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Chapter Text

Paul looked himself over in the mirror. He was going out with friends to see some band perform at some rinky dink bar. It had taken some cajoling to get his dad to let him go. Paul was his only daughter after all. Though in the house and to most people he was Janine, a kind, considerate, and obedient girl. And to exactly no one but himself he was Paul.

He had on subtle makeup and a nondescript pink dress with a matching cardigan. He looked like a model of femininity, except that he’d cut his hair very short, having begged a classmate to do it. It was apparently very fashionable in France. He grabbed his purse and made his way downstairs. Dinner had been cooked, dishes done, and the laundry hung out to dry, conditions made by his father before being allowed to go out. He was, after all, the woman of the house now and thereby needed to take on the housekeeping duties.

“I’m going out, dad!” he called out as he reached the door, putting on his clip on earrings before reaching for the doorknob. 

Jim came to the living room, looking at Paul with some sort of trepidation. Mike never got looked at like that. “Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

“ Yes dad,” He sighed, “I’ll be with friends, I won’t talk to strangers, and I won’t accept strange drinks.”

“And be home by midnight,” Jim added.

“I will be I promise,” he flashed a quick smile and left before his dad could add anything to the list of warnings, or shortened his curfew. 

He shut the door tightly and took a deep breath. It was 7 and the fall air was already damp and chilly. He pulled his cardigan closer and began to walk to the bus stop, he’d be meeting his friends at the bar. The click of his heels on the pavement offered the only sound outside of cars driving by, occasionally honking at him. 

He sat at the bus stop, pulling out Jack Kerouac’s On the Road to read while waiting. It was dark but the lights from street lamps offered enough to read by. He looked up when the right bus pulled up and paid his fare before going to sit in the upper section, watching the world pass by during the journey. He disembarked and pulled out the bar’s name and address that a friend had scribbled on a piece of paper. It didn’t take long to find it and waiting outside for him were his friends. 

“Hey,” he smiled and greeted the other two. 

“You made it!” Elise smiled, “I wasn’t sure your dad was going to let you come. He’s so tight fisted with your time since your mom…” she trailed off.

“It took some convincing,” Paul chuckled, “But I was allowed out of my tower.”

“Let’s go in,” Ronnie smiled, “I hear these guys are the hot shit.”

Paul and Elise nodded, following Ronnie’s lead. Paul really admired her, she was one of those teddy girls. She wore dark clothes and she just didn’t care what other people thought. Paul cared so much, too much maybe, but part of him was afraid of letting slip what he knew to be true inside about himself. So he maintained a model of perfect femininity. Soft colors, soft makeup, outside from his hair, he tried to look like a respectable young woman. 

They took a seat at a table close to the stage and Elise went to get them all beers.

“How are your classes going, Jan?” Ronnie asked. She offered Paul a cigarette and he gratefully took one. Though his dad didn’t know he smoked. 

“They’re good, passing everything, my dad would kill me if I failed my classes.”

“Your dad’s such a hardass,” Ronnie frowned, pulling out a lighter, lighting her own cigarette and then Paul’s. “Pass your classes, take care of me and Mike, and be perfect,” Ronnie did her best mocking impression of Jim. 

“I’m his only daughter,” the thought made Paul cringe. “He’s just protective.”

Ronnie rolled her eyes. “You’ll go to uni, get that music teacher degree, and then you’ll be a school teacher until you marry some fuckin’ dock worker and then he’ll knock you up and you’ll quit, be a stay at home mum. I mean fuck girl, your whole life is planned out for you!”

“It’s not!” Paul flushed. He pursed his lips, glaring at the table. 

Ronnie shook her head. “It’s just… it’s the 50s, Jan. You can be more than what your dad’s planned out for you.”

“I’ve got our drinks!” Elise grinned, setting down the mugs of beer before pausing. “Ronnie, did you upset Jan?”

“She didn’t upset me,” Paul pulled his mug of beer to himself, still scowling. “She just cares a lot about my wellbeing.”

“Exactly,” Ronnie shook her head. 

Paul glanced up from his brooding as he saw the band getting onto stage and setting up. “Is this them?” Paul asked Ronnie.

“Yeah,” she grinned, “I’ve watched them before I think you’ll really like them.”

“I hope so,” Paul leaned back. He had a pretty high bar for music in his opinion, though Ronnie had never steered him wrong.

The band looked to be a group of scruffy Liverpool boys, about what would be expected, after all. So they either sounded good or actually sounded awful. Ronnie did say they were good but anyone could sound good when drunk or high. Paul’s eyes caught with one of the young men on stage, who paused and took a very long moment to look him over. 

Ronnie grinned and gave Paul a friendly shove. “That’s John, he’s the band leader.”

Paul blushed and John quickly looked away. He was very handsome and attractive, and Paul was attracted to other men. Helped him pass for sure. He saw John sneak another glance at him. It was flattering but he also knew that if he looked like he wanted to John would never have given him the time of day. John was almost certainly not gay and only liked him because he looked like a soft and beautiful girl.

“You should talk to him after they play,” Elise grinned. “He’s clearly eying you.”

“I told my dad I wouldn’t talk to strangers,” He wasn’t sure how much he’d meant the promise but it did feel weird to betray his dad’s trust.

Ronnie rolled her eyes, “You’re not a nun, come on you can’t live in a cloister of your own making. You’re an attractive young person, he’s an attractive young person…”

“If I say I’ll think about it will you two stop?”

“We’ll think about it,” Ronnie grinned. 

“Fine,” Paul sighed, turning from his friends and towards the stage as the band looked like they were about to start playing.

They were actually quite good. Ronnie hadn’t been wrong. Paul was into blues and rock and this band, while not perfect, did pretty well. Though the quality did decrease a little as they kept drinking. But it was fine and fun to be out. Especially as John kept sneaking glances at him, even throwing him a wink. It was enough that he knew he wouldn’t hear the end of it from his friends.

The band finished pretty late. Late enough that Paul knew he should catch the bus if he wanted to get home in time. He had finished his drink a while ago and had only had the one, even as his friends continued to drink. So they were  perhaps more loose and inclined to encourage Paul into something he probably didn’t have time to do. He began to gather his things and stuff them into his purse, pulling out just enough money for the bus fare home. 

“You’re not leaving already,” the voice sounded like Ronnie but the voice was certainly not, it was deeper and definitely more drunk.

Paul turned, face red. “I have to catch the bus. You put on a very good show.”

“Thanks, I know,” John reached out and took his wrist, “Won’t you have one drink with me, love?”

Paul felt his heart skip a beat in his chest. Though John was a little obnoxious, “I have to leave.” He caught Ronnie rolling her eyes but she said nothing.

“Please?” John looked almost pathetic begging Paul, but Paul was very attracted to him, so he didn’t put too much stock into his desperation.

“No, now please, I need to catch my bus,” he looked at his watch, if he hurried he’d make it.

“Can I have your name at least?”

“I, uh,” Paul hesitated, “It’s Janine.”

“Janine,” John repeated. “That’s a beautiful name.” His words came out rather slurred.

“Thanks,” he grinned uncomfortably and retracted his hand. “Have a good night, John.” He waved to Elise and Ronnie as he left. He walked quickly and turned into a sprint right as the bus looked almost like it was going to leave the stop. He caught it and sighed as he sat.

He stared out the window. Fantasies of what could have happened had he stayed playing in his mind. Would John have wanted to fuck him? Would he have let John fuck him? Probably he decided. He wasn’t a virgin, again something his dad didn’t know about him. To be fair that wasn’t exactly information he just volunteered. But he might not have wanted to sleep with John so drunk. He’d reeked anyway. Of body odor, sweat, stale cigarettes and beer. Not exactly appealing. Maybe he could go to another show. 

He was so wrapped up in his thoughts about the boy with the beautiful hair that he almost missed his stop. But he pulled the wire and the bus stopped and he exited the bus and made the short walk home, holding tightly his keys in case someone tried to give him trouble. It was always a little scary walking places at night. He arrived at his house with fifteen minutes to spare and quietly opened the door to let himself in. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself or wake anyone in the dark house. 

He crept up the stairs, avoiding the particularly creaky spots, and went to his bedroom. He flicked on the light and began to get out of his clothes, taking off the cardigan and unzipping the dress and letting it fall off his form onto the ground. He looked himself over as he stood in front of his mirror in his garters underwear and bra. He had a beautiful body and it was totally wasted on him. 

He jumped as he heard his door open and he grabbed a blanket off his bed and covered himself up. “Dad!” He hissed.

“Oh, sorry!” Jim covered his eyes and pulled the door almost closed. “Just wanted to make sure everything was okay.”

“I’m fine, I had a good time, I’ll tell you all about it before school tomorrow.” Paul sighed, “and knock next time, please .”

“I’m your dad-“

“I’m a woman, dad.” Paul felt his stomach knot up. “I’m not five anymore.”

“I’ll knock.” Jim acquiesced. “Good night, sweetheart.”

“Night dad,” Paul breathed a sigh of relief when his dad shut the door. He ignored the mirror in favor of changing into his nightgown, hanging up his clothes and sitting down at his vanity. He grabbed his jar of cold cream and began to smear it onto his face, dissolving the makeup he was wearing before taking a cloth and wiping off the excess. He looked at the cleaned up version of himself staring back at him in the mirror. He certainly looked more like himself. He wiped clean his hands and put them over his breast, pressing them flatter and looking at himself. If only. He’d have given just about anything to look like himself. He dropped his hands and his perky and uncomfortably large chest came back and with that came the upsetting and intrusive thoughts that made Paul decide it was time for bed. He turned off the light and laid down looking up at the ceiling of his room. Sleep would help him forget about those feelings, it always did.

Chapter Text

Kitten heels. Pink lipstick. Blue gingham sundress. Mascara. Bow headband. The outfit for the one final nice warm fall day. Though it was fall the weather had been unusually warm and that meant bare shoulders. He looked cute, a total masquerade of femininity. He inhaled deeply, stealing his nerves to go out into the world and luckily he was leaving before his dad got home. Some sleuthing in the paper helped Paul figure out where John’s band was playing. He wanted to see them again, and especially wanted to see John again. 

He didn’t normally have crushes, not because he didn’t experience attraction, but because he didn’t want to get hurt or disappoint himself. But there was something about John that made him forget all his walls and barriers. It was the kind of attraction that made warmth bloom in Paul’s chest, face, and under his skirt. That latter feeling had him indulging in many fantasies late into the night. 

He took a deep breath and touched up his lipstick before making his way out the door. He had a slightly earlier curfew, 10:30 since it was a school night and he was going out alone. He’d barely kept from rolling his eyes when his dad gave him the explanation. Paul had carefully left out that he was going to a club where the band would be playing. If his dad knew he would have for sure had a heart attack. It wasn’t even a seedy club or anything, it was in an okay part of town and Paul wasn’t the reckless type. 

It was easy to get in, the guy checking IDs gave him a once over and decided that Paul was attractive enough to enter the club. It wasn’t even poorly lit. It was dim but not dark, a jukebox played Elvis as the band set up. Paul caught a glimpse of John bent over and his pants were tight over his ass. Not a bad sight to greet him. John stood and turned around. His brow was furrowed only thought but it smoothed as he caught Paul’s eyes, causing Paul to blush furiously and look away. A drink, that’s what he needed. 

“Could I get a rum and Coke?” He asked in a nervous and demure tone, pulling money from the coin purse in his pocket and setting it on the bar. He felt a rush of air and there was a tall figure right next to him.

“You’re that Janine bird, yeah?”

Paul looked up at him, fighting the flush threatening to come over him. “I am yeah, I saw you play a couple weeks ago.”

“I’ve been looking for you, the one that got away,” John inched slightly closer, the space between them thick with tension and heat. John’s gaze was dark, a look that seemed to suit his overall rugged exterior.

Paul accepted his drink and held it close. “I’m surprised you even remember me in your state,” he teased. “It was late, my dad would have killed me if I was out past midnight.”

“Parents,” John tsked. “Well, Cinderella, I hope you’re sticking around, I’d love to get to know you better after we play,” John brushed Paul’s arm with the back of his right index and middle finger. 

“I’d like that, too,” Paul shivered. 

John grinned and Paul would have been lying if he’d said it wasn’t lecherous. 

Paul felt warmth spread through his chest, butterflies filling his stomach. He decided to just let the positive feelings take over him and push down his negative thoughts about how John only saw him as a woman. Which was true, but that was also what Paul was projecting and had no one to blame but himself.

Ignoring that thought, Paul took a seat against the wall. The floor in front of the stage was open for dancing, and Paul wasn’t really up for that. He wasn’t much of a dancer anyway. Other people who probably weren’t really much of dancers were not deterred by that fact like Paul was. They looked so free, bodies all pressed to each other. They didn’t care how they looked how the world perceived them, they got to just exist in their skins, their sense of self unadulterated. 

One drink turned into another as he sat and waited for the band to perform their set, the sound was not all too different than last time but John watched him from the stage throughout the whole performance. It was an intense gaze, a hungry one filled with lust and desire and being slightly tipsy Paul wanted to see where that was going to lead. It was only 9pm by the time the band finished, plenty of time to find out.

He finished the last dregs of his beer, smoothed out his skirt, and pulled the compact mirror from his purse to check his face, he dabbed at his lips to even out his lipstick. He looked up over the mirror and caught John staring at him still, and a slight head nod told him to follow him backstage. He hurriedly put away his compact and hurried behind the stage, his eyes trying to adjust to the dark when he felt the warm and calloused hand belonging to John grab his wrist and pulled him to the alley door and outside. 

It was warm and humid, and it smelled like piss and trash and old beer, but none of that mattered when John pushed him against the brick wall of the building and kissed him. It was electric, broad hands on his waist made him feel warm all over, and it was better than anything Paul had imagined in the convening time since he’d first seen John’s band perform. 

He felt a hand grab his breast, squeezing it and he pushed all those thoughts he hated out of mind, John was the one touching him, making him feel good, he gasped as lips and teeth were at his neck, kissing and biting, and leaving marks he’d have for days if he played his cards right. John’s hand slid down the top of his dress, exposing one breast and he brushed his thumb over Paul’s nipple, pinching it lightly, making him gasp and moan softly. One of Paul’s free hands - one not tangled in John’s hair, covered his mouth for fear of being caught.

He couldn’t help the strangled moan leaving him when he felt John’s other hand sliding up his thigh and under his dress, a finger running along the edge of his underwear, his hips pushing into the touch. Sure he’d fooled around before with a guy or two at a church event or party at a friend’s house, but that had mostly been over the clothes touching, though it did usually end with him on his knees giving the guy head while he was forced to take care of himself later at home. He’d never been with someone so willing to just touch him, and who seemed to know what he was doing.

Fingers ran along his folds, making him whimper before two fingers pushed inside him, and it was so much better than the fingering he was able to do on himself, or even what he achieved with the back of his hairbrush. It was rough, relentless, he slid the hand from his mouth down to touch himself, he was so close, and gasped when John growled and pinned the hand above his head, leaving him completely at his mercy. He felt his orgasm pooling in his hips, his senses overloaded in pleasure, and he knew when he came he was going to come hard. 

John’s mouth covered his as he exploded finally, the fingers inside of him unrelenting as he came, working him through it until he was a puddle being held up only by John’s arms. Puddle was the right word, as he came back to himself he noticed that John was literally soaking wet. That was new. His entire arm was shiny and his pants looked like he’d pissed himself.

“Didn’t know I could do that to a girl,” He grinned.

Paul laughed halfheartedly, tucking himself back into his dress, “Didn’t know I could do that.”

“Was it good?”

“Incredible,” He breathed, a quick glance told him that John was in need, and he knew what he had to do, and that was get on his knees, and show John exactly how good it had been.

He still had the taste of John’s cum in his mouth as he unlocked the door, 10:25pm was what his watch told him, just in time.

“Hello, Janine,” Jim greeted him, eyes concentrated on the evening paper.

“Hey, Da,” Paul smiled in return, hoping his powder job was doing enough to cover the marks on his neck that John had left there. He had no regrets, he just wished that he’d been sober enough, or that John had been, to think through the consequences of those actions.

“Did you have a nice time?” He looked up at Paul, eyes narrowing slightly as he took in the sight of him.

“Yeah, very nice, I’m dead tired though, and I really ought to be in bed,” He said hurriedly. He did not want to be having conversations with his dad about the things he was doing out and about. He tried to make a quick but not too quick dash to the stairs.

“Janine?” Jim called behind her. Stopping her as one hand just grabbed the banister.

“Hm?” He turned around to look at his dad.

“You…” The conflicted look on his face told Paul that he was searching for the right words to say. “You’re not doing anything that would be… regrettable, are you?”

“Dad-”

“I’ve been your age, and while I wasn’t a girl-”

Paul felt his hackles raise and his fingers dug into the banister, though his dad would never notice.

“-I know the sort of things young people get up do. I just don’t want you to ruin your future because of some boy who doesn’t respect you.”

He stood there quietly for a moment before finally uttering, “It’s my future to ruin, if I want.” Before ascending the stairs to go to his room. Stupid John, stupid dad. Stupid pink room, stupid dresses. He felt a wave of revulsion about himself hit him. He’d let someone touch him while they thought he was a girl. 

Tears welled in his eyes, which was so stupid, it was just sex, men had casual sex and he was a man. Yet what had happened, whatever that water thing had been, too, made him sick to his stomach, made him want to lose sense of his body. While the feeling was often distressing he leaned into it. Let his mind separate from his body while it was on autopilot, taking off makeup, cleaning himself up, putting on pajamas. While he disconnected from the feelings that made him want to tear his body apart and restitch it together the right way, not whatever fucked up sick joke the universe had thrown at him.

He tucked himself into bed, picking up On the Road from his nightstand and reading until he fell asleep with his book on his chest.

***

Paul had run into John again at the record store, he was there to buy the latest Elvis release and John had been there with the very same purpose. They chatted about Elvis and the music they both seemed to like, and John mentioned wanting to improve the band’s sound. Paul had never met anyone else who took music as seriously as he did, aside from George, maybe. 

Maybe it was the wild glint in John’s eye as he spoke, or the charming yet seemingly delusional way he spoke about the future, but Paul couldn’t help seeing himself as part of it. Part of the spotlight, the fame, even if it was only a fantasy. When John mentioned casually that he was looking for someone to replace one of the guitarists, if he found anyone good enough, well that simply planted the seed.

Which is how Paul found himself standing in front of his mirror, with too long pants, and a button down shirt he’s taken from Mike’s room. All a little too large. He knew he looked like a kid wearing their dad’s clothes when they were little. He had a backpack with a dress, flats, and bra in it to change before coming home. He took some gel he’d gotten and slicked his hair back in the teddy boy style he’d only ever practiced in the bathroom mirror before bathing. He’d put on outfits similar to this before, sometimes it was the only way to soothe the clawing rage of being in a body that didn’t feel right. But he’d never ever gone out in public like this. An eyeliner pencil thickened and darkened his brows and he hoped it just wasn’t totally obvious. 

He looked at himself in the mirror and saw himself actualized. The person staring back wasn’t some doll in pink, but a flesh and blood real boy. Or at least a shoddily put together one, but a boy nonetheless. He looked a little younger than he was, but the cloth binding his breasts was doing the job, and while clearly a little awkward seemed to look right. The outfit his the curves on his body, albeit it swallowed him a little bit.

He stuck his hands in his pockets, shifting to each side to take a better look at himself. 

“My name’s Paul,” he pulled his hand out, extending it to his mirrored reflection as he tried to make his voice sound authentically, and convincingly deeper.

“Name’s Paul,” He repeated the action.

“Hi my name’s Paul,” each time he said it with a little more confidence. It was the first time actually saying his name aloud. Allowed himself to say the name he kept so very close to his chest. He was going to go to that church hall where he knew John was practicing, introduce himself as Paul, as a man, as him , and play the best guitar John has ever heard from someone else. 

“Paul,” he said one last time, looking at himself intently in the mirror. “My name is Paul.” He let the word take shape in his mouth, feeling each syllable, its weight, it’s profound self actualizing nature. 

He was ready.

Slinging his guitar over his shoulder, grabbing his backpack, also from Mike thanks, he made his way to the bus stop and waited.

He’d never been so paranoid in public before. He looked around to see if anyone noticed or recognized him, whether his dad was going to be home sooner than expected and see him dressed like, well, himself. While it was the right thing to do, he was terrified of being found out by the wrong person. He saw what happened to gay kids let alone someone like himself. He’d never met anyone like himself!

He steeled his nerves as the bus rolled to a stop and he looked up to see if Jim or Mike was exiting, but no one he recognized disembarked, and the bus driver didn’t even give him a second glance after he paid the fare and took his seat. No one noticed the young boy taking a seat by the window. Old grannies were focused on their knitting and crochet, business men were reading the papers, moms with their toddlers and babies in tow were reading magazines and shushing their kids. Paul was just one of them, a person on the bus. 

The second major rush of nerves came as he left the bus and stood in front of the church hall where they were practicing. He couldn’t hear them, the rush of blood in his ears felt like the only truly audible thing. He just had to do this. If he ever wanted to stand in front of live audiences he had to get his first and most important performance over and done with.

He pushed through the doors into the rectory where the band was set up, there was a church fete that coming weekend that Paul knew they’d be playing at, hence making sure all their equipment was at the church ready for that Saturday.

“Who the fuck is this, John?” a blond boy behind a drum kit groaned as Paul walked in.

“Oi, private practice,” John frowned at Paul. “No need for little brothers hanging around.”

His stomach dropped, what if this was going to actually go very wrong? “My name’s Paul,” he said, extending his hand out to John. He hoped his manicured nails wouldn’t draw too much attention.

John stared at the hand before reluctantly taking hold and giving it a firm shake. “Pleasure to meet you, Paul,” he said in a posh voice, “Now fuck off.”

It was so different, almost thrilling, to be treated like a man. Even if that meant John was being extremely rude. But it wasn’t the cassanova-esque player that he’d projected, this was John as he actually was. Stressed, sweaty, and reeking of ego.

“I,” his voice cracked, he cleared his throat before starting again, “I heard you were looking for a new sound.”

“What makes you think I’m looking for the sound of a choirboy?” He sneered.

“Trust me,” he pulled his guitar off his back, giving it a strum. “Give me like a minute.”

“Well with that thing back to front I’d like to see what you can do, I guess.” There was a bit of hope in John’s brown eyes, mistrust perhaps, skepticism was plenty, and the way he crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, letting his face fall into a carefully practiced neutral look as he nodded for Paul to start.

Paul began to play. He tried to not watch his hand too much, not trip because of nerves. He knew this was pivotal for his life. He didn’t know how or exactly why but in his gut he knew . His fingers glided along the strings, his voice was strong enough from practicing as he played his way through “Twenty Flight Rock” and he was grateful that he’d worked on the song in his lowered affect, keeping himself from slipping into his natural register that would have made them all suspicious of him. When he strummed that last chord he felt like he could breathe, like he had somehow sung the entire song on one intensely held breath. 

The other men in the band just looked at him, some impressed, some clearly simply less invested in the band. John’s look had not changed, if anything as he’s performed John had stared at him more intently, which only made him nervous that John had figured out that the Janine he’d fucked the other day at a club was the man standing before him, a white knuckle grip on his guitar’s neck.

“Not bad for a lefty,” John raised his eyebrow as he shrugged himself off the wall. “Swing by my house next week sometime, yeah?” He walked over to the small table they’d thrown their shit on and grabbed a cigarette from his pack, tucking it behind his ear. “Want me to write it down or are you gonna telepathically get it from my brain?”

Paul blushed, he hadn’t realized he’d been staring so intently at John as well. “Uh, writing it down would be gear.”

John hummed, scribbling down his address on a piece of paper, “Come by Wednesday around 6.” He reached out to hand the paper to Paul, looking him over one more time.

As soon as Paul grabbed the paper and tried to take it John held onto it for just a split second, their eyes meeting and Paul couldn’t quite read what was behind John’s eyes. It looked like lust, like confusion, like admiration. A split second later he let go of the paper and Paul tucked it into his pocket. “Thanks.”

John just nodded, sticking the cigarette from behind his ear into his mouth and lighting it, turning back to his band, away from Paul. He wanted to say something more, to try and gauge the situation, but instead he tucked the paper in his pocket, put his guitar on his back, and left. Without incident. He grinned to himself as he realized, no one said anything, no one seemingly noticed! To them he was just Paul, pushy, awkward, talented Paul. 

He couldn’t wait for Wednesday to be Paul, to be himself again.

Chapter Text

The fete was being held at St. Peters church, a respectable location to venture with his friends on a Saturday. Elise, Ronnie, and George were all in tow. He hadn’t exactly told them that it was to see The Quarrymen perform, but to just spend a nice afternoon together. He was wearing the same blue gingham sundress that he’d had on the last time John had seen him dolled up. Hopefully he’d recognize the dress, or recognize him. But not too much for his own safety really.

He was doing his best to navigate the cognitive dissonance between the person he knew himself to be and the person he knew John desired. The person he wanted John to desire. If he thought he could be just the external presentation of who he truly was he’d do it in a heartbeat. But unfortunately there was no safe or easy way to tell John all the things going on inside his head, hell he hadn’t even told George and George was his truly closest friend, like his brother.

“Ooh, I see why Janine invited us,” Ronnie threw her arm around Paul’s shoulder with a grin. “Loverboy is here!”

“That’s the bloke we saw the other night, yeah?” Elise asked.

“Mhm, the one she had eyes for,” Ronnie gave Paul’s shoulder a push. “You coulda been honest.”

“I thought it would also just be nice to be here,” he could feel the blush creeping up his face which was pink enough from the sun. “It’s something to do on a Saturday and our parents won't have heart attacks. Especially with our chaperone,” He grinned at George. 

“C’mon,” George blushed. “Mum just wanted me out of the house on a Saturday where my brothers are both busy for once.”

“And we’re glad you’re here,” Paul took his arm. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Yes!” Elise grinned and took George’s free arm, flanking him with Paul. “It’s always nice to have some male energy around, too many women with the three of us. But I’m sure you don’t mind that.” Her grin widened as George’s face turned bright red.

No one would notice but Paul’s smile faltered ever so slightly. Though he hadn’t expected to be viewed as anyone different in the eyes of his friends he was still perturbed at not being seen as having any sort of masculinity. He supposed he had no one but himself to blame, after all, he had to be the perfect daughter and friend and so he wore the costume he’d been taught to navigate his whole life. To giggle, to not ask for too much, to not complain. To cook, clean, and get married as soon as he could. But it still hurt even if they had no way of knowing it could.

“Ooh,” Ronnie grabbed Paul’s arm and leaned to whisper in his ear, “Loverboy is staring.” Her voice came in a sing-songy way that shook Paul back to reality. 

When he looked up he saw those piercing eyes staring at him, a scowl on his face that Paul couldn’t discern. Did John notice that he was the young man who came by a few days ago and played left handed guitar? Or was he trying to make sure he was the right person in the crowd? They had only met, after all, in dark clubs and bars late at night.

Paul watched as John jumped down from the truck operating as the stage for the day. He didn’t mind the view as John’s shirt pulled tightly over his shoulders as he maneuvered down and pushed through the crowd of parents and young children who gave him dirty looks as he made his way to stand in front of Paul. 

He looked perturbed and Paul could feel the blood pound in his ears and he shivered despite there not being a breeze. The narrowed squint analyzing him was enough to make his blood run cold. 

“It is you, Cinderella,” he straightened up and his face relaxed and Paul felt like he wasn’t about to actually die in the backyard of a church. “This your boyfriend?” He glanced at George with a look of heavy skepticism.

“No,” Paul blushed, “Just m’friend.”

John nodded though his gaze lingered on George. “Good,” was all he said regarding that. He paused awkwardly before clearing his throat, “Was hoping I’d see you again.”

“I-” Paul licked his lips, “Me, too.” A blush creeped up his neck and onto his cheeks. It only served to make John’s grin widen predatorially. He looked like a wolf, and Paul hoped that John would devour him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Ronnie roll her eyes at him. 

“You’re sticking around for the show, yeah?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

He looked over his shoulder to the band who were looking at them talking with a measure of exasperation. “Would you like to go out and get a soda or… something, sometime?”

“I would,” he nodded, “Very much.” He rummaged through his purse to pull out a piece of paper and a pen, “Here’s my address and phone number. Give me a call and we’ll figure something out, yeah?”

“Gear,” John took the paper, letting their fingers brush against each other. He held the scrap of paper from a shopping list Paul had had in his bag like it was the most important piece of paper to ever exist. He carefully folded it and tucked it in his back pocket.

“John!” the blond drummer called his name. 

“Coming! Christ!” He shouted over his shoulder, “Maybe shouldn’t say that at a church.” But his beaming grin told Paul that he wasn’t afraid of a little blasphemy in a sacred space. “Enjoy the show.”

“I will!” He called at John’s back as the man made his way with less of a rush to the band and they began to set up to play.

“Janine, my god.” Elise shook her head. “You can’t just drool at him like that, how is he supposed to respect you?”

“Lay off, Elise,” He rolled his eyes.

“If you throw yourself at a guy there’s no chase, and you’re just cheapening your value.”

“Is that what your mom tells you?” He retorted.

“Janine-” George tried to cut into the conversation. Paul could see how nervous he was getting as there was a fight brewing but he didn’t really care. He didn’t need his friend speaking for him.

“Don’t defend her, George!” He scowled, “If my value is so cheap then why is he so obsessed with me even after we’ve fucked?”

“He’s just wanting to use you,” she spat. 

“You’re just jealous,” he grinned coldly and crossed his arms. George and Ronnie exchanged a look between the two of them. Clearly neither person particularly wanted to be there nor had they expected this to happen. 

“I’m not jealous!” She crossed her arms to mirror Paul. “My boyfriend respects me.”

“Your boyfriend is gay !” he hissed and felt immediately bad. It was as if all the momentum of the argument had disappeared. It was true, everyone but Elise seemed to know it. And he had seen the guy with another boy walking in a way that allowed the backs of their hands to brush against each other. It wasn’t his place to say something like that at all, he would have hated it if someone outed him like that. He knew there was no excuse. Tears began to brim in Elise’s eyes and he wished he could take back the words. 

“You’re such a bitch sometimes, Janine.” Her words came out in a ragged whisper before  she ran off towards the church hall and Ronnie shook her head at Paul before running after Elise, leaving just Paul and George behind.

George just stared at him, clearly not knowing what to say.

“I know,” he said softly, “I know I shouldn’t have said that. Okay? Can we just listen to the music now?”

“Yeah,” George agreed with a nod and they made their way to the crowd forming around the band and Paul allowed himself to get lost in the music and tried to not think too hard about how he maybe ruined his relationship with his friends.

***

Dinners in the McCartney household were a usually calm affair. Paul was the one tasked with cooking for himself, his dad, and Mike and while he didn’t view himself as particularly talented at cooking he knew how to cook up sausages and vegetables and make a half decent meal for them to share. 

Often dinners were not super talkative. Not because of some iron fisted rule from Jim but because there wasn’t usually a lot to discuss outside of work and school which were usually summed up by “fine” from all of them. As Mike and himself had gotten older dinner had somewhat become more of a chore, but it was a requirement most nights for all of them to eat at least one meal together. 

There was still the empty chair that always seemed to haunt their meals. No one sat in the chair that stayed empty across from Jim. It was always tucked into the table, and it felt too sacred to even move. It was the unspeakable presence of their mother’s absence and they were each too afraid in some ways to acknowledge it. But there was always a placemat in front of it, a small way to keep a space for Mary at their meals. 

The only sound in the silence was the clinking of forks and knives on their plates until the peal of the phone piercing the silence. “I’ll get it,” Paul said, excusing himself from the table to answer the ringing phone. “McCartney residence, Janine speaking.”

“Oh thank g-d it’s you,” the voice on the other end of the line said.

“I’m sorry to be rude but who is this?” He frowned. Leave it to him to get a weird phone call late in the evening.

“It’s John.”

“Oh! Hi,” He blushed and cupped the mouthpiece of the phone so he could speak a little more softly into the phone. 

“I was wondering if you’d want to go out on Friday night?”

“I would like that very much, you can pick me up at my house.”

“What time?”

“Six? If that works for you?”

“Six works fine.” Paul heard a boredom from how John was talking, likely bored from the logistics of going out. 

“Is… Is this a date?”

“Obviously, Janine.”

“Hey, I was just asking!” He said defensively.

There was a sigh on the other end of the line, “Anyway, I’ll see you Friday night then. Six o’clock. Night Janine.”

“Night,” he replied and heard a click as John hung up on his end. He set the phone back on the cradle with a shake of his head before joining his family back at the table.

“Who was that?” Jim asked.

“It was a guy I met at the church fete, he was asking me out for Friday night.” Paul kept his eyes fixed on his plate as he carefully cut his sausage into smaller pieces. He couldn’t look his dad in the eyes about this. His dad was overbearing enough as it was let alone with him going on a date . He definitely didn’t know, nor did he need to know, that Paul had already had sex with John. 

“I expect to meet him before you two go out.”

“Yes, dad. He’ll be here at six, you can interrogate him then.”

“What’s his name?”

“John.”

“Hm,” Jim replied. There was a frown creasing his face as he picked up his cup of tea and took a long drink from it, deep in thought. “I want him to treat you right-”

“Can I be excused?” Mike asked loudly and Paul saw that his face was bright read and he squirmed uncomfortably.

“Yes, put your plate in the sink,” Jim replied. 

Mike moved like lightning and was gone in a matter of seconds.

Paul pushed a piece of green bean on his plate. He knew this could only now mean that he and his dad were going to have one of their “serious” conversations. The kind that he dreaded because it invariably meant that he got told a bunch of double standards that never applied to Mike.

Jim cleared his throat, “I want this boy to respect you, Janine. I’m just thinking of your future and I want to be sure that the men you date are dating with good intent.”

“I’m only 18, dad,” Paul sighed. 

“And I know you want to go to college, and that’s where men meet girls to get married to and start their lives together and I don’t want you throwing your life away on some boy you met who won’t respect you.”

“Dad!” His face was turning bright red. “I can take care of myself. I’m grown, and you raised me well.” He looked up with a soft face, it wasn’t a lie, but it was also a way he knew to get his dad to soften: stroke his ego. “You showed me what to look for in a boy. I would never do anything that might ruin my future.”

Jim slumped slightly in his chair, the energy and worry easing from his tired frame. He reached over to take Paul’s hand, holding it gently in his own. “I know it’s weird to talk to your dad about these things, I sort of thought Mary would take care of these sorts of discussions so I know it’s awkward. But I trust you, but you can’t blame me for worrying. The world is rough for young women and I know men.”

“I know, it is… difficult,” he admitted. “For us both sometimes I think. But I appreciate it all, all the same.”

“And you know you can come talk to me about anything , right?”

There it was, the hollow promise that he knew parents gave. Jim could never begin to conceive of what anything could have possibly included. In a more real way Paul could never come to his dad and explain the complex emotions living in his mind and heart. That he knew he was a man, that he knew of himself as a boy, had a name for himself and everything. That he wasn’t a virgin, that he loved music, that he had auditioned for a band as himself and was going to John’s on Wednesday to probably practice and just be a bloke with his friend-to-be John. Anything was a fake reassurance, one Paul knew deep inside.

“Of course, dad. I promise, anything.”

Chapter Text

He wiped his hands on his jeans, there he was standing at the door of the house on Menlove Ave, following the instructions John had written down for him. What if this was a really bad idea? Sure one time he could get away with showing up and playing flashy guitar but to sit with John in his house? That was a whole other situation entirely. He looked around at the house, the realization he was already too far in over his head dawning on him and he reached out and knocked on the door. 

It was a firm couple of knocks but he was already over analyzing them. Were they manly enough? Believable? Should he have knocked harder? He tried to think about how his dad and brother knocked on doors and tried to compare it to his own. He didn’t even notice the door open and John standing in the frame of it, arms crossed and looking at him with amusement. “I’m afraid I’m not buying whatever you’re selling, if you ever get that pitch together in your head.”

Paul jumped, a blush creeping over his cheeks, “Sorry! I was… lost in thought…” He sounded so lame. Interacting with John as Janine felt so easy. He knew the motions, the right things to say. How to flirt and flatter and play coy. This was the side of himself he hadn’t yet allowed to see the light of day. It was like breaking in new shoes and he was still in the squeaking stage where he was getting blisters and wished he could already go back to the slightly easier pantomime even if it killed him inside. 

John snorted, “No shit, come inside.” He turned around and left Paul on the doorstep, retreating back into the dark of the house.

Paul followed quickly, closing the door behind himself and rushing to follow behind him. He wanted to pause to take in the house, look at the photos on the wall, but John was dead set on heading upstairs, presumably to where his room was. Paul caught glances of well dusted and tidied shelves and doilies, pictures of a baby, presumably John, and a couple, Paul assumed it to be John’s parents. 

He tried not to stare at John’s room when he entered it, taking his guitar off his shoulder and leaning it against the wall. The room had pictures, a lot of Elvis, a very full ashtray, and was about as messy as Mike’s room. He wanted to poke around, to learn more about the man he was slowly growing close to in several ways, but refrained because it would have been well, weird. In another way this was sort of how he imagined his room. Away from the pink and white colors his mom had painted the walls when he was born, part of the reason he refrained from painting over them, John’s room was all moody and masculine. 

“Smoke?” John grabbed his pack of cigarettes off his nightstand and offered one to Paul who took it. He picked up a pack of matches and lit his own first and then Paul’s.

“Ta,” Paul replied.

“So I know you have the skills, I want to see if you can play more than one song.” John raised a brow at Paul.

“I write my own music,” Paul said casually, taking a long drag off his cigarette. He leaned against the wall by his guitar with a shrug, looking at John who seemed to have frozen where he was sitting on the edge of his bed. Was that too cocky? Should he have kept that to himself? He did after all just show up at a practice, play guitar, and there he was claiming to be some sort of artist. He knew he was one, he told his friends it was poetry but it was music. He heard the chords in his head and the incessant all consuming need to create the music that constantly played in his mind. 

There was also the fear at any moment that John would see through the ill-fitting pants and overly baggy shirt that implied he didn’t know how to dress himself and see the version of himself he was desperately trying to hide. All he could do was be patient and see what John was going to say next.

“Can you play something you wrote?” John asked softly. It was almost in reverence or disbelief.

“I’m working on a song with my friend, George,” Paul picked up his guitar and set his cigarette in the ashtray. He took a seat on the floor cross-legged and checked his guitar to make sure it was in tune. 

