Decisions and Revisions

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/18891739.

Rating: Mature
Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: M/M
Fandom: The Beatles (Band)
Relationship: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Character: John Lennon, Paul McCartney, Ringo Starr, George Harrison, Jim
McCartney, Stuart Sutcliffe, Ivan Vaughan
Additional Tags: AU, Time Travel, Time Travel AU, the beatles never happened, paul is
from the future, So is ringo, i dont know where im going with this, Slow
Burn, Lots of confusion, Lots of denial
Language: English
Stats: Published: 2019-05-20 Completed: 2022-09-27 Chapters: 21/21 Words:
103201

Decisions and Revisions

by orphan_account

Summary

Paul McCartney, born 18 June, 1999, works at a failing record shop in downtown
Liverpool. John Lennon, born 9 October, 1940, played in a rock band that never made it big
before falling into obscurity. The two were never supposed to meet.

Fortune has other plans, it seems.

Tossed unceremoniously into a place so close to but so far from home, Paul struggles to
find any sense of familiarity. As he tries to come to terms with whatever it is fate has
thrown at him, he may find, instead, that he belongs here more than anywhere.

Edit: this fic has been orphaned. See last chapter for details. Anyone who wants to continue
it is free to do so with my blessing.
 Thou Strumpet Fortune
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

There was always a wave of customers to Anthony’s Records and Music at about four in the
afternoon. Of course, that only meant that around ten or so people showed up in an hour, but it was
more than the rest of the day ever got. As it was, at high noon, the shop was vacant.

Of everybody but Paul, that is.

The man in question was leaning against a record stand, reorganizing the old labels for probably
the third time this week. It was the thing he’d do after taking inventory and cleaning and sorting
and anything else that actually needed doing – he’d find a new way to order them. Alphabetically,
by genre, by year, by popularity – hell, even by color.

It took no stretch of the imagination to gather that he was bored.

His constant reshuffling of the records confused the few regulars the shop ever had, but they
eventually learned to take it in good humor.

Paul McCartney worked in a rather small, out-of-the-way music shop in downtown Liverpool, not
too far away from his family’s house, which made it convenient. He could pop home on his break
for lunch, and would usually have done so today, had he not remembered just as he was about to
leave that he’d forgotten to do the shopping. He made a note to do it after he got off work, before
his father could chide him.

Half of the shop sold instruments. Mostly guitars and basses, but a few brass and woodwinds, too,
and a single drum kit. They’d had it for about a year now, and nobody was interested. He didn’t
really mind; once it goes, the owner wouldn’t get another one, and Paul quite enjoyed banging out
a rhythm when he was so bored that not even shuffling the records could help.

The rest of the shop had CDs, old records, and sheet music. There was a small upright piano
pushed against a wall, just in case somebody wanted to test out a book before they bought it.
Hardly anyone ever did, and the few times Paul sat down to it, he noticed it to be terribly out of
tune. The piano was so seldom used that it wasn’t worth the money getting a tuner in.

Most of the records in the unsorted pile were one-hit wonders or short-lived fads of the 60s and
70s, none of the more famous bands or artists one would usually see, since those were already
placed on the racks. Paul was familiar with all of the more obscure ones the shop carried, and he
even liked a few, but mostly, he could see why they hardly sold.

He grabbed the top record. The sleeve had a picture of four men – boys, really – and was titled The
Best of the Silver Beatles. He couldn’t recall any of their songs without flipping the sleeve over and
reading the song list.

It had some covers of older songs and a few things he knew weren’t famous. “Please Please Me”,
“Help!”, “Norwegian Wood”, and “Girl” were listed as being sung (and probably written) by a
John Lennon, according to the credits, since those weren’t the familiar titles.

Paul remembered having listened to the record before and he liked the band well enough. The
drummer never seemed consistent, and some of the guitars buzzed and rang, making it obvious that
the Silver Beatles didn’t make it big for a reason, but the singer had a good voice. Powerful,
passionate, versatile.

Members were John Lennon: Vocals, Rhythm Guitar; George Harrison: Guitar; Stuart Sutcliffe:
Bass Guitar; Pete Best: Percussion. All no-names, long forgotten dreamers.

It made him think for a few moments about misfortune and wasted talent. Paul really thought the
band had potential, if their drummer didn’t speed up during the songs, or if one of their guitars
would stop buzzing, or if the basslines weren’t so hesitant. They just needed a bit of shuffling,
different members, maybe practice or refinement, and the Silver Beatles really could have been
something.

He had always been able to notice voices. If he’s heard it once, he’ll recognize it any time later,
though he may not remember where it was from. He’d read before that smell was a person’s most
nostalgic sense, but Paul was the exception to that rule.

The singer’s voice had been untrained, unprofessional, and raw. Some could make it like that; they
got famous with very personal, emotional music. People like Jim Morrison or Alice Cooper did it
well; the voice itself was by no means ‘pretty’, but its emotive ability was endlessly captivating.
Paul could list dozens who got famous trying, but those who succeeded were rarer. And this John
Lennon, whoever he was, could do it.

Paul shook the oddly melancholy thoughts from his head; it’s useless to dwell on such things so
long passed. If half of these old musicians weren’t dead by Paul’s time, they had to be old as dirt.

He finished sorting out the records quickly – this time, he ordered them by every five years, then
by genre. He’d have to make new labels for the sections of the racks, but until then, if he did have
any customers, they’d just have to figure it out themselves.

By the changing tone of light coming through the windows, Paul knew that the sky was darkening.
It had been overcast all day, so he was not surprised, but he had hoped the rain would wait until
he’d gotten home. Now, he had to hope it let up before he had to leave.

He hummed along to the song that softly played over the speakers from the back of the shop when
the rain began to fall lightly. It provided a soothing backdrop to Paul’s sleepy day, and might have
lulled him into a light sleep right there on the floor, had it not been for the chiming of the bell on
the door as it swung open.

Paul glanced up to see a familiar slight figure ducking into the shop, clad in a raincoat that near
engulfed him but holding no umbrella. His hair was soaked and drops of water dripped from the tip
of his nose as he shook his shaggy head.

“Hey, Ritchie,” he greeted. “Have a nice shower?”

Richard Starkey looked up at him as he shrugged off his raincoat, dropping it by the door, and ran
a hand through his hair. His malleable face held the sad, depressed sort of expression that Paul
knew was an act as he lamented, “There’s no hot water left, Paul. Why’d you use it all?”

Ritch was one of the few frequent customers at the record shop. His visits used to be strictly of an
economic nature, as he was new to this neighborhood, and the record shop (surprisingly) had a
better selection than the one closer to his old place had. Now, though, since he’d bought most
everything worth anything, he stopped by just to chat on occasion. He had Paul had become very
good friends.

He had a very level voice. It was the sort that was small, but that carried, and sounded quite clear;
he probably couldn’t whisper if he tried. On occasion, when he’d hum the song stuck in his head,
Paul noticed that his range was rather limited, but the notes he held were strong, confident.

Paul hoisted himself up from the floor by the record racks and sat in the revolving chair behind the
register as Ritch hopped up on the counter.

“So, what’s up? Aren’t you usually at work now?”

Ritch dug a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket, plucked one out, and lit it. He offered the
pack to Paul as he took his own between his teeth. Paul shook his head; he wasn’t much into
smoking.

He shrugged, “Took off. About a week ago. Supposed to go out to London with some mates,
‘cause tomorrow’s me birthday, y’know, but they all cancelled, on account of the rain an’ all.”

“Well, actually, I didn’t know,” Paul said. “How old?”

“Don’t you know it’s rude to ask a lady’s age?” Ritch put on a creaky falsetto, sounding more like
Graham Chapman in drag than an aging woman, and batted his lashes. “I’ll be twenty-one.”

He grinned. “Congrats, mate. You’re ancient.”

Ritch hunched over, putting his hand on the small of his back. “It’s no fun getting’ old, truly,” he
said. “Least I’ll get that seniors discount, eh?”

Paul scoffed. “Yeah, right.”

There was a comfortable silence, in which Paul listened to the rain as it fell against the window
panes, and Ritch slowly exhaled a cloud of smoke. He leaned towards Paul for his next breath and
blew the smoke out with force, aimed directly at his face. Paul pushed back against the counter and
rolled away in his chair.

“You arse, Starkey, that stuff stinks something awful.” He cleared his throat and glared playfully at
his friend.

“Still smells better than you.”

Paul kicked him lightly in the shin just as a clap of thunder echoed from the skies above. It was the
sort that rang like a sheet of metal shaking; it was thick and voluminous, much like the clouds it
came from.

“Well, I can see why they’d wanna cancel. Still, it’s a bit of a downer.”

Ritchie huffed another breath of smoke and nodded. “It is. But, honestly, I think those lads jus’
wanted to go get pissed in some London pubs with London girls instead o’ Liverpool ones. Me
birthday was just an excuse.”

Paul glanced at his digital watch. “Well, if you feel like hanging ‘round for a few hours, you can
come over to mine once I get off. Won’t have cake or anything, and you’d have to deal with Dad
an’ Mike, but it’s no worse bein’ alone.”

He could tell that Ritch was tempted but didn’t want to seem too eager, so he looked out of the
window into the rain and said, “Might do, if the rain’s not letting up.” He didn’t want to admit it,
but he didn’t like being left alone on his birthday. Since it was a Friday and he didn’t work
Saturdays, he saw no harm in hanging around with Paul for however long they could bear each
other.

Ritchie worked at the railroad. He directed routes and made sure the rails were up to snuff; he had
some amount of authority over the construction and maintenance workers, and it wasn’t necessarily
a dead-end job, but it didn’t give him much intellectual or creative stimulus. For that, he turned to
music.

He wasn’t much of a singer, but he could drum a mean beat, and every chance he had to actually
play with someone – not too often, mind, but occasionally – he reckoned it sounded pretty good.
He’d played some with Paul before, and they worked well, but hardly had the chance to do
anything.

“Get to those drums, Ritchie, I’ve had a song stuck in my head all day.”

Ritch hid a grin to himself, glad for a distraction and wondering what Paul would play; it could
very well be on piano or guitar, and given Paul’s wide range of musical tastes, it could nearly be
any song.

Since the piano was grossly out of tune, Paul grabbed one of the old acoustic guitars off of the
shelf. He liked to tune the things weekly, just in case a customer came in and wanted to try them
out (they hardly ever did, but one thing that could not be said of Paul was that he did not take his
job seriously). He sat down in his chair and rolled it over in front of Ritchie, who’d made himself
comfortable on the stool behind the drums.

“Just join in once you recognize it,” he told him. Ritch nodded.

He recognized the opening two chords immediately. He grinned and joined in with a beat that fit
seamlessly with the rhythm of Paul’s guitar.

“This thing,” he sang in his best Elvis impression, “called love,” even if the song wasn’t by Elvis.
“I just can’t handle it.” And, admittedly, though Paul thought he could sing reasonably well, he
couldn’t sound anything quite like Elvis.

Joining in, Ritchie put on his most obnoxiously southern American accent. The rain made an
interesting contrast to their mixed-up lyrics and out-of-order verses. They both knew the song, of
course; it was a classic, but messing about made it feel more carefree. It felt more improvised,
more alive.

As Ritchie rapidly hit the symbols as some sort of conclusion to their impromptu performance,
another clap of thunder sounded.

“Well,” Paul set the guitar back up on its spot on the wall, “if that wasn’t ominous.”

Ritch shrugged as he left the drums, laying the two sticks down flat on the counter. “Even the
heavens above can’t handle the power of the King and Queen.”

They drummed and strummed out a few more bits of music before the rainfall got so loud that they
could hardly hear themselves anymore. It distantly occurred to Paul that the weather wasn’t usually
this malevolent, and that something like this wasn’t forecasted, but he never really concerned
himself with the weather beyond its immediate impacts.

“Looks like you’ll be here a while,” he said to Ritch as he put the guitar up.

“Pity.”
He hummed to himself as he settled back behind the counter. Even after playing all those songs
just now, he had one of those songs stuck in his head – one from that record. He didn’t remember it
well enough to recall the name or even most of the lyrics, but it was catchy, and he couldn’t rid
himself of the earworm.

As Ritchie occupied himself with some paperwork that must have been some sort of train schedule
or other boring tripe that Paul couldn’t bother to be concerned with, Paul pulled out his phone and
went to the internet, typing in ‘silver beetles’ to the search bar.

The first results, once they had the courtesy to load in such bad weather, were webpages about
soldier beetles and stag beetles, which Paul assumed were the actual insects, and lead him nowhere
he wanted to go. Back up to the search bar, he added ‘band’ to the end of the key words, which
gave him slightly better results.

They had a Wikipedia article, of course. Paul figured that nobody cared enough about the esoteric
group that nobody would bother putting false information up about them, so it was his best bet for
clear information.

As it turned out, they were the Silver Beatles, no Beetles. Though he couldn’t erase the image of
literal insects playing old music from his mind, he had to admit that the pun on ‘beat’ was slightly
clever.

The page was concise, much like the band’s lifetime: formed in 1960 and disbanded by 1963, they
released three haphazard, messy records that failed to make any impact in ratings or bring in
royalties. They became quite popular here in Liverpool, but fell apart when they never gained
traction in other cities. They went through two other drummers besides Best, neither of which
worked out, and Stuart Sutcliffe quit when he realized that his passion was not in the performing
arts.

George Harrison slipped into a quiet obscure life and passed away some ten years ago from cancer,
while John Lennon moved to America after the band’s failure and fell into the rampant
counterculture drugs and promiscuity that characterized the following two decades. Apparently, he
died before he was forty years old.

The same part of his mind that entertained theories of faked moon landings and Adolf Hitler’s
secret bunker in Antarctica wondered if his death was something common, like an illness or
cancer, an overdose or suicide, or if he’d been murdered. The article didn’t say, but it did hint at
involvement in a few anti-war demonstrations which, Paul discovered once he pressed the blue
link, often turned ironically violent.

There were only a few pictures of the actual band on Google Images, all of which were slightly out
of focus, and mostly of their album covers. Their hair was done up in some sort of Elvis-like style,
and Paul reckoned that they could have made relatively good impersonators, if they weren’t so thin
and angular. The two who were the clearest in the photographs, the two in the middle, each had
sharp jawlines, and one had quite a striking nose. They may have been handsome, but it was only a
photograph.

“Whatcha up to, Paulie?”

He grimaced at the nickname; it was what his mother used to call him, and only her. Ritchie wasn’t
to know that, though, so he did his best to push the feeling of emergent pain aside. “Just lookin’ up
some stuff ‘bout an old record. Nothing good, though. Didn’t seem to age well.”

Ritch neatened his stack of papers and slid them back into the pocket of his oversized coat on the
floor as he nodded. “I’ve no bloody idea how this place is in business, Paul. You’ve got so much
shit no-one buys.”

“Well, we’re still here.” Paul had wondered the same thing quite often, though. This was just a
little shop; the owner certainly wasn’t making any profit, and Paul certainly couldn’t live off of
what little he, as just an employee, made.

He was only nineteen, after all. He finished school with good marks – excellent marks, really – and
he could have gotten into a good school, but there was the problem of money. Only that he didn’t
have any, that is, so he couldn’t pay for anything worth his time. Another issue was that he had no
idea what he wanted to study.

Well, he knew what he wanted to study, which was music, but he didn’t know what he could study
that his father would approve of. Legally, he didn’t need his father’s permission for something like
this, but he did love his dad, and he was essentially bumming in his house for the entire year until
he can make up his mind of what worthwhile degree he wanted to pursue, so he felt a certain
obligation. Sometimes he envied Ritchie, who was a couple years his senior, and who had known
what he was going to do with his life (whether he was satisfied or not) since he was sixteen and
first got his job at the rails.

“What should I do, Ritchie?” he asked, not entirely meaning to. Not aloud, at least.

“Wha’?”

He shook his head. “No, never mind. I was jus’ thinking.”

“Dangerous pastime, that.”

“Yeah.” They were quiet for a moment longer, until Paul decided that he may as well get whatever
advice out of Ritch that he could. “I meant, when I go to school, what should I study?”

“I dunno. What d’you wanna study?”

He shrugged. “Some kind of arts, probably. Music and such. But that won’t give me anythin’ I’d
need to earn a living, according to me da’.”

“If you’re just gonna listen to your da’, then do whatever he wants you to do. Be a lawyer or a
doctor or a bloody chartered accountant or whatever. If you won’t do what you want to anyway,
then it don’t really matter, right?”

Paul heard a bit of snideness in his tone, and that made him shrink back in his chair a bit. He was
aware of how he must come across; he sounded like he was simply complaining but wouldn’t do
anything about it, so he just let the subject drop with a “Yeah, I guess.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said, sensing Paul’s resignation. “I’d be no help to you, really,
‘cause I jus’ found a thing that worked well enough and stuck with it. Guess I was lucky; never had
to actually decide what to do.”

“How d’you mean?”

“I mean, when I turned sixteen and me family decided they needed me working, the only place
that’d hire me was the rails. I never had to choose what to do or where to go like you do.”

Paul looked at his feet contemplatively. “And I need to choose right the first time,” he said. “I’ve
got enough money to go to school for a while, but not enough to switch halfway through when I
decide I hate what I’m doing.”

“I s’pose it’s a risk everybody takes.”

And he did understand his father’s perspective. Pragmatically, if he were to spend so much money
learning something, it should be something that would pay him back in the end. His father was
well-intentioned and the rational part of Paul’s brain told him to trust the advice of someone far
older than himself. But was pragmatism really so valuable, if it came at the risk of Paul’s lifetime
happiness? He would be miserable behind a desk, doing arithmetic or envelope pushing all day. He
wasn’t argumentative enough to be lawyer, to begin with – and his perpetually pacific expression
didn’t make him scary enough to compensate for it. If he could live through so much schooling, he
could go into medical. He fondly remembered his mother’s nursing and midwife career, and how
happy it made her to help people, but he also recalled how depressed she would be when she came
home if the baby or the mother didn’t make it that day, or if she went into work and found that one
of her elderly patients’ beds was now occupied by someone else.

And he remembered seeing his mother herself grow weak and pale, looking much older than she
should have, when he was only fourteen, old enough to remember in vivid detail but too young to
cope. And if he were a doctor, he could hardly imagine having the skill to diagnose such an illness,
but not quite – so tantalizingly close, but not quite – the power to treat it. He could not be a doctor.

Paul spent quite a while watching Ritchie turn the ring on his index finger out of boredom. That
was the first thing he’d noticed about the man; he always had multiple rings on each hand. None of
them seemed particularly valuable, but they must have had some sentimental value to him, because
they rarely varied.

After a while, the rain stopped falling with such intensity. There was still a light drizzle, and since
it was summer, the sun wasn’t setting quite yet, but Paul decided that five thirty was close enough
to the closing time of six to head home. With his luck, if he waited any longer, the rain would
come back with a vengeance.

“Let’s head out now,” he announced to his friend, tearing him from his reverie. “I doubt the
weather’ll get any better.”

As Ritch gathered his raincoat from the floor, Paul grabbed his jacket. It hadn’t been raining when
he left for work this morning, and the weather hadn’t warned him of such a downpour, so he was
woefully unprepared for it.

They left the shop and adopted a brisk pace pack to Paul’s house. “The weather on me phone said
it’d be dry today,” Ritch began. “I think it must’ve just been the storm slowin’ down the service,
stopping the updated weather from loadin’.”

“But it showed up on mine different from yesterday’s,” Paul said, “and it said it wouldn’t rain.”

“I wouldn’t have expected it to be quite so wrong. Meteorology’s gone to the dumps these days.”

Paul scoffed. “I really doubt was any better fifty years ago.”

Ritchie shrugged.

As they walked, the rain regained some of its weight, and it started to soak right trough Paul’s
jacket. He glanced at his friend, who was mostly dry underneath his raincoat, with the hood
protecting his hair. Paul didn’t even have a hood on his jacket; he made a mental note to keep an
umbrella at the shop from now on.

Cars raced down the street beside them. People always drove more recklessly in the rain, and the
slick streets didn’t make it any safer. Paul could drive, himself, but he never really needed too;
everything was either a walk, bus, or train ride away, and paying for the transit system was less
expensive than paying for gas and insurance. On top of that, with the type of job he had and the
hours he worked, he hardly had time to get in any exercise, so his walks to and from work and the
shops were his only chance.

“What’ll we do once we get to your place?” Ritchie asked.

Paul hummed, thinking. “Mike’s staying over tonight with some friends, I think. I’d forgotten ‘til
now. And Da’s been working late for a while, so maybe we’ll have the place to ourselves for a bit.
Why, what’d you want to do?”

He laughed lightly, “I was mostly concerned with what we’d have for dinner.”

Shrugging, Paul answered, “I dunno, I think we have some Ramen in the cabinet somewhere,”
winking at his friend to let him know that they wouldn’t be eating Ramen for dinner. His father
would never allow such an insubstantial dinner; Paul had learned too cook after his mother’s death,
and Jim McCartney expected him to do it. “Nah, I’ll make something. Not sure what we have,
though, since I haven’t gone to the shops yet this week.”

“How domestic,” Ritchie quipped, and Paul sent him a look that said, Do you want to eat my food
or not?

The following events have left Paul’s mind in a deep sort of existential regret, the sort that makes
you rethink each of your habits and actions, but the sort that has such little impact on true events
that you lose your resolutions as quickly as you make them.

Thinking back on it, he remembers the doppler effect that the car engines have when they race by
him. He heard the noise grow steadily louder and higher as they neared him, then heard it recede
as the car disappeared off into the distance, so often that he hardly noticed it anymore. That’s
where he went wrong. Not noticing.

Nothing registered in his mind as being out of the usual when he heard a car horn blare from
behind him; people in Liverpool were quite trigger-happy when it came to horns, so it wasn’t
anything out of the ordinary. He’d become numb to what was supposed to be an alarm, and he
always thought bitterly in retrospect of how ineffective people’s use of the car horn has made it.

Since he did not notice car engines or car horns anymore, it was no surprise that he did not notice
when both of those sounds grew louder and closer than they normally would.

What he did notice, however, was Ritchie’s frightened cry of, “Paul! Move!”

He felt a sharp tug on his arm, pulling him towards the rows of buildings and away from the edge
of the sidewalk. Just then, Paul twisted around to see what exactly was causing the alarm in Ritch’s
voice, and in doing so, resisted his attempt to get Paul to safety. It was no conscious decision on
Paul’s part to wrench his arm out of his friend’s grasp; instinct told him to look at the danger and
flee, instead of jumping blindly.

Instinct was, quite contrarily, the greatest threat to his wellbeing. His inaction the moment Ritchie
tried to pull him to safety left him in the direct path of the black van barreling towards him,
skidding diagonally along the wet road.
 “PAUL!”

He felt only two things, then. The first, a great splash of cold water against his legs as he stumbled
away from the car, only just overcoming his deer-in-the-headlights shock. The second, a flat sort of
impact that seemed to hit every part of his front at once and blanketed his vision in darkness.

Paul hadn’t made the smartest move, turning to see what was coming at them instead of following
Ritchie’s plea. But, then again, Ritchie hadn’t made the best decision, either, as he rushed after his
friend on impulse, right into the vehicle’s path.

Chapter End Notes

So, how was it? I've only got another chapter or so written, so I still don't have that
concrete a plan moving forward , but I hope you like where I'm going, and I definitely
would like to hear what you think!
 An Overwhelming Question
Chapter Summary

In which Paul is more than a bit confused.

The first thing Paul felt was the throbbing in his head. It seemed to come from right behind his
eyes and spread from there in every direction, pulsing out with each heartbeat. He squinted to rid
himself of the pain, but that only intensified the sharp stabbing sensation.

Being sure to keep his eyebrows raised and the muscles around his eyes relaxed, Paul rubbed his
temples lightly. That almost helped.

“You alright, mate?” His voice sounded full, like it came from a thick neck and soft cheeks.
Probably a short, portly sort of fellow and probably innocuous.

Paul tried to open his eyes to match the voice to a face, but he found that he couldn’t, not yet. His
entire face felt sore, and it made him dizzy to nod in agreement, but it made the man sigh with a
resigned, “Take care, then.”

His footsteps faded as he went on his way, and Paul considered the situation he was in.

Even without the aid of his eyes, Paul could tell that he reclined against a cool, rough surface. The
side of a building, most likely. And, judging by both the temperature and the lack of light shining
through his eyelids, he figured the sun had set some indeterminate time ago. He couldn’t quite
remember how he got to be in this situation.

After a while, he stopped literally hearing the blood as it rushed through his veins, and though the
headache persisted, he could blink his eyes open slowly.

It was dark, as he had assumed. The summer air had the heavy feeling of being recently cool, but
not quite so heavy as it should have; wasn’t it raining? That was one thing Paul was sure he
remembered – heavy rain. The air was dry, and the stars above shined down on him. Where were
the clouds?

He decided that the passing of the weather was a peripheral issue.

Pushing himself up from the ground, Paul groaned. His entire body felt like he’d fallen flat into
calm waters from a great height. It was hard not to knit his eyebrows together in confusion, but the
effort to keep his muscles relaxed contributed almost as much to his headache.

He looked around and saw that he was relatively close to the music shop. Had he been coming
from work, then? It was odd, this late at night. Waking up against a wall and facing the street
hadn’t told him where he’d been going, and nothing about his situation told him why he was there.

He decided, on a whim, to retrace his rout back to the shop. On top of not raining, Paul noticed, the
ground showed no signs of ever being wet in the recent past. Just as he was trying to figure out
why he thought it should have been raining in the first place, Paul stopped in his tracks.
Had he been drugged and robbed? He’d heard cautionary tales of men who’d bump into you,
seemingly on accident, while surreptitiously taking the opportunity to shoot you with some drug
that left you dead to the world while they took your ID, license, card, everything.

He patted the pockets of his jeans – that’s why he thought it should be raining, he decided, because
they were soaking wet – and felt that his phone and wallet were still there. That was a relief. He
pulled out his wallet, just to check that it still had everything (which it did, most fortunately), then
grabbed his phone to check the time.

When he pressed the home button, the screen lit up, but the light was shining through a spider’s
web of cracks that spread from one corner of the phone to the other. Alarmed, Paul used the
thumbprint function to unlock his phone, then swiped from side to side to make sure that the
touchscreen still worked. It did, though probably shouldn’t have, with such intense damage – he felt
fragments of glass stick to his thumb as he touched the screen. Just like everything else, Paul
wondered how his phone came to be in such a state.

He noted that the time was five fifty, and that the date was 7 July. It all seemed familiar, and Paul
was about to just accept the time and date as fact, before it occurred to him that it shouldn’t be this
dark at only six o’clock in the afternoon. It was high summer, after all. What was going on?

Maybe his phone really was broken.

Paul slipped it back into his pocket and trudged slowly along the sidewalk, feeling with each step
the growing discomfort of his sore limbs, compounded with the damp denim of his jeans rubbing
against his thighs.

As he walked, Paul noticed a few other passers-by glancing sideways at him. He probably looked
in a right state, he rationalized, so it was no wonder he was getting these stares; if he looked even
half as bad as he felt, he didn’t want to encounter a mirror anytime soon.

Approaching the part of town where the music shop should be, music reached his ears, growing
steadily louder. It was old rock ‘n roll, he found, and wondered why someone was at the music
shop at this time of night – he had closed shop, hadn’t he? Paul couldn’t remember.

If he hadn’t, then, it seemed that someone had broken in, torn everything down but the very bricks
it was built with, and converted it into a pub. What?

Paul was sure this was the right place. It was right next to the crosswalk he passed every day, just
as it always was, and it was across from an old bank teller. But . . . it wasn’t. The music shop
simply was not .

In its place sat a pub, the door brightly illuminated by a neon sign proclaiming it to be “The
Cavern”. The sounds of music were louder now, and it certainly sounded like a live band, if the
pauses were any indication – he couldn’t tell much more about it than the quick pace and presence
of loud drums, since it was muffled by the door.

Shaking his head in a vain attempt at clearing his mind, Paul pushed the door open and stepped
inside.

If there was a bell on the door, it was drowned out by the cacophony of people milling about,
gathered in large groups around too small tables, or huddled in front of the stage they blocked. He
could tell that there was a band up there, and they were playing familiar songs, but he couldn’t see
them above the sea of intoxicated patrons.
Looking around, Paul registered an odd feeling of being out of place before he could tell the reason
why. He looked at the people swarming around him; there were men in old jumpers, button-downs,
and jackets; women in blouses, long skirts. Then it hit him – this wasn’t a modern style of dress.
The old music, the old clothes – he felt as though he had, by stepping through the door, also
stepped through several decades.

He shook his head again.

“ What’ya doin’ ‘ere, son?”

Paul looked to his left on a whim, because those words spoken were the only ones he could
actually discern through the chaos. He wasn’t sure they were directed at him until his eyes landed
on the old barkeep standing behind the counter, looking his way with scrutiny.

Approaching the bar, he said, “Pardon?”

The barkeep didn’t seem to like the way Paul rested his elbows against the grimy counter like he
did it almost every weekend. He was used to being familiar in bars (he didn’t go to his local
watering hole too often, but enough to be somewhat known). This man didn’t recognize him, and
he was suspicious, obviously, making Paul uncharacteristically uncomfortable. He awkwardly
retracted his elbows and tucked them into his sides.

“I know me sign’s out o’ date, lad, but that don’ mean that jus’ anybody can come for a drink,” he
said, looking down at Paul through thick spectacles. He nodded his head to the right, and Paul’s
eyes followed his direction.

Hanging on the front of a liquor cabinet was an old sign, its edges frayed, colors slightly faded. It
read,

To purchase alcohol, a person must be 18 years of age, born on or before today’s date in 1940.

Maybe the sign was a bit old, but there was no way that it could have been that old. “But it’s not –
it’s not 1958,” he said, perplexed.

“You deaf or sommat ?” the barkeep didn’t appreciate what he thought was cheek. “I jus’ said it
was old. But that don’t mean some kid like you can come in ‘ere for some beer. I don’ sell ta
minors.”

Paul ran a hand through his still-damp hair, making the barkeep notice the state of his clothing. He
was probably about to ask about how he got to be soaking wet when it was dry all day, when Paul
fished his wallet out of his pocket. “Look, mate,” he began, pulling out his ID. “I really
wasn’t gonna drink anything. Tight budget an’ all that. But, anyway, I’m nineteen, see?” He
handed the man his card just to prove his point.

Squinting at his card, then at Paul, then back at his card, the barkeep laughed. “God, you’re jus’
havin ’ a laugh at me expense, yeah? Even kids know that a fake card’s gotta have a real date on
it.” He tossed his card back to him. “Next time, do us a favor, yeah? Have ‘em put you born sixty
years ago , not sixty years ‘til .” He looked away from Paul, shaking his head, wiping clean a mug
with the cloth tied to his belt, muttering something inaudible.

Paul was frozen for a moment, mulling over the unintelligible conversation that just took place
before stuffing his wallet back in his pocket and turning around.

He found a quiet table in a less congregated area of the bar, lonely in a dark, secluded corner, just
perfect for brooding to himself and questioning his existence.
From here, he could see the band, but he chose not to look at them. He stared into the wooden
grains of the table, following the curves with his thumb, idly listening to the music. Now playing
was “Come Go With Me” by the Del-Vikings, not quite in the usual do o -wop style, but
familiar, nonetheless. He couldn’t place where he might have heard the style of singing before – it
sounded like some band he knew, definitely – and he didn’t try to. He had bigger priorities than
some stupid song.

First and foremost: why exactly was there a bar in the place of the music shop? It wasn’t just the
music shop it seemed to have replaced, either; what was once the bakery next door was just the
other side of the room, no wall dividing the two anymore. There were pillars, since it was a load-
bearing part for the ceiling, but real division. This wasn’t the sort of change that could happen
overnight.

Just what had happened to him?

His head still ached, but it began to fade as he let his thumbnail follow the grains of wood. It was a
mechanical motion to distract his limbs from the odd feeling of both disuse and overuse at the
same time. The music around him could distract his mind at least enough to block all the questions
that circled in his primordial soup of comprehension. He knew he wouldn’t be able to get any
thinking done.

The band was still playing the same song, he noticed, and began to mouth the words. Well, love,
love me darlin' ; come and go with me. Please don't send me way beyond the sea –

But the words he remembered weren’t the ones he heard; after the first line or so of each verse, he
realized, the singer was not only mixing up the lyrics, but he was improvising with phrases quite
ill-fitting to the mood of the song. Paul was sure he heard something about ‘to the penitentiary’ –
and if that wasn’t completely made up, then something really was screwing with his head.

So, there he sat for what felt like hours, listening to that fool making up lyrics off the top of his
head, and almost having a good time of it, too. It wasn’t so immersive that he noticed when the
music stopped, though; he had it playing well enough in his head now that he hardly heard
anything else around him. Sometimes it was better that way, not hearing things. Not noticing
things. (The thought struck him as sort of déjà vu, but predictably, he couldn’t remember why.)

A shadow descended upon him. Not the metaphorical sort that came about from such tumultuous
internal conflict, mind, as would understandably befall Paul; it was a literal shadow. Someone had
come up to him.

The slightly nasal voice of who Paul guessed was a young man spoke to him. “And what’s up with
you, mate? Why’re you here all by your lonesome? ” The man to whom the voice belonged
slowed down as he spoke those last words with a dramatic inflection. He set his hands on the table,
and the pale skin was the only part of him that Paul could see. “Your girl leave you or somethin
’?”

Paul didn’t look up. “ Somethin ’ like that,” he said mildly, not exactly in the mood to talk.

“Well, drownin ’ your sorrows in a drink won’t do you any good if you haven’t got a drink to
drown in.”

Shrugging, he replied, “Barkeep thinks I’m too young.”

“And are ye?”

Paul just shook his head, resting his forehead against the palm of his hand. Can’t this guy take a
hint? He wasn’t in the mood for conversation.

“You need a fuckin ’ drink, mate. I’ll be back.”

And the shadow disappeared. It was a strange encounter, and would have left Paul reeling, if he
weren’t purposely trying not to think about it. He hoped the guy wasn’t serious, or if he was, that
he forgot about his half-hearted promise to get him a drink. Not that Paul wouldn’t gladly take it
...

The man was gone for quite a while, and Paul began to expect that he would not return. He almost
hoped that he wouldn’t; one less person to talk to was one less thing to worry about. But luck was
never on Paul’s side, it seemed, as the shadow reappeared, and the same pale hand slid a dripping
mug of beer right under his nose.

Paul only looked at the mug for a fraction of a second before taking it in hand and bringing it to his
lips. “Cheers,” he said, looking up.

He almost spits it right back out.

It’s not because this was the single most striking man he’s ever seen. No, that wouldn’t give Paul
such a strong reaction, even though it was true. He had a pointed, aquiline nose and sharp eyes that
seemed to cut right through into his own, and his hair was styled almost perfectly in a way that
Paul had only ever seen done in old movies or photographs, and his jawline was defined and strong
(almost intimidating), and his lips were thin, but no, that’s not why Paul almost spit out his drink.

He knew this man. Somewhere before, he’d seen his face – he'd crossed him on the street and
made that awkward sort of eye contact you have with strangers, perhaps, or he was a lad who used
to go to school with him and whom he’s since forgotten, or he was a cashier at the shops, or he was
any number of random people Paul had encountered before.

But the fact was, Paul had seen him before . Ever since he opened his eyes and found himself
leaning against some building up the road, he’d not seen a familiar face, a familiar shop, a
familiar anything . This man was a sight for very sore eyes.

However, the fact that he couldn’t remember why the man was familiar was still a minor problem.

“Er,” he said dumbly, swallowing the mouthful of beer he’d taken, just in case he was compelled
to expel it again. “Do I know you?”

The man grinned at him, and his lips grew even thinner, if that was even possible, and it twisted his
face into something almost like a sneer, but not quite; Paul couldn’t tell if it was charming or off-
putting. He pulled a chair from somewhere behind him and swung it around before taking a seat
directly across from Paul. He rested his elbows against the tabletop, so close to Paul’s own that he
could feel the heat radiating from him.

“I think you’d be the b est authority on that, wouldn’t ye, mate?”

Paul narrowed his eyes and continued to study the man’s face. He could almost place it. Almost.
“I’ve seen ye before, I know it. Jus’ can’t recall from where.”

“Well, I don’t know you. I’d remember a face like yours.”

Not knowing whether that was a compliment or a jibe, Paul looked down at his drink.
“You prob’ly just saw me up there,” the man explains, nodding his head towards the front of the
pub, where the stage was now empty. “I play here some nights with me band.”

Paul knew he hadn’t looked up at the people onstage, so that wasn’t where he knew him from, but
he didn’t want to waste energy trying to figure it out just yet; he was too grateful to have something
(beer) to relax him. “Oh.”

“D’you like that stuff we were playin’?”

Paul looked at the man, who had a mildly hopeful expression. He was obviously fishing for
compliments, and Paul chose to indulge him. “Oh, yeah. Del-Vikings, Buddy Holly. Love that old
stuff.”

Across from him, the man’s head turned almost imperceptibly to the side, as though he was either
confused, affronted, or both, but trying to hide it. “I know it didn’t come out yesterday , but it’s
not that old.” He sounded defensive.

Paul shrugged. “Depends.” And really, it did. If you just listened to pop from the nineties onward,
then, yeah, it was old, but if you studied the Hurrian Hymn, then it was brand new. To placate his
companion, he said, “I liked it, though.”

The man nodded, reaching forward abruptly to grab the pint of beer out of Paul’s grasp. He took a
deep sip before setting it back down in the middle of the table. Instinctively, Paul wanted to
protest, but he remembered that he hadn’t even bought it himself. Maybe it wasn’t quite his right to
be protective.

The silence between them wasn’t awkward, but Paul feared it may grow to be, and he didn’t want
the man walking away with the drink, so he said, “That, with Chantilly Lace and La Bamba , it’s
just like the Day the M usic D ied.”

Now, the man tilted his head purposefully, to show without words that he was outright confused.

“Oh, come on. Y’know, that plane crash that killed ‘em all?” To anybody else, it may have
sounded a bit insane to throw that into a conversation so casually, but this man must’ve known
how the artists whose songs he was singing died, right?

The man crossed his arms but still leaned forward, intrigued. “Mate, nobody calls it the ‘day the
fuckin ’ music died’. It was a big story in the papers, yeah, but it’s not got a name. Where’d ye get
that from?”

“That’s what everybody calls it,” Paul tried to explain. “Don McClean?”

“Nah , not me. John Lennon.”

Paul stared for a moment, pathetically lost, until he realized that the man was trying to be funny.
He was saying that his name was John Lennon.

John Lennon? Didn’t that sound familiar?

John Lennon. John Lennon. John -

No.

Not the singer from the Silver Beatles, surely.

John was a fairly common name. He'd never met a Lennon before, but they couldn’t exactly be
one of a kind, could they?

Paul looked into his eyes again, and suddenly, the realization struck him. He remembered now
why the man was familiar. He looked exactly like one of them on the cover of the album! And it
couldn’t be a coincidence that he had the same name, could it?

His mind was still reeling as he heard himself say absently, “Stop shittin ’ me.”

The album. Sorting the records in the shop. Ritchie – playing that Queen song with him on the
drums. Rain. Leaving. Walking down the sidewalk, Ritchie’s panicked shout of his name, and then
-

Hell, no. He hadn’t been hit by a fucking car. That had not happened. It couldn’t have.

“What’s your problem wi’ me name, then?” John – John! – demanded.

Paul stood so quickly that he knocked his chair over. “No,” he said, as some excuse for an answer,
even if he knew it made no sense in the context of the question.

“Hey, mate – hey!”

But Paul was already backing away, eyes wide as a doe’s, as he searched frantically for, and then
raced towards, the exit.

He was stumbling and out of breath when he stopped. He’d gone back to where he began, that spot
in front of a nondescript shop, its building familiar but sign foreign, and clutched the stitch in his
side. The pounding in his head was renewed.

He wasn’t sure what he expected to find as he looked around. He didn’t expect Ritchie, and he
didn’t expect to see the car that had (most definitely not) hit him, but he looked for them anyway.
Logically, he knew they’d have been there when he woke up, if they were there at all, but he
needed something to look for, something to hope for. He needed direction.

A few nighttime walkers shot him wary glances, probably suspecting him of public drunkenness.
He tried to compose himself before they decided to call the police on him – he had consumed
alcohol, after all, and maybe it would show in his behavior, but quite frankly, his actions were less
a result of mild intoxication as they were of severe discombobulation.

He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath in through his nose, holding it,
then releasing it through his mouth. He did this for a few moments until his pulse slowed. He
hoped he could think coherently again.

An idea struck him.

Pulling out his phone, he unlocked it quickly, ignoring the minuscule splinters of glass that
snagged on the pad of his thumb. He went to his contacts and found Ritchie’s number, selecting it,
then holding the phone to his ear.

It didn’t even ring. The only thing he heard was the infuriating female voice answering him
robotically. Welcome to -

“Fucking useless,” he swore, holding his phone so tightly in his hand that he may have felt the
entire screen shift , the fragments of glass sliding against each other like tectonic plates . He
pocketed the thing before he could do irreparable damage.

He didn’t notice the odd looks he got when he handled the cell phone. If he had, he would be even
more suspicious.

Paul ran his hands through his drying hair as he took to pacing a hole right through the concrete
sidewalk. His mind went everywhere at once but nowhere all the same; he didn’t know where to
go, what to do, who to look for – but he knew he couldn’t go back to that bar.

He already had that damn song stuck in his head. Well, love, love me darlin’; come and go with
me –

He growled in frustration. The memory of that song – of JOHN LENNON singing that song –
prevented any rational thought from taking root and granting him reason.

Sparing one last glance at street behind him, Paul set his course for home, hoping that, at least,
would be how he left it.

It wasn’t.

The house at Forthlin Road looked the same, being one portion of a brick building that had
stood forever and would stand forevermore. There was not much yard to speak of, so the little
grass there was seemed unchanging. He saw the same red step and overhang, the same windows,
the same doorknob. Though nothing at all stood out as wrong, Paul eyed his porch with
suspicion.

It didn’t seem right , ironically, for his house to look so normal. Of course, it would not make
sense if it were completely changed – if it suddenly became an empty lot, or a fortune teller’s shop,
or something else outlandish – but at least it would be consistent.

He needed only to enter to realize that he jumped to conclusions too soon.

The house was dark when he stepped inside, so the first thing that struck him was the smell. It
didn’t smell like home as he knew it. There was something there that was hard to place. It was like
when he saw someone in an unexpected place, like his doctor at a grocery store, or an old school
teacher at the public offices: he didn’t recognize it immediately. It was on the top of his mind,
though, so close.

It struck him that the smell was smoke. It smelled like someone was smoking a cigarette.

“Dad?” he called tentatively.

He got no response. Blindly, he ran a hand along the papered wall, feeling for the switch. He found
it in the usual spot, but when the lazy yellow light flooded the parlor, it was anything but usual.

The furniture wasn’t right. The upholstery on the sofa was a faded green instead of its typical
beige, and because of this, it took him a moment to realize that the sofa wasn’t even the same
shape. The same went with the two adjacent chairs, the coffee table in the middle, and the rug on
which it was all placed.

The wallpaper, too, was different. It looked old. It was hideous.

Grimacing, Paul tried to find something that was the same as when he left home this morning.

He could not find it in the kitchen counters, just barely seen through the doorway; he could not find
it in the light fixture above, dusty and dim; he could not find it in the carpet underneath his feet; he
could not find it in the bookcase that held, instead of CDs and DVDs, larger, flat things that must
have been records.

He did find it, however, in the pictures above the mantle.

Creeping closer, as though he were a trespasser in somebody else’s home, Paul squinted at the old
photographs. They used to be in color, but now, they were monochromatic and blurry. The figures
wore dated clothing and unfashionable hairstyles, but they were the same figures Paul had known
forever.

His dad and little brother, Michael, were in the one at the end. Mike was holding a football, and
Dad was grinning at him. Paul remembered that he’d been the one to take the picture. The one next
to it was his mother – even with shorter hair, in which he could no longer see the vibrant red, she
was beautiful.

It brought him some comfort.

“Paul?”

Spinning around, he saw Jim McCartney, clad in striped pajamas and shuffling into the room from
the hall on well-worn slippers. His hair was in disarray, as though he’d been in bed.

Paul breathed out, “Dad,” and stumbled over to his father as though he hadn’t seen him in years. He
knew his dad wasn’t one for embraces, but if he were, he’d have trouble breathing
on account of Paul’s hug.

Jim squinted his bleary eyes at him, wondering just why the sight of him made him so relieved.
“Son, it’s late,” he began tentatively, not sure he really wanted to know the answer to his next
question. “Where’ve you been?”

Paul bowed his head and chuckled to himself. “It’s kind of crazy,” he said by means of
introduction. “I was just leaving the shop this afternoon – normal time, see – with Ritchie.”

Jim tilted his head to the side. “Who’s this Ritchie?”

“Maybe I never talked about him before. He’s a regular at the shop. Good mate. Anyroad , it’s ‘is
birthday tomorrow, but his mates ditched ‘ im , so I invited ‘ im over for supper.”

His father crossed his arms over his chest, not really in sternness but in perplexity, and waited for
him to go on.

“And while we were walkin ’ back – Da', you won’t believe this, but while we walked back, I
think I just about got run over.”

That made him start. “What d’you mean, son?”

“Well, I would have, I mean, if Ritchie hadn’t pulled me out o’ the way. The car came right at us. I
must’ve hit the concrete or somethin ’, ‘cause I was out of it for hours.”

It felt good to tell somebody about it. Paul didn’t think he’d blacked out from hitting the ground,
granted, but it was a slightly less worrisome scenario than actually getting hit by a car (which he
was fairly confident was the reality of it), so he tweaked the story slightly. He also didn’t elaborate
on what exactly he did when he woke, because that was a series of events he couldn’t even begin to
organize in his mind, let alone voice aloud.

Jim walked closer to his son, placing a cool hand on his forehead. “You’re a bloody Inferno, boy,”
he swore. “Get ye to bed, now, and sleep. I don’ know what you were out there doin’, or with who,
but we’ll talk about it once that fever’s gone.”

Paul didn’t feel feverish. He put a hand to his own face and felt the skin – maybe he was warm,
yeah, or maybe he was just worked up, running high. That was probably it. Either way, he couldn’t
say no to a good night’s sleep.

“Right,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “I guess we’ll sort it out in the mornin’.”

“Night,” his father said curtly before turning to go back to bed. “I do wish you wouldn’t go out so
late at night anymore,” he said softly, but still audibly. “You know how it worries your mother.”

Once he was alone, Paul looked longingly at the picture of his mother for several moments before
trudging up the stairs into his room, shrugging off his jacket, shoes, and trousers, and climbing into
the sheets that smelled, just like the rest of the house, a little too much like smoke and too little like
detergent.

“Paul, lad,” his father’s voice gently shook him from his dreams.

As his mind processed the fact that it was no longer resting, it occurred to him that he had dreamt
of John Lennon. It was a vague recollection, more of a notion that it had happened than a real
memory, almost the same way he’d wake up with a song stuck in his head without having heard it
in a long time, if at all. But he knew that he had dreamt of John Lennon.

Paul squinted through half-asleep, blurry eyes at his father, who stood a few feet away, arms
crossed complacently across his chest. “Er,” he said thickly, reaching up to rub his eyes,
“mornin’.”

“How are you, son? Your head a’ right?”

“Er, yeah. Just a bit – a bit tired, is all.” And that was true – he really did feel fine, now. His limbs
didn’t ache, his eyes weren’t screaming at him to keep them shut – he just felt as if he hadn’t slept
any more than an hour or so.

“You’re friend’s downstairs,” he said. “I didn’t know if you’d been up yet.”

So Ritchie was here, Paul thought. That would be quite welcome – he needed to sort out what
exactly happened to him last night, to know where he went before Paul regained consciousness.
“Can you have ‘ im wait a moment?” He sat up slowly. “I need to wake up a bit more.”

“Hurry up, son. I’d not like that lad to eat all our food before noon.”

He left Paul to gather himself. He was usually a morning person, ri sing at dawn or earlier and
quite ready for the day, but on this particular morning, he found finding the resolve to swing his
legs out from underneath the blanket very difficult.

Looking around the room to let his eyes adjust, Paul noticed his clothes discarded in a pile on the
floor; he was only wearing boxers and a plain grey t-shirt. The pile was still noticeably damp – he
wondered exactly how late he’d been out, but couldn’t recall checking the time – and right next to
his nightstand. Well, right next to where his nightstand should be.

It was a different sort of wood, he noticed, and on top, he didn’t see his charging cable or laptop ,
as he should have. There was still an alarm clock, but granted, it was not the digital sort he used; it
was the old- fashioned, silver kind with a real clock face and two small bells on top. It read half
ten.

The rest of the room was similar to the nightstand, in regard to being quite unlike his own. His
bookcase held different books, his wardrobe was too short, and the desk was near the window,
instead of standing against the wall across from the door. Lying on it was a crumpled newspaper.

Paul slowly sat up, trying to ignore the vertigo that swarmed around his head , before shuffling
across the carpeted floor to grab the newspaper.

Liverpool Daily Post , it read. He hadn’t thought that paper was still in circulation (but then, he
didn’t often read the paper anyway). The bold headline declared, “ FLIGHT FROM RED EAST:
MASS MOVEMENT TO WEST BERLIN ”. Paul tilted his head, wondering if he was recalling his
history lectures right. West Berlin wasn’t exactly its own separate entity anymore, right?

He dropped the paper when he saw the date. 5 July – that seemed right, at least, but it was the
only thing that did , because the year was 1961.

Oh, God, he thought.

 Stranger in a Strange Land

Paul had never needed to sit down to receive news before. Nothing had ever hit him with such
staggering surprise and fervor as to render him unable to stand. Even when he received the news
that his mum had died, which was undoubtedly the most upsetting he had ever gotten, when he
was only fourteen, he’d seen her weaken slowly before his eyes for months, growing paler by the
day. T he news was disheartening but no surprise. He’d come to terms, to an extent, with her
passing before the day even came .

But seeing this date printed on paper t hat couldn’t have been more than a week old sent an alien
sensation down his legs, a shiver that came from the base of his spine and pooled in his knees. His
blood ran cold and he stumbled back, finding the wooden desk chair waiting, as if predestined, to
catch him.

1961, then. Nineteen sixty-one.

He didn’t want to believe it. He could have convinced himself that last night was a dream and lead
a happy life, never thinking of the bizarre incident again, were it not for the newspaper.

(Paul realized, in some secluded corner in the back of his mind, that it all made sense, if he were
willing to accept the outrageous , impossible fact that somehow, he found himself more than half a
century back in time. The shop being gone, the bartender acting so strange, the music – if he could
look past the fact that under no circumstances would this situation actually occur, Paul could see it
explaining why everything yesterday had been so strange.)

He still didn’t want to believe it.

Paul started at the knock on his door. It wasn’t really a knock, so much as a collision of the door
with a fist as it swung violently open – evidently, his dad hadn’t closed it all the way.

“God, Ritchie,” he began, twisting about in the seat to look at his visitor, “you’ll never believe –”

But the lad in the doorway was not his blue-eyed friend. Paul’s heart sped up in alarm , as he was
sure he’d never seen this boy before in his life – and he was a boy; he looked quite a bit younger
than Paul, with his youthful f eatures and thin proportions .

The stranger had dark hair, brushed back from his forehead in an attempt at a style Paul had never
seen anyone seriously pursue. He had dark eyes underneath heavy brows, and before his open-
mouthed grin fell to a thin frown, Paul noticed particularly sharp canines that seemed to amplify
the boy’s pointed look.

“– what ‘ appened last night,” he finished haltingly.

“D’you just call me Ritchie ?” the boy demanded.

Paul only stared for a moment. “Uh, yes,” he said, because he could say nothing else.

His unexpected guest let out a long whistle and shoved his hands in his pockets, walking across the
room to sit on Paul’s bed like he’d done it a thousand times before (and that same repressed part of
Paul thought that maybe, he had). Once he was no longer in the doorway, Paul noticed he had a
guitar slung over his back – a detail he’d at first overlooked in the shock of seeing the stranger.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Paul, what did happen las’ night?”
“How do you know my name?” Paul asked with slow suspicion.

He cocked his head. “’Ow do you not know mine?” He pulled his guitar strap over his shoulder
and set the instrument on the ground, leaning against his leg. Paul watched every movement with a
careful eye. “Look, are you pullin ’ me leg here?”

Where exactly was Ritchie, then?

Paul just shook his head. “I’ve . . .” He was about to say, I’ve never seen you before , but he
wasn’t sure if it was a good idea. Of course, he wasn’t sure what would be a good idea, but he
needed to be careful. “Er,” he grabbed the newspaper from where he’d dropped it on the desk and
held it out. “D’you see this?”

The boy squinted for a moment, tilting his head to see what Paul was trying to point out. “I see it,
sure,” he reached up to scratch at his head, “but what am I supposed to see in it?”

“Fifth of July, nineteen sixty-one?”

“So? It’s jus’ the paper from the other day, right?”

“ Nineteen sixty-one?”

“The hell are you on about, Paul?”

Paul let out a helpless sigh. “Fuck me,” he breathed. “You’ve got to be kiddin ’ me.”

“I really don’t get what you’re on about.”

N e rvous and uncomfortable, Paul couldn’t find a good way to sit. He tried to hold his head in his
hands, perhaps to ground him to whatever reality this was, but he only felt the blood pooling there
and giving him a headache. He leaned his head back, to try and remedy the problem, but it just
strained his neck, so he launched himself off of the seat and took to frantic pacing.

“I don’t believe this,” he said. “I don’t believe it. I don’t believe it.” His voice was rising and the
panic was setting in fast. “I don’t know who the fuck you are, man, but you can’t do this to me,” he
fixed his heated gaze on the stranger. “You jus ’ waltz in here, and you act like it’s - like it’s
some sort of game, some sort of laugh. I’ve never seen you before, and I don’t know why you’re in
my house, and I don’t know why it’s bloody nineteen sixty-one, and . . .!”

Surprisingly firm hands gripped his shoulders. “Paul,” came the boy’s soft, level voice in a
cautionary tone . “Paul, just breathe, mate. I don’t understand what’s gotten you all worked up,
I jus’ don’t. Can you, maybe, explain what’s ‘ appened ?”

“No, I can’t fuckin’ explain what happened! I don’t know what’s happened!” Taking a deep
breath, Paul looked into those eyes that had seemed so young before, but now seemed so old, and
he couldn’t help the way his breathing evened or his heart rate slowed down.

“I don’t know,” he said tentatively , trying again . “I don’t understand it m y self. And -” he
paused, trying to be honest but polite at the same time “- I don’t know if I can trust you.”

“Mate, you’ve known me for years. What’s with you? ‘Course you can trust me.”

Paul sat back in his chair, the adrenaline from his brief panic fading quickly. “Have I? Can I?” He
hated how desperate he sounded.
“Jus’ tell me.”

“You tell me your name first.”

The boy huffed, not quite seeing the point, but once he realized that he’d get nowhere without it, he
said. “George, a’ right? You know me. George Harrison.”

Paul tested the name on his lips to see if he remembered it. “George Harrison.” The name, he could
tell, wasn’t the sort he’d said often, or at all. It hardly sounded familiar – but he had heard it
before. Or he’d seen it.

“Oh, fuck no ,” he shook his head. First, John Lennon, and now, George Harrison? He had to be
dreaming. “This isn’t possible.” That’s it. He’d recently read about the men on their Wikipedia
page – and now, the next night, he was dreaming about them. Simple.

“Just calm down and tell me.”

Paul looked into the eyes of this boy, who was supposedly his friend, searching for anything telling
him he shouldn’t just say everything. Because he so desperately wanted to; he couldn’t wrap his
own head around what seemed to be happening, and though he wasn’t sure that this lad could,
either, it could be worth a shot. If he could be trusted, that is.

“I - uh, I really don’t know how to say this,” Paul let out a laugh to alleviate the tension. It didn’t
work. “God, this is difficult.” He rubbed his hands together, trying to figure out a way to say it
without sounding like an absolute madman. Finding his efforts in vain, he just blurted out, “I got
hit by a car last night and I don’t know what’s happened.”

George tilted his chin down slightly, keeping his eyes on Paul, and waited for him to continue.
After quite a few tense moments and surely audible gulps, he did.

Dream or not, this George Harrison had a way about him that let Paul ignore that nagging
confusion that clouded his mind. Talking to him felt like talking to an old friend, as ironic as it
seemed, and his monologue came naturally – or as naturally as it could have, given the topic. And
as absurd as it was, George kept his face clear of any expression the entire time he talked.

And, explaining it to someone else made it easier for Paul to wrap his mind around what
supposedly happened last night. Somewhat. He never explicitly stated that he traveled back in
time – to do so would be admitting to something he just wasn’t ready to believe – but he went
through no great lengths to hide it. T e lling him exactly what he had seen, being the perfect
witness without injecting any of his suppositions or theories (because they were frankly
ridiculous), he said that his ID didn’t work because it said he hadn’t been born yet without
actually stating that he, indeed, had not been born yet - but there was no way George hadn’t
pieced it together by now.

When he finished, he noticed one of George’s eyebrows raised quizzically as his eyes fixed on
something and nothing all at once. He looked like he’d seen something grotesque, but couldn’t
look away.

Perhaps Paul had made a mistake. Had he scared George with his ramblings? Did he seem mad?

“So,” George said finally, “You’re tellin ’ me that you don’t know me. But I know you and we’ve
been friends for years.” His voice was mostly calm, but Paul thought he could discern a note of lost
confusion, the sort that could lead, eventually, to despair. “And your family. Y ou know your da’.”
“Yeah, I saw him las’ night before I went to sleep. He’d waited up. And Mike’s bound to be ‘round
here somewhere . . . right?”

George nodded absently. “Yeah. You know your father and brother, but . . . what about your
mum?”

“No, she’s -” Paul’s back straightened as it occurred to him. “Wait! Is – is my mum here? Do you
know her?”

If he really was so far back in time (which he didn’t , but just to give the notion the benefit of the
doubt), and his family was there, too, then that might mean that his mum was still alive. She may
not have died from cancer – genetics weren’t the only thing that caused the , he knew, and even
though she must still have been genetically the same person, perhaps she had smoked, or
something, during his lifetime, but in this dream, she hadn’t.

He also remembered the brief conversation with his father last night. He hadn’t taken notice at the
time, but didn’t he say that his mother “worries”, present tense? Did that mean she was just asleep
in the master bedroom, instead of buried in her grave? In dreams, after all, what couldn’t happen?
Could she still be here ?

George’s prolonged silence told him enough. “I did, a bit,” he said. Any hope that Paul had found
suddenly left and he visibly deflated.

“Oh.”

There was a silent understanding between the two that established that this line of conversation
needed to go no further.

Paul averted his eyes from George, unwilling to be seen as so openly vulnerable. When he was
distressed, he entertained the childish notion that, if you can’t see it, then it can’t see you; if he
didn’t look George in the eye, then he wouldn’t show the disappointment and heartache that he was
feeling.

George tactfully shifted the conversation to something of much less gravity. As they talked, Paul
noticed a hesitance about George that seemed to tell him that his ‘friend’ didn’t exactly believe
him. Hell, Paul didn’t believe it, either, so he could hardly blame him.

It was almost awkward to make conversation, once they got around the elephant in the room. It
seemed that George wanted to ignore the issue at hand and resume the visit as it normally gone,
with a flippant, “Okay, uh, how about we play a bit, then?” and nodded to Paul’s guitar, which was
propped in the corner. “You do still play, right?” he asked with some hesitance.

That told Paul that George didn’t entirely dismiss the story as absurd. It seemed like an obvious
question – of course Paul played the guitar. His music was the sort of thing, he felt, that would
follow him wherever – or whenever – he went. But George couldn’t be sure of that until he asked.

The two fell into playing music after that. It felt forced, to an extent, as he could tell that George
was a bit uncomfortable being in such friendly proximity to someone who obviously had never
spoken to him before. He was still, it seemed to Paul, skirting around the topic that had so
consumed them.

Paul had to say he thankful for the avoidance.

George would play a piece of a song, and Paul would try to recognize it. He knew about half of
them – the bigger ones that made the more lasting impressions on the world of music, evidently. It
became a game of sorts without either of them mentioning its real intention – a test to see just how
much had changed under the guise of playing music. And George was bloody good.

Whoever it was who flubbed all those chords on their album , Paul found himself thinking, it
certainly wasn’t Harrison .

Perhaps he was giving too much away with this little game they were playing. By recognizing
certain songs and not others, wasn’t he just telling George which songs would end up standing the
test of time? (That is, of course, if George believed him.) There was some sort of time travel rule
that you didn’t tell people in the past what would happen in the future, right? Not that this bit of
information was particularly relevant, granted.

Paul had to shake himself when he realized that he was buying into this great conspiracy. He
hadn’t gone back in time. There was no time travel, and he was angry at himself for almost – for a
second – believing that there was.

But if it wasn’t time travel, what was it?

George noticed that Paul was growing ever more recalcitrant and consumed by his thoughts. He
looked at his watch and said, “Huh, it’s later than I thought,” though Paul was sure no more than a
n hour or so had passed.

“Okay, then,” he said. He wasn’t really sure how goodbyes worked between not-friend friends, or
how they had worked before (not that there necessarily was a before, since Paul still didn’t think
that any of this had really happened to him), so he waited for Harrison to make the next move.

“Listen, Paul,” he said, slinging his guitar strap over his shoulder. “I’m not sure I get exactly what
you just told me, and if I do, I'm not sure I believe it.”

He appreciated the candor. “To be honest, I’m not sure I believe it, either.”

George nodded. “ Anyroad , you’re me mate, whether or not I'm yours ,” which was said in a
matter-of-fact manner that nonetheless told Paul that it hurt George to think it but he wouldn’t
admit such a thing, “ and I wanna help you, a’ right?”

Paul almost smiled.

“I don’t know if this is that amnesia – selective amnesia, ‘parently - or whatever, that some
people get after injuries, and I'm not completely convinced you’re not just havin ’ me on. But I
do wanna help. I jus ’ don’t really know how, yeah?”

