(no subject)
Title: And The Weight of Our Love Will Destroy the World
Author: Lis
Part: 2/3
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 again to ichnal, first_spike and jess_darkwater.
You can find Brigade's music here. Go worship.
Disclaimer: Real people, fake story.
Dedication: To everyone needing cheering today. ♥
Harry pulls out his phone as soon as they get out of Islington station. Can hear Tom’s voice at the back of his mind, lecturing about waiting muggers and naïve idiots, and he ignores it. Dougie trails behind him, blinking slowly in the light after the tunnels, and Harry grabs his hand, anchors him against the surging crowd. Dials Charlie’s number with his thumb, and waits.
“Mate, we’re here. Where are you?”
Charlie’s voice comes over the small speakers, clear and deep. “Alright, babes. Cross the road and keep walking. Shopping centre’s on your right, and Academy’s at the back. Even you can’t get lost. I’ll tell security to let you in.”
“See you in a few,” Harry cuts the connection, cuts across the crowd to the road. It only takes them a few minutes to find the venue, stuck behind a Borders and Starbucks, and there’s a thickset security guard waiting outside for them. Harry digs in his wallet for his driving license, and the man nods, waves them through a set of double-doors.
“They’re sound-checking right now. Up the stairs, round to the right.”
They can hear the thump of muffled music dipping in and out, wailing and distorting as a sound tech somewhere flips switches and dials. Another set of doors, and there’s the stage in front of them, dominating a small, dark venue. Brigade are up on the stage, hammering through something new, Charlie watching them and nodding to the beat. He catches sight of Harry, jumps off the stage to envelop him in a hug.
“Judd! You’re late, you shit.”
“Dougie’s fault,” Harry steps back, indicates the younger boy, ignores his scowl. “He’s still learning to tie his shoelaces. I’d help him, but he really needs to do it himself.”
Charlie laughs, holds out a hand to Dougie, who shakes it stiffly. Looks like he’d rather bite it than anything. “Well, least you’re here now. You eaten yet? The lads are going to need food after the sound check, thought we might do a run.”
Harry nods. “Sounds good.”
“Great,” Charlie turns back to the band, waits for them to end the song. “Oi! Food, what do you want?”
Dougie takes the opportunity to slip away from them, boost himself up onto the edge of the stage and climb towards the back. “Fim, you bastard, where’s my money?”
Charlie takes their orders, scribbles them down on the back of a flyer. Sandwiches and cola and salads, and he grabs Harry’s wrist, pulls him towards the doors. “Back in a few!”
“Wait, where’s Dougie?” Harry twists back, looks at the stage. Dougie’s sitting on the floor with Naoto, heads bent together over a bass, re-stringing it with quick fingers, and Charlie leans in, whispers close to Harry’s ear,
“Leave him. Ten minutes, just you and me.”
“More like five,” Harry automatically shoots back, bumps his hip against Charlie’s. He feels a thrill of heat spike up his spine, tightness in his belly, and Charlie’s too close, too warm. Pulls away, and feels the ghost of fingers against his skin. “Pugs, get a move on! Starving artists to feed, and all that.”
Dougie hands the packet of strings to Naoto, jumps down off the stage. Harry reaches out, means to slip his hand over his friend’s shoulders, but Dougie pulls away, stalks silently towards the exit. Harry looks at Charlie, sees his own confusion mirrored in dark eyes, and wonders when this became something he didn’t think he could fix.
~*~
There’s a Sainsbury’s opposite the shopping centre, and Charlie grabs a small trolley, pulls the flyer out of his pocket.
“So,” he says, manoeuvring the trolley around a display of flowers, “Matt won’t return my calls.”
“Fuck’s sake!” Dougie snatches the trolley out of his hands, steals the flyer and stomps away. Starts tossing bananas and brazil nuts into the trolley, and Charlie blinks.
“He really doesn’t like me, does he?”
“Mate, don’t you…” Harry stops, rubs a hand over his face. “Don’t you ever read the papers?”
“I try to avoid them,” Charlie frowns. “Bunch of shit. Why, what have I missed?”
“Matt had a bit of a time, couple weeks back. Bloke started in on him in a club, saying shit about Busted, apparently.”
