As The Sun Goes Down

[fbrobey.livejournal.com]

Well done for guessing me Isky, hope you enjoyed it ^_^

Author: fbrobey 
Pairing: Greg/Clive, Greg/Jennifer, Clive/ofc (his wife)
Rating: R
Note:  Isky wanted something with Clive in it, paired with Greg, Tony or Stephen Fry.  UK era or anything spanning or moving between Britline and modern day era! She also wanted angst please, background of wife/wives, no wife-bashing, with smut as a bonus. 
Extra info: All the dates where the WL episodes and Interviews are mentioned, were their air dates, and 14th February is the correct date, though I'm not going to mention what for without giving some of the story away. Wasn't sure of Clive's wife's name, so I called her Pat.

 

20^th September 1996:

The letter clutched in his shaking hands changed everything. Jennifer looked up from her morning post, various missives addressed to Mrs Proops, to spot her husband’s complexion rapidly become grey.
“Greg? Honey what is it?” she asked concerned, curling into him affectionately, unprepared for the tears that started to fall from his chocolate eyes.

29^th December 1989:

“Greg can you play a child… a kid?” It started off with such an innocent question. Clive had never imagined it’d spark ten years of playful banter between them, and nor had Greg for that matter.
“I’m afraid no, contractually I’m forbidden to.” There had been something so intriguingly playful about the twinkle in Greg’s chocolate eyes despite the deadpan expression on his face. It was as if a mutual understanding came to pass between Greg and Clive. It was just for fun and they were both intelligent enough to tell the difference between a game and reality. Clive had taken a chance on his instinct. He often joked with the audience but when it came to the performers, his job was simply to tell them what they were doing. He took the chance on testing the water with a man he had only conversed with on a personal basis once. He returned the sarcasm.

“Well thank you for watching Whose Line Is It Anyway…” he told the cameras, unable to keep a small smile from playing on his lips, glimpsing sight of Greg’s appreciative grin in the corner of his eye. Then he thought to Dan Patterson, their producer. Clive was not paid to make jokes with the improvisers, despite the vault of cynical gems he had stored away in the depths of his intricate mind. He was there to be host and nothing more, which is what prompted the continuation of his sentence,
“… no, can I just persuade you to do that?”

“Alright…”

Greg felt momentarily disappointed. He’d been considering Clive’s character carefully, after all despite their many differences, Greg wasn‘t the only one who did a crossword in the advert break. He decided that Clive’s wit was squandering behind the desk, that his performance was sometimes as wooden as the furniture he was sat behind, not through incapability, but of self-planted expectations of what he was there for. What he thought was required of him. This offered Greg a challenge, an interest in the Briton. He intended to break Clive’s resistance by using any means of provoking him he could, though how he wasn’t sure.

“On in five minutes” one of the crew members, who’s face Greg remembered from his first couple of recordings though couldn’t put a name to announced. He had nodded his acknowledgement, heading in the direction of the secluded green room, deciding that if anyone was in there, the chance were slim they had heard the reminder. Reaching the door, Greg heard what sounded like a tiff between a woman and a man, peering around the door, Greg confirmed them to be Tony and Josie.

“At least I know how to use what I‘ve got darling” Josie was saying flirtatiously despite the underlying suggestion Tony didn’t, reapplying her deep red lipstick in the mirror. Tony didn’t seem to pick up on the jibe, or he didn‘t care, Greg couldn’t tell. Tony was perched on the dressing table grinning and proceeded to say:
“By yourself doesn‘t count Jos…” Greg chuckled and watched this way of interacting with interest. The way of testing each other’s sense of humour was subtle and seemed to revolve around more and more insulting remarks, the more damaging the comment should have been, the more sarcasm worked it’s magic.

Greg thought about what he could say to Clive right up until the introduction of Film And Theatre Styles, Clive’s words triggering a mechanism within Greg’s brain, setting off a reflex inbuilt in him, his mouth spewing wonderful cynicism before it had chance to be scrutinized by his mind, twisted and overworked so that the humour was lost from it. His light-hearted refusal of the suggestion had been an experiment to see if Clive would rise to the bait of a bantering match. Clive had bitten and Greg knew that their insults would steadily become the highlight of both their recordings.

