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64 Oslo Square

"Companion'. Middle English. From Old French ‘compaignon', literally 'one who breaks bread with another.

Strapped for cash, John gets a job at a bakery as their new delivery boy. Juggling school and Queen and work is exhausting, but it's more than worth it. It's worth it because of you.

Warnings for this chapter: i guess vague peril?? some very minor injury description? mostly just a lot of flirting

//

Chapter Six

“D’you reckon I could get this stuck in his hair?”

John looked up to find Roger with his arm raised, moving his hand back and forth as he lined up the shot. He had one of Freddie’s guitar picks between his fingers and was aiming it at Brian’s cloud of hair.

It had been a long night. The boys arrived at the recording studio sometime around nine, each of them exhausted already from work or uni, and started off strong. A few good ideas had been tossed around but Freddie and Brian had been discussing one single refrain for almost 25 minutes now, and the fantasy of the rock and roll lifestyle had rather lost its sheen.

“You could probably lose the whole guitar in there,” John said.

“Don’t tempt me.”

John exhaled sharply, shaking his head.

He liked Roger a lot. They were the closest in age and liked a lot of the same things. When he had an idea, John would quietly run it by Roger, who would either grin and enthusiastically tell him to tell the others too, or twist his mouth and suggest something better. It wasn’t a system John enjoyed, he had faith in himself and his ideas, but it was certainly helping him find a voice in the group, slowly but surely.

Roger leaned back, his chin raised like an Olympian primed to throw a javelin, and sent the pick soaring across the room. It would have found its target had Brian not turned his head at the last moment. The pick hit him square in the centre of his forehead.

“Ow! Oh, for f-” Brian rubbed his forehead with the tips of his fingers. “Why don’t you fucking grow up?”

When he only mimicked him, Brian threw the pick back at him so hard, Roger almost fell off his stool trying to dodge it.

John hid his smile behind his hair.

They called it a day after that.

Wrapping his coat around his thin frame, John grimaced at the thought of the long journey home. He couldn’t afford the luxury of the bus, even if it happened to be running at this hour, which he seriously doubted it would be. Thankfully, he still had the bike.

John slipped his aching hands into his faux fur-lined pockets. The coat was warm and soft, even if it had definitely seen better days. He’d plucked it from a hanger on Roger and Freddie’s stall last weekend. The weather simply refused to get any warmer, despite the fact they were almost in the middle of spring, and he couldn’t go on wearing two jumpers and a moth-eaten scarf.

Curling his fingers into fists, John dug his blunt fingernails into the softer flesh of his palms. His fingertips no longer stung from tugging at the thick bass strings, but the tingling feeling never really went away. It was nice, comforting, familiar in an uncertain world that seemed to be changing day by day.

Freddie hugged him at the door, which was nice. Freddie gave good hugs, proper ones. He wrapped his strong arms around you and pulled you into his broad chest, squeezing you tight as he told you how lovely it was to see you and how he couldn’t wait until your paths crossed again.

Still, it left John’s skin smarting as he awkwardly pulled away and offered a feeble reply. Physical touch still felt alien to him, though he couldn’t begin to decipher why. It was getting easier though, thanks to you.

John was so often alone in his university digs, sometimes a day or two could pass without him speaking to anyone, even the other students who shared his floor. He supposed he should try and be more sociable but between the band, his job and his studies, it wasn’t often that John had the energy.

He could hear them, though, hear their music blaring through the thin walls and their laughter ringing out behind his closed door when they went out at night. He would simply pause whatever he was doing until they went away, like a fox caught in the headlights of a passing car.

He sometimes toyed with the idea of joining them but never got up from his desk, his bed, the soft blue rug his mum had found for him in a charity shop in town. John never knew what to say. He never knew what to do with his body, how to stand, how to appear relaxed when his stomach was wrapping itself up in knots.

Maybe if you were there, he might feel braver. John never felt more himself than when he was talking to you. He’d never met anyone who made him feel so calm yet so excited at the same time. He wondered if you would come dancing with him. If he asked, would you say yes?

Alone now, John wheeled his bike onto Holland Road. He still didn’t know the city all that well but this little patch was becoming more and more familiar. Every so often, he would recognise a spot where he’d almost or completely fallen off his bike. With an odd feeling of fondness, he smiled at them as he passed them by.

Rainwater spattered his face, falling thick and fast now. It cooled his skin, sending a shiver down John’s back.

A man suddenly appeared in front of him, rushing to get out of the rain. John recoiled when one of his hurried footsteps fell right in the middle of a puddle and sprayed water all over his favourite pair of jeans. Grumbling under his breath, John kept going.

It wasn’t long before his mind drifted back to thoughts of asking you out. There were a few places he knew, dark little clubs with just enough room to dance, and music that made you want to let your body move, even if you hated to in the world outside.

As John’s boots clomped against the paving stones, he pictured you in the outfit you wore the other night to his gig, a tight skirt and a low top that almost had him skipping a few notes. He thought about pulling you closer as you moved together, the music pounding in his ears as he felt your soft, warm body press into his.

John felt his face heat up. That was decided then. He’d ask you out, he’d take you dancing, he’d take charge and make a decision and not let you slip through his fingers.

The night was black and cold. There was no one around. Perhaps if he’d been paying more attention to where he was going, it wouldn’t have happened.

With his head bowed against the rain, John couldn’t see much more than a few paces in front of him, but he could hear footsteps approaching him again. Fast.

Thinking someone else was just rushing to get out of the rain, he tried to wheel his bike out of the way. The next thing he knew, his feet had left the ground.

Oddly, his only thought as he fell was of how embarrassing it was that he’d tripped over his own feet, and he could only hope that no one would notice his mortifying tumble.

In the split second he was in the air, John tried to right himself. It meant he landed awkwardly on his wrist. John hissed through his teeth and tried to sit up, but his hand slipped on the wet paving slabs and he slumped to the ground.

He tried again, and was vaguely aware of someone speaking, a harsh voice that he knew he ought to be listening to, but all John could focus on was the pain gnawing at his body and the horrible, cold rainwater seeping through his clothes.

Aching and disorientated, he pulled his hands into his chest. One palm was grazed from the rough pavement. His other wrist was unnaturally warm, as if blood was blooming beneath his skin. John clutched his wrist as he carefully twisted it from side to side. Not broken, he was relieved to find, just smarting badly.

Someone grabbed the front of his jacket. John thought they were helping him up and tried to catch their hand in his, but they batted him away.

Confused, he tried to speak, but then he felt a cold hand push inside his jacket, searching his inside pockets.

John froze. His breathing stopped. He was being mugged. Someone had hit him, shoved him to the ground, and now they were rooting through his pockets.

He felt fingers wrap around his wallet and reflexively pressed his hand against theirs through his jacket, but they just shook him off again.

“Wait-” He meekly tried to get them to stop. “Wait-”

His voice didn’t sound like his. John barely recognised the wavering, broken sounds coming from his own mouth.

“Don’t- Wait, please-”

He watched the hand pull his wallet from his pocket and feebly tried to grab it back, but they swung round their other fist. It collided with the space just above his cheekbone, narrowly avoiding his eye. They must’ve been wearing a ring because John thought he felt something come dangerously close to puncturing his skin.

Disorientated and frightened, John instinctively pressed his palm against his eye socket. He closed his mouth and resigned himself to the ordeal, hoping it would all be over soon.

He supposed he was lucky. After that, they were gone.

When John finally regained sense of his body, of himself, he prised his hand away from his eye. There was a bright smear of scarlet on his palm, though he wasn’t sure if that was from the deep graze that ran along the heel of his hand, or if their ringed fist had managed to cut him.

“Oh, God,” He ran his other thumb over his bloodied palm, then winced when his wrist throbbed. “Oh, God. Oh, shit. Fuck.”

John wasn’t sure how long it took to gather himself and stumble to his feet. It could have been minutes, it could have been hours. By the way his body ached and swayed when he finally righted himself, he wouldn’t be surprised if it had been days.

To his dismay, he realised his wallet wasn’t all they’d taken from him. Your bike was gone. He hadn’t even noticed them wheel it away.

Numb from what had happened and from the cold, John wandered in a direction that looked vaguely familiar. His heels kept catching on the uneven streets, and every time he stumbled, it pushed the sob sitting in his chest higher and higher up his throat, until John had to bite down on his lip to keep it from wobbling pathetically.

At last, the narrow, empty street opened up into a wide road, and John realised he was in Kensington. Through the fog in his brain, the notion that there was a phone box nearby rose to greet him. Who he would call, he had no idea. The police? Roger? The only person he really wanted was you but he didn’t have your number.

Still trying to decide what to do, John stepped out to cross the road, his mind dull and his body sluggish.

“Woah woah hey!”

He felt someone yank the back of his jacket, hard. A car horn blared as it roared by. John stumbled back onto the pavement, his arms windmilling. Another second and he would’ve been a goner.

He wheeled around, hands raised to defend himself, his heart hammering in his chest.

You beamed up at him, shaking your head.

“What’s the ma’er with you, New Boy? You never ‘eard of The Green Cross Code?”

