Chapter Text
John was, to put it lightly, furious. He had his reasons, though— it had been a hell of a day. Actually, scratch that. It had been a hell of a weekend.
For starters, he had been sleeping in a bed that wasn't his for the last couple of days, and while one could think that's not such a big thing, a major point in John's personality is that he loves his bed. He loves sleeping in it, fucking in it, working in it, he loves doing eveything in it. If he can die in his bed and be buried with it, he'll do it. He absolutely loves that bed.
So what, one might be wondering, had kept him away from such a beloved piece of furniture? Well, certainly not because he had been getting laid— no, God wasn't that fond of him. He'd actually been staying in a hotel in Scotland (a shitty one if you asked him, rustic if you asked Aunt Mimi) because one of his relatives had died. Sure, those were bad news, but such was the natural circle of life and at the glorious age of 97 one could expect as much. Surely no one was surprised to find the old chap dead.
Furthermore, John didn't even know the guy. He barely even recognized his name when Aunt Mimi called him to break down the news, so why should he attend his funeral? It was none of his business, if you ask him. And so he told her at the time.
"John, this is not open to negotiation. You are going to the funeral."
"Oh, come on, Mimi! I didn't even know the old man! Are you sure his close friends and family would want a complete stranger intruding their beloved Pop's funeral?"
"He was your relative, John, you will not be intruding."
"But I don't know anyone there,” he’d argued, and he sounded so much to his seventeen year old self, listing the reasons as to why he shouldn’t be forced to attend his second cousin’s wedding, that he winced. “Not even the deceased. I mean, how sad is that?"
“You’ll know me.”
“Oh, yeah, right, as if exclusively knowing your aunt during a social event made the situation any better.”
"That's hardly the point," she sighed, and John could practically see her pinching her brow. "This is your family we're talking about, John. It does not matter that you didn't know him personally, you're going. It's the proper thing to do."
"Aw, come on," he groaned, again. "Can't you be a little bit less old fashioned?" he asked, knowing well what a stupid question that was. Asking Aunt Mimi to be any less old fashioned was like asking Santa Claus to go on a diet: pointless and against the laws of nature. When the old woman didn't answer, John let out a sigh and tried to build up a case. "Look, I actually have work to do here, you know? It's not that I'm just being a lazy prick. And I would have to find someone to take care of the cat, and like, everyone is super busy these days..."
"John," Aunt Mimi interrupted. "If you don't attend the funeral I will find the way to post your most embarrassing baby pictures online, and I will make sure to send them to every single person you work with. And if that doesn’t convince you, allow me to remind you that I still have that video where you peed in the bath when you were four."
John has always known better than to take one of Aunt Mimi's threats lightly, and suddenly Scotland was looking much more enticing than ever.
That had only been the beginning of the whole thing, of course. The plane had been a total nightmare, which was the usual thing to expect from a plane, but John was already in a sour mood so he took it personally. It had been incredibly hot before takeoff, and then incredibly cold throughout the whole damn flight, and a baby had spent a whole hour and a half desperately wailing and crying. And they didn't even serve peanuts.
After finally getting to Scotland and making his way through the city with a rental car to pick up Aunt Mimi, things didn't get any better. The old woman spent the whole time complaining because he arrived later than expected ( well what the fuck did you want me to do, Mimi, get out to the back of the plane and push? ) and they wouldn't have time to make dock at the hotel before going to the funeral, which meant John would have to change clothes in the bathroom of a café near the graveyard. He hit his head against the doorknob while putting on his suit trousers, and then had a scare when looking at himself in the mirror. He tried to fix his hair the best he could and made an effort to practice his sad face so as to not look bored and frustrated during the whole duration of the ceremony. He was trying, okay?
It wasn't fun. Funerals aren't meant to be fun, he got that, they are meant to be dull and depressing because that's death's aesthetic or whatever, but still. He had always figured a funeral should be made entertaining, if anything for all the living folks who were probably having a terrible day. It's not like the dead would know, right? Or maybe they would. Nevermind. If he got one positive thing from that damn trip was the resolution to leave very clear indications in his will about how he wanted his funeral to be. He could already imagine it, big bold letters in the middle of a blank page reading "Aunt Mimi: remember uncle Patrick's funeral? Yeah? Okay. Not like that".
Then the next day they had to spend the whole day with the family to "remember our dear Patrick". Remember? There really wasn't much to remember in John's case. At some point he had decided it was better to stay quiet, lay low, and stuff his mouth with bread just in case someone asked him about our dear Patrick. It's not like he could say a lot about him other than he should have started a diet and taken the doctor's recommendations seriously. For some reason he didn't expect a joke like Who would have expected that all that beer and meat could take its toll on someone's heart, eh ? to be welcome.
And so the weekend passed and John survived, barely (and he would make sure to remind Aunt Mimi what a terrible time he'd had at every occasion that presented itself). He had to go back home, which was good, but since those darn scientists at NASA were too busy discovering life on other planets to invent a teleportation machine, going back home meant taking yet another plane. He honestly didn't fancy the idea very much, but the alternative was to stay at some of his relative's house, and honestly— he'd rather chew his feet and crawl all the way back to London.
So there he is two hours later, waiting for the boarding gates to open so that he can get to his precious window seat and, luckily, sleep a little bit. After all, he hasn't had a real good rest ever since he left his bed back in London.
And so there he is, patiently waiting in line.
And waiting.
And waiting.
And waiting, and the doors aren't fucking opening and what the fuck is going on. Did the pilot have a stroke? Did someone plant a bomb under one of the seats? No wait, that’s impossible because they haven't opened the gates yet.
