FIC: First Anniversary (Hollyoaks) (1/1)
Title: First Anniversary
Rating: R-ish for some sexual dialogue
Pairing: JP/Craig and OB/Max
Summary: This is basically continuing my first story, Lucky. John Paul and OB each remember an anniversary. I'm not mentioning specific dates, as I don't really know them, but this will be September 2007 looking back at September 2006. Any feedback you have, I appreciate!
"How do I look?"
Max was getting ready for his first date with Steph, and, being his best mate, OB was naturally supposed to give him advice. Swigging a bottle of soda and leaning against the kitchen counter, OB tried his best to be supportive.
"You look like crap."
OK, not so supportive.
Max playfully pointed a stern finger at his friend.
"This is serious business! How do I look?"
Max did a little pose, like he was on Top Model. He was wearing a baby blue dress shirt with just enough buttons undone to offer a glimpse of his chest hair, and black trousers cut snugly enough to hint at a cute bum hiding underneath the fabric. OB was tempted to grab a handful and pass it off as just a friendly joke.
Instead, he put his soft drink down and gave a more hetero-appropriate whistle and catcall.
Max blushed, but truly appreciated the compliment. A goofy grin was plastered all over his face.
"So if you were a babe, you'd go for me?"
OB smirked and shook his head. This was all kind of funny in a sad way. He appreciated the humor of the moment, considering the difficult day he'd have tomorrow. He looked at Max again, beyond the initial humorous reaction he'd had to Max's question. He was surprised at just how much his friend needed the validation. Oh those puppy dog eyes...
"I'd go for you even if I wasn't a babe."
Both men seemed surprised at the comment, or maybe moreso the huskiness with which OB delivered it. This time OB was the one blushing, and quickly looking down at his feet. Good thing Max probably didn't know OB wasn't joking, good thing Max was so thick...and somehow, OB realized that thinking about Max and thickness right now was not a good way to bring down his lust levels.
Max broke up the awkward moment with a quick thanks before going back to the bathroom to check himself in the mirror. If Max paused in the doorway to look at OB one last time, OB didn't notice.
--
John Paul knew he should have been doing something productive. Only so many hours in a day, he was starting at HCC, blah blah blah. Instead he was stretched out on his bed, thinking back to a year ago and how much his life had changed in that time. Everything had changed for just about everyone in the McQueen brood, but all he could think about was (who else) Craig.
Had it only been a year since he and Craig had first met? Until John Paul had actually gotten to know Craig, he'd thought of him as...well...just a nerd, the brainy one who'd let everyone in school know he couldn't wait to get away from the place. He still remembered that scared yet proud young man who put up with day after day of torment from Sonny and Justin. Even though they were almost strangers, John Paul had pulled the fire alarm to save Craig from a beating. He'd barely known Craig, yet he'd felt that urge to save Craig, to protect him. When Craig had found out who was responsible for the rescue, he and John Paul became fast friends. What John Paul had noticed the most was the intensity; no one he had ever met, or likely would ever meet, had as much intensity as Craig Dean. His eyes flashed hate, love, and most of all, passion.
As John Paul closed his eyes, he remembered those hands, those hands trembling after Sonny had stepped on them. Those hands folded over John Paul's own as Craig had confided he'd never really had a friend until John Paul. Those hands on him as they sloppily drunk-kissed in the gym. Those hands pummeling John Paul, bloodying his flesh and leaving him with wounds which could never be fully healed. Those hands playfully grabbing him, tenderly bringing him into an embrace, carefully slipping John Paul's sweaters off his head, angrily ripping the buttons off his shirts, lazily tracing down his smooth skin, furiously jerking him off, methodically slipping inside his most private area, controlling his entire being with that one finger.
Those hands which refused to hold him in the airport.
Every day John Paul told himself he had no future with Craig. Every day he hoped he would wake up and the pain would be gone. And yet, every day, he missed the touch of those soft hands.
"Happy anniversary, Craig," he muttered.
"I love you."
--
OB had never told Mel that he loved her. Even at her funeral. The words in his throat, so close, so near. Unspoken. He had wanted nothing more than to love Mel. In his own way, maybe he had loved her. But he couldn't cheapen her memory by lying to her, no matter how much better he might have made himself feel.
The flowers at their grave today were beautiful, a fitting tribute for Mel and Sophie Burton. An array of their favorite bouquets. Sophie especially loved flowers. Mel was more practical.
