Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

─────────────────────────────── 

زندگی گر ہزار باره بود

بار دیگر تو بار دیگر تو

And if life is repeated a thousand times 

Still you, you, and again, you.

— Forough Farrokhzad

───────────────────────────────

Somewhere in Northern Italy.

Crema, 1983

The scent of ripe fruit and the sound of clacking sandals on cobblestone lay thick over the entire town for the months of the humid summer. A layer of sweat made everybody sticky, much like the juice from the tender flesh of the peach that was pouring down Paul’s hand as he bit into it, chasing a breeze by his windowsill. There was none; the stagnant air swathed him in sweat.

The new houseguest of the summer was going to pull into the twisting driveway anytime now. What a boring nuisance , Paul thought. For six weeks, he was to move down the hallway into the cramped guestroom as his room was overtaken by his father’s guest for the time being. That bedroom was used as a storeroom of sorts; everything their father had brought home from his archaeological findings that weren’t worth turning over was kept in there. Presents from previous houseguests: paintings, sculptures, stacks of letters, miscellaneous objects like rackets, et cetera, but not the books. 

The houseguests were always young academics who were working on manuscripts like their dissertations for the summer, so the most recurring gift was a collection of books, often leatherbound in calfhide, sent to them after they’d found their footing in the world. Those were always kept haphazardly in the mahogany bookshelf in his father’s study. Though he could saunter down there and retrieve any leatherbound volume of his liking, they were still not in the vicinity of the immediate four walls that ensconced him. He was stuck looking over at the firm-handed virgules of paint on the framed artworks, and bumps from unsure hands cast on the sculptures. 

He watched intently as a taxi pulled in. Out stepped a man, a good head or so taller than him, dressed in a gauzelike pale blue button-up and khakis. He stuffed some cash into the driver’s hand through the rolled-down window and hauled a suitcase, and a gigbag from the boot of the car. 

His father appeared in the driveway, receiving him formally. Perhaps the most formal one of his actions towards the houseguest, apart from the goodbyes. Once their stay began, they were treated just like family. The same indifference and caring natures were employed towards them as were to him and Mike. And to the plethora of people who came by. Their doors were always ajar, and windows flung wide open. The veranda was huge, always bustling with company sitting on the chairs and enjoying chilled booze with spirited conversations. The pavement to the house was always lovingly littered with ice-cream cones and apricot pits. The kitchen was always bountiful with food made by Concetta. She also made a point of setting fresh fruit that the gardener picked on the same morning into a fruit bowl atop the dining table.

No part of the house was empty; the tennis court was used by anyone who held a racket and a polite greeting. Summer was meant for loving, and later on, leaving.

Paul took his time going down. Introductions were always a drag; the guest would either go on rambling flustered introductions and thank yous, or worse, they’d speak pompously, acting like being chosen for this was a birthright. 

He knew of the new houseguest. John Lennon, twenty-four, graduate student at the Sorbonne in Paris, writing his dissertation on pre-Socratic philosophers. He had pored over the applicants with his father, helping him decide. Despite his riveting accomplishments and polished statement, John was an easy choice only after his father saw that the man was also from Liverpool.  

A familiar face would be nice, don’t you think?

He paused on the stairs. John was standing in the hallway, chatting animatedly with his father and Concetta. She was asking, in halting English she’d picked up working for them every summer for almost a decade now, what he wanted to eat. He only grinned and said, “Whatever you fancy the most” . He’d won Concetta over and hadn’t even set foot in the house properly.

─────────────────────────────── 

Apparently, Concetta fancied much. She’d cooked up a feast for dinner. Her grandest welcome yet, Paul couldn’t remember the last time she made a welcome dinner so divine. The table was lined with an embroidered linen runner, and atop it lay prosciutto and melon drizzled with honey, sat on platters, next to marinated artichokes and anchovies that Marcello had caught that morning. A handwoven basket was full of warm bread and homemade rosemary and thyme butter in the ceramic butter dish. Paul’s father was deep in conversation with one of his other professor friends and his wife. The table, seated by many regular visitors of the residency who had gathered around to see the new guest, which had become an annual tradition. 

The guest, though, came in late. John joined them about twenty minutes later, not that Paul cared or anything, with damp hair and smelling strongly of spiced citrus. He took the seat across from Paul, right next to Mike. 

He immediately joined his father in his conversation, without even skipping a beat. Paul felt himself get jealous at that. He was never regarded as serious during these dinnertime conversations with his father’s peers, so on the nights he had something important to add to them, he’d speak fast and with hand gestures. A subconscious motion employed by his brain to garner attention. It often came off as timid, just a seventeen-year-old kid stumbling upon his words. But John had to do none of that. He slipped into the conversation like he was greased with oil, no pauses, just adding onto their discussion of Italo Svevo. 

A few moments later, Concetta brought out the main dish. Ossobucco alla Milanese, in a large ceramic dish, holding the sides with a dishcloth. She set it down in the flat center of the table as everyone praised her skill. Ossobucco took time to prepare and was always a well-loved meal on the table. She thanked everyone with a polite smile and scurried back to the kitchen, as Marcello brought the wine. Recioto di Soave, a sweet white wine, was the pick for the night. No doubt, Paul thought, it would pair well with braised veal.