He lets go a frustrated grunt and rubs his face with complete disregard for his glasses, abused as they already are. How difficult is it to just... open the gates? Just so that he can get on the plane and take a seat instead of standing in the fucking line? Fucking hell.
The adult part of his brain understands that planes are a tricky thing and that the delay is likely due to precautions or compulsory safety procedures, but he doesn’t want to listen to the adult part of his brain, he wants to sleep.
Still angry but too tired to actually do anything about it (what is he going to do, anyway? Demand to speak to the manager? Come on now, he’s desperate but not enough to walk down the Karen lane), he fishes his phone out of his jean pocket. His finger dances above the apps he has on display, but none of them offer the kind of entertainment he’s looking for (he doesn't know what kind of entertainment Google Docs can offer, but it sure isn't it). He finally decides to check the App store, see if there’s anything new on the market, maybe a Deluxe Tetris or something like...
Huh.
He recognizes that logo. He saw it almost everywhere for a while, including George's phone. He's heard the sentence "C'mon Johnny boy, just try it, it would be so good for you!" more times than he can remember given that his non-existent love life is George's go-to mocking topic. Ever since he found the love of his life thanks to that damn app, he thinks he's some kind of love expert, the little cunt. And it isn't like he hadn't exploited the app to its full potential, no, no. He'd slept with at least a dozen different people before settling for that blue eyed Mr. Potato. He's a sweet guy, honestly, and a good drummer too, so John isn't exactly complaining about their relationship. What he is complain about is George's cocky remarks on how he needs to get laid, urgently.
And it's not like he disagrees, he just hates the truth coming out of George's mouth.
That stupid little flame stares at him, daring him to make the move, mocking him... until he caves in and presses the "Instal" button. What is he doing, he doesn’t know, but at this point he’s way too sleep deprived to care.
He skips the whole introduction, all the "Welcome to Tinder" crap, and goes straight to creating his profile. He doesn’t really have any intention of creating a real account, he just wants to see what had his friend so hooked.
He promptly writes down his name, but doesn’t even care to do it correctly so he ends up being "John Lemon''. He then proceeds to select a photo of his cat licking his balls as a profile picture and as a last step, he fills the description with some nonsense that even he can’t understand. Something like "I am he as you are he as you are me and one and one and one is three". No, it doesn't make any sense. No, he doesn't give a single crap.
(For a second he thinks he hears someone snort behind him, but considering he’s also been hearing The Piña Colada song non-stop in his head ever since he got out of Aunt Mimi's house, he doesn’t give it much thought.)
Whatever. He’s in.
He feels the same excitement and sense of mischief as he did when he Googled "tits" for the first time on his mother's computer when he was eleven years old. He has a feeling no one will be interested in sending him a private message considering that Elvis Purrley is not what one would call a sex symbol, but he doesn't really mind— he’s there to check out exactly what the fuss is all about.
He gets a hold of the whole swiping thing rather fast and quickly understands why it had become such a popular dating app. After a couple of minutes your thumb moves almost on its own, deciding whether to swipe left or right faster than your brain can process the information in front of it. Seeing as there’s close to no originality in most bios, the majority of them holding the same boring and cheesy information, you really have to rely on the pictures— which are a whole ass experience on their own. It’s almost comically repetitive. You have The Thirst Traps, the "I'm edgy so I throw in some memes instead of a picture of myself", the typical Frat Boy, the Peaked-in-highschool type, the Guys That Want One Thing & They Make It Clear, a lot of obvious bots/catfish and, in an embarrassing fortuity, his colleague from work, Mark.
It’s fun. He’s having fun. Maybe his sense of humor has deteriorated after making one too many self-deprecating jokes, sure, but he’s way more entertained than he’s been for the last forty minutes.
As minutes go by he gets more and more engrossed in the dumb app until eventually, and rather unconsciously, he starts playing a little game with himself while swiping non-stop. The game consists of doing a quick scan of someone's profile, then swiping (left, mind you), and then making the intensely difficult decision of whether or not the next person to pop up would make a nice couple with the first one. He starts examining and contemplating each potential couple, getting almost too invested in their also potential match (there is no match, it’s all in his head, he knows that— he hasn't completely lost his mind just yet.) It doesn't really matter to him since he rejects everyone, but some of them do look good together— so much so that he starts wishing there was an app for matchmaking. He'd have so much fun, and he'd be damn good at it too.
(Oh. So that's what George was all about.)
Let's see, Greg... Not bad, could be worse... And Donna... Eh, I guess they would make a nice couple. Next, Kitty, uhuh, nice hair... And then we have... Ew! Oh hell no, no way. She can do so much better than Maurice .
Admittedly, it doesn't make much sense, but what could you expect from him? He’s exhausted both in body and mind.
When he hears a woman's voice announcing that the gates will open shortly and urging all the passengers to get in the line, he could have all but dropped to his knees and thanked the Lord; instead, he pockets his phone and sighs deeply. Fucking finally. No matter how entertained he's been by his dumb little matchmaking game, he is way more interested in getting to bed as soon as possible.
He makes his way to the inside of the plane, smiles politely to the cabin crew, stores his backpack under the seat in front of his, and sits down with a deep sigh. God, he’s knackered. He turns his head to the side and distracts himself with the baggage handlers that are unceremoniously and carelessly loading the plane with suitcases. Oh, window seat. Glorious window seat.
A couple of minutes pass and it becomes perfectly clear that the plane isn't going to take off in the near future, seeing as most people are still trying to find their seat, so John decides to get back to his little game. Yes, he realizes it’s a bit weird, sad even, but then again he’s way too bored and tired to care. He rests his chin on his left fist, using his right hand to swipe swipe swipe . He should worry about giving the person sitting next to him a perfect view of his phone, yet what he actually worries about is running out of data before the plane takes off.
