The first time, his sisters talked him into it.
"Oh, come on, Hugh-y, it'll be so hilarious!"
And he would have said no, except he had a crush on this older girl who was with them, a friend of his youngest sister, and she wouldn't give him the time of day, except all of a sudden she was really interested in the idea. He wasn't stupid. He could see that something about it was getting her all electric-focused on him. So he let her put her lipstick on him, and his sister smudged eyeliner around his eyes. He balked at the clothes, so they compromised: he let them put him in a plaid skirt, but wore his own shirt and boots because no way was he taking that any further.
He felt all fucking ridiculous and exposed, but that laser gaze from the girl dragged him out of the house almost despite himself. And every time he licked his lips he couldn't help thinking that he was tasting her there. That idea got all mixed up with the queerness of the clothes, and the off-kilter feeling that didn't go away, and he was just hooked.
~~~
In 197-whatever there was only one proper dance club in Kingston, not like it was a gay bar or nothing. It was full of the same bruisers who had the bar stools on hockey nights: dumb as dirt and none too accepting of difference.
Those guys didn't really know Hugh. He was younger than most of them; too young to be there, really. So they didn't know who he was, but they could smell blood in the water. He might as well have had a spotlight on him in that little club. Skinny, twitchy kid in his sister's clothes, pink lipstick like a sign around his neck: freak.
The taunts started right away.
"Little princess" they called him, but ugly words too. Words like "faggot" and "cocksucker."
"Hey, faggot, why don't you go home to the Big Smoke?"
"Hey, faggot, yeah! Run back to your mommy."
"Hey, faggot, come 'ere! I'll give you something to suck on." A fist.
Each jibe set up some sort of jittery feeling in his stomach and chest and hands. It wasn't fear, exactly. More like rage. He hadn't wanted to do this in the first place, but damned if he was going to let a pack of stupid sheep scare him home, shut him up, now that he was there. Fuck 'em. Just fuck 'em.
They could call him faggot all they wanted. The only faggot he knew was Roger Penman, who ran the little store on the corner by their parents' house. The guy didn't wear dresses, and he was always friendly and just ordinary. He even let Hugh take candy bars sometimes, when he didn't have a quarter and asked nice.
So, fuck 'em.
The anger, and the naked vulnerable feeling, and the jolt of electricity he got from tasting the sticky-sweet lipstick all combined in this crashing wave of something. There was a kind of roaring in his ears, and he couldn't even see for a second, and when the next guy came right up in his space, to flip up his skirt or taunt him again or something, he pulled back his arm and popped him one, right in the face.
The guy went down like a puppet whose strings had been cut, blood pouring out of his nose. Hugh gritted his teeth and struggled not to curl around his fist. Ow! It motherfucking hurt when you hit someone that hard.
There was a stunned silence in the club, a kind of waiting-feeling, like folks couldn't decide whether they were going to rush in on him or back off. It was always going to go there—to fists and blood—but he'd beaten them to it and they didn't know quite what to do. He could feel that he was grinning, and he wasn't sure what that looked like.
He guessed it looked fierce enough because all of a sudden the waiting-feeling shifted. Folks began to turn away, pretend they weren't watching him. The guy was still writhing at his feet, but Hugh pretended not to notice him, and his friends came to pull him up and away.
Hugh looked over to the shocked faces of his sisters, and met the eyes of the girl whose lipstick he was wearing. She didn't look shocked. She gave him one solemn nod, as if to say, "Well done."
Yeah.
Yeah.
~~~
He doesn't know why he's telling Callum all this, except he kinda does, really.
One look at the guy, knowing what he knows about Edmonton, and there's your answer. He can picture it. Skinny, delicate blond boy with those startling blue eyes, lashes like a girl's, and a funny sideways way of talking? Yeah, he's heard those names a time or two.
Hell, he'd called Rennie those things, but he was new. He didn't know that those were Hugh's words, that he'd earned them, that night, and countless times after.
It wasn't as if he were queer exactly, it was just, fuck those Kingston boys. So high and mighty, princes of their provincial little college town. Cunts. Whatever they thought was uncool, that's what he would do.
They wanted to call him a cocksucker? Well, then.
The first time he'd tried it—years later—he'd thought of those taunts, and almost scared the man with his smile—like a killer's, maybe.
And okay, it'd freaked him out a little. He had been in a dirty alley-way, concrete cutting into his knees—the skirt again, god he hoped his sisters never found out—and the guy had gotten a little rough with him, almost choking Hugh in his urgency. But the high had lasted for hours. He'd walked home, his throat stinging, a trickle of blood curling down from his knee into his boot, and he'd had to stop every few feet to shadow box at nothing. Yeah! Yeah, yeah, take that! He was too big for this world!
~~~
He doesn't tell Callum about that. Not yet.
