Chapter Text
“What time do you call this?” Paul asked, wry and vehement as he clutched the handles of his bike protectively. The sharp smell of frost clung to the air, icy atoms dancing around him, his breath crystalising in front of him.
“I call it approximately 4:50 in the afternoon,” John replied, leaning against the doorframe, lacklustre, arrogant. The darkness of November almost encompassed them entirely, the unbecoming of summer long behind them, but the loss still feeling evident. They were lit, solely, by the warm yellows of Mendips’ kitchen leaking through the windows – streetlights littered evenly in the distance.
“You were supposed to be over at mine at four,” Paul said. “To write ‘nd that.” He still felt like a child when beside John, sometimes; they’d been what Paul would call friends for what felt like ages, now – realistically, it had only been about a year, give or take a few months.
It was all but relieving when John smacked his palm against is forehead, hissing at himself. Paul rolled his eyes, grinning a little. “Shit,” John said. “Sorry. Got held up. You know how it is. Traffic.”
“Oh, aye,” Paul nodded. “Rush hour’s a killer, you know. It’s like the boss doesn’t know we’ve got families to come home to,” he played along, gladly – John hadn’t forgotten about him, not really, and that was a comfort. Sometimes it felt like a vivid hallucination, that this was real, that they were a part of each other’s lives. Paul couldn’t remember a time before John; just the lucid sense of being alone. He wondered if John ever felt that, too.
John stepped outside, opposite Paul; he was dressed like he was ready to leave, at least. His jeans, dark and blue and stained with black ink, were rolled up around his ankles, black socks sheltering them from the bitter chill, his hands now nestled comfortably into the pockets. He had a short black peacoat wrapped around his torso, his glasses framing his face like a portrait. Paul was still in his school uniform.
“Do you wanna’ go for a ride?” John proposed, shutting the back door behind him, not taking a moment to look at Paul.
He considered saying no for a moment; he was eager to write, and his guitar felt heavy against his back. His cheeks, nose, ears, fingertips, all felt battered by the wind, his hair disheveled and lazy. But John had spoken the question expectantly, hopefully, like a no would shatter him.
“Alright,” Paul agreed. He pulled his guitar off his shoulder and handed it, gently, to John. “Can I leave this?”
John consented, disappearing back into the house and leaving Paul outside. Paul slumped over his handlebars, smiling against his arm, head tilted, facing the front garden. He could see the sky bleeding luminescent pinks into dark blues, watched the clouds roll past, tumbling as they went – changing, hypnotising. Being with John excited him beyond what he had ever encountered before. There was a temperamental and intoxicating thrill about it that he couldn’t justify – wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to. Occasionally, he’d read through lyrics they had written together, focused less so on the words, more so on John’s scruffy calligraphy blending with his own, mesmerising and unkempt. He’d chuckle, indescribably fond, when seeing top corners of pages ripped apart with scribbles upon scribbles, John persisting that it must be Lennon/McCartney, not, under any circumstances, McCartney/Lennon. “Because I’m older,” he would assert. “It’s the way of the world, kid. Wise up.”
When John reemerged, Paul lifted his head and prepared his bike for take-off. John sprinted around the back and appeared shortly after, his own vehicle in tow. They shuffled awkwardly out of the side-gate, rolling down the drive-way easily.
When Paul reached the pavement, John skidded to a halt beside him. They stopped, for a moment, John looking at Paul, a smirk against his lips, malicious and friendly all at once. Paul raised an eyebrow, questioning and rebellious.
John leaned in so that Paul could feel the disconcerting warmth of his breath against his face; watched the plumes of vapour intermingling prettily. “Where we goin’, Paulie?”
Paul shook his head, laughed. “I’m not sayin’ it,” he defended.
“Oh, go on,” he prodded Paul in the ribs, Paul’s bike tipping to the side a little – he lowered his foot to steady himself. “Humour me.”
“No,” Paul affirmed, prodding John right back. John pushed his hand away, and for whatever reason, when their fingers grazed against each other, rough and amalgamate, chills tickled their way up Paul’s arm and down his spine. He withdrew.
“I said,” John started again. “Where we goin’, Paulie?”
