Chapter Text
+++
Grief fills the room up of my absent child, Lies in his bed… Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form
- King John, Act 3 Scene 4
+++
Just as it always did when things went to shit, the ocean began its siren song. John dragged his feet along the pier, collapsing at the edge and dangling his legs over the water. The sun was setting and he couldn’t say where the time had gone but that didn’t matter. He told himself he didn’t care about anything, not if he had the wind in his hair and sea spray on his face. He might hate his town and people in it but he could never bring himself to hate the ocean, even after everything it had done.
“On the edge, are we? Do I need to call 999?” someone said from behind him. It was a girl’s voice. She had an accent but it was so slight it was barely there, just a lilt, enough to make anything she said sound pretty. The sound of it was safe and familiar and, even through the haze of misery, it made John smile.
“Nah. You know me, blue skies forever,” he laughed and shook his head, looking down at the rocks and admiring the way the swell bubbled around them.
“What are you doing?” Lina said as she walked up behind him, her steps soft on the planks below.
“Just thinking,” John replied. He wasn’t drunk anymore but he kind of felt like he was. “I could ask you the same thing, you know. It’s dangerous out here once it gets dark.”
“I'm just thinking too,” Lina replied, coming to a stop behind him.
“Do I need to call 999?” he asked.
“Not quite yet,” Lina replied as she crouched down, coming to sit next to him and lowering her feet off the side. “You come here a lot?”
John shrugged. “Sometimes, when I wanna feel close to him.”
Lina nodded. John reckoned that she was the only person in the world who understood. She’d been the only one who knew him as well as John did.
“Does it work?” she asked. She was wearing pale pink ballet flats and made a show of flexing her ankles to lift her heels out, dangling the shoes from her toes above the water.
“It works about as well as you’d expect,” he replied.
“So, not very well?” she asked.
“Well enough,” John replied. “I met a new friend here, you know, a couple months ago.”
“The blonde boy?” Lina asked and John nodded. “I’ve seen him around, he looks sweet.”
“He was gonna jump,” John said slowly. Lina stopped swinging her feet, tucking her heels back into her shoes. “Some other kids dared him to do it. He stood right on the edge for ages, I watched it from the shop, then I came over here and showed him how. Could'a fucking killed himself if I wasn’t here. So bloody stubborn.”
Lina thought for a moment and John watched her, admiring the way the light bounced off her platinum hair.
“Sounds a lot like someone else.”
“Yeah.” John nodded.
“Were you scared, watching him?” Lina asked, her tone light and floaty.
“Yes and no… I don't know,” John replied. “I don't know if I felt anything, is that weird?”
“I don't think so, sometimes it's hard to know. It's all just too much, like mixing too many colours of paint.” She paused, moving her hand so it lay over his own, her palm was dry and cool on the back of his hand. “Do you think it means anything? That you met him here?”
“Does anything mean anything?” John countered, his eyes on the stars.
“Who knows?” Lina smiled at him, her teeth grey-blue in the gloom. “It's something to think about though.”
“That's why I'm here,” he replied.
The sun had disappeared over the horizon when their lips finally met. They kissed softly, slowly, with a care that bordered on reverence. John held her hand as they walked back down the pier, disappearing underneath it and allowing her to press him up against the rocks. It happened silently and he felt her stuttering breath at his throat as she guided his hand up her skirt. He melted, sighing as allowed himself to be led, feeling the silky wetness of her and enjoying the warmth of her arms around his neck. It was nice, the same way it had been every time before; less like sex and more like sympathy, condolences and funeral lilies. Perhaps it was strange but fucking Lina wasn’t hot, it wasn’t passionate or even that pleasurable. What it was, was comforting. It made him feel understood.
When they were done, Lina buttoned his fly for him, resting her silver head on his shoulder and swallowing over and over, the closest she ever got to crying.
“I still miss him, you know,” she said, John’s arms around her back and five years of sorrow in her breast. “I thought it would go away but it doesn’t.”
“I know,” John sighed. “I miss him too.”
He walked her home and hugged her at the door, wishing he had something to say.
“Look after yourself, okay,” she told him. Her mascara had run down one cheek and it made it look like her face was cracking. A broken doll.
“You too,” John agreed. He went to walk away before she stopped him, her fingers wrapping around his wrist.
“John,” she said and then paused. She left time for him to respond but he didn’t know what she wanted him to say. “You know you can always talk to me, right? Don’t keep it all inside. It’s dangerous.” She paused, considering whether or not to say the next part out loud. “I don’t want to watch it happen again, I couldn’t take that.”
“Don’t worry about me, I’m alright,” John lied. “See you round.”
Then he walked away.
+++
He didn’t see Gale for a while, deciding it was best to give him space to lick his wounds, and it wasn’t until then that John realised how much time they’d been spending together. His life felt empty, the days long and tedious. His best friend was gone and he was adrift on a sea of pointless moments. The days felt like weeks and the weeks went on forever. He tried to stay busy, spending hours on the fruit machines and walking miles to drug deals just to fill his time. Perhaps it was the boredom that led him to agree to a family dinner, or perhaps it was his talk with Lina. Either way, when his sister called to invite him to Sunday lunch, he said yes.
