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Oct. 14th, 2005 02:13 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
justspies.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
rareslashTitle: Some Memories
Fandom: Monty Python
Pairing: Graham Chapman/Terry Jones
Rating: PG-13
Note: Set during the filming for Life of Brian, though I do make a small flashback that shouldn't be hard to follow, I hope.
***
He finds himself struggling for something to say, but then there's that sound--one of his favorites--of a match catching a bit of air and breathing fire. Graham manages to filter all the unattractive aspects of smoking away with a half-cocked smile, masked behind a glamorous wisp of smoke. Gray. Tall and slim and hair just made for tousling; perfect, he thinks, and what needs to be said, anyway?
Terry chooses this moment to take notice of the script in his head, and then he's off, remembering. A movie to film, of course. But they've just about finished for the day and Graham's suggesting something with that silence, he's certain. You can infer anything about Graham's silences, obviously, but Terry chooses this. Silence and a suggestive smile and a 'where-to-go-from-here' trying to bridge the gap. Graham sets his pipe in his lap and stands up, looking at Terry once more before he wanders over to Michael, who seems to be in a bit of pain.
Terry's captivated by his two best friends and can't help but smile at the surprised yelp that pierces the air as Graham's hands move gently over Michael's back. He's whispering something to Michael, who's brushing at his hair and smiling.
"You didn't ask if you could, Gray," Michael teases, making no attempt to cease Graham's hands.
He can't feel jealous, because he knows where he stands. Instead, he enjoys the moment, as he enjoys most moments. His camera back in his room, he resolves it's a moment which will have to cement itself in his mind, amongst the photographs of other days past. They must be used to it, by now, his excessive picture-taking habits. If it bothers them, they never mention it; but like all good friends, they point out other flaws, good-naturedly; and they wouldn't be friends if they didn't rib each other. The ones you love have an uncanny ability of being able to bring every bad thing about you to the surface and confront it and then blow it away as though it were a passing leaf on the wind. That's how it usually is, anyway; how it is with Graham.
A tan's re-painting Graham's skin and he looks like he could soon be a poster boy for proper skin care if he's not careful. But then that's always been his style; walking around semi-nude, stealing all the finest rays of sun and somehow manifesting himself as something other-worldy. Terry's certain Graham isn't quite among them. If he were, he would lose that which makes him beautiful; the lunacy, indifference to judgment and intolerance, the gentle and strong sides to his nature balancing to make the man Terry always felt could ensure everything would be all right, simply by being there.
There's a vulnerability, though, as with every great story, and this is Graham's story, now; incomplete, Terry hopes, for a long, long time. He's good at disguising the vulnerability and sometimes you can believe he's another person entirely, when he's enraptured in what he's doing, what he's putting forth. It's uniquely him. Terry first saw Graham on stage and he'd been in awe of him then. If he's honest with himself, he'd been in love with him since then as well. As such, there will forever be a part of him simply watching Graham, content to see it all, whatever he's going to do. Because Graham is one of the great stories you imagine writing when you're young and ambitious. But Terry doesn't write Graham's story. He just takes the pictures.
"Get another one tomorrow, eh?"
Terry hears Mike and smiles again, always smiling.
"Depends on how much heavy-lifting you do tonight," Graham throws his words back at him.
And it's suddenly how it used to be, long ago. He always believed Graham would stop drinking, and had been one of the few to actually adhere to that thought. Even Michael had started doubting, latently. But then Christmas had come, and it was all a big secret. Until he got the phone call, the one he'd dreaded. Graham had stopped drinking and had an epileptic fit, hitting his head. And it planted a knot in his stomach that didn't loosen until he'd been to see Graham himself, in hospital. Graham was sleeping then, it was late. But Terry saw David in the hallway outside Graham's room and they hugged, a comfort, because it was what they'd both been awaiting, hoping would never come. He would be all right, he would; it become a chant and he quite liked it, it kept him warm and assured when he finally did leave the hospital. A hand went to Graham's hair, more mussed than usual, which wasn't unexpected. It made him look boyish and adorable, moreso than he usually looked, and Terry wanted to wrap him against his uncertain heart.
Instead, he settled with a "Damn you, Graham" and it was whispered, so it could mean whatever it needed to mean for a few seconds. It's unsettling, the silence that lingers in hospital rooms. Even in the ones that hold only life; because it's there, that specter of mortality, and it shouldn't ever be meant for Graham. Except someday it will. And it's that thought which propels Terry's fist softly against his knee, in frustration.