“I’m not really sure you can help,” he said, resigned. “And I’m sorry, y’know, that I don’t know –
that I don’t remember you. I’m sorry.”

George smiled at him sadly, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll be ‘ round,” he said, before
turning his back and leaving.

Something occurred to Paul. “Wait!” he said, and dived for his bed.

He heard George walk back into his room, and he could feel the inquisitive eyes on his back as he
rummaged through the sheets. “I can prove it,” he said, feeling around, “once I find it. Ha!” He felt
his phone and wallet as he ran his hand underneath his pillow, turning about to show George.
“This’ll prove that I wasn’t lying.”

He offered the lad his wallet. George flipped it open, eyes flirting over the various cards on
display. His eyebrows came together in confusion.

“That top card, it’s my ID,” Paul explained. “Look at the date.”

“ Says here you were, um, y ou were born in June,” he said, looking up. In a slow, level voice, he
continued, “June of 1999.” After he spoke, George fell deathly silent.

Paul nodded, hoping that George would just say something, but he must have been waiting for the
same thing, because his eyes never left Paul’s as he waited for a response. His expression was
unreadable.

“Now, I can’t outright prove that the ID isn’t faked,” he said, feeling a bit uncomfortable under
George’s unwavering stare. “But I can show you something that I know you’ve never seen and
that I know you can’t explain. This is supposed to be 1961, right?”

Silently, he nodded.

“Okay. Um, this is probably the worst thing someone in my situation – if there even is a situation
– could do. Maybe a bit of discretion, yeah?” He was rambling nervously, so he decided to steel
himself and cut to the chase. “Well, as a final bit of proof, it’ll be more than fifty years until
anyone hanging ‘round now would see something like this.”

(He thought, only vaguely, about how he was, in this action, proving the exact theorem to George
that he was trying to discredit to himself. It was an easy thought to dispell. )

Knowing that he was taking a great risk, Paul handed over to George his cracked cell phone.
Through the exchange, it remained off, and George merely held it in his hand, looking at the
bizarre object.

“Now, this is taking an awful lot of trust on my part, yeah? Can I trust that you won’t just tell
anyone about what I'll show you?”

George only made a noise that Paul took for assent.

“Okay. Just press that button on the bottom, in the middle, and please don’t drop it.”

Paul wrote, in hard, heavy letters at the top of the page, WHAT HAPPENED, then underlined it
with a furious stroke that broke the tip of the pencil.

Not caring about the sharpness or lack thereof, he continued,

-Concussion from car accident (possible)

-Still unconscious from car accident (very possible)

-In coma from car accident (possible but hopefully not likely)

-Part of a prank (possible but unlikely)

-Sent back in time

Paul stared at that last line blankly. He wished he hadn’t written it; seeing it on paper made it seem
even more absurd, because written things were supposed to be serious, they were supposed to be
purposeful . There was no purpose in writing it because it was very much not possible.
Still, something in him stopped him from crossing it out.

Deciding no longer to dwell that particular detail, he chose to move on to WHAT CHANGED,
drawing a harsh line underneath it as well.

-Record shop; pub now (perhaps I should return to make sure it was the right place?)

-Everyone thinks it’s 1961 (or maybe it is 1961)

-Different furniture, same house, same family (still haven’t seen Mike yet; George confirmed he’s
here)

-Silver Beatles (Lennon and Harrison, at any rate)

Paul halted at the last. Was it really fitting in that section? After all, he didn’t know if they had, in
fact, changed. Perhaps they were just as they should have been – sans Paul, of course. Maybe this
George Harrison already played with the Silver Beatles, and the Paul in this twisted reality was
just his friend.

If he was the friend of George Harrison, though, and George Harrison was in a band with John
Lennon, shouldn’t George’s Paul have crossed paths with Lennon before now? Sh ouldn’t he have
been r ecognized last night ?

It occurred to Paul that he didn’t know exactly when everything happened with those Silver
Beatles. Maybe they didn’t know each other yet. Maybe they weren’t the Silver Beatles yet.

(Or maybe this is all some mad dream and he should stop worrying about it!)

He wouldn’t be able to figure out that piece of the puzzle without speaking to either of the
prospective(?) band members, so he moved on to his next underlined section: HOW TO FIX IT

-If concussed: wait it out (don’t worry father, don’t go to any doctors)

-If asleep: wake up (easier said than done)

He saw that this plan didn’t give him much in the way of a step-by-step. Either way, he essentially
just had to wait to become mentally sound or conscious (and if he wasn’t yet, then this was by far
the most lucid dream he had ever had).

He told himself that his next point was written with the sole intention of humoring that conspirator
part of his brain that couldn’t let go of that festering thought:

-If time travel:

As he thought of what to say, he realized that this was truly the only part of his mental
regurgitation onto paper that he could actually put into any sort of strict guideline. It both
encouraged and discouraged him: he would finally be able to set out a plan, but it was a plan for
the only situation that he ruled out to be impossible.

IF TIME TRAVEL, he wrote in a section of its own.

-Tell no-one (George had been enough of a mess)

And, indeed, he had.

Paul grimaced as he remembered the look on George’s face when his thumb pressed into the round
button on the phone; it was the first truly understandable reaction he’d seen from the lad, granted,
but understandable didn’t mean good .

He was thankful that he’d expected George to drop the phone, because nothing, not even the
warning, could have stopped his sudden loss of control once the screen blinked to life. Paul could
see it in his face; in the moment it took before he dropped the phone, his expression changed from
that of skepticism to surprise, then to confusion – it remained there for the longest, Paul felt, but
even that was just a fraction of a second – before it settled on something that could have been
nausea, disgust, or abject horror.

The second that Paul caught his phone, he knew that showing George had been a mistake. No –
telling him anything in the first place had been a mistake. He should have feigned illness; he
certainly could have done it, with how out of sorts he’d felt last night, and how uneasy his morning
revelation had made him for the rest of the day , to avoid their little meeting . But nothing could
have prevented that outstanding lack of foresight.

George had dropped the phone, taken two steps back, his face pale, before scampering out of the
room in a rush. He wanted so badly not to be compulsively honest.

-Show no-one the phone or wallet (this includes “family”, if they were, indeed, family)

-Say nothing about what will happen in the future

-Stop no event that is supposed to happen

-Ask no questions that “Paul” should already know (including to family)

His next point was going to be something to the effect of ‘change nothing’, different from above in
that it would not only be preventing a certain scenario, but causing one. Something made him
reconsider.

This wasn’t like the time travel he’d seen in movies. Marty McFly didn’t go back in time to find his
parents the same age as they were when he left. Why did he go back in time (if that is really what
it was) to a place where his parents and brother were still his family? Where people knew his
name?

It was almost as if he’d replaced some other Paul McCartney, whose entire family was just set
back a couple of generations. A Paul who had his own life here, his own friends, his own family
(who were, despite how similar they may seem upon first glance, simply not the same).

Writing the list, Paul began to almost believe this theory. With that belief came the feeling that he
was usurping some other man’s life and position. He was not the same Paul McCartney that
George knew; he wasn’t the same man who lived in this room, slept in this bed every night, sat at
this desk every day. This wasn’t where Paul belonged.

His father, who’d left him a note that they’d gone to the shops sometime after George arrived, had
more or less lost his son and gained, well, him . He was the same person, physically, but he’d had
completely different experiences than the son his father had raised. He wasn’t the same brother to
the same Mike.

It was more comforting to think that this was all some sort of amnesia, as George had conjectured.

But amnesiacs only forgot things, didn’t they? Paul didn’t think that they came up with entirely
alternate lives.
And he thought of Ritchie, too, and wondered where he was. Had he come out of the car accident
unscathed? Paul had never hoped for anything more in his life. He hadn’t seen his friend last night
during his almost-drunken wanderings, and of course, there was no cellular reception in fucking
nineteen sixty-one from which to call him.

He wanted to think that Ritchie was back home, possibly worrying over his friend, Paul, who was
locked in some hospital ward, still out from an unfortunate accident. He wanted to believe that this
was all a dream and that he’d wake up to find everything back the way it used to be . . . or would
be.

Paul looked down at the paper he’d littered with his deranged scribbles and folded it with
resignation, stuffing it into his wallet, where he hoped nobody would snoop around. He didn’t
know what he was going to do.

So, guys, what d'you think? I dunno, but something makes me slightly nervous to post this chapter.
Maybe it's just the pivotal event/reveal to George? Please let me know your thoughts and thanks
for reading!
 Letters in the Sand

A knock at his door woke him from the daydream he had fallen into. Quickly, Paul shoved the
pages he’d scribbled on into his drawer and slid it shut before calling, “Yeah?”

The door creaked open, echoing the hesitance of the knocker to enter. Turning, Paul noticed it was
his father.

“Hey, Da’,” he said, wondering at the worried expression on his aged face.

“Son,” he greeted, resigning himself to stand in the middle of the room, hands clasped tightly in
front of him, looking quite clearly awkward. “How you doin ’?”

Paul shrugged as though he weren’t in the middle of an existential crisis and tried to look relaxed .
“Better, I guess.”

Jim nodded. He didn’t look used to this sort of talk – conversation for the point of conversation,
with an end goal of just knowing what the other wants to say, rather than knowing what the other
thinks they need from the shops or when dinner will be on. Real heart-to-heart talk was obviously
not the norm in this McCartney household.

“George help a ny ?” he asked, shuffling on his feet. “Puttin’ you at ease after yesterday an’ all?”

Because he didn’t particularly like lying, Paul said, “Not really,” but didn’t explain further.

“I wanted to send ‘ im off,” he said, expecting him to argue at that, but Paul just listened. “Thought
you needed your rest. But we had to go to the shops, see, and I didn’t like lettin ’ you alone, since
you were in that accident, since . . . since you were hit by a car las’ night . . .” Paul could tell this
was difficult for his father.

“Dad,” Paul said, hopefully reassuringly, “I wasn’t hit by a car. I got outta the way and hit the
sidewalk, like I told you.” He wasn’t sure if that was entirely true, but it wasn’t entirely un true,
either, and that night was very much a haze of confusion to him, so he saw no harm in easing his
father’s mind, since it didn’t matter either way.

“Either way,” he continued, “you got me worried, son. But I couldn’t sen d your brother to the
shops ; y 'know he’d just spend the change on junk. That’s why I let your friend up, y’see, ‘cause
I didn’t want you to be alone.”

“Thanks.”

“After you went up to bed las’ night,” Jim confessed, “I came up here to check on you. Tried to
wake you up, y’know , ‘cause I thought you may’ve hit your head – and that wouldn’t have been
good. I thought you may’ve needed the hospital. But I couldn’t wake you up for a long time, and
when I could, you jus’ mumbled somethin’ and went back to sleep. Got me real worried.”

“I’m sorry,” Paul said. “I’m fine now.”

“Sure?” After he nodded, his father continued, “You still look tired.”

“I am, I guess.”

“Good thing it’s the weekend, I suppose. Gives you time to rest ‘fore goin ’ back to work.”
At that, Paul paled. Work. He had a job here? He didn’t know where ‘he’ supposedly worked,
didn’t know his bosses, didn’t know anything . How was he supposed to find out where he worked
without giving away the fact that he had no idea what was going on?

“Oh, don’t worry about it, son,” his father said , seeing his distress . “I get you’re out of sorts now,
but you’ll be sorted out come Monday. And if you’re not, call in. God knows you deserve a break
with how hard they’re working you.”

Paul nodded, still trying to decide what he’d do about his job situation. He couldn’t very well just
ask where he worked – that was definitely something the Paul he was supposed to be should
know.

After a lengthy silence, Jim prepared to leave, but Paul remembered something about their
exchange the night before.

“Wait, Dad, before you leave,” he called hesitantly. “Um, earlier, you said that, when I stay out
late, that I, uh, I worry mum.”

His father froze.

“ What did you mean, I worry her?”

It was an innocent enough question, Paul figured, that he wouldn’t set off too many red flags by
asking. He already knew, from George, that his mother – this Paul’s mother, at any rate – was, in
fact, dead. Unless he misunderstood something, his father shouldn’t have used the present tense.

Jim sighed. It was a long sigh, fraught with emotions that he wasn’t comfortable voicing. Turning
back to face Paul, he sat on his son’s bed and put his hands on his knees, as if bracing himself.

This was the most vulnerable Paul had seen his father – any version of him – since his mother had
actually passed. For a moment, Paul wondered if he hadn’t opened the wrong can of beans in
stirring up old memories.

“Your aunt tells me the same,” he said quietly after several long moments. Paul didn’t ask which
aunt he meant. “I need to accept it, she says. Move on.” He took another long pause. “I really am
sorry, son, that it bothers you -”

“No, Da’, it’s fine, I was just -”

“-but I really do feel that she’s there,” he went on, ignoring Paul’s interruption. “I feel ‘ er here,
sometimes, when the house is quiet and I'm alone. When I don’t know where you are, or when
you’ll be back.” He chuckled humorlessly, closing his eyes. “It’s her who’s worryin ’ me, really.
She’s the one worryin ’ ‘bout you and it’s just pushed on t’me .”

Paul opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out, and he just looked at Jim with eyes
full of empathy and loss.

This wasn’t Paul’s father. He was too gruff, too stand-offish. Paul’s father was warm and openly
affectionate. He wasn’t quite sociable, but could carry a conversation well enough. But Paul knew
that, even if this man wasn’t his father, in a sense, he was very much the same man who lost his
wife, his son’s mother, Paul’s mother or otherwise. Wordlessly, he got up from his chair and
moved to sit next to Jim McCartney on the bed, close enough to feel his presence beside him but
not close enough to touch, which was all he needed.

~
To tackle his hastily scribbled list of objectives, Paul had tried a few things to wake himself up.

Firstly, he attempted the thing that always pulled him from sleep, no matter how deep.

From different heights, he tried to simulate the sensation of falling. He jumped from his bed, first,
and got nothing. Then, he leapt down the stairs from the fifth step from the floor; aside from a
bruised knee, he got nothing once more. Eventually, after skinning his calf through his jeans as he
tumbled from the tree in his backyard, he gave up on that attempt.

-If asleep: cannot wake up .

He was currently busy tackling his first objective of waiting out the confusion of a possible
concussion, which seemed, with each passing hour, a less and less likely explanation. This was no
all-consuming task, and since he, under no circumstances, wanted to let his mind wander, he set
himself to letting his feet do the wandering, instead.

This was how he found himself , in the broad daylight of four o’clock the following afternoon,
standing in front of The Cavern, which looked much lonelier in broad daylight than it had two
nights before. Like most pubs, it didn’t attract the younger crowd during the day; instead, it got the
sulking middle-aged men out of work or the elderly, to whom four in the afternoon was quite late
to be out indeed.

Paul didn’t go in; he had no money, for one, and he was still very much underage, from a strictly
legal standpoint. Furthermore, he had no interest in actually drinking.

He had hoped, on the walk over, that he’d been mistaken before . Perhaps, he let himself think,
he’d taken a wrong turn, and had no t been in the same place as the record shop at all. Taking
great care to follow the proper path, however, Paul was disappointed but not surprised to find that
the record shop was, indeed, no more.

Well, it wasn’t ‘no more’ quite yet – it just wasn’t.

After standing in front of The Cavern for what must have seemed a suspiciously long time to the
patrons inside, Paul decided not to look aimless by standing; it was better to sit and do the same.
People sitting, oddly enough, looked to have more of a purpose than people standing .

He was tapping his foot to the beat of some song or other that he couldn’t be bothered to identify
when, quite suddenly, a shadow overcame him. He didn’t want to look at who it was, at first,
partly hoping it was just a passing pedestrian, and partly for fear of who he’d find, but as it turned
out, he didn’t need to.

Paul felt someone’s breath sweeping against his ear and cheek. Before he could even properly
tense his muscles in alarm, the stranger spoke.

“Hey, I know you, don’ I, mate?”

The voice was loud and scratchy, rude and obnoxious. It set his already unsteady nerves alight; he
might have recognized the voice if he hadn’t been so startled by its volume and proximity.

“What the . . . !” Paul took in a panicked breath, spinning around and putting some distance
between him and the not-so-stranger. “Oh,” he breathed in a sigh that, while not quite relieved, was
more relaxed. “It’s you.”

“Me,” John Lennon said, grinning from ear to ear, leaning his arms against the back of the bench.
“But still not that McClean fella. Sorry to disappoint.”
It was a silly thing, that grin. He stuck his chin out ever so slightly and widened his eyes, and with
a few more lines on his face, Paul thought he could have looked like a gargoyle . But soon, it
simply turned into a smile – the sort a person gets from a genuine contentment. The gentle upturn
of the lips, the crinkle in the corner of the eye, the slightest hint of a dimple on his cheek.

Paul shook himself when he realized he had been staring too long at the man’s face. He turned
away, back to the street, and expected John to back away in silent dismissal , to get the hint that he
was in no mood for conversation.

He had no such luck; he could still feel John’s heat behind him and saw the shadow he cast upon
the ground. Maybe he was like a gargoyle, Paul mused grudgingly, always looming.

“Something tells me you’re not pleased to see me,” said John in a lower tone than before. Paul
hated that it sounded good to his ears – if he weren’t so annoyed with the man’s presence in the
first place, he might have allowed himself to shiver.

“I wonder what,” Paul replied, not bothering to be polite, and adding a bit more venom than was
probably necessary. He just wanted John to leave him alone; he wanted to talk to as few people as
seldom as possible until he figured out how to fix his conundrum. Secrecy was, perhaps, the most
important part, he knew, since the wrong word to the wrong person could hand him in an even
more unfortunate situation. “I ’m sorry, but I just want to be left alone.”

John ignored his request and chuckled, which sent even more hot air brushing against his neck.
This time, Paul couldn’t repress the shiver. He tried to mask it with a shake of his head, but he
wasn’t sure if it worked.

Everything he did seemed to egg John on instead of brush him off . “What’re you doin ’ here,
anyroad ?”

Paul sighed. “I’m sitting; what does it look like? D’you need glasses?” He wasn’t usually this rude,
honestly; only to his brother was he ever so outright mean, but he very desperately did not want to
talk to John Lennon.

He scowled in defense, though almost imperceptibly, and Paul thought that he might ha ve needed
glasses. He seemed to have hit a sore spot. It didn’t bother him enough to leave, though,
unfortunately for Paul.

“What are you even doing here?” he asked him in turn, careful to sound as annoyed as possible.

John leaned back just a bit, placing a hand on his chest. “I fuckin’ live ‘ ere,” he said with a
dramatic, insulted gasp. “This is me bench. Home, sweet home.” He gazed down and shook his
head in false fondness, “I sleep here and I eat here and I shit here.” He looked up and leaned into
Paul to say, threateningly, “And you’re trespassin’.”

Paul scoffed at the man’s antics, but had to look away to hide the grin that threatened to pull up the
corner of his lips. He hoped John hadn’t noticed.

“What’s your name, then?” John asked. “I never caught it. And it’s hardly fair, y’know , seein ’ as
you know mine, an’ all.”

After a moment’s hesitation, he answered, “Paul.”

John nodded, as if his name somehow made sense. “Paul. Got a last name?”

“Yes.”
Expectantly, he urged, “And? What is it, then?”

Paul didn’t answer; he rolled his eyes and looked back to the road.

Before he could blink, John had swung himself around the bench and slid onto it, practically
barreling into – no, on top of – Paul. He huffed from the collision and didn’t appreciate the
uncomfortable warmth it added to his side; it was summer, after all, and the sun was ever so
slightly less shy than usual.

“Well, Paul with the last name, what were you doin ’, mopin ’ about?” He nudged his shoulder,
something that Paul wouldn’t have thought possible, considering their nearness already. “Did you
forget somethin ’ when you ran out so fast the other day?”

Paul crossed his arms so that they weren’t relaxed by his sides; this put a bit more space between
him and John. “I wasn’t moping,” he protested. “I wasn’t really doing anything. It was just my . . .
my bad bad luck that we ran into each other, I guess.”

That made him laugh. “Bad luck? Me?” he shook his head. “I’m the best thing that could ever ‘
appen to you – to anybody.”

Well, he was certainly humble. “You haven’t happened to me at all,” Paul shot down. “I don’t
know you and I don’t want to.”

“The lady doth protest too much, methinks,” he said with the raise of an eyebrow.

Paul blanched. Nothing he was doing could effectively put an end to this possibly catastrophic
conversation. He stood suddenly and furiously, John having gotten on his last nerve, and clenched
his fists at his sides, glaring fiercely. “Fine, then,” he seethed. “I can tell you won’t just leave me
alone . So have fun with your, your,” he stuttered, not accustomed, per se, to telling people off,
“your sad little bench and I won’t invade the privacy of your home any longer.”

He turned on his heel and walked briskly in the direction of his home, praying that John had finally
gotten the hint. A part of him knew, however, that he’d gotten the hint long ago and just chose to
ignore it.

It seemed he was right.

“That’s no way to talk to the guy who took pity on you an ’ your loneliness to b uy you a drink,”
John said, easily matching Paul’s stride. He rested his hands leisurely in his pockets and sauntered
beside him.

“You’ll remember I never asked you to do that. I wish you hadn’t.”

John shrugged. “We don’t always get what we want.”

Before they had made it far from the bench, Paul stopped and faced him. He knew he wasn’t
particularly formidable, as far as looks went, with his youthful features that looked more feminine
than manly, more slight than strong, but he hoped he could get his message across all the same.
“Yeah? And what exactly d’you want, following me ‘round when I so clearly don’t want the
company?”

John stepped closer to him. Paul noticed that they were around the same height – John only looked
taller, from a greater distance, because his shoulders were broader, and he held himself with a sort
of confidence that was larger than himself. He tried not to shrink away.
“Don’t flatter yourself. I want to know,” he began, “why you left the pub the other night, jus’ like I
said before. I want to know why my name got you so worked up.”

Paul had left rather hastily when the man introduced himself, he realized. That must’ve been
more than suspicious. “What?” he feigned ignorance. “No, I don’t know what you mean.”

John hummed. “I think you do. And if you really want me off your tail, you’ll tell me.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but unless you want me to lie, then I can’t tell you.” That, at least, was no lie at
all, unless there was a considerable difference between the words can’t and won’t , which Paul
didn’t think there was.

Letting out a dry chuckle, John looked off to the side, shook his head, and turned back to him. “I’m
a man of my word, y’know . So you can trust me when I tell you, Paul with the Last Name, that
I’ll find out what you’re hiding, somehow.”

It was important to shrug as if he were not hiding skeletons in his closet, so Paul adopted a
nonchalance that may or may not have been convincing – his nerves were too active to really tell.
“It’s your decision if you want to waste your time lookin ’ for things that aren’t there.”

John Lennon smirked and appeared to say something, before deciding against it, and held back,
only sending Paul a wink (which definitely did not make his heart flutter dangerously) before
backing away.

Paul was pleased to find that passing the week normally (by the definition of ‘normal’ that stood in
1961) was easier than he feared it would be.

He had spent much of his time in his bedroom over the weekend, which felt far shorter than two
days. He decided that he could not pursue any plan to return to his own ‘normalcy’ until he was
well-rested and enjoyed clarity of thought, and his room was the best place to do so. His father
never interrupted him, after their brief discussion Saturday afternoon, and his brother, Mike, was
apparently so apathetic to everything related to Paul that he couldn’t be bothered to enter the room.

Paul didn’t mind that. He savored the solitude.

But the bedroom offered him much more than a respite from his family and the rest of the world;
in some cases, it gave him answers.

On Sunday night, as he dug through his closet for a t-shirt to wear to sleep, Paul came across a dark
blue button-down hanging next to well-worn khakis. Over the breast pocket was embroidered
McGinty’s Mechanics in plain white lettering, and clipped to the collar rather haphazardly was a
nametag with his name.

Grinning to himself, Paul silently rejoiced; he now knew where he worked. Originally, he’d
planned to feign illness Monday morning to buy himself more time to understand the job
predicament, but that was no longer necessary.

After finding his uniform shirt, he grew restless with relief. His mind reeled with renewed
possibilities. Solidifying his position at the job he was supposed to work all the time would assure
the watchful eyes of his father – and anyone else who could notice the sudden change in Paul’s
behavior – that there was nothing to worry over. Once suspicions were thoroughly put to rest, he
would be free to explore possible solutions to his predicament. Putting a foot in the shoe of the man
he was supposed to be felt like a leash being taken from around his neck; he still had the collar,
which would probably remain until he was back home, but no lead.

That night, he’d flipped through ‘Paul’s impressive collection of records, mostly blues and rock.
He recognized many of the artists, which was certainly a good thing: Buddy Holly, Little Richard,
Chuck Berry, and, of course, Elvis. If it weren’t so late at night and he hadn’t feared waking his
father, Paul would have played a few of his favorites.

Then, he looked through the books on the shelf. Most were textbooks, undoubtedly left over from
his schooling days, and notebooks, with scribbles of this or that in them. He was surprised to find
several with what appeared to be poems in them.

After reading some of the lines ‘he’ had written sometime in the past, an uneasy feeling spread
throughout his middle and forced him to close the notebook and place it back on the shelf. He felt
quite as if he were prying into someone else’s private thoughts - which he undoubtedly was, from
one perspective. He hadn’t written those words. The poems, personal and emotional, were very
close to a person whose body Paul now occupied, but whose mind remained a mystery to him.

They were the ramblings of a madman, anyway, for how much sense they made; Paul wouldn’t
have been able to glean any useful information from them even if he did read them all.

What did help him was ‘Paul’s journal, which had been locked in the drawer that now held his
phone and wallet.

‘He’ had been pretty bad at keeping this journal, Paul found. His entries were so infrequent that one
book of moderate size held entries from April of 1956 to the most recent, February of 1961,
without even taking up most of the pages.

He felt guilty about reading these, as well, but since they were written in prose instead of verse,
and formed coherent sentences, it had great enough probative value to outweigh the breach of
privacy. The way Paul saw it, reading the journal was no worse than any lawful search and
seizure.

The first entries were no more than reminders from the past Paul to the slightly more recent past
Paul (well, the past past Paul, that is). He had to make sure his father kept an appointment with
the bank on the 14 th , for example, and wish his aging aunt a happy birthday the following week.
He apparently hadn’t believed in the diary functions of this journal.

Later on, though, the writing changed. Passages became longer when he got to Halloween night of
1956 . He didn’t have to read it to know what it was about.

They won’t tell me why. I knew she was sick, but nobody said how bad, and they won’t tell us what
it was. I get Dad hiding it from Mike, he’s so young, but I’m not. Dad won’t say it and the rest of
the family is just as quiet as he is. I think he won’t say it because it’s hard to say something like
that aloud. She died of consumption , maybe, would be an easy enough thing to say, if only he
didn’t have to say she died . I think saying it just makes it more real. He cried, though, which
seems real enough to me. I can’t stand to see him cry, and I can’t stand to hear it. That’s why I’m
up here writing this. I don’t want to hear his infectious weeping and start it too.

It unnerved Paul to see the handwriting progress from ‘neat enough’ to ‘barely legible’, just as it
always had when he was younger. It was undoubtedly his handwriting. How old must he have
been, fourteen? Maybe fifteen?

Focusing on the handwriting was an attempt to ignore the emotions that this roused in him. It
wasn’t working, he knew, when he felt tears well in his eyes, so he flipped the page and reading
just a bit of each entry.

November 4 – Mike asked what the point of a funeral was and I don’t know how to answer.

December 18 – Christmas is a mess without mum here to cook.

December 27 – Finally, the Aunt’s gone back home. She’s nagged us about cleaning the counters
all week .

(Barely readable) February 8 – Bored at school, practicing right hand. Sloppy.

February 9 – I got a cramp in my thumb. Giving up ambidexterity.

May 4 – Remember to stop by that mechanic shop and ask for a job. Dad says we need more money
for bills.

July 5 – Ivan wants me to go to some fete with him, but Mike’s caught a cold, and Dad’s making
me stay in. Can’t sneak out; Mike snitched last time.

September 17 – I finally saved up enough to get that left-handed guitar at the shops but George
tells me it’s been sold.

September 18 – George is a liar.

At each mention of a name, Paul made a mental note to keep track of further mentions of them in
the journal. George was mentioned several times, along with someone called Ivan, Dot, and several
distant family members. He learned a bit about each of them, proving the notebook to be
invaluable.

He read well into the night. Once he was through with all of the entries, his eyes were exhausted
and heavy-lidded, but he was much more prepared for the days ahead. Even if he couldn’t bring
himself to believe, without a doubt, that he was somehow stuck in the life of a teenager with his
own name and face who lived sixty years prior, there was no harm in being prepared to live that
life, for however long it takes to get back.

Well? We saw John again, as well as ol' Father McCartney, and Paul's starting to kinda sort himself
out. Please share your thoughts below, and thanks for reading!
 More Things In Heaven And Earth

Paul was the sort of person who needed to always have a plan. He needed a next step to look
forward to; he needed a goal to pursue, a level to reach, a number to count down from. Back in
school, his gym teacher told the class to do as many push-ups as they could; Paul found this
remarkably challenging, not because o f the physical strain, but because he did not know what
number to set as his maximum .

He found that, if he were damned to Hell, his present situation was exactly the sort of infernally
torturous scenario his immortal soul would be condemned to.

H e didn’t know when, or how, he could proceed in his quest to return ‘home’, but he knew he
had to count something . And, if he couldn’t count down the days until he returns, he could do the
next best thing: count the days since he arrived.

Day number eleven, a warm( ish ) but cloudy Tuesday, found Paul attentively stacking the shelves
at McGinty’s. The first Monday of his vacation in 1961 had brought him luck: it was raining
heavily. Since he didn’t recognize the name of the shop stitched onto his uniform , he didn’t know
the way there, or what it even sold. The rain gave him the perfect excuse to ask his father for a ride
that morning, saving him the awkward questions that he certainly should have known the answer
to.

He, thankfully, did not have a particularly specialized or challenging job. McGinty’s was a small
mechanics shop and hardware s tore with two employees scheduled for each shift; Paul discovered
that he worked from eight every morning to six every evening, alternately stocking shelves and
checking customers. In all, it wasn’t so different from his job at the record shop; the main
difference was in items sold, not duties performed.

Granted, he did know a bit more about records than he did nuts and bolts; the only flaws in his
guise of normalcy came when a customer asked a specific question that he simply couldn’t answer
because of his hardware ineptitude.

From the journal, Paul recognized the nametag of his boss, Mr. Crane, an elderly and mostly deaf
man who seemed to exist only to open shop in the morning and close in the evenings. Otherwise,
he was closed up in a stuffy office in the back pouring over books and logs for hours, leaving Paul
and whichever other employee shared his shift to deal with customers.

He also recognized a few of his co-workers. He knew Matthew, from the journal, as the guy who
once stole a piece of piping, and whom Paul guiltily neglected to report, because he was easily the
largest and most intimidating man Paul had ever seen. Joe , meanwhile, was never punctual and
slept most of his shift. Theodore, or Ted, had a terrible speech impediment, and Paul usually had to
repeat what he said to customers.

All in all, it wasn’t a terrible job.

But it wasn’t great, either.

The best thing that had happened in the week or so that Paul had been ‘here’ (insomuch as he was
in a ‘different’ place) was probably the unexpectedly advantageous discovery that he was bad with
names.

It first happened when his neighbor was a patron of the shop. Paul had seen him a few mornings,
checking the paper, as he left for work. He walked in and waved amicably at Paul, who simply
smiled back, hoping that no long exchange of pleasantries were necessary, because he didn’t know
the man’s name.

“ How’ya been, Paul?” the man asked once he was ready to pay.

“Oh, I’ve been just fine, sir,” Paul said, careful not to sound like he didn’t know who he was
talking to.

“Don’ be so formal, lad,” he waved. “You’re bad with names, I know, but you can call me Tom,
yeah?”

Paul grinned. “Well, I’ll try to remember for next time.”

Being ‘bad with names’ excused him from addressing people he was supposed to know. If he
passed another neighbor on the street, he could call them ‘sir’ or ‘ma’am’, if necessary, and the
only thing they may wonder is why he was being so polite, but it raised no suspicions. Sooner or
later, he would hear somebody else use their actual name, at which point Paul would commit it to
memory and act like he used it all the time.

This trick didn’t do much good for him when the shop had no customers, however, and Joey was
asleep at the register. On this particular Tuesday, Paul could almost have fallen asleep himself out
of sheer boredom, but the sound of the door opening made him jump to alertness.

He automatically moved toward Joe, so a customer wouldn’t see him asleep on the job, when he
saw, out of the corner of his eye, a familiar figure standing in the doorway.

He froze.

“Hey, Paul,” George Harrison said.

Paul stared, wide-eyed. He hadn’t seen the lad in over a week, since he foolishly revealed to him
his . . . predicament. He expected never to see George again; after all, Paul must have seem
dangerously deranged, what with his madman’s ramblings, to begin with. The proof he offered in
the form of his mobile phone must only have been icing on the cake of scaring George away.

“I, er,” George began, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “I wanna apologize, y’know,
for running off so suddenly. Last week.”

Paul was silent, still staring. He admittedly didn’t know George very well, but from his
impressions, he was very self-assured and collected. The boy in front of him did not hold the same
demeanor; his lack of surety made Paul think that his apology was genuine – George must not
have been the sort to apologize often, and it showed.

Odder still, he held a paper basket lined with newspaper and filled with chips.

All he could think to say was, “It’s fine.”

He cast a quick glance to Joe, ensuring that he was still fast asleep; he didn’t know what all George
had come to say, but almost subject wouldn’t be suitable for such an audience.

“I, well, I was hoping I could talk t’you.”

Paul nodded. He wiped his hands on the cloth he’d been using to dust the shelves and set it on the
counter. “Okay. You’re the only customer we’ve ‘ad in hours, and y’aren’t even a really a
customer, so there’s no harm in a break.”

He smiled in relief. Poking a thumb over his shoulder, he said, “How about outside?”

Paul sent one more glance to Joey before following George out the door.

“I bought these along the way,” George said, proffering the chips. “I know you like ‘em. Or, well,
used to, I guess.”

He had been getting hungry, he supposed. Grinning in thanks, Paul took one and said, “Who
doesn’t? Thanks.”

They ate for a moment. Paul wondered if George wanted to put of f their conversation as long as
possible – the topic certainly couldn’t be light, after all.

“So, what favor is this food supposed to buy you?” Paul asked to diffuse the tension. “I’m not
givin ’ you any future technology or anythin ’. That’s strictly prohibited by the, uh, Order of Time
Travelers , y’know .”

George eyed him for a moment.

“Joking,” Paul said indulgently, just in case he didn’t know.

He nodded, like it was obvious. “Yeah, yeah. I know. It’s just . . . It’s all kinda crazy, innit?”

“Does this mean you believe me?”

“Does this mean you really think you’ve travelled in time?”

Paul couldn’t honestly say ‘yes’. “I still don’t know what to believe. I mean, it’s impossible, right?
I’m not convinced this isn’t just some great dream.”

“If you’re dreaming, then I am, too. That . . . thing, whatever it was, that you showed me -”

“The cell phone.”

“- just isn’t something you can explain!” He paused. “Phone, you said?”

“Yeah. Makes calls, yeah? It’s like a really, really small, uh, computer.” They had computers,
right? The ones the size of entire rooms, with bugs that were literally bugs and only the simplest of
functions?

George whistled. “All I know is, that was one really clear picture of, what, a frog? on that little
screen.”

Paul chuckled. “Yeah, it takes photos, too. It was a lizard, actually, on the windowsill one
morning.”

He still had that habitual urge to grab his phone from his back pocket when it was mentioned, but
he remembered that he’d locked it in his desk drawer, after turning it off to conserve the battery in
the absence of a charger. He must’ve just looked like he needed to scratch his arse .

Paul had taken to locking his phone and old wallet – that is, the one that he brought with him, not
the one from 1961 – in his desk drawer. That first Sunday, he’d powered off his phone, wishing to
preserve the remaining forty percent of battery it had left; he had no way to charge it back if it
died. Of course, he also didn’t know under what circumstances he’d need his phone before he
could get back, but the battery was one of those nostalgic things that he simply was not ready to
give up yet.

“Look,” he said after George had been silent for far too long, “I’m sorry for freaking you out with
all this . . . stuff. It’s insane, I know, and I probably shouldn’t’ve said anythin ’ to you about it,
since I even don’t get it myself, and it must all’ve seemed so -”

“Look, you don’ need to apologize, Paul,” he interrupted. “I can tell you’re stressed enough with
this as it is. Maybe you shouldn’t’ve told me, yeah, but you did, and you shouldn’t regret it. I’m yo
ur friend – or I was – and I’m gonna help you, insane or not.”

How could he help Paul when neither of them even knew what was wrong? Well, perhaps they
knew what, but not why . “George, I really couldn’t ask you to -”

“And you didn’t need to.” He placed a steadying hand on Paul’s shoulder. “As shocking as this
was for me, it must’ve given you a fuckin’ heart attack. I can’t imagine it. And if you won’t tell
anyone else – a decision I would definitely support, by the way – then you need somebody to
know. If you aren’t mad now, you will be if you have to deal with this on your own.”

Paul let out a dry chuckle. “Gee, you really know how to cheer a guy up.”

He flashed a bright, cheeky smile. “Well, what else am I here for?”

He nodded, smiling.

George dug a pack of smokes out of his back pocket and fumbled around for a lighter. Upon
finding it, he raised the cigarette to his lips and lit it; Paul only watched this with a vague
expression. He didn’t smoke, himself, and never particularly minded when others did, so long as
they did it outside, but he’d noticed that a noticeably larger proportion of the population smoked a
noticeably larger amount of cigarettes.

“Want one?” he offered. Paul politely refused.

It wasn’t something that surprised him, but it wasn’t a nice thing to realize. It would be a few
decades until smoking was more widely discouraged, so while Paul had grown up with the dangers
of smoking ingrained in his memory, nobody here had. He couldn’t say anything, of course – it
would be like going to royal court in the seventeenth century and saying that bloodletting wasn’t
good medicinal practice. It would be useless.

He didn’t have to like it, though, or do it himself.

Something occurred to him. “Excuse the dumb question, but, are you younger than me?”

George paused for a moment, as if considering the answer to what should be a simple question, and
Paul thought he saw a flicker of mischief in his sharp eye. “No, actually. I’m two years older.”

Something about that look told Paul not to trust him. “Oh, come off it. You look like a kid.”

He scoffed indignantly. “Do not!” At Paul’s raised eyebrow, he said, “All right. A year younger.
But you’d not’ve known if I hadn’t told you.”

“Yeah, right.” Paul shook his head. There was a moment’s silence, in which both of them just
looked out on the streets – the people walking by, the passing vehicles.

“I am sorry for Saturday, though,” George said after a while. Paul was about to tell him not to
apologize, but he continued, “I think that I might’ve taken it better if you just told me. Or if
you’d just shown me your license, or if you’d just had that . . . phone thing. But together, mate,
it was jus’ too much, yeah?”

Paul sucked in a breath and nodded. “Yeah.”

“I mean, I ‘ad no time to, er , really consider what you were tellin ’ me. It was jus’ too different.
Too overwhelming. And I wasn’t sure I believed you, really, ‘til just now, ‘cause I didn’t know if
you believed yourself. ”

“No, no, George,” Paul assured, “It wasn’t your fault at all. It was mine. I shouldn’t’ve told anyone
‘bout any of this – I’m just now accepting that this whole thing may not be some crazy dream.
And, er , n ot to assume anythin’ , but I think that, uh, discretion would be good. Y’know , so
I’m not tossed in the madhouse.”

He held up his hands, as if in defense. “No, mate, don’t worry. I hardly say anythin ’ anyroad .
You know me.”

Paul looked down and laughed lightly, but George’s words were sobering. “Well, no, I don’t,
really.” His ‘friend’ didn’t have anything to say to that. “I don’t know anyone I meet anymore. I
don’t know the people who think they know me.”

“But didn’t you say that your brother and -”

He knew it was rude to interrupt, but it hardly mattered. “They’re not really my family, Geo. My
father loves cooking, watches chefs on the television all the time. And he’ll smile at you when you
catch his eye, even if he don’t know you, and if he does, he might even give you a hug . But here,
all this Paul’s father knows is how to cook scrambled eggs and run through an entire pack of
smokes a day, and he’ll apologize if he accidentally bumps you in the hallway . . .” Paul trailed off
before his voice could fail him.

He felt arms around his shoulders and leaned into the embrace. They must’ve looked a sight, two
lads obviously upset on the side of the road. Paul fought to stop the tear that threatened to fall
down his cheek.

“ I’m the one who should be sorry. You can’t see the lad you were friends with - ‘cause it’s not
me. I’m just masquerading around in his body.”

“Shut up, a’right? Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault. You didn’t choose this, but you have to deal
with it. You can’t be worried about me when you’ve got yourself to handle.”

George pulled away and held him at arm’s length. “Don’t feel guilty. Just think, maybe in your
future, there’s some poor sod from the sixties walkin ’ around, seein ’ people with those phones
and flying cars and whatever else they’ve invented, and he’s jus ’ as lost as you.”

Paul chuckled dryly. “That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

George shrugged. “Can’t blame me for tryin’.” Paul smiled at him. “But I can tell that you’re still
the same Paul I know. You’re considerate, and you care for people, really. And you’re a genius on
guitar. Jus’ ‘cause you may’ve had different experiences doesn’t mean you’re not the same Paul.”

He can tell George is trying to convince himself of that, too. He smiled sympathetically.

The point George was trying to make brought up an interesting question that Paul hadn’t bothered
to consider before – the psychological question of nature versus nurture. Was he really the same
person as the kid who grew up in the fifties, listening to Elvis on record, and finding a job at a
mechanic’s just to make ends meet? Did his life experiences define him, making him so far
removed from this Paul that he was incompatible with his life, or was he essentially the same?
Was there any difference at all?”

“God, you’re makin ’ me head spin,” he said. George eyed him oddly.

“Right.” He looked around, not entirely sure what had just gone through Paul’s mind. “Maybe you
are mad. But you’re still me mate, and I was serious earlier, when I said I’d help. If you need
anythin ’, just ask, yeah? I can hardly imagine what you’re going through.”

“Thanks.”

George hung around until Paul’s shift ended, which he found to be a welcomed distraction from the
slow, meandering business. He was pleasantly surprised to find that George was good company,
despite the unfortunate circumstances of their meeting, and figured that they would have been
friends, regardless of which ‘version’ of Paul he was.

They walked back to Paul’s place together. He didn’t need to explicitly invite George; the lad
simply assumed that he was always a welcome guest, and nothing Paul had done implied
otherwise.

“So, uh, what’s this place like, in the future?”

Paul cringed without meaning to. ‘In the future’ sounded crass, or perhaps vacuously
presumptuous, to his ears. Even if he had accepted the reality of the situation (which was, by no
means, an established truth), he was not yet ready to hear it.

He ignored his initial reaction.

“It’s not all that different,” he said. “Liverpool, that is. It’s got the same old streets and same old
buildings. There’s just different people inside ‘em.”

George knew that Paul could have gone into much greater detail about life in the twenty-first
century. He was visibly holding back. “You’re not gonna tell me much, are you?”

“No, uh, I don’t think I will.” Paul had the grace to look bashful.

“What would be so bad about it? What’s the danger?”

He thought a moment. “It’s always been a rule, y’know, in science fiction, that you don’t talk about
the future to people of the past. I guess it’s expected that they’ll try to change it, maybe, or stop it.”

George hummed. “Did you ever read Oedipus Rex?” He said it low, as though classical literature
was something you didn’t speak of loudly in public. Paul figured it may have had something to do
with reputation.

He knew the name, certainly, but couldn’t place it until he remembered his Psych course in sixth
form. The phrase ‘Oedipus Complex’ had particularly branded itself into his memory, along with
an incurable apprehension of any psychologists who called themselves Freudian.

“That’s the guy who killed his dad and married his mum, right?”
George laughed. “Well, yeah. But that wasn’t the point of it – the point of it was that you couldn’t
dodge fate. He knew he was gonna to kill his dad and marry his mum, but in tryin ’ to avoid it,
he just made it ‘ appen .”

He though he could see where George was going with this. “So?”

“So, no matter what you tell someone from the past, and no matter what they do about it, certain
things are jus’ gonna happen. It’s fate.”

“You really just want me to tell you about the future, don’t you?” George held his hands up, as if in
surrender, as if to say, I tried my best . Paul shook his head. “I’m sorry, really, but I don’t know
how . . . wise it would be. And, anyroad , I don’t believe in fate.”

“You don’t?”

They rounded a corner that marked the halfway point between the shop and Paul’s house. “Nah. I
mean, if we have free will, what’s the point of it if, whatever we choose, the outcome would be the
same?” George didn’t respond immediately. “I don’t see how both of them – free will and fate, I
mean – can, y ’ know , exist together. And I personally like the sound of free will better than fate,
so I just don’t believe in fate.”

He mulled that one over for several paces. “But,” he began, “there’s a difference between what
could happen and what did happen, yeah? The difference is, what did happen is what was always
going to happen . Somethin’ else could’ve but didn’t. Some things are gonna happen to us,
whether we choose ‘ em or not, right?”

“Well, to an extent, I suppose -”

“Like this whole deal with you and being, er, from the future.” He lowered his voice
conspiratorially, as though passers-by may hear and become suspicious. “You didn’t choose it,
yeah? But here you are, regardless, because of some, I dunno, celestial experiment gone wrong,
maybe.”

“But that doesn’t mean that I was born with one destiny,” Paul argued. “There’s no specific place
that I’m somehow meant to end up. I mean, come on. If I was supposed to be here, why wasn’t I
just born here, to save fate the effort of bring me?”

George didn’t answer immediately.

Even as he spoke it and knew it sounded preposterous, a degree of wonderment struck him. He
hadn’t thought of that possibility before. It hadn’t even occurred to him that he was deliberately
sent, or brought, back in time by some force or entity to fulfill a purpose. He hadn’t expected any
reason or rhyme to this rambling epic.

Just as he looked to George and took a breath in preparation for his next words, an unfamiliar voice
reached his ears.

“’Ey, McCartney!”

Turning, Paul saw a lad, about his age, who must have recognized him from across the street. He
waved a passing car to a squelching stop as he hurried across the road, grinning.

“Hey,” Paul said to the unfamiliar man. He’d become quite good at pretending to recognize the
people he met.
“Hey, Ivan,” George said from beside him. Paul sent him the quickest of glances in thanks for
saying the stranger’s name.

It clicked in Paul’s brain that this must be Ivan Vaughan, from the journal. He smiled as he tried to
remember everything he’d read about Ivan.

“George,” Ivan said, not quite as amicably as he’d greeted Paul, despite using the given name
instead of the last name.

“What’s goin’ on?” Paul said.

Ivan shrugged. He had that typical late fifties coif, with his hair gelled back carefully away from
his forehead, trimmed above his ears. He struck Paul as the sort who cared a great deal about his
appearance – more than most of the ‘friends’ he had, at least.

“I spotted you jus’ now, while I’m on me way to a mate’s place. Don’t think you’ve met ‘ im .”

Paul looked knowingly at George. “Probably not.”

Ivan thought nothing of the exchange. He clapped a hand on Paul’s shoulder, shooting him a
winning, toothy grin. “Mate, anyroad , feels like I ‘ aven’t seen you in ages . Where ’ve you
been?”

It was Paul’s turn to shrug. “You know, around.”

The rest of their conversation was quite brief; the exchange of pleasantries could not evolve into
anything more, as Ivan soon excused himself. “He’ll get impatient, me mate will, if you’re late.
‘E’s got such a busy schedule, see .”

Paul smiled as if he understood, and as if he cared, but quite honestly, he hadn’t known Ivan long
enough – or at all – to care about his very minor problems. “Then I’ll leave you to appease your
high-maintenance friend, then.”

He and George, thankfully for his quite fatigued mind, did not return to the subject of
predestination or fate, and just walked in friendly silence.

The high-maintenance friend, as it turned out, cared little for Ivan’s tardiness. In fact, he’d
forgotten that he was expecting company at all, so the knock at his flat’s front door came as a bit or
a surprise.

John set his guitar to lean against the sofa in the small excuse of a living room in the flat that he
shared with his class- and bandmate, Stu Sutcliffe . It was a certifiable mess; two art students in a
rock and roll band had more than enough time to trash it, but not nearly enough to clean it up.
Empty bottles of beer, packages of cigarettes, and dirty (or possibly clean? One could never tell)
laundry lay strewn about place, a true testament to their lifestyle.

Well, to Stu’s lifestyle. For John’s part, he liked to pick up after himself, but only after himself.
H e enjoyed a clean working space, but not enough to neglect his conviction that Stu would either
tidy his own shit or live in it, even though that meant John had to live in it, too.

In other words, he was too lazy to clean a mess he didn’t make.

He’d been practicing guitar, obviously, but it was the sort of practice he could only really do
without his flatmate there to overhear . This was because John Lennon did no t practice – or,
at least, wasn’t supposed to. Alone, he could push his abilities beyond his level of confidence
without fear of mistakes (meaning that, while he certainly still made mistakes, he no longer feared
those mistakes being revealed to the rest of the band, who all seemed to think him impeccable , and
who was he to tarnish than vision? ). It was a matter of pride; though he didn’t place himself on
the pedestal, he certainly wouldn’t step down from it. He could only get better alone.

At the sound of a knock on the door, John started. It couldn’t be Stu – he was off with some girl
and probably wouldn’t be back until tomorrow, at the earliest. It took him a moment to remember
that he was supposed to be having that Ivan lad over to talk about some of the other local bands.

Ivan, a couple years younger than John and Stu and no great musical talent, was their eyes and ears
about Liverpool, of a sort. He made up for his lack of natural skill with enthusiasm, following the
music scene around the city like a hound. He would mention when there was a good place for a gig
and look around the other emerging (a word used loosely) bands and see, more or less, what John’s
little group had to compete with. This was all an unofficial relationship, of course, and partially
stood as payment for John and Stu letting him crash at their flat and drink their alcohol, but it was
a status quo that n either party was willing to disrupt.

John wrenched the door open, fixing a disappointed look on his face. “You’re late,” he said shortly
by way of greeting, ignoring the fact that he had forgotten that he was even supposed to come by.

“Yeah, yeah,” Ivan griped, the knowledge that it was in jest doing nothing to mitigate his irritation
at the overused stunt. “I was held up. Came ‘ cross me mates, Paul and George, on the way. But
I’m ‘ere now, and that counts for somethin’, don’t it?”

John, who wasn’t really irritated and didn’t care for the excuse, simply shrugged noncommittally
and left his door open for Ivan to close when he entered. He found his place on the sofa once
more, set his guitar in his lap and strummed a familiar, well-practiced riff that he couldn’t possibly
mess up. “What’s goin ’ on with you, then?”

Ivan rambled on, saying many words with little meaning, as he helped himself to a bottle that John
and Stu had on their counter . John was partially zoning out whatever he was saying until the
younger lad set himself down heavily onto the sofa very close to John and kicked his feet up on the
coffee table.

“What’s the report, soldier?” he asked, nudging Ivan in the side for more elbow room.

Wiggling a bit so as to give the illusion that he was trying to move, Ivan took a large gulp of beer
before replying. “Well, not much’s been ‘ appening , lately. Only thing remotely interestin ’ is that
group, uh, the Hurricanes, I think –”

“Rory Storm?” John vaguely knew the name.

“Yeah, ‘ im and his Hurricanes, they’ve got that drummer. Starr, yeah? Well, their past two gigs,
they’ve ‘ad somebody else, sayin ’ he’s sick or somethin’.”

John plucked a simple little tune as he thought. “Hm. That’s almost certainly a leadup to
replacement, him being gone so long . Good to know we’re not the only ones who can’t find a
good one. ”

Ivan hummed. “It could be. Or he could actually be sick. I seem to remember that the kid was
pretty dedicated, y’know ? And bloody good, too.”
Chuckling, John looked at his friend. “Who are you callin ’ ‘kid’? I bet he’s got years on you,
easy.”

“Oh, you know, it’s just ‘cause he’s so short.”

“Well, ‘course he looks short, he’s always sittin ’ down. He’s a bloody drummer!” John elbowed
him again, this time purposefully in the ribs, inciting a laugh , even though he had never seen this
‘Starr’ and could not validate any claims related to his height. .

John returned to his playing, Ivan to his drinking, and the two sat in comfortable quiet for a while.
John lost track of what he was strumming and just began alternating between two or three chords,
tapping his foot to some soon-to-be-forgotten rhythm, lost in thought.

He was recalling his last gig. It hadn’t been one of their best, since they had a relatively new lad on
drums. John and Stu had gone through what seemed to be an entire city of aspiring musicians in the
past year or so, hardly finding somebody who could actually stay in tune or keep a beat, let alone
sing backup.

Even Stu wasn’t that good, John had to admit. He stuck around, not because he ever wanted to be a
great bassist, but because he and John were such good friends, and Stu knew that the band thing
was John’s dream. When John asked him to join and urged him to learn the bass, Stu said it would
only be until he found a good replacement. That had been over a year ago.

Despite that night being rather unimpressive, musically, John was sure he’d remember it for years,
if not the rest of his life.

He simply hadn’t been able to get the thought of that lad out of his head. That Paul . John didn’t
even need to know his last name to know that it would sound just as perfect for him as his first
name did. After he’d left him that Sunday afternoon, he hadn’t been able to get him out of his
head. Even with t hat constant reminder, however, he had made no progress on his mission to find
out more about the enigmatic character (this was, of course, for lack of trying, because though John
cared quite a great deal about discovering at least Paul’s surname, he had no idea where to even
start, and that sort of thing usually discouraged any further action). It was infuriating.

Paul. What sort of last name would go well with Paul ?

“Wait a second,” he suddenly said aloud. “Ivan, who did you say made you late in comin’ here?”

Taken aback by the unexpected question on a topic he’d certainly not thought would be the topic of
conversation, Ivan said, “Uh, Paul and George. Why?”

John couldn’t help but grin. “This Paul, does he have black hair, big eyes? Kind of thin?”

“Yeah, that’d be Paul McCartney,” he replied, confused. “Why?”

John looked straight ahead, still grinning. McCartney. I’ve got you now. Paul McCartney. “Oh,
no reason, really,” he excused, trying to sound nonchalant.

“When d’you meet him? He's been a mate o’ mine for years. I’ve tried to introduce you, y’know ,
for a long time now, but ‘e’s never gone for it,” Ivan rambled, oblivious to John’s victorious
expression.

“Did you, now? Why?”

“Well, I dunno what’s always kept him. Guess he jus’ never found the time. But I’ve told you
‘bout him before, haven’t I? Paul that plays the guitar?” John shook his head, knowing very well
that Ivan may have done just that, but that John probably hadn’t listened. “He’s younger than you,
which is always why you used to brush it off, too, but now, there’s just never time, I guess.”

John nodded. “He plays guitar, then?”

Ivan grinned widely. “God, does ‘ e. He’s pretty good, you know. Always has been. But l ike I
said, you always used to say my friends were too young to play in your band.”

John waved his hand in dismissal. “No, I didn’t,” he said, knowing full well that he had. “How
good is he?”

Ivan said cheekily, “Better than you,” before ducking away and covering his head with his arms,
anticipating an outraged strike. John probably would have smacked his head in the brotherly-
affection way that inflicted pain but also stood for fondness, had he not been so distracted by sense
of achievement.

Paul McCartney.

John was not exactly sure what his end goal was, but if he knew one thing, it was that he was now
one step closer.

I do hope the quasi-philosophical discussion was at least mildly interesting, though I'm sure it's
secondary compared to whatever John's planning . . . Please let me know how it's going!
 To Frame Thy Fearful Imagery

Upon finally accepting the unfortunate circumstances of his best friend’s consciousness being
usurped, more or less, by an unwilling inhabitant from an almost unimaginable future, George
showed himself to be insatiably curious.

During the early hours of day twelve of being in this odd, impossible dream, not twenty-four hours
after their meeting at the mechanic’s and reconciliation for any tension this predicament had
caused, Paul was awoken from what would have been a restful sleep by the sound of the phone
ringing downstairs.

Longing for the days when mobile phones meant midnight callers could be silenced by barely
raising a finger, he trudged down the stairs to the living room. Knowing that his father was too
deep in slumber to answer the ringing and his brother was, most likely, stubbornly ignoring the
incessant battery left Paul as the only one to answer.

He hardly stopped to wonder who could possibly have something to say to the McCartneys at this
late an hour. He glanced at the clock on the wall for the time – half one – before picking up the
receiver and falling back into the large plush chair beside the table. Even if this would be a short
phone call, he was simply too tired to stand.

“McCartney residence,” answered his sleep-muffled voice.

“Paul!” came an answer far two enthusiastic for the time of night.

He felt that he should recognize the voice, but he was not yet alert enough. “Er, hello?”

“It’s George, you daft sod.”

Paul made a noise somewhat like a sigh, somewhat like a groan, and somewhat like a scoff to
communicate his surprise and exasperation. “Geo?” He rubbed his eyes, which he could hardly
keep open. “What’s got you callin’ so late? Somethin’ wrong?”

“I’m real sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry at all, “but I couldn’t get it out of me head. What you
said, o’ course.”

“Uh, mate, you have any idea what time it is?”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. But I haven’t the faintest idea how you can sleep, knowing you’re,” he
paused there, then lowered his voice to a barely-perceptible whisper, “from the future.”

Yawning, Paul replied, “Well, I was getting on with it just fine, if you must know.” He heard a
vague chuckle from the other side, and an intake of breath, but hurried to mention, “At any rate,
you managed well enough this past week, didn’t you?”

“It only just struck me,” he defended. “I mean, really, really struck me. I jus’ can’t stop thinking
about it. It’s impossible. It’s like something from that H. G. Wells novel, y’know? I can hardly
believe it.”

Sighing, he said, “I understand that you’re, er, having some sort of mental crisis, but I’ve come
enough to terms with it to sleep at night. Can’t you?”

“No, I can fuckin’ not!” he declared. “I just need to talk to you about all of this . . . future business.
I’ve got so many questions and I can’t get it out of my head; it’s driving me mad.”

Laughing dryly, “How do you think I feel all the time now? Look, I get that you’re confused, but
it’s just too late for me to think straight on a normal day, let alone right now. Can you, please, just
go to sleep? You can come over tomorrow, if you really want.”

“How am I supposed to sleep until then?”

“Fuck, I dunno. Try meditation. Listen to some Brahms. Count your toes. Anything but keepin’ me
awake all night.”

Evidently not pleased but powerless to make Paul comply, George simply sighed exasperatedly.
“Fine. But I’ll be there the second you get off work.”

“Sure. G’night.”

Once he heard the click of the receiver on George’s end, Paul let his wrist fall slack, his own
receiver resting lazily against his cheek. He chuckled lazily to himself, his eyes still closing shut
from sleepiness, as it struck him how comic George’s enthusiasm was. George, who was so calm
and collected, so grounded and assured in his ways, had just realized his own little window of
immortality in Paul.

The rather rudely-timed phone call was a prelude to an even more emphatic attempt on George’s
part to glean, from Paul, some semblance of what the future will be like.

He was tired, the following evening, not from a long, hard day’s work, but from a long, boring
day’s sitting around and waiting for work. The days seemed to grow impossibly hotter, as shown
by the trail of sweat that ran down the side of his face from his hair, making the walk home from
the shop the only physically strenuous – or even mildly demanding – part of his day. That is, if
one did not count how physically difficult it was to sit still for so long.

Walking home at a brisk but comfortable pace, eager to get out of the heat, Paul hardly heard the
voice calling his name. “Ey, Paul, wait up!”

He stopped, turning. Quite a few paces behind him he saw the now almost-familiar figure of Ivan
Vaughan.

Paul was only a few roads away from his own street; he wished that Ivan would have waited until
he was home and called upon his house. He was walking towards him with a purpose, meaning
that he had purposefully sought Paul out – he obviously knew his rout home from work, so he
certainly knew where that home was, and was calling upon it for some particular business.
Paul, for his part, mostly just wanted to be in the cool of his own home.

He waved and walked towards Ivan, eager to hasten whatever business he had with him. He could
almost feel the sun burning his nose – a ridiculous notion, as he could hardly ever get sunburnt in
Liverpool, but the feeling was there.

“Hey, Ivan,” he said, trying not to make his voice sound as weary as he was.

“Lookin’ a bit tired there, McCartney. Hard day fixin’ all those cars?” he teased. Paul rolled his
eyes; he would never be trusted near any of the patrons’ automobiles, and he was sure everyone
who knew him knew that, as well.
He scoffed. “The sheer boredom of that job makes me wish it were.”

Ivan shrugged in a ‘what can you do’ manner. “It’s money. At leas’ you could find a job, which is
better than me.”

“I guess so,” Paul said nonchalantly, not really knowing how difficult it had been to secure the job,
since he hadn’t exactly done it,

“Anyroad,” he continued, shuffling around in his pocket for a moment before pulling out a
cigarette and lighting it. “Want a smoke?” he offered the pack to Paul, who refused. Ivan tilted his
head to the side, as if to say, ‘why not?’ but shrugged. “Anyroad, I came to ask you, what
time d’you get off on Fridays?”

Paul thought a moment, to make sure he wasn’t thinking of the time the record shop closed, and
said, “Six. Why?”

He let out a puff of smoke, which Paul tried not to wrinkle his nose at, and answered, “You should
come ‘round to the Cavern for drinks. Me and some of those other lads’ll be there. You’ll be
free?”

Paul didn’t immediately register the name of the place he’d said. “Er, I might be.”

“Great. So you’ll come?”

“I never said that,” Paul refuted. “If I do, I’m bringin’ Geo, a’right?”

Ivan shrugged. “Yeah, sure.”

They were prepared to part, then, and Paul was more than eager to get away from the smoke and
out of the sun, when something occurred to him. “Wait. Why do you want me to go? You said it
was the Cavern ? What’s happening there?” he spouted out question after question. Though it was
just a name, ‘the Cavern’ left a bitter, foreboding taste in his mouth.

