Work Text:
Oh, how fast the evening passes, cleaning up
The champagne glasses - Sober II (Melodrama), Lorde
Sober II is like ‘the lights are on’. How heartbreaking is it when the lights are on, after you’ve spent however many hours
in this dark room and gotten to know it for its darkness? - Lorde on Sober II (Melodrama)
“I’m an alcoholic,” Lister tells Cecily blandly as he enters the taxi, slamming the door behind him and tossing his crutch to the side. “Did you know that?”
Cecily wrinkles her nose and blows a strand of hair out of her face before looking up at him. She’s been doing that more often these days - looking into his eyes while she talks to him instead of just staring down at her phone screen.
“I wasn’t sure one hundred percent sure,” she says finally. “You hide so much from me. Or, at least, you try to.”
Lister huffs a laugh through his nose and swallows. Swallowing hurts because he thinks he might cry. The taxi pulls out onto the road and his new therapist’s office slowly shrinks down to a Monopoly house-sized speck before disappearing entirely. Jimmy told him the first session is always the worst. You feel see-through, like a pane of glass, he’d said. Lister personally felt like he'd been picked at, like a carcass going spare on the Savannah.
“I’m sorry I didn’t see it for what it was sooner,” Cecily says brusquely, “but we’re already making progress, right?”
Lister hums and looks out of the window. The three of them - he, Jimmy and Rowan, that is - are all going to therapy. Twice a month would be ideal, but once, at least, is mandatory. That’s what they all privately agreed a couple of months ago, around the same time they negotiated the terms of their new contract. Jimmy and Rowan had told him, in the kindest way possible, that he needed to work his shit out. Thankfully, they’d said that they needed to do the same, so that made him feel less like a moronic fuck-up and more like part of a super cool gang of moronic fuck-ups. Maybe they could revive their short-lived secret handshake.
His shit, as it happened, included, but was not limited to: the excessive drinking, smoking and partying as well as being an all-round human disaster. He was going to have lifelong proof of that last one, the doctor had assured him. His stomach would be permanently scarred where the knife had punctured him. Unless he’d like to undergo cosmetic surgery, that is. Which he didn’t.
Unsurprisingly, it turned out the three of them shared a lot of issues. As a result, they were all going to learn how to cope with the pressures of being as famous as they were, and how to maintain relationships, that kind of thing. Jimmy would also be seeking help for his anxiety and dissociative episodes. Jimmy had said those words so plainly, without any trace of awkwardness, when he’d told Lister and Rowan exactly what was going on with him, so Lister knew he was deadly serious about getting better. He’d been inspired by that. He was going to try to get better too.
He was going to stop using booze and cigarettes as a means of managing his emotions, party less, and, most importantly, he was going to get the fuck over his big, stupid crush on Jimmy. It had gone on for far too long and it was, well... potentially life-ruining to be honest. They were best friends and they were in a band together. Realistically, any further complications could destroy either of those things - the band and their friendship - for good. He’d gotten a glimpse of that potential destruction when he’d drunkenly kissed Jimmy that one time. Fuck. The memory of it still makes him cringe; Jimmy had looked at him like he hardly knew him. Why was he such a melodramatic drunk? Why did he have to wear his heart - whole, beating and bloody - on his (deliberately ripped, Givenchy) sleeve? It all had to stop. He was going to move on if it killed him. He’d even told his therapist about it, desperately hopeful that she wouldn’t choose the small fortune the tabloids would pay for the information over her fancy legal oath or whatever.
He rests his forehead against the taxi window. The beginnings of a headache linger threateningly at his temples and he closes his eyes. The afternoon light streaming through the window mottles the back of his eyelids. Jesus fucking Christ he could do with a drink. Just a glass of white wine to quench his thirst. He can imagine placing the glass to his head, letting the condensation cool him down. He can imagine the taste: herbal, citrussy, divinely alcoholic. He can almost feel the first blissful spikes of intoxication in his veins. He grinds his teeth together, irritated, because he can’t have a glass of wine. One glass would turn into a bottle, which would descend into tequila shots, vodka-cranberries, an entire pack of Marlboro Golds and fucking absinthe or something. The world would blur and everything would feel numb and, yeah, it would feel amazing for a second, but he’s not supposed to be doing that anymore. He’s supposed to be getting better. Sober, clean, rejuvenated. Borderline holy. Thought it would feel better than this, he thinks bitterly, before distracting himself by thinking of Jimmy.
