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It’s a day like any other, really, Ian rushing to change quicker than any other boys, still red-faced and sweating from football, just to sneak a few minutes with John before maths.
It’s spring outside, trees finding their colours again, dandelions poking out from pavements. The sun's not nearly warm enough to discard a blazer, but it’s pleasant. A nice change, really, after how cold winter was.
He finds him tucked away behind a rotting shed, as ever, sketchbook cradled in his tender palms. The page is covered in little half-finished sketches—mostly Ian, but a few of popstars and such. The sight brings a little, genuine smile to his face before he can help it.
“Can’t believe no one’s found you here yet.” Ian huffs fondly, sinks down to sit on the dusty ground beside John. His legs are curled up under him like a cat, sunlight filtering through the leaves onto his smooth cheeks.
“Don’t bother lookin’, do they?” John shrugs, only briefly regards Ian before turning his attention back to his sketchbook.
It concerns Ian immediately. Usually these breaks are ten minutes at an extreme push, and they’re usually all over each other for most of it. And John’s anti-social most days, but not when it’s with him. Not when it’s them.
And yeah, maybe it’s a bit overdramatic to expect John to be all over him all of the time, but that’s what he needs. That’s what he always needs. What he thinks about when he looks up at the ceiling at night, or accidentally brushes his knuckles into his own side.
“What’s up with you?” Ian furrows his brows, knocks John’s sketchbook with his knee so that he grumbles and has to rub a wonky line out.
“Nothing’s up with me.” John mutters under his breath. He pushes his hair back with his hands and exhales long and deep before continuing with his art.
Ian gives a half-scoff, fondness wearing thin under the lack of attention. If John wants to be like that, then fine. “We were doin’ football. You love football. Don’t get why you skulk about here all day.”
“Course you don’t.” It’s rare John does that: talks before thinks. Usually he’s careful with words, every syllable planned out in his head. He looks shocked when he says it, then pretends he didn’t.
“What’s that s’posed to mean?” And Ian’s genuinely, completely baffled. Usually he can translate every cryptic word and half-lipped smile that John offers, but not this.
“Dunno. Nothing.” John’s already given up on it, curling in on himself, voice low and threatening to break. It’s a slightly frightening sight: John looking small. It’s something Ian doesn’t think he can ever get used to.
“Johnny-” Ian starts, then pauses. Thinks the words he wants to say over in his head. Scraps them and tries again, but nothings coming. He's hit a nerve and he wants nothing more than to dig deeper into it, until it’s bleeding and exposed. And he wants to do it without hurting him.
It takes John a second, teeth leaving harsh grooves into his plump bottom lip, eyes shiny with unshed tears. His voice is tiny when he speaks, shaky and raw. “I’m a girl, Ian.”
“What are you talking about?” Ian’s heart is in his throat, but he’s not sure why. He’s a bit wary of the topic, because he thinks John might be telling the truth.
In his head, it throws him off a little. He knows, really, that there’s no way it could be true. John, with his broad shoulders and slim waist and his long legs, a girl? But he knows John isn't lying because it suddenly all clicks into place. Because John’s never changed around him, or let his hands any higher or lower than his hips.
John doesn’t speak, just sags into Ian’s eternally open arms and sniffles quietly into his shoulder. His blazer is ruined, he’s sure, but his mum’ll understand. Ian softens, arms curling around John. He strokes his hair carefully and kisses his head.
“What you cryin’ for?” Ian laughs breathily because otherwise they’ll both be teary messes. Squeezes John tight. “Course you’re not a girl, div. What kind of girl’s named John?”
And John giggles at that, real and shaky with tears, tucks himself into Ian’s neck and stays there, right where he belongs. Ian can’t stop smiling, because he knows it’s true. It’s just where he belongs.