Somewhere in “Absence and Presence” the lads mention how they should get Hugh drunk. Nadine, in the comments (now lost to the website disaster) teased that she’d really like to see that, and by the way, her birthday was coming up…hint, hint.

I can’t resist a prompt, you guys. It’s a sickness.

For Nadine, on her birthday.

It was supposed to be easier than this.

Truman studied the low line in the second bottle—red this time, though after two glasses of white zinfandel Will’s tastebuds were willing to drink anything, evidently—and then studied his husband.

Hugh wasn’t drunk. Or if he was, Drunk Hugh was virtually indistinguishable from Sober Hugh.

“All right, all right,” Will said, grinning. “Aren’t you lucky I came prepared?”

“Prepared for what?” Hugh asked, voice even, no extra loud grins.

“Shhhhhhhh. Show you in a minute. Gotta piss.”

Will didn’t close the door. Truman contemplated his openness before turning back to Hugh.

“I thought you were going to have fun,” Hugh said mildly.

“I thought you were going to be drunk.”

A crack in the serious expression. “You have to get me drunk to have fun, Truman? I never knew.”

“Shut up.” Truman waved a hand. “You have a magically high tolerance for alcohol? You could have warned us.”

“It was so amusing to watch the two of you plan. And not exactly. My relationship to alcohol is more of a steep drop-off, after which I am so uninhibited as to humiliate myself. Which is part of the reason why I don’t drink.”

Will emerged in time to hear the last line. “So what’s the other part?”

Hugh’s hands spread in front of him. He was sitting in his armchair in the sitting room while Truman and Will cuddled on the sofa. (Part of Truman’s problem was physical distance; surely they should have done this upstairs. The bed would have lowered inhibitions naturally.)

“Go on,” Will said, interrupting his progress back to the sofa in order to perch on the arm. “What’s the other part? And why’re you worried about humiliating yourself with us? You couldn’t.”

“The other part is that I…shut off, in a sense. My brain quiets. It’s not particularly good for me to experience that too frequently.”

This was quickly going to places Truman had no intention of letting it go to. He withheld a sigh and snapped to get Will’s attention back from the frown and the sad face and the oh-poor-Hugh routine.

“You came prepared for what, William?”

And click: back to happy Will.

“I came…fucking…prepared.” He popped up, wobbled, then collapsed in the general vicinity of his backpack. “How do you feel about pot, boyfriends?”

“Oh good,” Truman said, watching Hugh’s face.

“Pot?”

Genuine interest there. There might be a way to salvage tonight after all.

“I didn’t realize you smoked, Will.”

“Yeah, true story, I really wish I was into pot, but I’m not. Like I had to ask Jer and he was totally uncomfortable with the whole ‘giving Will a few joints so he can smoke out his boyfriends’ thing, so that was hilarious.” Drunk Will’s face was even more expressive than it normally was; the flash of pain and the flash of vicious amusement were both clear as day. He tossed a baggie on the table. “Behold! Let’s get high.”

Hugh reached for the baggie and held it up to his eyes. “Three joints.”

“Uh, yeah, I didn’t really know how much we’d need. And I don’t like smoking, so that’s really three joints split between two people, which should—I mean, you should feel that, right? I’m bad at pot.” He grabbed his wine. “So go to it, boyfriends.”

Their eyes met and the crackle of it singed Truman’s nerves.

“Are you challenging me to something, Mr Reynolds?”

(Will giggled.)

“Not at all. How do you feel about smoking a joint with me?”

It was probably still common usage to say “joint”, but in Hugh’s voice, with his ingrained affectation, it became something else. A come-on, maybe. A proposal. A dare.

“You’ll have to come over here to sit,” Truman said.

“Or you can come over here and sit on my lap.”

Maybe the wine was working. Hugh’s cheeks flushed, but he didn’t take it back.

“Oh man. Hot. You guys get high and climb all over each other. Good idea, me.”

“Come over here,” Truman said, pitching his voice as low as he could.

The effect was immediate and inspiring; Will stopped fidgeting with his backpack to watch them and Hugh went very still.

“Are you drunk?”

“I’m buzzed.”

“I’m drunk,” Will said, then clamped his hand over his mouth.

“If anyone’s sitting on a lap, Hugh, it isn’t me. Come here.”

