Without A Sound

Let's face it. Hugh Dillon and weird shit are pretty damn synonymous, even when Hugh isn't hopped up on whateverthefuckitisthistime. It was one of Callum's consonants... constants in life. You do that Mountie Show thing and you pay and pay and pay. Callum never used to jumble words like that, sure stammer maybe when he got nervous surrounded by "real" actors like Paul at snoopy... snooty canapay parties in Stratford. Jumble? No. So now he's got a second speech problem. Maybe he ought to get a therapist.

The speech kind, not the Hugh kind. Hugh seemed to churn through therapists like other people get through underwear. The implications of that sentence were truly freaky and Callum was trying very hard not to think about them, period, or whether it implied freakage on his behalf or Hugh's. Hell, probably both. They're a pair of pathetic no-fit freaks when you get down to it.

Callum was terrible at acting like an actor, and was freaking shy with it, which is like being a scuba diver who can't swim. Hugh was a rock star who'd decided that rock and roll would kill him and he prefered the idea of living beyond forty.

Rock and Roll is Fat and Ugly, indeed. Though more dead and ugly.

He could imagine Hugh screaming it at a gig, one of those unintentionally tiny ones he does with the new band, and then getting everyone to scream "long live rock and roll" back at him before ordering the audience drinks or something. Callum was glad he wasn't going to those gigs, the disasterous fifteen people ones with a round of drinks on the side, he'd feel really stupid ordering a club soda or something.

Though it proved his point: Hugh Dillon = Weird Shit. Or rather Hugh did weird shit, or made weird shit happen, or had weird shit happen to him.

And any of the above could lead to unscheduled Hugh appearences on a doorstep near Callum. Okay, Callum's doorstep. Sometimes because he was high, low, and Callum would bet he was the only person in the fucking universe who could do "sideways" without the prefix of "fuck you".

So knocking in the middle of the night meant either Hugh or a poltergheist, or on the third hand, that Hugh had brought a poultergheist. Wasn't that sort of stuff meant to be caused by teenagers and sexual energy? Hugh had both, sexual energy and he behaved like a teenager. They were his two most endearing features, besides being able to swear and curse sweetly and they sure endeared themselves to Callum, sometimes so much that he had to reblock scenes so he stood around more and justify it method-like to the directors.

Unless the director was Bruce or Don... they kind of knew. With Bruce it was kind of avuncular, they'll keep each other out of trouble. With Don, well, Don knew Callum's record when it came to sleeping with co-stars. And Callum's co-starred with Don more than a couple of times. Fucking wearing ugly nylon shirts on a couch on set with the lights out and everyone home... or so they'd thought until Molly had come looking, and run away fast. Callum could hear Molly screaming at Don the following day, just before the scene with the remote (actually that described everything on the Catfood Show), but with Callum all she did was smile sweetly as she kicked Don under the table.

Molly was always nice to Callum, even when he poked her in the boob with his elbow. Callum really didn't get that.

What he got was Hugh knocking on his door at the witching hour and never once thinking that Callum wouldn't let him in. Because Callum would never not let Hugh in. It would be... wrong and twisted. Inside Callum's head the letters of Hugh's name rearranged themselves into the symbol for Mercury in a half-remembered periodic table of teenage delinquents who never grow old. Mercury... no wonder Hugh's as mad as a hatter.

Callum hasn't been drinking, hasn't fallen off the cock-sucking-fucking-felching waggon. It's just he hadn't slept for days, and he's just got in about twenty of his forty winks and everything is still weird and sharp and cuts through his brain and weird shit like that comes from nowhere. Maybe that's why Hugh...

...is standing outside Callum's door wearing a dress.

It's a nice dress, very "Breakfast At Tiffany's" maybe something some goth girl might wear to a dance club and spend the whole night looking ironic and sophisticated and then go home on her own. And she'd have bought her own drinks too, and had to drip scorn on the bartender when he explained she couldn't have a martini but could have a screaming orgasm.

Sounds like somebody from a Hugh song, an old school Hugh song, all she had to do was commit suicide or necrophilia or go nuts... nah, she'd get a gun... no, that's it, wannabe vampire with limosines and hollywood.

If Hugh wrote a song about a totally hypothetical goth girl whose dress he was currently borrowing...

Hypothetical or not, she wouldn't have had the chest hair issues, and it wouldn't be tight in quite the same places, and it certainly wouldn't be loose where it was on Hugh, flopping down and showing off even more of the stuff.

Fetching.

Though what exactly it was fetching was another matter. Some dark god of rock maybe; the cops, certainly if they saw him in that; a pimp? Compared to all those possibilities, Callum's hard-on came as something of a surprise.

"Hello, my fucking sweetheart," Hugh's trying to pull off a falsetto, and there are no words to describe the result, and Callum is only distracted from it by the fact that Hugh is waving a cigarette holder in one gloved hand. The gloves are wrong, 'course, they should be those shoulder length satinny things, but then while Callum's skinny little mits would just slip inside like they've slipped inside so many other things, Hugh's would stick, pull and lubricant would just stain them horrible. That thought goes straight to Callum's dick, as does the one that Hugh's wearing driving gloves, you know, the ones that are slightly open on the backs, buttoning up with the strap along the wrist. The fingers are cut off and they have something grippy underneath and Callum knows that because Hugh's got his arms.

