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leatherjacket-lovesong · 8 years

Text

leather jacket love song - part three.

You owned it first.

The jacket.

Sixteen years old and you're bumming around one of the 'vintage' shops in Manchester's Northern Quarter, joking with Elvis over half of the awful shit they have the audacity to stock. Neither of you have found your 'style' yet, and you're both kicking about in a pair of matching Harringtons. His ox-blood red and yours black.

Later, when Elvis favours an oversized red striped jumper because he's been listening to too much Nirvana, and a pair of red Docs, you'll remember how red was always his colour. And it won't surprise you when you pass your driving test and you gravitate instinctively towards purchasing a red car.

The leather jacket isn't vintage. You're pretty sure it's the exact same one you saw on a mannequin in the window of Topman a few months ago. But it's decent. And recently Elvis has been shovelling a ton of early punk down your throat, so you reckon it won't hurt to give it a go.

In the shop mirror, you spy Elvis dart up behind you as you slip it on.

"Aww, fuck yeaaaah." He crows, looking you up and down with an applauding grin, "You look like Sid Vicious. You've gotta get it, man. It's fuckin' mint."

He continues to cheer his approval as you turn from side to side, checking out the fit, and accessorising with your best degenerate scowl.

Elvis isn't too far off with his Sid comparison. You've got the awkward height because you're going through a growth spurt and your hair's naturally black as coal. You've also recently found out that you're really fucking shit at playing the bass.

It's only once you've owned the jacket for two months and never even worn it, that you realise leather isn't really your thing.

The only reason you picked it out in the first place is because you knew Elvis would like it and you wanted to impress him

----

You help Elvis move all of his shit back into his mum's.

As you clear out the student flat, Noel mooches around, openly giving you the stink-eye, but keeping his big mouth unusually closed. It's only as you grab the last of Elvis's stuff and follow your mate to the door, that the little Welsh prick suddenly decides he has to get the last word.

"I'm not sorry."

You almost walk into Elvis when he immediately spins on his heel, bristling, "You what?"

Noel, black eye fading but still patched purple, still mottled faint yellow and blue, leans back against the door to the living room and folds his arms.

"You heard."

You don't know what the fuck Noel's been drinking to make him think that this is a good idea. He's too much of a little girl take Elvis on a good day. Let aIone a bad one when you're present as well.

If he were anyone else you'd probably assume that he's kicking up a fuss because he's hurt that Elvis is moving out. If he were anyone else you'd think he's trying to stir shit up because he's getting left on his own. But Noel's not anyone else. He's just fucking /Noel/. And your hand instinctively loops Elvis's elbow as though to keep him close.

You don't need another person in the hospital.

"Said I'm not sorry." Noel repeats, without a flinch. "Someone had to do it. Otherwise we never would've known. Might as well have been me. Not like /I/ have anything to lose."

For some reason his so-called 'self-sacrifice' pisses you off more than the lack of an apology does, and it's not Elvis who barks back, but /you/.

"Oh, stop playing the fuckin' /martyr/, Noel. Tryin'a get every bastard to feel fuckin' sorry for you. It's not happening. You made your bed, lad." You tug Elvis's jacket. Tilt your head to the door, "C'mon, we nashin' off?"

"No, hang on." Elvis' refusal doesn't surprise you. He's never exactly been the type to back down when there's a potential arse-kicking looming up front. "I wanna hear this. Carry on, Noel." He crosses his arms, too. "So you admit it, do you? Mattie didn't borrow your phone."

Noel doesn't even look sheepish. Just shrugs dismissively, like it's the most trivial little detail in the whole fucking world.

"Her password's not exactly secure..."

And when Elvis looks as though he might lunge at him, Noel quickly adds on, "Look, I knew she'd been in touch with Lars, alright. She told me. It was meant to be a surprise for you. She invited him to come down. Sung your fucking praises to the suited-up cunt. And then after what happened, /happened/... well... I just wanted to know if he'd actually turned up, that's all."

Again, it's not Elvis who jumps in first, it's you.

"Ah, piss right off back to Cardiff with your bullshit. Don't try to phrase it like you were doing a good deed. That's /not/ how it works. That's not how /life/ works, Noel. You can't just hack into somebody's private emails just because you want to. That's a dick move. What part of basic human decency are you so fuckin' stupid that you don't understand?"

Your words get absolutely no rise out of Noel, however. And he just sighs and shrugs and rolls his eyes until you can feel your hackles raising up.

"Think what you want." He says, looking between the two of you, "Just wanted you both to know I'm not sorry, that's all."

This time it's Elvis holding /you/ in restraint, as he places the back of his hand on your chest in a soundless gesture you don't need words to understand, then steps forward after a giving you a look that says 'I'll take it from here, dude'.

"You know what's up with you, mate?" Elvis' voice is surprisingly calm. Cool and collected. The words flow out of his mouth easy and fluid like liquid silk.