******

“Good recording today Greg” Clive smiled, catching up with the tall American, his light brown curls a strong contrast to his large, dark grey overcoat. “Still getting used to our winters I see…” Clive chuckled, indicating Greg’s tightly wrapped up coat, gloves and a red and black checked scarf. He found himself smiling affectionately at the other man’s steamed-up glasses.
“It‘s Christmas that took some getting used to” Greg replied with an air of playfulness “it‘s a time of joy and giving after all” Clive tried to hide his puzzled look, gazing to the American. “I forgot I‘m in Britain, joy is illegal here” Clive laughed appreciatively.
“And we don‘t give guns for Christmas” he agreed with an amused smile. Greg nodded his submission and laughed. 

The two men found themselves walking through the slushy London streets, quite content to be in each other’s company, Greg enjoying a cigarette as they walked along, splashing a little in the puddles left behind by melted snow and hail.
“Want a drink Greg?” Clive asked as they walked past his favourite pub, opening the door for his companion and indicating the warmth inside, signified by the orange glow of light, bitter smell of alcohol and cigarettes mingled with the rich smell of cottage pies, bangers and mash and toad in the hole all slathered in thick brown beef gravy. 

He didn’t need to ask twice, Greg had very little patience for weather of any kind and the blackening night sky showed the ominous signs of opening up and soaking the sodden, grey streets of the bustling city. Stepping inside Greg breathed the smells deeply and basked in the warmth of crackling open fireplaces, around which were spacious, squashy, scarlet settees filled with friends chattering to each other, catching up on news and exchanging belated Christmas presents. 

Almost every wooden table was filled with food and drink, handbags, car keys and wallets, the owners of which were sat around smoking, talking and laughing. Some clapping their hands and singing along subconsciously to the Christmas songs drifting lazily out of the jukebox. 
“I‘ll get the drinks if you like Greg” Clive smiled “I don‘t think the barman speaks Californian” Greg opened his mouth to retaliate, but the balding Englishman was already walking through the crowd of happy hour customers to the bar itself, leaving Greg to find a vacated table.

Sitting at one of the less cluttered tables, Greg glanced around the old building as he tugged off his coat, scarf and gloves before amusing himself with the menu and the dishes on it.
“Steak and kidney pie, corned beef hash, egg and chips…” he read aloud before putting the menu back in it’s silver holder, joining the pudding menu. He glanced briefly out of the window, which was nearly opaque with condensation. He only saw the outline of a red London bus picking up a gaggle of different people.

“You look thoughtful Greg” Clive observed, having located the bespectacled American easily in the crowd of people, his biscuit coloured quiff and thick, black framed glasses easily distinguished.
“Huh? Just keeping myself occupied Clive.” Greg explained with a smile accepting the glass of booze from him gratefully. “Thanks buddy”
“You’re welcome, is whiskey okay?” Clive questioned seating himself on the cushioned chair opposite, and pulling off his own thick black coat.

It didn’t take long for the conversation to pick up once again, the subject taking a transition from sport to relationships as if it was the most natural turn for the topic to take.
“Married?” Greg questioned, spotting the glittering gold band on Clive’s finger before he’d replied. The older man nodded cheerfully, sipping his third scotch.
“What about you Mr Proops? Wife back in America?” Greg shook his head, his eyes sparkling almost immediately at the mention of his partner.

“Nah, fiancée… Jennifer. We’re waiting until we can afford it, as I’m fucking poor at the moment” Greg explained sipping his own amber whiskey. “She is at home though, we weren’t able to find the money for two plane tickets”
“No kids then?” Clive chuckled despite the surge of affection he felt for the couple.
“Golly no. I knew what, like ten years ago they’re not for me” Greg grinned. “I like free time and money. You Mr A?” Clive smiled at the new nickname, he liked it.
“Yes Mr P. A baby girl, Isabella”
“Congratulations man” the American smiled.

