The Stone-rabbit and the Wolf-moon [R] Julian/Noel - The Mighty Boosh RPS
Since I’ve already dusted off an old-old fic, how about a less-old one? This was finished back in May, but I got all shy and held off on posting it.
Is there a multi-fandom equivalent to agoraphobia? Then I guess this is me putting a foot out the door, on the verge of scurrying back in. Meep!
Title: The Stone-rabbit and the Wolf-moon
Pairing: Julian Barratt/Noel Fielding
Rating: R
Summary: That line between thinking and doing and how Julian tries to cross it.
Word Count: 3,277
Disclaimer: It’s all made up.
Notes: Many apologies for possibly trying too hard to "Brit" it up.
Many thanks to raynemaiden for helping me work out the kinks.
Concrit always welcome.
Also at AO3.
Maybe it’s the magenta of the spidery graffiti that has Julian thinking of Noel.
Remembering the random strips of unnatural colour peeking out from Noel’s raven black mop, Julian trails a knuckle along the knobby brick wall, hard enough to bring blood to the surface of his skin but light enough that it's only a lingering pink. He pulls away before coming into contact with a glob of hardened bubblegum, which definitely makes him think of Noel - his penchant for creating characters/critters made of tacky, pink goo. His scraped knuckle still burns a little, and he brings it to his mouth. He cringes, but it’s too late. His skin is already in his mouth and has probably passed a whole colony of incurable pathogens into his saliva.
This too reminds him of Noel.
____________________________
That time Noel’s feet were sore after a gig, and he shucked his boots right there in the middle of the street, stripped out of his socks, rested his hip against an idling taxi to right his balance, then continued onto the pavement - Julian nearly got run over that night, staring after Noel and his stupid carelessness. And his stupid carefree attitude. His stupid shrugging shoulders and shit-eating grin. Noel’s stride didn't slow a beat as his naked soles touched down on rough concrete covered in the grime and sick and refuse of the city, impacted like a sedimentary layer over decades. Maybe it was then - catching up to Noel and still slackjawed as he gaped at Noel’s pruney, pale toes and the sparse hair that covered them - that Julian fell.
Admittedly, he did fall. Missing the step up from the kerb, Julian stumbled like a drunkard, his arms pinwheeling in a way that didn’t seem possible outside of cartoons. His knee touched the pavement just as Noel grabbed him, hoisting him upright again. At the time, his pride hurt more than the brushburn. So he walked it off, self-consciously correcting the limp he slipped into any time Noel wasn’t looking. But Noel kept looking, fussing, kept his fingers tight in the crook of Julian’s arm, like Julian was an old man in need of a minder.
Back on the bus, they had more to drink, enough that the pain went away and his awkward gait fell under the guise of inebriated incoordination. But later, after Dave and Mike had gone to bed and even Rich had tired himself out, and he and Julia had exchanged goodnights over the phone, Noel kneeled in front of him and rolled up his trouser leg. He must have bled a little, and the fabric stuck and stung as Noel pulled it clear of Julian’s knee. There was cotton wool and peroxide and plasters and Julian didn’t know when Noel had gotten these. But there they were, being applied to his abraded skin. He hissed, more as an afterthought than an actual reaction. Then, smoothing three parallel plasters over Julian’s wound, Noel leaned forward and placed a kiss to the top of his knee.
“Come on, sonny, let’s get you to bed.”
Noel was up on his feet, trying to pull Julian with him. But Julian batted his hand away, told him he had some things he wanted to go over first. Eyebrows knitted, Noel clearly wasn’t buying it. But Julian nudged him along with his good leg until Noel was halfway across the tiny space, rubbing melodramatically at the spot on his calf where Julian barely touched him, faking an exaggerated limp and finally flipping him off, all the while making kissy faces at him, before heading down the hall toward his bed.
Listening to the shuffle and creak of Noel settling in for sleep, Julian decided to wait ten minutes before getting up and going to bed himself.
He woke the next morning to Rich crowing like a dying cockerel. Still on the couch, with at least a good dozen cricks in his neck and no sensation in his right hand where it was wedged under his thigh, he unstuck his sleep-sticky eyes. The first thing he saw, looking down at his still-raised trouser leg, was the recognizable scrawl in bright blue magic marker on his plasters reading: STUBBORN NORTHERN BERK.
