Spilt Milk
Category: Real Person Fic
Characters: Julian Barratt, Noel Fielding
Pairing: Noel Fielding/Julian Barratt
Rating: PG-13
Status: Complete
Length: <1k words
Spilt Milk by sherlock
Julian strode through the front door of his flat, whistling a John Coltrane number, feeling pretty fine. It was a sunny, breezy day and all
was right with the world – well, almost all… he put that out of his mind and dropped his keys into the tray. It wouldn’t do to start all that lonely hearts stuff on such a beautiful morning. Still whistling and occasionally scatting under his breath, he made his way up the stairs to find Noel curled over a laptop in the living room.
“Hey there, little man,” he said, wandering through the room to deposit a carton of milk and loaf of bread in the kitchen.
“Ju – stop what you’re doing and come over here,” Noel giggled excitedly, “you won’t believe what I’ve been reading online!” He looked up at Julian from under his trademark fringe with an alert, open expression that melted his friend’s heart. He really is just like a kid, he thought affectionately.
“What’s that, more Gary Numan websites? I’ve told you before…”
“No, this is way better. Check it out-” Noel shuffled round on the sofa, making his tight silver trousers slip down an inch and then almost knocking the laptop onto the floor when he tried to pull them up. Julian dived forward and caught it, dropping the bread and milk in the process. Noel ignored the carnage and poked impatiently at the screen. “Look at this – it’s a livejournal community for the Boosh, but it’s all about Howard and Vince getting freaky with each other.” Noel grinned, triumphant, searching Julian’s face for a reaction. Julian blushed as he tried to manoeuvre himself around the fallen groceries without stepping on anything important, balancing the laptop in one hand. He fell a little and knocked into Noel’s shoulder, and in trying to move away blushed all the more, but Noel seemed not to mind and re-crossed his legs so that his knee rested on Julian’s thigh. Julian coughed and ran a hand through his hair.
“What’s all this, then?”
“Well, look – they have us, I mean Vince and Howard, drinking wine together, shagging in a cupboard, sending each other Valentine’s Day cards. Imagine that! There’s a really good one where we fight a robot and you fall in love with a microphone…”
Julian glanced over the pages. Some people have a lot of time on their hands, he thought, at the same time as a deeper, darker part of his brain urged his finger to click one of the links. He read the text quickly, exclaiming occasionally. Waist. Hair. Legs, arms, wrists, necks. Erections. His cheeks and ears pinked again. So close to the scenarios that ran through his mind every day, every night when he was straining to fall asleep. Thinking to himself: dreams don’t count. Fall asleep. Dream it.
“Well,” he searched for something innocuous to say, keeping his face slightly turned away from Noel’s.
“It’s amazing! They even re-wrote the scene where you appear in a loincloth from the Fountain of Youth. Genius. I’m surprised they didn’t have me use the feather…” Noel snatched the computer back from Julian, who continued to rack his brains for something to say other than, “Do you want to act some of it out?” His head caught up with his ears and he murmured, “…feather?”
“Yeah. I was holding a peacock feather in that scene, remember?” Julian did remember. Vividly. The warmth of the studio, walking around dripping with chains while Noel jokingly ordered him to kiss his retro cowboy boots. Disappearing to the toilet, sweating, heat brewing in his crotch. “Look at some of these pictures… I didn’t realise before, but I suppose we’ve become more touchy feely recently.”
Julian swallowed and braved another look at the screen, trying to keep the memories at bay. There were loads of pictures of them touching, hugging. Innocently enough, he’d thought at the time – but looking at them from the outside, it was clear to see that there was something in the way he and Noel looked at each other. He’d never realised how obvious he made it. The picture from the Tundra pilot, with his arm around Noel’s shoulder, and Noel lightly touching his hip. Them pretending to sleep, Noel’s head on his shoulder. Hang on, he thought. Noel’s hand touching, Noel’s head resting. He finally turned to face his friend.
“Funny, isn’t it,” said Noel, once more saving Julian from speaking, “They seem to have put their finger on something.” Noel was looking up through his fringe again, more shyly this time.
“Noel…” Julian couldn’t believe it. Was he that blind?
“Looks like we’ve got some catching up to do… these guys are way ahead of us.”
Julian’s eyebrows had barely registered their surprise when Noel’s lips crashed against his and the laptop flew onto the floor. In the tangle of arms and legs – oh God, he thought, he’s on my lap, his hips, I – my hands in his hair, my tongue in his mouth, at last – they fell to the floor.
Later, they bought a new laptop. And more milk.
