Work Text:
1973
Sid’s a right little freak.
Chubby hamster cheeks dotted with spots — not just spots, but a couple of meaty, raging pustules leading the charge. Beady little eyes that vanish into slits whenever he laughs — and laugh he does, all the bloody time — so you barely see his pupils. His skinny eyebrows are constantly threatening to merge into one single unibrow right between the eyes. He’s tall and scrawny, the kind of beanpole that looks one gust of northern wind away from being swept off the map.
He’s got a dumb laugh, a vile sense of style, and his mouth never shuts — always spilling out strings of gibberish that only highlight the full scale of his catastrophic stupidity. And on top of all that, he tries to copy that miserable wanker Bowie — whose music sounds like jerking off in your parents’ loo.
Posing like someone else is the mark of a spineless tosser with no worldview of their own. John avoids people like that like they’ve got the fucking plague — no need to catch whatever sheep-minded disease they’re spreading.
John hates Sid.
Just like he hates everyone else in this shitty world.
But right now, that hatred’s boiling especially hard, because climbing eleven floors on foot just to that freak and his loony, flower-sniffing mum — is about the last thing he wants to do.
Doesn’t matter what he wants, though. He’s going.
Why?
He doesn’t explain it, not even to himself. He just shoves whatever feeling that is somewhere deep, bolts the door, and chucks the key — the same way he flicks away his cigarette (second one already).
He cranes his neck and squints up at the grey sky, where sleet needles his eyes without mercy. The block of flats looms over him, grey and cold and utterly unsympathetic.
His gaze finds a familiar set of windows, though he can’t see anything inside. Still, the idea that Sid might be up there staring down, waiting for him to come up — it makes John smirk.
With a long-suffering sigh, he steps into the gaping mouth of the concrete monster.
Inside the dark stairwell — where some twat’s always nicked the bulb — the stench smacks him in the nose like a punch: piss, cigarettes, and bottom-shelf vodka. The piss and booze cling to the first couple of floors, but the rest of the stairwell’s locked in by the chokehold of cheap fag smoke all the way to the top.
While his legs slowly haul him upward, John’s brain has plenty of time to chew on thoughts — like how bloody pissed off he is at his own mother. He knew that once Sid got stuck at home with the flu or whatever the fuck, he’d start calling non-stop, begging for “just half an hour” of chat — which always, without fail, turned into two. And John, being the forward-thinker he is, asked his mum to say he wasn’t in if Sid rang.
Which, to be fair, was mostly true. John hated being cooped up and was rarely home. But still — “just lie,” he’d said.
His mum, sweet soul that she is, went all moral on him:
“John Joseph Lydon, don’t you dare lie! Especially not to your friends.”
Friend?
What friend?
He’s just some ridiculous clown who, by some freakish miracle, manages to make the eternally bitter John laugh.
Which is no small feat — considering John barely ever cracks a grin.
On the eighth floor, Lydon decides it’s time for a break. His breath’s ragged from the climb, so he leans against the wall — and a shower of old paint flakes off it like dead skin. He lights a cigarette with a match just as a door creaks open behind him.
A heavyset Black woman in a worn-out coat steps out, trailed by two tiny dark-skinned ankle-biters, maybe preschool age.
Their wide eyes lock onto John instantly — can’t blame them, with his long hair and that mad get-up: a light denim vest over a black jacket, sleeves ripped off by hand.
John tries to look scary — bulges his eyes out like some rabid maniac. The kids blink a couple of times, then burst into peals of laughter. Their mum snaps, tells them to shut it, grabs both by the wrists, and drags them down into the stairwell abyss — without sparing John so much as a glance.
While the lad smokes and the little family makes their way to the ground floor, the only sound echoing through the silence is the slap of footsteps.
The cigarette butt follows them, flicked down the stairwell in their wake.
***
Two knocks on the door — and John’s greeted by a dumb grin, a sniffling nose, and the stench of incense thick in the air. Honestly, he’d prefer piss and stale booze over this hippie crap any day.
Sid launches straight in, whispering that his mum’s home and asleep, then — tells him to take off his shoes.
While unlacing his boots, John seriously considers fucking off before it’s too late. But of course, he doesn’t. He follows the lanky idiot down the narrow corridor past faded yellow floral wallpaper, trudging toward what he knows awaits.
