Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

.

June, 1964

When Jimmie meets the Beatles for the first time, there’s smoke filling the stuffy air and dark light washing through the windows. The room is right next to the hotel lobby; it isn’t big but has high ceilings and he steps in after Brian Eppstein, who‘s been talking his ear off for the past hour, about the important stuff, the contract-law-money-stuff. Jimmie is gonna fill in for Ringo for how long they’re not sure yet, definitely the next week.

He’s been a bundle of nerves and excitment for the entire day. He couldn’t believe his luck when they called him this morning – the Beatles for Christ’s sake. He woke up to his phone rininging at 6 in the morning and now he's in Copenhagen and so nervous, his throat feels tight. His hands are all sweaty, his forehead too. He breaths in the thick smoke and the dust and there’s not enough air to fill his lungs. Brian is saying something, again or still, he’s never shutting up, is he?

Jimmie blinks a couple times. The three boys are sitting on black chairs, thrown together in the middle of the room, next to a pool table. They’re not wearing their suits, but normal clothes, casual looking, smoking, chatting, their voices a quiet murmur. They fall silent a minute later when Brian pushes the door shut behind them, too loud.

„Lads, this is Jimmie“, Brian introduces him and keeps talking while Jimmie waves awkwardly. He looks at each of their faces individually. George is sitting on the left, being quiet, looking almost bored. When his eyes meet Jimmie’s he nods, neutral, just the hint of a smile, like he doesn’t care enough to actually say hello.

Jimmie swallows through the tightness in his throat. His gaze flickers over to John and Paul, sitting close to together, looking at him intensely, their expressions at the complete opposites of the spectrum. Paul is smiling, looking friendly, charming almost – Jimmie wonders if this is his press face, his camera smile. Paul’s face is soft, his eyes dark and big, looking like he’s the youngest even though Jimmie knows he’s not.

His eyes flicker over to John and his hands start sweating even more, feeling clammy, cold. He wipes them at his jacket and bites the inside of his cheek, the taste of pennies filling his mouth. John looks at him with narrowed eyes, irritated almost, arrogant, superior. He’s the leader, obvious in the aura around him, the way he carries himself, slouching in his chair like a king, sucking on his cigarette, cool, handsome, second to none. They greet him at the same time. Paul sounds welcoming, John sounds taunting, smirking slightly at Jimmie, like he’s mocking him.

“There’s a press conference tomorrow at 12”, Brian says next to him. “Don’t be late, lads.”

They all murmur their agreement. John’s snipping out his cigarette, throwing it on the floor carelessly, stomping on it.

“We’ll try to be on time, Eppy, but if we’re not that’s just too bad, isn’t it?”, he says and snorts. "Stupid tossers with their stupid questions."

Brian sighs, not fighting back. “Just try, yeah?”

“Yessir”, Paul says, saluting. John snickers.  Jimmie smiles slightly, willing his hands to stop sweating. It’s not really working, so he balls them to fists.

“We’ll go to the venue right after”, Brian says. “The gig is at 7, so we have a bit of time to go over some things. See what works best.”

Jimmie nods hurriedly. He’s not sure what Brian means with ‘a bit of time’, but it will be alright. He knows how good he is – and the rehearsal at Abbey Road Studios this morning went really well, right after he hung up the phone and right before they pulled him in a cab that would bring him to the airport.

“’M starving”, George says in that moment, out of nowhere. Jimmie looks over to see John and Paul roll their eyes at George simultaneously, but they’re chuckling, good-natured.

“Let’s go to a pub then”, John decides and pulls another cigarette out of his pocket, lightning it. “I need a few pints.”

They’re standing up, voices fill the air again, melting together with the smoke, the dust, and Jimmie is beyond relieved when they leave the hotel and step on the street. It was raining the last few hours and the air is cool, fresh, clean - a blessing after the heat of the day. He breaths it in like he’s starving. Brian already said goodbye in the lobby and now it's just the four of them, standing in front of the glass doors. He tries to keep his nerves in check.

The night is clear, the sky scattered with stars. The dim streetlights break through the darkness, painting everything in a blurry twilight. The cobbled road is glistening in that orange colour, still wet, slippery.

“Careful”, Jimmie says to the others, who walk down the stairs behind him. His warning gets lost between their voices and laughter, but thankfully none of them slips and breaks their neck. There's a canal on the right side, looking like a mirror in the light. All he can smell is the rain.

“This way”, John decides, his voice loud and clear, commanding almost, and they follow him down the street, naturally. Jimmie can’t help but feel intimidated by the lad. He’s a few steps in front of him, all auburn-coloured hair, broad shoulders, confidence oozing out of him like a cologne. Paul’s right there next to him and they’re chatting about something, snickering, bumping their shoulders. They completly ignore him, like they're wrapped in a bubble.

Jimmie looks at them, listening for a bit, but there’s a wall of inside jokes and witty word plays and it’s almost impossible for him to understand what exactly it is they’re talking about. There is one thing he understands very clearly in this moment though: John might have seemed like some sort of king but Paul’s right up there with him, matching his brilliance, his wit, keeping up with his sharp tongue, throwing back his own remarks, enjoying the cruelty in some of John’s comments. That boy is not underneath John like everyone else in the world seems to be – that’s his equal.

Jimmie blinks a couple times, staring at the raven black hair, the long eyelashes, longer than a bird’s, the flush high on his cheeks, the dark puppy-dog eyes. He thinks about the incredible range in Paul’s voice when he’s singing, about how he can play almost every instrument, how he probably charms everyone at press conferences with practiced ease, how he writes genius masterpieces in his sleep. God, he knows what John sees in him, why he chose him. Why he’s leaning in so closely now, his eyes never leaving Paul’s face, attentive, alert almost, like he’s scared someone’s gonna steal him away.

Jimmie feels something strange in his gut suddenly, something he can’t quiet put his finger on. Maybe he’s seeing things. George is walking next to him now, quiet, smoking his cigarette, the stub glimmering in the dark.

“How’re you likin’ Denmark?”, he asks.

“Oh, it’s nice”, Jimmie replies hurriedly, looking away from John and Paul. “Haven’t had much time to look around yet.”

Really, the only things he's seen so far are the airport and a few colourful houses along one of the canals, on the way to the hotel. They did look nice though.

“Hm. Have ya ever been to Australia?”

“No, but I’m excited for it. Must be very warm.”

George snorts but nods. “Aye. Sunshine, booze and girls – what more do ya want? They’re just as crazy there as everywhere else, probably.”

“True, true. Beatlemania ‘n all”, Jimmie says, feeling secretly fascinated with this phenomenon. He’s seen it on his grandmother’s TV, watching the screaming, fainting, hysteric girls, while eating scones. “Do you think they’ll, uh, accept me? Your crazy fans?”

He winces at how unsure his voice sounds, but filling in for Ringo is a big deal – big shoes he’ll have to fill. And the fans are very loyal to those four lads, very devoted. Maybe they’ll hate Jimmie, maybe they’ll throw tomatoes at him on stage or – or rocks, or something.

George’s finished with his cigarette and snips it away before throwing a small smile at Jimmie.

“I wouldn’t worry so much if I were you”, he says and almost instantly Jimmie feels reassured, not sure why.

“Alright, I won’t”, he says. 

They take a left then, into a side street that seems to be busier than the main street, filled with drunken laughter and yelling. There are pubs on the right, close together, filled with smoke, burning alcohol and rock ‘n roll. Jimmie looks around, kinda excited, even though he's tired from the day he's had and won’t be staying out for too long.

John and Paul stop in front of one of the pubs and Jimmie and George quickly catch up to them.

“This one”, John decides and that’s settled then.

“Looks crowded”, Jimmie says as they walk to the wooden door.

“Yeah, well, that must mean the atmosphere’s good”, Paul replies. He turns towards Jimmie and offers him a friendly smile, just like earlier. Like he suddenly remembered him. “Or do you wanna go somewhere else?”

“Oh! Oh no, this is fine, really. ‘m not gonna stay too long anyway”, Jimmie explains, as John pulls the door open and they slip through. The air is thick with smoke and the smell of cheap beer. Loud voices and rocky music wash over him like a wave. 

Paul turns to Jimmie again, walking next to him now. “How was yer flight?”

John is on Paul’s other side, a hand between Paul’s shoulder blades, guiding him through the crowd, towards the tables in the back. He doesn’t look like he’s interested in Jimmie’s reply, or like he’s listening at all.

“Not great”, Jimmie tells Paul honestly, raising his voice over the noise. “We made a 2 hour stop in Paris for some reason, and yeah. Can’t sleep that well in planes. Had to get up at 6 in the morning for a rehearsal at Abbey Road, too.”

Paul nods, sympathetic. “Can't sleep on planes either. Last time the air condition was so strong I got a real nasty cold and could barely speak for two days.”

 “Gosh – well today, they forgot about air condition all together. It was so stuffy I couldn’t sleep, all soaked in sweat, dizzy too. I fell asleep in the cab though, I think.”

Paul laughs and Jimmie doesn’t know why he’s surprised how easy it is to talk to the lad. He should have guessed, really. They reach the booth John chose, a rather small one in a corner. They have to squeeze in to fit but it’s fine. He’s sitting between Paul and George; John’s on Paul’s other side, looking around the pub with an almost bored expression, like he’s not sure whether he likes it in here or not, despite the fact that he chose it.

When the song changes to something from Elvis, he grins suddenly, whispering something to Paul who starts laughing loudly, nodding his head. From this close Jimmie can see his eyelashes even better and the way they’re curving and the way his nose crinkles slightly. He’s so pretty. Jesus. A bloke’s not supposed to be that pretty. It's irritating.

“I’m gettin’ us drinks – first round’s on me”, John says then, standing up, still looking at Paul, who’s getting up as well to follow him.

“A Guinness for me”, George calls. "And bring me chips!"

Jimmie just stares after them as they make their way through the crowd, Johns arm slung around Paul’s shoulders now, keeping him close, still, again. Maybe they’re trying not to get separated between all the people. It should have looked casual, but there’s something weirdly intimate about the way Paul’s leaning into the touch.

“Are they ever, like, not touching?”, Jimmie asks out loud before he can stop himself.

“John and Paul?”, George asks, blinking confused. Jimmie nods, still staring after them. “Oh. Well, no.”

Jimmie raises his eyebrows but George just waves his hand around, dismissive.

“You’ll get used to it.” He shrugs, lightning another cigarette. “You’re stuck with us now, for a week at least, eh?”

“Right, yeah.” Jimmie grins. “I don’t mind.”

“Being stuck with us or the love birds over there being all up in each other’s space?”

Jimmie laughs, a bit confused by the expression, but it’s a joke, obviously. “Neither.”

“Good.”

Jimmie pulls out a cigarette of his own, deciding to drop the subject and focus on finding the lighter in his jacket-pocket. When he found it and the bitter taste fills his mouth, he lets himself relax for the first time today.

He keeps talking to George, who’s mostly listening, save for his sudden rants about actual interesting things, all faint smiles and dry humour and his very own brilliance, hidden somewhere in his mind. George, Jimmie decides in that moment, might just be his favourite.  

.

Chapter Text

.

Jimmie stays in the pub till half past midnight before walking back to the hotel. He’s had two pints and not much to eat today so he’s feeling the alcohol in his head, making him giddy. It was quiet fun – they joked a lot, laughed loudly, slagged the reporters from the last press conference.

“They’re horrible, Jimmie”, Paul said, his nose crunched up. “You’ll hate them.”

“I’m sure I will”, Jimmie said and nodded seriously, but honestly, he’s kinda excited for tomorrow. He doesn’t mind interviews and the rehearsal at the venue is gonna be gear, he’s sure.

He walks along the canal, his hands stuffed into his pockets and thinks about home for a moment. His parents are probably asleep by now, in their small bedroom in West London. His girl, Daisy, is probably at her best friend’s house to study – they have an exam at their university in a few days. She told him all about it but he forgot the subject again. He thinks about calling her tomorrow, just when he reaches the hotel and climbs up the stairs.

He gets greeted at the reception and takes the lift upstairs. He’s been in the room a few hours ago, right before meeting the Beatles, to drop off his suitcase. The four of them have to share, but Brian assured him it’s just for one night. Jimmie doesn’t really mind. He’s so tired, he’ll sleep right through the night.

Or that’s what he thinks.

After he’s been to the bathroom, put on his pyjamas and turned off the lights, he lays down in one of the double beds – they’re pretty big, so he again doesn’t really mind – and falls asleep within minutes.

He doesn’t dream anything and when he wakes up it’s still dark. He blinks confused, wondering what woke him up. There is the sound of soft snoring next to him, which means the others have to be back, but it’s not that loud and –

“Sh”, someone says and then he hears Paul giggling and okay, the mystery’s solved. He looks over to the other bed and there’s a sliver of silver falling through a crack in the curtains so he can just make out Paul’s and John’ silhouettes in the dark. They’re moving around, John’s leaning up on his elbow. “Shh. You’ll wake them up, Paulie.”

“Then stop ticklin’ me!”

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

There’s more shuffling and giggling and inaudible whispers until they seem to settle down and it’s quiet for a while. They really are weird. George next to him is still snoring softly. It’s warm in the room, cosy. Jimmie wonders vaguely what time it is but his watch is somewhere in his suitcase and it really doesn’t matter. He closes his eyes and thinks he’ll fall back asleep in no time when suddenly –

“You’re hard.”

Jimmies eyes shoot back open and he almost chokes on his own spit. He’s sure he misheard the whisper that sounded like Paul, because why would he say something like that to his best mate when they’re lying in a bed together?

Then John snorts, sounding amused. “’course ‘m hard – yer draped over me like a blanket, looking good enough to eat.”

Jimmie almost chokes again, holding his breath for half a minute. Maybe this is a really strange dream. He turns his head again and his eyes are getting more used to the silvery dark, so he can see Paul's really lying on top of John by now, their bodies melting together in the faint light.

"Oh?", he asks, feignign surprise. "What are ya gonna do about it?"

John switches their position and Paul gasps and then they’re rolling around on the bed, between the sheets, in the black-silver light. Their hands are familiar on each other’s bodies and they're nipping playfully at each other, fighting for dominance, like two puppies playing around.

Then they stop in the exact position as before, Paul on top of John, giggling again, clinging to him like a koala.

“Ha - I caught ya”, he mumbles against the older boy’s chin. John wraps his arms around him and laughs quietly and Jimmie thinks that's the end of it. Then John suddenly sits up, cradling Paul in his lap. He buries his face in raven black hair and they whisper something, too quiet for Jimmie to hear. Paul adjust to the new position, sits up a bit straighter in John’s lap. He starts to move around suggestively, to rub himself against the older boy, arms coming up around John’s neck. His hair looks dark blue in the light, his skin pale, the lines of his face delicate, so pretty.

Jimmie suddenly feels hot and cold all over and John seems to feel the same way.

“Easy, princess”, he says in a strangled voice, holding Paul still. “Don’t start something you’re not gonna finish.”

“Um, who says ‘m not gonna finish this?”, Paul asks and he sounds like he’s grinning cheekily. He leans forward to bite at John’s lip and when he pulls back, John chases after him and then they’re snogging. It’s heated, wet, longingly, like watching porn, like they haven't seen each other for weeks, like they want to suck each other’s souls out their mouths.

John runs his hands all over Paul’s back, pulling up his shirt, and yeah. That's definitley not the end of it. He’s gonna watch them have sex, Jimmie realizes as he watches them undressing each other between kisses. He could cough, draw attention to himself, stop them somewhow, but he knows he won't. Instead of feeling weirded out or disgusted, he feels a strange thrill of anticipation. This isn’t like that time he and his friend Mike had sex in the same room with two girls, hearing everything, or like that time he went to a brothel and watched two women go down on each other right on stage – this is slower, more intimate somehow.

They don’t think they’re being watched, so they’re letting down their guards in a way he never thought he’d see. Paul dropped his friendly, charming façade completely, the part of him that likes to plan, to control, to put everything in order; John on his part dropped his tough demeanour, peeled back his hard shell, leaving him vulnerable in a different way, attentive, caring, honest. They're so sweet to each other it's almost nauseating.

Paul seems to melt under John’s hands, making pretty little noises as John grabs something from the night stand and starts to prep him. He takes his time, until everything slows down and turns syrupy and Jimmie feels like he has all the time in the world to do nothing but breath. Is this supposed to be this fascinating? He just knows that it is. It feels surreal, like an out-of-body-experience. Like this is not him and that's not them and they aren't these people.

He watches the silvery outline of Paul’s face and the way his body moves against John’s fingers. He listens to the shuddering breaths, the choked-back moans. He listens to John saying I love you, the words so heavy they make Jimmie’s chest go tight. He watches as he holds Paul securely, helping him sink down on his cock, peppering his pretty face with kisses.

“Alright?”

Paul nods feverishly and stills for a moment, burying his hands in John’s auburn-coloured hair, silver in the shadowy light. He whispers something in return, too quiet for Jimmie to hear. Then he starts moving and John lets him, lets him set the pace and they’re fitting together like puzzle pieces.  

