Hard Core Logo RPS Fic: Sweetly Swiftly Shift (HD/CKR, R)
Title: Sweetly Swiftly Shift
Author: malnpudl
Fandom: RPS (Hard Core Logo)
Pairing: Hugh Dillon/Callum Keith Rennie
Rating: R
Word Count: ~2250
Disclaimer: This is a fictional story about fictional characters who happen to share names and faces with some real people. I'm not confused about the difference between them; I trust you aren't, either. The title is from the lyrics to "Fuck You" by the Headstones.

Acknowledgements: This is the closest I've ever come to fic by committee. Thanks first of all to strangecobwebs and helleboredoll for alpha review and feedback, not to mention timely reassurance when my confidence was flagging. Very special thanks to _divya_ for two long and insightful discussions about Joe/Billy and Hugh/Callum that got me thinking in some new ways. And my infinite gratitude, as always, to the inestimable isiscolo for alpha, beta – hell, the whole damn alphabet.

Notes: For the Hot, Hard and Up Against the Wall! Challenge.

This started out as a variation on pearl_o's Five Kisses thing, but then it grew. Kind of a lot. There are still five four kisses, anyway.

Dedication: This is for coreopsis. I know this isn't so much your thing, so don't feel obligated to read it, but still… it's thanks to you that I came to know and love Hugh and the Headstones, and I'll never be able to thank you enough for that. So for what it's worth, this one's for you.

Summary: Bruce likes the thing with the fist, and the spitting beer. He likes the kiss, too. One more time, he says.

* * *

They've been rehearsing the Rock Against Guns concert scene for the better part of an hour, and Hugh is blowing his lines, blowing the lip synching, all attitude and assholery and blowing it off, and Callum would want to punch him if he couldn't see the nerves jangling behind Hugh's (Joe's) usual belligerent front.

They're five days into the shoot, and Hugh has to be jonesing something fierce by now. Callum knows what that feels like, the way it fucks with your mind and makes you want to claw your way out of your own skin.

Hell, he's spending hours a day in Billy's head, and Billy's drunk half the time, and that's the last thing Callum needs. Getting into Billy's head is all too easy; it's getting back out that's the hard part, that and staying out. Dry drunk is almost as bad as drinking. Seductive, and almost as dangerous. The only thing getting him through it is knowing that Hugh's got it that much tougher. Callum's been sober for a couple of years. Hugh's only got a few days clean.

Callum shoots Bruce a look, and Bruce yells "cut" and tells everybody to take ten.

Bruce walks over to Callum, his back to Hugh, pretending to point to some lines in the script. "Fix it," he mutters. "Get him the fuck together before the budget's blown to hell."

Callum doesn't look at Bruce, doesn't acknowledge his words. He just heads out of the trailer where they've been rehearsing, deliberately bumping Hugh hard with his shoulder as he passes him.

Seconds later, Hugh has caught up to him, just like Callum knew he would. He follows Callum back to the deserted corner of the Commodore where everybody knows he likes to go smoke and nobody bothers him. Nobody but Hugh, who clearly doesn't get the whole boundaries thing where Callum (or anybody else) is concerned. Not that Callum has a problem with that. He needs his solitude like air, but somehow there's always room for Hugh inside it.

Callum has no sooner lit up and taken his first drag than Hugh has slipped the cigarette out from between Callum's lips and is sucking on it himself. His eyes say "fuck you" but his smirk belies it.

"You cunt," Callum says good-naturedly, lighting up another, and he's rewarded with Hugh's grin, the real one.

That's a start.

Callum drops to a squat, his knees splayed and his back against the grimy wall, and Hugh slides down beside him. They smoke in silence, knees and shoulders all but touching, and Callum can feel the heat radiating off Hugh's body, smell his sweat. The crowded rehearsal trailer is hot, way too hot; they're not even under the stage lights yet and they're both already half soaked.

By the time Callum takes his last drag and drops his cigarette butt into the empty Coke can he's left there for that purpose, they have only a couple of minutes left before they're due back.

He lets his knee nudge Hugh's and leans against Hugh's shoulder; it's hot and damp, even through his ratty sweater. "You can do this," he says, without looking at him, and wonders if Hugh gets that he's talking about more than just the movie.

Hugh doesn't say anything, just sucks hard on his cigarette and then stubs it out and drops it in the can.

