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Paul is cooking them breakfast, but John is hungry for something he can’t swallow.
No, not that, he thinks, he has no problems swallowing that.
They’re starting over, he thinks. John is done with Japan, done with her, but specially with being the only one in the room not speaking the same language as everyone else. That has been the case his entire life, from Liverpool to London to New York to Tokyo; he doesn’t need the reinforcement.
He and Paul speak the same language, though. Their language. It’s unwritten, though not always verbal and not always fluent to both, but it’s theirs alone.
He cannot be understood any better than Paul understands him.
(Paul cannot be understood better than John understands him. Is he a fool for thinking it’s true?)
“You want eggs with it?” Paul asks him, not looking up from where he is messing with the frying pan.
John raises an eyebrow. “Thought you would've gone full on veggie by now.”
“Nah. I tried, though!” he said. “But I went without milk for two days and almost passed out on top of an old lady’s lap on the subway.”
John smiles at the image. “Shame. 's a nice conversation starter.”
Paul chuckles at that but John is not as amused.
That’s how easily they could come back to it, back to them. How easily they could slip back into speaking their own foreign language. Their music, as Paul would most certainly put it if he gave what they had any thought at all. John knows, at his core, that each other is all they can truly hear, sometimes without the other ever saying a word.
His mind briefly goes back to that LSD trip. That one trip he tries not to think too much about, otherwise his chest might burst from Paul too much.
That night they laid together on the kitchen room floor of their one-bedroom apartment. Transparent bodies and fleshed out souls. They weren’t touching but they were, just not with the skin. Not with the skin.
They were at the very centre of it all that night/year/lifetime. Watching the wheels of space and time, looking down at the absurdist speediness of life. They were at the centre of it all, where there is nothing but love, and love and love.
(Love. Loving Paul too much. The two words ingrained themselves into unconscious synonyms in his rotten brain and he won’t bother to change it now. He never did.)
It was brilliant and it was steady; it was eternal and fleeting. The silence was filled with praise and adoration and, for a moment, they were at the centre of it all. The heart of their hearts, where time and hate could not touch them.
(He never asked if Paul felt it too. Not only because he was afraid of the answer, but also because he knew Paul felt it too. He just did. How couldn’t he? Everyone on Earth felt it too, their love.)
“Okay, here it is.” Paul placed the plate of fried eggs on toast with charred tomatoes in front of him and John smiled thankfully, patting the stool next to him so they could eat together. But Paul remained standing still at the opposite side of the countertop.
“Sit.”
“Nope,” Paul smirked and crossed his arms. “Want to see you try it first.”
“What if I don’t like it?”
“Then I’ll show you the door.” But he was grinning as he said it.
John took a cautious bite and chewed on it slowly. “Hmm.”
Paul glared expectantly. Another bite. Mimi always told him to chew slowly, and he was only now beginning to listen to her advice. “Hmmmm.”
“Okay, Julia fucking Child, what’s the verdict?” Paul asked impatiently.
“Hm.” John, who slowed his jaw movements even more, raised a finger as if telling Paul to wait.
Masterchef rolled his eyes. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, John. Is it any good?”
John made a dramatic swallowing movement, briefly touching his Adam’s apple and Paul rolled his eyes. He waited a beat to increase the suspense.
“It’s, um,” he made a flamboyant gesture with his hand, the one he’d seen in cartoonish Italian or French chefs. “It’s a valid effort.”
“Oh, fuck off.” Masterchef threw his handkerchief at John’s face, but Paul was laughing. “Arsehole.”
“We've always known I’m the better cook, my dear. Thought we had that very clear.”
“Yeah, we did. But I had to make do, didn’t I?” His boyfriend stared pointedly at him, and John broke eye contact. It wasn’t like Paul to be so direct about anything, but there was clearly some residual hurt about them, about John. He really thought he could just waltz back into Paul’s life, but of course it wouldn’t be that easy. Of course Paul’s changed. Paul’s grown. Like a flower.
The disqualified Masterchef walked to the opposite side of the countertop and sat down on the stool next to John, pressing their knees together. John moved the plate slightly to the left so Paul could grab a bite but he pushed it back in front of John. “Not hungry. Just want to watch you.”
John is chewing but he speaks anyway. Fuck Mimi. “Oh, but you know how self-conscious I can be.” He bats his eyelashes and tries not to think how gross he must look, especially next to him. Paul just smiles, a certain softness in his eyes John is never quite comfortable being the reception of. He doesn’t like being seen this close, in more ways than one. Paul brushes his hair behind his ear. John has to force himself to swallow so he won’t be sick.
“I think I’m full.” He puts the bit of leftover toast back on the plate.
Paul looks disappointed. “Oh, so you really didn’t like it.”
“Oh, come on, Paul, ‘s just a bite left,” He turns in the stool, puts his hands on either side of Paul’s face and kisses him. The disgusting man did not brush his teeth as soon as he woke up, like his boyfriend obviously did, so he tasted of morning breath. But John loved it when it was him, him and no one else.
Paul tasted like no one else and everyone else tasted the same.
“‘sides.” He moved his right hand to cup Paul’s crotch, and the other man let out a soft moan. “I’m hungry for something else.” Paul smiled onto the kiss and as John opened his eyes to watch the crinkles around his eyes, he felt sunlight pour into the room.
John knew that trying to feed his hunger was like falling into a dark pit. He just hoped Paul would never touch the bottom of him.