Paul laughed. “No,” he retorted, pushing his limits. “It’s cheesy.”
John gasped, mock-offended, slamming his hand against his chest. “But… you love it,” John said. He was sat casually, his feet firmly planted on the ground, leaning back against the wind. He snapped his gaze back to Paul. “Paul McCartney, say it now, or so help me God, I’ll just have to knock ye’ the fuck out right now on this here pavement.”
Paul sighed. “It’s cold,” he said.
“Where are we going?” John repeated.
Paul growled in frustration, leaning his forehead against his handlebars in defeat. “For fuck’s sake,” he grumbled.
“Paul…”
“To the toppity fuckin’ top, Johnny,” Paul snapped, lifting his head up abruptly and angrily.
John considered Paul for a long while. “Okay,” he said slowly, nodding. “Now, once more, with feeling.”
Paul glared at him. “You’ll be feelin’ somethin’ in a minute if you don’t pack it in.”
John laughed loudly, the sound earthy and pleasant, a little jarring. Paul felt his chest contract, then release, warmth pooling around his heart. He watched John laugh; watched his head loll back to reveal his neck, warm and thick, his Adam’s apple bobbing obnoxiously, like it was taunting him. Paul got a strong whiff of John’s aftershave, and inhaled it willingly.
“I submit,” he announced, raising his hands in surrender.
“Thank you,” Paul said pointedly, shaking his head. John pushed his bike off the curb, zig-zagged around the empty road lazily.
“Come ‘ead, then,” John called, and before Paul even had his feet on the peddles, John took off down the middle of the road – not fast, mind you; his hands were in his coat pockets, guiding the bike with his legs alone. Paul watched the auburn in John’s hair light up each time he navigated himself beneath the glows of the streetlights, gazed on as his shadow rolled away like the clouds.
“Hang on!” Paul shouted. He kicked off the floor smoothly, then rose up from the seat, tall and proud. The wind blew his hair off his face, and he welcomed it. He tilted his head up towards the sky, let his eyes fall closed for a brief second as he breathed it in, then opened them again when he began to catch up to the older boy.
John was still riding languidly. Paul sped past him, cutting him off, began to sway lazily in and out of John’s path.
“No one likes a show-off, Paul,” John heckled. Paul laughed, utterly euphoric.
He slowed, eventually, to ride next to John, parallel to each other. He plonked himself back down on his seat, considered copying John and placing an arm, cool and contained, into his blazer pocket – he didn’t, in the end. Too obvious.
“Seriously,” Paul said. “Where are we actually going?”
John shrugged. “Anywhere,” he replied. He looked at Paul, smiled softly. Sometimes when John smiled, you could almost see the cracks behind it – a threadbare smile. A veil. He considered whether or not he was the only person privy to this vulnerability, then shook the thought away. It didn’t matter, anyway.
John sped up a little, so Paul fell in behind him. A car drove past, the headlights illuminating the two of them, each in turn. Paul had stopped wondering where John was whisking him off to, eventually; decided it was all fine, regardless. He was content enough to be there, in that moment; riding behind his best friend, cruising down familiar and homely streets, back-passages, cutting through the greenery of parks – scenery flashing by them in a cinematic ode to winter, the sky darkening quickly and gradually simultaneously.
It was about twenty minutes until they reached Sefton Park; Paul had strolled through it as a kid with his mum and dad, him and Mike running off, wreaking havoc. He watched John’s reflection travel by in the lake. It was pitch black, now, and the park was completely empty. They carried on around the body of water for a while; in the end, John pulled over next to a bench. Paul copied his actions, confused.
“Bit random,” he observed. As soon as he stopped moving, the cold overwhelmed him, and he had to take a minute to catch his breath. John sat on the bench, his legs wide apart, thighs bursting inside his tight jeans. He took out a cigarette, stuffed it between his lips. He wafted the packet at Paul, humming a noise that sounded a lot like, “Want one?”
Paul nodded. “Yeah, okay,” he said. He’d never been much of a smoker before, knew his dad would have him for it. He’d nicked a toke of Jim’s pipe, once, when he was about 12, and near choked to death. He’d got enough backlash for that. But Dad, he’d cried. I could have died.