____________________________
He was stubborn; it was undeniable. If Noel could be likened to a river, free-flowing and inconstant in form, then Julian would be the rock standing in the middle of the stream: the big, dumb rock, so diligent in its resistance to movement that it gets worn down in its very spot.
That’s what it was: Noel wearing him down.
____________________________
Wearing nothing but Spiderman pants and the string of fake pearls from his Nanageddon costume, Noel kissed Julian for the first time on a place that wasn’t his knee or his cheek or anywhere that could be considered platonic. Except that it wasn’t the location of the kiss so much as the motion of the kiss - the languid rhythm of it a comical counterpoint against the jittery kickstart of Julian’s heart. It was like Julian’s pulse was a jazz drum solo, pounding arrhythmic and hard throughout his body. He could barely feel Noel’s lips over the racket of his own anxious reaction to them.
There they were, backstage, changing into street clothes, the other guys just next door and thousands of fans still rumbling the floorboards overhead. And Noel was opening his lips against the concave of Julian’s chest. His tongue tip wriggled out in slow kitten licks, tracing Julian’s breastbone, and all Julian could see was the frizzy platinum wig that bobbed along with Noel’s kisses. The synthetic hairs tickled Julian’s nose. He felt the sneeze seizing the back of his throat, but fought it as Noel worked his way up from his chest, sucking lightly at Julian’s Adam's apple. Teasing his tongue toward the tip of Julian’s chin, they both knew where this was headed. And that’s when Julian couldn’t hold back any longer.
He sneezed right in Noel’s face.
A wet sneeze and a relentless sneeze, it sent Noel staggering backward, cursing under his breath, and had Julian doubled over, chest aching with the force of it. But the aftershock of the sneeze couldn’t obliterate the phantom sensation of Noel’s lips where they’d touched his skin, seeking closer and closer to Julian’s own. Even hours later, alone in bed, Julian retraced their path, as certain of their trail as if Noel’s lips had left marks, signposts that could only be felt by him and seen by no one.
In the mirror the next morning, he checked. Nothing but the same old scar, the same old cropping of stubble. Never the less, his fingers fit into place on his neck, knowing Noel had kissed him just under this fingertip, and this one, and this and this too.
His thumb pulled at his bottom lip, and he thought: Not here, though.
Not here. It seemed like good advice.
That night, he changed lightning fast, before Noel could come to him. Before he could let him.
____________________________
Julian let Noel get away with a lot. He even let himself get away with so much more than he should have: looks and touches that could lead people to the wrong conclusions, fantasies not dissimilar to those conclusions made, impractical notions and explicit images he shouldn’t indulge in but was too tired some nights to resist.
He told himself that if, in over ten years of toying with this perceived relationship-beyond-friendship with Noel nothing had really happened, then, well, nothing was going to happen. It was simply part of the show, nothing to tell.
He told himself this when he held Noel’s hand, letting go too fast, mindful of the sweat dampening his palm. Dismissing it as humidity or alcohol raising his blood pressure, he could rest assured it wasn’t anything more than that, because he wasn’t a teenager anymore, for Christ’s sake. Even Julia didn’t cause his nerves to go funny like that.
When he touched himself in the shower, picturing a mouth where his fist was, and Julia’s lips no longer looked like her own, her eyes giving way to eyes that were bigger and lighter, Julian told himself it was the tour, the distance, replacing his girlfriend’s face with the nearest, most feminine one. It sounded horrible even in his own head, but not illogical. Surely psychologists had a name for such a thing. That’s what it was: some temporary disorder, some phenomenon of memory and proximity and sleep deprivation, maybe even the build up of booze in his system. That’s why he allowed one finger to slip past his balls and twist into the tight heat where Julia had rarely touched him. But Julia’s fingers were thinner, more tapered. This, he thought, is what Noel’s fingers would feel like. He could just picture the black, ever-chipped varnish, the jagged cuticles, maybe one of those ridiculous rings. The thought of its cold, solid metal pressing into his perineum as Noel sank in deeper sent Julian over the edge.
