booshslashhaven | Challenge 15 entry

Title: What A Smile Can Hide
Author: Alice (

ailcia)
Pairing: Noel Fielding/Julian Barratt (Look, mum! No clusterfuck!)
Rating: Swearing and such.
Summary: Sometimes, you can be so wrapped up in your own problems, you don't even notice anyone else's.
A/N: Thanks to three lovely BETAs: Loz, Hughes and LB, who always sort me right out. Also, well done to

accio_arse for getting her challenge in... But if there's no more entries, the other mods will lock me back in my broom cupboard, and I shan't be allowed to set challenges again. So please, everyone else, get your business in! Comments are massively appreciated, btw!

“It’ll be over soon, Julian.”

Julian glares at Noel, walking beside him on the short stretch of pavement, and thinks about how annoying the sound of Noel’s boots on the concrete is. A steady, metallic clip-clip that starts to make Julian’s eye twitch. If Noel really wants to jolly him out of his mood, then he can take off those ridiculous boots for starters. And possibly allow Julian to ram them down his throat.

He sighs, and shoves his hands deeper into the pockets of his jacket, trapping Noel’s hand between his arm and his side. Noel squeezes his arm in return, half in retaliation, and Julian tries not to think about punching him.

“Not soon enough.”

Julian thinks he can already hear the roar of the crowd up ahead of them, the familiar thrum of a theatre packed to it’s very rafters, of people laughing happily with the anticipation of laughing more. The anticipation of them making them laugh more. Of him. His stomach clenches, as it always does when he thinks about things like that. He sighs again, puffing his cheeks out, wishing he’d let Noel buy him another drink to ‘relax’ him at the rubbish bar they’d just been in.

“Don’t say that,” Noel says quietly, and Julian looks at him. Noel shrugs under the stare, face twisting in something like anger, something like embarrassment. He kicks at an empty packet of cigarettes lying discarded on the street in front of them. “Just… Aren’t you enjoying yourself?”

Julian winces at the plaintive tone: bloody Noel, he always uses that voice to make Julian feel bad. Noel’s hand on his arm is making Julian’s jacket pull tight across his chest, and he pulls away to rearrange himself. “I was… I really was.”

He coughs, and busies himself with patting his jacket pockets, trying to find his cigarettes. Noel’s gaze is all on him; he could feel it burning into the side of his face, sending a flush up the back of his neck. Julian clears his throat again, lighting his finally found cigarette.

“I was… But it’s just too much, you know? We’ve been doing this for ages,” Julian glares out at the lights up ahead as he speaks. “I can’t get the pricking lines out my head at night.”

Noel shivers and crosses his arms in front of him, head down as they trudge onwards. His voice is low and bitter. “You still blame me, don’t you?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Noel!” Julian can’t tell if he feels angry or guilty in that moment, but he stops walking and whirls to face the other man. “None of this is about you! It’s a joint decision that I’m starting to regret… Is that alright with you? I mean, is it okay that this particular knob-up had very little to do with you?”

Noel bristles under his glare, unfolding his arms and jutting his chin out defensively. “Alright, Ju! I just meant, you know, that it was me that suggested adding more dates, that’s all… And seeing as you clearly can’t fucking wait to have it all over and done with, I didn’t think you’d be blaming yourself. Not fucking likely, that, is it?”

Julian groans and turns away, throwing his half-smoked cigarette away and rubbing his face. “I’m not having this argument again.”

“Then don’t!” Noel cries sharply, hands slamming out sideways. Julian looks at him, and Noel’s face is tight and pinched in desperation. Then, the strained look in his eyes disappears and he timidly reaches out for him, hand wrapping around Julian’s arm once more. “Just… Just stay. I’m sorry. Please, stay.”

The grip on Julian’s upper arm tightens noticeably as Noel tries to pull him back round, back in the direction they were walking.

“I need you.”

And there it is. Julian knows he’s being manipulated - Noel’s eyes are too wide and too blue in the shitty streetlamp-light: Noel has always laboured under the misapprehension that the bigger your eyes are, the more sincere you look. It’s incredibly easy to tell when he’s lying, but it’s the effort he puts into it that causes people to allow him to get away with murder, Julian included.

Julian coughs awkwardly, and slowly pulls his arm away from Noel’s grasp, trying to put some distance between them. “I know.”

They stand on the pavement, just looking at each other. Suddenly, Julian sees how tired Noel looks, how much older… But there’s still that half-smile playing about his lips, still that twinkle to his eyes that makes Julian’s stomach kick upwards in hope. Noel still has hope, and Julian’s willing to keep it there for as long as possible.

