(no subject)
Title: Everyone's A Story Of Their Own
Author: Lis
Part: 1/1
Rating: PG
Pairing: PoynterJudd
Summary: Take the time to make some sense//Of what you want to say//And cast your words away upon the waves
A/N: Originally written for laderinmytights for the mcsecretsanta fic exchange. ♥ With huge thanks for zoemargaret for the beta!
Disclaimer: Real people, fake story.
They make a pact when they move into the house. No secrets, no hiding anything, and they swear it with alcohol that first night they move in. Matt there as a witness, even though he swears blind next morning he doesn’t remember a thing, but he’d handed Dougie a vodka shot with a wink and a,
“You too, kid. Fuck underage.”
Dougie had taken it, looked doubtfully at the shot glass before downing it. The others had mistaken it for nerves, didn’t understand until weeks later that getting Dougie to tell you his secrets, the big ones that crawled under his skin when the lights went out and fizzed and mocked behind his eyelids, was a Herculean task if he wasn’t ready. They had to wait, paused at the edge of his life until he was ready to talk. Let him drop little things into conversations, puzzle pieces that sometimes took months to build a picture, and sometimes never got finished at all.
He doesn’t tell them about his dad, not really. Only vague mentions and a blank expression whenever they talk about their homes, when there are family members squished into one room, laughing and drunk and desperately ignoring the single dad-shaped hole in the corner. Dougie tells Harry first, but it’s something none of them talk about after. Tom and Danny get only the briefest impression of a sleepless night, of raw tears in the kitchen at three in the morning and them being herded out the house only a couple hours later. Not allowed back until Harry had said so, and even then, it takes Dougie a few more days to complete that picture. Creeps into Danny’s room one night, hovers near the door until Danny grunts, sticks out a hand from under the covers and waves him over with a,
“Get the fuck in here, son.”
They’d curled together under the covers, fingers and limbs and tightness, and Dougie had whispered to him then. Secrets in the dark, and it’s easier that way. Danny had listened, and held him, and never judged. Never offered advice, just let Dougie talk, and they’d fallen asleep that way. It happens again, and again, and it’s routine and it’s them and it works.
Fast forward to three years later, and the only time Dougie’s crept into Danny’s room recently is after the album charts at number six. Drapes himself across Danny’s back, murmurs in his ear.
“Did I fuck up?”
“No more than the rest of us,” Danny reaches up, flails a hand across Dougie’s head. He feels Dougie nod against his shoulder, cough a little. Danny frowns. “There something else?”
“No,” and Danny can hear the barriers going back up between them. “Never mind.” Dougie slips out of the bed before Danny can catch hold of him, back to his own room. Danny bites his lip, swears quietly. Knows there’s nothing to do but wait.
Danny’s half-asleep when it next happens. A couple weeks before Christmas, and the heating in the flat breaks. Can’t find a plumber willing to come out this time of year for less than eighty quid, and Danny refuses to pay it purely on principle. It wouldn’t be so bad if a foot of snow hadn’t dumped itself over London, making everything damp and freezing and uncomfortable. Danny steals some spare duvets from Tom’s house, Dougie buys extra milk from the corner shop for heating up at night, and they spend as much time as possible elsewhere. Danny considers sleeping downstairs in his studio for a while, but moving his mattress seems like too much hassle, and he gives up the idea.
He’s been dozing lightly most of the night, unable to settle, and the soft creak of floorboards isn’t unexpected. Sleepily lifts up the corner of the duvet - cold, fucking cold, need to fix the heating - and Dougie crawls in, curls up next to him. As close as he can get, and Danny shifts slightly, tucks Dougie’s head under his chin and throws out his arm to curl over his friend’s back. He can feel the boy’s palms curl against his chest, fist into his shirt, and Danny wriggles, hooks a leg over Dougie’s and pulls him impossibly closer. He can feel the soft movement of air against his skin, gentle breathing, and they’ve always been able to do this. Curled up together, just holding and breathing and calming. Tom’s never understood this. Thought they were fucking weird, had cornered Danny in the kitchen one afternoon to ask him in stumbling, red-faced words, what exactly they were up to. In the end, Danny had just shrugged and,
“It’s just us.”
