Work Text:
He was sipping his morning tea.
It was something he did every morning, whether in a fleeting calmness where no sounds dared to resonate, or in a noisy screaming mess, where silent didn’t survive a moment. No matter the place, the city, the room, Paul would be sipping his morning tea in front of the window, standing over the world, with his empty yet focused look, never focused on him.
John hated it.
The way he stood, his naked back to him, unwavering and tense, every twitch of a limb controlled and tamed; his trousers hanging low on his hips, maybe the only sign of a slip-up in this temperate stiff form he called his partner and lover; his indistinct face, looking at others, and never him, during his morning routine. It infuriated John. From his spot on the bed, where he laid and breathed in restrained intakes of air, he was watching all of this unfold; no matter his half-asleep state, he didn’t quit his observations and seethings. Between pretending to sleep and letting his brain genuinely fall back to his mushy and sloshing illusions and visions, his half-lidded eyes didn’t help his already poor sight; if they became too heavy and drew near to being close, his lover transformed in a weird blurred shape, vibrating and swashing around his mind, joining his sloshing brain; however, they’d reopen sharply for no reason, the shape becoming unwavering again, and solid enough so John’s eyes could throw themselves to this rock and anchor themselves, and John, to reality. This cycle repeated. Only his anger remained. In this quiet morning during their quarantine, having already been locked inside George and Ringo’s flat for two weeks, during this now dubbed “2020 hell” year, John was seething for something trivial and stupid: Paul’s morning routine had become, right as he was awoken, his least favorite thing to wake up to; he couldn’t explain where this rush of hate came from -but did he ever manage to explain his vacillant emotions?- but it was there ready to burst out of his mouth.
However he did not. To anyone who would have known John, it would have been surprising; to anyone who would be in this room and watching, John seemed asleep. His curled up position, arms embracing the heavy covers, his tousled hair, he looked to the world to be soundly sleeping in a myriad of dreams. But he had been awake since Paul had gotten up, and he had watched in silence his bandmate proceeding to his usual habits; he had not seen them in a long time, sleeping later most of the time; perhaps that was why he was annoyed; to discover Paul had a rhythm without him was irksome in such hard times.
Paul’s morning actions could be named a routine because of the precision and calculation of every movement made, coordinated with his lack of reflection and his absent gaze. That was what John had judged from what he witnessed. The routine consisted in waking up -nothing to get upset about- earlier than him, easily an hour before him, and without looking at him; getting up, he walked naked to the take a shower, and then went back to the room; he'd thought that he'd finally take a look at him, but instead he went to the main room, leaving the door agape, filling the kettle and preparing the tea as it boiled; he would also light a cigarette and smoke alone; he'd fill his cup, go back to the room with it - and with no cup for him!- and then he'd just stand in front of the window, sipping slowly yet surely, looking outside, never inside; not even at him.
Was he furious because he was needy and Paul wasn’t giving him attention? Perhaps. As ridiculous and petty this excuse was, John recognized himself in it. Was it a reason to repress his feelings? That would be assuming he could handle and dominate his emotions. Too bad for Paul, he couldn't do either. Therefore he would persist in being furious for no intelligent motive except that, every morning, Paul had a rhythm that didn’t include him.
At that point Paul moved. It stopped John’s mumbling thoughts from getting louder. He kept an eye fully open to better observe this slight disturbance in this unmoving flesh. It was nothing to get joyful or excited about: Paul had inclined his head down to his cup with a frown, which was the first expression he had made this morning; John knew it, hence his sudden alert reaction. He held his breath. The flat was too quiet for housing four turbulent young adults like them.
In a stride, Paul was out of the room again. A minute later, he was back inside with his cup filled, in front of his window, without sparing a glance toward him; he sipped and relapsed in his contemplation, as if nothing had obstructed his rhythm; especially not the tensed body on the bed waiting for some consideration. Then nothing. Paul was frozen again, like a greek statue on the top of a column, towering over the empty streets of Liverpool from his glassed cage. He looked so composed; John couldn’t tolerate it. He snapped. One swift movement, maybe too swift, he was on his knees, ready to get out of bed, if his legs weren’t tangled up with the blankets; he fell face first on the floor, followed by Paul jumping and turning around. At least he was now looking at him. With a pained groan, he was up and facing Paul; he felt his shoulder-length haired completely fluffed out on his head, and the glasses he had taken during his fall tilted on his nose; the moment he realized he was still naked, though, he quickly took back the sheet he had so disgracefully discarded and rolled it around his hips. All of this was made only in the design to pout in front of Paul’s smile.
