"I love your sunglasses, by the way," John blurted out after several seconds of awkward silence which followed that cheeky little wink. He had to somehow distract himself from the things it did to him, so he brought up the only other thing that could explain why he was staring at Paul without blinking. Besides, he did love them. He'd noticed them when Paul first arrived and hadn't been able to stop looking at them. They shouldn't fit in with the whole fifties outfit, what with them having those coloured mirror lenses that looked yellow from one angle and pink from another, but they suited the look remarkably well.
The spontaneous comment resulted in a smile bright enough to drown out the sun. "Yeah?"
"I do," he nodded earnestly. "The whole look rocks, right, but those sunnies are dead cool."
Paul was grateful for the warm sun, which had already given his cheeks a fair bit of colour. It meant the blush he felt creeping onto his face wouldn't be so noticeable. Hoping John wouldn't see how much of an impact the compliment had, he took a sip from his banana milkshake to buy some time. "I got loads of 'em, you know. They're three quid apiece on eBay like, so I got every colour they had. Got a bunch of round ones, too. You know, like the old granny glasses they used to have?"
"Yeah, I know those. Been looking for something like that, actually. You should send me the link so I can get some." John kerbed his enthusiasm, remembering he couldn't exactly splurge on too many things he didn't need. "Well, when I find a job."
"Hmm. Right." Momentarily distracted, Paul subconsciously gnawed on the nails of his right hand, furrowing his brow as his mind wandered to a fairly recent memory of an argument he had with Mike. He wondered if he should say what he was thinking. Wouldn't it give the wrong impression if he did? Then again, it would only be a friendly gesture. "I got some duplicates if you're interested."
Christ on a cracker, could that daft little twit get any cuter? Nobody should look that fuckable biting their nails. Was there no end to the ways in which Paul could send John's heart aflutter? Apparently, there wasn't, so John supposed he might as well respond to the comment. "You do?"
"Hmm. Only the round shades, though. I have two of the turquoise-and-purple ones, and the other pair is the same colour as these," he explained, tapping the side of the frames. He could already hear the things Mike would say, should he ever find out Paul was willing to give away the sunglasses to some random bloke he just met, but not to his own flesh and blood. The kid had been scowling for days after he'd been forced to give back the ones he'd confiscated, after all. Maybe he had a point but then again, who bought him that fancy Nikon D3200 camera and the pricey wide angle lens he loved so much? Paul reckoned that after being that generous, he had every right to deny young Michael free reign in his dresser drawer. Let him get his own bloody shades if he fancied them so much. "Not sure about the former, though. It could be the light-and-dark blue ones instead. Or maybe they're yellow and green... "
John chuckled at the seriousness with which something so insignificant was explained. As if it even mattered which colour they were... "How many colours are there, anyway?"
Paul almost started describing the six or seven (or eight, or nine... fine, twelve!) different variations, but then he didn't, afraid it'd make him sound like an even worse spod than he already was. Be cool, he reminded himself. "Oh, I don't know. A few, I reckon. You should come over and see for yourself."
He had to really bite his tongue in order to keep himself from being too eager. The mere thought of going over to Paul's was entirely too much for John to handle. If it was up to him, they'd go immediately. "Maybe I will," he drawled slowly, struggling to seem only vaguely excited. "Not sure I can spare six quid right now, though. That's two days worth of food, like."
Paul shrugged. He hadn't even thought of that. He wasn't going to ask for money, was he? It wouldn't be a gift if he did. "You can just have them, you know. I was going to give them away anyway. You can always repay me some other way if it's important to you. Like, erm... Oh, I know. Can you cook?"
"A bit," John lied, "why?"
"Well, I'm rubbish at it, you know," Paul confessed, finally able to say the words he'd refused to utter thus far, even though he knew his culinary skills were rudimentary at best. Everyone who ever ate at his place could vouch for that: he'd managed to give three people food poisoning so far (not counting himself), and he'd lost count of how many times he'd gotten the shits from his own inedible, home cooked meals. Who knew chicken had to be heated through and through, or that too much butter was actually a bad thing when it made everything taste better?
Well, at least he knew how to make the perfect pot of English tea. And he could also do toast, scrambled eggs, bangers and mash, and chocolate biscuits. Sure, they tended to be a bit dark (black) and crispy (he might have broken his left front tooth on one), but he liked them that way. Maybe he should consider cooking classes, though... Okay, enough of that now, focus. "Tell you what: I'm doing my annual Harrython Saturday next...."
"Yer wha'?"
The sudden Scouse outburst made Paul grin a bit. "Harry Potter marathon. I watch them back to back once a year: twenty hours of Potter, though it's closer to a full day with snacks and loo breaks. Mike can't stomach it, he always stays at an auntie's house during those weekends. Apparently, watching one film with me is bad enough; eight of them is rumoured to make those around me suicidal. You think you could handle it? You said you were a Potterhead, so I thought... you know. Could be fun." He'd talked so fast, he'd gotten a bit breathless from it. But, it was the only way he could have said all those things without backtracking halfway through. He realised he'd just invited John to spend a whole day at his flat...