He thinks about Jimmy’s eyes, dark and alert, and the scattering of moles that he knows by heart by now, and then of the ludicrously soft-looking fuzz of Jimmy’s recently-buzzed hair before silently scolding himself. He’s not supposed to be thinking about Jimmy and how he’s so attractive that it’s an inconvenience to Lister’s entire existence.
Instead, he thinks of his feelings for Jimmy as tiny little pellets arranged in a neat line and then he thinks of Pacman eating them.
That ought to do the trick.
“Are you getting out anytime soon?” Cecily asks. “We have a tight schedule to stick to today.”
The taxi is parked outside of his building. He hadn’t even noticed. He sighs and grabs his crutch and gets out of the taxi. Cecily follows him into the flat. That means there’s not much time in between events today and she wants make sure they don’t piss about.
Inside, Rowan and Jimmy are getting ready. They’re only going on Radio 1, but there’ll be journalists and paparazzos waiting outside the studio. They are The Ark, after all, and the drama surrounding Jimmy’s disappearance and Lister’s broken leg a couple of months ago still hasn’t died down (of course it hasn’t). They’ve been doing radio more often than not the last couple of months. This is mostly because of Lister’s injuries. The wound on his stomach is basically healed, and he barely needs his crutch anymore, but everyone’s handling them all very carefully since the contract negotiations. He’s sick of it, if he’s being honest. It was pretty nice to have a break for a couple of weeks, but now he wants to get back into the studio. He’d even go on tour again - anything to keep him so busy that he won’t have to think about how hard it is being sober and how impossible getting over Jimmy is going to be.
“When are we going to do something other than go on the stupid radio?” he asks Cecily grumpily. Rowan and Jimmy look over at him, concerned. He probably hasn’t sounded like this much of a moody brat since he was about thirteen years old.
“When you’re better,” Cecily answers.
“I’m better now.” Lister leans his crutch against the wall and then strides around the room to demonstrate his point. “See?”
Cecily raises her eyebrows at him even though he barely limped.
“When you’re better,” she repeats coolly.
“Um. Do you want to change?” Jimmy asks him. He’s wearing a long-sleeved black denim shirt with tiny silver spikes on the collar and matching black denim jeans as well as velvety platform sneakers. On anyone else it would look kind of pretentious but Jimmy looks perfect as usual.
Lister looks down at what he’s wearing. A pale red Givenchy t-shirt with holes in it and cropped tartan trousers. It’s kind of cool in a punkish way, which isn’t what he usually goes for, but he can’t be bothered to shower and change. He shrugs.
“I’ll just wear this,” he tells Jimmy. “It’s distressed. Like me. Ha ha.”
Jimmy smiles, but he looks a little worried, as if he’s not sure Lister should be telling self-deprecating jokes now that he’s in therapy or something.
“It’s fine, Jimmy,” Lister insists more cheerfully, slinging an arm around Jimmy’s shoulders. “It’s only the radio. Nobody’s going to see.”
“Alright,” Jimmy mumbles, avoiding Lister’s eyes and instead choosing to focus on the hand that’s now perched upon his shoulder. Lister immediately removes it. He’s probably making Jimmy feel uncomfortable by touching him. He should stop doing that. For both their sakes.
Jimmy shoots Lister a look when he takes a step backward. He looks flustered or maybe even disturbed. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing,” Lister says brightly. “Just getting ready to go. Are you ready?”