Callum hadn't said a word while he was telling his story. Hugh looks over at him. They are sitting side by side on Hugh's bunk in the back of the bus, not touching anywhere. Cal has his legs stretched out, and his feet are fidgeting like his hands normally do, but he is otherwise still. He isn't looking at Hugh, but somewhere off into the middle distance. His face is unreadable.
Hugh stares at him for a few seconds, and he finally turns his head so that their eyes can meet. There isn't any kinda thing on Callum's face, and Hugh tilts up his chin, tries to make his expression as hard as possible, like, "You wanna fucking make something of it, Rennie?" He isn't sure how successful he's been. His heart is pounding harder than it ever did on stage. He doesn't think he'd been this nervous at their very first gig.
They stare at one another for a few seconds, just a little too long for comfort. And then Callum reaches out his hand. Hugh just barely stops himself from flinching, unsure of what's coming.
Callum's hand is slow, so slow and steady, and he just keeps looking with that same unreadable expression. Finally, Hugh can't stand it anymore, and closes his eyes. And then he does flinch at the shock of Callum's thumb gently brushing over his eyelid.
Hugh opens his eyes again when he feels Callum pulling away. There is a slash of black on Callum's thumb—eyeliner from the show tonight—and Hugh's stomach tumbles as he watches Callum bring his hand to his own face, and very deliberately paint his own eyelid with it.
Then that hand snakes out again, clasps the back of Hugh's neck, and tugs, hard. Hugh's hands flail out, and they tumble down until they're lying half on and half off the bunk, tangled awkwardly together.
Callum's hand is still on his neck, and he presses Hugh's forehead to his. Hugh can feel his breath, the sharp poke of his ribs through his dumb sweater, the sweat of his palm. He can feel—whoa—his cock, hard against Hugh's hip. He can't meet Callum's eyes from this distance—not without going cross-eyed and stupid—and he still hasn't said a word, so Hugh doesn't know exactly what they're doing here.
He doesn't want to mess this up, and despite the completely obvious erection he's doing nothing to hide, Callum isn't giving him a lot of clues as to what the right next move would be. His hand is still tight on the back of Hugh's neck. He's motionless; his breath puffing slow and steady over Hugh's face.
Fucking hell, Rennie! What do you want from me?
He doesn't say it, but the uncertainty drives spikes of adrenaline into him, lighting him up. He isn't sure it's in him to wait someone out like this.
His hands want to shake, and his mind flashes again to that night.
~~~
After he hit that boy, the room calmed down, but he didn't.
He owned the place, after that. He could feel it. Half of them were afraid of him—him, the scrawny kid in a dress—and the other half were just impressed. He could feel eyes on him, but it was different than before. It revved him up, made him feel like he was getting touched by a hundred stroking hands.
It made him so high he couldn't come down. He danced and danced to every fucking thing, didn't even sit out the stupidest songs. He spun and stomped like he didn't care.
Much, much later, he caught a glimpse of himself in the cracked washroom mirror. The eyeliner and mascara his sisters had painted on him streaked down his face with his sweat, and the lipstick was uneven, licked clean in places. Underneath the fun-house mask of it all, his eyes were a little crazy, blazing with a furious, inarticulate kind of satisfaction.
He bared his teeth at his own reflection, and then spun around, yanked the door open, marched out into the hallway and ran right into his sister's friend Sarah.
Sarah of the pink lipstick.
At the thought, his tongue snuck out to taste it again, and then it was like someone else took hold of him for a second. She was already stepping back, and without thinking about it, he grabbed at her hands. She gave him a puzzled look, and he lunged up and fit his mouth clumsily over hers. His first kiss. Except not really because she didn't react in any way. They stood there for a second, awkwardly joined at the lips, and then he stumbled back, letting go of her hands. He could feel his face flushing, and all the bravado drained out of him in a rush.
He shrugged like it didn't mean anything to him. Maybe she believed that was true, but probably not because the look she gave him was somewhere between amused and pitying. She looked at him like he was a puppy that had done something so stupid it was almost adorable. He gritted his teeth, but she didn't say anything to him, just leaned in, kissed him on the cheek and walked away.
~~~
He's pretty sure Callum isn't going to do that, but he seems content to be still for now, tangled up with Hugh. And Hugh really doesn't want to mess with that. Callum is the first person in a long time who's slipped into his little whirlwind and just made a home there. From a distance, maybe they didn't seem at all alike, but they both spoke the same language. It didn't matter how much bullshit and bluster Hugh threw his way, Callum always seemed to understand what he meant. Maybe even too much.
He has the sneaking suspicion that Callum understands what he's thinking right now. It shouldn't be possible to read private amusement from someone's forehead, but if he could do it with anyone it would be this man.
"What the fuck-?"
He doesn't get to the next word because Callum pulls back, loosens his hold on Hugh's neck, and yep, there it is. He's grinning like he just won some game Hugh didn't even know they were playing.
He only sees it for a second because Callum brings that grin up to meet his own, and then they are kissing hotly, quiet and laughter both forgotten.
