Life's Pageant II: The Return

A DISCLAIMER! to keep all of us happy and safe:

M/M means two blokes having it off and if you don't like it... not my fault is it?

Terry Jones/Michael Palin, this is NOT a true story. If you haven't yet I'll advise you to read my other story, as it rather sets up this one and is a jolly good read. If tension is your thing.

I like to bewilder my readers so I'm not going to give away the plotline, suffice it to say there will be a bit more than just Michael/Terry in here. There will be sex scenes. In various positions and perspectives, and sometimes a little graphic. Sometimes a little introspective. There will be moments of "non-con" and "angst". Lovers, friends and family members will try to tear them apart... will they succeed? Will these rhetorical questions never end? Read and find out! This is all fiction and great fun writing and hopefully even greater fun reading.

This is done for FREE - just my modest little contribution to gay literature.



Terry and Michael retreated from the rest of the cast and crew up to their hotel room. They ascended the stairs slowly, both hearts pounding, both men shaking.

It could have been the cold, it could have been the anticipation of what was going to happen once the door was shut and locked behind them. Sleep was way out of question.

When they reached their room Michael found himself in a cold sweat. He wondered what lay beyond that door. Terry pushed the door open and watched Michael go through before following him, closing the door softly, locking it, staring at it for a moment, turning and finally facing a trembling Michael. He knew Michael was just as nervous as he was.

They were lovers now, and that was very worrying. Neither knew what would become of their friendship. There was this thing flowing freely between them now... this passion...

Terry closed the distance between them.

"It's all right, you know," he whispered to Michael's lips. "I'm still your friend. Don't be afraid of me."

Michael sighed, his tremours beginning to subside.

"Sit down."

He led Michael over to his bed and sat on the floor with one of Michael's hands in both of his. Michael looked down at him, puzzled. And if Terry's eyes did not deceive him, a little disappointed.

"You need to understand something," Terry began, rubbing Michael's palm. "About what happened last night... you know what you are, Mike. And you know how I feel about you."

Michael stared down into his eyes.

Terry brought Michael's hand up to his mouth and kissed the top of it tenderly. "You're scared and so am I. But I'm not leaving you."

"I don't want you to, Terry," muttered Michael. He drew his fingertip down Terry's cheek to his chin and back up, feather-light, making Terry's eyes close.

"Do you know the first time I ever saw you," Michael's voice murmured in its husky tones, "was on a poster?"

Both laughed a little awkwardly. Terry smiled up at Michael as Michael stroked his hair.

"If it wasn't for you, I would never have gone on a stage that year," Michael said softly. "I saw you on that poster... and I wanted you to see me."

"And I did."

"And you did love."

"You really believe that anyone could fail to see you?"

Terry paused and kissed Michael's fingertip. "You're so beautiful, so brilliant, and you don't even notice. The second I saw you, I knew that I loved you. I knew. You got married, I loved you. You had a kid. I still loved you. While everyone else fancied you, I loved you. More than you could possibly imagine."

Michael's hand had stopped stroking Terry's hair and it was drifting down to Terry's jaw. Cupping it. Holding Terry's face up. Terry's eyes flashed up at Michael's.

"I wanted you," husked Michael. "I wanted to... touch you. Kiss you. So badly. I was so scared, because I wanted you, I pushed you away, because I loved you, and if I loved you I was a sinner. I was a criminal. So I guess I'm a criminal, a fucking degenerate."

Terry turned his face into Michael's hand and planted a kiss deep in the centre of his palm. Each stared into the other's eyes hungrily.

"Terry?"

"Yeah?" murmured Terry.

"Last night... you know that thing you did with your finger?"

"Mmmm?"

"What was it?" said Michael in a lusty tone.

Terry curled the corners of his mouth into a smile. "Do you want me to show you?"

Michael whispered that he did, so Terry pulled himself up off the floor. He laid on the other bed facing the ceiling. He stretched one arm out and reached for Michael's hand again.

There was a creak of a mattress, a thud of a foot landing, and more creaking as Michael crawled up onto the bed with Terry. He eyed Terry nervously and laid down beside him, propping himself on his elbow.

Terry tossed his shirt aside, opened his trousers, pulled them down his legs. Michael grabbed Terry's shoes and pulled both the shoes and the trousers off him. They worked quickly at Michael's clothes, starting with his trousers for the sake of Michael's comfort, then settled back on the bed naked. Terry let his eyes drift over Michael's body; the built upper body, the light covering of golden hair, leading down to the navel, the circle of rich brown curls that surrounded the base of the penis, hard and begging for attention. Terry gave it a wicked smile and flicked his eyes back up to Michael's.

They leaned closer and kissed each other, and by the end of it Michael was pressing his arousal insistently into Terry's hip.

A wandering hand wrapped around Terry's hard cock and started pumping up and down desperately. "Give me your hand," he rasped, lifting up his legs, taking Michael's hand in his. He pushed it down between his thighs and under his bottom. "Put your finger in." Michael's finger found his entrance and glided inside. It squirmed around inside him, stopped, and Michael panted helplessly into Terry's ear.

"Curl your finger... mmmmmmore," Terry groaned. He squeezed Michael's wrist. "And press down hard-"

A sharp breath flew down into Terry's lungs.

Michael's finger stabbed at him again. Then it started stabbing at him rhythmically. His body burst into flames.

"What is it?" whispered Michael.

Terry moaned. "Mike..."

His half-lidded eyes stared at the side of Michael's head and watched it slowly turn to reveal Michael's flushed face.

Terry lifted his hand slowly to Michael's face, cupped it to Michael's mouth, and murmured, "Spit."

Michael spat into his hand. It dove down between them again and onto Michael's erection, coated it with Michael's spit, squeezed it softly and elicited a breathless moan. Terry drew his knees up against his chest, guided Michael into position, tried to relax his breathing, failed and gazed up into Michael's eyes just a few inches above his.

The spring green eyes were now forest green. Tinted with lust. Michael's tip entered him. It slid easily inside and was followed inch by inch, all of Michael slid inside him. Michael was gasping for breath. Terry couldn't really tell if he was doing the same. Then it slid back out of him. Michael's eyes were full of fear. Terry pulled him close, touched his face and again whispered "Don't be afraid" and with that Michael hesitantly pushed back inside. Out, and back in, picking up speed each time, Michael's eyes never left his. They gasped louder, louder. The pitch of their moans rose higher. Michael lowered his mouth and bit at Terry's neck. Terry's hips rose off the bed. Each thrust drew noises from him that he'd never heard before, and as he came hard onto Michael's chest he gave a thunderous moan. Then both fell back to the bed with a sigh. Michael moaned another time into Terry's ear. His voice still ached.

"Mike," said Terry hoarsely when they'd caught their breaths. Michael curled into him and kissed a spot under his jawline.

"Mm-hmm?"

"What are we going to do when we go back to England?"

The question broke through their sated post-orgasmic minds like a bullet through a window. Neither one of them wanted to answer it. But both knew that the question would always be there. That of their families, their wives, could such responsibilities be ignored?

It pained Terry to imagine returning to England a liar and nothing more than a friend to Michael. However, their homes, should they return as lovers, wouldn't welcome them back. And Terry thought of Python. Their careers. Michael's career. It would be ruined. He couldn't stand the thought of a defeated Michael, even if that Michael was happily by his side.

Nothing would hurt Michael, it was clear in Terry's mind. He would be whatever Michael wanted him to be. And if Michael wanted him to be a liar, so he would be.

When Terry awoke hours later, his stomach stuck to Michael's chest, he had to wonder whether or not it was worth getting out of Michael's bed. It felt a hell of a lot nicer in there than in the icy grip of the Scottish morning. But the crew would want him, he would have to get out. Gently, as gently as he could, he lifted Michael's sleeping head off his chest, and rolled Michael onto his side. He laid the sleeping head carefully on a sunken pillow. Then with one last affectionate touch of Michael's hair, he dressed himself and left the room.

