Chapter Text
John
John nudged the door to his flat shut with a hip and set his guitar case down on the floor. He flicked on the front hall light and, like always, he smiled as he dropped his keys in the mermaid-shaped dish sitting on top of the small cabinet. He huffed a sigh as he sat down on the little bench, and he unlaced his combat boots before putting them neatly away in the cabinet.
Leaving his guitar in the entryway, he padded into the living room and flopped down on his sofa. The night had been long—it was late. He fished his phone out of his jeans pocket and opened the text from Jackie. He hesitated a moment, glancing at the time—closing in on 3 AM—but, after a second, he hit the call button anyway. He listened to the call ring, half expecting to get the voicemail but, on the third ring—
“Johnny.”
Jackie’s voice was dark and slow in the way he only heard after midnight and, in the background, there was the gentle clink of ice in a glass. He smiled.
“What are you drinking?”
She chuckled. “Did you know Metallica makes whiskey? They play their music for it while it ages.”
“Fuck off.”
“Swear to god.”
“Is it any good?”
“Well, I can’t taste Enter Sandman or anything, but it’s alright.” She paused, ice clinking again as she took a quiet sip. “Playing rock star tonight? The drag shows don’t normally go this late.”
John hummed. “Yep. Sat in with that punk band again, Class of Noise? It’s fun playing in a band now and again rather than the solo stuff, and I like them. They’re all so young, and vibrant, and spunky. Make me feel like I’m not staring down fifty.” He huffed a soft laugh. “I feel it now, though.”
“Man, you still got more than five years to go, and it’s not like life ends at fifty anyway. Plenty of time for some more late nights.”
“Oh? Why, do you want to start going out again like we used to? I suppose I could get down to London for a bit of that.”
“Actually,” Jackie said slowly, “that’s kind of why I wanted to chat.”
John arched a brow. “Babe, I bet half the places we used to go aren’t even there anymore. It’s been years.”
“Not that, you joker. I’ve got something to pitch to you.”
Her tone was different, suddenly—something keen and focused in it got John’s attention, and he sat up, pushing his hair back off his forehead.
“Yeah?”
“Uh huh. And, look, this has to stay between us for now, but I had to come to you. You’re the one for it, Johnny.”
John smiled. “I’m listening.”
~~~
The flight from Belfast to London always felt even shorter than it was, and it was already pretty fast. John opened and closed his jaw a few times as he slung his weekend bag over his shoulder. His right ear blessedly popped, pressure in his head releasing as he stepped off the plane and began to weave his way through the Heathrow terminal.
He skirted the bag carousel and headed for the doors. They swept open with a whoosh, and he emerged from the enclosed crush of people into a slightly less enclosed crush of people. He trudged past the pick-up areas and the bus stops.
There was a grey chill in the air, and he zipped up his jacket and stuffed his hands in his pockets as he waited in the taxi queue. It was long at midday on a Saturday, and he checked his phone while he waited, swiping into Instagram when his texts came up empty. Halfway through Ed’s stories, he heard a soft cough at his elbow. When he looked up, a short girl was blinking up at him. It was hard to tell under the dark makeup that ringed her eyes, but it seemed to John that she couldn’t have been more than twenty.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
“Oh! No, I just—” She glanced around, and leaned closer. “Are you—” she lowered her voice slightly “—are you Calypso?”
It was John’s turn to blink.
“Yeah. But I haven’t done a show here in—is it six years already? And you’ve got to be too young to have been in those clubs. How on earth do you know—?”
“I’m older than I look,” she said quickly.
John arched a brow. “How much older?”
“Well... I may have been a tad underage when I would go to see you, but not egregiously so!” She flashed a grin. “Besides, you’re a legend. Was I not supposed to sneak in?”
John chuckled. “I think I’m supposed to say yes, but when you put it like that...”
She dug in her satchel for a moment.
“Would you sign my sketchbook?”
She clutched a large, paperback notebook with ratty, frayed edges in her hands and looked shyly up at him. He smiled.
“Sure. Yeah.”
