Chapter Text
Paul McCartney, fifteen, aspiring musician from Liverpool was not one to be bested by his own nerves. Not in public, at least. What Paul McCartney, fifteen, goody two shoes did in the sanctity of his own room whenever being a teenager got to be too much for his tastes was his business and his business alone, and probably (hopefully) far removed from the carefully curated image he projected for other people to see. That’s not to say he was a neurotic kind of guy, rather the opposite: he was laid back, easy to talk to and easy to laugh with, or at least so he was told. He just liked to keep it to himself whenever he was shitting his pants.
And that night at Woolton Village, he was thoroughly shitting his pants.
«What’s that? What’s that chord?» A cigarette-holding hand waved right in front of his face, the lit end grazing dangerously against his fringe. It belonged to a nervous looking eighteen year old that had been watching him play like a hawk for the past five minutes. He was one of five eighteen year old hawks hunched all around him on the steps to St. Peter’s church.
«This?» Paul went back by one chord in the progression and gave it a tentative strum. The nervous looking eighteen year old nodded frantically. Paul didn’t know one could get so excited over a simple F#6. He didn’t comment on it.
«It’s an F#6.»
«It sounds bloody brilliant.» He took a drag from his cigarette and gave his friend a slap on the shoulder. Then, right as Paul said «Well, I didn’t come up with it, but–», he stood up and said something about someone who’d love this little fella.
The remaining five mumbled and bumbled after him, but quickly forgot about it when Paul started picking at random strings. Just like that, they were enraptured again, asking for this and that song. Paul, equal parts flattered and stressed out, obliged.
It was easy praise, really. The boys were alright musicians, a motley crew of The Quarrymen lineup and the George Edwards Band, but none of them was a guitarist. On top of that, he was doing terrific, in his humble opinion. That F#6 sounded extremely crisp, go Paul, keep it up. They’re all older than you, but you’re the guitarist in the room, you’re showing them how it’s done.
«Look at that, Petey mate,» a guy with a couple razor nicks on his chin said, pointing at Paul with his miserable-looking hand-rolled cigarette. «Bet you couldn’t do that with your right hand, let alone your left!»
«And isn’t that a good thing, my friend?» intervened Paul, who’d met the guy for the first time ten minutes prior, his left hand moving swiftly on the guitar’s neck. «It’s the hand of the devil after all!»
Pete scoffed and stood up to stretch his spindly legs. «Let me tell you, son, the devil wishes he played the fiddle half as good as you play your guitar.»
Paul laughed and tipped an imaginary hat as thanks for the compliment.
Around them the festival was dying out, most of the people now filing out of the parish gardens on their way to less Jesus-adjacent venues as technicians (boys from the parish) dismantled the makeshift stage sitting at the far north end of the lawn. Paul’s friend Ivan was still nowhere to be seen. He had disappeared about fifteen minutes earlier, after a quick round of introductions – “Paul, this is everyone. Everyone, this is Paul, he’s twice a musician than any of you will ever be!” –, mumbling something about fetching a certain someone. Which was curious, Paul thought, what was everyone doing, all scattered about?
«There he goes, the wanderer!» Nicked chin started waving to someone that Paul could not see, not with the way Petey mate was standing in front of him: the lad was built like a wardrobe. Still picking lazily at the guitar strings, Paul craned his neck and waited for yet another stranger to introduce to Paul McCartney, fifteen, aspiring musician from Liverpool.
When it was Ivan that appeared past the crest of Petey mate’s massive form, Paul almost deflated. He liked the guy all right, but he was looking forward to impressing some other upperclassman of theirs with his honestly outstanding guitar skills. However, he needed not despair for long, as when he turned back to ask Nicked Chin for one of his shitty hand rolled cigarettes, he found a fresh set of owlish eyes trained on him. He almost jumped a little, but refrained. Paul McCartney, fifteen, aspiring musician from Liverpool was not jumpy.
He was laid back. He was smiling at the newcomer and reaching his hand out for a handshake, but most importantly he was not intimidated by John Lennon, sixteen, somewhat more accomplished musician from Liverpool that did not remember the words to the songs he brought on stage.
«Name’s Paul.»
John blinked at his outstretched hand and then slapped it away. «What are you doing? I’m here to see you play, you devil!»
Paul almost snapped, but something in John’s expectant smile pacified him. He started back on a tune he’d been toying with for the past couple of weeks, and sent a questioning look Ivan’s way. The rest of the group was now over the novelty of his playing, while John had crouched down to listen more closely, which left Ivan and Paul ample room for silent conversation. Ivan raised his eyebrows, isn’t it what you wanted?, and Paul rolled his eyes, alright, but you could have warned me.
The truth was, John had been in Paul’s aims for a while now. The way Ivan talked about him, and the little he’d seen of him around town, were enough to spark Paul’s interest. So, when the occasion arose to see The Quarrymen live, he’d pounced on it. Crouched in front of him, with his eyes trained on Paul’s hands, John Lennon looked just about ready to pounce on him instead.