Michael grunted into the pillow.

His skin was sticky and hair a dark brown tangle. The bed was half-bare. He kicked the sheets away, rolled onto his back and yawned deeply.

There was something incredibly tantalising about the idea of greeting the man he'd just shared a bed with, both dressed as Arthurian knights; a smile snuck into the corners of his mouth.

Hours passed, glances, grins, touches, kisses, things that Michael enjoyed more with each passing day but at the same time...

It was under a mutinous gaze that the two men wandered away from the others into what seclusion the Scottish hills offered them, a contemptuous gaze that Terry had seen all too often. But Michael never noticed.

Michael was beginning to worry. There was an entirely new man wearing Terry's features now. Speaking with Terry's silky voice. Kissing him with Terry's lips. That wasn't what worried him most though. When the filming wrapped, when it was back to England, would things go back the way they were?

No way could they go back. What then? Would they have to leave their wives? The thought of going back to that life, without Terry in his bed, stung his mind. And to think a week ago he would've been shivering at the thought of sleeping with Terry. He still wasn't quite sure that he had. And when he called it back into his mind, the first moment their lips met, it seemed like he'd kissed Terry thousands of times. It seemed natural. It seemed perfect, like every move of their lips and tongues had been rehearsed. And, Michael laughed to himself, it had been.

Michael wandered back into his college and into his bed. Boys snored and murmured around him in their sleepy disquiet.

He lay in his bed, fully clothed, fully awake.

Fully aroused. He'd never been so hard in his life. He wasn't quite sure why. It's nothing to do with Terry, nothing! Michael scoffed at the idea. Terry had just tried to kiss him. So what? Lots of boys around here do that, it didn't mean that Terry was gay, or that Michael was gay. What he felt then... it was probably just lack of a sexual outlet, lacking release from the sexual tension of college life. He hadn't had a wank in ages. Must be that.

So he went through the ritual of straining his ears to any sound of disturbance in the other boys' sleep, and finding nothing, he loosened his trousers and slipped his hand into the front of them. A huge sigh wanted to rip itself from him, but he held it back.

His mind floated past pictures of women, a blonde on a poster above another boy's bed, as his hand moved quick, quicker up and down, he gently thrust his hips in time with his hand, bit back his moans. Then a new picture bounded into his mind; pale lips, parting around white teeth and a red tongue, the tip of a long nose growing closer and leading him up to a pair of black eyes, glittering dark eyes framed by heavy eyelids, the face grew closer, darker. And suddenly Michael burrowed his hand in Terry's dark hair, yanked him forwards and crushed their lips together. Terry's eyes slid shut completely. They growled into the kiss. Their mouths opened and their tongues collided, wrapped around each other, Terry's fingers dug into Michael's skull and Michael's dug into Terry's, his free hand dove into Terry's lap and Terry's dove into his lap, grabbed his erection through his trousers and pressed it up against his belly and-

Michael tried to stop the moans but as he came, they erupted out of his belly, insistent, angry. He squeezed his eyes shut as tightly as he could, as though he could somehow shut his moans out of the others' ears with his eyelids. His body plopped back onto the bed.

The nights after that one, not a single one was spent without envisioning that kiss, his most beloved of dreams. And his most despised. Michael gritted his teeth in shame, but this time the shame was not his dream but rather his denying it.

He never wanted to go through that again.

Terry's hand squeezed his. Michael looked back up at him, saw the familiar warm smile but didn't return it.

"What is it, Mike?" murmured Terry, his smile vanished.

Michael closed his eyes with a sigh. His mouth opened, and nothing came out. Then he pulled his hand away from Terry's.

"Terry... I want to be with you," he managed in a shaky whisper. "I can't go back to living with Helen. I can't. I've been such an idiot."

Terry turned Michael's head to face his. "You are not an idiot, Michael."

His eyes searched Terry's longingly. "Can we just forget it, leave all this? We'll get a flat..."

He watched Terry's face fall and he kept on.

"With the money from the film..."

A desperate look flashed in Terry's eyes. Michael's voice died. How he hated the helplessness in Terry's eyes and in his voice.

"You don't know how much I want that," whispered Terry. "But you know we can't have it."

Michael wrapped his arms around Terry and hid his face in Terry's neck. "What are we going to do then?" he murmured. Terry's hand cradled his head and his lips swept over Michael's ear. The two men embraced in silence a while, eyes shut, caressing gently.

To Michael, it seemed that the entire world had erupted into nonsense. It seemed that nothing outside of Terry made sense. His life, his wife, their child were all trivia. The world was shuffling by madly and for once he was at a standstill. He was at peace. His worries dissipated, in Terry's eyes. He couldn't help but smile.

To Terry it seemed the entire world was eyeing him murderously; like a great vulture with billions of eyes, ever so slowly circling its waiting prey. Ever since he was a little boy, he'd known there was something wrong with him. He felt that there was some kind of curse upon him. Like the world wanted to see him unhappy, unloved.

In his childhood home he'd always been cursed by his father. His father, a man he hardly knew, an unwelcome tyrant, a suspicious man; any behaviour that seemed to him "funny" was unacceptable. And his youngest son was, simply, unacceptable.

In primary school he'd encountered a new evil in the form of his headmaster.

The headmaster had been such a very nice man. And Terry had thought that such a nice man couldn't possibly be capable of doing him any harm. So he accepted what had happened that day as just an affectionate gesture, and it troubled Terry no further, until one rainy afternoon years later... as he was forced down to the ground by one of his schoolmates. One of the boy's filthy hands clutched Terry's head, and it was then that Terry noticed the other boy's trousers were opened. The afternoon suddenly tasted like poison. As he grew older, his uneasiness grew with the realisation that the old man's interest in him had not been friendly at all, and he found he was growing used to it, in a way that was, simply, unacceptable.

He had to laugh to himself. A homosexual. An unspeakable. Had his father known...

Nothing in his life had ever made him as happy as Michael did. Would this malevolent force snatch Michael away from him as well? What then? He waited, at the edge of disaster. Something, someone would come along, and take Michael away. To have never had Michael was one thing, which he'd dealt with for years, but to lose him forever was quite another. He felt hollowed and dead and all alone again. He'd seen the way John watched the two of them lately, the glitter of malice in John's cloudy eyes. John wanted Michael.

It was obvious that Michael was ignoring it, with mind-boggling resolve, and it was very obvious that he meant to stay by Terry's side. But both were well aware of the force that would pull them apart.


***


Terry pinched his nostrils together furiously.

The year was 1976 and the mood, festive. Of course, it might have something to do with everybody being pissed, mused Terry. Jesus Christ it was killing him, his nose felt like it was going to split open. Like a volcano about to erupt. He needed another drink.

The party in his house was no longer paying him the slightest bit of attention and didn't see him dragging himself over to the bar. He wondered where his wife had gone to. Probably took the baby and left. More importantly where was Michael, and why wasn't he at the bar? It was New Year's Eve and Terry was the only one not enjoying it. He felt his buzz slipping away.

A glass was suddenly plonked in front of him. "Drink it. You look sober."

It had in it a perfectly clear liquid. The fingers wrapped around it looked familiar... so did the arm they were attached to... Terry smiled up at Michael.

"Where were you?" he asked once he'd drained the glass.

"Waiting for you. You asked me to come here and you left me all alone," replied Michael with a bitter undertone.

"What? I didn't leave you, I was abducted."

Michael only gave him a half-smile. Then he looked down and started to move away, before Terry even noticed, and as quick as his reflexes allowed Terry shot out one hand and fastened it around Michael's wrist. "Where d'you think you're going?"

He didn't wait for an answer. With a furtive grin Terry turned and dashed across the room with Michael stumbling behind him, then dragged Michael into the bathroom.

When Terry shut the door he was met with a strong taste of beer on Michael's tongue. Warm hands clasped around his arms then moved down, under the waistband of his trousers. They unfastened his belt, tore it off him. They unfastened his trousers.

