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leatherjacket-lovesong · 7 years

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leather jacket love song - part four.

You don't think about it.

It's easier than you expected.

Just the usual routine of work-eat-gym-wank-sleep that's sustained you for years. No interruptions. No intrusive thoughts. Elvis, now and again at the end of the phone -- wanting a lift, or to borrow money you'll never get back -- but you've grown to expect that. He's part of your routine too. Scratched himself a jagged little hole to nest in your life long ago.

Julian, though.

Julian. No.

You don't miss his daily text in the form of a political joke.

You don't miss his daft knitted jumpers or poncey art gallery shows.

You don't miss the warm, woody alcoholic scent of him. Tree bark. Cedar wood sap.

You don't.

You don't miss the sound of breaking glass - water jars, paintbrush pots.

Or the thud of his body against his worktable - he'd been viscous, you'd both fought.

(For everything you needed, he'd made you /work/.)

But you especially don't miss his swearing - sharp little outbursts, gasps licking the dark with a foreign tongue.

Or the murmur of your name.

So fucking quiet.

Just one wretched, half-whispered syllable, barely a minute in, that caught you off guard and ended up too much.

"It happens to everyone their first time, it's nothing to be embarrassed about."

No, it doesn't, not like that, fuck off.

Fuckoff-fuckoff-fuckoff.

So you don't think about it.

Bury it deep in the back of your mind and carry on. (Because you were built for that. Your Dad made sure you were.)

And he's silent.

And that's fine.

That's good.

Until... 1 new message - Julian.

"It's been two weeks, Dominic. We need to talk."

-----

You meet up with him.

Because you're not ignorant. Because you're not a cunt.

You don't wanna go, you don't wanna see his stupid face, but he's got a point. You agree with that much. The two of you do need to talk.

Because it won't be long until Julian chats with Elvis, or Mattie, or Specks, or — heaven forbid — Noel.

And you need to make sure this whole thing is kept quiet. Make it crystal clear it can't get out.

Nobody can hear of this. Nobody can know.

So you sit across the table from him in a far corner of Costa on your lunch break, your hands leaving guilty fingerprints on the saucer and the spoon and the cup. Like a criminal, implicating yourself with everything you touch.

For a long time you sit in silence. For a long time you both wait for the other one to talk.

And when the quiet's finally broken — not by you, but by Julian — it's not the first time you wish you'd been the one who spoke up first.

Because when Julian opens his mouth his voice is too tender, his cadence too soft, and his carefully handpicked words only succeed in riling you up.

"I'm sorry, Dominic. I should've kept my distance. Should've been a better mate. Should've actually thought about what was happening. You were mad drunk."

"Don't." You flinch away when he settles a hand on your arm. "Don't make it sound like that."

"Like what?"

"You know."

(Like you took advantage of me. Like I'm vulnerable. Like I'm too stupid to make decisions on my own.)

You stare into your cup of tea. Try not to choke on all the unspoken words piling up in your throat.

Try to forget the way his body had felt when it had moved underneath yours. Hunched low over the table, you feel your chest vibrate against the wood as a vicious growl builds power behind your breastbone.

"I'm not gay, Julian."

You're not. You know you're not. You don't exactly make a habit out of going round fancying other blokes.

And Elvis doesn't count. Because Elvis is your best mate. And with Elvis it's not like that.

"I know." Julian's flippancy makes your fist clench.

"I'm not bi, either."

"You don't have to be." He shrugs.

And when you glare, your top lip curling up into an impulsive snarl, Julian lowers his body and lowers his voice and reaches out to touch your arm one more time.

"There is more than just straight, gay and bi, you know. Sexuality's a spectrum. A huge, incredible spectrum. There's all kinds of weird and wonderful inbetweens. Fucking hell, man, I can help you work it all out, if you just give me some time, if you just open up and talk—"

"I DON'T NEED YER FUCKEN HELP." You're on your feet before you know it, his wiry wrist clamped in your fist. And if you hadn't been so focused on the shock and the fear widening Julian's eyes, you'd have noticed the sudden eerie hush cutting the coffee house's chatter apart. "I DON'T NEED YER FUCKEN 'SEXUALITY SPECTRUM'. I NEED YOU TO KEEP YER FUCKEN MOUTH SHUT. UNDERSTAND ME? JUST SHUT. THE FUCK. UP."

