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"Another one." John slurred, slamming the empty glass upon the bar front.
Blearily, he watches as- beneath the blinding lights of the neon bulbs above, a hand pours the clear liquid he so desperately desires into the stained glass. Swiftly, he downs it, shutting his eyes so hard, they may as well have been sewn shut. The back of them burnt. A searing pain, sharp alongside the burning within his throat, aroused from either the buckets of saltwater shed earlier or the unfamiliarity of the flashy colours painting every corner of the bar.
The burn crawling down his throat was a comfort. Sweet and soothing upon his crackled heart as it lifted the torturous weight of heartbreak off his shoulders. But unlike the sweet burn of vodka, the burn behind his eyes ached frustratingly as they fueled the nausea creeping over his alcohol-numbed mind.
When the empty glass grew full once more, he took it in his hands. The dampened sides of it, cold, and biting at the rough skin of his palm. Pathetically, John let it do so- nursing the drink rather than downing it; drowning in pitiful thoughts as his drunken mind wandered off, in search of the memories John so desperately wanted to forget.
Her sweet laughter, soft and honey-covered; the whispered promises, words said so kindly, John near believed them; the gentle caress of a her touch and those soft, soft hands in which always held his calloused ones- all of it now nothing more than echoes in the hollow chambers of his shattered heart.
Despite how many times it's happened over the years, he couldn't believe it.
Abigail broke up with him. Forever.
"John!" Abigail called, her voice creeping through the creak of the balcony door ajar as it came muffled by the blasting of John's music creeping alongside it.
John could only sigh, unknowing of the smile playing upon his lips nor the content that filled him as he turned his gaze to the orange glow of the smouldering cigarette, rolling between his fingers in jagged, blocky motions. He took a final drag from the crooked stick, blowing the hazed smoke past his lips and watching as it swirled lazily around him.
Stubbing the busted stick in the ashtray beside, he made his way back into the apartment.
From behind, he approached Abigail, steps silent as his lips curved into a smile.
"John!" She called once more, unexpecting of the hands readied for attack, preparing to pinch at her sides nor the man about to startle her, a mischievous adoration lacing his grin.
Before she could call for him once more, John wrapped his arms around the subtle curve of her waist, eliciting a satisfactory yelp dragging out from her throat. Laughter bubbled through her words as she made to speak, "John," She said, and the man could only hum, pleased by the smile in her words, "John." She called once more, humour lain plain in her voice as she dragged the syllable out in the way John absolutely loved.
"Mm.." He hummed a second time, pressing soft kisses upon the back of her neck, "Yes, darlin'?"
"Hm," Abigail smiled, before turning to face him, her blue eyes gazing into his greys, "Popcorn's ready."
John only chuckled in response, leaning down to press his lips onto hers.
They plopped down on the old loveseat, briskly, playing the movie as they shuffled upon the cushions. John scuffled in his seat, leaning against the worn cushions of the couch as he pulled Abigail nearer, pressing her back to his chest as they sat intertwined upon the sofa.
Silently, they watched as the movie unfolded, casting a soft glow across the room, dimly painting its shifting shadows upon the paint-cracked walls- dancing faintly along with the noise of the film.
No matter the depth of the affections John held for all moving pictures and films alike, in the moment he could not bring himself to care for how oddly the people spoke nor how awfully chosen the soundtrack was. Instead, he remained submerged in the warmth of Abigail's being. Beautiful as ever as the familiar scent of her shampoo whiffed sweetly past his nostrils.
Strangely enough, John couldn't bring himself to focus on the movie. No matter how many times he'd glue his eyes onto the blinding colours of the moving screen, still, they'd figure out a way to peel the sticky adhesive off themselves, strip themselves of the sight of the pixelated screen and wander off to whatever piqued their interest. Eventually, they trailed off to the stained window beside, long overdue for a wipe.
Tonight, they saw how the sky above stretched endlessly across the tall towers of the city, dark and gloomy and lacking of the soft twinkles that'd often paint the night. Tonight- he took note that- behind the clouds, the stars hid far from the dazing lights of the city and how the clouds appeared static, greyed and scattered faintly across the dingy curtain; moving slowly along it like herds of sheep travelling aimlessly upon their leaden plains.
In his arms, the curve of her back pressed to the front of his chest, Abigail crunched on the popcorn, tossing kernels of it into her mouth every few seconds.
When soft hands came to his lips, popcorn between the buttery fingers, he took the kernel between his teeth- tasting the salt of Abigail's fingers as he did so.
