⇾ 𝐊𝐄𝐄𝐏 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒 𝐎𝐅𝐅 𝐌𝐘 𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘 | 𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧 𝐋𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐧 𝐈

Chapter Seventy-Three: Completely Heartbroken

April 12, 1962

Donna's POV

"How are we supposed to tell him?"

We were all at the airport now. It was 4. George and Brian were expected to arrive any minute and we still didn't know how to tell George about Stu. We knew it would break his heart.

John didn't say anything in response to Paul's question. He just looked down at his feet, leaning back on the bench we were sitting on. "I'm going to the bathroom," he mumbled before tugging on my hand and standing. Before he'd disappeared, I saw him turn around and give me an expectant look. I followed him off without a word to anyone else.

We stopped just outside of the bathrooms. "You okay?" I asked.

He nodded, tracing the patterns on the carpet with his feet. "I just—." He peeked around the corner with a frown. "They're telling him."

I turned around and looked to see that he was right. George was frozen in shock. I sighed.

"Donna?"

"Yes?" I swallowed.

"What did you dream about last night?"

I frowned, my words dying in my throat. "Uh—nothing important."

He frowned. "Clearly it wasn't unimportant," he said bluntly.

I sighed. "It was just about my...parents." It felt silly saying it now, remembering my reaction to it vividly.

He looked at me sympathetically and put his arms around me. "Thank ye for telling me."

"No problem," I responded with a half-hearted laugh.

He pulled away, keeping his hands on my shoulders. "Let's go on back. They'll be asking about us." He smirked.

I nodded. "That they will."

He took my hand and led me back towards the others. George gave a feeble smile when he caught sight of us.

I rushed over and put my arms around him. He didn't say anything still. John put a hand on my shoulder.

"Astrid?" asked John suddenly.

I pulled away from George to look at him.

"Can I see...where he worked?" he asked tentatively, his hand looping around mine harshly.

She looked a little confused for a moment but quickly gathered her thoughts. She nodded. "Of course you can."

John's eyes flicked down and I felt his hand tighten around mine even more.

"I wanna come too," said George, looking downward at the floor again after flicking his eyes up to look at everyone.

No one said anything. "Well—." Paul broke the silence after a few moments. "We should get going." He stood up and wiped his palms on his jeans and shoved his hands into his pockets.

"Will you come with me?" John mumbled as we followed in the back of the line. It depressingly resembled a funeral procession. He was looking down at his feet, kicking rocks along.

"If that's what you want, then of course I will."

He nodded gloomily. "Thank you."

"Of course."

~~~

We broke away from Brian, Paul, and Pete after a little while, following Astrid silently to where her and Stuart had lived. She led us up to a relatively dark room, save for one window on a wall, the blackout curtains open.

There were a few chairs scattered around, a table or two, and what looked like a hundred canvases, some blank, some half-finished, and some finished. They were all beautiful.

I looked over at John when we'd stepped in. His face was sullen; sad, yet emotionless. I didn't understand how he managed it. The atmosphere had changed. You could physically feel the mood fall around you.

His hand had a suffocating grip on me. I watched as he flicked his eyes down and discretely wiped his eyes in attempt to hide the tears that had begun to fall. He let go of my hand and went toward the middle of the room. George watched him solemnly for a moment.

John turned around in a circle slowly, taking everything around him in. He walked over towards a canvas in the corner and ran a finger gently over it before putting his head in his hands. The silence in the air was poisoning.

I backed away against the wall, feeling slightly invasive. After a moment, he took a deep breath and turned to face us.

"Can I—." Astrid was the first time speak up. "Can I take a picture of you?"

John looked briefly confused before nodding and looking around again. Astrid left the room for a moment, returning with a little camera.

John tried to give a smile, but the pain in his eyes was unmistakable. He sat down in one of the chairs in the middle of the room, spreading his legs and resting his elbows on his knees, his hands folded. George shuffled over to him, resting a hand on John's shoulder.

The scene was depressing. You could see in both of the boys' features that they were completely heartbroken.

~~~

"Why don't you tell me more about this dream?" John was lying on the floor of him and Paul's hotel room tossing a ball he'd found up and down in the air. I was leaning against one of the beds. Paul was out with George and Pete.

Our trip to Astrid's really darkened John's mood. I desperately wanted to make him happy, but talking about my parents dying wasn't going to help me, so when he mentioned it, I groaned.

"Oh, c'mon, John," I whined. "The last thing you need is a depressing story."

The ball dropped into his hand and he sat halfway up, cocking an eyebrow in my direction. "I'm a big boy," he said jokingly. "I can handle it." He leaned back on the ground and the ball resumed going up and down a moment later.

"Oh, alright." I picked at the carpet irritatedly. "Well—where would you like me to begin?"

"Hmm," he hummed matter-of-factly. "At the beginning, of course."

"Ah, yes, okay," I mumbled. "It really wasn't anything special. It was just y'know some weird version of the day they died, yeah? They were driving and talking. They mentioned it being 1945 and that's when I realized that I was, y'know, about to witness—." The door opened and the ball John was tossing fell to the floor. I shut up.

We looked to see Paul standing in the doorway. He once again looked awkward, knowing he'd interrupted something. Though I wouldn't admit it aloud, I was happy he'd interrupted this time. I had felt my throat begin to close and knew I wouldn't have had the strength to tell the story without bawling like a little baby.

John, once again, peered irritatedly back towards his best friend. I felt bad for him really. It was so hard to get me to actually admit how I felt mostly, so when he actually got me to speak honestly, he likely felt good about it. When that got interrupted, I knew it made him frustrated.

All he wanted to do was help me. He knew I was a mess and accepted that. He accepted me, and that made me feel special.