Michael grinned a little into the kiss but didn't pull away. His hand dove into Terry's trousers. Terry bit his lip and melted back against the wall. Michael's mouth fastened onto Terry's neck spilling heavy breaths onto it. Terry felt a moan trying to escape him.

Suddenly the door swung open and Terry's heart stopped beating.

Michael's mouth tore away from Terry's neck. His hand froze. Terry could almost hear Michael's heart pounding on his ribcage. A timid voice from the doorway finally broke the silence.

"Terry... I... sorry." The door closed without another word.

The buoyant feeling the drink had given Terry disappeared without any further adieu. He recognised the voice. Of all the people that could've walked in at that moment...

"It was my brother, wasn't it," he said bleakly. Michael nodded slowly against his neck. They broke away from each other like batteries in a magnetic pull. Both felt heavy, with guilt, with dread. Michael watched him fumble with his trousers and tuck in his shirt again with an uncomfortable gaze.

Terry wasn't exactly sure how he should feel. Being caught with another man in his own bathroom by his own brother was certainly not his greatest ambition. But, he thought, being caught with Michael was his first real chance at being accepted by the world. But this was nonsense, he assured himself as he watched the glimmer of hope fade safely away again. The world was as void of understanding as his brother, his brother. His brother was just another part of it. His brother would tell his father.

What disaster awaited him when his father found out he was gay, Terry could only imagine. So Terry grabbed Michael's hand. They left the house, without a word, without a backward glance, without much of an idea where they were going or where they wanted to go, they came to a hotel, and stumbled finally into the solitude of their hotel room.

Another hotel room. Another kiss. Another night pretending that the rest of the world didn't exist. All that either of them knew was the man lying next to him. All that Terry saw was Michael. He started to cry.

He was pulled further into the warmth of Michael's arms, his tears falling on Michael's bare skin, his body folding into Michael's. One warm hand running along his spine with the slightest pressure brought them closer to one another. It touched every molecule at once. Everything inside him seethed outwards. His head moved forward and landed a kiss on Michael's throat. Michael gave him a happy sigh. His Michael, his warm, loving, loveable Michael. He wanted nothing and nobody else.

Terry's trembling hand was on the waist of an angel, a beautiful angel.

The next day Terry stood before his enraged father, but he stood fearless. His father stared at him without saying anything, just scouring every inch of his face.

"I'm telling you this because you're going to find it out one way or another and I felt it best that you should hear it from me. Nigel knows. He saw me. Mike and I didn't want anybody to know. But..." Terry's voice faltered and he fought the urge to avert his gaze from his father's. "I love him."

It was the hardest thing he'd ever had to say and it sounded through the familiar corridors of the old house like a war cry.

The old man's eyes pierced the floor like darts, then disappeared behind the back of his head. He turned and wouldn't return Terry's gaze. His body shook with what must've been fury. The two men were silent again, the silence tangible. It almost hurt.

Finally his father said in a quivering voice, "Leave." Terry could only stare at the back of his father's head.

"Didn't you hear me? I said leave, get out, get out of my house, I don't want to see you ever again. I don't want to see you, I don't want to hear you, you're nothing but a... poof."

It came out like a hiss. It broke Terry out of the numbness of his father's voice, that one word. That was all that this man saw in him. That parting word was all that Terry was left with.

Poof.

Terry shook his dark hair out of his eyes as he stood above the slick streets of New York City. It had been months since he'd seen his father. But what did it matter? His father no longer existed. And Terry was glad, because he had something better. Here he was, New York at his feet, and Michael behind him; he had all the love he could ever ask for. He leaned out over the balcony railing, closed his eyes and tilted his face upwards at the warm sunny sky.

He heard a familiar and raucous laugh from inside the building and smiled. That would be his second bottle of champagne. Terry Gilliam's good humour was infectious. Gilliam was loving this.

Terry stamped his cigarette out and went back inside to find Gilliam, Graham and Eric all sitting in front of several empty bottles, all in fantastically high spirits. The other three were sozzled enough, he thought, so he swerved around them and made for the bathroom as quickly as he could. The door snicked shut gently behind him.

With a quick dig through his pockets he produced a tiny plastic vial, and just as he was opening it the door opened again to reveal a smug Graham. Terry nearly dropped the vial. Graham merely stood there calm as ever. Without apologising for startling Terry, he stepped forward and shut the door.

It was strange, standing there in that bathroom and... Terry hadn't been alone with Graham in what must've been years. Terry tossed his hair back and sniffed at the soap-scented air. He leaned back against the cold wall. Michael, dear Michael was out wandering New York with John, and he wouldn't be back until nightfall. Again Terry fought off the urge to punch something. It was a publicity thing, not a date, it was silly to think Michael could ever do that to him. Terry rubbed his nose and focused on the sound of Graham sniffing.

Graham moved onto the wall next to him, and sensing Terry's uneasiness he gently put his hand on Terry's. He asked Terry to tell him what was the matter, but Terry only shook his head.

"Is it me?" asked Graham worriedly. Terry gave him a smile and another shake of his head. "John?" Terry heaved a sigh, closed his eyes, and murmured, "Possibly."

"Oh Terry, honestly," laughed Graham, pulling away and moving towards the door again. "You give that man more thought than he deserves. Come on," he said and tugged on Terry's hand. "Come and have a drink, all right?"

Terry smiled a little more and let himself be led out of the bathroom. He had such a feeling of unrest, sitting around that table of smiles. He just wanted to be with Michael. He ignored the bottle of champagne in front of him. As he watched the others drink he felt increasingly angry, but at whom he wasn't sure.

He threw himself onto the floor and laid there unmoving. Nobody moved to help him back up. The carpet was itching his face. He started crawling, away from the table, towards Michael's room, over the awful fuzzy brown carpet. Inside the darkness of Michael's room he laid in the corner behind the door and curled himself into a ball. The room was silent. The lights in the hallway eventually dimmed. Hours later Michael's feet entered and shuffled disorientedly round the room before stopping and disappearing over the bed.

How late it was, one couldn't tell. But it was late.

The room was still in shadow but it was now occupied by the soft, sleepy murmurs of the man lying face down on its bed. Terry rose to his feet. Michael was drowsy and oblivious. Terry approached him slowly, carefully, setting each foot down gently. He watched the faceless form on the bed shift this way and that, in an effort to make the bed more comfortable. Without any further hesitation Terry dropped himself onto the bed and onto Michael. A gasp and a quick upward lunge greeted him, a confused and frightened Michael, still in his jeans. His body plummeted back to the bed under Terry's weight. Terry put his mouth next to Michael's ear, smiled and whispered "Where were you?"

Michael fell suddenly prone under him, and a throaty voice answered. "I was... I... interview."

"And after that?"

"We had a few drinks." Michael sounded afraid, and rightly should be. "We just had a few, Terry," he protested, and tried to lie on his back but Terry pinned him firmly to the bed.

"Who said you could turn over?" he whispered, loving the shudder that ran through Michael's body. He traced the edge of Michael's ear with his nose then nuzzled the hair behind the ear. Michael smelled like heat, so unlike the numb cold of the room. There was something like fruit as well, very faint. But warm and inviting. Michael's breathing had grown heavier. Terry kissed the side of his head, then the side of his face, then the side of his mouth, his soft lips. His lower half was against Michael's back, legs around Michael's and Michael's warm scent all around him. Michael's head twisted around as his lips clung desperately to Terry's.

Terry slid his fingers under Michael's stomach, popped open the button of his jeans and shoved them down mercilessly. He wanted to scream.

With shaking fingers Terry opened his own trousers. His cock grew harder as it brushed against Michael's bare skin. He wanted to make Michael scream. Nobody could have Michael, nobody but him, how dare John try to turn Michael against him, take Michael away from him, how dare he? Terry moaned in anguish as he pushed inside Michael. He muffled Michael's cries with his mouth and started thrusting into him. Michael's hips slammed down into the mattress, the muscles in his back constricted, as he panted and groaned incoherently. Terry's fingers wrapped around Michael's jutting hipbones pulling Michael closer and pushing himself deeper. He moved harder, harder against him until finally his lips broke away from Michael's and a strangled cry broke free of his throat as he came.

