Sleeping Sand, Silent Cloud, John/Paul, PG-13
Title: Sleeping Sand, Silent Cloud
Pairing: John/Paul
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2921
Notes: Whoa, two fics completed in one day! And I finally managed to finish a J/P after picking at about a dozen of them since May. So that's exciting. It feels a little OOC at times, and it refused to stay in one POV, but it's done. I'll take it. ETA: I've only just noticed that bit of wonky formatting in the middle, and I think I've managed to fix it. Sorry about that, folks.
They’d been at it for hours, or John had at least, pounding back scotch and cokes including the ones Paul wasn’t finishing. They hadn’t spoken, but let the silence settle between them with a warmth that could only be conjured by two good mates.
Only once was it lifted aside for John to ask, “It’s all fucked now, innit?”
“Don’t be daft,” Paul scolded softly. “Tomorrow will be better.”
“Not after all this,” John said, shaking his seventh glass, now empty save for ice.
“Come ‘ead.” Paul stood and took the glass from his friend’s hand. “Let’s get you home then.”
John rolled his head back and forth across his shoulders in what Paul assumed was a negative response, but attempted to set his feet beneath him properly. Only after three failed attempts did Paul think it safe to offer assistance and bring John’s arm across his own shoulders, hauling him from the table.
“Don’wanna go ‘ome,” John stated miserably as they stumbled into the mass of bodies at the pub.
“Mimi’ll be worried, mate, don’t you think? It’s late.”
It was late. John was pissed out of his tree. Julia was dead. These three simple facts pounded through Paul’s brain as John pulled away from him, insisting that he could walk. He just managed to catch John by the elbow as he pitched forward into the pavement as he tripped out the door.
“Don’t want Mimi t’see. Don’ feel good.”
Paul sighed and pulled John to a stop. For someone so determined not to go home he was certainly in an awful hurry in that general direction. John struggled to keep his footing for a moment before planting himself in front of Paul.
“What, then? What am I to do with you?”
John blinked, bleary-eyed for a moment. “Can I stay at your house?”
Paul shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “Me dad won’t like it.”
“Please, Paul? I don’t… I don’t want to…”
Paul watched as John’s eyes searched the street for the rest of his thought and found nothing, letting his sentence trail off. There were a dozen possibilities that Paul could have voiced for him: “I don’t want to go home drunk.” “I don’t want Mimi to see that I’m upset.” “I don’t want to see anyone.” “I don’t want to be alone.” Paul knew. He knew because he had been there not long ago, admittedly with less alcohol. Paul couldn’t say no. Not to John, and certainly not tonight, and John knew that. He sighed. “Come on then.”
They stumbled through the streets of Liverpool and after having to grab John three times to keep him from falling into the street, Paul decided to keep a firm grip on his upper arm until he was able to set him down somewhere for the night. John didn’t attempt to shrug him off. When they reached Forthlin Rd, Paul warned him to be quiet. “Everyone’s asleep. My dad will have it out with you if he wakes up and finds you like this.”
They made their way up the stairs without incident, and Paul deposited John on his bed. Mike rolled over and peered at them in the dark.
“Who’s that?”
“Just John. Go to sleep.”
“What’s he doing here?”
“Shut up and go back to sleep!” Paul whispered fiercely, turning to jab a finger in Mike’s direction.
John let out a groan from where he lay on the bed and started muttering, “Not good, s’not good.”
“What is it?”
For the first time in hours, John was able to maneuver with ease as he flew to his feet and navigated his head directly to the toilet.
Paul took his jacket off and threw it in the corner before following him into the bathroom. He shut the door behind him as John emptied his insides. In between retches, John pulled off his coat and pulled at his collar. “So fuckin’ hot.”
Paul opened the window, letting in the cool breeze from the night outside. He carefully stepped around John to grab a flannel, which he wet beneath the tap and placed it on the back of John’s neck.
“Fuck,” John muttered, resting his forehead against the porcelain as he tried to catch his breath. Paul perched on the edge of the tub.
“All right?” he ventured.
John groaned.
“You going to be sick again, then?”
He groaned again and vomited.
