Chapter Text
It’s Saturday night – one of the busiest of the week, as it usually is. John works behind the bar, wiping glasses, making drinks, running the cash, exchanging a few words with regulars. Nothing special about the night, just lots of work, drunken shouts, and rock music playing in the background.
“Two whiskeys for table three,” Yelena, one of the waitresses, shouts, leaning on the counter, tray to her chest. “Two Millers, one Corona, one cider, and a beer plate for table seven. And can I have a glass of water? Hot as hell.”
“Sure.”
He adds ice and hands her a glass, then keeps preparing drinks, glancing around occasionally. Ava moves between tables with plates from the kitchen, smiling at guests and chatting a little – good for her, she always makes good tips. The night flows, and even though John is tired as fuck – he spent the day with his son, helping him with football training – he feels that pleasant buzz of energy.
It’s around midnight when that kid walks in, dragging a duffel and looking like he hasn’t slept for days. Tall but built like a scarecrow, clothes a size too big, hanging off his body. John isn’t sure he’s legal. He doesn’t care that much – has work to do – but when the kid props himself on a bar stool and raises a slender hand, John walks to him and says firmly, “We don’t serve alcohol to minors.”
“I, uh… I’m twenty-five, actually. Here.” After a moment of rustling through the stuff in his bag, he takes out his ID and shows it in John’s face, then smiles. “All legal.”
“Okay.” John nods. “What can I do for you?”
The kid – the guy, he corrects himself in his head – looks over the chalkboard with tonight’s specials, then drops his gaze into the menu and purses his lips.
“Hm… Fried chicken sandwich is fine. And a Coke. Diet.”
John raises his brow but doesn’t say anything, shouting to Ava who isn’t far.
“One fried chicken sandwich.”
“Okay, boss!” she shouts back, already moving, her trays full of dirty glasses and dishes.
John fills a tall glass with Diet Coke and puts it in front of the guy. From this close, he notices smudged eyeliner on the guy’s face, his greasy hair wavy and pretty long, touching his shoulders. Looks young. And exhausted. John throws a glance at his bag, still polishing a glass in his hands.
“You new here?”
“Mhm.” The guy takes a sip from his glass, slouching his shoulders slightly.
“And where are you from?” John asks conversationally.
“Uh… south.” Not too talkative, then. John’s okay with that. He just nods and turns to serve another guest.
That guy keeps attracting his attention, though – for some reason unknown even to himself.
Soon Ava brings him his sandwich, leaning closer to say something that makes him smile. She winks at him and moves on. John shakes his head with a smirk.
It’s an hour or so later when the guy leaves his seat after scanning the crowd for a while. John can’t help but notice he stops by the far table – a couple of truck drivers sitting there. John’s seen them around from time to time.
Only when one of them, the younger looking one, stands up and follows the guy out of the bar, glancing around, does it occur to him that the guy might be a hooker. Huh. John’s not judging. Not the boy – life is complicated and shit.
He totally forgets about the whole thing by the end of the night, it’s five in the morning and everyone’s gone by now, only the girls are still there, cleaning the tables. He walks around, lifting chairs where the tables are already cleaned, then grabs a mop and a bucket.
When John finally flops onto his bed, it’s almost 7 a.m., and the sun filters through the curtains, making him cover his face with a blanket to get some sleep. His feet are burning, and he’s tired as hell, so he’s asleep within minutes.
It’s pretty much the same the next day. John wakes up early, considering the time he made it to bed, to meet with suppliers, clears a clog in the sink his cook Rory complained about before leaving in the morning, checks on the garbage grinder.
It’s late afternoon when he finally finds the time to go on his run, deciding to go through the nearest park today.
And that’s when he sees him again.
The guy from last night. He’s sitting on a bench, book in hand, bag on his knees, reading. Doesn’t notice John, and John doesn’t stop to say hi – why would he – but it leaves him with that strange feeling he can’t explain. When he runs back, the guy’s not there anymore. Then it’s evening, he opens the bar, and everything goes just like any other day – until that guy shows up again, parked on the farthest stool, duffel still with him, hair tugged into a low ponytail. Same clothes, looking even more tired, but he smiles when John approaches.
“Planning to become a regular, huh?” John jokes dryly, hands busy filling glasses with beer.
“My place is kinda… ugh, nearby, so…” The guy rubs at his eyes, then props his chin on his hand, watching John’s movements like it’s something interesting. “Any chance you have tea here?”