Jimmie swallows, his throat dry, and after a few minutes he finally manages to turn his head away and stare at the ceiling instead. His vision is slightly blurry, just like the noises and sleep starts to pull at his consciousness. He closes his eyes and listens to the soft rustling and the muffled groans.

The last thing he hears is John saying Paul’s name, slowly, honey-sweet, like it’s the only sacred word in his vocabulary, a poem, a verse in the Bible he actually believes in.

The next morning Jimmie’s sure he dreamt all of it, because there really is no other explanation. He’s still half-asleep as he brushes his teeth and gets dressed, his thoughts a little blurry. His hair is a mess. The suit someone brought up for him is too tight and clings to his shoulders like a second skin. He blinks in the mirror over the sink, thinking about shaving, but not caring enough to actually do it.

The boys are shuffling around in the room. They aren’t talking much as they pack their things and eventually take the lift downstairs. Brian, two bodyguards and some other people are waiting in the lobby. Jimmie doesn’t really look at anyone, just rubs his eyes repeatedly. Some words are being exchanged, mumbled good-mornings, then they’re being led outside to the cars.

They split up and a minute later Jimmie is sitting in the black leather backseat, next to Paul. John and George must be in the other car, in front of them. That’s just his luck. He swallows and looks over to the younger lad as they start driving.

Paul is looking back at him, his lips immediately curving into a reassuring smile. He’s looking soft, leaning back against the seat, his long legs sprawled out in front of him. His face is even more striking in the daylight and it’s amazing how ready it is to smile, or blaze or be sorry with you.

“You okay?”, he asks. “Nervous?”

“Uh”, Jimmie makes. The driver is taking a turn to the right. There are colours flickering outside the window, houses, cafes, people. Jimmies blinks a couple times. Did you and John have sex last night?, he wants to asks. Did you? ‘Cause I had a really weird dream about it and maybe it wasn’t a dream.

“The suit’s too tight”, he says instead. He lifts his arms half-way to demonstrate and Paul chuckles, eyes bright.

“Well, it’s Ringo’s and he’s not the biggest. You better not wear it out too much – he’ll want it back.”

“Right. Well, I just won’t move my shoulders or arms at all then.”

Paul nods, chuckling again. “Might be better if ya don’t – we’ll figure somethin’ out for the drum-playing tonight.”

“You can play for me and I’ll sing – I’ve been practicin’ in the shower.”

“Oh, Brian will love that.”

“I bet!”

Jimmie leans back in his seat, stifling his laughter. He feels more relaxed now, calmer somehow. Carol by the Rolling Stones is playing in the radio and the driver turns up the volume. The car ride takes just under twenty minutes.

When they reach their destination and the car pulls up in front of a tall building, Jimmie stares out the window, completely baffled by all the people filling the street, mostly girls. The screams are overwhelming and he resists the impulse to cover his ears. He kind of expected it but it’s so different than seeing it on the TV in black and white.

There are lots of policemen and security members trying to hold back the crowd as someone opens the door for them. Jimmie gets out of the car, followed by Paul and then Mal is there, ushering them through the mass of people towards the front door. It’s all becoming a blur, the grabbing hands, the piercing screams, the crying faces.

When they finally, finally reach the huge door and step inside, Jimmie feels a surprising amount of relief. The door falls shut behind them and the voices are suddenly muffled, far away.

“Jesus”, he murmurs as they step over to George and John who are already standing in the entrance hall.

John’s leaning back against a column, one leg bent, an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth. His expression is pulled into a sulking frown, like someone just offended him and he looks effortless cool, right out one of those American movies. His face is all sharp-featured and so handsome it’s offensive, not ready to do anything for you. You’d have to beg for a smile, a glance, a whiff of attention. Or just, you know, be Paul McCartney.

When John looks in their direction and his eyes find Paul’s, a grin starts to spread across his face and how that makes him even more attractive is beyond Jimmie. It isn’t one of those sharp, challenging, mocking grins, it’s wide and honest and genuinely pleased to see Paul, as if the separation during the car ride had been unbearable.

Jimmie watches as Paul skips over to John instantly, not a glance back, leaning right up into the older boy’s space. They start talking in hushed voices, then John grabs his cigarette and pushes it slowly between Paul’s lips, his fingers at the corner of his mouth, lightening it for him. Paul sucks on it, breathing out the silvery smoke, looking up through his lashes and nobody can tell Jimmie they aren’t eye-fucking right now. Then George is suddenly next to him and kicks him against the shin. Jesus.

Jimmie whirls around to him, pulling his eyebrows together. “Huh?”

George grins, looking cheeky. He’s bouncing on his toes, far too lively for this early hour, but then again, he’s the only one who got any sleep last night. “They’re gonna cut yer hair.”

“Huh?”, Jimmie makes again.

“Our stylists – they’ll cut yer hair so you’ll look like us.”

“Like a mushroom?”

George cackles. “Yea. They’re gonna do it at the venue, after the press conference. Before the concert, I mean. You’ll love it. You’ll fit right in.”

“Oh, gosh”, Jimmie says, feigning a dramatic sigh. If Brian mentioned something like that to him, he wasn’t listening. But honestly, he doesn’t like his current hair style anyways and he kind of, secretly, loves the idea of ‘fitting right in’.

They’re being ‘fixed up’ then, in a small dressing room, and each handed a banana and a water bottle, before the press conference starts in the other room. It actually goes pretty well. They get to sit at a long table with microphones, around thirty reporters in front of them, screaming questions. Most of them are silly, rude or just plain stupid but Jimmie thinks it’s fascinating all the same. He doesn’t say much, only when he’s asked something directly.

“Are you excited for the concert tonight, Jimmie? Do you think the fans are going to like you? Are you wearing Ringo’s suit?”

“Yes”, he says. “I’m very excited. I hope so. I heard they gonna cut my hair, too.”

When he’s not speaking, he’s laughing at John’s witty replies or looking around. There are security men at the doors, camera flashes like lightning, Brian with a clipboard in his hands, standing close to their table, observing everything. He looks pretty content so far, which must be a good thing.

Jimmie looks over to the other lads. He’s sitting on the right, George on the left, with John and Paul in the middle. He takes a sip from his water bottle while George explains something about their tour bus, waving his arms around. John is leaning forward a little and bumps Paul’s shoulder with his own, before putting his hand on the table between them, walking his fingers over the surface, imitating a – a what? A spider? A beetle? Jimmie furrows his eyebrows, confused.

Paul watches the movement as well, before throwing a glance at John’s face, biting his lip like he’s trying not to smile. He leans a bit closer, brushing their shoulders again.

Jimmie gulps. The water is cold and has a sour aftertaste, going stale in his mouth. He wonders, just for a second, while the obtrusive voices, the scraping of chairs, the clicking of cameras, all the noises die away around him. He wonders what it’d be like to just share a look with another person and understand each other’s everything. He feels a dull pang in his chest shortly after, realizing he’ll probably never know.

.

Chapter Text

.

Paul is waiting for him after the press conference, which means John is waiting for him too, involuntary. The older boy is standing close to the door, arms crossed, looking impatient, so Jimmie hurriedly grabs his water bottle and walks over to them.

“Wasn’t too bad, was it?”, Paul asks, still with that friendly voice he used with the reporters.

“No, no, it was alright – they didn’t seem to care that much about me”, Jimmie says with a laugh and a shrug.

“Do you mind?”

“Uh, no, not really. I expected it.”

“It will change after they heard ya play tonight.”

They walk over to John, who already opens the door for them. He doesn’t say anything as they walk through the entrance hall, his handsome face expressionless. The girls are still outside, even more than before, it seems. They’re gathered outside the glass walls of the lobby and they’re waving their arms around, holding posters, screaming at the top of their lungs as they lay eyes on them. Maybe they all called their friends to come over and – what? Watch the Beatles walk towards their cars?

Somebody opens the main door and the three of them walk through, towards the stairs.

“Jesus”, Jimmie murmurs under his breath, not hearing his own voice. His ears are already ringing. He wonders what it’ll be like tonight at the concert.

Paul plasters a wide smile on his face and walks down the stairs, John directly behind him. Jimmie follows them quickly.

They make their way through the crowd slowly, while security tries to hold the girls back; they seem to struggle more than before and everyone’s closer now, making Jimmie feel claustrophobic all of a sudden. He concentrates on breathing, on John’s auburn-coloured hair in front of him and the way he’s grabbing Paul’s shoulders protectively, like he’s the younger boy’s personal body guard.

One of the girl grabs Jimmie’s elbow and he yanks it away and keeps walking, not turning around. He wonders if they confuse him for Ringo – surely not? – or if they already like him – surely not? – or if it just doesn’t matter to them who he is, as long as he’s wearing the Beatles-suit. Probably.

When they reach the first car and Paul’s safely inside, John turns around to Jimmie, frowning. His face is still pretty much unreadable and Jimmie can’t help but squirm under his gaze. “Do ya mind?”

Jimmie gets what he means and since it doesn’t really sound like a question, he nods quickly, eager almost, and walks over to the other car, a few metres away.  

George is already inside, having left earlier than them. He tosses a smile and an eye-roll at Jimmie, but doesn’t say anything. He’s tapping his fingers against his thigh as Jimmie closes his door, and stares out the window as the car starts moving, looking incredibly bored. Jimmie lets out a sight. He leans against his window as well, the thick glass cool on his skin.

The drive to the venue is short. They’re playing at the K.B. Hallen tonight. It looks pretty small, rounded on top, like a dome. Jimmie stares at it as it comes closer. There are some people in front of it, but not many – they still got hours till the concert tonight.

“Look, we’re here!”, he says. “This is so cool.”

George hums, looking at the building as well. The white-blue sky is being reflected in his eyes.

As soon as they’re all inside, they’re being pulled into a short rehearsal on stage, striking up all of the ten songs they’re going to play. They left out “I Wanna Be Your Man”, the one Ringo’s usually singing. Jimmie loves whoever made that decision – he’s pretty sure nobody wants to hear him sing.

The stage itself is high but not as big as Jimmie imagined, black and a little dirty under his feet. He’s even higher up than the others, sitting at his drum set, being able to observe the entire hall. It stretches out endlessly, empty now, quiet.

He closes his eyes for a bit as they play “She Loves You”, feeling the sound like a second heartbeat. The drum sticks are smooth and familiar in his hands. They sound amazing. He opens his eyes and watches Paul and George jump around, breaking into boyish laughter after the refrain. He feels a thrill of anticipation shoot through his veins.

“Alright?”, Brian asks him after the rehearsal and Jimmie nods. “That was really good. You’ll have to keep your eyes open though – usually the screams are so loud you won’t hear the music. You’ll have to watch the way John and Paul move and bop their heads to know the rhythm.”

“Jesus.” Jimmie blinks, suddenly nervous. His palms are sweaty. He’s sure that part wasn’t in his contract. “Okay?”

“You’ll be fine”, Brian assures and walks off somewhere. Jimmie blinks after him. Sure, he’ll be fine.

He decides not to dwell on it and relax for a bit, since they’ve got a break now anyways. Someone set up a buffet backstage with fruits and sandwiches, and there’s a large dressing room with chairs and couches, where they hang out for a bit.

Jimmie leans back into a pretty comfortable chair, while John and Paul sit down on the couch across from him. George’s on the floor beside them, legs crossed, his guitar draped over his lap. He holds it in his arms like a child, plucking the strings absent-minded, while they chat about today’s reporters and the bad coffee here, that tastes more like water.

Jimmie throws in a comment here and there, but mostly he listens. There are inside jokes that fly over his head, which he notices, sure, but it doesn’t irritate him. He watches rather curiously as John and Paul bicker over something, their knees pressed together. There’s enough room on the sofa but they’re squished to one side, Paul pressed against the armrest.

“No, no, there’s one with a champagne lounge”, he’s saying right now and Jimmie blinks. It takes him a minute to realize that the conversation moved on to clubs in Hong Kong, apparently.

John rolls his eyes. “I bet Brian wants to go to that one – there’ll be a fancy dress-code and stuff.”

George shrugs. “Won’t have to change then, we’ll just keep our suits on. I doubt they’ll let you in though, if yer already drunk from a trip to the hotel bar and rude to security 'n all, like last time.”

“Yeah, well, doubt they’ll let you in, looking like ya just turned sixteen ‘n all.”

George looks up from his guitar for the first time, his expression a mix between annoyed and amused. “’m just saying it probably wouldn’t kill ya to behave yerself for once. They like that over there.”

John blinks, the corner of his mouth twitching. “See, that’s weird – you’re saying all these words and they’re all in English, but when ya string them together like that, they just don’t make any sense.”

George rolls his eyes dramatically and Paul laughs. John turns his head to look at him at the sound, pleased. He mouths something and Paul lifts a hand, his thumb swiping over John’s cheekbone, just lightly, quickly, but Jimmie catches it, and the way John’s grin turns soft at the edges.  

“What do you think, Jimmie?”, Paul asks then, in an attempt to include him probably. As one, they both look over to him, John with a hard squint of his eyes. In contrast, Paul's eyes are soft and there are emerald sprinkles between the hazel and they startle Jimmie for a second, though he’s not sure why. “You want to go out clubbing at all when we’re in Hong Kong?”

“Eh, yeah, sure. We’ll have to check out that lounge, I think – I’ve never had champagne. But we’re going to the Netherlands first, aren’t we?”, he asks, hoping he remembers correctly. He barely had time to skim the tour dates the other day, just knows that it's possible he’ll play eight shows, depending whether or not Ringo'll feel better.

“Netherlands, then Hong Kong, three days off and then – Australia”, George lists and they all start grinning.

“Australia”, Jimmie repeats softly, imagining golden rays of sunlight touching the ocean, landscapes stretching out forever in the distance - heat, booze and girls, right? It suddenly awakens a bitter-sweet ache under his sternum, a sense of longing, wanderlust maybe.

Somebody calls his name then and pulls him away from the conversation. Apparently, it’s time for him to get his hair cut.

“Wish me luck”, he mumbles.

“Good luck!”, George and Paul crow, chuckling at the grimace he makes.

After he quickly grabbed a sandwich with cheese and tomatoes, he has to sit down in one of the chairs, in front of a mirror. A woman comes up to him with scissors and a reassuring smile. She starts cutting his hair into the Beatles-mop, while he watches with caution. She moves quickly and confidently and after a while he decides she knows what she’s doing.

He leans back a bit and tries to relax, while he watches the other three through the slightly smudged mirror. They’re still sitting at the couches, talking, George concentrated on his guitar, John and Paul concentrated on each other. At some point the two of them get up and exclaim they'll go outside for a smoke.

Jimmie watches them leave through the black door next to the buffet, and can't help but wonder. His thoughts flicker to silvery moonlight, rumpled bed sheets, the outline of Paul's face in the dark. Who knows what they're actually doing right now? He bites the inside of his cheek and pushes the thoughts away. The cut-off hair is collecting on his suit like feathers and the woman wipes it away.

“There”, she says after another two minutes. “All done.”

“Thank you”, Jimmie mumbles, looking at his reflection intently. He looks fine, a little unusual, but not worse than before. He might even like it. He wonders if Daisy might like it. He still has to call her. Still chewing the inside of his cheek, he smiles and gets up to walk back over to George. 

“So - what do ya think?”

George pulls his dark eyebrows together, but he nods after a moment, chuckling slightly. “It’s gear. You like it?”

“Sure. What’re ya working on?”

George looks down to his guitar, his fingers stilling on the strings, like he hadn’t even noticed he was still playing quietly. He coughs, shrugs. “Just, uh, something. A song, I guess. I don’t know yet.”

Jimmie sits back down in the armchair and looks at the younger boy expectantly. “Play it?”

George looks unsure, almost shy, but then he averts his gaze and plays the beginning of a song. It’s a smooth melody, warm somehow. He mumbles the words of the first verse, but stops himself soon.

“Well, yeah, I don’t know yet”, he says almost defensively, despite the fact Jimmie didn’t say anything. He looks embarrassed suddenly. His dark eyebrows are pulled together and despite his serious expression he looks very young. It takes Jimmie a moment to realizes he actually is. “’S not like it matters.”

Oh c’mon, he wants to say in that moment. That towering genius of Lennon-McCartney, that two-headed monster, would throw a shadow over anyone, anyone on the planet, George, don’t worry, don’t put yourself down. You’re just not quite there yet. Jimmie doesn’t say any of that of course. He just shakes his head.

“I like that one”, he says honestly. “You should keep workin’ on it.”

“’m not so sure – it’s probably no use.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that. You’ll have to try.” Jimmie shrugs, looking over to the door John and Paul disappeared through, completely lost in each other. “You’ll have to write a song so good they can’t ignore it.”

George’s chewing his lip. “Doesn’t sound easy.”

“Well, you won’t be able to do it over night. Just”, he shrugs. “Eventually.”

George looks at him for a while, like he’s trying to figure something out. “When they told us, Ringo won’t be able to play the first concerts of the tour and they would hire a replacement, I told ‘em I wouldn’t play either. I thought it’d be better they cancel the concerts.”

“Oh. Really?” Jimmie frowns. “What – what happened?”

George shrug, grins. It’s an unusual sight, making him look even younger. “Changed my mind.”

