Work Text:
Dust particles fell gently through the still air of his apartment. John stirred, hidden from even the softest corners of his world. He reached to the side table, palming for his glasses. Before he could recognize the darkness in the room, he recognized the quiet. It must be the middle of the night.
The clock on the nightstand read 3:02. Enough time to try and fall asleep; enough time to struggle to wake up. None left over to sleep. He resigned himself to sleeplessness, sliding out from beneath the blanket, to the bathroom. He relieved himself and wandered slowly to the front of the apartment, passing windows that project moonlight into his skin. He was born to walk the world at night.
On the kitchen table sits a pile of paperwork. Some of it things left unsigned, promises not yet made, lists not completed. Life had come to pass quickly. It was just yesterday they huddled together for warmth, now they roasted under the lights. The extra festidious pseudo-mothers that watched over them had come home to roost. Touch ups and pat downs. It was the endless slog... but he felt that that slog was worth his time.
Fame had come to grip him by the arms, it shook him when he woke up each morning. Tonight's insomnia had passed the ghost in the hallway, had sent it down one wrong turn or enough to keep it away for now. He was able to sit in peace for a moment without the buzz in his head.
The phone rings.
"John?" the soft voice spoke.
"Good lord, it's 3 in the morning. What the hell are you doing awake?"
"I could ask you the same," but he withholds the question.
John twirls the cord around his finger, hoping to tether himself to the phone line. As close as fate allows, as close as they allow themselves. It's unspoken but overstated.
"I thought I was having a nightmare but I don't think I was. I probably just got a bit warm under the covers. Sometimes the heat makes me get strange," and Paul lets his voice drop off.
"Yeah. I remember that about you," but as he says the words, John feels foolish. Why does he need to remember any of it at all? He's trained himself to act as an archivist for all the minutia, and he has dedicated himself to his cause. It isn't love if it's work. It's not love, it's just repetition.
"Do you remember how well we slept in those disgusting beds in Hamburg?Especially after a long night out," he almost whispered. "I wish I could sleep that well again."
John refrains from speaking, lest he betray himself. After a moment, the line clicks.
When his alarm sounds the next day, the unwelcome buzz is back.
Hours in the studio, little to eat, too much to drink. It's not so different from Hamburg. The cold isn't biting at his skin, and his shoes aren't threatening to disintegrate underneath him. But the unsteady feeling persists. Life in Hamburg was difficult. Nothing was soft, it was come and go and never come back. He remembers bugs crawling on his skin, days with no food. None of these by choice, just the reality of the situation. Life in London has stripped him of humanity in much the same way. Although, he thinks, hot water is reliable.
Perhaps Hamburg was preferable. He had nobody to answer to about his personal life. At least not to the degree he does now. Every paper wants to know what he is and what he likes and who he's going with. His life is no longer his own, it is property of the general public. He is inundated with the kind of false intimacy he loathes.
The louse-ridden beds, if nothing else, demanded real closeness. Hands tucked over arms, legs pressed together. You memorized the breathing patterns of your bunkmate. It wasn't out of necessity, not at all. The simple pleasure of living near another person, you learned to take advantage of cataloging it. Maybe that was just him.
“Are you asleep, John?” Paul’s soft voice brushes past his ear. It almost feels too delicate, as if his own wobbly voice will topple the whole affair. Instead he shakes his head slowly, and opens his eyes. Somehow, they are facing one another in the bed. Paul smiles.
“If we ever make it big,” he says, “would you still let me sleep in your bed?” John laughs, and quickly stops himself. It's just the thought of denying Paul utterly laughable. His most secret and most base pleasure, the way they begin to radiate the same heat, they become self sustaining... How could they ever come to a point when John would turn him away?
John refrains from speaking, lest he betray himself.