He reaches out, and loops his arm under Noel’s. “Come on, then.” And they start walking towards the theatre, the bright lights and the sounds of laughter rushing forward to meet them. Julian hears Noel let out an enormous sigh, and he smiles, despite himself.

Because, no matter how manipulating Noel is, it only works because Julian lets it: he has to believe that. He has to believe that he stays for Noel because, really, Noel needs him, and this web of lies and promises is Noel’s clumsy way of keeping him. Because if he can’t believe that, then Noel is just another thing pressing down on top of him, stopping his breath. Noel needs him, so he stays.

-----

The air is stifling, so hot that it’s almost impossible to breathe. The atmosphere is thick and fuggy with music and sweat, and it makes his lip curl. People press into him, no matter how much he tries to get out of their way, they always seem to want to be in the tiny bit of space he’s in. Eventually, Julian ends up right in the corner, at the back, staring into his pint to avoid making eye contact with anyone. He wants a cigarette, but doesn’t know if his lungs could take it. He wants to leave, but he made a promise to stay for the set.

He’s been here something like a thousand times before. Every night, different city, same exact gig. The girls put on the same show for the same wankers, and everyone loves it because it’s so bright and glittery and new. They’re so full of energy, they excite every sensation, and people cry out for more. But none of it is new to Julian.

Someone stamps on his foot and a sudden surge backwards pushes him into the wall. He bangs his head on the sharp edge of a picture frame. His yelp lost in the din of the music, he rubs at the sore spot and glares at the crowd in front of him. He has to get out of here before there’s nothing left of him: people keep trying to talk to him and he hates trying to work out what they want from him.

He sidesteps a girl who’s clearly got as much stuff up her nostrils as drink down her shirt - narrowly avoiding her thin, flailing arms twatting him in the face - and looks around the whirling room, trying to find something to hold onto amid the bright lights and quick drinks. The way his feet stick to the floor as he walks just isn’t good enough.

Pushing past people, Julian finally spots Noel at the other end of the bar. The royal twat looks like he’s having a whale of a time: inane grin on his face, surrounded by people, leaning into them to talk and have photos taken, laughing that awful laugh of his where he throws his head back so everyone can see he’s amused. As if that wide, shit-eating grin isn’t sign enough. He’s partying hard for someone who fell asleep during run-through four times that very morning.

Julian watches as a young girl in a short dress trips up to Noel and hands him another brightly-coloured drink, receiving a peck on the cheek and a secret, sly smile for her troubles. She smiles, flushed with success, and Julian growls without realising. A flame of something rotten begins burning in the pit of his stomach and, inexplicably fucked off, Julian barges forward.

When he gets close enough, he reaches out and snatches Noel away from the frantic group, pulling him around to face him, hoping his body blocks all distractions. Noel stumbles into him slightly, before regaining his balance. His eyes look decidedly hazy and the smile on his face is a dizzy one, and Julian wants to tear that smile off his face so badly, wants so desperately for him to not be enjoying it either.

“Enjoying yourself?” He wills the answer to be ‘not really’.

“What?” Noel leans forward to put his ear near Julian’s lips and the smell of his hair washes over Julian. Nearly losing himself in the sudden dizzying closeness, blood boiling at being reduced to the same state as a clamouring fan, Julian steps back abruptly and folds his arms.

“I said: enjoying yourself?” Julian shouts so loud his words grate the back of his throat.

Noel grins broadly, his face lighting up as he raises his shining eyes to Julian. “Yeah!” He nods, to make sure Julian got the message. At Julian’s stony look, Noel’s face falls, his smile replaced with a look of bemusement. He scratches a leather-clad arm nervously.

“… Thanks?”

“Not a fucking problem.”

The icy nature of Julian’s reply must have finally gotten through Noel’s thick skull, because he takes a step closer to Julian. The inevitable face-off: all hot air and bluster, but it never fails to chill Julian to the bone.

“You’ve got a problem?” Noel’s eyes flash dangerously, daring assent.

“No.” Julian scoffs like a grumpy teenager, and too late he realises that Noel’s patience with him has been running thin all evening, and he’s just crossed the line of what Noel was drunk enough to put up with.

Noel flies at him before the gasps of all those watching fills his ears and he pulls back for appearances sake. Despite the charming smile Noel throws the surrounding crowd, when Noel’s looks back to Julian, there is nothing but venom under the self-assured grin.

Leaning in, Noel wraps an arm around Julian’s neck in something which no doubt looks very much like a hug to the casual observer. They probably can’t tell that Julian has a mouthful of leather and a voice snarling in his ear: “Look, it’s nearly finished. Why can’t you fucking just enjoy this? For once, Julian!”