If Julian avoided Noel’s eyes afterward, when he was dressed and eating breakfast with the others, it had nothing to do with what had gotten him off. Noel wasn't even wearing any rings that day. And Julian didn’t miss it either.
____________________________
But, today, he misses Noel.
He sees the graffiti, the gross splatter of gum, the scrape on his knuckle and yet sees nothing but the lack of Noel, his absence so aching it’s like a presence in itself.
They haven’t spoken in days. Not for any reason that Julian can think of: just time and other stuff getting in the way. Not that Julia is getting in the way or that his boys are stuff. He’s happy to be home, so glad to have that grounding. But he still needs Noel. It messes with his head to be without him, like a junkie unable to focus without his fix. Not that Noel is an addiction. Maybe Julian is still feeling the after-effects of the tour; maybe he’s still settling back in, life still feeling a bit in flux. Maybe it needs more time. But it’s been weeks now. How much longer must it take?
It takes him fifteen minutes to arrive at Noel’s door. He just happened to be in the neighbourhood.
As it’s still technically morning, despite the clock ticking fast toward noon, Julian expects to be greeted by a groggy Noel, unkempt and undone. He expects to be told to fuck off, even though Noel has never shut Julian out no matter how many times Julian has woken him, no matter how early.
Instead, Noel is smiling and bright-eyed when he opens the door. There’s a flaking smear of ultramarine just above his jaw and the remnants of cadmium yellow clinging around his nails though he’s scrubbing at his hands with a speckled rag. The bags that hung about under his eyes during the last leg of the tour are gone, his skin pale as ever but less sallow. A glittery pink sugar skull dangles from the end of Noel’s hair, tied to a lock with an elastic band stretched right over the skull’s forehead like a bandana, and it distracts Julian from saying hello like a normal human being.
“You look good,” is what he actually says.
And Noel doesn’t raise a brow, just beams and steps back to let Julian in.
It’s that easy.
“Nothing phases you, does it?” Julian thinks and says at the same time, because suddenly he’s lost his internal monologue filter and maybe he should excuse himself before it’s too late and go see about picking up a new one before he says something more daft. But then Noel’s cocking his head sideways with a crooked grin to match.
“Well, I’m not the moon,” Noel says.
“Ha.” Julian nods, lowering his head and wrinkling his forehead. “Right now. But later maybe?”
Noel leans against the wall of the entryway, casually posed. “Yeah, but it’s waxing gibbous tonight. Or waning. I can never tell the difference without looking at the calendar. Your Moon is better anyway.”
“It’s the best.”
“Right after Keith.”
“But before Moon Unit Zappa, surely.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure.”
“Ah, well, I would.” Julian crosses his arms, leaning against the wall opposite Noel.
“‘Course you would. Maybe I could do a half moon,” Noel continues without a break, his disparate trains of thought linked together and dragging Julian along without effort. “And the other half would be wolf, and I could howl at myself, then slag myself off for disturbing the peace.” He bites at the tip of his thumb, watching Julian through dark lashes, the hint of a need for approval hiding behind the smirk.
“Then half of you chases a rabbit. But the rabbit runs across a brook and, when you try to follow, the other half of you makes the tide come in and then you’re stuck on a stepping stone in the middle of the water and going under. And the rabbit is mocking you from the bank because only half of you knows how to swim. And that’s a doggy paddle.”
Noel licks the corner of his mouth like he’s pushing his smile out more. “But half of me is also gravity-less, so I won’t sink.”
“You just bob around in circles.”
“Sounds more like Howard.”
Julian huffs out a laugh. “Sounds like me,” he mutters.
“What’s that?”
Julian means to move on, he really does. He’s about to brush it off, but, when he looks up, Noel’s got his thumb at his mouth again, the pad of flesh subtly curving up to meet the tip of his tongue. It’s too much: too much meandering talk about nothing, too much wondering and wandering around. And his head must really have one leg shorter than the other, because he keeps coming back to the same place no matter how many times he tries to walk away. His circumlocutory logic will be his undoing.
He pushes off from the wall but stays standing with his palms flat to the cool plasterboard. He looks at the door instead of at Noel when he asks, “Can I come in?”
Noel just stands there, staring at him. He doesn’t laugh when he says, “You already are.”