In the moment, he could only smile. In the moment, John was content. So damn content.
"Y'know what, Abigail?" John began, resting his stubbled chin upon her chestnut hair, familiar and sweet-smelling.
"What, John?" She asked, her voice soft and smiling.
"I'm happy," He admitted. A thing he did so very rarely, "Real happy."
Abigail hummed and he could already tell of the teasing phrase readied upon her tongue but instead she turned to him, a smile playing upon her lips when she spoke, "I am too," Words John near believed as she placed her soft, soft palm upon John's scarred, scarred jaw, caressing the healed slashes tainting his once smoothen face as she planted a kiss on his lips, "I really am, John." She said once more, far softer than before.
It was then that John had forgotten about the movie and continued his foolish words, "Ain't often we get alone time together."
"Yeah," Abigail grinned, the smile meeting those blue eyes that gazed so lovingly back at John, "You have Sadie to thank for that. Ain't ever met a woman as kind as her. To take care of Jack so last minute." That really wasn't what he wanted to hear.
Near immediately, his mood soured and John could only roll his eyes at the mention of Sadie.
The woman's only 'kind' because she wants to get in your damn skirt. John thought bitterly.
As jealousy began clouding his foolish, foolish mind, he said words he shouldn't have, "Yeah. Real damn kind," John didn't even bother furthering his absent attempt to chase the resentment from the rasp of his voice, "I'm glad the boy ain't here."
"Oh, come on, John," Abigail laughed but John could hear the familiar irritation seeping into it, "You don't mean that." Abigail said, her tone nearing that of a warning's.
"I do," John huffed, a childish fury bubbling up within his foolish self, "The boy's a nuisance."
And though Abigail sat warm in his arms, it'd felt as though his words had cast her adrift, estranged even within the comfort of his touch, "You're the boy's father, John." She said, the affection once warm in those blue eyes- now turned cold, icy as its brows furrowed above them.
"No. I ain't," John stated. The bite in his words, far too harsh, "Stop callin' me that."
Abigail let out a noise, a groan of frustration John was all too familiar with as she shoved him away and got off the sofa, "You are, John. Whether you like it or not." She didn't bother looking back at him, now grabbing her purse as she made way for the door.
John groaned, rolling his eyes as he got up too. Christ, did the woman have a temper.
"Where you goin'?" John called, his voice nearing a yell.
"Away!" Abigail yelled back, already at the doorway, "And I ain't comin' back 'till you grow the hell up!"
Anger made its way up his throat, taking hold of his tongue and spewing out all the words he shouldn't have, "Yeah, that's right!" John shouted, rage clouding his mind as he barked out words he hadn't meant to say, "Yeah, run off to Sadie! Maybe she'll be a better daddy!" He yelled and he could've sworn he saw Abigail's once pretty face turn crimson.
"You're a pathetic man, John Marston!"
"Nothin' I ain't heard before!"
"You know what, John?" She spat, "It's over! For real this time!" Before John could make to sputter out words far crueller than he'd meant them, Abigail had already left, slamming the door so damn hard that the entire apartment shook.
John hadn't bothered chasing after her, uncaring of the neighbours who were already used to their bimonthly screaming matches. Instead, letting a strangled yell as he kicked at his furniture.
Now, he sat pitifully upon the cracked leather of a stool, in some strange bar near his apartment, nursing vodka as he drowned his sorrows in its revolting burn.
After the pathetic rage fit he'd thrown in the solitude of his living room the moment Abigail left, the plaintive revelation of what Abigail had said finally struck him. After a quick sob, he sucked it up, grabbed his keys and left to find somewhere to grab a drink. And due to the fact that Abigail was a goddamn bartender, he couldn't head to the bar he'd often frequent. Instead, he's stuck, sat in some crappy bar that absolutely stank of cologne, and had far too many men for his liking.
Where were the damn women?
The rattle of his boot upon the stool leg near shook the entire bar. He was upset. Irritable. Pent up as Sean would put it. Nearly always, the man seemed adamant on John getting laid. Both he and Lenny claimed to 'worry' for John. Claimed that- consistently breaking up with your girlfriend every two months for years on end 'wasn't healthy'.
Always, John would deny it. Cruelly, accuse Lenny of the childish nosiness he'd show in spite of the unreturned affections he held for some girl who'd appear only in his lectures and apparent dreams. Rudely, he'd snap at Sean for caring so deeply about his girl problems when the man couldn't even convince the girl he liked to look his way. But now, as he bathed in the stinging aftermath of his foolish, unintended words, it was for the first time in his life that John thought they were right. Maybe there were repercussions in sputtering out hollow cruelties.
