Just like as if I'm not gonna change my mind.
"A Theory of Aerodynamics"
Alan Davies/Stephen Fry
All he knows is that he don't know nothing. A counterpoint of sorts to "ACME All-Purpose Piano Dropper" - not the same universe, but the same themes.
"I did not possess you, but I can blow up history."
- Umberto Eco, Foucalt's Pendulum
1.
He doesn't have a single 'No' in his body, not when it comes to Stephen. A new season, sure, another twelve sessions by his side, twelve days of being made to feel like an idiot, of touches that linger entirely too long, of innuendo that's not really a joke anymore. Of Stephen licking his lips whenever he looks at Alan. Twelve chances to be mocked, twelve chances to flirt, twelve chances to ruin everything.
Because the inevitable conclusion of this, he knows, is not the world's best place to be. And he hates that, loathes it with a sickening amount of space in his heart, because he knows it is inevitable, that he'll eventually give in. Knows it with absolute certainty.
Sometimes he wants to storm into Stephen's dressing room and take all those stupid cue cards and say Hey, I know something important, and it's something you don't know.
Something he doesn't know? Of course he knows. Knows this exactly: the answers Alan has but pretends he doesn't, the mental catalogue of every accidental touch, the waking up in the middle of the night with his fist in his mouth and a hard-on that will not go away quietly. Alan would do anything he asked, and everyone knows that.
2.
When it finally happens, it's not as much of an event as he expected. Just an ineptly-played game of snooker, one glass of whiskey apiece, his name spoken too quietly and too gently, and an unexpectedly earnest look. That's it, that's all it takes, and whatever resolve he might have had has completely dissolved into his drink and that look.
Stephen talks about Canada the entire taxi ride.
Alan walks into the apartment after Stephen, and the smell of the place is enough to get him going. It smells like Stephen's cologne and fancy foreign food and something else, something he can't identify, and he gives up that particular futile mental exercise when Stephen presses him down onto the couch with a kiss.
Maybe his physical strength is as misplaced as his mental strength, because his dick is rock-hard and his legs are completely useless. He slumps further down the couch, rubbing his sweaty palms against his jeans, watching Stephen mill cheerfully about. Dimming lamps, lighting candles, rummaging through drawers, putting a goddamn opera on the hi-fi.
"You don't have to turn all the lights off," Alan says. "Candles are nice, but I'm liable to trip over your coffee table."
Then there's a hand over his eyes and a hand over his mouth, and Stephen's voice low in his ear:
"This isn't the most romantic of occasions, but we should at least have the grace to go through the motions. Besides, I don't think you'll be walking much once I'm done with you."
Alan nods. "I don't know..." he starts, and then stops when he sees Stephen make a face that means Of course you don't. So he sits and complies, lifts his arms up when Stephen tugs at his shirt, opens his mouth when Stephen runs his tongue along Alan's lower lip, shifts his hips when Stephen undoes his jeans with his teeth.
Alan says nothing. Stephen can't stop talking, of course. About him, about what they're doing, about philosophy, about what they could be doing but aren't at that particular moment, about spear bearers and 'spear bearers' and everything, everything, every second of silence filled up.
"Shut up," Alan gasps out as soon as he finds where he misplaced his voice.
Stephen looks at him, the corner of his mouth quirked; his hand's hovered maybe half an inch above Alan's hip.
"Shut up," he repeats, louder this time. "Please."
So Stephen stops talking, save for a few "my dear boy"s, and Alan settles back into his hands - Stephen's are the biggest hands Alan's ever seen - rough with paper-cut callouses. He wonders, briefly, what it'd be like to make Stephen speechless, to knock the words out of his brain, not just keep them held back in his throat.
He likes to think he came resentfully.
"Don't you think this is a bit unfair?" he asks, gesturing at himself and then at Stephen. He's naked and sticky, bonelessly piled onto a corner of the sofa, and Stephen's sitting next to him still wearing a goddamn tie.
"Not at all," Stephen says in his bemused-quizmaster voice, and smoothes down the front of his suit coat.
3.
In the morning (back at his own apartment) Alan eats impossibly dry toast, stares blankly at the sports section, and makes plans. He'll probably forget them all, but it's still good to try.
And later that week - here he goes - he arrives unannounced with all of his courage thoroughly mustered and traps Stephen against his desk.
He carefully places his palms flat against the small of Stephen's back, and holds them there. "There are a few things that could happen here."
"Alan, you don't know - "
"No, see, I do know. I did research." He lets his hands drift lower, and swallows hard to keep Stephen's shudder to keep from traveling up into him.
"Do you respect me?" On the word 'respect', he slides his hands slowly around Stephen's hips to his cock, and holds them there.
