Life's Pageant II: The Return

***


Graham languished in the Californian afternoon. He would savour it before he had to leave the next day. He read the postcard to himself again.

Three more cards addressed to three others made their way through the post and each read: Script completed. Love from Mike and Terry.

Love from Mike and Terry.

So very much contained in so few words.

They were now making their third film, having forced the faltering script, having gathered their forces together in London. Michael watched as Terry emerged from a pit of mud, dressed schoolboyishly, pushing a hand into his now schoolboyishly short hair and laughing.

He had mud all over his face. His eyes caught Michael's and they shared yet another glance of longing.

Weeks passed. Terry sat behind the camera, Terry shouted, Terry squinted, Terry watched him, Terry flicked his eyes away, Terry watched him again.

"Terry?"

Terry murmured something in reply. Michael looked fondly down at him.

"Terry?"

This time Terry looked wearily up at him, gave a weak smile.

"Can we talk somewhere?"

Terry dropped the smile and got to his feet. He followed Michael, away from the crew, the camera, suddenly realising he was grinding his teeth when Michael stopped in front of him. Michael turned to him. He wore an ash-coloured beret over his moustached and dirt-smeared face, rough coat over tattered trousers.

"What is it Mike?" asked Terry. He played with the fabric of the apron he wore, over the modest dress and ridiculous padding he wore under it, suddenly looking more like his mother than ever and uncomfortably aware of it. Avoiding Michael's eyes.

Michael narrowed his. "What's the matter? You seem so unhappy." His tone was soft and solemn.

Terry let the fabric leave his fingers, lifted his hand. He pressed it against the side of his head, pressed and thrust his fingers into his hair and curled them into a fist. He tried to smile but just stared down sadly at Michael's feet.

Terry was gaining weight again, no longer the dried-out emptied tortured soul of the seventies, and he wasn't pleased with that. Michael knew it. This was Terry, this would always be Terry. Michael didn't mind. Terry would change, would age, would grow and shrink, back into the bones of his childhood, but Terry's eyes would never grow older. Terry's eyes would always burn like coals, black and bright, and Michael would never grow tired of gazing into them, wandering through them. He felt he could stay there for years. He knew that he would.

Michael pulled Terry into his arms. He would do whatever he could to make Terry happy and knew that Terry would do the same for him.

"It's just," whispered Terry after a long while into Michael's neck, "it's just filming this isn't what I want to be doing right now. I mean..."

He pressed a kiss to Michael's neck.

"I just feel we haven't had much time together lately." His arms went slowly around Michael. "Yet here we are, filming."

Michael had closed his eyes, with one hand on Terry's back just under his shoulderblades and the other on the back of Terry's head pulling lazily at the short dark locks there. He could remember touching Terry like this, so long ago, with Terry's breaths and Terry's tears falling on his skin, so sweet and soft. He knew that Terry was getting restless, and so was he. There were going to be no more films. No more distractions.

"I know," whispered Michael. "I know, love."

His words shivered in the cold silence.

As he held Terry he wondered whether Graham had drawn the same lazy designs through Terry's hair, wondered whether Graham had been rewarded with the sweetest kiss on his neck.

He couldn't help it. It was a deadly cancer of a thought that he'd allowed into his mind and it had spread ruthlessly to every corner. It fed quietly on his pain. Terry loved him, Terry loved him, there was no reason for this pain, Terry loved him.

He held Terry closer.

Soon the thoughts would slide back into their poisoned silences, he would be free of them once again, he would be enveloped in the stiff cold bedsheets of another hotel room and in Terry's arms warm and happy. Soon it would be over.

And soon their third and most likely final film was thrown giddily in the can.

They were sitting at a noisy table in the back room of a noisy restaurant in noisy Cannes, watching the rest of the Python team getting smashed. They were leaning closer to one another without knowing it. Michael then felt his fingers around for Terry's. His hand was cautious.

Terry took his hand and squeezed and their eyes met only briefly. Tore away again very reluctantly. Under the table their hands melted together, spreading warmth up their arms and sinful smiles across their faces.


***


Terry took a deep drag of his cigarette, almost shuddering as he did.

He stared around the smoky room as he breathed out. People spoke to each other in bubbly French, laughed and smirked, waved glasses of wine, but nobody bothered to ask what he was doing there.

Then a cloudy gaze, quick and sharp, snapped onto his again. Terry turned his eyes away, cigarette pinched between two shaking fingers.

He hated the uncertainty that flew from the cloudy eyes.

He hated Graham.

But he just wanted to be able to talk to him again, if he could just forget what had happened. Every time he tried to forget, he would see it there in the knowing grey, the sadistic grey. He felt numb and helpless. Michael faded. All became murky, senseless, cold tongues, cold fingers, numb.

He wanted another glass of wine.