Paul was showing off a bit, now, but all he got to show for it was the occasional half hearted hum from John and a boat load of nothing. Needless to say, it was starting to piss him off, which was a nice change of pace considering he’d been about to lose all control over his bowels up until a moment ago, but still bloody underwhelming.
He smiled, tight lipped. John grinned widely at him, waving his fingers around to the rhythm of his song, saying absolutely nothing. Paul raised his eyebrows, and when John nodded along and hummed a tune, Paul latched onto it. He pulled together a rather decent chord progression to match the stilted melody, which delighted John, if the little clap he gave was anything to go by. And Paul thought it was.
The moment, however, was short lived. The church custodian, a man with a mustache so thick that it had grown its own little mustache, came and ushered the gaggle of boys out of the gate. They filed out semi-orderly, the instruments for The Quarrymen and the George Edwards Band in front, Ivan and the George Edwards vocalist in the middle, and John and Paul trailing behind them, strapping the guitar into its case as they went.
John struggled to light up a cigarette as he talked around the filter in his mouth. «You know, when I first approached I thought Ivan was taking the piss.»
Paul tilted his head in question, as John took a victorious puff from his now lit cigarette.
«He came to me all excited, “John, you’ve got to see this lad, he’s sooo good”.» Then, before Paul could take offense, he added, «And when I get there, what do I see? You’re holding the whole instrument the wrong way around!»
He laughed, all loud and a bit squeaky, to which Paul laughed in turn, because there’s nothing people love more than sharing a good laugh together.
«And then – and then! You started doing all that!»
“All that” apparently consisted of jerky movements of his left hand and a couple disturbing twitches of his wrist, going off of John’s impression of it and this time, Paul belly laughed just because he felt like it.
«And here I thought that you looked so thoroughly unimpressed. You made me fear for my sanity! I thought – “isn’t this a good fuckin’ tune? I think it’s a good fuckin’ tune, doesn’t he?”»
John tutted at him, with a hand on his chest and a cloud of smoke framing his comically shocked expression. «Watch your mouth, Paulie boy, we’re on holy grounds.»
They were, in fact, not on holy grounds. Paul had just kicked a beer can out of their way just a moment prior, as they followed the rest of the group to the small pub bustling in the alley behind St. Peter’s church. When they got there, the boys stumbled inside discussing music and drink orders. Ivan merely threw a glance at Paul before doing the same.
Beside him, John came to a halt.
«I’ll just finish this outside.» He gestured to his cigarette. «I’m in no hurry to listen to Pete’s ramblings on beer. Feel free to join me, or the beer cult.»
With that, he moved to the side, where the mouth of a tiny alley cast deep shadows in the warm lamplight. Paul adjusted the strap of his guitar case on his shoulder and followed quickly.
«You’re good too, you know.»
John smiled and took a drag, the soft orange glow of it painting his mouth and the underside of his nose. «Why, thank you, Paulie boy.»
«You’re the best lead singer in town, I can tell you that much.» And you’re a bit wasted on the Quarrymen, Paul thought, but didn’t say. «You should come over to my place, sometime. I think we could come up with something interesting.»
«Mhn.» John bobbed his head around in thought. It looked like he was having a conversation with a couple other invisible Johns, nodding once for you have a good point, John number 2, and shaking his head twice for nah, you missed on that one, John number three. Dancing on his lips the whole time was a small, enigmatic smile.
It disappeared when he finally spoke again, a big grin in its place, his forearm leaning on Paul’s shoulder.
The following puff crashed into Paul’s face, half smoke and half pungent alcohol breath that he had not noticed up until then. No wonder he’s in no hurry to get beer, Paul thought, he’s drenched full of it already.
«You’re something interesting, lad, let me tell you.» It was now clear to Paul that John’s drawl was probably more due to alcohol than to his actual speech pattern. He opened his mouth to reply, but John beat him to it. «I mean, where did you even crop up from? It’s incredible, really, what you do with that guitar of yours, not that I know the first thing about guitars, I mean, my banjo is banging, if you know what I mean, but– goodness gracious!»
Paul didn’t jump. John might have very well just screamed into his left ear, but he did not jump. He smiled politely, albeit a bit quizzically, instead.
«I’m rambling, aren’t I? Oh, Paulie boy, we’re running out of time here. You’re right, you and I, we can do great things together, let me tell you, marvelous things. But first–.»
«But first?» Paul met John’s watery gaze. His eyes were shining like polished stone in the half light.
«Would you hold this for me?»
What Paul expected was a cigarette butt or a lighter. He had extended his hand, ready to catch whatever it was he was supposed to hold, when John Lennon, sixteen, somewhat more accomplished musician from Liverpool, had kissed the answer clean off of his lips.
By the time panic flooded Paul’s system, John was already on his way to the pub entrance and he was yelling. «I’ll be back for it, Paulie boy, you better keep it safe!»