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a/n: nobody asked for it, but I’ve decided that, after all, i’m going to publish the fic i told y'all about (even though it’s still unfinished) because i don’t want it to be forgotten in the drafts🍂. so, to avoid spoilers, know that ‘Do Me a Favour’ and ‘Riot Van’ are chapters in this story. i know i’ve got a lot of unfinished business, but that’s just something that happens to us writers, innit? and, as i’ve said before, it’s my blog, so really i can do what i please
here’s the first chapter, i hope you like it
Sheffield blues, London tunes
1 The View From... the Party
The thrum of the bass vibrated against Eliza's chest like a second heartbeat, beneath the dull ache behind her eyes. Sophie, a whirlwind of denim and unrestrained laughter, dragged her through the throng. Bodies pressed close, moistened with sweat and the cloying sweetness of cheap cider. The air, thick with cigarette smoke and adolescent hormones, hit her and made her pause mid-step.
Outside, not far from there, the skeletal remains of Sheffield’s industrial giants silhouetted against a bruised sky. It was 2003, and the city felt like a coiled spring about to release something.
"Oi, Eliza! Don't just stand there like a muppet!" Sophie's voice, sharp and unyielding, cut through the din. She tugged Eliza's hand, guiding her deeper into the kitchen, where a makeshift bar groaned under the weight of bottles and overflowing plastic cups.
Eliza followed reluctantly, taking in the scene with quiet fascination, her brain already sorting light from shadow, instinctively framing details. Sophie weaved through the crowd, greeting people with hugs and cheeky hellos, while Eliza let her friend's energy carry her along. Someone offered them a shot. Sophie downed it in one, Eliza hesitated for half a heartbeat, then followed, both of them immediately grimacing. Eliza silently hoped the ritual would end soon so Sophie could retreat to the dance floor, and she could find a corner of her own.
"There's Jamie an' Matt! I'm off t'say hi. You comin'?" Sophie's eyes sparkled. Eliza shook her head, her gaze sweeping over the faces. "Honestly, Li, you'd think you'd never seen a party before," Sophie tutted, though fondly, elbowing her gently. "Go on, get a drink, then."
Sophie, true to form, vanished into the eddy of bodies, leaving Eliza adrift. She edged towards the periphery, finding a small alcove by a bookshelf crammed with dog-eared paperbacks. The music, a jangly riff she half-recognised, felt less oppressive here. She watched the scene unfold, a silent observer, cataloguing the vibrant chaos: the way the light caught the glitter on someone's cheek, the subtle shift in body language as two people moved closer, the fleeting expressions that crossed faces. This was her world, but she often felt a familiar sense of distance, as if she belonged to the frame rather than the scene.
She glanced over at Sophie, who was already mingling with a cluster of young adults glowing with youthful energy. Jamie Cook, a loose-limbed figure with a ready grin, was already halfway through a story, hands gesturing wildly. Beside him, Matt Helders, a constant restless rhythm built into him, drummed an impatient pattern against the counter he was leaning on, his laugh booming above the music. Andy Nicholson, steady and soft-spoken, leaned against the fridge, a thoughtful expression on his face as he nursed a drink. And then, there was he. Alex Turner.
He stood slightly apart from the others, a dark-haired silhouette framed by the fairy lights strung across the window. His hair, a dishevelled mop, refused any attempt at order, falling across eyes that seemed to absorb everything without betraying a flicker of emotion. He was thin, all angles and quiet observation. He noticed her then, her gaze snagging his, across the crowded room. Something unreadable passed between them. He looked away first, colour betraying him, that mix of shyness and awareness he never quite managed to hide. Yet a strange force compelled him to start walking towards Eliza.
"Lost your chaperone, 'ave ya?" His voice was a raspy little murmur, barely audible above the music, but it cut through the noise with surprising clarity. He stood there, a plastic cup held loosely in one hand, his eyes, those deep brown pools, now fixed on her. They had an almost unnerving attentiveness.
