I Need You Darlin' (So Come Go With Me)

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/42265947.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: M/M
Fandom: The Beatles (Band)
Relationship: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Character: John Lennon, Paul McCartney, George Harrison (The Beatles), Stuart
Sutcliffe, Pete Shotton, Julia Lennon, Mimi Smith, Mike McCartney, Jim
McCartney, Ivan Vaughan, Colin Hanton, Original Female Character(s),
Original Male Character(s)
Additional Tags: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Slow Burn, Friends to Lovers, Alternate
Universe - Canon Divergence, Hurt/Comfort, Happy Ending, Mutual
Pining, Jealousy, blatant disregard of some Beatles historiography,
Alpha!Paul, Omega!John
Language: English
Series: Part 1 of I Need You Darlin' verse
Collections: Anonymous
Stats: Published: 2022-10-09 Chapters: 16/16 Words: 165287

I Need You Darlin' (So Come Go With Me)

by Anonymous

Summary

John Lennon is no-one's idea of a proper omega. Paul McCartney is a complication. Set
1956-1958.

(I have made this a series because I have a little 4k and a 16k follow up to add once I've
finished editing them, not because there is a cliffhanger or because the story is in any way
unfinished).

Notes

This is probably the most self-indulgent thing I have ever written, not to mention the first
fic I've started, let alone finished, in 9 years. I began writing this on a train in December
2021 and then just carried on writing it every day since until it became this monster. Huge
thanks to @caity_11 for the beta (all remaining mistakes are my own!) and to Ven, as ever,
for getting me writing again.

Warnings: The fic features consensual sexual situations between a 16 and 18 year old that
are legal in this universe, some attempted non-con between John and OCs (absolutely
nothing explicit and all attempts are unsuccessful) and the canonical death of Julia Lennon.
Apologies to Beatles historians for the liberties I have taken with timelines, events, and the
nature of Jim McCartney's job.
 Chapter 1

John's always secretly hoped he'll present as an alpha. That would show everyone who ever said
shit about John Lennon, about who his mother is and why he lives with his aunt; why it's not
appropriate for him to live at home with his mum and his sisters, her being what she is and the
way she is. And never mind his dad, he imagines them saying, he couldn't get away fast enough
and what does that say about her? Them being bonded and with a baby too. So an alpha would do
quite well, he thinks. That would show all the nosy old cats of Woolton that there's nothing wrong
with John or where he comes from.

When his fifteenth birthday comes and goes, and the months pass, he settles gloomily into the
realisation that he's only a beta.

"Less of the only," Pete says, when they're having a sneaky cigarette behind the football shed at
school. He hasn't presented either but both his parents are betas so that’s not much of a surprise.
"All the best people are betas."

"Like who?"

"Like…" Pete clearly has to think about it for a while, which proves John's point, but then he says,
"Hughie Green!" as if he expects John to clap or something.

John makes an unimpressed face. "Since when is Hughie Green one of the best people?"

"Since he got on the telly. Mum thinks he's great."

"Oh, well, if your mum thinks he's great," John says sarcastically and Pete flicks his cigarette butt
at him.

"Piss off. Your mum used to have him on all the time."

Shit, John forgot that. He recovers quickly. "Only 'cause there was nothing else on."

"D'you remember when she wanted you to go on there?" Pete snickers. "You and your banjo."

John looks at him narrowly, which just makes him laugh more. Unfortunately he does remember.
She used to have a right bee in her bonnet about him doing something on there, and all he ended up
doing was learning three songs and listening to too many George Formby records.

"I've been thinkin' of learnin' proper guitar," he says, to get away from the subject of Hughie Green
for five minutes.

"Oh yeah?" Pete says, interested. "For Opportunity Knocks?"

Jesus. "No, not for sodding Opportunity Knocks. I mean like Elvis."

Pete nods sagely at that because they'd both heard ‘Heartbreak Hotel’ round Colin's and nothing
could be the same after that.

"He's an alpha though," Pete says, after a moment, bringing them squarely back to the original
problem.

"Yeah," John says, gloomily, because that's the thing, all the most famous people are. Fuck knows
he's getting out of Liverpool however he can, but it would have been easier, wouldn't it, if he'd just
been an alpha.

He presents three months before his sixteenth birthday and it's such a shock, such a completely
impossible, terrible thing, that at first he actually thinks he's dying. He's burning up like he has the
worst fever of his life and there's something wrong with his skin, like it doesn't fit him anymore.

He shouts for Mimi because there's a clawing panic in his chest and he doesn't know what's
happening to him. Her footsteps come clattering up the stairs but when she gets through the door
she stops dead, clapping a hand over her mouth as she stares at him, rendered mute for possibly the
first time in her life. Afterwards, it would strike John as pretty apt that the first person to realise
he's an omega is really fucking horrified about it.

Of course he can't really be an omega. That would be stupid. Male omegas are something you only
read about, they're in London or abroad, not in Woolton; they're not John . Anyway he would have
presented ages ago, if he was going to, so there must be some mistake.

"I'm so sorry, John," his mum says when she turns up. She looks it too, shocked and guilty in a
way that makes John start to feel properly scared. Like maybe this isn't a mistake and his life's just
gone to shit. She strokes his damp hair back from his sweaty face and he twists away from her,
turning his back because he's hard. He's been hard all morning, and not just hard but humiliatingly
wet like he and the lads at school used to joke about omegas being. Female omegas anyway. The
normal kind. Now it's going to be him they're laughing about and the thought of it makes him want
to crawl right out of his own body.

"I'll be downstairs with Mimi. But you just shout if you're hungry or if you need anything."

"Fuck off," he snaps and immediately feels awful because he doesn't talk to his mum that way. But
he wouldn't be this way if it wasn't for her, would he?

Julia doesn't get angry like Mimi would have. She just sighs, like she really is sorry, and rests a
hand on his shoulder for a moment before she gets up. The door opens and closes a second later,
and then he's truly alone.

He spends his first heat barricaded in his bedroom, angry and miserable. He puts a chair under the
door handle so Mimi and Julia can't get in, and refuses to come out to use the loo or take the food
they leave unless they fuck off downstairs first. Julia tells him that the first heat is only a mild one
and if that's true he doesn't know how he's going to bear any more of them. It lasts barely two days
but by the end of it he feels hollowed out, livid marks pressed into his skin by his own fingernails.
His bed sheets are disgusting and he tries to wash them himself in the bath so Mimi won't see
them, but he makes a useless mess of it and in the end his mum quietly takes them away and
returns them a week later, washed and pressed like new.

He doesn't know how she can be so normal about it, as if it's not the end of the world. Mimi
obviously thinks it is. She wastes no time in getting the registration forms from the Bonding
Office, trying to cover up her discomfort by doing what is expected, as usual. John won't even look
at them and when she tries to make him, he tears them up and throws them in the bin. Then he
retreats to his room and for the most part stays there.

Mimi comes in to look at him, mouth set. She tells him he'll have to start behaving now. Be
quieter. Calmer. It's what people will expect. He knows what she isn't saying, he's an aberration
that she hadn't expected or prepared for. There are omegas, and then there's John, and she is
struggling to fit the two together. He tells her to fuck off too and he knows that in any other
circumstances he'd never have gotten away with it.
Julia finds him brooding there a few days later, bringing in a burst of warm summer air with her.
She's wearing a brightly patterned dress and no hat and Mimi is probably having conniptions about
it but John likes it, he thinks she wouldn't look right dressed like she was going to church like
Mimi.

"If you've come about the registration forms I'm not doing it," he says rudely, because Mimi's
probably been on to her like she has him every bloody day.

Julia sits down next to him on the bed, uninvited. "Is that what she's got herself in a tizzy about? I
did wonder."

"She won't shut up about it. I'm not adding my name to any register."

"Well, you don't have to," Julia says easily, which is news to John.

He stares at her suspiciously. "What?"

Julia leans back against the wall beside him and nudges him. "They can't register you without your
consent, you know, that's the law now."

John thinks about this for a moment. "But what do they do if you don't register?"

"Nothing," Julia says, "That's the law now as well." Then she smiles at John, a conspiratorial smile,
and he realises that he has an ally in this after all.

Mimi goes spare, of course, going on about how just because something's allowed doesn't mean it's
acceptable or normal. People will talk, they'll think all sorts about him, and about her by extension.
Registering is the first step to finding an alpha and a bond, she says, as if that's not the very worst
argument she could ever use on John.

It turns out his mum was right though. She can't make him do it. No-one can. So John doesn't sign
any forms, or add himself to any lists, or join any stupid classes on how to be an omega. He
doesn't do anything else either though. Julia persuades him to come out one day to hers, to see his
sisters at least. "Unless you're not bothering with them anymore?" she says, pointed, and that's
enough to shift John, because he'd never abandon Jackie and Julia like that. So he goes with her
and the walk through Woolton is the worst kind of revelation. He can feel the eyes of his
neighbours, the way people stop and stare when they see them. He thinks he can imagine what
they're saying. A male omega. But then, what did they expect with a mother like that? Julia keeps
her head up and says a sharp, "Good morning," to a few of the gawpers, so John does the same
because he won't let those bastards judge either of them.

But after that, he doesn't go anywhere. He stays in the house, out of sight, and if the phone rings
sometimes, it's never for him anyway and no-one calls round to see him either. His world has
shrunk to Mimi, his mum and his sisters and he tells himself he prefers it that way.

He's bordering on three weeks of his new hermit-like existence when Mimi goes out to the shops
and two minutes later someone knocks on the door. He ignores it, and then Pete calls through the
letterbox. He briefly considers ignoring that too, but Pete's the only person to actually bother
coming to see him and it's lonely, being angry all by himself.

He opens the door halfway to the sight of Pete's familiar face beneath his shock of blond hair.
"What do you want?"

"Your mum said I should come round."

"In that case you can piss off," John says and starts to close the door. Pete nearly loses a foot trying
to block him.

"Oi, don't be like that. I would have come round before but Mimi said you didn't want me to."

John squints at him suspiciously but he looks like he means it. "I never said that."

Pete shrugs. "Yeah, that's what your mum reckoned an' all. So I waited for the old dragon to go out
and here I am. Are you goin’ to make me wait outside all day?"

John looks over Pete's shoulder, automatically checking for the twitching curtains, before he
grudgingly stands back to let him in.

"Thanks," Pete says, with more than a hint of sarcasm. He follows John through to the front room
where he's made a nest for himself of biscuits, half empty cups of tea, and a pile of torn up bonding
office leaflets he plans on setting fire to later.

"Well?" John says belligerently.

"I brought you some ciggies and Mum sent some chocolate." Pete digs them out of his backpack
and holds them out.

"I'm not ill," John says, annoyed, but he takes them anyway because he was out of ciggies and
couldn't bring himself to go to the shop for any.

"I'll have the chocolate back then."

"Sod off." Mimi never has chocolate around the house so he's keeping that too.

When Pete shows no sign of just leaving again John drops back down onto the sofa, ripping open
the pack of cigarettes and after a second Pete joins him. "Chuck us one then."

John hands one over and is in the process of looking for his match book when Pete leans in close,
frowning with concentration.

John jerks away. "What are you doing?"

Pete's frown clears. "Just seeing if you smell different now. You do, but it's not like I'd want to
jump you or anything."

John stares at him, momentarily speechless.

"I s'pose it would be different for alphas though," Pete continues blithely, before adding, "I've got
some matches if you can't find yours."

John takes the matchbook he's offering automatically. "I don't—" he doesn't even know what he's
trying to say. He feels the familiar churn of humiliation. "I'm not any different."

He glares at Pete as he says it, because by every measurement that anyone seems to care about
now that isn't true. But Pete just nods like that's not a weird thing to say at all and waits for John to
light his cigarette so he can have the matches back.

"Except for how you'll want to take it up the arse now I s'pose."

John inhales too sharply and coughs, nearly fumbling his cigarette, his face burning. "Jesus, Pete,
shut up."
He wants to say he'd never want that, but he's had a heat now and he knows things about himself
that he didn't before, about the things he could want, so he just says, "You know I can't fucking
stand alphas," which is not untrue, since they've always been pushy, arrogant tossers.

Pete looks at him sideways. "Liar. What about you and Tommy Johnson that time?"

"He wasn't an alpha."

"He wasn't then. " Pete blows out a long plume of smoke, clearly thinking it over. "Maybe you
knew all along and that's why you wanted to."

"Fuck off." John had been drunk and Tommy Johnson was tall and dark haired and up for it and
somehow that had seemed a good enough reason to exchange sloppy hand jobs and then never
speak of it again. If he tried it on now, John would kick him in the balls.

"Are you going to move away then?" Pete says after they've smoked in silence for a while, John
mostly trying not to think about Tommy Johnson and whether he should have known what a shit
show his life would become.

He looks at Pete, almost missing what he'd said. "What?"

Pete fiddles with what's left of his cigarette before finally dropping it in one of John's collection of
tea cups. "Now you've presented. Dad reckoned you'll be off to London in a few months. Find
yourself an alpha and that."

John feels his throat close with panic, but then he remembers the forms he didn't sign and the fact
that no-one can make him do anything he doesn't want to. "No. Why would I want to leave
Liverpool to suck up to a load of toffs in London?"

Pete looks relieved and that goes some way to taking the sting out of his question. "That's what I
told Dad. I said John's not going to be bossed about by some dickhead alpha."

"I bet you didn't say dickhead to your dad."

"Well, no, or he'd have clobbered me, but that's what I meant." Pete helps himself to a bit of John's
chocolate, and looks at him, considering. "What about school though? Everyone's saying you'll
stop away now."

"Are they?" John doesn't much want to think about what people might be saying about him.
Although, now Pete's brought it up, he realises that Mimi hasn't mentioned the new term to him yet
and normally she'd be on at him by now, dragging him out for new shirts and all that bollocks. He
frowns. "Why are they saying I'll stop away?"

Pete looks at him like he's barmy. "Because you don't need to go now you've presented. You'll
bond and then…" He makes a vague hand gesture that John assumes is meant to mean 'and then
you'll just exist for the enjoyment of some alpha because what else is a male omega for?'. Alright,
Pete probably wouldn't have meant that, not exactly, but it puts John's hermit life in a less flattering
light all the same. As though he's waiting to be claimed like it's the bloody Dark Ages, and not
stewing in justified rage at an unfair world.

"Actually I am coming back," he says abruptly, surprising himself as much as Pete. Those bastards
aren't going to push him out. If they're going to talk about him they can do it to his face, he's not
having anyone think he's cowering at home.

Once he's gotten over the initial shock, Pete seems flatteringly cheered by the news. "I don't
reckon people will care that much, you know," he says comfortingly. He breaks off another bit of
John's chocolate. "No-one talks about Kevin Harris going into rut anymore."

John rescues the meagre remains of his so-called present with an irritated look. "You're still
talking about it."

Pete shrugs. "Well, that's 'cause it was bloody hilarious."

"Great," John says, and crams what's left of the chocolate into his mouth.

He does go back to school when term starts, because he said he would and he's nothing if not
stubborn. Mimi doesn't like it, but she's not sure what else to do with him at this point so she lets
him go, though not without telling him, several times , that he can’t expect things to be the same
now. Unfortunately she’s right, and Pete’s prediction turns out to be wildly optimistic. The fact
that John Lennon, of all people, has presented as an omega is clearly the biggest and best scandal
his boring shithole of a school has ever known, and by the end of the first day John is tense as a
wound spring. He'd told himself that he didn't give a shit if people stared at him, but there's a
world of difference between imagination and reality. He can't stand it; the way their eyes seem to
crawl all over him, looking at him in a way he's never wanted to be looked at. And the alphas are
the worst of it. They're suddenly everywhere, or it feels like they are, and John's never been so
fucking aware of them before. Not in the way people think, as though he's suddenly panting after
some dickhead he's known since he was ten, but the scent of them nags at him all the same,
distracting him and keeping him constantly on edge.

It takes all of two days for the first alpha to try it on and he gets a bloody nose for his trouble.
Mimi just looks at him when he's sent home, shirt torn and blood stained, the headmaster's lecture
about 'proper omega behaviour' ringing in his ears, and she sighs.

"You must understand that things have to be different now, John."

But John won't let that happen.

What happens instead is that he gets a reputation. Not that sort of reputation, ta, anyone who so
much as looks at him that way again gets boldly stared down (or gets a smack for their trouble),
and most people aren't stupid enough to try it twice. He wants them all to know that you don't
mess with John Lennon, and when an alpha tries to corner him in the loo, he gives him a split lip
and a black eye, and gets a suspension for it. He thinks if the headmaster had been in he'd have
been expelled, but luckily for him (or perhaps unluckily) it's the Deputy Head, Mr Hamilton, who's
in the office that day and for some reason he's always had a soft spot for John.

Mr Hamilton looks at him for a long moment, saying nothing until John is moved to mutter, "he
started it," and then he sighs, deeply.

"I have to suspend you, it's the rules."

"I don't care," John says rudely, even though he does, because Mimi'll murder him. Then he asks,
"Are you goin' to suspend him an' all?"

"I'll certainly do my best," Mr Hamilton says with a faint smile, and it makes John feel a little bit
better.

Mimi despairs of him. For a while after the suspension she tries leaving those mawkish magazine
stories around the house, about happy omegas and their perfect fucking domestic bliss. John
chucks them in the bin, along with her endless bloody leaflets. She takes him to the doctor, not their
usual one but an alpha who stands too close, eyes lingering as he tells her not to worry, it wasn't
unusual for some young omegas, especially the more unusual ones, to need some 'adjustment' time
before they settle down to their eventual bonded bliss. John maintains a sullen silence, refusing to
answer his prurient questions until Mimi takes him home again, exasperated.

When she tries enlisting Julia he knows she must be getting desperate. Julia's no advert for the
docile omega ideal and they both know it. She won't back Mimi up anyway, she just tells her to
leave him alone and when he sneaks off to her house, she puts another plate out for dinner and rests
a hand on the sensitive skin of his neck as she passes by. He likes it when she does that. She's the
only person he does like it from, the thought of anyone else touching him like that curdles his
stomach.

He endures two more erratic, unbearable heats locked in his room at Mendips, before he starts to
wonder if there's some other way she can help him. He knows there are things some omegas do,
because some of them get caught and they end up in the papers so Mimi can tut over them. He
doesn't remember Julia tutting over them though, not even when Mimi read a report out from the
newspaper right in front of her, all scandalised.

The first time he asks her she says no, even though he's not sure what he's even asking for or what
she's saying no to. But after another heat he's really fucking desperate. He can't stand it, the slick
wetness and the way his skin feels, like it's on fire and there's nothing he can do to ease it until the
heat finally burns itself out. He's a sixteen year old boy and he's not a virgin for God's sake, but
nothing he's felt before could have prepared him for the clawing need of heat, and he won't, he
absolutely will not, give in to it. He knows, because he used to joke about it along with everyone
else, what it is his body wants, at least in theory, and he's not doing that. He would never let
anyone see him like that, he'd rather die. So he goes back to his mum and begs her to help him put
a stop to it, and then he keeps on until he wears her down.

Two weeks later she brings him a little bottle of anonymous white pills with the firm
admonishment that he must not, under any circumstances, let Mimi find out.

"What do they do?" John asks, wanting to be sure they're what he needs.

Julia touches his hair, smoothing it down like she used to do when he was little. "They'll turn it
off. Mostly." Her expression turns rueful. "It's not an exact science."

"No more heats?" John says eagerly.

She smiles, faintly. "No more heats. But John, you can't rely on them forever."

"Yeah, alright," John says, as if he has any intention of giving them up now he knows they exist.

So he takes the pills and his mum was right, they do turn it off. Mostly. It's as though everything
has been muted, or at least turned down enough to live with. He's still more aware of it all than he'd
like, but it's manageable now, bearable. And best of all he stops having heats. In fact he stops
having pretty much anything, until he starts to wonder if his dick even works anymore. Extensive
testing proves that it does, but for the most part he just stops thinking about that too. As side
effects go, he'd probably have chosen literally anything else, but if it's the only option available to
him, he'll take it.

Mimi notices something has changed, how could she not? She keeps on at him to see the doctor
again but John won't go and Julia takes his side.

"Leave him be, Mimi. He's just adjusting, like the doctor said." When Mimi opens her mouth to
argue, Julia adds pointedly. "I should know."

Mimi purses her lips, unused to Julia being the expert on anything when it comes to John, but the
subject is dropped. For now.

"You have to be more careful, John," Julia says, a week later, when John has taken refuge in her
kitchen from Mimi's nagging about his latest fight at school. He wants to pretend she just means
the split lip he's sporting but he knows that's not all of it.

"Like you said, I'm still adjustin'." Adjusting to never having a heat again, if he has any say in it, he
thinks, but has more sense than to say.

Julia just hmmms, but she rests a hand on his neck again, grounding, where his scent is strongest,
and her own lingers, comforting and familiar.

So John stops having heats and he knows he smells… wrong, his omeganess smothered but still
struggling through, and he owns that too. If he doesn't smell like a proper omega, and doesn't
behave like one, then maybe he isn't one after all. He knows that people are still talking about him
and he finds he doesn't mind so much now, not when Mimi lives in a constant state of
embarrassment over what she calls his 'antics'. He likes the idea of being some sort of cautionary
tale for teenage omegas. Watch it, or you'll end up like that Lennon boy. Too loud, too bold, too
unnatural. No alpha will want him if he keeps on like this.

Good, he thinks.

Mimi assumes the band is just another part of his rebellion, but since it finally gets him out of the
house, and out of the headmaster's report book, she doesn't make as much of a fuss about it as she
usually would. In his more honest moments John knows she's not entirely wrong. So long as the
world thinks he ought to do one thing, he takes great delight in doing the opposite. But music is
different. It's necessary, in a way John has found very few things to be. Scandalising Mimi is, as
always, just an additional benefit.

For a while it seems like half the lads at school are trying to start up their own skiffle bands, but
John's not about to beg to join someone else's — if they'd even have him. If he's doing this, then
he's going to be in charge. Pete's in of course, he knows better than to argue, but he manages to get
Colin and Eric too, and then they get Ivan and Len. They're all betas, naturally. The one unspoken
rule of the band is no alphas, and everyone has to understand it's John's band, and he makes all the
decisions. If most of them are lacking in proper musical enthusiasm, well, John has more than
enough for all of them. He wants to play and more than that he wants to be good . He wants people
to look at him like they look at Elvis, omega or not.

Turns out that's easier said than done when no-one will fucking book them to play anywhere.
Some people are kind enough, or cowardly enough, to pretend it's just because they're too young, or
not the 'right kind of music', but most aren't. Most take one look at John and he can see from the
disapproving line of their mouths that he's wasting his time. He almost prefers that to the others,
the ones who look him over and probably would book them, if John didn't tell them to piss off
first. None of the lads say anything, but John knows they have to be wondering if they made a
mistake throwing their lot in with him. When even a local school dance turns them down because
they don't want to 'set a bad example', John skips band practice at Pete's house and gets drunk off
his head on stolen wine instead.

Then they get a gig at last, a real one, courtesy of Colin who sort of knows the son of a woman
organising a street party over on Rosebery Street. John doesn't ask if they know about him, he
thinks they probably don't if they're actually getting to play. He's determined nothing will fuck this
up for them. He buys some cheap but eye watering cologne and douses himself in it on the day of
the gig. Then he keeps his head down and his mouth shut for once until they're up on the
makeshift stage. Then it's on . They play their set fast and loud and it's exhilarating. This is what
he's for. Not fucking flower arranging and baking or whatever Mimi is always harping on about.
He feels invincible, fingers sliding over sweaty guitar strings and people dancing to the music
they're playing, even full of mistakes as it is. Julia and his sisters have come along to watch and he
hams it up for them, putting on the silly voices his sisters love and revelling in the laughter that
follows.

They run up to him after, talking over each other in their excitement. Julia follows at a more sedate
pace but with no less excitement. Then they're asked to play again in the evening and John thinks
this is just the start.

He's vibrating with the high of it, practically glowing as he and the lads push through the dense
crowd to the terraced house where they're storing their gear. He's hot and thirsty and he doesn't
notice, at first, how quiet the others are, or the way heads in the crowd turn to follow him, and
when he does he tells himself it’s just because of the gig, because of how good they were. It's only
when he hears raised voices while he's shirtless in the back kitchen, splashing cold water on his
sweaty face, that he gets the first inkling that something is actually wrong.

"What do you think you're about?" It's a man's voice, angry. "There are kids here".

There's a murmur of agreement before a female voice is heard "We don't want any trouble but you
boys weren't honest with us. We had a right to know that—"

Eric stammers something in reply, and then Pete's voice cuts in, angry, but John has heard enough.
There's a roaring in his ears as he pulls his shirt back on and stalks out of the kitchen. "We were
booked to play music and that's what we've been doing," he says loudly.

The handful of concerned citizens spilling into the room freeze at his entrance. One of the men, red
faced, recovers first. "Have you got no shame, boy," he practically hisses and John realises,
belatedly, that his shirt is damp and only half buttoned.

The scent of angry alpha is sharp in the air, and it makes him want to bend, but he's not cowering
for these bastards, or for anyone. "Sorry, I didn't know we were havin' callers, I'd have got the tea
tray out." He wishes he had a cigarette in his hand and settles for pushing a hand through his hair
instead, hoping they can't see it shaking.

One of the women takes a sharp breath. Her expression reminds him of one of his teachers. She
always had a face like a slapped arse when she looked at John too. "Do you have any idea of the
effect you're having? Parading yourself about like that!"

John feels his face burn. He can't look at any of the others. "I was singing, not doing a fucking strip
tease. It's not my problem if teenagers get you off."

The woman's face mottles alarmingly and another, younger man steps forward. He looks not much
older than John but he has the broad shoulders and hard face of a dock worker and John tenses. The
situation is teetering on the edge of something violent, when suddenly Julia is there, pushing her
way through, a charming smile pinned to her face.

"There you are, John." Her hair glows like a bright penny in the afternoon sun and her scent is
warm and comforting. When she turns to the scandalised group by the door she's all fluttering
hands and omega sweetness. John hates it. "Sorry, sorry. Has John been mouthing off again? You
know what kids are like." She rolls her eyes, managing to convey exasperation and affection both.
"Who are you?" The dock worker looks like the ringleader of this little gang.

Julia smiles. "I'm his mother." She crosses the room swiftly to rebutton John's shirt properly and
flash him a swift warning look. "And we were just leaving"

"No," John insists "We're playing again later."

Julia straightens his shirt, her hands trembling lightly. "I think it's best we go, love." She rarely
calls him that and when he meets her eye he realises she is truly scared for him. It's that, more than
the stupid bigots at the door, that make him swallow his pride and agree. It's an ignominious end to
their triumphant afternoon as they sneak out through the backyard and down the ginnel to where
his sisters are waiting.

The others keep their mouths shut about it, falling in with John like they always do, but Julia waits
until it's just the two of them again to tell him, quietly but with feeling, that he has to be more
careful. "I mean it, John. You can't rile up every alpha you meet, not if you want to keep on with
your band."

"If they can't control themselves it's not my fucking fault."

Julia sighs. "I know, John. Don't you think I know that? I'm not asking you to stay at home and
knit." He snorts at that, and she nudges his shoulder, smiling a little. "Just… don't treat everything
like a fight. You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar."

John looks revolted. "I'm not trying to catch an alpha."

"I know, " she says again, stopping him with a hand curled around his jacket. "But you have to play
the game, just a little bit, if you want to get what you want. Or," she cups his face between his
hands, making him look at her, "at least not start brawling with alphas in the street. I'll settle for
that."

"Fine," he mutters, because he's not used to this softness and it bulldozes straight through his brittle
defences.

When he gets home he expects Mimi to be grimly triumphant. He can hear Julia talking to her
quietly in the kitchen as he retreats to his room, closing the door and stripping off his shirt, wishing
he could shed his skin with it. He can see himself in the tiny mirror and he looks just like he
always does, pale and angular, but he remembers the way the eyes of the dock worker had followed
him earlier, like John was something he wanted, and he shivers.

He nearly misses the quiet knock on the door. As it is, he only just has time to pull on a clean t-
shirt and sit down, scrubbing any evidence of angry tears from his face, before Mimi comes in,
carrying a cup of tea. She puts it down on the chest of drawers and he's already withdrawing from
the lecture he knows is coming when, to his surprise, she sits down beside him on the bed instead.
"Julia told me what happened."

He can't look at her. "Don't you want to say you told me so?"

"Would there be any point?"

"I didn't do anything wrong," John says, angrily. "And people liked us, when we were playin'.
They asked us to play again tonight. We were good."

Mimi doesn't have anything to say to that, of course, since she probably doesn't much care if they
were good or not. It's all 'American rubbish' to her, and a waste of John's time. "Well," she says
eventually, "you got to play your concert so let this be an end to it now."

John glares at her. "I'm not stoppin' the band."

"I didn't say you couldn't go and play with your friends," she says, making it sound like they're all
ten years old and playing marbles in the alley. "But there's no point trying to… to perform, if this is
what happens. Be sensible, John."

Her tone suggests performing is something akin to selling himself down the docks. "What did
mum say?" John knows that'll needle her. It always does when he compares her with Julia. "I bet
she didn't say that."

Mimi's mouth tightens, before she says, "Your mother is hardly the best authority on this sort of
thing."

"I would have thought being an omega made her a pretty good one."

But Mimi's answer tells him everything he needs to know and he's not surprised when, a week
later, Julia is waiting at the end of the road, hiding from Mimi and looking far too pleased with
herself.

Turns out, shacking up with a beta in the entertainment business has more advantages than just
pissing off the Stanley clan. Bobby Dykins has had a word with someone, who had a word with
someone else, badgered by Julia no doubt, and somehow he's got them another gig. The downside
is that it's the bloody Woolton Church fete, which doesn't sound very rock and roll to John, but on
the plus side, it's the kind of respectable even Mimi can't get her knickers in a twist over.

"Do they know though?" John doesn't want to ask it, he doesn't even want to care about it, but the
thought of a repeat of last time is too humiliating.

Julia straightens his shirt collar where it's askew as usual. "They do, or the organiser does anyway,
and she doesn't care as long as there's no swearing, so you better watch that mouth of yours."

John brushes that bit aside. "How come she doesn't mind?"

John's hardly complaining, but it doesn't sound very likely, not after the past few months. But Julia
smiles, like she did in his room that time when she told him he didn't have to put his name on any
register. "Because she's an omega too and she thinks the fete needs livening up a bit."

After a beat of surprise, John grins, liking the sound of this woman already. He can already feel
the excitement sparking at the thought of another real gig, and no-one can say it was under false
pretences this time, not if they were invited properly.

"Mimi's goin' to have a fit," he says, not bothering to hide his glee.

"Probably," Julia says, but she doesn't look like she minds too much. "Remember what I said about
the swearing though."

John salutes her. "No scandalising the vicar, I promise."

She smiles a little oddly at that, and he doesn't understand why until he's standing in the church hall
with all their kit a month later, meeting the prune-faced vicar and his pretty, young omega wife.

"I'm afraid I left the organisation of the entertainment and refreshments to Caroline here," the vicar
is saying, looking rather like he has some serious regrets about that.
"Well, she's done a lovely job," John says cheerfully, and he's not just saying it either. The
churchyard looks like VE Day's come round again and there's a decent spread of food too.

"Indeed," the miserable bastard says frostily, before his wife guides him away murmuring
something about the raffle. She looks back at the door though and winks at John and he wants to
laugh. No wonder Julia found it so funny.

When he steps onto the small stage half an hour later, he knows some people know who he is, they
might even have heard about the gig on Rosebery Street. There's a definite murmur when he takes
his position at the front, the lads forming a loose semi circle around him, making it clear he's in
charge. He stares out defiantly. Without his glasses they're just a blur to him anyway, but he likes
to imagine their surprised faces, finds it a balm to the anxious churning in his gut.

He knows the others are nervous too but they're looking to him to lead them so he squares his
shoulders, counts them in, and as they crash into the first verse of ‘Maggie Mae’, a fierce joy
rushes through his veins. When he'd first suggested it as an opener two weeks ago, Colin had
nearly swallowed his cigarette whole.

"You don't think that one might be a bit..." he had coughed, faltering under John's hard stare.
"Never mind."

Now, singing about the omega whore who'd dared to rob an alpha sailor and showed absolutely no
remorse for it, John felt invincible. Fuck the lot of them, and their stupid backwards attitudes, he
was John fucking Lennon.
 Chapter 2

Paul McCartney is a complication, to put it mildly.

When Ivan said he was bringing a mate along to the fete who could play guitar, John had shrugged
and said alright. Fuck knows they could do with a proper guitarist in the band if they were ever
going to get another gig after this one. And if Ivan was bringing him it meant he wasn't going to an
arse about... Well, that he knew it was John's band.

It's only now that John realises Ivan neglected to mention something very important. Paul is an
alpha. A recently presented one, judging by that baby face, but his scent is unmistakable. Even
with John's pills doing their best to dull his senses, he's too aware of it and the way it fills up the
small church hall where the lads are waiting, making the shabby room feel warm and inviting.

John supposes he should be grateful Ivan had the decency to wait until he had cleaned up and
changed this time, covering what remains of his telltale scent as best he can to avoid a repeat of
Rosebery Street. Still, he looks accusingly at him. Ivan knows all too well how he feels about
alphas, he got to experience it first hand. Not that any of the lads ever dared mention it directly
after that day, no-one except Pete anyway, but he still knows. This is John's band and he's not
having some pushy alpha thinking he can barge in and take it over. Take him over.

Ivan has the grace to look ashamed but he's eager too. "This is my mate Paul that I told you about,
John. He's really good on the guitar. Honestly, just listen to him play."

John wipes his damp face with a rag and tosses it aside, buying himself a few precious seconds.
Then, "How old is he? Twelve?" There's a nervous snigger from Eric, but Paul replies first.

"Fifteen, actually."

He's looking at John steadily, no hint of aggression or, god forbid, lasciviousness in his expression.
He looks ridiculous, John decides — who turns up to a church fete in a white sports jacket with a
flower in the pocket for fuck's sake? He wonders if he's wearing something to enhance his scent,
he's heard that some alphas do it.

The lads are watching him so John looks Paul over deliberately, making his stare cool and
appraising.

"Alright, play us a song then."

Paul's brought his own guitar of course, he has it slung on his back like there's nothing weird about
turning up to a church fete with it. Like this isn't some underhanded set up by him and Ivan.

Paul swings it round and John wants to laugh because the daft bastard has it upside down.

"Think it goes the other way round, son." Somewhere to his left, Pete snorts.

"Not if you're left handed," Paul says easily. He's fiddling with the tuning like he actually knows
what he's doing, taking his sweet time about it as though he has to have it just right, and that's
John's first inkling that letting him play might have been a terrible idea. His second is when Paul
finishes tuning up and launches into Eddie Cochran's ‘Twenty Flight Rock’, because the little shit
is actually good. He can sing, and more importantly he remembers all the words, which is more
than John can manage on a good day. He can tell the others are impressed, though they know
better than to be too obvious about it, with John there. Even Pete's gone quiet, and he can usually
be relied upon for a good heckle.

Paul looks down at his guitar as he plays so John does too, watching the light catch on his fingers
as they move nimbly across the strings. Then he does something, some chord John has heard but
never seen, and he leans forward without thinking, instinctively trying to see it better. Paul looks
up, and for a moment their eyes meet and hold and John feels something warm and extremely
unwelcome spark low in his belly. He jerks back and Paul blinks, looking back down at his hands
as though remembering he's still playing and finishing on a slightly wobbly note.

In the ensuing silence John can feel Ivan hovering expectantly, but he's busy dealing with his own
quiet heart attack, thanks very much. Paul lifts the strap over his head, a little awkward, then
stands with one hand curled around the neck of his guitar as he waits for the verdict. He doesn't
look nervous, though. Not really. Maybe it's just typical alpha confidence, or maybe he just knows
how good he is; knows John has to know it too.

Behind him, the lads are silent, waiting for John to say something. To decide Paul's fate. Their
easy acceptance of his authority reminds John to pull himself together.

"Thanks, I'll let you know." He's deliberately offhand, and Ivan looks disappointed — but Paul
doesn't. Paul is watching him, a small smile just ticking up at the corner of his mouth, and John
thinks shit .

John spends two days thinking about it before he decides to let Paul in the band. Now he's had a
taste of performing, John wants more of it, and that means they have to be the best — they can't
just rely on friends of friends and rebellious vicars' wives forever. People aren't exactly queuing up
to join his band as it is, so he'd be an idiot to let Paul go and play for someone else. He's too good,
and besides, John’s not going to be intimidated by some alpha, especially a fifteen year old alpha
who wears a pink flower for fucks sake. If he gets too pushy, John can kick him out again easily
enough, and no harm done.

He relays the offer to join through Pete, just in case Paul thought he was bothered about whether he
joined or not.

"Why can't you ask him?" Pete says, as if Allerton is ten miles out of his way.

"Because I'm not chasing after some alpha. His head'll be big enough already."

Pete rolls his eyes, but he's heard (more than) enough on John's feelings about alphas, and the
many and varied ways life has it in for John Lennon personally, so he grudgingly agrees to bike
over in return for some of John's pilfered ciggies.

Paul accepts of course — but not before letting him know (via the long suffering Pete) that he has
to go to a bloody scout camp first, Jesus, so they don't actually see each other for a while
anyway.

The first time Paul turns up to a practice they're at Pete's house. John's cracked open a window and
it's a warm enough evening that no-one comments on it. Still, he can see Ivan sneaking looks at
him when Paul arrives, like John's an unpredictable animal he might need to defend Paul from (and
isn't it meant to be the other way around, John thinks?). John nods at Paul, and says a very casual,
"Alright?" and Paul nods back and settles down on the chair furthest away. Then they get back to
work and John lets himself relax, just the tiniest bit.

He watches Paul like a hawk over the next couple of weeks, alert for the first sign of what he
secretly calls 'alpha bullshit.' But Paul is nothing like he expects. For a start he's not half as polite
as he seems. The first time Pete tells one of his infamous dirty jokes, John glances at Paul,
expecting him to look shocked and ready to mock him for it, but the little shit just looks delighted
instead. He also has more opinions about music than John was expecting, but John can't mock him
for those because, more often than not, he agrees, although he's not about to inflate Paul's head by
telling him that.

He's also easily the best of any of them at playing guitar.

"Show me that chord," John says, at their third practice. They're all crowded into the front room at
Menlove Avenue and the only reason they can meet at all is because Mimi is out playing bridge.
Paul is smiling at Colin and Eric messing about by the record player, strumming all the while. Like
John, he can't sit still when he has a guitar in his hands, and John's been watching him, envious of
the way he moves his fingers easily over the frets without even looking.

It's probably the first thing John has said to Paul directly, apart from hello and bye, since that day
at the fete. Paul startles, looking pleased but also like he's trying not to look too pleased. He has to
have noticed that John can't play as well as him, can only play banjo chords at that (and those
thanks to Julia), but he very wisely hasn't said anything.

"Yeah, alright." He shuffles closer to where John is sitting and plays the chord again, carefully
placing his fingers so John can see them. John copies as best he can and for the rest of the evening
they sit together, trading chords back and forth between songs. Paul stays a respectable distance
away and John would rather die than admit he's relieved. Paul's scent is still a lot, deeper and richer
with the warmth of the banked fire at his back, and John doesn't like how it threatens to unbalance
him, making him want more of it. It's not like it was at school, when the scent of alpha was like a
constant irritation. It's different, and John's not sure if it's some strange effect of the pills, or Paul,
or just him 'adjusting' like Julia said. Then again, Paul's the first unbonded alpha he's been around
so much, so maybe he's just something John has to get used to.

From then on, Paul starts showing him chords whenever they've got a bit of time between songs, or
when the others are messing about with some record or magazine or other. He's patient, and
mostly polite, until one evening when they're working on a tricky chord transition that Paul learned
the day before through a friend of a friend, and John is making a complete mess of it.

"No, your hand is all wrong, your index finger should be—” he breaks off in frustration and to
John's shock reaches across to grab his hand and reposition his fingers against the frets. "There.
Hold it like that." He's frowning, watching John's hand. When he doesn't move, he says,
impatiently, "well, try it again then."

John does and he was right (of course), it sounds better now. Clearer. After that, it's like a dam has
broken, and when it comes to playing, it turns out Paul's pretty bossy actually. Not in the alpha way
John was prepared for, with that grating entitlement that never fails to put his back up. Paul just
wants them to be the best, and that's something John can understand because good music demands
dedication. You don't half arse Buddy Holly.

He drives Mimi round the bend with it, practising the same new chords over and over, trying to fit
them into melodies that match the scraps of lyrics he’s always writing down (and losing).
Everything sounds better now, ever since Paul had diffidently offered to 'tweak' the tuning on
John's guitar and then blatantly tuned every single string. John had graciously chosen not to
comment on it, and Paul hadn't either, but he was secretly relieved, all the same, because he'd been
making a right hash of it by himself.

When Mimi finally threatens to sell his guitar for scrap if he doesn't keep quiet, John takes himself
off to Pete’s instead, and he shows marginally more interest in his latest chord change, before
changing the subject to the coming Saturday. Unlike Mimi, the Shottons actually have a social life
aside from bridge club, and in this case their plans are providing the perfect opportunity for a night
of uninterrupted drinking.

“Eric says he’s got us some beers in — are you bringing some records?”

John fits his fingers to the frets again, strums. “Aye, but I’m bringing good stuff, not the shite
Colin’ll want.”

“As long as you bring some, I don’t care.” Pete stretches. “Paul reckons he can borrow the new
Elvis.”

Somehow it hadn’t occurred to John that Paul would be there. “He’s coming, is he?” he says,
aiming for casual.

Of course Pete sees right through it. "Don't you want him there? I couldn't not ask him, not with
everyone else coming."

“Don’t be daft,” John says immediately, because he’s not bothered about Paul McCartney turning
up. It’s just…weird, that’s all. How he’s gone from the kid at the fete to bloody everywhere in a
couple of months. At least it feels like everywhere. He supposes that, technically, it’s only band
practices, and on that logic he sees more of Pete or Colin. And it only feels like a lot because
Paul’s been showing him the chords and helping him with the tuning and everything. Anyway, it
just feels different with Paul.

He pushes that errant thought away. “Surprised he wanted to come, he sees enough of us at
practice.”

"Dunno. He seemed quite keen."

John goes back to his chords and carefully doesn’t think about it.

As it is, he’s four beers deep and standing on a chair trying to retrieve someone’s boot from the top
of a bookcase when Paul arrives at the Shottons’ on Saturday.

It takes him a while to notice he’s there, since the boot is pretty far back and Pete’s hovering
somewhere around his knees like an old woman, hissing at him to be careful and not to break
anything. Not that Pete ever cares when it's someone else's house.

“Don’t mind John,” he hears someone say and twists round (nearly losing his balance) to find Paul
watching him from the doorway, looking mildly alarmed.

"Some idiots gone and chucked his boot up here," John offers by way of a greeting.

Paul glances from John to the bookcase and back again, before he says, "Was it you?" Which is
pretty rude actually — except now John comes to think about it, he's not wearing his boots so
maybe it was. He can't honestly remember.

"It doesn't matter who," he decides, magnanimously. "We just have to get the bloody thing down
again."

Paul looks around like there might be some sort of special tool for retrieving boots off bookcases.
There isn't, Pete's already looked. But then he hands John the poker from the fireplace and that
turns out to work just as well, even if it does leave a black smudge on the Shottons' nice
wallpaper. Fortunately, Pete can't see it from where he is and John's certainly not going to mention
it.

There's a muted cheer from Pete when the boot hits the floor — just before he ducks to avoid
getting brained by the poker when John turns round again.

"Oops," John says, a little late, snickering at Pete's betrayed expression. Paul takes the poker out of
his hand, which is probably for the best, and John watches him putting it carefully away in the coal
scuttle. He's such a little boy scout.

Now Paul's here, being all helpful, he can't really remember why he was worried about him
coming along. He takes stock of the room, trying to remember if everyone's met Paul yet. If they
haven't, they probably should, but his brain refuses to co-operate so he decides to just introduce
him again anyway.

"Oi!” It's loud enough to get everyone’s attention and John glares at Eric until he turns down
Buddy Holly. “For those of you not in the band, or I dunno, that I've forgotten, this is Macca.” He
waves a hand at Paul, then wobbles a little and Pete makes like he's going to grab his knees before
he catches John’s eye and thinks better of it. “And even though he’s from the grammar,” Colin
booes obligingly and gets an elbow from Ivan, “Even though he’s from the grammar, he knows a
lot of chords so he’s alright.”

Introductions done, John mostly falls off the chair and goes to bully Eric over the record player.
He loses track of Paul for a while after that, the small room crowded enough and filled with
enough sweat and beer and cigarette smoke that he’s not as constantly aware of him as he usually
is. But later, when he’s slouched blearily on the settee there’s a reshuffle of bodies and suddenly
Paul is sitting on the floor, a short distance away. He’s got a beer in his hand as he listens to
something Ivan is saying, and judging by his rosy face, it’s not his first or even his second. John
tries to follow the conversation — something about Paul getting with some girl, or maybe two
different girls, he's not sure (must be a lot of desperate girls in Allerton) — but he keeps getting
distracted by Paul’s hands, his slim fingers tapping out a rhythm on his thigh that seems to have
nothing to do with the record being played.

“Oi Paul.” John kicks at his knee and Paul starts and turns, fingers stilling. Now he’s got his
attention, he can’t remember what he was going to say, but then Paul’s fingers start tapping again.
“You doing morse code or summat?”

Paul follows his gaze. “Oh! No, just… thinking of a song. Not one you’d know,” he adds, when
John raises his eyebrows, expectantly.

“Paul writes his own songs,” Ivan puts in helpfully.

It takes a while for John's beer soaked brain to process this new turn of events. Course Paul would
write his own songs (and play the guitar and win the genetic jackpot by presenting as an alpha who
looks a bit like Elvis). He thinks he should probably be more annoyed about this development but
instead he feels a spark of interest. He takes a sip of his beer.

“What sort of songs then?"

Paul shrugs. “All sorts. I mean the ones I’ve finished have been rock and roll mainly.”

Actually finishing songs already puts him ahead of John, which is annoying. He has a bit more of
his beer and waits until Ivan's gone to the loo and Paul's tap tapping again to announce, "I write
songs an' all."
Paul looks amused, which makes about as much sense as him following it up with, “Yeah, I
remember.”

John must make a confused face because Paul starts singing quietly. It takes far too long for John
to recognise his own made-up lyrics “Come and go with me, down down down to the
penitentiary." Paul smirks. "Not sure that’s what the Del Vikings had in mind. ”

John grins, delighted. “I reckon I improved it. Anyway, I used up all me brain power learning
‘Maggie Mae’ to scandalise Mimi.” She didn’t speak to him for nearly a week after, so it was
worth it.

Paul frowns a little; it's oddly endearing. "Why didn't you just write it down?”

Pete appears from seemingly nowhere to make a rude noise and say, “Because he’s blind as a bat
without his specs. You'd have to post it on one of them advertising boards and he probably still
wouldn't see it."

He starts laughing at his own rubbish joke and John throws one of Mrs Shotton’s prize cushions at
him. “Fucking slander.”

“Alright, who’s that standing in the kitchen doorway then?”

John squints, then shrugs. “Dunno, do I? I haven’t got me goggles on.”

“See!” Pete says triumphantly, and takes himself off for another drink.

John watches him go, then turns back to Paul, who looks like he wants to laugh, the cheeky sod.
“Anyroad, you don’t see Buddy Holly reading off a bit of paper. It wouldn’t look—” it takes him a
moment to think of the word, “— professional. ”

“And you’re so keen on that.”

John has a vague recollection of Paul getting a bee in his bonnet about them ‘smartening up’ for
future gigs and he can’t get into that bloody argument again. He’s not wearing a tie for anything
but school, and only that under duress. “How many songs have you done then?” he says, to
change the subject.

“I dunno — a few.”

John eyes him suspiciously, wondering if this is like Paul knowing ‘a few’ chords. Then Paul takes
another swig from his bottle and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and John follows the
movement, almost missing it when he adds, “Maybe we could work on some together?”

He turns the thought over slowly. The idea of spending time alone with Paul seems fairly stupid,
but so was letting him in the band and that’s worked out alright so far. And if they can start
writing stuff — good stuff — then The Quarrymen won’t just be like every other would-be band in
Liverpool.

“It’s just an idea,” Paul says, and John realises he’s been silent too long. Not that it hurts to remind
Paul who’s in charge here, but he doesn’t want him fucking off to write his songs with Eric either.
In case Eric ever decides to write any songs.

“We can try some and see how it goes, maybe,” he says graciously, and Paul nods and takes
another swig from his bottle, but John can tell he’s pleased and he feels an answering warmth steal
over him. He doesn't quite know what to do with it so he clears his throat, and forcibly shifts his
attention to Colin who is, as predicted, trying to inflict bloody Frank Sinatra on them all. “Oi! Turn
that shite off or I’m breaking it.”

The rest of the night is a bit hazy. He vaguely remembers wending his way down Menlove Avenue
with Colin at some ungodly hour, coupled with Mimi’s long suffering face when he fell up the
stairs and swore loud enough to wake the dead. He has a cracking hangover the next day, but it’s a
Sunday so he can’t be expected to do anything but lie around the house anyway, whatever Mimi
says.

It’s not until he picks up his guitar to see what he can remember of that new Elvis record Paul
brought (nothing, apparently) that the conversation drifts back into his head. He wonders if Paul
remembers it too, or if he was just drunk. He can't stop thinking about it though, and that night,
before he goes to bed, he searches out all the scraps of lyrics that have survived Mimi's periodic
and ruthless 'tidying' and assembles them on the desk. They look even more pathetic set out like
that, verses scribbled on the backs of school work and Mimi's old bills and discarded stationary.
But there's something in them, he thinks, all the same. Words and phrases that he likes, some even
that he's played often enough to remember the melody for. He wants to know what Paul thinks of
them, and he wants to hear what sort of songs Paul writes too.

He scoops them up and chucks them in his sock drawer, but two days later, when they next have
practice, he moves them to his guitar case at the last minute. If Paul doesn't mention it, he won't
either and no harm done.

But Paul does mention it. He leaves it until practice is over and John is halfway down Colin’s front
path before he catches up and says, without preamble, “D’you have to be home soon?”

John pauses in the act of lighting his ciggie, “Why?”

Paul finishes buttoning his coat. “Mike's out, I thought we could try some songs. I’ve been
working on a new one.”

Mimi will probably squawk about him being home late but John lives to keep her on her toes, and
anyway, he’s been waiting for Paul to bring this up the whole evening. “Aye, alright.”

Paul falls in step with him as they turn onto the road and John finishes lighting his ciggie and takes
a deep pull. There’s a feeling in his gut that might be nerves, if it wasn’t ridiculous to be nervous
about sharing his music with Paul, but maybe it’s just excitement. He’s not sure which would be
worse.

He knows roughly where Paul lives from dispatching Pete on his band errand, but it's still a
surprise to realise Forthlin Road's not all that far from Mendips; a neat little house on a row of neat
little houses just across the golf course. He gets the stupid little flutter of nerves, or excitement, or
whatever it is again when Paul lets them in and switches the light on, but Paul's looking a little
flushed too so maybe he's not the only one nervous about sharing his scribblings.

"Where's your dad?" John asks to cover his awkwardness as he follows Paul through to the front
room. Ivan's warned him not to mention Paul's mum, what with her passing so recently, but he
didn't say anything about his dad.

"He's not here this week," Paul says, rearranging the cushions on the settee for some reason. When
John raises his eyebrows, he adds, "He travels for work a lot. He works down the cotton
exchange."

"Must be nice," John says vaguely, distracted by the piano in the corner. He wonders if Paul can
play it, that'd be handy for gigs. Then he thinks again about what Paul just said. "How often's he
not here then?"

Paul's mouth quirks, like he's not remotely surprised by John's sudden interest. But instead of
trying to wriggle out of it like John expects, he just says, "We can practice here if you like. Even
when dad's home he goes down the pub in the evenings so he won't mind."

John eyes him, a bit taken aback at how easy that was. He'd had to twist Pete's arm for days to get
him to ask his mum if they could borrow her front room. They've even ended up round Julia's a few
times, crammed on the landing while his sisters giggled and ran up and down the stairs. "I'll want
tea and biscuits as well, mind," he says, just to see if Paul's serious.

"Alright," Paul says easily. He smiles at John and the flutter comes back, a little more obvious this
time. It occurs to him that he's never really been alone with Paul before. Not unless you count the
walk over, and there were enough gawpers around that he definitely didn't. Not that it matters
anyway, since it's just Paul. It's only that he's used to having the others around as a distraction and
he'd been careful, before now, for it not to be just the two of them. In all the excitement of the
songwriting revelations he must have forgotten.

He looks away, fiddling with the strap of his guitar case. "Are you goin' to show me these songs
then?"

Paul obligingly digs around in his guitar case and produces a little notebook which he swaps for
John's bundle of papers. Paul has the decency to look self conscious when he hands it over, but it's
not half as self conscious as John feels when he leafs through pages of neatly written lyrics and
what might be actual guitar chords, and then glances across to see Paul squinting down at the back
of a milk bill.

"I haven't got a proper book for 'em yet," John says quickly, as if that's not glaringly obvious. "I
just write em' down wherever."

Paul doesn't reply, but he smiles a little when he gets to some verses John has annotated liberally
with little stick men playing guitars. John fights the urge to snatch it out of his hand and just high
tail it back to Mendips. He looks down at Paul's notebook instead, flicking through a few pages.
He doesn't need to read it all to know it's likely good. Paul's got what looks to be whole songs
written down, although some of the words could do with some work. Still, it's a bit more than
John's managed and he starts to think this was a horrible mistake.

When Paul finishes leafing through his stack of papers and doesn't immediately say anything,
John's sure it was. He catches Paul frowning a little and feels a sharp rush of embarrassment. Like
he’s spilled his guts and Paul is clearly trying to think of a polite way to say he’d rather he hadn’t.
Bloody hell, he should have known this would happen.

“Jesus, don’t break something,” he snaps. “I’ll have ‘em back if you think they’re that bad.”

Paul looks up at him, startled, then his expression turns apologetic and John is bracing himself for
some oh-so-polite dismissal when he says, “Sorry, it's just… I can’t really read your handwriting.”

There’s a short silence, then John snorts, feeling a ridiculous urge to laugh. Paul’s smile is
hesitant, then relieved as he realises John's not actually pissed off.

“Bloody cheek.” John’s always been better at action than talking stuff to death anyway. Before he
loses his courage he picks up his guitar and holds out a hand for his scraps. “I’ll play a few of ‘em
to you then, how’s that?”
Paul hands them over and sits back, smiling properly now. “Alright, we can take it in turns.”

So they do, and it's not anywhere near as awkward as John thought it would be. Unsurprisingly
Paul has a lot of opinions on everything, but so does John, and he's not afraid to tell Paul when
some of his lyrics make it sound like he swallowed a bloody dictionary.

"What's wrong with 'beguile'?"

John makes a face. "Nothing, if we're writin' for a load of old biddies down the dance hall."

Paul gets what John's already come to recognise as his stubborn look. "It rhymes with smile
though."

"Well, stick it in one of your little sonnets then," John says, because he's willing to bet Paul's
written some, judging by his songs. Paul rolls his eyes, impervious to John's rudeness as he always
seems to be. It's one of his better qualities as far as John is concerned, and it makes it a bit easier to
swallow Paul telling him, more tactfully than John would have done, that he can't just use the same
two chords for all his songs, even if they are easy to remember.

All in all, it's a good evening — although he gets the stink eye off Mimi when he rolls in nearly
two hours late, and in what she considers to be a suspiciously good mood. She wants to know
where he's been and who he was with, but there's no way he's going to tell her about Paul, she'd just
get the wrong idea, so in the end he goes with a vague lie about Pete wanting to play him a new
record and Mimi tuts about him still 'wasting his time' with that American rubbish.

His good mood survives Mimi's carping, and a night's sleep, and the next day he feels positively
buoyant at the thought of not just having someone to write songs with, but having somewhere for
the band to practice as well. He's ready to hold Paul to his offer, but in the end he doesn't have to
because Paul brings it up first and four days later they're all crammed in the McCartney front room
and Paul's on tea duties. He's taking bloody ages about it, so John wanders out to the kitchen to
hurry him along a bit and finds him waiting for the kettle to boil again and humming a tune John
recognises.

"Got any more words for it?" he asks, as he helps himself to a biscuit from the packet Paul has
foolishly left out. Paul's gaze flicks towards them, but he doesn't bother to stop him so John
decides the biscuits must be fair game and has another while he's at it.

"Not yet," Paul says. "Mike's borrowed the dictionary." John grins approvingly and Paul ducks his
head, smiling a little before he adds, "We can do some more work on it, if you like?"

John likes that he said 'we', as though he needs John's input. Then he wonders if Paul means right
now and goes a bit cold at the idea of showing everyone his scribbles and having to write with
them all watching. It was alright when it was just Paul, he writes too and besides he thinks you can
stick beguile in a song so he's hardly in a position to mock John's efforts.

So he says, "I reckon Pete only thinks in dirty rhymes," and hopes Paul takes the hint.

He does, or maybe it wasn't what he meant in the first place, because he says, "Not now, I mean
you should come round before practice. We can do it then."

John pauses at that, eyeing him a bit suspiciously and wondering if this is some elaborate plan to
get him on his own again. He had enough of that shite at school, thanks. But Paul's not even
looking at him, too busy pouring out the tea, and John feels embarrassed to have even thought it.

He brushes some crumbs off his jumper. "S'pose I better had. Just to make sure they're decent."
"Maybe we can experiment with a third chord while we're at it," Paul says, and John flicks a bit of
biscuit at him for his cheek.

They have another practice a few days later and John takes Paul at his word and turns up early. A
dark haired boy answers the door, familiar enough that John guesses he must be Paul's little brother
Mike.

"Are you John?" Probably-Mike asks, before he can say anything.

John stubs out his cigarette. "I might be. Is Paul in?"

He can already hear footsteps coming down the stairs, however, and a second later Paul comes into
view, bundling Mike out of the way as he says, "Alright, John? Come in." He steps back so John
can actually get through the door, no mean feat with three of them crowded in the hallway and the
bulk of John's guitar.

"I thought we could work on that song for a bit," John says, when he gets inside and no-one says
anything for a moment. Paul better not have forgotten already, it's only been a few days.

He hasn't, thank god. "Yeah, course," Paul says immediately, looking pleased. "I've had some
more ideas for it. Come through."

