|[||Tags|||||mock the week||]|
Fandoms: Mock the Week
Characters: Frankie Boyle, Russell Howard
Genre: Angst, Angst
Notes: This was before Frankie left Mock the Week, so it's quite a while ago.
Disclaimer: Any similarity between the fictional versions of the people portrayed here and the actual people is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction. This is not an attempt to defame the character of said person on the basis of libel, as the work is FICTIONAL (and NOT an intently false statement created with the express purpose of misleading others about the actual character of said person).
Summary: Frankie feels too grimy for pampered and splendid Russell.
Right from the start you were a thief, you stole my heart, and I, your willing victim
I let you see the parts of me that weren't all that pretty, and with every touch you fixed them
What kind of shite is this? The song which was unfortunate enough to be picked by some innocent radio-DJ somewhere is now under the anger-induced rage scrutiny from the master of outrageousness – or that’s what he likes to call himself – Frankie Boyle. “Fuck this, who the fuck listens to this kind of soppy unrealistic bullshit? I mean love never fixes anything, does it, all it does is decay and destroy”. it was okay when he was there, you weren't alone, as the thought springs unwarranted into his mind, every muscle in his body flexes involuntary, his hands whiten around the steering wheel and his foot nudges the gas hard, even his eyes left blind for a few milliseconds. Come on Frankie, you shouldn't be driving in this state, you could kill someone you maniac. The condescending tone of his own thoughts is suddenly replaced by a soft well-meaning voice he knows so well, one he has heard in so many variations. Somehow he feels glad that he could still hear his voice so clearly in his head, as though nothing has happened, no broken promises, no girlfriend the boy needs to worry about, just a voice inside his head, just himself to hurt. The only light in the small car is the orange illumination of the dashboard clock, showing 1230, twelve hours since he’s spoken to him, to… the boy. That has always been the problem hasn't it? Russell is so young, no not young exactly, that is not the problem, yet some say that it looks like aging, the greying of hairs and the wrinkles appearing at regular intervals in a waxy forehead, Russell has none of that, but it’s not age, really. It’s the spirit that is young, no dreams crushed or mirages broken. No, It's not aging. Withering is much more precise. Fleetingly, a remote memory of a quote floats into his mind “Even the oldest pampered Prince is unwithered, and the youngest trampled bum is worn to shreds.” Frankie is older than Russell, but Frankie is not the pampered prince, but rather the young trampled bum further worn by years and life, and Russell is the old prince, pampered and even more glorious in his youth. Frankie stops in a parking lot, and the tiring song rings through his mind.
You've been talking in your sleep, oh, oh
Things you never said to me, oh, oh
You tell me that you've had enough
Of our love, our love, our love
In the early days of their relationship, all he wanted was to protect him from the world, from this entire mouldy, dirty, unclean world, to keep it all out of view, but as the days stretched on and they darkened, his hands seemed equally dirty, he couldn't touch Russell with hands that had… with hands so filled with grime, if he caressed just a bit too roughly, if he tugged just a bit too hard. So Frankie stopped touching him, he was still there beside him, still joking and laughing and smiling, but they never touched, they went home after work, or went for coffees and cakes, or large boxes of shared chicken nuggets, but it was just a friendship, Russell didn't ask when Frankie flinched away from his touches, he didn't ask when he inched his chair away from him in meetings or avoided flirtatious eye-contact, and so Frankie ended up sitting in his car, at home now actually, in Glasgow. Even though he doesn't want to be in Glasgow, there is always some unimaginable power that draws him to it when he is out of it, the memory of forgetting, of finding solace in something so easy to achieve. As he thinks of Russell, he knows there is something so childish and unreasonable with trusting being questioned, believing that if you act in a different way, someone will enquire, someone will get you to talk, but he can’t help but think thatRussell should have made him talk. Assuming that he does want Frankie, he should have asked, he should have quirked just one brow just once, opened his mouth with both brows knotted, but he never did, he just went on, as if nothing had happened, and so Frankie assumes he doesn't. The sun has brightening the sky very slightly while he has been sitting here, and Frankie looks intently at the door to the supermarket, waiting in suspense for it to open.
Title: I feel so withered I can't stand your light