Chapter Text
Paul fell out of bed before he was even awake enough to understand why. One second he was warm and blissed out, pressed against something steady and solid; the next, the world was tilted and the floor rushed up to meet him. His shoulder hit the boards hard enough to knock the breath out of him.
“Paul!”
His father’s voice hit like a slap. “What the devil is going on here?!”
Paul blinked through the daze, rubbing at his eyes. The door was half-open and light sliced across the room in a pale wedge. Jim stood there, gripping the handle like it was the only thing holding him upright, his face an alarming red.
“Dad?” Paul mumbled, still on the floor. Everything was too bright. He could smell dust and cold wood.
Jim’s voice again. “I know you’re at that age, heaven knows I was young once too, but bringing one home like this? It’s entirely inappropriate, not to mention disrespectful.”
Confused, Paul followed his father’s gaze to the mound of blankets on his bed. For a beat, it didn’t hit him what Jim could be talking about, then his stomach dropped. Oh. Oh, bloody hell.
He scrambled to his feet, face burning. “It’s not-” he started, but just then the blankets stirred. A tousled head emerged, eyes squinting against the light, a crooked grin spreading across a still-sleepy face. “Do you mind, Jim?” a voice muttered. “Just catching up on some beauty sleep.”
Paul froze, his eyes darting from his Father’s face to the heap on his bed. For a half-second, he almost smiled, John, always cheeky, always himself, but then he saw Jim’s expression collapse in slow motion, all the color draining from his face as if he’d swallowed something foul.
Paul blinked. Wait- what? He knew Jim didn’t like John, but he at least expected him to calm down, maybe even be relieved it wasn’t a bird in bed with him. But, strangely, Jim looked almost worse now, like he’d seen a ghost. His voice, when it came, was colder than Paul had ever heard it.
“This is not an inn, Lennon!” Jim hissed, each word clipped like he had to spit them out. “Get out.”
John sat up, yawning wide, unbothered. “Got that right… An inn wouldn’t wake their guests so rudely.”
Paul stifled a half laugh at the absurdity of it all, but his smirk faded when his father’s eyes flicked to him, then back to John. There was something there… not just anger, but a kind of fear, maybe, or disgust.
“That’s enough!” Jim barked, his voice fully raised now. He flung the door open wider, “Get out this instant. Before I phone your aunt. Tell her about this.”
John’s grin didn’t falter for a second. “Fine by me. This place smells of old socks anyhow.” He pulled his sweater over his head, shoved his glasses on, scooped up his jacket.
“See you later?” John said, eyes glinting with mischief or maybe it was defiance, Paul could never tell which.
This, apparently, was the breaking point. Jim went beet purple. “OUT!”
John only raised his eyebrows, pretending to take it lightly. “Cheer up, old man. Not the end of the world, is it?”
For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then Jim did a sudden step forward, enough to make John jump and bolt for the stairs, laughter spilling behind him until the front door banged shut.
The silence left behind was exruciating. Paul stood there in his undershirt, skin prickling with anticipation, expecting the worst.
“Unbelievable,” Jim muttered finally, more to himself than to Paul. Somehow this was worse than when he yelled. “Cover yourself up,” Jim directed, voice tight, flinging a pair of trousers at him, which Paul caught against his chest. He wasn’t even looking at him. “We’ll have a discussion about your choice in company this morning.”
Paul stood there, rooted in place for a long moment after Jim left, the trousers clutched against his chest. He pulled his clothes on, the air still with heavy with his father’s rage. When he finally went downstairs, Jim was waiting at the table.
Paul lingered by the doorway. “He didn’t mean anything by it—“ he started to say.
Jim cleared his throat and cut him off. “Sit down.”
The chair scraped as Paul pulled it back and settled in. For a moment, neither spoke. The clock on the mantel ticked and ticked.
Jim’s eyes stayed fixed on the table. “I don’t know what’s going on with you lately, but I’ll say this plain. That boy is bad news, and I don’t want him here again.”
Paul blinked. “John?”
“Don’t act daft, you know who I mean.”
Paul folded his arms. He hated how his heart was still racing, like he’d done something wrong. “But… why?”
Jim shifted in his chair, eyes still averted. “He spent the night.” He seemed to spit each word, venomous as they passed his lips.
