2 / 3 (2008-09 version)

[zzzsleeptalker]

NO MORE SITUATIONS PART 2 / 3

Pairing: John / Paul
Rating: NC17 (for Part 3)
Setting: Hamburg 1961
Summary: The day after an awkward night.
Notes: As usual, apologies in advance for any inconsistencies in terms of chronology, geography, etc.

*I Saw Her Standing There  written around late 1962, I'm wheeling it out a little prematurely, so please suspend that old disbelief.

*The Top Ten Club / The Reeperbahn - liberties were taken with the description.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, I make no profit, I mean no harm!

Note from 31st Jan 2009: This chapter has been largely re-written, this is the reason why it has been locked for so long. Hopefully the pacing problems that people commented on have been fixed. Feedback always welcome. The chapter is cut off at the end because of word limitations, so expect a third chapter soon.

Pt 1 | Pt 2 | Pt 3


 
Paul was woken by the sound of a guitar being tuned. The persistent chime and twang of strings as each note was stretched and drawn into shape was familiar and satisfying. Paul felt a detached contentment as he half-listened, rubbing his forehead into the soft trough that his skull had made in the goose feather.

“So are you two getting up today or what?” George’s voice drifted in from the hallway. John clear his throat in a low, distracted way, then muttered: “Strings are buggered on this.”



There was a pause, then the hollow thump of George’s shoes on the dry floorboards as he came in. “Thought us lot were going into town today,” he said. A creak as he seated himself on John’s bed. “Let’s have a go.” Shuffling and the bump of the guitar's body resettling. “You’re lazy sods," George said, strumming quietly. "It’s half three.”

“Appalling.”



“Where’d you get off to last night?”

“Out debauching ourselves, weren't we, Paul?” John said loudly.

Paul kept his face turned into his pillow, feigning sleep.

George was skipping up and down the guitar neck now, throwing snatches together in some loose approximation of Chet Atkins. He stopped to blow his nose, then a wooden clatter as the guitar was set down against the wall. Fully awake and bored of pretending otherwise, Paul turned onto his back and rubbed a hand roughly across his face. His lip ached faintly at the contact.

“Bit worse for wear, are we?” George said.

Paul manoeuvred himself slowly upright and stared blearily about the cramped little room. The whitewashed walls were blazing with the sunlight pouring in through the room’s single window. Paul blinked dazedly and sat forward with an elbow settled on his knee, his hand propped under his chin.

"He's been well out of it," John said, getting to his feet and extracting a pack of cigarettes from the tangle of his jeans on the floor. He went to the window, standing tall and white in his briefs, the clean light picking out the dark hair about his body. He angled a match head and struck, stiff and precise, bending his head and fanning the flame across the cigarette end before shaking it out in one fluid gesture. He straightened and stared down his nose at Paul imperiously. Paul returned the look with studied blandness.

"Go on then," George prompted, settling a pillow behind his back. "Where did you go?"



Paul shrugged.

“Just some shitty party.”

“Whose?”

“Dunno,” Paul said. “They were his mates.”

The pause that followed was laden. John smoked his cigarette. Paul gnawed a loose bit of skin on the side of his thumb.



“You look better,” he said at last to George.

“Told you it was just a cold.” George was studying Paul shrewdly. “What have you done to your face?”

Paul touched his lip.

Someone smack you?”

“More than likely,” Paul said dryly.

“You should have seen him,” John said, turning and unlatching the window. A cool stir of air came into the room along with the dim noise of traffic. “Proper drunken shindy.”

“Oh yeah?" George smiled crookedly. "What happened, Paul?"



“Ah. Good question.” Paul tapped his chin with his finger, forcing a grin. He got out of bed and scrubbed a hand through his hair. “You want to go into town then?

“Paul McCartney, master of evasion,” John drawled, leaning out of the window.

“Come on then, you lot.” Pete had appeared in the doorway, jacket in one hand, comb in the other. “We going out or what?”

“Let me have a wash and put some clothes on,” Paul said. Pete clicked his tongue.

“I'm meeting Carla at four.”

“Carla?" Paul pulled a face. "What happened to old what -her-name?"



Pete was carefully sculpting his hair, teasing one gelled curl to fall across his forehead. "Old news."

