Terry Jones Fluff
@terrypythonjones requested Terry Jones Fluff—ask and ye shall receive…
This is set during the filming of Life of Brian (when we all agree Terry reached his peak sexiness—sexiness was "essential"), with heavy emphasis on Terry and Mike's friendship because they're so cute 😭
Interlude, or A Sticky Situation
Squinting against the sun, Terry brushed a few locks of damp hair from his forehead and reached for his visor. Sadly, it was as far down his face as it could reasonably go. Tunisia was gorgeous, with a perfectly languid atmosphere and friendly people, but it was nearly too hot for a Welsh boy to handle. Luckily, the crew had just finished their last shot of the day, and the sun would soon make its descent beneath the sandy horizon.
The best time of day here was sunset, in Terry’s opinion—the sky melted from crisp, endless blue into milky shades of pink and orange. Equipment was struck, and the rattle of cameras and other mechanical gear filled the heavy air. Actors in various shades of brown scuttled under tents where cool towels and cooler water awaited them. Terry took a moment to appreciate the brief reprieve before his mind ultimately pulled him towards the next item on his to-do list. Life of Brian wouldn’t finish itself, after all.
He was startled from his thoughts by a near-naked man hopping into his personal space.
“Large and in charge, eh?” Michael hopped a circle ‘round Terry, spinning on his toes as he did, loincloth in place and chest glistening. He’d been enjoying the ex-leper bit a little too much, and was still going at it.
“What?” Terry’s head was spinning just watching Mike dance in and out of sight. Michael stopped, skipping in place about an inch from Terry’s nose, glancing at his friend’s lap with raised brows and a cheeky grin. If Terry’s face weren’t red from the sun it would be turning pink now, and he purposely glanced up at the sky. “I know, the shorts are a bit too tight…” He pulled down on his pockets as he spoke, making Mike grin.
“That’s certainly one way to assert yourself,” he teased, shaking his head. Terry was about to protest—shouldn’t one man respect another’s embarrassment and keep his mouth shut?—but Mike was already hopping away, queueing up for Jeeps back to the hotel.
It was certainly time to go, and once Terry was back in his room a quick shower cooled him down. Unfortunately, the only loose pants he had clean were long sweats. Terry resigned himself to the exchange—heat and discomfort for dignity—but as soon as he entered the private lounge to relax with the other Pythons he regretted his choice. Despite some air conditioning and multiple box fans, the room was sweltering.
Gray, damn him, was smoking his pipe in the nearest armchair like nothing was amiss. Grumbling, Terry sprawled out on the couch, legs splayed wide to air his over-clothed legs, trying to remember why they decided to make another movie.
Closing his eyes, Terry blocked out the room. It was tiny, dormitory-style, with speckled walls in Adobe style, all tans and reds. There was a single arched window, the couch, a (Gray’s) chair, and cushions on the floor. Low ceilings made the space seem a bit cramped, but it was perfectly adequate for the six of them. Closing his eyes only made Terry’s surroundings worse—he was left with the droning fans, his own tedious thoughts, and the goddamn heat. It was enough to boil a lizard!
Frustration drove Terry to open his eyes, which he did in time to see Michael and John enter the room. They’d probably been off making passionate love, as they’d insinuating during the on-set interview, dumb grins on their faces. They both wore shorts and open button-ups, like Gray, and the lot looked like American tourists. The only one who didn’t dress that way was Gilliam, and he was Lord-knows where.
John had to stoop as he came through the door, giving Terry a once-over as he did. “Nice shirt.”
Terry glanced down—what shirt was he wearing?—only to see he wasn’t wearing one at all. He’d been so preoccupied with the pants situation he’d completely forgotten. John raised a brow. “You must be tired—can’t believe you fell for that. Actually, you could be in one of those sexy calendars…” John made L’s with his fingers, holding them up to frame Terry, biting his tongue in concentration. “Yeah, that’s it!” Terry altered his man-spread with a huff, stretching his legs across the couch in a gesture that screamed ‘stay back.’
Mike grinned, sitting on one of the floor cushions. “Should have kept those shorts on, mate, shown off your bulge.”
“What?” Graham finally took an interest in the conversation, sitting up slightly. Terry was about to grouse and wave it off—he was out of eye-rolls for the day—when Eric sashayed into the room.
“Terry,” Mike repeated, earning a glare.
“Oh yeah, we all saw it,” Eric confirmed, lifting Terry’s legs from the couch to sit beside him. The man was wearing one of his flowing hippie getups, which was surprisingly scratchy once Terry’s legs had been lowered down onto them. “Very impressive, but your boys’ll boil to death now.”
Terry had to admit it was happening already.
“No need to spare us, mate, you’ve got nothing we haven’t seen.” Michael smirked playfully as he spoke.
John picked up the joke. “By all means, let’s whip out our dicks! And don’t you say a word, Gray.”
“Mine’ll stay put, thanks,” Terry grinned, watching as Eric picked at the hem of his accursed sweatpants. At least he’d put on socks—Eric didn’t have to avoid unsightly toes in his lap.
Eric nodded his approval as he felt the material. “Soft,” he commented.
Terry grunted. “Hadn’t noticed through the damn sweat…”
“How soft?” Michael asked, making his way over. He joined Eric, feeling the other hem. “Very soft!”
“None for me, thanks, I’m happy at a distance!” John folded himself down onto what had been Mike’s cushion, not at all driven to inspect Terry’s wardrobe.
Mike huffed. “You took my spot!” Looking around futility, still in a playful mood, his eyes landed on, of all things, Terry himself. “Well you’re my pillow now!”
Terry’s amusement morphed into a moment of pure panic as Michael unceremoniously flopped on top of him, crushing the air from his lungs. “Mike!” he wheezed. They were going to get all sweaty and gross and—! But Eric and John were laughing, and Mike was clearly enjoying himself, so Terry chose to accept this uncomfortable fate.
Still, he had to complain. “This is the worst Python Pile yet!” At least he wasn’t alone—now Eric had four feet in his face instead of two. Gray, unusually, didn’t join them; maybe Python Piles were a drunk-Gray thing more than sober-Gray. Instead, he stood up and stretched his legs. “Well, I’m off. I’ll make sure Gilliam hasn’t worked himself to death before turning in. ‘Night, all.”
A chorus of goodnights followed, and shortly after John took his leave. Eric got tired of the feet just as night fell, leaving only Mike and Terry in the tiny lounge.
“You’re doing a great job with the movie, mate, I hope you know.” Mike’s voice was laden with sleepiness, and Terry smiled.
“Thanks, Mike.” He’d need another shower before bed, but Terry didn’t mind staying like this a little while longer.