And so, a completely predictable fate befell John - he did, in fact, get sick.
He'd slept extremely fitfully that night on the floor in Paul's bedroom. He'd woken up about three times before five in the morning when he finally snuck out and went home, each time feeling like his throat was being clawed out by some creature and no longer able to use his nose as it was meant to be used. His head throbbed with a terrible headache, but he fell asleep effective immediately, the moment his head hit the pillow after sneaking back into the house. He'd slept deeply for a while after that, his body needing the rest, even if it was only for two hours, since he'd been awoken by Mimi as per usual for school.
"John Winston Lennon! That's the second time in the last few weeks you've not come home at night."
She immediately scolded him the moment she stepped foot in his room; he felt guilt rise in his throat like bile, and he let out a soft 'sorry' before dissolving into a fit of coughs. She watched him for a few moments, studying him with those sharp eyes - until they softened suddenly, round with sympathy. She let out a drooping sigh and took a few steps towards him so she could place the back of her hand on his forehead. "Did you get caught in the storm?" She queried.
"Yeah. I, um.. fell asleep at Strawberry Fields." He sat up, holding his head when it sent a bolt of pain through it, feeling as if his entire body had turned to stone. "I stayed at Ringo's. I know I should've called, but it was late and we fell asleep quickly." It was partly true, though he decided not to mention that he stayed at Paul's. It probably wouldn't have mattered if he said he did, since she knew who he was, but he just didn't feel like talking about him at the moment.
"Why didn't his parents call, then?" She furrowed her brows, obviously suspicious of his story.
"Um.. I dunno. They probably didn't want to bother you." He spoke hastily, knowing that she didn't believe him for a single second. But instead of pursuing further, all she did was move away, bony arms crossed over her chest as she seemingly thought to herself.
"Can I... stay home from school?" He decided to at least attempt to ask and see if she'd allow it. He felt definitely in no state to go to school at the moment.
"Okay, fine. You can stay home. But - on one condition." She turned to him with a stern expression, holding up an equally stern finger. "You still need to do schoolwork. Alright?"
He groaned inwardly. I knew she was going to say that.
John only shrugged. "Okay." He agreed. He did want to make it up to her anyway for scaring her once again by not coming home for the whole night. He still felt bad about that.
After that, she gathered things he would need - tissues, water and some throat lozenges. She continued to remind him that she expects him to do homework as a compromise for letting him stay home, and all he could do was just suppress a chuckle at her behaviour that was just so typically Mimi. After that, she said her goodbyes and left, and he went straight back to bed to catch up on his missed sleep.
He then awoke a few hours later at about ten; he peeled open exhausted eyes, sitting up and stretching languidly as he adjusted to being awake. He strangely longed for Paul's touch in those moments as he became aware of the world around him, wishing he had his warm body curled around his and his sleeping form being the first thing he would lay eyes upon. He sorely missed those moments they'd had together in the past, and he had missed it even more when he'd fallen asleep on the floor next to Paul in his room. They had been in privacy then - why couldn't they just go back to how they were before Paul decided they shouldn't be together, but just not doing anything in public places and only in the privacy of their homes, alone together?
He let out a frustrated sigh, coughing lightly afterwards before blowing his nose with the tissues Mimi had put on his desk. I guess I just have to respect Paul's decision. I still need to talk to Stu when I go back to school, though, and see if I could glean the truth from him if he really did lie about ratting us out to Kevin.
He managed to force himself out of his warm, cosy bed and wrapped a blanket around his form like a cloak, shuffling to his desk where his workbooks were stacked up, ready to begin writing in. He made himself a pot of tea and settled himself at the desk, deciding he might as well just get on with the whole thing and start doing some homework. John had thankfully snagged the English homework off of Ringo the day before, though he wasn't much looking forward to it, as usual. He twirled a pen in his hand, the other curled tightly around his cup of tea, which he was waiting to cool down since it was still boiling.
