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The last thing Paul expected when he entered his hotel room was to see someone else sitting on his bed. He had a duck’s arse hairdo, he was scrolling on his phone with earphones in, and he was manspreading like he owned the bed.
“Uh, excuse me,” Paul said.
The bloke didn’t look up. He nodded along to whatever song he was listening to.
Paul cleared his throat.
Nothing.
He snapped his fingers in front of the bloke’s face, and the bloke finally looked up, looking pissed off.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“This is my room,” Paul said.
“Pretty sure it’s mine,” the bloke held up a keycard.
“No, pretty sure it’s mine,” Paul held up his keycard.
“Well, somebody’s fucked up, and it’s not me.”
The bloke looked Paul up and down.
“You’re not here for the Elvis convention, are you?” the bloke asked. “You look like Buddy Holly.”
Paul adjusted his non-prescription glasses, which he had gotten for his Buddy Holly cosplay.
“Yeah, because we’re having a Buddy Holly convention,” Paul said.
“Somebody’s a bit lost…”
“I helped organise this. It’s you who’s lost. I understand the duck’s arse now.”
The Elvis lad lifted his chin. “I always have me hair like this. That’s how dedicated a fan I am. So dedicated that I helped organise the Elvis convention. Here.”
“Look, I’ve gotta go hang up Buddy banners. Maybe double-check the hotel you’re supposed to be at, yeah?”
Paul dumped his bag and left.
“This is where I’m supposed to be,” the Elvis lad insisted as he followed Paul out the door. “I’ve gotta hang Elvis banners.”
Paul sped up his pace so he could be the one to hang banners first. The Elvis lad raced to get ahead of him until they were both running around the hotel, stumbling into the elevator together, trying to kick the other one out of the elevator, eventually getting out on the same floor, and again running to put up the banners.
Paul ran into a flock of Buddy Holly people.
“Did you… did you hear that… that they think they’re… holding an Elvis convention… here too?” Paul asked as he tried to catch his breath.
“Yeah, we should probably postpone ours,” said George, another of the organisers.
Paul shook his head. “We can’t bow down to them. Buddy was the better musician, and we won’t be pushed aside by people who think they’re better than us just because Elvis happened to get a producer that got him more fame.”
“Yeah, but I just don’t feel like causing such a fuss.”
Paul scrolled through his emails and pulled up the booking confirmation. “Look, I bet we booked this first. We’ve got to talk to the hotel manager, and they’ll kick the Elvis gang out.”
Just then, the bloke from Paul’s room swaggered over to them.
“This is our hotel. We booked it first. So get out,” the Elvis lad said.
“We booked it six months ago,” Paul held up his phone.
The Elvis lad checked his phone and fell silent. Paul knew he had won.
“Well, Elvis is still better than Buddy, so we deserve to stay here,” the Elvis lad said pompously.
“Elvis couldn’t even write his own music.”
“It’s not about who wrote what, it’s about how it’s performed. Nobody compares with Elvis’ stage presence.”
“But Buddy’s songs sound better-”
“No, the fuck, they do not,” the Elvis lad scoffed. “And anyway, Elvis is way more popular, so we’ll get more people at our convention. So piss off.”
Paul crossed his arms. “We’re not going anywhere. Are we, lads?”
The Elvis lad straightened up and stood on his tippy toes like he was trying to look tall and scary. Paul, who was naturally a little taller, found this amusing.
“We’re not moving either,” the Elvis lad said. “So, this is going to be an interesting convention…”
Paul rolled his eyes and turned away to set up banners with George.
At some point he noticed the Elvis lad covering a Buddy Holly banner with an Elvis banner.
Paul strutted over to him disapprovingly. “Now that’s just petty.”
“I don’t want that ugly man staring at me,” the Elvis lad said.
“And now you’re just being rude,” Paul said. “Buddy’s very attractive.”
“No one is sexier than Elvis Presley.”
“Maybe let’s not judge them on their looks,” said one of the other Elvis people.
“But it’s one of Elvis’ many outstanding qualities, Richie,” the Elvis lad said to the other one.
“Come on, there’s plenty of free space to put your banners,” Paul said. “Such as the bin.”
The Elvis lad flipped him off, but wandered off somewhere else.
Paul went to the hotel’s reception.
“You okay?” the receptionist greeted.
