A/N: Still quite a bit of angst in this one, and it won't be the easiest chapter to read, but I recommend you all do read it, because I think you'll like some of the stuff I put in there.
This chapter is LONG...!!
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"Christ, Paul, I had no idea..."
The story had left John devastated. Silent tears ran down his face by the time Paul's monologue broke off into a single, strangled sob which left John's heart aching. He'd sensed something was the matter with Paul ever since they met up at Pride. There had been too many signals when they'd sat on that terrace, drinking milkshakes and chinwagging about Christ knows what. He'd caught those fleeting looks of panic when he dialled the flirting up too high, and noticed the reluctance to accept gifts or even let someone else pay for his food. There were other little things that made him wonder, as recent as when they fell into bed together. The way Paul had refused to be topped sprang to mind.
At first, John had filed many of the oddities into the 'he's just a people-pleaser' pile or the 'Paul is a dom' pile, or even the 'everyone's weird, so why can't he' pile. There had been other, less likely piles. One of them was the 'bad relationship' one. Initially, John had dismissed that option because: Paul. Had he ever known anyone who had a brighter outlook on life, a sunnier disposition, a stronger mind, a bigger heart, a...
Christ. That was it, wasn't it? A bigger heart than anyone John knew. But that was exactly what attracted those sick bastards who wanted to exploit someone. It was that kindness, that forgiving nature that made it easy to manipulate people like Paul into a situation that had no way out. Appeal to their nurturing tendencies, their need to make other people happy. Make them feel loved, make them feel needed, and they'd never give up trying to fix you, or make you happy. And then, once you had their full devotion, you could do anything. Make them believe they were worthless, that they deserved to be humiliated and beaten, that it was all their fault and that it'd get better as long as they stayed and tried even harder to please their partner.
John had seen it happening to friends, knew how stealthy and effective those abusers were. Paul never stood a chance. Not at sixteen when he was too young to even begin suspecting that some people were narcissistic sociopaths. John knew. He'd always known. Long ago, he'd been well on his way to becoming one before endless therapy sessions changed him into a better, happier person. He still had his moments. The pepper incident came to mind. His possessive, nasty streak had risen to the surface then. Seeing it backfiring like that had, thankfully, pushed those dark tendencies back into their cage.
Deep down, John had known it actually was a real possibility. He just hadn't wanted to think of Paul in that place, because he didn't deserve that kind of pain. Nobody did. To find out that this was exactly what happened and that he had seen the signs hurt. So. Fucking. Much. What kind of monster could ever do that to someone like Paul, especially after what he'd already gone through with his mum? Which twisted, evil mind could look at a damaged teenager and think: 'yeah, I'll turn that one into my bitch?' It wasn't right, but clearly, it was reality and what actually happened turned out to be even worse than John could have imagined. Who would try and strangle the life out of that gorgeous human being? How could anyone even bear to lay a finger on someone so full of charm and wit?
John momentarily released the hand he'd been holding throughout most of the conversation in favour of handing Paul his tea mug and a wad of tissues. They were on their second round of tea by now, and they were running low on hankies. Some liquid courage wouldn't have been amiss, but there didn't seem to be a single drop of booze in the house so it'd have to be just the tea and some of the sweets that were left over from the film marathon. Chocolate helped. It always helped. Even now, Paul looked a little bit more alive as he chewed on one of the leftover Maltesers.
"How did you manage to get out?"
The memories of what happened after that dreadful fight were vague. When he'd regained consciousness, Paul had been in more pain than he could handle, making it nearly impossible to form any coherent thought. His actions had been purely instinct-driven: fight or flight, and with Rory out of sight, he'd fled. In hindsight, he'd understood that the beating hadn't stopped after he passed out, but none of that had registered when he'd limped out that door. It hadn't even occurred to him to wear shoes or a coat.
It must have been an unsettling sight to see an unkempt, bloodied up lad wearing nothing but a soiled T-shirt and dad-jeans collapsing in the freezing cold of November, clutching a ratty old rucksack and a broken arm to his chest. Considering the posh neighbourhood and the snobs that lived there, it was a miracle he'd been helped by that middle-aged lady in her expensive designer clothes who'd knelt at his side, holding his hand and brushing the hair from his face as she told him it was going to be alright, assured him that help was on the way. Which it had, though Paul had no recollection of that. He'd passed out again before the ambulance had arrived.
