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The quiet of the empty house was shocking after the noise of their school day and the crowds in the bus. Ivan had dropped his bag in the hallway and taken off his shoes. Paul had done the same, his nerves tightening into a quivering coil in his stomach, and led them upstairs, away from the sitting room where they usually spent time listening to the radio or playing their own music or making up stories or talking about everything and nothing. Paul could tell Ivan was surprised when Paul started climbing the stairs, but he followed without question.
Once there, Ivan paced through Paul’s room, inspecting it with unabashed curiosity. He ran his fingers along the faded curtain, raised his eyebrows at the pencil shavings littering the desk and the stack of creamy thick paper Paul had nicked at school, and finally sat down next to where Paul was sitting, on the side of the bed, saying, “All right. This passes muster.”
On the bus, they’d talked about Paul finally having a room of his own. Not that Paul had minded sharing with Mike when they were smaller, but these days, he liked having a place to be alone with his music, his drawings, and himself.
And, in his dreams and daydreams, with him: The slightly older boy he kept seeing everywhere. The one with the sharp face and a broad back and shoulders, strong and graceful, his voice meant to be heard, his silent presence even louder. It came from the way he held himself, both tough and elegant (Paul barely dared thinking the word). But what drew Paul to him the most was the restless look in his eyes, the tilt of his chin that betrayed his impatience. He was waiting for something, just like Paul.
When Paul wasn’t seeing the boy from afar, he imagined him. By now, he could draw him with the same precision he could draw himself, using a mirror.
But it was Ivan he’d thought of first, when he decided he had to know what it felt like. How it was done. Because once he did, then, maybe, he would stop thinking about it all the time. Or he would be certain, at least, that he could do it. He wanted to stop being afraid of it, was all, and Ivan was fearless. Paul had yet to see him back down to anyone; in fact, he had yet to see him embarrassed. Completely indifferent to the success of his jokes, Ivan would improvise comedy routines and contort himself into grotesque characters, playing his words like Paul played guitar and piano, sure he’d find the right tune. He met any challenge their mates threw at him, provided he deemed it interesting enough. Within the limits of his unshakeable sense of who or what passed muster, he’d try everything once.
Paul pressed his hands against the rough weave of the blanket, and curled his toes against the floor. He felt light-headed, as if the chemicals Mike used to develop his photographs were seeping through the wall and freezing him in place.
Ivan stirred next to him, warm and alive. He had his own smell, pleasant and foreign, of wool and a different, fresher soap than Paul’s, and the candles he was allowed to light in his room, in a nice house called Vega on Vale Road.
One time, Ivan had taken him out to the backyard of his home and pointed at the shrubs and trees that separated it from the neighbors’ backyard. Everything was larger than Paul was used to, even the plants.
“That’s where John lives,” Ivan said. “Come on, I’ll show you.”
John was John Lennon, leader of the Quarry Men, the skiffle band Ivan sometimes joined on box bass. Paul had heard the name before; Ivan liked to talk about him, praised his crazy mind and shenanigans and guitar playing; the two of them had met as children. “He came to my door when he was this tall and asked me to come out and play” — that kind of friendship. Paul’s family had moved too often for him to have friends this close from that far back, but he had friends now, and he’d always had Mike.
Either way, Paul had been intrigued by Ivan’s stories about John Lennon, but not deeply impressed. That changed when he understood how close John lived, in a house exactly mirroring Ivan’s. Similar enough to look unreal. Paul had always thought of himself as Ivan’s twin-friend: born on the same day, with the same humor, height, and hair. Now, seeing the houses facing each other like flipped copies, and remembering how much John and Ivan had in common, he knew there was another.
They stood near the border of shrubs and looked up at the dark windows. The garden on the other side was beautiful, silent, and perfect. Paul’s hands were cold. His pulse jittered in his wrists. He was tense with nerves and an excited misery he hadn’t felt since the awful moment right before he was called to the front to receive the prize he’d won for his poem: a wild fear that he would do something terrible, and ruin it all.
“I don’t think he’s home,” Ivan said. “Pity.”
“Yes,” Paul said as relief flooded through him. “Pity.”
A few days later, it all fell into place. Ivan tugged at Paul’s sleeve: “Over there! That’s John!”