He eyed Paul, as if trying to figure out his ulterior motive, which was, coincidentally, just what
Paul himself was trying to do. “Jus’ me and a few mates, goin’ for a drink. What’s the matter with
you? You won’t smoke, and now you’re tellin’ me you won’t drink, neither?”

Paul raised his hands. “No, no, that's not it,” he refuted. “I just wanted to make sure that . . . well,
we’re not goin’ there for, uh, the music gigs, are we?”

There was something in Ivan’s face, then, something in the raise of his eyebrow and the ever so
slight twitch of his lips that suggested to Paul that ‘goin’ for a drink’ was not all they would be
there for. However, simply because Paul didn’t want that to be the reason for the invitation, no
matter how ominous the parting warning from Lennon had been, he told himself he was
being paranoid;,imagining things. It's quite outstanding how easily he can convince himself of
something and believe it to be true.

“No, no,” Ivan said. “I don’t even know who’s playin’ there that night. Do you know somethin’
about it?” Paul didn’t know him well enough to tell if he was lying.

“Nothing,” he said. “Just wondering.”

“Well, wonder all you want on your way to the Cavern,” he said. “Friday night, nine, okay?”

“Sure,” he said, and they went their separate ways.

Paul continued his walk home.

Sighing as he unlocked the front door, Paul noticed by the quiet and lack of a car in the drive that
nobody was home; his father was at work, and Mike was undoubtedly out galivanting with friends.
He set his wallet and keys down on the counter and got a hasty cup of water from the sink, wincing
at the strong taste of city chlorine but relaxing at the cool sensation running down his throat.

He was leaning against the counter, one hand holding the cup, the other braced against the
refrigerator, so that no part of his body was touching any other, if it could be avoided, so he could
cool off as quickly as possible. Content to remain like this for the foreseeable future, he was mildly
surprised to hear a sharp knock on the door.

It took him a moment to recall the conversation in the middle of last night with George, but once he
did, he shook his head good-naturedly and moved to the door.

He opened it. “Hey,” he greeted the widely smiling face that greeted him.

“You don’t know how long this day has been,” was George’s salutation as he brushed past Paul
and entered the house without formal invitation. “I’ve been waiting forever . I’ve so much to ask
you; I made a list.”

Paul let out what could only be the dihybrid cross of a cough, laugh, and scoff as George produced
a slip of paper covered almost entirely with small scribbles. “Jesus, mate, don’t you have anythin’
better to do?”

George looked around, dramatically suspicious, and put a finger to his lips. “Shh,” he stage-
whispered. “The boss doesn’t know I’m gone early.”

He shook his head. “All right, then, you over-eager dog. Want some water or somethin’?”

At George’s shrug, Paul filled his own cup once more, and got another, either for George, if he
wanted it, or for him, if he was still thirsty later. He couldn’t remember the last time a walk home
from work was this exhausting. The two made their way upstairs.

Paul could tell, once they were in his room, that he was about to launch head-first into his list of
questions. Interrupting what hadn’t yet been said, he put in, “You know that there’s stuff I just
can’t tell you, right?”

George huffed. “Yeah, yeah, you said that, earlier,” he sat upon the bed, bouncing slightly in
excitement. “But I’ve got to ask. I mean, if you can’t tell me, at least I know the answer’s
important, then, won’t I?”

He had reservations. For one, he wasn’t that good a liar; the main reason he hated lying was
because it was so difficult , and he was always caught for it. Only ancillary was the fact that lying
was morally wrong.

If he lied, George would probably know. Any version of Paul from any time was bound to be
terrible at lying.

Secondly, he wasn’t sure if he knew what he should and shouldn’t say. He didn’t trust himself to
think through, logically, each answer he gave, to estimate its possible repercussions.

“All right. Shoot.”

George adjusted his position on the bed, holding the slip of paper in front of him, as though he
couldn’t remember each thing he wrote down, but Paul was sure he could. “First and foremost, I
guess, and the one that you probably can’t answer – Do you know me?”

Paul paused a bit too long before saying “No.”

“Do you know of me?”

Now was the test of Paul’s duplicitous skills. “No.” He didn’t know whether he should look at
George or not; was averting his eyes suspicious, or would it be weird to stare? He settled with
looking lazily at George’s nose as he spoke.

George expertly avoided looking relieved or disappointed; perhaps the Paul he knew would have
been able to tell, but the Paul that was couldn’t.

“Okay.” He looked at the paper, finding the next question he wanted to ask. “Uh, has there been
another world war?”

Was there any harm in being honest? “There hasn’t been another world war, no.”

This seemed to please George. Paul wasn’t sure if that was because he got the answer he wanted or
he got an answer at all.

“Have there been any wars?”

“Oh, certainly.” That was sort of unavoidable, wasn’t it? People and war just went together like
wasps and stinging. He left it at that, though, and didn’t go into any of the specifics without
prompting – even with prompting, he wasn’t sure he would.

“Can you tell me about them?”

He didn’t want to tell anybody anything important, in case they would try to change the course of
history. He didn’t know, though, if George even had the power to do anything with any information
Paul may give him.

Should he tell him about nuclear armament and the resolution of the Cold War, about Vietnam,
about Middle East? Those could be world wars, from George’s perspective, just because they
involved countries from around the world, even if it wasn’t from every continent. He didn’t want
to scare him into any sort of ‘the end is neigh’ mindset and cause panic.

“Uh, I really don’t think I can.”

Though visibly disappointed by the answer, George pressed on. “Does anybody drop a bomb?”

Paul ignored the multitude of jokes that ran through his brain and tried to ignore the Pink Floyd
tune that wormed its way into his brain and simply would not leave: Mother, do you think they’ll
drop the bomb?

“Again, I can’t really say.”

George grumbled a half-hearted, “ Killjoy ,” and moved on. “Are there any really big, uh, natural
disasters, or un natural disasters?”

“Well, there’s hurricanes, certainly. And tornadoes. And earthquakes. They happen all the time.”
He ignored the un natural disasters that had most certainly happened – the oil spills, the nuclear
meltdowns, and the like. Those are things he was sure George could do without knowing.
“But not, like, the sun became black, and the moon became blood, right?”

He laughed. “No, Geo, it’s not the coming of the Apocalypse. At least, it wasn’t when I left.”

“Just makin’ sure,” he shrugged. “What about music? I guess that’s what I really care about. Does
it get better? Worse?”

Paul wrinkled his nose. “Both,” he said. “But y’know, it’s hard to say. Different tastes, right?”

George shook his head. “No, Paul. You’ve got good taste and I trust you enough to know good
music from bad. So tell me, is it uphill or downhill?”

Paul considered. “Well, the way I see it,” he raised his hand and drew a hill in the air. “We’re
about, er , here, I’d say. Almost to the middle of the incline, right now.” He used his other hand to
point. “I’d say that the best music will be in the next couple of decades. So, listen loud and go
deaf by the time it goes downhill, yeah?”

He laughed. “Sure, I will.”

George ran through the rest of his list. For most of the questions, if Paul even answered them, he
was reluctant, and held back quite a bit. He felt like his stern old chemistry teacher who would
always answer part of a student’s question and tell them to ‘figure the rest out by yourself’, but
that’s essentially what he had to do.

There weren’t many questions about politics, either because knew Paul wouldn’t answer them or
he simply care, but fo the few that were asked, he didn’t supply an answer, other than to say, “No,
England has not been overthrown. It’s still here.” Furthermore, he avoided any mention of Ebola or
AIDS when George asked about diseases, and refrained from getting too specific when the subject
of technology came up, mostly because he didn’t know how to answer it.

“But how does it work ? Can I see it again?”

Paul had only ever seen children that excited over a mobile phone. “I want to conserve the battery,
so it’s off,” he said as an apology. “But otherwise, I'd let you see it, at least.”

He furrowed his brows. “So you change the batteries?”

“It’s rechargeable.”

He said ‘huh’, as though that explained things, but Paul knew it didn’t.

“Honestly, I don’t know much about how it works. I know there’s circuits and stuff. Electricity.
But I’m no engineer.” He didn’t want to go any farther into it, because the use of
phones would undoubtedly bring about the subject of the Internet, which was a puddle he really
didn’t want to wade through.

“Jus’ one more very important question,” George said, many questions and partial explanations
later. He leaned forward, taking furtive glances around, as though he were being watched. “Are
there . . . aliens?”

Paul barely refrained from whistling a certain tune. He laughed instead, saying, “Not that I know
of, but there will be some really excellent shows about it on television in the coming years.” He
left it up to George to figure out whether that was sarcasm or not.

“At least somethin’ to look forward to, then.”

~

Later that evening, after Paul informed him of the plans to go to the Cavern on Friday, George left.
Paul had insisted on him coming along for quite a few reasons – first and foremost, the most
practical reason of all: he was fully (or, very nearly fully) aware of Paul’s predicament, and could
act as a buffer if any tense situations arose concerning who Paul did or did not know and what Paul
had or had not done. He was operating under the assumption that George knew everything about
his friend’s social life, but the Paul that Was having some clandestine life was a possibility the Paul
that Is didn’t want to consider.

Paul would be drinking with a group of lads he didn’t know. That presented two more problems,
the negative effects of which he hoped George’s presence could mitigate. The drinking, first of all,
wasn’t ideal, because Paul seldom drank socially, because the more people he was around, the
more he tended to drink. He didn’t necessarily want to be drunk in 1961, surrounded by (more or
less) complete strangers. If he did, however, he was relying upon George to keep him in line.

That lead to the third problem: he would have no idea who most of the people were, other than
Ivan. Had he not said that they would meet some ‘mates’? The only of his ‘friends’ Paul had yet
had the fortune to meet were George and Ivan, though there were undoubtedly more, and he would
probably feel quite the fish out of water.

The fourth reason was simply that Paul enjoyed George’s company.

He had been able to sense that Ivan wasn’t quite pleased by the fact that George was tagging along.
He attributed this to George’s age, because there was nothing else that Ivan could possibly find
issue with; George was funny, intelligent, and musically gifted, and Paul knew some guys didn’t
like hanging around with people even one year younger than them out of some understood stigma
surrounding juniors. Ivan may just be too proud to deign to grace George with his friendship.

Paul didn’t think he liked Ivan much, just from the two encounters he’d had.

There was also the fact that he half expected Ivan to be conspiring against him in relation to John
Lennon. Only half, because although he acted somewhat suspicious when Paul questioned him
about the band playing, there was really no reason Paul could find for Ivan to want him to run into
John Lennon in the first place. It was most likely a manifestation of Paul’s own suspicions and
anxieties, and he had nothing at all to fear.

But he did fear it, even if irrationally. It wasn’t that he disliked John Lennon – he hardly knew him.
Yes, he seemed pushy and overbearing, but on the right person, those aren’t bad characteristics,
necessarily.

The issue with John was that he was dangerous. Or, rather, Paul interacting with him was
dangerous. Of course, Paul interacting with George was also dangerous, too, but he liked to think
that it was slightly less so, since the Paul that belonged here had known George already. The list
possible ways he could change the course of those Silver Beatles’ history was shorter if he
interacted with George, rather than Lennon.

The real danger, he knew, would be if his suspicions weren’t unfounded; if John and his band
really were there. He wasn’t sure, yet, if they knew each other already, but he knew that catalyzing
their meeting could only result in drastic and egregious change. He resolved to leave immediately
and drag George along with him, were that the case.

Setting his mind back to the issues at hand rather than his worries over Friday, Paul set about
preparing supper for his father and Mike. That was one thing his own life had in common with this
new one: he had, more or less, taken over many of the household duties his mother had previously
performed, including cooking and the laundry. It was terribly domestic, and wasn’t the type of
work Paul enjoyed (as if he enjoyed any type of work), but it had to be done, and his father was too
busy, while Mike was too stubbornly inept.

After eating a tense dinner (all dinners, now, felt this way, since they were ‘family’ dinners, but for
Paul, without the family), he showered and prepared for bed, having nothing better to do than
sleep. He found that, without the luxury of endless entertainment from his phone or laptop, he was
rather bored most of the time; the three channels on the television never played anything
worthwhile, and he didn’t feel comfortable playing music from the record player, because his
father and Mike would certainly hear. He didn’t want to be a bother to a family that wasn’t his.

It was also rather exhausting, every day, to conduct himself according to the preestablished rules of
somebody else’s life. He had figured that, while in Rome, he should do as he Romans do; but it was
an all-consuming task, paying constant attention to his every action, to make sure it was not out of
line.

Despite the appeal of blissful rest, Paul was disgruntled to find that it would not come. He’d tried
all the tricks his mother ever told him when he could not sleep: he imagined his body falling
asleep, from his toes to his head, but that just made him want to kick his feet; he counted as high as
he could, until he simply lost track, and became frustrated. He tossed and turned, flipped his
pillow, and even forced himself to yawn – nothing worked.

It was a common thing, now, the insomnia. He couldn’t always shut off his mind at night, since
this ordeal began. Tonight, however, he didn’t have the usual thoughts of preparing a face to meet
the people that he meets; he had one particular face on his mind.

The face of John Lennon.

He told himself that John was not handsome. In a sense, he was right; there were parts of his face
that were too angular and too harsh to be handsome, conventionally. But in another sense, he
couldn’t be more wrong. There was just something that John did. A way he held himself, a way he
adopted expressions, a way he looked at Paul, that struck him as not only handsome, but
beautiful.

He tried to shake his head, as if it would shake the thoughts from his mind. It did not work.

The impractically foolish part of him hoped, if only barely, that he would find John at the Cavern
on Friday. He wanted to see that wry smirk and hear that strained, spellbinding voice as he sang.
He wanted John to simply look at him in the way that went past his eyes and into the very fibers of
his being.

These thoughts startled him. No – they jarred him. Not only were they surprising; they were
unpleasant. He couldn’t have a . . . a crush on John Lennon.

It wasn’t that John was another man. Well, it wasn’t not that, either – it's just that Paul had never
really fancied a lad before. He wasn’t even sure that what he felt was a fancy; maybe it was just
an interest in something so unfamiliar that it confused him.

He wasn’t gay, but he wasn’t necessarily straight, either. He didn’t know what he was, had never
thought about it much. He’d had a girlfriend, back in sixth form, when that was just the thing to do;
he’d broken up with her after a few months, and neither of them much cared one way or the other.

Of course, he’d pass people in the street and think, oh, he’s quite handsome , or she’s quite
beautiful , but it was in the same objective way that he’d pass the Statue of David and think, o h,
that marble is quite smooth . He wasn’t really attracted to anybody in particular – not until John.

No, it’s not the sexual orientation that unnerved him about his unprecedented attraction to John; it
was the man himself.

John Lennon, forgotten to history, save for a dusty record and a Wikipedia article last edited
over three years ago.

John Lennon, happily living his rightful life in his rightful time.

John Lennon, dead decades before Paul was even born.

He didn’t need Paul to mess with the life he wanted to lead. Paul didn’t have the right and shouldn’t
have had the opportunity.

These thoughts lead, eventually, to a fitful sleep with night terrors that left only a vague notion of
foreboding each time they woke him.

Friday came both too soon and not soon enough.

It was an occasion that he both looked forward to and dreaded because he wasn’t sure what to
expect. It wasn’t the sort of thing he should dread, since a drink with friends, in and of itself, is a
rather nice convention. Paul was simply unable to relax enough to forget his incessant misgivings
at admittedly remote possibilities.

Regardless of his feelings about the meeting, he encouraged himself to wash up and dress with the
knowledge that it would happen, for better or for worse. He had agreed to this outing; he could not
retract the promise now.

By the time he met George in front of the bus stop that stood as a close enough centroid between
their two houses and the Cavern, his palms were clammy. He smiled and hoped it didn’t look as
nervous as he felt.

“You’re gonna buy me a drink, right?” George asked as they adopted a comfortably brisk pace.

Paul put a hand over his heart. “Goodness, no! I’m simply shocked, Georgie, that you’d even
consider underage drinking.” His false outrage was perhaps more obnoxious than it would usually
be thanks to his nerves, which exaggerated every action he took; he was walking faster than usual,
swinging his arms with slightly more force, and taking breathes a bit too sharply.

“Why else did I bring you? Useless,” George grinned at him.

As it turned out, he did buy George a drink. When they puhed through the Cavern’s doors a quarter
of an hour later, Paul scanned the crowd and was not exactly surprised to find the same bartender
pouring drinks. He approached to buy the cheapest beer he could for himself and George.

“’Ey, you again, lad?” he asked, not unkindly, but not welcomingly, either.

“Me again,” he grin-grimaced. He held out his ID – the one that actually meant something here –
to avoid any further conversation and hasten the purchase. The memory of that first night made
Paul feel uncomfortably lost and homesick, feelings he’d tried so desperately to ignore. Sparing
him one more glance, the bartender gave him the requested two beers and let him on his way.
He turned, pints in hand, to find George in conversation with Ivan at a nearby table. He went to
them.

“Paul!” Ivan exclaimed, opening his arms to clap his shoulders. His wide smile and cheerful eyes
told Paul that he was either very glad, indeed, to see him, or he’d been there long enough for a few
drinks already, making everything new was exciting. “You finally graced us with your presence
.”

Paul wasn’t in the mind to discern whether that comment was playful or snide, so he simply
ignored it. He nodded to Ivan, glanced almost involuntarily at George, and surveyed the rest of the
lads gathered around the table.

He recognized none of them.

There were three others, in total, which made for more than a crowd around the small round
table. Looking like the quintessential teenage rebel he’d come to recognize as the crowd ‘he’ hung
out with, they surrounded Ivan and George like flies to honey.

One of them looked at Paul. “Haven’t seen you ‘round in a while,” he said.

“Been busy,” Paul shrugged. He found that he had given that excuse frequently these past
fourteen days.

He heard a short ring of feedback from a microphone system, followed by some commotion and
the rise of a voice from the stage. Then, the environment of the room shifted dramatically.

Perhaps that lad was asking, ‘With what?’, or perhaps Ivan was saying something inconsequential
about the beer, or perhaps George was trying to catch his eye for one reason or another. Perhaps
the world did not simply cease to revolve around the sun and begin to revolve around the stage,
several yards to Paul’s left.

Perhaps any number of these things happened, but Paul was not to know.

All he could hear was the voice speaking loudly from that aforementioned stage, loudly cutting
through the crowd with the cheap microphone.

“G’evenin’, ladies and gents! Tonight, we bring to you the one, the only, Silver Beetles !”

Paul’s head turned to the stage faster than his neck could accommodate it; he found himself unable
to look away.

All right, this one's a bit filler-y, but I realized, hey, I've introduced George to a guy from the
future, and he's hardly been mildly curious! It's time he asked those important questions. And the
next chapter's gonna have quite a bit of action; stay tuned!

A note about the next update, though: You'll notice I'm posting a day early, because starting
tomorrow, I'm going to be travelling for two wee. That means I'll have no time to write/update the
next chapter, which is already written. But, since I'm always one chapter ahead with writing (for
insurance purposes, of a sort), I'll probably need a week back to catch up, so you'll be seeing me
again in about three weeks, I think. I do apologize for leaving you all here, but please keep an eye
out for updates!
 Dirges in the Dark

There he was, standing in all his casual glory, appraising the audience as though onstage with a
guitar in his arms was the most comfortabl y natural place in the world for him . It probably was.
His well-worn button-up shirt was too loose on him, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and
the top three buttons open, exposing the pale shine of his sweating skin. His hair curled back from
his face in lazy perfection , undoubtedly aided by gel. Exuding confidence, John Lennon narrowed
his eyes to observe the crowd that was there, in his mind, solely for him . He did not merely hold
the microphone between his hands as he stood in front of his less remarkable bandmates; he held
the audience in his palm.

He cast his eyes down to the guitar slung over his shoulder for a moment, finding his fingering,
and paused long enough to say, “To begin our show tonight is Eddie Cochran, ‘C’mon
Everybody’!”

Paul didn’t know the song, himself, but that hardly mattered.

Strumming the opening chords, John scanned the audience once more before finding Paul’s gaze.
The expression that overcame the singer’s face, then, was an ambiguous mix of curiosity and self-
satisfaction, but not quite surprise. Paul froze, enraptured by those eyes, that smile, the voice – the
music, horrid as the bassist and lagging as the drummer were, couldn’t detract from the unrefined
power of that voice. Paul couldn’t even blink until John looked down to find his place again.

He took that opportunity to look away, to escape from that barred prison of a gaze . He sent an
almost pleading glance to George, as if hoping it would somehow help him, before remembering
that his friend wasn’t privy to this particular bit of the story.

Then, he shifted his eyes to Ivan, and the look wasn’t nearly as kind. “Ivan,” he said, almost as a
warning, though the action against which he was warning had already been taken; it was simply a
desperate and attempt to reverse what he had feared would happen.

“What?” Ivan said innocently. Too innocently. The lad couldn’t stop the sideways smirk that took
over his lips and couldn’t quite keep his eyes on Paul; the y shift ed almost guiltily, almost
mischievously , to the stage, told him all he needed to know.

His suspicions weren’t unfounded. Ivan had been up to something. He knew something.

Or , at least, some one .

What did Ivan know of his meetings with John? What would be the motive for this arrangement?
Paul suddenly got the notion that Ivan was a spy, infiltrating his life to do John Lennon’s dirty
work.

He hadn’t forgotten John’s parting words to him, as much as he’d tried. He’d sworn to uncover the
secret he was convinced Paul was hiding – though that would not have worried him so much if he
weren’t, in fact, hiding something. As it was, Paul had a great deal to lose.

He should assume, then, that Ivan knew only as much as John did – which was, hopefully, very
little. He didn’t say anything to Ivan, for fear of revealing something he might not already know.
He simply fixed him with a scathing, disappointed glare, before shaking his head and taking a deep
sip of beer.

The rest of the Cavern hummed with chatter and commotion, it was brought alive by the alcohol
and made vibrant by the music. It bled through the temperaments of George, Ivan, and Ivan’s
friends, who were raucous and jubilant, oblivious to his inner turmoil. Paul tried his best not to
listen to the talk of his tablemates, because when he did so, th e ir unfamiliar subjects rendered
him so terribly confused, but it was rather difficult, as he was also trying not to focus on
Lennon’s energetic and pervasive singing.

Every so often, he would look from George to John, as if doing so would reveal whether there was
any familiarity between the two. To his disappointment, he never once saw George glance
towards the stage; if he had, Paul could have assumed that George was at least acquainted with
John. He had hoped for some respite from the constant anxiety that he w ould possibly encourage
the meeting between George and John prematurely, but had no such luck.

“Come on, McCartney,” Ivan said, pulling him from his thoughts and shoving the beer clasped
between his hands closer to his chest, so that the liquid sloshed over the rim and spilled onto his
sleeves. “You’re bein’ so fuckin’ depressing. Jus’ have some fun.”

He shook out his sleeves, rather unimpressed, so far, with what he’d seen from Ivan. “Maybe I
could, if you didn’t spill my beer, you wanker,” he grumbled.

George sent him a sidelong glance. For his part, he could partially understand why Paul wasn’t
exactly exhilarated to be here, but the extent of his irritable displeasure was a bit perplexing. He
said nothing, though, because Ivan did it for him.

“What’s twistin ’ your knickers lately, mate?” he demanded. “You’ve been pissy for days . I
noticed. What is it, then?”

Perhaps he had been rather uncharacteristically short with Ivan. After all, Ivan knew nothing of
Paul’s personal struggles, presumably; he couldn’t understand the gravity of his situation. Maybe
he was being unreasonable.

“Sorry,” he said, trying to sound as genuine as possible. “I’ve jus’ been, uh, pretty busy lately.
Haven’t gotten much sleep.”

Ivan reached across the table to nudge his shoulder with his fist. “Then you need this,” he insisted.
“Loosen up. It’s not like you to be so . . . bland.”

Gee, thanks .

He wasn’t exactly up to being the life of the party, but he didn’t want anyone to press t he issue
any further, so instead of fixing his mug with a steely stare, he settled for idly scanning the rest of
the pub – not the stage – with as content a look on his face as he could muster.

So consumed was he with simply watching the other patrons and fabricating their life stories
based solely upon their apparel and conduct at one particular moment in time that he failed to
notice the band announce the end of its set and the beginning of another. That was good, in part,
because it meant he succeeded in tuning out the performance, but bad because he noticed too late a
figure sauntering confidently into his periphery, jarring him rudely from his reverie.

He had entertained the retrospectively fantastic notion that John would simply ignore him after
they broke off the tense eye contact from the beginning of his performance , that h e would just
forget that Paul was here and let him go on with his night in relative piece.

He knew, though, that some dreams were impossible. Another human presence to his left told him
that John was there, settling himself close to Paul as if he w ere welcome, as if he belonged.
“So, Paul ,” Lennon drawled, clasping a firm hand on his shoulder and leaning close to their table.
Paul tried not to jump at the contact, he really did. “Or, rather, McCartney, I should say. I’m finally
on last-name basis with you. Ain’t it nice?”

The hand on his shoulder felt too hot and made the area that it wasn’t touching too cold. Paul
minutely rolled his shoulder back as an intimation that John should release him, but he only
adjusted his grip slightly. It made a blush r ise treacherously up Paul’s neck, which he hoped
would go unnoticed.

“I’ve Ivan to thank, really. Our mutual pal was kind enough to mention you,” he continued, at
which Ivan shrugged. “He said your name, and I thought, hmm, that sounds quite like my Paul.
And it was true – not too many Pauls ‘round these parts, d’you think, with eyes like yours, are
there?”

The blush crept up to his cheeks. The comment made him feel quite conscious of where his gaze
fell, and whose fell on him, which was rather unfortunate, as he couldn’t look away from John. He
opened his mouth to say something (he wasn’t sure what) when he was saved from looking like a
gulping fish by Ivan’s derisive laugh. “Stop lyin ’ with that queer shit, Lennon. You’ve scared ‘ im
enough; don’t need to chase ‘ im off already.”

John rolled his eyes. “Oh, shut it, kid.” He didn’t deny that his antics were ‘queer’, though, which
Paul attributed to some common understanding that, of course, they couldn’t be.

A few more squabbling remarks passed between John and Ivan as Paul glanced at George.

He’d looked over to watch the interaction with a bit of an odd look on his face. Most likely, Paul
reckoned, he was wondering exactly what had just happened. Paul hadn’t told him about John at
all, he realized, so this was as unusual to George as it had been to him that first night.

But the sight of George brought another of his worries to the forefront of his mind. Now, without a
doubt, John and George would meet. If they were not already acquainted , he had not wanted to be
the one who brought such a moment to its crisis – he wasn’t supposed to. He had no place for it.

Here they were, however, in the same pub, leaning over the same table, looking at the same person
– Paul – who happened, as well, to be the only thing separating them from one another. He leaned
forward, as though that could somehow stop them from finally coming together .

“All right, then,” Paul said, trying to sound casual, to an arguable degree of success. “You know
my name. Congratulations. D’you want a medal?”

“’Ave you got one, then?” He propped himself up on his elbow, finally releasing Paul’s shoulder
for a hand on which to rest his chin. “I’m honored, really, I am.”

John swung a chair around from a nearby table, sitting in it backwards, resting his forearms against
the back. “Was it hard getting ‘ im here, Ivan? I’d imagine he’d only come kickin ’ and screamin
’, what with how he’s tryin’ t’ avoid me like the plague.”

Paul let out a short, harsh laugh. “He lied, the worm,” trying to spare Ivan a teasingly fond glance.
He wasn’t sure how it came across.

“Oh, you were coerced? How simply dreadful !”

He rolled his eyes. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“I’m always here,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders, as though the statement prompted no
explanation . “You get used to it. Would you not’ve come, then, if you’d known?”

His expression was so flippantly confident that Paul must have imagined the hint of vulnerability in
his tone.

“What do you think?” he asked, only to avoid giving an answer he wasn’t sure of himself. He
hated when others responded to a question of his with one of their own, but he rationalized that
these were extenuating circumstances that allowed for a bit of hypocrisy .

“Do you really want to know?”

He was about to say ‘yes’, but thought better of it. In the second it took him to retract that and
formulate ‘no’, however, a nother more distant voice called, “Hey, Lennon, you lazy arse ,
we’ve gotta get all our shit together! I’m not takin’ your guitar back for yo u this time!”

Like a petulant child instructed by his parents to perform a particularly onerous chore, John rolled
his eyes and sighed heavily. “Hold on, will you?” he called to the man, waving him on.

Paul watched the man leave. He was tallish, with light brown hair and dark, pensive eyes. He
carried a bass guitar uncomfortably, unnaturally, as though it were a particularly sharp and heavy
blade instead of an instrument. He shrugged in defeat at John before disappearing into what Paul
could only assume was the backstage area.

John shook his head looked back at Paul. “Ridiculous, isn’t ’e? Just ‘spects me to come at his beck
an’ call, the bugger.”

“And won’t you?” Paul replied almost involuntarily. He had been trying to convince John that
conversation with him wasn’t the best choice, but his natural instinct to respond sabotaged those
attempts.

“Nah, pro’bly will.”

Paul repressed a snort. He wondered vaguely who this character was (other than the bassist,
obviously). He and John seemed rather close.

“You gotta let us backstage with you, John,” Ivan implored. Paul almost cringed at the request
and hoped quite dearly that he would refuse.

“ Ain’t much of a backstage, though, is it?” John mused. “Just half a room, really.”

“But you’re such a famous band now,” he simpered.

John rolled his eyes and leaned close to Paul , whispering quite loudly, “He’s like a naggin’
little brother. Won’t shut up ‘til you agree.”

He cursed himself as he agreed, fondly remembering Mike . “Make life hell, don’t they?”

Being around John seemed to rob Paul of all of his reservations – funny, since those reservations
were to being around John in the first place. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to
gather his bearings.

George nudged him gently. He sent him a curious, worried glance, silently asking, You all right?
Paul simply pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows, which he hoped got across that he was really,
really trying to be.
“Oh, come on, you lot,” John acquiesced to Ivan’s request. “Jus’ don’t be surprised if you get that
nasty look from Stu. You know how he tires of people.”

At the moment, Paul could empathize with the sentiment.

Ivan stood quickly, eager to follow John back to the makeshift backstage. He glanced at George,
who just shrugged as he, too, pushed himself up, and grabbed Paul’s elbow.

“Come on,” he urged calmly. “Maybe you should get away from the crowd, anyway.”

Quiet, serene George, who was the farthest cry from social creature that he knew, had seemed so
oddly comfortable in the crowded pub. It struck Paul as remarkably . . . amphibious of him that he
would so easily retire to a quiet backstage (at least, he assumed it would be quiet) and be just as
happy. He wished he had George’s level of self-security.

He followed George, Ivan, and John , albeit reluctantly, through the crowd of people across the
room. He hardly noticed how the other three, whose names he still had not learned, shared a
glance, and decided to remain out, getting drunk on the beer and rampant energy in the room.

~
‘Backstage’ was just as John had described it. The stage hadn’t been a real stage, after all; it was
only a section of the floor separated from the rest by a two-foot rise and a lack of chairs and tables.
Therefore, ‘backstage’ was more of an adjacent storage room, not even really behind the ‘stage’ at
all. Half of the room was taken up by chairs and tables turned on their sides for storage and shelves
of spare mugs and plates, leaving the band, Ivan, George, and Paul to gather in relatively close
quarters.

A few of the benches that sat upside-down on top of the longer tables were taken down. On them
were placed Stu and John’s guitars. Stu sat beside his, legs crossed in front of him, examining his
fingernails idly, while the third and unnamed band member, who must have been the drummer,
was slowly twirling his drumsticks as he leaned against the wall.

As they entered, George asked Paul quietly, “So, how d’you know him, then?” tilting his head in
John’s direction.

Paul sighed. “That first night,” he explained lowly, “when I went back to work, and it wasn’t the
record shop anymore -” he looked around, ensuring that nobody could overhear, satisfied that John
was in conversation with Stu, and Ivan trailed him like a faithful dog, “-Well, I went in, and ran
into John. That was before I realized, uh, you know . . .”

“Yeah,” he nodded in understanding . “What ‘appened?”

“Well, rather ungracefully, I more or less . . . had a bit of a breakdown.”

George was quizzical. “John made you realize what’d happened?”

Paul shook his head. “No, it’s just that I rec - ”

He stopped short. He hadn’t told George about John at all , including the fact that he recognized
his name from the single record he’d made. George didn’t know about it because he’d been the one
to make it with him. It was a dangerous thing, Paul knew, to mention it. He scrambled to change
his answer.

“I mean, yeah. It wasn’t just him, y’know , but it was while he was there that I realized something
larger was, er, at play,” he said, hoping that George bought it. He hated lying, especially to
someone he’d learned to trust, but he couldn’t afford the truth. “I freaked out.”

“Right,” George said.

“Anyway,” he continued, careful to keep it low, “I saw him again, in the street, and he remembered
me. I wouldn’t tell him why I’d ‘freaked out’ or whatever he’d said, but he pestered me for a while
about it.”

“And he had Ivan get you here,” George concluded on his own, “so he could figure it out.”

Paul nodded with a nervous swallow. “Yeah. Now you know why I was a bit tense.”

George breathed out a chuckle. “Christ. I hope you’ve got your story straight.”

“Me too. ” Trying to make it sound like an offhanded question, he asked, “ But, say, George, do
you know John already?”

“I’ve heard of ‘ im ,” came the answer, but it wasn’t George’s.

Paul started when he felt a presence beside him. A glance told him that John had joined their
conversation uninvited and could have been listening for who knew how long.

“How long have you been listening?”

“What, you’ve got a secret?” he snickered feindishly .

Paul ignored this, hoping John would forget. “You heard of him?”

“Yep. From Ivan, ‘course.”

“But you’d never met before?” he looked back and forth between George and John.

They shook their heads.

His heart sank.

“Paul?” George sounded worried. He knew what he must have been thinking; he was wondering
about the historical significance of he and John knowing each other, because that could be the only
matter of importance that would concern Paul.

“No, it’s nothing,” he said hurriedly to George alone and gave him a significant . He hoped that
would placate him.

“Well, just so everyone knows each other,” John backed away, motioning to the rest of the room
with his arm. “Paul, George, this is Stuart Sutcliffe, our bassist.” He mussed Stu’s hair, at which
Stu merely raised his brows and fixed John with an exasperated look. “And Stan, over there, the
drummer.”

He said ‘the drummer’ considerably less enthusiasm.

Paul nodded blandly in acknowledgement.

“A little birdie,” John began, leaning slowly and dramatically in Ivan’s direction, before circling
back upright, “told me that you play the guitar, McCartney. That right?”

Surprised, he said, “Uh, I guess.”

George snorted beside him. “You guess? You’re definitely more than a guess on guitar.”

John’s eyes lit.

Paul sent his friend a look that expressed his very sincere thanks for that particular comment.
George simply grinned.

“Well, then, Paulie?” John demanded. “How’s ‘bout you show us what you got?” His voice was
crude, as though he didn’t actually expect Paul to have much to show.

“No, I’d really rather not -”

That was, evidently, not an acceptable answer. John shook his head and tsked . “This will not do.”
He picked up his guitar and proffered it to Paul. “It’s obligatory, see,” he explained.

Paul scoffed skeptically. “Obligatory.”

“Yes,” he said, as though it were obvious. “In that I told you to do it, and now you have to.” He
crossed his arms and fixed him with a sanctimonious, expectant look. “Come on. If you indulge us
,” he bargained pompously, “then I’ll consider takin’ a rest, for a while, from getting to the bottom
of whatever you’re hidin ’.”

An attractive offer, that.

Looking to George for help and getting nothing, he sighed. “Fine,” he agrees. It was succumbing to
peer pressure. He all but snatched the guitar from John and fixed the strap over his shoulder.

“Careful with that, son,” John scolded the harsh treatment. “And I hope you know it’s backwards.”

Paul looked from the John to the guitar, then back again. “Oh, is it? Hadn’t noticed.” He had to set
it straight in his mind to picture the strings upside-down as his right hand found placement on the
frets and his left rested lower.

He could all but feel George grinning as he strummed the first chord that came to mind, the D
major. It was harsh and discordant, ringing out like the thing hadn’t been toughed in years.

“God,” he said, his voice bordering on disgust. “How the fuck is this thing tuned?”

Moving over to one of the empty benches so he could tune it more comfortably and to avoid
standing there awkwardly, he tightened the strings accordingly. Because he was so adamantly
looking down at the strings and listening to their tone, he missed the vaguely uncomfortable glance
John sent Stuart at being upstaged . They couldn’t help but look back at Paul, curious.

Once he’d gotten it tuned, Paul paused a moment, struggling to find a song he knew how to play
that had been written by this time. There were a few that he thought might have been, but he
wanted to be absolutely sure that he wasn’t getting ahead of himself.

He couldn’t possibly go wrong with Elvis, he figured, so he launched into ‘Jailhouse Rock’ without
so much as a warmup.

It wasn’t perfect. He'd never mastered the song, as Elvis was pretty good in his books, but
certainly not the best rock and roll had to offer. But Paul, he could admit easily to himself, was a
good player, and it sounded decent regardless.
‘Decent’ to him, though, may not have been ‘decent’ to John. He didn’t know him that well, but
Paul fully expected him to be highly critical and dis inclined to praise. He didn’t particularly need
the wound to his pride, though, so he refrained from glancing up at him, and picked another.

He started the riff that began many Chuck Berry songs almost out of muscle memory, not sure
himself which one he was playing until it transitioned into the first verse.

Though he didn’t sing, he found himself humming along to the tune of ‘Johnny B. Goode’ because
it was just the sort of song he couldn’t remain silent through. He hoped, however, that nobody
heard his voice over the guitar.

His foot tapped to the beat , and he lost himself in the music. John’s guitar was cheap, but it was
a guitar nonetheless, just as good as the player – that is, pretty damn good.

Most of what he played was just bits and pieces. He only got through a verse and a chorus of the
Berry song before moving on, worried about it becoming boring. It surprised him how hopeful
he was to find the approval of John – and to a certain extent, Stu – when he would finally decide to
look up.

That didn’t happen for a while. He went through much of his repertoire of older songs before he’d
realized it, and once he was through, he merely paused, still holding onto the neck of the guitar. He
felt like he had to play something more, just to fill the steely silence in the room punctuated only
by the audible breath of Stan the drummer in the corner.

Only after hearing the tense silence did Paul’s fingers begin to tremble. He could feel eyes upon
him. He needed something to occupy his fingers, so he plucked out the first riff that happened to be
convenient.

He’d gone through it a couple of times before pausing once more. His eyes grew wide. He hadn’t
just played any riff – he'd played the opening to ‘Rebel Rebel ’, which was most definitely not a
‘contemporary’ song.

He abruptly took his hands off of the guitar and, instead, rested his forearms on the side of it,
leaning forward a bit. He looked around his small audience, somehow reluctantly eager to see their
reaction.

“Why’d you stop?” demanded John. He’d been watching Paul intently, hardly blinking twice.
“That was . . . well, that was . . .” Paying him a compliment that wasn’t also a snide jab at his
appearance seemed to be a difficult thing for him. “Looks like you can play guitar. Messed up the
tuning, though.”

“You were playing banjo chords,” he said blankly, lifting the strap over his head and handing the
guitar back. “That’s more than enough. I should get going.”

He looked to George, who made no movements to leave. Resolute to do so whether George

followed him or not, Paul moved to go.

“Oh, come on, Paul,” his friend pleaded. “Where’s the harm in stayin ’ a while?”

You know perfectly well the harm , his glare said, though it was true that George hardly knew
half of the harm.

John’s hand found the sleeve of Paul’s jacket, tugging him back onto the bench. Once he was
seated, John slung an arm around his shoulder that would have looked amicably protective to any
onlooker, but Paul knew its purpose was to prevent him from rising again.
It was domineering, that arm; it was commanding but warm at the same time. Involuntarily, he
seemed to lean into John, b ut caught himself quickly.

“You really ought’a stay,” John said, squeezing his shoulders. “Show us if you’ve got a pretty
voice to fit that pretty face.”

Scowling, Paul stated, resolutely, “No. No. That’s not happening.” He shifted away from John as
far as he could. “I don’t belong here, really, so can you please just let me go ?”

The look in John’s eyes, which had been teasingly playful, became guarded. His eyes were blank,
and the smirk on his lips fell to a frown. He straightened his back and retracted his arm as though
he’d been burned.

“Fine. Leave, if you like.”

It was clipped, the order of a man who was quite thoroughly through with his company.

Paul stood , visibly shocked by the sudden change of heart . It shouldn’t feel this bad, he told
himself. He wanted to leave. He wanted nothing more to do with John Lennon. Wh y, then, was
he so reluctant ?

He shook his head and turned back towards the door, not caring to look back and see if George had
followed.

He hadn’t.

“He can sing, you know,” he said to the silent room that Paul had voided. “And pretty well at
that.”

John shook his head and huffed. “What can’t he do?” he remarked lowly, as if to himself.

So, I'm finally back! This past week was spent getting over exhaustion from travelling and getting
sick halfway through. And on top of all that, I've been dealing with this pesky hurricane bringing
all this rain and flash flooding, so it's made writing kind of difficult (guess it's no secret what part
of the world I live in now). Anyway, hope you liked this chapter, and please send your feedback!
<3
 In A Mirror, Darkly

Anger fueled each step that took Paul from the light of the Cavern into the cool summer darkness
of the streets. He wasn’t so much angry at John, not anymore. The show in the back room was just
the way he was discovering John to be – insistent, unwavering, and prying. The part of him that
saw the goodness in everyone wanted to think that there was no malicious intent.

Nor was he mad at George. Well, he was a bit irritated to discover, once he’d left the Cavern, that
George hadn’t followed him, but that was understandable, he supposed. He had left in a fit of
emotion, after all, and George wasn’t the sort to indulge such unnecessary angst, if it could be
avoided.

He was mad at himself more than anything.

He’d made a real mess of things. George and John had, despite his most sincere efforts, met
prematurely, thanks to Paul. He had changed the past, he was sure of it. He was careless and
foolish, and he feared that history would suffer for it.

Scathingly, he thought, Well, now it doesn’t matter if I see John Lennon anymore. It was all for
nothing.

He could, of course, continue to avoid him as a matter of pride. It wouldn’t be beyond him; he
could be quite proud under normal circumstances. He was simply unsure whether it would be
worth it, anymore, to continue that scheme to get John to leave him alone; so much energy for
such disappointing results.

Perhaps he should stop this resistance. Perhaps it truly wasn’t worth it to try to mitigate his impact
on John’s life. But neither was John worth the effort he would have to take to apologize, more or
less, for being so unapproachable (not that he needed to apologize, as he firmly believed every
person had the right to not want to be friends with any other, based upon any or no reason at all –
he just felt that he’d been terribly rude, and Paul was polite by nature). That only left waiting.

He would just wait to see what happened next. He would leave it up to John; maybe
he would seek him out once more, and maybe he wouldn’t.

Telling himself that he wouldn’t care either way worked, to an extent.

The following Saturday morning found Paul squinting at the light as it poured through his window;
he must have forgotten to draw the curtains before falling into bed.

He groaned, rolling onto his side to face the wall, and buried his face into the pillow. The light no
longer held the yellowish tint of early morning, but he was not rested enough to rise just yet. After
all, he’d had a late night.

Embarrassment and self-loathing flooded him as he remembered his actions the previous night. He
could hardly even begin to contemplate the extent to which he had fucked with the course of
history as he knew it. Dread lined his stomach as he imagined stepping on a butterfly and
accidentally killing the Queen and other such disastrous scenarios.

So engrossed is he in dwelling on his mistakes that he failed to notice the commotion from
downstairs, or the sound of quick footsteps climbing the stairs. Only when a knock on his door was
followed by the sharp creak of the door as it opened did he glance toward his door curiously.

In came George, trudging heavily, as though his shoes were made of lead. His hair was unwashed
and under his eyes sat faint circles, a testament to his late night and probable overindulgence in
alcohol. Paul knew he had left the pub rather early, but the rest of the lads stayed behind.

“Uh, hey,” he said groggily.

George gave him a “Good morning” that was quieter than usual but not as much as Paul had
expected. He slumped down on the chair in front of Paul’s desk and spun to look at him.

“Do you normally just walk into my room uninvited?” Paul must have sounded irritable, but
justifiably so, since he had just risen. More than a couple times had George simply walked into his
room without so much as a by-your-leave, and Paul was still not used to it.

He shrugged. “Pretty much,” he said. “Your da’ let me up, though. Blame him.”

Paul rubbed his eyes and sat up, crossing his legs underneath him, but not getting out from under
the sheets. He stifled a yawn and looked at George, waiting for him to announce his purpose
here. He never just ‘came by’. Even when he just came to hang around, he always had a ‘reason’ to
be there, even if it was just an excuse. Nothing came.

“...So?” Paul asked. “What’s up?”

George looked sheepish. “I, er, wanted to apologize,” he said, “for last night.”

Before he could continue, Paul interrupted, “Nah, it’s fine,” he excused, though the situation was
completely not fine. “I was just . . . havin ’ a bad day, I suppose. I was a bit dramatic . ” Though
if you knew what I know, you’d be dramatic, too. “Nothin’ you did.”

George shook his head wearily and smiled. “That’s quite true,” he conceded, “but not what I
meant.”

Paul raised a questioning brow.

“After you left, we hung around for a while,” he explained. Paul nodded, having assumed as much.
“Well, it was about the only time I’d ever get my hands on beer – you know, with me lookin’ so
young -”

“And you being so young,” he pointed out.

George dismissed this. “Anyway, we all got to drinkin’, cause their drummer – Steve or Stan or
whatever his name was – bought some rounds. I think he was just tryin’ to get John an’ Stu to like
‘im, you know, ‘cause he really was just a shit drummer.”

He chuckled in agreement.

“And I got to talkin’ with your mate, John,” he continued.

Paul interjected. “He’s not my mate.”

“God, don’t I know it,” he scoffed. “I wanted to ask ‘im ‘bout his guitar and those chords, and just
the music in general. That’s the only reason I stayed behind; otherwise, I’d have followed you. But
he just kept cuttin’ me off – he's rather rude, y’know that? - an’ askin’ me stuff about you. It was a
right interrogation.”
Paul groaned. Not only had he brought John and George together to meet in the first place, he had
given them a reason to keep talking. He found himself wishing, oddly, that everything in the world
would stop revolving around him.

It made him wary. “What do you have to be sorry for, then?”

“Well, as you know, I was drinking,” George said slowly, waiting for Paul’s reaction. For his part,
Paul didn’t want to jump to any assumptions just yet, for fear of under- or overestimating the
damage that may have been caused. It didn’t stop his face from growing pale with anxiety,
however, as he hung on his friend’s words.

“It was about an hour after you left, I think, that John really got . . . inquisitive. He’d had even
more to drink than me, and that bassist finally gotten tired of ‘im and must’ve went, uh, somewhere
else. He – John – didn't want anythin’ to do with that drummer after he got the beer, so it was just
me and him.”

“What did he ask you?”

“ Everything ,” George said, exasperated. “He shot off so many questions that I could only hear
about half of ‘ em and answer a fourth , at best . And, o’ course, they were all about you. ”

Paul bit his lip, nervous. Had George revealed anything last night that he shouldn’t have?

He must have seen the question in his eyes, because George assured, “I didn’t say anythin’ that I
wouldn’t have known before all of this happened, honest.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, I'm very sure.” he swore. “I was drunk but I remember everything. I said more than I should
have, maybe, but nothin’ . . . sensitive.”

It was a comfort to realize that Paul fully believed George. “I trust you,” he sighed. “But what did
you tell him?”

George leaned back, trying to remember. “Most of it was the usual – how long I’d known you,
how I’d met you, what you’re like. I mean, it’s not exactly usual, but it wasn’t exactly un usual,
either. Nothing, y’know, weird – not that I’d tell ‘im, even if he asked, mind.”

It wasn’t exactly a surprise that Lennon had asked such a battery of questions. He could imagine it
now: the relentless look in his eye, an almost crazed look, as he waited to hear what was
undoubtedly a fascinating answer to his question about Paul from George. He could imagine the
way that John would lean in closer to hang on George’s every word. He felt rather sorry for George
for having been subjected to such a Spanish Inquisition that he could hardly have been prepared
for.

“He ask you anythin’ else?”

“Well, I mentioned that you sing,” he said, and upon seeing Paul’s scowl, apologized. “Sorry. But
it’s not that much of a reach to assume, y’know. Just think of it as me savin’ you from any more of
his pestering.”

Paul rolled his eyes. “Saving me? Now that he knows, he’ll just be more insistent.”

George shrugged. “It’s jus’ singin’, McCartney. You’ve never been nervous before.”
He was wrong about that. Perhaps the Paul that George knew wouldn’t have been nervous, but the
Paul that was certainly had his fair share of stage fright.

“I’m not nervous ,” he insisted. “I jus’ don’t want him bothering me about it – about anythin’
– anymore.”

After a moment’s silence, George questioned, “What’s so bad about ‘im, anyway? Sure, he’s
curious, but you can come up with jus’ anything, really, that would get ‘im off your back. Any old
lie.” Paul was about to protest. “And it’s mostly your obvious dislike, or discomfort, or whatever it
is, that’s encouraging it. I’m sure you’d even get along with ‘im if you just got over it.”

Well, way to be sensitive.

“There’s more than just him being nosy,” Paul argued. “There’s a bigger reason why I avoided
him.”

“And that is . . .?”

He might as well just tell George. He knew so much already that this one detail would hardly
matter. A part of him figured that George even deserved to know. Paul took a breath. “Well, John’s
kind of . . . familiar.”

George’s brows furrowed. “You knew him? From the future?” He whistled slowly. “God, now I
see why -”

He shook his head. “No, no, I didn’t know ‘ im . Not personally. But I knew of him, which is
really just as good . . . well, actually, just as bad.”

He waited for George to process this before explaining further.

“I worked at a music shop,” he prefaced, not remembering if he’d mentioned that to George before
or not. “And we had this one record from sometime in the sixties that nobody ever looked twice at
– from a band that hardly anybody knew when they were active and that nobody knew fifty years
after they split.”

“And it was John’s record?”

Paul nodded. “He had a band. I think that bassist, Stu, was still in it. A couple of other people, a
drummer an’ guitarists an’ everythin’, ‘course, because it was a real, legitimate band. Just not a,
uh, real good one.”

He tilted his head. “I thought they were all right las’ night,” he mused. “Well, John was all right, at
least. How bad must those ‘other people’ have been?”

“Well,” he said slowly, trying to find the right words. He couldn’t honestly say that they were
terrible, which was his first instinct – he simply couldn’t say that about George’s playing or John’s
singing. “You could say they weren’t too compatible , in a sense.”

“You’re sayin’ that John can sing but nobody can play,” he concluded.

Again, he found it hard to completely agree. “I mean,” he hesitated. “It wasn’t all bad. I just meant
that they didn’t play too well together. It was . . . lesser than the sum of its parts, I suppose, or like
adding a negative.”

To George, that sounded exactly like what he’d said, which confused him. He could tell that Paul
was skirting around giving a completely honest analysis of the group. “I’m not really following
you.”

He wished he could just tell George that he and John were the only talented musicians in the group,
that it wasn’t just John. Though loyalty to his new friend gave him reservations about saying that
the band, which included said friend, blemished their front man, he couldn’t reveal that George
was a member of the band to begin with.

“I guess you’d have to hear it. The thing just sat on the shelf from the day the boss hired me to the
day I left – I only gave it a listen once, when I could find nothin’ else to do, and I’m sure I was the
only one there who ever did.”

He nodded. “I wonder . . . Who were the other members?”

Paul tried not to look unwilling to answer. He attempted a look of mild confusion, as though he
couldn’t remember. “I’m, uh, not really sure,” he answered uncertainly. “As I said, I think one of
them was Stu.” And one of them was George Harrison , but that’s all very need-to-know .

“But if you can’t remember their names, what made you remember John’s? Was it his name in the
title or something?” George saw through him, he just knew it. He wasn’t a good liar.

“No . . .” He scrambled to find a realistic reason why he would remember John in particular. He
was pleasantly surprised when several came to mind rather easily: “I s’pose it’s ‘cause he was the
lead singer and songwriter. I read the back. And it was the name itself – Lennon, you know. Or
Lenin. Like Vladmir.”

Did he sound like he was trying too hard to justify it?

Then, he remembered the real reason why Lennon had stood out to him more, even, than George
had at the time, and he felt so incredibly daft for not recalling it first. “And I’d looked at the record
sleeve just that day, too. That last day. I got bored and looked up the names. Y’know, on the
Internet, just to know a bit more about it. Then, later, I remembered John ‘cause he’s the one I met
first, at that pub.” He tried not to hold his breath, tried to breath deeply to calm his racing heart. He
really didn’t do well with lying.

George held back a grin from his lips but he couldn’t keep it from his eyes. “Mate, you can stop it
now. I know you’re lyin’.”

Fuck. Had he laid it on too thick? Perhaps he should have taken a drama course back in school; he
never could have foreseen its practical uses.

He decided, perhaps unwisely, to play innocent. “ I – I don’t know what you mean.”

“God, you always were such a shitty liar.” He paused to laugh for a moment. It was the sort of
laugh that didn’t come entirely from humor. “Say all that stuff about Lennon is true – it’s not
unbelievable, really. It is an uncommon name, and I know you did meet him that first night.
But, even with that, half of any lie isn’t what you tell, it’s the way you tell it. You can’t just
come up with excuse after excuse and expect it to sound like the truth.”

Affronted, he opened his mouth to defend himself, but could find nothing to say. George’s points
were valid.

“And, even if you did say it right, even if you didn’t ramble on and on, I’d still know you’re
lying.”
Paul narrowed his eyes. “. . . How?” Did George know something already? “What is it that you
know – er, that you think you know?”

“Oh, I don’t know anythin’ specific. I doubt most people would even see it. I only do ‘cause I’ve
known you so long,” he said. “It’s just that, every time you lie, you move your mouth a just a
little bit after you’re done talkin’.” George brought up his thumb and index finger, holding them
close together. “It’s small, like you’re saying it back to yourself to make sure it sounds right, but
I’ve known you long enough by now to recognize it.”

“I - I don’t do that -”

“Yes, you do, Paul. You did it in the past, you must’ve done it in the ‘future’, and you do it now.”

Paul closed his eyes. Everything he did, every decision he made, gave him the worst possible
results. He’d hoped beyond hope that John wouldn’t be performing at the Cavern, but he’d brought
George along anyway. Then, he’d decided that telling George even more sensitive information
was, somehow, a good idea, but that had clearly backfired, as well, since Paul couldn’t properly
limit his divulgence.

He let himself fall back onto his pillow and held his head in his hands. He needed to simply stop
talking and reduce future damage; he knew he couldn’t possibly repair what he’d already done.

“You’re transparent. You remember the other bandmates; I can tell you do. Sure, you’d remember
John, in particular, because you ran into him first – but that’s just the thing. A minute ago, you said
John’s ‘the one you met first .’” There was a gleam in his eye as Paul’s hands clenched around
tufts of his unruly hair. “You’ve met someone else.”

Was there anything he could possibly say by way of explanation? George had the story pretty well
already.

His friend leaned back into the chair, as if waiting expectantly. “Well? You gonna tell me?”

“No,” was all he could say.

“At last, the truth,” George sighed.

“Well, I guess you could count Stu,” he said, as if that was any consolation.

He scoffed. “You haven’t really met him. You don’t know him. Have you even had five words
with him? Have you had any ?”

Paul didn’t have a good answer to that.

“You could have just said that you didn’t want to tell me,” George said, more gently. “It’s better
than lying, I’d say.”

“You think I hadn’t considered that?” Paul demanded. “It’d just make you suspicious. ‘No, I can't
tell you.’ Why not? ‘I can’t tell you that either.’”

“And you tryin’ to lie is any less suspicious?” He folded his arms. “C’mon, Paul. I thought you
could trust me well enough not to pry too much. I’ll respect your privacy, I will. It just, well, it
hurts when you lie to me like that.”

He sounded so sincere, so kind, so calm, that it was like a knife cutting through his chest. “I’m
sorry, Geo,” he said in a small voice. “God, I’m such a terrible friend – I'm a terrible replacement
for a friend. You don’t deserve this.”

George let out a long breath. “Jesus, mate, I want you to stop lying, not fall into depression.” He
tugged the chair closer to the bed by his feet and nudged Paul’s shoulder comfortingly. “You
really are dramatic. I had been hoping it was just when you were drunk.”

It lightened the mood slightly. “Nope,” Paul said, slowly letting go of his hair. “That wasn’t me
drunk last night. It was just me.”

Not long thereafter, George departed, leaving Paul to spend the rest of his morning – what little
there was of it – in peace. It gave him, George, a chance to process what he’d learned.

It was a big piece of the story that had been kept from him. That was understandable, to an extent;
Paul knew things from the future that George probably shouldn’t know. He should feel lucky to
be only partially privy to the situation with John, even if it wasn’t the whole picture. Knowing that
he shouldn’t know something, however, in no way made him less intent to know it.

At least, now, he knew why Paul was so hesitant to meet John again: he was afraid of changing the
future.

That mindset made little sense to George; the way he saw it, some things would happen, whether
Paul wanted them to or not, and regardless of the course of history that Paul thought was set in
stone. George conceded that it was unnatural to change the past, but since it was unnatural to have
the opportunity to do so in the first place, there could be no set rules for what can or can’t happen,
or what should or shouldn’t. Everything about the situation was unnatural, and Paul was powerless
to try and make it natural again. He was wasting his energy.

Of course, George didn’t even hope to convince him of this; Paul was so stubbornly set in his ways
that tangible proof wasn’t always enough to change his mind; philosophical musings on an abstract
topic certainly wouldn’t do it, either.

In the end, George figured that he shouldn’t worry. He saw nothing to worry about, in the first
place. His only concern had been Paul’s bad habit of lying, and that had already been discussed.
Even if there was something to worry about, George remained blissfully ignorant of it, and Paul did
enough worrying for the both of them.

John woke slowly. For what felt like both hours and minutes, he slipped in and out of the in-
between state in which he was both awake and dreaming. As he became more alert, he found that
the light filtering through the grimy window was not the yellow tint of an early morning sun, but
rather, the dull slated blue of the overcast midday. He had certainly slept in.

He rubbed his eyes and blinked away the little bit of blur that was caused by sleep; the rest of it
was just his ineffective eyesight. Sitting up, he glanced around the room once before calling, “Stu?
Hey, Stu!”

His own voice reverberated and echoed inside his head, painfully colliding with the drums of his
ears and amplifying the sound. His head throbbed and he winced, cursing himself for having called
out so loudly.

His bedroom door swung open, and Stu sauntered in, looking no worse for wear. John remembered
the previous night well; he remembered how much he’d drunk, once Paul had gone, and how much
more, once Paul’s little friend had followed him out. It was no small amount. And though John was
certainly hungover, the consequences of alcoholic overindulgence seemed not to grace Stuart that
morning. He tried to justify it with the fact that Stu was a naturally early riser, but he knew that it
was just that Stu hadn’t had half as much to drink.

“Finally risen from your slumber, ‘ave you?” Stuart asked in a voice that sent sharp spikes of iron
through John’s skull with impunity. “Decided to grace the land of the living with your esteemed
presence?”

John shook his head. “Quiet,” he hissed. “Jus’ tell me what time t’is.”

Stu was a man of naturally soft voice and mild manner. It struck John as quite prickish in a very
out-of-the-way manner when Stuart simply laughed, loud and obnoxious, and announced, “It’s half
two, you big idiot,” before swiftly tugging the blanket off of the bed (and off of John) in one fell
swoop.

After being rather rudely evicted from the comforting cocoon of his bed, John stumbled out of his
room and into the bathroom, grumbling and cursing all the way. He threw nasty glares at Stu
before closing the door and running what he expected to be a very warm shower, before
discovering that his angel of a roommate must have (intentionally, no doubt) used up all the hot
water, leaving him with something barely lukewarm.

The shower itself did nothing to make him more alert, but the short period of time between
stepping out and drying off, when the drops of water caught every little draft in the room, certainly
did the job.

Stu had brewed some coffee – black, with no sugar, which left the bitter taste of regret in John’s
mouth. They sat in their small, musty living room in absolute silence for several moments as John
waited for the caffeine to kick in.

Once his headache began to subside, he leaned back against the sofa and sighed, which Stu took as
a nonverbal invitation to speak.

“Yesterday was certainly something, John, wasn’t it?”

Partly because he wasn’t sure where Stu was going with this and partly because his throat felt like
sandpaper, John simply nodded.

His roommate nodded along with him. His expression told John that he was having a conversation
with himself – he did a lot of things just in that head of his, John knew, which both infuriated and
enchanted him. After what seemed to be several exchanges of various ideas and positions, he
settled on saying, “D’you reckon he plays bass?”

The ‘who’ in question was certainly no mystery. The question itself, however, lead John to even
more questions of his own.

Firstly, he scoffed, “No idea. And after las’ night, mate, I doubt I’ll ever know.”

Stu tilted his head. “You really think you missed your shot?”

John crossed his arms and took a large sip of coffee to sooth his throat. “Shot at what, exactly?”

“You know,” Stu intoned. “Your shot at getting' to know ‘im, if you like. Your shot at getting
‘im in the band, which I like. Or, your shot at solving whatever mystery you’ve found in
‘im that’ll just turn out to be another one of your useless endeavors.”

John scoffed. “He’s made it abundantly clear that I never had a shot at anything to begin with.”
He took another sip. “Good to know that you only care as far as it’ll get you out o’ the band,
though.”

He sighed. “You know this ain’t my gig, John. You promised to look for a bassist.”

“And this one fell through, a’right?” John snapped. To himself, he muttered, “He was never even
‘one’ to begin with.”

John’s ill demeanor was largely due to his hangover. The hangover was fully due to a gross
overindulgence in beer the previous night. And the overindulgence was very probably due to what
caused the rest of the hangover – Paul McCartney, of course.

He’d started drinking more heavily once the lad stormed off. He just set aside John’s guitar –
which he’d completely messed up by tuning, by the way; John knew perfectly well how to tune a
guitar the way he needed it tuned – and left. People didn’t do that to John Lennon; they didn’t
leave until he made it clear that they shouldn’t be there any longer. That kid, George, had known it;
he'd stayed. Stu had known it, always. Paul knew it, he was sure, and chose, deliberately, to ignore
it.