"I reckon I could try." Christ, John thought, now he'd have to find a way to bribe Ringo into teaching him how to cook. He could do a fair spaghetti bolognese, and he'd once accidentally made a really great cream of mushroom soup (it was actually supposed to be a ragout and he still couldn't figure out why it hadn't thickened) but apart from that and the basic breakfast things, he was better at ruining his cookware than he was at making something resembling food. But, Paul didn't need to know that. A week should be enough to learn a few simple recipes, he supposed.
"Great. Why don't you come over early and cook? That'd make us square, right? It'd save me far more than six quid in takeaway alone. How's that sound?" Paul mentally patted himself on the back. Smooth move, he told himself. Cool as a cucumber, and all that.
John didn't have the heart to say they'd probably end up ordering pizza or Chinese anyway. "Sounds like a deal to me."
"Great," said Paul, glad that he'd managed to get his wish - for John to come on over to his place so they could get to know each other better - without making it look suspicious. He dug up his phone, meaning to swap numbers. Of course, he already had John's, because Ringo had given it to him. He'd been trying to call to no avail, though. "Let's exchange details... so we can discuss the time and the food, you know."
"I can't," John sighed, noticing Paul had a pink phone. He thought that was hilarious, but he wasn't going to comment on it. Yet. Maybe later. Or maybe not. Since, well, he had set his sights on the same one, hadn't he? He'd have to get a new one, now that... "My phone died."
"It what?"
"Deceased. Kaput. Carked. Drowned whilst being baptised by some overpriced Italian red wine, approximately..." He pointedly studied his wristwatch, "eighteen hours ago."
The disastrous dinner... Paul had no idea what exactly happened after Natalie threw the wine, but the remains of the crime scene when he did the walk of shame to collect his bag and jacket had quite a story to tell. Broken glass, a mostly empty plate and a big, nasty stain on the floor where a crashed lasagna had just been wiped up by a waiter with blond hair and blue eyes, a drenched table cloth, and the sticky residue of what seemed like a puddle of wine, probably from the bottle that lay on its side. It had been a proper fly trap, that. Paul's shoes still stuck to the ground a little with each step.
Ironically, his own plate still looked picture perfect and he'd almost asked if he could take it to go since it looked and smelt so delicious. In the end, he'd opted against it. People were looking at him funny anyway, so with a quick-witted courtesy and a comical quip (Ladies and gentlemen, we hope you have enjoyed the show, and you can book us for weddings, funerals, and other parties. For inquiries, please contact the head waiter or your nearest loony bin...) he'd scuttered home with his tail between his legs.
Never in a million years could Paul have imagined that his ego and that poor lasagna dish weren't the only casualties to be mourned. Well, and John's job, obviously. That was a drag, too. "Sorry about that, mate. Can I see? Maybe it can be revived, you know."
"If you manage that," John laughed as he exhumed the earthly remains of his dearly departed iPhone, "I'll name my firstborn after you."
One look at the thing was enough. Paul fiddled with the buttons anyway, trying to look like he knew something nobody else did, but unless it was just a dead battery - and he assumed John had already tried that - then it was fit for the bin. The thing reeked of stale wine, and he could see bits of red in the nooks and crannies. Having it cleaned by one of the Apple Jedi Masters, who alone possessed the powers to actually open a fucking iPhone would cost a million, and it probably still wouldn't do any good.
"My sincere condolences on your loss," he muttered solemnly, handing back the phone with one hand, and digging up pen and paper with the other. "We'll have to do this the old-fashioned way, then."
Paul was a lefty. He hadn't really noticed before, even though he probably should have, John mused. There had to have been loads of little signs, such as his watch being on his right wrist, or him using his left a lot more than his right to grab things. It hadn't sunk in until he'd started writing down his address and number, though. He'd tapped his own details into Paul's phone, had even taken a selfie so that his Cheshire-Cat-grin would pop up on the screen when he'd ring his new best friend, and then exchanged it for the slip of paper Paul handed him. He had really pretty handwriting, John noticed. And he lived bloody far away!
"Kirkby? How the fuck did you end up there? That's technically not even Liverpool anymore, mate!" He kept staring incredulously at the details, but even after blinking a few times, it hadn't changed. The email address was too cute, though. 'Ooh-My-Paul@gmail.com', John read and re-read, wondering if he'd come up with that himself. "I like your email handle."
Paul chuckled. That was one of his better jokes, if not a bit self-indulgent. "I thought it'd be fun to make a play on words, you know. It's that Little Richard song, 'Ooh! My Soul', only I changed two letters so it had my name in it."
"Yeah, I thought that was it. You're not the only one who likes that kind of music, you know. Speaking of music," he said, noticing how much time they'd spent chinwagging, "we should probably head towards Pier Head if we want to find a half decent spot."
The thought had occurred to Paul as well. The parade would start in a few hours, meaning most of the route would already be lined with onlookers. They still had to walk there, which would take twice as long considering the massive crowd heading in the same direction. And, he was getting hungry. "Yeah. Let's get something to eat while we're at it."
