A voice broke me from my memories. My attention snapped back from the park all those years ago, to now, and the train. A woman stood in the aisle, towering over me. She repeated her question and I shook my head and removed the flowers from the adjoining seat and onto my lap. Why do people ask such stupid questions, or course no one is sitting there, my flowers are there. Why ask if anyone is sitting there, when obviously no one is. Why not ask if the seat is free?
She lowered herself next to me, and our cocoons enveloped us immediately. In seconds her phone was out and she was scrolling away, fingers a blur as she typed rapid messages to people disconnected from their worlds, but safe in their sanctity of their phones. The social media safety blanket where real life and real contact is substituted with pixels and jpegs. The artificial life that envelops us, equally connecting us to the whole world while simultaneously disconnecting us from each other. I lost interest and stared out the window. The rain was still coming down. I closed my eyes. I didn't want to get my phone out my pocket, it would be too much hassle juggling the flowers, so I substituted the retreat into cyber world with a retreat into a feigned sleep. Both disconnected and both distant. The train rattled on, the rhythmic rocking soon enough substituting feigned sleep for the real thing.
When I awoke the woman was gone. I checked my watch and calculated how much of the journey was left. The rain was still coming down, harder now, and the distant horizon was shrouded in mist. The sky was a blanket of unbroken grey. No breaks or a darker thicker cloud patch, just one even, all encompassing slate of grey. I shifted in my seat, suddenly uncomfortable. The accidental coffee spill earlier had brought back memories of meeting Owen. I was on my way to meet him again, but my mind rewound backwards through time as the train carried forwards.

After the beer in the park we met a few times, just for drinks, with none over my head this time. It wasn't until our third evening out did he tell me he was bisexual and after a few relationships with woman he thought he would give men a go. He didn't say me, per se, just men, so I sat there like an expectant puppy waiting for the bone to be thrown so I could play fetch. I knew I was becoming smitten by him. His mysterious nature was part of the attraction. The term closed book could have been invented for him. Apart from snippets about his life, mere morsels cast from the table I knew very little. His accent gave him away as being from London, as was I, but I had no idea of family, siblings, anything really. I knew he had a career in the army that would mean he would disappear at times, but I was content that he wanted to keep meeting me. I could put up with a fully clothed beer shower if I meant he kept in contact.
He called me, one day, after several days of silence with an invitation to go and see one of his favourite bands, an American hard rock band, Korn. I had no idea who they were other than vague memories of long haired, tattooed guys flinging their hair around screaming. It sounded awful but I was right there, the chance to spend sometime with him was worth it, even if I had to put up with some music that left me cold.
He met me outside the tube station, and I instantly felt out of place and overdressed. To this point I had seen him only in standard street gear, jeans and t-shirts and a hoodie from time to time. I had adopted this uniform for tonight so I was stood at the entrance of the tube station as he rounded the corner, dressed in standard jeans and a red T-shirt. Owen strode towards me in combat shorts, just below the knee exposed a fine set of toned legs. He was quite naturally olive skinned so they were a good colour. A little bit hairy, but not as hairy as mine. A snake tattoo coiled around his calf, the head hidden somewhere within the shorts He wore a sleeveless vest, emblazoned with the bands logo. The arms that had looked muscular in t-shirts were now positively popping. He raised his arms to great me, and his biceps flexed. Dark arm pit hair stood out against his brown skin. I was caught between embarrassment of my dress sense and taken back just how cool he looked. The fact I referred to him as cool, probably makes me the furthest thing from being it, but he was looking amazing. I wasn't sure whether to embrace, shake hands or high five, so I just thrust my fists into my pockets and we walked down the stairs deep into the subterranean tube system.