He gets up to get another sandwich and after a while another woman who works at the venue comes in to talk to Brian about some organisational stuff. She has frizzy hair and a loud voice, flailing her arms around while talking. Jimmie saw her earlier, walking around at the stage, giving orders to the technicians. Brian looks a bit intimidated by her, but smiles politely at whatever she’s saying.

“We need the temperature in the hall to be cooler”, Jimmie hears Brian saying at one point. “There are always a lot of girls fainting under normal circumstances so, um – is there a way to turn up the air condition or else it’ll be too hot to handle –“

That’s the moment John and Paul come back in, looking a bit ruffled, chuckling about something. Paul’s cheeks are red, from the heat maybe or something else, his lips bitten and shiny, his eyes glimmering and slightly glassy under his dark lashes. The woman looks up at the interruption and stares for a second. 

“I’ll tell you what’s too hot to handle”, she murmurs.

“Um”, Brian makes. “Excuse me?”

“I said we’ll see what we can do. We gotta do another mic-check now – one of the boys has to come with me for that. We haven’t got much time left”, she exclaims and walks towards the door, scribbling something on her clipboard. John and Paul look up when she breezes past them, and she throws them a quick glance, snapping her fingers, before disappearing through the door.

“Hey, cute-ass”, she calls. “Come with me for a second.”

Paul turns around once more, looking confused. “What – is she talking to me?”

John smirks. “Oh, definitely.”

The concert itself starts two hours later and is an amazing and pretty much terrifying experience. All Jimmie remembers later about it are the ear-splitting screams, the vibration of the drums under his fingers, flashes of light and the way John and Paul lean over the same microphone, like perfect mirrors, so close they’re almost touching, before jumping apart.

.

Chapter Text

.

The next two days are a blur. They leave Denmark the day after the concert and fly to the Netherlands. They arrive at the Schiphol airport in Amsterdam a little after noon and are greeted by hundreds of people, wearing traditional orange hats and holding bouquets of flowers. The Beatles all lean over one of the rows to look out the windows, at the crowd. They’re everywhere, behind the barriers, on the balconies of surrounding buildings. Jimmie can’t see any faces. The sun is blinding. Everything is a sea of movement and colours.  

There’s no time to look around the city on that first day. There’s just a quick press conference in a cramped room in a building he forgot the name of, and then a one-hour long drive. So, all Jimmie sees of Amsterdam are some cute-looking houses, then they’re already on the highway. They drive to Hillegom, a town near Haarlem, 26 miles outside Amsterdam, in separate, white vans. They’ll have an appearance there on VARA-TV; Jimmie knows that Brian told him this at some point, but he’s not sure what exactly is going to happen.

Hillegom isn’t big but the fields around it are in colourful bloom, welcoming, lovely. They stop in a wide street, directly in front the Café-Restaurant Treslong, where they’ll film. They’re ushered inside through the people that are, of course, waiting for them. It’s a tall building at a street corner, with long corridors inside, a big but crowded dressing room, and a long front-room filled with microphones and cameras. People, who look like staff are scattering around, arranging and preparing things.

The four of them get changed in the dressing room, into light-grey suits. Someone puts powder on their faces so they won’t look pale in the lights, and their hair is being combed. The stuffy air is filled with lot of noise and smells like coffee, smoke and antiperspirant.

“Okay”, Brian says loudly, at some point. “It’s 5 pm now, you’ve still got half an hour, then we’re meeting back in the front room, so we can rehearse, alright? The recording starts at 8pm. Don’t be late, boys, please.”

They all murmur their agreement. Someone made fresh coffee and Jimmie sips his slowly from a plastic cup, even though it’s too hot and burning his tongue. He can’t concentrate on any conversation around him, but when John and Paul get up for a smoke break, just like yesterday, it gets his attention. He looks over to them as they leave the room, talking about something intently, walking so close their shoulders are brushing - an already familiar sight. It’s strange that they have to go outside when they could just smoke in here, isn’t it? Nobody else pays attention to it, though.

Jimmie doesn’t actively make the decision to follow them, he doesn’t think he does, anyways. But he’s already dressed and his hair is styled and he would just sit around waiting. He’s suddenly on his feet, putting his cup of coffee on a nearby table.

“’m gonna go to the loo”, he says to no one in particular.

When he leaves the dressing room, he just sees John and Paul disappear around a corner, in the direction of the front room. He quickly walks down the corridor as well. They’re really going outside, he notices when he sees them again a few seconds later. They use a side entrance though and he hesitates close to the white-framed glass-door, and looks around.

There aren’t many people here in this part of the building, some kind of narrow hall with lots of doors, just some far-away voices. Nobody notices him as he walks closer to the glass-door and peeks outside. It’s facing a small side alley. It’s shadowy, caged in by the surrounding buildings, but Jimmie can make out John and Paul a few metres away, leaning against a wall. They’re still talking, both with a cigarette in their hand now, breathing silvery smoke.

They’re just smoking like they said they would. They’re not doing anything unusual. Of course not. He’s the one acting weird. Sure, he did hear the inside jokes, he did see the ease and the familiarity and the small touches over the last two and a half days, but they’re close, they’re best friends, they’re partners. He’s being stupid. What he saw that first night in Copenhagen was probably a dream, like he thought all along. It seems far away now and it was a strange dream, sure –

Paul takes a step away suddenly and John grabs his wrist and pulls him back, shaking his head. He’s laughing about something. Jimmie frowns, paying attention again; he can’t hear anything from here though, has no idea what they’re saying. Paul leans into John’s side again, closer this time. He takes another drag, then drops his only half-burned cigarette to the ground and steps it out. For a moment nothing happens.

Then John drops his cigarette as well and says something else, lifting his hand to Paul’s face, pulling him even closer. There's something weirdly impatient about this movement, like he hates every inch between them.

Jimmie suddenly notices that he’s holding his breath and feels a slight wave of dizziness in his head. Okay, maybe he was wrong. He was definitely wrong.

As he watches, John leans forward and pepper kisses all over Paul’s face, making the younger boy erupt into giggles, or at least that's what it looks like. He tries half-heartly to escape again, but then John’s arms are around his waist, pulling him closer once more, taking a few steps back, further in the alley.  

They lean against the wall, their bodies melting together and then they’re kissing for a while, very softly, slowly, nothing hurried, nothing sexual about it now. He can see that even through the distance and the wavering shadows. It’s . . . romantic.

Jimmie wants to leave but can’t, is frozen, just like on the first night. He can feel his pulse in his temple. He does want to leave, but a small part of him wishes he could hear what they’re saying between the kisses – he wishes he could push the door open, unnoticed, to get closer.

He recoils at that thought, takes a couple steps back from the glass-door, like he’s been burned. How strange. How wrong. He whirls around and hurries down the corridor, back to the dressing room. He pushes the door open and slips through. Nothing changed in his absence. Everyone is still standing or walking around, organizing things, light voices filling the air.

He takes a deep breath and picks his coffee cup back up where he left it, to take a sip. It cooled down to room temperature and for some reason it tastes more bitter than before. He puts it away again. Someone asks him if he’s ready and he nods.

At 5:30pm sharp everyone’s actually in the front room, to Brian’s delight, to go through everything. Jimmie is standing next to George, who throws him a quick smile. John and Paul are a few metres away and he doesn’t know why, but it makes him glad. He forces himself not to look at them. He is a hundred percent certain now that this is real, whatever this is. He doesn’t know what to do with it, what to think. Is there something to do?

He blinks, his thoughts interrupted by Brian, who’s talking in front of them, walking back and forth, waving his hands around. The light is blinding in Jimmie’s eyes and he barely manages to remember the order of the songs.

“She Loves You comes before Money Can’t Buy Me Love, remember, we changed that. They’ll all be studio versions – you’ll just have to mime them. Your microphones are on though, so you can sing along if you want”, Brian explains.

The other three look annoyed at that, but Jimmie just nods. The first part will be answering questions, the second playing the songs, and then they’re finished and can go back to the hotel. He knows he can do this, but he feels exhausted already. His limbs are strangely heavy, like there are weights attached to them, but his mind is alive with flittering questions. There is still that soft dizziness, but he tries to ignore it, all of it, for now.

A few minutes till eight, they have to sit down on a kind of bar, across from the interviewer, kinda like during the press conferences. The cameras are recording now and the light seems even brighter. A hundred fifty people are allowed inside the Café-Restaurant, as an audience. They sit in a half circle around them, on a small tribune somebody built in here on short notice. Another interviewer is with the crowd, taking questions from the audience.

Jimmie looks around, while the first question is being asked by a black-haired girl and translated by the interviewer in front of them. John leans a bit forward and answers it, from where he’s sitting directly beside Jimmie. Most of the people in the audience are dressed colourfully, most of them are blond, most of them beaming. There are a lot of blokes too, almost as much as birds, which must be unusual, Jimmie thinks.  

John is saying something about his wife, and Jimmie throws a quick glance his way. For some reason he feels surprised, even though he knew the other boy was married; he read it in an article a while ago. He even knows her name, Cynthia. So why –

“Do you find it difficult to take over the role of Ringo?”, their interviewer translates the next question, keeping Jimmie from getting lost in his thoughts. His name is Berend Boudewijn, and he has a broad smile, shiny-white teeth and a strong Dutch accent. Jimmie smiles back quickly.

“No, not really”, he replies in a light tone, hoping it’s obvious he’s joking. “No, but really, I could never make up for what Ringo is.”

There isn’t a question directly for him after that and he can mostly relax. They get asked boring things, like which sports they like or what the band name means. John explains the mix of beat and beetle, with a tone of voice that suggests he did that a hundred times before. There’s a tinge of annoyance and a hint of boredom in the way he pulls down one corner of his mouth. The lines of his face look even sharper in the light. Paul nudges their knees together.

“Kever”, George translates then, which seems to delight the audience immensely. Jimmie looks at the younger boy and forces himself to laugh with everyone else, even though he can’t figure out what’s so funny about George knowing a Dutch word.

It’s not too long after, that the interviewer announces it’s time for the performance. The audience breaks into another round of enthusiastic applause. They get up from the table and walk over to the small stage made of wood, just a few feet over the ground. Jimmie walks to the drum set and sits down behind it, savouring the sense of security it provides him.

They start playing the songs from the set list – or pretending to. Jimmie moves the drum sticks quickly to the melody, keeping the tempo of the song. Because of the playback, it’s easier to look around. There are screams like always, people waving, getting up to dance.

During "Long Tall Sally", some people from the audience even come up on the stage to dance between them, mostly guys. There are some girls as well though, twirling under the arms of the guys, their skirts flying. They seem to have fun and the atmosphere is great, but Jimmie can see from the look on Brian’s face that this wasn’t planned.

During "She Loves You" even more people come on stage and it’s getting crowded. Jimmie keeps pretend-playing though, feeling the sweat on his upper lip and over his brow. When they start "Money Can’t Buy Me Love" it seems like everyone from the audience got up on the much-too-small stage and they’re completely surrounded. There's a strange pull in his chest, a tightness in his throat. It reminds him of the claustrophobia he felt walking through the crowd after the press conference in Copenhagen.

Jimmie keeps moving the drum sticks, while his eyes search for the others to see how they’re coping. It’s difficult to find them between all the people; Mal, Neil and Derek are on the stage now too, apparently trying to clear it. That attempt is in vain, though – there is total chaos. Nobody pays attention to them, nobody stops dancing and singing to the music spilling out of the speakers.

Jimmie’s eyes finally find John, who's auburn-coloured hair is easiest to make out. The other boy stopped pretend-playing completely and pushed his way through to Paul and George, who are standing at the other microphone. Are they talking to each other? Jimmie can't tell. He loses sight of them for a second, because of two girls twirling past, and when he can see them again, John is suddenly stepping in front of some Dutsch guy, pushing him forcefully. The guy stumbles back a few steps, bumping into a girl. Jimmie’s movements falter; he's not sure what happened, he didn't see anything. How frustrating.

Mal, Neil and Derek on the other hand probably did see what happened, and they seem to realize that the situation is escalating even further. A fight is the last thing they need, so they seem to decide that it’d be smarter to get the Beatles off-stage, instead of all these people. Neil grabs John’s elbow and pulls him away and the others follow him quickly.    

Mal turns around once, to look over to the drum set, probably to see if Jimmie needs help as well. Jimmie shakes his head with a small shrug and a smile. He’s the only one who can stay, kind of safe behind his drum set, convinced now that he's in no real danger. So, he keeps pretend-playing, his movements feeling slightly robotic. The music and the laughter of the people fills every part of the room and sweat drips from his forehead, and then it’s over.

He sleeps like a baby that night. They’ve got two separate rooms, luckily, in a small hotel in Hillegom. It’s just for one night – the next day they’ll drive back to Amsterdam. Jimmie isn’t sure about the order of events for the next day, but he is sure that Brian will explain it to them tomorrow at breakfast.

George throws himself on one of the beds as soon as they enter their room. He groans about how tired he is and that they’ll have to turn off the lights early. Jimmie agrees, feeling relieved about this. It’s comfortable and easy sharing with George. Jimmie looks over to him. For a moment, he thinks about asking him what happened on stage between John and that guy, but decides that it can wait till breakfast as well.

He sits down on his own bed and peels his shoes off slowly. He loosens his tie next, trying to remember where he put his pyjamas. George disappears to the bathroom after a few minutes, to take a shower. Jimmie sighs, looking over to the hotel window, the lights of the small city on the other side. They’re glowing softly, warmly, tinged in orange.

His eyes start to grow heavy soon and he quickly searches for his pyjamas, to put them on and climb under his thin blanket. His pillow smells like cotton and soap. He hears the shower running in the bathroom. He wonders what John and Paul are doing right now. Outside the window, over the warm city lights, are the stars. He hasn’t noticed them before, he’s not sure why. They look like pin heads and they’re cold and white and remote, like alcohol and enamel trays.  

.

Chapter Text

.

The second day in the Netherlands starts with soft sunlight and the smell of camomile-soap. Jimmie wakes up and blinks over to the windows. The curtains are drawn and the sun is rising slowly behind the glass. He’s still tired, but there’s a tingling sensation under his skin that makes it impossible to go back to sleep. George is already awake as well and they get up quickly, the younger boy groaning about how hungry he is. They get dressed, in their normal cloths, and take the lift downstairs, to meet the others for breakfast.

Brian reserved a small, separate room for them, with a few laid tables and a buffet along the wall. There’s a high, arched ceiling and a dark-blue carpet, swallowing their steps. Mal and Neil are sitting on one of the longer tables, drinking coffee and Brian is already here as well, speaking to a woman, close to the windows.

George and Jimmie grab some plates and get their food, milk, tea and coffee and sit down at the other end of Mal and Neil’s table, greeting them quietly. The sunlight, falling though a crack of the curtains, paints a wide stripe over the cream-coloured tablecloth.

They just sat down and started eating, when John and Paul walk through the doors. They’re dressed in casual cloths as well, dark jeans, cuffed at the ankles, and white t-shirts, making them look younger somehow. They’re engrossed in conversation like always and Jimmie seriously wonders what there still is to say after spending literally every second together.

They get their food and George waves them over to their table, his mouth filled with beans. They sit dowm somewhere between George and Neil. John tips his chair back, balancing on two legs, looking around the room with a disparaging, somehow superior expression etched into the sharp lines of his face. He doesn’t acknowledge the rest of them, like he suddenly grew bored of them.

Paul on the other hand throws a good morning at Mal and Neil and a bright smile at George and Jimmie. “Did ya sleep well?”

“Peachy”, George drawls. “You?”

Paul nods, grabbing an egg. The light from the window is streaming directly into his face; most people look somewhat washed out in such strong light, but his clear, fine features are only illuminated, his eyes looking deep and radiant, a golden-green glimmer inside. John next to him let his chair fall down to all four legs again, and is drumming his fingers on the table now, still that distant, disparaging look on his face.

Jimmie looks away, as silence stretches out around them, and grabs the milk for his tea, the cup hot under his fingers. There is the sound of cutlery and chairs being moved around.

“So”, Brian says suddenly and Jimmie looks up at the manager confused – he didn’t notice him walking over to their table. He was too busy watching his milk swirl around in his tea, maybe. Damn, he’s still really tired. Brian grabs an extra chair and sits down swiftly, between Jimmie and Mal. “Good morning, guys. Last night went really well – except the end maybe, but it will look good on the video. Everyone had lots of fun, so that’s great.”

They all nod. Jimmie tries to look more awake than he feels and pushes a piece of muffin in his mouth. There are too-sour currants in it and he tries not to make a grimace. “What did happen there? I saw ya pushing someone.”

He dares to look over to John, who narrows his eyes at him in return. “Did ya now?”

“Yeah.”

George rolls his eyes. “Johnny got a little, ah, protective.”

“Wait, what?” Brian looks pulls his eyebrows together, looking at John as well. “You pushed someone? Are you mad? Is that gonna be in the video?”

Mal, obviously having been listening, leans a bit closer now and shakes his head, reassuringly. “I don’t think so. Everyone pushed against everyone – it was total chaos. We pulled them off-stage right after it happened.”

“Nothing happened”, Paul says, sounding impatient. His perfect eyebrows are pulled together in a scowl. “John didn’t do anything. Can we move on?”

