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He had a cold pit in his stomach from the moment he heard it on the radio. A plane crash. It didn’t sound real. It sounded like something from a movie. His father knocked on the bathroom door to tell him he was likely to miss his bus if he didn’t hurry up; he’d frozen in front of the mirror with the water running.
Everything felt off, like he was observing it from behind a plate of glass. He heard the news recounted over and over throughout the day, everyone strangely eager to find someone they could break the news to. Buddy Holly is dead. When people asked him if he’d heard, Paul would nod, but he didn’t respond when they continued Can you believe it? Isn’t it awful.
The thought of going over to the college to catch John on his lunch break, as he and George often did, caused a fresh chill to fall over him. Part of him yearned to see John. Everyone was being so dramatic about Holly's death, or hadn’t cared at all. It was like a play where all the actors were trying convey an emotion they didn’t feel. John would understand. But something told him John might not want to see him. John didn’t always want someone to understand.
Paul dawdled in the school bathroom, adjusting his tie endlessly in the mirror. He managed to avoid George until there wasn’t enough time for them to go to the college and get back before their next classes. He was able to avoid telling George he didn't want to go. George would have asked why, and he didn’t trust himself to keep up his act under any scrutiny.
On the way home from school George rambled endlessly, working his way in a circle between how he couldn’t believe it and wasn’t it awful and back to how he couldn’t believe it. Paul nodded along sympathetically. George at least seemed to put some feeling into these words he'd heard repeated all day.
He felt impossibly old listening to George working through what was so obvious to him. Paul had been through it before, much more harshly, much closer up. It wasn’t just Buddy that was unsettling him. He felt like a larger truth had been revealed to him that made everything around him seem more vibrant and precious, and at the same time already fading away.
He barely ate at dinner, and his father kindly didn’t push the issue. His dad seemed determined not to notice Paul’s malaise, something he would normally have attempted to prod him out of with some good natured jibes. What’s your dinner done that’s got you so grumpy? This pork chop steal your girl?
He went to bed early, but couldn’t sleep. He tossed and turned until around 2am, when he heard a cat meowing loudly below his window. It was February, and bitterly cold. He held his breath, listening carefully, beginning to think he had imagined it when he heard it again. The cat had gotten louder, properly yowling like it was in heat. He smiled and slipped out of bed to peek through the curtains. John stood in the yard, arms wrapped around himself against the cold, breath coming in quick white puffs.
Paul tiptoed into the bathroom and edged the window up.
“Hurry up, then,” Paul huffed down at John as the sharp winter air flooded the bathroom and numbed his toes.
John scrambled up the pipe; he always rushed as though he couldn’t trust his strength if he didn’t do it all in one go. He thrust half his body through the narrow window and, to stop him from tumbling over the toilet and onto the floor, Paul offered his shoulder as a brace while John pulled his hips through the window. Once his feet were on the ground, Paul slid the window shut as quietly as possible.
“Why - “ John said, breathing hard from his exertion.
Paul held a finger up to his lips to silence him. He checked the hall to make sure that his dad and Mike’s doors were both shut. He cringed at the sound of John’s boots on the wood floor as they took the few steps from the bathroom to his bedroom. He was thankful to be back in the warmth, but he’d caught a chill he couldn’t shake and the winter air seemed to cling to John’s clothes.
“What’re you doing here?” Paul asked. He rubbed his arms to get the blood flowing again, while John stood unmoving.
“Thought you’d come by at lunch.”
“Didn’t have time. I would’ve — if —” John’s eyes narrowed and Paul stopped. He’d never been a good liar; he was good at softening things or talking people into things, but John was the last person he could ever fool. “That what you came all the way over here in the middle of the night for? Wanted to know what I had for lunch?”
“You’ve heard, obviously. About Holly.”
Paul swallowed a thick emotion that rose up in his throat. He hadn’t cried yet, hadn’t expected to. He’d heard the news recounted dozens of times, but it was different hearing John say it.
“It’s awful,” Paul said. John laughed sharply.
“It’s horseshite, that’s what it is,” John said. He tugged at the sleeve of his coat, and paced the floor in a tiny circle, suddenly possessed of a manic energy . “It’s all horseshite.”
“Yeah,” Paul nearly choked on the syllable. John’s eyes bore into him.
“Yeah? It’s awful? Sometimes I can’t tell if there’s anything going on inside you at all.”
“You can piss off it you’re going to be like that.” This is what he’d been afraid of all day. John was angry and it was rarely the cause of his anger that ended up the target of it. Lately, it seemed to be Paul who bore the brunt of it, simply because he was the only one who would.
John took a step closer, Paul stumbled backward into the door, with a thump that made them both freeze. They waited to hear if they’d roused Jim or Mike, but there was only the usual creeks and groans of the house at night.
“It’s awful? That all you’ve got to say?” John said, with disgust. He’d been right to avoid John at lunch. Sometimes he couldn’t sort himself out, he was too busy thinking what John would think, what John would say. It had gotten worse since Julia died. He understood what John was feeling, but it had been 6 months now he’d been walking on egg shells.
“I don’t know what to say. There’s no sense to any of it. It could be anyone, just like that. Gone. You can’t count on anybody being there, not even some bloody stupid American guitar player we’ve never met. Why should we be crying over him, anyway? Who is he to us?” Paul was shaking by the end of it, he was sure his face must be red.