She flipped the book open, thumbing through pages. John watched as she did, and felt his eyes widen. The book was filled with page upon page of sketches of clothes; sparkling gowns and gravity-defying costumes flipped past faster than he could take them in, each flowing with undulating lines that danced across the paper, and punctuated with bright splashes of colour. Finally, she stopped and handed the book over to him, along with a felt-tip pen.
John studied the page. On it was a teal-blue gown, with a plunging sweetheart neckline that was crusted in gems. Clusters of pearlescent shells burst from the peaks of the neckline, nearly brushing the shoulders. The dress’s mermaid silhouette hugged the generous curves in the model’s hips, and their broad shoulders were framed prettily by a dark greenish-brown boa, edged in organic-looking frills and reminiscent of seaweed. John’s eyes tracked up the figure to the face and there, his breath caught.
Across the model’s jaw, his own full beard was sketched precisely, and his shock of white-blond hair was styled sleekly, his single dark brown lock swirled into a pin curl on his forehead. The makeup was mostly a gesture on the page, but there was a hint of the Divine about it, and John felt something stir in his chest.
“Did you draw this?”
The girl nodded, her long pigtails bouncing enthusiastically.
“I’m a fashion student at Central St. Martins.” She paused, bit her lip. “Do you like it?”
John did. He looked between the girl’s face and the page several times, and then smiled, uncapping the pen.
“What’s your name?”
“I’m Zheng.”
He set the pen to the paper, down in the bottom corner and, carefully, so as not to mar the sketch, he scrawled his message.
To Zheng,
You nailed it.
Calypso
He closed the book and handed it back to her. She took it, and John could just see her hands trembling, ever so slightly. For a moment, he hesitated. He didn’t want to spook her, but the dress stuck in his mind, glittering and soft and just out of reach. So he looked down at her, and held out a hand to shake.
Zheng hesitated in turn, but she only paused for a second before she was grasping his hand in her own and shaking it firmly. John grinned.
“Do you have a business card?”
~~~
In the taxi, John turned the little, red card over in his fingers.
Zheng Yi Sao , it said in curling script, along with her socials. He dug his phone out of his pocket. Instagram was still open, and he typed in her handle, pulling up her profile.
Beneath a detailed sketch of a bowl of wonton soup, a short bio read:
Fourth year fashion student
Action without vision is nothing
fuck you pay me
John smirked, stifling a laugh in his beard, and followed her. Then, he locked his phone, stuffed it back into his pocket, and stared out the car window. London scrolled past, bustling and alive. John felt it resonate in his bones, setting a hum beneath his skin.
When he’d first moved to Belfast, his trips back down to London had brought him back to the city at least once a month. He’d see his friends, visit his favourite haunts, book a drag gig here and there. Over time, though, they’d dwindled in frequency until, a couple of years ago, they’d stopped entirely. All his costumes and instruments had migrated to his Belfast flat, and he was finally burnt out on folding all six feet and eight inches of himself into airplanes, as even the most spacious seats would leave him cramped and uncomfortable.
Now, though, as he soaked in the familiar tenor of London on the drive across the city, he felt a pang between his ribs. He’d missed a lot, he knew.
For years, he, Ed, Jack, Izzy, and Jackie lived in each other’s pockets. They’d been signed to the same record label for a time, when John had thought he’d make a real go of the music thing. They helped each other through feeling like they didn’t belong in the rooms into which they had garnered invite, and they rolled their eyes behind the backs of the pretentious crowds they rubbed elbows with at the parties that were all the same.
John had been even younger than Queen Anne’s Revenge, with a precocious edginess and a queer slant that always seemed to read loud and clear in rooms full of suits. He’d set his teeth against his obvious differences at first, angst-ridden and sharp, but, eventually, he’d tired of cutting into himself before the world had a chance. Eventually, he’d learned to take up as much space as he needed, and settled into himself the way he might settle into a hot bath.