You looked him up and down, up and down. As you took in his soaked clothes, his thin, shivering limbs, and the red mark, blooming like a rose over his left eye, your expression slowly sank into confusion, then fear.

“John?”

He didn’t know how to explain all that had happened. He didn’t know how to express everything he was feeling. A thousand beginnings rushed to the tip of his tongue but none seemed right.

Before he could speak, John felt his body crumple, like someone had cut all his strings. He stumbled, his hands finding your shoulders, then the tops of your arms. He was too exhausted to be embarrassed.

Close now, so close he could feel your warm breath on his stinging cheeks, he heard himself say,

“Help me.”

He didn’t remember much after that. When John cast his mind back, tried to recall what you had said next, how his hand had ended up in yours, or even just the expression on your face, he came up blank.

The next thing he did remember was you guiding him through the doors to 64 Olso Square. He remembered because you had to walk in backwards to keep his hand in yours and to make sure he didn’t trip over the small step at the entranceway. The sight had made him smile, until that horrible chill settled over him again like a cloak, and John was yanked back to the present.

He was in the silent kitchen before he knew it. Where were you taking him? Why did you care so much? Did you have a plan? John hoped so. He could hardly string two thoughts together, let alone two words.

He noted, through the fog in his head, that together you passed the phone hanging on the wall. So you weren’t going to call for help. You weren’t going to shirk the responsibility onto someone else. John wasn’t sure what was more surprising, that you seemed to want to look after him or that you were guiding him towards the door to the flat above the bakery.

That ripped him from his haze. He didn’t want to be a bother. It was bad enough he’d troubled you. It was the middle of the night, or at least, John thought it was. He didn’t know the people who lived above 64 Olso Square and this certainly wouldn’t be a good first impression.

He tugged your hand, pulling you to a stop.

“Nononononono,” John shook his head, eyes wide. “Don’t disturb them. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.”

You pushed through the first door to a tall staircase, covered with a thick brown carpet.

“And they won’t mind. Trust me.”

Shakily, slowly, you led him up the stairs to a second door. The brass numbers, stark against the bright white paint behind them, proclaimed the flat 64b.

John watched you pull a keyring from your pocket, then slot a silver key into the lock.

“You know them fairly well, then.”

A tiny smile crossed your lips.

“You could say that.”

It wasn’t until he was standing in the middle of the living room that he put two and two together. The cogs of his brain had finally started to turn again, and realisation chimed like a bell when he saw a photo of you, Mickey and Gladys, looking a few years younger, on the mantelpiece.

“Oh,” John said.

He felt your hand slip up his arm, then your fingertips press softly into his shoulder.

“Sit down. I’ll be right back.”

John was faintly aware of you disappearing into the next room but he couldn’t seem to bring his eyes to follow you. He couldn’t move, the slow rise and fall of his chest was the only sign that he was still alive at all.

Still, the numbness that had enveloped him was finally beginning to fade, but a hyperawareness of his surroundings had swept in to take its place. The artificial light seemed too bright. The clicking of the radiators as they hummed into life, their sharp metallic smell, it set his teeth on edge.

Then you were back, and everything felt alright again. Or at least, he knew it would be, eventually. It was perhaps his favourite thing about you, that you made him feel safe for the first time in a long while. And even if John felt so shaken, so afraid and so lost that he couldn’t imagine ever feeling like himself again, you were a warm constant, a reminder that feelings were fleeting and nebulous, and he would feel alive again soon.

He flinched when he felt your hand rest on his shoulder again.

“Oh, dear… Oh, my dear…”

You spoke so softly, John didn’t know what to do with himself.

He looked down at his feet. He’d left a small puddle of rainwater on your faded blue carpet. It was dripping off the hem of his jeans, the ends of his fingers, his hair.

“I’m…”

His apology died in his throat.

He kept thinking about what you said. ‘Oh, dear…’ It reminded him of his mother. It reminded him of his Year One teacher, who was so kind to him when he fell and scraped his knee. It reminded him of Freddie, of every time his new friend had been gentle with him.

He thought about those words, ‘oh, dear…’ and the ones that followed, ‘oh, my dear…’. One simple word and an ocean of difference.

“You’re all soggy,” You smiled gently as your hand drifted down to rest against his chest. “I brought you a towel. And a cuppa. And a biscuit.”

“Thank you,” John said, or at least he thought he did. The words didn’t seem to come from him, they just floated past his ears.

He raised his gaze to the mantelpiece again. You were smiling in the photo. You were maybe two or three years younger than you were now and had your arm around Gladys’ shoulders. On your other side, Mickey was beaming, a fag in his mouth and one hand pointed upwards towards the bakery’s gleaming scarlet sign.

“I moved in the same day I took the job,” you said, following his gaze. “Gladys knocked some money off the rent. It means I don’t get ou’ much but you can’t argue with the commute.”

John didn’t say anything. He just focused on your hand over his heart, warm and steady, like a lighthouse in a storm. Then your fingertips tucked into the front of his shirt, between two of the buttons, and tugged gently.

“C’mon. Sit.”

You slipped your hand into his again, gently guiding him towards the small dining table that sat in the corner of the room. Together, you peeled off his soaked jacket, carefully threading his arms through the sleeves, then you were gone again to hang it over the radiator.

While you busied yourself, John cast his eyes around the room.

Your flat was small, though after living in uni digs for so long, it seemed almost palatial to him.

There was the living room, with its small, square television and a low coffee table covered in magazines, books, and two empty mugs. He couldn’t see into the kitchen from his seat at your two-person dining table, but John could just make out pale yellow wallpaper and patchwork tiles that ran along the circumference of the room.

There was another door leading off from the living room. John supposed it must be your bedroom. He wondered momentarily what it looked like, if you had posters on the walls, what colour your bedspread might be.

He must still be in shock, John decided. Only a man who’d suffered a serious trauma would be curious about another person’s duvet cover.

He felt your eyes on him and looked away from your bedroom door, hoping you wouldn’t think he was getting any ideas.

John’s gaze landed on a pile of wool on the sofa, creamy white with two needles haphazardly stuffed through its heart.

You followed his gaze. Obviously feeling sheepish, you grimaced.

“I thought I’d make a blanket for Mickey’s baby.”

John’s mother knitted. And crocheted. She could knock up a blanket or a jumper in mere days. Nothing she’d made had ever looked like that, though.

“I didn’t know…” He paused, treading carefully. “You could knit.”

“I can’t.”

You glanced back at your pitiful, threadbare creation, then pressed a chocolate Digestive into his hand.

“You should eat somethin’.”

John finally cracked a smile. It stretched his cold skin, making his muscles ache, but it was real.

Slowly, carefully, though without trepidation, you stepped between his knees.

As he munched on his biscuit, John didn’t even notice how his body opened up to you. His gaze was fixed on your failed knitting project, though he wasn’t seeing anything.

“You just need to work on your tension,” he said, the ghost of something his mother would say.

John didn’t notice your curious glance. He only came back to the present when he felt your fingers settle along the length of his jaw.

John let you turn his face towards you and tried to resist a shiver when your other hand came to rest under his chin, ever so gently tilting his head up.

Your eyes were dark and restless, crossing his face, back and forth, up and down, taking him all in, while John just let his head sink into your touch.

You were so warm. How was it that you were always so warm?

“What happened?”

Your voice was gentle but firm. John wondered if he was imagining it, or if you were trying to hide a simmering anger.

“I was walking home from the studio.”

“On your own?”

“The others all go the opposite way.” John frowned. “Why were you out so late?”

“I took your advice and met up with me mates.” You brushed your thumb over his cheek. “I have had a couple drinks so tell me if I’m bandagin’ up the wrong bit.”

John started to laugh but didn’t get far. Now that everything was quiet and calm, the memory of what had happened to him was coming back to him in sharp flashes. Suddenly, his whole body felt sore. His wet clothes had chilled him through to the bone.

“It’s my fault,” he said quietly.

Too quietly. You frowned.

“Sorry, darlin?”

If he hadn’t felt quite so awful, John was sure that would’ve made him blush.

“It’s… It was my fault. I wasn’t paying attention. I shouldn’t have taken that shortcut.”

“It’s not your fault, John.”

Your thumb ghosted over the aching skin around his eye, finding the pockmark left by his mugger’s ring. You pressed down with the pad of your thumb and John jumped, hissing through his teeth.

You apologised, then asked,

“Someone attacked you? Did you know ‘em?”

When John shook his head, a few strands of his hair stuck to his clammy, wet cheek and he had to brush them away.

“No. No. I don’t think so. They took my wallet. Jokes on them, I don’t have any money.”

“Did they take your bass?”

“I left it at the studio. But they…” John closed his eyes when he felt hot tears start to well. “I’m really sorry. They took your bike.”

He heard you sigh and feared the worst, but you spoke his name so softly, it was enough to make his chest clench.

“It’s okay. It’s alright.”

He felt you step even closer, your hands so warm against his aching skin.

“It’s just a bike, darlin’.”

“But it was-”

You lifted his chin again. John opened his eyes to find you looking at him so softly, he thought he must be dreaming.

“Just a bike,” you said firmly, and brushed a hand over his hair.

