(no subject)
Day 10: Bonding Over Aspirin
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 3,335
Disclaimer: The story beneath the link is entirely fictional.
Okay guys. Better late than never I suppose. Just to set the record straight on one or two points:
I do NOT assume that all the children in China are starving. It's simply something my mother and grandmother always said to me, and I assume many of your mothers said it to you as well.
Although I may come out of this seeming like a girl who hates art I actually love it.
Okay. I think that's it.
*
Bonding Over Aspirin
John woke up nauseas with a headache while the sky was still grey. Blood throbbed through the vein in his right temple and he pressed it hard into the pillow. He squeezed his eyes shut then opened them again while Paul slept beneath his arm and under the covers. His stomach clenched and mouth watered, and he brought his knees up to his chest, bumping them into Paul and groaning a bit louder than necessary, twisting about until Paul looked over at him and spoke.
“I know the show hasn’t done yet.”
“What?”
Paul shook his head and rubbed his face, pushing the hair from his forehead while John lay still on the mattress.
“Why are we awake?”
John pushed his head deeper into the bedding.
“Headache.”
“Mmm.” Paul placed his hand heavily on John’s neck and ran it down to rub his shoulder. He sat up in the bed. “Close your eyes,” he said. “I have to turn on the light.” He reached over to click on the lamp between the beds. John covered his head with two layers of duvet and Paul slipped his feet to the dark wood floor. He rummaged through his bag, rustling and zipping, before slipping on his sleep pants and shuffling down the hall to the bathroom. The pipes in the wall groaned as the water ran, and John heard him return a moment later and crouch beside the bed.
“Johnny, here. Come out.”
Paul pulled the covers down off of John’s head and saw the light purple mark streaked across the bridge of his nose and beneath his eyes.
“Christ. No wonder you have a headache. Fuck. I’m sorry John.”
John squinted up at Paul.
“What is it then?”
“You’ve a bruise all along here,” said Paul, gently running his finger over it. “I’m sorry mate.”
John wiggled his nose a bit and reached up to trace the line Paul had drawn.
“It’s okay. Doesn’t hurt really. Only my head.”
“Here.”
Paul handed him two aspirin and a film canister of tap water.
“We don’t have a glass,” he said.
John set the white tablets on his tongue and downed the water like a shot of whiskey. The pills felt caught n his throat and he brought a hand up and swallowed again. He closed his eyes to block out the light.
“Come back under the covers.”
Paul tried to tamp down the grin that he felt pulling his mouth. He shed his pajamas and turned off the lamp, climbing back beside John in the vague shadows of predawn. He snuggled John close, kissing his nose carefully.
“I’m sorry Johnny. You can whack me with a book in the morning.”
“You’re fine Paul. And I can think of far more interesting uses for you and the Kama Sutra.”
He kissed Paul’s nose in return and worked his hands lower to rest between Paul’s thighs. Paul shivered.
“Your hands are bloody freezing.”
“But you’re warm,” murmured John, already drifting back to sleep.
Paul waited for sleep to claim him as well, but the room began to grow steadily lighter, taking on a warm glow, and he found himself instead examining John’s face as he slept. A first ray of sunlight beamed through their curtainless window to shine on John’s hair. Dust particles floated on the light, and Paul reached out to touch them. He let his hand hover over his friends head, imagining he could feel John’s energy radiating off of him and pushing against Paul. He moved his hand down John’s body, pushing the blankets aside as he went. The energy pulsed from him, and Paul wondered if this was something that belonged only to John. Wondered if he had energy like this around him, and what might happen when they touched and the two energies collided. He moved his hand back to John’s hair and was surprised when it felt only soft and welcoming.
“Is it morning?” whispered John. “Let’s get up.”
Outside the air was crisp and clear, invigorating. John’s cheeks grew rosy. The streets were empty still, and Paul and John walked quietly arm in arm, following their feet toward the river. John bought a still hot loaf of bread and they shared it quietly, watching the water slide past. Paul tossed a bit of crust to a seagull which swooped to pluck it from the air. He threw another piece, higher and farther, and soon they were feeding a small flock of birds, devising increasingly difficult throws to test the birds’ dexterity. John jumped from the bench and began imitating the gulls, catching bits of bread in his mouth. He was still prancing about squawking when a bird shit unceremoniously on his shoulder.