“Fuck,” Charlie breathes, closes his eyes briefly. “What happened?”
“Matt was drunk,” and Harry knows Charlie will understand. “Danny and Dougie were there, got caught up in it. Mostly a verbal, but it got a bit messy.” They watch Dougie fill up the trolley from the sandwich cabinet, squinting at the crumpled flyer. “It’s just a bit difficult to be objective when your mates are getting slammed, is all.”
“I used to be their mate, too.” Quiet, and when Harry turns to look at him, there’s genuine regret in his eyes.
“You’re still mine.” He gives Charlie a wry smile. “Not that I can make up for it.”
“Hey,” Charlie gives him a light punch on the arm. “Means a lot, you know. No one else sticking up for me in the press.”
Harry smiles, thinks of saying something about schools and loyalties and tour buses, but Dougie pushes the trolley back over to them, enough food for a small army, and scowls.
“I don’t have my wallet. Someone was meant to be paying for me tonight.”
Charlie pokes at the shopping. “Why have you got a roll of bin liners?”
“Naoto needs a bag for his head. Fim got drunk last night and puked on the last of them.”
“I can’t believe he won’t go on stage without a bag on his head,” Charlie frowns. “Bassists. Fucking weird lot, you are.”
Dougie’s eyes narrow. “Bite me, Simpson.”
“Hey, you know what?” Harry forces a smile, bright and false and sharp. “It would be really, really great if two of my best friends could get on with each other for one night and not make me kill whichever one is most annoying. Dougie, that would be you right now.”
“Whatever,” but he silently follows Harry and Charlie to the checkout and bags the food. Harry thinks there might have been a few rude gestures aimed at his back, but his night is turning out to be nowhere near as fun as he’d hoped, and he’s starting to wish he’d sorted this out years ago.
~*~
There’s a queue forming outside the Academy by the time they get back, the main doors open and security checking every person that comes in. Dougie gets stopped on their way, a bulky security guard they don’t recognise frowning down at him.
“I.D.”
“You have got to be kidding me.”
“No I.D., no bar stamp, kid.”
“My wallet’s at home!” Dougie glares at Harry, like this is all his fault. The guard shrugs, and Dougie’s face falls.
“Hey, we’ve got ours,” Charlie hands over his driving license, Harry does the same, and the man nods, stamps their hand with black ink. Looks down at Dougie.
“Go on in. And no alcohol. I’ll be keeping an eye on you.”
“Great,” Harry mutters in a low voice, as Dougie stomps into the venue. “That’s all I need.”
“I don’t remember him being this much of a bitch,” Charlie grouses back. “It was easier before.”
“He just…” Harry feels sick, watches Dougie’s back. “He’s not. He’s just upset over something.”
Beside him, Charlie stills, takes a breath. Looks sideways at Harry. “Does he know?”
“I think so.”
“Fuck me.”
Harry laughs, sharp and bitter. “I think that’s the problem.”
They dump the food backstage. It’s getting crowded back there, three bands and entourage and Academy staff, and they head to the quiet of the upstairs bar. Roped off from the rest of the venue, and there's just a few people up there, mostly standing at the edge of the balcony, watching the crowd filter in below. Charlie claps his hands, tries to look cheerful.
“Right, my round, then! Harry, beer?”
Harry nods, eyes on Dougie, and he knows what’s coming next. Can’t do anything about it, and Charlie smirks.
“Lemonade, Douglas? Or is it too close to bedtime for sugar?”
But there’s no explosion, no sarcasm. Dougie just looks suddenly tired, deflated. Eyes sliding closed, and he shakes his head.
“Whatever, Charlie.”
“Hey…” Harry reaches out, tries to catch Dougie’s fingers, but he’s moving away, across the bar to lean against the railings. Head down, and the sick feeling in Harry’s stomach has never really gone away. Glances at Charlie leaning against the bar and making ‘come on’ gestures with his hands. Turns and follows Dougie instead, sidles up to him and leans his elbows on the greasy metal barrier.
“Hey,” Soft and low, and he watches the kids filling up the room below them. “You going to tell me what this is?”
“I believe it’s a crowd.”
“Be serious.”
