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thattimdrakeguy · 4 years ago

Note

Prompt: Bruce hugs Tim after Tim fought with Jack

Alright, fellas, gonna be honest. Got way into the whys and hows of the actual fight with Jack over the actual comforting hug with Bruce.

It’s in there, oh boy it’s there, but I’m curious to see if this thing even fits into a Tumblr post cause I don’t know what the limits are actually.

So uh,

Trigger Warnings for: Domestic Abuse, Emotional Abuse, Mentions of Drugs, Threats of the Police (is that a trigger warning? cause I feel like it should be nowadays), traumatization, and potentially more. Oh, and Alfred has a gun but idk if that falls into any triggers.

It’s not a “Jack is evil” fiction. I tried to stay away from that. But I didn’t try to not make him do something I did feel like he’d do at the same time. He never hits Tim, I’ll say that.

Hoping it’s not too bad. I feel it’s half decent. So ayy.

Wasn’t sure what to call it.

Maybe “Assumptions and Consequences” idk.

Also probably has lots of typos and grammar mistakes so sorry for that lol.

Tim Drake loved his dad. His biological mother had already died, and Jack was all Tim had. Dana Winters was only Jack’s girlfriend who was wanting to become Tim’s mother, but it hadn't happened quite yet. So Tim only had one parent left, and man, did it suck to have a parent sometimes when you’re Robin. All the lying from having to be Robin drove Tim mad some days. Plus neither of them were quite compatible with one another. Honestly how were they even related?

Jack thought Tim was a bad kid. Well, he didn’t, but look at the evidence. Tim kept sneaking out, leaving school early, getting into fights. That was a kid acting out if Jack ever knew, and Jack would blame himself, until he couldn’t be bothered about it. Was it Jack’s fault? Jack had a habit of forgetting it a day or two after an accident. So he never really did improve yet, despite saying he would.

But the thing was, Tim wasn’t a bad kid. He was a great kid; a really great kid. Tim Drake was Robin the Boy Wonder. Not that he was the most talented, or most efficient at being Robin, but Tim filled the job out well. Being a good kid as Robin, meant having to be a bad kid as Tim though. When Tim saw bad things happening, Tim had to disappear, for Robin to take a beating, and for Tim to keep the bruises.

One day it got too much for Jack to handle. Tim wasn’t even home yet, and Jack’s face was red. The man of the house kept pacing back and forth really considering what he had to do to contain Tim this time. In his sea of tension he started biting down on his fist to get out some of the anger but it wasn’t stopping. What would Tim’s mother think of Tim right now? All those years of Janet protecting Tim and coddling him, and all it took was--what a few years for Tim to turn into this? Janet would’ve been so disappointed in him.

Jack sat down in his recliner past midnight to wait for his son, and only seconds after the creaking sound of his chair did he hear the doorknob twisting on the opening door that must’ve been his son. Must’ve been a lazy day for Tim. Normally Tim would come in through the window of his bedroom. Jack was actually listening for a creak on the walls. After a quick sigh that came deep within the chest, Jack tossed down his remote swiftly onto the table making a loud smacking sound, as he stood up and turned around.

It was darkly lit like a shadowy alley way in the house. All Jack wanted to do was scare the crap out of Tim. He didn’t care how small Tim was, or how young he was, if Tim was so willing to let Jack be scared, Jack thought it only made sense for him to scare Tim right back to make it only fair. Jack grabbed a flashlight on the coffee table and shined it in the eyes of the small figure that stood right in his doorway. And he made sure to make himself seem as big as he possibly could. Standing up straight, broadening his shoulders, and holding his flashlight up higher.

He prepared his voice as something similar to Clint Eastwood. All he did all day was watch movies and take phone calls, and it really showed. “Tim, do you mind telling me, why in God’s green hell are you so damn f--” Jack quickly squinted his eyes. This wasn’t Tim he was looking at. It was Ariana Dzerchenko, and she was shaking in her boots, while Jack seemed disappointed it wasn’t his son. “What the hell are doing in my damn house?! You’re telling me at 3 A-#@!@#-M you don’t have anything better to do, then open my door when I never even gave you a key? My son isn’t even here. You trying to steal from me?” Jack went over to grab her arm after the brash accusation. “Get over here, I’m calling your Uncle.”