You square off for what feels like hours but must really be seconds. Turning away only when Julian surrenders. When his shock gives way to weakness, and he ducks his head in retreat. Pulls his hand from your grasp. Screws his eyes closed and mouth thin, like he's fighting to suppress a comeback, but says nothing.

Thank fuck.

You grab your coat. Your phone. Catch the sudden whipping of a dozen heads turning in the opposite direction when you spin round.

Shit.

Fuck.

You pull your hood up over your head.

Sink deep into the funnel neck of your parka.

Begin your long walk of shame through the whispering crowd.

----

You remember how it starts.

You're six.

Sat on a dining chair in the middle of the kitchen with a near painful buzz vibrating through the back of your skull.

Wincing, hunched, flurries of fluffy black hair peppering your Mum's freshly mopped laminate floor.

She's not happy. You can tell. And not only because of the mess.

You can't see her — she's across the room — but the loud crashing close of the cutlery draw says enough.

"Fuck's sake, lad. Will you keep your head up." Bearish voice in your ear. Tattooed hand crushing your jaw.

You flinch.

Wince against the tufts of hair that keep finding their way into your eyes, your mouth, your nose.

On the other side of the kitchen, your Mum pipes up, "Careful with him, John. Don't be so rough."

Your Dad scoffs. "He can 'andle it. He's not soft."

Clippers raising all hell round your temples.

Clippers feeling like they're drilling into bone.

Your Mum again, something hinting round the edges of her voice that sounds a bit like concern, "I don't like it. I really don't. It's too short. He looks like a thug."

Your Dad, determined, something in his voice that you want to believe is pride, but know is not, "And? What's the matter with that? Rather him look like a thug, than a puff. He's gonna look ace on Sunday at the rally. 'Ardest little skin in the north."

"For God's sake, don't call him that! And you're not taking him on that horrible bloody racist march. He's six years old!"

"Better to start 'em off young. Before the school starts puttin' fucken ideas into their 'ead. Equality — my fucken left nut. He's comin' to the rally, whether you like it or not."

Your jaw yanked to the side.

Clippers accidentally catching at an earlobe.

You yelp.

He swears.

Belts you round the head with an open palm.

"What did I just say about ya not bein' soft?"

----

You're a hundred and twenty miles North of Manchester, pushing ninety on the M6 with your foot crushed into the accelerator, destination-fucking-nowhere, when you realise you're 'doing an Elvis'.

That is, disappearing. Running away.

You've bunked work. Couldn't face going back in after your public stand-off with Julian. Just got into your car, then threw the rattling piece of shit onto the motorway. Ground the pedal into the floor until you were snarling over the speed limit.

Now it's two and a half hours later and the sign for Carlisle is quick closing in.

You don't feel any better.

You're still raging, still on edge. You still wanna slam Julian against a wall and break his face with your fist.

But at least you're half a country away from him, now. And at least neither of you can do any more fucking damage.

It's not Julian you want to hurt, after all.

(It's you. It's him.)

Your phone's been going on one for the last full hour, having an epileptic fit at the bottom of the little hollow Elvis' arse has dug into your passenger seat, but you only bother to check it when you finally pull off into a service station, desperate for a piss.

You're not sure why you expect it to be Julian.

And you're not sure why the absence of his name tugs a raw nerve in your chest.

It's Elvis.

It always fucking is.

Over fifty notifications. Missed calls, voice-mails, texts.

The famed words, "Mate, come pick us up?"

Over and over and over again.

Halfway across the car park you pause in your step.

But it's not to answer.

It's to press the little 'delete all' icon, then jam your thumb against the power button until the screen falls dead.

(I'm sorry, man. It's not you. It's me.)

----

You're sixteen when you give it to him.

