Chapter Text
I Don't Want to Spoil the Party...
PART ONE
“I don’t know Paul.” George was dithering again, somehow unable to remain still for so much as a second, shifting from foot to foot on the doorstep with the bottle of vodka Paul had talked him into swiping from his dad’s booze cupboard cradled close to his chest. He’d never looked more like a scrawny, frightened little kid in all his life. Paul was finding his annoyance growing steadily but- Paul did as he always did when faced with George’s dithering- he took a breath and forced a smile.
“For once, Geo, just be cool.” He muttered through gritted teeth, tapping his foot impatiently as the doorbell rang out a long, melodic tune. The house, ‘Mendips’, looked nice enough- far grander than the semi-detached council dwellings he and George were used to in their slightly rougher neck of the woods, only twenty minutes or so away from menlove avenue. It was hardly a luxurious mansion, nor a grandiose London town-house but, Paul supposed, to George (who’d never even stepped foot out of his own postcode his whole life) it was probably quite intimidating. Not to Paul, of course. Paul didn’t get intimidated. Paul was the king of keeping it cool.
“Maybe we should turn back. Maybe he didn’t really mean it.”
“Ivan wouldn’t have invited us if he didn’t want us here.” Paul rolled his eyes. “This isn’t a high-school movie, George. Relax. He texted me half an hour ago asking if we were still coming.”
“I know, but-”
Thankfully, before George could try and talk him into turning back for the third time that evening, the front door to this strange, foreign home flew open and Paul’s face lit up in a relieved smile as he found himself eye-to-eye with his cool, slightly older friend Ivan- who seemed more than a little intoxicated, and plenty happy to see him.
“Paul McCartney!” Ivan cheered, holding up a beer in toast before inviting them both into the well lit, middle-class looking home. “And little Georgie-Porgie.” He ruffled George’s hair a little too forcefully, earning himself a narrowed glare. George probably wanted to snap back, but Paul shot him a warning look that told him to bite his tongue if he knew what was good for himself.
“Come in,” Ivan carried on with his drunken lilt, oblivious to their silent spat. “Welcome to Lennon manor.”
“Wait, isn’t this your house?” George asked Ivan, but his frustrated glare was certainly aimed at Paul. He’d only agreed to come to the party based solely on the promise that the party was Ivan’s party, held at Ivan’s house, that Paul had been directly invited to. George hated the idea of being a plus one, let alone a plus one to someone else’s plus one at a house party with a bunch of people he’d never even met before.
“No, it’s John’s.” Ivan didn’t bother taking note of George’s grouchiness, throwing an arm around Paul and pulling him along through the packed hallway, heavy rock and roll music blasting around them, smoke hanging in the air and swivelling, glassy eyes following them at every step. George kept his mouth shut, trailing behind Paul as Ivan rambled on about the little shindig being in full swing, steering them into the kitchen.
“A shot, to get us started?” Paul proposed, taking the vodka from George’s arms (without asking, George noted bitterly) and knocking off the cap with his teeth. He really needed Ivan to think he was game for anything if they were going to continue to be invited to these kind of parties with the cool, older art school crowd, so he took a hefty swig, and did his best to ignore the harsh burn in the back of his throat and the sudden instinct to choke, before wiping off his mouth with the back of his leather jacket sleeve.
“Gotta wait for the host first!” Ivan grinned, but he nodded along in approval- clearly impressed by Paul’s, feat before his eyes swivelled over to George, expectantly, and Paul’s younger friend followed suit with a slightly smaller swig. “I’ve been meaning to introduce you two for ages.”
“I know, you said.”
“He… he, uh… writes songs, music and shite. Did-did I tell you that?”
“You did.” Paul laughed as Ivan stumbled slightly, reaching over to hold his shoulder for support. “Christ, lad, how much have you had?”
“Too much.” Came a slightly gravelled voice from behind them. Paul turned to see an older boy, about his height but maybe just a hair taller with squinting, almond shaped eyes and light, almost bronze-coloured hair, slightly curled and sticking up in a well-sculpted quiff. Paired with his positively beaten black leather jacket, blue jeans and tight white t-shirt, he looked like some kind of wannabe teddy-boy from the nineteen fifties. When it came to retro-stylings, Paul certainly felt that the sixties was his era of choice, but this boy certainly made the look work, and he dug it.
“John!” Ivan slurred, leaning off Paul and instead slumping onto this rocker, who promptly rolled his eyes and neatly side-stepped Ivan’s sloppy advances, leaving him to stumble off into some girl, sadly caught in the crossfire. He bumped her shoulder, and her drink sloshed over the red cup, trickling onto the floor and drenching most of her (white, what a pity) shirt.
“Jesus, watch the upholstery!” John yelled after him, but Ivan was long gone, lost in the bird’s eyes (or, more importantly, her exposed chest) as he got a shaky, drunken look at her face (and the rest) and decided that actually, she was a bit of alright, and he didn’t mind hanging around to apologise. “Drunken prick.” John grumbled.
“I’m guessing this is your house then.” George said, and Paul had quite honestly forgotten he was even there before he piped up, too busy staring at John in awe. George took another swig from the vodka bottle, much smoother this time and John seemed amused, raising one fair eyebrow with the ghost of smile shortly following. Paul was unsure whether this meant he was impressed or just a little irritated at being introduced to these two strangers who had already started on the bevs without so much as a hello.
“That it is.” He nodded, reaching forwards and snatching the bottle from George’s scrawny grip, taking a stiff drink for himself.
“Oi, that’s mine!”
“You’re in my house, what’s yours is mine, rules of engagement, I’m afraid.”
“He’s not wrong.” Paul offered a laugh as John took another drink, clear spirit sploshing against the glass bottle, giving him a chance to pinch George on the arm, reminding him silently to be cool. George and Paul didn’t exactly get invited to parties with older kids from the Liverpool College of Art, as they were generally dismissed as grammar school fuddy-duddies. It was only through Ivan Paul had caught something of a lose thread in ways of infiltrating this side of the social scene, and unwilling to go it alone, dragged George along after him wherever possible.
“How old are you anyway? Fourteen?” John was looking down his tremendous, Roman nose at little shrew-eyed George, who, to his own credit, didn’t shrink away from his piercing gaze and actually stood up a little straighter, holding John’s gaze.
“I’m sixteen.” He said proudly.
“And your friend?” John nodded towards Paul, who preened at the chance to be shown some attention, but he was duly disappointed. John didn’t break eye contact with George, who was quick to reply-
“He’s seventeen. Just turned. And yourself?”
