I Believe in Yesterday

me: *listens to the beatles*

I would like to thank not only this request but also this picture and the song Hatefuck by Cruel Youth for the sin you’re about to read.

               Youhate him.

               Even asyour lips meet his in a crushing kiss you hate him.

               He alwayshas an opinion on what you’re doing, how you’re playing, the outfits you’rewearing. He never keeps his damn mouth shut. He isn’t even being quiet now while you’re sinking to your knees,hands pulling and tugging at his trousers.

               “Have yehdone this for the other lads as well?” His voice is low in the dark, on thecusp of some biting comment, but the comment never comes. Instead he grabs afistful of your hair and pulls. He chuckles when you gasp in pain. “I’ll betyeh have, luv.”

               Youhate him.

               Even asyou take his cock in your mouth and swirl your tongue around the head you hatehim.

               He hadit out for you since day one of the tour. You don’t know why, but he did. He’dmake up any and every reason to be alone with you, teasing you to the point oftears. And here you always thought he was the gentle one. Gentle George so many people called him. Yeah right.

               “Ah, fuck,” he hisses out betweenclenched teeth. His grip on your hair grows tighter and suddenly you aren’t incontrol any more. He’s fucking your mouth, reveling in the feel of his cockhitting the back of your hot, wet throat.

               Youhate him.

               Even ashe pulls you up to your feet and shoves you against the wall you hate him.

               Helooks at you like you’re something to be destroyed and consumed, pupils blownwide with lust. You want to lie and say that look makes you feel nothing but itactually sends a wave of arousal crashing through your body. He hates you justas much as you hate him. He doesn’t want to have sex with you. He wants to fuckyou.

               “Noknickers then?” His hand that isn’t still in your hair sneaks under your skirtand rubs your pussy. He dips a finger inside, shocked to find you’re alreadywet for him. “You’re a dirty little thing, aren’t ya?”

               Youhate him.

               Even ashe thrusts two fingers in and out of you at a punishingly pleasurable speed youhate him.

               Hishand falls from your hair to your mouth, smothering your screams. He doesn’twant the boys to hear. He doesn’t want the boys to know. You’re his. His dirty little secret, hisperfect little fuck toy, his. He’sbeen desperate for you since the first time he laid eyes on you but quicklylearned you only responded to him when he’s being a bastard. Some girls likebad boys. He figures you’re one of ‘em.

               “Sowet,” he mutters, mouth connecting with your neck. He bites harshly and tastesthe bitter tang of blood in his mouth.

               Youhate him.

               Even ashe shoves his cock inside you and leaves you screaming for more you hate him.

               Histhrusts are hard but rhythmic, a bit of the musician shining through the façadeof a beast. His head falls to your shoulder as your legs wrap around his waist.He feels good inside you, thick and long, hitting all the right spots to leaveyou a shaking, moaning mess. You feel good wrapped around him, velvety soft andtight, bringing him to the brink of orgasm.

               “Yer so good, baby. So… fuck!” Whateverhe originally planned to say gets lost in a litany of curses and moans. Hisbreathing is rapid, chest pressed so close to yours you can feel his heartbeatthrough the thin white button-up.

               Youhate him.

               Even asyou reach a toe curling, mind numbing orgasm you hate him.

               Hefollows shortly after you, spilling inside you with a groan that makes the hairon the back of your neck stand up. You feel sticky and used but sated. Thealmost dangerous gleam that was in George’s eyes earlier is gone now. He looksthe same way you feel: well fucked and tired. He watches you straighten outyour skirt and fix your hair without a word, brain still hazy from post-coitalbliss.

               Heloves you.

               Even ashe watches you walk away without so much as a word in his direction he lovesyou.

I tried so hard to keep it fluffy but a bit of angst crept in there at the end. Oops.   

