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"Well." Paul chuckled nervously. "That's quite the joke, eh, John?" He tried to keep his voice relaxed, cool-sounding. No need to look silly in front of John, as if it had actually frightened him for a moment, the two of them getting shoved the rest of the way in and then shut up inside.
Funny. Great card was Pete. Send John to the closet to see the new instrument his aunt had sent him as a pressie—Paul following close behind—and then shoving them in and laughing at them. "Nosy buggers," he'd said. "That'll teach you!"
Now what, Paul wondered, had that been about? It couldn't be because John had caught up what turned out to be a birthday card from a cousin, and read it in a high, funny voice, could it?
Maybe.
"Yeah. Real funny fuckin' joke," said John. His voice sounded kind of high and wobbly.
Then he was swearing and beating at the door.
Paul flinched away towards the back of the closet, tangling with someone's winter coat. It smelled of wool and mothballs. He choked and shoved it behind him.
It was too dark to see in here, but he could feel the measure of John's violence by the way the closet they were trapped inside shook. It should have been enough to give, thought Paul in a dazed sort of way.
"Johnny, he'll be back," said Paul placatingly. "Don't give them the satisfaction." There was no point to locking your friends in a closet and running away if you meant to actually leave them there, now was there? Besides, Paul was fairly sure Pete couldn't have fun if John wasn't there. He was always the life of the party.
John yelled three more insults that should've made him glad Pete's parents weren't home, though if they were, maybe he wouldn't have done this. They'd have been around to let John and Paul out, at least, and give Pete a right talking-to.
The closet felt stuffy and too warm just from how crowded it was.
John thumped a fist against the door again and let out a sound halfway between a sob and a gasp. Then he slid down to the floor.
"John," said Paul, embarrassed for him, half pleading. "It'll be all right."
"Don't look at me," said John, his voice muffled and grumpy.
"I can't, it's too dark. Hey." He shuffled awkwardly a little closer, reaching a hand out to feel for his mate. There. A soft head of hair—John had slumped to the floor and buried his head in his hands by the feel of it.
"Stop patting me," said John, sounding like he was trying to be more affronted than distressed. It was the sound of someone still upset but also trying not to laugh.
Paul sank down to a crouch beside him, their knees and thighs jostling a bit in the process.
"There now," said Paul comfortably, putting on a rather silly voice, like he'd have used to comfort a younger cousin or some other frightened little kid. He slung an arm around John's comfortably broad shoulders. "It's a bit of a prank. We can get him back later if you like. It'll work better if you don't let on you're angry."
He didn't actually feel like getting revenge in some sort of escalating prank war, but plotting it out might help Johnny blow off some steam so that he was laughing and calm by the time Pete came back to let them out. It was true they probably could break apart the closet between them if they had to, but that would cause a lot more problems than spending a few minutes cooling their heels in the dark stuffiness here.
John wasn't responding properly, though, jumping in with a torrent of revenge schemes or blustering assurances that he wasn't frightened at all, that it had just surprised him. He was just sitting there on the floor with Paul like the wind had been knocked out of his sails.
Was John a bit shaky? Paul leaned against him harder, tightening the grip around his shoulders. It was something he'd noticed. Probably everyone had noticed at some point, if they were around him much. John Lennon got really upset sometimes. Sometimes people didn't realize, and thought he was just being funny, or trying to be annoying, and they'd laugh at him. Sometimes that was all right but it could make things worse. John would get even more upset and start being mean—going on the attack because he didn't know how to go on the defence.
Paul didn't want John to think he was having a laugh at him, so he had to be careful here. It was awfully easy to hurt Johnny's feelings sometimes. He could say the worst things to other people and act like they shouldn't even mind, but sometimes the smallest thing you said to him—well. Paul was just going to be careful.
"We can work on a song if you like." He bumped his shoulder against John.
