Tangles

Callum opens the door. It's Hugh. Colour Callum surprised, no really, do. Callum's currently wondering what the hell is wrong. He always knows when it's Hugh at his door, it's something about the way he hammers and shouts "open the door you motherfucking cunt, Rennie!" so that the entire hotel is awake, and listening, and wondering whether to call the cops or not or heaven forbid that is Canada's finest in the hall.

The second thing to freak Callum is the hat. Callum has never seen Hugh in a hat much, except for that baseball cap he nicked off him so he could hide up the Joe Dick 'doo he had going when they were filming. Apparently a mowhawk attracts a little too much attention.

This hat isn't like that at all. Hugh'd worn that one backward, like some fucking juvenile delinquent. A fucking Peter Pan of juvenile delinquency, Hugh. Sometimes. This isn't like that. Sure Callum knew about the suits, you know, the New Band wore suits... but a fucking snap brim fedora?

Fuck.

"Rennie, what's wrong with you? Holy fuck, it's like you've seen a motherfucking ghost or something. Christ, Callum man, tell me you didn't fall off the felching wagon?" Hugh's getting in his face, trying not to sniff for alcohol, all tough concern with no motherfucking charity, and Callum's getting a really good look at Hugh's ear.

Fuck.

"Hugh."

And yeah, the original classy motherfucker's smiling, a little, clearly still thinks his man Callum is hammered, but yeah, recognition's good.

"Your hair."

Hugh blinks.

"Where the flying fuck is your hair, you fucker?" and it all suddenly spills out and Callum isn't stuck for words no more, not stuck for words at all, there are so many of them swirling around in his head, and yeah, it's hard not to let them out. Not here anyway. Needs to leave "were you fucking insane?" out of it, and "fuck, you're using again aren't you?" and "what the fuck am I meant to stroke when you suck my cock?" is definitely not one suitable for all audiences.

And Hugh's grinning, almost laughing as he pushes Callum back into the hotel room, and kicks the door back and pushes Callum onto the bed hard and stradles his hips. Callum doesn't get how Hugh can be so fucking fast. He's all built and meaty and nothing like Callum at all, just how Callum likes it. Okay, mentally they've got things in common, but physically? Nothing much. And Callum likes that, likes the weight as Hugh pushes him down on the bed and fucks him hard, and Callum's dick is beginning to wonder when the hard fucking's gonna start...

And Hugh's just looking at him. He looks like somebody not only kicked his puppy but drowned it and sold it to a Chinese restaurant.

"You don't like it." Not a question, Hugh knows Callum so well that he already has the answer; it was already on Callum's face. Callum is one of those people almost everyone calls "unreadable" but Hugh can read him like he's the fucking Gideon bible in the hotel dresser, the one Callum always tries to bury with Condoms and lube. Sometimes he even sticks one on the inside cover. It's his little rebellion, other people cut bits (and Callum knows which bits) out but somehow that just feels wrong.

Wronger even than a hairless Hugh. And hairless Hugh looks pretty wrong right now. The hat's slowly tilting forward but it can't quite hide the look of horror on Hugh's face. And everyone says Hugh is so fucking readable, but half the time the Gospel of Dillon is all lies and misdirection.

But Callum's the professional liar, while Hugh, he's only Sunday League; "It was just a shock, that's all," he says, making himself look at possibilities, trying to think what it is about bald men t hat turned cranks and then making it turn his for a while.

Hugh's just a liar. Callum lies.

"If I fucking knew..." an unfinished sentence all wild and unbranded roaming the plains, looks like Hugh doesn't want to be a liar right now, "Fuck, Callum, I can't go round being Spitting White Trash Thug all my life."

Callum knows that. One of Hugh's bit parts. Nobody can spit quite like Hugh. He doesn't know, though, how much of this is about the acting and how much of this is about Hugh in his own fucked up head. Callum resists the urge to look in Hugh's ears, not that it would do any good 'cause Dillon is fucking heavy and fuck, even Callum's dick is too freaked to enjoy that right now. Callum suspects that Hugh's brain looks like a Dali painting with just a touch of Breughel.

