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

2010

Alex rings me from New York, and I can't tell if he's crying. His voice sounds off– slow and slightly strangled– and he's the one that's called me, but he's not saying much. It's late afternoon in London, and the spring sun is beginning to dip low in the sky, casting the city outside my kitchen window in a golden light. I try to imagine Alex in his Brooklyn apartment, nursing a coffee, his guitar propped against the couch beside him. Maybe it's sunny there too, maybe the sun is spilling through his window onto the floor as well. It's difficult to picture though, because I've never seen Alex's New York apartment, and I think he's cut his hair again, but I haven't seen his face in months.

"What are you doing?" I ask, pouring myself a tiny finger of whiskey to unwind from my workday. Alex is not being very forthcoming, but there must be a reason he's called, so I'll just have to drag it out of him.

"Watchin' cowboy films."

"Really?" I take a sip of my whiskey and lean against the counter. "Not writing?"

"A bit o' that too."

"What about Alexa?"

"Workin' a lot," he says. "She's the face of everythin' now, tha knows? Lacoste, DKNY, can't keep up."

"Feeling left out, rock star?" I quip lovingly, thinking the best way to get him out of his funk is to poke and prod him with jibes, rile him up.

"Nah then," he says, but his voice still sounds wrong, like he's trying to force some cheer into it, like he's failing. I hear him take a shaky breath.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

"What?"

"You don't sound right," I push.

"'Aven't been sleepin' well is all," he says, and his voice sounds warbled again, like he's struggling to speak, and I put my whiskey down, suddenly anxious for him. "They've got these mad thunderstorms over 'ere– apocalyptic, almost."

"That's why you're not sleeping? Because of the weather?"

He takes another breath that makes my heart start pounding a little.

"Al, what is going on?" I ask, my voice getting stern. "Should I be worried?"

"Lils," he replies, his voice breaking. "I feel a right mess."

I go into the living room and sit by the window, sinking into the beat up armchair and pulling my legs against my body. I don't know what's wrong with Alex, and I'm worried, but I'm relieved that he's talking, and I'm determined to fix it.

"What's going on?"

"I don't know what I'm doin' 'ere some days, tha knows? Sittin' in this apartment, watchin' films, muckin' about, while Alexa is out there runnin' the world."

"Al," I say, admonishingly. "That can't be what's bothering you– Alexa has always done her own thing, run the world, been an "it girl"– That's why you love her." I wait a beat, but he doesn't say anything, so I go on, "And besides, how many times has she sat at home while you've been off on tour, or recording, or writing?"

I hear him take a breath again, and I realize that it's very likely he's been crying, or is currently crying, and it makes my chest hurt in an excruciating way.

"I think I'm losin' 'er."

"Alex, you're not," I say. "She loves you."

"What if we're not right? I've been 'avin' me doubts– I just– Bloody 'ell, I miss you, Lily."

My throat goes tight with emotion, and I bloody wish I could afford to get on a plane and hold him in my arms right now.

"I miss you too," I tell him. "But you're having a bad day– a bad week– it's nothing more than that."

"What if it's not right?" he asks. "What if it ends?"

I've never known Alex to worry about being single– to fret over loneliness. He's always been someone who likes their time alone, to think and work and explore all his favorite novels and films. He's a romantic, but he's not desperate to be in a relationship just for the sake of it. This must be because he's so deeply in love with Alexa, so desperate for it to be forever– because he's stuck in a spiral in his own head and worrying himself over nothing.

"Alex," I say gently. "You're only twenty-free. You have all the time in the world to worry about this kind of thing. Besides, there's nothing to worry about with Alexa– you two are perfect and you know it."

My throat and chest hurt to say it, to know it's true, to feel him hurting about this, but I say it anyway.

"When can I worry then?" he says, and I can tell it's a joke, that he's trying to be light. "You'll tell me?"

"Not until thirty, at least," I lob back playfully. "That's old."

There's a beat of silence, before he asks, "What about you?"

"What about me? Alexa and I will be fine, we're also soulmates."

He actually laughs at then, then says, "I mean are there any blokes on the 'orizon?"

"I don't have to worry until I'm thirty, remember? Or, for me, forty, because I'll still be fairly young at thirty. You won't, you're already an old man."

This makes him bark a laugh into the phone, and it makes me smile to hear him coming back to life.

"I love you, Lils," he says, and his voice sounds somehow sad again, which is strange since he's coming off the tail end of a laugh.

"I love you too, Alex," I reply.

It's the last time I'll hear about any doubts or worries regarding his relationship with Alexa, and weeks later, when he tells me he's started writing for a new Arctic Monkeys album, I know he's fully recovered.