Chapter Text
June 1959
He’s daydreamed his way through lessons again, spending all day scribbling little bits of unfinished song lyrics in the margins of his notebook instead of taking notes on the actual lecture. Somehow, he makes it through most of the day unscathed before his luck finally runs out during the last lesson of the day when the teacher realises that Paul hasn’t been paying attention to anything for at least the past three weeks. He gets a light lashing and detention for his troubles.
Luckily, it’s the beginning of the last week of lessons before exams and then summer holidays, and even the prospect of a long and dreary detention can’t dampen Paul’s good mood. He just has to make it through the rest of this week and his exams (which he’s just trying not to think too hard about) and then there is nothing but freedom on the horizon.
He’s got so many big plans for this summer, almost all of them music (and John Lennon) related.
John himself has been strange though. Hot and cold. Sometimes he won’t leave Paul alone for weeks on end, showing up at his house in the middle of the night and making them write or practise every evening and weekend. Others, he’ll be nowhere to be found.
They’re in the midst of a cold period and he hasn’t seen or heard from John for two weeks at least. So he’s surprised when he finally gets out of detention to a dark orange sky, with it just going on dusk, and sees John sitting on the kerb outside the deserted gates of Paul’s school, bent over his sketchpad.
“Fancy seeing you here, Lennon,” Paul says, coming to a stop next to him, twisting his head to peer down at John’s sketchpad. He’s intrigued by the strange assortment of funny cartoon figures he finds there, oddly squiggly and squirming, much like the little dances John himself will sometimes do out of nowhere.
John looks up at him through his thick spectacles. Paul really likes how they make him look, older and artistic and vaguely mysterious. It’s such a shame that John almost never wears them.
“Finally, he appears,” John drawls, “thought they might’ve locked you in a dungeon or something, thrown away the key.”
“I had detention,” Paul responds, sheepishly.
“Yeah, George told me.” John responds, flipping his sketchpad closed and getting up off the ground, making a whole show of dusting off his arse. “You naughty boy.”
Paul feels a little irrational pang of irritation. When had John seen George? Did they see each other a lot without him around?
“What are you doing here, anyway?” Paul asks instead, following as John starts walking down the street towards the bus stop.
“Waiting for you, of course,” John says like it’s the most obvious thing, like he hasn’t been avoiding Paul for weeks.
But it does ease something inside of Paul. He doesn’t think John’s ever waited around like this for George, wouldn’t, really.
And then John sighs.
“Had a long day. They’ve been making us do nudes this past month but I’ve skived off the last three weeks and now I’ve got to turn something in next week but the bloody model’s only going to be in one more time and I’ve already missed half the poses.”
And then he adds bitterly, “Not that I wanted to draw his pasty arse in the first place.”
“Nudes?” Paul hears himself exclaim, and then cringes at how scandalised and young he sounds. But he didn’t think that sort of thing would be allowed, maybe in London, but surely not at the Liverpool College of Art. He can’t believe they’ve actually brought in a model to pose naked in front of the students. And a bloke at that!
John looks over at him, an amused glint in his eye.
“Yes, Paul, nudes.”
And now that John’s gotten a reaction out of Paul, he’s not going to let it go, Paul knows.
“You should’ve seen the bollocks on this bloke, Paul. Big, massive things. Took me nearly the whole session to get a handle on those things, if you know what I mean.”
And Paul can feel himself blushing now, thinking about John sticking his face close to some adult man’s crotch to inspect his heaving balls, and then concentrating very hard on capturing them right on canvas.
“Does it have to be him? Or can you draw someone else instead?” Paul asks, trying to steer the topic of conversation away from the naked man who he’s never met but is starting to resent, and his bollocks.
They’re at the bus stop now and it’s just as deserted as the rest of the street. Paul sets his guitar and school bag down and takes a seat on the bench.
“Doesn’t have to be him,” John responds. And then, after a beat, “You offering, Paulie?”
John is now towering in front of Paul with a dangerous glint in his eyes, the kind he gets when he’s just had a very bad idea that he won’t easily let go of.
And Paul feels his whole body run hot and cold at the suggestion, the look in John’s eyes. He knows then that he’s made a huge mistake, unwittingly walked into some sort of trap.
“I’m - - no - - no John, I’m not offering!” Paul exclaims.