The house where he’d grown up was semi-detached, a classic three up three down family home that came with an electric fire and a display-case full of wedding china that they only used once a year at Christmas. Since Sarah left for university it had been half empty, Mr and Mrs Egan rattling around the dead space with nothing to do but dust and garden, repainting the walls in slightly different shades of white. He opened the door to see that everything was spotless, the garden criss-crossed by perfectly mown green lines.
“John. Good to see you darling. It’s been so long,” his mother said when he answered the door, giving him a look that he couldn’t interpret. He smiled at her, suddenly self conscious of his scruffy polo shirt, and leant down for a hug. She grasped him with one arm, their collarbones stopping a few inches apart.
“You’re looking well,” she added and he tilted his head to the side, unsure whether she was lying or she’d just forgotten what he used to look like. He scanned the hallway to see that all the family photos were where they’d always been. Two parents and three kids smiled at him from the picture frames.
“John,” his father said as he rounded the corner, standing up a little straighter when he saw him. John had been taller than his dad for years but he still had a way of making him feel small, young and stupid. “Good to see you, son.”
“Good to see you, sorry I didn’t come sooner. I’ve been busy,” John nodded his way through the lie, keeping his eyes on the floor which was polished to a shine, English oak laid in a neat herringbone pattern that pointed through to the kitchen. Then he allowed himself to be led to the dining room, his mother listing endless home-improvements that had left the place looking exactly the same as it always had.
No-one really started to relax until his father poured the wine, a pinot noir he’d gotten on sale from the big supermarket out of town. It was thick with tannins, heavily astringent, and sucked all the moisture from John’s tongue as he took a sip. Undeterred, John sunk his first glass quickly, his eyes catching his father’s as he did the same. Neither of them said anything, leaving the women to fill the silence as his dad poured them another. They clinked their glasses before they took a drink, their younger selves laughing at them from the photos on the walls.
His mother was a decent cook in that British-staples sort of way that meant every meal consisted of potatoes, some kind of meat and an appropriate condiment. Mustard for beef, Mint for lamb and apple for pork, they had cranberry sauce once a year with the christmas turkey and yorkshire puddings only with roast chicken. She made her gravy with marmite and her potatoes with vegetable oil, everything exactly as it should be.
She’d picked chicken that day, golden and crispy and big enough to feed them twice over. John wondered whether his parents still cooked dinners like this when it was just the two of them, stuck in their old habits, still laying the table for five.
Polite to a fault, they passed around dishes of roast potatoes and carrots, saying please and thank you more than they said any other word. They talked generally about their lives, things that had changed in town and things that had stayed the same. The topics included his father’s begonias and his mother’s book club, the renovations to the local church and the ever-rising price of a pint. Keen to keep everything civil, Sarah gave John looks when he drank too fast and kicked him under the table to indicate it was his turn to contribute. He talked generally about his job, his friends, the flat he shared with Curt. He told them he wasn’t seeing anyone but he’d gone camping recently with friends. Yes he was staying out of trouble. No, he wasn’t looking for a better job. They were all shallow questions, safe and between sips of wine, he told them everything was good, fine, alright or not bad.
“So when are you gonna get back into your sailing?” his father asked around a bite of yorkshire pudding, his chin spotted with gravy. “Your boat’s still there and you’re only twenty, it’s not too late. I’ve always said you never should have given up, you were so good. You could have tried for team GB if you hadn’t-”
“David,” his mum hissed at the same time that Sarah said “Dad.”
“What?” his father held his hands up, his brows creasing in that special poor-me expression that only middle aged men are capable of making. “Why are you looking at me like that? I’m his father, I just don’t want him to throw it all away over-”
“Over what?” John interrupted.
His father’s jaw worked side to side, his cheeks bearing that tell-tale flush of drink. They had mostly finished their meal by now and three bottles of wine stood empty on the side table.
“Oh, John, please. Not this, not now,” his mother said, her cutlery falling to her plate with a clatter.
“No, I wanna hear him say it. He’s the one who brought it up,” John pushed. His eyes were locked on his father but he could still see Sarah’s face crumpling across the table. She put a hand to her forehead, looking far older than nineteen.
“If he wants to talk about it,” John snapped, “then he can say it out loud.”
“I knew this would happen. It always does,” his father shook his head, dabbing his mouth with his napkin. He turned to his mother. “See Julia, I told you he would-”
“You haven’t changed at all, have you?” John exploded, fighting the urge to slam his hand down on the table. “All these years and you still won’t say it. Well, I want you to. Say it, dad. Tell me, please, when did I stop sailing? When did everything go to shit? Huh?”
“John, please. Don’t be so horrible,” his mother said. She was shaking her head, Sarah’s arm around her shoulder. His father interrupted her, his jaw tense, shoulders back.
