Chapter Text
I know it hurts,
you know I'd quench that thirst
You say you're lonely,
I say you'll think about it
'Cause you're the only one who resonates
That chase, mouth open like high
'two weeks' fka twigs
Paul sat in the shadows across the street from Mendips for an hour, waiting for people to leave. Julia’s funeral had been in the afternoon, but some were lingering. Paul knew what was happening, having seen it right after his own mum had died. He knew that people just wanted to help, to do what they could. Often it was house work, tidying, cooking, preparing everything for the next day as if that would be long enough for everything to be okay again.
John had told him about the neighbour, the perpetually cross old lady who usually didn’t have a kind word for him or really anyone, doing the washing. It had infuriated John that she would try to help, but then again, most things infuriated John lately. Mimi who seemed unwilling to chastise John for anything, the vicar who was going to try and save Julia’s soul despite it already being gone, his aunt from Scotland who kept telling John to not smoke in the house, his sisters' father who was acting like he was the only one who’d loved Julia.
Paul hadn’t gone inside for the funeral. John told him he wasn’t allowed but not explained why. But Paul knew. He didn’t want him to witness it, not when Paul had been spared going to his own mother’s funeral. That didn’t matter to Paul, he would have gone if John wanted, but he knew not to argue when John was this chaotic and angry.
Once the last person is gone, as soon as he sees John’s bedroom light turn on then John opening the window, Paul starts towards the house. The open window is the signal he needs that John’s waiting for him, might even have seen Paul across the street. With an ease from much experience Paul is able to get to that window, standing on the roof of the porch to lift himself up, getting his feet under him as he hooks his arms over the sill. That is as far as he needs to go, John there to help him in.
Usually when this happened John would be talking fast, teasing him, some ‘where for art thy Romeo’ type jokes that he knew embarrassed Paul though Paul wasn’t sure why it did. Tonight he is quiet. Once Paul is on his feet he sees that John is already sitting on the bed, hands gripping the blanket on either side of his thighs, eyes down. Every inch of him is tense, like a stretched rubber band about to snap.
Paul has never seen him like this before. He’s witnessed John angry many times, always quick tempered, but that usually manifests in stinging words. This silence is new. Paul isn’t sure how exactly to navigate it.
He has a pretty good idea of what John was feeling. Since Julia died the week before he’d been experiencing some of the most gut wrenching empathy. Who better than him knows what this loss feels like, how it feels like the world has flipped on its head and nothing makes sense anymore. That everything you thought was true no longer is. Like you will never feel safe or loved ever again.
And he knows what John doesn't want. He doesn’t want platitudes about how some things are meant to be, that Julia’s in a better place, that he will be okay. Because those are all bloody lies.
So instead he leans against the window sill quietly, giving him space, not looking at John, but just being there. Undemanding, but a presence so John knows he isn’t alone, at least not on this night.
Eventually he hears a sniffle, one he can tell John is trying to hide. He slowly approaches John then, just as an offering, if John does need him.
He’s right to do so. As soon as he’s in front of him John is reaching out, roughly grabbing Paul by the waist, and burying his face into Paul’s sternum. Paul’s startled, having this older boy, so utterly cool, crying into him like a child, but he’d been there himself. He gently wraps his arms around John’s bowed head, encouraging him to stay close, to hide as he lets some of this pain pass through him.
Eventually words start, at first mostly unintelligible. Paul rubs his hand across the span of John’s shoulders lightly, trying to comfort without being too much. Him and John did touch sometimes, but not a lot, and only around others, usually when they were drunk. Being a couple of teenage boys meant that they can’t do anything more than that.
Paul feels something start tingling in his chest, and panic rushes through him. He’s only been with John for maybe 20 minutes at that point, but already it’s starting.
Please, god, no, not now.
The jumper he’s wearing is thick, but Paul knows from experience it won’t hide anything, especially if he starts to-
But he can’t pull away, for the same reason his chest is starting to go tight, on the edge already of hurting.