The chatter picked up again after everyone served themselves. Paul took a sip of the wine, and his face contorted immediately, as a reflex. It was too sweet, too rich. Like the syrup Concetta made out of peaches and figs. 

“Not a fan of wine?” Paul’s head turned dizzyingly fast towards John. This was the first time he’d spoken to him at the dinner table.

“No, just not a fan of the overly sweetened ones.” 

John hummed in response, averting back to his father. Paul felt nettled at the loss of attention from him. He coiled into himself, wondering if he’d said the wrong thing. Thinking if he’d said something else, perhaps a touch wittier, he’d have impressed John, and then they’d be conversing. The sound of the noisy cicadas chirping outside turned up in his ears as he ate, not bothering to speak.

After dinner, Concetta brought out a spongarda, glistening with honey. John took a slice, looking at its muddled filling, and asked what it was.

“It’s a cake, the filling is dried fruits, nuts,” Paul explained, “and whatever warm spices are in the kitchen.” 

He took a bite. “It’s incredible.”

Afterwards, they relocated to the living room. Everyone sprawled on the sofa, bellies full with warm food and leftover wine in hand, talking languidly. Jim asked Paul to play something on the piano, the way he always did every time Paul stuck around after dinner instead of rushing to the beach or back to his room.

He sat on the small bench, playing a piece he’d finished composing the night before. And once he was done, the room broke out in light applause and praises. Paul glanced at John, awaiting his reaction, maybe a smile, or a nod. But he was just greeted with a placid stare. His lip thinned, and he excused himself, going back up.

He stood in his, now John’s, room, shoving some things he’d need into a duffel bag to take to his new space. Paul regretted not doing this earlier; he could’ve been in bed if not for his previous lethargy.

The door opened, and Paul assumed it was Mike. Here to give his first impressions of the new guest. But to his surprise, he turned around and saw John standing in the doorway.

He mumbled a hello and resumed taking shirts from his dresser.

“This is your room, then?”

“Yeah, yours for now, though,” Paul replied.

John walked towards the balcony of the room. It was a shared one, attached to both his temporary room and John’s. 

“What was that you were playing downstairs?” 

“Hm, why?”

“Sounded good,” John replied, turning towards him. If he had sounded good, John had a funny way of expressing it with the hollow look on his face after he finished playing. 

“Guess,” His lips curled at the edges, and John mirrored that.

“Why don’t you just tell me? Er–okay, if I had to guess…” He paused for a second, “Bach?”

“No,” Paul gave up the schtick quite fast, “It was my own piece.”

“An original?” John nodded, impressed. “You compose?”

Paul had been composing for years now, and he couldn’t even clearly remember when it started. Maybe during an unavoidable torpor afternoon a handful of summers ago, when he had nothing else to do, he combined Mozart and Bach. Spinning his take on the two maestros’ work.

He only nodded in response.

“You play anything else?” John inquired.

“Guitar and bass.” Paul contemplated asking for a second, and then went for it, “You play the guitar too, right?” In hindsight, maybe it had been a stupid question, considering John’s gigbag was right there next to the bedside table. 

“Yeah, I do. I compose too, here and there.” 

“The piece I played downstairs was originally written for the guitar,” Paul zipped the bag. 

“Will you play it on the guitar?”

“Right now?” Paul asked.

“Yes.”

“My guitar strings need to be replaced. I can’t play it now.”

“Play it on mine.” 

John zipped open the gigbag, pulling out an acoustic guitar. He handed it to Paul, who sat on the edge of the bed and began loosely strumming.

“Left-handed?”

Paul hummed in response.

The piece was immensely different on the guitar. When Paul had played it on the piano, it had sounded elegant and deliberate. Each press of the key thought out and rigid. But on the guitar, the same melody ebbed and flowed. His fingers stumbled at first, but then found their footing. The music breathed, the tune more rounded. It was easy to tell that the composition was written for the guitar and translated for the piano. 

When the tune trailed off, Paul did not dare to look directly at John, for when he’d done that not even half an hour ago downstairs, he was met with a blankly poised stare. 

John spoke first, “I can tell the guitar is its mother tongue.”

“Mother tongue?” Paul chuckled.

“Yes, mother tongue. On the piano, it's a translation, a borrowed piece remoulded on something foreign. It sounds better on the guitar.”

Paul blinked. John had worded what he thought every time he played something intended for one instrument on another.

“Drives me mad, y’know,” John continued, “when I read a translation of something because I don’t understand the language it was published in.”

“Sometimes I think it’s a literary crime to transcribe a text to another language.” Paul agreed, “It’s what my dad and I do so often, but I feel like I’m giving people false hope. It never sounds as profound once the vulnerability of the native tongue is stripped from it.”

“‘S too bad we can’t learn all the languages in the world, and from the past too.”

“I mean we could try,” Paul smiled, “think I’ll start with finding a tutor for Persian,”

“Or Russian?”

Paul got up from the bed and grabbed his duffel bag. He mumbled a goodnight and went to his new room through the conjoined balcony. 

Chapter Text

Paul ruminated sorely on why he had wanted John to look at him differently after he played the piano. He tried reasoning that he just wanted the praise, needed something to revel in, but he knew that wasn’t true. He’d never needed praise from anyone to feel reassured. A placid stare had never soured his mood. Sure, it was nice to be complimented, but it didn’t drive him up the wall when there was none. Paul tried to convince himself otherwise, but John’s face being the first one he’d looked at once he was done, was damningly betraying.

