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The air is heavy with the scent of fresh-cut grass, the sun is warm but not blazing, and the odd bumblebee hums by on its lazy way to the fresh bouquets decorating every other grave.
The moment is strangely peaceful. Gary doesn't expect it to last.
He hears John coming before he sees him, and lets his head fall back against the tombstone he'd been leaning against as John flops down next to him.
"That better not be what I think it is."
"Well it's not Moët and bloody Chandon, is it?" John grins, unstopping the bottle of whiskey with his teeth and spitting the top off toward the overgrown grass between two graves. He glances back at Gary and laughs. "Bit old to be scared of ghosts, aren't you?"
Gary scowls at him and John laughs harder, taking a broad swig from the bottle and wiping a hand across his chin when it trickles.
"Where'd you get it, anyway?" says Gary, picking restlessly at the grass beneath him.
"Where d'you think?"
"Won't he miss it?"
"Like a severed bloody limb, I bet."
Gary looks at him, and John shrugs. "He'll think he drank it all, mate."
"It's still half full."
“Oh, an optimist!"
"I'm just—"
"He'll blame it on Cheryl before he'll even think of me, Gaz."
"She's been gone three months."
John chuckles again. "Think he's noticed?"
Based on the finger-shaped bruises peaking out from under the sleeve of John's t-shirt and his still-healing split lip, Gary's pretty sure he has.
John notices him looking and bumps their shoulders together. "Here," he says, waving the bottle at him vigrously enough to send cheap whisky sloshing onto the grass beneath them. Gary wrinkles his nose at the smell of it, and John rolls his eyes.
"Not a bloody kid anymore, Gaz."
That's all right for John to say; John, who'd turned 15 a full seven months earlier, who'd never been a kid, really, not since Gary'd met him, if at all. John, whose very presence makes Gary feel younger than anything he cares to name, up to and including his own mother.
Gary sighs, and reaches for the bottle. John grins, takes another long swig, and shifts it to his left hand, holding it as far from Gary's reach as possible. Gary debates whether or not to play this game; he knows John will get bored with him eventually if he doesn't, and then he’ll leave, and Gary’s not entirely sure if he wants him to.
He grabs at John's shirt and tries to yank his arm over, bring the bottle back with his reach so he can take a sip and John'll finally shut up about it. John's still grining, holding his arm out behind him, turning in his grip, and Gary's just about to shove him down to the ground in frustration when—
John's face is pressed against his.
Wait.
John's mouth is pressed against his.
He's struck by the urge to press back and the equal and competing desire to push him off and what he settles on is opening his mouth, mostly to say "What—" but his voice is muffled by John's lips and then there’s a flood of wet, bitter warmth against his tongue and he pushes John away.
John tumbles back against the grave and laughs at him, righting himself as Gary wipes the whisky off his face and spits the rest of it out onto the grass.
"Better learn to swallow, mate, or next year's present's gonna be really bloody awkward."
“Bastard,” he says, mortified by the sudden tremor in his voice, as he struggles to stand.
"Oh, c'mon, Gaz, Gary, don't—" John grabs at his shirt and yanks him back down, twisting hard and making it almost impossible for Gary to pull out of his grasp.
"Fuck off, John," he manages, turning his head away, hopeful before giving John a chance to see the tremble of his lower lip.
"Wasn't your first kiss, was it?" says John, voice softer, awkwardly concerned, and Gary almost wants to laugh.
He glances over; John's not even looking at him. "No."
"First with a bloke, though?" Gary doesn't bother denying it, and John nods to himself. "Right. Well. 's all right, y'know?"
Gary lets out an incredulous laugh. "What's all right?"
"You wantin' me to kiss you, 's all right, I don't mind."
"Not everyone wants to—to kiss you, John!"
"But you do."
It's not even a question, because John, somehow, knows the answer. "Fuck off," he says, weaker than before; his rage has evaporated and left nothing but deep, gnawing embarrassment that threatens to eat him alive. He'd move, but perhaps the graveyard's the best place for him. He can just lie down somewhere quiet and never move again. It's not like he'd be much missed.
John, at least, looks at least half as embarrassed as he is. "Bloody hell, mate, all I meant by it was—I thought you'd like it."
"Well, I didn't!"
"Got that, yeah!" John snaps, and sighs. He lets go of Gary's shirt and slumps back against the gravestone. "'cos it was me or—"
Gary jabs him with his elbow, hard, and slides down so their shoulders are about level and their arms are lined up but barely touch. John turns toward him, but doesn't seem quite willing to meet his eyes. "Sorry, mate," John mumbles.
And it's shouldn't be enough, it isn't enough, but it somehow feels like more than John's ever given him.
"Oi," he says, and John glances back. He moves before he can talk himself out of it, closing the distance between them, and pressing adry, closed-mouth kiss on John's lips. John turns toward him immediately, chasing his lips when he tries to pull away, wrapping a hand around the back of Gary's neck, but keeps his tongue to himself and makes no effort to deepen the kiss.
When they part, John grins, sliding his hand off Gary's neck much more slowly than he needs to. "Better?"
Gary, whose heart is pounding practically out of his chest, manages a shrug. "'s all right, I guess."
John laughs. "Cheeky bastard," he says, and gives him a playful shove.
Gary ducks his head and swallows a smile.
The tombstone is cool against his back, John is warm at his side, and the buzz of insects remains a distant, peaceful sound.