John’s in pain, and needs him. He’s placing a huge amount of trust in Paul and their friendship that he is allowing him to see him like this, so broken and small. So he stays, lets John weep, and hopes beyond hope that he won’t notice what’s happening.
John starts to make sense. With his forehead against Paul's body, he goes between bitter and then broken. He tells Paul about the asinine words from relatives, ones Paul remembers well from when his mum had died. About the sight of beautiful Julia, who Paul remembers having John’s reddish hair and impish smile, laying in her coffin. His tears always return. Paul could feel them wet his jumper when John gets overwhelmed and presses his face back into it.
As he weeps, Paul can feel that ache getting more intense, knows his chest is starting to swell now. Can feel that hated sensation of it filling up. It doesn’t feel like any has come out though, or at least Paul desperately hopes not.
When John pulls back, his sobs abated after such a long time, where his face has been pressed to Paul’s jumper is wet with his tears. John looks embarrassed, by the dampness and by his own emotions.
“Sorry.” He mumbles, ineffectually reaching up and wiping at Paul’s jumper as if he can get rid of this evidence of his grief.
“S’okay.” Paul says, stepping back a bit, trying to get some distance while also not retreating from John completely.
Looking down he sees it, the two little circles on his chest over where he knows his nipples are already distended. Before he can pull away enough to hide them, he notices John’s eyes drifting up to these spots.
“What-”
Paul, completely mortified, steps back, hunching in on himself, crossing his arms across his chest protectively. The pressure of them against him hurts, makes him hiss before he can stop himself.
“Are you-” John looks up at him, confusion on his face. “Are you okay?”
Of all the questions to ask this is one Paul wasn't expecting.
“Not really.” He says quietly, shamefully.
“What… what’s….”
“It’s nothing. Just, just nevermind what it is.”
“Paul, come on. I’ve just bawled my eyes out on ya like a bloody little girl. I think you owe me.”
“Owe you?”
“Yeah. I’ve just… I’ve just… you’ve just seen me be all, all vulnerable” John says the word like it’s a horrid taste in his mouth. “Now it’s your turn.”
“John, this is, this is beyond anything you could ever tell me.”
“Just say it, Paul, it’s all right."
Something about John’s face, so open, scrubbed clean from his tears, reminds Paul that John is his friend. But this is still John, who takes delight in teasing and mocking, and Paul’s scared to tell him the biggest secret he has. (Well, second biggest. But that other one is never to be thought of, especially not in front of John.)
“You can’t be telling anyone ever. And-and I don’t want to hear you making fun of me. This is… god, I can’t believe I’m even thinking of telling ya.”
John reaches out slowly, wrapping his hands around Paul’s wrists. With little resistance Paul lets him pull back where his arms are clutching his chest, exposing those wet spots to his eyes again.
“Is this, is this, are you-” He starts to ask and Paul can’t bear to hear him actually say it.
“Yes.”
Paul feels flooded with shame, burning hot with it. His eyes are fixed to the floor.
“But…but you’re a bloke.”
“Happens to blokes sometimes. Not often. Hardly ever.”
“How is it even possible?”
“Apparently all blokes have, ya know. Ducts, they’re called.”
“Aye, I know what they’re called. Anatomy is one of the classes I always paid a lot of attention to.”
Paul couldn’t help but look up, to see if this is John being a bit lecherous for a laugh but finding him serious.
“For art, Paul. You need to learn the body for figure drawing.”
“Oh. Yeah, right.”
“So,” John goes on, voice quiet and unthreatening. “How come you can?”
“It‘s… when I was like 13, right when everyone was going through puberty, when I was just starting to but, slowly like. Not like everyone else.” Even speaking these words out loud, all for the first time, is making Paul want to fold in on himself. “God, this is so embarrassing.”