Callum wonders if there are any Breughels around the place. Hugh'd like them. Should take him and have a look. Make a date. Like normal people, and then everyone in the gallery would be listening to Hugh make like some fucking profane art lecturer. Hugh getting a book before hand was kind of inevitable, unless Callum didn't tell him, and that, as an idea, not so hot. Hugh might be mellowing, but when he explodes? The difference is more like between Hiroshima and Bikini Atoll. And Hugh doesn't like being the surprisee one bit.

Hugh's tipping off his hat. He's practised. Maybe the New Band have synchro hat removal practice sessions after every Jam? And putting it on the bed by Callum's thigh and Callum is watching it all the way down, anything to stop himself looking...

At Hugh...

At where Hugh's soft soft fuzzy almost girly hair was...

And somehow, it's pretty damn hot in absentia too.

It shouldn't be, but it is. And Hugh's voice has gone gig-gravelly and is making Callum's bones rattle, which is good, because Callum's ears are not listening. Not listening at all. And there's something about a cure for shock, and Hugh's moving back down Callum's body and his dick hates hates that and there's nothing Callum can do because he's too busy watching Hugh's head.

Hugh's on his knees by the bed now, stuck between Callum's and pushing them out like Callum's some kind of slut, pushing them out until that round and strangely beautiful head pushes between them and just stays there, breathing on Callum's cock, sniffing at Callum's cock. It's almost like he's actually breathing Callum's cock in an out and that's so fucking hot and just as Callum's cock starts sending his zipper hate mail, Hugh lunges in and proves it's not just beer bottles he can open with his teeth.

And clearly Hugh has been to some weird temple in Tibet where he has been trained by some very pervy monks in safron, because somehow, Callum's lost his pants and Hugh didn't move a bit. And he isn't moving a bit right now either, just got his face up close to Callum's cock like he's looking real close at it, and it's the sort of torture that Callum wants (never) to stop. And fuck, there's something hot and wet, and was that tongue, and now it's gone and Hugh's a motherfucking sadist and Callum tells him so, or at least that's what Callum thinks he said, it might not have been words at all.

And somehow, Hugh's fitting better down there, his head is rubbing up against his thighs and if the hair was ticklish, then this... this is something else entirely. It's so fucking smooth and it slip slides against Callum's legs and ghosts over Callum's hair. And fuck, Callum wants to come so fucking hard from a lick and a cock tease!

And another lick, and Callum thinks it's going to be the same again, but no, Hugh's not putting his toy back in the box yet, just bringing it down and swirling accross his balls and pulling Callum's legs up a little as he goes down further and fuck, Hugh hasn't fucking done that before and his head? Fits even better down there, skin to skin, all silky and soft.

In a way totally different to the way Hugh's hair was all silky soft. Callum wonders for a second whether Hugh has any of his old hair stuff to spare, see if it can tame the dread Rennie mop, and then the thought is dragged away as Hugh just plunges in deep with his tongue and makes happy with his spine like his ass is just something in the way.

And then, suddenly, Callum's cold there, and before he can open his eyes to complain, his cock is somewhere warm and wet, and there's a slightly odd sound as Hugh gets slightly too greedy and then decides just to rest there for a moment, his hand stroking Callum's thigh so gently that Callum thinks he's going to stroke out then and there and so do Callum's hips as they buck up.

And Hugh just uses some of that wonderful weight to hold him down and slips his fingers around the base of Callum's cock and then Hugh drives his throat down on him and then he lets go and lets Callum pound up even harder and just rides it out.

Callum forces himself to keep his eyes open, even if it's all too much, 'cause there's Hugh's head, riding his cock, and there's no way he can be on his knees no more, and he's hot and tight and tight and tight...

And Callum bucks up hard.

And when Callum gets back from communing with all the little angels up on their little stars, Hugh's still there, with his head between Callum's legs lapping at his cock like some seriously pervy cat. And Callum finally gets his hands to let go of the fucking comforter and swings them down, like he's drunk but the only thing he's drunk on is Hugh and the only one of them that's drunk anything is Hugh and that was Callum's come, fucking gallons of it. And now, Callum's stroking behind Hugh's ears and it's so fucking smooth, it's like warm glass.

