Chapter Text
Liverpool buses on a rainy Monday morning are definitely not the place to be when you have a hangover. Especially a hangover like John's. A brain-shredding, hammer thumping, needles behind the eyes kind of hangover. And the weather didn't help. Or the bus. Or what happened to the bus when the weather was wet. What happened was more people got on. What happened was it steamed up, windows fogged with breath. Other peoples' breath. What happened was passengers crammed on like sardines, squeezing in every available inch of space. Stepping on toes. Carrying dripping umbrellas which proceeded to shower everyone with unwanted and unwelcome drops. What happened was John was managing, just about, to hold on to his tiny bit of seat as the woman next to him, wearing a very hairy, wet and smelly coat, was overspilling her seat onto his. John couldn't decide if she was extraordinarily large or if she simply wore layers and layers of clothes against the cold, miserable November weather that had plunged Liverpool into gloom.
Gloom. John rolled the word around his mouth. It tasted good. Doom and gloom. It about summed up his life. And the weather.
The woman next to him shifted on her seat, wet coat brushing John's thighs. He glared at her ... not that she noticed ... and moved further across, nearer to the aisle. Maybe that's what she wanted. More of the space. If so, she'd just got her way. John ground his teeth and mulishly pushed back trying to ignore the press of wet coat seeping into his trousers. He felt her eyes on him but kept his stubbornly fixed on the passengers in front of him. The smell of sodden clothes was almost overpowering.
The bus stopped to pick up more passengers and John glanced up in alarm. How many more could they possibly cram on? There was a surge of movement towards the back of the bus as those standing squashed further together, hanging onto the metal poles, the backs of seats, in order to keep their balance, an underlying muttering about the inadequacy of the bus service uniting unlikely bedpartners. John dropped his eyes back to the book he held of which he'd read not one line. It hurt his eyes too much and there were too many distractions also. But ... it acted as a defence. A shield against being spoken to. Normally ... well, no, not normally ... scrub that. Sometimes. Yes, that was better. Sometimes John could be quite chatty. Happy to talk to the person next to him. Delve into someone else's life, find out what made them tick. But not today. So out came the book.
The bus took off again, causing a Mexican wave of stumbling, falling passengers.
John's reverie was broken when someone landed heavily in his lap with an "Oof ... fuckin' hell."
Shit! He ... he?? ... was heavy, and John's wrists, plus book, were trapped under a stranger's bottom.
Before John had time to react though the stranger leapt up, remarkably agile considering the bus was gathering speed, and faced John with a bright smile.
A really bright smile.
How could anyone be that cheerful at twenty five to nine in the morning?
"Sorry" said the smile. "The bus ... it ... it ..." Lost for words the stranger waved his left hand in the air, momentarily letting go of his anchor at the same time the bus took a corner
at speed and he lost his footing, this time falling haphazardly across John's chest. A warmth, a smell of cologne, a tickle of dark hair, then the guy pushed himself back off John, using him as leverage, strong fingers digging in to John's chest. This time amused eyes with a definite twinkle in them danced in his immediate vision for just one moment.
One moment.
John ... never normally lost for words ... ask anyone! ... was bemused. Speechless.
That smile spread. "Really sorry. Gotta stop meeting like this."
When John didn't respond, the man's smile fell, his eyes lost that twinkle, and he pushed himself determinedly onto his feet, grabbing firm hold of a pole.
"Sorry" he muttered, and turned his back to John, shuffling up to make room as yet another wave of passengers made yet another surge towards the back of the bus.
John blinked, bemused.
A swathe of emotions had battered him during that brief episode, and like a diver surfacing, he slowly became aware again of the woman next to him, of the murmur of complaints from passengers hanging on to various seats about 'bloody incompetent drivers', of the steamy windows, the runnels of rain.
And his hangover.
"Told you not to drink so much" had been his flatmate's reaction over a hastily grabbed black coffee before he left that morning.
Ah, Ringo, bless him. Like a mother hen, clucking around him. Tut, tut, tut. Head shaking, mopping up the kitchen counter.