              Itstarted with a note taped to your locker. At first you thought it was a joke.The writing was bad and you were being compared to a wild animal that’s beenknown to viciously attack people. Your feelings were hurt so bad you went homecrying after crumpling the note up and shoving it in the trash. Another one wason your locker the next day. You didn’t even read it before tossing it away. Aweek later you came across another one except it was on the inside cover ofyour English book instead of hanging on your locker. This one you read.

               The blue dress you wore yesterday made youreyes look lovely.

               That’smore like it.

               Youstarted leaving replies before ultimately asking them just who exactly theywere. It ended up being a teddy boy named Richard Starkey in (unsurprisingly)your English class. The two of you kept passing notes for months. You’d hand itoff in the hallway, getting it back when he slipped it inside your Englishbook. He even moved beside you to make the note passing easier.

               Neitherof you stopped to think if anyone has noticed. You were so wrapped up in yourown little world it just never occurred to you that someone might tell. Years later you would look back onthis particular day at school and still not know exactly what happened. Onemoment you were working on an assignment, the next you were being humiliated.Or Richie was rather. The teacher had him stood at the front of the room, notein her wrinkled old hand.

               Oh no.

               Oh, god, no.

               It’snot that you two were embarrassed to be talking to each other or anything likethat. It’s just that some of the notes got pretty… well, cheesy. Adorable? No, cheesy.

               “Mr.Starkey,” the teacher held up the note for the whole class to look at. “Whywere you putting this in another student’s book?”

               Richiestumbled over an explanation that didn’t even sound like an explanation.

               “Areyou cheating, Mr. Starkey?”

               “No!”

               “Thenexplain to the class what this is.”

               Youwant to rush to his aid, but something keeps you glued to your seat. You can’tmove, can’t help, can’t do anything other than watch. Thinking back on it, thisis probably where your hatred of public humiliation came from. Watching poorRitchie being harassed by an ‘authority figure’.

               “I… no.”Ritchie shakes his head, stance firm. He won’t be humiliated by some old ladywith too much time on her hands.

               “PerhapsI should?”

               “No!”

               “Thenread.” She hands him the note and Ritchie looks like he’s about to faint. Hestarts talking so low and so quick you can’t even make out the words. Theteacher doesn’t let this slide no matter how hard you wish otherwise. “Louder,Mr. Starkey, and slower.”

               Richtakes a breath. “Sometimes when I look at yeh I can’t believe yeh even like me.Yer so pretty and smart and when yeh smile I can’t breathe. It’s not ‘cause ofasthma either. Yer proper fit and have a nice arse. Especially in that bluedress.”

               Itstarted out so well, but that’sRitchie for you. He’ll be romantic and lovely until he just isn’t. Then he getsa little embarrassing and cringe worthy. And this is certainly one of his moreembarrassing and cringe worthy notes.

               Theclass laughs.

               You don’t.

               You’re worried what this is goingto do to Ritchie. He’s always had an awful time in school and this has to bethe icing on the cake for him. He looks shaky as he sits back down beside you,pale and uncomfortable. He won’t meet your eyes for the rest of the class.

              At the end of the day he meets youout front as usual. There’s a sheet of paper in his hand and he shoves ittoward you as he walks off.

              Ilove you. I’m sorry.

Here ya go, darling!

               You didn’t mean to do it. Honestly. One second you were getting your coffee, the next you were desperately trying to clean it off an amused looking Paul McCartney. Yeah, the Paul McCartney. The Beatle Paul McCartney.

               “I’m so sorry!” You say again for what feels like (and probably is) the millionth time. “It was an accident!”

               Paul just laughs it off, waving a hand in the air. “No need to apologize, luv. This has happened before.”

               “Not to me!”

               Oh… that was… self-centered. You spilled scalding hot coffee all over an innocent bystander’s shirt and you’re more concerned with yourself than them. You really wanted that coffee after all. And normally you aren’t so horribly clumsy.

