"You have weird feet."
They were about one-third into the marathon, by now. It had just gone one in the morning, Prisoner of Azkaban was halfway through, and John was starting to feel the first wave of exhaustion coming on. He hadn't really believed Paul when he'd said there would be a few moments like that, but now that they were seven hours into the Harrython, John couldn't deny he was getting tired. Then again, he should've realised it was going to be demanding when he'd felt a lump in his throat when Dobby got liberated from the Malfoys. Sure, it was one of his favourite scenes, but he'd never choked up before at the squeaky cry of 'Dobby is free!' before. He'd hate to think how he'd react when Harry returned with Cedric's corpse, or when Sirius died, or...
Finding it hard to concentrate, John's mind had wandered and just now, for some reason he couldn't fathom, it had settled on Paul's feet, which he hadn't bothered to stick under the duvet after the most recent wee break (wee in both senses of the word: just a very short interruption to go take a piss). Now that the anomaly had caught his attention, it was proving impossible to look away. So naturally, as one does, he had blurted out his findings, which resulted in that perfectly curved right eyebrow to be pulled up to dizzying heights.
If John was already losing his ability to focus now, he'd be in for a very long night, Paul reckoned as he glared at his neighbour. They weren't even close to the halfway point yet, which was usually when he'd start to sag. Since this was John's first Harrython, Paul had kept the schedule a lot less demanding than he usually would. Apparently, taking a 15-minute break hadn't been enough. Still, even taking fatigue into consideration, who in their right mind would study someone else's feet of all things? Then again, Paul wasn't entirely convinced John fit into the 'right mind' category.
"What are you on about, John? I swear, mate, just when I thought you couldn't get nuttier... Now watch the film or you'll miss the good part, and leave my feet alone. Bloody hell..." He reached for the bag of M&M's and directed his attention back to the telly. After grabbing a fistful of the sweets, he held out the bag in John's general direction, inviting him to dig in too. With any luck, it'd get his mind off the topic of feet. Without taking his eyes off the film, he mumbled around a mouthful of chocolate, "Hermione's just about to punch Draco!"
"You! You foul, loathsome, evil little cockroach!"
John grinned merrily at the way he and Paul had uttered the words in perfect synchrony to Hermione. "Yes! Right in the gob! I love that part," he laughed, highly amused by the enthusiasm with which Paul cheered, and the perfect imitation of Ron's response he managed to get out between chuckles.
They'd been doing that a lot: reciting the words in chorus with the characters. Sometimes they'd even mutter the next lines moments before they were due to be spoken. So far, Ron's one-liners had proven to be particularly popular, but then half of those were just him yelling 'bloody hell', and that was easy enough to remember. They'd both been in stitches over 'why can't it be: follow the butterflies', but John felt he'd done a better job of getting the accent right. Paul knew more words by heart, though, probably because he'd seen the films more often. Apparently, it was the main reason Mike refused to watch Paul's favourite films with him. George may or may not have commented on John displaying the same habit. But, since George enjoyed Harry Potter too, he didn't allow an annoying flatmate to chase him off.
"He had it coming, didn't he," Paul said, indicating Draco.
"Not half, mate! He's one hell of a bastard. I'd still fuck him, though. That bloke is hot." With an air of finality, John put the last of his M&M's into his mouth. Looking at his now empty hand, he noticed red, yellow, and green stains. 'Don't melt in your hand' my arse, he thought. If that was true, then where did those spots come from? Looking sideways, he caught they way Paul's eyes widened. "What?"
"They're kids!"
John failed to see the problem. "Not now, they aren't. And that bloke playing Draco wasn't then, either. He's three years older than me, mate. He was well legal when that scene was filmed. They're all older than us, actually, so..."
Maybe John had a point, but still. Even if the actors were old enough, the characters weren't, and it felt weird to look at them that way. Or maybe it was just him being overly sensitive. As a teacher, he did have to take on a kind of parental role, after all. He felt a bit better knowing John wasn't perving after thirteen-year-olds, though. He kind of knew the actors aged faster than their characters but hadn't a clue some of them had been that much older than what they played. Apparently, they had been. Perhaps he should let it be.