His glasses were resting upon his nose - which he'd gone to check out in the bathroom, and he noticed that the bruise was beginning to fade and go yellow, meaning it was starting to lessen a bit. His myopic hazel eyes fixed on the window that was throwing pale light across the desk; it was raining outside once again, though it was a bit lighter than last night, and the soft patter was relaxing to him. The sky was a haze of grey-ivory clouds, mist shrouding the buildings in the distance. Frost clung to every branch and leaf of the trees and the parked cars in the street. He shivered involuntarily at the sight, knowing how cold it must be outside, and how much colder it would've been if he'd gone to school as normal at eight in the morning. He knew it would only get colder in Liverpool as the weeks drew by and the streets would eventually be lined with snow.
Eventually hunger made itself known by his stomach rumbling quietly, and he shambled down the stairs to the kitchen to cook some eggs on toast for his lunch.
He enjoyed the stillness of the house that was empty save for him, the only thing breaking the silence being the eggs sizzling on the fry pan. I feel like I haven't been able to enjoy any time by myself for the last few weeks at all. Problems keep arising, one after the other, and I feel helpless to do anything much about them. After all, what could he do about the fact that people seemed to believe what Kevin said about him and Paul? Nothing, except try to live through it. He understood where Paul's fears were coming from; even though to the rest of the world those claims had no weight without proper proof, it was still dangerous.
He was torn from his thoughts when there was a knock at the door. He froze in his spot, adjusting his glasses in perplexion. Was Mimi expecting someone? He certainly wasn't. He left the eggs and peered through the hallway window to see who it was. His heart leapt with excitement when he saw it was George and Ringo, standing there in school uniform and looking a little impatient. John tried to ignore the surge of disappointment in his belly when he saw that Paul wasn't there with them, instead opting to just shove the feelings away and open the door.
"What the hell are you guys doin' here?" He couldn't keep the joy from his voice, and they seemed pretty happy to see him, too; Ringo's beryl eyes sparked with delight, and George's lips parted in a grin that revealed his unusually shaped teeth. John let out a feeble cough as the wave of bitter wind nipped at his cheeks, and he hoped he didn't have to stand there with the door open for much longer. He'd been having the heater blasting to try and warm the house up.
"We were worried when you didn't show up at school, and Paul's told us what happened." They both barged past John as they spoke, moving further into the house - the auburn-haired boy watched them with amusement as Ringo flopped onto the couch in the lounge room and George sat on the arm of an armchair opposite. "We wanted to come visit."
"You look barmy, mate!" George exclaimed as he examined John with his impossibly dark eyes. He huffed, rolling his eyes in response. He probably did look pretty sick. As if on cue, he sneezed loudly and quickly grabbed a nearby tissue to blow his nose, feeling positively miserable.
"Paul wouldn't tell us how you ended up like this. Only that you were sick." Ringo gazed at him curiously. "What happened? Are you guys still fighting about the whole ordeal?-"
"It's nothin'." John interrupted hastily. His best friends knew that it wasn't nothing, obviously, but didn't press further when the almond-eyed boy began to explain what had happened the night before. "Well, I fell asleep.. at Strawberry Fields. When I woke up, it was pourin' like hell. I was soaked." He paused, wondering whether he should tell them he stayed the night at Paul's afterwards. He didn't want them pestering further about their situation - quite frankly, he didn't really know what was going on himself.
"What'd you do then?" George furrowed his brows.
"Paul found me. Helped me home. That was it." He shrugged, keeping his mouth firmly shut after that. His thoughts wandered, though, and he suddenly remembered - his eggs! "Shit," The curse flew from his mouth and he raced to the kitchen, blanket falling from his shoulder and pooling on the floor where he'd been standing.
Thankfully, he'd gotten there in time before they'd gotten too burnt or stuck too badly to the pan, and he scraped them off and picked the toast from the toaster, placing the eggs on top. He heard his friends follow him into the kitchen, but all he was focussed on was his food, since the pangs of hunger were only increasing now that the savoury smell filled his nostrils.
"Nearly burnt yer eggs, did ya?" Ringo teased, grin playing on his lips. "Wouldn't be the first time."
