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toothedsmile · 4 years

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The new demon: Chapter four

Chapter four: The Happy Hotel

Chapter one/ prologue, Chapter two, Chapter three, masterlist

“Now this, is what I would call a very nice house.”

Sarcasm, was beautiful when not used against oneself. You had clearly overestimated the riches of your victim and now you would pay the price. Perhaps they, before taking you into an alleyway, had stolen some money (and the motorcycle) from someone who could afford expensive stuff. It could have been possible that they were just hiding and tried to involve you into their problems. ‘Though’ you thought ‘he should be happy, I solved his problem! Now that I’m thinking for once, do you stay dead if you die down here? I mean, it would be weird, where the hell do you go? To Hell? Again?’ Shaking your stopped your thoughts from going to far as you turned your attention back to the house in front of you.

Luckily it was not an apartment, you never really liked those, you always thought that people could hear whatever you said through the walls that separated you and the person living next to you.

Also it was safer to have a house, in case you were stabbing someone. People who get stabbed don’t always make a lot of noise but the body sure does, if you get it? Hahaha, you were so funny you didn’t even remember what you joked about. How great.

Putting your hand in a pocket you took out the small amount of keys that you had, despite being dumb enough to drag you in an alleyway, you were happy that the demon had enough sense to label the most important keys. Such as ‘Front door’, it was as if he knew you were going to kill him and then rob his dead/ possibly not completely dead body.

Breathing in with excitement and holding the key, you put it in the lock. With a small clicking sound it unlocked. Your hand wavered slightly as you reached for the doorknob, while opening the door you kept your breath in and as you stepped inside and your eyes wandered around you breathed out in relief.

The house was actually quite modern, the living room visible from where you stood. None of the different shades of black and red bothered your eyes much as they were used in a way that did not seem to be annoying like the previous owner.

You stepped in completely, closed the door and let your mind take in the view of your new house in. Once you were in the living room you could see some things thrown around, like a shoe that had no match nearby. The couch was something you didn’t really find pleasant as well, your eyes narrowed as you walked to it, your hands slowly caressing over it as you took in the leathery sensation, your hands started curling into it harshly without any mercy.

While you may have been a murderer, you did not like the possibility of an animal getting killed just for it’s leather. Things that used wool were fine for you, as normally the sheep were just shaved and not killed, with food you also had no problem as you had to eat something. It would not be the first time you killed someone who hunted animals for sport. You despised people like that.

It was no surprise that your anger got the best of you, it having been pent up once again since your murder of the demon. With strength that you didn’t know of, you swung the two meter couch straight out of the window with a mighty yell as your eyes went black once again in your agitation, startling any demons that were outside as well as hitting one, crushing him under the weight of it.

With the disturbance to your eyes gone and your agitation calming down you managed to form a thought. ‘Since when did that stuff make me this angry?’

You decided not to think on it too long, saying to yourself that you had more than enough time to do so later in the day when you would come back from your visit to Angel Dust and the new hotel that you heard of on the news.

While walking back to your door, your eyes moved to the destroyed window, the wall surrounding it was slightly broken but nothing that couldn’t be fixed with some paint or a bigger window. Once at the door you took a last longing look to the television and the two rooms you had already seen before you stepped outside, you didn’t need to put on a jacket again as you had never took it off, it was a too fast leave for your liking.

Shaking off your will to stay longer and rest, you locked the door behind you, dramatically caressing the door with your eyes closed as you said a soft goodbye, your hand lingered as you walked away before dropping to your side. Clenching a fist to your chest and pursing your lips, you shook your head.

Your eyes opened, expecting to see sunlight and the beautiful blue sky but you were slightly disappointed with the fact that everything was just as red as the previous hours.

Your hands reached to take out the keys on your pocket as you noticed that your motorcycle was still safe outside, no demons had tried to take it luckily enough. With a happy smile and wriggling hips you walked closer to it and sat yourself down on your seat, hands reaching to the handles as the excitement of riding a motorcycle came back once again as you recalled the way the wind swept through your hairs and face, but then your remembered the bug that had flown on your teeth when you were smiling and decided that you eventually needed to buy a helmet.

Sticking the key into the ignition and turning it turned on the beautiful sound of the motor, you readied yourself to leave, revved the motor a few times and drove away.

It was after a few minutes of driving that you remembered that you didn’t even know where the hotel was.

