Don't You Know, It's Gonna Be Alright (Part 4)
Title: Don’t You Know, It’s Gonna Be Alright (Part 4)
Pairing: John/Paul
Rating: PG-13?
Warnings: Almost entirely angst. Language, as usual, too.
Summary: “The only thing that was even vaguely effective was recalling the sensation of lying in Paul’s bed, basking in his seemingly endless sympathy.”
Disclaimer: Own nothing and no one. No harm meant. This didn’t happen.
A/N: Hey! I’m back. So, this is a sad-fest. I hate to do this to the boys, but no one ever said that catharsis was an easy or a pleasant task. I promise things will eventually get less depressing.
Chapter One: http://miss-lizzy777.livejournal.com/892.html
Chapter Two: http://miss-lizzy777.livejournal.com/1833.html#cutid1
Chapter Three: http://miss-lizzy777.livejournal.com/2770.html
John was having a terrible time with sleep these days. He fell into bed late at night, exhausted, but unable to stop his brain from mulling over his sadness long enough to slip out of consciousness. Mornings were bad, too. He slept late, perhaps subconsciously avoiding the world by staying in his own head, and when he finally awoke, the day ahead just seemed so long. The sleep itself was usually the best part - quiet, empty, and free of loneliness, anxiety, or regret. Sleep was painless. Sleep was like what John imagined death to be.
But for the past few days, sleeping seemed to bring even more misery than being awake. John had so carefully trained himself to stop crying and to stop feeling. It was easier to just not think about it, wasn’t it? He’d slept well enough, successfully avoiding living in a world without Julia. Somehow, though, his emotions had caught up with him. Ever since he’d met Paul in the café, he had been unable to continue pretending to himself that he was okay. He cried himself to sleep, so lonely that he honestly wished he could die. When his body finally succumbed to exhaustion, his mind was drenched in terrible visions shook him awake again, sweating and weeping. Every night, it was the same dream, and every night, he knew exactly what would happen and was powerless to stop it.
In his mind, warm light surrounded him, soft and comfortable, like the first day of spring. He couldn’t see anything definite, but he knew that he was surrounded by people. He couldn’t make out faces, but he could hear his mother’s flighty giggle and his Uncle George’s deep chuckle. The sound was the most comforting thing he could have imagined. He felt a gentle pair of arms link around him and he knew without a doubt that they belonged to Paul.
Suddenly, the warm light darkened and dimmed to a cold emptiness as the laughter faded. He felt Paul’s arms tighten around him, clinging desperately, but soon unable to hold on. John tried to reach for Paul and hold him back, tried to scream for him not to leave, but the void pulled his friend away, stronger than either of the two boys. He heard Paul call his name, but couldn’t reply, couldn’t move, couldn’t fight it.
It was then that the dream always ended; he woke up frightened and alone. His tiny room at Mendips seemed vast and endless in the dark. His bed seemed to trap him, holding him tight and keeping him from the lamp on his bedside table. When he finally switched on the light, his room returned to its ordinary self, but the anxiety and loneliness remained.
Tonight, after once again waking up with a fine sheen of sweat coating his body and unpleasant adrenaline coursing through his veins, John stared at the cracks in his ceiling, trying to reassure himself. The only thing that was even vaguely effective was recalling the sensation of lying in Paul’s bed, basking in his seemingly endless sympathy. It was such a faggy thing to do, but it was the only thing that slowed his heartbeat enough for him to relax. Paul wasn’t dead. Julia and Uncle George were dead. Paul wouldn’t die. Paul promised he wouldn’t die.
But now, telling himself that was not enough. He had to see to believe. He crawled out of bed and tugged on a pair of jeans and a jacket, fishing a pair of shoes out from under his desk.
Fifteen minutes later, he dropped his bicycle on the street outside Paul’s house and began searching for pebbles. It was no small task in the pitch black that went along with the wee hours of the morning, but getting here in the dark on a bike hadn’t exactly been a walk in the park, either. It occurred to him that for the sake of convenience, he should probably just keep rocks in his pockets at all times. It wasn’t like this was an unusual thing he was doing. Being prepared might be helpful.
