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leatherjacket-lovesong · 7 years

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leather jacket love song - part five (ongoing)

You sleep with your phone under your pillow and turned up full volume out of habit. Even though he never calls. Even though it's been months since he last rang you at three am.

(You're still 'there'. You're still 'his'. And you've a horrible gut feeling that no matter how many types of fiery hell he drags your friendship through, you always /will/ be.)

So when your mobile suddenly rockets Ian Brown into your dreams to rouse you from sleep, it's a damn good job you're a man of routine.

Rolling onto your back, screen flashing 'Elvis' pressed to your ear, your mouth wrestles with both a 'yes?' and 'what?' at the same time, as your half-awake brain tries to find the right greeting.

No 'hello'.

No 'mate'.

Even working at barely twenty percent brain capacity, you don't think he deserves it.

Only it's not Elvis who speaks. The voice mumbling down the line is way too soft, way too lilting, a little bit gormless round it's edge like the voice of someone who might forget their own name, and it takes you much longer than it really should to place it.

"Noel..." Your stomach sinks.

As far as your aware, the last time Elvis and Noel spoke to one another was the day Elvis moved back to his mum's. And the last time you saw Noel, the sketchy little bastard had been E'd out of his tree. You don't think it's unreasonable to have a bad feeling about this.

"Come pick your lad up..." Noel's voice is muffled into the mouthpiece as though he's trying to eat it, but his words are distant somehow. Faraway. Like he's speaking on autopilot and his brain isn't engaging.

Somehow, you're not surprised. Somehow, you'd expected this.

You snarl down the line, as you cram knuckles into your eyes. "Fucks sake, Elways. It's two in the morning. Just stick him in a taxi, or somethin'. Can you lot not wipe yer arse without me?"

Quiet on the other end. Just snuffled breathing and distorted trance waves on the wind.

"No can do, mate..."

"And why not?" You scoff, his incompetence sparking you enraged. Even ten storeys high on a mixture of what's likely MDMA cut with dog wormers, he should be able to shove Ellie in a taxi. "Knob stuck in a sheep?"

But when Noel doesn't bitch back and just /sighs/ instead, it suddenly clicks with you that maybe he's not the one being the cunt in this.

"Three reasons..." He finally says, in that rolling run-on voice of his, "Number one: he's on the floor... Number two: I can't wake him up... And number three: he won't stop bleeding..."

---

You remember little things.

Key moments.

Brief seconds in life that your memory locks away before they're burnt to dust by time and age.

They're rose-tinted, definitely. Perfect in every way the reality never could have been. And they're filtered with the sepia glow of nostalgia that awakens an ache in your chest.

They're unfaithful. (Like he is.)

Romanticised. (Like his is.)

But preserved. Protected.

Like Elvis in '95. Kicking his ball about in your front yard, skin sunburnt a colour to match his United footie kit.

And Elvis in 2000. Slouching outside the headmaster's office, blood smeared across a swollen but still snarling, burst upper lip.

Like Elvis in 2005. Sewing the first patch onto his leather jacket, stabbed raw fingertips dying the white cotton bright red.

And Elvis in 2010. Arguing with Noel over the redecoration of their living room, clothes flecked with wet oxblood paint.

Kneeling now, straddling Elvis's unconscious body with both your hands pressed hard into the groove of his boney hip, stemming the flow where a previously light t-shirt has turned magenta, though, you think...

(You hope. You pray.)

"Please, don't let me remember this."

---

You shout at Noel.

You don't meant to. You know, logically, that it's probably not his fault. You know, logically, that Elvis gets himself into fights he can't win all the fucking time. And you know, logically, that he's a dead man in these scraps without you.

But Noel's there. Conveniently. Looking ten shades of shit in the A&E waiting room.

And there's blood on your hands right now. Elvis in big red smears all flaking right down your forearms and every time you catch a unwarranted glimpse of it you have to swallow back the urge to throw up.

"Fuck's sake, Elways. He goes out with you for one night. ONE. FUCKEN. NIGHT. And this is what happens? THIS is what I have to wake up to?! You can't even take him out for a couple of hours without him gettin' knifed?? Without him nearly gettin' killed??"

It's early hours Saturday morning. A&E's swarming with obnoxious staggering drunks. You have to raise your voice over the noise to be heard.

Noel, decked out in a shredded Madonna t-shirt with a polka dot silk scarf knotted round his throat, and sitting a bit glazed eyed on a bench where you're pacing — waiting, worrying — barely makes a sound when he opens his mouth.

"I'm not his babysitter..."

"No, Noel. No, you're not." You agree, nodding, before suddenly leaning down to eye-level with a snarl, "But you're his fucken MATE."

Or supposed to be. You don't know what mad thought possessed Elvis to make him wanna go back to knocking about with Elways, but you assume the two of them put past grievances behind them, kissed and made up.

Exasperated, you go on, "Where the shitting hell /were/ you while all this was kickin' off? Standin' back, watchin', scratchin' yer balls?? Because you sure as fuck didn't help him out!"

Noel, slouched forwards with wrists clattering full of bracelets hanging between his knees, drops his head in a response you hope is meant to signify shame.

"Wasn't my fight..."

"IT DOESN'T FUCKEN HAVE TO BE!"

He yelps, surprised, when you grab his scarf.

Then yelps, in pain, when you use it to yank his head back up.