"I won't do this again," he says to ears that will never hear it. Only, he will. Just as surely as stars burn out, so too will death come upon...
A soft movement from Graham breaks the depressing train of thought. What do you do now? Terry wonders. So his hand pulls through Graham's hair, gently. It's suddenly hypnotizing, rearranging tufts of wayward hair, and it's reassuring. Graham turns a bit and his left hand comes to rest on Terry's wrist. His eyes open a bit and he smiles with a, "Hello, old love" lacing the nearly silent room. Terry says nothing in reply, but kisses a small patch of exposed skin on Graham's forehead. It's okay to leave now.
And suddenly the memory whithers away, to be brought up again years from now, only when it needs to be. For now, they're in Tunisia, and Graham is well.
"Been eating local?" Suddenly, from behind.
Terry turns his head to face Graham, a warmth growing from the spot on his shoulder where Graham's hand is strategically placed.
"Aye, you know me."
"One of the very reasons I brought pills specifically to treat the gastro-intenstinal problem you're going to incur if you keep this up."
"Well, if you've got pills for it, no reason I shouldn't enjoy myself," Terry responds, winking, and smiling cheekily.
Graham smiles back, "True. But I'd prefer not having to actually see you get sick."
His hand rubs a slow, quick circle on Terry's shoulder, then slips away into the air. His pipe's back at a jaunty angle in his mouth and he wanders over to the group, who are having a laugh over something Eric's said. After a bit, Graham's crossing his arms and having a smile, interjecting, "Mad, everybody" when he deems it appropriate. The emanating laughter, Terry thinks, would be the soundtrack, if we're talking about Graham's story. The perfect soundtrack for a man whose goal is to be a looney.
"You've got there, Graham," he whispers as he joins the group. It's meant only for Graham, and it's only Graham who hears and understands, of course.
It's some time later, as the evening wanes, and Terry's certain he's reprimanded himself enough already for the two of them. Just as surely as Graham had predicted, the local food had done him in, the cramps of unsettling food angrily berating his mind as they worked a torrent of pain across his abdomen. Only a bit of ale, tonight, but it didn't help his condition. In fact, it only made walking that much harder. He's hoping Graham's in his room, otherwise he'll come back from wherever he is to a dear friend collapsed halfway across his doorstep. Not a preferred sight, he's sure.
He can barely manage a knock and he hates how pathetic it makes him feel. Graham's suddenly in front of him and Terry can't remember Graham being that big before. Or perhaps Terry's shrunk. Doubled-over, more like. Graham's arms are around his back and leading him inside. He settles Terry on the couch, sparing a second to run a playful hand through Terry's sweat-dampened hair.
"All right, Terry, all right," he says as he wanders to his medicine case. And there they are, Terry's pills. If he were a betting man...
"Kept them for you," Graham teases.
"No, you've just got none with this before me," Terry mumbles back as he downs the dose he's handed and pulls himself to a sitting position. They sit in silence, as often happens. A comfortable silence, though, as it always is as well. He's staring at Graham's tanned skin. A lot of the scars, he supposes, will supplement Graham's story; trials along the way. Or, in the case of scars begotten by drunken accidents, previously par for the course.
He spots a small cut on Graham's knee and a familiar picture comes to mind. Terry points to it, leaning as far into Graham as he can.
"Rugby," he says. And Graham answers with the familiar marriage of air and fire as he produces his pipe. So, Terry keeps going.
A jagged one, below a rib; "Mountaineering."
No markings for this one, it's just the ghost of a bruise; a day of filming, Graham drunk by lunchtime. Terry, rather than berate Graham for being drunk (much like John would, Terry thinks, bitterly), accomodated him by putting his lines on the clipboard. You didn't need to point out Graham's problem, he was well aware of it. All you could do, Terry supposed, if you loved Graham, was help him through it. But that day, Graham had bumped into some equipment and he was forgetting lines. It was hard to watch, if anything.
"Expedition to Lake Pahoe," is all he says. Graham drags the smoke from his mouth as a flicker of something (regret?) passes in his eyes.
"Ah, bugger," Terry concludes. "They're not important anyway, are they?"
"Well," Graham shrugs. "They've got to be there, haven't they?"
The cramps relinquish hold and he's feeling the effects of the ale. Terry turns his head against Graham's exposed skin, kissing a pattern up to his neck. Graham's hands are in his hair, gently, rubbing the curls through his calloused fingers. He sets his pipe down and pulls closer to Terry. He smells the ale and there's a part of him that will always be tied to it. It's just an old friend now, the kind you've got to say goodbye to, because that's the way things go sometimes.