“We fell asleep!” Paul said, too loud. “We were writing. Got late. It’s– ” He stopped himself before he got worked up. “I’m sorry I didn’t ask permission first—“
”That’s not it, son.”
”Then what is it?”
Jim rubbed at the corner of his jaw, not meeting his eyes. “It’s not right, Paul. Not decent. Two lads… carrying on like that.”
Paul blinked. “Carrying on? We were asleep.”
“I mean that– ” Jim said quickly. His cheeks colored. “I mean– ” He stopped, sighed. “He’s a bad influence, that’s all. I mean, sharing a bed…” he trailed off, shaking his head.
“What would you have me do, then? Make him sleep on the floor? Tried that once, didn’t work. John just climbed in anyway.”
Jim froze. “You mean this isn’t the first time?”
Paul frowned. “No. He’s stayed over before, and me at his. What of it?”
Jim pushed back his chair, the legs screeching on the tile. “You need to seriously think about your choice in company, son.”
Paul stared. “Choice in company? You’ve said that before, but I don’t even know what that means.”
Jim hesitated, searching for the right words. “Just that people talk. And it’s not… it’s not the sort of thing a young man should get mixed up in.”
“Sort of thing?” Paul repeated, dumbfounded. “He’s my mate!
Jim flinched a little at the word mate, like it landed somewhere that hurt. “He’s trouble, son. I can see it plain as day.”
Paul sat back, angry now but still confused. “You think everyone’s trouble.”
Jim looked up, almost offended. “That’s not true. I rather liked your little friend Georgie Harrison. Whatever happened to him? Haven’t seen him in months. It’s just been Lennon this, Lennon that.”
Paul blinked. “I see George all the time. We still play together. It’s different with John, though. We write together. I’ve told you this at least a dozen times!”
Jim looked at him for a long moment, something uncertain passing behind his eyes. He sighed, the sound heavy. “If you say so.”
Paul frowned. “You don’t believe me.”
Jim’s mouth opened, then closed again. He looked down at his tea, steam curling upward and vanishing. “I don’t like what I see when he’s around,” Jim said, quiet again. “That’s all.”
It was said without venom, and he couldn’t quite read his father’s tone. There was something underneath it, not just anger or the usual disapproval, but something else too. It made his stomach twist with guilt, though he couldn’t have said why. Jim looked at him like he’d done something shameful, and that confused him most of all. They sat there in silence for a long moment.
Finally, Paul pushed back his chair. “He’s my friend, Dad. You can’t change that.”
Jim shifted his teacup but didn’t drink. He exhaled long and thin, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Look, Paul. I know you’ll do what you want. I can’t stop you seeing the lad. But he’s not to spend the night here again. Do you understand me?”
Paul hesitated, the fight draining out of him. “Yeah,” he said finally, with a small shrug. “Alright.”
Jim nodded once, the tension leaving his shoulders. “Good. That’s settled then.”
Paul stood, muttering, “Didn’t think it was such a crime to have a mate.” But the edge was gone from his voice. He’d done his part in defending John, and at least he wasn’t banned from seeing him altogether. That would have to be enough.
***
Paul sat down on his bed, leftover warmth still lingered where John had been, the sheets still creased, still holding the shape of his body.
He reached for his guitar. The neck was cool against his palm, the familiar weight an immediate comfort. He plucked a few stray notes, just for the sake of filling the room with something other than awful silence.
On the desk, the sheet of paper from last night lay tucked beneath a pile of schoolbooks, scrawled all over with their messy handwriting, words crossed out, arrows pointing up, down everywhere. He smiled despite himself, tracing the smudge of John’s pencil.
That’s when he saw it: John’s guitar, leaning against the dresser. Paul let out a small breath, half a laugh. “Daft sod,” he muttered. He’d left it behind after his disgraceful exit this morning. Some small part of him thanked John for being so careless, for giving him a reason to leave this god-awful house.
Paul dressed fast, not caring if his shirt was inside out. He splashed cold water on his face at the sink, rubbed at the sleep and whatever else clung to him.He didn’t bother combing his hair. If he was being honest, seeing John again was the only thing that made any sense right now.
Downstairs, Mike was in the kitchen, eating toast. He looked up as Paul tried to slip past.
“Where are you going?” he asked through a mouthful of crumbs. When he spotted the guitar his eyes widened. “Don’t tell me you’re off to see him again- already?”