"You've more bloody birds than you know what to do with." Paul said.

“Oh piss off.” Pete smirked. "I can think of a few things to do with them, thanks very much." He turned jauntily and headed off down the corridor.



"Here, wait for us," George called, getting to his feet.

“I don't see what you've got to complain about,” John said abruptly. He was facing Paul again, his eyes heavy-lidded and inscrutable. “The attention you've been getting lately.”


“What do you mean?” Paul said tonelessly. George hung between them, pausing out of interest.

“You.” John tilted his head, his heavy brows lifting. "Last night. Bit too popular for your own good.”


The blood bloomed hot across Paul's cheeks. John's face remained smooth and ingenuous.



"I'll be off then." George muttered, raising a hand in a vague wave. His footfalls were loud along the corridor and down the wooden staircase.

John smiled thinly. “It’s not like how it is with a girl, is it? You want to be more careful.”

“Oh right,” Paul said flatly. “Thanks. Great advice. Brilliant.”

John made a noise that was both a chuckle and a groan. He drew on his cigarette before reaching back to flick ash out the window. “How long are you gonna be pissed off for then?”

“Who's pissed off?”

“You. With me.” John huffed a breath of laughter, spilling smoke from his mouth.



Paul went and sat on the stool at the rough little dresser table. "I'm not pissed off."



"Alright. I glad to hear it. Because I –“ John pulled up short. “You're a big boy, right, Paul? You can make your own decisions. I'm not your babysitter, I'm not your daddy -"

"Fuck off," Paul said. He hadn't meant for his irritation to come through so sharply, but it did. He shook his head and fell silent.

"You want to grow up a bit, son." John said. "What happened last night. You, going getting smashed off your head, popping pills."

"You know I only went along in the first place because you -”



"Yeah, blame me for everything, Paul, go ahead."

“You threw me in with that lad.” Paul said quietly. “You knew how he was. You were throwing me in from the beginning because you and the rest of them thought it’d be a laugh. You wanted to show me up, and you did.”

“Yeah, that’s it.” John slapped a hand over his heart. “We're all out to get you.”


"You knew."

"Knew what?" John prompted.

Paul stared at him, saying nothing.

"Alright.” John stubbed out his cigarette. He twisted the butt slowly, crushing it on the windowsill. "Yeah, maybe I did know. Everyone knows. It's a joke, for fuck's sake. Matt's been on at me to introduce you to him for months. He comes by all the time. He's got this sketch book, and he sits at the bar. Paul, I bet he draws you, I bet he's got pictures on his wall at home - oh Christ," John was laughing. He covered his eyes with his hand. "It is funny, Paul. It's funny, come on. You never even noticed, did you? That poor fucker." John lowered his hand, his brows drawing together in incredulity. "He wants to bugger you blind. As if you bend over for it. As if you’d let a fellah put his dick up you."

Paul found himself on his feet, moving automatically. He picked his jeans up off the end of his bed and yanked open a dresser draw, searching for clean underwear and a shirt.

“Sorry, did I embarrass you?” John said.

“No.” Paul shoved clothes aside, closed the drawer roughly and opened another one.

“It was meant to be a bit of fun.”

“What?” Paul kept his back to him.

“Fun.” John enunciated deliberately. "Fun, it was meant to be funny, a terrific time for all, ha ha ha, that sort of thing."

“Yeah, well.” Paul straightened. “You’ve made him and me look like a right pair of idiots. So congratulations.” He started for the door.

John snorted. “You’re sure you’re not one of them afterall?” He lifted his chin and fixed Paul with a measuring look. “You throw a strop like a queer.”

Paul paused in the doorway. He turned his head. John’s eyes were lowered as he removed another cigarette from his pack. He tapped the cigarette on the face of the pack, kept tapping, kept staring down at his hands, like he was expecting something to happen.

Paul left without a word.

***

“What’s it going to be then?” Pete said.

The three guitarists stood facing him, shoulder-to-shoulder, faces shining with sweat, clothing hanging damp on their skin. On the weekends, the stage could become unbearable, under the glare of the lights, with so many bodies crammed into the club, so close it felt as though everyone was breathing the same kettle steam.

