Chapter Text
“John would have emerged from the mass of the population as a man to reckon with. He may not have been a singer or a guitarist… but he would most certainly have been a Something. You cannot contain a talent like this.” - Brian Epstein
Liverpool, 1961
The water has a rhythm not unlike a dull and heavy heartbeat.The swell of each wave will slap against the framework holding up the dock with a thwacking sound that has grated against John Lennon’s ears for almost a year now. He can hear it when he crawls into bed at night. He can hear it in the beer that sloshes about in his glass at the pub down the street. He can taste the salt every time he licks over his lips, feel it ingrained in his skin no matter how long he stands under the hot spray of a shower. The grit and grime still coating him somehow despite the harsh scrubbing at his skin. The sluggish pulse of the water, all murky and greyish, lulls him into a daze. He’s leaning on the pier, fingers interlocked in front of him with his unwavering stare fixed on the faint scrape of ashy black over his wrist. Stuart had pressed his thumb over a stick of charcoal and stamped John that morning with a sheepish smile and a packed bag slung over his shoulder.
“Child prodigy Stu-fucking-Sutcliffe,” John exhaled a shaky laugh into the collar of Stuart’s jacket as they hugged goodbye at the bus station, swarms of weary looking travellers shuffling around them.
“I’ll see you soon, alright? ‘M not deserting you, mate,” Stuart reassured him, but his glittering eyes said different. John had huffed and made bitter remarks when he had first told him he had gotten a scholarship in Paris, and he had almost unravelled entirely when Stuart insisted that he wasn’t abandoning him. What a fucking joke . But there was no time for that sort of cruelty as he stood and waved Stuart off as the bus groaned to a start. His lanky figure hanging halfway out the window as he called out another round of goodbyes, all that frost that had enveloped his heart and raged within him now gone slack and damp, making way for a profound sense of loss.
Bitterness smoulders in the pit of his chest and the all the resentment he had been whirling in since he started this fucking job has his jaw clenched in a grind that’ll start to ache soon enough. He scrapes his thumbnail against the mark, wondering what sort of mark he’d leave on someone he was going to bail on. Cyn immediately springs into mind and he hates that. Hates himself.
“Lennon! Ye goin’ t’ jus’ stand there or do your fucking job? I’m not paying ye to wank off!” a voice, gruff and booming, calls out to him and John doesn’t even flinch. He just huffs a sour laugh, paying no mind to anything but the collapse of his building frustration. In a glorious moment of revelation, possibly of biblical proportions, he turns on the heels of his rubber boots and grins wickedly.
“Ye couldn’t afford my rate, anyhow!” he quips back and marches forward, hands stuffed in the pockets of his coat.
The older man glares at him, all ruddy cheeks and grey eyes, “Always joking about, aye? Fucking hell, Len- Hey! Where are you off to?!”
“To the pub, need a drink,” John brushes past him, making a point to plow his shoulder into the side of his boss, “Quittin’ time, an’ all tha’”
“Quitting time?!” he scoffs, exasperated.
“It’s my time now, Dick. I’ll send ye a postcard!” the wind whips around him, cold and sharp, though he hardly cares.
“You daft fucking twat!! Don’t let me catch ye crawling back here when yer dead broke!”
With a manic laugh and clumsy footing, John races across the road and narrowly misses a truck rolling along at a snail's pace. He shouts gleefully when the driver rolls down the window and curses at him with violent gestures, practically skipping along the pavement as he rushes to the closest decent pub. He ought to celebrate this before common sense can catch him.
-
He pushes himself up against the door of the Gambier Terrace flat, all drowsy limbs and fuzzy fingertips. Not able to navigate the door handle in his condition, he growls a string of slurred expletives, finally giving in and knocking a loose fist against the door so that it rattles the frame.
“Stuuu,” he calls out, imitating a wolf’s howl as he slumps over, pressing half of his face into the wood panelled door, “Open the fucking door! I don’t have fleas, I swear.”
Before he can register the fact that the neighbours are angrily shushing him from their windows and cultivate the appropriate response, he manages to twist the key and unlock the door.
“Even the fleas won’t have ya,” he imitates a typical Sutcliffe response as he squints against the dark. When he flicks on the lamp in the living room, the space around him washes over in honey-warm hues and it immediately induces a sleepy flutter of his lashes.
Oh, right. Stu’s gone...
His muscles feel like thick jelly as he attempts to steer himself along the creaking floorboards with one palm flat against the wall, the other hand stretched out in front of his face. Lucidity is slipping, the dark water from the docks gushing through the cracks - he can just see it. When he makes it to his room he falls rather gracelessly onto the mattress, face down. The pale gold that he feels swirling low in his stomach is drawing him closer and closer to sleep. His mind is nothing but a caramel haze, drifting slowly, fading as his eyelids droop over. Though, the absence of a record playing softly and a frenzied art student painting well into ungodly hours of the morning stirs him a little. He gropes around for the blanket, everything too heavy and too much of an effort, tugging it up over his body.
As his mind sinks and stews in ebony lethargy, so too does the remaining scrap of hope he has for himself.
-
The food runs out the same morning the postcard arrives in the mail.
Johnny!
Hoping you’ll visit soon. Postcards alone won’t do us justice!
All the best. Miss you already.
Stu
John doesn’t know whether he wants to tear it to shreds or keep it under his pillow.
The flat is a right mess, though it had always been that way. But it seems unbalanced now that Stuart’s belongings have been stripped from their usual places. The easel in the corner, the canvases propped up against the walls and all the little bits and pieces that John didn’t realise he’d ever miss. All he had left behind was a tattered shirt he used as a paint rag and most of his record collection. John shuffles through them throughout the day, sitting by the window and smoking the last of the cigarettes he had swiped from Pete last week.
Cyn is clattering about in the kitchen as she cleans up after him. Bless her. Centuries from now, historians will be scratching their heads trying to figure out why she’s stuck with him as long as she has, he thinks. He’s not any closer to the divine answer then they would be.
“You should find a new flatmate before the rent is due again, save yourself the stress,” she suggests, soapy suds splashing over her forearms as she scrubs at a coffee-stained mug.
“Stu was the only one left that could stand living with me,” John replies, curled up by the opened window with the very last cigarette hanging from his thin lips.
Cynthia chuckles, “Cut from the same filthy cloth, you two.”
John stabs the butt of the ciggie into a smoking ashtray by his ankle, “Doesn’t matter now, though, does it? He’s up and left me.”
A beat of silence, “We’ll go visit him soon. Make a proper trip of it.”
John hums, irritation beginning to prickle up his spine at the incessant noise, at his own stupid thoughts. His stomach is twisting in ravenous pain but he hardly cares, more concerned about the fucking noise that comes with having another person around him. He swings his legs over to plant his feet on the floor and pads over to the kitchen, watching his girlfriend wipe down the bench he leans against.
“Reckon I should ‘ave followed him,” he states with a controlled expression, testing.
Cynthia’s rhythm slows to a halt, a sadness flickering over her features when she turns to face John, “Would that make you happy?”
John bites down on the inner flesh of his cheek, “Might do.”
He shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly, teeth scraping against his bottom lip and watches her reaction. She nods as if she understands, but how could she? Half the time she knows him better than anyone else, even Stuart, and yet there are times where he feels so far from her. Like he’s being dragged down by his ankles into the fiery cracks of the earth and she’s up above floating on a fucking cloud.
A stoic anger is nipping at his tongue, teasing cruelty out of him.
“Might go for it anyway,” he feels a simmering something curling around him as he pushes out one last blow, “Not much for me here, anyroad.”
A swoop of heavy remorse has his eyes diverting to his socked feet, though his peripheral vision gives him a fair indication of the crestfallen look Cyn has just before she reaches for her bag. He feels like shite for it, the sour rustling of guilt behind his ribs as he watches her wordlessly walk to the door.
“Take care of yourself, John,” she gives him one last look, pleaful for his own sake, and it feels like a punch to the gut.
-
He has nothing in his system but a cold piece of crumbed fish, a handful of chips and a whole lot of beer as he walks along the pavement. It’s been a week since he spoke to Cyn, and his head just feels like it’s full of dust, of stupidity and fucking nothing. No job, no hope. Mimi would wrangle the truth out of him soon enough and probably have him out to dry for not bothering to keep his life in some sort of order. But art is the only thing he wants to do, the only thing he can. The only chance he has at some kind of fulfilment. It fucking hurts that he feels closer to death than he does to some kind of life.
Faceless figures brush past him as he walks, preferring to keep his destination vague and buried deep underneath his awareness. The rain-slick streets glimmer under lamplight. He keeps his brow low and his hands in his pockets, expression grim as he feels. The night air is chilled and damp, seeping through the layers of fabric he’s wearing. Curiosity killed the cat, he muses , but satisfaction brought it back.
There’s a burst of music as a trio of men exit a bar, cackling drunkenly. They’re sailors, John observes as he slows to a stop, noting the building they’ve exited has no windows to peer through. The sailors grip each other to keep themselves steady as they disappear into the navy-violet night. A crackling of heat flashes low in his belly as he leans against the wall of the establishment, nerves electric and pulsing, the only outlet for it being an anxious tapping of his boot against the concrete.
An eruption of noise and light once again upsets the low hum of peace when the door swings open. John licks over his lips and keeps his eyes on the ground. The miserable soaked earth beneath his feet and the starless sky above do nothing to dull the white hot tension holding him together. Two brunette men with soft features glance at him with detached curiosity as they pass by, the heels of their boots clicking along the pavement as John scratches at the skin next to his thumbnail, a choked feeling now tightening around his throat. Sobriety is creeping up on him, giving a whole new wave of nerves more room to have his heart racing. The phantom whisper of curiosity keeps him on edge, wanting to claw at his skin. He doesn’t want to go back to that empty flat with all those blank pieces of paper and scribbled out lines of awful poetry. He’ll go mad if he has to endure another night without the sounds of Stuart painting in the next room. If he has to sit with himself alone for another goddamn minute.
A car rounds the corner and moves steady and slow along the road, the rumbling of the engine making John’s heart hammer. The tires let out a whine as the vehicle stops at the side of the street just across from him. The dark window rolls down and a man, calm and curious, peers out at him. They watch each other for a stretched out moment of stillness. The cold that had bathed his skin vanishes, a rattling of thunder bursting in his chest. A heat licks up his core, shocking his system. The man steps out his car, eyes flickering back and forth between John and the door to the bar as he smooths a hand over his sweater. The vehicle is familiar, so is the stranger. He runs the record store that John favours - some posh Jewish bloke.
Desire strikes like a match and bursts alight before he can conjure up the willpower to clamp the lid down shut.
“Evening,” he greets the gentleman, hoping the croak of his voice doesn’t give his nerves away.
“Evening,” the man stops and regards him quietly, “Don’t suppose you have a lighter?”
John smiles a little at that, and despite the slight tremble of his hands he manages to fish out his lighter, “Don’t suppose you have a fag to spare?”
