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cod-thoughts · 3 months ago

Text

I know, how I feel when I'm around you

Word count: 5.1k

Relationships: NikPrice, PriceNik

Tags: Established Relationship, slice of life, just them being domestic as fuck, fluff, they're so in love <3

Part of a project that has a tiny explanation here. Keep reading under the cut!!

AN: This is a gift for @nekrosmos Happy valentines day !!! You're really such a kind soul in this corner of the internet, insanely talented in all aspects seriously why can you draw and write that well excuse me?? The way you encourage people and leave comments/tags on peoples stuff is absolutely insane in the best way possible <33 along with this im virtually gifting you a bunch of freshly baked cookies and some flowers. Thank you for sharing your work with us and happy valentines day bud i hope its a good day for you <33

The flat was wrapped in the slow, golden hum of afternoon when Price stirred, the warmth of sleep still clinging to his skin. The scent of coffee curled through the air, mingling with the faintest trace of something sweet, and the distant sound of music—low, familiar soft rock—drifted in from the kitchen.

The sheets beneath him still carried the remnants of body heat, the space beside him long since gone cold. He turned slightly, pressing his face into Nik’s pillow, inhaling deeply. The scent there—warm, familiar, something clean with the slightest hint of spice—was grounding, safe. It settled something in his chest, the kind of quiet comfort that came from knowing exactly where he was and exactly who he was meant to be with.

He stretched, wincing slightly, feeling the pleasant ache deep in his muscles. A reminder of what happened earlier, when they had stumbled through the door, tearing at each other with hands and mouths, sinking into the desperate kind of closeness they had been starved of for weeks. That had been rough, urgent, and now his body bore the proof of it.

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he rolled onto his back, letting out a low, contented groan. The soreness was a good kind, the kind that settled deep in his bones and made him want to stretch into it, made him want to chase it all over again.

Then, from the kitchen, the unmistakable clink of a spoon against ceramic.

Price cracked an eye open. He could keep lying here, wrapped up in the last traces of sleep, but the source of warmth and scent had moved. And he had never been much for staying in bed alone. Better to follow.

The cool floor met his feet as he stood, stretching once more before reaching for the first thing within arm’s length—a soft, worn t-shirt he must’ve tossed aside last night. He pulled it over his head, running a hand over his beard before ruffling his hair absently. Nik had once told him he looked downright domesticated in moments like this. Price had scoffed at the time, but right now, walking towards the scent of coffee and the distant hum of music, he understood what Nik meant.

Nik was sitting at the kitchen counter, pen moving in smooth, sure strokes as he wrote, his attention split between the two cookbooks splayed open around him. A fresh cup of coffee sat within reach, the steam curling lazily above the rim. Their mail was laid out beside him, mostly ignored, and the soft music hummed in the background.

The whole scene was so effortlessly Nik. A careful balance between order and chaos, planning and instinct. He looked as he always did—composed, intent, his focus shifting between his notes and the open pages in front of him, the kind of quiet determination that made Price certain he’d already memorized half the bloody recipes and was just double-checking for the sake of it.

Price leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, taking in the sight.

“Started without me?”

Nik looked up immediately, and the way his gaze lingered—just for a second—before his lips curled into a slow smirk was answer enough. The amusement in his eyes was unmistakable, dark and knowing. “You looked too peaceful to wake.” He reached for the second mug on the counter, sliding it across smoothly. “But I saved you a cup, Captain.”

Price pushed off the frame, stepping into the warmth of the kitchen, taking the offered mug. The first sip was rich, slightly sweet. His brow furrowed, lips pursing slightly. “You put cinnamon in this?”

Nik took a slow sip of his own coffee, watching him over the rim. “You like it. No need to lie.”

Price grumbled, but didn’t stop drinking it.

Nik chuckled, setting his pen down, stretching back slightly, all slow, effortless ease. The kind of movement that came with knowing exactly how to take up space without ever needing to try. “How are you feeling, my love?”

Price made a vague sound into his coffee, but then stretched again, rolling his shoulders, shifting his weight just enough to make a point. “Bit sore. Can’t imagine why.”

Nik’s smirk deepened. “Perhaps I was too enthusiastic in welcoming you home.”

Price huffed a quiet laugh, taking another sip. “That what we’re callin’ it?”

Nik only shrugged, gaze still keen, amused, appreciative. There was something about the way Nik looked at him—like he was something to be admired, like he was something worth lingering on. It was heady, that kind of attention, something Price wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to, something he never wanted to lose.

“Enjoying the view?” Price asked, the corner of his mouth twitching.

Nik didn’t miss a beat. “Always.”

Price rolled his eyes, but there was no real annoyance behind it. Instead, he let his gaze drift down to where Nik’s hand still rested against the edge of his notebook, fingers ink-smudged at the tips from flipping through pages. His other hand rested against the counter, broad and steady.

For a moment, Price just looked.

Nik—mussed hair, soft t-shirt, relaxed posture, the slow, meticulous way he wrote out the grocery list, cross-referencing books, occasionally tapping his pen against his lip as he considered something.

He was stunning like this.

Price didn’t even think before he moved, stepping behind him, hands landing firmly on Nik’s shoulders as he leaned down, lips ghosting along the curve of his neck. “Y’know,” he murmured, voice low, lazy, “We could just stay in bed. Forget dinner. Just us. Right here.”

Nik exhaled a soft laugh, but Price felt the way his shoulders relaxed slightly under his touch. “Tempting,” he admitted, setting the pen down, tilting his head just slightly before turning around to face Price.

Price took the opening, settling in between Nik’s muscular thighs, trailing his mouth along the warm skin of his neck and collarbones.

Nik hummed, his hands sturdy, warm, and large, smoothed over Price’s sides, settling firmly against his stomach.

Price barely had time to register it before Nik squeezed gently, thumbs pressing into the muscle and fat there, slow, almost absentminded. Price looked down and it was absolutely unfair how much of his broad frame Nik’s hands could hold. Nik’s hands traveled up then back down, mapping out his torso, deliberately slow before pausing just under his sternum. “But you need to eat,” he said, low and thoughtful. “I have to fuel my Captain properly.” A pause. “For missions, of course.”

Price scoffed, shifting, just enough for Nik’s hands to dip slightly lower. “Sure it’s just for missions?”

“Of course.” Nik’s hands suddenly shifted, catching Price off guard as his grip tightened around his waist. “Which is why we need to get going, lyubov moya.”

Before Price could argue again, Nik moved.