This hardly ever happened with previous guests, and when it did, it was just his naive self wanting to befriend an older person he thought was the epitome of cool .

A few summers back, a guest by the name of Richard had come by; he introduced Paul to new wave music and played the drums. Paul spent that summer desperately trying to age himself up to get into Richard’s inner circle. Of course, that did not happen; a fifteen-year-old baby-faced child was not privy to any of good old Richie’s personal outings. But Paul let that go, Richard didn’t have the power to grouch his mood by looking at him the wrong way, or not looking at all, not the way John did. And not on the first night. 

He schooled himself on John. Tried to reason with his own mind that this doesn’t have to turn into a mess for him if he just stayed out of his way.  But his mind kept wandering off to what he’d talked about with John the night before. 

What book had he first read that made him crawl with the need to be able to understand it in the language it was first written in? Was it Rumi’s poetry? Was it something existentialist by Dostoevsky? Or maybe some supernatural realism by Márquez. Paul always reached for his books when he’d fall sick in summer. The hazy dizziness with the home-brewed remedy teas Concetta would make him drink created the perfect headspace, which felt like he was looking at everything from an out-of-body perspective. What other way was it permissible to read crackling magical realism anyway?

Sleep came in increments to him that night. The familiar bed linens felt too itchy on his back, and the buzzing of mosquitoes irritated him more than usual. Sometime in the night, he stopped looking for relief by staring at the paintings stacked in the room, and accepted that he was going to be drowsy the next day. 

Paul considered going to the balcony out of habit, the way he always did on sleepless nights, but John being able to peer at him through his window, which was wide open since Paul could hear the curtains flapping from the breeze, made him feel uneasy.

So he stayed put, blanket flung to the corner of his bed, barely covering half his leg. He couldn’t bring himself to pick apart his interactions with John, scared that the nitpicking was only going to reveal twisted things. Paul had the common sense to know he was overthinking it, but didn’t have the power in him to stop. 

When he woke up, he realised he’d slept at all. He couldn’t remember at what point in the night his eyes started feeling drowsy, and he let the slumber overtake him, yet he felt sufficiently rested. Paul was covered in a layer of sweat from the humidity, craving cool water down his back.

The washroom was a shared one, a jack-and-jill type with doors in either room leading to the same space. It was still early, hardly nine a.m., Paul assumed John must’ve been sleeping off the journey from the day before, so he went inside. 

But there, in front of the fogged-up mirror, stood John, pulling a billowy shirt overhead, back turned towards the door. Paul saw him bare, not entirely, just his back and arms, but it was a vision that made flush dart up his neck. He’d interrupted one of John’s personal rituals, perhaps a rather intimate one. 

He must’ve heard Paul come in and close the door behind him, but still, he did nothing to acknowledge him. He didn’t even speed up his dressing, not the slightest bit flustered that someone saw him half bare. He buttoned his shirt, ran a hand through his wet hair, and muttered a ‘morning’ to Paul on his way out. Throughout, Paul stood still with heels planted firmly on the ground in front of the door to his side. 

The mirror was covered in condensation. He wiped it with the back of his hand, staring back into his reflection. Mussed hair, chapped lips, wide eyes. He pulled a face in the mirror and grabbed a towel.

───────────────────────────────

By the time he stepped out of the shower, dressed for breakfast, and went down, everyone was already at the table. They ate outside in the garden most mornings unless the weather was uncharacteristically hot so early in the day. 

His father was drinking tea while going over some revisions. John was chatting away with Concetta, who was standing by the table. A tray was clamped under her arm as she used her hands to teach John how to eat a boiled egg from an eggcup properly. What a riveting sight.

“Where’s Mike?” He slipped into the seat next to John and immaturely dragged it away. John took notice.

“Went out for a jog by the promenade with,” Jim paused, trying to recall who his son went off with, “Uh–what’s his name? Aurelio’s son?”

“Nico.” 

“Oh yes, Nico. Mike went off with him,” Jim uncapped his pen and began writing. “Also, he asked if you’d be free tonight? He said Hera was asking about you.”

“Oh? Well, I’m free now. I’ll call her after breakfast.” Paul placed sliced peaches on his still-warm cornetto and took a bite. With his mouth full, he sputtered, “Actually, I’ve got to go down to Soncino today. I need to get my guitar strings replaced.”

“I need to go into town today too, reckon I could join you?” John asked. 

He asked Paul if he could come along. Like he was the seventeen-year-old kid wanting to tag along. Paul felt drunk on the sliver of useless power attributed to him. 

“Yeah, we can bike there,” He smiled cheekily, “If y’know how to ride, that is?”

“Ah, don’t get too smart with me, son.” John mirrored his cheeky smile.

“Okay, you boys go do that, and also,” Jim flipped through the leaves of a hefty book discarded on the table and pulled out a slip, “Pick these books up for me, Paul.”

“Okay, will do, Da,” He spoke through another mouthful, at which Jim gave him a faux stern look.

───────────────────────────────

Marcello loaned John his bike, whose seat he had to adjust to accommodate John’s towering stature. Paul shoved the slip his father had given him into his pocket and enclosed his guitar in a gigbag and slung it cross-body across his back. 