Ariana moved her arm away and backed outside, still shaking. She stared at Jack scared, and concerned. Ariana could tell he was disappointed for the wrong reasons

“Look, it’s either in my house and I call your uncle, and you take another foot and it’s the police.” grunted Jack. He stopped bothering doing the gravelly voice, but he was still oh-so-damned pissed. After Ariana didn’t bother making any move of any sorts, Jack relented and tried to talk a little more normal. “Do you know where Tim is?” he asked like it was only the afternoon and he happened to pass her in the park.

“N-no.” was the only word Ariana could manage to get passed her lips.

Jack’s brow lowered, and angled. “Then why are you here, Miss?” He took a step closer to Ariana. “And be honest.”

“T-Tim, uh, he, uh, he asked me to bring back this and put it on the kitchen counter.” the girl held up the house key. “And all he said to me was that he was going to be late. Really late, and that he didn’t want his dad to worry again.”

All Ariana could see of Jack was the way the shadows contoured around his aging face. Making him not even look human. It made him look paler, with black eyes and a still face that would barely move except when it got angrier.

“He tell you where he was?” Jack asked again as he turned his head to the left. His left ear was his good ear.

“No, sir. He just sounded...swollen-y.”

“Swollen?”

“Like he just got hit in the face again.”

“Did you hear anything else?”

“A really loud engine and some gunshots later when I called him. Look, Mister, I’m really worried about him too. I didn’t even want to come over here--but I was just--I was just hoping he’d be here again maybe. Do you know what he could be doing?”

“Hell no. At this point my son doesn’t tell me anything. All I can guess is that the son of mine, I spent all that money on, is dealing drugs, like my money isn’t good enough for him.”

“Drugs? Timmy? Drugs? I’m not his parent or anything, I’m just his friend, but Tim would never do anything like that. I think he’s in trouble in another way.”

“That’s what I thought, but somehow every week I’m getting a call from the school counselor telling me that my small-fry son is dealing with a bruise of some kind. They found him passed out in school one time, and I found dirt marks on the outside of his window. What kind of normal former-board-school-student do you hear about ending up like that?”

“But Tim went on for hours one time about how he hates drugs. He saw a kid with a bag of something and wouldn’t stop ranting for what felt like an hour. He--”

“Ari--”

“--wouldn’t ever--”

“You can go home, Ariana! And thank you for your time. I won’t tell the police, or your uncle. But just go home now.”

“I--” Ariana closed her eyes and realized she better just go. “Okay. Okay, I’ll...go. Just tell me Tim’s okay when he comes back. And--if it actually ends up being drugs...tell him--tell him we’re over.” she fled the scene not being able to handle it anymore.

Jack didn’t answer back, but he knew that she knew he wasn’t going to tell her anything that was going to happen. Once he heard a ruffling in the bush right where Tim’s room would be, he knew that the boy came home. Taking another chest deep breath he slowly walked to that wall where he saw Tim, and he used the flashlight on him for real this time.

That middle parted bowl cut, and baby-face were impossible to misidentify. His already large eyes grew larger and he looked like he saw an entire army of ghosts coming for his head. Sneaking into his own house was something he’s done dozens of times. Tim loved sneaky time, but this time he thought he really messed it up. His Robin career and life flashed right in front of his eyes.

Nothing in Jack’s mind resembled pleasant. Everything was fire and disappointment. Actually seeing his son in the act of sneaking around outside, when he should be in bed made everything he thought felt true as the solution to a math problem. Just like the outlaws in the westerns he watched, Jack narrowed his eyes as he paid attention to his target. He really needed to get outside himself fast.

Tim gasped, as his mind had no thoughts besides a realization that his dad finally caught him sneaking in. “Dad?!” he uttered before being grabbed by the collar of his sweater.

“So you finally decided that my house is better than whatever alley you've been laying in every night?” pushing himself closer to Tim, Jack made it so the only thing he could see of Tim was the panic in his baby blue eyes.