Sid’s room is a bloody shrine to Bowie.
A whole wall covered in posters and newspaper clippings, obsessively trimmed and pinned like some schoolgirl’s altar. It’s the only corner of the room that’s remotely tidy — which in Sid’s case, is saying a lot.
Everything else is ruled by absolute, unrepentant chaos: a pair of jeans lies crumpled in the middle of the floor like a performance art piece, surrounded by comic books and glossy mags in varying states of decay. In the corner, next to the bed leg, there’s a withered apple core sleeping next to a pile of crumpled, crusty socks. The desk — drowning in schoolbooks and battered notebooks — hosts a cracked plate with dried-out mashed potatoes and a mug caked with brown tea stains.
John’s used to all this. Same as he’s used to seeing that stiff mess of Bowie hair on Sid’s head like it’s his natural state.
What he didn’t expect was the betrayal sitting right there in Sid’s hands: a record sleeve clutched like treasure.
“Check it out! Wardle lent me this one!”
“Filthy bastard,” John mutters, glaring at the glammy, black-and-white eyes of that curly-haired ponce from T. Rex.
Sneaky old Wardle — loves pulling stunts almost as much as John does. He lent that bloody record, knowing full well how much Lydon hates T. Rex — and that Sid would gleefully shove it in his ears.
Sid, all limbs and zero shame, doesn’t spare a glance at John’s disgusted grimace. He drops the record into the player, and the torture device starts humming its bleating tune. John’s face scrunches up even more.
“I’m not listening to this shit,” he says flatly — but Sid’s already off, raving about his new treasure, and shoves himself head-first into his busted old wardrobe.
A narrow green satin scarf with white patterns snakes around his neck, and his scrawny frame strikes a pose nicked off some glossy magazine page. He stands there silently, waiting for admiration.
“Did your mum lend you that too?” John asks, not even trying to hide his mockery.
“No. My aunt,” Sid shrugs, absentmindedly fondling the dangling fabric. “Saw something like it on Bolan. I’ve already got the perfect outfit planned,” he says and dives back into the wardrobe, fishing out a couple of shirts and pants and laying them out on the bed next to where Lydon’s sitting.
“Sid,” John calls, as Sid, hunched over, starts smoothing out the sleeve of one of his rags — barefoot, standing right on one of his precious fashion mags.
“Don’t call me that.”
“Sid.”
“Stop it!” He slaps John’s thigh. “Every Sid I know’s a total fuckwit.”
John grins. Dimples to appear on his cheeks.
“Exactly why it suits you so well.”
“Piss off!” Another slap.
“So, Sid — where’s the weed?”
The pause that follows makes John frown. Don’t tell him the little shit lied?
“In my mum’s room,” comes the reluctant answer.
“Well, go get it.”
“She’s asleep.”
One eyebrow arches high. That’s not an excuse.
Sid finally stops fiddling with his clothes and meets his mate’s gaze. He tries one more time.
“I don’t wanna wake her.”
“I’m not asking you to wake her, you daft creature. I’m asking you to bring what you promised. Go on.” He waves a hand toward the door and picks up the empty record sleeve, pretending to study it with interest. The conversation’s over.
But Sid doesn’t move. He asks:
“Did you only come here for the smoke?”
“Pretty much,” Lydon replies without hesitation, eyes still on the sleeve. He doesn’t bother looking up to see the expression on Sid’s face as he leaves the room. What would be the point? The idiot’s too sentimental for an yob — always has been, ever since they met. Trails after him like a mutt and looks at him like he hung the moon, tongue practically lolling.
John doesn’t mind the worship — hell, he even likes it — but it gets annoying how Sid’s always angling for a pat on the head, like a good boy expecting a biscuit.
Or something else. God knows what.
But John’s not that kind. He doesn’t coo or coddle. He doesn’t sugar-coat or stroke egos. He’s blunt, sharp, and doesn’t pretend otherwise. If he came over just to scrounge a spliff from the nutjob household, then that’s the truth, plain and simple.
If Sid’s agreed to the deal, he’s got no right to whinge.
Bleating Bolan suddenly shuts up because he flies under the bed.
