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The flat’s been half-furnished for weeks—since they moved in. There’s boxes instead of tables and posters curling off of the walls. It’s shit, really, wallpaper peeling and mould gathered in the windowsills. But there’s a sofa, a kettle and a record player. Who needs much else?
The air is heavy with the smell of burnt toast and weed, windows shut to keep out the cold Manchester breeze. They’ve been taking turns spinning albums all day, curled up on the sofa under thick blankets.
Ian gets up to pick a new album, finger running over the spines of thin record covers. It’s a no-brainer landing on some worn Beatles single he’s almost certain he bought John for a birthday when they were younger.
“Come here.” Ian breathes a laugh at the sight of John sprawled on the sofa, sleepy and stoned and wearing one of Ian’s too-small jumpers.
John stumbles clumsily to his feet, all long, bare legs and hair in desperate need of a trim. The sight makes Ian’s heart melt. Ian sets the needle down on the disk. The warm, sugary pop doesn’t hesitate to fill the space.
“What?” John exhales, a grin tugging lazily at his lips. His palms find Ian’s hips without pause, tugging him in closer.
“Nothin’.” Ian murmurs over the music, but it’s mostly lost between layers of instruments. Drapes his arms around John’s shoulders and grins like a dope.
“Are you—” John giggles, sways a little. Ian follows, and his face softens. So he is (poorly) trying to dance. He squeezes Ian’s waist in his hands, leaning in and pressing their foreheads together.
The carpets soft under their feet, skin brushing hesitantly as they shuffle about. It’s clumsy—really clumsy—and endearing in every way. They’re stumbling over each other's feet, elbows knocking into their arms. And they can’t do much but giggle and sway.
“Love our flat.” John mutters once the song simmers to a halt, over the faint scratch of the needle against the finished record. “Even if it’s shit.”
Ian looks into his eyes, bright and glittery and earnest. His heart brims with joy at the sight. His boy. Our flat. His life feels like some sort of miracle. Johnny, in his arms, the same boy he’d fallen in love with when they were scrappy teenagers skiving off of maths to snog in the loos, in their living room.
“Love you.” Ian sighs fondly, brows knitted. He sounds so emotional that John worries for a half-second that he might collapse into tears, but he doesn’t. “Can’t believe this is real.”
“No. But I’m glad it is.” John’s eyes flutter shut, foreheads pressed together. He breathes Ian in for a moment, hands tracing the slim curve of his torso. The sleeves of his jumper are too high on his wrists, but he doesn’t seem to mind.
John dips in, presses a few sweet pecks to Ian’s lips. Then another, like he can’t help himself. He can’t, really, never could. Ian’s beaming when he pulls back, eyes creased. John’s heart flutters at the sight.
“Fuckin’ gorgeous.” John sighs, reaching up to twirl a strand of Ian’s messy hair around his finger, lips twitched into a grin.
Ian leans into his shoulder, up on his tip-toes. Melts there, lets John gather him up in his arms and hold him just how he needs. Brushes his lips against his head.
“This is perfect.” Ian manages, squeezing John around the shoulders. And it is. He smells of Ian’s soap, but he can’t bring himself to be annoyed at him using it because he’s being so lovely; holding him like a prayer and speaking sweetly in his ear.
“Yeah?” John grins, stroking a hand slowly up Ian’s spine just to watch him shudder. Irritating but endearing.
“Yeah. Yeah, it is.”