“John! I didn’t see you were awake, I’m-”
“Of course you were too busy to notice me,” John bluntly interrupted him. Which left Paul to blink in surprise at the attack. He probably didn’t expect this sort of greeting, for he pursed his lips as he deeply thought of what had happened till then; Paul couldn’t fathom it, and John wouldn’t even give him the time to.
“So, enjoying your morning without me?” he bit again at his partner, who looked dumbfounded. If John wasn’t so focused on his negative general sentiment, he would be thrilled to have cracked the unmoving and composed form he had had the horror to look at for long dreadful minutes -no exaggeration intended, that wasn’t John’s style.
Yet, his lover had managed to repress his surprise and display an amiable face; perfect to exalt John’s rootless resentment.
“I’m sorry love, but what’s that supposed to mean?” he said to goad John.
“Don’t call me love,” and he crossed Paul, bumping his shoulder in the process to cause some drops of hot tea to fall on his hand. He ignored Paul’s yelp and retreated to the shower.
As he closed the door, he had a minute to realize thanks to his reflection on the mirror that he had taken with him the bedsheet and his glasses where still resting in an oblique angle on his nose; a second to put them correctly and the door was banged open. Paul was there, but not his teacup; John even had a suspicion Paul had dared to drink with John’s teacup. He turned around to see Paul’s folded arms and flickering patience.
“Can you explain why you’re being so angry at me?”
“I don’t know why I should.”
Truthfully, he didn’t know himself exactly why. He’d let Paul huff in frustration.
“John! Don’t be so difficult, what did I do?” If to some people this sentence could have been interpreted to pleading, to John it was only another request, even order, from his demanding boyfriend. Thinking for a moment to ignore him, he settled for examining his nails as he spoke in what he believed to be a bored tone.
“Well, what you didn’t do was sparing a single glance at me during all of your lovely morning routine. I can see it’s not in your habits to think about your lover at such early hours.”
Was it too petty? A little bit dramatic perhaps, even John had to recognize that, while he discovered his pinky nail was longer than the others; not being angry for two entire weeks may have been too much, but it didn’t mean his feelings were unjustified; in hard times, you were supposed to look after the ones you loved, right?
As flawless as this purely emotionally based logic seemed to John, it wasn’t infectious and Paul didn’t catch it. On the contrary, it contributed to the crumble of his partner’s composure. Paul wasn’t seething; he bore the face of someone who had heard the most unbelievable farce ever. His face flushed and his mouth dropped in shock. John couldn’t describe it further: he was still paying attention to his pinky nail. Only when Paul utter what John assumed was a snort of disbelief did he look up.
“Are you serious right now?” Paul blurted out. “How ridiculous is that? And people say I’m the dramatic one in this relationship,” this little snide did make John’s lips twitch. He wasn’t allowed to answer yet, though. Paul shook his head. “So what, I have to never wake up before you again now? So I can be sure to never ever leave your side? To assure you nothing in my life happens without you?”
He was going to come back with a snarky retort, believe him he really was. He needed nothing but a minute, and his mouth was agape and silent only to be prepared for this moment. It wasn’t because he felt Paul had made a point. Not at all.
However, that point was overlooked as Paul snorted again and barked a last remark that John didn’t appreciate, to say the least.
“John, you know you can be so bleeding needy sometimes. I don’t know how I can stand it.”
John froze.
“Oh really?”
All his bite was back. He could agree with Paul on many points; he couldn’t accept to be blamed for wanting attention from people he loved; it was the most vulnerable side John had. The anger he had thought to be quieting down surged upward again and collided with his snapped lips, pleading to burst out. Therefore, he did what he did best: he snarled.
“Excuse me from wanting to be with my lover during this quarantine! I should have stayed at my flat instead of joining you here. I wouldn’t have asked for some minutes of your precious time! I wouldn’t be so demanding to you then. You wouldn’t even have to make the slightest effort for me! What a dream, right?”
