The Less I Know The Better [complete]

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Two days before New Year's Eve, John was holed up in his room at Menlove Avenue, sitting on his bed with his feet tucked into his sheets, guitar splayed across his lap, leaning against the wall as he plucked idly at the chords. He wasn't playing an actual song or anything; just strumming randomly, creating impromptu melodies as he went along, which fell short after a few seconds when he got tired of it and stopped or changed the tune. The outside world was choked with snow once again, above it greyish white clouds that held no rain blanketed above, making it look almost like the ground and sky melted into each other, nothing to separate it. It almost made him so much more frustrated than he already was - the world looked as if it was carefully blank and boring while the tumultion of his emotions were raging like destructive storms inside him, like the world was feeling the opposite of what he felt at the moment. It made him even more upset, like he wanted a thunderstorm to break out just to somehow display his own distress.

The entire house was deadly silent and still. Mimi was out shopping, so he had been left alone with only his record player to accompany him, and it was starting to bear down on his mind a little. He hated being alone. He was never one for solitude, for enjoying his own company and reading books and all that kind of stuff. His own thoughts and mind were against him half the time, so it wasn't exactly the most pleasant of times when he was alone with his head; and, in order to combat that, he spent time with other people. He stuck himself to his friends' sides and constantly seeked them out in order to spend time with them, so he could distract himself effectively enough and feel better. He grew attached to people quite easily if they appealed to him and he would soon be hanging around them all the time. Paul had been someone who he'd grown so attached to that it almost hurt not to be around him, so he had constantly searched for his companionship, and now that he was deliberately keeping himself away, he was alone with himself again. He probably could've seeked out Ringo or George, but he was afraid that Paul had told them about his avoidance (he had to at least suspect it by now. He had tried to come over and spend time with him after Christmas but John had blown him off and been flippant enough to make him suspicious) and they might try and question him about it. Then he thought, maybe Stuart or Cynthia would be a better option? But.. no. He didn't want to burden them with his issues. Cynthia was incredibly perceptive and she'd be able to tell there was something off with him immediately, anyway. Maybe after he'd sorted through his things a bit more he could. Therefore, at that moment, he was just left by himself for the first time in a long time, and he wasn't exactly sure what to do. He was certainly too restless to settle down and read a book, but he was in too much of a shitty mood to try and focus on working on songwriting or watching a TV show.. so that was how he ended up sitting on his bed with his guitar, doing nothing except fiddling with the strings. Maybe it was unhealthy to be so dependent on other people to feel okay, but it wasn't like John knew much about healthy lifestyles or circumstances.

A knock on the door cut through his thoughts and he jumped slightly, glancing around in surprise. Who would that be? Probably just a salesperson. He let out a tired sigh and placed his guitar next to him on his bed before shuffling forwards to place his feet on the floor. His head started to pound when he got to his feet, and he squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his fingertips into his temples to try and drive it away; he then left his bedroom and descended the stairs, calling out an irritated "I'm coming!" when the person knocked again, more insistently. He hesitated only for a few seconds before swinging the door open, about to tell whoever was bothering him right now to piss off..

He blinked, mouth parting in surprise, his arm falling limply to his side as he studied the person standing on the front doorstep; Paul. Oh fuck, he thought in dismay. He was wearing his favourite dark green corduroy jacket, black gloves on and faded denim jeans with black runners - his easy smile was like a burst of colour against the backdrop of white and grey that surrounded them, ebony hair swept aside in his usual careless manner, even though it somehow always looked flawless. His cheeks, nose and ears were flushed from the cold, adorably pink. John swallowed thickly. He could feel his emotions churning inside him again, desperate to be made known, but he pressed down on them decisively, barking at them to be quiet until they were subdued.