John weighed the tiny rocks in his hand before taking aim and flinging a few at Paul’s bedroom window. The rattle of their impact seemed louder than usual. He tossed another handful, slightly harder. No Paul. One more attempt, and still no results. Irrational fear started to well in John’s chest as he began frantically searching for more ammunition. He swore under his breath at his lack of success when he heard the creak of an old window swinging open.
“John?” Paul whispered. “What are you doin’ here?”
John’s chest relaxed, relief melting into his body. “Hi Paul.”
Paul nodded to the drainpipe on the side of the house. “Come in?”
“Yeah.”
John scaled the pipe with ease. He was an expert by now. Paul held out a hand and helped his friend through the window and into his room, closing the window behind him.
“So… what are you doin’ here?” Paul repeated quietly.
John shrugged shyly. “Couldn’t sleep, I guess.”
“Oh.” Paul smiled wryly. “I usually just read a book. A bike ride in the dark just doesn’t do it for me.”
John grinned slightly. God, he felt so much better here. “A book? I thought a wank was your answer to everything.”
Paul blushed “Yeah, well, that helps too.”
John briefly looked around the room. It felt even more like home than his own bedroom. He shifted awkwardly under Paul’s gaze.
“So… um… mind if I… y’know… kip here? Jus’ tonight. I mean, if that’s alright,” he mumbled uncertainly.
“Yeah, ‘course.” John could have sworn that Paul’s eyes lit up just a little, but maybe it was just wishful thinking the light.
John shrugged off his jacket and slipped out of his jeans, borrowing a pair of Paul’s pajama bottoms. The two climbed under the covers, no longer bothering to try to avoid touching one another as they had the first few times they had shared a bed. That ship had sailed a long time ago.
Paul watched as the older boy relaxed into the bed. John’s muscles went limp; his face took on a soft, childish expression. Paul saw him so differently now, and he wondered if Julia’s death had changed him, or just Paul’s perception of him. Before, his affection for his friend had been simple admiration for his humor, intelligence, boundless creativity and obvious talent, and, if he were to admit it to himself, a definite appreciation of his devilish good looks. Somehow, though, a stab of real tragedy had had showed him a different side of his friend. Paul always knew that the tough-guy persona that John made for himself was kind of bullshit, but now it was clear exactly what it was disguising. Underneath the costume of the man that would kick your ass without a second thought was a fragile, frightened, and unstable person that really, really needed a good, long cry and an even better and longer hug.
Paul realized that he loved this John even more.
“John?”
“Yeah?”
“How come you couldn’t sleep?”
John’s eyes opened slowly and he turned his head to face Paul. “What?”
“How come you couldn’t sleep?”
John shrugged lightly, turning his head away. “Oh… I… just… well, the going to sleep was alright, but bein’ there wasn’t so great.”
John was embarrassed and didn’t really want to admit that he’d come all the way to Paul’s house to sleep in the same bed as him because he was having nightmares, but apparently he didn’t need to actually say it.
“Oh.” Paul’s eyes softened. He was silent for a moment. “I had bad dreams when my mum died too.”
John felt his face go hot. Why did that shit head always see through him?
“Not just about mum.” Fuck. Why did that slip out?
He felt Paul’s eyes on him. “Huh?”
John shifted uncomfortably. “Nothin’…”
A long pause stretched out between them before Paul asked, “How do they go?”
“How do what go?”
“The dreams. What happens?”
John wondered if he should lie for a moment, if he should say he didn’t remember. Somehow, though, he couldn’t stop himself from telling the truth. Paul seemed to have that effect on him.
He sighed shakily before describing his recurring nightmare.
“So, it’s just yer mum and Uncle? And they… disappear?”
“Not exactly…” John shifted again.
“So… what else?”
John paused. “Well… you’re there, too.”
“…Oh. What about me?”
“That’s… well, that’s the worst part, actually.”
“You’re there and… it’s like something is sort of… pulling you away. And you start yelling and calling my name, but I can’t get to you, and you just get farther and farther away…” John stopped short, afraid of how his voice shook.
John felt Paul’s eyes on him. His face burned with a mixture of misery, fear, and shame, unable to contain the tears that snuck out from under his eyelids. Suddenly, he felt a thin body wrap around his and a soft pair of lips brush his temple.