It didn’t take him long to notice that, the more comfortable he got, the less the execs seemed to care for him. He couldn’t say he was exactly surprised but, for a moment, it had sparked a bitterness at the back of his tongue. Even so, he’d refused to bow to the knee-jerk impulse to cut himself down to size once again. Q.A.R had done the same, and, for a while, he took some solace from the way they were still in it together.
It worked out for Q.A.R, though—they pushed at the space they were given, stretching it around themselves until they could spread their arms wide within it. Perhaps John could’ve done the same, but he hadn’t felt the need. He’d finally heeded the call of the arty, alternative spaces that were so plentiful around him, and walked away from the sense of legitimacy that he’d once found so magnetic.
He sighed as the taxi idled in midday traffic. He’d made a home for himself for years here in London, given it his blood, sweat, and glitter. In return, it had given him the time and space in which to change and grow. He could feel it draping back over his shoulders like a cloak that still fit just right, so many years later. He shivered slightly.
Belfast had begun to feel inevitable, eventually, a nagging thing between his shoulder blades at the end of his thirties that drew him back to smaller pastures, bluer skies, and a place he hadn’t called home in decades. He loved it still. Compared to what he had always known of London, its pace was slow, its spaces expansive. It gave him time to relax, to breathe. He couldn’t say he had missed London, per se.
But the taxi was pulling up by a large, black iron gate, and something was tightening in John’s chest. He paid the cabbie, and got out of the car. He paused for a moment with his hand on the door but, after a second, the man cleared his throat, and John blinked, and stepped around to where the boot was held open, his bag waiting for him. He slung it over his shoulder, thanked the driver, and headed for the gate. He unlatched it, a flood of familiarity washing back through his hands, and setting them to tingling.
At the end of a short, round drive, a large, red brick building stood proudly. A public school in a former life, it had been converted to lofts and one of them, a spacious one on the first floor, had been John’s home for many years. It still was, he supposed. He’d bought it when that was still an achievable thing to do, and had considered selling it when he’d moved up to Belfast.
“ Sell London real estate?” Izzy had asked, incredulous, when John had mentioned it. “Are you fucking insane? Look, I’ll check in on it when you’re gone for a long time, if that’ll make you feel better, but for god’s sake, don’t sell it.”
And so John had made him a copy of the keys and left him to it. He’d thought it a bit silly for a time—if he was moving, then what use did he have hanging on to an old flat—but, as he headed up the flight of stairs and unlocked his front door, he found himself overwhelmingly grateful that his old home was still his. He chuckled to himself. He’d make sure to never tell Izzy he’d been right.
He breathed in deep as he toed off his shoes and left them on the mat in the short hallway. The air was a little stale, but not overwhelmingly so. He walked through the open kitchen into the living room and cracked a window anyway, pushing it up just a little.
The place was just as he’d left it, like it hadn’t been two years since he’d stepped foot inside. His eclectic collection of throw cushions were still arranged just so on the deep, squashy sectional that sat by the window. He walked over to the entertainment stand and ran a finger across it—no dust. The book atop the stack on the coffee table was askew, like Izzy had picked it up to read and put it back down carelessly. John smiled.
He climbed up the stairs to the mezzanine and deposited his bag by the end of the bed. It was freshly made with clean linens, and he noticed a little bunch of wildflowers in one of his highball glasses set on his nightstand. He might not have met Lucius in person, but he’d spoken to him on his and Izzy’s video calls often enough—and heard enough about him from Izzy—to know that it was his touch. Something warm unfolded in his chest.
He leaned on the ledge and looked across the flat and out the double-height windows. He hadn’t felt such a sense of contentment in London since long before he moved away. He’d always had friends and community in the city, but he’d grown tired of the speed and the noise and, when the drag bar he’d worked at the most, and the longest, had closed without warning, he’d figured it was time for a change. Now, though, with the sun coming out and shining in the windows and a slight, chill breeze bringing something fresh and clean into his home, he felt a curiosity and a sense of promise swirl around the space with it.
He shook the sleeve of his jacket back and looked at his watch. He was meeting Jackie in two hours. He began to hum something light and indistinct, and then set to unpacking.