Tom had understood, in a vague way, but had frowned at them each time they’d fallen asleep together on the sofa, at every time they tackled and grabbed at one another on television, tumbling over in a mess of limbs and fingers and giggles.
“You okay?” Danny whispers the words softly, plays the game. Doesn’t get to ask outright, not like this, and Dougie’s fingers tighten against his shirt.
“I need you to not hate me.”
“Why would I hate you?” Danny frowns, wonders if this is about the album, and right there on cue, there’s the soft pad of footsteps across the hallway outside his bedroom, the quiet snick of the front door opening and closing. He thinks, chooses the next question carefully. “There someone in the flat?”
“Harry. He’s gone home.”
“I didn’t know he were here.”
Dougie’s voice is so low, Danny almost doesn’t hear him. “You weren’t meant to.”
Danny’s quiet then, not sure what to say. “You two up to something, then?”
“Sort of,” and Dougie shifts against him, sighs, and Danny can feel the tightness running under his skin. “He’s… we’re sleeping together.”
“Oh.” Pauses, and, “That’s a nice way of saying it.”
“Do you want me to be crude?”
“Not really,” Danny can feel Dougie pulling away from him slightly and he tightens his grip, won’t let him go. Not right now. “How long?”
Dougie snorts against his chest, lets out a strained laugh, and Danny groans, flicks his fingers against the back of Dougie’s neck. “You know what I mean, you little pervert. How long have you been… you know.”
“Few months,” Dougie rubs at the sting on his neck. “Since summer.”
“Oh.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Just.” Danny attempts a shrug. “Thought it were longer, is all.”
“You’re not mad?”
“Nah. Bit shocked. Slightly relieved.”
“Relieved? Why?”
“Well,” Danny grins in the dark. “Someone else’s problem to put you to bed when you’re drunk.”
Dougie raises himself up on his elbow, slaps Danny’s shoulder. “Fucker. You’re still my flatmate, you irresponsible shit.”
“He can stay over you know. I don’t mind.”
“It would feel weird,” Dougie lies back down again, wraps his arms around Danny. “Not right.”
“It’s not like he hasn’t stayed over before. I think our couch has an imprint of his head on it.”
“It’s different, though.” Dougie shakes his head. “You’d know we were…” He pauses, thinks. “That.” He waves his hand in the air, back and forth, and Danny grabs it, shoves it back under the duvet.
“I thought you weren’t going to be crude.”
“Can’t help it. You lot brought me up wrong.”
“You were broke when we got you,” Danny hugs him tighter, takes the sting out the words. “But Tom lost the receipt, so we couldn’t take you back.”
“Shut up.”
“It’s true! And we couldn’t get rid of you on eBay. Someone offered us a packet of crisps for you, but they would have got broke in the post, so we didn’t bother.”
“You’re such a dick,” Dougie laughs, falls silent. They lie, twisted in the dark, shoulders and ears getting chilled in the cold air. Caught between shivers and comfort and Danny reaches up, brushes warm fingers against Dougie’s cold cheek.
“He good to you?”
“Yeah,” Danny can feel Dougie smiling slightly against his chest, soft breath and upturned lips. “Yeah, he is.”
“Good. That’s good.” They lie there in the darkness, curled under the duvet, and Danny thinks he should feel different. Like something has shifted in him, changed his world a little, but there’s nothing, and he might have known this all along. “Doug?”
“Yeah?” Sleepy voice floating at him out of the dark, small fingers circling against his arm, and they both knew this would be okay.
“He hurts you, and I break his balls.”
Dougie stills his fingers, digs them slightly into Danny’s skin. “You’re my big fucking hero, Jones.”
“Always,” Danny laughs, and he doesn’t care about the cold so much anymore.
