Ten Petaled Rose

Chapter 3: No Use Crying Over Spilled Tea

The weekend came and John was home alone. Normally he'd be out with the boys who'd stopped by already. He'd refused them in exchange for some time alone. Something he rarely got. At the moment, he was laying in his bed, hands running up and down his face. Narked at himself for being such a shit. He never thought about it until he came home. He was a completely different person at school. A real tosser. But there was no use apologizing. Not that they'd believe him. And not that he would change. He couldn't help it and that secretly killed him.

"What a mess." He murmured to himself. Glancing at the window curtains which now lay flat against the wall. Glaring. Hating. Nothing in particular. Just feeling like he wanted to strangle someone. Clenched fists as a racing heart prompting faces to flash across his mind. Who did he want to kill? Who could he kill, as angry as he was?

He found himself asking nearly every Saturday. When he had time to reflect on his life and his decisions. There was always one face that stopped him. That calmed him down and brought him a sense of peace. Though today it was different. He thought about George, how badly he wanted to be punched. To be put in his place for once. They let him get away with everything -- but -- then he thought about Paul. The honey colour of his eyes. The way he pleaded so innocently. The way he just...wanted it to stop. The aggression. The anger. All of it. And how despite John's constant beratement, he still...well he still bothered. To plead. What did that mean?

Glancing down, he noticed that his knuckles lie rolled out at his sides. Fingers extended, relaxed and calm. He tried to clench them again but found he couldn't. Not while he was thinking about Paul. Not while he imagined looking into his eyes. What did that mean?

He sat up. Rubbing hard on his eyes. Shaking his head as well as the images out. Resetting his mind as he rose and wandered down the hall into the kitchen where he fixed the kettle upon the stove. Munching on a few biscuits as he waited for the water to boil. He half expected Ringo to visit, so he prepared two cups of tea before realizing what he'd done. Oh well. Making them both how he liked, he walked across the sitting room, half a step from his favourite chair when lest his eyes deceive him...

No.

That couldn't be Paul.

Walking his dog on the street opposite.

Both cups slipped from his hands and made twice the mess.

"Shit." He muttered.

Glancing down, then back up at -- some bloke he'd never met. No. He wouldn't accept that. Peering out the window at every possible angle. He had to be up or down the street somewhere. John had not imagined him. Collapsing backwards onto the sofa behind him when the boy passed again, this time on his side of the street. Head bowed, he didn't even notice John. Walking briskly until he'd left John's sight.

What did that mean?

John all but forgot about the spilled tea, mystified as he gazed out the window. He hadn't known where Paul lived, but he'd assumed it had been far, far away. Throwing on his jumper, he stepped outside. Jogging lightly down the same way Paul had. Peering around the corner in enough time to see him turn down another street. John followed. Hood hanging down over his face. Discrete and slow in his steps. Once nearly throwing himself into a stack of boxes to avoid being seen.

After all was said and done, he found himself wistfully staring at the front door of Paul's house. Three blocks or so from his own. Somehow, baffled, as though he weren't allowed to live that close. Not that it mattered.

He knew.

Paul didn't.

It was going to stay that way.