“You stopped sailing after Noah’s accident,” he said and John saw red.
He stood up too fast, pushing his chair back from the table with a horrible scraping sound and resting his hands on the table.
“Accident?” he shouted. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
He shook his head, turning to Sarah and throwing his arms out in disbelief.
“Are you hearing this shit?” He turned back to his father, jabbing a finger at him across the table. “He left a fucking note and you’re still calling it an accident? What the hell is wrong with you? I can’t-”
“Get out,” his father replied, his eyes like two hot coals, slightly filmy from the wine. “I won’t have you talking like that in my house.”
His mother was crying softly now and Sarah stood up, banging a hand on the table and glaring daggers between the two of them. They ignored her.
“Fine with me,” John spat, his hands clenched at his side. “You know, I always thought the worst part was the silence but I was wrong, turns out that us talking about it only makes things worse.” He slammed his hand down on the table, making everything rattle. “You’re our fucking parents, you were supposed to look after us. You didn’t even-”
“Shut up,” Sarah yelled, coming to stand between them. “Both of you, for christ’s sake. Can you even hear yourselves?”
John didn't listen, too worked up to stop.
“I wasn’t the one who ignored him all those years. It was me and Lina, the only ones who gave a shit. I was just a kid, I didn’t know what to do when he told me about the-” John broke off, shaking his head, overcome with emotion. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, willing himself to keep talking. “He was falling apart and you fucking ignored him and now he’s dead and you’re talking to me about fucking sailing. He was your son and you act like he never even existed.” He shook his head. “Fuck this.”
He stormed out, slamming the door behind him and hearing the family photos rattle on their picture hooks. He looked back one last time and saw the three of them crowded in the doorway, hands around each other's shoulders, faces like shrouds. At that moment, John thought the worst part of it was knowing that they loved him a lot, they really did, they just didn’t know what to do with it. They’d loved Noah too, he knew that, it just hadn’t been enough.
+++
John dialled the number without stopping to think, running away from his childhood home with a head full of crazy and the desperate desire to hit something and feel it break. Gale picked up after a few rings, speaking quietly, almost a whisper.
“Hello?” he said and John sagged with relief, soothed by the sound of his voice.
“You around?” He spoke too fast and his teeth clashed together. It felt like his bones were about to rattle clean out of his skin.
“Uh,” Gale said. John heard the phone shake then the opening and closing of a door. “Why? You okay? What’s going on?”
“I just-” John sighed, kicking the wall beside him and sending a clump of moss sailing down the path. It was twilight but the air was still warm, it felt nice against his skin. He took a deep breath and let it go. “I just wanna meet up. Is that okay?”
“Really?” Gale sounded scared, as if he thought this was some kind of trap.
“Yeah, Buck. You wanna see me?”
“Yeah, course I do,” Gale said softly. “You alright?”
“Always am,” John lied. “I’m just bored. I’ve missed you, you know. It's been weird not having you about.”
“Really? You're not angry with me or anything?”
“With you?” John snorted. “Never.”
“Alright,” Gale replied. “I can’t be out too long but I can cycle over to yours, that cool?”
“That’s amazing, thanks Buck.”
Gale came over and they hung out like usual, as if their whole relationship hadn't changed forever that night in the tent and two weeks hadn’t passed without them saying a word. John relaxed as they drank sugary tea at his kitchen table, the radio babbling softly beside them as they chatted about nothing at all.
Gale's company was nice and it took John’s mind off things, but he couldn’t help noticing the way that he'd changed in the short while since the camping trip. It was subtle, a shift of the light, but he could see it and it unnerved him, guilt lapping at his toes like the tide. Gone was the naive boy he had seen that first day on the pier, his emotions simmering under his skin like a physical force. In his place was someone who looked the same and sounded the same, wore his features just as beautifully, but this Gale was harder, cooler, a little removed. As they sat in John’s kitchen, heads bowed over a game of cards, John thought he seemed years older, as if adulthood had come upon him all at once, cloaking him in secrets. He was still Gale, still John’s friend, but it felt as if he now lived behind a pane of glass. The sound was muffled. He could no longer be touched.
When it came time for Gale to go, John didn’t pat his back like he used to, nor did he pull him in for a hug. He stayed at a distance and waved, knowing that this change was his fault and that there would be no going back to the way that things were. Once Gale was gone, John sat at the table for a long time and mourned the innocent boy he used to be.
He mourned a lot of things that night. Sleep evaded him.
+++
The following week was the Champion’s League final and there was a queue out of the door of Ladbrokes as every man in town sweated over their bets in the unrelenting sun. John was no exception, he had his cap on as he waited his turn, shuffling in place and feeling heat on the tops of his ears and the back of his neck. He knew he would burn, just as he did every summer, but he couldn’t find it in him to care, foo focused on the feeling of sweat dripping down his back and disappearing down his arse crack.