“Hi, there's been some kind of mix-up,” Paul said. “We booked this, but the Elvis convention thinks they booked it for the same time. And, someone thinks he's staying in my room.”
“Oh, I'm so sorry, let me get my manager.”
When the hotel manager, Brian Epstein, arrived, Paul explained the whole situation to him.
“Let me just check who booked first,” Brian said as he typed away at the computer. “Ah, see, there was some kind of error… The Elvis convention tried to book first, that didn't work. The Buddy Holly convention booked a few minutes later and that did. And then somehow the Elvis convention’s booking managed to be confirmed right after the Buddy Holly one.”
“Okay, so, we should be able to stay because our booking was confirmed first, right?”
“True, but the Elvis convention tried to book first.”
“Look, Mr Epstein, I understand this is a really tricky situation, but it looks to me like whoever actually booked first should get to stay. Y’know, I travelled a long way today-”
“Aren’t you from Liverpool?” Brian asked.
They were currently in Liverpool.
“Well, yeah, but the other side of the ‘Pool, y’know,” Paul said. “And we, as Buddy Holly fans, don’t get many things, but Elvis fans get everything. Do you have it in your heart to give us this one thing?”
Paul looked at Brian with big eyes. Brian seemed to almost twitch under them.
“Uh, yes, I suppose I can see that whoever’s booking confirmation came through first should get this,” Brian nodded. “I’ll just need to speak with the organisers of the Elvis convention.”
Paul grinned. “Thank you so much, Mr Epstein.”
Paul brought him over to one of the stages, where the Elvis lad from his room was scattering Elvis decorations amongst the Buddy decorations.
Brian stepped towards the Elvis lad. “I’m really sorry for the inconvenience. I don’t know how we managed to double-book. But the Buddy Holly convention did book first, so we’re going to have to ask you to leave.”
The Elvis lad crossed his arms. “Look, I get it, but our Elvis convention is gonna attract more people, and we don’t really wanna inconvenience that many people.”
“We can reschedule you to next weekend.”
“But the Elvis impersonator we booked is only available this weekend.”
“Do you realise how many Elvis impersonators are out there?” Paul asked. “I could impersonate him.”
The Elvis lad snorted. “I’d like to see you try.”
Paul shook his body around. Then in his best impression of Elvis’ voice, “thank you very much.”
Paul noticed the amused smile on the Elvis lad’s face that was quickly transformed into a scowl.
“You are an insult to the king,” the Elvis lad murmured.
“Either you’re going to have to combine your conventions, or the Elvis convention is going to have to leave and we’ll give you a full refund,” Brian said.
“Then I guess we’ll be combining them,” the Elvis lad said.
“Oh, come on, is it so hard to postpone it?” Paul asked.
“Yes. And you can’t make us leave.”
Paul turned back to the manager. “Please, it wouldn’t work if we combined them.”
“What’s the big difference between the two musicians anyway?” Brian asked.
Paul gaped in offence.
“Elvis can actually rock,” the Elvis lad offered.
“Buddy actually has talent,” Paul countered.
“It’ll be so much easier for me if you cooperated with each other,” Brian said tiredly. “So could you boys please try to get along?”
And he left.
Paul felt betrayed.
The Elvis lad poked his tongue out at Paul. Paul rolled his eyes and went to continue setting up the Buddy ‘half’ of the convention.
By the end of the day, Paul went back to his room to get some sleep before the convention started the next day.
He sat on the bed for a while, scrolling on his phone and hitting his watermelon vape.
But then the Elvis lad came in. He scrunched up his nose.
“That’s the most disgusting vape flavour I have ever had the displeasure of smelling,” the Elvis lad said.
Paul glared at him. “Get your own room, mate.”
“This is my room. I got here first.”
“Then why am I the one already sitting down?”
“I meant before. I got here first when we first got here.”
“But I’m here now. So get your own room.”
“No,” the Elvis lad planted himself on the bed. “You get your own room.”
“I’m not moving.”
“Neither am I.”
So they sat there silently for a few minutes.
The Elvis lad had a lemon vape that Paul hated the smell of. Clearly, the Elvis lad liked flavours that were as sour as he was, which Paul told him.
The Elvis lad started playing Elvis’ music from his phone, the volume turned right up.
Paul played Buddy’s greatest hits in retaliation.
It didn’t sound very nice; noises clashing together. But Paul couldn’t be the one to give up first.
