Fic: Don't You Know, It's Gonna Be Alright (Part 2)
Title: Don’t You Know, It’s Gonna Be Alright (Part 2)
Pairing: John/Paul
Rating: PG-13, I guess, but only because of a little swearing. And a lot of sad.
Warnings: Angst, boy-on-boy cuddling, snotty teenagers, boys-in-pain.
Summary: “He tiptoed over to the bed and sat down next to John. He hated to wake him, but he knew letting him sleep longer wouldn’t make the reality he was avoiding go away.”
Disclaimer: I don’t know how to make it any clearer to you people that this is FICTION. I own nothing, I own no one. I am a geek on the internet, nothing more.
A/N: Well, I wrote the first part of this about a year ago, intending for it to be a one-shot, but it got such a good response when I joined JHP and posted it again there, that I decided to continue it. You can read the first chapter here, because you almost certainly don’t remember reading it by now: miss-lizzy777.livejournal.com/892.html#cutid1 Oh! Also, if you find any typos, please tell me, I'm posting this WAY late at night and I probably missed something.
It must be Saturday. Paul knew this because he was drifting gently from his sleep, rather than being ripped out of it by a harsh alarm bell. He felt heavy and warm under his blankets. Heavier and warmer than usual, actually. He also felt… well, stiff. As though he hadn’t moved in a year. He tried to stretch, and suddenly he realized why he felt so heavy.
“Johnny?” he whispered. John didn’t move. Paul frowned at the tearstains that painted his friend’s face for a moment before recalling the previous night. His eyes slipped shut with empathetic pain. He was kind of hoping the vague memories he had of John weeping in his arms were some kind of bizarre dream, but apparently, they were all too real.
Paul didn’t want to leave John, but his bladder had other ideas. He wasn’t worried about waking John in the process of escaping; John could’ve easily slept through the rapture and woken up groggy and confused as to where everyone was and why giant fireballs were falling from the sky. What worried him was the possibility that John would wake up on his own while Paul was gone. For some reason, Paul just didn’t want John to wake up and face the reality of today alone.
He glanced at the clock. 10:00 in the morning. He’d better chance it and go get some tea and toast for the two of them before Mike inhaled it all himself.
After relieving himself, washing the sleep out of his eyes, and putting on a ratty pair of jeans and a t-shirt, he tiptoed down the stairs, avoiding the creaky one out of habit. He padded into the kitchen.
“’Mornin’,” he nodded, greeting his father and brother.
“’Mornin?’ That’s all you have to say for yourself?” Jim asked incredulously.
Paul paused, frowning. “Is… there something else I should have to say for myself?”
Jim looked even more upset. “Well, I should hope you’d have something to say about your behavior last night, Paul.”
“What behavior?”
“You’re kidding, right?” Mike mumbled through a mouthful of toast.
“Paul, I don’t appreciate you talking to me the way you did. I expect an apology.”
Recognition dawned on Paul’s face as he gathered up some breakfast. “Oh, is that all.”
“Is that all? I’m your father; I’ll not have you talking like that under my roof!”
Paul felt a sudden surge of extreme annoyance. Normally, he was fairly obedient of his father’s wishes in everything, but he simply had no patience for something this trivial right now. He set a stony gaze on his father.
“John’s okay, by the way. In case you were wonderin’. I mean, I thought you might be worried about him or somethin’ since his mother just got hit by a car and died, you know, yesterday. But I guess if your main concern is my bad language, then, sorry I said ‘fuck’.”
Paul gave his speechless father a last distasteful look before carrying the tray out of the kitchen and up to his bedroom. He knew he’d catch hell for that little display later, but he had other things to concern himself with at the moment.
He crept silently into his bedroom, navigating carefully around the boards that squeaked and bent under his feet, and set the tray down on the table next to his bed. He closed the door quietly, pausing before deciding to lock it. He didn’t want Jim barging in demanding… well, anything, really.
He leaned back against the door and stared at his sleeping friend. He stirred slightly in his sleep, turning to face Paul. His eyelashes fluttered slightly, but didn’t open. Paul stood there, transfixed. John always looked so bloody angelic when he was asleep. Especially now, with the morning sun dusting his cheeks and his auburn hair rumpled and falling down over his forehead. He was… beautiful.