But it’s too late, John’s latched on to the idea and Paul being flustered will do nothing but encourage him further.
“It wouldn’t be so bad, really.” John says in a coaxing tone now. “You’d just have to lie there for a couple of hours. Think of England.” He chuckles.
And he’s just making it worse. Paul’s blushing properly now.
“No,” he says again, firmly.
You have to be firm with John. Give an inch and he’ll take a mile.
But John changes tact, pleading now.
“Please Paul, Mimi’ll have me head if I fail. She’ll take my guitar. She’s already threatened it.”
And Paul swallows hard, knowing it’s true, feeling that threat like an arrow to his own heart. All their plans for the summer jeopardised because John couldn’t be bothered to show up to his lessons. And as always, he now wants Paul to fix it.
But no, he can’t, it’s asking too much. Just thinking about exposing himself in that way in front of John, his clever eyes roaming all over Paul, makes Paul’s whole body feel shivery. And it’s not Paul’s mess to fix.
“No, John.” Paul says again, shaking his head, trying to avoid John’s eyes so as not to fall for his blatant emotional blackmail.
“Fine,” John huffs, angrily, collapsing onto the bench next to Paul. “I’ll find someone else. I’m sure Stu’ll understand, being an artist himself and all.”
And Paul feels his blood run cold. He hadn’t considered that John would find someone else.
And suddenly his mind is filled with images of John in Stu’s flat, watching closely with that squinty concentrating expression of his as Stu takes off his clothes, stretches himself out on the sofa for John in an elegant and artistic pose, all masculine angles and serious expressions. He imagines John carefully translating that onto canvas, dark lines and smudged charcoal.
He closes his eyes, shakes his head, trying to get the images out, trying to calm his suddenly racing heart.
Their bus pulls up and Paul is very grateful for the distraction. They get on and pay the fare in silence, and then make their way to the very back in quiet unison. The lights turn off and the bus starts hurtling forward, and Paul’s heart is back to racing right along with it. He doesn’t know why he’s feeling this way, and it’s not helping that John isn’t saying anything now.
Sometimes, when they’re on a bus late at night and they’re by themselves in the back, they won’t talk but John will put his head on Paul’s shoulder or knock their knees together. But today, he’s holding himself apart, not touching. And suddenly, it feels significant.
By the time Paul’s stop is coming up, he’s worked himself all the way up, palms sweaty, fists clenched.
He doesn’t want John to draw anyone else naked, he concludes, especially not Stu. He doesn’t know why but he knows that’s how he feels. If it’s going to be anyone, it should be Paul.
So as he’s gathering up his things, getting ready to get off the bus, he comes to a stop in front of John and says, “Fine, I’ll do it.”
John looks up at him, confused expression. “What? Do what, Macca?”
“I’ll do it,” Paul repeats, raising his eyebrows, desperately hoping John won’t make him actually spell it out.
John’s mouth falls open just a little as he finally understands what Paul is saying. And it’s almost worth it just to see that Paul has shocked him for maybe the first time in his life.
“You’ll - - you mean you’ll let me draw you?” John asks in a soft voice, expression very open.
“Yes,” Paul confirms, turning away from him because it’s still too much to really think about, and to look at John’s face.
But before he can walk away, he feels John grab his wrist, holding on tightly, pulling him back.
“When?” John asks, and Paul might be imagining it but when the lights turn back on as the bus pulls up to his stop, he thinks there might be a slight pink tinge to John’s cheeks.
“Saturday,” Paul responds automatically, because he’d secretly been meaning to get them together to write on Saturday anyway.
And then he’s twisting his wrist out of John’s grip and walking away and out of the bus.
And for the rest of the week, Paul is even more useless than usual at school. He gets two more detentions before the week is over and is utterly shattered by the time Friday rolls around, fighting and failing to stay awake through the last of his dreary lessons.
When he walks out of the classroom after his final lesson of the school year, he finds George waiting for him in the corridor outside, deep scowl on his face. It’s not entirely unusual to find George scowling at him but he usually has some idea what he’s done to earn it. Today, he has no clue.
“Oh hullo, George,” Paul says, approaching him cautiously.
George doesn’t say hello back, just stares at Paul for a long moment from behind his bushy eyebrows before stretching one scrawny arm out, silently holding out a little bit of folded up paper in between two fingers. Paul carefully takes it from him, raising his eyebrows in question.
