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Honesty	By : Igbc Category: Casts RPF > Monty Python Views: 987 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of Monty Python. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Honesty
- 1
It’s dark, and the streets are shiny and slick. The rain’s stopped, but now the fog is hanging heavy, and he's forced to drive much more slowly than he’d like. He grips the wheel hard with one hand and uses the other to wipe condensation off the windscreen. It’s so thick he has to squint to see the road, and he turns up the defroster to full blast. But he’d know the way with his eyes closed. He’s been to Graham’s house innumerable times; for parties, for business meetings, for group writing sessions and read-throughs, and alone, like tonight. For whatever Graham can give him when he gets there.

When he rings the doorbell, he’s a little apprehensive. He’d called first, of course, to make sure it was all right. But with Graham, there are never any guarantees. He’d sounded reasonably sober on the phone, but that had been an hour ago. He could be more sober by now, or he could be passed out cold. Or upstairs with whomever he might have charmed into coming home with him, and too preoccupied to hear the bell.

But the door opens and he’s standing there, in a dark blue dressing gown over striped pajamas. His feet are bare, and his golden hair is damp and curling round the edges. He’s holding a highball glass in one hand, but the hand is quite steady. He looks, as he very often does, as though he’s just stepped out of one of those Thin Man films from the thirties. His is a kind of debauched elegance that belongs to a gentler era.

“Welcome, weary traveler,” he says with a twitch of his lips, and stands aside. Terry enters, and turns to watch Graham lock the door. He’s so often careless about things like that, and there’s been a rash of burglaries in the area lately.

Graham gestures toward the sofa, and Terry sits.

“What‘ll it be?”

Terry sighs. “Doesn’t matter. Something hard.”

Graham raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t make the obvious lewd rejoinder. Terry waits, elbows on his knees, face in his hands, listening to the pleasant trickling of liquid and clinking of glass from the bar in the corner. He feels Graham coming back -- his feet make no sound on the thick carpet -- but raises his head only when Graham nudges him with his drink. He takes it, and murmurs a thanks before putting it to his lips. He might be here for the most base of purposes, but that’s no reason not to be polite.

It’s Irish whisky, and it seizes in his throat. He coughs, but only once, and then it goes down blazing. He hadn’t realised he was cold until its fire spreads through him.

He looks up to see Graham watching him bemusedly from a chair opposite. Terry wonders what he’s doing all the way over there. He gives Graham a questioning look, and pats the sofa cushion beside him.

Graham smiles and comes to sit by him. He sets his gin and tonic down on the coffee table, heedless of the ring it’ll leave there. This annoys Terry unreasonably, but he makes himself ignore it. It’s Graham’s table, not his. He’ll use a coaster for his own glass, but he's not ready to put the whisky down yet. Graham, bless his alcoholic heart, has poured him a double.

“Didn’t want to go where I wasn’t wanted,” Graham says.

“You’re wanted,” Terry answers, but they don’t touch. Not yet.

He finishes the whisky in one more go, and hears Graham laugh softly.

“Should I have just brought the bottle?”

Terry doesn’t reply, and Graham silently takes the glass from him and goes to refill it.

“My, my,” he says as he hands Terry the fresh drink and sinks back down beside him. “We *are* in a mood, aren’t we?”

Terry glances up at the words and sees Graham sipping with unaccustomed daintiness at his g & t. He almost laughs. “It’ll take you forever that way, Gray.”

Graham gives him a coolly appraising look. “Not all poofters have to get drunk first, you know.”

Terry turns away, pressing his lips together tightly. He could say, Thought *you* had to get drunk just to keep breathing, but he doesn’t, and the way he feels tonight, that’s a triumph of self-control.

Besides, he likes Graham very much. He has no desire to hurt him.

He rolls the glass back and forth between his hands. “Where’s David?” he asks, because someone needs to say something.

“Out,” Graham replies, without elaboration.

Terry nods, and gazes down into the amber liquid before him.

After a moment he says quietly, “I don’t have to get drunk first.” He sets the glass down, on a coaster.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Graham smile. “Easier that way, though, eh?”

Terry says, “Everything’s easier that way.” He closes his eyes with a sigh.

He opens them again when he feels Graham’s fingers playing lightly with the hair that curls over his collar at the back of his neck.

