Two days before New Year's Eve, John was holed up in his room at Menlove Avenue, sitting on his bed with his feet tucked into his sheets, guitar splayed across his lap, leaning against the wall as he plucked idly at the chords. He wasn't playing an actual song or anything; just strumming randomly, creating impromptu melodies as he went along, which fell short after a few seconds when he got tired of it and stopped or changed the tune. The outside world was choked with snow once again, above it greyish white clouds that held no rain blanketed above, making it look almost like the ground and sky melted into each other, nothing to separate it. It almost made him so much more frustrated than he already was - the world looked as if it was carefully blank and boring while the tumultion of his emotions were raging like destructive storms inside him, like the world was feeling the opposite of what he felt at the moment. It made him even more upset, like he wanted a thunderstorm to break out just to somehow display his own distress.
The entire house was deadly silent and still. Mimi was out shopping, so he had been left alone with only his record player to accompany him, and it was starting to bear down on his mind a little. He hated being alone. He was never one for solitude, for enjoying his own company and reading books and all that kind of stuff. His own thoughts and mind were against him half the time, so it wasn't exactly the most pleasant of times when he was alone with his head; and, in order to combat that, he spent time with other people. He stuck himself to his friends' sides and constantly seeked them out in order to spend time with them, so he could distract himself effectively enough and feel better. He grew attached to people quite easily if they appealed to him and he would soon be hanging around them all the time. Paul had been someone who he'd grown so attached to that it almost hurt not to be around him, so he had constantly searched for his companionship, and now that he was deliberately keeping himself away, he was alone with himself again. He probably could've seeked out Ringo or George, but he was afraid that Paul had told them about his avoidance (he had to at least suspect it by now. He had tried to come over and spend time with him after Christmas but John had blown him off and been flippant enough to make him suspicious) and they might try and question him about it. Then he thought, maybe Stuart or Cynthia would be a better option? But.. no. He didn't want to burden them with his issues. Cynthia was incredibly perceptive and she'd be able to tell there was something off with him immediately, anyway. Maybe after he'd sorted through his things a bit more he could. Therefore, at that moment, he was just left by himself for the first time in a long time, and he wasn't exactly sure what to do. He was certainly too restless to settle down and read a book, but he was in too much of a shitty mood to try and focus on working on songwriting or watching a TV show.. so that was how he ended up sitting on his bed with his guitar, doing nothing except fiddling with the strings. Maybe it was unhealthy to be so dependent on other people to feel okay, but it wasn't like John knew much about healthy lifestyles or circumstances.
A knock on the door cut through his thoughts and he jumped slightly, glancing around in surprise. Who would that be? Probably just a salesperson. He let out a tired sigh and placed his guitar next to him on his bed before shuffling forwards to place his feet on the floor. His head started to pound when he got to his feet, and he squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his fingertips into his temples to try and drive it away; he then left his bedroom and descended the stairs, calling out an irritated "I'm coming!" when the person knocked again, more insistently. He hesitated only for a few seconds before swinging the door open, about to tell whoever was bothering him right now to piss off..
He blinked, mouth parting in surprise, his arm falling limply to his side as he studied the person standing on the front doorstep; Paul. Oh fuck, he thought in dismay. He was wearing his favourite dark green corduroy jacket, black gloves on and faded denim jeans with black runners - his easy smile was like a burst of colour against the backdrop of white and grey that surrounded them, ebony hair swept aside in his usual careless manner, even though it somehow always looked flawless. His cheeks, nose and ears were flushed from the cold, adorably pink. John swallowed thickly. He could feel his emotions churning inside him again, desperate to be made known, but he pressed down on them decisively, barking at them to be quiet until they were subdued.
"Hey, Johnny," Paul's smile widened a touch. "Are you feeling any better?"
"I-I guess." John stuttered, feeling his cheeks burn bright. Fucking hell, he was such a sucker for the boy in front of him. He'd never felt this strongly about someone before, and he certainly never expected in his entire life that it would be someone who he despised for weeks. That it would be Paul. How did they get to this point?
Paul tilted his head, studying him with a playful glint in his eyes. "You gonna let me in or stand in the doorway like a pillock?"
John clenched his teeth. Keep it together, he chanted to himself as he moved away and into the lounge room. "Whatever," he mumbled.