“Saturday, isn’t it?” John said roughly, almost bellowing to be heard over the lively noise of voices from the dance floor. The others stared back at him mutely, their faces betraying the same flushed mixture of exhilaration and exhaustion. “It’s Saturday,” John repeated. “So, we know the set.”

Paul tilted his head slowly to one side. “But…we’ve not been playin the set though, have we?”

John squinted and did as George and Pete did, ducking in closer to hear him.

“We left off the set four songs back,” Paul said. “We haven’t done any Elvis. Blue Suede Shoes, I’ve got a Woman: that’s Saturday's.”

John threw out his arms. “The night is young.”

“Mm, I can feel myself gettin older,” George said. “So it’s Elvis then?”

“No.” John hitched up his arm to rest on the curve of his guitar’s body.

“Well then?” Pete said.

“I Saw Her Standing There,” John said.

Paul shook his head, turned away for a moment to assess the crowd. “Can we not do something else?”

“You’re up for it?” John’s eyes slid from George to Pete.

“We’re off after this,” Pete pointed out. “Jaybirds can do the rest of the fuckin night on their own, far as I’m concerned.” He took up a stick in either hand and bent over the drums in readiness. That seemed to decide it. Paul felt John looking at him, but he turned and twitched aside the cord trailing between his base and the amp so that he wouldn’t get his foot caught on his way to the mic.

His right hand felt like a stiff old glove, curled in on itself. He stretched out his fingers and felt a dull ache in his knuckles, a familiar grate of bone and muscle.

The crowd was packed in close to the edge of the stage; a rumbling mass. Paul caught an impression of white, unturned faces, of glowing dresses, bodies wavering, pressing and parting. He wiped the sweat from his brow. There were a few whoops and anticipatory shouts as he bent to adjust the mic stand. He straightened and the mic caught a couple of his unsettled breaths.

The others were waiting over his shoulder. He twisted at the hips so that he could see them, then his voice came clear and light out of his throat as he counted them in. The guitars wailed either side of him and the leaping smash of Pete’s stick off the high-hat carried them along at a frenetic pace. Paul slammed the thick strings of his bass with the numb pad of his thumb.

“– you know what I mean,” His voice was a little ragged. “And the way she looked was way beyond–” He was already shifting tidily to one side of the mic, knowing John would be there. The other youth was solid and unflappable, shoulders squared, heavy brows lowered. He bobbed, bowlegged, with each down stroke of his guitar, his feet planted wide and firm.

“How could I dance with another, oh,” John’s voice belted raw and low in Paul’s ear. “When I saw her standing there?”

Alone again, Paul pounded through the second verse. He felt a fierce rush of excitement. The whole world was watching him. John was watching him. A thrill in his chest, seized like a hot fist clenched there. Sweat was pouring off him like he had a fever. His voice came so smooth now, hot out of his throat. He nodded his head jauntily, grinning down at the chaos of the dance floor.

“– before too long, I’d fall in love with her.”

John stepped in. Their voices rolled together and they breathed hot into each other’s faces, stamped their feet as if to break the flooring under them. Their arms were braced stiff around their guitars, they pressed together, elbow and shoulder, their knuckles striking occasionally.

They shrieked and yelped into the mic, leapt reeling back, and George’s guitar rang neatly in the interval. Paul pulled in sharp breaths, the blood thrumming in his veins like an electric current. He glanced aside to find John’s eyes fixed on him. They stepped in close.

“Well, my heart went boom –”

Paul’s head was ringing as he beat out the final verse on his own, this time distracted, impatient for the richer body of the harmony. He fumbled the words slightly as he made space at the mic. He felt a stab of embarrassment, then it didn’t matter. In another second there was only a jolt of satisfaction at the press of John’s shoulder against his.

“Now, I’ll never dance with another – oh!” Their voices melded roughly with exertion. “Since I saw her standin there.” They drew slightly apart, gazes brushing. “Well, since I saw her standin there.” Paul felt a sharp tightening in his stomach as they moved in for a final time. “Yeah, since I saw her standin there.”

They staggered back, the final notes twanging brutish and dirty from their guitars.

The response from the dance floor was sheer uproar. Paul couldn’t keep from smiling, drunk on delight as he ducked his head. Some of his elation faded as he turned to find John watching him with a drawn, pensive expression. They were both panting, staring at each other in the midst of the din. Paul raised his arms awkwardly as he lifted his base off over his head.