You stopped on the side of the street, beckoned the first demon who looked you into your eyes and asked them the way to the hotel. The demon just snorted mockingly, shook his head and walked away as he mumbled and chuckled under his breath about “Dumb new demons, they die in a week.”

It was only after asking 15 other demons, driving to the places where the hookers hung around, being hollered at by more than half of the demons you passed by while they made suggestive gestures (to which you stuck out your middle finger) and having 6 demons offer you drugs for “a good price if you get what I mean?”.

But you did manage to get to the hotel when one demon was surprisingly kind enough to give you the way, all he had to do was point in the direction of a small hill. Right there was a beautiful path leading up to a building with the words “Happy Hotel” written on the very top.

Once you had driven close enough you stepped off your bike and decided to park and lock it at the inside of the high fence that surrounded it so it would be a little safer, not knowing if you were allowed to drive up on the path to the hotel even if it was big enough for two cars to drive side by side and still be able to enter without bumping into each other or the red fence.

Yet you played it safe, not wanting to anger the princess of Hell or any of her possible friends, even if she seemed like a very kind person you had to remember that looks and actions could be very deceiving.

With a mental pat on the back you started walking up the path to the looming hotel, so far it actually did not look even remotely inviting enough for one to think ‘Hey! I want to get rehabilitated there and become a better person!’

It was the opposite even, there were eyes on some weird tent looking thing that was connected to the building itself the dead trees beside it were scary and the twisting “poles” of the “tent” were weird and off putting you weren’t even going to mention the fact that there was a part of a locomotive placed on top of another sign that said “Happy Hotel” nor that there was a staircase leading to nowhere or that big piece of a ship that hung out at the right side of the building, it made your eyebrows goo up for a second.

Though you waved those thoughts away and looked at the brighter side of things, your (hopefully) new friend Angel Dust was in there, the small lanterns were actually pretty cute and the coloured glass made everything else just seem like a weird nightmare that you couldn’t explain. And the fact that Angle Dust was inside there! (despite having already mentioned him) You really wanted to meet him again after your “second” meeting when you drove by the car on your bike, he seemed way more pleasant then.

It was just after then that you noticed where you stood, there right in front of you stood the door to the interior of the Happy Hotel and your (once again) hopefully new friend Angel Dust and the people who ran the Hotel.

Your hand raised, forming a fist that was ready to knock, despite it being a hotel you really did not want to seem disrespectful, it took a few seconds before you actually knocked.

You straightened your spine, put your hands interlocked behind your back and put up a lovely smile to hide the nervous jitters in your body when you heard soft footsteps heading to the door.

The door opened and to your surprise it was Angel dust that opened the door, one of his hands holding some sort of…something.

At first he looked absolutely disinterested but once he got to see that it was actually you he got a smile on his face, or a smirk, it was actually quite hard to see the difference.

“Toots! I can’t believe ya actually got here! I though you’d be dead by now!” With the most offended look possible you looked at him, he merely shrugged and took your arm to drag you inside while closing the door behind you with another free hand.

“Glad ya could make it! I wanted ta ask ya somethin’ you know, about your nice new bike that you can take me on a ride with, if you catch my drift Ha! Or if ya wanted ta do business here I wouldn’t mind.”

He said as one hand went to the back of your neck and the other stroked over your waist. Smiling politely you took them both off you, put a hand in your pocket and took a few bills you found somewhere. (read: stole from one of the demons you asked the way to)

“Here, I’ll give you this and you don’t suggest that again for the next few days. That sound good? Great! Anyway, I just wanted to say hi again and look at the ‘Happy Hotel’ I saw on the news.”

Angel dust kept silent while you spoke, just blinking at the small wad of cash that you had given him without any other expression on his face. His eyes moved straight to your as they grew big and all cutesy like. “Why thank you so much toots! Now I know what I need ta do when I need some extra cash! I’ll just ask you! Ya got some more?”

His hands turned you around and moved your arms and legs up and down as he searched for some more money. Your smile turned a little less pleased, more strained as your eyes narrowed. With pinched fingers you took hold of one of his gloves.

“Sorry Angel, there’s nothing more for you. How’s about you let me go now?”

With a roll of his eyes he let you go and walked away, waving a hand in the air next to him to beckon you to him when he went to sit on a couch in the Hotel.