14^th February 1990:

Clive watched as the new couple had their first dance. Jennifer looked beautiful, her makeup was of subtle shades, a dusty pink eye shadow swept over her hazel eyes which shone. Her lashes were long and fluttery, batting subconsciously as she looked into the warm deep chocolate of her husband‘s eyes. Her pearly coloured lips mouthed the words of the song she obviously loved. Clive found his foot tapping to the soft piano and gentle strings of the romantic tune.
“Oh it’s such a perfect day, I’m glad I spent it with you…” She whispered in time with the song, making Greg beam down at his new wife. One hand was on her slim waist, their hips rocking close, the snowy white of her bridal gown seemed to melt against the light blue of Greg’s flamboyant tuxedo.  

He saw the softer side of Greg that day, no sarcastic mask, nothing protecting his golden heart. Clive got to meet the real Greg Proops, smiled affectionately throughout the ceremony. Watching his eyes sparkle with tears of disbelief and happiness as the parson joined the couple’s hands pronouncing them together for ever more.
“They look so in love” Pat observed happily, giving her husband’s warm hand a gentle squeeze, stroking over his slightly hairy knuckles and tugging at his arm. “Lets dance too” she requested as couples began to filter onto the dance floor.

******

“Thank you for coming Clive buddy and you too Pat” Greg smiled, shaking the older man’s hand heartily, gently wringing his fingers with genuine gratitude. “Although don’t think I’m gonna go easy on you on Friday’s recording” he winked.
“I have to wonder Greg if you and Tony are in this together” Clive chuckled, happy to speak face to face with him.

“Tony and Greg are like the worst sort of double act” Jennifer laughs nudging Greg in the shoulder, turning to focus on Clive and Pat too after saying goodbye to an animatedly talking couple, clearly her friends.
“It‘s nice to meet you at last Clive, Greg‘s told me a lot about you” she smiled sweetly, kissing his cheek softly and hugging Pat too.
“And you still want to speak to me…?” Clive laughs with a mischievously charming twinkle in his eye, making Greg giggle, turning away from the English couple as he let his laughter out, a small snort ending it.

“If you‘re due to film Friday, aren‘t you going on a honeymoon then?” Clive queried looking a little sorry for Jennifer.
“Yeah, we’re flying on Saturday” Greg explained, motioning for them all to sit around the head table, glancing up briefly to watch his parents continue to waltz around the dance floor, his Cousin Donnie tickling his 6 year old niece, while Greg’s sister watched on happily. “We‘re going to Quebec” Greg beamed, his cheeks expressing all the happiness in the world as his wife chattered cheerfully to Pat, who looked a little overwhelmed at first but soon felt comfortable around the friendly Mrs Proops.

“Then we have to consider moving into our new home… although I expect you‘d be happy to show us around the area…” Greg grinned with an excited twinkle in his dark brown eyes. “Mom and Dad bought us a home here in London so I can be around for Whose Line” he explained before Clive had time to question it. A smile from both men accompanied this statement. 

3^rd May 1991:

“Can we think of something that Greg‘s afraid of?” Clive asked the audience looking behind him for ideas for bartender.
“Women”, Clive heard the first suggestion and chuckled inwardly at the thought of a chance to torment Greg a little bit. “Frightened of women? Well yes… maybe, maybe you know Greg” Clive quipped as the American reached for his stool to sit down. Greg bit back a laugh, smiling at the audience and cameras, mind ticking over a response. “So lets…” Clive began until Greg interrupted him.
“Well you do don‘t you Clive” Greg grinned. Eyebrows jumping as they always did when he was sarcastic, making himself comfortable on the stool. Crossing one leg over the other he started to fan himself as though he was aroused, pouting cutely at Clive, to enthusiastic laughter from the audience.
“Yes rather too well for my taste, but away you go…” Clive added casually, longing to laugh along with the audience too.