Sitting on his knees and trying to ignore the pebbles cutting through his jeans, OB read a few cards. From their mother. From their brother, Justin, who did love his sisters dearly. A huge display from their friend and employer Louise. And a small note from Max. Max knew how much OB had cared about Mel. He was sure if he'd told Max he was coming to her grave, Max would've come along, but OB wanted to be alone.
OB just had a yellow rose. On one of his dates with Mel, they'd watched an old DVD, cowboys in black and white singing along to "Yellow Rose of Texas". Eventually, Mel and OB had joined in, complete with very, very bad cowboy twangs. It was one of the few times he'd ever seen Mel laughing and enjoying herself.
It was a little over a year ago that OB had been in the Dog, the old familiar pub, awash in flames and chaos thanks to psychopathic Sam Owen dousing the place with kerosene. Crazy, brave Mel had been one of those grabbing to try to get the lighter out of his hand, and when the lighter dropped, Mel was one of the first to die. The irony of a woman who'd finally managed to conquer her alcoholism dying in a pub. The sight of her corpse still haunted OB's dreams. He'd tried to save Sophie, but Sam had hit him in the head. He'd woken up in the hospital to learn it wasn't just Mel who'd died that day, or even Sophie, but also any remnants of the friendship between Max and OB. Mel had had video proof of what a lying slut Clare was, but Clare destroyed it and once again OB was left with nothing but his word against hers. Once again, Max had chosen Clare over OB. OB had to recover from his injuries, physical and mental, with no one but Tony to care about him. That had been the lowest, loneliest point of OB's life, and as much as he loved Max, as much as they'd papered over that very dark period, he wasn't sure he'd ever fully forgive Max for his blindness.
OB cursed himself for his selfishness. He was here to mourn Mel, not think about Max. He missed her and the potential of what she was becoming and what she brought to the people around her. He tried to figure out what he could say, if there was anything he could say. At first he wanted to ask her to tell someone hello, but he laughed bitterly as he realized so many of his loved ones were dead, he'd have to put them on a waiting list.
As he began to stand up, his wallet slipped out of his pocket. He picked up the few items which had scattered, including the photo of Craig Dean and John Paul McQueen that John Paul had left behind in MOBS. He'd have to drop that off on his way back home. He began to think about Max again, how close Max had been to death, how he didn't want Max to die without knowing how OB felt about him. OB knew it was getting more and more difficult to keep his feelings quiet.
OB touched his hand against the cold tombstone. He kissed the fingertips of his other hand, placing them by Mel's name. This was the closest thing to the goodbye they'd never had. Still unsure of what to say, he looked at his single yellow rose for inspiration. Clearing his throat, he began to sing in a somewhat off-key voice.
There's a yellow rose in Texas, that I am going to see,
Nobody else could miss her, not half as much as me.
She cried so when I left her, it like to broke my heart,
And if I ever find her, we nevermore will part.
--
Myra could usually tell when John Paul was having a down day. Today, John Paul had spent most of his time in his room, and when he'd finally come downstairs, he immediately gravitated to the couch, dead to the world. She'd experienced more than her share of young love, including the heartbreak, but John Paul's love for Craig was so all-consuming, it worried her. Her son was never happier than when he was with Craig, but he never really was with him. If only she could help make Craig into a better man, like Dominic or Russ or Tony. But if she did, would John Paul still be interested?
Her mental rambling was cut off by a knock on the door. She quickly answered to find, what was his name...
"BO?"
OB managed to give her a polite chuckle. He hadn't heard that one since school.
"OB. Sam O'Brien. I just wanted to drop something off to your son."
Myra wasn't sure what was going on, but she let OB in. OB and John Paul were only distant acquaintances, at best, yet she felt some unspoken bond between them.
"You left this at MOBS," OB flatly said as he handed John Paul his photo with Craig.
"Thanks."
More silence. A flicker of pain crossed John Paul's face as he pocketed the photo. He still had a hard time dealing with just how lonely he was without Craig. John Paul wasn't quite sure why, but he didn't want OB to leave just yet. He had few friends left in town and even though he barely knew OB, he felt like the older man could be a friend. Or at least someone who knew what he was going through. The problem was they had so little in common besides that one bond. John Paul, looking at OB, sensed OB felt the same way.
As OB was about to leave, John Paul came up with the tie that binds most men together.
"There's a match on in 15 minutes. Wanna watch?"
OB could hardly turn down a good football match. He joined John Paul on the sofa, and what had been a sad anniversary became the beginnings of a friendship.
