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Old friends

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"It weren't so bad as all that, surely?"

Peter lifted his head from his hands and looked up. TV's Craig Ferguson was leaning against the doorway of his dressing room, arms folded and with a smile that was faltering a bit now.

"Just got off the phone with my agent," Peter said. "If you keep in all that stuff about dropping acid, I think she's going to kill me."

"Pete, Pete," Craig moved into the dressing room and sat down in the one spare chair. "That was talk show gold. We're talking highlights reel for sure."

"Brilliant," Peter said. "What a way to launch my American press tour. Maybe next week I can go on Oprah and talk about the time we set fire to that pub in Edinburgh. That'll sell tickets."

"At least Armando will think it's hilarious," Craig offered, stretching out so that his legs snaked under Peter's chair.

"True," Peter acknowledged. "But then, he thinks the whole idea of us doing this interview is hilarious. In fact, I fully expect to get back to Crouch End and find a script on my doorstep for a new BBC4 comedy: 'Glasgow Days' or some such."

"Does Alastair Campbell get to play you?" Craig smirked.

"Ha bloody ha," Peter said. He yawned, and then looked over at Craig, sprawled out like they were a half hour past closing somewhere, and he needed the furniture to keep him upright. "Shouldn't you be doing something ... out there somewhere?" He waved his hand around.

Craig smirked again. "I know your wee head has been rattled by all this Hollywood glamour but did you not notice we weren't going out live? Anyway, the band wanted to do a re-tune and then play a second time, but it's not like they need me to repeat the intro, do they?"

Great, Peter thought. That meant his old friend had at least 15 minutes to kill and he had a growing suspicion as to why Craig was here. He owed his wife 10 pounds. And Armando 50.

"It's just like the good old days!" Craig said cheerfully. He grinned and used his feet to pull Peter's chair closer to him. He leaned in and kissed Peter quickly on the lips, then sat back.

Peter raised an eyebrow. "The ones where you were drunk, I was stoned, both of us were skint and the rain never fucking stopped? Those good old days?"

"Christ," Craig said. "You make it sound like a Danny Boyle film."

Peter sighed. One part of his brain noticed that he hadn't moved his chair away.

Craig leaned in and kissed him again, this time holding Peter's head with the back of his hand and using his lips to nudge Peter's apart. Peter shivered and opened his mouth. He heard a rushing sound in his ears and for a moment he really did wonder if this was all one long weird acid trip. The taste of mint brought him back with a start to the present. Craig no longer tasted of alcohol, he thought. Well, of course not, the part of his brain that retained logic chided. What did you expect?

Craig removed his tongue from Peter's mouth and began mouthing little bites along Peter's jaw, humming slightly to himself as he went. That was another difference, Peter thought. Craig was actually sincerely cheerful. Not just cheery, but cheerful. Full of cheer.

Craig reached his earlobe and bit down hard. Peter groaned.

"Want me to stop?" Craig asked innocently.

"Shut up," Peter said. He began unraveling Craig's tie and undoing the buttons on his shirt. He spread the shirt wide and fixed his mouth on one of Craig's nipples.

"Oh God," Craig said. His hands flailed and he started to push Peter away. "I know I started this but I really don't think we have the time."

Peter glared at him.

"How was I to know you'd be so easy?" Craig protested. "I was expecting a long sermon, followed by you feeling bad and taking me out to dinner. Then I was going to lunge properly in the car home."

"Shut up," Peter said again. He stood up and took his jacket off. After a second's thought, he took off his trousers and his shirt, folding each neatly and ignoring Craig's comment that they had people who did that.

With one hand on Craig's knee, Peter used the other hand to grab the ends of Craig's tie and pull him closer. He swiped his tongue in Craig's mouth and then let go of the tie and dropped to his knees.

Craig's head fell back and his breath grew even more shortened. Peter smiled. He ran his hand across the front of Craig's trousers. God, it had been years since he'd touched another man's cock.

Peter quickly undid Craig's fastenings and reached in. He looked up once at his old friend, smiled, and then dived in. The smell overwhelmed him first, then the taste. This, then, was one thing that had not changed.

Craig reached down and lightly touched Peter's head, urging him on. Peter mostly ignored him. It had been decades, and he was going to do this right. First he took Craig's cock wholly into his mouth, sucking on it like a lolly at a fair. Then he pulled back and painted wide stripes up and down with his tongue. "You bastard," he heard faintly overhead.

A knock on the door convinced Peter that perhaps he should speed things along. And maybe they weren't as old as all that really, because he was swallowing Craig down not 3 minutes later.

Peter got back in his chair and smirked. His Y-fronts showed rather clearly that this walk down memory lane was far from finished for him, but he didn't mind. He stroked himself casually while waiting for Craig to recover.

Craig sat flushed and wrecked in his chair. Even a second knock on the door did little to bestir him. Peter took pity and handed him a glass of water.

"You know you have to go back out and do the close, right?" Craig, drinking water, didn't respond beyond glaring at him.

"Oh, I like that," Peter said. "Who just did all the work?"

Craig splashed some of the water on his face. "Christ, I can't believe we just did that. Fucking hell."

The P.A. knocked a third time. "He's just getting ready," Peter called out. He turned and looked at Craig. "If you don't leave soon, the fact that no one knows who I am here will mean fuck all. We'll wind up in a gossip rag and my agent really will kill me."

"Right," Craig said. "Fuck." He stood up from the chair, holding on to his pants with one hand and his shirt with another. "I'll just ... right."

Peter watched as he staggered toward the door, getting dressed en route. The P.A. stood anxiously in the door, holding a clipboard. "Is everything all right?"

"Oh fine," Peter said, pushing a blinking Craig Ferguson out the door. "We were just making dinner plans."