Chapter Text
It was cold and still and white, icy slits of light crept through the blinds when he opened his eyes. He tried to move his head to the side in order to escape the stinging sensation, but it seemed pointless. He felt dizzy, a deafening ringing in his ears that made his head swirl. It felt like flowing, only the sensation was not at all pleasant — as it is supposed to be — as he was flowing deeper and deeper and he couldn't make it cease.
With a low moan, John let his body roll to the side, struggling to ignore the pain he felt as his limbs moved, too slowly. He felt so heavy, as if paralized, but he knew it was not tiredness. He was not tired, for all he knew. Well, at least not phisically. It had to be something else, lead-like, smothering. Fear? Maybe. But what for? He couldn't bring himself to contemplate, his head throbbing.
He laid his hand on the ice-cold sheets beside him and for a second everything ceased - that blazing darkness flashing before your eyes, taking up your senses all at once, a mere second before the world comes back to you hostile and glacial. The realisation hit him like a wave, hot and suffocating at first, subduing into coldness as a ripple of unease flowed down his spine.
Paul was not there.
He left early.
John sighed deeply and sat up a little, eyes fixed ahead, unfocused. He knew what this meant, Paul leaving at the crack of dawn, without a word. He didn't even hear him when Paul awoke, so softly had he slipped off. He couldn't suppress a sad smile at the consideration his partner bore for him, full-hearted and devoted.
He went to work again. That must be it. Though of late the meaning has accutely altered. And it was the hope, this hope that pulled Paul out of his bed every single morning, this hope that drove him to excruciatingly painful, but seemingly worthwhile ends, that baffled John to the point that he sometimes couldn't even look at his partner without laughing, a bitter laugh on the verge of hysterics. What for?
At the end of the day, both of them knew all this struggle woundn't make it any different for them. It wouldn't make it easier.
As a matter of fact, it made it worse and John knew why, knew it all too well. If only he were brave enough to acknowledge it.
He raised his body and lazily dragged it towards the edge of the bed, shoulders still wrapped in a dark brown velvety blanket Paul bought for his birthday a year ago. A sacrifice of Paul's hundreds and John's cause for remorse. He glanced at the small nightstand - dark wood, slightly old and chipped. The clock read 9:15. It was already late, Paul left two hours ago, the house was empty and silent and John had nothing to do except worry and tremble with apprehension, waiting.
Waiting... Waiting for what?
He didn't know, and he didn't have the strength to expect.
°~°~°
When he looked at the clock again, it was almost twelve and he decided he might as well give up on waiting. It was clear enough that Paul wasn't going to come back any time soon and the thought appeased him a little. It was good, he thought, but for how long... he didn't have the slightest clue.
With a sigh, John took one quick look at his work and slammed the notebook shut. Work, yes. He was... working. One might as well laugh at the statement and John was no longer proud to assert it. After spending two hours on waiting - waiting, this word again, as if his entire life was built around it - for the inspiration to come to him, he ended up forcing it out until he felt noseaus. He dreaded that feeling more than anything.
He managed to get down two full pages, but the toil... Christ, the toil was umbearable! It started swiftly, with a jolt of inspiration that unfortunately took longer than expected to be put into words on the paper, as always. After this things got insurmountable. It was blabbering about something he wasn't even able to grasp - no idea, no plot, nothing. It was pointless, most likely, but he endeavoured to keep going as this was his only hope.
But what hope can a book provide to a poet whose poems can't even sell? Well, that was the question, but John refused the very thought of it. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew he wasn't going anywhere with this. But he tried. For Paul.
And Paul was never home. He was whether working or looking for work, it was like this every two days. He almost learnt the pattern by heart. One steady working day between two trials. But it was always one day. That one day of strained happiness was murder. And this had to be such a day. It was for sure, seeing that Paul wasn't home yet.
But where was he?
He had been up early, though John doubted he had woken up earlier than 7:00. He couldn't recall where Paul was working, he lost count and gave up on asking. The only thing he was certain about was the sacrifices Paul made so that they could live decently.
He couldn't forget that. He shouldn't. He wouldn't. Ever.
Meanwhile John's book languished in idleness. So much for making up.