“Fine, fine. But ya know I’m always available. Anyway, I wanted ta speak to the newbie here in hell ya know. Besides, you promised me somethin’ right?”

Once again back to your normal self, you went to sit next to him. Hands neatly on each other on your lap.

“Why yes I did! The new house I got isn’t really fancy but I think it could use some of your advice you know. You’re the first person I’ve met and I wanted you to see it! What do you think about it?”

While Angel Dust was thinking far too long for an answer you took notice of the two other people inside the room who had finished speaking to each other were now looking at you.

Sheepishly smiling you waved at them, while the one you identified as the princess of Hell happily smiled back at you, it was quite obvious that her friend seemed suspicious of you with the way she narrowed her eyes.

Charlie, the princess, skipped to where you sat as she dragged the other with her with a big smile.

“Hi there! I’m Charlie and this is Vaggie! Are you here to check in? if so then that’s amazing because we’ve been kind of worried that we wouldn’t get any customers after you know hat happened but I’m really glad that you wanted to come here!”

Slightly hesitating you stuck out a hand while your mouth opened uselessly.

“Ah, well no. You see, I’m here for Angel Dust, not to check in the Hotel, sorry. Perhaps some other time?”

At your mention of just being here for Angel dust, Charlie slumped down with puppy dog eyes and a small pout before coming to the conclusion that you came for not only Angel but his services as well.

“Ah, well…. We don’t uh, really let that happen here you know besides the Hotel is for redemption…”

Standing up with panicked eyes while waving your hands in front of you your head.

“No no no! You’re wrong! I’m just here to talk, not for….that. I uh, just needed to discuss something with him. No sin stuff happening.”

She loosened up a bit at your answer.

“Anyway, I’m Y/N. Nice to meet you Charlie, Vaggie.”

Putting your hand in front of you, you waited for a handshake. Charlie gladly took your hand while Vaggie hesitated a bit.

Charlie eventually excused herself and Vaggie went to sit on a small couch away from Angel Dust and you.

“So, Angel. Do you want to come over some time?”

At the mention of his name, Angel looked up at you, he merely blinked at first but then quickly put on a smile/ smirk.

“Why I sure did toots! I’ll take ya up on your offer, might as well you know.”

With a happy smile you took one pair of his hands in yours.

“That’s great Angel!”

The front door opened once again as Charlie walked inside with a very sad face, with closed eyes she leaned against the just closed doors.

Just after a few seconds someone knocked loudly on the door.

Curiously you saw that she opened the door, and seemingly trailed her eyes over someone who was dressed in some sort of familiar red suit. When she made eye contact with the person he yelled.

“HEL-“

Startled over something she closed the door immediately, looked to the side and opened it once again. Letting the person finish his one word.

“-LO!”

And yet again Charlie closed the door, your face scrunched up in confusion.

With wide and panicked eyes she looked over to her companion, Vaggie.

“Hey, Vaggie?” She slid over to Vaggie, who had her hand on the front of her head, she probably had a headache from what had happened.

“What?” It was very obvious that she was tired.

Charlie put her pointer fingers to the sides of her mouth, mimicking a big smile and pointed with finger guns at the door.

“The radio demon is at the door.”

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dissociationnation · 4 years

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Sun and Moon Part one.

Characters: Nyal Grey, Mako Reyes (OCs)

AU: Florist and tattoo artist, supernatural.

Wordcount: 9.7K+.

A/N: Hello my dears! I’ll be writing this with the hopes of getting some feelings out, this’ll be mainly fluff and slow-burn galore but I do plan to sprinkle in some angst.

Slivers of bright sunlight peeked through the curtains, falling onto the sheets that pooled at Nyal’s hips, the slightest burn from the light made him shoot up, yells of ‘FLUFF’ and ‘CRUSH A UNICORN’ leaving his lips. His fangs sunk into his bottom lip gently, whines leaving his lips as he tugged his black sleep shirt down, rich ruby-coloured eyes narrowing into a glare as he tugged his slender fingers through his raven locks. He half-glanced to the clock, watching the bright numbers mockingly flash 13:41. He was late for his shift, good unicorn saviours as if the day could get worse.