John pulled another cigarette out of the packet and handed it to Paul; Paul accepted, grateful, and sat next to John – it was a small bench, and if he angled himself just right, their thighs brushed. It frightened him, slightly, just how much he welcomed the contact, despite the very little warmth it actually offered him. John didn’t flinch away, so he eased down into his seat, pressing more weight against John, testing the waters. This is fine, he decided. It’s just because it’s cold.
“Me mum and dad met here, you know,” John announced as he fished out his lighter from his other coat pocket. He lit his own cigarette, then passed it on to Paul.
Paul raised an eyebrow. “Oh?” He asked. He felt his mood deflate somewhat – it was one of those nights, he realised. A reflective night.
“Mhm,” John responded, chuckling softly when Paul coughed and spluttered as he lit his ciggie, taking the first breath. Paul was thankful that he didn’t comment on it. “Mimi told me. He pelted his bowler hat into the lake ‘cause mum said she didn’t like it.”
“That was… nice of him,” Paul said. He took another drag; this time, he held it long enough to inhale it, felt the nicotine rush straight to his head. He exhaled, long and content.
John chuckled. “Yeah,” he said, taking a quick drag of his own cig, inhaling in a brisk hiss.
They sat in silence for a moment, staring into the darkness of the lake. Paul didn’t want to speak, suddenly, was more than happy to just sit there; as time passed, he felt John leaning into him, too, their shoulders pressing together. Paul smoked, calm and hazy; John smoked fast, forcing the plumes out between his teeth with each drag. Paul turned to look at him; his face, lit up by the orange embers, his eyes shining golden amidst the overbearing darkness.
John looked at him, frowning.
“Paul,” John said. Paul coughed in acknowledgement. “You don’t fancy me, do you?”
Paul’s eyes opened wide and he slid back suddenly, whacking his hip against the metallic armrest of the bench. Fear spilled into his guts like nothing he’d felt before, and he considered hopping back on his bike and heading straight home – but then, what did he have to run from? He didn’t fancy John; not like, he’d realised pretty early on, the way he’d had something of a crush on Buddy Holly, or Elvis, or both of the Everly Brothers. He’d taken a liking to Little Richard, as well, gazing at magazines like a bird would. But not John – not real, every day blokes. Never.
“Wh – no!” Paul answered, shaking his head. John just raised both of his eyebrows in Paul’s direction, grinning at him ridiculously, his chin jutting out sardonically beneath the curve of his nose. “I don’t!”
John nodded. “If yer’ sure,” he surrendered. Paul opened his mouth to speak, but when John looked at him again, he snapped it shut, letting out a satisfying pop sound as his lips, numb with frost, collided. His hands remained firm against his thighs – he tugged at a loose piece of thread manically. He didn’t take his eyes off John, ensuring his eyebrows were still drawn in a defensive frown.
“John, seriously, I don’t,” Paul affirmed eventually. John just chuckled and took out a fresh cigarette – he didn’t offer Paul one, this time. “I like girls.”
“I know you do,” John nodded, looking down as he twiddled the cigarette uselessly. “Just, y’know. Some people like both. I was just checking.”
Paul wondered what had made John ask the question; what was it that Paul had done, in the last year, that led John to believe that Paul fancied him?
Then, Paul considered the statement: some people like both.
“Like who?” He investigated, unable to stop the question slipping out of his mouth. He willed himself to not want John to say him, but the thought was there regardless – festering a nook in his brain, uncomfortable and wrong.
John shrugged. “Can I have me light back?” He asked.
Paul nodded mechanically and thrust the lighter back into John’s open palm – he retracted his hand instantaneously, so fast he felt his elbow click angrily.
When John stood up, Paul felt his chest hollow out in discomfort; this was unnatural, he thought, this tension – was nothing he’d ever experienced before, and yet John seemed completely sober, calculated, tranquil. An overbearing sense of loneliness trickled into his thoughts, again; like before he had met John, only so much worse.
“You coming, then?” John interrupted, and Paul jumped at being addressed to.
“Coming…?”
“Back to mine,” John said, his voice droning – he didn’t say it, but the word obviously clung to the end of the sentence anyway. “Songs don’t write ‘emselves, muppet.”