"Summat like that," Eliza replied. She hadn't expected him to approach. They'd shared classes occasionally, passed in the corridors of the sprawling comprehensive, but they hadn't talked properly since Year Four, back when conversations were simpler.
"This is... summat, innit?" He gestured vaguely around the room with his cup, a wry twist to his lips. "Everyone's just millin' about, pretendin' they know what they're doin'."
A smile tugged at Eliza's lips. She shrugged. "Yeah... I don't even know anyone. I came 'ere with Soph, she's the social one. Had to push me way over somewhere quiet so I didn't get knocked about."
"Same 'ere," he said, grinning. "I just stood there pretendin' I'm enjoyin' it. Who the fuck's pickin' the music, honest?"
Her laughter unfurled, warm and a little tipsy. "Yeah, right?"
"So we're both expert party survivors then, eh?"
"Expert's pushin' it," she said, smiling. "More like gettin' by."
He chuckled, sipping his drink. "Fair enough. Bit better than just standin' like a spare prick in the corner, I s'pose." They both looked at Sophie, whose laugh suddenly rang across the room at something Jamie said. He glanced Eliza's way again. "Funny, innit? Same faces for years, never really spoke."
A blush creeped up across Eliza's cheeks. "Yeah... bit daft, that."
"We were proper tight at eight. Just drifted apart, I reckon." Alex said, taking another sip of his chosen poison for the night.
Eliza laughed softly. "Yeah... I remember that. There's this one moment that stuck in me head. Art class. Year Four. Mrs Clegg had us draw summat that reminded us of ourselves, and you went and did a pigeon." She snorted lightly.
His eyes widened slightly, and he turned his head to face her, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "The one with the wonky leg?" He barked a quick, honest laugh, shaking his head. "Aye, I were eight, didn't had a clue what it were meant to represent me!" he paused, the smile lingering, "You did that... that abstract thing. All blues and greys. It were brilliant."
Eliza felt a flush of pleasure. He'd noticed. He'd remembered. "It were meant to be the sky over city after rain."
"Yeah..." he breathed, a genuine smile now, a sudden flash of white teeth. "Yeah, I got that. You could almost smell wet tarmac." That made her laugh. He paused, then his gaze swept the room again, a flicker of boredom in his eyes. "So, you enjoyin' this.. fine display of teenage chaos?"
Eliza looked at the heaving mass of bodies, the shouting, the spilt drinks. "Honestly? I'd rather be curled up with a book or at least listenin' to decent tunes."
He nodded slowly, a thoughtful hum escaping him. "Yeah. I get that. Bassline's murderin' me ears, and I'm pretty sure someone just tried to do a headstand on the coffee table."
"Saw that. Impressive dedication, if nowt else."
"Dedication to makin' a right state of the place, maybe." He gulped his cup, a grimace forming. "This stuff tastes like bloody shite, no idea why I'm still drinkin' it."
Eliza huffed a laugh. "Sophie made me try it. Said it were meant to be punch."
"Punchin' you in the gut, more like." He raked a hand through his already unruly hair, a nervous energy running through him. "Fancy sackin' this off? Get a proper drink, if y'want?" He fiddled with the rim of his cup, eyes darting briefly to her, then back to the non-potable beverage.
The unexpected invitation hung for a beat. Eliza's heart gave a little lurch. She looked at him properly. There was an earnestness in his eyes, a shy hopefulness that belied his casual tone.
"A proper drink?" she repeated, testing the words.
"Yeah. A pint. Or whatever you fancy. I know a place— bit of a dive, but the landlord's sound. Might even stretch to servin' us." He gave a conspiratorial wink.
A smile blossomed on Eliza's face, genuine and unforced. The idea of escaping that pulsing box, of quiet conversation, of an honest pint, was suddenly irresistible. "Go on, then."
He straightened, a new energy sparking in his lean frame. "Right. Just gotta.. extract myself from the lads. Don't want 'em thinkin' I've done a runner again."