He leads John to the dining room where he's already got his notebook and a pencil set out and his
guitar propped against a chair, and then abandons him there to go and make them some tea. While
he's gone, John takes the opportunity to have a proper look around, not that there's a lot to see in the
sparse little room. He likes it though, the same as the rest of Paul's house. It's not as nice as
Mendips and he knows Mimi would turn her nose up at the mismatched wallpaper and the worn
furniture, but it feels like it's lived in, and it smells like Paul, which he likes, although he's keeping
that part to himself.

He's squinting at some photographs on the wall when Paul comes back through with the tea.

"Dad put those up," Paul says when he sees him looking. He sounds a bit embarrassed but John
doesn't know why. They're just family photos but they're nice. Normal. "They were Mum's
favourites, you know what parents are like."

"Not really," John says, forgetting that Paul probably doesn't know the whole messy Lennon
family saga. Or maybe he does, judging by the slightly awkward silence that follows. Abruptly,
John turns back to the table, gratified to see Paul's remembered the biscuits. "Shall we get on
then?"

After that John comes round early whenever they have a practice and he and Paul sit and trade song
ideas until the others arrive. John's not used to anyone being so interested in what he thinks, not
about music anyway. Mimi's more likely to throw his writings out than ask him what they're meant
to be about, but Paul always wants to know, and then he tells John about all his songs as well,
whether John asks or not.

One rainy Thursday in November, John brings some of his records with him and he and Paul spend
the hour before practice trying to guess the chords. Paul's got this thing about trying to work out
what makes particular songs so good, like there's a formula to it and if they could just crack it,
they'd be on their way.

"There should be a rule," he says, when they're listening to ‘Heartbreak Hotel’ for the fifth time. "If
it's not catchy in the first ten seconds, you have to start again." He hums the opening bars, bashing
out a few notes of it on the piano which, it turns out, he can play, albeit not half as well as he plays
the guitar.

"And don't take bloody ages gettin' to the point," John throws in, from where he's lounging across
the settee, guitar on his lap. That's what had grabbed him, the first time he'd heard Heartbreak
Hotel . There's no messing about, Elvis just starts telling the story straight out and you have to
know more. ‘Hound Dog's the same. He'd got the record for his sixteenth birthday and played it
non-stop for the entire day. "Elvis never does that."

"He doesn't write them though, it says so on the records." Paul plays a scrap of melody that John
recognises as one of their newest songs. "Imagine if we could write, play and sing them as well."

"I reckon we'd be bigger than Elvis," John says, and Paul does a little fanfare on the keys that
makes him grin.

John tries not to think about what the other lads think of it, of him and Paul. He hopes they know
better than to think anything of it. But one day, when he and Ivan are walking to practice, Ivan says
unexpectedly, "Paul said you've been working on some songs together."

John slides a look at him, trying to gauge the meaning behind the question, but Ivan is watching the
pavement, smoke curling from his cigarette into the cold air. "Aye, a few. They're alright. We
could use them for the band maybe. Once I've polished 'em up a bit of course."

Ivan snorts at that. "Of course. He's good though, right? I told you he would be."

John rolls his eyes. "Aye, you're a proper Hughie Green, you are."

He means it to be sarcastic but Ivan just looks pleased. "He wanted to meet you, you know."

"Who? Hughie Green?" John says before Ivan's words properly register. He stops. "Who are you
on about?"

Ivan stops too, takes another drag on his cigarette. "Paul, obviously. He saw our gig."

John wonders if Ivan's been sneaking his dad's beer again. "I know, I was there, you daft git."

"Not Woolton." Ivan's looking at John like he's the daft one. "Rosebery Street. He asked me about
the band, after. You know, if we needed another guitarist an' that."

John tries to fit this new information into his memory of Rosebery Street, wonders if he saw Paul
there and didn't know it. Then he wonders if Paul saw what happened after and his good mood
curdles.

He tosses his cigarette away. "That was a shite gig anyway, surprised he hung about long enough
to remember it."

"Yeah," Ivan agrees easily, ignoring John's mood. "He liked what he saw, I s'pose."

It plays on John's mind for some reason, and a few days later, when he's at Paul's, he hears himself
say, "Ivan says you saw us play at Rosebery Street."

Paul is sitting opposite him, carefully tuning his guitar, and he doesn't look up. John thinks his ears
might be red but perhaps they were like that already, with the fire going. "Yeah, you were really
good."
He says 'you were really good' like it's nothing, but there's a shameful part of John that can't help
but lap up praise, whenever and however it's given. "You never said?"

Paul shrugs, plays a note, adjusts a tuning peg and tries it again.

"Found Pete's washboard solo inspiring, did you?" John's unable to let it go for some reason.

Paul does look up then. "Well, it wasn't your George Formby impression," he says, deadpan.

"Oi," John kicks his leg, lightly. "I'll have you know that's been called memorable."

"That's certainly one word for it."

They lapse into a comfortable silence again and John watches Paul return to plucking at the strings,
a little divot between his brows as he listens to the notes. He likes watching Paul. Needing
something to do with his hands, he reaches for his own guitar, copies Paul's fingers and strums
mindlessly for a bit before chasing the melody of a new song he's been thinking about. He's got the
hook but he doesn't know how it starts yet. Paul will probably have some ideas for the beginning.
John's still getting used to that.

"You should have played again," Paul says randomly, and John looks up to find he's watching him
play. At his confused frown, Paul clarifies, "At the street party. The band they got on for the
evening were crap."

"Aye, well," John tries to hide how pleased he is at that, "It's all downhill after me George
anyway."

Paul's eyes crinkle at the corners when he laughs, John notices. He's grateful then for Mike
clattering in, bringing with him a burst of cold air and complaints about a late bus.

They've been practicing at Forthlin Road for a while before John meets Paul's dad. Paul's
mentioned him, on and off, that he used to have a band, and that it was him who got Paul started on
music, but his only presence has been the photographs on the walls and copies of the newspaper,
folded to the racing pages. John knows from Ivan that Paul's dad is an alpha too, and that his mum
had been an omega. There's a family photo in the front room that looks like something you'd see in
one of Mimi's leaflets — the proud alpha and his omega wife with their two sons. John looks at it
sometimes when no-one is watching, and wonders if Paul's mum was a happy housewife like she
seems, or if she'd ever wanted to break it all down too.

Still, it's been easy to forget that Jim actually lives in the house, at least part of the time. Then one
night he's busy rooting through his pockets for his lighter in the narrow hallway, cursing under his
breath because he's desperate for a ciggie, when the door to the kitchen opens and an older man
steps out, still in the act of putting on his coat.

"Evenin'." John says, after the first startled moment, covering up his awkwardness, as he always
does, with a blithe confidence.

The man — Jim — looks at him without speaking for a few seconds. "You'll be John then," he
says at last.

It's not really a question but John nods anyway, taking his hands out of his pockets because he's not
completely lacking in manners, whatever Mimi thinks. When Jim doesn't immediately say anything
John puts in, "Thanks for letting us use your front room."

"Well, Paul asked," Jim replies. "And he's a devil when he wants something."
"You're telling me," John says, thinking of all the ways Paul was already trying to reshape their set
to his (exacting) specifications. He’s still holding out on wearing ties though, Paul can give him the
cow eyes all he likes on that one.

"Aye," is all Jim says to that. His expression is a little strange as he looks at John, but then he just
sighs and dons his cap, pulling open the front door. "Tell Paul and Michael I'll be back before
eleven."

John's smoking outside when Paul comes looking for him a few minutes later. "Your dad's a man
of few words." He slides a look at Paul, framed in the light from the kitchen.

Paul makes a face. "Sometimes."

"Skipped a generation, did it?"

"Nah. You just never met my mum." Paul's pilfered a ciggie from someone, probably Ivan, and
John passes him his matchbook. Paul lights up, then takes too deep an inhale and coughs, darting a
quick look at John as if bracing for mockery.

John tucks the matches away in his coat pocket and grins. "I was sick the first time."

Paul looks like he doesn't quite believe him. "You weren't."

"Right into Mimi's plant pot. She didn't find it for a week, not til the plant upped and died on her
and ratted me out, the frondy bastard."

Paul laughs, which makes him cough a bit more, turning his head away from John until he's
finished spluttering in that polite way of his. They smoke in silence for a bit longer and John finds
himself curious.

"Your mum was a talker then?"

Paul smiles and it's a small, fond thing. "Yeah. I mean, she wasn't a gossip or anything, but she
was good with people you know. She was a midwife."

John looks at him in surprise. It's not often you hear about omegas working, not proper jobs
anyroad. "Before she met your dad?"

"Before and after."

"He didn't mind?"

"Hardly. She earned more than he did."

John tucks that information away. Rethinks the sweetly smiling face in the photograph.

Paul finishes his cigarette quickly. He smokes like it's something to get over and done with, not to
savour. Clearly John has some work to do. "Come on then. Dad'll be back in a couple of hours and
we should get on."

"Christ, you're a proper slave driver," John grumbles, dropping what's left of his cig and stamping
it out. He says it to be contrary more than anything. He likes having someone else care about the
band as much as he does. It makes a change from having to constantly cajole the others.

"Idle hands are the Devil's workshop, lad," Paul says, in an uncanny impersonation of his dad.
"I don't want to think about your dad's busy hands, thanks." He cackles at the revolted look on
Paul's face as he follows him back inside. "I reckon you have to be quite the charmer to be a
salesman, mind."

"Who's a charmer?" Pete asks, catching the end of the conversation as they come in.

"Paul," John says promptly, before Paul can get a word in. "According to him anyway."

"That's not—" Paul starts, but Colin sniggers.

"Accordin' to that Caroline Harris as well, by the sounds of it," he puts in, and Paul reddens, but
doesn't exactly deny it.

"Oh, aye?" John says after a moment, because it would probably be weird if he didn't say
anything. They do this sometimes, drop something into conversation that reminds him that baby
faced Paul is somehow quite the hit with the girls. It probably doesn't hurt that he's an alpha, with
all that alpha confidence. That's what Pete reckons anyway. Still, they're here to play, not talk
about Paul's love life, so he makes sure not to encourage it too much.

"We've only gone out a couple of times," Paul says modestly, too modestly if you ask John.

"Where to? The penny arcade?"

Pete laughs but Paul doesn't look annoyed, he just raises his eyebrows a little and John regrets
saying anything.

"Alright, we can chat about Macca's little harem another time," he says, retrieving his guitar.
"Time for some actual work, you lazy bastards."

He can't spend all of his time on the band of course, because he's actually got somewhere to be
during the day now, and it's not his shit hole of a school. To no-one's surprise, least of all Mimi's,
he'd failed most of his exams in the summer — only to somehow land on his feet with a place at
the art college on Mount Street instead. Just when he was facing the horrifying prospect of having
to somehow find a job, or being hounded for the rest of his life by Mimi about going down the
Bonding Office, Mr Hamilton had spotted his single D grade in Art and decided he ought to go to
college to ''nurture his artistic talent", or however he'd put it when he'd called to speak to Mimi.
She'd been unflatteringly sceptical, both of John's talent and his ability to nurture any of it, but Mr
H had her eating out of his hand within half an hour, and when he'd casually mentioned he knew of
several omegas from very respectable families that were already enrolled, she'd folded like wet
paper. God knows, she didn't know what else to do with John, and, as she'd told him frequently,
who'd give him a job? John thought that if someone like Pete Shotton could sign up for the police
of all things (and he still hadn't recovered from the shock of that), then John could surely find
something. Then again, he didn't much fancy the idea of working so he'd kept that thought to
himself.

John had followed Mr Hamilton out to the door, not really knowing what to say or why he'd even
wanted to help him in the first place when John had been nothing but a pain in the arse at school.
But when he tried to say thank you, Mr Hamilton just shook his hand and wished him luck. Then
he'd headed off down the front path, an unassuming figure in his old grey coat and hat, but one
who'd nonetheless just saved John's bacon.

So John had started at the college on a sunny September morning, on a trial 'to see how he'd
manage' according to the sniffy office secretary, and by some miracle, they still hadn't thrown him
out. He likes it there, for the most part. It had only taken him a couple of weeks to realise it was
nothing like school, thank god, and that if Mimi could see half of what went on there she'd
probably keel over. For a start they don't do all the boring shite they did in art lessons, all bunches
of flowers and copying out of books. They learn about all sorts of stuff, sign writing and designing
and even the modern art that Mimi hates, and John's cartoons aren't 'rubbish' apparently, they're
comic caricatures and absurdist satire.

He likes how it sounds too. He can't be a failure if he's at college, and he's not training to mend
cars or fix pipes, he's doing proper art, or learning to anyroad, so he can earn his own money while
he waits to get somewhere with the band. The lads all look suitably impressed when he tells them,
even Paul, who feels the need to point out that he'll be right next door to the Inny.

"Don't think I know anyone who goes there," John says, making a confused face just to wind him
up. "It's a bit swotty."

He keeps an eye out for Paul all the same, although he's only seen him once so far, when he has a
vague sense of Paul nearby for all of two seconds before he pops up out of fucking nowhere and
nearly gives him a heart attack.

"If you were wearing your glasses, you would have seen me coming," Paul tells him.

"I haven't got eyes in the back of me head, have I?" John says irritably, because a group of Paul's
friends are stood a short distance away and just watched him nearly fall off the pavement. Paul just
grins and tells him he's borrowed another new record for later, which John thinks could probably
have waited anyway.

The main downside to college, as he sees it, is actually having to go to all the classes and do bloody
homework again — although so far he's done just enough to keep the teachers off his back. They
don't seem to know what to make of him, the staff. He's too loud, much to their consternation, and
he doesn't get about with the other omegas like they're clearly expecting him to. The little gaggle
of omegas all cluster together at lunch but John has no intention of drawing any more attention to
what he is than he already does, just by existing. Besides, they're all girls, and he knows at least
one of them's already got a bond all set up. The last thing he wants is to be stuck with a load of
girls, listening to them giggle about their impending bonded bliss, ta very much. He'd rather off
himself.

So he knocks about, doing some of his work well, and other, less interesting bits, not so well. He's
friendly with a few inoffensive betas who don't look like they'd want to argue with him too much,
and he manages to mostly avoid the alphas. On the whole they're not as bad as the ones at school
and there's not all that many of them, anyway. He supposes art isn't really the kind of thing alphas
go in for — it's hard to swagger around, boasting about your dab hand at sign writing.

The one exception is Stuart Sutcliffe. Not that Stu ever swaggers, quite the opposite in fact. After
Paul, he's the only alpha John has met since he presented and not ended up wanting to punch in the
face. He knew who he was, of course, long before he ever spoke to him. Everyone knows who Stu
Sutcliffe is. The teachers talk about him like he's the second bloody coming. It seems a bit unfair to
John, when he finally sees Stu properly, that someone like that should present as an alpha and
someone like John didn't. Stu's one of the best looking people John's ever seen, but he's slight and
quiet and nothing like any of the alphas John's ever met. He's not even as tall as John, for fuck's
sake.

The first time he speaks to Stu, he's doodling a less than flattering cartoon of one of the teachers
who always looks like he has a bad smell under his nose whenever he sees John about. He's so
engrossed in getting his ears right, that it takes him a second too long to realise there's an alpha
nearby.
It's only when a shadow falls over him that he twists round to see Stu looking over his shoulder.

"Is that Mr Thompson?" Stu says curiously. He has a smudge of what looks like oil paint on his
shirt collar.

John shrugs, schooling his expression to nonchalance. "Might be."

He's waiting for Stu to say something disapproving about it, since Mr Thompson is one of his
biggest fans, and he's ready to tell him to fuck off when he does. But Stu smiles instead, like he
finds it properly funny, and says, "I think his ears stick out more than that."

Then he wanders off again, leaving John staring after him. The next day John pins the sketch to
the posh notice board in the entrance hall when no-one's about, and Stu doesn't dob him in for it, so
he reckons he's probably alright, as alphas go.

After that Stu always says hello to him, and when John spots him in one of the little back studios,
working on his big secret project, he only hesitates for a moment before he barges in to see what it
is. After the initial shock, Stu doesn't seem to mind and John gets his first inkling of how he turned
out to be an alpha in the first place. Listening to Stu talking about art is like listening to Paul
talking about music, and the more he gets to know him, the more interesting he finds him. He
knows so much about all the stuff they're doing, and once you get him started about it he's not
quiet at all. John thinks he learns more about art in the first three weeks of knowing Stu than he
has in all the weeks he's been at the college, let alone his entire school career before that,
delinquent as it was.

He doesn't realise how often he's been mentioning his name until Paul slaps his notebook down
one evening and says, "Does Stuart have an opinion on the second verse then?"

He looks properly pissy about it too, a flush of colour in his cheeks that John thinks makes him
look ridiculous, like an angry chipmunk from the American cartoons, although he knows better
than to say so.

Because he always enjoys needling Paul, he smirks and says, "He probably would if he was here.
D'you want me to ask him?"

Paul scowls, which John assumes is a no. He blames Pete for this. He'd met Stu just the once and
then offended Paul's alpha pride or something by telling him they were alike, Stu being 'nothing
like you'd expect an alpha to be, either.' He'd been fairly drunk when he said it, but Paul had
promptly taken against Stu, looking annoyed every time his name was mentioned, which was
apparently far too often.

John blows out a breath. "Don't be like that, Macca. Stu wouldn't know one end of a guitar from
the other, just like you with a paintbrush."

That doesn't seem to help matters. Paul huffs and says, "I know how to paint, we do it at school,"
and John feels just a little bit guilty for that one because he's seen some of Paul's paintings and
they're not half bad. Sometimes he wonders if Paul's just jealous of him being up the college while
he's still stuck in his maths classes.

He makes an effort to rein it in a bit, since he hates the way Paul's scent goes when he's like this. It
scratches at him like those alphas did at school, only worse, when it's Paul, because he knows he's
not meant to smell like that.

"Alright, how about I shut up about college and you stop messing with my chorus?"
Paul's mouth twitches, which John knows means he's won. He still looks down at the notebook
again, then back at John, all put out as he says, "It doesn't scan properly though."

"So what?"

"So it's meant to scan."

"We're being avant garde," John declares confidently and Paul promptly looks annoyed again.

"I thought you weren't going to go on about college."

"Sod off, I knew what avant garde meant already, I can read."

Paul looks sceptical at that. "Oh yeah? Where d'you read it then?"

"In one of Mimi's Reader's Digests," John says. "Now, have we got a deal or not?"

Paul's scent has started to warm up a bit so John's not surprised when he smiles as well, the mildly
exasperated one John seems to see a lot of. "Fine. But we're not changing the bridge."

"You drive a hard bargain, McCartney," John says and shakes Paul's hand, before he remembers he
doesn't do stuff like that with Paul and quickly lets go again.

They get back to work but later, when he's walking home, John thinks about what Pete said.
Although he would never say it to Paul, he reckons Pete had a point. Neither Paul nor Stu are
exactly what you'd expect of an alpha, although knowing them like he does now, it makes more
sense to John what they are. Then again, John isn't what anyone would expect of an omega, so
that's proof nature just fucks it up sometimes.

The main difference, as he sees it, is that his stupid pills don't work as well on Paul as they do on
Stu, and that's not something he's sharing with anyone. He's always aware of Stu, like he's aware of
any alpha, and he's not blind either, he knows Stu looks a bit like James Dean. He likes looking at
him, and he likes his scent too, even muted as it is, but it doesn't get to him like Paul's does, and it
makes him nervous, wondering why that is.

He asks Paul one day what aftershave he uses and Paul looks at him like he's grown a second head
and says, "I dunno, soap?" which is no help at all.

Sometimes he thinks he should just ask his mum; if anyone would know it would be her. But he’s
not sure he wants to draw any more attention to Paul than he already has by taking her round to
meet him. It hadn’t just been Paul of course, he’s not that stupid, but she’s seen Pete a hundred
times so it was Paul she was most interested in. Paul had been on his best behaviour too,
answering her questions all polite and earnest until John was moved to make increasingly grotesque
faces at him behind Julia’s back to try and put him off his little boy scout routine. It hadn't
worked, until Paul had snorted a bit too obviously and Julia said, “Don't think I don't know what
you're doing, John Lennon," because she apparently has eyes in the back of her bloody head. It
must run in the Stanley family.

After that night she always asked after Paul, along with Pete and everyone else, and although John
eyed her suspiciously at times, wondering if she was a little too interested, she never gave anything
away. If he asks now though, however much he tries to disguise it, she’ll probably jump to all
sorts of conclusions, all of them wrong, so out of self interest, he has no choice but to keep his
mouth shut.

They keep on practicing and writing their songs as the weather turns ever colder, although
sometimes John wonders what the bloody point is when they'll probably never get a gig again.
They must be the most rehearsed band in Liverpool by now, but even in the run up to Christmas
they can't get anything, no matter who they ask. Paul keeps saying something will come up, but
John reckons even his unshakeable confidence must be taking a hit when Colin reports back that he
couldn't even persuade his auntie to book them for her social club do. When he's feeling
particularly self pitying about it, John wonders why Paul hasn't fucked off yet. He'd heard from
Ivan, who'd heard from some mate of Paul's at school, that a couple of other bands had asked about
Paul, had possibly approached Paul themselves by now. He keeps waiting for Paul to tell him that
he won't be coming round anymore, and they won't be writing any more songs together either, not
now he's got something better. He can already tell enthusiasm for the band is waning amongst the
others, and if he doesn't have Paul then it's just him, and you can't have a band with just John and
his guitar. Even Elvis doesn't do everything by himself.

But for some reason, Paul doesn't, and then on a boring Sunday afternoon, with less than two
weeks to go before Christmas, a bloody miracle happens and they get a booking. John's trapped in
the front room with Mimi, pretending to work on some calligraphy for one of his duller teachers,
while Mimi reads her Woman's Weekly, but he's more interested in a new song he and Paul have
been working on. He can't stop humming little bits of it, much to Mimi's irritation, so the loud
knock on the door is something of a relief to them both.

"I'll answer it," John leaps up, flinging his sketch book aside, although it's bound to be for Mimi
anyway.

But it isn't. He throws the door open to find Paul, and has to take a step back from the onslaught of
the obvious excitement which is spiking his scent.

"We've got a gig on Saturday," Paul says without preamble, before doing a comical double take at
the same time John realises he's still wearing his horrible National Health specs. He pulls them
off, shoving them in his trouser pocket.

"Where?"

"Uh… School Christmas dance in Fairfield. The band had to cancel last minute and one of the
teachers heard you at Woolton. It's just a few hours but it's a start, right?"

Paul is grinning like an idiot and John feels an answering smile blooming. Another gig. At fucking
last. And they were asked for.

"Got to start somewhere. Maybe we can try out one of the new ones. I've got—"

The door from the front room opens again behind him and Paul's gaze moves over his shoulder, his
manic grin shifting to something much more polite. "Hello Mrs Smith. Sorry to disturb you, I just
had some news for John."

Mimi seems temporarily speechless and John realises belatedly that although he had mentioned
Paul plenty of times, he'd never told her what he was.

"This is Paul from the band." John wills her not to make this embarrassing. "We've got a gig on
Saturday."

Mimi recovers herself. "I see. It's nice to meet you, Paul. John, don't leave the door open too long,
it lets the heat out," and with that she retreats, closing the door very firmly behind her.

John turns back to find that Paul's smile has dimmed. "She's like that with everyone," he offers.
"You're not special."

"Oh ta," Paul says, dry as dust.

John snorts with laughter. He can't help it. All Mimi's dreams of John one day finding an alpha and
here she is freezing out the only one who's ever likely to darken her doorstep. Not that it's like that,
but still.

Paul is looking at him quizzically now. "What's so funny?"

"Just thinking she's going to have to brush up on her welcome if she ever wants to shuffle me off on
some unsuspecting alpha."

He realises as he says it that it's probably the first time he's ever made a joke about his...situation.
But they have a gig now, and he still has a band, and this whole situation is tickling his unruly
sense of humour.

Paul doesn't find it quite as funny if his frown is anything to go by.

"It was a joke, Paul.” John resists the urge to roll his eyes, since it’s nearly Christmas. “Lighten up
or your face'll stick like that." He’s itching to get his guitar in his hands again, calligraphy
forgotten. "Look, what are you doing now? We should work out what we want to play, if you've
got time?"

Paul does, as it happens, and John takes the stairs two at a time to grab his guitar and then he's
shouting to Mimi and practically shoving Paul down the front path. When he sees the curtain
twitch he makes sure to give Mimi a jaunty wave as he goes.

The gig is all John can think about that week. He tries to bully the others into some extra practices
but it's nearly Christmas and they've all got other things to be doing, apparently. Everyone except
Paul anyway. Paul's always up for extra practices, even when he has to host them, and when John
suggests they sag off on Friday and go over everything one more time, he's up for that too. They
both go in in the morning, because John's not completely stupid, but he takes his guitar with him,
and at lunchtime he sneaks out via the college fire escape and meets Paul in the alleyway.

"Stop looking so guilty," John says, amused at how Paul keeps looking back down the road like
he's expecting to see a horde of angry teachers following them. "Haven't you ever sagged off
school before?"

"Of course I have," Paul says defensively. He looks down the road again. John kindly doesn't
mention it.

"You'd better take your tie off."

"What?"

John reaches out to tug on Paul's smart and fairly obvious school tie. "Take this off or the bus
driver will know you're a delinquent."

Paul makes a face at that but obediently undoes his tie and rolls it up neatly to stow in his pocket.
Then he does up his coat as well so his school badge isn't on display "Better?"

John looks him over. "Aye, now you could be goin' home from work."

Paul looks sceptical. "As what? It's half past twelve."

John takes in his neatly pressed trousers and polished shoes, his old but well brushed coat, and then
grins. "Dunno, a binman?"

Paul ignores that and they duck into the bus shelter out of the cold wind.

"Have you got a ciggy then?" Paul asks the moment they've sat down.

"Christ, take the shirt off my back, why don't you?" John's grumbles, but he gets out his crumpled
packet, only to discover he's got through them faster than he thought this week. "We'll have to
share it."

The bus isn't due for a few minutes anyway so John lights up and takes a couple of drags before he
offers the cigarette to Paul. Paul slides along the seat a little, fingers brushing against John's as he
takes it, and when he puts it to his mouth, it suddenly occurs to John that this is a bit of a weird
thing to do with Paul. He does it with Pete all the time, pooling their cigarettes like they pool their
pilfered alcohol and their records. But never with Paul, and never like this, huddled together in a
gloomy little bus shelter. Paul's a warm line against John's side, smelling as good as he always
does, mixed with the familiar, comforting scent of cigarette smoke, and there's no reason for it to
make John feel the way it does; strange and too conscious of himself. His face feels warm and he
darts a quick glance at Paul to make sure he hasn't noticed. He hasn't, of course. He's watching
some man walking his dog on the other side of the road, oblivious to John acting like a nutjob.

Paul passes the cigarette back and it's damp from Paul's mouth, which just makes it worse. What
the fuck is wrong with him?

"How many people do you think'll be there tomorrow?" he says, just to force his brain onto
something else.

Paul shrugs. "Not sure. Not loads of people, I shouldn't think." He coughs a little, either from the
ciggie or the cold. "Do you get nervous before gigs?"

"Course not," John says, a little offended that Paul might think so.

"Me neither."

That's hardly surprising. If there's one thing Paul isn't lacking in, it's confidence. John takes one
last drag and then drops the cigarette butt to the floor, using the excuse of scuffing it out to put a
little distance between them. "How many gigs have you done before then?"

Paul slides a look at him and John wonders if he was a bit obvious with the moving away thing, but
he only says, "Uh…none. Not like on a proper stage or anything."

"It's better on a proper stage," John says, with all the certainty of his one and a half actual
performances.

Paul smiles a little bit. "Yeah?"

"Yeah, it's like bein' famous, looking out and seein' everyone watching you and singing along.
Dancin' an' that."

"The ones right at the front anyway," Paul says, and then snickers when John kicks him.

He's relieved when the bus arrives a minute later. It's a different bus driver than usual, what with it
being so early, and he looks bored, barely glancing at them as they get on. But when they're close
enough to pay he looks again, eyes moving from Paul to John and then lingering there until John's
glare does the trick. He follows Paul to the back of the bus, hoping Paul didn't notice.

He did, of course. "He was looking at us funny," Paul half whispers as they sit down.

John feels a horrible prickle of embarrassment, but when he goes to reply he sees that Paul is
fiddling with his coat again, making sure his tie hasn't fallen out of his pocket, like he thinks the
bus driver's about to report him to the police.

"Probably wondering why you took so bloody long with the bins," John says, trying to sound
normal and not relieved at Paul's obliviousness.

Paul laughs at that, like John said something properly funny, and John immediately feels better.
Stupid bloody driver.

They get off a stop early so John can nip into the shop for ciggies. He gets some chocolate as well
while he's there, and shares it with Paul as they wander back towards Forthlin Road. Paul's doing a
terrible job of pretending not to be keeping an eye out for his nosy neighbours, so John starts
waving to everyone he (vaguely) sees until Paul slaps his hand down, face red with laughter.

"I'm just avertin' suspicion," John says, as he salutes what might or might not be someone in a red
coat.

Paul yanks his arm down again. "That's a post box."

"Are you sure?" John squints at it, just to keep Paul laughing. He's such an easy mark.

"I posted a letter in it this morning, so it better be."

"That's what you think, maybe old Millicent has a taste for stamps."

It's not even that funny, but Paul seems to think it is and that's good enough for John.

He ends up staying at Paul's til early evening and if it wasn't for Mike telling them, a bit pointedly,
that Jim'll be home soon, he'd probably have stayed longer.

"Dad wouldn't mind," Paul says, as he trails John out to the door, but John knows Mimi will if he's
not back by tea time.

"Fucking hell," he says, the minute he steps outside. It's not just cold now, it's freezing.

"Maybe it'll snow?" Paul says, looking up at the sky.

John pauses in the act of doing up his coat. "Bite your tongue, Macca, we've got an engagement."

"Alright, maybe it'll snow after the gig."

John nods approvingly. "That's more like it."

A particularly biting wind whistles down Forthlin Road and Paul steps forward to pull the door
close behind him, keeping the heat in. "I reckon we know the set list pretty well by now."

John's not sure why he's saying it like a question, as though he hasn't been in the same room as
John for the past four hours going over it. Not that they'd spent the whole time on the gig, of
course, at about hour two it had descended into pissing about on their guitars and trying to do their
best Elvis impressions, but still.
"Are you jokin'? I've got it scored into my brain like one of them soldiers with their regimental
number."

Paul smiles but it's oddly tentative. "Yeah." He fidgets, then adds, "It'll be good though," like he's
convincing himself.

"It'll be bloody brilliant," John says confidently. "Just don't fuck up your guitar solo."

Paul doesn't laugh at that, and John wonders if he's been overdoing the jokes on that front. He'd
definitely made a few of them this week and he was only half messing around.

"Here, look," he says, shunting his guitar back so he can get a hand in his pocket. He digs out his
new pack of ciggies and taps out two and holds them out. "Have these on me and they'll steady
your nerve before your song."

Paul's looking at him a bit strangely and John feels awkward. He's just trying to be nice, for fuck's
sake. "What?"

"Nothing." Paul finally takes the damn cigarettes and puts them in his pocket, but at least he's
smiling again now. "Thanks."

John busies himself tucking the pack away again. "It's only some cigs, not me most prized
possession."

"What is your most prized possession?" Paul asks, like he's genuinely interested.

"Picture of Brigitte Bardot I tore out of a magazine at the library," John says promptly. "Til Mimi
finds it anyway."

"Well, if you need somewhere to hide it…" Paul says, and John gives him a look.

"Aye, I'm sure. I have too much respect for Brigitte to subject her to your grubby hands." He
thinks Paul's got enough girls on the go as it is for a fifteen year old who looks like a baby Elvis.
Well, a little bit like him anyway.

Paul doesn't even have the decency to plead his virtue, he just looks right at John and says, "I've
not had any complaints," like he's utterly without shame.

It takes John a second too long to come up with a suitable comeback to that, disconcerted by the
way it makes his skin heat again. He glances away, unnerved by his reaction. Thank Christ it's
dark out. "Think Brigitte's got higher standards than some thirteen year olds from Allerton."

"Probably," Paul says easily, surprising John. He glances back at him and Paul doesn't look
irritated, he looks pretty pleased with himself actually, as though he got one over on John when he
definitely didn't.

"Anyway," John steps back, wanting to be gone now. "I can't stand around here all night or you'll
be defrosting me before the gig."

Paul grins, but it's a soft one so John thinks he must be feeling better about tomorrow at least.
"Alright, I'll see you then."

John salutes him and then makes his exit pretty sharpish, not looking back until he finally hears the
click of the door closing. Once he's out of sight of the house he lights a cigarette, needing a few
quick pulls to settle his own nerves, let alone Paul's. He's not sure what that was about, or what
earlier was about either for that matter. It's just Paul, and he should be used to him by now, he's
known him nearly six months. He turns his collar up against the wind and sets off towards
Woolton. It's probably all the practices this week, being around Paul so much, just the two of
them; it's doing a number on him and his stupid omega hormones. If his pills would just work like
they're supposed to, he thinks irritably, it wouldn't be such a fucking problem.

He sleeps poorly that night, but lack of sleep has nothing on the excitement of a gig and Mimi
nearly faints when she sees him downstairs before ten, humming Buddy Holly and putting away
what she calls an 'unhealthy' amount of toast and marmalade. He's got nothing to do that morning
so he goes to annoy his mum and sisters for a while, singing all his songs too loudly until his sisters
are giggling and Julia threatens to gag him. He's not fooled though, she's nearly as excited as he is,
and when it's finally time to go, she gives him a quick kiss and tells him she wants to hear all about
it after. He's almost forgotten the strangeness of the day before until he sees Paul waiting at the
bus stop with Pete and Colin. He slows for just a moment, wondering if it's about to make an
unwelcome return, but Paul just greets him normally and nothing odd happens so he thinks it must
be alright.

Paul sits next to him on the bus, which John probably wouldn't have chosen, but then he wasn't
asked. Paul just dropped down next to him on the back seat, then Pete sat down beside him and
then Colin, and between the three of them and all of their gear John's shoved further and further
over until he's pretty well squashed between Paul and the unpleasantly damp window. It's a relief
when they finally get to the stop where the others are meeting them and he can get some gulps of
air that aren't mostly Paul.

The teacher at Fairfield is a posh young beta woman and she comes right out to the playground to
meet them. She shakes everyone's hands, tells them she's thrilled they could fill in at such short
notice, and confides that the original band was somewhat stodgy and they were much more the
thing. "We like to be progressive here."

John mouths 'progressive' at Pete when she's not looking, and says, "Well, we like to set an
example to the young," in his plummiest voice, setting Paul laughing, although he does his best to
cover it up. The teacher, Miss Armitage, gives him a speaking look that tells him he's not fooling
anyone. Then she grins, "Oh, the kids are going to love you lot."

And they do. It's a small hall, and it's the middle of the afternoon, but the kids are clearly excited
to be there, or maybe they've been on the shandy, because they dance and clap like they're
watching someone far better than The Quarrymen. Not that they're bad, they've spent too long
rehearsing to be awful. But it's the first time they've all played together in months on a real stage,
and the first time Paul's played with them, and there's a fair few mistakes, although they make
enough noise to cover it up pretty well and it's clear their audience couldn't give a shit anyway.

John and Paul have been working on their harmonies lately, and when it gets to their one Everlys
number Paul crosses the stage to stand next to him so they can share a microphone, watching each
other's faces so they can match their voices over all the racket. They don't sound half bad, what
John can hear of it anyway, and he feels a surge of the excitement he always gets when he does
this. When they hit their notes perfectly for once, voices sliding together, he grins across at Paul
and Paul beams back, looking just as exhilarated as he is.

They don't share a mic for every song of course and eventually Paul sidles back to his original
place where John can't help but notice he’s attracting more of a crowd than the rest of them. Colin
catches John looking and waggles his eyebrows, jerking his head to where three girls, looking all of
thirteen, are practically draped over the front of the stage, gazing adoringly at Paul as he plays a
pretty basic riff (if you ask John).
"Think them girls are after your autograph, Paul," Colin says, when they duck behind the stage at
the interval. The kiddies are having their sausage rolls and lemonade, or whatever it is the
school's laid on, so they've got twenty minutes to catch their breath.

"Is that what they're calling it these days?" John says, before Paul can answer. He feels hot and out
of sorts now they've stopped, and he nicks the towel off Colin to wipe his sweaty face, his heart
still pounding from the speed of the music.

"Maybe we should get some posters done with your face on," Pete's saying. "Might get more gigs
that way."

"Sod off," Paul says, but he sounds distracted, and when John looks up, he's looking at him oddly.

John chucks the towel to Pete. "What's up with you?"

"Nothing," Paul says after a moment, but he doesn't look away, a small frown forming, and John
feels a twinge of unease. He looks round for his jacket and his ciggies. His heart is still racing and
he could do with a smoke, just to steady himself.

"I'm goin' outside," he announces to nobody in particular once he finds them. Not that anyone
cares, except for Paul, who watches him go. He does go outside, but only for as long as it takes
him to smoke half a cigarette and realise that the freezing wind is barely cooling him down at all,
and that maybe, possibly, the excitement thrumming under his skin has nothing to do with the
prospect of playing some more Chuck Berry. Shit. Shit . He drops the cig, half finished, and goes
straight back in, finding the dingy school loo that Miss Armitage pointed out to them and gulping
water from the tap.

He catches sight of his flushed face in the cracked mirror over the sink. There's a hectic colour in
his cheeks like a fever, and he can't understand how this can be happening now he's on his pills.
He never misses one. It must be like he thought yesterday. All the rehearsing and being around
Paul so much, compounded by the excitement of the gig and a shitty night's sleep. That's all.

It's enough though because on the heels of that comes the unwelcome realisation that Paul must
know, or at least he must suspect. That's why he was looking at him like that just now. John's
insides seem to curdle with embarrassment, and he wants to sneak out and go home and hide in his
bedroom like he did when he was fifteen and thought he'd never show his face in public again. But
he has more pride than that and he's not leaving in the middle of their only gig in months. He
shrugs off his jacket — there's a little tear in the lining that Mimi doesn't know about and he's
taken to keeping a few pills in there in a twist of paper, just so he's never caught short if he stays
over at Pete's. He quickly tosses an extra one back, washing it down with another gulp of water
and wiping his mouth with a shaky hand. It had better fucking work.

He gives it a few minutes anyway, taking deep breaths to calm himself down before he heads back
out — if he's much longer, he knows someone'll come looking.

Someone like Paul, apparently, who's waiting right outside the door. John nearly walks into him,
only managing at the last second to take a step back, almost tripping over his own feet in his haste
to put some distance between them. "Jesus, you nearly gave me a heart attack."

"Are you alright?" Paul's got his hands half raised as though he wants to steady him, and his eyes
are fixed on John's face. They seem darker than normal, and a little glassy in the dim light of the
corridor, and John's stupid, traitorous heart starts racing again. He can't think of a single thing to
say to make this normal. He feels like he's never been so aware of another person in his life and it's
disorientating.
The silence expands between them until John thinks if he doesn't say something soon they'll be
stuck here staring at each other forever.

"I'm fine," he says at last, and it comes out wobblier than he'd meant it to, so he tries again, "Just
cooking under those lights. We should have checked if they wanted us medium or well done."
There, that sounded better.

Paul doesn't move back, or laugh at his weak joke. "Are you sure? You don't…" he hesitates, and
the flush that creeps over his face makes John want to fucking disappear. "You don't seem
yourself," he finishes, his voice almost inaudible.

It's obvious he knows, and none of this is Paul's fault but John can't stop the surge of angry
humiliation anyway. "Just leave off, Paul, I said I was alright. Stop bloody following me around."

Paul recoils like John has just slapped him and he feels fucking awful. Worse, even, than the time
he told Pete to piss off and thought he really meant it. In the tense silence that follows, Paul's scent
takes on the sour edge John hates and it makes him want to do anything to make it go away again.
But he shouldn't even be around Paul right now, he's just making it worse, so instead of
apologising, he just skirts around him like a coward and flees back to the others.

Only Pete seems to notice he'd been away too long. He throws out a quiet "Alright, Johnny?" that's
too careful to be mistaken for anything but concern.

John just says, "Yeah, course," and nicks a bottle of coke, gulping nearly the whole lot down in one
go and pretending he isn't acutely aware of the exact moment Paul re-enters the room. Miss
Armitage turns up soon after, thank god, and as they troop back on stage and John fiddles with his
tuning, he can feel the pill starting to work, enough to damp down the jittery feeling under his skin,
and he could actually cry with the relief of it.

Paul doesn't say anything else to him as they play the second half of their set, and he doesn't join
him at the microphone again either. John knows their harmonies don't sound as good from across
the stage but he stays where he is anyway and doesn't so much as glance across. Paul makes a
mess of his guitar solo, which just makes John feel even worse, and he's only glad that their
audience continues to be the easiest to please crowd they'll probably ever play for.

Afterwards Miss Armitage brings them their money as they're packing up their gear, handing it to
John with a smile. She's full of praise for them still, promising to 'put in a good word' for them if
she hears of any more potential bookings.

"Ta," John straightens up and takes the envelope from her. He just wants to escape home now, to
hide in his room and wait for the awful threat of heat to pass, but he drags up a smile for her.
"Lucky break for us, you being at that fete."

"You've got Paul to thank, not me," she says cheerfully, glancing across the room to where Paul is
taking far too long packing away his guitar. He looks up at the sound of his name, catches John's
eye for a half second and then just as quickly looks away again. "One of his cousins goes to the
school, I believe."

"Right," John says, a bit belatedly. Somehow he'd never wondered how she'd actually found the
band again. "He's a one man advertising board is our Paul." It comes out too jovial, and Miss
Armitage looks curiously between them. John isn't stupid enough to give anything away however
and after a moment she just pats him on the arm.

"Good luck," she says, "with the band I mean. I wasn't being facetious when I said we like to be
progressive, and I promise I'm not the only one" She leans in a little, "Times are changing, Mr
Lennon."

And with that she leaves, and it's time to cram back on to the bus. No danger of getting squashed
by Paul this time.

John feels awful the next day, half hard, sweaty and sick in his bed, rattling even Mimi's stoic
facade. They're supposed to be meeting at Paul's that afternoon, the whole band, to celebrate the
gig, but there's no way John's going to be able to go. In the end Ivan saves him a lie by phoning to
say it's been cancelled anyway because Paul's not well.

"What's wrong with him?" John asks, hoping against hope it's just a bug or something.

But Ivan laughs awkwardly and says, "Oh, you know. Alpha stuff."

John does know, and he feels cold, remembering Paul in the corridor, Paul plastered to his side on
the bus and at the microphone.

"So I'll see you after Christmas then, John," Ivan continues, obviously keen to change the subject.
"Have a good one, yeah?"

"Yeah, you too," John says automatically, and then he puts the phone down and stands in the
hallway until Mimi comes out to see what on earth he's doing.
 Chapter 3

John gets through Christmas and then spends January and most of February avoiding Paul; in as far
as you can ever avoid someone you're supposed to be in a band with. He stops turning up at Paul's
house early for their songwriting sessions, and he becomes a master at evading any and all attempts
by Paul to corner him about it. Instead he doubles up on the pills Julia brings him, makes sure to
arrive and leave with the others, and he turns the John Lennon Show up to eleven. The others are
used to him messing about, but now he's louder, his jokes more caustic even than usual. Even mild
mannered Colin is getting tired of his antics by the time a freezing January makes way for a wet,
cold February. As for Paul, he alternates between looking disappointed and like he'd quite like to
throttle him, and John hates it.

He misses Paul, is the thing. It's not the same anymore, writing songs by himself, not now he
knows how much better it is sitting opposite Paul at Forthlin Road, exercise book on the table
between them. Paul has the book, so John can't even practice them by himself, and Paul's the one
who can recall them all from memory anyway. John would forget most of them after a week if Paul
wasn't always writing them down in the book, in his neat grammar school handwriting, each under
the (rather optimistic) heading of 'Another Lennon McCartney Original'. He wants to ask to
borrow it but he thinks Paul is waiting for him to do just that, and then he'll want to talk about why
they're not writing together anymore and what can John say? Sorry my screwed up biology is
fucking everything up?

To fill the unexpectedly large Paul-shaped gap in his life, he tries actually going to more of his art
classes and hangs around with Stu and his clever friends. He makes Stu go to the parties he'd never
normally bother with, the loud, drunk kind where someone usually ends up with their head in the
loo (frequently John). There are usually a few alphas there, and John can feel their eyes on him,
but they've all known him, or known of him, for a while now; enough to know that John has a
sharp tongue and a short temper where alphas are concerned, so they have the sense to keep their
distance.

It's obvious Stu knows something is wrong. He tries asking a few times if something has
happened, but John cuts him off so efficiently that he soon stops bothering and just does his best to
stop John drinking himself into a coma three times a week. When he's not drinking, John thinks
he's still fairly good company. He likes spending time with Stu after all, and he likes listening to
him talk about his work. But art is always going to take second place to music as far as John is
concerned, and while he's learning more about expressionism than he ever expected, or frankly
wanted to, he knows he can never play Stu the newest Elvis record and then waste three hours
puzzling out the chords after.

"What's the matter with you?" Stu asks one day at the end of February. "Are you expecting
someone else?"

They're outside the college, waiting for Stu's friend Emma so they can go to some art exhibit Stu
hasn't shut up about all week. John's always managed to avoid loitering on the main road when the
Inny's chucking out, and what once seemed a handy coincidence — Paul's school being right next
door — now seems really bloody inconvenient.

"No," John says, too quickly. "Just bloody cold." It's not a lie, the cigarette he's holding is the only
warm thing out here.

Stu frowns at him, then glances towards the school entrance as another crowd of chattering
teenagers spill out of the door. "Doesn't your friend Paul go to the Institute?"
John tries to remember what he's said about Paul to Stu. Probably just that he's in the band and that
he loves Elvis nearly as much as John does. He flicks ash from the end of his cigarette, and goes
for a shrug. "Yeah, think so. Where the fuck is Emma?"

"Calm down, it's only just gone half three" Stu takes a drag on his cigarette, looking effortlessly
cool and handsome in a way John never will, the jammy bastard.

More students are emerging now from the school, clattering down the steps, and even without his
glasses John knows one of the indistinct shapes is Paul the moment he clears the shadow of the
doorway. He's rummaging through his school bag for something, engrossed in conversation with a
shorter boy beside him, who John's guessing is his friend George. Because the universe has it in
for John Lennon they don't turn right like was silently willing them to, but left past the college.
They haven't seen him yet and John is considering telling Stu he's left something inside and fleeing
the scene when Paul suddenly looks up, finding him unerringly where he's stood, frozen (ha!) to
the pavement.

Paul slows, looking a little bit like he's seen a ghost, then resumes his normal pace until he's close
enough that John has no choice but to nod and throw out a casual, "Alright?"

Beside him Stu has abandoned his slouch and is now watching with an interest that makes John
uneasy. "Who's this then, John?"

"I'm Paul," Paul says, before John can even open his mouth. "I'm in the band with John."

There's more than a hint of challenge in his tone as he looks at Stu, as though he thinks John might
have forgotten to mention him, or the band, entirely, but Stu takes it in his stride. "Paul who writes
the songs?" He looks even more interested now, stubbing out his cigarette so he can offer a hand
to shake. "John's told me about you."

John has absolutely not told Stu about him, not in the way Stu's making it sound. He can't even
remember mentioning the songwriting, but he supposes he must have done. Maybe he was drunk.

Paul looks a bit disconcerted, glancing at John and then back again before he gives Stu's hand the
briefest shake possible. Then no-one says anything for a moment and it's so fucking awkward John
is tempted to fling himself in the path of a passing coal lorry, just to escape it.

"Well, don't let us keep you," he says, at last, when he can't stand it any longer. "You've probably
got homework an' that."

He only says it because he knows it'll annoy him, and sure enough, Paul reddens. But John should
have known better than to think that would see him off.

"What about you? Aren't you finished for the day now?" Paul's eyes dart to Stu, like he's expecting
John to explain why he's deviating from his timetable to loiter on the pavement. Not that Paul
knows anything about his timetable, but still.

"Aye, and I'm goin' out."

"It's a bit early, isn't it?"

"I'm goin' to an exhibition, I'm not out getting pissed."

"That'll make a change then."

John glares at him for that, but Paul just raises his eyebrows like he's daring him to argue about it.
Bloody Paul. John's only skipped a couple of practices, and alright, he's been hungover for a couple
of them too recently, but it's hardly a daily occurrence for fuck's sake.

"You're welcome to come," Stu says suddenly and inexplicably. "To the exhibition, I mean.
Although I can't guarantee John won't drag us all to the pub after."

Stu's looking nothing but friendly and helpful but John wants to kick him anyway. What the fuck
is he doing? "They don't want to come," he says, before Paul can accept the invitation out of spite
or something. He's absolutely not spending a whole afternoon with Paul, and he's certainly not
getting drunk with him. Just the thought of it stokes a feeling a little too much like panic.

He realises Paul is watching him, so he tries to school his face to something suitably uncaring and
adds, "They probably wouldn't get in the pub anyway, not with those blazers."

Paul doesn't react to the barb this time, he just carries on looking at John like he's trying to read his
mind or something, and John has no idea what he's seeing in his face.

"No, thank you," he says at last, painfully polite. "I'm working on a new song actually. You should
come round and hear it, John, the lyrics still need some work. If you're not too busy now, that is."

He says the last pretty pointedly and John of course feels like a complete bastard, as he probably
intended he would. This is the other reason he's been avoiding Paul, so he can't look at him like
this while calling him out on his shite.

He fidgets with his pack of cigarettes. "Aye, maybe. I'll have to see."

"What about tomorrow before practice?"

He tries to think of something he could be doing instead and in the end just gives up and lies. "I
can't tomorrow, I'm out with Stu."

Paul's face goes stiff and strange for a moment and John knows his face is going red. He's usually
better than this at telling fibs, god knows he's had enough practice. Finally, Paul just says "Yeah,
well, whenever you're free. I'll see you at practice. C'mon George."

He nudges George, who's looking pretty confused, and without so much as glancing at John again
they walk off quickly towards the bus stop.

John watches them go, trying to pretend the feeling churning in his stomach isn't guilt. Then he
waits for Stu to say something to make him feel even worse. He doesn't, but his silence is more
damning than anything he could have said anyway.

"What?" John says, when he can't stand it any longer.

"Nothing." Stu's tone is mild, and when John squints at him suspiciously, he just says, "He's not
what I was expecting."

"Why? What were you expecting?" As if he doesn't know.

Stu smiles a little. "Someone shorter."

John scowls, which seems to amuse Stu more. The problem with Stu is that he thinks too much;
John can practically see him leaping to all sorts of wrong conclusions. Jesus, why can't Emma get
a move on? "When did she say she'd get here?"
"She's just running late, I expect." Stu offers him another cigarette, which makes John feel a bit less
annoyed with him, then he ruins the effect by asking, "Did you two have a row then?"

"No," John says. He realises he should have pretended not to know who Stu meant but it's too late
now. "He's got a cob on because I missed a couple of practices, that's all."

Stu doesn't say anything to that, just offers John a light in a way that feels vaguely judgemental.

"And you shouldn't have invited him out with us," John continues, goaded by Stu's irritating
silence. "I don't want him tagging along everywhere."

"Alright," Stu says easily. "I just didn't want him getting the wrong idea."

John snorts. It's not like Paul needs any help with that. "It's none of his fucking business how much
I drink."

Stu looks at him for a long moment, and John wonders if he's going to start lecturing him on his
drinking as well. But in the end his gaze slides past him and he says, "I think I can see Emma
coming," in a relieved sort of voice and sure enough, she's hurrying down the pavement towards
them, still putting her coat on.

It's a bit late now, John thinks sourly.

Band practice the next day is excruciating. They're two down, as Len and Pete have gone to see a
band in town, and John very nearly begs off too but he has more pride than that. He's half hoping
Paul has magically forgotten about their little run in the day before, but of course he hasn't. There's
a stiffness to his shoulders when he opens the door to John, his expression closed off. John hangs
up his damp coat and follows him silently through to the front room where Eric and Colin are
already settled, listening to ‘Jailhouse Rock’ as they flick through Paul's impressive pile of records.

Eric and Colin, at least, look pleased enough to see him, calling him over to choose the next record
while Paul grudgingly goes to fetch him a cup of tea. John resists the mad impulse to shout after
him not to poison it.

Paul wants them to try ‘Wake Up Little Susie’ and John really doesn't. It turns out that harmonising
is ten times harder when you don't want to look the other person in the eye. Eric and Colin are
happy to go along with whatever, chiming in when needed but it's John and Paul's voices that carry
the melody and tonight they're miserably out of sync.

John doesn't know why Paul is pushing this. Eric and Colin don't care, but he won't let it go and his
visible irritation bleeds into his scent. John has become increasingly familiar with this the past two
months but he can't get used to it. It makes the McCartneys' comfortable front room feel cold and
claustrophobic, and it makes John want to crawl out of his own skin, to do whatever he can to make
Paul smile at him again. Normally nothing is more certain to provoke him to act out, to stoke the
irritation instead of calming it, but tonight he just feels tired of all of it, and tired of himself most of
all.

"Let's go again and then we'll call it a night" he says abruptly — interrupting Paul telling Eric how
to play his guitar for the third time that evening. Colin looks dubious but he and Eric gamely settle
themselves, looking from Paul to John warily. This past couple of months can't have been much
fun for them either, John thinks. It occurs to him then that Len and Pete's absence might not be
accidental.

So this time John forces himself to look at Paul and finds him looking right back, like John knows
he's been trying to all night. They sing best like this. Face to face they can anticipate each other's
movements better, making it easier to try and blend their voices together into a single sound like
they'd been working on before Christmas went and ruined it all. They sing Susie slowed down, to
match the still fumbling guitar accompaniment, and John thinks it's a special kind of torture to stare
into Paul's stupid doe eyes for what feels like hours.

He breaks eye contact as soon as the last note fades, and clears his throat, unable to think of
anything clever to say that might break the awful tension.

"If we can speed that up, we should definitely stick it in the set for next time."

Well, thank fuck for Colin, John thinks, as Eric chimes in with his agreement and they begin
shuffling round, making noises about heading out and packing their guitars away. They're probably
as keen to escape as John is.

John stands up and Paul tracks the movement and for a moment their eyes catch and hold. He's
frowning, like John is something he's desperate to puzzle out and John fights a near overwhelming
urge to tell him he's sorry. Sorry for being the way he is. Sorry for making things so bloody
difficult all the time.

In the end he says nothing useful, just gets his coat and guitar, mumbles a goodbye, and follows
Eric and Colin back out into the drizzly night.

The phone rings later when he's back at Mendips, but before Mimi can do more than tut at the late
hour, it cuts off abruptly and doesn't ring again.

John says he's ill for the next band practice and goes out and gets bladdered at Stu's. He doesn't
even tell Paul himself because he is nothing if not a coward, he gets Colin to tell him.

There's a whole gang of them crowded into Stu's flat and John listens to them talk about end of
term projects while he gets steadily drunker and smokes his way through Stu's stash of fancy
cigarettes.

The night begins to take on an unreal quality around the time the others move on to some pub and
Stu breaks out some bootlegged whisky that burns John's throat like fire.

"I say steady on," Stu warns, in his best posh BBC voice when John pours himself a second
generous measure, knocks it back in one and starts hacking. Then more normally "Hey, if you
throw that up later you can sleep outside."

John has somehow ended up lying on the floor. "Did you know," he slurs, "that omegas were only
allowed to drink in public bars in 1924."

Stu makes a wobbly grab for the bottle and misses. "And what, you're making up for lost time?"

"Your flat isn't a bar."

"It might as well be when you're here. That bottle was a Christmas present."

"It's just…" it takes him a second to drag up a suitable word, " shite. "

"Yeah," Stu says, finally prying the bottle away and putting it out of reach. "You're not wrong." He
lies down on the floor next to John and they contemplate the damp stained ceiling together.

"It's alright for you lot," John waves a hand to encompass Stu and possibly the whole of Liverpool,
"Alphas. You can do whatever you want. Playin' guitar and smellin' like… like… Well, not you, "
he finishes, nonsensically.

For some reason Stu finds that hilarious. "Yeah, me and my guitar."

"Sod off," John mumbles, in the absence of anything more original.

Stu tries to pat his head and only succeeds in nearly smacking him in the face. "Go to sleep,
Johnny."

The only reason John gets up the next morning is because Stu's such a teacher's pet he won't let
them miss a class so John can die in peace on his living room floor. He feels marginally more alive
after a bacon butty and a mug of tea, but not enough that he's ready to be faced with the disapproval
of James Paul McCartney at ten past nine on a Thursday morning.

"Oh god," Stu mutters from somewhere behind him as Paul gets to his feet, the bulky shape of his
guitar incongruous with his neat school uniform. He must have been waiting for them, or rather
for John. His eyes flicker from John to Stu and back again, and John realises, with a sinking in his
gut, that Paul looks angry.

"Morning," Stu says, more normally than John could manage at that moment.

"John," Paul says, ignoring Stu and managing to sound so much like Mimi in one short word that
John gets a hysterical urge to giggle. It's possible he's still a little bit drunk. "I need to speak to
you."

He's standing in the way of the entrance to the college but John tries anyway. "Can it wait? I've got
some.. art to do" Jesus, he can't even remember what his first class is. It still feels like Len is
drumming inside his skull.

"No," Paul's voice is flat. "It can't."

"Good luck," Stu tells him, like the bloody traitor he is. He gives Paul a wide berth as he disappears
into the building, but Paul seems to tense as he passes anyway, turning his head slightly to follow
him. Then he turns his gaze back to John.

John is acutely conscious of his dishevelled state and, fuck, that he's wearing one of Stu's t shirts
because he spilled whisky down the front of his own. Compared to Paul alpha poster child
McCartney he feels like a public information film about the dangers of dissolute omega youth.

"Not here." Paul turns around and walks off, clearly expecting John to follow. John does, but only
because he wants to get this over with.

Paul leads him round the back of the college, down a narrow lane and through a gate. They head
towards a dilapidated looking building which turns out to be some sort of storage shed for the
school. A rarely used one if the stacks of cobwebby crates are anything to go by. It's not actually
as bad inside as it looks, if you discounted the overwhelming smell of mice.

"How d'you come by this then?" John says, putting off the row he can feel brewing as he squints at
a faded list pinned lopsided to the wall, still bearing the legend 'Cricket 1954' and a pencil note of
long ago matches.

Paul shrugs off his guitar case and props it against a wall. "Me and George came here when we
sagged off school that time."
Trust Paul to sag off school while never actually leaving school grounds. "Shouldn't you be at
school now?"

