Then again, the same old story
"Ceremony"
Stephen/Hugh; Stephen/Alan
Heaven knows it's got to be this time.
+
It was nowhere near as good as they'd hoped it'd be. Stephen caught a cufflink in Hugh's hair, mumbling some half-meant apology; Hugh's jeans got tangled around his ankles, and they both stumbled sideways onto the stylishly uncomfortable couch, laughing as they went. Nothing earth-stopping.
Hugh had never done this, but Stephen had; he slid a hand up Hugh's thigh, hooked a finger through a belt-loop, leant down for a long slow kiss; and it's there that he thought about how well they fit together, how right this was, even when they're not much on their own - his palm fit perfectly over Hugh's hip.
This is the first time he'd noticed that he was not as old as he'd been assuming, and that Hugh wasn't all that young.
+
"I think we killed it," Hugh said loudly, flatly, cupping his hands around his tea. "The tension's gone, it's not funny anymore. It's just - "
He kicked at the pile of manuscripts on the floor. They'd been working for hours.
"It's just crass now. It's stupid." And, half-muttered into his cup and saucer: "It was just a stupid fucking thing for us to do."
There was an odd sort of roller-coaster feeling in Stephen's chest, except the bottom never quite dropped out. He'd been about to say that he was too happy to be funny, but of course that didn't work now.
"Oh, don't tell me you're not on birth-control," he said weakly, and it's not enough for a laugh but it's enough to let them move on.
It all started working again, mostly because it had to, but the potential in him was just nervous cruel energy, it wasn't lust anymore (and it'd never be love); he smiled again and pulled the nearest piece of paper to a spot between them on the desk and wrote SPIES in his looping, practiced-effortless hand.
It's really so unfairly hard to be in love.
+
Hugh's married, he has children, he's moved on. It's unexpected, but - let's be honest here - it's not much of a surprise. When he comes back from America for the first time (and how far away California seems to Stephen), playing at transatlantic prodigal son, Stephen's not the first person he sees. It's for the best, it makes sense. It's what people do when they've moved on. It's the easiest way.
Stephen practices his poker face in front of the mirror, the vague look of a benevolent uncle. And it's not so hard, not after years of playing the straight man: straighen your tie, straighten your hair, wish you could straighten a dozen other things. It's not that hard.
It's not in him to be angry. This isn't about denial or cowardice or anything like that. Hugh doesn't remember, not with any clarity, not like it meant something. A little tiny mistake in an otherwise perfect friendship (and it is perfect, they're perfectly in tune with each other, everyone's said so). And it's just friendship; there's an impossible amount of guilt in him for needing that 'just', for friendship not being enough, but that's that and that's all there is, and that's all he can do.
So he works, and he makes plans, and he makes new friends, and he meets his old friend for dinner; he tries to ignore the persistent thought that everything is unutterably ruined. He moves on.
+
Alan Davies has a habit of asking uncomfortable questions while looking hopelessly innocent, and that's why Stephen answers them (or maybe he's lonely, or maybe he's just tired). Why he ran, why he's here now, why the celibacy thing, why he wears floral ties.
And Alan Davies has a habit of looking very pleased with himself after he's gotten the answer he was looking for, like he's learned something more important than what was actually said. It's infuriating, and he wears ugly shirts, and his hair is ridiculous, and that's why Stephen pushes him into an empty dressing room at the studio and locks the door.
It's only after he's unclenched Alan's hands from his shoulders that he remembers sex at work is a bad idea. He stares up at the ceiling through the cigarette smoke, straightens his collar.
"This shouldn't happen again," he says, regretting it as soon as it's out of his mouth. "There's no point in stretching this out, you're not looking for anything else."
Alan stands up and sneezes at the smoke, buttons his shirt unevenly and says something like you're really fucking dumb for someone so clever - Stephen's trying very hard to not listen at all - and then leaves, not slamming the door or stomping off, just leaving, and maybe this is the easiest way.
It's just a matter of learning to leave well enough alone. For a week, he tries writing a book - something about espionage. He fails miserably. For a week after that, he goes to all the parties he can find, and he drinks, and he doesn't go home with anyone. The first few warm touches of spring come stretching through the bitter cold on the first of March, and it's then that he realizes that this is a new year. He calls Alan, invites him over; for once General Ignorance doesn't ask why.
He thought maybe he could cook dinner, but he's not much to talk about in the kitchen, so he just makes drinks. It's not as awkward as he'd thought it would be. They talk (not about anything important), and it's all perfectly fine, and Alan moves without announcement from his chair to the couch next to Stephen, and they both have another drink. They sit closer together than either of them have any right to.
"What would you tell someone who'd accidentally fucked up everything?" Stephen asks, and Alan makes that face again, that "I know more than you think I know" face. Stephen tries his best to hate him for it.
"I dunno, 'Hang in there'? And email him a picture of a monkey hanging from a tree limb. I'm terrible at that sort of thing. Clueless, really. Some shit things get better, some stay shit. It depends."
"On what, exactly?"
Alan shrugs, widens his eyes. "On God, on luck - who knows. You never know, you can't. That's life, Stephen."
"And that's what it'll say on your headstone: 'Alan Davies - Didn't know a bloody thing.'" He runs his hand tentatively though the static electricity of Alan's hair, tugs his shoulder down to accommodate Alan's arm.
"Ignorance is bliss," Alan whispers into the crook of his neck.
"That's what I keep hearing," he starts to say, but breaks off halfway through to make room for an undignified groan, an extra set of hands.