When he finally got to the counter he put three hundred on Liverpool to win and felt his heart skip a beat, limbs thrumming with energy the way they always did when he was gambling. He rubbed his hands together, kissed his betting stub and told himself he’d be rich in twelve hours time. It felt good, the ritual of it and the feeling of the paper in his pocket as he walked out of the shop. He liked having something to hope for. It kept things interesting, stopped him from thinking too much.
Seized by happy nostalgia, he stopped for a Mr Whippy on the way home. He lapped at it as he walked, his gaze on the open ocean and the vast blue curtain of sky above his head. He even treated himself to a flake, raspberry sauce too, he felt that good. Sauntering down the shore with sticky cream dripping between his fingers, he really thought his luck was going to change.
+++
There was an air of excitement when he got back to the flat. Curt had invited their friends round and there was a crate of Carlings on the table, music thumping from the stereo and laughter bouncing off the walls.
“You made your bet?” Curt asked between sips. John nodded.
“Yes sir.”
“Good luck to you,” Benny said, holding his can up in the air. “You coming down to The Unicorn for it? We’re gonna go down early, try to get a corner table.”
John paused, chewed his lip for a moment and then shook his head.
“Nah, I can’t, my dad’ll be there.”
“Family dinner wasn’t a success, then?” Benny replied and John laughed.
“Understatement of the fucking century,” he said, reaching over to take a can for himself. “Guess I’m just gonna have to go down to The Fortress, nothing else for it. Anyone fancy it?”
He received five matching looks of disbelief.
“You’re not really, are you?” Brady asked and John shrugged.
“No other choice. Come on, keep me company, it’ll be fun.”
“That shithole is where good nights go to die,” Benny warned.
“Bad nights too,” Brady added. “Sometimes people.”
Curt pursed his lips. “Yeah man, you know I’m not welcome in there, royalist cunts think I’m about to petrol bomb the place. Just come to The Unicorn, ignore your dad. It’ll be fine. We’ll be there to look after you. Don’t go there on your own, man. That's just sad.”
John shook his head. “Look mate, I want to go with you, obviously I’d rather go to The Unicorn but I can’t. I just can’t. It’s too soon to see him, something’ll kick off. I know myself and I know him. It's not a good idea,”
“Then you’re gonna be watching the match on your ones, like,” Curt warned. John held his hands out.
“Whatever,” John retorted, his upper lip wet with beer foam. “Saves me buying you twats a drink when I win.”
+++
The Flying Fortress was an old pub situated a little further back from the shoreline, tucked away down an alley so tourists couldn’t stumble in by accident. It was the sort of pub you went to after you’d been banned from every other place in town and it showed in every aspect, from the tar-dark panelling to the spotty brass fixtures. The varnish was flaking off the woodwork and everything was sticky, including the upholstery. A choking haze of tobacco smoke hung in the air and there wasn’t a woman in the whole building. They knew better than to go in while the football was on.
John, evidently, did not.
He found himself a seat at the bar, telling himself he didn’t care that he was alone, and ordered a guinness before changing his mind at the last second and asking the barman to add a dash of blackcurrant. He licked his lips as he watched the man pour. To his credit, he did it perfectly, tilting the glass to a forty-five degree angle and leaving it a minute to settle before topping it up. He added the cordial at the midway point and John watched as streaks of purple criss-crossed the glossy white head, foamy as meringue. There was no-one there to toast to, so he held his glass for a moment, considering what to do.
“This one’s for you,” he said to no-one, and sank it down. The resulting mouthful was sweet and creamy, like a berry milkshake for alcoholics.
The match started well and a goal for Liverpool in the first ten minutes sent the whole pub wild. John leapt up from his seat as the ball hit the back of the net, pumping his fist in the air and whooping gleefully, unaware of the pair of eyes watching him from the far corner of the room. After he’d calmed down, he rewarded himself with a bump of coke, done messily in the bathroom stall as he flushed the toilet with his other hand.
Afterwards, he went back to the bar and ordered another pint, drinking it even faster than his last and jumping around with the man next to him as Liverpool scored again. He abandoned his bar stool, too restless to sit, and stamped his feet on the ground with excitement, the ambient buzz of drunken men all around him. The movement made him breathless and he panted, suddenly overheating, and peeled his football shirt away from his clammy skin. He took another drink as he flapped it manically, desperate to get a little relief from the cloying heat of the pub, but there was none to be had. It was an old brick building full of sweating men, drunk and high on the thrill of the match. This was as good as life got for them. This hour and a half? This was everything.
Blinking hard, John scraped his sweaty hair back from his head and rubbed his hands, chewing his cheek and keeping his eyes on the screen. If Liverpool won this, he thought to himself, he’d have profited nearly a grand. Things would get better, they’d have to. He figured it was only fair after all the shit he’d taken. The universe fucking owed him one.
While the players kicked the ball around on screen, John thought about what he’d do with the money. Predictably, the only thing he could think of was Gale. He’d take him on another holiday, John decided. He’d drive him to France and they’d eat blotter acid and drink red wine from the bottle, dancing around the streets of Paris in the small hours of the morning. They’d gorge on bread and cheese until they got sick, stumble back to their hotel and fall into bed then decide to stay there forever.