"Don't know why you don't ditch him. He's no good for you."
John had stretched his arms out across the counter, leaning his head on the cool, wet surface.
He closed his eyes, wishing he could stay there. Like, forever.
"But I love him, Rings" he'd muttered, his lips grazing the counter.
Blessed darkness. Eyes shut.
"Don't wanna go to work." He'd added that as an even quieter murmur. A little bit of revolt. Even if true.
There was a pause. He tried to peel an eye open, check if Ringo was still there.
Well, of course he was.
"Tough titty" snorted Ringo. "It's called life, son. Y' gotta work to pay the bills. I can't keep the two of us. Much as I love you."
John let his head roll to the side. Now his ear was experiencing the cool wet surface. It was nice.
He peered in the direction he vaguely thought Ringo was in, judging by the sound of his voice.
"You love me?" he queried lazily, teasingly.
He felt rather than saw Ringo draw himself up straighter.
"Not in THAT way, y' daft bat. Come on, John, I've gotta go. Hair to cut an' all that. Customers waiting."
Trying desperately to respond, John pushed himself up, away from the counter, and a wave of nausea washed over him, the room spinning. He automatically stayed still until everything stopped spinning again. Or was he the one that was spinning?
He could feel Ringo's eyes on him, assessing.
"That bad, huh?"
John nodded weakly. "That bad, Rings."
He shut his eyes.
Crap. Big mistake. He opened them again quickly.
"How much did you have last night?"
Actually, he was debating the same question himself.
Ringo didn't wait for a response.
"He's a bad egg, that one."
John felt the need to defend his boyfriend. "He's okay, Rings. Just a bit .. loose, is all."
"Yeah, a fucking loose cannon. And he takes you down with him."
John tried to shake his head, but it just caused another wave of nausea.
"Should get yourself a nice boy."
"Don't want a nice boy."
"He's trouble, you'll see."
"Don't care."
"Well, you should."
Ringo threw the dishcloth into the sink.
They'd been through this before. Like ... every day?
Yeah, he reckoned. Probably.
He heaved a sigh.
"John, I've gotta go to work. It's a late night, so I won't be back till about eight. If you get chance, can you pick us up some milk."
John nodded weakly, eyes squinting. It seemed the best medium. "Milk, yeah."
"And we're nearly out of bread, too."
His voice was a whisper. "Bread. Sure."
He dragged his thoughts back from that morning as he felt the bus draw up at a stop, and glanced hurriedly out of the window to ascertain exactly where they were. The rain seemed to have gather in it's intensity. People were pushing by in an attempt to dismount the bus, and John recognised the cloth of a camel coat as the owner deftly slipped around an immovable passenger grimly hanging on to a metal pole. Ah .. the guy that had sat on him. Wonder where he worked, then? William Brown Street? Well ... lots of options round here. John began to weave a little story. World Museum? Central Library? Not anything mundane, that was for sure. Not like him. Mundane was his middle name. Oh no, Mr Camel Coat would have it all ... good education, fantastic job, smile to die for ... John snarled. Definitely a smile to die for. God, how he hated him.
At the sound of the snarl, the woman in the wet hairy coat glanced at him in alarm. Glaring back unrepentantly at her, John's eyes just happened to catch, outside of the bus window, Mr Camel Coat himself, flipping open a black umbrella, hoisting what looked like a lap-top bag onto his shoulder. John felt a quiet satisfaction that he'd probably been right. Better than him. Everyone was better than him. Everyone. Fuck.
"'Scuse me, love ... my stop." The wet woman rose (staggered) to her feet ... miles of material and body and boots and bags and ...
John looked up at her.
"Fuck!" he said.
Paul was excited. And nervous. So nervous he'd not been able to eat any breakfast despite his flatmate's urgings.
"Come on, Paul ... just a piece of toast" George cajoled him.
Holding on brightly to his smile, nonetheless Paul shook his head.
George cocked his head onto one side, surveying him carefully.
"Are you nervous?"
Paul shook his head, re-considered, then nodded.