"YOU TWO-FACED, SPINELESS LITTLE CUNT. It's not my fight either! Elvis hasn't even talked me for the last three weeks. But I still came straight down, didn't I. I'm still fucken' here, aren't I. I still give a shit, don't I. 'Cos I'm his /mate/, and that's what mate's /do/. But you wouldn't have a slightest fucken clue about that sorta thing, would you?"

Noel doesn't answer.

Noel doesn't even appear to be registering.

Instead, his glassy dew-drop eyes drift sideways and it takes you a moment to clock that he's focused on something else.

"Mr Wood. Mr... Elways?" The nurse glances down at her clipboard, then chances a timid look around your bristling shoulder at Noel. "Would you both like to follow me? We've got some news."

---

You're not the first one to speak.

Sitting in the doctor's office, fingers steepled as though in prayer beneath your chin, you're ready for it. Mentally and emotionally prepped.

Armoured. Waiting.

You can hear it. You can take it.

You've already planned out how to break the news to his mum.

You're not soft. You won't break.

A phantom sting round your ear, from a hand that isn't there, makes you wince.

("Stop crying like a big girl, for fuck's sake. You want everyone to think yer a poofter? You want me to put you in a dress?! 'Cos I fucken will, if ya don't stop. I'll parade you round the whole bleedin' estate in it!")

But it's Noel who reacts to the news first.

Noel, perched on the edge of a cheap plastic chair next to you, who suddenly slumps against the backrest with his hands over his face.

Noel who breathes a loud, over-exaggerated sigh of relief.

"Well... at least he's not dead."

Not.

Dead.

It doesn't start to sink in for you, until you're the one filling out his medical forms with a hand that shakes.

Until you're writing your own name and contact details into the little space provided for 'Next of Kin'.

He's alright.

He's not dead.

Lucky. The doctor had said. Extremely fucking lucky, from the sound of it.

Half a centimetre away from a punctured liver.

Five minutes away from a blood transfusion and you heroically giving up however much he needs.

But he's sound (kind of). Okay.

He's alright, of course he is.

Because he's Elvis. Flirting with the devil. Dancing a razors edge. Iggy Pop for the new generation and you fucking lovehate him.

Out in the corridor, Noel isn't fast enough — or sober enough — to dodge when you grab him.

"Don't think this is over, Elways."

"Awh, gerroff my back will you, Wood. Only went out with him 'cos he called me up suggesting it, and I was tryin' to be his /friend/."

---

You don't realise how anxious you are (how anxious he's /made/ you) until you nip outside to get your cigs from the car, and all of a sudden begin throwing up.

Doubled over, one hand flat on the car's hood for support, you retch hopelessly into the grass verge until your throat's all acid and your stomach's all knots.

Then, when your chest muscles hurt and there's nothing left to puke, when you've slumped down onto the concrete because your legs no longer want to work, when you're leaning back against the front tire, dropping your lighter over and over again as you try desperately to spark up, everything you've been hiding from for weeks — for months — hits you full force all at once.

You don't expect to spend your Saturday morning sitting knees up in a hospital carpark, sobbing your heart out into your elbow, but you do.

And you don't expect Noel to come out later and sit down silently on the ground beside you, but he does.

And it's not comforting.

It's not helpful.

But it's human. And it's enough.

And when the sky's threaded purple and the streetlamps click off, when you've soaked and snotted all over the sleeve of your hoodie, Noel pipes up.

"I'm going back to Cardiff."

And when you halt in the middle of wiping your nose to give him a quizzical look, he takes it as his cue.

"You were right," he admits, a bit too easily, a bit like it's a speech that's been well rehearsed, "you and Ianson. You were right. I don't have any mates. I don't have anything to stick around up here for. I'm a cunt. So after I sit my final exam, that's it. I'm off. I'm going back home."

You don't know how to react to this. It's rare you ever get anything poignant from Noel. You've got a niggling little feeling he's waiting for either devastation or applause.

You don't give him either.

Just sit perplexed, brow pulled low, waiting for more.

And he gives you it, because he's Noel — the fucking master of drama and excess, and you knew he would.

"He loves you, you know."

"What?"

"He loves you." He repeats, as though it's the most flippant thing in the world, "God's sake, Wood, everybody knows."

And before you can react, he's already up.

And before you can scramble to your feet, with a bellowing, "KNOW'S WHAT, NOEL?!" the irritating little shithead is already halfway across the carpark, replying only in shrugs.

You've got no fucking idea who or what he's referring to.

But the abrupt tightness in your chest feels a bit like both panic /and/ hope.

---

You watch him, watching the sunrise.

Little shafts of infant orange light sliding through the gaps in the blinds, slicing across a face swollen tender and bruised.

Little specks of dust caught in the up-draft, sparkling in the early rays like swirls of glitter in front of his eyes.

Little consistent mechanical beeps, muffled into melody, reminding you both where you are.

He doesn't talk.

You reason it probably hurts too much to open his mouth.

Or he's embarrassed. Regretful and ashamed of himself.

(You hope so.)

He knows you're there, though.

Leaning in the doorway to his private room. Arms folded. A man ready to take on the world.

He knows you're there, because you can tell from the way his head's positioned at a complete ninety degree angle towards the window and away from the door, doing his best to avoid eye contact and avoid your inevitable onslaught.

You want to be mad at him.

You want to shout.

It's all there, building tension in your stiff, squared shoulders and clenched, set jaw.

You wanna tell him he's an ignorant, selfish, intolerable arsehole. You wanna scream and call him every derogatory insulting name you can think of.

You wanna give him a bruise to match the black eye on the right side. You wanna demand he man the fuck up.