“Well, obviously, something happened”, Brian says, just as impatient. “What did you see, Jimmie?”

“Huh?” Jimmie blinks. “Uh, not much. John pushed the guy, like I said. But I didn’t, didn’t really see anything. I was so far away – there were lots of people in front of me.”

“George?”

“Hm?”

“You were next to them, weren’t you?”

“Oh, yeah, but, y’know. It wasn’t that big of a deal. That guy grabbed Paul's arm a bit roughly, and John pushed him away. Slightly.” He makes a weak hand movement. “A light push. He didn’t hit him or anything.”

Brian narrows his eyes. “I sure hope not.”

John rolls his eyes, still drumming his fingers on the table. He looks like he's bored to death by the conversation, like he couldn't care less what Brian is thinking of him right now; Paul on the other hand seems to care very much.

“He wouldn’t”, he says, sounding angry.

Brian just raises an eyebrow. “Were you hurt?”

“No. Stop it now. It’s not gonna be a problem. Would you please just move on?”

“Right”, Brian says, looking taken back at the unusual sharpness in Paul’s voice. He leans back in his chair slowly. “Moving on – we’ll drive back to Amsterdam, right after breakfast. You’ll do a boat roundtrip there, along the canals. It’s gonna be filmed as well and released with the material from yesterday.”

He looks at each of them quickly. “Then, after the boat tour, we can go back to the hotel to get ready for the concert. It’s gonna be in Blokke, a little outside the city. We’ll take the vans there again, around 5pm.”

Jimmie swallows another piece of muffin. The currants are so sour they dry up the inside of his mouth. He knew this was gonna be stressful, but Jesus. Do they even have time to breath? They keep eating but Jimmie feels restless now. He finishes his tea quickly and is glad when they all get up to go back to their rooms.

He barely has time to shower and throw his things in his suitcase, before they have to be downstairs again. They scatter outside and split up for the drive. It's an hour long, just like yesterday, but it feels shorter somehow.

They arrive back in Amsterdam soon, the cute-looking houses and bridges wrapped in soft sunlight. Jimmie watches them flicker past the windows. There are women dressed in flowery dresses, children chasing each other along the pavement, people talking in Cafés. The vans round a corner and eventually stop at a square, directly at the canal. The area has been shut off completely and there are policemen everywhere.

They’re greeted by a man with a moustache and a loud voice, swaying his arms around as he tells them how happy he is that they’re here. He explains them the route and they get on one of the boats soon after, to start the tour. It’s big enough for all of them, some members of the crew and two police men. It’s white and the top is made of glass, a few steps leading to the inside, where a few bags are tucked under the benches.

They start moving, the boat gliding through the water smoothly. Jimmie grabs onto the railing, the metal cold under his hands. There are so many people - they're everywhere. They stand alongside the canals, fill the bridges, wave, scream. The Beatles stand outside at the railing, waving back for so long that Jimmie feels his arm fall asleep.

After a while, they’re aloud to sit down for a bit. Jimmie walks down the steps, to the inside of the boat. George follows him and they sit down on a small bench, under the glass-ceiling, to drink some water. It’s cold and wet on his skin and tastes like relief.

Jimmie looks to the steps, leading back outside. He can see John’s and Paul’s silhouettes, where they’re leaning over the railing. He watches them, slightly blurry through the glass.

There’s a moment, right there, where he wants to ask George about it. He wants to lean over to the younger boy, secretively, and whisper are John and Paul in love? He wants to see his face when he hears the question, wants to see his reaction. He wants to say I saw them having sex and I’m sure now that it wasn’t a dream. I saw them kiss yesterday in an alley, in bright daylight. I saw them flirt with each other like two love-sick puppies. Have you ever seen that? Probably. You’ve known them for a while –

“Jimmie?”

Jimmie blinks a couple times. George is staring at him strangely.

“Huh? What?”

“Nothing.” George shrugs. “I just said my arm hurts from all that waving – ya kinda zoned out for a minute. You good?”

“Oh, yeah.” He coughs. “Great. My arm fell asleep, I think.”

The thing is, he knows it isn’t normal for two lads to behave like that, it isn’t even legal back in England. And he’s heard about it, sure, heard stories, but he’s never seen it, never met anyone, who was like that, queer. He never thought about it.

And now that he saw it, witnessed it, with John and Paul of all people, he isn’t sure what to think. The strange thing is, he hadn’t felt like he needed to interrupt them, call the police, shout at them, whatever a normal reaction would have been. He hadn’t been disgusted, at all, quite the opposite. He had been fascinated, hadn’t he? He had watched them unknowingly, like a creep. What does that mean? What does that make him?

“Are ya sure yer okay, Jimmie? Yer really pale.”

He blinks at George, at his dark eyebrows, the frown on his face. He doesn’t look angry or judging, just curious and a bit concerned, but then he has no idea what Jimmie is thinking about. He gets up from his chair slowly, trying to smile at George. There must be something wrong with him. Oh God, there’s definitely something wrong with him.

“I – yeah. I just need a bit fresh air”, he mumbles and then he turns around, smile slipping from his face, as he hurries to the steps. He basically runs them up and steps back outside, to hurry to the railing. He pushes between Mal and Derek, gulping the fresh air in his lungs like lemonade. The wind is cool on his face. A bit of water is splashing up the boat, hitting his face. He tries to collect himself.

After the boat tour, they go back to their hotel. It’s bigger than the one in Hillegom, his and George’s room weirdly oval-shaped. They get changed and have a few minutes to relax. Jimmie decides to call his girl Daisy, just for a few minutes, from the phone on his night stand. George disappears to the bathroom in the meantime. He can hear voices from the corridor.

Jimmie sits down on the bed and leans to the side, into his pillow, while listening to Daisy’s familiar voice, telling him about her small everyday-life-problems. She describes tiny details, like she always does, and it suddenly seems to be part of another universe – her, her studies, the mustard-coloured cup she dropped in the kitchen by accident. When she asks how he is doing, he isn’t sure what to say.

“It’s a lot”, he finally says, looking over to the door leading to the corridor. “The fangirls are crazy. The guys are great. I love playing with them, so all is good. I miss you, though.”

She seems to be content with that answer. There’s a smile in her voice when she tells him she misses him, too. She goes back to telling him about the book she started reading, when the door opens and Brian steps inside, looking a little stressed, like always.

John and Paul are with him, already changed into the other suits as well. Their hair is a little wet and the thought rushes into his mind, that they just showered together. A strange feeling erupts in his stomach, a burning sensation in his gullet, like he just swallowed a spoon full of raw cinnamon. Daisy’s voice suddenly seems incredibly far away, static, a background noise. John steps into the middle of the room like it belongs to him, looking around with an almost sceptical detachment, while Paul throws a smile Jimmie’s way.

“Uh, Daisy, I gotta call you back, yeah?”, he says quickly. “As soon as I can, promise.”

She agrees, he thinks, a pout in her voice now, and they hang up. Jimmie gets up from the bed, smoothing down his suit, just when George steps out of the bathroom and raises an eyebrow quizzingly.

“What’s everyone doing here?”

“You need to get out on one of the balconies to wave at the crowd once more”, Brian says, almost looking guilty. They all groan, but eventually oblige.

The balconies are on the North-side, long and wide, overlooking a huge square. There are hundreds of people gathered on it and in front of the hotel, screaming when they catch sight of them.

George groans again, stepping back from the railings. “Wave for me, Derek?”

The bodyguard obliges, waving enthusiastically, while George leans back against the wall and lights a cigarette. It glimmers golden-orange. Jimmie wonders if the girls even notice the difference from the distance. He thinks about asking Mal to wave for him as well, but forces himself not to. John and Paul are beside him, a step in front of him, their arms outstreched.

The minutes are melting together like hot butter. The sun is hidden behind candyfloss clouds, and the suit spans at Jimmie's shoulders, and when he looks over to the other two, John’s left hand is high up between Paul’s shoulder blades, his fingertips touching the pale skin on the younger boy’s neck. Jimmie can’t look away. The hand moves slowly down Paul’s back, along his spine, lower and lower, and while John does this, he looks up and catches Jimmie’s gaze, and Jimmie feels himself freeze.

He can’t read the flicker in John’s dark eyes, but he sees the smirk that curls around his mouth, and suddenly Jimmie feels caught - like he’s the one doing something forbidden.

A wave of blood goes up to his head and he looks away quickly, a strange, bitter taste filling his mouth. It’s as if he’s been caught stealing, or telling a lie; or as if he’s heard other people talking about him, saying bad things about him, behind his back. There’s the same flush of shame, of guilt and terror, and of cold disgust with himself.

But he doesn’t know where these feelings have come from, or what he’s done.

.

Chapter Text

.

The three days they have off, are bliss. They fly to Hong Kong to spend them there. They’re planning to explore, eat, go out, get drunk. It’s going to be so different compared to Copenhagen and Amsterdam, they’re sure of it. Everything’s gonna be bigger, more exciting somehow.

But first comes the flight there, long and uncomfortable, stretching like an elastic, dying to break. It takes over 24 hours. They fly to London first, for some unknown reason, where their connecting flight is postponed for an hour to allow them to catch it. There are hundreds of girls at Heathrow, pushing against each other, trying to get a glimpse of the Beatles. It’s early in the morning and Jimmie is sweating in his jacket. They wave and smile as they walk past the crowd, but he’s glad when they’re all safely seated in the plane.  

Around six am the actual flight begins. Brian booked the entire business class, but there still doesn’t seem to be enough space. Jimmie peels himself out of his jacket, accepts the cold water-bottle from the stewardess and tries to relax. Which is easier said than done.

They have stopovers in four cities – Beirut, Karachi, Calcutta and Bangkok. At each airport is a crowd of girls, hoping to catch sight of them, no matter the time. It’s insane. In Karachi it’s so bad they can’t even leave the plane. By the time the journey continues, they’re all annoyed and restless and tired. John has a cold since this morning, probably from the air condition in the hotel, and is in a horrible mood. Brian has a migraine and is resting in the front, probably from the stress and Mal claims multiple times he’s never been this bored in his entire life.

When they’re over Pakistan, the day starts bleeding into night. The lights are being dimmed in the plane, making everything look like smudged water-colours. The seats are big and comfy, but Jimmie still doesn’t get much sleep that night. It’s either too hot or too cold, and George next to him is talking in his sleep, mumbling incoherent things. Jimmie bites the inside of his cheek.

This is the longest flight he’s ever been on and he suddenly dreads the one to Australia in four days. He swallows harshly. He listens to George babbling in his sleep for another twenty minutes, before he feels like he’ll get a migraine too if he stays here any longer. He grabs his water bottle and walks to the back, where John and Paul are sitting.

Jimmie hesitates, but then sees that John is asleep, snoring lightly, his head on Paul’s shoulder, and decides it’s safe to sit down, without receiving some snarky remark. He sits down in the row beside them, so that he’s next to Paul, just the aisle between them. He puts his water bottle on the folding table and leans back.

“Can’t sleep either?”, Paul asks in a soft voice, looking over to him. His green-brown-hazel eyes glimmer in the low light. Jimmie can make out the lines of his face in the dark, the button-nose, the roundish cheeks.

He shakes his head. “Stupid planes. The engine ‘s too loud. George is talking in his sleep. I mean, not that’s it’s much better over here, with John’s snoring.”

“That’s because of his cold”, Paul defends, not seeming bothered by it in the slightest. “But yeah, I can’t sleep either. ‘m too jittery.”

“Right. You said yer having a hard time sleeping on planes”, Jimmie remembers, thinking of their first conversation in Copenhagen, in some crowded pub with loud music. It suddenly seems like weeks ago.

“Yeah”, the younger boy says quietly. He shrugs his right shoulder, the one John’s head isn’t resting on. “I just can’t get comfortable. Feeling a little caged in. I just can’t fall asleep on planes, never, but it’s the same with buses and trains. Makes me nauseous.”

Jimmie nods. “I know what ya mean, it sucks. But we should still try to rest a bit. We’re gonna be in here for quite a while still.”

Paul nods as well, and they’re quiet after that. Jimmie watches how Paul leans his head on top of John’s, how the older boy reaches out in his sleep to spread his hand across Paul’s thigh. The thought hits him, that maybe he’ll have to leave in five days or six, without answers. He knows. He’s sure now that he knows – he would have been incredibly stupid not to notice, but he still has so many questions he’d like to ask them. He swallows them for now and leans back in his seat, forcing his eyes close, trying to get some sleep.

He does manage to fall into some sort of half-sleep, not deep enough to dream. Everything is hazy and far away. His hair keeps falling in his forehead, tickling him. He feels exhausted every time he wakes up that night. There is a soft-green light coming from the front, shimmering comforting. There is the taste of stale water and sleep. Around eight am, when the lights are already back on, it’s finally announced that they’re going to land soon. There’s a wave of relief.

There are just as many people greeting them at the airport as in the last city they landed, and it’s just as hot in Hong Kong as it was in Amsterdam. The air feels humid and heavy. Haze hangs over the huge city like wet smoke. Luckily, there is lots of security, and it doesn’t take long till they all have their luggage and can make their way to the cars.

Not so luckily, the four of them are all crammed into one car, which is small to begin with. John is still in a sour mood, a frown etched on his face. He’s pale, with shadows under his eyes and a running nose. It makes him snarky, even more than usual, makes him throw biting insults at everyone who looks at him the wrong way.

By the time they made it to the hotel, he’s snapped at everyone, including Paul. Jimmie keeps his eyes down, thinking it’s probably better to avoid him for a bit and not speak to him, or look at him. Or, you know, breath in his direction.

The hotel they’re staying in is huge, expensive looking. The lobby has a high ceiling and a fountain in front of the golden lifts. There’s an island of armchairs and couches pushed together at the right. They all wait there, while Brian walks over to the reception to get the keys for their rooms. It’s a bit cooler in here than outside, but Jimmie can still feel the sweat that’s starting to collect at his neck again.

He pushes his chin against his palm. From the corner of his eye he can see John kicking the small wooden table in front of the couch repeatedly.

“What the hell’s taking Brian so long”, he says, not really a question, since he doesn’t look like he’s expecting an answer. His voice is sharp-edged, impatient, which is honestly understandable to Jimmie. They all just want to go to their rooms and rest.

“He’ll be back in a mo’, John, chill”, George says with an eye-roll, from where he’s lounging in the arm-chair, a bag of crisps in his hand. Jimmie has no idea where he got that from.

“Shut up”, John snaps, irritated. “’m not talkin’ to you.”

“Welp, ‘scuse me for thinking ya were addressing the whole room. Didn’t know ya were soliloquising.”  

“I wasn’t. Just wasn’t talking to you.”

“Maybe there’s some kind of problem”, Paul says, patiently. “I can go ask Brian.”

“Nah”, John says, his voice a little softer for a second. That second is over quickly. “Jimmie can go ask.”

Jimmie blinks, surprised. “Huh?”

“You don’t have to”, George says. “Don’t let him order you around.”

“Shut up”, John snaps again. He’s about to say something else, but is interrupted by a coughing attack, which only seems to make him angrier. Paul pushes a water bottle in his hand. John just glares at him, and Jimmie gnaws at his lower lip.

Neil and Mal are watching them from a few steps away, just to be safe probably, like John is a ticking time bomb that will go off any moment. George is the only one looking completely unfazed, munching on his crisps. He must be used to the whole spectrum of John’s moods, especially this one.

“I’ll go ask what’s taking so long”, Neil finally offers. He walks over to the reception, looking back to them twice. Jimmie watches him exchange a few words with Brian and the receptionist.

He keeps his eyes on them, trying to ignore the way Paul’s fingers crawl up John’s arm, in that weird spidery-gesture, the way he leans closer and says something a low voice, the way their hair’s almost touching, black and auburn-coloured. The way the anger melts of John’s face very slowly.

Mal checks his watch. George offers Jimmie a crisp. It’s green way too spicy, wasabi, maybe. It actually doesn’t take too long after that before Brian and Neil come back, but it feels like hours. Brian says something about complications and apologizes five times and then finally, finally gives them their keys, single rooms this time, a rare luxury.

Jimmie’s is on the west side of the hotel, with white walls, a huge bed and a small balcony. He closes the blinds, before he falls into the bed, exhausted. He barely manages to slip out of his shoes.

None of them are doing much that first day other than catching up on sleep, but there is a nice, early dinner held for them downstairs in the dining room.

The second day is spent driving around the city for a while, stopping at a huge food market. They walk around for about an hour, trying everything that looks only slightly interesting, before they’re spotted by fans and have to rush back to the cars. They stay in the hotel lobby after that, throwing popcorn at each other and going on Brian’s nerves.

The third day is similar; they can’t stray far from the hotel, as a group at least. Mal suggests that he and Jimmie could go back to the market – the risk of being recognised would be very low. Jimmie agrees instantly, suddenly glad he’s not that well-knows. It has its peaks, surely, but also its downside. Hong Kong seems to be an incredibly interesting city and the other’s look a little envious when he, dressed in normal cloths, says bye and drives back to the city centre with Mal.

