Alive (24 Hour Party People, Ian/Bernard)
Jul. 9th, 2004 03:14 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
instrumentality.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
rareslashH'lo! New member here. As I've been writing in what I believe to be a non-existent fandom for a good few months now, I needn't tell you how thrilled I am to find this community. For anyone else out there who watched 24 Hour Party People and thought 'good lord, this movie is practically crying out for the slash treatment', this fic's for you ;D
Title: Alive
Author: Dulcinea
Fandom: 24 Hour Party People
Pairing(s): Ian/Bernard
Rating: R for language and angst.
Disclaimer: Although this film is based on real events and people, I am in no way referring to the actual members of Joy Division, New Order, Happy Mondays, Factory Records as a whole, or anyone else you might recognise. This is pure movieverse, with a bit of my own twisted imagination thrown in. And no, I had nothing to do with the movie either, nor do I claim to own anything involved with it.
Ian... IAN! Oh, fucking hell, Ian...
Watch his head... he’s... his fucking mouth’s bleedin’! Can somebody call a doctor?
Don’t tell me to fucking calm down! You fucking calm down! Rob – can you get a doctor? Can somebody get a fucking DOCTOR?
Back and forth, up and down, his eyes trace patterns across smooth, reddish-yellowish eyelids. He’s probably exhausted, dying for a bit of sleep, Bernard knows that – but somehow, each time he thinks it, his fingers coil themselves just a bit more tightly in Ian’s hair.
“That fucking hurts, mate.”
Laughing softly, hollowly, Bernard looses his grip and winds one bit of hair around his index finger. “You alright? Looked like you were dreamin’.”
Ian’s head feels too light in Bernard’s lap, his skin looks frighteningly translucent, but he manages a small smile as he tips his head upward.
“I’d have to be sleeping for that, wouldn’t I?” He reaches up to bat Bernard’s hand away, but their fingers are intertwined and firmly locked before he can object. “You gonna sit up and watch me all night, Mother?”
“You’re fucking welcome. Twat.”
That earns him another rare smile, a touch wider this time, carving tiny crease marks around Ian’s wide, glassy eyes. He’s too young to have such lines on his delicate face, Bernard thinks, a strange ache in his chest. But his skin’s always been like rice paper, too fragile to hold the immensity of his soul.
He shouldn’t ask. He’s asked a million times, Rob has asked, everyone has asked; they all saw it coming, in the way Ian’s eyes rolled back in his head, in the frantic jerking of his slender arms, as though they were trying to tear themselves from his body. And he must have felt it coming – but what the fuck was it? Why didn’t he stop?
“Nothing,” Ian sighs irritably, gripping the back of the couch to haul himself upright. “It was nothing, alright? Just – will you fuck off?” Batting at Bernard’s hands again as they close around his shoulders, try to ease him back down. “I should get home. Debbie’ll be waiting -”
“No.” Bernard can’t keep the tremor from his voice as he shifts his body to face Ian, rests his hands on knobbly little boy knees. “You were fucking bleeding, Ian. You were coughing up fucking blood all over your face, and you may think it’s nothing, but I think that’s bollocks. And you’re not leaving here ‘til I know you’re alright.”
Ian’s hands tremble as he lights a fag, brings it to his lips and draws in deeply, releasing the smoke in one long blue-grey breath; pale pinkish smears stain the filter when he sets it in the ashtray, a stomach-turning reminder of the evening’s events. He can’t tear his eyes from it. Neither of them can.
“I’ll stay here – no, wait -” One icy fingertip against Bernard’s lips, dissolving each and every word on his tongue into a single shuddering breath. “- I’ll stay here if you promise to shut up and leave me the fuck alone. Understand?”
There’s hardly enough room for Bernard himself on his single mattress, but he presses himself close to the wall and stares blankly at the ceiling as Ian’s slight body stretches out beside him. The springs don’t seem to shift at all.
The voice that leaves his lips sounds completely foreign – wan, reedy, like a child’s. “I thought you were dying.”
“What did I say?”
“I know. Alright. I know.”
His nose brushes against the cold wall when he turns away, curls into a tight ball; a moment later he feels the comforter shift, and one of Ian’s arms drapes loosely around his waist.