Think before you speak. Hosea would tell an adolescent John- bruised and beaten after having taken a fist to the face for running his mouth- in that nasal but comforting voice of his. John would only roll his swollen eyes and let a tsk slip past his split lip as he nodded, keeping his eyes staring shamefully on the concrete beneath himself. But as stubborn and childish as he was, not once had he listened to his father. So now, still stubborn and still childish, he finds himself wishing he had.
Since the beginning of their relationship, John had never cheated on Abigail. No matter how many times they broke up, he never resulted to infidelity, knowing that- either one of them would always suck it up and run back to the other.
Never stopped Abigail from flirting with Sadie, though. His drunken mind came, bitter and heartbroken as the thought rang in his mind. Maybe Sean was right. Maybe he needed a fuck. Just one quick fuck.
Though he loved Abigail- loved her so goddamn much that the love itself near consumed him, he couldn't help the anger that bubbled up whenever the thought of her came. Where there was Abigail, there was Jack; his presence an irate reminder of John's faults. Where there was Abigail, there was Sadie; overstepping their damn boundaries over and over as she tried too damn hard to get in his girlfriend's- oh, wait- ex-girlfriend's skirt
When the realisation rang once more, it was all John could do to fight the tears brewing behind his eyes, threatening to spill. I need more. He thought. More vodka to soothe his self-inflicted wounds aching so very tenderly within his chest. But to his dismay, when he looked down, all that sat in his hands was the previously full glass, now barren. Emptied out by the starved misery which possessed himself.
He needed a bottle. The haze of his drunken mind couldn't be bothered to request for glass after glass to get through this sorrow-filled heartbreak.
Through the burn, he forced his eyes to stagger across the bar front in search of the bartender. When they'd found him, standing much too far from where John sat, they'd discovered that the man was occupied and tending far too long to another customer as they conversed in a language John's alcohol tangled mind couldn't bother deciphering.
The man he spoke to stood confident.
His movements, smooth, and so subtly exaggerated in the way that on anyone else, one would've thought it to be moronic- but with each foreign word that passed his lips, the man drew his movements in such a way that it came as oddly alluring. Each word he uttered rolled off his tongue in a manner that seemed near practised. His voice carried the bartender, suave and exuding nonchalance as it brought the man to a state of near swooning for him.
Without realising, John's eyes trailed down the man's poised figure, lean, with its posture steady and self-assured. With tired and tear-burnt eyes, he took note of the evident care that'd been put into the man's clothing. Vain. He thought, as his eyes wandered from the dark seams of his dress shirt, further up, a brow above them raising at the sight of the bit of hair tied behind his head. Vain and.. a hippie?
John chuckled at the pathetically unfunny thought his intoxicated mind had conjured up, letting out a quiet snrk as his eyes kept intently on the man. In spite of the fun he'd mentally poked at the man, his drunken mind had enough sense to admit to itself that the man was well dressed.
The clothes that hung off his figure were not that of anything anyone would wear to a bar. Or maybe it was just John and his jacket-jean wardrobe that thought so. The fabric drawn across his tan skin fell in crisp, smoothen ruffles. Neat and clean and nothing John would ever take pleasure in wearing.
The man turned his head to John and through the drunkenness of his staggered mind, John did his best to whip his head away from the sight. It was then that it occured to John that maybe when he drunk, time would race. As, even though it'd felt as if only a second had passed, it was without a doubt that he'd been staring at the man for much longer.
"See something you like, guapo?" The man's voice came, smooth and accented and far too close as it was now that he stood beside John's seated self; his words dripped of the all too unfamiliar richness that came with aged wine. It was then that it occurred to John that maybe alcohol had not only sped up time, but deafened his ears as well, as no steps had been heard from the man who'd approached him.
John turned to meet his gaze, trying his best not to squint as both the alcohol in his system and the neon lights which illuminated from every corner of the vicinity burnt his eyes so very mercilessly. As quick as his inebriated self could, he took in the sight of the man standing before him, his face scarred, groomed and bearing an oddly shaven moustache.
"Yeah," John did his best not to slur, "That bottle behind you." He nodded over to the half-full bottle of vodka the bartender left there, now abandoned and alone.
It seemed as if what John said had amused the man, as it was evident that the mere words in which he'd uttered had sparked the force now tugging at the corner of his lip. The man leaned back, grabbing the bottle in a swift motion, "And what will you give me for this bottle?" He asked, shaking the base of the bottle ever so gently, his grip kept loose upon its neck as something that sounded far too much like tease came dripping from his words.