And he's waiting for it.

You know he is.

Because /he/ knows /you/.

But for some reason the words are sticky.

For some reason, propped up in a hospital bed, narrow shoulders and bird-like collarbones, pale and sickly and wretched and worn, Elvis — Mr. Big Mouth and Bigger Ego, Mr. Big Dreams and Big Grand Tragic Fucking Gestures to Break Your Heart Apart — looks /small/.

And it occurs to you that you never really thought of him as something transient, something mortal, something with a finite amount of resources before.

Your best mate is — and always has been — invincible.

(You both are.)

"I thought I'd lost you." It's out before you realise. Soft-spoken. All feeling.

A sentence you immediately wish you could scoop back into your mouth and replace with the spitting confrontation that you really want.

It hangs heavy in the air between you. Sentimental words like an awkward gift neither one of you wanna take home.

Until Elvis closes his eyes.

And bows his neck.

And replies at a length, voice no more than a fractured half sob in the back of his throat, "I thought I'd lost you, too, man... I thought I'd lost you both..."

Your coat pockets rattle with Elvis's painkillers, when you take him home on day three.

He's not better, but he's managing (not complaining) and you make a pointed effort to drive extra slow over all of the speed bumps to minimise his stoic wincing.

You think he appreciates it.

You're not so sure he appreciates you driving straight by his house without stopping, though.

And you're not so sure he appreciates you pulling up in your mum's driveway, instead.

And he /definitely/ doesn't appreciate the patronising glare you gift him.

"You're stayin' wi' me for a bit."

He responds with a questioning pull of eyebrows and you elaborate, gruffly. "I want you where I can keep an eye on yer. You're fucked if you think I'm leavin' you on yer own with a shit ton of morphine."

He waits in the car while you climb out, then saunter round to his side.

Through the windscreen, hunkered and half scowling, he reminds you of that sulking kid, eleven winters ago, who smacked a busy in the face and got you both arrested.

You wish your world was that simple, that straight-forward and innocent, again.

"I'm not gonna off meself, if that's what ya think." He grumbles, when you open the door for him.

Leaning down, anchoring an arm around his back for stability, your reply's muffled in a lank mess of unwashed hair as Elvis lifts himself slowly, cringing. "Don't believe a word that comes outta your mouth lately, mate."

In the house, your mum fusses, naturally.

In the house, Elvis huffs and puffs and pretends he hates it.

You busy yourself upstairs, making up the spare bed in Chantelle's old room, smirking.

Your mum's always doted on Elvis like he's her own son.

And Elvis has always secretly loved the way she's a mum who'll actually /hug/ him.

Later, as you help him up to the bedroom, taking one stair every two minutes because he won't let you carry him (you tried. And you're counting.) he shakes his head in frustration, then elbows you in the ribs.

"I don't /want/ ya lookin' after me."

It's biting. Viscious. Like the last warning snarls of a wounded animal caught helpless in a snare. And it hurts you. Not because he's ungrateful or thankless, or because you've gone to all this trouble and he doesn't give a shit (you can deal with that, you've had a lifetime of it.) But because even after everything he's been through this month, after everything with Mattie and the fight and almost ending up dead, Elvis /still/ won't drop the bravado, /still/ won't be kind enough to allow himself to be /weak/.

You pull him tighter against your side. Lift the majority of his weight as he clutches at his stomach and braves the next step.

"Yeah well, I didn't wanna come save your arse from bein' buried six feet under at three in the mornin' 'cos Elways is incapable of thinkin' like a human bein', an' I don't /particularly/ fancy standin' about 'ere for three hours while you climb these bleedin' stairs, but sometimes — me lil fuckwit of a friend, you just 'ave to put up with shit."

---

You fetch it. All of Elvis's shit. Trudge up the street to what little remains of the Ianson family household, tooled with a clumsily scrawled list of everything he 'needs'.

Phone charger.

Laptop.

Crap to wear.

That one big tattered poster of Joan Jett that you're convinced is even older than him.

"I'm not bringin' yer entire wank bank." You'd told him, earlier that morning, when he'd swapped the list for a tray of your mum's breakfast in bed.

"Oh, come on," He'd whined, puppy-eyed even above a mouthful of scrambled eggs and pointing a fork to the Westlife collage completely covering one bedroom wall — a fading ode to Chantelle's obsessively romantic teenage years (years in which you'd had to accompany her to more than one of their shitty concerts, because your mum had /insisted/. Years in which you'd been needlessly excited when you discovered a picture of Alex Turner as her phone wallpaper, only to have your heart broken when she'd admitted she didn't like his band, and only had it there cos she /fancied/ him...), "I can't sit lookin' at those grinnin' paddy twats all day, I'll do meself in."

And so that's you, off to pick up clean clothes and electronics and fucking Joan Jett.

And that's you, anxiously pressing the Ianson's doorbell and hoping Elvis's mum actually lets you in.

As a kid, you'd never really liked her.

As a kid, you'd been convinced that dislike went both ways.

And as a kid, your Chantelle referred to her as 'the witch' on account of the sharp nose and cutting cheekbones Elvis later grew to inherit.

And growing up, Elvis's name for her had been solely 'the bitch'.

Nowadays though, you think you understand her.

Nowadays, you think you kinda get it.

After suffering four miscarriages and an unfortunate cot death, there's only so much of Elvis one mother's nerves can take.

When she opens the front door, however, you're surprised at her immediate inclination of head, gesturing for you to come in. And when you step into the living room, you're surprised to find a sofa scattered with Elvis's belongings.