The man chuckles and pats down his pockets in a way that makes that back of John’s neck prickle.
“I do, in fact. How fortunate,” he steps forward and offers John his choice of the opened box of smokes. He plucks one as he flicks the lighter open, orange sparks snapping up until a steady flame emerges. After he lights his own the man takes initiative and tilts the end of his cigarette until it begins to smoke and curl. His lips are dusky rose and John can’t keep himself from intently watching, feeling a surge of arousal. The man turns and leans against the wall next to John, shoulders inches apart as they suck on smoke in silence. The nerves are spreading like cold honey through his chest, he can barely breathe through it. His new companion seems so unaffected, confidently expelling streams of smoke up above towards the darkened trees that sulk along the opposite side of the road.
A flush of embarrassment has John almost wanting to give up just before the man clears his throat with a soft cough and asks, “Are you waiting for someone?”
John considers his reply for a split moment, “No. Just wanted a drink.”
A pause, “Just a drink?”
John notes the tangerine end of his smoke shivering, his fingers losing feeling, “Dunno.”
The man hums in acknowledgement, and there seems to be a nervousness that comes over him all of a sudden. Or maybe it’s just John getting out of his own head for the first time, but he now notices how stiff and rigid the stranger’s posture is now.
“Nice car,” is the only thing he can think to say, words being juiced out of him by his own anxiety. He kicks at the sodden leaves by his shoes, taking another long and slow drag and conjures up the nerve to look at the man. He looks older, wiser, more burdened than John does. He’s proper and polite, speaks the way Mimi loves. His coat would be worth more than the young artist’s rent. John could hate him, easily. But there’s something there, bouncing between their figures in the low light. Has him on the edge of a cliff, toeing the line. Quick, cautious glances starting to linger in a way that tells John he should just get it over with.
“If yer planning to toss me off in the alleyway, you better get to it before my dick freezes over,” he drops his smoke onto the ground and stamps it out with the heel of his boot, grinding it with all his weight. He refuses to look anywhere but at the gutter, at the shards of beer bottle glass that glimmer as he tilts his head.
“I’m-,” he steps back, but doesn’t leave. His smoke sits between his long fingers, his wrist a little limp in the very same way the boys at school would have had him beaten for.
“Or did ye just want a nice chat?” John mutters, panic starting to pierce through his casual facade. He’s done something wrong, perhaps. Didn’t read the fucking handbook .
“We could chat,” he hurries and steps forward, knuckles brushing over John’s forearm, “I have much better liquor at my flat, if you would like to join me there?”
John purses his lips and nods, “Yeah. Something to warm me up.”
-
His name is Brian, and his flat is something out of an upper-middle class dream. Such a far cry from the dingy Gambier flat and its smoke-stained ceilings and crumbling furniture.
The pair enter the lounge and Brian starts to reach over to the small bar on the left side of the large room. John grabs his arm and pulls him back so that they are standing toe to toe. His fingers brush over the cold face of the older man’s watch. He shivers and retracts his hand. There are words bubbling up, face flushing with it, but he can’t push through it. Brian’s eyes searching for an answer for a moment before he rests his own hand over John’s. Their movements towards the couch are almost in slow motion.
He goes brainless with it all. The unbuckling of Brian’s belt, the silent understanding in the way they don’t kiss on the mouth - just everywhere else. The gentle hands in his hair, his rough palms on Brian’s back. He’s aching, has been since he slid into the front seat of that damn car. He thinks of the silver glow of the water when the sun hits it in Blackpool during one of those dreamy mornings his Mum would whisk him along to. This is what that feels like. That impossible hot feeling he’s been chasing. The lights are off and the curtains are drawn. His hair has fallen in front of his eyes and sweat is beading across his forehead, down his neck. They don’t dare break the contact they have, not for a single second.
There’s a painting above the fireplace, and he imagines that it’s one of Stu’s abstracts. Swirling scarlet and flashes of pure white, like lightning. That’s how it feels right now.
Brian murmurs something that sounds like a plea, and John’s soul echoes it a thousandfold.
-
He’s drawn out of sleep, fuzzy-headed and heavy, by the daylight burning into his eyes. He’s sprawled out on a couch, a blanket slung over his torso. His boots, jeans and jacket are crumbled on the floor by the coffee table where a half-empty bottle of wine sits besides a neat stack of books. Rubbing the bleariness from his eyes, he sits himself up and winces at the headache that begins to take a harsh grip around his skull. Flashes of last night, impressions saturated in alcohol and glimmers of intimacy sink through into lucid awareness.
He starts to collect his things, pulling up his jeans over his legs just as footsteps come ticking down the hall.
“Ah,” Brian emerges, immaculately dressed, “Good timing. I’ll be leaving for work shortly.”
The words hit him hard and he’s not entirely sure why. It must show on his face because Brian pauses and softens a little.
“Would you like me to call a car for you?” he brushes a hand over his tie.
John squares his shoulders before shrugging on his jacket, replying gruffly, “Ta, but I’ll be fine. Very considerate…”
He wants to tack on something cold, a snarky joke, but can’t conjure up anything besides a strange feeling of displacement. He’s been flung into the unknown and the idea of suddenly being alone and going back home is nerve-wracking.
“I hope to see you again, John,” Brian says earnestly. John wants to be sick.
“You might do, nicking records from your shop,” he half-jokes, zipping up his fly as he makes his way towards the hall, “You’ll let me get away with it though, I’m friends with the manager aren’t I?”
Brian’s expression hardens, stepping into John’s path and holding out a hand, “I understand. Just allow me to get an… adequate payment for your discretion . Alright?”
John blinks, a little stunned, “Payment?”
Brian walks briskly out of the room, “I wouldn’t want any unfortunate rumours to spread.”
Laced in the silence between them as Brian fishes out cash from his wallet is burning guilt and the inability for him to voice a protest about the misunderstanding. Brian holds out a thick wad of cash, like offering a dog a bloody treat, but his eyes are gravely serious. John snatches the money from his hand with a quick snap, wordless as he saunters ahead towards the front door. The money burns in his hand, and when he steps into the sluggish-grey morning light he feels eyes pinned into him. Strangers sniffing out his sins on his clothes. He wants to burrow back through time and experience last night again as it was - without it feeling like a bloody transaction. The two of them intertwined like real lovers. It felt like a camera lens focusing.
He turns, one hand gripping the doorframe as he looks at Brian once more, “You always pay the boys this handsomely?”
Brian arches his brow, “I’m not-”
“Just the ones who look like they’d be trouble?” he presses.
“I don’t think you’re trouble,” he replies, but it’s a lie, John can tell.
“Well,” John softens his voice slightly, “I hope you’re not always such a bad judge of character, Brian. You’ll be broke faster than I’ll be after I raid the art supplies store with my new fortune, ta.”
He should have been more cruel, he thinks to himself, but he doesn’t have the mind for that now. Just wants to take his fistful of cash and let himself ruminate over being cast aside so easily after something so pivotal. Have a proper brooding session over a pint, perhaps.
“You’re an artist?” Brian steps closer, eyes darting out over John’s shoulder at the houses that line the street. Feeling exposed, John steps inside again and rests his back against the door.
“Art school drop-out, as it were. I left to get a real job, but it’s all I want to do, so I ought to do something about it.”
“I can understand that,” Brian lowers his eyes, looking the shyest John has seen him yet, “I attended RADA, hoping to become an actor. I wasn’t the best student, despite my ambition. I often wonder…”
He can feel empathy blooming blue inside his chest, a fluttering of true affection.
“Two bent artists?” he chuckles, “What a pair we make.”
That makes Brian smile, eyes gleaming with kindness as he reaches out, fingertips bumping into John’s sleeve before he swiftly retracts. John isn’t quick enough to reassure him, to tell him it’s ok to touch. That he liked it last night. That he doesn’t think he’d be able to ever stop thinking about how much he liked it. Maybe he won’t ever be strong enough to push that strange desire aside again. To keep it in the corner, in the stuffing of his mattress, in the double meanings of his poetry.
“If we should see each other again,” Brian begins, extracting a business card from inside his jacket, “I’d like to see some of your work. I miss being around creative people.”
John takes the card, pinching the corner and reading over Brian’s name. It feels bolder, more thrilling than any scrap piece of paper a girl has scrawled her number on and coyly handed over to him in the past. He thinks about calling Cyn for the first time on the phone, pressing his forehead into the wall while his heart thundered in his ears because of how significant it felt. He doesn’t think he could ever be brave enough to dial this number, but oh God, does he want to.
“Well, you sure know how to defuse a bomb,” John shoves it into his jacket pocket, giving the man one last look before walking away. There’s a mix of emotion driving his heart to thump with newfound vigour. He doesn’t want to sort through them, not now. He’d be much happier just to flood his system with beer and blur out the bad and bring the good to light.
The sunbeams that break through those soaked darkened clouds above the city warm his face as he crosses the road. He wonders if, maybe, this is the start of a downward spiral into something ugly. Or maybe the pace of his steps indicates last night was the best thing that could have happened. That perhaps he’s on the cusp of that sparkling life he’s always dreamed about. His perspective shifts, changes colour and shines a little brighter. He could whistle a tune, but most of all, he wants to draw.
-
The flat is glowing with lamplight while the dark honey hue of the late afternoon sky continues to deepen. The coffee table is covered in pieces of paper, bottles of ink and small paint brushes - the result of an entire week spent working. He looks over his work from his perch on the arm of the couch, thinks about all the art school teachers lecturing and demanding things of him he’d never be able to produce, and he feels a sense of freedom. In the blur of the past week, drawing and writing and pouring onto paper what has been simmering for so long, he found a version of himself he liked. The artist. The poet. The sensitive writer. He posts Stuart a letter celebrating his revelation, omitting the minor detail of his night with Epstein. It still feels like a dream he hasn’t entirely woken from, drifting in and out of reality. But he still has Brian’s card to anchor him, corners crinkled inwards and stained with little flecks of dark ink from all of his fidgeting with it throughout the days. He thinks it over, his inebriated brain guiding his clumsy feet all the way to the infamous streets in town and how he didn’t hate it - Brian’s hands on him. The curiosity that had been creeping since the hormonal eruption of his early teenage years may not have been just curiosity. He knows about married men that cruise up and down those streets, the guys in the navy with girlfriends back home that can’t scratch that itch. And maybe he’s a bit like that, maybe he likes it both ways. But is that his future? Stalking up and down the streets and waiting for a car to pull up next to him so he can get that elusive kind of release? Will that fit with the sensible middle class life he’s supposed to strive and work himself to death for?
Why should he be so scared of straying from the life he doesn’t want? Why should the world be so scared? He looks over his work once more, stretching out the cramp in his hand. He wants this, that’s all he knows. So he’ll chase it, he decides, he knows what he is and what he wants to be. An artist. And he knows how to get there.
It feels momentous to pick up the telephone and dial the number, to breathe in and out with his heart in his throat and take the first step towards the light.