The two of you hanging out in your bedroom after school. John Lydon's ground down, teething snarl blocking out the caterwauling of your sisters arguing over clothes, or make-up, or something equally uninteresting in the room next door. You're sat on your bed, surrounded by textbooks, doing your GCSE English Language homework so Elvis can take it home with him, in order to copy it down word for word.

(He's not lazy. He's just absolutely shit at the subject. And you don't mind letting him copy all your work so he can keep himself afloat.)

Elvis himself is being kept busy by the contents of your wardrobe. Standing in front of your mirror. Trying on all the stuff he finds cool.

Like the vintage leather jacket you bought in the Northern Quarter nine months ago and haven't yet worn.

He's in love with it. You know he is.

He was in love with it back then, and he's still smitten by it now. Admiring the way it hangs off slowly sloping shoulders, rolling the too-long sleeves to his elbows and flipping the collar up.

You've got your attention fixed on the essay, but you can see him there, in the periphery of your view. Posing. All loose stripy school tie and creased white shirt buttoned up wrong. Scruffing his hair, perfecting his scowl.

Your leather jacket looking a thousand times cooler on him than it ever did on you.

"Keep it, if ya want." You tell him, without looking up, "Take it home with you. It's not doing anything other than collecting dust in my wardrobe."

"Yer what?" He spins, something a bit like hope pulling at one corner of his mouth.

"You 'eard. Have it. Fits alright, does that."

It doesn't. It's massive. But you're just kids. He'll grow.

"Ya sure, man?"

"Aye. Course." with your pen wedged between your teeth you flick him an admiring glance, "looks better on you."

And so he takes it.

And he wears it.

And in his excitement he never says thank you.

Just rocks up to school in it the very next day.

And the one after that.

And the one after that, too.

Wears it every waking second of his life until Elvis and leather jacket are synonymous.

Until it's littered with shabbily sewn patches and the elbows are half worn through.

Until he looks like a completely different person without it — without /you/.

And when you buy your first car — an old cherry red BMW, he throws himself down in the passenger seat, then shoves a mixtape in your stereo.

It doesn't surprise you when the first track turns out to be The Cribs 'Leather Jacket Love Song'.

Because this is Elvis.

Your cocky, sweary, slightly bow-legged best mate.

Useless at the English language.

But not unappreciative.

Never forgetful.

Just secretive.

Subtextual.

Just Elvis Ianson.

Who never got any pocket money from the toothfairy for that one missing milk tooth.

Now smoking in your new car with his boots on the dashboard.

Boyish and beautiful.

And two years too late with his wordless, musical thank you.

----

You don't know where to go from here.

You don't even know where you're supposed to start.

As steam rises from your service station coffee, you slump over the table, cradling your head in your hands.

Somewhere on the ceiling, Radio One are playing Sterophonics' 'Maybe Tomorrow' from a crackling speaker that keeps shorting out.

You don't want to go home tomorrow.

You're not sure you ever want to go back at all.

Because every time something good walks into your life, you fuck it up with either your heart, or your cock.

And you wonder if this is what Elvis always feels like. If this is the reason he could win a gold medal at pissing off.

Because his head's always too chaotic. Too messed up. Too filled with self-doubt and self-loathing and all the impossible masculinity you've both been force-fed since you were born.

As exhaustion sets in, you press your eyes closed against the burn.

Try your hardest not to drift off.

Fall into a confused state of semi-sleep, clouded with fragmented memories — part real-part dream — hunkered down in a corner of a deserted motorway cafe, half way between everything that was and everything that might be.

"I should be the one walking you home, the state you're in." Julian.

Julian, outside Trof on your birthday. Pulling on his jacket. Laughing when the fresh night air makes you feel a bit dizzy and you lean into him.

"M'alrigh'. Sober up inna minute. S'not that bad. Walk on."

Words sticking in your mouth. Treacle-thick.

His arm around your waist. Anchoring you against his hip.

"Hope you don't think you're sleeping on my couch again. I've got a lecture at eight. I'm not missing it."

"Don't wan' yer couch. Jus' makin' sure ya get in safe."

Safe.

Julian.

Unlocking his studio door and gesturing you in.