"Yeah, yeah, we get it, 'm a terrible cook." He waved him off, instead just taking his plate to the dining table so he could dig into his food. George hopped up on the table beside him, swinging his legs back and forth - much like a restless child, which George still looked as such - before lighting up a cigarette. The blue-grey haze expelled from his lips into the room as the younger boy took his first drag.
"Want a tea?" Ringo asked them, already beginning to take cups out from the cupboards above the kitchen counters.
"Yes, please." John replied eagerly, George nodding in agreement himself. Ringo then began boiling water in the kettle on the stove. As he continued eating his eggs on toast, he fixed his gaze intently on the younger boy, studying him.
There was a darkness in his eyes, as if troubled, and he kept it fixed on the ground as he continued puffing away on his cigarette, legs not swinging to and fro anymore. John felt his brows furrow in concern for his friend before he nudged him somewhat playfully with his elbow.
"Oi. What's got you frownin' like someone pissed in your tea?" He tilted his head questioningly, hoping that a bit of humour could cheer him up. At first, he'd only sighed in response, his hand holding the cigarette dropping limply to his lap. A few stray ashes detached themselves from it and made a new home on the right knee of George's ruffled, stained school trousers.
"I'm fine. I just.." He trailed off, finally deciding to speak and meeting John's attentive gaze with his own worried eyes. "I just don't like seein' you or Paulie so bloody mopey all the time." He blinked sadly. "It's frustratin'."
John sighed himself, forcing a tight-lipped smile in his direction.
"No need to worry about us, son. We're big boys; we'll figure it out." He didn't have much faith in his last few words. It seemed George didn't either.
He had no idea when things would return back to normal.
The next day, John stayed home once again. He felt even worse than he did yesterday, ending up lying in bed for the most part and reading in between the times he'd be coughing up a lung and using up every tissue box in the house. He knew that the next two days he would begin to feel better, though, and eventually by the end of the week he figured his sickness would be pretty much gone.
He'd been in the middle of an afternoon nap when the irritating, loud blaring of the phone ringing tore him from his sleep and he hauled himself from the enticing depths of his bed before trudging down the stairs to the phone in the hallway. He answered it with a sluggish "hello?" and was immediately met with the intrusive, clamorous yell of George.
"Hi John! Just checkin' to see if you'd died yet or not."
John held the phone a few inches away from his ear, cringing at the loud noises that rang in his ears. He heard a voice he recognised as Ringo's sounding a little further away - "if he dies, I'm gonna get his inheritance for sure." He couldn't help but chuckle throatily at that, and he forced his mouth to form words like it was supposed to do.
"No way are you gonna get my inheritance." He paused, confused as he'd heard lots of background noise along with his friend's boisterous noises. "Where you callin' from right now?"
"From a payphone outside the chippy! We're gettin' lunch." George answered merrily. John felt a pang of envy - he could certainly go for some chips right about now. "Are you drinking lots of water? Stayin' warm? I can hear your blocked nose in yer voice." He took on a more demanding tone, and John laughed at how motherly the younger boy sounded.
"Yeah, thanks. Don't need you and Mimi breathin' down my neck." He couldn't help but continue to grin until his cheeks hurt. He heard Ringo talking faintly to someone else in the background, and he recognised that lilting voice answering him too. Paul was there. "Can I say hi to the others?" He queried eagerly. He wanted to hear Paul's voice again, if only for a little bit.
"Yeah, sure!" John heard a shuffling then a few beats of silence, then a sudden yell almost blew his eardrum out and he quickly jerked his phone holding hand well away from his face with a grimace.
"HI!" Ringo had screeched as loud as humanly possible. He heard some shuffling and then Paul's voice joined in too, loud and overbearing. Why did they have to be so damn loud sometimes? Definitely on purpose so they could annoy him, he guessed.
"Oi, I knew you'd get sick, idiot!" Paul sounded more jubilant than he'd heard him for a long time. It made his heart give a funny little jump and he felt his cheeks go beet red. "Are you snotting away at home?"
"Guilty as charged." John giggled. He couldn't help but be overwhelmingly endeared by it all, though; they really were the best friends he could ever ask for. He couldn't believe that he ever thought badly of George or Paul.