When the door creaks open again, Lydon’s standing by the little record shelf, once more confirming that good taste has clearly never set foot in this dump. He shoots a sideways glance at Sid — who’s grinning now, clearly proud he didn’t wake up his mum. Though chances are she’s lying there high off her tits, dead to the world, and didn’t even notice her precious boy rummaging through her stash. Or maybe it’s their shared stash — John never quite figured out the full extent of their weird little junkie family arrangement.
Sid sweeps a mess of rubbish off the desk, dumps out a small baggie’s worth of weed, and lays out some rolling papers next to it.
Neither of them says a word as they start rolling joints — one each — but John’s fingers are either too clumsy or just too fat, and the paper keeps tearing on him. Eventually he swears under his breath and tosses the mangled thing away in frustration.
Sid gently nudges his hands aside with a quiet, “Gimme that,” and finishes the joint in two smooth moves — tight, even, perfect. John catches himself thinking: the little fucker's got a knack for the stoner arts.
The colourful clothes Sid had just lovingly laid out are now back on the floor where they belong, and he flops onto the bed. John slumps down next to him, leaning his back against Stardust, and takes a long, deep drag.
They sit in silence, smoking, letting the room fill slowly with that heavy, greyish-blue weed smoke. Somewhere around the middle of the joint, Sid sniffles and asks where John stashed the record. He’s stoned enough to answer truthfully — under the bed — and not give a shit when the lanky git slides off to retrieve it.
Curly’s back at it with his precious “Tenement Lady”, warbling on about some «drug mama».
Sid, now fully stoned, wobbles in place, picks up the green scarf from the floor, and wraps it around his neck again. He sways his narrow hips, takes a deep drag, and blows smoke at the ceiling. His lips move silently, missing every word, while his fingers play an invisible guitar, strumming phantom strings. At some point, John smirks — yep, that’s Bolan all right, even if the imitation is absolute shite.
By the second track, the glam-rocker deflates. Now there’s a knockoff Elvis with a daft face, knees twitching like he’s got the tremors, hips thrusting at the air like he’s shagging a ghost. That’s when John starts to lose it — he tips sideways, chuckling, carefully holding the joint upright so it doesn’t burn the blanket or squash the last of it.
The performance escalates. With the joint clenched between his crooked teeth, Sid transforms into some flying, serious-as-fuck bird, arms spread wide like wings. It’s so absurd and off-beat that John laughs out loud:
“What the hell is that supposed to be?”
Sid straightens, raises an eyebrow.
“You don’t know? Or you just didn’t get it?”
“I got that it’s a bird.”
“Well — whose bird, then?”
“What the fuck d’you mean whose?!” John groans, wheezing through his laughter. In the back of his mind, he registers: yep, the weed finally hit.
“It’s Dave-fucking-Bowie, mate!”
Sid’s tongue is twisted and his head’s just as foggy as John’s, but he still launches into an impassioned ramble about the bird, and Ronson’s guitar solo, and the deep meaning of “Width of a Circle.” John’s doubled over, tears leaking from his eyes — the last thing he needs is a manic glam rock lecture — and he pulls his knees to his chest because his stomach actually hurts from laughing.
Sid yells, “Quit laughing, twat!” but his cheeks are splitting from his own grin as he collapses on top of John and begs him to stop, even giving him a few soft punches.
John yelps.
Sid immediately panics, not just climbing off him but scrambling to the far side of the room like he’s afraid he’ll do something worse. His eyes go wide as dinner plates, and he seems to stop breathing altogether. Meanwhile, John sprawls out across the bed, eyes half-lidded from the high, brushing a few tangled strands of hair out of his face.
“You burned my neck,” he says calmly, smiling like a cat. He reaches for the joint, only to find it broke during the scuffle and scattered half its guts across the blanket. He hands the crushed remains to Sid, who edges closer and gingerly takes it from his fingers.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Two burnt-out stubs end up lying on the desk beside a stack of notebooks.
“Sidney.”
Lydon rolls up his sweater sleeve to the elbow. Sid doesn’t catch on right away and leans in for a closer look. His fingertips gently trace over the pinkish burn marks running in a trail up John’s pale arm and disappearing under the fabric.
“Did it hurt?”
“Obviously. What’s the point if it doesn’t?”
Sid doesn’t ask anything else — he just sits back down beside him, lightly running his fingers across the wrecked skin while John shuts his eyes, head spinning even while lying down, lulled by the weightless touch.