"Good idea. Wanna go chippy?"
"Sounds great," he nodded. I'll just pop inside to pay, and then we can go, yeah? My treat," he added when John pulled a crumpled fiver out of his jeans pocket.
"You don't have to pay for me, Paul," John grumbled. Just because he was out of a job, didn't mean he couldn't afford to pay for a few ruddy milkshakes. They only were a quid fifty each anyway, hardly enough to empty his coffers. "I'm not in the fucking poorhouse yet."
Paul shrugged, unsure what the fuss was about. "I know that. Pay me back later then, if it means that much to you. Meanwhile, I don't see why we should make life any harder by splitting the bill, do you?
"No..."
"Well, then. Why don't you pack away your things? I won't be a tick." Of course, it took longer than expected to get through the queue, but at long last, they left the sunny terrace behind and were on their way to the main event.
John soon discovered that Paul saw everything, and had a lot of trouble resisting all the market stalls they passed on their way to the parade. Sure, he was ogling far too many things he didn't need too, but at least he managed to keep his spending to a bare minimum... thus far. That is until they ran across a big display of official-looking merchandise. He loved the Liverpool Pride logo, which was a stylised version of the skyline, with a flowing rainbow underneath which represented the Mersey river. John definitely wanted one of the T-shirts, and maybe an umbrella, and he didn't have a flag yet, and... Well, basically, he was fucked.
Paul was thinking one of those pins would be cool. He could stick that on his jacket or his rucksack and he'd be doing something to blend in without compromising his outfit. Not that he thought anyone would be bothered either way... It just felt so weird, trying to pretend he wasn't a member of the LGBT community when part of him wanted to show that he was, especially on this day. Perhaps something somewhat unobtrusive would support that ambiguity. Some people would think he was just an ally, and others would think him either a closet case or someone who didn't do the out and proud thing. Either way, their conclusion would always be more or less right.
He'd just selected a few smallish buttons and pins when John popped up at his side, carrying a bulging bag of all sorts of stuff, clearly all of which was covered in rainbows. Paul couldn't hold back the laughter that bubbled up at the sight of John's face, which looked equal parts guilty and chuffed. "Went on a bit of a spree then, did you? And you said I was bad. You got five times as much as I do, you have."
"Yeah well, I'm gay and you're not, so I'm allowed," he deadpanned, feeling perfectly justified, thank you very much. He rummaged through the bag until he found what he was looking for. "I got you a gift."
Paul took a moment to accept the change for his ten quid, stuffed his wallet into his Eastpak, and fumbled with the pin he meant to stick on the collar of his jacket. "You didn't need to do that, John. I mean, why would you even want to?"
"Because you're my friend and I like you, and I sometimes give gifts to people I like. Do I need a reason, Paul? If so, then the reason can be to say sorry for nearly blinding you yesterday or to celebrate that were mates. You choose."
"You're right, I'm sorry," Paul muttered, noticing how insulted John seemed. He definitely hadn't meant to say anything wrong, he just didn't expect any gifts. "You don't need a reason at all. But I'm glad you think that us being friends is a reason to celebrate. I think so, too. So, what is this gift you got me?"
With a big flourish which would put even the most effeminate Queen (the gay kind, not the palace-dwelling kind) to shame, John presented his purchase. It was the same official T-shirt he'd gotten for himself, only he had gotten a normal, unisex one, whereas the one he got for Paul was a men's slim fit, for obvious reasons (and all of them selfish). "Ta-da! And I hope you'll change into it right here, right now. When in Rome, and all that." He hadn't decided yet whether he'd change, or keep the Rolling Stones shirt on. He was slowly starting to grow fond of the holographic glitter, and it attracted a lot of appreciative looks, so... Maybe he'd just flaunt it for what it was worth.
Paul had t planned on wearing a bloody big rainbow across his chest, but now he wondered why not. Everybody else was doing it... "Hold this," he chuckled, thrusting first his bag, and then his jacket into John's arms. The next bit was a bit awkward for him. Still, he wanted to prove his loyalty so he sucked in his stomach and stripped off his T-shirt, quickly tossing it at John before changing into the one that said Liverpool Pride 2015. As fast as he was, though, he couldn't prevent some random bloke from wolf-whistling, or someone else from fondling his bum rather thoroughly...
John gulped when Paul's T-shirt came off. There was so much to take in... First of all: chest hair! He would t go so far as to say he had a fetish, but he certainly preferred men with body hair (to an extent, there was a limit to how furry he wanted them to be) over those who had little to none. Paul, in that regard, was perfect. He had loads of it on his forearms, and John suspected his legs would look much the same, but there was only a modest amount on his chest. He couldn't see his back but reckoned it would be smooth. There was a delightful trail leading from those well-defined pecs down the centre of his stomach and into... Nirvana. And then there were the muscles... He'd already figured out that Paul went to the gym, but the abs were a pleasant surprise. Too bad he covered them up so quickly. He decided then and there that whatever else he did that day, he'd have to find a good moment to cop a feel...