The gesture practically made him melt into your touch. If your sweet voice and gentle hands were enough to slow his racing heart, your next words sent it tripping over itself again.

Smiling, you bowed your head and pressed your lips to his forehead.

“You’re the sweetest boy I’ve ever met.”

John didn’t know how to respond. He wasn’t sure he could even speak. But you just smiled down at him. Silhouetted against the low yellow light, you looked practically angelic.

You lifted his hands, holding his palms up so that you could inspect them. Your hands were so much smaller than his, your fingers could barely wrap around his wrists, but you moved him around with ease.

John watched your face as you surveyed the damage, how your mouth twisted and your forehead creased, making him feel truly seen for the first time in his life.

“Alrigh’,” you said, and gently placed his hands back in his lap. “Don’ move.”

Then you were gone again, back into the small kitchen.

John watched you walk away, his mind humming, ticking over, just waiting for you to come back. His eyes felt heavy, even moving his head was a sluggish, awful task.

When you did come back, it was with no small amount of relief that you immediately stepped back between his knees. He thought he could happily stay in that position forever.

Your thighs brushed his as you leaned closer, and John jumped at the contact.

“Stay still.”

You were smiling faintly as you dabbed a warm, damp cloth against his skin.

It smarted at first, but soon John found himself sinking into your touch again. It felt good. John hadn’t expected you to be so gentle, although he couldn’t for the life of him figure out why. You’d been nothing but kind to him since the day you met.

He was just starting to let his heavy eyelids droop when he felt your forearm bump his nose. John raised his head.

You huffed, your mouth twisted.

“Sorry.”

You couldn’t seem to get the right angle. Even seated, John was tall enough to cause you problems. Manoeuvring around him meant either awkwardly crouching, leaning into him, or asking John to look up at you in a way that put pressure on his aching muscles.

It seemed to have knocked your confidence. Keeping your bottom lip caught firmly between your teeth in concentration, you quietly apologised again and again.

After a few minutes of awkward dithering and nervous touches, John sighed.

“For God’s sake. Just c’mere.”

Frustrated and annoyed at himself for ending up in this mess, John had very little room left for shyness. He wrapped his hands around your hips and pulled you into his lap, shifting his thighs apart so that you could sit there comfortably without fear of falling.

You were tense against him, clearly surprised, though not half as surprised as John. He just kept his eyes fixed on the wall behind you, his hands firm on your hips. To keep you steady, he told himself, though he didn’t believe it for a second.

You didn’t move at first. You just stared at him. Even if John could speak, he wouldn’t have been able to think of a single thing to say.

Something unspoken moved between you, then you returned your attention to his face, now at a much more accessible angle.

You smelt incredible. Was that an okay thing to notice about someone? Would it be weird if he told you? John wasn’t sure. You smelt of cinnamon and warm bread and sweat and the rain. It clung to your clothes, as he clung to you. Maybe it was better to just keep quiet.

As hard as he tried to ignore it, John had to admit your new position had other advantages. Although he was sure his wet jeans and bony thighs must have been uncomfortable for you, you were certainly doing a marvellous job of warming him up.

You thighs were rounded and full, and so much softer than his own. He could feel your muscles tensing and relaxing in tandem with his own as you both worked to keep you balanced in his lap. It was comforting to feel your body moving with his, almost like you were one being.

How strange, John thought, as you dabbed the warm cloth down his neck, that he’d become so starved of contact that touch often made his skin crawl. But you…

John always found his body aching for yours, like it was always reaching out to touch you without him asking it to, mentally and emotionally, as well as physically. You were the only one that made him feel peaceful. You were like dozing off in the fields behind his childhood home on an August afternoon.

For the sake of his own heart, John tried to zone out as best he could.

He ended up honing in on the steady tick tick tick of the wall clock, though it was barely enough to keep his mind away from your warm body, the gentle touch of your hands, and your dark eyes crossing over his face.

It was only when you moved to grab something from the table behind him that he gave any sign that he was still in the room. Your chest pressed into his as you leaned over him, your hand on his shoulder, and John had to fight the whimper sitting in his throat.

As you settled back down, your eyes were firmly fixed on his, and John realised his fingers were now pressed into your soft hips. He licked his lips.

Looking up at you like this, he felt so small, and vulnerable in a way that normally would have made him completely shut down, but something in the way you looked at him set his heart racing for an entirely different reason.

You shifted again. It meant you inadvertently rolled your hips against his. At least, he thought it was an accident. John was too busy trying to keep his lonely body in check to be sure.

He pressed his lips together, trying to keep his breathing steady. Hopefully you wouldn’t notice how he shifted beneath you, his trousers suddenly uncomfortably tight.

“Stay still,” you said again.

Shit.

John did as he was told.

You raised a cold compress to his face. He flinched away from you instinctively. This was going to hurt. But you offered him a soft smile, whispering that it would help

John sighed. He closed his eyes and let you take care of him.

Minutes tucked by in silence. The only sounds were the ticking of the clock and the occasional hiss from John whenever you pressed the compress too hard against his aching eye socket.

“I’m not squashin’ you, am I?” you asked after a while.

John grunted, his cheeks starting to feel hot.

“Don’t worry. I know I look like a twig, but…”

He cracked a smile, only wincing slightly when you moved the compress to a different part of his face, just above what was probably turning into an impressive bruise.

“I know,” you said, laughing softly. “But I’m fat.”

“You’re not fat.”

“’s not a bad word, John.”

He was quiet for a moment, then John’s eyebrows jumped under the compress.

“You say it like it is.”

He licked his lips again when you met his gaze and held it.

He’d got you there. Comfortable as you were in your body, it hadn’t always been easy. John knew that. Old habits were hard to shake and the odd deprecating comment sometimes slipped out. He always caught them.

John watched you wrinkle your nose, the way you always did on the rare occasion you had to admit that someone else was right.

You handed him the cold press and told him to keep it against his eye, which he did dutifully.

To his dismay, you lifted one of his hands from your hips. John’s stomach twisted. He’d been enjoying the contact more than he cared to admit, and your warm, soft body was the only thing grounding him to reality. Thankfully, you just turned his hand over so that you could study his grazed palm.

“You are a bi’ of a twig,” you said eventually, then smiled to let him know you were only kidding. “This will need some De’ol, is that alright?”

John frowned as he watched you carefully brush away the grime and tiny pieces of grit from his deep graze.

“Haven’t seen Dettol since I was a little boy.” Then, worried despite your reassurances, he asked, “Do you think I’m..? Too twiggy?”

“No,” You were beaming, your voice soft and low. “I think you’re perfect as you are.”

John had to hide his blush behind his hair.

“I think I might’ve hurt the other one quite badly. I landed on it funny. My wrist, I mean.”

“I might ‘ave one of them sock things. You know, for sprains. Will tha’ do?”

John nodded.

“Thank you. You know, I don’t think I’m actually that twiggy anymore. Not after all the stuff you make me take home.”

“Oh, really?”

“I can barely fit in my stage gear.”

You burst out laughing, then shook your head at his grin. You liked this side of him, when he felt relaxed enough to be silly and to poke fun.

John felt the tension in his chest start to ease away at last. He was safe. He was with you.

“If I were to invite you to another gig, would you fancy it?” he asked, feeling suddenly brave.

You hummed, turning the wrist he thought he might’ve sprained and toying with each of his fingers.

“I dunno. Are you gonna wear that pretty little outfit again?”

The sparkly trousers were Roger’s. The black and white striped top, he was sure that belonged to Freddie. When it came to stage clothes, they swapped about a lot, but John was particularly fond of the velvet bow tie and silk jacket he’d managed to dig from their market stall a few weeks ago.

“You liked it?”

“Haven’t stopped thinkin’ about it.”

John knew he must’ve been red as a tomato. He practically blew a vein trying not to move around in his seat too much. It was the first time you’d been alone together somewhere private. Maybe the couple of drinks you’d sunk with your friends had loosened your tongue. Whatever it was, he liked it.

Your praises made him feel like he could melt into a puddle, and it was a thrill to know you thought about him at least as half as much as he thought about you. Whispering to each other in your dark little flat, it was the most intimate moment John ever experienced.

“If you liked that one, you’ll love the thing Freddie’s got me in next week.” He nodded to his wrist. “If I can play.”

“Mm, can’t wai’.”

You let go of his wrist, and for a moment, John feared the moment was over, but then you slipped your hand around his jaw and lifted his chin yet again, so that he had no choice but to meet your eyes.

“For the record,” you said, all brevity gone for now. “I like skinny boys. Don’t go changin’ for anyone. Okay, John?”

“You do?” he asked, half afraid of the answer. “I look alright?”

“You’re perfect, John.”

With your hand so close to his throat, he knew you must’ve felt him swallow hard, but he tried not to think about it.

Far too soon for his liking, you let go of his jaw. John knew he should probably at least pretend that he wanted to get up, but you were still looking at him closely and he didn’t think he had the energy to try and stand up.

“Perfect,” he repeated.

“Yeah,” you smiled. “I think you’re brilliant, John.”

Instead, he closed his eyes, and let his hands slip around to the small of your back.

“And you feel nice.” John sighed as he let his body sink into yours. “You feel really nice.”

