(no subject)
Title: And The Weight of Our Love Will Destroy the World
Author: Lis
Part: 1/3
Rating: PG
Pairing: PoynterJudd; JuddWick
Summary: And you wrote the book//On how to be a liar and lose all your friends
A/N: With massive thanks to ichnal for the cheerleading, first_spike for letting me whine at him for months and reading it when I wanted to throw it out the window, and jess_darkwater for fixing the made up words.
Disclaimer: Real people, fake story.
Danny likens the end of Busted to your parents breaking up. Messy and loud and awful, and you might love them both, but you still end up taking sides and always, everyone, gets hurt somehow. Dougie tells him it’s more like when your bastard father fucks off and never comes back, but there’s screaming coming through the window and Danny never gets the chance to answer back.
They’re all there for that last, terrible argument, no choice when it happens in their back garden. Matt and Charlie, wasted and angry and hurling insults and beer bottles and plant pots. James sits upstairs on Tom’s bed, fingers pressed against his lips, tears streaking down his cheeks, and he closes his eyes as he hears the shouts drifting up through the open balcony door.
“You fucking wanker, how the fuck dare you-”
“Don’t speak to me like that, you little shit! Who the fuck do you-”
“Why are they doing this?” James whispers, and Tom wraps his arms tighter around his friend, for once, can't find the words. “Why can’t they just…” But there’s nothing left to say, nowhere left to go, and in the end, it’s just a pile of smashed glass and pottery and three broken boys. It stays that way, and the media training kicks in when the cameras are shoved in all their faces. Smiles and nods and wishing only the best for Charlie and his new band, and of course we’re all still friends, never change that, will we lads? Charlie melts away, becomes just another face on the television and glossy magazine pages. Doesn’t get mentioned among the boys unless James or Matt bring him up first, bitterness and anger and alcohol bleeding it all out.
Harry watches it all. Thinks about schoolrooms and cricket teams and old brick buildings, and keeps Charlie a secret all for himself. Remembers late nights and a crowded tour bus, too tired to even find the right bunk, and Harry and Charlie had fallen asleep one night on the same small, cramped bed. Too many limbs and not enough space, and Harry had woken hours later, rainy grey dawn making him shiver, and Charlie’s lips against his jaw. Stubble-scratch, and,
“We should have had a drummer,” Charlie had whispered, and mouthed his way down Harry’s throat. “We would have been okay with a drummer. We would have been okay with you.”
“You’ll be fine,” and Harry had reached out, gently pulled him closer, shifted, and oh, and when they’d woken again grey dawn was grey day, and the bus was pulling in to the next tour stop. It sometimes happened again, and it sometimes didn’t, and the night they got bored and fed Dougie shots until he passed out, fingers curled in a death grip into Harry’s shirt, it almost stopped entirely.
After the end, there’s text messages and late night phone calls and drinks down the pub, different place every time, and Charlie greets him that first time with a sheepish smile and,
“We’re so fucking tragic.”
Harry laughs, gives him a hug and buys the first round. There are rehearsals then, and releases and tours, and sometimes there’s silence, and sometimes there’s a phone call late at night, secret meetings and dark rooms and the rough scrape of brick against flesh, and it all works out that way.
~*~
Harry’s in his room when it all comes crashing in. Lying on his bed reading a magazine, cars he’ll never afford and places he’ll never go, and his door slams open, bangs off the wall. Dougie standing there, white-faced and thin-lipped, and Harry sits up quickly, panic fluttering in his stomach. Dougie never gets angry about things, not about anything important, and he’s flinging something small and hard at Harry’s chest. Automatically cups his palms to catch it, cricketer’s hands, and he’s holding his phone. Frowns, and,
“You left that in the kitchen,” Dougie spits out. “Charlie called. Says hi, by the way. Wants to know what time you’re meeting him tonight.”
Oh. “Doug, I-”
“Awesome way to treat your mates, Harry,” Dougie turns on his heel, and Harry is up and off his bed, following him, flush of anger creeping up his throat.