“What?” He shouted, settling the instrument on its stand. John seemed not to hear him and turned away, busying himself taking off his own guitar and switching off the amps.

Paul followed George and Pete to the end of the stage. He started down the steps. A hand grabbed his arm, John was pulling him back a step, bending to speak into his ear, their cheeks touching. “Let’s go for a smoke.”

Paul squinted up at him. He couldn’t make out his face from the glare of the lights overhead.

They had a hard time getting through the crowd. Beyond the dance floor, there was the usual throng of people at the bar, and the small seating area on the other side of the club was packed out.

John disappeared off to fetch his cigarettes. Paul got called over to one of the tables where he had his hand roundly shaken and his cheeks vigorously kissed by most of the large party of men and women. He downed one of the three bottles of beer gifted to him and had a short, broken conversation about Buddy Holly before politely trying to extricate himself, apologetically refusing a couple of girls who were patting an empty seat between them invitingly.

“Paul?”

He turned away from the party in relief, faltering when he found that it was Matthäus who had called to him and who now stood in front of him.

“Oh.” Paul glanced over his shoulder, hoping to find some escape.

“Can I please speak with you?” Matthäus’ face was pale and he was gripping his coat rigidly between his hands.

“Er,” Paul swallowed and tried to align his features into a more sober expression. He was still keyed up from the stage, and Matthäus’ appearance put a hole in things.

“I am sorry. I, ah,” Matthäus’ mouth searched silently for words. He shook his head. “I do not mean to make trouble, I just want to apologise. So. I am sorry.” He inclined his head stiffly and moved to go.

“Uh, hang on,” Paul said. Matthäus paused. Paul groped for something to say, but the boisterous voices all around them were making it difficult to focus. “Let’s go outside, eh? I can’t hear myself think.”

“Fine.”

Paul, realising he still held two full beer bottles in either hand, unceremoniously presented one to Matthäus. The German youth hesitated before accepting, mumbling his thanks. His features suddenly stiffened in unease.

John had returned. He stood beside Paul, looking down his nose at Matthäus with cool dislike.

Paul jerked his head for Matthäus to follow him. “See you in a minute,” he said, throwing John a look over his shoulder.

“Oi, Paul –” Whatever John had started to say, Paul didn’t hear it. He was maneuvering through into the throng, making for the club’s entrance.

The relief of stepping through the front doors and out into the cold night air was delicious. The breeze gusted coolly over his flushed skin, chilling the sweat like a dousing tide. There was a queue outside the club, and the pavement was busy with people dressed up and raucous for a night out. Blazing neon from the surrounding buildings bled in a riotous parade up the length of the street, a sordid carnival against the night sky. Drunken shouts and laughter mingled with the muffled thump of music.

Paul wheeled slowly around on the pavement, realising that Matthäus wasn’t behind him. He was about to go back into the club when the German youth emerged through the doors, wearing a sour expression. He had one hand jammed in his trouser pocket, his other arm held across his middle with his coat folded over it, beer bottle clutched awkwardly in his hand. His eyes were downcast, his shoulders hunched defensively.

“Did John say something to you?” Paul asked.

Matthäus’ mouth twisted. “It does not matter. I came to talk to you.” He lifted his dark eyes. “I hope I can convince you that - that I did not mean for things to go as they did. My behaviour…” He lifting his beer in a struggling gesture and seemed to glance pointedly at Paul’s mouth, at the shadow of bruising there.

“Yeah, well.” Paul shrugged. “Forget about it. We’d both had a few.”

“A few?”



“To drink.”

Matthäus smiled uncomfortably. “You had been drinking. I took advantage.”

That startled a laugh out of Paul.

“But I mean, it’s not like... I’m not a girl.” He took a swig of beer and glanced past Matthäus’ shoulder, down the street. Music had started up again in the club and the baseline and drumbeat were spilling out. Paul nodded his head slightly in time with the rhythm, trying to cover his discomfort.

“I know you are not a girl.” Matthäus smiled, studying Paul’s face. Paul shuffled under the appraisal, suddenly feeling conscious of how scruffy he looked, his face flushed and damp, his shirt stained with sweat, his hair slick with it.

