Author: Sky Blue Reverie skyblue_reverie
Pairing: Stephen Fry/Hugh Laurie
Word Count: Approximately 2800
Summary: Hugh comes home for the summer; sex and moping ensue. Set in present day.
Author's Notes: Written for msliz4857's birthday. Happy birthday, darling - I love you! Invaluable beta-services provided by the talented, generous, and all-around fantabulous Essie, the best beta a girl could ever hope for. Fact and fanon checking provided by the goddess of all things Hugh and Stephen, notatracer.
Disclaimer: I beg Hugh or Stephen to sue me for libel - since truth is an absolute defense, I would get to ask them both under oath whether any of this stuff is true. :p
Feedback: I can has feedback? *pleading eyes*
Hugh steps off the plane, and finally the months of waiting are over. Endless solitary nights, endless days surrounded by flat American accents and perfect American teeth finally melt away. He hurries through the airport, down to the baggage claim where he knows Stephen will be waiting for him. The first sight of him stops Hugh's breath, as always. Their eyes meet, and Hugh thinks, I'm finally home.
They move toward each other and then he is truly home, engulfed in Stephen's arms. It should be awkward, two British men hugging in public, but with Stephen there is never any hesitation, never any holding back, and Hugh relaxes as he feels Stephen's large hands rubbing circles against his back. "Hugh," Stephen murmurs softly into his ear, and it's enough. They've never needed long conversations or flowery declarations of emotion (although Stephen is prone to them and Hugh still blushes furiously whenever Stephen goes into one of his fits of extravagant sentimentality). The embrace goes on far longer than is strictly proper, but neither cares, and neither is willing to let go.
Eventually, they disentangle themselves, and although Stephen's eyes are suspiciously bright, there is a smile on his face as he surveys Hugh. "You look tired, poppet," he says solicitously.
"Just jet lag, I expect," Hugh responds.
"They work you far too hard, dearest. You let them work you too hard," Stephen insists. Hugh rolls his eyes at Stephen's mother-henning, but he knows he's right. He's worn to a thread, and he can't keep up this pace.
"One more year, two at most," he promises - a promise both to himself and to Stephen. He'd taken the role for many reasons, not least of which was feeling that he needed some distance from his life - from Stephen, from Jo, from the image of the gormless, dim-witted sidekick that he'd never been able to escape in England. But he had never expected that it would be so hard, so lonely, that he'd miss it all so much. Still, he's never been one to back out of a commitment, and he'll see this one through at least until his contract is up. Then - then he's coming back to England, to Stephen, and he's never leaving again. He couldn't bear it again, and although Stephen has never said so, he knows that Stephen couldn't bear it either.
They collect his baggage and make their way out to the kerb, where Stephen's car is illegally parked. Although a traffic officer is already filling out a citation, when she sees who the vehicle belongs to, she hesitates, and Stephen hastens to her side to charm her out of writing up the rest of the ticket. Within a few moments she tears it up, and Stephen bestows upon her a grateful smile, causing her to blush like a schoolgirl. Hugh rolls his eyes once again, this time at Stephen's shameless use of his celebrity and glib tongue to get his way, and stows his bags in the boot.
The ride back to the flat is nearly intolerable, the months of waiting finally narrowed down to mere minutes, and the electricity crackles between them as they sit side by side in the car, the intensity of their desire magnified by their proximity. They make desultory conversation, Hugh scolding Stephen for driving on a suspended license, Stephen, as always, airily waving away any possible consequences. But underneath it all is a desperate longing, and as soon as they are safely behind a locked door, they fall upon one another, kissing frantically, hands relearning each other's contours, both of them moaning with want and need. Hugh knows that the guilt, the unspoken recriminations from Jo, the resigned sadness from Stephen will begin later, but he pushes that away, and focuses on the feel of Stephen's lips, his hands, his large body pressed against him. Stephen immediately takes the upper hand, as always, and though Hugh used to resent it, now he welcomes it, relinquishing control, the need to make any decisions, the need to even think, as he submits to Stephen's demands.
Stephen, in a fit of extravagance, had bought this entire block of flats, and Hugh knows that he keeps the flats to either side of this one, and the ones above and below, vacant. It's a buffer zone of privacy that they both rely upon. They are free to moan, to shout each other's names, to fuck until the bed slams against the wall - a freedom they take advantage of as often as possible. Stephen steers them through the flat towards that bed now, neither of them able to wait any longer.