John couldn’t let that go.

He had extended his arm, metaphorically, in friendship. He wouldn’t let anyone touch his guitar if
he didn’t like them, after all. He’d made an effort to show Paul that he wanted to know him and
understand him (ignoring the fact that those efforts could only come across as intrusive prodding),
only to be rejected. That didn’t sit well.

His temper had flared at that and still had not receded.

“It’s a right shame,” Stu mused. “He wasn’t bad, y’know. Of course you know. But even I
liked his playing, and you know me, I hardly like anything.” He fixed his eyes on John. “I'm sure
it's a loss on both his part and the band’s, but you must understand, mate, that he may jus’ not like
you.”

John ran a hand through his damp hair. “ Why not , though?” He flinched at how childishly
petulant he both sounded and felt.

“Jesus, I don’t know, John,” Stu said. “It just happens. What makes you care so much, anyway? It
can’t be the music, since he only just played yesterday, and I’ve had to sit through a week of your
pathetic pining already. Can’t you just get over the fact that, maybe, not everybody will worship
the ground you walk on?”

John glared. “Jealous?” he accused. He knew it wasn’t the best thing to say, but his impulsive side
made him say it anyway.

It was no secret between them that Stu had a rather, ahem, unconventional set of characteristics to
which he was attracted. It was something he had admitted to John one late night after too many
drinks and too much emotional discussion that would bore even birds, and John could dealt with
the knowledge easily enough by ignoring it. Ignorance truly was bliss, and though he couldn’t be
truly ignorant, John could certainly try.

Stu’s eyes darkened and John knew he’d struck a sore spot, as was his intention. Nobody could
honestly have said that John was a ‘nice’ guy to be friends with; he used vulnerabilities to his
advantage against anyone.

Recovering quickly, Stu returned, “Is there any reason to be?”

“Shut it, Sutcliffe,” John said, swearing to himself.

If he’d said yes, well, he was admitting that there was some level of ‘competition’ - which there
most certainly was not , since John didn’t play that game in the first place, even if Paul did. He
was sure Paul didn’t, though.

And if he’d said no, the implication was slightly more subtle. It would mean that Stu had no
competition in his game, as though the goal were even attainable to him, and was assured victory,
which he wasn’t. Perhaps it could be said that Stu had competition with reality.

“I’m just saying, John. Your obsession is a bit odd.”

“I am not obsessed,” he denied.

“Of course you’re not.”

So, there it is! I don't have the next chapter completely written (and I like to be a full chapter
ahead), but just now, I typed out a rough outline for where the story's going, and I'll just say, I'm
excited! That being said, while it's got a few 'definitely gonna happen's, I'd like to know if you guys
have any ideas or theories about what you think would/should happen, please let me know! I just
got over some pretty bad writing block, so I'm trying to get back into the swing of things. I
appreciate your feedback, as always, and thanks for reading!
 Denmark is a Prison

“Your mum makes the best pot roast I’ve ever tasted,” Paul remarked as he shut the front door to
the Harrison household and followed George down the drivewa y into the cool summer darkness.

It was a Tuesday night. Paul had gone over to George’s place after his shift at McGinty’s ended,
and as the two of them fell into a surprisingly in-depth discussion about the propriety of the phrase
‘keep me company’, the time had quite swiftly gotten away from them. By the time he bothered to
check his watch and make his way to the front door , planning to head home and start dinner,
Mrs. Harrison was already setting him a place at their table for supper. To refuse would simply
be rude, though he wouldn’t have dared , once he caught the scent of what she’d prepared .

He’d phoned his father quickly to let him know that there was leftover stew in the icebox, since he
wouldn’t be home for dinner.

George laughed. He was always in a good mood after he’d eaten , which was something Paul
noticed he did often and with great fervor. With a mother who cooks like that, he could hardly be
blamed , though how he was still stick-thin was a mystery. “Mate, you say that every time.”

Of course, Paul didn’t know that he’d said it every time , as this was his first experience of the
Harrisons’ food , but he knew he would have. “And every time, it’s true!”

They walked along the path to the bus stop. George’s mum had insisted that he accompany Paul;
George, ever the mummy’s boy (and not wanting to listen to his father’s rather boring radio
program), hadn’t put up too much of a fight. Paul was grateful for the company.

The bus stop was quiet around this time of night; George’s neighborhood was never too terribly
busy, anyway. They had the bench completely to themselves as they waited. Paul sat very still as
he listened to the sound of the city, his arms folded across his chest. He cut quite the opposite
figure of George, who leaned back against the armrest, feet propped up in Paul’s direction. He
looked to be deep in thought.

“Hey, Paul,” George said pensively after a few moments of silence.

“What?”

“D’you ever wonder what it’d be like to, maybe, play in a band?”

Paul, who’d been gazing lazily at the cloudy night sky, looked to George. “I guess I have. Hasn’t
everybody? But not seriously, y’know. My da’s always wanted me to do something successful
and stable . . . music doesn’t exactly fit that job description.”

“I have,” George said, as if his previous question hadn’t already revealed that.

Paul shrugged. “You’re good enough. I bet you could do it.” Well, actually, I know you can do
it.

He scoffed. “Well, if I can, so can you,” he said, and grinned. “You sing real well, and you play
decent. I play more than well, and sing decent. What makes you think you can’t make it?”

Giving him a wry glance, he replied, “I never could have made it with what I wanted to play back
in the . . . well, back in the future. I didn’t like the right stuff.”
“You an ’ me, we could be a band. Or a duo, I guess, rather. Like the Everly Brothers.”
Assertively, George said, “You could make it here. I’m sure of it.”

Paul gave a humorless laugh and glanced at him. “I’m not sure that’s exactly at the top of my
priorities, now."

“You think you’ll be goin ’ back, then?” His expression was more than skeptical.

“You don’t?” The reluctant silence that followed told him all he needed to know. “I really don’t
know what to think,” he said honestly.

George looked at him intently. “Do you hope you’ll go back?”

“Yes,” he said automatically, then paused. George almost looked hurt – or , perhaps, it was just
surprise . “But – oh, I don’t really know.”

That almost seemed to please him. He didn’t say anything, but his sharp features seemed to soften,
and his eyes glanced away as he smiled . It touched Paul to know that George didn’t want him
to leave .

“Do you hope I’ll go back?” he wondered.

George tilted his head. “Why would I?”

“Oh, come on,” Paul said. “You know why. So you can have your own Paul back, and I’m back
where I’ve always been.”

“Of course not,” George said. “I don’t really miss you, y’know. Odd to sa y that, especially to you
, but I don’t . There’s nothin’ to miss. . I don’t see how there’s anything wrong with you – anythin '
lacking, I mean. I’ve said before, and I wasn’t lying, that you’re still the same lad I’ve always
known.”

Paul didn’t want to mention just how unbelievable that sounded to him. It almost seemed like
George was betraying the person he knew before, like he was moving on too quickly. Perhaps he
was just saying it for Paul’s benefit; it was easier to believe than what he was actually saying.

“What’s got you thinkin ’ about playing in a band, anyway?” he asked to change the subject.

He shrugged. “It just occurred to me, a while ago,” he said, “that John’s band – the Beetles or
whatever they call themselves – it’s just got a drummer, bassist, an’ rhythm guitar.”

“And?”

“No lead. There’s no lead guitar.”

Paul’s lips parted minutely as he understood what George was hinting at. “Ah.”

He didn’t know quite how to feel about the idea of George wanting to join the band. Obviously, in
proper history, that is exactly what would happen eventually, so from one perspective, he should
have no qualms with it. On the other hand, Paul’s hand in their premature meeting may have
sparked another premature event; would George be joining the band too soon?

There was no way he could know, he concluded. Trying to sound as neutral as possible, he asked,
“Have they offered you a spot?”

He shook his head. “No, ‘course not. I’ve only just met ‘em, an’ they don’t even know I play.”
“And are you going to tell them?”

The whole question of “them”, Paul knew, was just out of politeness to Stu and drummer what’s-
his-name; they both knew John really was the leader and deciding factor of the band.

“Maybe,” George said. “I jus’ wanted to know if you had any problems with it.”

Paul looked at him contemplatively. “Geo ,” he said, “even if I did, I wouldn’t be able to stop
you.”

He scoffed. “That’s quite a change of pace from earlier. What happened to ‘under no circumstances
can I ever even possibly change the future?’”

“It’s still a hotly contested issue in the deep recesses of my mind,” Paul said , tapping his temple.
“But I quite honestly don’t know at this point what will and what won’t change things, or what I
can even do about it. Maybe I’ve already ruined it beyond the point of no return, and maybe the
best option I have is to just let things . . . happen on their own, and see how they turn out.”

He still had that small urge to say something to dissuade George from any hasty decisions, but
there truly was no way he could foresee the result of such a thing. If George took his word too
close to heart, he may have been dissuaded from joining John at all. Paul really had very little
control anymore.

George raised his brows and said, “It’s nice to know you treat the entirely of the future like a
science experiment,” but didn’t argue.

His fingers buzzed long after the strings ceased to do so; he could feel the vibration spreading fast
and slow at the same time throughout his body. In his ears resounded a heartbeat on time with the
music he’d played, loud and heavy. He’d never before been so nervous doing something that was
so natural.

George looked down at his guitar for a moment, his left hand still naturally positioned to hold the
strings down. Though he’d heard more of his own heartbeat than his music, he figured he’d played
reasonably well.

In an unnatural display of slight apprehension, he looked up to his audience.

John stood across from him, analytically taking in every small detail with how intently he started
at George’s guitar. He imagined the older man critiquing the position of his thumb on the neck, or
the exact angle his forearm made, or perhaps th e tapping of his foot too much as he played.

They stood in the basement of Ivan Vaughan’s mother’s house. The small window near the ceiling
was the only light in the place, but it was positioned in such a way as to capture the most intense
light of the late afternoon. There was a tattered sofa against one wall and old folding lawn chairs
against another. Neither seemed very inviting.

Ivan had overturned a bucket and seated himself off to the side. His role in this meeting was to get
John somewhere that George could meet with him; of course, he’d not expected the place to be the
kid’s basement, but he supposed it was better than nothing. Apparently, he had John and others
over quite often, and his mother grew tired of their less-than-spectacular show of musical prowess,
and confined them to the basement.

“So you can play guitar,” John remarked in an unimpressed manner that implied, What of it?
Something about his lack of reaction told George that he’d made a good impression. Or, at least,
not a bad one.

He smiled to himself. “Well, it’s just that. I can play guitar. Not rhythm; lead.”

John raised his eyebrows and shrugged. “I’d gathered that. What did you want, then? Just to
upstage Paul?”

He shook his head, still smiling. “I told you, I’m not here about Paul.”

And it was true. In fact, upon seeing him, George had announced, ‘I’m not here to talk about Paul,
just so you know.’ He’d gone on to say, without much modesty, but also without abundant pride,
that he was rather good on the guitar, and thought John might want to hear it. He was pleased when
John decided to humor him.

John nodded to himself. “All right. You know your way around the guitar; I’ll even say that
you’re pretty good. But what do you want? Are you trying to get in the band?”

“Yes,” George said simply.

“How old are you, anyway? Fifteen?”

“Eighteen.”

He seemed to consider a moment, but waved his hand errantly before crossing his arms. “Sorry,
mate, but application’s not open.”

George’s face was dispassionate as he took the unsubtle rejection. There was no disappointment to
hide, in fact. He had found John, very early on, to be quite prideful; he wouldn’t just let someone
into the band simply because they asked. He had to be the one to decide that they belonged.

(George was also quite noticeably better than him; it was another wound to his pride.)

But he had planted the seed of an idea into John’s head, and once they parted, it would grow, and
the idea would, eventually, disguise itself as his own.

“Worth a shot,” he shrugged nonchalantly.

Slightly caught off-guard with how well he had taken the news, John’s eyes visibly widened just
so.

George ducked his head to lift the guitar strap over it and set the instrument aside, turning away
and looking preoccupied for a moment, sensing that John still had something to say.

He didn’t disappoint. “I really don’t see the need to change up the band,” he said as justification,
something George knew to be a complete lie. John had to be dying to get someone who could
actually play.

He even had a suspicion as to why he was hesitant to take George on, aside from the pride; he
feared that, once he got a lead guitarist, he would no longer have a reason to pursue Paul as a
second guitarist.

There was no feeling of competition with Paul. He knew they had different strengths and skills, and
George’s just happened to be the ones that the band needed the most direly. After all, John did the
singing (which was one of Paul’s virtues) and the rhythm (which wasn’t Paul’s expertise, so to
speak, but he could do it well enough). George, on the other hand, could fingerpick better than
either of them, and actually knew guitar chords.

“Oh, no,” George waved off. “I get it.”

He prepared to leave. Neither John nor Ivan were friends of his; he knew both of them only through
Paul, and even then, not particularly well. What he did know was that he had plenty of time and
musical ambition, and he ought to take any chance he might have.

“Maybe sometime later,” John added noncommittally before he could go.

“Just let me know, then.”

He began to ascend the stairs to the hatch door that lead to Ivan’s yard. Just as he had twisted the
latch to lift the door, John spoke up. George had almost heard him reconsidering.

“Hey, uh,” he began, “d’you play bass, by any chance?”

George turned back to him and grimaced expressively. “Tried to,” he said. “It’s not too much my
thing.”

John looked disappointed. He raised his eyebrows almost in defeat, shuffling. “Well - I know you
said you weren’t here for him, but does McCartney?”

He pushed up the door to expose the room to much brighter sunlight, smiling to himself. “Why
don’t you ask him?”

The pages of the journal – Paul refused to call it a diary, even if he hadn’t written in it himself –
were now well used to the prints of his fingers. He spent hours each week reading through its
contents, hoping to know as much as he could about the life he now lead.

It was a mild curiosity, on top of practical applications , that drove him to read it over and over.
He’d in passing wondered what his life would have been like if he had been alive in the sixties,
just as he had wondered about the forties, or the nineteenth century, or the middle ages. Now, he
had no confirmation that he would, in fact, have been a medieval troubadour, or a vaudevillian
performer, but he had the unique opportunity to know exactly how he would have lived in the
middle of the twentieth century, because he did live it.

About a week after he and George had gone through the catastrophe of the gig at the Cavern, Paul
had almost come to grips with the fact that he may have changed the course of history irreversibly.
He had tried not to panic too obviously the following morning when George had approached him,
because that foolish part of him still thought he could hide a bit more from his friend in the hopes
that it would help solve his problem. After he’d left, though, he had spiraled into his thoughts so
deeply that his father, brother, and alarm clock would not jar him from.

He eventually came to the conclusion that there was nothing he could do. He hadn’t actively tried
to make anything ‘bad’ happen – though he knew that there was nothing either good or bad, but
thinking made it so, and any change in history could go either way – and his actions otherwise had
even had that very effect .

His conclusion was that, since he could not foresee the results of any action he took either way, he
would simply do, and await the result of his doing. He would act with no intention in regards to
trying to keep history straight, as his attempts before had been in vain.
So, there he sat, thumbing through the journal for a page he wasn’t as familiar with, and finding
none. It reminded him of all the times he’d watched old sitcoms, trying to find an episode that he
couldn’t remember too well; in other words, it was a futile effort.

Soon, his eyelids grew heavy and his hand began to shake. It was either late night or early morning,
and his body began to feel it. He set the book down on the desk, not in the drawer or on the shelf,
as he usually would have done, and yawned, leaning back in his chair a moment to rub his eyes
before resigning himself to bed.

Dreams had begun to descend upon him incompletely in that indecisive way they have before one
has fully fallen asleep; he was jumping over puddles in his backyard after a heavy rain, trying his
best to avoid the splash, but the picture wasn’t quite in focus because he wasn’t quite asleep.

It was growing steadily clearer, though, and he felt himself drifting away.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been gone. Dreams could last forever when they only seemed to last
a moment, he knew, though he didn’t remember them at all once he woke. He only had the faintest
notion that he was trying to find something he’d lost when he was suddenly pulled into alertness by
the sound of banging elsewhere in the house.

As his eyes flew open, he pushed himself up partially from the bed to see what had caused the
noise that disturbed him. Blood rushed to his head and made the room spin for a moment; he
briefly noticed that he hadn’t moved once all night, which would account for the vertigo.

The pale blue light of early morning filtered through his window. He glanced at the clock on his
bedside table; it read ten minutes to seven. It was an ungodly hour to be awake on a Sunday.

Were it not for the very real sensations of being too cold when the blanket began to slip from his
shoulders, he would have assumed that he was still dreaming.

The knocking persisted. Paul might as well get the door so it wouldn’t wake his father or brother.

When he got to the door, he called, “Just a mo’,” in a sleepy voice, urging whoever was calling
upon their household to cease the incessant banging.

Before opening the door, he raised himself up on his toes to peer through the peephole in the door.
It took him a moment to recognize the figure standing outside through the fish-eye lens.

He couldn’t see the man’s face, but that impeccably-styled auburn hair left no question of who it
was.

Briefly considering his options, Paul decided that simply ignoring him would be both impractical,
since he’d already announced his presence, and rude. He was left with no recourse other than to
answer the door.

“Mornin’, mate,” John said amiably, with nothing by way of an explanation, as he stepped into the
living room. He was surprisingly casual, as though this was an every-day sort of outing for him.

Paul, for his part, was rather shocked. He opened his mouth to say something, but no words would
come. He tried again. “I’m sorry,” he said, very confused. “Terribly sorry. But what the hell are
you doing here?”

John had already walked through the living room and peered into the kitchen and bathroom by the
time he decided that it pleased him to answer. “Stu’s had some bird stay the night,” he said, “an’
there’s just no peace with her stomping ‘round the place all mornin’.”

Paul’s brows came together in confusion. “Stu had a . . .” he trailed off. He never would have
assumed that Stu, the very reserved bassist he’d seen at the pub just a week ago, would have just
‘some bird’ over. There was something about him had given Paul the impression he wasn’t the
normal bird-watcher.

He decided not to mention such a thing to John. Instead, he settled for, “And here was your first
choice?”

John just looked at him and shrugged. He’d made his way to the staircase, peering up. He began to
climb the stairs.

“Wait!” Paul protested, launching himself across the room to grab the sleeve of John’s light jacket.
“Where d ’ you think you’re going?”

He merely shrugged off Paul’s grip and continued to climb. “You’ve gotta sleep somewhere,
yeah?”

Paul followed him. “You are not going into my bedroom,” he declared, but was virtually
powerless to stop John from finding the only room with a door that wasn’t completely closed and
letting himself in.

He tried not to spare a glance at the small pile of clothes strewn on the ground by his wardrobe or
the slovenly state of his desk. He didn’t want John to see that he cared about how presentable his
room was; he tried not to care himself.

“Nice place,” John said, taking it in.

Paul felt terribly exposed. He wasn’t prepared for visitors. It wasn’t that he didn’t like them, but
he liked to know that they were coming first; and, better still, he liked being the one to invite them.

“How d'you know where I live?” he asked, crossing his arms to try and assuage his discomfort.

“Ivan,” John supplied simply.

“That worm.” Paul felt mildly betrayed but not terribly surprised.

“Oh, he’s a good lad,” John said, sounding like a grandfather excusing his ill-behaved grandson.

There was a moment’s silence. John had taken to inspecting Paul’s bookshelf, taking a notable
interest in the top part. That was where Paul kept the books he’d gotten from his mother, who left
her entire (limited) library to him once she died. That was one thing he noticed was congruent with
his earlier lifestyle – he kept his mother’s older books at the top of his shelf, where he could most
easily access them.

So, John was the bookish sort. It was something he wouldn’t have expected.

He moved on to the box sitting on the floor beside it, which was Paul’s record collection. He
crouched down to flip through the sleeves. Even Paul hadn’t listened to everything he owned yet,
though the collection wasn’t exactly extensive.

Still feeling quite vulnerable about having his room – and practically his life, since he could no
longer live on his cell phone – barred before John like a patient etherized upon a table, Paul
fidgeted.

As if sensing his nerves, John turned back to him. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about finding out
your secret, Paul.”

It was a waste of time to protest the existence of a secret in the first place; he’d done so before, and
John hadn’t believed him. “So, that’s why you’re here.” He wondered if the excuse with Stu had
even some small semblance of truth but decided he’d really rather not know.

“I won’t lie,” John said, resting an elbow on his knee and his chin on his fist, “that’s a part.”

“Just a part?”

“Well, that,” he shrugged, eyes wandering to the side of the room. Paul followed his gaze and
found the corner, which held nothing but a lamp and his guitar. “That, and seeing if George is
right.”

He didn’t like where this was going. “About what?”

“Can you sing?”

He’d hoped that wasn’t what was on John’s mind. What approach to the issue would be most
appropriate and effective at getting them off this topic? “As well as the next guy, I suppose.”

John was not to be dissuaded by his flippancy. “Sing me something, then.” He found a bare spot on
the wall against which to lean, resting his forearms against his propped-up knees. He looked all too
comfortable in Paul’s personal space.

“What? No. It’s seven in the morning on a Sunday.”

“All right, make it a hymn.”

Paul huffed. “It’s seven in the morning,” he repeated, “and everybody’s asleep.”

“We’re not.”

“I’m not singing,” he affirmed, sitting down on his bed.

He sang to himself often enough, around the house doing chores, showering, softly as he walked
down the street with no passers-by. But he didn’t sing in front of people. There were a few
exceptions, like Ritchie – he'd always made Paul feel comfortable. Any shyness he’d have
dissipated around Ritchie. George was almost – almost – the same way. John, however, increased
it tenfold.

Growing up, the kind of music he liked to sing was never popular. He was an older soul, and his
taste in music reflected that; hardly anything he listened to was after the eighties – most wasn’t
even past the seventies. He could remember the first time he actually saw someone singing on
television – it was an old movie with Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. He’d fallen in love with that
old sound and never got over it.

Since his tastes were so obsolete, he never found somebody to sing with until Ritchie came along –
and that was very recently. In school, there would be kids competing in Christmas talent shows
singing pop songs and crowd pleasers. Nobody would have welcomed a rendition of nineteen
forties showtunes or music hall ballads - he’d have had better luck with that fifties rock ‘n’ roll
he’d gone through phases listening to, but it still wasn’t considered fashionable. It made him rather
reserved about his singing talent. Of course, he'd been told by all of his mother and Ritchie that
there was, in fact, a talent.

“Fine, then,” John resigned. “Have it your way . I do think it’s terribly unfair, though,” he
continued, “that I’ve sung to you and you haven’t returned the favor .”

He scoffed. “You haven’t sung to me.” Not that he would have minded.

“Oh, ‘course I did. You came to our gig las’ week, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, all right. I’ll reciprocate once I’ve got a band and a stage to sing on.”

“I could be your private audience,” John simpered. Paul rolled his eyes. “Oh, I know what this
is. You like the power. First, it was the name you wouldn’t tell me , now it’s the voice you won’t
let me hear . You jus’ had to have control, didn’t you?”

Slightly surprised by the unexpectedly accurate analysis, he stammered, “N-no. That’s ridiculous.”
He waved his hand in the general direction of John’s hair. “All that’s just in your head ; you made
the big deal outta everythin ’.”

He grinned wickedly. “For all your tryin’, you really don’t play hard to get too well. I already
found my way to the bedroom.” His tone carried pride at making him immensely uncomfortable.

Paul blushed scarlet, knowing that John didn’t really mean it the way he said it, that it was just a
joke, and looked down to shake his head. “John, really. Why are you here?”

John looked at him with wide eyes , attempting a look of childlike innocence without ulterior
motives. “I haven’t seen you in a week,” he said. “Maybe I jus’ missed your company.”

He rolled his eyes. “What do you mean? It’s not like we’re mates.”

Adopting a hurt expression, John said, “But we will be. I can just feel it.”

“So, you’re tellin ’ me,” he began, laying down on his bed with his head near the foot and his feet
propped up against the headboard in an attempt to make himself more comfortable, “that you
bothered to find my home address from Ivan and pay me a visit far too early on a Sunday just
because you think we might be friends someday .”

John shuffled over to lean against the bed. “Short story long, I suppose so.”

“I don’t believe you,” he said, more as a place holder than anything, because he couldn’t think of
anything substantial. It was too early in the morning and too confusing.

John continued to survey the room. Paul watched idly as his eyes went from side to side, scanning,
taking in every detail of Paul’s life that was illustrated by the way he kept his closet door open just
so, and the way the curtain wasn’t drawn at all, and the way paper and books were strewn along
the top of his desk.

His desk. John’s gaze fixed on that. There was a book lying there, its edges well worn, and its
paper creased from attention. It caught his eye as the thing that had, perhaps, been touched the
most, save for the doorknob.

Just as John pushed himself up to search the desk further, Paul remembered that he’d left the
journal lying out in the open last night. He knew he shouldn’t have – he knew he should have put it
away, either in the desk drawer or on the shelf. But he’d been far too tired.

He flew with incredible speed and dexterity to reach the desk before John did. It was far from a
success; his efforts just lead to him stumbling against John’s back, pushing him forward. This
obvious distress only urged John on to find out what exactly Paul was so protective over.

“Jesus,” he laughed, “what are you hiding up there?”

He hadn’t been the one to write in the journal (well, technically, he had, but technically, he hadn’t,
at the same time), but he still felt that suffocating protectiveness over it, as if it were his own
privacy he was keeping. In the life that he now lead, the secrets and emotions of the Paul before
him were effectively his own.

John flipped through some pages in the middle of the book, grinning wickedly. “Aw, ‘as little Paul
got a diary?” he crooned, as if to a young child. He chuckled fiendishly, closing his eyes, and said,
in a high, affected voice, “Dear Diary, today Timmy was mean to me and teacher gave me a check
minus on homework; mummy’ll be so mad.”

Paul fumed. “You prick. Just give me that .” He reached to wrench it out of John’s hands, but he
only twisted away from him and held it out of reach.

“What?” he teased. “Worried I’ll read what you actually wrote about your tormented childhood?”

When he spoke, his voice was much more threatening than he thought it could have been. “I didn’t
write a fucking thing, Lennon. Just give it to me.”

Threatening for him was just a pinprick to John, however, who shook with excitement. “O-oh, now
I’m really curious. Let’s just see what you’ve got ‘ere.”

He bit his cheek as he flipped to one of entries in the beginning of the book. “Ah, here’s a nice long
one. Really had to vent, now, didn’t you?” He spared Paul a fleeting glance, ignoring the look of
wide panic in his eyes, before reading aloud. “ They won’t tell me why. I knew she was sick, but
nobody said how bad, and they won’t tell us what it was . . . ”

John trailed off, paling as his eyes moved swiftly from the left to the right. He stared at the page,
reading through the lines rapidly, and frowning almost as if he’d stumbled upon a bad smell.

Paul knew which part he’d read. He read what Paul had written just after his mum’s death. Slight
details were different from this account and the one Paul remembered; for one, he’d known it was
cancer, since information had been more easily accessible to him than it had been to . . . the other
him. But the raw emotions were the same; this, right then, hurt as much as it would have at any
time, in any decade.

John looked up to Paul, helpless. His expression was utterly lost. “God, Paulie,” he said softly. “I
thought – I mean, I didn’t know – I mean, shit.”

Paul didn’t feel tears threaten to spill, as he feared he might, but his voice was tight when he said,
as levelly as he could, “Just get out, yeah?”

“Paul, listen - ”

But Paul had to get away from him . He lifted himself up from the floor and turned, collapsing
back on his bed in defeat, his eyes closed tightly. He tried to even his breathing to stop the rise
of emotion – of loss, of grief, of immense anger, and a bit of betrayal , though he really should have
expected no better from someone like John.
He heard John shuffle forward, closer to the bed. Paul flinched when he felt a hand touch gently
against his shoulder. Perhaps it was supposed to be comforting. “I didn’t know - ”

Several things passed through his mind, but he couldn’t bring himself to say any of them.

“Please,” he managed. “Please, leave.”

John let out a breath heavily laden with shame he hadn’t realized he’d held once he closed shut
the door of the McCartney residence behind him. He began walking in a direction – whether it was
the right one, he wasn’t sure – and cursed himself a thousand times over with the heat of a
thousand suns.

He didn’t realize how far he’d walked when he heard tires skidding; he’d reached an intersection
without even knowing it. He hurried across the road back onto the sidewalk, waving at the driver
apologetically with a hand that still clutched Paul’s diary.

One he was safe on the sidewalk, he looked up at the hand that was still raised to wave, and froze.

Shit .

Here it is, folks! I like to think of this as the beginning of the middle, and I've got all through to the
beginning of the end roughly sketched out. Just some warning, though; the fall semester's coming
up in a couple of weeks, so I'll probably be unable to write as quickly. But, as always, thanks for
reading, and I'd love your feedback!
 What Dreams May Come

It wasn’t often that Paul had the urge to clean. Usually, he kept his spaces relatively tidy, so there
was seldom any massive buildup of disorder. However, as he prepared a stew for dinner, he could
not get his mind off of the haphazard state of his room.

With the pot on the stove to cook slowly, he made his way up the stairs, intent on preserving order
in any way he could. If the only place in his life he had control over was his bedroom, then so be
it.

He gathered his small pile of dirty laundry and it to the bin downstairs to do later. He made his bed,
straightened up his nightstand, and cleaned the trash and scraps of paper from his desk.

The cleaning was therapeutic work. After the previous day’s encounter and subsequent emotional
outpour in the solitude of his room, Paul had been irritable and tightly strung all day at work.
Tidying up was just the menial but rewarding task to clear his mind and calm him.

With yesterday in mind, he resolved to always keep anything important or sensitive in the desk
drawer, which he would then lock. That included the journal and, especially, his messily written
list of objectives.

Pulling the drawer open, he held said paper in his hands. Hardly anything applied anymore. He’d
changed things, probably irreversibly altering all courses of events. He’d told George more than he
should have. He’d spoken to too many people.

Having the paper was just a liability, tempting fate. He really ought to destroy it somehow.

Simply throwing it away was out of the question; he imagined too many scenarios in which some
unsuspecting visitor was (for some reason) in the prime location to spot it in the garbage and
decided to give it a read. It was a ridiculous notion , but it preyed incessantly upon his mind.

He folded it nicely and slipped it back into the drawer; he would have to decide how to properly
dispose of it after he finished his cleaning.

He reached for the journal on the back corner of his desk, to place it with the sheet of paper in the
lockable drawer, but was surprised when his hand just met the cool varnish of the wood.

Glancing up, Paul looked around for the journal. He very clearly remembered placing it there
when he last looked through it. And propriety would suggest that John had replaced it close to
where he found it, right? Why would it not be on the desk?

As much as he would have preferred not to think of the embarrassment of the previous day, he
recalled the scene carefully. John had grabbed the journal, held it away from him, and then read it
aloud. He’d set it back on the desk, hadn’t he?

Paul paled when he remembered that, no, he had not seen John set it back. He’d turned away to
hide his face from John, preventing him from seeing whatever expression betrayed his inner upset.

Taking a deep breath, Paul searched around the room. Perhaps John had set it down somewhere
other than the desk; he’d left in such a hurry, it wouldn’t be unreasonable.

But it wasn’t anywhere on his bookshelf, which was where he checked first. It was in no other
drawer of his desk, nor was it on his nightstand, on his dresser, or anywhere on the floor.

In a frenzied state of stress, he bounded down the stairs, nearly falling when he reached the bottom
step. He looked around the living room, which was all that sat between the staircase and the front
door; only there could John have, realizing that he hadn’t placed the journal back on the desk,
decided to leave set it down.

But he hadn’t. A thorough search of the shelves, bookcase, coffee table, and television stand was
fruitless. It was nowhere in the house.

John had taken it.

My tears are fallin ’ ‘cause you’ve taken her away . . .

John tilted his head towards the radio in the corner of the room. It was playing something new that
he didn’t know. It must have just been released, he assumed, and it was pretty good.

And though it really hurts me so, there’s something that I gotta say . . .

But it was short. They were all short, all the good ones ; wouldn’t get air time if they were too
long. They didn’t last long enough to fully distract him. Before he knew it, the host was
announcing, Well, there it is, folks: the new single by Bobby Vee , ‘Take Good Care of my Baby’
.

What followed was a discussion with some producer or other of some other radio show who had
something unimportant or redundant to say that John couldn’t care less about , though he really
tried to. He really wished he could just listen and tune everything else out; namely, the book that
lay closed in front of him, but he couldn’t. His eyes kept drifting back.

It was tantalizing. The dark green cover was old and the spine was well-creased; Paul had owned
the thing for years before he started to write in it, he could tell. It had probably been a gift.
Without even opening it, John saw that some pages towards the back had been ripped out, which
he imagined resulted from early attempts to use the journal for something like sketches or writing
that ultimately fell through.

His fingers itched to open it. It would just be the first page, to start with, to see what sparked his
habit of keeping a diary. He nearly needed to know what had started the habit of divulging
personal turmoil to the blank page. If he knew, he could just imagine how enlightening it would
be. Curiosity fought against his knowledge that such prying would be quite unwelcome .

You’ve already got it, part of him said. There’s no point in having it and not reading it.

But having it’s bad enough, another argued. You’ll get into more trouble with him if you read it.
He’ll hate you more than he already does.

Another song came on the radio. He allowed himself to be distracted by it for a short period of
time, almost remembering the words once it ended, but the green cover once again caught his
attention. It was like a trap.

Very quickly, so as to avoid the notice of that voice that preached morality and respect for privacy,
he flipped open the diary to its first page. He closed his eyes and took a breath in.

He wanted so badly to read it, just as he wanted to close it and shove it away . This conflict lead to
a compromise of sorts . He let his fingers slide over the page – it was smooth, save for a line or so
near the top, where he could feel the indentation from the pen or pencil or whatever he’d used to
write with. This was a short entry. It wouldn’t be too revealing if he read it.

It’s so short, it’s hardly even worth it.

So, what could be the harm?

He opened his eyes and glanced down at the page.

As if acting on its own accord, his other hand quickly shut the cover and slid it back, away from
him on the table.

John leaned back in his chair and sighed deeply.

When the hands of the clock were at the seven on a rainy Wednesday afternoon, Jim McCartney
came home to find his eldest son sitting casually on an armchair in the living room with one leg
tossed over the side. His mother would have told him to sit properly, but Jim saw no harm in it.

The back of the chair was facing him, only letting him see the end of his son’s leg and shoes and
one of his elbows. He knew it was Paul because Mike could never have sit still through the front
door opening and closing ; he never got as distracted as Paul did .

The boy didn’t move as Jim neared the chair. He rested a heavy hand on the back of it, peering
over to see if his son was sleepin g, which could explain his lack of motion.

Instead, he had a book propped in his lap, and he was reading intently. Jim wasn’t a very
intellectual man – he left those matters to his wife – but he could tell, just from one glance at the
lines, character indications, and archaic diction that the book was an old play.

Jim found a spot across from his son on the old sofa and watched for a few moments as Paul read
through the scene, mouthing the words as he went along.

He waited for Paul to notice him, but after about ten minutes, he knew his son was either too
engrossed in reading to pay him any mind or didn’t want to bother.

“What’s that you’re readin ’, son?” he asked.

Paul continued to read until he finished the line or the verse or the paragraph – was it even
written in paragraphs? Jim didn’t know – before looking up, just briefly, and raising the book to his
father, showing the title.

Jim nodded. “Ah,” he said as Paul went back to reading. “Your mother’s book. What’s troubling
you, lad?”

With a vaguely confused look on his face, Paul raised his nose out of the book and tilted his head
at his father. “What do you mean?”

“That book,” Jim replied. “It’s Hamlet . You read it when somethin’s heavy on your mind. So
what’s botherin ’ you?”

A brief expression of understanding played on his features before the bewildered look returned.
“Do I?” he said quietly to himself. Jim hardly heard. “Mum annotated it,” he said, turning the book
around and showing him the scribbled notes. “That’s what I was reading.”

"Yes, son, I know,” Jim said with a kindly exasperated tone. “You still only read it when there’s
somethin ’ wrong that you need t’ think about.”

Paul looked conflicted. He frowned, glancing back down at the book, and seemed to choose his
next words carefully. “How different do you think you’d be,” he said slowly, not quite looking at
him, “if you grew up in the nineteen – no, the eighteen, uh eighties. The eighteen eighties. What
would you have been like?”

Jim reared his head back, looking off to the side as he processed his son’s odd question. “What
kind of question is that?” he asked. “I’ve no idea, son. This place was a lot diff’rent , then. I’d
prob’ly be out of a job, or workin’ the docks or the rail.”

“That’s not what I meant. Would you still be . . . you? Would you be the same person?” Jim could
tell that the question was hardly all that was bothering him.

He was saved from answering by the ringing of the telephone cutting sharply into the
contemplative silence from the table beside the sofa. Groaning, Jim leaned over to pick up the
receiver.

“McCartney residence.”

From the other end came a young voice. “Oh, Mr McCartney? It’s George. I’ve called to speak to
Paul?”

Jim looked to his son sharply, still rather confused by the odd question he’d asked. “Just a
moment,” he said, pulling the phone away from his ear.

He stood, holding it out to Paul, who reached out to take it. “It’s your friend,” he said, and left to
take a shower.

Paul put the receiver to his ear. “Geo?”

“Hey, mate,” George’s voice came through, easy and relaxed. Paul had feared that something had
happened – he didn’t often get calls from George unless it happened to be the middle of the night
and George got those rare urges to speak to someone, so he was slightly worried. “Got a quick
question for you.”

Very mildly taken aback, Paul said, “Shoot.”

“Do you play bass guitar?”

“Bass guitar?” he parroted.

“Yeah, bass. You worked at a music shop, right? They’d have had basses there. Did you ever play
one?”

Paul scratched the back of his neck. “'S not too much fun to play a bass by yourself,” he said,
wondering. “Why?”

A sigh came over the line. “Oh, no reason.”

~
There were moments where Paul could manage to forget everything bad that had ever happened in
his life. When he was laughing with George or enjoying a particularly well-cooked meal (usually
with George as well, when he ate dinner at the Harrisons’), he didn’t have to dwell on all of the
difficult, unpleasant, disappointing or embarrassing things that had happened throughout his
lifetime.

Then, he’d happen to see something. Perhaps he would see a woman walking in the street, arms
laden with paper bags from the shops, filled to the brim to save paper; she’d drop a small thing,
perhaps an orange, without noticing, and keep walking. It would remind him of the first smart
phone he’d ever had, when he was fourteen. It had fallen out of his pocket on his way to school and
by the time he’d noticed, he was twenty paces away. Once he’d retraced his steps and found it, the
screen was shattered.

He’d only had it for three days at the time. He and his parents had saved for months to be able to
afford it, and it was with a shameful slope to his shoulders that he’d trudged home that day, hoping
his parents wouldn’t ask about it.

That had been disappointing and embarrassing. It wasn’t the best thing to remember when you
were taking a leisurely walk home from work.

But it was better than the other day, when it had been rather sunny, and he was in a good mood
after a not-quite-as-boring-as-usual day at McGinty’s . Then, he saw a boy, maybe around ten or
twelve, walking his dog, a little brown and white terrier, both enjoying the afternoon sunlight,
when he was painfully reminded of his own childhood dog, who’d been hit by a car.

Once it was brought back into his mind, something like that was hard to forget.

That’s the way it had been with his mother. At first, he was devastated. He stayed that way for
about a year; it was why he’d had so few friends in school. For so long, he’d closed himself off in
grief.

After a while, he’d gotten over it. Every so often, a family member would mention something that
would reopen the old wound, but each time, it healed faster.

That was what happened at the beginning of this fiasco – the renewed pain of his mother’s death .
Of course, it was a good deal worse for him than usual , since it was a compound worry on top of
everything else, and he’d had those few moments to hope that he would actually see his mum
again. But after a couple of weeks, he was forgetting about the pain.

Now, as he replayed the scene with John and the journal over again in his mind, like a stuck VHS
tape that he couldn’t pause, he not only felt the grief that came along with thinking of her; he felt
disappointment, because he’d let himself hope that John was better than that. He’d felt anger,
because he allowed himself to be fooled by his charm. And he’d felt embarrassment – a testament
to the regard he had for John, no matter how hard he tried to erase it – that he had found the journal
in the first place.

It’s been said that you dream most often of the things that were on your mind before you fall
asleep. That would most likely explain what happened that night, Paul figured.

As he lay in bed, a few hours after George had asked him that arbitrary question, he fumed at the
memory of John. He saw him there, as real as if it were still happening, just a few feet away from
him, picking at his desk. It must have been this lingering thought that had followed him to sleep.

~
Ever since he found himself in 1961, Paul had not been able to remember his dreams. He
remembered this one.

It was the sort of dream that came from a memory, taking its basal concept and twisting it to feed
his fancies or his anxieties. He used to have them when he went to school; he would get into
arguments with other lads and, hours later, come up with the perfect snide remark to one of their
insults. He'd dream about speaking those biting words to them, since he was unable to actually
do so. He’d dream of changing what happened.

This dream, though, left him, among other things, uncertain. He wasn’t sure if it fanned the flames
of his wishes or his fears.

It began with Paul sitting on his bed, alert. He remembered noting how tightly his fist was
clenched at his side; looking down, the knuckles were white as he gripped a bit of the fabric of the
sheets.

“What’s in this, then, Paulie ?”

He looked up at the sound of the voice. It was a musical voice, one that left him wondering whether
he’d heard it at all, or just imagined it.

The speaker was grinning at him. That's what he saw first, that grin; it sent a shiver of
indiscernible emotion down his spine. From the grin his gaze wandered to the sharp nose and
almond-shaped eyes, then to the mop of auburn hair.

He repeated in his mind the nickname, Paulie. Paulie. Paulie. Nobody had called him that since
his mother passed.

Once his mind got over the wonder of hearing the name again from such an unfamiliar voice, he
looked into the eyes of the speaker. In them, he saw wicked humor and ill intention married with
insatiable, alluring curiosity. They were the kind of eyes he could fall in love with ; dangerous
eyes.

They were the eyes of John Lennon.

“That’s nothing,” Paul heard himself say, distantly, without actually knowing what it was. He felt
like he wasn’t really there to hear himself say it – it wasn’t loud enough to have come from his own
mouth, but he still saw from his own eyes, heard from his own ears. Perhaps it was simply his mind
that was detached.

“If it were nothing,” John mused with a glance down at the object he was holding and a smug
raise of his eyebrows, “then I s’ppose you’d not mind me havin ’ a look, yeah?”

Paul’s eyes traveled across John’s shoulder and down his arm to see what was held in his hands.
He vaguely recognized it as a book, but knew, in that clairvoyant way one has in dreams, that it
was supposed to be his journal, though it didn’t look at all the same.

“It’s jus’ a book,” he shrugged.

“I didn’t know a book was nothing,” John remarked. “Does that mean that every library’s jus’
empty space, a vacuum?”

“Uh, yeah,” Paul agreed. Some part of his mind told him that this was a credible explanation.

“I don’t think so.”

John flipped open the book, and an unexpected wave of panic flooded over Paul; it forcibly
propelled him from the bed, pushing him towards John. He felt as though he were held aloft in
midair for just a moment, before the sensation of falling seemed to tug his insides towards his
back, and he held out his arms to brace himself for the fall.

In that moment, he realized he must have leapt forward to stop John. The fleeting sensation of déjà
vu that accompanied that action went largely unnoticed.

He had not exactly taken the book away, but he had stopped John from reading it. In fact, it lay
several feet away, on the floor, having fallen out of John’s grasp when Paul collided with him and
knocked him to the floor. Paul had been able to brace himself for the fall, but John, who had not
expected such an attack, was left lying on his back, staring into Paul’s face with surprise and
alarm. He was gasping for the wind that had been knocked out of him.

“Paul,” he said, still rather breathless, his eyes searching for something.

It made him realize with a blush the position they were in: John lay on his back, while Paul was
propped up on his hands, which were positioned on either side of John’s head.

Even in his dream, a sense of propriety overtook him, and he felt that this was a horribly
inappropriate position to be in with John. He was a man, first off (which Paul hardly minded, but
which he figured John did) , and probably didn’t appreciate this breach of personal space.
Furthermore, Paul had just been terribly rude, reaching to knock something out of his hands. His
manners had escaped him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, pushing himself back so he could get up off the floor, hoping to offer John a
conciliatory hand as an apology.

That same wicked joy flashed again behind John’s eyes, and he smirked, reaching up to grab
Paul’s forearms before he could raise himself. The forceful grip threw him off his center of
balance, and he fell back onto John, now chest-to-chest, impossibly closer. Alarm bells began to
ring in his ears.

“No, you don’t,” cut in John’s voice through the cacophony.

The man below him raised his knee between Paul’s legs very slowly. Paul was flustered and had
no idea what John was doing; why did he not want to get up? The floor couldn’t be that
comfortable.

The bent leg wrapped around one of Paul’s, and John’s entire body twisted to the side, using his
leg as leverage to flip them over. It was now Paul’s turn to gasp for breath.

“What are you doing?” he asked in oblivious confusion.

John chuckled. “Nothing but what you want me to do. Right? ”

He closed his eyes. At that moment, he no longer viewed the scene from his own perspective; he
was a fly on the wall, a camera on a tripod, filming the scene from an onlooker’s perspective.

What he saw was even more shocking than he’d thought: John leaned forward, propped up on his
elbows as he brought his hands in to thread his fingers through Paul’s hair (a sensation which he
very much felt, despite the out-of-body vantage point). His shoulders were scrunched as he
lowered his head towards Paul’s, the defined lines of his shoulder blades making sharp creases in
his shirt.
If or when John’s lips met Paul’s, he couldn’t tell, for at that moment, the room began to blur, at
first slowly then with surprising speed, and the dream was over.

Paul bolted awake, his heart beating anxiously. He thought a great many things about the dream.

It was that same sort, a replay of an earlier experience, but this time, he couldn’t tell if his mind
chose to present this particular picture to fulfill his fantasy or fester his anxiety. He hoped it was the
latter.

That seemed increasingly unlikely, though, as he though back on the dream itself. What he mostly
had to be anxious about was his missing journal – but that had played a relatively small part in the
dream itself. It was hardly there, after a few moments. That was, unfortunately, not the source of
the dream.

He wanted to be repulsed by the intimate moment his brain had concocted. He wanted to blanch
with disgust, to wrinkle his nose and turn away from its unsavory character, but he couldn’t.

Though he knew that John had stolen his journal and he should hate him for it; though John had
done nothing but make adjusting to life in the time of his grandparents exponentially more difficult,
the dream had left a flush on his cheeks. His skin shone with the fine gleam of sweat and his lungs
burned as though he’d run a mile; he could not deny that he had been aroused.

Well, that's that, the tenth chapter! What a nice number.

I probably won't be able to update next weekend; I might get around to it by Monday or Tuesday
night. But after that, classes will start, and with it, I'll have much less time, so don't be surprised if
chapters now come every two weeks, instead of every week. Thanks for reading and please let me
know what's on your minds!
 Go Thee to a Nunnery

The shop’s radio was on one of the worst stations Paul had ever had the misfortune of hearing.
From what he could tell, it sounded like American gospel (though he hadn’t ever heard or
listened to much of that sort of thing, and was only guessing), or at least it was trying to be, and
the result was little more than grating discordance.

He leaned over the counter to twist the knob, hoping to find something that didn’t make his ears
weep.

The slightest touch gave him static. He wasn’t used to tuning old radios; he’d had absolutely no
experience with such a thing, in fact. He twisted it some more, hoping to find something, but with
limited success.

He grumbled in frustration, settling just to turn the volume down, so that the static was not so
annoying.

Just as he prepared to fish his lunch, a probably flattened sandwich of just ham and cheese on
wheat, out of the jacket that he’d hung on the coatrack, the phone on the other side of the counter
rang. He reached over to answer it.

“ McGinty’s Hardware Store , ” he answered.

Paul leaned against the counter and twisted the wire on the phone as he waited for a response.

“Paul? Hey, Paul, it’s Ivan.”

The voice wasn’t one that he could immediately recognize over the phone, but the name brought to
mind the slightly younger boy who’d caused him so much trouble before.

“Oh, hello,” he said unenthusiastically. “I didn’t know you had this number, Ivan.”

A chuckle. “You’re forgettin ’ lots o’ things recently, ain’t you?”

Paul rubbed his temple with his free hand. “It - it’s old age, son,” he played off. “Senility.”

“Remind me later to have you committed, then,” Ivan chuckled.

“Hey, respect your elders, yeah? Whatever happened to filial piety?” He tsked loudly.
“So what’s goin’ on?”

“When’s your shift end?”

Paul glanced at the clock. “In about seven hours,” he said, his tone reflecting his confusion. “At
six. I know I told you that before, didn’t I?”

“Oh, yeah, I guess you did.” There was some commotion on the other side of the line that made
Paul crease his brows; there was another voice saying something, he knew, but it sounded like Ivan
had his hand over the receiver. “ Hush a mo’ ,” Paul could distinguish faintly. “Uh, when’s your
lunch break, then?”

“Noon.”

“That’s great. Great. Er, you wouldn’t mind walkin ’ over to th at chip shop down a ways, would
you?”

Paul shrugged, though he realized Ivan wasn’t there to see it. “Guess not. You want to meet up or
somethin ’?”

There was a pause. “Yeah, that’s it. I got nothin’ t’do and everyone else’s busy. You know how it
is.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “You’re payin ’,” he said.

Ivan was more than happy to agree. “Gear,” he said. “See ya, mate.”

Before he heard the click of the other end telling him that Ivan had hung up, there were more
muffled words, but only briefly. Paul wondered if he’d been entirely truthful about everybody else
being busy.

Maybe he just has a sibling, he rationalized. Not everybody had to be hiding something all the
time.

Paul flipped the ‘open’ sign and locked the shop at noon after taking the sandwich out of his jacket
pocket and taking a quick bite. He was hungry, and even if he was on his way to get something to
eat, he wouldn’t let a perfectly good sandwich go to waste.

He arrived at the place not five minutes later, chewing the last of his sandwich quickly, before Ivan
could spot him and notice he’d already eaten something. He was afraid it might make him less
inclined to pay for Paul’s food, which simply wouldn’t do, since he wasn’t carrying much money
on him, even by sixties standards.

The chip shop was tiny; he saw the entire establishment (though it was really only as established as
a rolling stone) through the front window. There was only one old woman behind the counter and
little else; Ivan wasn’t in there. He also wasn’t on the bench right outside of the shop, so Paul
assumed he hadn’t arrived yet.

He sat down on the bench, crossed his legs at the ankles, and watched as the city passed him by in
their cars, which still struck him as being charmingly Hollywood in their retrograde style, and
busses, which were more or less the same. He wished Ivan would hurry; he didn’t have forever to
eat lunch.

Just then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the exact person he didn’t want to see.

He felt that catch of breath at the top of his throat and the sudden quickening of his heart rate as
he watched the figure in the distance.

Ambling down the walk with his arms shoved into the pockets of his impossibly tight trousers was
John, looking like someone trying very hard to be casual. Paul noticed that he looked around,
almost suspiciously, far too often to simply be taking a walk. He was looking for something.

Paul didn’t want him to see him, but he was sitting right in his path. Trying not to move too
quickly, which would certainly draw his eye, Paul set his chin on his chest to hide his face, and
turned his body ever so slightly away from the oncoming nuisance. He prayed that John would
simply pass him by.

He didn’t want to confront John. Of course, he wanted to get the journal back, and had originally
thought of finding him somewhere to demand its return. But after the troubling dream he’d had two
nights ago, he couldn’t bear the thought of facing him. He feared that he would reduce into a
blubbering mess – and in front of John Lennon, of all people, such a thing would be a great insult
to his dignity. He wouldn’t allow it.

That thought just lead his mind to the dream once more. The projector that played it in his
memory, as perfectly captured as a film, simply wouldn’t shut off, though Paul tried desperately to
make it.

As the footsteps came within earshot, Paul’s heart began to beat more quickly. He kept track of the
speed, hoping it wouldn’t slow as the steps became louder.

But they did. He was stopping.

With his head bent down, Paul could only see the bottoms of his trousers and his shoes, but he
heart his name clear enough.

“Paul,” John said in a tone he’d never heard from him before.

It wasn’t as cockily confident as it usually was. It didn’t carry with it any swagger, pride, or humor.
It was just a name, stated ambiguously so as to allow for further greeting, or to accept being
ignored. It struck Paul as being rather vulnerable.

He didn’t yet look up. Tersely, he replied, “Yes?” because ignoring him would most likely do no
good.

“D’you mind if I,” he began awkwardly, gesturing to the empty space beside Paul on the bench,
“uh, if I sit down?”

Letting his eyes slowly travel up John’s form, Paul rested his gaze on his face. He raised one
eyebrow sardonically. “Would it matter either way?”

John nodded, resigned, acknowledging his earlier poor manners of imposing greatly upon Paul
without being particularly sorry for them, but understanding the other man’s feelings. He sat
down.

“I’m waiting for someone,” Paul supplied, perhaps as a deterrent. He wasn’t sure.

“No, you’re not,” he said, shifting in a vain effort to make himself comfortable. “The Ivan thing
was a red herring.”

Keeping his eyes on him, Paul noticed that he was wearing just a thin jumper on his upper body on
account of the heat. Paul himself always brought a light jacket, in case of rain, and because it had
nice large pockets. Moving on from the jumper, he noticed something clasped in John’s hands.

“I suppose I’ve got somethin ’ to return to you,” John said, following his gaze and lifting the green
journal.

The sight of John holding the journal brought two events to mind; the one that actually occurred
was an afterthought to his troubling dream. Paul tried to hide the embarrassment that accompanied
the thought.

He might have known that this was the purpose for the visit; he might have guessed it, if he hadn’t
immediately figured that John had buggered off with his book with impunity and read it at will,
with no intention of returning it, and no thought as to how Paul would feel. He hadn’t expected
John to do the . . . nice thing.

Because the nice thing would have been not to take it in the first place, he thought.

“It wasn’t exactly up for loan,” Paul replied shortly.

John’s eyebrows came together in worry and apology. “It wasn’t on purpose, honest,” he said in
what sounded like a sincere tone. “After - well, after everything, I left in such a hurry. I didn’t
know I still had it.”

Paul snatched it out of his hands quickly. John made no move to pull it back.

“Please, don’t be mad,” John asked, as though it were not far too late. “I didn’t read anythin ’.”

Even with the journal safely returned, Paul felt terribly vulnerable. He crossed his arms over the
book and held it against his chest. His shoulders were tense and he was bent somewhat forward, as
if he very much wanted to tuck his knees to his chest, as well. It was a defensive posture.

John tried to find Paul’s eyes, but he kept them downcast. “I don’t think it’s a bad thing,” he said,
“writing down your thoughts, really. Just in case you were wondering.”

“I wasn’t.”

And why should he? He shouldn’t care about what John Lennon thought of him and what he did.
He shouldn’t care if John had read his writing at all; he shouldn’t feel so expose, because there
should have been nothing of which he was ashamed. And even though there was, he shouldn’t be
so angry that John of all people was the one to make him feel this way. What should be, however,
is seldom what is.

“I write stuff too, y’know,” he added, “so it’d be a bit hypocritical, wouldn't it?”

Scoffing, Paul said, “You keep a diary, and it’s supposed to make me feel better about you reading
mine?”

John’s expression grew even more morose; Paul could feel it without even looking. “No, I don’t
write like that.” He looked down and shook his head, running one nail of his thumb underneath the
other in a nervous tick. “You could say mine’s worse, in a way.” He winced at how it sounded.
“You know what I mean by worse. I write poems.”

Paul looked up at that, his nose twitching in what may have looked like disgust, but was really only
surprise. The expression faded soon. “Yeah?” he said, more as a place holder, a filling for empty
space, than real interest.

“Like songs without music.” That painted a more appropriate picture in Paul’s mind; he could
imagine John, the tough rock and roller more easily than he could imagine John , the tortured
poet.

His lip pulled tight, as if only a single muscle in his face wanted him to smile. He shifted his grip
around the journal and said, “I’m the opposite, really. No good at words, but I can do the music.”

John seemed too happy to have gotten a real response out of him. “Well, that’s somethin ’,” he
said, almost in triumph. “Odd pair we’d make.”

The thought of them being a pair lead not to the implied duo , in the Simon and Garfunkel sense,
but to the completely inappropriate couple , which very nearly brought a tint of red to his cheeks.
He looked sidelong at John.

They sat in silence for a few moments. It’s almost comfortable – that is, when compared to the
previous levels of tension. John fished a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, put it in his mouth,
and brought a lighter to it.

Paul followed the motion of his hands, then watched his lips as he took the first drag. John held the
thing between two fingers and offered it to him.

“Want one?”

It was a natural response to wrinkle his nose in disgust. “No, thank you. I don’t smoke.”

Almost incredulously, John huffed. “You’re a square.”

“Oh, how American of me,” Paul feigned regret and rolled his eyes. I’m just not too keen on dying
from lung cancer.

Paul continued to watch his companion breath in deeply, hold it, and then release the breath of
smoke. Watching his face, Paul tried not to think of that wretched dream; it was a hopeless
endeavor, and he had to look away. After a while, John spoke up. “It was your mum, wasn’t it?”

He narrowed his eyes, guarded. “Ivan tell you that, too? Or did you actually keep reading my
journal?”

John shook his head. “No, no. It jus’ - jus’ seemed like that’s what it was.” He paused, waiting for
Paul’s confirmation, but when none came, he took it as confirmation enough. “How did it happen?”

Paul opened his mouth, the word on his lips but his voice failing him.

“You don’t have to tell me. I’m sorry.”

He took a deep breath. “Cancer,” he said at last. He wasn’t sure what possessed him to tell John.

John nodded as if in understanding, which Paul found to be quite disingenuous, until he said, “Lost
my mum, too, in a car accident. Four years ago. I was seventeen.”

Paul blinked. John had said it with such little emotion, as though he said the words without really
meaning them, even if they were true. Paul wished he could have done such a thing.

“Yeah?” This time, the word held some emotion. It was a slight sort of sympathy. “Sorry ‘bout
that.” He tried not to sound too pitying, because he knew he would have hated it if John pulled
something like that.

Chuckling dryly, John leaned to the side and nudged Paul’s shoulder with his own. “Don’t
apologize, son. ‘S not like you did it.” Fixing him with a look of exaggerated scrutiny, he said,
“Unless . . . that’s what you’ve been hidin ’ all along?”

Paul shifted his arms, uncrossing them and holding the journal with one hand. He found this to be
awkward, so he crossed them again. “Uh, sorry to disappoint, but no.”

He hadn’t known anything about John’s home life. He had no idea that his mother, too, was gone,
just like Paul’s own. Looking at the man beside him as he finished off the smoke, it struck him
how similar their teenage years might have been, despite the obvious differences in decade. The
passing of a mother was something that changed a person, and this shared agony made Paul feel
much closer to John than a foot away.

All at once, he realized how fond his train of thought was getting. He steeled himself from that
encroaching kindness; it was too soon.

Paul was, generally, forgiving. He did not often hold grudges that lasted longer than a few days; in
most cases, carrying on with anger for someone expended more effort than it was worth, so it was
inefficient.

But this was a different story. The cause of his ire was not some petty squabble at work or at home.
This was John Lennon seeking him out to conduct repeated offenses to his privacy and his solitude.
He was presumptuous and understood the concept of boundaries as a tripwire to be stepped over,
instead of a wall meant to block.

“That doesn’t make it okay,” Paul said, trying to erase any residual sympathy from his voice.
“What you did, it’s not all right just like that.”

John pursed his lips regretfully. “I know,” he said, sounding very much like he would have liked to
say something else. He sounded like a teenager refraining from snapping at his parents.

Paul wasn’t sure what to say next. Had he gotten his point across adequately with that simple
statement?

“D’you think you could forgive me?” John pleaded. “I had no idea what was in the diary – ”

“It’s not a diary,” Paul clenches his teeth, “and you should never have found out in the first place,”
he maintained. John was about to say something, but feeling uncharacteristically bold, Paul cut him
off. “I can’t hide that my mum’s dead. That’s just another thing you could weasel out of Ivan – it’s
no secret. But the way you just came in and helped yourself to something so personal, something
private, without any invitation . . .” He took a deep breath, trying to find words harsh enough to
make his point. “It’s not just disrespectful, rude, insulting and simply hurtful – ”

“Paul, you’ve got to understand, I didn’t mean any harm,” John interjected with that same
supplicating tone.

“Not only was it all of those things,” he continued slowly, as though John hadn’t interrupted at all,
“it told me that you aren’t someone that I can . . .” Again, there was a momentary loss for words.
“I dunno, that I can trust. I can’t trust you, and someone that I can’t trust can’t be any real friend.
And if you’re no real friend, then there’s really no point in us going on like we are – or like you
think we are.”

John’s mouth fell open. “You mean,” he stammered, “you mean you don’t want to be friends.” It
sounded pathetically juvenile. The word “friends” completely fit with what he meant.

Some part of Paul thought his next outburst was too much, that it was more hurtful than it needed
to be, but he’d held back weeks worth of irritation and vulnerability behind mild quips and short
remarks. It had built up.

“I never did!” He almost shouted. “The whole time I’ve known you, it’s been you pryin ’ into my
life and me backing away. That’s not a friendship; it’s not even acquaintance. It’s like – like – like
a fly buzzing ‘round your ears! You’re a nuisance, you’re annoying, and I know you do it on
purpose, so don’t bother apologizing once it finally gets you into trouble!”

Paul hadn’t realized that, as he seethed in anger, he’d stood and flared down at John. The latter still
sat, paralyzed on the bench, looking at him with some nameless expression in his eyes. It had hurt,
regret, and quite a lot of something Paul couldn’t quite put his finger on.

A bell at some church perhaps a mile or two away chimed twelve. Paul would be late getting back
to work.

“From now on, just leave me alone,” he said, spinning on his heel and stalking back towards the
shop, his journal clenched tightly in his hands.

“You’ve been gloomy ever since this whole ordeal began, but this has reached new levels of dour,”
George said in an exasperated tone to Paul. “It’s getting to be pretty annoyin ’.”

Paul sent a glare to his friend. “Well, I’m sorry I’m no ray of sunshine for you.”