“It’s from John,” George says quickly. Then, before Paul can ask any follow-up questions or react at all, George is walking away.
Paul stares at George’s retreating back until it disappears from view before finally looking down at the unassuming bit of paper in his hand. His breath starts to come faster. It’s as if the little piece of paper is dangerous, like it might explode in his hands or something.
Finally, as the corridor around him starts to empty, Paul ducks into a little alcove next to his classroom and carefully opens the paper with shaking hands.
“3 o’clock tomorrow. Mendips.” is all it says in John’s unmistakeable handwriting. On the side, John has drawn a very thin and very naked cartoon man with comically large balls hanging down low, almost to the ground, practically pulling the man down with them. And Paul finds himself smiling in spite of himself, letting out the breath he didn’t even realise he was holding in.
It’ll be fine. He knows it’ll be fine. It’s only John.
It’s not going to be fine, Paul thinks frantically the next morning, scrubbing himself viciously in the bath. He generally considers himself pretty confident, self-assured, but right now all he can see are the various flaws in his own body. How so many of his angles are soft, rounded, decidedly boyish (some would even say—have said—girlish) instead of being hard and angular and manly. Definitely not an Adonis, he thinks. But he also doesn’t consider himself pretty like a girl, too hairy and awkwardly long for that, with knobby knees and pokey elbows.
Maybe he should’ve just let John draw Stu after all. Surely, he would’ve made a better subject than Paul in just about every way.
But even at his most insecure, he's unable to accept that. The thought and mental images of John and Stu like that continue to hit Paul like a sharp stab right to his sternum, for reasons he doesn't want to examine too closely, spurring him onward.
He spends far too long trying to decide what to wear before realising it doesn’t really matter since he’s going to be taking everything off anyway. And then he stands frozen in front of his open dresser drawer for a long time, blushing and wishing he could crawl under the covers of his bed and never come out.
Somehow, despite about a dozen separate breakdowns where he does nearly give up and call the whole thing off, he actually makes it to Mendips a little early. From the outside, he must look calm, collected, like it’s just another Saturday where Paul McCartney has come to his friend and bandmate John Lennon’s house to practise. He’s even brought his guitar along out of sheer force of habit and because it provides much-needed comfort. But the notion of it being just another Saturday is belied by how long he stands frozen outside the front door, contemplating every life choice that has led him to this point.
When he finally does get up the courage to knock, the knock itself comes out frail, skittering, much like Paul’s own nerves.
At first he’s unsure whether it was even loud enough to be heard but he soon hears the sound of approaching footsteps and his heart starts hammering violently inside his chest.
“Paul,” John exclaims on a little exhale of breath when he opens the door, eyes widening almost like he’s surprised to see him.
But then before Paul can say anything back, John is grabbing his wrist and pulling him into the house, closing and locking the front door behind them. The foyer is unlit, and the house quiet around them, as the two of them just stand there for a long moment, John’s warm and slightly clammy hand still encircling Paul’s wrist. Paul stares down at the floor, steadfastly avoiding John’s gaze.
“Where - -” Paul starts to ask, at the same time that John says “c’mon, let’s go upstairs.”
Paul nods tightly, still staring down at the ground, and lets John pull him into motion. John keeps a tight hold on his arm as they make their way upstairs and to his bedroom.
John, who hardly ever plans more than five minutes into the future, has prepared. He’s set up an easel facing the bed, which he’s made for once. The curtains on the window by the bed are pulled open so that the mid-afternoon sun falls directly onto the middle of the bed, where he wants Paul to be. Where he wants Paul to be, naked.
Paul feels a shiver go through his whole body as he stands in the doorway, frozen. John has let go of him and he finds he can no longer move on his own, legs turned to lead. John gets halfway into the room before he realises that Paul hasn’t followed, is still standing stuck in the doorway.
He walks back, coming to a stop far too close to Paul this time. Paul tries to avoid his eyes again but John puts one finger beneath Paul’s chin and uses it to tilt Paul’s head up so he can look into his eyes, searching them closely.
He makes a little wounded noise in the back of his throat and his eyes go impossibly soft.
