'Scruffs' for lambofcurl101th
Merry Christmas, lambofcurl101th!
Title: Scruffs
Author: ???
Rating: PG
Pairing: Judd/Jones
Genre: Fluff, Romance.
A/N: Hope you enjoy this, I was lacking inspiration but this was an old idea I had that brushed up. It's a fun fic, sorry it's not NC-17 but I felt introducing sexytimes would ruin it, I'll let you use your imagination ;) no idea if you like this sort of fic, but I hope you have as much fun reading as I did writing. Merry Xmas, and here's a Junes based fairytale for you Xx
Harry Mark Christopher Judd was the youngest of 7 siblings. He had six sisters. And they lived like the Little Women! Except...err...they weren’t actually poor (in fact they were pretty rich), and except they weren’t properly artistic really (they weren’t fussed about nice old juicy books and dressing-up trunks and baking). They liked getting manicures, pedicures, facials, eyebrow waxes, fake tans and sitting in Cafe Nero and sometimes scraping their way into the London Fashion Week guest list and were really good at wearing expensive labels - They’d strut, like a military unit, Harry smirking over his vintage (of course) aviator sunglasses, as his sisters whipped their blonde hair from side to side- and they were always, always saying ‘Wix’ (which is meant to mean ‘wicked’).
They were a family force to be reckoned with, like hunters, boys were their choice of game! Yes, boys, even Harry. His mother knew long before he did; when he was 7 years old he’d thrown down his cricket bat, demanding he be allowed to join in his sisters talent show (he got runner up with his rendition of ‘Especially for you’, dressed in his mothers clothes and heels - a memory his aunty was always too eager to narrate at social occasions, much to Harry’s embarrassment).
Now, where we are about to be craned into the story something really HILARIOUS has just happened, but we’re not really supposed to laugh, because it’s not funny. Well, it is, but it’s bad karma to giggle at others misfortune. But then again, it is one of the Judd’s, they have a big enough fortune, and it’s easy enough to get caught up in the moment.
In two hours and three minuets’ time the Judd siblings are meant to be flying to St Lucia to visit their parents, who now live there. Except FUCKERYDA! Harry Mark Christopher Judd has lost his passport.
‘I think you are an absolute selfish arsehole. You have cocked this up too many times in the past and you’re doing it again,’ Tilly grunted, her piggy nose quivering in frustration.
‘Shut up,’ Harry snapped, giving up foraging in his bag hopelessly for the eleventh time.
“Mum is going to fur-reek,’ Jem snarled under her breath.
“You are un-fucking-believable, Harry.’ Rebecca rolled her eyes, shaking her head, casting her eyes in dark little slits at her brother, before returning to aimlessly skim through HEAT magazine.
‘I can’t help but think you’ve done this on purpose to spite me for snogging Damien. Look, he came onto me, it’s not my fault I’m prettier.’ Tara sighed, folding her bony arms into a Tropez square.
‘Well, if you’re not coming, let me get my hairdryer out of your bag.’ Francesca began digging around into Harry’s hand luggage.
‘Can I please have your Ray Bans if you’re not coming? Ooh and your sun oil? Ooh and your Olay radiance day cream? Ooh, and your iPod, pretty please?’ Hayley had joined in on the squabble, still managing to text with her Blackberry at the same time.
And off they went, all six of them, UGG boots, acrylic nails and Paul’s boutique jackets. Like a grouching, fake-tanned parade of pretty ducklings, they swanned off to check in. And Harry, stripped of his desired belongings, went to find a quiet, un-embarrassing, un-cringifying space to call a taxi.
‘WTF?!’ he texted his BFF. ‘This is a long trek all day to the airport to get shunned. Random. L.’
To which his BFF replied, ‘WTF?! Babes, you must be pissed. Ah well. Nero?’
And something happened to Harry then, when he saw the dreaded word, ‘Nero’. There is something disappointing about packing to go and enjoy two weeks in the Caribbean sunshine, to being deserted by your siblings, and then have to spend the afternoon bitching into a supermarket box of sushi and an espresso. So, as out of character it was (so out of character it actually hurt), he replied, ‘Oh, random, they’re letting me fly after all. Wix! See you in two weeks ;) .’
To which his BFF replied, ‘Lucky bitch. Have fun. Xoxo’
The taxi driver texted to confirm his arrival. The car door shut.
‘Wandsworth Common, please.’
Harry emptied his suitcase, re-packed it for Cornwall. The Judd’s had a cottage; he would go there, in hiding, for the fortnight.
*
After a tormenting train ride with normal, poor people, Harry slogged his suitcase up that torturous hill in his Primarni lace up plimsolls (Harry loved getting simple footwear on the cheap, shoes where disposable - basically like foot shaped teabags), Topman waistcoat and all. He eventually reached the cottage.
Then, scrambling through his Burberry bag, he had an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. He fingered through old fag boxes, Nero loyalty cards, his many cosmetic items, condoms, looking for his keys. ‘You are joking,’ he grumbled after not finding his keys where he’d thought they’d be. He bit his lip and got down on his knees. It was dark and beginning to rain, the wind blew in his face, and he worried about his perfectly styled hair, hand shooting up to check it hadn’t fallen. He turned his bag upside down. The wind targeted it contents, attacking the loose receipts and scrappy bits of paper. No keys. ‘No fucking way.’
He looked around the doorstep for a key: under the doormat, behind the plant pot, in the letterbox. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He couldn’t go back. How humiliating. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He kicked the wall. FUCK. Ouch, fuck, bollocks.
He looked through the window and could just make out living room, the remote control, the mirror, the candlesticks, the dining room table, the alarm beeper signalling every fithteen seconds. FUCK. The rain had begun to pallet down in thick heavy strokes, his hair was ruined, it was difficult to breath properly, he could hardly see, and it was impossible for him to get his phone out.
Then he remembered old Barnaby at number sixty-seven. Excellent. At least he might be able to give Harry some tea, the he could order a taxi, or Barnaby might even have a spare key. Right. On he went, his suitcase crackling behind him, sloshing in the gutter where the rain had almost begun to rise.