Paul pretended not to hear, grabbing his jacket off the chair.
“Da’ll kill ya, y’know.” Mike mumbled into his breakfast. Paul muttered something under his breath that sounded a lot like where Mike could shove it, and pushed his head down into his collar, heading for the door.
Mike continued to chew and watched him go, shaking his head like a man twice his age.
***
Outside, the morning was damp and gray. The air smelled like wet stone and smoke from a neighbor’s chimney. Paul shoved his hands in his pockets and started walking fast. He could still hear his father’s voice in his head, but he pushed it out, replaced it with the rhythm of a tune.
The song from last night. They’d almost cracked it before they’d nodded off. A melody too good to lose, a line about holding hands that had made John grin and say, “That’s the one.”
He hummed it now under his breath, half to remember, half to comfort himself. He fingered the crease of paper he’d folded into his pocket on the way out of the house. He was itching to keep writing.
When he reached Mendips, the curtains were open but the house felt quiet. He knocked once, waited, then tried again shifting the guitar against his knee. Mimi answered the door, apron on, hair already set for the day.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said, a hint of surprise, if not annoyance. “John’s gone off. Went out earlier with that Stuart, I think.”
Paul just nodded, pretending not to be too disapointed. “Right. Yeah. Thanks.”
He waited a second longer, hoping maybe she’d remember wrong, maybe John would come down the stairs calling out something stupid. But the house was quiet, just the tick of a radiator somewhere deeper in.
“Right,” he said, lifting the guitar case up. “Just came to drop this off. Left it at mine.”
Mimi glanced at the guitar and opened the door wider. “He’d lose his head if it weren’t attached to his damn body, I swear. You can leave it just there in the hall.” She gestured toward the narrow entryway, the same spot she usually confined them to when they played music over here. Her tone wasn’t unkind, just clipped, the way it always was with him. She tolerated Paul for John’s sake, never outright rude but never warm either.
Paul knew it well enough; still, she’d opened the door, and that counted for something. Paul set the guitar carefully against the wall. A beat of uncomfortable silence followed, during which Mimi fixed him with that polite, dismissive look he’d come to expect. Paul took the hint and stepped off the stoop, letting the storm door bang closed behind him. He gave a half-hearted wave through the window just as Mimi turned away and disappeared back into the house.
He lingered for a moment on the front lawn of Mendips. Normally, he would’ve just gone home to work on something new. But today, it sat heavy in his gut, the not-seeing-John. He turned around before Mimi could accuse him of loitering, and walked back the way he came. He kept turning the tune over in his head, the air had warmed a bit, and the street smelled of damp earth.
By the time he reached the golf course, he’d run out of verses.
***
That night, Paul lay awake in the dark, his eyes boring holes into the ceiling. His room was dark but not quiet, the old pipes ticking, a cold wind thumping at the glass. He turned over, pulled the blanket up to his chin, tried not to think too hard about the talk he’d had with his father that morning.
Then it came: the soft scatter of pebbles against the window. He rolled over, the mattress sighing beneath him, and there it was again, a scatter, lighter this time, like laughter against the glass.
He was grinning before he could stop himself.
“Idiot,” he whispered to the dark, already climbing out of bed.
The night air was cool against his bare arms as he cracked the window an inch. Down below, John was standing in the patch of light from the streetlamp, collar of his leather jacket turned up, hands buried in his pockets. He was chewing gum, because of course he was.
“Oi,” John hissed up, half-whispering, half-laughing. “Let us in, then.”
Paul's heart did a weird little skip as he gestured for John to stay where he was. Grinning, he backed away from the window and listened for a long, agonizing moment. The house was silent, and if he waited long enough, he could hear the long drone of Jim's snores. He tip toed back to the window and stuck his head out over the brick.
"Psst," Paul hissed, and John immediately snapped his head back up to meet Paul's gaze. Paul glanced over his shoulder, heart jumping. He jerked his head toward the back door. "Come round the back."
When John stepped through the back door at Frothlin road, he brought the smell of night with him, rain, smoke, the faint tang of gum. Paul pressed a finger to his lips as he entered, “be quiet,” he whispered.