“Shit you can tune by ear?”

“Can’t you?”

“Nah, we’ve been taking our guitars to some guy down the street who can tune ‘em.”

“You just have to know how it sounds, to have it inside of you,” Paul looked up at him. “Give me your guitar; I can tune it while I’m here.”

John grabbed it from where it was leaned against the wall and handed it over to Paul, watching intently as he strummed the guitar before tuning up the G string and lowered the A. He handed it back over with a smile. “Right as rain, here.”

“Thanks,” John looked impressed at the skill and Paul could only assume it was one more check mark in the positives about him. “Now play.”

“Right,” Paul cleared his throat and started to play. It was a rough version of a song he and George were writing together, it was one of their hobbies, George liked music as much as he did and understood the need to write music. Most important George never made him feel dumb for wanting something more than getting married and having kids.

He let the words flow out of him. Every time he played guitar he had the same euphoric experience. Losing himself in the melody and words, his fingers gliding over the strings. It was the moment he felt most like ‘him.’ He was the music, the beautiful meditative experience of it, and the universal way he was able to express himself. Even if the words couldn’t be understood, the meaning and feeling behind them could be. Music was unifying and meaningful and he knew music could change the world, and he wanted to be there for it.

He finished as much as he and George wrote and looked up at John who still had that impressed look on his face. It made Paul want to blush but men didn’t blush, especially not because of the appreciative look of another man. 

“Can you show me the chord progression?” John asked.

“Mhm,” Paul nodded, this time blushing slightly. Paul show John a chord progression? 

He watched John reach under his pillow to grab something and he put on a pair of glasses.

The jolt of panic that went through Paul was as if he had been suddenly struck by lightning. Was John now going to recognize him? He’d never seen the man wear glasses before but they had gotten up close and personal with each other. He didn’t know how bad his eyesight was to be fair. He felt sweat pooling on his back as John’s eyes met his own. John stared and looked like he was actually seeing Paul for the first time. The gaze was only slightly unnerving though as John was looking him over as if he was truly seeing Paul for the first time. Maybe he was. 

Paul looked down away from John, eyes focusing on his fingers hovering over the frets on his guitar.

“I know I’m an ugly fucker with these things on, fuckin hate ‘em,” John ducked his head and glared down at his guitar as he moved to sit across from Paul.

He wasn’t stupid and could read a room and a body, the way John was sitting, his face red in embarrassment told Paul to drop the topic completely. Besides, he didn’t know how to reply in a way that wouldn’t come across poorly. If anything the way the glasses framed John’s eyes, the most expressive and kind part of his face, his eyes that told Paul that there was so much pain, and anger, and fear behind them, those glasses only made Paul think how much more beautiful they looked.

But mates didn’t say that, they didn’t tell each other ‘no, it’s fine, your eyes are so beautiful.’ They let the subject drop. 

Instead Paul angled himself to better face John and as the other man looked up at him, the redness receded from John’s face and he could feel himself warm as they sat. Perfect mirrors of each other. Because he was left-handed their guitars faced the same way and so they looked like two perfect halves. They sat in silence for a moment, neither prepared to say anything to each other. Paul was afraid of his voice breaking and his cover being blown. It was all going so well and he didn’t want to ruin it. “The-” he squeaked finally, taking a moment and clearing his throat before speaking again, “The chord progression is pretty simple but it’s got an F chord so you, you know, have to hold the strings down, which is tricky even for me,” he wiped his right hand on his pants and laughed nervously. He moved his fingers into position and played a twangy off key F chord.

“Your hand’s in a bad position,” John reached over and took hold of Paul’s hand, “Here,” he said, “Your wrist was too far back, you should have better leverage now.”

Paul’s breath nearly caught as John’s hand touched his and seemed to linger, the touch itself was even gentle. He wondered if John was having thoughts like him, except he had one vital piece of knowledge that John didn’t about their relationship to each other. “Thanks,” was all the managed to say. 

They sat and practiced Paul and George’s song together, Paul teaching the chords and the words and John picked it up surprisingly quickly. Though maybe he should have been less surprised as John was well, John, and Paul could already tell that he’d be bigger than Elvis one day. He felt it in his bones. John was as good as him and admittedly slightly better in some ways. He knew he was slightly too prideful to admit that though.

“You know,” John started, “I write my own songs, too. Nothing special, nothing we’ve really performed yet. You know, we do a lot of covers, but I like to think one day I’ll be on stage singing music that I wrote.”

“Why don’t you perform your own stuff?” Paul asked.

“Dunno, the group’s not into it and I don’t want to be that guy.” John shrugged, setting aside his guitar. He stretched out his legs and leaned back against his bed, tilting his head back and revealing the long line of his neck. “They’re just not as into being serious about the band as I am, I think.”

“I get that,” Paul leaned back, “No one really takes my stuff seriously, either, just my friend George. I tried to sing at a church when I was younger but I wasn’t a great fit. My dad played piano for years and so he doesn’t want me to “waste my life” pursuing music. But my mom was always a big supporter of all my creative endeavors.” He licked his lips, fighting the nerves that always arose when talking about his mom.

“Was?” John asked, tilting his head questioningly.

“Er, my mum died when I was really young,” he shrugged, “It’s been years but I’m still not ‘over it’ whatever that means.” He knew he ought to be at this point and maybe it was that he filled the role she left empty at home but he felt her echos still, sometimes it was like she both never left and had also newly died.

John nodded slowly before his eyes had clouded over in thought and he ran a hand through his hair, causing it to stick up from all the grease used to style it, “My mum died, like a year or so ago.” His voice became tight with emotion and Paul wished he could hug him or comfort him, but he didn’t know exactly how to go about that in a situation like this one. “Left the house and a car hit her-” He cut himself off talking and Paul saw the tears that had welled up in his eyes, ones John was clearly attempting to hide as he turned away.

“I’m so sorry, John. I had no idea.”

He grunted in reply, still staring at the rug in his room and fiddling with a loose thread on it. “S’fine.”

“Do you live with your dad?” Paul asked, maybe it was still to sensitive of a question considering the information John had just revealed but he knew the conversation needed to shift even just a little, to give John space for his fresh and still active grief over his mom. That was the women, Paul assumed, in the photo next to John’s bed, not a girlfriend Paul didn’t know about. She was smiling and she seemed full of life.

“Fuck no,” John snorted, shaking his head. He seemed silently grateful to move the subject away from his mother, “I live with my Aunt, Mimi. She’s a hardass but she’s raised me since I was little, she’s mum’s sister.”

“Ah, do you like living with her?”

“It’s not ideal,” John took his glasses off to wipe his eyes. He set the glasses aside on his night stand and let out a heavy sigh, “I know she’d love for me to get a job, quit the art college thing, get a life, or a wife. Both? But she puts up with the fact I’m here a little longer. Least til the band gets really going.”

“My dad’s looking at the same things for me.” Paul commiserated. He puffed himself up arms to his side like his dad, wagging his finger in pantomime. “Get good grades, you should look at getting married and settling down! I want to be a grandfather!” He did his best impression of his father, his finger wagging at some imaginary version of himself. He dropped the act with a sigh and an eyeroll. “It’s like they can’t remember being young.”

“Right! I’m not ready to settle down, I still want to live life! To change the world!” John threw his hands in the air to motion at everything around them, a grin on his face to light up half of Liverpool. “My music will change the world.”

Paul couldn’t keep the grin off his face as John spoke. It was like when he’d run into him at the record store a week or two ago. He could picture it, the two of them, McCartney and Lennon, musicians, songwriters, artists. He imagined them in front of crowds who wanted to hear music that they wrote, not Elvis or Little Richard or Screamin’ Jay Hawkins. Hand in hand- Well symbolic hand in hand at least. He didn’t know if they could have a ride off into any kind of sunset end, but he knew they could make something that no one had ever seen before. He just hoped John saw the same in him. “I believe you,” was all Paul could manage, the words coming out like a secret prayer he was confiding in to John.

There was a sincere smile that flashed across John’s face, just for a moment, before retreating back to the carefully curated and standoffish exterior he had clearly spent years perfecting and building up. “You should start coming to practices, we practice Mondays and Wednesdays from 6 to 8, and perform when we can on Friday, Saturday and Sunday night. Not this Friday night though I’m busy.”

“With a bird?” Paul grinned at John. He took a moment to revel in the blush that crept up John’s face slightly and with the fact that he knew about John’s date already because it was with him.

“Yeah,” John groaned, “Her name’s Janine, not my typical type mind you, I usually like them a little curvier and blonde. But she’s got this real Parisian looking haircut and there’s just something about her. I don’t know, you'd have to meet her. Legs for days and all that, we’ll see. She puts out which is nice. I just don’t know how far she does, if you catch my drift.”

Paul blushed slightly, “I do, yeah.” Well he for sure knew how guys talked when no women were around now, that much was for certain. “Maybe you’ll get lucky.”

“I hope so,” John sighed, “Well,” he said abruptly, standing to stretch, “Congrats on making it in the band, you don’t need to come to practice tonight, I’ve gotta give the news to everyone. But you should bring that friend of yours George with you, sounds like he might have the talent I’m hoping for.”

“I will,” Paul agreed quickly. There was a mixture of fear and relief that flooded him and made his blood run cold. To bring George would be to either come out to him or convince him it was all some kind of ruse, which he knew would feel much worse to pretend. So he needed to get his shit in order as soon as he could because this was too big an opportunity to make George pass up on. 

“Good, we’ll see you on Monday, we’ll be meeting here.”

“Gear, I’ll be here.” Paul smiled at John and met the hand extended to him in a firm handshake. It felt like he was sealing a deal he didn’t know the fine print of. It was thrilling albeit scary.

He'd probably have to open up and have an honest conversation, and maybe lose a friend or worse. It was just that saying ‘hey I’m pretending to be this guy Paul’ made him want to throw up. Because it wasn’t a costume he was putting on, a trick he was playing to get into an in crowd or private space. This was him, a more authentic version of himself than he’d ever had exist before. He knew he looked awkward in his clothes and maybe didn’t quite get all the social cues that men should have by his age, but it felt so right. It felt right to be with John even as a friend, sharing personal stories and talking about girls. Even if he was himself the “girl” in question. 

There was no way he’d lie and say this wasn’t real. That this wasn’t him. He knew he had to face the music in a real way and George was just the first step on that path. Maybe it was going to be the path to his freedom. Or not. But there was only one way to find out and he knew it.

Chapter Text

“You said he’d be here at six, Janine,” Jim stated, looking up at Paul from his book. “It’s six thirty.”

“He’ll be here, dad,” Paul bit his lower lip in an attempt to not pick at his cuticles and make his fingers bleed. It was a terrible nervous habit. That he had been often admonished for by his teachers. Ladies should, after all, have well manicured nails indicating good character and hygiene. The words rang through his head as he brought his finger to his lips to bite at a piece of dry skin. 

“Janine!” 

His hand flew to his lap where he stilled them, his face flushing red. “Sorry dad.”

“You know that’s a filthy habit.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” he said softly.

“I don’t like that he’s kept you waiting,” Jim said after a moment with a sigh, “He’s getting off on the wrong foot already.”

“Stuff happens, I’m sure he’ll be here any minute now.” He looked to the clock on the mantle, watching the minute hand tick forward, another minute John was late. Another tick mark against him in his dad’s eyes.

The next five minutes passed as slowly as Paul imagined eternity would by the time there was a resounding knock on the door that made him jump up, “I’ll get it!” He saw Jim set his book down out of the corner of his eye as he opened the door and saw John standing there in front of him. 

He didn’t look particularly rushed or embarrassed, and in any other circumstance Paul wouldn’t have cared, either. But the teddy boy look and the cigarette loosely held between John’s lips was not exactly going to help gain Jim’s approval. “It’s 6:45,” Paul hissed.

“I lost track of time,” John rolled his eyes.

“ I don’t care, but my dad will.” He reached out and grabbed John’s wrist before pulling him into the house. He hadn’t exactly warned John about the pre-date interrogation. But it was an unavoidable aspect of being seen as a woman in the world.

John removed the unlit cigarette from between his lips and put it behind his ear, extending his hand out to Jim, his hip cocked to the side and his whole demeanor relaxed in a nonchalant way. This did not bode well for him. “Hi, I’m John.”

Jim looked him over and Paul could see the disdain set in his eyes. His prejudice against John only solidified by seeing him in person. “Hello John, you can call me Mr. McCartney.”

John nodded, giving the living room a once over look, his gaze falling on Paul briefly before turning back to Jim, “It’s nice to meet you.”

Paul wanted to bury his face in his hands and let the earth swallow him up. His dad was never going to trust him to ever pick a guy to date ever again. He wasn’t under any illusion that John was a gentleman in the classical sense but John had never seemed so unaware of societal expectations as he was in that moment. His dad was never going to trust his opinion on men ever again after this. 

“It’s good to meet you, too,” Jim sighed, looking to Paul in a moment of sheer disbelief at the man in front of them. “I expect Janine home by ten. Where are you two going?”

They hadn’t really planned anything Paul realized, and he knew John had no real planned idea. “The movies,” Paul replied helpfully. He saw John’s shoulders relax as the question was answered on his behalf. “We’re going to see that new Brigitte Bardot film.”

“Hm,” was all Jim replied with, his lips pressed together, and Paul knew they’d be having one of their famous “discussions” when he came home. “Well alright, and John?”

“Hm?”

“If you lay one hand on-”

“Dad!” Paul felt his face turn bright red. “ Please , we’re going to be late for the film.”

“I’m just doing what I’m supposed to.”

“Trust me, Mr. McCartney,” John started to speak and Paul saw a mischievous look in his eyes that made him wary. He wanted to just grab his hand and drag John out of the house. “I will be bringing her home on time, safe, and in exactly the condition you currently find her.” The unspoken words being that Paul was already defiled, Jim just didn’t exactly know that.

As soon as he finished talking Paul grabbed the cuff of his jacket and pulled him to the door and outside. The cool air washed over his skin and he let himself take a deep breath and feel the way his skin prickled in the cold. 

“Jesus, Janine, give me a minute,” John pushed Paul’s hand away and sighed, taking in a deep breath.

“Sorry, dad’s just… he’s very protective of me.” His fingers began to pick at the dead skin around his finger and he shoved his hands into the pocket of his skirt. He didn’t need John to see his bad habits in action. Paul especially didn’t need John to notice that both Janine and Paul picked the dead skin on the same fingers. 

“I see that,” John huffed. He shifted awkwardly, shoving his hands in his pockets. Paul figured it was his clear embarrassment at John’s behavior and likely the undue scrutiny from his dad. He wanted to say he wasn’t embarrassed by John. He wasn’t really . Everything with Jim was just so complicated. 

He watched as John closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He pulled a lighter from his pocket and lit the cigarette still perched between his lips. Paul opened his purse and pulled out his pack of cigarettes and took one out. “Do you mind?” He offered the cigarette to John who lit Paul’s with the end of his own.

“Sorry,” John finally said, surprising Paul. It was a moment where Paul saw the facade fall a little bit. A moment of vulnerability and Paul could see a man who cared so much about what others thought of him. 

“It’s okay,” Paul replied, they stayed on the sidewalk just down from Paul’s house for a bit. The smoke from their cigarettes curling into the night air. Despite the chill Paul focused on the warmth in his chest as he smoked and let the slight rush from the cigarette abate the chill. “I was afraid my dad wouldn't let me out.”

“Ah,” John’s lips quirked in a smile, one that was clearly mostly for himself. “I see you’re less Cinderella then and maybe a bit more like Rapunzel.”

Paul laughed a little, blushing slightly and grateful for the cover of night. “You could say that.” Though, perhaps, Cinderella was more apt. It reminded him of himself to some extent. A little too mysterious, but a normal humdrum girl by day, and something spectacular at times, and no one recognized him. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll rescue you from your tower, and your evil tower keeper,” John rolled his eyes. “I swear your da’ is something else.”

“I’m his only daughter,” Paul replied in a carefully rehearsed way so as to not belie his discomfort with the whole of the situation. It was also a reply he’d said so many times as to be something he gave out without thinking.

John seemed to think for a moment before choosing to not reply to Paul’s comment. Instead he pulled out another cigarette and again lit the new one with the very last of his original cigarette. He took a final drag before flicking the butt onto the sidewalk. “So, Jan, d’you actually want to see the new bardot film, or…” He trailed off slightly, clearly too embarrassed to conclude his line of thinking. But based on the conversation Paul had had with John at his house just earlier that week, Paul could guess the ending.

“If we went I figured we’d make out in the back,” Paul smiled slightly. Maybe it was a little too bold to just put out there. But Paul knew he wanted John, their last time together barely sating him. Before him stood one of the most incredible men he’d ever laid eyes on, and he’d spent enough nights just remembering John’s lips on his that he knew the once was not going to be enough. For either of them, apparently.

John grinned, finally grinned. His smile could light up a room and Paul felt himself drawn into the gravitational pull of it. He wanted to kiss that smile, to swallow it up, he wanted to inhale the smoke from John’s lungs and to consume him entirely. When he finally spoke John said, “We don’t need a movie to go do that.”

“Well then,” Paul raised his eyebrows and crossed his arms. He squared his shoulders towards John with a slight smirk, “What’s your idea?”

John’s idea had been the dilapidated grounds of Strawberry Fields. Part of Paul was taken aback at the idea. He was afraid of them being caught, especially at the thought of being caught with his skirt up. But it was dark and they were just on the general grounds, and he had to trust John.

“I came here all the time as a kid,” John held Paul’s hand tightly as they traversed the lawn and the shrubbery they walked next to. “When I wanted to get away, it just felt so freeing to be here.”

Paul didn’t quite understand the allure as he looked around at the decrepit house on the outskirts of the grounds, and there was nothing remarkable about this place compared to any number of places around with large unkempt grounds. He could tell, though, that John was being vulnerable and he had no intention of making John feel worse than he already had that evening.

“It’s lovely, I see why you like it so much,” He smiled softly at John, giving his hand a tight squeeze. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

“Yeah, well,” John rubbed the back of his neck in a gesture of nerves. It was interesting to see how different John was to Paul than he was to Janine. The way he engaged in acts of vulnerability felt so different to Paul. When they were two blokes he’d probably have shown Paul this place as his cool getaway. But when John spoke to Paul as Janine he was revealing something personal and sacred. 

John’s grip on his hand tightened slightly and he turned away, continuing to lead them on. Presumably to hide his embarrassment to Paul, and their walk to a more secluded part of the grounds was silent. They heard the occasional car pass by the nearby road, and the occasional siren, a typical night in Liverpool.

There was a small clear area amongst the trees and bushes, and John laid his leather jacket on the ground without speaking, motioning for Paul to sit.

“What a gentleman,” Paul said in a posh voice.

“Only the best for a lady of such breeding,” John replied, voice equally posh. He had a slight smile that Paul could see was meant mostly for himself. 

He sat down, cool leather touching his thighs, he’d sat with his legs to the side, fanning his skirts out to cover himself up as much as he could. It made him shiver, goose flesh covering his arms and legs. John flopped down next to him, laying back onto the slightly damp earth, his hands resting behind his head and he stared up at the sky.

Paul took the cue and laid down next to John, looking up at the sky, seeing only a few stars cutting through the light pollution for them to see. He was incredibly aware of John’s body next to his. The smell of cigarettes and hair grease and aftershave reeking of masculinity. 

He felt heat radiating from John, felt where their feet just barely touched as they laid. 

“Have you ever read Ginsberg?” He finally asked.

“A little,” John’s voice was soft. It sounded relaxed, calm. Maybe this was a magical place, Paul conceded, if it seemed to make John lose the pretense of who he pretended and tried to be. Even if only for a little while.

“‘who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,’” he quoted. “That’s early in the beginning of the poem.” As he spoke he felt the tackiness of his lipstick as it made his lips stick together slightly while he talked. “I’ve always liked it,” he turned to look at John who was already looking at him, their faces mere inches apart. Probably for the first time John was getting a proper look at him, at least this side of him. “Sometimes I feel like all I do is bear my brain to heaven and see the angels on the roof of my house.”

It was a small sentiment, but one no less true. Paul wanted to share something of himself that was more personal than the typical things he shared. John had done that for him after all.

“I think you are the Mohammedan angels,” John stared at him and it felt like someone was dredging into the depths of his soul. That warm gaze was more overt and insistent than any Paul had ever experienced.

Paul flushed, chest and face turning red, “I wouldn’t say that.”

“Well lucky for you, I would,” John replied. With that, the distance between them closed in short order. Their lips met, and John reached over to hold the side of Paul’s face as they kissed. A thumb brushed over his cheek and he gasped as John’s tongue pushed into his mouth. He tasted a little like cheap whiskey and a lot like cigarettes. Paul was sure he tasted like mint toothpaste and cigarettes to John. What mattered though was that they were kissing. Kissing under the stars and the heavens, and maybe they didn’t need to bare their brains just yet. That time would come.

Paul felt John’s hand slip under his skirt. It was warm, and sliding up the back of his thigh. He felt anticipation as it reached the top of his stocking and then touched his bare skin. The fingers were calloused from guitar playing, catching at the end of the nylons and delightfully rough to Paul’s soft thighs.

“You shaved,” John pulled back from their kiss just slightly before moving to kiss Paul’s neck.

“I did,” he managed to get out, shivering from the bite John had just given him, and the fingers playing at the hem of his underwear. He felt warmth pulsating between his legs, and he was sure if he reached out he’d feel John’s heat and desire. “I - ah,” he buried a hand in John’s hair. Teeth met his collarbone and he barely stifled a much louder moan. “I wanted to be at my best.”

“I’m surprised you have time, Cinderella, what with your evil step family,” John teased. He moved closer, closing the distance between them further. The warmth was welcome as John’s body pressed on top of Paul’s and he welcomed it completely. He spread his legs as John settled between them, resting his body more fully on top of Paul. 

Paul could feel the solidity of John’s body, and he could feel the press of John’s erection on his hip. He wanted to reach down to touch himself but he had an entire mass of John Lennon in the way. There could be worse problems, Paul surmised. He pressed his hips against John and was rewarded with a low moan from him. He did it again, a hand sliding down the back of John’s shirt, only slightly damp from the ground, and grabbed his ass.

“Fuck,” John groaned and pressed more firmly onto Paul, capturing his lips again in a searing hot kiss.

It was as if the world around them had melted away. It was just them. Paul’s dad didn’t matter, who he was didn’t matter, John’s band, university, Aunt Mimi, none of that mattered. Only the fact that John wanted him and he wanted John mattered. 

Paul watched as John pulled back, kneeling between his legs as he pulled on his belt. He propped himself up on his elbows, watching John with soft hooded eyes. He was sure his lipstick was smeared on his face if the dark pink splotches around John’s lips were anything to go by. When John freed his dick from his pants finally Paul felt his mouth water, remembering the last time they were together. Given half a chance he would happily be on his knees, an angel worshipping their g-d. 

John’s eyes met his, dark and hungry and he fisted his throbbing cock, clearly trying to take the edge off. 

“Fuck me,” Paul breathed, the words barely forming on his lips, “Please, John.”

It didn’t take much more persuasion for John who eagerly pushed Paul’s skirt up and peeled away his underwear, a small trail of wetness briefly connecting his panties to his wet pussy. He shivered at the cold air on him, but it was for only a few brief seconds before he was overwhelmed with John. John around him, holding him, kissing him. The astringent and woody smell of aftershave, and cigarettes, and lust filling Paul’s senses as John also filled him. 

He knew he was just some boy who was lucky enough to attract John’s attentions, just some boy living in council housing and trying his best to be everything everyone wanted. But in that moment he felt alive and free. John’s face buried against his neck, his hands in greasy but soft hair, and his moan was swallowed by John’s lips as they both came in harmony, two halves truly becoming one.

They didn’t speak for a while after, John’s arms wrapped around his waist, head against his breasts, and he stroked John’s hair as they listened to the chatter of squirrels and the occasional car horn. Paul checked his watch, they still had time before his curfew and he was in no rush. He felt the gentle rise and fall of John’s back under his hand, but he knew John wasn’t sleeping. It felt peaceful, almost right . 

“Is your carriage about to turn into a pumpkin?” John asked.

“No, we’ve still got an hour before I need to be home.”

“It’s about a half hour walk, we should probably make you look presentable, and not like I shagged you in the middle of the woods.” John’s voice was sad, maybe even a little disappointed that they had to part. For someone with the reputation John had Paul was surprised, maybe he had blown up that image of John in his brain.

“Probably,” he said apologetically. 

With great reluctance John pushed himself off of Paul, tucking himself back into his trousers and squaring himself away.

“Where’d you throw my underwear?” Paul felt around him, sitting up himself, his back crackling slightly from laying on the cold hard ground.

“Oh, err,” John realized he was kneeling on them and handed them to Paul. “They’re a little worse for wear.”

“I don’t mind,” Paul blushed, and stood up, slipping the underwear back on. Really he would have preferred to stick them in his purse, or even, in a more illicit thought, give them to John as an erotic keepsake. But he was afraid of John’s spend dripping down his legs as they walked and he needed to maintain some kind of decorum.

He pulled his compact and handkerchief out of his purse and began to wipe his smeared lipstick off his face and the traces of it off his neck, no visible bites, thankfully. He pulled out the tube of Revlon and reapplied it. Once he was satisfied with looking more or less as he did when he left the house he went over to John, who was watching him with an odd look that Paul couldn’t quite place.

He reached out gently, his right hand holding John’s face still as he wiped off the lipstick still clinging to John’s mouth. He could feel the slight drag of stubble, and could smell his own perfume clinging to John’s white cotton shirt, he was sure he smelled a little like aftershave. There was a slight tremble in John’s shoulders but Paul couldn’t quite tell if it was nerves or if it was the cold. His touch was gentle on John’s lips, and he didn’t step back when he looked up at him with a soft smile, “There, now no one will know.”

John smiled a lopsided but somewhat strained smile, and a hand lifted, brushing something out of Paul’s hair. “A twig.” he answered the unspoken question.

“Thanks,” Paul said.

They stood like that for a moment, it would take so little for either of them to close the space, to take what they each clearly desired. But neither did, and John brushed past Paul to pick up his jacket, draping it on Paul’s shoulders, “Let’s get you home before that carriage does become a pumpkin.”

Paul held the lapels tightly and they emerged onto the lawn of Strawberry Fields and this time Paul felt like he saw what John had been talking about. There was something to the place, an energy or a sort of peace that soothed him now, too.

They walked in silence, John’s mind clearly abuzz and Paul too unwilling to try and goad John into talking, plus he was tired and steeling himself to pretend to his dad that they had gone to see a film and not snuck off to shag. Paul snuck glances at John, who looked a million miles away. If only he could reach John. But they weren’t even properly dating, and he wasn’t John’s friend in this context. So he gave him space, holding his jacket around himself a little tighter.

When they reached the steps of his house he paused, turning to face John properly and it seemed to snap John back to reality. “Thank you,” He handed the jacket back to John.

“For the jacket?” John raised an eyebrow at him.

“For showing me somewhere you like to go.”

John shrugged the jacket on and shoved his hands into the pockets. It was the re-raising of the guard that protected John from everyone and Paul suspected, even from himself. “‘S just the woods.”

“Regardless I enjoyed myself immensely,” Paul shifted his weight from one foot to another, hands gripping even more tightly the handle of his purse. “Will I see you again?”

John’s gazed was trained on the ground, thinking deeply for a moment or two before he nodded and looked up at Paul, “Yeah, I think that’d be really gear. I’ll… I’ll call you, yeah.”

Paul smiled, leaning over to kiss John’s cheek goodnight. “Night John.”

“Night Jan,” John smiled a little back and turned to leave.

Just as John reached for the gate to let himself out Paul called, “Don’t forget to bare your brain to heaven, if you need it.”

John paused, but didn’t say anything before letting himself out, one last look thrown to Paul with a clear grin on his face as he disappeared down the road into the night.

Paul pulled his key out, letting himself into the house, it was a quarter to ten, so he was well within the timeframe to be home. 

He closed the door behind himself, grinning as he leaned down to kick off his heels and take them in hand to put away in his room.

“Did it go well, Janine? Jim’s voice broke him from his reverie.

Paul’s head snapped up, looking at his dad with a slightly less enthused look on his face as he blushed. “Yeah, had a great time seeing the new Bardot film.”

Jim’s eyes looked over him, looking for anything and everything that could be out of place or imply any impropriety had occurred. Thankfully nothing seemed to catch his eye as his face relaxed. It seemed tired and maybe still residually upset at the initial interaction from earlier in the evening. “We need to talk about that John boy.”

“Now, dad?”

“He was rude, he kept you waiting, hair all greasy and walking around with a cigarette like that!” Jim fell into the chair Paul presumed he’d been waiting in all evening. “He’s not going to be the man you need Janine.”

“I’m not dating him for marriage, dad,” Paul sighed softly. He wanted to take his makeup off, and to take a damp washcloth to himself and try to clean up the aftermath of the night.

“Well then you shouldn’t be dating him. Young women don’t-”

“I’m 18!” Paul cut him off. He pressed his free hand to his forehead. “I just want a guy who likes me and takes me to movies, and isn’t vetting me for how quickly I can make a bed and how I separate out laundry, or what dinners I do best.”

“You are a grown woman, you should be thinking of those things!” Jim’s voice raised slightly and Paul felt the urge to cower, to apologize and acquiesce and fawn and do all the things he was supposed to do. 

“I already do!” he finally yelled. “I make dinner, I wash your socks, I can make a bed in five minutes. Just let me live my life already!” He didn’t wait for a reply before storming upstairs and slamming the door behind himself, pushing his back to it as he slid down to the floor, letting the tears flow freely.

He shouldn’t have yelled at Jim, who was only trying his best. He knew his dad wished for Mary to still be there, able to guide Paul along instead of him. But Mike never had to deal with these things, never was told that the girls he went with were the wrong sort or too this or that. That was reserved all for him.

He heard footsteps up the stairs and they came down the hall and waited in front of his door.

“Go away,” he sobbed, his voice thin and watery. “Please.” 

And the footsteps rescinded. 

He wished he could run away, preferably with John, anywhere, just somewhere that wasn’t Liverpool. He wished he had something of John’s with him, something to remind him that the night had been real, magical even until his dad had chosen to ruin it. It was with heavy limbs and heart that he cleaned himself up and crawled into bed, letting the weight of sorrow press him into a dreamless sleep.

Chapter Text

Paul hesitated outside of George’s door. It felt ridiculous. George knew he was coming over, knew to expect a knock. There was, however, a huge knot in Paul’s stomach that made him want to turn around and take the next bus back home. He knew the conversation he needed to have with George, to tell him who he was, and to invite him to band practice on Monday.

He hadn’t asked permission to go out, had simply called George that morning and left without much protest from his dad. The tension in the house was palpable and while Jim seemed a little cowed he was still incredibly frustrated with his dad. It was impossible to just say he didn’t want to get married, that he wanted to make music and perform. Jim never said anything positive about his life as a piano player, and Paul didn’t tell his dad that he was secretly in a band. He hadn’t even told George that yet.

George.

Paul closed his eyes and sighed heavily, rocking back and forth on his heels as he stood on the doorsteps of a home that was as familiar as his own, and with one gloved hand he knocked a few times at the door and waited.

There was commotion on the other side of the door, a familiar voice shouting something to people Paul couldn’t see and the door flew open. A harried but smiling George greeting him.

“Janine!” He turned over his shoulder, “I told you it was her!” 

Paul blushed, “It’s just me, Mrs. Harrison,” he stepped into the house, not waiting for George to invite him inside.

“Hello dear,” George’s mother, always so warm and seemingly happy whenever Paul saw her, peeked out from the kitchen. She had a slightly stained apron on and her hair covered by a headscarf to keep dust and other grime out. In some ways, since Paul’s mother was long since passed, he always regarded George’s mom with both warmth and apprehension. Something about her made Paul feel like he was looking into his own future, a house full of boys, living in the kitchen, still in the same council housing type of home, married to a dock worker, like Ronnie said. “Can I get you a cuppa?”

“No, thank you though,” Paul replied. “I was hoping to take George with me to the charity shop.”

George perked up, “Sounds fun, let me grab my jacket, be right down,” he dashed up the stairs and Paul waited in the entry way as the footsteps faded, the only sounds the radio playing Elvis and George’s mother humming as she wiped her hands on a dishcloth. 

“You know,” she said, “Peter’s home from Uni this weekend…” She trailed off.

Paul blushed, knowing that Mrs. Harrison had been, for as long as Paul could remember, been trying to set him up with George’s middle brother. “Oh, how are his classes going?”

“Good,” she smiled at him, “He’s passing with flying colors. He missed home and wanted to do some laundry.” She chuckled a little, “They never really grow up, do they?”

“No,” Paul conceded. “I suppose they don’t. I, er,” he blushed, “I am seeing someone.”

“Well,” Mrs. Harrison’s lips pressed together. It was disappointment more than being upset at Paul. “If you ever become free, give me a ring.”

“You have my word,” Paul assured her. “Do you need anything from the charity shop?”

“If you find a teapot sweater I’d be very appreciative. You should come over for tea sometime, Janine. I’m sure it’s not easy, our homes so full of men.”

“I will, I promise. Maybe after Sunday church sometime,” Paul looked up, slightly relieved as George rushed down the stairs. The wood showing wear down the middle from three boys running throughout the house. It was a lived in home, one that felt full of warmth and love. His house always seemed to have a slight air of sorrow and he didn’t know if that was his own or the remains from the pain of losing Mary.

“Let’s go,” George grabbed Paul’s arm and pulled him towards the door. “Be home in a bit, mum!”

“Be safe you two!” She called, her voice echoing as she went back into the kitchen.

George closed the door behind them and they made their way to the sidewalk. “That’s for getting me out of the house, mum’s on a cleaning rampage today.”

Paul’s lips pressed into a thin smile. He could only imagine, “I’m sure, she looked neck deep in it.”

George groaned with a nod, “She gets like this sometime, makes us dust our room and hoover.”

Paul laughed, “I do that for my dad and brother.”

George’s face twisted into a look of utter disgust. “Remind me to never act like that towards my own daughter, okay?”

“Oh, trust me, I’ll hunt you down if you do.”

They made their way to the bus stop. It was then that Paul felt his heart pounding in his chest. He was thankful for his gloves as they caught the sweat on his palms and for the distraction of opening his purse and rummaging around for his bus fare. He didn’t want to have the talk he needed to on the bus, or at the charity shop. It had to happen here, where it was just the two of them. George’s legs bounced as he hummed, clearly thinking the silence was their usual comfortable silence. Paul wished it was, instead he felt like his heart was going to burst as his chest tightened and his throat felt tight and uncomfortable. He felt like a ticking time bomb, and for all he knew, he was about to blow up his closest and longest relationship. 

“George?”

“Hm?”

Paul licked his lips, staring out at the road and the row of houses across from them. He saw women inside the homes, singing and sweeping, and children running outside in the little bit of light they had playing. “What, er, ugh,” he sighed.

“Are you pregnant?”

“What? No!” Paul turned to him aghast, “Thank g-d no!”

“Just asking,” George raised his hands in defense. “You’re just… you’re being weird.” He looked mostly concerned. Not like he was suspicious of Paul in any way. “You just look like something bad happened.”

Paul bit the inside of his lower lip, brow furrowed and sighed. He wanted to walk in front of the next car that came by and not need to have the conversation that was perched at the tip of his tongue. He could trust George, right?

“What do you think of like blokes who like blokes or birds who like birds?”

George furrowed his brow, “Is Mike a homo?”

Paul rolled his eyes, “No, George.”

George rolled his eyes back at Paul, “Forgive me for asking but you are certified boy crazy.”

Paul snorted, feeling the laugh ease some of the tension in his chest as they talked. “I’m not a dyke I assure you.”

“So what’s this business all about?” George had crossed his arms, eyebrows raised at Paul. There wasn’t a hint of malice or anger at the question, he clearly didn’t think Paul was referring to him, which was good.

“Just answer the question for christ’s sake.”

George shrugged, “I dunno,” he relaxed his arms and seemed to think about it for a moment, maybe for the first time in his life. Paul envied that, it was something he thought about constantly, agonizing over it. “It’s weird.”

Paul felt himself shrink.

“I mean like, you never really see it. But I guess, well, I think it’s not for me, but I don’t think it’s like so bad that it oughta be illegal,” George finally said thoughtfully. “‘Sides, I wouldn’t mind seeing two birds kissin.’”

Paul rolled his eyes and shoved George slightly.

“What!”

“Nothing,” Paul took a deep breath. He’d been fairly certain George wasn’t someone who’d be on a tirade about the evil sinfulness of men who loved other men and the like. But the next thing he wanted to ask was a step even further than that. This question was personal. He knew George could justify him sleeping with John, even if he saw himself as a man, because he had all the right bits and pieces. Clearly George likely wouldn’t have cared if he’d had the other ones, but it was still a little easier to justify.

“Why’re you asking?” George asked again.

Paul stared back down at his hands. They had white gloves on, hiding his mangled cuticles and soft pink nail polish. They looked so proper, holding to the top of his pocketbook, one hand carefully holding a coin to pay for the bus when it eventually came by. 

“What do you think of…” he trailed off, taking another deep breath that filled his lungs entirely, trying to ease the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Of… of men who try to be women and women who try to be men?”

George’s brow furrowed, “I beg your pardon?”

Paul’s eyes fixed onto a child across the way, kicking a football with either his brother or  friend of his. He knew if he looked at George he’d lose his nerve completely. “What if I told you that I dress in men’s clothing and go by a different name, and that I’m part of John’s band now?”

There was a silence between them that seemed to stretch on for eternity. It was like the earth had stopped spinning and that the moment would never end. Paul was stuck in present time but everything stretched on around him. He stood up, feeling tears prick at his eyes, and he knew this had been a horrible idea. He knew he ought to give up this idea, even if it meant hating himself for the rest of his life. “So-Sorry,” he managed, holding back his tears, “I should go.”

“Wait!” George’s hand bolted out and grabbed Paul’s arm.

He turned to face his still seated friend, eyes watery and his nose bright red. He swallowed thickly as he waited for George to speak.

“I - I won’t pretend to understand,” George said slowly, thinking through the choice of words carefully, “but this is clearly important to you, and I want to try to understand.” He smiled at Paul, his usual sweet and apologetic smile when he made an inadvertent mess of things.

Paul nodded and sat back down next to him, pulling out a kerchief and dabbing at his eyes.

“So,” George said quietly, and not without a seemingly large dose of awkwardness. “You’re in John’s band, eh?”

