Growing Up Beside You [John Lennon/Beatles Fanfiction]

39. The more the merrier (4)

Sunday 10th February 1957 (cont'd)

John wasn't dead.

Or if he was, the afterlife was mundanely similar to the life he'd been living before his organs had tried to fuck him over.

Who would've thought a glass of milk would remedy his treacherous body from overdoing it in the way that it did?
He didn't know why. Didn't know what caused it. But it no longer mattered. His stomach flittered no more. His lungs had caught their breath; and that giddy feeling which had tried to cause his demise had immediately stopped the second he'd swigged a bit of dairy juice. Perhaps he'd fortuitously discovered the antidote to terminal illness. Had he the potential to be a godsend? A healthcare tycoon? Nah, he'd let someone else publicise the life-saving benefits of full-fat milk. His destiny lay elsewhere.

From behind the kitchen doors, John could hear his mother prattling on about angels and the great-grandfather he'd never met. Weren't they bored of talking about all that spiritual shite yet? That was the thing about his mum; she always had enough words for everything. She could talk her head off to the most cultured person in existence and make them doubt their position in the highest realm of knowledge. She could hold the attention of a whole stadium if she wanted too. Then again, that wasn't hard, even without opening her mouth — she was a mesmerising woman. But right now, he needed his mother to make him a cup of tea. He could never make it as nice a she could; hers tasted like liquid gold.

With the cuff of his jumper, John swiped the milkstache from his upper lip and slipped back into living room. He was the second coming of Christ; Sir John Jesus Lennon— resurrected and renewed. A self-miracle worker. Praise be to the cows and the farmers who milk their tits.

"...And anyway Cel, they might not show themselves to ya, but they're always around." Their bodies were leaning into each other; knees touching as they seemed to transfuse their grief for a love never lost. "And more importantly in here, don't forget." Julia placed her palm against Celia's chest where her heart was beating steadily beneath it. "The most important place for them to be."

"D'ya think the angels could make me a cuppa mum? Or is that beyond their ethereal abilities?"

Both women simultaneously turned to look at John, a brief look of surprise flittered across their features as though they'd discovered that the world kept moving beyond their temporary bubble of spiritual sentimentality.

John shoved his hands in his jean pockets and smirked at his mother. He was aware of Celia's eyes upon him, but he couldn't quite bring himself to meet her gaze. Not yet. He was wary of his heart doing something it shouldn't if he were to look at her. It was weird her sitting over there, ignorant to the thoughts that had overwhelmed his mind. They were thoughts about her that he hadn't know he'd had, nor expected to bring to frontal consciousness. They were like coffee without milk; too strong. Stirring enough to give him a headache. They were better off concealed because he didn't know what would become of himself if they were to ever desert the security of his brain and vomit out of his mouth. Not a chance of that happening; he wouldn't allow them too. What good were they, anyway? He needed to wrap those sappy feelings in layers and layers clingfilm; distort them until they were no longer visible underneath the firm plastic that protected them. Tight and obscured in the back cupboard of his mind until they rotted away; or at least until he forgot about them. Which he would. Of course, he would. They were simply a temporary imprint. Like one of those crappy little tattoos that came out of the vending machine on Blackpool pier. They'd fade anyway soon enough.

Julia tutted and rolled her eyes at her son. "Alright, alright; I'm going, yer cheeky sod." She slapped her palms on her thighs and turned to Celia with a bright, toothy smile. "Tea?"