Paul turned, and saw him immediately. It was him, the boy he kept seeing everywhere, and dreaming about when he didn’t. With agonizing slowness, his secret world and the world he shared with Ivan collided. Paul could feel the seam forming right at his middle, and it hurt, being forced to leave the dream and join with life again. the boy—John—wasn’t his anymore. He'd never been Paul’s, of course, but now it would be impossible to pretend he could be, not with Ivan waving him over, summoning John to his side with the ease of someone who’d done this hundreds of times.
John didn’t appear to see them. His eyesight was bad, Ivan had said, and he never wore his glasses. Thank God for that.
“You have to meet him,” Ivan said with relish, still waving, trying to drag Paul towards John. “I told him all about you.”
“Wait!” Paul said. “I can’t, right now. I promised.”
“Promised what?”
Paul never had trouble coming up with an excuse for getting out of a situation he didn’t enjoy, it was one of the advantages of having a large family; there was always an aunt or uncle or cousin who conceivably counted on Paul’s help at that very moment. But this time, Paul’s mind was blank. “I don’t know, I just promised,” he said, and all but ran away.
As soon as he came home, Paul picked up his guitar and settled in his chair in their own, postage stamp-sized backyard. Even holding the instrument was soothing, and, and, little by little, he was able to think more clearly again.
Perhaps, he thought as he tuned the strings, he was a little broken in the head since they lost mum. It would explain the way things made sense to him now in a way they didn’t before, as if the whole world was calling to him, asking him to decipher a message. He couldn’t guess the meaning of the message, he only knew he mustn't miss it. But everything was part of it, somehow.
Strumming his guitar, Paul allowed his thoughts to wander. He imagined Vega and John’s house, Mendips, mirroring each other like pages of a book. The houses shared a border, like Paul and John shared Ivan. Like Ivan and he shared a birthday.
Paul played with a nice little hook he thought might make it into a song one day, inhaling the dry scent of the summer grass. Ivan had lost his father, Paul, his mother. Ivan had a sister, Paul, a brother.
It’s him, Paul thought. He’s pulling John and me together, by being like both of us. By being our friend. He’s part of it, whatever it is.
That’s why it had to be Ivan, here, in Paul’s bedroom.
And not, for instance, Ian, Paul’s mate from before his mother died.
Ian played the guitar, like Paul, and for a while they thought about forming a group, because everyone did. They liked the same songs, and Ian was handsome enough to make Paul steal Mike’s camera for an afternoon to take pictures of Ian with his shirt off. But Mary’s death changed everything. For weeks, Paul didn’t want to play music at all, and when he did, it felt different than it used to, darker and painful, almost too intense to share with anyone else. He tried to explain some of his muddled feelings to Ian, but he couldn’t find the right words. In the end, Ian clumsily tried to cheer him up, and Paul pretended it worked. Their friendship became shallow after that, lingering, unsure.
Ivan, on the other hand, understood Paul’s feelings right away, being the child of one parent, and while he didn’t exactly comfort him, he kept close to Paul, told him jokes most others wouldn’t understand, signalling he still took him seriously, and that Paul’s strange thoughts didn’t put him off at all; on the contrary, they made him interesting.Coming from Ivan, there was no greater compliment.
They were still sitting next to each other on Paul’s bed, the world outside humming quietly. To Paul, Ivan always looked faintly amused, like someone plotting mischief. There was a twinkle to all of him, not only his eyes, which were kind, but also his smile, his voice, and his wild, curly hair.
Paul couldn’t bear the thought of losing him.
“So, Ivy,” Paul began. “Did you ever kiss someone?”
“What do you mean?”
“A girl,” Paul explained, already blushing. This wasn’t going well.
“Sure,” Ivan said. “It was all right.”
Paul didn’t believe a word of it. Ivan sounded too nervous. He pressed on. “Just all right?”
Ivan’s forced smile fell and made way for embarrassment, and plenty of exasperation. “It’s hard to find the right moment! And if you do, it’s over before you know it!”
They sat in silence. Paul’s heart beat in his throat. His body felt like it was growing, changing shape, the way it sometimes did when he took a bath.
“Is there anyone you fancy?” Paul asked.
“Is there anyone I don’t fancy, you mean.” He sucked in his lower lip, probably watching an imaginary parade of girls, all out of reach. “What about you? Anyone special you’d like to kiss?”