Nothing, not their gasps for breath or the strange nocturnal noises of the building could drown out the piercing note of absolute misery in Terry's erratic breathing.

The next morning Michael opened his eyes and met Terry's. They were definitely Terry's but definitely changed. Shining but without their usual warmth, wet with tears. Without even thinking about it Michael lifted his arms and slid them around Terry, who burrowed into them like a rabbit. His face was wet against Michael's throat. His tears were cold.

Michael put a hand on the back of Terry's head gently. He whispered to Terry, "It's all right, love, it's all right."

"No." Fresh tears flowed down Michael's neck.

"It's all right, Terry. I..." Michael paused and stroked Terry's dark hair. "I'll be all right. Mm?" There was no answer. "I'll be all right."

Still no answer, only more tears gushing onto his skin. Then finally came, "John was right."

Michael merely gave an inquisitive little hum.

"What he said yesterday. You heard," whispered Terry. "I'm just... I'm hurting you. I'm hurting you." Terry's voice broke.

Michael remembered what John had said to Terry. He wished he knew why John was attacking Terry, why John would never be anything but warm towards Michael and cold towards Terry. John knew by now what Michael's feelings for Terry were. Yet he'd accused Terry of manipulating Michael, of pushing him into a relationship of the sort that Michael didn't want at all. But Michael didn't believe a word of it. There was no lie that could conceal his enormous fondness for Terry.

He kissed the top of Terry's head. Softly he began to hum. Terry's tears froze in their tracks. A sob died in his throat as he listened to the melody.

"You, you make me live," whispered Michael. "Whatever this world can give to me..."

Terry went still in his arms, then smiled against his throat.


***


"It's awful."

"It is not."

"It's fucking awful, Mike."

"You're just panicking, would you fucking stop?"

Terry shut his eyes tight, gritted his teeth and groaned. He grabbed the first piece of paper his fingers landed on and crushed it into a ball in his fist. He dropped it pointedly at Michael's feet.

"It's yours then. Write the fucking thing." Only a tiny drop of venom in his voice.

"Terry," said Michael in a voice barely more than a whisper, "I'm not writing it without you."

"Aren't you?"

"Terry-"

A calloused palm touched his, warm fingers prised his apart and slid between them. It was one of Terry's favourite sensations in the world. And it was damn hard to resist.

"- Look at me."

But not as hard to resist as that.

He looked down into Michael's curious eyes; they were a bit dark as they looked up into his, heavy and hooded. Neither of them spoke for a minute. Michael's eyes just glittered darkly up at him. Terry sighed softly.

His eyes are too beautiful to be human.

"Tell me what's bothering you," said the sensual curves of his lips. "I can tell something's bothering you."

"You're married to it."

"Helen?" whispered Michael. Terry cringed at the woman's name. "That's why you're upset?" Terry sighed again. Michael could be so astoundingly naive.

"That woman you somehow share a bed with," muttered Terry, studying the muscles under Michael's shirt, "found her husband. Wanking another man off. On your sofa." Terry paused and smirked. "You remember it?"

Michael started to smile as well. "Yeah."

"Then tell me how you're able to just ignore this glaring fact when clearly she wasn't the least bit happy about it?"

"She won't say anything, Terry."

"You don't know that."

Michael shook his head. "I do know." At this Terry snorted in disbelief. "Because she won't say anything to me." Michael let a twisted smile spread over his face and Terry went quiet. A lock of his raven hair fell determinedly over his right eye.

"She hasn't spoken to me since. Just asks if I've got any clothes needing washing. Bit sad," murmured Michael. "Can't trouble herself with much else."

Terry mumbled an answer and cast his eyes over to another section of the room. The Caribbean breeze played with the sheets of the bed they'd been sleeping on earlier in the morning, then lost interest in the furrows it'd created and wandered off elsewhere. He felt the hand in his tugging gently downwards. Terry suddenly found his body had settled into the chair in front of Michael's.

Terry flicked his eyes up to Michael's again, and Michael leaned in towards him. Softly he said to Terry, "Don't worry about her. You and I..."

Michael's hand squeezed his and Terry let himself smile.

"We're stronger than her," whispered Michael.

"But the sketch is still awful."

"You're worrying too much," Michael said in a velvety tone. "You're writing this with me. We write it together."

Terry laughed softly. "Yes, all right, point taken."

Michael, at that moment, wanted to drag Terry back to the bed. Terry looked so sad when he smiled. It almost hurt to see it.

Michael's wife had every right to be angry, but the whole thing of her husband being homosexual seemed too great for her to take in. He'd expected some kind of terrific scream and ensuing furniture battle that would end with his being thrown out on the streets. You know, the kind of cinematic ending that thrilled him deeply. But no such thing happened. No shrieks upon discovery, no signs of any emotional disturbance whatsoever. If you looked closely enough at her you could just see the emotion hidden behind her cold eyes.

Terry had once told him about his wife trying to fuck the truth out of her husband. They'd been in bed together and while Terry was on top of her she'd reached a hand down to his arse, which Terry hadn't even registered until he felt the tip of her finger slide in.

He'd immediately pulled back in fury. "What are you doing?" he'd hissed. She'd smirked up at him and merely said "Just trying something new. You don't like it?" Needless to say, Terry didn't.

The reactions were all the same. 'Oh, they're fucking, don't mean nothing, two ordinary blokes innit?'

Michael was feeling very rebellious at that moment and very turned on by the man in front of him.

Terry had gotten much thinner in the past few weeks, it seemed. His ribs were definitely showing more through his chest. His stomach was nearly concave. His stomach - Michael knew Terry had been eating less and less. He wasn't really sure whether he should say anything or not. Terry might feel hurt. Terry might feel angry. Terry might stop eating altogether if Michael didn't speak up about it. Something had to be said.

He stood and pulled Terry over to the bed. As he laid down beside Terry, Michael let his eyes and hands sweep the soft skin.

"You're mine," he murmured. Terry murmured in agreement.

"We stay together," murmured Michael at Terry's closed eyelids. He kissed each one. Terry sighed and nodded.

"I want you to stop fixing." Michael's murmur echoed in his own ears and Terry went absolutely silent. Michael could feel Terry's breath on the front of his neck, and Terry's hands on his waist. Terry tilted his head down and let out a tiny cry of protest. His hair hung down over his face.

Michael threaded his fingers through it, played with it for a moment, then pulled Terry's face up. Black eyes shone out at him from a mess of black hair. He smiled at them. "We're leaving in a week. After that, I want you to stop. I'm not going to let you keep starving yourself," whispered Michael, half in love and half in despair.

Terry shuddered in his arms and said nothing.

Beautiful Terry. Michael caressed Terry's trembling body, the smooth, pale skin of his chest, crowned with dark nipples. He scratched at one with his fingernail and Terry gave him a strangled moan.

"You're crying," whispered Michael to Terry's parted lips. "You're crying." Terry cried again softly into Michael's mouth. "Why do you do this to yourself?"

Michael held himself back as Terry tried to pull him into another kiss. Terry's face was slashed with two gleaming tear-tracks.

"No," whispered Terry, his eyes huge and dark. He tugged at Michael's caramel-coloured hair again, and for just a split second Michael saw fear blaze in the dark eyes. "I don't..."

Michael shook his head out of Terry's grasp. "No more."

He wrapped his arms around Terry's shoulders and felt him collapse in a fit of misery. This wasn't the first he'd witnessed. But it was certainly the worst; terrible blasting cries rained on his ears and violent shudders consumed the slight frame he held in his arms. Soon enough he felt the tears. Then he heard the poison in Terry's voice. He winced a little. Fuck. Never like this.