*******

“You know, I really am frightened of women…” Greg chuckled spotting Clive reading his newspaper on the wonderfully comfy green room sofa, leaning casually in the doorway. He looked up from an article about yet another toddler being savaged by a dog and the government proposing a new law.
“Really Mr P? I‘d have never have guessed. You charm enough of them” Clive chuckled, sliding his gold framed reading glasses up his nose.
“True, doesn‘t mean they don‘t scare me… Jennifer threatened to chop off my balls this morning if I smoke in the house again” he grins, making Clive laugh at the mental image.

“Ah… so you can be tamed then” Clive joked, his blue eyes meeting briefly with Greg’s.
“Only with a whip and much domination…” Greg laughed. “Jennifer throws in some torture using twiglets too, just to be social” He jumped and squeaked with shock as a pair of slim arms wrapped around his middle, hugging him tightly.
“That‘s very interesting Greg but would you mind not blocking the entrance to the green room?” Josie chuckled, resting her chin on his shoulder.
“You see Clive? They do scare me…” Greg grinned turning around to poke Josie gently as she passed him.

21^st March 1992:

“You have to be working in, what we in England call burger bars… hamburger bars. Do you have them over here?” Clive asked aware of the last response he’d had from Greg the last time he’d asked a question similar to this about “stick-ups”. Greg’s response however was a little to placid for Clive’s liking:
“Yeah…” confirmed Greg and Colin.
“Of course you do… American contribution to the world” Clive tested, playfully, glancing down at the card he’d just read out to avoid Greg’s gaze, knowing he wouldn’t be able to keep a straight face, unaware of the small smile already playing on his lips.

Greg realised in a split second what Clive was trying to do, so decided to play along.
“No…” he replied, drowning out Clive’s words, mimicking a British accent with accuracy. “We have clever little chip shops” he replied laughing as though he was an English aristocrat, amusing both Colin and the audience, beaming proudly at Clive, and turning away from him, knowing neither of them wouldn’t be able to stop laughing if they caught sight of each other.
Clive grinned, amused.
“It‘s only me against all four American‘s here, you mustn‘t pick on me…well you can if you like”

******

“I do like making fun of you Clive, why do you think I do it so often?” Greg asked the Brit perching himself on Clive’s desk, reading that days suggestions absentmindedly, eyes looking over Clive’s neat handwriting where he’d scribbled notes and suggestions. “So that’s what you do Clive?” Greg chuckled holding up one of the cards covered in Clive’s doodles. “No wonder your point giving is all wrong” he winked, smiling at his friend affectionately.
“It helps prevent bias, I mean I‘d hate for people to actually know you‘re my favourite Greg” Clive replied casually.
“Aww thanks man… you make me blush” Greg chuckled though his eyes twinkled in gratitude, a knowing that he had at least one person who enjoyed his performance.

“Whereabouts are you staying Greg?” Clive asked standing up and heading back towards the dressing rooms, glad to see Greg in tow.
"My Aunt‘s, she doesn‘t live far from the studios… doesn‘t get to see me that often, even when I used to live here” he explained light-heartedly.
“Perhaps I can show you around New York Clivey, I don‘t suppose you‘ve had chance to see the sights yet?” Clive felt a surge of affection for Greg and nodded.
“I couldn‘t think of a more knowledgeable American to show me around Greg”

26^th March 1993:

“Rocky…Blossom? What‘s Blossom?” Clive asked a little confused at the suggestion.
“The rocky blossom horror show” Tony quipped, making Greg grin widely beside him, his teeth as white and straight as always.
“What‘s Blossom? It‘s a shoe polish isn‘t it?” Clive asked, still completely baffled. “Cherry blossom…?”
“It‘s an American sitcom home boy.” Greg’s Californian accent floated through the air casually as he fiddled with the buttons on his sleeves, making Clive look back a little in shock, eyeing him up and down with a playful pompousness in his expression.
“Oh…” Clive half smiled, simultaneously scribbling down suggestions. “Right, jolly good Blossom… we‘ll start with that I think” he grinned a little, watching Greg and Tony groan comically.