Paul blushed at his thoughts. God, when did he start sounding like such a ponce, anyway? Jesus. Pull yourself together, McCartney, you’ve got a lot of shit to deal with today.
He tiptoed over to the bed and sat down next to John. He hated to wake him, but he knew letting him sleep longer wouldn’t make the reality he was avoiding go away. Besides, their breakfast would get cold.
Paul sighed, gently shaking John’s shoulder. “Johnny, wake up.”
John stirred a bit, but didn’t wake up. Paul tried again.
“John, I brought you some tea and toast. Wake up, love.”
Love? When did he start calling his mates “love?” Christ, he hated himself sometimes.
John still wasn’t awake.
“John, come on,” Paul sighed, shaking a little harder.
“Hmmm… Paulie?” John mumbled.
“Wake up sleeping beauty.” Paul smiled softly. “Brought you a cuppa and some toast.”
John’s eyes opened slowly. He looked around the room, confused for a moment, before a sickening look crossed his face.
“Oh…” he practically whined.
Paul’s heart sank. “Come on. Eat something.”
John ignored him, burying his face into the pillow. Paul felt sick looking at him.
“John-“
“It’s all real, isn’t it? Oh God. I thought I dreamed it up.” John shook his head, pure pain on his face. “She’s really dead, isn’t she?”
Without thinking, Paul ran his fingers gently through John’s hair. It was softer than he’d remembered. “Yeah, ‘fraid so,” he whispered.
John lay still for a moment, staring at nothing, his face blank and tired.
“Here. Drink yer tea before it cools off,” Paul pushed him softly.
John’s eyes turned to meet his. He nodded dumbly and sat up. Something about Paul’s voice always made John so much more obedient than he normally was. Paul poured a cup of tea and handed it to him with a slice of toast.
“Mimi cuts the toast across,” John observed. “You cut it diagonal-like.”
“Yeah, always have,” Paul said, pouring himself a cup as well.
“Mum always said that cross-ways was for stuffy people. Suits Mimi, I suppose, cutting it that way.”
Paul shrugged. “’Spose. My mum always cut it this way, so that’s how I cut it.”
John paused. “I wish I met yer mum.”
Paul smiled sadly, his heart squeezing tightly at the thought. Paul liked to think that Mary would have loved John with all her heart, the way he did, but he knew she probably wouldn’t have trusted him any more than his father di-
Mary loving John “the way he did?” Christ. His subconscious was getting more fairy-like by the second.
“I wish you’d met her too.”
John looked pensive for a moment. Paul could see the gears cranking in John’s head. A bitter smile crossed his face.
“You and I are the same now, eh?”
“How do you mean?” Paul asked, confused.
“I’m the kid with no mum now, too.” John looked even bitterer. “Guess I always was anyway.”
Paul paused for a moment before setting his gnawed toast and half-drunk tea aside. He stared at John’s face for a moment.
“What?” John asked, almost fearfully.
Paul rearranged himself on the bed so that he was sitting next to John, back against the wall.
“What are you doing?”
Paul answered silently, wrapping his arms tightly around his now-shivering friend.
John suddenly let out a sob. A deep, heart wrenching sob that Paul felt traveling to his very core.
“It’s alright. Johnny, love, it’s alright. You’ll be okay, we’ll be okay,” he chanted, rocking John back and forth as tears gathered in his own eyes.
The two boys sat together, crying deeply in each other’s arms, without a touch of shame, but still inside an all-consuming pool of sorrow.
“Please…” John stammered, “Please, Paulie, don’t leave me alone.”
“No, never.”
“Please stay here.”
“Of course, baby.”
John sobbed. “Don’t leave me ever. Promise we’ll always be friends?”
“Yes, yes. Always, Johnny,” Paul replied, tears making his voice wobble and creak. “Couldn’t leave you… need you.”
Neither boy felt embarrassment or fear at their words, too afraid to lose the life-giving force that the other seemed to provide.
“You’ve always got me, no matter what, yeah?” Paul whispered tearfully.
John nodded violently. “Need you, love you…” he clung to Paul’s body tightly.
For some reason he couldn’t explain, Paul’s heart jumped to his throat at John’s words.