“Gross. Fuck. That’s fucking disgusting.”
He craned his neck away from the mess, hurrying back toward Paul who was laughing hysterically.
“Fucking stop laughing and get it off of me.”
Paul attempted to use the waxed paper bread wrapping to wipe John’s shoulder, and, when that failed, blotted it up with what was left of the bread. John promptly threw it at the birds with the advice to “Eat your own fucking shit.”
They walked on, wandering narrow public alleys and dawdling on the wider streets, gawking at the shop windows and street performers. Paul had a rock in his boot. He wasn’t sure how it got there except that his boots were lower to the ankle than John’s. The longer he tried to ignore its poking, though, the more it irritated him until he flopped on a bench and pulled the boot off his foot. John sat beside him, sliding closer along the bench until their legs touched. And Paul smiled, pleased at the contact, pleased that John had initiated it, and John caught his grin and smiled as well.
So Paul sat on a Parisian street corner, one foot in the gutter and the other in a black sock, the thin beginnings of a hole on the big toe, and he never wanted to go back home. Never wanted to go anywhere that he and John couldn’t walk, and talk, and eat, and sleep and do everything together. He thought of the slip of paper safeguarded in his front left pocket, It’s you Paul, and wondered if John didn’t feel the same.
John turned on the bench to squint at Paul.
“Do you miss Dot at all?”
There was silence for a moment while Paul blinked at John like a cow out to pasture. He had forgotten Dot existed, and for an instant the name seemed strangely foreign and out of place.
“No.” The world was out of his mouth before he decided to speak it. “Do you miss Cyn?”
John shook his head.
“I miss my guitar though.”
“Yeah.”
Paul pulled on his boot and stamped the ground to force his heel into place.
“So,” said John, “what do you want to do?”
“I don’t know,” shrugged Paul. “Something French. What do you want to do?”
“I kind of wanted to find the Mona Lisa,” John said quickly, “But if you don’t want to-”
“No. I mean, yeah. That’s fine. Let’s go.”
The Louvre was sprawling and confusing, and although they found the painting (“Gorgeous, but the size of a fucking postage stamp.”) the rest of the museum seemed an awe inspiring labyrinth of masterpieces and corridors, galleries and too few bathrooms. They set out in search of the Winged Victory, but when John suddenly stopped to examine the gold in the Judgment of Saint George, Paul kept walking and they lost sight of one another.
Paul wandered for what felt like years, up the Daru staircase, around the headless Nike and past innumerable ruins of Greek art and architecture. He waited by the statue at the top of the stairs, standing around and keeping watch for John before wondering if maybe John had given up on finding the statue and waited for him at the entrance to the museum.
John wandered through endless oil paintings of more saints than he knew existed. He could recognize the ones with clear clues to their identity, Thomas Aquinas with his skull cap and quill, Jerome with his book and skull, and James with his tall staff and seashell. The plaques were in French and no help to him, but he was somewhat startled to see how much of art history seemed to have stuck - especially since he spent most of it seated in the back of the hall with a somewhat miffed Stuart, making cracks about the bug eyed, droning professor who spit when he blathered. John wandered up and down floors, past Napoleon’s apartment and through massive collections of Egyptian artifacts, including his personal favorite, a bronze figurine entitled simply “Cat”. He sat on the floor and got reprimanded in French. He leaned in a doorway and got yelled at again, but this time in both French and English. He used the opportunity to ask directions, realized he was quite close to the statue, and soon found himself standing at the bottom of a spectacular staircase staring up at the same headless Nike that Paul had stood before just minutes before.
And so the afternoon wore on until each hallway loomed larger and each flight of steps seemed steeper than the last. By four thirty Paul was nearly beside himself, wondering whether to keep searching the museum or start back to their room, wondering if John knew the way back to the room, or if he had thought to bring his glasses. He never wanted to see another armless naked statue or painting of Jesus, and he had to go to the bathroom again. And then he saw John standing by the bathroom door and squinting up at the sign, trying to determine if it was the boys’ or girls’ room. Paul ran up and grabbed John from behind.