******

“Jolly good… I‘ll have to remember that expression if I ever do an English accent” Greg told Clive over a whiskey, scratching his chin in thought.
“How did I know you‘d have something to say about today‘s banter Mr P.” Clive shook his head a little, eyes twinkling with amusement.
“Because I‘m a loudmouth dickhead yank who always has something to say about everything…” Greg answered it for him, glancing up from the menu, no longer finding the dishes on there so strange, no longer sounding so different from those surrounding him. He was more at home in England, with Clive.

19^th August 1994:

 

“We’re halfway there on this one: what hell looks like” Clive read from the slip of paper, glancing up, knowing instantly what Greg had planned as he started to march down, bunching his shoulder’s up to cover his neck in what Clive knew to be an imitation of him. BUZZ. Clive pressed the button with an amused twinkle in his eye as Greg dropped his shoulders feigning outrage, turning to the cameras and shaking his head shocked.

 

Clive brushed his finger over his cheek a little bashfully, smiling widely. 

“I got that one. I got that straight away I‘m sorry…” Clive apologised, though his amusement was evident as he glanced at the next suggestion, grinning from ear to ear. “I could see where that was going….” 
“You won‘t even let us” Greg moaned half-heartedly, making Clive chuckle even more.

******

“Hey Clive, isn’t that Pat?” Greg nudged his friend, pointing to Clive’s wife, poking her head into the green room, looking nervous, flushed, excited and scared all at once.
“Clive… I have some news for you” She garbled, returning her husband’s tight embrace, feeling more confident at the sensation of his lips on her pink cheeks, Greg noticed her eyes were red and bloodshot. She’s been crying. He didn’t say anything, just tried to blend into the background, wanting to eavesdrop.
“What‘s wrong dear?” Clive asked, cupping his pretty wife’s cheeks and gazing into her hazelnut eyes, which were already brimming with fresh emotion once more as she placed her smaller hands over his.
“We‘re having another baby Clive…”

4^th August 1995:

It had been a particularly good day for banter. 

“I‘m sure we‘ve all been through this life experience… trying to get rid of Greg” Clive quipped, to a nod and a cheerful grin from Greg, which quickly turned into the most adorable face he could muster as a collective “Aww” was heard from some of the women in the audience.
“Oh come on…” Clive chuckled, as Greg’s eyes became rounded and puppy-like.
“See?” He told the cameras to the sound of more sympathy. “See how they side with me? We hold an election right now… woo… loser” Greg pointed playfully at Clive, goading him on. 
“We‘d get somebody as good as Clinton then wouldn‘t we” He replied dryly, smiling as Greg burst out laughing.
“Why the bitterness? You have a job” Greg grinned, making Clive let out a low chuckle of mirth.  

****** 

“How‘s baby Flora?” Greg asked Clive and Pat, as Jennifer was heard bustling in the kitchen, making the final preparations to dinner.
“She‘s growing surprisingly fast” Clive answered. “My mother is looking after the children tonight… actually we have something to ask you and Jennifer” he added taking hold of Pat’s hand and glancing at her seeing her nod approvingly.
“Dinner is served everyone” Jennifer spoke softly, discarding her apron in the kitchen and smoothing her black dress, cutting across the conversation. Turning down her Lou Reed album so it became just background noise, she led their guests into the recently redecorated dining room, in which were hung many of Jennifer’s large and original paintings. 

They sat around the table, Pat and Clive opposite Greg and Jennifer each of whom had a bowl of steaming, wonderful smelling homemade soup in front of them, a basket of freshly baked bread in the centre of the table for everyone to help themselves. Chatter soon flowed with the wine, as they filled themselves with food and drink. They were halfway through dessert, a raspberry cheesecake, when Clive and Pat decided it was time to make their announcement.

