An oxnardish baboon. Too right.

"Graham," he said, the beginning of a sentence that he did not yet know the end of, "have you ever thought of having a go at one of us?"

They were each of them propped up on their respective beds, drinking by the light of one lamp. Graham, for once, did not have his pipe in hand. Probably because his hands were currently full of exhibit A (glass) and exhibit B (bottle). "How do you mean?" Graham asked, and Terry took another drink.

"I mean, you're gay, and the rest of us dress in women's clothes half the time. Ever thought about having a go?"

Graham shrugged. "In as much as I think about having a go at anyone."

"Sometimes I wonder," Terry said, half into his glass, "how you would do it. Make the approach, I mean. To any of us."

"Well," Graham said broadly. He paused. "I've never thought about it in concrete terms, really. I have vague ideas, but--" He looked over at Terry. "Surely you don't actually want to know."

"Might do."

Graham poured himself another drink. "All right, then." He spent several moments in silence, swirling his alcohol and looking at the far wall. "Eric..." he started slowly, "with Eric I would ask if we could take a day trip to visit his mother. I'd say something about wanting to meet the sort of people he grew up with, et cetera and so forth. Mention it was some kind of one-on-one thing we could do, away from the rest of you lot. He seems lonely to me, sometimes.

"We'd drive up in the morning, chatting about things; I'd make sure to listen to him, let him lead conversation. We'd arrive, do the pretty with his people, and then he would suggest showing me around, since he knew the area. I'd agree, and spend the next hour or so letting him stand slightly closer to me than he generally does. Eventually we'd drive back to town, and the closer we got the less we'd talk, until he stopped by my door. We'd sit in the car, and then I suppose he'd kiss me."

Graham's voice was hypnotically slow, thoughtful. Terry had no trouble following the words, the picture of it. He flushed, and it was unexpected and uncomfortable and he felt ridiculously grateful for the dim lamplight.

"Granted," said Graham, dry and clinical once more, "that presupposes David wasn't in the flat waiting for me to get home, but if he wasn't, that's how I would go about Eric."

"So you think Eric...?"

"Oh, not very much," Graham said, waving the hand with the glass in it. "But it's astonishing what you can do with just a little concentrated attention. And I imagine he must wonder just as much as you."

Terry would neither confirm nor deny that he was wondering any such thing. Wife and baby, wife and baby, gosh I need a drink, wife and baby. He said, "Michael?"

"Ah, Michael's a different sort," Graham said. "I don't think he's very curious, to be honest. So if I was going to do anything, it would have to be on my own initiative, and giving him no time to think. Let us say... in a pub? After one of the get-togethers he likes to arrange. I'd leave early, but keep an eye on the place from across the street. He always leaves last -- I'd wait for the rest of you to bugger off before going back in. He'd be surprised, but charming as ever, and offer me a lift home. I'd take him up on it. Upon arriving at my door, I'd turn to say goodnight and--" Graham made a gesture, and took a drink.

Terry rather thought this was less impressive than what he might do with Michael if given the chance-- a thought to be stopped immediately, and replaced with one involving breasts. "Gear shift?" he asked.

"Only a minor inconvenience when one is truly determined. But I don't think it would go much further than a snog. Imaginary-David is safe from unexpected encounters, and Imaginary-Michael is safe from more thorough advances."

Terry nodded. "What about the other Terry?" he asked.

"Him I would probably offer a box of pencils for a quid and a kiss, and he'd do it gladly and wander off again."

For a dark and incredibly stupid moment, Terry considered asking about John, but the last ounce of sensible material left in his brain leapt up and smothered the words before they took breath. In the dizzy aftermath, he said the first thing that came to mind. "And what about me, then?"

Graham looked at Terry once more. His eyes were hooded. "You," he said thoughtfully. "There's a question for the ages."

Terry tried very hard not to twitch.

"Honestly," Graham said, "I couldn't imagine a better scenario than the one we've got right now. You invite me to a hotel for an unspecified number of days in a romantic locale, ply me with liquor, and then ask me to describe how I might go about seducing you. It's almost as if you're looking for an excuse, Mr. Jones." Graham smiled lazily at him, and Terry's hand tightened around his glass. "The only thing I'd add to the scenario is either me climbing into your bed, or you climbing into mine. And either way, we'd be shagging by morning."

Terry couldn't breathe.

Graham poured the last drops of gin into his glass and frowned mightily at the betraying bottle. "Blast it," he said, "we're out again. I'll fetch something from downstairs, shall I?" And he was off the bed and the door swinging shut behind him before Terry could even formulate a belated protest.

He spent many agonizing minutes thinking about what in God's name he was going to do when Graham came back. It took him a further quarter hour after that to realize that Graham was not coming back for a while, and Terry's decision was made for him.

Which was for the best. Most definitely, probably, almost certainly for the best.

Terry fell asleep on the bed that night, the only time he managed it during their entire trip.