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It’s something that John mentions offhand once, not really being able to play football. It’s not a sport for girls, his parents used to say. And, sure, their views are not nearly as regressive as that nowadays, but it sticks.

All the boys around him had supposedly come out of the womb already kicking balls, bought their first boots at age 3 and never left the pitch. It makes him feel distanced from them all, like those girls who sit by the edge of the field at lunchtime and coo at Ian. Who don’t know, like he does, how it feels to have his gentle fingerprints peppered over his skin. That gives him a sense of pride, at least.

At first, he writes it off as just not wanting to. But there’s only so long of that before Ian’s prying into it. He says: “You bloody love watching it, it’s about time you get off your arse and play it.”

So that first excuse is gone after a matter of weeks because he knows Ian’s completely right. He loves football, bleeds red through and through. Begs his parents to turn their programmes off at midday on a Sunday so he can curl up on the rug and cheer with the crowd like he’s there.

His next excuse works a little better because Ian doesn’t understand it so much.

He’s sat in Ian’s overgrown garden on a Tuesday evening, sun diluting the sky into pastels as it dips below the other houses on their estate. Ian’s kicking the ball dully against the fence and it passes it poorly back. Thud. Thud. Thud.

“Why don’t you join in?” Ian scrunches his nose up, sunlight painting such pretty colours on his cheekbones that John could cry. He stumbles for words, eyes stuck on the way Ian’s pink lips move around the words.

“Hurts. It’s..” John reaches up under his polo and runs a hand along the bandages that line his chest. They’re tight, too tight, he knows it, but they still don’t work as well as he wants. “Can’t breathe as good.”

“Just pass, then. Back and forth. No running or nowt.” Ian pleads at him with those big brown eyes, glittery and doe-like. John’s so tense it aches to swallow, eyes darting frantically from Ian to the ball and the fence and anywhere but those eyes.

So John gets up, very begrudgingly. He knows that when he’s shit he can blame those very bandages. Knows Ian is too gentle around those frayed edges of him, and that he won’t try to push too much.

And god, he is terrible.

Ian scrambles for the ball every time, misses it and has to chase behind him, laughing, to get it back. Passes it squarely back to John’s feet, then watches him expectantly.

John can only take so much of this laughing before he disappears into the house and shuts himself in the toilet for a bit too long to raise no alarms. When he comes back outside, Ian doesn’t complain about him sitting quietly and watching.

And for a while after that, Ian stays surprisingly quiet. It unsettles John a bit, because Ian is never quiet. Hasn’t been since they met in the sandpit aged four, and has only gotten worse since he discovered the Sex Pistols. But he appreciates it, at least.

—

It’s an almost identical day about a month later, and a bit later into the night. Ian sits himself on the step next to John, ball cradled between his feet. He kisses John briefly once, then checks behind him to make sure nobody is watching before kissing him again.

“What’s up with you?” Ian murmurs once he’s already reduced John to badly concealed giggles with a few pecks, an arm draped lazily over his shoulders. He’s annoyingly close. “You not bored just watching?”

“Nah, not really.” John murmurs, eyes flicking around Ian’s face skittishly. His lips, his cheekbones, the tip of his nose. It’s true, to a degree; he wishes more than almost anything to play with him, but Ian is too pretty to ever tire of just watching.

Ian tuts, like he knows better. Sometimes John thinks he can read minds, because he comes startlingly close every time. He nudges his shoulder into John’s, then sighs like he’s got the weight of the world on those slight shoulders. “You’re a knob, Johnny. I don’t care if you’re shit.”

“I do.” John manages eventually, and finally meets Ian’s eyes. They’re softer than usual, but filled with a weird sort of determination. A stubbornness he knows Ian cannot get rid of. “Makes me feel like less of a lad.”

Ian shoves John, laughs when his palm slides on the concrete in a futile attempt to stabilise himself. Then he tackles him carefully, limbs an ugly mess as they scramble into each other, grunting and giggling. “Don’t be a twat. I can teach you, ‘s not hard.”

John hesitates, a moment that Ian uses to pin him down with a cheeky grin. Pecks his cheek then steps back, worn trainers squashing the untidy grass under his feet. John follows with a grumble, rolling his eyes.

His whole body is flushed with embarrassment. That gross sinking feeling is creeping down through his heart into all of his veins: the feeling of being less than Ian, of not being a lad enough. It crushes his chest more than any too-tight bandages ever could. It feels like a heart attack and he wants to fall to his knees and cry.

But Ian’s so gentle with him, like he really doesn’t think of him less. Passes the ball with him until John’s kicks are semi-accurate, not laughing or teasing. His hands are sweating, shoved deep in his pockets.

IAN:

꩜ you were never nervous to tell him, because he’s always so vocal about his beliefs. you know he’ll love you no matter what.

꩜ he cups your face in his hands, grinning, and looks into your eyes with his deep chocolate ones. “my pretty girls a pretty boy, then.”

꩜ and that’s the biggest fuss he makes of it. from then on you’re just a lad, full stop.

꩜ he sits with you patiently, just idle back and forth, trying to choose a name that felt like you. tapes your chest up for the first time, hands easy and firm. holds you when you cry from the joy after.

꩜ he reintroduces you to all his mates without shame, a new name, a new haircut, shuts down any comments with an edge you’ve never heard in his voice before.

꩜ on the bad nights, the really dysphoric ones, he just holds you quietly. kisses your hair. when you start chatting nonsense, he shushes you. tells you that even though he looks girly, that doesn’t mean that he is, or that he doesn’t look like a bloke. and he’s right, which reassures you a little.

꩜ listens to you so intensely it’s almost startling. hangs onto your every word, just trying to understand as best as he can, and know what you need.

꩜ he cares for you like nothing else, but not in a way that makes you feel delicate. just loved and seen.

꩜ it’s harder when he’s in the public eye: you can’t be open in public anymore, because you’re two blokes now. but you don’t mind, because you know what you are to him. he tells everyone him and his girlfriend finished, just not that he’s got a boyfriend now.

꩜ when he’s walking around the flat, he changes all the words to his songs to suit you better now. murmurs “he’ll carry on through it all, he’s a waterfall” while he pours his cereal.