As he advances on Noel, you're not sure whether wild Elvis or this new composed Elvis frightens you the most.

"Your problem, mate... Your problem is that all you ever think about is /Noel/. You don't ever stop — even just for a split second — to think about anybody else. You just think about you. Just think about /Noel/... If Mattie really did tell you about Lars, then she must have liked you. Must have /trusted/ you. And you know what, I feel sorry for her. I really do. Because you alienate /everybody/ who ever tries to get close to you. You've done it to me. You've done it to Dom. And now you've gone and done it to Mattie as well... Well, I'll tell you something, mate..." Elvis is close now. Too close. And it takes all your self control to stand back and watch as he lifts a hand, then jams an index finger dead centre against Noel's heart, "I'd hate to be you right now... Because it must be really fuckin' /lonely/ being /Noel/."

---

You've missed this.

Hanging out in Elvis' room. Both laid across his bed. The Stone Roses filling silence in the background. You, flicking through the pages of this weeks NME, while Elvis daydreams, tells the occasional raunchy joke and smokes.

You've missed this.

You've missed this a lot.

No Mattie.

No Noel.

Just you and your best mate. Your best mate and you.

Enjoying yourselves, doing absolutely fuck all, while life carries on for the rest of the world.

Tomorrow, he'll go spend the day at the hospital. And tomorrow, you'll drag yourself — probably tired, probably grumbling — into work. But for now, here in Elvis' room, anything outside of the walls plastered with a young Deborah Harry and a wasted Pete Doherty doesn't exist any more. On this slow Sunday evening, as sinking copper sunlight slants in through the big attic window, Elvis is all yours.

"Your birthday next month." He announces. Like he's the one reminding you, as though you're the one who might have forgot.

And while it's good of him to remember — he's not usually this thoughtful — you also don't really want to know.

Because the thought of turning twenty-one while still living under your mum's roof, no girlfriend, never even had a fuck, feels like a much bigger badge of shame than it really should.

You don't want to turn twenty-one a virgin. Elvis already has nearly six years sexual experience over you. You're not prepared to allow him any more. You've got a lot of catching up to do.

"What do you want?" He asks, rolling onto his side to face you, little grey threads of smoke curling from one corner of his mouth then dissolving into the glowing light.

You don't know why he asks. He's never once gifted you anything you asked for.

You're lucky if you even get a card.

Flipping to the next page of the magazine, you expel an indifferent sigh. Shrug. "I'unno... A prostitute?"

---

You pay for it.

Standing in the jewellers, with the glint of a nine carat diamond reflecting in Elvis' eyes, you see your best mate's heart drop.

"Six /hundred/ and fifty?" He repeats it to the bloke behind the counter as though certain he had to have heard it wrong. "Six /hundred/??"

The jeweller, all perfect designer suit and perfect designer haircut, sneers at Elvis down the length of his designer fucking plastic surgeon's nose.

"It's the /cheapest/ item that we stock. Unfortunately, we don't really cater to the /smaller/ budget. Perhaps you'd find something more suitable for someone in your... /situation/... in the likes of somewhere a bit less particular, such as... Argos?"

His voice is nasally, just as much as his face is, and you have to wrestle back the urge to lunge over the counter and let your fist undo all of that expensive Botox and filler work.

He looks from Elvis to you and you know what he's thinking. You know he's sizing you both up as scum.

Elvis' NHS smile doesn't win him any prizes.

You look like a football hooligan in your Man City polo shirt.

He's probably got a finger on his panic button. Probably thinks you're both going to kick off and nick all of his stuff.

In the corner of your eye, Elvis sags. "Shit..." he sighs, defeated. "Never mind. Come on, Dom."

He slouches out of the shop, head down, eyes on the ground, but you don't follow.

Pride, integrity, pure fucking Northern stubbornness, has you rooted to the floor.

Because you won't stand for this.

You won't.

Someone talking to Elvis like he's dog shit. Someone telling him his devotion to Mattie is worth nothing more than the tacky chav crap in the bargain pages of Argos.

Someone assuming he's not /good/ enough.

No.

You won't have it. Not in front of you.

And so keeping stern, steady eye contact with the jeweller, you confidently whip out your wallet, and then your bank card.

The click as your card slides easily into the payment machine is pure satisfaction.

The stunned and rather frightened expression on the jeweller's face alone is worth the hundreds of pounds suddenly drained out of your 'new car' fund.

And when he begins to slide the little velvet box across the counter with one fingertip, as though afraid you might bite his arm off, you stand back.

Fold your arms over your chest. Put on your best Salford scowl. And grunt, "Bag it up. Cunt."

---

You don't understand art.

It always makes you feel a bit stupid. A bit like you should have paid more attention in school. Even though you /know/ you're not daft. You landed yourself a fucking good job, after all. But your brain doesn't work in abstract ways. It's not so good with deep, avant-garde thoughts. You're all straight forward problem solving, hands on, nuts and bolts.

