rareslash | Fast Show RPS- I'm not pished, you know

title: I'm not pished, you know
author: Demus
rating: R, for language
fandom: The Fast Show/RPS
pairing: Paul Whitehouse/Charlie Higson
summary: Loosely follows on from Boots and With My Reputation?. Mark Williams isn't homophobic. He's entitled to be shocked, right? It isn't every day you discover that two of your mates might be gay.
Disclaimer: Nothing depicted here is true

He’s not homophobic. He isn’t. People have the right to love and sleep with whoever they want. Persecution is the world’s ugliest evil. No one could call him homophobic; just look at the profession he’d chosen, for God’s sake. You got more homophobic flak being an actor than almost any other profession, save perhaps singing or male prostitution (or both).

Mark took a sip of his tea, the mug balanced pensively under his chin, and stared unseeing out of the window. He didn’t feel any hatred, so he couldn’t possibly be homophobic. He was entitled to be in shock, right? It wasn’t everyday you spotted two of your best mates drunkenly fumbling in the kitchen at a house party. But shock and incomprehension didn’t make him a prejudiced bastard, right?

God, this had thrown him.

Paul would be here any minute, as well. Before the Thing (he’d labelled it that subconsciously, added the capital letter and everything, the Thing, because the whole scenario was too big for his head) had happened, before he’d seen…what he’d seen, he and Paul had scheduled what was laughingly known as a ‘script consultation’, a fairly regular occurrence wherein they’d have a drink, maybe watch a bit of footie and casually scrawl some innuendoes for the ‘Suit You’ tailors. Paul normally arrived a couple of hours into the afternoon, announcing his presence with a knock before strolling in of his own accord, offering a disarming grin and holding up the usual carrier bag, in which sat his share of the lagers. Today, however, Mark wasn’t sure he’d be able to return the smile with a convincing one of his own, or enter into their typical banter, not without expelling the secret that oozed in his memory.

Someone rapped at the door, disturbing his thoughts. Before he could stand to get it, the handle rattled, there was the unmistakable, drawn-out rustle of someone entering, the crackle of plastic, then the dull thud of the door being shut. Moment later, Paul appeared in the living room, looking slightly rough, still, from the party, but smiling nonetheless. “Alright, Mark?” he said, shaking the plastic bag in his left hand. “Wasn’t sure how much you’d want these after last night, but I thought I’d better bring ‘em anyway, didn’t want you slagging me off down the-“

“I saw you,” Mark blurted out, hands clenched on the arms of his chair, unable to contain the confession.

Paul paused, one eyebrow raising in mystification, and pointedly put the bag on the coffee table. “Doesn’t sound like you need this,” he joked, weakly, but his voice had lost its jovial tone, replaced instead by an uncharacteristic terseness. “Be a bit difficult for you not to have seen me, we were in Simon’s house for five hours.”

“No, I don’t mean- look, sit down, will you?”

Mark watched his friend’s eyebrow quirk a little more, then he moved to sit on the sofa, shrugging his jacket off his shoulders in a single movement and laying it across the back of the settee. Once settled, he folded his hands in his laps, effectively stilling any potential fidgeting. Mark’s fingers were tapping restlessly by this point, visibly manifesting his anxiety, and he felt a brief annoyance that he hadn’t been quite as savvy in his body language. “It’s- There’s more to…Christ, this is awkward,” he said, fruitlessly racking his brain for a tactful, non-offensive way of communicating what he could barely put into words inside his own head. “I- saw you. Last night. In- in the kitchen.”

The other man had gone very still whilst Mark spoke, any trace of colour draining from his thin face. “Y-you saw-“

“Yeah. You and Charlie, eh?” Mark finished, an apprehensive chuckle escaping his throat. “How long’s that been going on?”

Paul swallowed noisily, his eyes darting about the room. “It’s not- Mark, mate, it’s not what it looks like-”

Mark snorted, nerves driving him to bluntness. “So you had your tongue down Charlie’s throat for medical reasons, did you? Checking him for laryngitis? Give me some credit, I’m not an idiot and I definitely hadn’t had enough to be hallucinating.”

“Oh God.” Paul’s hand flew up to cover his mouth, fear creased his face, and he stared stupidly at Mark. “Oh God,” he repeated, voice muffled.

“Thought that was my line. What the bloody hell were you thinking, doing that in Simon’s kitchen? Poor bloke has to eat in there.”

The joke was feeble, barely worth a smile, but it had the desired effect; Paul blinked, startled out of his emotion, and stared at his friend. “As if he uses anything but the microwave,” came his weak retort after a moment, still muffled behind his hand. “We were at the sink, anyway, which he definitely don’t go anywhere near.”

“Touché,” Mark conceded and sat forwards a little, leaning his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands, feeling a little bit like a BBC journalist. “You alright?”

Brown eyes were inscrutable, now that the first fogs of fear had lifted. “Are you?”

“Fucking hell, Paul, I’ve just found out two of me mates might be benders, do you think I’m alright? I’ve spent the whole morning trying to work out if I’m homophobic- which, by the way, I don’t think I am, I’m just so bloody confused by…Are you gay?”

“No.” The reply was immediate, aggressively defiant, the hand descending from Paul’s mouth to clench in a fist on his knee. “I don’t think so,” he added, after a moment’s thought. “I don’t like blokes. It’s just…him.” The fist uncurled, slowly, and Paul ran a hand through his dark hair. “Christ, I sound like a poof.”

“If it walks like a duck-“

“Don’t start.”

Mark allowed himself to grin, hands raised in apology. “So how long has it been going on?” he asked, again. “I’ve never- I mean, you don’t act any different on set or anything.”

