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Squire knows he is a man of many vices; alcohol, cigarettes, designer clothes, designer drugs and then some. And he knows that Brown's a man of the same vices too. After all, great minds think alike, birds of a feather flock together, and Ian was practically his brother. The two had been together since they were snotty little boys in Timperley, little John and even littler Ian. They've seen each other at their worst and best, and recently the best keeps getting better; Ian looked downright divine some of these days. As Stone Roses started to play on brighter, shinier stages, so did Ian become brighter and shinier. He looked a little less scrawny now that he's got enough to afford some more food. His lips almost seem plumper, hair fluffier. And whenever John looked up from his pedals to see how Ian's doing, he felt like he'd seen a deity, bathed in rainbows of limelight, shaking his wrist and prancing around for his loyal worshipers. Adored.
"John... John... John..."
And the worst has been getting worse too. Ian's laying half naked on the couch, stinking of summer sweat and burnt out ganja, with a bottle of stale liquor left for too long, being a broken record who keeps calling for his name.
John would've found that last part endearing if only Ian's temper was less unpredictable, which he thought the weed would've helped with, but turns out to have exasperated. He decides to ignore Ian. He could say anything, and the monkey man would misinterpret it, grab at his collar (of a favorite shirt, nonetheless!) and start speaking utter nonsense before they'd fight. It's gotten more frequent nowadays, and he'd prefer to avoid it.
"Joooooooohnny..." Ian let out a particularly long whine, twisting his thin frame to lie on his stomach and look at Squire instead of the ceiling. Squire ignores him still. Those deep brown doe eyes are death traps, not toys.
"... John?" Ian finally called with a sweetness that caught John off-guard; the same sweetness Ian would muster if he needed to very badly say something to John.
It caught John so off-guard that the man couldn't help but go "Yes, Ian, what is it?" Before he could stop himself. Unfortunately, Ian was also one of John's vices; the worst one, he'd argue.
"... ya hate me, do ya?" Ian began asking with a drawl to his voice, one that would only appear when Ian was drunk. It got John to briefly glance at the bottle of booze on the coffee table, but not Ian. Half empty, the dark green bottle stood.
"Where'd ya hear that?" John asked, returning his attention to the notebook page he's struggling to fill the last 15 minutes mostly due to Ian being obnoxious.
"So ya do hate me!" Ian shot up from the couch far too fast for a man stoned and drunk. He nearly topples, dizzy, holding his hand to his face and letting out a small whimper. Real pathetic.
"Never said that..." Squire sighed. Noted, only answer yes or no when Ian's like this... he thought to himself. "I don't hate ya,"
"No- agh! But you...!"
"Mmhm...?"
Ian's laying himself back on John's couch again, muttering incomprehensibles and following the noise with a groan.
"... what's that, Ian? Use your words,"
"Coz... ya keep! Y'know!"
"I don't,"
"... ignoring me..."
"Really, now, have I?"
"Yesss!" Ian slurred, "Why didn't ya answer... when I... called the first time! Ya hate me..."
"B'coz you keep acting like this. You start talking nonsense, and then we'd fight," he puts the book down finally to look over at Ian, who was holding one of the throw pillows over his chest, curling into it. "I'd rather ignore you for a few minutes rather than fight with you for days," John sighs, getting up from his seat to walk over to Ian, looming before him.
Ian's sclera were bright red. He looked like a demon, a hungry little demon who feasted on John's attention; again, adored, always. His pupils are blown wide open, making his eyes look practically black. Ian’s brown eyes had always been his best feature, Squire feels. They stared back like black holes, pulled people into them.
"We won't fight!"
"Yes we will! You're doing it right now!"
"What am I- what am I doing?!"
"Being stubborn like an arse, Ian! Just listen to me! If I hated you, I wouldn't let you into my place, get drunk from my booze and make this place smell like a dispensary!"
"But you-"
"Listen to me about how I feel!" John grabs Ian by the shoulders, squeezing hard. "We've known each other since we're six, Ian and I've never left you since we became friends. What more do you ask from me?" He calms down.
"... I just don't want ya to leave me,"
"Well I just might- if you keep acting like this!"
"... mm..." Ian let out a small noise. When John realises it was a whimper, he lets go of Ian's shoulders.
"Goodness, Ian... I'm sorry, but... c'mon. You can't be stupid enough to think I could ever bring myself to hate you," he looks away from John, crossing his arms as he glances over at the messy table. At least Ian had the courtesy of putting all the weed ash in the ashtray.