His thumb is just starting to get warmed up again when something, or rather someone, catches his eye. It’s a bloke, around his age, black hair, nice eyes. At first glance there really isn't much going on in that picture— it’s just him sitting on a chair with a guitar in his hands. What a git, he's holding it the wrong way! , he thinks, stupidly, because he’s stupid sometimes. Then, the smarter part of his brain, the one that manages to make sure he pays his bills and feeds his cat, gives him the very important piece of information that left-handed people do, in fact, exist.
He’s handsome, but in a pretty way. Delicately handsome. He has nice lips, too, and those eyes are... Okay. Yeah, they are okay. He is not drooling over a bloke from Tinder, he is not .
Nonetheless, for the first time since he’s downloaded the app he taps the side of the screen to move onto his next photo. Paul , if he hadn't lied about his information, is caught mid-laugh in that second picture, and John is looking respectfully. Paul is holding a tennis ball in one hand and petting a dog with the other. It’s a big dog. A very big dog. His whole apartment could fit in that dog's back. Paul is wearing a nicely fit jumper and his hair looks frizzy and soft, and the sunlight hits him just right and John kind of wants to reach out and touch it. Even the dog's fur looks soft and fluffy. He’s more of a cat person himself, really, but he could make an exception for that one.
He skips to the next photo and great, he has a beautifully natural smile too. What has he done to spite the Almighty? Upon a closer look, John notices that Paul is holding a vinyl— but not just any vinyl. It’s an original LP of The King , the one and only, and he can see by the way Paul’s holding it (like he’s scared to break it, but also like he wants to be buried with it) that he’s as big of a fan as himself. John can't stop himself from smiling a little and letting out a tiny huff (which, in John's book, counts as a laugh, thank you very much).
He’s disappointed to find out there are no more pictures. Well, that was quite a journey. He goes back to the first photo and his finger hovers a little, hesitating. Should he break his golden rule of left swipes only? He felt like Paul deserves it, given he has such a great taste in life (minus the dog part, but even John can cut a man some slack). Oh, come on, what’s the worst that could happen? That they actually matched? With Elvis Purrley's picture, he doubts anyone will swipe right to his profile. So yeah, he swipes right.
Not a second has passed before he hears a light chuckle coming from the bloke sitting next to him. He doesn't think much of it, barely sparing a thought for it as he tries to remember what the last person before Paul looked like so he can go back to his game. Had it been Tina? Or Stanley? Or maybe...
"I don’t mean to intrude," a voice to his left intrudes. “But I feel like I should at least thank you for considering me worthy of your first right swipe.”
The Scouse accent slaps John across the face long before the comment does. At first John thinks the guy is talking to himself, or even to the person next to him, or maybe he’s using one of those bluetooth earphones that make you look like such a douche. That’s plausible. However, there’s something in his voice that makes John suspect none of those options are right.
So, head still perched on his knuckles, he spares the bloke a sideways glance. What he sees next is both a blessing and a nightmare, and John considers jumping off the window at that very moment.
Paul is staring at him with a tiny smile that, he could tell, wanted to break into a grin. Because yes, of fucking course he’s the bloke he had been checking out a moment ago in the fucking date app, of course he is. There’s no doubt, really, and John wishes for the plane to explode or something as he feels the color leave his face.
Paul , the cheeky bastard, looks like he’s having the time of his fucking life. Fuck, and he looks great too, even better than in the pictures. Legs crossed, head tilted, a self-satisfied smile on his face. That stupidly beautiful face… For fuck’s sake. Why couldn't he have an eighty year old priest or a fat woman from London sitting next to him? No, of course it had to be the hottie from Tinder. Because it had to .
In conclusion, God isn’t only not really fond of him. He hates his guts .
John's stare goes from his phone to the man and vice versa a couple of times before he reunites the enough amount of braincells to mutter a soft but honest “ Fuck ”.
At that, Paul 's amusement only seems to heighten. He arches a perfect eyebrow and tilts his head, looking at John as if he’s his favourite comedy show. "People usually wait until the third date to offer that, you know. Quite forward, even if coming from someone on Tinder."
John's brain finally reacts, and as he sits up a little bit, trying to regain his composure and dignity, he turns his head so fast he feels a muscle in his neck strain a bit. "I'm not— I just downloaded the app to see what it was like, yknow, kill time while this takes off. I don't— I’m not even— wait, hold on a second,” he frowns and points at Paul with an accusing finger. “You are on Tinder! And you’re here giving me crap, holier-than-thou like!"
Paul laughs again, and John curses mentally because it sounds great . God, I’m such a clown. "Yeah, I know. I was just messing with you. Nothing wrong with it, ey? A man gets lonely from time to time, gotta try new things," he shrugs, still smiling, and John feels like he’s being played. Surely there must be cameras somewhere.
"Well," John scowls, crossing his legs as well in a pathetic attempt to seem calm and collected. "I'm not lonely, you see, I'm bored ,” he argues, and it’s a half-lie, because he is lonely and bored. “Was, anyway. I'm done with Tinder," he decides at that exact moment, unlocking his phone to delete the app.
"Aw, c’mon, really? Not now that you had finally deemed someone worthy of your first right swipe," Paul coos. Unsurprisingly, it exasperates John even more, and it must have shown in his expression because Paul ’s amusement seems to increase, though he carefully keeps from smiling openly. “It’s such a pity. You’ve come so far…”
"I don't care, I'm— hold on another second," before he can finish his sentence, John’s head snaps back to Paul as if having a revelation. "How do you know it was my first right swipe?" he demands, brow furrowed.