“Put on some fucking headphones, will you?” the Elvis lad snapped. “I need to go to bed. Big day tomorrow. You’ll just be going home though, won’t you?”
“You put on headphones,” Paul snapped back.
The Elvis lad turned off his phone. “People who are dedicated to their conventions go to sleep.”
Paul quickly turned off his phone and crawled under the covers before the Elvis lad could get there first.
“You need to find your own bed,” Paul said.
“I’ll just sleep like this,” the Elvis lad said as he untucked the bottom of the bed and crawled in so they were head-to-toe.
Paul closed his eyes and tried to get some rest.
But the next thing he knew, he was being kicked in the head.
“Hey, watch out!” Paul shoved the Elvis lad’s legs to the side.
“I’m just trying to stretch out,” the Elvis lad snickered.
After a few more kicks, Paul said, “that’s it. If you must sleep in here, you’ve gotta sleep with your head over here, okay?”
The Elvis lad shuffled over so his head was next to Paul’s.
“Hey, sweetie,” the Elvis lad smirked. “I don’t even know your name and we’re sleeping together…”
Paul turned over so he didn’t have to look at him. “Paul.”
“What?”
“That’s my name.”
“Oh. I’m John.”
Paul said nothing else. He closed his eyes and tried again to go to sleep.
When morning came, Paul was surprised to find his arm lodged underneath someone’s body. The memories of yesterday jumped to his mind and he quickly pulled his arm free. He stopped for a moment as his arm filled with pins and needles.
Maybe John would sleep in and miss the convention, and the Buddy Holly convention would reign freely.
But, by the time Paul could feel his hand again, John was awake.
“I’ve never slept so badly,” John grumbled.
“Neither,” Paul side-eyed him.
“You bloody kicked me balls.”
“Yeah, well, so did you.”
Paul turned away so he could get changed into the full Buddy Holly gear.
When he turned back around, John was in the full Elvis getup with leather and a flared collar.
John looked Paul up and down.
“Could you get more basic?” John taunted.
“Could you get more cringe?” Paul shot back.
He went to the bathroom to work on getting his hair curly while John greased his hair back beside him. The way John did it was annoyingly seductive, so Paul kept his eyes on his own hair.
An hour later, people started arriving for the convention.
“Excuse me, is this the Buddy Holly convention?” someone asked.
“That’s right, you’ve just gotta scan your tickets over there,” Paul directed them over.
“I thought this was an Elvis convention,” someone else said.
“Well, it… It is,” Paul murmured. “I think you scan your tickets over on the other side there.”
Paul had to deal with many more confused guests, but in the end, people seemed to accept that this was a mix of a Buddy and Elvis convention. Some people were even excited about that.
“So can I only look at the Buddy things or am I allowed to look at the Elvis things too?” another guest asked. “I only got one ticket, la.”
“You’ve got free range,” Paul assured them.
Paul wandered around the convention to check everything was running smoothly. It was a bit crowded. The stalls were crammed together, and there were far more people than intended. But no one seemed to be causing much fuss.
That was until Paul spotted John having an argument with the Elvis impersonator. Paul felt smug looking at the scene. But then he noticed that a bunch of guests were involved, and he realised it would be best for him to de-escalate it.
Paul strutted over. “What’s going on here?”
“They think we’re racist,” John explained frustratedly.
“For being Elvis fans?” Paul asked.
“No, they think you’re racist too.”
Paul blinked. “What? Why?”
“You can’t have a 50s rock convention if you don’t include Black musicians!” someone in the crowd shouted.
“This isn’t a 50s rock convention,” Paul said calmly. “This is just a Buddy and Elvis convention.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to explain, but they won’t listen,” John said.
“And I’m quitting because I’m not going to be involved in a racist convention,” the Elvis impersonator said. “I get enough flack as it is.”
John groaned and turned to him. “Mate, Little Richard and Chuck Berry are two of my favourite musicians. If this was a 50s rock convention, I would be all over it. But it was only supposed to be a bloody Elvis convention!”
“Then why the bleeding hell are there Buddy Holly things here?” someone in the crowd shot.
“How many times do I have to say it’s because of a fucking booking issue!” John shouted at the same time that Paul said more coolly, “booking issue. It’s really not ideal, I know, I’m sorry.”
“I really don’t care, I’m leaving,” the Elvis impersonator announced, and off he went.