Stephen's breathing hard now, white-knuckling the desktop. "Yes," he chokes out, and bows his head lower.
"You're lying. You're fucking lying."
"Alan - "
And Stephen's voice sounds so small, so swallowed up by all the air and pressure in the room, that Alan almost stops. Almost.
"I wanted to be like you. I wanted to be you. I wanted your education, your brain, your fancy words and tailored suits." He reaches up with one hand and starts tugging off Stephen's tie. "Even if you do need cheat sheets." The jacket's gone now, shirt soon to follow, still with one hand squeezing Stephen's erection. "But obviously - " he leans back to toss the shirt behind him, and starts in on Stephen's belt buckle - "I don't have a quarter of the intelligence required to be you." He's glad, oh so glad he can't see Stephen's face, because those tiny little moans are nearly enough to do him in. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the condom and lube he spent five minutes at the store picking out; Stephen shivers noticeably at the sound of the wrapper tearing. "And if I can't beat you in smarts, I can still beat you in this."
"Please," Stephen says, in that awful timid voice.
Maybe that means "please do", maybe it's "please don't." Alan doesn't really want to know.
4.
There are some things no one knows. Even Stephen can't tell him why planes stay up, or what time is made of, or what they're all doing here. Even Stephen probably can't decipher the look that's on Hugh's face right now.
"I'm sorry," Alan says quickly. "I'm really sorry." He stares into his drink.
Hugh's silent for a long, long while, and Alan's starting to wonder if maybe he should just forget the reconciliation bit and run out the building and into his car and drive very, very far away. But he turns to Alan, and smiles crookedly, and gives him a quick rueful nod.
"I get it," he says. "I understand why you did it. Or, at least, I think I do. It's the same reason I'm here instead of at home, where I should be. He - he does things to people."
"Yeah, he does."
They stand there together on the balcony, in that almost-companionable silence, until Stephen joins them holding his left nostril closed with his thumb, looking at his shoes because he doesn't know who to give his attention to.
"Well, he's yours now," Alan says, and leaves.
5.
Two months later he gets a call from his agent, saying the show's been picked up for another season, and surely he's interested?
And Alan feels his mobile slipping in his sweating hand, and he says without thinking: "Yes, yes, of course."
He sinks back into his armchair. Another season. Of course. He'd do the entire alphabet. He closes his eyes, and thinks of all the millions of words that start with the letter 'D': drugs, defenses, detours, details, deals, dicks, dies.
Well, at least he has his research done.
Alan Davies/Stephen Fry
All he knows is that he don't know nothing. A counterpoint of sorts to "ACME All-Purpose Piano Dropper" - not the same universe, but the same themes.
"I did not possess you, but I can blow up history."
- Umberto Eco, Foucalt's Pendulum
1.
He doesn't have a single 'No' in his body, not when it comes to Stephen. A new season, sure, another twelve sessions by his side, twelve days of being made to feel like an idiot, of touches that linger entirely too long, of innuendo that's not really a joke anymore. Of Stephen licking his lips whenever he looks at Alan. Twelve chances to be mocked, twelve chances to flirt, twelve chances to ruin everything.
Because the inevitable conclusion of this, he knows, is not the world's best place to be. And he hates that, loathes it with a sickening amount of space in his heart, because he knows it is inevitable, that he'll eventually give in. Knows it with absolute certainty.
Sometimes he wants to storm into Stephen's dressing room and take all those stupid cue cards and say Hey, I know something important, and it's something you don't know.
Something he doesn't know? Of course he knows. Knows this exactly: the answers Alan has but pretends he doesn't, the mental catalogue of every accidental touch, the waking up in the middle of the night with his fist in his mouth and a hard-on that will not go away quietly. Alan would do anything he asked, and everyone knows that.
2.
When it finally happens, it's not as much of an event as he expected. Just an ineptly-played game of snooker, one glass of whiskey apiece, his name spoken too quietly and too gently, and an unexpectedly earnest look. That's it, that's all it takes, and whatever resolve he might have had has completely dissolved into his drink and that look.
Stephen talks about Canada the entire taxi ride.
Alan walks into the apartment after Stephen, and the smell of the place is enough to get him going. It smells like Stephen's cologne and fancy foreign food and something else, something he can't identify, and he gives up that particular futile mental exercise when Stephen presses him down onto the couch with a kiss.
Maybe his physical strength is as misplaced as his mental strength, because his dick is rock-hard and his legs are completely useless. He slumps further down the couch, rubbing his sweaty palms against his jeans, watching Stephen mill cheerfully about. Dimming lamps, lighting candles, rummaging through drawers, putting a goddamn opera on the hi-fi.
"You don't have to turn all the lights off," Alan says. "Candles are nice, but I'm liable to trip over your coffee table."