He shut himself off. He took a last glance at Paul’s frustrated face, before turning back to the mirror and showing his backside to his partner. The conversation was over. With a slight tremor of his hand, he gripped his toothbrush and started to brush his teeth in rapid movements, his head ducked toward the sink. He wanted to ignore any response Paul could give. He didn’t want to hear him. Not now, and not for the rest of the day.
He succeeded. He lowered his mouth to the tap and could hear in the background Paul’s retreating steps. But as he spit and dried his face with the nearest towel -his bed sheet- he heard him declare, in a small, yet cold and measured voice:
"I do be happy you’re here with me. But I can’t be the receiver of your anger through all this quarantine John. I’m sorry.”
The bathroom door closed. John observed it in silence. The bed sheet got teared away from his body, he strode inside the shower, ripped the shower curtain closed. The water ran, and John sat, letting himself be.
His thoughts were sloshing in his head again.
***
“So, you did manage to have a stupid fight with Paul during this lockdown. I’m surprised you even lasted two weeks.”
He and George were sitting on the couch, in front of the TV, and as George was smoking another cigarette, he had decided now was the time to aboard the subject of Paul's coldness toward John. All day, he and Paul had been avoiding each other. They barely looked at each other. The day went by, together in the same flat, but disconnected, apart.
In the morning they all went to their respective studies; Paul monopolized the computer for his music theory class in their room; John was supposed to read Against Interpretation , a book of literary criticism by Sontag for his English Literature studies, but instead he had slumped on the couch reading once again Alice In Wonderland for the hundred times since the beginning of the quarantine -it was that or various plays of Oscar Wilde, but never what he was assigned to read; George was cooking in the kitchen following his culinary arts lesson -he hoped to become a cook one day, and he and Ringo to have their own restaurant; only Ringo, who had completed his studies and used to work as a waiter, was out of work and out of studies. Having nothing to do, he had obtained an humble work in an industry working on ventilators for the pandemic. He’d be working every other week, and this week he was at the factory. Which was felt at lunch. Whenever the mood seemed off, he’d be the one cracking a small joke, and it would break the tension; he wasn’t there, and when the three students found themselves in a cold and tense silence at lunch, the unendurable mood was merely broken when Paul took his plate, excused himself to George, and went back to his room and work. The rest of the afternoon remained the same way as the morning had gone: unfriendly and distant. He and Paul hadn’t spoken to each other since their argument. At dinner, even with Ringo home, no amount of jokes managed to fracture the wall between John and Paul; the mood had been slightly brightened, and a good conservation went on, but Paul only smiled for George and Ringo, and John would only make biting comments at things Paul said. Next, Paul was gone, Ringo was showering, and John collapsed on the couch, watching the dozens of anxiety-inducing news with a bored expression, happy to drown his thoughts in chattering of experts, winds in deserted streets and roads, speeches of death by health ministers, and applauses from quarantined people who hadn’t yet forgotten themselves to cynicism like John.
He was gradually drifting to the sweet motherly advice from another health expert, his shoulders sagging in his rest, barely opened eyes; he would have enjoyed this moment longer, if George had not slumped on the armrest, knocking his head with his elbow in his fall, making John wince and straighten in his seat. He gripped his forehead in exaggerated pain, while George ignored him and extended his lanky legs on the couch, and on him, earning a shove from John. Since then, the 19 years old baby with his orange yoga pants and another white shirt ruined by his cooking -why on earth was he still wearing white clothes when he cooked, John never understood- had been awaiting a sort of retort to what he had stated. But John was extremely focused on his pain, too much to talk to him. Besides, he didn’t know why he should confess his sins and pleads for forgiveness to the Hindu hippie of the house; as much as he respected and appreciated George, he was not going to cry his heart out to him, that was a privilege reserved to Paul.
Ultimately, George lost his patience and probed further; something John hated.
“John, stop your actin’. Just admit you annoyed Paul again.”
At that his brows furrowed; if he recalled correctly, it was Paul’s fault they were cold to each other; it was Paul who had disregarded him right as they awoke; John had simply signalled it, in anger. But everyone repeatedly blamed him, it was always easier to blame John Lennon, the lunatic who had an attention-span of zero and who was impulsive in emotions and decisions. This was a wrong move George had made, and he let him know, harshly.
“Why isn’t he the one who annoyed me? Because for your information, he did.”
“Don’t get so angry again John,” George rolled his eyes. He nudged his shoulder and continued. “And what exactly did he do? Something utterly tragic I presume.”