Paul sat and watched and wondered when his friend was going to break, if it was even possible to break John Lennon, who so often laughed at heartbreak and sneered at death.
“I think…” John skidded his palm across his face. “I think I’m okay.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t want your sick all over my room.”
John managed to give him a withering look before pulling the flannel off his neck and wiping his face with it. “Fuckin’ hell, why is it so bloody hot in here?”
“S’not that hot, John. You’re just pissed.”
John grabbed on to the edge of the sink and pulled himself to his feet. Paul stood, ready to help him back down the hall, but instead watched bewildered as John stepped past him into the bath.
“What are you-”
“I’m hot!”
“Right. Don’t you think-”
And John turned on the shower sending a cascade of freezing water down over his head.
Paul watched, eyes wide and unable to hide his small smile. “I reckon that’s one solution.”
John let out a sigh as the water poured over him, matting down his hair and shirt, filling the boots he hadn’t thought to take off. He rested his hands against the wall, ducking his head beneath the stream to cool his back.
“All right now?”
John nodded.
“Want to get out?”
“Gimme another minute.”
Paul obliged him if only because John’s speech was slightly less slurred. Maybe the shower was helping.
“Do you know what my dad would say if he saw you?” he asked as he retrieved a towel from the cupboard.
“Why don’t you have that handsome Lennon chap ‘round the house more often?” John spouted in an impeccable impersonation of Jim McCartney. “Learn a lot from him, you could. Very brilliant young man.”
“Who hadn’t the sense to take off his boots before getting in the bath,” Paul agreed with a nod. “Come. Out you go then.”
John moved slowly as he turned off the water, and Paul draped the towel around him after helping him pull off his now soaked shirt.
“We should get some sleep, yeah?”
John let out a heavy sigh and pulled the towel tighter around his shoulders. “I don’t think I can sleep,” he said, trying to hide a sudden shiver. However, he allowed Paul to take his arm and guide him back down the hall.
“Here.” Paul fished around in a drawer and pulled out a pair of pajamas for John. When he finished changing himself, he turned to find John had only managed to change out of his wet pants and into the bottoms before crawling into Paul’s bed and burying himself beneath the covers.
“Budge up,” Paul mumbled, crawling in beside him. John inched over closer to the wall, not lifting his head from the pillow. Paul looked down at John’s back, wishing there was something more that he could do. But John seemed to want nothing more than to sleep. “Just let me know if you need anything,” Paul whispered as he lay down. “Wake me up if you have to. I won’t mind.”
When John didn’t reply, Paul closed his eyes and allowed sleep to overtake him.
***
John listened as Paul’s breathing deepened and slowed and knew that the other boy was asleep. He let out a shaky breath and dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, hoping that it would stop the burning there. He’d allowed the tears to fall as he’d left the hospital, as he’d run through the city streets hardly caring where he ended up until he found a phonebox, and had the first coherent thought in his head all night: call Paul. He’d managed to calm himself before Paul arrived at the pub, and he told himself that that was enough. Tears were silly, and they wouldn’t change anything. They certainly wouldn’t bring her back. So every time his throat grew tight, he swallowed another drink until the feeling passed. Now there were no drinks left, and his throat, already raw from his own sick, was closing up again. He drew in a few slow breaths through his nose, but when he squeezed his eyes shut as he mentally cursed himself, he felt the tears slide hotly across his face.
“Shit,” he hissed and buried his face in the pillow.
The rhythm of breathing behind him changed, and he knew Paul was awake. He bit the inside of his cheek and forced deep breaths, trying to keep his blubbering quiet. He wiped the tears off his face with the scratchy wool of Paul’s blanket and held his breath. He could just barely make out the floral pattern on the wallpaper as he stared hard, willing himself to calm. The springs of the bed squeaked, and suddenly, there was a hand on his shoulder.
Paul said nothing, and John was grateful for that. He could accept silent compassion, but words of sympathy always felt false. Trite. Instead, the gentle weight of Paul’s hand increased to a reassuring squeeze, and John let out his breath and with it the sobs he’d been holding in.
"I cried every night straight through for a week," Paul admitted softly against his shoulder, "when Mum died."
"It's all fucked, Paul," John choked out.
"It'll get better."