“John!”
“Paul!” John laughed and turned in his grasp. “I went to the statue, but I couldn’t find you.”
“Me too.” Paul released John. “That’s the women’s room by the way. Men’s is over here.”
John raised his eyebrows and grabbed Paul’s hand, pulling him giggling into the deserted men’s room. He pushed Paul playfully against the wall, pressing their closed mouths together in happy kisses that grew steadily longer. His hands slid purposefully lower, moving from Paul’s shoulders to waist, drifting to link around his hips. Paul sighed against him, and John opened his mouth, running his tongue suggestively along Paul’s full bottom lip. Paul’s lips parted and their tongues collided. The kisses stretched into one, long and heady and demanding. John pulled Paul away from the wall, pushing their jackets to the floor, breaking their connection momentarily before thrusting his tongue deep into Paul’s mouth. Paul’s lips pursed around it. He wound a hand through John’s hair, pushing their mouths tighter together.
John’s hands moved to squeeze Paul’s ass through his jeans, grabbing hold and yanking Paul’s hips closer, forcing his knee between Paul’s legs, groaning when Paul began to move rhythmically against his thigh. He slipped a hand beneath Paul’s waistband, feeling skin this time instead of denim. He felt cool air on his midriff as Paul un-tucked his shirt, snaking his free hand over John’s stomach. John shivered and gasped, then pulled away wide eyed, breaking their kiss, deciding abruptly to keep his hands quite to himself.
There was a loud slamming noise from the other side of the door and the sound of foreign laughter, and then Paul was gone, leaning heavily against the wall again blushing furiously. John stepped forward to rest alongside him. They stood panting; sweat drying on their brows, waiting for their arousal to subside. John turned to Paul and grinned, finding Paul’s hand and pulling them both down to sit on the bathroom floor.
“Have fun then Paulie?”
Paul adopted an air of mock annoyance before responding.
“None at all thanks to you. Getting me all excited then making me wait ‘til later.” And then, in a normal voice asked, “Do you think they saw us?”
John nodded.
“What difference does it make though? We’ll never see them again.”
“That’s true,” said Paul, holding John’s hand a little tighter, “And that was really quite the kiss.”
John smirked and squeezed Paul’s hand back.
“You did say you wanted to do something French today.”
Outside the museum the sky was darkening and the air had grown far more brisk since the early afternoon. Their shadows stretched tall as they walked back down the sidewalk. Paul’s stomach growled quietly and he wondered for the hundredth time in the last week why dinner in France was served so late. John seemed to be thinking along the same lines.
“I’m starving.”
Paul laughed and shook his head.
“You’re not starving John. The children in China are starving. We had breakfast.”
“Yeah, about a million years ago, and I know you’re hungry too because I heard your stomach just now. If you’re so worried about the starving children, we can stick your food in an envelope and go find a post office, but I’m buying a crepe from that fat old woman with the scarf.”
They shared it. Warm and delicious and dripping with sugar and butter, and when it was nearly gone John gave the last bite to Paul. The sun was nearly set when they dragged themselves up the stairs to their room, flinging off their boots as soon as they sat down. John lay back against the pillows, asleep almost immediately, and Paul decided to let him. Not like he’d gotten a good sleep the night before.
Paul didn’t wake John until nearly eight o’clock, using the time to sit next to John and think. He loved John. He’d known that long before they started this trip. But things had shifted for the better since then, and although Paul was comfortable with their relationship there was a part of him that ached to define it. What did this make him and John anyway? Lovers? Boyfriends? And what was going to happen when they found themselves back home? He didn’t have the answers, so he watched John’s chest rise and fall slowly with each heavy breath, his eyes darting through dreams beneath closed lids. He placed his hand atop John’s sternum and shook him gently until John forced open an eye.
“What time is it?”
“Quarter of eight.
John sat up and swung his feet down over the edge of the bed. The room was dark except for the light coming in from beneath the door to the hallway and the street below. A siren blared outside the window and faded into the night.
“Let’s go then.”
Paul nodded and ran a comb through his hair.
“Does your head hurt anymore at all?”