“Yes he did!” he claimed so loud that Ringo, from under the shower, must have heard him.
“Yes?”
“He-” John stopped himself, for he didn’t know how to phrase what happened, in a way it would be effortless to understand why it was maddening to him, even if it wasn’t to others. However, as John had already mentioned, he was quite terrible at managing his emotions; to express them, he was no better. He opened and closed his mouth repeatedly, under George’s amused eyes, until he run out of his thin patience; he crossed his arms firmly on his chest, hunched back in the couch and he could only mumble the spiteful words that would be his downfall to George’s modest expectations.
“He ignored me when he woke up, and through all his bloody morning routine…”
There was a small pause, where George just blinked. The moment he concluded John wasn’t going to add anything, he leant forwards and pronounced with his thick scouse accent:
“What that’s it?”
John's face flushed. He gesticulated.
“George, he was sipping his tea in front of me and he didn’t even look at me!”
“Oh God John I can’t believe you," he said as he lowered his forehead to his palm.
“...plus he probably took my teacup.”
“John!”
“Well how would you feel if Ringo ignored you in his morning routine huh? Don’t fucking give me lessons George," and John was back to pouting with his arms hugging himself, sending a death glare at the sweet health expert of earlier; her simple presence and smile was now enough to make him blow up. “So shut up.”
George was dumb. All the people in his head were scowling at him for thinking such thing about a friend who was housing him so nicely; to those voices he flipped them the bird. He had every right to be angry, for reasons that were illogical, and about trivial matters; forced to coexist with three people for two weeks nonstop, with no authorisation to get outside and live, John’s rebel side was boiling inside and had been waiting for far too long to let itself be known. However, John’s emotions also formed a beautiful sinusoidal curve -what difficult terms!- that was regular and limitless; it signified that when they were high, he’d be boasting or exploding, the proudest lad of all Liverpool; if they were low, he was remorseful and insecure, accepting blame from everyone and anyone, even his own self. And as John was thinking about all of this, the curve was steadily drifting down to its minimum, which would be reached only in Paul’s presence. His legs lifted up and pressed close to his chest, so John’s arms could embrace them and his chin rest on his knees; his glaring eyes softened and his forehead creased in doubts. All of this change went so fast; it was incomprehensible to most; at this moment John had gone from exasperated about George and furious about Paul, to guilty about both. John was dumb. This time all the people in his head felt pity.
From his hidden spot on the corner of the couch, with George’s legs still close, he murmured:
“I am such a tosser.”
George sighed next to him.
“John, why do you always have to be such a moody lad,” but he didn’t reproach him of anything. He didn’t blame him. Yet, John didn’t want to see the look on his face. Instead, he felt an hand landing on his shoulder and rubbing it with a light roughness that felt so George it was slightly comforting. He spoke once more: “It’s ok John. It has been rough for everyone lately. You’re still allowed it to loose it sometimes, and that doesn’t make you an arse,” he paused. “Even it’s just for a teacup.”
They both chuckled. The delicate drowsy voices from the TV in the background were off, leaving for pictures of the night sky, clear as ever thanks to the recent lack of pollution. It felt nice to see that even the TV had its moment of calmness, just like John. At this moment, with George’s hand long and rough on his naked shoulder -he was still wearing the same black tank-top for four days, and John made a mental note to definitely change tomorrow- he felt like the storm of anger he had above his head left him so he could think clearly. He felt guilty about getting so worked up for nothing, and would probably have to do something for Paul; but the now was nice. He enjoyed George’s presence, even after all the foul words he had thought about him; it was the foundation of their relationship, throw nasty names at each other then exchanges pats and mischievous smiles.
Eventually, they both jolted when Ringo emitted a guttural snore from George and his room. They smirked and were getting up. John uttered a cocky remark that he was glad not to be the boyfriend who would have to sleep with Ringo, to whom George answered with a strong argument that at least he would be cuddled tonight; John’s smirk vanished.
Before they separated, they had exchanged a few last words.
“I guess I’ll have to say sorry to Paul then,” he said as he ran a hand through his hair. George arranged his pants and answered.
“You should yes. Quarantine is hard on everyone, even him.”
He added nothing more. It led John to conclude their conversation was over, but he was halted in his leave.
“John, next time you want to spy on Paul’s morning routine,” he started, and John’s attention was captured. He urged him for more, which George did with a sly smile. “Make sure to watch it till the end.”