John spun around in bed, limbs knocking against the wall and Paul and the mattress before he managed to settle himself on his side facing his friend, who stared up at him, eyes wide.
"Bollocks,” he spat. "It's bollocks, and you know it. Nothing's ever goin' to be the same again. She was the last... the only one who....”
“That’s rubbish, that. You’ve got Mimi,” Paul offered, knowing even as the words left his lips that it wasn’t the same.
John shook his head and ran the back of his hand across his cheeks. “Right. I’ve got Mimi,” he spat. “Because Julia didn’t want anything to do with me. She just dumped me-”
“Stop that.”
“-on Mimi, didn’t even lo-”
Paul clamped his hand across John’s mouth, and John stared at him with large eyes.
“Don’t. Just don’t,” Paul told him firmly before removing his hand.
John closed his mouth and watched him silently.
“Remember I told you that I said something awful when me dad told me that Mum died?” Paul sighed and licked his lips. “Even now, it’s the first thing I think of every morning when I wake up, and I wish I could take it back, but I can’t. I’m stuck with it for the rest of my life. So don’t you be fucking stupid like me and say some shit that you don’t really mean about Julia just because you’re upset, understand?”
He nodded and felt more tears shake free from his eyes, and he quickly wiped them away with the back of his hand. “It’s just”-John sniffed loudly-“when I was younger, I didn’t think I’d care. She wasn’t part of me life. And then she came back, and she was so… wonderful. I didn’t think it would hurt this much.” He turned and buried his face in the pillow, back heaving.
“Hey.” Paul cautiously slid his arm around John’s shoulders and seemed surprised when John turned into the embrace, his arms fumbling around Paul and squeezing hard. Paul wrapped his arms around him and squeezed back.
“Shh. You’re going to be all right,” he whispered into John’s hair. “I promise.”
John rested his head against Paul’s shoulder and gave up fighting his tears. With Paul’s heartbeat in his ear and his hand rubbing his back, John cried until he was overcome with exhaustion and fell asleep.
***
Paul awoke slowly and registered the weight on his chest with some confusion until he opened his eyes and brown hair slowly came into focus. Fuck. The night's events raced through his mind, he was instantly filled with dread for the moment when he had to pull his friend from what appeared to be a rather peaceful sleep.
With John’s tears wetting his shoulder, it had struck Paul just how young John actually was. Even though he was only two years older, those years usually felt like decades to Paul. John had more experience, more confidence, more brilliance than Paul ever hoped to acquire even if he had a hundred years to catch up. But now, John was shattering to pieces in his arms, and Paul was the one offering assuring him that he would eventually come together again
He noted with an unnamable twinge that John=s arm was still thrown across his stomach, his fingers curling softly against his hip, and that his own hands still rested across John's shoulders and the small of his back. They didn’t do this-didn’t allow this level of affection to creep into their daily interactions. No self-respecting lads from Liverpool did no matter how close they were. But it felt right to hold his friend and offer some form of reassurance given the situation, and he shook off the initial discomfort that had swept over him and leaned in to press his lips softly to the top of John’s head.
“Paul.”
Paul’s head snapped around to where Mike stood, paused with his shirt halfway on, staring at him and John.
“What’s going on?”
He considered simply telling him to fuck off, which was his usual course of action, particularly when John was around. But Mike, for all his flaws, was rather smart. He wouldn’t settle for being brushed aside, not when his brother was currently in his small bed holding his sleeping best friend long after anyone who had been sneaked into the house should’ve been ushered back out.
Paul looked down at John for a moment before turning back to his brother. “His mum… she was hit by a car last night. She’s dead.”
Mike’s eyes grew wide. “Oh. Well, shit.”
“Yeah.”
“Right.” Mike pulled on his shirt and stood, chewing his lip with his arms hanging by his sides. “Do…do you want me to make tea then?”
Paul found himself smiling at the unexpected effort from his brother. “Yeah. Yeah, tea would be nice.”
Mike nodded and headed for the door. As he stepped into the hallway, he paused and turned back. “Tell John…tell him I’m sorry.”
“I will.”
