Work Text:
April 1961
Week One:
Romanticization is the key. He’s George Orwell, Down and Out, as he ducks his jaw under the collar of his leather jacket, curled up on the cold iron bench beneath the bus shelter. He’s Amy Dorrit as he stands beneath the looming mouldy bricks of Brownlow’s charity house. Romanticize it enough, and even an empty stomach can ache in a way that’s half cozy, half noble. Or at least, you can tell yourself that’s how it feels, and it dulls it a bit.
Paul worries, that first week, that the others will notice. They’ll smell the street on him. See the sleep missing from his eyes. George will have a ribbing comment on his hair, mussy and floppy without his pomade. John will notice that his drainies look slept-in or that his movements are stiff as they mach shau on the Cavern stage.
No one says anything. Paul worries he always looked like he’d slept in an alley even back when he had a bed. He supposes the soap at the charity house is the exact same type he always used at home. Which one bothers him more, he wonders. The idea that no one cares enough to notice such a stark change in him? Or the idea that nothing about this new arrangement is noticeable?
John asks to go with him to Forthlin between the Cavern lunch show and the evening at the Jackaranda. His tone is somewhat put out. Normally, John doesn’t have to ask for invitations from Paul or anyone. Normally, he’s at his leisure to accept or decline on a whim. Depending on what Mimi’s making for tea, what temptations Stu or Cyn have for him back at their grown-up independent apartments. And if he’s put out at having to ask, he’s downright pissed-off at Paul’s calmly resolute insistence that they go to Mendips or a chippie or the graveyard or hell, so long as they don’t go within a few blocks of number twenty. From behind the walls of his skull, Paul is shouting at John to ask him, gently, sincerely, why they can’t go there. Why Paul can never go home again. But he knows his access to That John is limited. Knows he’s lucky to get to see That John at all. Knows he won’t today if he asks for him. So he stays stoney. Watches John angrily toss his cigarette to the ground and storm off.
A week ago, John had drawn the line. “Either you come to the lunch gig tomorrow or you’re out,” he’d said over the phone. Sharp and drawn. Part of Paul tried to believe the mandate was a sign that he was needed. That John was desperate to keep him fully committed to the band. But the stronger, darker voice in his head knew what it actually was. That he was good. Good enough that John bothered to take the effort to fight for him. But ultimately, he was replaceable. John could write his own songs. Take the lead on all the vocals. Bands didn’t succeed based on the skill of their bass players. They wanted him, but they didn’t need him.
Paul had shouted at John to go fuck himself. Told John he didn’t get to order him around. But he’d showed the next day. Head held high, acting like he’d come of his own accord. Only John could see him limping with his tail between his legs. Singing a song of ruin.
John’s band is going to the top, and if Paul wants in, he’s got to pull his weight. That’s all there is to it.
Week Two:
He attaches himself to George on the first Saturday night. Sitting close to him at the bar, drifting into him as he laughs at some snarky thing, acting looser than he really could possibly be on two beers, even considering his empty stomach. George picks up on the signal easily. Gives him a tiny flicker of concern, almost imperceptible, just the way Paul likes it. Safer, that way, George understands, after six years of friendship. Paul gives a slight shake of his head. John narrows his eyes at them, so George kicks his shin under the table and starts a fight. Good old George. Paul is still picking food out of the poor kid’s hair from John’s dumped plate over his head as they traipse back to the Harrisons’.
“Alright?”
Paul shrugs. “I just need a couple of nights.”
George nods. Doesn’t press anything. It feels like old times, when Paul had made frequent use of his unspoken reserved bed at the Harrison Home for Frightened Boys. It feels good. If it were John not even asking, Paul would feel unwanted. With John if he’s not angry he doesn’t care. But George’s passive acceptance is a weight off Paul’s shoulders, a lock clicking loose.
Mike shows up at the Cavern a few days later, camera under his arm, snapping pictures of the band, chatting up the fans. They're working girls, much too mature and established to have anything to do with a little scruff like him, but they're humoring him, and seem to find him funny.