He lifted his shirt up once he got to the bathroom, rummaging through his things until his hand wrapped around a small can of cream for such incidents that happened much too often to be considered ‘incidents’. It was truly his fault for always being out just before sunrise and retreating in a hurry that he often forgot to secure his curtains. He just never learned. A low hiss left his lips as he pressed the cool gel against the burn that was no bigger than a nickel. His head fell back, bloody tears beginning to form and fall without much of a care for his floor. His sleeve came to wipe it away, resealing the cream and setting it away. He stripped his shirt, staring at himself in the mirror, fingers ghosting over his chest, the faint lines of surgery still apparent if you looked close enough, or rather had a vampire’s sight. He tore his eyes away from the mental image of himself before, pulling out gauze and wrapping that would be covered by his uniform shirt. He tugged his hair back, tying it into a bun, admiring the undercut as he finished. He left without another glance, brushing a few loose hairs from his face and beginning to undress, tugging the curtain back into place.

His eyes scanned through his pants, catching on a few brighter-looking rather than the usual black cargo pants that he was famously known for in his workplace. He took out a white pair, slipping them on and readjusting the size slightly and pulling on the bright yellow shirt that was a trademark to the flower shop he worked at. A sigh of relief left his lips, though the moment was short-lived once the familiar beat of his most recent song addictions filled the air. He floated over to his phone, picking it up and holding it to his ear “Grey, how may I assist you?~”

“Nyal get your ass to the shop before I literally take away every cat plushie from the break room” a gasp left his lips, though it wasn’t out of shock it was more so teasing “HAH! Jokes on you, I moved them to my house.” a groan was heard on the other line “Guess you won’t get the limited edition Junie kitty.” within a few minutes all that was heard from Nyal was rushing and the breaking of a few things as he searched for his umbrella and shoes, shouts of “HOLD IT LADY!” being heard distantly before he reached for his device and rushed out the door, half running half floating. “I’m on my way right now!” his pale cheeks were blooming with colour, reds and pinks creeping across his face as his chest heaved. He came to a stop outside of the shop, leaning against the window and leaning down to catch his breath, catching the stares of a few humans, witches, and vampires alike. He waved them along and stepped inside, inviting the cold air with open arms, closing his umbrella and setting it aside as he usually did each time he stepped inside. His steps were light, sneakers sliding across the floor as he began to float, turning so he was on his back and drifted over the flowers, admiring their differing colours with a gentle smile. Raven locks tickled a few petals, his fingers drifting over a few that seemed to be drooping.

His relaxation was interrupted when the door suddenly swung open, hitting the window and effectively scaring the wits out of the small male. His floating turned into falling quickly, landing on his back, gasping for air once it had been knocked from his lungs “holy unicorns dude.” he sat up slowly, beating against his chest as he moved behind the counter, glaring to the man that had entered, resting his chest against the counter “How may I assist you, sir?” The flustered look on the man’s face was almost enough to let him forgive the taller for making him casually fall out of the air.

“What’s the best flower for a confession?” the question was easy enough, though he felt a bit out of his element since well...ya know. “Would you rather have one specific type or a bouquet of different flowers? Bouquet’s tend to be more pleasing, but to each their own darlin’.” the slightest southern drawl was detectable, his hands already reaching for a few flowers to use to sample. He set down a few variations in colours of roses, adding in a few white Gardenia’s. “How do these look, sweetie?” he looked to the back of the store, his foot tapping nervously as his boss stared at him through the breakroom window, a smirk on her face. Tricky women. He excused himself for a few minutes, allowing the man a few minutes to decide what he wanted to do and collect the apron he’d left on his hook. A smile graced his lips at the tape over his name, the N was etched beautifully and the rest covered with tape, the messy handwriting of Elsie covering the rest with ‘yal’. She really was a supportive woman, working with her the past three years was lovely to him. He fastened the apron, reappearing at the counter “Figured it out yet, love?”

The man nodded mutely, mumbling something he couldn’t quite catch other than ‘bouquet’ and ‘price’ “You wish for the bouquet? That’ll be…” he trailed off as he began assembling the bouquet with one hand, using the other to tap into the register and pulling it away to finish tying the ribbon “18.37.” he smiled slightly, enough to keep his fangs partially hidden. The man paid and left with his bouquet, seemingly much more confident in himself now.