For five blissful minutes or something like that, John managed to keep his mind on the story. It wasn't until the whole pumpkin patch scene that he remembered what he'd discovered and poked playfully at the foot nearest to him. He'd never seen such high arches, or toes that were shaped like that. "They're dead ugly, mate. But I suppose you can't be a hundred percent perfect."
"I'm not even one percent perfect, John. You've just convinced yourself of that. You shouldn't do that, you know." Paul took a moment to shake the bag and pick out the blue ones. "People can never live up to your expectations if you put them up on a pedestal."
He had a point, John supposed. But he couldn't help it if Paul was perfect, could he? Well, perfect for him, anyway. Or, almost... "Oi, leave some blue ones for me."
"No."
Cackling, John lunged for the bag but he was no match for those long arms, and too lazy to get up and make a real effort. "Fine. You're not perfect. You're a selfish arse with grotty feet."
"Thank you.," Paul laughed. John was so funny when he pouted; why the hell wasn't he immune to that? Sighing, Paul relented and gave the bag to John as a peace offering. "Now shut the fuck up and watch the film. It's far too early to be this distracted. You'll get a half-hour break after this one. I'm thinking either grilled cheese on toast or maybe something with eggs. That should see us through the next leg. Better than all this sugar will, anyway."
"Sounds great. But you're cooking."
_~*~_
"You know what I never understood, though?"
"No," Paul said, pushing the bacon around in the frying pan so it wouldn't burn. "What?"
"Why didn't they just stick to the books?" John closed the lid of the sandwich toaster and put a bit of pressure on it, so make sure the ham and cheese sarnies he had in there would be nice and crispy when they came out. As he waited for the indicator to go out, he continued his rant. He had a few minutes, and he sure as fuck was going to put them to use! "I mean, we're starting the Goblet of Fire in a bit, but Dobby isn't even in it. Let alone all the other shit they changed. Don't get me wrong, right, I'm a massive David Tennant fan - best Doctor of the lot if you ask me - and he plays that role brilliantly, but changing the story doesn't make sense, does it?"
Paul couldn't help but agree. It always struck him as odd, especially since the changes didn't make the film that much shorter, probably. Then again... "They had to leave out some things though, John. Otherwise, people might have nagged that if they wanted to waste four hours on a film, they would've watched Lord of the Rings."
"Maybe..." The little red light switched to green, and John lifted the lid. Nice and golden with a good, brown toasting pattern: just the way he liked it. Nearly burning his fingers on the hot, molten cheese that was just starting to drip out the sides, he moved the toast to the growing pile he was making and started loading the toaster again. Two, maybe four more should be enough to see them through the next two films, after which Paul promised they'd have breakfast.
He couldn't help but have a bee in his bonnet about the subject of artistic license, though. Not all films had suffered equally from it, but to John, some of the grossest trespasses had been made to Goblet. "I can see why they cut the World Cup bit short: that went on forever in the book anyway. But to leave out Dobby and Winky in favour of some weird Barty Crouch scene which doesn't make much sense? And another thing. What the fuck is up with those Dress Robes? They kept Ron's in, but why aren't the others? Hermione looks nothing like how she was described in the book. And what about Harry's green robes that went with his eyes? Then again, they're not green in the film, are they?" With an indignant huff, he emptied the toaster again. He'd gotten so caught up in his soap box that he'd left the toast in too long: the batch was bordering on burnt. He reckoned they'd taste fine anyway.
"Wow, that's quite a speech, John," Paul grinned. He had just transferred the bacon to two plates, where a few slices of toast were already waiting, making sure to distribute it equally over each piece of bread before even attempting to fry the eggs. That, he could do. The trickiest part was behind him now. "Letting go off all your frustrations now, are you?"