“Thanks, mate.” Hot breath on his neck, moist, wonderfully alive. He nods into the pillow, his throat too constricted to force out a reply.
Title: Alive
Author: Dulcinea
Fandom: 24 Hour Party People
Pairing(s): Ian/Bernard
Rating: R for language and angst.
Disclaimer: Although this film is based on real events and people, I am in no way referring to the actual members of Joy Division, New Order, Happy Mondays, Factory Records as a whole, or anyone else you might recognise. This is pure movieverse, with a bit of my own twisted imagination thrown in. And no, I had nothing to do with the movie either, nor do I claim to own anything involved with it.
Ian... IAN! Oh, fucking hell, Ian...
Watch his head... he’s... his fucking mouth’s bleedin’! Can somebody call a doctor?
Don’t tell me to fucking calm down! You fucking calm down! Rob – can you get a doctor? Can somebody get a fucking DOCTOR?
Back and forth, up and down, his eyes trace patterns across smooth, reddish-yellowish eyelids. He’s probably exhausted, dying for a bit of sleep, Bernard knows that – but somehow, each time he thinks it, his fingers coil themselves just a bit more tightly in Ian’s hair.
“That fucking hurts, mate.”
Laughing softly, hollowly, Bernard looses his grip and winds one bit of hair around his index finger. “You alright? Looked like you were dreamin’.”
Ian’s head feels too light in Bernard’s lap, his skin looks frighteningly translucent, but he manages a small smile as he tips his head upward.
“I’d have to be sleeping for that, wouldn’t I?” He reaches up to bat Bernard’s hand away, but their fingers are intertwined and firmly locked before he can object. “You gonna sit up and watch me all night, Mother?”
“You’re fucking welcome. Twat.”
That earns him another rare smile, a touch wider this time, carving tiny crease marks around Ian’s wide, glassy eyes. He’s too young to have such lines on his delicate face, Bernard thinks, a strange ache in his chest. But his skin’s always been like rice paper, too fragile to hold the immensity of his soul.
He shouldn’t ask. He’s asked a million times, Rob has asked, everyone has asked; they all saw it coming, in the way Ian’s eyes rolled back in his head, in the frantic jerking of his slender arms, as though they were trying to tear themselves from his body. And he must have felt it coming – but what the fuck was it? Why didn’t he stop?
“Nothing,” Ian sighs irritably, gripping the back of the couch to haul himself upright. “It was nothing, alright? Just – will you fuck off?” Batting at Bernard’s hands again as they close around his shoulders, try to ease him back down. “I should get home. Debbie’ll be waiting -”
“No.” Bernard can’t keep the tremor from his voice as he shifts his body to face Ian, rests his hands on knobbly little boy knees. “You were fucking bleeding, Ian. You were coughing up fucking blood all over your face, and you may think it’s nothing, but I think that’s bollocks. And you’re not leaving here ‘til I know you’re alright.”
Ian’s hands tremble as he lights a fag, brings it to his lips and draws in deeply, releasing the smoke in one long blue-grey breath; pale pinkish smears stain the filter when he sets it in the ashtray, a stomach-turning reminder of the evening’s events. He can’t tear his eyes from it. Neither of them can.
“I’ll stay here – no, wait -” One icy fingertip against Bernard’s lips, dissolving each and every word on his tongue into a single shuddering breath. “- I’ll stay here if you promise to shut up and leave me the fuck alone. Understand?”
There’s hardly enough room for Bernard himself on his single mattress, but he presses himself close to the wall and stares blankly at the ceiling as Ian’s slight body stretches out beside him. The springs don’t seem to shift at all.
The voice that leaves his lips sounds completely foreign – wan, reedy, like a child’s. “I thought you were dying.”
“What did I say?”
“I know. Alright. I know.”
His nose brushes against the cold wall when he turns away, curls into a tight ball; a moment later he feels the comforter shift, and one of Ian’s arms drapes loosely around his waist.
“Thanks, mate.” Hot breath on his neck, moist, wonderfully alive. He nods into the pillow, his throat too constricted to force out a reply.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2004-08-27 07:29 pm (UTC)This is a lovely piece. There's nothing explicit going on, but you can see how much Barney cares...and there's some eerie foreshadowing of Ian's demise later on with those details about his pallor and thinness. Such a waste.
Thank you for writing this!