As Mike disappeared downstairs, Paul let out a sigh and with it a groan he’d been suppressing since the moment John told him what had happened. Why did things always have to be shit for everyone? Particularly John. Very rarely, John let slip a bit of information here and there about his life. Over the past few months, Paul had managed to piece together the truth from all the rumors and lies to find that despite the posh house, John hadn’t had an easy seventeen years. And now this.
“What are you grousing about?” John mumbled against his chest.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.”
“What time is it?” John asked, raising his head and rubbing his eyes.
Paul checked his watch. “About half nine.”
John’s head dropped again. “Fuck. I have to go.”
“Mike’s making tea. Stay and have something to eat at least.”
“No, no, can’t.” He pushed himself up and rolled off the bed, grabbing his pants from the floor. “Mimi is going to kill me. I have to go home.”
“But you should eat something--”
“Paul, just leave it, will you?” He zipped up his jeans and spun around. “I don’t need you fucking looking after me, all right?”
“All right. Sorry.”
John dug around in the cupboard and pulled out one of Paul’s shirts. “I’ll bring this back, yeah?”
“Sure.”
John’s face remained stony as he pulled on his boots and grabbed his jacket from the floor. It was as if nothing had happened the night before; John was as irritable and aloof as ever, his walls already rebuilding after a brief crack in the dam. Paul watched silently and slowly got out of bed to follow when John thumped down the stairs.
“I’ll see you around,” John called over his shoulder as he banged out the front door.
“Hey!” Paul chased after him, his bare feet slapping against the stones of the front walk. “Wait!”
John turned and shoved his hands in his pockets. “What?”
He wasn’t sure what he wanted to say. He wanted to tell John that he was sorry. He wanted to tell him that he wasn’t going to tell anyone about last night, wouldn’t dream of it. He wanted to tell him that everything it was going to be all right, but it was going to take time. A long time. But he knew John, and he knew John wasn’t going to let him say any of those things.
“Call me,” Paul said finally. “If you need anything. Really, don’t think twice about it.”
John gave a stiff nod, raising his eyes to meet Paul’s, and in them Paul saw an understanding, a glimmer he recognized from the dark of the night before.
“Ta, mate,” John said and headed back down the road, alone.
Pairing: John/Paul
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2921
Notes: Whoa, two fics completed in one day! And I finally managed to finish a J/P after picking at about a dozen of them since May. So that's exciting. It feels a little OOC at times, and it refused to stay in one POV, but it's done. I'll take it. ETA: I've only just noticed that bit of wonky formatting in the middle, and I think I've managed to fix it. Sorry about that, folks.
They’d been at it for hours, or John had at least, pounding back scotch and cokes including the ones Paul wasn’t finishing. They hadn’t spoken, but let the silence settle between them with a warmth that could only be conjured by two good mates.
Only once was it lifted aside for John to ask, “It’s all fucked now, innit?”
“Don’t be daft,” Paul scolded softly. “Tomorrow will be better.”
“Not after all this,” John said, shaking his seventh glass, now empty save for ice.
“Come ‘ead.” Paul stood and took the glass from his friend’s hand. “Let’s get you home then.”
John rolled his head back and forth across his shoulders in what Paul assumed was a negative response, but attempted to set his feet beneath him properly. Only after three failed attempts did Paul think it safe to offer assistance and bring John’s arm across his own shoulders, hauling him from the table.
“Don’wanna go ‘ome,” John stated miserably as they stumbled into the mass of bodies at the pub.
“Mimi’ll be worried, mate, don’t you think? It’s late.”
It was late. John was pissed out of his tree. Julia was dead. These three simple facts pounded through Paul’s brain as John pulled away from him, insisting that he could walk. He just managed to catch John by the elbow as he pitched forward into the pavement as he tripped out the door.
“Don’t want Mimi t’see. Don’ feel good.”
Paul sighed and pulled John to a stop. For someone so determined not to go home he was certainly in an awful hurry in that general direction. John struggled to keep his footing for a moment before planting himself in front of Paul.
“What, then? What am I to do with you?”
John blinked, bleary-eyed for a moment. “Can I stay at your house?”
Paul shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “Me dad won’t like it.”
