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"And then I would, like," John fumbles to squeeze the right words, eyes flickering between the red carpet and Cynthia's focused gaze, "kneel down."
"Hmm."
"Like thaat, yeah?" The movement preceding his knee touching the rough surface proves to be challenging for both his hamstrings and balance. "Hold the box up--wait. Hold the open box up for him to see. And...ask him whether he wants to spend the rest of his life with me."
The case shuts with a flick of a wrist John has mastered during those 3 days since he purchased it. "Maybe I shouldn't kneel? What if I just put it in his pocket, watched him finding it and then just said something casual, so it didn't seem forced?"
So I can play it off as a joke when it backfires.
"Maybe I should just wait a little longer, maybe it's no--"
"Bullshit!"
The rare occurrence of Cyn cursing, something he has only witnessed a couple of times during 10 years they had known each other, seals his lips, and he shuffles to sit on his bum instead, letting out a tired sign.
"You love Paul, right?" John nods. "Paul loves you. That's obvious to anyone...except you from time to time." Another, albeit a little more hesitant, nod. "You've pondered it for 6 months now, can't name any reason not to propose, apart from your mind telling you you don't deserve love." This time a nod as a form of agreement isn't required. It's all written in the blush that spreads over John's face and the way his eyes fixate on the ground.
"Paul won't say no, trust me."
If John refuses to rely on his own judgment most of the time, he certainly can count on Cynthia. Her kindness isn't the kind to be likened to foolishness -- if she doesn't like someone, it's very well reasoned, and despite the politeness of her demeanour, the person will know. Certainly.
She wants her friends to be happy but refuses to watch them chase nightmares hiding behind a mask of dreams.
If she says Paul will say yes, he will say yes, and John will say really, and Paul will smile, and he will call friends and family, and John will giggle upon hearing Cyn's perfected OHHH...
"Alright," he gives up and smiles at his friend. "Ta, Cyn, you're the bestest."
"Yeah, yeah," she dismisses the praise with a casual gesture, but there's a gleeful glint all over her face -- the honour of having one's efforts recognised and appreciated.
"Can I see the ring?"
It's not their first rehearsal of the proposal, but this time John isn't clutching one of Cyn's jewellery boxes or a package of ciggies. Instead, his sweaty palm cradles the real thing, a ticket from fantasy to reality.
If only Paul says yes.
Cyn's fingers trace the simple gold ring as subtle as a heap of inside jokes that have flourished between Paul and him. George mocks them that MI7 agents have nothing on their secret language, strategically only when Pattie isn't around, otherwise their own coded lingo would be revealed.
"An engravement? What happened to the self-proclaimed anti-romantic?" she quips, handing the delicate object back.
It's a well-deserved remark. While grand gestures come to Paul as easily as breathing, and John enjoys being the recipient of all the flowers, candle-lit dinners, love songs and poems scribbled on sticky notes, he is yet to silence the overly critical voice implying that even heart-shaped candies are the signal of being too clingy and therefore a reason for the other person to break things off.
"It's a song. Our fateful melody, you could almost say," he pauses just to check Cyn's reaction -- she hums and nudges him forward with that soft smile reflecting only in her eyes. "I remember hearing it for the first time. We were just done practising at mine, you know, smoking, chatting, buggering around till Mimi's arrival, when I accidentally played it--didn't wear my specs. And...of course, I was terrified, tried to pause it but couldn't hit the damned button. I remember thinking fuckfuckfuck, my whole reputation of this cool kid was going to blow, but Paul told me to let it play, so I did. And I made some haggard jokes about him being too soft, not built for rock'n'roll and he laughed and went home...later, I found myself humming it, just a few words, pam pam pam, brève, rêve, un peu d'amour, a little bit of love -- I even translated that one -- and I could see Paul's face, his eyes, un peu d'amour, and it made sense. It was awful, but it clicked together."
"So it started back then? With a song?"
They are sitting in the kitchen now, because keeping a conversation alive while being occupied by stirring a soup belongs to the list of Cynthia's qualities. John glances at her back, even though he knows she is listening, then distributes the right amount of tea to the two cups before carrying.
"I'd love to say a snog followed a song, but I, er, I was horrible. Didn't know what Paul thought, whether he knew-- I mean, if I knew he was such an oblivious idiot, it would save me many sleepless nights--"
"You aren't any better, John. Remember when you thought he was going to break up with you after he bought a house for both of you?"
"As I was saying," John rolls his eyes, "I was trying to ignore everything, act normal, quite successfully until I got invited to some family stuff, flocks of McCartneys everywhere, old and young and almost dead. Jim's eyes on me back all the time, my eyes on Paul's face...and bum, dancing, singing, drinking. We were the last ones awake, and I demanded a piano solo. He sat down, winked, bloody winked at me, and played the same song. Un peu d'amour my arse, I wanted to throttle him. And then he told me he would teach me so I could perform a piano solo for him the next time.
"Did you?" Cyn covers her snort with a cough. "Did you actually learn something while sitting on your ass the entire time?"
"I did! Wanted to kick him, for all those 'not like that, John, that wasn't it, John, put on your glasses, John' but kept going till 5 nevertheless. We passed out in their living room, and when I woke up, this anger, this frustration disappeared. Even though I knew we wouldn't be dating, it was quite enough."
"Did you hear it again? When you were with Victor?"
