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John’s never put it into words, but he’s never had to. Paul’s just always known.
He doesn’t know when he became aware of it, but he knows when the fear started. He’d heard older boys in an alleyway, the older boys in leather jackets with knives up the collar, the ones with the duck’s arse hair and bruises on their knuckles. Yelling at another boy—a normal, harmless middle class boy like himself in a grammar-school uniform—calling him freak, fairy, cocksucker, queer. He didn’t stay to see what they did to that boy, but he could imagine.
Mimi sent him to his room for repeating the words; he had to learn their meanings on his own. It felt like there was a shard of ice in his heart when he found out.
When he got older, he heard their voices, yelling at him.
Freak.
Fairy.
Cocksucker.
Queer.
John thought, that’s you.
When John met Paul, he became aware of the two strongest emotions he’d ever experienced.
He’d never met someone like Paul, with strong hands and clever fingers, lips like a girl and voice like an angel, funny and not-too-proud and charming. Good-looking. John felt drawn to him.
So they grew together. Years passed and Paul was always there, by John’s side, and John at Paul’s. There was some sort of mutual, unspoken understanding between them that didn’t quite make sense. They were something to each other—not quite brothers but not just friends—that nobody could touch.
And John loved him. It was impossible to deny, to everyone around them and to themselves. What sort of love it was had never been clear, but everyone knew it was there.
John, of course, knew what kind of love it was, and it made him sick, just thinking about it. He didn’t want to feel anything out of the ordinary for Paul. He just wanted a mate, that’s all. He didn’t want Paul to be caught up with a person like him. Paul deserved more than someone like John; he deserved a nice girl with soft cheeks and round hips, a sweet pink smile and pretty eyes. Not some bloke with… a craving.
John tried to keep a proper distance between himself and Paul. He always thought he could contain it. He thought he could push it away, that feeling in his throat; push it down and hide it away and it would leave him in peace, but it never seemed to work like that. He fought it, but it fought back. He couldn’t decide what to do—stay away or never leave. He couldn’t decide which would be easier.
He never found out.
Paul was never supposed to know what he was. John was careful, or tried to be. He removed himself from Paul when it got bad, even if it meant being harsh and cruel. He would say anything to get away, knowing it might hurt Paul in the process. It was a miracle Paul even spoke to John afterward, but he always did. Paul always forgave him, and for that John was always grateful. However John knew there was one thing Paul might never forgive him for, and he was determined to keep it hidden.
But then one drunken night when John couldn’t take it anymore, when the need was stronger than the inhibition, he grabbed onto Paul as if something else were controlling him; pulled him close and stared into his bewildered eyes and choked out, “Please,” and Paul had let him.
It was his first kiss—his first real kiss.
He’d run away after that, terrified and disgusted with what he’d done. In a blur, he climbed a tree in the cemetery and found himself unable to climb back down. He sobbed. You’re a freak, he told himself, you’re a freak, and he’ll hate you now.
And Paul found him in that tree at two in the morning, face wet with tears, and Paul coaxed him down and talked to him, soft and low, and told him it was all right. It’s all right.
I’m a freak, John said.
You’re not.
I am.
You’re not, John.
I’m a freak.
They didn’t talk about it. Everyone noticed there was a slight change between the two of them, but nobody said a word. There was nothing to say.
John’s feelings had gotten worse. He’d thought that maybe he could quench the beast, satisfy it once and kill it off for good. It only got hungrier, more ambitious, more imaginative. He kept having dreams, the kind that left him breathless and sweating in the early morning. John didn’t know what was happening to him. He didn’t know how to stop it. He only knew what he wanted, and God, did he want Paul. He wanted him so bad it hurt, so bad he could barely breathe without tears threatening to spill, so bad he started needing it.
It happened again, three weeks later, walking home from a gig. He’d pulled away and looked at Paul’s face and felt his heart stop and stammered a near-incoherent apology and ran. Paul went after him and said the same thing as before, in the same quiet, understanding voice. It’s okay, John.