The ride to Soncino was about twenty-five minutes of pedalling. The view accosting them on either side was serene; tall blades of grass buckling under a slight breeze on one side, and sparse candy-coloured brick buildings on the other. 

But Paul had a hard time looking away from the view only half a foot in front of him: John. The whoosh of air from cycling made his shirt flap around. His shirt was entirely buttoned except for the top two buttons, but the wind pushed itself down on the collar, revealing something gold and glittering. Paul’s legs almost went slack at the thought of a chain, but he steadied himself.

About ten minutes or so in, when they’d reached the local town square, Piazza del Duomo, Paul suggested stopping for a quick drink. The weather was sweltering, and he could feel droplets of sweat bead on his nape, and John had developed a pale flush on the high plains of his face. 

The bar-tabaccheria was dimly lit and refreshingly chilly. It was also entirely empty save for the two of them. Makes sense, no sane man would step foot out the door before four p.m. in this heat, Paul thought. Everyone lounged languidly in bathing suits by the beach or the rocks, moving back and forth from the sand and water. They both got lemonades. John ordered his with sparkling water, prompting  Paul to pull the most disgusted face he could muster.

“It tastes like radioactive cider, you’re daft.”

Taking seats by the window, he could feel the previous sweat from his brows dry down on his skin. His glass of lemonade sweated profusely in his hands. 

John’s tousled appearance in front of him confirmed what he saw before. The collar of his shirt lay lopsided around his neck, and Paul spotted a delicate gold chain with a plain crucifix hanging from it. It was so tiny there was no way to see it unless it was dangling right in front of one’s face, or, of course, a state of undress. 

The gold gleamed beautifully against the skin laid taut over his collarbone, the colour of wheat in June. John had mentioned he’d spent some time in Sicily the same summer.

“So, who’s Hera?” He asked.

“A friend, why?” His interest in Paul’s personal life excited him; he had control over what parts of Crema he’d lend to John and what he’d keep to himself. 

“Oh, nothing, jus’ asking about the locals,”

“She’s not a local. Her family also just summers here,” Paul explained, “they host a houseguest every summer, too, but they didn’t do one this year.”

“Why not?”

“Her sister graduated from university this year, so they’re all spending the summer together before goin’ off to different places,”

“Oh.” John leaned back into his seat.

“Yeah,” Paul took a sip, “Mike and I have known them since I was ten and he eight, we practically grew up together.”

“Ever dated?”

“Hera?” 

John nodded. 

“No, we’re just friends.” 

John shot him a quizzical look, like he didn’t believe him at all, but Paul didn’t lie when he said that. He’d truly never dated her, and she expressed no desire to do the same. They’d been each other’s occasional summer flings, but there weren’t any romantic feelings attached. She was a dear friend, and the summer heat made everyone’s inhibitions loosen. 

They left the bar-tabaccheria shortly after, getting back on their bikes. 

Soncino was a preserved medieval town. One could pinpoint the exact moment they passed into the territory: the pavements were made of stone, and the castle, Rocca Sforzesca di Soncino, could be spotted from afar.

They parked their bikes by the river and walked to the bank. The streets had too many jagged rocks to cycle around without busting open a tire. Paul walked around aimlessly when John slipped inside to open a new account. He told Paul that he had hired a translator to translate some of his work into Italian, so he could publish it here. A suggestion by one of his professors that he took on. Shortly after, they went to the music store. A modest shop tucked away between another bar-tabaccheria and the bookstore.

The owner, with whom Paul was amicable, was wiping down the windows with a powerful solution that stung his eyes when he stepped in. 

“Ciao, signor Rossi! Come sta?”

“Ma guarda chi è! Paul!”

Paul smiled. 

“And you’ve brought a guest,” Rossi said, looking at John, taking in his appearance. He was, by all accounts, a handsome man.

“Yes, this is John. Dad’s guest for the summer.”

John greeted him with a polite, “Buongiorno.”

After some more chatting back and forth, Rossi asked about his father and how he was just going to call, he put the cloth down and turned.

“Right, what can I do for you today?” He clasped his hands

“I need to get my guitar strings replaced,” Paul replied, pulling the instrument out of its gigbag. 

Wrapping up with his tasks for the day, Paul walked in the direction of their bikes when John called out, 

“What about the books?”

“Hm?” Paul replied, genuinely confused, and then, “Oh, right, the books.” Paul dug the shallow pockets of his shorts.

“I think I left the slip in the cycle basket.”

“Okay, let’s go get it then.”

The walk to the riverbank wasn’t long, and the scenic town was a balmy sight. They took the long way around because John insisted he wanted to see the area, despite the heat.

“What’s this castle?”

Paul looked at the fortress, which was in the stark centre of the town, and visible from everywhere. A proud structure of stone standing the test of time and guarding weapons.

“That’s the Rocca Sforszca di Soncino, it’s more of a fortress, actually. It was first built in the Middle Ages, but then properly reconstructed in the thirteenth century,” Paul paused. “During the whole Guelph-Ghibelline conflict, Soncino was Ghibelline.”

John looked at him with his brows slightly raised, “Da read you bedtime stories from a history textbook?”

“He’s a university professor, go figure.”

John chuckled in response. 

“What do you think then? Guelph or Ghibelline?” He inquired.

“Me? Well, I’ve surprisingly thought about this before–”

“That’s not surprising.”

