Category: Real Person Fic
Warning: Drug Use
Length: 1-5k words
Notes: Fic includes mentions of many pairings, including Dee Plume/Noel Fielding, Dee Plume/Random female, Mike Fielding/Random female, Julian Barratt/Chris Corner, and Dave Brown/Russell Brand
Some People Get All the Bloody Luck by Culumacilinte
Dave’s never actually met Russell Brand before, but he’s heard plenty about him from Noel, who, unsurprisingly, is fairly good mates with him. And, of course, there’s The Sun, and The Mirror, and probably every other tabloid in the world. Russell Brand, after all, is the gossip journalist’s dream come true.
Knowing what he does about the man, then, it’s somewhat surprising to find him at a party like this, not upstairs shagging some bird (or some bloke, from what he’s heard from Noel), but sitting comfortably in a large armchair, placidly watching everyone else. He’s dressed, as usual, like some kind of Dickensian ponce, and his legs are folded under him in what looks like a lotus position. Dave blinks. Ok; doing yoga in an armchair at a party. Whatever works. Next to him there sits a shallow plastic tub of those miniature Danish pastries you sometimes see in the bakery section at Tescos, with all the icing chipped off and fallen to the bottom of the tub, and one finger lazily traces its way across the tops of the pastries. Dave can only imagine that Amy (for it is Amy’s flat. At least he thinks it is) had them out somewhere, and that Brand had commandeered them for his own purposes.
Perhaps sensing Dave’s scrutiny, Russell looks up with a raise of one eyebrow, meeting his eyes with an expression that clearly says Oooh, I’m being watched. How dreadfully ‘citing! Dave isn’t sure how an expression can say something in camp Cockney, but there it is. Grinning dazzlingly, he smoothes his hair off his forehead with one hand, and gives Dave a friendly nod. Taken somewhat aback, but intoxicated enough that he doesn’t really care, Dave flops down into the couch next to Brand’s chair.
‘Wotcher.’ He says. Russell’s smile trebles in brightness, and he holds out the tub of pastries. Dave blinks again, but he takes one anyway- more out of politeness than anything else, it must be said.
‘‘Ello!’ Russell gives him an exaggeratedly flirtatious up-down, leaning on the arm of his chair. ‘And who might I have the pleasure of addressing here, mm?’
‘Dave Brown,’ says Dave pleasantly, and holds out a hand. Instead of shaking it, however, Russell brings it to his lips and gives it a chivalrous kiss, inclining his head at Dave.
‘Russell Brand,’ he introduces himself casually, before eyeing Dave sideways as though he were something particularly fascinating. ‘Dave…’ he muses, rolling the word about in his mouth. ‘Dave. Short for David, I suppose?’
Dave nods assent. ‘Yeah. I’m here with Noel and Julian.’ He pauses and looks around the crowded room, his brow furrowed. ‘Come to that, I don’t actually know where they are at the mo’…’
‘Ah!’ Russell smirks at Dave, and vaguely indicates the opposite side of the room with a wave of his Danish. ‘Young Master Noel would be over there, if you see…’
Dave squints for a moment. Really, there are so many skinny-legged, root-boosted visions of androgyny here it’s difficult to distinguish Noel amid them. After a moment, though, he sees a flash of silver, and there in the corner is Noel, fighting with his girlfriend over the silver platform boots they both share. Noel prods Dee in the stomach and she shrieks, shoving Noel down onto his back and straddling him with a triumphant, drunken grin. Noel out of the way, she leans over him and tugs an anonymous girl who’d been sitting and watching into a deep kiss. Watching his girlfriend snogging another woman above him, Noel grins wolfishly.
Dave takes a bite of the Danish. It is, he notes absently, going stale.
Next to him, Russell is watching the scene with a raised brow and an expression of vague interest, and Dave snorts. ‘Christ, they’re all sluts, aren’t they?’
Russell grins. ‘Well, some of us have to be, I suppose.’
‘Oh, that’s rich!’ Dave laughs, and immediately feels mortified. He doesn’t even know this man, after all; he’s hardly in a position to rib him about his sexual activities. His eyes dart away, and he sticks the rest of the Danish in his mouth to avoid having to say anything. Russell, however, is not offended.
‘Ah! Me reputation precedes me, I see. Well, Dave Brown, you are not at all incorrect.’
He proffers the tub of pastries again, and Dave gladly takes one. They’re really not that good at all, but the joint he’d smoked earlier was finally hitting him, and food is food, no-matter how stale it is. He chews for a moment, looking around the room absently.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen any of the rest of my mates- Julian or Steve or Mike- Noel’s brother, you know…?’
A dry laugh from Russell, who tips his head back against the chair, grinning up at the ceiling like some kind of Cheshire Cat. ‘You’ll have no better luck with the rest, if that’s what you mean,’ he smirks. ‘If I am not incorrect, I spied Mike slipping upstairs with a young lady of questionable virtue not some time ago. And Julian stepped out with a, ah- Christopher Corner, I believe.’
Dave groans. ‘Fucking hell,’ he mutters. ‘Some people get all the bloody luck.’
Russell shrugs, pulling a faux-guilty face. After all, he is very often one of those people himself. Still watching Noel out of the corner out of the corner of his eye, Dave absently snatches another Danish. After a moment, Russell leans in to whisper against his ear, and Dave jumps a little at the heat of his breath buzzing against his skin. Russell just grins, though, and Dave turns to give him an incredulous look.
‘You… no. Joking, yeah?’
Russell’s face is a picture of innocence. ‘Not at all.’
Dave eyes him suspiciously for a moment more, but Russell’s gnawing on one fingertip like a tease, and his resolve crumbles. Not like it really matters all that much anyway. He nods, smiling widely, and Russell grabs his hand, matching his grin and they trip off into a side room. It’s not always just Noel and Julian who get to act like sluts, after all.