"I don't remember much of it," he finally told John. He didn't want to speak too much, not with him choking up every few words. It was difficult enough to drag those memories up from the depths of his soul, describing them aloud was even harder. "I kept passing out, you know. It's mostly bits and pieces. I remember waking up alone. Rory must've been nearby, probably high or something. He'd been into speedballing a lot in those days. Maybe he thought I was dead, or maybe he finally had enough of me, I don't know. I saw my chance and I left. I don't think I even made it to the corner before my legs gave out. It's mostly emotions and little details from there. I didn't really start to think properly again until the next morning when they moved me from the observation ward to Mike's room. My uncle arranged for that. I'm glad he did, though. I felt loads better once I could see Mike. You know, since he was the reason I decided to leave and all that."
There was so much information in that little speech, John didn't even know what to process first. If Rory was on drugs, did that mean Paul had used too? And if so, had he been addicted? John didn't think it likely, considering Paul's choice of words. Also, he probably wouldn't have wanted to leave his source if he had been a junkie, so he was happy to assert none of that had been going on. The part about being unable to stay conscious was worrisome. How badly had Paul been beaten? It had to be severe if he kept passing out. Apparently, he'd been in hospital for at least a few days, and what was up with Mike? He'd not been told what he was in for. So many questions...
Paul must've read his mind somehow because he picked up a small stack of photos and pulled one out. "Uncle Joe took this the day after they transferred me. Erm... It's not pretty, but I wanted him to do it because it shows the truth, you know?"
John couldn't help but gasp when he saw the photo. What shocked him about it wasn't that Paul looked about fifteen stone - a stark contrast to the eleven stone he weighed now - or that he clearly hadn't shaved in a week or so. What stood out was the utter sadness in his eyes. Even his hair seemed to have lost its shine. His entire body language screamed depression. It made him want to find a time machine and just hug that boy until he smiled again. Then again, that probably would've been bloody painful. What the fuck had that bastard done to Paul? It had to be more than a few kicks, or there wouldn't have been a drip going into the back of the hand that held onto Mike's so tightly the knuckles had gone white.
How telling was it that Mike, who was the one stuck in bed, looked at his brother with such concern on his face? John couldn't blame him. Apart from having his arm in a cast, John also saw the outlines of bandages around Paul's rib cage through the thin fabric of that hospital gown. He'd put a tenner on a broken cheekbone as well, considering the amount of swelling and the purple bruises surrounding that area of his face. He glanced sideways at Paul's face, taking a closer look at the scar in his eyebrow. Was the wound that caused it hidden underneath that big, white plaster on his forehead?
"Remember yesterday, when you couldn't find any booze and you joked if I'd become a Teetotaller? This is why there isn't any alcohol in the house," Paul explained, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth despite the heaviness of the conversation. It had, after all, been a hilarious back and forth and well, there was always room for a bit of fun, wasn't there?
John grinned, relieved to see a spark of Paul's spirit shining through the darkness. "You mean, when you told me about drunkenly declaring your love for me to some unsuspecting old lady because you're such a lightweight, four measly pints will get you pissed as a newt? Nah, doesn't ring a bell, son."
"Yeah, well. If you repeat it to anyone, I may have to remember how you thought that drag king was an actual bloke."
"You wouldn't!" It was only one of John's most embarrassing memories. He had no excuse; he'd been drunk, but nowhere near as bad as Paul. He glanced sideways to see Paul had gotten serious again. Maybe not as much as before, but he clearly wasn't done yet. "What are you trying to say, babe?"
Paul swallowed. If he hadn't left the house when he did, chances were things would've been different. Maybe it wasn't all his fault, but he had a hand in it. No wonder his dad kept reminding him of how he'd let everyone down. He'd never outright blamed Paul for Mike's fate, probably because he knew very well it wasn't fair to do so. It had been him, Jim, who'd turned to drink first, forcing his teenage son into the caregiver role. But the implication had always been there, and it was just one of several reasons why the peace between him and his father was so strained.