John reached up and ran a hand through his hair as if testing his head for lumps. He grabbed his glasses from the table between the two beds, knowing that with a less squinting and some dinner he would feel fine.
“Nah. Did a bit before I fell asleep. Do you want something with mashed potatoes, because I feel like I haven’t seen them in about ten years, and if I saw a plate right now it would be a fucking From Here to Eternity moment. Or beans on toast.”
Paul laughed.
“I would love mashed potatoes,” he nodded, “But I have no idea how to say ‘mashed’ in French.”
“What? Mr. A Level, doesn’t know ‘mashed potatoes’ in French?”
“And what exactly can you say?”
“Ballet, bouquet, parfait…”
“Any words that don’t rhyme?”
“Bonjour.”
They did get mashed potatoes. They weren’t hard to find, but John had an interesting time listening to Paul try to explain their order to their waiter, finally resorting to a crude form of sign language while speaking very loudly in English.
“That was good Paul. Everyone should be able to understand English if you only yell enough.”
“I got the point across didn’t I? Besides, I suspect he knew exactly what we were saying and was letting me put on a show for his own amusement.”
“Him and me both. I nearly busted a gut trying not to laugh out loud at your mashed potato pantomime.” John waved his arms in a wild imitation of Paul mashing invisible potatoes. “If we could get you to shut up for two seconds you could be the new Marcel Marceau, and I’d have to start calling you Bip, buy some white makeup…”
“Shut up and eat your potatoes John, or I’ll call the waiter back over here and act out calves’ brains and snails and we’ll see who’s laughing then.”
John kicked Paul beneath the table, and Paul reached over and stole a big forkful from John’s plate. John raised his eyebrows and took a gulp of Paul’s Coke. He grinned and swiped the whole rim of the glass with his tongue before handing it back to a smiling Paul.
They stopped for coffee instead of going for beers, asking the waitress simply for café crème. Her skirt was short, but the shirt was black and cut almost too low. Paul and John could see the tops of her breasts rise and fall with each breath as she spoke. She had written their order on her little tablet, raising an eyebrow at John and swaying her hips back to the counter to place the order. When she returned it was with two coffees and a note on a paper napkin - a picture of a heart and the name Renee, and beneath that a line in French that they interpreted as “Work ends at midnight.”
Paul looked up from the napkin at John and forced a grin, trying to appear excited. And he would have been, Renee seemed vivacious and ready for it, but Paul didn’t know that he wanted to share John with her. All day long there had been no one else to come between them but now there was this waitress. She had long and tousled dark hair, cleavage and painted nails, and Paul couldn’t compete with any of that.
The coffee was strong and warm, and John took a sip. He gazed over the cup at Paul and felt his stomach swoop. One look at that pathetic half-smile and John wanted nothing to do with Renee. What would be the point?
“Renee means reborn,” Murmured Paul, struggling through his discomfort and into conversation. “She’s very pretty.”
John took another sip of coffee, wishing that the girl’s infatuation might have led to some sort of pastry instead of an invitation.
“Friendly too,” Paul soldiered on, “And um…”
“Well endowed?”
“Yeah.”
“My head is fucking pounding,” interrupted John. He removed his glasses and folded down the ear pieces.
Paul looked concerned. John wasn’t one to complain, and the bruise on his face made Paul feel awful.
“I don’t have anything with me,” he said. “Maybe we could ask someone.”
John carefully shook his head.
“Do you mind if we just go back?
Paul covered his relief well, calmly standing up and zipping his jacket. He placed John’s glasses in his own pocket, knowing that they would only make the headache worse, and extended a hand to help him to his feet.
“What about Renee?” asked Paul.
“What about her?”
All the way to their room John allowed Paul to guide him with a hand on his shoulder. Paul gave him two more aspirin and tucked him into bed. The building was silent save Paul’s shuffling feet as he changed into his pajamas and shut off the light. He climbed into the bed beside John, burrowing beneath the blankets and gently rubbing John’s back. He felt both their bodies relax in the darkness.
“John?” he whispered.
“Yeah?”
“Did you really need those aspirins?”
John said nothing for nearly a minute, and Paul worried he had guessed it wrong.
“No.”
Paul smiled and kept his hand moving gently across John’s back.