John smirked, then spoke in a very regular, too-loud volume. “Why's that Macca-”
Paul clapped a hand over his mouth before the words finished leaving it. They both froze, eyes wide, and John’s shoulders shook with muffled laughter. His laugh vibrated against Paul’s skin, his breath warm against his palm. John shot both his hands up in surrender, then slowly pulled Paul’s hand away, holding it for a beat longer than necessary.
“You've gone strict,” John murmured, voice low, teasing.
“Do you ever shut up?” Paul muttered, already smirking, already losing it. He gestured for John to follow him.
They tiptoed down the hallway, the floorboards groaning in complaint. When the door to Paul's tiny bedroom finally clicked shut, John’s shoes landed in a heap near the bed; Paul immediately stooped to straighten them.
“You’ve got issues, Macca,” John said, still laughing under his breath.
“Shhh-” Paul shot back, raising a hand to silence him. Cautiously, he pressed his ear to the wall, listening, the steady rise and fall of Jim’s snore on the other side. “Alright,” he whispered. “He’s out cold.”
John sat on the edge of the bed, stretching like a cat, then leaned back on his elbows. “So, how bad was it then?”
Paul shrugged, leaning against the dresser. “Same as always. You’re bad news, a bad influence, blah blah. Reckon he’s been rehearsing that one since last year.” He left out the rest, left out the strange tone in his father’s voice, the way it had shifted from scolding to something almost full of shame. He didn’t tell John that part.
John snorted. “Can’t say he’s wrong.”
“Shut it.” Paul smiled despite himself. “You should’ve seen him, though. Thought you were a girl at first.”
That made John laugh– too loud. Paul winced, hand flying up in warning.
“Sorry,” John whispered, still grinning. “A girl? In your bed? He must think you’re turning into a right lad.”
“Yeah, well.” Paul hesitated, fiddling with a thread on his pajama cuff. “Didn’t stay funny long once he saw it was you.”
John’s smile softened, just slightly. “He hates me that much, eh?”
Paul shrugged again. “He just doesn’t get you. Reckons you’re trouble. Not the right sort.”
John tilted his head. “And what do you reckon?”
Paul didn’t answer right away. He looked at John, hair mussed from the wind, eyes bright even in the dark, and then away again. “I reckon he’s a bitter old man.”
That earned another grin. “Right, that.”
Paul rolled his eyes, a beat of quiet.“So where were you, then? Thought we were finishing the song today.”
John looked up, caught off guard for half a second before responding. “Had to help Stu with something.”
Something flickered in Paul’s chest, something quick and irrational. He tried to swallow it down. “Oh, right,” he said, aiming for casual. “Important, was it?”
John shrugged. “Not really. He wanted another set of hands for some painting thing. Boring as sin.”
Paul nodded, forcing his focus on his guitar resting in the corner.
“So,” he said, voice a bit too bright. “You want to finish it now, yeah? That’s why you’re here?”
John grinned. “Sure. But dunno how we’re supposed to with all this whispering.”
Paul huffed a laugh, the tension in him loosening a bit. “Fair point.” He fiddled with the hem of his sleeve, twisting the fabric between his fingers. For a second he couldn’t think what to say next. The silence stretched for just a moment too long. Any minute now John would stand up, pull on his jacket, toss a joke over his shoulder, and leave. The idea made him terribly afraid. He tried to ignore it but his mind kept tumbling forward anyway. Where would he go if he left now? Would he head home, or stop at Stu’s instead? Did he ever stay over there? Would they sit up talking like he and John did? Would they fall asleep the same way, shoulder to shoulder, laughing at nothing? The image of it rose up in his mind, stupid and sharp. He shoved it away, jaw tightening. Still, his chest felt hot and unsteady.
Before John could say he was leaving, Paul rushed in to fill the space. “You can, you know,” he said quickly. “Leave. If you want. Won’t blame you.”
He tried to sound casual, generous but it came out small. John shot him a look of half amusement, half offense. “Leave? I’m here, ain’t I?”
Paul’s stomach did an odd little flip. He forced a shrug as a pale flush climb up his cheeks. Not wanting John to see, he busied himself with useless things, adjusting the curtains, stacking a few stray records.
“Right. Thought maybe you’d rather be off with Stu again.”
John paused for a moment, then grinned. “Jealous?”
“Don’t be daft.” Paul moved to the window, fussing with the latch just to have something to do.