He navigated the crowd with an easy sort of agility, a quiet eddy forming around him as he spoke to his friends. Eliza watched, something ember-like settling inside her. She saw Jamie clap him on the shoulder, Matt offer a playful punch, and Andy nod his understanding. Sophie caught Eliza's eye and gave her a funny, questioning look, raising an eyebrow. Eliza just offered a slight shrug and a tiny catch you later tilt of her head.
A minute later, Alex reappeared beside her, a victorious glint in his eyes. "All clear. They're faffin' about, tryin' to get someone else to run music for a bit. Ready?"
They slipped out of the side door, the roar of the party sinking instantly behind them into the brickwork, replaced by the cool, crisp Sheffield night. The air suddenly tasted cleaner. A faint scent of damp earth and distant industry hung in the breeze. Headlights swept past on the main road, painting brief streaks of light across the pavement.
"It's just down 'ere," Alex murmured, leading her down a narrow, cobbled alleyway that smelled somewhat of stale urine and fumes. "Ain't far at all."
The pub—The Old Dog and Duck, down on Burncross Road—was every bit of the dive he'd promised. Its exterior was a mosaic of peeling paint and faded old signage. A single, flickering neon sign promising 'Real Ale'. Inside, the air was thick with the comforting aromas of hops and frying onions. It was sparsely populated, a scattering of grizzled regulars nursing pints at the bar, their conversations a low rumble.
"Alright, Geoff? You good?" Alex greeted the bartender, a burly man with a walrus moustache, as they approached the counter.
Geoff grunted, wiping a glass with a practised hand. "Alex, lad. What mischief's dragged you in at this ungodly hour? An' who's the lass?" His gaze, surprisingly gentle, settled on Eliza.
"This is Eliza. We were seekin' refuge from a rather aggressive house party. And we're in desperate need of somethin' that doesn't taste like a lab experiment gone wrong."
Geoff's lips twitched. "Aye, the youth o' today an' their concoctions. I've heard worse. Go on then, what you havin'? Looks like you two could do wi' a decent pint." He winked at Eliza.
Eliza felt a wave of relief, shoulders loosening at the lack of interrogation. No questions, no fuss. "A lager, please. Ta," she said, a little shyly.
"An' a Boddington for me, Geoff, if you're feelin' generous."
Geoff snorted, but poured them both drinks anyway. Alex glanced sideways at Eliza, the corner of his mouth tugging upward like he was trying not to look too pleased with himself.
They settled into a booth in a quiet corner, the velvet-worn seats surprisingly comfortable. The clinking of glasses, the low mumble of voices, the occasional burst of laughter from the bar: it was a symphony of calm compared to the party.
Eliza wrapped her hands around her glass, the condensation cool against her palms. Alex leaned back, stretching his long legs a little under the table.
"So, Geoff's your man, then?" Eliza asked, taking a grateful sip of her lager. It was cold, crisp, and utterly delicious.
"Yeah, Geoff's alright. Used to let us play our rubbish early stuff, before we figured out we actually had to learn our instruments." He grinned, a self-deprecating humour in his eyes. "He's got a good ear, mind. Tells us when we're onto summat, or when it's just noise."
"Soph says you're dead good."
He ducked his head slightly, a faint blush returning. "We're gettin' there, I guess. We just like playin', really. You should come down to rehearsal sometime." He took a long swallow of his beer. "Still on with your art, then? Photography, right?"
"Always. It's what I do, runs in family, I s'pose."
"Well, you had that eye for it, even back then." He leaned forward slightly, his eyes intent. "What's it look like to you? Right now?"
Eliza paused, taking in the pub around them—the dim lights, the dust motes drifting lazily, the amber glow of their pints. "The light catches dust in the air like tiny stars," said softly. She nodded towards the lamp, then let her gaze wander as she went on. "The way the wood grain on the table looks like a map of old rivers. The tired lines around Geoff's eyes, but the kindness that sits in 'em, too. The way your hair keeps fallin' into your eyes... and you keep pushin' it back, but it never stays."
Alex didn't look away once. He couldn't remember the last time anyone had spoken like that—not about things, nor him—but like the act of noticing itself mattered. "You notice all that?" he asked. The question came out rougher than he'd meant it to, edged with something dangerously close to wonder.