For the first time since that nightmare had begun, Paul looks taken aback and has no immediate comeback, which John takes as an absolute victory. When a couple of seconds pass and Paul still hasn’t answered John feels himself finally gain the control of the situation and smirks. "Have been staring at me, have you? Probably since the moment you sat by my side. Haven’t you?”
Paul looks away for a second, looking rightfully embarrassed. He clears his throat and licks his lips with the tip of his tongue, and John doesn’t stare. (He does.) "Like you said," he replies. "I was bored".
John glares with half lidded eyes, taking none of his shit. "And you didn't have a phone of yours to entertain yourself with? Had to look at mine?" John presses, not losing his smirk.
"Maybe I found yours more appealing. Or maybe I wanted to know what kind of guy puts a photo of a cat licking his balls as a profile picture."
Ouch. Okay. He’s really been paying attention.
John scoffs. "One that doesn't actually care for the app and just wants to kill some time, maybe?” he retorts back. “Had I known I had an audience I would have put much more contemplation into every choice, you know. For the comedy of it," he quips. “ Mmm, whatever shall I do? Keep my family’s legacy of only swiping left? I know it’s what I must do, but my heart calls for a right swipe. Ah, my life! My life is nothing but a heaping bowl of despair, seasoned with dashes of heartbreaking decisions and tragic goodbyes! " he dramatizes with a posh accent, covering his eyes with his hand.
He thinks that surely Paul will bite back, strike him with an equally mocking reply, but he doesn't. Instead he delivers a wholehearted laugh, head thrown back for a few seconds before he covers his mouth, trying to hold his laugh back so as to not draw anyone's attention to him. Slowly, John smiles too.
It takes him a second, but eventually Paul pulls himself together. He wipes a tear from his eye and lets out a sigh. "Alright, alright, you win. I'll admit it: it wasn't very nice of me to stare at your phone, and I didn't mean to, I promise, but I caught a glimpse of your phone screen while you were making your profile and I thought you were, I don’t know, hilarious or whatever and I... I was curious to see what you'd do," he explains, and he actually sounds a little bit ashamed of himself. He doesn't lose the smile, though, and John is this close to calling him out for it.
“Is that supposed to be an apology?” he asks dryly, raising an eyebrow.
Paul has the decency to finally look downright embarrassed. “Alright. I’m sorry.”
John purses his lips and thinks about it for a moment (or acts as so, anyway), only to eventually shrug and relax back into his seat. "It's alright, it's not like I put any personal information there. Didn't even write my name right."
At that, Paul regains his confidence and raises an eyebrow with the slightest upright curve of his lips. "Oh, you didn't? So you're not John Lemon?"
John has to press his lips together to suppress a laugh. He’s really gone and written that, hasn't he. "Close. I don't know who that charming character is but I am John Lennon."
"Is that so? Well, it is very nice to meet you, John Lennon. I'm Paul McCartney," he smiles and offers his hand for John to shake, who smiles like an idiot and does exactly that. The muffled voice of a woman trying to calm down a crying baby makes them both turn their heads for a few seconds, hands still tangled. When it becomes clear the baby has every intention to test his lung capacity and that the mother’s efforts to put it to sleep are going nowhere, John grimaces. And of course, Paul notices. “Not fond of babies?” he asks, no trace of judgment in his voice, just plain curiosity.
Knowing himself caught, John shrugs. “I don’t mind babies. I’m just not a big fan of the crying kind.”
“So, you mean… All babies, ever?”
John’s eyes flick from the baby to Paul. “Well, no, not all babies cry… not all the time, at least. Right? Only when they’re unhappy, or whatever,” he manages, and maybe he knows less about babies than he thought.
Paul shrugs one shoulder. “Sure. It’s just that it’s extremely easy for a baby to be unhappy— or rather, I mean, unhappy is a big word… let’s say unsatisfied with the service provided. You know, they all want the same things: full belly, warm clothes, soft bed, lots of cuddles and kisses...”
After a second of consideration, John squints and presses his lips in a thin line. “Hm.”
“What?”
“Nothing. I just discovered I might have the same happiness criteria as a baby.”
Paul chokes on his breath and can barely contain his laugh. After a few seconds, he runs his hand across his face. “God, you’re ridiculous.”
John decides he’s going to take offense to that, even if it’s true. “ I’m ridiculous? Which one of us was the one spying on a stranger’s phone just ten minutes ago?”
Paul waves a hand, looking unimpressed. “At some point you’re gonna have to move past that point in our lives, John. I’ve already changed so much since then. Leave the past in the past, become a new man.”
“A new man, he says. I have a bloody stalker here pretending to have any self-respect left,” he shakes his head, unbelieving. “And, just for the record— if you think that’s ridiculous, you clearly haven’t met me.”
Paul smiles, charming little fuck. “Well, I’m working on it,” he says, and if John feels a funny tingle in his belly it’s none of anyone’s fucking business. “I’m slowly learning things about you, you see.”
And really, John is only a man, and a weak one at that, so he takes the bait. “Really. Alright, let’s see, what do you know about me so far?”
“Well,” he clears his throat and straightens up a bit. “I know your name is John Lennon, and not John Lemon, a piece of information that many people on Tinder will never know… I know you’re not fond of babies, but that you can relate to them. I know that you have a cat…”
“Very true. Much accurate.”
Paul continues as if he hasn’t heard him. Which, to be honest, is fair. “I know that you’re from Liverpool, too, but you probably live in London.”
“Fair analysis.”
This time, Paul spares him an unimpressed glance as an answer. “I also know that you are blind as a bat, because you had to bring your boarding ticket up to your nose to see your seat number, which— c’mon, mate. Glasses exist for a reason.”