“Look, he’s my mate too, I’m not just going to-”
“Do you know where I was last night?” Dougie whirls back to him, and Harry notices the sleepless bruises pressed under the boy’s eyes. Steps back, and Dougie follows him. “In some shitty club, holding Matt’s head while he cried and puked. He’s talking about rehab, Harry. And you’re still…” He waves a hand towards the phone still clutched in Harry’s fingers. “You’re still fucking around on us.”
Harry is surprised how calm he manages to sound. “I’ve known him a lot longer than I’ve known any of you. I can’t just throw that away.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Harry’s eyes narrow. “So don’t start lecturing me on loyalty, Pugs. I don’t drop my friends. Any of them. Just, please. Don’t say anything. Not yet.”
“I won’t tell,” Dougie’s voice is quiet, and he leans against the wall, rubs his eyes tiredly, and the anger is gone. “Just… just don’t let on, okay? Especially to Matt.”
“He’s really that bad?” Harry asks softly, and Dougie nods, looks suddenly lost, and Harry frowns. “What the hell were you doing in a club?”
“What?”
Harry gently kicks at Dougie’s ankle. “Seventeen, little boy.”
Dougie laughs, sharp and bitter, and the tension snaps. “Fuck off.” It doesn’t get mentioned again, but when Harry disappears for a few hours sometimes, Dougie flashes him a hurt look and hovers nervously in the bathroom doorway while Harry shaves, brushes his hair, adds a splash of cologne and a clean shirt from the laundry. Until the night Dougie can't look at him, sits on the edge of the bath and fiddles with a half-empty gel bottle, and asks in a quiet voice,
“Are you fucking him?”
“Course not,” but Harry spends his evening in the pub with Charlie with a vague, slightly sick feeling in his stomach that has nothing to do with the thick beer they down quickly before crawling home to empty beds.
~*~
It’s the week before August bank holiday, second arena tour starting in less than a month, and they can’t get the album tracks laid down right. The lyrics keep changing, Dougie can’t get half the bass lines the way he wants, and Harry sits in the corner of the studio and watches the three boys arguing. He hasn’t really written anything, not since that aborted effort on She Falls Asleep, but that’s never been the reason he’s in this band. Can’t sing, can’t write, but he attacks his drums like he charges through life, messy and loud and fast and unafraid. The recording light flashes, Dougie strums out a deep bass rhythm, frowns and stops. Tries it again, and it doesn’t sound that different to Harry, but Tom kicks at his mic stand, drops his guitar to the floor. High whine filling the air, and Tom’s stomping towards the door.
“Would you just make up your fucking mind!”
Dougie looks tired, flinches, and he closes his eyes, flicks his fingers over the bass strings. “I just. It won’t sound right.” Opens his eyes and frowns. “I can hear it in my head, but…”
Harry sighs, stands, and clicks his fingers, gets Danny’s attention. “You two sort this, yeah?”
Danny nods, picks out a few chords on his guitar. “Okay, let’s try it this way…”
Harry leaves them to it, heads out into the corridor. At the end, the door to the men’s toilet is banging closed and he jogs towards it, pushes it open. Tom’s inside, leaning against one of the sinks. Head down, white-faced and thin-lipped and Harry winces at the telltale signs of an imminent explosion. Knows there’s nothing he can say to stop it, and he might as well get it over with as quick as he can.
“Mate, Dougie’s just wanting to get this the best he can, and-”
“He’s changed that bass line five times today!” And there it is, right on cue. Houston, we have lift off. “Why can’t he just leave it like it is?”
“Because he’s just as much of a perfectionist as you are,” Harry crosses his arms, leans back against the wall. “And because he’s just as scared as you are.”
“What are you on about?”
“Third album,” Harry shrugs. “Not the one you want to mess up. Look, mate, it’ll work out okay-”
There’s a crash as Tom kicks at the waste bin under the sinks and it tips over, scatters paper towels and empty drinks cans across the floor. There’s a nervous cough at the door, and Harry turns to see one of the technicians peering at them.
“Everything okay?”
Harry looks at Tom, who nods, eyes down. “Fine, mate,” He says, and tries to fake a smile, but it never quite works. “Be back in a few.” The door closes again, and Harry steps forward, ducks his head to force Tom to look at him. “We should take a long weekend. Have a break before things get crazy.”