"I'll bell you a taxi. You might as well wait about a bit."

"S'alright. I'm feelin' better now. I'll just go flag one down outside, innit."

You, turning to leave.

You, halted mid-step.

You, with Julian's hand encircling your wrist.

"Come on, don't be daft. Wanna make sure you're safe as well. Told Elvis I'd look after you. I promised him."

Julian, sincere.

You, hesitating.

Words you hear which neither one of you speak, "What are you afraid of, Dominic?"

----

You regret it.

Waking up in the grim service station cafe with cramp in your neck.

Conjuring a smile for the waitress when she strikes up conversation.

Feeling lonely. Feeling weak.

"Where you heading?"

"I'm not sure, yet."

"Where you come from?"

"You don't wanna know."

Laughter. Blue make-up creased on her eyelids. "Mr. Mysterious. I like it."

(You don't.)

You regret it.

Her gold hooped earrings and yellow-blonde ponytail.

Tired eyes that say three kids at twenty.

A direct view into her ample cleavage when she leans over the table.

Big looping handwriting left on your napkin.

'I get off at midnight x x'

(You're not into other guys. You're not gay.)

But you regret it.

As soon as you get her into your back seat. As soon as it begins.

Not because of her. No. Because it's not her fault. She's doing everything right, with her head in your crotch.

There's just nothing happening. Nothing going on at your end.

You think maybe it's because there's not enough room, so you push the front seats forward a bit.

You think maybe it's because there's no background noise, so you stick the radio on a bit.

And when she's got her mouth on your neck, and hand round your dick, trying different tactics, you think maybe you just need to think about something else.

Grasp for anything even slightly arousing in your desperation.

Julian on the phone with his Nanna, talking an incredible, fluent puzzle of Mancunian accented Polish.

Elvis plucking strings on his guitar, hands crooked from early onset arthritis, but eyes narrowed, determined.

A glorious FA Cup win for Manchester City.

They're all great thoughts, they should all get you going.

But when all you manage to will up is a half-cocked semi, you think maybe your imagination isn't really helping.

You need something else. Something real. Something intellectually stimulating.

And you realise, later — when your car smells like cheap perfume and you're using your wing mirror to examine the damage on your neck — that suddenly blurting out "hey, wait, what kinda music do you listen to?" just as she was guiding your hand between her legs, probably wasn't a very sexy moment for her either.

You regret it.

But not as much as you regret fucking off and doing an 'Elvis' in the first place.

----

You get home at six o'clock the next morning. Running empty on an hour of cramp induced sleep behind the steering wheel of your car. You intend to get back, jump in the shower, then head off straight to work — show up early with your excuse for yesterday's missing afternoon promptly in tow.

(I'm sorry. Didn't feel well. Started throwing up. Must've been something I ate. Won't happen again.)

But when your legs forget how to walk as soon as you pull into the driveway and you have to focus way too hard on just putting one foot in front of the other enough times to get yourself near the front door, you think maybe it's better to ring in sick.

Have a day in bed. Catch up on sleep.

Start again.

It's not like you make a habit out of bunking off. The last time you took a non-sick sick day you were sixteen and slamming school with Elvis.

(Scrawling your name on the backs of train seats. Hanging out in Macclesfield crematorium. Sharing cheap fags and bottles of blue WKD.)

Your mum, sat drinking a cup of tea in the living room, watching morning telly, wrapped up in the fluffy ASDA dressing gown and matching slipper set you bought her for Christmas, lifts an eyebrow as you slope in.

"What kinda time d'ya call this, mister?"

"Sorry..." You know she's only messing, but the apology falls out of your mouth anyway. You feel fucking sorry for everything lately. "Got talkin' with mates and lost track of time."

She nods. Once. Up.

(I see...)

"Did Elvis manage to catch up with you?"

Shit.

Elvis.

The text messages. The phone calls.

You'd almost forgotten about him.

"Nah, 'aven't seen him. Why, what's up?" You feign ignorance as you shrug out of your coat. Try to repress that horrible growing feeling that you've fucked up.

Again.

