The Arty Boosh
Category: Real Person Fic
Characters: Chris Corner, Dave Brown, Dee Plume, Julian Barratt, Mike Fielding, Noel Fielding, Other, Sue Denim
Pairing: Noel Fielding/Julian Barratt
Rating: R
Status: WIP
Length: 10-20k words
III: Reconsideration
Contents
III: Reconsideration
Noel found himself walking to Chris and Sue’s flat the following night—all too aware that he was turning into one hell of a saddo. It might have been the fact that Julian had fucking smirked at him all through drawing class that morning, but suddenly Noel was a bit over it. He liked the element of surprise, anyway—no fun if you’ve already seen all the bits before you got to play. If Julian was too good for him, well fine, Noel could care less. But he sure as hell wasn’t going to let the wankjob keep him from enjoying his friends’ company—far from it.
If anything, he might just hang around more. Show Julian that he didn’t care, he wasn’t fussed.
A small part of him protested weakly that really, he was drawing quite a few conclusions from very little evidence, and he did have a gift for self-sabotage, after all. He quieted it by recalling the taunt that had played on Julian’s lips as he’d looked right at Noel, who was forced to try and ignore the stare as he nearly broke his charcoal on the shading of Julian’s left shin, pressing just a bit harder than necessary. Rip, went the paper. Tsk, went his instructor. Whoops.
Cocky, arrogant, strange fucking bastard. No, he wasn’t fussed.
Noel punched in the code to the front door of Chris and Sue’s building, letting himself in and rubbing his hands in the almost steamy warmth of the dingy foyer. The corridors smelt a bit musty, as always, and damp from footsteps of those daring or foolish enough to brave the outdoors on a night like this. Made the previous day look like hols in Trinidad.
Noel squeaked his way down the hall, wondering (as always) when was the last time the wooden floor was replaced—all bets were on 1908, at the latest. He could hear the hum and bustle of activity before he even opened the front door to the flat, which swung easily under his touch.
Inside there lay a veritable cornucopia of people, instruments, drink, and drugs; Noel stepped over Ayoade’s legs and those of the unfamiliar brunette sitting next to him in the entry, exchanging a short greeting as he made his way into the living room. On the sofa, Dee lay across Sue’s lap, smoking a joint and attempting to finger the chords for Sue as she strummed her guitar, painted cheekbones catching the light with their laughter. Next to them, Chris was gesticulating excitedly to Dave—geeking out over his latest synth purchase, most likely—and there was Julian, sitting quietly in the loveseat across. He had a lit cig in his mouth and guitar in his hand, was picking some melody out to himself. He looked oddly relaxed and content.
Before Noel had decided what he ought to do, the girls caught sight of him and let out twin shrieks of joy—it’d become a bit of an annoying ritual at some point, but he shouldn’t complain. Good to be loved, and all. He swooped in and bestowed hugs and kisses on the both of them, stealing a drag from Dee before smacking Dave on the arm and giving Chris a grin. And oh, he’d sat himself next to Julian now—he definitely didn’t recall giving the okay on that one, but too late now, might as well play it off as intentional.
“Ahh, your rapt audience, they’re hanging onto your every note,” He observed earnestly to Julian as he surveyed the room, saw Rich demonstrating one of his weird dances in the kitchen, Matt and Paul egging him on. Julian gave him a sidelong look, snorted with laughter as he exhaled around his cigarette.
“It’s a skill, what can I say,” he said gingerly through his teeth. Noel grinned, shedding his leather jacket and leaning back into the loveseat. He supposed he didn’t have to make up his mind about Julian just yet.
Twenty minutes, one beer, and two shots of vodka later, he thinks maybe he should’ve just left well enough alone. Julian had pulled a bass from his room and was now trying to coax him into playing it as they sat cross-legged in front of the open doorway, side by side.
Noel pulled a face as he struggled to stretch his stubby, uncooperative fingers over a span of four frets. “I don’t think my monkey paws were cut out for this. They’re all gnarled and deformed from holding a pencil too long, look—” He held up his other hand to Julian’s scrutiny, fingers contorted into an uncomfortable-looking fist. “See? They’re more like nubs, ent they? You’d have better luck teaching a whale, and they don’t even have opposable thumbs, just fucking flippers.”
Julian just snorted.
“Just try it again. You might be missing your true calling, Free Willy.” He leaned over, adjusted Noel’s death-grip on the fretboard. “Just relax your hand a bit, you’re not trying to wank it off.”
“Think it might like me a bit more if I did,” Noel wrinkled his nose, exhaling sharply in distaste. “How’s this?” He circled his hand round the fretboard, giving a few lazy flicks of his wrist. “Figure I might as well give it somethin’ for its trouble.”
Julian’s already shrewd gaze narrowed even more as he evaluated Noel’s technique. “Revolutionary,” he frowned, as if in concentration. “Like you’re taking thousands of years of musical practice and theory, looking it squarely in the face, and telling it to fuck right off.”
Noel grinned over at him, pleased.
“That good, yeah?”
Julian considered this for a moment, eyes flicking up to tangle with Noel’s line of vision. Something in Noel’s stomach flip-flopped and his grin got even stupider.