The group talked for a bit about random things, but they eventually had to go since The Hungry George Monster was getting more and more incensed at not having his needs satisfied, so they left John alone in the house, feeling the loneliness even more intensely than before they'd called him. He wished he could just get better so he could be out with his friends, eating chips alongside them and parading through the streets of Liverpool.
Mimi came home after work at about five, and he quickly set himself up in his room as if he'd been doing work the whole time. She'd come up to his room after making some tea and she placed a hand on his shoulder while she gave him a cup of tea.
"You better be working hard, mister." She stared at him through narrowed eyes, but they glinted with amusement and he grinned sheepishly at her, telling her that yes, he had been working.
She left to go downstairs after that, and John was left to his own devices once again. But it seemed he wouldn't be alone for much longer, since there was another knock on the door this time.
He paused, glancing over his shoulder to hear Mimi's footsteps presumably going to the door, then turned his attention back to the schoolbooks on his desk. It's probably not for me, he figured. He left the books open on the desk and sat on his bed, grabbing his guitar on the way and beginning to pluck a few discordant strings. There was a few beats of silence, then quiet talking - before Mimi called his name up the stairs.
"John! One of your... friends is here!" She sounded slightly perturbed.
He couldn't help but chuckle at the way she said 'friends'. She always spoke like that about Paul or George, even Ringo too; people she considered to be too rock 'n' roll and too scruffy. Not proper enough for her.
"Send 'em up!" He called back before dissolving into a fit of coughs. Yelling wasn't the best idea for him at the moment. He wondered who it was. Was it George? Ringo? She probably would've said 'Richard is here,' though, since she knew him long enough. A tiny part of him was hoping it was Paul, but he didn't know whether or not he would even bother visiting after the fights they had.
It seemed that small part of him had hoped right. There was a gentle knock on the door, and the door opened to reveal Paul standing there, in a leather jacket, trousers and a plain black t-shirt - he looked tired and a little stressed, but he managed a careful smile as he shut the door after himself.
John's heart leapt with a foolish exhilaration and he gently pushed his guitar to the side before his stomach dropped with anxiety. Were they going to fight again? He hated gazing at Paul there, looking so attractive as always, and unable to do anything about it - he knew how the younger boy would react to it. It was like he'd gone back in time to when he was pining for Paul unknowing of his returned feelings, but instead he knew perfectly well how the other felt, and he was still forced to stand by and pretend that they were just good friends. It was torturous. He quickly forced his turmoiled feelings as far down as he could and kept a cool demeanour, picking his guitar back up to keep playing chords on it.
"Aye, what's up?" John finally broke the silence that had fallen over the room.
"Nothin'." Paul shrugged. He didn't move from where he stood by his bedroom door, exhuming a nervous energy that put John at unease. He wished Paul would just relax and act normal. "Just wanted to see how you were faring."
Finally, Paul moved to sit at the edge of his bed; the auburn-haired boy risked a glance at him, and he saw his muscles were taut and his gaze was forcefully calm, though his fingers twirled a loose string off his trousers over and over in an anxious movement. He was surprised when the younger boy met his gaze, his own giving nothing away to how he felt.
"Working on anythin' new?" He nodded to John's guitar cradled in his lap like a newborn child.
The older boy sighed.
"Not since that song I showed you." He paused. "Just.. haven't been able to come up with anythin' new lately."
Paul nodded understandingly.
"May I?" He held his hand out towards him as if waiting for the guitar to placed within his grasp. John handed it over to him and settled himself deeper into his bed, exhaustion overwhelming him for a moment as he sneezed feebly. Paul's gaze flickered to him in concern, but John just waved him off as he went to blow his nose.
Paul swung his legs up so they were in a cross-legged position on the bed and flipped the guitar upside down so he could play it left-handed, fingers already finding places on the fretboard as it was basically second nature for them.
John watched with fascination.
"How do you play 'em upside down?" He furrowed his brows, bewildered.
"You just learn how to do it when yer left-handed and everythin' else isn't." He shrugged, gaze intent on what he was doing as he began to play a few chords in progression. "I have a restringed guitar for meself, anyroad."