After several more glasses he realised that Graham had left the room at some point, and some part of him was relieved, although a greater part was still trapped in the grey eyes.

Michael wasn't at the party because he was back in England, playing loving husband and father. He'd left not too long after they'd arrived in France. He seemed very tense when he'd left. Terry had been half asleep and half on top of him.

"Monsieur?"

Terry forced his eyes into focus and saw the man standing in front of him; the man was balancing a tray of glasses. He had one eyebrow raised and in both eyes a trace of worry.

"May I take your glass?"

Terry smiled and set his empty glass on the tray. The man smiled slowly, bowed his head in a grateful sort of way, and promptly disappeared back into the room.

There was no Michael to hold, to wrap his arms around, to fall asleep with that night. Terry shoved his face deep into the unoccupied pillow. The smell of stale sweat greeted him. The faintest citrus. Warm, Michael was warm. Michael's heart beat in his ears, softly, Michael's voice whispered to him. Michael was warm as the sun.

Terry's hand flattened on the mattress, and he felt Michael's heart beating under it. Heard Michael's breath hitch. Moved his hand slowly, slowly downwards. He felt Michael's warm chest beneath his palm, solid and heaving with each breath. Michael's stomach was hard and smooth. He felt Michael's arousal. His fingers closed slowly around it, then squeezed and sent Michael's gentle pulse into a frenzy. His lips opened and a tiny, hungry moan crawled over them.

A part of him realised he was moaning into a pillow and didn't care. The rest of him was buried in Michael's warmth, panting as he began to stroke Michael's cock. He let his teeth scrape Michael's skin and let out a sudden growl from somewhere deep in his body.

Terry laid there with his eyes shut, with a pillowcase between his teeth, with his hand thrust under his stomach stroking himself without realising that it wasn't Michael lying under him but the filthy, sweat-scented mattress of a hotel room.

Afterwards he turned onto his side and stared absently at the gloomy grey wallpaper.

He saw Michael sleeping happily with Helen. Helen who loved only his money, Helen who could never deserve his warmth and his wit and his laughter. His rumbling laughter. How intoxicating it was, how it made Terry want to drink Michael's laughter from his lips. How he wanted Michael beside him.

Green-eyed angel.

When they were boarding the plane back to England Terry and Graham resolutely ignored each other. It didn't make them feel any better. Terry felt absolutely awful. He missed Graham.

But Graham had knowingly driven him and Michael apart. Graham had known about him and Michael, and he'd known that Terry did not want to restart whatever they'd finished in '69, and still he had brought this hurt into Michael's eyes. Wonderfully mad though Gray was, he had crossed the line when he'd kissed Terry, and Michael would never fully forgive them.

But Michael would still love him. Michael had his heart long before Graham entered into it. And Michael... was out having a drink with John.

Not that it mattered.


***


Michael forced his eyes down, into the golden depths of his beer, and then he laughed softly.

"John... would you stop that?" The restaurant around him seemed to grow quiet, the voices hushed. The taste of beer stronger. The feel of John's gaze more powerful.

"Stop what?" John's voice seemed softer.

Michael didn't look up. "Stop looking at me like that."

After a long silence he finally looked up at John, and saw him leaning forwards on his elbows before a strand of brown hair obscured him. Michael lowered his eyes again. He brushed the hair away from his face. But his fingers stopped.

"John?"

He looked up again to see John staring into the table between them.

John's body was hunched over, his elbows planted on the table and his hands clasped at the back of his neck. Even when hunched over a table he towered. It was his security. The John that the world knew was a distant star. The John that Michael knew, had always known, was something much more chaotic, a storm that he kept hidden in his wintry eyes.

Michael had always been fascinated by John. The first time he'd seen John was on stage, but he hadn't known his name then, and the first time they'd properly met was on the Frost Report. Terry had been there.

But Michael remembered his eyes being caught by John's, and smiling at John he withdrew such energy from those eyes. He could see something familiar in them, something intense, but it wasn't until he saw the expression on Terry's face that he realised what it was.

Both men clearly hated one another and it bothered Michael deeply because he adored them both. And although he was far more fond of Terry he somehow felt more upset towards him, because Terry was his dearest friend and Michael expected better of him. Terry was supposed to be better than that. But these two, these two with fire in their eyes, they were acting like children.

Here John was sulking in front of him like a child having been denied an ice cream. A man of over six feet, with a thickening moustache and thinning hair, could somehow become a child.

Michael reached out to touch his arm but John pulled it back violently. John glared at him.

When he stood from the table Michael shuddered. Then in a voice that was not quite so soft anymore, John spoke.

"I can do that." John's mouth twitched. "You know, I've got to be going, tomorrow's going to be quite a long day and I haven't r-"

"John, don't go."

John's eyes flashed. "Don't act like you fucking care. I've got to go."