Need you.
Love you.
LOVE you.
I love you too, John.
Pairing: John/Paul
Rating: PG-13, I guess, but only because of a little swearing. And a lot of sad.
Warnings: Angst, boy-on-boy cuddling, snotty teenagers, boys-in-pain.
Summary: “He tiptoed over to the bed and sat down next to John. He hated to wake him, but he knew letting him sleep longer wouldn’t make the reality he was avoiding go away.”
Disclaimer: I don’t know how to make it any clearer to you people that this is FICTION. I own nothing, I own no one. I am a geek on the internet, nothing more.
A/N: Well, I wrote the first part of this about a year ago, intending for it to be a one-shot, but it got such a good response when I joined JHP and posted it again there, that I decided to continue it. You can read the first chapter here, because you almost certainly don’t remember reading it by now: miss-lizzy777.livejournal.com/892.html#cutid1 Oh! Also, if you find any typos, please tell me, I'm posting this WAY late at night and I probably missed something.
It must be Saturday. Paul knew this because he was drifting gently from his sleep, rather than being ripped out of it by a harsh alarm bell. He felt heavy and warm under his blankets. Heavier and warmer than usual, actually. He also felt… well, stiff. As though he hadn’t moved in a year. He tried to stretch, and suddenly he realized why he felt so heavy.
“Johnny?” he whispered. John didn’t move. Paul frowned at the tearstains that painted his friend’s face for a moment before recalling the previous night. His eyes slipped shut with empathetic pain. He was kind of hoping the vague memories he had of John weeping in his arms were some kind of bizarre dream, but apparently, they were all too real.
Paul didn’t want to leave John, but his bladder had other ideas. He wasn’t worried about waking John in the process of escaping; John could’ve easily slept through the rapture and woken up groggy and confused as to where everyone was and why giant fireballs were falling from the sky. What worried him was the possibility that John would wake up on his own while Paul was gone. For some reason, Paul just didn’t want John to wake up and face the reality of today alone.
He glanced at the clock. 10:00 in the morning. He’d better chance it and go get some tea and toast for the two of them before Mike inhaled it all himself.
After relieving himself, washing the sleep out of his eyes, and putting on a ratty pair of jeans and a t-shirt, he tiptoed down the stairs, avoiding the creaky one out of habit. He padded into the kitchen.
“’Mornin’,” he nodded, greeting his father and brother.
“’Mornin?’ That’s all you have to say for yourself?” Jim asked incredulously.
Paul paused, frowning. “Is… there something else I should have to say for myself?”
Jim looked even more upset. “Well, I should hope you’d have something to say about your behavior last night, Paul.”
“What behavior?”
“You’re kidding, right?” Mike mumbled through a mouthful of toast.
“Paul, I don’t appreciate you talking to me the way you did. I expect an apology.”
Recognition dawned on Paul’s face as he gathered up some breakfast. “Oh, is that all.”
“Is that all? I’m your father; I’ll not have you talking like that under my roof!”
Paul felt a sudden surge of extreme annoyance. Normally, he was fairly obedient of his father’s wishes in everything, but he simply had no patience for something this trivial right now. He set a stony gaze on his father.
“John’s okay, by the way. In case you were wonderin’. I mean, I thought you might be worried about him or somethin’ since his mother just got hit by a car and died, you know, yesterday. But I guess if your main concern is my bad language, then, sorry I said ‘fuck’.”
Paul gave his speechless father a last distasteful look before carrying the tray out of the kitchen and up to his bedroom. He knew he’d catch hell for that little display later, but he had other things to concern himself with at the moment.
He crept silently into his bedroom, navigating carefully around the boards that squeaked and bent under his feet, and set the tray down on the table next to his bed. He closed the door quietly, pausing before deciding to lock it. He didn’t want Jim barging in demanding… well, anything, really.
He leaned back against the door and stared at his sleeping friend. He stirred slightly in his sleep, turning to face Paul. His eyelashes fluttered slightly, but didn’t open. Paul stood there, transfixed. John always looked so bloody angelic when he was asleep. Especially now, with the morning sun dusting his cheeks and his auburn hair rumpled and falling down over his forehead. He was… beautiful.