(It's why you have so much trouble writing your own songs.)

So standing in the middle of the art gallery, you don't even /want/ to start guessing the meaning behind the sculpture of a seven foot glowing, neon cock.

This isn't your type of scene. You hadn't even really wanted to come.

But Julian had invited you.

(Begged you really.)

Asked you to be his plus one.

Said he was going to have a painting on show and lured you in with the promise of free booze.

The complimentary little plastic cup of what you believe is /meant/ to be pink champagne isn't quite your definition of alcohol. But then considering there's a giant, acid green penis staring you right in the face and making you feel horribly emasculated, you're not sure it's a good idea to actually let yourself get drunk.

Fucking art students.

Fucking nuts.

You're circling the sculpture at a distance, feeling so out of your depth you might as well be drowning, when Julian pops up at your shoulder. Slaps you on the back.

"A'right, Dom!" He's grinning from one ear to the other and his cheeks are tinged pink from the alcohol, but that's not the first thing you notice.

The first thing you notice is that he's wearing the most atrocious burgundy knitted jumper with a pair of fucking /kittens/ on.

"The fuck is that monstrosity yer wearin', lad?"

"This?" He's not offended, he's still grinning as he looks down at his chest, a bit gleeful, a bit proud, "It's from me Babunia."

"Yer what?" Did he just speak Polish? Was that a polish word? Surely Julian's not so drunk that he's already spouting gobbledegook.

It's your night off from Elvis. You don't fancy carrying a pissed up Julian back home.

"Me Babunia. Me Nan!" He reiterates, leaning over to shout in your ear, even though the gallery's not that loud. "She made me it for good luck. I wear it to all me gallery shows. I think it's cute."

"Oh..." So it was a Polish word. A language he doesn't speak around you very often. A language you kinda wish he would... "Fair enough..."

Fucking artists, man.

Fucking nuts.

---

You know which one it is.

You spot it across the room.

It's fucking unmistakable.

And you really don't need the lump in your throat as Julian guides you towards it through the crowd.

When he gets you there, you stare at it for a second before taking a physical step back. Standing away from it. Standing away from him.

Because you feel as though there's something stuck behind your breastbone that's swollen right up. And you're ninety-nine percent certain people are looking at you.

There, on the wall, blocking out half a skyline painted claret and Man City blue, is the back of a head. Dark hair cropped in neat, razored short. Twin tipped collar of a Fred Perry polo resting on shoulders slowly sloped. The deep arc of a fur trimmed, olive green hood...

You don't get to see the back of your own head very much. And you're not very good at art. But you don't need to read the little plaque mounted beside this particular canvas to know what this piece is all about.

"Retro (spective) - by Julian Kaminski"

Fucking /artists/, man...

"What do you think?" Julian asks.

"Is that meant to be me?" You quiz back.

But Julian only smiles and lifts his shoulders and takes a sip from his cup. "Do you want it to be?"

You step forward. You step back.

You frown.

Weighing it all up.

("You should get one, you'd look good.")

("You've slept with people, right? I mean surely. Obviously. You've fucked girls and all.")

("I don’t think anyone really knows what they like until they give it all a try, you know?”)

("Is that a promise, Dom?")

("You were /smiling/, son...")

Your fist clenching around the cup.

The crack of fragile plastic beneath your touch.

"I..."

(...do. You do you do you do. You really fucking do.)

"...don't know."

FUCK.

---

You remember your first lad's holiday.

A weekend camping in the lake district at eighteen. You, Elvis and some mates from sixth form you don't see any more.

Four cheap tents and three crates of Carlsberg. All crammed into a shit rental van that breaks down twice on the way there and once on the way back.

Eight testosterone fuelled dickheads from Manchester's finest, shouting and swearing and thinking that they're Bear Grylls because they managed to get a bonfire going.

(With a lighter. And some petrol siphoned from the van.)

You remember skinny dipping ‪at 7am‬. Standing on the bank of the lake while everyone else splashes about. Shaking your head, refusing to join them ‘cos it's too cold.

And you remember Elvis running up behind you. Shoving you into the water fully clothed.

Pulling you under when you try to climb back out. Naked bony legs and naked bony arms.

His hoarse laughter in your ear as his hands wrestle with your shirt.

"Come on, Wood. Get yer kit off. Show us all what you've got!" "Fuck off, Elvis! Get off, you cunt!"

You remember Elvis playing his guitar by the light of the campfire. Singing 'Summer of '69' out of key because it's one of the only appropriate songs he knows.

Changing all the lyrics. Putting your name into the first verse.

And you remember laying in the cool grass afterwards, when everyone else has retreated to their tents. Just you and your best mate staring at the stars.

"I wish you'd come study music with me at uni. Gonna be weird without you, ya know."