It sounds like code. Is it code? Julian hasn’t played that game in so long. He’s been too busy playing games with himself. And he knows that, he does. But playing pretend is easy. Living is hard.
He has to live with this.
He has been living with this. There really isn’t any other way.
This thing between them - it happens or it doesn’t. But Julian isn’t going away. And he won’t let Noel go either.
He’s literally holding him before it registers that he’s moved at all. Noel’s hips are warm under Julian’s hands, under the soft cotton of his t-shirt, a rough splotch of dried acrylic near the hem on one side. Julian rubs his pinky over the tiny patch of paint and feels Noel shiver, feels the hot puff of breath on his neck as Noel exhales. Noel’s still teething at his thumb like a child, and Julian places his hands on Noel’s arms and lowers them, breaking contact between Noel’s hand and his mouth, removing that one last physical obstacle, hoping it’s enough to take all the other intangible ones with it.
Looking up at Julian with his impossible eyes, his lip bitten and brightening to red, Noel begins to say something. But all that gets out is, “I-“
Julian covers Noel’s mouth with his hand, all too aware of its clamminess. “You talk too much,” he says.
Noel licks his palm. Julian doesn’t flinch; he saw that coming. But he removes his hand from Noel’s mouth, letting it linger midway between them, fingers curled as if he might caress Noel or punch him, if he could move at all.
“You think too much,” Noel says.
And it’s true. But, “Maybe thinking is what we both need to do here.” His courage, or foolishness, is already slipping fast.
Noel slides his hands over Julian’s loose fist, draws it toward his lips. He ducks his head and kisses Julian’s wrist lightly, then again. All Julian can do is watch. His hands are bound, literally. It’s all the excuse he needs to truly listen when Noel says: “I think plenty. Too fucking much, really. I talk just to empty those thoughts and keep from going mad.” He loosens his grip on Julian and presses his face into the pocket of his cupped hands, brushing his lips right over the scrape on Julian’s knuckle, somehow finding it without even looking or knowing it was there. Noel’s voice is low, muffled in their hands but meaning as clear as day, when he goes on. “But there’s only so much talking a person can do.”
It should make Julian laugh. And maybe later it will, when he looks back on this with the luxury afforded by time tending to frayed nerves and putting everything back into place, into proper perspective. Maybe he won’t laugh anyway. Maybe the regret will unravel him further, pull apart whatever scraps of life he’s cobbled together so far. But the decision has already been made. It’s an overdue realization, waiting for Julian to catch up.
Julian kisses Noel for real for the first time on shaky feet. His feet in trainers and Noel’s bare, they come together toe to toe, hands fumbling to touch, to tilt heads the right way, to taste tongue against tongue. They fight for dominance then fall into submission at the same time, and then Julian’s laughing, sooner than he thought. And Noel’s laughing too, right into Julian's welcoming mouth. They laugh breathlessly, then kiss each other breathless after they’ve recovered. It’s an ebb and flow with them, like it always has been. Soon Julian finds he’s swaying, his balance tipping as Noel nudges him backwards with insistent knees and feet, his hands busy at Julian’s waist.
They don’t make it to the bed. They don’t even reach the bedroom, with Julian tripping over a cardboard box that he thinks is filled with doll parts if the glimpse he got before Noel landed on top of him was not deceiving him.
But then it’s Noel, just Noel, and nothing else to see or feel.
The bruise on his backside will be there later, not lonely at all with the bruises sucked onto his neck and hipbone to keep it company. He’ll need an excuse for that. But so will Noel, with his white skin soon to be purpled on thighs and shoulders and just under his ear, bitten at just as Julian comes with nothing more than Noel’s hand inching behind his balls drawn so tight, but not as tight as Noel’s mouth, so hot and sweet around the head of his cock.
It’s over too quickly for him, and his muscles feel like they’ve exited the building as he tries to lift himself and return the favour.
He’s never seen Noel so naked as he is now: shirt still on but rumpled, and jeans and pants shoved down around his knees. But his face is open, his eyes wide, like a place for falling into. Except, Julian’s not the only one falling this time, and he knows, somehow, they will be there to pick each other up.
Julian opens himself too. His mouth first, and then his heart. And whatever else follows, follows.