“Just bad luck,” Graham says, and his voice is very gentle. “You can’t help it. He can’t help it either.”

Terry looks him squarely in the eye. "Don't talk about Michael."

Graham sets his drink down beside Terry’s. “Why talk at all?” he asks in a whisper, and pulls Terry’s head to him for a kiss.

Terry feels it then, the sudden jolting leap of his heart that he loves and hates and can’t seem to live without, and he’s tried. He opens his mouth for Graham, and it’s so good because now he can stop thinking. The liquor buzzes pleasantly in his brain, but he’s not drunk, and even though he wishes he were, he’s going to prove to himself that he was right, he doesn’t need it. He’s not going to be drunker than Graham, for God’s sake. That would be truly pathetic.

Graham pulls back from him too soon, and goes to work on his buttons and zippers. Terry doesn’t help. Graham likes to do it himself, and anyway, it’s easier to feel detached that way. He‘s done stripteases on stage, where it‘s funny, and impersonal, and he can barely see the audience. Here it’s none of those things.

He watches, naked now, as Graham slips off his robe and pajamas and drops them on the floor in a heap. Although Terry would really prefer not to think about it, Graham has a beautiful body, golden and muscular and lightly furred, and not too much affected, on the outside anyway, by his drinking. He knows it, too. He’s aware of its power, its allure. He’d have no trouble getting laid as often as felt like it, even if he wasn’t a rich, famous celebrity.

But tonight, he’s going to fuck Terry Jones. And for that, Terry’s grateful.

He turns over, face down on the sofa, closes his eyes and waits. He hears a slick, wet sound, and he knows Graham’s oiling himself up, but he doesn‘t look. He’s watched him do that before, and it was very, very sexy. It was so sexy he’d almost come from watching, and he didn’t like that. It frightened him, getting so turned on just from looking at a man stroking his cock. He doesn't want to feel that way, not even about Michael. Of course, he's never seen Michael doing that. He knows he never will.

Bare as he is, he’s beginning to feel cold, and he sighs when Graham’s warmth settles over him. Graham kisses his neck gently, nuzzles his ear, and then runs his tongue down Terry’s spine, between the shoulder blades. It's nice, all of it, but it makes Terry uneasy. He tenses up. He doesn’t need all these preliminaries.

But Graham knows that. Graham knows him. He feels a puff of soft laughter against his skin.

“All right,” Graham whispers. “But you are very tasty, you know.”

Then he’s sliding in, and the breath leaves Terry’s lungs and the thoughts leave his mind. He pushes up, and Graham reaches beneath him for his cock, and then he’s being fucked and stroked, fucked and stroked, and he moans and gasps and swears and tries not to call out Graham’s name. Or, God help him, Michael’s name. But it feels so devastatingly good, he’s not sure he succeeds.

He comes hard, sticky white ribbons painting Graham’s hand and the sofa cushions. Graham follows him with a final thrust and a long, satiated sigh.

He lies still as long as he can, after Graham rouses himself and pulls away, after he hears Graham pick up his drink and retreat with it. He keeps his eyes closed because there’s nothing he wants to see.

Then he realises how he must look, lying flat on his belly, bare-arsed and panting, red with exertion, covered with sweat and come. He gets up hastily and looks round for something to clean up with.

“Don’t wipe it off,” Graham says, and Terry looks up to see him sitting across from him, legs casually crossed, still naked. He raises the glass in his hand and gestures at Terry‘s body. “It's honesty.”

Terry doesn’t reply, because, of course, he’s right.

The fog’s not quite so bad when he returns to his car. He backs cautiously down to the road and out into the traffic. In a few minutes, he'll be going right past Michael’s house. That always makes him nervous, which is silly, because really there’s no reason why he shouldn’t visit Graham. They’re good friends. But he wishes Graham and Michael didn’t live as close to each other as they do. He wishes a lot of things. That he didn't have to come to Graham after hours of writing with Michael, listening to Michael's laughter, eating at Michael's table with his wife and children. That he could stop loving Michael, stop needing Graham, stop feeling that wild, surging excitement at a man's touch. That he could be more like Graham, who just doesn’t care.

He laughs shortly, to himself. He’s already too much like Graham. That’s the problem.

He steps down hard on the accelerator. Michael’s house comes into view on his right, but he speeds past without looking at it.
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Honesty