“Paul…” John’s voice quivered uncertainly.
“I promise I’m not going anywhere. Swear on my mother’s grave?”
John laughed bitterly. “Yeah. Yeah, I know.” His laughter turned to hot, desperate tears as he buried his head in Paul’s neck.
“Paul, thank you.” He clung to his friend “thank you, thank you…”
“For what?”
“Fer… fer fuckin’ putting up with my shit… you deserve a less fucked up best mate.”
“What’er you talkin’ about?” Paul asked incredulously.
“You deserve better than me.”
Paul squeezed John’s shaking body. “Better than you? No such thing.”
It was exactly the thing John needed to hear.
John suddenly looked up at Paul. Paul’s warm, hazel eyes, his milky, smooth skin, his cute little nose, his soft, pink lips - he was so beautiful. He always had been and always would be, even if only in John’s eyes.
“What?” Paul asked, confused at the look on his friend’s face.
Without much warning, John gently pressed his lips to Paul’s. It was like someone had untied an enormous knot in his chest the moment their lips met. He met with no resistance. Paul breathed a sigh of relieved pleasure, his eyes fluttering under closed lids.
John pulled back and met Paul’s eyes.
“John?” Paul asked weakly.
“I love you.”
“Huh?”
“I… I love you, Paul.”
Paul stared into his eyes for a moment before whispering, “I love you too, John.”
“I don’t mean in a friendly sort of way.”
Paul shook his head. “I don’t either.”
“I can’t stop… stop thinking about you,” John stammered. “I always wish you were with me whenever you’re not.”
Paul nodded, shivering with emotion as he leaned in a second time. The two boys kissed cautiously, but desperately, afraid to part even for air. Their tongues brushed together softly and their lips moved slowly, but they clung to one another like drowning men cling to life rafts.
Something about being together this way tore them open and released the toxic cocktail of anger and fear and sadness that had been sealed inside them and let it spill out, pouring away from their bodies and out into the night. After a few seconds, or minutes, or hours, neither of them knew for sure, exhaustion overtook the pair and they faded into a bottomless, and for once, completely dreamless sleep.
Pairing: John/Paul
Rating: PG-13?
Warnings: Almost entirely angst. Language, as usual, too.
Summary: “The only thing that was even vaguely effective was recalling the sensation of lying in Paul’s bed, basking in his seemingly endless sympathy.”
Disclaimer: Own nothing and no one. No harm meant. This didn’t happen.
A/N: Hey! I’m back. So, this is a sad-fest. I hate to do this to the boys, but no one ever said that catharsis was an easy or a pleasant task. I promise things will eventually get less depressing.
Chapter One: http://miss-lizzy777.livejournal.com/892.html
Chapter Two: http://miss-lizzy777.livejournal.com/1833.html#cutid1
Chapter Three: http://miss-lizzy777.livejournal.com/2770.html
John was having a terrible time with sleep these days. He fell into bed late at night, exhausted, but unable to stop his brain from mulling over his sadness long enough to slip out of consciousness. Mornings were bad, too. He slept late, perhaps subconsciously avoiding the world by staying in his own head, and when he finally awoke, the day ahead just seemed so long. The sleep itself was usually the best part - quiet, empty, and free of loneliness, anxiety, or regret. Sleep was painless. Sleep was like what John imagined death to be.
But for the past few days, sleeping seemed to bring even more misery than being awake. John had so carefully trained himself to stop crying and to stop feeling. It was easier to just not think about it, wasn’t it? He’d slept well enough, successfully avoiding living in a world without Julia. Somehow, though, his emotions had caught up with him. Ever since he’d met Paul in the café, he had been unable to continue pretending to himself that he was okay. He cried himself to sleep, so lonely that he honestly wished he could die. When his body finally succumbed to exhaustion, his mind was drenched in terrible visions shook him awake again, sweating and weeping. Every night, it was the same dream, and every night, he knew exactly what would happen and was powerless to stop it.