“Paul, it’s okay.” John reaches out to hold Paul’s wrist again, tugging on it to get Paul to look at him. “It’s just me.”
It’s John. His best mate, who’d just experienced the same horrible thing Paul had. What more of a bond could there be than that? He takes in a deep breath and goes on.
“One night Mike, he’d tripped and fell, hit his head against the corner of the fireplace. And ya know, he was still pretty young, and he started to cry, but like crying like he had when he was real little. And I remembered when he would be that upset. It would make me feel all, all like protective and worried, cuz he’s my brother, right?”
“Right.” John gently encourages.
“And there he was hurt, and he was so upset, and there was so much blood, and it was like, I was so worried and I felt… I felt my chest tingle and then ache, but I didn’t like, think anything of it. Not until after my mum had come in and was holding a towel to Mike’s head and calming him down. Then she looked up at me and…”
He remembers it so clearly, his mum’s eyes going all big as she looked at his chest, then him looking down to see two wet circles and his thin t-shirt clinging to his nipples.
“My… my ma, you know, she was a midwife. Later after Mike was okay and she’d sent him to bed, she came into my room and sat with me and explained what was happening. She said there’s, there’s this hormone, that both blokes and women have it, and it’s what makes, ya know,” he whispers the next word, hating it so much, “milk happen. I guess my hormones are all messed up or something. Like how I’m kinda, ya know, kinda not really masculine….”
Paul feels so overfull with shame that he has to stop.
“You’re the toughest bloke I know, Paul.” John says softly.
“Dunno bout that.” Paul scoffs. “I’ve listened to blokes making fun of me my whole life, saying my mouth and my face and my eyebrows make me look like a bird. This is just another bloody thing that does.”
Paul knows he doesn't look like most boys his age. He knows that he's not broad, more slight and a bit soft. That his jaw isn't square and masculine like John's, rather tapered and almost delicate, his lips too full, his eyes too big, his lashes too thick.
"Fuck all those pricks.” John says, his voice hot and defensive and it makes Paul feel just a tiny bit better.
“Suppose.” Paul murmurs, wanting desperately to cover his chest again but can’t because John is still holding his wrist.
“Does this happen a lot?” John’s voice has no judgment, only curiosity.
“Not… not for awhile”
He doesn’t feel like telling John about the other times, all after his mum had died. Those nights he’d laid in bed, sad for himself and for Mike, clutching his aching chest and crying, in so much pain inside and out. The stretching of his skin over his chest feeling felt like it was tearing apart. How he’d desperately wished to get this horrible stuff out of him. How eventually he’d found his mum’s old midwifery book, searching for the pages on nursing, it was called, a word so feminine to be attached to him that it made him feel vaguely sick.
There were instructions there, though, on how to get rid of it. Express it was the clinical description, something so technical and sexless that it comforted him. But then he had to do it, had to interact with his body every night, leaning over the sink, squeezing where his chest was distended into two swollen… he couldn’t even think that word. Instead he’d turn away and perform the task as if completely separate from his body, the long squeeze, barely registering the sound of the spray hitting the side of the sink.
“What makes it happen?” John asks, his voice still guileless.
This is a whole other layer of shame for him. Because not only is this such a female thing to happen, the reason why is also decidedly feminine. So maternal.
“It’s when… it’s when I’m worried. Or when… When I want to…” There is no other way of explaining, so he screws his eyes shut and goes on. “When I want to comfort someone I… someone I’m worried about. When they’re upset. It just… it just happens.”
He waits silently for John to figure it out, that it’s because he cares about John that makes this worry more intense, has made this happen. His eyes are screwed shut and he’s desperate for this all to be over. For John to dismiss it so they can just move on with their lives. But the silence stretches out until he feels John tugging on his wrist. He opens his eyes again and sees John’s face. He looks… he looks like… Paul can’t even describe it. He almost looks grateful.
“Paulie.” He says in a voice so soft Paul barely recognizes it as John’s.