“John?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s you, too.”
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 3,335
Disclaimer: The story beneath the link is entirely fictional.
Okay guys. Better late than never I suppose. Just to set the record straight on one or two points:
I do NOT assume that all the children in China are starving. It's simply something my mother and grandmother always said to me, and I assume many of your mothers said it to you as well.
Although I may come out of this seeming like a girl who hates art I actually love it.
Okay. I think that's it.
*
Bonding Over Aspirin
John woke up nauseas with a headache while the sky was still grey. Blood throbbed through the vein in his right temple and he pressed it hard into the pillow. He squeezed his eyes shut then opened them again while Paul slept beneath his arm and under the covers. His stomach clenched and mouth watered, and he brought his knees up to his chest, bumping them into Paul and groaning a bit louder than necessary, twisting about until Paul looked over at him and spoke.
“I know the show hasn’t done yet.”
“What?”
Paul shook his head and rubbed his face, pushing the hair from his forehead while John lay still on the mattress.
“Why are we awake?”
John pushed his head deeper into the bedding.
“Headache.”
“Mmm.” Paul placed his hand heavily on John’s neck and ran it down to rub his shoulder. He sat up in the bed. “Close your eyes,” he said. “I have to turn on the light.” He reached over to click on the lamp between the beds. John covered his head with two layers of duvet and Paul slipped his feet to the dark wood floor. He rummaged through his bag, rustling and zipping, before slipping on his sleep pants and shuffling down the hall to the bathroom. The pipes in the wall groaned as the water ran, and John heard him return a moment later and crouch beside the bed.
“Johnny, here. Come out.”
Paul pulled the covers down off of John’s head and saw the light purple mark streaked across the bridge of his nose and beneath his eyes.
“Christ. No wonder you have a headache. Fuck. I’m sorry John.”
John squinted up at Paul.
“What is it then?”
“You’ve a bruise all along here,” said Paul, gently running his finger over it. “I’m sorry mate.”
John wiggled his nose a bit and reached up to trace the line Paul had drawn.
“It’s okay. Doesn’t hurt really. Only my head.”
“Here.”
Paul handed him two aspirin and a film canister of tap water.
“We don’t have a glass,” he said.
John set the white tablets on his tongue and downed the water like a shot of whiskey. The pills felt caught n his throat and he brought a hand up and swallowed again. He closed his eyes to block out the light.
“Come back under the covers.”
Paul tried to tamp down the grin that he felt pulling his mouth. He shed his pajamas and turned off the lamp, climbing back beside John in the vague shadows of predawn. He snuggled John close, kissing his nose carefully.
“I’m sorry Johnny. You can whack me with a book in the morning.”
“You’re fine Paul. And I can think of far more interesting uses for you and the Kama Sutra.”
He kissed Paul’s nose in return and worked his hands lower to rest between Paul’s thighs. Paul shivered.
“Your hands are bloody freezing.”
“But you’re warm,” murmured John, already drifting back to sleep.
Paul waited for sleep to claim him as well, but the room began to grow steadily lighter, taking on a warm glow, and he found himself instead examining John’s face as he slept. A first ray of sunlight beamed through their curtainless window to shine on John’s hair. Dust particles floated on the light, and Paul reached out to touch them. He let his hand hover over his friends head, imagining he could feel John’s energy radiating off of him and pushing against Paul. He moved his hand down John’s body, pushing the blankets aside as he went. The energy pulsed from him, and Paul wondered if this was something that belonged only to John. Wondered if he had energy like this around him, and what might happen when they touched and the two energies collided. He moved his hand back to John’s hair and was surprised when it felt only soft and welcoming.
“Is it morning?” whispered John. “Let’s get up.”
Outside the air was crisp and clear, invigorating. John’s cheeks grew rosy. The streets were empty still, and Paul and John walked quietly arm in arm, following their feet toward the river. John bought a still hot loaf of bread and they shared it quietly, watching the water slide past. Paul tossed a bit of crust to a seagull which swooped to pluck it from the air. He threw another piece, higher and farther, and soon they were feeding a small flock of birds, devising increasingly difficult throws to test the birds’ dexterity. John jumped from the bench and began imitating the gulls, catching bits of bread in his mouth. He was still prancing about squawking when a bird shit unceremoniously on his shoulder.