“Are you kidding?” Tom frowns at him. “The album isn’t even half finished yet, there’s too much to do. Half the lyrics aren’t working, we can’t just take time off.”
“Course we can,” Harry shrugs. “And I’ll bet you anything we come back next week and fucking storm this thing. Come on, when am I ever wrong?”
Tom looks at him, eyebrows raised. Ticks things off on his fingers. “Tongue piercing. Mullets.” Smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Lohan.”
“Nothing wrong with my mullet,” Harry grins cheerfully. “You up for this?”
There’s a soft look in Tom’s eyes, something far away and wistful. “Could go away somewhere. Take Gio. Think we could get some last minute flights?”
Harry pushes open the bathroom door, holds it for Tom. “Where are you thinking of going?”
Tom fiddles with the hem of his shirt, gives a rueful smile. “There’s a shuttle launch this weekend. Was going to watch it over the internet, but... If we’re taking the time off.”
“You’re such a geek, Thomas,” Harry laughs, and they’re back in the studio. Dougie and Danny sit cross-legged on the floor, guitar and bass on their knees and triumphant smiles on their faces.
“Tom, we’ve decided you’re sucking our creativeness,” Danny starts, but there’s no malice in his voice, and Tom rolls his eyes.
“Creativity, Danny.”
“You still suck it.” And that’s enough to send Dougie into fits of giggles, and they’re not getting anything else done for the day, but this time it doesn’t matter so much. Harry smiles, watches the boys on the floor giggling and snorting, watches Tom’s bemused expression, and his phone is gently vibrating in his pocket. Knows, just knows, who it’s going to be, and he smiles even wider.
~*~
Danny heads home to Bolton, Tom gets his last-minute flights. Dougie stays at home, mumbles something about bass lines and beetles. Harry rings him Saturday night and gets a blast of dance music and an incoherent slur. It feels weird, this sudden separation from the others. Harry think it might be because it was unexpected, no time to prepare for suddenly feeling like this. Like there’s a sudden quiet in his head, a limb not there, and that first month-long separation, he’d got drunk off his face in Thailand and woken up three days later. Strange girl in his bed that had turned out to be an even stranger boy, and they’d eaten noodles on the steps of the hostel until Harry’s friends emerged from their rooms hours later with bruises and lipstick marks and missing shoes.
Harry stays at his parents’ house for the weekend. Figures it’s worse missing someone when you can see their home from your window. He sleeps in late, shops with his sister. Jams with his brother a bit until it’s a respectable enough hour to get down to the pub. Back home they pile duvets on the sofa and watch bad television. He gets a phone call from Tom; his flight home delayed a day by the Florida storms, and Danny’s staying the extra day in Bolton. Harry makes it through to three o’clock Monday morning before ringing Dougie again.
“Pain Parlour, what’s your pleasure?”
“You working nights now?”
“Well, someone has to pay the bills,” Dougie heaves a dramatic sigh. “You lot flying off to exciting and exotic locations, and leaving poor little me alone at home with the children.”
Harry laughs. “I’m not going to feel sorry for you just because you have to look after your weird pets.”
“Bastard,” but his voice is sleepy, warm, and there’s the sound of mattress springs and a settling duvet. Harry can imagine him clearly, curled under blue bed sheets in Danny’s spare room, tacky white-and-orange mobile pressed to his face. Hates that phone with a passion, sees every chavvy teen with it stuck to their ears, blasting out tinny hip-hop with it on the bus, and it’s all a different world to school ties and neat shirts and sleek black phones.
“Did I wake you?”
“Just going to bed now,” and there’s the click of a bedside lamp going on or off. “Only got up after lunchtime. Matt dragged me out last night. Got thoroughly fucked.”
Harry blinks. “I really don’t want to know what you and Matt get up to, okay? That’s between you and him and the alley wall.”
“You know what I mean. Don’t be such a jealous bitch,” Soft laugh, and, “Are you okay? Why aren’t you asleep?”