"I know... I'm sorry. I wish I could come. Just gettin' full-time at the garage now I'm eighteen and I like the money too much."

"I'm gonna be stuck in a room full of plebs in anoraks on me own. You could've been my flatmate. Could've lived together. Ianson 'n' Wood. Bet I'm gonna get some right weirdo."

"I'll come down and visit you. You'll only be living down the road. And you can ring me up whenever ya want."

"I know, just... I'm gonna miss seeing yer ugly mug every day, that's all."

---

You're as nervous as he is.

Standing in the corridor outside Mattie's room, two ragged heartbeats synchronise just as easily as the anxious, deep breaths inflating two pairs of lungs.

"I'm doing this."

"You're doing this."

"It's happening."

"It is."

"Oh, fuck."

"I know."

You never thought you'd see this moment. Never imagined it could be something he might actually do.

Elvis. Proposing. Committing himself.

From all the girls who've flitted in and out of his life (or perhaps, more accurately, all the girl's lives /he's/ flitted in and out of) up until he met Mattie, you didn't think he was the sort.

All of the drunken one night stands.

All the competing with Noel to see who could gain the most notches on their bedpost.

All the whispered lied 'I love you's just to get their clothes off.

You've seen it all.

The fake fractured heart worn on a tattered leather sleeve.

The tragic romantic musician luring them in with borrowed songs.

Three dozen names in his phonebook that he doesn't even know.

He's a shitbag, Elvis.

But he's always been yours.

(Just yours)

Now he's fidgeting outside a hospital room, turning a little velvet box over and over in his palms, and you're okay with it.

Honestly.

You are.

"Come in with me." It's not a question, it's a command.

But you shake your head. Steady the trembling in his shoulders with the weight of your hands.

"I'm not the one asking her to marry me, am I. This is your moment, lad. Get in there and do us both proud."

—

You can't say that you didn't expect it. Because you did.

And you can't say you weren't waiting for it. Because you were.

Mattie was never going to say no.

But when Elvis suddenly comes bolting out of the hospital room at top speed and literally leaps into your arms, it still takes you so much by surprise that you shout.

There's long wiry legs wrapped round your waist and long wiry arms wrapped round your neck, and his body hits you with so much force that it sets you off balance and your search for stability sends you both spinning around.

"Yes! Yesyesyesyes, Yes!" Elvis is celebrating, naturally, at the absolute expenditure of his lungs.

And you want to join in, you really do.

But he's a lot fucking heavier than he looks, your mate. And he's sliding. Slipping down your body just that little bit too low. And your hands are gripped under his thighs, trying to hold him up with some support, but it feels weird as fuck and you don't know where else they're supposed to go.

"Yes! She said yes, Dom! Woohoo!"

"I uh... gathered that much."

Elvis isn't showing any inclination of wanting to get down, and instead he just leans back, grinning his ridiculous fucking head off, clearly oblivious to how the two of you might look.

"You!" He says, roughly cupping your jaw in his hands, "My main man. You are incredible, you."

And you want to say, 'get off.'

And you want to say, 'yes, I know.'

And you want yo say, 'fuckin' ell, Elvis, you weigh a bastard tonne.'

But you don't get to voice any of it.

Because the next thing you know, Elvis' mouth is closing in on yours and he's assaulting your lips with a big noisy smooch, and you think you're going to throw up.

(Well... you did say that he could kiss you the next time he saw you, you suppose.)

You just wish you had the brain power to make a joke about forfeiting the punch, instead of being so fucking stunned.

"Legend!" He's crowing, "My fucking best mate, you. I'd marry /you/ if I could!"

And you suppose that's his way of showing his appreciation. Thank-you in Elvis-tongue.

And when he suddenly bounces back out of your arms gasping, "I need to ring me, mum!" it's all you can do to stand in the middle of the corridor as he rushes away again, tracing the fleeting memory of his lips on yours with the pad of your thumb.

---

You love it when she looks at you like this.

Beaming. Glowing. The confident Mattie-smile ripping sickly sallow skin and heavy eyebags apart.

Because when Mattie's smiling you know that everything is alright.

And when Mattie's smiling, you forget to worry about the space she'll leave behind when she's gone.

"Congratulations." You say, standing at the foot of her bed, as she grins excitedly from the diamond on her finger to you.

"Go on, hit me with it, he sold his soul to the devil so he could afford this, didn't he?"

You pretend to think, tapping a finger against your chin, "Hmm... possibly..."

Mattie tips her head, "And the devil is currently hiding his pitchfork in his parka, isn't he?"

"Ehh..." The unzipping of your coat, a mock theatrical search, "...must have left it in the car."

She rolls her eyes. "You're mad, you know that."

"I have been told, on a couple of occasions..."