And before Julian has gathered the breath to the yell back, the girls onstage are pointing to them, launching into the song that everyone knows was written for Noel. The entire club turns on them almost as one, eyes shining with surprise and excitement, shattering their brief isolation. The crowd surges forward, ignoring the band in their effort to get at them, and within a moment Noel is lost amid the people, sinking beneath a pulsing mass of smiling fans. Above their heads, two fingers are jabbed in Julian’s direction.

Julian turns away, shrugging off his followers, and orders another drink.

-----

It should be just another lazy Sunday morning writing session: another day of idle conversation and hours spent locked in a vicious verbal contest - each trying to make the other laugh the hardest - followed by the pub. Those are the rules… the only variables being whether they did it in a café, a restaurant, or Julian’s house: they are never able to write in the cluttered, supposedly-organised mess that is Noel’s house. You could barely see your feet in that place, let alone the end of a storyline.

But this Sunday, Julian can’t settle. He knocks his coffee mug over twice, he swaps chairs three or four times before he finds one comfortable enough, he’s lost count of the amount of times he’s gone to the toilet. Thousands of little procrastinations, diversions and distractions designed to keep his mind well and truly off the task in hand.

He is, as ever, devastatingly successful: his new notebook still lies, pristine and unblemished, before him. He’s been doing this all morning. Julian runs a hand through his hair in frustration, willing his brain to think of something to write about. And to make it funny.

Noel wanders in, humming ‘Sexual Healing’ and carrying a mug of something in one hand and his battered old notebook in the other. Julian spares him a glance: he looks pale in that bright yellow shirt. The git was probably out last night, dicking around with the rich and famous for the eighth night in a row, leaving Julian alone and miserable. Showing off with all his celebrity chums. Big, fat git had stopped asking him to come out a while ago.

“Come on, mate: time’s wasting,” Noel grins at him, hitting him on the arm with his notebook before setting the mug down on the table and hurling himself into the sofa. The piece of furniture slides back a couple of inches at the force.

A distinct lemony-smell drifts up from the mug on the table, and Julian shifts in his seat, leaning over on his elbow to look inside the chipped Dangermouse mug. Lemsip.

“You ill?” Julian looks up at Noel cautiously, searching for any signs of strain. Perhaps if he was ill enough, Julian could persuade him to go home and leave him alone. Then he might be able to write something without the faces of Howard and Vince swimming across his vision and filling his mind with their ever-so easy babble. Annoyingly enough, Noel looks just fine, if a little peaky. Probably just a well-earned hangover. Great, big git-brain.

Noel grins at him, idly flicking over a full page in his notebook - a page heaving with scribbles and thick blocks of text and imagination. “Nah, just like the taste. Come on, we’ve only got a short time before I have to go.”

And with that, he reaches forward and snares his pen from off the table top before settling down, seeming to fill a page of his notebook before he’d even managed to connect nib with paper. Julian watches in envious fascination as Noel writes, barely stopping to think, barely stopping to turn the page… definitely not stopping for punctuation.

“I’m all over it,” Julian murmurs his expected response. He swallows, and looks down at his own page, frowning at it and trying to get his mind blank. It works… A little too well, and now he can’t even think of anything anymore. He can’t remember all the new scenarios and characters him and Noel have been discussing all through the tour and beyond, he can’t recall quite how he came up with anything before, how they started spinning each story. It’s been so long since they properly did this, and it needs to be as good (if not better) than before.

A sick feeling of panic begins to swirl in the bottom of his chest as he thinks about all that’s expected of them. It must be as good as Howard and Vince, has to be as good as all those characters they’ve spent ten years shaping to utter perfection. They have to beat themselves at their best.

The alternative terrifies Julian. Technically, he should tell Noel, should just say that he’s been struggling for the past few weeks… That he’s lost it a little. Or a lot.

Noel would be fucked off for being lied to - for weeks of “Yeah, I’m rustling up my own business, don’t you worry”, and “Yeah, I’ll show it to you when I’m finished, calm down” - but he’d understand, eventually. Noel’s been there before, after all: the pressure got to him while writing for the Edinburgh show and he spent a whole month miserable and near-silent while Julian quietly picked up the slack.

Julian sighs, a headache beginning to blossom at the side of his head. It’s a new technique they’re trying, anyway: writing separately and then comparing notes, not how they’re used to working at all. They’d agreed that by comparing they’d be able to come up with more diverse ideas. But Julian hadn’t reckoned on not having anything to compare.

He looks up, and Noel is still fucking writing. He must be onto his fifth page in as many minutes. How is that even possible? Last year, Julian had practically had to force him to sit still for longer than that time to consider his ideas: getting a decent, sensible sketch out of Noel was like drawing blood from a very awkward stone. Yet here he is, young and energetic - everything Julian isn’t - and blazing away with that quiet and desperate fury Julian’s starting to see more and more in Noel.