“Eighteen. Nineteen this autumn. Too old for you though, son.” He shot George a wink, making his skin instantly flush a deep red. Without thinking, he looked away, and John’s flirtatious smirk spread into a triumphant, smug grin. Clearly, he’d won this little battle of wills, and Paul had to admit he was quite amused himself by the whole charade. He didn’t suspect George would share his amusement, but then, George didn’t seem to enjoy much of anything these days, and was going through a bit of an angsty phase (according to his mum).
“Whatever.” He grumbled, taking the bottle back and having another drink, this one even heavier than the last. “Nice to meet ya, I suppose. George, Harrison.”
“John Lennon. What about your doe-eyed friend ‘ere?”
At that, George smirked. “He doesn’t mean to be so pretty, he was just supposed to be a girl, s’all. That’s Paul. McCartney.”
“The Paul McCartney, ey?”
Paul didn’t have a chance to bite back at George for his shallow little dig over his looks, too distracted at the way John’s eyes lit up when he name was mentioned. Incredibly interested, he took this as his chance to speak up, more than sick of being shut out of this playful back-and-forth game George and John had fallen into without him. If anything, John should’ve been having a laugh with him, as he was the one invited. He was the one who actually wanted to go. George never got on with anyone, aside from him!
“What’s it to you?” he gave his best tough-guy impression, which often came across as more of an egotistical flirt, not that he minded, because he was certainly attracted to John and didn’t mind sticking his neck on the line and taking a chance. He jutted out his soft chin in John’s direction, flicked his mop-top fringe out of his eyes, and smirked.
“Nothing, Ivan won’t shut up about ya, s’all.” John shrugged flippantly, seemingly resistant to Paul’s easy charms. “Think he fancies you, that one. Begged me to invite you and your little boy-toy along.”
“Ivan? No chance. He’s a good mate, but I wouldn’t go near him even if I wrapped it up twice over.”
“And this one?” he nodded to George. Paul scoffed.
“My boy-toy? No, such luck I’m afraid. Too scrawny for me.”
“Just friends then?”
“Yeah. Just good friends.”
“Good to know.”
“Is it?”
“I am actually still here you know.” George huffed, interrupting their quickfire flirting but failing to interrupt John and Paul’s staring match. It soon became aware that whatever energy was sparking between the two of them needed to run itself into the ground before he’d have a chance to just slip back in, so George took it as his opportunity to escape the weird, heated atmosphere and find his own fun. “I suppose I’ll just… go and mingle then.” He muttered, keeping the bottle of vodka clutched in his fist before pushing past Paul, disappearing into the crowd.
Paul didn’t bother watching after him. Usually, he really did think of George as something like his little baby brother (even though, as George constantly reminded him, there was only eight months between them) and was eager to look out him in situations like this where he wasn’t exactly in his element, cheer him on when he pulled a bird or light him a ciggie outside if the booze made him feel queasy- but on this night, at this strange, foreign art-school party, something was different.
Paul didn’t know what it was about this John Lennon, but within minutes of meeting, he was effectively trapped in his narrowed, squinting gaze, and he liked it.
“I don’t have my glasses on, but you actually seem like a bit of alright.” John flirted outright, apparently done with their coy game of looks and smiles. His boldness caught Paul off guard. It was no secret that he swung all kinds of ways, seeing no point in limiting his opportunity to get laid on a night out- but he found that when it came to seducing blokes, it was more of a thoughtful pursuit- all subtle nuances and innuendo before either of them were comfortable enough to advance things, right out in the open. John, however, didn’t seem like the kind of bloke who bothered waiting around for a sign, and clearly didn’t mind a slight risk of getting his head kicked in by the wrong kind of lad if it meant he had a chance to get his rocks off.
(Not that Paul was thinking about getting his rocks off with John, a bloke he’d only known five minutes. Not at all.)
“Thanks.” He stuck with his original plan- playing things as cool as possible. Being his method of choice, tried and tested fifty times over, Paul found that it usually worked well for him in maintaining an advantage over his target- but, he had to admit- this time around John had him right on the hook, and was reeling him in closer by the second. Literally- Paul wasn’t sure how- but sometime in the last few minutes John had swum his way right up into Paul’s personal space, and their faces were hovering close enough that he could smell John’s breath- beer and fag-ash mixed with minty chewing gum, smoking him out in the most disgusting, yet strangely appealing, cloud of scent.
He swallowed thickly, feeling a little nervous and certainly way too sober. “You’re not too bad either, I suppose. If you dig the fifties look.”
“You look like Elvis.” John told him with a slight laugh, reaching forwards to tuck a wayward lock of dark hair behind his ear, establishing a physical connection between them that tickled Paul like static electricity, over far too soon when John dropped his hand back by his side at safe distance. “I dig it.”
“Now that’s a compliment!” Paul laughed back, forgetting his cool in favour of geeking out at the slightest mention of possibly his favourite musician. “I bloody love Elvis.”
“Really?” John looked excited rather than repulsed at his enthusiasm, his flirtatious façade slipping away too, just as briefly, eyes lighting up.
“Yeah! He’s… well, he’s gear.”
“Gear? Who says gear?” he laughed. “I thought it was 2018, not the bloody nineteen-sixties!”
“Oh, shit- sorry,” Paul stuttered, cheeks flaming pink. He’d forgotten his one working tactic. He’d forgotten to be cool. John had mentioned Elvis and he’d fucking fallen in love, forgetting that when it came to rock and roll he turned into a dithering, pathetic fan-boy, unable to control himself as factoid after factoid burst from between his lips. “Me and George- we have this thing. When we were kids his dad told us about all the slang they used to use in the sixties and we sort of… adopted it, I guess.”
“Cool.”
“It’s lame.”
“It is pretty lame, yeah.”
“Hold on just a sec!” Paul rolled his eyes, spotting John’s disingenuous tone from a mile off. “Referencing Elvis and dressing the way you do- seems like you can hardly bash me for liking old fashioned shite.”
“Alright, you got me there, lad. Love a bit of fifties nostalgia, rock and roll. Hardcore stuff, you know.”
“I wouldn’t call be-bop-a-lu-a hardcore.”
“That’s where you’re wrong then.” John smiled, and Paul already knew he wouldn’t be able to forget the look on his face anytime soon. “It might not be heavy metal, but those classic rock and roll stars- Little Richard and Chuck Berry and Elvis… they were the original hardcore. Before hardcore even existed.”
“And I thought I was the vintage-nerd.” Paul laughed. “Do you dig the seventies too then? Would explain why it’s like a low budget Studio 54 in here.”
It was a joke, but certainly not without merit. This party was unlike any kind Paul had been to before- people were gathered in various corners, all with fags or (if his nose was detecting correctly) joints stuffed in their mouths or balanced between their fingers, uncaring of the smoke curling into the expensive wallpaper. Old-school rock’n’roll blasted around them, and in the corner of his eye, Paul was sure he saw a group of lads and skinny girls in short dresses racking out lines of something white and powdery. John seemed unbothered by the debauchery that surrounded him, which struck Paul as odd, because judging by the fact that he was only eighteen and the walls were adorned with framed, faded photos and family affects, the house couldn’t’ve just been his.