“I don’t…” Dougie sighs, scrubs a hand through his hair. “You ever get that feeling in your tummy, like an itch? Like there’s all these ants crawling under your skin, and you want to scream and let them out, but you’re too tired to even do that?”
“Is this about Charlie?”
“No,” he gives a bitter laugh. “Not this time. Go have your beer and talk to your friend, alright? That’s what you want to do.”
“I wanted to do that with you.”
“You see me every day,” and that’s a passable imitation of a smile. “We’ll go down the pub tomorrow, yeah? Get a few rounds in, hear what Dan and Tom have been up to all weekend.”
Harry wants to say, no, wants to shake Dougie and that fake smile and find out what’s wrong, but the first band is starting up, the lights go down and the crowd starts screaming, and Charlie is there at his side, holding out a plastic cup of beer that Harry takes in hands he pretends aren’t shaking.
The music is loud, angry and throbbing like a headache. Crashing drums and frantic guitars, and the crowd beneath them is going wild. Writhing and jumping, hands in the air and bodies pressed close together, a world away from arenas and seating plans and huge placards declaring love. Mosh pit clearing a wide circle, violent and hypnotic in the strobe lights playing out over the venue. Dougie leans further over the railings, watches them with a hungry look in his eyes, and there’s a break in the music, screams from the crowd, and Dougie leans closer to Harry, never takes his eyes off them.
“I want to be down there.”
“What?”
“The pit,” and Dougie turns to him, something like a grin threatening in his eyes. “The crowd. Just…” His eyes flick around the upstairs, at the few people leaning casually against the walls, the railings, bored and casual. “Just not up here.”
“No way,” Harry shakes his head. “We go on tour in less than a month. You get banged up down there, and Tom’ll kill you. Kill me. Stay up here.”
“Like anything would happen.”
“Pugs, just-” But the music is kicking back in, and Harry can’t hear himself over the screams of the amps. Dougie turns away from him again, watches the crowd twist and move and laugh, frantic and easy and free.
~*~
There’s a long break between the bands, and the crowd gets restless. Half an hour downtime before Brigade come on, and they’re already hyped up on drink and dance and deafening music. There’s a few lads down the front, big and loud and they’re calling Charlie’s name. Don’t know he’s up there watching, but they grin and catcall, whooping out for Busted in sick, laughing tones. Charlie shrinks back from the railings, pulls his hood close over his head.
“Don’t fucking do this,” he winces, bites at his nails. “Not tonight.”
“Hey,” Harry rubs his fingers over Charlie’s arm, tries to smile. “They’re just being dicks. Ignore them.”
“Are you fucking serious?” Charlie gives an incredulous laugh. “Just because he’s my brother, Will has to put up with all this shit from arrogant wankers like this. How am I meant to ignore that?”
“Maybe if you were proud of what you did before instead of acting ashamed, they wouldn’t bait you,” Dougie says quietly, fingers drumming against the railings. “They do it because they know it gets you riled, not because they mean it.”
“They don’t even know I’m here!”
“Not the point,” Dougie shakes his head. “They don’t care about that. They don’t care about you. They just think it’s funny, is all.”
Charlie’s eyes narrow. “Is that why you do it?”
“No,” Dougie looks up at him, eyes dark. “I don’t like you because you’re a dick to your friends-”
“Hey,” Harry puts his arms out, a hand on each of his friends. “Let’s not-”
“And because you demean everything they did. Everything they achieved. You-”
“Oh, don’t be so fucking melodramatic-”
“You lie to people, Charlie. You get people to lie for you. And until you fix that, I’ve got about as much respect for you as the people down there.”
“Like you never left a band,” Charlie sneers, but his face is white, pinched, and the catcalls from downstairs are getting louder.
“I never badmouthed them,” Dougie says simply, and turns away, towards the stage. “Oh, hey, there’s your brother.”
Brigade are stepping out onto the stage, waving at the cheers and catcalls alike. Will is frowning, tight-lipped, and James isn’t looking any happier. Fim’s shirtless already, beaming happily at the crowd as he settles behind his kit. Naoto’s got a bin liner on his head, air hole cut out near his mouth, and Dougie shakes his head, laughs in genuine delight. A world away from the bitter boy of a moment ago, and Harry can’t help but stare, confused, as Charlie turns paler and shakes next to him. Will steps up to the mic, snarls at the crowd.