"I packed up a few bits I thought he might want. Clean clothes, toothbrush, computer... things..." Elvis's mum is so quiet you can barely hear her and she doesn't look you in the eye when she speaks. "Probably loads of stuff I missed, though. So you're welcome to go upstairs and pick up anything else you think he needs. You'll know better than I do. I don't know anything about him these days..."

Half an hour later, after you've fished Elvis's phone charger from the colony of wild socks underneath his bed and return downstairs with Joan Jett rolled up under an armpit, you find his mum in the kitchen, hunched tense over a cup of tea at the table, head in her hands and biting at a trembling bottom lip.

"He's gonna be alright, ya know." You tell her. Reasoning she needs to hear it. Reasoning some fucker has to be the one who remains positive.

She sniffs and nods. Twitches a thin smile. Doesn't look up at you, though. You reason she's likely just too broken for it.

"I know..." She eventually whispers on an exhale's fragile edge, "I know he's safe with you. You've always been a good influence on him. You looked after him so well when you were kids..."

(...when you were /kids/.)

"That's right." You step towards her. Crouch beside the table so you're at eye level. So she has no choice but to look at you. No choice but to see that you're /sincere/.

You've got this. You're Dominic.

"An' just 'cos he's a grown man now, doesn't mean I 'ave any intention of stoppin'..."

You're going to be the death of each other.

You've always known it.

Only it hits you a little bit harder when you find him sitting on the back step, kitchen door to the garden wide open, freezing his arse off in nothing but boxers and his leather jacket ‪at three o'clock‬ in the morning.

The urge for a piss had seen you glancing through his ajar bedroom door on your bleary eyed shuffle down the hallway, and it hadn't been until you'd finished in the bathroom that it twigged there hadn't actually /been/ anyone in his bed.

Now there's a thin strip of bruised knotted spine between leather and elastic that you wish you couldn't see, and you're standing six feet away, shivering in your t-shirt and Calvins.

"What's up?" You ask, when you've stood a bit too long, when you're certain he's waiting for you to say something, "Shit the bed?"

A plume of grey anorexic smoke. "Go back to sleep." And the hem of his jacket riding up to expose tattered ends of messy bandages haphazard with curling surgical tape.

He won't allow you to dress his wound. He'll barely let you touch him, these days. But he's sitting in your back doorway at an ungodly hour, wearing nothing but that stupid fucking jacket he left on the wing mirror of your car, so that must account for /something/.

Unable (and a little bit unwilling) to go back to sleep, you do what any discerning English gentleman would do in this situation.

You stick the kettle on.

Make tea.

Then join him out on the back step, trying to ignore the way it's so cold your nuts have practically crawled back up into your body.

"Red moon." He says, flatly, swinging the last third of his cig your way.

You take it. A straight trade for the cup of tea he wedges between grazed up knees.

Above you, hanging over the field at the end of your garden, where you and Elvis wore down the leather on footballs when you were kids, where you sprained countless ankles and wrists, because Elvis always played dirty — the United scum that he is — and where you laid the early foundations of a friendship later cemented in political fashions and music, a blood moon burns its warning.

The lunar eclipse. The end of days.

And, when you've crushed the cigarette filter into the concrete and your arse has gone numb from the cold on the step, when Elvis has drunk all of his tea and half of yours and you've both been quiet for ages, he hefts a sigh, leans back, angles up his chin and closes his eyes as though sunbathing. "What next?"

It's cryptic, like always, but you hear it — all the unspoken words overloading the single silent space in between.

The 'where do we go from here'.

The 'what does this mean'.

The 'sorry', maybe.

(Or perhaps you're just projecting.)

And you wish you had the answer.

You wish you had some security.

Wish his outburst hadn't caused you to lose your always certain, always steady footing.

Most of all though... most of all you wish you had something else to say other than, "I dunno, mate... You tell me."

You remember Glastonbury, '08.

Standing in a muddy field among hundreds of drunk festival goers while ‪The Verve‬ light up your Sunday. You're not dancing, you're not a bloke who does that sorta thing, but you've got your head thrown back and arms outstretched, soaking it all in. And Elvis — still wired from managing to blag a barrier position to see ‪Pete Doherty‬ on the Friday — is singing in your ear with an elbow hooked round your waist, and you're thinking (knowing, really) "I am a fucking 'Lucky Man', indeed."

You remember it being easier then.

(Happier, maybe.)

More manageable, definitely.

Even as you come across Noel later on, when you and Elvis stumble arm-in-arm back to your tent.

Noel who's come along to Glasto with you, but in true Elways style has quickly gone his own way. And who, after three days, is nothing but an indulgent mess of filthy bare feet, white jeans rolled up to the knees, rainbow body paint and strings upon strings of plaited daisy chains. Noel, who, on his way to fuck knows /who/ in fuck knows /where/, makes wanker gestures and shouts "who's on top, tonight, nancy boys??" when the sight of him running passed like some kind of Millennial-Woodstock reject has you and Elvis collapsing into one another, giggling.

You remember it being easier then.

(The word didn't sting.)

When it was just you and Elvis and sometimes, now and again, Noel Elways. Before that night down The Crown, when a five-foot-nothing blonde shoved in beside you at the bar, playing wing-woman for her scary best mate.

Before Noel and Specks. And Mattie and Elvis.

Before you could listen to ‪The Smiths‬ without thinking of a certain tacky knitwear obsessed artist.