____________________________
Down the rabbit-hole, under the rock, the ground is a long way away and you’re already on the other side.
Is there a multi-fandom equivalent to agoraphobia? Then I guess this is me putting a foot out the door, on the verge of scurrying back in. Meep!
Title: The Stone-rabbit and the Wolf-moon
Pairing: Julian Barratt/Noel Fielding
Rating: R
Summary: That line between thinking and doing and how Julian tries to cross it.
Word Count: 3,277
Disclaimer: It’s all made up.
Notes: Many apologies for possibly trying too hard to "Brit" it up.
Many thanks to raynemaiden for helping me work out the kinks.
Concrit always welcome.
Also at AO3.
Maybe it’s the magenta of the spidery graffiti that has Julian thinking of Noel.
Remembering the random strips of unnatural colour peeking out from Noel’s raven black mop, Julian trails a knuckle along the knobby brick wall, hard enough to bring blood to the surface of his skin but light enough that it's only a lingering pink. He pulls away before coming into contact with a glob of hardened bubblegum, which definitely makes him think of Noel - his penchant for creating characters/critters made of tacky, pink goo. His scraped knuckle still burns a little, and he brings it to his mouth. He cringes, but it’s too late. His skin is already in his mouth and has probably passed a whole colony of incurable pathogens into his saliva.
This too reminds him of Noel.
____________________________
That time Noel’s feet were sore after a gig, and he shucked his boots right there in the middle of the street, stripped out of his socks, rested his hip against an idling taxi to right his balance, then continued onto the pavement - Julian nearly got run over that night, staring after Noel and his stupid carelessness. And his stupid carefree attitude. His stupid shrugging shoulders and shit-eating grin. Noel’s stride didn't slow a beat as his naked soles touched down on rough concrete covered in the grime and sick and refuse of the city, impacted like a sedimentary layer over decades. Maybe it was then - catching up to Noel and still slackjawed as he gaped at Noel’s pruney, pale toes and the sparse hair that covered them - that Julian fell.
Admittedly, he did fall. Missing the step up from the kerb, Julian stumbled like a drunkard, his arms pinwheeling in a way that didn’t seem possible outside of cartoons. His knee touched the pavement just as Noel grabbed him, hoisting him upright again. At the time, his pride hurt more than the brushburn. So he walked it off, self-consciously correcting the limp he slipped into any time Noel wasn’t looking. But Noel kept looking, fussing, kept his fingers tight in the crook of Julian’s arm, like Julian was an old man in need of a minder.
Back on the bus, they had more to drink, enough that the pain went away and his awkward gait fell under the guise of inebriated incoordination. But later, after Dave and Mike had gone to bed and even Rich had tired himself out, and he and Julia had exchanged goodnights over the phone, Noel kneeled in front of him and rolled up his trouser leg. He must have bled a little, and the fabric stuck and stung as Noel pulled it clear of Julian’s knee. There was cotton wool and peroxide and plasters and Julian didn’t know when Noel had gotten these. But there they were, being applied to his abraded skin. He hissed, more as an afterthought than an actual reaction. Then, smoothing three parallel plasters over Julian’s wound, Noel leaned forward and placed a kiss to the top of his knee.
“Come on, sonny, let’s get you to bed.”
Noel was up on his feet, trying to pull Julian with him. But Julian batted his hand away, told him he had some things he wanted to go over first. Eyebrows knitted, Noel clearly wasn’t buying it. But Julian nudged him along with his good leg until Noel was halfway across the tiny space, rubbing melodramatically at the spot on his calf where Julian barely touched him, faking an exaggerated limp and finally flipping him off, all the while making kissy faces at him, before heading down the hall toward his bed.
Listening to the shuffle and creak of Noel settling in for sleep, Julian decided to wait ten minutes before getting up and going to bed himself.
He woke the next morning to Rich crowing like a dying cockerel. Still on the couch, with at least a good dozen cricks in his neck and no sensation in his right hand where it was wedged under his thigh, he unstuck his sleep-sticky eyes. The first thing he saw, looking down at his still-raised trouser leg, was the recognizable scrawl in bright blue magic marker on his plasters reading: STUBBORN NORTHERN BERK.