~~~
Spanish Jackie’s managed to feel roomy, somehow, sitting as it was on the corner of two narrow, bustling streets near the centre of Soho. It was early for dinner, so there was barely anyone loitering out front, but the large dining room was full anyway. John skirted the edge of the room, making for the back.
He gave a light knock on the slightly ajar office door, and then poked his head around it. Jackie looked up, pushing sparkly, cat-eye reading glasses down her nose before taking them off entirely, setting them on the papers spread across her desk.
“Long time no see,” she said, slow smile spreading across her face.
“We talk all the time,” John said sheepishly, but he went across to where she had stood up from her chair, and folded himself, as much as he could, into her arms.
“Yeah,” she said softly, “but it’s different.”
John squeezed her tight around the waist, and they stood there for a moment. Eventually, she pulled back and grinned at him.
“Alright, stranger. Want to see something cool?”
She led him back through the restaurant and out the front door. She strode quickly to a dark, narrow doorway just on the edge of the building and, pulling her keys from her pocket, unlocked it. She ducked inside, beckoning John to follow.
Stairs led directly down into a dim basement. Jackie turned back, halfway down the steps.
“Close and lock the door behind you.”
John huffed a quiet laugh as he did so.
“And I presume this is the part where I find out you’ve lured me into a cellar to kill me, then.”
“Nah,” Jackie said from the shadowy gloom. “That ain’t the plan quite yet.”
And she flicked on the lights.
The basement was just as large as the dining room upstairs, with a lower ceiling and bare, concrete floors. There were gaps in the whitewashed brick walls, where some cement had chipped away, but the three archways spaced evenly along the space were solid. There was a large alcove between the second and third arches, slightly separated from the rest of the basement. John wandered down the room. There were windows at the far end, iron bars laid vertically across them.
“Charming,” he said dryly, turning back to her. “What’s it for? Storage?”
“Have a little imagination, Johnny!” Jackie made her way to him and slung an arm around his waist. “Would I be showing you this if it was for storage? ”
He grinned down at her. “Well go on, then.”
She pulled away and stepped over into the alcove, spreading her arms wide across it, palms facing down.
“Bar goes here.”
She paced around the edges of the large room, gesturing quickly.
“Tables here, here, here—maybe a bigger cluster of them here, and a loungey-type section here, with sofas and shit.”
Finally, she headed down to the very end, beneath the barred windows, and turned to face him, a sparkle in her eye.
“And here....” She seemed to hold her breath for a moment, and something John couldn’t read passed behind her eyes. “Your stage.”
“ My stage?”
“Uh huh.” Jackie shrugged lightly, but John could see the tension in her shoulders anyway. “If you want it.”
He went over to her, nudged his shoulder against hers.
“What is it, though, babe?”
“A drag bar,” she said simply. “Or, it will be. I’m thinking four nights a week, Thursday through Sunday, open late late. I have most of it planned out already.” She looked up at him. “I just need a host.”
John felt the corner of his lips tick up, just a little. “And you want me?”
“And I want you.”
“I live in Belfast now, Jacks.”
“I know,” she said quietly. “I miss you.”
John blew out a long breath, then walked slowly over to the windows at the end of the room. They were set high into the wall, and even he had to reach up, just a little, to run a finger down one of the metal bars. He wrinkled his nose; they were grimy. He shook his head at himself—what else had he expected—and wiped his hand on his jeans.
“Well, these bars have got to go, for sure.”
He glanced back at Jackie—she had a brow arched, a tentative smile playing around her lips.
“I’ve been thinking about putting in some stained glass,” she said.
He nodded. “Yeah, I like that.”
“You got opinions already?”
“S’pose I do.”
“That mean you’re staying?”
John laughed softly. “I’ve been thinking of moving back anyway.”
Jackie sidled over, nudging an elbow into his ribs.
“You never mentioned that. Since when?”
“Oh, about two hours ago.”
Jackie tilted her head, glanced sideways up at him.
“What happened two hours ago?”
John grinned. “I got home.”