“Greg, Jennifer you’ve both been friend’s of ours for a long time… and well, would you consider being Flora’s godparents?” Clive asked, clutching onto Pat’s hand and looked at the stunned couple with baited breath.
“Golly Clive… I… well we’re speechless” gibbered Greg gazing to Jennifer who looked equally as flabbergasted and honoured. “We’d love to do it…”

2^nd August 1996:

“…this seniorita was no woman… but, was TV presenter Clive Anderson…” Greg sang confidently, with a half glance at Clive before he twirled and danced to the enthusiastic applause and cheers of an entertained audience.
“I remember well” Clive smiled, knowing Greg had only just begun.
“He was so gentle, so nice…” Greg told Neill, perching on his barstool.
“You sure it was Clive Anderson?” he replied looking a little bemused.
“I can‘t be mistaken… his head glowed” Greg knew he always made fun of Clive’s lack of hair, but somehow it never lost it’s appeal. The recording ended after Neill had sung his piece and the credits had been read as the “prize”.

He hung around as always as Clive made his way out from behind the desk, set now practically deserted as the last members of the audience filtered out of the studio doors. Pulling off his jacket in relief, Greg found himself sweating a little under the hot studio lights.
“Can I tempt you in an after show drink Mr A?” Greg offered patting his trouser pocket. “I’m buying” he insisted walking beside his friend.
”How could I refuse an offer like that?”

20th September 1996:

“Clive… I-it’s Greg…” Clive had never heard Greg talk like that before. The grief and fear was evident in every syllable of the American’s cracking voice. Greg was crying and Clive didn’t know what to do or say to help.
“Hello Greg… what’s wrong mate? You sound… terrible.” Seconds of silence ticked by, in what felt like hours to Clive all he could hear down the telephone was the sound of Greg’s ragged breathing coming in uneven pants as he attempted to regain his composure.
“Clive… I’m being deported…” was all that Greg could say. He gazed out of the window as he leant on the sill, the phone almost glued to his ear, Jennifer cuddled into his shaking form, rubbing his back with all the comfort that she could muster as salty tears of terror leaked from her own eyes. They were losing their home, their lives, and their friend’s. The couple looked out at the reddening sky as the sun went down on another day. 

Clive sat speechless. The cup of tea Pat had brought in for him in the 10 minutes prior to Greg’s call lay forgotten on the coffee table beside him. Flora sat at his feet waving around her teddy bear happily, unaware of her Daddy’s sadness, Pat and Isabella were in the kitchen baking fairy cakes for the cake sale at their oldest daughter’s primary school, yet even the smell of fresh baked goods couldn’t lift Clive’s mood. He was going to lose his friends, and he was powerless to stop it from happening.

10^th December 1998:

He stepped out to applause, and Clive knew that the interview was going to be one of the best he would do. The American stepped out, every bit as tall as he remembered him, his brown hair styled in the same bouncy quiff of curls, a sharp contrast to Clive’s thinning hair. Their suits were equally as smart, minds equally as sharp. Shaking hands warmly it had been 8 months since they had last seen each other.

“Do it in the style of a chatty guest”

“Yeah okay, and you can do it in the style of a patronising host.” 

The joke set the mood for the entire interview. Clive could see as Greg sat down that he was a little nervous, though the instant they started to talk he relaxed.
“There is a bit of a falling out here, because having made you the big star that you are, you’ve gone off with another man” Clive exclaimed good-naturedly watching Greg raise his eyebrows a little as he smiled.

“I have” Greg agreed. His voice was soft and pleasant, a far cry from his flamboyant “stage” voice.
“You’ve gone off to America to do the American version of Whose Line, which is exactly the same as the British version, except I don’t introduce it.”
“Well you know Drew Carey hosts that one and he’s a little different than you” Greg interrupted, his voice low and sincere. “He’s very gentle” Greg explained referring to Drew’s approach to hosting. “But you know Clive I like it rough, so I’ll miss you…” Greg said affectionately, mouth curving into a soft grin.

******

They both knew it would be a long time before they saw each other again. Both of them had commitments to work and to family, although Greg and Clive would call each other in the subsequent years. Clive had another child, a baby boy who Greg and Jennifer got to meet a couple of times. Greg was offered voice work and recorded his comedy albums, to make up for the Whose Line recordings, which just weren’t the same without Clive. Although Greg was happy for the success and popularity of his friend’s, he found it increasingly difficult to tolerate being given more and more of the “straight-man” roles before he was fazed out of most games almost completely. Games he used to play and excel in he would find himself watching from the sidelines, almost as if he was an audience member with exclusive rights to sit in the “guest” seat.