“Well, there’ll certainly be no disco underneath my roof as long as I’m living and breathing, but I see what you mean.” John huffed, looking around the room, only slightly irritated. “But, could be worse I suppose. Last time I agreed to have a party, someone on LSD climbed up to my roof and tried to jump off, thinking they could fly.”
“Oh Jesus, what happened?”
“He couldn’t.”
“Right.” Paul swallowed a little awkwardly. He longed for the previous flirty atmosphere. He longed for anything that wasn’t quite so sobering. “What made you throw another after that, then?”
John shrugged. “Alex recovered. Plus, my mate Stu was meant to be coming back from Germany with his bird so, Aunty away, Lennon will play, that sort of thing.” he looked away, then, fixed his hair and cast eyes on the floor, jittering and all at once. It seemed to Paul that John was trying incredibly hard to seem nonchalant, and it definitely wasn’t working.
“You’re a good mate, then.”
“Too good.” John bit. “Didn’t even show up, the bastard. Got struck with a wave of inspiration and decided he couldn’t bare to part from his precious painting or his precious girlfriend. Artists. You know the type.”
“I can hardly talk.” Paul laughed, hoping to lighten the mood. “I’m a musician. Doesn’t get more cliché than that.”
John lifted his eyes to look at him then, and Paul was thankful to see that coy, subtle smirk return to his face. His eyes lit up again, and Paul found himself fascinated by the colour- brown, sure, but almost golden in the way they caught the light, sparkling and mysterious.
“Me too.” He said. “Not very good, mind you. But I have a go on the old strummer every now and then.”
“Well I’d love to listen.”
“I’m sure that can be arranged.”
Just as Paul thought he could feel John leaning into him even closer, gaze flicking from his eyes to his lips and back up again in tell-tale, rapid succession, their perfect little bubble was burst by a loud crash, followed by a groan, voice sounding suspiciously like it belonged to Ivan before a small crowd burst into a cheer.
John shut his eyes at let out a controlled, shaking breath.
“Fucking hell.” He muttered, revealing a dark, angry gaze that Paul was relieved not to be on the receiving end of. “’scuse me, Paul, just a sec. I promise, I’ll be back. Don’t go anywhere, right?”
Without another word, he brushed past Paul and disappeared off in the direction of the noise. Then, Paul was left alone, standing in the middle of the room, realising that he’d been at the party for a good twenty or so minutes and hadn’t poured himself a drink, had a fag, or spoken to anyone. He’d been wrapped up in John from the minute they locked eyes, and now, looking around, he realised that he didn’t actually know anyone he laid eyes on.
Part of him really wanted to stand there like a lemon and just wait for John to come back, but people were starting to give him odd looks, and if there was one thing Paul couldn’t stand, it was sticking out like a sore thumb. Being the centre of attention, he could dig, but a social pariah- he couldn’t stand the idea. He’d find John again eventually. Until then, he figured, tracking down George was his best bet.
It took him a while, canvassing the party and asking over and over again if anyone had seen a skinny lad with a mop-top bigger than his own head and eyebrows that could be seen from space until, finally, someone pointed him in the direction of the living room, telling him with a light chuckle that they’d seen some kid stumble in there earlier with a wayward group of so-called musicians. Rory star or something daft. Paul did his best not to roll his eyes. George was so bloody predictable sometimes.
As soon as he opened the living room door, Paul was hit with the pungent scent of marijuana- and not the cheap skunk they occasionally nicked from George’s big brother’s stash. No, this was some premium grass, and stepping inside, it felt as if the entire room was draped in a cloudy fog. Rock music was playing from an audio link on the television, and slipping the door closed behind him, Paul felt as if he’d been moved into some sort of separate, VIP section of the party, eyes following over to a group of boys, gathered around the big sofa.
And, of course, right in the centre Paul found his George, sunk into the crease between two sofa cushions, eyes blood-red, a fat, dopey smile sparking on his face and a fat joint hung between his lips.
“-and then,” laughed the lad sitting to his right, a blonde boy with freckles and slight chip to his tooth. “-the bird swept down and swiped the cone straight from his hands!”
“No way!” George cackled, failing to notice Paul even as he stood right in front of them, too busy leaning against the boy to his left, slightly shorter than him but nowhere near as thin, hair dark and eyes sparkling blue.
“George?” Paul cleared his throat, sick of being ignored by the giggling, stoned group. He’d hardly had much time between arriving at the party and being enthralled by John to get even a little buzzed himself, and was disappointed to notice that George’s vodka was already almost empty, and gripped in the fist of a stranger who had no problem helping himself to some pretty hefty swigs.
“Paul!” George sang, sitting up a little and waving the joint in the air as he spotted his friend. “There you are! Lads, this is Paul, remember I said-”
“-we remember,” Blue eyes chuckled. “You only mentioned him a thousand times.”
“You’re stoned.” Paul shook his head with a thin-lipped smile, amused. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen George like this, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. Paul just felt a little sorry for this new group of lads. They didn’t know George like he did. George got clingy when he was high. Paul nodded to the joint. “Who’s given you that then?”
“Ringo’s mates.” George drawled, gesturing to the blue-eyed boy as he took another strong hit. “Uh…. Bob, and Dylan.”
“Christ,” This boy, Ringo (a stupid- frankly confusing- name by Paul’s catholic-family standards) giggled, shaking his head at George with a fond smile. “How high are you, lad? It’s Bob Dylan, just the one guy!”
“Well, that’s ridiculous. Why does he get to have two first names?”
“Coming from George Harrison?”
“Still! Bob Dylan… that’s hilarious. Who gave him that?”
“His parents, I suppose.”
Rolling his eyes at their quick-fire back and forth, Paul moved a little closer until he was perched on the edge of the settee, just beside ‘Ringo’. George passed the joint over to him with a smile, and seeing as nobody else in the group seemed to object, Paul took a deep hit, grateful for something to take his mind off the boy with the teddy-curls he’d met earlier on. He still couldn’t stop thinking about John. George’s stoned ramblings weren’t nearly enough distraction.
“Thanks for bringing me Paul.” He mumbled, eyes half-closed as he practically melted into the sofa, so squished between the two boys that he was more or less in Ringo’s lap, one bony leg slung over his own. “Thanks, so much.”
“It’s alright mate,” Paul chuckled.
“Hmm… thanks, though. Really, thanks. Sorry for being… arsey… about coming.”
“It’s fine, Geo.”