PoynterJudd
Author: Lis
Part: 1/1
Rating: PG
Pairing: PoynterJudd
Summary: Take the time to make some sense//Of what you want to say//And cast your words away upon the waves
A/N: Originally written for laderinmytights for the mcsecretsanta fic exchange. ♥ With huge thanks for zoemargaret for the beta!
Disclaimer: Real people, fake story.
They make a pact when they move into the house. No secrets, no hiding anything, and they swear it with alcohol that first night they move in. Matt there as a witness, even though he swears blind next morning he doesn’t remember a thing, but he’d handed Dougie a vodka shot with a wink and a,
“You too, kid. Fuck underage.”
Dougie had taken it, looked doubtfully at the shot glass before downing it. The others had mistaken it for nerves, didn’t understand until weeks later that getting Dougie to tell you his secrets, the big ones that crawled under his skin when the lights went out and fizzed and mocked behind his eyelids, was a Herculean task if he wasn’t ready. They had to wait, paused at the edge of his life until he was ready to talk. Let him drop little things into conversations, puzzle pieces that sometimes took months to build a picture, and sometimes never got finished at all.
He doesn’t tell them about his dad, not really. Only vague mentions and a blank expression whenever they talk about their homes, when there are family members squished into one room, laughing and drunk and desperately ignoring the single dad-shaped hole in the corner. Dougie tells Harry first, but it’s something none of them talk about after. Tom and Danny get only the briefest impression of a sleepless night, of raw tears in the kitchen at three in the morning and them being herded out the house only a couple hours later. Not allowed back until Harry had said so, and even then, it takes Dougie a few more days to complete that picture. Creeps into Danny’s room one night, hovers near the door until Danny grunts, sticks out a hand from under the covers and waves him over with a,
“Get the fuck in here, son.”
They’d curled together under the covers, fingers and limbs and tightness, and Dougie had whispered to him then. Secrets in the dark, and it’s easier that way. Danny had listened, and held him, and never judged. Never offered advice, just let Dougie talk, and they’d fallen asleep that way. It happens again, and again, and it’s routine and it’s them and it works.
Fast forward to three years later, and the only time Dougie’s crept into Danny’s room recently is after the album charts at number six. Drapes himself across Danny’s back, murmurs in his ear.
“Did I fuck up?”
“No more than the rest of us,” Danny reaches up, flails a hand across Dougie’s head. He feels Dougie nod against his shoulder, cough a little. Danny frowns. “There something else?”
“No,” and Danny can hear the barriers going back up between them. “Never mind.” Dougie slips out of the bed before Danny can catch hold of him, back to his own room. Danny bites his lip, swears quietly. Knows there’s nothing to do but wait.
Danny’s half-asleep when it next happens. A couple weeks before Christmas, and the heating in the flat breaks. Can’t find a plumber willing to come out this time of year for less than eighty quid, and Danny refuses to pay it purely on principle. It wouldn’t be so bad if a foot of snow hadn’t dumped itself over London, making everything damp and freezing and uncomfortable. Danny steals some spare duvets from Tom’s house, Dougie buys extra milk from the corner shop for heating up at night, and they spend as much time as possible elsewhere. Danny considers sleeping downstairs in his studio for a while, but moving his mattress seems like too much hassle, and he gives up the idea.
He’s been dozing lightly most of the night, unable to settle, and the soft creak of floorboards isn’t unexpected. Sleepily lifts up the corner of the duvet - cold, fucking cold, need to fix the heating - and Dougie crawls in, curls up next to him. As close as he can get, and Danny shifts slightly, tucks Dougie’s head under his chin and throws out his arm to curl over his friend’s back. He can feel the boy’s palms curl against his chest, fist into his shirt, and Danny wriggles, hooks a leg over Dougie’s and pulls him impossibly closer. He can feel the soft movement of air against his skin, gentle breathing, and they’ve always been able to do this. Curled up together, just holding and breathing and calming. Tom’s never understood this. Thought they were fucking weird, had cornered Danny in the kitchen one afternoon to ask him in stumbling, red-faced words, what exactly they were up to. In the end, Danny had just shrugged and,
“It’s just us.”