The two of them were sitting on a bench in the Harrisons’ garden, watching the sky turn orange
with the sunset. George had his guitar, but Paul hadn’t felt in the mood for music.

There was a sigh. “What’s gotten you so depressed lately?”

Paul looked away, unsure if he wanted to get into it with George. It all felt too . . . private, too
emotional, to talk about. It was too close to home to be comfortable divulging.

But this was George. If Paul couldn’t talk to him, then he couldn’t talk to anyone.

“A while ago,” he began. “A few years ago, Mum got me a book to write things down in. I used it
for reminders and such – like a calendar, so I wouldn’t forget things. It was when I was a teenager,
and I didn’t want to talk to my parents about anything,” he explained. “She thought it would help
me sort through my emotions.”

It was obvious that George didn’t know where this anecdote was going.

“I only used it for that once she died. I’m not sure if I really needed to write it down to deal with it,
or if the fact that she gave it to me somehow . . .” he paused a moment and took a breath. “If it
somehow made it hurt a bit less. I dunno.”

“You’ve just been missin ’ your mum?” George asked.

Paul shook his head. “No, no, that was just background information.” He laughed dryly. “You
know how concise I am.”

“Oh, do I. Go on.”

“Well, the first thing I really wrote about was her death. Then, I kept it as more of a journal – I'd
write short bits here and there of things I thought might be worth remembering in the future. Or,
that’s what I think I did. You see, I never had a journal like that back home.”

George grinned, realizing something. “So, the Paul from here kept a diary? That’s pretty handy.”

Paul chuckled. “Yeah, it was. I’d be even more lost without it. But,” he said, bringing George back
to the importance of the story, which he hadn’t gotten to yet, “there’s more about it.”

“Of course there is.”

“Shut it. Anyway, last weekend, John just came up to my door and knocked – and it was bloody
early! I had to let ‘ im in, so he wouldn’t wake the house.”

George nodded with a skeptical ‘uh-huh’. “I think I see where this is goin’.”

He pursed his lips grimly. “Yep,” he said. “He came up to my room and read it. He went right to
that first entry ‘bout me mum and just read it like the entitled bastard he is.”

He nodded in sympathy. It was a rather rude thing to do, George knew. Everyone knew. But Paul
had more to worry over than most. “You know,” he said, “John probably didn’t have any idea what
was in there. He probably just thought it was an agenda or somethin ’ harmless like that.”

Paul narrowed his eyes. “Well, it wasn’t a’ right? And he should have known better than to just go
diggin ’ through someone’s things, ‘specially when he wasn’t even there under invitation in the
first place.”

George said, “Hey, I’m not sayin’ that what he did wasn’t wrong. I’m just sayin’ that he’s an idiot,
like most of his lot, and much more can’t be expected of him.”

Huffing, Paul said, “But that’s not all, Geo. He took it!”

This took him aback. “He what?”

“He walked off with it once I told him to leave.”

“Well, then,” George said, “that’s a bit different. He just ran off with it, then? Did you try to stop ‘
im ?”

Paul shook his head darkly. “Didn’t know he’d done it until he was gone.”

George whistled.

“He found me, day before yesterday,” Paul went on, “and gave it back. He pretended he was sorry
for it all. Said that taking it was an accident.”

“And was it?”

He thought a moment. “It probably was,” he conceded. “But that’s beside the point. He read it in
the first place. And I just blew up at ‘ im and left.”

He couldn’t tell George of the second layer of his conflict. There was no way he could tell a bloke
like him that he’d had a dream about John kissing him and running his hands through his hair; he
couldn’t say anything about the traitorous crush that left its seed while he was sleeping.

“You had a fight with John, and now you’re depressed.” George nodded to himself. “That’s quite
telling.”

Paul crossed his arms. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he demanded. “What are you implying?”

George held his hands up, as if in surrender. “Just that it seemed like you were starting to warm up
to him, is all, before he read your diary.”

He refrained from snapping ‘it’s not a diary’. “You’re just on his side because you want him to like
you enough to let you in the band.”

George looked affronted. “Hey,” he said. “I’m not taking any ‘side’. I’m just pointing out how you
come across.”
Paul let his arms drop and looked up at George again. He sighed heavily and rubbed his nose.
“God, I’m sorry,” he breathed. “It’s just gotten me so . . . infuriated. He wants to be friends and,
until then, he wouldn’t stop hounding me.”

“But he’s stopped now?”

“Well, it’s only been a couple of days, but I did finally shout at him,” Paul said. “And it felt good,
too, at the time. I said everything that I’d wanted to say since I met him.” He brought his hand
down again and ran his finger along the seam of his pants idly. “But I just feel terrible about it
now. I’m never that cruel.”

George cocked his head. “What did you say to him?”

“Just - Christ, I can’t even remember now,” he said. “I’d never been so blunt with anybody. More
than blunt, even. I know I could have left it long before I did, but I just wanted to stop him, once
and fort all, and put an end to all his prying.” He looked at George with a sad sort of humor. “I feel
terribly like the mafia for sayin’ this, but he was messin ’ about where he didn’t belong. I felt like I
had to stop him before he knew too much.”

“I think you did,” said George, who had less compunction than Paul about saying rude things to
people to get the point across.

“But I kicked him over and over, once he was already on the ground. I wasn’t me.”

George strummed a quick riff softly with an absent mind as he regarded Paul. “It’s eating you from
the inside,” he said. “Maybe you need to apologize.” At Paul’s wrinkled nose, he added, “for your
own benefit.”

Paul just sighed once more and leaned back against the bench, shaking his head.

“Or, at least,” he amended, “let John apologize.”

Shooting George one final sideward glance, Paul fixed his eyes on where he knew the sun was
setting behind the clouds.

Well, guys, I'm back. SO sorry for the long absence - classes started and I've only just sorted my
life out, so I hope updates will be fairly regular from now on. But, like always, please leave a
comment to let me know what you thought! Until next time <3
 New Beginnings

The crowd was quite obviously displeased with the night’s performance. The band was, as well, to
be perfectly honest. It was an off night, to say the least.

The drummer was lacking, as usual, but that came to nobody’s surprise. Stuart was competent at
best, which wasn’t out of the ordinary, either. The real body of the band, comprising the sole singer
and guitarist, however, failed to meet the audience’s expectations.

They had been told that John Lennon was a good singer. Or, at least, if he couldn’t sing
conventionally well, he sang with emotion, and that was enough to ensnare the crowd. What they
saw was little more than a bored, careless recital of something they very well could have listened
to on record , which was undoubtedly a better way to spend their time.

“Well, that was absolute shit,” Stu remarked as they dragged their equipment off of the stage and
into the back room. He didn’t sound too heartbroken , since he cared little for music to begin with .

“I thought it was all right,” Stanley, the drummer of the hour, replied optimistically.

“Of course you would.”

Stu set his bass into its case and let it sit on the floor by his feet. He cared little for the instrument;
if he had his way, he’d trade it in for some canvases and paints, or perhaps a new camera, if it was
worth that much, but when he was friends and flat mates with John, he learned that having his way
was no frequent occurrence.

The man in question followed them into the room expressionlessly. Stu recognized his face as
the one John wore when he was either distracted or very tired. His guess was that both plagued
him tonight.

Taking a glance to make sure that Stan wasn’t nosing about where the two would sooner he stayed
away, Stu approached John slowly, like a lion tamer would. Dealing with John was an art in itself.

“Wasn’t our best out there, was it?” he tested, keeping an eye on John’s face.

His expression changed only minutely. He didn’t look at Stu; his gaze was fixed somewhere or
nowhere in the distance, but he raised his eyebrows to acknowledge that he heard. “Uh,” he said
intelligently , “I s’ppose so.”

Stu reached around him and reli e ved him of his guitar, propping it up against an adjacent wall.
More quietly, he probed, “What’s up with you? Fought with your aunt again?”

John curled his lip downward . “No, no, she’s fine. She’s very well.”

Stu looked away and shrugged, since John was obviously not in the mood to talk. It had been a
long night, and they were all tired; whatever bothered John could continue to bother him until Stu
was rested enough to care a bit more.

Because he was making such a noise banging about with the cymbals, Stu decided to help Stan put
away his kit. He hoped Stan would be gone sooner rather than later; he was an all right lad to hang
around with, but he was too chatty, too up for light conversation all the time. Stu only said what
needed to be said, if it absolutely needed saying, and Stan simply wasn’t his sort of person.
Besides, he was no musician (this was an afterthought to Stu since, granted, he was no musician
either).

The door swung open and Ivan Vaughan entered. His entrances were always loud announcements,
rather than simple arrivals, so Stu hardly had to send a glance to the door to know who it was.
Furthermore, he opened his mouth soon enough.

“’Ey, Johnny,” he greeted good-naturedly, and then added, “Stu.” He nodded.

“Hello,” Stu replied mildly, only to be polite. Ivan was another of the sort who just liked to talk too
much.

John liked him, though, which was perhaps why Stu didn’t particularly dislike him, despite his
initial reservations. John was the sort, like him, who didn’t need to fill every silence with words to
have a good time, but unlike him, he was up to talking almost any time.

Just not this time.

From what he could gather, John was not his usual self in response to Ivan, since the younger
defended, “I didn’t do nothin’; don’t look at me like that!”

Stu sighed. “Been like that all day, Ivan. Nothing personal.”

Ivan huffed. He shuffled his feet, considering whether to broach the subject he’d come in to raise in
the first place, now that he saw John’s ill demeanor. “Well, I’m not here for nothin’ personal,
neither.”

John lit a smoke and looked at Ivan while he took a drag, waiting blandly for him to continue.

“I caught word of a – of a – ” he cast his eye over to Stan, who was preoccupied with the metal legs
of his drums and obviously not listening. Stu knew then what he’d heard. “A drummer, one up
for grabs.”

John shrugged wordlessly. His eyes strayed from Ivan.

Scoffing, he complained, “You’ve been houndin ’ me for weeks! Now that I found somethin ’,
you won’t even listen to me. I run all over for you, you know tha ’, right? ‘Cause you’re a decent
lad. But a bit of gratitude might be nice.”

His tone was rising to irritable levels; Stuart’s ears were pleading him to intervene. “Ivan,” he said,
“I told you, John’s jus’ pissy. I’m sure he appreciates what you do.”

“Well, if that’s true,” Ivan huffed, “then he’ll meet the guy next week at the Bootleggers’.”

John spoke up. “I’m busy,” he excused.

Rearing his head back, Ivan said, “With what? Your moping?”

He took another drag and held it for a few seconds, before lazily letting the smoke escape his lips.
“Just busy.”

“Yeah, well,” Ivan crossed his arms, “this lad’s good. Real good, and if you don’t nab ‘ im , then
someone else will, and you’ll be stuck with – ” he cut himself off before Stan could overhear an
unpleasant characterization.
“We’ll manage,” he said nonchalantly.

“John,” Stu said tentatively. He’d brought up the subject enough to make him blue in the face, so
he didn’t want to raise his ire further, but he felt it needed to be said once more. “You really should
be lookin’ for replacements.” He went on when he realized, with relief, that John wasn’t growing
outwardly irritated. “At least for bass.”

He nodded in response. “And I got some feelers out, a’right? Jus’ wait a bit.”

“Not to pester,” he added tentatively, “but I’ve not got forever . . .”

“ Fuckin ’ hell,” John snapped with the first display of emotion of the night, “would you shut up
about fucking Germany? It’ll still be there once we’ve got someone.”

Ivan was the sort of kid who had an expressive face. When his eyebrows rose, his whole body
shifted along with it; it was enough to draw Stu’s attention. “I know what’s got you, you arse ,” he
grinned with his revelation. “I ain’t gonna be your personal secretary without pickin ’ up on some
things. You’re bothered with McCartney.”

At the name, Stu’s ears peaked with interest. “McCartney? You mean Paul, whose book you kept
lookin’ at all week?”

If aggressive smoking was something that a man could do, John certainly accomplished it. He sent
a glare to the both of them but otherwise ignored the accusations, looking away indignantly.

“What happened with him?” Stu directed at Ivan.

He hummed. “Dunno, exactly,” he said, “but John met up with ‘ im yesterday at lunch to talk
about somethin ’. Had me call ‘ im out of work, and said that he had to think it was me he was
goin’ to see, since he wouldn’t see John.”

“Ahh,” Stu said in a bit more understanding. “So it wasn’t a fight with Mimi after all.”

“Shut it, you old bats,” John said. “It’s none of your business what went on.”

Stu tilted his head. “I dunno,” he mused. “It’s gotten you all out of sorts, and that’s gotten the band
out of sorts, so I think it could be our business.”

John groaned. “I’ve got it handled,” he said, though Stu doubted the veracity of his words. “So just
get off my case, will you?”

John did not have it handled.

He was fairly good at handling angry people; he was often one himself, after all. But each person
had a different type of anger and different ways of dealing with it, he knew.

When his uncle was mad, which wasn’t a frequent thing and even less frequently directed at John,
the thing to do was find a good song and just sit in his company while he thought it over, which did
not take long. His aunt, however, angered more easily, and it was mostly because of John. He
learned very early on that the way to handle her was to leave her alone and make himself as scarce
as possible until her short fuse cooled.

Stu was much the same as Aunt Mimi, in terms of how to handle his anger, but his ire was
infinitely more difficult to detect – at least, for John. Stu hid his emotions until he snapped, which
wasn’t the most efficient way to communicate.

Paul was a different story.

For one thing, John did not know him well enough to handle his emotions. They’d only had a
handful of encounters, and while it was true that for most of them, Paul was irritated and moody,
John’s primary concern had been finding out the reason why , not how he could fix it.

But he had reached the point where Paul’s irritation had grown so great that it hindered his
endeavor.

Furthermore, he simply felt guilty.

He had no idea how to get Paul to listen to and accept his apology, and his own feeling of remorse
for his actions perplexed him just as much. He wasn’t the sort to regret things; if he didn’t want to
do something, he wouldn’t do it; if he did, he would do it and not care what anyone else thought
about it. Something about this particular fight made him acknowledge that the trouble was his
fault, and he made a mistake.

Now, he had certainly made mistakes before, but he never regretted them. They were learning
experiences, and he could always handle their negative repercussions. This time, though, he wasn’t
sure how to handle them.

He had to get to Paul somehow. He had to make amends.

About a week later, Paul examined himself in the bathroom mirror. He wasn’t sure what to make
of what he saw.

Healthier food and overall discomfort with his situation made his face ever-so-slightly thinner. He
hadn’t been eating as much as he used to; every time he felt hungry, he would go to the kitchen,
and undoubtedly find something to eat. However, he never felt like it was within his right to eat it.
What if that particular piece of food was only for his brother or father? What if he ate something
that sixties Paul didn’t like, and his family grew suspicious? He didn’t want to cross any unseen
boundaries.

His hair was a bit longer than it had been since he arrived nearly one month ago. He’d always worn
it with a simple style, long enough that he could see that it waved, but not too long that he needed
to do more than comb his fingers through it to make it presentable. It was getting a bit unkempt
about the ears, and touched the collar of his shirt in the back. Perhaps it was time to get it cut.

“Hey, George?” he called when he heard some movement in his room.

The boy in question must have been messing with something of Paul’s, because he called back a
distracted, “Uh, yeah?”

“I need to ask you somethin ’,” Paul shouted back when it was obvious that George wasn’t about
to come to him.

“What?”

“Come in ‘ere, will you?”

George barreled down the hall and into the bathroom, slightly out of breath, holding a hand over
his cheek and looking at Paul apprehensively.

He raised an eyebrow. “What was goin’ on back there?”

“Uh - nothing,” he evaded, looking around guiltily.

Paul crossed his arms, eying the way George held his cheek skeptically.

“I’m sorry,” he caved under Paul’s scrutiny. “But your E string snapped.” He lowered the hand
over his cheek to reveal a bright red abrasion.

Paul looked momentarily surprised; such a trivial thing seemed to bother him a great deal. Sensing
how seriously he took the transgression, Paul furrowed his brows and narrowed his eyes into a
stern expression. “George! How could you do something like that?”

Apologetically and regretfully, George hurried to repeat, “I’m sorry! But I wasn’t messin ’ around
with it, honest. I just tuned it up a bit, and it was too low, so I tightened it, and it snapped.”

Huffing out a breath of air, Paul turned back to the mirror to look preoccupied with his hair. “I
can’t believe you.”

“Paul, I’m sorry,” he tried again.

It was difficult to maintain the pretense of anger. Paul let out a laugh. “I’m just havin ’ you on,” he
said, turning around and grinning. “It’s okay. It was prob’ly old anyway.”

George deflated. “Jesus, mate,” he said. “You had me worried, there.”

“You didn’t honestly think I’d be mad, did you?”

George was quiet.

Cocking his head to the side, Paul asked, “I’m not usually that . . . Temperamental, am I?”

“No, no!” he hastened to assure him. “I just - I know your guitar means a lot to you, and it wasn’t
cheap, and you don’t have too much money to spend on maintenance.”

Paul went back to combing through his hair. “It’s just a string,” he said. “Maybe if you bashed it up
‘ gainst a wall, I’d be a bit angry.”

George moved to sit on the closed seat of the toilet while he waited for Paul to finish pruning his
hair. “What did you want me in here for, then?”

Paul hummed for a moment. “I was just wondering - ” He sounded very preoccupied with brushing
his hair back perfectly, but George could hardly see any difference. “It just occurred to me that I
probably used to have quite different hair, yeah?”

“Oh, yeah. Now that you mention it, you did,” he answered.

George couldn’t easily observe things about his friends in terms of their physical appearance.
When he looked at someone, he saw, more or less, whatever he wanted to see – he saw their
personality and impression reflected in their physicality. Paul, for example, was a perfectly fine-
looking bloke, to George, because he knew him to be a very good friend and decent lad, though he
knew that if he really looked, objectively, he’d see imperfections in the symmetry of his nose or the
slant of his eyes. He also always thought of Paul being rather tall, though he knew that, by
measurement, he was shorter than George; the fact that George looked up to him for his skill and
character made him larger in his eyes.

He had hardly noticed when Paul hadn’t combed his hair the same way.

“You could have said somethin ’,” Paul muttered as he continued to mess with his hair. “What did
it look like?”

George tilted his head, trying to remember. “Uh,” he thought for a moment, trying to recall. “It was
kind of curled.”

Paul sighed exasperatedly. He quickly brushed all of his hair back and pulled one segment from the
top, twisting it around his finger and releasing it into a comically emphasized cowlick. “You mean
like this?”

George rolled his eyes. “Don't be a prick. You know what I mean.”

Paul mussed his hair again. “No, I actually don’t,” he said. “I don’t know what you mean by
‘curled’. I never paid enough attention to what people wore these days. You need to be more
specific.”

“You mean you don’t know how we wear our hair at all?”

“I mean, vaguely. But nothing more than that.”

Paul could picture the quintessential nineteen-fifties haircuts, all grease and pompadours, but he
couldn’t imagine himself wearing one. He wouldn’t even know how to fix his hair into such an
unnatural style.

“It’s like Elvis, yeah?”

Paul locked eyes with George through the reflection. “Like I said. Vaguely.”

George simply shrugged. “Fine, then. Hand over your comb.”

He blinked. “I didn’t mean - ”

“Yeah, yeah, call it even for snapping that string.” his friend dismissed, looking around the
bathroom cabinets for the hair gel he knew Paul had. “And I’m sick of your complainin ’.”

Paul reddened at the thought of being so concerned over his appearance – but George had seen
right through him.

Once he began to accept (to really accept, not just realize) that he was stuck in the nineteen sixties
for an indefinite period, he had made conscious efforts to act like he belonged. He still didn’t feel
like he did, and he wasn’t sure that he wanted to, but he did want fewer constant reminders of how
out-of-place he was. One such effort was to change his hair, but try as he might all afternoon, he
could not figure out how to style it.

It made him feel terribly dependent on George but nonetheless grateful for his help.

As George began to comb through Paul’s hair, he had to admit that his bout of self-consciousness
was not entirely for purposes of blending in. Part of it had to do with where he planned to be in an
hour.

“This is how you had it most days, if I remember right,” George said once he’d finished. Paul was
astonished by how quickly and efficiently his practiced hand could work.

“That’s . . .” He struggled to find a word. “Different.”

It made his face look thinner and more angular, having the hair brushed up like that. It was odd,
too, not to feel anything on his forehead, and the gel felt slightly cold against his scalp. He wasn’t
sure if he liked it. But, then, he hadn’t grown up seeing blokes do their hair this way, so he wasn’t
the best judge of it. He trusted George, though, so he could not complain.

“'Course it is. Now, you don’t look like some uptight louse.” George crossed his arms and looked
at Paul, scrutinizing. “Well, that’s not true, but you look a bit less like an uptight louse.”

“Thanks,” Paul rolled his eyes.

He grinned. “Anytime. D’you think we might get goin’, now? I don’t fancy hearin ’ you worry
over bein ’ late.”

“I wouldn’t worry,” Paul muttered as he grabbed his wallet from the counter and stuffed it into his
pocket. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Right,” George nodded dubiously.

Paul hurried, as if George’s mention of nervous had summoned them in him. He realized that he
had merely been suppressing his growing anxiety.

He shot George a quick glance which simultaneously begged him to say something reassuring and
warned him to keep quiet. Paul both wanted to get on with the ordeal and put it off indefinitely; the
thought of confronting John Lennon seemed to do that to him.

Music echoed off of the Cavern’s brick walls and wooden tables. There weren’t yet many people
around to absorb the tinny background from the radio, so it struck Paul and George as being eerily
solitary inside the pub.

They shared a glance. Paul told him silently, See, we wouldn’t have been late.

George replied with a roll of his eyes.

A few people hung around some of the corner tables, of course. They were the regulars, the men
who spent more waking (and sometimes sleeping) hours here instead of home in their beds. They
were the Norm Petersons who skipped work to hang at the bar or in their small groups and waste
their lives away by the bottle. Paul only shot them half a glance before moving on to the rest of the
room.

The drum kit was already set up on the stage, but nobody sat behind it. It was early, but not too
early for the band to have arrived, right?

“Uh, let’s just sit down over there,” Paul said, pointing to a small table by the wall. George
shrugged and followed him.

Paul wanted to find a place where John wouldn’t see him. It was a ridiculous hope, because his
whole reason for being here was to confront him, but Paul was a ridiculous man. There wouldn’t
be any harm in putting it off a bit longer.
John may not even be here yet, he rationed. No need standing around in anticipation yet.

“Stop bouncin ’ your leg,” George ordered. “It’s shakin ’ the table.”

“Sorry,” he said quickly, placing a hand on his knee as if holding his leg down would stop the
nerves. It wasn’t working.

George shook his head and looked at the table. Paul could tell he had something to say and was
trying to find the perfect words to reveal just enough but not too much of the contents of his mind.

He looked up at Paul, took in a breath, and paused. This made Paul even more anxious; what was
so difficult that George couldn’t simply say it?

He tried again. “You were never so nervous about talkin ’ to people before.”

Paul looked down. He felt betrayed by his transparency. He couldn’t hide the shameful blush that
rose to his cheeks at George’s words, which had brought to mind all of his previous interactions
with the enigma that was John Lennon – both real and imagined. Or, rather, dreamed. Especially
dreamed.

“I, uh,” he started, but didn’t know what to say.

“I don’t mean to say there’s a problem with bein ’ shy,” George hurried to clarify. “ Somethin’s
bound to be different.”

“No,” Paul shook his head. “I’m not – I'm not shy. Not usually.”

George nodded in pretend understanding. “Oh. So . . . is it just him, then?”

Paul put his chin on his fist and averted his eyes, which was enough of a confirmation. He didn’t
know what George could possibly be thinking. What did he assume about the source of his
anticipation? If he weren’t over fifty years out of his time, Paul would have guessed that George
assumed exactly what Paul feared was the truth – a truth that he didn’t want to admit to himself.

“It’s not - ” he stuttered, “I’m not – he's not -”

He hoped George would drop the topic, but his next question was telling enough that he would not.
“He’s not what, Paul?”

Mustering the courage to look into his friend’s prying stare, Paul affirmed, “He’s nothing,
George.”

Leaning back into his chair, George didn’t drop Paul’s eyes, and he felt that he would be a coward
if he looked away. George crossed his arms and waited for Paul’s inevitable clumsy defense.

“There's nothing,” he insisted. “I’m just not used to apologizing. There’s nothing more to it.”

Distantly, a door slid open and then closed, but in his concentration on reading George, Paul didn’t
notice. It took George’s sideward glance at the new wave of noise and laughter to bring it to Paul’s
attention. When he followed George’s gaze, he blanched.

Looking down and screwing his eyes shut, Paul took a deep breath and hoped irrationally that he
could go unnoticed. His heart rate was audible and he felt like George would see the pulse of the
arteries in his neck. Nervously, he scratched his cheek and shot a quick glance back at the group
that had emerged from the back room.

George kicked his leg. “Go, mate,” he said quietly. Paul gulped and nodded.

"I don’t feel that we’ll do as bad as last week,” Stu ventured cautiously as he, John, and Stan filed
out of the back room to finish setting up the stage.

Stan nodded in agreement. “Yeah,” he said.

John merely shrugged. “Maybe,” he said, leaning against the closest table to the stage to mess with
his guitar.

He didn’t want to perform tonight. He wanted to go back to his flat and sleep; he hadn’t been
sleeping well lately, and every time that he was tired, he wasn’t in a position to go home and try.
Once he did reach his bed and turn out the lights, he could only lay awake, staring at a ceiling he
couldn’t see for the darkness. Stu surely noticed the bags underneath his eyes.

There weren’t many people here yet; there was still about an hour until the set was due to start, and
this week, they were scheduled earlier than most people frequented pubs on Friday night. Part of
that comforted John; without a large audience, there would be fewer people in front of whom he
could embarrass himself.

He didn’t want to tell Stu and draw his ire, but John was quite out of it tonight, as he had been for
the past two weeks. While he was well aware of the cause, he was quite powerless to fix his mood.

Being powerless was no pleasant feeling for anyone. He, in particular, felt its damage, because of
his natural inclination to lead. The reality he faced, however, was that Paul McCartney held the
power to take any next steps in mending their relationship – if he was so inclined, that is. John had
the terrible feeling that he wasn’t, and that with their most recent meeting, he had seen his last of
that odd lad.

An awkward clearing of the throat came from somewhere behind him. Lazily, John turned to look,
and started.

“Oh,” he said in surprise. “Paul.”

There stood the very person on whom John had dwelled for so many nights. He could hardly
believe that he was ther e – really, physically there - and not some tortured memory. His
shoulders were tensely squared, and shoved deep inside his pockets, his hands formed fists. He did
not look like he wanted to be here, which took away some of the relief John had initially felt upon
seeing him.

“I, uh,” he continued, since Paul obviously was not supposed to speak first, “I didn’t expect to see
you here.”

Paul glanced down at the floor. John looked at his eyes, the hazel color of which he could no
longer see. John found himself staring at the dark lashes that framed those eyes and it struck him
just how effeminate – but oddly, not in the off-putting, androgynous way – Paul’s features really
were. He was actually rather handsome .

Part of him reeled back in surprise and confusion at that particular thought, but he pushed it aside
when Paul opened his mouth.
“Yes, well, I didn’t expect to be here.”

John blinked and tilted his head. “What changed your mind, then?”

“It was actually, er,” he mused, scratching his neck and shuffling from foot to foot, “when I
considered that . . . uh, when I realized that . . . “ he trailed off and had to gather himself. John was
surprised by his lack of composition. “No, it was George.”

John raised his eyebrows. “He certainly keeps you in line.” He wondered exactly what Paul meant
by George changing his mind. “Was it only George?”

“It was mostly George.”

“Right.”

There was a pause between both of them. John heard movement and shuffling behind him – Stan
and Stu. Stu whispered something to the drummer that sounded like an impetus to shove off, and
before long, it was just him and Paul standing still beside the table. John sat down, an unspoken
invitation for Paul to follow suit, and open himself for a full conversation.

Paul sat down, then shifted his legs and set his elbows on the table, but decided that it wasn’t the
most comfortable position, so he leaned back instead. “It was a bit rude of me, how I acted,” he
explained, not meeting John’s eyes. “Well, more than rude, I suppose. You apologize, and I
wouldn’t even listen.”

John tried to catch his gaze, but it didn’t work because Paul just wouldn’t look him in the eye. “No,
Paul,” he said tentatively, “what I did, it was . . .”

“It was bad, you’re right,” he agreed. “But you apologized, and I’m not usually one to hold a
grudge.”

“You’re not?” he scoffed. “Is it just me, then? Am I special?”

Paul laughed gently. “Yeah, you’re a special case. Grudges usually aren’t worth the effort.”

Grinning, John finally caught Paul’s eyes. “So, has this meant that I am, or that you thought I was
and I’m not?”

“Oh, you’re definitely not worth it,” he quickly looked away and then back again. John found his
eyes mesmerizing.

“I really am sorry, though,” John said sincerely. “It was never something I should have done. I just
didn’t think.”

“No, well, I was a bit too harsh, I suppose.” Those eyes, they were so widely open when they
actually did look up at him. John couldn’t look away. “I can’t say it’s all right just because it was
an honest mistake, but I can see that you . . . that you didn’t do it to hurt me.”

“I wouldn’t do something like that.” John had to look away from Paul for a moment if he wanted to
blink. He chuckled in an attempt at lightening the situation. “Not until I know you better.”

Paul nodded, the corner of his lip curling up. “Yes, I’m sure being friends with you would be a
dangerous thing.”

“Does this mean that you’re willing to be friends?” he ventured.

The shrug Paul gave was an ambiguous reaction. “Just like holding grudges, it would be too much
energy to try and stop you, I guess. Being so rude is exhausting, you know?”

“Oh, yeah, I know,” John leaned back. “I’m rude on an hourly basis. On a minutely basis. It’s why
I sleep so much, just ask Stu.”

John watched Paul’s eyes as they found their way up to the stage behind him, where Stu and the
drummer were pretending to set up while they gave the two a moment alone. At the mention of
Stu, John could just see gears turning in Paul’s mind, but he hadn’t a clue what they were thinking.

“Say,” he said, quietly, “Why d id you want to be friends so badly, anyway?”

John paused. Well, it was more like he froze. He usually had a quick answer to anything and
everything, but this caught him off guard. Why exactly did he bother Paul so much? Why was he so
curious about Paul in the first place?

“I don’t,” he said, almost defensively. “Well, I don’t not want to be friends. I mean, you’re a new
face, and you seem all right. And I’ve heard you on guitar, figured you may be worth havin ’
around.”

Paul rolled his eyes.

“You’d be willing to put all this-” he gestured inclusively at the table, as if the empty space
embodied all of the tension that still passed unsaid between them. “-behind us?”

Paul cut his eyes to the side very narrowly, considering his next words. After a few moments, he
said, “If you really do want to put it all behind us, then yes, I would.”

John let out a breath. “Great.” He hadn’t realized he’d been holding it to begin with.

“And I do mean all of it,” he continued, looking surprisingly assertive. “You don’t pry into my life
anymore, and you don’t go asking Ivan shit like where I live or where I work like some crazed
stalker. You get to know me like a real friend would.”

Paul didn’t look away until John answered with, “I think I can handle that.” They shared a brief
smile.

Behind them, John heard a particular tone resonating from Stu that warned of his rising irritation.
He could hardly be surprised; Stu quite obviously could only handle so much of the hopefully
temporary drummer. John nervously slid his chair back, beckoning behind him.

“I should, uh, go up there and help set up,” he excused himself. He needed to intervene before Stu
got too worked up to focus tonight. “Maybe you could stick around, have a pint with us after the
show? You and Harrison?”

“Sure,” Paul grinned one final time before standing, preparing to make his way back to George.

It's been a little over two weeks, I know, but I got SUPER sick this weekend and I've been home
from class for the past two days :( Bad news for makeup work, good news for having time to do
next to nothing! Except finish up these chapters. So, here you go - let me know what you think of
it, please! I live off of feedback and cold medicine
 Manners Maketh Man

Paul and George sat back at their table, both with a beer (Paul’s treat) and a bowl of pretzels
between them. Paul, who could not sit still, ha rdly sipped at the drink, while George had long
since finished his.

He kept his eyes off of the stage, though he could hear the band performing. Avoiding being
caught watching the band was a ritual now. He didn’t want George to see him staring at John. He
didn’t want John to see him staring at John. He didn’t want to stare at John. It was just something
very hard not to do.

He didn’t miss the knowing glances George shot him every once in a while, but he tried to ignore
them. They just made his heart beat faster.

It was then, staring at John with shaking hands and a fluttering heartbeat, that he had to
acknowledge the . . . small crush he had developed.

He could not deny how relieved he felt having apologized. A weight had lifted from his shoulders
when John had smiled at him genuinely just an hour ago. He realized that it had been the first time
John smiled from true happiness , not derived from causing Paul amusing distress or displeasure.
It had put a stop to his heart that made him clench his jaw and try not to widen his eyes from
wonder.

But it was only physical attraction, he rationalized. He didn’t know John well enough to be
attracted to anything beyond that. He was handsome, sure, and had the sort of quick wit that Paul
both envied and admired, but that was it. He didn’t know what John was really like. Therefore, he
told himself, his feelings were shallow, fleeting, and easily ignored.

He was wrong on all counts, and deep inside, he knew that, but it was yet another thing he chose to
ignore.

Their gig lasted another hour, during which both Paul and George tapped their feet or fingers in
time with the music and made small, irrelevant conversation.

The music eventually came to a calm conclusion, and Paul watched as Stu and John backed off of
the stage, leaving the drummer to stare awkwardly into the crowd for a moment before following
them.

So as not to seem over-eager, Paul didn’t immediately suggest finding them. George was obviously
waiting for him to do so, and it gave Paul a measure of satisfaction to know that he was doing the
unexpected.

But perhaps he wasn’t entirely diverging from George’s expectations. He was reluctant to ask, but
needed to know. “You’ve never really said. What do you think of John?” He bit his lip, feeling
quite like a gossiping schoolgirl.

George was slightly taken aback by the question; being so blunt wasn’t in Paul’s style. “Well,” he
paused, trying to find the answer. It wasn’t something he’d thought of before. “He’s a’right,
I s’pose.”

“Okay . . .” Paul invited him to say more.

“He’s a good player,” he stated obviously. “A bit arrogant. Who isn’t?”

Paul shrugged in agreement.

George rested his chin on his fist as he thought longer. “I didn’t like him,” he said, “when you
started talking about him at first.”

“Why?”

“Well, you wouldn’t shut up about him,” he chuckled dryly. “No, I know why you didn’t. But it
was a bit annoying – he got you so irritated, I didn’t see why you couldn’t just ignore him.”

“Well, I did try,” Paul defended.

“You did not try. Not seriously.” Paul made a noise of protest, but George continued. “I didn’t
have a real reason to dislike ‘ im – I didn’t know ‘ im . But for the same reason, I had no reason to
like him, particularly.”

Paul had to admit that it made sense. “And now . . .?”

“It seems to me,” he said, slowly, “that there’s something . . . off about him.”

Leaning back, slightly surprised, Paul probed, “’Off’ as in, possible murderer? Or ‘off’ as in eats
cereal without milk?”

Laughing, George said, “I’m not really sure, yet. He’s not bad , as far as I can tell. But there’s
something odd about him.”

“I don’t really know what you mean.”

“No, I guess you wouldn’t,” Georges said. “You just see that artistically ideal part of him that
stands up on stage and winks at you. I’ve never really mentioned it to you,” he trailed off, trying to
find a way to specify the Paul that was instead of the Paul that was before, and he settled on,
“recently, that is, but I’ll get feelings about people. Whether they’re right or wrong, it’s what I
base my impressions off of. And my impression of John wasn’t . . . it wasn’t black or white, you
could say. He just seems complicated.”

Paul nodded. “I’ll pretend I know what you mean.”

“He doesn’t seem all bad,” he hesitantly tried to clarify. “Not nearly. But he doesn’t seem all good,
either.”

Feeling uncharacteristically protective, Paul posed, “Is there anyone entirely good?”

George shrugged as if to say, touché. “Possibly. And possibly not. I’d like to think there is , at
any rate.”

Paul took a sip of beer, mainly for the theatrics of it, and tilted his head with a shrug. “I’m not up
for this t’night. I ask a simple question and get some philosophical answer that I simply don’t have
the willpower to debate.”

George tsked . “’s your fault for assumin ’ anythin’s simple, mate,” he said with a slow, esoteric
air. “There are more things in heaven and earth, McCartney, than are dreamed of in your
philosophies.”

Humoring him, Paul laughed, “And that’s where you’re makin ’ your mistake. I don’t have a
philosophy. Not tonight, when I’m too busy . . .” He wasn’t sure what exactly he was too busy
doing, but George filled in the blank for him.

“Too busy swoonin ’ after Lennon, you git,” he accused good-naturedly.

George couldn’t have known just how true his playful jibe was, so Paul tried to ignore it, rather
than feel exposed. He was partially successful, judging by the temperature he felt in his cheeks, but
George tactfully ignored any change to his complexion.

“And speakin ’ of Lennon,” George said with a low whistle, “I’d say you better go see to him,
‘fore he passes out.”

Paul creased his brow. “What?”

He turned in his chair to follow George’s line of sight. There was John, stumbling out from the
back room and clutching his nose, where drops of blood trailed through his fingers. His jaw
dropped open in surprise.

Paul almost knocked his chair over in his haste to reach him.

He must have pushed a few people out of his way, because he vaguely recalled hearing some ‘hey,
watch it’s as he passed, but he paid them no mind. Once he reached John, he skidded to a halt,
grabbing his shoulders to steady himself.

“What the fuck happened, John?” He sounded like a worried mother hen.

A small crowd began to congregate around them. Right next to John stood Stuart, and a bit behind
them was the still-unnamed (or, if he ever was named, the long-since-forgotten) drummer, looking
quite alarmed.

It was obvious that there had been a fight. John’s hair was messed and falling into his eyes, one of
which was dark and beginning to swell. There was a cut on his cheek, deep enough to draw blood
but shallow enough to only sting. The blood dripping from his nose trailed down his arm, but there
was some on his chin, and Paul figured he must have gotten a busted lip, as well.

A larger man, looking perhaps a few years older than John, pushed through the crowd that had
gathered around them. He spat at John and Stu through swollen teeth, “You fuckers are such
pansies.” Stu backed away from him, eyes wide with alarm. “The poofter couldn’t even get in a
good hit. Look at ‘ im , the sod.” He shook his head and grumbled.

While Paul narrowed his eyes into an angry glare at the belligerent man, he noticed a dazed look in
his eyes, and assumed that he had drunk more than his share tonight.

Th e man’s e yes went from Paul to John, then back again. “You’re all bloody disgustin’,” he
swore before brushing past Paul and disappearing into the crowd.

Paul looked at Stu, whose expression gave him very few answers. He decided that time for
questions would come later.

Never the sort to be squeamish around blood (his mother was a nurse, after all, and the
neighborhood kids had always come to her when they’d scraped their knees), he wrapped an arm
around John’s shoulders to steer him toward the bathrooms. Which were . . .

“Stuart,” he said in a commanding tone, “where’s the washroom?”

Stu was busy looking skittish, but snapped out of it long enough to point to the left. Paul looked to
see a doorway and nodded his thanks to Stu before leading John over there.

“I can tell you,” John said in a muffled voice, “ tha ’ he looks way worse ‘an me.”

Paul let out a chuckle. “No thanks to you, mate,” he said dryly. “I don’t see him with a black eye
an’ broken nose, do I?”

Once they reached the door to the bathroom, Paul pushed the door open with his foot and lead John
through the threshold. The doorway wasn’t meant to accommodate two boys standing abreast, and
trying to angle them through without letting go of John’s shoulders lead to an awkward
predicament. John accidentally kicked the door when it began to swing shut once more, making
him curse.

“’e don’t need a broken nose to look like shit,” John mumbled.

The bathroom had two stalls and one sink. A wooden stool sat in the corner, having obviously seen
better days, but it was probably better to sit on than a toilet. Paul dragged it over to the sink with
his foot and dumped John down onto it, letting him lean back against the wall. “Here, use these,”
he ordered, gathering napkins from the stack next to the sink and placing them in John’s hands.

John tilted his head back and pressed the napkins against his nose.

“No, no, don’t do that,” Paul corrected. John opened his eyes and looked at him incredulously.
“Don’t tilt your head back,” he went on, putting a hand on the back of John’s head, right above his
neck, and pushing it forward. “That just makes the blood go down your throat, and you’d have to
cough it up if you don’t choke on it first.”

John exhaled through his mouth as he followed Paul’s directions. “What a good little nursemaid,
you are.”

Paul handed John more napkins once the others had become too soaked with blood to catch any
more. “Mum was a nurse.”

John nodded mutely, waiting for the bleeding to stop.

“Pinch your nose here,” Paul pointed to the place right below the bone. “It should stop in a minute
or so.”

While he waited for the nosebleed to stop, Paul ran some of the napkins under cool water. He shot
glances to John, taking in his messy clothing and incessantly bouncing leg to conclude that he must
still be high on adrenaline and probably didn’t even feel the cut on his cheek yet.

When John pulled back the napkins for the last time to reveal only the faintest trace of red, Paul
pointed over to the trash bin, where John tossed them away.

He tried to maintain the utmost professionalism as he lowered himself to his knees in front of John,
raising one of the wet napkins to his face. He couldn’t force himself to make eye contact as he said,
“It may hurt a bit, but it may not.”

“Wonderful bedside manner,” John scoffed.

“Better than sayin’ it won’t hurt at all when it definitely will,” he shrugged and pressed the napkin
gently against John’s cheek. “That all right?”

“Fine,” he said. Paul figured that it probably wouldn’t hurt until another hour had passed, and he
was glad to get it taken care of now, rather than later. He began to wipe the blood and bit of dirt
away.

Now that he could see the shape of the wound, he asked, “Was he wearin ’ a ring or somethin ’?”

“Think so,” John said absently. He sounded preoccupied with something, and Paul could almost
feel his eyes boring into his own, but he didn’t bring himself to see if he was actually looking
there. “And he called me a poofta , the git.”

Paul tried not to flinch. “Is that what the fight was about? That what he called you?”

John’s countenance darkened. “ Somethin ’ like that.”

He’d have to get more information out of Stu. It seemed that John was less than eager to recount
exactly what had provoked the fight.

Tossing that napkin into the trash, Paul got another one to clean around John’s nose. He looked
much better, now there wasn’t that large smear of red on his upper lip, but it began obvious then
that his lower lip had been busted.

“This looks pretty nasty,” Paul mused as he wiped around his chin, putting off touching John’s lips
as long as he could.

“Still better than ‘e looks, like I told you.”

Paul fought to keep his hand steady as he found a clean part of the napkin to wipe John’s mouth.
He did it gently, so as not to further irritate the skin, and felt his face heat up from the newly
realized proximity. He was just so close to John – had he ever been this close before? He could see
the creases on his lips, and he was sure, if he looked up, he’d be able to see the different flecks of
color in his eyes .

He had to gingerly cradle John’s face with his other hand to keep him still. Paul tried his hardest
only to touch him with his fingertips; the animosity John had for the very notion of being queer
rang through Paul’s head like a bell, and he felt very aware of how out-of-place he was, a modern
lad in the reserved past.

“You changed your hair,” John said suddenly. Paul felt his nerves come alive with anxiety.

“Well,” he began uneasily, trying to keep an even tone, “I didn’t, technically. This is how I usually
wear it.” Or so I’ve been told .

“Don’t get so touchy,” John sighed, waving a hand. “Looks good on you.”

Paul tried not to lean in too close when he felt himself s way faintly.

Once he was finished, Paul cleared his throat and stood up, backing away to a safe distance. He
handed John one final damp napkin and instructed, “Hold that against your eye while I ask the
bartender for some ice. I’ll be back.”

Still not meeting his gaze, Paul hurried from the bathroom and shook himself to calm down.

John was settled at the bar with a mug of warm beer and a towel wrapped around ice cubes pressed
against the left side of his face. Paul hoped that it would stop the swelling and discoloration before
it got too bad - John really had good eyes, very sharp and acute, and Paul told himself that it was
the shame of ruining that perfect almond shape that made him care, instead of the thought that he
could be in pain.

Paul tore his eyes from John’s back to look at Stu, who sat across the table from him. “What
exactly happened, Sutcliffe?”

Stu looked up at Paul, his hands clenched into a ball in front of him. He was rigid with tension
from the encounter that had happened only half an hour earlier.

"Jack – upperclassman from college, he's been ‘round here a couple of times, seen a few gigs, and
always tried to cause a bit of trouble – he walked out and just fell over, right on the sidewalk.”

“What?” Paul asked in alarm. “He didn’t look that bad when he went by.”

“Well,” Stu said slowly, “I suppose slammin ’ his head against a brick wall must’ve given him a
concussion.”

“ What?” he said again. “ John did that?”

He nodded with pursed lips. “You really don’t want to get on his bad side. You didn’t think John
would just let him get away with doin’ that to him, did you?”

“What did that guy even say to him?” He could hardly imagine John doing something like that.
“John never struck me as being so . . . sensitive.”

“He isn’t, usually,” Stu agreed. He tapped his fingers anxiously against the table. “But there’s
something that gets him . . .”

“Jack came out callin ’ him a poof,” Paul said, swallowing thickly with discomfort after trying to
say it without a pause. “Was that what got him angry?”

Stu laughed. “If you’d known John as long as I have, then you’d know that callin ’ him queer is
the last thing you want to do,” he said lowly. Something about his tone struck Paul as defensive.

Paul felt his heart sink. He’d entertained a crush – however briefly – on someone who would
sooner hospitalize a lad for suggesting homosexuality. He knew it was preposterous to assume
that anyone would be tolerant, let alone accepting, of such a ‘deviant’ lifestyle.

“So, that was it?” he asked. “He called him queer and John just threw him into the wall? Is that all
that happened?”

Stu almost nodded. “It was mostly the way he said it,” he answered reluctantly. “There was a bit
more.”

Paul waited for him to finish.

“Well, you see, to be queer, you gotta be queer for someone . . . yeah?” He didn’t look
comfortable talking to Paul, of all people, whom he’d met all of twice, about something so personal
and taboo. He took a deep breath and shot a glance at John, then looked back to Paul. He spoke
very quickly, like he was trying to swallow medicine as fast as possible. “Jack suggested that John
and I were sharing more than just a flat, if you know what I mean. John took just a bit of offense
to that.”
Paul raised his eyebrows. His natural inclination was to ask, And were you? but common sense
told him that such a thing might be a bad idea.

“Don’t even suggest it,” Stu said sternly, having sensed what Paul didn’t say.

“Hey, don’t sound so defensive,” he raised his hands in surrender.

Stu narrowed his eyes. “I’m not gonna bash your head in, McCartney, but you’d better not - “

“Stuart, I’m joking,” Paul diffused. “Just trying to make light of the whole situation.” They were
both quiet for a moment.

“Right.”

He shook his head. “I can’t believe that John . . .”

Stuart raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t think he was soft , did you?”

“No, no, ‘course not,” Paul excused quickly. “But I just expected him to be more, er -”

“You obviously don’t know him at all.”

At that moment, George arrived at the table and put his hand on Paul’s shoulder. “That other guy’s
gone home or the hospital. Not sure which, but ‘e had a mate dragin ’ ‘ im along,” he announced
to both of them, “so just in case you were wonderin ’ , which I know you prob’ly weren’t, I doubt
he’ll die.”

“That’s - “ Paul didn’t really know what it was. “That’s good, I guess.”

“Does John do this often?” George asked of Stu.

“Do you mean getting into fights or winning them? ‘Cause the answers vary,” Stu said.

George leaned forward to put his elbows on the table and crossed his arms. Paul got the impression
that he was drilling Stu at some interrogation. “He gets into a lot of fights he can’t win?”

“Sometimes,” came the answer. “He’s got a short temper.”

George nodded. “Does he ever drag you into any of his fights, like he did tonight?”

Stu leaned back, tilting his head. “He didn’t ‘drag me into his fight’ this time,” he retorted. “Jack’s
the one that did that.”

“But are John’s mates typically involved in the fights?”

Stu shrugged. “Sometimes,” he repeated.

Paul exhaled exasperatedly. “I’m sorry, Stu,” he excused, before standing and grabbing George’s
shirt sleeve. “Geo, a word?”

He pulled George over to the side of the pub, away from Stu or John or anyone else who might
hear their conversation. He settled on a corner across from the stage, where one of the overhead
lights had gone out, and the only people there were a gang of smokers who wouldn’t give them the
time of day. Paul withstood the terrible smell of second-hand smoke and glared at George.

“What was that?” he demanded.

George cocked his head and tried to quell a grin that threatened his lips. Paul hated that this
somehow amused him. “What d’you mean, mate?”

“Don’t play dumb, George,” Paul cautioned. “I know why you’re askin’ those questions. You said
earlier that you didn’t really like John.”

George crossed his arms and shifted his weight to his other foot leisurely. “You’re puttin ’ words
in me mouth, you are,” he said. “I didn’t say I don’t like ‘im.”

“You said there was somethin ’ ‘off’ about him!” Paul accused.

“And there is,” George replied, not losing any of his confidence. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t
like him.”

“It just means that you think he gets into fights left and right and that I shouldn’t be hangin ’
around him,” he returned.

George sighed and shook his head. “Paul, you’re readin’ too much into this. I just wanted to know
if he was the sort who got into rows or not.”

“Yes, but why ?” he pressed.

“Why do you think?” George lowered his voice and said, quite seriously, “Paul, mate, I’m tryin ’
to watch out for you.”

“I don’t need you watchin’ out for me. Hell, I’m older than you! I don’t need some big brother.”

George raised a skeptical brow. “You don’t? Mate, you had me do your hair today.”

“Okay, that has nothin’ to do with -”

“It just shows how much you don’t know about livin’ here,” he said. “I don’t know how easy you
may’ve had it in your twenty-first century, but here, when kids get into fights, a bloody lip and
broken nose is actually a pretty good outcome.”

“You’re just being dramatic.”

“Paul, I’m tryin ’ to get you to see that the way you grew up isn’t the way we all did,” he said
quietly. “You’ve told me ‘bout how were as a kid, just hangin ’ round your house, never goin’
anywhere or getting into any trouble. You were taught that everythin’ was dangerous, but never
how to deal with it. But here, when you’re growin’ up, you’re out of your house whenever the
sun’s out, usually later, and the folks like it that way. Kids learn to deal with the city and the other
kids in it. You never had to.”

“I wasn’t raised in a bubble,” Paul said. “It’s frankly insulting that you would - ”

“Fine, mate,” George turned away. “Don’t listen to me. But John’s the sort who’ll drag you into all
his shit. He won’t always win his rows, Paul, and you’ll have to see that it’s not gonna be so nice
hangin ’ round someone who stirs up trouble anywhere he goes.”

Paul watched him leave. He debated calling after him, to apologize for being angry – but he wasn’t
really sorry. He wasn’t necessarily proud of how he’d scolded him, since George really was just
looking out for him, but he was doing so in vain; Paul wasn’t so delicate that a single fight would
break his resolve. George just assumed that he’d had life so much easier in the future; that wasn’t
necessarily true, was it? He just had life a bit different.
It’s not like John was getting into gang fights, Paul reasoned. He’d come to blows with a single
person (that he knew of) in the weeks Paul had known him; he wasn’t some sort of short fuse.
Right?

George long since gone, Paul debated heading home, since the excitement of the fight had died
down. He watched as Stu went over to John, exchange a few words, then left, leaving John sitting
at the bar. If they lived together, why didn’t they just leave at the same time?

Paul remembered then that John had invited him and George for a drink after the gig and figured
that he may have been waiting for him; it incentivized him to approach John and take the adjacent
seat at the bar.

John saw, out of the corner of his eye, that Paul had arrived, so he snapped his fingers at the
bartender and beckoned to Paul, then to the mug that sat in front of him. The bartender hurried to
fill it with beer.

“No, I’m fine,” Paul protested.

“I’ll buy,” John excused, as though that was the deciding factor. The truth was that Paul wasn’t
much of a drinker and never had been, and he’d had two pints already.

“Really,” he protested weakly, but the bartender had already set the new pint in front of him.

“Just drink it, will you?”

Paul sighed and took a small sip.

John rested the side of his face on his fist and turned his head to look at Paul. He was almost
smiling.

“Harrison head out already?” he asked.

“Yep,” Paul said.

“I don’t reckon he likes me,” John mused. “ ’Cause I didn’t let him into the band.”

Paul raised his eyebrows. “So that’s his issue,” he said, though he knew that probably wasn’t the
whole problem. “ Dunno why you wouldn’t take him, though. You heard him play, right?”

John shrugged. “Heard you play, too. You’re not in the band.”

Paul scoffed. “That doesn’t mean anythin ’, other than you haven’t even asked me to be in it.”

“If I did ask you, would you?”

“No.”

“Exactly.”

“But Geo would. And he’s better than me.”

John raised his shoulders lazily. “He prob’ly can’t sing. I bet you can.”

Paul rolled his eyes. “You have absolutely nothing to base that on,” he dismissed. He didn’t know
whether George could sing or not, but that was hardly important. “And, anyway, George plays
guitar. You’re the one who sings.”
Another slow shrug. It seemed like the effects of the adrenaline were beginning to weaken. Paul
saw how his good eye was half-lidded.

“Do you play bass?” he asked.

Paul narrowed his eyes. “George already asked me that,” he said.

“And I already asked him.”

“What’s so important about playin’ bass? You’ve got Stu for that, haven’t you?”

John laughed. “Stu’s no good for bass,” he shook his head. “Stu’s good for complainin ’ about
gigs and rambling on about Germany .”

“Germany?” What an arbitrary thing to fixate on.

“He wants to live there,” John explained. “Got some diff’rent art school he’s lookin ’ into. I
won’t let ‘ im go until I find us a replacement, though. Can’t have a band with just a singer and
a drummer.”

“Well, you’re out of luck here,” Paul said. “I don’t really know the bass.”

“Could you learn?”

“That seems like a lot of work,” he said reluctantly. What he meant was, I’m not going to join your
band, so quit asking.

John drank the rest of his beer in one quick gulp and turned to face Paul, barely holding the iced
rag to his face anymore.

“You - you should really keep that on, John,” Paul said, feeling uneasy at the way John was
looking at him.

“Nah, I’ll be fine, son,” he dismissed. “It’s already numb.” He lowered it from his face and set it
on the bar to dig in his jacket’s pocket. He extracted two smokes and offered one to Paul. “Need a
light?”

It still surprised him, somewhat, how much it was taken for granted that everybody smoked. “I
don’t smoke while I’m drinking,” he excused.

John shrugged. “A’right,” he slid back away from the bar and prepared to stand. “We can go
outside, then. You didn’t want to drink anyway.”

Paul’s mouth fell open for a moment. He tried to think of something to say. Bashfully, he replied,
“I, uh, don’t smoke when I don’t drink, either . . .”

Already standing, John feigned exasperation. He overlooked Paul’s awkward excuse and gestured
to the barstool. “Well, I’m already standin ’. What d’you say we just head out now? Stu’s gone,
your mate Harrison’s gone, and I have on good authority that the next act is pretty crummy.”

“Oh, um, all right,” Paul agreed, sliding away from the bar. He followed John to the doors, his
heart pounding.

Here it is, finally! I've gotten over that pesky cold and I'm back to business. Hope you liked the
chapter, and as always, please leave feedback!
In other news, I wanted to let you guys know that I'm on tumblr at the-dog-argos, in case any of
yous guys wanted to drop by and say hi.
 Force the Moment to its Crisis

John lead the way out of the front doors and into the warm night air. The traffic wasn’t heavy and
there were only a few pedestrians on the sidewalks, but the city still hummed with life. John stood
by a lamppost and waited for Paul to catch up.

As he approached John, that constant hum of city life grew suddenly and infinitely louder. Paul
turned his head to face that doppler effect of an uproar, squinting into the bright headlights. His
heart hammered in his chest as he saw those two yellow eyes approaching and suddenly recalled
the last time a car came that close to him on the sidewalk.

He jumped back with a loud, frightened intake of breath, catching John’s attention. “Paul?” he
turned back at the noise just in time to catch him stumbling backwards away from the road. Only,
he didn’t just back away; he lost his footing, and John surged forward to grab his shoulders and halt
the fall; it didn’t exactly work.

Paul landed flat on his arse, his hands reaching behind him to break the fall. He felt the shock
running through his elbows and shoulders and it knocked the wind out of him. On top of that, his
heart was still pounding in his chest. It was the only thing he could hear.

John had followed him down, landing heavily on his knees beside his fallen friend. He clutched
Paul’s shoulders and repeated, “Paul? Paulie, you a’right? Paul?”

Taking a few deep breaths, Paul realized that his name was being called; he opened his eyes and
saw John leaning very close, his eyes – even the one almost swollen shut with the bruise – heavy
with concern.

If Paul’s cheeks weren’t already flushed, they certainly were now. He could hardly believe how
intense a reaction he’d had to a simple car . He was never so . . . scared of such commonplace
things before . Before . . . well, before a commonplace car actually hit him, that is.

It could have happened again, he thought with a rush. A car could hit me and I could be gone,
just like that.

Gone? Would he really be gone?

Or maybe I’d be back.

“What was that, McCartney?” John demanded once more, not letting go of Paul’s shoulders. He
had his loose shirt clutched in tight fists, and Paul found that feeling very grounding. If John
weren’t there quite literally holding him up, he’d fall flat onto the pavement and perhaps stay there
in an existential crisis forever.

He didn’t want to go back, he realized. He looked at John with wide eyes and grinned, perhaps
from genuine happiness at the revelation, perhaps from relief at not being smeared into the
cement. Again.

“I - I – I don’t know,” he stammered, still gathering his bearings. “Th - that car.”

John’s eyebrows came together. “That car, it didn’t come close to the sidewalk,” he explained
slowly.

“It didn’t? It looked like . . .”

“You just had a bad scare, that’s all,” John reasoned, sounding like he was trying to convince
himself. “I didn’t know you were so . . . jumpy.”

“I’m not,” Paul claimed, pushing himself up off the ground. John gripped his forearms to help him
up; he smiled gratefully.

John tilted his head. “You’ve gone and messed up your perfect hair with that stunt,” he mused,
reaching up and catching a strand of Paul’s hair between his fingers, pushing it back.

Impulsively, Paul reached his hand up to his head to fix it with an “Oh, sorry,” but found that John
hadn’t pulled away yet, and knocked his fingers with his own. There was the shock of surprise and
both of them pulled their hands back quickly. “Thanks.”

“No problem, mate,” John said, clearing his throat and backing away. “Let’s get on then, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The two of them walked a ways, still brimming with awkwardness from that brief moment. They
very close, as the sidewalk wasn’t large, and each time their shoulders brushed (which was
suspiciously often, Paul noticed), one of them would let out a chuckle under their breath and play it
off as an accident (that’s what it was, right?).

They reached the bus stop, where John had to wait a quarter of an hour to catch the next run; it was
close enough to Paul’s place to walk, to he did not want to bother with the fares.

“You can just head on,” John said, perched on the back of the bench. “Don’t have to wait for me.”

“Do you want me to go?” he asked, stretching his legs out along the bench and leaning against the
side.

John shot him a grin. “Nah, you’d probably fall over sideways every time a cab drives by.”

Paul looked down and shook his head. “I don’t know what came over me,” though he had known
very well what happened and why.

John opened his mouth, undoubtedly to ask any number of prying questions, but looked to the side,
and sealed his lips. He shrugged as if to say that it didn’t matter.

Paul appreciated that John was letting all of his oddities go, if not unnoticed, then unmentioned. He
sent him a wordless smile in thanks.

They remained in amiable silence until the bus arrived, at which point John leapt down from the
bench, patted Paul’s knee amicably, and bounded on, but not before shooting him a wink with his
good eye.

Paul grinned all the way home.

It was a Monday.

Monday, Monday, Paul hummed to himself as he closed the back door to his house and felt the
warm and faintly humid late summer air press against his skin. It wasn’t too sunny a day, which
was nice, since Paul burned quite easily. So good to me.

Burning. By no means a pyromaniac, Paul had never had the boyish fascination with fire that his
brother and friends seemed to share. Sure, it was nice to look at for a second when you have
literally nothing else to do, but it came with that unpleasant waxy smell of heat that made Paul’s
nose feel clogged.

Monday morning, it was all I’d hoped it could be , he continued as he fished his dad’s lighter out of
his pocket. They used it for many things – not just the obvious one of smoking, but also starting up
the gas stove when it wouldn’t light or melting the ends of shoelaces together when they started to
unravel – so it had just been lying around on this fine Monday morning. Paul flicked it on. He
observed the flame briefly before using his free hand to pull something else from his pocket – a
piece of paper.

He glanced around compulsively. His dad was at work and Mike had stayed week with some
cousins, so nobody was around, and Paul knew that, but since he was doing something that ought
not to be observed, he felt eyes watching him, naturally.

Oh, Monday mornin’, Monday mornin’ couldn’t guarantee -

The paper was folded neatly to hide the scribbled writing from any prying eyes, but he
remembered exactly what it said. Most of it was long since disregarded, and it now only stood to
be discovered and blow any progress he’d made to integrate to sixties life completely into the wind.
It needed to be gone.

He held it gingerly by one corner and raised the flame to its edge, watching in grim satisfaction as a
physical manifestation of his anxiety withered to ashes.

That Monday evenin ’ you would still be here with me.

He missed newer music sometimes. Of course, ‘newer’ meant little by his standards – but he
needed to hear something written after nineteen-fucking-sixty-one for once; he was going mad,
having so many songs stuck in his head with no way to actually hear them. Today’s was just one
example.

Monday, Monday, can’t trust that day.

He heard the rusty squeak of hinges as his garden fence swung open. His back was to the gate, so
he could not see who had entered; his eyes grew wide and his pulse quickened. Looking hurriedly
at the paper still clutched between his fingers, he saw that the fire had sufficiently caught, so he
dropped it into the metal trash bin at his feet before spinning around to make some sort of excuse
to his visitor.