"I dunno, he wouldn't talk to me. Just came round last night looking for you. A state and a half, he was though."

"Yeah? He not say anything at all?"

"No. Just asking where you were. Said he'd been trying to get a hold of you, but your phone was off." She gives you a look that's part confusion part concern and wholly disbelief.

Your mum knows just as well as anyone that Elvis /always/ has you on call.

You've woken her up enough times fumbling about with your keys in the dark at three in the morning.

"Shit yeah... my battery died. Left the cable in my room."

"Well make sure you call him or go see him or something. He was a mess, the poor sod."

"I will, I will. I'll give him a bell."

"Good."

You turn to head off upstairs. Ready to crawl fully clothed into bed and give the fuck up.

"Oh, Dominic?"

"Hm?" Your head peeking back round the doorframe.

Your mum looking a bit skeptical over the rim of her cup. "You were /careful/ weren't you?"

"With what?"

Chipped polish nail tapping at her jugular.

Chipped polish nail suddenly making you burn up.

You duck your head. Instinctively cover your neck with your hand.

It's gonna be turtlenecks for a fortnight. You're gonna get ripped into by the lads at work.

"Course." You mutter. "Always am."

And it's true.

Kind of. In a way.

Because she certainly doesn't have to worry about you producing any little baby Woods.

(Not with what /you/ like to do...)

----

You're thirteen when Elvis gives up the glittering promise of a brighter future for you.

It's unexpected. (Like everything else he does.)

An important decision at an unimportant moment, chirped up out of the blue.

You're on your knees in the back garden, installing wheels on the wooden go-kart you've spent half the summer trying to build. Elvis is supervising (as always) his long rail-thin shadow doing its best to block out the orange glare of the sun.

He wants to help, you know he does. Frustrated by the limitations of bad eyes and bad hands, he's resigned himself to fetching everything you need and telling you where you've fucked up.

You don't mind, though. It's still a build that belongs to the both of you. And, considering neither of you can figure out how to fit any brakes, you're ninety-nine percent certain it's gonna get you both killed.

"Me Dad's moving to Blackpool. Got managing position at a pub. Says I can go live with him, if I want."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah..."

Focused on screwing the wheel to the steering crossbar, you don't look up.

Elvis carries on, "I wanna go, but..."

"Go. You should. I would. You could go down the fair and the beach every day and that."

"Yeah... I know..."

"And I could come see you. 'Ave a free 'oliday." You grin away to yourself. Imagining summer holidays spent darting in and out of arcades and eating fish and chips on the sea front. Going crabbing on hot days. Coming home with socks full of sand.

(Driving your mum mad.)

But when Elvis doesn't make any sound of approval and you finish tightening the last bolt on the wheel, you can only ask, "What's up?"

For a minute he doesn't say much. For a minute he just stands there, looking down at you, all peeling sunburn and scabby elbows and a fake shagger on his left forearm that he did to himself. And you know. You know he wants to go. You know he really does.

Elvis lives for excitement. For the unknown. He fucking /loves/ the idea of just packing up all his shit and running off.

Plus, he's always been closer to his old man. Ever since he caught meningitis at four years old and nearly died there's been this odd distance between him and his mum.

(Elvis is convinced she never wanted him - his dad was the one to name him, after all. You wonder if maybe she's just trying to protect herself from the ticking death bomb of a son she loves too much.)

So you don't understand, when Elvis just shrugs, then reaches out a hand to help you up.

"Bit far away, innit." He reasons. Like he's telling the truth. Like the non-obstacle obstacle is big enough.

"In't that kinda the point, though?" You gesture for Elvis to help you get the kart back onto four wheels. "Gettin' as far away as possible from this shithole?"

You stand back, hands on hips, proudly surveying your handiwork.

Elvis slides himself onto the karts 'driving seat'. A grubby 'welcome' mat you found in his dad's garage nailed down onto a wooden pallet.

"Yeah, but..." He plonks his feet onto either side of the steering crossbar, takes the accompanying rope in his inflamed hands, tests the turning, "...it's /our/ shithole, innit."

(Me and you.)