Tom had understood, in a vague way, but had frowned at them each time they’d fallen asleep together on the sofa, at every time they tackled and grabbed at one another on television, tumbling over in a mess of limbs and fingers and giggles.
“You okay?” Danny whispers the words softly, plays the game. Doesn’t get to ask outright, not like this, and Dougie’s fingers tighten against his shirt.
“I need you to not hate me.”
“Why would I hate you?” Danny frowns, wonders if this is about the album, and right there on cue, there’s the soft pad of footsteps across the hallway outside his bedroom, the quiet snick of the front door opening and closing. He thinks, chooses the next question carefully. “There someone in the flat?”
“Harry. He’s gone home.”
“I didn’t know he were here.”
Dougie’s voice is so low, Danny almost doesn’t hear him. “You weren’t meant to.”
Danny’s quiet then, not sure what to say. “You two up to something, then?”
“Sort of,” and Dougie shifts against him, sighs, and Danny can feel the tightness running under his skin. “He’s… we’re sleeping together.”
“Oh.” Pauses, and, “That’s a nice way of saying it.”
“Do you want me to be crude?”
“Not really,” Danny can feel Dougie pulling away from him slightly and he tightens his grip, won’t let him go. Not right now. “How long?”
Dougie snorts against his chest, lets out a strained laugh, and Danny groans, flicks his fingers against the back of Dougie’s neck. “You know what I mean, you little pervert. How long have you been… you know.”
“Few months,” Dougie rubs at the sting on his neck. “Since summer.”
“Oh.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Just.” Danny attempts a shrug. “Thought it were longer, is all.”
“You’re not mad?”
“Nah. Bit shocked. Slightly relieved.”
“Relieved? Why?”
“Well,” Danny grins in the dark. “Someone else’s problem to put you to bed when you’re drunk.”
Dougie raises himself up on his elbow, slaps Danny’s shoulder. “Fucker. You’re still my flatmate, you irresponsible shit.”
“He can stay over you know. I don’t mind.”
“It would feel weird,” Dougie lies back down again, wraps his arms around Danny. “Not right.”
“It’s not like he hasn’t stayed over before. I think our couch has an imprint of his head on it.”
“It’s different, though.” Dougie shakes his head. “You’d know we were…” He pauses, thinks. “That.” He waves his hand in the air, back and forth, and Danny grabs it, shoves it back under the duvet.
“I thought you weren’t going to be crude.”
“Can’t help it. You lot brought me up wrong.”
“You were broke when we got you,” Danny hugs him tighter, takes the sting out the words. “But Tom lost the receipt, so we couldn’t take you back.”
“Shut up.”
“It’s true! And we couldn’t get rid of you on eBay. Someone offered us a packet of crisps for you, but they would have got broke in the post, so we didn’t bother.”
“You’re such a dick,” Dougie laughs, falls silent. They lie, twisted in the dark, shoulders and ears getting chilled in the cold air. Caught between shivers and comfort and Danny reaches up, brushes warm fingers against Dougie’s cold cheek.
“He good to you?”
“Yeah,” Danny can feel Dougie smiling slightly against his chest, soft breath and upturned lips. “Yeah, he is.”
“Good. That’s good.” They lie there in the darkness, curled under the duvet, and Danny thinks he should feel different. Like something has shifted in him, changed his world a little, but there’s nothing, and he might have known this all along. “Doug?”
“Yeah?” Sleepy voice floating at him out of the dark, small fingers circling against his arm, and they both knew this would be okay.
“He hurts you, and I break his balls.”
Dougie stills his fingers, digs them slightly into Danny’s skin. “You’re my big fucking hero, Jones.”
“Always,” Danny laughs, and he doesn’t care about the cold so much anymore.
PoynterJudd