"Yeah, probably," is all Paul says.

He decides to get it over with. "Sorry about last night, I was feeling a bit peaky."

"Were you?" Paul says coolly. "Because Colin said you were ill, but when I phoned, Mimi said
you'd gone out."

Bollocks. "Aye, well, I felt better, didn't I." He really wishes he'd brought some cigs with him but
Stu had marched them right past the newsagent this morning. He settles for stuffing his hands in
his pockets.

"Do you want me to leave the band?"

John's heart actually skitters in shock. He stares at Paul, unable, for a long painful moment, to think
of anything to say. Paul's face is impassive but his scent is sour and nervous.

"No," John manages at last. "Why? Do you want to?"

Paul looks at him like he's gone soft in the head. "Course I don't. But I know you never wanted
an… an alpha in the band. Ivan told me that before. And you've been avoiding me since Christmas,
and then last night. So I thought..." He trails off with a shrug, but it's too stiff to pretend to
nonchalance.

There's a brittle silence. John has had years of practice in letting people down but somehow this
feels worse than all of those put together. He can't even imagine the band without Paul now; can't
imagine wanting to be in the band without Paul.

"I don't…" he starts. This is the point where he'd normally make some stupid crack, but Paul won't
look at him and this whole day has taken on such a sense of unreality that he ends up being honest
instead. "It was my fault, what happened at the dance." Paul's gaze snaps up to meet his, and he
looks away, like a coward. "Likely, anyway. I can manage it, but sometimes it doesn't—" He
knows his face is burning, so he hurries on. "Anyway. When Colin said you were, you know, I
knew it must have been because of me. So it seemed better to keep away for a bit. For the band,"
he tacks on, belatedly.

Paul stares at John for an excruciatingly long time, frowning like he does when John plays him a
scrap of melody and he's trying to follow it on all the way to the end.

"And was it?" he says at last.

"Was it what?"

"Better?"

John shrugs, and decides he might as well keep on being honest in the absence of anything better.
"Can't remember any bloody songs, can I? Not without your swotty notebook."

Paul's face does something complicated then, but he doesn't look pissed off anymore at least, and
he doesn't look confused either. The sour scent is dissipating, something achingly sweet and
familiar taking its place.

"We have to write them down so everyone can learn them," Paul says, for probably the twentieth
time since he first produced a new exercise book and sharpened pencil at Forthlin Road and caught
John's incredulous look.

"Aye, in case anyone ever books us for a proper gig again."

"They will," Paul says, and he's so bloody certain . "We just need to give 'em something different,
play more of our own stuff."

This is another discussion they've had before, more than once, and John doesn't really need
convincing. He's not so sure about the others though, they got into this to mess about, not to be the
Lennon and McCartney backing band.

Not that there's been any risk of that recently. He knows that if he backs off again now, Paul will
go along with it, but there will be no more new songs, or no more good ones anyway, and it won't
be long until someone as good as Paul takes a better offer. The thought of that makes him feel like
getting back on Stu's poison whisky, makes him feel like he's on the verge of making the worst
mistake of his life. None of this is Paul's fault. When he started the band he'd been so determined
that no part of his biology was going to fuck it up and that's exactly what he's been doing.

He looks at Paul, a little uncertain. "S'pose we should write some more then," he says, aiming for
casual. He's not sure it lands if Paul's expression is anything to go by. He looks relieved, and
more than that, he looks fond . John has no idea what to do with that, it's not an expression he's
intimately familiar with.

"Yeah alright," Paul replies, equally casual — but then he ruins the effect by pulling a familiar
looking exercise book from his satchel. "No time like the present."

Christ, he's such a little boy scout. Perhaps the fond feeling is catching. "Dunno if you've noticed
but I left me guitar at home."

Paul throws him the book and produces an honest to god thermos from the satchel. "You can do
the writing."

"Thought you couldn't read my handwriting."

"Can you play guitar left-handed now?"

It's a fair point. "Alright, chuck me a pencil." He pulls up a crate to sit on as Paul digs out a pencil
for him as well and then sets to tuning his guitar.

John flicks slowly through the book, the song titles moving in and out of focus until he gives in and
digs out his awful glasses. Being able to see has a remarkable effect on his hangover, so much so
that he can graciously overlook the way Paul notices immediately, tucking away a smile like he
always does when John is forced to admit his vision is less than perfect.

There's an embarrassing and fragile sort of happiness creeping over him, the noise in his head gone
quiet at last. They might be in a cold, dusty shed instead of Forthlin Road, but sitting opposite Paul
like this is familiar enough now that he can't believe he managed without it for so long. If he can
just keep his problem under control then maybe he can keep it too.

He looks at one of the most recent pages and sees that the unfamiliar lyrics are still neatly headed
'Another Lennon McCartney Original'.

'I'll do anything for you,

Anything you want me to,

If you'll be true to me.'

"That's a new one," Paul says. He fits his hands to the strings of his guitar and plays something
John hasn't heard before. It's plaintive, a little Elvis-y, and John taps out the rhythm on the box for
him, already liking the slow easy rhythm of it. When it finishes Paul gives a self deprecating shrug.
"It still needs some work though."

He's looking at John expectantly, so John says, "We'd best get on with it then," and they go to
work.

He does his best to avoid Stu the next morning, but he's no better at that than he was at avoiding
Paul.

"Did you get everything sorted out?" Stu asks, when he catches up with John outside the canteen.

"Nothing to sort out," John says, with what he hopes is a convincing shrug. "Told you he was just
in a snit."

Stu makes a 'hmm' sound, and follows John in. It's early enough that the queue for the coffee urn
is bearable, and Stu waits until they're nearly at the front to say, "Are you still going to Cliff's party
tonight?"

Shit. John had forgotten about that. "Can't, sorry. I've got band practice." More importantly, he'd
promised Paul he'd go round early to work on the song a bit more, and it's a bit soon to be
disappointing him all over again. Besides, he'd rather be round Paul's than throwing up in Cliff's
loo anyway.

Fortunately, Stu doesn’t look that bothered by the change of plan. “Ah well, maybe another time
then.”

“Maybe,” John says.

 Chapter 4

The problem with Paul, John knows, is that when he wants something, he's bloody determined.
And apparently he now wants his mate George in the band.

"He's really good," Paul says to him, so bleedin' earnest, and the effect with that ridiculous face is
chipping away at John's resolve to not have a fourteen year old in his rock and roll band, no matter
how often Paul tells him he’ll actually be turning fifteen soon.

He flicks through a pile of records, irritated by the indulgent look he and Paul are getting from the
older beta woman on the til. Since she usually looks on the verge of calling the police when John
visits the record shop on his own, he thinks he can guess what is prompting this dramatic
transformation. It makes him say, obnoxious, "I don't care. One kid in the band is bad enough."

Paul retrieves one of the records he's thrown aside, reshelves it neatly as he throws John a dark
look. "I'm not a kid."

John knows, that's the whole fucking problem. He grimaces at a single by Bing Crosby, throws
that aside as well, and says, "Maybe I meant Colin," because he doesn't actually want to piss Paul
off, not now things are relatively normal again. He just wants him to drop this.

"You should at least listen to him play, before you say no."

Paul picks up the Bing Crosby record John has just discarded and actually looks at it with interest.
John snatches it back and buries it in a pile of Perry Comos. "What is this, a bloody democracy?"

"We need another guitarist."

“To add to the four we have already?”

For once Paul has no snappy comeback and John knows that's because he's too polite to say what
they're both thinking. That they don't have at least four good guitarists, ones who're properly
committed to the band and want to play the sort of music John and Paul do these days.

"He can play ‘Raunchy’," Paul says, like he's just thrown down his trump card.

John clutches his chest. "Oh, well, in that case..."

Paul scowls at him. "You know, George always wanted me and him to form a band of our own.
Dad still asks about it."

John slides him a look. Paul is watching him, eyes bright with challenge. Two can play at that
game. "Actually, I've been teaching Stu some chords, and he could probably afford a decent
guitar. An amp too, maybe. Not to mention he's old enough to drink."

It's underhanded, but effective, and Paul subsides with a resentful look. A good thing too, since Stu
was bloody hopeless when he tried to teach him.

They end up buying a Chuck Berry record because Paul reckons it has a guitar solo they can learn.
Even though John is paying (for once), the woman addresses most of her remarks to Paul, who
looks confused, but answers politely enough.

"Well, thanks for the scintillating chat," John breaks in finally, snatching the paper bag she tries to
hand to Paul and pushing him towards the door. He can practically feel her disapproval singeing
the back of his neck.

"What was up with her?" Paul says, as soon as they've cleared the doorway. "Did she catch you
nicking a record or something?"

John tucks the bag away, lights a cigarette and flicks a look at Paul. As if he'd let himself get
caught. "Course not," he says, scornful. He takes a drag and blows out a long plume of smoke.
"She doesn't need to speak to me when you're there, does she. I'm just there for fucking
decoration."

Paul frowns, taking the cigarette John offers him and inhaling deeply. He doesn't cough anymore at
least, that was just embarrassing. "What do you mean?"

John looks at him like he's gone soft and Paul's eyes widen in sudden realisation. "Because you're
an… omega?"

He says the word so hushed, like he thinks John might faint or something at hearing it, that he's
struck with an absurd desire to laugh. After their humiliating chat in the shed, it's hardly going to
be this that finishes him off. "No, because of my shy and retiring personality. Yeah, of course
because of that."

Paul's expression cycles rapidly from surprise to outrage and John is disconcerted first that this is
such news to him and second that he apparently cares so much.

"Well," Paul says at last, firm. "We won't go there again then."

Now John does laugh, incredulous. "As touched as I am that you want to defend my honour,
Macca, if I only went where I'm wanted, I'd barely leave the house."

"That's not true, you're—" Paul stops, lips pressed together and John realises, with an odd
swooping sensation, that he is actually angry on John's behalf. He's been angry on his own behalf
for ages now but it's always been a pretty solitary pastime. 'What do you expect?' is the more usual
response.

His surprise must be obvious because Paul's righteous ire shifts to something more embarrassed,
his face reddening under John's stare. "She's wrong, that's all," he says finally. Sincere in a way
that John doesn't know how to deal with.

"Yeah, well," he says inadequately "I've been nicking her stock for years so..."

He doesn't expect Paul to laugh out loud at that, eyes warm. "In that case you should go as often as
possible."

John takes his cigarette back, just for something to do with his hands, then wishes he hadn't when
their fingers brush. He starts walking again so he doesn't have to look at him directly. "Surely not
grammar school Paul condoning theft."

Paul bumps against his shoulder lightly, still smiling. "Only the good records though."

"What, no Bing?"

"I looked at it, I didn't want to buy it."

They go back and forth like that, and the familiar rhythm of it is calming, normal. John's irritation
at the woman in the shop banked by the time they reach the turning for Forthlin Road.

After that he catches Paul watching him at the oddest times. He first notices it the next day at
practice when he finds Paul hovering in the kitchen doorway, looking at him while he's making
tea, of all things. He casts him a quizzical look, waggling his eyebrows to make him laugh, and
thinks nothing more of it. But then it happens again, two days later, when he's eating chips with
Paul and Pete outside the cinema. The film was pretty shite, decent songs but a stupid love story
with a fluttery omega girl who bonded with the alpha hero after barely a week and then fainted at
the most dramatic moment, the silly bint. He's grinning at Pete's impression of her dramatic swoon
when he feels Paul's eyes on him and half turns, only for Paul to immediately look away.

Then it keeps happening, and it starts to make John uneasy. He thinks back to that afternoon in the
record shop, trying to parse out if there was something he missed, some reaction he had overlooked
at the time that might explain Paul's behaviour now. It wasn't as though John's status, such as it
was, was a surprise to anyone, and Paul had seemed angry, not disgusted or anything like that. But
he'd had time to think it over now, perhaps… perhaps he saw things (saw John) differently now.

The others rotate in and out of band practices more often these days, but Paul is still a constant and
John tells himself that whatever is bothering him has no impact on the band at least, or their
writing together. It nags at him though, like an itch, a persistent hum of anxiety.

"Bloody hell, what ?" John says at last, when he looks up from an explanation of a chord
progression he thinks they should try in their newest song to find Paul staring at him with that
strange indecipherable expression again.

Paul starts and looks back down at his guitar. "Nothing."

"It's obviously something," John snaps. "It's been like having Mimi following me around, with all
the starin'. So come on, out with it."

Paul looks mortified and John feels a mean stab of satisfaction at discomfiting him after all the
worrying he's been doing lately. "I didn't mean—" he stutters to a halt and John makes himself
wait, wants to make Paul say it, whatever it is. "That woman in the shop," Paul starts, and John
tenses, he bloody knew it. "Does that… Does it happen a lot?"

Jesus. To be an oblivious alpha. "Sometimes. Dunno if you've noticed, Macca, but I'm no-one's
idea of a proper omega." Paul's mouth twists like he's about to speak so John adds, sharp, "and I
don't want to be either," in case he has some ridiculous idea that John's secretly yearning for some
entitled dick of an alpha to bond with him or some bullshit like that.

"No, course not. I know that," Paul says, so quickly that John wonders for an awful moment if
maybe he had thought that.

"Good," he says, then because Paul is still fidgeting. "Was that it then?"

Paul visibly braces himself, like he thinks John might punch him or something equally ridiculous.
"Does it bother you? That people treat you like that?"

It's such a bizarre thing to ask that John can't immediately formulate a response. Of course it
bothers him. Mimi or Julia or any of the dickheads who'd been on the receiving end of John's fist or
sharp tongue could attest to how much it bothered him. But then, he thinks, Paul has never been
one of those people, he's never given him cause to lash out. Even after the disastrous Christmas
gig he never said anything about what had happened. What John had made happen.
There's a part of him that wants to mock Paul for being so clueless, but the larger part of him wants
him to understand, as much as he ever can. No-one has actually asked him how he feels about it
before, too busy telling him he'll feel differently later.

"Yeah, it does bother me. I bloody hate it," he says bluntly. If Paul is surprised at his sudden
honesty, he hides it well. John fits his fingers to the strings of his guitar and strums a chord so he
doesn't have to look at him as he tries to turn the mess of his thoughts into words. He tries and
abandons several before, "I think it's bullshit that you can wake up one day and everyone says 'now
you're just this', you know? But you're still who you were the day before, you didn't wake up a
different person. People act like all omegas want is to play house and be taken care of — but if that
was true they'd still not be allowed to drink in public or… or keep their job after they're bonded." In
the periphery of his vision Paul is still and quiet, so, encouraged, he goes on. "I reckon it's like that
Miss Armitage said though. Times are changin', aren't they? When we're famous and everyone's
singin' our songs, I reckon they won't care about that anymore. We'll just be us and they'll see I'm
as good as anyone else. Better even — with how good our songs'll be."

It's the most he's ever said on the subject in his life, and as his voice trails off it suddenly feels like
too much, as though he's just laid bare some embarrassingly naïve dream.

In the silence he can hear only the thump of his own heart and Paul's steady breathing. Then Paul
clears his throat. "I reckon you're right," he says, quiet. "We'll do it just like you said."

John looks up at him then, but there's no trace of mockery in Paul's face, he looks like he means
every word of it. John lets himself relax, just a little, relieved now that he'd told the truth. He
should have known Paul wouldn't use it against him.

He can't say any of that though, he thinks he's been honest enough for several lifetimes. "Right.
Well. Now that's sorted, any chance we could stop talking about our fucking feelings and get back
to the song?"

Paul has the cheek to roll his eyes, but he's smiling now, soft. "Alright, Johnny."

John startles a little at the name, which Paul has never used before, but Paul isn't looking at him at
all. He has his eyes back on his guitar as he carefully sets to the chord progression John had
explained earlier when he wasn't even listening, getting it right first time, the little swot.

By mid March they're two guitarists down, so John isn't really that surprised when he follows Paul
on to the top deck of the bus a week later and sees a vaguely familiar face. To his credit, Paul only
pretends to be surprised for a moment before he catches John's eye and obviously thinks better of it,
switching to an overly casual, "You remember George, John?"

John drops down heavily onto a seat, wedging his guitar case next to Paul's. He'd had a few beers
at Eric's, maybe more than a few, and he's feeling pleasantly buzzed. "Aye, hard to forget with you
mentioning his name every five minutes." It's more like every two days in fact but it's always fun
to needle Paul.

George looks embarrassed but pleased. He darts a quick look at Paul and John thinks he can guess
what's coming.

Sure enough. "I was saying to George the other day that we could do with another guitarist."

John lights a cigarette and gives Paul a long look. He's wearing his innocent choir boy face but that
doesn't fool him anymore. "Were you now?" he says, sardonic. He shifts his gaze to George who
looks nervous under his silent appraisal. Christ, he looks young. "Bit late for him to be up, isn't it?"
George colours at that but raises his chin, says "Still pretty early, actually."

"You should play him something, George," Paul says, not even bothering with subterfuge, the
manoeuvring bastard.

It feels too much like deja vu when John sighs, gives in, and hands over his guitar. Naturally
George is as good as Paul said, playing ‘Raunchy’ with an ease and confidence that John can't help
but envy. Not that he expected anything different. He's known all along that Paul wouldn't have
pushed this if he wasn't sure it would be good for the band. It doesn't make Paul's unbearable
smugness any less irritating though.

He takes a deep drag of his cig and blows the smoke directly into Paul's face for the satisfaction of
seeing him recoil, blinking and coughing and telling him to fuck off. George just watches it all,
only his jiggling leg betraying his anxiety. He's a beta, John is pretty sure from his neutral scent,
but still, he has to be sure he knows the way things are.

"You want to join my band then?" He puts the smallest of emphases on 'my' and knows George
hears it.

But he just nods eagerly. "Yeah. I mean if you need someone else on guitar."

It was the right answer but still, he doesn't see why he should make it too easy. He'd been
ambushed on the bloody bus after all. "We practice on school nights, mind. Sometimes past nine.
Paulie here's always noddin' off."

Paul fails to look crushed by this remark. He’s just watching John, expectant, so John makes him
wait a little longer before he smirks around his cigarette and dips his head at George, barely a nod.
"Come tomorrow then and we'll see."

When he gets to Paul's the next day George is already there, ensconced on the settee with his guitar
on his lap.

"Someone's keen." John swings his own guitar off his back and drops down onto the piano stool.

"I thought we could run through some of our own stuff before the others get here. Let George try
out the solos."

Paul has that eager look on his face that means John isn't getting a choice and moreover that
George is probably in the band now, regardless of his pointed "we'll see" the night before.

"Dunno. Some of them are pretty complicated like.” He smirks at George. “Took Paul ages to learn
them."

Paul ignores the jibe. "George can learn things right off, can't you George?"

“Yeah, like what?” John says, eyeing George who hasn’t yet volunteered an opinion.

“He learned ‘Be Bop a Lula’ in an afternoon.”

John shoots Paul an irritated look. "What are you, his bloody chorus line? Let him answer for
himself."

“It wasn’t an afternoon,” George finally gets to say, but only because Paul has retreated into huffy
silence. “But yeah, I can learn them fast I reckon.”
He’s an odd mix of nerves and confidence and John is not immune to someone wanting to impress
him, it’s bloody rare these days. “Alright, let’s see your guitar then.”

George hands it over with no hesitation. It's a nicer model than John's, or Paul's for that matter, and
it looks a hell of lot better looked after too. It's probably the cleanest guitar John's seen outside a
shop and a marked contrast to his own grubby instrument which he has a tendency to leave in all
sorts of odd places (to Mimi’s vocal disapproval).

He’s picking out one of his and Paul's melodies on it when Jim appears, at home for the week for
once and on his way out for his pint. He looks surprised, but pleased, to see George there with
them.

“George is joining the band, Dad,” Paul says, and fuck’s sake, John gives up.

“Is he now?” says Jim, chatty as he ever is when John is around. John's not sure if he believes Paul
when he says he's usually more talkative, he's certainly never seen it. Jim casts an approving eye
over George — and a somewhat less approving one over John. "Well, I'll leave you boys to it then.
Give my regards to your mother, George." He pauses, then adds a gruff, "John." John gets about
half a second of a salute in before Paul smacks his hand down with anticipation born of experience.
Jim looks between them, sighs, and heads out.

"Think I'm growing on him, you know," John says, thoughtful.

Paul rolls his eyes. "Yeah, like mould," but there's a smile lurking in the corners of his mouth.

"'S'all part of me quiet charm, Macca." He turns his attention back to George, who’s watching
them like they’re the afternoon play on the BBC. “Alright then, son, let’s see what you can do.”

The addition of George makes the band feel a little more solid again. He gets it, he likes the bands
and the songs he and Paul do, and when Paul turns up a few weeks later with a proper amplifier, he
sounds fucking amazing. Unfortunately he still looks like a kid and no matter how often Paul says
it doesn’t matter, he knows they’re a hard enough sell with him on lead, without a guitarist who’s
only marginally bigger than his guitar.

“We’re practically the same age,” Paul reminds him, again, when they’re taking a break from song
writing to drink tea and demolish a packet of biscuits in Paul’s front room.

They’ve been having this same conversation, on and off, for about three weeks, ever since George
brought up the possibility of some gig at a family wedding in the winter and John made a joke
about it looking like a kids’ day out which, in hindsight, he’d come to regret.

“Aye, well, you’re…” he tries to think of a word for what Paul is, but there’s nothing that wouldn’t
give him an overinflated ego, so he settles for, “taller. It makes up a bit for the face.”

Paul snatches the packet of biscuits from him. “Actually the woman at the pictures thought I was
seventeen.”

John smirks. “Bit of an odd place to work if you’re blind, I’d have thought.”

Paul looks properly cross at that, in the way he does whenever John winds him up about his baby
face. You’d think he’d have realised by now that he wouldn’t do it if Paul didn’t get so hilariously
pissy about it. He’s surprised it even bothers him so much, honestly. It's getting less babyish by
the day and it's not like he doesn't get enough attention as it is.

“Alright, alright, I was joking,” he says, when Paul looks to be gearing up for what he’s sure will
be a withering comeback. He doesn’t want to get into a row when it’s the first afternoon with just
the two of them in nearly a week. But still, he’s only human. “S’pose they have to work, same as
the rest of us.”

Paul kicks him in the leg, which hurts actually, but he’s smiling a little so John knows he’s over his
little snit.

“Anyway, it’s not like anyone at the wedding will care what George looks like, it’s not like they
haven’t met him, and besides…” Paul trails off, and John thinks he knows what he’s not saying.
Besides we haven’t had any better options.

“Aye, well, a booking’s a booking,” John says, and Paul offers him the biscuits back as a peace
offering.

“Exactly. I saw George's mum last night and she reckons they’ll have us.”

John makes a non-committal noise and eats another biscuit. It was something he hadn’t really
considered when he let George join the band, that he and Paul would be having all these bloody
conversations without him. Chatting on the bus to school and in between classes, visiting each
other and coming to practice with ideas nearly all the way formed and jokes John doesn't
understand. He saw Paul two days ago but already he's missed something.

He thinks it’s only a matter of time before George wants to write songs with them too. He keeps
expecting Paul to bring it up, or turn up with some song he and George have been working on by
themselves in all the hours and days they spend together at school, and he’s dreading it. George
always looks so interested when he and Paul are working through some new arrangement, or
sharing some new song they’ve been working on. There’s no good reason to refuse either, except
for how he doesn’t want to share this with George or anyone else, and that’s not something he can
ever admit to out loud.

Paul starts humming a bit of his song about being old and John peers at him sidelong, wondering if
this is another salley in the age argument, but Paul just looks absorbed in the tune as he always
does and John thinks, fuck it, better to get it over with. “Does George write songs then?”

Paul blinks at him, surprised. “No. I mean, I don’t think so, he’s never said anything.”

John taps his fingers against his thigh. “Does he want to? With us I mean?”

Now Paul looks taken aback. “No. Why? Did he tell you he did?”

“He’s hardly gonna tell me and not you, is he?” John knows he sounds irritated, but when does
Paul think he and George are having private conversations? “Just thought he’d want to, or you’d
want him to, that’s all.”

“No,” Paul says at once, “I don’t think George would want to.” He sounds very certain all of a
sudden. “And anyway, you get musical duos, don’t you? Like Rodgers and Hammerstein.” John
gives him a look for that so Paul quickly amends, “Alright, something more rock and roll than
Rodgers and Hammerstein.”

“Lennon and McCartney?”

Paul grins. “Yeah, exactly.”

They don’t mention it again, but their songwriting continues to be a separate thing, a space carved
out by just the two of them. It makes the school chat and the in-jokes a little easier to deal with.
Most of the time anyway.

"We should do that one at your birthday, Paul," George drops in casually one day when they've just
finished a (decentish) run through of ‘One After 909’.

"What?" John says, feeling, once again, like he's joined a conversation halfway through.

Paul very obviously doesn't meet John's eye as he says a quick, "yeah, could do," and starts
flicking through their list of songs.

"What?" John says again, more irritably this time.

George looks a little nervously at John, which usually amuses him but today just sets him further
on edge. "Paul thought we could do a set at his birthday, didn't he say?"

In lieu of saying 'what' for the third time, John shifts his gaze pointedly to Paul, who is busy
making a careful note on their song list, the shifty sod. They've taken advantage of a warm May
afternoon to sag off school and college and hole up on a scrubby bit of wasteland pretending to be a
field so George can practice a few more of their originals. "Can't say he did," he twists his guitar so
he can better prod Paul with it. "When's the big 1-4, Macca?"

As expected, that gets Paul's attention away from his bloody list to glower at John, as George
snickers. "Piss off, both of you."

"It's the eighteenth," George puts in helpfully. "But Paul's Auntie Jin is having everyone round to
her garden on the Saturday after."

John raises an eyebrow. "Sounds like a wild night."

Paul flushes and says "You don't have to come," like he doesn't care if John is there or not. And
frankly, a sixteenth birthday party in Paul's auntie's back garden is not John's idea of a good time,
but the thought that Paul might not actually want him there, might have deliberately not mentioned
it, gives him pause. He's grown used to Paul usually wanting him along.

He eyes Paul now, trying to gauge his sincerity. It's embarrassing that this even matters to him, but
right then it feels like another thing Paul and George have without him. "If you want to do a set,
s'pose I'll have to come. With it being my band an' all."

Paul smiles. It's a quickly stifled thing but enough to spark relief. "Alright then," he says, and that's
that.

That's not all of it though because now John has to go to a sodding family party. He's not one to
reassure anyone's aunt, Mimi is proof enough of that. It shouldn't matter what anyone else thinks
of him, but it's people who matter to Paul so of course it does and the closer they get to it, the more
on edge he feels.

It doesn't help that Paul also seems strangely anxious about it, changing his mind on the songs
they're going to do so many times that John finally threatens to fuck off to the pub with Pete
instead.

"I just want it to be right."

"Christ sake, Paul, we're not fucking auditioning for the telly. Just pick some bloody songs."

At that point Paul stalks off to the kitchen to clang around in a completely reasonable mood and
John smokes two cigs in quick succession.

"I think it's because of his dad,'' George puts in quietly, from his perch on the armchair where he's
been watching it all. "He thinks the band is a waste of time."

This isn't entirely a surprise to John since Jim McCartney has never exactly warmed to him, but it
doesn't help his mood. As it is, he ends up sneaking some of Mimi's medicinal brandy on the day to
stiffen his nerve.

Given the complexity (to put it mildly) of his own family he's not prepared for the ordinariness of
Paul's. Jim's there of course, chatting to a group of blokes and looking a thousand times more
animated than he ever does around John. But there are also aunts and uncles and cousins drifting in
and out, as well as neighbours and school friends and a gimlet eyed old woman he thinks must be a
grandmother. And he feels like every single one of them is looking at him. Maybe not directly
(they're too polite for that) but he knows what it feels like by now, the way conversation dips just a
little when he walks past.

Paul at least looks happy to see him, jogging over as soon as he spots him, all bright eyed and red
cheeked although John knows for a fact he wouldn't dare sneak any alcohol with his dad there.

"You're here," he says — unnecessarily, since last time John checked, he wasn't a bloody mirage.

He trails him to a shady corner where Ivan is already setting up. Not that there's much to set up
with no stage and no mics, but mucking in gives him an excuse to avoid Paul's legions of relations.
Paul hangs around, getting in the way by checking everything unnecessarily and worrying over the
set list until he's dragged off by a cousin, and when John looks for him next, he and George have
been absorbed into a laughing group of kids he doesn't recognise. Some of the lads look like they're
from school, John could spot the grammar lot a mile off, all pressed shirts and bright confidence.
But there are a handful of girls too, hanging off Paul's every word as he tells some story or other,
voice animated. He knows one of the girls is an omega, he'd clocked her immediately when he
arrived, passing close enough to pick up her light scent, daisy fresh. She's standing the closest to
Paul, the yellow of her dress and her red hair standing out, even without his glasses on. From here,
it looks like she has a hand clasped around his arm as she giggles. John can't imagine anything
Paul could be saying that's so bloody funny, he's hardly Groucho Marx.

"Earth to Lennon." John starts and finds Ivan looking at him curiously. "I said, do you want a
ciggie?"

John really does, as it happens. Ivan lights two and passes one over and they drop down onto the
grass, smoking in companionable silence.

"They're not so bad, the grammar lot," Ivan says unexpectedly. When John slides him a look he
says "You were glaring, before."

John shrugs. "Well, you would say that, wouldn't you. You're one of 'em."

"So's Paul," Ivan counters easily, "And you like him alright."

John flicks his cigarette away so he doesn't have to look at Ivan, or at Paul and his little gang. The
red head seems determined to glue herself to Paul, talk about desperate. "When he's not being a
lazy shit," he says, then raises his voice. "Oi Paul! We doing this or not?"

Paul excuses himself from his fan club immediately, all sincere apologies. And right when the red
head was holding forth too. Shame, that.
It says a lot for their less than stellar career so far that Paul's auntie's garden doesn't even count as
their worst venue. It's certainly not their worst crowd. It's just Paul, John, and George on their
guitars, and Ivan at the back on his tea chest bass for one day only, since it was his birthday too
and he can be bribed with cake apparently. But whether it's the sunshine, the food, or just Paul,
their small audience are eager to enjoy themselves. After a few wobbly notes at the start, Paul
seems to be out to impress. When he's like this, John finds it all too easy to imagine him on a
bigger stage with a larger and even more adoring audience, and he has to remind himself he's there
to perform, not watch Paul working a crowd. At least there are no messed up guitar solos this time.
Their harmonies are pretty decent after the months of practice and even George earns his keep,
handling his guitar deftly and better than John could.

The polite clapping from the aunties is drowned out by more enthusiastic cheers from the younger
partygoers and their reaction reminds John why doing this is so much better with a real audience.
They end with ‘In Spite Of All The Danger’, because they've spent weeks working on it now. He,
Paul and George end up singing it in a loose circle, angled towards each other the better to match
hands and voices. George is a little shaky, red faced as he is with nerves or maybe excitement, but
Paul is glowing now as he hits every note perfectly, his voice providing a perfect counterpoint to
John's own.

They finish to genuine applause and Paul does a few unnecessary flourishes on his guitar that John
will mock him for later, and grins across at him. John knows exactly what he's thinking because
he's thinking it too — when they're like this they're bloody good .

Paul is almost immediately surrounded by his adoring public, the red head front and centre. He's
lapping it up, drawing in George when he hangs back, bashful, and complimenting his guitar solo
to all and sundry. Ivan ambles over goodnaturedly, happy to take any and all tea chest
compliments, leaving only John and a wholly unfamiliar awkwardness that lasts only as long as it
takes Paul to realise he's missing.

"John!" He waves him over, flushed and happy. "Everyone, this is John."

There's a few half hearted hellos and not a lot of eye contact which is a surprise to no-one but Paul
apparently. John's taken shit from worse than a load of grammar kids however and he stares down
a stocky young alpha who has the nerve to look him over like he's some kind of exotic curiosity.
He looks to be the only one there aside from Paul, although in a crowd it's harder to be sure who is
who. He can only assume his own flattering reputation has gone before him.

Ivan takes the temporary lull in conversation that follows John's arrival as an excuse to tell his
favourite story of how he came to introduce Paul to The Quarrymen in the first place. His role
grows with every telling, despite Paul's protestations and John's heckling. There's a smatter of
nervous laughter when Ivan gets to the part about Maggie Mae but the redhead noticeably does not
laugh, lips pressed together as she looks across at John from her vantage point at Paul's side. At
this distance, John can see that she's a looker, all fresh faced prettiness and soft curves under her
modest sundress. He wonders what her name is and whether Paul has mentioned her before. If
she’s one of his usual little harem or someone new.

"Paul's played us some of his songs before," mystery girl says, when Ivan finally stops for breath.
"He's a really good songwriter."

Paul does a terrible job of pretending not to be smug about this. "Actually, me and John write
together so they're not all mine."

Everyone looks at John. "How does that work then?" the stocky alpha says, eyeing John
sceptically.
Jesus. "He means we try out chords and then write down words and if they sound alright at the
same time we call it a song."

The alpha's expression turns dark but before he can say anything Paul interjects smoothly, eyes
glimmering with humour. "Then we make sure to run them past Ivan for final approval."

"Sod the pair of you," Ivan announces, and Paul grins.

"Who's the dickhead?" John asks later when the aunt brigade have finally cracked out the
sandwiches and sausage rolls and he's gone some way to soaking up the pre-gig brandy.

Paul doesn't even ask who he means, just casts a dark look over the corner where the alpha is
holding forth. "Gregory. He's a friend of my cousin's — I wouldn't have invited him."

"And your biggest fan?" John says, casual. "The redhead?"

Paul frowns in confusion for a moment, then his brow clears. "Oh, that's Sue." He looks round for
her and waves when he catches her eye, seemingly unaware that she and her friend have been
watching them for the past few minutes. John resists the urge to wave too. "Chuck us a sausage
roll, will you. I'm starving."

"Bloody hell, what did your last servant die of?" John nonetheless searches for any decent bits of
food that might have survived the recent onslaught. There actually isn't any — unless you counted
some cheese, a lone piece of ham and a wilted bit of lettuce. "Looks like you left it a bit late,
Macca."

Paul looks outraged, which John finds hilarious."They can't have left me no food, it's my birthday.
"

"Should have spent less time showing off to— Oi!"

Paul darts back out of reach and grins at him, mouth full of the sandwich he'd just pilfered from
John's plate.

"Careful, I just spat that out. Too much gristle." Paul looks momentarily revolted before he sees
John's smirk and throws a limp bit of tomato at him.

"Anyway for your information I haven't been showing off. I was creating a diversion while
George nicked some beers for us later."

John makes a shocked face. "Fancy you leading the youth astray."

Paul crams the rest of the sandwich into his mouth. It's fairly disgusting. "Yeah, dunno who I've
learned that from."

"Probably Ivan."

"Must be. Are you going to eat that?" He's eyeing the solitary sausage roll left on John's plate.

"Jesus, do you want the shirt off me back too?" He holds the plate out so Paul can help himself.
"Wish I had spat on it now."

"Sod off."

"Language!"
John nearly jumps out of his skin at the middle aged woman, another aunt he assumes, who seems
to pop up out of nowhere.

Paul is immediately apologetic, "Sorry, Auntie Clare."

"It's the hunger making him act out of character," John puts in in his most earnest voice, earning
himself an attempted kick from Paul that he dodges.

Auntie Clare ignores him. "If you're looking for food, Paul, your friend Sue saved you a plate."

Paul looks a bit taken aback. "Oh. That was nice of her."

It was a bit presumptuous of her, if you ask John. But no-one is asking John, least of all Auntie
Clare who’s busy playing matchmaker, apparently. "Yes it was. She's over by the bench, go on
now."

Paul hesitates, looking from his aunt to John, and John is gripped by the urge to tell him to stay
where he is, and maybe to tell Auntie Clare to bugger off while he’s at it. Auntie Clare’s watching
him too however, so he does neither of those things, only says, “Go on then, they reckon it’s
dangerous to drink on an empty stomach.”

He’s probably going to regret saying that later, if Paul’s murderous expression is anything to go
by.

“He’s just joking,” Paul says quickly, widening his eyes at John meaningfully when Auntie Clare
isn’t looking.

“Is he?” Auntie Clare says coolly, and John gets the distinct impression she doesn’t like him
much. Quite the feat, when he’s never laid eyes on the woman before. He might have set a new
personal record.

It’s Paul’s birthday though, so he makes an effort to squash down his natural desire to be an arse.
“Course I was. Just a little joke on account of Paul being such a strong Temperance man.”

Alright, not all his natural desire. At least Paul looks like he wants to laugh now, which is more
that can be said for Auntie Clare.

“I think you’ve kept Sue waiting long enough, Paul,” she says sharply, and Paul takes the hint.

“Right. Sorry. I won’t be long.” He says the last mostly to John, who makes a face at him, because
if it ever gets to the point when he needs moral support at a sixteenth birthday party he might as
well chuck himself in the Mersey. Paul looks like he has something to say to that, but then he
catches Auntie Clare’s eye and wisely chooses to make his exit instead.

"Sue's a very nice girl," Auntie Clare says, as John watches Paul jog obediently across the grass to
where the fuzzy Sue shape looks to be smiling in welcome, picking up a covered plate from the
bench.

John's not sure if he's expected to have an opinion on the matter, or if he has one she'd want to hear,
so he just says, "Aye, I'm sure," and looks around for a quick escape route. Jim has just emerged
from the house with some bottles of beer and he wonders if he could liberate one (or several), and
whether it would be worth risking a permanent ban from Forthlin Road for. Probably not. Better
to just nick some off Paul and George later, if Paul will even let him after his little joke.

"The family are very fond of her,” Clare goes on, and it’s so pointed that John looks at her
sidelong, wondering where this is going. “She’d be very good for Paul.”

Ah, there it is. He should probably find it funny that Auntie Clare feels the need to warn him off,
but he feels his mood turn sour. "Well, she's got nothing to worry about from me," he says
abruptly, tired of nobody just saying what they mean for once. If he squints, he can see Paul
ducking his head to listen to something Sue is saying, all sweet and attentive.

Paul's auntie looks at him then, a quick sweep of her eyes that seems to take in every belligerent
inch of him. "Hasn't she?"

John feels his face heat. Maybe he'd underestimated good old Auntie Clare's capacity for straight
talking. Well, he could give as good as he got on that score. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Clare turns away, nodding pleasantly at another guest as they pass, like she and John are just
having a friendly chat about the begonias. Then she smoothly changes tack. "I knew your mother.
Knew of her, I should say." John feels himself tense. "She was always a very popular girl, attractive
you know. Well, as one would expect, I suppose. I imagine it's very easy for you too, when you
want something. But Paul's a good, steady boy, with a bright future ahead of him."

She meets his angry glare with a cool look. John has gotten into fights for less than this, but he's not
about to brawl with Paul's auntie. Given the way she's looking at him, he's not even sure he'd win.
"You don't even know me."

"I know that since you appeared it's 'the band this' and 'John that' and he's got far less time for his
real friends. I don't know what goes on at these 'songwriting' sessions of yours, but I don't—"

"We write songs, " John hisses. "What the bloody hell is wrong with you people? Do you think I'm
defiling him on the rug? Jesus." He breaks off, feeling slightly sick. Across the garden Paul and
Sue are sitting on the bench together, looking like every alpha-omega illustration in the magazines
Mimi used to leave around the house to inspire him.

"I'll thank you to keep your voice down," the stupid old cow says, low. "I'm just thinking about
what's best for Paul. He's a young alpha and I'm sure this is a confusing time for him "

"Did you even watch him play?" John interrupts "He's good at it. He's good at the songwriting too.
He has all these ideas for the band. That's all we're doing, trying to get somewhere with the band."

"And how is that going?" Auntie Clare says, putting a knife to the sorest point with all the skill of a
battle veteran. "As I understand it, nobody will book you, and so nobody will book Paul either.
That's not much to give up a future for."

John has a vivid image of Paul's future according to Clare. Paul's already let slip that his dad
expects him to be a teacher and John can just imagine him in ten years time, settled in a nice little
terrace with Sue or another omega like her putting his tea on the table at 5 on the dot. Guitar
gathering dust except for some turgid family singalong.

"Times are changing," he says, but it comes out less confident than he'd meant it to.

She laughs a little, and it's somehow worse than all her words have been. "Good lord, I hope not
that much."

John thinks he should say something scathing but for once there's nothing. He thinks Paul is
looking in his direction but he can't be sure and he hopes he's wrong. Wouldn't that just be grist to
the mill for Auntie Clare?
"You don't strike me as stupid, John," she's saying now, tone almost sympathetic. "I don't pretend
to know quite what game you're playing, but we'd all prefer you didn't play it with Paul. He
deserves better."

Than you, John hears, even though she doesn't come out and say it. He feels cold. "Right," he says,
putting his empty plate on the table. He can't look at her, or at anyone. "Well, I would stick around
but I've got some sailors to service at the docks so…" He hears her hiss in a disapproving breath at
his poor attempt at humour. "As lovely as this has been, Clare."

His guitar is still propped against the tea chest in the corner of the garden, and he fetches it,
thinking of nothing but how efficiently he can escape what feels like a press of hostile strangers.
He narrowly avoids smacking into Jim McCartney on the way back through the house, earning
himself an odd look. Fuck off to you too he thinks but would never say, not to Paul's dad.

He stops as soon as he gets clear of the house and out of sight, digging desperately through his
pockets for his pack of cigarettes. It takes him too long to light one and he realises foolishly that
his hands are shaking. The first drag eases the tightness in his lungs a little. The second helps to
quieten the thrumming under his skin. He exhales, inhales again and lets it settle, then crosses the
road, keen to get as far away as possible, from Clare, from Sue, from the whole bloody lot of them.

You don't strike me as stupid, she'd said, and she was right, wasn't she? He’s not a complete idiot.
Nothing she'd just said should have bothered him the way it did. Fuck knows he's had worse said
to him, and about him, and he’s never run away with his tail between his legs before, like a bloody
coward. But the subject of Paul is different, apparently. Like the difference between scraping your
arm and ripping it open. The hurt of it shocks him. It feels as though she’s taken something
precious and rubbed it in the dirt, reducing all those hours and days to something cheap and sordid;
nothing but the machinations of a selfish omega. As if there's never been anything real about it at
all. He knows that's not true. Mostly he does. Paul's never tried anything on with John and John
hasn't set out to corrupt him, or any rubbish like that. As if he even could. By all accounts, that
ship has long sailed. They're just friends , for fuck's sake. It's not… It's not anything like she thinks
it is.

Only that's not true either, not entirely, because he’d felt it, hadn’t he? From that first day at
Woolton, and then every day since. He'd noticed Paul and then gone on noticing him, even with the
pills that were supposed to turn all that off; even now, when he was taking more of them than he
should. He can't say it's just because Paul is an alpha, because he knows Stu now, and it's not the
same. The idea of Stu with an omega doesn’t give him the same sick feeling in the pit of his
stomach as it had to see Paul and Sue together, as though she was intruding on territory already
claimed by John. As though Paul was his .

He's so stuck on that awful realisation that the slap of footsteps doesn't register at first, not until he
hears his name being called as well.

"You're not off already?" Paul says when he finally catches up to him.

He's pink cheeked and out of breath, and for a horrible moment, John can’t think of anything to
say. If he’s going to have any humiliating revelations about his feelings for Paul, he’d rather not
do it with him standing two feet away, looking all too real.

"Yeah, sorry," John dredges up, when Paul starts looking worried by his silence. "I forgot I
promised mum I'd call round, see the girls before they go to bed." It's the best excuse he can come
up with at short notice, and one he knows Paul won't argue about.

He doesn't, but he's clearly disconcerted. "Oh right. I could come with you? If you like?"
John stares at him, and Clare's judgemental face seems to rear up between them. "Don't be daft. It's
your birthday."

"Yeah, best not I suppose." Paul looks embarrassed to have offered. "Tell your mum I said hello
then."

"Not on your life, she already prefers you." It's supposed to be teasing, but it comes out too
awkward. A silence grows in the space between them and John thinks how easy it would be to
take Paul along with him; of all the ways he's folded Paul into his life, turning them into
JohnandPaul, and filling up Paul's free time with band practices, and songwriting, and afternoons
spent bunking off school. He knows what people say about omegas. About how they can't be
alone, how they're always looking for an alpha to cling onto, or, less charitably, to give them what
they want; how easily they can get an alpha all twisted up if they're left unchecked. It's obviously
what Auntie Clare thinks, and now she's got John thinking it as well. That maybe this thing that
makes John so aware of Paul, has been having an effect on Paul too, whether he realises it or not.

"Did Auntie Clare say something to you?" Paul blurts then, too loud.

John starts, feeling horribly caught out. For a fleeting moment he imagines telling Paul the truth, or
a version of it anyway. He could pass it off as a funny story, maybe, even tease Paul about Sue to
make it convincing. He wonders what Paul's reaction would tell him, if he would look shocked or
disgusted, amused or guilty. But he knows at the same moment that he won't say anything at all.
The bite of it is still too close to the surface, too raw, for the thought of exposing it to Paul to be
anything but humiliating.

So he just says, "No," and watches Paul absorb the lie. And he does clearly know it's a lie since it's
unlikely the two of them stood in silence for five minutes watching Paul eat his bloody sausage
rolls with the lovely Sue.

"Alright," Paul says, when it's clear John isn't going to offer anything further. He's watching John
so carefully. "It's just she has some weird ideas, you know. She can be a bit old fashioned."

John tries to take the comfort as it's meant. No doubt Paul's been treated to a few of her opinions as
well, maybe the same ones he's just been graced with. The thought of that makes him shrivel a
little inside. "Aye, well, that's aunties for you. Too much bloody Readers Digest and the Home
Service. It warps the brain."

Paul smiles faintly. "Yeah. Sounds about right." He looks like he wants to say something more,
but instead he just stands there looking at John until John's hand starts itching for another ciggie.

"You're gonna have the whole brigade of 'em come looking for you soon," John says, when
nothing else is forthcoming. He needs Paul to go away and leave him to untangle the mess of his
thoughts in peace. He can't do it while he's standing there, looking at him like that.

"Oh. Yeah. I should probably…" Paul trails off, then starts again. "It was good today though — the
gig I mean."

"Aye, I think I saw your Dad jivin' at the back."

Paul snorts with laughter and it's good, it's normal. It makes John want to keep going though like it
always does, as if making Paul laugh isn't the easiest thing in the world.

"We're still writing tomorrow, yeah?"

John had forgotten all about that, but the way Paul's looking at him, he thinks nothing but a yes is
going to fly, or at least get him out of here without a lengthy explanation. So he says, "If you still
want to."

There's a small furrow in Paul's brow now and he's doing that thing again, like he's trying to read
John's mind. "Why wouldn't I want to?"

John regroups hastily. "Just thought you might be feeling a bit delicate after your wild night with
George and the lads, is all. I don't want you passin' out on me."

Thank god it works. Paul's expression clears and he says, teasing, "What, like you?"

"If you're on about the other week, I was restin' my eyes," John says. He's mostly learned his
lesson about drinking before practice, but Pete Shotton's a hard man to say no to. "Anyway I
happen to think that was one of my best performances." He has a hazy memory of nicking Paul's
guitar and trying to improvise a new solo to ‘Be Bop A Lula’ with the strings upside down, before
Paul took it off him and fetched him some water. Then he woke up an hour later. Never let it be
said John Lennon didn't know how to liven up an evening.

Paul smiles properly at that, shaking his head like he does when he thinks John is being especially
ridiculous, and John is aware like he never is usually of how it makes him feel, when Paul smiles
at him like that. How often he tries to make it happen.

"I have to go," he says abruptly, and Paul's smile fades a bit, turning softer round the edges.

"Alright. I'll see you tomorrow though, Johnny, yeah?"

It's half questioning, so John makes himself look at him and smile like he usually does. "Yeah.
Tomorrow."

With that, he finally makes his escape, walking quickly away and keeping up the brisk pace until
he turns the corner out of sight. Then he slows, and stops, wondering what the fuck to do now. He
can't go home, the thought of returning to the oppressive silence of Menlove Avenue is
unbearable. Mimi'll want to know what he's doing back so early, and he'd rather give Paul a full
and illustrated account of his chat with Auntie Clare than tell Mimi any part of what happened
today. The 'I told you so's would be never ending. That just leaves his mum, and maybe there was
a reason he'd chosen that lie for Paul, because it turns out it's where he most wants to be anyway.
A tactical retreat from Mimi's rigid beta sensibilities while he tries to put the different parts of
himself back together again.

If Julia is surprised to see him she doesn't say so, she just puts the kettle on and tells him to sit
down. The girls are playing outside somewhere so the untidy little kitchen is empty but for the two
of them. Bobby must be at work by now. She has the back door open to the summer evening and
the radio on. It's playing something upbeat that John doesn't recognise and she sways along to it as
she moves about the kitchen, a splash of colour in her bright sundress.

"There," she puts a mug down in front of him, along with what's left of a packet of biscuits. "Get
that down you. You always look like you need fattening up."

"Are you sayin' Mimi doesn't feed me?" He used to say stuff like that all the time, playing them off
against each other. But Julia and Mimi are easier together now and Julia just casts him an amused
glance.

"I'm sure she does when she can get you to sit still long enough."

She settles down across the table from him and watches him drink his tea, her foot moving all the
while to the music. The kitchen smells like her and he can feel his shoulders relax, his fingers
stilling where they'd been tapping out a nervous rhythm on the tabletop. There's a pile of washing
on the counter and his sisters' dolls litter the floor. Julia never was one for housekeeping. Not like
Mimi and the rest of the Stanley clan.

"Have you been at band practice then," she asks, nodding towards his guitar case.

He hesitates just a moment. "No, we had a gig at Paul's. For his birthday."

She looks pleased for him, and it's such a far cry from Mimi's anxious disapproval that he lets
himself bask in it for a moment, in the uncomplicated warmth of her affection.

"And?" She prompts him impatiently. "How did it go? Do you think you'll get some more
bookings off it?"

"I doubt it. Paul's Auntie Clare thinks I've been corrupting him." He puts on a silly snooty voice to
make a joke of it, but Julia doesn't laugh.

"What do you mean? What did she say to you?"

He looks down at the table, chipping a bit of the cheap formica off with his fingernail. He doesn't
know why he tried to make a joke of it when it's the whole reason he came here. It's alright for
Paul to talk about people being old fashioned, but he doesn't know . Not really. Not like his mum
does.

He leaves the table alone, slouches back. "You know. I'm giving him ideas, or I'm giving meself
ideas. Paul being an upstanding pillar of the community an' all that, and me not being much of
anything."

There is, mortifyingly, a burning in his throat he can't seem to swallow down. Abruptly Julia's
hand closes round his wrist, her thumb resting against his rabbiting pulse.

"You listen to me, John Lennon," she says, low and angry. "Don't you dare pay any mind to old
bigots like her. What does she know about it?"

"I know that." He twitches his hand like he's going to pull it away, but Julia holds on.

"Then what is it?" She searches his face. "Did Paul say something?" She hesitates. "Has he done
something?"

John yanks his hand away, puts it in his lap. "Course not." She waits, and John takes an uneven
breath. He wasn’t going to say the rest of it, but it comes spilling out of him anyway. "There was a
girl there — an omega I mean, and I think her and Paul are… you know. Or that's what his family
thinks anyroad. His auntie was bloody warning me off , saying all this stuff about Paul being
confused because of… because of what I am. And I thought…maybe she was right. Because I
think I do want it. What she said. Even though I didn't mean to."

He breaks off and looks at Julia, willing her to understand what he's saying without him actually
having to come out and say it. It feels like a joke even now. The idea of John using his non-
existent omega wiles to ensnare Paul is only marginally less ridiculous than the idea of John
wanting him like that in the first place, of him apparently having all these unsettling feelings for
bloody Paul McCartney.

He's waiting for his mum to look shocked or horrified, or maybe just disappointed. But she doesn't
look like any of those things. Her eyes move over his face and whatever she sees there has her
pushing her chair back and standing up, walking round the table until she can pull John against her,
bending down to press a fierce kiss against his hair. She stays there for a long moment, her arms
tight around him, and then straightens, smoothing a hand lightly over his hair and pretending not to
see where his face is wet. "When I was younger than you," she says quietly, "there was an alpha
lad over Allerton way who used to follow me home from school. Trying it on, you know, even
when I told him to bugger off." John twists to look up at her. "I told a teacher in the end because he
wouldn't stop, and he said the lad couldn't help it, it was just how it was for alphas when an omega
was around, enticing them, and so-called putting out signals."

John feels a flash of anger at that, because he'd heard the same, or as good as, back at school. "Did
you wallop him? The lad?"

She laughs softly. "No, but I wanted to. I knew he was a liar, you see."

He stills. "How come?"

"Because all the time he was bothering me, he was courting an omega from the posh girls school,
as sweet and respectful as you please. She never had to complain about him trying to get a hand up
her skirt, or saying the kind of things he'd say to me. So he could control himself when he wanted
to. When he thought it mattered. "

John frowns, trying to parse out what she is telling him. Seeing it, she puts her hands either side of
his face and holds it so he can't look away from her. "What I'm telling you, is that you're not
corrupting anyone. You can't make someone do something, not even an alpha, do you understand?
Not if they don't want to. That's not how any of this works, and whoever says otherwise is lying."

Paul's flushed face at the Christmas dance flashes across his mind. "What about if they're, you
know, around an omega a lot though, and they get on well, but maybe the omega—"

"You haven't tricked Paul into anything, John," Julia says firmly, cutting through his bullshit with a
precision worthy of Mimi.

"I know that," John says, too quickly, feeling his face go horribly red. "I wouldn't do that."

Julia sighs and lets her hands slide down to his shoulders, regarding him quietly for a moment.
"All I'm saying is, an alpha might react to an omega, or the other way round, but we've all got
minds as well as bodies, John. We can still choose."

He lets her words sink in, feeling them ease the weight in his chest, just a little. He likes the way
she puts it, that he's just reacting to Paul. It sounds cleaner, easier than the tangle he'd been getting
himself into on the way over. And alright, at Christmas maybe he'd reacted a bit too much, enough
to affect Paul as well, but he's more careful with his doses now, so that won't happen again. The
important thing is that it doesn't have to mean anything. Not if he doesn't want it to, and he doesn't.
He doesn't want Paul to see him like that, as some desperate omega panting after him, along with
the rest of his little harem. There's nothing in the world that would make him choose that. But
just because he's got some weird omega thing for Paul, it doesn't mean that all the rest of it isn't
real. That's what his mum means. Their friendship, and their songs, and the band of course. The
vague but glorious future they talk about when it's just the two of them and everything feels
possible. He just needs to keep that part separate and stop letting it all get confused in his head,
that's all. And pay no mind to stupid old bigots like Auntie Clare, just like Julia said.

"I should have told her to bugger off," he says at last, because his mum never cares too much about
his swearing and besides, Auntie Clare deserves it. He feels like an idiot now for letting her get to
him like he had.
There's a glimmer of humour in Julia's expression as she pats him on the shoulder approvingly and
takes her seat again. "I'm surprised you didn't."

"I was being diplomatic," John says, because he's already told the truth enough for one day. "On
account of it being a family occasion."

Julia pours them both another cup of tea, and divvies out the remaining biscuits. "Mimi'd be very
proud, I'm sure."

He snorts at that, but it reminds him that she'd never finished her story before. He looks at her
curiously. "What did you do about that lad from Allerton in the end?"

Julia takes a sip of tea. "Shopped him to the girl's parents, crying like the delicate little omega they
all thought I was."

John grins, delighted. "Nice one."

She shrugs. "More flies with honey than vinegar, remember."

Paul is very pale when he lets John in the next day.

"Afternoon," John says as loudly as possible, just to watch him wince. "Good night with the lads,
was it?"

Paul mumbles, "Shut up," then just stands there uselessly looking at him.

"If you're gonna throw up, can you aim somewhere else?" John says around his cigarette.

Paul sways towards him and for an awful moment John thinks he is actually going to vomit in the
hallway. But then, "S'alright. I'm feeling a bit better now." He squints at John. "You're in a good
mood."

And John realises he is actually. It's amazing what starting to get things squared away in your head
can do. "That's 'cause unlike you and Georgie boy, I went to bed at 9 o'clock and forswore the
demon drink."

It's a testament to his hangover that Paul spends a few seconds looking like he might actually
believe this, before his brow clears. "Sod off, you never."

"'Course not," John says. "But…" he fishes in his coat pocket and pulls a crumpled piece of paper,
"I did start a new song."

"You wrote it down?" Paul looks unflatteringly shocked which is probably fair.

"Aye. Turns out I can read and write. Mimi came over all faint."

The truth was that when he'd finally got back to Mendips last night he'd felt guilty for the abrupt
way he'd left Paul. For doing the very thing he'd sworn not to, letting this thing affect their
friendship and the band. The song half-scrawled on the back of Mimi's milk bill was something of
an apology, although Paul didn't need to know that.

Paul takes the paper from him, holding it up to his face as if the proximity would render John's
handwriting legible, then gives up and hands it back. "Play it for us then."

"Can I sit down first?"

"Oh." Paul seems to realise they're still standing by the front door and John hasn't even got his coat
off yet. "Sorry."

He shuffles through to the front room and John follows him, shrugging off his guitar and coat and
dropping into the armchair.

"What, no tea?"

"Get it yourself," Paul says, forgoing his usual chair to flop down pathetically on the settee closest
to John. A wave of fondness threatens to overwhelm him and he crushes it ruthlessly; setting out
instead to tune his guitar with as many discordant notes as possible until Paul groans and pulls a
pillow over his face.

John grins, "Oi, no sleeping through my song."

"I can hear better with my eyes shut," Paul says, muffled, but he does discard the pillow at least.
"Alright, I'm ready."

The song is sweeter than John usually writes, reminiscent of Buddy Holly, but it suits the mood of
the room, the quiet ticking of the clock on the mantel and Paul's slow steady breaths as he (yes,
definitely) sleeps all the way through it.

John watches him as he plays, noting the colour returning to his cheeks under the dark fan of his
lashes, and letting the scent of Paul and the peace of the moment settle into his bones. He can put
up with a lot of Auntie Clares to keep this, he thinks. It's just a case of separating it out.

June drags on into July, a hazy expanse of ever warmer days that has John skipping college as
often as possible to go and lie out in his mum's back garden. Mimi'd go spare if she knew, but his
mum just says she likes the company. Sometimes, if she's not too busy, she comes and sits outside
with him and he likes those times best of all; idly talking about nothing in particular as the sun
beats down and the radio in the kitchen plays a soundtrack of Berry and Cochran, Elvis and the
Everlys.

