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It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence for John to come banging on Paul’s window in the middle of the night. In fact, it was a very common occurrence, especially after Julia passed. So, when Paul awoke to the sound of pebbles hitting his rain-pattered window, he couldn’t even feign annoyance.
Climbing up wasn’t a possibility, Paul would have to tip-toe downstairs and let the other boy in. Though he knew who it was, he peered out the window just in case, and saw the unmistakable figure of John Lennon, soaking wet and likely drunk. Sighing, Paul noticed that John saw him by the change in his expression (despite his extreme nearsightedness), and he headed downstairs. It almost felt like having to let a dog back inside.
Quickly, but carefully, Paul headed downstairs, carefully opening the front door. Now, finally face-to-face with the wet dog himself, he had to stifle a laugh. It was raining harder than he had realized, and he quickly ushered the boy in, hoping the sound of rain wasn’t loud enough to wake Jim or Mike. John didn’t necessarily seem drunk, but something was definitely off. His movements were sluggish, his expression distant. Paul didn’t say anything, saving his words for his bedroom. He grabbed John’s freckled arm and practically dragged him upstairs.
Entering his room, he frowned at John. “You have to stop doing this, you know. If my dad catches us, we’re both dead.”
John didn’t say anything, only sniffled. Paul headed over to his dresser, grabbing a change of clothes for John. A polyester shirt, clean slacks, and a pair of boxers. Paul blushed as he picked them up, hoping John could refrain from making queer jokes for once. Then again, he was awfully quiet, so he probably would.
“Here you are.” Paul said simply, handing him the clothes and sitting back down on his bed, smoothing out the covers and grabbing a cigarette from his pack. He lit it, looking away as John slowly removed his soaked trousers, his back to Paul.
Despite his best efforts to not, Paul couldn’t help but watch John. He was shaking like mad, and the auburn hairs coating his legs were sticking up and covered in goosebumps. Grunting softly, he peeled his now see-through shirt off, and wrapped an arm around his stomach for a moment as he picked up Paul’s. He tugged it over his head, and Paul quickly looked away.
“Ta.” John mumbled as he trudged over to the bed, voice hoarse and more nasal than usual. Paul furrowed a brow at that, but said nothing. John sat down next to him, wrapping his arms around himself again and sniffling.
Hesitating, Paul looked him up and down and finally placed a hand on John’s forehead. He figured he could easily pass it off as a joke if needed. Unsurprisingly, John was hot to the touch.
“Got the lurgy?” Paul asked, keeping his hand there as John seemed to lean into the touch.
John nodded, closing his eyes painfully. His cheeks were flushed, from either fever or embarrassment (likely both), and he truly looked unwell. Paul couldn’t imagine why John would want to be here when ill, Mendips was an overall warm, cozy home. Sure, Mimi was overbearing, but Paul figured that he’d rather be there if he was unwell. She was a great cook, after all. It made him miss his own mother, sometimes.
Paul moved his hand from John’s forehead to his back, giving him a few awkward pats before he sat up, putting the cigarette out absentmindedly. John’s eyes snapped open, and he got this sort-of panicked look in his eyes. “Macca,” He rasped, and Paul turned around, confused. “Stay, please.”
“I was just gonna get you a cold rag, you’ve got a fever.”
“Don’ need it. Stay,” John practically begged, as if Paul were literally abandoning him (it was his bloody house, for god’s sake!). His face flushed even more, clearly embarrassed by his childish plea. “Please, Paul.”
Biting his lip, he nodded, heading back over to the bed. “D’ya need anything, then?”
“No,” John mumbled, refusing to look the younger boy in the eye. His face was burning hot, and his eyes stung with tears he didn’t dare to let fall. He felt so stupid, he was just shy of eighteen and felt no older than eight. “Sorry.”
“It’s alright,” Paul assured quickly, “You don’t feel well, is all. No big deal.”
John eyed him hastily, then went back to staring at his shaky hands. “Should go home.”
“It’s pourin’, stay for now.” Paul stated, rather than suggested. A loud roar of thunder came crashing outside and John flinched, then cringed inwardly, curling in on himself more. Paul frowned, genuinely pitying the older boy, though it was hard to express for a myriad of reasons. “I don’t mind, really. Why did you come?”
With another sniffle, John’s eyes met his again. Half-lidded, unfocused, and deep brown. “Dunno. Mimi’s been givin’ me shit and,” He inhaled shakily, “Just didn’t wanna be there. Everythin’s too much right now.”
“Makes sense,” Paul remarked, attempting to make his voice soothing to John. No one ever vocalized it, but everyone knew that John was extremely sensitive. Not like a girl or a queer; he just felt things deeply, very deeply. It was easy to make him angry, and his anger very quickly rose to rage. Not only that, but he was easily affected by words that others didn’t think about. He took everything as an attack, and built up walls so tall that nobody could see past them. Despite that, Paul had been getting through them lately. Maybe it was a trust thing, or maybe it was just that John was too beat to care. Either way, Paul was glad. He noticed that John’s auburn curls were still sopping wet, and looked around his room for a spare towel. There were some in the hallway linen closet, but he didn’t want to upset John. “How about we dry off your hair, yeah? You’re dripping everywhere, that can’t be good.”
“Stay,” John repeated, his voice desperate and hoarse. “Don’ care about my hair.”
“It’ll just make you more ill, John. Here, you can come with me to get a towel.” He offered, but John’s crestfallen expression was steadfast, he didn’t move. Exasperated, Paul sighed, “I’ll just use my shirt, then. Okay?”
John didn’t process Paul’s words at all, and Paul held back a smirk as John’s sleepy eyes widened slightly at the sight of Paul removing his own shirt. He could’ve protested, but didn’t, and Paul began to dry his hair with the soft cotton. He let his eyes close as Paul got closer, and he could feel the heat radiating off of Paul’s bare chest. This would stay between them, it had to.
“There,” Paul mumbled, blushing a bit, himself. He didn’t bother grabbing a new shirt, having already lent one to John, and laid down on his back. “Come, John.” He patted the space next to him, and the older boy, too exhausted to worry about shame and society, nodded, laying down next to him.
They weren’t touching, but easily could be. John’s eyes fluttered closed, though he hadn’t yet fallen asleep, and Paul watched him intently. Then, John’s face twisted up a bit, and he turned away from Paul, coughing harshly into his elbow, though he still made an effort to keep quiet. Paul was slightly paranoid about his door being unlocked, but he had gotten to the age where nobody barged in anymore, so he hoped it would be okay. This would be pretty hard to explain to others.
John groaned softly when the coughing fit ended, and he turned back to face Paul. He bit his cheek, not saying anything to the younger, but studying him like one of the models in art school. His eyes kept fluttering shut, though, for some odd reason, he kept trying to stay awake.
“G’night, Johnny.” He whispered.
“Night.”