Meanwhile, all Tim could see was the anger in his dad’s face. “W-what are you talking about?!” Tim’s voice cracked. He knew his dad thought something was going on, but he never imagined it’d be this intense. He could break the grip on Jack at any time, but would Jack find that even more suspicious? Tim still had Dana thinking he was too small to play football. Could Jack believe Tim would be able to take down someone over a foot his own size?

“The drugs, Tim. The drugs.” The hoarseness to Jack’s voice was painful. If his hand was around Tim’s neck and not just his collar, he’d be strangling the kid. “I've been staying up each night for the past three days waiting for you to come home. To have a fatherly chat, but all I ever hear is you sneaking up the wall, and I’ve had enough of that. I try to be a father, and you just try to treat me like an obstacle. Is all I am to you, is in your way, Tim? I paid for your freaking ninja camp, and it ends within a week of you being there. If the people running the camp didn’t end up in jail, I’d have the mind to ask them what you exactly did there. A fake piercing, and fake stubble to look tougher? I’d be real curious to know where exactly a 14-year-old kid can buy a fake stubble.”

Tim was really doing his best to try and seem calm. If he didn’t everything would get much worse. Then it donned on him that he was treating his own dad like he would a master criminal in the middle of a breakdown. “Dad, I really know this looks bad. I really do. Trust me. But this isn’t at all like what it seems.”

“Answer me immediately: If I searched your room would I find drugs? Narcotics? Booze?”

Booze. Tim could smell the booze in his dad’s breath. If Tim showed up just a bit earlier it wouldn’t have been this bad. And you know Tim would beat himself up over that when he shouldn’t.

“No, you wouldn’t find anything of the sort. I need you to listen, I’m going to need you to let go of me, and put down the light. It’s hurting me.” Another half second passed where Tim’s brain suddenly tried to process this. And like someone running away from the scene, it hurt too bad to stay on it. “I don’t deal drugs...I--I stop people from selling drugs!” Even in a moment like this, not having to lie for once felt like a weight off of Tim’s shoulders.

The man standing above Tim was about to blind him with that flashlight, but he eventually dropped Tim down onto the wet and muddy grass below them. Where he left him lay and to get mud all over his clothes without any sense of regret. Jack could only think of his late wife. Which seemed rare ever since he got to know Dana better. Strangely, this Janet that Jack was remembering seemed to be a lot more on his side than anyone that knew them back then would remember.

“Don’t talk down to me.” said Jack in an uncomfortably soft voice. “I let you stay in my house because I loved you enough to let you. Your room is my property, everything in there was bought with my money.” The pace he spoke was slow and methodical. His mind was quiet and released. “I am going to look in your room. You’re going to stay here, and when I come back to you. I’ll decide then what’s going to happen to you.”

Should Tim speak? Should he not? What was better right then? When he heard Jack talk about his room, he wasn’t worried about the punishment he’d have to deal with. All he was worried about was any proof about being Robin. That wasn’t just Tim’s own secret to keep. It was a secret he had to share, and was honored to share.

“I--I can’t let you do that, sir.” another voice crack from the kid.

“I bet I know why.” spoke Jack with full eye contact. To him he wasn’t lying to himself. It was a fact he had to find the evidence for. “Let it be known by the way, that I don’t hate you. I’m scared for you. But you also make it awfully hard to love you lately.”

That was one hit Tim couldn’t dodge.

Being 3 AM not too many people were able to witness any of this happening, except for one particular neighbor in Alfred Pennyworth. He was tidying up around the side windows on the second floor when he could see some sort of commotion at the Drake residence. Using binoculars like a bird watcher that exclusively looks for Robins, he saw Tim on the ground and Tim’s dad above him. That wasn’t going to fly past anyone in Stately Wayne Manor.

Very quickly he let Bruce know that Tim needed help and why. It’d only take a few minutes for him to return to his home, but it felt crucial. Tim needed a father figure that felt like he’d protect him, and not vilify him. In no world is Batman the best for the job of dad, but he gave it his best unlike Jack.