John chuckles.
“It’s a bar, kid, not a café.”
“Right,” he mumbles, lowering his gaze. “Can I have, uh, a cider then?”
“Sure.” John serves him a glass, then moves down the bar to refill a pitcher and wipe down a sticky ring someone left behind. Sunday-to-Monday night isn’t that bad – it’s the end of the weekend – so he has enough time to check on the stock between guests, marking anything that needs to be refilled by the start of the next week, since the bar isn’t open from Monday morning to Wednesday evening.
He keeps throwing glances at that kid, that guy, and sees him nursing his cider, his hand trembling slightly when he raises it. He hasn’t taken off his hoodie either, even though it’s warm inside with all the bodies and the heater going. It’s early spring – still cold out – and tonight it’s raining. With a sigh, John pulls a menu from under the counter and slaps it in front of him.
“Pick something, on the house.”
The guy’s eyes widen slightly. “You don’t have to-”
“Didn’t ask if I had to.”
Ava swings by and catches the exchange.
“Chicken sandwich?” she asks, already half-smiling.
The guy nods, and when she disappears toward the kitchen, he just mutters, “Thanks.”
John waves him off, turning away to grab bottles from the shelf, busying himself again. The guy doesn’t go and pick up some asshole tonight – just sits there, takes out his book at some point, reading quietly, looking all thoughtful and out of place.
“What’s the book you’re reading?” John asks him later, it’s about three in the morning, and the bar’s starting to get emptier and quieter.
The guy flinches, startled, blinks at him, then turns the book to show the cover.
“It’s, uh, Haruki Murakami,” he replies, fidgeting with the piece of paper he clearly uses as a bookmark. “Underground. It’s about the sarin gas attack, you know…”
“Yeah, I remember it from the news,” John nods. “You like it?”
He doesn’t answer right away, his gaze lingering on the page like he’s not sure. Then he says, “It’s very sad, but… there’s so much love, even if it costs a tragedy to unravel it?”
“I guess that’s just human nature,” John comments, shaking his head. “Maybe I should read it someday, too.”
He lets out an exhausted sigh, dragging a hand through his hair to get it out of his eyes – he should’ve had a haircut long ago. He notices the guy staring and raises an eyebrow. That’s enough to make him drop his eyes, mumbling something that sounds like sorry. It’s probably because of the scar that crosses John’s right eyebrow and partly his cheek.
“I used to serve in ground forces,” he says, collecting all the dirty glasses and wiping the counter clean.
“I- I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have stared like that,” the guy mumbles, eyes wide.
“Nah, it’s fine,” John replies. “So, what’s your name, kid?”
“Bob,” he says hesitantly.
“Just Bob?”
“Yes… Bob…”
“Okay, Bob,” John hums, extending a hand. “I’m John.”
Bob’s hand is cold when he squeezes John’s, just for a second.
He’s one of the last guests to leave. It’s early morning, still kinda dark outside. John cleans up and closes the bar, then tries to sleep, but sleep doesn’t come to him, so he decides to take his run early and try again later.
It starts drizzling again when he laces up his sneakers, pulls his hoodie tight, and heads out, dark and heavy clouds overcasting the sky. John couldn’t care even if it were pouring – the weather is pleasantly chill, the air fresh, and routine helps clear his head. Five miles, headphones in, pace steady.
He tries to alternate the route – heard somewhere that it’s good for the brain – runs down the empty streets, the pavement slick under his feet, his body warming up from the effort, breath and heartbeat quickening a little. He rarely looks around while jogging, more focused on his route usually, but when he passes that park a couple blocks away from his home on the way back, he glances around – and that’s when he sees him. John recognizes the dark blue hoodie and duffel bag in an instant and stops abruptly, letting out a heavy sigh. Bob looks small, curled on a bench – the one covered by the big, old oak tree – lying on his side, arms tucked close to his body, with his bag under his head and his cheek pressed to the crook of his elbow. His lips are parted, slightly blue – he’s probably freezing.
John comes closer slowly. He takes out his earbuds. It’s not like he didn’t know – he’s not an idiot and saw the signs: same clothes, greasy hair, shaky hands. Still, wondering and knowing for sure aren’t the same, and even though something on the edge of his mind whispers that it’s not his problem, he can’t just walk away now, can he?
“Shit,” he mutters, dragging a hand over his face. The rain intensifies, and he has to do something, so he calls him.
