http://iskythefic.livejournal.com/ (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
iskythefic.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
wl_fanfiction2009-07-29 10:54 pm
iskythefic.livejournal.com) wrote in wl_fanfiction2009-07-29 10:54 pm
Entry tags:
Candour between friends
Hi! I posted a few works here over a year ago, but since then have mostly posted on my own journal. I still do this, but wanted to share some fics with you fine people over here, hope there's no objection.
If you think you'd like to read a little more there's more on my own LJ or please feel free to check out my ficjournal -![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
iskythefic - which is friends-locked but for which I happily friend anyone who friends me. Apologies for the shameless self-promotion! Have some fic!
Constructive criticism gratefully received.
Title: Candour between friends
Pairing: Stephen Fry/Clive Anderson
Rating: PG
Words: 1,127
Summary: Stephen has no answers, and Clive helps as best he can.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, no slander is intended.
A/N: Set sometime preceeding Stephen's 1995 breakdown while acting in the play 'Cell Mates'.
Finally ready to leave at the end of a long day of taping, Clive shrugged into his jacket, picked up his briefcase and turned to leave only to face a smiling Stephen, leaning expectantly against the doorframe. Clive smiled, tiredly, and Stephen extended an arm to curl his hand around Clive’s elbow as he walked them both out into the corridor.
“Clive, my boy, let’s make a date.”
As they walked down the corridor, flickering fluorescent bulbs casting jittery shadows on the walls and floor, Stephen left his hand curved firmly where it was and pressed a little closer to Clive. Clive felt a familiar if long-absent thrill at the tall, solid presence of Stephen at his side, looming just enough to make Clive feel small, to make him feel, in some odd, indefinable and most certainly never-voiced way, safe.
He made an enquiring wordless noise in response to Stephen’s statement, and the other man continued,
“It has been altogether far too long since I saw you, and we shouldn’t have to come together only for work, surely?”
Stephen was right, it had been months, work and family and other commitments had got in the way somewhat, and Clive, knowing Stephen would always be there, had neglected their usually regular correspondence. But then, Stephen had done the same.
Agreeing readily, Clive found himself taking the familiar journey to Stephen’s house, sneaking glances at his companion beneath streetlights and by glowing dashboards, to which Stephen eventually put a stop with an eloquently pointed gaze, eyebrows raised. Clive really hadn’t seen him for a long time, and although he was aware that Stephen looked good, overall (good in ways which Clive knew he shouldn’t really be noticing, but was rather too tired and too content in Stephen’s company to prevent), there was a shadow of something disconcerting in his face.
Keeping his eyes on safer, nondescript things for the rest of the journey, they were soon seated in Stephen’s comfortable living room, glass of whisky each, light low and intimate, and Clive felt more relaxed than he had for a long time.
“You still laugh too much at my jokes, Clive,”
Stephen offered, eyes twinkling over his glass as he took a genteel sip. Clive smiled, magnanimously, for Stephen was right. He always had found the younger man irresistibly funny, and try as he might, his laughter for Stephen’s creative comedy would spill from his lips every time.
“You raise the bar, Stephen, always have. It was good to have you on the show.”
Good for the ratings. Good for the audience. Good for the other contestants. But most of all, good for Clive.
“You flatter me.”
But Stephen gazed at the floor as he spoke, and his smile was already dripping from his face.
Carefully cradling his whisky, Clive rose and walked to the sofa where Stephen sat, perching gingerly on the coffee table in front, his knees just brushing against Stephen’s. Stephen looked up, eyes dark, face grim, though he still had the energy to twitch his eyebrows sceptically at Clive’s proximity.
“I don’t,”
Clive kept the fingers of both hands interlocked, his palms firmly curled around the glass in a self-preserving denial of the urge to reach forward and touch Stephen’s knee, his hand, his shoulder,
“and something’s bothering you.”
Stephen made a face at him, then, an eye-rolling dismissal, but he didn’t move away or change the subject, so Clive pressed.
“Tell me.”
He even let himself stretch a tentative hand forward to briefly cup Stephen’s knee, knobbly through his thin trousers, Stephen’s surprised and abruptly grateful expression making it worth the risk, making Clive’s chest contract oddly.
After one or two throat-clearing false starts, Stephen shrugged awkwardly, the motion dislodging Clive hand,
“It’s nothing really, I’m just.”
He sighed.
“A black dog day, you know?”
