26 Fics in 26 Minutes

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A story for a song by a band starting with every letter of the alphabet. Ranging from angst to fluff to humour to porn to general whimsy. Encompassing Boosh, RPS, Nathan Barley, Robots in Disguise, and Asylum, and probably a few other things too.

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Length: words

The Strokes – The End Has No End

Contents

The Strokes – The End Has No End

He’s staring at something over my shoulder, and I tense up, watching him. He’s got a forkful of food in his right hand, but he’s forgotten about it, held just a little above his plate. Lips parted slightly to show a hint of tongue; it makes him look so stupid. I tell myself it’s just, I don’t know. The ‘Specials’ board. An old woman with a hilarious hairstyle. But he’s not laughing. And the way his eyes are skimming up and down, so familiar, I don’t think he’s contemplating dessert.

I put my fork down, and it hits the side of the plate louder than I meant it to, a horrible tinny scraping sound like scratching at glass. He visibly jumps, meets my eyes for a moment, and scowls. That means it was some cute guy, cute girl. He wouldn’t be angry if he wasn’t guilty.

I swivel in my chair, searching the restaurant for who it might be. There are a number of possibilities.

He sighs. “What?”

“Just trying to see who’s so interesting, Noel.”

“I was looking out the window,” he mutters. “I’m not allowed to look out the window now?” He takes a sip of wine, and I hear that horrible gulping sound he can’t help but make.

I turn back, and smirk at him. He hates being laughed at. “Out the window, right.” I point at his chin. “You, uh, might want to get that.”

He looks confused, dabs his chin with his napkin. “Get what?”

“You’re dribbling,” I say, looking down at my plate and slicing another strip of steak calmly.

He leans back in his seat, glaring at me, playing with his salad. Fucking salad again. I’m so tired of this dieting lark. Over and over and never enough. “I’ll write that down,” he snipes. “It’s hilarious. We can put it in the new series.”

I can feel it coming.

“What a pity you save all your hilarity for when you’re out with me, eh? If only you could come up with it when we’re writing.“

Keep eating. Don’t let him see that hit home. “Because you’re doing such sterling work on that front too.”

Noel picks up his napkin, starts tearing at the edges. “Yeah, well. I’ve got my stand-up to think about, remember?”

“I do remember.” I slice up a potato, in half, and again, and again, smaller and smaller. “I remember you telling me that six months ago.”

“It takes time.“

“So I see.”

He drinks more wine, and I eat more food, forcing it down. I can’t look at him, his hands, nail varnish – I’m dating someone who wears nail varnish – wrapped around the glass greedily. Slurping and gulping away.

I return my attention to my meal. “God, this is dry. Really dry.”

He mutters something into his glass, and it sounds like “for fuck’s sake.“

“What? You didn’t cook it, why do you care?” I hiss, leaning across the table.

“Every time. Every fucking time.” He looks me up and down like he was doing before, but there’s no hint of pleasure in this one. “You can never just enjoy a meal, can you? You have to pick it apart. Oh, it’s too dry. It’s too salty. Why don’t they serve carrots? I would serve carrots…”

I wipe my mouth with my napkin, noticing that his is now just a handful of white scraps, and dump it on my plate, right in the middle of my meal. “I’ve had enough.”

“Yeah, but you won’t say anything, will you?” He scrunches up his face, does a stupid squeaky voice that makes me want to slap him. “No, really, everything was wonderful, thank you! Absolutely fantastic.” He mutters into his chest. “I’m the one who has to hear about it. Your fucking complaining, day after day.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

He looks from my plate, up to me, and I put my hands on the table and stare at them. “I… I didn’t… miss you. When you were away, last week.”

He folds his arms, fabric twisting and stretching. “What?”

“I enjoyed myself. Going out on my own, having the flat to myself. Not having to worry about you, or talk to you, or–”

“What are you trying to say?”

I take a deep breath. “When we get back to the flat, I’ll pack you a suitcase.”

He laughs, a short, sharp bark of a laugh, and runs his tongue along his teeth. “You’ll what? I’m sorry, you’re the one who wants to end this. I’m not going anywhere. If you want to leave, you can–”

“It’s my flat!”

“Our flat.”

“My name’s on the lease!” I realise I’m shouting. We’ve become one of those couples who everyone watches but no one makes eye contact with, and as I look around I see a lot of heads turned away suddenly, like doors slamming shut.

“You do what you like. I’m staying put.” Noel starts to pour himself another glass of wine, and I pull the bottle away, over to my side of the table. He sighs, shaking his head.

“Are you happy? Like this?” I ask him, and he stares at the tablecloth, jaw set to one side. “I mean, honestly? All we do, is bicker. We don’t even,” I hiss, “we don’t even have sex any more. We can’t write because we can’t speak to each other civilly, we spend all day banging doors and slamming things around, and you’re trying to tell me you don’t want out of this?”

He doesn’t say anything.

“Or maybe you just can’t be arsed to househunt in London again. On your own.”

He looks at me with utter disgust. “Fuck you. I’m going home.”

“Great. I’ll get the bill, then, just like usual.”

He doesn’t look at me as he gets up, strolling out of the restaurant. He looks at the young woman he was staring at before, though, and she blushes. It’s the first smile I’ve seen from him in I don’t know how long.

I wouldn’t mind so much, but this is the second time we’ve had this exact same conversation.