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Paul put down the hamburger and Coke on the table, then sat down. “There, happy birthday.”
“Ah,” John teased pointedly, “how very kind of you, Macca.”
It didn’t stop him from eating it, though. Out of the corner of his eye, a couple kissed deeply. He would’ve made a remark about it, but then remembered that’s how Paris was. Affection on display. He somewhat respected it, because people just didn’t go around doing that back in Liverpool. He glanced at Paul, who seemed to be looking at the same thing, most likely coming to the same realizations.
After finishing eating, he pulled out a lighter and a pack of cigarettes. Paul watched a bit intently as John brought the lit cigarette to his lips.
“Got any plans, ay, birthday boy?” Paul fiddled with his camera anxiously.
John grinned crookedly. “Aye, monsieur, I’ve got options!”
“Not with that bloody bowler hat.” He and John had only picked them up as a gimmick for hitchhiking, but John still found them quite amusing. Paul’s smile faltered ever so slightly when John gestured to a group of French girls who were just walking in. John noticed this and he raised his eyebrow.
“What’s the matter? Don’t remember you being this afraid of birds.”
Paul rolled his eyes, which brought John’s attention to their delicate mix of brown and green. Hazel eyes. “No, I just meant— well, we’re not here to pick up French chicks, are we?”
“I dunno, Paul, you tell me. Paris is a place of new adventures.”
Paul was pretty used to John’s antics. He would just let him go on as usual, but to be frank, he was hoping John would spend the birthday —or most of it— with him. It felt a bit selfish, it was John’s day after all, he could do what he wanted. And still, deep down, Paul could only wish…
“New adventures, same old you,” Paul said, pretending to be annoyed. “And what about poor Cyn-“
“Aw, quit it.” John playfully nudged him, which made Paul crack a small smile. They just sat there laughing for a little bit. They didn’t need words sometimes. Finally, John sighed. “Alright, what d’you suggest we do then?”
“Maybe something a little more… high class. It’s France, after all.”
***
Mere moments later, Paul giggled as he struggled to catch up with John on the street. John was always the impulsive type, and without Paul giving a specific itinerary he had leapt out of his seat and was on the move.
John stopped at the wall of a bar on the next block, mostly to catch his breath. Paul continued to laugh in between gasps for air, and John thought his laughter was infectious. They didn’t say anything for a few minutes. He didn’t mind the passersby. They didn’t glare down like those from back home. It was Paris after all, anything went. Even two boys in bowler hats laughing themselves to death while staring at each other.
When his heart rate finally slowed, John mumbled something mostly to himself, and quit laughing. Paul followed suit.
“You laugh like a fucking idiot,” said Paul, still smiling. John didn’t deny it, and made his way to the entrance to the bar. With Paul, he took a seat at a quieter table in the corner. He felt good, and he knew he looked good. Paul was looking good, too. Well, John thought that Paul always had a way with him. Something that made him really popular with the German girls, and John knew it wasn’t the stupid granny music Paul liked to sing every now and then.
Whatever it was, John definitely saw it too.
“We look really… artsy,” was the only thing he could say.
Paul snickered and said in a mock-french accent, “Mais, it’s Paris! Where zey ‘ave art and,” he paused to exaggerate a face at him, “amore.”
John responded quickly to hide the heat in his face. “That’s Italian, ya daft–”
“Okay fine!” Paul pulled out his camera, and took a quick shot of John, who put his arms out and grinned wide. Paul nodded, while still laughing at the silly bowler hat. John smiled a lot, at least around Paul, and that always caused Paul to smile as well. It was very endearing. “Yeah, that’s… that’s good.”
He set up the camera on a nearby table. “Maybe this time, we lose the hats.”
John shrugged and took it off, along with his glasses. Paul tossed his off as well. “This one’s for Stu,” he said, somewhat relishing in his own pettiness towards their (in Paul’s opinion) terrible bassist.
As John ordered them drinks –while making dangerous eye contact with the waitress– Paul boredly ran his finger over his camera lens. He watched as two more boys walked in the bar, and the part that really got him was their interconnected hands. He felt the sudden urge to turn away, embarrassed for a reason he didn’t fully comprehend.