Noel turns another page, tongue flicking out to lick the side of his mouth as he concentrates, flicking his hair up and out of his eyes. Jealousy claws up Julian’s throat; he clears it.

“Your Lemsip’s getting cold.”

Noel doesn’t bother looking up, doesn’t even hear him, merely carries on with his frantic scribbling, uncharacteristically focused in his effort to try to make Julian look like a big fat fool.

Julian knows Noel’s trying to make it seem like he’s the one who does all the work, even though he knows Julian is the one whose come up with all the best bits. All the most popular bits, anyway. Bloody Noel. Noel just can’t take the fact that somewhere out there, people might not fucking like him, and this is obviously him just off on some weird mission to charm and trick the ‘non-believers’ into liking him, to prove himself. And he’ll become the big megastar he’s always wanted to be, and then Julian’ll just be left with no one.

He should try and stop this mad process before it begins in earnest, but he finds he just cannot be bothered.

Letting out a sigh, Julian pushes his notebook off the armrest and listens with satisfaction as it hits the floor with a loud smack. Noel’s attention doesn’t even flicker. Julian glares at him and sinks further down into his chair, the thought crossing his mind that maybe all this will end up crushing the life out of him after all. And that Noel’s fucking welcome to it.

----

He watches with growing disgust as Noel eats a bowl of peanuts.

Over and over, his hand falls from applauding someone to dive straight into the bowl. Handfuls after handfuls go into the yawning chasm that is Noel’s mouth, and Julian feels his stomach churning more each and every time.

And if he gets shown once more that you can find a little rabbit upon splitting the peanut in two, he’s going to take that bowl - along with all it’s little peanut-rabbits - and shove it right up Noel’s left nostril.

To be fair, though, this could all just be nerves: they’re due to not-win an award in an hour or so, and Julian is acutely aware of the camera not ten-foot away from him, it’s ominous black lens glaring at him. It makes him nervous, and he straightens and re-straightens his tie repeatedly before giving up and just sitting on his hands, blushing with the knowledge that his tie now has a decidedly-70s look to it.

The room is massive, but with pillars that run like prison bars all along each side of it. Still, possibly the biggest room he’s ever been in. So why did it feel so fucking cramped? He knows why: it’s because hundreds of people he’s seen on the telly are jammed around forty or so candle-lit tables, with the express intention of the function being social interaction. Julian prefers the free bar.

Awkward conversations, fake laughter and a million and one questions sound around him like klaxons; he knows he should join in but he just hasn’t got the energy. No one here actually wants to talk to him, so why bother? By the sounds of it, he’s not missing out on much, just a different sort of crowd-mentality. He laughs, I laugh, you laugh. Always the fucking same.

His comedy partner, however, seems to have been having a brilliant time, as per fucking usual. A right natural award-ceremony attendee. Everyone wants to talk to him, and he can and does talk to everyone who approaches them, mouth motoring often before they can even introduce themselves. Apparently, that’s now become a Fielding characteristic - one he’s been unaware of during ten years of friendship, but never mind that - and Julian’s sure Noel wouldn’t want to disappoint.

So he just sits there sullenly while Noel tells new and exciting stories, waves his arms about emphatically while explaining things, while he tilts and flirts and grins. The drinks get more frequent - people insist on giving them - and Noel’s words become more lazy and indefinite, though the thoughts behind them still retain that edge. People go away from their table smiling, eyes shining with glee, and Julian knows full well that it’s got absolutely nothing to do with him. He can almost feel their disappointment mingling with a depressing lack of surprise on their part.

Julian finds himself focusing on the fork in front of him, watching how the light distorts when waiters pass behind him, fetching more wine for the already-sloshed celebrities. Spotting one in the fork-light, he reaches back with ease and relieves a waiter of a glass without really looking. Draining almost half of it with his first gulp, he goes back to staring at the fork. Anything so he doesn’t have to see the smug, self-satisfied look on Noel’s face, the one he gets where he knows he’s impressing people.

Noel’s leg is banging against his underneath the table, making his thigh itch with the friction. It’s annoying him. Julian would shift it away - uncomfortable as he is with the contact - but he’s already kicked the nice lady next to him who he recognises off of something but can’t remember exactly where, and if he does it again he’ll have to apologise. And he can’t apologise because she’s clearly more famous than him and he can’t remember why. So he’ll have to keep his leg where it is and try not to kick Noel, however much he wants to. So he drinks some more.