Some memories.
It's only then that Terry notices music playing beyond them. The Beatles, one of Graham's great loves. Among others.
Graham's always been bigger and even stronger, in some ways, but it's Terry who guides the next bits of the story. A hand, shaky, forces Graham away from the couch and into the bedroom. The time will come, inevitably, when they will be away from this, but only just. Because don't some things transcend? Terry, for reasons unknown, has always been fascinated with Graham's hands. He guides them and loves them, stroking them and whispering things to them because they're such a part of Graham perhaps they'll clue him in when the time is right. Terry's lips are on the tips of Graham's fingers, repeatedly, and then his lips, and now Graham's got an arm around Terry, rubbing up and down his back. It's always pleasure and something more and all the great stories are about that anyway, aren't they?
A new song plays and it's telling them that there are places they'll remember.
He makes him laugh, he always does. 1976. Backstage for the Amnesty International Show. And there's Terry in a jester's outfit, mumbling nonsensical words, directly to Graham. He wants Graham, only Graham, to laugh. But he's looking down, perhaps doing another crossword. Terry continues jabbering and Graham suddenly looks up, at Terry, and bursts into a loud, beautiful laugh. They're laughing together.
All these places have their moments.
"What do you suppose it means?" Terry asks, though he knows. And Graham can't understand why Terry would want to interrupt a moment like this with a question like that. He can't deny him, though.
"We're doing it, Terry."
"What?"
"What this song's about. You know, memories."
And Graham's lips try to halt further speech. Terry manages, "We're making...something to remember. I see."
"Terry. Bloody--too sentimental. Just--"
It's Terry's turn to halt speech, with a teasing smile, too. Because Graham hates sentimentality, Terry knows. But not sentiment. So his latter thoughts will do. Sleepiness comes upon them quickly and Terry burrows himself against Graham, planting a latent kiss on his forehead, before turning to face the window.
'I love you,' Terry never says. All that comes out, instead, is, "Gray." And Graham knows, so he smiles against Terry's hair.
On the edge of a Beatles song, in the darkened room in the desert, far from England, there are few words exchanged, but the best sort of love is given out in silences. And just as Lennon closes with, "In my life, I love you more," Terry takes a picture, and most days, this is his favorite memory.
[ end ]
cross-posted to:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
pythonslash
Fandom: Monty Python
Pairing: Graham Chapman/Terry Jones
Rating: PG-13
Note: Set during the filming for Life of Brian, though I do make a small flashback that shouldn't be hard to follow, I hope.
***
He finds himself struggling for something to say, but then there's that sound--one of his favorites--of a match catching a bit of air and breathing fire. Graham manages to filter all the unattractive aspects of smoking away with a half-cocked smile, masked behind a glamorous wisp of smoke. Gray. Tall and slim and hair just made for tousling; perfect, he thinks, and what needs to be said, anyway?
Terry chooses this moment to take notice of the script in his head, and then he's off, remembering. A movie to film, of course. But they've just about finished for the day and Graham's suggesting something with that silence, he's certain. You can infer anything about Graham's silences, obviously, but Terry chooses this. Silence and a suggestive smile and a 'where-to-go-from-here' trying to bridge the gap. Graham sets his pipe in his lap and stands up, looking at Terry once more before he wanders over to Michael, who seems to be in a bit of pain.
Terry's captivated by his two best friends and can't help but smile at the surprised yelp that pierces the air as Graham's hands move gently over Michael's back. He's whispering something to Michael, who's brushing at his hair and smiling.
"You didn't ask if you could, Gray," Michael teases, making no attempt to cease Graham's hands.
He can't feel jealous, because he knows where he stands. Instead, he enjoys the moment, as he enjoys most moments. His camera back in his room, he resolves it's a moment which will have to cement itself in his mind, amongst the photographs of other days past. They must be used to it, by now, his excessive picture-taking habits. If it bothers them, they never mention it; but like all good friends, they point out other flaws, good-naturedly; and they wouldn't be friends if they didn't rib each other. The ones you love have an uncanny ability of being able to bring every bad thing about you to the surface and confront it and then blow it away as though it were a passing leaf on the wind. That's how it usually is, anyway; how it is with Graham.
A tan's re-painting Graham's skin and he looks like he could soon be a poster boy for proper skin care if he's not careful. But then that's always been his style; walking around semi-nude, stealing all the finest rays of sun and somehow manifesting himself as something other-worldy. Terry's certain Graham isn't quite among them. If he were, he would lose that which makes him beautiful; the lunacy, indifference to judgment and intolerance, the gentle and strong sides to his nature balancing to make the man Terry always felt could ensure everything would be all right, simply by being there.