Doof, doof, he fisted the door of number sixty-seven, his soggy gloved hand punching the door in heavy clods. Silence. FUCK. He tutted. ‘What a shitty day.’ Again: DOOF, DOOF. Nothing. He checked his mobile phone. Could ring mum, break into the cottage, ask her for the code. But she was in a bad mood, and he wasn’t supposed to be here in Cornwall, she’d worry, tell the police, get that smelly woman from the tea shop to chaperone him home to London. No way. DOOF DOOF. Still nothing. Great. He’d have to find a hotel. It was getting late. Then, all of a sudden a light came on, like a flicker at the end of a dark tunnel, warm, glowing and phew. A silhouette approached the door, the latch clicked open and released. It was a guy, a handsome one too, about the same age as Harry.
‘Hello?’ he asked, he sounded northern, very northern, that was a bit out of place - but then again, so was Harry.
‘Oh, err, hi... I was looking for Barnaby?’
‘Oh yeah, right.’ He scratched the back of his neck, his shirt lifted up. Harry shook his head. ‘Barns ain’t ‘ere.’
‘Oh.’ Harry smiled politely, fake, rigid and difficult - he’d like to scream, actually. ‘I thought he ...sorry, okay. Thanks.’ He trailed off, pulling the handle up from his suitcase again, but the northern guy spoke again.
‘That’s a big case; you come far?’ he leaned on the door frame, and the door swung open a little further. Warmth and a sticky, sweet smell swam out of the door; the scruffy hallway was on display, a guitar, shoes, and a surfboard. Weed. Druggies. Just what he needed.
‘Yes, London, but, it err...’ Harry closed his eyes, and sighed. Cringing internally.
‘Yeah, we just rent the place off Barns, he lives a few miles away now, got into that property development and we work for ‘im. Come in for a cuppa!’ The handsome guy smiled, his teeth where big, and straight, like miniature slices of white bread.
‘No, I ...’ Harry started to protest and then something like a gush of relief blew out of him like the first normal breath after a coughing fit. He was tired, wet, and couldn’t refuse the warmth. Besides, his hair now sat matted, his short fringe like dripping icicles, his lips were chapped, his clothes were soaked, as well as his shoes, water everywhere. He couldn’t argue.
‘That would be lovely. Thank you.’ The handsome boy beamed, and let Harry in, his suitcase trailing behind him. Harry was guided into the living room, inside their was two other boys, both engrossed in a game, that Harry couldn’t grasp the name of when the handsome boy spoke quickly, a thick northern grunt that sounded something like ‘Cul-a-jooty.’ Harry just rolled his eyes. The sofa looked grubby and dilapidated.
The handsome guy with nice teeth who’d let him in went to leave the room saying, ‘This is Tom, and this is...’, the one called Tom looked up, smiling, he had a dimple. Cute.
“Oh, Harry,’ he smiled sheepishly.
“Harry,” his name rolled of the handsome boys tongue in his northern accent, he pointed to the other boy left on the sofa, ‘And that is Butty, his real names Dougie, but he can’t Dougie.’ Harry had no idea what one had to do to ‘Dougie.’
There was a bong at Dougie, or butters, or whatever-he’d-said’s feet, and he didn’t take his eyes off the screen as he grunted ‘’S’up.’ Then something happened that made both of the boys groan in frustration, Dougie throwing down his remote in anger. They acknowledge Harry and then sat up straighter, making room for him. Dougie picked up the bong at his feet and light it, offering it to Harry.
‘No, thanks.’ He waved his hand and shifted about, he felt awkward, and wished they’d not made space between them, and didn’t want to let the fabric of his clothes settle on the surface. The room was not how he remembered it when it was Barnaby’s living room. It was now a dark, dingy pit, the only light being the blue hypnotic flash of their game on the television which entailed lots of shooting. Stacks of cassettes, CDs, vinyl and video game were piled from floor to ceiling. On the walls, over the once flowered wallpaper were scraggy sun-stained posters of various movies and bands. On the shelves where Barnaby’s football trophies used to sit were funny ornaments and figurines, a mini Batman and Robin, a Rubik’s cube, and a model Delorean. It was like a big kid’s room. The main noise, apart from the game and occasional burp or other gassy releases form one of the boys, was a stereo in the corner. Harry recognized the song, but didn’t know it’s name or the singer, it just reminded him of his father.
The guy who had let Harry in returned with a tray, ‘I’m Danny by the way,’ he said, passing Harry a mug of steaming sweet smelling tea. Harry smiled and took it, Danny noticed him staring at the stereo ‘You like Van Morrison?’
‘oh, I err ...my father, he dose...’
‘Hungry?’ Harry was but he lied and suffered as Danny ploughed his way through eight mattress sized wedges of buttery toast topped with marmite, the smell mortifyingly tempting. He then sank his tea in one large gulp. ‘So like, what happened to you?’
*
An hour later, and the shooting noises mixed in with the whiny scruff of rappers began splitting holes in Harry’s head like a woodpecker. He was getting really tired. How the fuck did he end up here? In this dump? With these scruffs? Ugh.
‘Can I?’ he held out his fingers like a pair of scissors to encourage Dougie to pass him a joint. Harry was a frequent smoker, but he smoked weed the way you imagine a nun would. ‘Insane!’ he boasted with a cough, trying to fit in.
The floor beneath him was covered in music and porn magazines, dirty plates with sealed splodges of dried ketchup in and the corners of toast.
‘So do you wanna, like, sleep over and that?’ Danny asked.
‘Sorry ...shit’, Harry said, where had the day gone? He was licked. He did not expect to be sleeping the night with tramps in Cornwall, stoned and helpless. ‘I guess so, if you don’t mind?’ Harry shrugged. He knew it would be, like it made a difference, there could have been people sleeping, fucking, lawnmowering in the kitchen sink and nobody here would have batted an eyelid.
‘So what do you do, for a job that is?’ Tom asked, looking at Harry for the first time in a while, his eyes seemed permanently glued to his game.
‘Um, I don’t really, not since I graduated university ...I was studying fashion photography, but that was three years ago now. My parents just kind of pay, for everything, for me, and my sisters...’ Harry trailed off, feeling embarrassed as Tom and Dougie raised their eyebrows exchanging a look before smirking to themselves.
‘And, what do your parents do?’
‘My mother works for a magazine,’ he looked at the dirty magazine on Dougie’s lap, ‘nothing you’d have ever read I think. And my farther he ...actually, I don’t really know what he does.’