The hand snakes past him, heading once more for the bowl of peanuts, and Julian grabs it hard, holding it in place. He can feel all the grease and salt on fingers within his grip. He looks up into Noel’s eyes and sees a flicker of pain and alarm, before his typically-amused look is quickly plastered over it.

“Julian? What the hell?” Noel’s hand squirms within his grasp, trying to free itself, but Julian holds on.

“Stop eating those fucking peanuts.”

“What?” The happy, gormless smile slips for a second at Julian’s commanding tone. “Why?”

Good question. Julian hasn’t really thought that far ahead, wasn’t really thinking when he did it. Isn’t entirely sure why he’s still got hold of Noel’s hand. His intoxicated mind races ahead of him and he thinks of the cruellest thing he can say to Noel, jabbing his finger into the bowl pointedly.

“You’ll get fat, you know. They’re full of fat and you’re the only one eating them.”

Noel winces, and his eyes drift guiltily to the half-eaten bowl of peanuts and down at his shiny, greasy fingers in Julian’s grip. They begin to shake. A flush of humiliation creeps into his cheeks and his nostrils flare as he breathes. He glares at Julian. “You fucker, that’s not it. Since when have you been bothered about what I weigh? What’s the real reason?”

“Because I’m telling you to, that’s why.” Julian increases his grip on Noel’s hand and lowers his voice threateningly. “For once in your life just please do as I fucking well say.”

Noel stares at him for a minute in hazy shock, mouth slightly open, as if debating whether to argue with him properly or not. Julian’s half-surprised he still warrants such consideration. He seems to decide to go for the safest, least-embarrassing option: oh-so typically Noel, he tries to laugh it off, shrugging his thin shoulders and gesturing at the table laden with drinks and snacks.

“Come on, make the most of it. This is all for free! You don’t get this every day!”

But Julian has lost all patience by this point. He sees the red light of the TV camera flickering on out of the corner of his eye, and it just spurs him on. He pulls Noel’s hand across, dragging it’s unstable owner half across the table. He can feel everyone’s’ gazes on them, boxing them into the argument they’ve been avoiding for weeks.

“We’ve been to loads of award ceremonies.”

“Yeah, but we might not get to another award ceremony,” Noel is quite clearly grasping at straws, his voice high and a little panicked as he notices the television camera pointing at them.

He’s slowly turning red, bristling under the attention, and Julian delights in being able to make him feel like that. More and more people are turning round to look at them in confusion as they stumble upright, knocking the table and making the glasses clink and rattle. Julian knows Noel can feel the weight of every single accusing eye upon him, can just imagine what these nameless hundreds - as well as the faceless thousands watching on television - might be thinking. He relishes is, because not knowing what people think of him is a very sore spot for Noel. One of the only ways to shake him and that infuriating sense of superiority.

He isn’t at all surprised, then, when Noel leans forward with some new aggression and hisses at him, “Especially if you can’t get your fucking act together and write something new. We could lose it all because of you!” A tiny flicker of regret passes through Noel’s bloodshot eyes as he says this, but by this point they are both too angry to notice it.

“You think that do you? Think I’m a dead-weight now? Oh, that’s very nice, isn’t it? Well, why don’t you fuck off and start out on your own, then? Eh?” Julian can hear his own raised voice over the rushing of blood in his ears, the murmurings and mutterings all around them increase to a deafening volume, but he can’t stop.

A look of panic shoots through Noel’s furious glare as his eyes dart to each side as he hears their audience’s reaction. His mouth falters around silent words for a second before he presses it firmly against Julian’s own in a desperate - if bizarre - effort to silence him.

Julian is too shocked to even struggle, and the hands that clamps themselves around the back of his neck and the small of his back book little argument. A sneaky tilt of the hips, and Julian nearly falls over as his body responds beyond his mind’s sanctions. He groans into Noel’s mouth, tongue pushing forward instinctively, and shudders against him in obvious pleasure.

Noel pulls away at once, managing to put a chair between them before turning to their audience and the camera, his voice uncharacteristically tight and a little shaky. “I guess that means we’re off… And I don’t mean to Mars, neither. Cheeky bitches. Just joking, love.”

He pets an old dear in a glittery dress on the cheek and she giggles like a fifteen year old. Noel laughs and claps his hands together, raising his voice even higher. “Yeah, it’s been lovely seeing you all, glad you could pop by… Didn’t think the dip would last, but there you go. If you could just let yourselves out when you’re done, and make sure the cat’s in, yeah?”