And you wonder, if you were given the opportunity to go back in time, would you do it all differently?

And you wonder, if you could replay ‪Sunday night‬ at Glastonbury when you were nineteen — if you could rewind to that precise moment Elvis wrestled you down onto the tarpaulin, still cracking laughs on the back of Noel's comment, and jokingly suggested; "Ohhh, Dominic, KISS me." would you do it?

Probably... probably.

You're down town, flicking through the stacks in Sound on a Saturday, trying to find something decent to buy for Elvis as some sort of 'get well soon, ya twat' present, when he turns up.

You don't even need to see him, to know when he shows.

Because Liam Gaffney, Sound's sixteen-year-old weekend 'record assistant' and your own personal shopper, who's been trailing you about the aisles regurgitating every article he's read in this week's copy of NME word-for-word, standing way too close for comfort and constantly getting under your feet, suddenly exclaims, "JUDE!" so loud he almost bursts your ear drum, then rockets off in streaks of smiley faces and tie-dye.

You don't turn round. You don't even look up. Just slouch a bit further and sink your head a bit deeper, and strategically navigate your way towards the very back of the shop.

It doesn't really work. You're not sure why you bother. Sound's no bigger than a shoebox, so there's nowhere for you to hide at six foot two. You've also just gravitated into the Northern Soul corner, and if there's anyone who's gonna be browsing round that bit in a parka on a Saturday, it's you.

(Or Polly, you suppose.)

You hear snags of conversation between the gaps in the same Happy Mondays album Liam's /always/ got playing on repeat in the shop. (Pills 'n' Thrills and Bellyaches. Released five years before he was born and playing over and over again every weekend for the last twelve months. You're surprised his manager hasn't broken it in two.)

"Saved summink special just for you, la..."

"How much you robbing me, this time..?"

"Jussa tenner now for you innit, like. But don't be tellin' 'em all, right. Mates rates an' that. Can't 'ave everyone wannin a bidda de Gaff..." And then, mixed with the ringing of a till and rustling of a carrier bag, "Cheers. Ta. Your Dom's over there, ya know."

And you /feel/ it.

The hesitation.

The weighing up of the odds.

The 'should we/should we not'.

But he's gotta keep up appearances in front of Gaffney.

(In front of the whole fucking world.)

You both do.

And so he's there, a few seconds later, leaning against the rack next to you, with a smile that's more like a grimace and an upward acknowledging nod, "Alright, mate."

"Alright."

"Anything good?"

"Not really. You?"

"Couple of bits. Just picking up some stuff Liam put behind the counter for me during the week." He doesn't offer to tell you what they are. Beyond Morrissey and The Beatles, yours and Julian's musical tastes don't overlap that much. He's long since gauged your disinterest. So instead, as you side step down the aisle to flip through the next stack, he offers up a sudden, "I heard about Elvis." in a tone somewhere between sympathetic and sore.

You pause in your browsing. Feel the muscle tense in your jaw. "Noel."

Of course. You should have known.

"Well, kinda." He shifts uncomfortably on the edge of your view, "He told Sara and Sara told me, so..."

"So, Mattie knows." Because of course Specks won't have thought to keep her big fat mouth shut. Because of course the news that Elvis nearly died just has to get back to the poor fucking girl.

Sometimes, you wonder if you're the only one in your group of mates who actually possesses forethought and common sense.

Sometimes, you wonder if you were beamed in from a completely different planet to them all.

Julian doesn't confirm or deny this information. And you know he's doing that irritating pacifist thing again, where he's dodging questions because he doesn't want anyone to get hurt.

There was a time, many naive months ago, when you mistakenly found this quality a bit endearing. And there was a time, many naive months ago, when it was quite nice to meet somebody who possessed a genuine moral code.

Funny how everything that was once attractive about him, bugs the absolute shit outta you now.

"How is she?" You ask. Because you've got manners. Because you do care. Because it's been way too long since you visited and there's guilt collecting in your gut like a reservoir. "Not good..." he says.

(Not long, you hear.)

"I'll visit." You say.

"You should." He nods. And then, when the small talk's over and you've both put on enough of a show, "I should get off, anyway. I'm meeting Polly round the gallery at two. Don't wanna be too late. /Scary/ that girl."

"Right, yeah, course. Don't piss 'er off, will you."

As he turns to leave, relief allows your teeth to un-clench.

And as he turns to leave you think 'thank fuck'.

Only for him to suddenly turn back again with a mumbling, "Uhm, actually... Dom..." frowning and rifling through his Sound carrier bag and catching you completely off guard.

You don't know what to say when he slides out a copy of Radiohead's album 'The Bends'. And you don't know what to say when he slides it into your hand, track-listing side up, a paint-stained fingernail bullet-pointing 'High and Dry' just a little bit too long.

"Really good on vinyl, that one." He offers, looking you in the eye for the first time since he entered the shop, "Just so you know..."

You spend the rest of the weekend conjuring a tension headache from the furrow in your brow, stomping about the house and grunting like a Neanderthal whenever Elvis or your Mum try to strike up conversation. Because you know what Julian's implying. You know exactly what he's trying to say. You've heard High and Dry so much on the radio at work you're pretty sure you've absorbed every inch of it's meaning.

And you know you're a dickhead. You know you're struggling with this. You feel like you're fucking drowning, most days.

You don't need a reminder of your shortcomings.

So when Elvis confronts you, late ‪Sunday evening‬, you're laying across your bed pressing the heels of your hands into your eyeballs, trying to push the aches out of your skull.

