Story: Donny Boy

yes, I've written something. This must be a good sign. A very brief seasonally appropiate work-safe m/m something. Enjoy. (The story and the holiday. Just, if you really do drink green beer, please don't tell me!)

pxj




Donny Boy


“Hey, Danny boy. You know why there’re no good men around?”

Donny kept his eyes on his work, pulling a Guinness with an artist’s attention to detail. Customers who couldn’t be bothered to get his name right shouldn’t expect any better than to be ignored. The woman in the green lipstick didn’t seem to need an answer anyway.

“It’s all the fault of that damned Irish saint.”

Not the wisest thing to say in an Irish bar, and particularly not on St. Patrick’s Day, but Donny wasn’t going to tell the woman so. She was sloppy drunk, half poured out of her perch on the bar stool, and would probably fall over if anyone took a swing at her.

He almost wished someone would, just so he could see it. Green lipstick! The saints wept. And a green-patterned dress about three sizes too small that made her look like a mildewing sausage. About the best that could be said of her appearance was that she seemed very much one of the crowd.

Donny thought there was little worse that could be said of a person. Except maybe that he was an Englishman. Grinning to himself (he didn’t really have any problem with the English, though it was sometimes fun to pretend so), he delivered drinks to a booth in the back and swiveled his way back to the bar, trying not to step in time to the ghastly version of whatever “traditional” tune the band was mangling at the moment. At least it wasn’t Paddy Murphy—again. Not yet sunset, and already he’d heard every interminable verse of “The Night Pat Murphy Died” five times! When once through was almost enough to make him wish he himself were dead.

At least the tips were good. St. Patrick’s Day was big business. The bar’s floorspace had been extended by a tent and temporary taps installed behind a board-and-sawhorse arrangement, but he’d claimed the permanent Guinness taps for himself. Even if that meant doing the odd bit of table service when others were busy. He hated fighting with the jury-rigged air-lines, and besides, the tent was louder. Though this year, some idiot had put the stage just beside the delivery door.

Which was open. Donny tried not to frown—it would only make his headache worse—tried not to curse, tried not to hear the bagpipes and bass fighting to establish a key.

Tried not to step on the man kneeling behind the bar.

By all the saints! That was a sight Donny hadn’t expected on this day of days. Though certainly no stranger to men on their knees, Donny was between companions and in no hurry to form any new attachments. The last one had left scars. But this man was lovely, more beautiful than handsome, all entreaty with his big brown eyes and soft red lips parting.

“Excuse me?” His voice! Oh, bards would have given their souls in trade for such a voice, rich as stout and deep, flavored with the lilt of home... “You! Hand me that bag afore the line blows. Drinking the green beer...”

Donny’s cheeks were hot as he fumbled for the stranger’s tools. “Sorry,” he mumbled, cursing himself. Great first impression he’d made. “That the central or the stout mix?” He could fill pitchers of the other while the man worked, get ahead of the crowd’s thirst and busy his hands so they wouldn’t reach out all on their own to stroke the shining nut-brown hair or trace the line of those shoulders...

The man’s smile flashed bright in the neon glow of bar signs. “Central, this one. I’ll be changing out t’other in a moment, but it’s up for now.”

“Thanks.” It was only his imagination, he knew, but Donny felt as if he stood near a fire, the man only inches away, gracefully bent toward the arrangement of valves and tubes and canisters that fed the taps.

Whoever he was, he was a good deal faster than the guys who usually serviced the bar. In only a few minutes, Donny felt an incandescent tapping on his right calf; looking down, he fell into deep brown wells, hearing only distantly the man’s words that the Guinness would be briefly offline.

And then he was standing, a bit shorter than Donny’s own six feet, slim enough to seem taller than he was. Neon barsigns sent light bouncing red and gold and green from the long brown hair, and the green shamrock lights strung all around made his skin almost impossibly pale. His jeans and dark tee looked almost like a costume on him, somehow—Man Celebrating St. Patrick’s Day—the body so wonderfully displayed it had to be intentional. No man wore jeans that cupped his ass like that unless he wanted it to be looked at.

Right?

Donny felt the stirring in his own jeans and thought desperately of cold. Screwing his eyes shut helped; his headache, but it seemed a decent trade. When he thought he was safe, he opened his eyes and smiled at the serviceman.