“And I know - ” Matthäus said. “It was not right for me to press myself on you.”

Paul could only nod and swallow more beer.

“I thought that you already knew how I felt about you,” Matthäus went on. “And I thought that maybe…”

“It’s alright,” Paul said shortly. “I know John’s probably been tellin you all sorts.”

Matthäus gave him a strange look.

“He thinks it’s funny,” Paul explained, shaking his head. “You know. He wanted to put one over on me.”

“I do not understand.”

“Well, because,” Paul began haltingly. “Because, like, back home, it’s – it’s. Being, you know,” He gestured awkwardly towards Matthäus. “Well, it’s not done. And, well, kissing a lad,” He stared off past Matthäus’ shoulder again, speaking in a rush. “You’d never hear the end of it. You’d get the mickey taken out of you forever.”

Matthäus was keeping silent, listening closely.

“I mean, I don’t necessarily, I don’t say there’s anything wrong necessarily with…” Paul trailed off again. He cleared his throat before resuming: “Just basically, whatever John told you about me, it’s bollocks. He did it for a wind up because…the way we are, you don’t – you don’t go with a lad. It’s just not…done.”

“You think that John set us up as a joke,” Matthäus said slowly.

“Yeah. He’s a, you know, he’s a twat like that sometimes. He does it for a laugh. I’m sorry you got the wrong –”

Matthäus interrupted: “But you are very mistaken. It was not his aim to make you look foolish.”

Paul chuckled. “Look, I know John. I know him.”

“John engineered the situation because he wanted to see how you would react.”

Paul frowned at Matthäus, lowering his arm slowly, his beer bottle coming to rest against his thigh.

“Paul, listen, I think you should know…”

Paul watched him silently. Matthäus shook his head. “But I am perhaps not the right person…”

“No, come on.”

Matthäus met his gaze resignedly. “I think you should ask John why he did all of this.”

“Well, I know why–”

“And you should maybe ask him why he looks at you in the way you think men only look at women. I think you already have noticed, but you do not allow yourself to consider it.”

Paul laughed thinly. “You don’t know what you’re on about.”

“You must have felt it,” Matthäus said. “Before, when you were on stage. You must have felt his eyes on you.”
Paul looked at him sharply.

“Yes, you did.” There was a strange note of misery in Matthäus’ voice, even as his eyes moved over Paul’s face with something like hunger.

“It’s not like that,” Paul said stiffly. “John’s – he’s a mate, alright?”

“And that is why he is afraid,” Matthäus said. “That is why he is testing. He is afraid of you finding out. But also, he is wanting you to find out.”

Paul wiped his forehead, his face, feeling the sweat there like a sickly clamminess now. He lifted his beer as if to drink, then lowered it again, dropping it into the gutter. The glass landed with a clatter in the road but it didn’t break. He wished it had.

“It’s not like that,” Paul repeated.

“No?” Matthäus said quietly. “And I suppose you have never wondered what it would be like to kiss John, to–to go to bed with him –?”

“Come off it,” Paul said angrily.

John’s face close to his at the mic, John’s breath hot against his mouth, John’s lazy, dark eyes, John’s pitiless smile–

“Jesus.” Paul pushed his damp hair back from his forehead. “You can’t leave alone, can you?”

“He’s a coward,” Matthäus said in a low tone. “And a fool. He can have you, and he does nothing.”

There was a strained pause. Paul could feel the blood beating in his cheeks. He shook his head.

“I’m gonna go back in,” he muttered. “I’ll see you.”

“Goodbye, then.” Matthäus said, flat and weary. “I am sorry. Truly.”

Paul faltered. “Look…no hard feelings, alright?” He hesitated, then held out his hand, because it seemed proper, like the sort of thing his dad would have told him to do. Matthäus clasped his hand solemnly, meeting his gaze for a long moment before withdrawing. Paul stood for a few seconds, watching him make his way slowly up the street, before sliding his hands into his jeans’ pockets and heading back into the Top Ten.

***

He went for a piss and caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror on the way out. His eyes stared glassily back at him. Something like shock lingered in the tense line of his mouth.

He pressed through the milling bodies towards the bar, conscious of himself, as if his face were giving something away. He raked his fingers through his hair and tried to dispel the unaccountable feeling of submerged dread.