Letting go of his dark thoughts, John opened the fridge and got out some left overs. He lacked the luxury of a fine breakfast so he chose to skip it as he often slept in and didn' t have the need for one. He ate some of Paul's vegetarian lasagna, careful to leave some for him when he returned and went back to his lingering, making a small note to remember and buy something sweet in his usual promenade.
°~°~°
Being a broke writer with no other career prospects in the middle of New York City was hard, though hard is a bit of an understatement, especially in John's case. Attracted by all things beautiful as by a magnet, it proved all the more painful to detach, to keep away from them as children would from danger. Because it was danger, to watch and never touch, to look at beauty from afar with the wistfullness of a pauper for his beloved, but far-out-of-his-league princess. But beauty was expensive. He could not afford it.
Sauntering on the city streets with no purpose whatsoever, he often caught himself looking at the dazzling showcases of some shops he used to pass by every day — glittering jewellery, demure desserts, finery and men's fragrance, things that left him gawking for whole minutes, until the welcoming smile of a lady or a man beyond the glass jolted him awake, reminding him in a strange way — kind and inviting — that he did not belong in there. He would've pushed the thought aside, but it would have been pointless anyway, seeing that his wallet was almost empty each and every time.
Of all the attractions on the alley, he felt most drawn towards the jewellery shop, though he couldn't point out why. That particular shop was empty almost all the time, few and probably highly respectable customers milling about inside, looking and picking, seemingly uninterested, too used to glitter to be impressed. John saw them, noticed them with admiration and envy, but never really cared. It was something else that caught his eyes, someone else. So rare and foreign and so far away among the glimmer of the jewels.
It was a man, cool and dignified, distant, detached from the small crowd around him. He appeared so clear behind the glass that his image looked almost surreal to John, estranged, ephemeral as that of a spectre. And it was always the look in his eyes that made John freez for a second, heart skipping a beat, breath catching in his throat — paralised, that's how he felt. He didn't understand that look, he couldn't make anything of it, but it was always the same: the way he raised his eyes from nearly the same showcase and directed it to John slowly, always wide with... surprise? John didn't dare guess. He shouldn't know. It was terrifying, disquieting. He often scooted away from the shop as soon as he came to his senses and, strangely enough, he always forgot.
This day was the same. The men was wearing different clothes, but John knew who it was. That look in his eyes, the puzzlement, the question they asked... John couldn't make it out, but it was there, not yet voiced. He walked away dazed, his head spinning in confusion.
At the confectionery, his eyes caught upon some variously glazed brownies which he'd been aiming at for a couple of days. He knew Paul ached for some good brownies and each and every day he stopped in front of the shop, eying that colourful box until he felt dizzy. These were the ones Paul wanted, the mint and candy ones, but they were far too expensive for them. He looked at the custard tarts too. Soft, Paul's favourites. It was murder deciding, but he knew he had to buy something for Paul, for his endeavour. He had to make up.
So he chose both.
°~°~°
It was almost six when Paul finally got home. The small apartment was dark, blinds drawn over the window, and silent. Perhaps too silent for his expectations. No music was on, no laughter coming from their bedroom. The living room was empty and...
No. Wait...
His eyes landed on the small coffee table in front of the couch and widened in awe at the sight. There were no sheets of paper there, no books, no pens — as John usually left them after a day of struggle with ideas. Instead, there lay his lasagna on a smallish plate, with some old cheap wine they brought from home — he realised. Mint brownies were waiting for him on a tray and there were custard tarts among them too. On the edge of the table, about to slip off, Paul noticed a note written on lined paper - perhaps torn from John's notebook - a tiny doodle of a Happy Paul, eating his tarts. Below, in quick, untidy handwriting, it said: "Eat, don't think. Stay happy."
Paul smiled fondly at the piece of paper, knowing all too well he'll have to think of this. It was crucial. But for now, he let himself slump on the couch and enjoy the little treats John put on for him, wandering whether John left some of this for himself as well.
He felt heavy and slightly out of breath as his steps neared their bedroom, though he couldn't quite explain why. He found John dozing off on their bed, fully dressed, head turned from him — a peaceful slumber, as always. He must have been waiting for hours, Paul thought and suddenly his heart sank as he remembered.
He had to tell him.
What and how exactly, Paul had no clue. He knew John and his high expectations all too well. He also knew he had to say something, but he wouldn't dare. He came back home at a reasonably late hour, but it was nothing John would expect. The hour was reasonable. But not the reason.