You don't care that she knows. Mattie's smart. (Smarter than Elvis.) You never doubted that she wouldn't figure it out. And maybe you /are/ mad. Maybe you're stupid for Elvis. But there isn't a single thing you can think of that you wouldn't do for him, and you know deep down — even though Elvis might never admit it — that it works the other way around too.

You pray for your tongue to work and for your voice not to sound too awkward, as you add, on a softer note, "You're worth it, though. Honestly. You both are."

At which, to your surprise, Mattie suddenly loses her smile and drops her head and goes horribly quiet. But it's not until she sniffles and dabs her eyes with her sleeve, that you realise what's going on.

"Oh shit, no, don't cry." You rush around the side of the bed then sit down, throwing your arm around her, hugging her close, "Come on, I know Elvis isn't exactly Ryan Gosling, but he's not THAT bad."

Do girls like Mattie even fancy Ryan Gosling? You don't have a fucking clue. You just know that every single one of your sisters do.

Your attempt at light humour doesn't seem to work, however. Mattie just buries her head into your chest, body hitching silent sobs. And it feels like a whole hour of stroking her hair, while mumbling reassurance into her fuzzy little white-blonde crown, until she eventually gathers enough composure to look back up.

You wish she hadn't, though.

Selfish as it sounds.

You wish she hadn't, because the favour she asks next breaks your heart in two.

"Take care of him for me, won't you?"

---

You do what you have to do.

To pass the time. To stay busy. To keep your head and your heart from tying and tangling you up.

Late nights at the gym. Late nights at the garage.

Cooking and cleaning and painting the fence in the back yard.

Anything to fill the empty hours freed up by the breaking of the band.

Anything to stop your racing brain from thinking too hard.

Ten o'clock at night and you're working on a customer's car. Julian lights up the screen of your phone.

'No surprise, but I sold your painting. Come celebrate? The champagne was awful at the gallery, I'm sorry, I can make it up. Got a bottle of Jameson with your name on. x'

You haven't really spoken much since the gallery. Haven't really had the chance.

It's not awkward between the two of you now, but it's different. Tense almost. And you wish more than anything that you'd had the balls to say something other than that cheap cop-out 'I don't know.'

Because you're tired of not knowing. Tired of always being so unsure. And you're sick of pretending everything's so simple, when it isn't.

(Sick of the slowly unbuttoned Levi's and slowly shrugged off denim jacket that have started showing up in your mind when it's dark.)

So you invite him over.

For the company.

For the laugh.

(And not at all so he can watch you get filthy and breathless while you work.)

Because maybe it's kinda nice knowing you're being /looked at/ for once.

And maybe it's kinda nice for it to finally be the other way around.

And maybe it's /also/ kinda nice when he rocks up an hour later and takes a long, head-thrown-back swig from the neck of the promised bottle, while leaning against the hood of your customer's Merc, exposing a soft shadow of early stubble peppering the tender underside of his jaw.

And maybe you wish you didn't have to deny the drink due to work ethics.

And maybe you wish you had a better comeback when Julian quirks a single eyebrow and scoffs, "Write some new excuses, Wood. You're not supposed to have other people on the premises right now either, but you've sure as fuck /bent/ that rule."

---

You'll blame it on being overworked.

You'll blame it on being overtired.

You'll blame it on a grim Northern future and a dying friend and the constant every day pressure to live up to the unrealistic expectations of a modern man. You'll blame it on Elvis.

(He started it.)

And you'll blame it on Noel.

(He made you feel worse.)

But you'll definitely, one hundred percent, blame it on Julian most of all.

Because he's crafty. And you're clumsy.

Because he's confident. And you're unsure.

(And later, when everyone's hurting and your lives are fucked up, you'll reason that he knew exactly what he was getting himself in for from the start.)

So when he offers the bottle to you again, you take it. Snatching it up with engine-black hands. Knocking back a throat full of fire, before brusquely wiping your mouth on the back of your arm.

"Dick." You grumble, thrusting the now filthy bottle into Julian's shirt.

"Cock." he quips smartly back.

"Cunt." You growl, practically snarl.

"Ohhhh...." Julian sucks air through his teeth and takes a mock step in retreat. To your surprise you follow. To your surprise you tower over him until you've got him pinned against car door. Until the only thing wedged between the two of you is the bottle of liquid courage and your own expanding ego.

The brassy flash of his smirk. "You kiss your mother with that mouth?"

The bullish clamp of your hand at his jaw. "No."

In the deserted wasteland of the garage, he's in your domain. Amongst gears and engine fumes, you've got the higher ground.

His rapid pulse flickers against the pad of your thumb.

His knuckles dig deep into your heart.

And when your mouth finds his, it's not with youthful eagerness or romantic yearning. It's no breathtaking whirlwind of a moment, culminating after watching one another from afar.

No.

When your mouth finds his, it's pure selfishness.

Starvation.

When your mouth finds his, it's just need and greed and the bitter taste of his tongue filling you up.

He laughs when you part. Finds humour in something you either can't see or don't understand.