The weed really hit hard.
But the quiet creak of the door is enough to remind them that the high won’t last forever. Into the cramped little room, heavy with a haze of weed smoke, floats Sid’s mum — draped in a loud, acid-trip of a caftan, the sheer fabric doing a pathetic job of hiding her half-naked forty-something body. Even in his completely stoned state, one glance is all it takes for John to flush crimson and, quite possibly, develop lifelong impotence.
She doesn’t step any further in — thank god — just stretches her tiny mouth into a sugary smile and says to the back of her zoned-out son:
“Si, it’s time for dinner.”
She waits for her little Si to give a slow, delayed nod — and then vanishes, sparing not even a glance for the guest in her flat. It’s like John stops existing entirely, even for Sid, who slips out after her like a silent shadow.
For a while, John just lies there on the bed, still feeling phantom fingers brush over his scars. He listens to the muffled voices drifting in from the kitchen, trying — and failing — to catch his own name among them.
The phantom touch fades. So does the high. Frustration creeps in, hand-in-hand with anger, settling back into its usual place at the center of his chest.
The T. Rex record gets chucked under the bed again. One of the windowpanes rattles as he cranks it open, letting in the sharp wind of late autumn. John lights a cigarette and leans on the sill. Outside, on the empty playground, a rusted swing groans under the weight of a kid swinging all alone.
When the cigarette burns down, the creaking is still there.
John scrapes a bit of the spilled weed off the table, stuffs it into his trouser pocket, then slips a rolling paper in after it. He leaves the window wide open as he steps out into the dim hallway, moving silently toward the front door. His jacket rustles as he pulls it on, then he bends down to deal with his shoes.
“Where you going?”
“What a stupid question?”
He finishes tying one shoe, slips his foot into the other.
“Stay,” Sid says. When John shoots him a grumpy look, he adds, “Just for a bit.”
“It’s getting dark. You want me to get my head kicked in on the way home?”
“Then crash here.”
“We’re out of weed.”
“There’s beer.”
It’s tempting — enough that John actually pauses, biting down on his lower lip. But then the clatter of dishes from the kitchen reminds him they’re not alone in the flat. Nope, plan’s already doomed.
“I’m off. Later.” He turns and grabs for the lock.
“Fuck’s sake, John!” Sid whines, eyebrows all twisted in misery. He steps closer, puts a hand on the lock, holds it shut. “Please. I’m sick of being stuck here on my own.”
“You’ve got your mum.”
“Are you kiddin’? Might as well count the cat while you’re at it.”
John actually blinks at that — a little surprised. So the lad’s not totally up his mum’s arse. Might even have enough brain left to notice she’s not exactly a picture of stability. And John thinks maybe this lad, looming over him now with that scrappy mutt face, probably doesn’t know what a normal family even looks like. One with a loving mum and dad who won’t shut up about what’s “best for you.” A bunch of siblings who make you laugh till you piss yourself and punch you in the face two minutes later. Breakfasts like a warzone, everyone scrambling to get out the door. Loud dinners full of arguing, but by the time the plates are clean, everyone’s calmed down again.
He stands there in the dim little corridor, surrounded by ugly peeling wallpaper, a draft tickling his ankles, the smell of weed still clinging to the air and mixing with those godawful incense sticks. And for a second, he wants to show Sid that there’s another way. Introduce him to his mum — the one who actually knows her way around a record collection. They’d probably get along.
"Fine, but you’d better feed me."
***
John, full and nursing a beer, generously shares stories from his week: how he and his mates went to a football match and almost got into a fight with a bunch of teddy boys — the cops broke it up just in time; how they checked out a gay club for the first time and, to their surprise, found it full not just of poofs, but all kinds of interesting people who didn’t give a toss about your looks.
Sid, starved for any kind of action in his life, listens wide-eyed, interrupting only to crack jokes.
No one else enters the room. The low murmur of the TV behind the wall and the occasional creak of a door are the only reminders they’re not alone in the flat.
The lads start getting ready for bed.
Sid shoves all the crap from the floor under the bed and begins fussing with some makeshift sleeping arrangements for his guest — to John’s growing horror. There’s obviously no spare mattress, so a folded blanket has to do, topped off with a sheet. Standing there in his socks, John feels the linoleum cold against his feet, and a draft from under the door brushes his ankles.