And Hugh had been so focused on the skirt and on the fucked-up forehead thing and on the silence that he'd forgotten his own body. Now, it comes crashing back in on him, a great wave of awareness. He wants this man. He fucking wants him.
Callum's mouth is bitter with smoke, and he maddeningly refuses to be pinned down. His tongue flickers out to meet Hugh's and then retreats. He presses forward hungrily and then backs away until their lips are barely touching.
Hugh feels as if he's chasing after him when all he wants to do is hold him down and devour every detail.
He grips Callum's shoulders and pulls back, almost scowling.
"Would you just—I want-"
Callum looks up at him with the most satisfied expression. His eyes—one still smudged with black—are half-closed and almost comically sultry. He's still got that little half-smile, like Hugh's frustration is just what he wanted.
That's when Hugh gets it: they're still playing. Not a thing has changed.
He can feel Callum's cock resting flush against his through their clothes. His hips are shifting minutely in an almost unconscious rhythm, and each time they do, Hugh's stomach twists at the streak of pleasure it gives him.
Callum's smile is telling him that it's no different than the spark he gets every time he leans in to hear that husky voice, or pushes himself outrageously to make Callum laugh, or shares a cigarette between them.
It makes him feel dizzy even though he's stone cold sober. He can do it all: be the freak in a dress and the rock star, and have this beautiful enigma squirming under him.
He struggles to hide the smile that wants to take over his face and grinds down hard for a second.
"Cunt," he accuses.
"Yeah," is Callum's placid reply, and then he's pushing at Hugh, flipping them over in the little bunk.
The way they land, he's half on top of Hugh, and he slings his arm around Hugh's neck and pulls him into a kiss. The advance and retreat is nowhere to be found. Callum kisses like he's staking a claim, and his other hand is pushing up Hugh's shirts, skating roughly over any skin it can reach. As he tries to hold his own in their kiss, Hugh feels the warm scratch of Callum's palm over his ribs, his back, stroking at the skin of his belly. He nearly bites Callum's tongue in his effort to hold back the groan that wants to escape, and he's not entirely successful.
When Callum pulls back, he's panting. He looks like a Technicolor version of himself. His eyes are bright. His lips are shiny and bitten red.
Hugh tries to tease him—"Breathin' kinda hard, there, buddy,"—but the effect is ruined by the gasp he makes when Callum's hand snakes down and unfastens his jeans.
Callum's eyes widen just a little when he sees that Hugh's not wearing anything under them, but he doesn't hesitate. He brings his hand to his mouth and licks it—slowly, like he knows just what it's doing to Hugh—and then wraps his wet hand around Hugh's dick.
"Fuck!" Right away, it's too much.
Callum's hand is agile and sure and just on the good side of too rough. He doesn't kiss Hugh while he strokes him, but leans down, puts his mouth to Hugh's ear and begins to whisper, "Yeah. Yeah, come on."
The rhythm's just a little bit off, so Hugh has to chase it, and he thrusts up almost helplessly, Callum's scratchy-low voice saying, "Yeah, oh fuck, that's it."
That's it. His hand makes one more perfect stroke, and Hugh is coming, his body going completely out of his control, every part of him straining towards Callum, who holds him close and gentles him through it.
Hugh is left gasping for breath, totally wrecked, and so he just watches—mesmerized—as Callum runs his hand through the splatters of come on his belly, wraps his long fingers around his own cock and brings himself off with a few quick, hard, strokes. He doesn't make a sound as he comes, just closes his eyes, but Hugh can feel the shivers rolling over his whole body.
"Jesus fuck, Rennie!" It's as close to a prayer as Hugh's likely to get.
Callum has collapsed on top of him, and Hugh reaches both his arms around and holds him as tight as he can. He can feel Callum's breath, hot and damp and fast on his neck.
Finally, those breaths slow, and Callum raises his head. They stare at one another, and Callum is back to that inscrutable look again.
What now? What the hell now? What just happened?
But before Hugh can get any kind of panic going, Callum gives him a quick kiss and pulls away. Hugh doesn't say anything, just watches as he uses a corner of the sheet to clean them both off and then rearranges their clothes.
When he's done with that, he says, "Come on."
Huh? "Come on, what?" Hugh retorts.
Callum doesn't answer him. He just lies down with his back to Hugh and pulls Hugh's arm around his own waist. He's bony, all sharp angles, but he feels warm all along Hugh's body.
And what the fuck?
"What-?"
"Go to sleep, Princess." Callum's voice is lazy and amused.
"The fuck?"
"Go to sleep."
All right, fine. If he's not worried about anything—or anyone—then Hugh's certainly not going to worry for him.
Just to get his own back, he licks a sloppy stripe up the back of Callum's neck and smiles at the huff of breath that gets him. Then he sticks his nose into the smoky hair in front of him, tightens his arm and closes his eyes.
1, 2, 3 and he's out.
~fin