They have to cut back on band practices a bit in July, because it turns out Paul and George actually
take their exams seriously. Or mostly seriously. Paul can occasionally be persuaded to sag off and
lounge around with John, and George too, once or twice. John's wary, the first time Paul turns up
at Julia's after his birthday, because she knows too much now, if she didn't already. But she treats
him so normally, asking him about school and teasing him for how tall he's getting, that John soon
lets himself relax again. It's a shame Mimi can't take a leaf out of Julia's book, when it comes to
prying into all of John's secrets.

He has less success getting Pete to come out, since for some unfathomable reason, he's still
sticking with his mad plan to be a copper and won't jeopardise it to piss about with John. Or not
during the day anyway, the miserable bastard.

"It's so they can't nick him for anything, I reckon," John says, one hot afternoon when he and Paul
are lying on the parched grass, and Julia's indoors doing a wash.

"Like an undercover spy?"

John wrinkles his nose. "Aren't all spies undercover? They wouldn't be much use otherwise."

Paul doesn't usually like being wrong about things, but evidently he's too comfortable to mind
today because he just says, "Oh yeah, I s'pose."
He sounds sleepy and John twists a little to see him better. He's got his eyes half shut and his nose
is getting a bit sunburned already. He probably shouldn't be staring at all, given everything, but he
forgets sometimes. Until Paul catches him at it anyway.

"You're goin' to have a red nose if you don't watch it,” John says quickly, to cover himself.

Paul promptly goes cross eyed watching it, which makes John cackle and Julia look out the
window to see what they're up to.

"It's all that Irish blood," John says, when he's gone back to staring up at the cloudless blue sky like
a normal person, instead of at Paul's nose. "Makin' you pale and uninterestin'."

"Oi," Paul says, a bit belatedly. Then, "You're one to talk."

"I'm as English as they come, Macca."

Paul makes a rude noise. "You are not."

John knows he isn't, but it's always fun to wind Paul up. "How dare you? When I was named after
our great English war hero an' everything."

"How d'you end up with freckles and red hair then?"

Alright, that's going too fucking far. John pokes his head up, indignant. "I do not have red hair,
what the fuck, Paul?"

Paul squints one eye open at him and he's smirking, the little shit, so John kicks him in the leg and
flops back down. "It's brown," John says, very firmly.

"Most of the time."

" All of the time."

John knows he's going to be checking it in the mirror later anyway now.

"I hope you're not insulting your family, John Lennon," Julia says, as she appears in the kitchen
doorway with some squash for them. It's not exactly the beer John would prefer on a day like this,
but there's only so far he can push it, even with his mum.

"Nothing wrong with red hair," John says, as he sits up. "I just don't have any."

She hands over their glasses. "You did have a wisp of red hair as a baby. For a while I thought you
might be a little carrot top."

John glares at her while Paul naturally looks delighted by this revelation.

"Stop revealin' all my dark secrets, woman."

"You were such a lovely baby," she goes on, as she drops down beside them. "I can't think what
happened."

Jesus, John thinks, why are mums always like this? Then he remembers that Paul doesn't get to
have this anymore, and feels like a shit. He sips his drink and nudges Paul's foot with his own. "Go
on then, tell us somethin' embarrassing about you to make it fair."

Paul thinks about it for a long moment, then says, "Dad said I looked like a piece of raw meat
when he first saw me. He went home and cried because I looked so awful."

There's a short silence, before John starts laughing, followed, rather incredulously, by his mum.

When he calms down again it's to say, "Bet your mum loved that."

Paul looks pleased by their reactions. "She wasn't very impressed, no. She always said I was a very
sweet baby."

"All babies are sweet," Julia says firmly, with a brief pass of her hand over John's hair, quick
enough that hopefully Paul didn't notice it.

John finishes the rest of his drink and then lies back down to enjoy a last bit of sun before he has to
return to Mimi's waiting clutches, and Paul has to go and learn his Latin verbs, or whatever it is
he's doing all the time nowadays. Julia lies down beside him, and John wonders idly if she's
finished the washing she was doing or just abandoned it. It drives Mimi round the bend when she
gets distracted in the middle of doing things, but John's never understood why Mimi gets herself in
such a tizzy about it. Who wants to be doing washing on a day like this anyway?

He hears Paul shuffling around a bit before he lies back down too and then there's quiet for a while,
but for the tinny sound of the radio and the buzz of insects.

"Not long til the holidays now," John says, a little randomly, thinking about the glorious six week
expanse of time when he and Paul can lie around all day if they want to — in between writing some
new songs of course.

Paul sounds like he's smiling too when he says, "Yeah, not long."

It only takes one off duty copper to tear it all down. As it turns out, dead mothers are just another
thing he and Paul have in common.
 Chapter 5

Mimi wants him to go to the hospital to see her, but he won't do it. He wants to go to his sisters
instead, but it's two days before Mimi stops lying and tells him they've gone. Sent away to his Aunt
Elizabeth in Scotland, that they haven't even been told their mother is dead.

"They're too young, John," Mimi says, her eyes red and puffy where John's are bone dry.
"Elizabeth will probably keep them anyway." She's writing at the table, arrangements for the
funeral or some shite. The scratch of her pen is unrelenting.

The situation, which already hangs on the brink of unreality, teeters still further. "What are you
talkin' about? What about Bobby?"

Mimi sounds weary, like she'd expected this. "Bobby understands the situation, or he will. The girls
need a stable home, not—" She breaks off, and John hears years of disapproval in her silence; of
Julia, of the way she'd shacked up with a beta and abandoned her bond, shaming the family. Never
mind that Alf Lennon had abandoned it first.

"Then they can come here," he says firmly. "I'm their brother, I can look after them."

Mimi puts her pen down at last, but only to fix him with an exasperated look. "Don't be ridiculous,
John. You know that would never be allowed."

"I bet it would if it was you askin', all respectable. Isn't that how you stole me in the first place?"
It's not the first time he's thrown this in her face, the knowledge of why his mother was always
several streets or a bus ride away, but it's the first time she hasn't retaliated in kind. Instead she
bows her head like he's landed a blow. It's not what he wants. He wants her to snap back at him, to
give him a focus for the anger that has been burning him up from the moment he saw Nigel
Whalley's shocked white face when he'd come to tell him. She'd flown through the air, Nigel had
said, and John had closed the door on him but couldn't excise his words as easily. Over and over in
his mind she flew through the air, a perfect arc of blue sky and the sickening and final smash of
delicate beloved bones on hard asphalt.

But Mimi just stays silent, and John knows it's useless anyway. If they could cut out Bobby Dykins
so cleanly and efficiently, what hope did John have against the combined might of the Stanleys?
Julia had never managed it, he was living proof, and now they had cut away his sisters too. Snip
snip snip went the Stanley scissors, until there was nothing to say that Julia had existed at all.

"'S'pose this has worked out pretty well for you all," he spits, low and spiteful. "At least now she
can't shame you anymore. Still stuck with me though, aren't you?"

He bangs out of the house, feeling a vicious satisfaction at the image of Mimi's shocked face. Only
there's nowhere to go. No Julia to escape to. No cluttered kitchen, and cups of tea, and the chatter
of his sisters, the scent of his mother, her warm, capable hands. He remembers the last time he was
there, a few days ago with Paul and George, barely ten minutes in and out because he'd left
something behind and they were in a hurry to go to the pictures now exams were finally over. He
can't remember if she touched him, or if he even said goodbye before they'd raced off again. He
feels hollowed out with the grief of it, like someone has opened him up and scraped out all the soft
bits, and all that remains are jagged edges.

He realises the stupid old bint at number 48 is watching him from her front window and
straightens, gesturing rudely. She draws back, affronted, and he grins, baring his teeth. She can go
and tell the rest of them that she saw that John Lennon laughing after his own mother was killed.
She'd prefer it, probably, to seeing him crying in the road. That's what they all live for anyway; the
gossip, the myriad spiteful little observations that pass for a social life in this bloody place.

He’s halfway across the golf course before he realises that he’s on his way to Paul’s, following a
path so familiar now that he could walk it in the dark (and has). It stops him short, this abrupt and
overwhelming need he has for Paul. So he can, what, he thinks, bloody cry on him? Cling to him?
Show him what a useless bastard the great John Lennon really is, how weak? He doesn’t want Paul
to see him like that, he doesn’t want anyone to see him like that, but Paul, he thinks, has a better
chance than most, and the thought of that makes him shrink back. Makes Paul the last person in the
world he wants to see, whether he needs to or not.

Before he can change his mind, he turns back and gets the bus to Stu’s instead. He knows, as soon
as Stu answers the door, that he’s heard already, or read it in the paper maybe, and he’s relieved
that he doesn’t have to say the words out loud. He’s only there for the booze anyway, and he
doesn’t even need to pester Stu for it like usual, Stu just lets him in and fetches his disgusting
whisky and pours him out a generous mugful.

"I'm so sorry, John," Stu says, sincere in the way John doesn’t want. He just salutes him with his
mug and starts drinking, letting the whisky fill up the hollowed out spaces inside him. The flat
smells of acrylic paint and Stu, and it's enough, even if it's not exactly what he needs. When it
becomes clear John's not there for the conversation, Stu picks up his sketchbook and quietly
resumes work on whatever he was doing before, to the quiet accompaniment of the radio.

"We'd just got another gig," John tells him, once the whisky has him good and loose. He'd almost
forgotten that in the horror of everything else, the excitement he'd been feeling before he'd opened
the front door. "Someone had cancelled short notice, and fuck knows we're always available, aren't
we? She'd have been pleased anyroad. She was always askin' about the band."

"You could still play?" Stu ventures after a moment. "When is it?"

John just looks his disgust. "No, we couldn’t."

He reaches for the bottle again and doesn't think of his mother flying through the air.

He has to go back to Mendips the next day of course, with a hangover fit to split his skull open.
Mimi says nothing about their argument, just fusses around him until he snaps at her to leave off
for god's sake. Since then they've settled into an uneasy truce, in which she only looks her concern
and he pretends he can't hear her muffled sobs through the walls at night.

John can’t remember going to a funeral before, and he can’t remember much of Julia’s either. It
drags on, while Mimi dabs her eyes beside him, and people shift in their seats and blow their noses.
He sees Bobby, shrunken with grief, and a neighbour of his mum’s, and he knows everyone sees
him because he can feel their inquisitive stares burning into the back of his head. In the absence of
Julia, he supposes someone has to be the black sheep of the family.

After the interminable service, people crowd into Mendips to drink sherry and eat fussy little
sandwiches. John’s already halfway to drunk by the time some third cousin whose name he can’t
be bothered to remember, tells him that he shouldn't be drinking anyway, and he's so witheringly,
acerbically rude in return that he nearly gets a smack for his trouble. He thinks he wouldn't have
minded that at all, would have reveled in an excuse to put his fist to that sneering judgemental face
in return. Mimi’s angry with him of course, but he finds he doesn’t mind that much either.

After that, life settles into monotonous unreality. The telephone rings at odd hours in the weeks
following the funeral. Ivan phones once and John endures a painfully stilted few minutes before he
makes up an excuse to cut him short. Pete rings as well, trying to persuade John to come out for a
bit, but John won't do that either.

Paul phones at least twice in the first week. He knows because the first time he hears Mimi's
clipped voice in the hall telling him that John isn't able to come to the telephone and perhaps he
could try again in a few days (the 'or never' goes unspoken but John hears it anyway and he’s sure
Paul does too). The second time, he ignores her calling up the stairs to him, hoping that Paul will
get the message better that way. He does, but only so far as the telephone is concerned. The next
time, he just comes right to the house and knocks, but luckily for John, Mimi isn't in, so he can
safely ignore him, staying silent in the kitchen until he eventually goes away again.

He knows he's being a coward. In his more rational moments he knows that if anyone could
understand, it was surely Paul. But the more his mother goes on being dead, the less he wants to be
calmed or coddled or sympathised with. Because what would be left of him then? Without the
corrosive anger that's sustaining him he would be nothing but an open wound.

"I saw Paul and George today outside the Institute," Stu tells him, when another month has crawled
past and John has been driven out of Mendips by Mimi harping on about college. John's confused
for a moment, until he remembers that if college has started again, school will have too. Not that it
makes any difference to him, either way. He spends most of his time holed up in his bedroom
nowadays, smoking and sketching obsessively, ignoring the phone calls and knocks at the door —
unless it’s Pete, and only then because it’ll stop him barging in. His drawings are all spiky
grotesques, cruel caricatures of friends and neighbours that he likes to set fire to after with his
cigarettes, setting Mimi squawking about the damage to her precious curtains. On an especially
bad day he considered setting fire to the curtains as well, just to see what she'd do, but they're the
only things stopping the sun from cooking him alive, so thus far they've remained intact.

"Did you hear me?" Stu's looking at him in that careful, concerned way that John hates. He
grimaces, because he's trying to drink himself into oblivion, and a not insignificant advantage of
doing that at Stu's is that he doesn't have to think about Paul, or Mimi's pinched face, or the
contrast of sky and asphalt. If Stu suspects as much he evidently doesn't care. "He's worried about
you. He wanted to know if I'd seen you."

"Who, George?" John says, taking a swig. Stu just nudges him lightly with his foot.

"He just wants to help, you know."

John wipes his mouth on his sleeve, swallowing around the burn in his throat. "Aye, well, he can't
help, can he."

Stu looks at him for a long moment, until John starts fidgeting under his gaze, then he sighs. "All
I'm saying is that you should talk to him, or go to band practice. Not yet, maybe, but soon. At least
leave the house."

"What do you think I'm doing now?" He waves an arm to indicate the clutter of Stu's flat.

"Getting drunk on my floor. Again."

John doesn't have anything to say to that and after a moment Stu goes back to what he was doing,
sketching or something like it, and John goes back to staring at the ceiling. Only now he keeps
wondering what exactly Paul said, and what Stu said back, and even though he doesn't want to care
about any of it, he lasts about five minutes before he has to know.
"What did you tell him?"

Stu doesn't look up from his sketchbook. "I didn't say you'd been round here drinking, if that's what
you're worried about."

John scowls. "I'm not worried about that, it's got nothing to do with him what I do."

"So you've said."

John feels a surge of irritation. "You should tell him to mind his own bloody business then."

"Tell him yourself," Stu says sharply. "It's you he wants to talk to, not me."

“I don’t want to talk to him.” It comes out sounding petulant, even to his own ears, but he thinks if
anyone should be feeling annoyed, it should be him, not Stu. He’s the one being gossiped about
behind his back.

Stu lets out an exasperated breath and John thinks he might have reached the limits of even Stu’s
famed good humour. Even so, he’s not prepared for him to drag Julia into it. “John, I don’t think
your mum would want you to—”

"Fuck off," John hisses, clambering to his feet and listing alarmingly. "Don't bloody lecture me on
what you think she'd want. I get enough of that at home."

He ignores Stu's immediate attempt at an apology and staggers back down the stairs and out into
the sunshine. Christ it's too warm to be this drunk and now he can't even hide at Stu's. He dodges
some kids as they race past, and from the back one of them looks enough like his sister Jackie to
set him thinking of them, maudlin. He wonders if they've even been told yet. Probably not.
Sometimes (too often), he envies them not knowing. Envies there being one corner of Scotland
where Julia is still alive.

The warmth of the afternoon and the alcohol together make him tired enough to consider going
home but he knows it's no use when he won't sleep anyway. He hasn't slept properly since before
the funeral, and when he does, his mind does its best to make him regret trying. He makes his way
instead to the small park at the bottom of the road, digging in his pockets all the while for his
ciggies. He slumps down on a bench with some scant shade to light up, it's as good a place as any
to contemplate the colossal fuck up his life has become, and all the ways it will imminently
become worse.

It had taken him a whole week after Julia's death to realise that there would be no more little white
pills forthcoming. Bobby had come round one morning with a few things of Julia’s for Mimi, and
when she’d grudgingly gone to make him some tea, he’d gestured furtively to John and passed him
a familiar small bottle, wrapped in brown paper.

“It was in your mum’s drawer, but I know she meant it for you,” he’d said, low and awkward.

John had stared down at them, uncomprehending, until a clatter of cups in the kitchen reminded
him to tuck them away quickly. "Do you know where…" he'd started, hardly knowing how to ask,
or how much Bobby even knew about it all. But Bobby had shaken his head.

"I'm sorry, she never told me where she got them."

He'd looked sorry too, so John just said, "Alright. Thanks," because it hardly mattered anyway.
Not anymore.
It carried on not mattering for a while longer, but eventually, as the days crawled by and he kept
taking his remaining pills, it occurred to him that there was no-one now to care about this, to help
him or take his side. There was only him and he was, to borrow a phrase, in the shit. He’d counted
out his remaining pills with shaking hands then, finding he had enough to last him til November, or
thereabouts, especially with Paul not around to get him all confused again. But the single dose isn’t
the same now as it was before. It had taken him two long weeks of night sweats and nausea to get
used to it again, if he can even call it that. It's manageable now, just about, a constant, low grade
malaise, that leaves him alternately exhausted and wired out of his skin, a hostage to the demands
of his useless, defective body. He’s not sure what’s changed since last year, if the pills are different
somehow, or he is, and it’s not like there’s anyone he can ask either, so he just carries on
swallowing them, day after day, and hopes they keep on (mostly) working.

Still, he needs to find more of them, and he has no idea how. The problem is, aside from his mum,
he doesn’t know any omegas, not ones he could ask about something like this. In all his time at the
college, he’d barely exchanged two words with the little gang of girls who always sat together at
break, and he’d been avoiding college since term started anyway. He can hardly turn up now and
start asking about illegal drugs, even he isn’t that stupid. None of the betas he knows would have
reason to know, so that leaves Stu and Paul, and there’s no way on earth he can talk to Paul about
his heats, even if he wasn’t avoiding him. So it has to be Stu — and he’d probably be a lot more
willing to help if John didn’t keep biting his head off.

By the time he's smoked two cigarettes in the park, the urge to sleep has left him and the familiar
jittery buzz has taken its place. He considers his options. He could take a detour to The Grapes, the
last he heard that weedy little beta Billy Matthews was a barman there now, and he'd always been
scared enough of John that he could probably get served, no questions asked. The alternative is to
slink back to Mendips, or apologise to Stu and reclaim his space on his floor. Fuck that. He goes to
The Grapes. It is, predictably, easy to get a drink off Billy and he tucks himself away in the
dingiest corner, a sad bastard drinking alone but an anonymous one in the crowd of bodies, smoke
and scents. He remembers reading once that an omega can help to set the mood of a room. There
had been a picture of a pretty girl graciously welcoming guests at her alpha’s side or some
bollocks. If that’s true then he imagines his black mood like a miasma, oozing through the space
until everyone feels just as shite as he does.

He ignores another phone call from Paul, and a terse, typewritten letter from the college, before he
gives in and goes back to Stu's, desperate enough to attempt a weak apology. He's running out of
time and that leaves little room for his pride. Stu accepts his non-apology and the news that John's
been illegally suppressing his heats since he was sixteen with a total lack of surprise, but he doesn't
rush to phone the police either, so John is cautiously optimistic. Unfortunately, he isn’t exactly a
fount of information on illegal drug supplies, but he agrees to ask around ("discreetly, yes I know,
John.") at the college. Since John has no intention of going back there yet, letter or no, it's the best
option he's got, although it does little to calm the creeping panic.

As it turns out, Woolton is too small a place to avoid everyone forever and John makes it almost
another week before he nearly walks straight into Colin on the main road on one of his furtive trips
out for ciggies and beer. He’d deliberately chosen a time when everyone should be at work or at
school, but Colin is neither, more’s the pity, and he appears so suddenly, John has no time to hide
the telltale brown paper bag he’s carrying. Colin definitely notices it, even if he doesn’t comment.

“Blimey, I’d almost forgotten what you looked like,” Colin says, looking genuinely happy to see
him. “We were hoping you might come by the other night. Paul left a message with Mimi?”

For a moment John can’t think of a single reply. He’s spent so long trying to avoid thinking of Paul,
and of the band which is too bound up with Paul in his head, that to have Colin casually toss him
into John’s shrunken existence throws him dangerously off balance. He has a vague memory now
of Mimi wanting to speak to him about something and him brushing her off as usual.

Not at all discouraged, Colin adds, “Paul thought we should have a practice, you know. George
still thinks we can do that wedding in November, if you're up for it?"

John tries to remember the last time he picked up his guitar and finds he can’t. “Mimi must have
forgotten to mention it,” he says, unconvincingly, when it’s clear some form of reply is needed.

"Maybe next time then, yeah?" When John doesn’t reply, Colin hesitates, eyes moving over his
face. “Are you alright, John?” he says at last. “You don’t look too well.”

“Just got a bit of the lurgy.”

“Right.” But Colin looks like he doesn’t believe him at all.

Two days later, John’s watching smoke curl into the already fuggy air of his room when there's a
knock at the front door. He waits for Mimi to answer it before remembering she’s gone out for the
night. The knock comes again, followed by the shrill ring of the bell several times in succession
and a rattle of the letterbox

He yells "Bugger off!" and there's a few seconds of blessed silence before the bell starts up again,
this time rung over and over until John rolls off his bed and clatters down the stairs to throw open
the door and murder whoever is waiting there.

It's Paul. Of course it is.

"What do you want?" he says ungraciously because he feels woefully unprepared for the solid
reality of Paul on his doorstep. He steps back, as if that might shield him from the assault on what
feels like all his senses at once.

"Hello to you too,” Paul says tartly. “Colin said he saw you staggering down the main road with a
beer in the middle of the afternoon, so I thought you might finally be accepting visitors.”

“Phoned round, did he? Well, you can tell him to fuck off an’ all.” He goes to shut the door but
Paul is quicker. He has the unfair advantage as John tries not to so much as brush against him,
giving him a perfect opportunity to get through the door and into the hall before he can stop him.

He stares at John, undeniable and far too close, and John doesn’t know what to do with it. His heart
starts thumping loud enough that he's sure Paul must hear it too, so he moves back and away,
walking quickly down the hall to the back door. Paul follows him of course; if he wonders why
he’s being led out to the garden he doesn’t ask and John doesn’t offer. He didn’t invite the bastard
anyway.

“Well?” he demands, once they’re safely outside and he feels he can get a proper breath without
wanting to bloody rub himself all over Paul, or something equally humiliating. He’s going to end
up in the nuthouse at this rate.

“I wanted to see you,” Paul says, and he’s doing that thing again; his too perceptive gaze moving
over John, like he’s cataloguing him, bit by bit — and not much liking what he sees, apparently.
Well, John could say the same, if he had a mind to. He wants to ask what Paul's been doing lately
to make him look nearly as tired as John. Only he can't, because there’s a sour edge to Paul's scent
that’s already nagging at him, threatening to weaken something in him that he needs to stay hard,
and immoveable.
“Well, I didn’t want to see you,” he tells him instead, rude as he always is when he's cornered.

Paul fails to break down and cry at this cutting remark however. He just raises his eyebrows. “As
far as I can tell, you don’t want to see anyone.”

“That a crime now, is it?”

“What’s your plan then? Just piss everything away and hide in your bedroom forever?”

John’s hands curl into fists and he wants to… He wants to hit Paul. He wants him to stop looking at
him like he is, as though John’s disappointing him. Most of all he wants him to stop making
everything real and leave John to his bubble of misery. “Fuck off. You don’t know—”

“Don’t I?” Paul glares at him, a clear challenge. “You didn’t care about your mum more than I
cared about mine.” That shocks John silent, and Paul sees it and softens immediately. “Johnny…”
he puts out a tentative hand, withdraws it when John flinches away. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…
Look, why don’t you come to mine? We can do some writing, yeah? Or just listen to records? You
can’t just stay here.”

But John doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want to be soothed, and certainly not by Paul. It already
feels dangerously good to be the focus of his attention after so long. He tries to remember if he
always felt this way, or whether he was just so used to having his attention that he never had to
notice the lack. Either way, he knows he knows he absolutely cannot go to Forthlin Road with him.

"Fine, let’s go out then.” The words are out before he can think them through properly and Paul
frowns, taken aback.

“Out?”

“Yeah. Out. That’s what you want, isn’t it? Come on, let’s go to the pub. Make a proper night of
it.”

“I don’t think…” Paul hesitates, clearly trying to guess what John is playing at. Good luck to him,
John barely knows himself. He only knows he’s too sober for this.

“Or you can piss off home if you’d rather,” he adds, belligerent. “That suits me.”

Paul’s mouth tightens and he’s silent a long moment, before he raises his chin and looks at John
coolly, “Alright. Lead the way.”

Never let it be said John doesn’t commit to his stupid decisions. To Paul’s obvious surprise he
leads them down the road and past the bustling Woolton pubs right to the bus stop. They ride the
short journey into the city in tense silence, John sitting a careful distance away and smoking (he
doesn’t offer Paul one). He gets off a stop early and Paul follows, confused, as he trails him to
Gambier Terrace. There’s a light on upstairs.

“Oi!” John chips a bit of stone off the dilapidated wall and lobs it at Stu’s living room window.

“John, who—?” Paul breaks off a moment later when Stu’s head appears, a blurry oval framed by
lamplight.

John shouts up “You coming or what? We’re getting pissed.”

Stu doesn’t answer immediately and John has no chance of making out his expression from here,
but eventually he calls, “Give me a second,” and ducks back inside, the window slamming down
with a thud.

John stuffs his hands in his pockets, spinning round to where Paul is just watching him, silent.
“That alright with you, Paul? The more the merrier and all that.” He knows he’s being a shit but he
can’t stop himself. There’s an energy pulsing under his skin that makes him want to push and push
until something breaks.

“Fine.” Paul’s tone is unreadable but his scent still itches at John, making him think of a guitar
string played just out of tune.

They don’t have to wait long until the door opens and Stu emerges, followed by his flatmate Rod.

“Here we are. The gang back together.” John throws an expansive arm around Stu and Rod,
dragging them over to Paul. “Everyone this is Paul, who insisted we come out tonight.”

“Shut up, John.” Stu eyes Paul, looking far too sympathetic for John’s liking. “Since we’ve already
met several times, I think it’s just Rod you don’t know.”

Paul nods, saying hello like the polite little grammar lad he is, until John cuts through the
pleasantries. “Are we drinking or what?”

Stu leads them to The White Lion, a dive of a place but one that doesn’t ask too many questions.
“I’d better get the drinks in,” he says once they get inside, darting a look at Paul.

John snickers, mean. “Aye, that face is foolin’ no-one.”

Paul looks annoyed like he always does when John makes a dig about his age but stays silent,
following them to a rickety table tucked away at a distance from the prying eyes of the bar staff.
It’s a Friday night so the place is busy enough, its reputation attracting a rougher clientele than
you’d get in Woolton. John waits for Paul to sit down and then takes the chair furthest away,
shrugging off his jacket and retrieving his packet of cigs, tapping it against the table in a discordant
rhythm. Beside him Rod is asking Paul about the football of all things and John doesn’t bother to
try and join in, he hasn’t so much as glanced at a newspaper in weeks anyway.

He wonders what the hell he’s doing.

The first gulp of beer helps settle the churning in his gut a little. It’s the jittery buzz tonight, rather
than the exhaustion at least. There’s an awkward pause once Stu is settled and drinks have been
divvied out, and John does nothing to alleviate it. Stu had been nagging him to go out for weeks,
and now Paul too; let them fucking talk. Eventually Rod makes another valiant effort about
Everton’s latest signing and Stu, who probably knows the least about football of any of them,
pretends to find this incredibly interesting. John snorts.

“What?” Stu is eyeing him across the table, irritable.

“Since when do you give a shit about the football?”

Stu puts down his beer. “Feel free to talk about something else then, since you dragged us all out
in the first place.”

“You didn’t have to come.”

Stu mutters something under his breath that sounds like Jesus Christ and goes back to mostly
ignoring John, which suits him fine.
They pool their money and Stu is dispatched for more drinks. John’s drinking them faster than he
can bring them so after a while he goes up himself, shoving his way through tightly packed bodies
to reach the bar. A burly man that's unmistakably, and annoyingly, an alpha shifts aside to make
way for him, then does a double take and has the nerve to lean in, like he wants to fucking smell
him.

John just moves further along the bar, turning his back on him to get the barman’s attention. He
gets served with no difficulty. He’s only a month off now anyway.

Before long, the evening is starting to take on the familiar haze of inebriation. Around him the
conversation has moved onto art and John watches Paul trying to follow it, his brow furrowed
endearingly at the names and places being tossed around, many of which, truthfully, John can’t
remember himself half the time. Fucking useless art student that he is.

“Paul goes to the grammar,” he butts in, when Stu’s saying some pretentious shite about art being a
universal language. “Think they just speak Latin there.”

It’s the first thing he’s said in ages and everyone looks at him. Paul frowns. “We do art too. I like
it.” He darts a quick glance from Stu back to John. “And you've shown me your stuff before.”

Unbidden, John remembers a rainy afternoon at Forthlin Road, doodling tiny ink versions of them
all on a proper stage while Paul sat cross legged, tuning his guitar. He'd gone to throw the paper in
the fire after but Paul had snagged it, laughing, 'for posterity' he'd said and tucked it in his guitar
case, rolled so it wouldn't crease.

He wishes he'd just thrown it away. "Aye, well, there's plenty more of it if you need the kindling."

Paul hasn’t drunk anywhere near as much as John but he’s had enough to say, all sincere, "Don’t
say that, I thought it was really good.”

John flicks that off, like he would a fly, his words running together slightly, “That’s because you
know fuck all about it.”

“John,” Stu says, sharp.

“John,” he mimics, “Christ, you sound like Mimi.” He digs out his match book and lights a fresh
cigarette, nearly drops the bloody thing.

“Who’s Mimi?” Rod says into the strained silence.

John’s glad for the excuse to look away from Paul’s tense, unhappy face. “My dearly beloved
Aunt,” he says, pushing his chair back until it wobbles precariously on two legs and blowing out a
plume of smoke at the ceiling, “who’s no doubt at home worrying that I’ll come back. Poor old
Mimi.”

Rod frowns uncertainly. “I think there’s a phone at the bar if you want to give her ring?"

John snorts. “And spoil her evening? Let the old cow dream.”

“Don’t call her that.” Of course it’s Paul.

John drums his fingers impatiently against the damp table top. “What are you sticking up for her
for? She doesn’t even like you.” He watches Paul watching him, sees the way his words hit and
hurt like little barbs. “She thinks you’re sniffing around, you know. What a fucking joke.” He lets
the chair drop back to all fours, drops his half done ciggie into what's left of his beer and watches it
float. “You’d think she’d be glad to get rid of me. One down, one still to go, aye? Useless bloody
copper.”

There’s a horrible silence.

“John,” Paul begins, sounding more upset that John has ever heard him

“I need to take a piss.” He stands abruptly and has to steady himself on the table for a moment as
the pints catch up with him before he can be sure he won’t fall over on his way to the gents. As it is
he bumps into at least four people on the way there, and then has to squint to make sure he actually
has the right door. It’s empty, thank god, and he stumbles over to the urinals and presses his face
against the cool tile as he relieves himself, surrounded by the smell of piss and sweat and smoke.

He feels sick, the sting of bile sharp at the back of his throat.

The door opens and closes and he glances over, half expecting Paul to have come barrelling in, but
it’s a stranger. He zips himself up and goes to the sink. There’s a single cracked mirror and his face
stares back, blurred and ghostly in the dim light. Drunk as he is, it takes him a second too long to
see the stranger over his shoulder, paused just inside the door and watching him.

He raises an eyebrow at the indistinct reflection. “I’m not gonna watch you piss, if that’s what
you’re worried about.” The stranger moves forward then and John realises, sluggish, that he’s not a
stranger, he’s that alpha from the bar. He shakes the water off his hands and turns round. “All
yours, mate.”

“You’re a rare one, aren’t you?”

Fucking Christ. “Aye, a bloke in the gents,” John says, flat. “Shocker.”

The man is standing between John and the door. He’s younger than he looked at the bar, good
looking enough, and with the confidence to suggest he knows it. He looks John over, not bothering
to be anything but obvious about it. “I could smell you, before, but I wasn’t sure.” He frowns.
“What’s wrong with you?”

"Piss off." John goes to move around him but the man steps with him, blocking his way.

Without warning, he curls a proprietary hand around the back of John’s neck and yanks him
forward, ducking his head down to smell him. The shock of someone actually touching him there,
sweaty hand against the sensitive glands of his neck, stupefies him for a split second before he
smacks the man’s hand away and shoves him, hard.

“Get the fuck off me.”

The man just laughs, lifts a hand again, “Calm down. I bet I could get you smellin’ sweeter.”

The surprise on his face when John punches him sloppily in the jaw is gratifying but it does little to
slake the anger coursing through him. The man staggers back, clutching his face, and John hisses,
“Do that again and I’ll break your fucking hand.”

Then he walks out, letting the door slam hard behind him. He gets barely four steps into the narrow
corridor off the bar before he’s hauled backwards by a hand in the collar of his shirt, and pushed so
hard against the wall his head bounces off it. “Don’t you ever speak to me like that again.” The
man is so close John can feel the flecks of spittle on his face, but if he expects him to cower he’s
going to be waiting a long time. The alcohol surges in his blood and when the man’s hand shifts to
grasp his neck again he turns his head and fucking bites him until he can taste the coppery tang of
blood. The man howls and gets one good smack in before John knees him right in the balls and he
falls over, gasping and nearly taking John down with him.

He wants to kick his head in, but the corridor is spinning and already there are raised voices
coming from the bar. Someone grabs his arms, dragging him back until he manages to shake them
off. Then the man’s friends are there, hauling him up and listening to his slurred excuses, and John
knows where this is going the moment the barman gets close enough to realise what he is.

“You, out,” he barks.

John scoffs. “You tossin’ him out an’ all?”

“He’s not the problem, is he?”

The bitter unfairness of it has John starting forward — but suddenly Stu is pushing in between him
and the irate barman, and there’s a hand curling tightly around his arm. He doesn’t shake it off this
time, he knows without looking that it’s Paul.

At the sight of Stu, the barman backs up, looking annoyed. “If he’s yours, you should keep him
under better control.”

“He’s not anyone’s,” Paul snaps, before John can do more than curl his fists. “Come on, John.
C’mon.” He pulls him away as Stu holds up a placatory hand to the alpha and his little gang,
saying something John can’t hear. The mood still teeters on the edge of violence, and while part of
him welcomes it, he’s not such a fool he can’t see that they’re outnumbered, that it would likely
end in worse than a split lip for him now, drunk as he is. He shakes off Paul’s hand, and shoves his
way unsteadily through the gawping crowd, hitting the door open with the flat of his hand so that it
bounces off the wall.

He’s shaking, anger and adrenaline chasing the edge of exhaustion until he feels like he might
break apart from it. Paul follows him out, all dark anxious eyes and agitation. John can feel it
rolling off him in waves and it only makes him feel worse.

“Leave me alone.” He jerks back when Paul reaches for him.

“John, you’re hurt, there’s blood on–”

“Not all mine, is it?” He paces away, wipes at his mouth roughly and squints at the bright blood on
his wrist. Good enough. “Where to next, then?”

“What?” Paul is staring at him, bewildered, and John gestures expansively.

“The night is young, Macca! We’re going out, aren’t we? Isn’t that what you wanted?”

The bewilderment is tinged with frustration now. “No, I didn’t want to be dragged halfway across
Liverpool to get drunk. That was your bloody idea.”

He sneers. “Well you can piss off home then.”

Paul takes a deep breath, and then lets it out again, his jaw tight. “They’re not going to let you in
anywhere with blood all over your face, John, come on.”

“Fine, I’ll go by myself.” He goes to walk around Paul but his head is still spinning and he
misjudges where the pavement ends and stumbles instead, scraping his arm painfully on the wall
and narrowly avoiding doing the same with his face.
Paul grabs him to steady him, pressing him back against the side of the pub as John tries to shake
him off and only succeeds in nearly falling again. “For Christ’s sake, stop it,” he snaps in a tone
he’s never used before, and all at once the fight goes out of John.

He sags back, staring at Paul, wide eyed, and Paul swallows, his throat bobbing, before he abruptly
lets go of John, moving back. "I just mean...It’s late. Why don’t we just go home, yeah? Clean up
your face and you can get some sleep?”

The strange lassitude is draining away again, but it takes the worst of his anger with it, and without
that to sustain him he feels more exhausted than he can ever remember being in his life. “Can’t
sleep anyway,” he mumbles, too honest. “Fuck. Mimi’s gonna kill me.”

The door swings open behind them, and they both start, but it’s only Stu and Rod with the coats.
Anger looks strange on Stu, John thinks.

"Jesus. Are you alright? That stupid landlord."

"I'm fine." John pushes away from the wall, swaying a little as he does so and sliding a warning
look at Paul when he hovers too close. "I'm fine." He wants to leave, he doesn't want to hang
around outside for the next time the door opens.

"What now then?" Rod puts in, looking awkward. Considering he'd met John all of three times
before, this had probably been a pretty shit evening for him.

John spits on the pavement, wipes his mouth again where it's still bleeding sluggishly. "I'm going
home."

Paul doesn't bother to keep the relief off his face. John ignores him and looks around, trying to get
his bearings. He can barely remember how they got here, let alone the way back to the bus stop.
Can't bloody see to find it anyway.

"Look," Stu says into the silence, "Why don't we just go back to mine?" He sounds oddly cautious,
as though John hasn't stayed there a hundred times before. Then he glances at Paul and adds, "All
of us, I mean. You're welcome too," and it all makes sense. Of all the nights for territorial alpha
bullshit.

"Paul's not gonna fight you for your fucking settee, Stu. Let's just go, c'mon." His arm is really
starting to hurt now, a throbbing ache to match the one in his face and more than anything he wants
to never see this place again.

Stu throws him a mildly exasperated look but they do at least start moving. John focuses on putting
one foot in front of the other in a vaguely straight line, ever conscious of Paul keeping pace, a
careful distance away, but darting glances at him all the while, like he thinks John might be about
to do a header on the pavement.

It's a relief when Gambier Terrace looms up out of the darkness. There's a light still on in the
downstairs flat and Stu notices and says, "Looks like the girls are still up if you want to phone
Mimi, John."

John can only think of a few worse things than getting a lecture off Mimi right now, and one of
them would be doing it with a bashed up face in full view of Stu's charming downstairs neighbours
who happen to own the building's only telephone.

"No, you're alright. She likes to look me in the eye when she's disappointed."
"I should probably ring my dad," Paul says, awkward, and speaking of people disappointed in
John, that's a conversation he doesn't want to be around for either. He leaves Rod to make the
introductions and trails Stu upstairs, only to wish he'd stayed behind after all. He wonders what
Paul will tell Jim. That he's at George's probably, or Ivan's, or just anywhere but where John is.

He goes to the bathroom as soon as gets in and locks the door behind him, tired of being stared at.
His head is still spinning and there's a fine tremor running through him, he can see it in his hands as
he sets the tap running, swilling out his mouth and watching the water swirl rust-coloured down
the drain. He looks up and into the mirror for the second time that night, shivering when he thinks
of the blurry figure by the door, that sweaty, possessive hand on his neck. His arm is throbbing
dully now, and he sees, when he peels back his sleeve, that he’s managed to scrape it bloody and
gritty with dirt.

There's a tentative tap on the door and Stu's voice, quiet. "You alright in there, John?"

"Fine," John says, sharp, because he doesn't want to be worried about, for god's sake.

When he opens the door again he goes straight to the cupboard and grabs what's left of the whisky.

"Are you sure that's a good—" Stu begins, then breaks off when John takes a hearty gulp, then
another. "Never mind then."

The alcohol goes down nicely, smoothing some of his jagged edges, but he can't settle. He lights a
cigarette, and paces the length of the front room over and over until Stu says, "God, John, just sit
down will you?"

Then finally the front door opens and closes again, and John realises he was, somehow, waiting for
Paul.

"You took your time," he snaps, disconcerted by the relief he feels at seeing him again after what
couldn't have been more than fifteen minutes.

Paul's gaze catches on the whisky bottle in his hand and John feels absurdly guilty, but he only
says, "I had to explain everything to dad and then the girls leant me some stuff."

It's then that John notices he's carrying a small bag. Rod looks in behind him, shucking off his
jacket and grinning on his way to his bedroom. "I think they wanted to keep him."

"They were just being nice," Paul has turned faintly pink, but his modesty act never fools John.

"What did they loan you? Their phone number?" he says, snide. He crushes out what's left of his
ciggie.

Paul just ignores him and starts sorting through the contents of the bag, pulling out a bottle of TCP,
a bag of cotton wool and, inexplicably, some tweezers.

John eyes him. "What's all that for then?"

"What do you think it's for? Sit down and let me look at your arm."

"Why?"

"So it won't rot off later. Christ, John, stop making everything so difficult." Paul snatches the
whisky bottle from his hand and takes a gulp, before coughing like he's trying to bring up a lung.
There's an odd noise from Stu, but when John looks at him his face is impassive as ever. "I'll leave
you to it then. There's some blankets on the chair for you later."

John does sit down in the end, but only because he's tired and drunk and he wants Paul to stop
fussing. He regrets it immediately when Paul drops to his knees in front of him and reaches for his
arm, his sudden closeness sending a thin spike of panic through him.

"I can do it myself," he says, trying to take the bottle of TCP, but Paul just moves it out of reach
without even looking, and with his other hand pushes John's sleeve up.

He hisses in a breath at the ugly scrape, his hand moving to curl more securely around John's
forearm, turning it slightly and holding it still as he frowns down at the dried blood, taking stock.
His thumb moves, just the lightest brush back and forth against the sensitive skin at the crook of
John's elbow, but it's enough to make his face heat and his breath catch.

To his embarrassment, he thinks Paul must notice because he stills, then shifts his hand, loosening
his grip. "Alright, this might sting a bit."

Turns out it stings a lot. "Bloody ow," John snaps, trying unsuccessfully to yank his arm away.

"Stay still. You're worse than Mike."

"Torture Michael regularly, do you? You can get reported for that."

Paul grimaces at a particularly stubborn bit of dirt. "He'd never report me, I know too much."

He twists away then and returns with the tweezers, ignoring John’s automatic flinch. "Do you even
know what you're doing with those?"

"I saw my mum do it once. It can't be that hard."

“Oh well, in that case, ta for experimentin’ on me.”

Paul ignores him and picks out a bit of gravel like he's been doing it for years, and John leans
forward for a better view, despite himself.

"You're very handy with those for someone who's never used 'em before.”

"If you're about to make a joke about my girly eyebrows I've heard all five of them now."

John scowls. "Might have some new material." It's half hearted at best.

"Bet you haven't."

John subsides because Paul's right, and it seems like too much effort to try and think of some new
stuff anyroad. He just watches Paul for a while instead, absorbed in his careful methodical task. His
scent has settled back into something familiar and sweet; tempting enough that John wants to
breathe in great lungfuls of it, to tip forward and push his face in the curve of Paul's neck where it's
strongest, to make up for all the weeks he's gone without it. He doesn't, of course, some small
instinct of self preservation persisting despite his attempts to drown it in alcohol. So he just
watches, vaguely indignant that Paul seems to be as good at this as he is at everything else. At least
his arm is starting to feel a bit better now, the pain fading to something bearable under Paul's
ministrations.

"You could charge for this," he mumbles after a while, a little stupid with the alcohol and the late
hour. A pleasant lethargy has begun to steal over him, as though the combination of his own
exhaustion and the quiet, repetitive movements are trying to lull him to sleep.

Paul's mouth quirks and John follows it, fascinated as he so often is by these minute shifts in
expression. "How much, do you reckon?"

"Dunno," John says, his thoughts turned slow and stupid. "Not more than a shillin', I shouldn't
think. And you’d need to buy one of them nurse’s hats first."

Paul huffs out a quiet laugh. "Hardly worth it then."

"S'pose not," John agrees. "Better stick with the music."

"There," Paul says, a few minutes or maybe an hour later. John thinks he might actually have dozed
off for a second. "Think that's done now." He looks up to see John watching him and for a moment
they just look at each other, before Paul lifts a hand to brush gently at the corner of John's bruised
mouth, voice barely a murmur as he says, "What about this?"

The touch is there and gone before John can react, but the feeling of it lingers. "S'alright," he
manages. "I can't really feel it now."

The way Paul is still looking at him, it occurs to John that maybe he was asking something else, so
he offers, "Stupid bastard only got one swing in."

Something dark crosses Paul's face, but John doesn't want to talk about the man at the pub, so he
casts around for a change of subject.

"What did you tell your dad then?"

He doesn't know why he is asking, maybe he just wants to hear whatever stupid lie Paul told him
so he can remind himself not to get too attached to this strange lopsided thing between them. But
Paul, because he seems set on ondoing John one bit at a time, just looks confused and says, "What
do you mean?"

"When you rang him. Did you say you were at George's?"

He sees the moment Paul understands. He frowns. "No. I said I was with you."

John blinks at him, letting out a breath of incredulous laughter. "That was daft." He can't help
feeling pleased though, something warm unfurling in his chest, and maybe Paul can tell because he
smiles a little too. "Yeah, probably."

Then John yawns, huge, and Paul's smile turns soft. "You look like you're about to pass out."

"That’d be nice.” Nights are always the worst, the long hours with nothing but the inside of his
own head for company, between snatches of restless sleep and bad dreams.

Paul just hums quietly and starts putting away the cotton wool and bottle. By the time they've
retrieved the blankets Stu left and made their makeshift beds on the hard floor, John thinks he
might manage to doze for a bit. Maybe.

There's a careful space between them when they lie down. John's not sure if he put it there, or Paul
did, but he finds he doesn't mind it. Paul's close enough that he doesn’t feel alone, and when he
turns his head he can see the comforting shape of him, limned in moonlight as he shuffles around to
get comfortable. He’s wriggled his jeans off under the blanket, folding them neatly like a little boy
scout and it’s only the billowing fondness he feels when he sees it that stops John mocking him for
it.

“Hey Paul,” John whispers, when he’s finally fallen still. There’s the faintest rustle as Paul turns
his head to look at him. It’s impossible to make out his expression, but for once that’s what John
needs. “Sorry I missed practice.” As apologies go, it’s woefully inadequate and probably the least
of the sorrys he owes Paul at this point. But sorry has never come easily to John and he thinks if he
was less drunk, or tired, or disarmed by Paul lying so close and warm beside him, he wouldn’t be
saying it at all.

“S’alright, Johnny,” Paul’s voice comes out of the darkness. “Maybe we could try for another
one?” He sounds cautiously hopeful.

“I’m a bit rusty.” It's the closest he can go to saying he hasn’t even looked at his guitar in weeks,
hasn’t wanted to be reminded of the thing he shared with Julia.

“We could run over some songs tomorrow? If you’re not doing anything?"

John snorts quietly, because what has he been doing for weeks but bloody nothing. Still, it feels too
easy to be forgiven just like that. He's not used to it. "I haven't written anything new," he says, in
case Paul thinks he has.

"I know that," Paul says, quiet. "Just come round."

Apparently, with Paul, it really is that easy. John lets the reassurance of that settle over him, the
knowledge that he’s not alone tonight and he won’t be alone tomorrow either, even if he will be
playing through a killer hangover. Strange to think that only a few hours ago, this was the very last
thing he wanted.

Minutes pass in silence. Paul’s breathing is quiet and steady and John settles on his back and finds
himself matching it, the slow inhale and exhale, as the possibility of sleep tugs at him. In this dark,
Paul-scented cocoon it almost seems possible. He just wishes he didn’t always dream of her.

“Hey Paul,” he whispers again, when enough time has passed that he thinks he can say it.

Paul stirs, making an inquisitive noise.

“Do you still think about your mum?”

There’s a pause in which Paul seems to be forcing himself more awake. “Yeah,” he says at last.
“Course I do.”

“Is it still as bad, like?”

He hears Paul swallow, his throat clicking. “Sometimes. To start with I couldn’t think of anything
else and then, I dunno, I went longer without thinking of the bad stuff. I thought of the good stuff
too.” He pauses, shifting as if to try and see John better. “But I was awful after it happened. Ask
Mike. I was a proper shit to live with, I didn’t care about anyone or anything, not for ages.”

John takes this in. “What changed?”

“Uh…. Just time I reckon. And… the band. Being in the band and playing music, writing songs,
you know. S’not like I don’t still miss her though.”

John remembers Paul’s Auntie Clare saying that since meeting John he’d been all about the band
— she’d only seen it as evidence of John’s malign influence but maybe it had been something good
after all, a way out. Paul’s confession makes it easier to offer one of his own.

“I keep dreaming about it,” he says, so low he’s not sure Paul will even hear it. “If I manage to
sleep. I dream about her and wake up again.”

Paul doesn’t say anything for a long moment but then there’s a rustle of blankets and his hand
reaches out clumsily to touch whatever part of John it can reach, which turns out to be his arm.
“Wake me up too then. If it happens tonight.”

He sounds achingly sincere and John’s throat burns. If he tries to speak he knows it will be obvious
so he just nods and hopes Paul can see it. Paul’s hand tightens on his arm and then withdraws to
rest in the space between them, an anchor in the dark.

The burning in his throat lessens eventually and he turns his head to look at Paul again, seeing from
the faint gleam of his eyes in the light from the window that he’s still awake, just about, and
waiting with John. So he closes his eyes, so Paul will too, matching their breathing, in and out. He
can wake Paul up after all, if he needs to. He pretends to sleep for a while and then, between one
breath and the next, he actually does.

There’s sunlight shining directly in his eyes when John wakes up again and his first thought is that
he set fire to the bloody curtains after all, before he remembers where he is. His second is that he
can’t remember dreaming at all. Paul is still sleeping beside him, curled up facing John, his hand
outstretched between them. Rolling on his side, John takes shameless advantage of their closeness
and Paul's obliviousness to study him, lingering on the dark smudge of his lashes and the disaster
of his hair, half flattened by his makeshift pillow. His mouth is still and parted as he breathes
quietly and John’s eyes rest there a beat too long before something shivers through him, and he
quickly looks away again. His inventory has revealed that Paul looks better than he did yesterday at
least, a healthier colour in his face after his night's sleep.

There’s a faint clatter from somewhere in the hallway and John barely has time to sit up before Stu
comes wandering in, mug in hand.

“Morning,” he says, low. “I was wondering when you would wake up.” John has no idea what time
it is, and his confusion must be obvious because Stu adds, “It’s after ten.”

John stares in disbelief. Christ, he must have slept like the dead. He scrubs a hand through his hair.
“I didn’t think I’d actually sleep.”

Stu snorts. “That’s because you’re an idiot. Do you want some toast?”

He does, as it happens, and some tea. There’s the faintest pressure of a headache behind his skull,
but it’s nothing like he was expecting. He feels… Well, he feels alright, actually. Rested in a way
he hasn’t been in ages.

He starts untangling himself from his blankets and his knee knocks into Paul’s hand. Paul mumbles
something, turning his head further into his pillow and frowning before one eye opens, then the
other, and he rolls onto his back to squint up at John. He looks rumpled and sleep warm and like
something John wants and he’s never been so conscious in his life of Stu’s presence, what he might
be thinking, or worse, seeing.

He clears his throat, all the confidences of the night before seeming to float between them. “About
time you joined us. Stu’s about to burn us some toast.”
“I didn’t say I’d burn him some toast as well,” Stu puts in, but he’s smiling slightly as he retreats
back to the kitchen.

Paul blinks and rubs a hand over his face, then shifts up onto his elbows, the better to examine John
apparently. “You look better?”

John feels his face colouring under the scrutiny, but he just shrugs. “Aye, I slept alright in the end.”

Paul’s smile is far too bright for John to deal with so soon after waking so he escapes to the
bathroom sharpish. By the time he’s used the loo and stolen some of Stu’s toothpaste, Paul is
dressed and has stacked their blankets into a neat pile, his hair smoothed down again. They eat
their toast and drink their tea alongside Stu at the tiny kitchen table amidst well thumbed
paperbacks and old paintbrushes and mess. Something about it makes John think of rare mornings
at Julia's, the comforting clutter of her kitchen always such a contrast to Mimi's more regimented
breakfast table. There's a perilous moment when he can feel the despair closing in on him again,
but then Paul's knee knocks into his under the table and he smiles around his toast, eyes crinkling
at John, and he can push the feeling away, at least for a while.

Afterwards, Stu is heading into college for a bit (“Fuck’s sake, Stu, it’s a Saturday.”) so John and
Paul walk with him to the end of the road before splitting off to the bus stop. The journey back to
Woolton is a marked contrast to the previous day, since John is no longer doing his best to pretend
Paul doesn't exist and Paul has evidently decided this means he can just sit right next to him, arms
pressed together from shoulder to elbow.

He doesn't try to talk at least, although this has the unfortunate effect of leaving John alone with his
brain which is busy playing a newsreel of all the humiliating shit he said and did last night in
glorious technicolour. He shouldn't even be able to remember so much of it, is the thing, if there's
one thing alcohol is supposed to be good for, it's blanketing his worst excesses in a comforting
haze of inebriation. Christ knows that's what John has been using it for. But here he is, with a
scraped up arm and bashed up face that barely hurts and the mildest of headaches that might
actually be easing off the longer he sits here. He's not fucking stupid.

"Have you got a hangover?" he asks abruptly, interrupting Paul humming some Eddie Cochran
number.

"Uh… Yeah, a bit I s'pose."

John squints at him, trying to tell if he's lying but Paul just looks back at him with that daft
guileless face, looking entirely too healthy for someone who spent a night drinking and then slept
on the floor.

"...Have you?" Paul asks eventually when it becomes clear John isn't going to say anything else,
but plans to just stare at him instead.

"Not really."

He must sound annoyed about it because Paul looks a little confused. "Did you...want a hangover
then?"

"Don't be soft," John says, turning back to scowl out of the window. The hangover isn't the point.
The point is that he's been in a semi permanent state of hungover for the past six weeks and last
night he drank enough to split his skull and he feels alright. It's not even the first time something
like this has happened, the truth is he always feels better around Paul, this is just the first time he
can't blame it on something else.
He wants to ask his mum about it and for a moment he imagines it, that he could knock on the door
and she'd open it and smile at him and touch him. It feels so possible that he lets the fantasy run on
longer than usual, adds his sisters too, before ruthlessly cutting it off. He can't ask her, not ever,
and Christ knows there's no-one else he could bear to go to in her place.

Paul nudges his arm, the lightest of pressures, but it's enough to bring him back to the here and
now. He twists round, but Paul is fiddling with a loose thread of his jeans and not looking at him at
all. "It's our stop soon."

The 'our' reminds John that he agreed to practice with Paul today. He briefly considers making his
excuses, he can hardly be held to promises made under the influence. But the thought fizzles out as
quickly as it forms, overtaken by an embarrassing need to keep Paul with him a little longer. Paul,
who is apparently some kind of walking alpha cure for hangovers and insomnia, and who put up
with all of John's shit last night besides and by some miracle didn't tell him to fuck off.

Still, there's the small matter of Jim McCartney. "Are we going to yours then? Might be a bit noisy
on a Saturday."

Apparently he's really obvious today because Paul slides him an amused look. "Dad and Mike'll be
out. Unless you want to play at yours?"

John shudders at the thought. "Oh aye, Mimi would love that." Bad enough he has to see her at all
and put up with her nagging about where he was and who he's been fighting with this time.

He's not proud to admit it, but when they get to Mendips he ignores Paul's hesitant offer to just wait
outside while John gets his guitar and drags him in after him. Regardless of the chilly reception
Paul's received every time he's darkened her doorstep, he’s hoping Mimi cares too much for
appearances to raise her voice in front of a guest, even such an unwelcome one.

Sure enough they've not even made it to the stairs before he hears the clack of shoes and Mimi
emerges from the front room, mouth set in a grim line.

She stops short at the sight of the pair of them and John would find it funny if it wasn't for what he
knew was coming next. Her eyes snap from John to Paul and back again, and then she gets a proper
look at him and her hand flies to her mouth.

"John! What on earth happened to your face?"

"Took up bare knuckle boxing," John says immediately. He hears Paul sigh.

"I'm glad you find this amusing," Mimi snaps. "Do you have any idea how worried I was? And
now fighting, John? Again? I hoped you'd grown out of that."

"Actually I think I'm gettin' better at it," John feels the familiar irritation rising up. So much for
hoping Paul would hold her off. "He started it anyway."

Mimi frowns. "Who started it?"

"Some pushy bastard who got what was comin' to him. Look, are you going to fuss all day because
I've got somewhere to be."

Mimi's expression suggests he's on very thin ice. "And where is that exactly?"

"I've got a band practice at Paul's."

A look of genuine surprise flickers across her face. She looks at Paul, and John is uncomfortably
reminded of what he said last night, about Mimi not liking him, about (bloody hell) how she thinks
Paul's sniffing around John. What on earth had possessed him to say that out loud? He doesn't
know what he's expecting Mimi to say to Paul but it isn't a frosty, "Where were you when all this
was happening?"

"He had nothing to do with it," John says firmly, before Paul can even open his mouth. "So don't
start on him."

If Paul can tell Jim where he was last night, he thinks, then he won't do less.

But Paul wades in anyway, of course he does. "John was just defending himself, Mrs Smith." His
choice of words seem to give Mimi pause and her gaze moves back to John, only now tinged with
real concern, and this is not a conversation he wants to have with her at any time, but certainly not
in front of Paul.

Fortunately John hasn’t lived with Mimi all these years without knowing when to make a tactical
retreat, so he says in his most over-earnest tone, sad eyes and all, “You should be thanking him,
Mimi, honestly. I’d likely have gangrene if he wasn’t so handy with the TCP. You’d have had to
lock me up so I don’t scare the kiddies.”

It works, like it always does. Mimi still looks like she’d like to throttle him but the concern is
mixed with grudging amusement at his antics, and more relief that he wants to think about. “I
should do that anyway.” She sighs and seems to come to a decision, making a little shooing motion
with her hands. “Well, get on then if you’re going, but don't be up there long and I expect you to be
back for dinner tonight."

It’s a much swifter capitulation than John was expecting but he’s not one to complain. “Aye,
alright.”

Mimi tuts. “Yes, not ‘aye’. You’re not a sailor.”

“Oh do excuse me,” John over-enunciates in his best BBC voice. “I didn’t know I was doing the
Light Programme.” Then he grins and makes his escape upstairs, Paul behind him, because he
knows how to get going when the going is good.

He feels oddly light after what should have been a bruising run in, and so it’s something of a shock
to open the door to his room and find it exactly how he left it the night before, cluttered with mess
and steeped in misery and the stink of old cigarettes. It strikes him too late that Paul has never
actually seen John’s room before (Mimi would have had a fit), and this is not really the way he’d
imagined it going. Not that he had imagined it, since that way lay madness.

