[center][img]https://www.pngkey.com/png/full/138-1381792_constantine-image-constantine-tv-series-logo.png[/img][/center][sub][url=https://youtu.be/rFUVLGqsgts]All The Rest Of Us[/url][/sub][sup][right][color=BDB76B]Issue Three: Storm[/color][/right][/sup][hr]

John twists and turns and rolls beneath his blanket as he tries to get comfortable stretched across Chas’ sofa. He has a pillow, which is an immediate improvement to his past sleeping arrangements, and the blanket is thick, and heavy, and keeps him warm against the cold morning air. He takes these small blessings and uses them as a shield against his sore back and stiff neck. He curses beneath his breath and gives up, sitting up proper on the sofa and gathering up his blanket around his shoulders. Morning light drifts lazily through half-pulled curtains and John takes a big deep breath of cool, fresh air, free from the stink of rubbish, dirty laundry, cigarette ash and stale beer. He feels awake, more rested than he has been in weeks, and the clarity of his consciousness strikes him unprepared. John realises the difference slowly, but with deep remorse when he does: he is not hungover. 

From the kitchen he hears metal and ceramic clattering and then low, harsh swears. He stands from the sofa, clinging to his blanket as his modesty’s only protection, and slowly pads across the living room to the doorway. He peeks around the wall and is greeted by the back of Chas, rooting around in a feral, feverish manner. He tears through drawers and cupboards with animalistic abandon, while occasionally rubbing at his wet hair with what John can now see is a tea-towel. Chas is obviously searching for something. John clears his throat and Chas jumps and swears louder, but turns around to see John giving him a small, awkward wave with one hand while the other holds up his blanket. 
[color=BDB76B]“You alright there, chuck?”[/color] John asks, giving a nervous half-smile. Chas turns around to continue searching while he replies.
[color=8B4513]“Lookin’ for the [i]damn[/i] kettle. Can’t start my day without a decent cuppa down my gullet. But uh, the missus appears to not be here anymore, along with a bunch of my STUFF!”[/color] 
John jumps as Chas suddenly yells in frustration.
[color=8B4513]“[i]Including the kettle[/i], which I know she only took to spite me. And all the lamps. And all the towels!”[/color] He pulls on the damp tea-towel hanging around his neck as he explains. John can’t help but smirk.
[color=BDB76B]“Why’d she run out on ya? You seem a nice enough fella.”[/color]
Chas gives up looking, and instead pulls out a metal cooking pot and fills it with water from the tap. 
[color=8B4513]“Petty squabbles, mostly. Fightin’ over this and that, and then over fightin’. Big one was my mother, as the hag always is. Disagreements on how much participation in her ongoing care we should have.”[/color]
[color=BDB76B]“I’m sorry about that. Can’t be easy to choose between family and romance.”[/color]
Chas shrugs, turning the stove on and setting the pot of water on top.
[color=8B4513]“Ah, she made it clear well enough before I left that she wouldn’t be here when I got back if I went. God knows what made me choose me mam over her. Spite. Same as why she took the kettle.”[/color]
[color=BDB76B]“Spite is a strong motivator.”[/color] John agrees, half-musing. Chas just nods, and then takes two mugs and sets them on the counter-top. He fetches two tins, one filled with coffee and one with teabags, and points them both at John. John points at the teabags, and Chas prepares both mugs. 

Chas talks as he waits for the water in the pot to start bubbling. 
[color=8B4513]“I took the liberty of chucking your stuff in the tumbler while you was sleepin’. Don’t mean to be rude but, I noticed the stains.”[/color] 
John rolls this around in his head, deciding if he’s offended or not. He isn’t. He does gesture to the blanket that’s still covering him, though, and Chas waves it away.
[color=8B4513]“Don’t worry about that - I put some clothes out in the bathroom you can borrow. Probably be a bit big on your scrawny bum but should suit you well enough for now. And here-”[/color] Chas throws John a fresh tea-towel, which he catches in one hand while nearly fumbling the blanket in the other- [color=8B4513]“feel free to take a shower if’n you want to. Cuppa’s’ll be up soon enough.”[/color]
John chuckles and thanks Chas, feeling that warm swell in his chest again towards this man who is quickly becoming the closest companion he has ever had, and turns around to hobble off down the hallway in the direction of the shower. The time he spent at home among his and his father’s shared filth managed to numb his somewhat to the grime and dirt that had built up around him; but now, as he walks down the hallway and takes the first left into the bathroom, he locks the door behind him and can feel the grease and sweat coming alive across his body, crawling up and down his skin and matting his hair to his scalp. The thought of scalding water to viciously blast away this slime feels divine. 

John drops the blanket in the furthest corner of the bathroom from the shower and steps over the rim of the bath, pulling the curtain across behind him. He stares at the knobs, spends a moment to work out which does what, and then twists and pulls and is assaulted by ice-water upon his forehead which cascades down his chest, gives him a shiver as it passes by his nether regions, and then slowly dribbles down his calves as it warms up and flattens the goosebumps on his arms. The room quickly fills with steam as John enjoys the hot water bouncing off his scalp and forming rivulets down his back. He pushes his head back and lets the water fill his vision with myriad psychedelic patterns and colours through closed eyes. The shower cleanses him physically and spiritually; he wiggles his toes as memories of Ravenscar swim in and out of his mind. 