"I'm allowed, aren't I?" He shrugged when Paul nodded, chuckling. Perhaps he was making a lot of noise about nothing, but there were so many ways in which the films could have been better. Little, but important things, such as... "Harry's got blue eyes in the films, mate. They had millions to spend, but they couldn't afford some fucking green contacts? I'm telling you, they should've cast you in that role. You look more like Harry than Dan does: at least your eyes are sort of the right colour. Sometimes."
It was really difficult to take John seriously when he went on a tangent like that. Of course, Paul had the tendency to start rambling all of the time, so he couldn't really say much about it. "Well, I didn't audition, did I? Besides, I'm not old enough, you know. Even if I had wanted to be an actor, which I never did, I would've been too young anyway. They don't cast eight-year-olds to play an eleven-year-old."
"I know that. I'm just saying you tick more boxes: black hair green eyes... Well, greenish, you look like your dad but you have your mum's eyes, you have an annoying brother, you're likeable and talented... Do you have any evil aunts too?" John had to laugh at the idea of one of Paul's aunties floating over Liverpool, screaming bloody murder.
Paul chuckled, thinking that if he had lived in a wizarding world, there might have been a person or two he'd accidentally blow up. His old maths teacher came to mind. "No, and Voldemort didn't kill my parents, either. I'm sure my mum would've preferred Avada Kedavra over what she got, though. Seems like a much easier way to go than after months of agony, you know?" Realising what he just said, he quickly shut his mouth. He had not meant to talk about that now...
The remark had completely taken John by surprise. So much in fact, that he barely even noticed he was trying to grab slices of untoasted bread that weren't there: he'd run out of things to grill and had to finish up by leaving one slot empty. "Your mum's dead? Shit man, I had no idea."
"Yeah. Sorry about that, it sort of slipped. Didn't mean to ruin the mood, mate."
"Don't be ridiculous. You ruined nothing. I want you to be open with me. Besides, mine's dead too, so that's another thing we have in common, right?" Out of nowhere, a scene which never seemed to make much sense to him came to mind. It suddenly seemed to fit how he felt, though. In a way, he mused, that kind of loss was a lot like a Dark Mark. It never went away and when touched by the right (or wrong) person, it just flared up and be as fresh and painful as the day that pain was first inflicted. "To quote Barty Junior: I'll show you mine if you'll show me yours. What happened?"
"Breast cancer.," Paul said quietly. "Mum got diagnosed when I was thirteen, and our lives just sort of stopped, you know? It was surgery after surgery, chemo, radiation, more chemo... It was brutal. No matter what they came up with next, it didn't help. She died when I was fourteen. On Halloween of all days. Whilst everyone was trying to create fake nightmares and horror scenes, we were living it for real, you know? That's when it all-..."
He had meant to say 'that's when it all went to shit,' because it was. His dad hadn't been able to cope with the loss and emotionally shut off. There hadn't been much parenting anymore, though. Jim would have moments when he seemed to remember a twelve-year-old and a fourteen-year-old couldn't raise themselves and he'd be either extremely loving or unreasonably strict during those times. Mostly, though, he just let them do whatever. Paul had taken it upon himself to step into that void, pushed away his own grief just so Mike would be fed, clothed, and attending school.
But for a teenage brain, it had been too much to handle and that had allowed Rory to come into the picture. Back then, just having someone who wanted to take care of him for a change had been the greatest thing to Paul, and so Rory had driven a wedge between Paul and his family when he wasn't even seventeen yet. If only he'd known how it would play out... He had nearly said all those things, which undoubtedly would've dislodged the pile of dung that were the worst three years of his life, but he stopped himself just in time.
After a deep breath, he muttered, "that's when it all became just a little too real, you know? You know it's coming, but until it's your reality, you don't realise how much you'll miss someone, or what you still wanted to tell them."