The Brixton Academy is an old London cinema converted to a concert venue. Being only a couple of thousand in capacity it was a cosy atmosphere, the stage surrounded by Gothic architecture and a sloping floor that runs slightly down from the bar at the back to the stage at the front where the hairy, tattooed road crew were setting up drum kits and mic stands. My unease at my inappropriate dress sense only increased as I saw the audience. Copious amount of hair, tattoos, torn and ragged clothes, and the stench of attitude and an undercurrent of anger was all around me as Owen shuffled himself, with me in tow, to near the front.
After a wait that seemed to go on forever the venue had filled and I wondered if it had been oversold as everyone seemed to be crowded together near the front. I was barged from behind and shuffled aside to allow a very large man in just shorts and boots force his way to the front. The lights dimmed and a roar filled the auditorium as a backing track started, it sounded like tribal drums with interspersed stabs of jagged guitar. As it reached a crescendo the fireworks at the sides of the stage exploded and the band ran on. If I had thought it was already crowded with little room to breath, nothing prepared me for the surge of bodies behind me pushing forward. A relentless tidal wave of bodies bounced me towards the stage. Hands and fists punched the air as the audience seemed to jump as one, a vast, undulating current of packed bodies exploding in a frenzy of fury as the band twirled and bounced around on the stage before them. The lead singer who had been goading the crowd to bounce did a sound that seemed to emanate from the depths of his stomach or perhaps his soul, or hell itself. A grunting, growling howl that seemed to heighten the frenzy even more in the room. I fought to get out of the way, pushing sideways towards the safety of the side of the auditorium. A body came towards me surfing on the hands of people beneath, propelling the man towards me, arms and legs at odd angles as he has was guided by outstretched arms towards me. I ducked, and saw a brief gap as two men who had been jumping into each other bounced apart. I took my chance and dived between them. The nearer I got to the side the less frenetic the audience and I found myself able to walk again without staggering as I was pummelled from all angles.
I headed back up the slope, hugging the side wall. I reached the safety of a steps that led up to the toilets and watched the mayhem in front of me from this higher, safer vantage point. I searched for Owen in the throng and melee of arms and legs. There he was, huge muscular arms punching the air to the beat as he threw himself into the mass of writhing bodies. They seemed to be fighting, pushing and shoving in all directions as the band played through the song. The music slowed and became a little more quiet before building once again. The singer roared something unintelligible and the band kicked back in, rocking their heads violently back and forward as they assaulted their instruments. This seemed to be the cue for mass hysteria and I saw Owen launch himself on top of the crowd. Hands ripped at this top and he was soon bare chested, the vest seemingly vanished in the mass of bouncing bodies. The song ended to a huge roar, arms aloft, fist clenched, or hands displaying a raised index and little finger, the two middle fingers and thumb tucked in, the sign of the devil. The band launched without introduction into the next song, the bass even more pummelling, I could feel it vibrating through my body. It felt like my ears would burst, as the crowd responded again in their violent broiling way.

Two hours later Owen is beside me as we walk back towards the tube. I am sweaty, not from dancing, it was was just so hot in the venue. Owen is beside me, his vest lost to the chaos of the evening, bare chested, covered in a sheen of sweat. His nose is still bloody, a crust of drying red, a stray flailing elbow causing damage. Despite the injury his eyes are alive, I can sense the adrenaline still pumping through him. I felt drained, my ears felt muffled, but with a high pitched ringing noise. By comparison Owen was as high as a kite, bouncing along the pavement as we rounded the corner towards the tube.

"That was fucking awesome," Owen enthused, his eyes still bright and shining.

"Yeah, great," I lied. We walked in silence for a bit, Owen reliving the concert internally, with me trying to pop my ears to get rid of the cotton wool padding that seemed to have found their way in them. We boarded a tube and he flopped down in the seat. He stretched out his arms, resting them on the seat back either side of him. I sat beside him. I was hoping he would move his arms from the seat back and wrap it around my shoulder. I could feel his body heat and willed him to curl his arm around me. Owen stayed in position; his arm stubbornly on the seat, stretched out behind my shoulders, inches, but miles from me. I waited more. It didn't come.

"You loved that didn't you," I rhetorically asked him. A wide grin from him confirmed my comment. His arms stayed locked in place, across the top of the seats, "what's it like, I mean, to be dancing like that?"

Owen moved his arms and I thought for a brief moment he might embrace me, but he moved his arm over my head, and to his face where he wiped away blood that had started to trickle from his nostril again.
"It's called moshing, not dancing" he corrected me. He dropped his hands to his lap, before wiping blood from his fingers onto his shorts, "it feels amazing, it's like a release I suppose. I just let rip, and let anger out."

"Anger? From what?"