               He looks at you, head tilted to the side like he’s considering what to say next. You wait with bated breath and fully expect the worst. You bitch. Clumsy. Watch where you’re going next time. To your surprise (maybe also delight) Paul says none of that. Instead he says:

               “You’ve reall never spilled coffee on someone before?”

               “No!” You think for a second before correcting yourself. “Well, no one important.”

               He laughs again. “So yeh only react like this for important people?”

               “I guess. This is the first time I’ve met someone important.”

               The atmosphere of the café shifts after your confession. You don’t know if anyone else has felt it, but you certainly have. Maybe it’s because you stroked his ego by calling him important. Maybe it’s just the teasing tone of your conversation. Whatever it is you feel yourself turning red under Paul’s intense gaze.

               “You’re cute,” he says after a beat. It’s so unexpected and jarring that you silently thank God you don’t have another cup of coffee or else Paul would be wearing it too. “Let me by you another drink?”

               “I’ll try to keep myself from spilling this one.”

               Paul winks before going off to order. You aren’t sure exactly where to sit, but the café is empty enough it shouldn’t actually matter. Still, just to be on the safe side you pick a small corner booth. Paul returns shortly after with two fresh cups of coffee, handing you one with teasing uncertainty.

               “So what is it yeh do?” He gestures to the badge around your neck and you explain you’re a student at a local university. He listens to you drone on about your major with a genuine rapt interest, eyes never once straying from you. The sensation is all but addictive.

               Before you know it the sun is setting and the café is trying to close. You’ve missed two of your classes according to the clock on the wall. Paul notices your alarm and looks at the clock too. He completely missed practice.

               “I should go,” you say, gathering all your things.

               Paul looks desperate. “Will I see yeh again?”

               “I don’t know.”

               “I’d like to.”

               You feel your mouth fall open. “That’s- that’s, uh, yeah, okay, sure.”

               NormallyJohn doesn’t walk home from school this way, but a few older girls took toharassing him on his regular route. At first he enjoyed the attention as anyred-blooded boy would. Now it’s annoying. Plus he encouraged them so well earlyon that they just can’t seem to take the hint now. John wasn’t too thrilledwith that revelation. He’s even less thrilled with the new route he has towalk. It takes an extra ten minutes to get back to Mimi’s now.

               Just asJohn is planning what to do with the rest of his afternoon he hears a shout. Tohis left is an alley. At the very end of the alley is a group of boys crowdedaround a smaller figure. He recognizes you despite not knowing you very well.The two of you have a few classes together and he thinks you live a street or two down from him.

               So whyare you here?

               That’swhen the first punch is thrown. You hold your jaw as the boy who hit yousmirks. John’s ready to step in any second, blood boiling at seeing you beingganged up on. He never gets the chance though because you start fighting back.The way you fight is odd. It’s this weird little mix of training and pure fury.In what feels like the blink of an eye everything is over and you come out ontop.

               Johnbolts before you can see him staring in wide-eyed wonder, heart pounding in hischest the rest of the way home.

               Thenext day at school John is never more than two steps behind you. At first youdon’t notice. There’s always some sore loser following you around the day aftera fight, just waiting to catch you alone again. Then your best friend points Johnout at lunch and you start watching him right back. He looks away quickly, ablush coloring his cheeks.

               “Lennonfancies yeh it seems like,” she whispers in your ear as the two of you leaveschool for the day. John’s right behind the both of you.

               “Why?He doesn’t even know me!”

               Shejust shrugs. “Turn around and ask him.”

               Youstop abruptly and feel who you know to be John slam into your back. You turn,ready to chew him out, but stop with your mouth hanging open. He’s cute to saythe least. Nervous and shy with messy brown hair falling in his eyes. His gazefalls to the ground and you laugh quietly.

               “Hi,”you say.  He mumbles something thatsounds like a reply so you decide to be straight forward. “Why are yehfollowing me?”

               Helooks up suddenly. “To make sure yer safe.”

