Love is a Laserquest - Alex Turner/Arctic Monkeys Fan Fiction

2005

I get to the Fat Cat far too early. It's my nerves, the adrenaline– so I order myself a pint to calm down.

It's a quiet Tuesday night, but the pub is filled with the usual clientele– elderly gentlemen mostly, eating fish and chips and drinking ale, arguing about football and complaining about their wives, their retirement. I sit across from the bar, next to the fireplace, perched on the faded, velvet cushions of a booth, and I spin a penny on the tabletop– my fingers manic, nervous, fidgety.

Every time the door opens, I crane my neck to see if it's Alex, and my stomach clenches, flutters, relaxes every time it's not.

I'm going to tell him I love him.

After eight years of friendship, five years of fighting how I feel, trying to hide it, trying to gauge if he could ever feel the same– I'm just going to tell him– and I'll have to deal with whatever happens.

But, I don't mean that necessarily, because I'm terrified of what could happen. More than fearing his rejection, I'm terrified that I'll lose Alex's friendship– that this will change things so irreparably between us that I'll lose what we do have, just because I hope he might love me back.

I think of when I met him at age eleven, when we were sat next to each other in maths on the first day of school, and we shared a moan about how shit we were at it. And then when we had music together that same day, and gushed about how much we liked that instead. I was so bloody reserved– perpetually anxious since my mum had up and moved to Spain the year before, perpetually quiet and shy since Dad and me moved from London to Sheffield– but Alex was too. Something in our commiserating unlocked the flow of words between us, built something that neither of us had with many people.

Before I knew it, we were thirteen, practically inseparable, walking home together and eating the crisps and soda out of each other's kitchens while we watched reruns of The Vicar of Dibley. He wouldn't call me his best friend, but I knew he was mine– and he spent just as much time with me as his best friend Matt, so I knew the truth. Boys were just weird that way, and I knew that. We sat on the phone for hours, moaning about school, our parents, sharing music suggestions and mixtapes, and it was the best friendship I had ever had– no crushes, no drama, no worries about getting my heart broken.

Maybe I shouldn't tell him.

No! Bloody hell, Lily! I have to do this once and for all! There's no use sitting–

"All right?"

I'm pulled from my own thoughts by Alex sitting down abruptly in front of me, bringing a gust of chilly, fresh air with him as he sits and grabs my glass to take a huge drink. My mouth goes dry at the prospect of what I'm about to do– as the sight of him makes everything excruciatingly real.

"You want another?" he asks before I've even said a word, because he's just finished the remains of my glass.

Wordlessly, I nod.

I watch him at the bar, and I think of the moment where it all hit me at age fifteen. We went to a school dance together– not as dates, his mum just dropped us off together. But then we spent ages milling around together, making fun of the music and the teachers' clothes, and how forced everyone looked when they danced. Until Vanessa Rawley's friend came over, saying that Vanessa wanted to dance with Alex, and they spent the rest of the night playing a game of cat and mouse– nervous and immature, speaking solely through friends– until the last song of the night, when they slow danced together. And I stood off to the side of the gym, and I couldn't really understand why my chest was tight, or why my eyes were burning, but when my dad dropped Alex off later, I realized– in the dark of the moving car– that I might have a crush on my best friend. I didn't recover– or talk to him, or look at him directly– for days.

He comes back with two pints, and the sight of him– the shaggy fringe falling into his big, brown eyes, the bright blue polo under his zip-up hoodie– makes my chest hurt from how much I love him, how far we've come, and I gulp my ale, feeling like I've just missed a step going downstairs.

"Why d'you look like you just seen a ghost, Lil?"

I shake my head, try to smile, laugh it off.

"Did you want to get summat to eat?" he asks, hooking a thumb at the bar.

"Alex," I start suddenly, because if I don't do this, I never will. "I have to tell you something."

It's been eight years of fighting these feelings for him, of growing closer to him, back and forth, never knowing, and I don't think I can do it anymore.

"I do too, actually."

My stomach somersaults.

"What?" I ask, stalling.

A smile is suddenly lighting up his face, and he dives in, saying, "We're going to release an EP– the Arctic Monkeys! And then we're going on a tour all over England! It's already being arranged!"

He looks like a kid on his birthday. His whole body is emanating excitement, happiness– his eyes bright and big. All of his dreams are coming true and it makes my heart swell with pride, with genuine happiness for him– after everything he's worked for, everything he's done to get here. I can't help but beam across the table, grab hold of his wrist and give it a squeeze.

"Al, that's amazing!"

His cheeks are pink, and he looks bashful suddenly, but he laughs it off, saying, "Yeah– it's brilliant!"

His words suddenly link together in my mind from another angle.

Tour. All over England.

People at their shows are already singing along with their songs. They already have a following and they don't even have a label. The Arctic Monkeys touring all of England is going to be huge. Alex is going to be huge. My best friend is going to be a celebrity.

I'm happy for him, but it clashes against something in my head– how I've known him, who we've been since age eleven.

"What did you have to tell me?" he asks, taking a drink, eyeing me over the rim of his glass.

My heart feels like it's being squeezed in my chest. What would telling him do now? He's leaving for tour, he's about to blow up with the Arctic Monkeys I'm sure, will probably leave Sheffield forever. Even if he did have feelings for me too, would we stand a chance? This news changes things– tangles up the lines between us in a new way. I can't tell him.

"I got into King's College," I say instead, because I did– I just found out today, but it had been pushed to the back of my mind with plans to talk to Alex in the forefront. "I'm going to do English."

"That's great! So you're moving to London?"

I nod, feeling sick to my stomach, but the resignation is setting in. This is for the best. I will continue to be his best friend– the way we've been since age eleven– I'll support his music career from the sidelines, cheer him on, and I'll move on from this adolescent crush– truly move on this time. There's nothing keeping Alex tied to Sheffield– certainly not me– so I need to move out into the world too.

He raises his glass for a toast. "To a couple o' High Green kids, strikin' out in the world."

We clink our glasses, and it cements my determination to move on, to truly strike out in the world and forget my romantic feelings for Alex Turner.