‘Scene.’ Dougie nodded, they seemed to accept that.
‘What about yours?’ Harry asked, trying to be curious, he didn’t really care, he was just being polite.
‘Teachers.’ Tom grunted. Harry nodded, and looked at Dougie who was biting his tongue in concentration.
‘Don’t know my dad and my mum is a slag.’ He said, simultaneously shooting a sea of enemies.
‘Oh.’ Harry smirked.
‘So are you rich then?’ Dougie’s eyes swept over Harry, his smirk disappeared.
“Why do you say that?’
‘Well, look at you, your phone, your bag, your stuff, your clothes, your way...’
‘No. Most of this stuff was gifts actually,’ Harry said defensively, Dougie snorted.
‘From who!? Fucking P. Diddy?’
‘Mummy and Daddy.’ And he realized, as soon as the three killer words flooded out of his spic, span little mouth, that he sounded like a complete tit. And the response was not a let-down.
Like a pack of hyenas, the other boys began cracking up, frolicking. Dougie and Tom dropped their controllers, clutching their stomachs and nearly rolling of the sofa roaring with laughter. They loved this, their own personal posh kid as their new toy they could prod and poke and push to do and say funny things.
‘Ok boys, c’mon, low it, shut up!’ Danny warned, smiling sympathetically, but still looking thoroughly amused. ‘Pass us that joint Harry.’ He sucked it in, his eyes drawing in, wincing. He huffed it out in misty clouds. He was gorgeous. He just was. His messy, floppy curls, his long smooth arms and chunky wrists and his big hands, his long fingers and his clean fingernails. Harry didn’t realise he was staring as Danny scooped his wrist round, a beaded bracelet shifted down his arm, and he offered Harry the joint again.
‘Do you have a cleaner?’ Tom asked, his curiosity clear. Dougie giggled and Danny gave them both a warning look.
‘Yes.’
‘Is you house big?’ Tom continued.
‘Depends what you mean by big.’
‘How many bedrooms is it?’
‘Nine.’
‘NINE!?’ Dougie choked out the word in disbelief, his mouth hanging open. And the ruckus kicked off again and the questions kept coming on, strong.
‘GUYS!’ Danny silenced them, wafting his arm and standing up, he stretched and walked out the room. ‘I’ve got the munchies.’ He gargled as his voice trickled away into the speckles of dust in the misty, intoxicated air.
Harry saved by Danny again. But where was he going? Why was he leaving him now? At this desperate point of humiliation... this was the rough side of being gifted with everything you want, normal people -poor people- wanted explanations, as though telling them how and why you were wealthy would infect them with it too.
‘Okay, one more ...what’s your full name?’
‘Harry Mark Christopher Judd’ He cringed at the sound of the laughter.
‘I don’t even have a middle name! He has fucking two of them!’ Dougie was hanging upside down now, tears in the corners of his eyes. Harry ignored him, pouted, and put Vaseline on his lips, and then looked at his phone.
‘Right,’ Danny poked his curly head around the doorframe, smiling. ‘Follow me to my boudoir!’ he instructed, waggling his eyebrows, looking rather proud with himself.
Thank fuck, thought Harry. Danny had saved him, again. ‘Can I use the loo?’
‘The loo is just there.’ He pointed, Danny was being a real gentleman, well as gentle as a boy in khaki bottoms and a very worn band t-shirt could be, it made him all the more adorable.
The toilet was worse than Harry had expected. The pink walls were grimy with, well, grime, and had transformed into a grey peachy colour, like the stained gums of a red wine drinker. In the soar smell that cocooned him, he locked the door. The toilet seat had fallen off the bowl and had a new home down the side of the bowl with ‘R.I.P’ written on it in marker. The toilet was just foul, it looked almost waxy, and the sink was a mess of soap and what look like pubes curled round the tapes with limescale climbing everywhere it could reach. There was a pyramid of toilet roll tubes, others carpeted the floor, the little whispers of toilet paper still clinging on for dear life, not wanting to fall to the dirty floor and be infected. The rug was booted into a cuddle under the sink, like a small soaking dog it lay decorated with muddy footprints. Harry made his exit as quickly as he could.
Danny was waiting outside the door for him. ‘Ready?’ He led Harry up the footprint stained staircase and put his hand on the handle of his door that was decorated with more posters.
‘Now, princess’, Danny teased making Harry pout, ‘I know this is not what you are used to, but I hope it serves you well.’
He bent down the handle and pushed open the door to reveal mess, mess and more mess. There was so much stuff, so much stuff he could not even believe it. It was a like a bad nightmare or a sever example of someone with a hording problem. There were stack of boxes, or records and CDs, of videos and game consoles. It sat like Aladdin’s treasure, only, not for Aladdin, for a dirty messy boy. Skateboards, footballs, clothes, and magazines, books, textbooks, bongos, bin bags, bongs, jigsaws, sleeping bags, tents, guitars, towels, clothes hangers, television wires, video players, deodorant cans, Homer Simpson figurines, a bird cage, shit and shit on top of more and more shit, like a dump, like a big fat dump belonging to an over sized family. And on top of it all, right at the very, very top, was a mattress, some pillows and a sleeping bag zipped open to make a duvet. And twisted round the bed, and the top of the mess pyramid, a nest of fairy lights glowing like a recycled Christmas tree, plugged into an extension lead, plugged into and extension lead, plugged into and extension lead, plugged onto the wall by the door at the base of the monstrous monument.
‘Cool right?’ He smirked, proud of himself, smiling hopefully at Harry.
“Is it always like this?’ harry said, not sure how he sounded, but his disbelief was clear.
‘Nah, you div,’ he prodded the side of Harry’s head, ‘I just made it for you! Well, not the mess, that’s always there, but look...’ He ran excitedly up the mountain of crap and hobbled onto the mattress. ‘See!?’ he yelped, patting the space beside him. ‘Come on! Hope you’re not scared of heights!’ he winked, grinning down at Harry.
‘Maybe I should just call a taxi. I think I might stay in a hotel tonight...’
‘Look princess Harry, it’s half three in the morning, you’ve has a crazy day, just sleep over, okay...?’ His eye light up, he was grinning. He was pleading for Harry to stay, subtly, but Harry couldn’t resist his smile. ‘Come on.’ He beckoned Harry, patting the mattress again.