"You don't have to do it alone," Callum says, looking over at Hugh. "You… you're not alone."

Hugh turns his head and looks back at him, only half as combative and defensive as he was when he left the trailer. They're close, bodies touching and faces only inches apart. Every time Hugh breathes, Callum feels the motion against his arm; Hugh's breath, smelling of coffee and smoke, is moist and warm on his face.

"Step two," Hugh says, and Callum suddenly feels naked under the intensity of Hugh's gaze.

Callum shrugs; he feels himself flush a little. A higher power's where you find it. "You could call it that."

"Okay," Hugh says, and fuck, were his eyes always that blue? "I'll call it that. For now."

"You know how to do this," Callum says, and he's talking about Joe Dick now. "This is who you are." But he knows words aren't the way to get through to Hugh, so he reaches out and puts his hand on Hugh's wrist, just wraps his fingers around and leaves them there. It feels a little weird, a little awkward, but he knows it's working when Hugh's eyes soften – not much, just enough. Jesus, Hugh is easy to read. Easy for Callum, anyway. He rubs his thumb over the back of Hugh's wrist, and something relaxes in Hugh's jaw, the banked fire rekindles in his eyes, and it's just too, Jesus, too fucking intimate so he says it again even though he knows the words don't matter now, the job's already done: "Don't make it so hard. You know how to do this."

"Yeah," Hugh growls. "Fuck, yeah." He shoves himself off the wall and back up onto the balls of his feet, radiating impatience and energy, looking like he's got the biggest dick in Vancouver and goddamn well knows it.

Callum gets to his feet. "Fuckin' rock star," he says with a grin.

"Fuckin' A," Hugh replies, and he's back, he's on.

Back in the trailer, Hugh immediately gets in Bruce's face about his opening lines. It's not working because they're crap, he says; he'd never say that. Twenty minutes later he and Noel have rewritten the intro, and this time when they rehearse it and Hugh steps up to the mike, it's Joe. Joe's back. Joe's on. And he's damn good, so good Callum's buzzing with it.

Bruce likes the new lines, and he likes the rehearsal. Let's go make a movie, he says.

Take one:

The crowd is real, a paying audience hyped on two hours of great punk rock from some of Vancouver's best. They know they're watching a movie being filmed, but they're there for the music.

Hard Core Logo takes the stage.

Callum's vibrating with the energy of the place, nerves twitching from working in front of a live audience again. Billy likes it, though. Billy likes playing to the crowd, almost as much as he likes playing to Joe.

"You people are the fuckin' coolest." Hugh's energy is up now, he's working the room, crew and audience alike. "I was just lyin' there 'cause I saw you cut your fuckin' ponytail, you fuckin' cunts." He steps away from the mike, flips off the crowd with both hands. Jesus, Hugh likes playing the asshole; he's having fun. "You don't know shit from good chocolate, babies."

The ad lib line gets a great reaction from the crowd, so Callum knows it's staying. Hugh loves a good line; he'll milk it dry.

Hugh steps away from the mike, takes a drag on his cigarette, and strides over to Callum and kisses him on the cheek. Hugh's face is damp with sweat and his lips are wet.

Even sweaty as he is, Callum can feel the wetness of Hugh's kiss on his cheek while Hugh walks across the stage and kisses John (way back on his cheek, looks like, almost on his ear; Callum's not sure if he really even touches him). He still feels it while Hugh picks up his guitar, feels it while Hugh starts singing. He almost misses his cue to join in on the vocals, but Billy knows what to do and Billy takes over.

They're into it, all of them, it's coming together and Callum thinks it doesn't suck, but then he backs into a monitor and can't recover in time, almost lands on his ass but manages to keep his feet at the last second.

Bruce yells "Cut!" and Hugh shoots Callum a wicked smirk. "Fuckin' wannabe."

Take two:

Hugh nails his opening lines and he owns that fucking stage, he owns that crowd; there's not one of them who's not eating out of Hugh's hand. Somebody spits beer at him from the audience. Hugh sidesteps it effortlessly and works it into the scene.

Callum's got the thing with the guitar down now (Billy's got it down), and Hugh backs away from the mike and pumps his fist in the air a couple of times before he steps over to Callum and kisses him on the cheek, soft wet lips so near his mouth, and fuck if Billy doesn't like it.

