Chapter Text
"What do you think about this one?" Stu asked, a cigarette dangling from his lips as he moved the book closer to John's myopic eyes, the front cover folded all the way back to showcase the entire left-hand page. John squinted as he attempted to bring the blur of monochrome hues into focus. As he got closer, his breath bouncing off the glossy pages and warming his cheeks, he was able to make out pallid figures within a stormy, maritime landscape.
The younger of the two squinted, this time out of disgust rather than an attempt to see. He took a drag from his own cigarette and looked up to study his mate. They stood in the small sitting room of Stuart's -- and now John's too -- Gambier Terrace flat, the window unlatched and open despite the chilly winter smog of Liverpool that flooded in. "Fuckin' depressin', that is," John said, his voice flat, "If I wanted to see dockers, I'd walk my arse down and get a job right beside 'em."
Stuart smiled, causing John's heart to pang. He breathed in another lungful of smoke to dull the feeling. "I think it's quite nice," Stu said, taking the book back to study the piece closer. "He was from 'round here, y'know, the artist." John didn't fail to notice Stu said was.
John rolled his eyes and muttered something about "poor bastard". He could empathize with anyone raised in ruddy Liverpool.
Stuart continued as if he hadn't heard John's remark. "He was queer." The words shocked John and his eyes widened as he looked up to make out what he could of Stu's expression. The elder seemed unphased by the fact, flipping to the next page in the aged book. His tone was matter-of-fact rather than the usual derision that anyone else would have used.
John swallowed, his dry throat growing more and more uncomfortable by the second. "That so?" He tried to keep his voice indifferent so as not to let Stuart on to how his guts were twisting into a thick knot, sharp splinters puncturing his organs. Had he been found out?
John remembered how he had fallen for Stu. The artist was quiet and thoughtful and gentle -- everything John wished he could be more of. He was patient with John. He believed John had an artistic ability that deserved to be nurtured and improved. All those nights where Stu had quietly stood beside him as he slaved over his most recent project, had guided his hand to make the last brushstroke. He remembered the confused state he'd found himself in nearly everyday as he had made his way back to Mendips. As he slinked up the stairs and into his room, locking the door behind him. How he would sit on the bed with his back against the wall, the zip on his trousers hastily yanked down just enough so he could shove his hand into his Y-fronts and tug one out as he remembered the richness of his friend's voice, the gentle, uncalloused touch of his fingertips that burned icily into John's wrist and hand from the aforementioned guidance. Stuart was the first man John had imagined as he touched himself, tricking himself into believing it was Stu's hand instead of his own. Oh, yes, John remembered all too well.
A heat rose to his cheeks and he cursed himself for getting wrapped up in the memories. He turned his back toward Stu and faced the window. It was overcast today, as it usually was. He leaned his forehead against the glass, looking down at the passersby for an excuse not to expose himself to Stuart's watchful gaze. He wondered if anyone below was having the same puzzling thoughts and feelings that he himself was. He heard the pages of the book flip again.
"The world is full of beautiful people," Stuart said, catching John off-guard again. He didn't know if he meant the people in the paintings or the people in the street below, or maybe he meant the queer artist. Another wave of heat rushed to his face, causing him to close his eyes as his cigarette burned to ashes between his fingers.