In his mind, warm light surrounded him, soft and comfortable, like the first day of spring. He couldn’t see anything definite, but he knew that he was surrounded by people. He couldn’t make out faces, but he could hear his mother’s flighty giggle and his Uncle George’s deep chuckle. The sound was the most comforting thing he could have imagined. He felt a gentle pair of arms link around him and he knew without a doubt that they belonged to Paul.
Suddenly, the warm light darkened and dimmed to a cold emptiness as the laughter faded. He felt Paul’s arms tighten around him, clinging desperately, but soon unable to hold on. John tried to reach for Paul and hold him back, tried to scream for him not to leave, but the void pulled his friend away, stronger than either of the two boys. He heard Paul call his name, but couldn’t reply, couldn’t move, couldn’t fight it.
It was then that the dream always ended; he woke up frightened and alone. His tiny room at Mendips seemed vast and endless in the dark. His bed seemed to trap him, holding him tight and keeping him from the lamp on his bedside table. When he finally switched on the light, his room returned to its ordinary self, but the anxiety and loneliness remained.
Tonight, after once again waking up with a fine sheen of sweat coating his body and unpleasant adrenaline coursing through his veins, John stared at the cracks in his ceiling, trying to reassure himself. The only thing that was even vaguely effective was recalling the sensation of lying in Paul’s bed, basking in his seemingly endless sympathy. It was such a faggy thing to do, but it was the only thing that slowed his heartbeat enough for him to relax. Paul wasn’t dead. Julia and Uncle George were dead. Paul wouldn’t die. Paul promised he wouldn’t die.
But now, telling himself that was not enough. He had to see to believe. He crawled out of bed and tugged on a pair of jeans and a jacket, fishing a pair of shoes out from under his desk.
Fifteen minutes later, he dropped his bicycle on the street outside Paul’s house and began searching for pebbles. It was no small task in the pitch black that went along with the wee hours of the morning, but getting here in the dark on a bike hadn’t exactly been a walk in the park, either. It occurred to him that for the sake of convenience, he should probably just keep rocks in his pockets at all times. It wasn’t like this was an unusual thing he was doing. Being prepared might be helpful.
John weighed the tiny rocks in his hand before taking aim and flinging a few at Paul’s bedroom window. The rattle of their impact seemed louder than usual. He tossed another handful, slightly harder. No Paul. One more attempt, and still no results. Irrational fear started to well in John’s chest as he began frantically searching for more ammunition. He swore under his breath at his lack of success when he heard the creak of an old window swinging open.
“John?” Paul whispered. “What are you doin’ here?”
John’s chest relaxed, relief melting into his body. “Hi Paul.”
Paul nodded to the drainpipe on the side of the house. “Come in?”
“Yeah.”
John scaled the pipe with ease. He was an expert by now. Paul held out a hand and helped his friend through the window and into his room, closing the window behind him.
“So… what are you doin’ here?” Paul repeated quietly.
John shrugged shyly. “Couldn’t sleep, I guess.”
“Oh.” Paul smiled wryly. “I usually just read a book. A bike ride in the dark just doesn’t do it for me.”
John grinned slightly. God, he felt so much better here. “A book? I thought a wank was your answer to everything.”
Paul blushed “Yeah, well, that helps too.”
John briefly looked around the room. It felt even more like home than his own bedroom. He shifted awkwardly under Paul’s gaze.
“So… um… mind if I… y’know… kip here? Jus’ tonight. I mean, if that’s alright,” he mumbled uncertainly.
“Yeah, ‘course.” John could have sworn that Paul’s eyes lit up just a little, but maybe it was just wishful thinking the light.
John shrugged off his jacket and slipped out of his jeans, borrowing a pair of Paul’s pajama bottoms. The two climbed under the covers, no longer bothering to try to avoid touching one another as they had the first few times they had shared a bed. That ship had sailed a long time ago.
Paul watched as the older boy relaxed into the bed. John’s muscles went limp; his face took on a soft, childish expression. Paul saw him so differently now, and he wondered if Julia’s death had changed him, or just Paul’s perception of him. Before, his affection for his friend had been simple admiration for his humor, intelligence, boundless creativity and obvious talent, and, if he were to admit it to himself, a definite appreciation of his devilish good looks. Somehow, though, a stab of real tragedy had had showed him a different side of his friend. Paul always knew that the tough-guy persona that John made for himself was kind of bullshit, but now it was clear exactly what it was disguising. Underneath the costume of the man that would kick your ass without a second thought was a fragile, frightened, and unstable person that really, really needed a good, long cry and an even better and longer hug.