Hours passed, customers came and went and at this point, Nyal was exhausted from being the only one to do anything, his boss watching and enjoying his painful social interaction. A few times elderly women came in and with a confused stare attempted to refer to him, his deep voice “not doing much to help them” apparently. Pure bullshit, but he’d never comment on it. He collapsed in the breakroom, glaring daggers at Elsie, watching as she let out giggles and snorts “You looked so cute! Like a lost puppy AH HAH!” his cheeks burned, arms crossing as he huffed out a mumble of what he’d call kid-friendly curses.

The door rang out, alerting to another customer and Nyal stood with a groan, leaving the break room and stretching his arms, not taking notice of the stranger until he made it to the counter and opened his mouth to greet. His throat ran dry as he stared at the much taller customer, allowing himself to float a bit for the sake of comfort for his neck. “How may I help you darlin’?” He could practically feel Elise’s gaze on the back of his head, his mental sensors making everything inside of him explode when the customer replied with “pick me any flower you like, sweetheart.” he clicked his tongue at the line, lowering himself back to the ground and coming from behind the desk to look through the flowers, he knew them all like the back of his hand but he’d never really thought of them in a way he’d choose a specific plush. “I don’t think I have a favourite, sorry sweetie. Is there a flower that catches your eye?” his head tilted as he motioned to a few of the brighter flowers, more pleasing to the eye to him. “Only other pretty flower here is you, so I’m afraid there’s none. Unless you’d like to come with me?” he couldn’t help the laugh that left his lips, his hand moving to muffle the laughter and only failing as he crouched to keep from shaking in place “I’m sorry but… I’m no flower darlin’.” he stood up shakily, a few wheezes of laughter continuing to leave his lips “I could suggest you a rose or something, but I’m afraid even if I were a flower my boss can’t do anything without me.” he jerked his thumb to the breakroom, Elsie nearly falling backwards when the customer glanced at her. “What a shame. Well, if you ever take it back I’m Mako.” Nyal nodded, slightly shaking as he suppressed more laughter “Nyal. I’m almost always here, but don’t expect a time.” with that Mako left, sending one or two winks in Nyal’s direction through the window before disappearing. Elsie left the backroom, her giggle bouncing off the walls and making Nyal’s composure break within minutes “Your face is so red Ny, are you okay?” Nyal shook his head, leaning against the counter and continuing to shake and laugh.

Mako sat at the tattoo shop, staring through the window to the flower shop just across the street. A fond smile crossed their lips as Nyal and Elsie continued to laugh, Nyal’s small form bouncing and shaking Elsie who would smack him in response. They’d observed Nyal’s routine ever since starting their job as an artist, how he’d smile, his confidence changing as he transitioned and became more comfortable, at this point, they were sure they’d be a confirmed stalker. Nyal’s gaze would always fall on the tattoo shop, the urge to go in but being far too scared to commit with each time he left his shift. It was amusing to see the way he’d stop a few of the artists at the end of a shift, asking them for ideas or tips if he were to ever get inked. In a way, it’s what caused Mako to admire the male, and gain enough confidence to even approach. They hummed in content becoming lost for what felt like seconds though it was more close to an hour or so, only being brought back to reality when the buzzer rang to alert someone entering “Hello welcome to Glory tatts, you think it we ink it.” they looked down to see a familiar face, raising an eyebrow as a smirk graced their lips

“Well if it isn’t my little flower.”

#Sun and Moon #kolwrites #Nyal Grey #Mako Reyes #nblm writing #Rant writing #fluff #not sure how long each part is gonna be but #we'll get there

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mclennunf · 7 years

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In My Life - Part 11

Dr. McCartney

Sadie: Paul, something amazing has happened. You've gotta be here.... For John.

Paul: On my way.

I walked into the hospital in a rush, I had to know what was going on that was oh-so-wonderful that Sadie texted me to come in on my first day off in a while. John had been doing alright since he'd been back. We hadn't really spoken about anything other than work related subjects, but I think that was what he needed. He had to get back into the swing of things. "Good! You're here!" Sadie smiled as she walked up next to me at the entrance to the hospital. "What are you doing down here?" I asked with a slight smile. "Just making sure you came." Sadie had a huge grin on her face. "What in the hell is going on?" I asked with a chuckle, slightly nervous for her response. "I haven't seen him yet, but I know he's going to be thrilled. A patient was admitted not long after you left the other day, a 11 year old girl named Ana with all of these crazy symptoms. Dr. Martin, you know, the attending in oncology? He's definitely one of the best we've got. But anyway he, Richard and even Epstein were convinced the girl was going mental and it was all in her mind. Which, to me totally seemed like a possibility." Sadie was rambling as we walked toward the lift.