“Er… I won’t be a sec.” He doesn’t bother trying to block Paul from entering, since his room is
small enough that you can see it all from the door anyway. Instead he just kicks an old pair of jeans
under the dresser and ducks down to retrieve his guitar, which is half under the bed and being used
as a table for an empty mug and his well thumbed copy of Alice in Wonderland. George would
probably cry. “Can’t believe Mimi fell for that one,” he says, just for something to say as he
straightens up and blows dust and what is quite possibly ash off the frets. “I reckon she—”

He turns back around only to find that Paul isn’t listening to him at all, too busy poking through the
pile of sketches on his bed which hadn’t succumbed to the fiery fate of all the rest. Not yet,
anyway.

"Think I've got me secret diary ‘round here somewhere too, nosy."
Paul doesn’t look in the least bit abashed. "Is this Colin?" He’s holding a pen drawing, looking
delighted. John leans a bit closer to squint at it and yeah, it is. Or rather Colin in a hairnet, with a
scrunched up face of disapproval — he’d drawn it after the fateful meeting on the high street.

“Aye.” He plucks it out of Paul’s hand and goes to toss it in the bin but Paul snatches it back.

“Don’t throw it away!”

John pulls a face. “It’s just a shitty drawing, Paul.”

Paul actually looks annoyed. “Stop calling all your stuff shitty. These are good, they’re funny.”

John hadn’t felt particularly funny when he was drawing them, but he supposes, looking at them
from a certain angle, that there’s a kind of humour to them, dark and bitter as it is. He’s glad these
are the ones that are left, all the same, and not the many (many) sketches of Julia he’d attempted in
the first weeks after.

He doesn’t want to get into an argument with Paul over them however so he takes the drawing from
him more carefully this time and makes a show of putting it in a drawer. “There. Happy?”

“The rest too.” Paul starts gathering them up, then pauses, frowning down at what looks like a
letter, before turning it over to find a drawing on the back. “What’s this then?”

John takes it off him. It’s a letter to Stu, he realises, some form letter from the college he had
picked up when he was at Gambier Terrace a few weeks ago and scribbled on the back of. It’s
addressed to Mr Sutcliffe so of course Paul wouldn’t recognise it. He says as much, before
squinting at the drawing, trying to place it.

“I think it’s meant to be Rod. Stu’s flatmate,” he clarifies, in case Paul has somehow blocked out
the entire previous night (who would blame him). Why Rod has a distorted balloon for a head, he’s
not so sure, but he chucks it in with the rest and closes the drawer, then picks his guitar back up.
“Right, we off then?”

“Yeah,” Paul says, but he sounds… off, almost stiff, and there’s that sour edge to his scent again
that John remembers from the night before. He feels a prickle of unease.

“Alright?” he asks uncertainly.

But Paul just says, “Course,” without looking anywhere near John’s face, and heads back
downstairs.

They escape the house without any further run-ins with Mimi, but John’s joke about it meets with
only a half-hearted response. He can’t think what could have changed in the past few minutes but
it’s clear something has.

“What about this gig then, that Colin was talking about?” he tries, when they’re halfway across the
golf course and Paul is still too quiet.

Paul shrugs. "George says they still want us to do it, proper pay and everything.”

A wedding doesn’t sound very rock and roll to John but Christ knows they’re not in a position to be
choosy. “I s’pose we’ll have to learn some soppy shite for it?”

“Yeah, maybe,” Paul says, distracted, and John doesn’t try again.
Paul’s house at least is familiar ground, from the battered old settee and the polished piano, to Mrs
McCartney smiling down on them from her place on the wall. Being at the McCartney house has
always felt a little like being surrounded by Paul and it’s hard to remember, now he’s actually here,
why exactly he made himself stay away for so long.

Then Paul says, “I’ll put the kettle on,” and disappears into the kitchen without looking at him, and
John is reminded why being surrounded by Paul isn’t always a good thing.

He sits in the armchair and rests his guitar on his lap, listening to Paul shuffling around and
mentally replaying the conversation in his room, but without any new revelations coming to him. It
wasn’t as though Paul and Rod had had some falling out last night, unless he’d missed something
fairly major in the five minutes he was in the loo.

Irritated, he sets to tuning his guitar, attempting to make it sound less like a drunken cat, but he
feels clumsy and out of practice and it’s hardly a surprise when Paul comes back in with the tea and
takes it off him. “You’re going to snap the strings, doing that. Let me.”

He sits down on the floor, flipping the guitar over and setting to work, twisting the tuning pegs
carefully as he tilts his head and listens. It’s a little hypnotic, like watching Paul work always is,
but there’s still that unsettling undercurrent that has him kicking lightly at Paul’s knee.

“What’s got your knickers in a twist then?”

He sees Paul tense, hitting a discordant note before he corrects himself. “Nothing.”

John eyes him. “Was it the drawing of Rod? I was only jokin’ about his head being a balloon.”

It’s a crap joke so he’s not surprised when Paul doesn’t laugh, although he’s laughed at worse
jokes of John’s in the past. He waits, because Paul usually cracks first, and sure enough,

“I just… I didn’t know you’d been round there so much.”

John frowns. “Round where? Stu’s?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve always gone round Stu’s. You just went round Stu’s for fuck’s sake.” If Paul is still pissy
about the time he missed band practice to drink at Stu’s, that was months ago. Unless… “Is this an
alpha thing? Because I’m not…” He doesn’t know quite how to finish that sentence, since he can
hardly just say ‘not interested in Stu’ without it coming off like Stu and Paul are in competition
over him, or something equally ridiculous.

“Of course not,” Paul snaps.

“Good," John says, nettled. “Because I can go where I want.”

“I know that.”

He wonders what the fuck they’re even arguing about then. Are they arguing? Even if Paul’s
stormy expression didn’t suggest they were, his scent certainly does, and it threatens to bleed away
all the peace of the night and the morning. He feels an uncharacteristic need to apologise, but he
doesn’t even know what for.

Then Paul sighs, his fingers stilling on the guitar. “That letter to Stu was from the end of August. I
just didn’t know you’d been going round there recently, that's all.”
Oh. “I had to escape Mimi sometimes. I’d go barmy trapped with her all the time.”

Paul looks at him then, finally, but his face is giving nothing away now. “Ivan said he rang you
though, and Pete. And you saw Colin.” He fiddles with a tuning peg without looking, twisting it
back and forth before he says, “And I tried as well, and called round, and I left messages about
practice. I thought you just didn’t want to see anyone.”

He says 'anyone' but John clearly hears ‘me’ and immediately feels like a shit for not realising how
it might appear to Paul, or the others for that matter. There’s no way to explain that he was only
avoiding Paul because of how much he didn’t want to avoid Paul, not without sounding like some
kind of unhinged, clingy omega, and probably having to break up the band and never set foot in
Allerton again.

“I only went round a few times. Mainly to get pissed and lie on his floor while he tried to work.
Not sure it’s been a highlight of his summer, to be honest.”

Paul's mouth pulls down a little, the first crack in his expression. “What did Mimi think about that
then?”

John scoffs. “She’s never met him, has she. A nice young alpha from a respectable family? Are
you mad?” He fishes in his pockets for his cigarettes. “It’d just get her hopes up for nothing.”

“Maybe Stu doesn’t know that.”

“Bite your tongue, Macca.” John makes a disgusted face. “I’ve got exactin' standards.” He realises
he’s just unintentionally paid Paul a compliment and hurries on. “Not sure Stu has, mind, given
some of the birds I’ve seen him mooning over, but I reckon he’d still run a mile if I tried it on.”

Stu’s one of the best looking blokes he’s seen in real life, but he’s just Stu, unfortunately, and
apparently John has a thing for bossy Elvis wannabes these days. More fool him. He lights a
cigarette and tosses the rest of the packet to Paul who catches it, but doesn’t immediately move to
nick one.

“You know you can always come round here, if you want."

“I know that,” John says, because he does. He’s always known he could, that was the problem. He
can't resist adding "Not sure Old Man Jim would be so happy about it, mind."

Paul rolls his eyes. "You could stop winding him up, you know."

"I could, yeah," John says in a tone that conveys he will not be doing that any time soon. A man
has to have some pleasures in life.

Paul passes his guitar back (beautifully tuned, of course) in exchange for John’s matchbook. “Well,
you should. Come round, I mean, next time you want to escape Mimi. It'll save you the bus fare.”

It's obvious he really means it, that he wasn't just inviting him round last night to be kind, and his
sincerity is like a balm to the worst of John's jagged edges. He doesn't even know the real reason
John's been avoiding him, for all Paul knows he just couldn't be arsed to make the mile long trip
over to Allerton, but apparently it doesn't matter.

“Aye, alright," John says, when it's clear Paul's waiting for an answer.

“Yes, John, you’re not a sailor,” Paul says, in a terrifying impression of Mimi, then he grins and
John bloody feels that grin all the way to his bones.
“Sod off.”

He does stop avoiding Paul though. When he presents himself at Forthlin Road the next day, guitar
on his back, he almost changes his mind and high tails back to Mendips before Paul can open the
door. But he hesitates too long, and then Paul is there, smiling in welcome and stepping aside so he
can shuffle into the narrow hallway.

He's so used to the house being empty, but for Mike, that it's a surprise to see Jim sitting in an
armchair in the front room, reading the newspaper. He pauses, uncertain, but Jim just looks up at
him in that unreadable way of his and says, "John."

"Afternoon."

He thinks that will be it, as usual, but then Jim clears his throat and says, very formally, "I was
sorry to hear about your mother. Paul told me she was always very kind to him."

Paul goes still, eyes darting to John like he's scared of how he might react to this sudden
introduction of Julia. But John can't read anything in Jim's face but more McCartney sincerity so he
mumbles a "Thanks," and doesn't think about how Jim might be the first adult aside from Mimi to
tell him they were sorry for his loss.

Jim looks at him a moment longer and then goes back to his newspaper, for all the world like a
man who's fully settled in for the day. John's wondering what that means for their practice session
when Paul says, "C'mon, we can go to my room," like that's something they ever normally do.

"Leave the door open," Jim says, and John hasn't even got the wherewithal to react to that, too
distracted by the speed in which Paul's face changes colour.

"Dad!" he hisses, like an aggrieved tomato.

There is at least a hint of apology in Jim's expression when he glances from Paul to John and back
again. "You know the rules."

"I didn't realise you were such a fan of modern music," John says, before Paul can start rowing
with his dad like he's clearly about to. He wants to ask what Jim thinks he and Paul could get up to
with him sitting downstairs like a warden, door shut or not, but since when has common sense
stopped anyone thinking the worst of him?

Jim doesn't miss his tone, but neither does he react to it. "I don't mind it. It'll give me something to
listen to."

"Well I'm here to entertain," John says, flat. He knows he should feel angry, but after everything he
mostly just feels tired. He looks at Paul, who's glaring at his dad enough for both of them. "Are we
goin' up then?"

"You never care when George is here—" Paul starts, and John says, "Paul," a little sharply,
because there are other ways to win a battle, and he's not looking to get banned from the house
entirely. Not that he could be, since what Jim doesn't know can't hurt him, but he doesn't fancy
dodging Paul's nosy neighbours every time he wants to come round, and the thought of staying
away again is worse.

Paul does shut up, mouth set in firm line before he begrudgingly mutters, "Fine." He looks back at
his dad, chin up like he's daring him to say something else. Jim doesn't of course, he's obviously
said all he wanted to and has gone back to reading the paper like he's somehow impervious to the
tension hanging in the air.
For a moment Paul looks like he might just go ahead and say something disastrous anyway, but
John bumps his shoulder lightly, raising his eyebrows in a pointed sort of way until Paul makes an
effort to rein it in, face and scent both, and abruptly turns to lead the way upstairs.

It's obvious he wasn't expecting John, or anyone for that matter, to come visiting so soon, because
his room is a mess. He starts throwing things into drawers and under his bed with stiff, jerky
movements, obviously still in a temper.

John decides to deal with that later and takes advantage of his distraction to have a good look
around his room — since Paul had no compunction about being such a nosy parker in his own. It's
a bit larger than his, and spare except for the little touches of Paul here and there. There's an old
cork board above his desk and John ducks close to squint at what he has pinned up there — a list of
books from school, one of John's stupid drawings of the band that he'd saved from the fireplace for
some reason, and a cluster of photographs. There's Paul and George, scrawny and young on a beach
somewhere, the smiling face of Mrs McCartney in the garden with him and Mike, and Paul with a
crowd of his friends at a park — John spots Ivan among them, and Sue of course tucked in next to
Paul and beaming at the camera. It looks fairly recent and John wonders if it was some time this
summer. It feels wrong that he didn't know about it — although there was no reason why he would
have, hiding away at Mendips.

"What are you looking at?"

Apparently John has been staring at the photo long enough for Paul to finish his tidying and notice
what he's doing. He turns quickly away.

"Just admirin' George in his swim trunks."

Paul doesn't laugh, and John eyes him, exasperated that he's letting this bother him so much, but
oddly gratified that he is. He'd noticed, when they came in, that Paul had left the door open barely a
half inch, a small act of rebellion John hadn't really expected.

"Cheer up, this is only adding to me reputation, you know."

If anything, his comment just makes things worse. Paul's face has gone all blotchy. "It's not funny."

Honestly, you'd think Paul would know better by now. "Oh ye of little faith, Macca," he says and
flicks him on the nose to make him scowl before he reaches past him to open the bedroom door
properly.

"You don't have to do that," Paul protests immediately, but John silences him with a look.

"Are we, or aren't we supposed to be giving Old Man Jim something to enjoy with the classifieds?"

Paul hesitates, confused, as he watches John settle himself cross legged on the bed with his guitar
in his lap.

"I reckon, being a jazz man and all, your dad won't have a proper appreciation for the genius of
Mr. George Formby" John announces very seriously, watching Paul's confusion turn to
understanding, a grin slowly emerging.

The guitar presents John with a bit of a challenge as for a moment he can't remember how to do the
old chords, but then Julia is there clearly in his head, placing his hands on the frets as she hums
along, and there it is. He grins back at Paul and launches into what might fairly be called a quite
spirited rendition of ‘Leaning On A Lamp Post’. Half way through the first verse, Paul clambers
onto the bed opposite, matching John's banjo chords with more enthusiasm than experience.
Unfortunately John forgets the words after the chorus, but he's nothing if not flexible and they get
through the rest of the song, and all of ‘With A Little Stick of Blackpool Rock’, powered by his
libellous assertions about Eunice the college cleaning lady.

He's considering whether to bust out ‘When I'm Cleaning Windows’ as well, when a door is closed
very firmly downstairs and Paul breaks down into helpless giggles, setting John off too until they're
stuck in a breathless loop of catching each other's eye and going off again.

Eventually Paul suggests they face different directions and that seems to work until he gets the
hiccups, which John finds unaccountably hilarious and the terrible cycle continues. For a visit that
started off so badly, John thinks it's turned out alright at the end — albeit pretty useless as any kind
of a band practice.

After that, he starts turning up at Forthlin Road whenever he wants, which happens to be pretty
often. Paul never seems to mind, or if he does, he hides it well. He just lets John in and puts the
kettle on, accepting whatever thin excuse John puts forward for turning up on his doorstep yet
again. It's not like he needs an excuse, when Paul said he could come round whenever he wanted,
but he's not sure he meant nearly every day and that's what he's been saddled with, so an excuse
just seems polite.

If John brings his guitar round, they go through to the dining room to practice some of their old
numbers. John's a bit rusty to start with, fumbling some of the harder chords and forgetting the
words to songs even he should remember. He knows Paul notices, even if he's too polite to say
anything, and that's galling enough to get John practicing at home again. For once, Mimi doesn't
even fuss about it too much. Not until he starts on the Elvis anyway and then she makes him go out
and freeze half to death in the porch.

At least he never has to freeze at Forthlin Road. On nights when Mike's got the telly on and the
dining room's a bit chilly, they retreat to Paul's bedroom with the record player and the old oil
radiator, and he lets Paul play him some record he’s found in his dad's collection or one of his
aunties’. For a lad who professes to love rock and roll as much as he does, Paul doesn’t half have a
nose for ferreting out old show tunes and music hall numbers and almost convincing John they
could adapt them for their set. John’s had to draw a hard line at Vera Lynn, although he wouldn’t
put it past Paul to take that as a challenge.

Paul always closes the bedroom door, and John never asks what happened with Jim in the end. He
wonders if him and Paul ended up rowing about it after all. He can't really imagine it. Paul and Jim
aren't like him and Mimi, engaged in an uneasy truce with occasional bouts of open warfare. Paul's
a proper little boy scout when it comes to his dad. But then again, Jim's not here, is he? If Paul has
any sense, he's decided that what his dad doesn't know can't hurt him. It's a motto that's served
John well over the years.

They don't talk about Julia, although sometimes, when they've finished whatever they've been
doing and are smoking in a companionable silence, John catches Paul watching him. He doesn't
know what his solemn expression means and he doesn't ask. His jagged edges are still too close to
the surface, however blunted they might be by his indulging in this unsettling need for Paul. There
are probably much worse vices he could indulge in, but he knows he's taking something from Paul
he doesn't know he's giving, and he's not such a selfish prick he doesn't feel guilty about that
sometimes. And given his other rather pressing problem, spending so much time around Paul is
probably the last thing he should be doing. He's already had to start doubling up on his pills again,
just in case, and he's getting dangerously low as it is. But common sense has never really been one
of John’s strengths, and it’s hard to deny himself when he's been handed an alternative to sleep-
deprived misery in the form of someone he always wants to be around anyway.
It’s been a couple of weeks since he’s heard anything from Stu when Paul starts on about the
bloody wedding gig in November again and John feels an increasingly familiar slither of panic.
Time is running out and no amount of tea and records and Paul can help — not in any way John
dares think about anyroad, or he’ll go the rest of the way round the bend.

"How's Paul?" Stu asks, when John finds him in his favourite studio in the college. He's engrossed
in some new canvas, oil paint smudged on his shirt.

John perches cross legged on a table, out of sight of the doors, and flicks cigarette ash off his knee,
irritable. "Why do you want to know?"

"Just making conversation."

John squints at him, but his face just looks bland and annoyingly handsome in the Autumn
sunshine streaming through the high windows. "He's a bossy little shit, if you must know. He's
obsessed with this wedding gig."

Stu hums a little and starts mixing a new colour. "That's good isn't it? A new gig."

"We're not a wedding band."

"You've told Paul you're not doing it then?"

John grimaces. "No tellin' him anything when he's got a bee in his bonnet, is there. Besides, it's not
like we have anything better lined up." In truth he knows he’d be pretty excited about the gig
himself by now, if it wasn’t for what else was on his mind.

"That's the spirit," says Stu, clearly only half listening.

John resists the urge to toss his ciggie at him since he doesn't fancy death by oil paint, and he's
supposed to be keeping a low profile and not burning down the college. He's been avoiding the
place since… Well, since. They've sent him a few letters but he binned them before Mimi could
see. Unfortunately, Stu bloody lives at the place and he's getting desperate.

"Look, have you got me anything or not?" He tries to keep his voice casual but fails. Stu sighs and
finally puts down his brush. He looks guilty.

"No, I haven't. I'm sorry, John."

John flicks the apology away, since it’s no bloody help to him. "Somebody must know."

"It's hard to be discreet about it when everyone knows I know you and you're—" Stu waves a hand
as though that encompasses all that John is.

"I'm what?" It comes out a bit more aggressively than he means it to, but he's feeling fairly on edge
here.

"Look, I'm just saying that if someone wanted to guess who they were for, the list wouldn't be very
long would it? If I get reported we're both out."

"Shit," John says feelingly. He drops the end of his cig and stamps it out. There's a cold lump in his
stomach. "So I'm fucked, basically."

Stu wipes his hands on his overalls, glancing over to the closed door. “I spoke to Sheila Finnegan,
she reckons there are doctors that do them as a kind of side line.”
John tries to remember who Sheila Finnegan is, then realises it’s one of the omega girls at the
college, a mousy little thing he’s never spoken to. Brushing aside that she’s the last person he’d
expect to be dabbling in illegal drugs, or even know about them, he asks impatiently, “Well, does
she know who?”

“If she did I would have said. She said she’d ask though — quietly,” he adds, on seeing John’s
expression. “How long have you got?”

“Two weeks,” John says bleakly and Stu grimaces.

“Can’t you just get through it this time and we can sort something out after?”

“Looks like I’ll have to at this rate,” he says it flippantly but his stomach turns over. He can
remember all too well the clawing humiliating need of his heats, stripping away all his control until
he didn’t feel like himself at all.

Some of it must show on his face because Stu voice drops, hesitant. “It doesn’t need to be so bad.
You don’t have to go through it alone, you know."

John stares at him and Stu looks back, increasingly confused until "Oh no, I didn't mean..."

"Fuckin' hell, Stu." He coughs, fighting a hysterical urge to giggle.

Stu's actually blushing, which makes it even funnier. "I mean, no offence, but we’re not…" He gets
a proper look at John’s face. “Oh sod off." But he’s smiling now and it makes the moment less
bloody weird until he adds, “anyway I'm not the only alpha you know."

He gets the horrible feeling he knows where this is heading. “Don’t—”

"I'm just saying, there's always Paul. I'm sure he'd—"

"What? Shag me for a favour?" John says flat, no longer laughing.

"Yeah, probably," Stu says, and that's just... "Look, all I'm saying is that it doesn't have to be an
ordeal."

“What do you know about it?”

Stu looks a little awkward. "I was— Well, I’ve been with an omega in heat and it was alright."

John stares. "When?"

"None of your business when," Stu says. "All you need to know is that it wasn't whatever you're
imagining."

John reserves judgement on that. “Are you sure she thought it was so bloody fantastic?”

"Pretty sure, yes."

From anyone else that would sound like a boast, but from Stu it just sounds like the straightforward
truth.

"How come you're not still with her then?" John asks after a moment.

Stu shrugs. "It wasn't like that. She was going to bond with some rich doctor her parents knew, but
she wanted her first time to be with someone her own age, you know?"
And someone who looked like Stu, John's willing to bet. Well good for her, if she was getting
handed off to some crusty old doctor for the cash.

"What if you'd bonded though?"

"We didn't…do that. She couldn't risk it, not with the bond all set up."

He means he didn't knot her, John supposes. He tries to picture it, even without that, and fails. He
can't imagine wanting to submit to someone, to give them all that power over him. He's hardly a
virgin for god's sake, but they were all girls. And alright, that one drunken hand job with Tommy
Johnson, but that was both at the same time so it didn't count. He looks at Stu again. Strange to
think he’d never mentioned it before, but then, John’s never exactly been very receptive to chats
about alpha-omega bliss.

Still, “you never said.”

“It’s not something we discuss, is it? I don’t ask you about your sex life.”

“That’s because I don’t have one,” John says. “The pills have shrivelled everything up.” He thinks
of Paul, and then very deliberately doesn't. “Most of the time, anyway.”

“And you’re just going to do that forever, are you?”

John flicks him an irritated glare. “Mind your own bloody business.”

Stu picks up his brush. "Have it your own way then."

He goes back to his canvas while John lights up another cigarette and stares moodily out of the
window for a while. There’s nothing else for it, he thinks. Unless Sheila Finnegan is running a
shady sideline in illegal drugs (and she’s clearly a dark horse so he’s not ruling it out), he’s
probably not getting anything in the next two weeks — which means he’ll have to get through a
heat as best he can before the bloody wedding. If his fucked up body even takes his professional
commitments into account, that is. If not, Paul, George and Colin’ll have to do the gig without him,
and he’ll have to claim to be temporarily dead or something. It’s about the only excuse he has left
after all his past lies to Paul.

Not that that will work anyway, he realises, since Paul will bloody know, won’t he, as soon as he’s
near John? The thought of Paul knowing that John is going into heat, or has just been in heat, sends
a rush of something through him that is, unfortunately, only partly embarrassment. Not least
because it sends his mind careening off into dark avenues of Paul knowing and doing something
about it, which he obviously doesn’t want and can’t be thinking about when he’s meant to be
meeting Paul and George in about two hours time. He blames Stu for bringing it up in the first
place. Christ.

“I hate you,” he mutters at Stu and just gets a knowing look back for his trouble.

“It was only a suggestion.”

Now the idea is in his head though, he can’t seem to push it back out again. That night he smokes
and watches Paul laughing at something George has said, all lanky and loose-limbed. He glances
over at John as if to draw him into whatever they’re talking about, even though John lost track
about five minutes ago and can’t be arsed to work it out now. It can’t have been that important
anyway, if John wasn’t the one saying it.

The thing is, he always knows Paul is an alpha, but there are times when he forgets everything that
means. Here, when it’s just him and George, or with Ivan and Pete and the others, he knows who
he is and so do they. But that’s not what the world sees when they look at him and Paul, and the
thought of Paul ever seeing him that way too makes him want to peel his own skin off.

He wonders if Paul has ever been with an omega, like Stu has. He knows it's unlikely, even for
someone with as much nerve as Paul seems to have. Alphas like to talk a big game when it comes
to omegas (John's heard all the jokes by now) but in reality he thinks you'd have to be pretty bloody
careful not to end up being hauled down the Bonding Office by an angry parent. Paul doesn't seem
stupid enough to risk that, not when he's obviously having no trouble getting what he wants
elsewhere. Or so it seems, anyway. Fortunately for John's sanity, he's not yet started bringing up
his conquests in casual conversation, or any conversation for that matter, but he doesn't bother
denying them either, when George or the others do. Well, why would he? It's only John who's
stuck living like a bloody monk.

Sue might be different though, he thinks, unwillingly. She's the right sort of omega, the ones that
alphas meet at the Bond Socials and walk out with. Not that he believes Sue's little innocent act,
not when she's always hanging off Paul the way she is. No doubt she'd drop her knickers for him in
a heartbeat, given half the chance. He thinks about it before he can stop himself, of Paul with Sue,
all that confidence and charm turned to seduction and Sue soft and clinging like everyone’s wet
dream of an omega. Wouldn’t that thrill Auntie Clare, he thinks sourly. If Paul ever turned up
smelling of Sue he’d slam the fucking door in his face, band or no band.

“You were quiet tonight,” Paul says later, when they’re packing their guitars away and George has
gone to the loo.

John thinks quiet is a polite understatement considering he’d barely said two words for the past
hour, just stewing in his own ugly thoughts when he wasn’t strumming halfheartedly to command.
“Just thinking.”

Paul looks at him curiously. “About what?”

“People who can’t mind their own business.”

“Hilarious.” Paul drops down on the seat next to him. “Did you hear what I was saying about the
ties?”

John lets his head fall back against the cushion with a groan. “Bloody hell, if I have to hear about
the sodding ties one more time.”

“You should have been paying attention then because George agrees with me, and Colin said he
didn’t mind, so you’re outvoted.”

“You can’t outvote me, it’s my band.”

“Fine, well, we’ll all wear them, and you can explain to Mrs Harrison why you’ve come dressed
like you’re working the lorries.”

“Is this about the ties?” George says, as he comes back in. It’s probably too late now for John to
ditch the band and start a new one, but he does briefly consider it.

Instead he spends the next two weeks rehearsing for a gig he might not even be able to play at with
all the enthusiasm of a condemned man awaiting the gallows. His eighteenth birthday comes and
goes, largely unremarked; distinguished only by a telephone call from his sisters in Scotland and
beers at practice. Together they go some way to blunting the bone deep ache of thinking about his
mum on this day more than any other. There’s a bigger crowd than usual that night in his honour,
the first time it’s been anything like the early days of The Quarrymen in ages, what with Ivan and
Pete, and Colin of course, as well as Paul and George. He finds himself squashed next to Paul on
the settee, which goes from being terrible to markedly less so with every drink, until he realises
he’s slumped against him and has to drag himself upright and slump on Pete instead (who is far
less accommodating about it, the miserable bastard). He vaguely remembers Paul helping him
home afterwards, while he rambled on about the time Julia tried to make him a birthday cake and
nearly burned down her kitchen, but he tries not to think about that part.

The day he finally runs out of his pills the gig is less than two weeks away and he can barely focus
on playing his guitar, let alone George’s suggestions for a set list. Paul notices of course. He’s so
obvious about it, even Colin starts to look at him oddly.

“You’re not nervous about playing again, are you?” Paul asks, when it’s just him and John in the
kitchen washing up the cups. Or rather Paul is washing up the cups while John hangs around,
mostly getting in the way. Paul has the decency to sound like he can’t quite believe it, which makes
it marginally less insulting, but not enough that he doesn’t deserve the scornful look he gets.

“Course not. Believe it or not, I have other things on my mind than just this bloody wedding.”

As usual, Paul looks like he’d quite like to know what those things are, but isn’t quite rude enough
to just come out and ask this time (small miracles). Since the only other thing John has on his mind
is something he’d rather die than discuss with Paul, the washing up concludes in a slightly pointed
silence as John pretends not to notice the frequent curious glances in his direction.

They don’t have a practice tomorrow and god knows if John will be at the one after that so he
hangs around a little longer than he normally would that night. George and Colin are talking about
some new film they’ve heard about, while Paul tinkers away at the piano. It’s peaceful, and
because he’s not sure how many days it will be until he’s next here, John pulls up a chair next to
Paul and joins in haphazardly with ‘When The Saints Go Marching In’ (which will not be in the
wedding set). It’s partly to make up for being so weird in the kitchen earlier, and partly because he
wants to soak in as much of Paul as possible to get him through the next few days. Paul shoots him
a little grin, and throws in a few unnecessary flourishes as the hymn takes on a distinctly rock and
roll air. He’s still humming the damn tune later that night when he walks home with Colin.
 Chapter 6

It happens even more quickly than he expects. The next morning he feels alright, but as the day
goes on he starts to feel...off. A little too warm and easily distracted. For a while he tries to
convince himself that he’s just coming down with something, but when he catches himself thinking
about Paul's hands on the piano keys for what must be the twentieth time, he knows that's not it. By
the next morning there’s no mistaking the low burn of arousal and the way his skin feels hot and
too sensitive. When Mimi clears her throat awkwardly and says, “John, I think you should go
upstairs,” after he's spent half an hour pushing his breakfast round his plate, he wants to crawl into
his bed and smother himself with his pillow. But he can’t, not yet, because if he fails to turn up
tonight, with no explanation, he’s going to have Paul on his doorstep, and that's a disaster waiting
to happen.

So he closes the door to the dining room firmly and, after dithering for a few useless minutes, rings
Paul. As soon as he answers he wishes he’d thought to ring Colin instead. Just the sound of Paul's
voice is enough to make him wish he was here and not a useless mile away where John can't touch
him. He bangs his head against the wall to try and knock some sense into himself and trots out his
carefully rehearsed excuse about having a bit of the lurgy that must be going round.

“I’ll ring you when I’m feeling better," he says, in case Paul decides to check up on him or some
nonsense. Then he throws in a cough for good measure.

There’s a pause, then Paul says, "I thought you said you were feeling sick?" He sounds suspicious
and possibly the cough was a mistake. Shit.

“Aye, well, it’s gone to me lungs."

There’s an even more dubious silence and John shifts restlessly, wanting to get off the phone
before he pops a stiffy in the bloody hallway. "You're not…" Paul lowers his voice as if Jim's
listening in. "You're not avoiding me again, are you? Is this about the outfits for the wedding?”

"Christ, Paul, not everything is about you," John snaps and then hangs up the phone which, in
hindsight, is probably not going to convince Paul it isn't about him. He glares at it for a few
seconds and then picks it back up and dials.

It rings once, then, "What?"

"What happened to 'Forthlin Road 20, Paul speaking'?"

Paul makes an amused sound. "That’s just for people who don’t hang up on me like an arse.”

That's probably fair enough. John perches on the bottom stair and tries to sound like a reasonable
person and not a sweaty, aroused mess. “Look, I’m not avoiding you. I’m just feeling like shite, if
you must know, and Mimi’s been on at me all morning.” He hopes Mimi didn’t hear that. Paul
doesn't immediately say anything, so he adds, "I'll ring you when I'm feeling better and we can
coordinate our ties, alright?"

Paul snorts. "Now I know you're not feeling well."

But he does at least accept John's weak cover story, and he manages to get off the phone without
disgracing himself at Mimi's telephone table, so he counts it as a win.

Then he goes to his room, closes the door and prepares to wait it out. It's not so bad, to begin with.
If anyone can get themselves off, it’s an eighteen year old whose sex drive has just come back from
the (nearly) dead. He puts his hand to good use and resolutely thinks of Brigitte Bardot and Elvis,
and never, ever of Paul. At least now he knows it’ll be over well before the gig.

But it doesn't end, is the thing. Two days pass and it keeps going, coalescing into a want so sharp
he feels like he will die if he doesn't get some relief soon. It's not like he doesn't know what to do.
He doesn't need a medical textbook or a dirty magazine to know that, his own body tells him
loudly enough, apparently determined to make up for lost time. But theory and reality are very
different when it's just John and his own hand, and his extremely unhelpful imagination. Nothing
works, it just banks and builds, over and over, a gnawing emptiness inside him that he's desperate to
fill.

“You'll have to cancel your concert,” Mimi says, hovering over him with a cool flannel on the third
day and ignoring all of John’s efforts to shove her hand away. He can’t bear to be touched by her,
his whole body feels too light, untethered like he might float off.

“It's a gig,” he hisses, angling his body away so she can't see he's hard again. “We're not putting on
a show at the Albert Hall.”

Mimi purses her lips but doesn’t bring it up again, and in return he drinks the glass of water she’s
brought him and eats one of the sandwiches, even though it makes him queasy.

In his more clear-headed moments, he knows he should go downstairs and ring Paul and tell him he
likely won't be at the wedding. But he can't let go of the hope this will somehow pass, and he can't
speak to Paul when he's like this, he's scared of what he might say. He can try and imagine
beautiful Brigitte all he likes, but increasingly his thoughts just keep circling round to Paul anyway,
an unwelcome thread running through his dirtiest fantasies as he tries to slake the constant, painful
desperation.

The worst of it is that when it ebbs, for however brief a time, he still thinks about Paul. Paul
playing the guitar, Paul pressed shoulder to shoulder with him at the piano stool, Paul smiling at
John the way he does when he thinks John has said something particularly outrageous. Paul Paul
Paul. He feels like he's going barmy.

On the fourth day Mimi calls the doctor out. They don't send an alpha this time, but a middle aged
beta who listens to Mimi's humiliatingly complete medical history, and then looks at John like he's
a dog he found rutting in the street.

"Have you been taking anything?" he asks, after a perfunctory examination that lasts only as long
as it takes for John to shove his hands away, glaring.

"No."

The doctor gives him a knowing look. "Because if you've been taking some form of heat
suppressant, this might last some time."

"Well, I haven't," John snaps, but it's obvious he doesn't believe him.

"Had the mother been giving him anything?" the man asks Mimi, as if John hasn't spoken. John
wants to kill him for that, for the way he's talking about Julia, but to his surprise, Mimi's there first,
a frost in her voice that John has never heard before.

"My sister was well aware of the law," Mimi says, and it takes John a few slow seconds to realise
that that isn't the answer the doctor might think it is.
The man apparently finds Mimi more of a daunting prospect than John because he doesn't mention
the suppressants again, but that's only because he has something far worse in mind.

"The cure's easy enough of course," he says, with obvious distaste. His cold eyes sweep over John,
taking in his flushed and sweaty form. "If he hasn't been bonded yet, it might be time to put
something in motion. Or…" he eyes Mimi, as if considering. "It might be possible for me to make
arrangements with an…amenable alpha. For a small consideration, of course. He's a male so at
least no-one need worry about any unfortunate consequences."

He makes him sound like a barren cow. Mimi looks to be temporarily speechless, but John isn't.

"Fuck off," he hisses, with all the vitriol he can muster. Then he picks up the mug by his bedside
and throws it straight at the smug, self righteous prick, with far better aim than he expected, given
how awful he feels.

It takes Mimi several minutes and a five pound note to placate the bastard, but John doesn’t care.
He slams the bedroom door closed and pushes a chair under the handle, then collapses back onto
his bed, pressing his face into the pillow and letting a few angry tears leak out where no-one will
ever see them, or know.

On the fifth day Mimi brings him a cup of tea and some soup and watches him eat for a while
before saying, "Your friend Paul telephoned again."

John spills some of the soup on his already grubby t-shirt, wiping at it distractedly as he takes in
the tone of her voice (disapproving) and then the words themselves, wondering how many times,
exactly, Paul has phoned. Christ, what if he came over?

"He hasn't been round?" he asks, urgently, and it's clearly the wrong thing to say because her lips
purse in obvious displeasure.

"Not yet, no." He can tell she wants to say something else, and sure enough, "I wouldn't be
surprised if that boy was the cause of your… of this problem. I told you, John—"

"Give it a bloody rest," John snaps, goaded into risking a clipped ear for his language. "Paul hasn't
done anything, he wouldn't."

The problem is that he wishes he would, he definitely doesn't say.

Mimi looks like she's sucking on a lemon, but whatever she wants to say next is lost when John
tries to put his soup bowl aside and only succeeds in nearly spilling it all over the floor. Tutting at
him like he's being deliberately clumsy, she takes the bowl off him and hands him a flannel instead,
watching him trying to clean his t-shirt with fumbling hands. Then he gives up on the attempt; it's
not like it matters anyway, not when he's already such a mess. There's a horribly familiar burn
starting up again beneath his skin and he wishes she would go away.

"I think we should get a second opinion," Mimi says abruptly, and John's stomach lurches because
he doesn't want that. He doesn't think he could bear another doctor poking and prodding at him,
eyes crawling all over him; touching him when he can't bear to be touched.

"No," he snaps. "You let someone else in here and I'll do worse than throw the crockery."

When she finally leaves him alone, taking the half eaten soup with her, he tries to lie still, breathing
deeply as he wills his body to quiet. It doesn't work of course, and eventually he has no choice but
to roll over and rut against the mattress, coming for what feels like the hundredth time and
collapsing, spent and shaking and no closer to relief now than he was five days ago.
He can't be sure Mimi won't do it though. He knows her; he knows that if she thinks something is
best for John, she'll go ahead and do it and simply ignore anything he might say to the contrary. It's
the Stanley way. Well, most of the Stanleys, Julia being always and forever the exception. In the
end that's exactly what she does of course, informing him briskly that she's asked a different doctor
to come out the next day and 'see what can be done'.

It's that, even more than the constant debilitating need for him, that forces John downstairs half an
hour after she leaves for her stupid bridge night to stare at the phone and consider, for the first
time, actually ringing Paul. Mimi’d only gone out because he'd lied and said he was starting to feel
a bit better, and then somehow done a convincing enough impression of it to evade her scrutiny for
five bloody minutes. But he isn't better, and he won't be tomorrow either at this rate. Not unless
Paul can help him.

It doesn't have to be anything, he thinks. It doesn't have to be what Stu said. More than wanting
Paul, he just wants Paul here, and maybe that will be enough. Paul's his friend, after all, and it
worked before. When he couldn't sleep and deserved the worst hangover of his life, just being
around Paul was enough to make him right again, to quiet him in that essential way he desperately
needs.

The clock ticks on as he turns the idea over and over in his head. The heat might be banked now
but it won't stay that way for long, and Christ knows what this new doctor will do. When the clock
strikes the half hour he thinks fuck it and picks up the phone — as Auntie Clare and Jim and Sue
and everyone who's ever looked at John and thought the worst of him seem to rise up in front of
him in a disapproving chorus.

He sits on the hallway floor, dialing the familiar number carefully and trying not to think too hard
about what he's doing.

It rings longer than usual; long enough that John thinks he's been torturing himself for nothing. But
then Mike answers, in the half posh telephone voice Mrs. McCartney apparently drilled into both
her sons (and which John usually finds hilarious).

He clears his throat. "Is Paul there?"

"Oh hey John," Mike says in a far more normal tone. "Hang on a sec, he's upstairs."

There's a clatter as the phone is put down, then footsteps and voices. He still has a chance to hang
up and save himself the impending humiliation but no, because already someone is approaching
the phone, and in the next moment Paul's voice is there, warm and bright in his ear.

"You feeling better then?" He sounds relieved, but that's nothing to how John feels at hearing his
voice. He draws in a wobbly breath, almost forgetting to speak again until Paul says, "Hello? John?
Are you there?"

It's just Paul, he thinks. He can do this. "Yeah. I'm here. Look, can you come over?"

There's a pause. "Now?"

"Unless you've got something else on." If Paul can't come over it's quite possible John will go to
Forthlin Road and scale the drain pipe to his window.

But Paul just huffs, sounding amused. "Alright, I'll fetch my guitar."

John doesn't bother to correct him, he just hangs up and goes back to sitting on the stairs. Then he
gets up and paces the short length of the hallway, mentally following Paul on his route out of his
front door, along the road, then across the golf course, out the other side and onto Menlove
Avenue.

He must be measuring it wrong because the bell rings when Paul's still supposed to be on the golf
course. He suddenly thinks of all the neighbours that could be watching right now, twitching their
curtains and waiting to report to Mimi, and it makes him open the door and yank Paul inside before
he can second guess himself or give the old witches something more to gossip about.

Paul nearly trips over the rug, half laughing. "Bloody hell, John, what—"

He sees the exact moment Paul realises, smile dying as his eyes widen in shock. He makes an
abortive movement towards John, and then just as quickly moves back, almost knocking over the
telephone table with his guitar in his haste. "You're— John do you know you're—?"

John resists the urge to follow him. "Of course I bloody know, what do you think I've been doing
all week?”

There's a short, electric silence. John’s hot and irritable, and now that Paul is actually here he’s not
sure if this was a stupid mistake. He had known, in a vague and relieved sort of a way, that his pills
had a dampening effect on the scents around him, but he's always been so aware of Paul anyway
that he assumed he was the one exception. Turns out Paul before, and Paul after, is more like the
difference between the vivid sense memory of something good and the overwhelming reality of it,
and that wasn’t part of the plan at all.

He digs his nails into his palms, letting the pain be a reminder that he is still just John and Paul is
Paul. “I need your help.”

“What?” Paul says faintly. He’s just staring at John but there’s a dull flush creeping over his face
now, and a sharp distracting edge to his scent that probably has everything to do with being trapped
in a narrow hallway with an omega who reeks of heat and sex. John moves back to sit on the stairs
and it helps, a little bit. Not enough.

“Mum was getting me suppressants,” he says baldly, because there doesn’t seem any point being
coy about it now. He can’t quite look Paul in the eye though, focusing instead on the patch in the
hall carpet where the weave has rubbed thin. “Anyway they ran out, didn’t they, and Stu’s been
fuck all help finding any more so I’m stuck like this. Mimi’s had the doctor out and everything, and
she’s got another one coming tomorrow and I dunno what else to do.” He wipes a hand over his
sweaty face and finally risks a look at Paul who hasn’t moved, his expression still laced with
shock. “I just thought… It worked before. When I couldn’t sleep. I dunno what you did but it
helped me sleep and got rid of my hangover an’ all. I just need you to do that again, whatever it
was. Otherwise I reckon you’ll be doing the gig without me.”

“We wouldn’t,” Paul says, and then seems to shake himself out of whatever daze he was in,
loosening his death grip on the table. “What did the doctor say?”

Of all the things John expected him to focus on, that wasn’t it. “Nothing I didn't know," he says,
because he doesn't want to talk about that part with Paul of all people. "Except for offering to make
some dodgy arrangement for a pay off." Paul frowns, clearly not understanding, so John elaborates,
scornful. “Get some alpha he knew in to do the deed.”

“No,” Paul says at once.

“Aye, well, that’s what I said too. Obviously.” John’s relieved that Paul gets it. “And then I
chucked a mug at him and threw him out. But now Mimi’s decided she wants a second opinion,
and I’m runnin’ low on options.”

Paul grimaces. “Thanks.”

John fidgets and eyes Paul uncertainly. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant…” He hasn't got
much dignity left at this point but it’s still hard to say it. “I couldn’t ask anyone else.” He
immediately panics, thinking he’s revealed too much. “Alright, maybe Pete, but I reckon he’d have
further to walk.”

Paul’s serious expression wavers for just a moment, but it’s enough to reassure John he hasn’t truly
put his foot in it. He tries a tentative smile. “I thought it was worth a go anyway.”

He doesn’t say he’s desperate but he probably doesn’t have to. Paul’s face does something
complicated, but he doesn’t look horrified at least. “I’m not sure it’ll work like before,” he says at
last, going impossibly redder. “Not when you’re…” he gestures at John.

“It can’t be worse, can it?” John says, thinking of the cold impersonal hands of the doctor and
whatever this second opinion has planned. If Paul’s not going to help, he should probably leave
soon because there’s no mistaking the low bloom of warmth in his gut, but if he's staying…
“Please.”

He didn’t mean to say it, but once it’s out he can’t take it back. It works like none of his stupid
jokes did, anyway. Paul inhales sharply and then puts his guitar down, hesitating for only the barest
moment before he crosses the hallway to the staircase and crouches down in front of John. Like
this, they’re on a level and John flinches back when Paul reaches for him, trying to take his hand.
He’s expecting it to hurt, but of course it’s Paul so it doesn’t. It feels like the best kind of relief, and
he tips forward without conscious thought until his forehead is pressed against Paul’s shoulder,
only wanting more of it; breathing in the familiar worn scent of his coat, and of Paul, underneath
and all around it.

Paul freezes, and then, so slowly that John can feel every shift of muscle, lifts his other hand to curl
around the exposed nape of his neck. The touch feels like something he desperately needed but
didn't have the words to ask for, the pressure of Paul's hand and the calluses on his fingers catching
on his skin with perfect friction as his thumb sweeps back and forth, turning his thoughts sluggish
and useless.

“It’s alright, Johnny,” Paul murmurs, close, and it’s so easy then to tilt his head and press forward,
to press his mouth against the warm skin above Paul’s collar where his pulse beats swiftly and his
scent is strongest. But no sooner has he done so then Paul is abruptly disentangling himself, the
removal of his hands like a shock of cold water.

“Sorry. God. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…”

John blinks at him, confused and wanting, before awareness slithers back in. Fucking hell. Paul is
still mumbling apologies and if he wants to take the blame, John will let him, because the
alternative is too bloody embarrassing.

He gets unsteadily to his feet, trying to put some distance between them, but Paul stands with him,
and this close his eyes look darker than normal, the hectic flush on his face far too distracting.
They should probably hurry this up. “Let’s just… Let’s get on with it,” he says, and doesn’t wait
for Paul’s reply.

He nearly stumbles on his way up the stairs, and hopes Paul is too busy with his guitar to notice.
His room is how he left it, and it’s only when Paul stops short, knuckles turning white around his
guitar strap, that it occurs to John that the room where he’s spent five days in heat might be a lot
for Paul, or any alpha, to deal with. He fumbles with the catch on the window and pushes it open.
The rush of cold night air on his overheated skin is welcome, helping to shake a little of the
strangeness that’s come over him.

It hardly feels like enough though when he’s sitting on the bed, back pressed against the wall, and
Paul puts down his guitar case and clambers on to sit next to him. He’s holding himself so
carefully that their arms aren’t even touching, but John can still feel every inch of the space
between them like there’s an electric current running from his shoulder down to the crook of his
elbow and the back of his hand.

Maybe he should have thought this through a bit more. He forces his mind to the most boring
things he can think of – Pete’s football opinions, Mimi and her bloody Reader’s Digest, the rules of
bridge – but it keeps coming back to Paul, his hand on his neck and how good it had felt; what a
relief it had been to be that close to him and not to have to think anymore. He thinks he would have
let Paul do whatever he wanted, so long as he kept touching him.

He swallows and attempts to subtly shift position, trying not to react to the throb of arousal settling
between his legs, the slick wetness there, as he asks, "Does it feel like it's working?"

"Um...no," Paul says in a strangled voice. John looks over at him and Christ, his hair is damp with
sweat, starting to curl on his nape. His eyes look impossibly dark now where they are fixed on
John’s face and John quickly looks away again.

“Think of something relaxing.”

“Right,” Paul says, and when he doesn’t say anything else John risks a glance to find he has his
eyes screwed shut, lips moving silently.

“Are you praying?”

The incredulous look Paul shoots him is so normal that he almost forgets the ridiculous situation
he’s got them into. “I’m trying to remember all the words to ‘Good Golly Miss Molly’,” Paul says,
and of course he is. He wets his lips and John tracks the movement, helpless not to. “Why, what
are you thinking of?”

“Ivan in the bath,” John says promptly, because if he says what he's really thinking of, this would
be over quickly.

Paul snorts with laughter, and just as quickly makes a pained grimace. “Don’t make me laugh.”

“Sorry,” John says, although he isn’t. He’s sorry for dragging Paul into this though. He should
have known this would never work, not with how Paul makes him at the best of times. "You don't
have to stay, if it’s not working. I’ll manage." He won’t, but Paul doesn’t need to know that.

“Shut up,” Paul says. He takes a shuddery breath. "And anyway, I don't...uh... I don't think I can."
He bends his leg, somehow going even more red, and John realises with a flush of heat that makes
him slick again that Paul is hard as well. Of course he's hard.

“Maybe you should start thinking of Ivan in the bath an’ all.”

Paul looks like he wants to throttle him, and it’s that which gives John the courage to say, “We
could just… help each other out? Before you go?”

It’s so transparent Paul ought to laugh in his face, but he gave him his chance to leave and if he’s
sticking around then he needs to touch John or he’s going to go fucking mad. At least this way it
would be even, a mutual favour and not just his own desperation.

Paul takes far too long to answer for someone being offered a free hand job. Unless it's just John he
doesn't want one from. "You don't have to, forget I said anything."

"No! No. It's not that. It’s just— Are you sure?”

“Christ sake, Paul, I'm not addled. I just—" really want to have sex with you, he thinks but doesn't
say.

"Alright, but only if you're sure. You—"

John shuts him up by reaching over and palming the obvious bulge in his jeans. Paul makes a
sound like he's going to come instantly and then his hand is tight around John's wrist, holding it fast
like he can’t know John wants.

"Don’t. Let me— Let me do you first."

John doesn’t know what he’s playing at; why he’s making more of this than he needs to. “What
for?”

Paul darts a look at him, then away. John’s hand is still pressed against him, and Paul might have
his wrist but it doesn’t stop him curling his fingers just enough to make Paul groan, eyelashes
fluttering. John watches, so fascinated by his reaction that he almost doesn’t catch his words. “Just
so it’s…fair.”

That makes no sense, but John thinks if he can just get this started, Paul won’t be so weird about it.
"Fine," he says, which is less than gracious, considering, so he amends it to, "We can just see how
it goes."

Paul's mouth twitches like he's trying not to laugh again and his eyes, when they find John's, are
brimming with something fond enough beneath the heat that John thinks this might be alright after
all. That they can do this and not have it ruin everything.

Still, there's a space between dirty fantasies and the reality of Paul releasing his hand and shifting
to kneel in front of him, nervous but intent. After what happened downstairs, John's not so sure he
can control how this goes, and while he's no stranger to throwing himself headfirst into dangerous
situations, this feels reckless in a way he has done everything to avoid since he was fifteen.

Some of that must show on his face, or bleed into his scent, because Paul says, "Hey, Johnny,"
quietly, and when he has his attention, he leans in and kisses him.

It's a shock, and then very quickly it isn't. It's obvious Paul knows what he's doing with this, at
least; God knows he must have had enough practice by now. He kisses with his whole body, one
hand coming up to rest against the side of John's face, moving him so he can kiss him harder and
deeper, pressing close. One of them is making the softest of noises and John has a horrible feeling
it might be him, but it's unbearably good after the long, painful, lonely week to have someone
touch him like this; all the more so when it's Paul.

He's so distracted by the kiss that it's almost a surprise when Paul finally pushes his hand into the
waistband of his pyjama bottoms and wraps it around him. He gasps and thrusts up without
meaning to, breaking the kiss as he tries to catch his breath against the overwhelming feeling that
rushes through him, too much and not enough all at once. Paul kisses his slack mouth, his cheek,
his jaw, dangerously close to where he's most sensitive, his hand working steadily enough that John
feels the edges of his orgasm trying to close over him far too quickly. Paul is clearly unpracticed at
doing this to someone else, and the angle is awkward, but John's body doesn't seem to care in the
slightest.

"Paul," he manages somehow, "Stop or I'll…"

"That's the point," Paul says, kissing him so fiercely that John's hand, which was meant to be
slowing Paul down until he could return the favour, catches hold of his upper arm instead, holding
on like it's a life line.

His thoughts are scattering too fast, but he still has enough sense to say, "No, let me… You too."

Fortunately, Paul seems to get it because he pulls away long enough to throw a leg over John's so
he's astride his thigh and then gets back to it, rubbing himself off clumsily against John even as his
hand works in an inescapable rhythm.

John comes in a blinding rush, his mind gone perfectly, blissfully blank. Paul gentles him through
it, kissing his jaw and murmuring, "there you go," as he tries and fails to catch his breath,
trembling with the shock of it. He's come so many times this week, but this is the first time an
orgasm has felt like a complete event, and not merely a temporary cessation of hostilities.

It's only when Paul shifts his weight back a little that John blinks his eyes open, unable to stop the
flash of panic that goes through him at the idea of Paul leaving him. "Don't—" he starts, not sure
how to say it, but Paul just says, "I won't," before a pained expression crosses his face and he shifts
again. It takes John a few seconds too long to realise that Paul hasn't come yet, and even though his
arm feels like a lead weight, he tugs at the zip of Paul's jeans.

"Off," he mumbles. "C'mon."

Thank god Paul doesn't argue any more. He just moves up onto his knees and wriggles around to
undo his trousers and then, finally, John can get a hand on him too. It's sloppy, sloppier than Paul
was. His hand keeps catching on the bulge at the base of Paul's dick where his knot would be and it
makes Paul jerk forward, panting against John's mouth, his hand flexing on his shoulder in time
with the haphazard movement of it until he comes with a groan that sounds like John's name. As
the tension bleeds out of him, he slumps forward,and the weight of him is exactly what John's been
needing all this time, tethering him to the bed instead of letting him float away. The sharp edge of
his scent has dissipated, giving way to something so sweet and addictive that John noses into the
dip of his neck to chase it, feeling drunk on it. Paul tugs lightly at his hair to pull his head back,
ducking in to kiss him instead. John's vaguely surprised that kissing is still allowed now that
they've both come, but he's not complaining. He kisses him hard, like he wants to, opening his
mouth to deepen it and letting himself slide back and sideways until he's sprawled on the mattress,
Paul half on top of him, and they're kissing like they're never going to stop.

The aftershocks of his orgasm are just starting to blur into something more urgent when Paul pulls
back, flushed and breathless. "Are you—?"

John yanks him back down, desperate to get his mouth on him again, and Paul stops asking stupid
questions and pushes his pyjamas down, working him to completion while John tries to pull him
closer still.

Afterwards John kicks his pyjama bottoms the rest of the way off and crawls up the bed, tugging
Paul with him. Paul is saying something but John is sex stupid and heavy with sleep, and
eventually Paul gives up and just curls around him, carding a hand through his hair as he drifts.
He wakes some time in the night with Paul still wrapped around him and snoring gently in his ear.
He's hard and aching, and it's so easy to move against the warm body beside him until Paul falls
back, letting John climb over him and rub himself off against his hip, Paul's arm wrapped around
his back, holding him safely and urging him on as the need becomes all consuming. He can't stop
shaking afterwards and Paul just lets him take what he wants, lets him kiss him and touch him and
bury his face in the crook of his neck, breathing him in and steadying himself against him as Paul's
hand moves up and down his back, over and over, murmuring nonsense until he can finally fall
asleep again.

The next time he wakes, the room is lit with the thin grey light of dawn and Paul is the one shifting
restlessly against him. The light doesn't register immediately, preoccupied as he is with how good
he feels, with Paul so close, the dark edge of his scent teasing at him and curling low in his
stomach. Then he hears the all too familiar clank and rumble of the milk float and he realises with a
jolt that it's early morning and Paul is still here. He's still here and Mimi must have come back
hours ago. He jerks his head up, half expecting to see her standing by the wardrobe like a harbinger
of doom, but to his immense relief he sees that at some point in the night Paul must have jammed a
chair under the door handle. Not that that's going to make much difference if he's still here when
she wakes up, but it's bought them some time at least.

"Paul," he hisses, horribly conscious of the nearness of Mimi's bedroom. He shoves at him and
tries to sit up — only for Paul to push him back down with a sound that's not far off a growl. John
stares up at him, shocked that this of all things should be turning him on. What the fuck is wrong
with him?

"Paul," he says again, more cautiously this time. He brings a hand up to rub gently at one of the
arms holding him down because while his body is clearly getting on board with this, his mind is
clear enough to know it's a terrible idea right now. "Are you alright?"

Paul's eyes are dark and hazy and there's a hectic flush high on his cheekbones. He frowns down at
John, blinking slowly, before his expression clears, just enough, and he jerks back, rolling off him
to flop onto his back, breathing hard.

"Sorry," he says at the ceiling after an awkward silence.

John twists to look at him. "Are you in rut?"

Paul swallows, then nods. He looks so uncomfortable that John feels the overwhelming urge to do
something about it, but he's not so far gone he doesn't know how that would likely end.

"You can't stay here, Mimi'll be up soon," he says instead, and Paul nods again, grimacing, and
starts to sit up carefully. He still has his jeans on and John can see he's hard, although he's trying to
hide it.

"What time does Mike go to school?" John blurts out, sitting up too. He can't leave Paul like this,
not when this is his fault anyway. Besides it's not like he's going to do anything useful, stuck here
knowing what Paul is doing without him. "I'll come round, if you want? I reckon I owe you."

"You don't."

"I do then. It's only fair."

Paul groans and presses his forehead to his bent knees. John eyes him, wondering if he's in actual
pain. "D'you need to…"
Paul tilts his head to frown at him when he trails off, so John throws in an obscene hand gesture to
get his point across. Paul closes his eyes like he really is in pain and mutters, "He leaves about
eight."

"Alright, well, I'll come round then." Now he comes to think about it… "Probably would've been
easier to go round yours anyway, rather than all this creepin' about. Shame you didn't think of it."

"I didn't know you wanted me over for that, did I?" Paul's face is so red. "I thought it was for the
wedding."

"If I'd known that was on offer I wouldn't have given it up first."

"God, shut up," Paul goes back to pressing his forehead to his knees like he can will John out of
existence that way.

John lifts a tentative hand to rub his back or something but Paul twitches away. "Don't." So John
drops it and shuffles out of bed so Paul won't accidentally touch him on his way out.