Paul realized that he loved this John even more.
“John?”
“Yeah?”
“How come you couldn’t sleep?”
John’s eyes opened slowly and he turned his head to face Paul. “What?”
“How come you couldn’t sleep?”
John shrugged lightly, turning his head away. “Oh… I… just… well, the going to sleep was alright, but bein’ there wasn’t so great.”
John was embarrassed and didn’t really want to admit that he’d come all the way to Paul’s house to sleep in the same bed as him because he was having nightmares, but apparently he didn’t need to actually say it.
“Oh.” Paul’s eyes softened. He was silent for a moment. “I had bad dreams when my mum died too.”
John felt his face go hot. Why did that shit head always see through him?
“Not just about mum.” Fuck. Why did that slip out?
He felt Paul’s eyes on him. “Huh?”
John shifted uncomfortably. “Nothin’…”
A long pause stretched out between them before Paul asked, “How do they go?”
“How do what go?”
“The dreams. What happens?”
John wondered if he should lie for a moment, if he should say he didn’t remember. Somehow, though, he couldn’t stop himself from telling the truth. Paul seemed to have that effect on him.
He sighed shakily before describing his recurring nightmare.
“So, it’s just yer mum and Uncle? And they… disappear?”
“Not exactly…” John shifted again.
“So… what else?”
John paused. “Well… you’re there, too.”
“…Oh. What about me?”
“That’s… well, that’s the worst part, actually.”
“You’re there and… it’s like something is sort of… pulling you away. And you start yelling and calling my name, but I can’t get to you, and you just get farther and farther away…” John stopped short, afraid of how his voice shook.
John felt Paul’s eyes on him. His face burned with a mixture of misery, fear, and shame, unable to contain the tears that snuck out from under his eyelids. Suddenly, he felt a thin body wrap around his and a soft pair of lips brush his temple.
“Paul…” John’s voice quivered uncertainly.
“I promise I’m not going anywhere. Swear on my mother’s grave?”
John laughed bitterly. “Yeah. Yeah, I know.” His laughter turned to hot, desperate tears as he buried his head in Paul’s neck.
“Paul, thank you.” He clung to his friend “thank you, thank you…”
“For what?”
“Fer… fer fuckin’ putting up with my shit… you deserve a less fucked up best mate.”
“What’er you talkin’ about?” Paul asked incredulously.
“You deserve better than me.”
Paul squeezed John’s shaking body. “Better than you? No such thing.”
It was exactly the thing John needed to hear.
John suddenly looked up at Paul. Paul’s warm, hazel eyes, his milky, smooth skin, his cute little nose, his soft, pink lips - he was so beautiful. He always had been and always would be, even if only in John’s eyes.
“What?” Paul asked, confused at the look on his friend’s face.
Without much warning, John gently pressed his lips to Paul’s. It was like someone had untied an enormous knot in his chest the moment their lips met. He met with no resistance. Paul breathed a sigh of relieved pleasure, his eyes fluttering under closed lids.
John pulled back and met Paul’s eyes.
“John?” Paul asked weakly.
“I love you.”
“Huh?”
“I… I love you, Paul.”
Paul stared into his eyes for a moment before whispering, “I love you too, John.”
“I don’t mean in a friendly sort of way.”
Paul shook his head. “I don’t either.”
“I can’t stop… stop thinking about you,” John stammered. “I always wish you were with me whenever you’re not.”
Paul nodded, shivering with emotion as he leaned in a second time. The two boys kissed cautiously, but desperately, afraid to part even for air. Their tongues brushed together softly and their lips moved slowly, but they clung to one another like drowning men cling to life rafts.
Something about being together this way tore them open and released the toxic cocktail of anger and fear and sadness that had been sealed inside them and let it spill out, pouring away from their bodies and out into the night. After a few seconds, or minutes, or hours, neither of them knew for sure, exhaustion overtook the pair and they faded into a bottomless, and for once, completely dreamless sleep.