They do go back to the market and buy a few things, before they explore some sightseeing spots. There’s a stunning temple, surrounded by antique stores, a huge clock tower, a park with a golden pavilion in the middle. There’s too much to see it all. They walk past the avenue of stars, along the waterfront, on their way back to the hotel. The sculptures are silvery and huge, the water looks like an endless mirror.

The sun breaks through the clouds. Nobody bothers them.

They decide to go out that night, to Lan Kwai Fong, the party central of Hong Kong. They’re all excited about it, the air around them buzzing with energy when they get ready to leave. It’s just going to be George, Paul, Jimmie, Neil and Derek. John has to stay back at the hotel, because even though his cold is much better, pretty much gone, he still has a sore throat and Brian wants to take no risks for the concert the next day.

John was annoyed at first but accepted pretty quickly that there was no changing Brian’s mind about this. He’s leaning against the doorframe to his room, when they’re about to leave, dressed in his casual clothes, jeans and a black shirt, while the rest of them put their suits back on. They’ve got new dress shoes too, polished, shiny. Paul asks him for the seventh time if he should stay back too, to which John just rolls his eyes exaggeratedly and tells him to have fun.  

When they’re finally downstairs, Derek gets the car, a slick-white one, and announces that he’s going to drive. Neil gets in the passenger seat, while George, Paul and Jimmie are squished together in the back. He turns the radio on, Hello, Dolly! by Louis Armstrong. The district isn’t far from the hotel, alive with people and lights, and packed with restaurants, pubs and the occasional club.

They park the car and walk along the broad street, trying some pubs first, which are filled to the brim with music and laughter, and sell beer that doesn’t taste like beer. They go to a club after, and then another one, always staying in the VIP sections. They have rounds of shots and dark green cocktails that taste like mint and gin and some strange fruits.

Jimmie starts to notice the alcohol after the second hour, finding everything hilarious all of a sudden. He can’t stop laughing, he doesn’t even know why.

They finally find a club called the Play Club, which is apparently the one with the champagne lounge they talked about in Copenhagen. They’re being led upstairs to another VIP lounge by security. There are plush couches and antique-looking silvery tables and a long railing, like some kind of balcony. They can look down from there, to a crowd of people dancing and a stage where a life-band is playing the newest hit by The Beach Boys.

There are other people in the lounge, dressed in fancy cloths, smoking, sipping their cocktails. There’s a group of girls close by, in bright dresses, who keep looking over to them. They ask them to dance after a while, and they all go downstairs to the dance floor. It’s hot in the middle of the crowd, the ground vibrating under the beat of the drums.

They order another round of drinks when they’re back upstairs, and everything looks more colourful after a while, more intense. Jimmie feels like he’s floating. Neil is screaming something, waving his arms around. Paul is a giggling mess beside him, probably even more drunk than Jimmie. George is nowhere to be seen.

“We lost George”, Jimmie says, bursting into laughter.

“He went downstairs again – to the bar with Derek”, Neil shouts in his direction.

The song changes to something faster, kind of familiar, Jimmie doesn’t quite recognise. The singer belts the words into the microphone.

“Love that song – do ya love that song?”, Paul asks, his hazel eyes huge and shiny in the lights. His black hair is a bit tousled. He’s leaning back in the couch they’re sitting on.

“Yeah, yeah”, Jimmie says, nodding eagerly. “Great song.”

The floor seems to move underneath them. He feels dizzy. He leans forward and talks to Neil about something he can’t quiet remember, he drinks another round of shots, smokes with the others, screams the lyrics of the songs he knows.

The hours melt together like wax. Some girl asks him to dance again, but he shakes his head. He just sat down on the plush-couches again and they are way too comfortable and he feels suddenly exhausted. He has no idea what time it is. Paul is across from him, laying on another couch, tipping his head back, spreading his arms out like wings. The lights look like paint in his tousled black hair. There are three girls with him, giggling, stroking his hair, pouring champagne in his mouth.

Jimmie watches the scene a bit fascinated, blinking slowly. He can feel himself grow tired. Everything is a bit hazy and his limbs feel heavy and uncoordinated. He decides to drink a glass of water and go to the bathroom afterwards. It’s relatively empty, filled with cigarette smoke and the smell of lotus-flower-soap. His eyes look blood-shot in the mirror over the sink.

When he’s back in the lounge, he tells Neil he wants to go back soon.

The other man nods. “Yeah, okay. I think Derek, George and I are staying for a bit longer – ya should take Paul with you, though.”

They look over to where Paul is sitting up on the couch now, even more girls around him, giggling loudly at whatever he’s saying. There is one with a cute fringe, biting his cheek. Biting. His. Cheek.

“Uh, right”, Jimmie agrees. “No problem.”

“Just call Brian – he can send Mal to pick you up. There’s a phone downstairs in the corridor leading outside. We walked past it, remember?”

Jimmie can’t really remember, but he nods his head. He says goodbye to the rest of them and walks over to Paul.

“Alright, come on, Paul”, he says. “We’ve got to go.”

Paul just blinks up to him with huge eyes and red cheeks. The girls whine in protest, when Jimmie grabs Paul underneath his arms and pulls him up. He’s lighter than Jimmie expected, soft and warm, leaning back against him, still giggling, waving at the girls. Jimmie wraps an arm around Paul’s slim waist, swallows through the sudden dryness of his throat and pulls him over to the stairs.

They make their way downstairs again slowly, pushing through some doors. The lights are darker here, in this corridor, more mysterious, but still swirling around. Paul wants to go to the right for some reason but Jimmie pulls him with him, the other way.

“We have ta find the phone”, Jimmie tells him. He’s trying not to slur, but he’s not sure he’s doing a good job at that.

They actually do find the phone after a few minutes, in the same corridor. The music sounds farther away here. Jimmie searches for coins in his pockets and pushes them in the slot, while Paul leans against the wall next to him, still giggling. He calls the hotel and asks to be connected with their floor, trying to sound sober, but not sure he’s doing a good job of it.

“It’s Jimmie”, he shouts when someone answers, aware that he’s being too loud, but not able to stop himself. “Who is this?”

“It’s Brian – are you all alright?”

“Ahh, yeah. Brian, Brian, Brian.” The name sounds real funny when you say it quickly in a row. “Yeah, we’re great – just, just great. Right, Paul?”

The younger boy nods eagerly. He pushes away from the wall, making grabby hands for the phone. “I wanna speak to John.”

“Paul wants to speak to John”, Jimmie explains, still too loud. “But he’s probably sleeping, isn’t he? Is he sleeping?”

“Um, no, I don’t think so. Let me check”, Brian says, hesitating. “Why exactly are you calling? Is Paul alright?”

“Oh, yeah, I told ya, great. Everything’s great. ‘s just cause Mal has to come get us. Me and Paul. We’re really drunk and ‘m tired, but – but George and Neil want to stay longer. An’ Derek. An’ I can’t remember where the hotel is.”

“Right”, Brian says. “That’s not a problem, I’ll send Mal right away to pick you up. And John’s here.”

Jimmie nods, listening to distant voices and some rustling and then there is John’s voice, close to his ear, soft, tender almost.

“Paulie?”

Jimmie is silent for a second. There’s a dizziness swelling in his head and he leans against the wall for support. It’s like Paul can sense it’s John on the line, somehow, because he reaches for the phone again, his eyes big and glassy, his bottom lip jutted out in a pout.

“Gimme?”, he asks and Jimmie just swallows and obliges, handing over the phone.

He watches as Paul presses it to his ear eagerly.

“Johnny?” He’s quiet for a second. “Yeah, ‘m fine. Just getting tired – Jimmie too. I think we lost George, though.” He looks concerned for a second, but then a smile spreads across his face. “Yeah, yeah, okay. Are ya coming, too? – I do.” He listens, chewing his lip. “’m with Jimmie right now, we’re somewhere. Where are we?” He giggles, looking over to Jimmie for help.

Jimmie shrugs, laughing again. “Dunno, in some corridor? With dark lights.”

“Some corridor with dark lights”, Paul says seriously. He takes a step to the side, stumbles over his own feet and half-falls against the wall again. “Uf.” He blinks, then shakes his head violently. “No, no, ‘m fine. Just a bit dizzy. Just a bit.” He throws a glance Jimmie’s way. “No, but it’s fine, John, we asked Neil – yeah, okay. Yeah, yeah. See ya soon.” He lips his bottom lip harshly, his cheeks turning even redder. “Me too.”   

Jimmie grabs the phone from him then and hangs up. It takes them quite a while to find the garderobe again and get their jackets. When they step outside in the warm air, there’s already a shiny-black car parked near the entrance. Mal and John are standing a few metres away, underneath a tree, talking. Mal is smoking a cigarette. It’s difficult to make out their silhouettes in the dark, but Jimmie is sure it’s them.

John notices them first, as he and Paul walk over to tree. The other boy is taking a few steps towards them, looking at Paul with a mix between yearning, relief and adoration.

“Hey”, he says, reaching out for him.  

A smile lights up Paul’s face. He skips over to John and then he’s hugging him, cuddling against his chest, nuzzling his shoulder and Jesus Christ, he’s so lovely. John hugs him back instantly, holding him close. He pulls him back a bit, closer to the tree, where it’s darker, but the light of the moon isn’t bright enough anyways for anyone to notice them. Jimmie does notice though and the dizziness grows stronger for a moment.

“Paulie”, John murmurs and his voice is like honey, slow, incredibly sweet. “How much did ya have to drink?”

But Paul’s to busy snuggling even closer to John, trying to crawl inside his chest from the looks of it, so John looks up at Jimmie, eyes instantly narrowing, turning a shade darker. “How much did he have to drink?”

“Uh.” Jimmie blinks. He can’t stop staring at Paul for whatever reason and feels like an idiot. “’m not sure – we had a few shots at the beginning and some cocktails . . . I don’t know, a bit more than George, I think, but not as much as Neil. He’s a lightweight, really.”

John sighs, weirdly fond. “I know. Did he take anything else?”

“No. Just smoked quiet a lot.”

“Okay.” John’s stroking Paul’s hair now, black under his fingers. “Come on, princess. We have to go. Can you walk?”

The car is really not far, but Paul shakes his head and mumbles something incoherently, clutching John’s jacket.

“What?”

Jimmie watches, kind of amused, as John tries to peel Paul’s face from his shoulder so he can actually look at him. “I can’t hear ya, love.”

He puts a hand to Paul’s jaw, tilting his face upwards. Paul blinks as he tries to focus on John’s face. His dark eyes are huge and glass-y, his cheeks flushed, his lips bitten and shiny. He looks stunning.

“I ‘ave to pee”, he says.

John sighs, still that fond look in his eyes Jimmie’s never seen on anyone, before turning around to the entrance of the club. There’s still a queue there, weirdly, people waiting at the doors, chatting, smoking, and it would probably take longer to get back inside than the car ride. John seems to reach the same conclusion. “We’re at the hotel in 15 minutes, okay, love?”

“Noo, wanna go now”, Paul says, jutting out his lower lip, adorably. Jimmie can’t help but be amused.

“There’s a Diner over there that’s still open”, he offers after a minute and points to the red neon sign a few metres away. John squints in the direction he’s pointing at and nods.

“Okay, great. Let’s go pee, then car, then bed, alright?”

Paul nods enthusiastically and John wraps his arms around him so he doesn’t trip on the pebbles. Mal is coming with them, walking a few steps behind them like a huge shadow. Jimmie doesn’t turn around, but he feels strangely safe in that moment. John pulls the glass door open and it smells like polishing agents and burned coffee. They wait at the white tables and red seats as Paul disappears into the bathroom, a little unsteady on his feet, giggling to himself.

Jimmie leans against one of the tables, John next to him, drumming a beat against the surface. When his eyes find a clock on one of the dirty walls, he blinks. It’s almost three am already, Jesus, where did the last six hours go?

“Do you want anything?”, the woman behind the counter asks. They shake their heads and she huffs annoyed, turning away.

“Dumb cluck”, John murmurs and Jimmie laughs, too loud, not able to stop himself. John next to him raises an eyebrow quizzically and the woman behind the counter comes closer again, looking even more annoyed.

“If you’re not ordering anything, you have to leave”, she says and Jimmie presses a hand over his mouth, shaking his head.

“We’re leavin’ in a minute, we’re just waitin’ for someone.”

She points to the glass door. “You can wait outside.”

John narrows his eyes at her. “I’m waiting right here, thanks.”

“Okay, listen here, boy”, she says and apparently, she reached the end of her patience. She grabs a broom stick and Jimmie wonders if she’s going to hit them with it. “I’m gonna call the police if ya don’t –“

John pushes away from the table, his eyes dark, his mouth pulled into a smirk like this is some kind of challenge and Mal is taking a step forward as well and luckily that’s the moment Paul emerges from the bathroom, still giggling.

John’s attention is pulled towards him like a magnet and he instantly seems to forget all about the woman. Jimmie lets out a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding. He watches as John walks over to Paul and wraps his arm around the younger boy's shoulders. The woman looks more surprised than anything as Mal ushers them all through the glass door. He looks relieved when they’re back outside.

They follow him to the long, black car waiting for them next to the club. He opens one of the back doors for them and they all crawl inside while he’s getting in the passenger seat. Jimmie sits against the direction of travel, John across from him. Paul sprawls out over the two seats next to John, his head on the older boy’s lap. John wraps his arms around Paul protectively when the car starts moving.

The lights of Hong Kong rush past the window. Jimmie leans his head against the glass, watching John’s fingers as they comb through Paul’s dark hair. John sees him watching of course, he saw him watching a few days ago too, on the balcony in Amsterdam. He probably knows that Jimmie is at least suspecting something. He knows that Jimmie could have said something but didn’t. He opens his mouth now, slowly.

“Um, I – did you and Paul – do you – I mean, have you ever –”, he stutters, feeling his cheeks grow hot. His tongue feels heavy inside his mouth. His voice is too loud in the quiet of the car, even though the barrier is pulled up and the driver and Mal probably can’t hear them.

“Did you have sex the first night in Copenhagen?”, he finally blurts, and yeah. He needs to learn how to use his brain-mouth-filter, drunk or not drunk. John just raises an eyebrow.

“Huh”, he makes. “Thought you were asleep.”

“Yeah, no. I wasn’t. I mean, I thought maybe I dreamt it but apparently not”, Jimmies says, trying to sound casual.

“Right.” John looks thoughtful for a moment, but not angry or panic or any reaction Jimmie was or wasn't expecting. He wonders vaguely if John's not too worried about it, because nobody would believe Jimmie anyways, without any evidence. “You still can’t tell anyone.”

“Oh. Oh no. I won’t. Hasn’t crosses my mind.”

“Hasn’t it?”

“No. Promise”, Jimmie says, trying not to slur too much, trying to sound as honest and trustworthy as he can muster. He does mean it, after all. “Just . . . are you – are you . . . in love?”

He feels stupid asking that, but he wants to hear the answer out loud. There’s sleepiness rising in him like fog and he has to lean against the window again. Spots of light are swimming in front of his eyes. He fights to keep them open just a bit longer.

John looks down at Paul, who has his eyes closed now, his lashes brushing his cheeks. Jimmie's thoughts rush away for a moment, to the lights in Paul's dark hair, champagne runnign down his chin, the shape of his waist under Jimmie's arm. His thoughts blur together; they make no sense to him.

“Yes”, John says.

“Oh”, Jimmie makes, feeling the fog overtake his brain. “That’s nice.”

The window is cool against his temple and he can’t fight off the exhaustion any longer. They’ll wake him up anyways when they reach the hotel. He’ll just rest his eyes for a bit.

.

Chapter Text

.

The concert in Hong Kong at the Princess Theatre, is Jimmie’s favourite, by far.

The Asians must be more polite, or less emotional, or something, because the screams aren’t as loud as usual, in fact there aren’t many at all. Just loud applause between the songs, whenever they bow. They can actually hear themselves. It’s amazing and they have lots of fun on stage, in the huge hall, where the acoustic’s great and the stage lights are reflected in their eyes. Everyone is in a good mood after.

They get changed in the dressing room, out of the suits, into simpler but still fancy clothes, all black. They’re not going back to the hotel quite yet – there’s an after party, held in a huge building, just across the party centre and their hotel.

Jimmie’s sharing a car with John on the way there, which would have made him nervous any other day, but today it’s different. John’s in a good mood too, like the rest of them, generous with his wit and his jokes. He's leaning back in his seat, his hair looking like bronze in the dim lights. He’s one of the most interesting people Jimmie ever met.

The night-life of Hong Kong is flickering past the window. They’ve been talking for over fifteen minutes now and having John’s attention for so long feels empowering in a way Jimmie can’t explain. They spoke of the concert, briefly, before John insisted on listing things they like, a game. Jimmie’s trying to be creative, but so far he only got songs with drum solos, the smell of blown-out candles, pineapple cider –

“Ya can’t like pineapple cider, that’s a crime”, John says with a dismissive snort, that immediately makes Jimmie rethink all of his life-choices.  

“Right, uh, funny things”, Jimmie says lamely.

John snorts again, amused this time.

“Beautiful things”, he says, a mocking edge in his voice – but honestly, by that he probably means the art he studied and the complex poetry he likes to read and the glimmer of a cigarette in the dark and the sound of his acoustic guitar and Paul’s face.