Outside it was wet from the harsh rain earlier in the evening. Most of the lights in the neighbors were out, signifying they had gone to sleep. A foot felt like a yard when everything was so quiet and dark.

So though the owner of the manor wouldn’t exactly appreciate it, Alfred brought a small fire-arm in the inner pocket of his suit jacket just in case things went worse. Very quickly he rushed his way over to Tim, making it just after Jack entered the Drake residence again. Tim still seemed in such a shock that he didn’t even try to get himself up.

In his head, Tim meant to go after his dad, but his mental legs just gave out on him. Leaving him to sit in the mud as he panics about what could happen next. He recounted where all of his Robin stuff was. During his messy messy thoughts he was almost certain that it was all on, wearing it under his clothes. Confidence was never Tim’s highest attribute though. Normally it was his perceptiveness, but it was failing him. He was lucky he could still recognize Alfred.

“Alfred?” said a confused Tim who was dazed more and more as the night went on.

“Young Master Timothy, are you alright?” greeted the Butler as he helped Tim up to see his feet. “I didn’t see everything, but I saw everything I needed to.” He quickly noticed a bruise on Tim’s cheek. “Young sir, did he do this to you, or was it another person?”

“Who’s ‘he’?” Tim’s eyes widened and looked past Alfred. “Dad?”

Alfred may have been an older man, but he wasn’t a man you should bother trying to stand taller than. The quiet, noble man turned around promptly and stood his ground and he saw fit. Only reaching his hand in, just in case, with no intent on striking first. When Alfred turned around to see the returning Jack, there wasn’t any cowardice within him. Former British Secret Service agent Alfred Pennyworth could get the drop on anyone if he tried hard enough, besides those with powers. Tim’s dad wasn’t someone with powers, so Alfred had his number ready just in case.

Jack on the other hand only had a vague sense of right and wrong keeping him from hurting anyone. Just sick of the lies, and obvious sneaking around. Whoever thought Jack was a good dad never really saw enough of him.

“Who--Are you--are you Wayne’s butler? Did he call you?” Jack asked, pointing at Tim. “The kid’s fine. There’s nothing to worry about. He’s just being sensitive.”

“Jack Drake, I want to let you know that I am not a blind man, nor an easily fooled man. And that all I see when I look into the eye’s a man such as you, that all I see is an inner-pain that I’ve seen nearly everyday since my eyes could first see, and my mind could first retain thought. All you do is feel bitter, distract yourself, and in the moments where you can’t, you take it out on everyone else. If I look at the ground behind me, I can see a very brave boy have a fear so bad that he didn’t even want to get out of the mud. Either meaning he’s about to be killed, or he’s being traumatized, and I don’t see a gun in your hand. So sit down and get some rest, and think about it. While I’ll take young Timothy with me where he’ll be safe for the night, sir.”

“You know I’m not going to let you do that.” growled Jack.

“Then allow me to let you know that in my inner jacket pocket I have a firearm that you know I’ll use. Not to aim at your head, but below the waist where, if you don’t already know, it won’t count for attempted murder.”

“I’ll call the cops on you then, you bum. You’ve freeloaded on Wayne before that man could walk. To this city you’re nobody but the guy that used to wipe Wayne’s ass.”

“I’m mighty gracious I don’t have any worry of convincing you of anything. The reputation I actually do have serves me enough just fine. As for...your reckless statement on the police, I should let you know we have cameras showing everything that happened. You wouldn’t be the one winning in court.” Alfred didn’t look pleased when he took another glance at Tim who was struggling to process any of this. Alfred was there in the same home Tim was in when he found out his mother died. This wasn’t something Alfred enjoyed doing. “You can come with me now, Timothy. We’ll figure this out, alright?”

Surprisingly, Jack let them walk away. Jack wasn’t an evil man. But not being evil doesn’t equal being good. Life was just complicated, and so was he. Did he regret his actions? Well, he isn’t a monster. Of course he did--Well, maybe he did. Who really freaking knew. But did he know why exactly he did if he had? Not quite. Was he going to get better? There was going to be a while before that’d happen.