"O-oh,” Paul stuttered, rising from the bench with frost-bitten limbs, numb and painful. “Yeah. Coming.”
“In yer’ own time, Princess,” John joked, bowing with chivalry; his bike, his noble steed. Paul almost had it in him to laugh, but not quite – was still recovering from the shock of the last few minutes, the existentialism gnawing at his consciousness – the question ringing senselessly in his ears.
On the way back to Mendips, they didn’t speak – but Paul watched John ride off ahead of him, watched his legs move effortlessly, the muscles in his back tensing and relaxing as he went; the wind rustling his hair – the same wind, then, propelling backwards, hitting Paul square in the face, knocking the air out of him with every passing breath.
Mimi wasn’t home by the time they got back; off to Woolton’s Conservative Club for a few hours. John and Paul were sat in the lounge on opposite arm-chairs, John perched on the one that Mimi usually sat in, nearest the window. He had his guitar balanced on his knee; Paul mirrored his position.
“What about that bit, though, there–” John started. Paul leaned over his guitar to look at the lyric sheet that mostly just consisted of scribbles. “It’s not like me, to pretend – yeah, that’s fine – but, then what?”
Paul shrugged. “True. We should probably have gotten the chorus down first,” he said. It was too easy, at that moment, to imagine that the whole encounter in the park had never happened, now that they were back where they belonged – writing and lounging as they wished, focused on craftsmanship and technique and familiar structure.
They ran from the start again. They had the whole song down, more or less, in terms of chords and rhythm: that much was fine. When it came to the chorus, Paul went ahead and sang what felt natural, after John had ceased his singing. “But I’ll get you, I’ll get you in the end,” he continued. John clicked his finger and leaned towards the coffee table to write it down.
“Ahh, nice one,” he crooned, his voice high-pitched in half-mockery. He mumbled to himself, “Yes, I will, I’ll get you in the end…”
“Oh, yeah – Oh yeah,” Paul went on. John nodded appreciatively.
“Do you think that’ll do, then?”
John’s hair had lost some of its curl now; it was darting out in all kinds of directions, scruffy and textured. The peacoat had been removed to reveal a comfortable looking grey t-shirt, a thermal one that didn’t cling to his chest the way most of his tops did. His glasses were balanced on his nose – Paul loved those things, he did. He’d said it before now, but they were so Buddy Holly.
“Paul–”
A realisation crept up on him with that thought; perhaps that’s where all of this ‘fancying John’ business had originated from. He looked like Buddy Holly, occasionally. That made sense, really – Paul always could appreciate a good-looking man, and John was undeniably one of them. It was rare, admittedly, that he ever allowed himself to get quite this drawn in by them, though – his heart racing at the prospect of seeing him, looking him dead in the eye when singing songs about love; subtly interlocking their ankles when they lay next to each other at sleepovers; tender glances, lingering hands, breaths intermingling –
“Jesus Christ, Macca,” John snapped. Paul blinked rapidly, dumbstruck.
“Wh – what? What did I do?”
John stood up, hands on his hips, abandoning his guitar on the floor. Paul gaped up at him. “Just kiss me and have done with it, will you?”
Paul stared at John for a long time, his eyelids half drawn in a confused squint. His lips parted, in shock, of course, but never in anticipation – he took a deep breath and shook his head in disbelief. “You what?”
John stared at him, his lips pursed – he stared Paul down like he was proposing a challenge, a duel, but all Paul could do was blink at him; inutile, juvenile.
“To be honest, yer’ a bit young for my liking, and frankly, you know, you’re a lad, but if it shuts you up for two minutes, then–”
“I never said anything,” Paul offered, completely futile.
John arched an eyebrow. “You were thinking,” he argued. “Loudly.”
“I…” What? Paul thought. I don’t want to kiss you?
He considered kissing John in the ways he’d imagined kissing Buddy Holly and Elvis and all those other poor, unassuming musicians who had become victim to his innate, private, desires; he imagined taking hold of John’s face, feeling the grain of his freshly shaved pores, his fingertips sheltered in the depths of his hair; he imagined taking off John’s glasses and bumping their noses together, tracing his tongue along John’s bottom lip; envisaged, for a moment, that John wanted to kiss Paul as well; his breath hitching, perhaps, or a hand darting out to grip Paul’s hip, pull him close, all-consuming and alight.