꩜ shares all his clothes with you—he’s short anyways, so they fit. takes you shopping often, shows you all of his favourite stores and brands. gives you fashion advice, “this one’s nice. makes your arms look bigger”

john:

꩜ telling him was nerve-wracking. not because you thought he wouldn’t support you, but because you weren’t sure whether he’d still be attracted to you as a bloke. but he was, of course.

꩜ most of your nights consist of mugs of tea and long conversations, where you unravel years and years of suppressed feelings and cry into his shoulder. he listens patiently through it all, slowly piecing together this new you in his head. and there’s a bit of talking from him too: cause he’s discovering that he likes blokes, too.

꩜ how he interacts in public with you changes a lot. no more touching and shared breaths, just long gazes and fond giggles. but you don’t mind. you understand the stakes for him.

꩜ he gets someone to custom-sew you a binder as a birthday present, and looks highly bemused when you burst into tears and thank him a million times over.

꩜ gets really snappy when one of his mates makes a joke that’s just too edgy, or calls you she. corrects them with a bitterness you never hear from him.

꩜ steals allll of your clothes. even if they don’t fit. wears your too short t-shirts up on stage, boxers peaking out from over his waistband. rolls his eyes when you complain, “i paid for this one, at least let me wear it.” they’re not even his style, but he knows it drives you nuts.

꩜ he treats you slightly different, but in a very reassuring way. he treats you like a lad, like he genuinely sees you how you wanna be seen. when you dwell on it too much, your heart just overflows.

꩜ your number one supporter, but he pretends he isn’t. makes fun of your haircuts, and your outfits. but it’s sweet, and it just feels like laddish banter.

꩜ the first time he said “this is my boyfriend” to ian, all three of you looked equally as dumbfounded. ian cracked first, laughing and saying something about how he always knew john was gay. and that was pretty similar to how everyone else reacted, too.

The second they’re backstage, the door is slammed shut and Ian’s being led backwards towards the shitty, peeling sofa.

John looks like a fantasy—messy hair stuck to his forehead with sweat, long limbs graceful. He tosses his jacket over the arm of the sofa and clambers on top of Ian, a grin tugging at his lips as he slots perfectly on top of him.

“Doors not locked.” Ian breathes, lips wet and pulled into a smirk. His hands are down at John’s hips before he can form a response, fingers fumbling blindly with his belt buckle.

“Don’t pretend like you’re not into it.” John laughs breathily, batting away Ian’s hands. Ian grumbles a bit, but wraps his arms around John’s shoulders instead.

John puts Ian’s attempts to shame as he effortlessly tugs Ian’s belt off and shoves his flares down with elegant fingers. A breath is punched straight from Ian’s chest, cheeks still flushed from the heat of the stage lights and worsening with John’s gaze.

When John's hands move to the waistband of Ian’s boxers, he pushes them away. Looks up at him with big, earnest eyes. Tugs at the hem of his shirt. “Off.”

“Ian—” John tries to protest, but shuts up quickly at the look in Ian’s eyes; real, soft. He tugs his shirt off with a quiet grumble and tosses it aside. Ian giggles, reaches up to dance his fingers carefully over the scars.

He leans in to kiss Ian then, all hot and breathy, swallowing each other’s soft groans. Their tongues meet clumsily, teeth clacking against each other’s. But it’s not rough, just messy, just too eager and too clumsy. Ian curls his fingers into John’s hair, tugs gently until he groans, then giggles into the kiss.

“You’re so fuckin’ lovely.” John murmurs into Ian’s lips, hand steadily snaking under Ian’s waistband.

“Johnny—” Ian pouts, feeling the warm weight of John’s hand on his abdomen. Right over that tight ball of heat curled low in his belly. His brows are knitted, lips parted like he’s about to start begging if he doesn’t get what he wants. And god, he wants it.

Fondly, John shushes him with a smile. He never makes Ian wait much, and yet he’s still impatient every time. He yelps softly when Ian tugs loosely at his hair to tell him to get a move on, but his eyes are fond.

His fingers dip sweetly between Ian’s folds, gathering the slickness on the pads of his calloused fingers. Ian whines, shivers, digs his nails into the nape of John’s neck. He’s hardly even touching him and he’s already whimpering.

“Was thinkin’ of doin’ this all night, y’know. Up on stage. Put on a real show.” John murmurs, because he knows the idea will ruin Ian. Because it always does. He swirls his fingers solidly around Ian’s clit, and his hips twitch.

“Sorta like keepin’ you to myself, though.” John sighs, nuzzles his nose into Ian’s cheek briefly. His middle finger slides easily into Ian, all tight heat and slickness and just for him. “My pretty boy. Don’t deserve you like this. Nobody does.”

Ian whimpers, high in his throat. His legs part instinctively, head tipped back into the cushions. He’s needed this all day, waited so patiently. And god, it feels good. Johns slow, sure, but he’s so fucking deep in him that he can’t help his eyes from rolling back.

John strokes Ian’s sweaty curls back from his forehead with his free hand as he pulls away and pushes back in with two fingers, this time. Ian mewls, scratching gently at John’s shoulders. And the feeling of Ian around his fingers is driving him crazy, so tight and hot that he can’t help letting out a shaky breath.

He curls his fingers just right, slightly rough skin brushing against that achy spot that had been waiting to be touched all night. Ian cries out, blood rushing hot through his veins, stomach tight with pleasure.

And god, John’s good with his hands. Standard for a guitarist, probably, but it always leaves Ian in near-tears. Faster now, deep and messy. It’s so good.

“Fuckin’—god, John.” Ian manages to moan out, words breathy. His eyelashes are fluttering daintily, much like the way his cunt is fluttering just as sweetly around John.

For a moment, John can almost imagine it’s his cock rather than his fingers. How good Ian would feel, how fucking tight he is. He whimpers himself at that, feeling heat pool between his legs.

When he swipes his thumb over Ian’s clit, he sobs out. It sends a shiver up John’s spine every time, seeing him like that, and his heart’s pounding in his chest. He circles it with his thumb carefully, tightly, feeling the sting of Ian’s nails in his skin.

