not falling together (2/2). alison mosshart/jamie hince (& others), hard r.

[likecharity]

See part one for more details.


By the end of January, the album is mixed and mastered, done and dusted. The tour has been booked. All that's left to do is plan out the setlist, which proves to be a much more difficult task than Alison anticipated.

It's not helped by her recent decision to quit smoking for real-as her daily intake went down, she felt she may as well, but she's rapidly beginning to regret it. She's spent all morning vomiting and has gone through countless packs of Nicorette gum, tired and irritable and sore, and she's fairly certain she's gaining weight. Jamie, rather unsympathetic, has pointed out that he always comes to her and she should join him at Kate's this time instead.

"Wow, you look like shit," is how he greets her when she shows up.

Thankfully Kate is out, but it still feels strange being here, in her house. Alison hadn't really realised it until now, but she has sort of avoided visiting Jamie at his new home, reluctant to come to terms with the fact that he's moved out even though over the past six months, his impromptu visits to Red Meat Heart have dwindled.

They sit side-by-side on a sofa in the living room, with a fresh pad of paper and a pen between them, and it takes a while for them to really get anywhere. Picking songs off Blood Pressures is the easy part; some of them are made to be played live, others not so much. But they run into trouble once they start trying to decide which songs from their back catalogue should still get played. There are a couple of classics they agree on, but some of Alison's favourites-that she assumes are also Jamie's-are met with uncertain silence on his end.

"Kissy Kissy, though," she implores, as Jamie hems and haws over it.

"I guess so," he says eventually, scribbling it down in the 'maybe' column.

"You guess so?" Alison asks, frowning, smacking her gum in irritation.

"All right, chill out," he says, crossing it out and moving it over. "What else?" he asks before she has a chance to get on his case about it.

"Last Day of Magic," she says instantly, and is about to move right on without a second thought when she realises that Jamie's dithering again. "What? Why not?"

"No, I dunno, it's just-it's not one of the best is it?"

"It is to me."

There is a long pause, and then Jamie writes it down in the 'maybe' column, and Alison feels the anger starting to well up in her blood. "Goodnight Bad Morning," she grits out, waiting for him to put that under 'maybe' as well, and then, to her surprise, he puts the pen right down. "What?" she snaps.

Jamie rubs his forehead. "I dunno. It just-it doesn't fit."

"What do you mean it doesn't fit?" Alison fires back.

He almost laughs, like he's taken aback by her, like she's overreacting. It makes her even more mad. "Well," he says slowly, like he's speaking to a child, "it was perfect for Midnight Boom, wasn't it? It was like...it just encapsulated stuff from back then, and now it's not-well, it's not relevant." Alison frowns at him. That doesn't seem like enough of a reason to scrap it completely. "We've already got a ballad, anyway. Don't wanna bring the whole thing down twice."

Alison is quiet for a moment then asks, "What do you mean by 'relevant'?"

Jamie rolls his eyes. "Oh, don't make a big thing of it, it's just-it was about like one week years ago. It doesn't fit with any of the new stuff. That's all there is to it."

Alison can feel her heart pounding faster in her chest. Maybe she is overreacting, but they always used to say that week was so fucking special, when they were writing Midnight Boom and they stayed up too long and took too many drugs and lost track of time, of reality, just clinging onto one another until it felt like they became one person. It was magical. It's still drenched in gold in her memory, and it seems like Jamie's ready to throw it out with the trash. She looks at him now and suddenly it feels like a very, very long time ago.

"Maybe, okay? We can think about it," Jamie sighs and leans back, reaching for a packet of cigarettes from the end table beside him. Alison stares in disbelief as she watches him open it up and pull one out, fumble for a lighter from his pocket, light it, take a drag. He turns it over in his fingers, silent and thoughtful.

Suddenly, Alison explodes-throws herself at him and knocks the thing out of his hand, chucks his lighter at the wall. "I quit, you asshole," she shouts, incensed, her blood fucking boiling.

For a moment Jamie says nothing, just stares at her like he's in shock or like he's going to make some smart comment-but then, to her surprise, he shoves her right back. She fights against it, her hands spread out across his chest, pushing 'til he's on his back and she's straddling him. Her heart's thudding so loud in her ears she can barely think, and all she can register is that this feels good, it feels like something she needs. They haven't had a fight for so long that she can't even remember the last one, and it feels like this has been building, quietly, for a long time.

Jamie knees her in the back and she yowls, spits her gum in his face. He struggles and then throws her off him, onto the floor where his cigarette lies, having burnt a hole in the fabric of Kate's rug. She lies there on her back, bruises forming, her head stinging like fuck where it knocked against the leg of the coffee table when she went down. She can't think straight, she just needs to make him feel that same pain, and she forces her way to her feet and grabs him by the shirt, heaving him up off the sofa and pummelling at his chest with her fists.

Distantly, she's aware that this is different to their usual fights-that usually they would be screaming abuse at each other as well as getting physical. Usually it's their words that end up hurting each other the most, and all the pushing and shoving is almost an afterthought.

But right now he has her by the throat, and she's squirming and kicking at him, grabbing at his hands to try and get them off her, barely able to breathe anymore yet feeling such an enormous sense of relief. He wrestles her back down onto the sofa, pushing her onto it backwards so she ends up flung over the side with the armrest digging into her back and him on top of her, a crushing weight. She's gasping for breath and all they're doing now is grabbing at each other; him pulling roughly at a fistful of her hair and her clawing at his back, his t-shirt pulled up to expose skin into which she digs her fingernails.