He felt your body tense as he rested his head against your chest, then, slowly, he felt you relax again.

Your hand came up to rest on the back of his head, and when you slipped your fingertips into his hair, John let out a shuddering breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding.

The floodgates opened. Soon, John could feel more hot tears carving furrows down his cheeks until they pooled on your shirt, though you didn’t seem to mind.

As he tried to even out his shaky breaths, you just stroked his hair, whispering softly to him.

“It’s going to be alright… You’re alright, John… You’re alright. I’ve got you… I’ve got you…”

When, at last, he could breathe evenly again, John raised his head to look up at you.

You smiled, your hand still smoothing over his hair.

“You wanna get in the shower?” you asked, brushing away a stray tear with your thumb.

John had to force his way through the fog in his brain to understand what you were asking. Your kind hands were incredibly distracting, and the way you looked down at him, one hand on his cheek, keeping his gaze on you… He knew he’d do whatever you asked, so long as you kept looking at him like that.

The next thing he knew, he was standing under the shower.

The water ran a lot hotter than the weak, tepid spritz he’d become accustomed to at uni. John almost yelped when the warm water hit his skin. It didn't take long for him to adjust, though. Now he couldn’t bear the thought of stepping out again.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been standing there. Seconds felt like hours, minutes felt like centuries. He wouldn’t be surprised if he got out and found the morning sun peeking through the living room curtains.

John closed his eyes, tilted his head back and sighed, letting the water wash over him, warming his blood and soothing the anxious shivers that still wracked his body.

Your bathroom was much like the rest of your home. ‘Messy’ seemed a strong word, ‘lived-in’ seemed more democratic. There were bottles and bottles of hair products, sun cream and various moisturisers on top of the cabinet, and the laundry basket in the corner was full to the brim.

The yellow towels hanging by the door matched the sunflower-coloured bath mat, and a series of half-full shampoos and conditioners were lined up along the side of the bath like skittles. He’d almost sent them tumbling into the bath when he stepped in.

John picked one at random, a white bottle with a pale yellow label and stark black writing.

“Everynight Rainwater Soft Rinse,” he read aloud to himself.

That seemed fitting. John squeezed some into the centre of his hand, then turned his palm over and rubbed the shampoo into his hair. He recognised the smell immediately. It was you.

You in his lap, so soft and so close, your warm weight, your hand lifting his chin, your fingers wrapped around his jaw. You, you and your clever eyes that saw straight through him and your pretty mouth, always tugged back into a smirk whenever you teased him. God, he loved when you teased him.

His lip caught between his teeth, John tried to focus on washing his hair, but he couldn’t ignore the warmth pooling in his abdomen and the pounding of blood in his ears.

You, the way you always stood so close to him but never close enough. You and your sharp tongue and your talented hands and your endless, unshakeable need to take care of him, to understand him, to know him.

Did you fancy him? Did you love him? Were you in love with him? You’d never said as much but surely, surely the way you were with him, the way you talked, you must at least like him. Everyone seemed to think so. But why didn’t you just say?

John picked up the shampoo bottle again. Rosemary, cinchona and clover blossoms. He didn’t know what half of those ingredients were. He tried to figure them out, one by one, but it wasn’t enough to distract him from his own wandering thoughts.

He couldn't stop thinking about how your hands felt on him. Touch had always been such an uncomfortable experience. It was a private, intimate thing, something he trusted very few with, but John always caught himself leaning into you, aching for you to touch him. The thought of your hands mapping his body was enough to make him whimper softly.

You, pushing him down onto that comfy looking sofa, or even your yet-to-be-seen bed. You, yanking his head back by his hair and taking his mouth with your own when he gasped. You, pinning him down and gripping him tight and making him yours again and again and again, making his voice shatter and his body completely unravel, and all the while you’d just look down at him and smile.

John swallowed thickly. He turned and faced the shower, letting the water hit his face as he reached down and cranked up the cold.

When he was a little more presentable and no longer shivering, John stepped out of the shower and wrapped himself up in one of the soft towels you'd pointed out to him.

Looking down at his sad, damp pile of clothes, John felt a pang of woebegone self-pity shiver through him, but then a more practical issue arose, and he’d always been far better at dealing with those.

Toeing at the freezing, soggy pile of clothes he’d peeled off, John called out,

“Hey, Skip?”

As if you had read his mind, you said,

“I laid out some clothes on the bed!”

John hesitated.

“Oh.”

He pushed down the handle and pulled the bathroom door open a crack, just enough so that he could peek out without you being able to see much of him. He needn’t have bothered, you were on the sofa, having another go at your knitting, and John had to crane his head out further to see you properly.

“The bed that’s..?”

He pointed across the hall to the door opposite.

You didn’t look up, but even from across your flat, he could see you smiling.

“I promise I won’t look.”

For some reason, John wasn’t entirely sure he believed you.

He stepped back into the bathroom so he could tighten his towel around his waist, until there was absolutely no possibility of it slipping down on his very short trip across the hall to your room.

When he was sure he was safe, he pulled open the door fully and slipped through into your bedroom, not daring to glance your way as he did so. If he had, he might’ve seen you glance up at the last second before he disappeared inside your room, and he might’ve seen you smile.

John flicked on the light. Your room was lovely, just as warm and inviting as the rest of your home, as you. There was colour everywhere, in the posters and photos pinned to the walls and the endless rows of knick knacks on every available surface.

He couldn’t help feeling nosy. There was still so much he didn’t know about you, so much he couldn’t wait to learn, and here he was in the very glossary of your life. But John restrained himself. After all, you were waiting for him with a cup of tea and, hopefully, another biscuit.

He dried himself off and slipped into the clothes you’d left out for him.

When he thought he looked vaguely presentable, John gave himself a firm, fortifying nod in the mirror. He tried to brush his damp curls back from his face, hoping he wouldn’t look too much like a Cocker Spaniel as it dried.

It was then that he caught sight of a small, square box, tucked between the mirror and the door. Just poking out was a large balloon whisk and a loop of thick, black wire. The infamous machine had finally given up the ghost, it seemed.

John scooped up the box and opened the door.

You were still knitting when he came back into the living room. John watched you for a moment, feeling small and uncertain when you didn’t offer any instructions.

He noticed you’d hung his clothes over the radiator, even his socks, which was a little embarrassing. John could only thank his lucky stars that the rainwater hadn’t quite reached his underwear.

“How are you feelin’?”

He looked back to find you looking up at him, your fingers finally still. You’d managed a few more rows but the blanket was riddled with holes. He wasn’t sure you could even call it a blanket. He tried not to smile.

“A lot better.” John ran his palms up and down his thighs, smiling. “These are soft.”

The clothes you’d left him were obviously an old pair of pyjamas, a faded T-shirt with the name of a radio station printed across the chest and a pair of orange and brown tartan trousers.

You gestured for him to raise his left hand, then you carefully slipped a compression wrap down his wrist. It wasn’t much but it would support his strained muscles and, hopefully, force him to take things easy for a while.

“The look is complete.” You frowned when you realised what he was carrying. “What’ve you got that for? I was gonna chuck it tomorrow.”

John perched on the very edge of the sofa, tucking his legs behind the coffee table, and placed the box down in front of him.

“I think I can fix it. Do you have any tools?”

“John, you don’t ‘ave to-”

“I want to. C’mon, it’ll take my mind off...”

He was starting to feel better, but John knew you wouldn’t let him fix anything for you unless he laid it on thick. He also knew, or at least, he was starting to understand, that while you had a clever way of getting him to do whatever you wanted, he seemed to have the same effect on you.

His scheme worked. You twisted your mouth, probably still unconvinced, but relented with a sigh.

“Well, I mean, I have a toolbox. But I never use it, so I dunno if there’s anythin’ useful in there.”

“I don’t need much.” Feeling guilty, he added, “Honest, love, it’ll help.”

Within minutes, John had the whisk in several different parts, neatly placed in strategic points around your coffee table. He also had another cup of tea and three chocolate Digestives.

He could feel your eyes on him, watching him as he worked. You didn’t say anything, though, apart from asking the occasional question. John supposed you were probably trying to figure out what to do with him next.

He caught your gaze briefly as he lifted the main body of the whisk up to his eye-level.

“So,” John said. “Is this how you saw your evening going?”

You twisted your mouth again.

“Do you wanna call anyone?”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. Your mum? Friends? That Roger lad seems nice?”

John didn’t look away from the whisk. He just kept turning the screwdriver around and around.

“They’ll all be asleep.”

He’d glanced at the clock on your bedside table when he was getting changed. It was almost two in the morning.

You shrugged.

“I’m sure they wouldn’t mind.”

“It’s alright.”

John cheered softly when the last compartment came away. A muddle of multicoloured wires sprawled out.

“This is quite interesting, you know. When did Gladys buy this?”

“God knows. Probably not this century.”

“Would you know where she got it?”

The look you gave him made it quite clear you didn’t know or care, and that you weren’t going to let him get away with changing the subject.

“I’m okay. I’m okay, really.” John summoned a reassuring smile. “The shower did me the world of good. Anyway, you’re… I’m where I most want to be.”

That made you go quiet.

