Work Text:
Once a year, every year, on Christmas, the war ends.
The war ends when the smell of bitter oranges are there in his front room, the war ends when a head of impeccably reddish hair pokes into his music room.
(Rather sheepish, he thought.)
It's almost as if he never left, it's almost like he still roams the morning streets like an untimely ghost. He sits there beside him, takes his place so naturally, like he's seen himself sprawled in Paul's dreams on the very same sofa.
He carries light with him, he finally grabs onto the thought with shaky hands one cold afternoon when he's curled into him with equally trembling limbs.
He carries light with him wherever he goes, looks at him with eyes of a thousand colours and kisses life into him, kisses him and Paul realises he's only just started breathing.
What a waste of time.
He's jealous of his ciggies, the air around him.
Brings light in when Paul can't move, can't sleep, can't wake up, pushes the curtains open (there's hardly ever sun in London, but he's always brought warmth more loving than the sun.)
Pushes a cuppa into his hands.
"It's harder, you coming back."
"Why?"
"Makes me wait for ye."
At some point, he feels him again, mouths around his groans and palms up his heart; has his hair pulled; and it doesn't hurt to feel him so whole and free, more real than any dream he had on any colourful pills.
The clock strokes the last hour as it should, as all clocks and watches someday kill something. That's what makes them like humans in their nature: they both spill the blood of something dear and pretend they're not sucking it back up only to feel that warmth again.
He disappears without a sound, without a kiss.
He knocks the record silent, falls back into bed, silent.
He's holding his breath, he realises, until next year when he can breathe again.