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As soon as Paul hears the first stone hit his window, his heart shatters.
Why is he here? Why, after everything, does he still think things are going to be okay? Paul lays in bed, praying it was his imagination. He doesn’t want to think about it. He doesn’t want to, not after everything.
Another pebble hits the window. Fuck, Paul thinks, furiously blinking back tears. I’m not. I’m not going to the window. I’m going to lay here and wait for him to leave. It’s three in the morning, and it’s cold out. He’ll go home.
Paul knows he won’t. He’ll just get colder and more frustrated.
Another pebble. Paul shakes his head. No. I’m not going to let him get to me.
He already has.
After the sixth pebble, Paul goes to his window, and chokes back a sob.
He’s perfect. Why does he always have to be so perfect? With his fucking quiff and his leathers and his stupid, stupid face, his guitar slung over his back. God, why did the arse bring his guitar? As if they’d go up to Paul’s room and start playing. As if it wasn’t three in the morning, as if Paul’s dad would welcome him in with open arms. As if everything was okay.
He stops throwing pebbles when he sees Paul’s face in the window. He gives the smallest hint of a smile, the corner of his mouth lifting for a split second, but it still makes Paul hurt. He mouths, Open the window, and Paul shakes his head ever so slightly. He doesn’t want to open the window, he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want it to hurt this much.
He opens the window.
“Let me in.”
Paul shakes his head.
“C’mon, Paul,” he says, and Paul shakes his head again, knowing that if he says something it’ll come out as a sob and then everything will be ruined. The façade of normality. The illusion of being okay.
“Paul, please. It’s been weeks. I haven’t seen you in weeks. You’re never here when I come by, they always say you’re not around.” He’s nearly begging, Paul can see it in his face. He wants Paul.
Oh, God, does Paul want him too.
“John, I can’t,” he whispers, and although he can barely hear it himself, John says simply, “Why?”
Paul can feel his whole body shaking, the tears dribbling down his cheeks. He can’t do it anymore, it’s been weeks since they last saw each other, since they last talked, since John held his hand and kissed him and whispered things into his ear, stupid, ridiculous things that shouldn’t have made him blush but did. It’s taken him this long to get used to John’s absence—he doesn’t want to do it again. Just seeing him again is almost too much. Paul can feel every inch of distance between them, and he knows he couldn’t bear it if John was any closer.
“I can’t.” Amazingly, his voice does not tremble.
John looks up at him in anguish. “Paul.”
Fuck, Paul can’t handle the way John says his name. He’s got half a mind to go down there and kiss the word out of him again and again, until Paul is filled with that beautiful voice, saying his name like it’s something worth saying. He clenches his fists and says, as detachedly as he can manage, “What else do you want me to say, John?” John doesn’t answer, just stands there, pleading. “I can’t give you what you want, okay?” But oh, do I want to. Paul goes on, ignoring that incriminating impulse. “I can’t. I can’t be that person for you.”
“Because of what your dad said.”
“Because of what everyone says, John! Don’t you know what everyone says? That we’re going to end up in jail? In hell?”
“Why do you care what everyone says, though?”
A laugh pushes its way out of him. “That’s rich, coming from you, isn’t it? ‘Paul, don’t do that, there are people here.’ ‘Stop looking at me like that, they’ll find out.’ That’s all you care about, John, what everyone says.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Go home, John,” Paul says, and this time his voice wavers. He watches John’s face change in the dark, can see the crumple of his body.
“I don’t care about them,” John says. “I care about you, okay? Nothing else matters.”
“Everything else matters. Nobody looks at me the same way. Mike, my dad… my friends. They all look like they’re scared of me or something. Mike barely talks to me anymore… my dad is always angry…” Paul is crying now. “Can’t you just leave me alone?”
“Paul, I’m begging you, please just let me in,” John says, and Paul has never heard him sound so broken. “We can work it out, I swear we can.”
“How? How are you possibly going to make this better, huh? You’re not a fuckin’ hero, John, you’re just…”
“What?” John sounds angry now, and Paul doesn’t blame him. Paul would be angry too, if he didn’t feel so cold inside. Cold and sad and alone.