Terry would sometimes force him down and fuck him on some sadistic high and it hurt like hell when Terry's fingers forgot how deep they were digging into Michael's flesh and all Michael heard was his name being chanted like a Satanic mantra. Harsh and burning cold. Then there were the withdrawal effects; Terry's body crumpling up like an emptied plastic bag, a heap of bubbling, frothing agony. Agony etched in both sides of the coin that had bewitched Terry years ago.

He needed to let go of it, he would lose Michael if he didn't, and if he lost Michael he lost everything.

Terry fought off the angry shivers. He knew he needed to let go of it. He fought off the anger. He shoved his face deep into the warm skin of Michael's throat and whispered, "No more." Michael nodded, his arms squeezed a little tighter around Terry's shoulders.

No more coke. The words ran an uncontrollable shiver through his body.

It wasn't a pleasant recovery that followed but Terry was buoyed by Michael's kisses and embraces and words of encouragement. He seemed more delighted with every pound Terry put back on his shrunken frame. Terry, however, couldn't help wondering why on earth Michael hadn't shown him this affection before the drugs had played into it, before they'd ended up lonely and lustful in a hotel room in Scotland.

In Africa they weren't given a shared hotel room. And naturally Michael spent every night in Terry's room, yet nobody had noticed his constant failure to sleep in his own room.

Nobody had a name and it was John.

It was a lazy morning and no filming to be done, Michael had been sitting on the floor beside Terry's bed and Terry had been leaning back between Michael's legs, both had been considering climbing back into bed for the rest of the day when suddenly this man had tapped on Terry's door. They'd looked long and uncomfortably at each other, these two lovers naked on the floor.

"Who is it?" sang Terry to the door, his voice sweet.

"It's John," muffled the door.

"What d'you want?" Terry's eyes had narrowed. Michael rubbed his back gently.

"I want to speak to Michael."

"He's not in here." Terry smiled a little, flicking his eyes back to Michael's.

But John wasn't easily thrown off track. "I heard him. Just now."

The anger flushed Terry's skin as he narrowed his eyes even more menacingly at the door. The corner of his mouth twitched. The man sitting behind him knew that this was inescapable and merely stroked at his back again. His fingers traced the other man's spine.

After a pregnant pause Terry spoke. "Mike's shower in his room is broken. So he came in here to use mine," muttered Terry. "He just got out." Michael and Terry exchanged a humourless smile before Michael lifted himself onto his feet and grabbed at his clothes.

Once dressed he ran a nervous hand through his hair, glanced back at Terry and smiled, flicked the lock open and found John standing in the hallway. He studied Michael with a mixture of smugness and sadness. Michael smiled warmly at him and mumbled, "Yes?"

John's eyes darted suddenly past him into the darkness of the room. Obviously he was waiting for the other man to emerge as well. "Can we talk somewhere else?" asked John, eyes still scouring the room.

The door closed softly behind Michael and they started down the hallway towards John's room.

"You're not his slave," murmured John. "You don't have to sit all day and all night in there with him. Or are you happy being the director's boy toy?"

The bitterness in his voice made Michael wince. Michael wanted to turn and go back to Terry's room, but he couldn't, he was like a puppet under John's masterful grey-brown eyes. He walked through John's door and John closed it after them.

The room had a table and chair and Michael sat down calmly. He smiled up at John's regal figure in the doorway, enjoying the African sun that cascaded through the window.

John watched the other man intently. Michael sat like a beautiful angel framed by the sun. His hair was dusted with gold. His eyes were emeralds. His smile was brilliant and framed by full pink lips, which made him look much younger than he was. He watched John with infinite kindness.

"Not once," sighed John as he sat on his bed, "not once have I seen you go into your room, since we've got here."

He kept his eyes on Michael's. Michael's smile faded but he said nothing in reply.

"I understand you two have some kind of game you're playing," said John quietly. "Hiding it from your wives, your families, your friends, and not entirely successfully."

There was a flash of anger in Michael's eyes that vanished immediately.

"It might seem like fun, but Michael, if you'd only see that he's using you. He's playing with you. You don't have to be his anymore." John sighed again. "You don't have to be a Python anymore. You're so much more."

Deep in his heart, John knew he should've stopped there. But at that moment everything else was urging him onwards.

"If you and I were together, Michael, I would never hide you. I would never lie about you."

"Would you love me like he does?" whispered Michael. He stared into John's eyes. John lowered his. He knew then that this was a foolish thing to do. Terry had gotten to him long before he had, and nothing could be done about it, nothing could be said that would break this spell Terry had cast over the unsuspecting Michael Palin.

Michael closed the distance between them, then knelt before John. "Dear old John," he whispered, taking one of John's hands, "I know you love me. But Terry needs me. And I need him."

He gave John a tiny kiss on the top of his head, then he left John alone in his room staring at his opened hand.

Michael stopped and slumped against Terry's door. He listened to the steadily buzzing fluorescent lights above his head. He listened to the low murmurs and muffled television sets of the other rooms. He listened to the silence of the room behind him.

A sudden smile made him bite his lower lip. He knocked once upon the door.

"Cheeky," mumbled Terry's voice.

Michael opened it and found Terry sitting in exactly the same position as when he'd left the room. Leaning back against the bed naked, legs spread open, head bowed and eyes fixed on Michael's.

Michael locked the door, dropped to the floor and began to crawl over to Terry. With each move forward, a delighted smile grew on Terry's face. His feet shuffled outwards and when Michael reached him, his hands ruffled Michael's hair and his eyes drew Michael in. Michael leaned into Terry's arms and kissed his lips.

He pulled away smiling and ruby-lipped and Terry's fingers teased the hair away from his face. His head slid down onto Terry's chest, as his body curled up between Terry's legs, and Terry started stroking his back with one hand, his neck with the other.

"What did he want?" asked Terry softly. His voice vibrated under Michael's ear.

"He wanted me to spend less time in your room."

Terry gave a snort of contempt. "What did you tell him?"

"I told him if it doesn't bother me it shouldn't bother him." Michael chuckled a little. "I told him all the rooms in the world couldn't compete with yours, love."

Terry's finger traced his ear slowly, in a thoughtful sort of way. He started to speak, then stopped himself. His arms folded around Michael. Michael snuggled closer and listened to Terry's gentle heartbeat.

He put his hand over Terry's heart and felt it jump. He smiled.

The curtains were drawn in the window and only a thread of golden light had found its way into the room. It wrapped around Terry's knee and slithered silently under the door. The rest of the room was cloaked in a hazy brown.

In the air was a faint smell of mingled sweat and cologne.

The bedsheets were on the floor forgotten.

After a while spent lazily kissing on the floor they moved up onto the bed. They threw Michael's clothes once more over the side. Michael pressed his face into Terry's neck, breathed him in, asked him to turn over. Terry did as he was asked. Terry grinned in anticipation and pressed one hand flat against the wall.

Michael kneeled behind him and with his arm wrapped around Terry's waist he started stroking him. Terry let his head roll back onto Michael's shoulder as he moaned. Michael moaned back at him.

Terry reached under the pillow and handed Michael a tiny bottle of oil. All-purpose oil, for use in sweltering Tunisian hotel rooms. Michael pressed his oil-slicked front against Terry's back and Terry arched his back, gasping a little and grinning as Michael sank his teeth into Terry's throat. Michael's free hand grabbed onto his waist as he pushed inside Terry.

He fucked Terry hard, then harder. He was a fierce lover, in contrast with his usually peaceful nature. Terry liked feeling Michael's breaths getting faster and further out of control.

When he came, Michael liked feeling Terry's teeth closing around his earlobe with a breathy moan.

They laid down once again on Terry's bed and smiled at each other.

Terry couldn't help feeling sad when the filming of Brian wrapped. They'd been away from England for so long, untroubled by wives and kids and Python publicity. Now it was all back again.