Michael watched him storm off and realised that his hands were shaking. His eyes lingered on the spot John had vanished from. He looked down again.

His hands were beginning to betray his age; skin wasn't as firm as it used to be, fingernails were getting more difficult to tame.

A few minutes later he got up and left the restaurant and didn't lift his gaze from the ground. He walked down the street towards his car. A man in a long black coat stared at him as he walked by.

Inside his car, he pressed one hand to one side of his face. Closed his eyes. And resolved to see Terry as soon as possible.

He knew they wouldn't be arriving for another hour, so he waited outside Terry's house. He looked across the front garden and wondered if Terry's wife was in. There weren't any lights on, and there weren't any other cars around. He squinted at one of the windows, waited and let his mind wander, to memories of his first trip to this house, memories of the Python group meeting in this house, memories of slamming the front door and in mute agony vowing never to return to this house, and then finally he heard a car rumbling up behind him and it stopped silent.

He grinned and the door of the car squeaked open.

"Might I ask you what you're doing standing in front of my house, you strange person?" Michael turned towards Terry's voice and saw him fling the car door shut with a smirk. Terry walked slowly towards him.

Michael locked his gaze with Terry's. When Terry reached him, their smiles flared brighter. Terry's arms went round Michael's neck and Michael wrapped Terry up in a tight hug. They held each other for a few moments and each listened to the other, to each beat of his heart, each breath from his lips. Terry pulled back first, looked into Michael's eyes, and kissed him, and closed his eyes, and kissed him more deeply.

Michael jerked away from him as soon as he realised what they were doing, and stared open-mouthed at Terry. Terry only laughed.

"What... what if your wife saw us?" whispered Michael, still holding Terry. "What about your neighbours?"

"Not their business," whispered Terry. "And she's not here."

"Where is she?"

"Not here. On holiday. Not here. Kids went with her." Terry grinned up at him.

Michael narrowed his eyes, then started to smile again. Then he tightened his arms round Terry's waist. He bowed his forehead to Terry's. He felt Terry's fingers in his hair. He lifted Terry up off the ground without warning and Terry let out a cry of surprise.

He spun Terry around once and heard Terry laughing madly. Terry held onto him and slid back down to the ground, breathing a little harder, still laughing, and both of them caught their breaths and kissed again. Michael looked into Terry's eyes.

"You're absolutely mental," he whispered with his nose against Terry's.

Terry pulled away and pulled him up the garden path. They slammed the front door shut behind them.

That night, they laid in the bed Terry refused to share with his wife. They laid on their sides, Terry's head tucked under Michael's. Terry breathed softly over the skin of Michael's throat. Michael draped his arms over Terry's naked body. He felt the breaths slowing, slowing, and the body next to his slowly sank into unconsciousness.

This was the first night they'd slept together out of a hotel room, Michael realised, and wondered if they'd ever be able to do it again. If they'd ever have a bed of their own one day, maybe, in a house of their own. If one day, their wives gone and kids grown, they would finally be able to spend each night together. A warmth he hadn't felt in years suddenly spread through him, a warmth he hadn't felt since the day he'd met Terry. When he'd found Terry smiling at him and known that this light in Terry's eyes was only for him. When he'd realised that he'd found everything he'd ever wanted in one man. Everything he'd ever wanted and it had to be illegal.

He'd never have thought then that he'd be sleeping with Terry now. Maybe the future would hold yet another pleasant surprise.

His eyelids grew heavy and the rest of him grew heavy as well, and as he felt sleep settle over him he thought of Oxford. He thought of his seat beside Terry in their philosophy class. He remembered how happy he was just to sit there, to exchange giggles and grins, to feel that little fluttering in his chest.

The last thing he took in before sleep took him was the spice in Terry's hair.

He found himself suddenly walking down a blurred street, past greys and whites and a man in a black coat with burning red eyes who seemed to be the only colour in the place and who seemed to attach his eyes to every part of Michael's body. Michael turned a corner and went into one of the grey buildings. The air inside was heavy and spicy, the light through the window dim, and Michael looked around uncertainly. Then he saw the figure on the floor. Kneeling on the floor before another indistinguishable figure. Michael, intrigued, moved closer. He saw that the two figures were both men. He saw that the first man had his head in the other's lap, and he saw that the other's trousers were around his ankles. He noticed that the man on the floor looked terribly familiar. Terribly. Black coat. Black hair.

Michael felt his blood freeze and then felt it begin to pound furiously through his body. He started towards the two. He made to pull Terry away from the other man, but instead he found himself reaching out and pushing Terry forwards. He pressed his hand against the back of Terry's shaggy head, wanting to scream, wanting to cry. He looked up helpless at the half-naked man sitting in front of Terry. And he saw Graham.