Paul blushed at his thoughts. God, when did he start sounding like such a ponce, anyway? Jesus. Pull yourself together, McCartney, you’ve got a lot of shit to deal with today.
He tiptoed over to the bed and sat down next to John. He hated to wake him, but he knew letting him sleep longer wouldn’t make the reality he was avoiding go away. Besides, their breakfast would get cold.
Paul sighed, gently shaking John’s shoulder. “Johnny, wake up.”
John stirred a bit, but didn’t wake up. Paul tried again.
“John, I brought you some tea and toast. Wake up, love.”
Love? When did he start calling his mates “love?” Christ, he hated himself sometimes.
John still wasn’t awake.
“John, come on,” Paul sighed, shaking a little harder.
“Hmmm… Paulie?” John mumbled.
“Wake up sleeping beauty.” Paul smiled softly. “Brought you a cuppa and some toast.”
John’s eyes opened slowly. He looked around the room, confused for a moment, before a sickening look crossed his face.
“Oh…” he practically whined.
Paul’s heart sank. “Come on. Eat something.”
John ignored him, burying his face into the pillow. Paul felt sick looking at him.
“John-“
“It’s all real, isn’t it? Oh God. I thought I dreamed it up.” John shook his head, pure pain on his face. “She’s really dead, isn’t she?”
Without thinking, Paul ran his fingers gently through John’s hair. It was softer than he’d remembered. “Yeah, ‘fraid so,” he whispered.
John lay still for a moment, staring at nothing, his face blank and tired.
“Here. Drink yer tea before it cools off,” Paul pushed him softly.
John’s eyes turned to meet his. He nodded dumbly and sat up. Something about Paul’s voice always made John so much more obedient than he normally was. Paul poured a cup of tea and handed it to him with a slice of toast.
“Mimi cuts the toast across,” John observed. “You cut it diagonal-like.”
“Yeah, always have,” Paul said, pouring himself a cup as well.
“Mum always said that cross-ways was for stuffy people. Suits Mimi, I suppose, cutting it that way.”
Paul shrugged. “’Spose. My mum always cut it this way, so that’s how I cut it.”
John paused. “I wish I met yer mum.”
Paul smiled sadly, his heart squeezing tightly at the thought. Paul liked to think that Mary would have loved John with all her heart, the way he did, but he knew she probably wouldn’t have trusted him any more than his father di-
Mary loving John “the way he did?” Christ. His subconscious was getting more fairy-like by the second.
“I wish you’d met her too.”
John looked pensive for a moment. Paul could see the gears cranking in John’s head. A bitter smile crossed his face.
“You and I are the same now, eh?”
“How do you mean?” Paul asked, confused.
“I’m the kid with no mum now, too.” John looked even bitterer. “Guess I always was anyway.”
Paul paused for a moment before setting his gnawed toast and half-drunk tea aside. He stared at John’s face for a moment.
“What?” John asked, almost fearfully.
Paul rearranged himself on the bed so that he was sitting next to John, back against the wall.
“What are you doing?”
Paul answered silently, wrapping his arms tightly around his now-shivering friend.
John suddenly let out a sob. A deep, heart wrenching sob that Paul felt traveling to his very core.
“It’s alright. Johnny, love, it’s alright. You’ll be okay, we’ll be okay,” he chanted, rocking John back and forth as tears gathered in his own eyes.
The two boys sat together, crying deeply in each other’s arms, without a touch of shame, but still inside an all-consuming pool of sorrow.
“Please…” John stammered, “Please, Paulie, don’t leave me alone.”
“No, never.”
“Please stay here.”
“Of course, baby.”
John sobbed. “Don’t leave me ever. Promise we’ll always be friends?”
“Yes, yes. Always, Johnny,” Paul replied, tears making his voice wobble and creak. “Couldn’t leave you… need you.”
Neither boy felt embarrassment or fear at their words, too afraid to lose the life-giving force that the other seemed to provide.
“You’ve always got me, no matter what, yeah?” Paul whispered tearfully.
John nodded violently. “Need you, love you…” he clung to Paul’s body tightly.
For some reason he couldn’t explain, Paul’s heart jumped to his throat at John’s words.
Need you.
Love you.
LOVE you.
I love you too, John.