One second, Price was standing there, digging his heels in, perfectly content to make a case for staying right where they were—the next, he was slung over Nik’s shoulder, the world tilting with an undignified oof as Nik hoisted him up in one clean motion.

“Nik—put me the fuck down—”

“Time to get dressed,” Nik said easily, completely unfazed as he carried Price towards the bedroom. “Before you try to seduce me out of feeding you.”

Price’s bark of laughter nearly drowned out Nik’s own amused huff. He let his head drop against Nik’s back, the warmth of him grounding in a way that was entirely unfair. His body fit against Nik’s like it belonged there, like being carried around by this man was the most natural thing in the world. “You’re fucking ridiculous.”

Nik chuckled, patting Price’s arse for good measure. “You love it.”

And Price couldn’t exactly argue against that now could he?

By the time Nik finally set him down in the bedroom, Price was already plotting revenge. He landed on his feet with a slight stumble, quickly regaining his balance as he shot Nik a sharp look.

"You’ve got some nerve, Nik."

Nik, utterly unbothered, simply stretched his arms over his head, smirking. "I have no idea what you mean, Captain."

Price narrowed his eyes, but he could feel the corners of his mouth twitching. He wouldn’t give Nik the satisfaction of a grin—not yet, anyway. Instead, he stepped past him, tugging open the wardrobe and rummaging through the clothes inside. His muscles still ached in that pleasant way, every movement a quiet reminder of the hours spent tangled up in each other earlier. A reminder that if he played his cards right, he could make this evening end the same way.

Nik, for his part, seemed to sense the shift in mood because he hummed low in his throat, stepping up behind Price.

"Here," Nik said, reaching past him, his fingers grazing Price’s waist in a way that felt entirely intentional. "Wear this."

Price glanced down at what Nik had pulled out—a dark jumper, one of the nicer ones, along with a jacket to match. It was a small thing, but the fact that Nik had picked out his clothes made something warm settle in his chest.

"You dressing me now?" Price mused, eyebrow raising.

Nik grinned. "If I let you do it yourself, you would wear something that makes you look like you just got out of bed."

Price scoffed but took the clothes anyway, stepping into them without further protest. The fabric was soft, still carrying the faintest trace of Nik’s cologne from where it had been folded beside his things.

Nik, meanwhile, had already changed. Nothing particularly fancy—just a well-fitted sweater and a comfortable coat—but somehow, the bastard always looked effortlessly put together.

"Not bad," Nik said, surveying Price with an approving nod.

Price huffed, pulling on his boots before running a hand through his hair once more. "You act like I can’t clean up well."

Nik leaned in slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching. "No, I just prefer you without clothes,"

Price rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t stop the flush creeping up his neck as he stepped past Nik and towards the door. "Come on, let’s get this over with, and maybe you can make good on that."

Nik’s chuckle followed him down the hall, the sound rich and warm.

---

The air outside was crisp, the kind that nipped at any exposed skin but wasn’t quite cold enough to be uncomfortable. The lingering warmth of the day still clung to the pavement, the last hints of sunlight casting a soft, golden hue over the city streets.

Price tugged his jacket tighter around himself, glancing sideways at Nik. The bastard looked entirely unbothered by the cold, walking with the kind of confidence that made it look like he belonged anywhere he went.

The streets were busy without feeling overcrowded—just enough people milling about to fill the space with a low hum of conversation. A street vendor nearby called out cheerfully, the smell of roasted chestnuts wafting through the air, mingling with the faint trace of coffee from a café a few doors down. The city was alive, but in a way that felt comfortable, familiar.

Nik’s eyes flicked over to him, lingering just a second too long.

"What?" Price asked, raising an eyebrow.

Nik shrugged, expression infuriatingly neutral. "Nothing."

Price huffed but let it slide, shoving his hands into his pockets as they made their way towards the market.

As they stepped through the doors, the market was much warmer than the cool air outside, the scent of fresh produce, baked goods, and slow-cooked meats filling the air in a way that made Price’s stomach tighten in anticipation. Overhead, bright lights illuminated the aisles and different stalls, casting a soft glow over neatly arranged displays of fruits, vegetables, and cuts of meat lined up behind glass.

Nik, as always, moved with purpose.

Price watched, amused, as Nik examined the butcher’s selection with the kind of scrutiny he usually reserved for high-value targets.

"Bloody hell," Price murmured, arms crossing over his chest. "Forget how much you like running this like an op."

Nik didn’t even glance up. "You would rather I pick at random?"

"I’d rather not starve while you analyse every cut of meat in the shop."

Nik ignored him, murmuring something in Russian to the butcher as he pointed out his selections.

Price took this as his opportunity.

With Nik distracted, he veered off toward a nearby aisle, his gaze landing on something far more important than whatever ‘perfect cut’ Nik was debating over.

The snack aisle.

Nik would argue he didn’t need it. Nik would insist that the tactical addition of biscuits, crisps, and maybe a pack of chocolate-covered raisins was unnecessary.

Price disagreed.

He had just slipped the first pack of crisps into the basket when a voice came from behind him.

"John."

He turned slowly, already knowing exactly what he was about to be scolded for.

Nik, holding the basket, gestured with his chin. "What is this?"

Price raised a brow. "Tactical addition."

Nik sighed. The kind of exasperated sigh that said ‘I love you, but you’re impossible.’ "We are not here for this."

"You say that," Price said, casually adding another pack. "But I say we plan ahead."

Nik gave him a flat look before just shaking his head and walking off, mumbling something about impossible Englishmen.

Price, smug, grabbed another pack for good measure.

---

The queue moved quickly, and Price busied himself by checking over the total as the cashier scanned their produce, while Nik loaded their groceries into some bags.

The cashier—an older woman with sharp eyes and an easy smile—had been chatting amicably, making the usual small talk about their dinner plans.

Nik, ever the charmer, engaged just enough to be polite, while Price mostly let him handle it.

And then it happened.

"How long have you and your husband been together?" the cashier asked, smiling warmly as she handed Nik the receipt.

Price stalled out completely.

His fingers, mid-reach for the bags, twitched ever so slightly.

Nik, the absolute menace, didn’t even blink.

"Mm," Nik hummed nonchalantly, tucking the receipt into his pocket. "A while."

Price blue-screened.

His brain short-circuited so hard that, for a terrifying moment, he genuinely thought he might have forgotten a major life event.

Husbands?

What?

The cashier, utterly oblivious to the existential crisis she had just triggered, simply smiled at them both.

"That’s sweet. Special occasion tonight?" she asked, still cheerfully beaming.

Nik smirked. "Ah, something like that."