Paul looked at him, “I think I’d have been a Ghibelline. That was the new modern idea of the time, to hand over the power to a nobleman, not the pope. I like it, rebellious and scandalising.”

“You like scandalising people?”

“Depends.” Paul tilted his head, lips twitching, “You?”

“Dunno, guess I like the idea that someone could’ve been appointed to rule by a deity. Makes me believe in kismet and all,”

“Guelph, then?”

Paul cleared his throat, and then in the most posh accent he could muster, “My, my good sir. Do watch your step, lest you fall from your moral high ground.”

John didn’t look in his direction, but managed a grin.

They returned to the bookstore, this time with the slip in hand. A short, stout woman greeted Paul warmly and smiled politely at John. 

Paul handed her the slip, and she slipped behind a door, retrieving the stack Jim had placed an order for. The store was sufficiently lit with yellow lamps, and the blinds were all pulled down to block the afternoon sun’s heat. 

“You come here often?”

“All the time. There’s a cafe on the second floor—” Paul paused, “well, it’s more of a terrace with a couple of tables, but the affogato is delicious.”

John had wandered off into the shelves before he could even finish his sentence. He was browsing through the expanse of volumes bound in hardback covers, and stacked neatly one against another.

He let his hand glide across all their spines, collecting dust on his fingertips. Paul had returned to the counter with his own stack of books, and soon after, John followed in tow with a tall pile too. 

───────────────────────────────

Concetta informed him that Jim and Mike had gone to the rocks when they returned. 

Paul considered staying home; maybe he could transcribe music. But he was restless. The sound of cicadas buzzing irked him, and he really couldn’t stand to be alone in his room. Besides the sunlight was peaking through the linen curtains, casting slanting shards of light on his floor, it was a placating sight that oddly alerted him to the fact that it was the middle of summer. He’d have the rest of the time writing his music back in Liverpool; this time was meant to be spent outside with no concept of the clock.

While pulling on his swimming trunks, he muddled over whether he should ask John to join them. He didn’t want to be clingy. Besides, John had rushed to his room when they set foot in the house. But it would be rude not to ask. Maybe John would want to go; it was a beautiful day out. 

Ultimately, he didn’t get to decide as the man in question sauntered into his room a moment later. 

“Goin’ somewhere?” 

“Yeah, by the rocks. Da and Mike are there.” He replied, pocketing his sunglasses.

“The rocks?” 

“There’s a cliffside up the beach, it’s tucked away in the trees, so it's always cooler. Want to come with?” He felt sufficiently good about the invite, not too pushy nor too disinterested.

“Yeah, I’ll go grab me trunks.”

They walked this time. The heat from the afternoon sun was almost palpable. Circular waves of radiation pouring down his crown made him feel a little unsteady. Little pebbles plodded their way into his sandals, embossing their shape into the tender skin of the underside of his feet. But the walk was a compromise because cycling back in drenched clothes was always a sensory nightmare for Paul. 

There were two routes to the cliffside; one from cutting across the sandy dunes of the beach till one spotted the tall rockface. It was shorter, but the front of the cliff had no greenery or shrubs or anything of the sort to latch onto. The climb was also difficult this time of day because the rocks were blazing hot from facing the sun head-on. The other way was walking by the beach promenade, till the quaint gelateria was right ahead, and then going out back from it till one spotted the back of the cliff. It was always under shade from evergreen trees and tucked away. This route was a lot longer, but it made it much easier to reach atop the cliff.

Still, the climb up the rockface was strenuous and slightly dangerous. There were jagged edges and curling shrubs that one’s foot could easily get tangled in. But Paul had known these rocks since he was a child. He knew just the place to put his foot in to steady himself, which rocks moved with false alarm, and which ones might actually slip.

“Go ahead,” Paul said when they reached, choosing to walk behind him as a guard just in case.

John glanced at him over his shoulder and then mounted the wall. The bright sunlight shone on his brown hair, revealing hues of red. 

Paul followed close behind, eyes tirelessly tracking the moving muscles in his back, visible from the slightly sheer linen button-up that was pulled taut from the strain he was applying.

He took notice of the way John’s fingers curled around each rock, tugging at it slightly before pushing his weight. Paul’s foot almost stumbled, and he quickly blamed the heat.

“They should really build steps to get up here.”

“I dunno, climbing up his half the fun.” 

“You basically have to scale the damn thing like Sisyphus,”  John said, amused.

“So you are my boulder, then?” John tried looking down at him, and huffed a laugh, “Aren’t you a chivalrous lad.”

When they reached the top, John was wiping his palms, now embedded with varying patterns from pressing down on the rocks on his shorts. 

“Paul!” Mike sprang up from his towel. Jim was on another one next to his, legs crossed with a beat-up paperback in his hands and sunglasses shielding his vision.

Oddly enough, Mike was completely dry. Not even slightly damp hair.

“Da’s not letting me jump,” He whined to his big brother, “go tell him ‘s fine. You do it too.”

“So just because your brother jumps off a cliff, you’ll do it too?” Jim called out from behind, not even looking up at them.

“Hmm…” Mike grinned cheekily at Paul, “Depends on the day, really.”

“You’re too young, Mike.” Jim walked up to him, “Paul didn’t get to go till last summer. You have to wait till sixteen too.”