He awoke with a soft cry, his entire body shaking. His fingers were entangled in Terry's hair and Terry's gentle breathing had stopped. He let out another cry, softer this time. Terry shifted in his arms.

"Mike?" Terry's voice was thick with sleep.

The bedroom was still a bit dark, but lighter than before. Michael could see only the top of Terry's head and his own hand. He could feel Terry's arm around his waist, Terry's hand stroking his back and Terry's mouth against his neck.

"Yeah," whispered Michael. He felt Terry shifting more, moving his face up level with Michael's.

"Why were you shaking?"

"Bad dream."

"Really," murmured Terry, "bad dream?"

Michael didn't know what he meant by that, but he didn't want to ask. He looked into Terry's heavy-lidded eyes.

A smile pulled up one corner of Terry's mouth. Michael then felt cold fingers around the erection he hadn't been aware of. They squeezed. He gasped, closed his eyes. Terry laughed against his lips, then took his hand off Michael's cock.

"Poor Mikey," teased Terry. "Must've been an awful dream..."

"It... it was about you, but..."

Their noses were pressed together. Michael's eyes were on Terry's open mouth.

"It was about you and Gray."

Terry's eyes flickered. He didn't speak for a few minutes.

"What happened in it?"

"You were... kneeling," whispered Michael. "On the floor. In front of him."

Terry was suddenly breathing faster.

"You were... you... I was pushing you towards him."

Breathing faster.

"Terry..."

Michael could hear his heart pounding.

"Touch me again..."

Michael pulled Terry's hand closer again. The hand eagerly took him and began to stroke him. Michael felt himself keening towards Terry and heard himself groaning. But he wasn't quite sure what he was doing.

Then just as quickly Terry's hand had stilled its movements. "Mike..."

Michael moaned an answer.

Terry drew back. He stared at Michael. He was still breathing a little fast. But in his eyes there was fear.

Terry shut his eyes and brought Michael's face close to his. "I want to tell you something."

Michael pressed his lips together, closed his eyes tight, breathed in and made himself stop shaking. He listened to Terry's voice.

"I didn't fall in love with Graham. I fell in love with you. I didn't sleep with him because I wanted to. I slept with him because I wanted you, and you weren't interested."

Michael bit his lip. And listened.

"Well you weren't then... but, it's true I should have told you, I was just scared. And..."

After a minute or two Michael arched a brow, and Terry continued.

"I'd never slept with a man before then. And well... aside from you, I haven't slept with any others. So..."

"Erm," Michael broke in. "Wait... you're saying there haven't been any others besides me and Gray?"

"Well," whispered Terry with something new and trembling in his voice. "Sort of."

"Terry, has there or has there not?"

Michael watched Terry lower his eyes and grew increasingly angry, but realised that Terry was trying to speak and too frightened to do it. Terry was shaking now. Then Terry spoke, very very softly.

"I've known my own sexuality as far back as I can remember... and I knew the trouble it could've got me into. I played sport, did all the things ordinary boys did, denied what I was because I didn't want to be their victim. I learned how to act like them. But when I came to university, when I met you-"

Michael twined his fingers with Terry's where they rested on Michael's face. He smiled at Terry, and Terry smiled with his eyes closed.

"-When I met you, I would've given anything to be with you, anything. Would it come down to both of us being thrown in prison, I would have done it. So when I left Oxford, and when... when the BBC hired me they didn't want me, and when you came down they didn't want either of us, I had to get them to bring you on and they wouldn't fucking do it."

Michael knew whatever was coming out of Terry's mouth next was going to be bad.

"But they hired me, and they hired you, because... I... I... because I... you know what I did in your dream?"

And it was bad.

Terry, eyes opened, watched him intently. Michael was speechless. And horrified. Searching for any words that could begin to express his horror.

He let out a sort of croak and tried the words a second time. "Sucked them off."

Terry winced but hid it with a small smile.

"So... these are the 'others' you were referring to?" Terry nodded. Michael felt all the horror rush his bloodstream and drew every muscle tight in his face, lips tight shut, eyes narrowed. Then he saw the fear still in Terry's eyes. The pain. The horror drained out of him.

He hesitated, then brushed his thumb over Terry's cheek, watched Terry's eyes fall shut. He found himself kissing Terry's forehead.

He kissed Terry's forehead again and kept his lips there.


***


Terry's heart beat in his throat.

He watched the boy walk down the road, away from him, and knew that if he moved an inch in any direction, the boy would turn towards him again. He waited and watched. Silent.

The boy wore short trousers and a dirty white shirt, sleeves rolled up to the shoulders. The boy's skin was caked with dirt and his blonde hair was slicked with oil. He had seen Terry, but he wouldn't make a move, not yet.