The reason — more like the cause.
Again. As goes the pattern.
John didn't stir when he stepped inside. The blinds were down and a greyish light seeped through. With careful steps, Paul approached the bed and reached out for John's shoulder.
"Johnny" he whispered, gently touching him. John flinched immediately, turning his head. "I'm home"
John smiled gratefully, groaning as he stretched a little. His face looked so young then, still blurry with sleep — a childlike sleepiness — it lit the room around Paul in a strange way. A painful way.
John didn't say anything, merely turned around and watched Paul change. Paul could see a flicker of hope in his eyes, but didn't bear to look at it.
John was waiting for something. He was waiting for Paul to say it.
"How was your day?" John asked eventually, voice only a mutter. He was still watching Paul, unrelenting.
Paul let out a chuckle, averting his gaze.
Silence. John didn't insist. Perhaps it was fear? Who knows...
Paul took the small plate of brownies from the shelf near the door and placed it on the nightstand.
"I've— I've left you some" he tried to smile, but it came only with a faint twitch of his lips. His voices sounded so weak it made him shiver with unease. "You shouldn't have..."
This time John scoffed, rolling on his back. "Bullshit. You know I had to."
Paul sat on the chair at the end of the bed, looking at John, eyes filled with worry. "But how—"
John cut him off, as calm as ever. "I bought them. With my money."
Simple as that.
Paul let out a heavy sigh, fear finally leaving his body. That fear, he's been anticipating along with the answer. He raked a hand through his hair, but otherwise did nothing else to unsettle John.
"A big hole in our budget, though" John said casually, throwing his legs over the backrest of their sofa-turned-bed. He seemed not in the least affected by what he had just said, as if the words didn't concern him as well.
Paul stared at him for a while, frozen with his hands in front of him. He looked baffled, if not horror-struck.
"This is my point exactly. It was too much, you shouldn't have wasted your money like this. On some... trifles."
"You could've just said thank you, you know. If you liked them..." John seemed unfazed, calmly swinging his feet over the backrest.
"But it's too much John. You can't just throw all your money like this, especially not now"
"I've got savings, you know..."
And for the first time since their unbearable conversation, Paul felt grateful John wasn't listening. Perhaps it was better like this, better for John to be brassed off. Maybe he wouldn't take it too much to heart. Maybe...
They sat in silence for a while, the ticking of the alarm clock and nothing else around them. Paul found himself deep in thought, wrestling with his conscience over and over, thinking of John...
John.
Looking at him now, John didn't seem to think of anything, really. He was out of it, so detached... And Paul wandered why. Why, for Christ's sake? To say he didn't care would've been crude. John cared, too much sometimes. The brownies came as solid proof. He merely wanted to see Paul smile once in a while and Paul couldn't shake the pang of guilt he felt at the realisation. He was grateful for the gesture, really, he was, but... It felt bitter with little to no sweetness.
He had to tell John why.
Why his gift was so ill-received.
But how?
A shiver went through him and for a moment he could not breathe again. He'd been through this before, it should get easier, shouldn't it? But then, John looked so pleased, indulging in this childish hope of his... It would have been cruel for Paul to go and shatter everything. Again. As he always did.
And John always revived every other day... With new hope, new strength. It must've been an inexhaustible source, this, but Paul had no clue about it. Glancing at John again from his chair, he couldn't help a bitter smile at the other man's calm bliss. He was sure that John was waiting for the best of news since he came home so late — well, later then any other day — and hadn't said a thing yet.
And he stayed like this a long while, staring into nothingness, counting his shallow breathes. How bizarre. John closed his eyes some time during their stillness, legs still up. Trying to shut off again. It was strange, this lethargy. The calm before the storm.
Paul felt his face crumple at the prospect of actually having to tell John. He dreaded that moment, exactly the same point during the day every other day. Strange day — Wednesday — sometimes sunny, other times grey; and some times — few, but still not to be passed over — silver and still. Like this one — the Silver Wednesday. Bitter irony. Bitter, cruel irony. It's how things worked.