“Did… did I tell you I met Ringo? Isn’t he lovely?” He grinned, knocking his head against Ringo’s fondly, eyes shut tightly.
“Jesus, lad.” Ringo chuckled, rolling his eyes. “No more smoke for you. And I told you, it’s Ritchie. Ringo is just a stupid nickname. Rory calls me it because I wear rings, and he thinks he’s funny.” He kicked out with his foot, nudging one of the other boys who sat on the floor in front of the sofa, puffing away at his own joint. The boy looked up, shooting them a filthy grin.
“I am funny!”
“Jog on.” Ringo glared, before shifting his gaze back to Paul. “Ritchie is fine, honest. Paul, isn’t it?”
“Hullo, uh, Ritchie.” He reached out awkwardly with the joint, shaking hands with the blue-eyed boy before the beaten-in politeness overtook him, and he handed the joint back over. “I’m Paul, yeah.”
Ringo had barely nodded- barely taken another hit- before George’s hands were waving into his face like a child clamouring for its parent’s attention. “Give it back now, Ringo. Please?”
“No way.”
“Ritch! Ritchie!... come on!”
“Fine.” Ringo huffed, taking another pull before handing the joint over to George, who smiled sweetly before inhaling yet another heavy lungful of smoke, pure-white whips curling out from his nostrils before he even had a chance to inhale properly. “But on your own head be it,” Ringo chided, sounding more like a protective big-brother than a stranger. The rings on his fingers gleamed as he ran a hand through his thick hair, before turning back to Paul with a smile. “Don’t worry, Paul. I’ll keep an eye on him.”
“Thanks mate.” Paul nodded, standing up from the couch. Sure, the joint had given him a small buzz, but he was nowhere near stoned enough to sit in the dark little room with these boys any longer. Their giggly, lad-like humour was lost on him, and there wasn’t a chance he was going to get stoned enough to keep up with them. There weren’t enough hours in the night- and despite everything, Paul was still thinking about John. John had told him to stay there. He was probably looking for him, right now, and a few puffs had given him a little confidence. He was desperate for a flirt, sure he’d be able to hold John’s eye contact this time without turning into a blushing, stuttering mess. “Shout me if he gives you any trouble, okay?”
“Bye Paul!” George sing-songed back at him, letting out a long slow whine as Ringo snatched the joint back and Rory launched into a story about Butlins and the beers he’d managed to swipe there when his mother wasn’t looking.
Alone and just a little high, Paul wandered back into the main room where the party carried on raging, nodding his head along to the blasting, house-shaking music, trying his best to look nonchalant as his eyes scanned across the rest of the room, searching for John. It was so loud, he could barely hear the conversations around him, teenage voices swirling into one incomprehensible blur of noise. Oddly enough, most of the people around him were smoking, so he figured John wouldn’t mind him lighting up a ciggie himself, and patted around his pockets for his pack.
Shit, Paul cursed inwardly. He’d left the fags with George. Surely they’d all been ponced by now, what with drunken George’s generous nature. There wasn’t a chance in hell he’d ever get them back.
Stilling his search for John, just for a second in favour for his new quest for fags, Paul looked around for his best chance at scoring a cig. His eyes quickly settled on a pretty red-headed girl, just the kind of anonymous pretty skirt he’d make a stab at during a party like this, George hanging on his arm, trying his best not to look bored as he was shrugged off on her dowdy friend. Meeting John so soon into the night had sort of ruined their usual routine, and Paul quickly ascertained that no matter how gorgeous this pretty ginger girl looked, there wasn’t a chance in hell she’d manage to hold his intrigue like John had.
Still, she was smoking, so he figured he’d have a good chance at poncing a fag at least. That, and maybe she knew John, and could let him know where he’d gotten to.
“’Scuse me, love.” He approached the girl and her gawky-looking, mousy-haired friend with a confident, gleaming flirty smile. “No chance I could pinch one of your smokes, is there?”
“Smokes?” the mousy-haired girl laughed, but it came out more like a bark; harsh and loud, as if she was wired on some other kind of substance. At this kind of party, with this kind of crowd, Paul wouldn’t be surprised, and did his best to keep his expression neutral. The redheaded girl said nothing, just took another pull, exhaling smoke into the air with a smile. It didn’t look like a normal cigarette, but it wasn’t a joint either. Paul couldn’t smell weed.
“A fag?” he clarified.
“I got you. Just sounds weird, init? Smokes. Sounds like something my dad would say.”
Paul did a pretty good job at not letting his smile falter. This mousy haired girl was awkward and annoying, and he still couldn’t ascertain whether she was buzzed off something stronger than grass or not. He certainly hadn’t approached them to be grilled about his quirky, archaic slang. It was just something he and George did, and once they’d started, it was hard to stop. He didn’t mind explaining it to John, laughing and blushing and letting him take the mickey. He just didn’t see the point of explaining it to her, a girl he didn’t intend to ever see again.
“Do you have one?” he kept his eyes fixed on the first girl, the red-head, who seemed better looking the closer he got to her. Her features were quite striking, hair screaming red and a neatly cut fringe brushing her eyebrows. She looked like a model- but not the slim, five-foot-ten Cindy Crawford type he was used to seeing in magazines. She looked like a home-grown English beauty. The sixties supermodel- before supermodels even existed.
He might have to come back to her, if John didn’t fancy him, after all.
“’Course.” She smiled, reaching into her little white handbag and pulling out a dark green pouch of tobacco. “They’re roll-ups though. Hope that’s okay?”
“Not a problem.”
Paul smiled and quietly watched her work, nimble white fingers rolling a perfect cigarette within a matter of minutes. Something passed between them as her eyes caught his and she passed the roll-up over, simultaneously reaching into the same bag to hand him a shiny pink plastic lighter.
“Thanks babe.” Paul couldn’t help himself, he flirted a little, shooting her a wink as he leant forwards into the flame.
“Oh God,” the mousy-haired girl suddenly said, pulling both his and the red-head’s attention, successfully interrupting their little moment. “Looks like John and Cyn are at it again.”
Paul span around instantly, following mousy-hair’s gaze over to the other side of the room. John was there, finally, Paul had spotted him- but John didn’t see him at all. John was too busy looking at someone else.
Someone blonde. Blonde and pretty, with winged eyeliner and a tight cream dress, arms folded across her chest, legs folded one-over-the other, looking close to tears from where she sat right in the centre of John’s lap.
“Who- who’s that then?” Paul asked, stuttering slightly as he pulled the fag from between his lips and narrowed his eyes, watching as John and the girl, Cyn, or something, continued their quiet little dispute. John didn’t look angry, but he was certainly frustrated, talking it seemed a mile a minute with a tightly pulled frown, rubbing his hand up and down the girl’s creamy thigh in a way he must have thought reassuring. Clearly it wasn’t, as the girl only seemed to be growing more and more upset by the second.