-
London, 1963
There is music playing softly underneath the hum of the chatter in the gallery. John is standing by his featured artwork, a series of three ink works presented in one long frame, and trying to keep the nerves from bursting the seams of his expressionless exterior. He’s donning a collarless jacket that Brian had insisted was stylish, buttoned up tight around his neck much to his irritation. There are potential customers gliding by each work, peering over their glasses and attempting to decipher the cartoonish style and absurd wordplay. He wants to hide away, retreat from the bitterness rising up his throat at the prospect of failure. He hates that it stings as much as it does, that he can barely look up from the glass of wine he’s holding just for something to do. Brian is flitting from one visitor to the next, putting on his English charm to ensure that something is sold tonight. The anxious throbbing of his pulse points is getting to be too much, and just when he thinks he has to step outside and have a smoke, an unassuming middle aged couple approach his main piece with curious eyes. Their brows are furrowed and the lines in their faces indicate deep confusion, but interested nonetheless. John could laugh, but there is something about all this silence that has him too far on the edge. Just the clinking of ice in drinks and the soft clicking of heels on the polished floor. The blues records that John insisted were played are still too quiet, and he’s itching to turn up the volume on the player in the corner of the room and ignore Brian’s supposed wisdom.
The lady leans into her husband’s side and murmurs, “What do you think?”
“I think Mr Epstein must have lost a bet,” the husband scoffs, and they both snicker together as they pass by John. He glances down at the wine in his glass, watches how the liquid quivers in his shaky grip of the glass, and grits his teeth.
Keeping a veil of indifference, he stalks towards the record player and twists up the volume gradually and leaves through the arched opening towards the hall before Brian can catch him and protest. He can barely decipher whether it is anger or fear. What’s the difference? he thinks bitterly as he turns the corner and brushes past a dark haired man with a guitar case strapped to his back. It registers a few moments afterwards, so when he looks over his shoulder to catch another glimpse of the stranger he half expects him to have disappeared already. But he lingers there, reading over the card propped up on an easel displaying the name of the exhibit: John Lennon presents : Artist Sick Temperament.
He must feel John’s eyes on him, because he turns and regards him with casual interest, nodding towards the entry to the exhibit, “How’d you find it?”
John stuffs his hands in his pockets and shrugs, “Ah, well, ye know. Good art apparently only comes from other rich people when you’re a snob with a fur coat and a gold watch.”
The man smiles and nods thoughtfully, “Well, I have neither of those, so maybe I think otherwise.”
John’s stare falls into a loop between the stranger’s doe eyes and the quirk of his lips as he speaks. He’s wearing a crisp white jacket with a carnation tucked into the pocket, contrasting the swoop of his black hair. His long dark lashes sweep when he blinks in that slow way John has only ever seen on cinema screens.
“Maybe I’d appreciate that,” John replies, tossing a self conscious glance over towards his name on the sign. He wants to scratch it off with his own fingernails.
“Are you the artist?” the man asks, perking up.
“That’s up for debate, apparently,” John forces a grin, but the humour might not reach his eyes, he’s not sure. His focus might be on the fizzy feeling he’s getting from having this attractive stranger focusing on him.
“Don’t think so, not with all that inside. That’s some really great work, y’know,” he sounds so earnest and pleasant, and John can’t really wrap his head around it properly at first.
“Yeah?” he purses his lips, keeping a genuine smile at bay at the risk of looking so soft.
“Absolutely! I came back in ‘cause I wanted to remember the name. Thought of buying something, actually. Don’t have much to spend, though, maybe one of the smaller ones would be alright...”
It’s like his soul can take a shy step out from the shadows now, smiling as he responds, “Yer not puttin’ me on, are ye?”
He places a pale hand over his chest, over his heart, and promises with a grin, “Never.”
The man looks younger than John but with all the calm confidence of someone sure of himself. He extends a hand for John to shake, warm and soft to touch. His fingertips are calloused and his grip is firm and secure.
“Could point out the ones ye like, see how much I can steal off of ye,” John suggests, smirking a little.
He chuckles, “Sounds fab.”
Stepping back into the exhibit with what feels like armour to protect him from his own insecurity, he signals over a slightly flustered looking Brian with a wave of his hand.
“Got ourselves a customer,” John pats the man over the shoulder, “I’m sure you’ll suck all the marrow out of the bone, so to speak.”
Brian runs a hand over the smooth fabric of his suit jacket and gives an embarrassed chuckle, “Well, I’m glad you’ve chosen to invest in this talented up-and-coming artist, sir.”
Paul shakes his hand with an amused smile, “Paul McCartney.”
John files the name away, feels the importance as it seeps deep in his memory.
Brian gestures around the room with a grand wave of his arm, “Is there any piece you enjoy in particular?”
Paul pulls back his bottom lip in self conscious thought, eyes darting around the room, “Yeah, I suppose that Elvis one is my favourite.”
He points to an ink and watercolour John had done of an Elvis-like figure on stage, radiating red and gold with his guitar strings buzzing, hands reaching out from the borders towards him. John sucks in a breath, pride now influencing his posture.
“Marvellous,” Brian beams, inspecting the work with a quick sweep of his eyes, “Name your price and we can negotiate.”
Paul reaches up to fumble with the guitar case strap across his chest, casting a timid glance around the room, “How much do these sort of things go for? ‘Cause I don’t think-”
John steps in quickly, noting the slight blush over Paul’s cheeks, “Don’t go selling your soul now, just spend what you think it’s worth.”
His eyes glimmer when he turns to face him, and something in John’s chest clenches tight. A fondness already blooming for him.
“Seven pounds would be alright,” Paul gives Brian a shy smile, “For me, at least.”
The remaining gallery visitors are hovering around them with curiosity barely hidden in the way they lean in to eavesdrop on their conversation. Murmuring nipping at the back of his neck doesn’t bother him so much, too glad about this first sale of the night to care.
Brian ushers John closer, “A similar piece sold for 12 last week. Are you sure?”
“For that one? Course I am. Poor bloke is probably handing over half of his fortune. All these other squares won’t even give me eye contact.”
The worry in Brian’s face softens into gentle consideration and soon he is guiding Paul over to the corner of the room where the transaction can be finalised. John stays behind, pleased and elated. It makes perfect sense, to have his art attract people like Paul, and not just the pretentious bastards that have always looked down on him anyway.
“Good music, by the way,” Paul’s voice rouses him from his dreamy stance, “Not the twinkling piano kind that usually plays at these sort of things.”
John smiles, “Proper art connoisseur, are you?”
Paul grins, tilting his head, “Obviously. Though I’m usually the guy in the corner playing the twinkling piano. All those classics from the 40s and such, this crowd love ‘em.”
“Should have hired you,” John nudges him lightly, “Would have actually sold some of this shite.”
“Hey, none of that,” Paul frowns, humour glinting in his eyes, “I’ve invested in you now apparently, you’ve got to keep going so I can sell it for a fortune later on.”
John smiles playfully, “Suppose I owe ye that much.”
Paul rocks back and forth on his heels, fidgeting with the guitar strap again with slender fingers that hold John’s attention for a beat too long. He feels a glittery fluttering under Paul’s eyes, has to look away before he starts blushing like a bird.
“Your friend over there mentioned you live here, but that’s a Liverpool accent for sure. When did you come over?” Paul inquires casually.
“Start of ‘62. Brian had gotten a painting I’d done into some exhibition so I moved over with that money. Have to scrub out my mersey roots somewhat, ye know, to really make it here.”
Paul nods, “I’ve only been here a few months myself.”
“And you walk around with that hunchback looking for gigs?” John quips, tapping a loose fist on the case.
“Well, that might have been how it started. Playing rock n roll at clubs. But I’ve, uh, gotten lucky recently. Recording an album of my own, at the moment,” he says, “And then I go home and make sure to ring the Nortre Dame bells.”
John chuckles, thoroughly impressed, “Working like a dog just to spend your cash on my scribbles? You’re daft, aren’t ye?”
He shrugs, clearly suppressing a smile, “I have that right, don’t I?”
The artist licks over his lip, liking how the light hits Paul just so, has the slickness in his hair shine and the hue of his jacket glow brightly. Likes how the smirk curling up the corner of his mouth has him looking like the perfect sin.
“Maybe I should shout ye a drink. If you’re pissed it’ll soften the blow when you realise the mistake you’ve made.”
There’s nowhere to hide, white walls and lights buzzing above their heads and bathing them in clinical light. He doesn’t have his cap to shield his eyes or a beer in hand to sip at, just a friendly request and his heart knocking against his ribs in an unsteady rhythm.
“Suppose you should, it’s only fair,” Paul says with a pleasant hum. He looks over John’s shoulder, eyes washing over in muted concern, “How long ‘til you’ve finished up here?”
“Ah, Brian can sort out all this himself, usually does,” John gives an unconcerned wave of his hand, noting how Brian’s theatrical hand gestures have made a home in his subconscious.
They burst through the doors of the building and into the December cold, muttering under their breaths as the wind whips up against them. He’s momentarily mesmerized by Paul’s long legs, the slight bounce in his step that has his guitar case awkwardly slapping against his back every few steps. Still, he’s got enough charm and light about him to look effortless and cool despite it.
Paul leads him to a pub with warm lighting and Ray Charles records playing at an acceptable volume. It’s a relief to step into the mildly chaotic beery haze, to carry their pints over to a booth at the back and just feel the atmosphere warm his skin. His ankle knocks into Paul’s under the table as he shifts over and they both smile at each other. Paul gives a quick kitten lick over the foam that had spilled over the rim of the glass and onto his thumb and he feels a slight burst of heat at the sight. Can’t really help it, Paul is becoming more and more of a thrill to look at now that all the nerves from the gallery are fading behind him. He finds that there’s a softness about how Paul looks, it sort of reminds him of Elvis - before he sold out, that is. Lean and soft all at once.
“What’s a rock-star-to-be doing buying art, anyway?” he asks over the lip of his glass, “Shouldn’t let strangers talk ye into such things.”
Paul shrugs and looks off to his side with a smile, “ Just thought I’d celebrate finishing up recording the album.”
“On the road to fame and fortune,” John chirps.
Paul smirks behind another sip of his drink, “That’s the plan. It doesn’t get released ‘til next year, though.”
He looks so boyishly happy John can’t help but glitter with joy too, “Get you! Elvis’ uglier little brother getting some for himself, good on ye!”
“Well, if I’m not much to look at I hope people can better concentrate on the music,” he replies swiftly, “That’s the important bit.”
Christ , John thinks, ‘ not much to look at’ . He scoffs and takes a sip just so he doesn’t give himself away entirely.
“Used to have a band of my own back in ol’ Liddypool,” John smiles down into his glass, “Couldn’t really get into it after a while. Just wanted to do me own stuff, not the same covers over and over.”
Paul arches a brow, “You wrote your own songs?”
That kindles a strange mix of fondness and shame, thinking back to nights spent scratching in poetry in battered notebooks. Sat across from his mum with the banjo cradled in his arms. Having to hide those parts of himself.
