Hugh's hotness is so great, it defies the laws of physics.
That's really, really hot.
It makes him dangerous, but he can't really help it.
♥ to brynnmck for a super-speedy beta. 950 words and suitable for people who aren't children or canadian actors/musicians.
Trent rubbed at his head and yawned enormously as he shuffled over to the coffee pot and hunted, more in hope than expectation, for a clean mug – or at least a mug that didn’t have anything growing in the bottom and hadn’t been used as an ashtray – swaying easily with the motion of the bus. Mission accomplished – the chipped I'm Famous In Manitoba mug looked relatively safe. He tore open a couple of packets of sugar, liberated from some diner or other, dumped them into the stained interior and grabbed the coffee pot. The crockery might suck but the coffee on the bus was always good stuff (the guys would drink shitty beer but if the caffeine was substandard the bitching was motherfucking unbearable) and Trent inhaled happily as he poured. Not a bad morning – even if it was past noon - he thought, scratching himself through his shorts.
Distracted by the Trent Twins, he almost didn’t notice the black stream of liquid twist and squirm in an extremely unlikely fashion, but as it arced towards his ratty t-shirt his autopilot kicked in, and he practically threw the coffee pot away to skid along the counter and skipped backwards with a less-than-manly yelp. The mug bounced along the carpet and the handle snapped off.
Trent looked at it for a long moment, then turned slowly, an accusing glare already in place.
Hugh was standing at the end of the galley. "Uh. Sorry?" he said, a little sheepishly.
Trent took half a step towards him, then stopped as his toes squelched on the coffee-soaked carpet. He looked at his feet, then back at Hugh, who was doing his best to look apologetic.
"Your hair." said Trent. "It's looking pretty good this morning."
"Yeah, yeah, well, I have this meeting with Bruce, so I thought—"
Trent interrupted. "And the shirt? Nice. Not too much jewellery, but the earring and the rings? Good. No plaid, yeah, and your jeans are juuuust right. Not too tight, not too loose."
Hugh licked his lips a little nervously and fidgeted, pushed up his sleeves absently and lifted a hand to touch his mouth.
Trent's hand shot out, pointing angrily. "Stop that! Jeez!"
Hugh raised both hands, palms out. "Hey man, I'm sorry, I'm not trying to exacerbate the situation here. You know this is some kind of unconscious, involuntary, thing, right? I'm not intentionally trying to precipitate fucked up stuff here."
"What did you just say?" groaned Trent.
"What did I what? Which part? Exacerbate? You want me to say it slower? 'Cause I can—"
"Dillon!" Trent had a hand pressed over one temple, hoping the pounding wasn't dangerous. "Will you fucking STOP already? Just – just stop. No long words. No long words said s-l-o-w-l-y. Get the fuck back there and put on the ugliest plaid shirt you can find. And the cut-off combats that look like you stole them from a destitute veteran. And try not to smell so good."
Hugh ducked his head. "Aw, Trent, c'mon. I'm just trying to make a good impression."
Trent gritted his teeth. "Cute is out too. Hugh. We talked about this. Space-time continuum, remember? The one we want to keep? So stick to the plan. More spitting, more swearing, dubious facial hair whenever possible and for the love of Mike at least try not to make any of them charming, okay?"
"Well, that went pretty smoothly. Don’t look so shell-shocked, I think he likes you." Bruce slapped Noel's shoulder encouragingly.
Noel shook his head, like a puppy with water in its ears.
"You think so? Yeah, because, though, I thought maybe when he…" He trailed off.
"You okay?" asked Bruce. "You’re a little pale there. Maybe we should go get a beer. I know this great place nearby, they've got strippers. It's, you know. Authentic."
Noel mumbled something to himself, "…like light was moving faster than normal when he smiled…"
Crap. Bruce shook his head. He needed to call Trent. He needed to talk to Hugh about sticking with the asshole programme. But first, he needed to get Noel very, very drunk.
When he had recovered from the orgasm-induced whiteout and finished gasping for his breath, Callum peeled himself off Hugh's chest and sat up shakily, staring around at the wreckage of the motel room. He wiped the sweat out of his eyes and squinted.
"Did I imagine it, or did the earth actually move?"
Hugh stretched, arching his back smugly. "Been known to happen, yeah."
"No, but -" Callum was briefly distracted by the way Hugh's boxers were dangling from the TV aerial - "not metaphorically. Stuff was shifting around. And there was, you know, that freaky distortion effect just before I, uh. Came. Plus, this place is a disaster zone."
"Well, we were pretty frisky," Hugh offered, reaching round Callum for his cigarettes and dropping a stubbly kiss on his bare, freckled shoulder. "Smoke?"
"Not that frisky. We knocked the lamp over. But this," he gestured at the cracked sink and the shredded light shade and the mysteriously smouldering rug, "this is ridiculous!"
Hugh was concentrating harder than necessary on the process of extracting and lighting a cigarette. Buying time. Callum waited, and snagged the pack, let Hugh light his cigarette too, then said, "Well?"
Hugh tapped ash onto the floor then sighed. "Okay, the thing is, Noel thinks I'm 'hard on hotel rooms', but he doesn’t know the half of it. And two, I'd appreciate it if you didn’t tell Trent about this."
Callum frowned. "Which part? Baker's opinions, the Salvador Dali earthquake situation or the mind-blowing gay sex?"
Hugh leant forward earnestly and fixed him with a complicated stare. "What do you know about the laws of physics?"