“That’s John, he lives here.” The red-headed girl said, rolling her eyes slightly. “And that’s Cynthia, his girlfriend. Honestly, I don’t know why she stays with him. They’re always arguing- usually about him, fucking around behind her back.”
Girlfriend. Paul took another strong pull from his fag, but he didn’t even register the smoke burning at the back of his throat. Inside, he felt cold, frozen even. He couldn’t tear his eyes away, and the girls gossiping continued back and forth around him until he couldn’t hear anything else, just their high-pitched, judgemental nattering. Everything else faded away. Everything except John.
John and his girlfriend.
“She loves him, I suppose.”
“She’s an idiot.”
“Don’t be so harsh, Jane. John loves her too, you know!”
“Funny way of showing it, if you ask me.”
“You should see the way they are together when it isn’t like this. John writes her poems and stuff. It’s all dead romantic.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it.”
He was still staring, completely gormless as even the girls high-pitched chatter began to dissolve around him- and Paul was surprised it took John as long as he did to notice, brown eyes glancing over by chance as he stopped talking and finally let his Cyn have a go. It didn’t seem like he was listening to a single word she said as he locked eyes with Paul. His expression was more or less blank, but his eyes seemed to widen slightly.
Caught red handed. Paul thought. If anything, John certainly looked guilty.
“I’m going to smoke this outside.” He said to the two girls, forcing himself to look away, gesturing to the fag that was still abandoned in his hand. “Too crowded in here for me.”
“I’m Jane. I didn’t actually catch your name-” redhead said, all bedroom eyes and subtle smile, but Paul wasn’t really in the mood for a flirt anymore and ignored her outright, rushing as quickly as he could off into the garden. The house was suddenly too hot, too full of people and smoke and noise and the moment he made it outside the cold air brushed Paul’s skin with a wave of relief. It hurt, of course it still hurt, especially after the connection he’d thought he felt- the connection he was sure John had felt too- suddenly becoming obsolete. But Paul was nothing if not a showman. He took a breath, straightened his sunken spine and adjusted his shirt, taking a drag of his smoke in the welcoming cool air.
All was not lost. Paul knew it would be easy to circle back into the room, pick up that red-head- Jane- and maybe get her number or a cheeky kiss or something more. Failing that, he could’ve found his way back into the living room, squeezed himself onto the edge of the couch next to Ringo, laughing at their nonsensical ramblings and watching little Georgie get so high that he couldn’t open his eyes. Even if his heart wasn’t really in it- he could try. Even if only to not let John know just how much of a blow he felt in the pit his stomach.
It took him a few minutes to finish his fag and regulate his breathing, but soon enough, Paul realised he wasn’t actually alone outside in the little garden. There were five other boys huddled around a bench, two in the middle and one on the edge, one stood behind and one crouched on the damp grass in front, all puffing on their own smokes and talking amongst themselves, glancing over at him every few seconds or so. Their clothes were loud and bright- the one in the middle who Paul thought might have been kind of hot if he didn’t look like he weighed seven stone dripping wet and like a strange mix between fourteen and forty-five. He was looking right at Paul, too, ignoring his mates chatting around him, fixing him with a dark smile.
“Alright mate?” he called, accent thick and cockney. Another Londoner, Paul thought, remembering the haughty posh accent Jane had shot at him just before. He’s a long way from home.
“Fine thanks.” Paul replied, turning to face the lads, who were now all staring at him blankly. He didn’t move towards them, but did his best not to look at all intimated, standing with his hands on his hips in a way he hoped seemed casual.
“Fancy a beer?” the one on the right of the skinny one asked, all shaggy-dark hair hanging low over his eyebrows, half a smile on his face. He reached into a small carboard crate at their feet, and picked out a can, holding it forwards in offering. Shrugging, Paul supposed they seemed harmless enough, and made his way over to the bench.
“Thanks.” He cracked the beer and took a strong drink. God knows he needed it if he was going to last at this party much longer.
“Have ‘em.” The blonde one said. “Dunno why you bothered buying ‘em, Keith. You know there’s no point drinking when we’re on this stuff.”
Before Paul had a chance to thank him, let alone ask what exactly he meant by this stuff, the blonde boy reached into the inside pocket of his blazer and withdrew a small, pink folded up ticket. Paul wasn’t stupid, and even though he hadn’t exactly grown up in the roughest part of Liverpool like some lads, he knew the standard procedure for coke when he saw it.
“Give us a toot.” The skinny one reached forwards and took the ticket from his friend with only little resistance, unfolding it carefully to reveal a hefty portion of white powder. He took a pinch between his rough and beaten fingers, stuffed it in his nose and sniffed, throwing his head back with an excitable yell, shaking his hair from side to side, laughing like a hyena.
“Haven’t you had enough Mick?” one asked.
“Impossible.” Mick replied, eyes going glassy as he wiped away the white dust clinging to the rim of his nostrils with back his hand. “Fancy a go, uh-”
“-Paul.”
“Paul. Yeah.” Mick smiled, maybe a little flirtatiously, but Paul supposed he couldn’t be sure. Some people were just friendly like that. Maybe John had just been friendly, earlier. Maybe it was Paul’s fault, looking into things that just weren’t there. “Have a toot.” Mick said, holding out the ticket. “You look like you might need it.”
“Thanks.” Paul took what he was offered, if only to be polite. It was like he told his brother Mike- drugs were expensive, and, most of the time, relatively harmless if you only tried it once or twice. If people were good enough to offer you powdered gold wrapped up in a paper ticket, there didn’t seem much point in saying no. Just because dad wouldn’t have dared do such a thing back in the 1880s or whenever the fuck he’d grown up, didn’t mean they couldn’t take advantage of the fact that they were young and (fairly) robust.
The coke didn’t hit him straight away- but time moves strangely when you’re high. One minute Paul was sipping his beer and having pleasant enough conversation with Mick and his rag-tag group of cockney mates and the next minute he’d taken two more hits and his eyes felt heavy, his teeth felt like they’d swollen to twice their own size inside his mouth and his skin was hot- hot enough that he was stripping off his leather jacket and abandoning it on the bench, laughing hysterically with tears in his eyes at something one of the other boys- was it Keith or was it Brian, he couldn’t remember?- said. Paul was laughing until his gut aches and his fingers tingled, upper lip almost completely numb from the coke he’d let Mick swipe across his gums.
Paul was laughing so hard, he didn’t even notice John enter the fray until it was too late, and he was stood right in front of them all leather and almost-blonde curls, staring down the other five boys with a look so dark, when Paul caught it for a second, he suddenly felt the outside chill, and pulled his jacket back onto his shoulders.
