Chapter Text
The first time it happened, John was 6 or 7 years old, and Mimi just treated him for ice cream.
They sat on a bench in a park, John naively wishing his legs would touch the ground already, soft breeze balancing the too-burning-for-May Sun.
Suddenly a girl giggled too loudly to be ignored, and John's eyes followed the sound till they landed on a group of 4 women - probably a mother, grandmother and aunt - cheering the aforementioned girl as she was showing off her new dress.
Her features hadn't caught his attention as much as the garment. Cobalt blue with short sleeves, peter pan collar and red buttons. The skirt swirled around with each spin.
Mesmerising.
Melted ice-cream, now resembling colourful goo, covered his hand, luring him back from the world of fantasies.
Suddenly ashamed - either for staring at strange people (auntie would tsk) or having his fingers sticky - he felt like he should do something.
"Beautiful."
Mimi glanced to the same direction then, totally unaware of her nephew's thoughts, smiled.
"Yes, it's a very nice little girl."
A week later, when left home alone, John stood in front of the gigantic mirror in the hallway.
Recalling the encounter, he closed his eyes and turned around a few times as if he too was sporting a new outfit.
Odd emptiness nestled inside his chest, precisely when John's fingers grazed the rough wool of his sweater, and he realised nothing magical had happened.
The first and only person to find out was Stuart. As much as John'd perfected the mask for others, he rarely befooled Sutcliffe.
They shared a flat, which provided them with the privacy they yearned as well as opportunities to focus on art and, ehm, the social aspect of their lives. Meaning they spend too much time breathing on each other's neck to keep up their facades.
It was the first Friday night since the beginning of the semester they stayed in as opposed to countless parties brimming with booze, flings and drugs.
John lay sprawled on the sofa, indulging himself in a book while Stuart opted for finishing a painting he'd worked on out of school.
Both concentrated on the task at hand, yet the atmosphere reminded John of the home he had never had. The lack of a supportive family environment painfully apparent. Especially in times like those.
When one began to realise they might not fit the heterosexual box and simultaneously started to develop feelings for his best mate.
The perverted fascination with feminine clothes pushed aside, creating an illusion of normality.
"I found your sketchbook."
John almost choked on his saliva, feeling needles of fear stinging his sweaty skin. How could he be so careless with an item that was filled with autoportraits of him in model-esque poses, clad in dresses, skirts, ruffled blouses, lingerie...
"And?"
Opting for an offensive approach not to waste any time, if Stuart wanted to sneer at him, call him a degenerate, there was no point in pretending he had nothing to do with the object.
Still, his growl was more of a wounded than reckless wolf, salty tears pricking his eyes.
"Thought you should have it back." Stuart didn't interrupt painting, his voice poised and hushed as ever. "Put it on your nightstand, thought I'd let you know."
Never the one to decipher the knotty mess called emotions, John had no idea what Stuart's next move would be, remaining silent.
"I think it looks dapper, nothing to be ashamed of."
John's teeth sank into the inside of his cheek, the iron-like flavour of blood forever interlinked with the gratitude and relief he felt.
They had never discussed it further, but Stuart sent him fashion magazines for "artistic purposes", and later on, when he moved to Hamburg, he introduced him to the underground scene - where a man in a dress was the least peculiar thing to stumble upon.
Now, over 10 years later, the buried secret began to torture John again.
It wasn't as if life treated him like a scum, quite the opposite, Paul and he worked it out - learning they'd been oblivious idiots. His career as an artist had been thriving without any mishaps, the crappy vision the only health issue troubling him.
Still, he didn't feel beautiful. He never did save for when Paul enveloped him in warm praises and ministrations. But it didn't take long for the ferine thoughts to join him. Would Paul treat him the same if he knew? Wouldn't he leave him?
He tried to ignore delicate dresses on glossy pages, locked all garments he had pretended to buy for his paintings into a wardrobe in the attic. Nothing helped.
Desperate not to push Paul away John did exactly that. Finding excuses, pretending happiness illuminated every second of his life, ignoring the look of hurt in his boyfriend's eyes whenever he tried to be intimate and collided with the walls Lennon'd carefully raised.
Their relationship'd been crumbling under the weight of John's naive desire. He welcomed Paul's business-related trip as a tinge of fresh air. Unfortunately, his own fear remained wrapped tightly around his shoulders like a boa.
In the spur of self-hatred, John scrolled through endless websites with fashion items, the lack of dimension driving him mad.
Finally, after yet another sleepless night, he threw all his inhibitions to the wind and stumbled out of his house.