Alarms rang in John’s brain and he had fully turned around, his eyes round and his mouth agape.
“Wait, what?”
But George was walking away and stepping inside his room already. John had a sudden burst of energy, and he ran for the door. But it was too late, and George waved him bye-bye with a wink and the door was closed. It left John knocking on the door as he pleaded for more information. He continued till he caught both Ringo, who had probably awoken, and George’s laughters: he gave up.
He flicked off all the lights of the living-room, switched off the TV. He took a last look around. Everything was dark now. He knew Paul was still working; he could see a faint blue light from under their bedroom door. Therefore, he decided to wait for him to be over, before joining him. He flopped down again on the couch, and in the dark, only the hurtful lights of his phone glowing, he mused George’s last words. Till he came to a conclusion.
He had not seen Paul’s entire morning routine.
***
Their bedroom was quiet now, and for once not filled with incessant computer typing or pieces of classical music resonating and echoing in disorder. The bedside lamp by John’s side was on, and Paul’s was off. His lover was already under the cover. He wasn’t asleep. John perceived it.
He slipped in bed, undressed, glasses off. He looked at the ceiling. Paul’s back moved as he breathed next to him; an unsteady and irregular pattern accompanied by moving toes under the sheets; his figure was tense; he was waiting for John to mention something. What could he say? “Sorry, I was a tosser this morning but now I’m not”? This wasn’t brilliant. Moreover, he knew his boyfriend would forgive him, and that somehow made it worst; if he said nothing he would be forgiven; if he said a depthless or off-handed apology, Paul would sympathize and would say it was ok. However, if John got angry again, if he made no effort, if he would feel no remorse or yelled again, Paul wouldn’t forgive him. With John’s experience, he knew how Paul’s logic functionned: as long as you felt sorry, you were forgiven; if you didn’t care, you could flee the room and sleep on the couch. Paul was as proud as he, and if you overlooked him, he would react, badly.
All of this knowledge was of no help. He was still looking at the ceiling. Paul was even more agitated next to him. He didn’t wish to further ruin this, for he had no idea what tomorrow may bring if they weren’t on good terms; a tremor swayed him at the possibility of living a quarantine disconnected to Paul. At Paul’s shift in bed, he pronounced his name. The figure stilled, then pivoted to confront him. John turned his face; Paul’s features were glowing with the soft mellow light of John’s lamp, eyes shining with a myriad of yellow shades melting with hazel, but a mouth set in a straight line, letting no emotions pass; his ebony hair framed his face and closed it off to John. It was intimidating, and strangely captivating; he failed to keep his words.
The result was that when he opened his mouth, he could merely utter the following words, if it could be called words:
“Paul, I-I- pffftrr!” he sputtered, to Paul’s quirked up eyebrows.
In mortification he slapped his hand on his mouth. How could someone be so bad at words? It was with horror that he stared at Paul, in utter disbelief toward his betraying mouth.
A giggle tore itself out of Paul’s blank mask. As he heard that warm sound he loved so much, John's smile appeared; it widened when Paul erupted into laughter. The clear sound, joyful and sweet, dripped from his full lips. With a slight flush, his hand covered his face, he giggled a muffled:
"God I'm so sorry, I’m terrible at this."
"It's ok, it's ok," Paul said with his gleaming eyes, taking John's hand off his face. John looked at Paul's warm face, how he calmed his breathing and how the smile stayed. "Try again."
The trust he noticed in those hazel eyes, the openness in his smile, the certitude in his touch, were elements that gave John the confidence he yearned for. There was something about gazing at his lover’s kind and assured expression that unfailingly grounded John, for his courage would arise, his insecurity would lower, and his vulnerability wouldn’t run away. He would remain his authentic self, knowing he wouldn’t slosh away to the vacillations and fluctuations of his self-assurance and mind. There were occasions where he considered himself as Paul’s burden: Paul’s miserable boyfriend who Paul had to watch over and expect nothing in return; till Paul would be reminding him of lost moments where John did things that he thought to be nothing, but represented for Paul a breather for freedom and love. Recalling this, with Paul’s attention strengthening his resolve, he felt he could truly be sorry, without dragging his own self down, without Paul’s pity, without being dramatic. He spoke with no sputters and no stutters.
