The Less I Know The Better [complete]

17 ;; rebellion

The sound of kids laughing and chattering about whatever it is teenagers usually talk about filled John's ears as he made his way past the front gates of Quarrybank Music Academy, hand shoved in pockets as he watched the bus pull up to pick up students after school. It was cold and brisk once again, the months of winter drawing ever near; though not as chilly as it was in the morning. Glancing up, he gazed at the clouded sky, an ivory blanket tinged with grey. He had been terribly bored that Thursday - Ringo had gotten sick and wasn't at school, and he didn't see George or Paul that much either except for at lunch, since they didn't share many classes that day. It was still strange sometimes that he was no longer friends with Pete and the rest of that group. He couldn't believe it was over that fast. But, it wasn't like he was complaining; he never really felt close to them, anyway. It was just nerve-wracking that Stuart had dirt on him, technically, because they had experimented a few things together. He could trust him not to say anything, though. It would make him look bad too.

Striking up a cigarette, he glanced around one last time to see if Paul or George were around and when he didn't spot them anywhere, he spun around to begin his trip home. He'd only gotten a few metres before a familiar voice called his name, a flurry of footsteps nearing closer until they stopped next to him. He blinked at Paul from his myopic eyes, furrowing his brows in confusion. Where did he come from?

"Where'd you come from?" He voiced his thought, taking another puff of his cigarette. The younger boy rolled his eyes, hands shoved in his pockets; John again noticed the way his hair - that looked as if it was made of strokes of ebony ink from an artist's hand to him - stood out against his pallid skin, only his cheeks and the tip of his upturned nose coloured a pink from the cold. He was wearing a grey jumper along with the rest of his school uniform, apparently a new staple due to the cold weather, along with a thick black scarf. His guitar case was strapped to his back.

"I was right there, idiot! You looked right past me. You really are blind, aren't ya?" Paul chuckled, beginning to walk alongside him. He was right. When he had looked through the crowd for Paul, he hadn't seen much more than blurry figures of kids, no features visible.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm not gonna look like a nerd just 'cause me eyesight is shit. I can still do stuff just fine."

"And yer about five seconds away from slamming into a pole because you can only see a few centimetres in front of you." He raised a knowing eyebrow, nudging him with his shoulder as they walked.

John shot a glare to the other boy, but it didn't hold any real anger in it; instead he just turned back to him with a questioning look.
"What you doin' walkin' with me, anyroad? Shouldn't you be goin' home?"

Paul was silent for a few seconds, and he saw the boys' expression begin to transform from casual to angry, brows knotted and lip curled as he kicked at a nearby loose rock. What happened? John thought, curiosity sparking in his mind.

"Yeah.. that. Look, can I stay at your place for today?" He turned to John with a pleading glint in his eyes. "My da' was a dickhead about.. me ditchin' school and stuff and I.. I might've-" He cut himself off.

"What?" John grew more eager to know what it was, now, flicking his cigarette to the ground and stomping it out with his heel before they continued to walk. "I can't imagine that 'goody-two-shoes McCartney' would've said anythin' like 'go fuck yerself' or somethin' of that sort. No way!"

"Shut yer stupid mouth, Lennon." Paul glared, turning away and crossing his arms with a petulant sniff. "And as a matter of fact, I did. And I ran out on him after that before he could start to yell at me or anythin'."

John gaped for a few seconds before an excited grin took over his face. "Did you really?"

"Yeah," Paul smirked a little. "first time I ever swore at my da'."