John mumbled something back that wasn't quite words. One hand suddenly groped around wildly and caught hold of Paul's knee, squeezing hard.
"Steady on, love," said Paul in a slightly camp voice, and then regretted it. If John thought he was taking the piss instead of trying to lighten the mood... "You're not really frightened of the dark, are you?"
"No," said John, loudly. And then much more quietly—"It's the dark and tight spaces."
"Oh, well, that's soon sorted." Paul hopped up, thumping himself against the door in the process and getting a mouthful of coats. He spat. "Ugh, these things are worse than hairy beasts." He set to pushing the clothing ruthlessly apart over John, so there was more room in the middle of the closet.
"Parting of the Red Sea, this is," Paul announced, trying to weave his way around John to the other side to shove the clothing a bit harder from that side. John at that moment decided to "help" by wrapping his arms around Paul's legs and holding on tightly—whether to keep him from falling or to hasten that process, Paul couldn't tell, since both eventualities seemed equally likely.
"John, stop," he said, grabbing at the walls and coats to try to stay on his feet.
"You stop. Get down here with me."
"All right, sire," said Paul, but he gave the clothing one last shove and let himself settle back down beside John. "You all right, then?"
"It's better," conceded John begrudgingly. "A bit. I'm going to punch Pete."
"Oh, now," said Paul, running his fingers up John's arm like a spider. "That's silly."
"It's not bleedin' silly. He locked me up!"
"Probably thought it would calm you down. Shows how well he knows you, don't it?" He caught John's shoulder in a tight grip, and gave him a reassuring shake. "Come on, me son," he said in a silly voice, "be brave, lad!"
Paul was smiling, he realised—a little too wide, perhaps, if John could've seen it. Only he couldn't, because it was too dark, and he didn't see so good without his glasses anyway. They were out there somewhere—by the record player, maybe? Or had he left them home today? Anyway, John couldn't see Paul's smile in the dark.
And he wasn't rejoicing at John's suffering, it wasn't anything that mean. It was just a happy feeling, of being the one who got to see John at his worst and be there for him. Take care of him, like. If it had been Pete in here with him, could he have gotten John to calm down this fast? Or any of his other friends? Granted, John hadn't exactly snapped out of it yet, but—
"I don't want to be brave," said John in a soft, miserable voice.
Paul's heart did something complicated that felt like it shouldn't be possible, rearranging itself or flip-flopping around like a fish. It would be so cosy in here like this with John, just the two of them, if only he wasn't upset.
"Well, I can be brave for both of us if you'd rather," Paul offered. He felt a bit breathless and almost lightheaded for a moment. What a thing to say! John could laugh at him for months over that if he wanted to—or he could turn it into the most beautiful song you'd ever heard. You never knew, with Johnny. He could be so mean. And he could be the sweetest, cleverest, funniest boy in the whole world. Which would it be today?
It was hard to hear from in here, but with everything so quiet for a moment, the sound of the record player reached them from downstairs, being turned up rather loud. Half-heard tunes wandered in to join them in the dark. And was that the sound of laughter, maybe some giggles and raised voices? Were John's friends possibly having a real party with the two of them still stuck up here? There would be girls down there. Girls, and maybe booze, and music, taunting them. Leaving them out.
Beside him, John let out a quiet sob. It didn't sound like the noise someone made when they were missing a party. It sounded like a frightened kid.
"There, lad," said Paul, patting and rubbing his back. "It's all right. If you're that bothered, we'll break the door apart, right, mate? I'll help you."
John didn't respond, but his arms wrapped around Paul, the angle momentarily awkward as he tried to bury his face against Paul's chest. Paul shuffled around to meet him, catching hold of him, heart pounding hard. It was a bit frightening to see Johnny like this—John, who normally didn't act afraid of anything.
In fact, sometimes he seemed to go looking for trouble. But probably not this kind.