The younger boy trailed after him, shutting the door as he did so, making sure to dry off his snow-covered shoes on the mat; John stood behind the couch, hands clenched in his trouser pockets to keep them from fidgeting and catching the other's attention. What the hell was he going to do?! So much for his avoiding Paul plan. The bloody boy showed up at his house without warning! And he couldn't have just told him to get stuffed, could he? He loved Paul.. he didn't want to be an arsehole. But he was terrified at what could happen now that they were alone for the first time since John had realised the depth of his feelings. So many things could go horribly wrong. He couldn't stand being around him - he was so beautiful standing there, expressive eyes watching him all the while, just doing nothing but still making John's heart race.. he felt like if he spent another second in his presence, he would snap and confess his love. And that could never happen. He couldn't ever face the consequences. He had to keep it to himself.
He tensed when Paul placed a warm hand on his shoulder - he forced himself to turn around and meet his gaze.
"I missed you," The raven-haired boy's gaze softened a fraction and he pulled the unsuspecting John into a hug. He froze, breathing in the smell of snow and cigarettes and mint that was so familiar and insanely addictive; the feeling of Paul's body pressed against his filled up his mind like viscous liquid, and it took all his energy not to just burst into tears right then and there. Oh god, oh god, his mind screeched at him in utter panic.
"The Christmas party was boring without you." He was saying. He let go, all without John moving a muscle, though his hands lingered on his waist before they fell to his side and he began to pull off his gloves. "It sucks you couldn't come." He sighed, obviously disappointed about that fact.
"Yeah." John croaked. He shuffled away to sit on the couch, unable to look at his face any longer.
"But.." Paul began, voice laced with an obvious mischief and excitement; he leant against the back of the couch behind John, hands placed on either shoulder. "What about New Year's? I really don't want to spend it with my family, it'll be boring as hell. What if we do somethin' together?"
John sunk his teeth so harshly into his bottom lip he tasted blood. I can't, he thought desperately. I won't be able to stand being around him, knowing that there's barely any chance that he loves me back, that I love him and he doesn't love me..
He quickly shook away the thoughts, trying to come up with a way he could get out of it, trying his best to ignore the persistent squirming guilt in his chest all the while.
"Like what?" He began, training his gaze on his lap.
Paul rounded the couch and sat down across from him, lighting up a cigarette between his lips. He shrugged once he'd taken his first drag, bluish grey smoke expelling as he spoke. "I dunno. Anythin'."
John shifted uncomfortably, unsure what to say in response to that. Paul must have finally picked up on something being off with him, since his nonchalant expression immediately morphed into one of confusion and slight concern, brows furrowed as he leant forward to catch his eyes.
"What's wrong with you, John? Are you still sick?"
The older boy shrugged helplessly.
Paul stood up and went to kneel down in front of him, placing one hand on his knee and looking into his face.
"You do look pale and tired," He commented, reaching up to feel his forehead, but John instinctively flinched away - he couldn't stand all this contact and closeness and seeing his face so close. His emotions were running wild and high and he felt like he was going to break down if he had to be around him any longer. He quickly got up, pushing past Paul and avoiding his crestfallen expression before hurrying into the kitchen, leaning over the sink when he felt like he was going to throw up.
"John? What's wrong?" Paul questioned, following him into the kitchen.
"Nothing," He ground out, staring into the plughole. He wished Paul would just leave; it would make it easier on both of them.
"Don't give me that bullshit," Paul instantly flared up, scoffing as he crossed his arms stubbornly over his chest. "What is it?"
"Stop sticking your nose in other people's business, Paul." He spat, spinning around to glare at him. His head was screaming at him not to do this, but he felt like he had been backed into a corner and did the only thing he could think of to protect himself and his feelings, did what he was good at - lashed out with cruel words and insults. "Jesus, can't you just realise when you're not wanted and piss off?"
Paul's hazel-green eyes flashed with hurt but were instantly replaced with anger. John's heart leapt with fear and regret. "Oh, I'm sorry for caring about you!" He shot back, taking a step forward.
"Well, maybe you shouldn't."
Stop it, his thoughts begged, but he couldn't bring himself to.
"What the hell do you mean?" Paul's brows knotted in confusion, clearly upset. "You're my mate, of course I should care about you. More than that, by now.." He added more quietly.