By the next time it happened, Paul had stopped being surprised. John was at Paul’s and his dad had stepped out to talk to the mailman, and Paul had known by the look on John’s face what was about to happen. The moment their lips touched, John pulled away again, face bright red. He said hurriedly, “I’m sorry, I—I have to go. I’m sorry.”
But it happened again. And again. And again.
Paul, inexplicably, seemed to understand. He never called John any names. He never told John to fuck off, never ran away—even when John did that himself. It’s okay, he would say, when John kissed him and left and didn’t speak to him for three days afterward. It’s okay, it really is.
I’m sorry, John would say each time. I won’t do it again, I swear I won’t. I’m sorry.
It’s okay, Paul would say. Really, John. It’s okay.
No, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
Paul could say it was okay as many times as he wanted, but it would never be okay for John. He knew what he was. Paul knew, too.
“You like girls,” John said to him one day.
Paul looked at him, surprised. It wasn’t something he felt needed to be stated. “Yeah.”
“Why?” John asked.
Paul smiled. “Why do I like girls?” John nodded. “I dunno. Probably for the same reasons you—”
Paul stopped dead, seeing John’s frozen face. “I mean. I’m sorry, that’s not—John, don’t—”
John left.
They didn’t talk about it, the next time they saw each other. Paul didn’t think they ever would. And, he supposed, that was all right.
It was nothing but sporadic kisses between them for quite a while. Other than those times, they were always good friends, laughing and writing and being together. Sometimes John would stop talking to Paul for short bursts of time, but that had become normal, as well. Everything was normal.
Until the night John got so desperately lonely he walked all the way to Paul’s house in the dark early morning, face burning. He tapped on the window urgently, until Paul came. Seeing John’s face, Paul seemed to know, instantly, that something was very wrong. “Back door, go on,” he’d said, and John had slunk into Paul’s room and stood there like a shadow.
“What’s wrong?” Paul asked, even though he’d already guessed.
John shook his head. He couldn’t say. He’d never say.
“Do you…” Do you need me to help? Paul didn’t know how to say it. He was afraid of what John might do if he did. John just shivered there, head down.
“John,” he said carefully, “do you want me to?”
John’s head shot up as if it were on a spring. Paul saw his hands form shaking fists.
“It’s okay,” Paul said. “It’s okay if you want me to, it’s okay.”
“You, you mean…” John swallowed. It had to be a joke, a mistake. “ Paul .”
“I’m not kidding. I mean… I can, I can do that for you. If you want.”
John just nodded slowly, too stunned to say anything. “I—”
“It’s okay,” Paul said again, and kissed him until John stopped trying to talk.
He seemed close to tears near the beginning, though Paul continuously tried to reassure him. There was a lot of fumbling, a lot of tentative touches; both of them were inexperienced and a bit scared. Paul wasn’t quite sure what he was doing, and clearly neither did John, but they were both willing to give in to each other.
When Paul pushed in, John sucked in a strangled breath, eyes wide and unreadable. “Are you—does it hurt?”
John shook his head quickly, though Paul suspected he was lying. “‘S’okay,” he managed. He seemed to have forgotten how to breathe, his mouth trembling. “Paul, please, you have to—you have to—”
Paul understood. He thrusted shallowly with his hips and John hissed, arching his back and clawing at the bed. Paul slowed, bending toward him. “John, John, you’ve gotta be quiet, okay? Be quiet, it’s late.”
He didn’t say my dad will kill me or it’s all over if anyone finds out. John nodded silently, moving his hips for Paul to continue. When Paul tried again, a bit deeper, John whimpered and bit his lip so hard Paul thought he might break the skin. He could see no way for John to keep quiet, not like this.
Gently, Paul wrapped his hand around John’s mouth, stifling the sounds he might make, and started again. John’s hand flew up to Paul’s wrist, holding it tightly and watching him with fluttering eyes. Paul could feel John’s groans against his hand, hot and staggered.