____________________________
He was stubborn; it was undeniable. If Noel could be likened to a river, free-flowing and inconstant in form, then Julian would be the rock standing in the middle of the stream: the big, dumb rock, so diligent in its resistance to movement that it gets worn down in its very spot.
That’s what it was: Noel wearing him down.
____________________________
Wearing nothing but Spiderman pants and the string of fake pearls from his Nanageddon costume, Noel kissed Julian for the first time on a place that wasn’t his knee or his cheek or anywhere that could be considered platonic. Except that it wasn’t the location of the kiss so much as the motion of the kiss - the languid rhythm of it a comical counterpoint against the jittery kickstart of Julian’s heart. It was like Julian’s pulse was a jazz drum solo, pounding arrhythmic and hard throughout his body. He could barely feel Noel’s lips over the racket of his own anxious reaction to them.
There they were, backstage, changing into street clothes, the other guys just next door and thousands of fans still rumbling the floorboards overhead. And Noel was opening his lips against the concave of Julian’s chest. His tongue tip wriggled out in slow kitten licks, tracing Julian’s breastbone, and all Julian could see was the frizzy platinum wig that bobbed along with Noel’s kisses. The synthetic hairs tickled Julian’s nose. He felt the sneeze seizing the back of his throat, but fought it as Noel worked his way up from his chest, sucking lightly at Julian’s Adam's apple. Teasing his tongue toward the tip of Julian’s chin, they both knew where this was headed. And that’s when Julian couldn’t hold back any longer.
He sneezed right in Noel’s face.
A wet sneeze and a relentless sneeze, it sent Noel staggering backward, cursing under his breath, and had Julian doubled over, chest aching with the force of it. But the aftershock of the sneeze couldn’t obliterate the phantom sensation of Noel’s lips where they’d touched his skin, seeking closer and closer to Julian’s own. Even hours later, alone in bed, Julian retraced their path, as certain of their trail as if Noel’s lips had left marks, signposts that could only be felt by him and seen by no one.
In the mirror the next morning, he checked. Nothing but the same old scar, the same old cropping of stubble. Never the less, his fingers fit into place on his neck, knowing Noel had kissed him just under this fingertip, and this one, and this and this too.
His thumb pulled at his bottom lip, and he thought: Not here, though.
Not here. It seemed like good advice.
That night, he changed lightning fast, before Noel could come to him. Before he could let him.
____________________________
Julian let Noel get away with a lot. He even let himself get away with so much more than he should have: looks and touches that could lead people to the wrong conclusions, fantasies not dissimilar to those conclusions made, impractical notions and explicit images he shouldn’t indulge in but was too tired some nights to resist.
He told himself that if, in over ten years of toying with this perceived relationship-beyond-friendship with Noel nothing had really happened, then, well, nothing was going to happen. It was simply part of the show, nothing to tell.
He told himself this when he held Noel’s hand, letting go too fast, mindful of the sweat dampening his palm. Dismissing it as humidity or alcohol raising his blood pressure, he could rest assured it wasn’t anything more than that, because he wasn’t a teenager anymore, for Christ’s sake. Even Julia didn’t cause his nerves to go funny like that.
When he touched himself in the shower, picturing a mouth where his fist was, and Julia’s lips no longer looked like her own, her eyes giving way to eyes that were bigger and lighter, Julian told himself it was the tour, the distance, replacing his girlfriend’s face with the nearest, most feminine one. It sounded horrible even in his own head, but not illogical. Surely psychologists had a name for such a thing. That’s what it was: some temporary disorder, some phenomenon of memory and proximity and sleep deprivation, maybe even the build up of booze in his system. That’s why he allowed one finger to slip past his balls and twist into the tight heat where Julia had rarely touched him. But Julia’s fingers were thinner, more tapered. This, he thought, is what Noel’s fingers would feel like. He could just picture the black, ever-chipped varnish, the jagged cuticles, maybe one of those ridiculous rings. The thought of its cold, solid metal pressing into his perineum as Noel sank in deeper sent Julian over the edge.
If Julian avoided Noel’s eyes afterward, when he was dressed and eating breakfast with the others, it had nothing to do with what had gotten him off. Noel wasn't even wearing any rings that day. And Julian didn’t miss it either.