"Sometimes. It's just there."
"That's amazin'." He shook his head slowly, reseting himself. "I just see a dusty pub," he went on, lighter now. "A bloke with a moustache, and my fringe givin' me grief," He paused, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow. "Though..." He hesitated, then shrugged, like the thought had slipped out by accident. "I can hear things sometimes. Rhythm in how people talk, a melody in glasses clinkin'." He tipped his pint back, a deliberate mouthful, as if to ground himself. And just like that, the moment was folded away, tucked neatly behind the joke.
They talked then, easily, for what felt like hours. They spoke of school, of the suffocating boredom of some lessons and the rare sparks of inspiration in others. They talked about their dreams, tentative and unformed, but burning bright beneath the surface. He spoke of lyrics, of trying to capture the mundane beauty of their city, the overheard conversations, the ephemeral moments. Eliza spoke of colours, of light, of attempting to translate emotion through her lens. There was an easy flow to their conversation, a surprise comfort in their shared observations, a recognition of kindred spirits.
Geoff kept their glasses filled, a silent accomplice to their quiet rebellion. The beer flowed, slowly at first, then with increasing ease. A warm ease settled into their limbs. The initial shyness between them began to dissolve, replaced by a comfortable looseness that softened the edges of everything.
"Y'know," Alex said, words slurring just a touch, a wide, daft grin spreading across his face, "I reckon this beats watchin' some rascal do a headstand. Easy."
Eliza laughed, a rich, bubbly sound. Her cheeks felt hot now, her limbs pleasantly heavy. "Definitely. No risk of concussion."
"Only of... profound philosophical insights." He waved the empty glass vaguely between them. "Like, why are crisps so crunchy, eh? It's a mystery, Eliza. A true mystery, that."
They lingered longer than they meant to, caught in that easy loop of bad jokes and half-finished thoughts, until last orders came and even Geoff started giving them that look.
They stumbled out of The Old Dog and Duck sometime after midnight, the cold night air hitting them like a refreshing slap. The streets were deserted now—the only sounds were the distant hum of the city and their own muffled giggles.
"Woooah," Eliza exclaimed, as she nearly tripped over her own feet. Alex caught her arm softly, letting out a burst of laughter. "Oh shite, look at me, defyin' physics an' losin'" she chuckled.
"You're a rebel," he declared, grinning. "A gravitational anarchist."
They ambled up the street, their shoulders occasionally brushing, the contact sending a strange tingle through Eliza. The world felt softer, brighter, imbued with a gentle, hazy glow. A stray cat, sleek and black, darted across their path, its eyes glowing in the darkness.
"Saw that?" Alex whispered. "It's a ninja cat. Probably on a secret mission."
"Probably just lookin' for a late-night snack."
"Nah. Too stealthy for just a snack. It's on some secret ops." He leaned closer, his voice dropping dramatically low. "Bet it's droppin' off classified info to that pigeon with the gammy leg."
Eliza snorted, dissolving into another fit of giggles, and something disarming and unfamiliar bloomed in Alex's chest. The absurdity of it all—the late hour, the beer-induced silliness, the easy companionship—it was all a heady mix.
They reached Eliza's street, a quiet residential lane, not far from his, lined with neat terraced houses standing like tired sentries. The streetlights cast long, dancing shadows.
"This is me," Eliza said, pointing to her house, a soft sigh escaping her. The night felt too special to end.
Alex stopped, swaying slightly, his eyes still sparkling with mirth. "Well, Eliza Porter. That were quite the adventure."
"It were." She smiled up at him, her heart doing a little flutter. He smelled vaguely of beer, cigarettes, and something uniquely him—a clean, boyish scent, oddly comforting after everything.
He shuffled his feet, suddenly a little shy again. The playful bravado of the last hour seemed to recede, replaced by that familiar, soft intensity. "Had a proper good time, Li."
"Me too, Al," she replied softly.
