernie pushed back as Elton continued. It was . . .it was just so . . . .
     "Bernie, please, dammit, Bernie," Elton said, strangled.
     Hands no longer occupied in Elton's hair, Bernie pulled and pushed against himself. He barely remembered to slick his own hand, only reminded by the creeping, burning pain.
     "Bernie," Elton called, groaning, pushing himself and his weight against Bernie.
     Bernie whimpered, near tears, sweat tickling his face and body.
     Elton made a strangled face, holding his breath, pushing as far into Bernie as he could as he called Bernie's name, relaxing some of the tension in his frame as he came inside of him.
     Bernie reached that point himself, as he felt tears and sweet mingle on his face, mingling further with the blood in his mouth. "Elton," he cried, coming on his stomach.
     Now kneeling and squatted between Bernie's legs, Elton watched, flushed, as Bernie pushed his face into the pillow, and pulled his legs closer to his body. He watched as Bernie sobbed, tears rushing from his face. Part of Elton was overjoyed; another part was hurt, unsure if Bernie was in pain.
     "Bernie," Elton said, next to his ear. "Bernie, are you all right?"
     Bernie hadn't heard Elton move. He couldn't open his eyes. "I'm . . .I'm . . . ." He couldn't manage a sentence. He tried to nod, hoping that he did; hoping that Elton saw.
     Elton smiled sincerely, moving a hand in Bernie's hair and brushing it from his face. Bernie, now lying on his side, was curled up in a fetal position, breathing as regular as sleep.
     "Shh," Elton said, brushing Bernie's hair with his fingers. Bernie started to shiver; Elton pulled a blanket to Bernie's chin. "Please tell me, tell me you're feeling all right, Bernie," Elton pleaded.
     Bernie choked on a sequence of words before he could communicate his thoughts. "All right," he managed, still crying, weeping through shut eyes.
     Elton climbed over him after a minute, lying next to him to face him. Bernie wasn't crying anymore, but he was shivering. Elton wasn't sure what to think. Was this an adverse reaction? Was Bernie in pain? Was this Bernie's way of enjoying something?
     "Reg," Bernie whispered, "don't leave."
     "No, no," Elton soothed. "I won't."

~ ~ ~

     When the sun came up that morning, it found them not in Bernie's small bedroom, but instead in the basement. A large storage closet, next to the boiler room, had always served well in Elton's booze storing endeavours. And both he and Bernie certainly needed that drink.
     "More?"
     Bernie shook his head, regretting it. His stomach swam with the motion.
     Elton looked at the bottle he held, shaking its contents lightly. His sight was so blurred over he needed to hear the precious elixir inside to know there was any left.
     Bernie fell to the ground, which would have been disasterous on the concrete, save that Bernie only fell from a sitting position. "Ooh," he moaned, rolling over, and proceded to throw up everything in his system.
     After another shake of the bottle, Elton glanced to Bernie, and sighed.

~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~
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