Were his mind not entirely intoxicated and utterly saddened by heartbreak, John's sober self would've let his temper get the best of him and thrown the man a punch. But instead, he looked the man up and down, his charm doing wonders on John's inebriated self and scoffed, a mocking smile, absent of humour pulled lazily upon his lips, "I ain't givin' you money for half a bottle full."
That only seemed to amuse the man more as he hummed, taking a seat on the stool beside, "¿Lindo pero denso, eh?" He said, more to himself than John as it was entirely evident that- by the puzzled contortion of his scarred and drunk face- he had no idea what the man said.
Simply, John responded with an impassive huh, not bothering to meet the man's gaze as he took the bottle from his hand, pouring in his own glass and the empty glass beside.
John downs the glass.
The man does too, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before a smirk so smug begins to tug on his lips as something undecipherable glints within his eyes, "I've never seen you here before," He began, accent thin; subtly dilute within the urbane demeanour of his words, "First time?"
John nodded, the burn in his throat and the vodka in his veins were all that provided him the tolerance needed to entertain the conversation, "Yeah," He drawled, "Why?"
The man ignored his question- but as the alcohol had already wiped the memory of even asking from his mind, John couldn't care less- instead, the man kept his eyes on John, eyes dark and low and written on with an intent far too cryptic that John's muddled mind couldn't even bother reading, "What's your name then, amigo?"
"John," He tossed back another glass, "You?" He asked absentmindedly, his cares directed at only the bottle before him. He couldn't have cared less if the man got bored and left.
But the man didn't leave and he certainly didn't seem bored. He pursed his lips, scarred but visibly pink in spite of the prismatic lights reflected upon his face, blindingly neon and brightly multi-coloured as he replies, "Javier."
John woke with a pounding against his numbed skull and a body absent of clothing.
Sunlight shines through the parted curtains of his bedroom, waltzing through the musty air as it wove its way through the intricate lattice of dust motes suspended throughout. Amber light danced upon his carpeted floors, atop the ruffled sheets and against the forgotten corners of his room but unlike the grace of the gentle intruder, gleaming delicately upon the dust-coated shelves of his room, illuminating its welcomed warmth among the clutter upon his desk, John did not wake as gracefully.
His body ached, agony sunken into his muscles, replacing the tension previously there, as he rose from the mattress. Now sat up, he did his best to ignore the revoltingly dried taste of vodka on his tongue and tune out the shrill ringing, thundering echoes within his ears.
Fuck, is the first thing he manages to say, voice hoarse and rasping as he stares both blearily, and absentmindedly around the room.
Before he is offered the chance of collecting his thoughts- a banging comes. A fist loud and merciless against the innocent wood of his front door.
John only manages to groan.
Though unwanting, he forces himself to rip the blanket off himself, shivers rattling across his flesh as cold air hits his skin. Slumping off the bed, he falls to his feet- almost toppling over as the dizziness near overtakes his mind.
Shit. Was all he could think past the excruciating throbs against his skull. What the hell did he do last night?
He grabs a pair of sweatpants tossed on the ground, greyed and stained- probably clean- and tugged it on, before making his way to the door.
Then he saw something. From the corner of his eye- small, and translucent and-
Intrigued, he knelt down, burning eyes widening as he realised what it was.
A condom. Used.
With a steady hand he picked it up, the end of where it'd been tied and knotted held between wary fingers as he inspected the thing, mortification written so clear in the grey of his crusted eyes that the situation could've been deemed as humourous.
What had he done last night?
Then the memory came-
The Mexican man from the night before. Suave demeanour, smooth words.
Hot skin, soft lips.
The Mexican man.
Man.
He flushed at memory.
What the fuck did he-
The banging came again, loud and impatient against the poor spruce of his door. John could only groan, tucking away the shocking revelation- now turned migraine- for later as he made his way out the bedroom, tossing the condom into a bin which- through his blurry and hopefully misleading vision- seemed to be already full of used condoms.
As the banging got louder- each sonorous rap thundering harrowing echoes against the thick of his skull- John called back, voice annoyed and rasping, "Alright, alright! I'm comin'!"
When he'd finally opened the door, the man who stood on the other side hadn't seemed too happy (in spite of the clear need he'd shown to enter John's home).
Without a moment's wait, Arthur pushed past him, his gruff face far more irascible and ornery than it often was. Not a second had passed before the man began talking his ear off.