Snorting softly, Stephen looked away, a ghostly smile tracing his lips,
“It’s stupid really, things are going well. Work plentiful, new play coming up, friends generous.”
Frowning slightly, Clive couldn’t help but ask,
“Hugh?”
knowing all the history and connotations cocooned within that one word.
But Stephen shrugged once more,
“He has his own projects.”
And although Hugh always lay, to some extent, behind Stephen’s moods, Clive saw nothing in the casual comment to make him suspect this to be more than usually related to Stephen’s partner.
“Clive?”
The utterance of his name caused the hairs to rise along the back of Clive’s neck. It was an intent, oddly apologetic breath, and he had a pretty good idea what it preceded, what it asked before anything else was added.
“I don’t suppose you – ”
Stephen finished the question with a simple look, shockingly intimate, unusually open, and Clive didn’t need any further clarification.
It had been years since they had done anything that even hinted at a relationship beyond friendship, but in Stephen’s unmistakably needy look, Clive saw a request for the kind of comfort he knew they could provide each other. Nothing demanding, nothing messy, simply two friends connecting on a level that exceeded the bounds of usual companionship.
He didn’t need words, nor lengthy consideration; Clive simply reached forward the hand that had been hanging in the space between them and brushed Stephen’s hair back off his forehead with a soft motion that turned into a small caress. Stephen’s eyes fell shut and he turned toward the calming touch.
When Clive leaned in and touched his lips to Stephen’s, the other man sighed his lips apart in nothing other than relief, and the two men kissed, softly, gently, for long moments.
They drew apart eventually and Clive began to rise, turning for Stephen’s bedroom, but Stephen shot up a hand to clasp Clive’s wrist and drew him down to the sofa, down into a loose embrace, an arm around his shoulder, a hand stroking his forearm. Clive allowed himself to subside into Stephen’s arms, to press to his side and return the leisurely strokes with ones of his own, hands tracing into floppy hair, down stubbled jaw, over warm, shirt-covered arms and chest and down strong, trouser-veiled thighs.
Clearly, for Stephen, the destination was not important, the object of the exercise was here, in the enacting of comfort, on both sides, and Clive was content to indulge him.
The next morning they would smile conspiratorially at each other over tea, toast and The Times, and Clive would see that the shadow was still resting across Stephen’s face, but he would not comment on it, and they would embrace before he left, a full body hug so unlike anything either of them usually permitted.
And then Clive would return to his wife, and Stephen turn back into his empty house, until the next time they needed a friend.
If you think you'd like to read a little more there's more on my own LJ or please feel free to check out my ficjournal -
iskythefic - which is friends-locked but for which I happily friend anyone who friends me. Apologies for the shameless self-promotion! Have some fic!Constructive criticism gratefully received.
Title: Candour between friends
Pairing: Stephen Fry/Clive Anderson
Rating: PG
Words: 1,127
Summary: Stephen has no answers, and Clive helps as best he can.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, no slander is intended.
A/N: Set sometime preceeding Stephen's 1995 breakdown while acting in the play 'Cell Mates'.
Finally ready to leave at the end of a long day of taping, Clive shrugged into his jacket, picked up his briefcase and turned to leave only to face a smiling Stephen, leaning expectantly against the doorframe. Clive smiled, tiredly, and Stephen extended an arm to curl his hand around Clive’s elbow as he walked them both out into the corridor.
“Clive, my boy, let’s make a date.”
As they walked down the corridor, flickering fluorescent bulbs casting jittery shadows on the walls and floor, Stephen left his hand curved firmly where it was and pressed a little closer to Clive. Clive felt a familiar if long-absent thrill at the tall, solid presence of Stephen at his side, looming just enough to make Clive feel small, to make him feel, in some odd, indefinable and most certainly never-voiced way, safe.
He made an enquiring wordless noise in response to Stephen’s statement, and the other man continued,
“It has been altogether far too long since I saw you, and we shouldn’t have to come together only for work, surely?”
Stephen was right, it had been months, work and family and other commitments had got in the way somewhat, and Clive, knowing Stephen would always be there, had neglected their usually regular correspondence. But then, Stephen had done the same.
Agreeing readily, Clive found himself taking the familiar journey to Stephen’s house, sneaking glances at his companion beneath streetlights and by glowing dashboards, to which Stephen eventually put a stop with an eloquently pointed gaze, eyebrows raised. Clive really hadn’t seen him for a long time, and although he was aware that Stephen looked good, overall (good in ways which Clive knew he shouldn’t really be noticing, but was rather too tired and too content in Stephen’s company to prevent), there was a shadow of something disconcerting in his face.