John just tried to focus on his work. He knew that look on your face all too well. Even when you weren’t speaking, he knew your mind would be whirring, thinking of the next step, how best to look after him. It was a feeling he still wasn’t entirely used to but it made your poky flat feel like home.

“You can stay ‘ere tonight, if you like,” you said at last.

John finally lowered the screwdriver, his eyes wide.

“That’s not what I meant when I said- I wasn’t trying to-”

“I know. I want you to stay.” You smiled and rested your hand over his. “Stay.”

The word was so heavy, it seemed to linger in the space between you. John thought he might be able to reach out and wrap his fingers around it. It filled a hole in his heart he hadn’t even known was there, and assuaged any dregs of worry about you not liking him as much as he liked you.

Stay. He would. He’d stay forever, if you asked.

His heart in his throat again, John accidentally let the screwdriver slip through his fingers. He lunged to grab it and ended up knocking his sore hand against the coffee table. He yelped, clutching at his wrist, although that only made it smart more.

“Oi, watch that ‘and! I’m not driving you to the ‘ospital at this time of night.”

You laughed, shaking your head, then to John’s delight, you took his hand in yours and kissed his aching wrist, right at his frenetic pulse.

“Tell me, will you ever play again?”

John summoned a pained smile.

“I think I’ll manage. Thanks again for coming the other night. It really meant a lot.”

“It was nice seein’ you up there. You sounded great.”

“Did you like the music?”

“I mean, it’s no ABBA, but…”

John snorted.

“I’ll try and wangle a song into our set list next time.”

“Oh, then I’m definitely comin’. Can’t miss the look on your mates’ faces when you suggest ‘People Need Love’.”

“You know, I still haven’t heard this album.”

“I’ll lend it to you. It’ll change your life. And, hey, maybe I can bring some of my mates to your next show? I think they’d really love it. Or, at least, they’d like your drummer.”

John grinned, trying to ignore the slight itch in his chest. That was the second time you’d mentioned Roger tonight. He pushed the thought away, choosing instead to focus on the fact that you still hadn’t let go of his hand.

“I’d like that. The more the merrier. And I promise, next time it’ll be in a proper venue and there’ll be dancing and- and lots of people and…”

You squeezed his hand gently.

“And I’ll be there, right at the front.”

“Dancing?”

“If you can call what I do dancin’. There’s a lot of,” You waved your free arm in the air. “And,” You swayed your hips as best you could while sat down.

John caught his own reflection in the television screen behind you. He had a dopey, lovesick expression, his shoulders low, his whole body leaning in towards yours, as if pulled by invisible strings. It should’ve made him baulk, pull himself together and change the subject, mortified. But instead, he heard himself say,

“We could go dancing. Together.”

You raised your eyebrows but seemed pleased.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. I’m a bit of a mover.”

“I bet.”

Your smile had an edge to it so sharp, John thought he might cut his lip if he leaned in to kiss you, an ache that was slowly becoming unbearable. He loved when you looked at him like that, like you would completely unspool him, if he’d only ask.

Then your gaze shifted and a sliver of rarely spotted vulnerability eked out.

“No one’s ever offered to take me dancin’ before.”

“Not even your boyfriend?” John flushed when your smile abruptly dropped. “Gladys told me about him. He sounds like a bastard.”

You shook your head, sputtering like a firework until your tongue caught up with your brain.

“Why the- Why’s she tellin’ you about my old boyfriends?”

“Why does Gladys do anything?”

John tried to laugh it off but your expression was losing its softness, your grip on his hand growing looser and looser.

He sighed.

“She cornered me the other day and said I ought to be nice to you ‘cause your last bloke was a twat and she wouldn’t be happy if I-”

“What?”

Much to his dismay, you took your hand back. John barely resisted trying to grab it back. In fact, just holding your gaze required herculean strength.

John really hadn’t intended to tell you about his little conversation with Gladys. In fact, she’d sworn him to secrecy.

You’d been seeing a boy for months, a seemingly nice boy who worked for the bakery’s suppliers. He flirted with you relentlessly on every drop-off until finally, after much plying and pulling, he managed to get you to agree to a date. Things seemed to be going well from Gladys’ perspective, but after a few good - if boring - months, he left without much ceremony, an explanation, or a goodbye.

“John,” you pressed. “She wouldn’ be ‘appy if you what?”

“Messed you about.” John could feel his cheeks prickling with embarrassment and knew he must be turning red. “She wanted to make sure I wasn’t going to- I don’t even know, really. She didn’t say much, I promise. She just doesn’t want it to happen again.”

He watched your expression relax, then soften with understanding.

“She’s very protective of you, you know.”

That brought back a little of your smile.

“I know. A bit too protective sometimes but it’s nice.”

“She loves you so much. So does Mickey.”

The unspoken, ‘And so do I’ was so obvious, John almost choked on it, and had to style it out as a little cough.

At last, you rested your hand back over his, and John was able to breathe again. Your fingertips brushed the rings on his middle and fourth fingers, then slipped higher to wrap gently around his wrist. He hoped you wouldn’t be able to feel how fast his pulse was racing.

“I wouldn’t, you know,” he said, after a moment. “Mess you about.”

You smiled.

“I know, John.”

He should kiss you. He should kiss you right now. You were gazing at him so sweetly, leaning into him, one hand on his knee, the other still wrapped around his wrist. He should kiss you, make you moan softly against his mouth, show you how much he adored you with his tongue, his teeth, his hands, with eveything he had. He should. But he couldn’t. Not yet.

John cleared his throat, his gaze dropping to the broken whisk, still laid out on the coffee table.

“These, er… The wires are loose,” he said.

You blinked, surprised, then laughed softly when you realised what he was talking about.

“Can you fix it?”

“I can fix anything.”

“Mm, my hero.”

The bubble of tension was broken. Your hands left him. But you were still close, closer than you ever had been.

John couldn’t help stealing little glances at you, wondering what you were thinking about as you watched him work, a little smile on your face.

“Nah, you’re my hero. Rescuing me from muggers. Getting me this job. Looking after me.”

“I like lookin’ after you,” you said, your tone surprisingly earnest. “You’re a nice boy, John.”

Embarrassed, John just kept his eyes on the wire he was fiddling with.

“What did he do, then?” he asked, clumsily changing the subject. “This rubbish boyfriend?”

“Oh, the usual. Said some horrible things. Left me for a girl he decided he liked be’er.” You smiled, but it barely met your eyes. “You’d never leave me for someone else, would you, Johnny?”

“Never,” he said. “I wouldn’t leave you for anything. He’s an idiot.”

You made a non-committal hum, like you didn’t believe him or thought he was only kidding around.

John looked up.

“No, but he really is. What a moron. You’re…”

He watched as your expression turned expectant. Too bad he had no idea how to finish his own sentence.

You were kind. The kindest person he’d known in a long time. And you were so sure of yourself, of your role, while John sometimes felt torn between paths. You were clever, and fun, and so bloody beautiful, John hadn’t stopped thinking about you since the day you met.

You must’ve seen something in his eyes, a hint at his inward panic, because a smile slipped across your face again.

“Are you s’pposed to be in tomorrow?”

John nodded. He was meant to start his shift in just a few hours. He’d forgotten all about it.

“I’ll tell Gladys you’re poorly. You should ‘ave the day off.”

“Will you manage?”

“Somehow, I reckon we’ll struggle through.” You grinned. “The mean streets of Kensington can finally relax, safe in the knowledge you’re not gonna crash into anyone or anything else on that bloody bike.” You tapped the end of his nose “Y’menace.”

John brushed at his nose, feeling guilty all over again.

“I really am sorry. I promise I’ll get you another one.”

“Don’t be silly. I never used it anyway. All I’m worried about is how you’re gonna get around. Can’t be a delivery boy if you can’t make any deliveries.”

You must’ve seen the flash of anxiety that crossed through John’s mind because you reached out and brushed the pad of your thumb against his chin.

“Don’t worry, love. Honest. We’ll figure somethin’ out. You were always too good for it, anyway. Maybe this is a sign you’re ready for a promotion.”

John managed to summon a smile.

“You want me in the kitchen? Me?”

“Christ, no.” You laughed. “No, don’t think you’re quite there yet. I was thinkin’ more along the lines of a sales assistant. Pretty boy like you? You’d be great for business.”

John felt his skin prickle and knew he must be blushing, but you were talking again before he could recover properly. It only grew worse when you brushed the same thumb against his cheek, then held his jaw in your hand, your expression much more open and earnest now.

“You’re safe,” you said. “That’s all that matters to me.”

“Thank you,” John said. “For everything. You know, you’re the one person I thought about after it happened. Just wanted to see you so badly.”

“‘s funny, I’d just finished telling my mates all about you when I found you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, they can’t believe you’re in a rock ‘n’ roll band. They think you’re cool. Didn’t ‘ave the ‘eart to correct ‘em.”

John swore at you under his breath and pinched your thigh, not hard, but enough to make you yelp and bat his hand away.

“Hey!”

You laughed together, but before John could do anything to stop it, his smile stretched into a wide yawn. It made his eyes squeeze shut, and a few sleepy tears pooled in the corners of his eyes

“Oh, dear.” You squeezed his hand one last time then stood up. “C’mon, Johnny. Bedtime.”