“Yeah, yeah,” and his voice echoes out above the shouts. “Keep it coming.” He strums out a chord, launches into Queenie, and the crowd starts jumping, bouncing up and down. Charlie steps even further away, past the bar, and he slumps down against the wall. Harry hands his unfinished beer to Dougie, follows him and crouches down. Leans close, lips almost against Charlie’s ear, voice carrying above the music.
“You okay?”
“This is so fucked up,” Charlie’s hands writhe in the air, impotent, and Harry has to lean closer to hear him. “And then that little shit-”
Something snaps deep inside Harry, hot and liquid and flooding his stomach. He’s in no mood to hear Charlie’s crap, not this time, and he bites out his words, harsh and low.
“He might be a little shit sometimes, but he always tells the truth. That’s what I like about Dougie. Always know where you stand with him. Doesn’t fanny around, just tells it like it is.” He’s too close to Charlie to see him properly, blurred jawline and soft hair, and he suddenly thinks, knows, it’s better, easier like this. “Tom hates it, thinks he’s going to get us in shit one day. I think it’s fucking brilliant. So don’t you take it out on him just because he’s telling you something you don’t like.”
Harry lets out a breath, slumps against the wall next to Charlie. “I can’t take this crap from you two any more. I love you, Chas, but I love him too. I can’t choose any more, not when it ends up like this.”
“Fucking poof,” Charlie mutters, but his hand slips across Harry’s shoulder, pulls him tight. “Don’t you ever get tired of being everybody’s friend all the time?”
“Right now? Yeah.” Harry closes his eyes, leans his head against Charlie’s shoulder. Solid and warm, and in this brief moment, he doesn’t give a fuck who sees them. “Don’t you get tired of being the guy everybody hates?”
“Every fucking day, babes.” Charlie’s arm tightens around Harry, squeezes briefly. “We’re a right pair, aren’t we? Proper girls.” He gives a low chuckle. “Want to paint our nails and make out?”
“Nah, better not,” Harry says lightly. “Dougie would chuck us off the balcony.”
He feels Charlie stiffen slightly beside him, then, “Where is he, anyway?”
Harry opens his eyes, looks around. There’s a few people leaning over the railings, watching Brigade hammer out another track. A couple more at the bar, and Dougie’s nowhere to be seen. Harry frowns, and there’s an empty beer cup stood neatly on the floor where they were standing.
“Shit,” Harry breathes out, climbs to his feet. Walks over to the railings, and you didn’t, you little bastard, you didn’t…
The mosh pit is almost directly below him, and Harry leans out a little way, peers down into the seething crowd. Churning bodies, flash of sweating limbs, and there’s a small blur of white cloth among the black-clad youth. Shock of bright blond hair as the crowd parts, hurls itself back together again and screams. The music crescendos, cuts out and the crowd stills, turns expectant faces to the stage. Charlie slips next to Harry, looks down at the buzzing crowd.
“What is it?”
“I told him,” Harry stares, and he can see Dougie clearly now, paused at the edge of the mosh pit, eyes and face bright and expectant, breathing hard. “I told him not to.”
An electronic whine rings out through the venue, tinny chords and deep drumbeat until and Brigade launch suddenly, furiously, into their next song. Meet Me at My Funeral, and the crowd goes mental, forgets about catcalls and jeers. Writhes and stomps, and Harry loses sight of Dougie again, gets only a vague impression of blurred lightness. Leans back and looks at Charlie, lost for a moment until the anger kicks in, and this he knows how to deal with.
“Right.” Eyes narrowed, and he pushes off from the railings, storms towards the stairs. Vaguely hears Charlie call out to him, but even a few steps away, the music is too loud to hear properly. Down the back steps, out the VIP entrance, and he ends up near the front of the stage, just past the security cordon. He ducks under the bars, shoulders his way into the crowd, determined to get through the tightly packed bodies. Determined to drag Dougie out of there until he realises that, lost in the middle of the crowd, he has no idea where he is, and Harry looks up at the balcony. Sees Charlie hanging over, watching him, and Harry raises his eyebrows, shrugs and hopes Charlie understands. He does, and after scanning the crowd for a moment, he gestures towards the other side of the room. Harry turns, starts forcing his way through. Gets glares and snarls and shoves, and he just flashes them a tight smile, all teeth and no warmth, and shoves back just as hard. Feels a thrill of something as he does, anger and release and heat and he hasn’t been here like this, trapped between bodies and rhythm, since he joined the band. Since Fletch sat them all down and explained that they couldn’t be doing this, that unsupervised nights and tiny venues and being pop stars just didn’t mix. Tom still smiles in interviews, makes out they don’t like this, don’t miss this part of being alive, and Harry shoves forward and thinks, fuck that.