“Yeah,” Julian conceded. “All right.”
Another thirty minutes and two and a half beers later, Noel was tediously plucking out the rhythm to Boys Don’t Cry while Julian had abandoned his guitar to his lap. He was now trying to explain why the Internet was the real infinite abyss that would one day usurp the need for a physical attachment to the universe. Or something.
“I mean, if it’s growing forever, and there’s no real limit to its scope, you sort of got to ask yourself—I mean, what’s the point anymore, we’re all gods now,” Julian paused to let a small rumble in his throat escape before continuing, doggedly, “We should just all get our skins off. Just get ‘em right off.”
“You’re a nutjob,” Noel informed him, voice feeling all chewy and stuck in his throat like corn syrup. “You’ve probably named all sixteen of your toes already, I bet you all have swell debates.” He messed up the bass riff and started over, faltering with each note on the fat strings.
Julian blew a puff of air up at his scruffy fringe, nodding in agreement.
“They seem to enjoy Sartre. God knows why.”
Noel decided to take a risk then. His sore, throbbing fingers fell still on the strings as he leaned forward to delicately blurt out, “Sometimes I reckon I’ve got ram’s legs. And not even the right way round, they’re back-to-front.” He shoved the hot tip of a finger into his mouth to soothe it, and to keep himself from releasing any more nonsense into the warm air.
Julian looked at him like he was actually making sense. “Useless on stairs, I reckon.” He licked his lips and the movement was so minute, so utterly innocent, that Noel had to bite down hard on the tip of his tongue and force his knuckles not to whiten.
“Rubbish on stairs, yeah.” His sticky voice clung to the insides of his mouth and when Julian didn’t respond, Noel had to wonder if he’d actually said anything at all. He shifted, hugging the heavy body of the bass closer to himself so Julian wouldn’t notice any incriminating evidence that had arisen in his trousers.
To Noel’s sudden horror, or perhaps his delight, one broad hand reached out and snatched his up—a rough, hard fingertip prodding his own soft, fleshy pink digits, each imprinted with a string-width groove. Julian nodded to himself, as if Noel had passed a test of some sort. “Got a long way to go, but it’s a start.”
“What?” He said, stupidly.
“Callouses,” Julian explained, patiently. “You didn’t think it would hurt that much forever, did you?”
Noel scoffed, wondering when it was that his cheeks decided it was okay for them to go red without his permission. He wasn’t that embarrassed, really. “Course not.” Or that caught off guard. “I weren’t born yesterday!” Or that turned on over essentially nothing.
At least he could admit he was in denial, however. That was a start.
Julian was politely pretending not to be amused, but he really wasn’t putting all that much effort into it. He could’ve hidden it if he really wanted to. Surely.
“D’you want to come over to mine?” Noel asked, so suddenly, then immediately wondered why he just said that. He quickly amended, “I need a cuppa tea to sort out all this beer.” Because that makes sense. And really, he doesn’t mind that every five minutes, someone is coming over to try and talk to him, or to offer him another drink, or to try and distract Julian, when all Noel really wants to do is have Julian attempt to teach him the bass line to some obscure Smiths’ song so he can smell Julian’s cologne again and maybe and maybe and—no, he really doesn’t mind that. Honest.
Julian actually seemed to be considering the idea.
“All right. Why not?” He extended one of his legs out, stretching from his rather cramped position, looking eager to be up and moving.
Noel blinked at him. “Really?” He’d always had a knack for asking too many questions, but Julian didn’t seem concerned by this. Noel suddenly wondered what Julian would think of his flat. Then he wondered why he hadn’t paid more notice to Julian’s room, because you can tell a lot about a person by their living arrangement. On the other hand, perhaps that was a bit weird, to be over interested in such things—regardless, the light was turned off, so all the warm glow of the hallway revealed was the outline of a bed and a desk and some boxes.
Julian took the bass from him, and Noel didn’t want to give it up because that meant lessons were over, but he relinquished his grip so Julian could stumble the instrument back into the room as gracefully as a tall stork man with seven-odd lagers in him can. Noel gave a quick glance down toward the vicinity of his fly, and breathed a little easier upon confirmation that nothing appeared out of place anymore.
Looking back up, Julian’s denim-encased legs entered his line of vision, and then a large hand offering him help up, so he took it. Found himself standing next to Julian in the doorway, eye-level with the other man’s chest. He was stood close enough to see all the pills on Julian’s cardigan—and he fancied if Julian had stood there just a moment longer, he could’ve seen them tremble with a heartbeat. But Julian moved toward the kitchen, disappearing for a moment and returning with his heavy winter coat in tow.
Noel looked about, feeling indistinct and scattered as he tried to remember where he’d left his own coat.
“On the loveseat,” Julian read his mind, and Noel laughed, trying to pretend he’d known all along. He made his way back into the room with all the sofas, peppering kisses and hugs upon its occupants and liberally handing out apologies for leaving so early, promises to meet up soon and see you later’s. Finally, his leather jacket had been pried from between the cushions of the loveseat and he was walking out the door after Julian, out into the humid, uncomfortably warm hallway, and then beyond it to the great unknown.