Although in many respects the flat has been preserved intact from their days of living here together - pink toilet, beaded curtain and all - certain touches of luxury have crept in, and one of them is the bed. Hugh has to admit that the new mattress, the expensive memory foam type that Stephen swears by, is worlds better than the lumpy affair that they used to sleep on - well, work, play, fuck, write, eat, drink, and get high on - Hugh thinks sometimes that they didn't sleep at all in those days. At any rate, Stephen presses him down into the mattress now, and Hugh settles back with a sigh. Somehow, without his fully realizing it, Stephen has removed all of their clothing and so it is Stephen's bare skin, soft and warm, pressing against him now, Stephen's hard cock rubbing urgently against his own, and he shudders at the sensation, but Stephen's not ready for the main event so soon - he always was one for drawing out the anticipation to nearly unbearable extremes.
Hugh's nipples, while neither blue nor able to express the phrase "come hump me savagely," have always been extraordinarily sensitive, a fact which Stephen now uses to his advantage, focusing his efforts there with both tongue and fingers, nipping, licking, pinching, twisting, and sucking until Hugh is writhing and moaning uncontrollably. When Stephen draws back he looks unutterably pleased with himself, and Hugh pulls him into a ferocious kiss to wipe the smug look off his face. He parts Stephen's lips roughly with his own, thrusting his tongue into Stephen's mouth, running his fingers through Stephen's thick and ridiculously soft hair, and bucking up against him until Stephen is as wild and frantic as Hugh himself.
So much for Stephen's much-vaunted ability to draw out lovemaking for hours - now Stephen is as desperate for completion as Hugh is, and Hugh hums softly in satisfaction as Stephen hurriedly removes a tube of lubricant from the bedside table, his fingers shaking in his eagerness to remove the cap. Hugh watches, eyes glittering with hunger, as Stephen prepares himself and then tosses the tube and cap to the floor when he's done with them.
Hugh spreads his legs wide in unmistakable invitation, and Stephen pauses for a moment to regard him appreciatively.
"My wanton, whorish boy," Stephen murmurs, and Hugh blushes but doesn't deny it. Stephen moves over Hugh, his slick cock nudging at Hugh's arse, as he leans forward and kisses Hugh, lips and teeth and tongue working together to devour Hugh's mouth, then moving on to his sensitive neck, sucking hard - almost hard enough to leave a mark, but not quite. Hugh moans, and then gasps as Stephen's fingers find his balls, rolling and tugging them gently as he continues his attentions to Hugh's neck.
Then Stephen moves his hand to his own cock, guiding it toward Hugh's opening, and Hugh gasps in earnest when he feels Stephen penetrating him, slowly but inexorably, Stephen's large, thick length forcing him open an inch at a time.
Stephen, who hasn't let any phallic object within miles of his bottom since he lost his virtue as a schoolboy, would be genuinely horrified if he knew how much it hurts Hugh every time they fuck. He'd probably do something silly like insist that they stop. He never could bear to hurt Hugh, even having difficulty with their staged punches when they were filming 'A Bit of Fry and Laurie' (Hugh can't think of the programme without imagining the words in Stephen's voice, bracketed by Stephen's air quotes). But Hugh welcomes the pain - it is all at once a reminder of who is claiming him, and his punishment for his betrayal of those he loves - Jo, for being unfaithful to her with Stephen, and Stephen, for - well, for being unfaithful to him with a succession of women, of whom Jo is only one, not the first nor the last.
Besides, he likes the way it feels. He's always enjoyed a touch of pain with his pleasure.
Or perhaps more than a touch - he groans deeply now as Stephen begins to move in and out, the sensation familiar and yet somehow still always a surprise, as if he's about to lose control of his bowels and explode in orgasm all at the same time. Stephen, ever the considerate lover, pauses and says in a voice slightly strangled by lust, "Everything all right, darling?"
"Yes, fine, don't stop," Hugh manages, thrusting up against Stephen, wanting the sensation to never end, but not knowing how much longer he can take it. For better or worse, he won't have to take it much longer, because, judging by the blissed-out expression on Stephen's face and the rate of his breathing, not to mention the speed and depth of his thrusts, Stephen will be coming in just under two minutes. After this many years, Hugh's pretty much got it down to a science. He shifts slightly, and suddenly Stephen's strokes hit his prostate, causing Hugh to let out a loud "Nnnnngggghhhhaaahhhhh" and lose all track of Stephen's reactions in favour of his own.
They race toward orgasm, moaning, panting, sweating, thrusting frantically against each other. It isn't pretty, but dear God does it feel incredible. Hugh doesn't need any stimulation but this - watching Stephen labour over him, feeling Stephen inside of him, hearing Stephen's harsh breaths interspersed with ridiculous, semi-coherent endearments - and suddenly Hugh's climax hits, taking him by surprise. He gives a wordless cry and his body goes rigid as he shoots his load all over his stomach and chest. Stephen follows a mere moment later, shouting "Hugh!" in a tone that might be wonder or pain, and then releasing deep inside of Hugh's arse in several long spurts - Hugh can feel Stephen's cock twitching and pulsing as he spends himself.