“Such a good boy, aren’t you? Waitin’ all day for this.” John breathes fondly, watching Ian’s face like he’s the most beautiful artwork he’s ever seen.

And god, he is. There’s a flush high on his cheeks, pupils blown under half-lidded eyes, hair rumpled and damp. His pink lips are eternally parted to allow him to moan as loudly as he is.

“M’gonna come, god—” Ian splutters, halfway between an exasperated laugh and a moan.

John pouts at the sight of him, speeding up until his wrist aches just for that final push. “C’mon, angel. That’s it, babe. Be a good boy and come for me.”

And that’s all it takes. Ian shatters under John’s palm, hips rutting into his fingers, a long groan falling from his lips. He can feel it all through his body; that hot, pulsating tingle. Tears well up in his eyes as John works him through it, murmuring half-formed soft words in his ear.

“I love you.” Ian breathes, voice shaky with tears.

John wipes his hand clean on his own jeans, then cradles Ian’s face in his soft palms. Wipes Ian’s tears just as they fall, then cradles him to his chest. “What you cryin’ for? Div.”

Ian lets out a soft, sleepy laugh. He’s sniffling quietly into John’s bare chest, holding him tight like he’s afraid he’ll slip through his fingers like sand. John just strokes his hair quietly, listening to his soft, hiccuping sob. He knows Ian isn’t sad, and that there’s no cause for concern—they’ve been here a million times before.

“Could add it to my CV. So good at shaggin’ you that you’re cryin’.” John teases. Leans down to brush his lips into his hair, free hand bunched in the back of his shirt. The sofas uncomfortable—old and lumpy and cramped—but he doesn’t care when Ian’s right where he belongs.

“You’re horrible.” Ian half sniffs-half laughs. They’re both gross and sweaty but smiling like idiots and drink off of each other.

“Love you.” John breathes, raking his fingers carefully through Ian’s curls. Ian melts, and John can see his face in his mind even though he’s hidden in his chest.

“Ian?” He murmurs, after getting no response for a while. Ian doesn’t speak, but after a few seconds there’s a small sniffle and a warm tear against his chest.

The flat’s been half-furnished for weeks—since they moved in. There’s boxes instead of tables and posters curling off of the walls. It’s shit, really, wallpaper peeling and mould gathered in the windowsills. But there’s a sofa, a kettle and a record player. Who needs much else?

The air is heavy with the smell of burnt toast and weed, windows shut to keep out the cold Manchester breeze. They’ve been taking turns spinning albums all day, curled up on the sofa under thick blankets.

Ian gets up to pick a new album, finger running over the spines of thin record covers. It’s a no-brainer landing on some worn Beatles single he’s almost certain he bought John for a birthday when they were younger.

“Come here.” Ian breathes a laugh at the sight of John sprawled on the sofa, sleepy and stoned and wearing one of Ian’s too-small jumpers.

John stumbles clumsily to his feet, all long, bare legs and hair in desperate need of a trim. The sight makes Ian’s heart melt. Ian sets the needle down on the disk. The warm, sugary pop doesn’t hesitate to fill the space.

“What?” John exhales, a grin tugging lazily at his lips. His palms find Ian’s hips without pause, tugging him in closer.

“Nothin’.” Ian murmurs over the music, but it’s mostly lost between layers of instruments. Drapes his arms around John’s shoulders and grins like a dope.

“Are you—” John giggles, sways a little. Ian follows, and his face softens. So he is (poorly) trying to dance. He squeezes Ian’s waist in his hands, leaning in and pressing their foreheads together.

The carpets soft under their feet, skin brushing hesitantly as they shuffle about. It’s clumsy—really clumsy—and endearing in every way. They’re stumbling over each other's feet, elbows knocking into their arms. And they can’t do much but giggle and sway.

“Love our flat.” John mutters once the song simmers to a halt, over the faint scratch of the needle against the finished record. “Even if it’s shit.”

Ian looks into his eyes, bright and glittery and earnest. His heart brims with joy at the sight. His boy. Our flat. His life feels like some sort of miracle. Johnny, in his arms, the same boy he’d fallen in love with when they were scrappy teenagers skiving off of maths to snog in the loos, in their living room.

“Love you.” Ian sighs fondly, brows knitted. He sounds so emotional that John worries for a half-second that he might collapse into tears, but he doesn’t. “Can’t believe this is real.”

“No. But I’m glad it is.” John’s eyes flutter shut, foreheads pressed together. He breathes Ian in for a moment, hands tracing the slim curve of his torso. The sleeves of his jumper are too high on his wrists, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

John dips in, presses a few sweet pecks to Ian’s lips. Then another, like he can’t help himself. He can’t, really, never could. Ian’s beaming when he pulls back, eyes creased. John’s heart flutters at the sight.

“Fuckin’ gorgeous.” John sighs, reaching up to twirl a strand of Ian’s messy hair around his finger, lips twitched into a grin.

Ian leans into his shoulder, up on his tip-toes. Melts there, lets John gather him up in his arms and hold him just how he needs. Brushes his lips against his head.

“This is perfect.” Ian manages, squeezing John around the shoulders. And it is. He smells of Ian’s soap, but he can’t bring himself to be annoyed at him using it because he’s being so lovely; holding him like a prayer and speaking sweetly in his ear.

“Yeah?” John grins, stroking a hand slowly up Ian’s spine just to watch him shudder. Irritating but endearing.

The village you live in has been almost identical since the day you were born. The same dirt paths, marked by the same shoes. The same market vendors selling the same, delicious produce under the same stalls with the same friendly greetings. Comfortable, safe.

Your tasks that day are minimal. Tend to a few animals and spend an hour or two down at the market, trying to find the freshest vegetables for dinner that night.

The market’s bustling the way it always is early on a Sunday morning, sun beating down on the stall roofs. It’s sunny, sure, but the early spring winds whistle through the air, leaving your arms coated with goosebumps. Your hair’s still tangled in the same messy braids it was left in last night, floral skirt brushing your legs where the sun didn’t tickle them already.