“Yeah, beautiful things”, Jimmie repeats slowly, more earnestly, not entirely sure what he means by that. Daisy maybe, her shiny hair, the architecture of the temples here in Hong Kong, and the way they cook the Chinese food and the lights of the city, so different from home. He can’t help but wonder what it’ll be like to go back, be surrounded by normal things again, normal, boring people. The thought is a bit terrifying. “And dipping chips in milkshakes.”

John actually chuckles at that and Jimmie feels a bit proud. 

“Paul does that.”

“Yeah?” His eyes wander over to the window and the night beyond. He swallows once, twice, tries to sound confident. "So - how long has this been going on? This thing between you and Paul, I mean?”

John is quiet for a bit, pulling his eyebrows together, more serious now.

“A long time”, he says vaguely.

“How long do you know each other?”

John doesn’t have to think about it. “Seven years next month.”

Jimmie blinks, not sure why he's surprised. “Oh. Um. But aren’t you – aren’t you married?”

He pushes his tongue against his teeth, and tries to remember what he read in one of the articles, what he’s heard four days ago, in Hillegom, when John answered the interview questions. Her name, not much else.

“Cyn, yes.” There’s an almost amused smile tugging at the corner of John's mouth now. He clicks his lighter open and shut. “We’re married almost two years now, I think. She’s back in London, with our son, repainting the house or somethin'.”

He rolls his eyes, but is still smiling. He speaks of her with gentle indulgence, like she’s a bright but wilful child that has to be humoured. Jimmie wants to know what she looks like, though he’s not sure why. He wants to know if John loves her.

“Do you love her?”, he asks out loud, without really meaning to. John presses his lips together. He clicks the lighter shut one last time.

“I like her”, he says, and that’s the end of that.

They reach the building soon after, made of windows, slim and tall, reaching for the dark clouds. They're being led inside the lobby, where Neil, George and Paul are already waiting for them. They take one of the lifts upstairs, to the highest floor. Jimmie leans back against the light-grey wall, next to George, watching the digits move above the doors. 9, 10, 11, 12.

John reaches out a hand after a few seconds, to trail his fingers along Paul’s waist, like he's absolutely unable to keep his hands off him. And Jimmie has to think of the club, for just a moment, the way Paul leaned back against him when he pulled him up from that couch. The way his slim waist had felt under Jimmie's fingers. The memory clogs his throat up like hair in a drain. The worst thing is that he can't figure out why, what's wrong with him.

It'll be about half a minute until they reach the top floor. Paul leans forward, to press a kiss against John’s cheek, lingers for a second. George doesn’t look surprised, just rolls his eyes towards the ceiling. Neil does look surprised, throwing a quick glance over to Jimmie, to gauge his reaction. Jimmie just shrugs, smiling slightly. Neil raises an eyebrow, before looking back to John and Paul.

“You two better behave at the party”, he mumbles in a low voice.

Twenty seconds later, the door glide open. The highest floor is made of lots of smaller rooms, all connected to each other, surrounded by glass walls. They’re filled with music, people dressed in fancy clothes, a bar, some couches, laughter and the strange smell of sugar and smoke. There are glass-doors in the biggest room, leading outside to a long balcony.

They’re being recognized almost immediately and pulled into various conversations about their set. Everyone wants to shake their hands, offer them drinks. There are tiny red shots that taste like cherry and coke, being passed around. There’s laughter, filling the air like soap bubbles.

Jimmie loses the others after a while. He walks through the crowded rooms, till he’s back in the biggest one, where some people at the couches are passing a joint around. They wave him over, ask him if he wants to sit down, maybe because he looks a bit lost. He does sit down and takes a few drags, breaths in deeply. He manages, without coughing. It been a while since he’s last done it, and it goes straight to his head, whirling around with the cherry-shots.

He tips back another one, wipes his chin. He moves his head to the music. He flirts a bit with a pretty girl in a pink dress, sitting across from him. Her dark hair’s braided, her laughter bright. Her name is Jia and he goes to the bar with her and buys her a cocktail and tells her about their gig, before he eventually decides to search for the others.

Everything seems to move a bit slower than normally. The music is soft, some smooth jazz song he doesn’t know, and so is the air, almost as if he can touch it. In retrospect – maybe he shouldn’t have taken so many drags from the joint.

But it’s a good feeling. He feels good right now, he likes this. It different than yesterday, different than being drunk and giggly and loud. He feels like he’s in tune with the universe. He feels like he’s lightyears away from home.

He steps through the glass-doors at some point, outside on the long balcony. The air touches him like warm fingertips and tastes like burned sugar. The lights of the city look like a sea of fireflies. The stars above create swirling shapes against the black backdrop of the universe. The world feels different to him, larger and overflowing with possibilities. 

He finds Paul here, outside on the balcony. There aren’t any other people around, except for a couple of girls, on the other side, engrossed in deep conversation. One of them seems angry, crying over something. The other is patting her hair. Jimmie throws them a quick glance, before he walks over to Paul.

The younger boy is just finishing a cigarette, dropping the glimmering end of it on the floor and stepping it out. He’s leaning against the railing, his suit jacket open, moving slightly in the wind, his tie loosened. He’s tipsy, his smiles loose and lovely, but not nearly as drunk as last night.

“Did ya loose everyone, too?”, Jimmie asks him. “These buildings here in China are all secret mazes.”

Paul nods and chuckles and Jimmie stumbles closer automatically to hear that sound. He clutches the railing, cold under his fingers. He has the weird, sudden feeling of being in a movie scene.

“I saw Neil a few minutes ago, though, he wanted them to change the song to Tutty Frutty“, Paul says.

Jimmie nods, but isn’t really listening. The green spots in the dark of Paul’s eyes look like tiny constellations. Jimmie stares at them and he’s so high, Jesus, high as a kite. Paul blinks and the colour of his eyes shifts, like a kaleidoscope.

“Um, Jimmie?”, he asks. He crinkles his nose a bit and it must be the weed, or the combination of the weed and the alcohol, or sheer madness because in that second Jimmie leans in to press his lips against Paul’s.

They look like petals and that’s how they feel, soft and wet, but before he can actually taste them, Paul makes a noise that sounds like protest and pushes his head back to create some distance between them. And that’s not fair, that just won’t do – he has to try, just once. Jimmie takes another step closer, grasps Paul’s face between his hands and pulls him in.

“What are you – stop it”, Paul says but the words don’t even register in Jimmie’s brain before he swallows them with his own mouth. The younger boy’s lips are still parted so their tongues meet unexpectantly. A sharp thrill shoots up Jimmie’s spine. Everything’s hot, pulsing, peppermint-flavoured. He pushes his tongue up, against Paul’s teeth. Everything feels surreal, illusive, like he’s in some kind of trance.

A sharp pain across his cheek jerks him awake. Paul rips himself out of his grasp and Jimmie holds a hand to his cheek, confused and dizzy.

“What the hell?”, Paul says, dropping his left hand to his side. He’s shaking, his dark eyes huge and angry. “What the hell?”

“I –” Jimmie blinks dumbfounded, trying to clear the fog in his brain. He doesn’t recognize his own voice. “O-oh my god, I’m – I don’t know what –“

“Save it”, Paul hisses and takes another step back. His anger is the complete opposite of John’s explosive, hot temper, Jimmie thinks vaguely. Paul looks as cold as ice, his voice hard but quiet, foreign. His lips are red and swollen. “I can’t believe you just did that.”

“I – Paul, I didn’t think –“

And that’s the problem, isn’t it? He didn’t think and he got himself drunk and high and he knows that that’s a bad combination for him and he went out here like an idiot and he kissed Paul against his will and oh god –

The words are out of his mouth before he can stop himself. “Please don’t tell John.”

There’s a beat of silence. Paul’s pressing his teeth together, a muscle jumping at his jaw.

“That’s what you’re worried about?”

“Uh, yeah? Like, not only – that’s not the only thing –“

“You’re a fucking asshole, you know that?”

“Please, I –“

“John and I don’t have secrets.”

And he doesn’t even say it like a threat or a warning, it’s just a simple fact. Jimmie swallows harshly. He can still taste the peppermint, like he sucked the flavour right off Pauls tongue. He might as well fly home tonight. He might as well start digging his own grave.

“Paul –“

But Paul just turns around and walks back inside without a glance back. Jimmie stares after him, feeling like he’s just been punched in the stomach. He’s stone-cold sober all of a sudden.

“I’m so sorry”, he finally finds the right words, whispers them, too late. He can feel his heartbeat in his temple like a little hammer. He’d give anything to turn back time right there.

He suddenly remembers something and turns around quickly, to the two girls, a few metres away. They’re still talking intently, not looking like they noticed anything. God, what if someone noticed something and he put Paul in danger with his stupidity? But there still aren’t any other people on the balcony, no cameras, no close buildings that are as high as this one.

He finally looks over to the glass-wall, finding comfort in the fact that even though it’s easy to look inside, it’s almost impossible to look outside, with all the lights being reflected in it, turning it into a shiny mirror.

He breaths in deeply, watches the party on the other side for a moment. It looks like a different world he’s no longer part of. 

.

Chapter Text

.

Jimmie walks back inside like he’s caught in a dream. The loud party music washes over him like a tide. He finds Jia, the girl he flirted with earlier, still standing at the bar. Her braided black hair is thrown over her small shoulder. She smiles at him and he buys her another drink, his hand suddenly on her shoulder blade, then on her waist. He doesn’t really know how or what’s happening, but a few minutes later they leave the party together. He asks if she wants to go to the hotel with him and she nods and smiles against his cheek.

They start kissing in the elevator and she clings to his arm while they stumble through the corridor to his room. Jimmie’s really glad it’s a single room this time. Jia pulls off her sparkly dress and he slips out of his suit as well, his movements strangely mechanic. She smiles and pulls him to the bed with her.

He tries to focus on her, on her warm, pale skin, the curved shape of her body, but it doesn’t quite work. He manages to grab a condom and to push into her slowly, while she throws her head back, but his mind doesn’t stop whirling. Everything’s still hazy. He tries to close his eyes. He tries to think of his girl Daisy, her voice, the way she looks up at him when she’s laying underneath him like this. But the guilt is worse than the pleasure and he quickly pushes her out of his mind.

“You like this?”, he asks Jia and opens his eyes to see her nod.

His right hand is on her hip, to pull her closer. His breath is coming too fast. He stares at her, while he keeps moving, his mind suddenly blank. He has no idea what he is doing, why he is doing it. The kiss with Paul slips into his mind suddenly, catches him of-guard. Ink-coloured hair, eyes like a kaleidoscope. Heat and the taste of peppermint fill his entire mouth at the memory. Jimmie pulls away from the girl abruptly. He feels dizzy, mortified.

“You have to go”, he stutters. He doesn’t recognize his own voice.

She stares at him with wide eyes. “What?”

“You have to go”, he says again, his voice louder, pulling away from her, sitting up. Suddenly he’s angry. At her, at Paul, at himself. “Right now – are you deaf?”

She flinches as he grabs her arm and pulls er up as well, forces her out of the bed. She stumbles once, before finding her footing. She’s still staring at him, confused, afraid maybe, but she seems to realizes that he’s serious. She quickly grabs her dress and her shoes and flees from the room. The silence she leaves behind is strangely loud.

He buries his face in the pillow and tries to breath. The air is stuffy, smothery. He lies there for an eternity, trembling slightly. He tries to fall asleep, but he simply can’t. It’s impossible. He counts to a hundred, then he gives up. He feels guilty, nauseous. He has to talk to someone.

He gets back up and puts his clothes on, jeans and a t-shirt. His hands are shaking. He balls them to fits, then grabs his key and leaves the room. He crosses the corridor and knocks on the door to George’s room – he doesn’t know what else to do. He hopes the younger boy is back by now. He is, just changing for bed, when he opens the door.

“Hey”, George says, pulling a white t-shit over his head, his brown hair messy. He sounds surprised. “What are you doing here? You had fun at the party?”

Jimmie steps into the room behind him, closing the door. He swallows tickly. “I, yeah – did ya see John or Paul before you left?”

“Nah, I lost them after the second hour or so – haven’t seen them since. Or you, or Neil. Derek and I were just at the bar the most time, to be honest. Why?”

“I – something happened. I did something, I –“

George raises one of his thick eyebrows, his expression a mix between curious, suspicious and concerned. “What did you do?”

“I kissed Paul. On the mouth.”

George blinks a couple times. “Come again?”

“I – I don’t know why I did it, honestly. I just – I just did it –“

“When? Where?”

“At the party. Outside, on the balcony.”

George looks more confused than anything. “Did somebody see you?”

“No.”

“Are you sure? Jimmie, you can’t – what if someone had seen you? What if someone had called the police?”

“That’s what you’re worried about?”

“Yes”, George says, slowly getting angry. “But it won’t be what John will be most angry about, so I wouldn’t be so confident right now if I were you.”

“’m not. ‘m really not”, Jimmie says, shaking his head. “’m scared shit-less. I can’t breathe.”

“Well, what did Paul do?”

“He slapped me.”

George huffs. “Well, good. Why did you do it again?”

Jimmie swallows. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know”, George repeats slowly. “Right. Are ya queer? Do ya think he’s pretty?”

“I – no. I mean, yeah he’s pretty, but I’m not –“

“Right.” George rolls his dark eyes towards the ceiling. “I cannot believe this. First John and Paul, then Brian, then you. Is this some kind of joke? Why is everyone suddenly –“

“I’m not queer”, Jimmie snaps, feeling hot and cold at the same time. He’s breaking into a sweat. Maybe he has a fever, maybe he’s getting sick. It surely feels like it.

George looks at him, unimpressed. “Did ya like it? Do ya want to do it again?”

“I – I –“ The room is blurring around him. He can’t think about Paul’s mouth anymore, about any of this, he can’t. Maybe there is something wrong with him he never considered before, he never noticed. Panic raises in his chest like a tide.

“You what? You do?” George blinks. “Are you having an existential crisis right now? Are you hyper-ventilating?”

“No. No, I don’t – I just need some fresh air”, he chokes out.

“Right. Alright, Jimmie, calm down. It’s gonna be fine. Just go out on the balcony for a bit, yeah?”, George says, a bit softer now.

Jimmie nods, walking over to the glass-doors slowly. He steps out on the balcony, clutching the railing, gulping in the air. Traffic-noises, music and far-away voices reach his ears. He tries to calm himself down, but he can’t. Everything’s too real, too sharp, too overwhelming. He’s still nauseous. He thinks he might throw up.

He walks back inside, turning towards the bathroom. “I –“

George, now standing at the red couch, nods his head. “Take yer time.”

Jimmie splashes cold water into his face, unwraps an unused toothbrush and brushes his teeth for a long time, closing his eyes. He can see the moving bodies in front of him, the glimmering tip of the joint. He can taste the sweat and the smoke in the air. He can see Paul, leaning against the railing of the balcony. He can see the frown on his pretty face, the swollen lips, the anger, icy and sharp.

He cringes away from that image.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

The bathroom door is slightly ajar and Jimmie suddenly hears voices behind him. He quickly opens his eyes and rinses out his mouth. The water feels even colder now, on his shaking hands. He can hear George saying something, sounding placatory. This can’t be good. Jimmie steps out of the bathroom, wiping his wet hands on his shirt, but he has barely time to lift his head and look around, before someone grabs his collar harshly and slams him back against the wall. It knocks the breath out of him and he gasps, blinking confused. It’s John, of course, his hands gripping Jimmie’s jacket, his face just a few inches away, his eyes dark and stormy.

“John, I –“

“Shut the fuck up.”

Jimmie makes a weird sound in the back of his throat, before he swallows loudly and nods.

John’s grip tightens painfully. “What the fuck do you think yer playing at?”

George takes a step closer; Jimmie can see it in his peripheral vision. “Ey, John, calm down a bit, yeah? He feels pretty bad already –“

“I don’t give a shit”, John hisses, but he hasn’t punched him yet, so that must mean something. “Ya hear me? I don’t give a shit about you – all I know is that the next time you touch Paul in any way that makes him just slightly uncomfortable, I’ll break both your hands, understand?”

Jimmie opens his mouth and closes it. He’s shaking slightly, again, still. He doesn’t know. John pulls him away from the wall and slams his back into it forcefully. “Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Jimmie grits his teeth. “Yes, I’m sorry, I –“

“Don’t tell me that. Did you apologize to him?”

“I – I wanted to, but he left –“

“You will apologize, then”, John says and tightens his grip once more when Jimmie throws a glance over the other boy’s shoulder. The room is empty, except the three of them. “Not tonight. He doesn’t want to see you right now.”

A muscle jumps at John’s jaw and his eyes look almost black. Jimmie’s never seen anyone that angry. “When he says stop, you fucking stop.”

Jimmie swallows again, nods. “I know. God, I know. I don’t know what –“

John lets go of him abruptly and he almost stumbles. He feels dizzy, guilty, incredibly tired. His shoulder blades are sore.

“Don’t talk to me for the next three days”, John spits, before he turns around and stalks out of the room, without a glance back.

Jimmie feels like utter shit, but George actually looks relieved, like he expected something worse. He even smiles a bit, when Jimmie catches his gaze.