“Bob.”
That gets no reaction, so John touches his shoulder, shaking him slightly.
“Bob, wake up.”
Bob jerks awake like he’s been yanked from underwater. Eyes wide, blinking fast, looking around and only then at John, as if trying to remember where the hell he is.
“Hey, hey, easy. It’s me.” John’s voice drops, low and even. “John, remember? The Firelight Bar.”
“…John?” Bob’s voice is hoarse, like he’s already catching a cold. He blinks again, then clutches at his bag, slouching his shoulders and pressing into the bench, looking ashamed.
“I, uh… I was reading and t-then probably fell asleep and-”
“Jesus, kid,” John mutters, already pulling off his hoodie and shoving it at him. “You’re fucking freezing. C’mon, pull this one on.”
“I’m fine,” Bob lies, and it’s just ridiculous, considering his trembling frame and damp clothes.
“Bullshit,” John huffs. “This where you’ve been sleeping?”
Bob looks down, fidgeting with John’s hoodie, then finally tugging it right over his own. It’s big enough to fit like that.
“I told you my place was nearby,” he mutters, trying to smile like it’s funny. “Didn’t say it had a roof.”
John just stares. Then he sighs and waves a hand at him.
“C’mon. Get up. You’re coming with me.”
Bob looks at him, clearly confused. “Where?”
“My place,” John says. “You’ll dry off, warm up. Then we’ll decide what to do with you.”
Bob looks like he’s about to refuse, but John’s already turning away, and soon, he hears footsteps, the slightest splash of water in puddles as Bob follows him.
***
John’s flat is on the second floor of the building, right above his bar, which is convenient. He fiddles with the lock, then opens the door and nods to Bob.
“Get in.”
Bob steps inside carefully, clutching the bag strap so hard his pale hand looks even paler. His gaze drops to the small shoe rack, so he bends down to unlace his old Converse sneakers, stepping out of them and freezing in place.
“Do you have a change of clothes?” John asks, leading him deeper into the apartment.
Bob shrugs his shoulders.
“N-no? I mean, I have some but, uh, it needs to be… well, washed…”
“Got it,” John nods, opening one of the doors in the corridor and walking into the room.
“I’ll find you something to wear so you can take a shower and change into dry clothes.”
“You really don’t have to,” Bob tries to protest, but John returns with a pile of clothes and shuts him up with a look. Bob lowers his eyes and just keeps following him around like a wet stray cat while John collects a clean, soft-looking towel from the bathroom closet and ruffles through the cabinets some more.
“I don’t have a spare washcloth,” he mutters, “but there’s a new toothbrush, so you can use it. Shampoo,” he points at the bottles, “shower gel. Turn the tap right for hot water and left for cold. Good?”
He looks at Bob expectantly, folding his arms over his chest. Bob nods quickly.
“Uh, yeah- I mean, thank you, yes…”
“Good.” John nods too, then turns around and leaves the bathroom, closing the door behind him.
Bob’s whole body slumps like some invisible string has been cut, and he rubs his hands over his face, then finally drops his bag and starts to undress. John’s hoodie he folds neatly; his own dirty clothes make a pile on the tiled floor.
The moment hot water hits his skin, he actually starts to cry, pressing his lips together tight to hold back any embarrassing sounds he might make. He just has to lean against the wall for a moment to get through it, sniffing quietly, his whole body shaking, hair getting wet and sticking to his face and neck. His skin burns because he was freezing – he felt that piercing cold deep in his bones – and now it finally starts to seep out of his body, and it’s the nicest thing he’s felt in months. Sure, guys he hooked up with from time to time let him take a shower after, but the last one was, like, a week ago, and he hasn’t been able to find a place to spend the night since then, and this time just feels entirely different.
He washes his hair and it’s a tangled mess, so he has to thread his fingers through the knots. It takes effort and time, and he feels embarrassed for taking so long when he’s finally done. He brushes his teeth, stares at his reflection for a couple of minutes, feeling like he might dissociate just from looking at that exhausted face he barely recognizes anymore.
The clothes John gave him are soft and warm, and Bob just touches the fabric, rubs his palm against it, feeling like he doesn’t deserve to wear them. He pulls the clothes on anyway, drowning in the big, cozy sweater John gave him. It’s almost black, and soft, and the sleeves cover his hands almost completely, which is fine with him.