John nodded in response, curious. He didn't think he'd ever be able to learn to play upside down; he wasn't even playing proper guitar chords before Paul had taught him how. He had been playing banjo chords, since that was the first instrument he'd learnt.
Paul began to play a song and his attention was stolen from his thoughts, captured by his hauntingly angelic voice and the way his hands flew effortlessly across the strings as if he didn't even need to try. The song was soft-sounding, romantic, almost. Not fast and demanding like a rock n roll song. He was kind of surprised to see it come out of Paul, but his mind brought back the memory of the first day of school when he saw Paul play a song on the piano to Mr Martin, which was a melancholic and actually quite sad song.
"There were bells, on a hill.." He sung quietly, sounding nervous as if he didn't want to be too loud "I never heard them ringing," John felt as if his lungs were lodged in his throat as he watched him, still stunned at how he could come up with such beautiful songs and be just as beautiful himself. "No, I never heard them at all.. 'til there was you." John let his eyes slide shut, just wanting to relish the music and Paul's voice - unaware that Paul was watching him too. He went on for a minute or so more, until he stopped playing, the song being unfinished.
"That was really good." John finally opened his eyes. He adjusted his glasses. "You should finish that one."
Paul shrugged nonchalantly. "It was nothin' much."
John rolled his eyes.
"God, you try and act so bloody modest all the time to hide yer ego, poncy bastard."
Paul laughed at that, placing the guitar down on the bed beside him, eyes twinkling with humour as they met his gaze.
"You're really good too, y'know." He raised his eyebrows a little as he gazed at him earnestly. "Like.. you really are."
John nodded, not believing it for a moment but grateful that Paul would say it in the first place.
"I know you don't believe me.." Paul placed a gentle hand on his leg - John flinched a little at the sudden touch, feeling as if a bolt of electricity shot up his spine at it. He felt instantly guilty when the younger boy retracted his hand, gaze darkening with sadness at his reaction. "But it's true."
"Um.. thanks, mate." John forced a smile.
Paul nodded, forcing a smile back.
"Anytime."
The pair fell into an awkward silence, saying nothing for a few moments as they sat there, listening to the noise of the television wafting from downstairs that Mimi was presumably watching. John noticed Paul's expression shifting further - lips downturned in a frown and brows furrowing as he shuffled off of the bed to stand up on the floor. John hated seeing him troubled and upset, knowing the exact reasoning for it.
"What's wrong?" John ventured. He figured he might as well try, even though the chance of Paul actually opening up to him was one in a million.
"Nothin'. 's okay." He answered automatically.
"Bullshit." John scoffed. "Just tell me; you know I don't mind." He took on a softer tone, gazing at him with sincere hazel eyes.
Paul paused in his movements - John watched with held breath as the younger boy slowly turned to look at him. His lips parted as if he was about to speak, dismal gaze meeting his own. But something changed suddenly, and his expression morphed into one of placidness. The infamous mask. John was, quite frankly, getting tired of seeing it.
"It's nothin'. Stop pesterin' me about it." His voice was hard, though John detected a hint of a quiver - it was over too soon before he could say anything, however, as Paul opened up his bedroom door and began to leave. Albeit, he paused and said one last thing: "I'll see you later." Sounding quieter and more reserved in that moment, before he took on an amused tone. "Get better soon or George will knock down yer door and make you get better himself." Then he was gone.
John listened to his footsteps descending the stairs and the faint goodbye he sent to his aunt before the door opened and was promptly shut again. He didn't feel at all comforted by that last joke.
All he did was let out a sigh and curl up in his bed again, legs pulled up to his chest and wrapping his arms around his shin. Why couldn't he just have Paul back? Why did the universe not want to let him have what he wanted?
He wished that they had never even kissed or done anything at school in the first place. Then Kevin wouldn't have found out. That is, if he really did find out and Stuart was lying. But he had no idea what to really think.
He'd made up his mind in that moment - he was going to talk to Stuart and get the truth out of him, whether the truth was what he'd want to hear or not. He just hoped it wasn't what he feared; Stuart could never do something like that to him. Right?