Paul felt a sense of schadenfreude as he watched him leave. The Buddy Holly convention was winning.
“Now who the fuck is gonna impersonate Elvis?” John sighed as he buried his head in his hands.
“I guess you won’t have any impersonator,” Paul mockingly patted John on the back.
“I’m leaving too!” someone in the crowd said. “This convention is complete rubbish anyway.”
“Hey, wait, wait, we can make this a 50s rock ‘n’ roll convention,” Paul said. “Yeah, we just need to set some more things up, and we’re good to go. Celebrating all the 50s rockstars.”
John raised an eyebrow at him. “How are you gonna pull that one off in such little time?”
“I’m just gonna.”
Paul found George, his fellow organiser, and pulled him aside.
“Get some Chuck Berry playing on the speakers, will you?” Paul requested.
“But I thought you only wanted me to play Buddy…” George said.
“Change of plans. This is a 50s rock convention now.”
“And you can just make that decision without discussing it with anybody else? How are we supposed to do that last minute?”
Paul sighed. “Look, George, they’re calling us racist. We can work something out. Make sure you tell everyone else.”
George rolled his eyes. “Fine.”
“Well, I guess it’s time to go shopping,” Paul said to himself, dismally thinking about how much it might cost to go grab some 50s things with the money he didn’t have.
“I can come with,” John offered.
Paul glared at him. “No, thanks.”
“Come on, need to make sure you’re not just getting more Buddy shit. ‘Cause I agree, we can make this 50s rock ‘n’ roll themed. I love 50s rock ‘n’ roll.”
“Fine, fine, you can come.”
He had to admit, it would be easier to get it all sorted quickly with a little help.
They left together just as Chuck Berry’s voice filled the area.
They already had jukeboxes and 50s American diner-style foods, so at least that 50s vibe was sorted. All they needed were some decorations that were about other 50s rockstars.
“I have some at me house,” John said as they stepped outside. “But I live in Woolton. Bit of a bus ride.”
“That’s next to where I live,” Paul commented offhandedly. “Allerton.”
John gave him a curious look.
They wandered off to the nearest bus stop together, lining up with everyone else. Paul knew there was a vintage shop a couple of stops away.
“Is this the right stop?” John asked, squinting at the bus stop sign over the crowd of people.
“Yeah,” Paul said. “It’s going to Lime Street. I know some nice vintage shops near there.”
“I don’t trust you,” John murmured.
He pulled out some very Buddy-looking glasses, put them on, and looked at the bus stop sign again. Paul had to admit, he kind of liked that look on John.
“So it is the right stop, I was right,” John said.
“What’s with the Buddy glasses?” Paul teased.
John self-consciously whipped them off his face and stuffed them in his pocket. Oh, so he didn’t like having glasses, and apparently didn’t like contact lenses either. It was adorable, in a way.
“Is Buddy all you can bloody think about?” John sneered.
When the bus came, Paul was excited that the front seats on the top deck were free, so he had a great view of everything.
John sat next to a stranger on the other side because he didn’t want to be too close to Paul. Good, Paul thought; it was bad enough sleeping with him.
When Paul pressed the stop button, John eyed him for half a second before jumping up to get to the stairs first. So it was going to be like that.
Well, he wouldn’t make a ruckus on the stairs by trying to push in front of John, but on the bottom floor, he slid past John and blocked the way to the door with his arms.
John leaned his elbow on Paul’s shoulder as if he wasn’t slightly shorter.
“You’re blocking the way for people,” John said, much too close to Paul’s ear.
“And I’m gonna get off first, so I won’t be blocking anyone,” Paul rolled his eyes.
“You have no manners.”
When the bus stopped, there was another great race; John and Paul practically fell out the door at the same time.
“I won,” John pumped his fist victoriously.
“It wasn’t a competition,” said Paul, the real winner.
“That’s what losers say.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“And yet you invited me along.”
“Because I’m smart enough to know that if I want this convention to work, sometimes I’m gonna have to put up with people I don’t like.”
They walked into the vintage shop and wandered around separately. There were, annoyingly, a lot of Elvis things. Everything from spoons with Elvis’ face on them to chairs with his face on them to life-sized models.
Paul spotted John grabbing Elvis pins and shirts, and marched over to halt him.
“We don’t need any more Elvis shit, John,” Paul said.