“I’m sorry about this morning. I’m sorry for lashing out on you on something trivial,” Paul was still listening, so John elaborated, but his eyes flickering away. “Staying home and isolating has been hard for all of us, I know. But this morning, I don’t know why, it got to me. Watching you taking all of this so easily, and seeing this morning how you had adapted so quickly, it- it frustrated me! ‘Cause I haven’t yet, I’m not used to it.”
He stopped avoiding Paul’s searching eyes. He murmured in a certain, yet hushed voice:
“I truly am sorry Paul. I- I’ll try not to take out my anger on you through this quarantine again. I will adapt. Because, if you can, I can.”
The minute he shut his mouth in silence, two arms spread to him. Startled by this reaction, John stared, a bit longer than what could be considered normal, and only when Paul whispered a gentle “come here” with twinkling eyes did he feel reassured enough to approach. He squirmed on the bed to be near Paul, and got engulfed in a comfortable hold by these arms, pressed to a chest he could snuggle up to, and with a small round chin resting on top of his head. The hands surrounding him laid on his back. Legs were entwined. His head moved up and down following the movement of Paul’s chest. A grin, and he was closing his eyes in the hug. He was forgiven.
From an outsider point of view, someone witnessing all those events unfolding since the light morning to the heavy night, it may be disappointing, and John could concede them that; he was a moody and emotional man; it was in his nature; such promise would hardly be honoured. Others could argue that it wasn’t John at fault in this, but Paul for forgiving him so effortlessly, or being hopelessly naive in believing John; were they wrong? It was only a question of interpretation. John was convinced Paul was too good for him; he was also convinced anyone who would have witnessed this would agree with him. But, sometimes, it was nice to let go of those voices, to forget about the people in his head that judged him and dragged him down. Every so often, he thought he was allowed to have someone good for him. Every so often, he would let himself float in warm arms and strong embrace, reassuring smiles and sure eyes. Every so often, he didn’t resist and settled in a place where he felt happy. And, now, he was content. This was one of these sometimes, voices be damned, where he wouldn’t move and wouldn’t leave.
Eventually, Paul felt the necessity to speak to his relaxed mind. He slightly pushed his head away from his chest to better gaze at his partner. His mouth was still curved into a smile.
“You know, I’m happy you joined me here. I wouldn’t function without you here.”
“Even if I’m so damn needy?” John teased back.
“Oh especially because you’re so damn needy,” he was gripped tighter at that. Paul's mouth moved closer to his ear, making John's body shiver at the slight contact of lips. The tension rose how so suddenly he didn't comprehend why. Paul's dripping words pierced through his ears: “I wouldn’t have anyone to snog.”
John roared of laughter at that, lightly nudging Paul off him. He was answered with a snort, and Paul's pivoting them so he was on top of him. He felt Paul’s lips descending on his him, trapping him under his careful ministrations. The escalation of the situation wasn't even surprising to John: how many arguments or relaxing moments ended with sex? He lost count! With Paul's sex drive, John could tell you it was many of them. He wasn't one to protest, especially after this cold day, except for one thing. He was laid down, with Paul looking smugly at him, towering over him.
"Hey!" Paul's brows lifted in amusement. He knew with his flushed face he was as threatening as Ringo -which meant he wasn't. "Who said you'd be on top tonight?"
Paul's smile grew wider.
"Baby, you said you were needy, remember?"
Did John ever say his mouth and his words often betrayed him? Because it seemed in less than an hour, it was the second time he had been betrayed and he was trapped; in this case it was both figuratively and literally. He could feel Paul's breathes being drawn to his face, till he was too close for John not to be a squirming mess.
"That means tonight," lips quickly pressed on his, for too short a minute for him to feel satisfied. Hazel eyes stared right at him and he was paralyzed. "I'm the one taking care of you."
Then Paul was on him. And John wouldn't complain this night that Paul wasn't paying attention to him.
***
He was sipping his morning tea.
Everything was just as the day before. His lover, tall and unwavering, glowing with the sunlight that poured through the window; his second cup of tea was in his hand, that he’d rest on his lips as he dreamt. The same trousers as yesterday were still hanging low on his hips; his waist, that he clutched harshly last night, still naked, and the same straight pose he had, in deep concentration, focused on each breath he took and each movements someone dared to make. The sight was still as beautiful as it had been, and yet so frustrating.