Together, quietly, they leaned sideways until they thumped back against the door, still holding onto each other. Paul had a confused moment of hoping nobody would open the door just now, and then one of the clothing items tugged at some point by their movement, gave up and collapsed onto them off its hanger. They shoved it away.
John gave a soft huff of laughter. "Look at me. Bleedin' infant. I don't mean to be like this." But he rubbed his face against Paul, affectionate as a cat.
He was a bit like a cat, thought Paul, feeling the silly grin return. Like a cat, you had to approach him sideways, like. You couldn't push him. And you had to act like it was just natural if he came over and happened to sit beside him, not let on you knew he'd sought you out and wanted to be close. And never ever laugh when he did.
And like a cat, he could hold a grudge.
Good luck, Pete, thought Paul grimly. He patted John heartily and warmly. "There, lad!" Then he let himself run fingers lightly over and through John's hair, mussing it up. It was the sort of intimacy he couldn't have dared take any other time, but right now, he had an excuse to touch John, to be close to him.
He rather liked John's hair in a way that wasn't quite envy.
They leaned together close in the dark, breathing, resting against each other. John was still holding onto Paul like he needed him desperately. Paul let himself rest his face against the top of John's head and hummed a little, moving slowly from a wordless tone to a light tune.
John gave a hiccupy sort of laugh. "That tickles."
"Oh no, I would hate to tickle you," said Paul in a silly voice, running spider fingers up and down John's arm. This time John finally noticed.
"Get off," he scoffed, pushing Paul's hand away from his arm—but not moving to get away from him otherwise, Paul noticed.
"There, now. You're feeling better already, aren't you? Bet we could write a whole song together in the ten minutes it'll be before he's back."
"Ten minutes?" John's voice had gone small again. "You think it'll be that long?"
"Nooooo," said Paul. "Can't have a party without Johnny there, can he?"
"Dunno, he seems to be managing it. You're taking this awfully calmly," said John in rather an accusatory tone. "Had some warning, did you?"
"Of course not." He was surprised and a bit disturbed that John would think that, even for a moment. "We're in this together. I wouldn't pull a prank on you with Pete. Anyway, it would be a bit silly to end up locked in here as well."
"Just like to see me squirm, I suppose," said John, but it was a half-hearted, pouting tone now.
"How would I even know you would squirm? Thought you'd be looking down on me for getting nerves, didn't I?"
This seemed to strike John as fair, and he fell silent for the moment.
Paul wondered how much longer he could get away with hugging John like this. It felt rather transgressive and self-indulgent, and he knew it could be taken away from him at any moment, by John getting self-conscious or annoyed with him or by someone coming and opening the door. Not that that would be a bad thing. But how often did he get to have this, a moment of closeness with John, when John needed him and didn't have all his barriers up?
He'd probably be irate with Paul later, and try to act all tough and put him in his place, but for the moment—
"What's your thing, then?" said John. "If it's not heights and it's not closets and it's not spiders and it's not stage fright. You've got to have a thing. Only human, isn't it?"
"Nah, mate, I'm fearless, I am," said Paul in a clearly joking tone. Trust John to try to turn it around on him so it was Paul's fault if he didn't have something!
"Are you afraid of the water, at least?" asked John. "Come on, mate. Got to be something." And now he was on the attack, turning on Paul, digging his fingers in slyly at the ribcage to get a quick tickle in, making Paul giggle and jerk away from him, thumping his knee in the process, trying to get away but not too far.
For a few moments, they tussled lightly in the dark, John coming at him and Paul swatting him away and trying to catch his hands to stop him, and not able to stop his giggles.
"You could behave for five minutes you know," said Paul, breathing hard, as at last John stopped, though he had somehow gotten Paul onto the floor and was half lying on top of him now, breathing in his face.
"Oh, I could, I could. Where's the fun in that?" And he pushed his mouth against Paul's, covering it. For a second Paul didn't know if he'd done it on purpose, and his heart speeded up. He was going to be so angry if he thought Paul—but no. He was kissing Paul.