Harry tongued the roof of his mouth. Then he kicked of his shoes, put his phone in his back pocket and attempted to climb the mess up to Danny who was smiling victoriously. Aerials, radios, and alarm clock, roller-skates, monopoly, biscuit tin.
Danny pulled him up with a big hand linked to his own worthy paw and there he was. Looking down, in Cornwall, with a strangers, in a room piled sky high with mess, on a mattress, on top of it with a boy who’s beauty was curious. Ridiculous, all of it. Redics.
‘It’s not St Lucia, but I think it’s alright.’ Danny smiled.
Harry laughed, genuinely, right from his belly, and for a moment thought about maybe kissing Danny. Just for jokes, obviously. But he was a bit too fitting of the description of boys his mother had told him to avoid. She never mentioned them being so adorable, though. He went for holding his hand instead, cautiously. He beamed as Danny smiled, and squeezed his fingers lightly. Then there was an quietly awkward moment where neither knew what to do, so Harry just admired the fairy lights as Danny watched him curiously.
‘Well...’, Danny said after a short while, ‘Guess I’ll see you... maybe not in the morning, because I don’t normally wakeup until one, but I guess I’ll just, see you when I see you.’ Adorable. He hopped down, as though he did this all the time, waved at Harry, and turned off the light, leaving Harry alone under the fairy lights, practically kissing Danny’s ceiling, almost.
Oh my god! He thought, he was like Tinkerbelle, and he’d found his lost boys. And suddenly everything seemed a lot more magical.
*
During the night, as he slept, Danny let himself into Harry’s makeshift bedroom, tiptoeing, tight-lipped, and stole his coat. Jasper Conran - Nice. Downstairs he fumbled through the pockets, Tony & Guy receipt after Urban Outfitters receipt and then he found Harry’s bankcard. Dougie snatched it. ‘Jesus!’, he exclaimed, ‘Mr H. M. C. Judd. - he wasn’t lying!’
Danny snatched the card back, ‘I’ve got a feeling,’ he laughed in triumph, ‘it’s him!’
*
Woken up by birdsong, Harry stirred and stretched. What a sleep. My goodness, what a very good sleep. His body felt electric, recharged, reset, alive, buzzing - all that shit. He slid he way halfway down Danny’s mountain, past a notice board, and a can of spray glue, and over turned chair, and sat at the window. He pulled back the scruffy curtain and saw the sweetest little bird singing on the sill. Harry rubbed his eyes and climbed the rest of the way down.
‘Morning Mockingbird,’ Danny beamed as he opened the door. Harry returned his smile, he was actually happy to see Danny, and realised that he might, maybe have, the tiniest, little crush on him.
Harry stayed with them for the next thirteen nights. Harry ignored his phone and separated himself from the world in the boys land of rubbish, he became their Snow White (except without the dress, or the cooking, but he did order plenty of takeaways for himself and the endless hunger of the others). He taught the boys about coffee and they got ‘buzzing’ off it. He got them to watch The OC and Mamma Mia! He cut open and avocado and fed Danny the mushy pear innards, both laughing as it spilt down his chin. He made them taste real chocolate and taught them how to count to ten in French. In return they took the piss out of the content of his iPod, and Danny taught Harry how to eat chips, cheese and beans, the significance of rock’n’roll and Family Guy. On the fourteenth day he spent the entire afternoon under the Cornwall rays (well, a tanning bed at the back of a local salon, to, you know, at least make it look as though he had been away. The deluded woman behind the counter rang her sister to tell her ‘That boy you like is in my salon, you know, that pretty one from Eastenders.’ - Harry just smiled politely, better to leave her happy in ignorance).
‘I guess I should get going,’ Harry said putting on his coat at the door. His taxi beeped from the road outside.
‘Do you have to?’ Danny asked, his eyes were sad, and looking anywhere but Harry’s eyes. It was strange seeing Harry with his hair styled, wearing his man make-up and best travelling clothes. He’d been himself when it was just them. ‘Take this,’ he said, and slid the beaded bracelet down his forearm, wrangling it at his wrist, he let it scrape his skin and handed it to Harry. And then, he kissed Harry, lips soft, a gentle hand on his neck.
And then the house was no longer a house, it was Harry’s palace, and he was a princess just for Danny, Dougie and Tom where handsome princess, the taxi was his silver carriage and Danny... Danny was just Danny. Happy, a little gormless and cute, that wicked smile and charming look in his glittering eyes.
Obviously the house was still just Barnaby’s shitty house, the crap still lodged inside. And of course, Dougie and Tom were not princes, they were just stoned and ripping the piss out of each other while play fighting on the sofa. And the taxi... well... yes... it was still just a taxi with an angry, fat, red-faced man inside it, commenting on ‘fucking queers’ and the youth of today. Snogging apparently costs extra time, and much offence on the drivers behalf.
You see, a kiss is just a kiss. They didn’t need the earth to gobble them up and shoot them to the stars, they didn’t need to pretend they were in a film; a handsome, tanned, blonde prince and his anorexic lover hanging on his arm. They just needed a charming scruff and a lonely lost toff.
The taxi was waved off, with a tip, but they still received the finger from the angry driver. Beeping his horn in rage he sped away. Harry went to walk back into the house, and his prince took his suitcase from him and took it back inside. Tom and Dougie stood, confused, staring at Harry, not knowing why he was back.
‘I have sisters, you know...’ He smirked, seeing Dougie’s eye light up and Tom’s eyes roll about as his imagination took hold, grinning like fools. And Harry slid Danny’s bracelet onto his wrist, and tied a knot at the end.
Together him and Danny began to shift the mess mountain in the room. If he was going to sleep here more often, he would defiantly need a space for his wardrobe, darling.
‘What, is this?’ Harry asked, plucking up a tiny green bit of gunge from the floor as they cleared the space.
‘Ugh, it looks like... I dun no... a squashed pea,’ Danny laughed.
‘You’re sick,’ Harry grinned, ‘how long has it been there?’
‘Dun no, throw it!’ Danny waved a hand, shifting a stack of records that warbled dangerously as he moved them.
Harry threw the matted pea into the open mouth of the bin bag as the mockingbird squawked outside and the fairy lights twinkled. This was the beginnings of Harry Mark Christopher Judd’s very own fairy story. And that, was seriously, ever so, utterly, superbly ...random.
