Chapter Text
Paul's day started as usual, got up, thankful he didn't get a boner like he used to as a teenager, brushed his teeth, made breakfast, and headed to the coffee shop where he worked. Still groggy from waking up at 6:30 in the morning (he really needed to ask some coworker to switch shifts), the Liverpool’s october cold air was hitting his cheeks making them turn red, he headed to his usual bus stop, just in time to catch the bus, having to run for his life.
He could have just waited for the next bus, it passed every fifteen minutes, but that would have meant he couldn't smoke his before work cigarette , but most importantly, he would have missed the opportunity to see him . As the dreamer that he was, a whole conversation had already been made in his mind, hell, he even had written a song about him. The thing was, he didn't know his name, nor any particular fact, except from his everyday routine of getting in the same bus as Paul and got off of it just one stop before him, near a forgotten field of strawberries, heading towards a small cottage right in front of it.
He knew this because, one, he was a little obsessed with him, and second, because on several occasions the stranger had made him stumble and almost fall from his standing position on the bus because of the sudden halt the bus driver had to make. That boy really needed to stop crossing the road without looking
Over the month Paul had become aware of this man, he had begun to notice little things about him. For starters, he really was good looking, that aquiline nose with soft jaw, with beautiful eyes always squinting at the little sketchbook he carried with him. He really looked like a Greek god, well the statues he had seen ages ago in a museum. The nameless man always wore dark clothes, sometimes painting it with leather boots that made him look like a rockstar; it reminded Paul of the type of people his father had told him to stay away from.
Those teddy boys will bring you trouble son
Oh but how much would he love hanging out with that mysterious so-called rebel that everyone gave weird looks on the bus. But that was the problem, Paul wasn't that type of bad boy. He would probably be laughed at by him, for his looks, and surely because he knew he would be picked on because of his preferences.
Even from a young age, Paul had known he wasn't like all the boys he had encountered in his lifetime, not even like his best friend George, or so he thought. He remembered that one time at the age of 15 and George was just talking non stop about his first kiss with that girl around his block. Surely he had felt curiosity, as the 16 year old he was, but apart from wanting his friend to tell him his experience, not even a single thought of “ when will that happen to me” came up to his mind. That's when he realised he didn't like girls.
At first it was weird, it felt wrong, he eventually fought with the inner voices that told him it was a sin, that his dad would kill him and all that stuff that everyone thought about, at least from the experiences he had heard from the secret gay bar he occasionally went to.
But, as time went by, he made up with himself and came out to his best friend.
“George you might hate me for this, and stop talking to me, hell you can even go to the police since its illegal, but i have to tell you: im queer”
“Oh thank god, now i can stop hiding whenever you come to the gay bar”
“WHAT?”
And that's how he found out his best friend was also gay, and that he had lied saying with whom his first kiss had been with (some redhead in the bathroom of the all boys school they went to)
He had grown comfortable with who he was, but he knew that in 1964, being gay was viewed as “wrong” by most people. That's what scared him the most about this stranger to which he had been staring at for 20 minutes now. What if all his scenarios of kissing in the rain, and goodnight kisses, were only going to be part of his imagination? He was 50% sure it would probably be that way (the other 50% was hanging by a thread because he had seen him drawing male nudes one time).
The strawberry field was now mere one minute away, which meant his delusional non-stop thinking must have come to an end. Oh well, farewell beautiful boy, until tomorrow then.
The rest of the day went by smoothly. Cleaning up the tables, brewing coffee and almost burning it (getting scolded by his boss), going for small breaks to the backside of the building to write songs. Overall his everyday morning routine that continuously gave him back problems and migraines. Although something had changed that day.
“Hey, Macca” his boss (to whom he had asked politely to stop calling him that) said just as Paul was hanging his apron and heading out home “i've heard you write songs or something like that, are you any good?”
“I- I’d like to think i am Mr Epstein” why was he being so darn shy?, he was confident about his skills.
“Well if you havent heard on wednesday we were going to invite some band to play, but they bailed out at the last minute” Mr epastain sounded quite angry about it, but he didn't show it right away, Paul just had grown accustomed to figure out how people worked. After that he made a short but noticeable silence between the two of them. “Look i don't want to force you to do it, but i think it would be a good way to start”
“What are you trying to say?” Paul asked, confused.
“Do you want to play here on wednesday?” An offering, genuine smile accompanied the question. “Its at 6:00 pm, and i know that is way past your shift but i will pay you extra hours”
“Yes.” Paul said almost instantly. Extra money and getting to sing and proof he was good at his long time ambition? He didn't needed to be asked twice
Mr Epstein scoffed a little laugh with a heartfelt smile and proceeded to tell Paul the details. Although Paul had made note of all essential facts he needed to know, his mind was racing up and down with the possibilities of finally showing an audience what he had dedicated all of his free time to do. What songs should he sing? Had he gotten enough practice with the guitar? Would he be made fun of? Would people even listen to him? No one would truly be invested in his songs, it would be merely ambient music to accompany tables of teenagers and moms on her monthly book club meeting. However it turned out, Paul was surprisingly excited, even if he had been working and wanted to get home. He knew he would probably be playing songs until his neighbours would tell him to stop, and that made him giggle. What a little rascal I have turned into, maybe after all I am a troublemaker.
A sudden voice calling his name, coming from his boss, broke him out of his train of thought.
“Well I see you are already planning way ahead of me, and I'm sure you want to go home, so I'll let you leave” Christ, he didn't realise again he had zoned out.
“Sorry, i'm just a little tired, but i assure you Mr. Epstein you will not be disappointed in my music” the excited little boy who had just learned to play “mary had a little lamb’ came throughout his voice. Immediately he felt a little ashamed.
“Don't worry paul. And you can call me Brian, enough of the formalities. Just make sure to not scare the customers and it’ll be alright”
“Right” paul’s worries became more and more noticeable at the proposal of people hating him.
“Look, don’t stress it out. Tomorrows your day off, practise some songs and make sure to sleep well” And with a reassuring look on Brian's face, Paul left his workplace and went to his apartment.
Wednesday, 5:50, ten minutes till the concert.
Paul had gotten his beauty sleep, taken a bath and done some breathing exercises Gaeorge had told him about, and he was pretty relaxed as shocking as it may have been to the previous day Paul who had fallen asleep crying and mumbling about how worthless he had been all of his life. Sometime that happened to him, and next thing he knew today he felt like a rose.
Everything was going great, he was just finishing to tune his guitar and making sure the set up was fine, when he looked at the small crowd who had formed around him. Not so many tho, but it still made him feel anxious. But nothing could be compared to what he felt when another ding was heard from the door and a man in dark clothes and leather boots entered the establishment.
Oh god, it's him.