“Where do you want me? To sleep,” he added, wincing.

“You can share with me? Or the sofa’s comfier than it seems.”

“Propositioning strange boys and luring them to bed. My mother warned me about girls like you.”

You pretended to look appalled but the twinkle in your eye gave you away.

“I’m not lurin’ anyone!”

John grinned.

“And yet…”

You looked at him for a moment, just smiling. You were thinking, John knew, about him. Then you shrugged.

“We could go next week.”

“Dancing?”

“Yeah. Yeah, you and me. Or Mickey was talkin’ about doing the pub quiz. At The Park Tavern on the corner? That could be fun. You’d ‘ave to help us think of a be’er team name, though. He wants us to be Buns Of Steel.”

“That does sound fun. I don’t know if a work outing is the best thing for a first date, though.”

“A first…”

It seemed to take you a moment to process exactly what he’d said. John realised, with no small amount of delight, that he’d flustered you.

Amused, he watched you recover, feeling a faint sense of self-satisfaction when you couldn’t seem to think of a clever response.

Instead, you just laughed and shook your head, then went into your room. You reappeared again carrying a duvet without its cover, a pillow he knew was from your bed, and an extra blanket, just in case.

“It’s a big bed, y’know,” You passed him the duvet, then the pillow. “Room for a small one.”

John’s fingers brushed yours as you finally passed him the extra blanket.

He wished he could shrug off the ache you sparked in his chest as nothing more than a schoolboy crush. But the need to be close to you, to touch you, talk to you, be with you, it was impossible to ignore. It was just never the right time.

Still, he couldn’t help wondering what you might do if he slipped his fingers through yours and pulled you into him so that you were standing between his knees again. What you might say if he pressed his face into your soft stomach, his free hand on your hip, keeping you there, keeping you close. What would you say if he admitted all that he wanted to every time he saw you, the words that teetered at the very tip of his tongue?

You were looking down at him expectantly, a smirk at the corner of your lips. You were joking, teasing him. He knew that. But John also knew, he knew, if he could just be brave, if he just stood up and took your hand, you would lead him into the next room without hesitation. He was a nod away from the thing he ached for most.

“Ask me again,” John said, weary of himself, of this day, of his own inexplicable worries. “After we’ve been dancing.”

Clearly unaware of his inner turmoil, you just sighed.

“Promises, promises.” Then, more seriously, you asked, “Are you gonna be alright?”

John leaned back against the sofa, his borrowed duvet over his lap.

His pain wasn’t gone. His wrist still ached and his bruises and scrapes still stung, a constant reminder of what had happened to him. John’s hair was still a little damp and had been starting to make him shiver, quelled now by the blankets you’d given him.

He felt smaller. Like he’d shrank back inside his head, his own body, He felt tired and hollow and unsure, but you had slowly, gently pulled him back to the present.

John didn’t know what he would feel like tomorrow but right now, he was okay, he was safe.

“Yeah. Thank you.”

“Anytime, John.”

You turned to leave but stopped at the last moment.

“I know it’s not much but my door is always open if you ever wanna ge’ away from your digs or you just wanna watch telly, or… I don’t even know what I’m- You can come round. Anytime. I’d love to ‘ave you ‘ere… Outside of work… And not because you got mugged. That’s what I’m trying to say. I’d love to see you.”

John thought it was perhaps the most nervous he’d ever seen you. He made you nervous. Him.

“I’d love that too.”

You look relieved, though he couldn’t imagine why. John knew you had been dancing around each other pretty shamelessly, but even he thought it was fairly obvious that he’d give anything to spend more time with you.

“Fab.”

You tapped your palms against your thighs, nodding to yourself.

John wondered if you wanted to say something more or if you were just stalling for time, as he so often did, hanging around the bakery long after his shift had ended or long before it began, just to spend more time with you.

Finally, you reached down and held his face again, then to his surprise and delight, you kissed his other cheek. John tried his best not to lean into your hand but he knew he practically purred every time you touched him.

You brushed back his damp hair, smiling softly, then finally pulled yourself away.

“Na night, John.”

“Na night, Skip.”

/

John was still fast asleep when you awoke the next morning. Blinking against your warm bedroom light, you blearily got yourself dressed as quietly as possible so as not to disturb your guest.

When you finally emerged, groggy from the lack of sleep and dreading the thought of dealing with customers, you found John stretched out on the couch, snoring away.

It was strange. You’d come close to convincing yourself that the whole night had been a strange, elaborate dream. But here he was.

You couldn’t help yourself. You gazed at him for a while, just taking him in.

John was safely tucked under the spare duvet you'd dug out of the bottom of your wardrobe, but you could still see that he’d managed to twist his body into an awkward shape he would definitely regret when he woke up.

You were glad you’d thought to give him an extra blanket, it could get cold in the flat at night, and John had tugged the tatty old thing right up to his chin.

His mouth was hanging open, just a little, and his face was relaxed and peaceful. One of his arms was dangling over the end of the sofa, his hand hanging limply, almost like he was reaching out to you.

It took all your strength not to play with his pretty hair, strewn across the pillow like a beautiful figure in a renaissance painting.

You wished he’d just agreed to share your bed. There was more than enough room and, selfishly, a part of you hated the idea of leaving him out here on his own. You wanted him within reach, where you could keep an eye on him and make sure nothing else could happen to your lovely boy.

You went to the kitchen and poured him a glass of water, then scribbled down a note telling John he could help himself to anything he wanted, clothes, food, your home was his. You left it and the water on the coffee table, then bent down and squeezed his hand.

“Sleep well, gorgeous.”

You smiled fondly to yourself, then went to work.

A few hours later, the ovens were on, the bread was cooling on the shelves, and the pastries were ready to be served.

Usually, you would have the radio blaring but you didn’t want to risk waking John. You also didn’t have the pleasure of Mickey’s company, as he’d yet to turn up. You were too busy to worry, he’d probably spent the night in the local and was having trouble dragging himself out of bed.

It was almost seven when Mickey finally rolled in.

You scoffed when you saw him. He looked cartoonishly exhausted. His eyes were red and droopy, and he looked like he hadn’t shaved in a couple of days.

He grunted when he saw you, standing there with your hands on your hips. Mickey was a man who knew when he was in trouble,

“What time do you call this!”

“Sorry, darlin’. Sorry. Rita woke up in the middle of the night sayin’ the baby was comin’ and I’ve spent all night in the ‘ospital.”

Mickey waved a weary hand at you when your jaw dropped.

“Turns out it was just practice pain? False labour, they said. False my arse. Poor girl was ‘ollering like she worked at Sotheby’s.”

“She’s alright?”

“Yeah, just knackered. Took her ‘ome just now.”

“Well, if you wanna be with her, you can? It’s not like it’s gonna be mental today.”

Mickey smiled.

“I might pop home at lunchtime. Thanks, love.” He laughed, reaching back behind him to shrug off his jacket, “You know, it’s funny. We were-”

He stopped suddenly, his gaze caught somewhere over your shoulder.

You turned around to find John standing in the kitchen doorway.

He looked almost as worn out as Mickey, but a damn sight better than he did last night. To your utter delight, John’s hair was a tangled, fluffy mess, thanks to him not drying it properly the night before, and his voice was low and coarse as he murmured,

“Morning.”

You glanced at Mickey. He was still staring. You could practically see him doing the calculations in his head, putting two and two together and getting five, as per usual.

“Mornin’.” You tried to hide your smile behind your hand. “How you feelin’?”

“Good. Yeah, good. A bit sore but…” John grimaced and rubbed at his lower back. “Hi, Mickey.”

Mickey was still staring but he did manage to ask,

“Alright?”

You looked back at John. He was wearing your clothes, you realised. A Kinks T-shirt that had long since faded and the same pyjama trousers he wore the night before. He was carrying a bag of what you could only assume were his damp clothes, and the whisk, neatly coiled up inside its box, good as new.

John passed you the whisk with a shy smile.

“I’ll, um, I’ll call you later, yeah?”

“Okay. Oh, John? Will you give us three rings when you get in so I know you’re alright?”

“I will. Thanks again. For everything. You were amazing.”

John glanced at Mickey. There was a little pause. Everything had been said that needed to be, your goodbyes had been made. But John hadn’t moved.

He looked at Mickey again, almost like he was waiting for him to leave and give you some privacy. Then John looked at you.

Somehow you understood. He’d made up his mind to do something, and it had taken so much courage to work himself up, John couldn’t back down now.

Both you and Mickey stared as John finally drew in a clearly bolstering breath, then he took your hand and kissed your cheek, as he must have rehearsed in his head a hundred times.

“See you,” he said, then he was gone.

You watched John leave, hoping he’d look back, but he must’ve made himself too nervous. Still, you couldn’t help admiring his little show of bravery, and you could still feel the warmth of his fingers against yours.

Mickey’s gaze slid to you, heavy with incredulity.

You raised a finger.

“Now, before you say anythin’-”

“I don’ believe this.”

“Mickey.”