The End.
Title: Scruffs
Author: ???
Rating: PG
Pairing: Judd/Jones
Genre: Fluff, Romance.
A/N: Hope you enjoy this, I was lacking inspiration but this was an old idea I had that brushed up. It's a fun fic, sorry it's not NC-17 but I felt introducing sexytimes would ruin it, I'll let you use your imagination ;) no idea if you like this sort of fic, but I hope you have as much fun reading as I did writing. Merry Xmas, and here's a Junes based fairytale for you Xx
Harry Mark Christopher Judd was the youngest of 7 siblings. He had six sisters. And they lived like the Little Women! Except...err...they weren’t actually poor (in fact they were pretty rich), and except they weren’t properly artistic really (they weren’t fussed about nice old juicy books and dressing-up trunks and baking). They liked getting manicures, pedicures, facials, eyebrow waxes, fake tans and sitting in Cafe Nero and sometimes scraping their way into the London Fashion Week guest list and were really good at wearing expensive labels - They’d strut, like a military unit, Harry smirking over his vintage (of course) aviator sunglasses, as his sisters whipped their blonde hair from side to side- and they were always, always saying ‘Wix’ (which is meant to mean ‘wicked’).
They were a family force to be reckoned with, like hunters, boys were their choice of game! Yes, boys, even Harry. His mother knew long before he did; when he was 7 years old he’d thrown down his cricket bat, demanding he be allowed to join in his sisters talent show (he got runner up with his rendition of ‘Especially for you’, dressed in his mothers clothes and heels - a memory his aunty was always too eager to narrate at social occasions, much to Harry’s embarrassment).
Now, where we are about to be craned into the story something really HILARIOUS has just happened, but we’re not really supposed to laugh, because it’s not funny. Well, it is, but it’s bad karma to giggle at others misfortune. But then again, it is one of the Judd’s, they have a big enough fortune, and it’s easy enough to get caught up in the moment.
In two hours and three minuets’ time the Judd siblings are meant to be flying to St Lucia to visit their parents, who now live there. Except FUCKERYDA! Harry Mark Christopher Judd has lost his passport.
‘I think you are an absolute selfish arsehole. You have cocked this up too many times in the past and you’re doing it again,’ Tilly grunted, her piggy nose quivering in frustration.
‘Shut up,’ Harry snapped, giving up foraging in his bag hopelessly for the eleventh time.
“Mum is going to fur-reek,’ Jem snarled under her breath.
“You are un-fucking-believable, Harry.’ Rebecca rolled her eyes, shaking her head, casting her eyes in dark little slits at her brother, before returning to aimlessly skim through HEAT magazine.
‘I can’t help but think you’ve done this on purpose to spite me for snogging Damien. Look, he came onto me, it’s not my fault I’m prettier.’ Tara sighed, folding her bony arms into a Tropez square.
‘Well, if you’re not coming, let me get my hairdryer out of your bag.’ Francesca began digging around into Harry’s hand luggage.
‘Can I please have your Ray Bans if you’re not coming? Ooh and your sun oil? Ooh and your Olay radiance day cream? Ooh, and your iPod, pretty please?’ Hayley had joined in on the squabble, still managing to text with her Blackberry at the same time.
And off they went, all six of them, UGG boots, acrylic nails and Paul’s boutique jackets. Like a grouching, fake-tanned parade of pretty ducklings, they swanned off to check in. And Harry, stripped of his desired belongings, went to find a quiet, un-embarrassing, un-cringifying space to call a taxi.
‘WTF?!’ he texted his BFF. ‘This is a long trek all day to the airport to get shunned. Random. L.’
To which his BFF replied, ‘WTF?! Babes, you must be pissed. Ah well. Nero?’
And something happened to Harry then, when he saw the dreaded word, ‘Nero’. There is something disappointing about packing to go and enjoy two weeks in the Caribbean sunshine, to being deserted by your siblings, and then have to spend the afternoon bitching into a supermarket box of sushi and an espresso. So, as out of character it was (so out of character it actually hurt), he replied, ‘Oh, random, they’re letting me fly after all. Wix! See you in two weeks ;) .’
To which his BFF replied, ‘Lucky bitch. Have fun. Xoxo’
The taxi driver texted to confirm his arrival. The car door shut.
‘Wandsworth Common, please.’
Harry emptied his suitcase, re-packed it for Cornwall. The Judd’s had a cottage; he would go there, in hiding, for the fortnight.
*
After a tormenting train ride with normal, poor people, Harry slogged his suitcase up that torturous hill in his Primarni lace up plimsolls (Harry loved getting simple footwear on the cheap, shoes where disposable - basically like foot shaped teabags), Topman waistcoat and all. He eventually reached the cottage.
Then, scrambling through his Burberry bag, he had an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. He fingered through old fag boxes, Nero loyalty cards, his many cosmetic items, condoms, looking for his keys. ‘You are joking,’ he grumbled after not finding his keys where he’d thought they’d be. He bit his lip and got down on his knees. It was dark and beginning to rain, the wind blew in his face, and he worried about his perfectly styled hair, hand shooting up to check it hadn’t fallen. He turned his bag upside down. The wind targeted it contents, attacking the loose receipts and scrappy bits of paper. No keys. ‘No fucking way.’
He looked around the doorstep for a key: under the doormat, behind the plant pot, in the letterbox. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He couldn’t go back. How humiliating. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He kicked the wall. FUCK. Ouch, fuck, bollocks.
He looked through the window and could just make out living room, the remote control, the mirror, the candlesticks, the dining room table, the alarm beeper signalling every fithteen seconds. FUCK. The rain had begun to pallet down in thick heavy strokes, his hair was ruined, it was difficult to breath properly, he could hardly see, and it was impossible for him to get his phone out.
Then he remembered old Barnaby at number sixty-seven. Excellent. At least he might be able to give Harry some tea, the he could order a taxi, or Barnaby might even have a spare key. Right. On he went, his suitcase crackling behind him, sloshing in the gutter where the rain had almost begun to rise.