He walked further away, until Terry was sure he wouldn't turn back. The road seemed empty apart from the two boys. Trees towered over each house and flanked the gate across the street. Terry waited behind a hedge in one of the gardens. He glanced at the boy and back at the gate. Then he jumped away from the hedge and ran for it.

The white painted gate stood rusting in front of a group of golden-green hills. Nobody came through but the mysterious men who were authorised to do so, and little boys seeking trouble. Or running from it, thought Terry as he jumped the gate. He heard a rabbit scramble away into a cluster of trees. He made for what appeared to be a pile of boulders hanging over a dry riverbed, which lay just out of sight from the road.

When he reached the tower of rocks, he stopped and tried desperately to bring his heart back down into his chest and panted hard. He reached one arm out to lean against a rock.

And his arm was seized by a filthy hand.

Terry knew who had grabbed it and turned to face the boy, whose face was somehow in shadow. He knew that he'd been caught. He knew what the boy wanted from him. He knew what he had to do now. He steadied himself, smiled, then he reached out and touched the boy's face gently, sank slowly to his knees and suddenly felt Michael shaking beside him.

He tore himself out of his dream and lifted one arm from where it had sank between their bodies. It slid over Michael's waist and his fingers moved over Michael's back, along Michael's spine, until Michael let out a whimper. He moved closer to Michael and felt something hard against his hip, something familiar. He started to smile. Then he pressed his mouth against Michael's neck and murmured his name.

"Yeah," replied Michael, his voice rough and deep, fresh from sleep. Terry pushed himself up to look into Michael's eyes while Michael's fingers slithered through his hair.

"Why were you shaking?"

"Bad dream," Michael had answered shakily.

Terry had to keep himself from shaking when he heard what Michael's dream had been about.

It frightened him, it tormented him, and he couldn't speak. But he had to tell Michael about the boy.

He told Michael about Graham, about the BBC, and about the boy, the boy who had put an end to his innocence, the boy with blonde hair and greasy hands. Michael held him, and kissed him, and cried with him.

He knew Michael needed to hear all of it, no matter how much it hurt to tell him, and Michael needed to know that Terry loved him, more than anything else. Because Michael, for whatever bizarre reason, was convinced that nobody could love him.

When you're raised a good English boy and you turn out homosexual, there's bound to be a good amount of self-loathing.

Terry could only wonder why Michael loved him. Strange though it seemed, it was real, and lying beside him with love shining in its pale green eyes.

And why did they have to hide it? When they were around other people, or being filmed, or being interviewed, why did they have to switch off these feelings for each other?

Michael's arm went round him as they sat together in Terry Gilliam's crowded home. Gilliam was nowhere to be seen, but a few other familiar faces were. They weren't really watching. Drifting about and with a couple glasses of champagne anticipating the film they were being dragged into, the film that Gilliam was dragging Michael into, the film that was to be known as Brazil. Meanwhile Terry would be preparing a script for a film that was to be known as Labyrinth.

Michael's fingers slowly spread out from his palm. One finger played with the edge of Terry's blue jacket, the red fabric of his shirt. Michael was leaning ever closer, and he stopped when his head rested against Terry's.

"Do you really want me to do this film?" Michael whispered to him. "I'll be away a lot more..."

"You'll be here in London," Terry reassured him, "and as long as I can still come and see you, I'll be more than happy." Terry turned his head and met Michael's gaze with a warm smile.

Michael smiled back and leaned forwards again, until their noses touched, and both pairs of eyes were beginning to close when a voice stopped them, a disdainful and familiar voice.

"Why don't you two go off and cuddle somewhere else?" They looked up to see John, sitting a few feet away from them on another of Gilliam's lush leather sofas, contempt clearly written on his face. He shot Terry a poisonous glare.

By now Terry had met a lot of these and had built up a strange kind of immunity, so he simply gave John an arch of his brow. He waited.

John gave them both a humourless smile before leaving the room. Terry watched him with perfect indifference. Then he looked back at Michael, and frowned.

"Terry," whispered Michael, his face twisted with worry, "I think we may have hurt him."

Terry frowned more deeply. "Hurt him?"

Michael looked back at the doorway John had disappeared through. "I'm going to talk to him."

"If he wants to be a prat, Mike, let him be a prat," said Terry dismissively.

"He's not being a prat, he's..."

Terry, leaving the indifference behind, snorted and looked away. "He doesn't understand human compassion. It offends him. See that? He runs from it. So let him go, let him be a prat."

"Terry, you know as well as I do that's utterly untrue."

"Go and chase after him then," growled Terry, "because you know as well as I do that's what he wants."

Michael stood and stomped away without another word and Terry couldn't help but shiver. He clenched his teeth, feeling Michael's anger still clinging to him. He looked up and wondered whether he should follow Michael.

After several minutes he drifted out of the house and into the back garden, still trembling slightly but less from Michael's emotion than his own. The night was foggy and the stars glowed only faintly at him.