"Yeah, no shit," John whispered hoarsely. Watching Paul's face as he spoke, and especially when he fell silent, had touched him deeply. There was a profound level of emotion in there which surpassed the simple words he'd used to explain the situation. The loaded silence had translated that sense of having lost and being lost as a result, better than John and all his clever words ever could.
The truth of the pain was omnipresent in the two, three tears that spilt over Pauls' eyelids after having teetered there for an eternal moment. John had wanted to wrap his arms around Paul then, wished to be the one to wipe - or kiss - those tears away, but just then, Paul had run a swift hand across his face, breaking the spell as he spoke again. Somehow, John sensed there was far more pain hidden behind those kaleidoscope eyes. Perhaps he'd find out sometime.
"Anyway, what about yours, then?" With an effort, Paul pulled himself up by the bootstraps - again - and locked away the pain. Focusing on the food, he noticed the eggs had slightly burnt during his little trip down memory lane. Shrugging, he layered the cheese on top of them anyway and decided he'd take the burnt ones since the first attempt had been much better.
To his right, John was just unplugging the toaster after having transformed the last of the bread into a ham-cheese sarnie. They worked really well together, Paul thought. He motioned for John to get the water glasses whilst he moved the plates to the breakfast table, or whatever the proper name for it was when it was being used at a quarter past three in the morning.
Wielding his cutlery to cut off a sizeable piece of the bacon-egg-cheese-toast which smelt absolutely divine, John tried to keep his voice level when he dug up the memory of that horrible day. "I never even got to say goodbye. My mum was there one moment and gone the next. I remember we had a massive barney that morning before I went to school. I don't even recall what it was about now. You think you're always going to remember that, but it's the silly details that stick with you, right? Not a clue what we rowed about or which class I was in when the headmaster came to pull me out, but I knew exactly what I was wearing that day. I even remember what I had for lunch."
He ate a few bites, allowing himself some time to calm down. Across from him, Paul was listening intently, nodding at times, probably to indicate he knew exactly the kind of rubbish would stick, and which important details would just disappear. "Anyway, I first thought I was being expelled again but then when I walked into that office, my aunt was there, crying. I'd never seen her cry before. She's like Maggie Thatcher, you know: the Iron Lady. That's when they told me mum had been hit by a car on her way to work. Some worthless gobshite, still drunk from the night before or summat. Ran a red light, and drove straight into mum as she crossed the junction. Dead before she even hit the ground. That bloomin' arse didn't have a scratch on him, of course."
Paul felt completely taken aback by the story. He thought he'd had it hard, but at least he had said goodbye to his mother. he couldn't begin to imagine how dreadful it had to be to lose a loved one that suddenly. It was plain to see John was still very distraught by it; Paul could see his hands were trembling, and his skin had gotten all blotchy. "I'm so sorry, John. When was this?"
"A little over seven years ago, I was seventeen. I lived with my aunt for a little while, but that didn't work out, so I moved out on my own and got a job." He took a shuddering breath and grinned despite himself. No need to get caught up in self-pity, he reckoned. If Paul could shake it off, then so could he. He threw Paul a cheeky wink and joked, "the first of many. I'm not a model employee, as you might have noticed."
"Really? I never would've guessed," Paul snorted, vividly recalling the debacle. Thankfully, his eyes had long since stopped aching. It had been little more than a vague itch by the time he'd shaken off his hangover anyway.
It was easier to put the sadness behind him than John had anticipated. It had to be related to Paul, John thought. He didn't know why, but he just felt calmer and more balanced around him. Even now, seconds after having to fight back tears, he found himself ready to laugh again. And then there was that infectious smile which he would never have known if he hadn't been such a loose cannon. "Still, you have to admit me being such a fuck-up has its perks. We wouldn't be here together if I'd been a scrupulous person, would we? I would've just let you get on with that date, after which you would've gone home alone and we would never have known what a fabulous person I am."
This time, Paul just had to laugh out loud. The combination of John's words and the comical face he paired them with was just too much to resist. "Every cloud has a silver lining, eh, Johnny?"
"I'll drink to that."