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—JOHN EXPERIENCED BLISS. He felt light, as if his body could billow with the December chill as it passes over him, flushing his cheeks a boyish shade of peony and sheathing his nose in an inclement embrace. The breeze tarries tufts of snow from the ground, decorating the yard in dancing wispy pillows of ice, and John felt an uncanny desire to dance, too. It seemed the chronology of his life had bred with such chaos only to lead him to this exact moment; only to define this moment as something worth more than he’d ever wished for.
What he was experiencing was peace, although having finally reached it, it seemed so foreign to him. John didn’t know what he’d anticipated such serenity to feel like, although the sensation was both exhilarating and relieving and he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to get up and celebrate, or remain sinking into the dense layer of snow upon his yard.
The events that occurred before this arrival of peace had been a forewarning to John, however now he could declare that they were all wrong. Even after losing his uncle, losing his mother, losing everything, there still seemed to be something to hold onto. His body was not void of all the emotions that formed a wholesome spirit, for there remained a warmth that kept him content enough to remain where he was. And while John couldn’t instantly define it either, all that mattered to him was that it was still present, that it meant he wasn’t a broken boy. He still had plenty to live for: his friends, his music, his message, and now this pure, desired moment of peace.
John now recognized that he loved peace.
He admired this momentary satisfaction, the feeling of existing in a moment defined not by surviving, but simply living. There was no fear in living as there was in surviving, nothing to constrict his lungs and force him to bite his tongue. He was experiencing both everything and nothing all at once, and it felt beautiful and magical and all things lovely.
As snowflakes glided through the air, descending to rest upon his warm pink skin, John’s cheeks ached with a need to smile in order to invite the blessedness of this moment with the altruism he now longed to restore in the world. There is a distant resonation of music playing from inside the house, and while the John only moments ago would’ve pranced inside eagerly, the John now was rather fulfilled even without being in the vicinity of others.
It was Christmas Eve and his bandmates, Paul, Pete, and George were all inside sharing a pack of beer and conversing to the tunes of Muddy Waters. He simpered with the thoughts of their happiness, with the predictions of what debate they would be having by the time he entered. Only the night before, George was bitter about John’s negligence when it came to emptying the fridge of all its expired contents. The guitarist was convinced he’d have food poisoning after eating the poor excuse for a meal John had served them, but only with Paul’s affirmations that he was fine did he decide to let it up. However, that did not stop George from now and then side-eying John whenever the latter proposed they take breaks in their recording to eat something.
Of course, John only remembered what holiday it was amidst his heedless pondering when the door had opened, causing that Christmas bell hooked onto the handle to jingle incessantly, the sound cleaving through his ears. He turned to face the porch, not phased by the snow against his cheek, especially when the beloved sight of his best friend overcame him.
Paul was leaning against the doorframe, his hands submerged within the pockets of his grey trousers, and his face as pink (if not pinker) as John’s. His doe eyes scanned the scenery, admiration fulfilling his chocolate irises at the snow-filled yard. It seemed as though the neighborhood had become a winter wonderland in only the matter of a few hours, and John experienced a strange sense of pride for having witnessed it all as it came.
He propped himself up on his elbows, watching as Paul’s gaze fixated on him, crow’s feet revealing his fondness of the scene.
“Yer goin’ to get sick,” Paul commented, and John flopped back against the ground, sliding his arms back and forth through the pillows of snow.
“Don’t be such a killjoy.” His voice was unusually small amidst the howling breeze, although Paul seemed to have a maternal sense of hearing because he simply reacted to John’s words with an arrant eye-roll.
John could feel the flakes of snow upon his hair beginning to melt against the heat of his skin. His dampening hair clung to his forehead and the sight must’ve been somewhat amusing because Paul had crinkled his nose. The distance between them diminished as the bassist finally stepped off the front porch, his height shrinking as his derbies sunk into the layers of snow. As he approached John, his grin widened, excitement now sparkling in his large, round eyes. John believed his friend looked handsome, particularly with the way his long, feminine eyelashes held onto sprinkles of snow. His posture, even, could not be discomposed by the cold as he stood with such confidence. John believed he could always look to Paul because Paul was always self-assured, readied, at peace with whatever came and whatever went.
His presence alone was enough to alleviate the troubles wearing down on John.
“Not too bad out ‘ere, no?” John looked up at Paul, scrutinizing the contented expression on the younger boy’s face. Even with that age difference, John couldn’t deny the notion that Paul would always be much more mature than him, for the latter had already understood the life he wanted for himself. John was still growing up.
Paul shakes his head, inhaling the brisk air as it enveloped him. “Not at all, really. But George made us some hot chocolate and I wanted to bring you in before it becomes... cold chocolate, I suppose.”
John heaved a sigh, a faint puncture stabbing at his lungs from his former prolonged immobility. As he hoisted himself up, he elongated his arms for balance. Except he wasn’t aware that the balance in his life was Paul McCartney, who’d taken his hand as though it were offered and helped pull him from the thick snow.
“Yer’ll always be here for me, won’t you?” John asks, the casual tone of which the words were emitted derailing Paul’s understanding of the question.
“Sure John, at least until the snow melts,” he laughs.
“At least until the troubles escape?” John presses, and he knows Paul isn’t so sure of what he’s agreeing to. Though in spite of whatever came out of the boy’s mouth, John felt inclined to trust him.
“Perhaps even after,” he lulls in a voice tinged with amusement. “Yer always gonna be there for me too, yeah?”
“Depends!” John exhaled loudly, his fogged breath dancing with the breeze. “As long as yer around, I’ll be fine.”
“And what if something happens between us? What if I’m not always around?”
“Then I’m not fine, of course!”
And John laughs because he doesn’t know just how much those words scare a grown, expectant Paul.