Category: Real Person Fic
Characters: Dave Brown, Julian Barratt, Mike Fielding, Noel Fielding, Other
Pairing: Noel Fielding/Julian Barratt
Length: <1k words
‘You gotta dial it down, dude,’ Rich says too loudly, and laughs. ‘I totally heard you bashing one out last night.’
‘Riiiich,’ Mike complains, wrinkling his nose. Encouraged, Rich grins dirtily and makes an obscene gesture, licking his lips at Noel.
‘Almost joined in from my bunk. Wanking in stereo, right? Totally hot.’
Noel half groans, half giggles, but it doesn’t stop him stretching out his legs and miming a wank, pulling out his Spirit of Jazz voice. ‘Oh yeah, baby, you like the sound of me?’ And he and Rich pretend to wank at each other for a few moments, until Rich’s ridiculous pornstar moans get too much for him to handle and Noel collapses in laughter to a chorus of Julian’s tolerant chuckles and Mike burying his face in his hands and an expression from Dave that means he wishes he had his camera with him.
Julian occasionally locks himself in the loo after a phone call from Julia. No-one knocks while he’s in there, but sometimes, afterwards, Noel will smirk and ask, ‘Julia doing well, then?’ And Julian doesn’t blush, just lifts an eyebrow and says that she is, yeah, thanks for asking.
Dave in the mornings, still with traces of Bollo makeup across the bridge of his nose and groggily getting himself muesli from one of the cupboards in the kitchenette, in crumpled t-shirt and boxer briefs and morning stiffy.
‘Fuck off,’ he says, when Mike laughs at him from the couch over his mug of painfully strong coffee. Mike snorts around a mouthful, and then splutters and swears when it goes up his nose.
‘Serves you right,’ Dave informs him.
Mike shakes his head like a terrier, groping for a napkin or something to blow the stinging coffee out of his nose. ‘I don’t need you sitting here with that waving in my face; go taking a fucking shower or something; I’ll guard your muesli.’
Noel wanders out with a hangover some time later, and directs a blurrily confused look at Mike. ‘Where’s Dave? I thought I saw him come out here.’
‘Having a wank,’ Mike says, deadpan.
Noel just blinks and scratches at his stubble. ‘Oh. Right. Is there any more of that coffee?’
Mike and Noel mostly just tactfully pretend not to notice if they do happen to see or hear the other one during a bit of private time. They don’t have a lot of boundaries, but there are a few unwritten rules of brotherhood that they still abide by.
Handkerchiefs and socks and washcloths and similar, small articles of fabric are washed by their owners in the sink in the loo, and hung discreetly up to dry. Again, no-one asks.
After the afterparties, drunk and exhilarated, Noel pulls himself off in his bunk just for an orgasm to get himself to sleep. And even though he’s not making any noises, not really (even though he likes to, when he’s on his own with no-one to overhear, finds that moaning and whimpering through it makes the orgasm even better; some kind of psychological thing, he doesn’t know) there’s nothing he can do about the harsh breaths through his nostrils or the slick sounds of flesh on flesh.
And Julian, in the bunk underneath, maybe touches himself a little to the sound of Noel’s furtive wanking. Puts his thumb to his mouth and bites into the nail and the meat of it as he strokes himself, slides his hand into his boxers and just fondles his dick, slow and indulgent. Usually he doesn’t even bother bringing himself all the way to climax, just strokes himself half-hard, too exhausted to devote the concentration that would be needed for something more goal-oriented. Just lazy, tired pleasure, drifting off to sleep after the sharp, choked inhale that means Noel’s come.
But sometimes, sometimes, if the others are still out, if it’s just them in the bus and he can hear Noel up there with his clipped breathing, trying to be subtle about jerking himself off, then Julian lifts his voice, a heavy carrying whisper in the dark. ‘Noel?’
And Noel’s breath stutters, his hard swallow audible. Julian can picture the hand suddenly still on his cock and the expression of wide-eyed uncertainty, imagines his mouth half-open, tongue touching at his teeth. ‘Yeah?’
Julian lifts his hips enough to slide his boxers down to his ankles so he can let his knees fall apart, even though the bunk isn’t quite big enough for his long legs, arching his back to get the sheets under his bum in just the right way. The sound of himself spitting into his palm is improbably loud, and means it’s all right, and me too, and keep going. Noel chuckles a little when he hears it, soft and reassured, murmurs, ‘Alright.’
And sometimes, sometimes, they let themselves be a little louder than they would be usually; no dirty talk or anything quite so… formal, but heavy breathing, gasps and ragged groans and little whines, soft, helpless noises; jerking themselves hard enough to hear the rhythmic slap and squelch. Both doing just as they’d usually do, but letting the sounds and the knowledge that they’re not alone spur them on.
‘Fuck, Ju,’ Noel sometimes bites out when he comes.
Julian can’t usually manage words in the moment of orgasm, but in the breath after, when he can, he murmurs Noel’s name– ‘Noel, mm, Noel,’– rough and satisfied and smiling.
And then in the pause after they catch their collective breaths, the sound of Noel shifting above him, and his voice, warmly accusative, ‘You dirty bastard.’
Julian doesn’t deny it, just smiles and wipes off his hand.