Keeping his eyes on safer, nondescript things for the rest of the journey, they were soon seated in Stephen’s comfortable living room, glass of whisky each, light low and intimate, and Clive felt more relaxed than he had for a long time.
“You still laugh too much at my jokes, Clive,”
Stephen offered, eyes twinkling over his glass as he took a genteel sip. Clive smiled, magnanimously, for Stephen was right. He always had found the younger man irresistibly funny, and try as he might, his laughter for Stephen’s creative comedy would spill from his lips every time.
“You raise the bar, Stephen, always have. It was good to have you on the show.”
Good for the ratings. Good for the audience. Good for the other contestants. But most of all, good for Clive.
“You flatter me.”
But Stephen gazed at the floor as he spoke, and his smile was already dripping from his face.
Carefully cradling his whisky, Clive rose and walked to the sofa where Stephen sat, perching gingerly on the coffee table in front, his knees just brushing against Stephen’s. Stephen looked up, eyes dark, face grim, though he still had the energy to twitch his eyebrows sceptically at Clive’s proximity.
“I don’t,”
Clive kept the fingers of both hands interlocked, his palms firmly curled around the glass in a self-preserving denial of the urge to reach forward and touch Stephen’s knee, his hand, his shoulder,
“and something’s bothering you.”
Stephen made a face at him, then, an eye-rolling dismissal, but he didn’t move away or change the subject, so Clive pressed.
“Tell me.”
He even let himself stretch a tentative hand forward to briefly cup Stephen’s knee, knobbly through his thin trousers, Stephen’s surprised and abruptly grateful expression making it worth the risk, making Clive’s chest contract oddly.
After one or two throat-clearing false starts, Stephen shrugged awkwardly, the motion dislodging Clive hand,
“It’s nothing really, I’m just.”
He sighed.
“A black dog day, you know?”
Snorting softly, Stephen looked away, a ghostly smile tracing his lips,
“It’s stupid really, things are going well. Work plentiful, new play coming up, friends generous.”
Frowning slightly, Clive couldn’t help but ask,
“Hugh?”
knowing all the history and connotations cocooned within that one word.
But Stephen shrugged once more,
“He has his own projects.”
And although Hugh always lay, to some extent, behind Stephen’s moods, Clive saw nothing in the casual comment to make him suspect this to be more than usually related to Stephen’s partner.
“Clive?”
The utterance of his name caused the hairs to rise along the back of Clive’s neck. It was an intent, oddly apologetic breath, and he had a pretty good idea what it preceded, what it asked before anything else was added.
“I don’t suppose you – ”
Stephen finished the question with a simple look, shockingly intimate, unusually open, and Clive didn’t need any further clarification.
It had been years since they had done anything that even hinted at a relationship beyond friendship, but in Stephen’s unmistakably needy look, Clive saw a request for the kind of comfort he knew they could provide each other. Nothing demanding, nothing messy, simply two friends connecting on a level that exceeded the bounds of usual companionship.
He didn’t need words, nor lengthy consideration; Clive simply reached forward the hand that had been hanging in the space between them and brushed Stephen’s hair back off his forehead with a soft motion that turned into a small caress. Stephen’s eyes fell shut and he turned toward the calming touch.
When Clive leaned in and touched his lips to Stephen’s, the other man sighed his lips apart in nothing other than relief, and the two men kissed, softly, gently, for long moments.
They drew apart eventually and Clive began to rise, turning for Stephen’s bedroom, but Stephen shot up a hand to clasp Clive’s wrist and drew him down to the sofa, down into a loose embrace, an arm around his shoulder, a hand stroking his forearm. Clive allowed himself to subside into Stephen’s arms, to press to his side and return the leisurely strokes with ones of his own, hands tracing into floppy hair, down stubbled jaw, over warm, shirt-covered arms and chest and down strong, trouser-veiled thighs.
Clearly, for Stephen, the destination was not important, the object of the exercise was here, in the enacting of comfort, on both sides, and Clive was content to indulge him.
The next morning they would smile conspiratorially at each other over tea, toast and The Times, and Clive would see that the shadow was still resting across Stephen’s face, but he would not comment on it, and they would embrace before he left, a full body hug so unlike anything either of them usually permitted.
And then Clive would return to his wife, and Stephen turn back into his empty house, until the next time they needed a friend.