“This is just for meself,” John defended.
“Yeah, well, focus on what we’re doing. You can get that later,” Paul said. “Actually, you might as well just get it from one of the stall holders at the convention, y’know.”
John sighed deeply as he put the things away.
They separated again as they searched.
Paul found a few bits and bobs to do with the likes of Little Richard, Chuck Berry, Bob Dylan, Fats Domino, Ray Charles, etc.
He went back to John who had also found a few things.
“And I found this ad for ciggies from the 50s, which I thought was gear,” John held up a little scroll of paper.
“This is about 50s rock, not-” Paul began.
“50s rockstars smoked, Paul.”
“But people are probably gonna think we’re promoting smoking now.”
“Oh, come on, they’re not that daft.”
“We don’t know!”
John gave in.
They went up to the counter and paid for their separate hoards.
Outside, they had a vape, and looked through their stash.
“It’s not much, is it?” Paul said sadly.
“Speak for yourself,” John said as he tipped a lot more out of his jacket pockets, including that cigarette ad and a few Elvis knicknacks.
Paul gaped at him. “You didn’t.”
John raised a mischievous eyebrow at him. “What?”
“From a vintage shop?”
“Exactly, it’s old shit. Should be free; it’s already well past its heyday.”
Paul shook his head in disbelief, but he wasn’t about to tell John to return it; it was, afterall, a big help. And, admittedly, John’s way of seeing it was amusing.
So they popped their stash into a bag and wandered back to the bus stop.
Back at the convention, things seemed to have gotten even more chaotic. Among the other fights that had started before they had left, there were a bunch of people annoyed because the Elvis impersonator act was supposed to have started.
“John, you decorate, I’ll handle this,” Paul said as he passed the bag to John.
“Excuse me?” John shoved the bag back at Paul. “This is my jurisdiction. I organised the bloody Elvis impersonator.”
Paul was going to argue. He had, afterall, already witnessed John’s shocking PR skills. But, Paul couldn’t really be bothered fighting him, so he left to decorate.
Guests looked at the new decorations in confusion.
“Isn’t this supposed to be an Elvis convention?” someone asked.
“It’s for all 50s rock ‘n’ roll now,” Paul explained, wondering why George apparently hadn’t notified everyone.
“Bit last minute,” the guest murmured.
“Are we complaining though?” Paul smiled pleasantly. “Who doesn’t love 50s rock?”
The guest shrugged. “I prefer the 70s.”
Paul continued to smile, despite getting increasingly annoyed. “We’ll save that for another convention, won’t we?”
“I hope you aren’t organising it, you’re really disorganised.”
Before Paul could reply, he was distracted by a guitar playing through the nearby stage speakers, then a singing voice… John’s voice.
Paul stared at John, on the stage, in the Elvis getup he had been wearing all day, singing and dancing like Elvis. He really knew how to play guitar and sing well.
He felt some kind of pull towards the stage. He couldn’t take his eyes off John. There was some kind of strange electricity to his performance. Elvis himself had a kind of electricity that John was projecting, but John… had his own flavour to it. John was clearly enjoying himself.
John caught Paul’s eyes in his own while he was singing Burning Love. And Paul didn’t know why, but that made him look down in embarrassment.
Loads of guests gathered around to witness the performance. John’s impression of an American accent when he spoke was awful, but it was funny and John was very aware of that. He might not have had the greatest PR skills, but he… actually knew how to work the crowd he was gathering.
When John finished, he got a big round of applause, and then he strode straight over to Paul.
Paul felt very small all of a sudden. He looked at John in a bit of awe.
“Sorted the problem,” John said.
Paul cleared his throat. “Good lad.”
“And for someone who hates Elvis, you sure enjoyed it,” John smirked.
“I don’t hate Elvis. I just hate having my conventions ruined,” Paul defended. And he admitted, “Elvis got me into rock.”
John gaped. “Serious? Me too. That’s why I love him so much. And if I was running a Buddy Holly convention, I wouldn’t waste all me bleeding time shitting on the king.”
“Like you would run a Buddy Holly convention,” Paul drawled.
“He… actually inspired me to write me own songs,” John said timidly. “I kinda think he’s maybe sort of a little cool.”
Paul wanted to laugh. He wanted to tease John. Except Paul had done the exact same thing in the other direction. And something else piqued Paul’s interest.