He turns away smoothly, and he doesn’t look at Julian as he grabs hold of his hand. Those at the nearest tables burst into applause and laughs of delight as Noel drags a stunned Julian past the surrounding tables so roughly that Julian trips and nearly falls over a chair leg. Noel looks back at the tables, not missing a beat, and rolls his eyes in supposed fondness at Julian’s ineptitude. This gains even more laughter, making Noel grin, but his hand grips Julian’s so hard that Julian’s fingers are tingling with numbness by the time they reach the exit.

They finally escape the room, bursting out of the building into the cold, crisp night, the air hurting their lungs after the stuffiness of the ceremony. Julian breathes again, feeling like it’s his first breath since Noel kissed his best friend, and his best friend snogged back. He coughs harshly, doubling over as his lungs make a bid for freedom up his throat. He feels a little sick, but he’s not eaten today and he doesn’t retch. When the coughing subsides and he can stand upright once more, he turns to look for Noel.

What he finds is a merciless kick in the shins - a really fucking hard one, too - and the sight of Noel’s back as he storms away from him.

----

He can feel Noel’s anger pressing down on his shoulders as he bows his head and studies his fingernails with interest. He notices vaguely that one of them is chipped almost half-way down, and he stares in fascination at the pink, shiny new skin revealed underneath.

The clink of bottles makes him look up, and he watches Noel’s narrow back as the man takes a another swig of vodka straight from the bottle. He’s been doing this repeatedly since Julian had worked up the courage to come round and explain himself, about an hour ago. He hasn’t done much explaining so far, and Julian can tell Noel’s getting mightily unsteady on his feet - all those swigs along with whatever he had at the awards - but he can’t bring himself to put a stop to it. Perhaps it’ll be easier this way?

Doesn’t look like it: Noel can be a nasty drunk, especially when he’s got something up his nose. All Julian wants to do is bolt for the door, leave all this shit and not look back, but instead he forces himself to stay - he deserves this. The pressure in his chest increases with the thought.

“You made me look like a fucking idiot!” Noel jabs the bottle at him, teeth bared in anger, then he whirls around and points at the door. “You made everyone out there think I was just this little, insignificant…. Cock-job!”

Julian looks up at him, feeling hounded. “Does that bother you?”

Noel looks as if he doesn’t recognise him, regarding him with the same ill-concealed contempt he would an ugly stranger. Which is oddly comforting, because Julian isn’t entirely sure he knows who this Noel is. He doesn’t understand him any more, at any rate; can no longer see anything of intelligence or burning potential beneath the blue stare, just sneakiness and vanity. This thought unsettles him - he’s not used to it - and he swallows against the bile rising in his throat. How did they get here?

“Course it fucking bothers me!” Taking another swig and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Noel leans down to Julian, who shifts back and wrinkles his nose at the smell of stale alcohol and fresh sweat that emanates from him. His words slur in Julian’s face.

“Don’t you realise, Ju? Don’t you realise that all those… bastards out there hold everything about us in their hands? Our whole lives are decided by what those… those fuckers choose to find funny this week or the next! How does that not bother you? Why can’t you see that?” Thumping his fist on the chair’s arm, Noel pushes himself upright and tilts away from Julian, shaking with barely-controlled anger, rubbing at his hair frantically.

Julian rubs the back of his neck, feeling the tension knotting there and closing his burning eyes against the strain. “You know what, Noel? I could really do without this.”

“You could?” Noel mutters bitterly.

“Yeah, I fucking could!” Julian shouts, hand releasing his own neck to slap down hard in anger on the arm of the chair, a gesture of unconscious imitation. He even smiles at the ridiculousness of it all. “We’ve got enough shit tumbling on top of us without having to make some ourselves, you know?”

Noel starts laughing. Noel is laughing at him. Not just an accidental chuckle, neither: a full-blown, shaking-shoulders laugh that’s clearly supposed to make Julian feel about two-inches tall. Noel wipes his eyes and shakes his head with a wet giggle. “That’s a really rubbish analogy, you know.”

Julian watches him, stunned into total silence, feeling himself growing cold as Noel paces about in front of him. He shakes his head in something like amazement, something like despair, and wonders how he can get through to Noel… whether it’s even possible anymore.

“You’ve lost it. You’ve totally gone and lost it.”

Noel grins cruelly. “Yeah? Well, at least I fucking had it in the first place!”

That’s it, that’s fucking it. Julian surges to his feet and grabs hold of Noel by the shoulders, forcing him up hard against the wall. The vodka bottle crashes to the floor, slipping out of stunned fingers and bursting open into hundreds of glass shards upon impact, the dangerously-clear flood soaking the carpet within seconds. Their faces were inches apart, and Julian could feel Noel’s breath hitting the base of his neck in a speeding rhythm.