“Please, Paul? I don’t… I don’t want to…”
Paul watched as John’s eyes searched the street for the rest of his thought and found nothing, letting his sentence trail off. There were a dozen possibilities that Paul could have voiced for him: “I don’t want to go home drunk.” “I don’t want Mimi to see that I’m upset.” “I don’t want to see anyone.” “I don’t want to be alone.” Paul knew. He knew because he had been there not long ago, admittedly with less alcohol. Paul couldn’t say no. Not to John, and certainly not tonight, and John knew that. He sighed. “Come on then.”
They stumbled through the streets of Liverpool and after having to grab John three times to keep him from falling into the street, Paul decided to keep a firm grip on his upper arm until he was able to set him down somewhere for the night. John didn’t attempt to shrug him off. When they reached Forthlin Rd, Paul warned him to be quiet. “Everyone’s asleep. My dad will have it out with you if he wakes up and finds you like this.”
They made their way up the stairs without incident, and Paul deposited John on his bed. Mike rolled over and peered at them in the dark.
“Who’s that?”
“Just John. Go to sleep.”
“What’s he doing here?”
“Shut up and go back to sleep!” Paul whispered fiercely, turning to jab a finger in Mike’s direction.
John let out a groan from where he lay on the bed and started muttering, “Not good, s’not good.”
“What is it?”
For the first time in hours, John was able to maneuver with ease as he flew to his feet and navigated his head directly to the toilet.
Paul took his jacket off and threw it in the corner before following him into the bathroom. He shut the door behind him as John emptied his insides. In between retches, John pulled off his coat and pulled at his collar. “So fuckin’ hot.”
Paul opened the window, letting in the cool breeze from the night outside. He carefully stepped around John to grab a flannel, which he wet beneath the tap and placed it on the back of John’s neck.
“Fuck,” John muttered, resting his forehead against the porcelain as he tried to catch his breath. Paul perched on the edge of the tub.
“All right?” he ventured.
John groaned.
“You going to be sick again, then?”
He groaned again and vomited.
Paul sat and watched and wondered when his friend was going to break, if it was even possible to break John Lennon, who so often laughed at heartbreak and sneered at death.
“I think…” John skidded his palm across his face. “I think I’m okay.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t want your sick all over my room.”
John managed to give him a withering look before pulling the flannel off his neck and wiping his face with it. “Fuckin’ hell, why is it so bloody hot in here?”
“S’not that hot, John. You’re just pissed.”
John grabbed on to the edge of the sink and pulled himself to his feet. Paul stood, ready to help him back down the hall, but instead watched bewildered as John stepped past him into the bath.
“What are you-”
“I’m hot!”
“Right. Don’t you think-”
And John turned on the shower sending a cascade of freezing water down over his head.
Paul watched, eyes wide and unable to hide his small smile. “I reckon that’s one solution.”
John let out a sigh as the water poured over him, matting down his hair and shirt, filling the boots he hadn’t thought to take off. He rested his hands against the wall, ducking his head beneath the stream to cool his back.
“All right now?”
John nodded.
“Want to get out?”
“Gimme another minute.”
Paul obliged him if only because John’s speech was slightly less slurred. Maybe the shower was helping.
“Do you know what my dad would say if he saw you?” he asked as he retrieved a towel from the cupboard.
“Why don’t you have that handsome Lennon chap ‘round the house more often?” John spouted in an impeccable impersonation of Jim McCartney. “Learn a lot from him, you could. Very brilliant young man.”
“Who hadn’t the sense to take off his boots before getting in the bath,” Paul agreed with a nod. “Come. Out you go then.”
John moved slowly as he turned off the water, and Paul draped the towel around him after helping him pull off his now soaked shirt.
“We should get some sleep, yeah?”
John let out a heavy sigh and pulled the towel tighter around his shoulders. “I don’t think I can sleep,” he said, trying to hide a sudden shiver. However, he allowed Paul to take his arm and guide him back down the hall.
“Here.” Paul fished around in a drawer and pulled out a pair of pajamas for John. When he finished changing himself, he turned to find John had only managed to change out of his wet pants and into the bottoms before crawling into Paul’s bed and burying himself beneath the covers.