John wants to control him.

Terry ground his teeth together. John wants his pity. John wants his pity, and his gullibility, and he's trying to take Mike away from me.

Sensing somebody behind him and realising it was Michael, he didn't turn around.

"I see you've tired of the chase," he muttered.

"No... I had a talk with him."

"And what did he say?"

"Not... nothing really, I talked to him, he was talked to, that's all. Turn around, love."

"He might throw another fit if he sees us looking at each other," said Terry bitterly as he turned towards Michael. He looked first at Michael's chest, hidden behind a white buttoned shirt and a dark blue coat, then he brought his eyes up Michael's neck and onto Michael's face. Michael seemed to quiver a little under his gaze. There was something in Michael's carefully controlled expression that Terry didn't like.

Terry studied him a moment longer. "Mike," he murmured, "you're hiding something from me."

Michael shut his eyes and swallowed hard.

"What did he say to you?"

Michael shook his head with his eyes still closed.

"Tell me what he fucking said, I'll find it out sooner or later."

Michael's head bowed lower and lower until his face was almost obscured. Then he mumbled into his own chest, "He kissed me."

A numbness seemed to settle over Terry. He couldn't feel his fingernails sinking into his palms. But he could see them. He couldn't feel the night around him anymore. He could see the stars still faint in the sky, the house still glowing in front of him, the man still standing with his eyes lowered and his shoulders heaving slowly. Michael.

My Michael.

"He kissed you," whispered Terry.

"He did," whispered Michael.

Terry felt the numbness turn to heat. "You kissed him back?" Michael only lifted his head, eyes full of worry.

Terry smiled a dangerous smile. "Poor old John... he finally got what he wanted. I'm ecstatic. He must be."

"I told him it would never happen again, I told him I couldn't do it. But I didn't know what to do-"

"That's the most ludicrous thing I've ever heard," hissed Terry. "You know damn well that he'll try it again, and you'll give in again-"

"And you've a right to condemn me," said Michael angrily, "after what you did with Graham?"

The heat in his body reached boiling point. He kept his face still, an emotionless mask. The two men stood in silence and stared at one another. Then finally Terry turned away and started towards the house.

As he passed Michael he felt fingers wrap around his wrist, and the harder he tried to free his wrist the tighter they wrapped themselves around it. He pulled once more, then groaned and turned back to Michael. "Let me go!"

Michael sighed and shook his head. "Stop acting like a child."

Terry felt the heat surge against his ribs, felt the blood rushing through the arm Michael had seized. His hand curled into a fist. He brought the other arm up and grabbed Michael's coat. He jerked Michael forwards and whispered hotly, "Let me go."

Michael's eyes darted wildly over Terry's face. His breathing quickened and the breaths fell one after the other on Terry's lips, but then Terry realised that they were getting warmer. And Michael was moving closer.

Terry could only open his lips when he felt Michael's tongue at them and Michael's fingers released his wrist. Michael instead wrapped Terry up in his arms. They squeezed and he moaned quietly.

"You think that's going to make me forget?" he said with his eyes closed. He licked his lips and hoped he wasn't tasting John's saliva.

Michael squeezed again. "You think I've forgotten?" he said softly. "You know I'm not in love with him."

"What if he kisses you again?" asked Terry half-wanting to hear the answer.

Michael went silent but Terry could hear him thinking the question over. "If he does," said Michael sadly, "I suppose I'll have to end the friendship."

Terry didn't know where the words had come from but they were out of his mouth before he could stop them. "It's not fair just to cut him off." He paused and opened his eyes. "And I know you couldn't do that to him."

"Do what to whom?"

Terry's eyes opened wider and found Eric Idle leaning against the house and laughing. He and Michael backed away from each other immediately. "Sorry, sorry," laughed Eric, "didn't mean to startle you. Just didn't want to have to witness two grown men weeping."

Eric eyed them both as they continued to stare at him.

"You don't have to worry about me, I won't tell a soul," said Eric with a sheepish smile.

Terry glanced at Michael, then both looked back at Eric. When he'd gotten his racing heart under control, Terry gave Eric an unsteady smile. "You won't?"

"Course not," Eric assured him. "Course, some of us already knew. S'not the first time I've seen you two snogging."

Terry blushed and Michael blushed even more. Michael looked up at Terry and laughed nervously.

The three men stood against Gilliam's house that night, sharing a cigarette of Eric's. Eric seemed quite happy with the pair. Terry and Michael were both relieved.


***


Graham was sick.

He was avoiding doctors as well as he could but he was getting steadily worse and the threat of hospital ever closer. The year was 1988.

Terry opened his eyes and watched Michael's lips move slowly away from his own. He touched Michael's hair, smiled at the greys pushing up from under the rich brown. His own hair was almost overrun by greys.