“Alright John?” Mick asked with a rough and ready grin, eyes sparkling with challenge. To his credit, John held his gaze, teeth gritted, arms folded across his chest.
“All the better for seeing you kid. Mind fucking off with your so-called band of little rat faced fucks so I can have a word with Paulie here?”
It was harsh. Harsher than Paul was expecting, for sure, but Mick didn’t flinch. None of the lads did, so he suspected this wasn’t exactly out of character, for either of them to be so curt. Paul didn’t actually move, instead watched on in silence as Mick stood up, not exactly eye-to-eye with John- more like eye-to-chin due to the fact that he only stood at around five-eight and John was probably just shy of six feet- but held his gaze nonetheless. A moment of thick tension passed between the two, John peering at Mick down his nose with dismissive authority, Mick squinting up at John with that cocksure grin and those wild, sparkling eyes, pupils so enlarged his eyes almost looked entirely black rather than blue.
“Come on lads.” He smiled, still staring at John, but nodding for his mates to rise from the bench, which they did, wordlessly. “Let’s get inside. Cold out here.”
The other boys were quick to follow their leader, gathering up their jackets and their crate of beers, moving back towards John’s house like a seamless, shapeless blob of shaggy hair and spotty skin. Mick was the last, still locked in his spot opposite John until he finally gave up their little staring contest and turned around to shoot Paul a cheeky wink.
“Good meeting you, Paul.”
“Nice meeting you too, Mick.”
“What did he give ya?” Was the first question on John’s lips as he glared after Mick’s disappearing slender form, narrow hips swinging side to side as he trotted confidently back inside the house to be met with a cheer from the adoring masses. Paul huffed at John’s hostility ruining his nice little haven and rolled his eyes.
“It was just a bit of sniff, John, nothing special. Not that I have to explain myself to you.”
“You oughta be more careful, s’all.” John replied, flopping down next to Paul on the bench, close enough that their knees touched, despite the fact that Paul had scooted all the way to the edge as soon as the others had left. “Mick and his mates, they run with a pretty hardcore crowd-”
“-save me the lecture, John.” Paul rolled his eyes. “Go back inside and tell someone who gives a fuck. Cynthia, maybe?”
“Paul, look-”
“-Save it.” Paul couldn’t be bothered to hear John’s excuses. For the first time all evening, he hadn’t actually been thinking about John at all- sitting outside with Mick and his friends, getting high and swapping silly half-true stories. In all honestly, he couldn’t really remember exactly what they’d been talking about despite the fact it was only minutes ago, but he’d certainly been enjoying himself royally before John showed up and reminded him of his disastrous attempt at romance. John had ruined enough of his night. All Paul cared about now was drinking himself silly, having George drag him home, and forgetting the whole dreadful affair come morning.
There’d be other parties. There’d even be other blokes, Paul supposed. Life didn’t end with this John Lennon, some prick he’d only just met. The world would keep on spinning without him.
Paul got up to stand and John followed him all the way over to the door, pulling him back around the corner and into the dark garden. Even the touch of John’s hand on his skin was fucking electric- and Paul’s heart stuttered. Maybe it was just the coke.
(He hoped it was just the coke.)
“Look, No offence John, you seem alright, but fuck off- yeah?” he shrugged off John’s touch with a slightly aggressive edge, stepping back and avoiding John’s eye completely. It didn’t matter that the moment their skin-to-skin connection severed, Paul ached to feel John’s touch again. It didn’t mean anything at all- not if Paul wouldn’t let it.
“Oi! What’s changed your tune?”
“I’m not gonna be some… some bit on the side for you to piss off your girlfriend, John. You can get that out of your head right now, okay?”
“What?” John spluttered. Paul narrowed his eyes.
“I saw you with her. Cynthia, right? She’s your bird, isn’t she?”
“Well…” John looked as if he was considering lying, for a second, but the flat, bitter glare in Paul’s eye warned him better. “Yeah,” he admitted with a small sigh. “She is, but-”
“No buts, John. You can’t just use me to get at her. Piss her off because you’re having it off with a lad right in front of her- I fucking know blokes like you John!” Paul was yelling now. He wasn’t sure when he’d started yelling, but John’s anxious glance back towards to party told him all he needed to know. He stopped for a small, shaking breath, and lowered his voice. He wouldn’t cause a scene. He wouldn’t let himself be embarrassed, not again.
“Paul-” John’s voice was softer now, and he crept forwards just slightly, but Paul wasn’t having it, not for a second. He darted backwards like a startled animal, ignoring John’s stupid brown puppy-eyes, and gripped his fists by his sides.
“I’ve gotten myself hurt chasing after blokes like you before, John. I won’t do it again.” He said quietly, looking up just in time to see John’s deep-set frown.
“You think that’s why I came onto you? To get at Cyn?”
“Well,” Paul blushed. “Why else?”
“Might be hard to imagine, but maybe it’s because I like ya, you twat.”
“Oh,” Paul groaned, rolling his eyes. “Fucking pull the other one John, it’s got bells on-”
“I do!”
“You don’t even know me!”
“You’re clueless, son.” John laughed. He had the audacity to laugh, and Paul was outraged.
He fumed, “How?”, but John just kept on smiling at him, kept on looking at him like that, like he cared, and it made his insides go all funny. He’d only had a couple swigs of vodka and two beers, half a joint and a bit of coke- but Paul could feel the drugs in his head and the alcohol in his stomach, reacting violently against that look. John’s expression had gone all soft and fuck if he wasn’t gorgeous.
(Paul hated him.)
“Paul, you moron,” he said quietly, reaching forwards and taking one of Paul’s hands into his own. “I’ve only been trying to meet ya for months.”
“What?” Paul spluttered. He was confused before. John made him feel quite confused in general. Now, however, he was completely gobsmacked.
“God, I knew you were pretty, but I didn’t think you’d be thick,” John said with a teasing laugh, squeezing his hand gently. “Why do you think Ivan harassed you to come to this party? I begged him to invite ya. I’ve been trying to get him to introduce us for ages, but every time you ended up being busy or going somewhere else.”
“But how- I mean…” Paul couldn’t get his words out- a strange experience, considering how articulate he prided himself on being. But no- it was impossible to be articulate, barely possible to even be literate with John looking at him like that, holding his hand. Paul’s brain was on fire, thinking back to all the seemingly insignificant times over the last few months that Ivan had mentioned John Lennon- little comments about his poetry, his taste in music, his guitar playing. Paul hadn’t given it any mind at the time, but now, he supposed, stringing it all together, maybe it had meant something. “Had you, like, seen me before, or?”