“You write songs?” Paul asked.
John shrugged, self-conscious. “A bit. Little scraps. Not really interesting.”
“I write too,” Paul said excitedly. “Maybe we can compare.”
“Maybe,” John said.
Gone was the competitiveness. John was shy in a weirdly endearing way.
Paul carried on making sure things were running smoothly. He had to explain again and again that this was a 50s rock convention now. Apparently George had made an announcement and sent emails and texts, but still loads of people hadn’t gotten the memo. Fortunately, most people were pleased with the turn of events.
There weren’t too many more bumps along the road, but by the time they were packing up, Paul was knackered.
Despite this, he still found himself floating towards John.
“Bet you’re glad you’ll never have to see me face again, right?” Paul smirked at him.
“I’d better not,” John said. “But if you live so close, who’s to say?”
“So we’ll probably catch the same bus back, won’t we?”
“I’ll catch a different one just so you don’t have to spend any more time with me.”
“Actually, I…” Paul looked at his feet, then back up at John. “I kinda maybe sort of still wanted to see the songs you’ve written.”
John gave him a look.
“You were pretty good up on stage,” Paul explained.
John furrowed his brow. “Why are you complimenting me now?”
“Because…” Paul shrugged. “Because you’re an alright bloke, and if these booking issues hadn’t happened, I probably would’ve liked you.”
“But you wouldn’t have gotten to sleep with me,” John grinned.
“Yeah…” Paul chuckled awkwardly. “Let’s just put all of this behind us. Will you let me hear your songs? I’ll show you mine.”
John groaned, but he had a hint of a smile on his face. He looped an arm around Paul’s.
“Let us depart to the bus stop, my dear associate,” John said in mock-Queen’s English. He was much better at that than an American accent.
“Yes, let’s,” Paul put on the same accent.
Despite the multiple empty rows on the top deck of the bus, John sat beside Paul.
Paul couldn’t help taking a moment to gush about how great buses were to John. John laughed and teased him, but he still listened intently.
“You’re really weird,” John said affectionately.
“And your obsession with Elvis is normal,” Paul said sarcastically.
“Well, it is.”
“For a lad in his 20s in the 21st century?”
“Well, it’s fun to be passionate about something, isn’t it?”
“It is,” Paul nodded. “Especially music. My god, I love music. I live to play it.”
“I do too.”
“That’s why I bet your songs are good.”
John cringed. “Don’t get too excited.”
But Paul was excited. He loved music so much, it was the best thing to find someone equally passionate. And even if John’s songs weren’t great, well, just the fact that he had written something was brilliant in Paul’s mind.
John’s house was really nice. Too nice for John’s style. It made sense when Paul found out John lived with his aunt. Paul greeted her politely, then they rushed up to John’s room, which was much more rock ‘n’ roll-looking.
“Well, here they are,” John dumped a notebook on the bed. “I write them all down on paper ‘cause it just flows better, I don’t know.”
Paul flicked through the notebook. There was a lot there. Lyrics with the chords written as letters above them, or sometimes no chords written down at all. John couldn’t seem to read musical notation, just like Paul.
He looked back at John. “Well? Play one.”
John frowned. “Really?”
“Come on, you’re great; I saw.”
“Fine,” John murmured, flicking to a page.
Once again, John was incredible. Paul was awed. Even if this wasn’t John imitating Elvis, and this wasn’t John working a crowd. It was just John, slightly nervous, playing his heart out. It was perfect.
The song, too, was pretty good. The lyrics were rather philosophical and Paul liked that.
“That was great!” Paul smiled when John finished.
“It’s shite,” John said. “The middle eight’s so clunky.”
Paul looked at the page to remember what that part was, and offered a suggestion.
John squinted at him. “Don’t go writing me songs for me.”
Paul put his hands up in surrender. “It was only a suggestion.”
John tried it out and looked defeated. “That… works.”
“Told you.”
“Play me one of yours, then.”
John held out his guitar for Paul.
“Oh, I’m lefthanded,” Paul said.
“But I wanna hear what you can do.”
“Then I’ll have to, y’know, restring your guitar,” Paul said. “Or I can play it for you another time.”
John weighed the options in his head, then shoved his guitar into Paul’s hands.
“Restring it,” John said, looking slightly mopey.
“I don’t have to, y’know.”
“Just do it.”