John was so wrapped up in his private fantasy that he almost missed the next goal. It was Chelsea and the whole place erupted in a chorus of boos, a terrible noise that crashed over his head like a colossal wave, leaving him cold and shaking. He finished his pint and ordered another, then a shot of tequila, telling himself that it was just one goal. They were still one up. They were still winning
Paris, he repeated to himself. Gale. Things will be better. Things have to get better. They have to.
The next goal for Chelsea came like a punch to the gut just seconds before half time, scraping in just over the goalkeeper's head. John didn’t boo like everyone else, he didn’t swear or bang on the table. He just bit his lip and walked to the toilet, sitting on the closed lid and putting his head in his hands. He sat there for a minute, trying to reassure himself. Once he’d remembered how to breathe, he opened his wallet, pulling out another clear baggie.
This one was longer than the first and printed with tiny green skulls that seemed to be laughing at him. He tapped some of the powder out onto the back of his hand. It was shardier than coke, angular, and it sparkled wickedly in the fluorescents, a pool of crushed diamonds in the divot behind his thumb. Gracelessly, he pressed his face to it, snorting loudly and then sitting back, licking the remainder off his hand and grimacing at the taste before he walked back out into the pub.
Ketamine wasn’t his usual drug of choice. He liked energy, fire, and this drug stripped him of that, leaving him adrift in a world with the sound turned down. Right then, however, he just wanted sedation. He couldn’t take the anxiety of the match, the bad thoughts that popped up around every corner, chasing him like a pack of dogs. Thoughts of death, of sons and fathers, spunk and tears. Thoughts of salt. Always salt.
As play started back up, John kept one hand on the bar to steady himself, the other around his glass. He went to take a sip and misjudged the distance. There was a sharp clacking sound as the glass impacted his front teeth and he recoiled. There wasn’t any pain but when he bit down, something crunched ominously between his molars. Chelsea scored another goal but John barely even noticed. He spat into his open palm and stared at it in the low light. A shard of his front tooth sat in his hand, floating in a scummy glob of saliva. He looked for a while longer and felt cold, thinking about all the ways in which he was falling apart.
Disgusted by the fragility of his own body, John flicked the shard of broken tooth onto the floor then took another drink, listening as men jeered and hissed around him. He clung to the bar so he didn’t fall off his stool and stroked his tongue over his tooth, feeling the jagged gap where the chip used to be. The sensation was horrifying and then hilarious. He laughed loudly, snorting guinness out of his nose. The bartender gave him a strange look and he smiled, making sure his broken tooth would show.
The rest of the match was a blur, everything felt far away, the air shimmering like he was underwater. After a while the anxiety returned and, unable to face it, John went to the bathroom to do another bump of K. He dragged himself over, holding the wall for balance, but by the time he finally got inside he’d forgotten why he’d come. The walls seemed to be closing in but he found he couldn’t touch them. He remembered coming in but he thought he might have been sitting there forever. He couldn’t feel his toes, his legs numb as blocks of wood.
Too worked up to go back to the main room, he sat on the toilet until someone rapped on the door and yelled at him to hurry up. Then he remembered the baggie in his pocket and set about doing his bump, ignoring the jeering from outside. It was messy and only half of the powder ended up inside him, the rest dusted across his cheek and lap. He brushed himself off as best he could, stammering his apologies to the angry man outside, stumbled back to his seat and stared at the TV.
The final score was 3-2 to Chelsea, meaning he’d lost a few hundred pounds he didn’t even have.
Shit.
John regarded this information without really understanding it. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do about it other than drink another pint or throw himself off the pier. Swimming through the dissociative haze, he thought of Gale and wished he was here. He wanted to kiss him again so badly it hurt. It was torture, knowing what those lips felt like when he could never touch them again. For a moment he wished he could just forget about it, then he changed his mind. He clutched the memory of it to his chest as he watched everyone file out of the pub, a river of human despair, already halfway dead.
Next thing he knew, there was a hand on his shoulder. He looked up to see Dean’s broad face. John could smell him from here, skin musk and sawdust. Dean smiled at him. He didn’t smile back.
“Why the long face?” Dean asked with mock sincerity. John didn’t speak, he’d forgotten how to. So, fucked up and unsure of what else to do, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the betting stub, holding it out like an offering.
I’m drowning, the betting stub read, not in words but in the name of a losing football team and the value £300.
“Poor baby,” Dean purred. “You want daddy to take your mind off it?”
“M’not your fucking baby,” John slurred, leaning in closer and smelling the beer on the older man’s breath. “I hate you.”
“I know you do, pet, but that's not gonna stop you, is it?”
Dean patted his back and then sauntered off to the bathroom. John put his head in his hands, took a few deep breaths, and then followed after him.