"Bloody hell," he mutters, carefully lying down next to the civilised bed Sid’s already claimed for himself. The lad’s sprawled on his stomach, looking down at John expectantly — as if waiting for the fun stories to keep rolling.
But John is not in the mood to be anyone’s entertainment. He lasts a couple of minutes on the thin blanket before realizing that for his wrecked back and jutting bones, this setup is nothing short of torture. He tosses, turns, mutters under his breath. His body aches harder in return. Eventually, teeth gritted, he accepts defeat and turns to his last resort — Sid.
Maybe he’ll pass him another blanket. Or better, swap places.
But Sid isn’t the heroic type: he’s already dead asleep, drooling into his pillow.
John fumes. He could be back home now, faceplanted into his soft mattress, snoring in peace. Instead, his stupid bleeding heart had once again backfired on him.
"Move over, dickhead," he growls through clenched teeth, shoving Sid’s body toward the wall and tossing his own pillow onto the narrow bed.
Sid blinks sleepily, grimacing as John squeezes in and yanks the blanket toward himself.
"Oi, what the hell—"
"You don’t like it, the floor’s still free."
"It’s my bed, you knob!"
"It was your idea to have a sleepover, so shut up."
Sid shuts up, but his brows stay furrowed in protest. John matches the scowl, breathing heavily through his nose. They lie there, both stiff with awkwardness. Then Sid’s bare leg twitches under the blanket and brushes John’s knee. Sid inches toward the wall, trying to widen the space between them — only to nudge him again.
"Stop wriggling around, dammit."
Sid clicks his tongue, sniffles, and swipes a finger across his runny, shiny nose.
John stares at him, disgusted.
"God. You’re even uglier up close."
"Look at yourself, ratboy."
"What?"
"You heard me. Little rat with rat teeth and rat laughs," Sid mumbles without meeting his eyes.
He doesn’t see John’s amused smirk.
"And how exactly do rats laugh, huh?"
"Like you."
Sid pulls a face, juts out his front teeth, and starts doing a weird little breathy giggle.
John chuckles quietly — then, realizing the stupid sound is actually spot on, bursts out laughing.
"Sod off!"
He gives Sid a playful smack on the forehead.
Sid retaliates with a light bop of his own.
A shoulder jab.
A poke to the ribs.
Feet against shins.
A knee to the thigh.
Soon they’re in a full-blown pillow fight, swinging wildly, laughter filling the room like the earlier haze of weed smoke. They don’t bother opening the window this time, even as the room heats up and hearts race.
The climax comes when Sid crashes to the floor with a loud thud and lets out a short, pained groan. A few plastic action figures on the shelves tip over in sympathy. John, still snickering from the bed, offers a hand to help him up.
But just as their fingers are about to touch, a shrill voice shrieks from behind the thin wall:
"Simon, you piece of shit! Shut your fuckin' mouth and go to sleep!"
The lads freeze, staring at each other, then both quietly burst into snickers. John shifts toward the wall, making space on the bed as the nutty mum yells:
"It’s one in the bloody morning, for fuck’s sake!"
Sid picks the blanket up from the floor and hands it to John without a word. He lies on his side, facing him, still grinning as the woman’s voice yells on:
"I raised you all by myself and THIS is how you treat me?! Bastard!"
"Thanks for staying," Sid whispers.
John shrugs, replying in the same low tone:
"No problem."
Of course, there were problems. But neither of them was going to say it out loud.
The important thing was: it had been fun.
"Just wait ‘til morning, I’m waking your arse up at the crack of dawn!"
John waits, hoping either the banshee next room shuts up or Sid rolls over already. Neither happens. So he turns over himself — and ends up face-to-face with Ziggy Stardust’s paper crotch.
Brilliant.
A few minutes pass. Silence, sharp as a knife. Sid doesn’t move behind him — must’ve fallen asleep again, practically breathing down his neck.
And how is this not awkward as fuck? Two mates sharing a bed, practically spooning? Like a pair of bloody faggots.
John looks up at the wall — right into Bowie’s painted face.
Christ only knows what’s going on in Sid’s head.
"Will you come over again?" The voice behind John makes him flinch. “Though Mum probably won’t share her weed next time.”
John stays quiet for a moment — for show, mostly. Then he answers honestly:
"I will."