John watched him, amused. “You always so tidy when you’re nervous.”
“I’m not nervous. What’ve I got to be nervous about?”
“You tell me.”
Paul turned, pretending to check the window latch. “Just don’t want my Da hearin’ us, is all.”
“Your old man sleeps like the dead,” John said, dropping back onto the mattress. The bedsprings squealed. “See? He didn’t even stir.”
Paul shot him a look. “Don’t push it.”
John’s grin turned sly. “Bet he could sleep through anything. Even–”
“Don’t.” Paul warned, already knowing where this was going.
John’s grin widened; he started to pant and sigh in a breathy, exaggerated way, his pitch getting higher and higher, putting on the sort performance that would’ve had their schoolmates howling.
“John!” Paul hissed, lunging across the bed. He caught him mid-laugh, clapping a hand over his mouth.
John shook with muffled laughter under Paul’s hand, eyes bright with mischief. Paul could feel it, the tremor of his shoulders, the heat of his breath through his fingers, and it only made him panic more.
John twisted, trying to speak, but Paul’s grip only made it worse.
“Stop it!” he whispered, half-laughing himself now, trying uselessly not to.
John wrenched sideways, laughing harder, the sound threatening to burst free. “Can’t–”
“Shut your gob!” Paul whisper-shouted, climbing over him to keep him still. They rolled once, the mattress groaning beneath them.
John kept trying to get the words out, whatever joke he thought was worth the risk, and Paul had to pin him properly this time, knees pressed to the bed on either side of him.
“Shut UP!”
John was still grinning, breath coming quick, eyes full of that same reckless joy. “Alright, alright,” he gasped in an exasperated whisper, finally going still.
They stayed like that a second too long, the both of them breathless and tangled in the half-dark. Then Paul realized what an idiot he must look like, straddling John, and pulled back fast, collapsing onto his side with a groan.
“See?” John whispered, triumphant. “Told you he could sleep through anything.”
“Get stuffed.”
John propped himself on one elbow. “That an offer?”
Paul groaned into his hands, trying to hide the smile he couldn’t fight for a second longer. “You’re impossible.”
“That’s what Mimi always says.”
“Wonder why.” He tossed a pillow at him, which John caught, still laughing. The sound felt good, like nothing bad could happen in a room where John was laughing.
Paul shook his head, smiling reckless and big now. He wanted to keep talking, to stretch this out, to stop the night from ending. But he couldn’t think of anything that wouldn’t sound daft.
John sat up again, unbuttoning his cuffs. “Mind if I stay a bit, then?”
“Do what you like.”
“That’s what I thought.”
John loosened his belt, slow and lazy, metal clinking softly, and Paul looked away too late. The metallic click landing somewhere in his chest.
John caught him staring and smirked. “Relax. Just getting comfortable.”
“Yeah, well, try not to wake the dead.”
“Oh, is your Dad sleeping or something?”
“John.”
“Alright, alright.”
John’s overshirt hit the floor with a soft flutter. “Better?” he said, grinning.
Paul rolled his eyes. “You’re hopeless.”
John laughed, gave him a shove in the shoulder that made him fall over into the mattress. “Shove over, hopeless.”
Paul laughed, then slid aside automatically, making room. The mattress dipping as John climbed in, his skin smelled like rain off his jacket and faint tobacco. For a few seconds they just lay there, both listening to the other’s breathing.
Paul turned on his side. John’s face was half hidden by the sheets, hair sticking out in every direction. “What’re you looking at?” John mumbled, voice muffled.
“Nothing,” Paul said, smiling. “You look stupid.”
John snorted, then muttered something about Paul’s hair being worse. That did it, Paul cracked, laughter spilling out quiet and uncontrollable until he was breathless.
“Christ, you’re loud,” John whispered, grinning now too.
When it finally faded, Paul lay there catching his breath, smiling into the dark. “Seriously though,” he said after a pause, his voice softer. “You can’t sleep in this time. You’ve got to go in the morning. Dad was proper mad.”
John groaned. “You’re turning into an old woman, Macca.”
“I’m serious, you prick. You never get up early.”
“Fine,” John muttered, rolling onto his back. “I’ll be up with the bloody milkman.”
“Promise?”
“Yeah, yeah. Cross my heart.”
Paul smiled, even though he didn’t believe him for a second.