Paul couldn't deny that he held a grudge against his father for that, and also for the man's willful ignorance about his sexuality. According to Jim, Paul should just have gone out and found a nice girl since, according to his logic, swinging both ways meant having a choice to either be straight or gay. To this day, he either couldn't or wouldn't understand that it didn't work that way and that his homophobic ideas didn't do much to lift the tension between him and Paul.
But, he did have a point, Paul thought. Choosing Rory over his family had been stupid, selfish, and irresponsible. If he hadn't done that, Mike probably wouldn't have become an alcoholic. And for that, Paul couldn't let himself off the hook. "The alcohol. There isn't any here because of Mike. He drank himself into a coma. When uncle Joe spoke to me, he'd only just woken up for the first time in three days. That's what motivated me to leave Rory, and that's why my uncle arranged for us to share a hospital room. After everything I'd done, Mike kept asking for me. I had to be there for him, you know? I'd already abandoned him once, I wasn't going to let him down again."
Well, that cleared up a lot. John wasn't going to go into the way Paul accused himself of being responsible for something he couldn't possibly have foreseen. He sensed Paul wasn't going to change his mind on that simply because John would tell him it wasn't his fault. Which it wasn't. Paul had just been a kid, and stressed out at that, so he could hardly be held responsible. What he wanted to know was, where his dad Jim had been in all of this. This uncle Joe had been mentioned a lot, and apparently, he'd been the one arranging all sorts of things for Paul and Mike, but why didn't he mention his father even once? He wondered if he should bring it up or not, but then John's train of thought got interrupted by Paul, who sighed deeply and rubbed both palms across his face. His entire posture just seemed to sag in that moment.
"Knackered?"
"Fucking exhausted," Paul murmured, resting his face in his hands. He was clearly all talked out for now.
John turned sideways and patted the space between his legs. This seemed like a good moment to take advantage of his ability to sit comfortably in weird positions. "C'mere." After a moment's hesitation, Paul scooted over to curl up in the spot John created for him, leaning his side into John's chest. He shifted about a bit to get comfortable, but eventually settled in, his face buried in John's neck.
Not sure if Paul had fallen asleep or not, John absentmindedly ran his fingers through the thick mop of black hair that slightly tickled his jaw. It was lovely to sit like that, it truly was. And he was sure he could stay like that for a very long time. Yet, at the same time, questions began to form in the back of his mind, getting more persistent as the quiet moments turned into minutes and Paul's breathing got increasingly slow whilst John's mind was working increasingly fast.
There were still so many things he wanted - no, needed - to know. How he'd coped with it all, for instance. How had Paul gotten back on his feet, and would he be able to do it now, or was the genie out of the lamp? And what had triggered that nightmare? Would it happen again? He wasn't entirely sure he could go through another episode like that. John had his own issues to deal with. Paul knew that; he'd told all about the therapy he'd had to get a handle on his abandonment issues and the jealous tendencies when he'd apologised to Paul, a little over a week ago. Could he be in a relationship with someone who turned out to be even more fucked up than he was? Could Paul be the kind of partner he needed?
It occurred to him that even though he'd very much wanted to be fucked last night, he wouldn't always want it to be that way. But would Paul ever be ready to not be in complete control, or would being with him put John in the same position Paul had been forced into by Rory: the perpetual bottom? John didn't mind offering a strong shoulder. But this whole supportive partner thing wasn't his strong suit, and he had his needs too. Usually, he was the one needing the most support. Would Paul be able to offer that if he was so messed up over what happened with Rory?
He'd seemed like the perfect partner, but what if he wasn't as strong as John thought he was? Was it any use to really start a relationship if it was probably going to be dysfunctional, and quite possibly doomed? In short: was he going to go for it, or cut his losses now? But at the same time, he couldn't help but wonder if he could actually do that. Did he have it in him to walk away? Would he forgive himself for it if Paul took it personally and ended up even more damaged? He didn't know. He simply didn't know anymore.
"I won't blame you if you can't handle this, John," Paul suddenly murmured quietly, a definite hint of sadness in his voice. John jumped a little. He thought Paul was asleep. Apparently, he'd sensed the doubt or something like that, because when he raised his head to meet John's eyes, it was obvious he know what John was thinking. "I'm alright, John, but I can't promise something like that won't ever happen again. I understand if you don't want my crap on top of your own issues. I'd hate to see us part, but I won't hold it against you if you want to break this off."