“I know that. I have a perfectly functioning pair in my bag.”
“So? Why don’t you use them?”
John shrugs a bashful shoulder and looks down at his knees and then back up at Paul. “I don’t like how they look on me. I look like a right twat.”
Paul stares at him, head tilted, and then they are staring at each other and John might be blushing. “I doubt that very much.”
John is blushing.
“How would you know?”
“Well, I don’t know for sure, of course,” Paul concedes, nodding. “But I have a feeling they do look good on you. You strike me as the kind of person who’s very hard on himself. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, you know.”
“Deep,” John says, impassive.
Paul gives him an easy smile. “Prove me wrong, then.”
John stops and thinks for a second, which is unusual for him. He doesn’t want to put on his glasses, because he genuinely thinks he looks like a wanker with them, but he also doesn’t feel like he has the heart to deny Paul anything. And that’s a dangerous thing, he knows, but he’s also already leaning forward and stretching his arm to grab his backpack from under the seat in front of him. He’s definitely regretting his decision as soon as he grabs his glasses case, and he’s feeling downright ridiculous the moment he puts them on.
He swallows as discreetly as he can and turns his head to look back at Paul. Paul stares, and John stares back, and they’re staring in silence again.
After enough seconds have passed, John clears his throat and squirms a little. “Well?”
That seems to break the spell, and Paul finally blinks and cracks a smile. “You were right. You look absolutely ridiculous. A right twat.”
John smacks his arm but chuckles lightly. “Sod off.”
He moves to take the glasses off, but a gentle hand on his wrist stops him halfway. “No, don’t. I was joking, John, they look lovely on you,” a pause. “You look lovely.”
That’s way more than John can take in less than an hour, so he averts his gaze and clears his throat again, but nods. And he’s blushing again, and he hates himself for it. “Right.”
Paul lets go of his wrist and a handful of seconds go by where none of them say a word. John is still processing what just happened and getting his heart rate to calm down. Fuck, it’s been a while since he last felt this nervous around someone. He tries to think of something smart to say, but eventually his awkward self gets hold of his mouth. “So, is that all you know about me so far? I gotta admit that I’m not impressed.”
Paul smirks as he slips back into his charming self. “I like a bit of a mystery, you know, to keep things interesting.”
“Right, of course. Well then? Have you deemed me an interesting character?”
Paul arches a perfect eyebrow and purses his lips in a pondering manner. “I haven’t decided on that one yet.”
“Well, tell me when you do. I’ll make sure to call the papers to make the announcement.”
Paul laughs again, and John is starting to feel addicted to that sound. “Are you always this rowdy?” he asks mid laugh.
“Oh, you don’t even know. By the time this plane lands— if we ever take off, that is—, you’ll either be desperately in love with me or you’ll crave to see my head hanging on your living room wall.”
“Is that so? Well then, I guess we’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we.”
As minutes go by John realizes, with no small degree of irritation, that Paul is even more attractive up close and in person than he is in the pictures. It isn’t just his face, as nice as it is— his voice, the way he has slowly started to turn his body towards John and the way he leans in just the tiniest bit whenever John makes him laugh. His hands too— he’s very expressive and almost seems like he can’t keep them still for more than ten seconds. And those droopy eyes are gonna be the death of him, he’s sure.
"So what is it that brought you to Scotland?” Paul asks in a lower voice as the flight attendant starts to explain how to fasten the seat belt. “The landscapes? The magical creatures? The weather?" he asks, wiggling his eyebrows at the last possibility.
"A funeral," John deadpans.
Paul chokes on his next breath, eyes bulging a little bit. "O-oh! Jesus, John, I'm so sorry, I shouldn’t have..."
John chuckles and waves his hand. "Don't worry, mate, he was more of a stranger than he was family. I didn't even know his middle name. Got dragged into it because of, well, you know. Relative's commitment."
"Right," Paul nods, visibly more relaxed. “To support the rest of the family.”
“Eh,” John shrugs and makes a “so-so” movement with his hand. “I didn’t know any of them either.”
“So… Why did you go?”
“I was threatened.”
"You... were? By whom?" Paul asks, as interested in the whole story as he is confused by it.
John sighs and shakes his head. "My aunt has some... sensitive photos of me. Baby me. A very vulnerable and exposed baby me ," he explains, hoping the rest of the story can go unsaid. By the look on Paul’s face, he understands just fine.
He mouths a silent “Ah” and nods. "I see. Used a very naive baby you to threaten to ruin your life, did she.”
“Exactly right. What about you?”
"Oh, I came to see a friend. His wedding, actually,” he smiles, clearly finding the irony of the situation very funny.
John's eyebrows shoot up. "Really?" Paul nods, and John can see he is resisting the urge to laugh. John whistles. "Would you look at that. You came for a wedding and I came for a funeral," he says, and after a couple of seconds go by he notices that Paul is staring at him as if he expects him to go on.
"Yes?" he encourages.
John shakes his head. "No, that was it. I didn't mean to connect shit, I just wanted to point it out."
Paul stares at him for a brief moment before laughing again and really, John is dangerously willing to get used to that sound. "I see. You're a man of obvious conclusions, eh? A true detective."
"What do you mean?"
"One and one and one is three..." he replies, looking at John as if he’s expecting him to recognize that sentence. He doesn’t, not until a few blinks pass, and then he looks at Paul with a bewildered look on his face.
"You really were stalking me if you were able to read that bit!"
Paul laughs again, earning a stare from the flight attendant that’s passing by at that moment. "I already admitted I was!"
"Well, yeah, but...!"
Finding he has no arguments, John ends up laughing too.