It makes some of that tension, some of that shame leave Paul. He can never really guess how John’s brain works. It’s much too complicated for that. But yet again, he finds himself surprised at the depths of John’s emotions.
“Can I… Can I see?”
John asks it so hopefully. Paul considers it, showing him something no one has ever seen. He supposes in some way it makes sense, considering he’s the one who had made it happen even if he didn’t realize it. Still, when Paul nods, he can’t really believe he’s about to do it.
Without letting himself overthink it, he reaches down to pull his jumper up and over his head, then clutching it to his stomach as he stands exposed, letting John take it in. He already knows what it looks like, even though he’s done everything he could to avoid it. He knows how his chest is probably distended enough to be noticed after filling, based on the clock on John’s nightstand, for almost 45 minutes. Two swells that look like soft pecs on a bloke and not full and hanging like a bird’s, thank god. And only now did the slight sag to the skin of his chest go taut with the swelling inflating it. But his nipples are darkened, thickened, not like any bloke’s would be. The cool air on them, wet where he’s already leaked, makes them harden even more. He feels himself shiver, but he knows that’s more from being so naked to John’s eyes than anything else.
He finally looks at John’s face and sees nothing but awe. He realizes it’s the first time since Julia died that John has looked anything but completely devastated, and it makes his chest ache as even more floods down. John raises his hand again, reaching out slowly and Paul knows he could stop him, knows that John is giving him that chance.
But it’s like the ache in his chest, like that bloody thing in him, this activated hormone, it wants John to touch, it wants John to witness it. So he doesn’t move, doesn’t even breathe, and finally looks down to watch John’s hand settle on the side of the swell on the left. Instinctively it seems, John gently presses his fingers into the slight bulge, and then makes a little surprised noise when it causes a drop, white and shiny in the lamplight, to appear at the tip of Paul’s nipple.
Completely transfixed, John raises his other hand and does the same to the other side of Paul’s chest. He presses down a bit a few times before a drop appears, only to immediately fall. John’s brow furrows, mouth briefly… Paul takes in a trembling breath at John’s lips puckering.
His anxious brain seems to go completely quiet at this, all logical thought leaving, and he feels like a creature made only of instinct. He wants to reach out, he wants to pull John close.
“Can I… Can I….” John’s eyes finally look away from Paul’s chest and up to his face, and he’s so vulnerable, an instinctual creature too, broken and looking for respite. “Can I have some? It’s…it’s for me, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Paul breathes out, relief unknotting a tension in him he didn’t know was there, “yes, it’s for you.”
It feels like some kind of hazy dreamspace then, watching John lean forward, hands still on either side of Paul’s chest lightly pressing again until drops appear. Paul feels his whole body flood with something incredible at the sight of John’s tongue coming out, the tip just barely grazing Paul’s left nipple as he collects the drop onto his tongue, then moves to do the same with the other one.
He pulls back just a bit, and Paul can see he’s rolling it about his mouth, considering it.
“What’s it like?” Paul asks, as much in a trance as John seems to be now.
“You’ve never…”
Paul shakes his head. He’d never allow that level of actualization of it. But John’s face looks… he looks pleased.
“It’s good. Sweet.”
And then he’s leaning forward again, this time licking over Paul’s nipple as he squeezes, like a frozen treat on a hot day. It’s too much and not enough at the same time for Paul, and he can’t help but reach up and weave his fingers into John’s hair, trying to keep him there.
“John, just… just…”
Without having to actually say it, John knows and seals his lips around Paul’s nipple. He sucks on it and then pulls back, sputtering a bit.
“There’s so much.”
“Yeah.” Paul says, something that has always been such a torturous thought now seeming not good, but not bad at least.
John isn’t deterred by how much there is, instead leaning forward and sealing his lips around the hardened nipple again, taking a slow pull on it this time, then again and pulling off to swallow. As soon as his lips are gone, Paul aches for them. The sigh that comes out of him when John begins to suck again can only be described as content.