“It’s all right, I’ve got you—I’ve got you…”
Paul had nail marks on his forearm by the time they finished. John laid back, gasping, and Paul had laid down with him, mind blurry. He wasn’t sure what had just happened. Or what it made him, now that it was over.
Beside him, with his breathing slowing and mind clearing, John seemed to break. He laid there and sobbed, unable to stop, and Paul, not knowing what else to do, wrapped his arms around him and held him. It scared Paul to see him so vulnerable, so wounded. He didn’t know how to help.
“I’m so sorry,” John kept saying.
“Shhhh, shhh, it’s all right.”
“I didn’t mean to be like this.”
“It’s okay, really.”
“I didn’t mean—I didn’t mean to make you—I didn’t want you to be like this too,” John said, voice muffled and broken.
“You didn’t. John, it was my decision,” Paul told him.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”
“It’s okay…”
“I have to go… I have to go, Paul.”
“No—John, you don’t, you can stay. You can stay.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”
“Please stay.” I know you want to stay.
“A-are you sure?” Paul didn’t understand why John was so surprised. John had stayed over about a hundred times, since they were kids. It wasn’t so different.
“Of course you can.”
John stayed. After a few long moments of trying to avoid contact on the tiny bed, he put his head on Paul’s chest and wrapped an arm around his waist, close enough for Paul to feel how shaky his breathing was.
They laid in the dark, neither one knowing how to sleep with the other there. John broke the silence by saying, “I’m sorry, Paul.”
“It’s okay, John.”
I’m sorry.
It’s okay.
I’m sorry.
The conversation continued in John’s head long after Paul had fallen asleep.
John showed up at his house a week later, the first time he’d talked to Paul since. “What happened last week,” he began, but stopped. They’d never talked about anything before, not really. No further than “I’m sorry” and “It’s okay”.
“We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” Paul said. He knew John wouldn’t want to. He didn’t know why he was even bringing it up.
“I know.” John shuffled his feet. “Can I come in?”
“Yeah,” Paul said, letting him through. “Mike’s home.”
“Ah,” John said. They went up to Paul’s room. They stood there, staring at each other, neither knowing what to say first.
John cleared his throat. “Paul, I’m—”
“Don’t,” Paul said sharply. John looked at him, startled. “Don’t say you’re sorry.”
“Are you—” John was terrified. He thought his biggest fear was coming true, that Paul had finally come to his senses. That Paul hated him for what John had done to him. “Do you want me to go?”
Paul sighed, letting out a small laugh. “Jesus, John—sit down, all right?”
John sat. “Look,” Paul said, “I don’t want you saying sorry anymore. Cos there’s nothing to apologize for. You haven’t done anything wrong.”
Paul saw John’s jaw clench. “Why do you always say that?”
“It’s not—it’s not what you think it is, you know? It’s just like—I like girls. You… you don’t. That’s okay, that’s not your fault. It’s just how you are.”
“Tell that to Mimi,” John said through gritted teeth. “Tell that to your dad. Tell that to the fuckin’ Teddies on the side of the road, tell that to the old soldiers on the bus—tell that to the whole bloody country! You’re—” John stopped, putting his head in his hands. “Fuck. Fuck.”
“They’re all wrong,” Paul told him quietly. “The way you—the way you are, it’s nothing different than how I am, or how—how anyone is. I know it’s not. I’ve known you forever, and you’re no different.”
“How can you say that?” John demanded. “It’s—it’s fuckin’ wrong, what I do, it’s… disgusting. You know they put people like me in jail? Just for—existing?”
The thought made Paul furious. “Yeah, but they’re wrong. And just, just shut up, all right? You might think it’s your fault or disgusting or—whatever fucked up shit runs through your brain, but I’m telling you it’s okay, and that should mean something.”
John watched him for a moment, chewing his lip. “Fine. I won’t… apologize anymore.”