Paris sure was different.
Once the waitress left, not after John gave her a wink, Paul regretted not having started a conversation with her. He might as well have more fun today.
“Oh, and he finally has nothing to say, eh?” John laughed to himself, clearly noticing Paul’s expression. “Hope you don’t mind sharing.”
“I don’t think me old man would approve,” he played along.
“Oh yeah? Is he not a big fan of… newer experiences?”
“Nah, he’s just not a fan of you.”
John chuckled, because he knew it was completely true. Paul thought it was funny as a sort of “my dad would never approve of him” type of situation. Both him and John liked to play around about that. John was a real Teddy boy who attended an art college and started fights. Really, the only thing they had in common was their music taste.
***
The waitress soon returned with two beers. Paul would think Paris had more quality drink options. Nonetheless, Paul raised his glass to John’s. “Cheers, mate.”
When he brought the glass to his lips, John furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. Paul didn’t drink. “Wha–”
“Oh, naughty boy! Underage drinking, are you?” he joked, a bit too loud. “What’re you? Sixteen?”
This caught a few people’s attention.
“John, you know damn–” Paul hissed, trying to keep them from getting kicked out. John, however, doubled down and got to his feet.
“Godforsaken child!” Paul was so gobsmacked that he barely resisted when John slapped his drink clean out of his hand, causing it to shatter loudly on the wooden floor. John started cackling, and Paul, in spite of it all, couldn’t help but gently smile.
“You bastard.”
The bartender saw it all, and yelled in a heavy French accent, “GET OUT!”
The waitress gasped quietly, not far away from them. Paul snuck her a quick, “Désolé, miss!” before he took off, full of adrenaline, along with the other.
John was a bastard. One bloody bastard.
And Paul loved it.
He knew he loved it. It was only then that he came to realize how much he truly loved it all. He loved every shared laugh, every cheeky joke, every understanding moment of silence. He loved performing with him, writing with him. He loved John.
The streets of Paris passed him in a blur. The only external forces that had any effect on him was the autumn breeze flying between and around John and him. Because in that moment, the whole world revolved around John and him.
***
On the slower pace of the walk back to the hotel, Paul felt like he was on a high – and this time it wasn’t the prellies.
“Christ, Johnny, the only thing you haven’t done today is start a fight.”
John jokingly threw up his fists. “You speak too soon, Paul.”
“Oh, bugger off,” he let out an exasperated sigh, but in reality, he couldn’t stop staring. He was half-annoyed by his own behavior, like that of the other boys he had seen at the bar. John seemingly didn’t have anything else to say, so they walked quietly for a block or two, only taking a few pictures.
He caught himself looking at John again, so excused it with, “I think we should change up our look.”
“What? The Elvis hair?” he thought it over, then shrugged nonchalantly. “One of these we’ll change it up. Maybe shave it off completely, I say.”
Paul couldn’t come up with a retort for that one. He only giggled at John’s wisecrack like he always did.
***
As soon as Paul unlocked the hotel door, John went in, ripped off his leather jacket, and crashed on their shared bed. He’d probably had enough running for the day. It wasn’t too late, the sun had only just set. But John was tired.
Not just from the day’s adventure, but also something that had been bothering him. Paul, still carrying his bowler hat, took a seat next to where John lay.
“Paul?”
“Hm?”
John rolled over so he was lying on his back. “I’m not too keen on it, y’know? Turning 21.”
“There’s nothing to worry about, really,” he tried to reassure him. This was a classic example of what Paul liked to call John “lowering his visor” of sarcasm and clowning around to just be… well, John. Honest.
“Getting old and all…” John rolled back on his stomach, laying his head in his arms.
Paul could already hear the sleepiness in his voice, and didn’t object to it.
“... fucking sucks…”
Sleep had already pulled him down. Paul watched him breathe slowly, in and out. His back subtly rose and fell with each breath. Paul found it soothing.
He looked quite beautiful, to be honest. Like a painting, maybe even something Stuart could whip up. But he didn’t want to think about Stuart. He only pulled out his camera, and quietly as he could without flash, took a picture.
And with that, he was done. He lay down next to John, calmly, because today’s revelations were a problem for tomorrow.