Of course, what his father didn’t know was that both he and Mike had snuck off to the cliffside countless times for years with other friends, or just alone too. But what he didn’t know couldn’t hurt him. He’d become a slightly overprotective father after their mother’s passing, and Paul grappled with that early on, making peace with his father’s paranoia over his sons. Mike, on the other hand, was still a child and behaving like one, too.

“Please, Da. I’m tall, it’ll be fine.” His eyes lit up, “‘Sides, Nico does it too, and his Da doesn’t say anything.”

“Too bad you’re not his son, then.” Paul laughed, ruffling Mike’s hair.

Paul could see John unbuttoning his shirt from the line of his vision. The skin of the underside of his forearms and the back of his neck was tinged a pale pink compared to the rest of his sandy complexion. 

“You ought to wear sunscreen out all the time in this heat, John,” Jim advised him, craning his neck to his side where he’d placed a bottle of water with a few scattered things. He grabbed a sunscreen and tossed it at John. 

“Good aim, Jim,” he said as he caught the bottle square in his hands.

“I’ll have you know I was quite the bowler in my cricket team.” He grinned.

John turned to Paul, “Mind?”

Paul stood there, feet planted on the uneven rocky surface and eyes becoming infinitesimally wide.

“Oh, er— yeah, ‘course,” He grabbed the sunscreen John was holding out, “Uh, turn around.”

He anointed the cream on the smooth expanse of his back. John wasn’t overly muscly, but had enough to have muscle definition achieved from working for it. Paul ran his hand between his shoulder blades, trying to get this over quickly. 

His fingertips dipped into the small of John’s back, coating the area with protectant. There was no gooseflesh in this heat, but Paul was sure the hair on his nape was sticking upwards.

“Alright, you’re done.”

“Thanks.” He smiled, rubbing the cream onto his forearms. 

Paul stepped out of his sandals, feeling the scorching rocks working to turn the skin of his soles raw. He stepped past John, onto the edge. Paul steadied himself on the ledge before leaping.

Then he jumped off, the ocean air pushing up on him, heavily lingered with salt.

“Paul–” Jim yelped for no reason at all. Not like he was going to pause midway and airlift himself back up.

He crashed onto the surface of the water painlessly, then sank beneath. The skin on his body savoured the coolness of the water it was engulfed in like a parched man drinking from an oasis.

The sound of water splashing resonated upwards moments later, and Paul emerged from it, slicking his hair back. 

“John!” He yelled, “Get in here!”

John walked onto the ledge too, flexing out his legs before turning to Mike and saying,

“Tough luck, son.” 

He dived off behind Paul.

Plethora of dives later, charging enough adrenaline in the two to survive wonders unknown, they all headed back. Mike never got his turn. Jim was a relentlessly stubborn man of his word. So the three walked down to the shore and waded in the water. John had gotten out first, climbing back up to Jim to talk about transcriptions. Mike and Paul stayed till their skin started to prune and limbs turned weightless against the waves.

Dinner went by in a flurry. The absent-minded kind, where Paul remembered sitting at the table, and then only getting up. Though the swimming had hardly curbed his appetite. Mike had informed Paul that there was a get-together at the beach that night. He told him that Nico insisted they all go. No one knew whose function it was, or even what it was. Was it a party? A going-away thing? No one knew, but everyone turned up at the premises to drink at the beach late into the night.

John was game to go too, promptly abandoning his transcripts.

───────────────────────────────

A boombox was perched atop a folding table. Something mellow was playing, as soft bodies moved about the beach. Everyone had a drink in hand, bottles of Coke or cheap wine. The daylight was on its last embers now, glimmering soft yellow hues upon the stretch of sand. The water was inching closer and closer, though it was calm. 

Gusts of breeze paraded the beach, rendering it much cooler than the blazing place it had been a handful of hours ago.

A small bonfire crackled a few feet ahead, around which sat a select few people whom Paul mostly recognised. The sound of the music was getting more and more drowned out by the conversation around him; it seemed like the entire town was out tonight. 

Paul usually enjoyed parties. He loved how they were relaxed at the start when people were just turning up, and how they always progressed into something bigger than intended. He wasn’t always the life of the party, per se, he’d often prefer nursing his drinks and chatting to pulling stunts, nevertheless, which he did do sometimes. But most of all, he loved the afterglow, people scattering and leaving in freshly made pairs. Going home to sleep or to a hook-up, there was always the same glint in everyone’s eyes.

“Paul! You made it!” A hand grabbed his arm, and he turned his face to a smiling one. 

“Hey,” he smiled, then instantly, “I got your message, er— sorry I was going to call but then-”  he sputtered.

“Leave that, ‘s okay.” Hera waved her hand dismissively. Glimmers of light were peeking through her hair, tousled by the tidal wind, and wavy. 

“Glad you came out now, though,” she handed him and John a Coke. 

“Yeah, ‘s been forever.” Time felt like it had stretched since John’s arrival, or gone all skewy. Like a vinyl skipping and replaying the same groove alternatively. It had only been a day but it felt like John had nudged his way into his summer for days now. It was messing up his head 

Paul took a swig from the bottle. The drink was fizzy and refreshing on his tongue.

“I saw you last week,”  she raised her brows.

Paul smiled sheepishly, then straightened up, “This is John, he’s Da’s new academic.” The last word was spoken like an accusation.