____________________________
But, today, he misses Noel.
He sees the graffiti, the gross splatter of gum, the scrape on his knuckle and yet sees nothing but the lack of Noel, his absence so aching it’s like a presence in itself.
They haven’t spoken in days. Not for any reason that Julian can think of: just time and other stuff getting in the way. Not that Julia is getting in the way or that his boys are stuff. He’s happy to be home, so glad to have that grounding. But he still needs Noel. It messes with his head to be without him, like a junkie unable to focus without his fix. Not that Noel is an addiction. Maybe Julian is still feeling the after-effects of the tour; maybe he’s still settling back in, life still feeling a bit in flux. Maybe it needs more time. But it’s been weeks now. How much longer must it take?
It takes him fifteen minutes to arrive at Noel’s door. He just happened to be in the neighbourhood.
As it’s still technically morning, despite the clock ticking fast toward noon, Julian expects to be greeted by a groggy Noel, unkempt and undone. He expects to be told to fuck off, even though Noel has never shut Julian out no matter how many times Julian has woken him, no matter how early.
Instead, Noel is smiling and bright-eyed when he opens the door. There’s a flaking smear of ultramarine just above his jaw and the remnants of cadmium yellow clinging around his nails though he’s scrubbing at his hands with a speckled rag. The bags that hung about under his eyes during the last leg of the tour are gone, his skin pale as ever but less sallow. A glittery pink sugar skull dangles from the end of Noel’s hair, tied to a lock with an elastic band stretched right over the skull’s forehead like a bandana, and it distracts Julian from saying hello like a normal human being.
“You look good,” is what he actually says.
And Noel doesn’t raise a brow, just beams and steps back to let Julian in.
It’s that easy.
“Nothing phases you, does it?” Julian thinks and says at the same time, because suddenly he’s lost his internal monologue filter and maybe he should excuse himself before it’s too late and go see about picking up a new one before he says something more daft. But then Noel’s cocking his head sideways with a crooked grin to match.
“Well, I’m not the moon,” Noel says.
“Ha.” Julian nods, lowering his head and wrinkling his forehead. “Right now. But later maybe?”
Noel leans against the wall of the entryway, casually posed. “Yeah, but it’s waxing gibbous tonight. Or waning. I can never tell the difference without looking at the calendar. Your Moon is better anyway.”
“It’s the best.”
“Right after Keith.”
“But before Moon Unit Zappa, surely.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure.”
“Ah, well, I would.” Julian crosses his arms, leaning against the wall opposite Noel.
“‘Course you would. Maybe I could do a half moon,” Noel continues without a break, his disparate trains of thought linked together and dragging Julian along without effort. “And the other half would be wolf, and I could howl at myself, then slag myself off for disturbing the peace.” He bites at the tip of his thumb, watching Julian through dark lashes, the hint of a need for approval hiding behind the smirk.
“Then half of you chases a rabbit. But the rabbit runs across a brook and, when you try to follow, the other half of you makes the tide come in and then you’re stuck on a stepping stone in the middle of the water and going under. And the rabbit is mocking you from the bank because only half of you knows how to swim. And that’s a doggy paddle.”
Noel licks the corner of his mouth like he’s pushing his smile out more. “But half of me is also gravity-less, so I won’t sink.”
“You just bob around in circles.”
“Sounds more like Howard.”
Julian huffs out a laugh. “Sounds like me,” he mutters.
“What’s that?”
Julian means to move on, he really does. He’s about to brush it off, but, when he looks up, Noel’s got his thumb at his mouth again, the pad of flesh subtly curving up to meet the tip of his tongue. It’s too much: too much meandering talk about nothing, too much wondering and wandering around. And his head must really have one leg shorter than the other, because he keeps coming back to the same place no matter how many times he tries to walk away. His circumlocutory logic will be his undoing.
He pushes off from the wall but stays standing with his palms flat to the cool plasterboard. He looks at the door instead of at Noel when he asks, “Can I come in?”
Noel just stands there, staring at him. He doesn’t laugh when he says, “You already are.”
It sounds like code. Is it code? Julian hasn’t played that game in so long. He’s been too busy playing games with himself. And he knows that, he does. But playing pretend is easy. Living is hard.