Paul laughed a little, trying to calm down his racing heart and the still threatening onslaught of tears, “Yeah. He wants me to bring, you, too, on Monday.”

“Me?”

“I told him you were really talented and he wants to meet you and I think, hear you play.”

George blushed, “I’m not that good, Janine.”

“Paul.”

“Hm?”

“I - I go by Paul at band practice, actually I think of myself as Paul. I picked this name years ago, actually.”

“Paul,” George said slowly and he nodded to himself. “It’s a good name.”

“Thanks,” Paul said softly.

“Do, er, d’you want me to call you that?”

“At least at practice around John and the other guys, yeah.” Paul saw the bus approaching and they both stood to board, paying and heading to the second level of the bus, a little more private with only a couple other people sitting up there, a man reading a paper and a woman reading a magazine.

“So, have you told your dad?” George asked quietly once they settled and the bus began to move. The engine sounds and the general sounds of traffic providing their conversation a little more privacy.

“No!” Paul shook his head, “I don’t know where I’d even start.”

“Your dad can be… a lot,” George agreed.

“You can say that again.” This time when they sat in silence it didn’t feel so awful. Paul could tell George was still processing the information he’d just been given, staring ahead of them rather than out the nearby window. That, though, was where Paul looked. Watching as the world rushed by them as he felt his body relax out of fight or fight with each exhale. George was sitting next to him, still his friend, and while he didn’t understand, he wasn’t revolted by Paul’s existence. Which was more than he had ever hoped for. In fact, George’s attempts to understand meant more than Paul had words to say, and he wrote music!

“Are you still dating John?” George asked, finally breaking the silence between them.

“Yeah, I am,” Paul subconsciously put a hand up to rub where his shoulder met his neck, where a bite mark from John was carefully covered by his sweater. 

“As P-”

“As Janine,” Paul said quickly. “He doesn’t know, either.”

George’s eyes nearly bugged out. “What - how-?”

“He’s got glasses he doesn’t wear, he’s damn near blind without them. He’s only ever seen me as,” Paul trailed off looking around to see if anyone was paying them any attention. Once he was satisfied that they weren’t he continued, “as Paul with his glasses.”

George nodded again slowly, “This seems like a disaster waiting to happen.”

Paul nodded, “I’m doing my best, it’s as complicated as it sounds.” He saw their stop coming up and pulled the cord to signal the driver. “I actually need you today, too, because I can’t keep stealing Mike’s clothes without him noticing, I’m hoping to get a couple shirts, and trousers to wear to practice and all.”

George nodded and they exited the bus, beginning their short walk towards the charity shop.

“Sorry I sprung this all on you like this,” Paul gently bumped against George as they walked. 

“It’s fine,” He replied. “It’s just a lot. Not in a bad way!” He clarified quickly. “But a lot.”

Paul nodded. “I know.” He knew better than anyone else. He remembered the first time he’d realized something was different about himself, wrong even. The first time he’d ever gotten his period he’d cried. He’d known about them, other classmates of his gushing excitedly about finally having their period and being a woman. He’d hidden it all day and bled through his underwear. He remembered the sticky feeling of dried blood on his thighs and locking himself in the bathroom, taking as hot a shower as he could while he cried. He’d wanted to scrub off any indicator that his body was as alien as it felt, wanted the water to hurt his skin enough that he could focus on that rather than the internal pain he was contending with.

Things had only become more complicated from there. He’d tried on Jim’s clothes when his dad was out, the baggy clothes disguising the widening hips, his growing chest. He’d felt whole finally, like a piece of himself had been missing. He’d sneak his dad’s cologne or aftershave, wanting to wrap himself in the scents he associated with masculinity. 

When he’d decided on a name he’d rather go by, even if only to himself, he’d felt again like another piece of a complicated puzzle, one of those all white puzzles that were 2,000 pieces, fell again into place. 

But even as those things had become crystal clear to Paul, so too had the other realities he had to contend with as long as he needed to conform with the womanhood being foisted upon him. Learning to be a proper woman, how to have proper grooming, to do chores, to never complain, and to always obey and accept what men around him wanted. Lord knew his father expected that obedience from him.

He tried to clear his head of thoughts as they entered into the charity shop. He needed to focus on the task at hand. This was in many ways about him . About Paul. How did Paul dress? What did he like? These were questions he’d never had to answer before. He knew how to dress Janine. Knew how to layer petticoats and match his shoes to his lipstick. But how did he dress as a man? 

“Come on,” George took his arm and pulled him to the small racks off to the side of men’s clothing. “What size is Mike?”

“He’s like an off the rack medium,” Paul replied, beginning to sift through the racks of people’s discarded clothes. Much of it pretty dated, looking like the remains of deceased grandparents and extended family. And otherwise things too small for him, the donations from parents whose kids had long ago outgrown their childhood clothes.

“That’s gonna be too big on you,” George commented. “You must have looked ridiculous going out in that.”

Paul blushed deeply but laughed a little. It was a mixture of embarrassment and also at the ease with which George seemed to be joking about this new situation they both found themselves in. “A little, felt like a kid who tried on their dad’s clothes. I would know.”

George laughed a little. Whatever tension had been left between them at this new and unknown revelation seemed to melt away. They were still friends, and that didn’t change even if Paul wanted to put on trousers and go out into the world as himself. “I tried on my mom’s shoes and jewelry when I was probably 8, I think we’ve all done that sort of thing.” He pulled out a green and black flannel and offered it to Paul. “Granted it didn’t change anything.”

“Doesn’t have to,” Paul took the flannel in hand. “Just did for me.”

“Mm.”

Their search continued in silence. Paul taking things that George pulled out, and pulling a face at anything he thought was particularly heinous. A bright red button up, an incredibly outdated 1930s jacket, and a vest that reeked of cigarettes. But in the end he held onto the flannel George had originally given him, a regular white button up, and a tan sweater vest that would hopefully hide his chest if needed. Trousers were a bit of a different story. 

Anything that seemed to fit his hips properly, at least from a cursory holding of them to his body, were far too long, and anything right in length were sized for a child half Paul’s age. 

“I think you’re going to have to hem them, Jan-Pa, whoever you are,” George sighed and he rubbed his eyes. “Janine, I’m going to call you that right now, for obvious reasons,” he looked Paul over.

He nodded with a shrug, it sucked a bit. A tightness in his chest at the slight flippancy of George’s tone. It was safer, though, as mothers with their kids and older men milled about looking at people’s discarded treasures. He really wanted to hear George call him Paul, to finally hear that name said with someone who knew about him. He knew it would happen, it just disappointed him in that moment. 

“Let’s get you a pair of jeans and a pair of trousers,” George pulled two off the rack and handed them to Paul, and a belt,” he looked around, spotting a rack with weathered belts hanging limply. He selected a dark brown one and shoved it into Paul’s hands, now full with their clothing selections.

It was actually surprisingly overwhelming as he held everything close to his chest, standing in the middle of the shop. Something about him felt shut down. It was that same feeling he’d had before when he stood in front of John’s door as Paul. That feeling that this would all be easier if he walked away. Except as he’d been in the world as himself at that point, he knew walking away meant death. Whether that was him withering away inside until he was a shell of himself or something more dire, he knew then that he couldn’t go back.

George stared at him for just a moment, running a hand through his hair, “Sorry, I- I’ve never done something like this before, obviously.” He looked around the shop and licked his lips. “I’m trying.”

“I know,” Paul replied. He could see a similar level of overwhelm written across George’s face. That urge to appease and fawn and make everyone happy rose inside him and he did his best to push it down. “We are figuring this out together,” he smiled a little, “Let’s buy these and I’ll get you a vanilla flake before we catch the bus again.”

George perked up at the promise, following Paul to the counter.

Paul smiled sweetly at the young woman working the register, who seemed at best like she’d rather be anywhere else but there. “Do you happen to know if you have any teapot covers in?”

She looked at him like she was trying to melt him with her brain like they were in some Asimov story. “No.” She replied curtly and well, that was that. He paid and took his new burgeoning wardrobe and they made their way to get ice cream.

That night Paul sat on the floor of him room. He was freshly bathed and dressed in his nightgown, the lamp on his bed stand illuminating the room as he sucked on the end of thread to feed it through the eye of the needle so he could hem both pairs of pants that he had purchased. 

There was a knock at his door and he jumped, having been so lost in concentration. 

“Come in,” He called, taking the thread from his mouth and lining it up with the other end so he could tie it in a knot. He looked up as the door opened and back down just as quickly. “Hi, dad.”

“Hi, sweetheart,” Jim entered, crossing the room to sit on the edge of Paul’s bed. The room felt immediately tense. Jim sitting silently made Paul’s shoulders tense up, he tried to focus on hemming the pants, not on Jim invading his space, watching his every careful movement. Despite that though he pierced his finger with the needle and hissed, putting his finger to his lips to suck on it. 

“You know, when you were little,” Jim finally spoke, you used to ask me to kiss it better.

Paul huffed through his nose, taking his finger away and being satisfied it wasn’t going to keep bleeding, he placed his hands in his lap and turned to face his dad. “I was 8 when I was doing that sort of thing, dad.”

Jim smiled wryly, “I know these things change as you get older. Glad to see we’re on speaking terms again.”

Paul’s lips pressed into a thin smile. Speaking terms was generous, though he knew he couldn’t ignore his dad for forever. “Yeah, me, too.”

“I’m doing my best, Janine, you know that,” Jim said quietly. His voice was heavy with emotion and Paul could see him looking anywhere away from him.

He turned back to his hemming, stabbing the needle through the pant leg before trying to pick up just a bit of the interior so the stitching wouldn’t show on the outside. “I know, dad.”

“I know I always say this, but I thought your mother would be here when you got older, would be able to guide you in ways I can’t.”

“I know, dad.”

“I just want to say I’m sorry for pressuring you, you are right, you’re still so young.”

Paul paused in his hemming and looked up at his dad, “It’s okay,” he replied. Even if it wasn't he knew what he needed to say. 

“Just be careful, Janine,” he said gently, one of his hands coming down to rest on his head, looking at Paul with a mixture of sorrow and acceptance. “You’re not my little girl anymore.”

“I’ll always be your little girl dad,” Paul smiled slightly, trying to keep the crack out of his voice.

Jim nodded and rose off the bed, “Night, Jan.”

“Night dad,” Paul replied, waiting for the door to shut fully before burying his head in his hands. This would be a horrible mess if his dad found out, and at this point, he had a horrible feeling that that was likely inevitable.

*****

It was Monday, which meant that Paul had agreed to meet George at the bus stop by his house. Paul had told his dad he was going to George’s house, and George said he was going to the movies with Paul, so luckily they had their bases covered. He wore the hemmed jeans, a white undershirt he’d stolen from his brother, and the green flannel. He’d bound his chest down and while it wasn’t as flat as he preferred it to be it was passable. A rolled up sock took the space where he knew his dick ought to be, and he’d tried to cover the bite mark that was now a properly dark and also yellow greenish color, but the undershirt didn’t cover it and his opened collar tended to slip and let it show. He’d again thickened his brows with eyeliner and he had practiced over and over in the mirror his gait and squaring his shoulders. 

His guitar was strapped to his back and he had a backpack that inside he had his change of clothes for home. 

“J-Paul!” He heard a familiar voice actually say his name and he turned from where he was staring off into the distance waiting for the bus to come. He smiled sheepishly at George who was seeing Paul for the first time.

He whistled as he got closer, taking in Paul more fully. “Damn, though I don’t know what you shoved down your pants, but you look like you’re er,” George rubbed his neck, “Maybe lose it.”

Paul blushed, using his backpack for cover as he fished into his pants and pulled out the rolled sock, unzipping the backpack and shoving it inside.

“Better, most guys don’t really walk about like that, but otherwise,” George walked around him, “Can’t believe this is you.”

“Believe it,” He said, his voice only trembling slightly as he pitched it lower.

George grinned, “I think we’ll make a proper bloke of you yet.”

Paul smiled, fighting the urge to blush. “Don’t think I look like them teddy girls?”

“Nah,” George punched his arm lightly, “I don’t know quite how to say it but this definitely feels more real than you all in pink and skirts.”

“Cause it is, now c’mon, John is going to kill us if we’re late, and the bus is late, we’re best off walking.”

George nodded and followed Paul as he began to lead them in the direction of John’s house.

“Try to keep your hips more square when you walk,” George advised, it’s not bad, but you swing yer hips too much.”

Paul nodded, taking a deep breath to calm the butterflies as he did his best to keep his shoulders wide and walk more square.

“Better,” George praised. “Much better.”

It felt good to be treated so normally. Paul was fairly certain that something about seeing him actually look like a guy made it more real for George. More acceptable as something that wasn’t just a joke. He knew seeing himself as Janine made it hard to imagine him as anything other than soft and demure. But there he was, hands shoved in his pockets, just two guys walking down the street. 

Cars didn’t honk at him, an men smoking cigarettes ignored them both rather than making loud lewd comments when Paul walked by. It was a freedom he’d never expected to feel, especially with people who had always known him one way.

“I think it’ll take a bit to get used to the name, though,” George admitted. “Especially because I’ll call you both at different times.

“Yeah, s’okay,” Paul pulled his cigarettes out of his pocket and offered one to George who readily took it, accepting the match that Paul offered him as well once he lit his own. “You know my da’ talked to me the other night, apologized for yelling at me.”

“He yelled at you?” George breathed out a burst of smoke.

“Oh yeah, I think I forgot to mention it. Came back from my date,” Paul took a drag off his own, “You know who made a less than stellar impression, and m’dad was livid like. Told me that I needed to focus on getting married an’ all. I also yelled at him, and we didn’t talk ‘til then.”

“What’d he say?”

“Like I said, mostly sorry for pressuring me. I think he wishes I was like Mike, you know?” A boy was the implication, one he hoped George would understand.

“Yeah, well, joke’s on him eh?” George’s face broke into a cheeky grin.

Paul burst out in a laugh. One that felt warm and full as it came from deep in his chest. He didn’t even think it was possible to joke about his particular situation. Yet there George was, and the joke wasn’t even at his expense. “Yeah, ‘spose it is.”

The rest of their walk was easy, each finishing their smoke and nerves starting to build as they both found their way to John’s house.

“Didn’t know he lived in such a nice neighborhood,” George looked around at the houses around them. All with hedges and fancy gatings. Clean newer cars and much larger than the houses that he and Paul lived in.

“Yeah, his aunt’s real posh, just don’t comment on it.” Paul forewarned. It was easy to spot John’s home, especially with the garage open and a noise that could only be described as cacophonous came from it.

“Paul!” John greeted him with a slight wave. “And this must be George,” he came over and stuck his hand out to George who took it. John didn’t even wait before shaking George’s arm vigorously, perhaps a little too hard. But Paul knew it was all peacocking. A show of force and male dominance. Something Paul had long accepted was part of John’s posturing. 

John looked a sight, in tight drainies and a red flannel shirt. His hair looked soft though, not slicked back yet and seemed freshly washed. It was slightly curly and Paul wanted to reach out and touch it. Though he knew better.

John gave them a once over and nodded approvingly at them. “New digs, Paul? You don’t look like you raided your dad’s closet today.”

“Oh fuck off, John,” Paul rolled his eyes and shoved past him, their shoulders bumping slightly. He needed to look like he was embarrassed. Clearly John had noticed his poor wardrobe the last time they met. But he was also flattered that John noticed him, even like this.

He set his guitar and bag aside and he saw George flash him a panicked look at he was left by Paul with John, who towered seemingly over him. 

Paul coudn’t make out their conversation, just saw John talking at George who nodded and said a few things Paul couldn’t catch. He saw George’s guitar come off his shoulder and he strummed it to see if it was in tune, before launching into a perfect rendition of Raunchy . 

Paul could see John shut up almost immediately, Paul saw how his eyebrows raised, how John’s shoulders went back in surprise. Paul knew George was incredibly talented. Even more than he was on guitar. He wasn’t ashamed to admit that. George had a talent that was once in a lifetime and he wanted the world to know it.

When George finished he rested his hand nervously on the neck of his guitar, trying to look confident as he met John’s eyes and waited for his assessment.

John turned away from him, looking over the other guys in the garage who were messing around on their various instruments. “Hanton, you’re out.”

“John what the fuck!” Hanton glared at him, “You can’t-”

“I can and I will this is my fucking band, and this little shit,” he indicated George who did actually blush, “Has more talent than the lot of you, so get going.”

There was a lot of glaring and swearing under his breath, but he packed his guitar and stormed out, giving John a shove and flipping him off as he made his way down the road.

“George,” John turned back to him, “You’re in.”

George’s eyes went wide. He simply nodded his agreement and shuffled into the garage, holding his guitar tightly to his chest.

“And Paul?” John turned to him finally. He straightened up, doing his best to appear as if the way he was trying to hold himself was actually as natural as he wanted it to look.

“Yeah?” He spoke, thankful for the face his voice didn’t crack.

“You’ll get George caught up to speed before next practice.” It was a statement, a demand, not a question.

“Yeah, I will,” he nodded, feeling himself warm as John seemed to be entrusting him with something he knew was important. He was not going to let him down.

“Stop standing there like a bunch of twits and lets start actually practicing,” John sighed and rolled his eyes as everyone took their places, and practice began.

Practice was everything Paul had hoped for now that he was finally part of the group. While he could pinpoint the people who were not as committed to the group. If John asked he’d know who to cut. But John, Stuart, Pete, George, and himself seemed invested enough in the group to mean their sound was plenty good, even if the other guys were there for fun. Paul hoped to see John bring up some of his own original music, but instead they worked on the covers they would be performing, though Paul an George were not invited yet to the band’s next paid gig. He supposed that was fine. They were still relatively new after all.

The hardest part was keeping his gaze off John while they practiced. Seeing his concentration, his hard work, how he seemed to lose himself in every chord, every note, it was beautiful. Except he couldn’t stare unduly, couldn’t watch the fine lines of John’s face as he sang or revel in the raw roughness of his voice. Because in that moment he wasn’t there as John’s girlfriendboyfriendwhatever he was there as John’s new bandmate, and he couldn’t jeopardize that.

They ended up finishing a little early, John pulling his glasses from his pocket and scribbling in a notebook he had laying next to his guitar case. George had picked up quite quickly on everything. He almost blended in as if he’d always been there. It was another of George’s very special talents that Paul knew John would benefit from.

“Good practice,” Pete went over to a cooler and pulled out a few beers, handing them around. Paul took his, trying to not mind as the bottle was wet, but at least it was cold and Pete had already popped the cap off it. 

“Yeah,” John nodded, taking his beer from Pete and taking a long drink from it before sitting down on an upturned milk crate. “George?”

“Hm?”

“How long have you played?”

“Years, just as a hobby, but I’ve always dreamed of playing real professional like,” He grinned.

“How’d you and Paul meet, then?”

“Childhood friends,” he said with a shrug. “Both liked music, and the rest is history.”

Paul nodded and sipped his beer, he was leaned against a rack situated in the garage. Too afraid he’d sit down and cross his legs or his ankles and someone would notice the way he held himself was too feminine, it was easier to stand and to act nonchalant. 

John’s gaze fixated on Paul, staring at him in a way that made Paul’s skin crawl and not in a pleasing way. But rather in a way that John saw something in him that he wasn’t meant to see. His breath caught in fear as John silently stood up and came over to him, truly towering over him, and he reached up to pull aside Paul’s collar. 

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck was the mantra flooding Paul’s mind. Would John recognize the mark he was clearly examining? This wasn’t the same electric closeness they had shared just a few days earlier. Where Paul had felt so safe laying in the woods with John. This was John taking what he wanted in an act of boorish manhood. Even if it meant taking whatever information he wanted from his friends. Paul could feel his hot breath on his cheek, it smelled like the beer they were drinking, and as much as he wanted to shrink away from John’s touch he had to pretend like his heart wasn’t racing in his chest. 

“Well, Paulie, didn’t think you were a casanova,” John grinned.

He backed away as Paul gawked at him, unsure of how to reply to the statement.

“What? Bird got your tongue?” John smirked at him. “Tell us about it.”

“Oh, er,” Paul flushed and tried to cover the mark on his neck. “You know, boy meets girl and all.”

“She put out, clearly,” John waggled his eyebrows at Paul and the other guys laughed, though Paul could see George blushing out of the corner of his eye.

“Yeah, but gentlemen don’t kiss and tell,” he sipped his beer, hoping that would be the end of it.

“Oi, Pete,” John called to him, “I didn’t know we were in the presence of a gentleman .”

“How right you are Johnny,” Pete bowed to Paul, “We apologize my lord.”

Paul felt the flush deepening on his face.

“Oooh, Paulie’s blushing,” John called and a couple of jeers and whistles were directed at Paul, who knew he had to prove that he could just take it.

“I’m no gentleman,” John announced, “I’ll happily tell you how my Friday went if loverboy over there won’t give up the details of his weekend.”

“Not this again,” Stuart groaned.

“Shut it,” John glared at him.

“Was this with that Jan girl?” Pete asked.

“Yeah, and let me tell you, her pussy was so tight it was hard to believe she wasn’t a virgin.”

George cast a glance quickly and subtly up at Paul who felt his mouth go dry as John talked about their night to his friends, and to Paul, who supposed he was also in John’s friendship circle. He also knew this had to be painfully awkward for George, who knew the vital detail only Paul also held.

“How’d you know that?” Stuart asked, leaning in slightly towards John.

“Didn’t bleed, plus begged me to. Didn’t even pretend to fight.”

Paul felt his stomach start to knot. Was this what John thought of him?

“‘Oh John, fuck me, please fuck me,’” John said in a high pitched voice clearly meant to imitate how Paul’s normal tone of voice sounded.

“Lucky, she gives you such moon eyes when she’s at our shows and her tits are incredible,” Pete groaned. “I wouldn’t mind-”

“Lay off her,” John nearly growled as he cut off Pete’s sentence. “If I see any of you lay a fucking hand on her you won’t be able to play music anymore, or do some other things, lets just say.”

Stuart raised a hand, “Hey you’re the one laying out the sordid details.”

“She’s my bird,” John leaned back, “At least until I get bored of her.”

“You gonna see her again?” Paul forced himself to ask, ignoring the way everyone turned to stare at him. It was surreal, hearing them all talk about him, not even knowing that who they were talking about was him. It was humiliating to hear John pantomime their most intimate moments to the room, and to know how all the guys in the band lusted after him. There he stood, too, unable to even defend himself, he just had to sit there, acting the innocent and complicit bystander. Accepting the disgusting talk like it wasn't about him. Like his heart wasn't breaking into a million tiny shards and sinking into his stomach.

“Think so,” John stared at the beer bottle in his hand, swirling the remaining liquid in it before downing it in one last gulp. “Her dad’s a fucking asshole, but I wouldn’t mind giving her a finger pie, she gives good head, too. Usually it’s one or the other, you know? But she’s the whole package.”

“Good to know at least one of us is getting some,” Pete sighed, “Well two of us with Paul over there, I s’pose.” He shook his head. “I call dibs on the next girl that get obsessed with us.”

“Help yourself,” Stuart finished his beer, “Well, that’s it, I’m gonna get going. See you on Wednesday.” 

“We should get going, too,” Paul set his half drunk beer aside and pushed himself off the wall, “C’mon George.”

“Wait,” John said quickly, “Paul-”

“Hm?” He turned to look at John as he settled his backpack on his shoulder. 

“Can you come over a little early on Wednesday? Like 5?”

“I’ll be here,” Paul nodded.

“Gear,” John smiled. There was something off with his demeanor. Something Paul was struggling to place. It was as if he was both desperate to show off how manly he was and also deeply protective over the things he coveted. That seemed to include both Paul and Janine, who Paul could tell John liked deeply in different ways. He didn’t want the rest of the band to see the chinks in his armor, the cracks in his facade, but Paul saw them. He knew, if he wanted, that he could send the entire house of cards collapsing if he wanted. 

Except he didn’t want. He wanted to be everything to John, best pal, best partner, best girlfriend, best boyfriend even. Maybe. Even if that meant accepting that John would sometimes speak of him as if he was a sex toy to a group of friends, wholly unaware that the very person he spoke of was standing there in front of him. 

He wanted that smile, wanted to bask in its warmth and melt into a puddle under John's lips again. To feel his tenderness again. He wanted to recite Ginsberg and hold his hand and he wanted to arrive early on Wednesday as himself and talk music with John. He wanted it all, but he knew something was going to eventually have to give and there was no way to have all of it. There was no way to make this ruse last indefinitely. He knew he wouldn't be able to bear hearing himself spoken of like that indefinitely.

Paul would be lying if he said it didn’t hurt, didn’t feel like his heart wasn’t squeezing out of his chest and was in a million little embarrassed and humiliated pieces. He knew George knew that was him John was talking about, and it sucked knowing that John even had the capability of talking about what they’d had together in such a crude way. But, he supposed, that was what men did. They played with the world like it was all their toys, and even when they broke them they expected to fix them with glue and act as if the cracks didn’t exist. 

Paul needed to figure out how to do that for himself, because the cracks wouldn’t exist if he was the two people John thought he was. 

“Night,” Paul said to John, nodding for George to follow him out of the garage for them to head home.

“Night,” John called after them.

“You okay?” George asked when they were far enough away from John’s house.

“Yes? No?” Paul ran his hand through his hair. “I don’t know. I’m sorry you had to uh, hear that.”

“I will say I didn’t think I’d hear about you like that .” George blushed as he said it, “But I knew you did those things.”

Paul snorted. “It’s funny, seeing how guys are when there aren’t women around.”

“Yeah, I guess I could have warned you.”

Paul shrugged halfheartedly, “I ought to get used to it. But I also don’t think I want to be that sort of guy.”

“You don’t have to be Paul,” George nudged him gently, “That’s the fun part, you can be whatever kind of guy you want to be, I think.”

“And they say chivalry is dead,” Paul smiled at him.

“I dub thee Sir Paul McCartney,” George mock knighted him, using his hand as he tapped on each shoulder while they walked. It was awkward and stupid but that’s what Paul loved so much about George. 

Paul smiled at that and said a soft, “Thanks, Geo.” He meant it, “For everything.”

“Don’t sweat it, it’s fun to see you like this, it’s different but you seem more yourself.”

“I feel more myself.”

“I think I get it a bit more now, that this is you, and it’s weird because you’re still just you, but different, like how chocolate has flavors. Except this one is the original.”

Paul thought about the analogy for a moment before he nodded his agreement, “Yeah, just like chocolate.”

“Luckily, original is my favorite.”

Chapter Text

As much as he would have hated to admit it, Paul couldn’t help lingering by the phone in the intervening day or so, waiting, hoping even, for John to call. He saw the pitiable look on his dad’s face as he practiced piano and scribbled furiously in his notebook. It was a mixture of song lyrics and chords he worked out on piano, scraps of melody and harmony ideas. Being in the band had revitalized his muse and he hoped he’d write things John wanted to hear.

John.

Ugh.

As much as he’d been hovering near the phone, quick to answer it. Though the only people who ha called were a couple people from his dad’s work and Mike’s friends from school, he was struggling to compartmentalize his feelings about John.

John his friend.

John his not quite boyfriend.

John the tender hearted.

John the fucking asshole.

Some of the scribbles in his personal notebook, the one more like a diary than the one he actively worked on music in, had some choice words about John. Some of it as blase as “Why hasn’t he called since Friday?” Especially considering it was now Wednesday and Paul was getting ready to sneak out as Paul. To the much less couth: “What a stupid fucking asshole to talk about me like that!” Unfortunately he also wrote, “John’s eyes are the universe.”

He was absolutely done for.

He knew he was done for as he looked himself over in the mirror, white shirt and tan vest on with jeans. He tugged the vest down a little, wanting to more fully hide the curve of his waist and give him a more boxy look that would helpfully disguise his hips. The mark was at this point almost fully gone and anything remaining was a shadow of itself that hopefully no one was going to pick on him about.

He buttoned the collar up at the thought, wanting to minimize any further examination of his body. Satisfied with his appearance he left, slipping out before Jim or Mike came home and he made sure he had his notebook, guitar, and clothes change before walking the way to John’s.

The garage wasn’t yet opened up, so Paul had to knock on the front door, and this time an older woman answered it, this had to be Mimi.

She scowled, looking him over, her face was lined heavily, clearly life was not the kindest to her. She had an apron on, drying her hands with a rag, likely doing the dishes. While her look at Paul was severe she mostly looked tired. “And you are?” She asked with a raised eyebrow. 

“Oh,” Paul blushed, “Er, I’m Paul, a friend of John’s.”

She pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows with a heavy sigh. “John!” She called over her shoulder, “Your little friend is here.”

Paul heard a loud slam and thud and a flurry of footsteps as John rushed down the stairs. 

“Paul!” He greeted before he even saw who it was. He supposed John must not have had too many “little friends.”

“Hi John,” Paul smiled once John made his appearance in the doorway. He looked like he’d just come back from class, dressed in proper slacks and his shirt buttoned up. If Paul had been there as Janine he would have swooned. 

Mimi left the two of them to themselves once John arrived, heading back towards the kitchen with a, “Don’t make a racket inside, please use the garage.”

“Fine Mimi!” John called after her, rolling his eyes heavily. “You’re early,” John turned and Paul followed him inside and through a door that led into the garage. John pulled a string to turn on a bare bulb that lit the garage in a soft orangey glow. 

“Like fifteen minutes early.” Paul retorted, setting his things aside once the door was closed. John’s guitar and other items strewn over the floor, presumably this is where he came to practice during the day time.

“Sorry ‘bout my aunt, too, she’s just… like that.” In the dim lighting Paul couldn’t tell if John was blushing or not, but the shift inwardly meant that he didn’t really want to talk about Mimi.

“S’okay, John, really.” Paul assured him. It was decidedly weird, being around this version of John, one he was pretty sure the others didn’t get to see. Perhaps its what made the cognitive dissonance so difficult. Know John had the capacity to be mild, gentle even, and to be met with a horrific fake version of John, or maybe they were both real aspects of who John was as a person. “D’you mind if I ask why you wanted me here so early?”

John looked up from where he’d crossed over to pick up his guitar, clutching it so tightly and yet so delicately as he closed the space between himself and Paul, “Yeah, uh, I’ve got a song pretty well written out, and I want you to hear it before I introduce it to the guys tonight, yeah?”

John looked at him with pleading eyes, eyes that were so vulnerable and offering Paul something so deeply personal on a golden platter. How could Paul refuse it?

“Happy to be your first audience,” Paul breathed out, feeling himself warm. 

John’s face lit up within the dimly lit space, “Would you mind tuning my guitar?” He asked sheepishly.

Paul smiled slightly and shook his head, “Of course I will, hand it over,” he held his hand out for John’s guitar. Their fingers bruised slightly as Paul’s fingers wrapped around the neck just above John’s. It was warm and Paul could see a strange look come over John’s face for a split second but it passed and Paul sat down on the upturned milk crate John had sat on on Monday, holding close the guitar as he tuned it.

“You know you ought to learn to do this yourself,” he chided, tuning the final string before handing it out to John. 

“If I did that I wouldn’t need you to come over early,” and John’s face set like stone almost as soon as the words were out of his mouth. As if he’d said something he had meant to keep inside. His eyes had that far off quality that Paul had familiarized himself with when certain emotions came to the surface that John didn’t want to properly engage with. He’d learned that John was flighty, like pigeons in the park, comfortable enough with people but easily spooked. So he didn’t say anything about it.

Instead he watched as John pulled the guitar strap over his shoulders and began to sing. Singing words he actually wrote, to chords he chose. To Paul of all people. They were basically strangers in this context. Paul as Paul barely knew John and vice versa, and yet there he was, watching as John cast larger than life shadows against an old and dusty workbench, his voice low and shaky with nerves. Where he stood meant that he was nearly backlit, and he looked angelic, his auburn hair glowing in a halo around him. Paul wasn’t sure he believed in anything divine but in John’s presence, his music washing over him, he was sure that this was heaven on earth. He could almost hear the cheers and swoons of girls and women as John began to finish his song. 

John paused for a moment, his gaze not quite meeting Paul’s as if he was afraid to actually know whether Paul liked it or not. He cleared his throat awkwardly, his gaze finally lifting to meet Paul’s. It was bizarre to see him so shy, so desperate for someone else’s praise. “Well, what d’you think?”

“John it’s-” Paul started, nearly ready to break into a wide smile.

“It’s shite, I know,” John said before Paul could even speak.

“No!” Paul frowned, “It’s incredible.”

John looked down, away from Paul’s sincerity and ran his fingers up and down the strings on his guitar, “S’nothing.”

“I do have one comment, though,” he broached the subject carefully. Afraid that John would take any critique to heart and be spooked like a newborn deer.

“Yeah?” John licked his lips nervously. He shifted back and forth on his legs.

“Can you play the part again that does dun dun da da?”

John nodded, strumming and humming the melody of his song.

“There!” Paul stood up, “I think if you did this,” he reached out a hand very hesitantly, his fingers reaching out to touch John’s hand where it had frozen in position. The minute their hands touched Paul felt the air immediately thicken. He felt John’s eyes watching him, watching his hand, how he was manipulating John’s fingers ever so slightly to a modified A chord. He could smell John’s aftershave, and he thought back to the last time he was this close to John. He knew if he turned his head he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from doing something regrettable.

Something, he realized with a sour stomach, that would likely be broadcast to the whole of the group for them to jeer at and made snide remarks. 

That thought alone was enough to allow Paul to step back, crossing his arms as he assessed John. “Try that, then.”

John nodded, saying nothing in reply and he began to play from the start of the phrase, this time though, using the chord Paul had suggested.

“What do you think? It’s your song,” Paul sat back down, the slight shadowing appreciated as he tried to school his inner turmoil into calm seas again.

“It’s better, with your chord,” John agreed. His voice was horse and he wasn’t meeting Paul’s eyes, “You’ve got quite the ear.”

“Thanks but it’s nothin’,” Paul shrugged, “I can try to work out harmony, if you were wantin’ to show this to the guys today.” 

John simply nodded.

Paul crossed the room, going over to pull his guitar out of it’s case, he’d tuned it before the walk but he was checking it again, plucking each string as he reasessed the instrument.

“Sorry, by the way, if I made you uncomfortable on Monday,” John’s voice broke the silence that had been only punctuated with Paul’s tuning.

He paused. His back was to John and he knew he couldn’t turn around for this conversation. So instead he continued on with his guitar. “Hey, it’s just blokes being blokes. I can take some ribbing, yeah?”

“Yeah,” John replied quietly.

“You called that Jan girl?” He asked as nonchalantly as he possibly could. There was maybe the slightest edge of bitterness in how he asked the question. A dash of poison that was impossible for him to fully contain.

“Not yet,” John said after a long pause. “I dunno, I want to but every time I pick up the phone to call her I panic and I just can’t.”

“What’s stopping you?” Paul stared at the garage door in front of him. There it was again, that tightness in his chest. Those million tiny shards of his heart all cutting him up inside.

“I don’t normally like girls as much as I do her, that song, it’s kind of about her. Except she’s not stuck up like or anything. I think she digs me a lot, which is scary. Especially as I’m trying to get the band to Germany in the future and…” John trailed off. He was clearly uncertain of where the story would end, same as Paul in that moment.

That song, the one John had just sung, was for him? He’d never imagined, fuck he’d never even hoped that anyone would write anything for him. The guys he’d been with, they’d been gentlemen alright, though that facade always seemed to slip away once they slipped into his knickers. They’d never written Paul so much as a couplet, but there John was with a whole song.

He swallowed hard at the lump in his throat. Get it together McCartney , he thought as he turned around, his face carefully set in a neutral disaffected expression, “Maybe she’ll be at your next gig, it’s Saturday isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” John dragged a crate over to be across from the one Paul had been sitting on. “Sorry you and George can’t play yet, still too new.”

“What about being down one player?” Paul asked.

“ Fuck , I forgot about that,” John frowned. “No offense but George is a natural.”

“He is.” 

“I’ll see if he can make it then.”

“You should see if your girl can make it.”

John hummed noncommittally. “Let’s play some fucking guitar, alright?”

“Alright, John, let’s play.”

*****

He’d waited all week for a call that never came. Once he came home from school, he sat by the phone studying for his final A level. He could see the concerned looks from his dad and the general eyerolls from Mike, but the call never came. Wednesday night, Thursday, and Friday all came and went, and even all of Saturday, but no call from John. 

Luckily he had gotten a call from Ronnie, inviting him out to the very show he already knew about, Elise would be joining them, but all talk of boyfriends was off the table after Paul’s rude commentary last time. They also wanted to support George in his first public performance. 

He was going to attend anyway, regardless of a personal invite from John, he’d just hoped for one.

“You’ve been going out a lot lately,” Mike leaned on the doorframe to Paul’s room.

He jumped, focusing on taking out the small pin curls he’d put in the night before. “Jesus, Mike, why can’t you and dad knock?”

“Didn’t think I needed to with your door wide open,” he rolled his eyes. “Dad’s gonna have a fit.”

“I already put his plate in the oven, the laundry is all folded up, and there’s fresh towels in the bathrooms. Plus I hoovered today, and my homework is done.” He turned around from his vanity and threw his arms down. “I don’t know what he wants from me. Does he want me to find someone to get married to and, I don’t know, move out with or what?”

“He thinks that boy you’re seeing is bad news.”

“I know that.” 

Mike shrugged, “Look, I don’t care honestly, obviously I worry about you. But you’re grown up, but I don’t think dad’ll see you that way until you’re forty or something.”

Paul laughed a little, it was all too true and he knew it. “I’m just going out with the girls, I’ll be home before midnight. He knows that.”

“You’re seeing his band though, aren’t you?”

“Dad doesn’t know that,” Paul admitted quietly, turning back to continue to unpin his hair. “If you tell him,” he looked at Mike in the mirror, “I’ll kill you. I know were you sleep,” he teased.

“I’ve seen what you can do with those knitting needles, I won’t be taking my chances,” he replied. “Just be safe, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Paul nodded, waiting for Mike to retreat down the hallway before he closed his door so he wouldn’t be disturbed, and turned the radio up a little louder as he continued to get ready to go out. 

The club they were playing at was as expected. A little dingy, a little dark, but lit well enough that he didn’t have to squint to find his two friends at their table. 

“Jan!” Ronnie smiled and stood up to hug him. Her cloyingly sweet perfume enveloped him and it was nice to be in her embrace again, it had been too long since he’d been with them. Even if it meant he was in some of his most feminine and costume-like get ups.