John just sat there, blinking dumbly. Was that what he wanted? The easy way out? Or was he going to trust in the Paul he'd gotten to know and love? Would it be worth it to take the bad with the good? "Where's your phone? I just remembered something important I need to take care of."
Of all the things he'd expected, the last thing Paul had thought was for John to borrow his phone at that exact moment. The least he could do was put him out of his misery first. He'd felt him withdrawing, noticed how John had stopped playing with his hair. Even his chest seemed less inviting after a few minutes. So, if he was going to end the weekend the way he'd started it: single, he'd rather know now so he could lick his wounds in peace. Frowning, he noticed John had opened one of his rarely-used social media apps. "Facebook? I thought you said it was important."
"It is." Ignoring Paul's incredulous harrumph, John started out by approving his friendship request which was still pending. Seriously, who didn't go on Facebook for more than a week? Hoping he could remember his password, he logged out of Paul's account and into his own. Sixty-four notifications, couldn't these people stop tagging him in everything? Smirking at the confused expression on Paul's face, John went to his profile page, made his changes, and saved. Happy with the result, he gave Paul his phone back. "I think you'll find it was very important indeed."
Frowning, Paul looked at the app. The first thing he saw was one of the selfies they'd taken the night before. More specifically, the 'ugly selfie' one, in which they had managed to look utterly hideous. Of course, he was tagged in it. And the likes were already piling up. Great. He'd never live that down. But then, he saw the caption: 'In a Relationship.' Little by little, the meaning of it sank in. John had made his choice, and this was his way of not simply saying it, but proving it. Paul never thought he'd see the day when a Facebook status would make him well up with happy tears.
"I think that'll show up on your profile too, once you accept the tag," John explained, drinking in the sight of that megawatt smile that just broke out all over Paul's face. He knew he'd made the right choice. How could he ever have doubted that? So what if Paul had a bad day? Everyone was entitled to that. If anything, it should be positive. They could only go up from there. He mirrored Paul's smile and quickly planted a small peck on is nose. "Assuming you want to. But you better, or my friends will never let me forget it."
_~*~_
"I'm home!" Cursing the perpetual English rain, Mike tossed his bag on the floor and headed straight for the loo. The heavy downpour always made him burst, so of course, the benign drizzle had turned into a bloody cloudburst when he was halfway home. He'd been squeezing it in for nearly an hour! When he emerged again a minute later, the flat was as quiet as it had been when he walked in. He'd half expected Paul to be there, but then you never knew.
"Paul, you in?" He strained his ears for a response. Nothing. Oh well. He'd have to catch him later, then. In the meantime, Mike was getting hungry. Time for a snack, he reckoned as he left his spot at the bottom of the stairs and made a beeline for the food, stopping dead in his tracks when he turned the corner into the sitting room.
Sacked out on the sofa was none other than the missing sibling, curled up against the equally comatose figure of John. All around them were the silent witnesses of what appeared to have been a serious conversation: balled up tissues all over the floor and coffee table, half-empty mugs of cold tea, chocolate, and some photos Mike hadn't seen in ages: images of very painful memories neither he nor Paul liked to rehash. He picked up the hospital photo. To this day, Mike knew that Paul blamed himself for the fact that his baby brother had become an alcoholic in a vain attempt to drown the pain. On some level, Mike was glad it happened because something told him Paul would not have lived to tell John about what happened if he hadn't gotten out when he did.
"Took you long enough Paul," Mike sighed, hoping this there was a happy ending in sight for his brother, who had been so scared to truly fall in love again. Grinning, he took a quick snapshot of the napping lovebirds and posted it to Facebook, adding the cheeky note 'Looks like our kid found himself a stray ginger... again' with a winking emoticon to show he meant no malice. They made a good-looking couple, Mike thought. He'd have to take some proper photies of them together. Perhaps for his graduation project...
As he trudged upstairs, the idea slowly took shape in Mike's head. It'd take a while to suss out the details and even longer to put it all together, but he had time. After all: he wasn't graduating for another nine months, and his Spider Senses told him John would probably still be around by then...