Then he leans up, whispers hoarse words in your ear when you frown, "Took you long enough..."

---

You don't think about it.

You don't think about it, even though you know you should.

Because Julian had seemed a bit miffed when you finished your shift, then dropped him off home. A bit riled up. Like he'd been stupid enough to expect something else of you. Something that little bit more.

"Not coming up for a nightcap?" He'd asked, when you'd parked outside his avant-garde, luxury city-centre abode, your engine ticking over as you waited for him for unbuckle and piss off.

"Nah, bud. Soz."

"Not even a little one?"

"It's past midnight, man. I need to get off."

"Ah, sorry, yeah. I forget. Student life, innit. We don't really keep the same hours as everyone else."

Don't you fucking know it.

He reaches for the door handle. Pauses. Thinks a split second before sitting back. "How about Wednesday?"

"I've got some shit to do. I can't."

"Thursday?"

"Me an' Ellie made plans."

"Friday..?"

"Probably not."

Silence.

Throughout the entire exchange you've kept your eyes on the windshield, not looking at him, growing impatient waiting for him to go. It's only when he lets out a frustrated sigh and starts up again that you turn.

"Well, maybe we could—"

"Listen, are you gettin' out, lad, or what?"

His eyebrows leap up in surprise. Your own dig low. For a long drawn out moment, you stare at one another. For a long drawn out moment neither one of you wants to be the one to look away first.

Julian backs down.

Throws his hands up.

"A'right. I get it. I do. Dominic's game. Dominic's rules." He starts to get out of the car. "Do me a favour, though, yeah?" He says, turning back one last time and stooping to lean in through the door. "Spare me the macho straight prick attitude, will ya? It doesn't suit you."

And so you don't think about it.

You don't.

The kiss.

The conversation.

The complicated aroma of Julian drowning the scent of Elvis out. Suggesting itself on the cotton of your shirt collar. Insinuating itself into the upholstery of your car.

No.

Because it's easier just to take whatever you need and get on with it. Keep your head low.

The last thing you want is for this thing with Julian to establish a name for itself, to grow creeping roots in your mind, and to mean something /more/.

---

You're not a fan of birthdays.

It's all the attention, all the fuss, all the cheap and tacky cards with shit tons of glitter falling off. You don't see a reason for it. Just a money sink hole.

The only reason Elvis even knows your birthday is because your mum told him. And the only reason anyone else other than your direct relatives know is because Elvis told them.

You refer to your birthday only in the form of star-signs and horoscopes, and never at all when the day itself draws close.

So it takes some hard convincing for Elvis to finally get you agreeing to go out.

"We don't have to go nightclubbing, I'm not even up for that meself. I've gotta be up at seven in the morning for the hospital, Mattie's got a scan. So it won't get mad. Just me, you and Jude. Celebratory drink with the lads. It'll be sorted. It'll be sound."

It doesn't end up much of a celebration, you've gotta be honest. Just the three of you snugged into a brown leather corner booth at Trof, up Fallowfield — student and hipster land. Newly engaged Elvis teaching you chat-up lines, trying desperately to get you laid before the clock strikes midnight, like you might turn into a pumpkin if you don't find something to fit around your dick. And Julian, stiff at first, downing umpteen bottles of San Miguel until the buzz kicks in and the innuendos spew out.

Noel's there. You'd clocked him as soon as you walked in, but he didn't let on. He's occupying a table with a rather strung out looking entourage. Four young lasses with hair coloured like peacocks and eyebags to match, and a very tall, very gaunt, kinda rangy looking bloke. You can see them from where you're sitting and you watch them backhanding pills round their circle, gearing up for a night down town. Six burnt-out perennially randy wastrels on the prowl, sniffing pavements for cock and coke.

You hate Noel now more than you ever thought you could.

"Hate's a big word." Elvis comments, when you voice this opinion over the sound of the D.J playing dirty Montreal guitar outfits from his Macbook Pro.

Julian, flashing teeth over the rim of his glass, chimes up, "Big words, small cock."

"Small cock?! Give over." Your foot finds his shin. He yelps.

You're back to your usual banter again, and you're grateful for it, even if it does feel a little bit forced, "Blow yer nancy little 'ead off with this monster of mine, my son."

"Don't doubt that," Elvis snickers, then points animatedly at your crotch, "Twenty-one years you've had that poor bastard caged. For god's sake, will you just let the little wrinkly fella out!"

Another round of drinks, and Elvis nudges your shoulder.

"What about that one? She's been eyeing you since she walked in, keeps looking over. Not bad either."

You follow his line of sight to a lass at the bar. Fine-boned with a bent nose that looks great on her. Chestnut brown bob, cut blunt. White collared shirt, navy blue thigh-length Fred Perry pinafore. Knee-high socks. Adidas Originals.

Fucking hell. She actually makes you pause for thought.

