A week passed, and Robin and John still hadn't made amends.

After he stormed out and she opened up about herself, Robin spent the night at Stuart's, the two of them talking about anything and everything. He was right, he really was her best friend, and even though she didn't tell him every little detail, it felt good to have someone she could trust that much. Part of her liked opening up to someone, and she liked knowing someone had her back and carried that knowledge around with her. She liked knowing that someone other than her mother and uncle knew why she was like she was, even if Stuart didn't know the full story.

She'd spent the night at his flat, sleeping on the tiny sofa. It hadn't been planned, but she'd stayed so late that she missed the last bus, and she didn't want to trouble Albert by phoning and asking for a lift. Maybe she should have though, because when she got home the next morning both her mother and her Uncle were waiting for her. Albert was just worried, but her mother was furious, so she'd spent the whole day hiding out in her room. When she did eventually emerge for dinner her mother didn't even speak to her, only to tell her that she was grounded and banned from leaving the house other than for college.

That was fine by Robin, deciding that she didn't particularly want to be social after what happened with John. She was over it, as much as she'd hated the way he treated her she knew he was acting out of anger and grief, but she didn't fancy hanging out with him socially, not until he apologised at least, and considering everyone she knew in Liverpool were John's friends it might be a bit awkward to see people. She didn't really know the friendship group that well, but they seemed close-knit enough that if John had decided he no longer liked Robin the rest of them would hold a grudge. Stuart would probably disagree, but she didn't want to expect them still to like her if John didn't.

The days that followed were a weird blur of nothingness. It was as if she had accidentally slipped back into her old Sheffield routine of keeping to herself, except it was jarringly different because she wasn't used to being her old self in this new city. Liverpool had previously seemed to be a place of constantly taking herself out of her comfort zone, constantly developing herself into someone she could be happier with rather than someone who was so isolated they didn't even realise they were lonely. She liked Liverpool, but she didn't like it when she was alone.

Part of her missed John, especially after she thought he'd try and talk to her at college on Monday, but he wasn't there. He wasn't in the canteen at dinner time, leaving her alone to put up with Jenny, and he wasn't in lettering class either. Without him, their tiny, shared desk felt far too big, and far too empty. Without him borrowing her equipment, without him scribbling notes onto her sketchbook, she felt weirdly alone. It was clear he was avoiding her though, so she tried not to be too sentimental, focusing herself on her work, though it was difficult to keep her thoughts away from him.

Being at home wasn't any easier. Her mother picked up more hours at work, or she was going out with her work friends after, Robin wasn't really sure which one was the truth, but either way she was hardly in the house,
which was fine by her. They'd hardly spoken, not after she'd gotten back from Stuart's and Rita had a few choice words for Robin, and neither of them were in the mood for round two. Robin felt bad for her uncle, considering he'd invited them both to live with him only to now have to live with the tension the Knight women created.

It was also tricky being home and looking out her bedroom window, knowing that in the house next door was John, probably putting off his college work by playing his guitar. Maybe he was playing covers of old rock and roll songs, the ones he'd sometimes whistle as they were walking to the bus stop or to college, or maybe he was writing his own songs, the ones he'd practice with the band that would make all the girls in the Cavern go wild. Perhaps he actually was doing his college work for once though, hunched over his book with his glasses perched on the end of his nose as he desperately tried to concentrate, his forehead creased as he eventually gave up and doodled his own creations. The longer she wondered about what he was doing the more Robin cursed herself, finding it pathetic that she was practically desperate to know what was going on with him, feeling pitiful that she'd unknowingly been studying him ever since their first meeting to the point she had picked up on the small details of his character, details she'd almost started to like.

She felt as if she was constantly trying to distract herself from thinking of him, because the nice thoughts didn't last long, the memories of his aggression quickly rearing up. Every time she thought of him she was reminded that as much as she missed his company she hated how he'd treated her. No one was that important to her that she would easily excuse such treatment without an apology, and it did hurt just a little to think about the way he'd spoken to her. As much as she missed his company, she wasn't prepared to destroy all her dignity by running after him. If he really was her friend, he'd apologise, and if he didn't respect her enough to talk her properly then she didn't want him in her life.

