A Silent Question

Chapter Two: The Alley

Bright light shining now, straight into his eyelids. A pounding headache and sour stomach.

What bloody time is it John thinks to himself. By the angle of the sunlight, he assumes it's well past noon. Moving his legs around in bed, he realizes he has the bed to himself. He squints his eyes open to peek, and sure enough he's all alone in the twin size bed, Paul nowhere to be seen.

A small pang of hurt hits him square in the chest. A flood of images flash through his mind. Hot minty breath, lips on lips, skin on skin. Mouths on mouths, mouths on cheeks, hands in hair. Where was Paul? He usually waited for John to wake. And after what had happened, John figured he'd want to talk it over. But then again, Paul had seemed so unbothered after they had finished.

Of course Paul wasn't here. John remembers the urgent manner in which Paul had leaped out of their shared bed, immediately washing up. The way he emerged from the bathroom and had acted so ordinary toward John. How Paul had repositioned himself back to their typical head-to-foot arrangement as soon as it was time to go back to sleep.

Don't be silly, John scolds himself internally. If Paul wasn't going to acknowledge what had transpired, John was determined not to let it bother him. Perhaps it wasn't as intense as John remembered it. Maybe it had just been a mutual wank between two friends, gone a bit far. No need to read into things just because he had a queer thought or two about Paul. This morning was the result of too many drinks and two bloke's needing to blow off steam, that's all John reassures himself.

Shoving the bedsheets off him, John swings his legs outside the bed and slowly stands up. A wave of nausea works its way up his throat. He swallows hard against the rotten bile- he doesn't remember being that sloshed last night. But then again, he probably was- for something like that to have happened. The nausea settles enough for John to reach for his pinstriped pajama pants. John pulls them on over his boxer-shorts. He then turns to haphazardly make the bed, pulling the sheets out of their rumpled mess and something makes him pause. Looking at the bedsheets, John is filled with a surge of curious excitement. It's unmistakable, a small semen stain on the sheets. Evidence of what had happened.

John realizes with a jolt that up until this sight he hadn't been sure himself if his encounter with Paul had been real or some kind of dream. Everything had happened in the haze of the morning in a half-slumber. Mere seconds ago, John had convinced himself that what had transpired had been far less meaningful than this jolt in his stomach might suggest. The sight of this small patch of dried fluid brings it all back for John in flashes. The way Paul had made him beg. Paul's lazy arm thrown around his waist. The liquid fire of their noses touching. The anticipation. Their kiss. Fuck, that kiss. The stain was all the reminder he needed, it had happened, it had been exhilarating and Paul had liked it, at least John thought so? It had meant something, but John had no idea what. Where was Paul?

John gulped down the fear that threatened to rise in his throat. He needed to find his best mate. Why wasn't he here? Quickly, John slips on a pair of house shoes and exits their room, walking toward the kitchen of the club.

The club is a disgusting place. There are a few bedrooms on the top floor for artists to sleep in during their residencies, a bar, a kitchen and a dancefloor. John walks across the dance floor, sticky with spilled beer, ducks under the bar and makes his way towards the scant Kitchen. As he approaches, he can hear familiar voices chattering away behind the swinging doors.

"And you Richie-" that was George, "you were great! Who needs Pete, am I right Paul?" Three men's voices break out in guffaws. John pushes his way into the kitchen. Paul, George and Ringo are sitting on the wooden countertops, each of them holding a piece of food they'd no doubt scrounged from the cook's meager pantry. George, holding a half-eaten apple, Ringo with a slice of toast with jam.