She'd have been your type all over if she hadn't been a girl.

"Oi! 'Ere love!" Elvis shouts brazenly across the room, his voice sounding dangerously close to a cat-call.

Instantly you clamp a hand over his mouth to shut him up, but he slaps you away. Elbows you in the side.

You go in again, and it dissolves into a scuffle. Hands and feet and jammed up knees. And it's only when it escalates to two-on-one, and Julian practically sits on you, that Elvis manages to get you into a headlock.

Face beaming hot, you close your eyes, grimacing with embarrassment, as he shouts some more, "It's this ugly twat's birthday tomorrow, he's turning twenty-one! And he's still a virgin, can you believe that?! Fancy giving him a nosh??!"

Over the pounding of your panicked heart beat, you hear Noel -- several tables away, like several worlds -- howl a wicked laugh at your expense, soon followed by his new rag-tag crew.

You don't expect her to collar you. Especially after Elvis had made a big laddish mockery of you both that got the whole of Trof cackling like hyenas. But she does. Snags your elbow with a sudden little 'hey' as you saunter out of the lad's toilets, wiping your hands dry on the thighs of your jeans because the driers don't work.

"A'righ...?" Your voice slurs a bit in your throat.

Two minutes ago in the toilets, staring at yourself in a smeared mirror under the unforgiving scold of neon lights bouncing off white tile work, you'd had that funny little epiphany that jumps up on everyone after they've enjoyed a few pints.

I'm drunk.

And you'd stood, leaning over the sinks, prodding at the hollows under your cheekbones, making faces, pulling down your bottom eyelids to see if the whites are bloodshot. You and your slightly foggy, slightly piss speckled reflection, had been nose to nose.

Now, you struggle. Try to act anything other than a lightweight, as her slightly narrow-eyed, slightly judging gaze flicks you up and down.

"Sorry 'bout me mates, an' that." They're not the best words, but they're all in one piece when they make it out of your mouth. "Gerra bit lairy, like, when they've 'ad a few."

She's got nice eyes, you think. All made-up with mascara and big swooping black eyeliner like Cleopatra.

Nice mouth too. Got the coolest little chip in her front tooth.

"No biggie." She shrugs, "I do too."

Despite the nonchalance, however, her up close and personal inspection of you is still evident. And you frown down, about to ask her if she's got a problem, when she suddenly clicks her fingers and tosses her head back. A wild riot of thick brown hair and jagged tooth.

"I knew it! I fucken /knew/ it."

"Ey?" You've never felt more confused.

She grins at you something jubuliant. Gold freckled eyes sparkling now.

"Restrospective. The painting. It's you. It's fucken /you/! Jesus." She shakes her head like she can't quite believe it, points accusingly at you, "Had it hangin' on me front wall for the last two weeks. Watchin' Eastenders, starin' at the fucken' back o' your skull. Mad, innit. Fucken mental. Shit. I always did wonder what you looked like from the front."

The painting. Julian's painting.

At once the half-buried memory of Julian's ridged teeth under your tongue rises up from the dead and elbows it's way through the chaotic sludge of your mind from the back to the front.

Mod-girl immediately appears to mistake your panicked expression for insult and throws out an ink stained hand, "Soz, where are me manners, I'm Polly. Rightly named, cos right now I'm talkin' too much."

"Dominic." You feel a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth as you throttle the unwanted memory and wonder if this is what it's gonna be like when you're all famous and it's not just Elvis getting mugged by fans. "Though why you'd wanna pay two hundred notes for a picture o' the back of /my/ 'ead, I don't know."

Polly laughs. And it's a laugh that's without any self-consciousness, but balancing on the edge of a bit too much Rum an' Black.

"Well I needed to find summat that'd fill up the space next to me Paul Weller autograph." She winks conspiratorially and you're done for.

Swept up.

Completely and utterly drunk and in love.

Because finally, fucking finally, a girl you get. A girl you understand.

One that'll come down your local on a Sunday afternoon and whack 'Live Forever' on the jukebox.

One that'll come shopping in Pretty Green and not turn her nose up at Liam Gallagher's offensive price tags.

One that'll take you hunting for vintage vinyl, and argue with you over the meaning of song lyrics, and climb up on your shoulders at festivals. Praise the fucking Lord.

The world has provided, finally, for Dominic Wood.

"Lemme buy you a pint, birthday boy." She cranes up to your ear and you know that you're in there. You've absolutely fucking pulled.

"But just let's get one thing straight, yeah?" Her blackcurrant breath is warm against your ear as she strains to be heard above the noise of the bar, "I promise I'm not comin' onto you. I'm not into blokes."

---

You know you've had too much to drink when you introduce Polly to Elvis and Julian, and fall in love with her even more.