Doof, doof, he fisted the door of number sixty-seven, his soggy gloved hand punching the door in heavy clods. Silence. FUCK. He tutted. ‘What a shitty day.’ Again: DOOF, DOOF. Nothing. He checked his mobile phone. Could ring mum, break into the cottage, ask her for the code. But she was in a bad mood, and he wasn’t supposed to be here in Cornwall, she’d worry, tell the police, get that smelly woman from the tea shop to chaperone him home to London. No way. DOOF DOOF. Still nothing. Great. He’d have to find a hotel. It was getting late. Then, all of a sudden a light came on, like a flicker at the end of a dark tunnel, warm, glowing and phew. A silhouette approached the door, the latch clicked open and released. It was a guy, a handsome one too, about the same age as Harry.
‘Hello?’ he asked, he sounded northern, very northern, that was a bit out of place - but then again, so was Harry.
‘Oh, err, hi... I was looking for Barnaby?’
‘Oh yeah, right.’ He scratched the back of his neck, his shirt lifted up. Harry shook his head. ‘Barns ain’t ‘ere.’
‘Oh.’ Harry smiled politely, fake, rigid and difficult - he’d like to scream, actually. ‘I thought he ...sorry, okay. Thanks.’ He trailed off, pulling the handle up from his suitcase again, but the northern guy spoke again.
‘That’s a big case; you come far?’ he leaned on the door frame, and the door swung open a little further. Warmth and a sticky, sweet smell swam out of the door; the scruffy hallway was on display, a guitar, shoes, and a surfboard. Weed. Druggies. Just what he needed.
‘Yes, London, but, it err...’ Harry closed his eyes, and sighed. Cringing internally.
‘Yeah, we just rent the place off Barns, he lives a few miles away now, got into that property development and we work for ‘im. Come in for a cuppa!’ The handsome guy smiled, his teeth where big, and straight, like miniature slices of white bread.
‘No, I ...’ Harry started to protest and then something like a gush of relief blew out of him like the first normal breath after a coughing fit. He was tired, wet, and couldn’t refuse the warmth. Besides, his hair now sat matted, his short fringe like dripping icicles, his lips were chapped, his clothes were soaked, as well as his shoes, water everywhere. He couldn’t argue.
‘That would be lovely. Thank you.’ The handsome boy beamed, and let Harry in, his suitcase trailing behind him. Harry was guided into the living room, inside their was two other boys, both engrossed in a game, that Harry couldn’t grasp the name of when the handsome boy spoke quickly, a thick northern grunt that sounded something like ‘Cul-a-jooty.’ Harry just rolled his eyes. The sofa looked grubby and dilapidated.
The handsome guy with nice teeth who’d let him in went to leave the room saying, ‘This is Tom, and this is...’, the one called Tom looked up, smiling, he had a dimple. Cute.
“Oh, Harry,’ he smiled sheepishly.
“Harry,” his name rolled of the handsome boys tongue in his northern accent, he pointed to the other boy left on the sofa, ‘And that is Butty, his real names Dougie, but he can’t Dougie.’ Harry had no idea what one had to do to ‘Dougie.’
There was a bong at Dougie, or butters, or whatever-he’d-said’s feet, and he didn’t take his eyes off the screen as he grunted ‘’S’up.’ Then something happened that made both of the boys groan in frustration, Dougie throwing down his remote in anger. They acknowledge Harry and then sat up straighter, making room for him. Dougie picked up the bong at his feet and light it, offering it to Harry.
‘No, thanks.’ He waved his hand and shifted about, he felt awkward, and wished they’d not made space between them, and didn’t want to let the fabric of his clothes settle on the surface. The room was not how he remembered it when it was Barnaby’s living room. It was now a dark, dingy pit, the only light being the blue hypnotic flash of their game on the television which entailed lots of shooting. Stacks of cassettes, CDs, vinyl and video game were piled from floor to ceiling. On the walls, over the once flowered wallpaper were scraggy sun-stained posters of various movies and bands. On the shelves where Barnaby’s football trophies used to sit were funny ornaments and figurines, a mini Batman and Robin, a Rubik’s cube, and a model Delorean. It was like a big kid’s room. The main noise, apart from the game and occasional burp or other gassy releases form one of the boys, was a stereo in the corner. Harry recognized the song, but didn’t know it’s name or the singer, it just reminded him of his father.
The guy who had let Harry in returned with a tray, ‘I’m Danny by the way,’ he said, passing Harry a mug of steaming sweet smelling tea. Harry smiled and took it, Danny noticed him staring at the stereo ‘You like Van Morrison?’
‘oh, I err ...my father, he dose...’
‘Hungry?’ Harry was but he lied and suffered as Danny ploughed his way through eight mattress sized wedges of buttery toast topped with marmite, the smell mortifyingly tempting. He then sank his tea in one large gulp. ‘So like, what happened to you?’
*
An hour later, and the shooting noises mixed in with the whiny scruff of rappers began splitting holes in Harry’s head like a woodpecker. He was getting really tired. How the fuck did he end up here? In this dump? With these scruffs? Ugh.
‘Can I?’ he held out his fingers like a pair of scissors to encourage Dougie to pass him a joint. Harry was a frequent smoker, but he smoked weed the way you imagine a nun would. ‘Insane!’ he boasted with a cough, trying to fit in.
The floor beneath him was covered in music and porn magazines, dirty plates with sealed splodges of dried ketchup in and the corners of toast.
‘So do you wanna, like, sleep over and that?’ Danny asked.
‘Sorry ...shit’, Harry said, where had the day gone? He was licked. He did not expect to be sleeping the night with tramps in Cornwall, stoned and helpless. ‘I guess so, if you don’t mind?’ Harry shrugged. He knew it would be, like it made a difference, there could have been people sleeping, fucking, lawnmowering in the kitchen sink and nobody here would have batted an eyelid.
‘So what do you do, for a job that is?’ Tom asked, looking at Harry for the first time in a while, his eyes seemed permanently glued to his game.
‘Um, I don’t really, not since I graduated university ...I was studying fashion photography, but that was three years ago now. My parents just kind of pay, for everything, for me, and my sisters...’ Harry trailed off, feeling embarrassed as Tom and Dougie raised their eyebrows exchanging a look before smirking to themselves.
‘And, what do your parents do?’
‘My mother works for a magazine,’ he looked at the dirty magazine on Dougie’s lap, ‘nothing you’d have ever read I think. And my farther he ...actually, I don’t really know what he does.’
‘Scene.’ Dougie nodded, they seemed to accept that.