The door of the lift closed and we began moving. "Okay, so?" I waited for the rest of her explanation. "So! John comes in. He takes the chart from Dr. Martin and sends little sweet Ana down for testing." Sadie was practically jumping. "What did he find?!" I was intrigued as all hell now. "Exactly what he was looking for. Ana has a small stage one tumour behind her spine." Sadie stopped and stared me dead in the eye. "Who in the bloody hell would think to look for that?" I asked, mouth agape. "I know. None of the symptoms pointed to it." Sadie's smile was from ear to ear, as was mine now. "He's back to normal, Paul. My John is back!" She hugged me just before the doors to the lift opened. Sadie saw George standing by her nurses station and she skipped over to him. I stepped out of the lift after Sadie, and watched her flirt and smile at my friend. I wasn't on shift yet, so I sat down behind the nurses station and began scrolling through my phone, waiting for something exciting to happen as Sadie had told me.

Sadie and George went back to their normal work day, both anxiously waiting for John to arrive on our floor. I went back and forth from scrolling through my phone to chatting with the odd nurse, when I finally heard Sadie's voice again. She came into the nurses station in a huff. "I haven't seen John yet." She pouted as she sat down. "He's probably just busy, love." I patted her thigh reassuringly. Sadie crossed her arms and sighed. "I'm just excited." She pouted some more. I was worried she was getting her hopes up too high, but then again, Sadie knew John a lot better than I did, I supposed. I looked over at her and watched her eyes widen. She shot up out of her chair like a bullet, and began running. I looked to see what she was running toward, and there he was. John was standing by the doorway to the ward, filing a chart. I smiled as I stood up so I too could walk over to him, but didn't feel like there was much excitement radiating off of him, nor myself. Until he turned around so I could see his face.

When I saw his face, my legs wouldn't move anymore. It was like I had been sitting with my feet in drying cement the entire time I had been in the nurses station. John's face was glowing with happiness when he saw Sadie. He picked her up and spun her around, quickly placing her down and kissing her cheek. But as the two stood there and spoke, I stared at what could only be described as a star, John Lennon. I felt something hot bloom in my chest as I stared at him. The feeling was quite similar to an explosion that vibrated throughout my entire body, causing me to almost fall over. When his eyes finally locked with mine, the feeling that stretched throughout me was strange. It was completely and utterly overwhelming. The way my cheeks burned was like I was caught in the middle of an outrageous fire, but I was completely safe at the same time.

"Earth to Paul!" Sadie was standing in front of me now, with John next to her. I laughed nervously. "Good catch on that diagnosis, John." I smiled at him. "C'mon, McCartney. We're heading to the pub." John smiled too. I couldn't stop myself from smiling like a bloody idiot, my cheeks were getting sore. "I'll text George to meet us there! Richard is already over there." Sadie smiled, her arm linked with John's. I walked beside John nervously as we approached the pub, seeing Richard and George sitting and waving us over. John happily waved back, with his arm still linked with Sadie's. Sadie skipped over to kiss George, dragging John along with her. We joined them at the table. George handed us each a pint and smiled. "Congratulations are in order, to Dr. John Lennon!" Sadie held her glass up. We all clinked glasses and took a swig. I set my pint down and looked at John. I saw his mouth moving, but I couldn't hear a damn thing. His smile made it seem as though the entire world had lost it's colour, but John had all of the colour in the world beaming off of him.

"You alright, McCartney?" I finally heard him speak. "Oh, uhm, yeah. I'm just happy you're back." I nodded and pried my eyes away from him and looked down at my pint. "I just can't believe it was your first guess, though!" Richard chuckled, I had not been paying attention whatsoever. I took a long swig of my pint and looked back up at John, who was smiling and chatting with the other three. My eyes fell to his lips. "That patient is one of the sweetest young girls I have ever met, I'm really glad it worked out." John couldn't stop smiling as he spoke. My mind drifted back to the first time he kissed me. He was absolutely hammered and had literally jumped on me. The way his lips connected with mine, the spark that filled my soul and completed my unfinished puzzle. Suddenly John was looking at me and laughing. "W-what?" I said, nervously smiling. "You've got some foam from yer pint on yer lip." John chuckled as I tried to wipe it away. "Hold on," John grabbed a napkin and slowly wiped the foam off of my lip. I felt my cheeks burn red as I stared at him.