“Hey Ronie,” he hugged her back and then turned to smile sheepishly at Elise. “Hey.”

She looked up at him and back down at her drink, which she clutched in one hand, her other holding a cigarette which she turned to take a drag on. He’d take it.

“I wanted a table next to the stage. So we can cheer for George and all,” Ronnie said. “I got you a rum and coke,” she pushed the dark drink towards Paul who took it.

“Thanks,” he took a drink. If it had rum he’d be surprised, but he wasn’t too interested in getting drunk anyway. He didn’t see the band at all, just the current group performing on stage. They were… fine. Paul had seen better, he’d also seen worse than them. Ronnie leaned over to say something to Elise, who nodded and said something that Paul couldn’t make out. Which was fine.

It was the first time he’d been out with them since he’d really started to see John and to live his life. His real life, and it felt weird to be at a table with them again, like nothing had changed. Except that everything had. He felt different. A bit of the real him now existed in the world and he was changed with it. As much as he still wore the trappings of his feminine upbringing he found it a little more difficult to join in on the idle chatter of the women who he called friends. Especially as his brain was filled with thoughts of John, and the band, and George, and how much he wished he’d be up there with them.

“Jan!” Elise shouted right by his ear.

“Sorry!” He looked between her and Ronnie. “I was lost in thought.”

“I see what,” Elise laughed, “We wanted to know if you ever did anything with John.”

“Oh,” Paul blushed, “I-”

“Did you sleep with him?” Ronnie leaned in, her smile was predatory, her white teeth framed with dark red lipstick. She looked hungry for the gossip that Paul might provide. “Is he, y’know, well endowed?”

Paul felt himself redden further, “Look I won’t kiss and tell!”

“Oh you’re no fun,” she pouted.

“Was it good at least?” Elise asked.

“Yes,” Paul admitted. “And that’s all I’ll say about it.”

Elise smiled, satisfied, and took a sip from her drink. “Can’t wait to see him perform then.”

They didn’t wait much longer for the band to take the stage. John wore a dark fitted jacket that looked like it was maybe leather. The look suited him, and George, little George was there, looking equally excited and terrified. 

Paul held his breath and John scoped out the audience and their eyes met. But where he had expected something , anything at all, he was met with coldness. The smile that had been coyly on his lips, the flirtatious look he’d been prepared to send John’s way disappeared near instantly. Instead it was replaced by a furrowed brow and confused tightness in his chest as John turned to look at the rest of the audience, winking at some girl Paul couldn’t see and flashing a grin out at them.

Had he done something wrong? Oh fuck , had John figured him out? Did he know?

“Maybe I’ll get a crack at ‘im now that the bloom’s off the rose, eh Jan?”

“Shut the fuck up Ronnie,” Paul glared at her.

Ronnie rolled her eyes and slumped back in her seat, arms crossed. “It’s just a fucking joke,” she muttered. 

Paul watched, unable to tear his eyes away as they played. He saw George spare him a few concerned glances, and he cheered appropriately, especially for George. But John didn’t look his way the entire time. Not one glance whether good, bad, or otherwise. Paul wanted John to look at him, to acknowledge he existed. He felt like he was going to implode as the set went on, and he wasn’t going to cry in public over some guy, but he wanted to run off and bawl his eyes out in the bathroom. It wouldn’t be the first time some girl did that. Though he wasn’t just some girl.

“We have a new piece just for you tonight,” John spoke into the microphone. “The guys and me have been working on some original music we hope to add to our repertoire, and we’re pleased to have you all be the first to hear our new ditty.” 

Paul inhaled sharply as John began to play the song. His song . John sang with so much confidence from Wednesday when he’d heard a nervous boy singing for him. He heard the modified A chord ring out. He watched as John sang his own music to a captivated crowd who would worship at his feet, Paul knew they would. He saw John stare down every woman in the room, even ones coupled up with their boyfriends as he sang Hello Little Girl . Yet not one glance to him.

He thought, for a brief moment, that dying would be preferable to whatever exquisite hell he found himself in. This was something out of Dante’s Inferno , a specially curated hell just for him and his unique sins. 

“Thank you all, and goodnight,” John said when they finished the song, their last song for the evening, and began to pack up their equipment. Ronnie and Elise ran to gush over George who was blushing furiously at the praise and looked exhausted after his first performance.

He could tell his friend how good he was later. Instead he pushed away from the table to try and catch the lead singer before he could escape.

“John!” Paul stood at the edge of the stage, wringing his hands tightly, fighting the urge to anxiously pick at his cuticles and have them ragged. “John!” He knew the man could hear him, he was standing directly behind him, and he could see John’s shoulders tightening as he said his name.

“Pete, do you hear something?” He looked to their drummer who was happily accepting a drink from a cute blond girl. “Sounds like a shrew to me, squeak squeak, squeak.” 

“John Lennon!” Paul climbed onto the stage, standing next to John and reaching out to grab his arm. “You can’t ignore me forever.”

John flinched, pulling his arm away from Paul’s touch as if he was diseased. “Oh, but you can?”

“What?” Paul frowned. What was John even talking about.

“Don’t play cute with me Janine. Your dad told me you were going steady with a new boy.” John took a step back away from Paul. “I don’t need to be strung along by a girl.”

“John,” Paul said carefully, like he was soothing a puppy or a similarly spooked animal. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I-I’ve been waiting by the phone all week.”

“Yeah right, I called your house Wednesday evening and your dad picked up the phone.”

Paul found the widening of his eyes, John had to have called the only time he wasn’t home, when he was coming back from practice, but John wouldn’t know that. “John please,” he stepped closer, trying to reach out to touch John’s arm, “Please let’s talk somewhere a little quieter.”

John looked at the hand on his arm, then back at Paul, his resolve shaking. “Okay, alley in 20 minutes, so we can finish packing up.”

“Deal,” Paul agreed. He released a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He had this, he had one chance to fix whatever mess his dad had gotten him into. 

John turned, not sparing him a second glance as he stood there for a moment before carefully walking over cords and microphone stands to give George a hug. “You did great.”

“Thanks,” he blushed, “I was told the nerves go down with time, and alcohol.”

Paul laughed a little, “I believe it, can’t wait for my chance,” he said softly.

“You’ll get your chance soon.” George assured him. He looked over his shoulder at the rest of the band before leaning in close to Paul. “What’s wrong with John?”

“I think he called for me on Wednesday when I was heading home,” Paul whispered. “Dad picked up the phone and told John I was seeing someone else.”

“Oh,” George nodded. “Well that explains the foul mood.”

“I’m meeting him in the alley in about fifteen minutes to talk.”

“Well, good luck, I think?” he sighed, “I need to pack up, I’ll join our friends, be sure to let me know how it goes, yeah?”

“Oh I will,” Paul assured him.

He stepped down off the stage, catching his stocking on the edge and cursing as a huge run went up his calf. “Dammit.” 

Ronnie and Elise looked at him with wide expectational eyes and he gave the table a wave to let them know he needed space before heading to the alleyway. He knew he was too early for John to meet him. He needed the air, though. He leaned against the slick damp brick wall of the building and opened his purse, his hands shaking violently. He pulled out a cigarette and held it to his lips, pulling out a matchbook and doing his best to light one with his hands shaking. After three failed to light he broke, and ripping the cigarette from his mouth he pressed his hands against his forehead and doubled over, the flood of tears finally coming from him.

He felt so stupid, it was so stupid to care for some guy so much. Some guy who didn’t even know he was also his guy friend from the band. Just because he wrote Paul a song and knew Alan Ginsberg? He was so fucked if being slighted like this was enough to do him in. He couldn’t stop thinking about how John talked about him on Monday, about how humiliating it was to have George know about his sex life, and the whole of the band. Yet there he was, ready to fall to his knees and plead for John to take him back.

The worst of it all was that he still wanted to be taken back. He wanted John to sing to him, to want him, however John would want him. 

The side door opened with a bang and Paul looked up, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. It wasn’t John, though, just a couple looking for some privacy among the dark corners of the alley. They ignored Paul, he heard a girl giggling and the guy she was with shushing her.

He sniffed, reaching into his bag for his handkerchief to wipe at his running mascara and blow his nose. 

“Looking for your boyfriend in there?” A voice came from above him and he felt the knife his dad had put in his back twist ever so slightly.

“No, just a hankie. I don’t have a boyfriend,” he said solemnly. He quickly wiped his eyes, and dabbed at his nose. Once he took a deep breath and was satisfied that it didn’t shake as he exhaled he looked up. 

John was across the alleyway not more than five feet from him, arms crossed as he was looking Paul over. “Well? Talk then.”

Paul licked his lips and took a deep breath, “My dad doesn’t approved of you.”

“Cor, not this again,” John rolled his eyes, “‘Oh me dad’s a hardass.’” Again that grating imitation of him. That stupid high pitched mockery of his voice.

“Do you ever shut the fuck up and listen?” Paul snapped. 

John scowled, “You’re the one running around with any guy willing to dip his stick, aren’t you?”

“I’m trying to tell you I’m not!” He closed his eyes. He couldn’t cry now, he couldn’t let John see that he’d gotten to him. He could yell, but he couldn’t let John see him cry. “I don’t do that. I’ve never-” he looked up seeing the glow of the flashing sign of the club on the building above them. “I sat by the phone, I waited. I waited for you.” His voice tightened. “I must have been in the shower or something, I don’t know. But my dad-” He blinked away a few tears, “He wants me married, he wants me to be with someone he approves of.”

“Janine you know-”

“Let me finish,” Paul pleaded, voice thick with unshed tears.

Mercifully John nodded. His arms were still crosses protectively across his chest, but his face had softened. His hard shell melting away like ice in spring.

“I don’t want whatever my dad thinks I should want. I mean, maybe one day, but, fuck I don’t want that now . I know it sounds stupid and all but I don’t care, I just… I want you,” he looked up at John from where he’d stared transfixed on the purplish glow that meant he didn’t have to meet John’s eyes.

John was silent and nothing unnerved Paul more than that. He wished he’d talk, that he’d say anything. He wanted to beg for forgiveness, to wash John’s feet with his tears and to be forgiven. It was pathetic, so pathetic, and it scared him to think what that meant.

John pushed himself off the wall, crossing over to stand right in front of Paul. He reached out, grabbing Paul’s chin and tilting his face up to look at him. “You don’t have a boyfriend?”

“No!” Paul tried to shake his head but John held him firmly. He felt how warm his hands were from playing, felt the firmness of John’s thumb on his chin. “No one else.”

John stared at him for a long moment, his eyes searching for a hint of anything that might make him walk away in that moment. “Your dad was lying?”

“Yes,” Paul replied. “I swear it.”

John’s lips pressed close, and before Paul knew it John was kissing him. 

It was like nectar, like ambrosia, like the absolution he so desperately craved in that moment. He reached up to hold John’s face, deepening their kiss. It wasn’t quite the heaven on Earth he so craved with John, but it was assurance and that was more than enough.

John pulled back first, just far enough away from Paul’s lips that they weren’t touching, but Paul could still feel John’s breath on his lips, feel his hand on his chin. “Why didn’t you call?”

“I don’t have your number,” he replied. It felt like something so obvious he’d assumed John knew, and he didn’t know Mimi’s last name, so it was impossible to search him in the phonebook.

John laughed, and once he started to laugh Paul found himself wrapped up in it, laughing with John at the absurdity of their whole situation, even the parts John didn’t know about, and allowed himself to held pulled close to John’s chest, tucked into his warmth as he felt his low rumbling laugh pour from his lips like a fountain. “I forgot I never gave you my number. Fuck I’m an idiot.”

“Your words,” Paul chuckled.

John squeezed him gently before letting go. As much as Paul wanted to stay wrapped in John’s arms he knew that they couldn’t be like that forever. He looked down at Paul, brushing a hand over his cheek and Paul pressed into the touch, looking up at John, pressing a kiss to his palm.

“You changed your hair, did you get a perm?” John twisted a curl in his fingers.

It was almost like whiplash, how John could go from mercurial to merry. It was as if he hadn’t spent the entire evening petulant and angry at Paul for an entirely miscommunicated reason.

“Just pin curls,” Paul put a hand up to his hair. 

“It’s nice,” John said softly.

“I must look a right mess right now,” Paul pressed his hand to his cheek, feeling the trails cut through his foundation from his tears and he was sure there were still flecks of mascara on his cheek.

“Nah,” John tried to assure but Paul could tell he was lying and John wasn’t doing a very good job of hiding that fact, leading them both to break out into laughter again. John moved to rest against the wall next to Paul. He hit the wall with a soft thud, and stared at the wall across from the both of them. “Your dad is a right ass.”

“I know, I live with him.” He shook his head, “And to think, my brother was telling me how da sees you as ‘bad news’ or something.”

“He’s not the first,” John admitted. “My last girl, Cynthia, parents also didn’t like me, didn’t last long because she couldn’t handle that.”

“Shame, her loss,” Paul smiled, glancing over at John. This time the lighting let Paul see the ever so slight flush on John’s cheeks. He was sure if pressed John would blame it on the beers or the chill in the air. He reached into his purse again, pulling out his pack of cigarettes again, this time without shaking hands, “Got a light?”

John reached into his pocket and pulled out a lighter, lighting one for Paul and taking one for himself, handing the pack back over afterward. 

“You all did great in there. I liked that new song.” He watched John from the corner of his eye as he froze ever so slightly before exhaling.

“Yeah?” John flicked some ashes to the ground, an arm wrapped around his waist.

“Yeah, you’re so talented John,” Paul chewed on his lower lip. 

“You don’t have to lie to me.”

“I’m not! I was blown away in there.”

“I wrote it for you.”

Paul’s breath caught in his throat at the admission. He knew of course he knew that John had written it for him, he’d heard it just a few days before, but John couldn’t possibly know that. “You did?”

“Yeah, I was a bit of an ass in there, but, yeah…” He took a long deliberate drag off his cigarette. Paul could tell the vulnerability of the admission was too much for John to deal with in that moment. 

“No one’s ever written anything for me, especially not a song,” Paul placed a hand on John’s arm, “Thank you.”

John shrugged, “It’s nothing, really.”

“Well, I’ll happily say I’m yours. Your little girl,” Paul laughed a little at saying it out loud, “Though I am a grown woman.”

“It’s about the musicality of it, you know, poetry.” John ducked his head away, defensive to Paul’s slight dig at the wording. 

“I know, John, don’t worry.” He leaned over to kiss his cheek. “I know poetry. Thank you, again, for the song, for talking to me.”

John just nodded, flicking his cigarette butt into a puddle, “The guys’re probably wondering where I’m at.”

“I should probably get back to my friends, too.” Paul was sure the three of them were waiting with bated breath for his return and to hear how his talk with John went. He wasn’t sure exactly how much he’d divulge to them, just enough he figured to sate their bloodlust for gossip, but some details he’d keep for himself. Unless John chose to air those out, too. He frowned to himself at the thought.

“You got a pen?” 

Paul nodded, pulling it out and handing it to John. He gasped softly when John took his hand, scribbling something onto his palm. “John what’re you-?”

“Now you can call me.” John smiled, “No need for your dad to get in our way.”

Paul blushed, taking the pen and putting it in his purse before looking at the number scribbled onto his hand, wanting to sear it into his brain in case anything happened before he could get home and record it in a more reliable way. “Thanks.”

“I’ll be waiting,” John winked at him and made his way to the door to go back inside. “Coming?”

“I’m going to finish my cigarette,” Paul said, “You go on in.”

John nodded, opening the door just enough to slip inside.

“John?” Paul said quickly before he slipped inside.

“Yeah Jan?”

“I do look at you and think of love.”

Paul couldn’t see the reaction on John’s face, and that was fine. John slipped inside without a reply, and left Paul in the cool night air. Alone, John’s number on his hand, and he took another drag, a smile playing on his lips. He was sure John thought the same thing, too. He’d say it in his own time, Paul just needed to be patient.

Chapter Text

“Hello?”

“John?”

“Who is this?”

“Janine,” Paul rolled his eyes, glad for the separation the phone provided him. Though he would likely have rolled his eyes if John had been standing right in front of him. “I’m offended you didn’t recognize the sound of my voice.”

“Phones have terrible sound you know that,” John replied. Paul felt like he could almost hear the slight smile in John’s voice. “What’re you calling for?”

Paul twisted the phone cord around his finger absentmindedly, better that than chewing on his fingers. “I was wondering if you’d like to go out next weekend.”

“Well aren’t you bold?” John’s voice came through.

“It’s the 50s, John, can’t a girl ask a guy to go out?” He felt himself blushing. It wasn’t as if he’d had lots of time to discuss the nuances of their feelings about life and society on the few brief excursions they’d had together. After all, most of it was him watching John perform, or them having sex. And when he was there as Paul, well, that was a wholly different matter. One that he was finding increasingly difficult to square with the day to day version of himself.

“I suppose, as long as you don’t go around telling people how forward you are.” There was an uneasy and serious tone to John’s voice. That slip of the mask belying the fear of how other people thought of John.

“I won’t unless you do,” Paul’s voice was perhaps a little more flat than he intended, his lips pressed tightly together. It did frustrate Paul, at times, that John’s ego mattered as much as it did. That John guarded himself so preciously. It was, however, a thing to be accepted about him. Again, too, the phone provided him cover from showing a bit more of how he really felt.

There was a relieved sigh on the other end of the phone, soft enough that Paul had thought he’d almost imagined it. “Gear, I’ll come pick you up then. Did you have anything specific in mind?”

“Thought we could go to a cafe, have a coffee,” Paul bit his lip nervously, not sure if John would go for the idea. Most of their time was not spent talking, and he liked sex as much as anyone, and he liked John even more. “On a date, proper like.” He added after a few moments of silence from the other end. The cord held tightly between his fingers which sported very white knuckles. 

“Fine with me,” John said finally, voice slightly strained. “I’ll see you then Jan. Night.”

“Night John,” Paul untangled the cord from his fingers as he set the phone down with a soft thud. It was a date at least. Though, he only realized then, they hadn’t set a specific day, but either one largely worked and he expected it to be on Saturday.

He looked up from the phone stand to see his father in the doorway between the kitchen and livingroom. He froze. His conversation with Mike echoing in his ears, about how Jim didn’t approve of John and didn’t want him seeing him anymore. Though they had not had that conversation outright.

“Hi dad,” Paul said quietly, his throat tight as the words barely got out. 

“You were on the phone with that John boy were you?” Jim’s voice was calm and even. Which, frankly, frightened Paul more than if he was in a screaming argument.

“Dad-”

“I don’t want you seeing him,” Jim’s jaw set firmly, his crossed arms and tone brokered no argument. “I don’t like his behavior, I don’t like how he treated you.”

“Dad!-” Paul’s mouth snapped shut when Jim held up a hand.

“Quiet, Janine. This isn’t an argument. I am your father, you live in my house. What I say is what goes. Understood?”

Paul felt his lip tremble as the rush of tears came forward. His hands were balled into fists and his nails dug deeply into the palms of his hands. He nodded. Paul wanted to shake, to scream, to yell at his dad. But it was as if the fight had left him completely. He wasn’t afraid of his father, but he knew when having a fit was only going to serve in him embarrassing himself.

“Good, now, call John back, and cancel whatever plans you had.”

Paul looked up at Jim with blurred vision. He knew the minute he let the tears fall he would be done for.

“Go on,” Jim motioned once more at the phone.

Paul simply stood there like a statue. If he talked he knew he’d cry. He felt the tears still wanting to push themselves forward. He couldn’t do it. He knew he couldn’t call John, sobbing, and say what his dad wanted him to say.

His stomach dropped as Jim picked up the phone and offered it to Paul, holding the receiver to him.

“Alright,” Jim said after a long and deeply uncomfortable pause. “I’ll call.”

Paul choked out a sob at that.

“What’s his phone number, Janine?”

Paul felt tears rolling down his cheeks, clinging to his chin before they dripped from there to his shirt. He wouldn’t break down sobbing, but the tears were impossible to stem, and he reached up, wiping at his eyes as he tried to stop crying. If he could he would have pushed all the tears back, if he could he would have maintained a facade of indifference and had this embarrassing meltdown privately. Instead he stood there as his dad looked at him, phone to his ear, with irritation and disappointment. 

“ Janine .”

Paul took in a shaking breath and gave his dad John’s phone number. He didn’t know why, but he felt like he had no real choice in the matter. It was that complicated thing about parents and children. Reasonably Paul knew that he could have never told John’s number, a number he could remember John scribbling on his palm. In a more realistic way, though, Paul felt completely helpless as his dad stared him down.

“Is this John Lennon?” Jim asked, presumably to whoever was on the other end of the line. Paul felt his stomach twisting in knots as he stood in place and watched with growing horror as his dad spoke, presumably to John. “Jim McCartney,” He replied. “Janine’s father.”

A pause.

“Good evening to you, too.” Jim’s face was set in a way Paul only saw when Jim was seriously convicted in whatever he was doing. “I know you and Janine just made plans, but unfortunately she will not be able to make them, or, in fact, make any plans going forward. I encourage you to move on, as I am encouraging her to do as well.”

With that Jim hung up the phone, and Paul could tell he was satisfied with himself. It made him want to scream. 

“There,” Jim said decisively, “Now that’s done.” His face softened ever so slightly as he looked at Paul.

It was too little too late.

“Janine-”

“Leave me alone,” he managed to speak through tears, “Please, dad.”

“Things will be easier like this, you can focus on school, and on finding a good respectable boy,” he reached out to touch Paul who pushed the hand away.

“Just- Just drop it, dad,” Paul wiped his eyes again, feeling them already red and tender. He pushed past his dad and up stairs to his room, closing the door tightly behind himself. He’d been doing that a lot lately, he’d noticed. 

He heard Jim call his name again and he ignored him, instead he flopped onto his bed, letting the tears flow. It was stupid to cry over John like this, over someone he’d still see as Paul, and he arguably didn’t know John very well. As foolish as it sounded he felt like there was something special between him and John, and he had feelings he’d never had for a guy before.

He jumped as his door opened, Jim entering without so much as a knock.

“Dad!” Paul sat up and pushed back against the headboard.

“Janine this is what I’m talking about, you never behaved like this until you started seeing this boy.” Jim’s face was twisted in a look of concern and perhaps a little consternation. He rubbed his forehead and sighed. 

“I’m sorry I’m not your perfect little doll, dad. I’m sorry I grew up.” He hugged himself, scowling down at the blanket spread on top of his bed, unable to look directly at his dad.

“I’m just glad your mother isn’t here to see you like this,” the words escaped Jim’s mouth before he had a chance to stop himself. 

Paul felt the room’s temperature drop as he processed the words before muttering, “Yeah, me, too.” He could feel the tension filled silence spread between them, a wire ready to snap at any given moment. A gunfight where they had both drawn first and now he waited for Jim to leave in defeat, because he wasn’t going to concede and fawn and tell Jim how right he was about John. Was John perfect? No. But his dad had no business telling him who he could and could not see. 

“Jannie,” Jim started, using Paul’s childhood nickname. “I-”

“Dad, please ,” Paul shifted away from Jim, pulling his knees to his chest. 

Jim stopped and after a moment, left the room, closing Paul’s door behind him.

He waited a few moments, feeling the heavy weight of Jim’s comment on him before he got up to sit at his vanity, pulling down the picture of Mary he kept stuck to his mirror, looking at it. It hurt, Jim’s comment. It hurt all the more because Paul knew Jim meant it. His dad was likely glad that Mary wasn’t there to see how Paul grew up. Paul wasn’t sure that he wasn’t also actually relieved to have his mother spared who he’d become.

He sniffed and wiped away his tears once the photo of his mother became blurry. He wished in a more real way that he could talk to his mom. To know if how he felt was normal, did all girls feel like him?

No. He knew that answer. He knew the way he felt, the strong masculine inclinations he had, those were not normal. 

He set the photo down, burying his face in his hands. Everything felt so much worse and harder lately. Perhaps that was part of the intensity of his emotions. Now that he lived part of his life authentically it made the pantomime of Janine feel like even more of a costume, even more of a charade. Even with John it felt harder and harder to pretend to be a soft and simple girl. 

Each time he changed in the garden before coming back inside after band practice at John’s it felt worse than the last. 

He didn’t know how much longer he could manage to keep it up.

He hummed softly, John handing him a cup of tea as he entered into the garage again from the kitchen. “Oh, thanks.” He sipped it, he’d asked for some sugar and no milk, and John had made it sweet, almost too sweet but he wasn’t going to comment on it. He leaned on his guitar, the body of it resting in his crossed lap as he sat on the floor. He came over early regularly now, it made it easier to avoid his dad at any rate, and it was the time he and John spent composing and working on music together.

John hummed in reply and sat down across from Paul on a cate, his own cup in hand. He seemed off in his own world, not fully present as they were working. John had a notebook and pen strewn on the ground but nothing of note written. 

“You okay, man?” Paul asked finally. “You’re off in neverland like Alice over there.”

John pulled his glasses off, rubbing his eyes before sighing. “Janine’s dad called the other night, told me to forget about her.”

Paul’s chest tightened. The event had only happened the night before, his feelings still very raw. It sucked, too, that he couldn’t just tell John everything, to talk about how he felt. Instead he had to act like his world wasn’t falling apart. “Didn’t you mention he’s an asshole?” It felt good to say about his own dad, though John didn’t know that. It was harsh, sure, but it was how Paul was feeling about it all, especially the comment about his mother.

“Yeah, but what if she wanted to break off with me and asked her dad to do it?” John groaned, staring down into his cup of tea. “I don’t think she would do that. But what am I supposed to do? I should probably just move on if it’s going to cause her trouble.”

Paul felt panic in his chest, he wanted to tell John ‘no.’ Wanted to shake him and plead with him and convince him that he was wrong, that Paul never wanted his dad to say what he said, that Paul was devastated at the thought of never seeing John like that again. “Shouldn’t she determine that for herself?”

John rolled his eyes, “It’s not that simple, Paul.”

“How isn’t it?” Paul frowned and took another drink of his tea before he said anything either incriminating or regrettable. 

“She lives at home? He is her dad and clearly has a lot of control. No bird is worth that sort of risk, honestly.” John replied with a shrug. “She’s great, don’t think I’ll ever meet another like her. But you know, I’ve got plenty of girls linin’ up for me these days.”

“Well that’s romantic,” Paul scoffed. “Where’s Mr. Dreamer from just the other week gushin’ bout her?” It was difficult to keep his frustration under wraps. It sucked to feel like he was even failing to be worth it to John of all people, John who had been so upset at the thought of him having a boyfriend secretly, and yet now at the slightest pushback from his dad was ready to move on and let Paul go as if it was nothing.”

“You sound like Mimi.”

“What did she say, then?”

“That…” John blushed, “What I like Janine a lot and I ought to fight and let her make up her own mind.”

“Didn’t realize you were serious enough to be talking to your aunt about her,” for once Paul’s surprise was genuine in a conversation with John about himself. He’d had truly no idea that John had been talking to Mimi about him. The knowledge of that felt quite serious, actually. Especially because Paul could tell they were very close, with the way John felt comfortable being a little moody, a little loud, and even a little brash to her, and she handled it all with a good amount of pushback and sternness. It was what Paul knew John needed. Even as an adult.

“Yeah, well,” John rubbed the back of his neck, “You see a girl enough times, your aunt asks to meet her.”

Paul looked down to hide his blush. Mimi wanted to meet him? That was news, maybe news that would have come up on their date, if they had still had one. “You should find a way to talk to Janine,” he said. “Sneak over to her house at night or something, I dunno.”

John straightened up at that idea, “Paul that’s absolutely brill, I didn’t think about that.”

“John wait I don’t think-”

“No, really, that’s just perfect,” he grinned, putting his glasses back on.

Paul looked down at his notebook as John did so, wanting to hide his embarrassed blush before John could comment on it. “Glad you like the idea, then.”

John laughed in relief. “You are a genius, totally fucking incredible.”

Paul blushed even more deeply at John’s praise. “John-”

“Ooh, sorry didn’t mean to embarrass you,” he grinned like a pleased cat, reaching over to push Paul’s shoulder gently. It was that callow behavior Paul mostly expected when the rest of the group was around but did make itself seen when they were alone, too. It simply felt different. The teasing, the way John’s hand touched him, pushed at him.

“I’m not embarrassed,” Paul protested, still unable to meet John’s gaze. He didn’t want to give him more fodder to tease him.

“Oh, I’m sorry, am I pushing at little Paulie’s buttons,” John leaned closer to him, shiteating grin even wider. 

“John,” Paul looked up and realized John’s face was only a few inches from his. He could smell John, and felt like he was caught in a transfixing beam that was John’s gaze. He felt himself warm, this time not just from John’s slight teasing. His breath caught slightly before he manged to say, “Oh fuck off.”

“Make me,” John challenged him.

They both sat there for a moment and Paul saw something cross John’s face as their gaze locked. And as Paul reached out to push John away he flinched from the touch, his face closing off like stone and he shifted, pulling his guitar into his lap, setting his tea aside. 

Paul wanted to ask what happened there. Why John suddenly pulled back from him, shying from his touch, from him . Did he see the Janine in Paul? Or something else entirely.

“Let’s practice, yeah?” John’s voice was horse and Paul saw a flush creep up his cheeks, and John shifted again in a way Paul recognized as a likely attempt to hide an erection, the way John crossed one leg over the other, the way he held his guitar just so. 

He wanted to take John’s collar in hand and to kiss him. He wanted to feel John’s desire pressed against him for him . He felt like his brain was going to short circuit as it dawned on him that John liked him like this . As Paul, as a man. Though he was certain that feeling was much more difficult and scary for John himself to process and deal with. He knew he shouldn’t press the issue, should leave John to process his feelings as he would. 

In the same thought, though, Paul wanted to crawl between John’s legs and bring him off with his mouth. To have John call out his name as he brought him to orgasm, wanted to feel John come on his face and mark Paul as completely and undeniably John’s.

Instead he hummed an agreement, drinking another gulp of very sweet tea and set the cup aside before settling with his guitar again. “Wanna work on Love Me Do?”

John licked his lips, not looking directly at Paul as he nodded. “Sure.”

“I like the start we’ve got, you know? ‘Love, Love me do. You know I love you. I’ll always be true.”

John’s breath came out a little harried and shallow but he nodded, “Let’s try it with those chords we were working on?”

“Okay, you wanna play that and I’ll sing?”

John just started playing the chords, and Paul jumped in, singing out the rough melody as John’s fingers deftly worked over the guitar. He stopped abruptly, his hand holding too tightly to the neck of the guitar. “That sounds… good, really good, Paul.”

Paul glanced up, if it was through his lashes slightly who was he to say. John had barely breathed out his name. “You played that perfectly, John.”

John swallowed thickly, Paul watching as his Adam's apple bobbed up and down. “I- Thanks.”

Paul felt his breath coming heavier, and he felt like if he had just a moment more he’d pull John into the kiss he’d been waiting for for long enough as Paul. Just as he started leaning closer to John they were interrupted.

“John!” Mimi called from inside the house. 

Both their heads snapped to the door, whatever tension in the room there was quickly dissipated.

“Ye-” John’s voice broke and he cleared his throat. “Yeah Mimi?”

“Your friends are here, shall I send them in?”

“Uh,” he looked at Paul and back to the door, “Yeah, thanks!”

Paul moved to sit further from John, holding his guitar close and picking up his tea so no one stepped on it as the door banged open and the rest of the band made there way in.

“Hey,” Pete greeted and Stu and George followed.

“Hey,” John greeted, looking one last time at Paul before assuming his role as leader, getting up to open the garage door, and getting practice underway.

Paul kept mostly to himself throughout practice and left early before the others. He couldn’t bring himself to stay there and be ignored by John, even if it was better for them both around the others. They were all there, chatting and he caught the bus home. It was luckily dark, and he made his way behind the house, using the cover of the bushes fence to disguise himself as he reached into his pack and pulled out his dress, shoes, and sweater. He stripped quickly and efficiently, stuffing each item silently into his bag and he pulled his dress on and the sweater on quickly, too. A handkerchief wiped off his eyebrow makeup and he slipped into his shoes. Luckily because he went straight to his room on these nights he didn’t need to be totally made up or even put on his hosiery or undergarments, hence the sweater to hide his flatter than usual chest. 

It just was starting to feel awful, was the problem. It felt awful to switch out of clothes that felt so right into ones that felt constricting and awful. The feeling of trousers was incomparable to how awful skirts felt, how awful garters were. He loved them on other women, but on him they felt like chains weighing him down. 

It was like putting on his Clark Kent appearance, when all he wanted to be was superman, all the time.

He sighed, taking out his cigarettes and lighting one before he went back inside. His dad hated the habit, and like everything else in his life it felt, he seemed to need to hide it. The rush as he smoked was good, though, the slight buzz at the back of his head, the warmth in his chest. He hugged himself with his free arm as he listened to the birds, and the squirrels, and the sound of traffic nearby. 

He couldn’t stop thinking about pre-practice with John. Would have have tasted like sweet black tea? Would he have been receptive to Paul’s advances? Was John ignoring him all evening because of those feelings? Paul knew it to be true. It made his chest ache in all sorts of good and bad ways. He knew it was for the best, John pushing space between them, but it also hurt, because everything about John hurt at the moment. He doubted John thought about himself as queer. In fact Paul struggled to think of himself in those terms. Queer had a stigma, a bad connotation. Despite the fact he knew he was a man who liked other men, he benefited from certain anatomy and his ability to avoid that sort of internal confrontation.

Even if he knew it didn’t really work like that. If he lived as a man fully like he wanted to, and he wanted to be with other men romantically, he knew that would come with everything attached to that sort of life. It wasn’t a privileged the way he currently lived. In fact it felt particularly awful now that he had tasted any sort of freedom of expression. A closet was much easier to live in when you didn’t know what lay beyond. But he knew that John liked Janine because Janine was a girl, and he didn’t want to think about what would happen if, when , John found out about him.

It was a couple nights later that Paul couldn’t sleep. Everything with Jim still filling him with a simmering pool of anger and frustration. Frustration that was making him toss and turn as he kept going over and over in his head the arguments about John and the disastrous phonecall that had been made. Beyond that he couldn’t stop thinking about practice with John. It made him warm and tingly all over. He thought about masturbating and that maybe it would help him sleep. 

He reached between his legs, starting to touch himself, his right hand coming up to his chest and squeezing one of his nipples. He tried for a while, mind playing back John fucking him, kissing John, imaginging John holding him. Except that his heart wasn’t into it and it simply wasn’t enough to get him going. He felt like he was just rubbing his clit to no effect except being a little bit of a distraction. He sighed, stopping and instead, he pulled his blankets around himself, turned on the light to his nightstand, and reached over to grab his most recent book of choice, Junkie by Burroughs. It was at least something to distract himself, especially since he couldn’t sleep. 

He managed to get a few pages in when he heard something hit his window with a soft tap. Looking up, he surmised it must have been a bird, or an errant bit of detritus thrown his way by the wind. So he turned back to his book, sighing heavily as he found his place again, his eyes glazing over as he found himself reading and rereading the same paragraph over and over. He hated when that happened but he supposed his mind was so busy and preoccupied it was difficult to quiet even with a novel. 

He looked up as another small plink came from his window, followed by another one, and he finally went to peer out his window. He frowned, seeing John standing down below. That crazy boy. Paul supposed he’d given John a good idea, though he was terrified at being found out. He motioned at Paul to open the window and he slid it open leaning out of it. He felt the cool night air on his skin and he felt goosebumps cover him as the chill cut through his thin nightgown.

“What are you doing?” He hissed down, his arms covering his chest.

John didn’t reply, simply assessed the wall before he started to climb up the pipe that went by Paul’s window. 

“John!” Paul whispered hurriedly, “You’re going to hurt yourself.” Plus, he was dressed for bed, hair in a scarf to keep it in place while he slept, and he wasn’t terribly keen on John seeing his baby pink bedroom filled with doilies frills. “John go home!” He whispered again as John quickly approached the window. He was flattered that he did matter enough to John for him to come to him at night as he’d suggested. But his fear for his dad far outweighed being flattered by John’s cavalier behavior.

More than anything he didn’t want John to be caught in his room by his dad. John, who his dad had expressly forbidden him from ever seeing again. Let alone simply being caught with a boy in his room late at night.

He backed away as John reached his window, giving him space as he slowly and quietly slipped inside Paul’s room.

“John-” He started again but was cut off by John’s lips on his as he was pulled into a crushing kiss. Definitely worse ways to have been shut up.

John pulled back from the kiss first, but his arms stayed securely around Paul’s waist, keeping him close. “You know you could have thrown down your hair for me.”

Paul rolled his eyes, pushing gently at John’s chest, though there was no give to the firm hold he found himself in. “You know I don’t have long hair.”

John grinned at him and finally let go. Paul was actually quite disappointed to be let go of. John’s arms were a place he very much liked to be in, and often longed to be in. “So this is your tower.” He began to look around curiously, taking in as much as he could, squinting. He went over to Paul’s vanity, looking at the pictures stuck to the frame around his mirror. Pictures with George, and with his friends, pictures of him with his mom and with his dad. If he had one with John it would be there, too.

“It’s not much,” he said quietly, “if my dad catches us-”

“He won’t,” John replied, waving a hand as if he was waving away Paul’s concerns. “Promise.”

Paul hugged himself, sitting down on his bed as he watched John move around the space, staring at his stuffed animals from his childhood up on a shelf, his books and records, and the general way he kept his space cleaned and decorated.

“Never took you for a pink girl,” John said finally, turning to where Paul was sitting on his bed. 

“My mom painted it this color when I was a baby and I just never got around to repainting it,” he shrugged. He as Jan hadn’t told John his mom was dead, trying to keep the similarities between Jan and Paul to as much of a minimum as possible.

John nodded slowly, giving the room one final look over. “What would you paint it?” he sat down next to Paul, leaving just a few inches of space between them. 

“Blue,” Paul said. He wanted to roll his eyes at himself. How stereotypical, the boy wanted a blue room.

“Blue’s nice, like the sky, or the ocean,” he smiled at Jan for a moment before looking down at his hands.

Paul reached over, gently taking one of John’s in his own.

John rubbed his thumb over the back of Paul’s hand and they sat for a while like that. “Do you know your dad told me to leave you alone?” John asked finally.

Paul nodded slowly, “Yeah, I do. He caught me talking to you the other day and he was pretty upset honestly.”

“Do,” John hesitated, his thumb pausing its ministrations, “Do you want me to leave you alone, Janine?”

