𝑻𝑨𝑺𝑻𝑬 𝑶𝑭 𝑯𝑶𝑵𝑬𝒀, 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒍𝒆𝒔

♡ 𝑩𝑳𝑼𝑬𝑩𝑰𝑹𝑫 / 𝑷𝑨𝑼𝑳

bluebird
༊
'60

opening the door to your aunt's house you are met with the familiar musty gunk of cheap cigarettes and a pile of untied sneakers that were inevitably scrunched under your feet as you conquered the foyer. with a quiet groan, you kick a few of them from your path and turn your attention to the disgruntled cries of overexcited teenagers that hoard your living room not far from the door. this was a regular occurrence on monday evenings due to all of the popular sports events being streamed all day on the liverpool radio stations.

friendly greetings flood your ears as you approach the gang of long limbed boys who're all crowding around the radio either keeling over on the unaccommodating couch or kneeling by the rounded coffee table. the whole space resembled a messy circus of legs and arms.
among the casual ello's and hi's, you are met with a sour grumble from your older brother john whose gelled head is buried in palms of his large hands; another regular occurrence on monday evenings.

"who's winning?" you perk, leaning forward in the circle, long hair dangling over the head of one paul mccartney who is desperately trying to remember how to breathe.

"the bloody wankers!" john cries incredulously, lifting his grimacing face that was now steaming red and shaking his hands in a dramatized agony that you know full well is real and just as embarrassing for you as it probably is for him.

you raise your eyebrows sympathetically in an attempt to give him some sort of solace and pretend to understand what he's saying, but you find yourself scanning the other young faces for some sort of translation. hoping for an answer, you meet george's darkened eyes which were being shielded by the licks of white smoke slithering up from his open lips and diverging above his head.

"chelsea," he says blankly, one of the few who is a bit more peacefully annoyed by the game's results.

"right..." you nod slowly and look to john who has his head back against the fluffed cushions of the couch.

"remember i have practice tonight, so you have to make dinner," you remind him tenderly and pause as you turn on your heels to walk off to your bedroom.

"oh, and, mimi's gonna kill you when she finds out what you did to her new sheets."

"oh, sod off!" he whines and you shrug with a smile, winking away while the rest of the boys prod at john curiously, eyes trailing after you as you sweep out of view.

setting your ironed tennis gear on the bed, you begin to unbutton your classic school blouse and shimmy out of it. you let out a thankful sigh as your arms are released and your torso lays exposed to the waft of afternoon sunlight beaming into your room.

placing the shirt next to your outfit, you take care in unzipping your knee length skirt, running your dainty fingers over its plaid detailing in an adoring fashion. it was, admittedly, your favorite. you bend over as you slip it down your hips and step out of it to lift it up and fold the material over your forearm neatly.
once you've hung up your uniform in your closet, you come back to the foot of the bed at the same time that paul trudges through the hallway in search of the common bathroom that john vaguely pointed him towards.

his eyes catch on the thin white beam that crawls from the foot of your door and turns to look inside the crack, assuming the bathroom door would be the one to hang open this way.