He was laid out in a hotel room after a publicity attack and Michael was nowhere to be seen. He'd gone away to do his own publicity with John. How irritating was that. Terry was landed with Graham.

That wasn't to say Graham was bad company. Terry had decided that he'd rather be in Graham's hotel room than alone, wanting Michael beside him. Graham had certainly changed in the past ten years. He was a recovering alchoholic now, rather than a thriving one. When Terry told him about his giving up cocaine, Graham seemed as delighted as Michael had.

"I think," said Graham as he leaned against the bedpost, "that for a number of years I couldn't even see past the bottle, you know. Couldn't see what was really important in life, who was really important in life, and now I can." Terry smiled kindly up at him from the bed.

"I can vaguely remember striking David with a broken gin bottle," murmured Graham. He swept his eyes over the floor and furrowed his brow. "Can't for the life of me remember why."

Terry snorted softly. "Perhaps he does."

"Well that's his problem then."

Terry laughed. Graham smiled down at his own feet. Leaning against that bedpost, blue eyes cast somewhat sadly downwards, one hand resting on his hip and one ankle crossed over the other, Terry couldn't help seeing a great tragic figure, some magnificent Greek god or other.

He then realised that Graham was staring right back at him. He laid still and watched Graham's hand move towards his shirt buttons. Then they started to open, each button popped open, all the way up until Graham's shirt hung open.

Graham pulled it off his shoulders and brought his hand to the front of his jeans. The top button came undone. Terry leapt off the bed.

"Er," he said pathetically as he watched the zipper come down, "I'm going... see you tomorrow morning, yeah?"

The jeans fell to the floor.

Terry started backing away towards the door. He tore his eyes away from Graham's naked body, turned round, found the doorknob and started to turn it.

"Terry, wait."

He stopped. He couldn't have opened the door even if he'd wanted to.

"Come here."

Terry squeezed his eyes shut. He turned and walked back towards Graham. Then he felt something, something soft, something familiar, Graham's hand on his face. His eyes opened slowly and met Graham's.

Graham pulled him closer with the other hand. Graham leaned forwards. Graham leaned in and kissed him, tenderly on the lips.

Terry didn't even realise he was kissing Graham back for several minutes. Their mouths melted together, their eyes closed in desperate passion. Terry's hand went helplessly to Graham's face. He felt terrified and aroused and miserable and ecstatic, all at once. Graham's tongue was wonderful. Graham kept leaning forwards, until Terry started backing up again, broke the kiss and pulled Graham in again gasping.

Graham backed him against the wall and shoved his hand down the front of Terry's trousers. Terry wondered briefly when his belt buckle had opened. Then his eyelids fluttered in pure ecstasy, he groaned as he felt Graham's cold fingers wrap around him and squeeze.

"God I missed you," breathed Graham as his hand started pumping up and down. Terry moaned, arched into Graham's touch. He couldn't help enjoying it. This was perfect, this was great, this was Graham. The fingers on his cock were Graham's, the voice in his ears was Graham's, the lips pressing hungrily against his were Graham's, not Michael's, not Michael's, not Michael's.

He spilled his come over Graham's fingers. And still more on his stomach. He squeezed his eyes shut until they started to hurt.

After some time Graham spoke quietly against his neck. "What's wrong, love?"

Terry couldn't answer him. He felt the burning start at the corners of his eyes before it spread into his blood and suddenly everything hurt. His head hurt and his hands hurt. His heart hurt most of all.

He slumped against the wall, utterly miserable. Graham waited at his neck. Then he heard Graham say even more quietly, "It's Mike, isn't it?"

Shut up Gray just please shut up.

"You're in love with him," whispered Graham. "Terry..."

Terry had buttoned up his trousers and pulled himself away before he could listen to any more. He was out the door before Graham could ask him where he was going. He was standing alone in the hallway when he felt the first tear roll down his cheek.


***


Michael watched a silver drop of water slide down the windowpane. Another drop joined it, formed one great silvery mass and slowly dragged downwards.

The grey sky began to rain down in earnest upon the suburban houses, and eventually the entire window turned into muddled silver. Michael turned away from it and sat back down at the desk in Terry's study. On the black polished desk was a sleek black lamp, a white marble coaster, two books with worn covers and yellowed pages, a stack of paper clipped together with a pen, a pack of cigarettes, a book of matches. Michael slid a cigarette through his fingers thoughtfully before placing it between his lips and lighting it with one of the matches. In the study surrounding the desk sat two white bookshelves filled with books and videotapes, a battered filing cabinet, two black leather chairs and a small sofa. Terry had gone to the kitchen to get the tea.

Something exotic and spicy drifted in the air. Normally it would've brought a smile to Michael's face but it didn't today. He blew it away with a puff of cigarette smoke.

A creak outside the door of the study announced Terry's return, and Michael didn't turn towards it. He heard Terry's feet come closer until they were directly behind him. An arm draped in a white jumper suddenly appeared next to his head, and a teacup clinked on the marble coaster.

He waited for the arm to go away, but instead it wrapped around him and a voice whispered into his ear, "I thought you'd quit smoking?"

Michael lifted the cigarette between two fingers and laughed with another cloud of smoke. He shook his head with a sad smile and let Terry's arm slip away.

Terry pulled up a chair and sat at the end of the desk, placing his own cup on top of one of the books. He pushed his mop of hair back. His eyes travelled slowly upwards, over Michael's body and over Michael's humourless expression, onto the cigarette in Michael's fingers. His own fingers hesitated on his cup. Not a word passed between them as they drank their tea.

Michael felt the silence of the house ringing in his ears. He wanted to scream and break the silence.

Terry slid his chair closer to Michael's, put one hand up the back of Michael's shirt, leaned forwards and placed a soft kiss on Michael's shoulder. Terry smelled like spices. "Talk to me, Mike," he whispered. "Tell me what's on your mind." Michael closed his eyes.

"I was thinking of the day your mother died," murmured Michael after a long pause. "You were sitting there in the hotel, crying when you looked up at me. I'd never seen you cry before. So I held you... I kissed you on the forehead... I told you everything would be all right, and you told me that nothing would be all right, because your mum would never see your children, you told me that's all she ever wanted. But you want to know what I think? I think she wanted her son to be honest, not a father. I think you never told her and it killed her."

Michael could feel the heat rising in Terry's body. Then he felt Terry's hand shaking. He nearly lost control, he wanted so badly to throw his arms around Terry, but he wouldn't let himself do it.

"How did you like your little holiday with Graham?"

Terry muffled a sob in Michael's shoulder.

"Was it fun?"

Terry's tears sank through his shirt and touched his skin.

"Graham told me you two had lots of fun."

Terry finally broke down and buried his face in Michael's chest and as his arms were going round Michael's waist, Michael finally snapped. He took both of Terry's arms in his clenched fists, shoved them away and stood from the desk. He felt the air cool the tears on his shoulder. He felt tears welling in his own eyes. He stared down at Terry, who was now looking at him as though he were Death itself.

"Glad you both enjoyed it so much," said Michael coldly. "Guess I didn't deserve to know about it. I didn't deserve to know about it ten years ago and I don't deserve any better now."

Michael flicked the cigarette into his half-empty cup of tea, started for the door and Terry choked out, "Where are you going?"

"I'm going to the fucking pub," spat Michael. "Allowed to go to the pub, aren't I?" He didn't even look back.

Terry listened, in total agony, to Michael's fading footsteps. The front door slamming. The door of Michael's car opening. The engine starting and the wheels slicing away through the water.

Michael was gone.

Terry stared out the rain-spattered window and felt his heart falling in pieces just as the sky was. He fell onto the floor. His nose touched the carpet. His eyes fell shut and he started to cry, raining tears on the carpet. He cried out for Michael. He cried out for mercy.

In another country, in another state of ruin, in a room many miles away another man was also crying. His name was Graham.

Of course, Terry didn't know that. Had he known, perhaps he wouldn't have decided not to speak to Graham ever again. Perhaps he would've learned that he'd meant a little more to Graham. Perhaps he would've heard Graham crying out for him.