“Oh shit. Oh fuck. Guh.”

“And find a lighter.”

“As you wish.”

As you wish in the parlance of Hugh Reynolds could go either way. It could be playful, or it could be reserved. Truman couldn’t decide which side it veered to right now, but he did determine that he didn’t care.

Hugh went to the kitchen and dug through the drawers, while Will made himself more comfortable in the far corner of the sofa. They’d left Hugh the middle.

This was not a good drunk, Truman reflected. Will was happy. But Truman couldn’t relax and likely wouldn’t until Hugh did, which had been the point of all this. Or at least part of the point.

No, be serious: the point was to do something he was reluctant to do. At least admit that to yourself.

True, but that didn’t take away from the fact that it should have been fun. Despite Hugh’s talk of humiliating himself, he’d agreed, and he’d been entertained by their pretended elaborate plans of clubs and bar-hopping when all three of them knew they’d end up in the house.

“A lighter,” Hugh said. He presented the lighter and the baggie to Truman with a sense of ceremony before taking his seat. “Do the honors, Truman?”

Yes. Pot, alcohol, and junk food. If they had poppers and Jase was here this would be just like college.

Truman lit up and held the smoke in his lungs, picturing the chemicals as they entered his bloodstream. Yes, this. Will was a genius. He hadn’t been high in years, probably at least in part because he assumed Hugh would—look down on substance use.

He’d misinterpreted some of that, he saw now, handing the joint to his husband. He’d seen it as judgement, but this avoidance was rooted in something else.

“2008, November,” Hugh said as he exhaled. “The last time I got high. Also the last time I had sex with Nicky.”

“Oh, I love having sex when I’m high. Like, it was one of the only things that made it so I could come easier, without freaking out, you know. Back when I freaked out a lot.”

“But you don’t like marijuana otherwise?”

“I don’t even really like it then, but the fuzzy thing it does to my brain makes it easier to trick my body into just feeling whatever.” Will swallowed, laying his head on the back of the sofa. “Damn. It just turned on me. Fucking red wine, I hate it.”

Hugh shifted, more squarely aligning himself. “Give me your feet.”

“Um…” Will surrendered his—legs, really—and Hugh began to work over his calves.

Truman took the opportunity to monopolize the joint, feeling the pleasant cotton feeling begin filling him. Why didn’t they do this more often?

Struck by a delicious thought, Truman leaned over and held the joint to Hugh’s lips.

One eyebrow raised. Hugh inhaled, nodded.

That was interesting.

“Wanna know more about you and Nick getting high in 2008. Before you met me?”

“After you left for Santa Barbara. Before I met Truman.”

“Uh huh. More stories.” Will closed his eyes. “Feels so good.”

They exchanged “our boyfriend is so cute” looks and Truman offered the joint again.

“I was, apparently, moping,” Hugh said after taking another drag. “Over my ‘lost boy’, as Nick said. So he worked me hard at the gym and followed me home after.”

“Ah ha ha, so you could work him hard in bed? That’s so funny.”

“In the guest room. He wanted—a lot, that night. It didn’t occur to me until later that my moping may have been an excuse.”

“And he brought pot?”

“He knows my responses to pot,” Hugh said after a moment.

Will picked his head up. “Hold up. What responses to pot? And why don’t we know them?”

“You and I have never used recreational drugs together, Will. Nick and Lucy and Maria and I used to get high before going out. It was considered the only thing that would ‘loosen Hugh up’.”

“Oh shit, yeah, I bet.” Will let his head drop again. “Keep going. You fucked Nick up in the guest room, then you got high, then what?”

Hugh smiled down at his hands where they worked on Will’s legs. “You want to know the dirty details, Will?”

“Oh you just fucking bet I do.”

“Were you in the guest room or bedroom?” Truman asked.

Hugh glanced up. “Guest room. We got high in the kitchen. And I guess we’d already been using the guest room, so that’s where we went.”

Truman wondered if Nick thought the same thing, or if Nick read into it the emotional distance Truman did. Then again, Nick courted emotional distance as well; it might have been his decision, subtly made, to use the guest room.

“And then what? More story!”

“Then I fucked him in every configuration either of us could think of.”

“So pot makes you horny?”