After a few hours and one too many pints, George helped a drunken Sadie home and Richard called himself a cab, leaving John and I alone at the table. "I'm drunk as hell." I muttered, sipping at my almost-empty pint. "I can walk you home, if you'd like." John offered. I smiled and nodded. He paid for our tab and lead me outside. As we walked, John stared up at the sky. "Look at those bloody stars, eh?" He smiled. I looked up, but as I did so the alcohol caught up to me. I stumbled and nearly fell on my face. John caught me by my waist and arm, with a laugh. As he helped hold me up on my feet, I couldn't tell if it was the alcohol or John making me feel so ridiculously intoxicated. John chuckled. "You really are drunk!" He found it hilarious. "C'mon, this is my house." I pointed. "Goodnight, Paul." John started to walk away, making my heart sink. "John!" I called after him. "Yes?" He spun around with a small grin on his face.

"Do you wanna come in for a bit?" I asked, slurring a few words. "I thought you'd never ask." John winks as he takes my arm, leading me into my own house. We both kicked off our shoes and slowly walked into the kitchen. John sat down as I grabbed a bottle of scotch out of my cabinet. "You've been acting so weird lately, Macca." John observed. "What? I'm drunk, what do you expect?" I laughed as I poured two glasses. "Nah, I mean since I've been back at the hospital." John sounded more serious this time. "I've just been trying to give you space, y'know, help you get back on your feet. Seems like it worked." I shrugged and set my drink down, and stuck the other one out for John. "Ta," John thanked me and reached for it. His fingers covered mine completely, and the familiar touch caused me to jump, and drop his glass all over the floor. "Bloody hell, I'm sorry," I shook my head, trying to calm myself back down as I spun around to the counter to grab paper towel. "It's okay, Paul! Plenty more booze where that came from." John reassured me.

We both bent down at the same time, trying to clean up the mess and being the clumsy drunk that I was, I bonked my forehead right off of John's. We both fell back onto our arses and palmed our foreheads. "Fuckin' hell," John was laughing hysterically at that point. "I'm sorry." I began laughing too. I looked up at his smiling face, my eyes falling onto his lips again. I watched his cheeks turn red as well. I wanted to lean over the broken glass and spilt scotch and kiss him, and even though we had kissed before, I was petrified that if I did, my entire world could fall apart. "Clumsy bugger," John joked, breathlessly. I blushed and managed to look away, beginning to clean up. John stood up and poured us another glass, and I threw out the mess that was caused my his hand touching mine. He set the glasses down on the table and pulled one of the chairs out, gesturing for me to sit down. As I did so, he touched the small of my back.

I smiled and sat down. "What the hell is going on with you?" John said with a chuckle. I couldn't admit what was really going on, because I knew it wasn't just the alcohol alone making me feel like this. "Just drunk!" I laughed and looked away from the older man. "I like it when you're flustered." John said with a smile. "Wha'? I'm not flustered!" I argued. John just chuckled and sipped his scotch. "First night of drinking I've had in a while." John looked at his glass. "Really? You've been completely sober?" I asked, raising my eyebrows at him. I felt my head begin to spin a little, but I tried to keep myself together. "Aye, I have." John smiles. "I'm happy fer ya." I slurred. "Definitely don't miss it as much as I thought I would." John set the glass down and looked up at me. "You, my friend, need to get some sleep." John stood up and took my hand, pulling me to my feet.

John slowly helped me up to my bedroom, my head bouncing from side to side. He lied me down, and even took my socks off. I was staring up at the ceiling, trying to stop the horrible case of spins that had come over me. "Paul, Paul." John was touching my arm. I looked over at him. "There's a glass of water on the side table for you and a few slices of bread if you think you want to eat something." He was smiling, and moved a piece of hair out of my eyes. "Thank you, John." I whispered quietly, as if I was trying not to scare the both of us. He had a soft smile on his face. "I'm gonna sleep on your couch, yell if you need me." He whispered back, and left me lying in bed remembering each line on his face, the way his eyelashes fluttered fast when he was happy, and the way his smile was a little crooked.

#in my life #mclennon #mclennon fanfiction

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leatherjacket-lovesong · 7 years

Text

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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