"Yeah," John cringes at the memories of his desperate attempts to fall in love with anyone but Paul. "In Hamburg. We were just having a day off and decided to stay in bed. It smelled like piss, but it was a bed. And some drunk bloke started screaming under our window. They just stumbled out from the bar, gallons of liquor on two legs, whores, their customers, young people having fun. We were both praying he wouldn't retch...the smell would get there...when he began singing instead. All clean and everything, rève, brêve, crispiness Spotify could only dream of. But we didn't do anything, just, sort of, stiffed? Held our breaths, I was certainly holding mine, and laughed it off. It's quite funny looking back. I hope Paul gets it. Imagine him reading the words and not having a clue--"
"You haven't talked about it? The song, I mean?"
Cyn's tone is enough to make John hesitate about his argument. "We were both there!" he admits feebly. "It's just...what if I'm the only one who remembers? And it's not always about us, like...they played it in the taxi when I was about to pick him up in New York, before I asked him on a date, right? Which I wouldn't do if they chose Oops I Did It Again. Or when I was buying the rings. It could only be me looking for something to give me confidence...And I'm not sure I'd like Paul to know what a mess I really am."
"We all know what a mess you are." Cyn pats his shoulder lovingly. "Me, Astrid, George, Stu, Klaus, Ivan, Paul's dad, Ringo's kids, Martha...and we wouldn't have it any other way."
~~~~~
Despite the light being replaced by fog and murky shadows, John still gets home earlier than planned. It's not his intention to plot a dramatic excuse. He told Paul he would help with Cynthia's illustration book and so he did. Eventually, after spilling out the story of his life.
The emptiness of their house catches him off guard. Paul had been banging on about his first free day in ages the entire morning, something that doesn't correspond with the freshly cleaned living room, dining room, kitchen, and, after John's thorough inspection, both bathrooms and their bedroom.
He circles back to the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of wine, just to wash out those sprouting worries and dreadful scenarios.
"What the fuck," he observes out loud, his eyes digging into their best kitchenware occupying the dining table -- cups, glasses, la crème de la crème of their, formerly Mimi's, china. "What the fuck," he mumbles again when someone fumbles with the key and the front door cracks open.
~~~~~
"John? You're home already? Martha, NO!"
"John?"
"In here," he calls out, catching loud sounds of Paul having a passionate-yet-whispered argument with his dog and, if he strains his ears like a canine, a couple of muttered fucks before his boyfriend appears.
"Hi," he says after a fruitful pause, smoothening his ruffled hair and looking anywhere but John's suspicious eyes. "You came--well, I didn't expect you this early. Thought, thought--" Paul is oceans away from the conversation he tries to maintain, repeating the past tense of the word think as he copies John's previous action -- examining the room with wide eyes "--thought I'd manage to cook dinner, y'know? Went to buy all the ingredients with Martha--how's Cyn?"
"Is something happening? Are you...feeling alright?"
He's rewarded by a look of pure frenzy in those eyes that couldn't ever hide a single emotion before Paul's sprinting back to the hall where a very angry dog has started to howl, making all her ancestors proud.
"I--yes, just need, need to get the--fuck, the groceries. YOU STAY HERE!"
Even if he's a little bit angry and a big bit confused, John stays on his spot, wincing at what he presumes is Paul being knocked down by Martha and her running towards him.
He doesn't understand his boyfriend's behaviour. Neither does Martha, if her enthusiasm when she finally sees her second, perhaps fifth, depends on the overall number of pockets and snacks per person present, favourite two-legged organism, is anything to go by. She hasn't transformed into a werewolf, is exceptionally clean, and her breath doesn't smell like six-week-dead deer.
Her manners haven't vanished either, as demonstrated with a fury paw raised up to meet John's hand, showing off a foreign object fetched around her neck.
"Martha! Come back!"
A miracle happens. The always obedient dog holds still until a little box is taken off, before sprinting off to fulfil her owner's pleads.
John knows exactly what it is before he even sees it properly. How could he not, after spending hours of holding the same rectangular thing and contemplating the best way to present it.
"Is it--"
"You don't have to--"
He has to, though. Has to open it. Does so with annoyingly trembling hands and a breath buried in his abdomen.
Eyes close, eyes open, click, the world stops ageing for a second.
"It's just a silly idea," Paul says in a small voice when John keeps holding the ring. "You don't have to say yes. I'd like you to say yes, of course, but it's not mandatory, nor was it the right time...Martha was just getting used to carrying it around..."
La vie est brève. Un peu de rêve.
It's there. He hasn't made it up.
Marking a scarce moment of silence, John approaches his boyfriend with the contents of his pocket on wobbly legs that sweep the possibility of kneeling down off the table. With affection swelling in his chest, he can observe the precise moment Paul recognises those words.
Un peu de rêve. Un peu d'amour.
~~~~~
First, the boxes travel back to the hands of those who have purchased them so they can slide the rings on their lover's finger.
The ever-seventeen part of John wants to remark something about too much saliva and tears, but the other side -- the adult, composed, ENGAGED one -- wraps it in a beautiful metaphor of love pulsing in human emotions. And kisses.
And wine.
And sharing secrets that prove to be the exact opposite, because Paul's been thinking about that song since hearing it in Mimi's living room.
"I was so worried, y'know," he shakes his head before planting a kiss on John's hand.
"And now?"
"Now, now...I'm just here with you, exactly where I should be."
Eventually, sitting on the floor with their back to the wall will get uncomfortable. Someone will have to get up and feed the pets. (Paul.) And someone will have to order dinner. (John.) Cyn will receive a message saying that, indeed, Paul said yes and, unexpectedly, John too. Eventually.
For now, though, they're exactly where they should be.
Et puis bonsoir.