Rating: R-ish for some sexual dialogue
Pairing: JP/Craig and OB/Max
Summary: This is basically continuing my first story, Lucky. John Paul and OB each remember an anniversary. I'm not mentioning specific dates, as I don't really know them, but this will be September 2007 looking back at September 2006. Any feedback you have, I appreciate!
"How do I look?"
Max was getting ready for his first date with Steph, and, being his best mate, OB was naturally supposed to give him advice. Swigging a bottle of soda and leaning against the kitchen counter, OB tried his best to be supportive.
"You look like crap."
OK, not so supportive.
Max playfully pointed a stern finger at his friend.
"This is serious business! How do I look?"
Max did a little pose, like he was on Top Model. He was wearing a baby blue dress shirt with just enough buttons undone to offer a glimpse of his chest hair, and black trousers cut snugly enough to hint at a cute bum hiding underneath the fabric. OB was tempted to grab a handful and pass it off as just a friendly joke.
Instead, he put his soft drink down and gave a more hetero-appropriate whistle and catcall.
Max blushed, but truly appreciated the compliment. A goofy grin was plastered all over his face.
"So if you were a babe, you'd go for me?"
OB smirked and shook his head. This was all kind of funny in a sad way. He appreciated the humor of the moment, considering the difficult day he'd have tomorrow. He looked at Max again, beyond the initial humorous reaction he'd had to Max's question. He was surprised at just how much his friend needed the validation. Oh those puppy dog eyes...
"I'd go for you even if I wasn't a babe."
Both men seemed surprised at the comment, or maybe moreso the huskiness with which OB delivered it. This time OB was the one blushing, and quickly looking down at his feet. Good thing Max probably didn't know OB wasn't joking, good thing Max was so thick...and somehow, OB realized that thinking about Max and thickness right now was not a good way to bring down his lust levels.
Max broke up the awkward moment with a quick thanks before going back to the bathroom to check himself in the mirror. If Max paused in the doorway to look at OB one last time, OB didn't notice.
--
John Paul knew he should have been doing something productive. Only so many hours in a day, he was starting at HCC, blah blah blah. Instead he was stretched out on his bed, thinking back to a year ago and how much his life had changed in that time. Everything had changed for just about everyone in the McQueen brood, but all he could think about was (who else) Craig.
Had it only been a year since he and Craig had first met? Until John Paul had actually gotten to know Craig, he'd thought of him as...well...just a nerd, the brainy one who'd let everyone in school know he couldn't wait to get away from the place. He still remembered that scared yet proud young man who put up with day after day of torment from Sonny and Justin. Even though they were almost strangers, John Paul had pulled the fire alarm to save Craig from a beating. He'd barely known Craig, yet he'd felt that urge to save Craig, to protect him. When Craig had found out who was responsible for the rescue, he and John Paul became fast friends. What John Paul had noticed the most was the intensity; no one he had ever met, or likely would ever meet, had as much intensity as Craig Dean. His eyes flashed hate, love, and most of all, passion.
As John Paul closed his eyes, he remembered those hands, those hands trembling after Sonny had stepped on them. Those hands folded over John Paul's own as Craig had confided he'd never really had a friend until John Paul. Those hands on him as they sloppily drunk-kissed in the gym. Those hands pummeling John Paul, bloodying his flesh and leaving him with wounds which could never be fully healed. Those hands playfully grabbing him, tenderly bringing him into an embrace, carefully slipping John Paul's sweaters off his head, angrily ripping the buttons off his shirts, lazily tracing down his smooth skin, furiously jerking him off, methodically slipping inside his most private area, controlling his entire being with that one finger.
Those hands which refused to hold him in the airport.
Every day John Paul told himself he had no future with Craig. Every day he hoped he would wake up and the pain would be gone. And yet, every day, he missed the touch of those soft hands.
"Happy anniversary, Craig," he muttered.
"I love you."
--
OB had never told Mel that he loved her. Even at her funeral. The words in his throat, so close, so near. Unspoken. He had wanted nothing more than to love Mel. In his own way, maybe he had loved her. But he couldn't cheapen her memory by lying to her, no matter how much better he might have made himself feel.
The flowers at their grave today were beautiful, a fitting tribute for Mel and Sophie Burton. An array of their favorite bouquets. Sophie especially loved flowers. Mel was more practical.