“Ken,” said the man with the appropriately stout-hued eyes, holding out a long-fingered hand.

Donny introduced himself, almost choking on his own name as his mind finally registered the design of Ken’s shirt. “Test your work?”

“Thought you’d never ask.” Ken swung lightly over the bar to sit beside the drunk still half-propped between stool and stein. Turning to her, he asked her to explain. “What did St. Patrick do that you think there are,” his voice made the words a quote, “no good men around?”

“St. Patrick banished all the snakes.” She nodded owlishly. “An’ where do you think they came? Here!”

“My lady, that might explain a number of bad men, but not a lack of good ones. I assure you, some such survive.” He leaned in close. “You must first seek if you would find.”

She blinked again, laboriously following his gaze toward the crowded tentspace, then slipped from her stool and lumbered off.

“Nicely done. Thanks. I was about ready to drown her, myself.” Donny slid the Guinness across the bar so accurately that the glass stopped an inch before Ken’s hand.

“ Not one to hear the good Father maligned?”

“Don’t much care. He was a Roman anyway. No, it’s that I’ve heard the whole pitch. After she gets that bit out she starts singing. ‘Trouser snakes nipping at my ankles’.”

“I don’t believe I know that song.”

“Neither does she.”

Ken’s laugh drew attention, and the music hiccupped as the crowd began a sort of osmotic movement toward the bar. “Oh, damn,” he muttered before sipping his stout, raising an eye and nodding his appreciation. “That’s why the separate line. You use a proper pub mix. Lovely.” He drank more deeply this time, and Donny watched the play of his throat, admiring.

“Hey, Kenneth!” The shout came from three directions, startling Donny until he realized the caller was onstage, his voice miked. “Ken-neth!”

“She wasn’t altogether wrong, you know. There’s a snake for sure, great legs or no.”

Donny grinned wide watching as Kenneth made his slow way to the stage. Good looks, great voice, humor, knew the difference between proper stout and swill, and shared his taste in men. Truly someone was looking out for him. If not for Ken himself, who’d seemed more than a bit reluctant as he turned from the bar. Or perhaps that was only wishful thinking; certainly, there was nothing shy or reserved about the way he stood before the mike!

“Can’t stay long, boys,” he heard Kenneth say from all around, “I’m working tonight. But if the crowd drinks enough, I might get to come back.” And as the band began a song, all the instruments miraculously in tune, Donny found himself suddenly busier than he could possibly be.

Everyone ordered Guinness, no doubt in honor of Ken’s, Kenneth’s, T-shirt. Or perhaps inspired by the delivery truck outside, just visible through the still-open door. Though in that case, wouldn’t someone have ordered Harp, or a Black and Tan? Well, no matter; Donny pulled pint after pitcher after pint, dancing behind the bar as the band he’d been cursing earlier suddenly proved that they could, in fact, play.

And then the crowd was shouting and clapping and carrying on, and Ken was there, smiling wide and bright, grabbing up his satchel. “I’ll be listening for the call,” he nodded, and was gone, leaving in his wake a scent of stout and salt and green and a chorus of sighs.

Donny’s first among them. Damn, but that was one lovely man.

***

The Guinness flowed like water, ales and lagers and whiskey fell into open mouths like rain, bands followed one after another up onto the stage. Donny lost count of the number of times he heard the same few songs. Some of the groups could play their instruments, others could play the crowd, one or two even managed to do both at once, but none caught his attention for more than a song or two.

Until he heard that deep, rich voice with its bite of iron rise above an off-key chorus of some neo-trad piece. “Hey,” it called, “you’re not Irish!”

Donny let his hand slip from the tap, leaving golden foam to drip into a half-filled glass, and raced to the door. He made it just in time to see a young man leap from the stage, cordless mike in hand. Heart in his mouth, visions of riots dancing in his mind, he watched, breathless, as Kenneth reached the other man and the two of them nodded—not at each other, but toward the stage.

“Oh… You’re not Irish, you can’t be Irish, you don’t sing Danny Boy...”