But in Terry's mind, he was alone once again.

The light from the window dimmed as the sky turned black. The front door opened again, but the gentle clinking of keys and sigh of mild distress told him that it was his wife this time. Terry didn't want to see her. Terry hadn't slept with her, or any other woman, in over three years, the last time having produced their son. They knew it was going to be their last. Perhaps she knew why. Perhaps she didn't. She would want to know why he was crying, so Terry got up and pushed the door firmly shut.

After some thought and careful listening through the door, Terry went back to the desk. He plucked up a cigarette, lit it with practised ease, and breathed it in deep. He stood by the window and gazed out through eyes still heavy with tears.

A cloud hid the moon under a silver haze and under it a baby giggled in delight.

Michael smiled a little and poked his finger at the baby's stomach again. "Ga!" exclaimed the baby as it grabbed his finger in its tiny hand. It pulled his finger up into its mouth and started sucking on it. The baby's mother laughed and held it closer to her body.

"I think she's hungry again," she said without looking up from the baby. "Would you go and get her bottle?"

Michael got up and trudged back into the house. The floorboards squeaked under his feet. He walked around the house for a bit, clipping walls with his shoulders and watching the floor sway beneath him. He wondered how he was expected to find a baby's bottle when he hadn't a clue where it could possibly be. He wondered what the constant ringing noise could be. Then he realised that it was the phone in the kitchen.

"Hello?" he slurred into the phone after he'd picked it up off the polished floor.

"Mike?" whispered the voice on the other end. It sounded a little congested. It was Terry's.

Without a second thought Michael hung up the phone. His heart started pounding faster and his face started burning. His blood boiled. Terry. He clutched at his forehead. Terry. He remembered the pub now and why he had gone there.

His head was a dreadful ache. How could Terry do this to him? He didn't understand.

He wanted to trust Terry. Terry meant more to him than anything ever had. Terry had brought him out of Sheffield and into London, out of his shell and onto the stage. Terry was the love of his life, his one and only. But what was Michael? Was he Graham's alternative? Was he that insignificant to Terry?

Why hadn't Terry told him about Graham? Michael had asked Terry once. He'd asked him who had been his first male lover because obviously Terry was Michael's, and obviously Michael wasn't Terry's, and Terry had simply told him that it was a man called Gray. Surname of course, as his other name didn't matter in their world.

Terry had told Michael that there had been others after that as well, but Michael had never asked for names beyond that one.

Terry had kept the man's identity a secret from Michael for over ten years and finally Graham had told him. Terry and I had sex. Those words were still pounding through his head. Not only that but he was Terry's first. And not only that, but he was Terry's latest. Terry was the best, Terry was my favourite, and David could never compare.

Terry was so exotic, so romantic, so wondrous and full of love and passion and everything Michael found beautiful. Michael wondered if maybe he just wasn't enough for Terry.

The tingling burning returned to Michael's eyes and suddenly he just wanted to let go and fall.

Let go of Terry.

Michael trembled, palms pressed to his eyes, and finally a guttural cry broke out of his throat. He clutched at his face and curled into himself. He sank to the floor in gasps.


***


A tide of applause swept Terry off the stage, into the murky depths of the Hollywood Bowl. He felt suddenly dizzy with awe as he realised just who had walked through here before him. So many, wonderful, glamorous people. It felt kind of weird being one of them. Or the like. It felt, admittedly, rather good. Terry almost felt like smiling.

He saw Eric off to his side, grinning and puffing on a suspicious-looking cigarette and passing it to an equally suspicious-looking man in an anorak.

He heard Gilliam giggling along with John and Graham, all of them nude from their bottoms to their calves and trying to take their minds off that fact. Graham gave Terry a longing glance and Terry ignored it.

He had no intention of giving in to Graham ever again.

He thought of Michael. The cold look in Michael's bright eyes. The anger. A year had now passed and Michael still refused to talk to him. Michael refused to even look at him. Each time he phoned Michael, Terry heard the same thunk, the same steady mechanical hissing, until it died again with a gentle click. Again and again.

He remembered Michael and sighed as the light-heartedness floated away from him.

He was so tired of wanting Michael. Every bit of him wanted Michael. It had been like scaling some impossible, beautiful mountain. If you fell you hadn't a chance of getting anywhere afterwards. But he couldn't just leave Michael behind. Terry had given up cocaine, whole-heartedly. It had done a nasty job on him, but he was getting his health back. He couldn't give up Michael.

So here he was, at the Hollywood Bowl, and he couldn't even share the experience with the one he loved most. He had to change quickly for the next sketch. The backstage area whirled and buzzed around him with Hollywood's trademark hyperactivity, swarmed with listless celebrities. He could hear Michael's voice outside the dressing room. "Nice bum," said the familiar raspy voice and John's laughter rang back through the doorway. Terry smiled a painful smile as John walked in. He watched John ignore him as both rid themselves of their costumes. Off with the nudist waiter's outfit. Terry was determined to make this show a good one. He was determined to make Michael laugh. They were playing the bloody Bowl after all.

John left the room and Terry heard him whisper "There's a Welshman in there, eyeing me in a terribly disturbing way" and what disturbed Terry the most was Michael's answering laughter, so like John's in its aristocratic tones.

Terry held his smile on, and held his anger back, for although the laughter was cruel it was still Michael's, and if Michael was laughing then he would be happy. He brushed his greying hair away from his face with a slightly shaking hand.

Not even the thought of getting shitfaced lifted Terry's spirits.

The alchohol tasted especially good on his tongue after the show was over, even if he was drinking it in an otherwise empty hotel room whilst Michael was somewhere on the Sunset Strip drinking and smoking and fucking everything in sight.

Two months later, Terry sat in a pub and gazed deep into the bottom of his glass.

He heard a familiar song come on the wireless and had to smile.

The Doors always made him think of Michael. It was Michael's great appetite for pop music, something Terry'd just never acquired. When Michael had hosted Now! he'd been teased endlessly, but it was the only way they could've stayed together as writing partners, so the teasing was never that brutal. Terry always got the feeling Michael rather liked it. Michael didn't like being treated with indifference, which he had been all his life, so subversion became his dogma. If Terry teased him for listening to the Doors or Paul Simon, he would only like them more. It was really endearing.

Meeting Mick Jagger was a strange thing because Michael had gone awkwardly silent. Terry could never quite figure out why.

Michael's favourite record was actually one that he'd gotten from Terry as a Christmas present, and Terry was a little surprised when he actually listened to it because he found himself actually liking it. It was called 'A Night At The Opera' and it was unlike any pop music Terry had ever heard. There were very few pop groups that both enjoyed but Queen was certainly one of them.

Terry suddenly realised there was no more beer in the glass. And he threw a couple pounds across the bar, tore himself off the seat and out of the pub while Jim Morrison crooned to the bitter night. Show me the way to the next whiskey bar...

Something was moving Terry through the night, something he couldn't see in all the drunken fog, guiding his car through London. When the car stopped he realised that he was in front of Michael's house.

He leaned forwards onto the steering wheel and cursed.

When he'd summoned up his energy he stumbled out of the car and up the front garden. He slumped under one of the windows and groaned into his hands.

Then slowly, he lifted himself to his feet and peered in the window.

The curtains were drawn.

For a moment he just stood there, staring at the closed curtains, hating them utterly. His hands wanted to smash the window. But his feet had other plans. They brought him up the garden path to the front door. Then his trembling hand climbed upwards, and it knocked hard on the door several times.

Terry cursed silently with each knock.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

The door opened and it was Helen's eyes that met his. She ran her eyes over him a few times, then asked in a severe tone, "What do you want?"

Terry looked her over with mutual hatred. "Let me talk to Michael. Please."

