Mademoiselle Kitty (Macca4Ever) One Shots

It's Only Love (McLennon)

September 1959

He stares out into the distance, biding his time whilst random, disjointed chords fill the silence. It doesn't bother Paul anymore; he's used to it by now. John often gets like this: caught up in some train of thought he can't follow. Or so John thinks, anyway. You know, because he's nearly nineteen and Paul barely seventeen, so for some reason that apparently means Paul can't understand the depths of John's contemplations and thus, he's rarely made privy to them.

It's not something he enjoys: being underestimated. If only John could see into his mind sometimes, he'd think twice about considering him to be just a kid who couldn't possibly understand. As it is, that's the way John often feels so Paul has no choice but to either accept that or tell his best friend to go to hell. Somehow, the latter doesn't sound very appealing to Paul.

So, he quietly takes it in his stride, because he cares too much for John to make it an issue or let it come between them. Besides, it's not always like that. Sometimes, John opens up to him, lets him look deep into his soul where the real John resides. Not the cynical Ted most people think he is, but the gentle, caring John who really just wants people to stop leaving him. Although of course, being a Scouser, a Northern Man, he'd sooner kill himself than to admit that to anyone other than those he truly trusts.

A loud, dissonant chord meets a deep, frustrated sigh and then the sound of guitars ebbs away. It doesn't even startle Paul anymore. John just does that, and you have to know how to deal with it. He acts like he never even noticed it and remains quiet, listening to the sounds of the park around them which now replace John's chaotic strums.

Normally, hanging out at Calderstones Park means having to endure a cacophony of squealing toddlers, gossiping housewives, and rumbustious teenyboppers, but not today. Skiving off school equals risking yet another admonition and a row at home but it also means the vast park is pretty much theirs and now that John has stopped playing, Paul finds himself mesmerised by a different kind of music: the one produced by nature itself. Leaves, rustling in the wind that's been picking up lately, threatening to unleash autumn early and harshly this year. Well, nothing anyone can do to prevent that, Paul reckons as he closes his eyes and feels a warm gust of wind brushing his cheeks, tugging at his hair which is too well-greased to be blown out of shape that easily.

He stays like that for a bit, face turned to the sun, shirt sleeves rolled up above his elbows and the top two buttons undone whilst his loosened school tie gently moves whichever way the wind blows it; the green and navy stripes a subtle reminder of where he's actually supposed to be at that exact moment. But who in their right mind would choose German, a maths test, and two hours of PE over this? Paul feels utterly free, sat there barefoot on the grass, breathing in the scents of the Indian summer whilst birds of different shapes and sizes are offering intermittent commentaries.

Even without seeing them, Paul knows that one's a jackdaw, and the one further away, chirping so melodically, is a blackbird. There are loads of sparrows arguing, maybe over the magpies that appeared recently. It's been awhile since Paul saw any of those, but there's a couple of them now. If he were to listen more closely, he'd be able to pick out more and imagine the conversations the feathered neighbours might be having, which is always good for a laugh, but he can't because John breaks the spell.

"It's fucked up, isn't it?"

Paul doesn't respond. It wasn't a question, he knows that now, even though it might sound like that to anyone else. John isn't even talking to him, really. Not yet, anyway. It's just those thoughts he's been caught up in, refusing to stay inside his head any longer. Perhaps, Paul wonders, this will be one of those few times John will let him in on whatever's on his mind today. Only time will tell.