A stunt. Damn him. Impressively staged, though, and wonderful harmonies. Heart still pounding, Donny went back to work, dropping a bar cloth to sop up the worst of the spills. Ken shouldn’t have to get his knees wet.

Though that mental image did nothing to slow the race of his pulse.

The band finished out its set, and Donny cocked an ear toward the crowd. It wasn’t his imagination, he really could track the singer’s progress by the sound: high-pitched squees and low rumbled invitations, any number of admiring whispered curses, soft sighs… Who was the man? And did he do it on purpose? He’d slipped in easily enough that Donny hadn’t noticed, it was the voice—he’d laughed, and suddenly all the world was his stage.

Odd he wasn’t playing, then. Irish musician on St. Patrick’s Day, surely he could have had his choice of gigs. But instead he was making air-mix deliveries. Very strange. Maybe I’ll ask.

“Got that call.”

Donny’d expected it, but the voice still surprised him. He nodded without turning, hating the flush he could feel spreading down his neck. He was too old to have schoolgirl crushes—and the wrong gender besides. When he felt less like he was on fire, he glanced over his shoulder. Under his arm. Finally turned, to gasp as Ken’s hands grasped his hips to keep him from falling as he jumped back.

“Sorry. Just wanted to see how long it would take.” This close, the singer’s eyes were flecked, earth-brown and iron-dark. His breath smelled of malt (how else, on this day of days?) but also of grass. And his body was a furnace, radiating heat.

Donny tried to speak, but his voice was gone. Licking lips gone dry, he managed to croak: “...take...?”

Ken blinked, and his eyes when he opened them again seemed somehow less hot. More sane. “Never mind. It’s just that I hate this damned green-tinted-everything travesty of a day. No need to take it out on you.” Ken smiled, but it was a smile devoid of humor or warmth, and Donny shivered as he was freed.

“Let me see to the lines and I’ll get out of your way.”

What the hell just happened? He went out like a light! Still beautiful, but…quieter…now. Oh. His voice was as wonderful as ever, but pitched so that only Donny would hear. Off stage. Probably not a bad thing.

Though Donny wasn’t sure just why he thought that. “Ah. Um. Ken. Going to sing more tonight?”

“No, I don’t think so.” The voice echoed hollowly from somewhere beneath the bar. “Why?”

“Your leprechaun seems to have gone off-shift. Thought I might offer to take his place.”

Donny held his breath. If he had to, he’d make himself a good deal more plain—he could still feel the touch of those hands on his hips, yearned to feel that touch elsewhere, and that odd chill, too, had reached him, making him think that Ken maybe shouldn’t be alone on this St. Patrick’s night. Let the basses and bagpipes fight it out without him.

Ken twisted somehow, coming up from his knees gracefully enough to steal Donny’s breath. “My leprechaun—? Ah.” He grinned. “That’s not all he does, you know...”

And Donny laughed, hearing the question beneath those lilting words. Deliberately campy, he fluttered the bar cloth in one hand. “Well, darlin’, I should hope not! What a waste of a good shillelagh!”

Kenneth raised a pint, toasting the words and the bargain just made.

-end-

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The e-hermit checking in

Still alive!

Figure I ought to start out with the good news. –G– As for the rest…well, the doctor didn’t say “recovered,” as he’s spent much of the week reminding me, only “recovering.” I spent the weekend now past and gone at a Celtic (Irish) music festival, and completely wiped myself out—though it was worth it, and not just for the men in kilts.

Although, you know, there were a few truly lovely kilt-wearing men around, some of them with arms full of bagpipe, some without… Oh, sorry. Am I drooling on the keyboard again?

So, not in much shape to post nor chat, but getting through the backlogged e-mail. Slowly. Relying on the Draft function so that I can make sure my messages actually say what I need them to say (for a change).

Hope you’re all celebrating Spring appropriately!

pxj

What? Details? Um.

Seriously eclectic music program, as always. It’s why we love NTIF! (Okay, that and all the men in kilts. Or out of them. If you ask politely, I might tell a tale or two…) Not sure what my favorite musical moment this time might have been, but probably from one of these three bands:

Matt and Shannon Heaton Band—with an incredible percussive dancer!
Brother—Men in pleather kilts. With didgeridoos.
Altan. What can one say?

Okay, back to e-mail. See you ’round!

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