“Pot makes me more relaxed than normal. I would have been horny after what we were doing regardless, but pot takes the edge off my need to analyze.”

“Good to know. Mental note: stock up on pot in self-defense.”

“Hush.” Hugh’s hands worked higher and when Truman held the second joint to his lips with a lighter, he nodded.

“We were both exhausted by the end of that night. Nick dragged himself out of bed the next morning to go to the gym and I remember wondering how he could do that when I felt like I was made of cinderblock. He told me later he wore shorts and a shirt he knew would ride up, so people could look at the marks I’d left on him.”

“Ohhhh, hot. So fucking hot. I would look at Nick’s marks, like, any day. And Red actively wants to have sex with him. Red thinks the cock cage is so fucking hot.” He opened his eyes. “Um. So. That was a weird thing to say.”

“Ask Bernie. He loves showing Nick off. And he really loves watching Nick dominate sweet young men. Though perhaps not as much as he loves watching Nick dominate arrogant older men.”

“Ha, yeah, I bet he gets off on that especially. Bernie’s such a trip. I wouldn’t want him anywhere near me with a whip. Or anything else.” Will yawned. “Fucking red wine, man.”

Truman, belatedly putting the joint down and taking up Will’s feet, began his own massage. “I like Bernie quite a bit. I’m intrigued occasionally by the two of them when they do something I don’t expect.”

“Like what?”

Truman cast his mind back. “Oh, I don’t know. The second time they were here, when they disappeared to the garage for half an hour. I could tell something had happened, but not what. Or New Year’s. I don’t always understand when Nick has done something wrong.” He kept thinking about it, digging thumbs into the sides of Will’s foot. “Though Nick always seems to know, so clearly there’s a pattern I just don’t see.”

“Shit, yeah, like when I brought Red over for Bottom’s Brunch? That’s like”—yawn—“the only time I’ve ever seen Nick a little surprised he screwed up. Mostly he does it on purpose. Shit, that was freaky.”

“Wish I’d seen it,” Hugh said.

“Yeah, you do. It was hot and freaky at the same time, the way Bernie just—the way he just—you know. He just says something and Nick does it, but not like he’s irritating. Like Nick really wants to make it right. Or something.” Yawn. “Fuck me, you guys, that feels so good. I’m falling asleep.”

“We need poppers,” Truman said. “Next time.”

“Oh fuck yeah. I’ve never done poppers!”

Hugh’s hands moved to Will’s other leg. “I have an adverse reaction to poppers.”

“How can you possibly have an adverse reaction to poppers?”

“They make me want to sit alone in the dark and contemplate death.”

Truman stopped moving. “Really? I’ve never heard of anyone—ever—who responded to poppers that way.”

“It’s possible that it’s a past association issue. We smoked pot and drank, and Maria and Nick had a lot of fun mixing prescription drugs, but I only did poppers with dates.”

Slight emphasis on the word.

“When you were escorting?” Will asked, after a moment.

“Yes.”

“Huh. Tha’s interesting. Anyway, Tru and I can do poppers and you can play with us when we’re high. Sound good?”

“Delightful, Will.”

“‘Delightful, Will.’ Ha. So sleepy.”

“Oh, no, you don’t, Mr Derrie.” Hugh’s hands switched directions and began moving up Will’s thighs.

“C’mon—oh—oh—okay, yeah, do that. Ohhhh, fuck, that feels good.”

The massage shifted ever groin-ward and Will slid lower in his corner, offering himself to Hugh. Truman picked up and re-lit the joint, holding it again for Hugh to inhale, watching his hands work their way over Will’s Batman pajama pants toward the tent at the top.

“But—” Will wiggled. “But this was—supposed to be—you were supposed to—oh god—”

“I was supposed to what?”

“Relax. Be drunk with us. Do something—different.”

Hugh’s hands stopped moving and Will groaned. “Different.”

“Just, you know, yourself, but drunk, which I’ve never seen.”

“Me drunk is not as interesting as you seem to think, Will. However, I understand your intention. Are you awake?”

“Yeah, sure. Just sleepy. Fucking red wine, man.”

“Will you put music on? On your phone?”

“Sure. What’re we”—yawn—“going for?”

“Something old-fashioned and lively, with a beat. I’m teaching you to dance.”

“You’re what?”