Suddenly her ass slips down onto the sofa and her legs wrap around him, and she squeezes and scratches and realises that they're both making these noises-grunting and hissing like animals. His face is a mere inch or so from hers and he's red and sweaty, and she's not sure she's ever seen him so fucking angry. She wonders how she looks, her teeth grinding against each other, her hair in her eyes. She can feel the heat from him, feel the sweat on his back, and she suddenly becomes aware that they're staring at each other, that his eyes are burning into hers, and it's alarming in a way it never has been. Looking into Jamie's eyes used to be all comfort and safety; they could stare at each others for hours, unflinching. But right now this feels like the longest eye contact they've held in years and she panics, her head jerking up just as he ducks down, and she feels his teeth sink into the soft skin of her cheek at the same moment that their foreheads collide sharply.

She screams so loud she almost doesn't hear the sound of the front door opening.

Jamie leaps off of her in an instant and Alison gradually registers the giggly call of "Honey, I'm home!" and then two chattering voices, realises that Kate's bringing her daughter home from school. Her cheek is stinging so bad and so hot that she's convinced she must have blood running down her face, but as she stumbles to her feet she clutches it and all she can feel is the vague dents of teethmarks.

Kate appears in the doorway, arms loaded with shopping bags, and, on seeing the two of them, instantly shuts the door behind her. In the distance, they hear Lila Grace running upstairs.

Kate drops her bags and crosses her arms. "What the fuck?"

"Minor disagreement," Jamie says through his teeth.

Alison runs her fingers back through her hair, grabs the notebook from the coffee table and excuses herself, squeezing past a motionless Kate and struggling to twist the doorhandle with her sweaty hands.

She manages to stay calm all the way home, but the second her own front door is closed behind her she almost has a panic attack. She keeps trying to reassure herself-this is hardly the first time they've had a bad fight, hardly the first time they've injured one another. And their fights usually end in the two of them getting as far away from each other as possible in order to cool down, so she feels confident that in a few days things will return to normal.

But for some reason her heart is still in her throat and she feels dizzy, breathless like he's still choking her. She can still feel the tugging on her hair, his teeth in her skin. It didn't feel like the fights they used to have. It felt like something new and uncomfortable and frightening, and maybe that's what scares her-the fact that there seems to be no end to it, this slow and nameless change to their relationship. She's beginning to feel like the whole thing might slip from her fingers, but she doesn't know if she needs to hold on tighter or loosen her grip.

She never used to have to think about it.

She paces around the house like a lion in a cage, fingers barely leaving her sore cheek until the dents fade to faint red marks. She can't sit still or calm down at all, and without thinking, she grabs her keys and leaves the house again, ends up at Noel's with only a vague recollection of the journey. Thankfully he's home, and alone.

The moment he sees her, he looks bewildered. "Hey, are you all right?" he asks as she pushes past him.

She shakes her head and can't stop shaking it and she swears she can feel the adrenaline still pulsing through her veins.

"What do you need?" Noel asks gently, and before she knows what she's doing she's grabbing him by the throat and pinning him against the wall, stronger than ever. She starts clawing at his jeans, trying to get them open, and he's gone limp, only nodding, letting her do what she wants. He's half-hard by the time she's got her hand in his pants, gasping and gazing at her, and she lets go of his neck and turns his face roughly away from her, holds it there as she jerks him off frantically.

"Fuck," he whines breathlessly as he comes, twisting in her tight grip, cheek rubbing raw against the wall.

She wipes her hand on his shirt agitatedly and takes a step back, arms folded, staring at him. Tentatively, he begins to turn his head to look at her, and she spits right at his face, slaps him when he grins, and then she's gone, running down the stairs and out of the apartment, still feeling dazed but much better. Her phone buzzes thirty seconds later with a teasing text from him-a delight as ever ms mosshart xx-and she only wishes she'd got him to bring her off too before she left.

***
A week later, she and Jamie make up, encouraged by Kate and apologising to one another in an awkward, feet-scuffing sort of way like moody teenage boys. Alison agrees to leave Last Day of Magic and Goodnight Bad Morning off the setlist as long as Kissy Kissy can stay, and Jamie accepts. He even splits his time on Valentine's Day between Alison and Kate-it's the ninth anniversary of their first gig and Kate is gracious and understanding and lets Alison have him for the first half of the day. They don't do anything special, just hang out like they used to, and Alison begins to actually look forward to the tour instead of feeling a sort of faint, gnawing dread in the pit of her stomach.

Once again, she lets herself hope that things are going to get better.

***
Alison stands in the ensuite bathroom of a Parisian hotel room, brushing tangles from her hair and chewing the skin from her bottom lip. She scowls at herself in the mirror. She hasn't showered yet and her make-up is smeared, her face still visibly sweaty.

"You all right?" Jamie calls from the bedroom.

"Yeah. Just losing about half my hair."

"You toss it around more than you used to." In the mirror, Alison can see him through the doorway behind her. He's paging through a book, already all cleaned up and tucked into bed.

"I don't," she says, but it's mostly to herself. She yanks again with the brush and then gives up. She looks at herself in the mirror for a moment longer, and then says, "Do I?"

"What? Yeah." Jamie glances up. "You've probably just got used to having to compete with Jack's mane, it's all right."

He sort of laughs and then goes back to his book, but Alison isn't done. "Jamie?" she asks meekly, still looking at his reflection in the mirror instead of turning around. "Jamie, am I different onstage?"

Jamie frowns. "What do you mean?"

"Than I used to be."

He wrinkles his nose. "I dunno. A bit. In a good way, I think. You're more confident."

She can tell he's playing it down, and it makes her feel self-conscious. Tonight was their first proper show, their comeback. Last week was SXSW, but festivals have never really counted in Alison's mind. The discomfort of those two performances she put down to the daylight, and perhaps to their mutual rustiness at being onstage together. But tonight-tonight didn't work. She's toured so much in the past year that she almost lost her mind, and yet she felt utterly lost in front of the crowd tonight. She felt like she was alone without three men surrounding her and music almost drowning her out.

She played a handful of shows with Jamie in between the constant barrage of Dead Weather gigs, but she can barely even remember them in the haze of everything now. It was odd, definitely, to go from one to the other so fast-but it was festivals, fashion shows, a gig with friends. This is what The Kills are-are supposed to be: a packed and sweaty little club and just the two of them onstage, burning together under the bright lights.

Only they didn't. Not tonight.

"It was hard," she admits, and her voice sounds kind of cracked and broken. "D'you think it's just 'cause of-"

"Yeah, probably," Jamie cuts in. He has his finger in his book and she can tell he's itching to get back to it. "It'll get easier. You just need to adjust."

"Yeah," mumbles Alison. "Probably."

She looks back at herself in the mirror again, and decides she doesn't want to think about it anymore. She wanders back into the bedroom and looks out of the window. They always stay in this hotel and try to get this room when they come here; the view is just perfect. She can see the Eiffel Tower in the distance, and she gazes at it for a while, just listening to street noise and the gentle, intermittent sound of Jamie turning pages.

"I love Paris," she sighs wistfully.

"I know," says Jamie, absentmindedly. "You always have." He turns another page. Flick. "We should move here when we get married. Get a place in Montparnasse and ride our bikes everywhere."

Alison is silent for a long, long time, letting a smile slowly creep its way across her face. She bites her lip and doesn't turn around as she asks, "Did you just say 'when we get married'?"

A pause. "Did I?"

"You did," Alison shrieks. She draws back from the window and pulls the curtains tight. Jamie looks up at her from his bed, somewhat sheepishly. "Jamie. You big sap."

"It was a slip of the tongue. Go have your shower, you're disgusting."

Alison giggles, trotting over to him and leaning down to press a big kiss on his cheek, making sure her sweaty, tangled hair gets in his face as much as possible.

"Oh, you-" Jamie splutters, squirming away.

***
A month later they play in Nashville, and Jack offers to put them up for the night after the show. He calls Jamie, who accepts, which means that Alison doesn't even get a chance to turn him down. Then he actually comes to the show, much to Alison's surprise, and for some reason she feels even less comfortable onstage than she has in the past month, which is saying something. She almost feels fake, in a way that she can't really describe-as though having Jack watching highlights every little change and every little bit of discomfort she feels up there. Because the shows haven't gotten any easier, and she still hasn't adjusted, and she's not even sure she's able.

Karen is waiting up when they get into the house, and after Jamie and Alison have taken showers, the four of them stay up and chat over some wine and snacks for a little while. It feels almost comfortable. Alison has never liked being in Jack's house but tonight it feels okay, like the past might truly be behind them, like she can tell herself she has nothing to feel guilty for. Like she can look Karen in the eye.

Karen goes up to bed first, but Jamie stays up a while longer and Alison gets the impression that it's very deliberate, that he doesn't want to leave the two of them alone. It pisses Alison off, perhaps more than it should. She wants to tell him that she's not planning on making out with Jack while his wife sleeps upstairs (and she feels vaguely disgusted that Jamie might think that lowly of her) but that even if she were, it's her life and he has no right to interfere.

Instead, she glowers at him over her wine, and then over her whiskey when they move into the living room and Jack puts a quiet record on the gramophone. She barely speaks to Jamie directly and she is irritable and childish, and eventually he grows tired of it, politely asks Jack which room is his tonight and goes up to it, leaving his whiskey unfinished.

The moment they hear the creak of the last stair, Jack lets out a long, low whistle. Alison, her own whiskey long gone, reaches for Jamie's and takes a sullen sip.

"So," says Jack, leaning back in his armchair like a smug psychiatrist. "You gonna tell me what's going on?"

Alison lets the whiskey sit in her mouth for a moment and then swallows, looking up at him and flicking her still-damp hair out of her eyes. She suddenly feels very small and young and stupid, sitting here on his sofa in the dark with some old blues record she's never heard playing low in the background. Jack's still all dressed up from the show and she's in a hoodie and a pair of Jamie's old jeans, her legs folded up under her.

"I don't know what you mean," she says crisply.

Jack laughs. "Cut the bullshit. I've never seen the two of you like that."

"Like what?"

"Like normal fuckin' performers." Jack practically spits out the words. "I mean, you were great, you're always great, individually you were on the ball, but together-that was weak."

Alison scowls at him. She's aware, of course, that something's not quite right. That the two of them don't gel the way they used to onstage. That some indefineable thing is missing. But she wants to believe that it's temporary, that it can all be explained away. She tries not to think about it because it makes her insecure, makes her more anxious before every show and less confident during. To have Jack pick up on it so fast, and call her out on it-it just makes her want to curl up in a corner.

"Thanks. Glad you came," she sneers instead, taking a swig of whiskey. He doesn't apologise, so she says, "We're just finding our feet again. Support might be nice."

Jack gives her an extremely skeptical look: eyebrows raised, nose wrinkled, slightly mocking smile on his face. "And what about offstage?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Jack rolls his eyes, and rubs his temples in irritation. "If you don't see it, that's your own problem, but honestly that baffles me, because I could sense it a mile away."

"Please, enlighten me," Alison says sarcastically, coughing.

"It's like-" he starts, and then is silent for a moment like he's trying to find the right bizarre analogy. "An asymptote," he says finally, and Alison stares blankly at him. "Math, Alison." She continues to stare. She hates it when he gets like this; he manages to annoy her and make her feel like an idiot simultaneously. "From the Greek. Not falling together is the translation. It's a line which approaches a curve infinitely, but never meets it. Say x equals zero-"

"I didn't finish high school, Jack," Alison snaps impatiently. "Speak English."

"You think fucking will ruin your relationship," Jack says abruptly, startling her a little. "Not fucking is ruining your relationship, and you don't even see that."

He rubs his temple, exasperated but sort of grinning to himself like he's got it all figured out and she's a total fool. Alison is speechless. She fumbles desperately for words, because Jack is not allowed to make her speechless, and especially not with something like this, when he clearly feels so smug and superior. But there are no words. She simply stares at him.

He takes a sip of his whiskey and looks at her quizzically, his lips pursed as he swallows. "Cat got your tongue?"

"Don't be an asshole." She punches him in the shoulder.

"I'm right," he says, and he's not actually gloating, but even so it drives her crazy. He shakes his head tiredly at her. "That's why all you can do is resort to violence. Please don't try and argue, I don't have the energy."

"What, you think we can just fuck and that'll solve all our problems?" Alison snaps back. "How fucking basic is that advice, Jack-oh, just have sex and it'll all be fine, throw thirteen years down the drain, it doesn't matter."

He raises his eyebrows at her and says nothing for a moment, very pointedly. She resists the urge to punch him again. "'Throw thirteen years down the drain'?" he echoes.

She raises her eyebrows right back at him, says nothing. Challenges him. He sighs and says nothing and she relents. "Jack, please."

Jack snaps. "Thirteen years of friendship down the drain? What, you think that as soon as you fuck someone, they're no longer your friend? You can fuck your friends, Alison. You of all people should know that, Jesus."

"Not Jamie," she says faintly. She doesn't even want to think about it, putting him on the same level as everybody else. It feels cruel, but she can't voice that, because it sounds cruel, as though she doesn't care about anyone but him.

"Why not Jamie?" Jack demands, and he seems genuinely angry now, more frustrated than she's seen him in a while. Like all of this is just boiling up out of him. "Why, Alison? For God's sake, tell me, once and for all, why not Jamie? And don't give me that bullshit about not seeing him in that way or him being your fucking brother or how it'll ruin what you have-because it's already starting to spoil and you can see that, I know you can."

Alison feels her eyes starting to sting and she bites her lip hard, trying not to cry. Just the thought of crying in front of Jack is so humiliating she can't bear it. She juts her chin at him. "What we have is more special than that."

She's never seen him roll his eyes so hard. He throws himself against the back of the sofa and says nothing for another long moment, reaching for his drink and finishing it, taking his time. Alison just sits there watching him, shaking slightly.

"I don't wanna hurt you, Alison," Jack says finally, and his voice is very low and serious. "You think I'm being cruel, but I'm saying this because I care about you. Both of you. This is something you refuse to hear and I can't stand it; I'm not gonna watch everything go to shit because you wouldn't listen."

"Okay," Alison hears herself say, voice trembling.

"You're not fucking special," Jack says quietly, his voice gentle even as the words are harsh. "Your relationship doesn't reach some higher plane because you don't have sex. That doesn't make it better. You tell yourselves it does because you're too scared to admit that you want it, you're giving yourselves all kinds of bullshit reasons because you're afraid of taking a risk. But you know what? We all take risks. Sex changes things. Yeah, sometimes you fuck your friend and then you can't even be friends anymore. But sometimes you end up marrying them. The change isn't always something terrible. You've convinced yourself it would be, lied to yourself over and over so you can justify hiding, and you act so fucking fearless but this one thing-this one thing-scares you so much you'd rather risk ruining the best thing in your life than confront it."

Alison opens her mouth. She doesn't know what to say, but she needs to say something, anything-and Jack clamps his hand over her lips.

"You're gonna want to argue with me," he goes on, "I know. Because that's your defense mechanism. That's what your brain does whenever any inkling of this enters it. Shuts it down in whatever way it can. Because you're scared to admit that it might be true. And you need to get over that fear, Alison, because it doesn't make any sense. You will not lose him. You could never lose him. Even if you actively fuckin' tried."

Alison can't help but smile at that, against the warm sweaty palm of his hand; he feels it and she gets a hint of a smile in return.

"It's not my business, I know," he says, gently taking his hand away. "And I've kept out of it for that very reason, but it's fucking infuriating watching two people you love be so obtuse. You just stubbornly cling to this idiotic idea and no one ever points out how dumb it is."

He's sort of muttering to himself now, reaching for the whiskey bottle to pour himself some more. He tops up her-Jamie's-glass too, and hands it to her. She brings it to her mouth, but before it reaches her lips she bursts out, "He's gonna get married, Jack." It seems, for some reason, like the most important thing to say. The easiest.

Jack almost smiles again. "That's not the be-all and end-all." Alison looks at him doubtfully. "I believe," he goes on, "that there aren't any rules." He takes a sip of whiskey. "And if there are-well, I don't believe you should follow them."

Alison rolls her eyes at him. "Oh sure, Mister Wife-and-Kids."

There's a moment's pause, and Alison looks at him curiously. He sighs. "I'm soon to be twice-divorced, actually, but feel free to put me in whichever box you choose."

Alison is, for the second time, left speechless. Jack leans forward and, to her surprise, kisses her on the lips. It lasts a little longer than an casual peck, but it's chaste, and his lips are warm and taste sharp. "Listen, just drink your whiskey," he smiles at her. "You'll feel better."

Alison does as she's told, and he's right. He's always fucking right.

***
After that, it really starts to hurt. Everything does. It hurts to look at Jamie. It hurts not to look at him. It hurts when he touches her, and when he pulls away. She begins to build a shell around herself, tries to enjoy the shows for what they are, and gradually, they become different animals altogether. She doesn't perform for him anymore at all.

He is either abruptly violent or pitifully tender these days; there is no in between. Sometimes he'll hold her and it will feel condescending somehow, like all those little visits back to the house, like he thinks she needs him and it's an obligation. But every now and then something will break through and he'll snap, just a little. Point his guitar at her like a gun and pull the trigger. Tug sharply at her hair after they bow when he wants to get offstage. She doesn't know what to make of it but for some reason it feels promising, like there's something inside him clawing to get out.

***
"Jack thinks Jamie and I need to fuck," Alison says sort of dreamily, in a hotboxed tent at Glastonbury, playing with a false gash in Noel Fielding's arm.

"You probably do," Noel replies.

Alison isn't particularly surprised by this answer. For the first couple of years that he knew them, Noel absolutely refused to believe that Alison and Jamie hadn't fucked, and has never quite come to terms with it. ("Just because you've fucked everyone you've ever met," Alison said spitefully once, and Noel had replied "Not everyone. I draw the line at blood relations. And children.") Alison gives him a pointed look but he's gazing off in another direction. She takes advantage of this and peels off the fake injury, the rubbery thing coming off his skin like dried PVA glue. It's oddly satisfying.

"Oi. I'm s'posed to be a zombie," says Noel. "You're de-zombifying me. You're-you're-"

Alison snorts. "Bringing you back from the dead?"

Noel gets caught in some sort of mental paradox for a moment, lost in his own thoughts. Alison cuddles up to him and sighs. "He's getting married next month, you know."

"I know."

"I can't fuck him if he's getting married next month." It's a stupidly simplified sentence, something she wouldn't even bring herself to think otherwise. But the combination of Noel and pot makes it okay.

"You could wait 'til the wedding day and do the whole speak now or forever hold your peace thing. Come running in and declare your love. Or, y'know, your desire to fuck the groom. Whichever." Noel ponders this for a second. "It'd be amazing."

"Speak now or forever hold my peace?" Alison says faintly. "Are those my only options?"

"I guess you could speak later. Hold your peace for a bit and then put it down. I don't think there's a law." Right now, Alison thinks that seems like a pretty good plan of action. "Bit of a cop-out, though," Noel adds.

"Whose tent is this?" asks Alison.

"What? I dunno."

"Do you want to fuck in it?"

"Okay."

Alison hastily half-undresses, clambers on top of him and unzips his pants. Coughs, fumbles, gets him inside of her. She's not quite ready and it burns and drags a little, but it's good. He's grinning up at her, goofily, and she starts plucking at one of the joke-shop cuts on his cheek.

"I've never had sex with a zombie before. Is it necrophilia? Technically?"

Noel shakes his head and then nods. "You should dye your hair," he says, apropos of nothing. "Do it pink, like your eyebrows that one time."

"Jamie thought that looked stupid."

"Fuck Jamie."

"Should I?"

Noel grins at her, and for a split-second she almost catches a glimpse of understanding, of something like sympathy. But then he just says, "Probably," and flips her over onto her back, tickling her all the while and making her squirm and shriek, making him slip out.

She still needs this from Noel, even though it always leaves her feeling a little empty. It gives her something she can't find anywhere else. She doesn't try to dominate him the way she used to-they've become more like equals, having sex the same way they do everything else together, making it fun and sometimes even silly. In the same way Jack gave her excitement and angry passion, Noel now brings a sort of comfort that she's never really been able to find with anyone else she's fucked. He makes her feel less scared of everything, and she needs that, because she feels like a wall is beginning to come down in her mind.

In truth, it's not quite as frightening as she thought it would be. She thought she would fight against it more, but some part of her always wanted Jamie, she just never let herself really know that. And right now it feels okay to know it. She feels safe with that knowledge, with Noel in this little tent. There is no imminent threat.

Outside, though, it's scary. Ever since her talk with Jack, being around Jamie has been scary in a way it never was before. It hurts even when they're not onstage, even when things are peaceful, when they're sitting in their twin beds passing takeout between the gap or watching DVDs together on the tourbus. Suddenly it all feels fragile and breakable and tenuous. Suddenly she is aware of everything she has and everything she doesn't have and everything she might lose. And it makes her realise why she never let herself feel this before, because it's overwhelming to really know what she's missing, to realise that in all likelihood she'll never have it. It has power over her like nothing else, that feeling. It can knock her over in one blow. Denial was easy, but this is something else.

***
Fuck it.

Alison stands outside the church, lights her first cigarette in months, and decides to hold her peace. For as long as she can fucking stand it.

***
She told herself maybe it would get better after the wedding. Some foolish belief that maybe Jamie's stress was adding to their difficulties onstage and once it was over with they could just go back to normal. But of course, it doesn't go that way. Months pass and nothing changes. Kate joins them for the Australian leg of the tour, and then they're all over the fucking place, jumping from country to country, and it should be exciting, because Alison loves touring, travelling, skipping through timezones and barely sleeping. She used to thrive off it, but lately it feels like it's sucking the life out of her.

Their shows aren't even a welcome relief from the stress. They still don't feel right, and where it used to be some vague mess of a problem, Alison is beginning to connect the dots. She thinks back to sex tapes and realises that Jamie never was writing about sex, he was writing about the lack of it. It's strange to think that could be what's missing, when it's the one thing they've never had.

The worst part is that Jamie doesn't seem to be aware that anything is missing at all, like whatever came out in his lyrics was in no way conscious. He seems to have a warped view of all of it-one day they're doing an interview and Jamie says he was really happy while they were making the record and then looks to her and adds that she was too, as though he doesn't even remember her breakdown, the crying over her cereal, the panic attacks and the stress. Alison mentions the issue a few times, but he shrugs it off, blames her, says The Dead Weather changed the way she performs and that's all there is to it. Like it's irreparable. Like he has no part in it. Like he doesn't turn away from her onstage these days, doesn't avert his eyes when she looks at him.

In the past, it felt like they were one entity when they performed. Entirely on the same wavelength. When she tipped her body back and let him between her legs it was not just because she wanted to, but because she could feel that he wanted her to. They would simply gravitate towards each other. Nothing felt conscious. It was like some outside force drew them together.

Whatever it was, it's gone now.

With The Dead Weather, Alison learned how to stare into the crowd without being overcome with fear, and now, without Alison's eyes as his security blanket, Jamie is learning to do the same. Jack shared his mic with Alison and now Jamie does the same only rarely, as though Jack has tainted it. With The Dead Weather, Alison learned new tricks. She found that it was fun to stare the audience down, to get in their faces. She forgot that it was more fun to do that to Jamie, and by the time she remembered, he had moved on. Sometimes he turns his back on her. Sometimes she turns her back on him. She sings one song alone, with him behind her, and she feels like he isn't there at all.

Sometimes they're joined by a choir, or by drummers. It no longer feels like it's just the two of them against the world. Alison feels connected to the audience for the first time in her life, she feels like one of them, like concerts are-all of a sudden-a group experience. She used to survive onstage by drawing an invisible line between her band and everybody else, but now everything intermingles and she feels exposed. Lonely.

Nothing really changes, no matter what she tries. Tonight, in a small club in France, she drags her mic stand closer, gazes at Jamie throughout entire songs, throws herself back with her hips thrust out-and he barely glances at her. She begs him with her eyes. She pleads for him with her voice. She sinks into his shoulder halfway through DNA and feels his muscles work as he plays, feels him tense and unrelenting against her body, unfathomable as a stranger.

"We will not be moved by it," she lies, still nestled in the crook of his shoulder, her mic lead trailing across the stage. She almost cries.

He takes her hand too roughly after the encore, blunt fingernails pressing into her skin as he heaves her arm up into the air. She looks at him sidelong and it might just be the heat, it might just be the lights-but it looks as though he's close to tears as well.

The crowd is oblivious, drowning out their thank you with cheers. Alison endeavors simply to try, try again.

***
In October, apparently out of the blue, Jamie puts a handful of old songs back on the setlist. Alison doesn't know why and she doesn't dare ask in case they come right back off again-she just tries to sing them like she used to, and to understand.

In Brazil, they play Last Day of Magic and she sees a spark of something in his eyes. He still won't look at her properly, still moves away when she comes close-but there's something, something there, back again, and she prays she's not imagining it. She doesn't know what to do with it but she clings on and hopes, says nothing in case she scares it away, and waits, with a gut-aching terrified patience, for more.

***
"You okay?"

It's nearing the end of November and the end of the tour is approaching too. They're sitting on a plane on their way to Belgium, and Jamie has been very quiet all day.

"Yeah. No," he says, and then exhales slightly shakily. "I'm just nervous."

"About Brixton?" Alison asks, and he nods.

It strikes her suddenly that maybe it was an odd assumption to make-Jamie could easily be nervous about tonight's show, or about any of their other upcoming ones, but it seemed natural to her, almost like she already knew the reason for his unease. It's sort of comforting to be right. She always used to be able to sense his moods so easily, know exactly what was pissing him off, but for a long time now it's felt like he's in a different world.

Jamie frowns to himself. "I was just trying to work out-is is the biggest one we've done? In the UK, I mean?"

"I think so."

Jamie widens his eyes. "It is, isn't it? Shit."

"What?"

He shifts in his seat. "Nothing, I just..." He seems to deliberate over his words for a while; something Alison knows means he's uncomfortable with the topic. "I just don't feel like we've been..." he sort of trails off, and then finishes the sentence with "lately," leaving her to fill in the blank. They used to do that all the time, not needing to say everything in order to understand each other.

But still, he says it almost questioningly, as though he's afraid she won't agree. As though just because she gave up mentioning it months ago means it no longer makes her ache right in her bones. "Yeah," she says encouragingly. It's quite rare for Jamie to start a serious discussion, to open up about his feelings-especially lately-so she has to be careful, not push it.

"It's me, I think," he says seriously, staring blankly at the plane's little TV screen in front of him. "I thought it was just you at first, and then I thought anything that was wrong with me was because of you-"

"Thanks," Alison interjects, elbowing him. (It's always safest to be casual, jovial, until it's absolutely clear that he wants to get into it.)

"-but I think it's both of us. Mostly me." He sighs. "I don't know what it is. Probably a combination of things."

"Yeah?" Alison falls serious, studying his face in profile, curious about what he's going to say next.

But he says nothing, and it's especially frustrating, because she can tell that he's deep in thought and choosing not to share any of it. But she really can't push it; that never works with Jamie. He'll only speak when he's ready, and she knows it, so she keeps quiet too and just leans into his shoulder, snuggles up to him under a scratchy airplane blanket and shuts her eyes as he stares into space. He barely speaks for the rest of the flight, introspective, lost in his own thoughts.

That night in front of the crowd, he barely takes his eyes off her, and her heart swells with hope.

***
They have kissed every night before going onstage; it's ritual, routine. Her recent revelation hasn't turned this into anything it's not. His lips are so familiar to her that these kisses hurt only as much as all the minor things, give her the same sudden and unreasonable stab in her heart as when he passes her something, gently touches her shoulder, says morning in that sleep-rough voice of his-any number of things that sting and smart like they never used to.

But tonight they've got one of their biggest crowds waiting for them and Alison's heart is in her throat and she doesn't want the kisses to end. She doesn't want to go out there; it's their last gig for some time and she's not ready for all of it to be over. For the first time that surge of desire that she's kept blocked off comes through, breaks the dam-she wants to deepen the kiss and hold him close, cling to him and never let him go. It feels like desperation and it hurts more than anything she's ever experienced; suddenly she can hardly stay on her feet or keep breathing and she hates it, all of it. She hates herself, for being brave enough to feel it, and him for being too afraid.

The pattern ends and she moves back in absolutely instinctively, just needing to feel his lips on hers again. It feels like life or death. She hesitates at the last second, faltering, realising what she's doing-but even before she can pull back, she's being kissed again, this time sudden and fierce and messy, so violent that she's forced back against the wall. She can barely process what's happening, it's all too much-she can feel the firm warmth of hands on either side of her face and a slick tongue in her mouth and she's whimpering, scrabbling for purchase on something. She finds Jamie's hips and they feel familiar against her hands, and she gets dizzy.

They draw back a second, heavy breath mingling. Alison looks into his eyes, searching, and his gaze is set, expression almost grim. Abruptly, he takes her hand in his and holds it tight, leads her out onto the stage to the deafening cheers of the crowd. Her legs barely work, she stumbles after him. The faces of the audience all blur into one; they don't matter, everything is Jamie, Jamie, Jamie. She squeezes his hand and then lets go, hurries over to her microphone in a daze as he fumbles with his guitar.

She feels like she's hyperventilating, she can't remember a single lyric-but as soon as she hears Jamie play they're all there, and she's gripping the microphone in a sure fist and belting them out without taking her eyes off him.

They hardly look away from one another through the whole set.

They reach Kissy Kissy and Alison can feel the hypnotic rhythm rattling her bones, uprooting her heart. She feels like she's being drawn closer and closer to Jamie as they play, sounds wrapping around each other until they're indistinguishable.

Barely thinking, she begins to sing, "Great God Almighty, been thinking all morning," lyrics they haven't added to the song for years, and to her surprise she hears Jamie's voice beneath hers singing the very same words. "Great God Almighty, been thinking all day."

Jamie turns his mic even more with his lips, so he's fully facing her now. He's sweaty, his hair plastered to his forehead, and his face looks sort of drawn, tight, but there is so much love there. She's missed that expression, seeing the full force of it, the neediness so visible in his eyes.

Lord, I'm not satisfied. Lord, I'm not satisfied.

It reminds her of the way they wrote this song-some strange psychic link between them as they sat mere inches from one another in that tiny little cupboard of a room, staring fixedly into each other's eyes and almost trying to guess what words were going to come out of their mouths next. The lyrics just came, as if from nowhere. Last week that day would have seemed like a lifetime ago; now, it could have been yesterday.

It's been a long time coming. It's been a long time coming. I'm gonna stab your kissy, kissy heart. It's been a long time coming.

Alison weaves closer, heart pounding so loud it becomes a part of the music, a second drum beat. She can't take her eyes off him. They're singing to each other as though it's the very first time and Alison loses track of literally everything else. It's her and Jamie in that little room again, just the two of them, electricity and magic.

Great God Almighty, been keeping on your good side. Great God Almighty, been tryin' to get along.

Alison's hands are sweaty on her guitar, her fingers moving almost of their own accord by now. Everything is easy, thoughtless, perfect. When Jamie jerks at her, jutting his chin, she throws herself back. Completely in sync. He's so close to her now that she can almost feel the sheen of sweat on his arms, the goosebumps even in this heat, the way his hairs are standing up on end.

I want hellfire. I must do you wrong.

It sounds sweet, like a promise.

She doesn't want the song to end. It already feels as though they've played it for twice its length, and it's winding down like clockwork. The drum machine ticks off and Jamie takes his guitar firmly in his hands and suddenly shoves it up against hers, the strings shrieking against each other in protest. Alison shudders, breath catching in her throat, every muscle going tense. He's so fucking close to her, she can almost taste him, and the shrill noise is thrilling through every vein, lighting her blood on fire. Jamie's eyes are dark and intense as he jolts back suddenly, and he doesn't stop looking at her, even as he makes his way across the stage to start up the next song. Alison goes limp, almost drops to the floor and has to heave herself back to her mic stand. They're not even halfway through the show.

The rest is blissful torture. Alison can't remember the last time they were this good, but she still aches, and this time it's different-that kiss has ignited something in her and all she wants is more. The look in Jamie's eyes tells her he feels exactly the same and she can hardly stand it. They can't even manage an encore properly, running each song into the next instead-afraid that if they stop they'll lose this, whatever it is.

Finally, the last song ends and they join hands and bow, looking at the audience properly for the first time. The size of it doesn't even overwhelm Alison, her mind clouded, she just stares blankly into the far reaches of the room and almost slurs her thanks. Then they're out, backstage in seconds. Alison is a few steps behind and Jamie doesn't turn to look at her. They take the towels they're offered, murmur thanks and wipe themselves off perfunctorily, sip at some water. Just as Alison takes the first step towards the door, Jamie does the same.

They walk side-by-side up to their hotel room in dead silence. The walk is brusque, purposeful, their strides quick and measured. They don't look at each other even once, as they head through each door, down each corridor, and stand in the lift with a chattering couple. Alison almost feels sick, that same anxiety she gets before she goes onstage, her heart in her throat and every nerve tingling. She clenches her fists by her sides as she watches Jamie fumble with the keycard to their room, almost dropping it from his sweaty, shaking hands. They both know what's going to happen.

The door shuts behind them and there is a second's breath-the room is so quiet that all Alison can hear is the blood pounding in her ears-and then they fall together.

There is little relief in the kiss. It's frightening. Alison can barely even bring herself to think about it-it's too huge, too much to comprehend. All she knows is that this needs to happen, and if they slow down, take a step back, it might never. So everything is instinctive, physical, fast. They are greedy-within seconds, kissing is not enough and they're tearing at one another's clothes, Alison so violent with Jamie's shirt that two buttons come right off, clinking onto the wooden floor.

Jamie can hardly bear to stop kissing her for the few seconds she needs to pull her t-shirt up over her head. They clumsily remove their own shoes and socks, peel off jeans and underwear in one motion, and then are back in one another's arms, desperate to feel skin against skin. Jamie almost whimpers against Alison's lips as he unhooks her bra, fingers trembling against the bare skin of her back. She reaches down between his legs without letting herself think about it, remembering suddenly the mental block that Jack spoke of and forcing herself to go purely on impulse. He is hard and she buries her face in his shoulder, her cheeks hot, her teeth gently nipping at the skin of his neck.

They find their way to one of the beds without letting each other go, fall onto it, and Jamie's hand slips down to the juncture of her thighs, strong and sure now, stroking. She falls back, shameless, her legs bent in on themselves and spread. He is so sure of himself-she knows his actions are instinctive too but there's something else there, the idea that he doesn't need to be tentative because he knows her. He knows her body so intimately that it makes no difference that he's never touched it this way before; he knows just how. She can feel her toes curling against the small of her back and she squeezes her eyes shut, clutching at the pillow under her head. She can sense him shifting on the bed before her, easing his way closer, and all of a sudden the comfort swings too far and it feels familiar, too familiar, and she feels a wash of panic.

She opens her eyes and they look at each other-really, properly, for the first time since they were onstage. Jamie is on his knees, nestled between her thighs, one hand resting on her hipbone. She is spread out before him on her back, outstretched. They have seen each other this way many times before, but now there are no barriers, there is nothing between them, they are utterly naked. It's a bold reminder of all the times they've done this, all the times they've pretended it meant nothing. Now they see it for what it really is, and it's too much.

Alison moves to sit up, almost making to leave him in her sudden panic, but Jamie lets out a sort of whine, needy, clutching at her, reminding her that no, they need this. She looks into his eyes and falls back into his arms instantly, making little impatient noises, hitching her legs over his. He lifts her up, eases her down onto his lap, and her mouth opens in a silent cry as he sinks into her in one swift motion. She throws back her head. His teeth are at her throat, his large hands holding her steady at her waist.

Alison swings forward, wraps her arms tight around his neck and buries her face in his shoulder, feeling the heat of him, smelling his sweat, heaving herself up and down in his lap immediately, frantic and almost animalistic. He rocks with her in tandem, she moves to the rhythm of his heavy breath in her ear. It feels like having sex for the very first time, or it doesn't even feel like sex at all-it's nothing and everything all at once, so new and yet so familiar. She can't think about it, but even so her mind is quietly working away, reminding her how comforting the smell of him is, how many times she's hugged him and nestled into this place before, the warm nook between neck and shoulder. She pulls back abruptly, one hand cupping his face, and looking at him almost makes her want to cry.

"Jamie," she whispers weakly, eyes stinging, and he kisses her fiercely, tangling his fingers in her matted hair.

She finds the strength to lean herself back, holding tightly to his hips and trying to go slow, to look him in the eyes, but it feels like an overload. It doesn't last long-they can't let it. In a second everything is too intense, a rapid spike of sensations that has her clinging to him and him whimpering her name, and they go rigid against one another, holding on. A spasm and release, a deep gutteral moan, and Jamie is shaking so violently against her that she almost slips from his weak grip. Her eyes are wet and all she can do is kiss him, beginning to tremble too, mouth opening in a broken cry.

They cling to one another for so long that Alison loses track of time. As long as they stay this way, they're safe, nothing changes. Alison feels like she'll fall if she lets go, into something dark and unknown that will swallow her up. If she has Jamie, she'll be okay. She keeps repeating it to herself like a mantra, feeling the beat of his heart against her own skin.

He's been inside her now. She can hardly process it. They've broken a fundamental rule, one that was never even consciously set. She mouthes at a tendon in his neck, tries to make herself believe it, accept it-but it hardly seems real, even now, even with his wetness between her legs and a gentle ache deep inside, their bodies sticking together with sweat, naked and open.

After a long, long time, Alison starts to feel less wired, like she's coming down. "I'm tired," she murmurs, voice muffled against Jamie's shoulder.

"Uh huh," is Jamie's response, and his voice sounds weak and a little scared.

They lie down, side-by-side in the single bed, staring at the ceiling instead of each other, as though if their eyes meet they will set it all off again. Alison's body is exhausted but her mind still feels wide awake, trying to make sense of it all, opening up the countless boxes she's locked things in over the years. She can't imagine sleeping; the idea of waking up in the morning like this and having to face it all is terrifying-but she's more worn-out than she knows, and before long she's drifting in a dreamless sleep. They cling to each another even then.

She's woken by harsh morning light-they never closed the curtains. She glances at Jamie beside her and it comes flooding back, making her heart pound. He looks so peaceful, curled in towards her. She settles back, breathing deeply, trying to calm herself down.

Perhaps it should feel exciting-she could be looking forward to more, anticipating the opportunity to explore all the things they've deprived themselves of. But she's too afraid; it feels like every further step is a risk and there's no right direction to take. They have allowed themselves this, but Alison doesn't believe that it's some miracle cure, that everything will be all right from this moment on. Now they will only want more and more, and it's going to take a long time to come to terms with it.

She didn't consider it last night, but all this time, Jamie must have been slowly and quietly reaching the same conclusion she had forced upon her by Jack. Determined to fight against it at first, but gradually reaching acceptance and understanding-or perhaps just giving in out of sheer exhaustion, the effort of lying for so long. She looks at him beside her, chewing on her bottom lip and studying his face, that face she knows so well, and she wonders if she'll ever know what's going on inside his head the way she used to. She wonders what's going to change, what further struggles they'll have to face now. Whether they'll manage them.

Jamie's eyelids flutter and then he looks back at her, blinking blearily. They look at one another for a long time, silent and still, as though quietly accepting their fate. Alison attempts a tentative smile, barely there. Jamie does not return it.

He checks his watch. "I get the shower first," he says, "I'm meeting Kate at eleven."

Maybe the words should make Alison's heart sink, but instead they send a feeling of relief right through her. Normality. It's promising, she's sure. "I'll race you for it," she says sleepily.

Jamie chuckles, flicking her on the nose. "All right," he says, shaking his head at her in amusement as she makes no move to get out of bed.

He heads into the bathroom, leaving the door open, and she rolls over, propping herself up on her elbow as she watches him pad about in there. "Forgot my razor, I'm using yours," he calls after a moment.

His voice might sound a little strained, but she could just as well be imagining it, so she just shakes her head and flops back down on the pillows. "Dirty thief," she mumbles, and in response she hears him laugh, a sudden burst, open and honest.

Only time will tell, but this morning, at least, the world does not end.

End.