Sitting on his knees and trying to ignore the pebbles cutting through his jeans, OB read a few cards. From their mother. From their brother, Justin, who did love his sisters dearly. A huge display from their friend and employer Louise. And a small note from Max. Max knew how much OB had cared about Mel. He was sure if he'd told Max he was coming to her grave, Max would've come along, but OB wanted to be alone.
OB just had a yellow rose. On one of his dates with Mel, they'd watched an old DVD, cowboys in black and white singing along to "Yellow Rose of Texas". Eventually, Mel and OB had joined in, complete with very, very bad cowboy twangs. It was one of the few times he'd ever seen Mel laughing and enjoying herself.
It was a little over a year ago that OB had been in the Dog, the old familiar pub, awash in flames and chaos thanks to psychopathic Sam Owen dousing the place with kerosene. Crazy, brave Mel had been one of those grabbing to try to get the lighter out of his hand, and when the lighter dropped, Mel was one of the first to die. The irony of a woman who'd finally managed to conquer her alcoholism dying in a pub. The sight of her corpse still haunted OB's dreams. He'd tried to save Sophie, but Sam had hit him in the head. He'd woken up in the hospital to learn it wasn't just Mel who'd died that day, or even Sophie, but also any remnants of the friendship between Max and OB. Mel had had video proof of what a lying slut Clare was, but Clare destroyed it and once again OB was left with nothing but his word against hers. Once again, Max had chosen Clare over OB. OB had to recover from his injuries, physical and mental, with no one but Tony to care about him. That had been the lowest, loneliest point of OB's life, and as much as he loved Max, as much as they'd papered over that very dark period, he wasn't sure he'd ever fully forgive Max for his blindness.
OB cursed himself for his selfishness. He was here to mourn Mel, not think about Max. He missed her and the potential of what she was becoming and what she brought to the people around her. He tried to figure out what he could say, if there was anything he could say. At first he wanted to ask her to tell someone hello, but he laughed bitterly as he realized so many of his loved ones were dead, he'd have to put them on a waiting list.
As he began to stand up, his wallet slipped out of his pocket. He picked up the few items which had scattered, including the photo of Craig Dean and John Paul McQueen that John Paul had left behind in MOBS. He'd have to drop that off on his way back home. He began to think about Max again, how close Max had been to death, how he didn't want Max to die without knowing how OB felt about him. OB knew it was getting more and more difficult to keep his feelings quiet.
OB touched his hand against the cold tombstone. He kissed the fingertips of his other hand, placing them by Mel's name. This was the closest thing to the goodbye they'd never had. Still unsure of what to say, he looked at his single yellow rose for inspiration. Clearing his throat, he began to sing in a somewhat off-key voice.
There's a yellow rose in Texas, that I am going to see,
Nobody else could miss her, not half as much as me.
She cried so when I left her, it like to broke my heart,
And if I ever find her, we nevermore will part.
--
Myra could usually tell when John Paul was having a down day. Today, John Paul had spent most of his time in his room, and when he'd finally come downstairs, he immediately gravitated to the couch, dead to the world. She'd experienced more than her share of young love, including the heartbreak, but John Paul's love for Craig was so all-consuming, it worried her. Her son was never happier than when he was with Craig, but he never really was with him. If only she could help make Craig into a better man, like Dominic or Russ or Tony. But if she did, would John Paul still be interested?
Her mental rambling was cut off by a knock on the door. She quickly answered to find, what was his name...
"BO?"
OB managed to give her a polite chuckle. He hadn't heard that one since school.
"OB. Sam O'Brien. I just wanted to drop something off to your son."
Myra wasn't sure what was going on, but she let OB in. OB and John Paul were only distant acquaintances, at best, yet she felt some unspoken bond between them.
"You left this at MOBS," OB flatly said as he handed John Paul his photo with Craig.
"Thanks."
More silence. A flicker of pain crossed John Paul's face as he pocketed the photo. He still had a hard time dealing with just how lonely he was without Craig. John Paul wasn't quite sure why, but he didn't want OB to leave just yet. He had few friends left in town and even though he barely knew OB, he felt like the older man could be a friend. Or at least someone who knew what he was going through. The problem was they had so little in common besides that one bond. John Paul, looking at OB, sensed OB felt the same way.
As OB was about to leave, John Paul came up with the tie that binds most men together.
"There's a match on in 15 minutes. Wanna watch?"
OB could hardly turn down a good football match. He joined John Paul on the sofa, and what had been a sad anniversary became the beginnings of a friendship.