He has to live with this.
He has been living with this. There really isn’t any other way.
This thing between them - it happens or it doesn’t. But Julian isn’t going away. And he won’t let Noel go either.
He’s literally holding him before it registers that he’s moved at all. Noel’s hips are warm under Julian’s hands, under the soft cotton of his t-shirt, a rough splotch of dried acrylic near the hem on one side. Julian rubs his pinky over the tiny patch of paint and feels Noel shiver, feels the hot puff of breath on his neck as Noel exhales. Noel’s still teething at his thumb like a child, and Julian places his hands on Noel’s arms and lowers them, breaking contact between Noel’s hand and his mouth, removing that one last physical obstacle, hoping it’s enough to take all the other intangible ones with it.
Looking up at Julian with his impossible eyes, his lip bitten and brightening to red, Noel begins to say something. But all that gets out is, “I-“
Julian covers Noel’s mouth with his hand, all too aware of its clamminess. “You talk too much,” he says.
Noel licks his palm. Julian doesn’t flinch; he saw that coming. But he removes his hand from Noel’s mouth, letting it linger midway between them, fingers curled as if he might caress Noel or punch him, if he could move at all.
“You think too much,” Noel says.
And it’s true. But, “Maybe thinking is what we both need to do here.” His courage, or foolishness, is already slipping fast.
Noel slides his hands over Julian’s loose fist, draws it toward his lips. He ducks his head and kisses Julian’s wrist lightly, then again. All Julian can do is watch. His hands are bound, literally. It’s all the excuse he needs to truly listen when Noel says: “I think plenty. Too fucking much, really. I talk just to empty those thoughts and keep from going mad.” He loosens his grip on Julian and presses his face into the pocket of his cupped hands, brushing his lips right over the scrape on Julian’s knuckle, somehow finding it without even looking or knowing it was there. Noel’s voice is low, muffled in their hands but meaning as clear as day, when he goes on. “But there’s only so much talking a person can do.”
It should make Julian laugh. And maybe later it will, when he looks back on this with the luxury afforded by time tending to frayed nerves and putting everything back into place, into proper perspective. Maybe he won’t laugh anyway. Maybe the regret will unravel him further, pull apart whatever scraps of life he’s cobbled together so far. But the decision has already been made. It’s an overdue realization, waiting for Julian to catch up.
Julian kisses Noel for real for the first time on shaky feet. His feet in trainers and Noel’s bare, they come together toe to toe, hands fumbling to touch, to tilt heads the right way, to taste tongue against tongue. They fight for dominance then fall into submission at the same time, and then Julian’s laughing, sooner than he thought. And Noel’s laughing too, right into Julian's welcoming mouth. They laugh breathlessly, then kiss each other breathless after they’ve recovered. It’s an ebb and flow with them, like it always has been. Soon Julian finds he’s swaying, his balance tipping as Noel nudges him backwards with insistent knees and feet, his hands busy at Julian’s waist.
They don’t make it to the bed. They don’t even reach the bedroom, with Julian tripping over a cardboard box that he thinks is filled with doll parts if the glimpse he got before Noel landed on top of him was not deceiving him.
But then it’s Noel, just Noel, and nothing else to see or feel.
The bruise on his backside will be there later, not lonely at all with the bruises sucked onto his neck and hipbone to keep it company. He’ll need an excuse for that. But so will Noel, with his white skin soon to be purpled on thighs and shoulders and just under his ear, bitten at just as Julian comes with nothing more than Noel’s hand inching behind his balls drawn so tight, but not as tight as Noel’s mouth, so hot and sweet around the head of his cock.
It’s over too quickly for him, and his muscles feel like they’ve exited the building as he tries to lift himself and return the favour.
He’s never seen Noel so naked as he is now: shirt still on but rumpled, and jeans and pants shoved down around his knees. But his face is open, his eyes wide, like a place for falling into. Except, Julian’s not the only one falling this time, and he knows, somehow, they will be there to pick each other up.
Julian opens himself too. His mouth first, and then his heart. And whatever else follows, follows.
____________________________
Down the rabbit-hole, under the rock, the ground is a long way away and you’re already on the other side.