"Playing to a sold-out Royal Albert Hall, mate, or had you forgotten?" Larry says, lounging on the sofa in the dressingroom, and leafing through a copy of National Geographic that someone else has left behind. He glances at Simon, who is fiddling with the sash of his Georgian costume nervously. Nervously. "What's wrong?" Simon doesn't do nervously. Or, well, he does, but he doesn't do it quietly.
Simon heaves a sigh, and drops down on the sofa next to Larry. "I don't do singing," he says. "Because I can't."
Ah. "None of us are professional singers. Well. Mat is, I suppose. And Jim's pretty damn good." He looks up from the article on the Sahara to see Simon frown a little at him. "Never mind that!"
Simon sags further down on the sofa. "Opening song," he mutters. "Opening song! If that one goes wrong, we might as well abandon the whole show."
Larry just smiles at him. "I'm up before you."
"Everybody loves Bob Hale," Simon says, fiddling with his jacket. "And you don't have to sing."
"I have to sing later," he reminds him. "And I'm not brilliant at it either." He's rather worried about it, but not nearly as much as Simon, who is pale even underneath the Georgian make-up.
"I have to sing with Jim and Mat," he groans, dropping to side to rest his head on Larry's shoulder. "I'm going to look like an idiot."
Larry eyes his shoulder warily. If there's too much make-up on that, it might not come off before the show. "Simon, of course you're going to look like an idiot. That's the point," he says, nudging at Simon to sit upright.
Simon just looks at him. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."
He has to take Simon's mind off it for a bit. "Look, stop worrying about it." And he knows of one way that's guaranteed to distract. He slides off the sofa to get on his knees in front of Simon, and beams up at him.
Simon looks vaguely disturbed rather than aroused. "Laz... sorry, but Bob doesn't do it for me."
Larry huffs, and starts opening Simon's trousers anyway. "Close your eyes, then."
"This is - this is not actually happening," Simon mutters, his cheeks starting to flush as Larry palms his groin. "Oh God."
He suppresses the urge to give a brief Bob Hale report on Simon's cock. Maybe later. After he's had time to jot some ideas down. "Just promise me you'll stop worrying after this, and I'll let you fuck me in my Viking costume later." He leans forward, and Simon's reply is lost in his moan.
FILL: [RPF] Larry/Simon, Calm down blowjobs, PG-13
"Playing to a sold-out Royal Albert Hall, mate, or had you forgotten?" Larry says, lounging on the sofa in the dressingroom, and leafing through a copy of National Geographic that someone else has left behind. He glances at Simon, who is fiddling with the sash of his Georgian costume nervously. Nervously. "What's wrong?" Simon doesn't do nervously. Or, well, he does, but he doesn't do it quietly.
Simon heaves a sigh, and drops down on the sofa next to Larry. "I don't do singing," he says. "Because I can't."
Ah. "None of us are professional singers. Well. Mat is, I suppose. And Jim's pretty damn good." He looks up from the article on the Sahara to see Simon frown a little at him. "Never mind that!"
Simon sags further down on the sofa. "Opening song," he mutters. "Opening song! If that one goes wrong, we might as well abandon the whole show."
Larry just smiles at him. "I'm up before you."
"Everybody loves Bob Hale," Simon says, fiddling with his jacket. "And you don't have to sing."
"I have to sing later," he reminds him. "And I'm not brilliant at it either." He's rather worried about it, but not nearly as much as Simon, who is pale even underneath the Georgian make-up.
"I have to sing with Jim and Mat," he groans, dropping to side to rest his head on Larry's shoulder. "I'm going to look like an idiot."
Larry eyes his shoulder warily. If there's too much make-up on that, it might not come off before the show. "Simon, of course you're going to look like an idiot. That's the point," he says, nudging at Simon to sit upright.
Simon just looks at him. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."
He has to take Simon's mind off it for a bit. "Look, stop worrying about it." And he knows of one way that's guaranteed to distract. He slides off the sofa to get on his knees in front of Simon, and beams up at him.
Simon looks vaguely disturbed rather than aroused. "Laz... sorry, but Bob doesn't do it for me."
Larry huffs, and starts opening Simon's trousers anyway. "Close your eyes, then."
"This is - this is not actually happening," Simon mutters, his cheeks starting to flush as Larry palms his groin. "Oh God."
He suppresses the urge to give a brief Bob Hale report on Simon's cock. Maybe later. After he's had time to jot some ideas down. "Just promise me you'll stop worrying after this, and I'll let you fuck me in my Viking costume later." He leans forward, and Simon's reply is lost in his moan.