Paul frowned, realizing that John must have assumed to some extent that he’d asked his dad to call John on his behalf. “What? No!” He said quickly, “John I-” What could he say? That he loved John? Absolutely not no matter how true it felt. “I could never want you to leave me alone.”

John leaned over, resting his head on Paul’s shoulder. He wrapped his arms around Paul’s waist and held him close. 

Paul’s arms went around John’s shoulders, he rested his cheek on the top of John’s head and reveled in how close John was how vulnerable he was in that moment.

“If you ever did-” John started.

“I don’t,” Paul replied before John could finish his sentence. He kissed the top of John’s head in assurance. “How’s everything with the band?”

John stiffened slightly under Paul’s touch but relaxed almost as quickly. “They’re great, everyone is great. I’ve been writing, too, with one of the new guys. He’s… I don’t know Jan,” John pulled back and ran a hand through his hair. “He’s like my other half - musically!” he clarified quickly, almost too panicked. “It’s weird. He’s weird to be around sometimes and I don’t know what to make of it.”

Paul raised an eyebrow at that, “Weird?”

“He looks at me and it’s like he knows everything and like I know him and like, guys don’t do that you know?” He looked at him, “Sorry, ‘course you don’t really.”

Paul swallowed down his retort to that, pushing down the everpresent desire to reveal all to John and to tell him all his secrets. “Yeah, but I can at least listen.”

“Maybe I ought to push back, but I think his music is really gear and we just click, and if I want this band to go somewhere, I know I need him,” John sighed and laid back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. “G-d, I know I need him.”

Paul switched off the lamp, better to appear like he wasn’t awake in case his dad woke up to their talking. He leaned over, the moonlight illuminating John’s face, casting shadows over his pensive brow. He reached over and stroked John’s hair and cheek. He could tell John was worked up over Paul, not even realizing that he was talking to the same person. It was like the garage but maybe not as obvious as in that moment. 

But the way John closed his eyes and pressed into Paul’s hand he was sure if he reached into John’s pants he’d be half hard. Which was itself a tempting thought. “If you need him,” he said softly, “That’s no shame.”

John’s eyes opened, glowing gently in the light as he stared at Paul. For one brief moment Paul was certain John saw through him, saw the truth, but the moment passed and John simply looked back up and away from Paul. “I suppose. It’s just complicated.”

“That’s okay,” Paul murmured, “Life is complicated, isn’t it?”

John nodded slightly, head still pressed against Paul’s hand. Paul’s thumb brushed over John’s cheek and he could feel the stubble against the pad of his thumb. “Kiss me?” John asked quietly, gaze flickering shyly to Paul.

He leaned over and pressed a kiss to John’s lips. They were soft and giving underneath him. John pulled him back into another kiss as he started to pull away and Paul allowed himself to be pulled back, John’s hand tangled in his hair and he parted his lips slightly as the kiss deepened. John’s tongue pushed into his mouth and he swallowed down a moan, still too paranoid about being caught in bed with John. 

He kissed John back, his own hands tangling into John’s hair and pulling him in closer, hearing the soft huff of a moan from the man beneath him. He half expected John to pull him on top of him, but instead the kiss was slowly eased out of, ending with one final closed mouth kiss between them, though Paul was decidedly turned on and he saw that John was as well. It was incredible self control, all things considered. He pressed his forehead to John’s, their chests heaving and breath intermingling as they stayed like that for a while, existing together in the sweet calm of the night. Where no one, no parents, no band, no anything could bother them.

“What’re we going to do?” Paul asked finally, pulling back enough to search John’s face, hoping for answers. Or, at the very least, comfort.

“I don’t know what your dad is capable of, and I’m not worth you getting in trouble for,” John ducked his head, pushing away from Paul’s hands. He sat up, staring out the window, resting his arms on his legs.

“Don’t I get to decide that?” Paul frowned, sitting up as well and crossing his arms.

“You don’t know me, Jan, not really.”

“No, maybe not, but I want to,” Paul reached out and rested his hand on John’s back. “If you’ll give me the chance. I - I want you to get to know me, too, that is, if you want.”

John looked up at him, pausing as if deep in thought. Paul saw again shadows playing over John’s face. The signs of deep seated fears, of demons held tightly to John’s chest. He saw the boy so convinced no one truly wanted him for him, to desire him, or just even want him around. “I want that, too.”

“Well, then, feel free to drop by my window any time,” Paul smiled at him.

“You should come see the band play again in a couple weeks, that guy I mentioned, he’ll be playing, too, and I think you’ll really dig what we’ve been coming up with together.” John studied the floor as he talked, and Paul could see the shyness in how he shrugged, played off the performance as nothing particularly notable. Though, Paul then realized, he was clearly meant to play and be there as Janine and he didn’t know how he was going to deal with that, but he had a couple weeks to figure that charade out. 

“I’d l-love to,” Paul was a little worried about saying the ‘L’ word anywhere near to something regarding John, but it felt appropriate. He would love to see John perform. He always loved to see John play, and sing, and perform. It wasn’t a lie at all, if anything it was the utter truth and Paul hoped John would see that. “I’ve loved all the performances I’ve seen of yours.”

“I- thanks,” John said simply. His voice sounded thick with emotion and he wasn’t looking at Paul, and he held himself close. It was as if he craved validation and praise and didn’t know what to do when it presented itself. “I should probably let you sleep, since I’m keeping you up.”

Paul watched him stand up and cross over to the window, preparing to scale down the wall again, which was a truly surreal thought. He got up and took John’s hand, pulling him into a tight hug, holding John as tightly as he could. “Thank you for coming here, thank you for saving me from my tower. You are my prince.”

He could feel the heat rise in John’s face as he turned to kiss his cheek, and John seemed catatonic as he silently slipped from Paul’s window almost as quickly as he made his way in just a while earlier. Paul watched as he landed on the ground and waved goodbye to him, John waving back as he made his way out of Paul’s line of view and presumably made his way home.

Paul crawled back into bed, sighing as he looked at the ceiling, staring at the same spot he was sure John had stared at. He was really in a pickle now, and John seemed off. Conflicted about his feelings for Paul and for Jan, at this point was it more humane to come clean and spare John the agony? Maybe. But Paul was still afraid of what it would mean to come out, to tell the people who loved him who he truly was. While he knew he’d always have George so much hung in the careful balance of the lives he was juggling. He still had that awful feeling it would come crashing down. He just didn’t know when.

Chapter Text

“Janine,” Jim called out as he hung up the phone.

“What?” Paul looked up from his vanity. His tone was more terse than he had perhaps intended but he was barely on speaking terms still with his father. Beyond whatever words were necessary to get through their day. He was brushing out his hair, getting ready for church. He went alone, he liked the singing and the meditative space, even if he was fairly certain there was no g-d. 

“Mrs. Harrison just called up, asked you to join her for tea after church!”

“Fine, I’ll go,” he called back down.

Footsteps began to sound on the stairs and Paul heaved a heavy sigh and rolled his eyes. He looked back at himself, robe tied loosely around and his nightgown wrinkled from sleep. He looked tired, he felt tired. His hair, too, was getting a little longer than he wanted, and he was grateful to wear a hat to church to hide his many cow licks that seemed impossible to deal with.

“You’re going to be late to church if you don’t dress soon.”

Paul looked to the side, seeing Jim reflected in his vanity mirror as he hovered at the doorway.

He didn’t reply, simply continuing to brush through his hair as he looked back at himself as if his dad didn’t exist.

“You can’t be made at me forever, Jannie.”

He pursed his lips. He felt like he’d never be able to get past the feeling of anger that he had. He nearly slammed his brush down on the vanity tabletop as he finished that task and went to his closet, going towards the back where he kept his Sunday clothes. 

“You should wear your blue suiting,” Jim commented.

“ Dad ,” Paul snapped. “Leave me alone.”

“Don’t take that tone with me young lady.” Jim’s tone was warning. “Wear the blue.” 

“ Fine ,” Paul spat, “Can I dress now?”

Jim nodded and pulled the door behind himself as he left Paul alone to dress.

Paul went to his windowsill and turned on his radio, letting the sounds of Elvis, Ray Charles, Brenda Lee, and Buddy Holly play and soothe his nerves as he dressed.

He begrudgingly pulled out his blue suit and a pale yellow shirt he liked to pair with it. As much as he wanted to wear his pink dress he knew the blue suit was one of his more becoming ensembles. He pulled stockings on, clipping them to his garters, pulling on his slip and began to button up his yellow blouse and slip on his suit. The blue skirt hit just below his knees and the jacket he had adjusted to fashionably accent his hips. He looked at himself in the mirror, as he pulled on his hat, a white one with a small accent of feathers and decorative fake flowers with a white net that went over his face. He looked like a doll. Sometimes, though, that was how he had to make it through the day.

His feelings of not being fully present in his body had only worsened with his new double life that he lived. Where previously he would have enjoyed having altered his suit to fit current fashion standards it made him all too aware of his wide hips, his breasts, the way he looked like a woman. He applied a quick swatch of lipstick and pulled on his white gloves, slipped into a pair of brown loafers and made his way out of the house before Jim could try to talk to him again. He let his walk to church calm his nerves. Sundays were always quiet, people either at church or sleeping in. Few cars drove by and fewer buses. He saw housewives through open windows preparing breakfasts and heard radios playing in open windows. It was as if life took a deep breath on Sundays and he allowed himself one as well. 

He made his way into the Anglican church he chose to frequent. Though he’d been raised Catholic as his mother was, he didn’t enjoy the latin, the chanting, the esoteric nature of the church. He liked to sing and he liked the structure of the Church of England, and its accessibility. He genuflected before entering the pew that he preferred, it was towards the middle to the church, closer to the back than the front, but allowed him to be rather inconspicuous, which he preferred. He looked at the crucifix hanging on the wall, lost in the opening hymn song that was being played by the organist, and took a deep breath. 

He heard people filter in, mothers shushing their gaggles of children, people greeting each other happily. He mostly kept to himself, sometimes he brought his mother’s prayerbook with him to read through during the time before the official service started. Today though he felt like he had too much on his brain. While not religious he found church gave him the time he needed to think on things. Certainly, now, he needed all the time to think that he could. Looking at Jesus on his cross he wondered why it was so hard for him to forgive his own father, when Christ forgave his own and Jesus was crucified for g-d’s sake!

He also wondered if what he was doing was a sin, not that he terribly believed in them, didn’t exactly believe in any of it, but was he wrong to live as Paul? Didn’t G-d make him as a woman? Was what he was doing unnatural? Immoral? Besides, G-d didn’t make mistakes, right? Wasn’t that the thing? All infallible and all? So wasn’t he going against nature and perfection and pretending he knew better than Jesus Christ?

Yet when he thought of himself he couldn’t think of himself as a woman, he barely kept it together as John’s kind of girlfriend. The charade becoming increasingly difficult. He knew, when he wore trousers and played with the guys, that it felt more right than anything else. Whatever that meant he didn’t know. 

The only thing that he did seem to know anymore was that he was Paul. 

He also knew that the barrier between his two lives was growing thin.

He knelt down at some point, hands clasped in prayer like contemplation. Yet the only thing on his mind as he mouthed words that he had a million times before, was that he was going to have to live his life authentically or he wasn’t going to make it. That this had to be part of G-d’s plan, if G-d was real. It was the only thing that made sense.

Church ended and he began the slightly longer walk to the Harrison’s house. In an odd easy he was glad to be going to a home that wasn’t his own. He liked Mrs. Harrison, and as much as he knew she wanted him to be her daughter in law, it would be nice to have a cup of tea he didn’t need to make for himself.

He paused just before knocking on the door, smoothing out his skirts and jacket before knocking firmly on the door. It was only a few seconds he was waiting when the door was thrown open by Peter who grinned at him. “Jan!”

Paul smiled politely, “Hello Peter.”

“Come on inside,” he stepped back to let Paul in and closed the door behind him. 

“Thank you,” Paul replied, “I’m here for tea with your mother.”

Peter’s brow furrowed, “Mum’s out, doing her Sunday school, I thought we were having tea.”

Paul’s mouth went dry, looking to the table set for two, the table almost certainly set for them by Mrs. Harrison, and a bouquet of flowers by where he assumed he was to sit. This was why his father had told him to wear his blue suit, he’d lied to Paul, tricked him into this pseudo date with Peter. He faltered for only a split second before smiling, “I must have misheard my father this morning before church,” he knew the smile didn’t reach his eyes but he doubted that Peter noticed.

Peter’s shoulders relaxed and he laughed, “Games of telephone, I’m certain. May I take your hat and bag?”

Paul nodded, feeling his throat tighten as he tried to let out a small laugh himself. He removed his hat, placing his gloves in the upturned hat and handed them over alongside his purse to Peter. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” Peter reached over and took Paul’s hand once he set the hat and purse out of the way. 

Paul fought the jump of surprise that he felt go through him at the touch. Peter was only a little older than him, and yet he was like Paul’s older brother, too, not like a prospective romantic partner. His hand was so soft compared to John’s, too, the hands of a scholar, one too gentlemanly, too polite. He probably thought Paul was a virgin and would expect that of him.

“Let me get your chair,” Peter said quickly, rushing to pull the chair out for Paul to sit in, and helped him settle in his seat. 

“Thank you, Peter,” Paul said again, politely but strained.

“Oh!” he said quickly, “These are for you,” Peter pushed the flowers towards Paul, “Your dad said you liked roses.”

Paul eyed the roses warily while Peter moved to take his own seat. They were red, fragrant and almost too sickly. “They’re lovely Peter.”

Peter beamed at him. “You’re welcome.” He breathed out as if he was full of nerves. “There’s finger sandwiches, and angel slices, and of course tea, I didn’t know how you took it so there’s also cream and sugar.”

“It’s lovely, Peter, really,” Paul reassured him. It felt so unfair, that he had to sit and feign enjoyment of a situation he never wanted to be in, to make a foolish man feel better about his presumptuousness. No one cared that he was in an uncomfortable position, that he couldn’t throw the roses in Peter’s face and scream at him for assuming things. Instead he had to smile, and laugh, and drink tea and eat stupid little finger sandwiches and pretend that all of this was lovely and just for him. “Is anyone else home?”

“Nah, just us two,” Peter’s foot slid along Paul’s calf and he fought the urge to cringe away from the touch. 

“Wonderful,” he said, voice tight.

Peter took the teapot and began to serve them, pouring Paul’s cup first and then his own. The tea did smell wonderful and steam curled out of the cup. He took the sugar bowl and put one spoonful into his tea.

“Ah, sugar, but no cream,” Peter commented, “I’ll remember that.”

“Oh, yes, and you take yours black I see,” Paul commented back. 

“Perfect, I’m sure you’ll remember that in the future, when you’re making me plenty of cups of tea.” Peter picked up the plate of sandwiches and offered them to Paul.

He smile faltered slightly as he took one, setting it on his plate. “Did Mrs. Harrison make these?”

“She did, set this all up for us. I’m just so glad you accepted going out with me finally,” Peter replied, setting two sandwiches in front of himself. “I’ve waited for quite a while for you to look my way, now that we’re both older.”

“Oh,” Paul looked at his tea as if it was the most fascinating thing in the world, raising it to his lips to take a sip. How was he supposed to reply to that comment? He felt that simmering anger just under the surface for his father. The ire of men trying to control his life at seemingly every turn, as if they all knew better than he did what was good for him.

“How many kids do you think you want?” Peter said eagerly, mouth full of sandwich.

Paul couldn’t look up while it sounded like Peter was eating, his own stomach alright tightened up and the sips of tea were sitting inside of him like boulders. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’d love a big family, you know, six or so kids.” Peter leaned forward and grinned, “Surely you wish you had more siblings.”

“I don’t think I’m ready for kids, yet, Peter,” Paul replied honestly. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to have kids from his own body. Sure it would likely be how he’d have kids of his own, but he wasn’t opposed to adopting or even raising the kids his partner might have. Though if pressed he was certain he’d have John’s kids. The thought alone making his chest grow tight. That was so far down the way it wasn’t even funny, and John was a fantastical idea. 

“You’re grown, you’re surely thinking of marriage and settling down, you graduate this spring, after all. I think it’s prudent to know how we’re envisioning a family if we’re going to have one.”

Paul’s face paled, “Peter, this…” He sighed softly, “This is only a first date, isn’t it? His smile was tense and lopsided. “Shouldn’t we just get to know each other right now?”

“This is getting to know each other,” Peter sighed, “What’s better than a straightforward conversation?” He took a sip of his tea, sighing, “You girls always want to beat around the bush and play coy, why can’t you just have a straight forward conversation?”

Paul blushed, looking down at his untouched sandwich. He politely took a bite of it, the bread sticking in his mouth like glue.

“Are you a good cook?”

“I’m a fine cook,” Paul replied. He swallowed his sandwich bite down thickly. It felt like he was answering questions of an executioner. “I can make meals and sweets, it’s not my strong suit.”

“Can you mend?”

“Yes.”

“Iron?”

“Yes.”

“Host?”

“I’ve never had the opportunity.”

“I assume you know how to launder and keep house?”

“I do.” Paul sipped his tea again, holding the warm tea in his mouth before swallowing. John had never asked him any of these questions. Maybe it was because John didn’t see him as marriageable or it was more likely because marriage wasn’t on John’s mind, and it didn’t matter as much to him. John cared about the books he read, about his music tastes, about who he was. Peter wanted a servant, clearly, one who wouldn’t protest having as many kids as he wanted, always available and with dinner always hot and ready on the table.

“Perfect,” Peter smiled. “I knew you were a good one, Jan.”

“Thank you,” Paul smiled weakly. “You, too, Peter.”

“Cake?”

“No, thank you,” Paul put a hand up to refuse the offered plate.

“Wise woman,” Peter took a slice himself. “Need to watch that figure.”

Tea passed otherwise quietly from Paul. Though he doubted Peter noticed as he chattered at Paul about school, and politics, and his hopes for the future. Paul doubted very much that he noticed how few questions he asked Paul, or that Paul rarely spoke up. 

It was a moment that Paul knew was his future if he agreed to whatever contrived future Mrs. Harrison, and Jim, and Peter had planned out already for him. Sitting, likely with a baby or two clinging to him, as Peter told him about his day, and made passive aggressive comments about Paul’s appearance or the meals he made. Peter did seem to adore him, but blooms always fell off roses, and whatever version of Paul Peter had built up in his head would never end up lasting. Especially if there was no love or affection from Paul himself.

They both looked up when the door opened, George stepping inside, brow furrowed at the two of them. “Hey Jan, Peter.”

Paul made as exasperated look at George but greeted him with a, “Hi.”

“Hey, Geo,” Peter smiled, “Sorry I know Jan’s your friend, I hope it doesn’t make it too weird with us starting to date. But imagine, she can become your sister.”

“I- what?” George frowned.

“This is just one date, Peter,” Paul said gently, “I ought to get going anyway, Dad’s probably wondering where I’m at.”

“Oh, let me get your hat,” Peter stood up and went to retrieve Paul’s things. 

Paul accepted the items from Peter, fixing the hat onto his head and pulling on his gloves. “Thanks for the tea Peter.”

He reached out and grabbed Paul’s arm. “When will I see you again?”

“I need to look at my schedule, I’ll call,” Paul replied and tried to pull his arm back, “Peter, your hurting me.”

“Sorry,” he let go quickly. “So sorry Jan. I’ll look forward to your call.”

Paul smiled a little and waved at them both before slipping out the door. He felt like he was going to die. He didn’t even know how he would go home and face his dad, knowing that Jim had been behind this entire orchestration. 

So he decided that he wouldn’t go home, that he would simply not. Instead he continued to wander, letting his feet take him where they would. To very little of his own surprise he found himself in front of John’s home, standing just outside the gate. His gloved fingers drummed on it gently, maybe he ought to leave John alone, but he was the only person to whom he wanted to turn to. 

He opened the gate, making his way to the door and knocking. He waited a moment or two before it opened, and once he saw John’s face he launched himself at him, wrapping his arms around John’s waist. 

“Woah,” John said in surprise. “Jan?”

“Sorry,” he mumbled into John’s shirt, “I don’t want to go home.”

He put an arm around Paul and pulled him inside, closing the door behind them as he held Paul in a tight embrace. 

Paul finally felt the tears he’d been holding back come forward as the stood by the door, the late afternoon sun bathing the entry in a warm golden glow. He began to cry, silent tears creating large stains on John’s paint covered shirt. He didn’t care if he ruined his suit, he didn’t know if he would ever even wear it again. 

“Jan,” John gripped him by the shoulders pushing him back, his eyes searching Paul’s face. “What’s wrong?”

Paul pulled a handkerchief from his purse and wiped at his eyes as he pushed the hat’s netting out of the way. “Can I have a cup of tea?”

“Of course,” John nodded, his hands left Paul and he followed John to the kitchen. He sat at the small table, letting John put the kettle on as he took off his hat and gloves, setting them aside. 

Paul watched John go about the kitchen, the silence punctuated by his unbecoming sniffling. 

“You take sugar in your tea?”

“If you have it, I’ll also take a splash of milk,” not his usual way of taking tea but it felt comforting and he needed that. 

“Mm,” John nodded. 

It was a few moments later that John sat down with to mugs with tea, placing on gently in front of Paul and holding onto the other one himself. “Mind telling me why you showed up on my doorstep like Cinderella whose carriage became a pumpkin?”

Paul huffed a small laugh, “If I tell you will you promise to not get mad at me?”

John’s eyebrows raised, “Depends.”

“Promise?” Paul said firmly. “Please?” 

“I promise to not get mad.” John rolled his eyes, “So?”

“My dad tricked me into a date, and it was the most awful two hours of my life, and I know if I go home he’s going to pressure me into marrying the guy and I don’t want to get married or have kids, at least not yet.” The words spilled uncontrollably out of Paul’s mouth, tumbling like a waterfall as he held back his tears.

John’s shoulders tightened lips pressed into a line. “Janine.”

“You have to trust me, John,” Paul pleaded. “It’s like everyone around me wants to decide what I want, what my future is. I just want to make one decision for myself that people respect.”

John sighed and set his glasses off to the side, rubbing his eyes. “Jan, this feel like a lot to be dealing with.”

“I’m sorry you’re the only person who respects me and is who I wanted to go to in my hour of need. Or should I have snuck into your bedroom in the middle of the night, too?” Paul snapped back.

John frowned, staring into his cup. His face eventually softened and he leaned back in the chair, holding the mug in his hands. “I’m not good at this relationship stuff, I’m trying Jan. I’m sorry. I’m also jealous, and I don’t want to be strung along.”

“I know John, but you have to trust me. I was told I was having tea with George’s mom, by my dad, and she’d invited me over for after church tea and that’s all I thought it was.” He rested his head in his hands. “I didn’t think Peter, George’s older brother, was going to be there thinking this was some sort of private little date. It was insufferable.”

John hummed and Paul saw the information washing over him. He could see the wheels spinning in John’s mind as he processed the information being given to him. “Are you going to see him again?” The question was quietly asked, timid and if anything a little vulnerable.

“No!” Paul laughed, “If I have anything to do about it never ever again. He asked how many kids I wanted John. He didn’t even ask if I liked to read, or what I want for the future. He doesn’t know anything about me! But I know he wants six kids and thinks he’s the lord of his degree program.” He felt an odd and incredulous laugh bubble out of him. 

John’s shoulders again eased and he began to laugh alongside Paul, and they both melted into shared laughter at the full on absurdity of the situation. 

“You didn’t immediately start quoting Kerouac at him? Or Ginsberg?” John smiled, finally a real genuine smile at Paul.

“I don’t think he’d get it even if I had, I think he’s at the level of Dick and Jane books, honestly.”

John laughed, “Six kids, though? How’s he gonna manage that?”

“Lord knows,” Paul shook his head, “Not from me at least.” He shuddered, “I don’t want kids for a while, and definitely not six or more.”

“Hear hear,” John lifted his mug in agreement and cheers.

Paul smiled and raised his own cup, sipping it as John sipped his own.

“John?” A voice came from the doorway.

John jumped, looking at Paul in a flash of panic. “Mimi!” 

Paul stood up alongside John as Mimi entered into the kitchen, her coat and hat still on.

She paused, looking Paul over, and focusing for a long moment on his face. That same fear that she saw Paul in Janine’s visage came over him, but her face quickly softened, as much, Paul would learn, as Mimi’s face ever did, and she extended her hand out. “You must be Janine.”

“You must be Mrs. Smith,” Paul shook her hand. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

“Lovely to meet you, too,” She smiled, “I’ve heard a lot about you. All good.”

Paul smiled, “Same to you.”

John shifted anxiously on the balls of his feet, “Sorry Mimi, I wasn’t expecting her.”

“It’s alright John,” Mimi waved him away, taking her coat off and hat, handing them to John. “Put those away dear. Now you,” she turned to Paul, “You must join us for supper.”

“I’m afraid my father is probably waiting for me to come home.” Paul said apologetically, “I’m the one who makes dinner and all.”

“I’ll speak to him,” she replied cooly, “Let me phone him.”

Paul looked panickly at John as Mimi crossed to the kitchen phone, lifting the receiver speak to the operator.

John’s gaze was equally panicked, but clearly they both felt that it was impossible to fight Mimi and John ducked out to hang up Mimi’s coat and hat.

“Your number, dear?” She asked Paul.

He gave his number, frozen in place as she was put through to his household.

“Good evening,” She spoke into the receiver, “Is this Mr. McCartney?” A pause. “I’m Mimi Smith, John Lennon’s aunt, your daughter is here and I’ve invited her to supper, I’m sure that won’t be much of an issue.” 

Paul admired how she spoke, as if she was asking a question but Paul knew there was no room for argument, her tone firm and commanding. He wanted to be like that, a woman who exerted her own control. 

“I’m sure you can manage to feed yourselves for one night, I’m pleased to have another mouth to feed, it’s so lonely with me and John, and I’ve been anxious to meet her, she’s very special, I’m sure you understand.”

Paul felt his throat tighten, going home tonight was going to be like walking into a room filled with landmines. Each and every space ready to blow. But for now he was safe in the Smith home kitchen, John quickly returned to his side, and gently nudging him. 

He looked up at John with an anxious smile, his focus snapping back to Mimi as she hung up the phone.

“I’m excited to have you join us,” she said simply. “It won’t be anything fancy, some chicken salad, bread and soup.”

“Sounds lovely Mrs. Smith,” Paul smiled graciously. “I appreciate you opening your home to me.”

“Please, call me Mimi,” She grabbed an apron from a drawer and tied it around her waist. “John, dear, can you set the table?”

“Of course.” John nodded, hanging Paul’s half drunk tea to him to make space to set the table in the kitchen, which just had enough room for three people.

“Please sit,” Mimi waved at him and motioned to the chair he’d been in. “Good to see John got you tea, he does have proper manners.”

Paul chuckled softly, trying to not let his future worries ruin this meeting with John’s aunt. “He’s a proper gentleman to me.”

“No need to lie dear,” Mimi smiled slyly, “He’s a good boy, a proper boy, for certain. A gentleman may be a stretch.”

“Mimi!” John whined as he pulled out dishes, his face a bright red.

She smiled, mostly to herself as she pulled a cold bowl of chicken salad from the ice box and opened a cabinet to pull out tinned soup, opening the tops as she poured their contents into a pot, filling the cans with water to dilute the concentrated soup. 

Paul admired how John helped with little protest, that even with the two of them, Mimi didn’t seem to expect that she was to do all the setting up for dinner. She wasn’t even making Paul help her as John sat comfortably. In Paul’s world it seemed so unusual to be the one having things done for him rather than being the one expected to do everything. 

“How did you meet John?” Mimi asked, glancing over to Paul.

“I saw his band perform.” Paul smiled, “They’re really quite good, you know.”

Mimi raised her eyebrows at that.

“Anyway I took a real fancy to him,” Paul smiled at John who was setting plates and bowls at the table, refusing to meet Paul’s gaze. 

“I know he’s taken a fancy to you, too, as you kids say.” Mimi sliced up a loaf of bread into thick slices, placing them onto a plate. “Are you still in school?”

“I graduate in the spring, I’m 18, started school a little later, is all.”

“Are you going to university?”

“Maybe,” Paul replied, “I have some options I think I’d like to become a teacher, teach music. I have a real passion for it,” he smiled.

“That’s a good respectable profession,” Mimi nodded. “Do you listen to that awful rock and roll music like Johnny?”

Paul laughed, “I do, I admit it.”

Mimi hummed with her lips pursed. 

“I do also enjoy classical music and the like,” Paul admitted, “My dad taught me all the classics.”

“What about your mother?” Mimi asked.

“Passed a few years back,” Paul finally admitted, John looking up at the admission that Paul had been carefully leaving out of his story as Janine. “Cancer, but she also loved music. Classical especially. I remember her putting on old Vaudeville standards, too, though. We’d dance around the living room.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Mimi said softly. “We know what it’s like to lose family.”

John nodded. “I didn’t know your mum was dead, too.”

“I don’t like to talk about it really, and it never came up,” Paul shrugged.

John’s face showed a moment of hurt but he nodded, seeming to understand that feeling even if Paul could tell he wished he’d known that about Paul. 

“Do you have siblings?”

“Just a younger brother,” Paul replied.

“How much younger?” Mimi asked as she brought the pot to the table, beginning to ladle out soup into the three placed bowls.

“Two years younger. Can I help at all?” He asked.

“You’re our guest,” Mimi shook her head, “Please just relax. John can you grab the chicken salad and bread?”

“Of course,” John, who Paul hadn’t even noticed was hiding in the corner, sprang over to the kitchen counter and grabbed up the plate of sliced bread and chicken salad and brought them to the table.

John and Mimi took their seats and the plate of bread was offered to Paul and he took a slice, a spoonful of chicken salad and waited for John and Mimi to serve themselves and begin to eat before taking a bite of the beef and vegetable soup and a nibble of bread. 

“John’s told me you are quite the reader,” Mimi said after a few moments of silence only punctuated with them eating.

“I do love to read, I’ve read the classics of course, for school and all, and I read newer things like Kerouac.” He blushed slightly, “Though I know those works are controversial.”

Mimi hummed in reply. Paul could see where John got it from. “What do you plan to do while John is in Germany with his band?”

“Pardon?” Paul looked to John, who met his gaze with a sort of contrite apology.

“ Mimi ,” John pleaded.

“John’s planning to take the band to Germany this summer, some sort of long term stint as a house band for some bar. At least that’s how he’s explained it to me.” Mimi sipped her soup, eyebrows raised at Paul. 

“He hadn’t told me about this yet,” Paul said simply, looking at his plate.

“I just had it confirmed last week,” John spoke up. “I hadn’t had the chance to tell her yet.”

“That’s… very exciting,” he allowed. “Your whole band to go with you?”

“That’s the plan, though I haven’t told them yet. It’s a ways off, but it’s a big move up for us,” John stirred at his soup, “Sorry I hadn’t told you yet.”

“It’s okay. As for your question, Mimi,” Paul turned back to her, the much less formal  name sticking on his tongue slightly, “I think John and I will figure something out. I’ve always wanted to visit Germany, after all.” Little did they know he’d be there with John, not as Janine but as Paul. Which, further, meant that he was going to have to figure out when to come clean about the double life. That was not his current problem, though, he had much bigger ones to be contending with. 

Mimi simply nodded, she shared a look with John that Paul couldn’t quite make out, the two of them locked in a silent conversation even if for only a few brief moments. Paul saw the moment John was able to relax, and it was that moment that he realized that he’d passed whatever test he was being put under. 

He could tell in the way John seemed to be at ease again, in the way he ate and the silence that set over the table seemed much less scrutinous. Mimi, too, seemed to eat rather calmly, and Paul felt like the knots in his stomach finally eased as he tore at a piece of bread and ate it with relish. 

Paul helped clear the table after dinner, scraping plates and stacking them in the sick, though his offer to wash up was waved off by Mimi.

“I really ought to get going, I think,” Paul looked at the time, realizing with a certain growing anxiety that it was after six. “Thank you so much for the meal, it was so generous.”

“It was my pleasure to finally meet you, dear,” Mimi crossed over to envelope Paul in a tight hug. “It’s lovely to put a face to the name.” She let go of Paul with a squeeze. “John will see you out.”

John nodded towards the door and Paul followed him. It was so different seeing John with Mimi as his, girlfriend? He still didn’t quite know where they stood. But he accepted that Mimi’s approval was very important to John.

“Sorry about all that,” John said softly as they reached the door. “Mimi’s like a parent, you know?”

Paul smiled, pulling on his hat, “I understand. Really John. Thank you for having me over.”

John reached out, adjusting the hat slightly on Paul’s head, his hand coming to rest on his cheek. “Will you be okay?”

Paul’s smile faltered, “I don’t know, if I’m being honest.” He pressed against John’s hand. “I’m sure I will be, and I’ll be there to see you perform with that new guy.”

“If I don’t hear from you I’ll drop by your window, yeah?” John leaned down and kissed him. His lips were soft and warm and held promise of reassurance.

“Yeah,” he murmured as their lips parted. He felt John’s breath warm on his skin as they paused before their lips met again. He wanted to press John to the wall, push himself firmly against him and lose himself in their embrace. Instead he pulled back and reached out to give John’s hand a squeeze. “Goodnight, John.”

“Night, Jan.” He squeezed Paul’s hand back and opened the door, waving as Paul stepped out into the cooler evening air. 

He took in a deep breath as he began the long trek home. He knew he could take the bus but he wasn’t exactly in a rush. He knew he was going to be yelled at the minute he stepped foot inside he was going to be reprimanded. 

It seemed as if that was his whole life at home those days. A perfect daughter who now could only ever seem to do wrong in the eyes of his father. He wondered what the conversation about Peter had been like. If they’d agreed to handing Paul over like  peace offering, completely uncaring as to what Paul would have wanted in his own future, just because Peter met whatever narrow definitions of acceptable his father had.

He watched as twilight began to set in around him. He wondered, if he had just stayed a proper young woman to his father, if his life would be easier. If his home would feel welcoming as it had for most of his life. Instead of the antagonistic battleground it now was, all because he wanted to live his life as he saw fit. The thought alone was exhausting and he felt himself grow more and more tired at the inevitable argument that would be had when he got home.

All he wanted to do was sleep, to be left alone finally. Dinner had been lovely, John and Mimi had been lovely. But he just wanted to slip into bed and pretend like nothing mattered. He wished, at times like this one, that Mary was still alive. He liked to think she would have liked John, or at least been on his side against his father. He’d never know, though, not with Mary gone. 

He arrived home all too soon, the light on in the living room telling him that Jim was waiting. With great hesitation he fished the keys from his purse and barely controlling the shaking of his hands he opened the door. 

“Janine.” 

He jumped, looking hesitantly at Jim. “Dad.”

“Where have you been?” Jim’s voice was cold and firm. Paul could see that he’d been smoking, something he knew even from a young age was never a good sign. Smoking meant that Jim was anxious or upset somehow. 

“Dad, I-”

“Where have you been?” He shouted.

Paul flinched, “Why are you asking if you know the answer?”

“You were supposed to go to the Harrison’s and come home. Not wend your way over to that - that Lennon boy!” Jim rubbed at his temples. “You disobeyed me, Janine.”

“I went to the Harrison’s!” He protested. “I went on that damn stupid date with Peter.”

“Don’t speak to me like that, young lady,” Jim stood and crossed the room to where Paul stood. He grabbed Paul’s arm, holding it tightly, “I told you not to see that boy again, Janine, and I get a call from his aunt saying you’re there for dinner?”

“Dad you’re hurting me,” He said, voice small. Paul tried to pull back, and was relieved as Jim loosened his grip and eventually let him go. He felt shaken to the core, almost shivering as he saw rage emblazoned on Jim’s face. His dad wasn’t a violent man. Yet there, towering over him, was his father who looked as if he was possessed.

In a moment the fight seemed to completely dissipate from Jim, and he sighed. His face looked tired, sallow and exhausted. “Just go to your room, Janine. You’re grounded, I expect you to go to school and come home until I say, but for now, just get out of my sight.”

Paul swallowed, “You can’t do this, I have a life-”

“One that is on hold until I can trust you again. Why, for once, why couldn’t you go with that nice Peter boy?”

“He was boorish and rude,” he snapped back.

“And that Lennon boy isn’t? I know what men like him want from nice girls, Janine.”

Paul held back an eyeroll. “Peter isn’t-”

“I don’t care, Janine,” Jim crossed over to his chair, slumping down into it, resting his head in his hand. He didn’t even look up at Paul. “Peter is a proper boy, with proper prospects, life isn’t all about what we want. Sometimes it’s about what’s good for us in spite of our wants.”

His lower lip quivered slightly as he held back his tears. He knew he couldn’t go on living like this, living in the shadow of whatever his father deemed for him. That realization truly setting in as he looked around at a living room that was both too familiar and totally alien to him in that moment. A home that wasn’t his anymore, and he knew he’d have to leave it, because there was no way for him to live in it any longer. 

It wouldn’t be that night, likely not any night soon, but it made it easier to exist in the space as it set in that he wouldn’t be there much longer, whether Jim knew it or not. He would live as himself or die, and dying was not an option.

Paul made his way up to his room, shutting the door behind himself tightly, and wiping at the tears brimming his eyes, but he wouldn’t let himself cry. He knew he needed to make a plan. 

Germany, he’d be going to Germany, with the band. He didn’t have much in the way of personal effects that he’d take, most of his items things he would leave behind. He needed a few more clothes, he’d bring his notebook, his photographs, and he would take the few pieces of jewelry his mother had left to him after her death. Not to sell, but for their sentimental purposes. Books, records and the like were all replaceable. Paul figured that in a pinch he’d be able to pack his life up in about 5 to 10 minutes. He sighed, his shoulders falling and he hadn’t realized he’d been clenching his teeth, that his whole body had been tense.

He was exhausted, relieved with the knowledge of a plan to leave, a plan he could always have on hand when necessary. One that he would use in due time. He just needed to survive until then, save up money where he could, and begin the greater and more terrifying plan: Reveal Paul to John.

Chapter Text

“Dad please ,” Paul clenched a hand under the table, his fingernails pressing into the palm of his hand. He wanted to bite at his cuticles, but he didn’t need yet another long rant about something else about himself that his father had deemed inappropriate. He had enough with his teachers telling him his nails looked unsightly and his rough bloody dry cuticles were disgusting. 

“You’re grounded Janine,” Jim leveled an exhausted but unyielding look at Paul. “We’ve been over this.”

