Banter

by Orianne

This is the scene: Greg is changing into his street clothes into the dressing room. Clive is walking down the hallway with the intention of doing the same. The studio is by now largely empty after the taping, and Clive's footsteps echo along the hall.

Greg looks up when Clive enters the dressing room, pausing briefly. He's shirtless, pale skin made almost translucent under the harsh lights. Clive can see the flash of fragile blue veins in his arms as he unloops his belt.

"You've gotten bold," Greg says, tossing the belt aside. "What happened to that English courtesy I've heard so much about? You know, that quaint little tradition of knocking?"

Clive simply smiles. He removes his suit jacket, folding it neatly against his chest. "I think it's a bit late for modesty now, don't you think, Greg?"

"Ah. I see. Just because you've got no qualms about someone seeing you naked, tied up and covered in fish oil, no one else has the right to feel differently, is that right?"

"Fish oil?" Clive laughs. He loosens his tie. "Is that what you get up to when you're alone, Greg? I never thought you were so experimental."

"I'm not, unless you count that one time I was in Bangkok and---But we won't get into that now."

"Bangkok?"

"Yeah, Bangkok. There was a thing and I saw this---You know." Greg pauses. "I was there for the 'Try to Tell a Lie' Festival. It's an annual thing."

"I suppose you were there serving drinks or something. If that lie was any indication of your skill, they wouldn't bother to let you in."

"Oh, and you're so much better at lying." Greg hunches his shoulders to hide his neck. His voice becomes an odd amalgamation of England and California. "Right, so I was wearing a cheerleading outfit, and there were two midgets and an otter---"

"That otter gave me the best night of my life." Clive examines Greg puzzledly. "Cheerleading outfit?"

"I don't know what you call them here. Page Three girls with pom-poms."

"What a vivid imagination you've got. It's the only thing you've got, but at least it's vivid."

"Yeah, it's the same thing as you imagining you're funny." Greg runs a hand through his hair, contemplating. "Everyone else still here?"

"No. No, I think it's just you and me."

"Oh." He allows Clive a small smile. "This feels familiar."

Clive feigns ignorance. "Well, you've been using this dressing room for four series, Greg. Don't tell me you're only just becoming used to it."

"Ah, and there's the other familiar thing. That old patronizing tone. Like slipping into a warm bath, it is."

"Bath?" Clive is shirtless too by now, shoulder muscles rippling under the skin as he folds the shirt before laying it on top of the jacket and tie. He still hasn't lost the athlete's physique; to Greg he looks as if he's nothing but muscle. "I didn't think Americans knew about baths."

"You're slipping, Clive. Next thing I know you'll stoop to calling me a poofter or whatever you call it."

Clive looks up. "Why? Would you like me to?"

"Surprising as it may seem, Clive, I actually don't need to lie around fantasizing about you calling me names. I get it enough in real life."

"Ah." Clive settles back on the salmon-colored dressing room couch and kicks off his shoes. "I suppose you just fantasize about you calling me names. Since you never do that successfully, do you?"

Greg turns, comes to stand in front of Clive on the couch. "I've gotten over on you more times than I can count, Mr. A."

"Well, I'm sorry you never learned your numbers properly, Greg, but I don't see why---"

Greg reaches out suddenly, puts both hands on Clive's shoulders. He interlaces his fingers behind Clive's neck.

"What are you doing?" Clive says. He smiles.

"Trying to shut you up," Greg says, pulling him to his feet.

Clive still can't get used to the feeling of Greg's body, the hard angles of his shoulders, the curve of his stomach. It is sharp and soft all at once. Clive's body is compact, solid. There is nothing soft about him. Greg tilts Clive's head up, parts his lips with his tongue.

Greg tastes faintly of tobacco; his mouth has a pleasant if slightly bitter tang. Clive presses his hips against Greg, hands sneaking around to stroke his back. Greg dips his head and nuzzles Clive's neck. He worries the skin under Clive's jaw gently before moving back to his mouth.

He feels Greg's heat. His hands are everywhere; if they were teeth, Clive would be devoured.

"Now?" Clive says to the unspoken demand when he pulls out of the kiss. He has one hand on Greg's neck, the other on his abdomen. They stand so close that Clive can feel Greg's erection pressing against his leg.

"Now," Greg says hoarsely, almost shaking with desire.

Clive eases out of his trousers, kicking them to the side. His cock strains against his underwear, hot, hungry, greedy. He turns around as Greg starts struggling out of his own trousers.