He stayed silent for a few beats and I suddenly felt very remote, very distant from him. I had got to know the guy, sort of, lusted after him, certainly. Had drinks with him, had long talks about surface level daily stuff. He never went deep, but here I was probing. We both felt uncomfortable. I wanted to understand, I had no real comprehension what he meant, or what would lead him to acting the way I had just witnessed. I struggled with a way to back pedal, make light of it, failed and we just sat there, both of us studying our hands.
He broke the silence between us, the clacking of the carriage on the tracks our awkward soundtrack, "I don't know, anger from life I suppose" He sat back in his seat, staring up at the tube map adorned above the window opposite us.
I looked over at him, studying the guy I knew I was trying hard not to fall in love with. I felt stupid, we hadn't even kissed, it was all platonic and I had no idea if he had any or no feelings towards me. Even so, I couldn't resist bathing him in. Sat there only in shorts socks and boots, even covered in drying sweat and blood he looked so attractive. I yearned for him again, as I had done for weeks now. He took my awkward silence as me allowing him time to order his thoughts.
"Some times I need to lash out, lose control and kick out, and that music allows me to do that"
Still having no comprehension of what he was getting out, I tried not to press, but my words came out without plan, "But why? I don't understand"
For the first time since we boarded the tube, he turned to me, "Ok, let me explain, you see I"

**********

I felt a tugging at my trousers and my eyes snapped open. Owen and the tube vanished, and the train snapped back into focus. I spun my head for the source of the tug, to find a young girl, a sweet blonde haired tiny thing, pretty ribbons in her hair smiling up at me. Her mother had her back to us, struggling with a baby in a carrier strapped to her chest, a shopping bag in each hand as she tried to order herself and her family into the seats the other side of the aisle. She turned and offered apologies, guiding her daughter into the seat. She looked tired, hair a little unkempt, a sigh of exasperation as she thrust the bags into the overhead before collapsing down into her seat. I gave her space and fished my phone out my pocket and searched for old messages. My phone had been upgraded many times over the years, from one of the huge brick mobile phones, though flip phones and then an assortment of smart phones. Most of the messages had been lost, but I tried to back them up where I could and I still had a lot them stored in files. I searched for them now, scrolling back and further back through thousands, searching for the ones sent around the concert. Lines of texts, pictures and emojis flew past as my fingers scrolled the screen, and my history back. I jabbed my finger on the screen and the rolling text stopped. A slower scroll, up and down, searching, and there they were

Owen: I'm really sorry I told u all that last nite

Me: I'm glad you did. It must've been tough.

(A gap of 2 hours, then)

Owen: Sorry, fell asleep. You're the first person outside that I've told about PTSD

Me: I am glad you did! Outside?

Owen: You must think I'm mad! Outside the army.

Me: I don't

Owen: You do

Me: I don't lol
(Half an hour later)

Owen: I'm embarrassed I cried. Sorry bout that

Me: Listen, you've got nothing to be sorry for. I'm glad you felt you cud be so honest with me.

Owen: I never cry

Me: I nearly burst into tears during that racket

Owen: ???

Me: at the corn concert

Owen: Korn

Me: Quorn?

Owen: fuck off!!!!!

Me: seriously, you must know I really like you, and if I can be there for you I will. It's was a big step to tell me

Owen: yeah

Me: if u ever want to unload, I'm here for you. Seeing what you saw must be really hard

Owen: yeah it is

Me: I mean it

Owen: thank you, I know you do. X

There it was, the X, the kiss. The affirmation I needed that it could mean there was more than just a chance of being just mates. Perhaps.
I can remember dithering, all those years ago, tapping out, 'I think I'm falling in love with you' then deleting it. Tapping out 'is the X a mistake or a kiss?' then deleting that. I settled on:

Me: xx

**********

I checked the time on my phone, still three hours of the journey to go. I put my phone back into my pocket and rose from my seat, the stiffness at sitting for so long causing my muscles to shriek protest. Cramp threatened to engulf my calf, but I rubbed it away, massaging my skin before semi hobbling the way to the buffet car. Even though my reunion with Owen lay ahead, which had caused my stomach to clench then flip earlier, I felt hungry enough and passed the rows of passengers, some sleeping, most engrossed in phones or books. A few couples talked, their eyes following me as the door slid open at the end of the carriage as I went on a search for sustenance.
The queue in the buffet car was predictably long, as the counter assistant struggled with customer orders and a coffee machine that seemed to wait until she turned her back on it before switching off again. I studied the menu above her head, inwardly cringing at the exorbitant prices of the limp looking filled rolls stacked in the glass cabinet on the long counter.
Two suited city types stood in front of me, smart well cut suits, shiny black shoes glinting back the reflection of the counter lights. Fond memories came flooding back and I could feel my lips stretching out into a smile.