He smuggles Paul downstairs, managing by some miracle to avoid every creaky floorboard on the
way. After peering through the letterbox to make sure the coast is clear (and feeling utterly
ridiculous at that), John eases the front door open. There's a hairy moment when Paul is squeezing
through the twelve inch gap John has deemed appropriately discreet for him and his guitar, and
he's so close, and smelling so good, that John starts thinking maybe it wouldn't hurt to just take the
edge off first. But fortunately for them both (and for Mimi's delicate sensibilities) he comes to his
senses in time and shoves Paul outside, closing the door so quickly that he only narrowly
remembers not to slam it.

Then he opens all the windows and shuts himself in the bathroom to scrub all traces of Paul from
his skin with Mimi's best soap, running the water as quietly as he can. He has to stop a few times,
disconcerted by how awful it feels, like he's sloughing off a bit of himself with it. By the time he's
done, he's clammy and cold, despite the warmth of the water, but at least he can no longer smell
Paul, and if he can't then Mimi definitely won't. There's not much he can do about the fingerprints
on his arm, but he covers them with a long sleeved shirt and bundles up his pyjamas and sheets
under his bed, pushing them back behind his old suitcase where Mimi won’t find them.

Then there's nothing to do but wait for Mimi to get up while he watches the clock, willing the
hands to move faster. He dithers, smoking his first ciggie in days as he wonders if it will look more
suspicious to be up and about or 'recovering' in his room. In the end, he decides that the further
Mimi stays from the bedroom, the better, and he waits downstairs, nervously putting away two
rounds of toast and a cup of tea in an attempt to settle his queasy stomach before he hears the
telltale creak of the dodgy floorboard outside her room.

When Mimi stops dead just inside the kitchen doorway he thinks she must know. Christ knows, he
feels obvious enough.

"Morning," he says cautiously. "The kettle's still warm."

She stares at him and John realises his leg is jiggling nervously. He stills it and tells himself that
he's eighteen and she can't actually stop him from going to Paul's, any more than she can stop him
having sex with whoever he wants. It's not like he's trying to bond with Paul for fuck's sake, and if
she thinks he's been saving himself for some rich old alpha, that ship has long sailed. Still, he has to
live with her, and she has the Stanley talent for making that pretty bloody difficult if she wants to.

"You look better," Mimi says, and there's definitely a note of suspicion in her voice. She comes
closer and presses a hand against his forehead.

John ducks away, but he's relieved he's still so cold and clammy. It'll be more convincing than if he
was completely normal again. "I told you I was. I reckon it broke in the night. I still feel a bit
rubbish but there's no need for that doctor now." He considers making up a headache as well, just
to make his gradual recovery a bit more authentic, but then decides against it. No need to push his
luck.

"Hmmm." Mimi takes a seat at the table and scrutinises him some more while John does his best to
look like butter wouldn't melt (it’s not exactly his natural expression). But then a look of relief
crosses her face and John realises that, impossibly, he's gotten away with it. "Well," she says,
pouring herself a cup of tea. "At least that foolishness is over now. I hope you've learned your
lesson about trying to interfere with things you shouldn't." John assumes from her pinched
expression that she means the suppressants he officially never took, even if she can't bring herself
to refer to them directly. "Nature has to take its course, John, however much you might prefer
otherwise. There's a reason things are done the way they are."

John squashes the instinct to argue, just this once. As little as he wants to admit it, he supposes
nature did take its course this time, although not in any way Mimi would approve of. It's not that
far a leap from that to thinking about what Paul might be doing now, if he's waiting for John or if
he's made a start without him. Then he cuts that train of thought off ruthlessly, wondering if the
heat has warped his brain. If he's just going to be horny all the time now he's off the suppressants,
it's going to be pretty bloody inconvenient.

Eight o’clock comes and goes and Mimi is holding forth on some church bazaar John couldn't give
a shit about, quite honestly, while he sits there feeling like he's about to vibrate out of his skin.
Another fifteen minutes creep by and he thinks Mike must have left for school by now.

"I told Mrs Pritchard it wouldn't do, but she must think she knows best of course," Mimi says,
beginning to gather the breakfast things at a pace that would put an arthritic snail to shame.

"She sounds like a right cow," John says, pressing on the fingerprints on his arm through his shirt
sleeve. He gets a light cuff to the head for his trouble, before Mimi tells him all the ways Mrs
Pritchard is blatantly a cow even if he's apparently not allowed to call her one.

"I'm going to Pete's," he announces when the clock in the hall strikes the half hour and Mimi's still
going. "I promised him I'd go round when I was feeling a bit better."

Mimi looks annoyed to be interrupted. "On a weekday?"

"He gets Tuesdays off," John lies.

As it is, it's nearly nine before he actually escapes, forcing himself to walk casually down the path
like he's not really fucking late for something. The golf course seems to have doubled in size
overnight, and by the time he gets to Forthlin Road half of Allerton seems to be out and about. He
slips round the back of Paul's terrace, letting himself into the yard and chucking a bit of gravel at
Paul's window.

The curtains are drawn and still, and John briefly entertains the horrible thought that maybe Paul
isn't waiting for him at all when the back door opens and he's there, squinting out like it's mid-
August and not an overcast October morning.

"Sorry I'm late," John says, hurrying inside. "Mimi was on at me again."
He starts to close the door behind him but Paul speeds up the process by the simple method of
crowding him against it and kissing him like he's been waiting days, not hours.

"Right. Okay," John manages between kisses. "Just gettin' right to it then."

"Off," Paul says, tugging his shirt loose from his jeans, and while John is very much on board with
that, he's not on board with giving the neighbours a show, and that's exactly what will happen if
Paul starts trying to undress him in the kitchen.

Still, it takes longer than it should for him to pull enough brainpower together to knock Paul's
hands away and say, "Can we at least go upstairs first?"

Paul pulls back, blinking slowly. This close, his eyes look enormous and endlessly dark and the
surge of lust John feels is tinged with apprehension. He's never actually been around an alpha in rut
before, and while he could never be afraid of Paul of all people, he can't help trying to diffuse
some of the tension building between them. "I've got a reputation to uphold, you know."

Paul's brow furrows and then he scoffs, quietly, the intensity of his expression easing a little.

"I didn't say it was a good reputation," John says, relieved. He nudges Paul's hand with his own,
then joins them together. Then he kisses Paul once, quickly, and pulls him out of the kitchen before
he loses his nerve. It seemed easier last night when he felt desperate and out of it, then now when
he feels no less desperate but far more aware of all the ways this could go wrong.

Paul follows him easily enough and his acquiescence steadies John. Stepping into Paul's bedroom
feels a little like dowsing himself in his scent and he can't help his reaction. He knows Paul is well
aware of it from the sharp intake of breath behind him and the way his gaze is fixed on him as John
closes the door and pulls the curtains together. The room is dim, despite it being morning, and he
briefly considers turning the light on before deciding against it.

Then there's nothing else to do except get on with it, whatever it is. "C'mere then," he says, and
Paul instantly closes in and kisses him. It feels as good as it did last night, though with a hard,
possessive edge that's definitely new. In the rare times he'd thought about doing this with an alpha
(or rather having it done to him) he'd never expected it to involve quite so much kissing, hyper
focused as he was on how to fucking avoid it; but Paul is clearly into it and his enthusiasm is
irresistible. It doesn't take him long to start tugging at John's shirt again but his hands are shaking
too much to manage the buttons so John breaks away and does it himself, shrugging it off onto the
floor and pulling impatiently at the hem of Paul's t-shirt until he clumsily co-operates and yanks it
over his head. His jeans are next, and then Paul's pyjama bottoms, and then John shucks his
underwear too because it's not like he doesn't know where this is going.

Paul sways closer and John pauses, eyeing him, unsure how far gone he is, or will be, and needing
to say it before this starts. "You can't knot me," he says baldly, because they can't risk a bond,
however unlikely that is. "Macca? Are you listening?" He sounds ridiculous, like some bird
worried about getting knocked up, but Paul nods, says "Yeah," then "I won't, I promise," and he
decides that will have to do. He either trusts Paul or he doesn't, and on the whole he thinks he does.

There's a wash of red across Paul's cheekbones now that wasn't there before so John kisses him and
lets himself be pushed backward until the backs of his legs hit the edge of the bed and he drops
down onto it, the springs creaking loudly as Paul follows him and gets right back to the kissing. It's
harder to focus like this. There is so much bare skin now and everywhere Paul brushes against him
feels so sensitive that he wants to press into it and away from it at the same time.

"Johnny," Paul is saying, over and over between kisses. "I want…" He ducks down before John can
respond and presses his mouth to his neck, sucking hard on the pulse point, and John nearly jack-
knifes off the bed, totally unprepared for the near painful arousal that surges through him. It's only
Paul's weight pressing him down that keeps him still, but somehow that just makes the feeling
more intense, skirting the edge of too much. His hand flies to Paul's hair, as if to pull him away, but
then Paul scrapes his teeth over the bruise he’s made, sharp, and John’s hand clenches
convulsively instead, holding him there. It must hurt, but Paul doesn't seem to care; he just licks
and sucks at the sensitive hollow until John is hard and slick and open, his dick aching with how
much it needs to be touched. He tries to reach for it himself but Paul is in the way so he's reduced
to shifting helplessly against the bed, trying to get the leverage to rub off against Paul where he's
hunched over him, tantalisingly out of reach.

"Paul," he gasps, when the frustration becomes unbearable. "Move over, I need to come. Let me
just…"

Paul lifts his head, his hair already a disaster from John's fingers and gaze unfocused. John lifts his
hips to try and make his point and get a little bloody relief and Paul looks down, frowning.

"C'mon," John mutters, pushing at him to mean 'move' but Paul must hear something very different
because he crawls backwards and puts his fucking mouth there instead.

John swears so loudly he has to hope Paul's neighbours aren't having a weekday lie-in. He claps a
hand over his mouth and stares down at Paul, then closes his eyes so he doesn't come immediately.
Paul has a hand wrapped around him, moving so lightly it's maddening as he works his mouth
tentatively over the head. He has no idea if Paul is any good at this. Most likely he isn't but it
doesn't matter, the movement of his hand and the wet heat of his mouth on and around his dick is
sending shocks of such intense pleasure through him that his thighs are already trembling with the
effort of holding still.

He tries to breathe through the feeling, to focus, but he can't help moving his hand restlessly over
Paul's hair, the curve of his ear and his jaw, and when Paul breaks off to kiss his palm, quick and
sweet, it somehow makes the whole thing worse.

After last night he thinks he should try and have more bloody stamina. There's a world on the other
side of this, impossible as it seems right then, and he has to be able to look Paul in the eye and not
be thinking about how he shot off in thirty seconds flat every time he got his hand or mouth
anywhere near him. The feeling is relentless though, building and tightening unbearably until he
has to gasp out a warning. Paul moves away just in time, which is probably a good thing for what's
left of John's sanity.

He tugs Paul up afterwards so he can kiss him messily, letting his thighs fall open like he's wanted
to all along for Paul to settle between them, moving in a rough simulation of what they both
probably want, if the empty feeling inside is anything to go by. He feels strung out and
oversensitive, so wet now that Paul moves easily, the push and pull stoking a feeling so reminiscent
of his heat that he groans into the kiss, bites at Paul's jaw, urging him on with his hands because
somehow, even after just coming, he needs more. When Paul collapses onto him after, sweaty and
trembling, it still doesn't feel anywhere near enough.

The rest of the morning and much of the afternoon passes in the same feverish rush. John thinks his
dick should have given up sometime before lunch, but Paul's rut seems to have teased one last gasp
out of his heat and however much he gets of Paul, he still needs more. They sleep occasionally, in
short snatches that are never long enough, before he wakes up again, or Paul does, and what starts
off as some sleepy kissing and clumsy, wandering hands ends up in another stupefying orgasm.

"Are you tryin' to kill me and take over the band?" John asks, half muffled into the pillow because
he'd been sleeping two minutes ago and now he isn't.

"No," Paul mumbles, nosing at the back of his neck. "Too much trouble to find another guitarist
now."

John rolls over to give him better access, tilting his head so Paul can get back to his preferred
method of torture. He thinks he should be desensitised to it by now but when Paul scrapes his teeth
lightly over the skin of his neck it still goes straight to his dick, making him suck in an unsteady
breath and push up, meeting Paul halfway.

He's napping again some time in the afternoon when the door slams downstairs, jolting him awake
as Paul nearly falls out of the bed in his haste to get up and throw some clothes on before Mike gets
the shock of his life. He's barely gone a few minutes but it feels like longer, giving John time
enough to remember there are other people in the world and to feel an unwelcome prickling of
awareness of what he and Paul have been doing the entire bloody day (and night for that matter).

"What did you tell him?" he asks, when Paul comes back in. He wonders if this is his cue to get up
and dress as well, however impossible the thought of leaving is.

"I gave him ten bob to go to the pictures," Paul says, which isn't really an answer but he starts
pulling his t-shirt off over his head and it's distracting enough that John lets it pass. It's nothing but
a relief when Paul discards his trousers and climbs back into bed and over John, kissing him
insistently enough that he doesn't have to think about any of it for a while longer.

It's properly dark out when the needs of John's bladder, and his stomach, become too urgent to
ignore.

"Paul?" He runs a hand over his back, marvelling at how smooth it feels, then prods him in the ribs
before he can distract himself again. "You hungry?"

Paul wakes up slowly this time, squinting up at John in a way that reminds him of the morning in
Stu's flat. It seems like a thousand years ago now. "Are you?" His voice is scratchy from sleep and
other less savoury things and John has to stamp out his natural reaction to that before it can take
hold. Christ knows how he's going to cope with Paul's voice after long rehearsals from now on.

"Aye, me stomach thinks me throat's been cut. Don't s'pose you've got any food going?"

He's expecting some sarky reply, since John has never been shy about raiding the McCartney
kitchen, but Paul rolls over and sits up immediately. "What do you want?"

"Uh…" John wasn't expecting a choice so he hazards "Cheese on toast?" Because everyone has
bread and cheese, don't they? And just like that, Paul gets up and starts casting around for his
clothes, apparently intent on making John some cheese on toast. If he'd known it was going to be
that easy he'd have asked for a bacon butty.

By the time John has dressed, pissed, and stared into his soul in the tiny bathroom mirror, trying
not to notice the way his neck looks like it's been attacked by a vampire, there's a mouthwatering
smell coming from downstairs. Possibly the cheese on toast smells even better than Paul and that's
no mean feat today of all days.

He pads downstairs and into the kitchen, taking advantage of Paul's preoccupation with the grill
pan to observe him unnoticed. He looks as rumpled as John, hair sticking up every which way and
the marks of John's mouth and hands clearly visible on the exposed skin of his neck and arms as he
deftly handles plates and toast. It makes John feel strange; awkward and fragile in a way he doesn't
want to examine too closely if they're going to get back to normal after this. If Paul's ever going to
see him as John again and not some pathetic, clinging mess.

Paul takes the kettle off the boil and flashes him a quick smile, like he'd known he was hovering in
the doorway all along. "Go and sit down, I'll bring it through."

John's not sure why he's getting table service, but he's not going to complain. Safe in the front
room, he looks at the smiling face of Mrs. McCartney and tries not to wonder what she'd think of it
all. That Paul was an innocent little choir boy, probably – and maybe he was, once upon a time, but
he certainly isn't now, not based on recent evidence.

It's just John's luck that no sooner have his thoughts drifted in that dangerous direction then Paul
appears with a tray like the world's most enticingly dishevelled waiter. "There you go," he says,
handing John a heaped plate and putting a mug of tea carefully on the side table before he catches
John's eye and says, "what?" all defensive.

"Nothing," John says. The fragile feeling is still there, and with it such a swell of affection that he's
sure Paul will see it in his face if he's not careful. So he adds, "I can't believe what I had to do to
finally get some service round here."

Paul looks like he can't believe those words just came out of John's mouth, and it's such a normal
expression on him that John immediately feels better. He grabs a piece of toast and takes a bite,
waggling his eyebrows obnoxiously.

Paul's expression cycles from disbelief to exasperation to grudging amusement, mouth tugging up
at the corners. "You haven't heard what I'm charging for breakfast yet."

John feels warm all over at the implicit promise. "Am I stayin' for breakfast then?"

"I don't know, are you?"

John had assumed he would be leaving as soon as he'd eaten. The fact they’d made it out of bed at
all suggested Paul's rut was on the outs and he doesn't have much excuse for hanging round longer
without it, not without his guitar anyway. Still, if Paul's offering… "Can do, I s'pose. The breakfast
better be worth it though."

Paul smiles at him properly then, the eye crinkling one John likes, and drops down beside him,
starting on his own food. It feels stupidly domestic, sitting side by side like this. Paul reaches
across him to switch the radio on and they eat to the low accompaniment of the BBC playing some
old forties numbers that Paul can't help tapping his feet to.

John doesn't hear the front door opening and closing and it's only when Paul goes tense beside him
that he looks up to see Mike standing in the doorway with his coat still on, staring at them like
they're a particularly interesting zoo exhibit.

Paul darts a look at him, nervous, so John swallows a mouthful of toast and cheese and says,
"Evenin' Michael. Good film, was it?" like this is a perfectly normal event and not horrifically
embarrassing.

"Yeah," Mike says. He slowly comes the rest of the way in and takes a seat in his dad's armchair
opposite, looking from John to Paul and back again, wide eyed.

Paul clears his throat. “What did you see?” His leg is jiggling up and down and John almost
reaches out to still it before he thinks better of it.
It takes Mike a while to answer. “Uh… King Creole.” He keeps glancing at Paul and then back to
John and then down to John’s neck which, thanks to Paul’s ministrations, is pretty hard to ignore,
so John decides to brazen it out.

"Aye, your brother's a vampire, son," he says, licking grease off his fingers. Mike looks fairly
horrified by this information but Paul’s, “John!” comes a little late and there’s a telltale flush
creeping over his face even as his scent takes on the edge John can’t help but recognise now. He
takes his fingers out of his mouth and Paul looks away.

“Are you…” Mike blurts out, then stops. John’s pretty sure he knows what he’s going to ask but
it’s a welcome distraction from the unfortunate way he’s reacting to Paul reacting, so he raises an
eyebrow and dares Mike to finish, which he does, falteringly, “Are you two bonded now then?”

John just about manages not to laugh at him. He can see what this might look like. Or rather what it
would look like if it was anyone but John sitting here. If it was Sue, the McCartneys would
probably be throwing a party – after the trip to the Bonding Office of course.

“'Fraid not,” he says, to save Paul the trouble. “Macca here is saving himself for true love.” It
comes out more sour than he’d meant it to, so he forces a smirk. “Getting some practice in before
bonded bliss an’ all that shite.”

Mike is frowning. "But—"

"Ignore him, he's winding you up," Paul says, and John has a lurching awareness of something
wrong the second before he stands and begins gathering the plates and cups. John’s still got at least
two mouthfuls of tea in his mug but Paul takes it anyway, ignoring his attempt to snatch it back as
he disappears into the kitchen.

He stares after him.

“He’s touchy about bonds,” Mike says quietly into the uneasy silence that follows. When John
looks at him, he shrugs. “Mum and dad were bonded bliss an’ all that shite.”

He says it mildly enough but John feels the unspoken rebuke anyway, and with it, a prickle of guilt.
He should have known that Paul had a perfect alpha/omega love story to go with his genetic first
prize, musical talent, and everything else. Well, he catches himself, not that perfect or Mrs.
McCartney would still be here, wouldn’t she? It’s that thought which prods him off of the settee
and into the kitchen where Paul is washing up with the kind of single minded focus he usually
reserves for his guitar, or, more recently, John — which is just another reason to rein his natural
desire to be a dick at all times.

“I didn’t mean your mum and dad.”

“Alright,” Paul says, stiff, and John doesn’t need the heightened awareness bestowed by his heat,
or the lack of suppressants, or whatever it is to know he doesn’t think it’s alright at all.

He picks up the tea towel and starts drying the plates, sneaking a look at Paul. He bloody hates
talking about this stuff but he hates the thought of Paul being upset with him more, so. “I only
meant that not everyone’s bond is happy like that. Some people think it’s what they want, but it
isn’t.”

Paul has fallen still, frowning down at the water. “What do you mean?” he says, after a moment.

“Well, like my mum and dad,” John says, awkward, because Paul must have guessed some of this,
even if he doesn’t know all the gory details. “Starts off as a grand romance and ends with him
doing a runner once I was born – then she's stuck with no alpha and a bond she can't get rid of for
ages.”

“I would never do that.”

“I know that,” John says, because he’s not a complete idiot. Paul’s one of those alphas omegas
dream of and rarely get – he’d be writing love songs and staring into their eyes as they shagged and
all that stuff. Having now had a preview of the latter, he can see why it would be a hard dream to
give up. “I was just being a miserable bastard, you know me.”

He means it as an apology but Paul just says, “I do,” and doesn’t look particularly cheered by the
thought, his scent still nagging at John. He casts around for something to say to try and get things
back to how they were before Mike came in and he went and opened his big mouth.

“It sounds like your mum and dad made a better go of it anyroad.” He knocks his shoulder lightly
against Paul's and he doesn't move away, which is something. “Not that I can imagine your dad
going courting, mind.”

Paul wrinkles his nose and it makes John want to kiss him, which is pretty ridiculous. “I try not to
think about it.”

“D’you reckon he wooed her with jazz?” Paul looks vaguely horrified at the idea, which is all the
more reason to treat him to a few warbly lines of ‘I'm In The Mood For Love’ in what is possibly
his worst ever impression of Jim. He’s never been as good at doing voices as Paul but it doesn’t
matter because Paul snorts at it anyway, ducking his head to try and pretend he’s not laughing.

John grins, pleased, and gives up the pretence of helping with the washing up to help himself to the
packet of digestives Jim thinks he’s hiding behind the bread bin instead, crunching obnoxiously.

“I don’t think he had to do much wooing anyway,” Paul’s smile turns a little softer as he looks at
John. “Dad reckoned they just saw each other and…” He makes a vague hand gesture that’s
evidently meant to convey something. “You know. He just knew.”

John frowns. “What, like love at first sight?”

“Yeah. I mean, it can happen to alphas and omegas. If they’re right for each other and that.” He
sort of trails off at the end, reddening under John’s stare.

“Know that for a fact do you?” he drawls.

He says it to tease but Paul just says, “I do, actually,” like he’s daring him to argue, and he doesn’t
quite know what to say to that. Nothing that wouldn’t accidentally insult his mum and dad again
anyway. There’s a short silence and then Paul puts the dish cloth down and turns to him properly.
“Haven’t you ever thought about it? I have.”

John laughs nervously, because bloody hell, this is not a conversation he wants to have with Paul
today or ever. He’s not even sure what he’s being asked. Has he ever thought about bonding?
Love? 'Just knowing' or whatever Paul is banging on about? He thinks fleetingly of Woolton fete
and confuses himself, but that's hardly what Paul is talking about, and he feels stupid for even
thinking of it, a surge of unruly omega hormones worlds away from the choirs of angels and
heartstopping romance that Paul is no doubt imagining.

“Can’t say I have, no."

Paul just sighs. “Course you haven’t.”

At least it’s not Sue, John thinks, if Paul is still thinking about it, or hoping for it. But still, “Why’re
you in such a rush anyway? You don’t need to worry about all that yet.”

“When should I worry about it then?”

"Dunno." John digs another digestive out of the sadly depleted packet as an excuse not to look at
Paul for a moment. “Wait til we’re famous at least. You’ll get more choice that way."

“I'm not sure it works like that.”

John pulls a face. “It should then. Imagine who you might get landed with otherwise.”

“Yeah. Imagine,” Paul says, watching him shed crumbs all over the lino.

“Fuck off, I’m a prize,” John says, relieved they’re back on more familiar ground. “A hundred
years ago, some rich bastard would have paid Mimi a fortune for me.”

There’s a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of Paul’s mouth again. “Sorry I’ve only got the
biscuits then.”

That startles a laugh out of John. “Aye, you got yourself a bargain, son.” It should probably feel
weirder, joking about this stuff with Paul, but somehow Paul is the only person he could joke about
it with. “Mind you, I reckon getting to lie around all day in some posh house and not having to
work would be alright.”

Paul takes the biscuits off him before he can demolish them completely. “I thought you did that
anyway.”

“Bloody slander,” John says, although it isn’t. He's done fuck all for months now, ever since Julia,
but he doesn’t want to think about that now. “Anyway I’d rather do it ‘cause I’m rich and famous.”

“We’ll be too busy writing new songs and going on tours to lie around though,” Paul points out,
entirely too reasonably, and John is going to stop including him in his plans for the future if he’s
going to be such a bloody killjoy about it.

“I’m not doing all this work to work, Macca.”

Paul opens his mouth to no doubt make another rude comment about the amount of work John is in
fact doing, so he shoves the wet dish cloth in his face to shut him up and that ends the conversation
pretty effectively.

They spend the rest of the evening watching telly, and even though the play they've got on has
some silly side story about a mopey omega, John keeps his cynical thoughts to himself. They’d
have to be wasted on Mike anyway, since Paul started dozing off at about half past eight like a
granddad and is currently slumped against John, his head perilously close to resting on his
shoulder. Like this, the neck of his t-shirt is worn and loose, exposing a mark on his collar bone
made by John’s mouth and the thought of it sends an unexpected proprietary thrill through him.
He’s not sure what it says about him that he’s feeling any kind of thrill when Paul is snoring lightly
with his mouth hanging open. He decides to blame it on the sense memory of his weight pressed
against him and the lingering effects of his heat. He slides down a little so Paul is leaning more
comfortably, and then looks back towards the telly in time to catch Mike watching them. He
freezes, face heating as he wonders how long Mike has been watching him watching Paul sleeping
like a creep. But Mike doesn’t say anything, he just smiles, faint, and turns back to the telly like he
didn't notice anything at all.
When the programmes finish for the night John nudges Paul with his elbow, overly conscious now
of their audience.

Paul jerks awake, looking confused as he clocks the silent telly, then mumbles, “How long was I
asleep?”

He has a crease mark from John’s shirt on his cheek. “Long enough to miss Dancing Club,” John
says. “Victor Silvester was teachin' the Cha Cha."

Paul grimaces. "In that case, thanks for not waking me up." He gets to his feet and stretches, then
looks at John. “You coming to bed then?”

John can practically feel Mike’s eyes on him so he forces himself to react like that’s a perfectly
normal thing for Paul to say and definitely not something he had a full body reaction to. He coughs.
“Aye, alright," and they leave Mike to it, albeit with a warning from Paul that he better still be up
for school in the morning.

The situation is not improved by the state of Paul’s bedroom, which smells of him, and Paul, and
sex — the bed such a hopeless, obvious mess that the sight of it would probably kill Mimi on the
spot. As it is, there’s a brief, charged silence before Paul yanks the worst of the sheets off the bed
and bundles them into his wardrobe, the back of his neck a distracting pink. Unless he plans on
bundling himself into the wardrobe as well, John’s not sure how much difference that will make,
but he appreciates the thought.

He didn't think to bring any pyjamas with him, of course, so John just strips off to his t-shirt and
underwear. It's not as if Paul hasn't seen everything there is to see now anyway. Then he gets into
bed, trying and failing to beat some life into the flat excuse for a pillow as Paul gets undressed and
climbs in beside him like this is something they do every night.

He catches John on the shin twice while he's wriggling around to get comfortable so it’s a bit much
when he says, “Shove over, I’m almost falling off the edge and your feet are freezing.”

John huffs and shifts across as much as he can. “Oh aye, very romantic. If you’re practising for
your future omega, it might need some work.” It’s still a squash and there’s not much he can do
about his feet being cold in bloody October but he tries to angle them away anyway. Then he turns
back, just in time for Paul to lean in and kiss him so sweetly that whatever sarky remark he’d been
about to make dies an embarrassingly swift death. He makes a surprised noise and Paul brings a
hand up, brushing it against his jaw as he kisses him again, lingering over it until John can’t
remember what he was even annoyed about in the first place.

It takes a moment too long to blink his eyes open after Paul draws back. The bastard is smirking.
“Better?”

“Fuck off,” he says, when he can remember how to speak and also why he was annoyed.

But Paul just grins, looking far too pleased with himself, and says, in a terrible impression of John,
“Oh aye, very romantic. Might need some work."

John kicks him with his cold feet, making him jerk back with a hiss. He's laughing though and John
suddenly feels deeply, bitterly jealous of his faceless future omega. Bonds wouldn't be half so bad,
he thinks, if they could be more like this. More like hanging out with your best mate, just with sex
when you want it as well.

"You're a bloody menace," John says, since Paul is watching him, clearly waiting for some witty
Lennon comeback. It's pretty crap, as comebacks go, but Paul doesn't seem to notice. He's still
smiling as he flops back down and after a moment John lies down too, pressed shoulder to shoulder
with Paul as he stares up at the shadowy ceiling and thinks about what a bloody weird day this has
been.

“We should have a band practice tomorrow,” Paul says into the silence, because apparently he's
incapable of just drifting off peacefully when he could be making a To Do list. But then, John
thinks, they only have another three days til the gig and it’s not Colin they’ve been waiting for, is
it?

It’s that which makes him say, “I was going to ring you, to say I wasn’t coming I mean. I just kept
hoping I wouldn’t have to.”

There’s a faint rustle as Paul turns his head on the pillow. “What were you going to say was wrong
with you this time?”

John supposes he deserves that one. “Dunno. Something infectious I reckon or Pete would be
round with some grapes. Plague maybe?”

"The clap?"

He considers kicking him again, but he's too warm and comfortable to make the effort so he just
says, "You'd better hope I don't have that."

He hears Paul yawn. "Yeah, you don't need another weird rash."

John says, "What?" before his brain catches up with him and he realises Paul is snickering quietly
to himself like he's bloody hilarious.

"Almost wish I did have it now," he says darkly.

"No you don't. My cousin reckoned Gregory had it and it was awful." He's half mumbling so it
takes John a second to work out what he said.

"Gregory from your birthday?"

"Yeah."

John's silent, mostly out of shock that anyone would want to go anywhere near Gregory's dick.

"I know," Paul says, like he'd spoken the thought out loud.

John huffs, turning on his side away from Paul and yanking the covers up further. "Well, ta for
puttin' that image in my head right before I go to sleep."

Paul pats him somewhere in the region of his shoulder. "You're welcome." Then he rolls into the
space John left behind him so that he's almost curled against his back; close enough that John feels
it all the way down his spine, but with just enough space between them that he's not sure if he's
supposed to. It would be so easy to shift back a little, and he almost does before he remembers that
today was an exception, not some new norm for them.

"Night, Johnny," Paul says, barely audible where he has his face turned into the pillow.

"Night," John says back, and stays where he is.

 Chapter 7

When John wakes up the next morning, it's because Paul is shuffling out of bed, letting a draught
of cold air in under the blankets.

"Sorry," he says, quiet, when John blinks up at him, confused. "You can sleep longer if you want
but I've got to get ready."

It's still dark out and for a perilous moment John wants nothing more than to yank him back under
the covers, curl around him, and go back to sleep. Then his brain wakes the rest of the way up and
he turns his face into the pillow, groaning. If this is the usual effect of post-heat hormones, it's no
wonder people think omegas are clingy, bloody hell.

"Alright?" Paul whispers, paused half out of bed and looking at him like he's suddenly developed
mind reading abilities.

John just mutters, "Too early," and pulls the blankets back over him properly, hoping that Paul will
take the hint and leave him to suffer alone. Which he does, after hesitating just long enough to send
all sorts of wild and inconvenient thoughts racing through John's head.

Of course, it turns out he can't sleep without Paul there. In fact, he can't even settle without Paul
there. Grumbling, he gets out of bed and puts his clothes on, then wanders out to find him,
following the sound of running water to the bathroom where Paul's brushing his teeth as the bath
fills.

"Bit early for a bath, isn't it?" John says, propping himself against the doorway, a safe distance
away.

Paul casts him a sideways look, grimacing around his toothbrush, and yeah, alright, maybe they
could both do with one after yesterday. Certainly before they're seen in public. John's going to have
to sneak in when Mimi's away and use up the rest of her soap.

It's probably not a good idea to hang around while Paul's in the bath so he makes himself go
downstairs to annoy Mike instead. Mike's clearly less of a morning person than his brother, if his
glower is anything to go by, or maybe he just doesn't have the same tolerance for John nicking his
food as Paul does. Either way, it fills the time while he's waiting for Paul to get a bloody move on.

It's barely ten minutes before he appears in the kitchen doorway, looking neat and clean and
smelling absolutely wrong, some hideous soap covering the mix of johnandpaul that John didn't
realise had become necessary until it was gone. It's no different to what John did yesterday of
course, washing off every trace of Paul before he had to face Mimi, but it feels worse somehow
now it's John being sloughed off like so much bath water.

Paul puts some bread under the grill and refills the kettle, chatting lightly with Mike like this is a
normal morning. And it is a normal morning, except for the jittery unease creeping over John.

"Are you hungry?" Paul asks, bumping against him lightly as he passes by to fetch the butter. John
doesn't feel particularly hungry anymore but he takes another piece of toast, and a cup of tea, just
so Paul won't go on about it. Paul keeps looking at him anyway, odd little glances that only serve to
make the unease worse.

The closer the clock ticks towards eight, the stranger John feels, as if it's counting down to the
gallows, not Paul and Mike fucking off to school and John going home to lie around Mendips all
day.

"You alright?" Paul says suddenly. He's still looking at him in that odd way, like John's a headcase
or something, and John hates it.

"I'm fine," he says, a bit too sharply, if Paul's reaction is anything to go by. He wants to ask Paul if
he'd felt all wrong when he'd washed him off too, or if there's something wrong with him. There
must be, for him to be acting so weird when Paul is being so utterly normal. As though none of it
mattered, as though John didn't matter.

He pushes his chair back and stands up, and Paul stares at him, a piece of toast hanging gormlessly
from his fingers. Christ, he really is acting like a headcase. "You're goin' to miss your bus if you
don't get a move on," he says quickly, to cover himself.

"Yeah, okay," Paul says after a moment, but he's still looking too concerned and John forces
himself to be normal. As normal as Paul is being.

"I better get back before Mimi's up anyway." As if Mimi would ever still be in bed at eight o'clock
in the morning.

Happily Paul doesn't know that, and apparently the fear of them getting found out is enough to spur
him into action, because he actually finishes his toast off and starts chivvying Mike along like the
bus is already waiting outside with its engine running.

John doesn't feel any better when they're standing out on the front path though, with Paul standing
too far away, all buttoned up in his coat and scarf. He feels remote and not John's anymore. Not
that he was his anyway. Obviously. It just felt easier to pretend before.

Fuck's sake. He really needs to go home.

"Do you want to tell Colin about practice?" Paul is saying. "I'll tell George. Then we can meet back
here after school, yeah?"

"Yeah, okay," John says, fingers itching for a cigarette. He's not sure how he's supposed to get
through the next eight or more hours if he's acting like this already. He looks away down the road
so he doesn't have to look at Paul, and a few awkward seconds pass.

"Are you sure you're alright?" Paul says again, like a bloody record with its needle stuck.

"I said I was, didn't I?" John snaps, and Paul raises his eyebrows like John's the one being
unreasonable. He tries to pull himself together, at least enough that Paul will stop nagging at him
and he can escape with some dignity intact. "Look, I've just got a lot to do today, that's all."

He has absolutely nothing to do today and Paul surely knows it, but apparently he can take a hint
because after another too long pause he says, "Alright, well, I'll see you tonight?" like he's
reminding John of that fact as much as himself.

"Course," John says, and moves back to let Mike past.

He splits off from Paul and Mike by the golf course, making himself say a casual goodbye and
walk away without a backward glance because the alternative is too unbearably pathetic to
contemplate. Only then there's nothing to do but actually go home, dodging puddles on the way as
a cold drizzle seeps down the back of his collar, a fitting accompaniment to his increasingly shitty
mood.
Mimi's up when he gets back, as he knew she would be, so he has to loiter by the old bus shelter
for ages until he sees her go out and can finally sneak in to quickly wash and change his clothes.
The washing part feels even worse today than it did yesterday, knowing there's no Paul waiting for
him after. But he pushes through the feeling determinedly, because if Paul can do it then he can
too. Afterwards, he only wants to crawl into his bed and stay there, but it still smells too much of
Paul to be any kind of comfort so instead he hauls his disgusting bed sheets and clothes to the
bathroom and does a piss poor job of washing them. By the time he's done and they're hanging, still
dripping, in front of the fire, he feels awful, all turned inside out and guilty for snapping at Paul —
even though Paul's the one fucking off for the day like John doesn't matter so he's not sure why he
should be the one feeling guilty.

He still has at least five hours to kill before he can go back to Forthlin Road so he drags himself out
to replenish his stock of ciggies at the corner shop and then goes to bother Pete on his lunch break.
He has to wear a hideous scarf to hide Paul's ministrations, scratchy on the sensitive skin of his
neck, and he's glad it's the back end of October and not the middle of July or he'd look like a right
idiot.

At least Pete is pleased to see him. It's stopped raining by the time he arrives so they share a bag of
chips and some ciggies in a park nearby, Pete chatting on about training and football. John nods
and makes interested noises, until Pete trails off, halfway through some complaint about some
copper with a grudge against him to say, "You sure you're alright, Johnny?"

John frowns at him, but Pete only looks concerned and a little curious.

"You're the second person to ask me that today. Course I am. I told you I'm better now."

Pete helps himself to another chip. "No need to be a moody bastard then." They eat in silence for a
moment and then he adds, "It's just you seem…different."

"What d'you mean, different?"

Pete looks at him and then his eyes slide away, a faint wash of red on his pale cheeks as he shrugs.
"Nothing. It's probably just 'cause you've been ill."

There's the tiniest hesitation before he says 'ill' but it's enough to make John's stomach drop, sure
that somehow Pete knows what he's really been doing. Well, some of it. He can't know all of it, can
he? Does that mean it's obvious somehow? If it's obvious on John, maybe it will be obvious on
Paul too. The thought of people knowing makes him want to throw up. Or, god, what if Paul tells
someone? Or Mike? He never actually said not to tell anyone, he'd just assumed no-one would. As
if alphas don't go around bragging about their conquests all the time.

"Who was the first person?" Pete asks, oblivious to John's silent breakdown.

"What?"

"You said I was the second person to ask you that today, who was the first?"

"Mimi," he lies, after too long a pause, and Pete nods in understanding, all too familiar with John's
many and varied complaints about Mimi.

But now John feels fucking paranoid about it. About how much people might know, or guess, or
what Paul or Mike might have said. And that makes him think about the gig too, realising for the
first time that he won’t have his suppressants to hide what he is this time. What if it’s like Rosebery
Street all over again?
He knows, distantly, that he's not been entirely rational about pretty much anything since Paul got
out of bed, but he can't shake it. Dread follows him all afternoon as he sits and smokes in his room,
tuning his guitar and running over a few of their songs, trying to focus on the frets and not the
clock counting down to 4 o’clock.

As it is, he's late anyway, Mimi catching him on the way out to bend his ear about the wet sheets.
You'd think she'd appreciate his help for once, but apparently he can't do anything right today.

By the time he gets to Forthlin Road he feels fucking awful, anxiety roiling in his gut, and it's a
shock when Paul opens the door and has the nerve to look happy to see him.

"I started to think you weren't coming."

He ushers John into the hallway and then hovers, helping him take his coat off like he's a
cloakroom attendant before John has the wherewithal to shrug him off and say, irritably, "I told
you I was busy."

Paul's smile drops and it makes John feel hot with guilt and then annoyed for feeling guilty again
when for all he knows Paul has been blabbing his mouth off all day.

Things aren't much better when they go through to the front room where George and Colin are
waiting. Not only does he have to make up some stupid reason for wearing a scarf indoors when
they've got the fire going, he's also sure George is looking at him funny. If he is, it's Paul's fault so
he ignores him clearing a space for John next to him and sits as far away as he can, for deniability.
Then he tries not to look at him, except when they're singing and he has to, until he catches George
watching them and stops doing that too.

All in all, it's a pretty crap practice, and when Colin asks, mildly enough, "Are you sure you're not
hot in that scarf, John? You look boiling," he announces he’s going outside for a ciggie and escapes
to the back step where, inevitably, Paul follows him not thirty seconds later.

“You ignoring me now then?”

“Don’t be daft,” John says, shortly. Paul sits down on the step beside him and John holds himself
still, refusing to give in to the temptation to just lean into him like he wants to. Paul might not smell
of johnandpaul anymore but he doesn't smell so much of that awful soap either, and John wants
nothing more than to breathe him in. He shifts away a little instead, not that that makes much
difference, squashed together as they are, but it's enough that Paul notices. Maybe he'll take the
hint. “I’m just trying not to make things weird, alright?"

“Well, it’s definitely working,” Paul says, taking no hints whatsoever as he reaches over to pluck
John’s cigarette from his fingers. He takes a deep drag of it, blowing out a long plume of smoke
into the cold air. “No-one knows, Johnny.”

He says it quietly but John looks over his shoulder to the shadowed, empty hallway anyway, as if
expecting to see everyone he's ever met huddled there listening.

"Mike knows," he says at last. He can't believe he just sat there last night like it was normal for
Mike to see him like that.

Paul frowns a little, watching him fidget. "He won't say anything."

"And George won't either, I s'pose?"

Paul looks properly affronted at that. “I didn't tell George. Do you think I ran off to tell everyone at
school?”

Just the thought of it getting out at the Inny makes John cold. All those swaggering shithead alphas
that tried it on and got a smack for it and he ends up begging a sixteen year old from the grammar.
“I don’t know.” If it was the other way around, he might've. Maybe. Then he sees Paul's
expression. “Alright, no. But just, he keeps looking at me."

Paul stubs out what's left of the cigarette like it's personally offended him. "If he keeps looking at
you, it's probably because you've been acting like you're on the run from the police all night and
I've got something infectious."

There's an obvious thread of hurt in his voice and it crumbles away a little more of John's certainty.
Maybe it is a bit mad now he's actually sitting here with Paul to think he'd have gone bragging
about what happened, but then the whole day has been a bit mad.

He taps out a nervous rhythm on his thighs, and avoids looking at Paul as he says, "I dunno what's
wrong with me today."

Paul doesn't say anything for a moment, then, "I think it's my fault, I shouldn't have left this
morning. I knew something was wrong."

John rolls his eyes, even if Paul can't see it. "Not everything is about you, Paul."

"No, but…I think this is. You're not supposed to leave an omega afterwards, or they might feel
aban—" he catches John's eye, "unsettled. But I thought that meant for a few hours, not…" he
gestures vaguely, which John takes to mean 'all the next day as well'. Trust John to be the awkward
one.

"I'm not a bird," he says, feeling annoyed and too exposed. He wonders if that was the only reason
Paul wanted him to stay the night, just to check on him, and it makes him feel worse.

"I know that. But it's…instinctive, you know. You can't help it." Paul looks like he's not enjoying
having this conversation any more than John is, which is some consolation.

"Says who?"

"No-one, I read it in a book." Paul picks at a loose thread on his jeans, his hand so close to John's
they're almost touching. "Mum had all these medical books for her job and after I presented I used
to nick them to read. So I'd know what to do."

There's something painfully endearing about that, and completely unsurprising. Of course Paul
would want to be the best at being an alpha as well.

"Still cocked it up though," he adds, quietly.

John thinks if anyone cocked it up, it's him. If he'd just found a way to get through his heat by
himself, Paul would never be in this mess with him. "Good thing I don't count then. At least you'll
know now for the proper go."

Paul doesn't say anything to that.

"These books of yours…" He feels Paul turn towards him but he keeps his eyes fixed ahead on the
dark yard. "Did they say anything about… you know, about people being able to tell you've had a
heat with someone?"
"George doesn't know anything, John." He sounds exasperated, which immediately puts John's
back up.

"I don't mean George. Pete was weird today an' all. He said there was something different about
me and I thought he might mean... That."

"Oh," Paul says. "Well, there is something different about you. You're not on suppressants
anymore, even betas would notice that."

John absorbs that. That means George and Colin would notice too. Have noticed already, probably.
And everyone else. “I s’pose everyone will know at the gig then,'' he says at last.

“That you’re not on suppressants?” Paul sounds confused.

“That I’m an omega,” John says, annoyed that he has to spell it out.

“Everyone knows that anyway, John, come on.” John turns to glare at him and he looks awkward.
“I just mean… It’s a bit more…obvious now, that’s all.” When John doesn’t respond, he adds,
quietly, “George’s cousin knew who we were when she booked us.”

He means of course that she knew who John was. Maybe she’s another one of those progressive
types. Or maybe Mrs. Harrison’s just a hard woman to say no to (John’s met her and she is). “Aye,
well, she might not have known she was getting the all natural version.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Paul says sharply.

“You sound like one of those leaflets from the Bonding Office.” Mimi had brought enough of them
home when he presented, and he'd looked at one one day, just for a second before it went in the
bin. The bit about omegas embracing their nature had been enough for him. “I’m starting to think
they oversold the whole thing if I'm honest.”

Paul’s hand twitches on his knee like he wants to reach out but thinks better of it. “Only this bit
though, the rest of it was alright.”

There's more than a hint of a question in his voice and it takes a moment for John to realise what he
means. He flicks him an irritated look. “What do you want? A review?”

“No,” Paul says, huffy now. “I just meant—”

“His enthusiasm is admirable, but watch out, he bites,” John says in a silly voice, and then regrets it
the moment Paul’s eyes drop to his bloody scarf and he feels his whole stupid body flush when he
thinks about what it’s covering. Fuck's sake. He leans forward to press his forehead to his bent
knees so he doesn’t have to see Paul anymore. He doesn't know why he's being such a shit. Maybe
Paul's book was right.

"It should pass in a couple of days," Paul says, after an uncertain pause.

"You make it sound like Mimi's kidney stone."

"Aye, drink plenty of water, lad, and think of Elvis," Paul says in a broad Yorkshire accent which
John assumes is meant to be a doctor. He doesn't sound annoyed at John, at least, not if he's
cracking out the impressions.

John blows out a long breath. "I feel like I've gone barmy."
Paul falls silent and John can feel his gaze on him, although he pretends he can't. He thinks about
starting another cigarette, just for something to do with his hands, but he's already running low as it
is.

"You could stay here again tonight, if you want?"

Paul sounds so careful, like he thinks John might take offence at the offer, even after everything
they've done. John almost wishes he did feel offended. As it is, he can measure just how terrible an
idea it would be by how badly he wants to say yes. But he's not a charity case.

"Best not," he says, still talking to his knees. "I'm not wearing this bloody scarf again."

Paul reaches out to tug lightly at a bit of it and the back of his knuckles accidentally graze the
underside of John's jaw, making him shiver. "It looks like a piece of carpet."

John takes a steadying breath. "Feels like one too. It was this or Mimi's face powder and I'm not
sure I made the right choice."

Paul snickers and finally John sits up a bit, the better to kick his foot.

"Sorry," Paul says, not sounding all that sorry really.

There's a muffled burst of guitar from somewhere behind them, reminding John that George and
Colin are stuck waiting for them to have their heart to heart, or row, or whatever they think is
going on out here.

"We should probably go back in."

Paul makes a face. "Yeah, probably. Before Colin rewrites the set list." He pushes to his feet and
turns, looking down at John for a moment. "Are you going to stop ignoring me now?"

"Dunno. I've quite enjoyed not having to look at you." It's only half a joke; being annoyed with
Paul is simpler than probing whatever this soft thing is underneath.

"Hilarious." Paul holds out a hand. "C'mon then."

John hesitates only a second before he takes it, letting Paul pull him up as he tries not to react to
how good it still feels to touch him. It's probably obvious though because Paul doesn't immediately
let go of him, instead fitting their hands together more securely and tugging John back into the
hallway, only letting go as he opens the door to the front room.

"I banked the fire a bit," George says when he sees them, "before we all died of heat stroke."

John can't help looking at him suspiciously, but George looks almost offensively normal, idly
strumming some Buddy Holly as he glances from John back to the neatly written setlist. Paul sees
him looking and widens his eyes at him meaningfully which John assumes means 'stop being such
a paranoid bastard' and alright, for once he'll take the point – although Paul doesn't need to know
that. Maybe George had just been distracted by the scarf all along.

He gets through the rest of the evening more or less with his dignity intact (such as it is). They run
through all the songs on the list, although John does the soppier shite under duress. He's really not
in the mood for it.

"It's a wedding," Paul says, shrugging off his guitar and dropping down next to him. "We have to
play some soppy ones."
"So you can croon to all the grannies?" John squints down at the list, weighing each choice against
the mental image of Paul singing it two feet away from him. At this rate they'll have to scrap the
lot.

"It's why I got into this business, son," Paul says, his Yorkshire accent making a surprise
reappearance. He leans against John, their arms pressed together as he reads through the list over
his shoulder. It's alarming what an improvement this makes to John's mood. Again. He looks
sideways at Paul, wondering if he's doing it on purpose, but he's not even paying attention.

John drags his eyes back to the cursed page. "Anyway I'm not singing Pat Boone."

"That one's a request," George puts in. "We have to do it."

"And I'm singing it, not you," Paul says, like he's just clinched the argument. "Unless you fancy
crooning to the grannies instead?"

John does not. "Fine, but we can chuck ‘Blue Moon’."

"I like ‘Blue Moon’."

Bloody Colin. "Do I have any say over this fucking list?"

Colin ignores him, which is pretty rude when it's John's band and Colin isn't even a proper member
anymore.

"We can add ‘Girl of My Dreams’ if you want?" Paul says, so quietly that only John can hear it,
and that is the last time he plays any of his more embarrassing records to him. Gene Austin wasn't
a crooner anyway, he was a master of the craft and his mum had thought so too.

He tries to glare at Paul but it's hard to do it properly when he's about three inches from his face
and looking so pleased with himself. There’s a feeling under his skin, like butterflies, and he
squashes it ruthlessly. "Christ, alright, soppy shite it is then."

Paul takes the paper off him before he can drop it on the floor, folding it neatly. "That's sorted
then. Has everyone got black ties?"
 Chapter 8

It doesn't take long for John to realise that Paul's book is full of shite, because he's not miraculously
cured by the next day, or the day after that. Some things are better; he's no longer imagining Paul
taking out an advert in the classifieds about what happened between them. But in the absence of all
the paranoia, he's left with the equally unsettling reality that he just really fucking misses Paul —
or misses fucking Paul, if he's going to get technical about it. He can't really miss Paul when he
sees him every bloody day, can he?

They have another practice and it goes a lot better now John isn't having a nervous breakdown. But
no amount of Elvis or Buddy, or George and Colin being right there can stop his embarrassing
awareness of Paul at all times. Paul resting a hand on his shoulder as he reaches over him for the
tea cups; Paul's jumper riding up as he stretches; the distracting scent of him whenever he moves
close, which seems to be suspiciously often. Now that he knows first hand what Paul smells like
when he's turned on, it's impossible not to notice how often he's thinking about sex. He seems to
think about it all the time, and unfortunately when Paul is thinking about it, it's not long until John
is too.

He smokes another cigarette and wonders what he did to deserve any of this, but especially Paul
tuning up to sing bloody ‘April Love’ by Pat Boone.

"Your face'll stick like that," Paul says, not even looking up as he carefully twists a tuning peg.

John blows out a lungful of smoke. "How do you know what my face is doing?"

"'Cause I know you, Lennon."

There's something about the way Paul says it, so confident, that makes something flutter
annoyingly inside him. He ignores it. "Then you'll know what me hand is doing now as well."

Colin snorts and Paul finally glances up from his guitar, mouth pulling up at the corners. "Oi. None
of that in this house. What would Mimi say?"

John makes a face. "Probably 'play more Pat Boone.'"

Paul laughs properly at that, ducking back down to check one more string before he pronounces
himself ready. He proceeds to warble his way through ‘April Love’ like he's channeling Jim after a
couple of pints, just about keeping it together despite John's numerous and increasingly awful faces
to try and throw him off.

There must be something wrong with him, because even the scarring mental image of Jim crooning
Pat doesn't stop him wanting to push Paul down to the carpet and kiss the smirk right off his face.

"Alright, no more Pat til the wedding. Let's keep the element of surprise on that one," he says, just
as Paul finishes with, "And I'd like to dedicate that one to me biggest fan, John Winston Lennon,
who's made a collage of me face out of me hit records."

John throws the nearest thing to hand, which is unfortunately his half empty pack of ciggies, but it
still bounces off Paul's forehead with a satisfying smack. If he didn't have his glasses on he'd
probably have missed and got George instead.

"Ow," Paul says, but he's laughing. He picks up the carton and makes a show of helping himself to
a cigarette. "Chuck us your matches as well, will you?"
He grins cheekily at John and it's too easy to forget, when it's like this, that Paul isn't his and he's
not going to say goodbye to George and Colin, and watch telly with him, and follow him upstairs at
the end of the night like he wants to.

He tosses Paul the match book and watches him light up, cheeks hollowing as he takes a drag and
then offers it to George. He tilts his head back a little, half closing his eyes as he blows out the
smoke and John watches the shape his mouth makes, tracking the way his tongue darts out after,
wetting his lips.

"Pass it here then," Colin says to George, and John startles and blinks, eyes flickering away and
then back to Paul. Paul who is watching him. Fuck. John feels his face heat, which puts paid to any
attempt to pass his staring off as an accident, and the worst thing is that Paul doesn't look away, not
at first. He just holds John's gaze until Colin goes to pass the ciggie back and then he turns away to
take it, taking one last pull before he leans back and stubs it out on the hearth.

"Right. ‘Be Bop a Lula’ next then?" He sounds completely normal, like nothing happened — and
perhaps nothing did happen. John was only distracted for a second after all, and he’s the one
second guessing everything now, not Paul.

Still, when Paul casually brings up coming early tomorrow to do some writing before the final
practice, he panics.

"Can't. I'm busy."

It's a blatant lie and Paul looks rightfully sceptical. “Doing what?”

“My fucking embroidery – do I have to tell you everything?”

“Suit yourself,” Paul says, and goes off to talk to George instead, which just makes John regret
biting his head off.

He regrets it even more the next day when he’s got sod all to do to distract himself from thinking
about Paul, and how much he should not be thinking about Paul. He doesn’t want to bother Pete
again — he’s still not entirely convinced he hasn’t developed some sixth sense where John is
concerned — and he can’t go and see Stu, who will definitely know and who’ll never let him hear
the end of it.

Unfortunately, Mimi takes his hanging around the house all morning as an excuse to try and talk to
him about his fuck up of a week, so he ends up getting the bus to town, slouching down in his seat
as it passes the Inny, as if Paul has his nose pressed to his classroom window. He nicks a record
from a shop where they don’t know him yet, and goes to look at the new guitars in Rushworth's.
Then he goes home and plays his new record, attempts some shitty drawings, and even steals
Mimi's Woman's Weekly for the crossword, before he gives in and goes to bother Paul after all.
This whole wasted day has been his fault so he can bloody well deal with the consequences.

The kid who gets off the bus first looks pretty terrified to see John leaning against the bus stop,
squinting at him and smoking moodily. John raises an eyebrow and watches him scuttle off into the
dark with satisfaction before he turns back to find Paul looking amused, if a bit surprised.

"Thought you weren't coming round til later. Being so busy with the embroidery and all."

John should have known Paul wouldn't forget that. "Aye, well, Mimi's gone out and not left me
anything so I thought I'd better come and cadge some food off you. Can't play if me stomach's
caving in."
Mimi would no more forget to leave him something than she would forget to wear a hat to church,
but Paul doesn't know that. Or maybe he does, as he looks at John for a second too long before he
hitches his bag on his shoulder and turns in the direction of Forthlin Road.

"C'mon then. Auntie Jin left us some chops."

John falls into step beside him, tossing what's left of his ciggie into the road. "No bacon sarnies?"

"I'm not running a canteen."

"Shame. You could wear one of those frilly little hats." Paul wrinkles his nose so John reaches over
to mess up his hair. “Save you a fortune in preening in front of the mirror every morning.”

Paul’s not actually allowed to grease his hair up too much at school so it’s mostly soft beneath
John’s hand, but it was just an excuse to touch him anyway. So much for dignity.

Paul sidesteps him with a, “Gerroff, or you can get your own tea,” but he doesn’t look all that
annoyed so John counts it as a win.

It’s better, eating with Paul and Mike in the front room with the telly on. Paul's cooking's not a
patch on Mimi's but he's a much warmer presence squashed in beside him, and he doesn't fuss
when John covers half his plate in tomato sauce either.

The same can't be said for Mike, who's eyeing John's plate dubiously from across the room. "That's
disgusting."

"It's an extra vegetable." John's not actually sure if tomatoes are vegetables but they grow them in
the garden so he reckons they must be. "I'm getting all me nutrients."

"Yeah. All over your face," says Mike, who has apparently lost all his fear of John since he caught
him in a morally compromising position. Typical.

John goes to rub at his face with his sleeve and nearly jumps out of his skin when Paul casually
leans in and swipes a bit of sauce from the corner of his mouth instead.

"Oi," John manages, a bit weakly maybe, but he wasn't expecting Paul to just start touching his
face all softly and without warning.

Paul just goes back to his dinner like he's done nothing out of the ordinary. "I'll spit on a hanky
next time, shall I?"

John makes a disgusted face but it’s got nothing on the face Mike is making. Serves him right for
going on about the tomato sauce in the first place.

Fortunately Paul doesn't do anything else alarming during dinner and by the time they've finished
eating and polished off some of Auntie Jin's leftover fruit cake as well, George and Colin have
arrived, looking cold and windswept.

Mike escapes to his bedroom, leaving them to run through everything one last time. They sound
good, John thinks. Even Colin, who’s being bribed with beer as well as the fee and has had to
borrow some drums, gets swept along in the general excitement at the prospect of finally playing
another gig — even if it is a pity booking with an audience half made up of George’s relations.

They've stopped for a quick tea break when George drops in, in that slow measured way of his,
that his Mum heard from her sister that one of the groom's cousins heard that his friend's coffee bar
in town might be looking for a band to play for the under eighteen nights at the weekends.

"And where'd he hear that?" John says, tapping out a new cigarette. "The milkman's neighbour's
dog?"

George ignores him, attention focused on Paul, and John thinks about how nice it was when
everyone was properly scared of him.

"And the groom's friend is going to be there tomorrow?" Paul is saying. John can practically see
the cogs in his head turning.

"I thought it was the groom's cousin's friend?" Colin looks confused.

"I'm not sure who's coming," George says.

"Hopefully the groom. Bit awkward otherwise," John puts in and gets a look off Paul.

"Maybe we should add one of ours to the set?" Paul starts worrying at his fingernails, which never
bodes well so John reaches across to bat his hand away from his mouth.

"It's too late to change the set now and anyway we don't even know if this bloke is talkin' rubbish."

"Mum sounded pretty sure," George says, defensive.