Paul swallowed, ashamed. “We shouldn’t,” he said. He was exhausted of excuses, now – couldn’t put up a fight any longer, pretend like he could never imagine loving John Lennon, completely and unreservedly, because he even had to admit to himself that his make-believe kisses with Elvis and the like had never been that tender, that intimate; had never left him breathless the way that that thought had done. He kicked himself, inwardly, for having never considered that option before, what kissing someone he knew, someone like John, would feel like.
“Then we don’t have to,” John shrugged, not a care in the world, seemingly. Paul, suddenly, had to fight the urge to protest. He looked down at the carpet, averting his gaze towards anything but John. “Offer’s there if you decide you want it.”
Paul could feel John’s eyes on him for a prolonged instant, but he refused to react. In his peripheral vision, he watched John walk towards the door leading to the hallway.
“I’m goin’ for a smoke,” he announced. “Think of somethin’ good for that song, will you?”
He departed with ease, leaving Paul, abashed, in the armchair. He swallowed thickly and blinked profusely; with a sigh, he slumped back in his seat, glared at the ceiling like it withheld the answers he was searching so desperately for.
In the moments that followed, Paul kept returning to one question – like who? If some people like both, then who was John talking about? Paul had certainly never met anybody who, openly or assumedly, liked both men and women, and definitely never any one who liked the same sex exclusively. Before that night, Paul had never really considered that he might want to kiss John Lennon; before that moment, he had never really considered that John Lennon may want to kiss him, too.
Rising from his seat, a phoenix out of ashes, he prepared himself; cleared his throat, rubbed a hand over his face, loosened the collar of his white school shirt. He didn’t have time to think about it, really – what he was about to do, what the consequences could be, what John would actually think about it all. For a little while, Paul elected to simply shut it all off; a switch in the back of his mind.
He stepped through the house in a dream-like haze, unable, unwilling, to wake up. When he got to the kitchen, he saw the back of John’s head leaning coolly against the window. He tiptoed across the tiles, slid on his shoes.
He took a breath, and stepped outside.
“Hi,” he muttered, looking at John.
John regarded him like a stranger, and for some reason, Paul was thankful for it. “Hello,” he replied.
“I’m going to kiss you, now,” Paul declared, feeling brave, all of a sudden; that conspicuous thrill he felt every time he was with John, the adrenalin undoubtedly surging through his veins, urging him on. He took a step closer.
He watched John swallow, like, now, he was nervous. He took a drag of his cigarette; Paul watched, awestruck, as the smoke filtered calmly between John’s lips, rose upwards, encircled his whole face – his eyes, restless, blinked the fumes out of the way. He coughed, once, shook himself down.
In the end, he turned to face Paul and nodded his head.
“Okay, then,” he said, finally. And Paul kissed him.
He didn’t know what John’s lips would feel like, really, but the sensation surprised him nonetheless; they were cold, firm; Paul realised, with some subdued form of glee, that John’s lips were puckered, and he was kissing Paul back.
Paul dared to part his lips a little; as expected, the rough grain of John’s pores grazed against Paul’s mouth, and if the feeling happened to elicit a groan, alien and guttural, well, Paul didn’t stop to notice. Instead, he raised his hands to John’s neck, traced his fingertips along the edges of his hairline. When John’s tongue tickled a gentle line along Paul’s, teasing him, Paul sighed into the kiss; he interlocked his fingers together, used his elbows to push John towards the wall; flattened his palm against the back of John’s head just in time to protect him from the inevitable collision with the window. John gasped into Paul’s mouth, and Paul chuckled softly, the sound shocking to his own ears.
“Sorry,” he whispered, pecking John’s lips between gasps.
He could feel John’s breath against his face, uneven and jagged. “Good?” He asked, and Paul hummed his approval. He felt high; this was nothing he had ever come near to experiencing before, and he tried not to wonder if that wasn’t the case for John. He hoped John felt something, the way Paul did – he felt like he was falling.