Price felt himself buffering.

His heart had definitely skipped a beat—he could hear the blood rushing in his ears. His face burned, warmth creeping up the back of his neck, and yet his entire body had forgotten how to function.

Nik, ever the bastard, just nudged him.

"What do you think, mishka?"

Price panicked. His mouth opened. Nothing came out. His jaw worked uselessly before he let out a strangled sound, something between a grunt and a choked cough.

The cashier, completely misinterpreting his silence, laughed lightly. "Oh, don’t tell me he forgot it's your anniversary or something!"

Nik made a quiet, amused sound. "No, no. He would not forget."

Price was going to keel over.

"Right, well—" he finally managed to get out, clearing his throat as he straightened his shoulders. His voice came out gruff, far too casual for the absolute existential crisis happening in real-time behind his eyes. "Best get these home before it gets too dark, yeah?"

The cashier beamed. "Of course! You two have a lovely night."

Nik just smirked, tipping his head. "You as well."

Price all but shoved the trolley forward, practically marching them out of the store as Nik strolled lazily beside him, completely at ease.

They walked in silence for about half a block before Nik finally chuckled.

"You alright, captain?"

Price exhaled sharply, scrubbing a hand over his face as they slowed at a crossing.

"She called us husbands," he muttered, as if needing confirmation that it had actually happened.

"Mhm," Nik hummed, not the least bit bothered. "She did."

Price blinked at him, the weight of that settling in his chest in a way he hadn't quite expected.

Nik was watching him, eyes dark and warm, amusement still curling at the edges of his lips.

"You bastard," Price hissed, his ears burning.

Nik chuckled, slinging an arm around his shoulders, utterly relaxed. "You looked so shocked, I did not want to ruin her fun."

Price let out a strangled noise. "Her fun? Nik, she—she thought we were married."

"And?"

And?

Price stared at him. "That’s—Nik, that’s not—"

Nik raised an eyebrow. "Not what?"

Price’s mouth opened. Then closed. His brain refused to supply a proper answer. Nik just smirked, squeezed Price’s shoulder, and leaned in slightly.

"Something to think about, no?"

Price made another strangled noise as they walked home, choosing resolutely to think about that later.

The cold air hit again the moment they stepped outside, a stark contrast to the warmth of the shop. Price adjusted his grip on the trolley, letting Nik guide them down the pavement at an easy pace. The streets had quieted just slightly as the sky darkened, golden hues giving way to the deep blues of early evening.

The city had settled into that familiar lull—lights flickering on in shop windows, the occasional chatter of people heading home, the distant hum of a bus engine groaning as it pulled to a stop nearby. The smell of roasting meat and something fried drifted out from a takeaway shop down the road, mingling with the crispness of the evening air.

Nik had one hand tucked into his coat pocket, the other gripping one of the bags, walking with that same relaxed confidence. Price, still reeling slightly from the exchange in the shop, kept stealing glances at him out of the corner of his eye.

Nik looked entirely at ease, as if the cold didn’t touch him, as if he had all the time in the world to stroll back without a care. His gaze flicked lazily over their surroundings, sharp but unhurried, and Price had the distinct feeling that if anything out of place happened, Nik would clock it before he even had the chance to notice. Years of instinct, second nature now.

“You’re quiet,” Nik observed, voice low but easy.

Price exhaled, shoving his free hand deeper into his coat pocket. “Long day.”

Nik hummed, unconvinced. “Mm. And yet, you still had enough energy to sneak half the shop’s snack aisle into our basket.”

Price smirked. “Tactical additions.”

Nik huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head, but there was something fond in the way he did it.

“What about you?” Price asked, tipping his chin toward him. “What have you been working on lately? Haven’t seen you buried in your schematics in a while.”

Nik shot him a sidelong glance. “You are suddenly interested in my engineering?”

Price shrugged. “I like to know what you’re tinkering with. Especially if it means you’re gonna disappear under that helicopter for hours again.”

Nik chuckled. “You sound jealous.”

“Not jealous,” Price muttered, shifting his weight as they walked. “Just making sure I don’t have to drag you out of there when you forget to eat.”

Nik clicked his tongue, his smirk deepening. “You do that anyway, lyubov moya.”

Price grumbled something under his breath, but Nik only looked more amused.

They walked in comfortable silence for a few moments, the sounds of the city filling the space between them—car tyres rolling over damp pavement, the distant murmur of voices as people stepped out of pubs, the rhythmic tap of their boots against the concrete.

“And you?” Nik finally asked. “Have you been reading anything good lately?”

Price scoffed. “You’re the one with the library in the flat.”

Nik smirked. “Yes. And yet, you still steal my books. So, which one?”

Price didn’t bother denying it. Instead, he rubbed his jaw thoughtfully, thinking. “Been picking through that history book you left on the table.”

Nik raised a brow. “The one on Cold War espionage?”

“Mhm.” Price took a slow breath, his shoulders rolling slightly. “A bit dry in parts, but it’s interesting. Bastards were creative, I’ll give ‘em that.”

Nik huffed. “That is one way to put it.”

They turned the final corner, the sight of their building coming into view ahead. The golden light from the windows made the place look warmer, more inviting, like it had been waiting for them to come home.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind them, the warmth of home wrapped around Price again—the lingering smell of coffee from earlier, the faintest traces of Nik’s cologne that always seemed to cling to the walls, the soft hum of the heating as it kicked on to ward off the night chill.

Nik wasted no time unloading the bags, moving through the kitchen with that same quiet efficiency. Price hung back for a moment, watching him, watching the way he moved like he belonged here in every sense of the word.

Nik’s hands moved without hesitation, pulling out ingredients with the same kind of precision he used when handling weapons. The roll of his shoulders as he reached for the cutting board, the way he shifted his weight slightly as he inspected the vegetables—it was all so calculated, so deliberate. Price had seen him work a battlefield with that same sharp focus, but here, in their kitchen, it softened just enough to make something in Price’s chest clench.

He shook himself from the thought, stepping in to help.

Nik glanced at him, lips twitching. “You sure you would rather not sit? You have done so much work today.”

Price snorted, nudging him with his shoulder. “Piss off. You still need me.”

Nik made a thoughtful noise, watching as Price began stacking the vegetables onto the counter. “Mm. Suppose I do.”

The words landed heavier than they should have. Not in a bad way—just in a way that made Price’s fingers still slightly before reaching for the knife. It was simple, the way Nik said it. Natural. Easy. A statement of fact.