“For fuck’s sake, Noel! What is all this about, eh?” And he shakes him, trying to see if whatever he’s got into that head of his might fall out.

Julian wants to be able to understand him again, like he used to. But too much has gotten in the way since then, and Noel struggles against him. But he’s neither strong nor coherent enough to break free of Julian’s grip on his shoulders. So he lashes out at him verbally, instead.

“It’s about you being a jealous fucking tart, is what it’s about! It’s about you not being able to handle the fact that… You know, I’m better! And everyone knows it!” Noel’s hands, which had been balled into fists in between them in an half-considered effort to push Julian away, suddenly thump down onto Julian’s chest as if to emphasise this declaration.

Julian feels a little light-headed as all the air gets knocked out his chest, but he doesn’t think this has much to do with Noel’s pathetic punches. The words sting him more than he can ever admit, and his fingers itch to wrap around Noel’s throat, to stop him from saying such things before it’s too late and the stupid wanker goes further than Julian can forgive. But instead they just curl tighter within Noel’s jacket, and Julian feels the fabric rub painfully across his fingertips.

His voice is no louder than a whisper, even though he intended to shout. “Oh yeah? If you’re so much better than me, such a big fucking star, why don’t you just fuck off and leave me to it? See how you get on without me.”

Noel’s confidence seems to flicker at his words: for a single split-second his expression isn’t quite so arrogantly smooth as he usually schools it to be. His eyes widen ever so slightly and his mouth drifts open as he processes what Julian’s just said. But a quick tilt of the head, a self-assured smile and a dismissive sniff is enough to wipe all trace of weakness from his expression, and Julian’s heart sinks a little further towards his toes.

“Yeah, well why don’t you fuck off? You’re the only dead wood I can see! Nobody’d fucking miss you! Fuck knows I wouldn’t!”

It’s not the sharp, bitter words that hurt; it’s the expression on Noel’s face that makes Julian feel like he’s been punched in the gut. He feels Noel’s spittle fleck onto his chin and mouth while the other man shouts in his face.

“You’re nothing, Barratt! You weren’t anything until you met me! If it weren’t for me you’d still be doing shitty one-night stand-ups in the backroom of ‘The One-Leg Dog’!”

Nothing is right in the harsh, angular face just a breath away from him, everything about his favourite person, his Noel, in that moment looks twisted and foul. The look in those suddenly-hard, unlaughing eyes of total disgust in his eyes hurts Julian more than he can say. Where’s the twinkle? Where’s the complete and utter inane optimism that never, ever fails to make Julian’s day that bit better?

“I’ve got you all this far… And all you do is bitch and moan and complain, spoiling all our chances with the fact you’re too fucking selfish to be happy with anything!”

Julian feels that look bearing down on him, piercing him through his chest and into his very heart: he has to get out. He cannot take this anymore. This is madness: something has taken everything most important to him, and made it dark and nasty.

“You need me like anything, but I don’t need you!”

Julian doesn’t remember exactly what happened next, but he remembers the sound of Noel’s head connecting with the wall and the sharp stab of cold air in his lungs as he stumbled out the front door.

-----

The knock at his door jolts him out of his daze. Julian realises he’s been staring out of the window, coffee mug cold and forgotten in his hand, for the past couple of hours. Ever since he ran away from Noel, his while universe had shrunk to that one window.

He stands, rubbing a weary hand over his face, massaging his closed eyes with thumb and forefinger as he negotiates his way to the front door by memory alone. Pulling his hand away, he uses it to grasp the cold door knob, pulling it open to reveal the figure behind it.

It’s Noel, of course, standing awkwardly in his hallway, dark hair sodden and flattened to his scalp and giving him a rather desperate, waify-look. He looks up at Julian as the door opens, and Julian can see Noel’s face has recently been scrubbed clean from tears, his eyes standing out raw and red against his too-pale skin.

Noel gives him a shy smile, and seems to say the first thing that comes into his head.

“It’s bitching down with rain out there, you know. Got drenched before I got to the end of my street, didn't I?”

Julian sighs, not in the mood for Noel pretending everything's alright when it's quite clearly all buggered side-ways. You can only cover cracks for so long before there's nothing left to hold together. He stands in the doorway, holding onto the door-jamb pointedly. He's not helping Noel out on this one. "Right."

Noel deflates a little, and goes very pale: clearly he'd expected this to be easier. He closes his eyes. "Look... Can I come in?"

"Do you think it's even worth it anymore, Noel?"

"No, Ju, you don't understand. Can I come in? Please?" Noel's voice is tight with emotion, and he seems to be shaking.

"Noel, seriously, what are you going to be able to do to fix this?" Julian sighs, his limbs feeling very heavy.