There's a vulnerability, though, as with every great story, and this is Graham's story, now; incomplete, Terry hopes, for a long, long time. He's good at disguising the vulnerability and sometimes you can believe he's another person entirely, when he's enraptured in what he's doing, what he's putting forth. It's uniquely him. Terry first saw Graham on stage and he'd been in awe of him then. If he's honest with himself, he'd been in love with him since then as well. As such, there will forever be a part of him simply watching Graham, content to see it all, whatever he's going to do. Because Graham is one of the great stories you imagine writing when you're young and ambitious. But Terry doesn't write Graham's story. He just takes the pictures.
"Get another one tomorrow, eh?"
Terry hears Mike and smiles again, always smiling.
"Depends on how much heavy-lifting you do tonight," Graham throws his words back at him.
And it's suddenly how it used to be, long ago. He always believed Graham would stop drinking, and had been one of the few to actually adhere to that thought. Even Michael had started doubting, latently. But then Christmas had come, and it was all a big secret. Until he got the phone call, the one he'd dreaded. Graham had stopped drinking and had an epileptic fit, hitting his head. And it planted a knot in his stomach that didn't loosen until he'd been to see Graham himself, in hospital. Graham was sleeping then, it was late. But Terry saw David in the hallway outside Graham's room and they hugged, a comfort, because it was what they'd both been awaiting, hoping would never come. He would be all right, he would; it become a chant and he quite liked it, it kept him warm and assured when he finally did leave the hospital. A hand went to Graham's hair, more mussed than usual, which wasn't unexpected. It made him look boyish and adorable, moreso than he usually looked, and Terry wanted to wrap him against his uncertain heart.
Instead, he settled with a "Damn you, Graham" and it was whispered, so it could mean whatever it needed to mean for a few seconds. It's unsettling, the silence that lingers in hospital rooms. Even in the ones that hold only life; because it's there, that specter of mortality, and it shouldn't ever be meant for Graham. Except someday it will. And it's that thought which propels Terry's fist softly against his knee, in frustration.
"I won't do this again," he says to ears that will never hear it. Only, he will. Just as surely as stars burn out, so too will death come upon...
A soft movement from Graham breaks the depressing train of thought. What do you do now? Terry wonders. So his hand pulls through Graham's hair, gently. It's suddenly hypnotizing, rearranging tufts of wayward hair, and it's reassuring. Graham turns a bit and his left hand comes to rest on Terry's wrist. His eyes open a bit and he smiles with a, "Hello, old love" lacing the nearly silent room. Terry says nothing in reply, but kisses a small patch of exposed skin on Graham's forehead. It's okay to leave now.
And suddenly the memory whithers away, to be brought up again years from now, only when it needs to be. For now, they're in Tunisia, and Graham is well.
"Been eating local?" Suddenly, from behind.
Terry turns his head to face Graham, a warmth growing from the spot on his shoulder where Graham's hand is strategically placed.
"Aye, you know me."
"One of the very reasons I brought pills specifically to treat the gastro-intenstinal problem you're going to incur if you keep this up."
"Well, if you've got pills for it, no reason I shouldn't enjoy myself," Terry responds, winking, and smiling cheekily.
Graham smiles back, "True. But I'd prefer not having to actually see you get sick."
His hand rubs a slow, quick circle on Terry's shoulder, then slips away into the air. His pipe's back at a jaunty angle in his mouth and he wanders over to the group, who are having a laugh over something Eric's said. After a bit, Graham's crossing his arms and having a smile, interjecting, "Mad, everybody" when he deems it appropriate. The emanating laughter, Terry thinks, would be the soundtrack, if we're talking about Graham's story. The perfect soundtrack for a man whose goal is to be a looney.
"You've got there, Graham," he whispers as he joins the group. It's meant only for Graham, and it's only Graham who hears and understands, of course.
It's some time later, as the evening wanes, and Terry's certain he's reprimanded himself enough already for the two of them. Just as surely as Graham had predicted, the local food had done him in, the cramps of unsettling food angrily berating his mind as they worked a torrent of pain across his abdomen. Only a bit of ale, tonight, but it didn't help his condition. In fact, it only made walking that much harder. He's hoping Graham's in his room, otherwise he'll come back from wherever he is to a dear friend collapsed halfway across his doorstep. Not a preferred sight, he's sure.