That was what she told herself everyday that John avoided her, until it was Sunday all over again and she was surprised at how sad she felt, knowing it had been a week since the fall out. She didn't have time to dwell in her sadness though, not as she had her artwork spread all across her floor, various pallets spread out on old newspapers to protect the carpet as she leant over a canvas with a cigarette perched lazily between her lips, wishing she had the inspiration to keep working.

"Hey, kid," Albert called through the closed door as he knocked.

Robin immediately stubbed out her cigarette and set her paintbrush aside as she got up to let him in. That was one of the things she liked the most about her Uncle, the fact that he respected her privacy enough to just stand outside her room until she let him in. Even if she was meant to be grounded he was still treating her nicely, and it reminded her of how her father acted whenever she'd had a disagreement with her mother.

"Alright?" she nodded in place of greeting as Albert came into her room, realising it was the first time he'd been there since the day she moved in.

"I like what you've done with the room," he gestured at the paintings she'd stuck up above her bed, though upon noticing she was still using an up-turned cardboard box as a bedside table he let out a small laugh. "Y'know if you need any extra furniture..."

"It's fine, but thanks," she shrugged, sitting back down on the floor and starting work on her painting again.

"I'm not disturbing you am I?" he asked, sitting down on the edge of her bed. "Your mum's due home from work in a couple of hours but I'm just about to head off to the restaurant,"

"Nah don't worry," she told him, trying not to roll her eyes at the mention of her mother. "How long you working for?"

"Just a few hours, they're really understaffed today otherwise I wouldn't be going in," he shrugged. "In fact, the next few days we're proper short of wait staff, would you be up for giving it a go? I'll pay you,"

"Yeah, I don't mind, should I go to the restaurant straight from college then?" she asked, wondering if the prospect of a job would mean her mum wouldn't still have her grounded.

"I'll pick you up," he agreed, looking at her paintings as he hesitated, clearly wanting to say something else. "Other than being grounded, are you alright? You've been dead quiet lately,"

"I'm fine," she shook her head simply, not looking up from her painting.

"I'm sorry for asking, but it's been eating away at me," he sighed. "You said you spent the night at your friend Stuart's... is he just a friend? Cause if not I'm completely alright with that, I've heard he's a nice guy, as long as you're being safe and he's treating you well,"

"Jesus," Robin breathed out in amusement and shock, trying not to laugh. "I'm not going out with Stuart, he's just a friend. I told you, we were doing stuff for college and lost track of time,"

"Alright, well, I just wanted you to know, if you ever did have a boyfriend... It'd be okay, you're nearly eighteen," he continued, trying to hold back his own laugh as he realised how serious the conversation was. "Is everything alright with your college friends then? I've not seen you getting the bus with John from next door for a few days,"

"Good to know," she nodded. "And everything's fine, I've just been busy with coursework,"

Albert probably knew she was lying. He was good at noticing things, and he'd clearly noticed that Robin wasn't as social as she had been a few weeks before. If he'd noticed that, then he'd also noticed how, whatever was going on, Robin clearly didn't want to talk about it. He offered her a small smile of reassurance, one that reminded her far too much of her father, the way he'd act around her when he knew that she was upset with something. He got up from her bed, moving over to her and patting her shoulder supportively.

"Alright if you're sure, I'll leave you to it," he told her in place of a goodbye, and he headed to the door before he stopped, turning back to her. "Oh, would you put the washing out before your mum get's in? Cheers kid,"

Robin waited for a while until after she heard Albert leave, listening out for the sound of the front door locking before she got up from her painting. She stretched, looking down at the canvas she'd been working on before sighing, deciding that she wasn't happy with it. It was meant to be a project for her fine art class, a painting of a forest and lake, but it wasn't to the standard she wanted it to be just yet, the colours off and the shading not quite perfect. If she sat looking at it any longer she'd just get more frustrated, so she decided to get on with sorting the washing out.