Because she gushes over Julian like someone starstruck, giggling nervously, eyes alight, repeating an amazed little mantra of 'oh my god' every time he opens his mouth. And she takes absolutely no shit off of Elvis, immediately wrestling him into her own headlock, knuckling fiercely at his hair as she calls him a "downright cheeky cunt" and forces an apology out of him before she'll let him go.

She's brilliant.

She buys drinks for you and Julian, but makes Elvis go order his own.

She's fucking fantastic.

She wants to make a name for herself in the music business as a journalist, she says. She knows Noel. They're on the same media studies course. She eyes him across the bar and side-mouths, "...wouldn't trust any bloke who went to the barber's and asked for /that/ haircut."

You love her. You want to marry her.

It doesn't even matter that your dick doesn't fancy her, or that she's only into other birds.

In your pissed up utopia, she's perfect. Your absolute mirror-image. All sharp-as-fuck dress sense and Northern Soul.

It doesn't even bother you that she stays too long.

You love her.

Fuck.

You love everyone.

By eleven o'clock you're so wasted you're slumped halfway under the table with Elvis's arm draped over your shoulders, your head practically in his armpit as he presses his cheek to your hair and mumbles inaudible stuff in your ear that could be sweet nothings, or song lyrics, or simply a list of all the girls he's ever fucked.

And you love him.

Your chain-smoking beautifully battered boy, with big dreams and a scrawny arse.

You do.

Across the table Julian's engaged in a wildly animated conversation with Polly about Nietzsche or Warhol, or whatever it is that people usually talk to faux-philosophical hipster artists like him about. You can't hear a word that they're saying, and Julian hasn't even flicked a glance at you in over half an hour, but you can feel his foot pressed up against yours and now and again he grazes your knee with the back of his hand.

And you love him.

Your whiskey-wanking decadent faux-pas, with his knitted jumpers and filthy mouth.

You do.

And it's with a dawning knowledge that you've had one too many, that you realise... had he been here, had he not swaggered off an hour ago with his E'd up little gang in tow, if he'd not made a conscious decision to super-glue himself firmly on a path designed only to snort and fuck...

— if he'd been here, sitting at your table right now, your womanising, walking S.T.D catalogue, with his eyes sketched dirty perverted shades of black... you'd have honestly — probably, you're not quite drunk enough to commit yourself one hundred percent — even loved that nasty little shitbag Noel.

---

You don't regret it.

(Even though you think you should.)

And you don't want to go back and change it.

(Even though you thought you would.)

It feels natural. Like a rite of passage, of sorts.

You just wish he didn't sound so gutted when you start to gather up your clothes...

Half eleven. Half eleven and Elvis has called a taxi, but you don't wanna go home. Polly's said her goodbyes, taken your phone number, and Julian's just reached the point of tipsy where he starts telling really awful Polish jokes. Translated over into English. Horribly. Losing narrative and mangling punch lines, to the point where you've got absolutely no fucking idea what he's talking about, but you're laughing so much your ribs hurt.

"Listen," says Elvis, pulling on his jacket and patting his pockets to make sure he's picked everything up, "I'm chippin' off. But you lads see it through 'til midnight, yeah? Have another round on me. Have a good one."

He slaps a tenner on the table, ruffles your hair, pulls you into his shoulder, then plants a kiss on your left temple that makes you screw your face up.

"Don't worry," Julian winks, as the two of them close together over the table in a gruff bear hug, "I'll look after him. And I'll make him give ya three rings when he gets home and all."

"You better do." Elvis pats him on the back. Throws you a look.

And it's a look that's all silent narrative with full sentences lodged somewhere between his crumpled eyebrows.

He's drunk, just a little, and you're drunk, just a lot. But neither of you are so far gone that you can't communicate without words.

(Watch those fucken fists of yours, he says.)

(You roll your eyes. Go home, dad.)

Just as he's about to head out, however, Elvis backtracks and turns. Raises a hand with a finger pointed ceiling-ward, as though he's just had a brainwave.

"Oh, and Kaminski?"

"Yes, boss?"

"For God's sake, will you find /him/ something to fuck?!"

3am. Picking your clothes up off his parquet floor.

"Dom."

Boxer shorts. Jeans. Socks.

"Dominic."

Desert boots. Paisley shirt.

"C'mon, don't be daft. It happens to everyone their first time, it's nothing to be embarrassed about."

It's not about that. It's not about that at all.

Coat. Coat... where'd you put your fucken coat?!

"Look, just hang on and I'll call you a taxi. It's three in the morning, you can't walk home."

Fuck you. Fuck you all.

You're Dominic Wood, twenty-one, and you can do whatever you bleeding want.

Phone? Wallet?

Okay. Door.

"Is this how it's gonna be from now on, then? Between me and you? Is this us, Dom? Is this us?"

Tightness in your chest. Heat in your throat. Your voice like a thunderstorm, echoing round his head long after you're gone, "For Christ's sake, Kaminski, will you just shut the fuck up!"

#ljlsdom #ljlspartthree

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