Afterwards, Mike hands Paul his old inny backpack, the same bag he’d taken to Hamburg, crammed full of whatever he’d managed to stuff into it while Jim was at work. Paul understands this was a risk. That Mike will have to employ one of two strategies, explain away the school’s phonecall about his truancy or stay away until Jim’s cooled on the subject.
He squeezes Mike's shoulder as he takes the pack. “Thanks.”
Mike nods. “There’s clothes in there, spare blanket.”
Paul’s blushing already. Can feel George listening. John, glaring, abandons his conversation with Cynthia.
Mike goes on. “Didn’t know what you’d need, really, so I–”
Paul cuts him off as John is upon them. “I'm sure it's great, yeah.”
“What’s Little Mac doing here?”
“Hiya John,” Mike chirps. “Just br–”
“Anyway, Mike, you’d better get back to class before you miss something important.” Paul makes wide eyes at his little brother.
Mike looks hurt, and Paul’s stomach churns, but he can’t have John knowing. Mike's never been this way. Doesn't understand, fully, the shame of it, for whatever reason.
Mike swallows. “Yeah alright.”
“See you at home!” Paul calls after him.
Mike turns around as he's walking away so everyone can see his eyes rolling.
“What's with the bag?” John asks. No derision there, just curiosity.
Paul shrugs. “Beats me.” He turns to John, putting on a smile. “You coming to the pub after the Jack tonight?”
Paul expects – dreads it and wants it at the same time – John to snatch the backpack, hold it out of reach, examine the contents, and demand an explanation. John just squints at him. Looks at him like he's stupid for a minute before shrugging, non-committal. “Yeah, maybe.”
John doesn't come for drinks that night. No excuse offered. It's just Paul and George. And slumped over the sticky wood counter, Paul connects the dots. It's not that John didn't notice anything off. It's that John doesn't care. And that hurts bad enough to make him order a round of something stronger than beer. Damn the money he doesn't have. He needs the volume turned down in his head.
“Why'd you have to get a bloody job, Paul? Have some faith.” It's what John had said to him when he'd finally decided to announce his return home and found Paul was working in a factory. Typical John to think the whole world would stop in his absence. And funnily enough, he was right. It did go still. But there were still bills to be paid, and mouths to be fed and hands to be kept at peace. And those things felt much more insistent without the rotation of the earth around its axis.
“I need to work, John,” Paul had explained, unable to keep the resentment from his voice.
“So you abandon the group when we don't have anything for a few days?”
“I didn't abandon anything.” Paul remembers thinking John's actions far more than anyone else's constituted abandonment. But he didn't say it.
“You got a bloody job!” John gestured wildly at Paul's coveralls as though they were covered in blood or some other heinous evidence of a soulless betrayal.
He'd wanted it over. Hadn't fully thought through his response or how John would react to it before he sputtered, “Dad made me, alright? Said I couldn't come home until I had something.”
John scoffed. “So don't go home, then.”
Paul didn't have a reply that wouldn't escalate things, so he'd shifted the conversation to easier things, Mona Best and The Shirelles and the Jackaranda and the songbook. John no doubt already under the impression the matter was settled.
The color of the old argument echoes in Paul's skull the next morning as he wakes painfully hungover in George's bed. John does not care. Never has. Whether Paul has a place to sleep. Whether Paul is safe. Why would he?
Week Three:
Many reasons not to overstay a welcome, even in a home as soft and amber as the Harrison's. He does a few nights out under the smog, imagining he is a mistreated Victorian worker and he'll be playing in the factory band this Sunday. He wonders what that had been like for the grandfather he'd never met. Tells himself he’s building character. Becoming strong. Ends up hearing those words in his father's voice in his head. Tries not to cry. Does. Tells himself instead he's making deposits in the bank he can draw on one day for artistic inspiration.
John asks twice more to go over to Number 20. It's the most hurt Paul has ever felt by the whole thing, honestly, knowing how John's head will twist the “no”s into something they're not.