John digs his match book out of his pocket. "I'm not saying your mum didn’t hear it, just let's not
start bloody changing everything the night before on the off chance some bloke might be there."

Paul is frowning at him and John focuses on lighting his cigarette so he doesn't have to see it.
"What's the matter with you? This could be a gig! A regular one."

"Aye, well, they haven't met us yet, have they? We might not be the band they want for the kiddies
at the cafe."

There's a slightly awkward pause as everyone takes his meaning. It's not like John wants to be a
miserable bastard about it, he's just learned not to get ahead of himself when it comes to assuming
people will see the band and not him. He hasn't even got his pills to help hide it this time.

The silence is broken by Paul of course, the eternal fucking optimist. "Rubbish. It'll be fine. We
should put ‘One After 909’ in – chuck us the list, George."

George obediently hands it over and Paul gets his pencil out and starts rearranging the set like
they're auditioning for Sunday Night at the London Palladium.

John watches him, torn between annoyance that Paul thinks it's such an easy thing to dismiss, and
that stupid fond feeling he's becoming so familiar with. When Paul starts chewing on his pencil,
then almost immediately makes a horrified face at the taste, the stupid fond feeling wins out.

He finishes off his cigarette and holds out a hand. "Give it here then, I'd better have a look at it."

Paul looks up with a pleased smile and then comes and sits next to him, which wasn't really the
plan, but isn't terrible either. John borrows the pencil, wipes the damp end on Paul's sleeve, and
reads through the list before swapping one of the Eddie Cochrans for ‘In Spite of All the Danger’.
They hardly need to practice that one and it went down well enough at Paul's birthday. Aside from
that, and 909, they're all covers — him and Paul have written plenty, but they're not all what he'd
call finished and ready for an audience yet. Still, he reckons it's about how you sing a cover that
makes them stand out, and with nothing to do but practice, they've gotten pretty good at it.

He draws a little skull and crossbones next to ‘April Love’ though, because that one's a fucking
travesty, no matter how Paul sings it. Paul snorts quietly but leans in to add a few embellishments,
and then starts giving the skull Pat Boone's stupid cowboy hat while John grins, so he's probably
not that keen on it either.

"Are we gonna practice the ones we're adding then?" George says a bit pointedly and John and
Paul both look up to find that him and Colin have finished their tea and are clearly waiting for
them.

"Sorry," Paul says, at the same time as John's, "Alright, keep your knickers on."

George's eyes flicker between the two of them for a moment, but before John can properly worry
about what he might be thinking, he picks out a familiar melody on his guitar and says, "Shall we
do ‘One After 909’ first? We haven't played that one for a bit," and the moment thankfully passes.

John sleeps fitfully again that night — an unfortunate combination of missing Paul and nerves
about the gig, both of which he'd rather die than admit to. It's been months since they last played
for an audience — and far longer since they'd played for a proper audience which included people
who didn't know them. They can't fuck it up. He can't fuck it up for them. Not when it would be
too easy for Paul and George to find another band (especially Paul). If there's a chance at another
gig, a regular gig even, they have to take it and so tomorrow has to go well. Which just brings his
thoughts circling back around to all the things that could go wrong, not least that some miserable
old bigot tries to start something. It's not that he can't stick up for himself, he'd just rather not do it
in the middle of someone's wedding and with Paul having a front row seat to how all the
respectable Auntie Clares of the world see him.

He must actually fall asleep for a bit in the end because his alarm going off is a shock. It's not even
his alarm, since he'd never own something so bloody unnatural, he'd had to borrow it off Mimi
especially for the occasion. By the time he's washed and (mostly) dressed he feels less like a corpse
and he's beginning to feel that familiar buzz of excitement in his stomach he always gets when he's
going to go on stage. For all the things that might go wrong, it's still a gig. A real gig. At fucking
last.

He's grinning when he goes downstairs while Mimi, of course, looks like she's sucking on a lemon
all through breakfast.

"Cheer up, Mimi," John says as he swipes another piece of toast. "George's family know all the
best people. I might meet an alpha from the criminal fraternity with two teeth and a squint who'll
whisk me off to a life of squalor."

Mimi doesn't look cheered by the thought. "You won't meet anyone decent cavorting on stage,
John, or with those so-called friends of yours."

He ignores that last bit and slurps some tea, just to annoy her more. "It's a wedding, not one of them
dodgy dancehalls."

"There's not much difference if you're going to sing that vulgar American rubbish."

Of course, John launches straight into ‘Jailhouse Rock’ because he knows how much she hates it,
and he's still belting out the final verse when there's a knock on the door and he throws it open to
find a surprised looking Paul, hand raised to knock again.
"Speaking of seedy alphas with two teeth and a squint," he says, loud enough to carry back to the
dining room. "Mornin' Macca."

Paul puts his hand down, looking confused. "Uh… Morning?"

John leans against the door frame. "You're a bit ahead of yourself, aren't you?" They're not meant to
be meeting for another half hour at least.

It's so cold this morning he can see Paul's breath in the air. "I was ready early so I thought I'd make
sure you had your tie and that."

"What were you going to do if I didn't?" John says, eyeing him with interest.

Paul, of course, just rummages in his coat pocket and pulls out a plain black tie to match the one
he's wearing. He has the decency to look apologetic about it so John just rolls his eyes and steps
back to let him inside before he lets all the heat out.

"Oh ye of little faith. Anyone would think I was plannin' to forget mine on purpose."

Paul snorts as he bends to take his shoes off, lining them up neatly next to John's grubby boots.
Now he's closer, John can't help noticing there's something a bit…off about him this morning.
Subdued almost, and his scent is nervous.

"You alright?" he asks, when Paul straightens up. He looks a bit tired too, now John comes to think
of it.

But Paul just smiles easily. "Yeah, course. Just want to get there and get everything ready, you
know?"

Of course he does. He's probably been up scheming about it all night. "Well, since you're early
you'll have to wait while I finish powdering me nose. Unless you'd rather wait in the parlour with
Mimi."

As if summoned, Mimi comes out of the dining room, carrying the breakfast plates, and purses her
lips at the sight of them. Paul attempts a polite, "Morning," and gets a frosty look in response. It
looks as though the brief thaw towards Paul is over.

"Ignore her." John nudges Paul towards the stairs. "She's just upset about her new son in law."

"Her what?" Paul says, following him up.

"On account of George's seedy relations," John adds, by way of explanation.

It's proof of how much time they've spent together that Paul doesn't ask him what the hell he's
talking about but just says, "I didn't know he'd been having any seedy relations."

John turns to grin at him, waggling his eyebrows, "It's the quiet ones you've got to watch, son."

He pushes open his bedroom door and does his best not to think about the last time Paul was in
here. As it was all of three days ago it's pretty hard to forget, even if he hadn't spent the past few
nights replaying it in his head in vivid technicolour.

Unfortunately his room only has the one seating option so Paul goes and sits on the bed, which just
makes it worse. He wonders if Paul's thinking about it too, or has thought about it since. There's
the faintest wash of red across his cheekbones as he shuffles his coat off and sits back, but it could
as easily be from the cold outside as the kind of thoughts John's been plagued with.

"Anyway," John says, "you'll have to entertain yourself while I get sorted." Then he escapes to the
loo to brush his teeth and try and do something useful with his hair. If Paul feels uncomfortable,
that's his look out for turning up early.

Paul is still sitting there on his return, head bent over some magazine or other and not looking in
the least bit uncomfortable. He looks pretty at home in fact, in John's room and on his bed, and
John likes it more than he probably should. The bedroom door is ajar and he hesitates just outside
on the landing, watching him like a creep. Paul's loosened his tie and undone the top buttons of his
shirt, exposing the shadowed hollow of his throat and John has such an urge to put his mouth there
that he regrets putting his glasses on. Paul is far less tempting as a vague outline.

Then Paul turns a page and John realises he's reading Mimi's sodding Woman's Weekly. He
marches in and snatches it out of his hand.

"Oi! I was reading that," Paul says immediately, trying to grab it back.

"Don't start. I only had it for the crossword."

"Miriam was about to find out Philip's secret."

John looks at him suspiciously and then down at the page — which does seem to be some soppy
story about a silly bint called Miriam.

"What was his secret then?"

"Dunno, do I, you didn't give me chance to find out."

Paul looks so put out about it that John hands the magazine back, wondering how the hell he ever
came to like him so much.

Paul uncreases the page and goes back to reading (without a word of thanks, mind you) while John
sticks his glasses back in his pocket and pulls an ironed shirt on over his t-shirt. There's no sound
from behind him except for the faint rustle of pages, which is just typical.

"Well? What's the bloody secret?" Paul can't just drop that into conversation and then not tell him.

"I thought you were only interested in the crossword," Paul says, not even glancing up.

John squints at Paul's reflection in his ancient bedroom mirror, waiting for him to crack and tell
him, but his face is annoyingly impassive. "I bet it's a rubbish secret anyway."

Paul just "hmm"s and turns another page.

"Has he got a toupee?"

"No."

"Did he lose his dick in the war?"

Paul snort laughs but tries to pretend he didn't and John feels triumphant.

"Was he Pat Boone in disguise?"

Paul gives him an exasperated look, but there's a definite smile lurking. "He was a secret Viscount."
John makes a face. "Think I prefer him pissing on a landmine, to be honest." He digs his tie out of
the drawer and sticks it in his other pocket, feeling buoyant from the heady combination of Paul
and the imminent gig. "Right, we done?"

"You're in a good mood," Paul says, getting to his feet and retrieving his guitar.

John casts him a quick glance, unsure if he's mocking him, but Paul just looks pleased and his
scent has lost that unsettling edge. "Well, it's a gig, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Paul grins at him.

"And I was born to entertain."

"Alright, Vera."

John starts warbling ‘We'll Meet Again’ as they go downstairs, and Paul joins in half way through
so Mimi gets to enjoy their enthusiastic but off-key duet as they clatter down the hallway and
outside, John making sure to slam the door behind them.

They get the bus to the church hall, taking up the entire back seat between themselves and their
guitars and amp. They get a couple of tuts for their exuberance and one middle aged woman seems
unsure what to make of them, or rather what to make of John, although her obvious disapproval is
somewhat tempered by Paul's presence. John ignores her and Paul, of course, doesn't even notice.

Colin is waiting at the hall when they arrive, looking cold with his borrowed drum kit. They're still
down one George, but unfortunately for him he has to actually go to the wedding, it being his
family and all. It gets him out of setting up though so it's just John, Colin, and Paul getting
everything ready. The hall is bigger than they’d expected and it feels more like a real venue than
anything they've done aside from the Christmas dance. They have a proper stage at one end — and
an excellent view of the buffet being set up at the other.

"Do you reckon they'll feed us?" John says, actually putting his glasses on in public so he can get a
better look at the promising spread of covered plates. They must have brought enough to feed a
small army so they're going to get a decent audience at least.

Colin drags a mic stand over. "They'll have to feed George so we can just send him back for
reinforcements."

"We’ll send Paul an' all," John says, with a sideways look at where Paul is busy with the amp, brow
furrowed in concentration. "He's got that face aunties can't say no to. Like a little Oliver Twist."

His wit is wasted however as Paul doesn't seem to hear it, finishing with the amp and then going
off to fuss with his guitar again. He's been squirrelly since they got inside the hall, all quiet and
checking everything over like they’re due an inspection.

By the time George turns up, John and Colin are sitting on the edge of the stage having a much
needed cigarette break. John would've shared his with Paul but he's disappeared off backstage
again to tune his guitar for what has to be the third time in the past half hour. Why he has to tune it
in secret, John's not sure. He's deliberating over whether to go and drag him back out when George
arrives.

"Where's Paul?" George says, looking around like Paul's going to jump out from behind the mic
stand.

"Fucked off to sweet talk his guitar." John is aware he sounds a bit grumpy about it. "Dunno what's
up with him."

"He's probably just a bit nervous," George says matter of factly, putting his guitar down and taking
off his coat.

John frowns. "Don't be daft, he doesn't get nervous."

George looks at him like he's dim, which is offensive, quite honestly. "He always gets nervous
before he plays in front of people."

That's news to John. Alright, Paul was a bit green that first time, but he thought that was only
because of his solo and it being the first gig and everything. He takes another drag of his ciggie and
tries not to let it bother him that George knows this and he doesn't. "He's never said."

"Course not," George says, like that should be obvious. "Thought you'd be able to tell though."
There's the slightest stress on the 'you' and it makes John eye him, wondering what he's getting at.
Does he think he's using some special omega powers to figure out the mysterious workings of the
McCartney mind? Chance would be a fine thing. But then, he had seemed off earlier. John had
noticed that easily enough.

He shifts, feeling unaccountably guilty for just believing Paul when he said he was fine. "What's he
got to be nervous about anyway?"

"He's worried about that bloke I reckon, the one looking for a band. I probably shouldn't have said
anything."

"No point in worrying about that," John says irritably. He'd mostly shoved that out of his head, and
now that George has reminded him he can feel an annoying twitch of nerves about it himself.
"Anyway he's probably not even coming."

"He is, I saw him at the church," George says helpfully. "Well, the groom's cousin. Cyril." He
pulls a face. "And it's his friend who's looking."

A few people have started to trickle into the hall. John's ditched his glasses again so he can't see
who they are but it probably means things are happening and someone should fetch Paul. Someone
being him. He stubs out his cigarette. "Alright, I'll go and get him before he absconds out the toilet
window."

George looks relieved and goes to get himself set up properly, leaving John to wander backstage to
find Paul — although 'backstage' is a bit of a misnomer for what amounts to a gloomy corridor, a
single toilet, and a cloakroom containing their guitar cases, coats, and a mop and bucket.

He hears Paul before he sees him. He's still tuning his bloody guitar, standing by the coat rack.

"Is George here?" Paul says, head bent as he fiddles with a tuning peg.

John pauses outside the door. "How d'you know I wasn't George?"

"I know when it's you." Paul glances up at him and…oh yeah, John forgot that. He comes the rest
of the way in.

"He thought you might have climbed out the window."

Paul turns flustered. "Don't be stupid. I was just getting ready." If John doubted George before, he
doesn't now. Everything about Paul is radiating how he's feeling – from his scent to the tense way
he's holding himself. He's taken his tie off for some reason and rolled up his shirt sleeves – though
the room’s hardly warm.

"I didn't know you got nervous about it," John says, deciding to just ignore Paul lying about it all.
He's pretty shite at it anyway.

Paul clearly thinks about lying some more but John stares him down and finally he just says, "I
don't once I get started. Just before, sometimes, and only a bit." John must look sceptical because
he adds, defensive, "Everyone does. Even you, I bet."

"Can't see anyone, can I?" John says. "It's hard to be scared of a load of blobs." It's not entirely true.
He might not be scared of them but he hates wondering what they might be thinking; that they
might dismiss the band just because of him.

"Maybe I should borrow your glasses then so we'll both be blind."

"Here," John says, digging them out of his pocket. He steps closer and slides them on Paul's face,
then sniggers at how ridiculous he looks. "You'll be beating the grannies off with those, son."

Paul is blinking rapidly, eyes weirdly magnified. "God, you're blinder than I thought."

"Oi, don't mock the afflicted." John takes them back, amused at how Paul squeezes his eyes shut
briefly after, like he's resetting them. "S'pose you'll just have to manage then."

"Yeah." Paul grimaces, like he's remembering they have to go out and play now. He fiddles with
his guitar strap.

"You were alright before we got here," John says, frowning.

Paul looks somewhere past John's left ear as he shrugs one shoulder and says, "Well, it works both
ways, the feeling better thing."

It takes John a second to realise what he means, but when he does he finds he quite likes that idea,
that Paul might need him for something too. Apart from his questionable guitar skills and witty
repartee that is.

To cover his reaction, he tucks his glasses away and picks Paul's tie up from the bench. "In that
case you're welcome to leech off me sparkling personality and musical talent. Come on, get this on
and let's go and impress Mrs. Harrison."

Paul swings his guitar onto his back and obediently takes the tie, turning up his collar and looping
it round his neck. "It's not her we need to impress though. This bloke George said is—"

John tuts, sounding like Mimi even to his own ears. "Stop worrying about that. He'll either like us
or he won't, and if he doesn't it's not going to be you and George he's got a problem with."

"Why would that be better?" Paul frowns at him, paused in the act of knotting his tie. "I don't want
someone to have a problem with you either."

"I might have meant Colin." John bats his hands aside and finishes knotting it for him. "I just mean
don't take it so bloody personal." He's not sure why it's so important to him that Paul doesn't think
this is all on him, but it is. "We're good, aren't we?"

"Yeah," Paul agrees, after a moment.

John pulls the tie tight to his satisfaction and looks up. "Well then. If this bloke isn't interested it's
his loss."

"Alright, Johnny."

Paul smiles at him, all warm and close, and John doesn't know he's going to do it until it happens,
but it seems the most natural thing in the world to lean in and kiss him.

His brain catches up a second later and he tries to pull back, hideously embarrassed, but Paul
doesn't allow it, moving with him and returning the kiss eagerly, one hand coming up to grab at
John’s collar like he thinks he might run away otherwise. He needn’t worry; the instant Paul starts
kissing him back he’s all in. It feels so incredibly good to be doing it again, to be kissing Paul
again, that he goes from relieved to desperate in a shamefully short amount of time, his body
thrumming with urgency as Paul opens his mouth and the kiss turns deep and messy.

Somewhere beyond the cloakroom there are distant sounds of people talking and chairs scraping.
Probably that should matter to John, but when Paul yanks his shirt and t-shirt free of his trousers to
get a hand underneath he decides he doesn't care at all and surges forward, pressing Paul back
towards the wall until a hollow clang makes them both startle and break apart.

"Bloody hell, your guitar," John says, breathless.

Paul stares at him, confused, and then his eyes go wide and panicked and he pulls his guitar round,
frantically checking it over as John starts to laugh.

"I think it's alright," he says, sounding as out of breath as John and twice as relieved.

"Dunno how we'd have explained that one." He's not quite sure what to do now. He can hardly
pass the kiss off as an accident — sorry I tripped and fell on your tongue — and anyway, Paul was
just as into it as he was. Not that they could have picked a worse time for… whatever that was.
"S'pose we'd better get out there before someone comes looking," he says in the end, trying to
gauge how Paul's feeling about it.

"Yeah," Paul says and bypasses John's internal panic by simply pulling him in for another kiss,
hands framing his face. It's slower this time, more deliberate, as though he thinks John still needs
convincing that it's a good idea when he really doesn't. Paul's scent is maddening, intensifying
John's arousal tenfold, and if it wasn't for the barrier between them it would be really bloody
obvious.

He's so wound up that the thought strikes him as stupidly funny and he starts laughing against
Paul's mouth.

Paul pulls back, frowning, disgruntled no doubt at the interruption to his outrageously effective
seduction. "What?"

"I can't believe I'm gettin' cockblocked by a guitar."

Paul blinks at him for a moment, then looks down and huffs a laugh. "Probably for the best."

"Aye," John says, rueful. "Not sure this is the kind of show we were booked for."

"Probably not." Paul makes a face and starts pointlessly straightening John's tie, which leads to his
knuckles 'accidentally' brushing against John's neck which somehow leads to more kissing.

"Ow," John pulls back when the guitar digs into a part of his anatomy he'd rather not have
damaged. "Alright, knock it off."

"That was you that time," but Paul does at least move away, although he's looking pretty red in the
face.

John doesn't want to get into a back and forth over whose fault it was, since it was his in the first
place. "Well, never mind that. Let's just do this gig and then…" he breaks off, not sure where he
was going with that.

"And then?" Paul's gaze drops to his mouth and John flushes all over.

"Stop that." Paul looks away guiltily, and John regroups. "Then we can…sort ourselves out. If you
want to." He really wants to.

Paul scoffs quietly, muttering "sort ourselves out" incredulously – but there's something too intense
in his expression when he says, "Alright. Gig first."

"Gig first," John agrees, but the flutter of anticipation he feels has nothing to do with the gig.

John has to duck into the loo to splash some cold water on his face, tuck his shirt and t-shirt back in
and will his treacherous dick to behave before he can even think of going back out. He's not sure
what Paul does in the meantime but he looks presentable, if flushed, by the time they rejoin George
and Colin.

"Where have you been?" George hisses, looking from one to the other, his brow furrowed. The hall
is full now and Mrs. Harrison is hovering anxiously.

"Sorry," John says, picking his guitar up and lifting the strap over his head. "You wouldn't believe
how long it took to squeeze him back through the window."

Paul ducks his head to hide his grin and George scowls. "Well, we're supposed to be starting."

"Keep your knickers on, we're here now, aren't we?" There's a buzzing under his skin, of
adrenaline and arousal both, and as he looks out at the sea of blurry colour, he finds he doesn't
much care what they think of him. They're going to listen to them fucking play all the same and
after that there'll be Paul. He grins wildly at George, who looks a bit alarmed, before calling to the
others, "Alright, you bastards, let's get on with it," scandalising some old biddy sitting near the
stage.

Afterwards he couldn't have said half of what they played, although for once he doesn't forget any
of the words. He's only aware of the guitar under his hands and the vibration of the music beneath
his feet; the way his and Paul and George's voices blend together. He's in his element now, and it
must be infectious because even George drops his grumpy act and starts grinning by the time they
get to ‘That's All Right Mama’. John whoops it up during his guitar solo, egging him on and
laughing at the way Paul joins in, clearly delighting George's army of relatives.

In fact most people seem to be enjoying it, dancing and applauding enthusiastically, but it's Paul
that John's eyes are drawn to irresistibly again and again, and he always finds him looking back
like there's an electric current running between them, hands and voices in sync.

They get a break after forty five minutes or so — time for food, George had said, and sure enough
everyone moves towards the buffet pretty sharpish. John is sticky with sweat and bloody hungry
actually, but when Paul puts his guitar down and darts him a look as he slips backstage, he can't do
anything except follow him. He doesn't bother trying to justify it to himself, he just pushes Paul
into the tiny bathroom and kisses him like his life depends on it. Paul wastes no time in fumbling
with his belt, as desperate to get a hand on him as he is for Paul to touch him, as he is to touch Paul.
Too desperate apparently because Paul has barely got a hand on his dick before he feels himself
getting slick and wet.

"Shit. Shit. Stop." He shoves Paul back. Fuck.

Paul stares at him, eyes dark, and wets his lips. "I don't care." He kisses John again, hard, backing
him against the door, and John lets him, dragging him closer until… Fucking hell. His stupid
fucking body.

"Stop," he gasps against Paul's mouth. "I can't go back out like this. We'll have to wait."

Paul drops his head onto John's shoulder and makes a sharp frustrated noise as though he's the only
one being inconvenienced here. John stares at the grubby bathroom wall over his head and thinks
of as many disgusting and unarousing things as he can. It doesn't help that Paul is half hard against
his hip. He runs a tentative hand over the bulge and Paul groans. "I could…?"

Paul pushes into his hand for a moment before he shifts away. "No. We'll… We'll wait. Just…" he
pulls John in for one last spine melting kiss before he steps back, straightening out his clothes with
shaking hands. "I'll see you out there."

He ducks out quickly, and without looking back, leaving John to clean himself up and raid his pack
of ciggies, sitting in the little cloakroom to smoke until he's got himself back under some sort of
control.

When he steps back into the hall ten minutes later, it's almost a shock how normal everything is. It
takes him only a second to locate Paul, even without his glasses on. As he gets closer he sees he's
standing with George and Mrs. Harrison, eating a sausage roll and talking to a strange man and
woman. The man's wearing a suit loud enough to match his voice – John almost has to admire a
bloke with that much courage.

"John." Paul turns towards him a second before the strange man does and John's so distracted by
the way Paul's collar is all rumpled on one side that he almost misses the rest of what he's saying.
"This is Cyril and Mary. Cyril's friend is looking for a band to play at the weekends."

He makes it sound like this is the first he's heard of it and not something he's been scheming about
since yesterday. Taking his lead, John drags his gaze away to Cyril and throws out a casual,
"Alright?" to him and Mary. The suit is even more blinding up close, so much so that it takes him a
moment to realise that Cyril is actually an alpha and that he and Mary are bonded. Or they smell
bonded at least, a sort of settled contentment surrounding them. He's never been this close to a
bonded couple before, not one so near his own age anyway.

"I was just saying to George here how much I've been enjoying the show," Cyril says, and before
John can reply he gives him a disconcertingly frank once over that's less lascivious than it is
appreciative, but it raises John's hackles all the same. Mary elbows Cyril sharply and throws John
an apologetic look. "Sorry, sorry," Cyril holds up his hands, smiling disarmingly. "I'm just not used
to seeing your sort in Liverpool. Normally you're straight off to London with the nobs."

"Cyril!" Mrs. Harrison sounds mortified, while John can practically feel Paul bristling.

"Well, we charge extra for the novelty, you know," John puts in, before Paul can try and defend his
honour or something equally embarrassing.

Cyril raises an eyebrow, his smile turning knowing. "I didn't think you'd been getting that many
bookings."

John shrugs. "Not everyone can afford us."

Cyril just looks at him for a long moment and John meets his stare coolly. Then he barks out a
laugh. "I like you," he says, and takes out a carton of expensive cigarettes to offer around. His eyes
keep coming back to John like he's not quite sure what to make of him. Let him wonder. "I reckon
you'll like my friend, she's like you. Well," Cyril pauses, considering, "she's not quite such a hot
commodity, you might say, but she does her own thing too, you know."

"What Cyril means to say," Mary breaks in, sounding exasperated, "is that Mona is an omega too.
She's the one setting up the coffee bar."

John likes that she says it like it's no big deal. He quite likes Cyril too, although he probably
shouldn't. Maybe it's the way Mary looks like she's on the verge of rolling her eyes every five
seconds, or maybe it's that despite his obvious fascination, John can't sense any disapproval off
Cyril. Quite the opposite actually. So he says, "she sounds like an interesting woman," and accepts
the offer of Cyril's lighter to light his cigarette before passing it to Paul. Paul's face is alarmingly
pink around the edges and John briefly widens his eyes at him to remind him that this is a gig he
wanted, even if they have to put up with Cyril to get it.

"You should come and audition for her," Cyril is saying and when John turns back, his eyes flick
briefly to Paul. "If you want."

"That sounds lovely." Mrs. Harrison beams round at them all, then smoothes down George's hair
before he can duck away. John smirks at him round his cigarette then shoots a look across to Paul,
trying to gauge what he thinks since he's not being very forthcoming with his opinion.

"Yeah, alright," Paul says, with none of his usual politeness. Cyril grins and asks Mrs. Harrison if
he can borrow a pen so he can write down the details for them.

"I reckon you'll be quite the draw," Cyril says as he scribbles down an address. "The band I mean,"
he adds blandly, when he sees John's expression.

"Aye, I'm sure," John says, dry. He thinks he has the measure of Cyril now.

Cyril tears the page out of his notebook and hands it to John, who tucks it away in his shirt pocket.
"Now, no disappearing off to London before the audition," Cyril points at him. "I don't care who
comes calling."

"He won't," Paul cuts in sharply before John can tell Cyril to piss off — or something more suitable
for Mrs. Harrison's ears.

Cyril looks amused. "Good, it'll be better if you seem available." He winks at John fairly obviously
and gets a flat look in response — which just seems to amuse him all the more. Then he nods at
Mrs. Harrison and saunters off towards the bar, a long suffering Mary in his wake.

"Sorry about Cyril," George says slowly, as they watch him go. "I would say he's not normally like
that but it wouldn't be true."

"It was no surprise when that one presented," Mrs. Harrison says tartly. Despite her tone it's clear
she has a soft spot for Cyril and it's easy to see why, there was something charming about him,
despite the brash exterior. "I hope he didn't offend you, John."

John's flattered she thinks the Cyrils of this world could offend him. "S'alright. It's not everyday I
get called a hot commodity."

Mrs. Harrison looks highly embarrassed. "Yes, well, you know what alphas can be like."

"Unfortunately," John says, and crosses his eyes at Paul who is busy oozing his new and surly
mood all over everyone. Or maybe just over John since no-one else seems to have noticed it.

"Oh, I didn't mean you, Paul," Mrs Harrison says hastily, following John's gaze. "I know you
would never behave like that."

John smirks at him as he stammers out some polite reply like he hadn't been groping John in the loo
not twenty minutes ago. At least it knocks the scowl off his face.

Mrs. Harrison soon disappears to see a man about a trifle, dragging an unwilling George with her
and leaving John with the grim realisation that he might have missed the buffet.

"It's alright, I saved you some," Paul says, like a creepy mind reader — or maybe John's look of
panic was just that obvious. He perches on the edge of the stage so he can lean back and retrieve a
plate from behind the amp. "I thought I'd better hide it from George."

John grins, and hops up next to him, stubbing out his cigarette. "See, this is what I keep you around
for."

"Just the sausage rolls?" Paul says, passing the plate over.

"Among other things," John throws in an exaggerated leer to try and make him laugh. It works,
sort of, his scent warming up a little despite his refusal to crack a smile. It's not hard to guess why
he's in a bad mood all of a sudden. John hardly needs some medical tome to tell him that it
probably goes against every instinct when some other alpha flirts with the omega you're shagging
— or trying and failing to shag due to circumstances beyond your control. Either way, Paul's being
fucking ridiculous.

"We don't have to do the audition," Paul says, proving him right.

John swallows a mouthful of cheese sandwich and kicks him lightly. "I hope you're joking. I didn't
get winked at by some bloke in a bad suit so you could get cold feet."

Paul looks somewhat mollified by this description of Cyril, but not mollified enough apparently. "I
didn't like him."

"What a surprise,” John mutters.

"He shouldn't have acted like that in front of Mary."

"Better than acting like it when she isn't there I reckon."

Paul looks like he's going to argue that point so John changes the subject, since he doesn't actually
want to talk about Cyril all afternoon. "Where's Colin gone anyway?" He hasn't seen him since
they came off stage and if they've got an audition they're probably going to need to bribe him
again.

Paul lets himself be sidetracked. "Think he's chatting up one of George's cousins." He nods off to
the far corner which John hasn't a hope in hell of seeing so he'll have to take his word for it.

Still, he whistles, impressed at the quick work. "Who'd have thought Colin would be getting more
action than you, Macca?"

"I haven't done ‘April Love’ yet."

John starts laughing and accidentally inhales a bit of his sandwich, causing an unfortunate
coughing fit. A lady nearby actually turns around in her seat, presumably to check he's not dying,
while Paul gives him a couple of whacks between the shoulder blades before pointlessly rubbing
his back. John's not sure how that's supposed to dislodge anything but he lets him carry on anyway
until he can breathe again for no other reason than it's Paul doing it.

"Bloody hell, are you trying to finish me off?"

Paul drops his hand and goes back to his dinner, but he's smiling like he does when he thinks he’s
got one over on John, all smug and too pleased with himself. John's seen the look countless times
before but something about the cockiness of it today, after everything, sets something off in him.
They've still got another set to play but right then he could cheerfully skip the lot if it meant getting
Paul somewhere where fifty of George's relatives couldn't see them.

Some of what he's feeling must be obvious to Paul because he slows in the act of scoffing another
sandwich, his cheeks reddening. He finishes chewing and swallows, then says, "We should be
done by three."

John doesn't bother to pretend he isn't thinking about what Paul thinks he is. "Your dad'll be in
though, won't he? And Mike."

"Dad usually goes to the pub and Mike'll probably be out — but I can get rid of him if he isn't."

John spares a thought for poor unsuspecting Mike, but the rest of his brain has already jumped
ahead to imagine all the things they could do with a house to themselves for even an hour. Christ,
what are George and Colin doing to take this long?

"Right," he takes Paul's plate off him and dumps it on a nearby table, ignoring his protest. "Sort out
your collar, you look like a dirty stop out. I'm going to find those two lazy sods."

He makes his way through the mingling crowd to extract George from a gaggle of his relatives,
and then finds Colin and drags him away from his conquest with a, "sorry, love, you can have him
back later."

By the time they get back to the stage, Paul is waiting, looking decidedly less rumpled and with his
guitar conveniently ready to go.

"I thought we weren't starting for another five minutes," Colin is moaning, turning to look
longingly back towards the buffet table and (probably) his new lady friend.

"Sorry," John says, sounding anything but. "Macca couldn't settle til he got back in front of his
adoring crowds, you know what he's like."

George looks pretty sceptical at that but Paul doesn't bother to argue otherwise, just plays a few
experimental notes as he checks his tuning. But once John has his own guitar settled he looks
across the stage to see Paul watching him and he thinks he might be as impatient to get this over
with as John is.

However frustrating the delay, John has to admit it adds a certain energy to their music as they
crash through enough rock and roll numbers to scandalise the grannies. They slip ‘One After 909’
in after ‘Be Bop A Lula’ and John thinks it goes down well for an original. As he sings he's hyper
aware of Paul bobbing up and down a short distance away, seemingly unable to stay still for it. It
makes him smile around the words, the exhilaration mixing with a stupid fondness as they rush
through to the end.

They can't rush through ‘April Love’, more's the pity, since it's for the bride and groom. Paul, of
course, sings it like he's personally serenading every single person in the room, keeping his eyes
trained forward like he knows John is just waiting to catch his eye and pull a horrible face at him
(because he is). So he decides to throw him by joining in instead, adding some overwrought
harmonies which, irritatingly, don't sound half bad in the end. It does the trick anyway, Paul
wobbling a little in the final verse as he tries not to laugh.

"Nice singing," Paul says as he moves in closer to John under the guise of checking the set list
between songs (as if he hasn't got it memorised). "I reckon that one could be a keeper."
Unfortunately John's rude reply is lost under George playing the opening notes of Eddie Cochran
but he thinks Paul can guess what it was.

Finally the set comes to an end and John briefly reflects that his dick, and Paul, have a lot to
answer for because it's been more of a triumph than probably any of them had expected but all he
wants to do is leave as soon as possible. But first there's the bride and groom to speak to, and they
have to get their fee — which could be two shillings and a button for all John cares to check the
envelope. George is staying longer of course, and Colin as well now he's got a chance of some
action, and apparently Mrs. Harrison and the bride think John and Paul should stay too. Even
bloody Cyril appears out of nowhere while John is looking around for Paul, intent only on dragging
him out the door before he dies of blue balls. He's not sure if anyone has ever actually died of blue
balls, but he does not intend to be the one to find out.

"Where are you rushing off to?" Cyril says loudly — probably a bit too loudly going by his ruddy
cheeks and his half empty pint glass. Mary has clearly left him to it and Mrs. Harrison is eyeing the
glass like she'd like to wrestle it out of his hand.

Thankfully Paul turns up then, carrying his guitar case and John's coat. "We're writing."

"Writing what?" Cyril looks confused.

"Shopping lists," John says promptly, just as Paul says "Songs."

"Shopping lists set to music," John regroups smoothly. "It's going to be all the rage, isn't it Paul?"

Paul grins at him. "Easier to remember and all that."

"Aye, catchier. Everyone'll be singing them in Woolworths come Christmas."

"Oh go on the pair of you, if you're going to be silly," Mrs. Harrison says, but she's smiling.

John salutes Mrs. Harrison, and ignores the way Cyril is looking at them as he prods Paul towards
the door.

"Congratulations!" Paul calls back at the bride, Moira, because he actually has some proper
manners.

They burst out into the cold November afternoon and John immediately misses the warmth of the
hall.

"Christ, it's freezing."

"Put your coat on then." Paul does some complicated reshuffling of belongings to free John's coat
and follows him as he retreats into a sheltered nook beside the porch.

He's barely got his coat on and a button done up before Paul kisses him and it occurs to John that
the nook has more immediate advantages than just being out of the biting wind. He forgets about
his own coat and slides his hands into Paul's instead to pull him flush against him, kissing him
back. It's a terrible idea, for all the reasons the cloakroom and the loo were terrible ideas, but in that
moment he just wants Paul too much to care.

Then Paul pulls away. "C'mon then, or we'll miss the bus."

John blinks at him. "What?"

"The bus, Johnny." Paul tugs at his coat but he's smirking insufferably. "Come on. It goes in two
minutes."

It's amazing, John reflects, as they half jog, half run down the road towards the bus stop, how you
can go from wanting someone to contemplating their murder in thirty seconds flat.

They get to the stop just as their bus turns the corner, and by the time they've got on and found a
seat and rearranged their pile of belongings, they're both out of breath. The bus is mostly empty,
just two old ladies gossiping near the front and a middle aged man with a newspaper who is
definitely one of those alphas who wears a cologne for the scent enhancing effects. Unfortunately,
in his case it's not one John, or probably anyone else, would want enhancing very much.

He'd looked askance at Paul as he passed his seat, and then did a comical double take when John
had followed after, so John is not at all surprised when he fully turns round in his seat to look at
them both. For once Paul notices, frowning at the man like he thinks he's being rude — as if that's
ever mattered to an alpha. The man keeps looking, as though he's trying to stare Paul down, which
is just embarrassing for all concerned so John elbows Paul sharply.

"Ow!"

"Just ignore him."

"He shouldn't stare," Paul hisses.

"Aye, well, alphas are a fucking plague on the world, what can I tell you." He looks sidelong at
Paul as says it, thinking of that kiss outside the hall, and Paul rolls his eyes but turns to look out of
the window instead, rubbing some of the condensation off the glass with his sleeve so he can see
out.

Eventually the bloke gets bored of looking and they pass along the road in silence for a while.
Then Paul starts jiggling his leg like he always does when he's nervous or keyed up about
something. John can guess what it is in this case, but it's still annoying.

"Stop it."

"I'm not doing anything."

"You're moving."

"I'm allowed to move."

John puts a hand on Paul's leg to hold it still. "You're gonna have a dead leg in a minute."
He must say it a bit too loud because the man turns round again, this time with a disapproving stare
directed at John, who's probably not meant to speak sharply to an alpha or some bollocks like that.
He wants to try spending time with Paul then.

John just looks right back at him and leaves his hand exactly where it is. Not that the judgemental
prick can see it anyway but it makes him feel better.

Beside him, Paul shifts a little in his seat and it's only when John turns to look at him that he
notices the slight flush on his cheek and the fact that his hand is probably a bit further up his thigh
than he'd meant it to be. He watches him thoughtfully for a moment and then deliberately slides his
hand forward until his fingers find the inseam of Paul's trousers, just to see what he’ll do. He can't
imagine Paul allowing anything illicit on a bus; then again he wouldn't have thought he'd want to
have sex in a loo either, and he'd definitely been up for that.

Paul's breath hitches at the movement and his lips part. He's still half facing away from John,
looking out of the window, but John knows he has his full attention now.

John turns back to face the front, lets another few seconds pass and then begins moving his hand
higher in small increments, fingers tracing along the inseam until they meet the soft bulge of Paul's
dick. Well. Not all that soft as it happens. He rubs the back of his hand over it experimentally and
Paul inhales sharply, his fingers curling against the glass. He doesn't move to stop him though,
which John takes as encouragement enough.

The other alpha obviously decides his disapproval has been duly noted because he turns back to his
newspaper. It's probably for the best as John starts rubbing his hand back and forth, building a slow
but steady rhythm that has Paul sliding further down in his seat and letting his legs fall open a little
wider, his dick coming to life under John's hand. It's not long until his breathing quickens, his
arousal starkly noticeable to John now, even over the myriad of scents on the bus. He can feel an
answering burn low in his gut, like there's a terrible feedback loop between them, and he knows if
the alpha was sitting any closer he'd know exactly what they were doing. He finds he likes the idea
of scandalising the old bigot almost as much as he likes knowing he can have this effect on Paul.

When John curls his fingers, going from rubbing to stroking as best he can, Paul finally looks at
him, saying, "John," low like a plea and a warning together. His cheeks are properly red now, and
his thighs are trembling with the effort of keeping still so John gentles his hand, trying to make his
touch lighter. From the way Paul's eyelashes flutter he's not sure it makes it any better but still he
doesn't move to stop him. If John had any sense he'd stop himself, but he wants to see how far Paul
will let him go now.

The bus juddering to a stop comes as an unwelcome interruption, but not half so unwelcome as
glancing past Paul out of the window and realising their stop is next.

"Shit," he stills his hand. "We've got to get off." Then he snorts with laughter, as much at Paul's
horrified expression as at the unintentional innuendo. "Well, you do, anyway."

Paul shoves his hand away, trying to rearrange himself with a pained grimace. "I hate you."

John rubs his leg bracingly, feeling it twitch before Paul jerks it away. "No, you don't."

He should probably feel worse about it, but watching Paul getting off the bus with his guitar case
held awkwardly in front of him is the funniest thing John has seen since Pete's dad gave him a
haircut. Paul doesn't speak to him all the way down the road, and eventually John finds it in
himself to feel a tiny bit bad about it. But only a bit.
He nudges him as they turn into Forthlin Road, feeling positively buoyed up at the prospect ahead
after thinking about it all bloody week (and longer besides). "Cheer up, Macca. I'll make it up to
you."

Paul looks at him sideways. He's still carrying his guitar in front of him but John resists the urge to
laugh. "You'd better."

"Unless Mike's in, then you'll have to have a sad wank by yourself."

Paul's answer to that is to shove his guitar case at John so he can fish his keys out of his pocket and
get the front door of number 20 open with more force than it probably requires.

The lights are off downstairs, which seems like a good sign on a gloomy afternoon, but Paul calls
out a tentative, "hello?" anyway.

They wait a few seconds but the house is blessedly quiet save for the ticking of the clock. Paul still
goes to check the kitchen though, as if he expects to find Mike hiding in the bread bin.

"Didn't think you'd be so bothered," John says. "What with your new exhibitionist streak."

Paul flushes at that but he also grabs John's hand on his way back through the hallway, tugging
him towards the stairs so John decides shutting up is probably in his own best interests.

Naturally Paul's room is a mess, clothes and paper strewn on the bed from what was evidently a
chaotic morning getting ready for the gig. John is absolutely not prepared to wait around while he
does a tidy today of all days, so he simply dumps both their guitars and turns Paul against the
nearest wall to kiss him deeply. Happily Paul seems to be over his snit because he loops his arms
around John's neck immediately to keep him there. He's still half hard, despite his walk from the
bus stop, so John wastes no time in making amends for earlier by getting a hand in between them to
undo his trousers, tugging down his zip so he can get a hand inside and around him properly at last.
Paul makes a desperate sound that goes right to John's dick, pushing into his hand like he can't help
himself as John starts pulling him off in swift, sure strokes. He tries to kiss John through it but
mostly gives up and just pants against his mouth instead, eyes screwed shut.

It doesn't actually take very long at all before he jerks convulsively into John with a gasp and
comes hot all over his hand and the bottom of his shirt. For a long moment there's nothing but the
sound of their breathing, and then Paul straightens, reddening when he sees John's smirk.

"Shut up. You got me started on the bus."

"I'm not complaining, it saves me hand gettin' tired."

"Don't—"

John leans in to kiss him quiet because he doesn't actually care about it, he just likes teasing him.
"S'ok. I'm flattered."

While Paul's all distracted he takes the opportunity to try and wipe his wet hand on Paul's trousers.
Unfortunately Paul's not that distracted.

"Ugh. Don't wipe it on me." He tries to wriggle out from between John and the wall in disgust,
which just makes John cackle.

"Give a man a chance to get his hand out the way next time then."
Paul gives him a baleful look, which is so at odds with the richly satisfied scent of him that John
wants to needle him more and kiss him senseless at the same time. Most of all, he really, really
wants to come, so he says, "Bet you I can last longer," because he knows Paul can be a competitive
little shit.

Sure enough, Paul looks at him narrowly, like he knows exactly what John's doing but can't resist
the challenge anyway. "That's what you think, is it?"

As it turns out, Paul doesn't care that much about tidying either because he just chucks everything
from his bed onto the floor while John shucks his coat and shoes. When he pulls John down onto
the mattress with him, John goes easily, the bed springs creaking in protest as he presses Paul down
to kiss him, letting him roll them over so he's pinned beneath him, where, although he would never
admit it out loud, he finds he quite likes being.

As they kiss, Paul shifts so his thigh is pressed between John's, moving it in a rhythm that's
frustratingly short of enough. He's about to reach down and undo his trousers to free his growing
erection when Paul does it for him. His fingers seem to fumble endlessly with the button and zip,
brushing tantalisingly against his dick before he finally gets them open and shoves John's
underwear down enough.

But just when John thinks he's finally about to touch him like he desperately needs, he pulls back,
saying, "Wait I've got…" before he clambers over John, nearly kneeing him in the balls. John
would think it was revenge for winding him up, except for how Paul probably wants his balls in
working order for at least the next five minutes.

John shifts up onto his elbows to watch him as he roots around in a drawer and eventually produces
a jar of vaseline.

"That your secret weapon, is it?" It's not a bad one, as it happens. He stole some of Mimi's hand
lotion once when he was 14 and he still remembers the dirty good feeling of it. It had been ages til
he could smell lavender without getting a hard on.

Paul ignores the comment as he climbs over John again and settles back on his thighs. There's
nothing in the least bit erotic about Paul unscrewing a jar and coating his fingers with vaseline and
yet somehow even that is a turn on. John's going to have to dredge up some pretty horrible images
to win this round.

He's settled on the old lady at number 12 darning her wrinkly stockings when Paul leans in to kiss
him, resting his other hand against John's on the mattress. John's still half sat up so he tips his head
back to give him a better angle, losing himself in the feeling of it, the addictive smell and weight
and eagerness of Paul that he hadn't expected to have again and can't quite believe he's having now.
Paul's thumb is brushing back and forth against his hand but he doesn't touch him otherwise. He
doesn't touch him properly, and the longer he doesn't, the more John finds the waiting unbearable.
He wants to just do it himself, but he's not about to give Paul the satisfaction of an easy win, so he
thinks of the old stockings and tries to ignore the insistent throbbing between his legs.

The sudden slick glide of Paul's hand on his dick sends him jerking forward, knocking Paul off
balance. Paul laughs against his mouth, saying, "Now who can't stay still?" as he resettles himself.
Then he gets right to it, working him with long confident strokes.

Clearly Paul is some kind of evil genius, because it's really fucking hard to hold onto any kind of
horrible mental image when his hand won't let up. He only falters when John becomes
embarrassingly wet and then only for a second before he kisses him so forcefully John's elbows
give out and he finally falls back on the thin pillow. Paul goes with him, dragging his mouth over
the delicate skin under his jaw and then down to the pulse point as best he can with John's collar in
the way, sucking lightly as John fights a confusing urge to squirm away from the feeling and beg
him to keep going at the same time.

He starts pushing up into Paul's hand, realising after the first few thrusts that Paul is somehow hard
again, or quickly getting that way.

"Do you want…" he starts, mindlessly groping a hand between them, but Paul pushes it aside and
instead shifts to take them both in hand, as best he can. The shocking heat and the friction of it,
even slick as they are, is outrageously good, and the feeling is only intensified by the obscene
sounds made by Paul's hand and their gasping, panting breaths.

It's almost a relief when he comes, his whole body tense like piano wire as he pushes up into Paul
and his orgasm pulses through him, one hundred times better than it had ever been with Mimi's
horrible lotion. Paul briefly stills his hand but then starts moving it again erratically, drawing out
John's orgasm and its aftershocks almost unbearably as he chases his own. He comes at last with a
grunt, his face pressed into the side of John's neck, as John shivers through the overstimulation.

He's not sure how much time passes before Paul levers himself up unsteadily, reaching over the
side of the bed to grab a t-shirt and wipe himself down, followed by John. He looks a bit shell
shocked, John thinks, and it's a relief to know he's not the only one wondering what the fuck is
going on. He's fairly sure hand jobs aren't usually that good, not outside of heat and rut anyway. In
fact he knows they aren't. His hazy memory of the hand job with Tommy Johnson being distinctly
rushed and awkward at best.

At least he'd definitely lasted longer than Paul. But then Paul had managed to come twice, so it
feels like a pretty hollow victory.

"You owe me one," he says, once Paul has flopped back down, still mostly sprawled over John.

Paul makes a vague noise of agreement from somewhere in the region of his collarbone and
follows it with a yawn. The sleepiness is catching, and he lets himself doze for a while, too
comfortable to move, until awareness unfortunately catches up with him. He has no idea what time
it is, but they can't be caught like this when Jim gets home.

"Oi," he nudges Paul. "No sleeping on me. I'll have to go in a bit."

"No," Paul mumbles.

"Yes. Unless you want to have a very awkward conversation with your dad."

Paul lifts his head to look at him for a long moment, a little crease between his brows.

"And then we'd have to break up the band or start practicin' in a bus shelter," John prompts him
eventually.

Paul makes a dismissive noise but does finally roll off him and sit up so John can do the same. "We
could go to George's." He yawns again, scrubbing a hand over his face.

"Oh aye, I'm sure Mrs. Harrison would love that."

"She would," Paul says confidently, because he's never met a parent he couldn't charm, Mimi
notwithstanding. If only John could say the same — which brings them back to their original
problem.
"Well, if it's all the same to you, I'd rather not have Jim settin' the dogs on me." Sitting up has
reminded him how disgusting his clothes are and also that he is, ridiculously, still mostly dressed.
In fact they both are.

"We don't have any dogs," Paul says and undoes John's tie for him, pulling it free, then starts on his
shirt buttons. "You should borrow something of mine."

"What?" It's hard to focus with Paul casually undressing him.

"To go home in. Your shirt's disgusting."

"Whose fault is that?"

"The one who started it, probably."

John opens his mouth to reply before remembering that that was him. He feels a little discomfited
at the reminder.

"I don't mind that you did," Paul adds hurriedly. He's finished with John's shirt now but doesn't try
to take it off, for which John is thankful now the conversation has taken this unexpected turn. "I
would've if you hadn't."

John's not sure how to respond to that, or the earnest way Paul is looking at him, so in the end he
just says, "Yeah?"

Paul reaches out to smooth John's collar down, letting his hand linger a bit longer than seems
necessary. "I mean, probably not five minutes before we had to go on stage."

He's smiling a little now though, so John says, "I was trying to stop you having a breakdown before
we went on. For the sake of the band an' that."

Paul gives him a look for that blatant lie. "How very altruistic of you."

"Alright, grammar boy." John nudges him with his knee and Paul snickers, the strange moment
passing. "Find us a clean shirt then."

He leaves Paul to it and escapes to the bathroom where he strips off his shirt and washes at the sink
as best he can. It feels less awful this time around at least, without Paul all over his bare skin the
way he was before. Well, except for his neck where he can already see a light reddish mark where
Paul's mouth had been. He pokes at it a little and then ducks his head under the tap as well,
wanting to wash some of the grease and sweat out of his hair too. It's only when he straightens that
he notices his audience.

"The coppers put out bulletins about blokes like you," he says, to cover his sudden self-
consciousness. He's not sure why he would be self conscious now, after everything, but he is. He
blames the unforgiving glare of the bathroom light.

"I wasn't staring, I was waiting," Paul says immediately.

He was definitely staring but John lets it go, since he would probably have done the same. He
grabs the towel off the bath and dries himself off as Paul comes the rest of the way in, carrying the
promised change of clothes.

He takes the t-shirt and then startles when Paul reaches out to trace the tender point on John's neck.
"Sorry." He grimaces. "I didn't mean to do that."
"It'll fade quicker than last time I reckon," John says, stilling under his hand. Apparently Paul
touching his neck is never going to stop being a turn on, which doesn't bode well for John's sanity.
"And if anyone asks, I'll just say Brigitte Bardot was at the wedding."

Paul throws him an unimpressed look and scratches his fingernails lightly over the mark, making
John's breath stutter, before he moves away. "Hurry up and get dressed then."

He does, and once Paul has washed and changed and opened the window, he makes them tea and
bacon butties and they sit on the bed eating like they hadn't been having sex barely an hour ago.
John isn't quite sure what to make of it. Does this mean they're never going to mention it again? Or
is this just a normal day to Paul? Annoy John, play a gig, have two orgasms, then dinner. Still, if it
is, it bodes well for them being able to carry this on, whatever it is, without it ruining everything
between them.

"Stop thinking so hard or you'll break something," Paul says.

John squints at him suspiciously, but he's busy mopping up tomato sauce with what's left of his
bread as he flicks through their songwriting notebook and not looking at John at all.

"I wasn't thinking," John says in the end, and only realises what an own goal that is when Paul
snorts.

Mike comes back just before five and John takes that as his cue to leave, making sure to turn up the
collar of his coat before he goes downstairs – just in case he meets Jim McCartney coming up the
front path. He can hear Mike moving about in the front room when they get to the hall, so he
doesn't say any of the embarrassing things clamouring in his head.

"I'll ring this Mona woman," he says instead, when Paul has the front door half open. "Find out
about the audition and let you know."

"Alright."

There's a bit of an awkward pause then while John wonders if he should say anything else, or if
Paul's expecting him to, but then Paul sighs like John is being extremely trying and pulls him in for
a quick, hard kiss which answers at least two of John's unasked questions.

"See you soon," he says, a touch smugly, so John flicks him on the nose, just to make him twitch
away, scowling, and says, "I expect so," as he heads out.

The next day John rings Mona at the number Cyril gave him. She's not there, but he speaks to her
son and gets an audition date for two Saturday's time at eleven. Mimi's blatantly listening in from
the kitchen, lips pursed in disapproval although she can't actually stop him, so his follow up call to
Paul is painfully to the point. He can hear Jim and Mike talking close by, so Paul sounds a bit like
he's putting a call through to the Exchange rather than talking to John anyway.

"I'll ring George and let him know," Paul says at last, when they've exhausted all the social niceties
and Paul's written everything down. "And we should… do some writing as well, yeah? Before
practice."

He sees Mimi go out the back door so risks saying, "Is that what you're calling it now?"

There's a loaded silence, then Paul clears his throat and says, "How about five?"

Jim says something about homework in the background and Paul briefly covers the phone,
presumably to argue about it, before he reappears. "Sorry. Right, half five then."
"Are you sure?" John drawls, just to be annoying. "It sounds like you're busy."

"No, I'm… I'm not busy." There's another offstage comment from Jim before Paul adds, apparently
for his dad's benefit, "It won't take that long."

"Aye, I remember," John says helpfully.

"Shut up, I meant— No, not you, Dad."

John is enjoying himself far too much but Mimi is coming back down the garden path now so he
should probably put Paul out of his misery. "I'll look forward to the two minute McCartney special
tomorrow then, shall I?"

"You—" Whatever Paul had been about to say, he obviously thinks better of it because there's
another weighted silence before he says, in a voice that promises retribution, "I'll see you at half
five then. Don't be late," followed by the heavy click of the phone being hung up and the dial tone.

"What are you looking so pleased about?" Mimi says suspiciously.

"The audition, of course. First steps to stardom and all that." John dodges around her to steal a
biscuit off the table, grinning when she tries and fails to slap his hand. There's a hum of
anticipation under his skin, but it's less for the still distant audition and more for tomorrow and
Paul.

"Instead of daydreaming about that rubbish, you ought to be telephoning the college about your
place," Mimi says, harping on her favourite subject of late — John's Future — or rather John's
Probable Delinquent Future as she prefers to think of it. His disastrous heat had apparently
reminded her she was no closer to finding a solution to the problem of an unregistered, unclaimed,
and bone idle omega hanging about the place (to quote her own choice words).

John probably will ring the college, if only to stop her nagging or dropping leaden hints about the
Bonding Office. At least she hasn't started on about him getting a job, although that's mainly
because she thinks no-one would give him one.

In the meantime he takes great satisfaction in fetching the envelope from his coat pocket and
showing her their pay from the gig — little enough but at least they came by it honestly. Mimi
sniffs, unimpressed.

"Oh come on, Mimi," John wheedles, because she's impossible to live with when she has a cob on
and he doesn't want to be thinking of this when he could be thinking about tomorrow instead.
"Wouldn't you rather I earned it myself than getting handouts from some rich bastard?"

"Don't swear, John. And I'd rather you thought about how you're going to support yourself if you're
not going to be supported."

"By getting famous, Mimi, keep up."

She sits down at the table and starts peeling the carrots from the garden, mouth still set in a line.
John sits opposite and eyes her, looking for the crack in her granite exterior he can usually find,
although god knows it's been harder since Julia.

"I'll ring the college this week, I promise."

"I wish you'd reconsider registering with the Bonding Office," Mimi says, like John knows she's
been dying to bring up all week.
John would rather stab himself in the face, but Mimi's not a fan of his 'exaggerations' so instead he
says, "You'd hate it if I did. Imagine all those alphas coming round, expecting you to wait on them
hand and foot while they measured me up like a prize cow."

It's an exaggeration, but probably not much of one and when she flicks a glance at him he can tell
she's thawing a little. The truth is she would hate it. She never wanted John to present as an omega
any more than he did, and the last thing she wants is to be even more of a subject for gossip among
her neighbours, let alone having a load of posh nobs in, judging her housekeeping.

"And then I'd have to move away you know," he says, pressing his advantage. "I bet you'd miss
me."

"I wouldn't miss your mess," Mimi says tartly, but John knows he's won the argument – for now, at
least. It's best not to push his luck though so after dinner he escapes to Pete's for the afternoon. He
does briefly consider Forthlin Road instead, but after what he did on the phone, he should probably
give Paul a bit of time to cool off before he risks it.

He would have thought twenty four hours was more than long enough, but when Paul opens the
door the next day at 5.45 (John couldn't find his coat or his ciggies) he looks like he's seriously
thinking about whether or not to let him in.

John drops what's left on his cigarette on the doorstep and stubs it out with his foot, giving Paul his
most contrite expression. He's not had enough practice at it to make it very convincing. "Don't give
me that face, Macca, I was only jokin'."

"In front of my dad," Paul says.

"Well, technically it wasn't since he was here and I was over in Woolton." Paul looks at him
narrowly so John changes tack, lowering his voice. "C'mon, I'm freezing my balls off here and I
reckon you like those."

Paul's mouth twitches like he's going to smile before he visibly smothers the instinct. But he does
grudgingly move to one side to let John in.

"Is Mike about?" He asks nonchalantly, as he hangs up his coat. He can hear the telly going in the
front room.

"Yeah, but he's busy watching something." Paul waits for him to take off his shoes and then leads
the way upstairs.

"Not even a cup of tea first?" John says, trailing him up. "Can't believe the romance is dead
already."

"Well two minutes doesn't leave a lot of room for it."

John grins at his back. "I was rounding up, you know."

Paul ignores that. "And you're the one who's late so it's your own fault."

When they're safely inside Paul's bedroom, Paul shoves a chair under the door handle — although
it's only Mike in the house and he's probably not coming anywhere near Paul's bedroom. He has
the record player open, a few records strewn on the floor, and he picks one seemingly at random to
put on.

John's unable to resist. "Just a single, is it?"

