Call Me Back Again

CHAPTER 8

"No, he bloody well isn't," John growled, suddenly appearing at Paul's side. He'd seen the awkward interaction and guessed its outcome sooner than Paul had. The instant he sensed trouble - when Paul was washing his hands, oblivious to the way he was being watched - John had stopped trying to squeeze out those last few drops and hurried to help his friend. Glaring daggers at the Ozzie wanker, John wrapped a possessive arm around Paul's waist and pulled him close to his side. To his immense relief (and excitement), Paul got the hint and mirrored the gesture. "He's taken, go find someone your own age."

Moments later, when he was sure the coast was clear, he released his death grip on Paul and ambled over to the sink. He'd been in such a hurry to play knight in glittery armour that he'd neglected to wash his hands. "You know, that's bound to keep happening today. Macca. Events like these are a bloody feeding frenzy: if they half think you're available, they'll make a pass. Can't blame them, but still..."

"Not much to be done about that, though, is there?"

"Well... Most of them would leave you alone if they thought you were taken," John countered, unable to stop himself from suggestively wiggling his eyebrows. He knew it was only half true. Some men would respect other men's relationships, but others wouldn't. It was all a matter of how badly they coveted the bloke who caught their eye, and how much they'd had to drink. "How are your acting skills?"

So, they'd reached that point, then. Paul leant against the wall and crossed his arms across his chest. As much as the idea appealed to him, he wasn't sure he could trust himself to remember it was only make-believe. Especially since it wasn't. Not really. John clearly wanted him; he wasn't even subtle about it. And well, he wanted John, too, but the fear of getting burned by John was holding him back. On the other hand, it would be a drag if random people kept hitting on John, or on him. Paul would much rather spend that time just having fun. "I'm not much of an actor, really. But I see your point. What do you have in mind? I mean, how 'together' do you think we should be to get the message across?"

John chuckled at the liberal use of air quotes, but he was glad he wouldn't have to spell it out or pester Paul into agreeing to the plan. "Let's take it one step at a time. It'll be awkward enough for you to pretend to be gay as it is, no need to take it up to eleven at once." To illustrate his intentions were good, he held out his hand, though he would've preferred to wrap an arm around that tiny waist again: much easier access to Paul's perfect bum. Oh well, maybe later. He did, however, lace their fingers together the moment Paul took his hand. "This alright? I reckon this should keep most of them at bay. We can always take it up a notch if we need to. Assuming you'd be comfortable doing that."

As if he'd object, Paul thought to himself. Knowing him, he'd probably end up forgetting all about his own reservations and be the one doing the dialling up. Even now, he could hardly resist the urge to walk so closely together their hips would touch. This was going to be bloody difficult... And probably more fun than he'd had in years.

_~*~_

The view from the steps of Wellington's Column was rather good, John thought. And not just that of the person sitting to his left either, although he wouldn't have minded spending the entire day just looking at Paul. No, the insanity that was happening around them was very entertaining too. More than once, he only barely managed to keep from spitting his lager down his front. Someone really ought to start selling Pride bibs, he reckoned, the umpteenth time Paul pointed out a particularly hilarious costume. The way John was going, it was only a matter of time until there would be a spot on his T-shirt, which would make it look like that Stones logo had gotten ill...

Paul glanced over his shoulder again. Was John trying to get a message across when he suggested they sit here and finish their fish and chips, rather than risk wearing them down their fronts? They could've sat anywhere: the bus stop across the street, the steps of St. George's Hall, even inside Lime Street Station, where they had to go to pop their excess baggage into a locker anyway. Couldn't very well keep dragging those bulky bags into the ridiculously dense crowd, could they? Besides. If John complained one more time about how heavy that tiny Chromebook was getting, Paul might have to bash his head in with it. But anyway, they could have done that first and settled anywhere else. Instead, they'd ended up underneath an enormous phallic structure. Something was fishy, and it wasn't the greasy food they were sharing.