She narrowed her eyes and turned away, closing the door just slightly. Terry heard her mumble the words "absolutely pissed" and a few others and then he heard a sigh and approaching footsteps. He pulled himself to his feet, swept his hair back quickly, tried not to look like he'd spent the last two months in a pub, then the door slid open and Michael stood before him.

Michael stared into his eyes and Terry stared into Michael's. Then quietly Michael said, "What did you want to talk about?"

Terry couldn't help stepping a little closer to him. "Not here," he murmured. "In private."

He watched Michael's eyes flash with innumerable emotions, wondered for a moment if Michael was just going to shut the door in his face. But instead Michael kept his eyes fixed on Terry's. He reached onto the table beside the door for something and called out over his shoulder, "I'm giving Terry a ride home, dear, I'll be back." He stepped out the front door and closed it behind him.

Terry followed Michael down the path to Michael's car, got in without a word.

Michael yanked the door shut and started the car without looking over at Terry. Stared straight ahead as the car started moving. His face was set in a stony expression, eyes narrowed and jaw jutted out. His eyelid twitched and Terry knew he was holding himself back.

Terry tore his eyes away from Michael eventually. He inhaled deeply the familiar scent of the man next to him, stared out the window at London passing by. His insides swirled around like eels fighting in a pond and he fought against the urge to spew them out. His forehead found the cool glass of the passenger side window and he sighed in relief.

The car began to slow down, then it stopped moving entirely and the engine went silent. Terry immediately lifted his head and realised that the car was now in front of his own house. He turned to Michael.

"Why did you stop?"

"I said," said Michael stonily, "I'd give you a ride home. And I did."

"But..."

Terry couldn't even find any words to put after that one. He started shaking and felt his insides start to swirl again.

"Are you going to get out?" snapped Michael.

Terry's gaze sank steadily to Michael's feet, and he grasped inwardly at whatever it was he'd wanted to say when he'd got in the car and now forgotten. Then he gave up and closed his eyes.

"I love you."

"Get out," muttered Michael.

"I love you, Mike."

"Are you going to get out," repeated Michael murderously, "or am I going to have to fucking do it myself?" The heat from his face filled the air.

"I know you're angry," whispered Terry, "but I know you still love me. And I still love you."

"Then tell me why you fucked Graham," growled Michael. He kept his eyes pointed straight ahead at Terry's house.

Terry stared up at him. "I didn't."

He watched Michael's mouth twitch in fury, then slowly it twisted into a smile. "Liar," whispered Michael.

"I didn't fuck him. I was sitting in his room and then he started taking his clothes off. I got up to leave and he kissed me. He wanked me off. That's all that happened." As he said this Terry watched Michael's expression go from cold to simmering anger. There was the faintest gleam in the corner of his eye.

Michael said nothing for a couple of minutes. Terry didn't know if he'd said the wrong thing, or if he'd said too much, so he just sat there in silence, breathing Michael in.

"That's all, is it?" Michael finally said between clenched teeth. "That's what you wanted to tell me?"

Terry wanted so badly to look down again but he fought it with all his strength. He felt the burning shame in his eyes again. But he stared hard at the side of Michael's face.

"He wanked you off. And I suppose you struggled. Well, apparently you're not bothered at all by this," hissed Michael. "And that must feel just fantastic, a friendly wank, that is just super, obviously it meant so little to you. Lying means nothing to you, deception, nothing. All these years that you told me you loved me and wanted only me, and lied through your fucking teeth, all these things you've made me believe mean nothing."

"They do," whimpered Terry, "they do mean something to me, you mean something to me, you mean everything-"

"Get the fuck out of my car!" yelled Michael.

"Mike, you mean everything to me, and I do love you and only-"

Michael slammed his fists on the steering wheel and cried out in agony. He raked both hands through his hair as he leaned back and squeezed his eyes shut.

"Not enough," whispered Michael to the roof of the car.

Terry stared at him, shaking and fighting back tears, and finally he said, "I would never lie to you, Mike."

"You just did. Terry."

"I did not!" Terry cried out in frustration.

"You lied about the first man you slept with. Do you remember that?"

Terry's lip quivered. "What are you talking about?"

"Of course you don't remember," laughed Michael. "You told me that man's surname was Gray and his first name was never revealed to you, some mysterious Mister Gray. You and Graham were fucking before Python even existed. You lied to me."

"What does it matter if Graham and I were fucking then?" cried Terry. His tears had finally broken free. "What does it matter if he was first? I didn't love him and I never have, I, I've loved you from the moment I met you and you never gave me any reason to believe you felt the same, and I waited ten fucking years for you to tell me that you loved me, and I couldn't fucking take it! I couldn't take, your happy family and, and I couldn't take, being alone-"

"What matters is you were fucking him then and hiding it from me," interrupted Michael. "And you're fucking him now and still hiding it from me. Why didn't you tell me, Terry? Why were you hiding it?"

Terry let out a wretched sob. "You're... you're all that matters."

"Liar."

"I couldn't take it, Mike," moaned Terry, "I couldn't take the thought of losing you, because you're everything to me. You're my world, you're everything. I love you, Michael, I..."

Terry cut himself off with a gut-wrenching howl, and his eyes flooded with tears, and the pain gripped his heart so hard, he felt like he couldn't breathe.

"Michael, please..."

He gazed up through his tears.

"Look at me."

He watched the tears fall silently down Michael's face as it slowly turned towards him. Michael stared straight into his eyes.

"I love you," Terry choked out.

Something swirled in Michael's eyes. But they held his.

"Please," gasped Terry, "please don't do this to me."

Whatever was swirling in Michael's eyes exploded, and his eyes suddenly filled with tears, and he pressed his full lips together a little harder. His eyes sank down over Terry's face, and rested on Terry's mouth.

A distant memory flashed in both men's minds in that instant, two boys sitting in a car in Oxford University. One was fair-haired, green-eyed and sweet-looking, the other was dark-haired, dark-eyed and wicked. As they looked into each other's eyes both boys knew their fate, they were doomed to fall in love, and the dark-haired boy had no option but to lean forwards and hope the other would do the same.

Then suddenly Michael's hand was touching Terry's cheek, the tear-puckered skin. He was breathing harder. He was leaning closer.

His eyes were falling shut and his lips were touching Terry's.

Terry was squeezing his eyes shut, flying through a thousand different emotions at once, and praying that whatever force, divine force had brought Michael to him would hold strong, and never pull them apart.

They kissed each other deeply, tasting tears and saliva, moaning softly, clutching at each other, fingers curling in pleasure, and when they broke the kiss Terry gave another cry.

"I'm so sorry Michael," he whispered, "I'm so sorry."

Michael's breath caught, and he pressed his lips shut again. He let the tiniest of smiles light his face. He let his fingers stray up into Terry's shaggy hair.

"So am I," whispered Michael.

Terry let his eyes flicker over Michael's face, quivering as the pain slowly released him and longing took over. Their eyes closed. They kissed again. Terry soon found himself on his back, with Michael lying on top of him and kissing him just a bit harder, and with his hand tangled in Michael's hair.

Michael pulled up a little, moaning. "Is Alison in there?"

"Yeah," breathed Terry. "And the kids."

"Oh," gasped Michael. "Right." He gazed down at Terry, then gave a tiny growl. "Where can we go?"

Terry, suddenly giddy, let a great giggle burst out of him, and stared up at Michael. "You've never had sex in a car before?" he murmured, grinning and purposefully shifting his lower half against Michael's.

Terry wasn't sure whether it was the suggestion or the sensation that brought on the dark glitter in Michael's eyes, but he was almost certain that Michael had not had sex in a car, and quite enjoyed the experience, as they laid on the front seat afterwards panting and sweating.

Breathing hard against his ear, Michael kissed a trail around the edge and up into his hair. His shaky laugh made Terry shiver. He buried a kiss in the silver hair growing from Terry's temple.

"Gray," whispered Michael. "You old poofter."


***
Author's Note: new and improved and all that nonsense. Next update might be sooner than the last. Jus' keep yer heads up, folks.