So Paul looked up how to restring a guitar to be lefthanded and followed the instructions.
Meanwhile, John put away the Elvis knicknacks he had stolen. He put the cigarette ad on his wall, next to all of the many Elvis posters, other musician posters, and a couple of movie posters.
Then he sat on the end of the bed, vaping and scrolling on his phone.
“Why do you have a lemon vape?” Paul asked.
John looked at him. “‘Cause I’m a lemon.”
Paul snorted. “What?”
“Me surname’s basically Lemon,” John said casually. “‘Lennon’ with two N’s, y’know.”
Paul burst out laughing. “That’s the stupidest reasoning I’ve ever heard.”
And it seemed to fit John perfectly. He was certainly a character that Paul was growing fond of.
“And why do you have a watermelon vape?” John asked.
“‘Cause I like it.”
“That’s the boring-est reasoning I’ve ever heard.”
Paul snickered, finishing up with the guitar. He tested it, tuned it, then tapped his fingers on it as he looked at John and worked up the courage to play.
John looked at him expectantly. Paul played a love song he had recently scrounged up. He tried not to look at John while he played; John seemed to have a straight face which only made Paul more nervous.
But when Paul was done, John clapped.
“Fuck, you can play guitar,” John praised. “And that song was alright.”
“Thanks,” Paul said as he carefully put the guitar back down.
“Y’know, you should join me band.”
Paul raised an eyebrow. “You have a band?”
“I mean… the others aren’t fantastic. But it’s a band, yeah. I think we need another actual musician.”
Paul smiled. “That could be cool.”
“It’s settled then,” John shook his hand to seal the deal.
Paul yawned and checked the time. It wasn’t very late, but he was still very tired. It had been a long day.
“I think it’s bedtime,” Paul said, standing up.
“Fix me guitar, then you can go,” John shoved the guitar back at him.
Paul frowned, but he took the guitar and started making it right-handed again. When he was done, he checked the map on his phone.
“Half an hour walk home,” Paul groaned. “And I just missed the bus, so I’ll have to either wait half an hour or walk half an hour…”
“Sucks for you,” John smirked.
Paul leaned his head on his hand. “And what if I can’t be bothered?”
“You want us to sleep together again?” John asked. “It’ll be even worse this time ‘cause I have a single bed.”
Paul looked at him with big eyes. “I wouldn’t mind. Would you mind? I’m bloody knackered.”
John sighed. “I guess I can deal with it for one night.”
Paul grinned. “Thanks, mate.”
Paul put on his pyjamas and slipped into John’s bed. A suggestive photo of Elvis stared down at him from the roof. Paul covered his mouth with his hand as he laughed about it.
John squished himself beside Paul. They looked into each other’s eyes because there weren’t many other places to look while they were so close together.
“Hey, beautiful,” John purred teasingly. “I can finally see your face properly…”
“You’ve really got the hots for Elvis, have you?” Paul grinned.
John turned slightly pink. “He’s okay.”
“What would you think if I had a duck’s arse?”
John turned pinker. “I’d think you’d finally learnt how to style your hair.”
“Well, I used to have it like that, y’know.”
Paul climbed out of bed with some kind of weird determination to fluster John, or something.
He went into the bathroom, used John’s gel, and perfectly shaped it into something resembling Elvis’ hair.
He returned to John and showed off.
“Christ,” John murmured. He paused, then added, “I think your face is too cute for it.”
Paul scoffed. “What does that even mean?”
“That you’re too cute to be cool.”
“I’m plenty cool.”
“Ah-huh,” John said sarcastically.
Paul rolled his eyes, sliding back into bed beside John. Again, they could feel each other’s breath on their faces.
“I think you look cool with glasses,” Paul told him.
“I look stupid.”
“You pull it off,” Paul said. “I don’t know, it suits you. It’s cute.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not aiming for cute.”
“I mean, like… attractive. Y’know?”
John shook his head. “You’re saying you’re attracted to me?”
Paul hated that being so close to John, he couldn’t hide his blush.
“I can just appreciate when someone is objectively attractive,” Paul tried to explain. “I mean, yeah, I like men, but- I don’t know. You know what I mean.”
John laughed lightly at him.
Paul pulled a face. “Why are you laughing?”
John smiled. “‘Cause you’re funny.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know, you’re weird.”
“Yeah, you already said that.”