A minute later John’s nose was pressed into the older man’s pubic hair and he was gagging hard around his dick. He could taste the bitterness of K at the base of his tongue and it burned as Dean’s cock hit the back of his throat. Unable to think of anything else, John’s whole world narrowed down to what was in his mouth and up his nostrils. Nothing else was real. Heat and salt and chemicals. That was all there was.
"You're doing so good for me," Dean groaned above him, steadying himself against the cubicle wall as he humped John's face like a dog.
John knew that he was lying. He was no good at sucking dick, it was just that Dean didn't mind it. In fact he got off on it, loved the fact that John couldn't have done a good job if he wanted to, never having had the practice. Besides that, John was too fucked to do anything but take it and Dean knew it. That was a part of it too.
Unable to do anything else, John opened his jaw wider, doing his best to keep his teeth out of the way, and flattened his tongue to the bottom his mouth, taste buds pulling at the veiny underside of Dean's cock.
"Fucking hell, that's nice," Dean rasped and John couldn't help the burst of pleasure it stirred in his chest. It might be bullshit but he would take all the praise he could get.
A few frenzied thrusts later, his eyes began to run and he retched, scraping his teeth on the shaft and earning a warning slap on the cheek. Dean pulled out for a moment, giving him two breaths of solace before he rammed himself back down. John couldn’t say whether or not he enjoyed it, having his face fucked in a filthy toilet stall, but he couldn’t deny that he had wanted it. He’d wanted Dean to make him feel something, even if that something was this.
John wasn't sure what that said about him but he knew it wasn’t anything good.
He was beginning to think he might not be a very good person.
Dean laughed when he was finished, half his spunk disappearing down John’s throat and the other half spilling hot down his chin. He tapped him on the cheek a few times, telling him he’d done a good job as he tucked himself into his boxers. Then he shook his head and ruffled John's sweaty hair, tutting affectionately at him like a cat. In spite of himself, John leaned into the touch, desperate for a little bit of love. Then it was gone.
“You know,” Dean said from above him. “You’re a much better boy than I thought you’d be, so easily trained. Isn’t that right, petal?”
John didn’t react, the drugs still too thick in his blood and his chest heaving from oxygen deprivation and adrenaline. Dean leant down, pinching his cheeks and looking deep into his eyes.
“Now, what do we say when daddy gives you a treat?” Dean asked, a smug smile on his thin lips. John didn’t know how he ever thought he looked like Gale.
“Thank you daddy,” he mumbled.
“That's my boy.”
+++
The flat was packed when he got back, the group from The Unicorn having retreated there to drown their sorrows. The scene that greeted him as he walked through the door was apocalyptic, nothing short of a massacre. The place was in disarray, cans on every surface and a gaggle of hopeless young men rolling around on the floor, weed smoke in the air and wet patches on the carpet.
“Bucky!” someone shouted as he walked in, making a beeline for the few bottles of spirits on the counter.
“Thats me,” Bucky responded, giving a mock salute as he reached for the closest bottle without checking the label. He unscrewed the lid and brought it to his lips, wincing as the perfumed flavour of gin hit his tongue. He swished it around for a second, his eyes watering, before he spat it out into the sink. Then he took another swig.
“Hey buddy,” Curt said as he wobbled over to him. The whole flat was lit by a few table lamps and the effect was spooky, all orange fuzz and dark shadows.
“How much you lose?” Curt asked. His narrow eyes had that glazed look of drunkenness and his hair was flat and greasy, his overlarge Liverpool shirt hanging loose around his thighs.
“What you talking about?” Bucky grinned as he took another swig. “I never lose.”
Curt squinted at him for a second, swaying slightly on his feet, before his eyes locked onto John’s shirt collar and his mouth fell open, head tilting to the side.
“Mate,” he said softly, leaning in closer and wafting the brown sugar smell of spiced rum and coke.
“Yeah?”
“What’s that on your top?”
Bucky looked down at himself, eyes catching on the handful of white droplets crusted to the red material of his football shirt. He hunched in on himself, turning away from the light and holding his bottle to his chest.
“Garlic mayo,” he shrugged. “I got a kebab on the way back, needed the comfort food.”
Curt eyed him suspiciously, then shrugged.
“We’re about to watch Robocop if you fancy it.” He grabbed the bottle of rum from the table and shook it. “Drown our sorrows. Puke or pass out, whichever comes first.”
“Beautiful. I’ll be there in a second,” John agreed, clapping Curt on the shoulder and then disappearing to his room to change.
+++
The rest of the night was a haze. The nightmares weren’t.
A few hours after finally falling asleep, John woke up covered in sweat, Gale's face in his mind and Dean's breath in his ear. Part of him felt guilty about that, thought that his nightmares should be about his dead brother and not his fucked up love life. He entertained that thought for a minute and then tossed it aside. He'd had plenty of nightmares about Noah already and he had time for plenty more.
As he lay there in a puddle of his own sweat he tried his best not to think about Gale. He failed. Then he tried not to think about Dean. He failed at that too.
He really was disgusting.