"Ah, you'll be fine. Awesome, is what you are. Kids just love you. You've got no worries. Well, long as you find your voice before you leave, that is."
Paul chuckled, and George was relieved to hear it. To see Paul smiling and laughing and ... well, just living again. It meant a lot to George. It had been a hard climb.
He nudged Paul in the side, receiving a startled flutter of lashes from his friend.
"Might even be some nice librarian, you never know" George whispered conspiratorially.
Paul flushed. Not sure he wanted another relationship. Male or female.
Nope. He'd just stick to his books and music. They were safe.
He blinked bemusedly as George thrust a foil package into his hands.
"What's this?" he questioned, looking closely at his friend.
Now it was George's turn to colour.
"Just ... er ... y'know ... some sandwiches. Case you forget to eat."
A wave of affection flooded Paul and he gave George an impetuous hug.
George batted him off fondly.
"Ah, go on, y' daft bugger. Someone's gotta look after y'. I'll see you tonight when y' get back."
Even the rain couldn't dampen Paul's enthusiasm. He'd been trying to get a decent job for, oh, ages, now. So long he could hardly remember. An English degree should have counted for something, but he never seemed to have got off to a good start, unlike so many of his colleagues, who'd gone into teaching, editing, journalism ... or just travelling. And what had Paul got into? A relationship. He shuddered, and flipped his umbrella open as he headed determinedly for the bus stop. Time to put all that behind him. Eyes front, Paul, he told himself. Move on. He walked quickly, his feet making a sharp clicking sound over the pavement. There was the bus stop ... and ... his heart sank ...a queue. Oh no! That probably meant the previous bus hadn't turned up, then. He couldn't be late today. Not today of all days.
His first day. His heart skipped a beat. First day, new job. At the Central Library no less. As a child he'd looked in awe at that majestic building. Impressive outside and in with it's polished wood and circular bookshelves that contained so many treasures. His mother had used to relate the time she'd lost him in there, and found him curled up under a desk devouring a picture book of dragons.
"I was only five" he would remind her. And she would ruffle his hair and smile lovingly.
His eternal memory of her, wrapped tight and held close.
"Lovely weather for ducks."
Paul blinked bemusedly at the voice in his ear, so lost in thought he'd been.
He smiled warmly at the middle aged lady who was sheltering under an enormous umbrella.
As was everyone else in the queue.
Well ... apart from a couple of schoolkids with their hoods pulled up.
He vaguely wondered how all these umbrellas would fit on the bus.
Maybe they should send another bus? Just to take the umbrellas?
His smile grew at the ridiculous thought.
Then the bus swept round the corner, already crowded. Standing room only.
Paul was conscious of the wet smell that permeated the vehicle. Of the slippy, slightly muddy floor. Of someone gently but persistently shoving him in the back, making him move further down the bus. He turned to steady himself as the bus lurched forward and he lost his footing and landed heavily in someone's lap. Embarrassed he shot to his feet, mindful of the expletive that had just left his lips, hoping, praying, it wasn't some elderly person he'd just squashed. To his relief it was a guy. Probably about his own age. Staring back at him in befuddlement, paperback book open on his lap. A fellow reader then. Paul's face lit up ... it could have been worse. As he apologised, he let go of the pole he'd grabbed onto as the bus swept round a corner and he fell forwards onto the guy again. He smelt of home ... tea and toast and ... books and ... clean washing ....
Jesus!
Paul levered himself back up, his face puce. He tried to pass it off as a joke.
"Really sorry. Gotta stop meeting like this."
Oh! The man looked totally unimpressed. Oh.
Paul took a step back, and someone swore.
He'd probably trodden on somebodies toe.
Then the bus stopped and another crowd of people got on ... how many more could they possibly fit? .... and he was pushed further down the bus, the movement releasing him from the implacable stare.
He hoped ... he desperately hoped ... it wasn't an omen for how the rest of the day would go.
He needed this to work.
Drawing his camel coat closer around him, he held firmly to his lap-top bag and umbrella and mentally urged the bus to reach his destination quickly.