“Didn’t figure you’d be in for arson, McCartney,” John Lennon grinned as he leaned casually
against the gate, folding his arms over his chest and crossing one leg over the other. Paul scolded
himself for noticing that the loose button-up shirt he wore revealed the sharp line of his
collarbone.

Swallowing, he answered, “And I didn’t figure you for breakin’ and enterin’.” He shuffled on his
feet and inched away from the rubbish bin. “Well, actually, that’s a lie. I’d figure you for breakin’
and enterin’ in a heartbeat.”

John shrugged his shoulders and send him a cheeky grin. “I’d hate to disappoint.”

He sauntered forward. Seeing his face more clearly, Paul noticed, “Your eye’s lookin’ good.”

John raised an amused brow. “Yeah?”

“I - I mean,” he corrected, realizing how vague he’d been, “compared to how it looked, er, before,
y’know.”

“Yeah, I know, Paul,” he feigned confusion. “I know what you meant. What did you think I
thought?”

Paul’s mouth fell open and he gaped like a fish. “I - uh – I – oh, stop it,” he looked down at his feet
and crossed his arms protectively over himself to hide his discomfort. “What are you doin’ here?”

John looked around and shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “Oh, I was just . . .
around,” he said, taking in the shrubberies near the fence and other such features of the yard.
“Figured I’d chance you not bein’ wherever you work.”

Paul tilted his head. “I thought you knew where I worked already.”

“Oh, no, that’s just Ivan,” he dismissed. “I know the street. I knew where to find you, but you’ll
notice, I didn’t find you at work.”

“Okay,” Paul said intelligently. He glanced back to the bin to find the smoldering ashes sufficiently
low and turned away. “Boss didn’t schedule me for today.”

“Aren’t I lucky,” John drawled, slowly meandering over to the rubbish bin to peer inside. “What
were you doin’ just then, Prometheus?”

The name was odd to hear coming from John’s lips and it threw him off momentarily, but he
quickly recovered. John must have been more of an intellectual than he came across as. “It was,
uh,” he took a deep breath and thought for a quick second, “just a shopping list.”

John nodded as though he understood. “Oh, obviously. Those must be destroyed by fire, o’
course.”

Paul, ever the terrible liar, panicked and began his habit of lying. “I read on – in – in a digest,” he
began, having naturally wanted to say ‘on the internet’, “that you can grow, er, apricots – apricot
trees. You fertilize them with ashes, it said, and they grow better.”

John would have to be profoundly stupid to believe him, but he was courteous enough to humor
him. “An arsonist and a gardener,” he mused. “Aren’t you quite the Renaissance Man.”

Smiling nervously, Paul said, “Leonardo is my middle name.”

John nodded again, seemingly out of habit, and then paused. “Wait, it is?”

“Psh, no,” he answered. “Of course not.”

Defensively, John raised his hands. “Well, how was I supposed to know?”

“You already know my middle name.”

“I do?”

“Yep.”

John thought for a moment. “I - wait, so Paul’s your middle name?” Confident with this solution,
he did not wait for confirmation before continuing: “What’s your first name, then?”

“James,” Paul answered, glad to be off of the subject of the incriminating evidence he had been
burning. “But that’s my dad’s name, and ‘e goes by Jim. Mum always called me Paul.” He
wouldn’t usually supply such personal information in normal casual conversation, but he needed to
make sure John’s thoughts wouldn’t wander back to the rubbish bin.

“James Paul McCartney,” John said slowly and carefully, as if tasting the name on his tongue. He
paused, considering. “Well, c’mon, Macca, let’s get inside; it’s bloody hot out here.”

John turned around and headed for his back door, for which Paul was immensely grateful, despite
his visitor having essentially invited himself inside; he was just glad that John couldn’t see the
infectious smile on his face.

“D’you play anythin’ other than guitar?” Paul asked when he saw John eying the piano in the
parlor. “Piano?”

John wrinkled his nose and shook his head. “Nah,” he said. “Well, not piano. Play mouth organ,
though.”

Paul wasn’t used to the harmonica being a popular instrument in music; it would soon soar in
popularity, he knew, so his temporarily confused expression surprised John. He covered it up by
saying, “Oh, mouth organ, right. I thought I misheard.”

“What’d you think I said?” John pried off-handedly as he trilled the two highest notes between his
index and middle finger.

“No, nothing,” he dismissed, sitting down at the piano bench.

John sat beside him, and since piano benches were small and intended for only one occupant, that
meant he was shoulder-to-shoulder with Paul. He tried to mind the contact but couldn’t.

“I assume you play, right?” he asked, pretending to form a chord with his right hand and hammer
the keys like Jerry Lee Lewis.

“A bit,” he said modestly.

“Is that ‘a bit’ like your guitar playing?”

Paul sent him a narrow-eyed withering look.

“Play me somethin’, then.”

Paul enjoyed playing for an audience, when they were receptive. He’d learned piano, after all,
from his family and relatives all gathered around the piano at holidays; he didn’t mind, now that he
and John were on good terms, demonstrating some of that familiarity. He placed his hands
naturally, with his right thumb on middle C and the right hand one octave lower, thinking of
something to play.

Because his first instincts were to play songs that weren’t written yet, Paul chose a comedic
rendition of chopsticks, a goofy grin on his face as he waited for John to retaliate.

“Oh, Macca, c’mon, play me somethin’ for real.”

Halting, Paul sighed and acquiesced. “ Fine. ”

He settled on “Dream a Little Dream of Me.” In his head and on his lips he was silently singing the
version from Cass Eliot, but that wouldn’t be recorded until later this decade, he knew. The song
had been recorded several times before, though, so it was perfectly normal to assume that he would
know it in 1961.

After the first verse was through, he felt John shift beside him, crossing his arms. “You really are
a Renaissance lad,” he said, impressed. “That is a bit slow, though. Got anythin’ faster?”

Cheekily, Paul simply increased the pace of the song, and John thumped his shoulder. That threw
him off, so his fingers fumbled, and he stumbled to find the next chord; it didn’t sound right, since
his hand was now thoroughly put off track, but it did happen to be the first chord of a song he’d
played around with on his own.

It had an older, Vaudevillian swinging feel to it, and his father had always liked to hear it, when he
was first coming up with the melody. He had a few words, but they were mostly whimsical and
very subject to change – he wasn’t one of the best wordsmiths and never would be.

“Jesus,” John shook his head. “You’re more than ‘a bit’ good on the piano, lad.”

Paul’s blushed betrayed his composure. “I’m really not that good,” he protested. “Can’t even read
sheet music.”

Waving a hand, John dismissed the excuse. “Fuck that,” he said. “You don’t have to be able to
read what someone else plays to do it yourself.”

Paul shrugged silently.

“What else can you play?”

“Er,” he thought for a moment, “that’s mostly it, really. Guitar and piano. Can do a bit on drums
– y'know, piano’s technically percussion, anyway.”

“But do you actually play drums?”

Another shrug.

“A’right,” John nodded. “That means you’re a fuckin’ virtuoso. What can’t you play?”

Scrunching his shoulders awkwardly and wringing his hands, Paul meandered around the words.
“I’m not really good at anything,” he insisted. “I can’t play, um, a theremin, I guess.”

“A whatnow?”

Paul made a motion like he was conducting an orchestra and hummed loudly, in a whining tone
he’d heard on the theme of Star Trek . “The one that goes like that,” he said.

“Never heard of it,” John said, looking at Paul like he had two heads and three noses. “But you
don’t play bass either, right? That’s what you said th’other day.”

“I mean, in theory, I could,” he figured. “It’s just the same bottom strings, right?”

“So you do know it,” John concluded.

He repeated, “In theory. In very primitive and probably incorrect theory.”

“Think ‘bout it logically,” John began, using his hands to emphasize his argument as though he
were proposing a difficult business agreement. “Your mate Harrison wants in my band, right? I
don’t want to change lineup - ‘cept for getting rid of that shit drummer - ‘til I’ve got someone to
take over for Stu. And Stu won’t get out o’ me hair, since he wants to go t’ Germany so bad. See, if
I get you to learn bass, then . . .”

“Wait,” Paul interrupted. “You want me in your band? You actually want me to play for you?”

“Yes,” John said confidently. He seemed sure that Paul would leap to accept the offer, because he
had his shoulders set back confidently and the corner of his lip curled very nearly curled into an
expectant grin.

“Well, uh,” Paul began, and saw John’s grin falter. “I don’t really know if that would be . . .”

There were so many things that it ‘could be’, he knew, and of all of them, there were none that he
could tell John.

His shoulders visibly deflated and he cast his eyes down. He hurried to excuse, “No, no, it’s all
right,” before Paul could apologize. “I shouldn’t have . . .”

Paul could tell that John tried to play off the offer as nothing; he didn’t want to damage the new
friendship between them by being presumptuous. He must have feared that Paul would take
offense to his forwardness or assured confidence.

As an attempt to let John know that his reluctance to play music did not stem from some reluctance
to connect over music, he asked, “You said somethin’ about your drummer just now. What’s up
with ‘im?”

“You know ‘e’s shit,” John waved his hand, looking grateful for the slight change of topic.
“Lookin’ for a new one, so I’d like to say we’re in-between, of a sort.” He dug a smoke out of his
jacket pocket, not bothering to ask Paul for permission to smoke indoors, which was certainly
something Paul expected, but wasn’t sure how he would have responded to. He loathed the very
idea of smoking with every ounce of his being, yes, but there was something about the way John
relaxed when he had a cigarette that calmed Paul down, almost via second-hand smoke. “We
almost had another guy for a while, but he’s gone off with some other band to Germany.”

The two shared an exasperated smile over the irony of it. “Just like Stu wants to?”

“Yep,” John popped, taking a drag of the smoke. Upon exhaling, he said, “I heard Best was one
hell of a drummer, though. Shame we passed ‘im up.”

Paul was nodding along absently, busy looking at the way John’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly as
the smoke fell out of his lips, but his ears perked at the name. “Wait, Best? Pete Best?” He
definitely recognized the name. “He won’t be playin’ with you guys?”

John leaned back, momentarily surprised that Paul knew the name. “Didn’t think you’d know Pete,
of all people,” he said.

“George,” Paul excused simply.

He nodded. “Well, there was apparently a real brief window for ‘im - so high and mighty he was,
had to bugger off with a new band just a week after quittin’ his old one.”

Paul grinned and it was a mechanical action, since his mind was busy processing the fact that the
Silver Beatles would not be the band he’d read about online in his time. It was a monumental thing
to consider. “You’re just pissed that it’s not your band he buggered off to.”
John shrugged. “Maybe,” he said, taking another drag. “Was s’pposed to meet up with us last
weekend. Ivan’d arranged it. I was busy, though, and since I missed it, ‘e must’ve figured we
weren’t worth his precious time and ran off with Rory Storm and the fuckin’ Hurricanes to the
continent.”

Paul nodded. His ears felt oddly . . . cold, he realized, in a mix of excitement and panic as blood
pumped through his veins. He knew something very integral to the future he knew had changed,
but he didn’t know what repercussions it would have. Or had already had . . .? He had no idea how
relative time worked, and it was hard to think about.

All he knew was that history had definitely changed, somehow, because of something he’d done –
that could be the only explanation, really – and his mind was reeling.

Paul’s face was one of trepidatious astonishment that must have looked like borderline excitement
to John, who felt courageous enough to broach the subject once more. “I figured that, once we got a
new drummer, someone’d be willin’ to take Stu’s place. Once we showed more promise.”

“You show promise,” Paul assured earnestly. “You’re fantastic.”

John almost blushed.

At this, something rose in Paul that he felt powerless to stop. He blurted out, “Well, y’know, I
guess I’d be willing, if I played bass.”

That gave John momentary pause. “You’d want to pick it up and learn?” he asked hesitantly.

“Uh, well . . .”

“That’s what Stu did,” John said. “He couldn’t even hold it right, but we needed a bass player so
bad, and since he was me friend, he said he’d do it.”

Paul got the fleeting impression that Stu would do a great deal that John asked of him, but he
ignored that thought. “I wouldn’t be good,” he cautioned. “I’d be worse than Stu.”

“’Course,” John agreed. “Stu can’t leave right off the bat, anyway. He can stay on ‘til you’re all
right. And there’s not really a problem with three guitars, I s’ppose.”

“Three?” Paul wondered if he was considering the bass as one of the guitars. Paul had always
thought of the two as distinctly different.

“Yeah,” John tilted his head. “Stu on bass, hopefully someone else on drums, and you, me, and
Harrison on guitar. You and I could do rhythm, I’d guess, and your mate could do lead. He played
for me a while back; he’s not too bad.”

“That . . .” Paul had to relax his face so he would not reveal any excitement before he was sure of
such a rash decision. He couldn’t betray a smile yet; John would take that as meaning more than
Paul meant it. “He’d like that. He’s always wanted to play in a group.”

“Then you’ll consider? It really could work, y’know. We could have a solid gig.”

Paul gave him a small, hesitant smile. “I’ll give it some thought.”

Fingers itching, Paul skipped down the stairs the next day and stopped at the phone on the wall.
He plucked the receiver off and set it against his ear, dialing a number that was now familiar to
him.

“Harrison household,” came a voice after a few rings.

“Geo?” Paul wasn’t quite adept at hearing whose voice had been distorted through the phone.

“Hey, Paul,” he said in recognition.

“Hey.”

“What’ya callin’ for?”

It was true that Paul rarely initiated phone calls; he would entertain them if someone called him,
but he couldn’t be the first to start the conversation.

Paul briefly wondered if George was thinking about Friday night. They hadn’t spoken since,
because they’d both been busy, and he hoped George hadn’t mistaken that for animosity.

“I’ve got some news,” he said. “Good news.”

“Well, get over the pomp and circumstance. What’s goin’ on?”

“Y’know how you went to John and asked to be in that band o’ his?”

“Yeah . . .?”

“And he asked if you could play bass?”

“Yes?”

“And then you asked if I could play bass?”

“Yes.”

“And then he asked if I could play bass?”

“Just get it out, mate.”

“Well, I can’t , I can’t play bass,” he was excited to finally break the news to George. He felt that
most of the time he’d known him, there relationship was George supporting Paul amidst his several
breakdowns and crises, instead of simply having a nice time. “But you and I are gonna be in his
band as guitars until I can learn bass and switch.”

Paul felt George’s shock. The silence over the phone was tangible, like a brick wall. “You - Paul –
is that . . . allowed ?”

Paul had hoped he’d be rather more enthusiastic about it. “There isn’t exactly any authority on the
matter,” he said, “so whatever I decide to do is allowed, I guess.”

“Then, how do reconcile that with your . . . neutrality?”

Paul laughed. “Oh! I forgot to mention, I suppose. Pete Best was supposed to play for ‘em as
drummer, yeah? Well, John said he’d run off with some other group to Hamburg after he missed a
meeting that was supposed to put him in with the Silver Beatles.”
“What does that mean?”

“It means that they missed their chance at fitting in with the history that I know, Geo,” Paul
emphasized. “Whatever I did – that fight I had with John earlier, meetin’ up with him on Friday,
something stopped ‘im from seein’ Pete Best on Saturday, and some kids who call themselves the
Hurricanes picked ‘im up instead.”

“And you know, for certain, that this Best would never have come back and started playing?”

Paul shook his head. “Wouldn’t have time,” he explained. “He’ll be in Hamburg for too long. It’s
all changed, now. It doesn’t matter if I play with you guys or not; it doesn’t matter what happened
first, ‘cause it’s already not gonna happen.”

George exhaled slowly. “That’s quite the shift in perspective, Paul,” he said slowly. “Are you sure
that you won’t, er, regret this later? That you’re not acting . . . brash?”

Paul’s features morphed into a face of confusion. “George, do you not want to play with them?
Do you not want me to?”

“No, no,” he said. “I don’t want to imply that. I just want to make sure that you’re . . . okay with
what you’re doing. That you’ll be okay with it, once you realize exactly what you’ve done.”

“You still think you need to look after me.”

“That’s what friends do, Paul. That’s what you’d do.”

He ignored the way that made his stomach twist. “I’m sure,” he said. “I’m sure about this. For
once, I’m sure about something.”

He could almost hear the shrug. “If you’re sure,” he said, “I won’t complain about it.”

Paul grinned and forgot that George couldn’t see him.

“Hold on a mo’,” he said suddenly. “What was that group you said the drummer went off with?”

Paul scratched his head. “It was some guy and his Hurricanes,” he answered. “Can’t remember the
exact name.”

“Rory Storm? Rory Storm and the Hurricanes?”

“That may’ve been it, yeah. Why?”

“No, uh, nothin’,” George said, “nothin’, really. There was just somethin’ I heard a couple o’
weeks ago ‘bout their old drummer.”

“Oh,” Paul said in such a way that would invite George to explain if he wished but not compel him
too.

“Apparently, he got real sick, started actin’ strange,” George said off-handedly. “Left the band to
get himself together, I guess. Rory Storm’s real popular, too. The news went all over.”

“That’s weird,” Paul agreed, but didn’t give it a second thought.

And here I am, finally, with a new chapter! Hope you enjoyed it. Remember that I kinda neutrally
exist on tumblr at the-dog-argos, in case you wanted to drop by! also remember that comments
give me much-appreciated motivation!

(and did you catch my not-so-subtle hints toward the end? d'you know what they mean? they mean
i'm excited for what's coming)
 The Lady Doth Protest Too Much, Methinks

Even with all of the tumult and change that Paul had faced in the past few months, there were a few
constants in the universe that brought him some comfort. For instance, bachelor pads in the sixties
were no different than bachelor pads in the twenty-first century.

It wasn’t a clean place, John and Stu’s shared flat. There were empty tins of food and dirty glasses
on the counters of the small kitchen. Mail and magazines were strewn haphazardly across the
coffee table in the living room and blankets sat in piles that fell off of the couch and chairs. Several
shoes – not necessarily pairs – huddled underneath the table and furniture, jackets and jumpers
hung off of anything with a corner, and there was a lingering smell of smoke and alcohol that told
Paul they didn’t ever leave the window open.

He was overcome with the urge to tidy. He shoved his hands in his pockets to restrain himself
when he realized that he’d used the side of his hand to wipe a strip of dust off of the top of a low
bookshelf.

“This place is a fuckin’ mess, Lennon,” remarked George from beside him.

Paul let out a breath at that; at least he wasn’t alone in being surprised by the filth.

“It’s all Stu,” the man in question excused, kicking aside some article of clothing – Paul wasn’t
sure what it was, exactly – on his way to the sink, where he filled up a glass that he’d picked up
from the counter. Paul could just imagine Stu drinking deeply from it that morning and leaving it
beside the sink for John to drink from next; it made his skin crawl. “I’m never here long enough to
make this kinda mess.”

Coming in last, behind the drummer Stan, Stu closed the door and tsked. “Correction; you’re here
just long enough to make the mess but not to pick it up.”

“You are as much to blame for this as I,” John said imperiously, swiveling around and holding the
glass aloft, as though it were brandy to swirl luxuriously.

Paul frowned.

“Do you not remember,” Stu returned, plopping down into one of the chairs, against which his bass
was propped, “the September accords? All mess made is yours."

“But all failure to clean is yours.”

“That was not part of the agreement.”

A green pang of jealously shot through Paul’s chest when he thought that they bantered like an old
couple.

John waved a hand dismissively. He rested his elbows on the counter and leaned over to Paul, who
stood across from him, to whisper, “He’s gone senile. Doesn’t remember a thing anymore.”

Paul indulged him with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

Whether John noticed his poor demeanor or not, Paul couldn’t tell. Instead, he just crossed the
room to take a seat on the couch and pulled his guitar into his lap. “Well, come ‘ead, lads. Let’s
get to it.”
Paul and George exchanged a glance, anxious excitement hanging between them.

This was an actual band practice. They were in a band. George grinned at him and sat down on the
other chair beside Stu, taking his guitar off of his shoulders and cradling it gently in his lap.

Paul sat on the end of the couch, well away from John; he told himself that he didn’t want to crowd
him with his guitar, since he played left-handed. As it was, the two had to negotiate positioning so
the necks wouldn’t bang against each other.

“Oh, sod it,” John said in frustration after the twang of an errant string being struck by one of the
guitars. “Let’s swap sides.”

“Um,” Paul said, watching as John jumped up. “All right.”

They ended up sitting much closer together, now that the guitars no longer interfered with one
another. Paul hadn’t intended it to happen, but it did. They weren’t quite touching, as they still
needed some room to move their arms, but John chose to sit with his legs crossed, which meant
that Paul had to press his knees together to keep them separated.

Stan, who had stood around awkwardly with his drumsticks between his fingers, asked, “D’you
lads have some bowls, or sommat, that I could use, y’know, to keep time?”

John thought for a moment. “That’d sound too tinny,” he said distastefully. “Tell you what,” he
compromised, leaning forward to sweep his arms over the coffee table, ridding it of the mail and
newspapers that sat there, landing them on the floors. “Use that. The drawer inside’s empty, so it’s
hollow.”

Paul noticed the wry look that Stu shot John as Stan settled awkwardly onto the floor, furrowing
his brows at the prospect of tapping on a table in lieu of playing the drums. Everyone knew he
wasn’t really needed and had only come along for formality’s sake. He even suspected that John
had arranged to practice here instead of somewhere with a drum kit to subtly compel Stan to opt
out.

“We’ve got our set list mostly fleshed out,” John began as he tuned his guitar. Paul noticed he still
used banjo chords. “We add new stuff now and then, once we learn it, but it’s just these for now.”

He nodded at Stu, who twisted his body to rifle through the pile of papers on the table behind him.
He extracted a messy half-sheet and passed it first to George, who was closer, and then to Paul.

The pencil markings had been crossed out and erased and written over so that he had some trouble
making out what each thing said, but he made out enough of them. “You can keep that,” John said,
so Paul folded it and stuck it in his pocket. “We’ll start with ‘Cathy’s Clown.’” He turned to Paul
and George. “You know it?”

George shrugged nonchalantly and Paul answered, “Sorta.”

John took that as a yes and launched into the song, playing the banjo chords loudly. Coupled with
Stu’s bass, none of them could hear whether the drummer was making any noise at all.

Paul watched as John played, raising an eyebrow skeptically and hoping he would take notice.
After one refrain, he did, halting the chords with a sharp tab on the body of the guitar. “What’s
your problem, then?” he demanded, not unkindly.

“You’re still playin’ banjo chords,” he pointed out. Don’t’ya know the guitar ones?”
Scoffing and leaning slightly away, “Don’t I know the – of course I know the bloody guitar ones.”

“Why don’t you play ‘em, then?” said George.

“Because - ” he looked from Paul to George and then back again. “Fine, have it your way,” he
grudgingly agreed, striking one more D major before taking to the task of tuning it properly.

George looked to Paul and shook his head with a roll of his eyes.

John did know some guitar chords, Paul soon found out, but not enough to say that he knew
guitar.

George and Stu had resigned to the kitchen under the pretense of getting something to drink, but
Paul knew they were – or George was – raiding the food pantry. He was also pleased to find that
George and Stu got on pretty well, both of them being rather reserved and philosophical in an off-
beat way.

He didn’t want to offer to help John with the chords, but John was just stubborn enough to get
immensely frustrated and refuse to ask for assistance. If any progress was to be made, Paul knew,
he would have to take the first step himself.

“Do you want me to show you the Bs?” Paul offered hesitantly. John looked up defensively, so
Paul continued, “It looks like you still want to play the banjo chords.”

Instead of simply saying ‘yes’, which would involve swallowing some of his pride, John just
crossed his arms over his guitar with what he must have thought was style and leaned back. “Jus’
hard to break the habit, I s’pose.”

“I get it,” Paul said. “I had a ukulele first. Took me the longest time to figure out how to switch. It's
like - ” He stopped himself.

“It’s like . . .?”

He had been about to say, It’s like trying to quit smoking , but there wasn’t really that much of a
movement to stop smoking yet. Furthermore, Paul had refused to smoke many times in John’s
presence that any reference he made to smoking would probably not be credible.

Then he thought to say that it was like switching from a manual transmission, but he knew next to
nothing about cars (he hardly knew what the manual transmission even was), so he had no idea if
that was a thing people worried about, either.

“It’s like getting new shoes,” he settled on. “You have to get used to them.”

John eyed him oddly for a second but shrugged. “All right, then,” he said, motioning to Paul and
his guitar. “Show me how to break ‘em in.”

He leaned over to deliberately place his fingers on the strings. “You put your finger across like
this,” he said, “and then the other three go here.”

John followed, strumming a quick rhythm. “Yeah, got that,” he said. “This’d be minor, right?” He
moved his middle finger up one fret.

“Uh-huh,” Paul nodded. “To your credit, you were playin’ like a five-stringed banjo, instead of the
four-stringed, but that still almost made it one of the D flats.”

Quickly alternating between the two chords, John tsked. “So picky.”

Paul rolled his eyes and moved on. “D’you know the B flat?”

At their next band meeting a few days later, the drummer was unsurprisingly absent, leaving just
the four guitarists to review their songs. After they played through a couple of numbers by the
Everly Brothers and Chuck Berry, John stood up to stretch his legs. “Me fingers are buzzin’,” he
said. “Stu, you an’ Paul should work on bass.” He went to the kitchen.

Paul looked over at Stu, who shrugged and took the place John had vacated.

“I have no bloody idea how to teach you bass,” Stu admitted.

Smiling sympathetically, Paul said, “I’m sure it’ll be okay.”

Stu shrugged. “I mean, I’ve no idea at all where to start. I don’t really know what I do well enough
to tell you how to do it.”

“Well, um,” Paul shifted, moving his guitar so he was holding it more comfortably. “Why don’t
you play the bass to one of the songs and I’ll try and copy you after?”

Again, he shrugged. “Could work,” he said, and commenced.

After Stu’s demonstrations, Paul would attempt to mimic him with an admittedly small degree of
success. He was no Roger Waters, being tentative and muddled in some spots, but he was certainly
better than Paul, who knew he had quite a lot of practice to do.

It was frustrating work. When Paul would ask a question, Stu would find difficulty answering. It
wasn’t necessarily a difficult battery; Paul and Stu just spoke different languages, and that innate
communication barrier compounded with Stu’s reluctance to teach Paul to form a monstrous
creation of tension and exasperation.

The two of them practiced after the rest of the band was done so as to maintain form for gigs.
George and Paul were not invited to play along for the next two weeks, since although their
practices were going well, the group as a whole wasn’t quite up to par. There were dynamics
between the guitarists that needed to be worked out, both musically and personally, that lead John
to make the executive decision not to introduce Paul or George to the crowd just yet.

Practices took place on Tuesday and Thursday evenings, after John and Stu got out of classes at
their shared art college (Paul learned this was how the two met) and Paul got off work. They met
on the occasional Sunday, since George’s mum insisted he attend church services early in the
morning and Mike sometimes drug Paul along to Mass. The drummer’s attendance was reliably
unreliable and the rest of the band found it difficult to care too deeply, though they wished they had
a good drummer to back them up.

Paul, ever the optimist, thought that this business of being in a band was going, on the whole,
rather well.

The only difficult part was navigating John.

He would sit uncomfortably close on the couch when they practiced. Before Paul lost himself to
the music, this proximity was all he could notice. It was a sofa, after all, and not a loveseat; John
just had to be sitting so close on purpose. It both excited and frightened Paul. He felt the occasional
light brush of his jeans against John’s when either one of them began to tap their foot in time with
the beat and heard John’s every inhale before he started to sing; it sent a shiver through to the base
of his spine.

When the song demanded for a particularly high or loud note, John would lean forward. It was in
those instances when Paul realized that they were leaning toward each other, because John’s head
would enter his vision and he couldn’t take his eyes away from the way that John’s skin grew red
with heat or the way his lips would moisten before he began his next line. John’s shoulder would
invariably rest against his in those moments, a constant warmth that reminded Paul of just how
dangerous a situation he was in.

Paul would recover his wits and lean back, giving John room. The first couple of times he did this,
John sent him a look that almost took offense to the action. Paul could not bring himself to stand
that teasing, though, and scooted away on the couch. After a few songs, he always had to excuse
himself to get some water just to put distance between himself and John.

Things got more difficult when the rest of the band grew restless. If Stan was there, he would
excuse himself for a smoke while Stu and George raided the kitchen. That would leave Paul and
John alone in the living room, hardly half a foot away from each other on the couch.

“Hey,” John said one day. “I want to make sure I’m playin’ this right. It sounds a bit off.”

He then proceeded to strum an A and sang. “ I can make you mine, taste your lips of wine .” Paul
found himself caught up in the way John’s eyes partially closed as he played and had to shake
himself when he realized he needed to be listening for whatever allegedly sounded off. John’s eyes
opened and found his as he sang the next part, “ Anytime ,” and those eyes widened as they bore
into Paul’s to emphasize that particular spot, “ night or day. Only trouble is, gee wiz, I’m dreaming
my life away . . .?”

Paul sat dumbfounded for a moment while John looked at him expectantly.

“Right after the ‘anytime’,” he said, “and at the ‘away’. It’s jus’ not right.”

“Oh,” Paul blinked. “Yeah. You need, um, you need to play the B7.”

John looked down. “Thought it was the E minor – no, never mind,” he said, putting his fingers
onto the neck of his guitar. “Let’s see.” He tried that verse again, but once more, each time he came
to the B7, he flubbed it.

“You’re still wanting to do the E,” Paul corrected. “It’s this one, the B7.” He demonstrated quickly
but with emphasis.

John squinted at his fingers. “Like this . . .?” He tried to copy, but couldn’t.

“Are you blind?” Paul asked with a nervous chuckle. “It’s this, right here.”

“I can’t fuckin’ see with the rest of your hand in the way,” John grumbled, reaching a hand out.
Paul didn’t notice what he was doing until it was too late to stop it. He grabbed Paul’s wrist and
tilted it gently but firmly to the side, studying the placement of his fingers. Paul felt his pulse press
against John’s thumb with each heavy heartbeat.

After what felt like an eternity, John retracted his hand and brought it to the neck of his own guitar,
but failed to copy Paul. Sighing with exasperation to hide how flustered this made him, Paul leaned
forward and reached out with shaking fingers. “This finger goes here,” he said, delicately bringing
the third finger to the right fret. “And that one goes there.” He was afraid to touch John too heavily,
for fear of coming off as . . . well, he wasn’t quite sure what impression he was trying to avoid.

“Ah,” John said in realization. “So it’s this .”

“Yes,” Paul nodded. “I still hold that you’re blind as a bat, Lennon.”

“Shut your mouth, Macca,” John grinned at him and launched into the song once more, this time
striking all the right chords.

It wasn’t until after Stu and George returned that Paul realized John hadn’t messed up the first time
the band ran through ‘All I Have To Do is Dream.’

It was half past six on a Thursday night about two weeks after Paul and George began to practice
with the band. John sat alone in his flat, an Everly Brothers record playing softly in the
background.

He was hunched over the coffee table in the living room, several pieces of paper scattered around
him. One stack was of blank white sheets, which dwindled quickly, and another was of disregarded
mistakes. He had a row of pens and pencils beside him as he focused on making large, broad
strokes on the paper directly in front of him. This piece was going rather well, unlike the numerous
attempts that went before it, and John did not want to make any mistakes.

He paused momentarily to push his glasses up his nose. He hated the way they slipped when his
head was bent low; he hated the way they pressed behind his ears and caused headaches; he hated
the way everything seemed so slightly farther away, but still clearer. He just hated them.

Though it was a Thursday and the band would normally practice now, Stu had landed a job at a
wedding reception downtown as a photographer. Why anyone was getting married on a Thursday,
John didn’t know, but Stuart insisted that he needed the money. He was saving up for his
impending trip to Germany, John knew, so he took any opportunity to make money he could get.
Stu had called George, who had given them his number when Paul hadn’t (which John thought was
odd, since he had no reason to withhold anything now, but he let it rest), and asked him to call Paul
and let him know.

John shook his head at the thought. Part of him regretted taking Paul and George on. The prospect
of being able to leave the band made Stu achingly happy. His constant planning and mentions of
those plans was wearing John thin. Furthermore, it hurt John to know that Stuart’s plan to leave the
band – to leave him - was making him so excited. Would Stu miss him at all?

Just then, a knock sounded at the door. John groaned to himself and set his pen down gently,
rubbing his tired eyes before heaving himself up off of the floor. Had Stu forgotten to give their
landlord the rent last week? He was usually very punctual, so John doubted this. But who else
would call upon them at this hour?

Maybe the wedding was canceled. John imagined a dramatic meltdown; perhaps the groom’s
mistress had crashed the wedding and surprised the bride, who immediately called off the
ceremony. He imagined Stu swiftly fleeing the scene and the thought made him grin.

When he opened the door, however, he saw that it wasn’t Stu standing outside.
“What are you doin’ here?” he asked, trying not to come across as harsh as it sounded in his head.

Paul stared back at him in wide-eyed confusion. “I’m . . . sorry?”

John shook his head. “Stu’s got a wedding,” he said as though this should explain everything. Had
Paul forgotten about practice being canceled?

Paul cocked his head to the side. It struck John that Paul doing that made him look a bit like a dog.
The thought made him grin to himself. “He’s getting married?”

John let out a laugh. “God, no!” he said. “He’s been hired to photograph a reception. Didn’t
Harrison tell you?”

Paul shuffled on his feet. “Er, no,” he said, casting his eyes to the side. “He didn’t tell me that
practice was called off.”

Perceiving his sudden embarrassment, John took pity on him and backed away from the door in a
gesture for him to enter. “’s all right,” he said. “You can jus’ hang around, if you want.”

Probably agreeing because it would be rude not too, Paul nodded and entered. “Sorry about this,”
he said nervously, standing in the middle of the living room. He didn’t know whether to make
himself at home or not, since he really shouldn’t have been there.

“No, it’s fine,” John repeated. “I wasn’t doin’ anythin’, anyway.”

Paul looked around. “You weren’t?” His eyes found the scattered papers on the table and he raised
an eyebrow.

Shit. John had forgotten about that. He crossed over to the table quickly and shuffled the papers all
into one stack, ensuring that the page he was actually working on was somewhere in the middle.
“This is nothin’,” he affirmed.

“You were drawing,” Paul observed neutrally.

Trying to play nonchalant, John shrugged. “I do go to art college.”

“Right,” Paul said. He too his guitar off of his back, leaning it against the chair. He wouldn’t be
needing it, apparently, and it made him feel foolish, but he had to put that behind him. “That’s why
you’ve got those glasses, then. I knew you were blind.”

John paused, realizing that he was still wearing the infernal things. He snatched them off of his
face. “Oh, yeah, those. They’re such a bother.”

It was Paul’s turn to shrug. “Can’t be too bad. I know plenty of people with glasses.”

John slumped down on the couch. “Your batty aunts don’t count, Macca.”

Letting out a breath that was almost a chuckle, Paul asked, “Don’t count as what? People?”

“Maybe. You never know.”

Paul shook his head.

“Hey, flip the record before you sit down, yeah?” John asked him. This way, not only did he not
have to get up and do it himself, he also invited Paul to sit without having to explicitly say so. Paul
was so hesitant about things like proximity, John noticed, and wouldn’t have just sat down next to
him of his own accord. Once he’d flipped the record and was heading back to the middle of the
room, John made a show of scooting over, letting Paul know that he should sit there , not on the
adjacent chairs.

“Does Harrison usually forget things?” John asked once Paul was situated.

Thinking for a moment, Paul answered, “No. Maybe something came up. How long had he
known?”

“Since Tuesday night, right after some woman called Stu askin’ for a photographer. ‘e’s had two
days t’ tell you.”

Paul mused, “What a way to plan a wedding.” He crossed his arms. “You get a photographer two
days before the ceremony? That’s not very organized of them.”

“Well, they’re also having a wedding in the middle of the week. Maybe it was a spur-of-the-
moment gig,” John said.

“Maybe they’re tryin’ to get it over with, before either of ‘em can lose their nerves and back out.”

“Maybe. Hell of a way to commit, though.”

They fell into a silence listening to the record. John leaned back leisurely, encouraging Paul to
adopt the slightly-less-uptight position of clasping his hands together in his lap, instead of crossing
his arms over his chest.

Paul wondered about George. Had he really forgotten to call Paul and let him know about
practice? It seemed odd that George, usually attentive and impeccably reliable, would simply
forget . There had to be something.

Maybe something came up. Family crisis or trauma – something that would physically bar him
from calling. Maybe his landline shorted or stalled or whatever it was landlines did.

Or . . . had George purposely neglected to inform him? Was this some passive-aggressive way to
tell him that he needed more practice? Perhaps he had more subsidiary reason. The hyperactively
suspicious part of him wondered if George might have noticed the tension – one-sided as it may be
– between him and John when John sat so close or leaned too near. George may have thought
something of that awkwardness and, either through altruism or vindictiveness, decided that Paul
and John needed to get together and either sort it out or wallow in their discomfort.

A familiar song began. Paul wasn’t too familiar with the Everly Brothers; he’d known their big
hits, so much of his time here was spent familiarizing himself with songs “he” should know.
However, he’d known “Crying in the Rain” for years.

“Like this one, do you?” John asked quietly. Paul turned his head to the side, not realizing until just
then that he’d been tapping his fingers on his knees and singing softly to himself.

Since he did not want to appear too eager about the song, he shrugged. “It’s all right.” He felt the
unconfident pressure of John possibly not liking this particular song, so he nervously added, “It’s a
bit on the slower side, though.”

“I like it,” John said, nodding.

“Yeah.”
Paul continued to tap his fingers but made a conscious effort not to sing under his breath again.

“Y’know, Macca,” John began, shifting his body to faced Paul, which meant that his knee brushed
Paul’s thigh and made him stiffen. “You never have shown me if you can sing.”

Blood rose to his cheeks. Afraid of saying anything, Paul just sent a questioning glance.

“Just sing along to the record,” John urged. “No pressure. If you’re that bad, I’ll jus’ tell the
neighbors I’ve got a really sick cat.”

Letting out a chuckle and hoping it would relieve the tension that only Paul seemed to feel, he
realized that John’s gaze did not let up. Paul realized with a sinking heart that he was serious.

“Oh, no, I can’t,” he said, shaking his head.

“Paul,” John crooned, low and soft, in a melodic voice. If he were standing, his knees would shake,
Paul just knew it.

Oh, hell , Paul thought. Whether he knew it or not, John had just found the voice that could ask
anything of Paul, and he’d be powerless to refuse.

Looking down, almost ashamed of himself for acquiescing but more nervous about disappointing
John, Paul took a deep breath and waited for the next verse to begin.

“Raindrops falling from heaven could never wash away my misery.” He started low and uncertain,
staring fixedly at his hands. “But since we’re not together, I look for stormy weather to hide the
tears I hope you’ll never see.”

Feeling that this was enough of a demonstration, Paul let his quavering voice die. He waited for
John’s laugh or sigh or otherwise regretful sign that he’d asked for Paul to sing, but none came.

“Jesus, man,” he breathed. “With you singin’ that, we could play it all night, no matter how slow it
is.”

Paul, expecting polite criticism at the very least, looked up at John, shocked. “What?”

“That was great,” he said earnestly. “Sing some more. Please, Macca.”

For a moment, Paul looked at him dubiously, but once again conceded. He sang along with the rest
of the song, thankful that there were only two verses left until the song was done and he wouldn’t
be subject to such embarrassment anymore.

It was not so.

After only a couple more songs, the record was over and John rose from the couch. “Gotta stretch
me neck,” he excused, striding over to the kitchen, where Paul heard him open the door to the
icebox. From the sound of glass clanking, he deduced that he had grabbed two bottles of beer,
which was exactly what Paul needed – to lose his faculties to alcohol. Still, as John came back
into the living room, he handed Paul the bottle, and just like before, he couldn’t simply refuse.

Not that he really wanted to refuse, either. Perhaps, he allowed himself to think, if they weren’t
both two men listening to rock and roll in the early nineteen sixties, Paul would feel less anxious.
He might feel less afraid of shocking John with his . . . unorthodox feelings. Less afraid of being
arrested for indecency.
Even thinking that, though, and wondering what would have happened if they weren’t fifty years
back, Paul had to admit that he probably wouldn’t behave any differently.

“I forgot to ask,” John said, nodding to the bottle that Paul hadn’t yet opened. “D’you take it cold?
We’ve got a couple warm in the pantry if you don’t.”

“No,” Paul shook his head, “this is fine.” He opened the bottle and took a moderate sip.

John drank nearly half of his bottle in the first gulp. “You want another record on?”

When Paul only shrugged, John decided he didn’t care for background music and didn’t want to
waste the energy of getting up off the couch again.

“I like the way you sing,” John said suddenly. He was staring at a fixed point on the wall. “It’s
nicer than when I do.”

“I don’t believe that for a second,” Paul argued.

“No, it’s true. I’ve got a terrible voice. So harsh and grating. You’re so smooth.”

Paul was beet-red. “You’re selling yourself short. If you couldn’t sing, why’d you get so many
people come to your gigs?”

He scoffed. “Those sad saps have nothin’ better to do on a Friday night than listen to our shitty
music, I guess.”

Paul took a sip of beer and grimaced. “I take personal offense to that,” he said. “I was one of those
sad saps, if you don’t remember.”

John smiled at the memory. “You did look like quite the sad sap, there.” Paul noticed that his
cheeks were flushed, since he’d nearly finished his bottle of beer. “What were you doin’ hangin’
round that night, anyway? You never did tell.”

Paul froze for a moment. He could jot quickly come up with a feasible story. “I was just hangin’
round.”

“You looked like someone’d run over your dog.”

“Don’t have a dog.”

“Jesus, you’re getting hot,” he said. Paul looked at him in surprise. John reaches up and pressed
two fingers to his cheek, feeling the temperature. That only made his face burn more, so he jerked
back from the touch. “Your face is red. You a lightweight?”

Looking down at his beer, which he’d hardly made any progress on drinking, he replied, “No,”
defensively. “I jus’ don’t have much on me stomach. Besides, you’re lookin’ kinda red, too.”

John shrugged. “Same boat, I s’ppose. Haven’t eaten today.”

Paul crosses his arms. “At all?”

John shrugged.

“So, Stuart leaves and this is what happens? You can’t do anything for yourself.” He meant it in
jest, but John’s expression darkened.
“He doesn’t tell me what to do.”

“Never said he did.”

John finished his bottle with a sigh. “Can’t cook for shit,” he said. “Sometimes Stu does,
sometimes we order out. I jus’ forgot.”

Worriedly, Paul glanced at their kitchen. “You got any bread or sommat? We can make you a
sandwich, if you’re hungry.”

“‘M fine,” he said, his words slightly unclear.

“You shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach,” Paul fretted. “I’m jus’ gonna see what you’ve got to
eat.”

“I told you, I’m fine.”

Sighing in exasperation, he said, “Well, maybe I’m hungry.”

John allowed that. Setting his beer down, Paul rose and walked over to the kitchen. For how messy
it was, Paul saw that it wasn’t cluttered with any excess of food. The two of them were most
definitely broke college students. He found a loaf of bread in the back of the pantry with only a few
slices remaining. He pulled it down and inspected it.

“God,” he said loud enough for John to hear from the other room. “How old is this thing?”

“What thing?”

Ever the dramatist, Paul said, “I can’t even tell, it’s so moldy. Is this wheat bread or white? Is it
even bread?”

John sighed loudly. “You’re worse than me Aunt Mimi,” he grumbled. “ John, keep your counters
clean! Hang up your coat, don’t just put it on the chair!” He screeched in a high, grating voice.
“You can jus’ leave and get your own fuckin’ food, if you’re so hungry.”

Paul tossed the bag of mold in the rubbish bin and went back into the living room. “Yeah, I could,”
he said. “I think I will. You wanna come?”

John, who’s grabbed Paul’s mostly untouched bottle, eyed him critically, thinking. Paul honestly
didn’t know whether to expect him to accept or refuse. He didn’t know if he wanted him to accept
or refuse.

After several moments, John graced himself up off the couch. “You’re buyin’,” he said, and
reached for his jacket.

Paul wished that John had refused .

The two of them had walked a few blocks over to a cart that sold fish and chips. Paul hadn’t been
carrying much money on him (he had always been conservative with spending, so the far lower
prices was something to which he’d quickly adjusted ), and he told John so before they got there.
He meant to imply that he could only afford one tray.

With a gentle touch to his shoulder, John smiled and told him, “Don’t worry, son. I’ll get it.”
Shrugging, Paul accepted the offer. He assumed John meant that he would pay for his own food,
but once they’d reached the cart, John pushed Paul behind him with firm insistence and proceeded
to pay for both of their food. Paul protested, but John would hear none of it.

That wasn’t what made Paul wish John had refused. Well, it wasn’t the biggest reason, at least.

The two of them made their way to a small nearby park that Paul doubted he’d ever been to, in
either iteration of his life. It was nearly eight o’clock, and since it was the height of summer, the
sun had only begun to set about fifteen minutes ago. The sky was a pleasant purple and the clouds
stood as a contrasting orange. They sat at a bench and began to eat.

“They’re nice colors,” John remarked around a mouthful of chips.

Paul recalled the papers he’d seen John hurriedly hide when he walked in. “Do you paint, too?”

“Not much,” he said. “But Stu’s into photographs. Rambles on and on about color and lighting and
shit – guess it rubbed off after a while.”

Paul gingerly took a chip and popped it into his mouth, wiping his fingers on the napkin he’d
placed on his knee. “I used to try to paint,” he remarked, “but I was never very good. Better at
music.”

“That doesn’t say much about your art,” he said. “You’re almost better at music than you are at
breathing.”

Paul looked down humbly and occupied himself by picking of a small piece of fried fish. “I’ve just
done it for a long time.”

“If practice really did make perfect,” John said, “then I’d have perfect vision. Some people are just
born with a talent that can’t be learned.”

Raising a skeptical eyebrow, Paul argued, “I’d say there’s a big of a difference between eyesight
and strumming a guitar. You can’t learn how to see.”

“You can’t learn how to play music, either.” John rubbed his nose, suddenly conscious of the fact
that he was still wearing glasses. “I mean, anyone can learn how to make the notes – but to really
understand it, to really feel it, that takes some special sort of skill.”

Paul thought that was a terribly rationalist defense. “I disagree completely,” he said simply. “But
neither of us will win this argument.”

John shrugged. “If you’re afraid of being proven wrong, I guess that’s all right.”

Paul laughed. “You won’t be able to goad me into arguing. I don’t want to get angry with you
again.”

Another shrug. “I’m just trying to get you to take a compliment.”

This struck Paul as terribly hypocritical, coming from the man who wouldn’t accept that Paul
thought he had a good voice. He almost mentioned it, but knowing that it would only bring on
another argument, he resisted the temptation.

“Okay,” he conceded. “Thank you for liking the way I play.”

John smiled. “You’re welcome.”

That almost-argument wasn’t why Paul regretted this little outing, either. He actually congratulated
himself (and John, to a certain degree) for being able to avoid giving into his competitive and
stubborn nature. The altercation that came next was the real reason for regret.

They ate in silence for several minutes. John finished his food much faster than Paul did, since Paul
took the time to clean his fingers after every second or third piece. He couldn’t stand the feeling of
grease on his hands, and the thought of it drying on his skin and underneath his fingernails
unnerved him. John simply licked his fingers clean once he had finished eating, which Paul simply
couldn’t bring himself to do.

Once he was done with the fish and chips, Paul extracted a clean napkin from his jacket pocket and
wiped each of his fingers off – including those on his left hand, though he hadn’t touched the food
with it. He meticulously brought the napkin underneath his fingernails to complete the process of
pruning.

He hadn’t been aware of John’s eyes on him until he heard, “God, you’re such a queer.”

Paul’s reaction was immediate. His head flew up, his eyes wide in alarm meeting John’s, which
were crinkled from boyish jest. He didn’t register the humor in them immediately; his heart was
pounding too hard. “What?” He stammered hurriedly. “N-no, I’m not.”

John was visibly taken aback. He leaned against the bench and raised his eyebrows calmly, hoping
to pacify Paul, who hadn’t caught his meaning. “Calm down, mate. No need to be so –“

Embarrassment mingled with the panic. “I wasn’t,” Paul rushed to excuse, realizing that John had
only made a joke. A joke in poor taste, but a joke nonetheless.

“I was jus’ kidding,” John said slowly and evenly.

“I know,” Paul returned, trying to level out his voice.

Dubiously, John narrowed his eyes slightly. “You didn’t – you didn’t think I was being serious, did
you?”

Paul snapped, “Of course not.”

A tense second passed during which neither Paul nor John looked away from one another, afraid of
revealing too much. Paul feared that John would see through his panicked defense – which was
very likely, considering how bad Paul was at lying.

The next question did nothing to calm his nerves. “Paul, he began, very slow, “are you –“

He could not let John finish the question. Whether he was right or not, saying it would make it too
real, too tangible. He meant to strongly affirm that he was not , in any way, queer, but his mouth
garbled his words. “I – uh – how – why – no!”

John crosses his arms. “You’re actin’ off , Macca.”

“No, I’m not,” Paul finally mustered the resolution to make a cogent sentence. “Let’s just get
back.”

After throwing away their trash, John and Paul headed home. John was unsteady, thanks to the
drinks he’d had, but Paul walked as far away from him as he could without falling into the street.
His head buzzed from the little bit of beer he’d had – even after eating, it turned out that he was a
lightweight, after all – and the adrenaline that John’s path of inquiry had summoned.
Once they got to John’s flat, Paul grabbed his guitar and made a hasty exit. John didn’t encourage
him to stay.

Hey guys! Do you remember me?

Yeah, I know I've been gone for far too long. And I'm super sorry about that - life started to
actually happen (weird how it works that way), and after life stopped being so much of a bother, I
had long-term writer's block. Thanks to this shiny new disease, though, I'm under house arrest and
have nothing to do but let my creative juices fester - so I'm back!

I hope you didn't all forget what's happened so far (like i did. I had to reread the last few chapters
myself but shhh). Let me know what you think of this much-delayed next chapter!
 Visions and Revisions

John buzzed for several hours from alcohol and confusion.

He’d not taken Paul as such a serious lad. He’d made jokes before, hadn’t he? Why was he so
sensitive to that particular jibe? Mates called each other queer all the time; it was like endearingly
calling somebody a git or an idiot. It wasn’t like that ugly brute, Jack, calling John a poofter at the
pub the other week; it was just John messing around.

But he thought about Stu. He never called Stu queer, no matter how truthful it would be. Or,
rather, because of how truthful it would be. Acknowledging his inclinations brought them out in
the open, which wasn’t something John was particularly interested in doing.

When he heard keys jingling at the door well past midnight, he knew Stuart was home. He came
in, shoulders slumped with the weight of exhaustion and the camera hanging from a strap on his
neck. His hair, which had been neatly combed when he left that afternoon, looked windswept and
there were the beginnings of circles underneath his sharp eyes.

He didn’t notice John immediately. At first, he just set his camera and coat on the counter and
sighed heavily but contentedly, as if satisfied that he was finally done with the job, but not
grudging that he’d had to complete it. John bet that had a lot to do with being paid to enjoy his art.

John could tell when Stu noticed the three bottles of beer on the table – the two that John and Paul
had before leaving for chips, and then the second that John had opened upon returning – and
followed his eyes as they found John lying supine on the couch.

“I told you not to wait up,” Stu remarked absently as he picked up the three bottles and threw them
into the bin. “I didn’t tell you not to drink, but I had hoped you wouldn’t.”

John let his head fall to the side so he could watch Stu bustle around the kitchen. “They weren’t all
three mine,” he said.

As he got one of the few clean glasses out of the cabinet and filled it with tap water, Stu said, “All
right. Two questions: how many were yours, and whose were the rest?”

“Two and a half and Paul.”

Stu crossed the room and set the glass of water down in front of John. He thought Stu was getting it
for himself, so he sat up in mild surprise, and regretted the rush of blood from his head upon doing
so. He grabbed the glass and drank.

“What was McCartney doin’ over here?”

“Harrison didn’t tell him about practice, ‘ parently .”

“Oh, yeah?”

“You don’t believe that?”

Stu shrugged.

“Macca didn’t lie about it. He was right embarrassed ‘bout showin ’ up.”
Slumping down in an armchair and crossing his legs, Stu eyed John. “Macca?”

John crossed his arms defensively. “What about it?”

“That’s a bit, uh, well . . .”

“It’s a bit what, Stu?”

He shook his head. “Nothing.” He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “So, what did you
guys get up to, then?”

“Not much,” John said, lying back down. “Listened to some records. He sang along pretty well,
too. I think we could use him in gigs.”

“Wasn’t that already the plan?”

“You know what I mean. As a singer.”

Stu shrugged. “Your decision.”

“I do appreciate how much you care ‘bout the band, Sutcliffe.”

Stu put his hands over his heart. “It really is my life, you know.”

John sighed. “We got fish and chips and just talked for a while. Then he left.”

“There’s somethin ’ you’re not saying, isn’t there?”

John’s eyes opened quickly. He found Stu staring steadily at him and knew that there was a
conflicted expression on his own face that he couldn’t hide. He didn’t know if he liked or hated
how well Stu could read him.

“There’s plenty I’m not saying. Very much of it is hardly relevant.”

Stu just raised his eyebrows.

There was little point to hiding, John figured. He couldn’t keep things from Stu for long and the
honesty between them was what kept their friendship easy and refreshing. So he told him. “Paul’s
just a bit odd.”

“I could’ve told you that, mate. Odd how?”

John hummed, trying to find a way to say it without sounding insensitive. “He’s so particular,” he
said. “Preens himself. Must’ve been afraid of the grease on the chips or somethin ’, cause he had
to keep his fingers immaculately clean, like a girl would.”

“So?”

“Called ‘ im queer and he got real mad about that.”

Stu kept his expression impassive. If he was insulted by what John had said, he didn’t show it.
“Well, if I remember right, John, last time someone said that to you . . .”

“I know, I know,” he said exasperatedly. “Mad isn’t the right word, I s’ppose . He acted like . . .
God, I don’t want to say this, I really don’t . . . like it hit too close to home.”
“Do you want me to tell you whether I think he’s queer? Is that what you want?” Stu was careful to
keep his tone impartial, just like his face.

“I don’t know what I want,” John said honestly. “I was just surprised. It confused me. Hasn’t he
ever heard anyone say that before? He didn’t have to take it so personal.”

Stu shrugged and refrained from offering his guess to Paul’s sexuality. “’McCartney’. That’s one
of those Irish names, right? Is he Catholic? Maybe it offended his religion.”

“Wouldn’t it offend his religion, Catholic or not?” John asked. He shook his head. “I really don’t
think that’s it, Stu.”

“Then, what do you think?”

When he looked at Stu, he didn’t see his very exhausted friend with the mildly concerned
expression; he saw the bearded, bespectacled psychoanalyst with an Oedipal obsession. It struck
John as oddly appropriate, then, how he was lying on the couch, answering Stu’s probing
questions. It made him feel far to vulnerable. “I think that I’d rather not think about it.
I’m gonna go to sleep, now.”

If Stu expected him to get up and go to bed, he’d be disappointed. John just rolled over to face the
back of the couch to end the conversation, even though he found sleep rather difficult to achieve.

Paul told no one, not even George, of the incident with John. He tried to move past it, to shut the
memory forever into the recesses of his mind, but under lock and key it would sit, fester, and
pervade the walls of his mind until every thought carried the undercurrent of John .

The following Tuesday, George knocked on his front door with his guitar in hand, ready to head
over to John and Stu’s. Taking a gulp and trying to be as excited as he had been two weeks ago,
Paul grabbed his guitar and sweater and headed out the door.

The walk was filled with small talk that Paul wouldn’t remember in an hour. They reached the
apartment both too soon and not soon enough, and Paul tried very hard not to act awkward around
John.

Once they’d knocked, John opened the door for them. His head was turned to the side and he
shouted, “Stuart, they’re here! Put that wedding stuff up for now!”

He beckoned them inside. Paul looked over to the coffee table to see Stu kneeling there, sorting
developed photos and negatives into four piles. Because he felt the need to say something but
didn’t want to talk to John just yet, he asked, “Did the wedding job go well?”

Stu finished looking at two negatives for a second before responding. “It went all right,” he said.
“I’ve just got to sort the photographs into successes and failures, now, before I send ‘em off.”

Paul looked over Stu’s shoulder. They were rather good. “None of them look like failures to me,”
he remarked.

“Well, by that, I meant ones that included the loathsome Aunt Agnes,” he said. “The family said
she wasn’t invited but came anyway. They didn’t want any pictures of her. I did try very hard to
avoid her notice, but she was rather incessant.”

“They’re still paying you for the film, though, right?” Asked George.
He shrugged. “I developed them at the school’s darkroom. I didn’t pay for it.”

George only repeated his question.

“Yes, they’re paying.”

Of course George was unendingly practical. Paul shook his head with the tiniest of smiles.

They jumped right in to practicing. Paul settled himself on the floor beside Stu, declaring that he
wanted to get more practice with the bass. Stu was more than eager to hand it over. For the first
song or so, he put his attention to Paul and his playing, as if acting as supervisor, but soon, he
decided Paul didn’t need his coaching. He went back to his photographs.

Paul made too many mistakes to be satisfied with his progress thus far, but John and George didn’t
seem to notice. He found it particularly noticeable, however, because there was a distinct lack of
rhythm in the music. It took him a moment to notice that the drummer was absent.

“Hey, er,” he began, “what happened to – what's his name – Stan?”

John looked up from his guitar, momentarily blank. “I don’t know,” he said absently. After another
moment of contemplation, he amended, “Wait, yes I do. He wants out.”

This came as little surprise to Paul. None of the band had made any moves to make him feel
included or valuable. Still, it wasn’t good news. “So . . . we don’t have a drummer?”

John shook his head. “No, he’s still on. For now, at least. But we need to start lookin’ for
someone.”

Paul shrugged. If John was going to be nonchalant about it, then so would he. “I’m sure Ivan has
some pointers.”

“Might do,” John mused before returning to his guitar.

Paul raised his eyebrows momentarily and went back to his own instrument. John didn’t quite seem
like his normal self, but that also came as no surprise. He had hoped, of course, that their minor
altercation could be forgotten – or, at least, ignored, as he had done – but John didn’t seem to want
the same thing. Unless something else had arisen that took up so much of his mental capacity, he
must still be wondering about Paul’s strange behavior.

Perhaps it was self-absorbed for Paul to assume that John was thinking about him. He couldn’t
have been all the man thought about. He was just being silly.

As if to confirm his hopes, Paul looked up at John, expecting to see him still engrossed in his own
part. Instead, John stared right at him, eyes open wide like a deer caught in the headlights. Paul
flushed and looked down.

Poor timing , he thought to himself. That’s all it was. John was just looking around and Paul had
poor timing.

Two weeks passed and the band was ready for another gig.

Well, most of the band was ready.

George had adapted very well into the group. He and John were a perfect pair together, and he and
Paul were a perfect pair. That almost made up for the lingering awkwardness between John and
Paul that caused some tension in their music. It was evident to John, and probably evident to Paul,
as well.

Nerves, too, must have had a hand in it. Paul didn’t exactly exude confidence yet. He hadn’t played
before a crowd yet, either. But John had the utmost confidence that he was ready.

That’s why, a week before their gig took place, he stopped Geo and Paul from leaving so soon.
“This is jus’ a friendly reminder that we’re scheduled for Friday night.”

He studied their reactions closely. George grinned, evidently eager to finally have a stage on which
to perform, however meager that may be. George wasn’t who he was concerned about, though.
George had an easy sort of confidence that didn’t make him worried. But Paul was a different
story.

“Wh-what?” he asked. “Friday? Why did you tell us sooner?”

John shrugged. “Oh, I’m sure I did,” he mused.

“You didn’t.”

“Oh, sorry, lad. Must’ve slipped me mind, then.”

Paul’s brows creased, perhaps in anger, perhaps in frustration. “But - ”

George put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “It’s fine, mate,” he assured. “You’ve gotten it all
together pretty well by now. Much less of a mess than you used to be.” Paul’s narrowed eyes shot
to him and the softened a bit.

John didn’t particularly like seeing Paul’s gaze soften for George. It made him feel like the
antagonist from whom Paul went to Harrison for comfort, even though that was exactly the state of
things. It was just John’s way; he was abrasive and irritating. It was how he showed affection.

“He’s right,” John tried to temper his attitude. “You’ll be a’right.”

Paul eyed him dubiously. “Why not tell us earlier?”

Another shrug. “I dunno. Maybe I didn’t want you to be all nerves and anxiety for two weeks.
One’ll be more’an enough.”

Paul opened his mouth as though to retort, but promptly closed it again. ”Okay,” he settled for. He
could tell he wasn’t going to get much more of an explanation out of John; he was just inexplicable
that way.

The night was upon them. Paul and George walked at a brisk pace to the Cavern, which they could
tell from quite a great distance was rather crowded. Part of him had hoped that wouldn’t be so, but
that was the selfish part that wanted what was easier for him than what was objectively better for
everyone else. So, for the sake of John and his band, he tried to be glad that there was a large
audience.

The night was rather chilly, so Paul wore a jacket over his button-up. It was one of his nicer shirts,
one that he didn’t often wear because it was just a bit too big. He could tell by the fact that it was
stiffer and unfaded that even before he became ‘this’ Paul, the shirt didn’t see much use.
He fidgeted with the strap of his guitar as they stepped into the pub. The bartender looked up at
them, noted their instruments, and nodded, though Paul got the impression that it was the reluctant
sort – he must’ve remembered their first encounter. It didn’t bother him, because the bartender
wasn’t his target audience, anyway.

He checked his watch. It was almost half past seven and they were set to begin at eight. He wasn’t
sure if they’d gotten there too late or too early. Was there a lot of set-up involved? Would he and
George just have to wait around for John and Stu and Stan to arrive?

He tried to stop his over-thinking. He glanced at George after they entered, who gave him a
reassuring grin. It did him quite a bit of comfort; George had an easy sort of confidence. He didn’t
let on that anything shook him. Besides, with his skill, something like this couldn’t possibly shake
him.

