Growing Up Beside You [John Lennon/Beatles Fanfiction]

23. Calm down, potty mouth

Celia awoke in the same place she'd fallen asleep: John Lennon's bedroom, on top of John Lennon's duvet. She wasn't quite aware of that yet, though. It was only several seconds later when Celia noticed a rather gorgeous poster of Elvis tacked against peach coloured walls that she wasn't quite where she thought she was. Her sleep soon faded away as reality washed over her: These aren't her walls. This isn't her blanket. And this most definitely is not her bedroom.

Celia shot up from her sleeping position and suddenly yelped, slapping her palm to her forehead. It's as if someone had scooped out her brain and replaced it with a hand grenade. She was more aware of the throbbing pain in her temples than the layer of dehydrated saliva that coated her cracked lips.

Celia had been drinking—she knew that much.

Her ears awoke, just as her eyes did and she heard the light snoring of someone not too far from the bed she was in. Realisation flooded over her as she figured who those snores belonged to.

Please, no.

Celia's head turned like a clockwork doll—stiff and slow. A gasp caught in her throat, the body slouched in the chair opposite her confirming what she hoped wasn't true.

He lay still as a brick. The only movement was the steady rise and fall of his chest. Celia propped herself onto her elbows and stared at the sleeping boy who's bedroom she'd rashly fallen asleep in. Lennon's legs were stretched out in front of him, his head drooping onto his shoulder and his arms loosely folded across his stomach.

Celia wondered how long he'd been like that. He can't have been comfortable falling asleep in that position. She spotted a book resting on his lap too.

Did John watch me fall asleep? She certainly hoped not. That would be just as bad as him being in bed with her. Oh, god. A terrible thought grew over Celia, the kind that made her sneak a look at herself under the thick, warm blanket. She breathed a sigh of relief. Fully clothed—thank God. She felt ashamed of herself, then, for being so totally sloshed that she couldn't even remember something as consequential as taking her clothes off and fooling around with John. Consented or not, nothing could be worse than that. Celia felt a little sick just thinking about it, though of course the nauseous feeling was made worse by the fact she'd been heavily drinking on an empty stomach.

It was dark outside still. There was no glow behind the curtains; no sun rays trying to pass through. That was a good sign. Celia prayed it wasn't any later than midnight, though she'd be in trouble regardless of what time it was. She glanced at her watch and could just make out the time from the little bit of lamplight provided on the desk opposite her. Nine Twenty-Five. That wasn't too bad. Her mother wouldn't've gone berzerk and called the police just yet. Her mother was very much the type to do so— her older sister, Marri being the reason for it, quite a number of times in fact. Celia could just say she got a little too carried away chatting around a friend's house and hadn't realised the time. A crap excuse, but it could work.

She looked over at John. Perhaps it's better if she left without waking him up. If Celia slipped out, she could pretend she'd never stayed there in the first place and right now, she desperately wanted to get the hell out.

Celia swung her legs off of the bed only to discover she was missing both her socks. She wiggled her small, naked toes as she stared down at her feet. Where the bloody hell were they? And where were her shoes? They weren't lying beside the bed like she expected them to be. Careful not to make too much noise, Celia crawled across the duvet to the opposite end of the bed. She had her eyes fixed on John, praying that the creaks of the bed wouldn't cause his eyelids to open.

She was close to John now, so close that if she stretched her arm out to her left, she'd be touching him. Celia stopped moving and took a good look at John. He looked sort of angelic as he lay there peacefully with the light from his lamp illuminating his face. It was hard to imagine this was the same brash boy who threw around insults like confetti, terrorised his teachers and tormented his rivals. His usually hardened features were much softer in his sleep like the tender skin of a rose petal, and he made gentle snuffling noises as he breathed from those tiny parted lips of his.