dreaming of the past

John felt as if he was about to vomit. He thought he was past this—caring what others thought of him—but it seemed he cared more than ever before. He groaned, hiding his face further under his covers, as if that'd hide his embarrassment as well. This was stupid. What kind of man would be this insecure in a friendship with another man? With Paul, no less? The same Paul that used to fight for his attention, that would stare at him when he thought John wasn't looking, that would impishly whisper uncharacteristically rude jokes in hopes of making him smile. 'Course, that could only last for so long because now Paul didn't have to fight for his attention anymore. Or maybe he just didn't want to be John's anymore. John's best friend; John's song-writing partner; John's. He didn't own the man, he knew that, but God did it feel so suffocatingly lonely to think that the one person who got the closest to ever truly knowing him didn't love him nearly as much as he did.