They found John leaning against the wall of the stage, supervising the drummer as he set up. His
arms were crossed and one foot was outstretched, touching the two-foot stage with the toe. Paul
tried not to think that he looked cool , for lack of a better word, with his leather trousers and gelled
hair, but didn’t come close to succeeding.

They approached him. He turned and grinned an easy grin, exuding the same confidence that
George did. “Kind of yeh to show up, lads,” he quipped. “You ready?”

Before Paul could think of a convincing way to say that he was, Geo answered, “More ready than
you, Lennon, that’s for sure, considerin’ you had Paul teachin ’ you guitar up until las’ week.”

Paul looked sidelong at George. His expression was half playful, half something else – accusatory?
No, not quite. Suspicious? Not even that; it was more knowing. George had the look of someone
who was seeing through you. John, in turn, had the look of someone seen through.

He covered it up smoothly, though, with a roll of his eyes. His gaze settled on Paul, who got the
distinct feeling of being analyzed. His nervous must’ve been showing. He was suddenly conscious
of how he kept shifting his weight from one foot to another and made an effort to remain steady,
but it was hard work.

“Maybe you two should go back an’ warm up, since it’s your first gig,” John offered. “I’ve just
gotta talk to Vaughan for a mo ’.”

Paul said, “All right,” trying to keep his voice even and low without going high with nerves. He
watched John head over to a table where Ivan sat with Stu and some other friends, but didn’t look
around any more than that.

Turning to George, he said, “I s’ppose we just go an’ wait for time to pass, now.”

Once they were in the back room, Paul sat on one of the benches across from George and set to
tuning his guitar. Georg did the same, and they went through a couple of the songs on their set list.
Both of them sang along quietly to themselves to keep their place.

“I’d like to sing me own songs someday,” George mused after they’d gone through “Dream
Lover”.

Paul tilted his head. “Going solo? That’s what you want to do?”

George hummed. “Maybe.” He scratched his cheek in contemplation. “Maybe I want to stay with a
band. But I want to sing, too. Not just play in the background.”
Paul asked, “So, why don’t you bring it up with John?”

He let out a derisive laugh. “He ‘ ardly let me in the band, Paul. D’you really think he’d let me
sing?”

“Well,” Paul had to admit, “Maybe not.”

“I’m just not sure this is going anywhere,” he continued. “You said that his band didn’t get big.”

“The line-up’s quite changed, though,” he reminded him.

“I know.” He was plucking out an easy, simple tune as he thought. “It’s just not easy to be a
success. And that line-up isn’t even set yet.”

Paul shrugged. “That’s true, I guess. But once Stu leaves and John finds a steady drummer, I don’t
see why it would have to change. We’d have all the essential parts.”

“Well, I hope you’re right, then.” He plucked out a riff and then paused. “You ever gonna tell
him?”

Paul looked up, alarmed. “Tell him? Why would I do that?”

George shrugged. “Just ‘cause you two are getting' close now, yeah? So I just wondered if you’d
considered it at all.”

“God, no,” Paul shook his head. The thought hadn’t even occurred to him. John wouldn’t believe
him, even if he could find a way to say it. There wouldn’t be a point to it, anyways.

“Just a thought.”

They played some more. John had been right in suggesting they do this; it was working on his
nerves. After a little while more of practicing, John and Stu came in to tell them that it was time to
go on. The next two hours were a blur to him.

John smiled wildly at Paul. “That was brilliant , Macca,” he said sincerely, wrapping a heavy,
tired arm around his bandmate as they sauntered off of the stage. He could see a bounce to Paul’s
stride, leftover from the exhilaration, no doubt.

“No, it wasn’t,” he shook his head humbly. “I mean, you were great. But I messed up too many
times to count.”

John thought he must’ve been joking. Paul couldn’t be this blind to his skill and natural talent. The
crowd just loved him; the first song was a bit shaky, but after only a few minutes, John could see
that he was born for the stage. He drew energy from the crowd and gave back tenfold. John
couldn’t recall just how many times he looked over to check up on him only to see his face
plastered with a grin and a glimmer of sweat on his forehead.

“You’re an idiot, that’s what you are,” John scolded.

“Rude,” Paul muttered.

“Sure am,” John said proudly.

“Especially that trick you pulled out there – that was dirty, Lennon!” He pointed an accusing finger
at John, who knew exactly what he meant.

He was talking about their second-to-last song of the set. He’d introduced it like he normally
would, letting the audience know they’d hear another familiar tune, but this time, instead of saying
that it was “presented by your very own Johnny Lennon” or some other such nonsense, he’d said,
“’Cathy’s Clown’, as sung by our own Paul McCharmly .”

Paul hadn’t noticed immediately. It took him a moment to realize that John wasn’t singing yet;
then, John noted with sadistic glee the look of realization on his face. Paul recovered himself
quickly and launched into the song seamlessly, making John fill with pride.

Pride wasn’t appropriate for John to feel, he knew. He had nothing to do with Paul’s skill or
success. Still, he couldn’t help the swell of his heart as he saw Paul open his mouth and begin to
sing, loudly and clearly and with a sort of confidence he’d never had when he’d been alone with
John. That feeling simply must have been pride.

“At least I gave you one with lots of back-up,” he said. “Starting you out easy.”

They set their instruments down behind the stage. Paul took a deep breath and sat down on a
bench, his legs bouncing with energy. “ Wanna go and drink some with Ivan’s gang?” John
offered.

Paul considered it but shook his head. “I think I jus’ need to . . . calm down for a bit.”

“ A’right , Elvis,” John agreed, reaching out a hand to rustle Paul’s hair as he walked by on the
way to the door. Paul cried out in protest, but John just chuckled. “I’ll be back, Macca. Just goin ’
to get somethin’ to drink. Want anything?”

Paul said, “Might do,” noncommittally. John took that as a no; even when he had something to
drink, like last Thursday, he didn’t end up drinking much of it.

John passed George on the way out. “Where you headed, Harrison?”

“Jus’ putting this thing up,” he said, lifting his guitar. “Don’t want to lug it around out there.”

John nodded. “Right. Well, ta,” he said, ducking out of the room quickly.

He fetched a drink from the bar and headed over to the table at which Stu, Ivan, and Ivan’s lackeys
sat.

“Good show,” Ivan praised, acting as though his input meant anything to John. “Paul’s
great, inne?”

“He really is.” John took a large swell of beer. “He jus’ fit up there on the stage, don’ya think so,
Stu?”

Stu shrugged. “He was all right,” he said without much conviction. John ignored the bored tone; he
was used to it with any subject about music.

“But I can’t say I’m ‘appy with you, mate.” He fixed Ivan with a stern glance. “Why did you not
tell me about him sooner?” He enunciated each word in an imitation of his aunt, or his old school
principal, or really anyone who cared about propriety at all.

“Tried to,” Ivan replied, “a coupla years ago. Don’t you remember? Was gonna bring ‘ im round
to that thing at the church, but ‘e didn’t show. You said h e’d prob’ly be too young, anyroad .”
John didn’t remember. “No, that can’t be true,” he shook his head. “You’re tryin’ to do me
in, keepin’ all that talent hidden.”

Ivan rolled his eyes. “Oh, I’m done for. You’ve found me out.”

“I think we can go places,” John continued. “Now that we’ve got Macca and his pal Harrison,
we’ve got ourselves a proper band.”

“Any more thoughts on a drummer?” Ivan asked, already knowing the answer.

“I want to speak to Rory’s one,” John decided firmly. “Stan wants rid of us and we want rid of
him.”

“I’ll ask around, see if I can find him.”

“You don’t know ‘im?”

“Not personally,” Ivan said. John figured he was the first in all of Liverpool that hadn’t been
caught in Ivan’s schemes yet. “Only seen ‘ im once, maybe. Can’t remember a thing about him.”

“That’s how drummers usually are,” John agreed. “Find ‘ im , will ya?”

“Aye aye , cap’n ,” he saluted. John just shook his head.

After a few minutes of drinking and laughing about things John couldn’t care less about, a figure
approached their table. He could only tell from the faint shadow that emerged behind him; whoever
it was didn’t make any noise as he approached. He turned around to see George Harrison standing
there, for once without his guitar.

“ Hazza ! Come to join us, then?” He stood up in his seat. “’Ere, you can ‘ ave my chair, you lazy
git.”

George thanked him with a small grin. “Paul wanted to stay in the back for a while yet,” he said in
a way that was both too careful and too casual. John got the impression that it was some sort of
hint.

It wasn’t needed. He knew, when George appeared without Paul in his shadow, that Paul would
still be alone in the back. He didn’t just offer up his chair out of common courtesy.

He made his way to the back, still carrying his beer. He grabbed another one from the bar, just in
case Paul got thirsty – and if he didn’t, John could always finish it off.

Once he got there, he kicked open the door with his foot. He saw Paul sitting on the bench in a dim
light looking utterly exhausted. The sheen of sweat on his forehead made his face glow. John
swallowed thickly.

“Just wastin ’ away down ‘ere by your lonesome?” he asked, sliding towards Paul on the bench.
He simply shrugged. Looking closely, John could see the hints of a smile on his lips, but it wasn’t
quite enough to be satisfactory. “You a’right?”

Paul shook his head, not to say ‘no’, but to dismiss the question as silly. “Yeah, yeah, ‘course,” he
said. “Jus’ never played in front of so many people, is all.”

John grinned. “Exhilarating, innit ?”

Paul shrugged dubiously, “Eh,” he said noncommittally. “That’s one word for it, I s’ppose .”
“You really had ‘ em ,” John said earnestly. “ Eatin ’ outta the palm of your hand.”

“I mean,” he trailed off. “I know I made a few mistakes out there.”

“Oh, did you? Nobody out there could tell.” He leaded closer sideways to bump Paul’s shoulder
with his own. “You were brilliant out there, mate.”

“No, I wasn’t. I just - ”

“You don’t give yourself near enough credit,” he threw an arm roughly about his shoulder and
shook him. “You were beautiful out there.” The second he said that particular word, he almost
cringed – why had he chosen that word, of all things?

To his credit, Paul hardly seemed to notice the particular word. He seemed to protest to the entire
tone. “Oh, shove off.”

He swallowed again. “Macca, I’m serious.” He thought he saw some minute twitch of Paul’s eye,
as if he wanted to look away, so John leaned in slightly closer, so as to keep his attention. “You
really need to see it. Watching you out there, you were – well, that’s where you’re supposed to
be. Could’a watched you all day.”

Paul laughed. “You’re the one they really go an’ see. You know that.”

John sighed. “Oh, but I haven’t got that sweet angel face o’ yours, mate. Those birds’ll be
flocking to you in no time.”

“Quit your lying,” Paul urged.

“Do you really not see it?” John asked seriously. “How you look when you hold that guitar? Drives
those broads mad, I tell you.”

“Oh,” Paul said off-handedly. “I don’t care much for them.”

John paused. “Broads?” he asked carefully.

Paul, in turn, froze momentarily. He caught himself very quick – quicker than two Thursdays ago,
at any rate. “Broads who’ll go for anythin ’ that can almost hold a guitar.”

Laughing, John said, “Ah, I see. It’s only the classiest ladies for our McCharmly.”

“’Course,” Paul agreed with a grin. “And that’s Sir McCharmly to you.”

John nudged him in the ribs. When Paul let out a sharp breath and leaned over, one hand flying
quickly to his side, John narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Oh, no,” he said slowly. “Don’t - don’t
tell me that you’re ticklish .”

“I’m not,” Paul hurried to say. John hummed in disbelief.

“Then you wouldn’t mind if I, say, did this - ” he reached under Paul’s crossed arms to poke him
in the stomach.

This time, Paul let out a very short laugh, twisting away from him. “Okay, now. Stop it, really,” he
urged.

“You are!” John exclaimed triumphantly. “Oh, Macca, you can’t expect me to let you get away
with this.”
“No, no, please don’t,” Paul urged. John ignored him.

Grabbing his arms with on hand, John reached to his stomach with the other. Paul let out a helpless
laugh, and when John wouldn’t relent, he curled into himself and leaned closer to John while at the
same time trying to twist away from him.

“L-l-let go of me, you piece of - ”

John tsked . “Language,” he scolded.

He went all in – attacking Paul’s stomach, sides, underarms. It amazed him how ticklish Paul could
be; he even flinched away breathlessly when John flicked his fingers at his shoulders.

Eventually, Paul decided that to slide away from him on the bench was the best option – but it was
less of a slide and more of a lean. That left John, of course, with only one choice. He followed him
forward, tickling all the way, to the point where he attacked Paul from the side with one hand, held
his arms in place above his head with the other, and hooked his feet around his ankles to stop him
from kicking.

“Please stop, Johnny – I – I can’t breathe anymore,” he begged.

It was only after his arm got tired of the relentless tickling that he paused and realized the situation
he’d gotten Paul into. He was looking down; breathing heavily (because he, too, was laughing), he
calmed himself before glancing upward into Paul’s face.

Paul was flushed from laughing. His eyes were open wide and tears brimmed within them. John
could feel his heavy breath against his cheek. Their faces were very close – Paul was literally
pinned beneath him, his hands holding Paul’s arms and his legs keeping Paul’s down. Paul didn’t
seem to be protesting, either, once his hands stopped moving. John could see that his lips were
slightly open.

What the hell was John doing? How did he get himself into this sort of position?

John let out a laugh, at the two of them, at the situation, at everything. It seemed to break the
tension. Paul resumed breathing – John hadn’t even noticed that he’d stopped. John leaned his head
against Paul’s shoulder as he waited for his racing heart to slow.

“You’re evil,” Paul said. He didn’t seem to want to catch John’s eye.

John pushed himself up off him. “And you don’t have enough self-confidence,” he said. “You were
too wound up from the gig. You needed a laugh.”

“Oh, sure,” Paul rolled his eyes. “That just now was all for the sake of altruism.”

“Of course.” As if to prove his point, once John stood, he extended his arm for Paul to grab. He
rolled his eyes again but accepted the help, gripping him around the forearm and allowing John to
hoist him up from the floor.

They settled back down on the bench. They sat a respectable distance apart. “What you did out
there was rather cruel, y’know ,” Paul said. “Jus’ throwin ’ me out to fend for meself , not givin’
me any warning or anythin’.”

He knew, of course, what Paul was referring to. The singing bit, where John hadn’t given him any
heads up to his plans. To be honest, it wasn’t planned. He was feeling rather hoarse, and it
occurred to him that, just once, he didn’t have to sing lead. “’Ave to learn sometime,” John said
with a nonchalant smile. “You’re me baby bird leavin’ the nest.”

Paul laughed insincerely. “I’ll be sure not to fly too high, then,” he said. “I’m sure you enjoyed
watching me plummet.”

“Oh, you fared pretty well on your own,” John smiled. “Maybe you could do it again at the next
gig.”

“O-oh, no,” Paul shook his head, but John got the feeling that there was a bit of hopefulness in his
eyes.

Just then, the door swung open once more. John recognized the darkish silhouette as Ivan peered
in.

“Not interruptin ’ something private, am I?” he said.

John sneered at him. “This is state business, filthy peasant. Git your muzzle out.”

“Oh, o ‘course, ‘course, I don’t mean to intrude, your holiness,” Ivan bowed excessively, “but
there’s a gentleman caller for you, Paul.”

John turned to look at him. His brows were furrowed in confusion. “Do I know ‘ im ?”

Ivan shook his head. “No, I didn’t recognize ‘im, either,” he said. “Didn’t say his name yet.”

John didn’t like the uneasiness in Paul’s voice when he inquired as to who it was. Since Paul
obviously wasn’t going to speak up for himself, John said, “Tell ‘ im to bugger off. Paul’s a star
now. No time for filthy groundlings.”

Ivan could tell that John wasn’t joking. “Okay, okay,” he said, ushering himself dramatically out of
the door.

“Wonder who it could be,” Paul mused to himself.

“Nobody important,” John assured. He settled back onto the bench and sighed contentedly.

Ivan found him hanging around the same table as before, looking around with his hands shoved
deep inside the pockets of his leather jacket. It struck him once more just how intimidating he was,
with the ragged beard and sharp white stripe through his hair, despite his height.

Because he was so aware of how simply dangerous he looked, Ivan compensated by acting overly
calm. When he turned to look at him, Ivan just shrugged. “Didn’t wanna see you,” he said. “Well,
didn’t wanna see anyone, I s’ppose .”

“Why?” he asked with a severe expression and in a tone of surprising worry. “Is ‘e alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, ‘e’s fine back there with Lennon,” Ivan assured. “ Prob’ly just tired from playing, I'd
guess.”

The man crossed his arms and nodded to himself. “Seems to be getting' on well, then,” he mused
quietly.

Ivan felt more than a bit uncomfortable. “ Er , if you don’t mind me askin ’,” he began, “well, who
are you?”
The man looked at him and his almost fearful expression. He laughed. “Oh, sorry ‘bout that, lad.
I’m Ritchie.”

Ivan blinked. The name meant nothing to him. “And how do you know Paul?”

“Oh, well - ” he trailed off, scratching his beard. “You’d probably know me as Ringo, actually.
I’m, er , a drummer.” He said it with difficulty, like he almost didn’t believe it himself. Ivan
suspected he only said it to avoid the question.

Then it occurred to him. “Wait, you’re a drummer?” Ritchie nodded. “You’re with – well, you
were with – Rory Storm, right?”

Another nod.

Ritchie grinned widely. “Ringo Starr! I didn’t know it was you. This is great.”

“And why . . .?” he asked hesitantly.

“You’re not playin’ with anyone currently, right?”

Well! I feel like I'm doing pretty good with keeping up with a regular schedule. A week's certainly
a better update time than several months, right? Anyways, I hope you are all feeling well and
staying safe! If you liked the chapter, please let me know! I love you guys <3
 You Say You Want A Revelation

Paul couldn’t get to sleep that night.

It was well past one when he finally came home. He found his dad asleep on his favorite chair, the
radio playing a calm static which must have drowned out the quiet creaking of the front door as
Paul slipped inside. Paul felt oddly touched that his dad had tried to stay up for him.

Feeling that it would be rude to let him sleep uncomfortably on the chair all night, Paul shook him
by the shoulder gently. Jim blearily opened his eyes and looked around. “ Wha’s all that noise?”

“Da’, it’s me,” Paul whispered. “I’m back. You should get yourself to bed, now.”

His father looked at him, only partially seeing. Paul didn’t mind that he wasn’t fully awake; he just
wanted him to get to bed. “Yeah, a’right,” he muttered, heaving himself up from the chair. “You
had a good time?”

“’Course, dad,” Paul said. “Goodnight.”

“’Night.”

Paul drank a glass of water while his father trudged up the stairs. He felt hot; his face was still red,
and his breath was probably still heavy from . . . well. He had hoped that the walk home would
have cooled him down, but it hadn’t.

It was all he could think about as he put his glass in the sink. All he could think about when he
followed in his father’s footsteps up the stairs. All he could think about when he pulled off his shirt
and trousers and slid into bed. All he could think about as he closed his eyes and yearned for
sleep.

What must John think of him? First, two weeks ago, getting so defensive about being called queer.
Next, getting flustered from – well, actually, Paul felt perfectly justified feeling flustered from what
had happened.

John with his hands all over him. Of course, he was only tickling him, but regardless – it was John
’s hands about his waist as they leaned down against the bench, his fingers digging into his sides.
Half of his laughter came from giddiness and excitement and just half from actually being ticklish.

And then the tickling stopped, the laughter going down with it. Paul had opened his eyes to see
John leaning above him, his face achingly close – so close that he could feel his breath brushing
against his face and neck. It had sent the oddest of shivers down his spine. John was so close that,
if Paul had only turned his head a bit to the left, their lips would have accidentally brushed.

He had really wanted to. Only part of him was glad he didn’t.

John wasn’t at the following Tuesday’s practice. It was just George, Paul and Stu – none of them
knew if the drummer was even going to come. Paul doubted any of them much cared. Once he got
to the flat, he asked, “Where’s John?”

“ Meetin ’ up with Ivan ‘bout that new drummer from Rory Storm,” Stu supplied.
“Good riddance,” George said. “Stan doesn’t even bother to come.”

“I’m glad for it,” Stu went on. “It’ll give the band more stability. You’ll need it, ‘specially once I
leave.”

They all sat down in the small living room, not immediately beginning on their instruments just
yet. They wouldn’t have a formal practice, anyway, since John was gone, and he was arguably the
most important player.

“When will that be?” Paul asked. He figured Stu had mentioned leaving for a reason; he wasn’t the
sort to simply say things for the hell of it.

“Soon,” Stu said. “Actually, quite soon, I think.”

“Not tomorrow, surely,” he raised his eyebrows. He’d said it as a joke, but really, he had no idea
when Stu had in mind.

Stu shook his head. “’Course not.” He scratched his chin. “But - well, I’m thinking about this
weekend.”

George sat up a bit straighter. “Jesus. That is soon.”

“How would you manage so quickly?” Paul wondered.

Stu shrugged like it was no big deal. “I’ve been saving for a while, now,” he said. “Have more ‘an
enough left over. Other than that, it’s not like I’ve gotta schedule anythin ’, really. There’ll be a
boat goin’ over all the time, and once I get there, I’ll more or less just see where Hamburg takes
me.”

Paul thought about it. He still thought of trips as such scheduled things – you'd have to book a
flight well in advance to get a good price, for one. Of course, a trip to the continent might not be as
big a deal, but still, a lot of people would fly. He had to shake his head to put himself in the right
mindset instead of the modern one.

“John knows, yeah?” George asked.

“’Course. Talked to ‘ im on Sunday.”

“How does he feel?”

Stu only shrugged. “I think you’re good enough on bass, Paul. John does, too.”

“You just want to leave as soon as possible,” Paul laughed. “You could care less about the bass.” It
was in jest, but there was truth enough in it to make Paul feel bad about saying it aloud so casually
– especially when Stu looked down fleetingly.

“You just need to practice, then, to build up confidence,” he said. “That’s what I did. I still don’t
play the right notes, but if I look like I know what I’m doing the audience hardly notices. Bass isn’t
really the main attraction.” He cast a sideward glance at George.

That ended the conversation and the three of them got to work. It was odd practicing without John,
the de facto leader. There was a silent moment where the three of them wondered what exactly
they should do to get to work. After a minute, Paul and Stu paired off to work on the bass, while
George lounged on the couch and plucked at his guitar.
Paul stopped and listened to it sometimes, just enjoying the sound – because George really was an
excellent player. He especially enjoyed when George realized that he’d made a mistake, then just
went with it, abandoning whatever song he was trying before and making up something on the
spot.

Stu handed over the bass for Paul to start the practice with. As Stu talked about what he’d done in a
certain section of one song, Paul picked out something that he vaguely thought might go with the
George’s improvisation.

“You really don’t need my help anymore,” Stu said earnestly.

“I still appreciate it.”

“You just need more confidence.”

Paul shrugged. “You already said that.” John had said it, too. Paul just didn’t see what they saw.

“I almost wish I weren’t leaving,” Stu said. “Almost feel bad about it.”

“Why?”

He looked down at his fingers. He was fidgeting with his hands, picking at his nails and twiddling
his thumbs. “It’s just that John’s so happy with how the band’s doing. Me leavin’ - useless as I am,
I know – it'll change things. The dynamic, I suppose. And this is the first time I’ve seen John
genuinely happy in . . . well, I can’t remember how long.”

Paul’s eyes softened. Stu wasn’t usually so emotional, and if he was, he certainly didn’t talk about
it with Paul. They hardly spoke at all, so understandably, the conversation was somewhat of a
surprise.

“I’m sure John wouldn’t want to keep you here longer than you wanted to stay,” he reasoned.
“He wouldn’t want you to stay here when your own ambitions bring you somewhere else.”

“What a nice way to say I’ve no purpose here,” Stu chuckled.

“No, that isn’t what I mean,” Paul said. “I’m sure you know that.”

“Yeah,” Stu agreed, possibly feeling bad for making light of Paul’s consolation.

Paul sighed. “I’m sure he’d feel bad if he stopped you from doing what you wanted with your own
life.”

“He would, yeah.” Stu shifted the way he was sitting. “But - well, it’s odd to admit, I s’ppose , but
I think I’ll miss this, the band, even though I hate it.”

“You do have a habit of forgetting the bad parts of places you’ve left behind,” Paul said, knowing
well from experience.

“Right.”

Paul paused his playing, afraid he might have seemed like he wasn’t really involved in the
conversation. He could tell that there was a slight change in the way George played, then – he'd
been relying on the bass, playing off of it somewhat. Knowing that George was listening in didn’t
bother Paul in the slightest; he had very little to hide from George.

“I know it’s really John who you’ll miss,” he said. “And he can’t fault you for living your own
life.”

“No, he can’t. Well, he very well could – he shouldn’t.”

“I don’t think he will.” Perhaps that was untrue. Paul didn’t really know yet.

“I do hope you’re right.” There was a pause, but George’s playing did something to help ease the
awkward silence. “ I’ll still feel bad, I suppose. I'm leaving him by himself - I don’t think he’s
good by himself, to be honest.” He seemed hesitant to say this last part.

Paul wasn’t exactly sure what that meant. “Well,” he reasoned, “he’s still got the band.”

Stu paused once more, visibly thinking. “I mean, livin ’ with him, I’ve noticed – now, he’d hate
I'm telling you this, so don’t you go talkin ’ to him ‘bout it or anything – I've noticed there’s a way
he can get, late at night sometimes when he hasn’t had anyone to talk to for a while. It made me
wonder sometimes . . . ”

“Wonder what?” Wonder if John had depressive episodes without human contact? It didn’t seem to
outrageous to believe. Paul could get those, too. He did, actually, quite often – less often now, with
the band, but he was no stranger to feeling like he did not belong.

“Makes me worry, I suppose. He needs someone with him.”

Paul felt for Stu. He could see the love he bore for John – whatever type of love it was. “You don’t
need to worry, Stu. He won’t be alone.”

“Just - just don’t let ‘ im go too long without getting out, yeah? He needs to leave the flat every
now an’ then. For more than just classes and gigs once a week.”

Paul wanted to say that he wasn’t about to babysit John for him, but got the feeling that such a joke
wouldn’t be well received. “I won’t let ‘ im rot in here by his lonesome, I suppose.”

Stu smiled gratefully. “There’s another thing. The flat itself. It’s big for one person, ‘course. I
know his aunt pays some for rent, but I’m not sure she’d pay twice as much as just one person
needs once I’m not sharing the flat with him anymore.”

Paul hummed. That was something John would need to address sooner rather than later. Paul hated
dealing with matters of money, but it was something unavoidable, he supposed. “He might think of
moving.”

“That’s probably what he’ll end up doing, yeah. Makes me still feel bad, though.”

“Don’t, really,” Paul entreated. “It’s your own life. You’re obligated to live it.”

That earned him another smile. “You’re alright, McCartney.”

“Eh, I suppose,” he shrugged with a grin. “You’ve gotta keep in touch with ‘im, y’know. Write
every now an’ then, so he doesn’t forget you exist.”

“Oh, ‘course,” Stu said. “I’ll be sure to fill him in with the most boring of stories about the most
boring of people I meet there.”

“He’ll like that. He really will.”

Stu opened his mouth as if to say something else, but in the end, remained silent. Paul gave him
another moment, waiting to see if he decided to say something else, before joining back in with
George’s aimless plucking.

It hardly felt real to John. He had known that this day was coming for quite a while, but he had
never expected it to actually be here.

And with such short notice! Stu had given them a week’s warning that he was leaving. John briefly
felt very angry; that was hardly any time at all. But, then, he thought that perhaps it was for the
best. If Stu had told them, say, a month ago (if he even knew then), John might not have been able
to bear the knowledge for so long. Stu really knew him better than he knew himself.

So, John sat cross-legged on the couch, watching as Stu stood above a pile of clean clothes, folding
them neatly into his trunk. He was too focused on his task to be completely all right.

“I’m guessing you’re excited to be rid of me,” John said. “ Dunno how you put up with it for so
long, really.”

Stu looked up momentarily. His eyes were hard and discerning. John could tell he was trying to
hide an impending sorrow with sternness and resolution. Stu always did try to be strong; John
found this particularly ironic, since he was truly so sensitive.

Shaking the wrinkles out of a pair of jeans and rolling them up tightly, Stu shrugged. “Perhaps I
won’t even notice you’re gone.”

John let out a quick laugh. “I sure will. I’ll finally get to breathe without that mess you make.”

“Oh, yeah,” Stu exaggeratedly agreed. “ My mess.” He shook his head. “I fear for the smell of this
place once I leave.”

“It’ll live,” John dismissed.

He wordlessly watched Stu pack the rest of his clothes. He had another case for his photography
stuff. He was leaving his bass behind; John only barely convinced him not to sell it off. It would
save Paul having to buy one so soon.

Stu then went back to his room, looking for anything else that he wanted to take with him. He was
rather a minimalist and didn’t see the need for a superfluity of curios, so most of what he packed
was the bare necessities.

His train left in an hour and a half. Usually, Stu would have been packed by yesterday; he wasn’t
one to procrastinate. John figured that this was just quite unlike anything he’d done before – not
only was he moving, but he was moving to a different country . That must have been daunting, and
for all he was excited for it, John knew he was just a bit scared.

He came back from his room with an armful of random things. Shoes, an umbrella, a set of pencils,
his toothbrush. John looked at all the stuff that would no longer be here, all the traces of him that
would be gone. He couldn’t take the furniture he sat on, but that was about it.

John would wake up and go straight into the bathroom to relieve himself and brush the morning
smell from his teeth – he wouldn’t have to pause by the door to see if Stu was already in there. He
would be able to leave the lights on in the living room without risking Stu barging into his room in
the middle of the night, waking him to inform him of his infraction. He wouldn’t be able to bang
his head on the front door when his arms were too laden with items to fish for his keys.
Perhaps it was both a blessing and a curse.

At last, Stu slowly closed the lid of his trunk, clasped it shut, and bent over it for a moment,
looking around the flat. After a while, he shifted and sat down on top of it, crossing his legs and
resting his chin in his hand contemplatively. Even as he scanned around for anything he might
have been leaving behind, he knew there was nothing left to pack.

John thought he ought to say something, but he couldn’t think of anything that sounded
appropriate. Half of what came from his mouth was a derisive joke, and the other was existential
grief – he doubted Stu was in the mood for either at the moment.

He opened his mouth as words almost came to him, but even they didn’t sound right. Since he’d
audibly taken a breath, though, he went ahead with, “Is it time yet to head out?”

Stu, at first, didn’t seem to hear him. “I - yeah,” he said. “Yeah. Best we get goin ’.”

John stood and waited for Stu to do the same before heading for the door. He didn’t want to seem
to eager to get going, giving Stu the impression that he wanted him gone soon. He just couldn’t
bear the tense silence.

He opened the door and went back to grab one of the handles of Stu’s trunk. Stu slung his
photography bag over his shoulder and took the other handle. The two of them hoisted the heavy
trunk up and made their way slowly out the door, then down to the stairs.

Luckily, they were only on the second floor.

The bus to the station wasn’t due for at least fifteen minutes. Stu kicked his truck ruefully and
looked at it. “I still feel like I left somethin ’.”

“Mate, your room was next to empty,” John assured. “And even if you did leave anythin’, I’ll just
send it over.”

Stu looked at him briefly and nodded.

The sun mildly warmed the day, but a breeze made it quite temperate. It really was a lovely day to
travel.

“I’m glad you’ve found Paul,” Stu said, feeling like he had to fill the silence somehow. Usually, he
wouldn’t have bothered, but now that his moments with John were limited, he felt like he had to
make them count. “He’ll be far better ‘an me with the bass, I swear it.”

“Well, he does actually care,” John remarked, leaning over to bump his shoulder against Stu’s.
“That’s the only thing you needed, really. Would’ve done a lot.”

“I cared about the band,” Stu said quietly. He clasped his hands in his lap. “Just didn’t care much
for the music.”

John looked at him and squinted his eyes. “What about it did you care for, then?”

“I - well,” he paused, considering. “I cared because you cared, I s’ppose.”

John scoffed. “You’re such an odd sort, Sutcliffe.”

“ D’you blame me? You’re my mate. We live together. When your band’s in a rut, you’re in a rut,
and then I suffer the consequences.”

“Ah,” John said, understanding. “It’s good to know it’s all self-centered. Worried me for a mo’,
you did.”

“Rest assured, I think only of myself,” Stu said, leaning forward with a hand over his heart, every
bit the gallant gentleman.

John laughed and checked his watch. Stu knew the bus wouldn’t come for a while yet. He could
tell John wanted to say something significant, whether he had anything to say or not. They were
both looking for the right parting words.

“What’ll you do about the flat, John?” Stu asked quite seriously.

John would know what he meant. The rent. He didn’t have a job; Mimi put up money for half the
rent. She knew Stu had wanted to leave for a while, but John hadn’t gotten around to telling her
that he was moving now. He would have to soon.

“Not sure,” John said. “What d’you think I should do?”

Stu shrugged. “Well, I dunno,” he said, thinking. “You could find another place, find a job, or find
a new flatmate, I suppose.”

John wrinkled his nose. “None of those options seem particularly appealing, oddly.”

“I’m sorry,” Stu said in a small voice that showed he meant the apology.

“What? None o’ that, now. It’s not your fault. We’ve both gotta get on with our lives.”

He tried very hard not to think about how lonely John might get without him. Perhaps it was a self-
centered way of looking at things; perhaps he was inflating his own importance in John’s life.
Regardless, it was a serious concern.

“I’ll miss you,” Stu said quietly. “It’s not so easy, leaving.”

“I’ll miss you too, ‘course,” he said, as if Stu needed reassurance on that point.

“It’s just . . . this place. It’s Liverpool I wanna leave, really.”

John indulged a laugh. “We’re not the snooty artist types you wanna hang ‘round, right?”

Stu shook his head with a grin. “ You randy scouse gits disgust me, really,” he said.

“You’re too refined.”

“Damn right I am. Gettin ' out while I still can.”

John had done it again; he turned something serious into a joke. That was just how he dealt with
serious matters. Stu had long since given up on trying to shake him of the habbit.

“You’ll be giving the guitar to Paul, right?”

John nodded shallowly. “If that’s a’right with you.”

“No, ‘course it is. Too late for me to get any use out of it – you managed to convince me to buy
that instead of more important things in the first place, so might as well use it while you can.” Stu
was referring to the new camera and canvases he’d been eyeing before John talked him into getting
the bass instead. “I want him to have it.”

John shrugged.

It was Stu’s turn to look quite nervously at his watch. They still had quite a few minutes left. He
opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, took a quick breath, but lost his courage and
recoiled into himself. John courteously ignored his indecision.

“John - ” he got that far and cut himself off.

Turning to face him, John evidently decided he was going to put an end to Stu’s self-inflicted
torture. “Stu, listen,” he said, bring his hands to his friend’s shoulders, knowing Stu wasn’t entirely
comfortable with physical touch. It only served to make it more poingant. “You’ll be fine. It’ll be
strange an’ scary, but you can handle anythin’, I'm sure of it. ‘Specially after puttin ’ up with me
for so long. Nothin ’ could possibly compare, right?”

Bashfully, Stu laughed and looked down. “You’ve almost got a point,” he conceded. “But there’s
still something . . .”

There was a heavy silence as John waited for Stu to continue. He raised his eyebrows expectantly;
Stu just knit his eyebrows in turmoil. “Now’s a hell of a time to admit some undyin ’ love,
Sutcliffe. Out with it.”

Fuck, why does he have to say things like that? Stu’s eyes widened momentarily, but his expression
hardened as resolution took over. “John,” he said. “John.”

“What?”

This was it. A chance to see, maybe, if -

Stu didn’t quite know why he did it. It was an impulse – and he never acts on impulse. It was a
quick moment. One of Stu’s hands – thinking back, he couldn’t remember if it was even the left or
the right – grabbed his face, fingertips resting against his jaw, pulling him forward. Stu pressed his
lips to John’s.

It lasted for a fraction of a second. Stu hardly registered what he was doing until he flung himself
harshly back, standing a good three feet away from the bench, one hand resting tensely on his hip
while the other gripped the back of his neck. His knuckles were positively white.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “God, I’m an idiot. I’m sorry. I just - just once – I'm sorry.”

He was only partly talking to John.

Stunned, John could only sit, his face frozen in shock.

It was a whim. A stupid split-second decision to do something he’d dreamed of countless times.

He loved John with all his heart. John was his best friend; they connected in a way he hadn’t
connected with anybody else before. John was beautiful and astoundingly brilliant in his idealism
and eccentricities. He wasn’t the front man to the Quarrymen or the Silver Beatles or whatever he
called them now; he was a bright young art college student yearning to explore the world and its
wonders.

But there was a part of Stu that wondered if, beyond simply loving John, he was in love with
him.

That was why he did it, really. Why he took the risk of ruining their friendship in their last
moments together. He had to know – he had to feel.

But he hadn’t felt anything. He’d made the biggest mistake of his life for nothing.

Just as Stu ventured to turn around and see the damage he had done, his eyes fraught with worry,
they heard the heavy rumble of an engine as the bus arrived.

The doors opened with a screech and John shook himself out of his trance when Stu bent down to
try and move his trunk on his own. John jumped up and grabbed the other end, helping Stu lift it
up the steps.

Stu paused in the doorway standing just behind his trunk. “Goodbye,” he said tentatively.

“Have fun in Hamburg,” John said sincerely, obviously trying not to think about what had just
happened. “I know you’ll do great. I know it.”

Just as Stu opened his mouth to say something more, the doors slammed shut, and the driver sped
forward. John followed Stu’s outline in the window as far as he could, and when he and the bus
were out of sight.

Stu found a seat and sighed heavily, lowering his head into his hands. What a way to say goodbye.

“Fucking hell,” John swore as he closed the door to his flat and leaned his back against it.

He dropped his keys onto the lamp table beside the door. Stu had always told him to put the keys in
the same place every time – that way, he wouldn’t lose them. Stu was ever pragmatic.

Stu .

What the hell had happened?

John felt more thinking back than he had in the moment. He closed his eyes and ran through the
memory like he’d run through a bit of film; he slowed it down and paused, analyzing it frame-for-
frame.

The first, Stu reaching a hand up to touch his face. That had caused a shock – hadnt it? - that ran
across his shoulders. Surprise at being touched. Stu never touched him.

The next, Stu leaning forward. This must have been when John started to wonder what was going
on. He surely asked himself what Stu needed to say that was so urgent and private.

And Christ, did he find out. Stu had to say something too urgent and private for words to express,
evidently.

What even was that? What was it for?

Still mentally paused on Stu leaning towards him, John brought his hands up to his hair, wringing
them through it in frustration. He couldn’t fathom the reason for what had happened. He didn’t
want to say what it was, didn’t want to think the word, but he couldn’t stop it from circling through
his head -
Stu had kissed him.

Stu.

“Shit,” he bit out, eyes still screwed shut. “Shit.”

He felt his knees weaken and slid down until he reached the ground.

The kiss itself wasn’t that monumental. Stu didn’t have any facial hair or anything that said male
too loudly. If he weren’t painfully aware, John might have been able to think he was just kissing
like normal. Meaning, just kissing a girl .

It had only been the brief brush of lips, close-mouthed and tentative. Undemanding and risky.
Dependent and hesitant. Regretful, even in the moment.

John had known Stu liked men. It was something that passed between them unspoken; John saw
him sitting a bit too close to some kid at the bar, saw them disappear into the back together,
reemerging disheveled and guilty.

They had even almost talked about it, a couple of times. Stu, sensing that it made John
uncomfortable, made it as quiet as possible, but he had given John enough confirmation to be sure.
To make sure John was alright with it.

And he was – had been, at least – so long as it didn’t concern him. It hadn’t concerned him, until
now.

Quite the parting gift.

In the memory, John had closed his eyes. He couldn’t remember if he had really done so; it
happened to fast to really tell. But his eyes being closed didn’t matter half as much as what he saw
when he opened them.

Pulling away wasn’t Stu. He didn’t see the hard gaze and sharp jaw of his flatmate ; he saw the
heavy hazel eyes and full lips of someone he certainly had no business thinking about. He wasn’t
kissing Stu anymore.

He was kissing Paul.

And as much as he wanted to banish this memory – well, at this point, it wasn’t so much of a
memory anymore – as much as he wanted to banish this thought , he had just a bit of difficulty,
especially when he leaned forward and captured Paul’s lips again.

John blinked heavily and held his eyes shut even tighter, as though that would help rid him of these
unwanted thoughts. “ Shit ,” he said once again, his voice high and helpless.

Paul expected the knock on his door at four o’clock the next Wednesday. He jumped up from his
chair, setting down the magazine he’d been flipping through and taking long steps toward the
door.

“Who is it?” Jim called from the kitchen.

“George or John,” Paul called back. “We’re going for practice!”

There was the loud noise of his father setting something metal down; no doubt he was trying his
hand at cooking again. “Not practicin’ here, are you?”

“No, dad,” Paul reassured. They wouldn’t be disturbing him with their unsophisticated noise, as his
father affectionately liked to call rock and roll.

He pulled the door open. It was George who arrived first. Instead of inviting him in, Paul stepped
out and closed the door behind him. “We’re waitin’ on John, now. Then we can leave.”

“Great,” George said noncommittally, stepping back to lean against the front of the house and gaze
at the street.

“It’ll be odd, won’t it?” Paul began. “ Losin ’ Stu and Stan and gettin ' someone else for drums.
It’ll change everythin ’, won’t it?”

“You’re fair on bass,” George shrugged. “Better on guitar, granted, but fair.” He adjusted the strap
of his own guitar as he shifted. “An’ everyone’s said this lad from Rory Storm’s pretty good, so we
got a good deal, ‘parently.”

“Hope so,” Paul said. “I think – well, I hope, at least, that there’s some hope for the band.”

George grinned at him. “What, now that you’re here to save it? Sure, it must’ve failed without the
almighty guidance of the great Paul McCartney.”

“Of course,” Paul agreed with a laugh. He tilted his head. “Y’know, I hadn’t thought about this
before. But originally . . . well, maybe not originally, but you know what I mean. Either way, at
first, Stu had stayed with the band.”

“Yeah?” George asked, waiting for him to get on to his point.

“He must’ve been miserable,” he continued. “I mean, you could tell he hated playin ’, right? He
didn’t hide it. But before , he never got out of the band.”

“John couldn’t let him escape.”

Paul knit his brows. “I wouldn’t say that,” he said, feeling obligated to defend John. Thinking
about it, though, he knew George must have been right. Even before Paul came along, Stu had
wanted to leave. Without him there to take his place on bass, Stu would have reluctantly remained.
Did that mean John coerced him into staying? What did that say about John?

He shook his head. He didn’t want to assume things he had no way to prove. There were too many
other factors that undoubtedly went into it.

“You’re just nicer ‘an me,” George dismissed as a familiar form turned the corner.

As he got closer, Paul saw that John was carrying two guitars, one in an old case. He waved
George along with him to meet him halfway.

Once they met on the sidewalk, Paul noticed John’s head slightly bent forward, his eyes downcast.
“Hey,” Paul greeted almost probingly, trying to get him to raise his head. John looked fleetingly up
at George, then in Paul’s general direction, before looking off to the side.

He was squinting theatrically as though he were examining the neighborhood. “Nice day,” he said
blandly.

“Yeah,” Paul agreed, confused with John’s behaviour. He looked to George, who seemed equally
perplexed.

“Stu left this in his will,” John said. Paul just barely caught the way John rushed through the name.
“It’s my solemn duty to bequeath it unto you.” He slid the strap off of his shoulder and handed it
over to Paul.

“His bass?” John nodded. “That’s nice of him.”

“Well, you need it more than ‘ im ,” John shrugged and turned around. “Let’s get on with this,
yeah? Don’t wanna keep that new drummer waiting.”

“Of course not.”

What was up with John? He didn’t seem to want to meet Paul’s gaze.

Was it because of what happened at their gig? That was the last time they’d seen each other. But
Paul had distinctly gotten the impression that nothing about that . . . altercation had bothered John.
Was he that oblivious? John had seemed perfectly normal the rest of the night.

He and George walked a bit behind John, following his path to the drummer’s place. Noticing his
deep thought, George bumped his shoulder. “Don’t worry ‘bout it,” he said quietly. “He’s just
strange.”

Paul raised his eyebrows, not quite believing that John being strange was the best explanation for
his behavior.

They walked through the city mostly in silence before hopping on the bus for a rather short ride.
The neighborhood they ended up in was quite unlike the ones Paul had been to. He and George
didn’t live in the most well-to-do parts of town, but it wasn’t quite downtown , either. John and
Stu’s place had been in roughly the same area. This new drummer evidently did not live such a life
of luxury.

They were going to his flat only because he had a drum kit, John had told them when he arranged
this first meeting. They were going to audition him, in a sense, though all three knew they really
had no other choice. Paul still didn’t know his name, since everyone referred to him as ‘Rory
Storm’s old drummer’.

There was a huddled form leaning against the side of an old shop. Paul could tell it was just
someone out on their luck and felt a bit of pity for him. John, on the other hand, slowed down a bit
to be in-step with Paul, then threw a shoulder over his shoulder.

“There are all sorts around this place,” he said to Paul once they’d passed the homeless man. “
Gotta be careful of some people.”

Paul was momentarily surprised that John had decided to talk to him. “What, him? I’m sure he
wasn’t dangerous or anythin ’.”

John looked at him and raised one brow. “Really? You can’t tell who’s good and who isn’t when
they sit like that, yeah? Look all harmless til they see you got somethin’ worth a few.”

Paul sighed exasperatedly. “John, I’ve lived here all me life,” he said. “I know my way around
these people.”

“I’m just sayin ’, you got the sort of face they’d take advantage of.”
Paul pulled away. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, affronted .

John opened his mouth wordlessly, then said, “Oh, you know.”

“I really don’t. What’d you mean?”

John narrowed his eyes at him and just shook his head.

Paul did know what he meant. He looked a bit less than masculine, he knew. Not exactly the
intimidating sort. It was just rather toward of John to assume Paul was suddenly more vulnerable
now because of it.

John stayed beside Paul the rest of the walk. He got the impression that John felt he had to protect
him, which was just a bit insulting. He consoled himself by saying that at least it was better than
John ignoring him.

They walked on a bit further into an area with a few tenement buildings. “Look at all these places,”
John mused. “Bet they’re nice an’ cheap.”

“I’d guess so,” George said, looking around. “Not the best part of town, this.”

They passed a nailed-up sign in front of one building advertising an apartment for lease for a rather
low price. “Look at this,” he remarked. “My place now is just so expensive, what with Stu gone an’
all.”

Paul laughed. “You braggin’ or complaining?”

John just shot him a sidelong glance.

“If it’s too expensive, just move,” George offered unhelpfully. The look on his face told Paul that
he only said it because he knew it would bother John. He smiled playfully.

“Yeah, yeah,” John waved his arm at George like he was swatting away a fly.

They got through the worst parts. Here, there were fewer boarded-up shops and seedy alleyways.
Even the roads looked more taken care of.

John stopped in front of one building, looking up. “This is the place,” John said. “Apartment 20 on
the second floor. We ready, lads?”

George and Paul shrugged and followed John off to the side of the building, where they climbed
the metal stairwell. Looking at the building, it didn’t seem nearly as bad as the spot they’d just
gotten out of. The rooms didn’t seem quite as small or run-down, though it was far from a nice
building.

Walking across the landing, they stopped in front of the door with a rusty 20 nailed onto the front.
John buzzed the bell and stepped back.

They heard the sound of muffled footsteps behind the door. Paul and George made eye contact
once again, sharing a look that said I hope he’s good . Paul was both excited and nervous to find
out.

The door swung open quickly.

There's something odd that happens when you see someone in a place you don’t expect to see
them. When Paul would see a teacher in the supermarket, he wouldn’t recognize them immediately.
They would just have this out-of-place quality that made him pause and consider for a moment
why exactly they looked familiar.

It wasn’t exactly so in this case. What staggered Paul wasn’t seeing the drummer and not being
able to recognize him immediately. No, the second his eyes landed on him, Paul knew who he was.
He just didn’t believe it.

He was frozen in shock.

“R-R-Ritchie?”

Well . . . there you have it. It's him. IT'S HIM you guys can't imagine how long I've waited for this
(even though I am, myself, the one who kept him away)

Anyway . . . this is chapter 17. That's a big number. For me, anyway. I've never written so much of
one story! I feel so accomplished and I really think I'll end up finishing this one. That being said,
I'm kinda sensing an end coming in the closer eventual future?

To be perfectly honest, I'm not quite sure how I'm gonna end it or when (really, the stuff I've had
planned stops in the next couple of chapters) so I'll have to find a nice way to start concluding this
tale. Tying up loose ends, you know.

Enough of my rambling. Hope you enjoyed, please drop a comment to let me know how it was,
and most of all, STAY SAFE! Love you guys
 The Quartet Practiced in the Park

For the slightest fraction of a second, a deafening silence blanketed the flat and held all four of
them in the tightest of tensions. George and John looked on as Paul and the drummer stared at each
other in wide-eyed amazement and disbelieving recognition, the way a baby would recognize its
own reflection the first time.

The strength of the silence made it seem to stretch on forever. George could swear one of them
would snap – they stood with such focused rigidity that their knees would have to lock sooner or
later.

After that infinitely short and infinitely long moment, Paul took a deep breath and exclaimed,
disbelieving, “Ritchie?!”

George and John shared a quick glance of surprise.

It took the drummer a moment to gather his words. His bright blue eyes were opened wide. He
seemed as surprised as Paul. “P-Paul? You . . . you know me?” The drummer, for all his short
stature, looked very tough. He had the styled hair, but shot through with a streak of white which
gave George the distinct impression of a shark. His beard made him look much more mature. This
intimidating appearance created a sharp juxtaposition with his soft, unsure tone.

Quick as lightning, Paul flew toward Ringo Starr and enveloped him in the tightest of embraces.
The drummer staggered back a couple of steps, all but dragging Paul along with him, before
gathering himself and patting his back reassuringly.

“Oh, my god, Ritchie,” George barely heard Paul muttering into Ringo’s shoulder. “ I missed you
so much .”

One hand reached up to the back of Paul’s head, where it touched his hair, as if testing its
tangibility, its reality. “It’s really you?” he asked. “I mean, you ?”

George crossed his arms. There was a distinct familiarity in the way this Ringo specified the ‘you’.
He narrowed his eyes and watched the two of them closely.

Paul nodded. He sniffed. Was he crying? “Yeah, Ritchie.” There was a pause. Paul and Ringo still
stood embracing. George and John began to shift on their feet, feeling quite like they had walked in
on something private. “Christ, Ritch, I didn’t think you could be – I mean, I never imagined -”

Ringo shook his head with an incredulous laugh. “Neither did I, mate, trust me. Or else you’d have
seen me way before this.”

Paul gave a chuckle so laden with emotion that George felt almost indecent. He should not have
been privy to this conversation.

If his possibly far-fetched suspicions had any merit, furthermore, he had to stop them from saying
too much in front of John. He cleared his throat awkwardly. “You two – you know each other?” An
obvious question that nonetheless needed asking.

As if realizing that they were not the only two living beings in the world, Paul and Ringo pulled
apart. Paul rubbed the back of his neck bashfully, his face flushed. He couldn’t quite keep the
smile off of his face and his eyes constantly found Ringo’s. “Oh, yeah, well, we - “ He started
once he remembered to respond. “We did know each other a while back. Kind of, er , lost contact.”
Paul seemed to regain some sense of others around him as he fixed George with a pointed look. His
eyes widened almost, but not fully, in understanding.

John, who had stood in silence to George’s right throughout the entire exchange, jumped suddenly
to life with a jerk of his entire body. “Right!” he exclaimed. “I suppose introductions are in order!
In case you are not yet aware,” he said, conducting himself in the most ridiculous of manners that
obviously covered up true emotion, “this is Ringo Starr, a prospective drummer. And this is Paul,
our bassist-to-be.”

George saw John’s irritation clearly. He did not enjoy being second to know something; he looked
almost betrayed by Ringo having known Paul well before he did.

Ringo, however, was oblivious to the passive-aggressive ire. “Bassist, eh?” he said to Paul after
leading the four of them through the entryway to the living room, where a large drum set sat where
a tube television might have. He plopped himself down on an old sofa. “That’s different.”

“Had to make some adjustments,” Paul said, following Ringo’s footsteps almost exactly. He sat
directly beside him on the sofa, hardly an inch of their bodies not fused together. George was taken
aback by how supremely comfortable Paul seemed. “That’s just how things worked out, I
suppose.”

Ringo turned his head to look at Paul and just smiled again.

“My God,” Paul leaned closer to Ringo, if that were even possible. He whispered, “ I have got so
much to tell you! ” in such a high and excited tone that George could hear him perfectly.

Ringo kept smiling. After a moment, he coughed and clasped his hands together pragmatically.
“Well,” he began. “To get down to th ’ real matter. I know John already – met last week – but
who’s this, then?” he gestured to George, who felt subtly uncomfortable with the attention.

“Right, of course,” Paul said, as if remembering that George existed. “This is George Harrison,
lead guitar. He’s just brilliant, mate.” The praise was well-received from Ringo but fell on
George’s deaf ears.

Paul looked around the flat. “This place . . .” he said quietly. George followed his example and
took in the very bland decorating; it was all very mod. “It’s so . . . not you .”

Ringo laughed. “You said it, lad. We both had to make some adjustments.”

Paul smiled warmly. He stood and went over to the drums, sitting on the stool and moving his arms
around, as if feeling it but not actually touching anything. “But this, this is definitely yours.”

“It is.”

Paul lifted his eyes imploringly to George, turning around and clasping his hands together as
though he were praying. “Geo, can I please borrow your guitar? Didn’t bring mine, just Stu’s
bass.”

George looked at Paul for a moment while an unfamiliar emotion swept through him. It took him a
while to place it in a similar category to jealousy. “Sure,” he said shortly, unslinging it from his
shoulder and handing it over.

“Thanks,” Paul said, testing each string to find it was still perfectly in tune. He stepped away from
the drums. “Come ‘ ead , Ritch. You’ve just got to play something with me.”

Ringo shrugged and complied, picking his drumsticks up off the coffee table. “Play what?”

Shrugging nonchalantly, Paul just answered, “Surprise me. I’m sure you’ve got something
appropriate .”

Paul obviously knew this ‘Ritchie’ from before . They were not being subtle. Were they laughing
inside, thinking they were clever and sly?

George sat on the arm of the sofa, crossing his legs and arms in a very closed-off stance as he
watched Ringo settle in. He shared another glance with John.

He felt sorry for the older guitarist. As tough as he tried to appear, John was terrible at hiding his
emotions. He either became obnoxiously goofy or obnoxiously sullen – it was obvious which one
he chose on this occasion, standing resolutely in the middle of the room with his hands shoved deep
in his pocket and his eyes downcast.

When Ringo launched into an emphatic rendition of “Jailhouse Rock”, Paul jumped almost
imperceptibly and joined in.

Paul and Ringo played together like they were meant to. They knew each other already, completely
understanding how the other acted within the music. As they played, they seldom broke eye
contact.

George shot another look at John, who begrudgingly agreed. He had an ‘alright, don’t rub it in’
look to his eyes that suggested he thought the exact same thing George did. Ringo and Paul had to
play together .

After the song, John insists that they get down to actual practice. George recognized this as a silent
affirmation that, yes, Ringo was now their drummer. Not that he doubted that would happen, of
course; they had no other hope, and besides, Ringo was good.

As they got into the practice, George noticed with a shake of his head that Paul and Ringo were
still woefully oblivious to John’s increasingly sullen attitude. He wasn’t sure how that was
possible, as George himself could almost smell the bubbling jealousy from across the room. Even
the way he struck his first chord was saturated with aggression.

Ringo was familiar with most of the songs on their setlist, and for the ones he was unfamiliar with,
Paul just had to tap something out quickly, and Ringo just got it . If he weren’t so supremely
confused about the entire situation, George might’ve bothered to think that was impressive.

John’s singing was harsh and abrasive. This wasn’t too far from his normal tone, but George, who
had spent enough time around him by now, could definitely tell a difference. Despite the fact that
he sang at their gig, Paul didn’t join in. George hoped this meant he had noticed some of the
turmoil emanating from John.

After they’d gone through a good half of their songs, John set his guitar down and announced, “I’m
off to powder me nose, a’right?”

He left before anyone could reply, even Ringo, who probably would have pointed him in the
direction of the bathroom. Ringo just raised one drumstick as if motion towards it, but he lowered it
with a silent look at John’s retreating back.

Paul scrambled to put his bass down and beckoned Ringo off of his drums. He drug him over to the
sofa, the arm of which George was still perched upon. “Guys, guys,” he said urgently, “I have
something very important to say.”

He took a deep breath, but couldn’t hold it; he was shaking from excitement.

“George,” he said, fixing him with steady eyes, “Ritchie’s like me.”

Before George could think of something to say in response, Ringo piped up in protest. “But, Paul -
“

“Ritch,” Paul silenced, “ he knows .”

Both Ringo and George uttered a simultaneous, “What?” They looked at each other directly for
perhaps the first time.

He was like Paul. He was like Paul . That meant he – Christ. “There’s two of you?”

“Yes,” Paul nodded resolutely. “We sort of came here together.”

George simply stared. Together? As in, at the same time, same place? “The exact - “ he cut
himself off, hearing how loud his voice had been. He didn’t exactly know how far away Ringo’s
bathroom was, but he didn’t want to risk John overhearing. “The exact same way?” he continued in
a hushed whisper. “And you just had to do what Paul did? Just start your life again?”

He wasn’t surprised that Ringo was here. If Paul could wind up this way, it wasn’t too much of a
stretch to think somebody else could have, too. But George had gotten so used to thinking of Paul
as a lone anomaly that it took a moment to think of Ringo in the same way.

Ringo looked at Paul. “I - I suppose so,” he said.

Paul shook his head. “I hardly think we’ve time to get into this now,” he said. “Look, I’ll need to
tell you all about it some other time when no-one else is around.” Did that mean John, or John
and George? “Give me this number, Ritch, will you? I’ll give you a ring. I’ll give you both a ring.
Soon. I – I really think we all need to be on the same page, y’know?”

That was some measure of relief to George. Paul had dragged him into this, and now, he was
personally invested.

He hoped Paul would not decide George had fulfilled his usefulness as a temporary friend and
confidante until his true lifeline, ‘Ritchie’, appeared. That was the true source of his jealousy.
When George realized that he felt that way, he blinked slowly, surprised and disappointed with
himself.

He found himself reminiscing about the days before Paul changed. Or, rather, before his Paul had
been replaced or erased or swapped or whatever. The Paul who had been his best friend and his
alone: who knew him better than he knew himself, who practically grew up with him. He missed
him.

Even as he thought it, he knew it was terribly unfair. Paul didn’t ask for any of this; neither of them
had. He shouldn’t wish Paul were somehow gone. And he shouldn’t be so jealous.

He shook his head.

Just then, they heard the flush of a toilet and the running of water. They all fell silent.
“We have so much to catch up on,” Paul rushed to say before they heard the door swing open.

John re-entered. His eyes were still downcast, but George noticed that they were wider, as though
he were so immensely confused with the tops of his shoes.

John found the bathroom easily enough, but he didn’t exactly need to use it.

He closed the door, locked it (mostly out of habit), and leaned his head against the wood. He
closed his eyes.

He wasn’t particularly listening to what was going on. He mostly wanted a moment to himself to
reflect on how outstandingly odd Paul was behaving, and how outstandingly odd John reacted to
that behavior.

Paul’s face hadn’t lost its grin since they entered. He was positively giddy . It was an uninhibited
excitement the likes of which John had not seen from Paul yet. The genuine happiness that
emanated from his smile for the past hour reached John and poked at his skin with incessant
mocking.

He’s happy. So happy with Ringo. Not with you. Of course he wouldn’t be. You want too much.

John groaned quietly and clenched tufts of his hair in his fists. John did want too much. He
wanted Paul in the band. He wanted Paul as a friend. He wanted Paul as . . . something more than
that. The sort of something you put your arms around and pulled close and kissed until the world
stopped around you.

Just as he wallowed in his self-pity, he heard their voices floating back from the living room.

It was Paul’s voice stating, very clearly, “Ritchie’s like me.” Some buzzing, there, from the merger
of multiple voices, then - “ He knows .”

He knows.

Knows what?

John shook his head; whatever it was, it wasn’t something Paul felt John needed to know. So, in
part out of curiosity but mostly out of spite, John listened more closely.

Harrison. “There’s two of you?”

Paul again. “Yes. We came here together.”

Back to George. “The exact - ” and then, a low hum from which words weren’t even close to
being distinguishable.

John’s mind reeled. What great secret was shared between them? Something between Paul and
Ringo, to begin with. Paul had let George in.

It made sense that there was something between Paul and Harrison. Paul hated John, in the
beginning, because he pried, trying to discover that very secret – and Harrison wasn’t necessarily
warm and inviting where John was concerned. There was a subtle distance, perhaps from
animosity, or just wariness, that John felt from George that said, quite clearly, Don’t get too
comfortable . Not a threat, per se – just George making sure John knew that he didn’t trust John,
and John shouldn’t trust him.

But even though it made sense that there was a secret in the first place, John wasn't much closer to
discovering whatever it was. They had quieted down now; he couldn’t hope to hear anything more
specific.

Paul and Ringo came here together. John knew that they had both been around for quite a while, so
this made a distinct lack of sense. Where could they have come from?

Perhaps it wasn’t a literal arrival. Perhaps they came to . . . what, an agreement? A conclusion? Is
that it?

There’s two of you .

Maybe he didn’t want too much?

John sighed and brought his hand to toe door knob but paused. If he could hear there regular
conversation, they would be able to hear his own sounds. He flushed the toilet and ran the faucet
just to make sure they suspected nothing.

He took a deep breath and went back in, trying to push down the bubbling jealousy that almost
brought him to nausea when he saw how close Paul and Ringo were sitting on the sofa.

Time flew by. He felt like he was playing guitar to Ritchie’s drumming for only a minute; the rest
of the practice couldn’t have been much longer at all. Even now, as he sat cross-legged on the sofa
beside his old friend, feeling almost nervous with excitement. His cheeks hurt from smiling so
much.