Then there's a hand over his eyes and a hand over his mouth, and Stephen's voice low in his ear:
"This isn't the most romantic of occasions, but we should at least have the grace to go through the motions. Besides, I don't think you'll be walking much once I'm done with you."
Alan nods. "I don't know..." he starts, and then stops when he sees Stephen make a face that means Of course you don't. So he sits and complies, lifts his arms up when Stephen tugs at his shirt, opens his mouth when Stephen runs his tongue along Alan's lower lip, shifts his hips when Stephen undoes his jeans with his teeth.
Alan says nothing. Stephen can't stop talking, of course. About him, about what they're doing, about philosophy, about what they could be doing but aren't at that particular moment, about spear bearers and 'spear bearers' and everything, everything, every second of silence filled up.
"Shut up," Alan gasps out as soon as he finds where he misplaced his voice.
Stephen looks at him, the corner of his mouth quirked; his hand's hovered maybe half an inch above Alan's hip.
"Shut up," he repeats, louder this time. "Please."
So Stephen stops talking, save for a few "my dear boy"s, and Alan settles back into his hands - Stephen's are the biggest hands Alan's ever seen - rough with paper-cut callouses. He wonders, briefly, what it'd be like to make Stephen speechless, to knock the words out of his brain, not just keep them held back in his throat.
He likes to think he came resentfully.
"Don't you think this is a bit unfair?" he asks, gesturing at himself and then at Stephen. He's naked and sticky, bonelessly piled onto a corner of the sofa, and Stephen's sitting next to him still wearing a goddamn tie.
"Not at all," Stephen says in his bemused-quizmaster voice, and smoothes down the front of his suit coat.
3.
In the morning (back at his own apartment) Alan eats impossibly dry toast, stares blankly at the sports section, and makes plans. He'll probably forget them all, but it's still good to try.
And later that week - here he goes - he arrives unannounced with all of his courage thoroughly mustered and traps Stephen against his desk.
He carefully places his palms flat against the small of Stephen's back, and holds them there. "There are a few things that could happen here."
"Alan, you don't know - "
"No, see, I do know. I did research." He lets his hands drift lower, and swallows hard to keep Stephen's shudder to keep from traveling up into him.
"Do you respect me?" On the word 'respect', he slides his hands slowly around Stephen's hips to his cock, and holds them there.
Stephen's breathing hard now, white-knuckling the desktop. "Yes," he chokes out, and bows his head lower.
"You're lying. You're fucking lying."
"Alan - "
And Stephen's voice sounds so small, so swallowed up by all the air and pressure in the room, that Alan almost stops. Almost.
"I wanted to be like you. I wanted to be you. I wanted your education, your brain, your fancy words and tailored suits." He reaches up with one hand and starts tugging off Stephen's tie. "Even if you do need cheat sheets." The jacket's gone now, shirt soon to follow, still with one hand squeezing Stephen's erection. "But obviously - " he leans back to toss the shirt behind him, and starts in on Stephen's belt buckle - "I don't have a quarter of the intelligence required to be you." He's glad, oh so glad he can't see Stephen's face, because those tiny little moans are nearly enough to do him in. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the condom and lube he spent five minutes at the store picking out; Stephen shivers noticeably at the sound of the wrapper tearing. "And if I can't beat you in smarts, I can still beat you in this."
"Please," Stephen says, in that awful timid voice.
Maybe that means "please do", maybe it's "please don't." Alan doesn't really want to know.
4.
There are some things no one knows. Even Stephen can't tell him why planes stay up, or what time is made of, or what they're all doing here. Even Stephen probably can't decipher the look that's on Hugh's face right now.
"I'm sorry," Alan says quickly. "I'm really sorry." He stares into his drink.
Hugh's silent for a long, long while, and Alan's starting to wonder if maybe he should just forget the reconciliation bit and run out the building and into his car and drive very, very far away. But he turns to Alan, and smiles crookedly, and gives him a quick rueful nod.
"I get it," he says. "I understand why you did it. Or, at least, I think I do. It's the same reason I'm here instead of at home, where I should be. He - he does things to people."
"Yeah, he does."
They stand there together on the balcony, in that almost-companionable silence, until Stephen joins them holding his left nostril closed with his thumb, looking at his shoes because he doesn't know who to give his attention to.
"Well, he's yours now," Alan says, and leaves.
5.
Two months later he gets a call from his agent, saying the show's been picked up for another season, and surely he's interested?
And Alan feels his mobile slipping in his sweating hand, and he says without thinking: "Yes, yes, of course."
He sinks back into his armchair. Another season. Of course. He'd do the entire alphabet. He closes his eyes, and thinks of all the millions of words that start with the letter 'D': drugs, defenses, detours, details, deals, dicks, dies.
Well, at least he has his research done.