Paul opens his mouth to say something, but then the captain's voice announces that they are about to take off. Well, finally. He'll be home in no time and then he’ll be able to go back to his loving bed, and his beloved cat, and his music, and...
"So." Paul's voice draws him out of his thoughts, and John turns his head to look at him.
“So?” he repeats, eyebrow raised.
Paul stares out the window for a second, then drops his gaze to John’s phone, still resting on his lap, and finally he goes back to John’s eyes. “So. You have a cat.”
Trying not to laugh at his attempt at smalltalk, John nods. "And you've got a dog,” he adds. “A very big dog.”
Paul stifles a laugh and rests his chin on his hand. "Again. A true detective," he scoffs. "But, yes, now that you mention her— name's Martha, the loveliest dog you’ll ever meet. What's your cat's name?"
Deliberately ignoring his taunt, John focuses instead on the question. "Elvis Purrley,” he says without missing a beat.
Paul does. He misses one, two, three, and John is actually considering snapping his fingers in front of his eyes when he finally comes back to life. "That's... an amazing name. That's the most amazing name I've ever heard for a cat."
"I know, right? He even recognizes it when I call him. I mean, not always, but if I'm in the kitchen he'll definitely come. Sometimes he responds— I mean, like, he meows when I yell at him for breaking another cup or something like that,” he explains, trying very hard not to sound like one of those crazy cat people that thought their pets could understand them and actually talked back. “So you've got one of his vinyls?"
“Your cat’s vinyls? Or Elvis'?”
John rolls his eyes. “Yes, my cat’s an acclaimed singer, haven’t I told you? We’re supposed to go on tour next year. Obviously I meant fucking Elvis’.”
"Alright, alright, don't get your panties in a bunch, Sherlock. I do have one of his vinyls, yeah. It was a birthday present. A friend of mine— the one who just got married, actually— kept asking me what I wanted for my birthday and I said whatever was fine, but he—"
"Oh, no, you're one of those people," John interrupts, rolling his eyes once again so hard he can almost see his brain.
Paul raises an eyebrow and purses his lips, looking every bit like the kid who’s just been told he can't have a cookie before dinner. "What's that supposed to mean?"
John waves his hand. "Oh, you know. One of those people who say they don't really want anything for their birthdays but then get mad when you get them something cheap or silly. One of those people."
"I'm not! I really didn't care what he got me. I actually told him he could invite me to lunch as a present, but he said it would be less trouble finding an Elvis original than making our schedules work, and I said he was being dramatic, and he said that we'd see, and... Well," he shrugs as if saying “and the rest is history, kids”.
“Aha, I see. A busy man, are you? Will I have to make an appointment weeks ahead of time in case I want to have a coffee with you?”
Paul smirks, amused, and lets out a pensive hum. “Usually I am, but I might make an exception for a special person. And special coffee.”
John lifts his chin, pretending to be unaffected by his words. “Are you trying to seduce me, McCartney?”
“Depends. Is it working?”
Unable to hide the bashful smile across his face, John is left with no reasons to deny that it is very much working.
The whole flight feels like a twenty minutes drive. They spend the first forty minutes talking, telling each other a bit about their stories (they learn that they'd both lost their mothers very young, and that they are both in the music industry, and that they live in complete opposite sides of London but that back in Liverpool they hadn’t lived that far away from each other) and making each other laugh.
Then, for the last bit of the flight John offers Paul to share his headphones and listen to some music. It isn't something he normally does, but he wants to see just how much of his musical tastes Paul shares— and, truth be told, this way they have an excuse to get a little bit closer to one another.
When the captain speaks again to inform them that they are going to land soon, they both get startled and jump on their seats. Paul chuckles, returns his headphone to John, and yawns. John finds himself wishing they never get to London just so that he never has to say goodbye to Paul’s laugh.
But they do, eventually, and they walk together towards the exit of the airport. Neither of them needs to pick up any luggage since they have both travelled light, so they don’t need to part ways until they already are at the very end of their path. They get out of the airport, and immediately London’s cold weather bites them in the ass.
They stand there for a few seconds, neither of them taking a step forward nor walking away.
Finally it’s Paul who takes a step towards John, who is fidgeting with the strap of his backpack in need of something to do with his hands. "I— Would you— I mean—" he starts, rather unsuccessfully, before biting his lip and staring at John straight in the eyes. "Can I have your number?"
John blinks, then smiles. "I swiped you right, remember? You could find me on Tinder and then you can swipe right too."
Paul huffs, looking downright offended at the idea. "I would have to wait for you to appear, though. What if it takes days, or weeks, or months?"
"Are you so desperate to see me again?" John asks, smirking, but his heart is beating fast and he feels a funny tingle at the bottom of his belly that only grows bigger and bigger as Paul stares at him.
"I might be," he says in the end, and John lets go of the breath he’s been holding. They stare at each other for a few more seconds (because apparently that’s their thing) before John stretches his hand towards Paul, doing a grabby hand gesture when Paul doesn’t react. Eventually Paul’s brain gets back to work. He grabs his phone from his back pocket, unlocks it and puts it in John's hand.
After a bit of fumbling around, John creates a new contact and saves his number, then hands it back to Paul. "I'll let you know I refrained from choosing a name for myself because I am nice like that,” he says as he shoves his hands into his pockets.
Paul smiles until his eyes are a slit. "Ah, I see. Thank you."
He pockets his phone, contact name still blank, and they slowly make their way to the taxi stop right outside the airport.
"Well?" John asks when there’s only a few meters left to their journey.
"Well what?" Paul asks, eyes glued to the big “Taxi” sign that awaits them.