Gale deserved better and it was becoming more and more obvious every day. He'd be better off without him. John was just too selfish to let him go
He turned over and tried to go back to sleep. It wasn't easy.
What he wanted was another joint.
What he needed was a brand new brain.
Outside, the birds began to sing.
+++
“You look like shit,” Gale said as he stepped into John’s car the next morning.
“Dont spare my feelings,” John replied, rubbing his temples. The sun was beating down and the car was like a sauna, everything burning hot to the touch.
“Smell like it too,” Gale added with a sneer, looking him up and down from his unwashed gym shorts to his greasy hair and grey skin.
“I got it, thanks. That’s great, just lovely,” John closed his eyes as Gale slammed the door shut, the noise sending shockwaves of pain bouncing around his skull.
Since their reunion Gale had started coming on deals with him. It was still the summer holidays and he had nothing else to do so it had become something of a routine. Gale seemed to enjoy it well enough, riding in girlfriend position and making fun of the shit on top 40 radio. Usually John was desperate for every second of his company but now he regretted extending the invite. He was sick to his stomach and he could still taste the lingering bitterness of drugs and cum at the back of his throat.
“You watch the match yesterday?” Gale asked and John nodded, scrolling through his texts to organise his next drop.
“What do you think?” John asked as he pulled out of the caravan park, heading back for town.
Gale chewed his lip. “You lose money?”
John looked at him through his shades. They had their windows down and the breeze was playing with his hair.
“None of your business.”
“Okay,” Gale replied, crossing his hands across his chest. Then he looked over at him, his expression softening. “Sorry your team lost.”
John scoffed. “No you’re not, you don’t give a shit about football.” Gale didn’t reply and John sighed, turning the radio down. “Sorry, I’m just being a dick. Hangover’s a bitch, I’ll cheer up in an hour or so after I get some food down me.”
“I know,” Gale nodded, “my dad’s the same way.”
“Oh yeah?” John asked, swallowing dryly. “Lucky you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Gale snapped. He was touchy these days, quick to anger.
“Nothing, I dunno. I’m chatting shit,” John took a turn too hard and felt his stomach lurch. He knew he should stop talking but he couldn't. “Someone’s touchy today.”
Gale looked out the window, holding a hand out to catch the breeze.
“Shut up,” he replied.
John rolled his eyes. “Well fuck me for making conversation.”
“I just don't wanna talk about my dad.”
“You brought him up,” John asked. Gale just shrugged. “Why do you always say I’m like him?”
“Cus sometimes you are,” Gale said flatly. “You both piss me off.”
“Fair enough,” John sighed, smacking his lips while he considered his next question. He knew he shouldn't ask it but he did it anyway, terrified of the answer. Maybe it was the hangover making him stupid, careless, or maybe it was the bone deep exhaustion. He was so fucking tired.
"Buck,” he said softly. “Do you ever think you deserve better?”
There was a moment of quiet as the car trundled down the road. The cliff fell away steeply on one side and the sea gleamed like molten steel.
“Better than what?” Gale asked, giving him a sideways glance.
“Than all this shit,” John supplied. “Your dad, your caravan, this fucking place… me.”
“What? Don't be daft. You know you’re my best mate,” Gale said, sounding small and hurt. “I was just being grumpy, I didn’t mean-”
“It’s okay just…” John interjected. “Forget about me, then. What about the other stuff? Don’t you want more out of your life than this? Sitting in my car while I run drugs then going home and cleaning for daddy dearest?”
“You’re the one who invited me,” Gale replied.
“Because I'm a fucking mess and I like your company.” John laughed sadly, one hand over his mouth. His tongue felt like sandpaper when he swallowed. “You're the one who keeps coming back when you could have better shit to do. I don't know if you've noticed but I'm not a very good friend to have, Buck. I don't know if I'm worth your time. ”
“Don’t say that,” Gale chewed his thumb nail, brows pressed together. “As for the other stuff, I just don’t think about it.”
“You don’t think about it?” John gawked. “What? You don't think about your whole future?”
“I dunno. What’s the point?” Gale asked quietly and before John could reply, he realised they were outside the house they were heading for.
They stopped talking for a moment as the guy hopped in the back and John shifted into his jack-the-lad dealer persona as easily as breathing. Then the man was gone and a lull fell over the car, a folded twenty pressed into John’s hand. He huffed, blinking hard against the glare from the tarmac. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday and stomach acid licked threateningly at his oesophagus.
“You actually stand a chance of getting out of here. Don’t you want that?” John asked after a while. “You're clever enough, you could go to uni if you wanted, leave all this in the dust, be somebody.”
“I-” Gale stammered, biting at his fingernail. “I don't know. I’ve thought about it but…” He sighed, looking far older than seventeen. “I don't wanna leave my dad. He hasn’t got anyone else and he gets bad when he's alone.”
“With the drink?” John asked.
“And other stuff,” Gale mumbled. “He's got, like, problems with his head. I don't wanna talk about it.”
