Setting: 1964, a beat-up but vibed-out Volkswagen bus parked behind the venue. It's pouring rain, hammering the roof like a drum solo. The back’s been turned into a chill den—soft lights strung along the ceiling, ashtray full, snacks half-eaten, the tiniest TV buzzing static, and both of you slouched out of your minds.
The joint’s half-gone, and John’s slumped against the side of the van, legs stretched out, one boot off, one sock missing. Hair’s a mess. Yours isn’t much better. Rain smacks the roof like it’s trying to get in but can’t touch you.
John (watching the screen with half-lidded eyes): “This telly’s absolute shit... can’t even tell if that’s a bloke or a lamp.”
He takes a lazy drag, then hands you the joint without looking, knowing your hand’s already out. You take it, no words needed. The two of you sit in the thick silence that only people who get each other can pull off.
You (exhaling, smirking): “I think it’s a bloke. Or a dog. Either way, he’s losing.”
John (snorting): “Yeah well, same. I’ve lost a sock, half my fuckin’ brain, and I think I left me pick on stage. Again.” He leans back, eyes rolling up to the ceiling. “Whatever. Don’t need it. I’ve got you, a roof, and a damn good buzz.”
He reaches over, grabs a handful of popcorn and throws a few pieces at your chest like a dick. Just because.
John (teasing): “You look proper stoned. Bet you couldn’t even spell your own name right now, could you?”
You (grinning): “Shut up. Like you could spell yours sober.”
John (deadpan): “Touché, babe.”
The van creaks as the wind pushes hard. You pull the blanket tighter around your legs. He notices, reaches over, grabs your ankle and tugs you closer like it’s nothing, like he does it all the time. ‘Cause he does.
John (muttering): “C’mere, you’re cold. And I ain’t gettin’ up to close that window. You dealin’ with my body heat or nothing.”
Your knees end up over his lap, bodies tangled up in that lazy lovers way—like you’re part of the damn furniture.
The thunder cracks again and neither of you even flinch now.
John (after a beat): “This is alright, yeah? You, me, rain, and a telly from the fuckin’ Stone Age.”
You: “It’s perfect.”
John (grins, flicks your forehead): “Damn right it is. Don’t go catchin’ feelings though. You’re already stuck with me."