"What's up wi' you, mard arse? You on your period?"

"Fuck off. I'm not in the mood."

Creaks on the floorboards. The soft brush of sliding cardboard. Paper, crinkling. And you know.

You - "Put that back."

Him - "Get lost."

The whir of the arms rotation. A dull drop of the needle. Static that reminds you of air before a thunderstorm.

"At least turn it down."

To your surprise, when the music kicks in there's no frenetic drumbeat, no growling bass or snarling guitar Elvis always favours, though.

Just the gentle lullaby notes of Lennon's white grand piano backed with that warm, vintage vinyl hiss you've always loved. And when you move your hands, Elvis is smirking. And when your frown starts to let up, he flops down beside you on the bed, deeming close proximity safe once more.

He lays in silence next to you with his eyes closed. Not touching. But near enough.

Just a presence.

A reminder.

("I am here for you, you know.")

And it takes a while - three songs in fact - but by the closing notes of 'Jealous Guy' you don't feel like you want him to fuck off any more.

"D'ya ever worry you're turnin' into your old man?" You surprise yourself with your honesty. It suddenly feels as though you've been carrying the weight of your entire twenty-one-year existence on your back at all times and now you're unpacking it, one hoarded forgotten object at a time.

Elvis huffs a laugh, "What? No? Worried about turnin' into me Mam, more.” It takes a few moments for him to clock on, but when you stare at the ceiling in silence he figures it out, "You're nothing like your Dad, man."

"I don't know..." the hands are at your eyes again, the bridge of your nose feels sore, "...I wouldn't be so sure."

You try to explain the rage dwelling deep inside of you. The ruthless aggression stamped like a branding into your bones. The way that every day feels like being stranded in the middle of a war zone, fighting uselessly between what you want and what you /are/.

You were made in your father's image. And while you want to believe that you're not a bad person, you know -- inherently -- that you are.

"Why don't you go and see him?" Elvis suggests, when the words have run out and you're not sure how to put your tormented thoughts into comprehensible sentences any more.

"Are you havin' a laugh?" The thought tightens like a pair of hands around your throat.

"Seriously, mate," he continues, "If nothing else it'll remind you just how different you’ve become..."

You're eight.

You're eight, when you ram Sareem Akhtar's face into the school gates and leave him needing four stitches in his eyebrow.

You don't remember why you do it. You're not sure you really have a good excuse. Elvis recalls something about him pulling Chantelle's ponytail to get her attention and kicking it all off, but in all honesty you'd been searching for a reason to batter him for weeks. Maybe even months.

You'd just been waiting for him to put a toe out of line and get on your nerves. Because you don't like his face.

Don't like the colour of his skin.

And he regrets it, whatever he did.

Because when he's curled on the concrete in a puddle of his own blood, and you're standing over him spitting "dirty paki cunt!" with half the school crowded round behind you, he wails his little heart out, the poor sod.

And when Chantelle — the fucking loudmouth, blabs about it all when you get home, your Mum shouts til her face turns tomato then sends you straight to your bedroom.

But your Dad, sitting in his chair by the telly, hunched over shining his Docs, just listens silently and smirks.

That night, Chantelle, Mercedes and Chelsea all climb into your bed.

That night, Natalie and Rachel — the two eldest — stand at the top of the stairs earwigging as your Mum and Dad fight. "It's about you, bro." Natalie calls down the hall.

And Chelsea — the only sister in your bed not currently curled up in your arms and sobbing into your neck, huffs a scathing, "Fuck's sake, it's /always/ about you!" then throws the duvet over her head as she turns her back.

Your Mum spends the next morning crying in the kitchen.

Your Dad thumps about the bedroom, stuffing clothes into bags.

And when you pause in the doorway, frowning.

(Worrying)

He gestures you in, then tugs you into a gruff hug.

"Proud o' you." His chest rumbles against your face as he holds you tight, rubbing the top of your shaved head, "So fucken proud, son."

You don't hug him back. You don't know how, or even if you should. The most affection you've ever had from your Dad is a clout round the ear. And he's always beat it into you not to be soft.

He's never — not once — told you he's proud of you before.

So when he pulls away and holds out his hand, old National Front tattoo faded to a red and blue smudge on his palm, you stand there a bit clueless until he grabs yours.

"Take care o' yer Mam an' sisters." He says. And it's not a request, but a command. "An' take care o' these bad boys." He goes on, plucking up your other hand, balling your fingers into fists and kissing each set of knuckles in turn, "Your best mates for life, these two. "

And then, as the realisation dawns on you.

As you become suddenly startlingly conscious of the massive fucking shoes you're required to fill.

"Don't you dare cry, lad. Don't wanna see none of those tears, now. Not today an' not ever. Understand? You're a fighter. You're not a puff an' yer not soft. You're a proud Englishman, born and bred. Hard as nails. An' yer /my/ son."

You knew he'd bounce back.

Week three and Elvis is out in your back garden, playing footie with all your nieces and nephews. Getting tackled into the grass by seven boisterous five-to-ten year olds. Getting tickled half to death and mass sat upon. Much to the delight of the toddlers, Poppy and Rose, who are parked in a double pushchair by the back door and gleefully smearing chocolate biscuits all over each other from the excitement of it all.

You're gazing out the window above the sink, over a mountain of soapy bubbles, while Chantelle stands next to you, armed with a dishtowel, the pair of you reenacting the ‪Sunday afternoon‬ duties from when you were young.