Paul considered lying, or saying something silly (Oh, any lass who’ll have me will do!), but settled on the truth instead. “Yes,” he said simply. He expected Ivan to ask for a name, wondering what he’d say in response. But Ivan didn’t ask.
“I wonder how it feels,” Paul said after a while. “I’d want it to be good, when it happens. I’d like to know what I’m doing.”
Ivan, still a little pink in the face, nodded in agreement.
“It would be nice to have someone to practice with,” Paul said.
“And who would that be?” Ivan said. “I can’t ask my sister, can I?” He sounded shaky, not like himself, and Paul thought: He knows where this is going.
“It could be us,” he said.
Ivan looked him over.
“Consider the advantages,” Paul said, keeping his voice light, light. “All the other lads will be nervous. Fumbling. We, on the other hand…”
“You want to kiss me,” Ivan said calmly.
“Just for practice,” Paul said.
Ivan took his time thinking this through. Finally, he said, “All right, let’s have a go.”
Until the last moment, Paul wasn’t sure if he would make it. He leaned in, the two of them now facing each other sitting sideways on the bed, and Ivan didn’t look, and Paul wanted to close his eyes, too, but he didn’t. He didn’t want to end up kissing Ivan on the nose by accident, or miss his face altogether.
The closer he came to kissing Ivan, the weaker he felt: dizzy, weak, close to collapsing in some embarrassing fashion, but at the last possible moment, his lips touched Ivan’s, and the collapsing stopped. Everything stopped. Paul’s instinct took over, and he pursed his lips to kiss his friend. The kiss itself was soft and brief. When they separated, Ivan opened his eyes and smiled, and Paul could have wept with relief.
“Again?” Paul asked.
“All right.”
The second time, Paul lingered a little longer, losing himself in a soft melody of quick, tender kisses until they were both out of breath. This time, it took Ivan a while to open his eyes, and he smiled more openly, his mouth red and a little swollen. Paul swallowed. Their kisses so far had been chaste enough, but he couldn’t ignore what they were doing to him. To them both, actually.
“Sorry,” Ivan said, as if he knew where Paul was looking.
“It’s only natural.”
They both laughed, knowing it wasn’t over.
“Let’s kiss like in the movies,” Paul said.
Ivan widened his eyes. “You…you first.”
“Well, I’d…we’d have to…”
He wanted to touch Ivan, because you can’t kiss properly without touching, everyone knew this, but he wasn’t sure how, and where. Eventually, he placed his hands on Ivan’s shoulders, safe and sound on top of his shirt and jacket, and pulled the two of them closer together. Just before they kissed again, Ivan opened his eyes and their gazes met, and there was an expectation in Ivan’s eyes, something like longing, not for Paul, but for their next kiss.
This time, their mouths opened to each other, and they kissed deeply, more confidently than before, Paul taking the lead, deciding when it was time to take a breath and when it was time to continue, each of them taking and tasting a little more. Without him noticing, Paul’s hands slipped further up Ivan’s shoulders, and then his thumbs were brushing against the skin of Ivan’s neck. Like in the movies, he’d proposed, and the moment he thought it, he pressed himself into Ivan, both of them tilting their heads to continue kissing, and Ivan held on to Paul’s waist.
They didn’t stop. Paul imagined what they looked like, kissing and winding their bodies around each other. Like a moving statue, perhaps, a symbol of love itself. What did the art teacher call it? An allegory.
Ivan was stronger than Paul. He tightened his hold on Paul’s waist, nearly lifting him into his lap, and started mouthing at the side of Paul’s neck, and Paul let him. He half wanted to lie down with Ivan, wanted him to do what he did to himself every night, but, perhaps sensing the danger, Ivan stopped. Their foreheads touched as they waited out the moment, both of them breathing heavily, and trying not to show it.
“Perfect,” Paul said.
“Yeah?” Ivan looked up at him. His eyes were strange, a bit like Mike’s eyes when he was sleepwalking. He brushed a strand of hair out of Paul’s face, and gently lined up his hands with Paul’s jaw, like guessing its shape in the dark. “You’re beautiful,” he said with a wobbly voice. “I would…I would tell her.”
