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"Hey John," Flans says, with a gentle elbow.
John sits up suddenly, blinking. He's sitting on his bunk in the tour bus, across from Marty and the Dans. He tries to remember what's going on. Right, he remembers, embarrassed, they're having a meeting. They're trying to decide what to do about the broken...whatever it was, before they leave for the next leg of their tour, and he keeps drifting off.
"Sorry." he says, rubbing his eyes. "Go on." He turns towards Flansburgh, who's sitting beside him, and tries to look awake.
"Just a little longer, okay? Hang in there." Flans says. "Now guys, if we gas up the bus at the station across the road first thing tomorrow, we can try to...."
John tries to keep his eyes open. But the lights are dim, and Flans' voice is lulling and familiar, and his bunk is small and cozy, and it's been such a long, long day...
"Sounds good." Flans finally says. "So we'll pick up the spare tomorrow, and we'll be on the road with lots of time fo-" He stops, as something heavy and warm falls against his shoulder. He looks and sees John's head resting against his arm. Flans can tell from his breathing that John is fast, fast asleep.
Flans leans his head down, without moving his shoulder too much. "Hey. Hey John." he says. No response.
"Like a baby," Dan says fondly. Marty holds in a laugh.
"Alright alright, meeting over," Flans says. "We have a plan and it's wayyyy past John's bedtime. Let's pack it up."
The rest of the band filters out, smiling, and yawning, and shaking their heads. But Flans can't figure out how to pull himself away without dumping John on his face. He tries to scoot away a little. John's head slips off from his shoulder, and ends up smooshed up against Flansy's chest. Flans sighs, and the breath from his nose ruffles through John's hair. He gives up on escaping and leans against the wall of the bunk.
Looking down at the spindly body curled up against his chest, Flans feels a weird surge of something like motherly instinct. He tries not to laugh. This is what he gets, for not having kids. Still, he wraps an arm protectively around John's shoulders and gives him a gentle squeeze.
He's spent so many years listening to John's breathing, that he knows exactly when John starts to drift back awake.
"Mmmph." John mumbles. "How long was I asleep?" he asks.
"Long enough that we're done with the meeting," Flans says, quietly.
"Sorry."
"Nah." Flans squeezes his shoulders again. "You probably needed it," he says.
John doesn't try to move or say anything else, so Flans thinks that maybe he's gone back to sleep. But then John says, "Sing something."
Flans chuckles in surprise, and John (with his ear pressed against Flans' chest) can hear it buzzing in his lungs, heh heh. "A song, huh?" Flans says. "Okay. How about, uh..." Suddenly his brain goes blank. He can't think of a single thing, except Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, and he's sure as hell not going to sing that to a fully-grown man. He decides to do the second-best thing instead.
"How about this one," he says. He sings-
A shooting star is not a star, is not a star at all,
A shooting star's a meteor, that's headed for a fall.
He rocks John a little bit along with the words.
A shooting star is not a star, why does it shine so bright?
The friction as it moves through air produces heat and light.
A shooting star, or meteor, whichever name you like,
The minute it gets down to earth... it's called a meteorite.
Then he hums the tune once or twice. He feels John's breathing steadying out again, and realizes he's putting John right back to sleep again. Flans doesn't really mind. He'll probably have to get up in a little bit, but... John is like a weird, warm, bony blanket, and he feels his own eyelids fluttering. Surely there's no harm in just closing his eyes... for a second or two...
When Marty tiptoes back in, ten minutes later, to climb into his own bunk, both of the Johns are fast asleep.
~ ~ ~
John wakes up slowly. His brain feels mushy and his back hurts. He tries to remember, did he fall asleep in a chair? He's getting too old for that sort of thing.
But no, he's not in a chair. There are sheets bunched up beside him, and Karen is warm next to him, and there seems to be a cat asleep on his head. Without opening his eyes, he reaches up to push it away. What his fingers bump into is definitely not a cat.
John opens his eyes in panic, and then realizes he's on the tour bus as his eyes adjust to the dim light. It's still very early morning. He's awake before anyone else, including John Flansburgh, whose snoring he just mistook for the purring of a cat. The sound is actually quiet, but seems really close and loud from where John has his head up against Flans' chest. Flans has an arm wrapped around John still, making him feel like he's an over-sized and under-stuffed teddy bear.
John hears rustling from the upper bunk across from him. The sheets move around, then Marty's face peers over at him. Marty looks amused for a second, and then his face dissappears back under the covers and he turns away. John guesses he looks a little undignified, being a living stuffed animal. It feels very safe. He almost wants to fall back asleep like this.
But his back has a terrible crick in it, and he's still wearing yesterday's clothes, and he can taste his own breath. He's got to brush his teeth before he goes nuts. He slides one hand under Flans' heavy arm and oh-so-gently wriggles out. Flans shifts, and coughs, and makes a little sleep-whimper like a kid getting a toy taken away. No, John thinks, I will NOT be guilt-tripped by a sleeping person. He climbs out and stands up and finally stretches. He hears a symphony of cracking and popping sounds. Ow, the price one pays for getting older.
He comes back from the bathroom with breath that isn't exactly minty-fresh, but no longer tastes like a dead animal. Flans is still asleep in a heap on his bunk. John looks at the time. 5 AM? He wants to go back to sleep, but... He looks at his occupied bed. He turns over the pros and cons of waking up Flansburgh in his head. He finally decides that it doesn't matter, he can't bring himself to wake Flans up anyway. After a minute, he climbs into Flans' bunk. It smells like Flans, which might be a bad thing, but they've all been cooped up for so long having to smell eachother that he doesn't really care, at this point.
John pushes his face into the pillow and hopes Flans doesn't mind if his bed smells like John tomorrow.
~ ~ ~
"Wakey wakey, eggs and coffee," Flans chirrups into John's ear. He could swear he just lay down, but when John looks at the clock it says 9 AM. He sits up and Flans hands him a hot cup of coffee. "I lied about the eggs." Flansburgh admits. "But they're coming soon hopefully." Flans cracks his neck with a scary-loud popping sound.
John sips the coffee and stares at the rising steam. When Flans realizes that John isn't about to say anything, he points out,"You're in my bed."
"Well you were in mine," John responds.
"Yeah, sorry. I just drifted off. You know you could've woken me up, though."
"I don't know, you looked comfortable there."
Flans cracks his neck again. "I wasn't. Well, it wasn't that bad. But I woke up with a John-shaped cold spot and no covers."
The phrase "a John-shaped cold spot" makes John feel a little sad. No, he tells himself, I won't be guilt-tripped by somebody who uses me as a teddy bear.
"Thanks for the coffee," he says instead to change the subject.
"You're welcome," Flans says, and then cheerfully adds, "It's terrible, awful, it's the instant stuff. But hey! Caffeine, am I right?"
"Caffeine." John agrees into the steam in his cup.
Flans wanders off into the front of the bus, passing out good tidings and awful coffee to the rest of the band. John sits in the bunk still with his cup. He can hear Flans humming something to himself as he bustles around. The words pop into John's head without him trying to think about it.
A shooting star is not a star, is not a star at all,
A shooting star's a meteor that's headed for a fall.
He smiles into his coffee.