John's heart thudded madly in his chest, threatening to burst out of his ribcage and go after what he desperately wanted with every fibre of his being; he bit his tongue again to keep from emitting a noise of despair. Hearing those words could've made him delude himself into believing Paul loved him, but he couldn't do that to himself. He needed Paul to love him like he did him, but he knew it was all fruitless. Paul cared about him, but never as much as John wanted him to. He wouldn't be able to put himself back together if he ever confessed his love only to get an 'I don't love you back' in return.
"I don't need you to care about me." He felt his eyes stinging with unshed tears, and he tried to force them away. Lies, his mind shouted. "I just want to be alone." Another lie.
Paul shook his head, looking utterly taken aback. "What the fuck, John? What the hell is this about?"
He stormed past him; he couldn't stand this anymore. Paul didn't deserve his shitty attitude just because he was afraid. His hands shook as he grabbed his coat and shrugged it on.
"Where are you going?" Paul called after him incredulously - John caught a glance of his wounded, sorrowful expression and he winced, tears swimming in his eyes. You fucking suck, he thought bitterly to himself, dripping with venom.
"Away from you." He flung open the door and charged down the steps into the winter snow; he heard Paul scrambling after him.
"You're such a fucking prick!" He shouted after him. He could hear the hurt in his voice, even if it was masked with fury.. he could tell. "Fuck you, Lennon!"
I deserve it, he thought in frustration as his pace picked up, until he was full on running through the streets - he could feel Paul's eyes on him the whole time until he rounded the corner and disappeared out of sight. He could feel a stubborn tear slip down his cheek and he furiously wiped it away, feet stomping along the snow ridden pavement as he continued to sprint. He was running faster than he thought that he had ever run before - like he was running away from everything. His anger at himself for what he said to Paul, for his inability to keep his temper, for all his stupid fucking emotions taking over his life, for Paul taking over his life until he was all he fucking thought about..
He had no idea where he was going. He was just running and running and running, no discernible direction, just running blindly through the streets. As if he could flee from his own fears, from his love for Paul. From his fate. From himself.
When his chest was burning and his breath was shallow and harsh with all the exercise, he finally was able to recognise where he was. He stared at the gravel pathway, the snow-flecked trees absent of leaves that loomed over him, the frostbitten grass and benches that were definitely not appealing during this weather. Strawberry Fields.
A brief flash of a memory appeared in his mind; of him coming across Paul playing guitar at sunset in one of John's favourite spots at that park, playing a beautifully melancholic song that still haunted his thoughts every now and then.
"Yesterday.. All my troubles seemed so far away.." The notes were melancholic and wistful, and something John had never ever heard before. It didn't sound familiar to any song that he'd ever heard. What kind of witchcraft is this? How is this kid so fucking good at making songs?
"Now it looks as though they're here to stay.." Paul continued on, oblivious to who was watching him; "I somethin' something.. Yesterday." His singing faltered to silence and he seemed to transcend into thought, picking up his pen and twirling it in his hand. "What should I put there..?"
John decided he'd better say something or else he'd look like a creep, watching him the entire time and saying nothing.
"I think you should keep the 'something something'. Suits it pretty well." He quipped as he emerged into the open, flicking his cigarette butt to the ground and smothering it with his heel. He stopped a few metres away from Paul, who stiffened in alarm and whipped around, staring at John in shock.
"Wh- John? What the hell?" He blinked before suddenly remembering who he was talking to, gaze darkening with anger as he glared daggers at the other. "Thanks for scarin' the shite out of me, prick."
His stomach churned with regret and guilt. That was back when they still disliked each other; right after John had called him a fag, actually. Before they reconciled and became friends, ending in secret dating. God, he was such an arsehole. Why did he have to lash out and turn into a huge gobsmite when he was afraid?
He knew that, at the end of the day, the reason he'd done that to Paul all those months ago was because he'd been afraid of his feelings for him. Even if he'd had experiences with other guys before, it didn't make it any less scary. Especially when he thought that the raven-haired boy was as straight as they came, though he was proved wrong eventually. And those experiences had been just flings, really, just experimentation.. he had found that he'd wanted to have a proper relationship with Paul, wanted to be with only him, even with the limitations they had to have like any affection in public because of being queer in the 1950's. Tears blurred his vision again, and he slumped against the tree in the very same clearing and slid to the ground.
