St. Peter's Church

7

"Okay, so when there's absolutely no teachers around, we make a run for it," said John.

Paul shook his head again.

"Come on, Paul," whined John, "I do this kind of thing all the time."

"This really isn't right, John, and you know it," Paul scolded lightly, afraid to upset John.

"Please?" John pleaded, "It won't hurt to do it just once."

Paul rolled his eyes. "This better be the only time, or I'll be right pissed."

John smirked, grabbing Paul by the arm and pulling him near the doorway, poking his head out to check if anyone was around.

The hallways were mostly silent and empty; most students had gone to their classes, and teachers were nowhere to be seen.

"Alright, come on," whispered John, beckoning Paul to follow him as they went out into the hall, cautious at first, until John started sprinting and opened the double doors quickly.

Paul followed closely behind, keeping the same pace as him and quickly exiting the building.

He could feel his heart racing and his hands shaking, and a cold, clammy sweat covering most of his body.

As much as he was afraid to admit it, he kind of liked the feeling.

There was something that felt good about doing things he knew he wasn't supposed to.

"We need to be careful on the way home; me aunt Mimi is very strict on me," said John as the pair walked down the sidewalk.

"What if we get caught?" Paul asked, still anxious. "We'll be fine. No one's going to care," John answered.

They walked on for a while, and the further they went, the less anxious Paul became. It was only when they actually got to John's home that the anxiety came bubbling back.

John could tell from Paul's eyes how this affected him. Poor thing, he thought to himself, he's never done anything like this before.

John climbed up the side of the house, and Paul watched him with wide eyes.

"Well? Do you want to come up here or not?"

Paul snapped out of his trance and began climbing up, grabbing onto John's hand when he was close enough.

John helped Paul into his room, careful with his body like he was a new girl he brought into his room.

He turned the light on and plopped onto his bed, taking a deep breath in and out. Paul stood by the window in a bit of a frozen state, still a bit shocked by what they just did.

"Well, Paul, don't be bashful. Make yourself at home."

Paul relaxed and took a seat on John's bed, leaning onto the wall. "Have you not got an uncle? Where is he?"

John's expression went slightly flat. "He passed a few months ago," he said lowly.

Paul frowned. "Oh, John, I'm sorry to hear that."

"No, It's fine, it's fine; I've been managing."

"I understand how you feel," Paul started, "My mother died when I was 14. She had cancer."

"Holy shit, I didn't realize," responded John, "how have you been keeping up like this? What do you do to distract yourself?"

"My dad gave me the guitar in my room that you saw shortly after she passed. I started playing it all the time, and basically became addicted after a while," answered Paul with a sweet laugh.

John smiled. "You should bring it by here sometime. We could play together, I've got one of my own," he said, gesturing to the space under his bed.

"I'll be sure to. I think we'd have fun," Paul said, genuinely. He could feel a strange connection with John that he couldn't explain, but wish that he could put it into words that would make sense.

"Do you like Elvis?" John asked. "Hell yeah. He's amazing," Paul answered. "More than amazing," commented John, "He's all I ever talk about, to be honest."

They talked for hours, telling each other stories and talking about the little things in life, getting to know each other.

"Wow, John, if I'm being honest, I never saw us having so much in common."

"Me either. I guess we was wrong though, yeah?"

Paul was a normally enthusiastic, optimistic, and extraverted person, so connecting to John was already easy, but it was even easier when they had so much middle ground.

"John! Dinner!" yelled a voice from downstairs. "Wow, that much time has passed?" John said aloud, "Hold on, I'll be right back."

Paul sat in John's room alone for a couple of minutes, observing his bedroom. something in particular caught his interest, and it appeared to be a notebook sitting on his desk.

Upon further inspection, it was about halfway full of nothing but songs that John had written. He flipped through, impressed with what John could write.

The door opened unexpectedly and he quickly shut the book and put it down. "Found my songs, did ye?" John asked, carrying a plate of food to his bed. "Sorry, I didn't mean to snoop, I just found it on your desk and it looked interesting."

"No, It's fine," John responded, "I don't write them just to keep to myself. Now come over here, eat some of this. I got extra so you could eat."

Paul appreciated the sweet gesture and went to sit down beside him, eating with him. "I got some whiskey, if you want some to drink while we eat," said John. "Sure," Paul answered.

John pulled out a flask from his bedside table, popping the cap off and sniffing it. "Yeah, this is the good stuff. We can have about half of it, or else we'll get shitfaced."

Paul let out a laugh, having a great feeling that tonight was going to be good.