Paul had that watchful look again, wary as a stray cat (such a good metaphor for him, skinny and underfed, wily, crafty, sharp and always, always vigilant to the life around him). “It’s hard to say, really,” he said, with a weary sort of resignation. “We never- When we were writing for Harry, there was no hint of…Then, when we started doing the Fast Show…I dunno, it’s like, we just became more aware of each other. Ted and bloody Ralph didn’t exactly help matters.”

Mark shifted in his seat. “Graham’s always been too perceptive for his own good.”

“Too right. Bog-trotting Irish git,” the other man said, without malice. “He probably twigged long before us.”

“Has he ever…Does he know?”

“Nah,” Paul snorted, with a wry twist of his lips. “You’re the first who’s…who’s…”

Who's seen you clinging to Charlie, your hands buried in his hair, kissing him as if he was about to die.

The actor exhaled noisily. “Lucky me. Look, are you- Well, it’s sort of obvious that you’re shagging, but is it, is it anything…more?”

“I don’t know,” Paul answered, simply. “We try not to talk about it. What happens, happens.”

Mark considered pressing his friend further, the insatiable need to know why boil in the back of his mind…and shrugged, reaching forwards to delve into the bag on the table. “Forget it,” he said, extracting a Stella and mourning the lack of bottle openers in his lounge. “We’ve got to get at least four pages of script today, otherwise Arabella’ll chop our nuts off- mind, that might help with your situation. D’you want a drink?”

Paul held out a hand. “You’re- not going to…”

“I won’t tell anyone.”

The older actor let out a relieved sigh, gratitude shining in his eyes. “Thanks, mate. I really appreciate it, you know?”

“Yeah, yeah. Now stop being such an arsebandit and drink, we’ve got to write.”

*

The light in the kitchen was on, when Paul finally made his way back to Charlie’s house. He’d sort of become an unofficial lodger in the past few weeks, preferring the cosy warmth of his friend’s company, and the added benefits of a sleepy affectionate Charlie to play with of an evening, to the long lonely nights in the flat, the other side of his bed long-deserted by a frustrated Fiona.

He stood on the tiny path, cold numbing his face even as his breath misted in the air, nipping like a sheepdog at his thick jacket whilst he pondered. The full realisation of Mark’s accidental discovery was beginning to settle, queasy and leaden, in his stomach; their friend would never see them in the same way again, would constantly evaluate every look, every smile- God forbid, every touch. Paul shivered, the chill no longer entirely external, and hurried to get inside.

The soft terracotta hallway welcomed him in a hearbeat, warmth enveloping him like an embrace, or a mouthful of homemade soup, and he dragged his jacket off, carelessly dropping it to the floor, his shoes joining it a moment later, and went in search of Charlie. There was a delicious scent of Mediterranean food embracing the air, tomatoes and basil and lusciousness, and he followed his nose down the hall.

His friend was indeed in the kitchen, wearing a ridiculous lime green apron over his slouchy jeans and ancient jumper, lazily stirring something over a low heat. He looked so relaxed, so content, that Paul found a lump rising in his throat. “You’re late back,” Charlie observed, not turning around. “Get much done?”

“You could say that,” he replied, evasively. “That smells amazing, what is it?”

“Are you expecting me to say something other than pasta sauce?”

Paul chuckled. “Nah, I know you better than that.”

“I should hope so.” Charlie finally turned to look at him, the smile fading from his face when he caught sight of Paul. “What’s wrong?”

Paul considered, for a brief moment, attempting to blame his unease on a lasting hangover, made worse by a further dose of lager, but honesty and the knowledge that Charlie wouldn’t be fooled forced his hand. “Mark saw us. Last, er, night. Together.”

Charlie froze. The spatula clattered against the pan as it spilled from nerveless fingers and, pale, eyes wide, he leaned helplessly on the worktop. “Has he…has he told anyone?” he stammered, with difficulty.

“No. And he isn’t going to.” Paul moved as he spoke, stepping forwards to grasp Charlie’s arms. “He doesn’t understand, but he ain’t asking any questions. It’s okay.”

“No, this, this changes things,” Charlie insisted, resisting the pull of those hands. He was shaking, Paul realised. “If someone knows, then it’s not just us doing…what we do, if someone knows it’s a, a thing, a secret, like it’s an affair…”

His voice trailed into silence. Paul stared at him, watched bright blue eyes drop to avoid his own, and tightened his hold on Charlie’s arms. “You saying it ain’t that anyway?” he asked, hoarsely, and felt the muscles jump under his hand.

“Paul-“

“I think we need to-” Paul hesitated, then forged ahead; it was too late to worry about his pride. “Talk,” he finished, ducking his head to try and catch his friend’s eye. “We’ve been doing this too long to get it wrong.”

Charlie met his gaze, then looked away. “Dinner-” he began, but Paul ran a hand up his arm to grip the back of his neck, stroking a thumb into Charlie’s nape and bringing him forcibly down to kiss him.

“Sod the dinner,” he said, firmly, against quivering lips, gratified when Charlie tentatively returned his embrace. “It’s only Ragu anyway. We’ve got our lives to sort out, here.”

“At least let me turn the hob off,” came the breathy response. “I can’t bare my soul knowing there could be a fire any moment.”

*

Darkness. The tick of the clock. Soft snores behind him, huffed against the back of his neck, and an arm slung over his waist. The slightest of pleasurable aches, reminding him why he felt so knackered. Charlie looked into the darkness, the pillow a cool contrast to the furnace that was holding him so close, and allowed himself a small smile.

They were a Thing.