Chapter Text
The wind howled through the cracked, filthy window frames. The masking tape, dried out with age, did nothing to keep out the cold, heavy, wet London smog. Swaying the jaundiced wallpaper with its bruise-blue flowers, peeling from the grimy walls, it added to the atmosphere of decay in this dirty corner on the edge of town. The building was old, pre-war construction, with cracks appearing in the walls over time. Maybe it had always been a den for the same kind of antisocial types who'd ended up at the very bottom of London.
They'd been 'living' there for a couple of months, no longer teenagers, not yet adults. John had been kicked out a couple of months back; Sid had left on his own. At least, that's what he said.
Money was always tight; they'd scrounge what they could here and there, selling drugs, hanging around bohemian scenes, noisy neighbors. The same unwanted kids, spending their days getting wasted on cheap lager. At night, high on speed, they'd dance in bars, halls, and pubs.
John didn't really give a fuck about them, to be honest. He had his own crowd he hung out with, pretended he was different. Sid had always tagged along with them, since college. Back then, he hadn't called himself that yet, of course not. The John Lydon gang. But no matter who Rotten hung out with, he lived with him. Sid shared the money he made dealing speed. That's what he said, anyway, though there were other rumors going around.
Sid was a weakling, obsessed with fashion. He could only ever copy what he saw, but at least he tried to keep himself presentable. In a squat, it was hard to maintain a decent haircut, so Vicious kept his short, still painting his nails with cheap polish. It flaked off in chunks, leaving dirty smears, like the stains on the ceiling of this shithole. His skinny, lanky body, his filthy mouth – for some reason it attracted girls. It just pissed Rotten off. Stupid fucking slags.
They had to share the bed. With no other furniture, a dirty mattress with damp, crumpled sheets served as their bed. Once upon a time, it had been white. Once. Now it was just rags covered in smears and stains. The mattress springs dug into their emaciated bodies. John, though used to poverty, sometimes genuinely hated his situation. They lived like bums. The surroundings sometimes pressed down on him so hard he wanted to run away, but out on the street, an even colder greyness awaited him. Sometimes Rotten was afraid of getting sick again and dying here; sometimes he prayed for it to happen.
Sid's cold hands on his skin felt like a dead man's touch. The walls pressed in with their disgusting yellowness, reminding him of his own skin; the dull, dirty lightbulb under the ceiling swayed in the draft. Rotten never undressed completely. It wasn't the cold he feared, but his own nakedness.
Someone else's hands slid under his shirt, over his concave stomach. John's body was awkward and crooked, ugly, but his Best Friend liked it. Rotten didn't find Sid attractive, of course not, he wasn't one of those poofs. It's just that a girl could never understand male anatomy the way another man could. Never…
Sid pressed up against him from behind, tried to kiss him, but John turned away, burying his face in the folds of the dirty sheets, leaving his neck exposed. Strange hands unbuttoned his fly, wrapping around his hard cock. The movements were unsure, but familiar. What had they been arguing about that morning? Vicious was trying to make up for it, kissing his neck, murmuring something. Rotten didn't give a fuck, told him to shut up. Too wet. He smelled of stale booze. John squeezed his eyes shut, breathing heavily, thrusting into the hand, letting out a stifled groan as a thumb circled the head.
He came quickly, pulled away with a grimace of disgust, wiping himself with the edge of the sheet – it certainly couldn't get any dirtier. Rotten stood up, did up his fly, looking for his cigarettes. He spotted them on the dusty windowsill, next to an overflowing ashtray, amongst the matches and spent butts. He lit one, hiding his ragged breath behind the drags, staring out into the night, pausing – you couldn't show vulnerability. Half a cigarette later, John finally turned around.
Sid was looking at him with devoted, confused, and sad eyes. His naked, jaundiced skin blended in with the wallpaper and sheets. He was a convenient thing, useful, one of the few good things here. The room felt too small when it filled with smoke. Vicious was saying something about his day, coughing, staring. It was annoying, but that dog-like devotion was useful. After all, a world shrunk down to one room was cruel. Somewhere outside, an ambulance siren wailed. Through the wall, the neighbours were fucking.