               “Yehdon’t think I can do that myself?”

               “No! Imean, yeh can, I know yeh can!” His face gets a little dreamier as he thinksabout yesterday. “It’s just… two’s always better than one in a fight.”

               “Fairenough.” You watch his cheeks go a little redder. “Well, if yer gonna walk withus don’t be a creep about it. Come on.” You loop your arm through his, forcinghim to walk alongside you.

               Johndoesn’t have time to argue. You’re all but dragging him like a rag doll, but hecan’t find it in him to care. He stumbles every so often along the way. Mostly becausehe gets so lost staring at you he forgets he’s actually supposed to walk.

               “Thisis my house.”

               Yourvoice snaps John out of it and he takes a look around. Your friend is gone.When exactly that happened he isn’t sure. Then there’s the street itself, sofamiliar yet really not.

               Rollingyour eyes at John’s bewilderment you give him a quick peck on the cheek. “Seeyou tomorrow, Lennon.”

“How inthe world are you going to watch a movie without your glasses, John?”

“I’mnot so blind I can’t see a television four feet away.”

“Yesyou are!”

Johnhuffs and crosses his arms over his chest. “No. I’m not.”

“If yousay so.”

You settle down beside him with abowl of popcorn after starting the movie. It’s some western neither of youreally care about, but it was all you could find. Besides, it isn’t the moviethat even matters. John’s been gone for so long that it’s nice to just spend anevening in with him… even if he won’t wear his glasses. You know it won’t beany use to argue though. He’s determined to never wear them even if it means he’sblind as a bat. Stubborn man.

Halfway through the movie younotice John squinting at the screen. You tried to tell him. He should’ve put onhis glasses after all. His godawful eyesight isn’t an issue though until theromantic crescendo of the movie. The hero comes riding in to sweep the damselin distress off her feet and kiss her in that dramatic Hollywood way.

“Why’s John Wayne kissing thatbloke?” John sounds absolutely confused.

You can’t help it. Not really. Youbust out laughing only to get a dirty look in return. That makes you laugh evenharder. John shoves you away and takes the popcorn, a pout on his lips.

“Well,” you say when you calm down,“if you were wearing your glasses you’d know that’s a girl he’s kissing.” Athought crosses your mind. “What gender do you think I am?”

John is even more put out now. “Comeoff it,” he mutters.

“Awww, my poor blind baby.” Youslap his cheek lightly. “Babe, just put your glasses on.”

He’s scandalized by just thethought. “No!”

“Why not?”

“They’re bloody embarrassing!”

Now you’re the confused one. Howare glasses embarrassing? You wear them yourself and you’re glad you do.Otherwise you’d be running into walls or mistaking a John for a girl. You justdon’t get it.

“But, John, I wear glasses too.”

“And yeh look cute in ‘em.” Hegives you that little sideways smile that made you fall for him in the firstplace and kisses your neck. You know it’s just a tactic to change theconversation- a good one- but there’s a more pressing matter at hand.

You push him away softly. “John, doyou not think you’re attractive when you wear glasses?”

He makes a face that gives you youranswer.

“That’s crazy! You’re gorgeous!”

John laughs at you. It’s loud,hard, and honest. He’s genuinely amused by your outrage. You don’t think it’sfunny at all. How could he think he’s anything less than the most attractive personyou’ve ever seen? How? Sure, helaughs at your honesty a fair bit. The way you say whatever comes popping inthat pretty little head of yours without a second thought to propriety oranything really keeps John laughing all day. You just don’t find thisparticular conversation amusing is all.

“Alright, alright,” he finallysays, wiping a tear from his eye. “Let’s make a deal.”

You side eye him. Hard. His deals are only fun for him.They usually end in humiliation or some other terrible emotion for you. “Whatdeal?”

“I’ll wear my glasses when we watchmovies if yeh go put on that little red number I bought for yeh.”

Oh. That’s fair enough.