A soft, ginger cat twirls itself around your legs like a dancer, mewling softly, as you stop to look at a new handwoven basket. You need another one anyways, you tell yourself—yours is falling apart, bows torn on the handles.

Your old basket finds a home at the leg of the table, a new bed for the cat. She curls up in the sun, tilting her head up expectantly at you. As you lean down to scratch her head, you can’t help but giggle at the purring.

There’s the usual hubbub of chatter and greetings as you push into the crowd. You recognise every single one of them, know dirt on each of their names yet respect them greatly. You greet everyone with a sweet smile and polite small talk. Your basket grows heavier with succulent goods as you move through, shoes clicking on the cobblestones. But the walk home doesn’t feel too long when you can pick on a little tub of fresh raspberries. The grass tickles your legs, flowers blooming bright throughout it.

—

So maybe that’s why, that evening, the news comes as a shock to you.

You're sitting at the dinner table, your parents on either side of you. The food is warm and honest, the kind you see in movies as a kid: fresh and homecooked and somehow more delicious than aesthetic.

“It’ll be nice to have a new helping hand around, y’know.” Your dad murmurs, his cutlery clinking against his plate as he sets them down.

You pinch your brows together. You get on fine by yourselves, and everyone in the village has their own businesses to mind. There’s very rarely a spare hand that can help. And anyways, you don’t really need it. So you’re not really sure what he could mean.

“What’s going on?” You pipe up before you can help yourself, a frown tugging at your lips. It’s rare for your parents to keep in you in the dark, often because it’s impossible to in a town like this.

“I thought I’d told you?” Your dad looks slightly baffled by your confusion, despite never having even mentioned anything in passing. “There’s a boy coming to stay with us for a bit, just to help out on the farm. His mum is close with your aunt, and she asked about it. Apparently he doesn’t have a job, so she’s trying to give him a push-”

“Susan says he’s a sweet boy, but he doesn’t talk much.” Your mum interrupts, offering you a reassuring smile, as if to say I know, and you don’t second guess that she does. That she knows of your apprehension and strange excitement and the unfamiliarity of a new person. Especially an unemployed, antisocial boy.

“You’ll have to show him around tomorrow, teach him what to do.” He’s already out of his seat, collecting the plates in stacks and leading them out to the kitchen. “I think he’s coming quite early, so be ready. And wear something nice—first impressions are important."

Your mum shakes her head and laughs fondly. “Don’t you dress up for any old boy, sweetheart. Your father doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

—

Despite your mothers words, you can’t help but agree with your dad. First impressions are important, and you aren’t sure how long he’s going to be staying for. If it’s going to be a while, then you need him to like you, really.

So you get up early that morning, make sure your favourite dress is crease-free and still looks nice. Plait your hair parallel to your spine and tie it with a bow. It’s just a boy, you tell yourself, but your heart hasn’t caught onto that message yet. And it still hasn’t when you're finishing up your makeup and there’s a knock on the door downstairs.

“I’m getting it!” You call, stumbling down the stairs like an eager puppy, white socks padding on the sun-warmed wooden floors. Your mum chuckles fondly at you behind her newspaper and coffee mug.

The door creaks open, and you wince in memory at forgetting to sort that out. Right. First impressions.

He’s standing shyly on the patio with his head bowed when the door swings open. There’s a large bag in his hands, folded awkwardly in front of him. All lanky limbs and shyness. His lips are bitten from anxiety and his dark hair is curling into his downcast eyes. And his clothes are scruffy—proper city boy attire, a thick brown jacket over a black shirt, jeans that are ripped at the hems from being caught on his heels, shoes that are definitely not fit for farm work.

“Come in.” You manage eventually, heart stuttering when he looks up to meet your gaze. His eyes are hesitant and glittery baby blue—there’s something anxious in them, but it doesn’t show all the way through.

He shuffles awkwardly past you with a murmured thanks, then stands in the foyer with his bag weighing on his arms. It’s hard enough to be welcoming to someone, let alone someone acting like this.

“Just—leave it. Mother will find somewhere to put it.” You try to offer him a charming smile, and he doesn’t even attempt to reciprocate. Just drops his bags with a heavy thud and eyes the floorboards like maybe he’ll find something intriguing if he looks long enough.

“Do you want anything? A drink? Something to eat?” You’re mostly offering because you have to, out of an unshared politeness, but partly because you just want him to say anything. His silence is unsettling.

“Cup of tea would be nice.” He murmurs, scratches his cheek and grins shyly, like he half expects you to say no. You can’t help but feel a flicker of relief at the sound of his low voice. That’s better.

You offer him a little smile. “Yeah, alright. My parents are just in that room there, if you’d like to say hello.”

You can see on his face that he definitely does not want to say hello, but he does despite himself. Maybe he can be polite, just seemingly not to you. He disappears into the living room and all you can hear as you pad into the kitchen is soft voices.

—

“The horses are the worst job.” You explain as you show John around. The suns beating down hot on your shoulders despite it not being overly high in the sky. “Needs cleaning out a lot.”

John nods politely, wrinkling his nose at the smell. Typical, most boys from cities don’t know many smells other than chemicals and cigarette smoke. It’s gross, but it’s natural at the least. “Is that what I’m doing, then?”

“You’re doing all sorts. Whatever needs doing, really.” You laugh, opening the gates carefully and slipping in, giving one of the horses a few pats on the nose. “These stables need clearing out twice a day.”

“Yeah? What’s that entail, then?” He murmurs, shuffling in behind you. He looks a little taken aback—it’s not often he sees a horse close up.

“Nothing pretty.” You giggle before you can stop yourself, turning back to look at John. He’s already watching you with a half-formed grin, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

He just laughs, breathy and giggly, and runs a hand through his fringe. He steps forward hesitantly, and holds his hand out for the horse to nuzzle at and sniff. “Bloody weird.”

“She’s sweet. She likes you.” You shake your head, laughing under your breath.

He looks a little pleased with himself at that, hesitating before stroking her nose like you had earlier. “They’re a lot less frightening than they look, aren’t they?”

“Yeah.” You murmur, heart caught somewhere in your chest. You’re not even sure why—just the sight of someone caring for your animals how they should chokes you up. “She’s a sweetheart.”