"Don't leave me, John..."
John sighed.
He looks down at Ian again, whose eyes were becoming far too tender. It's that gaze that makes John's knees buckle. Tears were pooling, threatening to spill over and break the thick glassy surface of his bloodshot brown eyes.
"... I don't want you to leave... stay, John..." Ian sniffled.
Maybe God sent Ian down from heaven to test John's faith. And patience, that too.
"I won't. Not ever," John kneels in front of Ian to get closer to the man on the couch, no longer looming before Ian to get a better look at his vocalist's face, then places a hand on Ian's cheek and Ian, honest to God, keened against his flesh in the way that'd make even the most pious tempted. With lashes spread over his cheekbones, tears wet John's callous hands as he blinked.
He leaned in to kiss Ian, who had instinctively tilted his head and puckered his lips; plump, soft. Had he been taking care of them lately? With those girly balms and whatnot? Ian would kill him if he mentioned. The mellowed scent of weed clung to the inside of Ian's mouth, John almost tasted it. He never quite liked it, but on Ian anything becomes a fold more pleasant.
"Don't leave me, John..."
"Couldn't even if I tried," John shook his head for a quick second. "Now can I please write in silence, Ian?"
"Mm..." a hum from Ian. He's sated, for now.
Right as John went to sit down at the other end of his paisley-patterned couch, Ian immediately pushed himself up, scooted over to John's side, and leaned his weight against his shoulder.
"John...?"
"... in a minute, darling,"
"Jooohnnn..."
John put down his book again and sighed. Is he going to keep doing this Just keep asking him the same questions?
"Yes, Ian. I don't hate you,"
"... No, it's something else..."
"Then can you tell me what it is?"
"... Hmph..." All Ian did was take his head off John's shoulder and pout.
"Then I can't help ya. I'm no psychic," John says. Just as he raised his notebook up to write in it-
"John...?" Ian calls, again.
Squire let out a groan and exhaled sharply through his nose. He closes his eyes. "You keep doin' this and I might actually hate you,"
"... so you do hate me?" Ian made that pathetic whine again, the sound seemingly possessed John to take hold of Ian's face and softly squeeze his fingers into his cheeks.
"Are you stupid?" John mutters, before leaning in to shower Ian's face with a number of pecks. One on his forehead, where John inhaled a lungful of Ian's hair, coated with the scent of tobacco and marijuana. "I kissed you on your lips and you're still asking if I hate you?"
One more kiss, on the mole under his right eye. One of many moles all over Ian's pretty face. It made John notice how truly red Ian's cheeks had become. And how thick his lashes are, how wide his pupils have stretched.
"But-"
One more, now above Ian's lips, on his most prominent mole. The one cameras could actually pick up on. It shushed Ian good, causing the man to pucker his lips expectantly, wanting more.
"Is that enough for you?"
Ian stays quiet, eyes wide and cheeks pink. John lets go of his face and raises his book once more, about to lift his pen until he could feel Ian press up against his shoulder once more, this time tugging John's shirt with his bony fingers. Even without looking, John can feel Ian's stare on him. Needy little thing.
“You’re a baby, that’s what you are,”
“Am not...” Ian drawled, softly pushing against John’s hand that made its steady way to the back of his head, lacing digits through dark brown locks. More kisses peppered all over Ian’s face, some on his jawline, which made the man expose his neck. God, it made John want to mark up Ian’s neck, but he knew better than to subject his best mate to a week or so of turtlenecks in the summer.
John finally gives in and presses his lips against Ian’s. Again, always so soft, but even sweeter now that Ian’s practically begging for John. He sucks on Ian’s lower lip softly, letting it go with a wet pop. If Ian didn’t look pretty before, he sure as hell looked gorgeous now, all flush and shiny, with lips a sweet, pinkish red like cherryade. He pushed his tongue into Ian’s mouth, dragging it over the ticklish spot that’d make Ian have to stifle a moan, which causes Ian to starts greedily clamouring for every bit of John his hand could reach, clawing at his shirt and getting on his lap. After what felt like a hot minute, Ian pulled away with a gasp, needing air.
“Want more?” John asks, looking far less winded that Ian did. Something about that made John far happier than it had any right to.
“...” Ian pouted again, silently nodding his head.
“Well, use your words, honey,”
“Please... kiss me?”
Well, he can’t possibly bring himself to hate Ian. Not this time, at least.