"Michael," he murmured. "Do you really still love me?"

Michael leaned down again, his eyes fixed on Terry's, then grinned. "What d'you mean by that?"

Their mouths were less than an inch apart. "You told me once that I was beautiful."

Michael held Terry's gaze and kissed him again. "Why do you ask me things like that?" he said into Terry's mouth.

"First time we ever slept together," Terry went on, "and you were looking up at me."

Michael went on kissing him, catching Terry's lip between his teeth.

"You've probably forgotten all about that."

"I haven't forgotten a thing." Michael still had Terry's lip between both of his. He stared down at Terry. "What could possibly make you think that I don't love you, Terry?"

"Don't know," muttered Terry, "you're... beautiful as ever and I'm-"

"Don't start that, I'm warning you."

Michael lifted himself slightly off Terry. His thighs were against Terry's hips and their stomachs were pressed together. Terry's hair was unruly, his eyes were dark. Darker than usual. Terry's fingers had slipped out of Michael's hair and skimmed slowly down his neck.

Michael started to grin again and let Terry pull him back down. "I love you," he murmured when their noses touched. He kissed Terry, drawing Terry's tongue into his mouth.

"I love every bit of you," he whispered. He nuzzled Terry's shaggy hair away from his neck. He found a familiar deep red mark. He pressed his lips against it and sank his teeth in again. He bit harder when he heard Terry moan.

It wasn't a moan of pain. It wasn't a moan of pleasure. It was much more intimate than that. The first time he had bit Terry Michael had realised that he was marking his territory, and he was giving himself to Terry. It gave him such a strange sensation. It both comforted and frightened him. He felt safe and yet he didn't. And he loved the feeling.

He left the bruise and dragged his lips gently down the side of Terry's neck, smiling as he did. He brought his hand up and touched the bulge of Terry's throat before he kissed it. He moved down over Terry's chest.

Terry pushed his fingers once more into Michael's hair and Michael looked up as Terry tipped his head back, Terry's neck lengthened and from Terry's lips came a tiny moan.

Terry's skin was soft, and it was losing the tan their travelling had given it. Strange softness which Michael had never thought a man's body could have. Paleness which could only be English. There was a darker tinge, however, enticing Michael. Terry's body was getting bigger and yet he still seemed small, his hair was greying and yet he still seemed young.

Michael buried a kiss in Terry's navel. Terry's fingers clutched tighter at his head. Tighter still when Michael continued kissing downwards.

Terry had taught him how to do this long ago and Michael still felt uneasy when he did it. More uneasy now that he knew how Terry had learned it. But that wouldn't stop him, the noises that Terry made certainly wouldn't stop him, and he kissed his way towards Terry's erection.

When his lips touched the head, Terry made a choked noise. Michael smiled a little and slowly pushed his tongue forwards. Opened his mouth wide as it would go. Shut his eyes. Terry groaned as Michael gave a swirl of his tongue and dipped down until Terry's cock touched the back of his mouth. He pulled up a little, wrapping his tongue around the shaft, taking Terry's hips in his hands and holding them down as they began to lift.

He moved down again slowly and stopped once more when the tip touched his throat. Then back up, only the tip in his mouth. He sucked on it gently. Brought his tongue forwards again and tasted the bitter liquid welling up from it.

He moved down again, and this time he didn't stop but let Terry's cock into his throat, all the way in until his lips were around the base. He dimly heard Terry moaning. Whatever uneasiness he had... it was more than worth hearing Terry moan like that. And he was careful not to let his throat close. He knew this magic. He heard Terry moaning just as he had done. He held Terry's hips, just as Terry had held his, and swallowed.

Terry twitched and came in his mouth. Michael let his hips go and his hands slid down Terry's thighs, down and then started moving up again when Terry's orgasm had ended and his body fell slack. Fingers fell forgotten out of Michael's hair. Terry's moans turned to sweet murmurs.

"Michael," he murmured with his eyes shut.

No reply from Michael but a tender kiss on the inside of one thigh. The same spot Terry always placed a kiss on Michael's body. Both of them smiled, then Michael started a trail of kisses up Terry's body back to his mouth.

When they'd stopped kissing, Michael looked down into Terry's opened eyes. All the stories he'd loved as a boy, stories of strange and enchanted places, dark jungles, golden deserts, he saw there in those sultry eyes. They were beautiful. They didn't belong in England. "Beautiful," he whispered. He felt Terry's fingers brush his hair behind his ear.

They closed their eyes and stayed like that a few moments; Michael on top of Terry, Terry stroking his hair. "Terry," whispered Michael suddenly, "did you know that you are, in fact, a snake?"

"I am," said Terry with a smirk in his voice. "What does that make you?"

"A sheep."

Terry snorted with laughter. "You don't shag like one."