Inside Tim’s own heart he felt dead. The remains of his biological family seemed to break down into crumbs of dust. Where was home anymore? Jack didn’t say he wasn’t allowed to come back home, but the message was made plenty clear that he couldn’t go back home easily. Actually, Tim didn't know if he wanted to go home after that. Even for such a great detective, Tim had no clue what his dad was going to be like after that.

Mud. Ew, the mud. It was all over Tim’s clothes and hands from his fall. It certainly wasn’t going to help Tim’s mood.

“Young Master Timothy, I think it’d be in your best interest to get a bath and relax. You can give me your clothes for me to wash, and I’m sure we have some of your clothes around here somewhere for you to lay around in.” he stated as he opened the door to Stately Wayne Manor for Tim.

Tim barely said any words, and said none of all during the walk to the Manor. “Oh, okay, Alfie.” Even his tone of voice seemed down on himself.

Seeing Tim so frozen stiff over it was breaking Alfred’s heart bit by bit. He’s seen Tim shake in fear, he’s seen him panic, but never frozen. This really was different. It was obvious it would be, but seeing it in person is always a different feeling. As they went up stairs you wouldn’t know Tim was an athlete. Alfred saw how natural Tim was at acrobatics in front of his own eyes, and now he saw the young boy struggling going up stairs.

Batman wasn’t able to make it till after Tim was in the bath. So he’d have to wait a bit to speak with him. He took off his cowl and how upset he was, was immediately evident. He had a stubble covered frown, and was breathing heavily, which was odd since he came home in the Batwing. As someone who stops domestic disturbances like this when he has to, he was fuming.

“We have to do something about Jack Drake, Alfred.” said Bruce drinking the tea Alfred gave them, as they waited for Tim in the kitchen.

“Something involving the courts may I assume?” assumed Alfred.

Bruce shook his head. “No. At least not yet, unfortunately.”

“Sir, but we have the evidence. There’s no doubt we’d win.”

“He’s still Tim’s father. That means something, and is a bond that’s hard to break, and shouldn’t be broken.”

“If I was only a second or two late, I would say it’s accurate to assume Mister Jack Drake was going to strike Timothy. He reeked of liquor and tossed him onto the ground.”

“But he didn’t hit him. Sounding harsh isn’t my imperative. But accusing a child of doing something they didn’t do, wouldn’t classify as anything that’d allow Tim to leave. And again, Tim and Jack are family. We shouldn’t break a family. That isn’t a good goal to set.”

“Are you really defending a man that didn’t bother to raise his own son, that he threatened with boarding school over something he should be more sympathetic with, and berates him when Tim actually acts his own age? People can change, Master Wayne, but when people are constantly given chances, those chances should run out eventually.”

“What would you suggest, Alfred? I’m doing what's best for Tim in my eyes. If we took him from his dad he’d hate us forever. Once Tim is able to function properly again, he’ll just look at it like another incident in his life. He’ll want to go back whether he wants to or not, because in his heart he loves his father.”

“Please forgive me for what I’m about to say, Master Wayne. But your over glorification of genetic parents because of the death of your own seems to have left you forgetting that whether biological or not, your family isn’t truly who’s related to you by blood.” Alfred sighed having to speak in such a rough way. “You’ve brought in Master Grayson as your ward, and Master Todd as your son. Family is who you bring in close and who you choose to stay with, and if you all care for one another. Sir, you know this best. And I’m not forgetful that they had no parents left when you brought them in, but don’t forget that just because they live right beside your home that damage isn’t being done to a child.”

The chair Bruce was sitting on squeaked as he moved back to stand up. He made his way up the stairs to where Tim was getting a bath. He took a deep breath, and took a moment to consider his actions, and knocked on the door.