It felt weird wandering around the house alone. It was still odd, thinking that this was her home, a house three times the size of her whole flat back in Sheffield, a place she would always class as her home no matter where she lived. It still felt new and a little daunting, especially being home alone for the first time since moving, seeing the house on it's own making her feel as though she was seeing it properly for the first time. Maybe if she'd have moved there out of different circumstances, if she wasn't usually thinking about what her dad would make of it all, maybe she'd feel different about it, feel happy or safe.

She tried not to think about it, finding it amusing how many things she was having to remind herself not to think about. Don't think about John, about being grounded, about her mother, about home, about her father. Surely she'd be left with nothing, no safe thought that didn't immediately make her question everything. She wondered what it would be like if she didn't feel as though she constantly needed to distract herself to keep her mind from going down dark alleys, to stop herself thinking about her life in such an existential way. All Albert had asked her to do was put the washing out, and yet there she was, spiralling into deep thoughts of existence. It was almost funny really, though it also made her feel a little pathetic.

The best way to keep her thoughts straight, she'd worked out, was to pour her full focus onto the task at hand. Sure the task was to put the washing out on the line, but if that technique worked on her art it would definitely work on something so menial. She carried the washing basket out into the garden where the washing line was. It wasn't particularly sunny outside and the wind was sharp to the point it made her shiver as she crossed the garden, ignoring the tree in case it reminded her of her first meeting of John. She began hanging it all out rather slowly, trying to make it as neat as possible, remembering all the times she'd done the washing at home and her mother had lectured her about how to hang things out properly.

She'd taken her time with the job, enjoying the fresh air to the extent she barely noticed how cold it was and that she was shivering rather violently. She might not have noticed, but someone else had, someone who'd been silently watching her from his bedroom window next door, willing himself to have the confidence to go down and talk to her. John had been staring out his bedroom window all day, not having the motivation to play his guitar or work on his coursework. After what had happened the week before he'd skipped college all week, not completing his coursework pieces that were now criminally late. It'd probably affect his qualifications but he really didn't care, not with how he'd felt over the last week.

He'd been staring out the window trying to get his thoughts straight when he caught sight of Robin, the very person he'd dreaded seeing. Part of him instantly felt better for seeing her, a week of avoiding her making her seem much more beautiful than ever even as she was dressed in an oversized painting shirt and shorts with her hair pulled into a bun on top of her head, but even the buzzing he felt in his chest wasn't enough for him to ignore the horrible guilt that hit him. He'd spent all week regretting his actions, desperately wanting to make things right with Robin, but to do that he'd have to face her, and he wasn't sure he wanted to do that, not ready to see how badly he'd ruined their friendship.

He'd spent the week in the usual fashion, desperately trying to cope with the mistakes he'd made by skipping college and hanging out in pubs, getting in fights and not always winning them. Mimi had been furious when he came home with a black eye, and Paul had been worried sick when he turned up to band practice on Friday night drunk. Drinking and fighting were his usual coping mechanisms, relying on them until whatever was bothering him was out of his head, and usually he didn't care what the people around him thought, far too used to Paul's concern and Mimi's dismay.

The thoughts of other people didn't usually stop him from skipping practice or coming home late, but this time was different. So different in fact that he couldn't even bring himself to fall onto his other trusty coping mechanism; picking up girls. Not as awful as those lads on the bus had been, but when he needed a distraction he usually went to a club or a bar and flirted with someone until he got something out of it, be it a shag, a kiss, or just some attention. As much as he wanted to find some girl, he found himself haunted by Robin, constantly thinking about how disappointed she'd be in him.

The thought of Robin, even knowing that she was the one who'd sent him down this spiral, was the only thing that seemed to pull him out. He'd thought of her the night before as he stumbled down their street, having to fight the urge to throw something at her window to get her attention when he saw her light wax still on, wondering what she was doing. He'd even dreamed about her, dreaming that they were in college and she was helping him complete his disastrous coursework, so when he woke up severely hungover, looking out of the window and seeing her in the garden was like seeing a guardian angel.

