Our Bruises Are Coming, John/Stu, PG-13
Title: Our Bruises Are Coming
Pairing: John/Stu
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 499
Notes: For cellarfulofboys prompt #1: Firsts
“So how’s everyone’s favorite Nazi bitch?” John asks, right foot bouncing as he sitt on his bed, that first night Stu comes back from Astrid, completely in love.
“Don’t do that,” Stu warns, whipping his jacket off. “Don’t start all that shite when everyone knows that you like her just as much as I do.”
“So to hell with your old friend John, eh?”
“As if you’d really care if I left.” Stu looks down at him, sick to death with John moping about when he’s got everything he could possibly ask for at the moment. “We all know I don’t belong here! I’m a painter, John. Not a musician! The others don’t even like me.”
John’s on his feet, in his face. “Look, they’re just giving you a hard time because you’re new. You’re still learning. You’ll get better. We’re all getting better.”
He wishes he had John’s talent for only hearing what he wants to. He wishes he could block out all the comments that Paul tosses in his direction. He wishes he could focus on John telling him he’s good and the screams from the girls and ignore the own voice inside of him screaming for him to put down the bass and pick up a brush. He’s not painted since they left Liverpool. The throbbing in his fingers from playing bass for hours each night doesn’t compare to the ache from not feeling the slide of paint against a canvas.
“It’s not what I want, John,” he tells him softly. “This is your dream, not mine. The only reason I’m here is because you refuse to do it without me.”
John presses his lips together and shakes his head at the floor. “So what then? You’re done? You’re just going to chuck us and go off and paint with some bird you’ve only just met?”
“For fuck’s sake, John. I’m not going anywhere.”
“But you will.” John looks at him with that look in his eyes that Stuart’s only seen once before on that night when John finally told him what happened to his mum: stone-faced and cold, but his eyes, in his eyes Stu sees he’s fucking gutted. And when he slips his hand around the back of John’s neck and presses their lips together, he’s as surprised as John.
“What the fuck?” John cries, smacking his arms away and glaring.
Before Stu can respond, apologize, talk his way out of this somehow, John shoves him hard against the wall, and he flinches, waiting for John’s knuckles to hammer his cheek. And John grabs hold of his hair, fingers twisting hard enough to hurt, and the back of his skull connects with the wall. He reaches up to push John away, but then John’s pressing against him, holding him still, and John’s kissing him, and that’s when he decides it’s best to just not think about it.
“I’m sorry,” Stu says when they break apart, and they both know it’s not about the kiss.
Pairing: John/Stu
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 499
Notes: For cellarfulofboys prompt #1: Firsts
“So how’s everyone’s favorite Nazi bitch?” John asks, right foot bouncing as he sitt on his bed, that first night Stu comes back from Astrid, completely in love.
“Don’t do that,” Stu warns, whipping his jacket off. “Don’t start all that shite when everyone knows that you like her just as much as I do.”
“So to hell with your old friend John, eh?”
“As if you’d really care if I left.” Stu looks down at him, sick to death with John moping about when he’s got everything he could possibly ask for at the moment. “We all know I don’t belong here! I’m a painter, John. Not a musician! The others don’t even like me.”
John’s on his feet, in his face. “Look, they’re just giving you a hard time because you’re new. You’re still learning. You’ll get better. We’re all getting better.”
He wishes he had John’s talent for only hearing what he wants to. He wishes he could block out all the comments that Paul tosses in his direction. He wishes he could focus on John telling him he’s good and the screams from the girls and ignore the own voice inside of him screaming for him to put down the bass and pick up a brush. He’s not painted since they left Liverpool. The throbbing in his fingers from playing bass for hours each night doesn’t compare to the ache from not feeling the slide of paint against a canvas.
“It’s not what I want, John,” he tells him softly. “This is your dream, not mine. The only reason I’m here is because you refuse to do it without me.”
John presses his lips together and shakes his head at the floor. “So what then? You’re done? You’re just going to chuck us and go off and paint with some bird you’ve only just met?”
“For fuck’s sake, John. I’m not going anywhere.”
“But you will.” John looks at him with that look in his eyes that Stuart’s only seen once before on that night when John finally told him what happened to his mum: stone-faced and cold, but his eyes, in his eyes Stu sees he’s fucking gutted. And when he slips his hand around the back of John’s neck and presses their lips together, he’s as surprised as John.
“What the fuck?” John cries, smacking his arms away and glaring.
Before Stu can respond, apologize, talk his way out of this somehow, John shoves him hard against the wall, and he flinches, waiting for John’s knuckles to hammer his cheek. And John grabs hold of his hair, fingers twisting hard enough to hurt, and the back of his skull connects with the wall. He reaches up to push John away, but then John’s pressing against him, holding him still, and John’s kissing him, and that’s when he decides it’s best to just not think about it.
“I’m sorry,” Stu says when they break apart, and they both know it’s not about the kiss.