*************
"When I said smart, I wasn't expecting a suit" Owen laughed as he opened the door to his apartment, "You look great, come on in"
The text invite to cook me dinner was unexpected, the 'Dress code: smart, it'll be fun' message equally as unexpected. For the second time in as many months I found myself inappropriately dressed. Owen's idea of suitable dress was a smart but casual shirt, and a lovely pair of black trousers, well fitted, especially round the groin. There I was in full suit, tie, jacket, the lot. Owen's wide grin hinted at his approval and I entered his apartment for the first time. Ordered and clean, with a minimalist theme belied a single man, trained with the keen organisational skills of a military man. Either that or a mad dash to clean up before he met his boyfriend to be. I suspected the former.
My gaze wandered around the room as he offered, then went to fix me a beer. A quality tan leather sofa set stood opposite a large TV resting on a trendy stand. Modern art, a coffee table, a swish looking stereo and a few floor lamps stood on wooden panelled flooring, classily finished off his minimalistic living area. A kitchen dining area led from it, an embarrassment of glossy black units, gleaming chrome and strong lines it had more than a whiff of show home. I reasoned that being army he would spend a lot of time away from home, so it made sense it it looked so sterile. The room did nothing to calm my nerves. By now I'd met Owen several times and even after the frank admission of PTSD and stories of what he had witnessed in Iraq I still struggled to read the guy. Despite the kiss on the text, I was completely unaware if he held any other feelings for me other than being his mate, his confidant with things he should really be telling a counsellor, not me. His apartment was not giving me any clues either, no family photos, no personal Knick knacks.
I took the offered beer and we sat down on the sofa. We small talked for a while, finishing off our drinks as he flitted back and forth to the kitchen preparing the food. It smelt great as he talked from the cooker, as I studied his great ass, tight in his trousers.
I left the sofa to join him, and automatically started to help out, finishing off the preparation of the salad, slicing bread. It felt natural, comfortable, and I filled the sink to wash up the preparation utensils as we talked. Domestic bliss, I could get used to this. We chatted like a couple, easy and unforced. The sterility of the apartment negated by his warmth and his companionship. On impulse I leant over to peck a kiss as he finished off the steaks, sizzling away in a pan. He turned his face to me and his lips met mine. It was brief, barely a brushing of the lips but I parted with a rush of joy that left my lips, and travelled through the rest of my body. A warmth of affection rolled over me, and I admit it, a love for my vulnerable yet tough, contradiction of a man.
We ate fillet steak on a bed of rocket, with Parmesan shavings. It was delicious and I studied the man before me. Freshly shaven, a hair style that complimented his features, the expressive brown eyes, the small dimple that winked into life when he laughed. Thankfully he had chosen to leave Korn or any of his heavy rock on the shelf and some acoustic guitar player I didn't recognise strummed plaintively over his stereo. Conversation was easy and the evening slipped away. I offered to clean away the plates but his raised hand stopped me.
"No, no, you stay there, I'll fetch the pudding. You got room left for some apple pie and custard?" He said scooping the plates up, piling one of top the other, and clearing away condiments and heading off to the kitchen area.
"Thank you, that steak was amazing" I called out as he readied a slice of pie in two bowls, before returning to the table with a tray with the bowls and a large pitcher of custard.
"Only the best for you he said" he said, smiling, towering over he as he stood arranging the bowls and cutlery as I sat, congratulating myself silently at his choice of words.
Placing the pie in front of me, setting the spoon at its side he picked up the pitcher of custard.
"May I?" He asked. I nodded as instead of moving the jug to my bowl, he raised it over my head.
I looked up to see the lip of custard start to flow over the angled jug. It fell, a curtain of yellow on top of my shaved head. I had taken my jacket off to eat, so the yellow oozed down my face plopping onto the shoulders of my white shirt, covering it and the tie I was wearing with a sheen of shiny flowing custard.
"Nice?" He enquired, his voice light with amusement. The initial shock gave way to understanding that this was his thing. A kink. I had never heard of it before, other than the beer pouring incident in the park. It did feel kind of nice to be honest with myself. Warm and luxurious a feeling. The fact I was giving him pleasure why was my main motivation for sitting put and letting him do it. If this got me close to him it was worth it, and people had way worse kinks than this. If this was the extent of his kink I could let that fly, and anyway it felt kind of nice.
The level of my eyes were at his crotch level and judging from the straining fabric he seemed to be enjoying his evening a whole lot more now. The straining in his trousers called me to, and I almost reached out to caress him, but pulled back. Despite this intimacy of letting him do this to me I didn't feel he was ready for me to touch him privately. Instead I sat their obediently as he emptied the jug over me. My head was covered and my eyes squeezed shut as the custard enveloped by face, curtains of it falling down onto my shirt and oozing down to my trousers. It lay on my cock. It was hard, not from the dousing, but from the the hope, the desire that letting Owen do this to me would draw him closer.