“It’s a knitting circle at the church,” Paul pushed the flier he’d set on the table towards his dad. Mike was ignoring the whole conversation, sneakily reading a comic book under the table. How Paul envied him. “It’s also a bible study, how can that be bad?” Since the unceremonious grounding Paul hadn’t figured out how to sneak to band practice, and while he’d secretly called John to feign being sick, he needed to get back to it. Especially because the big performance he was supposed to be at was quickly approaching.

Jim sighed, spearing a sausage aggressively. “I’m not arguing with you Janine.”

“I’m-” Paul took a deep breath, attempting to temper his nerves. “I’m not arguing dad.”

“C’mon, it’s just church,” Mike looked up at them. The look was, weird, Paul had an eerie feeling that Mike knew it wasn’t exactly about church, though Paul couldn’t tell why Mike was trying to help him. Maybe it was just the joy of getting one over on their father, but Paul would likely never really know.

Jim’s mouth pressed into a thin line, “Fine, you must come right home when it’s over, and I expect all your chores to be done before you go. No exceptions, understood?”

Paul nodded eagerly, trying to not vibrate in utter joy at the sliver of freedom he had gained back. He knew it was all false pretense but he didn’t care. “Thank you, dad!” He smiled slightly, biting back a broader and happier smile, though he saw Jim’s features soften at his apparent excitement. He hoped it was because he made Paul happy, though he felt like he was never able to be entirely sure.

Dinner passed in less tense silence but still relatively quietly as they ate. Like most nights, Paul found himself at the table alone, finishing a few bites of food as Mike ran off to his room and Jim went to read. Paul left to clear the table and wash dishes. He sighed softly, the glow of the kitchen light making the otherwise dark room feel a little warmer and more friendly than his home had been feeling.

He stood up, pulling on his apron from where he’d set it on the counter and turned on the radio very quietly. Classical music, a compromise as he was attempting to get back into Jim’s better graces. Puccini on the radio, he hummed as he gathered the dishes, setting them into the sink as he began to run the hot water to begin washing up. 

He didn’t love classical music the way his parents did. Paul had an appreciation for it for sure, and he sometimes liked to listen to it, thinking about listening to old victrola records with his mom.

He swayed back and forth, feet following a slight dance rhythm as he washed dishes. He didn’t exactly feel at ease or happy. It was simply that he felt the need to make his prison a little more livable, even if only for himself.

“Sometimes you really remind me of your mother.”

Paul jumped, a small shout as he turned to face Jim, cheeks pink in embarrassment. “Sorry, I didn’t realize I was being so loud.”

“Your mom loved the opera,” Jim smiled sadly.

“Yeah, I remember,” Paul said softly.

Jim looked for a moment as if he was going to speak, to say something more. Instead he just looked at Paul, eyes filled with sorrow and disappointment. It was worse than if Paul had been slapped. He didn’t need words to know what his dad was thinking. “She always wanted what was best, I try, Jannie. I try very hard.”

Paul hesitated for a moment. He felt again that painful aching sort of despair that had become a more constant companion. There he was, in position again to soothe his father’s ego, to fawn and assure him that it was all okay, that the pain and frustration Paul experienced was all justified and okay. 

He turned at the burn of tears came to his eyes, threatening to fall, instead allowing himself to focus on the slight burn of hot water as he pulled another dish from the soapy depths and scrubbed at it with the dishcloth. “I know, dad.”

“Jan, can you look at me?”

He sniffed, realizing that his war on his tears was failing him, and all he could manage was to shake his head. 

“Okay,” Jim said, voice belying his hurt. “I love you.”

Paul swallowed the lump in his throat, “I love you, too.” Though if pressed he wasn’t sure that feeling was honest. It felt miserable to lie, but there was no way to explain the complexity of his emotions, at least not in a way his dad would listen to. 

He waited for the retreat of Jim’s steps before he resumed washing the dishes. He wiped his eyes with the back of his wrist, trying to ignore the splash of his tears into the soapy water. It felt silly to cry, men didn’t cry, he knew that. Times like that made him feel like a failure of a man.

He remembered, then, though, what George had said to him. That he could choose to be the kind of man that he was.

The house was in order, dinner prepared, laundry done, and the other various chores he knew he needed to do before he left to “church.” Though to say John wasn’t akin to church or Paul would have been a lie. He looked himself once over in the bathroom mirror, splashing Jim’s aftershave on his face and he felt satisfied with how the jumper he had stolen from Mike hid his waist and disguised his hips. He needed a change up from his three or four outfit rotation, and this was a sweater that Mike barely wore anymore.

Grabbing his guitar and bag he made his way out the door. He paused outside, fishing the key from his pocket to lock the front door before he’d go catch the bus.

“Jan?”

He froze, standing up straight as if he’d been struck by lightening. His hand still on the key in the lock he finished turning it. It felt like an eternity as the sound of his heart pounded in his ears and he felt his breath leave his lungs. 

Paul turned to face Mike. 

“Hey, I, uh, I need to go, to church, yeah,” he ducked his head trying to push by.

“Is that my jumper?” Mike reached out and grabbed Paul’s arm, holding him in place.

Paul jumped, fighting the urge to pull away, but Mike’s grip was too firm on his arm. Not an angry grip like his father’s but one that wouldn’t let him get away.

“Yes?” He winced. “I’ll give it back I promise.”

Mike looked him over once Paul was able to meet his eyes, brow furrowed in confusion as he took the look of Paul in. The look never seemed to morph to anger, only that confusion set in more deeply. 

“Look, I can explain. Please, just please don’t tell dad,” Paul pleaded. His voice shook as he spoke. 

“Is this a dyke thing?” he asked.

“No! It’s, er, Mike it’s complicated, please I need to go.” The longer he stayed the more likely it would be that Jim would show up. 

Mike released his grip. The frown was still plastered on his face, “You’re going to that bloke’s band, eh?”

“If I say yes will you leave me be?”

There was a pause before Mike finally said, “Yes, just… don’t ruin my jumper.”

“I promise,” Paul said quickly as he broke into a run. He didn’t even both trying to catch the bus. He’d already probably missed it and the fear of running into his father was enough to fill him with adrenaline. Houses, cars, people flew by in a blur. He only looked forward, only focus on the next step he needed to take. Each footfall took him further and further away from home. 

He only stopped when he felt like his legs were about to give out and he was out of breath. He was in the middle of a sidewalk, probably halfway to John’s house when he stopped, nearly falling over as his breath came in painful deep huffs that made him cough as he tried to calm his breathing.

Mike saw him. Mike saw him . It was definitely awkward and he didn’t look forward to returning the jumper with an explanation. Yet Mike seemed confused more than anything else. It was a reaction he didn’t know how to handle. He had thought the only two reactions were acceptance or horror and anger. Yet confusion he was completely unprepared for handling.

If anything it scared him more. He knew how to shout. He knew how to yell back or how to explain himself. But pure and utter judgement-free confusion was scarier than anything he could have expected. Sure George had been confused, but George had been ready to accept Paul’s self expression. Mike didn’t seem to understand what he had been looking at. Paul knew, at least, that Mike wouldn’t tell their dad anything. But the thought still sent a jolt through him in fear. He wasn’t ready to tell Jim anything, and he wasn’t sure he ever would be. 

He took a final deep breath as he pushed down his racing thoughts, and continued to make his way to John’s house. The sunlight on his face warmed his cheeks and he was hopeful it would hide any flushing that would be generally unseemly on him. 

Letting himself through John’s gate felt so different from when he had come to John’s house, delirious with a different kind of upset. Yet it was no less comforting as Paul as he lifted the all too familiar latch and made his way to the door. He knocked out of courtesy even if he knew John was expecting him. He was a little late though he doubted John would mind. 

Thankfully John was the one to answer the door. He looked Paul over, that carefully nonchalant exterior firmly in place. “Not dying of the plague I see.”

“I wasn’t lying, John,” Paul shifted on his feet, trying to not just curl up as John stared at him.

There was  pause as John’s gaze continued on, unwavering. When he finally spoke his voice was unusually small, “I was afraid you’d quit on the band… Quit on me.”

Paul’s brow furrowed and he looked up at John, searching his face for anything he could use to understand where John had gotten that idea. “I- I would never, John. How could you think that?”

John shifted, his gaze casting down at the decorative carpet in the entryway of his house. “I know this isn’t for all the guys, I know some of them aren’t as into the music stuff. It’s becoming real serious, too, y’know?”

Paul’s hand reached out but he stopped himself before he actually touched John. His hand hung in the air between them. John clearly staring at it and up at Paul, that same mysterious and conflicted look clouding his gaze. 

“Sorry,” Paul saidquickly, letting his hand drop back to his side.

“Paul-” John breathed out. “I-”

“I’m not heating the outdoors, John,” Mimi’s voice called from down the hallway, “Close the door or step outside, you’re letting a draft in!”

John jumped, stepping back to let Paul inside and closed the door. Without speaking he took Paul’s hand. It was warm and it made Paul jump as their skin touched. Wordlessly he was pulled into the garage, John closing the door tightly behind himself.

It was a blur as Paul felt himself pressed to the now closed door and lips that were all too familiar pressed to his own. He moaned in surprise but eagerly kissed John back. The kiss wasn’t too different, but there was more force from John, more aggression. As if he had something to prove in how he kissed another man.

For once Paul felt like he didn’t know what to do with his hands or body, and felt like all he could do was allow John to kiss him. It was over, after all, mere moments after it started. 

As John pulled back their lips stuck together slightly. Then Paul saw it, the moment John realized what he’d done and he flew to the other side of the room as if Paul was actually diseased. In his attempt to put as much distance between himself and Paul he tripped over one of the many haphazard crates, falling down and narrowly catching himself before he got hurt.

“Fuck,” John muttered, “Shit.”

Paul only then realized that he was still in place against the door. It was as if he was a statue. He pushed himself from the door and crossed to where John was on the floor, offering out his hand.

John eyed it warily before accepting the outstretched hand and stood up. He wasn’t looking at Paul, at all, and simply muttered, “Thanks.”

They both stood in the awkward silence. Paul felt like only in the silence was his brain catching up to the events of the last few minutes. John had kissed him.

John had kissed him . 

John has kissed Paul.

And Paul wanted to kiss John again.

It was all his fantasies after all those song writing sessions come true. All the dreams he’d had after their lingering gazes and John’s seemingly curious nature about their relationship. Though Paul could see very clearly that John was having a crisis mere feet away from him. 

“John,” Paul started, reaching out to gently place a hand on John’s arm.

He flinched and Paul felt his chest tighten.

Paul let go of John, taking a further step back. If anything it was to protect himself from John’s potential vitriol or revulsion. 

“Sorry, fuck,” John’s voice shook. He was clearly on the brink of a breakdown and Paul wanted nothing more than to tell John that he was normal, this was all fine, it was amazing even. That Paul was Janine, but was really more Paul than anything else. 

He could tell, though, that it wasn’t the time to have that conversation with John. So instead he said, “John, it’s okay.”

He flinched, “Just don’t tell the guys, yeah?” He rubbed the back of his neck, “In fact, let’s just… pretend yeah, that nothing happened?”

“But you ki-”

“Nothing. Happened.” John said firmly. His voice brokered no argument. There was the frightening edge of anger that made Paul stop before he could protest further. “Got it?”

“Yes,” Paul said quietly. He didn’t know what John was afraid of, it was just them, after all. No one would know besides them. 

“Gear,” John replied. He went to the garage door and opened it, letting the end of the evening sun inside and a breeze that made Paul shiver. 

He crossed his arms protectively, watching as John stood at the garage opening and lit a cigarette. He watched the smoke curl from John’s lips as he breathed out, staring out ahead at the neighborhood and refusing to look back at Paul. 

Once the others started to trickle in it became even easier for John to ignore Paul. So he sank to the background, hanging to the wall and trying to ignore the way John was completely freezing him out unless it was necessary to talk to him for band purposes. 

It was those walls. Those painful walls that totally shut him out. There was no bridging the gap even if Paul wanted to, and he did very much want to. Instead though he tried to be unnoticeable and make it through practice. The only one who seemed to notice something off, was George. There was a glance exchanged between the two of them in a brief moment and Paul could only shake his head imperceptibly as Geroge looked at him imperatively, desperate for information.

“Next week Paul’s starting to perform with us, I’m picking up the suit jackets on Monday, the ones we all chipped in for,” John said as the packed up their instruments. “So we all have that uniform look.”

“Paul still owes,” Stuart took a drag off his cigarette.

“How-” Paul turned red as his voice cracked from nerves. “How much do I owe?”

“A pound,” Peter replied.

“I’ll get you the money,” Paul sighed, he had a little bit saved up from birthdays and odd jobs, but a pound was still significant for him to part with. But if everyone, including George had chipped in then he needed to as well. 

John cleared his throat and everyone turned to look at him. “I’ve got us a gig in Germany starting a little later this year as a club’s house band.”

Everyone cheered a little, even Paul, though he much quieter than the rest of the guys. George’s face lit up in excitement and Paul couldn’t help grinning with him. Going to Germany to work as a band was a dream come true. It was the opportunity they desperately needed and would be their chance to taste being a band professionally.

“I’ll talk to you all about the details later,” John stated as he looked around, avoiding Paul.

It filled him with a sinking feeling, would John exclude him because of what happened? He certainly hoped not but nothing seemed to being going correctly those days.

“Well, I’ve got to get home,” George announced, looking to Paul and nodding towards the driveway.

“I’ll go with you, ta,” Paul pulled his guitar over his shoulder and followed George out before he’d need to talk to John or the rest of the band further.

When they were far enough from John’s house Paul finally spoke, unable to keep the events that had transpired inside, “John kissed me.”

George looked at him with both eyebrows raised and a look of exasperation on his face, “That’s not new, Paul.”

“No,” Paul groaned, “He kissed me . Today, before practice.”

George’s eyes widened in surprise and his mouth fell open slightly, “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Paul ran a hand through his hair and sighed. 

“I’d ask how it went but John was weird all night so I think I have my answer,” George replied. 

“ He kissed me , and he’s the one being weird about it,” he groaned. “He has no business being upset about it.”

“I don’t think things are that simple, Paul,” George said gently. “You’ve had years to figure your shit out, John’s, I think, just doing that now.”

“I guess,” Paul knew George was right. It just didn’t make the situation any easier for him to deal with. He wanted John to accept him, to accept the feelings that they shared. Yet he knew from experience that it was a lot to come to terms with being different. There was always the possibility that John didn’t come around, though. The thought of which made Paul feel queasy. Despite his feelings he valued his friendship with John more than anything. He valued the creative fulfillment he got from their relationship, the closeness and being around someone who got music the way he did. That thought, more than any other, was the one that made him afraid of what might happen now that they had kissed.

“Where have you been by the way? John said you’ve been sick.”

“I’m grounded, I had dinner and met John’s aunt, and she called my dad and he was livid since I’m not supposed to see John.” Paul shoved his hands in his pockets as they continued to walk.

“Oh jeez, how did you get here, then?”

“Dad thinks I’m at church, I convinced him to let me out, I don’t know how I’ll manage other practice days or performing going forward but that’s problems for future me.”

“Is this worth it, Paul?” George looked at him with a furrowed brow. “All of this?”

“I think if I don’t live my life now I’ll die,” Paul replied softly. “Before, before I ever tried this I think I would have said no, or at least that I could hide it. But I’ve tasted freedom and I don’t think I can live in pretend for the rest of my life now that I know who I can be.”

“I just hope you don’t grow to regret it,” George replied, gently bumping into Paul’s shoulder with his own.

“Me, too.”

Paul changed as he usually did when he got home, entering the house and he dashed upstairs, saying a quick hello to Jim as he made his way to his room. Jim had barely looked up from the paper so Paul assumed he wasn’t in trouble or home too late. Which was as good as he had hoped. He fished out Mike’s sweater from his bag and folded it carefully before he made his way to Mike’s room and knocked on the closed door.

It was only a few moments before it was opened and Mike paused, looking over Paul looking much more like Janine.

“Here’s your sweater,” Paul offered it out to his brother.

“Thanks,” Mike hesitantly took it from Paul’s hands like it was a loaded gun and he held it loosely as he looked more intensely at Paul. “Why?” He asked finally.

Paul hesitated. What could he say in that moment? He barely knew how to explain it to George or himself let alone to his brother. This all felt surely like it came from nowhere and yet it was so much longer lived than Mike knew. “It’s me.”

“Jan,” Mike said, his voice full of disbelief. “Surely this is… something wrong.”

“Look I won’t touch your things again, if it makes you feel better. That sweater is just old and I know doesn’t fit.” He absentmindedly brought a finger to his lips, biting at a peeling piece of dried skin around his thumb. “Did you say anything to dad?”

“What? No,” Mike said quickly and he threw the sweater onto his bed. “I’m just confused.”

“I don’t know, Mike. I’m just like this. It’s like I’m more your brother than your sister.”

“But you’re a girl,” Mike replied quickly.

“I don’t think I feel like a girl, I don’t think of myself as a girl,” Paul’s cheeks tinged pink as he was desperate to make Mike see what he knew to be the truth. It was a unique kind of embarrassing to explain. It shouldn’t be. Yet he felt awkward justifying the space he took up in the world. Even just justifying the way he took up the space. 

Mike’s face twisted as his inner thoughts played across his face. Paul saw disgust, fear, and even shame cross his brother’s face as they stood there. Only the light from Mike’s room illuminating them, the rest of the world having fallen away in the darkness. Except it was not a comfort to feel so alone and isolated. While he didn’t think Mike would hurt him he couldn’t discount the fear worming its way in the back of his mind.

Mike’s jaw set and Paul could hear the soft squeak of his teeth, “Just, don’t touch my shit again. Okay?”

“Promise I won’t,” Paul flinched slightly at the harsh edge in Mike’s tone of voice.

Mike looked him over once more. His face was now opaque and Paul couldn’t read him. It was uncomfortable to not know what Mike thought for once, to have another barrier between himself and someone he cared for. But he accepted the door closing in his face and he let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. In that moment he felt exhausted.

Once back in his room he fell onto his bed, staring at the ceiling and he felt so tired. So scared. So… lost.

He wasn’t delusional, he had never thought that the process of coming out was going to be easy. Yet it felt a little like his world was falling apart. A world that he had comfortably, if not happily, existed within for his entire life.

George accepted him, true. But he couldn’t tell any of his school friends, Mike was disgusted by him. John didn’t even know that Janine and Paul were one in the same, yet now John was freezing him out all because he was likely bisexual. It wasn’t fair. 

Paul didn’t know anyone like him, either. He knew of some lesbians, and he knew of some gay men, but never anyone who lived like him. Or, at the very least, felt like him. Maybe it was because they all died, or were killed. The thought made his chest tighten. Was he not meant to live a long happy life? Was this all even worth it then? Or was he actually sick in the head?

No. He knew that one to be true. He was not sick, no more than any gay person was. Which was to say not at all. It was just that the idea of living in the closet again seemed deeply appealing. He could slip from the band, just be John’s girlfriend, graduate, get married, live the sad and horrific life with Peter his father so clearly thought he should want. He could be a good girl again. He could live that comfortable lie. 

Except he knew he wouldn’t. That he couldn’t.

He turned to his side and hugged his knees to his chest. He just had to hope it would get better. Even if he had the sneaking suspicion that it was going to get worse first.

It was a few nights later that Paul was woken up with a soft tap on his window, followed quickly by another one. 

John.

He groaned and threw his covers off himself, shivering at the cooler even temperature of the house. Part of him assumed it ought to be romantic: John’s Romeo-esque escapades. It was simply that he liked to sleep and it wasn’t as appealing to be woken up by his boyfriend who he hadn’t even really been able to see or talk to outside of the brief and clandestine phone conversation. 

Paul threw open his window, peering down at John.

“Come down here!” John called through hands cupped to his mouth.

Paul shook his head, “I am not sneaking out John.”

There was a look of annoyance but before either of them said anything further John took it upon himself to again scale the side of the house again slipping into Paul’s room once more through the window.

“What are you doing here?” Paul whispered at John, but before he could say anything further in protest John kissed him. It wasn’t a soft kiss, it was similar to the way John had kissed him just a few days prior. It was dominant and even a little aggressive. Paul pressed his hands to John’s chest, pulling back from the kiss. “Don’t I get a hello?”

“I’ve missed you,” John replied, voice rough. His arms were wrapped around Paul, holding him firmly in place. It wasn’t too tightly but it was firm enough that Paul knew he couldn’t push away if he wanted to. There was a look in John’s eyes that Paul didn’t recognize. Desperation and something akin to anxiety. 

“I’ve missed you, too,” he said calmly. It was like calming a spooked dog and he didn’t remove his hands from John’s chest. He saw John lean in to kiss him and he pulled away as much as he could. “ John .”

“Please Janine,” John nearly whimpered. His arms tightened slightly and he leaned forward to kiss at Paul’s jaw and neck. “I want you.”

He shivered nervously at the teeth that grazed the skin of his neck and nipped at his jaw. It wasn’t that he didn’t want John. In fact he wanted John very much, the kiss they’d shared at practice playing on repeat in his mind and in his fantasies since that fateful evening. He’d touched himself several times thinking about John wanting him as Paul. So it wasn’t as if the contact and kissing was unwelcome. It was that there was something a little off with John’s demeanor, a wildness and desperation that Paul wasn’t sure how to handle. 

John gently pushed away Paul’s hands. His head dipped down to kiss at his breasts which were still covered by his sheer nightgown. Paul felt his nipples peaking at John’s touch and he couldn’t help the soft moan that fell from his lips. John’s hands slid down his sides, resting on his hips and his fingers dug in firmly, holding Paul where he stood.

A hand tangled into John’s hair, tugging at it gently, a silent plea to pull away, one John was pointedly ignoring. 

“John stop, please,” Paul whimpered. “Stop.”

Paul felt the hesitation in John’s body as he did as Paul requested. He sighed softly in relief as the hands fell away from him. John stepped back, hurt plastered on his face. He looked as if Paul had slapped him or made a cruel joke about his mother. 

“Don’t you want me, Jan?” John asked finally. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard and there was the tone of barely held back tears in his voice.

Paul crossed the small space between them, brushing a strand of John’s hair behind his ear. It was sticky from hair grease but he didn’t mind. The glow of the moon illuminated John’s face and he looked almost like a baroque painting with the agony and anguish set on his brow. “Of course I do,” he reassured.

“T-then,” John’s voice broke and Paul’s chest ached as he saw tears begin to roll down John’s cheeks like diamonds in the moonlight. “Why?”

He cupped John’s cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear. “I don’t think you’re in a good place. It wouldn’t be right.”

John pressed into Paul’s hand, eyes closing in an austere attempt to stem the flow of his tears. “Do- do you think I’m disgusting?”

Paul’s brow furrowed at the question. How could John think that he would ever think of him like that? “What? John-”

“Is that why you won’t…” John trailed off and he pulled away from Paul’s touch. He bit at the inside of his lip, staring pointedly out the window rather than at Paul. 

“John no!” he insisted. “Is there something you want to talk about?” He decided to give John space and moved to sit on the edge of his bed. His gaze never left John as he sat there in the dark. John’s body shook. Whether from tears unshed or from fear Paul couldn’t tell. Though he had a suspicion that this new feeling of disgust was about the kiss with him. He wanted to shake John by the shoulders and tell him that there was nothing to be ashamed about. Nothing to think himself disgusting over.

Would he think Paul was disgusting? He couldn’t think about that.

It explained John’s behavior though, the way he seemed to feel like he needed to prove something either to Paul or to himself. It explained why the rejection hurt more than normal. 

“I-” John broke the silence after several long moments. “No. I don’t think so.” His voice sounded so small, so weak.

“You can always bare your brain to heaven,” Paul extended a hand out to John as a peace offering. 

John glanced over at him, otherwise unmoving. He truly looked like a spooked animal and all Paul wanted to do was to hold him close and smooth the worry from his brow. But he couldn’t let on that he knew more than John had disclosed, and he needed to give him space. He was rewarded as John crossed over silently and took Paul’s hand in his. He sank to his knees in front of Paul and wrapped his arms around Paul’s legs as he released Paul’s hand. His head rested in Paul’s lap as soft sniffles punctuated the otherwise quiet room.

Paul stroked John’s hair, his soft curls wrapping around Paul’s fingers. He could feel the tremble of John’s body as he silently cried. Paul could feel the dampness on his thigh where John’s tears were staining his nightgown. Otherwise he would not have known John was actively crying. He hummed softly as he soothed John, humming the song John had written for him. 

Eventually the sniffs stopped as did the soft tremors of John’s body. The only sound in the room was Paul's soft humming as John’s breathing evened out.

He finally turned to look up at Paul. His eyes red and tired looking from crying and his face otherwise ruddy. He looked beautiful. Soft and vulnerable and whatever agonized determination had leeched out of him with his tears. “Sorry.”

“No need to apologize,” Paul said soothingly. His fingers brushed hair from John’s forehead and brushed over his cheeks.

“I should probably go,” John’s voice came out softly, almost a whisper.

“Probably,” Paul replied apologetically. “Not because I don’t want you here but because I can’t have you caught. I’m already in enough trouble with dad.”

John shook his head, “I understand, Jan.” He stood, knees popping from kneeling for so long.

Paul mourned the loss of his touch, of his nearness as he made his way back over to Paul’s window and looked out into the night. His stare was a million miles away. “Hold on,” Paul stood up, stopping John as he prepared to climb out of the window. He placed a hand on John’s shoulder and leaned over to kiss John’s cheek. “I-” He hesitated, nerves making his voice sound tight and fragile as he felt. He couldn’t turn back now as he built up the nerve he knew he needed, “I love you, John.”

John’s shoulder tightened under Paul’s touch and he turned to look at Paul. His eyes searched Paul’s face, looking for any sign of betrayal or that Paul was intentionally playing with his feelings.”

“You don’t mean that,” John looked away from Paul with the telltale look of hurt setting in his eyes, “You don’t know me enough, if you-”

“I do, John, I mean it,” he insisted. “You don’t have to say it, but I could never think poorly of you.”

“Jan,” John breathed. “You don’t-”

“You don’t get to tell me how I feel, no matter what you think.” Paul brushed the back of John’s hand with his own.

John’s lips set in a line, clearly unbelieving in the honesty of Paul’s confession. Or, at the very least, he seemed convinced that Paul couldn’t love him if he knew. 

Except Paul did know, and Paul knew he had loved John for a while now. He had known it since that day in the park where they had laid together in the woods. Since he saw John the very first time. He’d flirted around with saying the words and it seemed the time to confess that, to reassure John that he cared for him. “I’ll see you next week at your performance, okay?”

John just nodded and with that he slipped from the window, not waiting any longer for Paul to say anything more and he didn’t look back as he slipped out of the garden and out of Paul’s sight.

It felt so surreal as he pulled on the suit jacket that the band had gotten him as part of their attempt to look “more uniform.” He’d slicked back his hair. Since it had grown longer it was a little more becoming and a little more masculine to have it in the Teddy-boy look. He looked himself over in the mirror, the light jacket and dark trousers made him look a little like a boy at his first communion. Yet he also felt an incredible burst of joy seeing himself reflected back at him. He looked like all the other guys would. It was also his first piece of suiting and it was exciting to don something that men wore and that he could call his own. 

He didn’t know what he would do about Jan’s presence. He knew her absence would hurt John, but he had to be there as Paul first and foremost. He’d call John later and apologize because his priority was to slip out before Mike or Jim came home. He’d left a note saying he was studying at George’s and would ask for forgiveness not permission and would deal with his father later.

He caught the bus to head to the Cavern Club and made his way to the top of the bus, his sacred space, and sat towards the back. Pressing his head to the window he watched as rivulets of rain ran down the glass. He felt a bit like he was going to throw up. The reality of him performing for the first time actually hitting him as he watched the blurry world pass by. It was equal parts excitement and anxiety, all he’d been able to eat was some buttered toast and a cup of strong black tea with sugar. It was doubtful that it had been enough but his stomach twisted at the thought of anything more. 

Each second of the bus going forward the more the gravity of his first performance sank in. He knew it was supposed to be scary and thrilling. He just hoped that once he actually got on that stage that the nerves would melt away into the music and he’d lose those fears in the feeling of guitar strings on his fingers and melody dripping from his lips. 

He wiped his palms on his thighs as his stop approached. His stomach rose into his throat as he pulled the chord to signal his stop; and he was afraid for one very real moment that he was going to throw up once he set foot on the rain slicked pavement. He looked around to orient himself before making his way to the club. He had a sudden and unpleasant sense of doom, but knew it was just nerves speaking. He opened the door to the Cavern Club and saw John and Stuart setting up the stage. George was in the corner tuning the guitars and it all felt very very real.

“Paul!” Stuart waved him over. John was decidedly looking away from him. “You made it!”

“Yeah, sorry I’m a little late,” he took a deep breath. “Bus y’know?” He reached into his pocket and cursed himself, “D’you got a fag? I left mine at home.”

“Yeah, need a light?”

Paul nodded and accepted the lit cigarette Stu handed over to him a moment later. “Ta, fuck ‘m nervous.”

“You’ll be fine,” Stu shook his head, “A couple drinks usually help, too.”

“Don’t get sloppy,” John said, still not looking at him. His voice was a warning and sounded distinctly unlike John. 

“I won’t, promise.” Paul took a drag from his cigarette, taking in the space. It was decent, the stage in a brick alcove that looked so cool and grungy. Paul had heard of the club, but it was his first time being inside of it.

“Give ‘im a break John,” Paul heard Stu say behind him quietly. “Yer being weird.”

John gave no reply but Paul heard him aggressively throw down a bundle of cords as he began to set up their amplifiers.

He made his way over to George, “Need help?”

“Nah, I’m pretty much done and I know you’ve got your guitar. How’re you feeling?”

“Nervous as shit, feel like ‘m gonna vomit like.” Paul took another drag from his cigarette and was relieved that feelings of nausea and anxiety seemed to be ebbing. 

“Felt like that, too, the first time,” George smiled up at him, “You’ll be a natural, it’ll pass the second we start, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Paul flopped onto a chair next to him. They both watched John and Stuart setting up on stage. Paul definitely couldn’t go help out and George seemed to know that staying out of the way was the better idea. “John’s still weird.”

“No shit,” George scoffed. 

“Did I tell you that he snuck into my room last week?”

“What?” George looked at him wide-eyed.

“He doesn’t know where I live as me,” Paul said quietly, not needing John or Stuart to overhear. “So he came to Janine’s room, it was really weird then, too. Tried to fuck me and then he cried.”

“ John ? Are we talking about the same person?” George asked incredulously.

“ Yes .” Paul sighed and slumped back in the chair. “I’m afraid he won’t want to take me to Germany with the bad.”

“Yer daft,” George rolled his eyes, “We sound awful without you, you’re coming with. He’ll get over whatever he’s hung up on.”

“Pete!” John greeted as their drummer entered into the space. 

Paul and George watched Pete greet the other two and bring in pieces of his drum kit as he began to set them up. The staff of the club were also starting to set up. Some man in a suit went up to John and pointed at things to which John nodded and Paul saw the bartender beginning his pre-opening set up. 

“Oy, you two!” John called at them.

Both their heads snapped up and looked to John.

“Sound check time, bring the guitars over,” John shook his head. Paul saw him mutter something under his breath but he and George, guitars in tow, came over and onto the stage. He plugged his guitar into the amplifier cord that John handed to him and picked a couple strings to check that the amp was on.

John, Stu, and George began to set their guitars up, John fiddling a little with the amplifiers, along with George, before giving a nod.

“Just play Jailhouse Rock ,” John said to them.

They nodded, John counting them off before they launched into playing the Elvis song. It was a good moment for Paul to work through the anxious nerves that were making him trip over his fingers, it was a dress rehearsal of sorts. Granted, one where John paused them several times to adjust levels and volume, but a good chance for Paul to have a feel for the stage.

He loved it. He knew he’d love it even more once they had a crowd. Even if that crowd wasn’t paying them much attention he’d be playing the music they’d be dancing to. He felt that first electric jolt at the realization and the nerves began to melt into electric excitement. Fear into giddiness. 

“We’re sounding good,” John said with satisfaction. “Thank you all for being here, don’t fuck up, yeah?”

There was a chorus of nods.

“We each get two drinks, manager told me, then you’re out of pocket.” John looked each of them over as he spoke, finally looking at Paul for what seemed the first time in ages. There was a spark of desire, still, in John’s gaze, and fear. Paul recognized that fear but he met John’s gaze as if nothing was wrong, his face kept carefully neutral. “Don’t fuck up, this night is important to me.”

As soon as John finished talking the doors began to open, and Paul knew they had a little bit before they were slated to play. They got drinks together as a group, a round of beers going between them. 

“Cheers,” John sipped his drink, leaning back against the bar next to Paul as he surveyed the incoming crowd of people. Each new person coming in was met with John’s intense gaze.

“Looking for someone?” Paul asked softly.

“Er, yeah, my girlfriend?”

“Ooh,” Pete hollered, “Finally!”

John flipped Pete off.

“That Jan girl?” Paul asked.

“Yeah, she said she’d be here. I really hope she comes,” John sipped his drink. “How’re you feeling about your debut?”

“I’m not a debutante,” Paul snorted. He sipped his beer and looked out at the crowd, girls there with their boyfriends, greasers looking for single girls, and young women with their hair down and cigarettes in hand. “But I’m excited, I think. Definitely not afraid I’m gonna be sick.”

“Didn’t take you for the type to have stage fright,” John said coolly, looking over as a young woman with short hair entered.

“Don’t usually, unless it's important,” Paul replied.

“Glad you take this seriously,” John raised an eyebrow at him.

“Like I’d fucking lie to you,” he rolled his eyes and downed the rest of his beer, placing the empty glass on the bar. With his stomach mostly empty he was already feeling the effects and decided to forego the second drink until after the show when he’d probably want it more. His nerves were largely under control and he didn’t need more alcohol. 

John, seemingly, didn’t have that same level of self preservation, ordering another two beers for himself, one to presumably have on stage. He threw a few coins on the table and downed quite speedily the second beer he got. “Alright, let’s give them a show!” He nodded towards the stage.

They followed him, wending their way through the growing crowd and they made it up onto stage. Paul picked up his guitar as the others settled in with their instruments, and made sure, quickly, that he was still in tune. He watched as John looked out at the crowd, eyes searching desperately for a familiar face. Paul saw the moment that disappointment colored his gaze and then the second John put up walls to keep them all at bay as he counted them off loudly and they launched into their setlist.

The minute they started to play the world fell away from Paul. All that existed was music, his guitar, and John. The lighting illuminated the stage, making the crowd much darker, though still visible, and John nearly glowed as he sang. Paul had only ever been in the audience when the band performed. Only ever saw John as a spectator. But there he stood next to John, as his equal, playing music that they had written together. Paul could see the sheen of sweat on John’s brow, could see the way he smiled and winked at the crowd in front of them. 

He had his share of flirting, too. At the girls dancing near the stage, though he was not into women, but they didn’t know that. It was a persona, anyway. They seemed to love it at any rate. Singing Love Me Do made them swoon, and he saw a fair number of jealous looking boyfriends in the background.

It was about halfway through the set when he saw him. 

He stuttered for a split second, a half beat behind the others. He fixed it quickly but it earned him looks from both John and George. The latter of whom followed Paul’s stricken gaze out into the crowd and Paul saw George’s eye widen out of the corner of his eye when George saw Jim at the back of the crowd.

He was staring pointedly at Paul, gaze wholly unwavering. 

Paul broke the stare first, looking down at his fingers, each note further feeling now more and more like a growing death sentence. He knew he needed to be professional, though, and he plastered a smile onto his face as they continued on. He kept up flirting with the girls in the crowd, shimmying back and forth as they played, and trying to not let it show that his heart was pounding in his throat and he felt like he couldn’t hear anything other than the sound of his internal panicking. Once they finished he knew he was done for.

“Thank you, have a good night!” John finished with a grin and a wink. Paul felt his stomach drop, maybe he could slip out before Jim caught him and get home first. He pulled his guitar off his shoulder and looked around furiously for his guitar case.

“Paul, man, there’s no rush, we have time before we have to have-”

“Janine McCartney!”

The band all turned to the voice, except for Paul who kept his back to his father. 

“I think you’re in the wrong place, sir,” Stu said incredulously.

“Janine!” He said firmly.

“Paul,” George urged quietly.

Paul closed his eyes and took a breath.

“Paul, what’s going on?” John asked in confusion.

He turned around and faced Jim. His father looked irate, more angry and upset than Paul could ever remember seeing him. If Jim had been a cartoon character there would have been steam coming from his ears. “Hi dad,” he said in a small voice.

“Dad?” John turned to Paul with a look of dawning horror. 

“Imagine my surprise when I see your note,” Jim began to ascend the stairs onto the stage. “Already thinking you disobeyed me and so I call Mrs. Harrison who tells me George is at some dingy club, and here you are.” His hand flew out and grabbed Paul’s arm, holding him almost too tightly.

Paul flinched, “Dad I’m sorry, please stop.”

“Janine?” John’s voice came from behind Paul’s shoulder and he flinched. He looked over his shoulder at John with wide apologetic eyes and he was sure a face burning bright red in humiliation. “John-”

“And with this Lennon boy,” Jim spat the words out. He tugged Paul’s arm, pulling him to the stage. “I knew he was a bad influence on you, look at you, do you think you’re a boy Janine?”

Paul’s eyes stung with tears as he realized there were more than a few eyes staring at the commotion on the stage and the band was all staring, with the exception of George who was looking away.

“Dad I need my guitar!” Paul protested, trying to pull out of the grip even as fingers dug more tightly into his arm.

Jim frowned, looking at the guitar half laid in the hard case and between the members of the band. “Keep the guitar, she won’t need it again.”

“She? John what’s going on?” Stuart asked.

“Yeah, I don’t get it either,” Pete frowned, “Paul’s-”

“Paul?” Jim looked at Paul with another seeming uptick in his rage, “Was the name your mother and I gave you not good enough?”

Paul began to tremble. He wanted the floor to open up and swallow him and then maybe he would be spared the shame and embarrassment he was enduring at the hand of his dad. He didn’t notice it until it was too late that he was openly crying, tears streaming down his cheeks. He looked to John, the one person he wanted to know was on his side and he felt his heart break as he was met with a cold and impenetrable stare back at him. 

“Home, now , Janine,” Jim snapped and dragged Paul out, his feet barely keeping with the pace his father set as they left the club. He just hoped that George would collect his guitar. 