“Can’t even count on best mates, turns out,” John spat at him.
“What?” Paul asked, shoulders back, head up. He wouldn’t let himself cry in front of John. “I didn’t come see you because I knew you’d be looking for a row. And I was right. Came round to me bloody house in the middle of the night for one, in fact, didn’t ya? Sometimes I don’t know why I bother —“
“I know, I know. I know, all right,” John said. His eyes were red, wet with tears that threatened to spill over. He wrapped his arms around himself, visibly deflating. “I’m impossible. You shouldn’t bother.”
“I didn’t mean, you know…”
He was stunned by the sight of John in tears. He knew this wasn't really about Buddy Holly, it was about Julia. It was hard to tell when John wanted the truth and when he wanted a comforting lie. Paul had taken both approaches in the months since Julia had died, and either one was equally likely to be met with resentment from John. Maybe it was best to avoid words all together.
Paul thought of his little cousins, and what he did when they cried at the injustice of a toy that had broken, or a scrapped knee, or another child who wouldn’t play by the rules. Something that couldn’t be fixed, but only comforted.
He wrapped his arms around John. He collapsed forward, pressing his cheek against Paul’s chest, fighting the sobs with deep, shaky breaths. It felt strange, holding him like this, but Paul was always better at handling things when he had a task. At least holding John he felt like he was of some use.
“You’re all right,” Paul murmured. He felt John pull away, probably to argue, but Paul kept his grip firm. He stroked John’s hair until he finally let the tears come without a fight.
He’d only seen John cry one other time. A few weeks after Julia had been killed, John had broken down in tears while they were practicing and Paul, in a state of shock, hadn’t said or done anything. He thought maybe John would rather he pretend not to notice. The moment passed quickly and John wiped the tears from his eyes and started the song they were practicing from the beginning. John had avoided him for nearly a week after that.
He held John until he stopped shaking and his fists loosened. John’s ice cold fingers brushed against the small of Paul’s back where his t-shirt had bunched up and he jumped with the shock of it.
“Sorry - I..” John pulled away, suddenly embarrassed, and Paul was sorry that the moment had unravelled over something so small.
“It’s ok. Just cold.”
John nodded, rubbing his arms furiously like he’d just become aware of the chill. He seemed wrung out, weary beyond his 18 years. John shifted from foot to foot and looked around the room as Paul pulled off his tear-stained shirt and replaced it with a fresh one from his dresser.
Paul climbed into the bed where a little warmth still lingered in the sheets.
“Come on, then.”
It took a moment before the invitation registered and Paul laughed at the relief on John’s face as he kicked his boots off and discarded his jacket on top of them. Paul pressed his back against the wall to make as much room as possible. They settled on their sides, arms wrapped tightly around themselves, blanket tucked under their chins, facing each other.
“It’s not all shite.” Paul shifted closer, there was a draft creeping in between them and he was still shivering from the cold.
“What makes you think that?”
“It’s okay right now, isn’t it?”
“You’ll get sick of me eventually.” John smiled, but it was easy to see through the joke.
“Gotten sick of you plenty of times. Still here, aren’t I?”
“It’s your house.” John pulled a mad face and Paul rolled his eyes.
“That’s right, and if you mind your manners and keep quiet, I’ll let you stay the whole night.”
“Thank god for that. I don’t fancy freezing my bollocks off a second time tonight.”
Paul closed his eyes and made an attempt to sleep, but felt John's eyes on him.
“What? Can’t sleep?” Paul asked.
“Not with you starring at me. Who could sleep with some bloke watching them?” John asked. His face grew serious and contemplative. “You can’t promise you won’t leave, you know. Everyone does in the end, one way or another.”
Paul mulled the question, gave it the proper consideration. He knew other people wouldn’t believe it, that privately John - loud, abrasive, cutting John - often craved reassurances of the most basic facts, things Paul wouldn’t think to question. He’d never thought of John leaving him. It had never occurred to him to worry about such a thing. The same way it had never occurred to him that his mother wouldn’t always be there.
“You’re right,” Paul said. John laughed at that, maybe finding the bluntness absurd. “I can’t promise you I won’t die, nobody can promise that. But I wouldn’t leave ya, unless you want me to.”
“What? Why would I want that?”
“I don’t know.” Paul shrugged.
“I won’t. Don’t be daft.” John said, defensively, like Paul had accused him of something untoward.
“All right, then.” He wasn’t able to say more than that, but it seemed that the silence between them was full of understanding.
They shifted under the covers, trying to pull them in tighter against the cold. There wasn’t much give with the two of them crammed into the tiny bed. They laughed and sniped at each other a bit trying to settle into some configuration of elbows and knees that suited them both and didn’t allow drafts of cold air in.
Paul thought about his mother, and how he’d never thought about her being gone and how the tiniest of moments stuck in his mind after she was - the spot of flour on her cheek as she made dinner, her affectionate frown when he’d made a joke she didn’t approve of, or the softness of back of her hands when she’d press them to his feverish head.
He fell asleep, warm and exhausted, listening carefully to the sound of John’s sleeping breath, just in case he needed to remember it.