I'm SOOOORRRYYYYY jnswjnsdkns ok seriously I'm so fucking sorry you guys are so wonderful and I left you waiting so long nisjdsn but here okay I hope this squealer of a chapter makes up for it cuz i really like this one jsdnjhdsjdnhd john bby (but seriously all these feels over my own story YOLO)

John'd lost track of how long he'd been just lying here. His shoulder hurt, his head hurt, his body felt like rubber, and- fucking hell- he hated being so weak. He supposed it was a good payoff, almost fucking dying, but getting to live.

Well, at least he was alive. And he supposed he should be happy for that, but for some reason, he was currently fighting the urge to cry. It didn't even feel right, he wasn't even sure why; he just felt numb, and he wanted to cry. Complete and utter breakdown, sobbing and screaming fit.

He numbly pondered over what would happen if he tried. Probably break a hip or something, given how he felt just about as strong as a newborn. Weak and pathetic and absolutely fucking helpless.

How ironic, given how rough and strong he supposedly was. That all it took to do him in was his own fucking traitor of a body, which was also currently trying it's best to make him cry.

Paul snored lightly to his left, and John felt him shifting slightly in his sleep before becoming still once again. They'd somehow fallen asleep holding each others hands, Paul leaned up against the wall and John still stuck in his bed. He'd been up for quite a bit, but he hadn't been able to let go. He just couldn't.

Choking down the lump in his throat, John weakly turned his head to look at Paul. He was there, he was real and solid and John could see him and feel the warmth of his hand and that made him feel that Paul- strong, steady Paul- was the only reason he hadn't broken down yet. That this exhausted, slumbering man in front of him, who had put up with so much of his bullshit and mood swings and insults, was still here. Sleeping on the floor, and probably destroying his back so he wouldn't have to leave him.

And if he knew how much Paul loved him, why did he still kind of wish he-John- had died?

Well aware that this was insane and probably definitely counted as suicidal, John couldn't shake it off. What was wrong with him? Maybe he just liked inflicting pain on people. It definitely felt that way, sometimes. Some of the utter shit he'd sprouted over the years, all the crap he'd put the people he loved through.

It'd be easier if he'd just died, right?

Too tired to even think anymore, John let his eyes fall shut, a single tear trailing down his cheek. And here he was, crying, over himself and his fucked up thoughts. He just gave selfish a whole new meaning.


John would've jumped or even flinched if he'd had the energy. But he didn't, so he didn't. He just opened his eyes and warily regarded the ceiling, marvelling at how it somehow managed to be white, even in the near darkness.

"John? Are you- are you all right?" Paul's exhausted and nervous voice floated through the silence again, and John fought the urge to tell him to get out, even though no part of him wanted to be left alone.

"M'fine," He mumbled. His voice cracked. He didn't care. Just another betrayal, wasn't it?

He heard Paul shifting, felt him let go of his hand. He instantly felt lonely and unprotected, but he still didn't look at him. White was just such a marvellous colour, wasn't it?

"Drink." John turned his head an inch to find a plastic cup of water being held to his mouth. He looked up at Paul, right into the dull doe eyes holding thinly veiled concern, and drank. Water went down his dry throat, feeling a little too good to be true. They didn't break eye contact.

Paul seemed to know the second he was done, and he put the cup away, still not looking away. Feeling increasingly vulnerable, John tried to tear his eyes away.

It didn't work.

Next second, there were arms wrapped tight around him, and as he found himself tucked into a warm chest. Some of the numbness disappeared.

And John Lennon found himself hiccupping back pathetic, mewling sobs before he even knew it was happening. The arms tightened, the warmth remained, a gentle hand threaded through his hair, but his friend did not say anything. He didn't need to.

John still didn't know why he was crying. But for some reason, he felt as if Paul did, and that was clearly enough for now.