“Yeah.” It was John’s turn to feel the pressure now, cheeks flushing with embarrassment as he avoided Paul’s eye, squinting and scratching at the back of his head. “I- uh… I saw you about… six months ago, I think it was. At the cavern, dancing. Having a fucking whale of a time, moving like a pro- it was bloody… mesmerising. But… I was with Cyn and I was… well, not in a good state, so I didn’t approach ya. After, Ivan told me he was your mate from that fancy grammar school. Figured you’d be too clever for me, a washed-up art student who failed all his exams, but… I figured I’d have a go.”
“And you liked me… all this time?” Paul was still dumbfounded. This was John fucking Lennon. He wasn’t a washed-up Art-school twat. He was a real artist- he’d done commissions, Ivan had said! What the hell was he doing lusting after Paul, of all people? Of all the doe-eyed little pricks in the world, why did John want to risk everything for a quick go on him? “Just after seeing me once, at the Cavern?”
“Well, I liked the look of you, obviously. And then… well, we just met now and I don’t know about you but- I felt… something, you know? A connection. Feels like I’ve known ya all my life.” He said the last part with a nervous laugh, taking a pause before daring to move closer, fingers still curled around Paul’s, that same static electricity buzzing through them. Paul couldn’t help but nod in agreement, despite every fibre of moral standing screaming at him to pull away and run back into the house as fast as he could. John moved closer, still, dipping his head towards Paul’s, and suddenly, it became even harder to imagine pulling himself away.
“I…” Paul knew, in that moment, he was lost. He was back on the hook, and Lennon was reeling him in at an almighty speed. “You’ve got a girlfriend John. It isn’t right.”
John gave a flippant shrug. “Lots of things aren’t right.” He said. “Never stopped me before.”
“John.”
“Come on, Macca.” John’s voice was low and as supple as velvet, so close that Paul could feel his beery breath tickling against his lips. “Live a little, ay?”
There wasn’t going to be any further convincing after that. Paul would have to just blame it on the drink, or maybe the drugs, because suddenly he was kissing John fucking Lennon, all hot and wet and desperate, letting John move their intertwined fingers to his hips and give a squeeze as the other reached up, carding through Paul’s hair and tipping his head back so he had no choice but to open his mouth, let John’s tongue swim its way right down his gob, sliding against his all heavy and ash-tasting. By the time they pulled apart, Paul’s mouth felt almost swollen, covered in saliva that could’ve belonged to either of them, he didn’t care, not with the way his heart was hammering against his chest, John’s forehead resting against his forehead, brown eyes baring into his fucking soul.
“Tell me you feel it too,” John all but begged, chest heaving. “Fuck, Paul… tell me you felt it-”
“I-I do. I did.” Paul stuttered. “I feel it- I… I want-”
“-I want it too.”
“But we can’t, I mean- we shouldn’t.”
“There are a lot of things in life we probably shouldn’t do- and I’d know, cause I’ve done ‘em all.” John laughed, kissing him again chastely, but even that brief brush of lips had Paul chasing his touch like a lovesick school-girl. “-And this doesn’t feel like one of them to me.”
“I hardly even know you, but I already hate it when you’re right.” Paul shook his head with a grin, turning his face away as John pressed kisses into his cheek and his jaw, teeth teasing over the light stubble at his chin.
“Come on, love.” John pleaded, subtly walking them back in the direction of the house as he sucked a little red mark into the underside of Paul’s jaw, their tryst still concealed by the shadows of the shrubbery. “Come upstairs?”
“What if someone sees?” Paul asked, pulling away from John briefly enough to turn, eyeing the party inside. Nobody seemed to be paying attention to them at all, only a few stragglers hanging around in the kitchen, talking amongst themselves. John hardly seemed to care about being seen, teeth exploring the side of Paul’s face until they found his ear, nibbling at the lobe and sending a red-hot shock down from the back of his neck to the tip his cock. He was already getting hard, which wasn’t a good sign if he wanted to exercise any kind of restraint. Certainly, now, there was no turning back for either of them.
“Just follow my lead.” John muttered into his ear, dropping one last kiss to the skin before detangling himself from Paul all together. He nodded silently for Paul to follow on behind him, and with easy-going swagger and confidence, bowled back into the house. John didn’t make eye contact with a single person in the kitchen, just headed straight through, Paul following sheepishly behind with his eyes low and his fists shoved into his trouser pockets, hoping to God that nobody was a lick sober enough to pay much mind to their dishevelled clothes or the love-bite that was quickly blossoming at his neck.
“Hey John-”
“-Give me a second.” John’s voice was clearly distracted as he ignored the person calling his name from the hallway and swung his way around the banister, climbing the stairs. Nobody gave him a second look- it was his house after all- and by the time Paul came past, only one or two paces behind, they’d already turned back to their conversations, unbothered. By some unbeknownst miracle, it actually seemed as if they were getting away with it- and Paul couldn’t help but grin smugly to himself when John took his hand again, tugging him into the nearest room and closing the door behind them.
It was certainly John’s room- but Paul didn’t have a chance to admire the stack of vinyl’s nor the giant rose-coloured glass bong sitting on the bedside table because John’s lips were against his again, drawing him back into this magical new-world where there wasn’t a party full of delinquent teenagers ingesting questionable substances downstairs, John didn’t have a girlfriend and Paul wasn’t honest-to-God maybe falling in love with him, then and there in that tiny little teenage bedroom, John’s fingers working their way underneath his shirt, grabbing at his skin in handfuls, panting against his neck “-do you want this?” as Paul nodded desperately, more desperate than he’d ever felt before, and he told John so- told John that he could take whatever the hell he wanted, as long as he didn’t stop anytime soon.
By the time they were both naked and John was working his magic hands across every inch of Paul’s skin, he knew that he was completely lost. It might have been the coke fucking with his sense of time again, but Paul wasn’t sure if he’d come first- if John had come first or if maybe, by some miracle, they’d done so at the same time. All he knew for sure was that this wasn’t like a regular fumble between the sheets with some random stranger. There was an energy between them- a connection that he’d never quite felt before, and when John stood up, naked, and padded across the room to fish a tightly wrapped joint out of his sock-draw, Paul felt downright foolish- because the second John’s skin separated from his, he missed his touch, and was desperate to feel him again.
They sat up slightly against John’s puffy pillows, John’s arm tucked around the back of Paul’s head and a plastic ashtray balanced between them, resting on John’s abdomen. The bedsheets were more or less abandoned at the foot of the bed to compensate for the sweaty heat radiating around them, but Paul wasn’t embarrassed to be naked. It felt as if John had seen more of him here than anyone else ever had.
“That’s bad-ass.” He said, feeling like he had to say something after the minutes of silence (silence that should’ve been awkward, for God’s sake, but instead was undeniably comfortable) passed on between them without marker.
“Hm?”