“Good.”
“You’re the only one that knows,” John said.
“I know,” Paul said, “that’s okay. You don’t have to tell people.”
“Yeah.” John pursed his lips. “Can you just tell me one thing? And don’t—just come out and say it, don’t try to dance around it or any shit like that.”
“All right,” Paul said. “What is it?”
John closed his eyes and sighed. He looked at Paul. “You’re not like me. Right?”
Paul felt his breath catch at that. He wasn’t. He knew he wasn’t. But that didn’t change the fact that he’d done things with John, of his own accord. He wasn’t like John, but he’d done things like John. He still didn’t know what that made him. He said, “I’m not like you.”
“Okay,” John said, nodding. “Good. I—I thought so.”
“Yeah,” Paul agreed, but John wasn’t done yet.
“So what happens to me,” he said, “when you meet someone else?”
“There are other people like you,” Paul said, stumbling for the right words to reassure him. “You’ll find them. You—you can find someone too.”
John smiled at that, a bitter, hopeless smile. “Yeah. Find someone.”
He thought, I already have.
John stayed the night, and the whole thing happened again. This time, John didn’t cry. And he didn’t apologize. But he still shook, and Paul could see the pain on his face as John laid next to him. He saw the muscles in John’s jaw working, his mind preventing him from falling asleep.
“John,” he said softly.
“What?”
“It’s—I’m not like you, but… I think I can be. For you. Just for now.”
“You don’t—” John shifted, lifting himself off the bed to look down at Paul. “You don’t have to say that. You don’t have to do that, okay? It’s not—I don’t want you to.”
“I’m serious,” Paul said firmly, tugging at John’s shoulder until he laid back down. “I don’t care what you are, John, I’ll be here for as long as you need me.”
“And what if I don’t stop?” John asked, his mouth set. “What then?”
Paul looked at him, startled. He hadn’t considered it. It seemed stupid, but he’d honestly thought John had fixated on him, just because he was there and he understood, that one day John would recognize his feelings as simply that, and he would move on. The realization seemed to crash over Paul, settling cold in his chest.
“This is how I am,” John persisted. “That’s what you said. I can’t change.”
“I know you can’t,” Paul said.
“I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do,” John said firmly. “You don’t have to do anything.”
“I know that.”
“So why do you do it, then?” John demanded.
“Do… what?”
John shook his head. He still couldn’t say it, whatever it was. “Let me.”
Paul didn’t know why he let John do anything. He didn’t even know if let was the right word. He knew he didn’t have to do anything. He knew he owed nothing to John, and John owed nothing to him.
It’s because, Paul thought, I love you, John. But Paul couldn’t say this, because John would take it the wrong way; Paul didn’t love him like that, the way he knew John loved him. It was something else entirely.
“I do it for you,” Paul said finally.
“Yeah, but… why?”
Paul didn’t know. It was a strange topic for him. He wasn’t—like John, who seemed to have no interest in girls and hated himself for it. He wasn’t like that. But he was… something.
“You don’t know, do you?”
Paul shook his head.
John looked up at the ceiling. “I thought so.”
“I’m sorry,” Paul said.
“It’s okay,” John replied.
John’s never put it into words, but he’s never had to. Paul’s just always known. It’s been like this for as long as Paul can remember. It’s never been easy, but it’s always been worth it.
It only took John a conversation to stop apologizing, but it took him much longer to forgive himself. To stop calling himself a freak—and all the other things he had himself convinced of being. To stop believing it. Paul helped with that. John still believes it sometimes, still hears those hateful voices, but he tells himself it doesn’t matter. Paul matters, and Paul says it’s all right.
It’s always been a bit of a blur for Paul. He’s not sure about anything except that John loves him, and that’s all right with him. He loves John back, in his own way.
And he’s still not sure how it started, or how it will end, or what it makes them when they tangle up together at night like lovers, only to part wordlessly the day after. But Paul has never asked, and John might never tell.