There's a memory burned into his mind, from the very beginning of their friendship. They'd turned up at Julia's door as they had so many times before. Guitars across their backs, looking forward to an afternoon of loud laughter and homemade sweets. She'd been surprised to see them, as of course she should've been. They never bothered to call in advance. But Paul could see right away it was not a happy surprise this time.
Whether John could see it or not, he didn't pay it any mind. As Paul was about to apologize, say they'd come back another time, John pushed past Julia through the front door. “We brought you a new record. Don't ask how we got it. Top secret NCA business.”
Julia gave Paul the universal look he'd already come to expect from everyone who loved John. Make him understand, please. I can't stand to hurt his feelings. But Paul didn't know what it was he was supposed to tell John other than that his mother didn't want him here today.
John pulled the stolen single from under his shirt. Big Bill Broonzy’s How You Want It Done. One of Julia's favorites. They'd spent the morning learning it, figuring out the chords, making up a fresh harmony part.
The panicked look in Julia's eyes increased at the sight. “Wow! Oh, John I'd really love to stay and listen with you, I really would, but I've got an appointment today.”
John furrowed his brow. “What kind of appointment?”
Julia glanced at Paul again as if he was supposed to know. “Dentist. And then Bobby's picking the girls up from school today so I can rest, taking work off early for it. Such a doll, sometimes, that man.”
John's face relaxed into an innocent expression, which told Paul a storm was coming. Julia knew it too from the look on her face. “Dentist, huh? But you were just there two months ago.”
“John.”
“Just bloody tell me when you don't want me coming around.”
“John! I really do have–”
“How many times in a year can a person go to the dentist? And looking like–”
“John,” Paul cut in, stomach twisting. “They found a cavity last time, remember? Said she'd need to come back in a few weeks to have it done?”
John glared daggers at Paul, but he was quiet long enough that Julia could cut back in.
“I cancelled my last appointment because I had a conference with Jackie's primary school teacher. I really shouldn't cancel again.”
John scoffed. “What do I care where you go? I'm not your bloody keeper.” He snatched How You Want it Done off the coffee table. Without another word, he'd gone. The screen door bounced three times on its hinges before Paul could shake himself into following. “Sorry,” he said, just as Julia said the same.
“I'm sorry.”
Both of them knew they were really apologizing to John.
John fully believed Julia had stood him up for some prick she was screwing behind Bobby's back, but even if she'd had a genuine cavity, Paul knew it wouldn't have mattered. In John's head all that mattered was that his mummy didn't want him.
It would be the same thing now, even if John knew Paul was homeless. His head would twist it into some version of Paul not wanting him. So Paul gives half-hearted excuses, knowing nothing he can say will make John understand, even the truth.
Allen Williams allows Paul a few nights on the couch of the Jackaranda in exchange for janitorial services, but insists really the place doen't need to be cleaned more than about once a month for it to be worth his while. He spends a few more nights in bus shelters and on discarded loading pallets behind cafes. It’s getting warmer out, and sure that means more night roamers looking for someone to hold up and rob or worse, but at least it also means when he’s finally tired enough that he isn't scared, he can actually sleep without waking up shivering. He tries Mona Best, after they played the Casbah one evening, to no avail, and for the first time, he regrets badgering Pete about his unremarkable drumming.
George slides up behind him. “The hell was that?”
Paul scoffed. “Says she doesn't need the place cleaned. She's just pissed off I told Pete he should get a pay cut for his shit performance.”
George laughs. “You big bully.”
“I'm right though, we should start docking him. Mike would do better with his bad arm, and that's saying something.”
“No, come on, I mean why do you still need a place to stay? It's been weeks.”
Paul forgot he hadn't told George. He wants to, wants to tell someone. And George is the safest. He sighs. “I'm chucked out, actually.”
“What?” George is far too loud.
Paul glances over his shoulder, but John seems preoccupied. “Don't tell anyone.”
George follows Paul's glance and purses his lips. “You think he'll do something stupid?”
Paul shrugs. “Never know with John.” Actually, he’s far more worried about a lack of reaction. Doesn't want the solid proof of the extent of John's indifference.
