|Fic: Warnings for mentions of alcohol abuse, angst.
||[Nov. 21st, 2013|02:43 pm]
A slash comm for British panel shows
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. It is a sequel to a fic I wrote in June,I feel so withered I can't stand your light, and depicts the same situation from Russell's POV, sort of prompted by Karaokegal in a comment on the earlier fic. It can also be read alone, but it was intended after I feel so withered I cant stand your light.
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 (thus not an intently false statement created with the express purpose of misleading others about the actual character of said person).
Summary: Frankie called Russell when drunk in Glasgow, and now Russell follows.
PS: read notes.
We needed too complicated words to save us.
It is growing dark outside the tinted windows of the tiny coupé of the BMW z4. Russell is driving way too fast, and he knows that, but he daren’t stop. His eyes are red and unfocused, and his face feels hot, he shouldn’t be driving. Yet Russell drives, because Russell is furious. Give him time, Hugh had said. Well a fuck load of good that was. He can still hear Frankie’s voice over the phone, broken, angry at him for not saying anything, yet exactly what he was supposed to have said, he never got to know, not even now. Russell wants to kick something, knows that’s not a good impulse to get in a car, but he keeps driving, because Frankie needs him.
“Fuck you old man!” Russell slams his hand down onto the dash over the steering-wheel, feels the tears burning at the corner of his eyes, bubbling up from the lump welded to his throat. Frankie and him, they felt fantastic. When the moon shined in thorough the window, illuminating a sleeping Frankie after a hot evening, Russell couldn’t see how anything could have been any more perfect, and he felt calm and decided. When the day after came with confusions and Celine, he still remembered the feeling of calm, but then Celine kissed him, held him like she didn’t know how to let go, and Russell felt sick by his own deceit, the knowledge that he knew all too well how to let go. Frankie never asked him to though, never asked him to let go of Celine, just kissed and flirted as if as if she wasn’t real, until he stopped kissing and flirting. Russell told himself he shouldn’t care, that it was probably for the best, but he couldn’t help but to miss his touch, couldn’t help but to miss his kisses, couldn’t help – Russell can feel his throat constricting, even now, driving too fast through the darkness and the rain, it is hard to think it so outright – loving him. Russell chokes, even in his mind, the word seems to make his tongue twist. He leans his head back on the headrest. The radio is off, so the only sound in the slightly damp, confined space is the motor and the rain drumming on the window.
Tired of the sound of rain, Russell starts speaking instead “How can you go back to Glasgow? I can’t even begin to….” He sobs through tears he has not noticed before, streaming down his face. He knows he should stop, but he just dries them away and drives on. “You told me there is nothing for you there, you said… Fuck! You said you’d never take another drink again, you swore you would be fine. What exactly was I supposed to have said anyway? You should have said so much, you should have let me help, let me in, fuck you!” he slams his hand down onto the dash again, leaving a hand-shaped wet mark of tears. “Okay” Leaning his head back against the headrest, he breathes out through his nose. “Okay, I just need to get to Glasgow” He glances down at the clock, the blue illuminant numbers informing him that he has been driving for six hours, soon there. “He said he stopped at the first shop he got to, and that he never went anywhere.”
The air condition is on, pumping warm air into the already humid air, but Russell can’t stop shivering, feeling cold from the inside and out. Should have worn a jacket, but he hadn’t had time, rushing out the door in only the jumper he wore inside. Frankie called him at twelve o’clock, crying, and broken initially, breaking out in fits of anger throughout the five-minute conversation. The sobs weren’t what Russell reacted most to, nor were the shouts in anger, but the slurring he could hear in his words, the incredible drunkenness in the ex-alcoholics uncoordinated sentences broke Russell’s heart.
I'm coming Frankie, I promise we'll get through this, I'll leave Celine, I'll do anything for you, just please be there when I come.