Chapter Text
Paul was never quite sure what to make of John Lennon. He seemed to be a million little things all wrapped up in one person, with any of those things able to rear their heads at any one time.
Paul remembered the first time he’d seen him, long before Ivan and the village fete. It had been a cold, misty morning. A green bus shuddered out of the station at Penny Lane with a hiss as Paul made himself comfortable on one of the upstairs seats.
Then, stomping boots on the stairs and a now familiar squinting stare peering up the bus aisle, passing over Paul, and landing on an empty seat. More stomping footsteps as he made his way over to the seat, smoothing a hand down an impressively Elvis-like sideboard.
Paul had snuck looks at him out of the corner of his eye. He’d felt almost embarrassed by his urge to look; he didn’t want to be caught staring. He forced himself to turn back and stare out at the drabness of the Liverpool suburbs outside.
It’s just that he’d never seen anyone who looked that cool in real life. Like one of the fellas on the posters on the walls of the record shop. He’d wanted to look at him properly, figure out how exactly he’d got his hair to look like that. He tried to sneak glances as best he could through the reflection in the window until he caught his own wide-eyed gaze and felt even more embarrassed than he had before.
He’d seen him a few times on the bus since then. Always lounging back in his seat with the same heavy-eyed stare. Paul noticed that he’d get on at Penny Lane. He wondered where he lived - off the estate, he had to assume.
The only other time Paul had seen him had been outside the newsagents. It had been the middle of a mild spring day. Paul had just returned from his paper round to tiredly collect his pay before cycling home. He was just leaning his bike against the wall outside when the bell chimed, and the shop door opened.
And there he was, the boy - before Paul knew he was John - strolling out of the shop with a mate. Laughing. Shoving his friend playfully. Turning the collar up on his jacket. Paul fiddled with his bike for a moment, shifting it unnecessarily as the boys walked past. He had hoped that he looked cooler, older than he felt, than he looked, than he was. All the time thinking, that’s the boy off the bus.
They walked past, and Paul was left to collect his wages for that week. His attention was immediately turned to the record shop and what he might be able to afford with his savings from his past few shifts. There was no time to feel envious of local teds when there were real rock’n’rollers he could spend his time obsessing over.
And then, on a warm July day, Ivan had said, “There’s this mate of mine, you should meet. He’s in a group, plays the guitar an’ that. I reckon you’d get along”.
So, Paul had gone along to the village fete. And there had been John singing and playing and getting all the bloody words wrong and still managing to seem cooler than any other person Paul had ever laid eyes on.
It almost annoyed Paul. He’d always had to try so hard to appear charming or intelligent or appealing in any way, and here was this fella pulling it off like it was nothing. He couldn’t figure out whether the twist in his gut had been annoyance, envy, or admiration. Maybe a mix of all three.
Then, they’d finished their set and left the stage. Ivan had said, “Come on, then,” and Paul had to take a deep breath.
It had passed in a blur of beery breath, laughter - at or with him he wasn’t sure - Eddie Cochran and a deep stare finally boring into him rather than scanning over him like he wasn’t even there. The entire time, Paul had simply been willing himself not to muck it up, to come across as cool, as someone John might have the time for.
Which is why, even now, months on, he felt almost like he had to pinch himself when he and John were sat in the front room practising guitar chords.
And, at the same time, he sort of didn’t feel like that anymore. Not in the same way, at least.
He’d gotten to know John over the last few months. He’d met his overbearing auntie, and his witty mother. Seen the Elvis posters on his bedroom wall. Found out his cool stare was due to the fact he actually needed glasses, seen him actually wear said glasses.
He’d found out that he was funny, bright, witty, impulsive, insecure, sarcastic, creative - and they had far more in common than Paul would ever have thought. It was like finally finding someone who spoke the same language as him, after stumbling along with people for all these years.
But sometimes - sometimes - Paul remembered those first few times and John was The Boy Off The Bus once again. Cool. Rebellious. Mysterious.
“Paul?”
“Er-,” Paul jumped slightly, realising he’d zoned out slightly as he’d reminisced, distracted by the mental image of John’s fingers smoothing over his sideburns.
“Blimey, you look miles away. You been on the bottle, son?” John quipped raising an eyebrow.
“Yeah. Drowning my sorrows over your crap guitar playing.”
“Oi!” John kicked Paul sharply in the shin.
“Ow!” Paul came back, flinging his leg out to kick John in return and missing entirely. He leant down to rub the sore spot where John had struck him.