He could hear the blood pulsing in his ears was torn between giving up and indulge his crippled part, at least once.
He didn't underestimate the preparations - got all his measurements jotted down and converted to different sizes, images of dreamy items carved in his mind.
He even spent enough time with pondering the right excuse if any curious shop assistant - "Yes, he is shopping for his girlfriend, ain't that sweet? Indeed, pale blue is not flattering for every skin tone, those runway ideas had to be taken with a grain of salt. Oh, a sale? How lovely, really lifts one's spirits. Thank you! Goodbye."
He ignored sweat polling and the juncture of his lower back. Avoided thinking about what would Mimi call him.
When the embarrassment became too much, he bought a disgusting sweater with numbers at the front from the men's section.
Finally home, he let out a shuddering breath and dashed to the bathroom - the first time needed to be perfect.
A mundane routine of showering transformed into a beauty ritual worth Marie-Antoniette's envy.
Clad in a bathrobe, skin softened by rose-scented lotion, John cautiously unfolded the goods, fingers lingering at every crease and seam.
He'd pondered what to wear for 20 minutes, a shivering hand hovered above a pair of levander knickers before grasping them.
"Jumping down my own rabbit holes, eh?" He snickered, the situation somehow surreal, bringing back a memory of a quote.
"There are no more barriers to cross. All I have in common with the uncontrollable and the insane, the vicious and the evil, all the mayhem I have caused and my utter indifference toward it I have now surpassed."
The garment delicately hugged his form as opposed to his usual underwear, the elastic resting on his high waist. If it wasn't for the outline of his dick, he could pass for a lass, a seductively curved one at that.
Thrilled upon what he saw when glancing down, John hurried to put on a matching babydoll, not daring to tempt the deceptive system of choosing the right bra.
He slipped into simple black stockings on the third attempt, almost calling off the whole spectacle. With a victorious gleam in the eyes and beads of sweat framing his forehead, John put on a black silk blouse and tucked it into a pine green, midi pencil skirt.
He wouldn't guess the person staring at him from the mirror was, in fact, the same John Lennon the outside world knew.
John adored the way his lips swayed, the disdain towards his body proportions far away, probably waiting for the moment he'd sneak into his usual clothes again. He struck a pose, tentatively exploring the rage of motions, giggling delightfully whenever the fabric rustled.
Inspecting the whole outfit, he noted how murky it all appeared and decided to switch into a mulberry blouse instead.
The colour complemented his skin tone nicely, highlighting the rosiness of his cheeks. Even the ginger tint of John's hair shone more intensively, oddly reminding him of Julia.
Adorning the whole look with a splash of perfume, John pondered the next combination, humming a made-up tune.
Setting his eyes on the lump of clothes, he gravitated to the floral top and began to undress.
His whole body trembling with ideas, he didn't hear the slam of the main door and continued pulling the blouse over his head.
"John?"
Whipping around, terrified, he realised Paul was standing in the doorframe of his bedroom. The same Paul who should be abroad. Who should never see him like that.
nononononon
The blouse fell back, crumpled, and bile travelled up to his throat. The feeling of disgust clamped his throat, preventing John from uttering a word. He wished for Paul to speak up, but his expression remained blank except a wrinkle between his brows, a sign of his brain processing the scene in front of him.
John's lungs betrayed him, for he observed how complicated breathing became. Through a blurred vision he saw Paul taking a step forward, palms lifted in a comforting gesture.
A pained whine was punched from the depth of his soul as soon as he felt two arms encircling his waist, pulling him closer.
Not an ounce of strength left within his body, John clutched at his partner - if this was their goodbye, he needed to have something to remember.
Paul's breath was tickling his ear and the fact that he didn't push him off, not yet, shattered the barricade John'd built to man up, as his auntie used to say.
A wretched sob broke through before tears started to pour freely, years of inhibition flowing out, wetting John's cheeks and soaking Paul's shirt.
He tried to articulate an apology, stutter an explanation, but each attempt sent him into a hiccupping fit. John pitied Paul for having to sustain his boyfriend weeping like a 5-year-old, keeping his eyes shut, he could only envision what he looked like - sputum smudged all over his face, eyes puffy, obscure sounds leaving his lips.
Somehow, John'd lost track of time ages ago, Paul lowered himself down, still enveloping John. After some shuffling, he found a comfortable position and with his back supported by the bed moved his lover's body, so he practically lay on Paul's chest.
Tears taking their toll, John's head buzzed as if a flock of bees was circling him. He realised Paul's was whispering sweet nothings into his hair, his hands smoothening the material of John's clothes.
For a fraction of a second, John felt beautiful.