The sound of a bottle uncapping had him glancing up just in time to see Nik pouring them both a drink, setting a glass beside him before taking a slow sip from his own. The rich, amber scent of whiskey filled the air, blending with the first hints of butter melting in the pan.

"I thought you wanted to help, Captain?" Nik teased, one eyebrow raised as he stirred the sizzling garlic.

Price hummed, swirling his glass. "Reckon I could be convinced to get my hands dirty."

Nik huffed a laugh, nudging a knife and a few tomatoes toward him. "Then you can cut these."

Price rolled his eyes but didn’t argue, taking a steady sip of his drink before setting to work. The kitchen filled with the familiar, rhythmic sounds of cooking—the sizzle of oil, the scrape of a knife against the cutting board, the low, absentminded hum of Nik’s voice as he worked.

They had done this countless times before, and yet, there was something about it tonight that settled differently in Price’s bones. Maybe it was the warmth of the whiskey, maybe it was the way Nik had looked at him earlier, or maybe it was just the quiet understanding that filled the air between them, the kind of thing that didn’t need words.

As they worked, Price’s hand brushed against Nik’s—once, twice—until finally, instead of pulling away, Nik let his fingers linger for a moment, warm and steady. It was such a small thing, but it made Price’s breath hitch slightly, made something shift under his ribs in a way he wasn’t prepared for.

Nik smirked like he had noticed, but didn’t comment.

That was the thing about Nik—he always noticed. He saw the way Price had been watching him, saw the way his shoulders had eased the moment they stepped back into the flat. He saw everything, and he never needed to say a word.

The scent of seared steak filled the kitchen as Nik flipped the meat with practiced ease, the edges crisping into something golden and perfect.

"Here," Nik said suddenly, holding out a spoon with a careful dollop of the sauce he’d been reducing. "Try."

Price leaned in, the deep, savoury richness hitting his tongue immediately—just the right balance of heat, something smoky, something that lingered.

Nik watched him expectantly.

Price swallowed, licking his lips. "Not bad."

Nik huffed a quiet laugh. "You’re impossible to impress."

"Hard to be impressed when everything you make is good," Price murmured.

Nik took a spoonful for himself, closing his eyes as he tasted it. The satisfied noise he made was absolutely sinful and completely exaggerated yet it still sent a sharp jolt down Price’s spine all the same.

Price inhaled slowly, steadying himself. "You’re doing that on purpose."

Nik cracked an eye open, all innocence. "Doing what?"

Price shook his head, biting down on a grin. "Nothing."

Nik’s smirk lingered as he turned back to the stove, his hands moving with the same practiced ease that Price had seen on countless occasions. It was a kind of control that translated across everything Nik did—whether he was cooking, fixing his helo, or handling a rifle, he always worked with the same quiet, unshakable confidence.

Price leaned against the counter, pretending to busy himself with his drink, but he couldn’t help watching Nik move. The way the muscles in his forearms flexed as he reached for the salt, the way his fingers tapped absently against the pan as he waited for the sauce to thicken.

By the time the steak was resting and the last of the side dishes were plated, the kitchen had turned comfortably warm. The steam from the food curled into the air, rich with the scent of butter and garlic and something deeper.

Nik grabbed the plates, nodding toward the table. "Go sit."

Price snorted. "What, you think I need an invitation?"

Nik smirked. "I think you will stand there all night staring at me otherwise."

Price opened his mouth to argue, but—well. Nik wasn’t entirely wrong, was he? He rolled his eyes instead, shoving down the warmth creeping up the back of his neck before moving toward the table.

The dining table was cluttered, as it always was—scattered books, half-folded newspapers, a notepad with Nik’s half-finished schematics. Price swept a few things aside, making room as Nik placed their plates down with practiced ease.

They sat across from each other, mismatched chairs tucked around the wooden table, the meal between them still steaming.

Nik had gone all out, as usual. The steak had a perfect golden crust, sliced thick and resting beneath a drizzle of sauce, while the roasted garlic mash sat beside it in neat, whipped swirls. The salad was a simple contrast—fresh tomatoes, crisp greens, a light dressing that cut through the richness of everything else. It looked damn near perfect.

Price grabbed his fork, giving Nik an approving nod. "If this is your idea of ‘fueling’ me, I might let you keep doin’ it."

Nik hummed, already cutting into his own steak. "Good. Would be a shame if you wasted all my effort."

They dug in, exchanging only a few murmured remarks between bites.

The first mouthful melted against Price’s tongue, the perfect blend of smokiness, richness, and just a hint of heat from whatever Nik had worked into the sauce. It was the kind of meal that slowed a conversation, made them pause between words just to enjoy it properly.

Price huffed quietly. "You really are too good."

Nik raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

Price gestured with his fork. "Everything you make, it tastes too good. Makes it hard to pretend I can cook better."

Nik smirked, sipping his drink. "That is because you cannot cook better, mishka."

Price scoffed but didn’t argue.

After the last plate was scraped clean, Price made a move to clean up, rolling his shoulders as he reached for the dishes.

Nik, predictably, was already stepping in.

"I’ve got it," Nik said, nudging him towards the living room. "Go sit. I’ll bring you tea when I’m done."

Price scoffed. "What, you think I can’t wash a few plates?"

"I think," Nik said, placing a firm hand against his back and steering him towards the couch, "you need to let me take care of you every once in a while."

Something in Price’s chest twisted slightly at that, the quiet certainty in Nik’s voice settling somewhere deeper than he expected. It wasn’t just the words—it was the way Nik said them. No hesitation. No question about it. Just the simple fact that he would take care of Price, whether Price let him or not.

Price exhaled sharply, but he let himself be moved, sinking into the couch with a quiet grunt, one arm draped over the back as he listened to the sounds of Nik cleaning up in the kitchen.

The warmth of the flat, the weight of a good meal, the slow buzz of whiskey still lingering in his veins—it all made his eyelids feel heavier than he realised. He let his head tip back slightly, blinking slow, feeling the faintest pull of exhaustion settle into his limbs.

Nik moved around in the kitchen with practiced ease, the soft clink of plates and the gentle rush of water filling the space. After a few minutes, the sound of a kettle boiling replaced it, the low whistle blending into the soft hum of the heating system kicking on.

Price barely registered the exact moment Nik joined him, just the quiet shift of the couch as Nik settled beside him, his large hands wrapped around a mug.

He blinked down at it, fingers curling around the ceramic. The steam rose lazily from the surface, the faint and familiar scent of honey and black tea curling into the air between them.