* * *

Twenty minutes later Truman was laughing so hard he couldn’t breathe, Will was pouting and half-leaning against the wall, and Hugh was—grinning.

“Slow slow quick quick, Will. Basic foxtrot. Come on, try again.”

“I can barely stand,” Will grumbled. “You bastard.”

“I’m not sure what my being a bastard have to do with your unwillingness to dance. Truman’s not a bastard, will you dance with him?”

“I didn’t mean it like that! Wait, Tru, can you dance the foxtrot thing?”

“Not at all.”

“I’ll teach him later. You’re first, Will, before you fall asleep.” Hugh held out his arms. “Again.”

Will grumbled more and obeyed.

That Hugh could, while intoxicated, morph into a dance teacher was not as shocking as it should have been, Truman reflected, biting down on his fingers to keep from laughing out loud again.

“Slow slow quick quick, Will. Stop fighting me and let me lead.”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

Hugh huffed laughter. “Relax. Wait. Be still.” He shifted his hands to Will’s neck, and tilted his head just slightly down. “Relax.” The kiss was sweet and Will leaned into it. “No one’s making fun of you.”

“Stupid red wine.”

“Relax here, and here, and here.” Hugh’s hands smoothed down to Will’s shoulders, then his arms. “Your feet can do the step, but the rest of you is too tense. Dance with me, Will. Let me lead.”

“You always lead.”

“When you know the steps, we’ll switch.”

Will sighed. “God. Fucking swoon.”

This time, with the low beat of a Spotify playlist Hugh found “somewhat acceptable” in the background, they managed to dance for longer than a few seconds, Hugh guiding them around the sitting room, armchair pushed to the side, table to the other side. So handsome, Truman’s men. So incredible.

He finished off the second joint, rolled the other tightly in the bag, and sealed it. Some other day.

“I’m gonna pass out, Hugh. Dancing with you is…awesome…but I gotta sleep.”

Hugh pushed Will to the wall, letting him lean against it, and kissed him deeply. “I’ve always loved kissing while high. Got myself into trouble with it a few times because of our ‘loosen Hugh up’ ritual.”

“Oh god. Shut up and kiss more.”

“Don’t fall asleep,” Hugh said, lips moving to Will’s jaw, kissing down his neck. He chewed on Will’s clavicle, pushing his shirt out of the way, and Truman idly stroked his dick to full-on hard, watching them.

Yes. Sex. Pot. The grounding buzz of wine beneath it. He somehow mustered the energy to stand and make his way to them.

Hugh paused long enough to say, in a voice laced with arousal, “Hello.”

“How do you want me to fuck you?” Truman asked—no—demanded, pressing him into Will.

Laughter. Hugh’s back shook with it. Will reached around to run his hands up into Truman’s hair.

“Couch,” Will said. “Over the couch. On his knees. C’mon, get naked, boyfriends, want to see you.”

It was nothing to pull Hugh’s shirt off, to kiss down the back of his neck, to lick the smooth strong planes of his shoulders.

“So fucking sexy,” Truman mumbled into his skin.

Hugh laughed again. “Oh god. It’s happening. I’m sorry. I can’t—I’m sorry—”

“What’s he apologizing for?” Will asked, muffled against Hugh’s chest.

Good boy. “It doesn’t matter.” Truman needed more, more of tasting Hugh, more of his scent. He peeled out of his own shirt right there in the sitting room and pressed his chest into Hugh’s back, the intensity of the contact immediately soothing him.

Hugh’s body began to heave, alarmingly, and Truman stepped back just in time for him to burst into laughter, an eruption of epic, shocking proportions.

“Sorry,” he wheezed. “Oh god—sorry—can’t help it—” He collapsed to the side, holding himself up on the sofa. “Oh god, I’m so—sorry—wait—I can—”

“Holy shit,” Will said. “Hugh Reynolds has the stupids.”

Hugh launched into another apology-strewn bout of hysteria, burying his face in the sofa.

“No you don’t,” Truman growled, pushing him over onto the seat before climbing on top of him. “Look at me.”

“Truman—Tru—I can’t—” Hugh’s cackles grew breathless and Truman did the only thing he could think of.

He ground his dick into Hugh’s. Hugh thrust up, fighting to breathe around his laughter.