“I don’ believe this.” He shook his head. “You did it. You finally did it. You finally fucked the delivery boy.”

Your mouth fell open.

“What! No! No, I didn’t!”

“You think I was born yesterday? Did you see him? Looked like he could barely walk.”

His insinuation made your voice catch in your throat and you made an embarrassing and frankly incriminating sort of squeak.

“He was mugged last night!” You finally found your voice but it sounded as flimsy and reedy as baking paper. “I found him up the ‘igh street and took ‘im ‘ome with me.”

To your relief, Mickey’s expression turned serious.

“Mugged? Round ‘ere?”

You explained everything, finding John on the edge of the pavement, so dazed and confused, he almost stepped out into the oncoming traffic. You described how he shivered when you took him home, how he seemed barely able to speak at first, and how long it took him to come back to himself.

When you were done, Mickey swore under his breath. He scratched his square chin, shaking his head.

“But he’s alright?”

“I think so.”

You glanced towards the door, almost hoping John would come back. You didn’t like him out of your sight. But he needed to rest.

“Oh, Mick, you should’ve seen him. Poor thing looked like he was gonna shake right out of his clothes.”

“Whose clothes are you shaking off?” Gladys asked, suddenly appearing in the kitchen doorway.

Mickey gave her a weary look.

“John’s.”

Gladys looked surprised, then faintly impressed.

“You finally made your move, then?”

You chose to ignore her. Your cheeks were still burning from Mickey’s assumption, you couldn’t take much more. Was it really so obvious that you wanted to rail the delivery boy? Maybe you needed to be more subtle in future, these were not things colleagues should know about each other.

“Listen, he was soaked-”

“I bet.”

“And I thought he was gonna catch his death,” You pressed on valiantly. “So I invited ‘im in, gave him a shower and a cup of tea…”

“A shower.”

“It was all very innocent!”

Mickey scoffed.

“He left wearin’ ‘er clothes.”

You had to smile then.

“Yeah, that was quite nice, actually.”

“He didn’t make a move?” Gladys asked.

You snorted, nodding when she offered you a cuppa.

“Chance’d be a fine thing. But he did say…” You bit back a grin. “Well, he said we could go for a dance sometime next week.”

To your surprise, Gladys didn’t look surprised, just very, very pleased.

“That was my idea.”

“Glad!” Mickey sighed. “You can’t mess about with her ‘n’ the scruff. You’ll scare ‘im off.”

“That reminds me,” you said, your amusement suddenly vanishing. “He said you told him all about my love life. Have you finally, properly gone mental?”

Gladys threw up her hands, her countless brightly coloured bangles and bracelets jangling together.

“Well, ‘e asked! I wasn’t gonna lie to ‘im, was I?”

“Asked what?”

“Well, ‘im and Mickey were talking about, you know, what you got up to in your spare time and if you were seein’ anyone…”

You glanced at Mickey but he was the picture of innocence.

“And I ‘appened to be passin’ by and mentioned you hadn’t been out with anyone since that lad you used to see who lived down by Battersea Bridge. And, well, ‘e asked why you weren’t seein’ ‘im anymore and, you know, he’s just got one of them ways about him, hasn’t he, John? He asks the right questions.”

You scowled at the memory. He wasn’t even worth mentioning. That boy had brought you nothing but heartache and misery. He was nothing like John, who seemed to brighten every time he saw you, and never once made you feel like he was doing you a favour by being kind to you.

“Don’t be cross with ‘er,” Mickey said. “She’s only tryin’ to help and ‘e did ask.”

“I think he’d be good for you. He’s sensible, kind.” Gladys grinned wickedly. “Did you see ‘im with his kit off?”

You almost didn’t want to dignify that with an answer but you knew you’d never hear the end of it if you said nothing.

“No! But he… The flat’s gonna feel really empty without ‘im there.”

Memories of the night before rose in your mind. It really did all feel like a dream. You pictured John perched on the very edge of your sofa, his knees pressed tight together, his spine sloping as he bent over the whisk he was trying to fix, fix for you.

“I like ‘aving ‘im around,” you admitted.

Mickey and Gladys exchanged a knowing look that made you regret your momentary lapse into misjudged honesty.

You huffed and went to look busy in the kitchen, but they followed you anyway.

“You know what I did when I first started seein’ Al?”

Mickey tried to speak, probably to let Gladys know he really didn’t care to know anything about your boss’ relationship with that salamander in an M&S suit, but Gladys bulldozed over him.

“You wanna get yourself down to Debenhams. You find yourself the perfume section and smell every bo’le till you find the one ‘e wears, then you spray it on your pillow.”

There was a stunned sort of a silence. No one moved for a moment until Mickey grumbled,

“Christ.”

You blew out a long breath, puffing out your cheeks as your mind whirled with thoughts of the pretty boy who’d fixed your bike, the whisk, and brought nothing but good luck to the bakery.

“I don’t think I’m quite at that level yet but I’m close.”

The only thing John had broken was the pattern of isolation you’d brought upon yourself. You hadn’t even noticed it. Maybe John had seen it because he felt it too. Maybe you could fix each other.

“He does smell bloody amazing, though Glad,” you said, too lost in thought to be embarrassed. “And he looked so tiny sitting on my sofa, all wrapped up in blankets and- And he fixed our whisk!”

You patted the box John had handed you. You were still cradling it in your arms like an idiot.

His hands had been so big as they brushed yours. He still smelt like your shampoo and soap, his pretty hair all fluffy and unruly.

His narrow little body had made him look so small in your clothes. You couldn’t stop thinking about how angular John’s upper arms were as he fidgeted with his curls, how his open and relaxed expression made him look so drowsy and malleable.

Your grip tightened on the cardboard box.

“I knew I liked that boy.”

Mickey took the box from you, giving it a small, triumphant shake for good measure, like he’d won the Premier League.

“Give ‘im a kiss from me next time you see ‘im.”

You ignored him and tried to get on with some work, but Gladys was still annoyingly interested.

“Have you kissed him?” she asked, looking hopeful.

You sighed.

“No, not yet. It’s gettin’ ridiculous. I just wanna shove him up against the wall every time I see him.”

Gladys seemed to approve.

“So long as you don’t do it in the kitchen. We’ve got enough problems without the Food Safety lot shuttin’ us down.”

She finally bustled off to make herself look busy in the office, leaving behind a whirl of sickly sweet perfume.

Again, you thought about John, how nice it had been to see him wearing your clothes, smelling like your shampoo, looking so comfortable in your home, it looked like you’d known each other for years, not months. You hoped he’d call soon.

The bakery door opened. You straightened out your expression, trying to put away thoughts of pinning John down on that sofa and kissing him everywhere you could reach. At least, for now.

The mask you put on for customers slipped the moment you saw who was walking up to the counter.

“Speakin’ of problems.”

You glanced at Mickey but he was too busy gazing devotedly at the whisk John had fixed. He would be no help for a while.

Resigning yourself to the situation, you sighed, and went to deal with your least favourite customer.

Alastair brightened as you approached, though there was no light in his expression. He smiled but without any sign of warmth, and as you got closer, Alastair drew himself up to his full height, whether subconsciously or not, and looked down at you with practised ease.

“Cup of tea, love, when you’ve got a minute,” he said, accompanying his request with a spine-chilling wink. “How’s things this morning?”

You set his cup down on the counter with more force than necessary.

“They’re fine.”

“It’s been lovely seeing the place busy. Gladys has a nice little business here, doesn’t she?”

“Yep.”

You were about to turn your back and return to the safety of the kitchen, when Alastair placed his hand over yours.

“You know, I’m not a bad guy.”

Alastair’s touch alone was enough to make you shudder. His nails were too clean and his skin was pale and smooth, like his hands had never seen a hard day's work.

You wanted to snatch your hand back but a voice in your head sternly told you not to give him the satisfaction. Instead you narrowed your eyes and held your ground.

“You really believe that, don’t you.”

He had the audacity to feign innocence.

Your hand was beginning to feel clammy under his.

“I don’t know what I ever did to upset you-”

“You don’t upset me, Alastair. I hate you.”

“Oh, beg pardon.”

He finally retracted his hand. You resisted the urge to wipe away the feeling of him on your trousers.

Alastair breathed a disappointed and aggravatingly paternal sort of sigh, as if he was being completely reasonable and you were being unnecessarily antagonistic. It was enough to set your teeth on edge. You almost threw the kettle at him but held back, for Gladys’ sake.

“You’ve never liked me. I often wonder why that is. I’m not doing anything wrong, am I? Have I actually ever given you a reason to hate me?”

Annoyed, you realised he might be onto something. If Gladys liked him, he couldn’t be all bad. And Alastair did try, tried to talk to you, to Mickey. He even stayed and helped clear up tables sometimes, nothing that would ever threaten his neatly pressed suits, but he tried.

Perhaps you had been too hasty to decide to dislike him. Perhaps you should just try and be happy for Gladys, after everything she’d done for you.

Something, not quite an apology, but perhaps a wafer-thin kind word, sat on the tip of your tongue. But you hesitated, whether out of embarrassment or uncertainty, you couldn’t say, but you were glad you did, as Alastair’s next words made your stomach lurch.