"I been knockin' on your door for ten goddam' minutes, John!" He chides. Blathering on about whatever his miffy self could manage to pick on so early in the morning, "Did you just wake up? Because-" He stops his yapping, taking in a whiff of the air so damn hard it was as if he'd never smelt fresh air before, "Damn!" He exclaims. His face contorted into something John couldn't bother reading, "Goddamn, Marston! You smell like shit!" He says. Nothing John hasn't heard before.
John wanted to roll his eyes at the man's words but the back of them burnt so damn bad that merely blinking had been agony. So he settles on his signature groan. Lengthy, irate and childish.
"Why're you here, Arthur?" John asks, irritation evident in his voice, unwelcoming, as annoyance knit tightly between his furrowed brows- partially because of his brother's undesired presence, and partially due to the fact that the gruelling repetition of jackhammers clobbering against his vodka sunken skull refuses to cease.
Arthur only frowned, just the slightest bit more than he always did, staring at John as if he were the stupidest man in the country- though, that was unlikely as Arthur often referred to him as the stupidest man in the whole goddamn universe.
"Shit, John," He groans, clearly done with John's supposed idiocy, "You forget 'bout your job? The job you and me had to beg Lenny's daddy for?"
Shit. John thought. He had forgotten about the job.
That had been why Abigail had come over the night before. To celebrate him finally having a job after months of being unemployed. And had he not run his mouth and she not finally called him out on his shit and broken up with him for-goddamn-ever, John just may have remembered the job.
Now truly was a fantastic time for remembering things, wasn't it?
Through the several hazed revelations John's pained mind endured, Arthur, thankfully, put a pause to his nagging and told John to take a shower. And John- ignoring the offhanded comments regarding the unpleasantness of his 'stench' or the apparent 'stink' that reeked off him- was happy to comply.
Whilst he made his way to the bathroom, stifling in the many yawns bubbling up his throat, Arthur- ever the Good Samaritan as well as the irate older brother- opted to aid John in taking up the trash that's been piling up since- the last time he came over and took it out.
Within the galling redolence of his bathroom, still smelling strongly of nearly everything involving Abigail, John peeled the greyed sweatpants of his lanky self, and tossed it off to wherever. As he stepped into the shower, the balls of his feet lain flush with the cool tiles of the ground, sending chilling shivers up his spine that froze his aching hangover for just the smallest of moments, water ran from the shower head, scalding drops, dripping hot on his skin.
For a moment- as hot water fell, loud raps heavy on cold skin, near hot enough to burn marks on pale flesh- John's mind wandered off. Tendrils of steam billowed around, wrapping him in their hazy embrace, as wisps landed, cool, and misty on the shower door. His mind continued to wander; though, not to the saddening remembrance of Abigail dumping him- a memory that, still, shot daggers, swift between his ribs, and pierced right into the vessel of his heart, serving him agonising aches upon his chest never before known to man- instead, it trailed off to the man from the night before.
What was his name again? Ha... 'Havi'?
At the thought of the man, the scalding water felt tepid compared to the blood, searing hot in his cheeks. He couldn't help the flush painting his face nor the pounding of his heart, rapid and muted by the pouring of the shower head above. Within his cloudy mind the man appeared, a scarred hand, hot on John's arm as he leaned in- pulling him into a kiss that'd felt as if it'd last a lifetime.
Blood left his face- rushing straight to his groin. Shame was a feeling foreign to him as further did he indulge in the memory of the man from the night before.
It'd felt nothing like what he'd had before- putting aside the fact that he'd only ever been with women (mainly Abigail), and he was absolutely hammered when it happened- he couldn't get the man out of his mind.
Each memory felt near as electric as each their touches. Each shared kiss- the man's soft, soft lips, hot upon his chapped ones. Each graze and grind of the man's flesh, flush with John's. Each goddamn word fallen out of those sweet, sweet lips of his- smooth and absolutely dripping of sultry as he'd moaned John's name the night before.
Without thinking, John's hand wandered further downwards, a subconscious move as it reached for his-
A knock came.
"Hurry the hell up!" Arthur called, muffled and clearly irritated. That ruined the mood.
"Alright, alright!" John yelled back.
"And wash your damn hair!"
"I washed it last night!" He really did. On account of Abigail coming over and his previous hopes of getting lucky. The memory only softened his dick.
"Well, wash it again! You smell like shit!" Arthur sounded done with him at that point.
"But-" John tried to protest.
"Wash it or I'm comin' in there and washin' it for you!"