“One or two, yeah,” John drums his fingers on the dewy glass, “I dunno, I think it ended up being a phase, playing music. That teenage fantasy of being famous. Being on stage was alright but I’d keep returning to art. True love an’ all that.”
The amber lighting seems to have soaked through his skin, flushing him warm and cosy in a way he hasn’t felt in a long time. The air around them is all humid and smells like dried fruit and smoke. He likes it, wonders how he’d try and capture it. Oils on canvas? Poetry scribbled down on notepaper? Or maybe just a photograph of Paul sitting across from him, bathed in buttery light and nodding his head along to the beat of the music playing.
“Well,” Paul begins while giving John a once over with a long sweep of his eyes, “You seem to be doing well, well enough to have your own showing.”
“It’s a start.”
And oh god, John’s chest swells as he watches those eyes raking over him like that. The alcohol is blurring the lines he drew up for himself because crossing them would be too dangerous. But another drink comes along and he sucks that down too, breath catching in his throat whenever Paul bites into the plushness of his bottom lip as he contemplates a worthy reply. And shit, he hadn’t felt this drawn to a man since that night he drunkenly stumbled after Brian at some shitty London arty socialite gathering this past September. He’d dragged him into the spare bedroom, leaving behind a lady with sharp teeth and silver jewellery dripping over chest. She hadn’t understood him, anyway. Not the way Brian did.
He quizzes Paul about his record collection, his thoughts on The Shadows and Fats Domino and Carl Perkins, which pubs he used to gig at. It feels strange to talk about Liverpool. He has his weekly calls to Mimi but this is different. It feels as though he really is speaking about a former home now, plucking bits and pieces of memories from his subconscious he figured he had left behind.
“You got a girl back home?” John inquires, tipping back the rest of his drink to douse whatever he exposes in the process of asking the question.
Paul shrugs with quick shake of his head, “Not since I got here. Didn’t want that distance, not going to put the poor girl through that.”
“Bet you’ve left plenty of broken hearts in your wake with a face like that,” John says, finger dragging over the droplets on the table surface to create a long swipe - like a brushstroke.
“A face like Elvis’ uglier brother?” Paul gives a coy smile before his attention glides over as a cluster of people brush past their table, shaking their foundations.
“We make do in Liverpool,” John retorts with a chuckle, “Got to work with what we got… until we fuck off to London, that is.”
Paul pulls himself closer and sags over the table a little to lift up his drink, his carnation drooping in his pocket, “And cheers to that.”
When their glasses clink, when their eyes meet, it sends a vibration up through his arm and curling down his spine. Fuck , his mind is soaked in alcohol and that muffled sense of danger and he can barely keep his eyes from their half drooped state when he settles too deep into it.
“It took a while to really get into the whole business,” Paul explains, “Gave up a few times, in fact. My Dad never let me hear the end of it, how I was throwing my life away and I needed to get a proper job. The usual.”
“Ah, all that shit.”
“Yep. Got tired of it, going back and forth. Decided to move here and stick with it just to see if I could do it, give myself a year or two.”
“Good on ye,” John nods. Paul leans back in his seat, the blush of his cheeks more visible when he shifts.
He presses the heels of his palms over his eyes, groaning something about needing to piss, and then he’s slipping out of their booth and over to the gents room. Their empty glasses sit and glimmer by his elbow, and there is almost a temptation to carve his name into the wood of the table like he’d done on the bar of the Ye Cracke while Cyn and Stu exchanged back and forth about some lecturer from art school. His heartbeats feel fuzzy, mind drifting slowly like froth on a pint. He presses his fingertip onto the sticky wood and draws out his name.
J O H N
He used to think that maybe that was the only sort of mark he could ever leave, something scratched forcibly enough to cut through layers. He thought that the only way Cyn could love him was if he was everything to her because he was desperately trying to be everything. The fact that he could dissipate into far off memories so easily frightens him. And now he wonders if he ever really changed his mind about that. Wonders if he’d ever pierce into London as easily as a sharp point into worn down furniture, like he had dreamed of when he was a lad. J O H N.
“You’re like a tomcat pissing on a wall to mark its territory,” Paul comments, pulling John up and out of his strange brooding, fingernail ceasing its digging into the table.
“Thought that’s what you were doing just now.”
Paul snorts, “Those walls are plenty marked up already. Not sure what exactly with for the most part.”
John lulls his head to the side with a grin, “Best not to think about it. Just lift up yer leg and let ‘em know who’s in charge.”
“Might get a cramp that way,” Paul rests his chin on his fist, thumb lazily scratching at the side of his jaw.
“That’s a shame,” John’s tongue darts over the back of his teeth, “It’s good to be flexible.”
Paul snickers, John biting back his smirk and hoping the rose in his cheeks is lost in this lighting. Being so impish, skirting on the edge of a knife that could cut him to pieces, it’s never been fun like this.
“Oh, is it?” Paul speaks up through a giggle with his arms now folded in front of him, “I’ll work on my stretches.”
His mind flickers through obscene images instantly, heat rushing through his sluggishly intoxicated system. He probes further.
“No need, I’m sure chicks like it when the guy just lies there all stiff like and does nothing,” he jokes.
“Might be why we’re both single,” Paul stretches out his limbs, John’s pant leg fluttering when his shoe brushes the fabric of his trousers.
“You assume I’m single?” John gives a half-challenging look, mock offence.
“You’re not?” Paul blinks, the shoulders of his jacket seem broader now. John kind of wants to run his hands over them.
“Well, I don’t usually speak to the papers about my private affairs,” John drawls and drums his fingertips, “But I can tell you in confidence, Mr McCartney, that I’m engaged in a scandalous affair with Her Majesty. She’s waiting for me back home, in fact.”
Paul suppresses his smile, “Oh goodness, how can you even bear to be without her right now?”
John shrugs coyly, “I marked her up before I left, can’t have those tomcats prowling about.”
“Filthy,” Paul laughs, ducking his head, “And by the way, that’s Sir McCartney to you.”
“Ah, well… ‘spose that’d make me Lord Lennon.”
Paul smirks, “His Majesty?”
“I’m His Majesty amongst acquaintances, John amongst mates and Winston amongst sworn enemies”
Paul seems to drag out the pause for effect when he looks John over and says, “Well, for now at least, I’m quite happy with John.”
John’s heart stutters over a few beats, “You still have to curtsy for me, you know.”
Paul gives a cheshire cat grin, “Another reason to start doing my stretches.”
-
They’re walking through the streets, elbow to elbow because they will drunkenly tip over onto the pavement otherwise, and laughing. John will glance over, note the rosey blush of Paul’s cheeks, how his eyelids droop over like rose petals and how pretty he is under lamplight as he fishes for coins out of his pockets so they can call a car.
“I’m telling ya, you’re eating up everything I have,” Paul sighs through amusement, “Your mate won’t mind dropping me home, will he?”
John snorts, “He’ll shine your shoes if you just say you’re thinking of buying another piece from me, poor sod.”
Paul passes the spare change over to him, fingers dragging slow over his palm as he pulls away, “Could do with that, actually. I scuffed mine back there when you tumbled into that bin.”
“Don’t let the blind lead you anywhere,” John laughs, fingers numb as he dials Brian’s number, “My glasses are those awful kind, hate wearing ‘em.”
“That explains your art,” Paul snickers when John turns to swat his arm with a sneer just as Brian picks up.
“Aye, Bri. Got myself and my new friend here stuck out in the cold, are you nearby? Think we’re just down the street from the gallery.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” Brian’s voice responds.
“Good on ye. You don’t mind dropping Paul home, do ye?” John pulls a face at his companion, who has his arms crossed over his chest as he bounces on his feet to keep warm, smiling.
“No trouble at all. See you soon.”
“Got to warn you, son,” John hangs up the phone. He huffs a breath into his hands and rubs them together, “Brian is a fucking nightmare of a driver. Can’t say I’m much better, but he’s the one with a car and a license, you see.”
“Trust me to get in a car accident before my big break,” Paul chuckles, “Is he as blind as you are?”
John shrugs, tucking his hands into the soft material of his coat pockets, “No, actually. Don’t know what it is. Can’t have it all, I ‘spose.”
He looks over their surroundings, from the cars rolling by with headlights cutting through the dreary dark to the clouds hanging low above their heads. It’s the first real moment of peace his mind has allowed him in hours now but he’s comfortable with it. Paul is still bright and somewhat alert, head tilting up to watch the sky.
“You going home for Christmas?” Paul’s gaze travels back to him slowly, and his eyes seem to be made up of what the clouds are covering, dark sky with glittering stars dotted over.
“For a day or two. Just to see my Aunt Mimi ‘cause she still hasn’t forgiven me for missing out last year.”
Paul smiles, “Yeah. My Da’ and my brother would understand, but it would be strange to be all alone here.”
John’s mind is fuzzy and quiet, imagining Paul ever being alone. Doesn’t seem like the type to ever run out of people flocking over to be near him, too much charm. Too pretty. And then his attention catches on to the absent mention of a mother and he doesn’t know what to do with that.
“Brian is Jewish, that’s half the reason I didn’t go last year,” he says softly, not sure why his mouth is allowing such a strange thing to fall out, “He gets all… I don’t know what you’d call it. But I’ll see it in his face whenever someone hands him a Christmas present, even if he’s trying not to show it.”
He’s not sure what he’s saying exactly, feels stupid for talking about it and forcing Paul to listen, especially when things were going so well. But Paul just nods like he understands.
“Might feel like a bit of an outsider,” he says simply and a breeze hits them with frosty cruelty. It does nothing to cast out the warmth that pools in his chest every time Paul speaks.
“Do you have siblings?” Paul speaks again, half startling John. His mind conjures up hazy images of his step-siblings, the girls giggling and twirling about in the living room while records played. His mother kneeling down and scooping them up in her arms, John sitting on the couch with a knot in his stomach but a broad genuine smile on his face.
“Half siblings,” he answers after a pause, “Just the top half of ‘em.”
Paul rolls his eyes back up to the clouds, “Oh dear.”
“Can’t have myself a perfect family straight from a can, that’s too easy,” he mutters, wishing he had a cigarette to suck on to fill himself with a warmth that the cold air can’t eat away at as they stand there, hands tucked under their armpits. They don’t speak for half a minute, just concentrating on casting out the icy feeling seeping deeper and deeper into their flesh. All that alcohol back at the bar had warmed him pink and now he’s out here turning blue. His brain may as well be sloshing about in the pints he inhaled so enthusiastically, because he doesn’t have the sense to direct his eyes away from Paul. Keeps looking him up and down with that gluggy-drunk kind of feeling making his bones heavy.