“Gross. Fuck. That’s fucking disgusting.”
He craned his neck away from the mess, hurrying back toward Paul who was laughing hysterically.
“Fucking stop laughing and get it off of me.”
Paul attempted to use the waxed paper bread wrapping to wipe John’s shoulder, and, when that failed, blotted it up with what was left of the bread. John promptly threw it at the birds with the advice to “Eat your own fucking shit.”
They walked on, wandering narrow public alleys and dawdling on the wider streets, gawking at the shop windows and street performers. Paul had a rock in his boot. He wasn’t sure how it got there except that his boots were lower to the ankle than John’s. The longer he tried to ignore its poking, though, the more it irritated him until he flopped on a bench and pulled the boot off his foot. John sat beside him, sliding closer along the bench until their legs touched. And Paul smiled, pleased at the contact, pleased that John had initiated it, and John caught his grin and smiled as well.
So Paul sat on a Parisian street corner, one foot in the gutter and the other in a black sock, the thin beginnings of a hole on the big toe, and he never wanted to go back home. Never wanted to go anywhere that he and John couldn’t walk, and talk, and eat, and sleep and do everything together. He thought of the slip of paper safeguarded in his front left pocket, It’s you Paul, and wondered if John didn’t feel the same.
John turned on the bench to squint at Paul.
“Do you miss Dot at all?”
There was silence for a moment while Paul blinked at John like a cow out to pasture. He had forgotten Dot existed, and for an instant the name seemed strangely foreign and out of place.
“No.” The world was out of his mouth before he decided to speak it. “Do you miss Cyn?”
John shook his head.
“I miss my guitar though.”
“Yeah.”
Paul pulled on his boot and stamped the ground to force his heel into place.
“So,” said John, “what do you want to do?”
“I don’t know,” shrugged Paul. “Something French. What do you want to do?”
“I kind of wanted to find the Mona Lisa,” John said quickly, “But if you don’t want to-”
“No. I mean, yeah. That’s fine. Let’s go.”
The Louvre was sprawling and confusing, and although they found the painting (“Gorgeous, but the size of a fucking postage stamp.”) the rest of the museum seemed an awe inspiring labyrinth of masterpieces and corridors, galleries and too few bathrooms. They set out in search of the Winged Victory, but when John suddenly stopped to examine the gold in the Judgment of Saint George, Paul kept walking and they lost sight of one another.
Paul wandered for what felt like years, up the Daru staircase, around the headless Nike and past innumerable ruins of Greek art and architecture. He waited by the statue at the top of the stairs, standing around and keeping watch for John before wondering if maybe John had given up on finding the statue and waited for him at the entrance to the museum.
John wandered through endless oil paintings of more saints than he knew existed. He could recognize the ones with clear clues to their identity, Thomas Aquinas with his skull cap and quill, Jerome with his book and skull, and James with his tall staff and seashell. The plaques were in French and no help to him, but he was somewhat startled to see how much of art history seemed to have stuck - especially since he spent most of it seated in the back of the hall with a somewhat miffed Stuart, making cracks about the bug eyed, droning professor who spit when he blathered. John wandered up and down floors, past Napoleon’s apartment and through massive collections of Egyptian artifacts, including his personal favorite, a bronze figurine entitled simply “Cat”. He sat on the floor and got reprimanded in French. He leaned in a doorway and got yelled at again, but this time in both French and English. He used the opportunity to ask directions, realized he was quite close to the statue, and soon found himself standing at the bottom of a spectacular staircase staring up at the same headless Nike that Paul had stood before just minutes before.
And so the afternoon wore on until each hallway loomed larger and each flight of steps seemed steeper than the last. By four thirty Paul was nearly beside himself, wondering whether to keep searching the museum or start back to their room, wondering if John knew the way back to the room, or if he had thought to bring his glasses. He never wanted to see another armless naked statue or painting of Jesus, and he had to go to the bathroom again. And then he saw John standing by the bathroom door and squinting up at the sign, trying to determine if it was the boys’ or girls’ room. Paul ran up and grabbed John from behind.