Then, before the topic can go any further, he throws you a devilish, dangerous smile, sudden fever lighting his eyes up, "Bagsy the first go?"

You hear them all before you see them.

While standing outside the hospital room. Gathering up the balls to go in.

"Did you even stop to think about this for one second?! Did it ever cross your mind how it might affect me??"

"You? What about /me/? Fuck's sake! Not everything's about you, Elvis!" Mattie's shout is shrill and aching with sobs, but the fact that she's even shouting at all puts you at ease.

(It's alright. He's alright. It's not the end.)

"Guys, maybe you should take a breather for a second. Shouting's not solving anything." Julian. The calm voice of reason. It's always him.

"You keep that nose out. It's got nothing to do with you." Specks.

"Oh fuck off, sis. It's nowt to do with you either. But you still can't help sticking your bleeding oar in."

It continues.

The bitching.

The bickering.

Until you realise there's no sign of it calming down any time soon, so you might as well just waltz right into the middle of it.

You've got no idea what the hell's got under everyone's skin, but Specks' outburst as soon as you crack open the door, gives you a bit of an inkling.

"Oh great! Misogynist bastard number three is here! Hip hip hooray, we're all saved!"

"Excuse me?" Your eyes case the room. Specks and Julian by the window, both glaring. It's the first time since you met the two that you can tell they're twins. Mattie in a chair in the corner, curled up into a tiny ball, tight as can be. "Elvis?" Your mate doesn't even spend the energy in acknowledgement. Just remains stood in the centre of the room with his arms folded and feet firmly planted like he owns the place. "Anyone wanna bother filling me in?"

It's not 'That'. But from the tension stretched all the way across the room you know it might as well be.

"Why don't you ask Suicide Sally, over there." Elvis snarls, practically spits.

You follow his gaze to crumpled little squeezed small Mattie, who looks like she wants nothing more than to escape.

"Aw come on, Elvis. You know that's not what this is." Julian. Again. Forever trying to talk shit out. Forever compelled by the urge to /verbalise/ things.

Elvis bristles. "Whose fucken side are you on, mate?!"

Julian shakes his head. "This isn't about taking sides, for god's sake. It's about what's best for Mattie."

"Oh yeah? And withdrawing from life saving treatment is best for her, is it? Just giving in?"

"She's not 'giving in'. She's not getting any better, mate. And the treatment's just making her sick. She's withdrawing because she'd rather spend her last months at home, comfortable. Not pumped full of chemicals in a hospital bed." Julian's speaking as much to you as to Elvis. "And rightly so. I don't blame her. I wouldn't wanna spend the rest of my life trapped in this place."

Elvis steps towards him, "You won't have a choice if that cock loving mouth of yours keeps on talking—"

"Oi." You're winding an arm round Elvis's chest before you know it. Gently easing him back. Reminding him who's he's threatening. Reminding him where he is.

Only as quickly as you diffuse the bomb between him and Julian, he spins, lit up and sparking again.

"And I don't know why the fuck /you/ came." He scoffs. You flinch. "You're a bit fucken late. Would have been useful if you'd bothered to turn up /before/ she signed her life away."

So that's what it is.

The bombardment of texts and calls and voice-mails.

(Come pick us up? Come pick us up? Otherwise known as 'I need you. I need you' in Elvis-speak.)

He'd thought you could talk her out of it. Believed you could be the one to make her see 'sense'.

You don't know why you feel like you've /failed/ him.

"I know. I'm sorry. I really am. It's just, I just, I went..." You flounder. Before you walked in you'd practiced all your excuses, got your story sorted out straight in your head. Now, standing in front of him — and Julian, and Mattie, and Specks — you can't remember a single fucking word of it. "I had to go pick up a thing, a delivery, for work. But it was way out. Up the M6. And I had to take the van. But it broke down. And I couldn't—"

Elvis holds up his hand. Cuts off your anxious verbal scrambling. "Save it, mate." He tells you. His words softer now. /Disappointed/. And you catch the momentary flick of his eyes to the side of your neck. To shifted fabric and a slither of exposed bruised up skin. "I just hope whichever slag you spent the night with your dick inside was /worth/ it."