George nods, agreeing. “If he'll stab a wardrobe over a casual fuck …”
“Yeah.”
George makes a face. “But you only stayed three nights.”
Paul puts on a smile. “Sort of feels like one of our old hitch-hiking trips.”
George smiles back, unconvinced but not pushing. “You got your bunsen burner in that backpack?”
Paul puts a finger to his nose. “And some cans of rice pud.”
“Well. If you ever get sick of hitching around the city.”
“Ta, mate.”
“You two trying to spend the night, or what?” John calls from the Casbah's only exit.
“Paul is, yeah!” George calls back.
Paul elbows him and he laughs.
John laughs too. “Paul’s always lusting after other people's mums.”
“Leave me mum out of your queer shit,” says Pete, speaking for the first time since the gig ended.
Paul feels his face heating up at the word, but John shuts Pete down fast. “Don't take it personal. Our Paul just can't help it, being a poor little orphan and all, isn't that right Paulie?”
Pete backs down at that as everyone always must, and John, Paul, George, and Stu head to the closest pub to get pissed.
Week Four
On Wednesday, they're huddled in the tentative warmth of early spring in the copse of trees between Menlove Avenue and the golf course. There's a fuzzy caterpillar crawling across John's worn wool sock, and the smell of life returning slowly but surely to the world. The putting green looks more vibrant than sickly, and the sun feels just a bit closer than it did yesterday. They've finished something new and tender. Paul can feel it frolicking between them as their voices hum with the magic only the two of them can make, and everything is right and safe and good.
“Jim's still at work for another few hours, right?” John asks, and shatters it.
“Aye, he is,” Paul admits. “But Mike’ll be home, and we've got this place all to ourselves.”
John concedes the point with a sideways nod, and allows Paul to drag them into an Everly Brothers tune. But as the sun starts to sink, John hops up, holding out his hand. “Come on. My arse is sore.”
Paul laughs. He can't help the swell of fondness that accompanies the dread of the returning argument. He takes John's hand and allows himself to be pulled to his feet. But he starts off in the direction of Mendips as if that point had already been decided. Maybe he can even score a bed for the night without raising any suspicion on John's part.
“Wrong way, thick-head.” John grabs his shoulder and turns him around.
“Thought we said we were going to yours.”
John puts his hands around Paul's head like it's a football. Paul can feel heat rising in his cheeks. The long fingers, the strong grip. “Mike or Mimi?” John asks in a botched American accent. “Think, boy, think!”
Laughing, Paul shoves John away so he can process a single meagre thought. “I really think she's starting to like me.”
John makes a face.
“Deep down,” Paul pushes.
John's bark of laughter is his negative retort. "Just tell me what's going on already. The old fucker’s pissed at us for eating his eggs again isn't he?”
Paul scoffs. John had a particularly hard time wrapping his head around that rule when Paul had explained it to him. “It's not that, no.”
“But he is pissed about something.” John's eyes are narrow, but the crease between his brow makes him look more worried than angry. It makes Paul's heart flutter. A dying fish on the dock deciding to make another attempt at escape.
“He is a bit, yeah,” Paul admits. It's true, and maybe John will accept it, for now anyway, as the full explanation for their absence from number twenty.
It doesn't calm John down. “God, when are you going to stand up to him? You make more money, you're taller, you're–” John waves his hands and sputters. “He's an old man, Paul, he–”
“I did, actually.” Paul really does not have the energy for this lecture.
“Oh? And?”
Paul sighs. “And nothing good came of it, so thanks for the brilliant advice.”
“Well you can't blame me for the old man throwing a tantrum. Not my fault he's–”
“You're right.” Tried and true end to any argument. “It's not your fault. Okay? Now I've got to go. Things I've got to take care of.”
Paul wanders the streets aimlessly as the sky turns from weak blue to dove grey. There is no room in his head to think about where he’ll spend the night. No need to pretend he’s some kind of starving artist or tragic hero. For a good mile at least, the bulk of his focus is on driving the memory of John’s hands around his face from his mind. The last thing he needs is to dwell on the desires John touching him like that pulls out of the locked-down box in his heart. He’s largely unphased by now by strange men propositioning him for sex. But tonight, they terrify him. It’s impossible to know. Nobody can actually know what it is they really want. But what if that is the real reason why he’s so attached to John? Why he’d give up everything for him again and again? What would that mean?