“Well,” John said, strumming the chord softly again. “Crap teacher, that’s why.”
“Watch it, Lennon.”
“Or what?” John said with a snort and a tone that felt like a dare.
“Or… I’ll quit the group. And then your shot at stardom will be over before it begun.”
“Oh-ho-ho! Mr McCartney, The Quarrymen’s lord and saviour, is that right?”
Paul couldn’t help but cringe at that, pulling a face at the name.
“Don’t call me that. Makes me sound like my dad.”
“Oh, not a fan of Mr McCartney?”
“No.” Paul shook his head decisively, turning back to his guitar and strumming, matching John’s chord.
“Alright then, Paulie. That better?”
Paul felt his face get warm at the familiarity of the nickname and hoped the flush didn’t show on his face. He rolled his eyes and aimed a kick at John’s shin again, meeting his target this time but ending up with more of a gentle nudge than the sharp strike he’d received from John.
“Idiot.” he’d muttered, hoping he didn’t sound quite as fond as he felt.
“That’s idiot extraordinaire to you, thank you very much” John had said proudly, pulling a laugh out of Paul. “Come on then, Paulie. Am I doing it right?” John asked, strumming the chord again.
Paul glanced up, checking John’s fingers briefly, nodding. “You’ve got it.”
It went like that whenever they were together. Back and forth, easy, tone shifting every few seconds. No one ever knew what they were going to get with John, Paul thought. Whether he was going to make a joke at your expense or at his own. If he’d be kind or cruel. In good spirits or poor. But, Paul thought, that’s what he liked about him. The fact that whatever came next was a surprise.
It was a funny feeling he got in his stomach when he watched John walk out of his house and up Forthlin Road. Like he wanted to run up after him and stop him from leaving for a little bit longer.
He never would, of course. That would be ridiculous. He wasn’t some needy little kid.
He wasn’t.
He just had this funny sense that it had to come to an end sometime soon. Like eventually, John would get sick of him, lose interest, get bored. Like one day, one of their guitar sessions would be their last, and Paul would be back to staring at him in the reflection of a bus window.
It made sense, he knew. John had no real reason to hang around with a kid younger than him. Not when John would be leaving school this year, maybe going on to work, or college or wherever the world took him. Whatever he chose to do.
That would be it, then. No more fiddling around with guitars and hanging out with some daft kid who hung off him like a limpet. Getting on with his real life.
Only it would be a shame, Paul thought, when that happened. Because they were like proper friends at this point. They were even making plans to try writing some songs of their own. Neither of them knew anyone else they could do that with.
So John would have to keep him around, right?
Maybe if he wrote good enough songs then John would have to keep him around, keep the whole thing going. He’d have to try really hard, but it would be worth it.
It scared him sometimes. The lengths he’d go to to keep John happy. Not that he couldn’t stand up to him, and argue back when he needed to. He knew more than well that he could hold his own and tell John where to stick it.
But mostly, if he ever had to argue with John, it was just when they were having a laugh, winding each other up. Or else it was over something that he knew would benefit both of them. Like how part of a song should be played, or which drummer they should ring up, or what they should wear on stage.
John only saw it as him being oppositional because he couldn’t see it was for him, really. Paul didn’t really want to think about the amount of things he did just for John these days.
He just wasn’t a halfway kind of person, in the end. He never had been. He’d always be all-in or all-out. Couldn’t do things by halves. His relationship with John was the same. He knew he wanted to be in the group, be associated with him, so. So, he was in. That was that.
The problem was that, normally, when he felt he was getting too deeply involved with something, overthinking something a little too much, he’d distract himself for a little bit. Spend time with his hobbies. Listen to records, write a song, play his guitar, listen to the wireless.
Only now, there was someone who shared his hobbies - John. So, he was forever thinking, “John would like this song”, “I wonder what John would write here”, or “I need to teach this chord to John next time I see him.”
It wasn’t that he was obsessed with John. It wasn’t. It was just that, for the first time, he had someone to share these things with. It was exciting. In the end, he didn’t really think there was anything wrong with it. They got along. What was so wrong with that?
Still, after he’d mentioned John for the third time that evening and Mike had responded by asking if they’d set a date for the wedding yet, Paul resolved not to let on about quite how much he thought about John.
Or, at least, he’d wait til the others had gone out before putting on his records. That way, he could sit in silence, lie on the sofa, curl his fingers around an imaginary guitar neck, and picture John sitting in the chair in the corner.