He pulled Michael down onto the bed beside him, whilst Michael curled up against him. "Have you ever shagged a sheep?" whispered Michael, his voice sober but edged with amusement.

Terry nibbled the edge of Michael's ear. "You're mad. You know that?" he teased.

"I knew," answered Michael. He sighed into Terry's hair. "I'm going to miss you."

"I'll miss you too. But this is what you've always wanted, isn't it?"

Michael was leaving in a week to see the world. The world, or as much of it as he could cover in eighty days. It was indeed what Michael had always wanted, but it would also mean eighty days without Terry Jones. Michael smiled sadly.

At the same time Terry would be filming Erik the Viking, with his screenplay now finished, and though he was sure he would miss Michael he was quite excited about the idea of making his own little film. Writing, directing and performing it. His own little Buster Keaton moment, in a way. Maybe having a film to work on would make the lonely nights a little more bearable.

The nights passed, the weeks passed, the months passed. Michael came home and Terry embraced him and Michael refused to let him go for days.

As more months passed, and Python's twentieth birthday approached, Terry grew worried about Graham. He was getting thinner, thinner, thinner. He was getting weaker. And his speech was strained.

Terry loved him, no matter how much pain Graham had caused. Michael had forgiven them both. Terry still couldn't forgive Graham. But he loved him. Nowhere near as much as he loved Michael but he did. The pain was still there.

Then, with only a week left until their big celebration, the weakening Graham was sent to a hospital and Terry felt a strange fear take over.

The pain didn't matter. Terry left immediately for the hospital and there he found Graham unconscious.

When Graham awoke he found Terry half-awake beside the bed and tried to grin. "Lo there," he said. His voice was nearly gone.

Terry's eyes snapped open. The fear rushed briefly through him but he tried to ignore the machines attached to Graham and smiled as brightly as he could. "Hello, Gray," he whispered. He paused. "I missed you."

"So did I." Graham let his eyes close.

Terry watched him fall back into unconsciousness. He had watched Graham for days now, and he wouldn't leave. Michael would be there soon, but until then Terry would make sure that Graham was not alone.

A few hours later he watched Graham's eyes open again.

"You're still here," he said to a weary Terry.

"It would seem so," said Terry as he pulled himself up in his chair. "Mike'll be here in a bit. And David."

Neither of them spoke for a while, Terry struggling against heavy eyelids. Graham looked down at his own wrist but could see only a bone under pallid, fragile skin. Hardly his own wrist anymore. He wiggled his fingers and after a while he pulled his hand up to his throat.

"Terry, love," he said, hating the sound of his own voice.

"Yeah?" Terry's eyes were fixed on his, weary and worried.

"I'm sorry for telling Mike about us." Graham gazed steadily at him.

Terry forced a smile. "It's all right," he said softly.

"It hurt you both."

"You didn't do anything wrong," said Terry, "I shouldn't have kept it from him. And I shouldn't have cut you off like that."

Graham looked Terry over; Terry obviously hadn't moved from the hospital room in days.

Graham summoned up all the energy he had and smiled as broadly as he could. "He's so very lucky to have you. I hope he knows it."

Terry smiled back, his face full of sadness and love. Without a word he brought his chair up to Graham's bed, leaned over him, put one hand on Graham's face and kissed his forehead.

Michael and John walked into the hospital room to find Terry and Graham hand in hand, Terry leaning over Graham and David at the other side of the bed smiling. The three looked up and Terry let go of Graham's hand with a squeeze.

Terry lifted himself out of the chair and kissed Graham. Michael watched them, not at all afraid anymore. He smiled as Terry came up to him and hugged him, kissed him, hugged him again and whispered into Michael's ear, "Angel."

Michael reluctantly let him leave, then turned back to Graham. He took the chair Terry had been sitting in and took Graham's hand.

"What's all this then, Gray," said Michael. "Is this your way of preparing for a party?" He saw the corner of Graham's mouth twitch in a tiny smile.

Graham's eyes drifted towards where John still stood behind Michael.

"Good to see you, old fruit," he said warmly.

"And you," replied John with a hint of concern.

"You know," said Graham to Michael, "I think the party may have to be cancelled. John looks a bit under the weather."

Michael grinned and John laughed quietly. David rubbed Graham's other hand and remained silent.

"The party will be terrific fun," said Michael, squeezing Graham's hand. "Especially for you."

"I'm sure it will." Graham closed his eyes again.

Michael squeezed his hand tighter. "We all love you, Gray."

He stayed there with Graham's hand in both of his, knowing that this hand wasn't Graham's anymore, knowing that only a tiny bit of Graham was still in this body, watching as Graham's head turned towards David to find another kiss, watching David leaning over Graham still in silence.

A sudden image of himself leaning over Terry in a cold hospital room made him shiver and John's hand slid warm onto his shoulder.


******