Paul has seen how horrified John is by anything remotely queer, seen the violence John is capable of. John has never given Paul any reason to believe he would hurt him, but then again, Paul has no reason to believe he wouldn’t. If, hypothetically, Paul did, sort of, want things from John — and that was a big if. Paul doesn’t know. How could he know? — he’d have to make sure John never found out.
As the grey sky fades to black, Paul finds himself wandering between the Inny and the Art School. Maybe he should be romanticizing. It would make the cliche feel more in place. John’s face, today, when he asked about Jim. There was real concern in his eyes. Paul can’t have been imagining it. And he can’t convince himself it was a one-off either. So many times John’s looked at him like that. It’s not the face of someone who doesn’t care. It’s an expression so rare Paul can only remember seeing it in his mother’s features
Next to the Inny is the Liverpool Cathedral. Paul does not believe in God or angels. He’d toyed with the idea his whole childhood. Liked the illustrated book of saints and felt the songs deep in his bones but couldn't wrap his head around the catechism or purgatory. And then when his mum had died he'd squandered any faith he'd managed to put by over the years with pointless begging to bring her back. Still, churches make him think of her, feel closer to her. He imagines he can feel her hand under his chin as he reaches the top of the old stone steps, reminding him to stand tall. He pretends to catch a whiff of white vinegar and baking soda in the stale grime of the city as he sinks down against the cathedral’s locked double doors. Just for a minute. He’s not hidden here in any way. He’s practically begging someone to come hold a knife to his throat and take everything he hasn't got. But he’s been so tired for so long, and the false security of his mother’s memory has him closing his eyes in search of a moment’s peace.
Against the cold stone wall, Paul dreams of a stage littered with bottles and a twin bed in Scotland, of playing his guitar into a living mirror and feeling the thrum of a voice made to move against his own, and he sleeps soundly for what feels like a full night.
Someone nudges his shoulder and he shocks awake with a sharp gasp, flailing his limbs. His hand smacks into something fleshy and he scrambles to his feet. It’s still dark. There’s a cop rubbing his nose. Paul runs blindly. The cop blows his whistle, and Paul instantly regrets running off. They’ll think he’s a criminal. And isn’t it another offense just to run from arrest? He stops, puts his hands up. The cop who’d followed the whistle roughly puts his hands behind his back and cold metal cuffs click into place. Paul does his best to control his breathing as his stomach turns to knots and tears rise in his throat. The cops here aren’t as bad as the cops in Hamburg, he reminds himself. But he can’t stop the memories pushing to the front of his mind as the cops feel him over brusquely for weapons or stolen goods.
“He’s got nothing on him.”
“Well, we’ll take him down, anyway, teach him a lesson before he gets into any real trouble. Come on, kid.”
Paul wants to try and talk his way out of this. But his tongue is cemented to the roof of his mouth. It's all he can do to move his feet as they march him toward a parked police car.
“You got a place to stay, kid?”
“Yes, sir.” Paul lies.
“Why were you sleeping on – “
“Geoff, you forgot to–”
“Right.” The cop clears his throat, then addresses Paul again. “You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something you later rely on in court.”
Court? Surely not. Not for sleeping on the street. What harm was he doing anyone? “Yes sir.” The words swim around in Paul’s head. Does this mean he shouldn’t talk? Is he really allowed to just sit here silently? The idea of that feels dangerous. But what if he doesn’t mention something he should?
“God, kid’s scared half to death!” The cop laughs.
The other joins in the joke, but cautions, “you never know with these types. Frank brought one in the other night, could’ve sworn from how he was acting he must’ve been a first-timer, but the kid ended up having quite the record.