“So good,” Paul muttered against John’s lips. He felt John kiss the corner of his mouth. “The best,” he continued. He could have sworn he felt John smiling against him, but he couldn’t be sure. Eventually, he felt John’s hands between their chests, fiddling with something, but Paul didn’t stop to find out what was happening. He was kissing John Lennon, and John Lennon was kissing him back – the world seemed a million miles away.
Paul laughed when he felt John trying to wrap his coat, which he must have put back on when he left Paul in the lounge, around Paul’s waist. John laughed, too, and suddenly, they were giggling into each other’s mouths; Paul grazed his thumb along John’s cheekbone, breathing him in, committing it all to memory. “Good?” Paul asked, out of breath; for the first time, he opened his eyes; John’s were closed, unaware that Paul was watching him. His eyelashes lay against the top of his cheeks, which were red and flushed; his lips were still parted, his tongue resting languidly against his teeth. He’s beautiful, Paul thought, then said it out loud when John took too long to speak.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispered. He rested their foreheads together, closed his eyes again.
He heard John clear his throat, and then, “You’re not so bad yourself.”
Paul laughed. “Daft lad,” he mumbled, softly. He pulled away, opened his eyes; this time, John’s were open, too.
“Mimi’ll be home soon,” he said, and Paul nodded.
“Yeah,” he acknowledged. He wasn’t sure he wanted it to be over, not even remotely; if John did, then that was fine, he’d decided; once was enough. He was already sure he’d remember it for the rest of his life; was already giddy to get home, lie down on his bed, think about it till he fell asleep – dream about it, if he was lucky.
“I’d better head off then,” Paul finished. John looked at him. Their eyes locked – John’s, warm and dark, Paul’s, open and inviting; he wanted to stay like this forever, huddled out in the freezing chill of November, lit up in the warm colours from John’s kitchen, wrapped in John’s coat, leaning up a little to reach John’s lips.
John nodded, though. “Yeah, you better had,” he confirmed.
Paul let his hands fall from John’s neck, missed the contact immediately; at the same time, John’s arms fell, slack, to his sides.
Paul gave one parting glance towards him before he opened the door again to head back inside; John was watching him walk away, too, to Paul’s surprise. Instead of speaking, he simply smiled; John smiled back.
Once he’d gathered his things – his guitar, his blazer – he came back out to see that John hadn’t moved. In the same instant, they heard footsteps coming up the path, the front door unlocking – Mimi.
Paul put his guitar over his back, guided his bike out. He stopped in front of John.
“Bye,” John said.
Paul grinned. He leaned in and pecked John once more on the lips – John blinked in confusion, but Paul was too euphoric to care. Kissing John was like pure ecstasy.
In a muted whisper, Paul asked, “Can we ever do that again?”
John laughed and looked to the floor – he dragged his foot along Paul’s, dirtying his school shoes a little. Paul looked down, then back up – still smiling. He couldn’t get it off his face.
When John gazed towards Paul again, the corners of his eyes were crinkled in a tight smile, holding back. “Maybe, when yer’ older,” John joked, and Paul sighed. John was barely even two years Paul’s elder.
“Okay… in the meantime, though?”
Again, John just smiled. To Paul’s amazement, John leaned in, pecked Paul once on the cheek – Paul felt warmth spread where John had touched, and he had to focus on not raising his hand to feel the area.
“We’ll see,” he promised. “Now off you pop. I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”
Paul started to roll his bike out. “Of course,” he said. “And don’t go standin’ me up this time, right?”
He heard John laugh from behind him when he was halfway out of the front garden. “I would never,” he replied. When Paul turned around to wave goodbye, the backdoor had shut, and John was nowhere to be seen.
The whole ride home, Paul kept having to take intervals to breathe; to consider what all of this meant, to come to terms with the colossal realization that he’d just snogged John Lennon, his best friend, in his back garden, and while he should have been feeling some sort of regret, fear, something that would knock some sense into him, all he could think of was the taste of his lips and the feeling of their smiles pressed against each other; he could feel a weight laden on his heart, dragging it down, and he was falling with it; willingly, unreservedly, falling.