They didn’t speak on the way home, though Jim let go of Paul’s arm as they sat next to each other on the bus. Paul thought about bolting at each stop, yet all he could seem to do was stay put, trying to ignore his fuming father as the world passed by in a teary blur. He didn’t want people to see him cry but he couldn’t seem to calm himself. He refused to blubber like a child but he couldn’t seem to stem the crying, wiping his eyes periodically on his sleeves.

Paul knew his life was over as he knew it. His secret was out, the whole band knew and a not small part Liverpool apparently. His father knew, too, and took it about as well as Paul ever suspected that he would. He’d never go to Germany now, would never play music professionally, John would never kiss him again, and he’d never see any of them again. He didn’t think he’d ever see the outside of his room ever again if Jim had anything to say about it.

Home was reached far too soon, the walk from the bus stop to the door as anxiously perfect silence, punctuated only by the sounds of traffic. 

Jim opened the door and it took no prompting for Paul to step inside. He flinched as the door was closed and locked behind him. 

“Go to bed, Janine,” Jim said quietly, voice a carefully trained calm. “Shower and go to bed. We’ll talk in the morning.”

“Okay, dad.” Paul didn’t argue with him, it wasn’t worth it, and so instead he did as he was told. He grabbed his nightgown and went to the restroom to wash the scent of beer, sweat, and cigarettes off himself. He replaced them with soft floral scents and talc powder. The sort of scents that made him want to crawl out of his skin. 

He quietly made his way to his bedroom, shoving his band clothes under his bed and he crawled under the covers. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep and so he laid and stared at the ceiling. It would be so easy to run away then. But where would he actually go? He wasn’t even certain that he could go to John and seek shelter. Plus he was certain his dad wasn’t sleeping either. 

The way John looked at him flashed through his mind. That icy stare making his chest tighten in memory. Did John hate him now? He wouldn’t be surprised if John was. Yet he couldn’t stop that moment from playing in his head like a perpetually skipping record. He felt the overwhelming urge to curl up and never leave his bed ever again. Except that his whole body felt like lead, holding him in place as he thought over and over about the evening, watching the night pass by and light eventually begin to stream into his room as dawn eventually brought morning.

He forced himself up once his clock told him it was 7 in the morning and he wrapped a robe around himself. He crept downstairs, no sign of Mike or Jim being awake yet made him sigh in relief. He slipped into the kitchen, setting the kettle on the stove and preparing himself a cup of tea.

“Morning, Janine.”

He jumped and turned to face Jim. “H-Hi dad.”

Jim looked as if he also hadn’t slept at all. “Sleep well?”

“No,” Paul bit at his his cuticles and turned to pull a cup from the cupboard. “Tea?”

“Please. Stop biting your nails, Janine.”

His hand flew down quickly, smacking on the counter hard and he swore softly. Jim didn’t comment on it so he didn’t say anything either as he prepared a cup for Jim. Once the kettle whistled he poured water into the two mugs and brought them to the kitchen table where Jim was sitting and he set the cups down before sitting himself.

They both sat in silence, holding their cups as the silence stretched between them.

“I will give you a moment to explain if you wish,” Jim offered. It wasn’t exactly an olive branch. Paul knew his dad’s tone well enough to know there was still barely checked anger just below the surface.

“That person, that’s who I am,” was all he managed to say.

“It’s unnatural, it’s…” Jim sighed frustratedly. He rested his head on one hand. “It’s disgusting, Janine. Going about pretending to be… that .” 

Paul hugged himself, staring into the inky depths of his tea.

“If… If you’re going to live here you will stop this nonsense.” Jim picked up his cup, swirling the tea in it before taking a drink. “I never want to see that boy again, hear his name, if I see you dressed like that, with that band, hear that damn name, you’ll be on the street. Understood?”

Paul’s jaw set tightly, teeth clenched as he felt his stomach twist in knots and his next sip of tea was like acid. “Understood.”

“You’ll graduate, I’ll find you a boy to marry and that will be that.” Jim set his cup down firmly and Paul jumped. “No arguments, and you’ll never speak of this debacle ever again. This phase of delusion will just be our shameful secret.”

Paul held his mug close to his chest. “Yes, dad.” Suddenly the expansive freedom of his future disappeared.

“You’ll go to school and come home. I will go with you to church, if you choose to go. You have lost your freedoms for now, until you are your husband's problem.” Jim’s voice lacked any paternal care and love that Paul had grown used to. It was more like a jailer talking to a prisoner. There was no argument to be had, no logical argument or recourse. Only the cold control of an uncaring parent.

“Yes, dad,” he said again, voice tight. He sipped his tea again but it tasted like nothing. It barely tasted even of the sugar he had put in there. His future was his grave if he didn’t do anything about it. He didn’t know what he would do. Or even how he would get out of his very narrow prison, but he would. 

For now, though, he would wallow in a little bit of pity. He earned it. 

“I do this because I love you, Jannie, you know that, right?”

“I do, dad,” Paul replied, voice void of emotion. “I love you, too.” 

For the first time in his life, he didn’t mean it.

“You have my guitar yeah?” Paul whispered into the phone. Jim was at work, but Mike was home. It had been several days since The Incident. Yet he was still trying to be careful and not get caught as he spoke to George on the phone.

“Yeah. I took it home with me, I’ve got it in my room.”

“Thank you.”

“I did my best to explain everything, the guys, I don’t know Paul.”

“I know,” Paul sighed, “I know I need to talk to them myself. I just can’t even seem to leave my house anymore. Dad’s truly got me under lock and key.” He looked at the clock, there were still a few minutes he had before Jim would even be close to getting home. “Can you do me a favor?”

“I’ll do my best.” George’s voice came hesitantly over the phone.

“Can you ask John to meet me on Friday at 1 at that bar I first saw him at? I’m going to write a note to get myself out of class early so Dad won’t know.”

“Paul if you get caught…”

“I know. Trust me I know,” Paul ran his hand through his hair.

“I also don’t know how much John wants to see you.”

“I know that, too, but I need to at least try to talk to him. He deserves that at least.”

“Paul… John, he,” George sighed, “Look, I’ll do my best, just be careful, yeah?”

“I will be George, I hope to see you soon.”

“You, too. I miss you, Paul. You… you’re okay right?”

“I’m… okay,” he admitted, “I miss you, too. Thank you, for everything.”

George paused but in the end said simply, “What’re friends for?”

“Ditto,” Paul looked at the clock, “I gotta go.” He didn’t wait to hang up the phone. He sat down on the couch and pulled out a book he’d been reading. He needed the air of nonchalance and calm for when his dad came home. Now to plan his meeting with John.

Paul entered the bar, it was midday but a Friday so it wasn’t busy though it wasn’t totally dead either. It was more like a pub anyway, he could get a sandwich if he wanted, though he knew he couldn’t eat even if he wanted.

“Just a pint, please,” he said to the bartender who poured him a glass and set it on the counter in front of him. He sat on the barstool and waited. He had no idea if John would even show up. He’d tried to dress nicely, a nice tan skirt and pale blue sweater. It wasn’t exactly how he wanted to dress but his whole world currently revolved around performing femininity. 

Sneaking out now meant a level of danger he wasn’t sure he was able to properly gauge. While he was not worried about his father finding him in a random bar on a Friday he was worried that he’d learn that he’d given a note to Paul’s school allowing him to leave early for a doctor’s appointment. It was a calculated risk, a thing Paul was becoming increasingly familiar with. Not exactly more comfortable, but certainly more familiar. 

As the minutes passed he wondered more and more if John was going to meet him. If he was honest with himself, part of him hoped that John wouldn’t arrive and he’d be able to accept that and move on. He didn’t want to move on, he wanted more of John, more of John’s everything. There was, however, an unknown element to John meeting him and that element made him feel a little worried for their interaction. He took a large gulp of the beer, it sat sourly in his stomach but the alcohol made him feel warm and eased the worry he had ever so slightly. He just hoped the risk of being caught by his father was worth meeting John for.

He reached into his purse and pulled out his compact mirror to check his lipstick when he saw John enter just over the top of the handheld mirror.

John paused, staring at him. He looked well dressed, clearly having put thought into what he wore. Though his face flashed a mixture of hurt and of anger. It reminded Paul of his father and it made his hair stand up. It was a sense of danger and that was a feeling he hated feeling in regards to John. 

John crossed over to Paul and took his hand, without saying anything he pulled Paul to the alleyway and pushed him against the brick wall once the door slammed shut. It wasn’t sexy, there were no lips meeting or hands on him. It was the aggressive sort of shoving, the kind where Paul could feel the anger radiating off John now that they were alone and no one would hear a guy roughing up his girlfriend, everyone would probably assume Paul deserved it anyway.

“You stupid bitch!” John cursed at Paul in a low tone. He was trapped, John’s hands on either side of his head and the hulking form looming over him. 

He kept his eyes focused down, fighting back the pinpricks of tears. Men didn’t cry. And he was a man, even if the skirt and tight fitting sweater that he filled out attempted to tell a different story. 

“You fucking lied to me! Lie upon lie upon lie, Janine!” John’s tone kept rising and becoming more distressed and agitated. 

“My name is Paul,” he said softly but firmly. 

“You’re not a man, Janine. Y-“

“My name isn’t Janine!” Paul began to push at John’s chest. He didn’t have much strength in his arms but it at least felt like he was trying to do something. 

“Last I fucked you you didn’t have a cock between your legs,” he hissed. His hand flew out and struck Paul across the face and Paul fell. 

He yelped and caught himself before planting face first into a puddle of unidentifiable muck. He rubbed his wrist from the impact and saw the puddle rippling out underneath himself. Tears. He felt them dripping from his chin in fat globs. So much for men not crying. John had also gone silent but in almost a deflated silence, like the rage had ebbed ever so slightly. The silence went on for what felt like ages. Cars and people passed by at the opening to the alley while John leaned against the brick wall of one of the buildings and Paul stayed as he was kneeling on the ground.

Finally John sighed, deeply exasperated at the whole debacle. “Get up,” he pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one. He looked briefly as if he was going to offer Paul one but decided against it. 

Paul stood, opening his purse and pulling out a handkerchief to dab away his tears without smearing grime all over his face. He pulled out his own pack of cigarettes and drew one out of the carton. “Got a light?” He asked. 

John hesitated, almost scared to get close to Paul. 

“You can’t catch being a poof or a dyke, whatever, from lighting my smoke, John. I don’t have my lighter or matches, please?” 

John reluctantly lit a match and closed the distance just enough to light the cigarette before retreating back to the wall opposite from Paul. There was a long silence punctuated only by their quiet smoking and traffic noises. 

“Why?” John asked finally.

“Why what?” Paul asked. 

“Why did you do what you did? Put on trousers and lie and join my band?”

Paul took out a second cigarette as his first was almost finished and lit the new one with the first. “I’m not lying to you, John.”

“You said you were a bloke,” John’s icy tone made Paul shiver, the cold unfeeling gaze that looked him over did nothing to help that. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but you’re missing some vital bits.”

“Is being a bloke about having a dick?” Paul took a long drag.

“It’s kind of important,” John retorted.

Paul shrugged. “I play better than half the others in the fucking band, John. I know in my heart that who I am in the band is who I am. I’ve known for so long that I am a man.”

“But-”

Paul put his hand up. “How do you know you’re a guy?”

John scuffed the ground, frowning, before he ultimately shrugged. “I don’t know, I just am.”

“That’s exactly how I feel, too, John!” Paul gestured at himself, a hand covering his heart.

“But it’s pretend for you! I don’t put on a dress and pretend to be a woman.”

“Because you’re not a woman. I’m not pretending. I feel like a joke in this get up. Wearing trousers, being called Paul, who I am with the band. That’s more authentically me than wearing a skirt and letting you finger me in the bathroom.” Paul sighed, “Look. I get it if you can’t accept this about me, you’re the only person I ever told. If this is too much, I’m just a big fucking liar and nothing sincere can sway you there’s nothing I can do. I’ll be out of your life forever, and you don’t need to question who you’re attracted to.”

John stood quietly. Just watching Paul and there was nothing readable on his face. “Why didn’t you say anything, earlier, then?”

“What could I say?” Paul breathed out a cloud of smoke, “look at this situation, how would I tell you?”

“When-” John groaned and pressed his hand to his forehead, “When we, er, kissed that day. You-”

“Could have what? Told you?” Paul scoffed. “Considering you totally froze me out then tried to fuck me days later? I can’t figure your shit out for you, John.  If you want me, you have to want me . Not Janine, not a pretty fuckable doll to play with. Me. Paul.”

“I’m not a fucking poof,” John’s eyes narrowed at the puddle he was standing in.

“Well I am,” Paul shrugged. “And I still like you.”

“Don’t.” John lifted a hand. “I don’t think I can handle all of this right now. You’re a bird who says she’s a bloke, you play in my band and I’m supposed to just act like this is all well and normal?”

“That’s up to you,” Paul flicked the butt of his cigarette onto the ground. “I’m done living a lie to myself. If I don’t go to Germany I’m going to Paris,” Paul had yet to tell even George about his plan. “I can’t stay here, and I will build my life for myself. Its up to you, John, whether that includes you or not.”

“You’re going to go to France?” John looked panicked, “That’s so far.”

“I have a plan to run away,” Paul shrugged, “Dad is making my life unlivable, I can’t leave the house except for school, and between death and learning to speak French I don’t think the choice is terribly difficult.”

John furrowed his brow and he hummed in acknowledgement of Paul’s stance. 

“Look, you know where to find me, John,” Paul said softly. Even with his cheek stinging from John hitting him he didn’t have the heart to simply push him out completely. “Think on it. But,” he added, “If you ever strike me again you will never see me again.”

John’s lips pressed together and he took a final drag off his own cigarette, flicking the butt away. It landed in a puddle, the ripples billowing out from where it landed. He didn’t say anything, didn’t look at Paul as he turned to go back inside the bar. 

Paul stood for a moment in the alley, dirty and in pain. He didn’t know what he expected. Some small part of him had hoped John was going to just accept him and love him. There was still hope in his heart, hope he was carefully protecting, that John would come around. He had to be realistic, though. Had to prepare for slipping off to France, he knew there was a university program there for teaching, and he could learn French. How he’d afford it, he didn’t know. He knew sex work was an option, though not his first choice. But whatever freedom took he would do if it came to it. 

He made sure he had his things with him as he made his way to the street and began the trek home. If John wanted him, John would find him.

Chapter Text

He hadn’t been caught slipping out of school early, but he hadn’t pushed his luck past it. Paul had largely fallen off the face of the earth, outside of school he didn’t really try to go anywhere else. Not to band practice, not to see George, not even to church. His life was the walls of his dad’s home, and scheming how best to slip away to Paris when he graduated in a month and a half’s time. It had been a few weeks since he’d seen John, too.

It was only natural, then, to assume that John was as horrified as Paul had expected him to be, and though it hurt, he knew he needed to move on as best he could.

So he did. Losing himself in his schoolwork and soapy dishes, folding crisp white linens and undershirts, and cooking inventive meals to his best abilities. 

“You seem content, it’s nice,” Jim said one evening as Paul cleared away the dishes.

“Thanks,” Paul replied, a strained smile plastered on his face. The smile didn’t reach his eyes. His dad didn’t notice at all.

“I knew you just needed to get away from that group,” Jim shook his head, “And you look so lovely with your hair growing back.”

Paul looked down at the dishes as they sank into the sudsy water, a soft clink emanating as they hit the bottom. He put a hand on the nap of his neck, his hair pulled back into a small ponytail to keep it off his neck. It was weird, to pull his hair back like that again. He’d been due for a haircut long before the whole debacle with the band happened. He hadn’t realized how much he would hate it growing back. The way it touched his neck, got in his eyes, made him look softer, more womanly.

It hurt even more as the small reminders of who John did like fell away. John had liked his short boyish hair, had liked him in some form. He knew better than to beg for another haircut in the bathroom at school, though, the ice he was walking on already far too thin for his liking. 

“Thanks,” is what he said again, his face flushing bright red. Not in bashfulness but in embarrassment. He briefly pondered shoving his head underwater just so he wouldn’t have to hear his dad talking to him. 

“Once you finish the dishes you ought to get to bed, if your homework is done.”

“It is,” Paul replied with a sigh, “But I’ll do that.”

“Good, sleep is important, you know?” It wasn’t so much a question that Jim asked as it was a finite statement of fact. His word was law, after all, and Paul had to heed it, whether or not he wanted to.

So he drew out washing dishes, as he did every night. Taking time to ensure they were thoroughly clean as he listened to the radio, turning the volume very low as he switched it to a station that played American rock music. Music that made him think of John, and George, and the band, and the freedom he so craved once more.

He didn’t see much hope for himself in the band anymore, he knew the band would go places, but it would have to be without him. He would be in Paris, and he hoped one day it would be John and George he’d tune into on the radio one day, maybe after his day of teaching, in a place of his own where he would live his life.

“Sorry,” Mike reached around Paul as he dropped a spoon into the sink.

“Rude!” Paul was roused from his stupor and splashed the now dingy sink water at Mike.

His brother laughed, reaching in to splash Paul back. “Fucker,” Mike whispered at him.

Paul laughed a little, feeling the tension in his shoulders ease, “That’s no way to speak to a lady.”

“Well you sure aren’t no lady,” Mike smirked.

Paul felt a smile spread over his face and he looked down into the sink as the footsteps retreated back upstairs. He reached into the sink and fished for the spoon Mike had thrown in there before washing it, rinsing it, and putting it in the rack to dry.

He hung up his apron and shut off the radio as Paul finished the dishes and made his way up to his room, shutting the door behind himself tightly as he began to change into his pajamas. He pulled on a nightgown, and crawled into bed, though he couldn’t sleep. His mind often turned to John as he laid in bed. Least of all because he liked to remember the way John touched him and held him, before the debacle. Before the last touch they shared was John hitting him. It hadn’t left a mark, but Paul could still feel it if he thought too long about it. 

His chest tightened as tears welled up in his eyes. He hadn’t cried yet over John. The realization, though, that John wasn’t going to come for him, it was weeks after all, hurt more than any slap to the face.

Paul cried silently, tears streaming across his temples and creating small wet spots on his pillowcase as he sniffed into the dark. He certainly wasn’t going to get any sleep that night.

***

The smattering of rocks against his window made Paul jump. He’d been lost in thought, an essay scrawled across several pages spread before him on his bed. He looked up in time to see the next few scattered pebbles hit the windowpane and he felt his heart thump in his chest.

John.

It had to be John, because no one else had ever attempted to get his attention in that way. Only John ever had, and so he had to believe it was him. He was up later than usual, it being a Saturday evening and having a large paper due had given him some leeway. He was fairly certain Jim was asleep but he knew the risks of doing what he was about to do.

He rose, his pencil clattering to the floor, which he cursed under his breath, before going to the window. He shivered as the night air rushed in over his exposed arms and shoulders, and Paul leaned forward. 

Down below his window, shifting from foot to foot, stood John. He was staring up at Paul and their eyes met. Paul, even from afar, could see the mixture of emotions roaring through John. Hurt, pain, anger, but very few showed on John’s placid and unaffected exterior. 

Yet John didn’t look away from him. He half expected John to run away, walk away at least, realize something about Paul he didn’t like and leave.

Instead he finally asked, “Can I come up?”

Paul looked back at the door to his room, half expecting Jim to burst in and yell at him and threaten John. But instead all he heard was the still of the night and the soft tick of a clock in the hallway.

“Yes,” he replied, looking back down at John. “Just… Just try to be quiet, yeah?”

John nodded, any reply too quiet for Paul to make out on his own. He made his way up the wall, scaling it as he had many times before and Paul blacked up as John made his way through the window into his room. He stood up, once his feet were firmly planted on the floor, and it felt like he was just close enough to touch and a mile away. They looked again at each other, as both lovers and strangers. Paul felt like John was seeing him with x-ray vision and it was unnerving. He wanted to hold John, to kiss him, to stroke his hair and feel his warmth. But it wasn’t his to experience anymore, at least not in that moment. 

He was both Paul and Janine at the same time. Two halves of a whole he knew John didn’t know how to square away. He nervously crossed his arms in an attempt to put a barrier between himself and John, and to hide his chest which he felt all too aware of in that moment, a gross sort of discomfort coming over him.

John sighed, the fight seeping out of him in an instant. Paul watched as a tired look set in on his face, the way his shoulders hung down tiredly and he looked small. In that moment Paul saw the boy that John protected fiercely, and he felt a small bit of honor that he still had access to those sides of John not so easily accessible to others. 

“Hi,” Paul said softly.

John hesitated before replying, “Hi.”

Paul cleared off his essay from his bed, neatly stacking the papers together and setting them on his vanity, looking at the photo of his mother stuck to the mirror, praying for even an ounce of her strength as he looked in the mirror, seeing John watching him. He couldn’t help the flush of anxiety that crept up his cheeks.

“You… you can sit,” Paul turned and motioned to his bed.

There was a long moment of hesitation as John stood next to the bed, as it it would bite him or make him queer. But John did sit at the foot of the bed, his back to Paul as he faced the window.

Paul sat at the head, pulling his legs to his chest and hugging them tightly. He watched John quietly, feeling that he ought to be the first of them to speak. Paul didn’t want to push John too fast. Realistically he hadn’t wanted any of what had happened to happen. Yet there they were, more than strangers and less than friends. 

The minutes of silence stretched on for what felt like hours. Like a chasm stretching ever onward and it felt less and less surmountable as John didn’t even look at him, refused to even acknowledge that Paul was in the room. Though perhaps he should have expected that.

After what felt like eternity John finally turned to look at him, a carefully neutral expression on his face, “I think,” he said softly, words said in a carefully planned manner. “I just want to understand why , Ja-Paul, fuck, whatever your name is.”

Paul pressed his lips together, swallowing at the lump that formed in his throat. “It’s Paul,” his voice sounded so thin and tight.

John sighed heavily, once more looking out the window, “Okay, Paul.”

It wasn’t said with the same casual-ness Paul had grown used to, nor was it said with any kind of affection. At least it was said, though, a small win that Paul would take.

“Why is a pretty broad question,” he laughed softly, though John didn’t react to it, making his small anxious laugh die down quite pathetically. “Er,” he looked down at his knees, unable to even look at John as he began to speak. “It wasn’t on purpose. I… I hadn’t told a single soul when we first met. It was something in my head, that I knew about myself, but no one knew.”

He wished John would look at him, to simply gauge his reaction to what Paul was saying. Instead he was met with those barriers that he had come to know as John’s defense mechanisms, and he knew he had to take them in his stride. Even as he was baring his soul uncomfortably to John, knowing full well there was a risk to every word he said.

“I wasn’t intentionally deceiving you, to be clear,” he leaned back against his headboard, resting his head back against it and looking up at the ceiling. “You were so into me, and I never met anyone like you. You just got me. But when your bad was looking for a player I knew I had the talent, but a girl in your band would never happen, and it was exciting to be seen as who I imagined myself to be in my head.”

John’s shoulders raised, and it was as if Paul could see each tensed muscle, “Why didn’t you tell me, though?”

“John you slapped me in the alley of a bar, and you’ve known me better and longer than you had then. What was I supposed to tell you? ‘By the way I’m the girl you’ve been finger fucking in the alleyway?’” He lowered the tone of his voice to imitate the lower register he typically talked in as Paul. “Be honest with yourself John, what would you have done?”

John finally turned to him, his mouth pressed into a thin line, “I had a right to know.”

“Being the leader of the band doesn’t make you G-d,” Paul frowned, fighting to keep his voice in a whisper. Though Paul found John nearly divine at times. 

John scowled at him, leveling him with his best glare. “How am I supposed to know what is true and what isn’t true? You know so much about me, things I only told one side of you, and how…” his voice broke, “how am I supposed to know you?” The scowl had left John’s face at the crack in his voice, tears nipping at the edges of him speaking. 

Paul took a breath in as John fought crying. He saw the facade crumble around them, like the walls John had up shattered as the core of his line of questioning became known. He hadn’t even thought of that, the things John said to a friend were perhaps not the same things he’d been ready to share with his girlfriend. Yet Paul had been both. Both partner and friend, confidant and source of comfort. John had been vulnerable in specific ways that Paul hadn’t needed to be, at least not as John had. He’d kept things close to his chest, kept John at arms length. 

“John, I-” he licked his lips, pushing himself into a proper seated position. He placed a hand on the bed between them as a peace offering. “I never lied about anything significant. My mother did die when I was young, I do love you, and I loved you as Paul, as myself. I always have. I know you saw me as two people, as Janine and as me, but in my head and in my heart I was always just, well, this ,” he motioned at himself with his other hand. 

John looked him over with watery eyes and there was a small chuckle that came from him.

“ What ?” Paul asked incredulously.

“I don’t know that you’re making the point you think you are,” John replied with a soft laugh.

Paul rolled his eyes, “I know the point I am making, I know I have long hair, and a nightgown on, and it makes my tits look, well, honestly amazing, as much as I hate it. But I am me, and I know who I am inside, how I see myself, how I go through the world, how I think, and breathe, and live, that is all Paul .”

John sighed, running a hand through his hair, “If… If whatever we proceed to do, whatever that is, does that… Fuck , what does that make me?”

Paul looked at him incredulously, “Bisexual? I don’t know, John. Does it matter?”

“I can’t be gay!” He looked away, pulling in on himself.
“Why not?” Paul frowned, “I’m gay!” He took a quick breath in at how loudly he’d spoken, afraid to hear footsteps in the hall, though none came.

“It’s different for you, you’re like, not a real man,” John retorted.

“Bullshit, just because I don’t have a dick doesn’t mean shit, I am more of a man than half of the blokes in this whole fucking country,” Paul frowned. “I can’t continue on if you can’t accept me . Full stop. You are amazing, John, and you will go so far. I want to come with you on that journey, but if you are ashamed of me, refuse to accept me like this, then you can leave out the window and we never have to speak again.”

John’s mouth set back in a thin line. Paul could hear the clench of his teeth as they squeaked. “Why,” he groaned, “Why can’t you just be a girl?”

Paul stifferend at the question, pulling his outstretched hand in to himself. He wanted to simply balk at it, to cringe and turn away. Or even to push John away, the question was a many edged sword right through his chest. “I tried,” he said quietly. “You don’t know how much I tried, John. If I thought it was that simple I would. This isn’t a choice. How I express myself is, sure, but my brain, my heart, my soul, I didn’t choose this.”

They lapsed into silence at that, one that felt so tense that it would snap at any moment. There was nothing Paul knew he could say further that would assure John to persuade him. He realized, too, how tired he was. Tired of this fight, tired of justifying who he was to people who he just wanted to have accept him. He didn’t even know why he felt the need to make John understand. Except that John was there in his room, John was clearly trying, no matter how complicated it seemed to be. Even if John was cold and distant. 

It was a far cry from the John Paul knew him to be. Yet he was all too familiar with the dissonance of the interior and exterior. It allowed him to give John grace, a skill he was thankful for, even if John was probably less comfortable with that internal sense of discord.

He jerked suddenly, looking towards his bedroom door as he heard the telltale sound of footsteps coming down the hall. Even John looked at him with wide eyes filled with fear. 

“Get under my bed,” Paul hissed, shoving John off the bed, touching him for the first time, urging him to get on the floor.

It didn’t take much more urging for John to slide under the bed. It was only a beat more that Paul’s door opened, he had in the intervening seconds grabbed a book from his nightstand and was pretending to read it.

“Janine?” Jim’s voice came as he opened the door, “I heard voices.” He sounded suspicious, looking over Paul’s room as if anything was going to tell him someone else was there.

“It’s just me,” Paul smiled. Even as he felt like he was going to throw up, his heart pounding in his ears, he’d had plenty of experience in lying, years of it in fact. “I had to open the window because I got too warm, so maybe you heard a car or something.”

Jim paused, hand still on the doorknob. “It’s past midnight. You should be asleep.”

“I was just finishing this chapt-”

“It’s lights out, now, Janine. Understood?” Jim looked at him tiredly, and his tone was that confusing mix of loving and distant that Paul was becoming all too familiar with. 

“Yes, dad,” Paul nodded.

“Goodnight, Janine,” Jim said with a heavy sigh, “And close the window, I’m not heating the outdoors.”

“Yes dad, goodnight,” Paul set his book aside and rose to close the window, only letting out a sigh when Jim closed his door again, leaving him alone with John again. He did slide the window closed, the soft thud echoing through the quiet room. He looked out, at the trees, and the world teeming with life outside, with freedom. “You can come out, now, John,” Paul said finally.

“I’m not trying to be gutted alive by your da’,” John grumbled as he slipped out from under Paul’s bed, only a little dusty, in his other hand holding the white jacket Paul had shoved under the bed all those weeks ago.

“Shh,” Paul put a finger to his lips as he crossed over to turn the light off, bathing them both in darkness with only the moon softly illuminating the space.

“I’ll be quiet,” John whispered. “Put this on,” he proffered the jacket to Paul.

“John,” Paul replied, equally quiet, “It’s sweaty, and dirty, and it smells like beer.”

“Put it on.” There was a weird look in John’s eyes, a new sort of emotional combination Paul hadn’t yet seen and so he couldn’t really read him. It was an unusual feeling, one he’d only had a few times before. There was a desperation seemingly mixed with fear in the way John was watching him, jacket held with white knuckles, the whiteness of it nearly glowing in the moonlight.

Paul finally took it, silently slipping it on over his shoulders. The combination of nightgown and mens suit jacket was a new experience. While he had protested the smell, the combination of beer, sweat, and cigarettes felt like home. A gross home, but certainly a masculine one. He was taken back to The Cavern Club, to performing, and he wanted to cry. He’d cried enough already though, about everything, and he refused to shed any more tears.

Part of why the jacket had lived under his bed was because he wasn’t ready to face what the wrinkled jacket meant. Yet there he was, standing in the darkened shadows of the night, eyes meeting John’s gaze as he extended his arms out. “Well?”

John looked him over, eyes and face unreadable as a myriad of emotions began to flitter through him. “It… it suits you,” he said finally, voice barely above a whisper. “Paul,” he added softly.

Whatever resolve he’d had crumbled as John spoke his name. Fat, hot tears began to roll down his cheeks. He felt frozen in place, unable to move a muscle even as tears dripped onto the jacket, leaving small dark spots. 

“Oh come on,” John shook his head, his tone soft. It made Paul only cry harder, “Don’t be a big girl’s blouse.” He stepped closer to Paul and wiped a tear from his cheek. “Bloke’s don’t cry, yeah?”

“This one does,” Paul said through a watery smile. He felt the spell break and he reached up to wipe away his tears. He looked up at John, the smells of The Cavern Club enveloping them both along with John’s aftershave and the clean smell of his shampoo. It was not perhaps love that Paul ended up seeing in his eyes, but it was kindness and it was acceptance. 

John’s lips quirked slightly at that, playing at a smile that didn’t quite make an appearance. He stepped back, himself stepping into the glow of the moonlight, his hair only appearing ever so slightly golden reddish and Paul was once against struck with the thought that John looked so angelic. It was a scene they had experienced so many times already, being in this room, late at night, whispering about anything and everything. Yet it felt so different. In all the subtle ways that they were now different, their relationship was different. This wasn’t John and Janine, it was John and Paul, whatever that meant.

John looked out the window as he chewed at the inside of his lip nervously.

Paul shrugged the jacket off, draping it on the back of his vanity’s chair. Watching John in the mirror’s reflection.

“I-” John finally broke the silence. His voice sounded fragile and yet heavy with emotion. “I want to pretend, like nothing changed,” John wiped a hand down his face, “But we can’t. I know that. I don’t know if I can be more than friends, and I don’t know if I want to try, either. I don’t know what this means for me. If I’m being honest.”

“I know,” Paul sat on the edge of his bed, his back to John. He looked at the wall paper, tracing it’s floral pattern with his eyes. “I hope we can at least be friends.”

There was a soft huff and John said with a smile evident in his voice, “We’ll certainly be friends.”

Warmth spread in his chest at that, he could take friendship, could live with friendship.

“But,” John started. 

Paul tensed at that, ‘but’ was never a pleasant place to go. It was the caveat to ‘but I don’t want to be seen with you’ or ‘but you can’t be in the band.’

“Perhaps,” John continued, each word coming out clearly carefully chosen. “We could start over, from the beginning, maybe? Just to try.”

Paul smiled to himself, looking at his hands where they rested in his lap, fingers picking at a hangnail around his thumb. “Now?”

“Why not?” John crossed over the room, standing in front of Paul and extending a hand into his range of vision.

Paul looked at the hand and then back up at John. This time the face he was met with was a little playful, a little serious, and completely John. He took John’s hand in his, holding it firmly as they shook. 

“Pleasure to meet you, I’m John,” John said with a slight grin.

“I’m Paul,” he smiled back sheepishly. It all felt a little silly, yet he could play along. “It’s nice to meet you.”

John’s smile widened slightly and there was a slight reluctance for them to let each other. Their hands did fall though and they paused for a moment in silence that finally felt companionable.

“What do we do now?” Paul looked down as his face warmed under John’s smile.

“I don’t know,” John admitted softly. “I think I need time.”

“You’ve had time,” Paul finally said with a slight edge of irritation. His fingers continued picking at a now bleeding piece of dried skin on his thumb. “I am running out.”

“What do you mean?” John leaned back against the windowsill, head cocked to the side like an owl. If he’d had his glasses on it would have only added to the look.

“Dad’s got plans to get me married off after I graduate, I think it’ll be to George’s brother Peter, which is why I’m going to run away.” The thought alone made his stomach turn sour. He was far too aware of the boundaries of his prison that he was sitting inside of. Barely a gilded cage, because he was too aware of the bars that kept him trapped inside. Every day seeming like one step closer to the end of his life before it would even begin. Though he would escape execution, the impending doom like Damocles’ sword was impossible to shake.

“Why do you listen to him, you’re an adult, Paul,” John rolled his eyes.

“It’s not that simple, John,” Paul scowled at him, “I was born… the way I was,” he decided to say, “getting caught with the band ruined my life. He knows where I am every second of the day and the risks of getting in trouble like that again,” he shuddered at the thought. 

“I didn’t realize the band ‘ruined your life,’” John’s face morphed into a frown. His fine features were screwed up into a look that broadcasted his upset plainly.

Paul rolled his eyes, “The band didn’t ruin my life, it was getting caught. I mean, this,” he motioned between the two of them, “Has been changed forever because I was humiliated publicly by my father.”

John’s face softened slightly, looking out the window with a sigh. “We’re still friends.”

“I know,” Paul looked down, blood now sticky on his fingers from picking at them, he brought one to his lips, sucking the blood off his skin absentmindedly. “But my other feelings haven’t changed, John.”

John pressed his lips together, whatever reply he had clearly lost somewhere in his thoughts. “Can’t you just… wait a little longer?”

“I don’t have time, I can’t wait for you to maybe change your mind,” Paul’s hand dropped onto his lap, “I love you John, I will continue to love you, but I can’t wait for you to decide whether or not you love me . You either love me as I am, or you don’t.” He looked over at John, squaring him with a look that brokered no room to equivocate. “And I think you know that.”

Paul stood up and crossed over to stand in front of John, his gaze never leaving him. He stepped into the light streaming in from his window, the soft glow illuminating them both in the otherwise dark room. “You’re afraid of being queer, a poof, whatever. I know that. I think you’re afraid because you have feelings, still.”

John tried to back away slightly from Paul, eyes everywhere but on him. It was as if the light was too honest, too much for him, and he bumped into Paul’s dresser, making him start slightly.

Paul took a step closer, maintaining the space between them. “You’ve read Kerouac, I know you have, you’ve read Ginsberg, and I know you like Elvis, that you liked me because I looked a bit like him.” He took a shaking breath in. He hadn’t realized how incensed he’d gotten until he felt his heart thrumming like a drum in his chest. He heard his pulse in his ears and could feel himself shaking. Paul stepped back, his face softening. The intensity he’d just had dissipating into the soft beams of moonlight that bathed him. 

John had that look about him. The one that made him look so small. It was as if Paul could see the young boy who just wanted to be loved by someone, anyone. There he was, cowering under the scrutiny of the metaphorical magnifying glass by which Paul was tearing open every carefully hidden wound that held his many secrets. It was as if any sudden movement might spook him. It was so different from the last time Paul had seen him. So different from the man who had struck him, screamed at him. It was hard to even believe they were the same person.

“You’ve always known,” Paul said with sudden clarity. “Then why are you so afraid?”

John did flinch, and the silence that stretched was deafening. “I’m not a queer ,” his voice finally broke through the silence. “I like women, always have, why deal with all the other junk?”

Paul felt a pang in his chest at the comment. “Am I ‘other junk?’”

John groaned softly in frustration. One of his hands tangled in his hair and seemed to pull on it quite forcefully. “Of course not! That’s not- I didn’t-” He slumped back against the dresser and sank to the floor, his knees coming to his chest. “Why are you like this?” He asked.

“Like what?” Paul crossed his arms. He pulled in on himself, trying his best to make himself small, defensible even.

“Astute, annoying, fuck I don’t know.” John looked up at him, an arm hanging limply over his knees as he rested his head in his other hand. “I just want to go back,” he said with a sigh. “It was easier, then.”

“I don’t,” Paul replied. He felt a tight coil of vulnerability in his chest, his voice was once more soft and barely more than a whisper as he forced the words out. “All I’ve ever wanted was to be loved for me. When you kissed me before practice. It felt like the whole world was mine, for the first time.”

“That wasn’t love, that was horny confusion,” John rolled his eyes. Though Paul saw his face flush even in the dark.

Paul smiled, a smile that tried to cover up any hurt from the comment. “Be that as it may, you wanted me .”

“What do you want me to do, Paul?” John asked finally. “If you continue on this way it’s not like we can have a relationship, I can’t kiss you in public, hold your hand, marry you.”

Paul scoffed.

“I’m serious, McCartney,” John’s gaze was as serious as his tone, his eyes boring into Paul. “What we’d have is a life of secrecy.”

“As if it won’t already be a massive secret that I’m not fully, y’know.” He motioned at himself vaguely as if it wasn’t obvious that he had tits and lacked a dick.

John rolled his eyes, “That, too.”

“Look, I’m not going to play petty logistics with you at nearly one in the morning,” Paul said finally. “I love you, I know you at least like me. Either you are man enough to love another man, or you will leave here, and that will be that. I will not be your mistress, your girlfriend back home, your wife, whatever. You will either love me as Paul, or you lose me, forever.”