“Paul,” he says in a voice Paul has never heard before, “you don’t have to - -”
But before he can finish the sentence, Paul is pushing his hand away from his face and moving forward towards the centre of the room. He doesn’t need John to treat him this way, like he’s something breakable, like he’s a child. That’s just making it worse, making it something it’s not. This is not a big deal, really. Just an art project. It’s not like the bloke with the massive bollocks whose job it is to pose nude gets strange and shy every time he has to pose in front of students. That would be daft, impractical.
Paul just has to treat this like that. Pretend he’s someone else entirely, perhaps a professional nude model with an exotic name, Ramon, who goes from art school to art school baring himself for hundreds of closely watching eyes on the daily. Ramon wouldn’t act this way.
But hundreds of strangers’ eyes would be fine, says a voice inside him. It’s the one pair standing two feet away from him that are causing this specific reaction. And Paul knows he has no chance of just pretending his way through this.
“John,” he says, finally, finding his voice for the first time all day, “don’t look, okay?”
John, still staring at him intently from the doorway, throws him a look like he’s lost his marbles.
“How am I supposed to draw ye if I can’t look at ye?” He says.
“You can look later,” Paul says, blushing furiously now, “Just look away right now.”
And after another long, appraising look, John turns round. He pulls the bedroom door closed in front of him and then dutifully stands there staring at its blank expanse.
Finally, Paul sets his guitar down by the bed. With shaking hands, he starts taking his clothes off. His shirt and trousers go easily enough, and then, not giving himself a chance to think about it, he quickly steps out of his pants, tugs off his socks. And all of a sudden, he is well and truly starkers, standing in the middle of John Lennon’s bedroom. He feels a hysterical little giggle bubble up at the back of his throat but he pushes it down.
He puts his clothes in a pile on the floor next to his guitar and climbs onto the bed. It makes a subtle creaking noise that sounds obscene to Paul’s ears. Out of his peripheral vision, he sees John’s head twitch minutely in his direction but he doesn’t turn around, doesn’t peek. And something about that, how good he’s being, just makes Paul feel so embarrassed.
Without consciously deciding to, he finds himself hunching forward, hugging his knees to his chest and hiding his face in between them. He stays there for a long time, taking big, bracing breaths, trying and failing to calm down.
“Alright, you can turn round,” he says, eventually, and it comes out muffled from where his face is pressed tightly into his knees.
Paul doesn’t hear him turn but he does hear his footsteps as he walks across the room and then comes to a stop right by Paul’s side.
John lets out a low groan that might be Paul’s name but could also just be gibberish.
“Tell me what I should - - how I should - -” Paul mumbles still into his knees. “You said there were poses…”
“Stay as you are,” John murmurs softly, still close by.
And then, a moment later, from further away, “but just - - just let me see your face.”
So Paul turns his head so he’s facing John, one flaming cheek still pressed into his knee.
He watches as John finally takes a seat at the easel, straddling the little bench facing the blank canvas. He fusses for several moments with his supplies and doesn’t look at Paul at all. And now that Paul is watching him, he can see that he’s not the only one who’s nervous. There are little spots of colour high in John’s cheeks, something slightly off about his entire demeanour.
It sends a strange little thrill through Paul to see John flustered, makes him feel powerful in some odd and indefinable way.
Finally, when John has everything laid out just so, he looks back up at Paul. Their eyes meet across the room and Paul feels the weight of his gaze somewhere low in his belly, heat pooling in his groin. Instinctively, he pulls his legs even closer to his body, making sure any embarrassing physical reaction remains hidden. Behind his specs, John seems to turn a little pinker.
“Ready?” John asks, almost a whisper.
Are you? Paul thinks nonsensically.
But he nods against his leg, looking away from John now in order to maintain his sanity and what remains of his dignity.
He hears John start to sketch, pencil moving steadily over canvas. The sound is nice, rhythmic and soothing. And finally, after what feels like weeks, Paul’s wrecked nerves start to calm down. A few minutes in and he feels his eyes starting to droop, eyelids getting heavier and heavier. Right before he drifts off, his eyes catch John looking at him with a little smile playing over his lovely lips. Already half-asleep, Paul wishes John were closer, thinks he might kiss him if he were closer. And that’s the feeling that carries him into sleep and stays with him as he drifts, warm and safe in the afternoon sun, under John’s watchful eyes.