"Feeling a little out of sorts, dahling?" Hugh continues, teetering in shoes the size of which Callum doesn't even want to speculate on, though not as much as he doesn't want to speculate on why Hugh's behaving like that guy on MASH. And Hugh's continuing, "I know just the thing for that," and starts marching Callum backwards towards the bed, handbag bumping Callum's hip.

It's not as if they're cheek to cheek and Callum wonders whether Hugh's got it as bad as him, and how he'd hide such a fucking massive boner under that black sequinned mess.

And maybe the light of the sequins is hypnotic or something, 'cause Callum isn't aware of any time passing, yet now he's flat on his back, on his bed, and Hugh's kneeling over him and working his zipper, which is stuborn and freaky and Hugh's swearing, but now he sounds like Hugh again and that's great and a small giggle almost escapes Callum's lips, or maybe it really escaped and that's just wishful thinking, 'cause Hugh snarls and rips and that's totally (dead) rock and roll. And there are dark shadows around Hugh's eyes but that's nothing unusual, though he might be wearing enough make-up to play it up a bit, and anyway Callum's too busy listening to Hugh swear and curse, "Fuck, Rennie, first you're freaked and now I am going to get you your freak on and freak you but good."

And that doesn't quite make sense, but it's great, it's the shit.

And his pants are gone, they're as dead as rock and roll and dodos combined now they've met hurricane Hugh.

That makes Callum giggle too, but that shudder-stops when a wet slick hand closes around his dick, as Hugh hitches up his dress with the other one, the one with the glove on. The other glove is dangling from between Hugh's teeth. Proper teeth, not all plastic and porcelain like Callum's, real bitting people teeth. You'd have thought somebody would have tried to stick Hugh's harmonica down his throat by now, not so. Hugh's teeth are still a dentist's dream which is freaky shit, given what some of the freaky shit Hugh was using back in the old days.

And the dress has caught on Hugh's curving dick, and there's oozing on the fabric and it's coming through and Hug h's not saying anything, until he pauses, and holds Callum's dick steady and sinks down like he's been doing this since ever...

...there's a tiny little gasp and the glove falls, slick with spit at the top of his chest and Callum needs something to distract him from the tight and the hot and wet and the guy easing himself down onto his dick none too slowly. So Callum tips his head forward and somehow catches the glove with his tounge and then pulls back, feeling it tracing patterns on his neck and when it's almost too much he bites and can taste leather and Hugh and it's wrong and it doesn't stop it, it makes it so much brighter and louder, and Hugh's rocking now, like he's riding something, riding Callum in a black dress like Lady Godiva or something.

Hugh's kind of quiet, which is queer, 'cause when Hugh is fucking Callum he doesn't stop making profane little prayers about God and Jesus and thanking them for Callum's hot tight ass between telling Callum, wispering into his skin that one day he'll just fuck him on stage or in the bus or... somewhere, anywhere, because he's so hot that he'll just let the band, any band, go fuck themselves. But no, Hugh's quiet and rocking swaying and maybe Callum's babbling behind his self imposed gag, but it's hard to be sure, and the gloved hand is beginning to grasp around Callum's shoulder, starting to bite and it's only then that Callum realises that he's so close that Hugh's trying to pull him back. And those gloves are like Callum's rock climbing tape, except the rocks stay put, and Callum can't.

Callum wants to scream, everything's becoming so very bright and time's going all funny, like it did when did the underwater gig.

So he does.

And Hugh's hand lets go.

And Hugh rides it, rides Callum's jerking hips, moves like he's in tune with Callum's soul.

And when the light has finally fizzled out to some creeping into the bedroom from the kitchen again, Hugh reaches under his dress, and palms himself, and Callum realises he was waiting for him to come back and the same time as he r ealises his now soft dick is still inside Hugh. Maybe Hugh took up yoga after all. And Hugh's stroking himself and making a show, and Callum hopes the dress is Hugh's because it's going to... yeah, it got creamed, how Hugh can be full of so much come baffles Callum for a bit, until he realises that his family would think Hugh a wanker (not that he's introducing them or nothing) and yeah, Hugh's full of wank sometimes, but not now, because it's over the dress and over Callum.

Hugh's very definitely been doing yoga, the way he bends down to Callum and Callum's dick doesn't quite slip free, "Hey, Callum, you know, who wants to live for ever?"

And that makes as much sense as the rest of the night, and Callum's braincells are still trying to get loose from his dick which is becoming swiftly faster than ever happy and hard again and beginning to grow into Hugh like ivy grows into a tree.

So all Hugh gets is a breathy "yeah" and then he ducks down, licks Callum's neck and bites, and it's too hard, yet it feels so good, and somehow, Callum knows it's going to be forever.

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