‘What about yours?’ Harry asked, trying to be curious, he didn’t really care, he was just being polite.
‘Teachers.’ Tom grunted. Harry nodded, and looked at Dougie who was biting his tongue in concentration.
‘Don’t know my dad and my mum is a slag.’ He said, simultaneously shooting a sea of enemies.
‘Oh.’ Harry smirked.
‘So are you rich then?’ Dougie’s eyes swept over Harry, his smirk disappeared.
“Why do you say that?’
‘Well, look at you, your phone, your bag, your stuff, your clothes, your way...’
‘No. Most of this stuff was gifts actually,’ Harry said defensively, Dougie snorted.
‘From who!? Fucking P. Diddy?’
‘Mummy and Daddy.’ And he realized, as soon as the three killer words flooded out of his spic, span little mouth, that he sounded like a complete tit. And the response was not a let-down.
Like a pack of hyenas, the other boys began cracking up, frolicking. Dougie and Tom dropped their controllers, clutching their stomachs and nearly rolling of the sofa roaring with laughter. They loved this, their own personal posh kid as their new toy they could prod and poke and push to do and say funny things.
‘Ok boys, c’mon, low it, shut up!’ Danny warned, smiling sympathetically, but still looking thoroughly amused. ‘Pass us that joint Harry.’ He sucked it in, his eyes drawing in, wincing. He huffed it out in misty clouds. He was gorgeous. He just was. His messy, floppy curls, his long smooth arms and chunky wrists and his big hands, his long fingers and his clean fingernails. Harry didn’t realise he was staring as Danny scooped his wrist round, a beaded bracelet shifted down his arm, and he offered Harry the joint again.
‘Do you have a cleaner?’ Tom asked, his curiosity clear. Dougie giggled and Danny gave them both a warning look.
‘Yes.’
‘Is you house big?’ Tom continued.
‘Depends what you mean by big.’
‘How many bedrooms is it?’
‘Nine.’
‘NINE!?’ Dougie choked out the word in disbelief, his mouth hanging open. And the ruckus kicked off again and the questions kept coming on, strong.
‘GUYS!’ Danny silenced them, wafting his arm and standing up, he stretched and walked out the room. ‘I’ve got the munchies.’ He gargled as his voice trickled away into the speckles of dust in the misty, intoxicated air.
Harry saved by Danny again. But where was he going? Why was he leaving him now? At this desperate point of humiliation... this was the rough side of being gifted with everything you want, normal people -poor people- wanted explanations, as though telling them how and why you were wealthy would infect them with it too.
‘Okay, one more ...what’s your full name?’
‘Harry Mark Christopher Judd’ He cringed at the sound of the laughter.
‘I don’t even have a middle name! He has fucking two of them!’ Dougie was hanging upside down now, tears in the corners of his eyes. Harry ignored him, pouted, and put Vaseline on his lips, and then looked at his phone.
‘Right,’ Danny poked his curly head around the doorframe, smiling. ‘Follow me to my boudoir!’ he instructed, waggling his eyebrows, looking rather proud with himself.
Thank fuck, thought Harry. Danny had saved him, again. ‘Can I use the loo?’
‘The loo is just there.’ He pointed, Danny was being a real gentleman, well as gentle as a boy in khaki bottoms and a very worn band t-shirt could be, it made him all the more adorable.
The toilet was worse than Harry had expected. The pink walls were grimy with, well, grime, and had transformed into a grey peachy colour, like the stained gums of a red wine drinker. In the soar smell that cocooned him, he locked the door. The toilet seat had fallen off the bowl and had a new home down the side of the bowl with ‘R.I.P’ written on it in marker. The toilet was just foul, it looked almost waxy, and the sink was a mess of soap and what look like pubes curled round the tapes with limescale climbing everywhere it could reach. There was a pyramid of toilet roll tubes, others carpeted the floor, the little whispers of toilet paper still clinging on for dear life, not wanting to fall to the dirty floor and be infected. The rug was booted into a cuddle under the sink, like a small soaking dog it lay decorated with muddy footprints. Harry made his exit as quickly as he could.
Danny was waiting outside the door for him. ‘Ready?’ He led Harry up the footprint stained staircase and put his hand on the handle of his door that was decorated with more posters.
‘Now, princess’, Danny teased making Harry pout, ‘I know this is not what you are used to, but I hope it serves you well.’
He bent down the handle and pushed open the door to reveal mess, mess and more mess. There was so much stuff, so much stuff he could not even believe it. It was a like a bad nightmare or a sever example of someone with a hording problem. There were stack of boxes, or records and CDs, of videos and game consoles. It sat like Aladdin’s treasure, only, not for Aladdin, for a dirty messy boy. Skateboards, footballs, clothes, and magazines, books, textbooks, bongos, bin bags, bongs, jigsaws, sleeping bags, tents, guitars, towels, clothes hangers, television wires, video players, deodorant cans, Homer Simpson figurines, a bird cage, shit and shit on top of more and more shit, like a dump, like a big fat dump belonging to an over sized family. And on top of it all, right at the very, very top, was a mattress, some pillows and a sleeping bag zipped open to make a duvet. And twisted round the bed, and the top of the mess pyramid, a nest of fairy lights glowing like a recycled Christmas tree, plugged into an extension lead, plugged into and extension lead, plugged into and extension lead, plugged onto the wall by the door at the base of the monstrous monument.
‘Cool right?’ He smirked, proud of himself, smiling hopefully at Harry.
“Is it always like this?’ harry said, not sure how he sounded, but his disbelief was clear.
‘Nah, you div,’ he prodded the side of Harry’s head, ‘I just made it for you! Well, not the mess, that’s always there, but look...’ He ran excitedly up the mountain of crap and hobbled onto the mattress. ‘See!?’ he yelped, patting the space beside him. ‘Come on! Hope you’re not scared of heights!’ he winked, grinning down at Harry.
‘Maybe I should just call a taxi. I think I might stay in a hotel tonight...’
‘Look princess Harry, it’s half three in the morning, you’ve has a crazy day, just sleep over, okay...?’ His eye light up, he was grinning. He was pleading for Harry to stay, subtly, but Harry couldn’t resist his smile. ‘Come on.’ He beckoned Harry, patting the mattress again.