Bob wanders through the corridor as quietly as he can, bare feet barely making a sound on the hardwood floor. It’s pretty much empty – no decor on the walls or other little cozy touches. He isn’t snooping, not really, but the door to the living room is the only one cracked open, and something draws him closer.
He steps in, eyes catching on the far wall – there’s a collection of photographs, more than he expected, carefully placed in simple wooden frames.
Most of them are of the same boy, growing older in each: an infant curled up in John’s arms, a toddler grinning with cake on his tiny hands, a gap-toothed kid in a little league uniform. In the earliest one, John looks almost unrecognizable – his golden hair longer, brushing his collarbones, his face younger, softer. He’s holding the baby close to his bare chest, smiling down like the whole world is right there in his arms.
Bob takes a step closer without thinking, fingers twitching at his sides. There’s a heaviness in his chest, something quiet and sharp. Not jealousy. Not exactly. Just… the ache of a life he’s never had, of unconditional parental love that looks simple and real and permanent. He glances toward the hallway, like he’s about to get caught, then takes one last look before slipping back the way he came.
He finds John in the kitchen, standing behind the stove, turning around at the sound of his steps. John gives him a quick once-over, then says:
“Come in.”
The room isn’t too small and isn’t too big – just like the rest of John’s apartment, it’s enough. The walls are mostly white; John bought the place like that and never thought to change it. Bob stands there, uncertain, like he doesn’t know where he’s allowed to be. John nods toward the kitchen table.
“Sit down. I’m making breakfast. Hope you like eggs and bacon, ’cause I don’t have anything else,” he says, moving to flip the bacon in the pan before it burns, then looks back at Bob once again.
“You drink tea or coffee?”
“I… anything?” Bob shrinks a little, one leg tucked under him, damp hair waving around his face.
“Coffee it is, then.” John pours him a mug, puts it in front of him with a thud, and it makes Bob flinch.
He doesn’t look much better after the shower – but cleaner. Smells clean, too, like John’s very own shampoo-three-in-one, mint freshness, other bullshit. There’s a light scrub on his face, dark circles under his eyes even darker than the night before, cheeks hollow. John can’t help but think about what could’ve happened to him to make him fall so low he had to sleep on the streets. He tries not to stare too much, though, just goes on with making something to eat, serves two plates for both of them, and sits down too.
He takes a bite, looks at Bob, who is staring at the food with a close-to-shocked expression on his face, not daring to touch it.
“It’s not poisoned,” John jokes, trying to lighten the mood, “but it can get cold really fast, so eat already.”
“I… sorry,” Bob mutters, grabbing his fork finally, still careful with every move.
John lets the silence stretch a little before he asks, “So, Bob, where you heading?”
Bob blinks up at him, drops his gaze immediately, and fidgets with the edge of his sleeve.
“N-not anywhere in particular – I just, I guess, I’m just traveling? Kinda?”
John raises his eyebrows at that.
“I don’t know,” Bob admits quickly. “It’s hard to explain.”
“You don’t have to.” John shrugs, takes a sip of coffee, and leans back in his chair, thumb rubbing against the handle of his coffee mug. He watches Bob chew slowly, barely swallowing, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to eat. That knot of discomfort twists again in John’s gut – part pity, part something else he doesn’t want to name.
He should let it go.
But he doesn’t.
Because he’d seen enough cold faces in the army to know when someone’s near the edge. And Bob, with his tired eyes and pale skin and little flinches, looks too damn close to falling off it.
He’s not your responsibility, the voice in his head says.
He’ll figure it out. They always do.
But then again, they don’t. Not always. And John can’t stop picturing the kid back on that bench, lips blue, body trembling under soaked clothes.
It’s so stupid. He should’ve run right past him and left the whole thing behind.
He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.
“Do you need a job?” he asks, before he can stop himself.
Bob freezes, fork halfway to his mouth. “A job?”
John shrugs, trying to keep his voice flat, like it’s no big deal, rubbing a hand over his beard.
“I could use spare hands at the bar, and it seems to me that you could use a job.”
“But I- I didn’t even finish school, I mean,” he stutters a little, averts his eyes again, his face heating up, “I dropped out in eighth grade.”
It explains a lot of things, but John’s not the one to judge, so he just waves a hand at him.
“It’s a bar, you don’t actually need to be a genius to work here.”
Bob stays quiet, chewing at his bacon slowly like he needs it to keep his mouth busy.