“It’s kind of lonely here,” and that’s not what he really means, but he knows Dougie will understand anyway. “Hey, you got any plans Tuesday night?”
“Just a hot date with my porn collection.”
“Want to go out, do something not involving paper breasts? Last night of just you and me.”
“Dude, it hasn’t been just you and me all weekend.”
Something bruises, deep down in his chest, and Harry drifts his hand over his ribs, tries to soothe it away with warmth. Doesn’t work, and he swallows. “I know.”
A pause, and, “You paying?” The tension snaps, the hurt becomes a fading ache, and there’s a soft smile on Harry’s face.
“Cheap fuck.”
“You know it,” Dougie laughs, bright and high and weirdly alive in the middle of the night, fills in that odd emptiness that’s been settled in Harry’s stomach for days, and he goes to sleep with the sound of it curling around him, rhythm thrumming deep like a bass line.
When he wakes in the morning, there’s a text from Charlie, the hollowness is back, and for the first time, he can’t smile.
~*~
Tuesday teatime, and Dougie’s late. Harry slouches against the wall of the apartment block, idly tapping out a beat with the buzzer. Dougie eventually appears, slaps at Harry’s fingers.
“That’s really fucking annoying, you know that?”
“So’s you always being late,” Harry says cheerfully, slipping an arm around Dougie’s shoulders and steering him down the road. “We’re taking the train, okay? I want to drink tonight.”
“I hate the train,” Dougie leans his head against Harry’s shoulder briefly, pushes away again. “We always get stared at.”
They turn the corner onto the high street, start heading up the hill to the station. “It’s just one way,” Harry tries to placate him. “Charlie said he’d arrange a lift back for us.”
Dougie stops walking. “Charlie?”
“Yeah,” Harry rubs a hand across the back of his neck, gives Dougie a bright smile. Doesn’t get one back. “Look, we haven’t seen him for ages, and-”
“Because he’s a tosser,” Dougie turns on his heel, starts stalking back the way they came. “I’m going home.”
“Pugs, hold on,” Harry grabs his arm, spins Dougie back round. Doesn’t let go, and the boy glares up at him. “Please don’t be difficult about this. Don’t make me choose between my friends. That’s not fair.”
“I’m not making you choose, Harry. I never have.” He flicks his fingers at Harry’s hand, and he lets go of Dougie’s arm. “You said it was just you and me tonight.”
Shit. “I know. I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you, okay? After the gig, we’ll-”
“Gig?”
“Brigade have got something on tonight. One-off support act for Hawthorne Heights. Charlie asked if we’d go.”
“‘We’?”
“Me,” and Harry grabs at Dougie’s arm before he can turn away again. “Please, can’t you just… it’s only for a few hours. Then we’ll go somewhere else. Please.” He steps closer, ducks his head. “You used to be friends too, you know.”
“Charlie Simpson doesn’t have friends,” Dougie’s voice is cold, low, and he pulls his arm out of Harry’s grip. “He has people he uses, and people he fucks. Which are you?”
“Dougie-” Lost, and there’s a sick feeling in Harry’s stomach. He knows, he knows, he knows… But then Dougie is stalking away from, him, up the hill towards the station, and he looks back at Harry, eyes dark and unreadable.
“You coming then? Fim still owes me twenty quid from your brother’s birthday. Might as well get it now.”
Harry follows him, and there’s silence until they sit on the train, surrounded by chip wrappers and empty cans and abandoned newspapers. Dougie sits staring out the window, hums softly under his breath and squints into the sun, still high in the summer evening. A group of girls get on a few stops along and Harry slouches in his seat, pulls the hood of his sweater up. Isn’t in the mood for being nice to anyone who might recognise him, and he’s wishing he’d just forked out the sixty quid for a cab. Too late now, and he watches the sun’s rays dance across Dougie’s face, patterning and jumping and alive. A world away from cold pre-dawn and winter and crowded tour buses, and Harry wishes he’d said no to Charlie all those years ago. Thinks it might have made it easier to say it now, but there’s no going back. The train pushes into a tunnel, the lights go dim. The sun disappears from Dougie’s skin and Harry has to close his eyes against the dark.