“John!”
“Paul!” John laughed and turned in his grasp. “I went to the statue, but I couldn’t find you.”
“Me too.” Paul released John. “That’s the women’s room by the way. Men’s is over here.”
John raised his eyebrows and grabbed Paul’s hand, pulling him giggling into the deserted men’s room. He pushed Paul playfully against the wall, pressing their closed mouths together in happy kisses that grew steadily longer. His hands slid purposefully lower, moving from Paul’s shoulders to waist, drifting to link around his hips. Paul sighed against him, and John opened his mouth, running his tongue suggestively along Paul’s full bottom lip. Paul’s lips parted and their tongues collided. The kisses stretched into one, long and heady and demanding. John pulled Paul away from the wall, pushing their jackets to the floor, breaking their connection momentarily before thrusting his tongue deep into Paul’s mouth. Paul’s lips pursed around it. He wound a hand through John’s hair, pushing their mouths tighter together.
John’s hands moved to squeeze Paul’s ass through his jeans, grabbing hold and yanking Paul’s hips closer, forcing his knee between Paul’s legs, groaning when Paul began to move rhythmically against his thigh. He slipped a hand beneath Paul’s waistband, feeling skin this time instead of denim. He felt cool air on his midriff as Paul un-tucked his shirt, snaking his free hand over John’s stomach. John shivered and gasped, then pulled away wide eyed, breaking their kiss, deciding abruptly to keep his hands quite to himself.
There was a loud slamming noise from the other side of the door and the sound of foreign laughter, and then Paul was gone, leaning heavily against the wall again blushing furiously. John stepped forward to rest alongside him. They stood panting; sweat drying on their brows, waiting for their arousal to subside. John turned to Paul and grinned, finding Paul’s hand and pulling them both down to sit on the bathroom floor.
“Have fun then Paulie?”
Paul adopted an air of mock annoyance before responding.
“None at all thanks to you. Getting me all excited then making me wait ‘til later.” And then, in a normal voice asked, “Do you think they saw us?”
John nodded.
“What difference does it make though? We’ll never see them again.”
“That’s true,” said Paul, holding John’s hand a little tighter, “And that was really quite the kiss.”
John smirked and squeezed Paul’s hand back.
“You did say you wanted to do something French today.”
Outside the museum the sky was darkening and the air had grown far more brisk since the early afternoon. Their shadows stretched tall as they walked back down the sidewalk. Paul’s stomach growled quietly and he wondered for the hundredth time in the last week why dinner in France was served so late. John seemed to be thinking along the same lines.
“I’m starving.”
Paul laughed and shook his head.
“You’re not starving John. The children in China are starving. We had breakfast.”
“Yeah, about a million years ago, and I know you’re hungry too because I heard your stomach just now. If you’re so worried about the starving children, we can stick your food in an envelope and go find a post office, but I’m buying a crepe from that fat old woman with the scarf.”
They shared it. Warm and delicious and dripping with sugar and butter, and when it was nearly gone John gave the last bite to Paul. The sun was nearly set when they dragged themselves up the stairs to their room, flinging off their boots as soon as they sat down. John lay back against the pillows, asleep almost immediately, and Paul decided to let him. Not like he’d gotten a good sleep the night before.
Paul didn’t wake John until nearly eight o’clock, using the time to sit next to John and think. He loved John. He’d known that long before they started this trip. But things had shifted for the better since then, and although Paul was comfortable with their relationship there was a part of him that ached to define it. What did this make him and John anyway? Lovers? Boyfriends? And what was going to happen when they found themselves back home? He didn’t have the answers, so he watched John’s chest rise and fall slowly with each heavy breath, his eyes darting through dreams beneath closed lids. He placed his hand atop John’s sternum and shook him gently until John forced open an eye.
“What time is it?”
“Quarter of eight.
John sat up and swung his feet down over the edge of the bed. The room was dark except for the light coming in from beneath the door to the hallway and the street below. A siren blared outside the window and faded into the night.
“Let’s go then.”
Paul nodded and ran a comb through his hair.
“Does your head hurt anymore at all?”
John reached up and ran a hand through his hair as if testing his head for lumps. He grabbed his glasses from the table between the two beds, knowing that with a less squinting and some dinner he would feel fine.