“Oh god, yes, please, yes, Truman—”

Incoherent. The recipe for Hugh’s incoherence was red wine, pot, and the sitting room.

Truman leaned over to brace himself so he could better fuck against Hugh, humping him shamelessly, both of them still in their pants. Beneath him, still laughing, Hugh’s thrusts attempted to meet his.

Will giggled.

Not funny, damn you both. Truman put his head down to bite Hugh’s neck, but it only made Hugh laugh more, both arms coming around him, squeezing his ass, making their mutual dry humping more targeted.

Truman groaned. “Oh fuck—Hugh—”

“Yeah, keep hurting me, love it when you make me feel it, Truman, come on, keep going, make me your bitch—” Hugh threw his head back, still laughing, even as Truman applied teeth to his skin.

“Ah ha ha, make him your bitch, oh my god. Oh my god, that’s so fucking funny—”

Hands snaked into his pants, kneading his ass, and Truman wanted to keep fighting, but it was too good, too much. He braced on the cushion on either side of Hugh’s head and rutted shamelessly, faster and faster, not slowing down even when Hugh’s fingertips tried to snake into his crack. Everything felt more intense than usual, and the brush of sensation across his hole made him crazy.

Before he knew it, before he could stop it, he was coming, throwing his body against Hugh’s, grinding his dick against the hard plane of Hugh’s tight belly, while Hugh held him close.

Will applauded, giggling, delighted, and Truman couldn’t hold onto his annoyance—with the orgasm, with his brain for failing to realize it was imminent, with the laughter of his men, which he couldn’t join. He sagged against Hugh, whose chest still shook, even as he kissed Truman’s hair.

“God, you’re the sexiest man in the world. You lost control. That was amazing.”

“Shut up.”

Laughter on all sides. Truman hid his face.

“Just shut up. Both of you.”

Hugh held him where he was and began a slow undulation beneath him, and it felt incredible. Not too much stimulation, Hugh’s dick needy and urgent, Hugh’s body restrained.

“Yes,” Truman whispered. “Yes, do it, use me.”

“So fucking sexy.”

“You guys’re hot,” Will said. A thump. “Oh. Armchair. You’re hot, too, armchair.” He giggled.

“Look at me. Truman. Look at me.”

Laughter momentarily on pause. Truman lifted his head. Hugh’s cheeks were flush, his eyes were damp from prolonged hilarity, and his lips looked…lonely.

Truman attacked his mouth, using one hand to hook Hugh in and the other to raise his body just enough to make Hugh’s subtle movements into something a hell of a lot closer to a bump and grind.

Hugh moaned into him, and positioned like this, it was obvious that Hugh was the shorter man, that Truman’s body covered his, and for some reason that made it hotter.

“I’m bigger than you,” he whispered against Hugh’s lips.

“Show me.”

He didn’t know what that meant, but he used his knees to press Hugh’s legs together and tightened the hold on his neck, trying to project size and mass and strength and control.

No way his dick could perk all the way back up, but this was good, this felt good, a dirty grind together, drawing it out when Hugh was increasingly desperate.

“Please let me come, Daddy,” Hugh whispered. “Please. I’ll be a good boy if you let me come.”

Oh god. I can’t. But he found that he could.

“Show me how you come, little boy.” Truman stopped moving, raised his body just a little off Hugh’s, and held himself still and strong. “I’m not going to help.”

“Yes please.”

Of course Hugh could arch up, find a way to fuck Truman, even through their clothes, even without Truman’s participation, but it wasn’t easy. His forehead crinkled with the effort of finding the right angle, raising his body the right way, hunting down the friction of Truman’s body where it hovered just over his.

“Argh, fuck—”

Truman laughed.

“Damn you—” Hugh reached up to pull Truman down, but Truman shook his head.

“Bad boy. Do what I told you. No cheating.”

“Or what? You’ll spank me?”

“I’ll paddle Will if you cheat, little boy.”

Hugh’s eyes narrowed and for a second Truman thought he’d be called out, that Hugh would know he had no intention of paddling anyone tonight.

Then he relented.

“Tell me how you’d do it. Describe it to me, Daddy.”

Shit, shit, mayday, this was not the plan.

“I’d pull him over my lap. He’d be begging me not to, but he wouldn’t fight. You know he wants to obey his daddy.”