As John begins to pull the milk from him, as he drinks it down, they seem to instinctively move closer until John’s got his arms wrapped loosely around Paul’s waist again. The hands Paul has on the back of John’s head encourage him close too, hold him there. With each deep pull, it’s like John is drawing more than just the milk from him. There’s a relief he feels from that cursed aching finally lifting. But also this deep intuitive knowledge that he’s helping. John is no longer weeping, no longer angry, no longer deeply sad. When Paul looks down, chin tucked to his chest, he can see nothing but matching contentment on John’s face, his forehead smooth of worry, his eyes closed as he seems to float in the comfort Paul is giving him.
As soon as Paul’s right side is empty John is immediately moving to the other, lips tight around his nipple and taking in mouthfuls. His breathing is deep and rhythmic and it along with the same deep, rhythmic feeling of his milk being drawn from him, it makes Paul drift too, soothed as he soothes. His fingers start to move through John’s hair, stroking just a bit as Paul finds himself letting out quiet hmmms.
By the time he’s finished Paul’s other side John’s weight is heavy against Paul’s body, his arms now loose circles around Paul’s thighs. He realizes that John has gone lax, his body loose, just as drained as he has made Paul.
Slowly, Paul moves his chest back, dislodging his nipple from John’s mouth with a wet pop now that it’s sucking where there’s nothing more to give. John’s eyes don’t really open, and he sways a bit, almost like he’s drunk. Paul feels a warmth spread through him, finds himself smiling fondly at him.
“Okay, time for sleep.” Paul says softly, and John merely hums in response.
Letting John rest against him, Paul reaches down to pull the blankets back off the bed. Easily pliable in a way Paul would never think someone as strong willed as John could be, he moves with Paul’s touch, stretching out on the bed. John’s eyes barely open, instead he turns onto his side and seems to already be half asleep.
When Paul moves away though John’s hand quickly grabs him haphazardly on the upper arm.
“Don’t go.”
"I won't, John, I won’t.” Paul says, grateful to be able to stay.
He kicks off his shoes and gets into the bed next to John. Usually they would be head to foot, but it seems almost cruel to do to John in that moment. Not on that night when he’s gone through so much, when he’s found so much comfort in Paul’s body. So instead he faces John, lays his head on the pillow next to him and watches as he drifts off to sleep. Feeling a deep relief in himself, Paul quickly follows.
He’s awakened by the ache again, this time almost excruciating. Instinctively, before he even opens his eyes, he tries to bring his arms up to press against the pain, but finds he can’t.
When he finally looks, the golden light of sunrise is over John’s face close to his. He’s awake too, watching Paul intently, laying so close that he’s what’s blocking Paul’s arms from being able to come up.
As the night before flashes back into his mind, before he can feel any shame, he notices that John’s eyes are puffy, that his cheeks are wet.
“John, how long have you been…”
“Paul, please.” John says, a touch desperate. “Please.”
Paul feels everything come up over him, knows his body has still been reacting to John’s sadness even while Paul slept. He knows it's true when he glances down to find his chest distended more than he’s ever seen it, straining his skin in its fullness. So much has come in during the night. It makes sense, what with John right there needing him, with everything so heightened and so intimate between them.
“I’m so… I feel so…” John’s voice is breaking, his eyes getting wet and Paul is suddenly just as desperate to comfort him.
“Shh, shh, come here.”
That same instinct from the night before rushes through him again. The only thing he wants, what he needs, is to give to John all he has for him, the comfort that transformed him last night, calmed him, took him off to sleep. He can tell John is overwhelmed too, frantic even, pushing the blanket off them, squirming down the bed until his face is even to Paul’s chest.
It’s awkward for a moment as they try to figure out how to do this. Paul shifts, lifting the arm closest to the bed up to rest the side of his head on. John does it too, propping his head up. Moving enough so his… his breast, Paul lets himself call it for the first time, the one that’s higher, meets where John’s mouth is waiting.