George had suggested something that John needed to see: what Paul did after he sipped his tea. It was the second time John woke up at the same time Paul did, which rarely happened; it was the second time he hid it. But staying on guard, when the bed was so comfortable and inviting, and the view so relaxing and breathtaking, was a harsh and cruel task, for John’s body wished to dream away to reminders of soft caresses and strokes, floating away to what the scene aroused in him. He couldn’t. He had taken a mission, an engagement. From yesterday when he had gotten annoyed at the discovery of Paul’s morning routine up until this moment, he had to finish this somehow. It was a pact he had made involuntarily at the beginning of this story, that he’d fulfill. The battle against his sleeping body and tantalizing dreams was one he would not fail today.
The minutes were dragging in nothing. For nothing happened till the teacup was empty. When it was, he however remained as he was; tall and composed, thinking and focused. George’s last words were appearing as another joke that had the power to madden John, resulting in George’s snickers. As this fleeting idea grew larger in his head, John betrayed his cover; he huffed in frustration. The sound broke the morning silence. Comprehending what he did too late, he shut his mouth closed. But Paul’s eyebrows were already risen. John pretended to be asleep as he felt him turn to him; his nerves were alert, his senses awaken, and his struggle to control his breathing, real. He had either utterly failed at his mission or avoided the failure for now.
Steps sounded to his ears; Paul was moving. They were getting farther from the bed; when the door creaked open, and stayed open, John knew Paul had moved to the main room. He hadn’t been discovered.
A sigh of relief, but no time to waste; he tried to discern what Paul was doing. His lover was in the kitchen; he had taken another teacup and was filling it with hot water. As he waited for the tea to infuse, he seemed to take a tray out of a drawer. John couldn’t decipher what he was putting on it, but he could clearly hear the drawl in George’s voice when he greeted Paul as he flopped in a chair; it explained why he knew of Paul’s morning routine. They seemed to be speaking in ushered tones next, which to John signified nothing. It was conflicting for John, to remain as he was and at the same time to spy on the habits of his lover; he both wished to peer at the scene, move so discreetly in the bed to hear better, and to be immobile, curious as to what will happen next. If he would be back. But the real difficulty John faced was the drowsing clickings and mumblings in the kitchen, the slight humming of the microwave, and the warmth of the sun on his hair, mixed with his closed eyes, tempting him to fall to a beautiful slumber…
A drawer creaked open; John jumped. He did doze off. Flustered, he looked in the direction of the noise: Paul was crouched down, rummaging, not paying attention to him; it was alright. The faint scent of mint and toast caught him off guard, and he glanced at the bedside; the tray had been placed here, right in John’s line of sight, and he hadn’t heard anything. His blurry vision made out a teacup, and a green plate of fuming toasts, wafting a delicious, even if ordinary aroma to John. He recalled that every morning, there was a breakfast in bed; but up until now, he always imagined it was for him and Paul; now that he saw Paul had already eaten his, he was proven wrong. This tray had only been made for him.
As he was going to lose himself to his discovery, Paul moved, and John closed his eyes in reaction. He heard steps, something being set down and steps again; a smell of coconut shampoo drifting in the air, reaching his nostrils, and he knew Paul was close to him and facing him, for only Paul could smell so good in the morning, with coconuts shampoo -George also had a coconut perfumed shower gel but he smelled like crap, to John’s opinion.
He appreciated the scent, for a second, breathing normally. Till two hands rested, with a slight hesitation, on his. One gripped it softly, while the other moved on to his hair; a pause, then the hand, with a slow tempo, scratched his hair; it glided effortlessly, massaging his brain and making it sway in long rockings, and it continued relentlessly. The scent from Paul and the aroma from the breakfast, the warmth of the covers and the sun, combined with the gentle and affectionate motions on his hair, touched John’s heart. Was he really doing this every morning? Or was it because of what he told him yesterday? It must be; never could he deserve such a tender treatment, daily, with nothing asked in return.
His musing halted, when something made his face scrunch up; a mild blow of hot air that collided with his features. The hand on his hair became immobile, as a second blow of air struck his face. It was troubling. He shifted away, in an attempt to protect his face from anymore blows. A deep chuckle was followed by another blow, and John groaned in displeasure. Paul’s voice whispered so close, that his breath tickled his morning stubble:
“Come on John, it’s time to wake up.”