"How're you going to name me? Bloke I was stalking ? Mystery flight man ?" he stops for a second and looks at Paul almost menacingly. However, his red cheeks and disheveled look probably don’t help his cause. "If my name has Tinder on it I'll block you. I won’t even hesitate, man."
Paul throws his head back one more time as he laughs. "Oh, will you? And how exactly will you know that?"
"Well, I might be an amazing hacker for all you know..."
"You already told me you're a musician."
"I could be a musician with a hobby."
Paul shakes his head and laughs, again, and John stares, again. He looks over John’s shoulder and picks up his pace, lifting an arm to call a taxi that’s coming close. "I'll think of something. It won't have Tinder on it, promise," he smiles, and once the taxi is parked in front of them he opens the door and takes a step back. When John doesn’t move, he makes a gesture for him to get in.
"What about you?" John asks, looking at the road to see if there’s any other taxi coming. As far as he can see, there isn’t.
"I'll get the next one. Come on, John, you've had a shitty weekend, you deserve to get home as fast as you can," he says, reassuring, and gifts him a gentle smile, and John all but melts .
As much as he dislikes the idea of leaving Paul behind in the cold weather, especially when he’s had such a nice gesture, he is very tired and his cat must be hungry. Just as he’s about to get inside the taxi he turns just enough to look at Paul one last time. He bites his lower lip, hesitant. “Are you sure you’ll be okay? It’s freezing out here, and Martha must be crazy to see you too, and to be fair you did stop the taxi…”
Paul rolls his eyes and chuckles as he ushers John to get inside the car. “I’ll be fine, John. Don’t worry about that. I don’t live that far away from the airport, so I’ll probably get home even before you do.”
“Okay. Okay,” John nods, seemingly convinced, and he hears the driver let out an annoyed huff. “And… You’ll text me? So I know you got home safe, I mean.”
Paul doesn’t answer at first, just stares at John with that barely visible curve of his lips that one would call a smile, until eventually nodding. “I will,” he says, and John nods and gets inside the taxi at last.
Before closing the door, Paul leans down to be almost eye to eye with John. “You were right, you know.”
“It happens every now and then. About what?” John asks.
“The plane has landed, and I’m very much not interested in having your head hanging from my living room wall,” he says with a wink, and before John can open his mouth, he closes the door and the driver takes off.
Maybe it’s a good thing he doesn’t give John any time to answer, because he would have died, probably.
That same night, John gets a message from an unknown number. He knows who it’s from the second he reads it.
[Unknown]: Hey hot stuff, saw you on tinder today, loved your pic, very sexy
[You]: i see youre a man of fine tastes
[You]: however im not allowed to talk to strangers so, bye
[Paul McStalker]: If you really couldn't talk to strangers i wouldn't have your number would I?
[You]: i have no idea what you're talking about sir
[You]: are you a creep? dont make me block u
[Paul McStalker]: Aw, c'mon
[Paul McStalker]: I didn’t freeze my balls waiting for that second taxi for you to treat me this cruelly
[You]: hey no one asked you to do that and i insisted on giving you my taxi
[Paul McStalker]: I know, i was happy to do it, but i thought you might pay attention to me out of pity
[Paul McStalker]: Hello?
[Paul McStalker]: Are you trying to prove me wrong?
[Paul McStalker]: You are, aren't you
[Paul McStalker]: Johnnn
[You]: hey how do you know my name
[Paul McStalker]: I read it on your tinder profile
[You]: no that was john lemon that was someone else not me
[Paul McStalker]: Oh my bad
[Paul McStalker]: So who have i been talking to for the whole flight???
[You]: i dont know sir
[Paul McStalker]: Really? No idea?
[You]: no clue mister
[Paul McStalker]: Not the slightest notion of who he might be
[You]: im afraid not monsieur
[Paul McStalker]: Aw, dang it
[Paul McStalker]: He was very cute, had the loveliest glasses, too
[Paul McStalker]: And had a lovely sense of humour
[Paul McStalker]: Also i like his music taste
[Paul McStalker]: Are you sure you don't know where i can find him? Because i would very much like to see him again
[You]: i
[You]: i think i might know who that charming young man you're describing is, yes
[Paul McStalker]: Oh you do?
[You]: yea
[You]: but if you want my information you gotta give me something in change
[Paul McStalker]: I told you before, people usually wait till the third date to ask for this kind of things, john
[Paul McStalker]: But i really want to see him again, so i guess i have no other choice…
[Paul McStalker]: [Sent a picture]
[You]: that's a dog
[Paul McStalker]: Yes that's martha say hi
[You]: hi martha
[You]: why did you send me a picture of your dog
[Paul McStalker]: I can’t think of a better payment than that
[You]: i
[You]: that's not what i was expecting but i am somehow not surprised
[Paul McStalker]: I don't think i want to know what you were expecting, you naughty boy
[You]: who me? im innocent your honor
[You]: i just wanted to know what name my stalker chose for me
[Paul McStalker]: Oh, that!
[Paul McStalker]: Well you could've told me sooner
[Paul McStalker]: It's Swipey Boy
[You]: you know what fair enough
[You]: once again, not what i was expecting but not surprised
[Paul McStalker]: Do you like it?
[You]: i wont answer any questions without the presence of my lawyer
[Paul McStalker]: Hm
[Paul McStalker]: So what's mine?
[Paul McStalker]: I bet it has stalker on it
[You]: ..
[You]: no it doesnt
[Paul McStalker]: Yes it does
[You]: no it doeSNT
[Paul McStalker]: Yes it doES
[Paul McStalker]: I don't mind you know
[Paul McStalker]: I mean i was kind of stalking you for a bit
[You]: good because i didnt wanna change it
[Paul McStalker]: So i was right!