There is a small bottle of hand lotion on the table behind Clive. He squeezes it out onto his fingers. It smells faintly of paraffin. Greg presses himself against the wall, one hand on the couch for support (He doesn't trust that the floor is clean enough to lie on). Clive moves against his back, gently inserting his fingers.

Greg flinches. He mutters, "Jesus fucking Christ," halfway to himself. It's half the unfamiliar feeling of Clive's fingers inside of him and half the cold, oily feel of the lotion itself. He tries to force himself to relax.

Clive laughs, breath warm against the back of Greg's neck. "My word. Is it really that unpleasant, or are you simply in awe of the skill involved?"

"Don't flatter yourself," he gasps over his shoulder. "Where the fuck did you find that lotion, frozen in a block of ice?"

"Calm down, Greg." Clive strokes his chest with his free hand.

"I'm not like you. I can't just grit my teeth and think of England."

"You'd be better off if you did. Might stop you talking for a moment."

"Fuck you." It's probably the least witty thing Greg's ever said, but he's become used to the feeling of the lotion, now grown warm and liquid inside his body, and to Clive's fingers sliding gently inside him. Greg sighs softly as he opens up. His cock is so hard it almost hurts, damp with pre-come, and it's difficult to concentrate on making a clever retort.

"I think," Clive whispers, his voice gruff-tender, "I'd prefer to fuck you, actually."

Clive enters him slowly, a little at a time. A low, inarticulate sound comes from deep in Greg's throat, all need and pleasure and anticipation, and Clive's pulse quickens, blood thumping in his ears. He wraps a hand around Greg's shoulder and pushes his full length inside. Their bodies make a soft thwacking sound as they come together.

There are no more words. They are both beyond words, Greg pressed against the wall with glasses askew, Clive pressed against Greg. Greg clutches the arm of the dressing room couch so hard his knuckles turn white. Clive digs his heels into the worn tan carpet.

He moves with fast, rhythmic strokes, his hips pushing against Greg as Greg pushes back against him. It seems to Greg that Clive is buried inside him, that his cock is pushing through to his belly.

Clive stares at a drop of sweat sliding down Greg's back. He feels surrounded by Greg, half lost inside of him. He palms Greg's testicles with one hand and strokes them, the coarse, curly pubic hair covering soft wrinkled flesh.

It's the combination of Clive piercing through him and the gentle, delicate touch of warm fingers on his balls that pushes Greg over the edge. He comes, liquid heat spurting onto Clive's hand; his breath rushes out of him in a near-sob. Greg slumps forward, his forehead knocks gently against the wall. Clive wraps both hands around Greg's chest to keep him from getting away. He pushes into Greg harder, more violently. His testicles shoot up as if they've been slapped and he comes, hard, hearing Greg cry out, and stars bloom behind his eyes. Coming in glorious Technicolor, in stereophonic sound, full-on, wide-screen.

Clive lets Greg go and withdraws. He stands quietly and shakes in a full-body muscle spasm. He drips with sweat.

"Goddamn," Greg says. His voice cracks like a teenager's. "Goddamn." He adjusts his glasses and turns around. His chest is smeared with his own sperm from when Clive grabbed him, sticky white trails across his skin.

Clive moves to the dressing room sink and washes his hands. He feels a little embarrassed. He never really knows what to say after sex; he feels too exposed to be clever. He also desperately needs to pee.

"You going to the pub or somethin'?" Greg says, almost shyly.

"I think I'm going home."

"Yeah, me too." Greg looks down, sees his chest for the first time. "Aw, Christ. What a fucking mess. Is there any Kleenex?"

"I think so." Clive hands him one and starts to get dressed. Greg scrubs at his chest, gets the most of it off, and reaches for his own clothes.

Clive is just putting on his jacket when Greg starts to laugh. It's not a big laugh, just chuckling, but Clive's curious.

"What?" Clive says. "What is it?" He comes closer to Greg.

Greg looks up from buttoning his shirt, still laughing. He gives Clive a huge grin and wraps his arms around his shoulders. The movement is open, spontaneous, incredibly American. Clive can't help but laugh back, his arms around Greg's waist.

"I was thinking," Greg says, "that it really is true what they say about England. Arguing *is* foreplay." He kisses Clive.

Just this once, Clive thinks, shutting his eyes and parting his lips. Just this once, he'll let Greg have the last word.

~End

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