"You alright there?" He asked, a tint of humour but mixed with a seemingly genuine concern that I was alright. I nodded and he held the jug over me letting the last few drops patter down on my head.
"Stay there" he ordered and scampered off to the kitchen area. I wiped my eyes, clearing my vision and watched him rifling through cupboards. When he turned towards me, his hard cock was stretched out on the left side of his trousers. Thick and excited. He approached me with a can of squirting cream and beckoned me to stand. I duly did, the custard in my lap streaking south to my shoes. Owen reached me and unzipped my flies, searching for the band of my boxers to put the tip of the cream can nozzle in. It found its mark, the plastic nozzle pushing my hardening cock down and to the side. He pulled the trigger back and with a whooshing noise cream jettisoned out covering my pubes and cock. Owen moved the can side to side making sure there was a good covering of white fluffy cream all over my privates and body hair. When the can was spent he pulled the boxers out and viewed his handy work. He reached in and massaged the cream into my cock and balls, pulling my foreskin back to make sure the head was covered.
I felt a surge of electricity as this new milestone was reached. We had moved from mates, to confidant, pass the fleeting kiss and onto him touching me intimately. I moaned softly through parted lips. I could see the ecstasy in his eyes. A little wild, like the night of the concert but to a lesser degree.
He pulled his hand out and went back to his kitchen while I stood there covered, in a state of shock that this was moving in the way I had hoped towards intimacy. The alien feeling of being covered in food was a price worth paying if it bore the result of bringing us together. He came back with a carton of six eggs. After placing the carton down on the table he reached to my shirt, pushing the sopping tie up onto my shoulder and his fingers fumbled at the button of my shirt. He slid open three and spread my shirt wide as the loosened buttons would allow. With custard covered fingers he ran them through my chest hair. I am no ape, but have a bit of a rug going on and he seemed to delight in coating them with the custard from his fingers. Reaching around he plucked an egg from its cardboard container and nestled it in my chest hair. Using his free hand he covered up my pecs with the stained shirt and pressed through it. I felt resistance briefly, then heard a crack before feeling a slimy ooze, running down inside my shirt to my belly. There it lay, trapped by the tucked in shirt and belt. Owen loosened my belt and the egg ran free down inside my shirt. The mess was everywhere but I could tell he wanted more. I dropped my hands to my sides and let him have free access. Pulling my shirt up, he undid my belt and loosened the button before tugging at the waist band of my boxers, pulling them out. My hardon sprung up standing proud. He dropped an egg in, returned the waist band to its place and rolled his hand over the egg, it sliding against my slippery cock and matted pubes. He massaged it round, firmer and firmer until I could feel it relent, releasing its cargo to mix with the custard. The crack seemed to heighten his own hunger for more so a second then third followed, the broken shards of shell intertwined with matted pubic hair. Eventually the eggs were gone. Delighted with his work he ventured back to the kitchen for the final time and returned with chocolate, and raspberry desert syrups. These he massaged into my head, opening my shirt fully to coat my chest and belly before lowering my trousers and boxers to my ankles where he coated my cock, standing proudly, before coating the hair on my legs with the red and brown syrup, thick and unmoving as it coated my thighs and calves

This time I reversed the conversation we had after the beer in the park,

"Well Owen, what do you say?"

He understood I was repeating the conversation from the park, laughed his deep, brown laugh, "Thank you" he said