“Nah. Did a bit before I fell asleep. Do you want something with mashed potatoes, because I feel like I haven’t seen them in about ten years, and if I saw a plate right now it would be a fucking From Here to Eternity moment. Or beans on toast.”
Paul laughed.
“I would love mashed potatoes,” he nodded, “But I have no idea how to say ‘mashed’ in French.”
“What? Mr. A Level, doesn’t know ‘mashed potatoes’ in French?”
“And what exactly can you say?”
“Ballet, bouquet, parfait…”
“Any words that don’t rhyme?”
“Bonjour.”
They did get mashed potatoes. They weren’t hard to find, but John had an interesting time listening to Paul try to explain their order to their waiter, finally resorting to a crude form of sign language while speaking very loudly in English.
“That was good Paul. Everyone should be able to understand English if you only yell enough.”
“I got the point across didn’t I? Besides, I suspect he knew exactly what we were saying and was letting me put on a show for his own amusement.”
“Him and me both. I nearly busted a gut trying not to laugh out loud at your mashed potato pantomime.” John waved his arms in a wild imitation of Paul mashing invisible potatoes. “If we could get you to shut up for two seconds you could be the new Marcel Marceau, and I’d have to start calling you Bip, buy some white makeup…”
“Shut up and eat your potatoes John, or I’ll call the waiter back over here and act out calves’ brains and snails and we’ll see who’s laughing then.”
John kicked Paul beneath the table, and Paul reached over and stole a big forkful from John’s plate. John raised his eyebrows and took a gulp of Paul’s Coke. He grinned and swiped the whole rim of the glass with his tongue before handing it back to a smiling Paul.
They stopped for coffee instead of going for beers, asking the waitress simply for café crème. Her skirt was short, but the shirt was black and cut almost too low. Paul and John could see the tops of her breasts rise and fall with each breath as she spoke. She had written their order on her little tablet, raising an eyebrow at John and swaying her hips back to the counter to place the order. When she returned it was with two coffees and a note on a paper napkin - a picture of a heart and the name Renee, and beneath that a line in French that they interpreted as “Work ends at midnight.”
Paul looked up from the napkin at John and forced a grin, trying to appear excited. And he would have been, Renee seemed vivacious and ready for it, but Paul didn’t know that he wanted to share John with her. All day long there had been no one else to come between them but now there was this waitress. She had long and tousled dark hair, cleavage and painted nails, and Paul couldn’t compete with any of that.
The coffee was strong and warm, and John took a sip. He gazed over the cup at Paul and felt his stomach swoop. One look at that pathetic half-smile and John wanted nothing to do with Renee. What would be the point?
“Renee means reborn,” Murmured Paul, struggling through his discomfort and into conversation. “She’s very pretty.”
John took another sip of coffee, wishing that the girl’s infatuation might have led to some sort of pastry instead of an invitation.
“Friendly too,” Paul soldiered on, “And um…”
“Well endowed?”
“Yeah.”
“My head is fucking pounding,” interrupted John. He removed his glasses and folded down the ear pieces.
Paul looked concerned. John wasn’t one to complain, and the bruise on his face made Paul feel awful.
“I don’t have anything with me,” he said. “Maybe we could ask someone.”
John carefully shook his head.
“Do you mind if we just go back?
Paul covered his relief well, calmly standing up and zipping his jacket. He placed John’s glasses in his own pocket, knowing that they would only make the headache worse, and extended a hand to help him to his feet.
“What about Renee?” asked Paul.
“What about her?”
All the way to their room John allowed Paul to guide him with a hand on his shoulder. Paul gave him two more aspirin and tucked him into bed. The building was silent save Paul’s shuffling feet as he changed into his pajamas and shut off the light. He climbed into the bed beside John, burrowing beneath the blankets and gently rubbing John’s back. He felt both their bodies relax in the darkness.
“John?” he whispered.
“Yeah?”
“Did you really need those aspirins?”
John said nothing for nearly a minute, and Paul worried he had guessed it wrong.
“No.”
Paul smiled and kept his hand moving gently across John’s back.
“John?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s you, too.”