Paul lowered his eyes. Before he could look back up, Ivan was kissing him again, fingers curled at the hinges of Paul’s jaw, thumbs pressing into his cheekbones, a good pressure, strong, manly, excellent, Paul thought, just right. Their tongues met, hot and shocking, and Paul arched his body against Ivan’s the way he arched off the mattress when he finished himself, mouthing that name.
So close. John and Ivan and Paul and John, John.
They let go of each other at the same time. They stared at each other, flushed and a little shocked. In a panic, Paul wondered if he’d said the name, or all of their names, out loud. The room faded, and the only real thing was Ivan, his hair darker than ever, eyes deep and astonished, and his mouth…
…stretching into a smile. Ivan stuck out his tongue and made a funny face at Paul, a cheeky grimace that spoke of conspiracy, of the two of them getting away with this. Not only kissing each other, but liking it! This one time.
“I’ll remember that,” Ivan said quietly.
“As will I,” said Paul.
A little later, they sat downstairs. Paul felt warm all over, playing the guitar and singing while Ivan tapped a simple rhythm on his legs.
“Come on,” Paul said, segueing into that song by the Del-Vikings he couldn’t get out of his head. “Sing along! Properly!” Ivan humored him, singing the deep voice and munching on the buttered toast Paul had brought in. They couldn’t remember all of the lyrics, and took turns making up nonsense words instead. All of this was lovely, but Paul felt it wasn’t enough. He wanted to give Ivan something special, to thank him.
“Do you want to hear a new one of mine?” Paul asked.
“Sure.”
Paul started, stopped, tuned his guitar. He was nervous. He’d written a song on his birthday, which was also Ivan’s birthday, two weeks ago, and it felt like a good one. It had been his first birthday after his mother died, and when the tune had come to him, it had hurt. That there was still music, without her.
Ivan picked up a book, as he often did when Paul played him a new song. It didn't mean he wasn’t listening, on the contrary. Like Paul, he could listen and read at the same time.
Not having anyone’s eyes on him helped Paul to lose himself in the music, vocalizing where he didn’t have the words, polishing the music as he played. Some day, you’ll see that I have gone…but tomorrow’ll be rain, so I’ll follow the sun.
After a while, Ivan was humming along without looking up from his book, and at that precise moment, the sun warmed the side of Paul’s face, and his neck, where he could feel a bruise forming where Ivan had kissed him.
Satisfied with the song, Paul set the guitar aside.
“I’ll never understand,” Ivan said, closing the book, “why I’m in a band. And you’re not.”
From experience, Paul knew what would follow: Ivan would try to make him join the Quarry Men, convinced Paul and John would get on like a house on fire. So far, Paul had always found a reason to say no. He was just fine playing guitar by himself, not ready to leave the safety of his room and his daydreams, not even for—no! Especially for someone as colorful and alive as John.
But from the moment he and Ivan had let go of each other, Paul’s life had started moving again. The seam at his middle was healing.
“There’s a Church Fete on the 6th,” Paul said. “I thought about going. Meet some girls, practice some real kissing…”
Ivan’s eyes lit up. He didn’t acknowledge Paul’s stupid line about kissing, and instead said what Paul expected he would say: “The Quarry Men are playing there!”
“Really?” Paul pretended to be surprised.
“Not me,” Ivan clarified. “I’m just the reserve. But we can go together, and I’ll introduce you. It’s about time you met John.”
From what Paul had heard, the Quarry Men were an approximately ten-piece band with a line-up that changed each time they played. All it took to join them was to be John’s friend, and to own an instrument. Paul wouldn’t ask to be in a band like this. He wanted John (how lovely to say his name more and more often, even in his mind) to invite him.
“Maybe,” Paul said. “Maybe it’s time.”
They both felt tired after these words, as if the important thing had been done. Before too long, Ivan put his shoes back on, and picked up his bag, ready to leave.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Paul said, waiting for Ivan to open the door. Instead, Ivan looked him up and down, deeply in thought. Then, before Paul could ask what he was doing, Ivan cradled his face, rose slightly on his toes, and kissed him on his forehead.
Paul closed his eyes. When he opened them, the door was open, and Ivan was walking away from him, a spring in his step. He didn’t turn around.
All of a sudden, Paul’s nerves were back. July 6th! He didn’t have much time. Quickly, he returned to the sitting room, and picked up his guitar.