“It’s your call, of course,” John continues, “but I don’t see any better options for you at this point. I mean, you can keep with this hooker thing you’ve got going on-“
Bob snaps his eyes up at that, getting even redder.
John presses his lips together tightly.
“Yeah, I noticed. And let me tell you, kid,” he raises a pointed finger, “you’re not doing that in my bar ever again, you hear me?”
“Sorry,” Bob mumbles, dropping his fork and curling in on himself like he expects John to get physical, which isn’t happening, obviously, but John lowers his hand slowly, as if to not scare him off further.
“I’m not saying it’s forever,” John says. “But for now? Seems better than the park bench.”
“Why?” Bob asks quietly, not looking up. “You don’t even know me.”
And John doesn’t have an answer for that, not even for himself, so he just shrugs. Drags a hand through his hair, trying to come up with something, anything.
“Just… seemed wrong to walk away,” he mumbles, for lack of better words.
Bob stays frozen a moment longer. Then he nods slowly. It’s not a yes but it’s close enough.
“Okay,” John mutters with a heavy sigh, standing up and grabbing his plate and mug, leaving them in the sink. “Finish your food, and we’ll talk about it more.”
***
“So, there’s lots of my shit, but we’ll get it all out of here,” John says, opening the door to the spare bedroom he’s used as storage for old memories as long as he’s lived there. There are a lot of cardboard boxes – some marked, some not – nothing really important. He meant to deal with them anyway, so now seems as good a time as any. There’s a double bed, a wooden dresser, and a window with no curtains or even blinds. Dust is everywhere, blanketing every surface like snow, and the window glass is dull from it, too.
Bob shifts from one foot to the other, glancing around like he’s torn between thanking him or apologizing for even being there. John isn’t having that.
“Before you decide, there’s some rules,” he says. “Starting with – you keep your shit in your room. No making messes around the house. The other big one – don’t go into my room or my son’s room. The rest of the house is yours to use.”
“Okay,” Bob murmurs, fidgeting with his hands.
“We’ll have it cleaned up in no time,” John adds, brushing past him to lift one of the boxes off the bed. “Most of this crap should’ve been tossed years ago.”
Bob hovers near the doorframe, like stepping in too far might ruin everything.
“You sure? I mean, I don’t wanna-“
“Well, can’t have you sleeping on the damn couch,” John cuts in, firm but not harsh, nudging another box toward the hallway with his foot. “Figure if you’re staying, you get a door to close.”
Bob nods quickly, rubbing his arm with one hand. “Right. Yeah. Sorry.”
There’s silence again, save for the soft shuffle of cardboard and the occasional thump as a box hits the floor outside the room. Dust swirls lazily in the air. Bob finally steps further inside, hesitating like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to touch anything.
John straightens after a moment, glancing around with a grimace. “That mattress has probably seen dinosaurs, but it’s the best I can offer right now.”
Bob lets out a quiet laugh – more like a puff of air, surprised at himself for even doing it. He glances up at John.
“It’ll do. I mean- thanks. Really.”
John just grunts. “Don’t thank me yet.”
He starts out, then pauses in the doorway.
“You need anything – say it. And don’t just stand there. These boxes won’t walk themselves out.”
***
The night comes faster than he expected, and Bob lies on the bed covered in clean sheets, unable to close his eyes and rest. It smells of detergent, and a little like mustiness too, even though John opened the window while they were clearing the room of boxes. Bob likes the scent, though.
The shirt he’s wearing is one of John’s old ones – something he found among the forgotten clothes left behind when they stopped fitting. Now they’re stacked neatly in the dresser in the room Bob’s taken over, no longer collecting dust. It’s soft in the way only well-worn fabric can be, with a bunch of skulls pictured on the front.
The pillow is soft, too, and the blanket is big enough to cover him from head to toe. The sound of rain outside should lull him to sleep – he’s exhausted – but still, he can’t help feeling anxious and terrified, like all of this is a cruel joke or a dream that’ll disappear the second he lets himself relax. He presses his palms to his eyes, exhaling heavily, and it makes white spots appear behind his eyelids. It doesn’t quite work to wipe these thoughts away.
God, he wishes he had just one pill to press into his mouth, to shut his stupid brain up, to stop his hands from trembling and his guts from twisting into knots around every obsessive thought. He can’t get used to this – can he? By morning, John will realize he made a huge mistake. He’ll ask Bob to leave. And he’ll be right to do it, because all Bob ever does is fuck things up.
Yeah, that’s how it will end.