The Jaybirds were onstage, moaning breathlessly through a rough rendition of Maybe Baby, complete with hitching American twang that didn’t entirely convince. Paul reached the bar and picked out John sitting at the far end with a drink in front of him. He had an untouchable look about him, like he was removed from everything around him. His head was turned; he was watching the club’s entrance.

Paul called to the bartender for a whisky and coke. His accent stood out sharp from the rumble of German voices and John looked up. Paul strolled over and took the stool beside him.

“Oh dear.” He nodded towards the stage. “What're they doing to Buddy?” He picked up a pack of matches lying on the counter and slapped John’s arm with them. “Give us a cigarette then.”

John nudged his pack towards him and lifted his glass to his lips while Paul lit up.

“D’you have a nice chat then?” John said, staring ahead.

Paul hummed and shook out his match.

“Came to make up, did he?” John said. “Down on his knees. Oh, won’t someone pardon this man! Such a good man!” John wrung his hands. “ ‘Please, I didn’t mean nothin by it! Me knuckles just slipped somehow and ended up in your face!’”

“Yeah, actually, that’s just how it happened,” Paul said, all mock-amazement. “That’s uncanny, that.”

“Or was he ’round to take you out, eh?” A sly, knowing tone entered John’s voice. “Glockner’s, all those Clubs 'round there? You know about them…” He let the sentence hang meaningfully.

“Yeah, John, sure,” Paul said, feigning boredom, dragging on his cigarette.

“You’ll be givin him ideas.”

“If you say so.”

“Never thought I’d see the day.” John raised his glass in an ironic little toast. “But oh yes…Hamburg will work its magic.” He tipped his glass back and emptied it.

Paul rubbed his forehead wearily. “Are you done?”

“Dunno.”

“Right then.” Paul got to his feet.

“Come on, Paul, take a joke,” John said, hunching over his empty glass. “Have a fuckin laugh.”

Paul moved around John and lifted the hatch on the counter so that he could get in behind the bar. John’s eyes followed him with idle interest. The bartender glanced up from the drinks that he was pouring as Paul strode over. A small bit of wrangling got him a bottle of whisky and a packet of Prellies. He held up the whisky victoriously as he came back to John, who was sitting up straighter on his stool, reservation making his features blank and stern. Paul shrugged.

“Well then?”

“You’re a wild one, McCartney,” John drawled, but he shook his head and pushed himself slowly away from the bar.

***

They went upstairs. The noise from the club dropped to a low-level thrum under their feet. Paul dumped himself down on his bed and put on the lamp. The room felt cold and unfamiliar in spite of the sheets still tossed and rumpled on both beds, the clothing scattered on the floor. Paul had a halfhearted go at straightening the eiderdown, then picked up the acoustic guitar resting against John’s bed.

“Have we only got the one up here?” Turning, he found that John was still standing in the doorway, his hands in his back pockets. He lifted his head at Paul’s question and swept his eyes around the cramped little room. Paul thought he’d never looked so haughty as he did just then, dimly lit in the doorway, his long features hawkish and disinterested. Paul felt suddenly nervous of him.

“I’ll have a look.” John went to check George and Pete’s room. Paul tore the cap off of the whisky and drank a hurried mouthful. His throat burned savagely with it and he coughed against the back of his hand, settling the bottle clumsily on the nightstand as John returned with a plain little Spanish guitar.

“Steady, son, steady.” John dropped down onto his bed opposite Paul.

Paul started strumming, his fingers finding their way into Cathy’s Clown. John joined him in the punching guitar rhythm, and they piped the forlorn close-harmony.

More whisky. Sloppy strumming. They shouted along to a song coming up through the floorboards, cracking the heels of their shoes in time. Paul could feel his face grown flushed. His head was ringing pleasantly.

“No! God help us,” John cried as Paul tried to draw him into All I Have to do is Dream. Ignoring his complaints, Paul crooned beguilingly, dipping his chin low to his chest, looking up at John through his lashes, his mouth pursed.

“…When I want you in my arms, when I want you and all your charms…” His voice wobbled with restrained laughter.

“They've got laws against this sort of thing."

“…Whenever I want you, all I have to do…is dream.”

