I had fallen asleep. Blinking as I tried to wake, I sat up with that stiff shakiness that comes from daytime rest.

'Well, good morning, then,' said John dryly.

I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes with the heels of my hands, then looked at my watch: three-thirty. John was slouched against the tree trunk, smoking calmly. He's probably gone through a pack and a half, I thought, if he's not had anything else to do all this time.

'Well, don't blame me for falling asleep,' I said, a bit groggily. 'It was a long night last night.'

'Eh?' was his response, grinding out the cig on an exposed root. He raised an eyebrow and smiled a little suggestive smile at that.

'No, it wasn't that,' I said. Truth was, Sebastian had been picking fights with literally everybody he set eyes on last night, and it took me until two a.m. just to convince him to hand over his switchblade to me. I knew that I probably shouldn't tell John about Sebastian's problems (and that John, chances were, didn't really want to be pestered with them) but there were certain times that I just had to empty my thoughts onto the nearest open ears, and, right then, those ears appeared to be John's.

'It's Sebastian,' I said after a long pause. 'My friend Sebastian, Sebastian Klapka. I've known him for…it seems like forever. Since before I left home, even.'

John looked vaguely more interested when I mentioned leaving home, unfortunately, but I rarely spoke about that. I left the past in the past - some people said a bit too solidly in the past.

I continued. 'But recently, the last few months about, he's been angry, almost explosively violent at times, or else incredibly withdrawn. Last night was one of his violent bouts, I'm afraid. It gets so exhausting, trying to reason with him, but I think I'm the only one Sebastian trusts anymore, just due to the sheer amount of time we've spent together. So I've tried to…I don't know, remain loyal to him. Some of his other friends have been keeping away or even retaliating since he began acting like this.'

John was quiet, and I wasn't quite sure how to interpret his silence. He didn't really seem annoyed, fortunately. Looking away, he lit a new ciggie with a classy little silver lighter, then tipped the pack toward me, silently offering one. I accepted, even though I was trying to quit. Calm(er) nerves are worth it at the moment, I thought. And hey, it was free tobacco.

'So has something happened in the past few months?' John asked. 'To make him act like this?'

'No,' I said. 'But it was, er…November, so six months ago - there was this enormous fight. I think it began when this asshole who was fucked up on cocaine tried to lift a significant amount of quid off one of Sebastian's friends and make off with it to Amsterdam or something. So there was a huge encounter - like thirty people going at each other - at the train station in the rain one night: blood, sleet, coppers, messy getaways. And it ended up that Sebastian's friend was killed.'

'Shit,' said John. 'I've been in some fights and seen some god-awful ones. But nothing that bad. I can't even remember the last time I saw a fight like that - street fight…'

John looked strangely reminiscent. I guess skirmishes in black leather to him were the 'good old days.' It was difficult to imagine. 'I think that death is finally catching up with Sebastian.' I said. 'I just hope that he comes to terms with it soon.'

'Yeh,' said John. 'It makes sense though…' I could see John slipping into psychological-interpretation mode: Miusov got the same glint in her eye right before she started spouting theories of Jung and Freud. But luckily John's philosophizing turned out to be a lot more sound.

'I was a bit like that too,' John continued. 'When my mum died, that is, and then my friend Stu. It was awful, sometimes, just like this clawing pain. Most of the time I was just sad, but then once in a while I got so fucking angry…'

I nodded. I hoped with time that Sebastian would get over it, like John did. But Sebastian wasn't in the kindest environment possible to recover, although I tried to give him my support.

I looked at the sky; the storm seemed intent on returning. And on top of that, my arse was beginning to ache from sitting on the ground for so long, so I stood up and shook out my legs. I thought it would be best for us to get indoors before the rain began.

John looked vaguely depressed from all of the talk of death and violence - who wouldn't be? I decided to cheer things up, like I always did.

'Hey, you up for a party?' I asked him, smiling now a little.

John snapped out of his reverie. 'Always,' he said, eyes glinting. He rose and tossed the ciggie butt in the damp dirt, grinding it with a now-not-so-pristine boot heel. I hadn't noticed when, but he had taken off his suit jacket and untucked his dress shirt, loosening the high collar. With our tramp through the back roads of London having roughed up his Beatle suit, he looked almost appropriate for a Lucy Price-party crowd. Still a bit formal, but I approved.

John noticed the once-over and laughed, returning the favor, and I felt more self-conscious than I had in a while. He noticed my embarrassment, of course, perceptive little bastard that he was, and laughed at me again.

John stepped toward me a bit. 'Look,' he said. 'You've got bits of leaves and muck in your hair from your nap.'

'It doesn't matter.'

'Here,' he said, and began pulling bits of plant matter out of the strands. My hair is that strange type that never seems to settle down. The parts that John pulled stuff out of just stayed up, floatingly. I'm sure it looked absolutely ridiculous, because at one point John giggled like a little kid.

I rolled my eyes. 'You can stop anytime, you know,' I said, although admittedly it felt wonderful.

'Yeh, I know,' he said very very quietly. I could feel and smell his cigarettey breath on my cheek, which I would ordinarily hate but in the current circumstance didn't at all. John pulled one final little green almond shaped leaf off of me, tickling my neck.

'All done,' he said. I ran my fingers through my hair, which stopped jaggedly at my shoulders, attempting to smooth it.

'Pity,' said John. 'I sort of liked the electrocuted look.' He shook his unkempt reddish-brown moptop at me. 'And is mine alright, then?'

'Perfect,' I replied. Well, it could use a comb, but I wasn't one to mention it.

'So then, about that party…' said John in a hinting manner.

'What about it?' I answered innocently.

'Who what where when so on and so forth,' he sing-songed all in one breath.

'Well, you never know with the "who" and the "what," but it's at Lucy Price's flat and should be starting any minute now,' I said, consulting my wristwatch's scratched face, which read four-thirty. With my comrades, party meant party, from late afternoon to early morning.

John put on an affected air. 'Well, then madame my dear, must fly to this fabulous fête and all, wouldn't you imagine,' he said, taking off toward the street with amazingly long and stork-like strides.

'Wait - you don't even know where you're going!' I shouted, turning the heads of some sandboxed children. I grabbed my violin and sprinted out of the park after John, who was now traipsing in the dimming streets.