Paul feels sick. Does a German record count? Should he tell them he’s been deported for arson? Was this the kind of thing he should mention if questioned? His stomach roils, and he feels himself retching. He does his best to hold it in and manages to swallow back most of the bile.
The cops pull over so he can vomit onto the pavement, and they leave him alone the rest of the trip to the station.
The station itself is reassuringly different from the one in Hamburg. The lights are glaring tungsten and plentiful, making the white walls and floor glow a sickly yellow. There’s a woman secretary at the front desk, who calls him “luv” as she takes his fingerprints and gets his name to look up his file. She won’t be so sweet on him, Paul is sure, when she sees how the German police described his burnt rubber.
They make him leave his guitar and his pack, and they usher him back to the holding cells which are blessedly empty, another difference from the jail in Hamburg. They lock him in before removing his handcuffs. “We’ll check your record, see if you should be in any bigger trouble than you are now.”
Paul peels his tongue free, cement crumbling and filling his mouth. “I was arrested in Germany, sir, for arson. It was an accident. I was only trying to see in the dark. No serious damage was done, I swear.”
“Jesus,” The cop chuckles. “Would never have guessed.” And he walks away, calling for Paul to make himself comfortable.
Paul knows he’s breathing right, can feel his ribs moving to allow his lungs to expand, but he doesn’t feel any air reaching his lungs. He takes a painfully deep breath, holds it there where it stings like bare feet on cold pavement. Slowly releases. The panic is back the minute the pain is gone, so Paul repeats the process. Another trick he developed before he can remember that he’s needed more and more as time has gone on. Why did he think, when he was little, that life could only get better? Seems to have got harder and harder, actually. He lies back on the cement bench and closes his eyes. Maybe the scariest thing is that there’s nothing he can do right now but wait. He misses his guitar like it’s a fifth limb. He closes his eyes, does his best to disappear into his head. He taps out a rhythm between the bars and the bench, hums along something melancholy that he tries to line with silver. Just manages it by the skin of his teeth. No idea how it sounds outside his own ringing head, though. Probably shit. John will tell him, later.
For whatever reason, the cops decide his record isn’t scarred enough to warrant holding him overnight. Which would have been helpful, honestly. Because now he has to call John. George doesn’t have a phone, and no one else will come for him. John is his only option. The cops assume John is his cousin, and John goes with it. There’s not even a bail fee to be paid. They’re letting him off easy. Still, Paul can tell John is angry. Can feel it pulsing off him in waves. He keeps himself cool and relaxed as they pass the front desk and trade the yellow glow for black brick. Hands in his pockets, pace slow and even. No big deal, nothing to fuss over. If he’s calm, maybe John will follow.
They’re not three blocks from the station when John’s got him by the shoulders. He shoves him up against the wall. Paul braces for the punch. So this is the line, and he's finally crossed it. He keeps his cheeks and tongue clear from his teeth, holds his breath.
“Where have you been sleeping?”
The question comes as a shock. Paul swallows. “What do you mean? Where do you think I’ve been sleeping?”
John scoffs. “Don’t bullshit me, Paul. Something’s been up with you since you quit that bloody job.”
“I don’t know–”
“No. No, what the fuck is going on, Paul?”
John’s voice echoes off the close brick walls of the alleyway. Paul’s blood rushes in his head. He can feel the anger strong in John's grip on his shoulders, pinning him down. He needs to say the magic thing that will ease the situation, make John rational. But he has no idea what that is. He searches John’s eyes, and finds him searching his, both of them trying to drill through the others defenses. John’s eyes are bright and flashing in the dark, until they settle on some hidden corner of Paul they’ve uncovered and the amber in them softens into a warm glow. What is it, Paul wonders, surprised and relieved that he’s managed to get through to him without so much as a word.
John shakes his head quick and small. Then he pushes back off the wall. “I’m just worried about my mate, alright?” John ducks his head, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. In the dim street light, Paul can still make out a darker tone over John's cheeks. He watches the muscles in his forearm, the ruffle of his ungreased hair at the nape of his neck.