John slapped his guitar’s body in an arrhythmic beat, whooping “Hoo! Hah!”, kicking out his legs, miming goose-steps, hoping to snap Paul out of his shmaltz. He relented suddenly as Paul reached the middle-eight, sliding richly into the low part.

“I can make you mine, taste your lips of wine, anytime, night or day…Only trouble is…” John laid on his most impassioned Everly’s impression. “Gee whiz! I'm dreamin' my life away –

“Enough, enough! Fuckin hell.”

They dumped the guitars against the bed. John leant with his back against the wall, his legs stretched out in front of him, arms folded loosely. “What is it then?”

Paul placed the whisky on the floor and sat forward, grasping the wooden frame of the bed with both hands. “What?”

“What do you want to say?”

Paul rubbed his eyes. “Dunno. I didn’t have a set… you know, an agenda.”

“You’re foolin no one, son,” John said, mock-stern, like a copper. He smirked at Paul, but his eyes were guarded. “What is it? You got us up here, you got us drunk, drunk enough you can say whatever you want.”

Paul bowed his head, drooping forward, staring down at his shoes. His teeth and gums were tingling numb. He drew in a deep breath, luxuriating in the feeling of air in his mouth, air expanding his lungs, then sighed, blowing out his cheeks.

“Really,” he huffed. “I don’t have anything to, uh…”

John rolled his head to one side, his skull resting back against the wall, his eyes pinning him. “Pull the other one.”

Paul grinned drowsily. “Pull it yourself.” He lay back on the bed, propped on his elbow. Even as he smiled, he felt a trickle of unease, a sobering anxiety. He plucked at the eiderdown. John waited in silence. Ceaseless music from below, the muffled thump-thump-thump of the bass drum, the club in full swing while the little room was suddenly so still and quiet. Paul cleared his throat.

“I don’t know,” he said slowly. “It was okay tonight, wasn’t it?”

“What was?” John said. “The set?”

“Yeah.” Paul blinked down at his fingers.

“So what about it?”

Paul shrugged. “Dunno.” He gnawed at the callused skin on the side of his thumb.

“Jesus, I’m about to throttle you in a minute.”

“It was funny when he showed up,” Paul said. “Matt.”

The atmosphere in the room sharpened, focused to a single point.

“He said some things.”

“I bet he did,” John said flatly. “There’s not much he wouldn’t say. You think I’m jokin about all that?”

“I don’t mean –”

“What do you think he’s after, eh? You want to give the guy somethin for his wet dream? Is that it?” John’s voice had turned cold. He laughed. “I do wonder about you sometimes.”

Paul stiffened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“With him, at Lucas’s,” John got to his feet, moved a step back, a step forward, almost swaying restlessly. “It was done as a joke, and you could of taken it as a joke, but now you’re steppin out with him, I don’t know.” He shook his head. “It’s the idea of some attention for you, isn’t it? You’re gonna have him thinkin he has a chance. Because you need someone moonin over you, don’t you? You can’t stand–”

“Fuck off,” Paul said. He was sitting up now, his head reeling.

John laughed savagely. “I’ll do that.” He started for the door.

“What the fuck is all of this?” Paul pushed himself up off the bed, grabbed John’s shoulder. “Can’t you just listen to me? I’m tryin to–”

“What?” John swung around, throwing Paul’s hand off. “What the fuck is it you’re trying to say?” He shoved Paul’s chest. “Come on.”

Paul let himself fall back a step. “I don’t care, alright?” He shouted. “I don’t care about – about liking lads, or whatever.” He lowered his head, unable to meet John’s eye. “For fuck’s sake, you’re my best mate –”

“What do you think?” John erupted. “Do you think I’m queer, is that it?”

“I don’t fuckin care if you are,” Paul said fiercely. “I’m saying, you don’t have to go fixin me up with someone, makin me look like a berk –”

John had his hands fisted in Paul’s t-shirt. He hauled him aside, throwing him into the wall, thumping his back against the plaster.

“Say it, fuckin say it!” He barked.

Paul looked up through his disheveled hair. John’s face was stiff and furious, inches from his own.

“I –” He tried to marshal his thoughts. The alcohol in his blood had left him stunned and slow.

“Come on!”

"I don’t know!" Paul shouted. “I like you, alright?”

***

Pt 1 | Pt 2 | Pt 3