Hugh's on fire, and Callum lets Billy take control. Hugh wears Joe's guitar like it's a giant hard-on and he knows everybody in the audience wants a piece of it. Hell, a lot of them probably do.

Billy does. Billy wants it, especially when Joe's practically giving head to the mike, looking like he's about to suck it off.

The scene rocks.

Bruce likes the thing with the fist, and the spitting beer; he assigns somebody on the crew to do it again. He likes the kiss, too. One more time, he says.

Take three:

It's all Hugh now, all Joe, there's no telling them apart and they're both fucking on. Rock star. This is what it was like when Hugh was on stage with the Headstones. This is it.

Hugh steps up to the mike. "You people are the fuckin' coolest." He shoots a wicked grin right into the camera, and Callum could almost swear he saw the cameraman's dick twitch in his jeans. "You see, I was just lyin' there 'cause I saw you cut your fuckin' ponytail, you stupid fuckin' cunts."

On cue, a spray of beer comes flying out of the crowd toward Hugh's face; he dodges it easily. "That wasn't very nice. Makes you think there's a fuckin' punk rock revival on. You don't know shit from good chocolate, babies."

This time Callum is waiting for it, and this time when Hugh kisses him, he can feel Hugh's tongue on his skin, he's sure of it, just for an instant, and it's all Callum (Billy) can do not to turn his head and meet Hugh's lips with his own.

Hugh's not even touching John when he pretends to kiss him. Callum's sure of it now. Pretty sure.

Billy's driving Callum's brain for the rest of the scene, and they nail it, they fucking nail it.

Cut and print.

The moment that Bruce releases them, Hugh is striding offstage, headed for Callum's refuge.

Callum follows, still half in Billy's head and jangling from the scene and way too aware of his own skin.

He's no sooner rounded the corner than Hugh's grabbed him by the front of his shirt and backed him up against the wall, plastering him there with the weight of his body. Hugh's a furnace, radiating heat and fierce energy. He's soaked with sweat, and the smell of it mixed with cigarette smoke is almost enough to get Callum high – not that he needs it, still high from being on camera, being on stage, being Billy.

"The fuck?"

Hugh shoves his crotch up against Callum. He's hard. Jesus, he's hard. Callum's never felt another guy's hard cock before.

"Jesus!" He tries to shove Hugh away, but Hugh leans in hard and grabs his wrists and pins them against the wall, and this time it's Hugh stroking his thumbs over Callum's wrists and Hugh's cock is still hard against Callum's groin and Billy, Christ, Billy's still there and he wants Joe, wants him bad.

Callum slowly turns his face toward Hugh's, and apparently that's all Hugh was waiting for, because his mouth is on Callum's, and his body and his hands may be all hard aggression, but his lips are soft when they take Callum's and so's his tongue when Callum opens up and lets him in, lets him in.

Soft lips (hard cock), soft wet tongue, slow and sensual and so seductive, and Billy's getting hot and Callum's getting – fuck, Callum's getting drunk, world spinning out from beneath his feet, senses on overload, and all his instincts should be screaming danger but he can't back away from it, just keeps coming back for more.

It should feel way more wrong than it does. It doesn't feel wrong at all.

After a while (not nearly long enough? way too long) Hugh releases Callum's mouth and tucks his face into Callum's neck. "Jesus fuck, Callum," he murmurs, and that's when Callum's half erect cock swells hard in his pants and fuck, he can't help it, he thrusts back against Hugh.

And that's when Hugh releases him, pushing casually away from him with a fond pat on Callum's cheek. He adjusts himself in his pants, leans on the wall, and then lights up a cigarette and hands it to Callum before lighting another for himself.

"We fuckin' killed in there today," he says, looking entirely pleased with himself.

Callum just looks at him. There are no cues; for the first time he can't figure out how to read Hugh.

Or maybe he can read him too well.

Still reeling, Callum turns his back on Hugh and walks away, ignoring the soft, dark laughter behind him.

Bruce stops him with a hand on his arm as he crosses the set. "Thanks for getting Hugh back on track," he says. "I don't know what you did, but it worked. That was fuckin' fantastic footage. Keep it up and we'll make a great movie."

He walks away, leaving Callum standing bemused and wishing vaguely for a drink.

Keep it up. Right.

He can do that.

~ fin ~