He can barely manage a knock and he hates how pathetic it makes him feel. Graham's suddenly in front of him and Terry can't remember Graham being that big before. Or perhaps Terry's shrunk. Doubled-over, more like. Graham's arms are around his back and leading him inside. He settles Terry on the couch, sparing a second to run a playful hand through Terry's sweat-dampened hair.
"All right, Terry, all right," he says as he wanders to his medicine case. And there they are, Terry's pills. If he were a betting man...
"Kept them for you," Graham teases.
"No, you've just got none with this before me," Terry mumbles back as he downs the dose he's handed and pulls himself to a sitting position. They sit in silence, as often happens. A comfortable silence, though, as it always is as well. He's staring at Graham's tanned skin. A lot of the scars, he supposes, will supplement Graham's story; trials along the way. Or, in the case of scars begotten by drunken accidents, previously par for the course.
He spots a small cut on Graham's knee and a familiar picture comes to mind. Terry points to it, leaning as far into Graham as he can.
"Rugby," he says. And Graham answers with the familiar marriage of air and fire as he produces his pipe. So, Terry keeps going.
A jagged one, below a rib; "Mountaineering."
No markings for this one, it's just the ghost of a bruise; a day of filming, Graham drunk by lunchtime. Terry, rather than berate Graham for being drunk (much like John would, Terry thinks, bitterly), accomodated him by putting his lines on the clipboard. You didn't need to point out Graham's problem, he was well aware of it. All you could do, Terry supposed, if you loved Graham, was help him through it. But that day, Graham had bumped into some equipment and he was forgetting lines. It was hard to watch, if anything.
"Expedition to Lake Pahoe," is all he says. Graham drags the smoke from his mouth as a flicker of something (regret?) passes in his eyes.
"Ah, bugger," Terry concludes. "They're not important anyway, are they?"
"Well," Graham shrugs. "They've got to be there, haven't they?"
The cramps relinquish hold and he's feeling the effects of the ale. Terry turns his head against Graham's exposed skin, kissing a pattern up to his neck. Graham's hands are in his hair, gently, rubbing the curls through his calloused fingers. He sets his pipe down and pulls closer to Terry. He smells the ale and there's a part of him that will always be tied to it. It's just an old friend now, the kind you've got to say goodbye to, because that's the way things go sometimes.
Some memories.
It's only then that Terry notices music playing beyond them. The Beatles, one of Graham's great loves. Among others.
Graham's always been bigger and even stronger, in some ways, but it's Terry who guides the next bits of the story. A hand, shaky, forces Graham away from the couch and into the bedroom. The time will come, inevitably, when they will be away from this, but only just. Because don't some things transcend? Terry, for reasons unknown, has always been fascinated with Graham's hands. He guides them and loves them, stroking them and whispering things to them because they're such a part of Graham perhaps they'll clue him in when the time is right. Terry's lips are on the tips of Graham's fingers, repeatedly, and then his lips, and now Graham's got an arm around Terry, rubbing up and down his back. It's always pleasure and something more and all the great stories are about that anyway, aren't they?
A new song plays and it's telling them that there are places they'll remember.
He makes him laugh, he always does. 1976. Backstage for the Amnesty International Show. And there's Terry in a jester's outfit, mumbling nonsensical words, directly to Graham. He wants Graham, only Graham, to laugh. But he's looking down, perhaps doing another crossword. Terry continues jabbering and Graham suddenly looks up, at Terry, and bursts into a loud, beautiful laugh. They're laughing together.
All these places have their moments.
"What do you suppose it means?" Terry asks, though he knows. And Graham can't understand why Terry would want to interrupt a moment like this with a question like that. He can't deny him, though.
"We're doing it, Terry."
"What?"
"What this song's about. You know, memories."
And Graham's lips try to halt further speech. Terry manages, "We're making...something to remember. I see."
"Terry. Bloody--too sentimental. Just--"
It's Terry's turn to halt speech, with a teasing smile, too. Because Graham hates sentimentality, Terry knows. But not sentiment. So his latter thoughts will do. Sleepiness comes upon them quickly and Terry burrows himself against Graham, planting a latent kiss on his forehead, before turning to face the window.
'I love you,' Terry never says. All that comes out, instead, is, "Gray." And Graham knows, so he smiles against Terry's hair.
On the edge of a Beatles song, in the darkened room in the desert, far from England, there are few words exchanged, but the best sort of love is given out in silences. And just as Lennon closes with, "In my life, I love you more," Terry takes a picture, and most days, this is his favorite memory.
[ end ]
cross-posted to:
pythonslash
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Date: 2005-10-14 03:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-10-15 03:45 am (UTC)