The sound of Brian’s car approaching registers somewhere far off but he’s hesitant to turn around. Tries to think about what he knows about Paul but his sloppy mind can’t produce a single thing except a soothing feeling of familiarity coated in something shiny and new. He tumbles into the back of the vehicle and only half listens to Paul compliment Brian on his car, choosing to concentrate on how he sits his guitar case between his knees. He slumps in his seat with his lip bitten down and listens to Paul’s casual chatter. How pleasant and melodic he sounds when he talks about the mundane. The vehicle growls as they turn a sharp corner suddenly and John just gives Paul a look, I told you , and they both have to hold back schoolboy giggling. Seeing the world blur in the window behind Paul’s profile is quite the sight. It feels appropriate when they slow to a stop just as Paul looks over at him again.
“Thanks for the lift, fellas. Real pleasure meeting you both,” he claps a hand on the back of Brian’s seat and turns over to John to shake his hand.
He’s got shadows to hide his features, to blot out the nerves at the prospect of losing this warm connection. He’d ask Paul to scribble his number onto his arm, promise to call him up for another session at a pub, but the words won’t budge from the heat in his throat. He doesn’t want to expose the desire cradled within his chest. He presses his lips and bids Paul a good night and thanks him in such a formal way his own voice sounds so foreign and meek. It drums up another kind of anxiety as Paul opens the door and shuffles out, turning to pull the bulky guitar case out.
“Thanks again! Might see you around.”
John’s stomach plummets, “Hope so… I’ll be hearing your record playing on the radio soon enough, I’m sure.”
Paul lowers his head and laughs bashfully, “That’d be great. Released the first single a couple of days ago, in fact.”
“I’ll keep an ear out for it,” John tugs on his earlobe and Paul laughs.
They don’t exchange goodbyes so when the door smacks shut and the engine rumbles up to a start again it feels like he’s standing on the edge of something. All he really can think to acknowledge is the blush warming his face and the strange fluttery excitement bursting through the blurry silence of his mind.
“John?” Brian’s voice cuts through.
“Hm?” John curls up against the window, eyelids drooping as the city flickers past.
“Paul has done an album?”
“Yeah, coming out next year or something. Has good taste, too,” John exhales foggy against the glass.
“That’s wonderful,” Brian hums, “You’re both putting Liverpool on the map. I must call NEMS and ask about it.”
John closes his eyes, “You’ve got his number, right?”
“I do.”
“I might want to call him up next year,” John’s voice crackles with sleepiness, “Great bloke.”
“I was just thinking about the New Years Eve gathering - the chap with the Whitechapel Gallery connections is hosting. I believe he is yet to hire entertainment.”
John frowns, “Think he’s a bit above that.”
“Oh, I didn’t realise… I just assumed -”
“Offer it, though, might as well give him a chance to impress those-”
“Who is his manager?”
John’s eyes open a little, peering out the window, “He didn’t say. Thinking of taking on another client, are you?”
He can hear Brian’s smile when he replies, “I’m a monogamous manager.”
John snorts, “I wouldn’t hold you back like that.”
“I don’t even know what he sounds like,” Brian chuckles and adds, “Nothing wrong with monogamy.”
“That’s up for debate. Business doesn’t have those family values,” John responds, running a hand over his eyes.
“I think of this as something far greater than business,” Brian muses, voice going all dreamy and wistful, “I truly believe in it.”
The car halts to a stop, jolting them both half out of their seats. They’ve parked outside John’s flat, he realises, and shuffles over to open the car door.
“By the way,” Brian’s voice stops him just as the door opens a crack, cold seeping through the gap, “You sold nine more pieces tonight. And have the interest of many more buyers. Congratulations, John.”
The grin stretches slow across his face, the dawning of pride burning through the bleak that he seems to always carry around with him.
“I suppose that’ll do,” he comments with elation colouring his tone, “Treat yourself to a midnight cruise, Bri. You deserve it.”
He shuts the door before Brian can protest or laugh him off, smiling with his chin tilted high and hands in his pockets as he strolls to the door.
-
Christmas passes by in a flurry of warm cider and crumpled gift wrap. Green, gold and red twinkling lights draped over railings and Bing Crosby crackling over the radio. It’s Mimi’s cats curled up in his lap and Brian shyly gifting him silver cuff-links with J.L engraved in them the day before he leaves for Liverpool. He had sent out cards to Stu and Paul with Christmas themed doodles around the borders of a short generic message. He finds himself wondering about Paul, eyeing the spot in his old room where he’d prop up his mum’s banjo and think back to times where music was his obsession.
“I do wish you would paint something decent so I could display it,” Mimi comments as she serves dinner, looking bright and pleased about the coat that he had gifted her (with Brian’s help, of course).
“You’ve got my scribbles from when I was eight hanging up,” John scoffs, making a display of scooping a decent amount of roasted vegetables so she doesn’t nag him.
“Well, they’re very good,” Mimi smiles, settling down in her chair across the table, “For an eight year old, that is.”
“Art isn’t just paintings of seascapes and lighthouses, Mimi,” he teases, “Broaden your horizons.”
“They’re already very broad.”
“Well how about you ask Stuart nicely and he’ll send over a Monet or two, will that make you happy?"
“Hm, I rather fancy a Renoir,” she holds her deadpan for a few seconds before John’s giggling cracks her facade.
After a few days couped up with Mimi he decides to head out for a drink. It’s New Year’s Eve and most people would be at parties or in pubs, and he figures finding another warm body would be an appropriate fix for the tension building in his system. Semi-familiar faces turn and watch him as he goes by, and he can hear their memories ticking and sparking. Their whispers snip at the back of his neck and he plows on through towards the safe haven of a pub. He finds himself looking out for a dark head of hair.
“John?”
He turns in his seat to face a shy Cynthia, heart stuttering when she gives him a friendly peck on the cheek. Her eyes are kind but he has to work his way through a generous amount of whiskey while they engage in small talk in order to build up the courage to apologise for being such an arse. He could tack on something about wanting to try again, but he knows better than that. He couldn’t stand the thought of dragging her around when he knows his heart isn’t in it like it used to. But man, he adored Cyn, Miss Hoylake . She smiles sweetly in that way the makes the crinkles by her eyes appear and waves off his miserable groaning. Her hair is darker now, cropped differently - like the mod girls at the art school. She’s still gorgeous, is the thing. It tears him up a little to think how much better off she is without him.
She looks at him with something unreadable in her eyes. Something like forgiveness but instinctual wary. He wouldn’t expect anything less, to be honest.
“Got yourself a proper lad now?” he inquires, finger dragging around the lip of his glass.
“Oh,” Cyn tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, “I do… For a little while now. Are you…?”
His face softens, “Aye, I’m glad to hear it. I mean that. I’m still alone, as it were.”
She looks down shyly and picks the imaginary lint off of her skirt, “London must be exciting. When I first heard you left I thought it was to Paris.”
“To follow Stu?” he watches her posture sink a little inwards.
“Well, to follow that life,” she says with a small shrug, “I was surprised when someone mentioned London, but I was so happy for you. I’m glad you’ve found your path.”
She looks up at him and he looks back at his empty glass and mutters, “Was a bit overdue for it, wasn’t I?”
Silence overcomes them, the snappy bursts of laughter of friends gathered around the bar irritate him. He feels strangely out of place here. Maybe that’s progress.
Cyn is watching him like she doesn’t know what to expect.
“What have they been saying, then?” he asks. Cyn stills, hands folded in her lap. There isn’t a ring around her finger and he finds himself a little relieved by it. He repeats himself, pressing and horribly self conscious. Must be the whiskey corrupting his sensibility.
“Nothing,” Cyn’s brow furrows, “We’re all so pleased for you.”
John scoffs, “Don’t have to play that role now, Cyn. Just tell me straight.”
“What role?” she squirms in her seat.
“You know what I mean,” John replies, “What are they saying?”
A beat goes by. And another.
“Why would you want me to tell you those things?” she implores, slightly pained.
Dull defeat clouds him and he can’t really articulate anything for a long moment. It’s horrible and strange, tension unfurling into a defiant vulnerability. He should know better than to tread carelessly on trigger points, but he can’t help it.
“John,” she warns with a sigh, “I’m not indulging in that nonsense.”
His gaze snaps up to her, sees the discomfort in the strain of keeping her expression neutral, “You didn’t wonder? Didn’t wonder what your estranged boyfriend was doing off in London with a fairy?”
Her fingers curl around her glass, “No, I didn’t.”
He laughs quietly and squints at her, “Come off it, Cyn, you’re not fooling me.”
She leans back in her seat and folds her arms across her chest, “What is it that you want me to say?”
“I don’t know,” he sighs, “But it’s shite. He gets me commissions and showings, that’s all. Hardly see him.”
Cyn nods, eyes scanning him sadly, “I didn’t doubt that. You know I wouldn’t-”
“Is your boyfriend here?” he blurts out, sitting up and throwing a casual glance over his shoulder. There’s a small gathering in the corner by the jukebox of guys and girls giggling and murmuring to each other behind their glasses. They burst into slight hysterics when they catch him looking. Anger flares and his fingers curl into fists when he turns back around.
“He is, somewhere. Might have gone to the loo. We’re going to a friend’s place for the countdown after we finish our drinks here. You can come along if you like?” Cyn purses her lips with that worried look that seems like the most familiar thing about her right now. Another low eruption of cackling smacks against him, he’s clenching his jaw and knocking his knuckles against the table to expel the irritation swirling red hot in all the pressure points in his body.
Maybe he was listening out for it, that specific word acting as an invitation to erupt. He hears it spat out, the hiss of the ‘F’ sound and the harsh laughter that follows. He springs up and strides up to the group so there is a good few meters between the two parties. A lad with dirty blond hair slicked back smirks wickedly at him.
“How’s London, John?” is what he chooses to say, the girl on his arm giggling, scandalised, into his shoulder until she looks over and sees John’s expression. He’s seething, eyes dark and fists bunched up at his sides.
“Is that really what you want to know?” he spits out, taking another step forward and planting his foot hard on the wooden floor. The lad’s friends either step back or scatter towards the bar, nervous tension now heightening and gripping everything.
“There was one other thing,” the boy tilts his chin up, grinning. John hates him with all the sour venom that rises like bile in his throat at the sight of the smug fucker. Hate, hate, hate.
The boy pauses for a beat and feigns confidence when he opens his mouth again, “Is your arse sore?”
Barely a moment can pass before John launches and shoves him roughly into the wall and pulls back his fist with the furious intention to land a punch. The lad flinches, turning his face away but John hesitates. Something clicks into place when he sees the fear rattling his bones as John’s grip of a fistful of his shirt tightens. He steps back, hissing a firm warning through gritted teeth. The frenzy of spectators shouting and cheering like a twisted choir takes him right back to his turbulent youth. The bitter, violent John that struck fear into the trembling hearts of anyone who so much as looked at him the wrong way. The John he wore like a mask. What he promised he would leave behind.
He exits the bar, the bartender growling something unintelligent at him as he storms past. His blood feels hot and his heart is beating in his ears. He’s fighting the temptation to howl like a deranged beast just to scare them further. Frighten them properly like they used to frighten him.