Another one and John’s eyes opened. Paul let go of his hand and hair, retrieving his glasses, while John was blinking, a bit grumpy after he was forced to leave such a sweet moment. However, when his squared glasses were on his nose, and he was greeted with his lover’s smile, he changed his mind; the sight was much better. His lover’s eyes gleamed, his soft ebony hair so close, his small pointy nose completing his round baby face, but the maturity in his gaze put a spell on John instantly. Enchanted, he only had eyes for Paul, crouched down to be at his level, but never heard him speak. He found himself cutting him off in mid sentence.
“Do you really do all that every morning?”John blurted out.
Paul didn’t seem fazed by it, for he answered with a simple “Do what, darling?" as he got up to sit next to John on the bed, taking the tray with him. Meanwhile, John was lifting himself up on his elbows, to sit cross-legged, angled to Paul, but looking down. He had kept the cover around his frame. Paul interrupted him before he spoke again, to gesture toward their bedroom chair: there rested John’s pajama pants -that he had the habits of wearing in the morning instead of the evening- neatly tucked and prepared for him; his mouth was agape, seeing that even the slightest detail had been prepared for him. He felt so embarrassed all of the sudden; in a way, it was incredibly heartwarming to feel taken care of; but if Paul had done this only because he had yelled and shouted at him, it wasn’t tolerable; John didn’t want to force him into doing anything. He was divided between guilt and joy, affection and doubts. He massaged his neck.
“I was awake when you were, and-” Paul’s interest was picked and he stopped fidgeting with the tray. John gulped. “And I saw you, preparing breakfast for me, and being so tender and- do you really do this every morning? Only for me?”
Paul was silent, his lips pursued as he pondered.
“Well yeah. I brought you your tea and breakfast, like usually. I put your pajamas there, woke you up... Nothing out of the ordinary you know. I’m used to it," he shrugged and took the teacup off the tray. He blew on it, before extending to John. But John didn't take it and stared at Paul. He looked a bit flushed, John knew, for he could feel how heated his face was. Paul put the cup down -John's teacup- and reached out to John instead. "Hey, are you alright? Did I do something wrong?"
John suddenly shook his head. He encircled Paul’s shoulders and clutched him to his chest, in a tight hug. Paul seemed surprised, but embraced him back just as promptly. Happiness and affection surged through him, and John didn’t know what to do with it; he peppered Paul’s neck with kisses, his glasses often bumping into his jaw, but he did not care; Paul allowed him to, chuckling at the tickling sensation. As John was making his way to Paul’s ear, he gave it a faint bite, before whispering a small and meaningful: “I love you.”
Paul drew back, his face softened. They looked at each other, and Paul whispered back: “I love you too.”
It was a lovely moment, where John only felt joy and love, for at this instant he was right where he wanted, with the most attentive lover the world could have given him. If the world ceased to function and the people would never get out to see the sun again, John was convinced he would be alright; because Paul was with him, and he was with Paul. He only hugged him tighter, thinking that for once, he had been fortunate. For once, the curve of his emotions was not high nor low, but content and relaxed. He felt Paul kiss the side of his face, his fingers on his chin, and he sighed, a long exhale of air coming from deep within his past troubles. Everything was fine.
John couldn’t explain why such things made him so emotional, why he’d melt at what was considered normal affectionate gestures. He would never be able to comprehend and unveil the ways of his mind. But it was alright.
It’s only when Paul squirmed that he let him go; Paul couldn’t stay inactive for too long after all, the poor lad would be insane.
“You know, as much as I don’t mind you being soft right in the morning, I did prepare breakfast, and I’d like to eat it now,” he said with an amused look.
“I thought you already had breakfast.”
“Yeah, but I get 15 percents of it, it’s in my contract mister,” he replied, with a mischievous grin. John snorted at that.
They sat down and shared their toasts. It was nothing exceptional and nothing out of the ordinary.
John couldn’t persuade you that he wouldn’t explode or be angry during this quarantine. He couldn’t even promise himself to remain calm for the rest of the week. He’d try.
But, now, he ate his breakfast with his lover, once in awhile giving him a quick peck on his lips, and melting at each amused smiles from Paul, who was enjoying seeing John so sappy and happy in the morning. For now, they took their time in their rare loving moment during this crisis.
For now, John was sipping his morning tea.
________________________
THE END