“We’re ready,” Rowan drones, trudging up to them wearing this ridiculous, gigantic puffy jacket over corduroy overalls and a striped tee. Everything he’s wearing is so colourful and perky that it just looks silly combined with his stony, dead-behind-the-eyes look. He’s definitely going through some kind of quarter-life crisis. Thank fuck they’re all in therapy; Lister doesn’t really know why they weren’t in the first place.
They climb back inside the taxi that dropped Lister off. The ride isn’t a long one. Jimmy asks Lister about his first therapy session but he just says something flippant, laughs awkwardly and then shuts up. He can’t exactly say he rambled nonsensically about his crush on Jimmy for fifty-five minutes before being given a chocolate digestive and a diagnosis of alcoholism as he left. It’s too embarrassing.
They get to the Radio 1 studio and move past the waiting journalists and photographers without having to answer too many complicated questions. They even pose for a quick photo. They’re slightly early, so they lounge around eating snacks until they’re supposed to join the presenter. She’s some YouTuber-turned-reality-TV-star Lister can’t remember the name of just now. There’s a bottle of champagne chilling in an ice bucket. Beads of water shine flirtatiously on its stem. The cork is like a plump chocolate truffle bundled in gold foil. When it’s offered to him by some overly-attentive runner, Lister waves a hand dismissively and shoves three Pringles in his mouth.
“You don’t have to like, go cold turkey,” Rowan tells him, though he doesn’t sound very sure.
“It’s the only way, mate,” Lister says, forcing a smile that hopefully says, and I’m okay with that.
Rowan just nods, but he looks pleasantly surprised as he turns away. Lister can’t remember the last time he surprised Rowan in a good way. Happiness balloons in his chest very suddenly before fading away when they’re called through to the studio. Its after-effects linger, though, prickling the way warm and unshed tears do.
…
Two weeks later, and Lister is leaving his therapist’s office to enter a waiting taxi and things are exactly the same and yet, somehow, a little better. He hasn’t drank any booze and his body knows it. He misses getting drunk, but he definitely doesn’t miss the painful, hazy purgatory of hangovers, their scratchy restlessness. His skin has brightened and he no longer feels bloated and sick. He’s drumming more. A lot more.
He still fancies Jimmy, is probably in love with him, in fact. Isn’t there some rule that if your crush lasts over a certain amount of time then it’s like, true love? He’d have to look it up.
“Do you think you desire Jimmy because he’s one of the few things that has been constant in your life?” His therapist had asked him. “Maybe you take comfort in him because he reminds you of simpler times.”
Lister considered this, but truthfully, his life before the band hadn’t been that simple. It had been crap and unfair. He didn’t take any comfort in looking back on it.
“I don’t know why I desire him or like him,” Lister had told her. “No offence, but that’s not really the point? I just need to get over him. Like, now.”
They’d talked about it some more but didn’t really get anywhere. He supposed therapy didn’t produce instantaneous results. You had to really work at it. How boring.
Once again, he’s dropped off at his flat. They haven’t had people round in a while, but the place feels haunted by the ghost of parties past, like music is echoing within the walls. Like you might accidentally stand on the remnants of a crushed vodka bottle and never be able to remove the glass from the bottom of your foot. Miraculously, Cecily has decided he’s healed enough for things to return to normal. They still have control over their lives; their contract allows them ample time off, but he's ready for new things to begin. They’re heading to the US to record an EP in Aaron Dessner’s home studio. It’s a massive honour and he’s completely jazzed. He knows Jimmy and Rowan are too; they’ve been working on theses new tracks almost non-stop since they got back from Jimmy’s grandad’s house and they’re on top of the fucking world.
“You’re going on The Late Night Friday Show tonight, by the way,” Cecily tells them. This yanks him out of his thoughts.
“Sure, fine,” he says, almost breathlessly. His hands are practically itching to hold his drumsticks; he can't wait to perform live again.
“We’re travelling to the States tomorrow, you realise?” Rowan asks, flicking his gaze in Lister’s direction.
“I do realise,” she says dryly. “Your schedule is burned into my retinas by this point.”
“Rowan just thought you’d be concerned about us precious boys staying up late before a transatlantic flight,” Lister counters teasingly, shooting her a wink.