—

The next day, around evening time—when the sun is starting to settle down for bed, the sky red and pink and all sorts of vibrant colours—when your dinner is nearly finished, you sort of have to go find John.

And god, finding him is a chore on its own. You suppose it’s his antisocialness, but he’s almost impossible to locate in the vast fields of animals. He’s only got a set few places he’s supposed to be, but despite his chores always being done he never does seem to be.

You find him half-covered by long tufts of grass, laying on his back with his eyes shut against the stubborn sun. His shirts riding up just a little on his stomach, exposing his scrappy waistband. He looks peaceful, shoulders relaxed, face still.

It makes you hesitate for a moment, considering leaving him here in his tranquility. But you won’t. “John?”

He cracks one eye open, then shuts it. Sighs and stretches out lazily with the softest little groan. You can’t help but be transfixed by the sight. Muffled by a yawn, he manages. “What’s up?”

“Tea’s nearly ready.” You feel a little guilty; you hadn’t realised he was actually asleep.

“We’ve got time.” John murmurs, eyes fluttering open to watch you. Baby blue and bleary with sleep.

"Food's gonna go cold.” You warn, but you know there’s not much to protest. It’s still in the oven, so it’s hardly cold.

John just shrugs, sits up. He tugs off his jacket and places it beside him in the grass. “Come lay down.”

You pinch your brows together, legs tickled by grass as you step forward. Your head’s pillowed by his jacket and your arms are coated in dying sunlight. He stays on his back, looking up at the clouds. Almost, for a moment, you could believe that this life is natural for him.

“Are you liking it here?” You murmur, watching his profile carefully.

He’s pretty, you notice it especially then: lashes casting shadows on his porcelain cheeks, hair falling out of place endearingly to expose his forehead. He doesn’t look back at you, but a smile tugs at his lips.

“It’s different.” His lips twitch into a hesitant grimace, like he’s not sure whether to say more. He picks a dandelion with his fingers, studies it then throws it aside. “Haven’t seen much of it.”

“The market’s on tomorrow. Could take you down there.” You offer, wincing in sympathy. It’s different here, you know that. Boring, maybe, for someone like him.

“Yeah, maybe.” He smiles, head tilting to the side. His gaze is softer now when it meets your eyes, red sky reflected in his shiny eyes. “Maybe.”

There’s a beat of silence. A breath. John watches you carefully, eyes drifting over your face slowly. Then he turns back over, once again focused on the fading dusk. Purple is creeping in at the edges now, stars starting to glitter sparsely.

“Can’t imagine what it’s like, living anywhere else.” You admit shyly, fingers absentmindedly braiding picked daisies together. It’s something you learned to do as a child, when you were hardly seen without a crown of them.

“Busy.” He laughs, eyes creasing. Then he sobers a little, rubs his eyes tiredly. Shrugs. “Dunno. It’s just normal to me. Everything’s so quiet here.”

“It’s peaceful.” You brush your pollen stained fingers off on your skirt and sit up. “Best go in for tea now. Mum won’t be happy if we’re late.”

You both get to your feet, and then you take a hesitant step towards him. And somehow his jacket finds its way around your shoulders, and your daisy crown finds its way onto his soft head of hair.

Somehow.

—

The market the next day is the same as any other. Except it isn’t, with him by your side.

Johns walking hesitantly beside you like he’s never seen shops before, head ducked low. He’s still wearing his big jacket against your advice, so that he sticks out like a sore thumb. But he would either way. Anyone new would.

You stop at your favourite stall, like every time. Mrs Williams and her son have lived here forever, really. She’s older now, of course, but your parents used to buy from her when they were your age. She owns a large patch of land to the west of your house, which she uses to grow ridiculously large amounts of strawberries and raspberries.

“Good morning, Mrs Williams.” You smile, fingers already itching for a tub so that you can take away as many delicious berries as possible. They’re brightly coloured and plump and look sweet as ever.

“Hello, dear. Who’s this you’ve got with you?” She smiles, already reaching for a large pot and handing it to you.

You’re only half-listening as you pick out the best looking fruits. “Oh, this is Johnny. He’s just visiting.”

John’s lingering at your side, stone-faced like he’s silently begging you not to engage in any more conversations with anybody that could involve him.

“D’you not want anything?” You look up at John and he looks back, eyes squinted against the sun.

He shrugs, then gives a half nod. Leans in closer to murmur into your ear like it’s a secret. “Strawberries,” Then, an afterthought, “Please.”

“Where are you from, Johnny?” Mrs Williams pipes up when you’re halfway through collecting the second tub. He looks up, looking a mixture of disgruntled and startled.

“Manchester.” He speaks like conversations pain him, like he’d rather be anywhere else on earth. It makes you giggle under your breath, and he elbows your side.

Mrs Williams watches the exchange like she knows something you don’t, a mischievous glint in her eyes. She waits until you’re ready to go, then offers John a little smile. “Well it was nice meeting you, Johnny. You seem to be a lovely boy.”

He flushes scarlett and turns away, leaving you to follow behind laughing. “Didn’t think I’d be talkin’ to anyone.”

He grumbles for a bit, and only really shuts up when you offer him his pot of berries. Then his mouth is too full to keep complaining.

—

Bringing him was smart because, despite his scrawniness, he’s rather strong and too stubborn to complain about the weight of baskets and bags in his hands. You’re giggling and chatting under your breaths, wandering through the stalls and explaining the years of town gossip to him until the sun sets.

You hardly notice it until John murmurs something about it getting late, but indeed the sun is starting to duck behind the horizon, and all the stalls are shutting down around you.

And he’s kinder than you first thought, as gentle as he is stubborn and as funny as he is quiet. Despite his antisocialness, he’s easy to talk to. He laughs at everything and grins constantly.

You shiver, ever so slightly, as you walk back side by side, still laughing over some decades-old scandal about the man who’d sold you tomatoes. He stops suddenly, drops all of the bags and takes his jacket off. It's warm and smells of boyish deodorant—of him. It doesn’t fit right, much too long on your arms and torso, but you momentarily consider forgetting to give it back.