It was a dramatic label to give her, especially since he knew how she would feel about him, but all the same he couldn't stop watching her. She was so precise with how she hung the washing out, and even from the distance he was watching her from he could just make out the small crease in between her eyebrows that always appeared whenever she was focusing on something. He was watching her every move as if making up for a week of being apart, so he soon noticed how she began to shiver. Nursing a hangover, he'd not yet been out of his bedroom that day, but even through the windows he could feel the autumnal chill.

Before he was even aware of what he was doing, John had gotten to his feet, pulling on his thick leather jacket, putting his glasses on in the hopes that the thick lenses would hide his black eye, and he was heading downstairs. Mimi was calling something to him from the living room but he wasn't listening, not as he pulled a spare jumper of his off the coat rack by the stairs and headed out the front door, going out into the garden.

He tried not to get her attention, sneaking quietly up to the fence with the jumper under his arm, savouring how her focus lied solely with the washing to the extent he could look at her up close for just a moment before he had to make himself known.

"Oi," John called, and before she had the chance to look up to him he'd thrown the jumper across the fence at her. "Quit shivering, you'll catch a cold,"

Robin jumped in shock, especially as the jumper hit her. She dropped the washing basket, not looking at John as she instead stared at the jumper as if she was considering what it was. She'd not realised how cold she was, but she was too stubborn, not understanding what was going on. So John was just going to avoid her all week and then do such a nice gesture like that? It didn't make sense to her, instantly feeling irritated as she took a moment, taking in a deep breath before she hugged it to her chest, looking up at him with a glare.

The moment she looked up at him though she regretted it, as she struggled not to gasp in shock at the state of him. His hair was usually styled in a way that looked careless and carefree in it's quiff, but it was flat and shaggy, as if he hadn't combed it for days, his face looking pale as if he hadn't seen the light of day for a long time. None of that came close to the deep purple bruise staining his cheek, spreading right over his slightly swollen eye, and though the glasses were meant to distract from it they merely magnified it. Instantly Robin felt awful, feeling sick at the thought of someone doing that to him, desperately trying not to imagine the fight that earned him such an awful injury. She almost wanted to feel sorry for him, but if she did so then she'd lose her nerve to tell him how she felt about the way he'd treated her.

"What do you think you're doing?" she sighed in frustration, desperately fighting her shivers and the urge to put the jumper on.

"It's a jumper, do they not have them in the steel city?" he remarked, trying to joke around like normal, though Robin merely glared at him again. "You looked cold,"

"Oh, you're a right prick, you know that?" she muttered, her insult contradicted by how she pulled the jumper on, and John tried not to think about how much he liked her wearing his clothes. "You talk to me like shit, then you ignore me all week, and now you're telling me you were watching me so you thought you'd do a nice gesture? Fuck that,"

"Yeah, fuck my nice gesture, I'll have the jumper back then," he shrugged, suspiciously calm. At first it looked as though he was trying not to laugh, but then he turned serious, avoiding meeting her eye. "I'm not good at saying sorry,"

"Giving me a jumper isn't saying sorry," she told him firmly, folding her arms across her chest stubbornly. "Just so you know, I didn't want to screw any of your mates,"

"No, I know," he nodded, still looking at the ground even though he could feel her gaze burning into him. "I was being a prick,"

"Yeah, you were," she nodded, still waiting for his proper apology, even though she could tell he felt bad.

"I've been a proper prick to you," he sighed, finally looking up at her, leaning on the fence, wishing she was closer. "Not just at Stuart's but on the bus as well. Sometimes I don't know how to... y'know, react well to situations. It's shit, and I wish I wasn't like that, I wish I didn't constantly feel like I have to start fights with anyone who looks at me funny, but it's just something I've got to work on I guess. I like you, Robin, you make me laugh, I like hanging out with you, but I think the bit I liked the most was that you'd never seen how much of an arsehole I could be, and I really regret the way I treated you,"

If this was John apologising, Robin surprisingly liked it. Not only did she like it, but she found herself feeling sorry for him, wishing that she didn't because that wasn't his intention at all. He'd not said sorry directly, but at explaining himself he opened up to her, showing he understood how he'd been out of line and how he was taking responsibility. To her, that was so much better. The word 'sorry' seemed hollow in comparison, knowing from experience how many apologies remained unchecked, unfulfilled. John's words seemed to carry weight with them, each one drenched with 'sorry' without even saying it.