Feeling yourself burning up for a second time today, you wince. Divert your attention to the floor. Avoid eye contact with Julian who's just on the edge of your peripheral vision, /frowning/.

"And you..." Elvis goes on, now addressing Mattie, "Fine. You go right ahead and kill yourself if that's what you want. Nobody's stoppin' you. But don't you /dare/ expect /me/ to stick around and watch you do it."

You struggle to keep your feet still, but you don't go after him.

You know Julian and Specks are waiting for it. Mattie too, probably.

But you can't do it.

Not when he's being this much of a dickhead. Not when you know, instinctively, that it's all just going to end up in fists.

You know he's spouting shit and doesn't mean a word he said. Projecting, most likely. And hurting, definitely. Leading to him dealing with it all the only way he knows how, you bet.

Elvis has never exactly possessed the most acceptable coping mechanisms.

But as you sit with Mattie sniffling into the broad arc of your shoulder, the glint of a diamond reflecting on the floor where she'd thrown her ring in rage, you can't help but feel like you're just /conditioned/ to make excuses for him.

"Take it." She says, later on, when you bend to rescue the ring from getting lost (or stolen) and turn to place it on the windowsill. "Take it, please. I don't wanna look at it."

And when you take no notice of her, placing it on the sill anyway, because it was bloody expensive, she yells, "I'm fucking serious, Dominic! I want it out of here. It's yours anyway, innit?!"

You glance down.

At the three hundred pound car fund sparkling on the tiniest gold band you've ever seen.

Technically, yes, it is.

Honestly, though, you don't want it.

(Why would you?)

Elvis will come crawling back (you hope) and the two of them will sort things.

But when Mattie looks like she might fall out with /you/ if you don't take it, you have no choice but to drop it into your pocket, muttering, "I'll give it back to Elvis..."

On your way out, Julian -- returning from a coffee run with a Costa tray, side-eyes you but says nothing. Nothing other than a silent 'you better fix this' or alternatively 'you're a prick' — you're not sure which.

And when you reach your car, your day just gets all the fucking better, when you find a far too familiar and viciously loved leather jacket hanging off your wing mirror, but absolutely no sign of Elvis.

Another tragic-romantic gesture.

Another fanciful unspoken message.

'Fuck you, Dominic.'

You wish you knew what went on his head. You wish he came with some sort of manual that could help you troubleshoot him, like your car did.

You're great at working out problems. Fucking brilliant at fixing shit. But it's starting to feel like every time you mend all of his fractured parts, Elvis just breaks again in a completely different place.

Because he's fantastically fragile in a way that nobody else sees. A heavily armoured, heartrendingly vulnerable, destructible-indestructible being. A walking contradiction. Determined to map out his life in poetry. Create some kind of idealised, ill-starred narrative in a world full of meaningless, painful coincidences.

He's playing a role. You know it. And it kills you a little bit every time you realise that you romanticise him.

Because that's precisely what he wants.

(And precisely everything you've always wanted to be.)

And it's precisely why you're always on the receiving end of gestures like this.

You're the one and only person in /deep/ enough to play his games. The only person who understands that every move he makes has some kind of sentimental hidden meaning.

You just wish, sometimes, that it was easier to read him. To find out what he needs.

And you just wish, sometimes, that he could find a way to act the theatrical rockstar without being such a dickhead.

Elvis doesn't answer your phone calls or your text messages.

When you go round his house carrying jacket and ring, his mum — appearing short-tempered and frustrated, informs you he isn't in.

You consider leaving the jacket with her, until you remember all of the comments she's made throughout the years about how much she hates it. And so you're destined to hang onto the damn thing.

Your entire friendship with Elvis passionately sewn and scuffed, and beaten and /bled/ into a physical object.

An object you have to store in your sister, Chantelle's, old room, because after three days of hanging in your wardrobe all your clothes stink of him.

And when he shuns all your repeated attempts at communication, you take a step back.

Anticipating his next move.

Waiting for him.

It only takes him a grand total of three weeks...

#ljlsdom #ljlspartfour

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