With a twinkle in your eye, you grin sheepishly. Try to hide the flush in your cheeks with a laugh. “Does it suit me?”

“Yeah.” He breathes, words startlingly sober. His eyes are a little wider than usual, glittering with something akin to awe, lips lightly parted. “Yeah, it really does.”

Your heart skips.

—

After that, it’s hard not to think of John in that way. Before, you were managing semi-successfully by telling yourself he’ll only be here for a short while, and therefore isn’t worth losing sleep over.

But god, you are.

You’re in so deep it feels like you’re drowning, like you’ve been suddenly shoved into the deep end and you’re still in a heavy pair of jeans, unable to float back up.

There’s not many boys in the village that are your age, so it’s not a feeling you’re used to. You felt it maybe once when you were a kid, when a boy had lent you a crayon that was the prettiest shade of pink you’d ever seen. But not properly.

You didn't expect it to hit like a freight train, to hit you full throttle like it had. That morning, you’d taken him to the market out of pleasantries. By night, you’re tangled in your sheets thinking of the pretty blue of his eyes, and his breathy laughs even when you tell the least funny of jokes.

It’s maddening.

—

Breakfast the next morning is somehow worse. John looks tired, undereyes heavy and dark, hair tousled. You want to reach out and fix it, but your heart is already pounding enough at the sight of him.

And your parents, bless them, haven’t noticed a thing. They’re chatting to the both of you between mouthfuls of bread and eggs like nothing has palpably changed—even though you know it has, because you can feel it in the air like humidity on a spring morning.

He’s not wearing his jacket, which your parents do notice. When prompted, he just shrugs and says something about misplacing it. But when you look up, he’s watching you with something in between fondness and mischief.

As if the silly crush isn’t bad enough on its own, he’s going to be teasing you in front of your parents. These next few weeks are going to be long.

—

Due to John’s helpfulness, your chores have been greatly decreased.

Free time, usually, would be a lovely thing. You could go for a walk, maybe, or read a book. But all you can think of is his infuriating face and his jacket still draped over your door handle.

So, begrudgingly, you make your way down to the stables, determined to return his jacket.

You’ve never seen him actually working before, and it sets your nerve endings alight. Hair sticking to his forehead with sweat, sleeves rolled up around his elbows, big hands busy with filling a trough.

You clear your throat, then again when he still doesn’t turn around. You’re wearing a dress that is vaguely reminiscent of a picnic blanket with his jacket over your shoulders. He smiles at the sight, looking more than a little disheveled. He rinses his hands off at a tap before making his way over to you.

“What are you doin’ here?” He grins like he can’t believe his luck, wraps the jacket closer around your shoulders as though worried it’ll fall off.

“Just wanted to give this back.” You flush, both at the attention and the admission. It’s ridiculous how a little brush of his fingers against your bare collarbone makes your stomach burn hot and simultaneously explode with butterflies.

“Keep it.” He pinches his brows together like that much was obvious. His hands still on your forearm, pinky resting on the bone of your wrist. It’s impossible to focus on anything else.

And then he turns back, hand dropping away. You miss the weight immediately, the gentleness.

He strokes your horse's nose slowly, contemplatively, before speaking. “I really like her, y’know. Think she likes me.”

“Course she does. She loves everyone.” You step up beside him, free hands brushing. You cringe inwardly, but definitely don’t move away. “Could ride her, if you want.”

“What, like—” He stops, a pout on his lips as he thinks. Then he hesitates, looks at you cautiously. “Dunno how. Never ridden a horse before, have I?”

“Well, I have.” You laugh, already rummaging through your shed for her riding gear. “It’s easier than it looks, promise.”

He looks practically ready to run and hide, but accepts her saddle and rests it haphazardly over her back.

—

Getting him on the horse is easier than you thought, but it’s the getting him to move that’s the problem. And sure, it probably would be quite scary to do for the first time. But it isn’t, and you know that.

“You’re a pussy, John. God.” You giggle, looking up at him. He looks like a deer caught in headlights. “Squeeze her with your calves, gentle.”

“This is so fuckin’ weird.” John mutters under his breath, shaking his head. But he obliges anyways, and squeezes the horse’s sides with his legs.

And, clearly, he doesn’t listen to your last word of advice, because the horse is startled and sets off at a canter. John looks about as terrified as the horse and frankly, you can’t blame him. Despite that, you can’t help but laugh.

The horse turns sharply, and John takes a tumble into the grass. You’re still laughing as you make your way over to him to help him up.

“Told you you should’ve worn a helmet.” You giggle, extending an arm. He takes your hand, his own big and calloused against yours, and gets to his feet with a grumble.

“Didn’t think she’d throw me off.” He scoffs, brushing his hands off on his thighs. He’s fine, of course, or else you wouldn’t be laughing. “Thought she liked me.”

“Not her fault you’re useless at riding.” You roll your eyes, grinning anyways. You take a step closer, movements a little unsure as you reach out. “You’ve got grass in your hair, let me..”

He bows his head a little to allow you to shake the grass from his hair, then looks back up. His eyes are heavy on yours, full of the same hesitance that’s in your own. You’re so close that you can count his eyelashes.

His hands move first, clumsy but gentle, one finding your waist and the other curling into the fabric on the front of your jacket. There’s a soft breath between you, and then he’s tugging you in and his lips are on yours and they’re as sweet and soft as you’d imagined.

The warmth of it simmers through your veins, heart pounding as it tries to keep up. He kisses you like a song, like you mean something: gentle and slow and careful. His hands feel like they’re the only thing keeping you upright, what with how weak in the legs you feel.

You can hear his breath catch when you kiss back and reach up to tangle a hand in his hair. You realise it then, that he wants this as badly as you do.

When you pull back, it’s only for a half-second. Then you’re both giggling and kissing again with no finesse. Just clumsy lips and shared breaths in the middle of a field, like messy teenagers.

Somewhere in the distance, you can hear a voice. You have to begrudgingly break apart to listen.

Your dad, calling you in.

You break apart like guilty children, regarding John with wide eyes. The magic’s broken, all of a sudden, and it makes your skin crawl. The moment is gone.