Out of instinct she moved closer to the fence, losing her glare completely as she instead offered him a small smile that made him clearly relax a little more. He still seemed tense, uncomfortable with sharing his feelings with her, but the smile hinted that she was listening, that she understood, and suddenly it seemed easier opening up.

"You gonna tell me the story behind that black eye?" She asked at last, though she didn't really need him to tell her, already knowing. "Everyone can be an arsehole, John. That potential lives in everyone, that's not the problem, it's acting on the arsehole potential that's the problem,"

"I never know how to not act on it," he shrugged, looking at her blue eyes, trying not to get lost in them and keep his thoughts straight. "I didn't want you to see that side, I wanted to be normal, and funny, and calm, like Stu is all the time,"

"But you can't be like Stu, or like anyone else, because you're you," she said, feeling like she was finally seeing through the façade, finally seeing the true John a little better. "You're you, and that's good enough. Everyone has their defence mechanisms,"

"So what're yours then?" He asked, sounding almost snappy, only because he wanted to know he wasn't alone in how he felt.

"Well I don't go out fighting but I do snap at those close to me," she said, her turn to now avoid his gaze, looking at the floor as she realised that if John had been confident enough to open up to her it was only fair that she did the same. "I smoke a lot more, I have a few shots of whiskey, I paint and try and pretend I'm in a world where I don't feel so shit or so alone. I go into myself, and like you with your anger I can see myself doing it and I don't like it but it's too late and I can't pull myself out, so when anyone does try and talk to me or remind me of the real world I don't cope well,"

The two of them looked up at each other, and for the first time it was like seeing each other properly, as if they'd just put on a pair of glasses and could now see everything so clearly, no ego or anxiety in the way for once. For Robin, it was like seeing John play guitar for the first time again, seeing him be so open and almost free with himself despite the insecurities that were rooted deep into him. He was angry at the world, hurt by his past with no way out but to fight, yet at the same time he seemed so scared of himself, wary at how people see him. He used anger and sarcasm to hide himself, protecting his true self through a persona, and though she liked John's wit and his jokes, she loved glimpsing at who he truly was. For John though, he for once didn't see the silently smart girl he admired, the girl who seemed to have everything together, he saw a reversed reflection of himself. He'd always quite liked the way their strong personalities clashed, the brutal way she could put his witty remarks down with just a look, deeming so secretive about who she was, but when she came out of her thoughts she had the same insecurities as him. A dislike for the cruelty of the world they lived in, a distaste for those who tried to get close. He acted out, she withdrew in.

Robin was like himself except reversed, and to say he didn't particularly like himself it was surprising to John just how much he seemed to like her.

"Here's an idea, and I know it's ironic coming from me, but the next time something gets to you, instead of acting out or getting yourself a black eye, you could just talk to me?" she suggested with another small shrug, leaning over the fence more as if wanting to get closer to him. "It's lonely keeping your thoughts to yourself,"

"I wouldn't want anyone thinking I was being daft, or that I was soft and just plain stupid," he pointed out, frowning as Robin let out a small laugh. "You're not helping,"

"No, I know, I just found it funny that I always think the same," she bit back a smile, especially when she saw how John laughed at her. "You know you're a lot nicer to talk to when you're not being such a cocky prick,"

"Could say the same to you, you're a lot easier to talk to when you're not so defensive," he reminded her, and before he could stop himself he held his hand out for her to shake. "Truce?"

With another small smile and their disagreement forgiven, Robin obliged, taking hold of his hand and shaking.

***

Word count: 4658

***