John merely groaned loudly, his final act of a weak retaliation before- reluctantly- pumping shampoo into the tangled mess of his hair.
"Had fun last night?" Arthur asked, voice predictably gruff as they got into the car. Sadie's car. A fact John did his best not to acknowledge as he shut the door, falsely ignorant of the sickening strength of Abigail's perfume lingering in the cushion seats. Why Arthur couldn't get his own car was beyond John.
"What?" John raised a brow, his question rasped.
Simply, Arthur tilted his own head, pointing at the side of his neck with a hand as the other kept its grip tight on the wheel.
Baffled, John muttered a hoarse huh as he pulled down the vanity mirror. His eyes could only widen at the sight. Marks and bites alike littered his neck- from his jaw down to his goddamn collarbone. Pushing the mirror to a close, he fell back in his seat, groaning once more as he did so. That damned Mexican man.
"Take it Abigail was happy 'bout the job?" Arthur asked and it'd been as if his words not only struck daggers into his already beaten heart but kicked, punched, and set it on fire as well.
"Actually.." John breathed, grey eyes refusing to meet Arthur's, "Abigail- she broke up with me."
And just like that, Arthur's gaze softened, swallowing down teasing remarks and dulling his sharp tongue before he speaks, "Ah," He nods, "Is this one of 'em.. one week break-ups or-"
"Forever." John sighed.
Arthur didn't try to respond.
They sat in silence for a bit, John's eyes focused tiredly on the wires, sagging pathetically across their poles and the people crowding on the damn pavements, walking around without a care.
Arthur broke the silence, "So.. I take it the breakup went well? Considerin' the.." He nodded at his neck.
"No. It didn't," John huffed, as un-childish as he could manage. An attempt well failed, "But- uh.." John cleared his throat, "I met a feller last night."
Arthur seemed hesitant to ask, "A feller?" He raised a brow, "Go on."
John hummed, unsure of how to put it, "Well, I got to talkin' with him, and uh- one thing led to another and.." John felt like a damn child telling his parents he got a girl pregnant- a feeling he knew far too well, "Y'know." He mumbled.
Arthur, thankfully, seemed unfazed by what John had deemed as a life-changing revelation and simply glanced over to him, "Since when were you into men?"
"I ain't!" John said, words nearing a yell's, and far too defensive for an alleged straight man who fucked one the night before (multiple goddamn times).
Arthur nodded, muttering a simple alright, clearly uncaring of John's contemplations on his drunken and seemingly newfound interest for fucking men. But John, taking that as an invitation to rant about his night and pathetic sorrows, and not the hint that Arthur didn't at all care for John's personal crisis, continued to ramble on about the man from the night before, not at all realising Arthur's clear indifference regarding the matter.
While he prattled on about his pathetic little problems- before he knew it, they'd arrived.
Arthur rolled his eyes, as they got out of the car, "Goddamn, Marston," He groaned as if John's hangover was an illness he'd caught, slamming the door shut, "If you liked the fella' so damn much why didn't you just get his number?"
"I don't like him!" John huffed as they made their way into the café, the scent of caffeine flooding his senses, "And- And I didn't think of it!"
Arthur only scoffed, swallowing the quip about John's ability to think that John knew he'd very well wanted to say, and instead, muttering out an impassive, "Sure," He turned back to John, "What's his name anyways?"
John shrugged, "I don't know."
Before Arthur could insult John for not knowing the name of the man he was so clearly unknowingly infatuated with, Lenny made his way over to them.
"John," He grinned, turning to Arthur, "Hey, Arthur."
"Hey, Lenny." Arthur greeted, voice gravelly.
Simply, John nodded, "So, what do I gotta do?"
"Oh, yeah," Lenny chuckled, before seeming to remember something, "Uh- wait, I gotta talk to Arthur for a bit. Hold on," He said, turning around before calling out, "Javier!"
What?
Then a man came from the kitchen, "Yeah?"
That same thinned accent laced within that same smooth voice.
The man walked forward in that same suave demeanour; the same goddamn scars upon his face.
That same man from last night.
"Oh, fuck." John groaned, feeling the poundings against his skull shift to the ribbed cage within his chest. He really fucked up this time.
"Javier, this is the new fella' I was talking about." Lenny began, words muffled by the irate ringing in his ears as John sunk into his own pathetically self-made depth of despair. God-fucking-damnit.
John sighed, his thoughts running nearly as fast as the harsh thumps of his heart against his chest. Javier. He thought pathetically. At least he knew his name now.