John stuck out his hand to Hera, who shook it, eyeing him.

“Pleasure,” 

“‘S all mine.” He smiled. She was unfazed. If she’d had any first impressions about him, they hadn’t flickered over her face. Paul made a note to press on about it afterward.

“Paul, Mike was looking for you, he uh–” she looked around, “he was standing by the bonfire?”

His brother had left before the two of them, saying he was going to help set up. The crackling fire was surrounded by a group of girls chatting away with their knees knocked. No sign of Mike.

“Oh, forget it, let’s go find him.” 

“I can’t just leave John by himself.” 

Hera looked at him pointedly, then at his side. John, or his lack thereof, made Paul’s chest pang. 

“Right, let’s go.”

As time progressed on he hadn’t found Mike at all. Which wasn’t in the least bit troubling, they’d lose each other at events all the time, and still always meet up before entering through the gates of the house. 

But by now, he’d lost John too. The number of people had doubled by nightfall, which puzzled him. Paul didn’t even realise there were that many people around his age in this town. 

“There aren’t. This is a going-away thing, most of these people came out for this from out of town.” Hera explained.

“Who’s?”

“Roma.” She buried her feet in the sand. “She’s going to Stanford for varsity tennis.”

Paul hummed in response, lapsing into silence. He wanted to bring up John, but couldn’t find a way to do it without making it seem like he was bothered by him. It all unsettled him; he’d never had to do fancy footwork to talk about someone to Hera. He’d just say their name, and they’d start going on and on.

“So John, huh,” he looked at her, and she was smiling.

He was grateful she was the one to bring him up, but when he turned his face, she was looking at him knowingly amused. He didn’t realise he’d been obvious about what he’d felt.

He didn’t even know what he felt. Just… something. John was funny and a smooth-talker, and he liked all the same authors Paul did. He’d snuck into his room before, looking at the collection of paperbacks he’d brought with him. And he was just oh-so charming. He craved approval from John, which he’d allot when he praised his music, or perked up when Paul spoke of a philosopher John liked. But then retract it just as fast when he’d walk away before Paul even finished talking.

“Yeah…John,” he said dumbly. All of a sudden, his tongue felt too heavy in his mouth. 

“What’s he like?”

“He’s interesting,” he said without missing a beat, “I like talking to him.” 

Hera nodded in thought, and then

“You like him.”

“No, I don’t.”

“You do, though.”  

“I don’t, though,” he smiled, flicking a handful of sand onto her lap, causing Hera to yelp, before she did the same. 

“‘S nothing bad, you know, if you like him.” She twirled her empty bottle in the sand. “Summer flings are a good time pass.”

“And awkward once the season changes.” 

“Not if they leave the country afterwards, and besides, nothing’s awkward between us despite,” she motioned between them, “everything.” 

He nodded in thought, and then, “I don’t think he likes me.” Paul cringed the second those words left his mouth. He felt like he was talking about a silly playground crush. Which, maybe, this wasn’t so far off from. 

Hera didn’t dignify him with a response.

“I don’t like him. It’s just infatuation, like when you don’t know someone well enough, so you get pulled in.”

“You literally just described a crush,” she deadpanned.

He groaned, “Why do you have to be so bloody difficult?”

“Because…” she said in a sing-song tune, and sprang up, “Okay, get up. We’ve talked about your little thing for the academic, now it’s time to dance.”

“I don’t want to dance,” he sulked. 

“What? You don’t want to commemorate this occasion of us reaching the conclusion of you having a new crush with a dance?” She said mockingly scandalised, “My, my McCartney. I don’t see you for a year, and you come back stripped of all manners?”

They padded across the beach, hand in hand. Something smoother was playing now, a new wave track. The new round of drinks and the louder music had caused an influx of energy on the beach. Pairs all around were drunkenly swaying, or were grouped playing volleyball over the snagged net in a huge chunk. Paul, despite himself, was enjoying this. The cool breeze passed through his shirt. Hera was dancing with him, nothing of that sort, just two mates catching the wind, taking in the sweetness. Her billowy blouse flapped gently, and her long hair flew every which way but one.

“Paul, let me be on that side, the wind’s blowing my–” she pushed hair away from her face. He wordlessly guided her by the waist, switching positions. 

From the corner of his eye, he spotted something. Someone .

John. 

He had only caught glimpses of the man talking to people and laughing a couple of times since they got here. Now, in the distance he could see that he was dancing with another. He guided the two of them closer, disguised in dance steps, to get a clearer view. 

“Paul, I know we’re moving closer to John,” Hera called him out. She could always see right through him. 

He didn’t dignify her with a response this time. Actually, he couldn’t .

His eyes flickered over to John. Who was kissing another girl. His arms were snug around her waist as they lazily swayed to the music. What song? Paul couldn’t tell anymore. Everything sounded like a cacophony of blurred voices. Like someone was trying to talk to him while he was underwater. He felt like it too, the paralysing helplessness of being able to do nothing but watch. 

He quickly looked away, right back at Hera, who had also followed his line of vision and was looking at John snogging another girl. When she looked back at Paul, she grimaced. 

Immediately, any denial of feelings for John left his body as he swallowed and put on a blank facade, 

“I’m going to–” 

“Let’s get out of here,” They spoke at the same time.