“They’ve started bringing guests in Clive, it’s fucking insane… you know we don’t need Richard Simmons or a hideous female body builder to be funny” Greg grumbled to his friend down the phone one day after a particularly displeasing recording, having ignored Clive’s croaky protests that it was 5am. “We’re finished Clive… Whose Line is going nowhere, it’s lost its charm in its attempt to boost ratings… and I miss you” Greg whispered, smiling a little as he heard Clive’s soft snoring through the telephone receiver. “Thanks for listening buddy… sleep tight pal” Greg smiled putting down the phone gently, as though he was creeping quietly from the room where Clive was sleeping.

6^th May 2009:

“Greg Proops, the American actor, comedian and improviser. Years ago I used to instruct Greg to do all manner of things in the style of a romantic comedy, late night thriller and porn movie…and later we worked on Whose Line Is It Anyway.” Clive’s word brought both of them back to bantering form, it was as though they had worked together only the week previously, not a few years since the last time they saw each other

******

“Hey Greg… wanna stay the night so we can catch up properly?” Clive suggested catching up with Greg in the corridor after the recording, seeing his friend brighten at the suggestion.

It was as though something between the men changed. Greg found himself shuffling closer to his old friend as they sat in comfortable silence. Simultaneously they watched from the garden bench on the patio as the garden was cast into shadow, trees and flowers became silhouettes as the sun shone white, adorned with a bright golden yellow edge, reflected and shimmering in each puddle on Clive’s waterlogged lawn. The edges of the grey clouds became tinged with every shade of orange from the deepest tangerine to the lightest peach. As the sun fell lower in the sky, the colours deepened, orange became pink, and slowly a rich red.   The steel blue clouds became darker blues and purples. The yellow glow was the only sign that the sun ever existed in the sky before disappearing entirely.

Clive felt the soft pressure of Greg’s hand on his, but didn’t pull away. It felt comfortable. A torrent of pent-up feelings raged within them both, a small attraction to the other’s mind became exaggerated in the parting and was slowly seeping out of their pores in a flurry of pheromones. The gap between them closed, their dry lips scraped gently against each other’s moving in an awkward yet stimulating rhythm, messy but pleasant. They pulled away.
“Please don‘t tell Pat…” Clive gasped almost the same time as the words “God don’t tell Jennifer” tumbled from Greg’s mouth. They both knew the events of this night would go no further than the confines of Clive‘s empty house…

******

He didn’t know about Greg, but Clive felt distinctly self-conscious of every line on his face, every fleck of grey in his once light brown hair. He felt his age stood in front of Greg, someone new viewing his bare body with potentially subjective eyes. Pat had grown with him, not noticed the changes Clive went through as her body shape had broadened and become less elastic too. Greg appeared to be viewing his own body with the same disdain, eyeing the start of his male breasts with disgust and tugging nervously on his long, fluffy curls. For the first time, both men remained quiet of all insults to each other’s appearance, because the truth was, regardless of glasses or baldness, both thought the other was perfect in that instant. 

They drew slowly nearer to each other, growing more comfortable with the situation and emotions they were faced with. As brown eyes looked into blue, both felt a warmth wash over them, a safety. After all, it was only a friend looking back. Each breath Greg drew sent a shiver of lust travelling through his body. Now they were sufficiently naked and laying on Clive’s double bed it was easy to become wrapped up in the inexplicable and almost instantaneous desire to experiment. Neither were gay, neither were polygamists. Yet there they lay, satisfying themselves with tentative, yet needy exploring.

His body was as smooth as Pat’s and equally as tasty. Clive found his hands contented themselves with stroking Greg’s soft and thick curls, tugging curiously at his hair
“I’ve almost forgotten what it feels like to have a full head of hair” Clive grinned, breaking the slight awkwardness between the men instantly, hearing Greg’s telltale giggle of amusement. Both Greg and Clive had been oblivious to just how much longing had been bubbling through the countless years of knowing each other. It built into a strong desire fuelled by separation and a wave of hormones, as they had grown older.