As soon as it's sealed over Paul’s nipple, he can feel his whole body keen, arch into it, calling out beyond his brain, just yes, yours. His hand finds its way to the back of John’s neck, and without thought he starts to gently run his fingertips along the length, the strained tendons telling him that John is still upset, still tensed up.
But he knows now what he’s capable of giving John. He waits, still stroking the skin, arching his back to get more of his breast into John’s mouth. In response John’s hand comes up, cupping it, holding it, and then finally, he’s taking in long pulls.
Looking down, he sees the tears on John’s face, but there are no sobs, there are no hiccuping breaths like the night before. Just quiet tears, running around the shape of John’s beautiful nose to the corner of his mouth. More gather until Paul watches, entranced, when John pulls back just a bit, opening his mouth to flicker the tip of his tongue out. As he licks them into his mouth Paul sees it, sees the film of milk lightly coating John’s lips.
He’d hated it for so long, all of it. The pain, the leaking, the shame of being so feminine. But especially that, especially the milk. It had disgusted him, this thing he would make beyond his control, such a foreign and gross concept. A bloke with milky teats. An aberration no matter what his mum had said about it just being natural.
But there he is in his mate’s bed, in John’s bed, when John is at his most broken, in need of comfort so desperately, and Paul is giving him that. Paul’s fucked up body is finally useful, finally feels right. The sight of the milk, his milk, in John’s mouth, feels like he’s shaking off a deep, heavy shame. If this is what it was meant for, then it’s more than enough.
And there’s so much this time, his chest so full, it takes John much longer to drink it all. Paul watches, fascinated, as John sucks on his nipple, the sensation of it being pulled from him matching the pulling in of John’s cheeks. John must feel his eyes on him because he’s looking up too without stopping and they quietly observe each other. Paul has never felt closer to anyone in his life. How could he have, having never experienced this before. This is the most intimate thing you could do.
By the time he’s done with that breast, the tears have stopped. John pulls off the nipple and the tip of his tongue comes up to flick at it one last time. It’s just a quick moment but it makes Paul shudder and he instinctively squeezes the back of John’s neck.
John is greedy though. He’s raising himself up on an elbow and pushing Paul’s shoulder until he’s flat on his back. With a steadying hand on the mattress next to the other side of Paul’s body, he leans over and bends his head down to capture the nipple closest to him, already leaking on top of the plump swelling of Paul’s breast.
He’s taking long sucks off him now, pulling in and in, then swallowing, then in and in, then swallowing. That rhythm from last night is back, their breaths in sync with John’s sucking. Paul finds himself floating as he winds his fingers into John’s hair, as he holds him close. It goes on and on, the feeling of that ache in his chest finally lessening, of John’s mouth on his nipple, already twinging a bit from being worked over again after last night.
He feels John’s body start to melt a bit, that tension is finally draining out of him. His body becomes a heavy weight and he can tell he’s struggling to hold himself up. Paul tugs a bit on his hair to get his attention.
“Come on, luv.” He says quietly, urging John to roll off him and back onto his side, switching their positions.
Leaning back a bit, Paul shuffles forward until he’s close enough again, uses his hand to prop his half drained breast up, directing it back into John’s open, waiting mouth. John sucks on it lazily, his eyes barely open as he looks up at Paul like he’s the most wonderful thing ever. Paul laughs quietly at that expression, fondly stroking John’s cheek.
“Good?” He asks, indulging him.
John nods, barely letting go of the nipple.
“Good.” Paul says, murmuring to him. “Good, John, good.”
Eventually John has drunk it all, but still sucks on the empty breast, reminding Paul a bit of a baby with one of those rubber dummy nipples. It should feel odd to think of John that way, to think of what they’re doing like that. But it’s not.