He squeezes between two people and finds himself on the edge of the mosh pit, dizzy at the sudden feeling of space in front of him. Only has a moment to react before there’s a sudden weight smashing into him, spinning him round and leaving him dazed. Breathless, and there are hands shoving him back again, out into the air. His head snaps back, he sees Charlie staring at him, blurred and far away, and then there’s another pair of hands grabbing at his shoulders, hauling him upright. Harry stumbles, turns, clutches at the small, damp hands entwined in his shirt.
“Dougie.”
Dougie gives him a grin, sharp in the streaking lights, and the hands at Harry’s chest uncurl. Flatten, and then he’s being shoved backwards, hard, back out into the circle. Falling, and Dougie is twisting after him, pushing off from writhing limbs and sweat-slicked skin, and there’s bodies all around them. Crashing from one to the other, pushed away and out again, and there’s an empty feeling inside Harry, like being on a rollercoaster in the dark, moving blindly and barely able to catch his breath. Adrenaline singing through his veins, itching under his skin, and if he wasn’t so terrified, so dizzily blind, he could almost see why people do this. Why they twist and fall and break and laugh, haul each other up and do it again and again. Like flying while standing, and then his feet are tangling in someone else’s, he can’t move to right himself, and Harry goes crashing to the floor. Breath knocked out of him, warm weight straddling his hips, and he looks up blearily into a crazily grinning face. Shoves at Dougie, frowns.
“Having fun?” There’s sweat running down Dougie’s face, shining in the half-light. Hair damp and curling, body warm, and this close, Harry can smell the quickly downed beer puffing gently out on Dougie’s breath. He raises his voice against the music.
“What are you doing, you freak?”
“I’m enjoying myself, Harry.” There’s something glistening darkly on Dougie’s lip, and Harry reaches up to smudge it away. Dougie winces at the touch, and Harry’s fingers come away smeared with blood. He bucks his hips, pushes Dougie off him and stumbles upright. Hauling the boy with him, and he leans in close.
“We’re going home.”
“What?” Dougie pulls away. “No!”
“You don’t even want to be here!”
“I do now,” Dougie backs away, is shoved forward again by a tall boy bouncing past them. “Go snog Charlie, or something. I’m happy here.”
“Like hell I’m leaving you here,” Harry looks up at Charlie, who just shrugs helplessly, arms spread wide. Eyes the tightly packed people, and his eyes narrow.
“Sorry about this, Dougs.”
“What-”
Harry grabs Dougie’s hips, lifts and shoves and the crowd reaches out automatically at the feel of a body pressed against their shoulders, fingers and palms grabbing and pulling, surfing Dougie away towards the stage. Harry gives him a grin and a thumbs-up, ignores the look of outrage on Dougie’s face, and almost crashes to the floor again as someone falls into him. He grabs at the nearest person, a meaty-looking kid almost as tall as Charlie, who looks down at him through liner-smudged eyes.
“Want a hand there, mate?”
“Uh, yeah. If you wouldn’t mind.”
The kid shrugs, picks Harry up by his waist, and shoves him out onto the crowd. He’s held up, passed along in dizzying jerks, dipping up and down with his eyes tightly closed because if he’s going to fall, if no one is going to hold him up, he doesn’t want to know about it. But then there’s a pair of well-muscled arms around his chest, he’s being hauled higher and then down again, and Harry opens his eyes to a security guard standing him upright behind the security barrier. He gives the man a breathless thanks, looks around him. Up on the stage, Will is giving him a confused look over the top of his mic, jerks his chin in the direction of the VIP stairs. Harry turns, sees a flash of white disappearing out of sight and slowly, almost painfully, trudges after him.