The door swings open and Cyn rushes over to him, a man following behind and calling her name. John adjusts his jacket over his shoulders, straightens out his shirt and mutters something about being alright. Her eyes are misty and he feels guilt seep in cold over his heart. How many times has he does this to her? The man drapes his arm around Cyn’s shoulders to pull her close and there’s a sharp shock of loneliness at the sight of it. John murmurs an apology, giving her hand a squeeze and turns to stalk off before either of them can extract anything more out of him.
He walks and walks until he tires himself out so bad he’s barely lucid at all when he slinks back to Mimi’s place and falls flat in his old bed. There’s a crinkling sound when he shifts over, a searching hand runs over the mattress side until his fingertips brush against something that isn’t soft fabric. It’s a magazine, folded back to a page with a barely clothed blonde model posing with her hands tucked between her thighs, pouting cherry red lips. He gives a hysterical sort of laugh and flings it onto the floor.
He knows what he is, has done since he was a lad. He was sick of agonising over it by the time he left for London. Sick of meandering drunkenly along the certain streets where the sailors linger outside clubs and watch him from under the brims of their caps. Sick of fleeing when it all became too real and someone would call out to him all honey-voiced. He liked it too much, being coaxed, liked his resolve slowly breaking under the weight of yearning and lust.
Brian would take him to clubs with an empathetic understanding of his nerves along with the ease and charm to make John slink into the background and just be able to watch. To observe men holding each other close and tight, kissing like proper romantics and nothing like those lewd and cruel characters people in Liverpool would draw up in their gossip. He’s more at home with the artists and the poets in London than he ever was with those bastards. And yet, there’s still something truly terrifying about being laughed at, being mocked and cast away - terrifying enough to want to retreat back to what is expected of him. The safe and secure. The horribly boring and unfulfilling. Half of himself. A dock worker with a chip on his shoulder and notebooks of forgotten poems.
It doesn’t matter now, because he’s going to be great.
The New Year starts just as he falls asleep.
1964
Mimi scolds him at breakfast when his skull is aching and his ears are ringing, then later sends him off out the door laughing while she keeps her amusement hidden as he waves goodbye at the gate. That’s the way it is between them, and he’s glad for it. Liverpool has morphed into something else these past few years, but Mimi will always remain too stubborn to budge and that’s somewhat of a comfort. It’s a relief to head back to London though, to go back to his flat and play his records and read the paper.
He shuffles through his mail on the couch with his legs folded underneath him. There’s a letter from Stuart, his artful handwriting scrawled in slanted lines across two pages, and he slips on his glasses to read through it.
“... I have found a secondary passion for film. A group of us have started cutting one of our own. It’s tedious to put music to it but I think it’ll turn out great …”
“...The food is marvellous here, though I’m still terribly thin…”
“... The Parisian guys love American rock and roll, so you are often in my thoughts …”
“... I’m looking forward to my break, to seeing you and all that you’ve been up to in London when I finally make it there. Haven’t had much time for anything but work lately. I’m a man possessed by ambition and paint fumes.”
He sets the letter aside, catching a glimpse of another envelope obscured behind an obnoxious bill that he’ll no doubt forget to pay later on. He tears it open with a butter knife, unfolding a Christmas card to find neat writing with a name signed at the bottom that makes John’s lips twitch into a smile.
“Dear John,
Thank you for your card. Wishing you a Merry Crimble and a Happy New Year! Your drawing is framed but not hung up on the wall. Don’t know where to put it just yet.
Would be great to catch up soon. I might see you at the new year’s party that Mr Epstein phoned me up about, but just in case, all the best for the new year.
Kind regards,
Paul McCartney.”
John runs his hand through his hair, aware of the excitement thrumming in his fingertips. Thinks idly about Paul wondering about him at the party as he strolls over to the telephone and dials Brian’s number. He had forgotten about the party, and now he’s sorry he missed it. Brian picks up after a few rings.
“Happy Jew year, Brian,” he says wryly, “I trust you’re thoroughly hung over.”
A muffled groan crackles in his ear, “Well I’m certainly feeling it now . Are you still in Liverpool?”
“Cripes, no. Couldn’t wait to get out of there. Mimi says hello.”
“Oh, that’s lovely of her.”
“How was the party?” John licks his lip, toe nudging the corner of the rug under the coffee table. The television is on low and quiet, but it helps to have something to look at to keep casual about everything.
“Ah, well it was quite alright. Interesting crowd, rather bohemian. You would have enjoyed the music, of course. Very talented, that Paul McCartney.”
John’s fingers fumble with the cord, “Should have been there...”
“Are you alright?” Brian asks, and John can so easily envision the worried expression he’s wearing right now.
He rubs the back of his neck, “I’m fine. Do I have anything on this week?”
A thoughtful pause passes, “No, not this week, but I’ve secured an interview for next Thursday with a rather prominent-”
“Alright, just let me know the day before,” he interrupts, “Your folks still here?”
“They’re heading back tomorrow,” Brian huffs a weak laugh, “My mother insisted she found the perfect woman for me, again.”
John feels the undercurrent of sadness in his tone, knows Brian well enough to recognise it whether he likes it or not. It’s not as though he isn’t amused by his mother, he’ll joke about it with John on occasions of mild intoxication. John can’t force out a crude joke now no matter how hard he tries to get the cogs in his mind spinning. All he can think to say are miserable things he shouldn’t burden his friend with. There’s nothing either of them can do about the talk about them in Liverpool, he just has to live with it - the bitterness of being an outcast and a joke. He wants to ask Brian how he coped with it back then, but holds his tongue.
“John?”
“I’m here,” he looks back over at the letters scattered over the couch.
“I didn’t mean to-” a soft sigh, “I hope your Christmas was enjoyable.”
“It was grand,” he mutters.
“Paul did ask that I pass on his best wishes for the new year.”
“Did he?” John feels his stomach curl a little anxiously, feeling sparks of curiosity at the very mention of Paul’s name. He looks once again at the christmas card on the couch with a peachy warmth encasing his heart.
He calls up Paul the next day and the day after that a small blue car rolls into his driveway, a lean figure stepping out of the driver’s seat making John’s heart thump as he peers through the kitchen curtains.
-
“They need a cover for the album and I want you to do it,” Paul tells him over fish and chips at the kitchen table. The afternoon sun streams in through the window as they hunch over the meal Paul had thoughtfully picked up on his way over. The oil soaked paper and the salt on his fingers remind John of home.
“Thought you just said you had your pictures taken for it,” John says through a mouthful of crumbed fish.
“Yeah, I did. And they still need to use ‘em ‘cause they said people need to recognise me-”
“They want girls to go mad over your pretty face,” John corrects, sucking the salt off of his thumb.
“Would you just listen to me?” Paul chuckles, “But it’s a bit, y’know... boring. Just a photo of me and the name of the record. An’ I was thinking about your Elvis drawing and I think it would be really great if you could draw over the photo? Make it interesting, y’see?”
Paul reaches into the bag he had brought along with him and pulls out a large envelope and holds it up in front of John’s face. He wipes down his hands over his pants and takes the envelope to look for himself.
Paul plucks a chip from the centre of the table and pops it into his mouth, “You could do it on a clear bit of plastic, or something. Dunno how it works, really. But just around the borders there could be something. Feels a bit wrong just havin’ my mug on it.”
When he flips over the photograph his stomach plummets. It’s stunning, a black and white catching Paul’s three quarter profile in a white button up shirt makes him look like a leading man in a film. A proper star. The smile is somewhat shy, the slope of his lashes against his pale skin...
Paul clears his throat, “Erm, yeah, not the best one of me.”
John’s eyes stay on the photograph. Paul fidgets.
“But it was the only one that seemed a bit different. All the others were face on, me in a suit like the Stones,” he adds.
“It’s great,” John says quietly, tearing his eyes away to see Paul’s bashful smile, “Might buy myself a copy.”
“You’ll do it though, won’t you?”
“Be careful what you wish for,” John slides the photograph back into the envelope, “Sure, of course I’ll do it.”
Paul smiles, pleased, and leans back in his chair, “Fab.”
“I’ll need to hear it first,” John says, “See what you’ve got.”
Paul quirks an eyebrow, smirking, “You’ve got a record player, ‘aven’t you?”
He pulls out a vinyl from his bag, encased in plain packaging. John swipes it immediately and leads them to the living room.
“The first one that plays is the single out at the moment,” Paul sits himself on the arm of the couch, “Number 36 on the charts or something at the moment.”
“Not bad,” John lowers the needle, “Asked Brian to make some calls. He used to run NEMS, you know. Might be able to bump you up a bit using his magic.”
The record crackles to a start.
Close your eyes and I’ll kiss you, tomorrow I’ll miss you
Remember I’ll always be true
He stays locked in his place, leaning forward and watching the vinyl spin as he listens to the music. His voice is melodic and warm and there is a joy bursting from the seams of every word. It makes sense but he still finds himself surprised at how pleasantly this guy can sing. He gives Paul an impressed look.
“Wrote this at the last second before recording, didn’t think they’d even let me do it,” Paul says, crossing his arms over his chest and ducking his eyes down to his shoes.
“It’s really good,” John tells him, settling down in the armchair.
And I’ll send all my loving to you
“Great guitar,” John adds.
Paul is smiling, fidgeting with the watch around his wrist, “Wanted a bit more of that sound but the studio wasn’t that keen so I could only sneak in so much.”
“Fuck them,” John mutters, casting a look back to the spinning record as the song ends. The next song starts with a flowery piano bit, the soft backbeat kicking in just as Paul hums his way into the first verse. They stay in the respective spots, listening and nodding along, John making the occasional comment of praise. Paul smiles bashful and bright, inserting little anecdotes about recording and writing. When it’s over, John looks back at the envelope with Paul’s photograph and purses his lips in thought.
“Any bright ideas?” Paul asks with amusement, lifting the needle.
“A few,” John replies, “A couple of dim ones too.”
“Enlighten me,” Paul quips easily, sitting back down on the couch.
John scratches at his jaw self-consciously, turning his eyes up to the ceiling, “How much time do I have then, boss?”
“I’ll swing by Monday morning for those reports, Mister Lennon,” Paul puts on a gruff voice.
“Oh sir, yes sir, right on it sir!” John salutes and they both crack up.
“It’s nerve-wracking, y’know,” Paul sighs, leaning back into the cushions of the couch, hands over his stomach with his fingers interlocked, “There’s so much I want to do now but it all depends on how this record goes in the charts. I’ve got all these songs swimming about in my head all the time and I can’t do anything with them yet.”
John nods dutifully with his eyes scanning Paul’s posture. The neat fold of his cuffs back against his forearms, the crisp and tight fit of his trousers, the wetness of his lower lip from the nervous gnawing of it. He tears his eyes away, getting up to gather paper and pens.