Hugh thrust up harder, jolting them both, hissing when his dick made contact with Truman’s belly.

“I’d make him spread his legs and I’d rub him nice and hard to get the blood flowing first.” And oh god, that felt so good, Hugh’s body humping up, only brushing Truman’s at the peak of the movement.

“Yes, more—”

“I’d rub him until he was pink and then I’d pick up that slim paddle I use on you, and rub that over his ass and thighs until he was whimpering. You know how I love it when he whimpers.”

Hugh groaned, holding with his back arched, trying to get enough of a rub against Truman to come.

“Then I’d start in on him, but I’d keep the rhythm unpredictable so he couldn’t settle into it, and I’d stop a lot so I could touch him, tease his hole, tease his balls, touch his dick and tell him how much he liked the paddle.”

“How much he needs it,” Hugh said, groaning and collapsing back. “And he’d beg you to stop, but you wouldn’t.”

“I’d keep going until he was incoherent, and I’d keep rubbing him, toying with him, and each time he’d think it was over, but it wouldn’t be.”

“Oh god, Truman, you sadistic bastard—” Hugh’s arm came up. “Give me what I need, damn you—”

“I am—”

But it wasn’t enough, maybe for either of them. They struggled for a minute, but the sofa wasn’t wide enough and neither of them were paying attention until they overbalanced.

“Oh fuck!”

Hugh recovered faster, swapping their positions the second they landed on the floor.

“My turn,” he said, pinning Truman’s wrists over his head. “I love you so much, you have no idea.” He kissed Truman’s neck and chest, chewing on him, fucking into him the entire time.

Truman hooked his legs around Hugh’s back and helped. “Tell me. Tell me, Hugh—”

“Love you, love everything about you”—wet lip noises on a nipple—“love your voice, love your laugh, love the way you think”—a trail of kisses to the other nipple, and Truman groaned when this one received teeth instead—“love the way you look at me, the way you look at him”—teeth nibbling up to his armpit, playfully chewing down his side—“love every inch of your body”—Truman writhed as Hugh attacked his belly button, tongue-fucking it. When he tried to push him away, Hugh said, “Hands back where I put them. Pretend you’re restrained.”

Truman moaned and did as he was told.

Hugh stripped them both and his naked body was always intoxicating, but right now, desperate with an edge that was only partly to do with sex, Truman needed him.

“Let me suck you. Please. I have to. I need it, Hugh—”

Hugh laughed, coming down on his knees over Truman’s chest. “You need it, yeah, you need me, don’t you?”

“Let me—” He didn’t get further than that; Hugh’s dick slipped past his lips and fuck, yes, this, this more than anything.

“I love the way you look when you’re trying to understand me,” Hugh said, voice low and strained. He shifted to go in deeper, one hand holding Truman’s head up.

So fucking vulnerable, pinned by Hugh’s body, arms over his head, neck burning with the effort of holding it up, Hugh’s hand in control of him.

Hugh’s dick pressing deeper, despite the angle.

Truman kept his eyes on Hugh’s, swiping his tongue along the underside of his dick, playing with suction just enough to make him moan.

“I love you, I love that you don’t let me get away with things, I love that you—oh god, Truman—I love that you—”

Yes. Come. Give over. Let me have you. Truman wished he had a hand to work the rest of Hugh’s shaft, to milk him properly, to empty him, but he drank Hugh down like he was dying of thirst and Hugh’s body let go, erratically thrusting until he had nothing left to give.

“You were in the middle of a sentence,” Truman murmured into his husband’s ear, where he’d collapsed on top of him.

“Was I?”

“You love that I what?”

Hugh laughed softly, unsettling Truman’s chest hair. “Guess you’ll have to get me drunk again to find out.”

“We are definitely doing this again. I saved that last joint for later.”

“This is not how I expected tonight to go,” Hugh said after a minute. “I’m not sure we’ve ever had sex on the floor.”

“And we should never do it again. Also, we should make Will give us massages in the morning. He’s young and spry.”

“Spry. Oh god, spry’s a funny word. Spry. What can the root of that possibly be—”

Hugh started laughing again, unable to help himself. Truman smiled, stroking his hair, enjoying his armful of heaving, wild Hugh Reynolds.

They would definitely be doing this again.