And he expects Hugh to get smart, and he doesn't just stays there making little comfort licks, and it's beginning to filter into Callum's head that Hugh must be pretty fucking uncomfortable down there and then all his neural pathways get all narrow again, which is dumb, 'cause he should not be getting hard again so fast, and the part of his brain that still works is thinking slow thoughts about how Hugh better not have stroked himself off, and not even noticing that Hugh's up and is pulling Callum's legs round so they're all neat on the bed.

Slutty neat.

'Cause there's no way Callum's legs are going to spend the weekend together now, they might as well had said "have a nice weekend" and headed out the moment Hugh turned up at his door.

And yeah, Callum just leaves his head looking up as Hugh-hands wander accross his chest and unbutton his shirt. Hugh's jaw must be too fucking sore to do that with his teeth too. Callum tries to keep his shit together and counts the cracks on the ceiling while trying to remember when all his clothes last came out of the Dillon Experience intact, and then he remembers Hugh and sends his eyes down/forwards.

And Hugh's got his back to him and's pulling off his black tee and turning, and fuck, it looks like Hugh's head isn't the only thing that got stripped, waxed, agent-orange'd...

Hugh looks down at his chest for a moment, somehow it looks bigger broader without the hair and kind of softer, and tips his head to one side. "That," he pokes a meaty thumb into his chest, "that's for the job. The Band insisted on coming with, so I couldn't even fucking scream."

And then, Hugh turns his eyes back onto Callum and crawls up the bed, up between Callum's legs and Callum starts thinking about thumbs. But like Callum's mum said "I want, don't get," not that Callum's fucking complaining, he's hard and he's got Hugh's tongue up his ass and Hugh hasn't even come yet and he's so fucking hard. And yeah, Hugh still had hair there, and if somehow feeling this good didn't kill him, Callum would suck him so hard in the morning that Hugh's fucking head would blush like a beacon or something.

And the tongue's gone and there's something warmer harder at his entrance and yeah, Dillon knows how Callum likes it, two fingers, no pussy fucking footing around here, Callum knows the next stop will be Hugh's dick.

Callum called it Joe, once. Hugh was not fucking amused.

In a he-stormed-into-the-night and Trent from the Old Band had phoned Callum the next morning to say that Hugh was nowhere to be seen and please, dear Fuck, was he with Callum, 'cause otherwise, Trent had a Bad Feeling. And the Bad Feeling was right, 'cause Hugh was feeling no pain and drooling into a mattress somewhere and Callum was one guilty fuck.

He'd tried to avoid Hugh after that. Told himself it was for self-protection, in case he caught the addiction cooties, but really? The only fucking thing Callum was hiding from was his own fucking guilt. Hugh had clearly been on edge that night, and maybe had they made nice and fucked nasty, Hugh would have got his balance back again.

And fuck, that was a cock shrinking thought, and Callum opened his eyes, no Hugh.

Fuck.

Banging noise. Bathroom. "Where the fuck are the condoms, cuntface?" Hugh was on edge again, Callum didn't want to push him off again, wanted to be the best fuck in the world if it kept Hugh halfway sane and playing his harmonica (and if you've ever seen Hugh play harmonica? The cocksucking doesn't come as a surprise much.)

"In with the fucking Bible" Callum says, trying to sound unfreaked, freak-free, low in freak. When did acting get so motherfucking hard?

"Oh, yeah," Hugh says stomping back in, "Gideon's are a bunch of cunts anyway. Better if they handed out copies of the Karma Sutra. Give people alone in hotels something nice to think about for a change."

The drawer bangs, and Hugh rips and rolls. No teeth again. Callum wonders if he needs to give Hugh the name of his fucking dentist. Wonders if he fucking ripped a hole in the back of his throat.

Hugh stops.

Goes and sits on the bed next to Callum, "Cal? What the fuck's wrong?" and he's stroking Callum's cheek like he's some kind of kid, "You don't want to, then, that's fine. We'll just fucking cuddle and shit and we can sleep warm for a change."

"No." Callum's surprised at the sound of his own voice. It sounds broken, all sharp edges needing filing.