[right][i][color=808080]Showers as punishment, dirt pressure-scrubbed from skin via an icy hose, flesh pink and raw after the staff had turned the torrents upon you; the battering only ceasing once the fun had run out. The first shower John had ‘taken’ within that catacomb of a building made him weep from the soreness and cold. The second had been a half-hour later, to ‘wash the tear-stains from his scrubs’. He had not cried again. Only sat in silence, staring at the wall and thinking of happier times as the still air was pierced by the steady drip-drip of cold water from his clothes, soaking into his bunk. He slept upon a damp mattress for three days, on the fourth electing to sleep on the floor instead. On the fifth day his mattress was taken and his sheets were changed, but he slept on the floor regardless, a silent protest that only served as self-sabotage. Day six he went without food, as he showed no gratitude for the amenities the hospital granted to him.[/color][/i][/right]
John pushes the heels of his palms into his eyes as he wills these memories away. It does him no good to dwell on dark times. He has done too much of that already. He grabs the sponge and washes his body down in the warm water, feeling that old bubbling despair in his belly but not letting it take advantage. The water washes away his grime and grit and takes some of his anguish for good measure as well. He survived the darkness, and he will not allow himself to be undone by its echoes. 

John exits the shower feeling like a man wading towards the river banks. The tea towel, though inadequate for the task at hand, still performs admirably despite its shortcomings, and John is only lightly moist as he slips on the clothes Chas left for him atop the toilet cistern: a pair of simple dark gray slacks, and a plain white button-up shirt. The trousers fit him around the waist, although are an inch or two too long in the leg, and the shirt hangs off his malnourished frame in a conspicuous manner. John tucks it in tight to the trousers and rolls the sleeves up until they rest comfortably at his elbows, but as he looks at himself in the mirror - gaunt face with cheekbones sticking out and eyes shadowed, his hair back to its natural spiky stark blonde with all its grease washed out, and the shirt loose around the collar with room in the gut - John is struck with the image of a boy wearing his father’s suit to a funeral. He cuffs the trousers, which haphazardly resolves the length issue, and decides to be grateful for the shirt, rather than bitter that the borrowed clothes of a man maybe a foot taller than him do not fit like a tailored suit. 

John leaves the bathroom, wet tea towel in hand, and re-enters the front room. The curtains have been pulled back to allow the light fully in, although a familiar pit-pat upon the glass signals yet another day of rain. Chas sits on the sofa sipping at a cup of dark tea from a stained mug, John’s mug next to him on the table. Steam drifts lazily up. Chas’ free hand is wrapped in the tea towel he had been using to dry his hair. John points at it, arching an eyebrow instead of verbalising the question. 
[color=8B4513]“Spilled some water as I was makin’ the tea. Cooking pots aren’t traditionally used for cuppa’s. Yours is all made up - no milk or sugar though, I’m afraid. Think the missus took those too.”[/color]
John waves the apology away and takes a seat next to Chas on the sofa. He cups the mug of tea in both hands, enjoying the warmth radiating into his palms, takes a deep breath of the vapours as he brings the ceramic to his lips. The tea is earthy and pure and opens up his sinuses, and the taste splashes across his tongue as he gulps it down, warm and grounded and calming. John is blown away at how wonderful the flavour is, and realises that it is because this is the first liquid past his teeth in the last fortnight that is neither lukewarm lager or pop that’s more voddy than cola. 

A wave of self-loathing washes over John and he gags silently, masking the dry-heave in a throaty cough to save face in front of Chas. He left Ravenscar with Cheryl’s memory like a crystal bauble hanging in his mind, a reminder to do right and do better, to look after himself, to believe he deserved to be cared for and loved. Instead he’d gone home via the local offy and spent his meager release bursary on the most efficient alcoholic-units-for-money he could muster and drank away the rest of the day shut up in his childhood bedroom. Thomas was aware but he simply didn’t care. He had wasted 2 weeks engaging in below-petty crime to avoid sobriety at all costs. He hadn't even thought of his sister until he rediscovered the photo two days ago. He failed himself. He failed Cheryl. 

[i][b][color=F08080]It’s not failing if you learn, Johnny.[/color][/b][/i]

John whips his head around at Chas, anger and disbelief in his eyes. 
[color=BDB76B]“[i]What did you just say to me?![/i]” [/color]John demands. Chas is frozen mid-sip, eyes wide and carefully considering the situation. He puts his mug down slowly before he responds. 
[color=8B4513]“Nothing. I didn’t say anything.”[/color]
[color=BDB76B]“You just called me Johnny. [i]No one calls me Johnny.[/i]”[/color]
[color=8B4513]“I didn’t call you anythin’! I didn’t [i]call[/i] you, simple as!”[/color]
John pauses and Chas studies his face. 
[color=8B4513]“You okay there chuck? You’ve come over all dewy-eyed…”[/color]

John turns his head away and fiercely rubs his eyes with the backs of his hands, pushing tears away before they fall. 
[color=BDB76B]“I’m fine. I’m [i]fine.[/i]”[/color] John stands up, jostling the table in his haste. He quickly scans the room, not sure what he’s looking for. His breathing and heartbeat are high tempo and getting out of control and he can feel his cheeks blushing from the rush of blood to his head; he kneels down, pushing a hand beneath the sofa and coming out with the pills he had stashed there last night, out of sight from Chas for fear of stigma and shame. John sits back down and quickly takes his dosage with the dregs of his tea, trying to calm his mind. He startles when Chas lays a firm hand on his shoulder. John looks at him for a brief moment, and then takes a few deep, racking sobs before ceasing just as sharply, head buried in his hands as Chas delivers a few reassuring pats. 

[color=8B4513]“You’re alright lad. Just a passing storm.”[/color]