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

Beast of Burden

2014

I'm sat in the middle of Dad's living room on the floor, packing boxes and newspapers strewn around me. The old stereo system is blaring the Rolling Stones so loud that the house is shaking, but it's keeping me from thinking about anything in particular as I divide Dad's belongings into boxes to be kept, sold, and thrown out. I know my hair is a wild, flyaway mess, and I look a state in one of Dad's old t-shirts, and some dirty leggings, but I can't be bothered. I just want to get this done and go back to London to try and rebuild my life.

When I woke up this morning, I had several voicemails– all from Alex– but I shoved my phone away. I didn't listen to a single one, or read any of his messages, just set about packing up the house immediately.

The music helps. So, Mick Jagger's lilting voice is at top volume, and I'm covering picture frames with such ferocity I'm surprised I'm not tearing the wrapping paper. But I'm in a trance of work and concentration and the Rolling Stones– blissfully so, hypnotized– so that I don't hear Alex knock, or ring the bell, or walk in the front door, until he's standing in front of me, and I'm startled by his shadow.

I lift my eyes to meet his gaze, and we stare at each other without saying anything. I'm sure my face is stony with rage already– from yesterday, and that he's barged in this way now– because he looks shamefaced.

The music thumps and roars over us inappropriately– "Come on baby make sweet love to me"– and I can feel my heart pounding in my chest, but Alex doesn't move. So, annoyed, I grab the stereo remote and switch the music off. The silence is abrupt, startling in its own right, and I can see him flinch at it, at the responsibility to now speak.

"I rang the bell," he says stupidly. I just stare up at him from where I'm still sat on the floor, until he's forced to speak again, saying, "What're you doin'?"

"Packing," I reply tightly. "The house needs to be tidied for a showing at the weekend."

"What?"

"To sell," I snap. "I can't afford to keep it. You know that I'm a maid now, so you must also know I'm broke."

He looks at the floor, and then sits down on the couch, shoving some books and VHS tapes aside to make a spot for himself. The action, his comfortability in Dad's home, amongst his things, with me even though I tried to eviscerate him with my fists yesterday, makes me shake from the inside out. But it's not just anger that's pummeling its way through my bloodstream, it's exhaustion, and frustration, and giving up.

I can't fight or lie or pretend anymore. There's nothing left for me to give him but the truth and what I'm really feeling– however ugly it all is.

But he can speak first, because he's the one that walked in on me.

It looks like he's trying to speak, licking his lips, wiping his palms on his trousers, chewing on the inside of his cheek, and I've never seen him at such a loss for words.

Finally, he says, "Lils, I'm sorry–"

"For what?" I cut across him. "For not being there when my dad died? Or for bringing a date to his funeral?"

Alex winces, and I find some small comfort in that, at least.

"Yes," he breathes, as if he's in pain. "For all of it."

I don't say anything, just watch him squirm.

He angles himself towards me, and says, "Lily, I was on a flight to New York when you tried to call me– I didn't get your message until I landed."

I fold my arms.

"The second I 'eard it I called you back, but you didn't answer," he looks like his eyes are swimming, like he hasn't been sleeping or like he's going to cry. "Matt got 'old of me and told me, and it 'ad– your dad was already gone."