"He'd make a great Dad, you know." She says, as Elvis suddenly leaps up roaring, sending the kids scattering in fits of screeched giggles across the yard.

"He's engaged." You remind her. Reacting on autopilot.

A deterrent.

(Or he was. At one point.)

"I wasn't implying anythin', ya div. I don't /fancy/ him. I'm not after his /babies/, Dom. Just pointin' out he's good wi' kids, that's all."

"Well, obviously..." You direct your attention back to the washing up, "'cos he never bleedin' grew up."

It's quiet for a bit. Just the sound of you scraping the remainders of a steak pie off the bottom of a baking pan, Elvis mimicking a T-Rex outside and the muffled audio of the telly from the next room.

Until, "You'd make a great Dad, too."

And you're not sure if she's saying it because she believes you — like Elvis — have a special way with children, or because you — unlike your own Dad — stuck around to actually look after your sisters and your Mum. But either way it's honest. And either way it's a thought that both surprises and scares you.

"We're two players down for Elvis's football team." She goes on, grinning to herself. "When're me and you gonna contribute?"

"Never." You grunt, "I'm not 'avin kids. At least not after how /we/ grew up..." And then, because the opportunity's right there. Because the conversation's wide open. Because you know you'll regret it if you don't seize the moment. "I'm gonna go see him, ya know."

And Chantelle looks up at you, pencil thin dark brows pulled low beneath a poker straight curtain of yellow-blonde. "Who?"

"Dad. On Wednesday. Called the Visitor Centre last week an' they rang me back with his confirmation this mornin', so..."

"Oh..."

She's silent then, for ages.

So are you.

She stares at the plates slotted into the draining rack and you stare down at the bubbles enclosed round your hands.

Outside, Elvis performs keepie-ups for his adoring crowd.

When your sister speaks again her voice is quiet, /thin/, "You sure that's a good idea?"

And you huff a sardonic laugh, "Hah. No. But I have to... It's somethin' I /need/ to do."

You know she doesn't understand your mysterious, undisclosed motive and in all honesty, you don't expect her to. As far as Chantelle's concerned — as far as all of your sisters are concerned for that matter — your old man is just a cunt who abandoned his family right when they needed him the most.

And you know Chelsea, who was always closest to your Dad and who's never quite gotten over it all, still pins a large fraction of the blame on you.

Chantelle, though...

Chantelle's always fought in your corner. Even if she does have a massive gob on her that's got you into shit more than once.

"Anythin' you want me to tell him?" You ask, when you realise she's not gonna pursue the conversation any further on her own, "Got anythin' you want me to say from you?"

And at first she shakes her head. At first she scrunches her little pig-like upturned nose in disgust.

Until suddenly her face changes, and her jaw squares and her brow crumples into a scowl just like yours, and she looks you straight in the eyes and goes, "Yeah... Yeah, actually, I do... Tell him I hope he never gets parole. Tell him I said he deserves to sit in that cell 'til he /rots/."

---

You won't let him wonder 'what if?'. It's not something you're going to allow.

Because you know that feeling. You live with that uncertain wondering — the sometimes wishful thinking — every day of your life. And you know it's no good.

No good for you.

No good for Elvis.

So when he starts uhm-ing and ahh-ing and bitching and moaning and making excuses that are a bit light on their facts, you pick him up. Physically, pick him up. Then carry him, bridal-style, out to your car.

There's nothing even remotely fucking romantic in it, not when you're struggling to restrain him cos he's kicking off and mouthing off while simultaneously trying to knee you in the jaw. And not when you're dumping him carelessly on the backseat with zero concern for his comfort, then kicking closed the auto-locking door.

"I'm not fuckin' goin'!" His boots ramrod your backrest as you twist the key in the ignition then reverse out of the yard.

"Get a beef on all you want, mate," you say, flashing a nonchalant look in the rear mirror, briefly eyeing your bristling barb-wired boy hunkered in the reflection, all tongue and teeth and too much gum, "it's not gonna change anything. You're goin' to see her and that's that."

Parked in front of Mattie's parents' house, Elvis sits sullen and sulking and refusing to get out of the car.

Parked in front of Mattie's parents' house, you grab him by the scruff of his jacket and haul him out.

"She doesn't wanna see me!" He protests as you frog-march him down the garden path.

"How the fuck d'you know?"

"I don't wanna see her!" He insists when you're the one knocking on the door. "You can't kid a kidder, man."

And then, when you're pushing him into the Linnington family's living room like a reluctant toddler, pressing your mouth to his ear and a ring into his palm, "I'll come back in a few hours when you've sorted it out."

"Wait, what?! Wood! No!" And when he spins to face you he's less agitated, more helpless. Just big childlike worried eyes and incapable pleading hands. "Don't leave me. Please. Don't go!"

Because you're better at fixing shit that's damaged than he is.

Because you're the one who's always puzzled back together all the shattered pieces of his life before.

Because he's fucking terrified of his own inevitably built up, inevitably broken, perpetually battered, rapscallion heart.

"I can't, mate. Sorry." You've got an appointment at Strangeways in an hour. Today, both you and you best mate are facing up to shit in your lives that hurt. "It's all you now, son. Just you..."

---

You remember Elvis' first month at university.

Not because he tells you about it — but rather, because he doesn't.

There are no text messages. No phone calls. No voice mails left in the stupid hours of the morning when he can't sleep because he's bitten his own wild mind bleeding and raw.

And you don't call him. You want to. You pull his name up in your mobile's address book and sit with your thumb hovering over the 'call' button more times than you care to recount, but you don't do it.