“Tim--Tim are you decent? I’d like to speak to you about what happened. Now, it doesn’t have to be right this moment. Take any moment you need. But we need to know if--”

In a quick unhesitating moment, the door opened, and Tim never looked smaller to Bruce. The vulnerable look in his eye mixed with the oversized sweater he had on. The kid was still damp from a poor job drying himself, but it didn’t stop him from leaping at Bruce and putting his arms around him for a hug. Tim rested his head on Bruce’s chest as it was the highest he could reach, and he squeezed as hard as he could. A slight tear went down Tim’s face. Did he hear Alfred and Bruce? In the moment it didn’t matter, and Bruce hugged him back in a fatherly embrace. Neither of them knew what to do.

As the hug continued on longer Bruce lifted Tim into the air in a similar matter as Jack and Tim as Tim went to make sure they were okay during No Man’s Land. Would Tim remember that and choose to stay with Jack? Did Tim still believe Jack would get better? Or would Bruce’s rare act of physical affection convince Tim to tell everything he knew to make a case to stay with Bruce? Did it even matter yet?

It felt like a part of Tim’s life died, but as an era of your life is killed, another is born. Something new you have to make the best out of. Maybe the era will stay and it’ll get better, or maybe not. The future was a mystery, and could be scary. If it wasn’t then people wouldn’t be pretending to be fortune tellers. Sometimes though, it’s best just to remember and focus on the present.

“I love you, R--um, Tim. I hope you know this. I care about you, and want to protect you for as long as I can, and if needed I’m absolutely willing to--” Bruce was cut off by a still tearful Tim.

“I love you too, Bruce.”

#Tim Drake #Robin #Alfred Pennyworth #Jack Drake #Bruce Wayne #Batman #Fan fics #Fan fictions

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parvummalum07 · 7 years ago

Text

Inky paths of life 01

First post on Tumblr. Well. I am not a native English speaker so I Really don’t know whether or not I should use simple present tense when my characters are thinking...So, sorry if my shit grammar and very limited vocabulary bother you.

Soulmate AU; John POV; most likely bad ending and major character death. I hope I would actually finish this one hahahaha...

I don’t own these people; they own me, in some way or another. God bless the Beatles.

Nothing is real and nothing is to hung about.

He knew they would come in one way or another; suddenly or slowly, sometimes just under one’s eyes. So it didn’t surprise him that his word chose to came in the most unattractive and mediocre way: it appeared in his dream, without him noticing. And it also didn’t surprise him that it chose to appear across his waist, the position most people have their words. Mediocre, indeed; even its context was rather boring, because there was only one word instead of a sentence that people usually have and really, what kind of boring lover would make the last word she would say to him Johnny? Wouldn’t that unknown person choose to leave a more charming, more romantic remark on her own death?

Wouldn’t his lover be different than those idiots who would actually call the names of their soulmates when they die?

Yes, the fucking fate whispered in his ears, I did chose such an unpleasant soulmate for you, because why not? He brushed these dark thoughts away with a sneering bark, but in the dead of night, when he finally got rid of Mimi’s endless remarks on that ‘special person’, and had to face the darkness alone, such thoughts crept up to his spine, leaving an icy trace between his shoulder blades. You are just an ordinary human being, this disembodied voice said to him, just a boy that nobody loves. Your dad left you, your mom left you, no one at school likes you, you are the troublemaker and the stupid one, failing your courses all the time. So why an interesting soulmate?

And deep down inside, he agreed. Maybe John Lennon doesn’t deserve a unique soulmate, and that’s OK. But still, a part of himself thought of his word as a……sign? Maybe a prophecy? Deep down there was a kind of hope shining like twilight: at least, for now, he surely has a soulmate……he had heard about illnesses—and sometimes, the lack of love—which would deprive a person from having a mark at the age of 15; at least he didn’t belong to them. Maybe, just maybe, there was a soulmate—probably a good-looking one—must be a good-looking one, come on! –right there, waiting for John, and she would love him no matter what.

Maybe.

The first time he felt like meeting a soulmate, he realized later on, was the time he met Paul. Of course he didn’t know how it feels, but that was the closest ever feeling compared to his imagination. The earth would not stop turning, there wouldn’t be blinding light flashing everywhere……but there was definitely something going on. Sparks flying. The first time he ever saw that Elvis-looking boy walking into that church, he thought: holy shit.