“Well, you’ve recovered now,” she says, nodding at his leg. He’s not using the crutch anymore. “And you’re off the booze, so I assume the after-party won’t be too wild.”
Lister feels an involuntary stab of disappointment. The Late Night Friday Show has these notoriously messy after-parties. He loves them because he usually forgets who he is and wakes up in his boxers, still drunk, and spends a couple of hours babbling and dancing in the early morning half-light before the nausea kicks in and he has to lie very still under a blanket. Good times.
“No,” Jimmy agrees eventually, because nobody else says anything. “Nothing too wild.”
…
Jimmy is a filthy liar, Lister discovers, because he gets completely wasted, as if he’s trying to overcompensate for Lister’s sobriety. It happens very quickly. One minute Jimmy is dreamily tipsy and the next he is spewing inside of a marbled toilet bowl. Lister rubs his back and coos encouragingly.
“Sorry.” Jimmy sniffs and wipes his mouth with scrunched-up toilet roll. “Got carried away. Had party anxiety.”
“Party anxiety?” Lister repeats, nonplussed. He can’t imagine anything less frightening, more freeing, than a party. He’s never really understood Jimmy’s anxiety, not entirely, not like Rowan has. He’s been Googling it late at night recently. When he can’t sleep. He wants to be the best version of himself. For Jimmy. He makes a mental note to tell his therapist about that.
“It’s more glitzy than regular anxiety,” Jimmy jokes, before hiccuping.
Lister frowns. He kind of understands why Jimmy didn’t want him making self-deprecating jokes before. He feels similarly to how he felt when he hid the knife in his waistband. That need to eliminate all possible threats.
“Don’t,” he says.
“Sorry,” Jimmy says, breathing deeply.
They sit like that a while, on the cold tiles. Lister wishes he had a beer to drink. Something to occupy his hands with.
“I understand why you do this,” Jimmy mutters. “Did this.”
Lister looks up.
“It makes everything slow and fast at the same time,” Jimmy goes on. “Bad thoughts burn a little dimmer.”
“And we let Rowan write all our lyrics,” Lister teases, picking at a circle of wax that’s stuck on one of the tiles.
“You know what I mean,” Jimmy says.
“I thought we were getting better,” Lister replies.
“We are,” Jimmy says, laughing around the words in a way Lister doesn’t really understand. “I just - I’ve been struggling with something unexpected.”
“And what’s that?” Lister asks. There’re flecks of wax stuck underneath his fingernail.
“I’ve been trying to figure out the best way to ask you out,” Jimmy says, which results in Lister's heart feeling like it’s just been punched into space, “but it’s too complicated.”
“You’re joking,” Lister says, somewhat hysterically.
“I- I needed time to work stuff out,” Jimmy says, and now it’s his turn to stare at the bathroom tiles. “I’ve been thinking about this for a couple of weeks.”
Lister shakes his head. “But you don’t like me back.”
“Lister,” Jimmy says, and he reaches out and jabs Lister in the shoulder. “All I think about is, like, how can I make Lister happy? Make him smile - really smile?”
Lister snorts and Jimmy continues drunkenly pouring his heart out. Here’s a thing: Lister thinks the exact same thing pretty much every minute of every day. How can he inspire a real Jimmy Kaga-Ricci smile? Not the forced, fragile thing he puts on display for the press and the fans, but his true smile, the one he can’t suppress when he and Rowan do something silly when they’re jamming, or when Lister quotes Brooklyn-99 at him in inappropriate situations.
“And when I’m not thinking about that,” Jimmy continues, burying his face in his hands, “I’m thinking about how attractive you are.”
Lister swallows. He’s heard similar sentiments expressed to him over the years, but none have made his heart grow tight in chest like this is doing.
“I’m pretty sure that means I’m in love with you,” Jimmy says. His face is still hidden behind his hands and his top button is undone now. His shirt is all crumpled and he smells like sick, like rum and ginger beer. Music seeps through the walls. It’s muffled, could even be one of their songs.