Greg’s arms encircled Clive in a gentle cuddle, before his hands slid down his flat chest, a sharp comparison to the curves he was used too. Caressing his friend, his eyes low, Greg concentrated on the task in hand, his eyes occasionally flickering to Clive’s, which were encouraging him on. Hips grinding together with Clive’s, Greg shut his eyes, his tongue running gently along Clive’s lips, stimulating them both, quivering with anticipation as he does so, all conscious thought flying out of the window. It didn‘t feel wrong because it was only Clive.

Clive’s fingers trailed gently down Greg‘s smooth back, feeling every dip and bump as he traced down his spine. His head fell back onto the pillows, mouth mumbling incoherence as he felt Greg’s lips suckle and kiss the crook of his neck. 

******

“Golly Clive…” Greg moaned as he felt the older man’s weight move against him, his own body arching to meet him as best he could, gasping after the initial shock of the pain he experienced died down. Clive’s pace was slow and sympathetic to what Greg had put his body through initially for both of their pleasure, though couldn’t help but chuckle a little at the word golly. Clive kissed over every inch of the back of his neck and along his shoulders. His hands held onto Greg’s thighs, helping to ease him against his pounding body. 

Both men panted their pleasure, the odd moan or whimper escaping their lips as they rocked into the springy mattress and into the pathway of ecstasy. Clive’s eyes focused upwards, his bottom lip quivering he chewed it. 
“Greg can I…go faster?” Clive requested, conscious of hurting the man trembling beneath him. He nodded, groaning as he felt Clive push deeper, the frequency of his thrusts upping considerably forcing a cry from his mouth, his hands kneading the pillow.

Clive recognised Greg’s predicament grinding against the bed painfully, softly stroking his back in an attempt to comfort him. He whispered into his ear, speaking words of praise, deciding now would not be the time to start a bantering match. Clive continued to push smoothly, into Greg, not wanting to hurt him any more. 
”Mr P…” he found himself gasping, voice breathless and barely audible with each thrust. 

Greg cried out a little louder, burying his face into the pillows, as he neared closer to his unavoidable peak. Each teasing grind of Clive’s hips against him inched him in a little deeper, making Greg’s skin prickle with sweat. He felt Clive’s hands trail down his damp back, nuzzled against his shoulder blade, and breathing Greg’s scent, aftershave, mixed with cigarettes and sweat.

He felt as Greg’s body seized beneath him, arching against his crying out a string of cusses as his spent body submitted to the overwhelming pleasure, spilling hard into the condom he was wearing. Clive found himself hitting his peak too, as Greg‘s body sagged, exhausted under him. Untangling their limbs, Clive clambered off the panting American, laying beside him, carefully wrapping the duvet around them, watching Greg smile wearily at him.
“I’m gonna miss you again Clive…” Greg admits quietly, his eyes falling shut as he lets warmth and tiredness plunge him into sleep.
“We‘ll meet again Greg… you‘re like the bane of my life… but I love you” Clive smiles kissing Greg’s smooth cheek, sliding out of the bed, pulling on his robe and wondering downstairs.

28^th August 2009:

Clive sipped at his brandy the making most of the first summer evening Britain had seen for weeks. The house was considerably quieter now that Isabella had left for University. Flora had been invited to a sleepover at her friend’s 13^th birthday party and Pat was indoors helping Edmund get ready for bed. He gazes up at the familiar beauty of the sunset, and thought back on the evening he’d spent with Greg with affection. They had both gotten on with life the following morning, back to banter which included topics such as breakfast cereals and Greg’s shock that Clive owned a bottle of shampoo.

Clive observed the sky redden with a soft pink tinge before blackening completely, clear enough to be sprinkled with twinkling stars, the dim light of a pale golden half moon hung like an orb. He thought of Greg and pulled the cordless phone towards him, decided to call him, catch up. Dialling the number, Clive smiled. He knew it would be a long time before the sun went down on his friendship with Greg…