“Budge up,” Paul mumbled, crawling in beside him. John inched over closer to the wall, not lifting his head from the pillow. Paul looked down at John’s back, wishing there was something more that he could do. But John seemed to want nothing more than to sleep. “Just let me know if you need anything,” Paul whispered as he lay down. “Wake me up if you have to. I won’t mind.”
When John didn’t reply, Paul closed his eyes and allowed sleep to overtake him.
***
John listened as Paul’s breathing deepened and slowed and knew that the other boy was asleep. He let out a shaky breath and dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, hoping that it would stop the burning there. He’d allowed the tears to fall as he’d left the hospital, as he’d run through the city streets hardly caring where he ended up until he found a phonebox, and had the first coherent thought in his head all night: call Paul. He’d managed to calm himself before Paul arrived at the pub, and he told himself that that was enough. Tears were silly, and they wouldn’t change anything. They certainly wouldn’t bring her back. So every time his throat grew tight, he swallowed another drink until the feeling passed. Now there were no drinks left, and his throat, already raw from his own sick, was closing up again. He drew in a few slow breaths through his nose, but when he squeezed his eyes shut as he mentally cursed himself, he felt the tears slide hotly across his face.
“Shit,” he hissed and buried his face in the pillow.
The rhythm of breathing behind him changed, and he knew Paul was awake. He bit the inside of his cheek and forced deep breaths, trying to keep his blubbering quiet. He wiped the tears off his face with the scratchy wool of Paul’s blanket and held his breath. He could just barely make out the floral pattern on the wallpaper as he stared hard, willing himself to calm. The springs of the bed squeaked, and suddenly, there was a hand on his shoulder.
Paul said nothing, and John was grateful for that. He could accept silent compassion, but words of sympathy always felt false. Trite. Instead, the gentle weight of Paul’s hand increased to a reassuring squeeze, and John let out his breath and with it the sobs he’d been holding in.
"I cried every night straight through for a week," Paul admitted softly against his shoulder, "when Mum died."
"It's all fucked, Paul," John choked out.
"It'll get better."
John spun around in bed, limbs knocking against the wall and Paul and the mattress before he managed to settle himself on his side facing his friend, who stared up at him, eyes wide.
"Bollocks,” he spat. "It's bollocks, and you know it. Nothing's ever goin' to be the same again. She was the last... the only one who....”
“That’s rubbish, that. You’ve got Mimi,” Paul offered, knowing even as the words left his lips that it wasn’t the same.
John shook his head and ran the back of his hand across his cheeks. “Right. I’ve got Mimi,” he spat. “Because Julia didn’t want anything to do with me. She just dumped me-”
“Stop that.”
“-on Mimi, didn’t even lo-”
Paul clamped his hand across John’s mouth, and John stared at him with large eyes.
“Don’t. Just don’t,” Paul told him firmly before removing his hand.
John closed his mouth and watched him silently.
“Remember I told you that I said something awful when me dad told me that Mum died?” Paul sighed and licked his lips. “Even now, it’s the first thing I think of every morning when I wake up, and I wish I could take it back, but I can’t. I’m stuck with it for the rest of my life. So don’t you be fucking stupid like me and say some shit that you don’t really mean about Julia just because you’re upset, understand?”
He nodded and felt more tears shake free from his eyes, and he quickly wiped them away with the back of his hand. “It’s just”-John sniffed loudly-“when I was younger, I didn’t think I’d care. She wasn’t part of me life. And then she came back, and she was so… wonderful. I didn’t think it would hurt this much.” He turned and buried his face in the pillow, back heaving.
“Hey.” Paul cautiously slid his arm around John’s shoulders and seemed surprised when John turned into the embrace, his arms fumbling around Paul and squeezing hard. Paul wrapped his arms around him and squeezed back.
“Shh. You’re going to be all right,” he whispered into John’s hair. “I promise.”
John rested his head against Paul’s shoulder and gave up fighting his tears. With Paul’s heartbeat in his ear and his hand rubbing his back, John cried until he was overcome with exhaustion and fell asleep.
***
Paul awoke slowly and registered the weight on his chest with some confusion until he opened his eyes and brown hair slowly came into focus. Fuck. The night's events raced through his mind, he was instantly filled with dread for the moment when he had to pull his friend from what appeared to be a rather peaceful sleep.