Nik scooted closer towards Price and wrapped an arm around the back of his neck, slowly guiding his head to Nik’s warm shoulder with his palm. Price could feel Nik’s fingers softly scratching at his scalp around his temple, easing the tension there. Price murmured something—something he meant to be grateful, but it came out more like a tired grumble.

Nik chuckled softly, pressing a kiss to his temple. "Sleep, lyubov moya."

Price barely managed a small smile before the warmth of Nik underneath him, the steady sound of his breathing, and the gentle, absentminded stroke of his fingers through his hair pulled him under completely.

There was no need to fight it. No need to overthink anything. Not when Nik was here, solid and steady, warmth radiating from his side like a quiet promise.

Safe. That was what this was. That was what Nik had become.

Price let his body sink into it, let himself be drawn into the deep, dreamless pull of sleep, his last conscious thought a simple one—

Nik. Always Nik.

#q writes #cod #john price #call of duty #cod nikolai #captain john price #nikprice #pricenik #nikolai cod #title is from roulette - system of a down #there is immense fear but i promised myself i wouldnt chicken out again #do it scared and all that #i tried to write something youd like i really hope i somehow managed that if i didnt im sorry oop 0_0 #happy valentines day <33 #many hugs nekros you deserve all the love <33

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sophaeros · 1 year ago

Text

arctic monkeys for q magazine, june 2011 (x) (x)

ARCTIC MONKEYS: Inside Alex Turner's Head

Words Sylvia Patterson Portrait John Wright

The day Arctic Monkeys moved into their six bedroom, Spanish-style villa in the Hollywood Hills, where the first-floor balcony looked over the patio swimming pool, they knew exactly what to do.

"From the balcony, you could get on t'roof and jump in't pool," chirps the Monkeys' most gregarious member, drummer Matt Helders, in his homely Yorkshire way. "We looked at it and said, That's definitely gonna happen. So by the end, we did a couple of 'em. Somersaults in t'pool, from the roof. At night time."

In January 2011, as Sheffield and the rest of Britain endured its bitterest winter in a century, Arctic Monkeys capered among the palm trees, eschewing hotels for a millionaire's Hollywood homestead as they recorded and mixed their fourth studio album, Suck It and See.

The four Monkeys, alongside producer James Ford and engineer James Brown, lived what they called the "American man thing": watched Super Bowl on giant TVs, played ping-pong, hired two Mustangs, cooked cartoon Tom And Jerry-sized steaks on barbecues on Sundays, had girlfriends over to visit, all cooking and drinking around the colossal outdoor kitchen area featuring a fridge and two dishwashers. Living atop the Hills, they could see the Pacific Ocean beyond by day, the infinite glittering lights of downtown LA by night.

Every day, en route to Sound City Studios, they'd travel in a seven-seater four-by-four through the mountains, via bohemian 60s enclave Laurel Canyon, blaring out the tunes: The Stones Roses, The Cramps, the Misfits' Hollywood Babylon. For the sometime teenage art-punk renegades whose guitarist, Jamie Cook, was once ejected from London's Met Bar for refusing to pay €22 for two beers, the comedy rock'n'roll life still feels, however, absolutely nothing like reality.

NICK O'MALLEY: "It were really as if we were on holiday. When we came back it's the most post-holiday blues I've ever had!"

JAMIE COOK: "It's hard to comment on that. It were just really good fun."

MATT HELDERS: "We always said, As soon as things like that feel normal, we're in trouble. But it's just funny. You might think it would get more and more serious as you get older but it's getting funnier. We've done four albums now and I'm still only 24, I'm still immature to an extent. So who cares?"

Alex? Al? Are you there?

ALEX TURNER: "Yeah, it were good times. But we were in the studio most of the time. So there's no real wild Hollywood stories. Hmn. Yeah."

Wednesday, 16 March 2011, Strongroom Bar, Shoreditch, East London, 11am. Alex Turner, 25, slips entirely alone into an empty art-crowd brasserie looking like an indie girl's indie dream boy: mop-top bouffant hair which coils, in curlicues, directly into his cheekbones, army-green waist-length jacket, baggy-arsed skinny jeans, black cord zip-up cardigan, simple gold chain, supermoon sized chocolate-brown eyes.

Almost six years after I Bet You Look Good On The Dancefloor became the indie-punk anthem of a generation (from the first of Arctic Monkeys' three Number 1 albums), and nothing prepares you for the curious phenomenon of Alex Turner "in conversation". Unlike so many of the Monkeys frenetic early songs, he operates in slow motion, seemingly underwater, carrying a protective shell on his back, perhaps indie rock's very own diamond-backed terrapin. The most celebrated young wordsmith in rock'n roll today talks fulsomely, in fact, only in shapeless, curling sentences punctuated with "maybe... hmn.. yeah", an anecdotal wilderness sketching pictures as vague as a cloud. He is, though, simultaneously adorable: amenable, gentle, graceful, and as Northern as a 70s grandpa who literally greets you with "ey oop?".

"People think I'm a miserable bastard," he notes, cheerfully, "but it's just the way me face falls." Still profoundly private, if not as hermetically sealed as a vacuum-packed length of Frankfurter, his fante-shy reticence extends not only to his personal life (his four-year relationship with It-girl/TV presenter Alexa Chung, whom he never mentions) but to insider details generally. Take the Monkeys’ Hollywood high jinks documented above: not one word of it was described by Turner. Before Q was informed by his other Monkey bandmates, Turner’s anecdotal aversion unfolded like this:

Describe the lovely villa you were in. AT: "Well... we certainly had a... good view."

Of what? AT: "Well, we were up quite high."

The downtown LA lights going on forever? AT: "I dunno. It was definitely that thing of getting a bit of sort of sunshine. Is it vitamin D? If you can get vitamin D on your record, you've got a bit of a head start. So we'd get up and drive to the studio."

What were you driving? AT: "Nothing... spectacular. But yeah, we'd drive up the studio, spend all day there and sort of, y know, get back. To be honest... we had limited time. So we spent as much time as possible kind of getting into it, like, in the studio.

So your favourite adventures were what? AT: "Well, they were really… minimal. We were working out there!"

Any nightclubs or anything, perhaps? AT: "You really want the goss 'ere, don't you?"

Yes, please. AT: "I could make some up. Nah!"

And this was on the second time of asking. It's perhaps obvious: Alex Turner, one of the most prolific songwriters of his generation (four Monkeys albums and two EPs in five years, The Last Shadow Puppets side-project, a bewitching acoustic soundtrack for his actor/video director friend Richard Ayoade's feature-length debut Submarine), is dedicated only to the cause – of being the best he can possibly be. He simply remembers the songs much more than the somersaults.

