undercover-undiscovered-underutilised-underwear (_unhurt_) wrote,

i am unproductive tonight! at least, in the ways i had intended to be productive. possibly because today there were eleven hours of VAT returns, which means eleven hours of excel. blech!

*trots off to bed* oh. but first:

regarding discussion today on this subject: if-callum-is-in-LA-filming-californication, does-he-stay-at-hugh's-LA-crash-pad?

and given that i understand that hugh is in toronto... la la la *commits ficlet* (streets, this is partly your fault!)

600 words of hugh/callum. my tin hat, she is FIRMLY affixed at this time! (er, unbeta'd btw. egregious typos, i am sure i have some...)

Callum has the key to Hugh's LA apartment. It's not exactly home - for Hugh, or to Callum when he uses it - but it's not a soul-free hotel-motel room either. So it's nice, you know? It's cool inside, and quiet, and the couch is comfy and there's always something interesting to read on Hugh's haphazard shelf of battered paperbacks (not secondhand, most of them, Hugh just reads things harder than normal people do) and he can operate the coffee maker before he's really awake. He likes it, even when he's on his own there. (He tells Hugh he likes it better that way because he doesn't have to have a twenty minute argument about which is the better Thai place before he can order takeaway, but Hugh just laughs and tells him to go fuck himself, and Callum says, "Oh, I don't think so - that's what you're for," and Hugh lets their shoulders bump as they walk and says, "Yeah, I know." Kind of smug and easy, a grin in his voice, but he makes it sweet too. Callum still isn't sure how he does that.) And there's some stuff he can do when Hugh's not in town that he doesn't do when they're both there. It's not a big thing. It's - dumb. Dumb that he does it, dumb that he won't do it when Hugh's there.

It's just - all it is - okay. He wears Hugh's stuff.

It's too big, mostly, soft t-shirts a little loose, faded black denim hanging a little low on his hips. Comfy though. Good for lazing about in. That's all. And if sometimes he catches his reflection and pauses to tug at the material, thinking that just last week it was warm with Hugh, pulled tight over his pale back as he dug about in his kitbag looking for a novel Callum would totally love, where the fuck did it get to? it's fucking fantastic, you're gonna love this guy's stuff, getting distracted as he searched through a tangle of socks and CDs, tearing off on a gleeful verbal tangent about last week, on set, the thing the soundguy told him about the time he was in Budapest... well. He scrubs at the back of his neck. Jeez. So maybe that happens sometimes.

He can't do it when Hugh's there. It's like - like a girl wearing her boyfriend's jacket. That's not him. That's not cool. It's - sappy or something. Callum doesn't even know. He's not sure what's wrong with him (he wore the ring, for fuck's sake! On camera, even, for years). But, yeah, sometimes stuff even smells kind of like Hugh. The old stuff especially. His favourite hoodie. The t-shirt that used to be black and then went sort of grey, with the hole under one arm, that he wears to bed. So. Callum's in LA. Hugh's in Toronto. Or Halifax. Or some damn place that's not here. And Callum heads for bed - only wearing the torn t-shirt because, because he won't have time to do laundry this week, the schedule on set is really tight, it's just practical, really, that's all - and doesn't think about walking down the street with Hugh, wearing one of his shirts, knowing Hugh's noticed and hasn't said anything about it, not yet, anyway, but...


That night, Callum dreams about wardrobes. Dressers. Closets.

Sometimes his subconscious is a BITCH.


On Tuesday, when he gets to the airport for his flight to Vancouver, his bag is exactly one t-shirt heavier than it was last week. Weirdly, he feels lighter.

Tags: fic, hd/ckr, rps
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