He shoves aside the scattered books and old newspapers on the coffee table to make room, kneeling on the carpet with a pen tucked behind his ear. Paul slips down onto the floor so they are facing each other over the table, taking a pen for himself and watches John start to draw an outline of Paul’s figure as it had been in the photograph. Dark hair, doe eyes, arched brows, lips tugged up into a little smirk. His pen curls to thicken the eyelashes as he thinks of smooth melodies and catchy guitar riffs, pianos twinkling bright and sweet. He plucks his glasses from his pocket, sliding them over his nose without thought until Paul chuckles.
“I thought you said they were awful.”
“They are awful,” John laments, fingers pinching each side of the specs and lifting them up and down.
“You look just fine in them,” Paul smiles and continues to watch John draw.
“How do ye feel about flowers?” John clears his throat, somewhat shy as he doodles a little carnation on the breast of Paul’s shirt.
“They’re alright,” Paul hums, watching with his chin perched on his fist. John scribbles a vague pattern around the borders of the page, deep in thought.
“What about birds?”
“Depends on the kind,” Paul replies, quick as anything, and John grins.
“The kind that shit on yer car,” he says as he adds a little bird onto Paul’s shoulder.
“How ‘bout an eyepatch and hook as well?” Paul jokes.
“Wouldn’t want to cover up those pretty eyes,” John teases as his pen swirls lightly over the emptiness next to Paul, “Don’t want to make it complicated either.”
He draws up a record player needle propped up on top of Paul’s head and draws in floating music notes into the empty space, Paul makes a noise of approval and points to the spaces in between the notes.
“Should put more flowers in between them, like the one on my shirt,” he suggests, pulling back his hand as John complies.They work together with watercolour paints, filling in the flowers and Paul’s shirt in pale reds and blues. Paul’s record is playing again from the top and John can occasionally chime in with fragments of lyrics he remembers, much to his friend’s delight. Every now and then he will catch a glimpse of Paul with his mouth downturned in concentration and he can imagine all those little musical notes dancing about in his own stomach. The fluttery feeling when his hand accidentally knocks against Paul’s wrist, the shared giggle when they pull back to observe their work.
“Looks fab,” Paul says cheerfully, “It really does.”
“Owe me a drink for it,” John adjusts his glasses over his nose.
“What’ve you got?” Paul asks with cheek, standing up and stretching out his spine.
John’s eyes trail down his figure, “Some beer in the fridge, wine in that cabinet over there.”
Paul strolls over to the kitchen and leaves John alone with the fade out of the current song playing softly.
I’ll be waiting for your kiss
Like dreamers do
Ooh, like dreamers do
Waiting for you
There’s a swell of pleasant laughter as Paul enters the room again with two beers, “You’ve still got my card from Christmas on the bench.”
John’s face heats up, chuckling a little self consciously as he swipes a bottle from Paul’s hand and looks down at their work again, “Haven’t gotten around to spring cleaning.”
“I see that,” Paul clinks their bottles together, “You know you don’t have to wait ‘til it’s spring .”
“Didn’t realise I sent in a letter to Ms Paul’s Housekeeping Column,” John nudges his arm.
“You and thousands of other loyal readers,” Paul tips back his drink. Lips pink and full and wrapped around the bottle’s rim just to send John a further shade of red. He takes a small sip for himself, ignoring undone top button of Paul’s shirt and how the fabric has peeled back like fruit rind to reveal an intriguing portion of the pale skin of his chest. There’s a shine in Paul’s eyes when he glances over again, glossy like magazine paper.
“ Mister postman look and see… is there a letter, a letter for me ,” John hums and brings the bottle up to his lips, “Fuck, I don’t remember the words.”
“I've been standin' here waitin' Mister Postman, so patiently... for just a card, or just a letter... saying he's returning home to me, ” Paul sings softly. John flushes, wonders how forward he can be now when the push and pull between them is already so perfect. It feels like the string joining two rusted tin cans is wobbling between them and he can’t quite catch just how interested Paul is in their friendship. Or something else. He should be better at reading these things, given all his hungry observation in gay bars and other social gatherings Brian had brought him along to. The subtle quirks and flashes of heat and interest. Maybe Paul is just a bit too arresting to lock onto an interpretation with full confidence.
“Who’s he?” John asks with all the nerve he can muster, masking his mouth with the beer.
“ My boyfriend, so far away, ” Paul continues on, bopping his head along to the last chorus of the song and not looking John in the eye.
“Navy man, is he?”
Paul snickers, “Well, you know what they say about the navy.”
“I’ve heard some whispers,” John drums his fingers on the bottle, chest flaring up with excitement. It’s raw and vibrating, he can feel the buzz of it in his lungs. In the smile he can’t bite down. It gives him away.
The last song fizzles out and Paul abruptly turns to lift up the record and slip it back in its case, “I’ll be doing appearances, here and there, y’know. If you ever wanted to come along, you’re welcome to.”
“Front row seats to the Paul McCharmley show?”
“Oh indeed,” Paul cups his hand around his mouth, “Tickets selling fast!”
“I’ll bet,” John slumps down onto the couch, holding some hope that Paul will join him. The musician instead chooses to inspect the bookcase, some grand find Brian had gifted him when he first moved in. It’s filled up like some sort of kaleidoscope of coloured book spines, slotted in at all angles and positions. Paperbacks and anthologies of prose and poetry, adventures and mysteries, everything that John had collected over the years. Paul’s slender fingers run along the edge of the middle shelf, eyes thoughtfully considering each title with a curious tilt of his head.
“Much of a reader?” John asks, just to fill up the silence.
“Can’t say I am,” Paul drags his pointer finger up and over a particular book, sliding it out of its place and inspecting the cover, “The Entertainer by John Osborne.”
“Never got ‘round to that one. It’s Brian’s doing, he’s a theatre guy.”
Paul opens the book carefully, letting the pages flutter open, dust swelling up into the air, “Had a phase of that myself, back in the day.”
His lungs are lusting for a cigarette right now, just so he can sit and smoke and watch Paul contently as he files through the collection. The homely light cascades over Paul’s features gently. The slope of his nose, the slight pout of concentration, the sharp dip of his waist all hold John’s attention for long cosy moments at a time.
“Any recommendations for a poor illiterate like myself?”
John snorts, “Got some newspaper comics you might like.”
Paul scoffs, “Steady on, I’m just a beginner here.”
John slides up off the couch and approaches the bookcase, shoulder to shoulder with Paul as he scans through the titles, “What do you like?”
“I’m up for anything,” Paul rocks back and forth happily on his heels, arm pressing into John’s side as he does so.
“This one is great,” John perks up and slips Catch 22 out from underneath a pile on the top shelf, several paperbacks following out and over the edge along with it. Paul catches them in his arms, laughing as he peers over John’s shoulder to inspect the cover.
“What’s it about?” he says, awkwardly shifting the books in his hands.
“Read it for yourself, you cheat.”
He sees it a split second too late. It’s as if he’s watching Paul’s thumb brush over the thorn of a rose when he brings a thin novel to the top of his pile of fallen books. A Room in Chelsea Square. He snatches it from Paul’s hands, less of a panicked movement and more just instinct. Like holding out your hands to catch falling books, he assumes. Though, he blushes when he realises his haste has raised Paul’s brow and he struggles to stutter out an explanation.
“Hold this, I’ll put them all back,” he mumbles and swaps the selected novel for the armful of books and starts to shelve them in one by one as Paul steps back.
“Got tea? Feel like a cuppa,” he asks, stifling a yawn that may or may not be real.
“Yeah, help yourself,” John pushes the last book into the remaining open slot, eyes catching on a photograph poking out between pages of Charlie Chaplin’s autobiography, a makeshift bookmark. He pinches the corner and pulls it out, the sepia glazed daydream of long ago. His mother in a summer dress, her smile subtle but bright all the same. Him, just a boy, sitting on her lap with his knee high socks and and shy eyes. It takes him by surprise, how a dim photograph can stir up such bright memories. The soft fabric of her dress, the copper colour of her hair, the smell of summer air and the yellowing grass underneath his bulky school shoes. The sound of his name blanketed in her voice. His throat tightens, gingerly smoothing the folded corner of the photograph with his thumb.
The kettle whistles just as he tucks the photo back in between two heavy set books and settles down the longing with a mental wash of feigned nonchalance. Paul brings out two mugs while carefully navigating the various papers on the floor.
“Ta,” he takes a steaming cup for himself, blinking the mist out of his eyes.
“So, how long were you in that band for? The Quarry Guys or summat?”
They sit down on the couch, knees knocking as they settle, “The Quarry Men. The best skiffle group for miles, if I say so myself. Lasted from ‘56 to about ‘59. Got to be a drag and my mate wasn’t game to join in anyway, convinced me to stick with art.”
“What did you play?”
John’s heart shudders behind his ribs, “Banjo… Me Mam taught me how to play. Just simple stuff.”
Paul hums, carefully blowing over the lip of his mug, “Still got it? The banjo, I mean.”
“Yeah, somewhere,” John shrugs. In the top shelf of his closet, to be exact. Though it hadn’t been touched since he first got here.
“I probably get the musical thing from my parents, too,” Paul says quietly.
Something shifts, the ache being held so tight in his chest softens a little as he stands up and takes the photograph in his hands again, shuffling in back next to Paul and showing him.
“That’s her,” John can almost see motion in the picture, the two of them blinking against the sun.
Paul doesn’t touch the photo, but leans close and really looks at it, eyes soft and considerate. Both of his hands are holding the mug tight over his lap, his breathing soft and barely audible. The heat radiating from his body making John feel relaxed enough to press a little closer.
“That’s…” Paul starts, but can’t seem to articulate anything more. His eyes don’t leave the photo, either, and so John holds it out for a moment longer before carefully retracting his hand and propping up the photo against an empty glass on the accent table beside the couch.
“She was great,” the words slip out without the careful consideration he usually adopts when it comes to this. Even when he’s drunk and mouthing off, he can’t mention her. Not slumped against Pete Shotton’s shoulder, nor during those late night chats with Stu.
“Mums usually are,” Paul comments, leaning back into the cushions with his eyes fixed on his tea, “Music is good, y’know, for all that.”
Embarrassment floods through the cracks in his armour, his own softness burning him, and John quickly darts his eyes away and parrots with a touch of mocking, “ All that .”
Paul looks over at him, somewhat alarmed, but John keeps his features stiff and neutral as he sips his tea. There’s an awkward hesitation before Paul speaks again.
“I like that painting over there.”
John glances up to the canvas hanging up over the television, “A Sutcliffe original, that is. That artsy mate I just mentioned. He’s studying in Paris at the mo’, so he sent that over. Probably cost a fortune to post.”
“That’s about thirty stamps, right there,” Paul chuckles, “Haven’t seen much abstract stuff at those galleries I play at lately.”
“I think it’s an old one. I might have even helped him with it. But anyroad, he does it all, talented fucker.”
“One of those, eh?”
“Should’ve seen ‘im at school. Teacher’s pet doesn’t cover it.”
“And I take it you weren’t?” Paul smirks.
John laughs, “Aye, the three-legged runt they put down, more like.”