“You’re just sitting in there all day feeling sorry for yourself, aren’t you?” John says, and Paul can see him looking up, his eyes bright in the darkness. “Fuck, Paul, did you ever think about the fact that this is shit for me, too?” When Paul doesn’t answer, John says quietly, “Why didn’t you fight for me?”
Paul wants to scream. Who was there to fight? He can’t fight his dad, he can’t fight his brother, he can’t fight everyone in the whole goddamn world just to be with one boy.
One beautiful, perfect boy.
Fuck.
Paul slams the window shut. He hears John yell something, desperate, and he’s crying so hard he can barely see the staircase and almost trips over the first step, but he makes it down and opens the door.
“—and you just fucking gave up, and you’re still fuckin’ doing it!” Paul hears John scream, and John is crying too, and Paul’s knees nearly give out when he sees him up close, it’s been so long. He’s more beautiful than Paul remembers, all pale cheeks and sharp features under the street light, and Paul just sobs on the porch until John sees him.
“Thought you’d left me again,” John murmurs, wiping at his face quickly. “Can I come in now?”
“No, you can’t fuckin’ come in, you prick,” Paul says, and stumbles across the lawn into John’s arms. John hugs him tightly, shaking. Paul buries his face in John’s shoulder, and he never wants to let go. Because God knows what will happen if he does.“Me dad’s probably awake already, thanks to all your screamin’ and shit.”
John sniffles against Paul and says, “You just gave up, though, Paul. Weeks, it’s been, without a fuckin’ word. And… I started to think maybe it didn’t matter as much to you as it did to me.”
Paul lets go of John and looks at him, stunned. “I—how could you say that, after everything? I…” And Paul sees John’s face, and he looks just as broken as Paul feels, and Paul understands. John doesn’t have anyone else. And Paul had just left him without a word. “I love you so much, John.” He shakes his head slightly. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”
John smiles a bit at that, unconvinced. “Yeah, but you let them take you away from me. You know Mimi’s changed the locks? I only managed to get a few pairs of clothes and me guitar before she chucked me. I’ve been sleepin’ on George’s couch the past few weeks.” He looks at Paul seriously. “He hasn’t heard from you either—you just gave up on everyone.”
Paul squeezes John’s arm. “I’m sorry, John, you have to believe me… Everything hurt, everything reminded me of you. I didn’t want to think about the fact that…” Paul takes a shuddery breath and feels John’s hands in his hair. “That we can’t be together.”
John presses his forehead to Paul’s. “We can, though. Fuck everyone, Paul, I wanna be with you. Isn’t that enough?”
Paul nods, so relieved to be holding John, feeling him, that he starts to cry again. “Do you believe me?”
“About what?” John asks, stroking Paul’s hair reassuringly.
“That I’m sorry. And that I love you.” Paul can’t bear to look into John’s eyes, for fear of seeing them full of anger or regret.
John chuckles softly, his nose against Paul’s. “I love you, too. Just—just promise you won’t shut me out again, all right? And then everything’ll be fine. Don’t leave me and we’ll be okay.”
“I won’t,” Paul tells him, holding him tighter, breathless with relief. “I’m never fuckin’ letting you go. Never.”
John laughs against him, and Paul feels suddenly whole again. He breathes in deeply, the scent of early morning air and cigarettes and John filling him up. The dark, suffocating weight he’s been carrying has completely lifted, and Paul feels like he could fly. And he doesn’t care about his dad anymore, or his brother, or his friends. Who needs ‘em, anyway? He’s got John and he’s got George. That’s more than enough. All he needs is John—being with him, holding him, kissing him…
“John,” Paul says suddenly, pulling away.
“What?” John asks, tense, looking at Paul anxiously.
“Are you going to kiss me?” Paul asks, and he knows how desperate he sounds.
John breaks into a grin. “You’re a needy fucker, aren’t you? You know your dad’ll be awake for sure by now, don’t you?”
Paul takes John’s hand and intertwines their fingers. “I don’t care. I don’t care about everyone else. I just care about you.”
“Good,” John says, and kisses him.