Throughout 2009, Arctic Monkeys toured third album Humbug – the record mostly made in the Californian desert with Queens Of The Stone Age man-monolith Josh Homme – across the planet. While hardly some cranium-blistering opus, its heavier sonic meanderings considerably slowed the Arctic Monkeys' live sets and on 23 August 2009, Q watched them headline the Lowlands Festival, Holland and witnessed a hitherto unthinkable sight – swathes of perplexed Monkeys fans trudging away from the stage. With the sludge rock mood matching their cascading dude-rock hair it seemed obvious: they'd smoked way too much outrageously strong weed in the desert.

"Heheheh, yeah," responds Turner, unperturbed. "That's your theory. You probably weren't alone."

Back in the Strongroom Bar, Turner's arm is now nonchalantly draped along the back of a beaten-up brown leather sofa. He ponders his band's somewhat contrary reputation…

"I think starting the headline set at Reading with a cover of a Nick Cave tune perhaps was a bit contrary. D'youknowhat Imean?! But to be honest, that summer, at those festivals, we had a great time. And I know some fans enjoyed those sets 10 times more. And you can't just do, y’know, another Mardy Bum or whatever. Because how could you, really?"

With Humbug, notes Turner, "I went into corners I hadn't before, because I needed to see what were there," but by spring 2010 he wanted their fourth album to be "more song-based" and less lyrically "removed". He was "organised this time", studied "the good songwriters" (from Nick Cave, The Byrds and Leonard Cohen to country colossi Johnny Cash and Patsy Cline), discovered "the other three strings" on his guitar, and wrote 12 songs through the spring and summer of 2010, mostly in the fourth-floor New York flat he shared with Chung before the couple moved back to London late last summer (the New York MTV show It's On With Alexa Chung was cancelled after two seasons). The result: major-key melodies, harmonised singing and classic song structures.

At the same time he revisited the opposite extreme: bands such as Black Sabbath and The Stooges ("we wanted a few wig-outs as well"); he was also still heavily influenced by the oil-thick grinder rock of Josh Homme, who is clearly now a permanent Monkeys hero. After four months' rehearsals in London, on 8 January the Monkeys relocated to LA for five swift weeks of production and Homme came to visit, singing backing vocals on All My Own Stunts. Tequila was involved.

"Tequila is probably me favourite," manages Turner, by way of an anecdote. "But it takes a certain climate... It's not the same... in the rain. Yeah. [Looks to be contemplating a lyric] Tequila in the rain."

Vocally, he developed the caramel richness first unveiled on The Last Shadow Puppets' Scott Walker-esque The Age Of The Understatement, finding a crooner's vibrato. "Everything before was so tight,” he notes, clutching his neck. "Probably just through nerves. That's just not there any more." Suck It and See contains at least four of the most glittering, sing-along, world-class pop songs (and obvious singles) of Arctic Monkeys' career: the towering, clanging She's Thunderstorms, the summertime stunner The Hellcat Spangled Shalalala, the heavenly harmonised title track and the Echo & The Bunnymen-esque jangly pop of closer That's Where You're Wrong.

Elsewhere, in typically contrary "fashion", there's preposterous head-banger bedlam (Brick By Brick, the rollicking faux-heavy rock download they released in March "just for fun", featuring vocals by Helders; Don't Sit Down 'Cause I've Moved Your Chair, and Library Pictures). News arrives that the first single proper will be Don't Sit Down 'Cause I've Moved Your Chair. Q is perplexed. Brilliantly titled, certainly, but arriving after Brick By Brick, the new album will appear to the planet as some comedy pastiche metal album for 12-year-old boys.

You've got all these colossal, summery, indie-pop classics and you've gone for... The Chair? AT: [Laughing uproariously] "The Chair! I'm now calling it The Chair, that's cool. Well for once it weren't even our suggestion. It was Laurence's (Bell, Domino label boss). And I were, Fucking too right! He's awesome. It'd be good to get a bit of fucking rock'n'roll out there, won't it? It's riffs. It's loud. It's funny."

If you don't release The Hellcat Spangled Shalalala as a single I'm going round Domino to kick Laurence's "awesome" butt. AT: "I think it'll be the next one!"

The record's title, meanwhile, could've been more enigmatically original than the un-loved phrase Suck It and See. The band, struggling with ideas due to the opposing sonic moods, invented an inspiration-conjuring ruse: to think of new names for effects pedals in the style of Tom Wolfe, Turner being long enamoured with the American author's legendarily psychedelic books The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test and The Kandy-Kolored Tangerine-Flake Streamline Baby, "cos that just sounds awesome".

"There's the Big Muff pedal," he elaborates, "That’s the classic. I've got the Valve Slapper. And there's the Tube Screamer. So we came up with the Thunder Suckle Fuzz Canyon. And… wait till I assemble it in me mind… em… it'll come to me… The Blonde-O-Sonic Shimmer Trap. So we were going for summat like that."

A wasted opportunity?

"Nah. Because some of those things ended up in the lyrics anyway. Suck It and See was just easier."

Alex Turner, rock'n'roll's premier descriptive art-poet, still writes his lyrics long-hand in spiral-bound notebooks. "Writing lyrics is a craft that I've practised a bit now," he avers. "In me notebook it looks like sums. Theories. There's words and arrows going everywhere. There's always a few possibilities and I write the word 'OR' in a square."

For our most celebrated colloquial sketch-writer of the everyday observation (all betting pencils, boy slags and ice-cream van aggravations) the more successful he becomes, the less he orbits the ordinary. "I'm not struggling with that, to be honest," he decides. "In fact I'm enjoying writing lyrics much more than I did. Stories. Describing a picture. Um. There's quite a bit of weather and time in this one. Which is probably not reassuring. 'Oh God, he's writing about the weather.' Maybe leave that out!"

There are also some direct, funny, romantic observations: "That's not a skirt, girl, that's a sawn-off shotgun/And I only hope you've got it aimed at me..." (from the title track).

Some of your romantic quips, now, must be about Alexa. AT: "Right. Yeah. Definitely. Well... there's always been that side to our songs, when we weren't writing about... the fucking taxi rank. It's kind of inevitably... people you're with." [At the mention of Chung's name, Turner is visibly aggrieved, head sliding into his neck, terrapin-esque indeed.]

It must have been very grounding being in a proper relationship through all this madness. Because if you weren't, girls would be jumping all over your head. AT: "Em. Hmn. Well, of course that helps you to... I don't really know.. what the other way would be."