[You]: no
[Paul McStalker]: Jesus
[You]: no this is john
[Paul McStalker]: So you're john!!
[You]: ..
[Paul McStalker]: Gotcha
[Paul McStalker]: Mystery solved
[Paul McStalker]: You're the cutie i've been wooing all evening
[Paul McStalker]: Hello
[You]: hullo
[You]: who says ive been wooed?
[Paul McStalker]: Me
[You]: mm you should check your fonts mate
[Paul McStalker]: Are you saying you haven't been wooed?
[You]: im not saying that either
[Paul McStalker]: Right
[Paul McStalker]: So what's my name?
[You]: Paul McStalker
[Paul McStalker]: That's actually pretty funny
[You]: thankyou
[You]: spent the whole drive home thinking about it
[Paul McStalker]: Really?
[You]: would i lie to you?
[Paul McStalker]: I don't know, mate
[Paul McStalker]: This conversation has taken so many turns im a bit confused
[You]: fair enough
[Paul McStalker]: Okay, i changed your name
[You]: oh?
[Paul McStalker]: Yeah
[Paul McStalker]: It's Cute Detective now
[You]: i dont believe you
[Paul McStalker]: [Sent a screenshot]
[You]: ..
[You]: wow
[Paul McStalker]: Yeah
[Paul McStalker]: Get it right?
[Paul McStalker]: Mister obvious conclusions?
[You]: yes i get it thank you
[Paul McStalker]: you’re very welcome
[Paul McStalker]: By the way, i’ve sent you a picture of my beloved dog. It would be very nice of you to return the favour
[You]: sorry mate i dont have a dog
[Paul McStalker]: I am aware
[Paul McStalker]: A picture of your cat will suffice
[You]: that i can do
[You]: [Sent a picture]
[You]: there, he’s sleeping. he also just farted so the room stinks
[Paul McStalker]: Charming!
[Paul McStalker]: Can’t wait to meet him
[You]: who says youre gonna meet him?
[Paul McStalker]: Who says i haven't met him already?
[You]: wOw
[You]: way to creep a man out
[Paul McStalker]: Those blue pyjama bottoms look nice on you
[You]: haha! good one
[You]: you know, it’s funny because i’m actually wearing blue pyjama bottoms
[Paul McStalker]: I know
[Paul McStalker]: Wait really?
[You]: lol no
[You]: you’re such a terrible fake stalker
[Paul McStalker]: I’m not fake!
[You]: so long as it isn’t tinder yeah you are
[Paul McStalker]: Maybe thats what i want you to think!
[You]: oh yeah? then tell me what im actually wearing right now
[Paul McStalker]: Okay
[Paul McStalker]: Apple bottom jeans
[You]: boots with the fur
[You]: the whole cat was looking at her
[You]: good one
[You]: but no
[Paul McStalker]: Okay, okay. I don't know, uhhh yoga pants?
[You]: do i look like i do yoga mate
[Paul McStalker]: are you asking me if you look flexible?
[You]: n
[You]: no
[You]: last try, or you’re a certified fake stalker
[Paul McStalker]: Oh god, alright, a shirt with your cat’s face printed on the front and “I love Elvis” written across it in comic sans
[You]: that’s. so specific. and i’m kinda sad to say no
[You]: you lose
[You]: i sleep naked, so there was no way you were gonna guess it right anyway
[Paul McStalker]: So you cheated
[You]: is it cheating if we didnt set any rules? checkmate
[Paul McStalker]: Pffft, what a cheater
[You]: im not a cheater
[Paul McStalker]: That sounds exactly like the kind of thing a cheater would say
[Paul McStalker]: I think i might change your name again
[You]: hopefully not to “cheater”
[You]: since i didnt cheat, you know, thats for starters
[You]: and also because its a pretty bad omen at the start of a relationship, i would say
[Paul McStalker]: No, not to cheater
[Paul McStalker]: I was thinking “Baby”, since you feel so in sync with their live style
[You]: i
[You]: n
[Paul McStalker]: John?
[You]: you
[Paul McStalker]: Did i break you
[You]: no
[You]: but you cant save me as baby
[Paul McStalker]: Why not?
[You]: because
[Paul McStalker]: I see
[Paul McStalker]: Well, if it troubles you that much i wont change your name to baby, for now
[You]: for now
[Paul McStalker]: For now, yes
[Paul McStalker]: Are you going to bed soon? Because i'm knackered
[Paul McStalker]: Hello?
[Paul McStalker]: Jooohnnn
[Paul McStalker]: I'm gonna fall asleep if you don't come back and i want to say good night and make plans with you to see you again
[Paul McStalker]: You know, since my schedule is so so busy
[You]: sorry i was thinking of a new name
[You]: good night paul
[You]: we can make plans, if youd like
[You]: im free from next tuesday to forever
[Paul McCutie]: Wait, what's my new name!!
[You]: not telling
[Paul McCutie]: What why not
[Paul McCutie]: John you know i'm gonna eventually find out
[You]: ah yeah and how're u gonna find out
[Paul McCutie]: I have powers
[Paul McCutie]: Charming powers
[Paul McCutie]: And i'll use them on you
[You]: i actually wouldn't mind that
[Paul McCutie]: Yeah i figured you wouldn't so if you dont tell me i WON'T use them on you
[You]: damn
[You]: u evil genius
[You]: alright but im gonna send you a screenshot and then go to bed because i dont think i can possibly handle this level of embarrassment now
[Paul McCutie]: Fair enough
[You]: [Sent a screenshot]
[You]: night paul see ya soon
[You]: is offline
[Paul McCutie]: I can't wait to see you again, john
[Paul McCutie]: Good night, detective