His tongue sticks out of its own accord to wet his lips. This is That John. Of chocolate bars and secret hideouts and Perry Como’s “Forever and Ever.” That John will be gentle with him. That John has a right to know. “He chucked me out. Me dad did. After I quit Massey and Coggins.”
“What?” John's voice is barely there in volume, but it cuts through the cold sharp and fast.
“After I got, you know, deported, Dad was–” Paul shakes his head at the memory. “Threw me out and said not to come back until I had a proper job.”
John shakes his head. His pained expression looks like he wants to kick himself. “You told me. Thought he must’ve been bluffing.”
John has told the lie to soothe himself, Paul knows. But it hurts too bad to let it slide. “You said I should just not go home, then, if he kicked me out.”
John’s head is hanging. He looks up at Paul under his bushy brows. “I meant you should stay with me, fucker. Why didn’t you come to me?”
Paul shrugs. Under John's wounded expression, it's easy to be embarrassed that he didn't. But it's not his fault he’d been too scared to show up at Mendips with the truth. “I’ve been in and out of the charity house. Did a few nights at the Cavern, a few at George’s.”
John’s anger spikes again at that. “George’s! I knew the little shit was hiding something. Thought we were supposed to be bloody partners.”
‘Supposed to be’ is right. “Exactly. We’re partners.” He waits for John to just get it, but he doesn't. Never does with this sort of thing.
John holds out his hands and makes an expression of annoyed expectation for further explanation. Paul can feel That John slinking back into hiding. He doesn't want to give This John any more ammunition. This John who will mock him for singing songs That John loves, who will refuse to pay him back just to get a rise when That John knows money is safety for Paul. So he can't tell him it's because he was too scared that John didn't love him anymore, can't tell him he would've rather died out here than be a burden on someone who no longer thinks their destinies are intertwined in the fabric of the earth. “You don't take charity from your partner or it's not a partnership,” he finally gets out.
“God damnit, Paul, you should’ve told me.” His tone is dark, and his eyes look like Mary's used to when she was disappointed enough to turn him over to Jim.
Paul scrambles for something more that won't add fuel to the fire. “I-I just . . . erm. . .”
“Well spit it out.”
Paul glares. Fine. He can have it. “You stayed in Hamburg, didn’t you? After me and George and Pete got kicked out. Having a time of it with Stu and the Exis, I’m sure.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake!” John laughs derisively. “It's not like I'm the one who left. You knew what would happen when you lit that bloody rubber up.” He's scathing, now. Paul is beneath him. Dirty. Nothing. “You were sick of Hamburg, and you wanted a big scary daddy to make the choice for you so you didn't have to feel like a quitter. Meanwhile I was tying up loose ends so we could have a chance at–”
John's hurt him bad, now. And he knows it. And he's glad. Paul fucking hates This John. “Well you could've bloody let us know what your wise and diligent plan was. Stopped by the fucking clink with a scrap of news or even a goodbye, but no. Nothing.” His hands are shaking as he focuses everything he's got on holding back the angry tears. “And then when you did come back, you waited two weeks before you bothered to say anything to anybody. Do you know what two weeks might’ve meant for me?”
John's eyes are wide, panicking. Good. “I just wanted–”
“Then you’re yelling over the phone that I have to quit me job when you know I’ll be thrown out over it.”
“I thought–”
“So forgive me for doubting whether you’d bloody care if I was out on the street.” He flinches at his own words. Ready for the easy comeback. ‘Youre right. I don't care.’
“Bullshit!”
Paul squints. Surprised, not ready to trust he's safe yet. “What don't you–”
“You know how much I bloody care.” John's voice squeaks and when he speaks next it’s hardened. “And you knew if I found out I'd find a way to fix it, and you can't have that, can you?”
“What?”
“I think you like playing the martyr,”
Well that isn't the card he'd expected. “No,” he sputters.
“And don't let's pretend you didn't want an excuse to go back to your Hamburg habits,” John snaps.
Paul can feel his pulse accelerating at what he knows John's implying, but John doesn't leave it at implication.