They went back to Paul’s. The walk back through the streets, which were hued a warm yellow from the street-lamps, was silent. Paul pushed his level best to not seem bothered by anything, even lighting a cigarette and passing it between the two like they always did. He asked about her recently graduated sister, Helia, and they lapsed into genial conversation.

In the undercurrent, he could sense Hera knew what they saw stung. No matter how small an infatuation, it was only human nature. 

A moment of silence, then she stubbed out the cigarette on the adjacent wall. 

Then, “You know, last time you were pouty like this was when–” she said in a controlled tone, “it was when you liked that boy–”

“Hera, don’t…” Paul warned.

She continued, suddenly plagued by fits of giggles, “Lorenzo–” 

He playfully pushed her, 

“Paul!” she cried, this time steadying herself against the wall, heaving in a breath. 

Paul watched her and then burst into laughter himself. He became ridiculous when he caught feelings; she was right. 

He buckled over, keeling with gales of laughter. 

It wasn’t even just about making fun of him. The surge of hysterics from the two was well laced with nostalgia, memories of that summer rushing into his mind and all the stupid things they’d done together then. Lorezno had become a forbidden term in their vernacular by the time August slipped away.

He steadied himself next to her, back against the wall. Paul turned his head to look at Hera beside him, who was wiping tears from her eyes and beaming. 

“God, you’re about to get so stupid.” 

“Hey…”

“What? It’s true. Or do you not remember when we–” 

He placed a palm over her mouth, impeding her speech. She immediately licked it, laughing again as Paul yelped and wiped his hand against his shirt. 

It was well past midnight when they passed through the main gate. Mike’s bike was tossed carelessly in the entryway. Everyone was in their beds and presumably asleep.

They cut across the back garden, covered in a myriad of herbs that Concetta had Marcello plant. They took a seat by the pool. 

Hera dangled their legs up to the shins in the water, and Paul joined her soon after. This time she produced a cigarette, and he lit it. They passed it back and forth. It was quiet then, even the plangent rattle of the cicadas wasn’t there to balm his underlying defeated demeanor. 

At some point in the night, she had gotten up and pecked his cheek goodbye. He still sat by the pool, out of cigarettes now. Eventually, he dragged himself to his room, cutting across John’s, which was still empty. He wondered if he was bedding that nameless girl now. 

Drowsiness overtook him quickly in bed, eyelids drooping and feeling heavier and heavier by the passing minute, when he heard the sound of hushed whispers and gargled giggles caught in throats. He was wide awake now. Did John bring her home? His home? How’d he even remember the way home? Paul left thinking John would spend the night at the other girl’s place, but his audacity was really something. This wasn’t a love motel, he thought bitterly, trying to muffle out their sounds with the pillow. 

John’s window was open, the way it always was. He considered pandering to the shared balcony and closing the shutter doors, but that would alert them to his presence. Would that be so bad?  

He reasoned he’d be blocking them, like a clingy little brother, and that was the last thing he’d wanted then. Eventually, he’d heard a soft thud, the sound of someone dropping to their knees. His ears perked up. He went rigid in his bed when a low groan followed. The two of them must’ve been right by the balcony if Paul could hear them with that level of clarity through the walls. 

Though they wouldn’t be visible if one went down to peer into the room from the driveway. A large tree with curling branches obstructed the window in a way that only the people inside could look outside, and not the other way. The pair had probably considered that before starting, but still, the voyeuristic tendency of the situation made his abdomen stir. 

Paul was beginning to enjoy this strange predicament. If he were to be subjected to John’s sexual escapades, why not enjoy it? More muffled sounds vibrated into his room. He only heard John– low, half-swallowed sounds that Paul would cling to for weeks to come. And it was better this way, so easy to imagine anyone on the other end. 

The booze had blurred his veins, the air heavy with lust, and the humidity made light sweat dazzle on the hollow of his throat. He pictured John, standing by the window, knees working extra hard not to buckle. Exposed in all his indecency, hands tugged in her hair, head tipped back. Was he fucking into her mouth, or did he surrender himself entirely to her whims? 

His hand slid across his abdomen, down inside his cotton briefs. The fabric was already damp. He willed his ears to hone in on the sounds, the sweet sounds procured by the man next door. He willed his eyes to conjure the scenario, debauched images of what John looked like in his most vulnerable state. It wasn’t hard; he could envision the man perfectly. He willed the skin stretched over his flesh to feel. To feel every sensation that was caused by faint grunts and sighs, to feel how his blood ran thick in his veins, how his breathing quickened, and his mouth parted.

The pace of his hands quickened. No shame ran through his body, mind, or soul. Because when every orifice of his body: mouth, or gooseflesh was kecking up pleasure, he was nothing more than a bundle of sensations; it was impossible to feel anything else now. Paul spilled into his hands, between his fingertips, and down his palms. Pleasure shot down his spine, and he felt it move along every vertebra. He lay there for a moment, chest heaving, before reaching for tissues.

Only when he’d returned to himself, he strained to hear if John had finished too, at that moment the man let out a strangled mewl, a tinge louder than everything else. He’d finished. Paul wanted to go to the washroom and rid himself of any evidence, but he considered that John would be going just about now to do the same. He didn’t move, soiled hand hung off the bed, and the other sprawled across his chest. He turned to his side, pushing his face into the pillow.