Does Alexa wonder if the lyrics are about her? AT: "Oh there's none of that. Yeah, no, there's no looking over the shoulder."

She must be curious, at least. "Maybe."

Did you ever watch Popworld? AT: [Nervous laughter] "Em! Now and again."

Did you ever see the episode where she helps Paul McCartney write a song about shoes? AT: "Ah, yeah I think so, maybe I did see that."

Well, if I was you, I'd have been thinking, "She's the one for me." AT: "Well. Yeah... maybe that would've... sealed the deal! Hmn. But maybe that wasn't when i got the ray of light. When was? Nah [buries head in hands]. I might have to go for a cigarette..."

Q can't torture him any more and joins him for a snout. Turner smokes Camels from a crumpled, sad, soft-pack and resembles a teenager again. As early song You Probably Couldn't See For The Lights But You Were Staring Straight At Me says, "Never tenser/Could all go a bit Frank Spencer…”

In January 2006, when Arctic Monkeys' Number 1 album Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not became the fastest-selling debut in UK history, inadvertently redefining the concept of autonomy and further imploding the decimated music industry (& wasn't their idea to be "the MySpace band", it was their fans': the Monkeys merely kick-started viral marketing by giving away demos at gigs), the 19- and 20-year-old Monkeys were terrible at fame. They weren't so much insurrectionary teenage upstarts as teenage innocents culturally traumatised by the peak-era fame democracy.

To their generation (born in the mid-'80s) fame was now synonymous with some-twat-off-the-telly a world of foaming tabloid hysteria where renown and celebrity meant, in fact, you were talentless. Hence their interview diffidence and receiving awards via videos dressed up as the Wizard OfOz and the Village People. Which only, ironically, made them even more celebrated and famous. (“That were a product of us just trying to hold onto the reins," thinks Turner today. "Being uncooperative.")

Q meets The Other Three one morning at 11am, in the well-appointed, empty bar of the Bethnal Green, Bast London hotel they're staying in (all three live in Sheffield, with their girlfriends, in their own homes). First to arrive is the industrious, sensible and cheerful Helders, crunching into a hangover-curing green apple. He has recovered from last year's boxing accident at the gym, which left his broken arm requiring a fitted plate. Now impressively purple-scarred, the break felt "interesting" and the doctor couldn't resist the one-armed drummer jest: "D'you like Def Leppard?"

Currently enjoying an enduring bromance with Diddy, he still doesn't feel famous, "it just doesn't feel that real, there's no paparazzi waiting for me to trip up." He and Turner, during the four-month rehearsals last year, became an accomplished roast dinner cooking duo for the band. "I reckon we could have us our own cookbook," he beams. "Pictures of us stirring, with a whisk."

O'Malley, an agreeable, twinkly-eyed 25-year-old with a strikingly deep voice and a winningly huge smile, is still coyly embarrassed by the interview process. A replacement for the departed original bass player Andy Nicholson in May 2006, he went from Asda shelf-filler to Glastonbury headliner in 13 months and still finds the Monkeys "a massive adventure". His life in Sheffield is profoundly normal – he's delighted that his new home since last October has an open-hearth fireplace: "Me parents had electric bars." He has also discovered cooking. “I’m just a pretty shit-hot housewife, most of the time," he smiles. "I cook stews, fish combinations, curries, chillies. I made a beef pho noodle soup the other day, Vietnamese, I surprised meself, had some mates round for that."

Recently, at his dad's 50th birthday bash, the party band, made up of family and friends, insisted he join them onstage "for ...The Dancefloor. So I were up there [mimes playing bass, all sheepish] and it were the wrong pitch, they didn't know the words or 'owt, going, Makin eyes... er..." He has no extra-curricular musical ambitions. "I'm happy just playing bass," he smiles. "I've never had the skill of doing songs meself. It'd be shit!"

Cook, 25, is still spectacularly embarrassed by the interview process. He perches upright, with a fixed nervous smile, newly shorn of the beard and ponytail he sported in LA: "Rockin' a pone, yeah, because I could get away with it." With his classic preppy haircut and dapper green military coat (from London's swish department store, Liberty), he looks like a handsome '40s film star. (Turner deems Cook "the band heartbreaker" and had a word with him post-LA: "I said to him, Come on, mate, you've got to get that beard shaved off. Get the girls back into us. Shift some posters.")

His life in Sheffield is also profoundly normal. He still plays Sunday League football with his local pub team, The Pack Horse FC (position, left back), remains in his long-term relationship with page-three-model-turned-make-up-artist Katie Downes and "potters about" at home, refusing to describe said home, "cos I'll get burgled".

A tiler by trade, he always vowed, should the Monkeys sign a deal, that he'd throw his trowel in a Sheffield river on his last day of work. "I never did fling me trowel," he confirms. "Probably still in me shed." He's never considered what his band represents to his generation. "I'd go insane thinking about it, I'm pretty good at not thinking about it… Oh God. I'm terrible at this!"

Back in the Strongroom Bar, Alex Turner is cloudily describing his everyday life. "I just keep meself to meself," he confounds. He mostly stays indoors and his perfect night in with Alexa is "watching loads of Sopranos. And doing roast dinners".

No longer spindle-limbed, he attends a gym and has handsomely well-defined arms – "You have to look after yourself."

Suddenly, Crying Lightning from Humbug rumbles over the bar stereo. "Wow. How about that? I was quite happy the other morning cos Brick By Brick were on the round-up goals on Soccer AM. It's still exciting when that happens. It was like Brick By Brick is real."

He spends his days writing music, "listening to records", and recommends Blues Run The Game by doomed '60s minstrel Jackson C Frank ("who's that lass?... Laura Marling, she did a cover recently), a simple, acoustic, deep and regretful stunner about missing someone on the road.

Lyrically, he cites as an example of greatness the Nick Cave B-side Little Empty Boat [from ‘97 single Into My Arms ], a comically sinister paean to a sexual power struggle: "Your knowledge is impressive and your argument is good/But I am the resurrection babe and you're standing on my foot."

"I need a hobby," he suddenly decides. "I'd like to learn another language." Since his mum is a German teacher (his dad teaches music), surely he can speak some German? "I know how to ask somebody if they've had fun at Christmas." Go on, then. "Nah!"

Where Turner's creative gifts stem from remains a contemporary rock'n'roll mystery; he became a fledgling songwriter at 16, after the gift of a guitar at Christmas from his parents. An only child, did his folks, perhaps, foresee artistic greatness? "I doubt it!" he balks. "Cos I didn't. I wasn't... a show kid." Like the others, he doesn't analyse the past, or the future.