“If it’s because I’m seeing your mum, you really have nothing to worry about. I’m going to take good care of her.”

You stared. You weren’t sure for how long but it felt like a year. You were just so stunned, the cogs of your brain felt like they were clogged up with chewing gum.

“You think Gladys is my mum?” you said slowly.

“I…”

Alastair, to his credit, had the decency to look sheepish.

“You think Gladys is my mother?”

“No?”

“What do you- You think Mickey is my grandad?”

Alastair threw his hands in the air, as if you were being completely unreasonable.

“I just assumed!”

“You didn’t ask?” You spluttered, hardly able to process what this meant. “Do you know anything about Gladys?”

“Of course, I do! I care about her very much!”

“But you don’t know I’m not her daughter?”

Incredulity gave way to anger, anger to seething rage. You snatched back the tea you’d poured for him and dumped it in the sink, then turned and waved the empty mug at him.

“You don’t know her. That’s why I hate you, Alastair. You don’t know her, you don’t know us, you don’t know the shop. You don’t know anything. Do you even know why we’re called 64 Oslo Square?”

Alastair glanced either side of him, like he was conferring with his teammates on University Challenge.

“You’re… Half Norwegian?”

Unamused, you levelled him with a hard stare.

“Get out of my shop.”

To your surprise, Alastair rose slowly to his feet. His long fingers dragged along the counter as if he had all the time in the world, his expression aggravatingly nonplussed. Then he smirked.

“It’s not yours, though, is it?” he said.

Your chest felt like it could cave in.

Alastair gave you one last awful smile then dropped a few coppers onto the counter, adding insult to injury.

“Oh, by the way, was that your new delivery boy I saw leaving? He was here nice and early.” Alastair raised his eyebrows. “Perk of the job, I suppose.”

You were grateful for the counter between you. It was all that stopped you swinging for him.

You wanted to fight back, to yell and spit and give him all the venom you could muster, but for some reason, the mention of John felt like a slap to the face and all you could do was watch Alastair walk away.

It was only when the door closed behind him that you finally let out a long breath. Hands balled into fists, you tried to tell yourself that it didn’t matter what he thought, Alastair didn’t matter at all, he was no one. But somehow he’d managed to needle out all your insecurities with cruel accuracy.

Tears of shame and anger pricked in the corners of your eyes.

He was right. This wasn’t your bakery, it never had been and wouldn’t be for a long time. What did you have if not this place? What would you be if you weren’t this? Nothing. And no one.

The phone clanged in the kitchen. You barely noticed it at first. By the fourth ring, you shook yourself and grabbed it from the wall.

Angry at yourself for letting Alastair get to you, furious with him for coming into your home and talking to you like that, and annoyed at Mickey for never picking up the phone, you barked a not-so-friendly greeting down the line.

“No wonder they prefer you working in the kitchen if that’s how you treat your customers.”

At the sound of John’s voice, you immediately felt yourself relax. You loosened your grip on the telephone, your shoulders sinking.

“Hi, New Boy,” You winced at how eager you sounded, but it really was wonderful to hear from him. “You made it then.”

“All in one piece, just about.”

“Three rings, I said.”

“Couldn’t help it, I missed you.”

You rested your forehead against the wall and closed your eyes. The metal was cool against your skin, still flushed with anger.

You heard John give a shy laugh, the way he always did when he’d given away more than he’d meant to, and smiled.

“Thanks again, for everything,” he said, changing the subject quickly.

“Don’ worry about it. You can turn up on my doorstep anytime. There’ll always be a cuppa waitin’ for you at mine.”

“Well, hopefully nothing that dramatic happens again anytime soon but that sounds nice. You make a really good cuppa.”

You felt yourself preen at the compliment and hated yourself for it.

“You gonna get some more kip?”

“Can’t,” John grunted. “Got class in an hour.”

“Did you sleep okay last night? Was worried the sofa would do your back in.”

“No, no, it was fine. But I…”

When he didn’t say anything, you moved the phone away from your ear and looked at it quizzically. You tapped the speaker and heard its tinny response. No, you hadn’t lost him.

You quickly pressed the phone back to your ear when you heard John’s voice again, faint from a distance.

“I kept thinking… Kept thinking about what you said. About sharing the bed? Kept me up half the night.”

Your chest squeezed, shocked and excited and nervous all at the same time.

“Why’s that?” you asked, even though you knew the answer already.

“Kept thinking about getting up and…”

You heard John shift at the other end of the line. You could close your eyes and picture him, leaning against the wall beside the payphone outside his digs, his free hand coiling the wire around his fingers again and again, around and around. He’d have his eyes fixed on the floor, his mouth firmly drawn, but his forehead would be furrowed, focused and sure.

“I did, to be honest. Got up a few times. Got as far as your door once.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“What?”

He wasn’t letting you get away with it. If he was going to bare his heart, you would have to do the same.

“Come in,” you urged, hardly believing you were even having this conversation.

John went quiet again. You worried you’d pushed him past his limit, but then he said,

“Too scared, I suppose. And I didn’t wanna wake you. Not after everything you’d done for me. I just laid there and thought about how the clothes you leant me smelt like you. And I thought about the things we talked about. And about dancing. And…” John paused again. “And about you sitting in my lap.”

It was your turn to go quiet, though not because of any trepidation or shyness, but because of a sudden rush of giddiness, a wobbly sort of feeling in your chest that made you feel silly and flustered and hot under the collar. It wasn’t a feeling you were used to. You couldn’t remember the last time someone had flirted with you.

“I can’t wait to see your best moves,” you said, bravely soldiering on while visions of sitting in John’s lap again waltzed through your head. “I bet you can move those hips like nobody’s business.”

His laughter made your cheeks burn.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Yes. Yes, you would. Very much.

“I didn’t sleep much either,” you admitted. “Kept waiting for you to knock on the door.”

“You wanted me to?”

“I…”

You had stared at the door all night, heart racing at the thought of what it would mean for you, for your life, if he knocked, and yet hoping and wishing he would anyway.

You’d imagined helping John out of his shirt so that you could trace your fingertips down his neck, his chest, to his stomach, still somewhat concave despite your best efforts, and then lower still. You thought about his eyes on you in the half-light of dusk, watching you like he always did, taking his cues from you.

Did his blush reach all the way down to his chest? Did he have anymore little birthmarks? Scars from his childhood? Where would his hands instinctively land if you pressed into him, your face? Your waist? Your hips? What would it sound like when he groaned your name?

John underneath you, looking up at you with those big grey-green eyes. John’s bass-roughened fingertips running over your skin, his mouth everywhere, his soft hair between your fingers, and all the while he’d be moaning and rutting his hips up into yours, begging you to touch him. And when you finally did…

You had to clear your throat before you spoke again. Your wandering thoughts had made your vision go hazy.

“I was hoping you would.” You shrugged, even though no one was around to see it. “Shame. Nevermind.”

“I suppose I’ll just have to be braver next time, then.”

“I s’pose you will.”

“That seems to be a running theme with you.”

Mickey stepped into view, looking at you curiously.

“Who is it?” he mouthed, shaking his thumb and little finger beside his head in the shape of the telephone.

You turned away from him, pressing the phone tighter against your ear. You couldn’t miss a word of this.

“What does?”

“I dunno. I dunno, really. Just thinking about all the times I wish I’d been braver with you.”

“It happens a lot, then?” you asked, realising you had the same problem.

“Everytime I see you.”

His bluntness was refreshing. John was always candid and direct, even when he was obviously feeling painfully shy. His voice was sure and steady, even through the crackling handset. You liked that about him. Very few people were so honest, so plain-spoken. You trusted John to know exactly what to say and exactly when to say it.

You could’ve stayed there forever, flirting with the cute boy whose only thought, when he was scared and alone and hurt, was of you. But Mickey had started to tap his wrist emphatically. You glanced towards the front door. There was already a queue forming outside.

“Mickey’s waving at me. I have to go.”

John huffed, disappointed. You couldn’t help but agree.

“Have a good day, Captain,” he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice. “And thanks again.”

“Anytime, New Boy. I’ll always be there to slay your dragons.”

“My hero.”

John paused, like he was looking for something else to add, an excuse to keep you on the line for just a minute more. You found yourself hoping he was successful, but eventually, he came up empty-handed

“Thanks, love,” he said, drawing out the endearment’s syllables, emphatic and unmistakably purposeful. “Have a good day.”

“You too. Bye, love.”

You heard John exhale sharply, clearly pleased you’d returned the favour. You couldn’t recall ever wanting to kiss someone more.

It seemed neither of you wanted to be the first to hang up. Slowly, regrettably, you came to a silent agreement, and after another quiet goodbye, you both set the handset down with a dull clunk. Disconnected.

You stared at the phone, processing all the information John had given you. It was an odd sort of feeling, to know that someone you wanted so badly wanted you just as much in return.

A customer rapped their knuckles against the door, an incredibly rude gesture considering you were busy fantasising about bending the delivery boy over the counter.

In a move you hoped no one noticed, you brushed your fingers against the telephone as if it were John’s hand, then went to start your day, your mind whirring as you realised you had already decided you were definitely going to kiss John the next time you saw him.

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