Growing Up Beside You [John Lennon/Beatles Fanfiction]

40. The more the merrier (5)

Sunday 10th February (cont'd)

"Fancy another cuppa?"

Celia stared at John in astonishment, momentarily lost for words. She'd expected something to stutter out of his gob but not that. John's mouth had been idiotically flapping open and closed for two minutes like a fish on dry land and he managed to form those three words out of it. Funny how he'd been so intent on rejecting her company moments before he sent those books flying to the floor, and now he was after more of it.

Celia tilted her head to the side, a teasing smile playing at the corner of her lips. "Is that your roundabout way of asking me to stay, Lennon?"

A pink blush suddenly blemished the middle of John's cheeks. His gaze dropped to the dining table and he started fingering the small crack wedged inside of the wood. His sheepishness was out of character, and Celia wickedly enjoyed pushing it into the spotlight. Besides, it was quite endearing seeing him like that. Quite.

"I don't.." John's voice was hoarse, like a clump of dust was lodged inside his larynx. He cleared his throat and tried again, the taste of dishonesty rolling off of his tongue.

"No, I—you—I mean, me mum wouldn't want you to leave yet, y'know? She's...she's, well you can't break her heart on a Sunday, can ya? It's ungodly."

Ah, so that's how he's playing it, is it? Shielding behind other people.

"And what about your heart?" Celia questioned, in a moment of boldness. She was sitting on the ground now, palms spread out behind her on the carpet.

Celia wasn't daft. She knew John had been trying to tell her something else. Not an apology as such, but something more sincere, words pumped straight from the heart. He'd bottled it all up— she could tell by the slight grief etched into his face that whatever it was he wanted to say to her was suffocating his mind. John had looked as though he were duelling with his own emotions; like his brain was forcing him to contradict his heart to shelter his pride, or whatever it was he was afflicted by. His true words were clotted deep in his chest, nesting inbetween his courage and insecurities that weren't hers to interfere with. In his own time, he would clamber through it. Be more effusive with his own sentiment through some form of articulate expression. Perhaps even open up to Celia at some point, but for now, though, she'd rather tease him about his evasiveness. It's the very least he deserved.

The rain was picking up a bit now. It had stopped briefly but decided Liverpool's pavements weren't damp enough. Celia could hear its heavy pitter-patter from behind the curtain, like little fingertips drumming on the windowpane. It was miserable out there. Miserable, wet and windy, and Celia didn't quite fancy the thirty-minute walk home, drenched and shivering. Another tea would tie her over for a while, warm her insides up. Just until the rain settled, or at least until she had to make that cold, dreary run to the bus stop in half an hour or so. It had nothing to do with John. The company of his mother and sisters were much preferred, yet, her heart beat with the heaviness of a drum at the thought of John wanting her to stay.

Celia glanced up at John. He was awfully quiet. For all his bravado, he seemed to have lost his tongue. He was still messing about with that indent in the table, his eyes seemingly too shy to meet hers. Celia curiously monitored Lennon's expression, hoping an answer lay within it.  He was nibbling his bottom lip, a frown marring his forehead like the pensive thoughts happening behind it was giving him a headache.

"My heart's made of stone," John muttered. "Medusa's  work, that."

Celia smiled at him. "I think Medusa might've deceived you, John."

For the first time in ages, John looked at her. His face had smoothed over, that hard, conflicted look gone, and his brown eyes were twinkling with amusement. "What's yours made out of then?" he asked. "Goblin bogeys?"