John.
Was kissing.
Paul.
Okay, okay. Paul thought: I know how to kiss. He tried to do it back, properly, but John had pulled back before he could more than start to respond.
"There now," said John, in a very gentle sort of voice, one hand on Paul's chest, almost lovingly. "That shut you up, didn't it?"
Paul laughed, an awkward sound that cracked halfway through. "Get off," he said, but he couldn't keep the affection out of his voice. Sometimes, John was just his favourite person in the world. Apparently, even when he kissed Paul in the dark.
He wished he could've seen John's face, see if he really meant it or if he was teasing. Paul didn't want to take it seriously if it was teasing.
Anyway, it was just a kiss, wasn't it? Not some great declaration of love and devotion.
John moved a bit and helped Paul sit up. This time his arm was around Paul's back, holding onto him tightly, as if he could keep Paul from thinking about it too hard if he just stayed near enough to him. It was his turn to do spider fingers, moving quickly up Paul's chest.
"So what's your song, then?"
"Hm?" Paul had been licking his lips, wondering what he should do, or say, or not do or not say. "What?"
"Come on, I know you've got one. What's your song you want to work on?"
Paul searched his mind. It was completely empty. Hadn't he just been humming something a moment ago? "Song? Uh. I dunno."
"Kissed it right out of you, did I?" Now John was clearly teasing—but he sounded so affectionate and proud that it made Paul grin again in the dark.
"Ought to pay you back for that," said Paul, and moved towards him.
John could've ducked it, could've headed him off, but he didn't.
It was Paul's turn to press a quick, soft kiss against John's mouth—well, partly against his mouth, partly against the corner of his face. It was hard to aim in the dark.
John hummed against him, kissing back, finding his mouth properly.
Really, it wasn't so different, was it? You couldn't see in the dark anyway. But it didn't feel like kissing a girl. It felt like kissing Johnny, with the big solid strength of him there close to Paul in the dark, and the way he smelled, and the feel of his shirt tight under Paul's grasp.
"Paul? Paul!" A voice approached, sounding annoyed. It was George. "Paul? Where are you hiding?"
John and Paul jerked apart and immediately began setting up a clamber, scrambling up and smacking at the door of the closet, yelling at George.
"In here! In here, Georgie!" shouted Paul.
There was movement, the rattle and scrape of the chair that had been shoved in front of the door, and then—it swung open, to the half-lit room, which still looked very bright all of the sudden like that.
George stood there, frowning at them. "What's wrong with you lads?"
"Oh, did that ourselves, did we?" said John, tumbling out first, giving George a light swat on the arm. "Where's Pete? I've got a thing or two to say to him!" His hair was mussed, his clothing was all in disarray, and—were his eyes a bit red?
Paul missed it already, the closeness of the dark and John, holding onto him, wanting to be near him—wanting to kiss him. Maybe it was just one of John's little games, or something to distract himself. But Paul was pretty sure he would hold that moment dear for the rest of his life.
"John," said Paul.
John stopped and turned back to him, his face getting softer somehow, like he couldn't be angry and look at Paul at the same time. "Yeh?"
Paul gulped. "Aeroplanes," he said, fumbling the word out. "I think I'm scared of flying." He had no idea if he was or not. But it wasn't like he'd ever be on a plane with John and have to say he'd lied. And who knows, maybe Paul was afraid of flying.
John's face relaxed into a grin, and he caught Paul by the sleeve. "Eh, no you're not. Not afraid of anything, are you, lovely lad?" He pulled Paul after him, and Paul caught hold of George's sleeve impulsively as they moved past.
"I'm coming, I'm coming," said George grouchily. "You don't have to drag me around just because John does it to you."
He does it to me all right, thought Paul, and a weird little laugh escaped him.
Maybe he could get Pete to lock them in the closet again sometime.
Or maybe he wouldn't need to.