Instead it feels right, feels accurate. Because even though Paul knows it is odd, it’s what he wants, and what John wants too. That comfort, maternal maybe but mostly just intimate, physical so it doesn't have to be spoken. It’s ultimately the most base comfort Paul could ever give anyone. John needs comfort more than anything else right now and Paul has it, has exactly what he needs. Why would he deny John that, especially seeing how he’s so soothed that he’s almost asleep again with his mouth still pursed around Paul’s nipple.
There’s a knock on the door, and even though it’s soft, it jolts the both of them. Paul pulls away to a miserable sound from John at being denied his breast. Paul’s not afraid of being caught, rather annoyed that John’s upset again after all Paul’s done to get him relaxed and calm.
“John, tea’s ready.” It’s Mimi talking from the other side of the door sounding very un-Mimi like, voice gentle.
“M’not hungry.” John says, eyes never leaving Paul’s face.
He licks his lips, then tucks his face back into Paul’s chest.
“Done filled me up, luv.” He murmurs quietly to Paul and it makes an ache come up in Paul’s chest again that has nothing to do with his milk.
Just like that tortuous time after him mum had died, Paul can’t stop producing. But now it’s so, so different. Now, it’s all for John.
Every night they’re in each other’s beds, barely even speaking, just John drinking all Paul has for him.
The second morning he wakes up to John’s face wet with tears, again looking desperate. Paul guides him to his breast and John is sucking in hard, aggressive pulls.
He has to have both hands buried in John’s hair, holding him close, because these are so intense, so much more being taken. He can feel John filling his mouth full then swallowing, like he’s starved for it.
“Don’t haveta wait, John.” Paul says softly, mouth pressed into John’s disheveled curls. “Just take what you need.”
John pulls off, Paul’s nipple still grazing over his lower lip.
“Torture laying here, seeing you so full for me, and not being able to have any.”
He expects to wake up the next morning to John’s mouth on him, but is surprised when his eyes flutter open at the sensation and it’s still dark out.
His heart aches when he looks down at John’s wet face buried into his chest.
“Have you been needing it in the middle of the night like this?”
John nods, burrowing closer, seeking out that comfort in the dark and Paul feels his heart break, thinking of him awake and needing him. He wraps his arms around John and holds him close. Presses his lips to the crown of John’s head.
“Any time you need it, John, any time, it’s yours.”
This hunger of John’s goes on throughout the days that follow. At first Paul is able to stop producing during the day at school when he isn’t around John, doesn't fill up again until John crawls into bed with him that evening. But after a few days John won’t, seemingly can’t leave him alone all day. Paul’s on his lunch break in the yard when he sees John lingering by the school gates. His body instantly responds to the sight of him, not just his chest, but every part of him, his body needing John’s.
At the start of his next class Paul acts like he’s feeling ill and is excused to go to the loo. When he gets there he finds John just like he knew he would. Immediately he’s pressing Paul against the door, shirt and blazer pushed aside so he can start to suck. Paul’s only just started to fill, barely anything, and John takes in long, almost painful pulls to try and bring the milk down. The aching sensation of John’s mouth on him, sucking his nipple hard but not drinking yet makes Paul's prick twitch and he instinctively pushes John back, horrified at himself and terrified of John noticing.
But John is determined, knocking Paul’s hands away and pushing forward again and mercifully this time there’s milk for him. Paul hopes that it’s distracting enough as he does everything he can to calm himself, to direct his thoughts from how good that greedy, painful sucking felt, like an aggressive kiss of a lover.
Instead he concentrates on the peace that always descends on John when they do this. On why John wants this. John on his knees, chin upturned, seeking him, reminds Paul of being at church on Sunday mornings, knelt praying at the altar asking for peace. But now it’s him, and this thing his body can do, that is benevolent, loving, who gives comfort to the lost and grieving. John finaly pulls away, full of what Paul can provide for him, and Paul is able to press a kiss to his forehead. That familiar blessing floats through his thoughts.
Peace be with you.