“It’s true. And I like that. Y’know, ‘cause I’m weird too, I guess.”
“Let’s just sleep,” Paul decided, already closing his eyes.
Sleeping together on a single bed proved difficult. They somehow ended up on top of each other multiple times as they tried to get to sleep. Eventually, they settled when their limbs were tangled together in some abstract way.
When Paul awoke the next morning, he was locked in a cuddle with John. It was honestly comfortable.
He took a moment just to witness John’s sleeping form. So peaceful. So soft.
John stirred awake and opened his eyes to Paul.
“Morning,” Paul whispered.
John made a sound that vaguely resembled “morning”.
The morning was slow. They were both still drained from the day before. Paul really wanted to get back home to his own bed to have a proper rest.
While they were eating cornflakes at the dining table in one of the many nicely-decorated rooms, John announced, “I’ve decided what we’re doing today.”
“What we’re doing?” Paul asked.
“Yeah, we’re going to your place so you can get your own guitar, and we’re jamming together. Y’know, since you’re in me band now.”
“Oh, that’s right,” Paul smiled. “Yeah, we could do that.”
At Paul’s much smaller house, Paul and John sat on the sofa in the living room with guitars. They looked like a mirror of each other, with their guitars facing the other way.
There was something really delightful about playing with another person. Paul had played with George sometimes, but he still didn’t have much experience with others, and it had never felt like this. Like they just clicked together.
Paul was smiling with the energy of it all, John was smiling too. They watched each other’s eyes because that somehow made the music even better.
They played Elvis, they played Buddy Holly, they played Little Richard, they even played the songs they had shown each other last night. In fact, the songs they had written sounded better with each other’s contributions.
Over the next week, they continued to jam together at every opportunity. Paul didn’t even meet the rest of the band. Neither cared. They loved being around each other, they loved playing together.
And damn, Paul could barely hide his attraction anymore. John was cool; he had thought that even when he had had a problem with him. And when he played - when he was in his element - there was just something beautiful about it. Authenticity, passion, and maybe a little magic. Plus, John was just plain hot.
Paul didn’t know if John liked him back, but in the end, he thought he might as well risk it for the biscuit. Because he salivated at the very thought of how John’s brand of passion might translate into love-making. He also just really wanted to kiss him and snuggle him.
Paul spent a lot of time working on a song during the rare time Paul wasn’t with John. It was in Elvis’ style, and it was a song asking John to be his boyfriend. He rehearsed it for a week before he worked up the courage to present it to John.
They met at Paul’s house as usual - John had decided it was much cozier than his own - and got ready to jam.
Paul nervously ran his fingers up and down his guitar. He shifted in his seat. He almost sweated. He liked John so much that of course this was scary. Because what if he fucked up? What if John thought the whole idea of Paul writing a song like that for John was just too corny and actually he hated Paul after all and he never wanted to see him again?
Paul took a deep breath. Encouraged himself with the sex fantasy again. Finally, he looked John in the eyes.
“So we’ve been going out for a while now,” John said first, like maybe he had read Paul’s mind.
“Going out…?” Paul asked. “Is that what we’ve been doing?”
John gave him a funny look. “What else do you call this?”
“Jamming with a friend?” Paul suggested.
John snorted. “Whatever. I was just gonna ask, do you wanna actually be me boyfriend?”
Paul’s heart somersaulted out of him. John had asked first. Of course he had. Of course he had said it like it was the easiest thing in the world. Like he just knew Paul liked him back. Because he was cool.
“Yeah,” Paul said when he remembered his mouth. “Yeah, I really wanna be your boyfriend, John.”
“Oh, thank fuck,” John chuckled a little, hand over his mouth. “I was so fucking scared I’d just fucked it up.”
Paul giggled excitedly. “Oh, Johnny, I wrote you a whole fucking song to ask you out.”
John laughed. “Are you serious?”
“I still have to play it because I don’t want all my efforts going to waste.”
Paul played the song. John’s eyes were soft as he listened. A look Paul had grown used to in the time he had spent with him - when his whole tough persona disappeared and he was just relaxed and happy.
When he was done, John shook his head affectionately. “That’s so stupid. Very you. I love it.”
Paul smiled. John took his hands and kissed them.
“Let me kiss you, boyfriend,” John said.
So they kissed. They clicked together just like music. John was wearing his glasses, Paul had his hair in a duck’s arse.