Not a decent thing to say in a church, he knew, but still. The scene was shocking.

Technically speaking it wasn’t the first time he met Paul because he had seen him, had met him on the bus for several times, had saw him waving to the girls alongside the window, smiling as if surprised and embarrassed by the admiration from the other gender. He regarded this gesture as phony, for what kind of girls wouldn’t fall for his looks, with those cherubic cheeks and doe eyes? He knew some guys who would howl at these pair of eyebrows as well; sex appeals, it seems, are not so mutually exclusive. Later on he would alter this belief, admitting that yes, that little Elvis really didn’t expect such attraction, but at that time the stranger on the bus seemed to be the exact kind of people he would normally hate at first sight.

Except that he wasn’t. That warm voice of his certainly mastered Twenty flight rock well, but the real surprise fell when Elvis and Little Richard came ringing in the hall. John was immediately attracted by that person, and all of a sudden, the world was making a lot more senses to him. It was truly breathtaking.

“What was your name again?” he asked after the show-off, trying hard to bury his excitement under a cool mask, and that boy smiled triumphantly.

“Paul,” he responded, his fingertips sliding down the white keys elegantly, “Paul McCartney.”

Paul, as far as he knew, was the only one who didn’t show around his own words. This wasn’t usually what a Scouse teenager do within the age hierarchy, for you simply highlight your authority to people younger than you by showing off your words. At first he thought that was because his marks were buried deep in his clothes, on a position where only intimate families could see, but later on, when being asked by a mutual friend of theirs, he laughed and explained.

“I just don’t do it,” he said lightly to Ivan, after a quite successful gig, when everyone around them were drinking and laughing heavily, “not because it is hard to show or something—God bless those who have their word on their butt—but because I simply don’t want to.”

“How come?” Pete yelled from afar, his booming voice echoing in the unbearable din. Everyone in the pub began yelling to each other, and John was suddenly very, very angry for the fact that the music was on, so fucking loud that if Paul chose this moment to give Ivan a private answer, he wouldn’t be able to know what he had spoken. But Paul simply smiled; he shook his head fondly and leaned on the bar counter, flying John a glance as he shouted out his order to a rather pissed-looking barman.

“Weird, isn’t he?” Ivan commented, and he hummed his agreement absent-mindedly, watching the dark-haired boy leaning closer to the bar, a flash of sweaty pale skin appearing under his shirt. His mouth suddenly turned very, very dry.

They didn’t touch upon this topic until much later, when John was sobbing uncontrollably in Paul’s arms, his attempts at speaking failing pathetically because of erupting hiccups and gasps. The pain of losing Julia was suddenly too intense to endure, he didn’t want that part of himself unveiled in front of Paul, but Paul stuck to him, faced his ferocious burst of anger without a blink of his eye, and finally, finally, John allowed himself to collapse under the embrace of the younger boy, his body limp yet for the first time in days relieved. Paul didn’t mutter a single word, just held a death grip on the back of John’s open shirt, and strangely, that was just what John needed at the moment.

Finally, after burying his nose in Paul’s neck for a long time—he could smell a faint odor of lavender from Paul’s skin, mixed up with sweat and a fresh scent he couldn’t tell, a scent so uniquely Paul’s—he could finally utter a full sentence without sounding teary.

“How did you survive all that, Macca?” he whispered, “how did you……get used to…losing…her?”

Paul inhaled deeply. He inhaled so deeply that John could feel his heart beating within his ribcage, under their closely pressed-together skin. “I didn’t,” after a long pause, he said, his beautiful eyes blank, “I couldn’t. You simply bleed and carry on, that’s all.”

John breathed. In, out, in, out. So simple, yet so hard. Life is fragile, he suddenly realized, for he would be dead so easily if he simply stops doing this.

“You don’t admire my dad, I know,” Paul whispered, his sound cracking a little at the end of each word, “but I truly respect him……for he could still carry on. It is a miracle he even survived; I couldn’t imagine……”

He shuddered, and John suddenly knew.

“Your mom and dad, they are soulmates, right?”