“You sure they were saying ‘runt’?” Paul snickers as John kicks lightly at his shin.
“Coming from the alter boy!” John teases, “Worked out ok, didn’t it? Don’t have to slave away at some shitty job.”
“How did this all come about, anyway?” Paul asks, “Not many artists get their chance, so I’m told.”
“Brian was bored one day, decided to get into the art world. Liked my work enough to be my agent. You can switch careers around like that when you’re rich.”
“Sounds nice.”
“Don’t really have a back-up plan if this all goes down the bog, though,” he drains the last of the tea, “I’m sure he does. He mentioned managing bullfighters in Spain once.”
“Haven’t heard that one before,” Paul shifts his posture, “He really likes that?”
John crinkles his nose, “He loves it. Can’t see why, but he’s a special one. I couldn’t look half the time when he brought me along to one of ‘em. Too violent.”
“You’ve been to Spain?”
“A week in Barcelona,” John stretches out his legs, remembering how he and Brain had laid out in the sand under the sun, the surf licking up to their ankles. The humid nights and the shy flirtation between Brian and a handsome matador at a club. How his stomach curled with searing jealousy at the bitter thought of Brian abandoning him already for a man in a glittery jacket.
“Don’t know how I’d fair under that much sun,” Paul puts his mug aside slowly, “Shrivel up to a crisp, probably.”
Fuzzy images of Paul in swim shorts stretched out in a beach chair with his skin shimmering with lotion spark off like firecrackers in his head. He dares to look over, and with his glasses on now he can see the freckles lightly dusted over Paul’s nose and spilling across his cheeks. The hazel hue of his eyes, a mosaic of earthy tones that John can’t bring himself to look away from for a dangerous few seconds. Somewhere in that bookcase is the story of Icarus, and John can practically feel the wax melting on his skin. The two of them are sitting closer than he had realised, staring at each other. The sun is burning, burning, burning. Every feathered notion of indifference slips away before he can help it. He’s falling through the clouds of those eyes, longing to crash into the plush pink of Paul’s lips. His breathing is slow and short, mouth slightly agape. Everything else is just a warm haze.
Paul breaks the moment when the couch dips where John’s weight is leaning into it, “Would you like to see me play tomorrow night?”
The slit of window exposed between drawn curtains reveals that the sun has sunk low behind the trees and the streetlamps have started to flicker on like fireflies.The buzz of the moment fades, the gap between them expanding as John shuffles back.
“You’ve got a gig?”
Paul nods and adjusts his watch around his wrist, “Playing my own stuff, but I throw in a Little Richard number or two to keep everyone happy.”
“Well, you’ve twisted my arm now, haven’t you?”
Paul grins, “You’re probably sick of hearing my sodding voice after today.”
“No,” John protests a tad too quickly and flushes a little, “Not at all.”
“Well,” Paul rests his hands over his knees, “That’s alright then.”
He can’t shake off the desire to kiss him on the mouth. There’s a sticky kind of gravitational pull luring him closer every time he lets his guard down. That weightlessness he feels swell up when they stare at each other for a second too long. And he might go mad if Paul gives him something more than that to go on. Something more than a playful smile or a flirtatious remark. It’s as if he’s been suspended in mid air.
Paul picks up Catch 22 and tucks it under his arm, humming as he scoops up the empty glasses and mugs to take to the kitchen.
“How fancy is the place?” John picks at his jeans, “Because I’ve got my drainies and a leather jacket ready if needed.”
Paul laughs brightly from the hallway, “I’d love to see that.”
John grins to himself, “Well, what are you wearing?”
“A suit,” Paul is shrugging on his coat when John steps into the hall, “But that’s just me. It’s just a normal club in SoHo.”
“I can manage that,” John crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back on the wall and watches Paul knot a scarf around his neck.
“It’s at the Marquee Club,” Paul says, “I go on stage at seven.”
“Right, ok,” John unlocks the door and steps aside to let Paul through, “I’ll be there.”
Paul stops halfway through the door and turns on his heels, “You can keep that record, by the way. Thanks for doing this, it’s really going to turn out great.”
John’s heart thumps against his ribs at the earnesty, the brightness in his eyes when he speaks. The door shuts with a soft click and John knows he’s in trouble now.
-
The session band begin to filter onto the lit stage just when John starts to get antsy. He’s sitting at a table by himself in his pinstripe cream jacket and charcoal sweater that sits a little too tight around his torso. He’s got his cap on with the brim tipped low enough to cover his eyes from people who pass by. Girls in short skirts and guys in turtlenecks and shaggy mops of hair. The sodding place doesn’t have a liquor license, so there’s no drink to act as decent prop to occupy him and shadow his lack of company. He had been vaguely aware of the Marquee Club for the rhythm and blues acts, and had probably popped in for a few shows during drunken nights seeking out decent music in SoHo. Seemed to be buzzing with a whole new kind of energy now, people excitedly chatting and shifting around the small space.
When Paul steps onto the stage, John’s posture immediately relaxes and his face brightens. He’s stepped out with his guitar strapped over his front, giving a cheery wave to the audience as they whistle and call out his name. He adjusts the microphone stand with easy motions, leaning in to greet the audience.
“One two three four!” the band jump into the first number, Good Golly Miss Molly.
People hoot and holler, bopping along and twisting as Paul stomps his foot in time, shaking his head. He’s smiling in a way that would probably ache, glowing brightly as he nods his head. John stands up, shifting closer to the front. A girl on his right has her hands in her hair as she dances, singing along. The mass of people move about together but all eyes stay on Paul. He’s got them all dancing like puppets with the strings of his guitar played with stunning expertise. His long legs kick out as the guitar solo starts, exchanging back and forth with the drummer before he swings back around and sings with all his heart into the mic.
With each number that passes by John is further and further entranced. It’s hypnotic and exhilarating to just watch the bounce of his figure, those long fingers fluttering over the frets with ease. John hasn’t had a drink all day but there’s this hot sloppy feeling rising up and twisting in his core that has him imagining Paul playing him like that guitar. It’s like the earth is tilting, the sun climbing up his throat when Paul meets his eyes and grins so hard his voice almost softens along with it.
“This next song is a bit slower,” Paul huffs into the mic and runs the back of his hand over his forehead, “It’s a love song, so if you have someone to hold onto, now is a good time to do that.”
The first few guitar notes make John’s arms prickle with goosebumps. Paul’s eyes go soft and starry as he plucks at the strings.
She gives me everything
And tenderly
The kiss my lover brings
She brings to me
And I love her
His heart clenches, breath being squeezed out of him when Paul’s eyes trail over the crowd and land on him once again. His flesh shudders, seeing the sweat trail down the side of Paul’s neck. The milky glow of his skin under spotlight. Like moonlight. He might as well be a sailor hearing a siren call, though he doesn’t think he would even mind Paul dragging him down by the collar. Even if he were to drown.
-
John takes a drag of his cigarette as he leans against the wall outside the club just as Paul finally emerges, guitar case in hand and cheeks flushed pink.
“Give us smoke,” he requests, voice slightly hoarse. John’s toes curl as he fishes out the last cigarette from his pocket.
“While you were entertaining your groupies, I’ve been out here in the cold, and now you take my last ciggie,” John pouts with mock sorrow as Paul lights up his fag.
“Stealing from a starving artist, am I?” Paul clicks his tongue as he exhales a blue cloud of smoke.
“Nah,” John replies, “Managed to trick this poor sod into buying something of mine a few weeks ago. I’m set for a while.”
“Whoever he is, he sounds handsome.”
“He’s alright,” John shrugs, casting a look up to the purple clouds sitting fat and dark across the sky and obscuring the moon. He knows he can’t be so languid and coy forever, eventually he’ll trip over and cross the line. But scaring Paul away like a skittish cat is starting to become a heavier gamble than he’s ever considered taking. To stoke the early flames of infatuation and risk dousing such a promising heat is the tightrope he’s walking.
“You’re not going to tell me how it was?” Paul asks, sounding slightly disappointed.
“Narcissistic git,” John mutters, making him cackle, “Of course you were bloody brilliant.”
“You mean it?” Paul bites down on his lip, like he’s trying to hide his smile, and brings his smoke back to his mouth.
“Wouldn’t say it otherwise.”
He allows himself the small indulgence of a shy glance at Paul’s profile as they listen to the quiet sizzle of their cigarettes as people pass by.
“I wasn’t entertaining groupies, by the way,” Paul sounds amused, “Just chatting to people I ought to be friends with.”
“A cunning businessman,” John expels smoke so it’s carried along with the breeze, “Sound ‘ave known.”
“You’ve got a lot to learn, boy,” Paul drawls like a character from a Western.
“Wouldn’t mind an education,” the cigarette in the corner of his mouth bobs as he speaks.
Paul’s laughter comes out as a short burst, as if it surprised him, and John grins despite the implications causing slight embarrassment to bloom over the high spots of his cheeks. He watches the ribbons of smoke curl up from his own cigarette in an effort to keep his eyes from locking onto Paul for the rest of the goddamn night. What is more addictive, he wonders, nicotine or Paul McCartney? He finds the answer when the ciggie starts to burn down far enough to sting his fingers. He taps out the ash and takes one last drag before tossing it to the ground. Somehow, he feels Paul’s eyes on him and it’s a physical struggle to keep his neck from lolling to the side to look back. The self-discipline he’s exercising is completely foreign and he’s navigating it so clumsily. It’s miraculous that he’s managed this well without an intoxicated state of being to soften the strain.
And then Paul speaks.
“Can’t settle after gigs like that,” he lets out a pained sigh, “Feel restless.”
John swallows, coherency too far out of reach when his veins are running this hot and feverish. He’s saved, momentarily, by a trio of girls emerging from the club. They spot Paul within an instant and flock over to him, cooing.
“Paul! You were fantastic!”
“Ah, thank you, ladies,” he tips his head with a smile. John watches the exchange with heated fascination and slight envy.
“We’re going over to the La Chasse for drinks, want to join us?” the girl in a yellow checkered dress and a thin grey coat makes the offer with a sweet shrug of her shoulders, eyes gleaming. The brunette next to her smiles when she spots John peering at them. He tongues at the sharp point of his canine, unimpressed and a little sour when Paul chuckles good-naturedly and pretends to contemplate his answer.
“A drink would be nice,” he turns over to John with an arched brow, “Fancy a second act?”
There’s an undertone of vibrant cheek that may have enticed him in another circumstance, but as it were, John isn’t keen on watching birds fawn over his companion for the remainder of the night.
“Best if I turn in,” he rolls back his shoulders, “You go, enjoy the fruits of your labour.”
Something pierces through the pleasant ease in Paul’s body language, flickering into some kind of concern, “You sure?”
“Aye, very. I’ll send over the final cover sometime next week,” he slips his hands in his coat pockets, “Ladies, enjoy the evening. I’m sure Paul McCartwheel will show you a jolly good time.”
He flashes a soulless grin and walks away. This is going to be more difficult than he thought.