It’s awkward to speak up, to pretend that your heart isn’t still lost somewhere in your throat. To pretend that you’re not already facing withdrawals from it, from how easy it felt. “Think our tea’s ready, then.”

“You won’t tell anyone, yeah?” Is the first thing he says when you wake up, eyes alight with fear, voice a little shaky. He’s eyeing you cautiously like you’re a bomb waiting to explode.

You’ve hardly had a chance to blink the sleep from your eyes, and so you’re caught a little off guard. You hum softly, then murmur groggily. “What?”

He shifts, big brown eyes unblinking like a deer in headlights. Like if he shuts his eyes for half a second then you’ll disappear, run to the press and ruin his life.

“That I’m.. y’know. Not a real lad.” Ian manages, face contorted into something hesitant and painful. Like the words dig straight into the tender muscle of his heart, right where it hurts most.

“Don’t be silly.” You scoff, leaning over to tuck your head under his chin. You press your lips slow to one of the scars along his chest—once, twice—then settle into his arms. He’s warm and steady. His rings are cool against the warm skin of your back, but it doesn’t bother you when it’s him.

His heartbeat is slowing by the second as you hide away in his chest, breathing deep and low from half-sleep. His fingers curl in your hair, and he manages a deep sigh, shoulders relaxing.

“I think you’re gorgeous, y’know.” You breathe, hot against his chest. He lets out a half-laugh, fingers curling around the nape of your neck loosely.

“You always say that to the blokes you sleep with?” He laughs, still softened by sleep. But he sounds flattered, even if just a little.

“I s’pose, yeah. But I mean it this time.” You giggle, arms winding around his waist to tug him closer. And he is gorgeous; all lean muscle and pale skin dotted with moles. His sleepy face and half-smile are beautiful enough to make a poet write sonnets.

He just tugs you in closer, heart stuttering fondly in his chest. Presses a kiss into your hair and stays there, breathing in the scent of your shampoo. It’s sweet and unfamiliar, but definitely something he could get used to.

“You’re so.. real.” You manage eventually, words lingering unexplained in the air while you try to piece together a response in your head. “Never thought I’d sleep with a popstar. But you’re so genuine. Can’t help but like you.”

“I think plenty of girls would have a reason to not like me.” He says, but he’s grinning so you know it’s not entirely serious. You just laugh and shake your head. It’s a sensitive topic, maybe, but clearly one he’s comfortable discussing.

“Maybe. They’d be silly, mind.” You lean back from his chest, catching those wide, glittery eyes with your own. His expression sobers a bit.

꩜ at the start, when he’s only just found out, john’s real awkward about it. he’s not entirely sure what to do, what would upset ian. if he’s supposed to touch him like a girl

↳ he grows into it real fast though—finds that ian likes.. everything, really. it’s easier than he thought it was going to be.

꩜ loves sleepy mornings where he wakes up still draped over ian’s back. that’s always his favourite position, hips rocking slow into him, hands cradling him like a prayer. he presses soft kisses into the nape of his neck, letting ian melt into him.

꩜ paints and draws him whenever he can. if ian’s napping or reading peacefully, john's already got his sketchbook out, pencil scratching away at paper. it irritates him to no end that he’ll never be able to sketch him on stage.

꩜ ian is so shamelessly loud and needy, always climbing all over john and moaning like the most sinful thing on earth if he gets what he wants. it’s filthy hot and it works on him. every. single. time.

꩜ john just worships ian, spends so long kissing at the moles scattering his torso that ian starts grumbling about it—which isn’t very long, to be honest, he’s just impatient

꩜ john eats ian out at every opportunity he gets, and that’s not an exaggeration. if the lads leave the studio for a smoke break, ian’s got his thighs clamped down around john’s head. if he’s making a cup of tea, he’s up on the kitchen counter with john between his legs. john licks his lips after and acts as though he never did it.

↳ ian digs his nails hard into John’s scalp, all soft whimpers and hushed groans. he can’t help himself, really. he loves it just as much

꩜ ian is unhealthily obsessed with johns hands, always staring at them, playing with his fingers. when they’re deep inside of him, ruining him fast and lovely, its better than almost anything he’s ever felt

꩜ sometimes sex can be a lot for ian, especially in the early days, so johns always gentle, even if ian protests. he’d much rather kiss him deep while he fucks him deeper than see him in pain, even if says he wants that.

꩜ absolutely obsessed with ian’s tits. grieves them, mostly jokingly, when he gets them removed. he’s always sucking at them or kneading them, even when ian giggles and pushes at his shoulder.

꩜ ian’s favourite place is johns lap. not even necessarily sexually, but it usually ends that way: ian whimpering quietly as he rides john within an inch of his life, hips stuttering messily from eagerness. by the end of it, john feels as wrecked as ian.

↳ “this is why i don’t watch the footie with you” john pants, having missed 2 goals and being thoroughly disoriented. but ian’s in red and that’s enough to ruin him all over again.

꩜ john doesn’t really understand what it’s like for ian, but he tries. he really, really tries. he lays in his lap and asks him little questions about what its like, not being born how he wants to be, trying to pick away at all the layers and work it out. ian’s surprisingly open, pliable, willing to talk.

꩜ loves being the little spoon. almost always the little spoon. and ian likes it too, ‘cos he can hold john real tight and it makes him feel like a real, proper boyfriend. but he doesn’t say that bit, because john would punch his arm and call him a knob.

꩜ john was scared to compliment him for probably a year, worried that “pretty” or “beautiful” would be too girly, even if they did suit ian perfectly.

“Need to get off that shit.” Ian eyes the traces of white on the wooden bedside table, frowning with concern. At least Jamie wasn’t here, at least those responsibilities were lessened. But no doubt he did it even when she was.

“‘S fine, Ian.” His name coming from John’s lips makes him flinch. The words are sharp in a way that doesn’t hesitate to pierce right into his gut. “M’alright, aren’t I?”

Barely. Ian wants to say, but he can’t bear to see the hurt on John’s face. You don’t even look at me anymore. “You’ve got a kid, John.”