"Julian, unless you want me to throw up on your fucking face, let me the fuck in!" Noel cries suddenly, and Julian is so stunned at the sudden switch in him that he just moves out the way as Noel barges past him and out of sight, heading for the bathroom at full-speed, one hand clamped over his mouth. The bathroom door slams abruptly.

Wincing at the coughs and retches he can hear, Julian goes to the kitchen without thinking, listless switching the kettle on and busying himself by making two cups of tea, putting the usual three sugars but no milk in one, and leaving the tea-bag in for twice as long in the other. He should be helping Noel, should be doing that whole friend thing of holding his hair back - which is long enough now to get in the way - and rubbing his back, being comforting and supportive... All the things he used to do when Noel'd had a bender. But he can't bring himself to do it, to pretend they're that close.

He takes both mugs into the living room and waits for Noel. Not only that, but Julian understands a little too well why Noel drank as much as he did tonight. He’s done it, too, many times. The desire to make yourself suffer is one he's familiar with; Noel'll think he deserves this - which he does - and he won't want any help. It'll kick him into focus, and give him something to feel. Or, at least, that's what Julian tells himself as he sits there, waiting for the retches to stop.

Eventually they do, and moments later Noel emerges meekly from the bathroom, shutting the door carefully behind him and staying there. He looks decidedly shaky and frail, and seems to be concentrating on looking anywhere but Julian. After five minutes of stifling silence, Julian relents, clearing his throat. "There's a brew for you, here."

Noel nods, and comes to sit opposite him, but he doesn't take his tea. Julian just watches him, watches the hunched shoulders, the way Noel rubs at jaw. He knows something big is coming, and he holds his breath; unsure if it's an apology or a final decision. He knows Noel could do both if he put his mind to it, and the thought fills him with despair from the bottom up.

"Nothing's right." Noel's words are quiet, and he has yet to look at Julian. "Haven't been for ages."

Julian nods, feeling his fingers grip his mug of tea all the tighter for Noel being the first to admit it outloud. Who'd have thought that? He chuckles to himself, and Noel looks up in near-comical surprise. Julian is a little floored by how... unstable Noel looks; while never quite normal, Noel's always been fairly consistent in his oddness. But now there's something else beneath that temperamental look in his eyes, something for more desperate and worrying. And if Noel's unstable, what the hell is he?

He didn't realise how much time had gone by until he felt a feather-light touch on his knee, Noel's fingers hesitantly tugging at his touser leg. Julian looks up, straight into Noel's eyes, holding his gaze even as Noel tries to twist away from it.

"Noel. Tell me what's wrong," he says, the firmness surprising even him. He needs to know, he knows he needs to know.

Noel swallows, eyes latched wide onto his, but no words are forthcoming as he opens his mouth. He closes it and swallows again, grinning broadly at Julian, as if that'll make it alright again. Julian doesn't smile back, and the grin falls within a second. Noel sighs, and looks at his hands, twisting within one another in front of him. When he speaks, his voice is the smallest sound Julian has ever heard.

“I just… What if it all goes away when I’m not looking?”

And that's it. Julian feels as if all the words he’d ever been about to say have just been squeezed out of him. He closes his mouth, a noise of disbelief being the only sound he can even think about making. He sits, frozen in his seat by the sudden strength of feeling for his partner. Noel’s hands fly to his head at Julian’s grunt, and he leans away with a manic laugh, covering his eyes with his hand.

“I know, I know… How ridiculous is that? Fucking hell. But I can’t help it… I can’t sleep, I can’t stop. I thought I could keep it up, but I can't. I just can't, and they're going to find out soon, and there's nothing I can do!” Noel pauses, the words choked in the near-hysterical release. He rubs at his eyes once before pulling his hand away and looking up at the ceiling, as if opening his throat might make the confession come easier.

His next words are too soft, again; heartbreakingly simple and desperate. “I’m so tired.”

Noel swipes at his eyes awkwardly and bolts for the door, but before Julian even realises what he's doing, he surges forward, stopping him, and gathers Noel into a long-overdue hug. As if wrapping him up is going to stop it all from going tits-up again, is going to stop Noel from thinking he owes people himself... Is going to stop Julian from being so bloody blind to everything other than himself in the future.

Noel's arms wind around his neck, holding onto him, and his breathing his too-hard all of a sudden. Julian's hands run soothing circles along Noel's back, and he finds himself making comforting nonsense noises in the back of his throat. A yawn shudders the smaller man beneath his touch, making his whole body swell and then disappear within Julian's embrace.

Julian smiles fondly before pressing a relieved kiss onto the top of Noel's damp head.

"Me, too, Noel. Me, too."

----- The End ------