“You sound unsure,” Lister manages.
“Yeah, well,” Jimmy says. “It’s a lot, isn’t it? We’re best friends. We’re in this fucking band. Ha. A lot could go wrong.”
“You’re the one trying to ask me on a date,” Lister protests. “You’re not supposed to be pointing out the negatives.”
“Where would we even go on a date?” Jimmy asks, sounding panicked now. “The photographers - they see everything.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Lister says, his hand fluttering at his sides. “I haven’t even said yes, yet.”
“Oh, God,” Jimmy whines. “Can we forget I said anything? Forget this ever happened?”
“Definitely not,” Lister says, scooting forward to cup Jimmy’s face in his hands. “In fact, we should probably talk about this. Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” Jimmy echoes faintly. “Great.”
“Are you going to throw up again?”
“Probably.”
Lister hums gently and tucks a stray strand of Jimmy’s hair behind his ear.
Then, the retching begins.
…
They don’t have any time to talk about it the next day, it turns out, because first thing in the morning they’re ushered into a taxi and then onto a plane. Jimmy looks fragile, and because he’s wearing these oversized sunglasses, Lister can’t tell if he’s avoiding eye contact with him or not.
Jimmy eventually falls asleep, his legs draped over his plane chair, and Rowan challenges Lister to a game of MarioKart.
All Lister is doing is staring out of the the plane window, watching the bits of cloud and flashes of blue sky move past him, so he accepts and settles down on the floor next to Rowan.
“Erm, so what did you get up to last night?” Lister asks, because Rowan has that look on his face like he might start asking Lister questions about him and Jimmy and what's going on there. Again.
“Kissed a girl,” Rowan mutters, staring at the screen. He’s in first place. He does that thing where he moves his entire body in the direction he wants the car to go in.
“Scandal! Good for you.” Lister’s only in seventh but he just got a blue shell.
“Not really,” Rowan replies. He tilts to the right and nearly bumps into Lister.
“No?”
“It felt… wrong. Like I was cheating on Bliss, or something.”
“Pal,” Lister says, giving a low whistle. “It’s been a couple of months now. You need to move on.”
“Says you,” Rowan counters, rolling his eyes.
“Yeah, well,” Lister says. He releases the blue shell; Rowan’s totally fucked and Lister sneaks into third place. “I shouldn’t be anybody’s role model.”
Rowan recovers and takes back first place. Lister somehow falls back to like, eleventh. He doesn’t even care. He leaves the controller on the floor and gets up before flopping into the seat next to Jimmy. Jimmy’s chest gently rises and falls; he’s snoring very softly. Lister watches him for a minute or two, willing him to wake up so they can talk things through. He hopes Jimmy doesn’t want to take back what he said for real. He doesn’t think he’d be able to get over that.
Jimmy doesn’t stir, and Lister lets his eyes fall shut. I’m pretty sure that means I’m in love with you, Jimmy had said last night in the bathroom.
Lister replays the words over and over in his mind and eventually feels a shiver of hope rush through his stomach right before he falls asleep.
…
They arrive at their New York City suite and Lister dumps his things in his room. It’s still morning even though it feels like it should be night-time. Flying sometimes feels like time travelling, he thinks. He wanders onto the balcony to look at the pale blue sky and zigzagging line of skyscraper tops. His fingers twitch as if to to tap away the ash from a phantom cigarette. He balls his hand into a fist and breathes in the chilly air.
“Hey,” Jimmy’s voice startles him.
“Oh,” Lister says. “Hi.”
“I’m sorry,” Jimmy says. He’s no longer wearing the sunglasses. His hair is a delightfully tangled mess and when he rakes his hand through it his fingers nearly get stuck. “I didn’t mean to- um, I didn’t mean to say it like that. It just sort of tumbled out.”
“That’s alright,” Lister says, shrugging. “I did the same to you. With the kiss.”
“I guess,” Jimmy replies. “I feel like asking you out shouldn’t be as terrifying as it is.”
“I’m- I’m not terrifying, am I?”