“You can’t be serious,” John said incredulously. “Paul-”

“This is it, John. I can’t wait forever for you to decide if you can live with yourself. I already did that for me, I don’t have the room to do that for you. Not anymore,” Paul swallowed. “I haven’t seen you in over a month, you came here with a reason, I think you already made up your mind.”

John glared at the wall, unwilling, it seemed, to actually look at Paul. He could see the clench in John’s jaw, the way his teeth were set, the furrow in his brow as he scowled. 

Paul stayed where he was, watching John quietly. The ball was squarely in John’s court and there was nothing more to say until John made his decision. He could see the forks in the road spreading before him. One life with John and one without. While he didn’t want life without John, he knew that he would be okay if that’s the direction life took.

That realization was itself comforting. Until that moment he hadn’t been certain about striking out on his own, but he knew then that he could take care of himself and hold his own. He would be okay.

“Okay,” John said, drawing Paul’s attention as he pushed himself up from the floor. John stepped closer to Paul, reentering the moonlight, facing Paul full on. The light cast shadows over half of John’s face, and Paul wanted nothing more than to turn John’s head, and see him radiant in the soft silvery light. He looked like a Greek statue, like Michealangelo’s David even. He kept his hands to himself, though, instead tilting his head up slightly to meet John’s eyes.

“Okay?” He asked, raising an eyebrow at John’s cryptic reply.

And then John kissed him. Kissed him fully, pulling Paul close and holding him in his arms. It was like a movie, Paul thought, the two of them in the moonlight, silvery and shimmering and perfect. He kissed back, meeting John’s kiss eagerly, his arms wrapping around John. He never wanted to let him go. It was warm and soft and Paul hadn’t realized how much he’d missed the taste of John on his tongue. His senses full of nothing but John. It was as if nothing else mattered in that moment beyond their lips, and breath, and the way it felt indistinguishable where one of them started and ended. All that mattered was that they were together, two halves of a whole come together.

The kiss was too short and also felt like forever in the most delicious way. John pulled back, his face still tinged with a somber quality, and he let go of Paul, taking a small step back, leaving a few inches between himself and Paul. “I love you, Paul.” His words came out soft and shaky. It was a vulnerability Paul knew John wasn’t comfortable with, and yet that made the admission all the more meaningful to him. 

“I love you, too, John,” Paul smiled, his own hand reaching out to brush against John’s cheek. “To the toppermost of the poppermost.” 

John smiled slightly, letting out a soft huff of amusement. “Will you come back to practice?”

“I can’t sneak away,” Paul replied, “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

John nodded with a frown. He shoved his hands into his pockets, shifting back and forth on the balls of his feet. “Still practicing, writing?”

“When I can, on the piano,” he nodded, “Still need someone for Germany?”

“Yeah, still planning to come?”

“If you’ll have me,” he nudged John gently.

“I will,” John looked up to meet Paul’s eyes. This time, there was a small hint of fire, of hunger, in the way that John looked at him, “Trust me on that.”

A shiver went through his body, this time not from the cold, “I do,” he breathed.

John flashed him a grin that was distinctly John , a little cocky and a little lascivious. “I know I need to go, before your da’ comes barging in here again. But do you think that you can stop by every once in a while even with your prison sentence?”

Paul glanced at the door, the reminder of his jailer making his pulse race, “I can try, that’s all I can promise.”

“I’ll take it,” John began to prepare himself for the decent to the ground from Paul’s room, opening the window as quietly as he could. “Especially if you can make practice, that’d be gear, especially if you can come write with me.”

“I’ll see you soon, or I’ll give you a ring,” Paul leaned over and kissed John’s cheek, his stubble rough against Paul’s lips. 

He saw John flush slightly and there was still a sort of discomfort with John’s whole demeanor, as if he wasn’t able to properly relax himself. “I look forward to it, goodnight, Paul.”

“Night, John,” Paul replied softly. He watched as John slipped from the window and down to the ground. John looked up at him, giving a final wave before slipping out of sight. At that point he closed the window, latching it into place and he slipped into bed. It was hard to sleep, though, he kept expecting Jim to burst into his room, revealing that everything had been overheard. By three in the morning, though, Paul accepted that he had gotten away with the impromptu visit from John, and then he was able to actually slip into a dreamless sleep.

***

“Janine!” Jim’s voice called up from downstairs.

“Yes, dad?” Paul called back. He was brushing out his hair, dressed in a slip and not much else. 

“Can you come down?”

“In a minute!”

He groaned, setting his brush down with a clatter. He pulled a basic yellow dress from his closet and pulled it on her his head. A quick check in the mirror assured him that he was presentable looking and he made his way downstairs. He nearly froze as he reached the bottom step and Peter stood before him, small handful of carnations held haphazardly in front of him. He was talking to Jim but he turned to beam as Paul came into view. “There’s my girl.”

Paul paled, feeling his entire world turn askew. “Hi Peter.”

“Janine,” Jim smiled. “Peter offered to go with you to church and then you’ll have tea at his house afterward. Isn’t that nice?”

“Yes,” Paul felt like he was going to be sick. “Lovely.”

“These are for you,” He held out the yellow carnations to Paul. 

“Oh, thank you,” Paul said, though his tone lacked sincerity as he forced a smile as he took the flowers in hand. He saw Jim give him a warning look, though Peter seemed to not even notice it. “I’ll put them in water before we go.”

He turned quickly before either Jim or Peter could comment and he disappeared into the kitchen. His chest felt tight and his breath came in short shallow bursts. He felt like he’d run a marathon but he was just filling a random jar with water, just enough to shove the ugly flowers into it. 

“Jan, we’re going to be late!” Peter called to him.

“Coming!” Paul replied, setting the jar next to the sink and he splashed a little water on his face to calm himself.

“Jan,” Peter’s voice came from directly behind him.

He let go of the edge of the sink suddenly, not even aware that he had been gripping it with white knuckles. “Sorry, splashed myself with the water,” he took a clean rag and dabbed off the water.

Peter chuckled, “No worries, but we should get going, people ought to get used to seeing us together.”

Paul laughed weakly, “Sorry?”

“Well best to not only appear together when we get married this summer,” Peter took Paul’s hand, the one holding the rag now limply, and set the rag aside on the counter.

“Married?” Paul’s voice came out thin and weak.

“Yes!” Peter laughed, though Paul heard the air of exasperation, like Peter was explaining something terribly obvious to a child. “Your dad and my mom have been working out all the details. Said you were just too shy to make the next move.”

He was actually going to be sick, “You know me, terribly shy…”

“Don’t worry, I’m not looking for one of those new women who work and act like men, I don’t mind a shy girl,” Peter pulled Paul close, an arm wrapping around his waist as they made their way back to the living room. “Plus, isn’t it exciting that you’ll be George’s sister in law?”

“Isn’t it, Jannie?” Jim asked, and Paul’s head snapped up, the fog clearing away enough that he saw Jim’s face, set like stone. The gaze wasn’t the soft caring gaze of the father that he knew it was a gaze that told him he needed to be agreeable if he knew what was good for him. 

“It is,” Paul forced a smile on his face. It didn’t meet his eyes. 

“Good,” Peter smiled.

“Good,” Jim agreed.

***

There was one benefit to the newfound hell Paul found himself in. That was the sliver of freedom he’d gained. As long as it was related to his impending doom with Peter. It allowed him room to stretch the truth of where he was and his time out.

Which is how he found himself in John’s room, dressed in his comfortable trousers and button up and sweater vest, and feeling more like himself than he had in far too long. Putting on his proper clothes had felt like a grounding in his sense of self. Between final papers and graduating, he was shopping for a wedding dress he’d never wear, he felt more unlike himself than he even had pretending to be someone he wasn’t as John’s girlfriend. 

He looked up as John reentered his bedroom, two cups of tea in hand. He reached up to accept his, pushing aside his lyric scraps to make space for John to sit back down. It was a little too sweet, a flavor profile he associated specifically with tea that John made him, and it made him feel warm on the inside. 

“You look like shit,” John pushed his glasses up his nose, peering at John. The comment was equal parts jest and also John’s brutally honest commentary.

“Thanks,” Paul rolled his eyes, looking back down at some scrawled out lyrics he was working on.

“Do you want to talk about it?” John cringed as he asked it. “Blokes, we don’t do that normally, but also most blokes aren’t er, y’know…”

“Dating?” Paul looked at John incredulously, his patience more thin than usual, and it was the first time that they’d seen each other since the night John had snuck into his room. His ability to tolerate John’s discomfort with his own orientation and feelings for Paul not something he had a huge capacity to be kind about.

“Yes, that,” John glared into his cup of tea.

“If you must know, I'm upset because of my wedding.” Paul tore the paper he was writing on out of his notebook and crumpled it up in his hands.

John snorted as he took a sip of his tea, splashing some onto himself. “What?” He gaped at Paul. “Wedding? To whom? Me?”

“Don’t kid yourself,” Paul glanced over at him before sighing and slumping back against the side of John’s bed. “Dad’s arranged a marriage for me with George’s older brother.”

“Are you… are you going to do it?” John asked the question carefully, equal parts keeping himself under control it seemed, as his grip on his mug had gotten much tighter, and also because the situation sounded ridiculous and he didn’t want to hurt Paul.

“Fuck no! He’s a nightmare, and I don’t want to get married, at least not yet,” Paul rubbed his eyes with his hand, resting them over his eyes and blocking out the light. “When are we supposed to leave for Germany?”

“End of May, we’ll be on our way to Hamburg.”

“Wedding is in June, so that’s a blessing,” Paul dropped his hands to the floor. “Look, I only have about 45 more minutes before I have to head home. Can we just make out?”

John barked out a laugh, watching Paul for a long moment as he turned to tiredly stare at John.

“What?”

“You really are a guy.”

Paul laughed, raising his eyebrows, “I’m aware, but what makes you say that?”

“You don’t do that girl shit of pretending to not really want what you want.”

“I spent years doing that, I don’t want to waste any more time pretending,” Paul gave a shrug. “So are you gonna kiss me or?”

Paul yelped softly as John pulled him close, the few feet of distance disappearing as lips met. He sat between John’s legs on the floor, his legs resting atop of one of John’s. He twisted himself slightly to kiss John properly, letting himself be held in John’s arms. He had a feeling that the sexual component of their relationship would help John get over his own personal baggage about being bisexual. Especially since he didn’t mind letting John take the lead in their interactions. He let John kiss him, bite at his jaw and lower lip, making him moan and whimper softly. 

He felt John’s cock hardening against his hip and he could feel himself growing warm between his legs. It had been so long since he’d done more than masturbate and he was horny. He’d always had a high sex drive, and while his confinement had put a damper on basically everything, being near his boyfriend lit a fire inside him. 

“J-Paul,” John corrected himself quickly, his voice rough and breathy, “Please,” he took Paul’s hand and placed it over his crotch, Paul felt the warm firmness there and he pressed down, earning himself a moan from John.

Paul deftly unzipped his trousers, dipping his hand into John’s pants and his fingers met hot flesh and as much as it made his mouth water he would satisfy himself with touch. He kissed John again, keeping their lips locked together as he stroked John. Paul swallowed each moan, each whimper and huff from John, the sounds going right to his cunt. It didn’t take much for John to spill over Paul’s hand, sticky and searingly hot. 

Paul resisted the urge to lick the cum off his hand as John fell back against the wall with a soft thud, his breath coming in little huffs. He instead opted to grab a tissue from John’s nightstand and wiped his hand clean. 

“Fuck,” John looked over at Paul, and for once Paul felt like John’s gaze was devoid of reservations about them being together as more than friends. “It’s a shame you can’t experience what it’s like to have your hands on a cock.”

Paul laughed a little, “I suppose it is a great tragedy,” he set the soiled tissues on the floor next to him, “Though you could return a similar favor.” He reached over, taking John’s hand in his, pressing it flatly against his cunt through his trousers, and he could feel his wetness soaking into his underwear. “I’ve got needs, too, you know.”

John’s fingers pressed against him, his thumb pressing where he knew Paul’s clit was. “I am very aware.” 

Paul breathed out heavily, holding back a moan as John’s thumb began to rub him with slow firm movements. It was all he could do to not squirm when lips and teeth met his neck, nipping and sucking.

“N-no marks, John,” Paul whimpered under his ministrations. 

John hummed, his teeth no longer biting as hard, much to Paul’s internal dismay. He simply couldn’t take the risk though. 

John’s hand moved from between Paul’s legs to his fly, unbuttoning his trousers, and unzipping them. He pushed Paul’s shirt out of the way, his hand touching the bare skin of Paul’s stomach and making Paul shudder as he realized that John was going to actually touch him. He gasped as the hand slid over his skin and between his legs, warm calloused fingers touching him fully, slick and hot. John’s mouth covered Paul’s as he began to rub his clit directly. It was hard and throbbing and Paul wished more than anything that it was a cock, that he could see John between his legs with his mouth full of Paul. The thought alone, of John on his knees like that, was more than enough to push Paul over the edge, and he cried out softly, John’s mouth swallowing down Paul’s moans as he came, sudden and shuddering.

John’s hand slipped from Paul’s trousers, and he, too, cleaned them with tissues before resting against the wall, Paul still seated squarely in John’s lap, both of them catching their breath. 

Paul rested against John’s chest, resting his head on John’s shoulder, his nose pressed to his neck and his eyes closed. If he could he would stay like that forever. John made him feel like anything was possible, in his arms, nothing else mattered. 

John’s arms went around Paul, his cheek resting on top of Paul’s head. “What’re we going to do?” 

“About what?” Paul mumbled against John’s neck.

“This, whatever fucked up shit your dad is doing?”

“Run away to Germany, I thought?” 

“In the interim, though?”

“I don’t know John,” Paul admitted, “I’m surviving, I don’t know how often I can sneak out like this, until we actually leave. I hope we can write, fuck, maybe you can finally get used to me like this?”

“I’m trying!” John said defensively.

“I know,” Paul replied tiredly. “My point remains.”

“I-” their conversation was cut short by the sound of someone entering the house. They both thought it was Mimi, who had been out, until a voice called, “John?”

Stuart.

“Fuck, I forgot it was a practice night,” John cursed, he hit hit head on the wall a little too hard and he winced at the pain. “Just a minute!” 

“John!” footsteps began to come up the stairs and Paul scrambled to get out of John’s lap and tuck his shirt back in. 

Just as he was doing that, and as John was tucking himself back into his trousers, the door to his room opened.

“Joh-” Stuart froze, the sight of the two of them, Paul standing, shirt half tucked in, and John seated, hand in his pants as he was trying to appear not disheveled being the scene that greeted him.

Paul saw the moment the pieces fell into place and the horror dawned on Stu. “Are you- were-”

“John!” Pete’s voice came through the house, “In the garage?”

“I’ll be right down,” John called, though his voice cracked, and to the horror of them all, the sounds of two sets of feet, presumably also George’s began to come upstairs. In a matter of moments that felt like they passed by far too quickly for Paul’s liking the whole of the band was in John’s room, staring at the both of them.

“Oh my g-d,” George’s eyes widened.

Paul felt himself burn bright red, if the world could swallow him up in that moment he would have begged for it. He saw John from the corner of his eye, who was also looking deeply embarrassed and Paul knew he was deeply upset, even if he would try to play it off. He saw the tenseness of his shoulders and the way John’s hands were clenched tightly.

“Fuck yes,” Pete grinned, “I win five quid,” he shoved Stu.

“What?” Paul’s brow furrowed.

“I bet Stu that you two were doing more than ‘writing songs’ together,” Pete did air quotes as he said ‘writing songs’ for emphasis. “And I was right.”

“Dammit,” Stu glared at Pete. “I feel so confused, though. Paul aren’t you also a girl?”

“I- can I finish getting dressed?” He said finally, his hand still in his own trousers.

“Yes!” George said quickly, “come on, let’s go to the garage.”

The trio accepted the direction, glancing amongst themselves before turning and leaving John and Paul alone once more.

“Paul,” John said after the door closed with a click, “You don’t have to justify anything to them.”

“What?” Paul furrowed his brow and turned to John. It simply hadn’t been what he expected from him. He saw John zip himself up, pushing his glasses, now smudged and blurry from being pressed into John’s face, before standing up in a manner rather calm. He’d expected a blow up, the angry side of John to make itself apparent, the side that would lash out and beat the shit out of Stuart, and Pete and George. Instead John seemed resigned.

“It’s not their business,” John ran a hand over his hair to smooth it down. “Your shit, they don’t need to know.”

“They’re curious,” Paul zipped himself up, making sure his shirt was tucked in. “And they’re friends.”

“They didn’t need to know before, did they?”

Paul considered the question. There was a truth to it, aside from George, there hadn’t been a need to tell Stu or Pete that he was a little different than either of them. It had never occurred to him that people didn’t innately need to know, unless of course it was a safety concern for him. It was as if John had opened his mind to a new way of thinking about things. He didn’t need to tell them anything, they weren’t John, or George, and he could just tell them to fuck off. “No,” he said, “I suppose they didn’t.”

John nodded, taking a breath, he pulled his cigarettes off his nightstand and offered one to Paul, who put a hand up to refuse it. He couldn’t afford to have the smell clinging to him strongly and his dad picking up on it. John stuck the cigarette behind his ear and nodded to the door, “Come on, I’ll let you out through the garage.”

Paul nodded, grabbing his backpack and following John downstairs and into the garage, the three other band members huddled together, talking quietly amongst themselves.

John cleared his throat, drawing the attention of them all to himself as he let the door fall closed behind Paul and himself. “This is Paul,” John motioned to him, “He is a band member, though we might not see him again until Germany, and,” John swallowed and cast a nervous glance to Paul, “he’s my boyfriend.”

There was a soft murmur that came from the three band members listening to John.

“And,” John continued, voice surprisingly strong, “If any of you lot have a problem with that I’ll bash yer head in, and you can get the fuck out of my garage, understood?”

To Paul’s disbelief, aside from George, the three of them nodded, looking between Paul and John. He couldn’t believe, even, that John had said it, even in private to his hand selected band, that Paul was his boyfriend. He could have cried but he was really trying to do less of that. It wasn’t a huge public declaration, or John shouting to the world that he and Paul were together. But it was enough, enough that John told the people who mattered most to him, that Paul mattered to him, too.

None of them left, either, or seemed horrified, Paul saw all their faces, and while George seemed relieved to no longer need to hold a secret he could see that Stu and Pete seemed to be putting together pieces of a puzzle that they finally understood. 

“I have a quest-” Pete’s words died on his tongue as John cast them all what Paul assumed was a withering gaze.

“If your questions have anything to do with Paul, or about his other version, Paul will tell you about it when he’s ready on his own time. Now get ready for practice,” John leveled an intense stare at each of them which they each broke to go begin setting up their instruments.

“You okay?” John turned to Paul and asked softly.

Paul nodded, smiling at John softly, “I’m just fine, thank you.”

John gave a nod and let out a heavy breath. “You gotta go, yeah?”

Paul nodded, “Yeah.”

Now a little less brazen with the small audience, John reached out to gently squeeze Paul’s hand before letting it go. It was a step, and Paul would take the deliberate and intentional baby steps that he knew it would take John to even be comfortable in front of the band who seemed largely unaffected. 

John left Paul’s side, going to open the garage door and Paul went over to George, who looked up with a smile. “Paul!” He pulled Paul into a hug. “I’ve still got your guitar, and you’re not, with Peter, right?”

Paul shook his head, “No! We’ll be in Germany before that happens.”

George sighed with relief, “Good, I can’t imagine you with him.”

Paul shuddered, “I know, right? I have to go though, but, er, bring my guitar with you to the train when we leave for Germany for me, yeah?”

“Yes, of course,” George smiled, “I’ve missed you, though I’m glad you’re not doing that double life thing anymore.”

“Me, too, it’s so freeing to me, well, me,” Paul smiled widely, “In all ways.”

George’s smile widened and he gave Paul one more hug, “Get home before Jim gets suspicious. I’ll see you soon.”

“I’ll see you soon, see you all soon!” Paul waved as he made his way to the now open garage door.

“See you Paul!” Pete gave him a wave.

“See you,” Stu echoed.

“See you soon, Paul,” John said as Paul stepped just outside the house.

“See you, John,” Paul smiled, he looked around them, making sure the space was clear before blowing John a kiss. 

A chorus of ‘oohs’ come from behind John and his cheeks tinged pink, to Paul’s amusement. 

“Fuck off, McCartney,” John said without much bite, turning back into the garage as Paul smiled to himself and began to make his way out of the gate and down the sidewalk. He put his hands in his pockets and walked home, the late afternoon sun warming his cheeks. For once he didn’t feel the impending doom of going home. For once he knew there was hope in his future. Even if he knew he had to play along with his father’s charade for a while longer, it wasn’t the end, and in fact, he thought as the warm golden glow of the sun enveloped in, he finally felt like there was hope for his future, and he couldn’t wait to see it.

Chapter Text

“Hey dad,” Paul stepped into the living room. He wore his hat and white gloves, a soft yellow dress on, white cardigan pulled over it. “Can I have my documents? Birth certificate, passport, all that stuff?”

“Why?” Jim asked, his brow furrowed, “Where are you going?” He set aside his book and sat up straighter in his armchair.

Paul glanced at his watch quickly, he had exactly ten minutes before he needed to be on his way to the train station. “Peter needs it, he’s trying to get our honeymoon squared away for France. He’s asking for them and I was going to take them over.”

Jim looked him over and Paul felt like it was x-ray vision seeing him to his core. He kept his face neutral, eyebrows only raised slightly. He knew his dad was looking for any crack in the facade, any hint of a lie. “Okay, give me a moment.” He got up, heading upstairs to his own room, where Paul knew important documents were kept.

He let out a sigh of relief and his shoulders relaxed. He looked at his watch again, just enough time to run back upstairs, grab his mesh bag with his clothes stuffed into it, and leave. He realized in that moment, forever. 

“Here you go,” Jim said moments later as he came downstairs, Paul’s documents in hand. “Don’t be gone too long, Jan.”

“I won’t,” Paul smiled as he took the documents in hand. He felt relief flood through his body as he securely tucked them into his handbag. “Oh I need to grab some things for Mrs. Harrison from my room,” Paul said suddenly, “One second.” He tried to move quickly but not too quickly, though he took the stairs two at a time, making his way into his room as he took one final look around. He was leaving most things. Most of them not having much sentimental value, in reality. He grabbed the bag from his bed, what little mens clothes he had stuffed inside, wrapped in them a few books and toiletries. In his handbag he had his photo of his mother, what little money he had, and now his documents.

He saw his wedding dress hanging on his closet, the pure white dress an imitation of those Dior ‘New Look’ dresses. The veil hung heavily next to it, looking more like a funeral shroud more than a dress for a happy occasion.

From his bed he also picked up two letters, one addressed to Mike and one to Jim. They were simply folded up pieces of paper, he hadn’t bothered with envelopes. He licked his lips seeing ‘Jim’ scrawled out in soft sloping letters. He opened it, quickly looking over the short letter one last time.

Dad,

When you read this, I’ll be on a train to somewhere far away from here. I don’t know if we’ll ever see each other again, and I’m sorry for the costs of the wedding. I hope you all have a party, though I hope more than anything else you can get your money back. I’m sorry we couldn’t have a relationship, that I can’t tell you where I am. Though I’m sure you know who I’m with.

I will be okay. In fact I will be more than okay and I know it. I’m going to live my life, and by necessity it has to be without you in it. If you ever change your mind, and can accept me, you’ll find me if you want.

With love,

Paul

He let out a shaking breath, folded the paper, and took one final look at his room. One final reminder of his mother around him, and of the oppression he’d been living in for months. He stepped quietly down the hall, slipping each letter under its respective door and made his way downstairs. “I’m heading out, dad,” he said, reaching for the doorknob.

“Be home, soon, Jannie,” Jim said. “I love you.”

“Love you, too,” Paul smiled and if it was tinged with sadness Jim didn’t comment on it. He took one final look at his dad and at the living room, of the place he’d called home for many years at that point, and let himself out of the house.

Right on time, he noted, and he picked up the pace as he made his way to the train station. The bus coming a few minutes early, thankfully, and he watched as Liverpool flew by in a blur of colors. It was then that it hit him that he was leaving Liverpool as Janine, and he would return as Paul, and only as Paul. Plus, he was homeless, there was no going back to any part of his life, and it was terrifying as much as it was freeing. 

Yet to the people on the bus around him the day was no different than any other, they didn’t even know that he was running away, leaving behind his entire life, and yet he was. Beneath his placid exterior he was turning his entire life on its head, and he felt okay. 

The bus arrived at the train station and he departed, running to the platform John had told him to meet them at. His heels clattered on the hard floor as he rushed to not miss the train, pushing through people as he searched for the four other members of his band. He saw the top of a curly head of auburn hair and his feet picked up as he ran in that direction, slowing down as they came into view, all turning towards him as they heard the clatter of his heels.

It was unmistakable, the way that John’s face lit up ever so slightly as he saw Paul come into view. They all looked happy to see him, in fact, even dressed as he was, though he also wanted to make going across the border easier on himself. He slowed down to a walk, catching his breath as he made his way to the group. 

“We loaded up the instruments already,” George explained once Paul joined them, “Made sure to bring your guitar.”

“Here’s your ticket,” John handed it over to Paul, their fingers brushing in a way that Paul had to assume was intentional. Though the gloves kept him from feeling John’s skin on his, the contact made his cheeks warm. He hadn’t seen John outside of one other time since the group had caught them post-sex in John’s room. He’d gladly take any contact under any pretext.

He held the ticket tightly, “I’ve got my passport and stuff, clothes,” he held up his bag, “All my worldly possessions, honestly.”

“How does it feel?” Stu asked. There were bags under his eyes and his voice was rough still from sleep.

“Weird, I don’t know,” Paul laughed, everything truly starting to set in. It was a thin nervous laugh. “Oh my g-d. Oh my g-d.” He started to shake, a sort of horror dawning on him at the gravity of his situation. The carefree thoughts he’d had on the bus dissipating as he was about to get on a bus to Germany, and he had no one else in the world outside of the four men standing there with him.

“It’ll be okay, Paul,” George reached out, taking Paul’s hand in his and gave it a firm squeeze. George 

He looked up at George, looking at the hand in holding his and up to his friend. “I know,” he said finally. “This is the right thing.” He looked between all his bandmates, ostensibly his friends, and assuredly the people he actually had in the world, all he had in the world in that moment.

He turned, finally, to look squarely at John, still holding his train ticket tightly in his hand. He was afraid that at any moment it might disappear, that the future would be snatched away from him before it even began. 

John’s eyes looked him over, raising an eyebrow at Paul as their eyes met. “I have never felt as confused as I do right now.”

The group laughed. Though Paul couldn’t help the flushing of his face, even if he knew it was a gentle tease.

“We’ll get you looking proper manly,” Pete knocked Paul’s hat off as he reached out to tousle his hair, a teasing grin on his face.

“Oi, fuck off,” Paul caught the hat before it fell to the ground, holding it close to his chest. He jerked his head away from Pete’s touch, flashing him a quick glare.

There was a whistle on the platform, signaling them to board and they made their way to the train car along with all of the platform, groups of people all coming to load in the the few open doors. 

“Kiss me goodbye?” John turned to Paul just before they boarded onto the train. He looked around nervously, as if anyone would look at John and Paul in that moment and think anything of it. There was a sadness to his eyes, that Paul noticed. A melancholy that Paul had seen enough times when John talked about his mom, or his childhood, the sort of melancholy that spoke to goodbyes and leaving things behind.

“Pardon?” Paul frowned. “I’m coming with you.” He smiled and searched John’s face, his brain was running a mile a minute trying to make sense of the comment. Was this a joke? Was John about to tell him he was to remain behind while the rest of them went, was John staying?

“It’s a new start in Germany, a new everything. We’re leaving everything behind, and I don’t know when we’ll kiss again in public, maybe ever.” John shifted on his feet, there weren’t too many people left on the platform, and a few were staring at them as they blocked one of the entries. He looked back at Paul, his face soft and pleading, “One last kiss in our life here.” He paused for one moment before adding in a desperate and pleading voice, “please.”

Paul’s breath caught as he hesitated for only a moment. John was right, and it felt right for them to say goodbye to Liverpool, to their lives there, to everything. It wasn’t a wholly new start in Germany of course but there no one would know him as Janine, and no one would know about them . The thought made his chest tight, but he ignored it as he placed a gloved hand to John’s cheek, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his lips. 

John kissed him back, the kiss chaste and soft, and Paul felt the roiling emotions spill between them as they shared a final kiss in Liverpool before both stepping onto the train and onto whatever the future held.

Several Months Later

It could have been three in the morning or three in the afternoon and it wouldn’t have mattered. Time has become a meaningless blur in Hamburg, all that mattered was being on stage at the right time, and drinking enough beer to ignore if they sounded like shit. 

Everything was plastered to Paul’s body with sweat. His shirt, his binding material, even his hair was plastered to his forehead. The same was to be said for all of them, though. They were all a little too drunk, a little too high, and running a little too much on fumes. Yet the audience never seemed to notice if at 2am they sounded a lot shittier than they did at 8pm. Yet girls in the club gave them ‘fuck me’ eyes, much to their boyfriends’ chagrin and a few men gave them the same looks. 

Paul took a drink from his now very warm watery beer, breathing hard as they took a quick break between songs. It was perhaps not glamorous and high end, performing in the Kaiserkeller, but it was playing music for a living. It was freedom. 

Their set finished as it usually did, a little atonal, a little sloppy, and very much full of John wrecking his throat singing. He was certain he’d hear about it in the morning. But drunk young people didn’t notice if the music sucked, because there was music, and it was time for them to be finished. It was always right when Paul clicked his guitar into its case that the exhaustion hit him. Let alone being on his monthly, which was kicking his ass. 

“Want a drink, Paul?” John slung his arm around Paul’s shoulder, though the question came out more like wannadrinkpaul? He smelled like beer and sweat and piss, but they all did so it wasn’t as if Paul noticed it. 

“‘M good,” Paul glanced up at him, “Gonna take a quaalude and some paracetamol and crash in m’bunk.”

John pouted at him, something Paul would be sure to tease him about the net morning when John would be sober enough to remember it.

“You can stay out, I just need to sleep,” He threw his guitar case on his back, glancing over at the bar where the other three were drinking beers and laughing. “See you all when you come back.”

Paul watched as John’s very drunk brain took a minute to process the information, but he flashed Paul a smile once he realized he was being let off the hook to go drink and be young and stupid and twenty-something.

Paul smiled as he saw the four of them crowded together at the bar, looking down to make sure he didn’t trip as he made his way out of the club, going to their bunk room where they were staying. He could also feel his head swimming from a little too much alcohol on an empty stomach. The room reeked of five young men all living in very close quarters. Clothes were strewn about the room as did cigarette butts and crumpled up wrappers and papers. It wasn’t much, in fact it was less than ‘not much’ but Paul didn’t complain.

He had resolved to not complain, to not make anyone doubt his ability to be just like the rest of them, or to make them doubt him. None of them had given any indication they thought less of him, but he didn’t want to give them cause. 

He set his guitar down gently in the corner, letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding as he pulled the chain on the single bare bulb in the room. He peeled off his jacket and shirt, tossing them somewhere into the sea of clothes that comprised the floor, and began the process of unwinding his chest binding. It was also damp and sticky from sweat, and Paul could see red lines from where the cloth had dug into his skin over the course of the day. 

His chest fell free and his nipples peaked in the cold air. It was nice when he could change with the room to himself. The guys didn’t stare or gawk, but it was nice to have the space to stretch, to put lotion on his angry skin, and switch into a loose shirt without anyone’s snide comment or clear discomfort. He rummaged through a pile of bottles and containers to grab the lanolin they used for their splitting fingertips and rubbed some where the cloth was digging into his ribs, making his skin dry and angry, and he smoothed a thin layer of the ointment on himself, then rummaging through for the paracetamol and the bottle he knew had their quaaludes in it, shaking one into his hand, and dry swallowing down both of the pills.

A quick glance in the mirror told Paul that his bite marks from John were finally fading. They decorated his chest and shoulders, most of them a soft ugly yellowed shade. It made him feel hot, though, possessed in a way that was frightening and assuring. He was John’s as much as John was his. It assured him that the decision he’d made was the right one.

He found a clean enough shirt he was pretty certain was his and pulled it on, then peeling off his trousers, sighing with relief to see he hadn’t bled through onto them. Paul sat on the edge of his bunk, kicking his pants off before pulling down his underwear and taking out the rag he used to catch his blood, switching it with a clean one and shoving the dirty rag under his bed to launder with the other ones when he got to it. He was mostly relieved to not be pregnant.

He laid back onto the thin blanket, and could hear the thrumming of the band that went on after them, their drummer was pretty good, one of those days he’d have to stay up late enough to see who it was. Pete was good, but this guy was undeniably better. He propped his head up with one arm, staring at the underside of the bunk above him and letting the bass and drum thrum through the walls and into his body and mind as he closed his eyes. He could probably masturbate if he wanted, but he was so tired, and once the quaalude fully kicked in he’d be well on his way to passing out. 

He didn’t remember falling asleep when he woke up, in the same position he’d passed out in. The sounds of soft snores all around him. Who knew when the other guys had come back, but they were still asleep. Paul groaned softly as he sat up, his head pounding and his body feeling like it was being weighed down with weights as he forced himself up and into a pair of trousers. The ones from the night before, but they were what he had. Grabbing his watch told him it was 4 in the afternoon, and he grabbed his leather jacket. It hid his chest when he wasn’t binding, and it wasn’t like anyone was going to really take note of him. Feeling the pocket he was relieved to feel his cigarettes and lighter, and after running a hand through his hair to smooth it down he slipped out of his room and out onto the street, squinting in the bright light of the afternoon sun.

He saw people busting all around him as he walked to the nearby payphone. Not the most savory crowd, he didn’t see mothers and their children or anything like that. But people making deliveries, and men and women smoking, people coming and going, and he was just one of them, he realized. Paul entered the payphone booth, closing the small door behind himself and inserting a few coins into the phone.

“Operator, long distance, please,” He said into the receiver, his German coming out rough and distinctly not-fluent.

“Just a moment,” a voice replied in German, “Number?”

He gave the country and the number he was wanting to ring, he’d done this conversation enough to manage it in German. Stuart’s girlfriend, Astrid, had been helping him navigate the phone system so his poor broken German didn’t hold him up.

He leaned against the wall of the phone booth, pulling out his cigarettes and lighting one, taking a slow drag on it as he heard the phone ringing out.

“McCartney residence,” a voice, slightly garbled voice came over the phone line. Except that it was a voice Paul both wanted to speak to and dreaded. Though he’d been calling for the chance to speak to Mike, he always held a weird mix of fear and hope that he’d hear his dad. 

He opened his mouth to say something, but the words couldn’t seem to come out as much as he tried.

“Hello?”

A small huff left him and he slapped his hand over his mouth.

There was a long pause before the voice said, “Janine?”

He hung up at that. His heart racing in his chest, a small part of him had hoped that his dad would have changed with his leaving, that the letter would have softened his heart. Yet clearly it hadn’t, and he should have known better than to expect a change. It didn’t stop him hoping though.

He took another drag from his cigarette, pressing the heel of his palm to his forehead as he tried to not cry. There was a bang at the door of the phonebooth that made Paul jump and he slipped out, letting the woman behind him into the booth to use it. There was a nearby alley he went into to finish smoking, letting himself people watch as he tried to not think too hard about the fact that even an entire country and body of water away, his dad still had such incredible power to make him feel poorly. It wasn’t fair, but he couldn’t figure out how to not care. He ignored the ache in his chest and focused on the burn in his lungs as he inhaled another drag on his cigarette. He wanted it to burn up the pain, burn up him from the inside until he couldn’t feel. He let out a final breath and he watched the smoke curl away into the air. 

“Can I bum a cigarette?” someone asked to his left.

“Yeah,” he muttered, pulling out the pack and tapping one out, offering it to the person who had just asked. He kept his gaze out at the road, the people walking, imaging the lives they were each leading.

“You look like someone killed your cat, McCartney.”

Paul snapped his head up, realizing the person next to him was John, who was lighting up the cigarette held loosely between his lips.

“Mm,” he looked back out of the alley with a shrug.

“Just finished my call with Mimi,” John leaned against the alley wall across from him. “She’s well, thank you for asking, sends her best wishes to all of us.”

“Doubt she’d send them to me, if she knew,” Paul scowled and kicked at a piece of broken glass by his foot.

“Don’t do this again,” John sighed, “I don’t have it in me right now.”

Paul pressed his lips into a thin line. “Dad picked up today, not Mike.”

“Oh,” John took a long drag and breathed out, his shoulders relaxing as he watched Paul quietly.

“I- I couldn’t say anything and then he asked if it was you know, me but the wrong name,” he wiped a hand down his face, “And I just hung up.” He reached out and plucked the cigarette from John’s fingers, taking a drag before handing it back. “What?” He replied as John rolled his eyes, “It’s my cigarette, you have your own.”

“I’m out, was gonna stop for some before heading back. Back to the matter at hand,” John flicked away some ashes, “Isn’t this the answer you’ve been wanting?”

“It’s just not the answer I wanted , which I didn’t even realize that I did want, I guess.” Paul sighed, “I had hoped running away would, I don’t know, do something to him.”

“Eh, fuck ‘im.” John shrugged, a soft laugh coming out as he said the words. “You don’t need him.”

“I know,” Paul picked at his ragged cuticles, “I’ve got everything here,” he looked up a John with a slight smile on his lips.

John blushed slightly and looked away, taking a final drag off the cigarette before tossing it aside. “Don’t get all soft on me now, Paul.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t embarrass you here,” he pushed off the alleyway wall and made to enter back onto the sidewalk. The sun warmed him, making him cast a shadow into the already dark alley. “But I make no promises elsewhere,” he smiled at John, feeling the sun warming him from the inside. Replacing the need to burn with the warm feeling of contentment. Warmth pooling in his chest as his eyes met John’s.

“Cheeky,” John returned the smile easily, joining Paul on the sidewalk as they walked into the afternoon sun, shoulders gently bumping as they walked close to each other, the backs of their hands brushing. It wasn’t much, Paul knew, it wasn’t what they could have had if he’d lived his lie, but it was honest, and real, and it was enough. 

More than enough.

Chapter Text

First image is from Chapter 5, their date, where they lay in the bushes of Strawberry Field:

Second image is from Chapter 7, where John is singing the song he wrote to Paul, while lit by the glow of the garage light:

Third and final image is from Chapter 8, where John and Paul almost kiss: