Ribs

"You're the only friend I need."

I sigh in a way that says 'I know', stirring the sugar into my Jack Skellington mug. Three sugars is an awful lot for someone already so sweet, I think to myself.

"I'm the only friend who makes you hot chocolate at half four in the morning," I say, turning to his always giggly, not so always disheveled self. "and the only friend who lets you in when you're so absolutely plastered."

"That," He points his finger at me, eyes crossing together over the flat bridge of his long nose, "is a true statement." He hiccups and snorts at his own delirium, hackney accent all slurred against the roof of his mouth. "Well done to you, clap clap!"

I can't help but smile, slowly sliding down the kitchen cabinet to join him on the tiles, at last the heated floor has come in handy. He accepts the hot chocolate gratefully, grinning at me with a set of crooked teeth and he says "Jack Skellington, I had a dream about him once. He was in my apartment making toast in just a pair of socks." He pauses, taking a sip from the mug. "At least, I think it was a dream. Y'never know, it could've just been Russell Brand."

Pulling my legs to my chest I let out a breath of laughter, although he's so smashed I'm not sure if he meant to be funny or not. Still, the man is a comedian, not just by nature. He's an artist, actor, dancer, goth, the sunshine kid of Camden, fuck knows what else. I tend to not pay a great deal of attention, only because I'm scared by how stolen I will feel.

"Where's your boyfriend tonight?" I ask, pressing my own mug against my teasing lips.

"Ha ha." He derides, "ditched him, didn't I. Caught him suckin' off some other ball bag in the club. Not a one man kinda' guy anyway, am I."

"Sorry, stud." I smirk, "What about your girlfriend?"

At this, his eyes sink a little. The baby blue of his irises darken and immediately I regret bringing the topic up, even if it had been a joke. Nevertheless, that jaunty grin of his never fades, and he says "Oh, well, y'know, somewhere."

"Oh," I say, "well why are you here instead of 'somewhere'? I'm sure that 'somewhere' is a whole lot better than this semi-detached house in south London."

"Got bored. Besides, I like south London."

"Bad night?"

"Oh, y'know... not brilliant."

I nod, toying with the hem of my pajama bottoms. "Well, I'm glad you're here, even if you do tread sludgy snow over the carpet with your silly Chelsea boots."

"You have the same boots, you indie retard." He laughs, voice less slurred now, but always bold and laced with something. "Still, I'm glad I'm here too. I don't like 'somewhere' all that much." His head lulls, the mop of black-scarlet hair covers his face, still damp from the snow outside. "Oh, I'm sleepy." He says through a yawn, and I say "Shall we go to bed?"

"Yea, why not."

I take his hand and somehow manage to haul him up with me, no matter how much taller or not-sober he may be. "You need to be quiet, though." I tell him as he half slips, half trips out of his boots. "My mum will go weird if she finds you in her house."

"Will she have a panic attack?" I can hear the amusement in his hushed words. "Will she go 'what's that thirty-odd lady-man from the telly doing in my daughters bedroom?', and stuff?"

I roll my eyes, pushing him up the stairs, probably a little too eagerly. "Yes, Noel. Something like that."