“See?”, he says, in a way that’s probably supposed to be comforting. He puts a hand on Jimmie’s shoulder. “It’s gonna be fine.”

.

Chapter Text

.

It’s raining when they arrive in Sydney. The sky is cold and heavy, slippery and grey. Jimmie can feel the twenty-hour long flight in his bones like a dull ache. His joints pop when he gets up from his seat and he pulls a face. A big truck picks them up from the airport and takes them straight to the hotel, a tall, white building. There are seemingly hundreds of people waiting for them, but they can barely see them through the curtains of rain. For a moment Jimmie imagines opening the door of the car and stepping outside, disappearing inside the water - how good it would feel, like crying all over his body.

He averts his gaze from the sky and rubs his temples. George is sitting next to him, jiggling his leg. John and Paul are across from them, their clothes a bit wrinkled from the long flight, their knees pressed together. They both look out the opposite window, silent for once.

Neither of them has spoken to him since The Incident. During their last morning in Hong Kong, John sometimes met his gaze during breakfast and his eyes narrowed each time, dark and sparking with anger, and if looks could kill – Jimmie quickly looked away each time. Paul on the other hand didn’t look at him all, completely ignored him, like he simply didn’t exist. Like he didn’t even notice Jimmie sitting at the table with them. He had a smile plastered on his face, making small talk with Brian and Neil the entire time.

Jimmie’s eyes flicker across Paul’s face now. The younger boy’s skin is pale safe for the pink dusting his cheeks, and he’s leaning forward slightly, like he’s trying to make out the fans in between the curtains of rain. A weird feeling lodges itself into his chest. It’s strange how brown his eyes look in this grey-ish light, so different than the bright hazel in the flickering lights of the club or the glowing spots of green in the moonlight, outside on the balcony –

He only realizes he’s been staring when John realizes, turning his head and catching Jimmie’s gaze. John’s expression doesn’t change, but his whole face stiffens, like a mask. Jimmie reddens, out of guilt or embarrassment, he isn’t sure. He feels flustered and he doesn’t know what to do with himself and when his eyes flicker back to Paul, it’s by accident and he isn’t prepared for the hard kick John gives him against his shin.

Ow. Jimmie grunts and quickly looks away, his heartbeat loud in his ears. He sinks deeper into his seat, biting his tongue harshly. George makes a weird coughing-sound next to him that sounds suspiciously like he’s masking a laugh.

The truck makes its way through the masses of fans incredibly slowly. Jimmie doesn’t look at or talk to any of them for the next minutes and keeps to himself – has done so for the entire flight. Keeps doing so when they finally step inside the hotel, a few black umbrellas protecting them from the rain.

High above the city, in the 26th floor, they have a big suite with a parlour and two double-rooms and luckily, he’s sharing with George. Probably no coincidence. They have time to unpack their suitcases and lay down for a bit.

“Thank god”, Jimmie mumbles as the door closes behind them. The curtains are drawn shut in front of the big window, but he can still hear the rain. He dumps his suitcase next to the bed unceremoniously. He drinks a bit of water and slips out of his shoes, but doesn't have the energy for anything else. He’s so tired he falls asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow. He doesn't dream. He doesn't think he does.

When George wakes him up, it’s only two hours later. The room is dimly lit and smells like dust and oranges. Jimmie feels just as tired as before.

“We have to get downstairs”, George tells him, his thick eyebrows pulled together, almost apologetic. Jimmie just nods. They take the small lift to the lobby, where the others are already waiting.

Brian smiles at them and starts explaining a few things. Jimmie tries to concentrate on his voice. They can’t go outside at all that evening, Brian says, because of the fans – there are even more than they expected and not enough security. It’s the Beatle’s first time in Australia after all. They'll have a few short interviews and a photography session though, in a separate part of the hotel.  

They all groan and complain a bit, but eventually comply. They get changed into black suits and their faces are being powered and Jimmie blinks against the hot lights and tries to completely focus on the interview-questions and the camera, to not think of anything else. It works for the most part, though later he couldn't say what the questions had been about.

John and Paul are distant towards him, again, still. Which is fine, he decides. He doesn’t deserve their attention. George on the other hand acts pretty normal around him - the whole thing doesn’t seem to be that big of a deal for him anymore, if it ever was. During their short dinner-break, he steals chips from Jimmies plate and munches them loudly. At Jimmie's raised eyebrow, he rolls his eyes.

“My chips are mine”, he says slowly, “and your chips are also mine. When will you learn?”

Jimmie smiles. 

There’s wine too, lots of it, and cigarette smoke curling in the air and loud friendly voices with Australian accents. Right before they’re done and allowed to go upstairs for the night, Brian stops them once more. He looks excited about something, his hands raised slightly, his hair standing up in the back.

"What now?", John asks, a hint of annoyance in his voice.

"Good news", Brian says reassuringly, a smile on his face. "Ringo is gonna be discharged from the hospital tomorrow."

Oh. The news take a few seconds to sink in, then the air fills with excitement, feels lighter all of a sudden. Grins spread across the boy's faces.

"Really?", George asks.

“Yes, really. I was on the phone with the hospital, just now. He’s gonna fly to Australia the day after tomorrow to join us”, Brian tells them with a matching grin. His gaze flickers across them, stopping on Jimmie for a moment. "But we'll discuss the details tomorrow, okay? You should all go upstairs now and have some sleep. It was a long day. I'll see you at eight for breakfast, aight?"

They nod without complain. While they’re waiting near the lifts, to go upstairs, John and George start a conversation behind him. Jimmie tries to blend out their voices. He watches the glowing digits above the lift, before he throws a quick glance Paul’s way. He swallows.

“Hey, Paul? Can we - maybe talk?”, he hears himself ask. He doesn’t recognize his own voice.

Paul’s face doesn’t change and he doesn’t look over to Jimmie. His voice is strangely soft when he answers. “No. I don’t want to talk to you right now. Tomorrow, maybe.”

The lift arrives with a bling. The golden doors glide open, and so does Jimmie’s mouth, in protest maybe.

“But I just –“

John takes a step closer suddenly, his hand between Paul’s shoulder blades, to guide him into the lift. He throws Jimmie a sharp glance. “Are you fucking deaf?”

Jimmie closes his mouth, swallows, nods maybe. Tries not to see the way Paul leans into John’s side. He decides to wait for the next lift.

Shortly before he goes to bed that night, he overhears a conversation between them. He walks through the empty parlour and the door to their room is ajar and he creeped on them so many times the past two weeks that once more really doesn't matter. He doesn't mean to be rude or anything. The opportunities just keep presenting themselves and he's curious. Yeah. That's it. That's all. He stops almost automatically and leans against the wall. When he turns his head slightly, he can look inside the room. The lights are on, warm.

John is standing in front of a mirror, wearing comfortable clothes, fixing his hair. It looks like bronze in the light. There’s a frown etched into the sharp lines of his face.

Paul is on the other side of the room, just closing the wardrobe. He turns to look at John, seems to think for a bit. Then he skips over and half-falls against John’s back, wrapping his arms around him in the progress. Two magnets, clicking together. “What are you thinking about?”

John is quiet for a heartbeat. “Nothing.”

Paul nuzzles his shoulder, mumbling something Jimmie can’t understand. John turns around and pushes him away lightly, but Paul comes only closer after, like a kid on a swing. 

“’m not”, John says, a mocking smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Don’t be daft.”

“Then what?”

“Nothing.”

Paul cocks his head to the side and pouts slightly. Jimmie can’t help but look a his mouth.

“’m just glad when Ringo’s back, 's all”, John says.

“Mhm. Or do ya mean when Jimmie’s gone?”

"Well. Yeah." John shrugs nonchalant. “That's an added bonus with the way he keeps looking at you. 'nd every time, I think about punching him –“

“You promised.”

“I know.” He sounds frustrated now, biting his teeth together. “But I’m still thinking about it, can’t help it. And that stupid kiss –“

“Uh-uh. Don’t.” Paul takes another small step closer and pushes their foreheads together. The tips of their hair melt together in the warm light, bronze and ink. He lifts a hand to John’s cheek, comforting almost. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, partly amused, partly something else. “You jealous?“

John snorts. “No. I mean, I would have been, if you enjoyed it –“

“I didn’t.”

A muscle jumps at John’s jaw. “I know.”

Jimmie imagines how Paul walked back inside the building that night, to find John. How he told him about what happened, his eyes huge, swimming with emotion, anger and something else maybe, something more helpless, sparking John’s protectiveness rather than his jealously.

Now he's frowning, his dark eyes not leaving Paul’s face. “But I still – there’s this feeling –“

“Hm?”, Paul makes, a slight frown on his face as well. “What, you think he’s gonna do it again?”

No, no, no, Jimmie thinks, feeling his face grow hot. He wouldn’t.

“No”, John says as well, something dangerous in his voice suddenly. “He won’t.” 

Paul smiles, like his reaction pleases him. “Then what?”

“I don’t know.” John shakes his head. “Come here.”

He pulls Paul in for a kiss. It's sweet, lingering. Jimmie blinks. He’s pretty sure he knows how John feels – possessive – and he’s also pretty sure he knows the sharp feeling underneath his own ribs. John might not be jealous but he himself is and for a second he wants to laugh. It hurts, like tiny needles. He can’t believe this. He can’t believe any of it.

He stays for another minute and watches the way John wraps his arms around Paul tightly, his fingers digging into the younger boy’s waist. The way Paul goes along with it eagerly, the way their kiss deepens. John nudges him towards the bed and his movements are impatient, frantic almost, yet achingly familiar on Paul’s body. Back off, they say. He’s mine.

Jimmie turns away abruptly then, like there are invisible strings pulling him away. He knows he’s seen enough. For a lifetime, maybe. He walks across the carpet towards the wooden door on the other side of the parlour. It’s ajar as well and he pushes it open further to enter the room, where the lights are on and George is jumping around on his bed, his brown hair flopping up and down, a boyish grin on his faces.

“Oh, hi, Jimmie”, he says, sounding almost surprised to see him here, in their shared room. He’s obviously in a good mood, maybe a bit drunk. “The bed’s here are really bouncy.”

Jimmie just looks at him for a long moment. Then, he smiles and nods and wonders if he should feel relieved that Ringo is gonna be here soon.

Probably.

But he can’t help but feel disappointed.

.

Chapter Text

.

The very next day, they fly to Adelaide in a small private jet and are greeted warmly by various important people Jimmie instantly forgets the names of. He shakes hands and smiles and nods. It’s hot today, the sun burning their faces. His hands are sweaty and he wipes them on his shirt repeatedly. They are given yellow flowers and cute little toy koalas and led around parts of the city. It’s huge and different, gleaming in the light.

Then they’re being interviewed in a range of locations, including the Town Hall balcony. The world feels too bright standing up there. Jimmie can’t stop looking around, glad that he doesn’t have to say much. Paul’s doing most of the talking, still charming and energetic when the rest of them are starting to slack. 

They get a few hours of rest in their hotel after the interviews, everyone disappearing in their rooms. Jimmie takes a short nap and in the afternoon, he takes a trip to the city centre with George, Brian and Mal. The sun reaches out to touch their faces, a bit softer now. They buy strawberry-ice-cream that instantly melts and drips down their fingers. It’s bright red and tastes like sugar.

As they’re walking through a huge park, Jimmie’s thoughts drift away. He wonders how their gig is gonna go tonight, how big the venue’s gonna be. He wonders what John and Paul are doing right now, all the way back in the hotel. He wonders what will happen when Ringo arrives, how the atmosphere will change. He wonders what will happen when he has to go back home – and shoves that thought away.

No. Not yet.   

George catches his eye and laughs about something and Jimmie smiles, distracted.

They play two sets that night, in a venue that feels huger than all the others before. The air is hot and dry, the music loud, the screams louder. Sweat is pooling on their faces. The atmosphere is great tho. It feels like magic, unreal. Everything seems to glow golden. The drum sticks are smooth and familiar in his hands and so are the songs by now, the music pulsing through his body, filling every part of the big hall.

Jimmie feels like he’s flying, like he’s surfing a huge wave. It’s dizzying, awesome, too much almost.

It’s over too soon. They bow under a huge wave of applause. Jimmie glances at the crowd as he’s trying to catch his breath.

Backstage, it’s darker, black and navy-blue. There are curtains everywhere, hanging from the ceiling, and a small passage they walk through, to get back to their dressing room. The sudden silence presses down on Jimmie’s ears. Paul is in front of him, his bass clutched in his hand. His dark hair is a bit tousled, sweat making it curl over his temples. Jimmie stops walking suddenly.

“Paul.”

The other boy turns around and stops walking slowly. So do John and George, a few meters ahead. It’s too dark to see their faces. Paul’s eyes find Jimmie’s in the dim light and he cock his head to the side, a silent question.

Jimmie’s heart is in his throat. “Can we – can we talk real quick?”

Paul bites the inside of his cheek, Jimmie can tell, and hesitates. He’s looking at Jimmie, really looking at him, for the first time in days. His eyes are huge, his irises shiny like mirrors. The green flecks are visible, like they were on the balcony that night. “I – alright. Wait a second.”

He turns around and walks over to John, grips his elbow. They exchange a few words in hushed whispers. Jimmie looks away quickly when John glances over to him. He waits, patiently, trying to look friendly, harmless, like a normal human being. Finally, Paul gives John his bass and beckons Jimmie to come with him.

They walk to one of the dressing rooms, a different one than the one they used to get ready for the show, and Paul closes the door behind them. The lights are too bright in here, too white. Jimmie blinks a couple times, then walks over to one of the benches and sits down. Paul hesitates, then he steps closer and sits down next to Jimmie, leaving a bit of space between them.

Jimmie watches him from his peripheral vision and knows that Paul is watching him as well. The noises outside the dressing seem far away. Whenever he remembers this moment later, it lasts forever.

It becomes apparent that Paul won’t say anything, so Jimmie finally looks down at his shiny shoes and begins to talk. “I know that’s no excuse, but I would have never done it sober. Never in a million years. I – I completely lost control, I honestly don’t know what happened. I totally panicked afterwards, ask George.”

He takes a deep breath. “I think it – I was thrown into this, this group of people having known each other for years, into this stress, this excitement, this completely different lifestyle. It was overwhelming. It wasn’t easy. You were – you were so nice. And I know you were just professional and polite, but George’s dark looks and John’s, uh, everything scared the shit out of me.”

Paul laughs, like that’s funny to him, and quickly bites his lip after. He doesn’t say anything though, so Jimmie swallows harshly.

“And you’re pretty – like way too pretty for a guy. And I don’t mean that in a bad way. And then – I saw you, the both of you. I watched you and I’ve never seen that before. Never. Two guys being together like that. I never thought about it, not really. That that’s a possibility, and it fascinated me. And I just – I wanted to know.” He shrugs, helpless almost. “That was extremely selfish, and I’m sorry. I really am.”

Paul’s quiet for a long while. Jimmie looks over to him. He’s still biting his lip, quite distracting.

“You’re looking at my mouth.”

Jimmie wants to die. “I’m – trying not to.”

“Hm.” He cocks his head to the side. “And do you . . . know now?”

Jimmie opens his mouth and closes it again. “Know what?”

“You said you wanted to know. If it’s a possibility for you. Not with me – but maybe with another guy.”

Jimmie freezes. He feels a wave of panic and fights to push it back. It’s not working. The thought of another guy hasn’t even entered his brain. The fact that maybe when he gets home, it won’t be over, that he might feel this way again, with some other guy than Paul – Oh god. Oh god Oh god Oh god. He feels dizzy, reeling. “Please, I can’t – I can’t –”

The room falls into a slow spin around him and there isn’t enough air. He gets up from the bench, staggering a few steps to the side, he isn’t sure why. Maybe to run away – but this is something he can’t run away from. He almost misses Paul standing up as well, saying his name, stepping closer. They’re roughly the same height, Jimmie hasn’t noticed before. He looks at Paul’s mouth, a-fucking-gain, like he just can’t help it and he wants to die and he wants to kiss him again. And for a short, insane moment he thinks he actually might.

He rises his fist and punches him instead.

It’s like a reflex, self-defence. Like he’s a caged animal lashing out.

Paul stumbles a few steps back with the forces of it and raises his hand to cover his mouth. His eyes are huge, unblinking. It’s dead-silent in the room. They’re staring at each other for what seems like a lifetime.

Jimmie’s breathing calms down a bit. He opens his mouth, very slowly, but before he can say anything, Paul bursts into laughter. It sounds slightly choked, too loud in the silence of the room. He still has his hand in front of his mouth, coughing a bit in between the fits of laughter.

“Stop laughing.” Jimmie doesn’t recognize his own voice. “Jesus, Paul, stop – let me see.”

He crosses the distance between them and pulls Paul’s hand away from his face. There’s a small cut on his upper lip, a bit of blood. It doesn’t look too bad, but the area around his mouth looks red, a bit raw, and Jimmie is sure it’s gonna be bruising tomorrow, maybe even blue. “Fuck.”

“Yeah.” Paul stops laughing slowly. He breaths in deeply and winces. “Ow. I can’t believe this. You hit me.“

“I’m sorry.”

“You kissed me and then you hit me – you… you got it out of your system now? Everything? Or is there anything else you want to do to my mouth?”

