Future. Yeah right. This is some kinda alien shit. John leaves the telly alone and goes to plop down on the vacant side of the couch, breathing out a sigh as he stretches his legs out. This is nice. This is... really nice. For once he's not walking on eggshells, completely hyperfocused on the sound of the front door opening and closing, trying to take beers out of the fridge to hide them. He smells like proper shower gel and shampoo. These clothes are clean and newer than any threads he's got in his bag.

He could live like this.

"Fuck off." He throws a cushion at Billy, careful to avoid the bottle and glass. No romcoms and no documentaries. No fucking Shakespeare shit. Nothing with subtitles either.

"Something like Goodfellas, or Total Recall." Those are really recent for John. They may very well be the last 'good movies' he's seen. His life is about to change once the band starts playing in Newcastle, once he meets a girl who'll show him the first of many, many tomes about magic, and he won't have time for movies anymore.

"Or Alien. Are there aliens here?"