“That poster.” Paul nodded to the wall where a blown-up Bowie mugshot stared back at him, right between a framed vintage concert poster for The Jimi Hendrix Experience, all swirling and psychedelic, tucked neatly behind a glass frame and a faded Chuck Berry wall calendar with messy ink scratches over most of the days. “Bowie. Legend.”
“I think my auntie knew I was up to something unsavoury when I stuck that up right at the foot of my bed.” John laughed through the smoke, voice sounding all gravelly and high and satisfied. It was like sex in waveform, and Paul knew he’d happily get used to the sound if given half a chance. “Wanked myself off silly when I was thirteen every night locking eyes with old Dave.”
“Couldn’t you just use the internet like a normal kid?” Paul laughed, cuddling closer as John handed him the joint, smoke curling between them. John shrugged, and with the arm stretched across Paul’s back, he tickled his shoulder gently, fondly, intimately. Was it possible to be intimate with someone you’d only just met? Paul never would’ve thought so before- but here they were, all pink and naked, passing a joint back and forth whilst making (seemingly) menial conversation.
“I’m authentic, I suppose. Even with wanking material. Don’t see harm in doing it the old-fashioned way.”
“There’s something poetic there.”
“Wanking pre-pubescents? It’s one hell of an image.”
They both giggled at that, and Paul didn’t know if it was just because of the weed or because they just seemed to get each other. He liked John’s razor-sharp wit and recognised his brash, aggressive sniping as what it truly was- nothing more than a short stab at wry humour. Likewise, John didn’t seem infuriated at his drawling sarcasm as most often did, even George. John wouldn’t let himself be intimidated by Paul’s eye-rolls and curt laughter. He just took it all in and gave back as good as he got.
Paul was pulled from his thoughts by a sudden weight bouncing on the bed, startling him. For a second, he thought it’d all come crashing down and they’d been caught in the act- but he was quickly proved wrong- instead laying eyes on a pure-white cat (save for four adorable inky-black paws) purring and cautious as it crept over his chest and nosed at his face, whiskers twitching curiously, exploring its new environment. Paul handed the joint back over to John and smiled, reaching up to rub at the cats funny little frowning face, earning himself a deep purr for his troubles.
“Shit, sorry. Shoo him away if he’s annoying you.”
“Ha, he’s alright.” Paul scratched at the cat’s chin, smiling as he felt paws kneading into his bare chest. “Hi kitty.”
“That’s Elvis.” John reached forwards to stroke along the cat’s back and tail, but Elvis seemed far more interested in this new, foreign visitor, and butted his head against Paul’s chin. “I kept him up here… he doesn’t like noise. Doesn’t like people, usually.”
Paul looked across at John, eyes glittering as Elvis settled comfortably on his chest, curling himself into a neat little white ball. “I’m not just people, though, am I?” it was supposed to be a throwaway tease, but Paul felt his own insecurities, rearing their ugly little faces through the guise of shallow flirting, and didn’t realise he was holding his breath until John replied.
“No, you really aren’t.”
Paul let out the breath he was holding and smiled. John hadn’t brushed him off, hadn’t laughed- he just shifted closer, leaning up on his arm to look over Paul, gaze trailing from his chest up to his face, settling on his eyes, unblinking.
“John!” a shout from downstairs interrupted their moment, and John groaned, dragging himself away and forcing himself out of bed. Paul watched as he fumbled around on the floor for his underwear and his jeans, and gently brushed Elvis away.
“That can’t be good.” He said, after a loud crash rang through the house, followed by another, significantly more frantic, call of John’s name.
“What time is it?” John squinted as he checked his phone, buttoning up his jeans with one hand. He looked fucking delectable- all shirtless and sweaty with his hair a mess and Paul’s marks littering his chest and shoulders, but now was hardly the time to suggest another round. They’d been lucky enough not to be caught this first time. “Fuck, one-thirty. I say it’s time I cleared these bastards out, don’t you?”
“Probably.” Paul agreed, standing up from the bed and slipping on his own boxers whilst John got back into his t-shirt. He ruffled at his fringe in a half-hearted attempt to look as if he hadn’t just had his brain shagged out by the host, but it didn’t help much.
“Hey-” John stilled, turning back to face Paul just in time to spot him gathering up his own clothes. “You don’t have to leave you know,” he seemed a little shy, a little sheepish, which was a completely foreign concept to Paul considering how they’d just spent the last forty minutes or so. “You- I mean I’d… I’d love it if you stayed.”
Paul smiled, zipping up the fly of his jeans. “Of course I’ll stay. I just want to check on George, s’all. You head down, I’ll follow a little while after. Avoid suspicion and that, yeah?”
“Yeah.” John said. If he was trying to play it cool, it wasn’t working. Paul could see his grin the minute he turned his back, reflected off the tiny mirror stuck to his wardrobe. He was pleased, and more than that, whatever barmy, magical feeling Paul had felt between them- John felt it too. That was all the reassurance he needed, for now.
John still had a girlfriend, sure. Paul had still broken his rule about sleeping with boys who had girlfriends, yeah. But those were problems for Morning Paul. Right-now Paul had the tail end of the joint John had left in the ashtray to soothe him to sleep. Morning Paul could deal with the fucking hangover.
As John got himself busy filtering through the dwindling party-goers, kicking everyone out and dealing with any immediate spillages, Paul wandered into the living room with hope that George would still be there. However, the room was abandoned, with nothing but the strong lingering smell of weed and a full ashtray to remind him that they’d even been there at all. Figuring John would need a head-start on clean-up the following morning before his parents returned, Paul cracked open the window and drew back the curtains with hope of airing out the room a little over night, before gathering up the ashtray and the empty beer cans. He walked it all back into the kitchen, dumping it in the makeshift bin-bag as the last few standing said their goodbyes to John and wandered out into the night.
“I think this is yours.” A voice said, and Paul looked up to spot a red-eyed, tired looking Ringo, standing in the doorway of the kitchen with a soft smile on his face and a body slung over his shoulder. Paul couldn’t help but laugh. At least George didn’t weigh much, looking like little more than a sack of potatoes, draped over his new friend.
“Oh God. How much did he have?” came John’s voice, entering the kitchen just behind them with an amused smirk and another lit joint in his mouth, which he didn’t hesitate in passing over to Ringo. Paul didn’t want to imagine what kind of night he’d ended up having, but he looked like he needed to sleep for a week or maybe more.
“Maybe too much. Where d’you want him?”
Paul looked at John, which was a mistake, because the moment they caught eyes, he couldn’t stop the slow spreading grin from taking over his face, uncaring that Ringo was right there in the room, watching them.
“Sofa should be fine, Ritchie.” He said, giggling like a fucking bird as John shot him a dirty wink. “We’ll just have to crash here.”