He couldn’t see his face but he knew somehow that Paul closed his eyes. “He said to her the words when she……passed away.”

There was a long silence. John would swear to God that he felt warm wetness sinking into the collar of his shirt, but when Paul spoke again, there was no trace of tears in his voice.

“That was like a kind of fraud, isn’t it?” he commented, his voice fierce and vibrating with emotion, “Knowing a person’s words and say to him or her the exact sentence before that person dies? It……I don’t know how to put it……how the fuck could someone—anyone—believe that it is the end, it is the last time they……How can they be certain? How can they choose to do so? Isn’t it arrogant to assume themselves to be soulmates? Wasn’t it something that should be decided……not by people?”

John let go of Paul’s shirt, sat up straight, studied him quite closely. He didn’t know where his glasses were, so he couldn’t tell whether Paul cried or not; but intense sorrow and yearning were erupting from under that girlishly handsome face, appearing and disappearing like flashes of shooting star. This bare, intimate display of his most ferocious emotions didn’t contort Paul’s features, but made him—impossibly—even more beautiful; he now held a face of a pained martyr or a constrained saint, a face that suddenly made John too awed to look at.

“So this is why you didn’t show your marks to anyone, is it?” he whispered, “do you……not expect your wife or someone to be your soulmate?”

He would never forget Paul’s tone when he answered that question. “I do,” he said calmly, “I just don’t want them to feel obliged to be my soulmate. That would be too heartbroken for them if I die first.”

Stu held a different opinion. In fact, Stu held too many different opinions; he and Paul were like two ends of a magnet. But somehow, John found them disturbingly alike: both were sensitive and easy to fall into melancholy, both were mature beyond their own age, both were somehow timid when facing the girls, seemingly unaware of the charm and aura they carried around themselves. Stu, however, was built in much less strong material; John would say he was hesitant, unsure about his future and ambition, whereas Paul was nothing but the opposite.

He never knew why all these conversations about soulmates or words took place inside dark damp gross-smelling pubs, but they did. One night in Hamburg they were hanging around, simply enjoying themselves, and this topic was brought up between large gulps of beer and rude laughter, in the dance hall filled with people so engaged in having fun that they didn’t even want to think about the future. The light was blinding, flashes of colors erupting like firework across people’s faces.

“Why did you come to Germany anyway?” Someone, maybe Ringo, asked.

Stu chuckled. He pulled the neck of his shirt, revealing a patch of milky pale skin. A sharp line of dark words was shining under a thin layer of sweat. “German,” he claimed, when people around him hooted and whistled, “you’d believe that it’s easier to find a bird speaking German here, mates.”

He didn’t know why he brought that up, but: “Do you know Paul never show his marks to anyone?”

Stu stared at him, then turned to Paul, who froze beside John’s arm. “Not even to you?” he asked suspiciously, taking in this piece of information with difficulty, “How come?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Paul retorted, suddenly putting all his guards up like a hedgehog hiding his underbelly while facing an attack, “I just……don’t.”

Stu swallowed. A sincere shade of unease flashed across his delicate features. “But……what if there’s some accident? What if your words are someone’s last words before an accident takes place? You’ve got to know them to prevent an accident, isn’t it? Life is very short, and there’s no time for you to hesitate.”

They both jumped when Paul suddenly slammed his bottle of beer hard on the bar counter. “That isn’t my case, is it, Stu?” he sneered, “I’m not the one with these words on his chest. Enjoy the night, lads!”

And in a swirl, he charged out of the pub. Stu and John stared at each other, while an icy atmosphere suddenly fell heavily in their small group of friends. Someone made a joke deliberately, and soon afterward, everyone was laughing again; the eye contact between them, however, didn’t break.

“I apologize,” John said, a nasty scent of bitterness rising in his throat, “he was—”

“No,” Stu answered, buttoning his shirt absent-mindedly, his eyes suddenly in tears, “no, I understand.”

His fingertips brushed across these sharply written German, which, roughly translated into English, would be: Shit, Stu, what the fuck, don’t die, don’t—

TBC

#the beatles #john lennon #paul mccartney #mclennon

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