He hardly took notice of George and John as they shuffled about, packing up their guitars. He
almost didn’t hear when Geo asked, “You gonna head out, mate?” It took Ritchie looking at him
expectantly to realize he’d been asked a question.

“Oh, what? Uh, yeah, no I’ll stay here for a bit,” he waved, then looked back to Ritch. “That’s
okay, right? Don’t have anywhere to be, do you?”

“’Course not,” he grinned.

That was it, then. Paul said goodbye to John and George off-handedly, waiting in eager anticipation
for them to vacate the flat. Now, every second seemed to drag on forever; he sighed exasperatedly
once the two of them finally left.

When they were at last alone, Paul and Ritchie could only stare at the other in silence. It was tense
in an amiable way, both of them waiting for the other to start first, both wanting to say the same
thing.

“I missed you,” Paul repeated.

“Christ, Paul,” Ritchie shook his head. “I didn’t expect to ever see you again.”

“I . . . I didn’t, either.”

Ritchie leaned back on the sofa, kicking his feet up onto his table. Paul was sat cross-legged facing
him, his knees touching Ritchie’s side.
He looked at Paul. “You look rather, er , well-adjusted.”

“I -” At first, Paul wouldn’t have said he was. His thoughts and worries kept him up at night; every
new thing he learned that shouldn’t have been new was a constant reminder that he didn’t belong.
But he reconsidered. “I have George,” he said. “I told him very early on. Maybe I shouldn’t have,
but I was still so shaken. I suppose I had to prove to myself I wasn’t crazy.”

Ritchie let out a breathless chuckle. “Tell me about it, lad.”

“Did you . . . tell anybody?”

“Nah, ‘course not,” he said. “Who’d believe me?”

“That’s what I thought, too,” Paul said. He then told the story of what had happened in the round-
about way he had of relating events; eventually, Ritchie knew all about his arrival (as much as Paul
could understand of it, at any rate), his friendship with George, and the odd formation of the band.

Ritchie was silent after this, taking it all in.

“So you know what went on with me,” Paul concluded. “But, Ritchie, what about you? I can’t
imagine how you wound up here, too.”

Ritchie smiled to himself and shook his head at the absurdity of it all. “It’s almost unreal to talk
about it,” he said. “For a while there, I tried convincing myself I was crazy. That was almost easier
to stomach.”

Paul thought about how fortunate he was to have George.

“After you almost had that run-in, you know, well, I ran out to get you – to get you out o’ the road,
yeah? And then there was the car, and – and you know what happened next, of course.”

“Yeah, I wound up here.”

“So did I, evidently.”

He felt his face blanche. It was his fault that Ritchie was here; he’d run out to get him. He wouldn’t
have had to if Paul hadn’t been walking so close to the road, or whatever had happened to land him
here. It was his fault that he dragged Ritch along.

“Don’t you start with that,” he scolded, noticing where Paul’s mind was taking him. “It’s not your
fault at all, Paul. I could’a just left you out there, sure, but the guilt of you being dead or gone or
whatever, it would be worse than anythin ’.”

"But - ” Ritchie’s look silenced him. For all that he was friendly and kind, when he really meant
something, he took no arguments. Paul could see how people thought he was intimidating. “Okay.
It still doesn’t make sense, though. WHen I got back here – y'know, when I came to – I was in the
same place! The same street, there was that same bench and light and everything. But you weren’t
there.”

He laughed without humor. “I can’t bloody remember, mate,” Ritchie said honestly. “I had one hell
of a headache – near about passed out, I swear I did, stumblin ’ around that night. Can’t remember
half of it. Wandered around until sunrise, I did. I coudn’t wrap me head around what was goin ’
on. Everybody dressed so strange, all the cars were so old. Nothing was right. The place was just so
difference. Passed a newsstand, then, and I swear I did keel over.”
Paul tried not to picture it; Ritchie, wandering blindly through the familiar but strange streets,
feeling like death. “I thought I was dreaming, at first.”

“Christ, I wished I was,” he agreed.

“And how . . . you’re a drummer? Like, with a real band? How’d that come around?”

“Apparently I am! It sure surprised me, too. Ran into this lad who knew me – course, I couldn’t
tell him from Adam, but by then I could think well enough to play along. Said his name was Rory
and drug me off to some meeting with the other lads I didn’t know, told me to play some beat that
I couldn’t very well just pull out of me arse ,” Ritchie laughed despite himself.

“I’m assuming that didn’t exactly go well.”

“’Course not. We had a big row – well, really, they shouted abuse at my ineptitude and
laziness, sayin’ there was somethin’ big coming up. Getting a deal to go to the continent, I think.
Germany or France or somethin’. I could only sit there – can you imagine? Just being shouted at to
play some mod scene out of nowhere?”

Paul shook his head. “That’s downright hell.”

“One of those kids ended up walkin ’ me home. That was right lucky, ‘cause I didn’t know
where I lived, o’course . Dug out me spare key and everythin ’. He told me he hoped I could sort
meself out soon enough.”

“And since you’re not currently in Hamburg with Rory Storm and the Hurricanes,” Paul surmised
needlessly, “I’d guess you didn’t.”

“Not by half,” he enunciated. “Lay in bed all day for weeks, I did. Sometimes I’d turn on the radio,
give the world an ear, but that only made me feel more out of place. I just wanted everything to
stop for a few moments so I could try to understand what happened.”

“Don’t I know it,” Paul agreed. “I woke up the next morning and read a newspaper about
somethin ’ with Russia and I swear it took me an hour to figure out why it was relevant.”

“It all felt like an elaborate joke,” he continued. “That behavior gave the band a right fright. I guess
they weren’t bad people, ‘cause they did seem to care enough, but I couldn’t bring meself to
join ‘em, you know? Didn’t know them or their songs or whoever the fuck Ringo Starr is
supposed to be.”

Paul had to laugh. “Ringo Starr.” He chuckled some more, thinking about how campy the name
suddenly seemed, now that he associated it with Ritchie. “You’re famous! My god. Ivan – he's a,
er , a friend of mine . . . or really, of Paul’s - he knew about you and got you in touch with John.
He was lookin ’ for a drummer.”

“Yeah, that was . . . that was a bit surprising, you know. I heard ‘ em talkin’ about you. The
Hurricanes, I mean. Right before they found some new drummer and left. Said Lennon something
or other found some kid called McCartney to replace his shit bassist.”

Paul flinched. “Well. As poorly worded as it might have been, I suppose all that’s true. I didn’t
know word travelled so fast.”

“Oh, it does,” he assured. “This music scene’s tight here. I didn’t even hope it’d be you, though. I
mean, I already existed here. I was me but not, right? So I figured you’d be . . . you, but not. And I
was just utterly hopeless.”
“Me but not is exactly how it is.” Paul leaned back on the sofa, pressed against RItchie. It was
comfortable. “So, given all that, how’d you come to be here, then? I mean, playing with the band.
Just when Ivan sought you out?”

“Well, that, and I got fed up with being depressed. I went round to your record shop, you know, but
it wasn’t a record shop any more.”

“That’s what I did, too, on that first night. It’s where I met John. The Cavern.”

Paul could hear the excitement in Ritchie’s tone rising as he recalled the story. “I went in and I
couldn’t believe it, but there you were, up on that stage with your guitar, near shittin’ yourself with
nerves.”

“Hey!”

“I just had to get back there and talk to you – but that kid, Ivan as you said, told me you didn’t
want to talk to anybody.”

Realization dawned on him. “Oh my god. That was you!” he blinked slowly. “It wasn’t even me
who said it. It was John. But – Christ, to think, we may’ve met so much sooner! That tosser.”

“John, yeah?” Ritchie looked around the flat as if seeing him still standing there. “He’s quite . . .
doesn’t seem like a nice sort, does he?”

Paul raised a skeptical eyebrow, feeling almost defensive of his bandmate. “Look at your hair,
mate! Neither do you. What’s with that beard, anyway?”

Ritchie tilted his chin up and stroked his short beard pensively, like a wizened old man. “I think it
quite suites me.”

“Sure. You keep telling yourself that.”

Ritchie abandoned the somewhat disconcerting attention to his facial hair. As he just slightly
opened his mouth to say something else, Paul excitedly sat straighter and exclaimed, “Oh!” He
only realized he may have interrupted Ritchie after he’d already done it, so he continued. “I forgot
to tell you. D’you remember what I was doing right before we left the shop?”

Ritchie scratched his chin. “Eh, not really.”

“Well, you probably wouldn’t,” he dismissed off-handedly. “But I was listening to that one album,
Googling that failed band. And would you guess what? It’s us! We’re the Silver Beatles!”

Ritchie only stared at him for a moment, likely trying to work out how Paul’s involvement added
up. “You . . . you were part of the band?”

“I wasn’t , not back then,” Paul explained. “But I am now.”

“How - how’s that work, then? Isn’t it . . . I dunno, against the rules or something?”

“Oh, don’t worry, I ran through all this stuff already. Like, would I change things and that sort of
stuff – well, I remembered that the original drummer of the band was someone called Pete Best.”
Paul waited to see if Ritchie recognized the name.

He did. “He’s the one who went off to Hamburg with the Hurricanes.”

“Exactly! See, you being here – God, I still can’t believe how it’s working out – you quitting your
band made them bring him on, which meant he couldn’t join this band, which means everything
was out the window anyway, yeah? So what would be the harm in it?”

“And just like that, you decided to go for it?”

“Well, there’s another thing. George was a friend of this Paul’s for years now. And I remembered
that he was supposed to be in the band, y’know ? But he’s younger than I am and John was trying
to bargain, I suppose, and woudn’t take him on unless I joined, too.”

Ritchie narrowed his eyes slightly.

“So, really,” Paul continued, ignoring Ritchie’s peculiar look, “I was changing things and keeping
them the same, too.”

“Sounds like some rationalization to me.”

“Well. . . maybe. But this, it’s almost a dream come true, you know. Joining a band and all that.”

Ritchie shook his head in wonder. “You’re so established,” he said. “You’ve got friends and a
band. That’s pretty amazing.”

“Everything I have, you have now,” He pointed out. “It’s almost like we’re married. Isn’t that
funny? I started out a bit luckier than you,” Paul admitted. “I just had to go home. It’s even the
same house – same dad, same brother. Though, when I say same . . .”

“I know what you mean.”

“And George! He – I couldn’t do this without him. I couldn’t help telling him, either.”

“And he just believed you?”

“Well, I had to convince him. Had my driver’s license and phone, ‘course. When I showed it to
him, he believed me. After a while.”

He nodded. “And does John know?”

Paul was fast to deny it. “Not a whit. He did try to find out why I showed up to the Cavern in
absolute shambles, but I haven’t told him anything. And - ” he leaned in close to further
emphasize the importance of this point “ - I didn’t tell George that he’d been part of the band. As
far as he knows, it was just John, Best, and Stu. The bassist.”

Ritchie tilted his head.

“I didn’t want to . . . well, I know I’m more or less just picking and choosing with these rules, but
I didn’t want to tell him anything about himself from the future.”

“Are you gonna tell him eventually?”

“Maybe. I’m gonna tell him about you, at any rate. Gonna have you both over and we’ll talk
about this and Jesus Christ I still feel like I'm in shock. Look at my hands! They’re shaking!” He
held his hands up as evidence.

They spend the rest of the afternoon swapping different stories about the differences they’d noticed
in their two distinct lives. Paul tells him of his notebook, his job, and his record collection, which
led the two of them onto a tangent about all the music they missed so dearly.
“God, I would kill to hear some Bowie,” Ringo said. “Only so much of Bobby Darin I can take in a
day.”

“I mean, really ? And this hair, mate. Just wait ‘til they all see what Elvis ends up lookin ’ like.”

They move on to the other conveniences they no longer enjoyed, mostly their phones. They
couldn’t pull up a map wherever they were; they couldn’t Google song lyrics when they had
something stuck in their head; they couldn’t shoot anyone a quick text to see how they were doing.
“Dialing every time? I’ll get carpel tunnel one of these days.”

“And television.”

“God, yes! I do miss hours starin’ at the telly . If I’m gonna do nothin ’ all day, I’d at least like
to do nothin ’ entertained.”

There were other things, too. They missed their families and their old lives. When the conversation
moved into that territory, they both came contemplative and quiet, just thinking about what they no
longer had. Neither of them wanted to ask if the other thought they’d ever get back, probably afraid
of the answer.

“Now, I don’t really want to leave,” Paul cleared his throat eventually, “but it’s getting late. I’ll get
arthritis giving you a ring right away.”

Ritchie stood and shrugged. “I’ve certainly got nothin’ else to do. Hell, I even quit my job.”

“You did?”

“That does tend to happen when you don’t show up for a week.” He laughed at himself. “Honest,
I didn’ even know I had a job, ‘til the manager rung and asked.”

“Christ.” He put an arm on his friend’s shoulder that quickly turned into another embrace. “I’m so
sorry about how it worked on your end, Ritchie. I wish – we should’ve just found each other from
the start. That would have been so much better.”

“I’m just glad we found each other now.”

AHHH it's RINGOOOOOO

I was so excited for this you won't believe. Literally the overall energy of this scene is what really
got me wanting to put the proverbial pen to proverbial paper with this whole idea.

That being said, as I was proofing this chapter I realized, wow, I really like this. And that means a
lot, coming from the person who usually scorns her ugly creations and ignores them all Victor
Frankenstein-style. And I realized: It's cause of George's POV. He's just a little tiny bit my
favorite.

Anyway, please let me know what you thought! And please, please, stay save out there (or,
preferably, in there)!
 Dare Seize the Fire

John lit a cigarette with crisp movements in his nimble fingers. Such a routine action almost made
him calm down, but the bouncing of his foot against the landing only eased after he’d taken a
couple of drags.

George closed the door to Ringo Starr’s flat and stopped for a moment, looking sidelong at John.
“What're you stickin ’ around for?” he asked with slightly narrowed eyes. John had never heard his
tone so accusatory.

“Just waitin ’,” he said vaguely.

Though he obviously didn’t like the answer, George accepted it with a curt nod and made quick
work of going down the stairs, an almost forced bounce in his steps.

John took another drag.

He needed to talk to Paul.

He leaned against the wall and used one hand to prop up his guitar case. He bent one of his legs,
placing his foot flat against the wall behind him. As he breathed out a cloud of smoke, he let his
head thud softly against the bricks.

Curiosity burned within him. What were they talking about? What was there secret? Did Paul
bother to think, during the entire practice, whether he should deign to explain to John (and possibly
George, but mostly John) what the deal was with this enigmatic drummer? Did Paul even think of
him for one moment?

John doubted it and took another sharp drag on his smoke.

He glanced back at the door as though he could will it open, as though he could will Paul to come
out, sans Ringo Starr, and walk home with him.

He laughed at himself derisively. What was he thinking? Paul wouldn’t come out anytime soon. To
wait for him would be foolish. If he were still standing there once Paul did eventually emerge,
furthermore, he would come across as some sort of creep.

Finishing his cigarette, John dropped it and stomped out the light before lifting his guitar case and
stomping down the stairs moodily.

He walked briskly. His clothes became vaguely too hot, which only irritated him further. He
fumed, cutting his eyes from side to side to watch out for passersby as he immersed himself in his
thoughts.

They had to take Ringo into the band. John’s personal feelings aside, he was a damn good
drummer. It gave him a sort of self-gratification, knowing the success of the band was more
important to him than whatever it was that drove him to shun the new inclusion. Jealousy?
Protectiveness? Utter selfishness?

It was John, Paul, George, and Ringo. He never would have foreseen such a lineup. Of the three,
the only one he actually chose was Paul. George came as part of the package, essentially, and
Ringo was the last free drummer in Liverpool, apparently. And Paul was in the middle of both of
them. The territorial part of John figured it was now more Paul’s band than his.
But that was just the surface of his jealousy, even John could admit. It wasn’t Paul’s position in the
band that bothered him: it was his relationship with the others. Since the beginning, John had felt
like he needed to compete with George for Paul’s trust. Paul never just told him things like he
surely told George. John felt inferior to George, and since George was now evidently inferior to
Ringo, John hardly stood a chance.

But beyond that – he wasn’t just competing for trust, was he? He competed for something more.
And this something more is a lot like what seemed to be between Paul and Ringo.

Jealousy ran green through every vein in his body, bleeding into every part of his band and his
relationships. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling and made him angry. He was angry at Paul for hiding
whatever went between him and Ringo. He’d tried to get to Paul’s secret before. When that failed,
he did his best to ignore his incessant need to know. Now, though, he couldn’t ignore it anymore.

Before he realized, he was standing at the front door of Mendips , having lost track of his progress
long ago. He entered and slammed the door loudly behind him, storming up to his room. Perhaps
Mimi scolded him for making such noise. Perhaps she called up to him to ask if anything was
wrong. He couldn’t tell; he’d shut out everything and launched himself onto the bed.

Several hours later, John felt no better. His anger had simmered down to mere underlying
animosity, which meant he acted appropriately cordial to Mimi for her to reluctantly cease her
probing questions about his mental state. But that only meant he couldn’t vent his frustration out
into the world, so as it was shut up inside him, pressure built.

He was uncertain as he searched for the shoes he had kicked off sometime after he’d gotten home.
He was uncertain as he grabbed a slip of paper from his bedside table. He was so uncertain as he
paused near the phone that he decided to pass it. He was uncertain as he grabbed his jacket from
off his desk chair, stepped carefully down the stairs so as not to wake Mimi, and slipped out the
front door. He was uncertain as he boarded the bus over to Allerton.

He was so uncertain again as he turned the last corner onto Forthin Road that he stopped at a
phone booth and stepped inside, fishing that slip of paper out of his pocket. Ivan had given it to him
some time ago. He put in some coins and dialed the number scrawled on it.

It rang too many times. John nearly pulled the phone away and put it back on the receiver until he
heart that voice say, “ Hello? ”

“Paul,” John said hesitantly.

“ John ,” Paul’s sleep-thickened voice said in realization. “ Wha-wha’s this about, then? All this
ringin ’ just about woke up the house, you idiot. ”

“Christ,” John exhaled nervously, “you’re grouchy when you’re tired.”

“ I - Sorry. Sorry, John. Just don’t wanna wake Da’ and Mike. ”

“No, yeah. I, um, I was wonderin’ if it’s all right if I came ‘round.”

A pause. “ Now? At . . . half past twelve? ”

John looked down at his feet. “ I shouldn’t ‘ ave asked .”

Paul was silent for a moment. “ I don’t hear anythin ’. Don’t think you woke ‘ em . You can come
by, if you’d like. ”

John was slightly surprised by this. Paul really shouldn’t have been fine with such an imposition.
“Oh. All right. Thanks.”

He hung up the phone and put the number back into his pocket. He glanced down the street, seeing
Paul’s house in the near distance. He considered waiting around, to pretend as though he were
calling from his house, but decided that if he had to wait any longer, he’d lose his nerve.

He marched up to Paul’s door and knocks gently, remembering the sleeping family. He heard soft
footsteps shuffling closer to the door. When it swung open, John took a step back.

Paul was just wearing his boxers. His eyes were heavily lidded and his normally neat hair was in
perfect disarray. John blinked awkwardly as he looked up from the pale skin of his chest and felt
blood rush to his cheeks. He looked down and avoided Paul’s eyes.

Paul cleared his throat. “Well,” he said quietly, “come in, then. But be quiet, now.”

John nodded and followed him silently up to his room.

When John asked if he could come by, Paul really expected him to have called from his house
phone, not the fucking booth down the street. He had expected to have at least twenty minutes to
wake himself up, maybe splash some cold water on his face, and to put a bloody shirt on.

He’d stopped by his closet on his way out of his room once he heard the knock at the front door
but rushed down to let John in, still worrying that his father or brother would get there first and
turn him away. He very much wanted to know what John wanted to discuss with such urgency.

Once Paul let John into his room, he pressed the door closed and dug a shirt from out of his closet.
All his shirts were hung up, even the white undershirts.

He sat down on his bed and looked to John, letting him know he didn’t have to be so nervous. Why
was he so worked up? He looked incredibly tense.

“Sit down, John,” he said, still keeping his voice low. “What’s up with you?”

“I, um,” he began eloquently. “I see you were asleep.”

“I was.” Why was he stalling? John was usually upfront. Paul was the roundabout one.

“Stay out late?”

Oh. That’s what this was about. Paul corrected himself – John wasn’t being roundabout, he was
leading up to his main point through subtle manipulation. “You want to talk about Ritchie.”

“Yeah, I wanna talk about Ringo Starr.”

“What do you want to say?” Paul kept his voice even and guarded. This was, obviously, dangerous
territory.

“Wasting no time, I see,” John said, looking down at his knees, wasting time.

“Well, you did sort of interrupt me.” He motioned to the bed they both sat on. He knew he was
acting short, but his way of being careful about what he said was getting defensive.
“I could tell by the . . . state of your undress.”

“Oh, shove off,” Paul rolled his eyes. “You never said you were literally across the street.”

“Where else would I be?” Paul could tell he was gaining more confidence. “Come on, Macca.
Think.”

He crossed his arms expectantly and waited for John to continue.

“Calm down, mate. Really. I just wanted to talk t’ you, is all.”

“About Ritchie.” He could tell what John was doing. He was trying to get Paul to relax enough to
slip up. He was back to prying. Really, Paul should have expected this, now that Ritchie opened
that new can of worms.

“Well, it was a bit weird in there, you gotta admit. You an him.”

Paul shook his head. “Ritchie - er, Ringo – he's just an old friend.”

“You acted pretty surprised to see him.”

“I was.” If he sounded too defensive, it would be more suspicious, so Paul tried to tone it down, but
only came across as flippant. “I just didn’t know what he was up to recently,”

“Didn’t keep in touch?”

“No.”

John shifted on the bed, shuffling back to bring one leg up bent over the other. He rested a hand on
his ankle and asked, “Why not? You two seemed close back there.”

Paul didn’t know quite what he was implying with that. Their closeness had already been
established. “What, are you jealous?” He made an effort to sound like he was only teasing.

To his surprise, John’s eyes narrowed irritably. He steeled his expression and said, “God, shut up.
You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

It was Paul’s turn to be confused. “What?”

“Never mind,” he dismissed. His eyes were downcast, focusing on a spot in the corner of the room.
Paul looked into his eyes, inclining his head closer as though that would bring him nearer to
understanding what was running through John’s head. “It’s good,” he said eventually. “The rhythm
section should be on good terms. Familiar. Works out well.”

Paul couldn’t recall a time when John sounded more insecure. “I suppose it does,” he responded
cautiously.

“Why didn’t you tell us you knew Ringo Starr?” That, at least, sounded earned. John almost
seemed vulnerable as he asked it. Almost.

“I didn’t,” Paul said, which was true. “I knew Richard Starkey. No idea he was this Ringo Star
until today.”

John raised his eyebrows. “Sounds like there’s a story behind that.”

Paul shrugged and hoped it seemed nonchalant. Really, his heart was beating faster. “There is. But
I can’t tell it.”

“You can’t?”

“Nope.” He firmly shook his head.

“Why not?”

“Just can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

Paul sighed. “Won’t because I can’t,” he said exasperatedly.

“How . . .” he trailed off, trying to find a proper way to word it. “How well do you know him?”

“We were best mates for years,” he said honestly.

“Is that . . . all?”

“Yeah?” Paul tilted his head to the side. “John, why are you actin’ so odd all o’ the sudden?”

“I’m not,” he denied.

“You are. What’s wrong with Ritchie?”

“Nothing, really!” He held up his hands defensively and it gave Paul a feeling of relief, knowing he
wasn’t the only one nervous about revealing too much. This way, maybe John might be less apt to
notice any slip-ups. Still, it didn’t explain exactly what John was getting at. “I’m jus’ surprised you
know him.”

“All right,” Paul tried to seem casual.

There was a terse silence between them. Paul was too aware of how uncomfortable it was. Both of
them hid something – John, however, was trying to find a way to say it, while Paul was trying to
find a way not to say it. Really, it should have just been easy.

John took a deep breath. “Paul,” he said, “I’m gonna be honest. I know you’ve got somethin ’
you’re not saying. Whether you’re exactly hiding it or not, you’re not telling me. And I’ve told you
I’m not gonna try and find out what it is, but you have to see, that’s real hard to do. ‘Specially
now, when everybody in the band seems to know but me.”

Paul’s eyes widened slightly. That was more than he’d hoped John had noticed. Because he
couldn’t say anything else, he said, “It really isn’t easy being the odd one out, is it?”

“Well, no.”

“Sometimes . . . I wish I didn’t have to keep anything from you, y’know,” he said sincerely. “It’s so
much effort. But sometimes, telling the truth isn’t the best thing someone can do.”

John fixed him with a steady gaze. “Of course it is,” he insisted.

“Trust me, it really isn’t.” He shook his head with a hollow laugh.

John opened his mouth to say something but closed it again. He brought one hand up to Paul’s
shoulder and leaned slightly closer. “I - I think I know what it is, though,” he said quietly.
Paul froze, his eyes wide as they searched John’s. “You can’t.” Only his fear of being discovered
could eclipse his nervousness from being this close to John.

“It . . . It’s not too hard to guess, Macca.” There was something of tenderness in his voice, as
though he were trying to comfort him. It only made him more anxious. “You’re not that good at
hiding.”

Paul shook his head in denial. “Oh, God. Seriously, John, you can’t know.”

“You don’t even know what I think it is.”

Oh, don’t I? “Whatever you think it is, it’s wrong. You can’t know.” He was trying to convince
himself.

“No, I swear. You and Ringo – I know you came here together ,” he said carefully, parroting
Paul’s earlier words. Paul felt cold. “I overheard what you were tellin’ Ringo and Harrison, Paul.
It’s not that hard to see.”

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed a shuddering breath. “Stop talking , please.” He scooted backwards to
put some distance between himself and John.

“Look, I’m sorry. I just – you fit right in with Ringo like – well, I don’t really want to say,” he
laughed humorlessly, shifting again to get closer to Paul, as though that would help him calm
down. “You obviously didn’t give a passing thought to me, so I excused myself, but you started
talkin ’ to them and I couldn’t held but overhear.”

Paul took a deep breath. “But . . . All right, I’m going to ignore just how far across the line you
went with fucking eavesdropping on me,” he said acidly, “but we didn’t even say anything!
There’s nothing you could possibly know.” He had been careful to remain cryptic.

John said slowly, “You told George that Ringo knows, told Ringo that George knows. Then, you
wouldn’t ever be more than a foot away from ‘ im - Paul, honestly. How d’you think it looked?”

That was not what Paul expected. “What? John, what the hell do you think happened?”

“Macca,” John said carefully, grabbing Paul’s shoulders again to stop his slight shaking. Paul
closed his eyes. He hadn’t even realized he was doing it. “Macca, I know you’re queer.”

His eyes flew open and his mouth fell, agape. “W-what?” He doubted his heart was beating.

“Don’t bloody make me say it again, Paul,” he said almost shamefully. He hadn’t released Paul’s
shoulders, though.

“I - John, I – I'm not - ”

“Please don’t keep lyin ’ to me, Paul,” John implored. “I see why you’d hide it. Really, I do. But .
. . but you don’t have to.”

Paul shook his head repeatedly. “No, I don’t have to, ‘cause there’s nothing to hide.” He shrugged
John’s hands off of him and stood up on shaking knees. “No. You’ve crossed the line, John. You
need to leave.” He struggled to keep his voice low.

“Paul - ”

“I said go,” he repeated. He watched with narrowed eyes as John awkwardly stood, straightened out
his jeans, and turned slowly and hesitantly toward the door. As an afterthought, he added, “But be
quiet about it, yeah? Don’t go waking Dad.”

John left wordlessly.

Once Paul heard the front door pressed closed, he collapsed onto his bed and exhaled a heavy sigh
of relief.

He had been so scared John had somehow found out about Paul being from the future.

Paul had never seriously considered the possibility of telling John his truth. At first, it was because
John was a nuisance that Paul wanted nothing more than to be rid of. But, after they’d become
friends (and, to him, slightly more than that), Paul still had not thought to tell him. It was obviously
out of the question for reasons he couldn’t quite grasp.

But why did John think he was queer?

Not that he was wrong, of course.

Though that only made it worse.

Regardless, his sexuality was the least of his problems. Or, it should have been, at any rate. The
crush he’d developed on John got harder to ignore with each passing day. Sometimes, just being in
the same room overwhelmed his mind until his thoughts only contained John. In that respect, his
sexuality was somewhat of an important problem.

He’d been careful not to act on his inappropriate feelings, though. None of the moments that had
passed between them had been his doing; in fact, he’d tried his hardest to avoid them.

Paul rolled onto his side and buried his face in his pillow. What did that mean, that John had
initiated everything? Had all of those close moments, the long stares, the heartfelt conversations –
had it all just been some test to see if he was really gay?

If it was, Paul thought with a silent derisive scoff, John had succeeded.

His brain took this paranoia and ran with it.

What did John expect to do with the information? Paul didn’t know his ethical or moral values on
such matters. Would he hold it against Paul? Would he somehow use it to blackmail him? Paul
could see that as a possibility, certainly. If John suspected that he was hiding more than his
sexuality, then he could potentially use this information to get at the real issue.

His anxiety was returning. In an effort to slow the beating of his heart, he told himself that John
couldn’t possibly suspect anything more. Maybe his sexuality was the only thing John had
discovered about Paul. Perhaps there was no ulterior motive; John was just the incessant sort who
never let anything go. That's all it was.

But it still bothered him, the knowledge that John had seen through him. What could have tipped
him off?

John really should have seen it sooner.

He didn’t need to overhear a sensitive discussion to know something was off about Paul. John saw
it everywhere. When he was around large groups of people, Paul looked uncomfortable in his own
skin. His eyes would shoot from one side of the room to another like he expected someone to come
after him. It was obvious he was hiding something, and it really shouldn’t have taken him so long
to figure out exactly what.

The first thing that should have tipped him off was that one practice those weeks ago, when only
Paul had showed up. It wasn’t his daintiness as he picked the grease off of his fingers; that was just
someone being particular. Instead , it was Paul’s reaction to the joke John made about it. When
John called him queer, Paul acted personally offended. He didn’t see immediately that it was a
harmless joke. He expected that John had been serious and, in retrospect, John could see that it hit
too close to home.

John almost felt bad. He had gotten so close to Paul. He meant that literally; too many times, he
invaded his personal space when Paul made a show of not wanting him to. John thought it was all a
joke. Had he really just made him uncomfortable?

He kicked a stone harshly down the sidewalk as he trudged home from the bus stop. His hands
were in his pockets and he played around with a little piece of lint inside, but the business of his
fingers did little to distract him from his thoughts.

He found himself hoping that his suspicion was right.

It’s wrong to think so, he knows. It’s illegal. ‘Gross indecency’ or whatnot – he shouldn’t wish
Paul to be such a public shame. He shouldn’t wish the mental fatigue someone like that must be
facing every day, knowing what society thinks of them. Paul obviously cared very much what
society thought of him, which explained just how supremely odd he behaved on a regular basis.
How uncomfortable he was in his own skin.

He brought his fingers to his lips, remembering Stu’s kiss. He had felt nothing besides shock; there
was no spark from the incident that made him want to do it again. That is, he didn’t want to kiss
Stu again.

He wanted something he’d never had.

He could picture it even now. He and Paul sitting on the benches behind the stage at the Cavern,
both heaving from a performance, their faces glowing from the excitement. John would lean
forward, knowing Paul would be too uncertain to make the first move. He would put one hand on
his neck, the other on his cheek – perhaps he would feel a slight shiver of anticipation – and they
would both close their eyes slowly, still drifting closer . . .

John turned a corner and almost ran into another man walking beside him. “Watch it, lad,” the man
said in a tired, irritated voice as he continued on his way.

John shook his head, disgruntled at being interrupted in a rather pleasant daydream.

But then he scolded himself. He had no business thinking that of Paul. Just because he was queer
didn’t give John the right to displace his own sexual confusion onto him; and he was confused;
the fact that he wanted to kiss Paul, wanted to hold him and wanted to be as close as humanely
possible with him, was enough evidence of the fact.

Is that all he was doing? Displacing his own internal struggles?

He had to find out.

~
Paul wanted to call George until he realized how foolish a decision that was.

George’s calm demeanor but ready honesty was the exact thing Paul needed. He needed George to
cut through his emotion and his worries and tell him that the situation really wasn’t that dire; he
needed George to assure him that John is just being John, and that Paul shouldn’t make such a big
deal out of this.

He needed George to tell him things he already knew but wouldn’t believe unless he heard them
from someone else.

Paul stood behind the sales counter at McGinty’s the following day, feeling weary and exhausted.
He was working alone on that Monday, watching as cars and people passed in front of the shop,
some looking in but none entering. It was a slow shift.

It wasn’t until he was taking his lunch break at one that he realized he had overlooked the obvious
alternative to talking to George. Ritchie.

He patted the pocket of his jacket to feel the piece of paper on which Ritchie had scrawled his
number still within. He grinned.

Hurriedly finishing up his sandwich, he rushed back into the shop and picked up the phone. Paul
pulled out the slip of paper and dialed the number, waiting expectantly.

“ Hello? ”

It was so weird to hear Ritchie’s voice over the phone. It was weird to hear his voice at all, even
still.

“Ritch! It’s Paul.”

“ Oh, hey! How’s it goin ’? ”

Paul cleared his throat. “It’s, erm, going well. Look, can I come ‘round to your place tomorrow
after I get off work?”

“ When d’you get off? ”

“Six.”

“ Yeah, that’s good, ” Ritchie quickly agreed, as though he even might have said no. Paul sensed he
was about to say something else when he took a quick breath and corrected, “ Wait, tomorrow?
Six? Aren’t you an’ the band comin ’ round anyway? ”

Paul’s eyes widened. “Shit, I’d forgotten,” he swore. “Well. The next day, then, same time?”

“ Fine by me, Paul, ” he said skeptically. “ Is this about . . . something you can’t say in front of the
band? ”

“Yes, Ritchie, it is. But – but not how you’re thinking. I can’t tell you when they’re around, and
trust me, when we practice we stick around for a long time. I don’t, well, I don’t think this is
something I can get out in just a couple o’ words before sayin’ goodnight, y’know.”

“ Alright, Paul ,” he said, an odd tone in his voice. “ You’re kinda worryin ’ me, though.
Everythin ’ still okay? ”

“Yeah, yeah, ‘course it is,” Paul assured, though he knew he was at least halfway lying.
“ George’ll be there? ”

“Not this time. We’ll have to talk about that later.”

“ Okay, Paul. Just make sure you call me if somethin’s wrong, yeah? ”

“I will , Ritch. Don’t worry.”

“ An’ maybe call George, too, let ‘ im know he’ll have to wait a bit.”

“Sure, yeah. I will.”

Paul hung up.

He hadn’t specifically told Ritchie that he was gay. Not in so many words, at least. He was sure
he’d never given him any reason to believe he was straight, though, so at most, what Paul needed to
tell him could not have come as a surprise. Furthermore, he knew Ritchie had nothing against
being gay, so he didn’t have to risk any negative behavior.

He felt bad about it, but he didn’t know what he would expect from George. Of course, he didn’t
want to think his friend would hate him if he knew about this aspect of his life, but knowing the
environment George had grown up in, he couldn’t be certain.

In his anticipation about tomorrow’s practice, about seeing John, Paul forgot to call George and tell
him not to expect answers too soon.

Well here's chapter 19! Stuff's really happening, isn't it? It's so strange to write a story that
actually goes somewhere.

On another none, quarantine is hell and as I try very hard to avoid the unpleasant people I must live
with, I've come up with like 5 other story ideas. And I feel kinda bad but it's the thought of starting
on those that's spurring me to want to finish this one in a timely manner? (I won't even let myself
plan them out until I'm done with this, lest my attention become completely diverted, as always
happens).
 Whatever Happens Next

Paul was a bundle of nerves as he made his way to Ritchie’s flat after work.

Typically, he would have gone over with George. That was what he used to do when they had
practices at John and Stu’s. But on those days, Paul was usually coming from his house, not
McGinty’s , so George’s was along the way, and it was convenient to swing by.

He told himself that he would have walked with Geo had he been leaving from his house, but if he
was honest with himself, he would admit that he would have likely avoided him then, too. Paul
hadn’t seen or spoken to his friend since that last practice where he found Ritchie again. Maybe he
would have the next day – maybe he would have called George and Ritchie and had them both
over. They might have had a nice chat, gotten everything out in the open. But John had properly
seen to that.

John fuckin g Lennon had once again thrown a wrench in Paul’s plans.

Paul had not found sleep until several hours after John had departed. He lay in bed, blinking slowly
and trying to erase the memory of John’s accusations (correct as they were) from his mind, but he
couldn’t. Once he finally drifted off, his sleep was dreamless and interrupted. Needless to say, the
next day he was hardly in any mood to even prepare breakfast, much less put himself together
enough to host two guests.

In the back of his mind, he felt a nagging guilt at not bothering to clear up George’s inevitable
confusion, but he couldn’t bring himself to do anything about it and shoved his guilt into a dark and
unseen corner.

His leg began to bounce once he got on the bus and only got faster the closer he got to his stop. His
fingers played incessantly with the strap of his guitar case (well, really, Stu’s guitar case, since he
did not yet feel comfortable enough with it to call it his own). As he walked the final stretch of the
journey, he noticed a twitch in his fingers as he anticipated the meeting.

Paul had no idea what John was going to do. Would he look at him and be disgusted? Would his
eyes glaze over with contempt and hatred? Paul had gotten his fair share of disapproving
glances and sneers in school once rumors started to circulate about his sexuality , before he was
even sure of it himself. He didn’t want to go through that again .

He grinned wryly, thinking that he wouldn’t have to imagine for much longer.

He was the first to arrive at Ritchie’s flat. He breathed a sigh of relief when he knocked, entered,
and realized the others had not yet arrived. He could push back the incumbent storm just a while
longer.

Paul stepped in and heard a familiar song playing from the turntable. He paused a moment.
“There’s . . . something wrong about that.”

It was “Summertime Blues”. He knew the song well; it was one of his favorites. It took him a
moment to realize. “Oh. I was used to the Who’s version.”

Ritchie laughed at him. “Yeah?”

“You don’t know how nice it is to say that,” he sighed, sliding the strap of his bass off his shoulder
and sinking down into the couch. “To talk about covers. Every time I hear ‘Barbara Ann’, I wish
it was the Beach Boys. Wish ‘Dedicated to the One I Love’ was the Mamas and the Papas again.”

He nodded understandingly. “Though the Shirelles were pretty good at it,” he shrugged.

Paul nodded, singing along quietly to himself.

After a moment passed, Ritchie went to fetch a glass of water from his small kitchen. Once he
returned, he glanced at Paul with concerned eyes and said, “You a’right?”

Paul had been staring at a fixed spot on the wall and took a second to tear his eyes away. “Wha’?”

“ Bouncin ’ your leg like that,” he tilted his head in indication. “What’s up?”

“Oh,” Paul rubbed a hand over his face. “It’s - well, it’s what I wanted to tell you about.”

“ Somethin ’ bad?”

He laughed. “I’d say so. See, it’s - ”

Paul was interrupted by a knock at the door. He turned his head so quickly that he hurt his neck
in doing so. When he winced, Ritchie said, “Calm down, mate. It’s just those lads o’ yours.”

Paul rubbed his neck and looked down at his legs, trying to hide the flush that crept up his neck at
the mere thought of those lads of his . His insides lurched as he anticipated their entrance.

Just look down. Don’t make eye contact. Pretend nothing happened, and hopefully, John will too .

And that’s what happened.

John and George arrived at the same time. Paul busied himself tuning his guitar, not looking at
them as they exchanged rather stunted pleasantries with Ritchie. Paul felt the obligation to act as
mediator between the two and encourage conversation , since he did know both Ritch and the
others, but he couldn’t bring himself to raise his eyes quite yet.

The practice drug on and on. It didn’t last any longer than usual, but the fun that Paul got from
playing just wasn’t worth the agonizing fear that John would may something scathing under his
breath, that he would flinch in discomfort at the sound of Paul’s voice. He tried to speak as little as
possible.

They went through their regular set list, preparing for their next gig, which was at the end of the
week. Paul was getting more comfortable with the bass now that he could take it home to practice,
but he was sure everyone noticed when he made a suspicious amount of mistakes. He felt his
fingers shaking any time they were idle, so he tried to tuck them underneath his legs whenever
possible.

Halfway through the practice, Ritchie got up to use his bathroom. John and George engaged in
brief idle conversation about a particular chord progression and Paul busied himself with picking
underneath his fingernails, the best excuse for not joining in on the conversation he could think of.

He heard a scoff from their direction. “I’m sure your fingernails are pristine , Macca,” John said
derisively. “Don’t hav’to groom yourself everywhere you go.”

Paul bristled, glancing up fleetingly. John looked at him with eyes that seemed to dig into his soul,
looking for something that Paul wasn’t particularly eager to reveal. “Better than being a pig like
you, Lennon,” he remarked casually, looking back down at his hands.

Ritchie returned to find a tense atmosphere. Paul watched as he looked from John to Paul, then to
George questioningly. George merely shrugged on behalf of Paul, who didn’t trust his shoulders to
move without shaking.

After perhaps another hour of discomfort interrupted by stunted playing, George announced that he
ought to get home. He gave John a pointed look, and Paul got the feeling that John would have
stuck around a bit longer had George not done so, because there was evident curiosity in John’s
eyes.

“What the hell was that?” Ritchie asked once the other two had left.

“What do you mean?” asked Paul, though he knew exactly what he meant.

Ritchie filled his kettle at the sink. “Tea?” Paul shrugged, so he put on enough water to boil for
two. “I mean you and John hardly sayin’ a word to each other. You hardly sayin’ a word at all.
Thought you liked him.”

Paul huffed. “Yeah, well,” he shook his head at the number of sarcastic responses that ran through
his mind. He didn’t need to be rude to Ritchie too. “He . . . said something the other day.”

“Oh?”

Paul leaned his elbows on the counter and put his chin in his hands. “Yeah. After we all met here,
he came ‘round to my place. He . . . well, it’s hard to talk about.”

Seeing that Paul was obviously struggling, Ritchie crossed his arms and leaned against the counter,
looking at him curiously but patiently. “You can tell me, Paul,” he offered comfortingly.

Sighing, he said, “I know.” He looked at the counter for a long moment before straightening.
“Look, I’m sorry. It’s late and – well, I wanna think about how I’m gonna say this.”

Ritch narrowed his eyes inquisitively, not maliciously. “You have to think about it?”

“I know, I know, it’s ridiculous. But I don’t - I told myself I’d tell you tomorrow, so I’m not, er,
prepared to talk about it today,” he explained, hoping his friend could understand.

The unhappiness from not understanding just what was troubling Paul so was evident on Ritchie’s
face, but he attempted to moderate his expression. “You’re worryin ’ me, mate,” he said, not to
pry, but to reassure. “Can’t imagine what could have happened then and now that’s put you in such
a rut.”

“I’ll tell you all about it, I swear,” Paul promised, “just tomorrow. Y’know, got to have my mental
script prepared.”

Ritchie rolled his eyes at him and waved him off. “I s’pose I shouldn’t be surprised. That’s exactly
somethin ’ you’d do.”

Paul smiled at him, hoping to relay both a thanks and apology.

He expected a bigger scene, really. He expected John to shun him; when he pictured the worst-case
scenarios in his head, it was always John turning away, only looking at him to glare. Paul felt
ashamed that he couldn’t even look at him.
But was he really to blame? He had to stay defensive to avoid any further conflict. That's what was
best, right? Better never to mention it and hope it goes away. Ignore his problems.

He shook his head. He knew that would never work. He and John would just lose whatever
budding friendship they had if he just ignored him for the foreseeable future.

But would John even want to be his friend ? His bandmate?

Paul made his way homeward with his hands shoved deep inside his pockets and his shoulders
hunched. He mumbled to himself inaudibly as he put together strings of ideas about what he
should say to Ritchie. That’s what he did when he had something to say but found it difficult: he
prepared his speech beforehand.

This should have been easy, shouldn’t it? Ritchie was his best friend. He should be able to talk to
him about these sorts of things. His romantic interests and such, that is. That’s what best mates
did, isn’t it? Why did he not feel comfortable telling Ritchie that he was gay?

Though, the more he thought, the more he realized that, if he were to tell anybody, he would feel
the most comfortable telling Ritchie.

But the real reason for his discomfort, furthermore, wasn’t that he would be coming out; it was that
he would be coming out and expressive his romantic interest, insomuch as it was interest and not
some other involuntary occupation, for John Lennon.

It’s not that Paul was gay; it’s who he was gay for .

By the time Paul made it to the bus stop, he had clenched and relaxed his fists inside his pockets so
often that his fingers were sore. At least he had at least half of his conversation already scripted in
his head – that would make it easier to deliver tomorrow, when he met with Ritch.

With his head bent low and his thoughts obscuring much of his observation, he didn’t notice the
figure standing by the bench at the bus stop, a smoke raised languidly to his lips.

“Not gonna stay after with Ringo for hours again?” came the drawling, lazy voice of someone
trying very hard to sound uncaring.

Paul looked up from the pavement and stopped dead in his tracks. “John,” he said guardedly.

“’Tis I,” he bowed, waving his cigarette around luxuriously.

“You’re still waitin ’ for the bus?” There should have been a run already, Paul figured. Further, he
was fairly certain this particular bus stop wasn’t the best one for John to take to get back to
Mendips.

John shrugged. “You know how those lazy drivers can be, always skipping stops.”

He looked dubiously at his companion for a moment but decided to drop it. He adjusted the strap
of his guitar and waited for John to start talking. That’s why he was there, wasn’t it? He had
something to say?

Or he didn’t. He was quiet and calm the entire time waiting for the bus to arrive, occasionally
stealing glances at Paul when he would move out of the corner of his eye, but not saying a word.
Paul grew ever more anxious.
The bus came screeching down the street and Paul cringed as the sound of its breaks interrupted
the quiet around them. John picked up the guitar case that leaned against the bench and made for
the door, but stopped just beside it and waved Paul through.

“ What a gentleman ,” Paul said under his breath with no small amount of sarcasm.

Because it would be rude to hold up the bus, and he knew John was too stubborn to budge, Paul
stepped onto the bus, John following close behind. Before John had disappeared behind him,
though, he sent Paul a wink that made his stomach jump.

Paul found an empty seat near the middle and slid in. He only had a small amount of hope that John
would take the seat in front or behind him, and as he expected, he hoped in vain. John said, “Well,
budge over, then,” and sat on the outside.

Paul shifted down to the window, pressing his entire side against it in an effort to put more space
between himself and John. I’m sure he doesn’t want some queer so close to him.

But John sat very close indeed. Paul swore he was much closer than he needed to be. He felt John’s
warmth as their thighs and shoulders pressed against each other. John kept adjusting his position,
constantly moving against Paul.

“Just sit still, will you?” Paul snapped.

“Someone’s pissy ,” John said flippantly.

He scoffed. “You think so? Wonder why. It’s not like it’s the middle of summer and you still insist
on crowding me.”

His guitar case stood between his legs, and in an effort to show how little room he had, Paul closed
his legs tighter around it.

“What, getting too hot for you?”

Paul cut him a glance and narrowed his eyes. He merely huffed, not deigning to reply. This might
have been normal friendly teasing were it not for the tension of knowing strung between them.

John pressed his arm against Paul’s side, his elbow touching but not quite digging into the sensitive
area. Paul tensed only slightly then. But when he placed the side of his hand on the top of Paul’s
thigh, so nonchalant that Paul felt like he must have imagined it, his entire body recoiled.

“It can always get hotter, Macca,” he said casually.

Paul gulped. “Wh - what are you doing, John?”

Turning his head to look at him curiously, John smiled in false confusion. “What d’you mean? I’m
not doing anythin ’.”

Paul snapped his head to stare straight, trying to ignore the hand resting so comfortably on his
thigh. If John acted like it wasn’t there, then he would, too.

But he couldn’t help but wonder. What was his angle? Paul could tell manipulation when he saw it;
the trouble was, he didn’t know exactly why John was manipulating him. He already suspected,
and very well knew, that Paul was gay. Now, he’s acting so strange. To what end?

He wanted to ask but he didn’t want to acknowledge it. Would John assume he . . . meant
something? He could picture it now. What, Paul, you think I’m actin’ odd ‘cause I’m into you?
I’m no queer .

“You know,” John said suddenly, tapping his thigh with his fingers as though he needed to get
Paul’s attention. Paul’s attention couldn’t have been anywhere else. “I think we could put in
another song or so. What d’you think?”

“We don’t have enough already?” Paul asked with a slight quiver in his voice.

“Been playin’ some of those songs for years, Macca. They get boring after a while, I s’ppose .”

“Oh,” Paul said cleverly. He cleared his throat. “So, er, what’re you thinkin ’?”

“I think ‘ Rockin ’ Robin’ has to go,” he said. “It’s been ages since we learned that one.”

“Not for me,” Paul pointed out.

“Well, I’m tired of singin ’ it.”

“Then what do you want to sing?”

“I got a coupl’a things. We haven’t done ‘Dream Lover’, y’know. Or ‘Poison Ivy’. Or ‘Love
Potion’.”

“’Love Potion’?” Paul didn’t know what he meant.

“Oh, you know. Little bottles of – love potion number nine ,” he sang lowly. Paul tried to ignore
the way he tapped his fingers against Paul’s thigh to the beat.

So he didn’t appear too ignorant, Paul tilted his head and said, “Uh, it’s kinda familiar, I think.” It
wasn’t.

John’s mouth twitched. “You really don’t know it?”

“Maybe,” he dodged.

“Well, I want it in. Find it somewhere.”

Oh, if only he had some device that could summon up any song he wanted to hear. Or, if only he
conveniently worked at a record store and could find any song he wanted.

“What about a new Chuck Berry? We’ve had ‘Johnny B. Goode’ for a while now.”

Mostly just to be contrary, Paul shook his head. “Nah, you don’t need another one. You sing too
well and play too poorly.”

John laughed. “You sure know how to criticize and compliment in the same breath. Hell, I don’t
even know if you mean me or Berry.”

“It’s a gift.”

Paul turned to look out the window for the rest of the ride. Once the bus came to his stop, he
waited for John to move. When he didn’t, he had to nudge him. The bad part about his decision to
do so was that he did it with his leg, and at the motion, John’s hand on Paul’s thigh tightened its
grip for just a moment.
“C’mon, move, I need to get off,” he said when John didn’t move.

John’s eyes widened and his cheeks flushed red. “You - you what?”

Knitting his brows in confusion, Paul reiterated, “This is my stop, John,” slowly, as though he were
speaking to a child.

“It’s - oh . Oh.” John stood up and let Paul out of the seat.

“Bye, John,” he said because he felt that he had to.

“Bye,” John parroted.

Then, standing on the pavement as the bus started moving again, Paul realized what he’d said and,
more importantly, what John thought he’d meant.

Christ. He hadn’t done himself any favors, had he?

The next day after work, Paul busied himself by putting on a tea kettle. His father was taking a nap
upstairs and Mike hadn’t come home from running around the city with his mates yet. He was
functionally alone in the house, which was perfectly fine with him.

Ritchie would be here any minute. As the seconds ticked by, Paul found himself wondering if he’d
prepared his speech well enough. Would he forget what he wanted, or needed, to say? When the
water boiled, Paul poured it into his cup and added a teaspoon of tea with a shaking hand and
waited for the knock at the door.

Eventually, it came.

Paul answered with a nervous grin. “Hi, Ritch.”

“Paul,” his friend smiled brightly as he stepped inside. “This is your own place. So odd seein ’
it.”

“Especially with this horrendous wallpaper,” Paul agreed, heading to the kitchen with Ritchie in
tow. “Want a cuppa?”

Ritch wrinkled his nose. “A bit hot for that, innit? It was a good walk from the bus stop.”

Paul shrugged and grabbed his mug, taking a shallow sip. He needed something to hold onto.

“What’s on your mind, then?” he asked uncertainly.

Paul swallowed and looked at his feet. “Let’s go back in the garden, yeah? Me dad’s asleep and I
don’t wanna wake him.” And I don’t want him to hear what I’m going to say.

Ritchie shrugged. “That’s a definite no to the tea, then,” but followed him out.

Pulling two lawn chairs across his small yard so they were as far away from the house and the
windows as possible, Paul sat down on the edge of his seat so that his leg could still bounce
rapidly. Ritchie, on the other hand, leaned all the way back, clasping his hands over his stomach,
waiting patiently for Paul to begin.

“So, I, uh, mostly just didn’t want dad to hear this,” he said anxiously, finding a spot on the ground
that caught his particular interest and speaking to it instead of his friend. He could come out to a
piece of grass, easy. “Well. You remember when those guys from Speke came around, the old
schoolmates of mine? Hung at the shop all day?”

“I do,” he said simply, ever the good listener. “Wanted you to go for drinks with ‘em, yeah?”

“They did,” he nodded, still talking to that nice blade of grass. It was very non-threatening. “I said I
had some cataloguing to do and couldn’t go.”

Ritchie waited.

“Well, that wasn’t really true. I mean, it was, technically, but I could have put it off ‘til the next
day, easy. See, the thing is, er, they wanted to set me up with one of their friends. One of the lad’s
cousins, I think? They were talking about her all day, playing her up and all that.” He stole a glance
at Ritchie to find that he was gazing back at him calmly.

“But I really didn’t fancy meeting some girl at a pub, y’know?” He took another sip of tea. Perhaps
Ritch had been right – it was a bit hot out for a steaming beverage. “Because, well, that’s not
always my scene, for one. Getting drunk with someone before you really know them, then passing
out and forgetting it all happened anyways.”

“You could always just try not drinking to excess,” Ritchie cut in. It was a way to let Paul know he
was evidently dodging what he really had to say.

“Well, it isn’t my scene. But goin’ out with a girl – have you ever known me to date anyone?”

Ritchie shrugged. “Can’t say I have.”

“I would date. I mean, I’m not asexual. But, well, I’m not - ” he took a deep breath, then another
sip of tea, then a comforting look at the blade of grass, before taking another deep breath. “I’m not
exactly straight.”

He couldn’t bring himself to look up. The blade of grass waved slightly in the wind, nodding in
understanding.

Several moments passed. Paul’s heartbeat overtook the sound of rustling leaves in his ears. After a
while, he had to say, in a soft and weak voice, “Ritch?”

He looked up to see Ritchie’s head tilted inquisitively. “You bein ’ serious?”

“Y-yeah.”

Ritch smiled and chuckled. “Mate, I knew that already.”

Paul leaned back. “You - you did?”

He shook his head. “I mean, I don’t want to say it’s obvious – but it kinda is, Paul.” Before he
could spit off any number of questions, Ritchie cut him off and continued, “plus, you told me once.
When you came ‘round to my place and drank to excess .”

“I - ” He paused a moment, trying to remember. “I did?” His friend nodded. “Why didn’t you tell
me?”

“What, am I supposed to repeat everything you tell me?” Ritchie shook his head. “It wasn’t
something I needed to say. You told me once while you were drunk, we talked about it a bit, you
never mentioned it again. Didn’t know how comfortable you were talking about your sexuality.
Well, now I can see that quite easily.”

“And . . . when I told you before, how did you take it?”

“Just how I'm taking it now. What did you expect, me to be some sort of monster?” He leaned
forward and put his elbows on his knees. “Look. I love you. You’re me best mate. You’d be my
best mate if you were straight, too. Were you really worried ‘bout how I'd take it?” He almost
looked hurt.

“I don’t know,” Paul admitted. “I suppose my nerves had a lot to do with what I’ve got to tell you
next.”

“Oh, more gossip?” He crossed his legs and leaned an elbow on the arm of his chair, pursing his
lips in an interested manner. Paul had to laugh at the ridiculous expression and he silently thanked
him for lightening the mood.

Blade of grass all but forgotten, Paul looked right at Ritch and said, “Being gay here isn’t exactly
the easiest thing, I’m sure you’d understand. Well, when I say here , I mean now . Or then? Oh,
whatever,” he waved his hand. “It would be easier if I could just ignore it, ‘course, but more and
more, it’s gotten harder - ”

“It’s John, isn’t it?”

Paul froze. “How - ”

“Again, kind of obvious, mate,” he smiled again, sensing that Paul’s agitation was growing and he
needed to put him back at ease. “The way you defended him when we all met that first time, even
though I hadn’t actually said anythin ’ bad. The way he looked so put out when you didn’t bat an
eye his way the entire day – can tell you’ve been payin ’ each other lots of attention.”

Paul slumped back in his chair, almost disappointed at being so transparent. But, then again, he
really shouldn’t be surprised. He never could hide his emotions. “He thinks I’m gay.”

Ritchie raised his eyebrows. He couldn’t help but say, “Well, isn’t he right?” but apologized at
Paul’s scathing look. “Now, is this the sort of ‘gay’ guys joke about all the time? You know, all
that no-homo nonsense or whatever it was.”

“It was never something to joke about,” Paul said seriously. “And especially now, it isn’t. Ritch, I
could go to jail for this, if John says the wrong thing in, uh, the wrong company.”

“Have you done anythin ’ with anyone, here?”

“Well, no.”

“Then at best it’s slander. Doesn’t matter if it’s true – you've done nothin’ illegal. Nobody can get
you into any trouble for it.”

Paul bit his lip. “D’you think he would, though? Get me into trouble?”

Ritchie shrugged. “I’ve met him twice. Maybe three times. I don’t really know.” But, to assuage
him, he added, “If he does get you into trouble, I doubt it would be on purpose. He’s got that . . .
that something, you know.”

“That something?” Paul squinted dubiously. “You think he’s gay too?”
“Oh, come on,” Ritchie said. “You can’t say to me you think he’s straight. Have you seen him?
Have you seen how he holds himself, how he moves?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know, it just means – well, I’ve just got that feeling.”

“I don’t – I think he hates me,” Paul said quietly. “Because yesterday, he was waiting on the bus
stop, and once we got on, he just . . . Teased, you know? Without exactly saying it. But it was that
cruel sort of teasing.”

“You mean he tormented you,” Ritchie suggested.

“Yeah.”

“Paul, did you maybe consider that he’s, I dunno, overcompensating?”

“How d’you mean?”

“Well, his bandmate’s gay. Maybe that brings up some unsettling thoughts that just . . . Hit too
close to home.”

He didn’t want to, but Paul could see where Ritchie was coming from. He thought back to that fight
that John got in at the pub; some man called him queer and John struck him. Paul flushed at the
memory of helping to clean him up afterwards. He shook his head to clear his mind.

“So you really don’t mind? And you don’t think I’m being a complete and utter idiot?”

“You’re always a complete and utter idiot, Paul,” Ritchie assured. “I love you anyways, like I said.
Even if you have questionable taste in men.”

Paul smiled softly and looked back at his hands. He felt much better now that he’d gotten it off his
chest.

“You tell George yet?”

“No,” he shook his head. “I - I don’t want to ruin what we have. He’s a good friend.”

“If he’s that good a friend,” Ritchie began, but quieted when Paul shot him a look that said I know,
and I don’t want to hear it . “You need to tell him somethin ’. You did say we’d meet up and
discuss our unusual circumstances , remember? That was days ago. Hell, you’ve seen him sense
and didn’t say a word to him.”

“I - well, I suppose you’re right.”

“I just wanna make sure you think about how he must feel. You know ‘ im better ‘an I do, but if I
were him, I doubt I’d be too happy right now.”

Paul flushed with shame. He had more or less forgotten George, hadn’t he? His insides crawled
with guilt.

“Call him,” Ritchie said. “And be prepared to do some damage control, if you need to.”

The day after they met the new drummer, George had sat by the phone, waiting.
He had nothing better to do. He had no job over the summer, and if he wasn’t hanging out with
Paul, then he never did much besides listen to records and mess about on his guitar. Well, the pads
of his fingers were sore and his mother wanted a bit of quiet for a while, so he had nothing better to
do.

Besides, he was expecting a call.

And he continued to expect that call for hours that day. He even pretended to read a novel as he sat
on the chair by the phone, waiting for its ring. But he wasn’t much for reading and it only served to
make him more restless.

He continued to wait the next day, and that was when the silence began to irritate him. Paul should
have called. Paul said he’d called. Had Paul forgotten?

George scoffed and shook his head; Paul was so conscientious, even now. He was very aware of
how the people around him were feeling. Usually . George had hoped that his friend’s
uncharacteristic obliviousness had been a one-time thing, over and done with once the shock of
seeing an old friend wore off.

Perhaps he was still in shock. That would explain why he hadn’t called to talk to him, right?

He tried to reassure himself but couldn’t get rid of the nagging feeling that Paul had simply
forgotten.

He resolved not to call first. It was Paul who had news to share; George had too much pride to go
begging. Paul should come to him if he wanted to talk. And if he didn’t come, it was a clear
message that he didn’t want George to know exactly what was going on.

He expected something that evening at practice. Not much, of course; George had conditioned
himself to have low expectations, so his inevitable disappointment was less severe. But anything
would have been more than Paul stonily avoiding his questioning glances.

When he got home after practice, he didn’t wait by the phone. He knew Paul wouldn’t call. The
next day, he went out with a couple of other friends from school; a couple of them were girls, and
that served as a good enough distraction from his anger and his hurt. But one of the girls had,
apparently, followed Rory Storm and the Hurricanes before they went off to Germany and had
very much to say about their dangerous old drummer.

George trudged home with a clenched jaw and nagging thoughts of Ringo Starr.

That evening, the phone rang.

So! Here it is. This chapter just kinda happened? Not a single scene was planned out as specifically
as I usually plan them, but I think the results are okay.

Let me know what you thought!!

 Update after two years? However long it was

Hey all. I’m not dead, but I am fundamentally changed as a person and no longer in a point in my
life to continue this story. I was going to delete this, but someone very important to me said I
should just orphan it so that people can still read it. If anyone wants to take up this mantle and
continue it, feel free. Just let people know the name of the fic it came from, and have at it.

I’m sorry for not finishing this piece, but I hope you guys will forgive me. Thank you for reading
<3

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