“And she’s fine, too. Don’t see how it matters to you.” John’s words rub against Ian’s already tender skin like sandpaper, but he knows he doesn’t mean it completely. His eyes are trained down at the carpet, clearly infinitely more interesting than Ian’s eyes.

“What, don’t see how it matters watchin’ you destroy yourself in front of me?” Ian narrows his eyes, then takes a deep breath to calm himself. Irritation won’t change John's mind, he tells himself. Wrings his hands out. “Don’t like seeing it, ‘s all.”

“M’not givin’ it up for you, Ian.” John's words settle somewhere harsh and foul in his chest, like rot or rust. “‘S only a little bit of powder.”

“You would’ve. Years ago, you would’ve.” And that’s the last words they speak on the matter, conversation sizzling to a halt. It’s barely ten minutes before John’s sneaking into the bathroom for another line.

—

Somehow, and he’s really not sure how, but he gets John to semi-agree to it.

It’s a late night, somewhere between winter and spring, darkness like a velvet curtain outside. Ian’s got his legs over John’s lap, a glass of red wine in his hand. He feels older, more mature, than he did even last year, last month. John's not grown antsy for a line, and he’s not had one in a while. Ian’s pretending he hasn’t noticed.

“Maybe I could.” John murmurs, plump lips clumsy from too much wine, words not slurred but definitely a little confused. Ian’s not quite sure what he’s talking about until he continues. “Give it up. Just to see.”

“Could you?” Ian’s head lolls into the back cushion, clearly pondering it. Truthfully, he’s not sure he could. Not without something that doesn’t burn like being dropped suddenly into hot water.

“Yeah, course I could.” And then he hesitates, stumbles. Steadies himself while Ian pretends he hasn’t seen, voice firmer. “I could.”

—

So, he does.

One night, a few weeks later, he sneaks into Ian’s house. Ian’s half-asleep, a book turned upside down beside him that he was reading earlier. John’s sleeves are wet from the rain outside, and he’s shivering as he curls under the duvet.

He tucks himself close under Ian’s chin, teeth chattering and cold hands finding his waist. “Ian?”

“Johnny?” Ian murmurs, eyes still shut and brain still cloudy. He shivers violently from the cold hands on his warm skin, but he doesn’t really mind. He’s been long overdue this closeness. “What’re ya doin’?”

“M’comin’ off it. Promise.” John looks up at him with those big blue eyes, cheeks and nose flushed from the journey. He looks startlingly sober. “I’ve not touched it all day.”

“Yeah?” Ian grins, letting out a pleased exhale. He believes it, sees it in the way John’s eyes glitter. He cups John’s cold cheek in his palm, frowning a little. “God, c’mere, you’re frozen.”

So he wraps John up in his arms, holds him into his chest. It’s a few minutes before the warmth seeps into John’s bones, before his shoulders stop shaking, and he spends every second of it enveloped in Ian.

“Feel like shit.” John murmurs, words muffled into Ian’s skin. He’s not sober often enough to remember how crushing his thoughts are, but they suddenly hit him like a freight train. They all try to cram themselves into his head so fast he can’t catch a glimpse of hardly any of them.

“Be worth it, yeah?” Ian breathes into John’s messy hair, hands curling in his jumper. Anything to keep him tethered there, to keep him out of the baggy inevitably shoved in the pocket of his discarded jacket.

“Yeah.” He shudders, sounding a little winded. Ian holds him closer, trying to remind him through the skin of his palms that he’s safer here. That this is where he needs to be.

—

It’s just when Ian’s starting to drift off that John shifts again, unintentionally rousing him again. He’s been restless all night, muscles so tense they ache, trying to find sleep. He digs his nose into Ian’s throat, squeezes him tight enough to wind him.

“Y’alright?” Ian slurs, eyes drooping as he tries to look down at John. He tightens his arms around him and John drops his shoulders a little in response. Lets out a soft exhale against Ian’s neck.

“Feel fuckin’ terrible.” John sighs, shifting uncomfortably. It feels like he’s trying to hide in Ian, to bury himself so deep he never has to come out again. His voice sounds shakier when he speaks again, thick and rough with emotion. “Just wanna go to bed.”

“Shh, darlin’.” Ian’s face contorts into a concerned frown. He hides his face away in John’s hair, pressing kiss after kiss into his scalp like it’ll soothe his mind through his cranium. His heart’s so full of worry he’s afraid it’s gonna burst.

They stay lazily like that for what feels like a lifetime, Ian’s nails tracing slow and lazy up John’s back. He complains under his breath every now and then, but he’s mostly all deep breaths and warm hands.

“M’proud, y’know. Of you.” Ian murmurs even though he has to force the words out through a dry mouth. That’s something he and John don’t do: talk about it. But he has to, has to try anything he can to keep him off the coke.

John doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t have to. He just kisses Ian’s neck, brief and sweet, in a way that Ian had been missing so badly he feels it tug at his heart. It seems like a lifetime ago that John had been sweet. That he had been sober.

He pulls the blankets up over his shoulders, careful not to disturb him. He’s not asleep, not even close, but as good as he’ll probably get tonight. Ian kisses his head, then again, then presses his face into his hair and squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to cry.

His sweet boy, back in his arms. Here and solid and real. But he knows it can’t last. Knows this petty attempt at sobriety isn’t a permanent decision because John’s not like that anymore; not since the fame got to his head. He’s not going to be Ian’s sweet boy again.

“Love you, John.” He breathes, and he means it. Every cell in his body feels it. It’s written into their music and their shared clothes and soft kissing and wandering gazes. Undeniable.

John doesn’t respond instantly. He needs a second to bathe in it, to let the golden words wash over him. Then he exhales, shoulders drooping. “Been wonderin’ that.”

“Don’t be silly. Could never stop lovin’ you.” Ian hugs John extra tight, a leg wrapping loosely around both of his. He realises it then that he needs the contact just as much as John does.

And he means those words. Still means them the next morning when John’s rushing off for a line. Still means them 10 years later, when he hates him with everything he has. Because they're true, and it’s undeniable. Because they’re poetry in motion, beauty carved into man, sin expelled in touch.