Because not too long ago, you laid side-by-side, the world growing slowly beneath your bones, as you stared up at the stars. And you'd told Elvis you'd visit. Told him you'd come down all the time to hang out. But since helping him move into the flat — since you hauled four bags of crap and guitar up the stairs while he arsed about getting to know his new friend 'Noel', he hasn't invited you to come over once.

And you're not the type to drop in on somebody /uninvited/.

And you reason he's likely found a whole crew of mates cooler than you, by now. He always was the popular one.

So when Elvis does finally call you, howling laughter down the line like a wolf, before informing you that he and Noel are planning to throw their very first 'party' and asks you to come along, you realise you're probably just trying to spite him when you tell him that you can't.

You're covering a late shift that particular Friday for a guy at work, you say. Then an early shift the following Saturday morning.

"Sorry, mate. No can do."

And Elvis lets out a sigh so full of disappointment, you can practically hear him deflate on the other end, like a balloon.

"Aw, Wood... Seriously? Really wanted you to be there... It's not the same without you, you know..."

And it's not so much that you're jealous of all Elvis' new mates getting to spend time with him — you swear you're not.

More that you're just envious of Elvis himself, with this exciting new life unfurling at his feet, full of incredible opportunities that you can never have.

And yet... despite your excuses, despite the fact you know you're not going to enjoy it, despite the way you know you're gonna hate everyone, you still find yourself picking out and ironing a decent shirt the night before...

At Elvis and Noel's, it's all bodies.

Bodies clustered round the entrance doors to the building, smoking. Bodies dotting the stairwell, half throwing up. Reams of philanthropically drunk teenagers spilling out of the flat and down the hall.

You have to step over a couple wrapped around each other on the floor, doing thorough investigations of one anothers back molars, before you can get in through the door.

"Thought you had to work?"

A nip on your right arse cheek, hard enough to hurt, incites both a yelp and a warning bare of teeth as you spin around.

It's Elvis. Obviously.

Elvis, all crinkled laughing eyes and lolling teasing tongue and ballsy rogue-like hands that tear the world in two.

"Brought you a present." You say, conveniently side-stepping away from your excuse.

His attention is immediately diverted as you lift up the carrier bag from the off license.

His smile slides into the corner of his mouth. "How thoughtful of you, Wood."

And you know that he knows it was all a lie. And you know that he knows exactly why.

Because he knows you, just as intimately as you know him.

But he's not going to challenge it.

You know that, too.

Elvis doesn't take the bag holding the six pack. Just rustles about, peels a can from the ring-holder and cracks open the tab. Around you, the bustling crowd in the flat churns like whirlpool.

"Made a lotta new friends." You remark.

It's not a surprise. Everyone has always known and loved Elvis. He makes it too difficult /not/ to.

"Lotta new birds, you mean." He grins, leaning conspiratorially forward.

Elvis is all warm body and cold can, and you're not sure if the goosebumps erupting on your arms are from the chill of the Carlsberg suddenly pressed against your chest, or the close proximity of his mouth.

"Come on. Lemme introduce you."

And while you'd like to believe that when he hauls you round the flat by the arm, parading you proudly from one cluster of party-goers to the next, beaming "Remember when I was tellin' ya 'bout me best mate, Dom?" and "Have ya had the honour of meeting me best boy, here, Wood?" at anyone who'll lend an ear for a second — you know, deep down, he's doing it because he knows you're unbelievably jealous of all of this. And you know, deep down, he wants to make you feel included. Like you're important. Show you off. Make you a part of all this too.

Because while he's laughably blind to things sometimes, (most times), Elvis isn't stupid.

And while he sometimes (a lot of the time) suffers from tunnel-vision, Elvis isn't selfish.

And by parading you about like a trophy, excitedly introducing you to all of his new friends, sharing funny anecdotes from when the two of you were young and making you sound much cooler and put together than you really are — he's resetting the balance. Cleverly easing away your anxiety and re-establishing your existence as the centre of his universe.

And later, in the quiet moments when the night's not quite over but all the frayed seams of the party are starting to gently come undone, he lays next to you, horizontally, on the sofa, legs hooked over the armrest, head on your thigh.

Across the room, Noel's wedged into an armchair with a girl on his lap. She's giggling. He's grinning. And then he's saying something you can't hear into the exposed skin of her collarbone, as he slides both hands beneath her skirt.

"How does he do that?"

You assume Elvis is not commenting on Noel's fingering technique.

(You hope he isn't.)

And that Elvis really means how does Noel /pull/.

You shrug. "Low standards." You suppose, you don't exactly know him much, "Surprising how much you can put it about when you don't care where it ends up."

Elvis' hair brushes your knuckles as you pick up the can wedged between your knees, then bring it your mouth.

"That why Dom Junior's not allowed out to play? Standards too high for the common woman?" He snatches your drink before you're done. And you don't think you're imagining it when you drop your hand and he leans his head into you, tangling hair around your fingers as though seeking out your touch.

"/Impossibly/ high standards." You say, looking down.

At him.

Your firecracker. Your minefield. Your thunderstorm.

Effortless and ignorant here, with a slowly sideways slipping smile and head in your lap.

Your best mate stacking another /feeling/ onto that emotional pile of dry kindling still waiting for a spark.

The teasing — mildly flirtatious — half-panting tongue is back.

"I know, I know," he banters, "it's not every day you run into a bird as perfect as I am."

#ljlsdom #ljlspartfive

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