And John always waited, and each time he came to terms with the news without a word, in a gloomy silence that Paul had never had the chance to attribute to him. That fraction of a second when his eyes would darken with a twitch of his face so slight, almost imperceptible, and his words would die inside him, his entire being relapsing into quietness, Paul dreaded the most. That silence was so fragile around them in that very moment that Paul knew, if he took a breath, it would crumble over them.
Because he knew John wasn't in the least reconciled, that his quietness was nothing but sadness and chagrin. And he never said a word to him, merely turned around and sighed — a soft, tired sigh that to Paul sounded shaky and faint, bringing tears along. Maybe John cried, though Paul never saw him. Never heard him.
As suspected, after a while John let his legs fall and kept staring at the ceiling. He didn't look upset, just... tired, though Paul was certain it wasn't tiredness that crept over him. Well, not physical at least. It was getting dark outside, but neither of them turned on the bedside lamp. Paul rose from his chair and moved the plate further on the nightstand, just to keep his hands and mind occupied for a little while, until he'd gathered enough power of will to say the words and get it over with once and for all.
He sat on the edge of the bed, back turned to John. He chose not to look, not now. He couldn't bear it. John didn't stir. Paul didn't move either, hands nervously clasped, head bowed. Then, swiftly, John turned towards him, he could feel him shift. He could sense a smile too, but quickly brushed it off from his mind. Too painful. Outside, some youngsters were laughing obnoxiously loud and a baby owl started to whoo close by. He took a deep breath, but the words never came. For some obscure reason, the sight of the brownies became frightening so he turned his eyes to the floor.
The owl got quiet. Heavy silence. John shifted slightly behind him with a short rustle of sheets. Strangely, he could smell now — for the first time — a faint coffee flavour coming from somewhere in the house — foreign, as the ones you sense in the counselor's office under the excruciating pressure of getting it all out: your fears, your nightmares, your dark secrets... Paul felt his hands cold, but heat overtook his body nonetheless. It was nearing nightfall, the silver light turning blue. John got very still. Neither of them was breathing.
"I lost my job, John"
It came in a blur of colours mingled together and chaotic, the words heavy as lead. He couldn't see, couldn't feel; it was all a ringing in his ears that wouldn't stop and a shiver that cut through him like a frozen knife instead of shaking him. Odd. John said nothing for a moment. The anticipation killed Paul as he waited for the sigh, but it never came. After a while John turned from him in silence, though Paul only felt him from behind his back. He never turned to look at John and John never said a word. Never uttered a sound.
It was commonplace, but he could not get used to it.
"I'm sorry" It was all he could say or do.
°~°~°
The night came down velvet-heavy, smothering. It must've been two hours since Paul gave up on trying to sleep and took the ceiling as a much more reliable companion — so empty, dark, what not? John wasn't sleeping either, maybe simply ignoring him in an attempt to shake off the pain. He was always like this.
Some time during the night, John rolled towards him, lids over his eyes, face almost lifeless. But he didn't get closer, just faced him without looking. Paul's mind was spiraling dazingly but he felt him. He felt his pain. His disappointment was thick in the air and it pressed hard on Paul's throat.
John was everything he had right now, though he hardly believed it. Theoretically he had nothing, not even John. John would have been too much. And looking at him, he was so far away, so unaffordable — expensive as beauty — a luxury, a bitter-sweet luxury. He could barely touch him now as he laid there at a stubborn distance.
He wouldn't dare know what John was thinking in that moment. He must've been disgusted but he never voiced it. He knew John, his lavish tastes, his high expectations. He still kept something of his former self now, be it the clothes or his unceasing affinity for opulence. Paul knew that some day he will have to let him go, to relinquish. Because John will never be his. Could never be his.
Slowly, he rolled closer to John and wrapped an arm around him. The other didn't as much as flinch. Paul brought a gentle hand to John's temple and caressed softly, contemplating his features. John opened his eyes and it was then that Paul saw, for the first time in two years, their crystal glistening. He tried to blink a few times, but it wouldn't go away, so he melted into the touch.
"It will get easier, Johnny" Paul whispered wetly. Maybe it was true. Maybe not. It didn't matter.
John sniffled quietly and nodded, lids almost closing again.
"I promise. "
And he watched as John closed his eyes again, burying his head deep between their chests, body limp. Minutes passed and then gingerly, out of the blue, at a point when Paul almost forgot the world around him, it came, soft as a sough of air:
"Okay"