Growing Up Beside You [John Lennon/Beatles Fanfiction]

22. Make yerself right at home

"You have to be quiet, do ya hear?"

"Quiet as a mouse,"  Celia whispered, grinning up at John on the staircase. She giggled to herself like a mischievous child.

John snapped his fingers at her, his lips pressed into a thin line. Celia wiped the smile off her face and pretended to zip her mouth.

Why was he doing this? It was a stupid idea. John wanted her out of his house as soon as she was able to walk straight again- which she could- so why had he agreed to it?

After her stroppy performance earlier, her question had taken him by surprise. He could've said no and booted her out, but the girl seemed so...curious, interested, even. John said yes without giving it a second thought. Until now, that is.

"Yeah, so er...this is it," John murmured as he pushed open the door to his bedroom. "In all its glory." Mimi had been overly keen on spritzing the Glade — the room smelled like an evergreen forest, distinctively of pine trees and Christmas.  John switched on the light and ushered for Celia to come through.

"It's not half cold in here, John." Celia shivered, wrapping her arms around herself.

"Oh, the window's open. It gets stuffy in 'ere sometimes 'cause it's small." John had the box room above the porch, not that he minded. More space would've been nice to fit a double bed, though. His feet almost hung off the end. John tended to fidget and lollop around in his sleep meaning he'd occasionally wake up on the floor, bruises and all.

"Sorry, I'll shut 'em," John said, leaning over his desk and pulling on the window latch.  Hang on, why was he apologising to her? It was his room —she wasn't a guest. If he wanted the window open, he could keep the bloody window open. Nevertheless, John closed them and snapped the curtains shut.

"It's not as I expected it to be," Celia said, gazing around his room. He couldn't tell if she was impressed or quite the opposite. Not that John cared what Prissy Pants thought, of course.

"Why's that then, Miss Prim? Not up to ya standards?"

Celia gave him a look of reproach. "I just expected it to be extremely messy and ponging of dirty washing.

John laughed. Most of the time, it was. He glanced around his room. The overflowing bin was emptied, carpet hoovered, clothes folded, his school books stacked neatly on the edge of his desk. It was tidy. Too tidy. That was, of course, his aunt's doing. That woman hated anything being out of place; the thought of clutter and unruliness was abhorrent to her.  She could keep the house spick and span all she wanted, but not John, much to her disappointment, he was the very definition of disorderly and unkempt.  'You get it from that chaotic mother of yours, John. Certainly not me.' And that's exactly how he liked it. John's idea of tidy was throwing everything in his drawers or shoving his shit under the bed. He'd always put his sketchbooks away, though. If he left them on the desk, Mimi would only go and poke her nose in them and some, if not, most of the stuff he drew and wrote about wasn't meant to be seen by her prying eyes. She'd probably have a fit.

"Oi, put that down, would you?" John stormed over to Celia and grabbed his snowglobe from her hands.

"Hey, I was just having a look," she pouted.

"Well, don't."

"Stop being so grouchy."

"I will when you stop snooping."

"John, I came in your room to snoop," Celia admitted. She tilted her head and holding his gaze she said, "You're very protective of your stuff aren't you, John?"