John couldn't even begin to unpack what that might mean.
“Is he a mean drunk?” he asked as he put the note in his wallet, the engine humming quietly below them.
“To me?” Gale asked.
“Yeah, to you, Buck.”
“He doesn’t hit me, if that’s what you’re asking,” Gale said, still avoiding his gaze.
Joh licked his lips, tongueing at the split at one corner.
“Mine used to,” he said slowly. He sent a text, putting the car in gear and heading off to the next drop. “It wasn’t all the time, just sometimes, when I was being a little twat. I probably had it coming though.”
Gale pursed his lips. “I don’t think that’s really how it works.”
Joh licked his lips, taking a deep breath before asking, “Does he do anything else to you?” Then he held his breath.
“Like what?” Gale asked.
“I dunno. He’s your dad, you tell me.” John gestured with one hand as he drove, avoiding Gale's eyes. He shouldn't be thinking about this, asking this, but he couldn't stop himself. He never could. Outside, the gulls cawed loudly, picking at ancient packets of scampi fries.
“What does it matter?” Gale asked angrily. “Why the sudden interest?”
“Because, believe it or not, I actually give a shit about you.”
“But why are you asking now? You never cared about him before,” Gale pressed, leaning over the gear stick. “Did something happen? Did you run into him at the pub? Did he say something? Tell me.”
“No, no, nothing like that,” John scratched anxiously at his chin and flinched when he caught the scab that covered an old pimple, his finger smearing crimson. “I’m just taking an interest, okay, making conversation. It's what friends do.”
“Well stop it,” Gale snapped. “I’m not a little kid, I can take care of myself.”
“Your dad know that?” John asked.
“Fuck you. I don’t like you when you’re hungover, it makes you nasty, doesn’t suit you,” Gale replied. He opened the map on his lap, tracing one slender finger down its pages. “It’s the next right.”
“Okay,” John replied, sweat running down his spine and pooling in his boxers. The whole car reeked of stale beer and body odour.
“He thinks I’m soft.” Gale spoke so quiet it was almost a whisper. “Thinks I can’t make it on my own.”
“He wrong?”
“Yeah,” Gale nodded. “He doesn’t know me at all.”
“Do I?” John asked quietly.
“What kind of question is that?” Gale replied. “What the hell is that meant to mean?”
“It means what it always means, Buck. Do I know you? Me, your best fucking mate. Do you let me know you?”
“Don’t give me that,” Gale spat, shaking his head in frustration. “You’re the one who doesn't tell me shit, not the other way around. The way you're acting today, I should be asking if I know you. What's wrong, Bucky? Talk to me. You lose a lot of money? Is that it? You owe some bad people? Whatever it is, you can tell me. Maybe I can help.”
“I can’t,” John croaked.
“Why?” Gale asked, his eyes sad.
“I just can’t, okay” John said sadly. “I’m sorry.”
Gale looked down at his feet. “Is this conversation really about my dad?”
“I dunno, Buck. I'm tired and my head hurts. I never should have said anything. I fucked this up, let's just forget it.”
“You are still angry with me, aren’t you?” Gale said, then pressed his lips together, staring out the window.
“Don’t. Just don't. I'm sorry for bringing it up, okay?” John closed his eyes for a second, wishing he could just go back to bed. “Let's just listen to the radio, alright? I'm sorry, I’m just in a bad mood cus my stupid football team lost.”
“Alright.” Gale turned the music up, worrying at his lip before asking, “Will you tell me one day? About what’s bothering you, the thing with your family? You can trust me, you know. I won't judge you, or whatever. I just wanna help."
“You still don’t know?” John asked and Gale shook his head. John swallowed, choking on his love for the boy in the passenger seat, then he collapsed, hanging his head over the wheel. “I used to have a brother. Noah. He died.”
"Oh," Gale nodded, licking his chapped lips. “I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t do it,” John replied, his eyes on the road.
“Thanks for telling me.”
“It’s okay, just hard to talk about. I don't..." John's voice broke and he gripped the steering wheel harder. "I miss him a lot.”
Gale looked out the window. “Okay. We can be quiet for a while, if you like. Just drive.”
They didn't talk for the rest of the ride.
+++
When John got home that evening, he collapsed into bed and and stared at the wall. He wanted some toast and a cup of tea but he couldn't seem to move. Everything was loud, his heart was beating like a drum in his ears, thumping as if it were counting own to something terrible. His own private doomsday clock. He bit his tongue and tried to cry but the tears wouldn't come. Unable to do anything else, he sighed, allowing his bruised mind to drift. As always, it drifted to Gale.
Gale was innocent. He’d never asked for this mess. He simply had the misfortune of being born to a father who did not want him, followed by the greater misfortune of growing up with one who did.
John knew this and accepted it. He loved him, the beautiful boy who slept on a sofa in caravan seventeen. He loved him so much it burned but he couldn’t help the fact that sometimes, when it was very quiet, he sort of felt like all of this was his fault.
+++