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

Ed Harcourt – You Only Call Me When You’re Drunk

Contents

Ed Harcourt – You Only Call Me When You’re Drunk

Knock, knock, knock.

Don’t go. Don’t get up.

A pause. The sound of breathing close against the door, but that must be my fevered imagination, surely?

You really don’t have to. It’s late, and it’s perfectly possible you might be asleep.

I lie there, clenching my hands, lying on top of sheets. So stupid. So stupid. But this is why I bring my good pyjamas, my oh-I-think-someone-might-see-me-tonight pyjamas, wear them instead of my old sweat-stained T-shirt and shorts.

Knockity knockity knock. Beating out some unfamiliar drum line.

For fuck’s sake, have some dignity. Stay in bed, really. Remember how we talked about this, you and I? About how it’s got to stop? And I reasoned with you, and you agreed and nodded your head, and said you’d be strong. You wouldn’t open the door.

Knockknockknockknock.

Don’t open the fucking door.

Problem is, right, I feel my feet hit the floor before I really know what’s happening. Light slices across the room from underneath the door, shadows moving across it here and there, his feet. I feel like I know what he’s thinking from them.

Don’t be fucking stupid, Dave.

I feel like he’s about to leave, and that’s it. I knew I’d open it, argued with myself over and over but I knew I’d be here, because I’m wearing the pyjamas. The ones he likes. Like that joke, about how if a woman goes out with a man, and she doesn’t want to sleep with him, she won’t shave her legs. But all that happens is you end up shagging a hairy woman.

And oh fuck, I’ve left it too late, because suddenly there’s no more shadows, just a perfect line of brightness, and I dash those last few feet to the door, wrench it open–

You look pathetic.

-wrench it open, and stand there leaning on it, breathless, blinking.

I look down the corridor and see nothing, which is impossible, no one moves that fast, especially not after coming straight from that party. I look the other way, and Noel is leaning, nonchalant, against the wall, grinning up at me through his hair, confident.

The kind of look that could almost, almost make me slam the door in his face. The fact that he knows.

“Alright?”

“Y-yeah.” Get a goddamn hold on yourself, get your fucking breath back. What are you, nine? “Yeah, just… you know. Asleep.” I rub a hand over my head, and his eyes drift from it down my body, leaving goosepimples.

“I know,” he says, and he pushes past me into my hotel room, flicking on the light with one hand. I follow, closing the door softly. He’s already sitting on the bed, kicking off his shoes and leaning back. Delicious.

I stay by the lightswitch, one hand on top of my head, blinking unconvincingly. Oh, I was so asleep Noel. Completely not waiting for you.

He lies there, looking up at me, head tipped too far to one side. He’s drunk. And he doesn’t say anything, so I have to, because I have to.

Rich told me once that his secret fantasy – we were drunk, before your mind starts wandering off that way – his secret fantasy was to be in a hotel room, and have some random woman come in, ravish him, and leave, without even telling him her name. How hot would that be.

And I was that far gone I almost turned around and put him straight. It’s not hot, not at all. I mean, maybe it’s that Rich never really finished puberty, always mentally teenage, but I like something a little extra now. I like sleeping together, really sleeping together, not just the sex, which is fairly… I’m kind, I’ve been putting Noel’s poor technique down to the high alcohol content of his blood whenever we meet.

“Good night?”

He blinks at me, trying to focus, and tries to shrug. Oh Noel. Too many muscles moving at once, it’s too complicated. “Yeah, you know. Okay.”

I do know. I can picture the scene so well, which is why I had to leave. Julian glowering at him from the corner because, oh, some stupid fight. Something to do with the show that sort of grew and became a big yeah but you never really listen, do you? Not to me. Selfish. – thing that everyone heard, and I knew tonight would be it, so I left early and waited.

“How is… everyone?”

He looks confused, and there’s a small part of me wondering how much more of these pointless questions it would take to make him ask: Are we going to do this, tonight?

“Fine.” Everyone means Julian, and fine means sulking. Tomorrow he’ll ignore us both until lunchtime, then Noel will find some way of getting back in and he’ll only be pissed off with me.

It’s long enough. I can’t do it any more. It’s three short steps to the bed. He leans back, pulling me down with him, but his arm snakes back behind him and slaps the lightswitch, plunging us into darkness. I wonder if prostitutes do this, if it helps their clients to think of the people they secretly want.