“Find some sailor and–”
“I'M NOT A FUCKING QUEER YOU FUCKING PRICK!” Something wild overtakes him, something born of long-bottled terror and want, and he throws all his weight into John, grabbing his shoulders as John grips him by the arms and they fall together to the ground. The cement knocks the breath from Paul's lungs and he instantly abandons whatever primal urge had him throwing himself at John as he struggles to breathe, writhes pathetically to escape John's pinning weight. He feels the lack of oxygen depriving his brain and he arches back, gasps, feels the lack of sleep weighing on his aching bones, feels the insanity of the past few weeks showing itself in his spastic movements beneath John's steady hold. He's an animal, trapped and fruitlessly struggling. John gets a hand on his neck and maddeningly, the touch allows for much needed calm to filter through Paul's skin. He should panic more. John could choke him. Could do anything, really, with Paul as weak as he is. But John's warm, calloused palm presses down just enough to anchor Paul. His long fingers can reach a good way around Paul's neck, but they don't squeeze. Paul notices his own pulse racing next to the beat of John's thumb, and he feels his body fall into line with John's. No pain technique necessary. The panic dissipates. John looks at him and he looks at John and the axis slides into place.
“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to call you a queer.”
Paul scoffs, but he doesn't feel the bitterness he should. “Yes you did.”
“Alright, well I'm sorry.” John takes his hand from Paul's neck, and Paul instantly misses the touch, but to his shock, John doesn't stand. Instead, he settles himself more comfortably, nestles his chin in Paul's shoulder, his forehead pressed into the cement.
Paul turns to stone with John's gentleness wrapped around him. He doesn't want to, but he can't stop himself. He feels the layers of sediment hardening protectively between them. And then, to his horror, in spite of all the stone, the dam breaks, and his eyes are overflowing. What is wrong with him? Breaking down at tenderness? Why can't he just accept it like a human being? Maybe if he keeps completely still and silent, John won't have to know. The tears are hot and they're not receding, no matter how Paul chews at his lip and screws his eyes shut.
John pushes up a bit, and he sees. How can he not with his face inches from Paul’s? His sharp, pretty eyes flicker up to Paul's. Paul screws his own shut again and tries to breathe, but it's gone shuddered and faltering. John looks at him, crying like a child, and he lays back down. Wrapping him up again in his arms, with his burrowing chin. He's not angry at the tears. He's not shocked. No sign that he's even uncomfortable. And it terrifies Paul. He needs to hide this, curl in on himself and dissolve beneath the road. But John's not letting him. John doesn't want him to. John holds him, even like this, John holds him. A cry he didn't know he was capable of escapes him. A shout of pain he's been carrying now for years. And that's the end of the stone sarcophagus. He's shaking, sobbing, shameless, under John, and John just holds him tighter until the tears cry themselves out. Paul's whole body feels new, somehow. And light. Drained of something terribly heavy. He shouldn't have let John do that for him. All that weight must be transferring onto John, now, Paul is sure. He's had plenty of experience. “I'm so sorry, John.” He sits up.
John lets him, looks at him like he's a wounded animal. “Come on.” He stands up, offering his hand like he always does. Something someone who cares does, Paul understands in the moment.
He takes the hand. “Where are we going?”
John lets his grip linger for just a minute longer than necessary. “Mendips,” he says. “For now,” seeing Paul's hesitant glance.
Then what? Paul thinks.
“We'll get a flat soon,” John says it like he heard him. “Just us.”
‘Just us.’ Can they really do that? Paul doesn't know if the money will add up, honestly, but he can't be concerned with that right now. John wants a flat with him. He feels himself dissolving into an image of waking up next to John's sleep-soft face, and he has to say something to shake himself back into reality. Something not daft or birdish. “Mimi's not gonna be too pleased with you turning her house into a homeless shelter.”
John smirks. He tends to like it when Mimi's not too pleased. Paul can't help loving him for it. “Yeah, well. When we're richer than Elvis we can pay her back for the room and board.”
Paul laughs. “She'll love that plan.” He wants to take John's hand again. He doesn't, but the wanting doesn't scare him so much at the moment.