It had just become a cycle, hadn't it? He thought with a wry, humourless smile. He was afraid of his feelings for Paul again. Afraid of being in love with him. And he'd just lashed out all over again because of it, hurting the very person he loved. It was like their problems were never ending. Half of them were caused by themselves, really. By their own fears and insecurities and their fucking miscommunication! He buried his head between his knees. They were abysmally bad at it.
But he knew that Paul would be better off without him. In the end, it was for the better.. Paul deserved more than an asshole like John fucking Lennon.
A week later, New Years' had been and gone; John had spent it shut up in his room, alone and agonising over his argument with Paul, while Mimi had gone out with friends. January 1959 started off cold and bitter, since it was still winter, and John felt like it was accurate for how things were going for him at the moment. Cold and bitter.
Paul hadn't spoken a word to him since it happened. John hadn't spoken to George either, nor Ringo, though he did spend some time with Stuart at his apartment, and Cynthia at a café. They did pick up on his bad mood, though they thankfully didn't question him on it, so he was able to just pretend nothing was wrong for a few hours before it all came flooding back the moment he was alone again. He wished he could just grow a pair of damn balls and reach out to Paul in order to apologise for what happened, but he was too afraid of Paul's hurt. He knew he hurt him with his stupid brutal words that he was able to toss around so easily, knew it was all his fault, and he couldn't hide from the guilt that weighed him down to his bed like chains. And he knew that if he wanted to properly apologise, he'd have to tell him the truth behind it, and he just wasn't ready for that. He couldn't deal with the rejection, let alone the fact that he hurt Paul with what he said.
One day, around midday, Mimi called to him from downstairs; "John! Your friend is on the phone for you!"
He had frozen in the middle of meticulously cleaning his record collection, the cover scattered on the floor around him from where he sat with his back against the side of his bed. At first, he thought shit, it could be Paul, and his heart raced with fear, but when Mimi called out again, saying "it's Richard!" he almost sighed aloud in relief. He quickly got to his feet and carefully stepped around the records so as to avoid them before hurrying out of his room and down the stairs. When he reached Mimi, he took the phone with a murmur of thanks before pressing it to his ear.
"Hey, Rings." He greeted.
"John!" He could hear the smile in his best friend's voice. "Happy new years, mate."
"Yeah." He nodded, allowing himself to smile just a tad as well. It was really nice to hear his voice again after they hadn't hung out for a while. "Have any resolutions?"
"Nah. Never keep them." Ringo laughed. John joined in for a few seconds, and then they fell silent. John chewed the inside of his cheek nervously, wondering what else to say, but then Ringo spoke first. "Are you okay, John? I heard.. I heard about the row you and Paul had."
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Oh. That." He muttered.
"I don't really know what it was about, Paul wouldn't tell me or George, but.." He paused. "Are things okay with you guys? He seemed really upset."
"It's.. I dunno." He trailed off, resting his head against the wall. He didn't know whether or not to tell the truth about what was going on to Ringo. He was his best friend. He knew about him and Paul's relationship, knew everything about him, really. Should he keep this from him?
"John," Ringo began, voice gentle and coaxing. "I can tell there's something more that's bothering you." John pursed his lips, not answering. Ringo continued; "Please tell me what's going on, John. I'm here for you, you're my best mate.. I wanna help you. And Paul's my friend too, now. I don't wanna see him like this." John still didn't reply. "Please just tell me what it is." Ringo pleaded. "I want you guys to sort this out."
He was silent for a few long moments. He had to tell the truth. He needed someone to confide in, to figure out what to do in the future - he needed some comfort. He felt like he was terribly alone in the whole ordeal, and it would lift so much weight off his shoulders if he could tell someone about it. Ringo wouldn't judge him; he knew who he really was, and he was always unfailingly kind even when John was a right bastard to him for no reason.
"Come over, please." He spoke eventually. His voice was hoarse, and he cleared his throat quickly to cover it up. "I don't want to tell you over the phone."
"Be there in twenty." Ringo replied, sounding utterly relieved. John hung up. He placed the phone back on the receiver, burying his face in his hands, wondering whether this was a good idea at all. Eventually, he told himself, yes. It was a good idea. Ringo could help him through this; he could give him advice, could actually maybe fix this whole mess. John felt utterly helpless. But he knew Ringo would be there for him, no matter what. It could maybe be okay, in the end.