They ride out the aftershocks together, Stephen still buried inside of Hugh as their breathing and heart rates gradually slow, their bodies still throbbing with the aftermath of orgasm. Stephen rests his head in the crook of Hugh's neck, the sweat on Stephen's forehead causing a prickly, uncomfortable sensation against Hugh's skin, but he ignores it, wrapping one leg around Stephen's back and running his fingers through Stephen's hair, then trailing them along the back of his neck. Eventually Stephen's cock softens enough that it slips out of Hugh and they both shudder, Stephen collapsing onto the bed next to Hugh.
For a time, they are silent as they hold each other - neither would admit to cuddling, though Hugh can't really think of another word for it - and Hugh wishes that this, this moment, could go on forever. He knows, though, that it can't, and eventually Stephen pulls away a bit and turns to Hugh, opening his mouth to speak. Hugh tenses reflexively. With Stephen, one is never sure whether to expect embarrassingly sappy post-coital pillow talk, or a vicious argument. He's not sure which is worse.
"So, when is Jo expecting you?" Stephen asks casually, wielding his words like a sharpened rapier, knowing exactly how to draw blood.
Hugh winces, but answers. "Not until tomorrow. I told her my flight departs tonight."
"Mmmm, naughty boy," Stephen replies, his blue eyes flashing approval.
Hugh flushes, an involuntary reaction of pride at Stephen's approval and shame at deceiving his wife. He looks at Stephen, awaiting his next conversational gambit, but Stephen merely raises an eyebrow and gazes back inscrutably. Hugh flops back on the bed with a slightly disgruntled sigh.
There is always something unknowable about Stephen. Despite his constant self-obsessed babbling, he holds some corner back, some part of himself that he won't share with anyone, not even Hugh, who is closer to him than anyone. It drives Hugh mad - it is frustrating and alluring all at the same time. No doubt Stephen is well aware of the fact. Hugh sometimes wonders if Stephen does it to punish him.
He turns back toward Stephen, and suddenly notices that Stephen is tired, worn down too - at least as much as he himself is. Stephen's always done too much, driven himself too hard. He's writing another novel, drafting several screenplays and theatrical adaptations, hosting a quiz programme, doing voice work, and making endless appearances and speeches at everything from his small market town's poetry society to Britain's largest AIDS charity organisation. And now, of course, he's filming a weekly television drama as well.
A line from an old musical pops into Hugh's head - "anything you can do, I can do better" - and although he immediately feels guilty for the thought, he wonders how much truth there is in it, how much Stephen agreed to star in a one-hour television drama to show that whatever Hugh could do, he could do as well. There's always been a certain amount of competition between them - who could come up with the most jokes, the best sketch ideas. But Stephen never knows when to quit, can never acknowledge Hugh as the better man in any shared field of endeavour (music and sport don't count - Stephen takes perverse pride in his hopeless ineptitude at both of those), and frankly it's one of the things that drove Hugh away in the first place. He needs to win sometimes - craves Stephen's approval with a desperate hunger, and, if he's honest, he craves public approval too, public acknowledgement that he is Stephen's equal, and that has always eluded him in the country of his birth. In America, of course, he's a star now, and hardly anyone has even heard of Stephen. It's what he's always secretly wanted, and now that he has it, he finds it's not nearly as satisfying as he thought it would be. Success without Stephen by his side feels empty, hollow, pointless.
Stephen catches him wool-gathering and looks at him with those knowing eyes, as if he can read Hugh's very thoughts. Perhaps he can. Hugh's never been as good at reading Stephen as Stephen is at reading him. And yet, he's never doubted Stephen's love for him - how can he, when he's tested it in every possible way, and it has never faltered once - Stephen has never faltered, never threatened by word or deed to leave Hugh, although God knows Hugh's given him enough reason to, and they've certainly had their share of screaming fights and stony silences over the years.
He fervently thanks a God he's not even sure he believes in that Stephen is willing to go along with this, willing to take what Hugh can give him, even though it's not nearly as much as Stephen deserves or needs.
"I love you, Stephen." The words suddenly come tumbling out of him, as if somehow he needs to say it, and he immediately feels ashamed, both for the display of sentimentality and, paradoxically, for the fact that he doesn't say it nearly often enough.
Stephen, as always, knows exactly what to say, the infuriating bastard. "I know, my petal. I have always known."
He scoots back into Stephen's arms, needing more - yes, damn it, there's only one word for it - needing more cuddling. The moment can't last forever, but for now, Stephen's arms are around him, stroking his back reassuringly, and he is at peace.
He is home. It is enough.