Jimmie feels heat rising to his face. “I – no.”

“You sure?”

“Shut up.” Jimmie clenches his teeth. “Just shut up. Are your teeth okay?”

“My teeth?” Paul is staring at him like he’s the strangest creature he’s ever seen. “You want to know if my teeth are okay?”

“Yes.”

“They’re fine. Still attached to my gums, if you were wondering. Just bit my tongue.” He opens his mouth and there’s so much blood in it, Jimmie feels his stomach churn. Some of it starts to tickle down his chin.

“Shit. I’ll bring you a paper towel. Wait.”

He turns and walks briskly to the small bathroom attached to the dressing room. His hands are shaking slightly as he grabs some paper towels from next to the sink. He avoids looking into the smudgy mirror and turns back around.

Paul is standing in the same spot, his hands trying to wipe away the blood on his chin. His skin looks pale, when he takes the paper towels from Jimmie and spits in them, coughing. They turn red instantly. “Ouch. Ow. Oh God, I hate you.”

“I’m so sorry, Paul. I swear.”

“Yeah. Okay.” He throws the bloody paper towel in the trash can and looks over to the door, then back at him. “You’re really going through something, huh?”

“Yes.” Jimmie swallows. “But it’s – this isn’t you fault. Like, at all. And I’m sorry. So sorry. For the kiss – and this. You can punch me too if you want. In my face – or stomach. It’s only fair.”

Paul cocks his head to the side. “Are you feeling better? A bit, at least?”

Jimmie blinks, confused. “Yeah. I guess. Not as angry. And the panic’s gone. At least for the moment.”

“Alright.” Paul sighs. “I don’t want to hit you, Jimmie. But I think someone might.”

Jimmie closes his eyes for a few seconds. He didn’t even think about John, this time. He didn’t think about anything other than the sudden panic. He can hear Paul taking a step closer, so close, he can almost feel him.

“You want me to talk to him first?” Paul hesitates. “I can try to calm him down, but I don’t think it’ll work. He’s gonna – he’s gonna be really mad, Jimmie.”

“Yeah, I can imagine. It’s – he should be.” He opens his eyes and holds his breath. “You don’t have to talk to him. You did last time, didn’t you? You were so angry at me and you still made him promise not to punch me.”

Paul cocks his head to the side. “How did you know?”

Jimmie shrugs and adverts his gaze. “Let’s just go, yeah?”

As if someone heard them, there’s a knock on the door, and he flinches. But it’s just Brian, his voice reaching them, from a faraway place. “Paul? Jimmie? Are you ready to go? The cars are here.”

“Yeah, in a minute. Can you send John and George ahead? We’ll take the other one.”

Brian hesitates. “I – John won’t –“

“Please.” There’s a small line between Paul’s eyebrows. “Tell him everything’s fine. We’ll meet you guys at the hotel, yeah?”

“Alright.”

Brian doesn’t sound overjoyed, but leaves eventually. Jimmie counts his steps, until he can’t hear them, anymore. They wait a few minutes longer, before Paul walks towards the door and Jimmie follows him. When they step outside, only Mal and the driver in one of the cars are left. It’s black, shiny, parked right outside the building.

Mal holds the doors open for them and frowns at Paul’s face. He opens his mouth and closes it again. The black seats are smooth and cool underneath Jimmie’s fingers. Mal turns on the radio as he starts the car. Paul pulls his knees to his chest und turns towards his window.    

They don’t speak much during the drive.

When they reach the hotel, Jimmie tries to think of a reason why he has to stay in the car and can’t come inside, but comes up empty. Mal opens the door for him and he slowly gets up and follows Paul up the stairs, through the glass doors. He probably just has to get it over with.

The others are waiting for them in the parlour. Brian is saying something, waving his hand. John is lounging in a dark-green armchair, but gets up as soon as he spots Paul entering the room. Jimmie stays close to the door, kneading his hands together.

He watches John cross the room with three big strides, watches the smiles that starts to spread across his face. John stops in front of Paul, lifts one hand – and freezes. He stares at Paul’s mouth, his own mouth halfway open, a crease between his eyebrows. His hand starts moving again very slowly, his fingers gently touching the younger boy’s chin. “Paulie, are you okay? What –“

He breaks off suddenly and, very slowly, turns towards Jimmie. His eyes narrow, darken. “What did you do?”

Paul doesn’t say anything, just throws Jimmie a quick glance. Jimmie swallows harshly. “I hit him.”

John clenches his teeth together. “What?”

Brian makes a noise of confusion behind him. Even George looks shocked, his dark eyes wider than usually.

John lets go of Paul and steps in front of him, taking a step closer to Jimmie. He looks like he’s trying to hold himself back, but his hands are shaking at his sides. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding.”

“I’m sorry.” The words sound hollow, stupid. “I shouldn’t have done it.”

“Damn right, you shouldn’t have. He agrees to talk to you and you – you fucking hurt him?” Jimmie tries not to move, as John comes closer and pushes into his personal space. He looks furious, like he did three days ago, in Georges room. Now, there’s something else there, a sliver of confusion, maybe. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

The words cut him like a knife. They clog up his throat like hair in a drain.

“I don’t know”, he whispers.

John hits him square in the face. His fist meets his nose and Jimmie’s head gets thrown back with the force of it, making him stumble back against the wall, almost losing his balance. The pain is so sudden and raw, it sucks all the air out of his lungs.  

Mal pulls John away from Jimmie, before he can hit him again, and he leans against the wall, grateful, trying to steady himself. He knows his nose is bleeding. He can feel the heat rushing out of it, can taste salt and copper in his mouth. He wipes his sleeve over the lower half of his face. His head, at least, is blessedly empty.

John struggles against Mal’s hold, maybe. Jimmie isn’t sure. He blinks against the lights. Everything is slightly unfocused around him. He didn’t think a single punch could hurt that bad. He feels even worse about Paul now.

“Let me go”, he hears John say, then different noises, then Paul’s voice.

“It’s okay, now – Jimmie’s feeling bad enough already.”

Jimmie blinks again. Okay, yeah, well, that’s true. He manages to refocus his gaze. John just rips himself out of Mal’s hold, his hair artfully tousled. Paul takes a step closer and bites his lower lip automatically, then winces sharply. John stares at him with an expression Jimmie’s never seen before, one he can’t read.

“Out.” John’s voice is dangerous, quiet. “Everyone out, now.”

And everyone listens, instantly. Brian walks briskly towards the door without a word, while Mal comes over and pulls Jimmie with him, steadying him when he stumbles once. He gets pushed forward and Neil and George follow them, back into the foyer. Derek is last, grabbing the golden door handle.

Jimmie turns around and can see John and Paul for a single second, still standing in exactly the same spot, before Derek closes the door, too loudly. Jimmie stares at the door, the strange off-white, until it blurs in front of him.

Then George grabs his arms and pulls him away.

.

Chapter Text

.

The last press conference is long and boring; the last concert on the other hand is amazing. They play two sets, just like the day before. Sweat runs down Jimmie’s face and he moves the drum sticks quickly and automatically, on muscle memory. The four of them are in their usual positions, striking every note correctly tonight, hitting every pitch. When Jimmie closes his eyes, he feels like he’s floating and when they’re back at the hotel afterwards, he can still hear the screams.

He can’t believe it’s over. His time with the Beatles. It doesn’t feel real.

Brian huddles them together in the hotel lobby, a huge bright room that’s empty except for them and the receptionist. He tells them what a good job they did; he’s grining and generous with his compliments. He pauses for a moment. Then, he smooths out a wrinkle in his tie and his smile softens.

“I just got the call – Ringo is on the plane right now”, he says.

Jimmie turns his head slightly. He watches the grins that spread across the other’s faces and forces a smile of his own.

“Finally”, John says.

“How’s he doing?”, George asks.

“Good, very good. He’ll be with us tomorrow morning.”

More smiles, all of them crowing in delight. Jimmie widens his own smile and can feel his cheek muscles twitch.

“Also”, Brina says, raising his voice slightly, “there’s a party tonight, if you’re feeling up to it – it’s being held especially for you guys, in a building close to here.”

“Nah”, John shoots him down instantly.

Brian frowns. “Why not? They’ve organized –“

“Should’ve asked us before they’ve organized anything then, eh?” John sounds dismissive. “We’ll ‘ave our own party, a private one, just us – here in our suite.”

“Yeah”, George agrees, “can’t be bothered to see anyone else tonight – or meet new people again and make introductions and small talk and all that.”

Paul frowns slightly, his bottom lip jutting out in a pout. The area around his mouth is still bruised, though they’ve covered most of it with make-up. His eyes flicker from George to John, then he nods. Brian merely sighs, resignedly.

About two hours later, the parlour of their suite is filled with silvery smoke and the smell of golden whisky. Soft music drifts over, from the record player next to the open window. It looks expensive: handcrafted wooden design and a copper-plated horn. 

Jimmie talks a bit to Mal and Derek, then stands around for a while on his own. He takes a few shots that taste like cherries and nail polish. He does this until he's tipsy, almost drunk, then stops. He doesn’t take anything else, refuses the joint that's being passed around, and actually has fun. He discusses the best types of cheese with George (Gouda is number one, then Burrata and Hudson Flower), then he goes outside on the balcony. Some time has passed, he isn't sure how much. He doesn't plan on smoking, he just wants to get some fresh air. The temperature has cooled down considerably. The air smells fresh and tight, like rain. John is out there as well, leaning back against the brick wall of the building.  

Jimmie hesitates for a second. John is still a bit wary of him, throwing him dark glances and making sure Paul is always at his side. But a part of the tense atmosphere has dissolved, since John hit Jimmie two days ago. He even spoke to Jimmie, a few words here and there, bored and cutting in his remarks, but better than nothing. Now, his shoulders are relaxed as he watches Jimmie come closer through the smoke of his cigarette.

“How’re you doing?”, he asks.

Jimmie leans against the wall next to John, a bit of space between them, for safety reasons. He studies the dark, brooding look in John’s eyes as they glitter from the embers of his cigarette, the alcohol not enough to glaze his sharpness over. 

“Uh, good.” Jimmie averts his gaze and coughs once. “Just thinking I’ll have to pack my stuff soon, with tomorrow being my last day and all. And then the day after that, back on the plane –“

“What, ya don’t miss the grey sky?”

Jimmie shrugs. “I don’t mind it that much. I miss my granny, though. And my girl.”

Automatically, he imagines the backyard of his gradmother on a stormy, luminous summer evening; low smudged clouds and golden light, dandelions and onoin-flowers spangling the lawn. 

“Do ya?” John’s mouth twists at Jimmie's words. “Wouldn’t have thought. Thought ya were too busy enjoying the fans or shagging that Asian slag or forcing yourself onto –“

“I’m sorry.”

“In love with the whole fucking world, aren’t ya?”

There’s something razor-sharp and cruel in John’s voice now. Jimmie blinks a couple times.

“’m not in love”, he mumbles.

“No? Not all sunshine and roses for you?”

“No, actually.” Jimmie raises his own voice a bit, can hear the bitter edge in it. “It’s not. It’s painful and confusing and wrong. I don’t want this. I don’t want to feel like this.”

Fear washes over him very slowly, like a sluggish wave. It’s different than his panic after the kiss, different than the bitter taste filling his mouth or the burning sensation under his palms, before the punch. He can’t describe it. Whatever is happening is not Paul’s fault, but his own. He has done something wrong, something so huge he can’t even see it, something that’s drowning him. He feels inadequate and stupid, without worth.

John lets out a sigh. He drops his burnt-down cigarette to the floor, still glimmering, then tips his head back to look up at the night sky. The line of his jaw looks sharper like this, more clearly defined.

“You’re in love. You told me, when we were driving back from that club – you’re in love with him. So, don’t you get?”, Jimmie asks, almost desperate. “Didn’t you feel like that? In the beginning?” 

He is suddenly aware that he wants, needs something from John, though he isn't sure what. Understanding? Advice? 

John doesn’t look away from the stars; there are only a few of them visible, gleaming white dots. “’s strange, isn’t it? So many things on this earth we could be scared of and we chose love.”

Jimmie pressed his tongue against the roof of his mouth. It’s quiet for a minute, two. He’s about to turn around and walk back inside, when John speaks once more, a bitter, amused quality to his voice

“He forgave you, you know.”

Jimmie’s thoughts are slow and sluggish inside his head. “And you?”

Another sigh. “’m getting there. Ask me tomorrow.”

“Alight. I will.”

He's pretty sure it's not forgivness he needs though, it's something else, something he can't quite grasp. When he's back inside, Jimmie stops at the table with the drinks and grabs another glass. He feels almost sober again. He fills the glass with rum and coke – more coke than rum. He doesn’t want to get wasted, never again, just a bit drunk, just half-way there. He lifts the glass to his mouth and it clinks against his teeth. His eyes lazily glide across the room.

Paul is standing on the other side of the table, just a few feet away, next to the black grand piano. He’s been drawn to it all night, like a moth to a flame. Now, he reaches out his hand to the keys and plays something quickly, but it’s too quiet for Jimmie to hear. The record player in the corner and George and Derek’s laughter are too loud.

Paul looks thoughtful for a moment, then he lifts his gaze and smiles. There is a blink, a softness in his gaze, and Jimmie could melt in it like butter in the sun. He’s radiant, damn him. But of course, it’s not him Paul is smiling at.

John has come back inside and is making his way over to the piano now. He puts his glass on it carelessly, then sits down on the bench before it. He says something to Paul, but of course Jimmie can’t make it out. Paul sits down next to him and plays the melody again for John. Afterwards they don't speak for a minute or two, just looking at each other thoughtfully. Maybe they're reading each others minds (Jimmie wouldn't be surprised at this point). Then Paul averts his gaze and plays something, the same thing, or something else maybe. John nods. They take turns now; they play something and then discuss it, and in between they stare at each other, starry-eyed, in awe. They keep doing this and it’s almost as if they’re playing a game and the goal – the goal to all their games, is to find each other fascinating. 

Jimmie isn't quite sure how they go from that to kissing, but all in all it seems to be a rather smooth transition. Their mouths meet as if it's the most natural thing in the world. Which it isn't. It can't be. Jimmie doesn't look away, because he hates himself apparently. They don't seem to care that someone, anyone, could be watching them right now. They kiss as if they want to suck each other’s souls out of their mouths. They touch like they want to crawl inside each other’s bodies. Paul’s hands move over John’s body, over his chest, his shoulders, his neck, over all the layers of flesh and bones that are in the way.

How unfair, they seem to say, that our souls are closer than we are.

Jealousy crawls through Jimmie’s head like a snake, almost familiar by now. After another minute he tips his glass back and feels the burn all the way down to his stomach, feels it spread between his bones, his ribs. He puts the glass back down and turns to leave.

“Oi, Jimmie – you’re going to bed already?”, George asks him, when he passes him at the door. He's holding his fourth bottle of beer, his brown hair is tousled. 

Jimmie nods and bites back a sight. “Yeah, ‘m beat. I had fun though.”

George smiles. “’m glad.”

When Jimmie lays in bed that night, the image of John and Paul kissing is still burned behind his eyelids. It’s painful almost in its brightness, while the room around him is dark and quiet. The curtains aren’t fully closed. All is dark-skied and hazy, and small chips of rain are starting to fall. He opens his eyes again and looks over to the window. He doesn’t want to get up the next morning, even though it’s his last day here. He doesn’t want to see anyone. He swallows thickly.

He gets back up. He can’t sleep, impossible. The party is still ongoing, he can still hear the music and muffled laughter from the next room. He walks out into the dark corridor. The noises seem far away here. He feels like he’s completely alone in the world.

He walks over to the pay-phone on the wall and calls Daisy. He sits down on the small bench next to the phone and clutches the cord between his fingers. It’s afternoon, back in England. He has to wait a while, his breathing the only noise in the darkness around him. There’s a flicker of relief when she finally picks up.

“Jimmie, is that you?”, she asks, in her sweet familiar voice.

He can feel a smile pulling at his mouth and leans back against the wall. He wraps the cord around his hand a few times. “Yes, it’s me. I just wanted to hear your voice. Is this a bad time?”

“No! Not at all. I’m so glad you called. I just got back from Missy’s – the funniest thing happened with her dog.”

He listens to her tell the story, humming every now and then, so she knows he’s still listening. After a while he closes his eyes. He sees John and Paul kissing behind his eyelids. He opens his eyes again.  

“I’m so excited to see you soon! I miss you”, she says after a while.

He swallows. “I miss you too, Daisy.”

He leans his head back further and watches the dark ceiling. He won’t ever have what John and Paul have, but then again, most people won’t. In that moment he’s sure that he can go back to normal, that it will all be fine, that he will kiss Daisy at the airport and buy her favourite chocolate, the one with caramel inside. That they’ll have a good life.

That he’ll be happy – or happy enough.

 “I’ve got to go to bed”, he says and his voice sounds strange in his ears. “Can’t wait to see you. Love you.”

“Love you too!”, she says, making kissy-noises, giggling.

Jimmie swallows harshly and hangs up. He stays sitting on the bench for another half hour, before he finally gets up and walks back to his room.

.