Fiction Post: Comedy RPS - Manly Toughness Trophy (PG) Lee Mack/David Mitchell
It would appear that this time of year is not only a holiday for us... but also for my muse *laughs* Who must get more days off over Christmas than I do, because it hasn't put in an appearance for QUITE a while... But then, a glimmer of hope, and in the right direction too... As some of you might know, I've been down to London to watch a few of the Would I Lie To You filmings in the last couple of months... and I'm absolutely gaga for the idea of Lee Mack/David Mitchell slash, I've been wanting to write it for ages... There was just so much flirting going on... I'm in love with them both, so that probably helps too... And yeah, with the things they say to each other, I think they're dying to be paired up by somebody... And the wish has been granted! Whose? Probably not theirs, but hey I'm happy... Coming home on the bus that last night, I had inspiration hitting me from all directions... it has gone now, but it was fun while it lasted... Title: Manly Toughness Trophy Author: "colacancol" Fandom: Comedy RPS Pairing: Lee Mack/David Mitchell Rating: (PG) Synopsis: When David looks in the mirror, he just sees a girly boy - and it doesn't help that he's spending Christmastime down the pub with all these real men... Maybe fellow WILTY team captain Lee Mack can give him some tips on how to be tough... Or better still, a lesson in how to love himself... Disclaimer: It's fiction (though one can hope!) and I don't own them, though I do own the story so if you want to use it for anything, feel free but leave my name on it and let me know *grins*
Manly Toughness Trophy 'Say it to yourself,' the sad man studied his reflection, 'You aren't a loser - you're just like them.' He sucked his stomach, in and out again, trying to give himself a six-pack. Whereas his belly spilled over his smart trousers, far more like the watery draft stuff they were serving at the bar. A closer inspection proved just as fatal to his morale. Short-ish, and on his tiptoes, he pulled himself over the sinks (ignoring the wet spot that was bound to form on his crotch this way) so he could see the rest. The alcohol was making his face appear red. What small dosage he'd taken his body had rejected, breaking out into rash, a crop of acne spots on his forehead; he was awful. It was one of those mirrors - I'm sure you've encountered them - the kind that make absolutely everybody ugly, including Brad Pitt. And David could hardly consider himself a man of that calibre. How did the thugs and brutes out there do it? Not all of the burly bargoers were tattooed to the nines, and yet they still managed to maintain some sense of manliness. He was like a pre-pubescent girl in frillies, with greasy hair he couldn't do a thing with, and poor braced teeth. Oh, he was wearing a pink shirt for Christ's sake. If it weren't for the fact a fifteen minute toilet break was clearly beyond the norm, he probably never would have left the gents at all that night. A door that opened on the inside, he struggled to wedge himself through the gap in such cramped conditions, nervously pinned to the oak. Even the little peeing boy on the sign had bigger muscles than he did. He slowly exited his colourless, hardly odourless surroundings. Tripping over the gripper, a fleur-de-lys carpet, patterned also with nuts, chips and ketchup sachets, he finally stumbled into the raised seating area. 'Ah, here he is, the bringer of beverages,' Lee Mack's 'life of the party' attitude instantly reminded him of which table he was on. As if he could forget. 'No, not yet,' the shy writer replied, sitting down, 'Besides which, it's your round next.' He saw the pint, empty and frothed around the bottom, before his eyes fell woefully to his own drink, flat and dull. The clear combination of spirit and mixer could just as well have been soda only, as in a thimble full he was already merry. More life in a tramp's vest as they might say - though the hobos probably would have given it him back in favour of their faithful special brew. They didn't do his favourite tipples here, it wasn't what he was used to. Socialising yes, but not usually in these old-fashioned spit and sawdust places. 'I'll, erm, get you another one of those if you want, actually,' he thought he might say, observing the number on the table and wondering if he could ever fit in, even go as far as to impress. It was Lee you see, he reasoned with himself as he purchased an ale from the barman. He oozed masculinity without ever having to try, and he felt threatened, inferior. And sexuality didn't even enter into the matter. At least not until he'd met him. David had gone to great lengths to cover up recently, what he hadn't known about only a year before. Because they'd been filming Would I Lie To You, nearing the end of its second series, and he didn't want to admit that something had changed him. Or someone. One minute everybody's on about their relationship, the room abuzz, then there's only him left talking, and he had to ask himself why. Perhaps this was at the root of his problem, and he needed to get real. Something like that. But he wasn't gay - neither of them were. So why did he feel the need to try so much harder in proving it? Plus they had no Christmas party to go to, the Beeb had blown their budget on Eastenders. Instead he'd been invited for a winter warmer with his friend, down the local public house. And that's exactly what he'd make sure it would be. Ducking beneath the glistening decorations, paper-chains and concertinas sellotaped to the ceiling, nicotine-stained seven months post smoking ban, he carried two drinks with a care not to spill. He brought them over, unable to contain himself any longer over what had been on his mind. 'How do you manage to stay so butch?' the Peep Show star blurted, bashing it down in front of him. 'I'm sorry,' the reply came in confusion. 'I mean, you flirt with me all the time,' he reiterated, 'And you couldn't be more straight.' Sliding over a beermat, like sandpaper it was broken around the edges and in the middle, his co-star caught the drips from underneath. They filtered through the cardboard and dampened it, though it already ponged of allsorts. The staff obviously didn't change them. He thought about his answer for a moment, but merely said, between sips, 'Not the same thing.' To anyone thinking properly, it wasn't. However, he was paranoid now - and if there wasn't something to fret about, he'd have to invent it. It was always the same. Attempting to explain again, he decided to move his glass aside, out of the way for something he had planned later. 'You are what you are,' he added, 'Being homosexual doesn't change what you are as a person.' Still the little worrywart was having none of it, and Lee was becoming gradually vexed. With a strength that nearly fell a nearby fir tree, he leaned across the desk and brought his mouth to his, sticking an impatient tongue down his throat. They were entwined in fake foliage, bound by golden straplights. But David didn't do what was expected of him, oh no. Because he'd discovered something new, that wasn't altogether bad. David loved lagered lips - the wetness, the sloppiness, the lingering sweetness that, although it didn't strike you straight away, would be hanging around for days to come. The women he'd dated had been stronger than he, liked being in control, and therefore preferred something less conspicuous to his array of vodka martinis, margaritas, Del-boy affairs complete with toothpick and string. So it didn't seem off when Lee tasted the same. And with a technique so bloody cocksure, he felt like getting down on his knees and praying to the baby Jesus that the boy was born on the northern side of the divide. 'You kiss like a real man,' he choked, the strength of mixed booze knocking him back against dark, upholstered furniture, 'You really do!' He could barely believe it, despite being told only minutes earlier. It was possible. There was nothing feminine about that, not in the slightest. 'I'm not Pinnochio, you know - I am a real man,' Lee quipped, 'And if I grew every time I had to tell a lie, I wouldn't be very good at the game, now would I?' A rather convenient affliction that 'wood' be for after the show, the younger man thought, smiling and understanding at last. Always cheeky but never blue, as he once put it in his act, his light way with words somehow hit home harder than they ever could coming from his mother, or another lover. 'I'm a lager-swilling, wolf-whistling, untidy swine of a layabout - one of the lads - snogging men hasn't changed me, and it won't change you either,' he told him, 'Now get your coat David, you've pulled!'