"You can't constantly be thinking about what's happened," he reasons, "it's just about getting on with it." The elaborate pinky ring he now constantly wears, however, a silver, gold and ruby metal-goth corker featuring the words DEATH RAMPS is a permanent reminder of he and his best friends’ past. The Death Ramps is not only a Monkeys pseudonym and B-side to Teddy Picker, but a place they used to ride their bikes in Sheffield as kids.

"Up in the woods near where we lived," he nods. "Just little hills. But when you're eight years old they're death ramps." The ring was custom made by a friend of his, who runs top-end rock'n'roll jewellery emporium The Great Frog near London's Carnaby Street. Ask Turner why he thinks the chase between his writing and speaking eloquence is quite so mesmerisingly vast and he attempts a theory.

"Well, writing isn't the same as speaking," he muses. "Not for me. I seem to struggle more and more with... conversation. Talking onstage... I can't do it any more. Hmn. I'll have to work on that."

The ever-helpful Helders has a better theory.

"Since he's been writing songs," he ponders, “It seems like he’s always thinking about that. So even when he’s talking to you now, he’s thinking about the next thing that rhymes with a word. Even when he’s driving. We joke he’s a bad driver, his focus is never 100 per cent on what he’s doing. Which is good for us cos it means he’s got another 12 songs up his sleeve. I think music must be the easiest way for him to be concise and get everything out. Otherwise his head would explode.”

The Shoreditch.com photo studios, 18 March. Alex Turner, today, is more ethereally distracted than ever, transfixed by the studio iPod, playing Led Zeppelin, The Rolling Stones, a version of I’d Rather Go Blind. Occasionally, he’ll completely lose his conversational thread, “Um. I’ve dropped a stitch.”

The first to arrive for Q’s photoshoot, he greets his incoming bandmates with enormous hugs (and also hugs them goodbye). Today, Q feels it’s pointless poking its pickaxe of serious enquiry further into Turner’s vacuum-packed soul and wonders if he’ll play, instead, a daft game. It’s called Popworld Questions, as first posed by someone he knows rather well.

“Oh, OK. Let’s do it,” he blinks, now perched in an empty dressing room. He then vigorously shakes his head, “Um…I’ve gotta snap back into it.”

Here, then, are some genuine “Alexa Chung on Popworld” questions (2006-2007), as originally posed to Matt Willis, Amy Winehouse, Robbie Williams, Pussycat Dolls, Kaiser Chiefs and Diddy.

Why do indie bands wear such tight jeans? AT: “Um. I supposed they do. They haven’t always. When we first were playing I was definitely in flares. You need to be quite tall to get the full effect, though. So, that's why this indie band wears such tight jeans, cos we've not got the legs for flares."

What makes you tick in the sexy department? AT: "Wow. Pass. What do I find most attractive in a woman? Something in the head? That's definitely a requirement. Well... Hmn. I'm struggling."

Tell us about all the lovely groupies. AT: "No!"

If dogs had human hands instead of paws, would you consider trying to teach them to play the piano? AT: "Absolutely. I'd teach Hey Jude."

How many plums d'you think you can comfortably fit in one hand? AT: "They're not very big. [Holds small, pale, girly hand up for inspection] It's a shame. Probably three. Diddy only managed two? Maybe not then. I can carry a lot of glasses at once, though. If they're small ones I can do four."

Are you cool? AT: "Not as much as I'd like to be. There's this clip where Clint Eastwood is on a talkshow and he gets asked, Everybody thinks of you as defining cool, what d'you think about that? And he gets his cigs out, takes one out, flicks it into his mouth, lights it and says, I have no idea what you're talking about."

Here, Turner locates his Camels soft-pack and attempts to do a Clint Eastwood. He flicks one upwards towards his mouth. And misses. Flicks another. And misses. "Third time lucky?" He misses. "I'll get it the next time." And succeeds. "Hey. Fourth time. Don't put that in! So there you go. I'm four steps away from where I wanna be."

Thank you very much for joining me here on Popworld, here's my clammy hand again. There it is, let it slip, hmmn. You can let go now. AT: "OK! Were you a Popworld fan, then? It was funny. Cool. What were we talking about, before?"

Blimey, Alex. What must you be like when you're completely stoned out of your head? AT: "Stoned? What d'you mean, cos I seem like that anyway? Yeah. A lot of people... tell me I'm a bit... dreamy. But I like the idea of that. Of being somewhere else."

Two days earlier, Turner had contemplated what he wanted from all this, in the end. Many seconds later he gave his deceptively ambitious answer.

"I just wanna write better songs," he decided. "And better lyrics. I just definitely wanna be good at it. Hmn. Yeah.”

—

RUFUS BLACK: AKA Matt Helders, on his ongoing bromance with Diddy

Matt Helders has known preposterous rap titan Diddy since they met in Miami in 2008. “He goes, Arctic Monkeys! Then he said summat about a B-side and I was like, He's not lying! I just thought, This is funny, I'm gonna go with this for a while." Last October Diddy texted Helders, suggesting he play drums with his Diddy Dirty Money band on Friday Night With Jonathan Ross, to give his own drummer a day off. “I were bowling with me girifriend at the time. In Sheffield, on a Sunday." On the day of recording, says Helder, "We had a musical director. That were one of the maddest times of my life. Next day Diddy said, Why don't you just stay? Come along with me. So I went everywhere with him." Diddy had "a convoy of cars" and made sure Helders was always in his. "He'd stop his car and go, Where's Matt? You're coming with me! So I'd get in his car. Just me, him, his security, driver." Diddy, by now, had given him a pseudonym - Rufus Black. "He kept saying, I don't wanna fuck up your image. And I'm, I don't think it's gonna do me any harm!" He stayed in Diddy's spectacularly expensive hotel. Some weeks later, Helders almost returned to the Dirty Money drumstool for a gig in Glasgow. "But we were rehearsing in London. I were like, I might come, how are you getting there? And he were like, Jet. Jump on t’jet with me. But I had to stay in Bethnal Green instead.”

Love’s young dream: Diddy (left) with Helders

#arctic monkeys #alex turner #matt helders #nick o'malley #jamie cook #sias era #interviews #q magazine #my image id #bands #this is such a funny interview honestly shfjwjs #self proclaimed housewife nick my beloved......#also why did the interviewer describe alex's hands as small pale and girly HELPME #btw im missing page 93 it's probabky just a photospread but yeah #i managed to find the dead links' images on vk #eye contact #not my scans

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