“Everything is fucking terrifying, apparently,” Jimmy says. “Even asking out your best friend who’ve you’ve known for a literal age and who has cleaned sick out of your hair.”
“Just do it, Jim.”
“Right.” Jimmy swallows. Puts his hands in his hoodie pockets. “Would you like to go out? With me? Sometime?”
“Yes,” Lister says, probably a little too eagerly. “Let’s go now. We can get breakfast. Fuck it. Afternoon tea, anything you want.”
He grabs Jimmy’s hand and pulls him off the balcony and into the bedroom.
“I don’t think- wait, you want to go out out?” Jimmy asks, looking a bit scared.
“Well, yeah,” Lister replies.
“But they’ll take photos of us. Like, together.”
“Maybe that’s a good thing.” Lister raises his eyebrows and smirks. “Maybe then everyone will finally shut the fuck up about bloody Jowan.”
“I-” Jimmy stays rooted to the spot but doesn’t let go of Lister’s hand. “I don’t think I’m ready to take whatever this is out there. Not yet.”
“Okay, no, you’re right,” Lister says, and then laughs. “We have been dating for literally two minutes; I need to calm down.”
“Why don’t we just, I don’t know, watch some Netflix?” Jimmy suggests.
“What, like Netflix and chill?” Lister says, stupidly.
Jimmy pulls a face but ends up laughing.
Lister’s heart is beating very fast in his chest as if he’s drank twenty Red Bulls or something. He feels like if he lets go of Jimmy’s hand the world will literally implode, so he doesn’t let go, even though their palms are getting very sweaty. He just pulls Jimmy across the room with him to turn on the TV. Then, they run back to the bed and lie on their stomachs as Lister flips through his to-watch list (the one he never even watches anything from because he just watches Gilmore Girls, RuPaul’s Drag Race and Brooklyn-99 over and over and over).
“I think The Good Place is supposed to be alright,” Jimmy says.
“Let’s watch that, then,” Lister says. He hits play and the first episode comes on and they both stare at the gigantic screen, but Lister can’t concentrate. He has no idea what’s going on. The entire thing is just noise and colour. All he can think about is how Jimmy is lying beside him and their hands are still entwined, lying between them on the duvet.
“This is so stupid, I'm sorry,” Jimmy blurts. “It doesn’t feel like a date at all. It just feels like we’re hanging out.”
Lister considers this and then he flips onto his side and then they’re close. Extremely close. “So, what if I do this?” Lister murmurs, leaning in to plant a kiss to the corner of Jimmy’s mouth.
Jimmy inhales sharply and Lister shuffles even closer. He kisses along Jimmy’s jaw to the spot where it meets his ear. Jimmy’s skin feels impossibly soft against his lips and he pulls away, shoots Jimmy a questioning look.
“That was-” Jimmy croaks weakly.
“Nice?” Lister supplies.
“More than nice.” Jimmy leans forward this time and tentatively grazes Lister’s face with his fingertips before kissing him almost chastely on the lips. Lister hums and then slowly eases Jimmy’s mouth open, deepening their kiss. Jimmy’s lowers his hands and winds his arms around Lister’s waist, while Lister deftly twirls them around and slides his fingers in Jimmy’s hair. Their legs end up getting tangled together and twisted in the duvet, but they’re kissing. They’re legitimately kissing and it’s well, pretty incredible to be honest. On the TV, the next episode begins to play. It’s really loud. It’s the opposite of romantic. Lister sighs huffily and rolls off of Jimmy to find the remote. He pauses the show and then focuses on Jimmy. His lips are slightly parted and he’s a little breathless. Lister reaches out to touch him and that’s when he knows.
Something between them has shifted irreversibly. Lister hopes it’s for the best; he has a feeling it might be.
“Tell me, did that feel more like a date?” Lister asks, trying his best to sound flirtatious.
“More like erm, the part after a date,” Jimmy answers. He looks flustered and flushed but he’s smiling.
Lister can’t help but notice that it’s a real Jimmy Kaga-Ricci smile.