"Fuck. Rennie. You're not in the fucking mood." and it's beginning to seep into Callum's brain that this isn't the Hugh that'd disappear into Calgary with your wallet and get himself fucked up on some very expensive poison, "I'm not that sort of guy, Rennie. Not. That. Sort. Of. Guy. Fuck," clearly a thought has hit Hugh and it's not a good one 'cause his dick's shrinking like somebody pricked a hole in it and the orange condom is looking too big, "You did want it before, didn't you?" and then it seems like he's run out of words.

Fuck.

Callum pulls himself up and yeah, like he thought, there are tears running down Hugh's face. They say Hugh's the readable one, and this time they're right, there's a way those big shoulders just clump up together. First time Callum saw it, he thought it was part of Joe, it's only experience that's taught him it's really Hugh. Hugh lives things way to hard, bright, loud. That's why the drugs. Callum could put Billy to bed at night. Joe followed Hugh home and into his nightmares. Callum had thought he could tell them apart, even then, especially then. Maybe he was wrong.

Scratch maybe.

And Callum puts one hand on Hugh's shoulder and pushes gently down, and rubs away the tension a little, begins to rub at least and then slips the other down onto Hugh's dick and strokes him through the rubber. Now's not the time to ask Hugh what made him choose that fucking colour. Now's just quiet little noises and stiff soft fingers around Hugh's cock.

And there's a soft gulping noise and he isn't looking at the back and side of Hugh's head anymore, wondering how long it takes for Hugh to get some visible regrowth, trying not to think what that'd feel like against his thighs. And, Hugh's looking at him and twisting sideways a bit, and somehow has got his hand behind Callum's head and is pulling him in for a brutally soft kiss, and then another, and then Callum's hand leaves Hugh's dick dripping lube and slips around on the back of Hugh's head as they fight it out gently with their tongues and mouths.

Callum isn't sure when he ended up on his back or whether it was him or Hugh or the hand of god that put him there. They just keep kissing and sucking at each other like they've been covered in crack and booze and come, and every other nasty-nice thing.

And Hugh's dick is rubbing up against his, and his is getting interested again and is doing some necking of its own as Hugh sucks at Callum's throat like a toothless vampire and licks and Callum can do nothing, not even buck up against the delicious weight holding him into the matress and his hands, arms, everything 'cept his cock has gone limp.

And Hugh's face rises up, swims up into vision, and Callum can't really tell where it ends and the space where the hair was begins any more. And Hugh's eyes ask a question, they're still a little red round the edges and Callum thinks through the fog for a signal and what he gets is a little breathy "yeah".

And Hugh grins his mother fucking cock sucking pepsi cola grin and moves down and settles himself against Callum's hips, before pushing himself up onto his arms, and before Callum can even mourn the loss of his weight he's pushing into Callum like he's made of cotton candy or something.

And he just glides in, barely a burn, and Callum wonders a moment, how fucking far he's gone before he actually really gets going there, as Hugh starts to move.

He's not hard and fast, but he's not exactly soft and gentle either.

And thank fuck, he's not treating Callum like glass. Callum hates it when guys do that, girls sometimes do too, which is fucking weird.

And yeah, Hugh's getting up speed, it feels like he's getting himself into time with Callum's heart beat and whether that means he's going fast or everything's gone slow, who the fuck knows, 'cause Callum doesn't care.

And as Hugh licks Callum's nipple like it's better than cotton candy, Callum cares even less, and begins to feel his toes curl and hear his hair grow and everything is like sharp and bright.

And later Callum will wonder if that's what the world feels like to Hugh all the time; too loud, too bright, too messed up that he has to find rock bottom in a bottle or a syringe or in Callum's ass. Something.

But right now, the only thing in Callum's head is that he's about to come and then he does just as Hugh's impeccable rhythm begins to break and fracture like glass.

Callum knows something had to have happened between then and now, but he doesn't know what it was. Then, he was watching Hugh come his brains out up his ass; now, they're lying on top of the comforter staring at the ceiling. Hugh's got his feet flat on bed and Callum knows 'cause his knees are pointing up into the air in that weird way of his, like he's about to scooch under a car while Callum's just flat out and watching the angels.

They're not saying anything, but Callum thinks Hugh's holding his hand.

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