They stood there for a moment, a stillness settled, comfortable yet charged. The air crackled with unspoken things. He glanced at her lips, the thought of tasting them—of not looking away just yet—intoxicating and far too tempting, before shame caught up with him and he dropped his gaze, staring down at his hand, wishing she hadn't noticed. Eliza's breath caught in her throat, as something trembled awake inside her.
Then, he took a small step back. "Right, best get you in. Don't want your mum frettin'."
The moment passed. An imperceptible disappointment pricked at Eliza, followed just as swiftly by a wash of relief. It was enough—for now.
"Thanks, Alex. For the proper drink. And the ninja cat intel."
He chuckled, low and dry. "Go on, then. Before I start actin' daft."
He watched her as she walked up the path, fumbling for her keys. She glanced back once. He was still standing there, a lone, dark figure under the streetlamp. Alex lifted his chin in a small, shy goodbye. Eliza waved back, a warm glow spreading through her as she slipped inside the quiet house.
The next morning, the world felt a little fuzzy, and a little brighter; even the sun had decided to show up for a while—half-hearted, but there all the same. The memory of the night before settled over her like warmth creeping back slowly into cold fingers the moment she opened her eyes.
She took a sip of her tea when Sophie burst into her room, all bright limbs and unchecked morning energy.
Her mum must have let her in, probably too tired after a late shift at the studio to bother scolding her for turning up unannounced on a Sunday morning—especially that early. She was far too used to Sophie behaving like a second daughter.
"Li! You're not gonna believe what happened after you bailed!" Sophie practically bounced on the edge of Eliza's bed, her eyes wide with excitement.
Eliza yawned. "What? Place burn down? DJ spontaneously combust?"
"Better!" Sophie said, grinning like she might split in two. "So, after you and Alex vanished—very mysterious, by the way—Jamie and I got talkin', and then..." Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, cheeks going pink as her fingers worried at the edge of Eliza's blanket. "We snogged, Liz. Like, properly. He walked me home after and everything."
Eliza's teacup tapped lightly against the saucer as she set it down, more a reflex than a spill. Jamie Cook. She pictured him easily enough—familiar, unremarkable in the way people often were until they suddenly weren't.
"Well," she said, a smile tugging at her mouth, "look at you." She reached out and nudged Sophie's knee with her own. "That's dead nice, Soph. I'm glad for you."
And she was. Sophie had been carrying that crush around for years.
"I know! An' get this, he said he'd text me! Pretty sure he wants to keep seein' me," Sophie practically squealed. She paused, then her eyes narrowed playfully, grin turning mischievous. "Right, your turn. What happened with Alex? Did you two finally admit your undyin' love for each other? Come on, spill!"
Eliza rolled her eyes, a smile playing on her lips. "Nowt happened, Soph. We just had a couple of pints and a chat." A beat. "He's dead nice, actually."
"I mean, he's nice... can be. But he's moody as owt... You're made for each other!" Sophie added with a teasing smirk. Eliza clicked her tongue at that.
"He's not moody, he's just thinky. And funny. Remembered Year Four stuff."
Sophie stared at her, then a slow grin spread across her face. "Well look at you, Eliza Ann Porter. Too good for all that teenage nonsense... havin' a crush. Didn't think you had it in ya."
Eliza felt a blush rise. "Pack it in, Soph. I've not got a crush."
"Oh, you so do! And d'you know what this means, don't tha?" Sophie clapped her hands together, eyes gleaming. "If Jamie and I are a thing, it's double dates! You'll see Alex loads! This is perfect!" Eliza rolled her eyes.
The morning settled into an easy hum after Sophie's exit. Eliza stayed where she was for a moment, her mug cooling between her palms, the steam long gone. She leaned back against the headboard, letting her eyes fall half shut.
A magpie called somewhere outside her window, a car followed, short-lived—High Green Sunday sounds.
Her stomach fluttered—she drew in a slow breath and let it settle. The day stretched ahead, slow and silver. And Eliza Porter found herself wondering when she might see Alex Turner again.
i would also like to share the different covers i created for the story. as you can see, i was absolutely obsessed with this project...
and yes, that used to be my pseudonym. ew!