With John’s tears wetting his shoulder, it had struck Paul just how young John actually was. Even though he was only two years older, those years usually felt like decades to Paul. John had more experience, more confidence, more brilliance than Paul ever hoped to acquire even if he had a hundred years to catch up. But now, John was shattering to pieces in his arms, and Paul was the one offering assuring him that he would eventually come together again
He noted with an unnamable twinge that John=s arm was still thrown across his stomach, his fingers curling softly against his hip, and that his own hands still rested across John's shoulders and the small of his back. They didn’t do this-didn’t allow this level of affection to creep into their daily interactions. No self-respecting lads from Liverpool did no matter how close they were. But it felt right to hold his friend and offer some form of reassurance given the situation, and he shook off the initial discomfort that had swept over him and leaned in to press his lips softly to the top of John’s head.
“Paul.”
Paul’s head snapped around to where Mike stood, paused with his shirt halfway on, staring at him and John.
“What’s going on?”
He considered simply telling him to fuck off, which was his usual course of action, particularly when John was around. But Mike, for all his flaws, was rather smart. He wouldn’t settle for being brushed aside, not when his brother was currently in his small bed holding his sleeping best friend long after anyone who had been sneaked into the house should’ve been ushered back out.
Paul looked down at John for a moment before turning back to his brother. “His mum… she was hit by a car last night. She’s dead.”
Mike’s eyes grew wide. “Oh. Well, shit.”
“Yeah.”
“Right.” Mike pulled on his shirt and stood, chewing his lip with his arms hanging by his sides. “Do…do you want me to make tea then?”
Paul found himself smiling at the unexpected effort from his brother. “Yeah. Yeah, tea would be nice.”
Mike nodded and headed for the door. As he stepped into the hallway, he paused and turned back. “Tell John…tell him I’m sorry.”
“I will.”
As Mike disappeared downstairs, Paul let out a sigh and with it a groan he’d been suppressing since the moment John told him what had happened. Why did things always have to be shit for everyone? Particularly John. Very rarely, John let slip a bit of information here and there about his life. Over the past few months, Paul had managed to piece together the truth from all the rumors and lies to find that despite the posh house, John hadn’t had an easy seventeen years. And now this.
“What are you grousing about?” John mumbled against his chest.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.”
“What time is it?” John asked, raising his head and rubbing his eyes.
Paul checked his watch. “About half nine.”
John’s head dropped again. “Fuck. I have to go.”
“Mike’s making tea. Stay and have something to eat at least.”
“No, no, can’t.” He pushed himself up and rolled off the bed, grabbing his pants from the floor. “Mimi is going to kill me. I have to go home.”
“But you should eat something--”
“Paul, just leave it, will you?” He zipped up his jeans and spun around. “I don’t need you fucking looking after me, all right?”
“All right. Sorry.”
John dug around in the cupboard and pulled out one of Paul’s shirts. “I’ll bring this back, yeah?”
“Sure.”
John’s face remained stony as he pulled on his boots and grabbed his jacket from the floor. It was as if nothing had happened the night before; John was as irritable and aloof as ever, his walls already rebuilding after a brief crack in the dam. Paul watched silently and slowly got out of bed to follow when John thumped down the stairs.
“I’ll see you around,” John called over his shoulder as he banged out the front door.
“Hey!” Paul chased after him, his bare feet slapping against the stones of the front walk. “Wait!”
John turned and shoved his hands in his pockets. “What?”
He wasn’t sure what he wanted to say. He wanted to tell John that he was sorry. He wanted to tell him that he wasn’t going to tell anyone about last night, wouldn’t dream of it. He wanted to tell him that everything it was going to be all right, but it was going to take time. A long time. But he knew John, and he knew John wasn’t going to let him say any of those things.
“Call me,” Paul said finally. “If you need anything. Really, don’t think twice about it.”
John gave a stiff nod, raising his eyes to meet Paul’s, and in them Paul saw an understanding, a glimmer he recognized from the dark of the night before.
“Ta, mate,” John said and headed back down the road, alone.