Harry tongued the roof of his mouth. Then he kicked of his shoes, put his phone in his back pocket and attempted to climb the mess up to Danny who was smiling victoriously. Aerials, radios, and alarm clock, roller-skates, monopoly, biscuit tin.
Danny pulled him up with a big hand linked to his own worthy paw and there he was. Looking down, in Cornwall, with a strangers, in a room piled sky high with mess, on a mattress, on top of it with a boy who’s beauty was curious. Ridiculous, all of it. Redics.
‘It’s not St Lucia, but I think it’s alright.’ Danny smiled.
Harry laughed, genuinely, right from his belly, and for a moment thought about maybe kissing Danny. Just for jokes, obviously. But he was a bit too fitting of the description of boys his mother had told him to avoid. She never mentioned them being so adorable, though. He went for holding his hand instead, cautiously. He beamed as Danny smiled, and squeezed his fingers lightly. Then there was an quietly awkward moment where neither knew what to do, so Harry just admired the fairy lights as Danny watched him curiously.
‘Well...’, Danny said after a short while, ‘Guess I’ll see you... maybe not in the morning, because I don’t normally wakeup until one, but I guess I’ll just, see you when I see you.’ Adorable. He hopped down, as though he did this all the time, waved at Harry, and turned off the light, leaving Harry alone under the fairy lights, practically kissing Danny’s ceiling, almost.
Oh my god! He thought, he was like Tinkerbelle, and he’d found his lost boys. And suddenly everything seemed a lot more magical.
*
During the night, as he slept, Danny let himself into Harry’s makeshift bedroom, tiptoeing, tight-lipped, and stole his coat. Jasper Conran - Nice. Downstairs he fumbled through the pockets, Tony & Guy receipt after Urban Outfitters receipt and then he found Harry’s bankcard. Dougie snatched it. ‘Jesus!’, he exclaimed, ‘Mr H. M. C. Judd. - he wasn’t lying!’
Danny snatched the card back, ‘I’ve got a feeling,’ he laughed in triumph, ‘it’s him!’
*
Woken up by birdsong, Harry stirred and stretched. What a sleep. My goodness, what a very good sleep. His body felt electric, recharged, reset, alive, buzzing - all that shit. He slid he way halfway down Danny’s mountain, past a notice board, and a can of spray glue, and over turned chair, and sat at the window. He pulled back the scruffy curtain and saw the sweetest little bird singing on the sill. Harry rubbed his eyes and climbed the rest of the way down.
‘Morning Mockingbird,’ Danny beamed as he opened the door. Harry returned his smile, he was actually happy to see Danny, and realised that he might, maybe have, the tiniest, little crush on him.
Harry stayed with them for the next thirteen nights. Harry ignored his phone and separated himself from the world in the boys land of rubbish, he became their Snow White (except without the dress, or the cooking, but he did order plenty of takeaways for himself and the endless hunger of the others). He taught the boys about coffee and they got ‘buzzing’ off it. He got them to watch The OC and Mamma Mia! He cut open and avocado and fed Danny the mushy pear innards, both laughing as it spilt down his chin. He made them taste real chocolate and taught them how to count to ten in French. In return they took the piss out of the content of his iPod, and Danny taught Harry how to eat chips, cheese and beans, the significance of rock’n’roll and Family Guy. On the fourteenth day he spent the entire afternoon under the Cornwall rays (well, a tanning bed at the back of a local salon, to, you know, at least make it look as though he had been away. The deluded woman behind the counter rang her sister to tell her ‘That boy you like is in my salon, you know, that pretty one from Eastenders.’ - Harry just smiled politely, better to leave her happy in ignorance).
‘I guess I should get going,’ Harry said putting on his coat at the door. His taxi beeped from the road outside.
‘Do you have to?’ Danny asked, his eyes were sad, and looking anywhere but Harry’s eyes. It was strange seeing Harry with his hair styled, wearing his man make-up and best travelling clothes. He’d been himself when it was just them. ‘Take this,’ he said, and slid the beaded bracelet down his forearm, wrangling it at his wrist, he let it scrape his skin and handed it to Harry. And then, he kissed Harry, lips soft, a gentle hand on his neck.
And then the house was no longer a house, it was Harry’s palace, and he was a princess just for Danny, Dougie and Tom where handsome princess, the taxi was his silver carriage and Danny... Danny was just Danny. Happy, a little gormless and cute, that wicked smile and charming look in his glittering eyes.
Obviously the house was still just Barnaby’s shitty house, the crap still lodged inside. And of course, Dougie and Tom were not princes, they were just stoned and ripping the piss out of each other while play fighting on the sofa. And the taxi... well... yes... it was still just a taxi with an angry, fat, red-faced man inside it, commenting on ‘fucking queers’ and the youth of today. Snogging apparently costs extra time, and much offence on the drivers behalf.
You see, a kiss is just a kiss. They didn’t need the earth to gobble them up and shoot them to the stars, they didn’t need to pretend they were in a film; a handsome, tanned, blonde prince and his anorexic lover hanging on his arm. They just needed a charming scruff and a lonely lost toff.
The taxi was waved off, with a tip, but they still received the finger from the angry driver. Beeping his horn in rage he sped away. Harry went to walk back into the house, and his prince took his suitcase from him and took it back inside. Tom and Dougie stood, confused, staring at Harry, not knowing why he was back.
‘I have sisters, you know...’ He smirked, seeing Dougie’s eye light up and Tom’s eyes roll about as his imagination took hold, grinning like fools. And Harry slid Danny’s bracelet onto his wrist, and tied a knot at the end.
Together him and Danny began to shift the mess mountain in the room. If he was going to sleep here more often, he would defiantly need a space for his wardrobe, darling.
‘What, is this?’ Harry asked, plucking up a tiny green bit of gunge from the floor as they cleared the space.
‘Ugh, it looks like... I dun no... a squashed pea,’ Danny laughed.
‘You’re sick,’ Harry grinned, ‘how long has it been there?’
‘Dun no, throw it!’ Danny waved a hand, shifting a stack of records that warbled dangerously as he moved them.
Harry threw the matted pea into the open mouth of the bin bag as the mockingbird squawked outside and the fairy lights twinkled. This was the beginnings of Harry Mark Christopher Judd’s very own fairy story. And that, was seriously, ever so, utterly, superbly ...random.
The End.