You never know.
Stephen/Hugh; Stephen/Alan
Heaven knows it's got to be this time.
+
It was nowhere near as good as they'd hoped it'd be. Stephen caught a cufflink in Hugh's hair, mumbling some half-meant apology; Hugh's jeans got tangled around his ankles, and they both stumbled sideways onto the stylishly uncomfortable couch, laughing as they went. Nothing earth-stopping.
Hugh had never done this, but Stephen had; he slid a hand up Hugh's thigh, hooked a finger through a belt-loop, leant down for a long slow kiss; and it's there that he thought about how well they fit together, how right this was, even when they're not much on their own - his palm fit perfectly over Hugh's hip.
This is the first time he'd noticed that he was not as old as he'd been assuming, and that Hugh wasn't all that young.
+
"I think we killed it," Hugh said loudly, flatly, cupping his hands around his tea. "The tension's gone, it's not funny anymore. It's just - "
He kicked at the pile of manuscripts on the floor. They'd been working for hours.
"It's just crass now. It's stupid." And, half-muttered into his cup and saucer: "It was just a stupid fucking thing for us to do."
There was an odd sort of roller-coaster feeling in Stephen's chest, except the bottom never quite dropped out. He'd been about to say that he was too happy to be funny, but of course that didn't work now.
"Oh, don't tell me you're not on birth-control," he said weakly, and it's not enough for a laugh but it's enough to let them move on.
It all started working again, mostly because it had to, but the potential in him was just nervous cruel energy, it wasn't lust anymore (and it'd never be love); he smiled again and pulled the nearest piece of paper to a spot between them on the desk and wrote SPIES in his looping, practiced-effortless hand.
It's really so unfairly hard to be in love.
+
Hugh's married, he has children, he's moved on. It's unexpected, but - let's be honest here - it's not much of a surprise. When he comes back from America for the first time (and how far away California seems to Stephen), playing at transatlantic prodigal son, Stephen's not the first person he sees. It's for the best, it makes sense. It's what people do when they've moved on. It's the easiest way.
Stephen practices his poker face in front of the mirror, the vague look of a benevolent uncle. And it's not so hard, not after years of playing the straight man: straighen your tie, straighten your hair, wish you could straighten a dozen other things. It's not that hard.
It's not in him to be angry. This isn't about denial or cowardice or anything like that. Hugh doesn't remember, not with any clarity, not like it meant something. A little tiny mistake in an otherwise perfect friendship (and it is perfect, they're perfectly in tune with each other, everyone's said so). And it's just friendship; there's an impossible amount of guilt in him for needing that 'just', for friendship not being enough, but that's that and that's all there is, and that's all he can do.
So he works, and he makes plans, and he makes new friends, and he meets his old friend for dinner; he tries to ignore the persistent thought that everything is unutterably ruined. He moves on.
+
Alan Davies has a habit of asking uncomfortable questions while looking hopelessly innocent, and that's why Stephen answers them (or maybe he's lonely, or maybe he's just tired). Why he ran, why he's here now, why the celibacy thing, why he wears floral ties.
And Alan Davies has a habit of looking very pleased with himself after he's gotten the answer he was looking for, like he's learned something more important than what was actually said. It's infuriating, and he wears ugly shirts, and his hair is ridiculous, and that's why Stephen pushes him into an empty dressing room at the studio and locks the door.
It's only after he's unclenched Alan's hands from his shoulders that he remembers sex at work is a bad idea. He stares up at the ceiling through the cigarette smoke, straightens his collar.
"This shouldn't happen again," he says, regretting it as soon as it's out of his mouth. "There's no point in stretching this out, you're not looking for anything else."
Alan stands up and sneezes at the smoke, buttons his shirt unevenly and says something like you're really fucking dumb for someone so clever - Stephen's trying very hard to not listen at all - and then leaves, not slamming the door or stomping off, just leaving, and maybe this is the easiest way.
It's just a matter of learning to leave well enough alone. For a week, he tries writing a book - something about espionage. He fails miserably. For a week after that, he goes to all the parties he can find, and he drinks, and he doesn't go home with anyone. The first few warm touches of spring come stretching through the bitter cold on the first of March, and it's then that he realizes that this is a new year. He calls Alan, invites him over; for once General Ignorance doesn't ask why.
He thought maybe he could cook dinner, but he's not much to talk about in the kitchen, so he just makes drinks. It's not as awkward as he'd thought it would be. They talk (not about anything important), and it's all perfectly fine, and Alan moves without announcement from his chair to the couch next to Stephen, and they both have another drink. They sit closer together than either of them have any right to.
"What would you tell someone who'd accidentally fucked up everything?" Stephen asks, and Alan makes that face again, that "I know more than you think I know" face. Stephen tries his best to hate him for it.
"I dunno, 'Hang in there'? And email him a picture of a monkey hanging from a tree limb. I'm terrible at that sort of thing. Clueless, really. Some shit things get better, some stay shit. It depends."
"On what, exactly?"
Alan shrugs, widens his eyes. "On God, on luck - who knows. You never know, you can't. That's life, Stephen."
"And that's what it'll say on your headstone: 'Alan Davies - Didn't know a bloody thing.'" He runs his hand tentatively though the static electricity of Alan's hair, tugs his shoulder down to accommodate Alan's arm.
"Ignorance is bliss," Alan whispers into the crook of his neck.
"That's what I keep hearing," he starts to say, but breaks off halfway through to make room for an undignified groan, an extra set of hands.
You never know.