Paul turns the volume dial up a little, giving John a flat look. "We can just write instead, you
know."

"Alright. No need to use that sort of language." John claps a hand to his heart like Paul's landed a
mortal blow. "I won't say another word."

"I doubt it," Paul says, grudging amusement lightening his expression. "Get on the bed then, since I
owe you one."

John raises his eyebrows at the directness but does what he's told, settling on the bed and helping
Paul get his trousers and underwear off.

He's already half hard from the anticipation of his impending orgasm, and just a bit from winding
Paul up (which is probably perverse), but when Paul wets his lips and makes no move to crawl
back up the bed his stomach swoops wildly as he realises what he intends to do.

His memory of the first blowjob is a bit blurry, subsumed as it was into the drawn out intensity of
his heat and Paul's rut. But this one he'll definitely remember, starting with the look of fierce
concentration on Paul's face which is really doing it for him.

Paul wraps a hand firmly around him, working him nearly to full hardness before he takes a deep
breath and ducks down to lick at the head. John says, "Fuck," a bit louder than he means to, given
that Paul has neighbours and Mike's just downstairs, but it only seems to encourage Paul, tentative
movements giving way to broad stripes of his tongue as he gets more confident. It's in time with his
hand for the most part although the rhythm goes awry every now and again, making John shift
restlessly. If his scent was a little nervous to begin with, that soon fades, and what he lacks in
finesse though he makes up for in enthusiasm.

"Paul," John gasps when he twists his hand. Paul glances up at him and the sight is so obscene that
John forgets if he intended to say something else and turns his head towards the wall, so he can't
see it anymore.

When John is fully, achingly hard, Paul tries taking him into his mouth. He can only manage the
head properly but the shocking heat of his mouth is so incredible that John fears for one awful
second that he might just come immediately. He half sits up, making to push Paul off, but Paul
takes his mouth away and says, breathlessly, "Don't worry. I won't let you yet."

What he means by that is made clear about thirty seconds later when the dual workings of Paul's
hand and Paul's mouth have John tensing, the one leg not currently squashed under Paul drawing
up. Then Paul stills his hand, tightening it just enough around the base of his dick that John is held,
agonisingly, on the brink of orgasm.

He lifts his head to glare, croaking, "What are you…?"

"You have to wait," Paul says. His face is bright red, eyes so dark they look almost black where
they're fixed on John. John is so wet he knows it must be affecting him — he realised that much
after yesterday. He swallows and considers telling Paul to let go and let him come anyway, but he's
never met a dare he didn't like and this feels very much like one.

"Fine," he gasps, flopping back down. "But get the fuck on with it."

So Paul does, getting into a better position and putting his mouth to good use until John is
squirming under him, desperate to come. He regrets every sarky comment about Paul's stamina. It's
definitely been more than two minutes now, it feels like it's been an hour of bloody torture,
although he knows logically it's only a fraction of that. He desperately wants to thrust up into the
wet heat but he knows he can't and the effort of holding still is making him lose his mind.

When Paul finally takes his mouth away and loosens his hand, John barely has time to react before
he starts jerking him quickly, giving him no time to catch his breath before he's coming in an
intense rush that lasts bloody ages.

He lies there after, chest heaving as he listens to the telltale sounds of Paul getting himself off.
When he starts to come he presses his face to John's thigh and John moves his hand until he can
clumsily curl it around the back of his head, scratching lightly at Paul's scalp as he shivers and
gasps for breath.

John feels wrung out in the best way, but there's something missing and he doesn't know what it is
until Paul crawls back up to kiss him deeply. John responds immediately, licking into Paul's mouth
as he wraps his arms around him to hold him there, abruptly certain that Paul letting go of him now
would be the worst thing that could ever happen to him. He moans into the kiss as Paul shifts to lie
in the cradle of his thighs and everything is perfectly and disgustingly wet and slick between them.

Eventually the kiss turns slower, sweeter, and John remembers that he can actually function
without clinging on to Paul like a limpet and relaxes his arms so Paul can move away. He does, but
only the barest few inches.

"Alright?" he asks, uncertainly. He looks a little embarrassed, which means he hopefully hasn't
noticed John's brazen neediness.

"No, that was terrible," John says. "Fucking awful. Never do it again."

Paul grins, pleased, and ducks back down to kiss him some more. After a minute or so of this John
realises it's not only at risk of becoming pretty soppy, but he's also starting to get hard again and
they're almost certainly out of time, even for a McCartney two minute special.

"Alright, stop it," he mumbles against Paul's mouth, and then undermines himself by kissing him
again once, twice, before finally getting up the momentum to roll them over and clamber off him.
Paul sits up, somehow managing to look more debauched when mostly dressed than John does
wearing far less. He averts his eyes, just to avoid the temptation, and starts gathering up his clothes
again.

"This isn't a strip show," John grouses, when he turns to see Paul blatantly watching him. Again.

"Shame," Paul says cheekily, then ducks, laughing, from the sock John chucks at him before he
sneaks to the bathroom to wash up.

By the time George arrives, they're sitting decorously in the dining room, guitars out and a safe
distance apart, arguing over whether or not they can manage without a drummer for the audition.
Paul thinks they can just say the the rhythm is in the guitars, John thinks that's fairly stupid.

"Alright, lads," George says, unwinding his scarf. "Did you get much writing done?"

"Aye, loads. Paul's full of ideas."

John meets Paul's eyes for the briefest second before Paul turns to George to try and drag him into
the never ending drum debate.
 Chapter 9

They fit in a couple more rehearsals that week, but when they're not rehearsing he and Paul fit in
quite a lot of sex too. It turns out Paul really does think about sex all the time. John does too, of
course, but it's sex with Paul, specifically, that he's usually thinking about and he's not sure if Paul
would say the same. So he keeps that bit of information to himself and just takes shameless
advantage of Paul's incessant randiness.

They have to stick to Forthlin Road, since they have it to themselves during the week but for the
long-suffering Mike. But happily Paul develops a pretty relaxed attitude towards school once
there's a better alternative on offer, providing plenty of afternoon and evening opportunities to hole
up in Paul's bedroom. It's surprising to John how easy it is to adapt to whatever this strange new
thing is between them — the thing where they write, rehearse, and compete to see who can get
each other off the fastest (or slowest, depending on their mood). It helps that Paul seems to treat it
as a natural extension of their friendship, as though it's perfectly normal to dig out his notebook five
minutes after he's finished gasping against John to scribble down a song idea he'd had. Trust Paul
to get musically inspired by sex.

On the Thursday afternoon, after another spine-melting orgasm thanks to Paul's new-found
enthusiasm for sucking John off, he thinks that this might be the best and worst competition of his
life. Best because John is getting multiple orgasms out of it, and worst because Paul is really
fucking good at everything, including giving John orgasms, and he's not about to be one upped by
Paul. That means he's going to have to attempt a blowjob himself. He thinks he has the basic idea
down after Paul's three goes at it, but it's still a bit daunting since it has to be at least as good as
Paul's, preferably better.

As it is, he spends so much of Friday thinking about it that he ends up having to wank off twice in
his room, just to make sure he doesn't embarrass himself when it finally happens. By the time he
gets to Paul's (early) and drags him upstairs, he's raring to go and he's not prepared for Paul to turn
it into bloody Conversation Hour by suddenly announcing he'd seen Stu earlier.

"Oh aye?" John says, without much interest. Paul's taking forever to get his coat and bag off so
John pulls them off and dumps them on the floor, then pushes his blazer off too to hurry things
along a little.

"He said he's been trying to ring you but no-one's been in." Paul obediently kicks off his shoes too,
but his eyes are on John.

"Well, I've been round here a lot, haven't I?"

"He said he had something of yours and you'd know what it was?"

It says a lot for where John's mind has been lately that it takes so long for him to realise what that
means. When he does, he goes cold — which is stupid when he asked Stu to help him find more
pills in the first place.

"John?" Paul is frowning at him, like he's reading every thought.

John pulls himself together. It's not like it matters now anyway, he can worry about it later. "Dunno
what he meant. I'll go and see him tomorrow."

"He looked worried." The last part is muffled as John helps pull his jumper off over his head.
"That's what his face always looks like."

He kisses Paul before he can ask anything else and walks him back towards the bed. Paul goes
easily, clambering onto the mattress and letting his thighs fall open so that John can settle in
between them, but there's still a furrow between his brows that suggests he's thinking too much.

"It's probably just a letter from the college or something," John says, exasperated. He doesn't want
to waste the time they have before Jim gets home for the weekend talking about bloody Stuart. He
rubs Paul through his trousers, feeling the familiar flare of arousal as Paul arches into it with a
groan. And yet somehow it's still not enough of a distraction.

"Wouldn't they send letters to your house though?"

John pulls back, incredulous. "Look, do you want a blowjob or not?"

Paul shuts up pretty sharpish at that, staring up at John like that was the last possible thing he
expected him to say. Which is a bit insulting when they've been mostly taking turns at everything
else - did he expect John to just leave him hanging?

"Well?" John says, since Paul's apparently been struck dumb.

Paul wets his lips and then nods, saying breathlessly, "Yeah. Alright," before he yanks John down
into a bruising kiss, Stu finally forgotten.

The kiss goes on long enough that John starts moving against Paul without really intending to. Paul
shifts to match him, and the push and drag of it, even through the layers of their clothes, is good
enough to get them both all the way hard, their kissing losing all coordination as they rut against
each other, building to a familiar rhythm. It's only the realisation that he's not far off coming just
from rubbing off against Paul (not for the first, or even fourth time that week) that makes John pull
away, breathing heavily.

"Jesus, Paul." John moves back so they're touching as little as possible. "We're meant to… I was…"

Paul sits up, looking a little glazed. "Yeah. Okay. Sorry." He starts unbuttoning his shirt with
fumbling hands so John wastes no time in getting properly undressed too. He gets there faster than
Paul, who is making such a production of shucking his trousers that John finally yanks them the
rest of the way off himself, followed by his underwear, so they can get the fuck on with it.

Paul is staring at him like he still doesn't believe John will actually do it so he tugs him down the
mattress a little by his legs to get him in a better position and wraps a hand around his dick, giving
it a few long strokes to get things started. Not that he really needs to, Paul looks painfully hard
already, his whole body tense.

"I'm not going to bite it off or anything," John says, a little thrown by how Paul's holding himself
like he's nervous while smelling nothing but turned on.

"I know that." Paul's gaze drops to his mouth and oh, okay. Not nervous after all. That makes
things easier.

John takes a few seconds longer to wind himself up to it and then ducks down to lick a broad stripe
over the head. Paul makes a strangled noise, which John decides is good enough, so he gets on with
it, licking and then trying to work his mouth over as much of the head as he can. It's not so bad
once he gets used to it, and if bravado has got him so far, the distracting noises Paul starts making
easily do the rest. Paul can't seem to shut up, and while his stuttering gasps are bad enough, his
talking is worse, breathless mumbling of John's name and exhortations not to stop, as if John would
even want to stop when he can make him sound like that.

He's careful, like he always is, not to touch the bulge at the base of Paul's dick too much, but with
Paul moving constantly beneath him already he starts wondering what would happen if he used his
tongue there instead, just a little. He soon finds out.

"Fucking— Ow!" He glares at Paul, one hand in his hair where Paul had done his best to nearly
yank it out by the roots.

Paul's chest is heaving. "Sorry. Sorry," he gasps, reaching down to pet at John's head clumsily, like
he's a bloody dog. His hands are shaking and John catches them to hold them still, raising his
eyebrows questioningly. "It's a bit…sensitive," Paul says, red faced.

John eyes him, suddenly unsure. "Painful sensitive?"

"No," Paul's gaze slides off somewhere to the right of John's face. "But you should probably leave
it alone."

John looks down and sees that the bulge is the tiniest bit more pronounced. Paul is still studying
the wall like it's the most fascinating thing he's ever seen, so he just says, "Alright then," and
resolves not to do that again.

Turns out he can't touch his balls either when he gets a knee to the ear for his trouble not thirty
seconds later.

He pulls off, glaring at Paul who mutters, "That's sensitive too."

"Bloody hell, Paul, it's all sensitive. That's the bleedin' point."

"I just didn't know you were going to do it."

"Well, I can't exactly keep up a running commentary with my mouth full, can I?"

Paul goes, if possible, even redder at that, and his dick definitely takes an interest. "Anywhere else
off limits?" John asks, jerking him off loosely, just to help him along a bit. "Do you want me to
just sit here and look at it instead? Sing it a song?"

Paul's breathing has gone shallow from John touching him again and it takes him a moment to say,
"No. I'll stay still this time, I promise."

John eyes him sceptically, but Paul's pretty persuasive when he's naked so he shifts into position
again and gets back to it, working his hand and mouth as effectively as he can to see this through to
the end and resisting all temptation to touch anything he hasn't touched before. He tries taking him
even further into his mouth this time, and it's more than worth the effort for the way it makes Paul
moan, his thighs twitching continuously with the effort of keeping still. John can tell it won't be
long now, the overwhelming scent of Paul's arousal is all around him, filling the small room and
making John desperate to finish this so he can touch himself.

Naturally Paul gives him barely any warning before he comes so John ends up with some of it in
his fucking hair. He wipes it off with Paul's discarded t-shirt and then shuffles back up the bed,
taking Paul's hand and just putting it on his dick so he can do something bloody useful with it
instead of trying to cause him bodily harm. Paul does his best to oblige, but he's mostly useless
after his orgasm and John ends up joining in to try and speed things along. It ends up being such an
unexpected turn on, his hand and Paul's working him together, that he gets another memorable
orgasm out of it after all. Typical.
By the time he's got his breath back Paul is fairly radiating embarrassment. John is never averse to
mocking him but he finds he doesn't much want to today, not when he's still shivering with
pleasurable aftershocks and not with Paul lying there all tense like he's waiting for it. It's no fun
needling him if he actually draws blood.

"I reckon I could pull off a bald patch," he says eventually instead, settling himself beside him.
Paul's eyes flicker to his and away again, clearly expecting something else to follow, but John just
stretches and scratches his belly, enjoying the loose, floaty feeling he always gets afterwards. It's
quite a relief to have found something Paul isn't immediately good at, if he's honest. He just didn't
expect it to be lying still and getting a blowjob.

"My hand's all sticky now," Paul says eventually. He catches John's incredulous look. "Not just
from… I mean from your hair."

"I'll wear a hat next time, shall I?" John says, but there's no bite to it and Paul smiles at him
hesitantly.

"Or one of those head scarves."

John pulls a face. "What? Like the old biddies wear?"

Paul reaches out to smooth down John's hair with the non sticky hand. "Yeah. One of the flowery
ones."

"Be easier to tie your hands together." John says it flippantly but then thinks about it for a few
seconds too long and loses track of what they were talking about.

"We could if you want," Paul says, because he's secretly a pervert and no-one seems to realise it
except John.

John leans in to kiss him for that. It lasts longer than he means it to, fueled by that unexpectedly
stimulating mental image and the way Paul's scent curls around him. "Might have to gag you at
this rate an' all," he says, when he finally disentangles himself.

"That too," Paul says, but his smile is normal again, if a bit soft around the edges. John much
prefers him that way.

He thinks Paul's forgotten their earlier conversation but later, when he's putting his coat on to go,
he says, "Are you going to go and see Stu tomorrow then?"

John eyes him suspiciously. "Why?"

"I could come with you."

“I thought you were meeting George tomorrow?” Paul and George were meant to be meeting some
kids from school at the Jacaranda. Paul had offered several times to get out of it so they could take
advantage of Jim’s usual pub trip, or for John to come with them, but John had, shockingly,
managed to say no. Whatever Paul might think, George isn't stupid and they’ve been pushing their
luck all week as it is. Now he’s glad he turned it down. There’s no way he’d get away with
collecting something off Stu with Paul there; and even if he did, he wouldn’t put it past Paul to strip
search him to find out what it was, the devious bastard.

"Yeah, but I could get out of it, if you want. I don't mind."

Paul definitely just wants to know what he's fetching from Stu. "Best not, I dunno how long it will
take."

Paul looks unhappy at that so John tells him to stop sulking and then kisses him against the coat
rack until Mike opens the door from the front room and makes a horrified sound.

"Night then, Michael," John says, smartly saluting both the McCartneys as he lets himself out.

After he gets home, and after successfully dodging Mimi, he flops down on his bed to smoke and
think about Stu's message. It might not be the pills but it likely is. And if it is then that's good news
and not something that should be settling like a cold stone in his gut. It's just all the sex, he thinks.
It didn't seem so bad before because what he was avoiding was so much worse, but now he'd miss
it. Miss Paul. Both. Not that they couldn't still mess around but he'd have no excuse for it then and
maybe Paul wouldn't even want to, not if his scent went back to what it was before. Maybe he
wouldn't want to either for that matter. It would probably be different anyway, afterwards/ No
more Paul going all flushed and frantic just from being near him (premature bald patch
notwithstanding) and no more of that for him either. He makes an irritated noise. Trust Paul to give
him something to actually like about being an omega.

Not for the first time, he wonders what his mum would say about it all. She always liked Paul too
much. He remembers how she used to smile at him when John took him round, at the pair of them;
like they were a double act she was watching on the variety show. She probably wouldn't be
surprised, he thinks, not after what he'd told her the night of Paul's party, but he doesn't know if
she'd approve or not. Regardless, she'd have been on his side, if she was here, and he wishes, not
even for the hundredth time, that she was. The pain is easier to manage with Paul around, but like a
broken leg that hasn’t set quite right, it never goes away.

He's on edge the next afternoon when he gets to Gambier Terrace. It's the first time he's seen Stu
since his heat and if Paul was different after, then logically he thinks Stu will be too and the last
thing he wants is to develop some embarrassing and unwelcome hard on for Stu as well.

Rod lets him in, looking his usual cheerful self, and tells him Stu is in his room, painting.
"Surprised you couldn't smell the paint from the road."

John can certainly smell it from the door, a harsh astringent scent that he thinks didn't used to be so
strong before he came off the suppressants. He steels himself before he opens Stu's door but it's
still a shock. Nowhere near as much of a shock as Paul was, thank fuck, but enough to throw him
off balance, making him aware of Stu's essential alphaness in a way he'd never been before. He's
clearly not the only one affected either, as Stu stills, eyes wide.

"What?" John asks, on the defensive even though he knows exactly what.

"Nothing. I just wasn't expecting you to be so…different. Sorry." Stu puts down his paintbrush,
wipes his hand on his overalls, taking an unnecessary amount of time over it before he says, "Are
you alright? When you never answered the phone I started to wonder."

"Paul said he spoke to you."

Stu smiles a little wryly. "Yeah, well, Paul's not exactly forthcoming with information about you.
Not to me, anyway."

That’s news to John, but he doesn't want to talk to Stu about Paul so he asks, "What are you
workin' on?"

It's a pretty blatant change of subject but Stu just steps back so John can see the canvas better, a
riotous mess of colours and lines that's very much a work in progress. John closes the distance to
stand beside him because he's not going to be intimidated by Stu of all people. He's been passed out
on his floor too many times for that. Stu smiles at him faintly like he can guess what he's thinking
and then starts explaining what all the lines and colours mean, animated as he always is when he
talks about his work. It's reassuringly familiar and John watches him moving his hands around as
his heart rate slowly settles to something more like its normal pace.

"I can show you if you like," Stu says, at the end of a lengthy description of some new blocking
technique he's learned off a Dutch art student he met at an exhibition. "If you're coming back to
classes now?"

"Aye, alright." John leans it to peer at the bit of the canvas Stu had indicated more closely before
straightening again. He should have brought his glasses. "If they let me back anyway. I haven't
spoken to anyone yet."

"They will," Stu says confidently. "And if they don’t, I can put in a good word."

He would too. And god knows the staff were always falling over themselves to keep Stuart happy,
but it makes him feel warm all the same.

"That's alright, I was plannin' on crying if they didn't."

"Were you?" Stu sounds amused.

"Aye. Quick splash of paint to the eyes and I'll convince anyone."

"You'd be blind as well."

John shrugs. "Not much different to now, then."

Stu laughs at that and leads the way to the tiny kitchen, setting the kettle to boil. John's relieved to
find the strange feeling is settling somewhat and Stu is mostly just Stu again - annoyingly
handsome as he stands there framed in the fading afternoon light from the window and holding a
tea bag, but nothing to worry about too much. He doesn't want to think what that says about Paul.

"So what did you need to give me that was so important?" He finally asks, when Stu's made them
both tea and found half a packet of biscuits that John suspects are probably Rod's.

Stu frowns at him for a second and then his brow clears and he puts down his cup and disappears
off to his room again, reemerging with exactly what John expected. "You owe me a pound by the
way." He looks pleased with himself.

John takes the nondescript little bottle and shoves it in his pocket, just in case someone somehow
has their nose pressed against the first floor window, ready to report them both. "Ta for that. I'll
bring you the money next time"

"Alright." Stu hesitates, then adds, apologetic, "She guessed who it was for. Sorry."

John sips his tea. "S'okay. If she's the one sellin' them, she's got more to lose than I do."

"You didn't…" John looks up at the half question. "You didn't ask for a favour in the end then?"

"Course not." He hopes the lie isn't as obvious as it sounds to him.

Stu hmms a little and then says, "I just thought Paul seemed a bit more suspicious of me than
usual."

He smiles like he's joking but he probably isn't really. John knows Stu sets off some stupid alpha
instinct in Paul, one that's doubtless not being quelled by them shagging at every available
opportunity, so he just says, "He's just in a tizzy about the audition. Doesn't want anyone distracted
from the McCartney practice regime."

He feels oddly disloyal saying it, since he's been just as keen on the numerous practices as Paul,
wanting to get everything right for next Saturday. Not to mention their pre-practice 'writing'
sessions, which he's definitely as responsible for as Paul is. Fortunately it's enough to distract Stu,
who hasn't heard anything about the audition yet and has to be told the whole story. Well, almost
the whole story. John has to make some pretty significant edits when it comes to the wedding gig.

He likes it, sitting here with Stu, surrounded by the usual clutter and art paraphernalia of Gambier
Terrace, and talking idly about music and art classes and what everyone at the college has been up
to. When Rod puts his head around the door a bit later and asks if they're coming to the pub, he
doesn't need to think too hard about it. The alternative is hanging around Mendips like a sad sack,
or going to bother Pete or worse, Paul, and he can't face Paul yet, not until he's decided what to do
about the pills burning a hole in his pocket.

Stu looks a bit torn, no doubt having a romantic night planned for himself and his paint brushes,
but he gives in eventually and fetches his coat and out they go.

The first pint goes down easy enough, and then the second, and the night gets increasingly blurry
after that. They end up running into some other people from college and by the time they wend
their way back to Stu's, John is thoroughly drunk. Stu is less so, always more careful with his
drinking than John is, but he's unsteady enough on his feet as they tumble into his room, nearly
tripping over a box of paints he left on the floor. He chucks John a blanket so he can bed down on
the floor and starts getting undressed before giving up and flopping down onto his mattress with
his trousers, shirt and jumper still on.

John kicks off his shoes and rolls himself in the blanket. He drank enough that he'd normally be out
like a light but tonight he feels oddly restless, not to mention bloody cold. He yanks the blanket up
higher.

"You alright over there?" Stu mumbles in the darkness. "I can hear your teeth chattering."

"Bloody freezing," John says and is rewarded by Stu's coat, dropped somewhere in the region of
his head. He rearranges it to cover the rest of him instead and it helps, a bit, but he still can't settle.
If Paul was here, he'd be warmer – and he’d probably have had an orgasm by now, which is an
unhelpful thought. After some sluggish calculations he works out that this is the longest he's gone
without one since last weekend. One given by Paul anyway, and that's a marked improvement on
his own hand. He makes an irritated noise and Stu says, "what now?"

"Nothing."

He feels irrationally annoyed at Paul for not being here, even though he has no-one to blame for
that but himself, and that sets him wondering what Paul's doing now (probably sleeping) and who
he and George met at the Jac, and whether Sue was there. She probably was, draping herself all
over Paul like at his party, along with the rest of his little harem. Perhaps he should've gone after
all.

Even drunk as he is, he's aware he sounds like a jealous girlfriend, or worse, a clingy omega.
Maybe this is just what happens though when you do what they've been doing. You get all weird
about each other, like Paul with Stu. He ponders that for a moment and then remembers his
conversation with Stu weeks ago and thinks that might be this is his chance to find out.

"Stu?"

"What?" Stu sounds sleepy but at least he's still awake.

"That omega you went with, for her heat. Did she bond with that doctor in the end?"

If Stu is surprised by the question he doesn't say so. "Yeah, she did. I think they've a baby due
now."

"And you didn't mind?"

"No." He sounds confused. "I told you, we weren't together or anything."

"I know that, but didn't it feel weird? After? Or, I dunno, during. Knowing she was getting bonded
to someone else?"

"Course not. It was just sex."

"You didn't feel like she was...yours?"

There's a pause, before Stu says, "No. I mean maybe a little bit while we were, you know, but not
after that."

That doesn't sound like him and Paul at all. He tries to imagine Paul going from him to Sue or
some other omega (or anyone) and feels like he might be sick, and not just because of all the beer.

"Why are you asking?" Stu says when John doesn't volunteer anything further.

"Just wondered."

There's a longer pause this time, then, "I think if someone did feel that way they should probably
be careful. Unless they intended to bond with whoever it is."

Through the sluggish haze of inebriation it occurs to John that maybe he hasn't been as subtle as he
thought in asking. Stu's voice is concerned, like he's worried about John's fucking feelings or
whatever, and that's just embarrassing. Anyway it's not like Paul has knotted him, or will knot him,
so it doesn't matter. Everyone knows you can't bond without that. Not that they would, but still.

"I'll remember that then. Just in case Elvis ever comes callin'," John says, because Stu seems to be
waiting for some response from him.

"Right." Stu still sounds uneasy so John makes a show of getting himself comfortable to go to sleep
and after a moment Stu does too.

"Night, John," he says, after a while. "Don't throw up in my room."

"Fuck off," John mumbles into the jumper doubling as his pillow.
 Chapter 10

John wakes up late the next morning with a cracking hangover. Apparently Stu lacks Paul's
hangover curing powers so John is condemned to suffer and makes sure everyone knows about it.
He hangs around the flat for a few hours, eating toast and drinking copious amounts of tea until his
stomach feels settled enough to risk the bus back to Woolton. He'd prefer to go to Forthlin Road,
but he thinks Paul would take a dim view of him showing up hungover from a night carousing with
Stu just so he can magic away his headache. So he goes home and endures the lengthy lecture from
Mimi before she begrudgingly cooks him some tea. Then he crawls away to his bed, which feels
horribly cold and empty with just him in it. He only remembers at the last minute to get the little
bottle of pills out of his pocket and hide them in a pair of socks in his drawer, telling himself that
he'll worry about them tomorrow.

He's not sure if it's the lingering effect of his hangover, or the lack of Paul, but he sleeps fitfully,
his bed alternating between too cold and too hot, even though the weather's finally turned and
there's frost on the outside of the window. He wakes up hard, after a confusing tangle of dreams
which definitely featured Paul and his bed, proving that his two day dry spell has been two days too
long. He pushes a hand under the waistband of his pyjamas and gets himself off slowly, turning his
face into the pillow and thinking of Paul's weight pressing him down and the noises he makes
when John is touching him. Afterwards he lies there, still feeling over warm, and thinks about how
much better it would be if Paul actually was touching him, and how long it will be until he can. It's
hard to redirect his thoughts once they start drifting that way. His whole body feels loose from his
orgasm but he thinks – no, he's sure – that he could go again without too much effort. The more he
thinks about it, the more sure he is, and the certainty pushes him out of bed to throw some clothes
on, brush his teeth, and go and see what time it is. The clock in the front room tells him it's early;
early enough that he could catch Paul before he leaves if he's quick. It's not a difficult decision to
make.

It's surprisingly warm for a November morning, although he can still see his breath in the air as he
crunches over the crisp grass of the golf course. There are a few people out and about already but
he ignores the stares, used by now to the nosy fuckers of Woolton and intent only on his
destination, ever conscious of the time. He should probably get a watch. Mimi's always on at him
about it.

By the time he gets to Forthlin Road he thinks he must have taken too long. He can't remember
which way Paul's bus stop is, and the thought that he might have just missed him stokes a jittery
anxiety. But then he sees what he thinks must be the indistinct shape of Mike closing the gate at
the end of their path, Paul behind him as they turn to walk along the pavement.

He feels light with relief and is about to call out when Paul looks up and directly at him from
across the road, stopping dead. John crosses over, unsure of what to say now he's here, but in the
end he doesn't need to worry because Paul speaks first.

"Where's your coat?"

John stops, confused. "What?"

"Your coat, John. It's freezing!"

John looks down and realises belatedly that he's only wearing his jeans, shoes and a shirt for some
reason. It can't be that freezing if he hasn't noticed until now. "I'm not cold. Can you stay home?"
Mike looks from John to Paul — who's just staring at him, a slight furrow between his brows. "Is
he drunk?"

"Oi, I can hear you, you know," John says, but Mike's question seems to snap Paul out of whatever
daze he's in and he steps closer, running a hand up John's forearm to his elbow, hot against the
goose pimpled flesh. John sucks in a breath, swaying forward – trust Paul to know what he needs –
and Paul stills, then his eyes go wide and shocked.

John is about to ask what the fuck is wrong with him today when he turns abruptly away, saying
something quietly to Mike that makes him pull a face and set off for the bus stop on his own.

"Come inside," Paul says, hand wrapping around John's arm again as he tugs him back towards
number 20. "C'mon."

There's a woman outside one of the houses, collecting the milk, and she stops to stare at the pair of
them. John ignores her but Paul hastily lets go of his arm and calls out a good morning and
something about John leaving his coat at his. She gives them a thin smile and turns away and Paul
quickly grabs John’s wrist and tows him the rest of the way to number 20, getting the door open in
record time and pushing him inside.

The warmth of the hallway makes John shiver, or maybe he was already shivering, he's not sure. It
wouldn't make sense to shiver indoors, would it?

He's puzzling it over when Paul hisses, "How long have you been like this?"

"Like what?"

"In heat!"

John stares at him for a moment, then laughs, because what? "Don't be daft. I'm not in heat."

"Going into heat then. Whatever. Were you outside long? Why didn't you come and knock?"

"I'm not going into heat," John says, starting to feel annoyed and not a little uneasy at Paul's
insistence.

Paul seems to pick up on his tone and pauses, and when he speaks again his voice is different,
calmer. "Alright, well, never mind that now. Come and sit down, I'll get the fire going."

John makes a frustrated sound. He doesn't want to sit by the bloody fire. "Can't we just…" He pulls
Paul towards him to kiss him and Paul flinches. He stops, feeling strange. Paul's never flinched
from him before.

"No! It's not—" Paul puts his hands on either side of John's face and pulls him in to kiss him
firmly. "Your hands are freezing, that's all. Let me warm you up first."

It sounds like a terrible line but now he comes to think of it, maybe he is a bit cold. Paul takes his
hand, without flinching this time, and tugs him into the living room. He makes John sit down on
the rug, his back against the settee, and then dumps his bag on the floor before crouching down to
light the fire. Paul and Mike have left the curtains drawn so the room is dim until Paul coaxes the
fire into life, the flames casting a cheerful orange glow on the walls and furniture.

As Paul adds more coal and the room grows warmer, John starts shivering harder, fingers stiff and
clumsy as he tries to unbutton his shirt, hating the cold, roughened feel of it against his skin.
"What are you—" Paul catches his hands to stop him and then makes a surprised sound when John
immediately surges forward to kiss him, wanting more than anything to just get on with what he
came here for. Paul will do the buttons if John can't. Paul kisses him back, pressing John against
the settee just like he needs before he suddenly and frustratingly pulls away.

"C'mon Paul, stop pissing about," John manages, trying to kiss him again, but Paul holds him at
arm's length. He's breathing hard, cheeks flushed, so John knows he's into this too. He can't
understand why he won't get on with it, why he won't take his stupid scarf and coat off so John can
touch him properly.

"How— How often were your heats before?"

John makes a sharp, frustrated noise, and tries to tug Paul closer again but he won't budge. "I told
you, I'm not in heat. I just bloody had one." He'd think he'd know if he was, as awful as they are.

"John, you are. I can tell you are. Can't you feel it?"

Paul tries to put a hand to his forehead, like Julia used to do when he had a fever, and he smacks it
away. "I'm not. I was just…" He can't really remember what he was just.

"Just what?" Paul says. "Just wandering around Allerton in your shirt sleeves at 8 o'clock in the
morning?"

"I was coming to see you," he says, remembering what he had meant to say before, and then
wanting to snatch the words back for how pathetic they sound out loud.

Paul softens immediately. "I know you were. I just wish you'd have rung first, I would've come and
met you."

"I didn't need you to meet me, I can walk a bloody mile by myself."

Paul blows out a long breath, like John is the most exasperating person on the planet, which is a bit
rich coming from someone still wearing his coat and scarf.

"Take these off," John says, irritated that they're still talking when they could be doing something
better. He starts trying to unbutton Paul's heavy coat and after a moment Paul helps him, shrugging
it off and tossing it to one side, along with his scarf. He looks so much softer without them, and
John wants him so much that he doesn't know what to do with the feeling.

Paul watches him, and John would think he was content to just stay kneeling there all day but for
the way his breathing has gone shallow and his scent has changed, turning deeper and harder to
ignore – not that John wants to ignore it.

He curls a hand into Paul's jumper, tugging impatiently. "Don't you want—"

"Yes," Paul says and leans in to brush their lips together, as careful as if they'd never done it before.
He pulls back a hair's breadth and then does it again, so gently that whatever protest John had been
about to make slithers away. The third time, John makes a soft noise, chasing Paul's mouth as he
moves back, but Paul evades him easily, pressing a kiss to his cheek instead. After that he gives up
trying to understand what Paul is doing. There's a slow, inexorable warmth unfurling inside him as
Paul kisses him again and again. He lets go of Paul's jumper, moves his hand to his shoulder, then
the side of his neck, trying to pull him closer. He's shivering again, even though the room is warm,
and he realises vaguely that he's hard as well, and wet, even though he doesn't know when either of
those things happened.
By the time Paul kisses him properly John is vibrating with need and he moans, opening his mouth
to Paul immediately, desperate to have him. Paul kisses him back hard, pausing only long enough to
say, "Lie down," and John does, shifting out of the way of the settee and falling back onto the
carpet so Paul can settle on top of him, his legs parting automatically to make room for him. Like
this, they're pressed flush together and John thrusts up, chasing the orgasm he can already feel
building. Paul pushes back and they move together roughly, the pressure mounting unbearably, and
near painfully, until Paul fumbles with his jeans and frees him and then himself. After that it takes
a bare few seconds before he's coming, wrapping his legs around Paul as much as his stupid
trousers allow to hold him there as he pants through it. Paul thrusts as best as he can twice more
and follows John, biting at his jaw as he slumps against him, pinning him to the floor. The weight
and heat of him is exactly what he's been needing and John turns his head, wanting to press his
mouth to the curve of Paul's neck, but finding his stupid collar in the way.

"Take this off too." He tugs at the shirt clumsily, needing it gone. Paul catches his hand and moves
it away, holds it down against the carpet as he kisses John instead, so slowly that John feels his
whole body turning heavy with pleasure, the slow burn of it creeping over him until he can't think
of anything but how much he needs to come again. He manages a "please," mumbled against Paul's
mouth, and Paul finally lets go of his hand and moves back just enough to get a hand on him and
finish what he started.

When John finally stops shivering, the haze of lust has receded far enough for panic to take its
place. He can't actually be in heat. He can't. Not yet. He doesn't want Paul to see him like that
again, desperate and pathetic, begging. He can remember snatches of last time but at least then he
could tell himself it was a last resort, and then a return of the favour, not him coming looking for
Paul like he expects him to… to…

"I'm not." Paul shifts up to look at him so he says clearly, "I'm not in heat," in the hope that that
will make it more convincing.

Paul brushes the sweaty hair back from John's forehead and sighs. "Alright."

Paul's hair is starting to curl damply around the edges and his eyes are so dark, fixed on John, that
John thinks he's probably going into rut, or will go into rut. Because of him, because he can't stop
fucking ruining everything.

"What's wrong?" Paul is frowning down at him.

John swallows around the pressure in his throat, and says, "I should go home."

"What?"

"I should go." He makes to sit up and Paul clambers to his knees and moves back to give him
room, looking alarmed.

"John, what— You can't go home like this."

John tucks himself back in, flinching at how uncomfortable it is, and then tries to button his jeans,
only to find his hands are shaking too much. "I didn't…" he starts, and then can't remember what
he was going to say.

The need to be touching Paul again is already too much, even though he's moved back barely a few
inches. Paul seems to know what's wrong, or maybe he feels it too, because he wraps a hand around
John's ankle, just under the cuff of his jeans and the shaking lessens enough that he can finally do
up the stupid button with minimal fumbling.

"Johnny," Paul says cautiously. "Why don't you stay here for a bit? It's a long walk back and you
know what Mimi'll say."

"I'm not goin' to tell her," John says, scornful that Paul would ever think he would. Mimi would
probably have a stroke if she knew he'd been out like this, the first of several if she knew the rest of
it. He tries to straighten his shirt, but it's hopelessly rumpled and damp with sweat. He wishes he
could just take it off, it feels like sandpaper against his skin, his jeans too, but Paul is watching his
clumsy efforts so he leaves them be and says, "I'm alright now anyway."

Paul wets his lips to speak and John looks at his mouth before he can stop himself, then away at
the shadowed armchair over Paul's shoulder, hoping he somehow didn't notice.

"John," Paul says again, sounding so careful. "You're in heat. If you go home now everyone will
know, not just Mimi."

John suddenly remembers the stares he'd got on the way over and his stomach turns. Fuck. Had
they known? If one of them had tried something, what would he have done? Would he have just
—?

"Hey. Don't…" Paul scoots closer again, taking his hand off John's leg and curling it around his
wrist before John can even register its absence. "It's alright. No-one knows anything yet."

"Except for… for anyone on the way over."

"Well, it's November and you've not got a coat. They probably thought you'd escaped from
somewhere."

"Aye, Mendips," John says, and remembers that they had been too far away for him to see properly
without his glasses on so maybe Paul's right.

Paul makes an amused sound, looking relieved. "See? Just me then."

John wants to say that's bad enough but the weight of Paul's hand on his wrist is oddly soothing, his
thumb brushing back and forth against the pulse point in a steady rhythm. It takes the edge off the
panic enough for John to say instead, "I'm not meant to have another one yet." He can't remember
exactly how often they were before, but if they'd been this regular he'd have chucked himself in the
Mersey.

He means it as an apology of sorts but Paul grimaces, like he's the one who's somehow responsible
for John's fucked up body. "I know. Sorry."

John frowns at him, confused. "What are you saying sorry for?"

"Because you had your heat and since then we've been, you know."

"Shagging," John says, and hopes Paul isn't apologising for that.

Paul's mouth turns down a little bit at the corners and John wonders what word he'd prefer, since
that's what they've been doing. But then Paul has never been as coarse as John, he gets the
impression Mrs. McCartney wouldn't have liked it. "Yeah. Anyway, we were and then we stopped,
so—"
"We didn't stop." John definitely didn't agree to that. Just the thought of it sends the panic
skittering back through him.

"No, I know," Paul says quickly, soothingly. "But we haven't since Friday because you were…at
Stu's, or wherever you were." He makes a face, fleeting but John still notices. "Perhaps that was
enough."

John's so caught on the Stu part, and the awareness that Paul is jealous and he likes that he is, that it
takes a moment for the rest to sink into his brain.

"So what, we have to shag every day or not at all?" he says at last, only mildly indignant because
that doesn't sound like a terrible option right now, only an impractical one.

Paul slides his hand from John's wrist to twine their fingers together lightly. "Maybe. I don't really
know how this bit works."

He's frowning, like not knowing is an unforgivable character flaw, but it makes John feel better to
know he doesn't have all the answers either. "I can't believe Mary has to do this with Cyril every
day, poor cow." He feels jittery and overwarm again already, as if the air is pressing in on him.

Paul takes a firmer grip of his hand, steadying him. "Well, they're bonded, aren't they? It settles
down a bit then."

"Sounds depressin'."

"No, it doesn't," Paul says immediately, looking offended. "It just means you… belong to each
other so you don't need to worry about it anymore. It's better."

John's read plenty about omegas belonging to alphas, thanks, but he doesn't mind Paul's way of
putting it so much. It sounds fairer that way. Still, he can't believe this happens to people just
because they're not bonded, what about Stu and that girl?

"Stu said that you—"

Paul lets go of his hand. "Why are you talking to Stu about it?"

His voice has gone all weird, and John registers that the second before he registers that Paul isn't
touching him anymore and it's awful. "Don't—" He grabs Paul's arm, tugging him closer and Paul
almost tumbles into him before he straightens slightly, his frown belied by the way he catches
himself with a hand on John's shoulder, and then just leaves it there. "I wasn't talkin' to him about
you, don't be daft."

"What were you talking to him about then?" Paul's close enough now that his face is all fascinating
shadows and angles in the firelight. There's a thin sheen of sweat across his cheekbones, and John's
so distracted by it he almost forgets the question until Paul raises his eyebrows with that pissy look
on his face that John probably shouldn't be getting off on.

"Just about heats and stuff. In theory."

"In theory," Paul repeats, flatly. "What would he know about it?"

"He's been with an omega in heat," John says, because he feels vaguely like he should be defending
Stu, no matter how tempting it is to rile Paul up more. "He said it felt…" he searches for the right
word, his thoughts seem to be slowing down. "Felt normal, you know?"
"He can't have been very good at it then," Paul says, and he moves his hand from John's shoulder to
curl possessively at the nape of his neck. Kneeling like he is, Paul's more than the usual fraction
taller and the grip of his hand makes John want to bend, but he tips his head back instead to meet
his gaze.

"Christ, you're so…"

He doesn't have a word for what Paul is, so he just surges up and kisses him. Paul's mouth is
unyielding for all of half a second before he gives in and kisses John back hard, digging his
fingernails into his sensitive skin just enough to make John moan into it, feeling the weight of the
pressure all the way down his spine. The second kiss is better, softer, but Paul is still kissing him
like he has something to prove and John can't believe that he could really be so bothered by Stu, of
all people, when Paul withdraws just enough to say, urgent, "Stay here. Don't go home."

It takes a moment for John to even parse the words. He'd forgotten, somehow, that he was going to
leave and now it feels impossible anyway. Besides, he'd probably get arrested for scandalising all
the respectable housewives if he went out in his current state.

The Stu thing makes him feel contrary though, so he licks his lips and says, "I reckon we've
already filled our quota for the day," just to see Paul's expression darken before John jostles him
off balance and tips him backwards. Paul lands on his back with a grunt and narrowly misses
smacking his head on the leg of the armchair. He doesn't complain though as John crawls over
him, pushing his knees apart to settle between them and stooping to suck kisses along his jaw. He
feels vaguely like this is the wrong way around but Paul evidently doesn't care, wriggling a hand
under John's shirt to spread it across the small of his back and urge him on, so very quickly neither
does John.

John manages to get Paul's jumper off but Paul offers no assistance whatsoever in getting his shirt
and tie off as well and John needs to mark him there the most, in the dip of his neck where his
scent is strongest and where everyone can see it

After the third attempt to loosen his tie is thwarted by Paul's very obvious (and annoyingly
effective) distractions, John finally lifts himself up to say, as clearly as he's able, "take off your
bloody shirt."

Paul stares at him, his mouth hanging open, and John briefly wishes he had a camera to capture his
gormless expression, gloriously offset by his flushed cheeks and reddened mouth.

He hooks his fingers over Paul's collar, tugging it down just enough to brush his knuckles against
the hot skin beneath so he'll get the message.

Paul's breath hitches, and he looks guilty. "Why?"

"Because…" John frowns, because he's not sure why it matters so much, he only knows that it
does. Does Paul not like it? Now he thinks about it, he hasn't done it at all since that first time, and
whenever John tries, Paul always redirects him to something else. He hesitates. "Is this like the
thing with your balls?"

"No it's not like—" Paul glares at John. "Jesus."

"Well, I don't know, do I?" John says, feeling his confidence leeching away. Has he done
something weird? "You didn't mind it the first time."

Paul seems to know he's said something wrong because he reaches up to cup a hand to John's face,
tracing a thumb across his cheekbone, and the touch grounds him. "I don't mind it at all. We just
shouldn't do that, probably, if we're not going to…bond."

He looks so awkward and apologetic that John doesn't point out that he'd looked like Nosferatu had
been at him the first time and Paul hadn't seemed too worried about it then. But maybe he's had
time to think about it since.

"I don't mind if you do it to me," John says, testing, because he doesn't know if this is an alpha
thing, or just a Paul thing.

Paul looks pained. "Best not."

An alpha thing then. It suddenly occurs to John that Paul might think it too much like a bonding
mark for his comfort; especially now, when he's in heat and everything is harder to control. The
thought of that curdles in his stomach like sour milk, makes him twist his hand so his nails dig into
the soft skin of Paul's neck the tiniest bit, like Paul did to him. Paul twitches, inhaling sharply, and
John takes a perverse satisfaction in saying, "shame, it might have scared off the other alphas. That
would have been handy."

It seems to take Paul a while to understand what he said, then he frowns. "Why? Has someone been
bothering you?"

"Why? Would you politely ask 'em to stop?" John mimics, watching the play of emotions on Paul's
face — jealousy and aggravation both.

"I'm not that useless." Paul brings his legs up to try and get some leverage to roll them over but
John drops his full weight on him so he's effectively pinned.

Paul makes an 'ooof' sound and then mutters, "Very mature," but he relaxes his legs again and says,
"I'd write a very strongly worded letter actually."

John laughs, forgetting for a moment why he was upset, and then Paul tugs him down to kiss him
some more and he can’t remember why it mattered anyway. He kisses him back until Paul brings
his legs up again, not to roll them over this time but to fit their bodies together better. John shifts to
match him and it's too easy to get them both off again, with Paul trapped beneath him, making little
bitten off moans and gasps right next to his ear as John burns hotter and hotter.

"We should go upstairs," Paul says, when they've both come again and John is already back to
kissing along his jaw, one hand shoved under his shirt.

John groans because the idea of moving anywhere is terrible, even if he does feel like he's melting
next to the fire.

Paul plucks at the back of John's shirt. "Don't you want to take this off? C'mon it'll be cooler
upstairs and I'll let you take my tie off as well."

John lifts his head to fix Paul with a look because he's not so far gone he can be bribed that easily,
especially when Paul won't let him do what he really wants to anyway. But Paul just raises his
eyebrows and alright, maybe John can be bribed a bit. He climbs off him reluctantly, and Paul
gingerly sits up, making a face as his clothes stick and pull at him.

"Alright, let me just… Let me bank the fire."

He does it quickly, which is a relief because John can't go without touching him any longer and
evidently neither can Paul from the speed with which he takes his hand again once he's done. John
thinks that's it, and they can finally get on with it, but then Paul looks horrified and says, "Oh god,
Auntie Jin," which makes no sense in John's befuddled state until he remembers it's a Monday and
one of Paul's aunties always comes by to clean on a Monday.

"I'll just ring her, hang on." Paul goes to abandon John in the front room and then changes his mind
and pulls him with him instead, which John much prefers. The phone conversation is painful, since
Paul obviously doesn't want to come right out and say he's going into rut, and he's not about to
mention John either, so he hedges all around the issue until John thinks he might actually die from
waiting.

The second Paul puts the phone down, John presses him against the telephone table to kiss him
again, trying to work a hand into his trousers.

"Alright, we can—" Paul pushes John's hands away, and his own are shaking as well. "We can go
upstairs now. It's alright. C'mon." He takes a firm hold of John's hand and leads him towards the
stairs and John follows eagerly.

Getting his clothes off, as disgusting as they are, is nothing but a relief but getting Paul's off is
even better. He knows it must be properly cold in Paul's room but he can't feel it, every part of him
feels too hot and when he finally presses himself along the whole bare length of Paul, tangling their
legs together on the mattress, he thinks he could actually cry from how good it feels. If that
wouldn't be bloody pathetic.

"There we go," Paul says, which is patronising enough that John would kick him if he didn't want
to come again even more. He pokes him in the side instead on his way to get a hand around them
both so he can work them together like Paul did. He doesn't have any of Paul's vaseline but he's
slick and wet enough that he thinks that will do in its place.

"What are you…" Paul sucks in a breath and looks down to see what John is doing and then says
"Oh god" faintly when he realises and shuts up, except for the helpless noises John can never seem
to get enough of.

Paul's rut hits just as his orgasm does and he abruptly rolls them over, holding John down and
ducking in to suck hard at his pulse point, the intensity of the feeling accelerating John's own
orgasm to something nearly unbearable, drawn out until he thinks it might just keep going forever.

That's his excuse for letting Paul carry on too long before he manages to gasp, "I thought we
weren't meant to do that."

He regrets saying anything when Paul immediately jerks away, shaking his head as if to clear it.
"Yeah. Sorry. God, I didn't mean—"

"I don't mind."

"Don't say that." Paul kisses him fiercely, and John opens his mouth immediately, tugging Paul
down again and hooking a leg around him to keep him there, where he wants him. Paul keeps on
kissing him, hard and perfect, but John knows he wants more than that, so he reaches a hand down
between them and into the slickness between his thighs again, then wraps it around Paul so he can
start stroking him properly. Paul makes a noise like he's in pain, pushing into John's hand like he's
frantic for it, and the kiss turns sloppy, more a sharing of breath than anything coordinated. John
keeps working his hand, revelling in the helpless sounds Paul is making, the heat of his body and
how much he wants him. The first few times he catches Paul's knot, it's by accident, but the noise
Paul makes is so incredible that he carries on doing it until suddenly Paul knocks his hand away,
pushing urgently at John's thigh until he spreads his legs as wide as he can.
"Johnny," Paul says breathlessly. "Please let me…"

John thinks he would let Paul do anything. He pushes up to kiss him, moaning shamelessly when
Paul moves his hand down across his stomach, into the dip of his pelvis, over his balls, and finally
back, to the place where John's already so slick and open and empty. It feels like something John
has been waiting for, and when Paul shifts to settle over him, dragging his fingers across the ring of
muscle there, he can't kiss him anymore, he can't do anything but pant against him and try to push
into it, try to get Paul to put those ridiculous fingers where he needs them. He feels like all his
nerve endings are exposed and he's waiting, waiting for Paul to do it, to do more than just that. He
can tell he wants to, the air thick with urgency.

But just when he thinks he will, Paul abruptly yanks his hand away, gripping John's thigh hard
enough to bruise instead as he presses his face to John's shoulder.

John swears, overwhelmed with the feeling that he's just lost something vital, but in the next
instance he becomes aware that Paul is shaking, taking great gasping breaths, and his frustration
turns to anxiety.

"Paul?" He brings an arm up to wrap around his shoulders. His voice sounds strange. "You
alright?"

He feels Paul's nod but he's still trembling so John holds him tighter, kisses the bit of his head he
can reach and strokes a hand through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp and then resting it on
the nape of his neck, squeezing. He doesn't know if it feels the same to Paul as it does to him but he
thinks he'll understand the intention either way. It must make some difference because after a
while Paul's breathing turns calmer and his trembling lessens to something more like arousal than
whatever it was before.

"We probably shouldn't do that either," Paul says at last, not bothering to lift his head.

"I don't mind," John says, again, and Paul shakes with what sounds like slightly desperate laughter.
He presses a swift kiss to John's jaw and then another to his cheek and then pulls back to look at
him properly. He looks a little shy, which is not an expression John is used to seeing on Paul's face
in any situation, let alone after what they've been doing all morning.

"Sorry."

'S'okay," John replies, even though it isn't, not really. He thinks this must be what Stu meant, when
he said if you felt too much you probably shouldn't be doing this. For a moment he'd wanted it
more than anything, and not just Paul's fingers, his head's clear enough now to know that. He'd
wanted Paul to knot him. He wants Paul to knot him. Fuck.

"What's wrong?" Paul is looking at him searchingly. Somehow he's still hard, John can feel him hot
against his thigh and he wonders what Paul would say if he asked him to just do it anyway. But he's
not so pathetic that he'd beg Paul, not when he’s the one who's always stopping them going too far
in the first place.

So he forces his expression to something normal and says, "Just thinking we're goin' to have to
make a list of all the stuff we can't do soon. Pin it to your notice board for a reminder."

Paul grimaces, but the distraction works. "Not sure Auntie Jin would appreciate that."

Probably not. Although the mention of Auntie Jin summons up another awful realisation. "Bloody
hell, she hasn't been washin' your sheets has she?"
Paul looks horrified. "No! Course not, I've been doing them."

"You must be her favourite nephew then."

"I was already," Paul says, and John has to kiss him for that, overwhelmed with fondness for the
arrogant little sod.

They manage to get through the rest of the day without any more close calls, but that's mostly
because Paul seems determined not to let his guard down for a single second — no matter how
desperate he gets. He's so careful with John, like he thinks he might slip and knot him by accident,
and it makes John perversely want to poke at him until he loses himself again. But then he
remembers how panicked Paul had been, and what he said in the kitchen before, about the kind of
bond he wants, and he can't bring himself to do it. So he tries to do the same and keep his head and
not give in too far to the want that's always clawing at him. It's fucking exhausting, honestly, and
John's about ready to risk a bond regardless and lay waste to all of Paul's sensible life plans when
his heat finally breaks some time in the night, and Paul's rut not long after.

Even though it's arse o'clock in the morning Paul puts some clothes on and creeps downstairs to get
them some toast and they scoff it by the light of Paul's weak bedside lamp, wrapped up in blankets
and getting crumbs everywhere. They don't talk about what happened — John's not sure if that's
because Paul doesn't want to or because it was just one of those things that happen when an alpha's
in rut and an omega's in heat. Not that Paul would know that. Or would he? John looks at him
sideways where he's munching away and he feels physically ill at the idea Paul might know and
not because of John.

Paul looks at him, toast paused on the way to his mouth. "What?"

"Stop doing that," John says, irritated.

"Doing what?"

"Your creepy mind reading."

"I'm not mind reading," Paul says, like that's a ridiculous accusation. "Your scent changes, that's
all."

John looks sceptical. "How come I can't do it then?"

Paul shrugs. "Maybe you're not trying hard enough." He eats some more of his toast while John
thinks that over. "What's up with you anyway?"

John tries to come up with a subtle way to ask the question and then gives up. "Have you ever
spent a heat with anyone else?"

Paul licks some butter off his thumb. "No."

John does his best to keep the relief off his face. "Me neither," he says, even though Paul didn't
actually ask. But then he's seen John having a breakdown twice now at the mere prospect of a heat,
and he's been on suppressants nearly as long as he's known him, so he must know he's not been
hawking himself around Liverpool.

"Why're you asking?" Paul says, when John doesn't volunteer anything else.

"Just wonderin' how you're such a little know-it-all about it, that’s all."
Paul gives him a look for that but then says, "I told you – Mum's book. And I went to the classes."

"Did they teach you how to keep control of your omega?" John says sourly.

Paul looks down as he crumbles a bit of his toast onto his plate. "Sometimes, yeah."

"Omegas don't actually want that, you know," John says, thinking he should do Paul's faceless
future bond a favour, even while wishing them out of existence. "Just so you know for later."

Paul looks at him, shadowy in the lamplight. "I'll bear that in mind." He finishes what's left of his
toast and then says, "I thought they'd be really useful, the classes I mean, but all I could think was
that Mum would've hated them. All the stuff about selecting your omega and omegas not knowing
what's best for them. She'd have given the teacher what for."

"I reckon mine would've popped him in the jaw," John says, because Julia could be a force of
nature when riled.

Paul snorts. "I would have liked to have seen that."

"Me too," John says, and misses her something fierce.

Paul bumps him with his shoulder, smiling at him a little. His mouth is shiny from the butter and
he looks like he's been dragged through a hedge backwards but John wants him anyway, even
though he absolutely does not have another round in him. He leans in to kiss him instead, tasting
butter. After all the different kinds of kissing they've done today, this one feels sweet and
unhurried, lingering until John pulls away to yawn, unable to fight the urge any longer.

"Alright, bedtime," Paul says, patting the blankets covering John's legs and then taking his plate to
put on the floor til morning. John wriggles round to lie down properly, but when Paul goes to get in
beside him he gives him a baleful look and says "Get those off first." Paul rolls his eyes but
obediently shucks off his t-shirt and pyjama bottoms and then they're skin to skin again which,
heat or no, is infinitely better and John can finally sleep.

It's not such a rude awakening this time round. He feels Paul stir, but instead of getting straight out
of bed he kisses John on the shoulder and whispers, "I'm going to have a bath, do you want one
after?"

John makes a noise into the pillow that Paul must decide is a yes because he says, "alright then,"
and slips out, trying not to let too much of a draft in under the blankets. When he's gone, John
shuffles across into the space he left behind, where his scent is strongest, and dozes there until Paul
comes back to prod him out of bed, smelling of that godawful soap again.

"Your turn."

So John drags himself out to piss and gargle some toothpaste and then gets in the bath to wash all
the traces of Paul and JohnandPaul off his skin. He doesn't notice he's forgotten to lock the door
until Paul wanders in and perches on the closed seat of the loo, worrying at his thumbnail. John
almost makes a sarky comment but if he's honest he likes having him there, it makes the whole
process less awful. Paul hands him a towel when he's done and then lends him some clean clothes
as well. They don't smell enough of Paul but they do smell of whatever soap the McCartneys use so
it's better than nothing. His own are only fit to be salted and burned at this point.

Mike watches Paul darkly as he puts the kettle on to boil in the kitchen but Paul doesn't seem to
notice, too busy tapping out some melody with the butter knife as he waits. After a while Mike
gives up and turns his dark look on John instead, and John raises his eyebrows provokingly.
"You weren't drunk then," Mike says at last.

John feels a stab of embarrassment at how he must have looked in front of Mike, again, but he
shoves it down before Paul can start his mind reading and says, "'Fraid not, son." Then because
Paul has just turned round and started paying attention he adds, "I wouldn't eat off this table if I
were you."

John only gets to enjoy about a second and a half of Mike's outraged face before Paul smacks him
with the butter knife and says, "Ignore him, Mike, he's just winding you up."

John grins, feeling better, as Mike mutters, "You're both disgusting," his face red.

Paul sets the teapot down with a thunk and follows it up with a plate of toast. He's frowning a little
but John can tell he doesn't really mean it and when he sits down beside him he presses their knees
together under the table, smirking when John catches his eye.

There's no rushing out of the door this time either. Paul's obviously learned from the first disaster
because when they're standing in the hallway waiting for Mike to find his English book, he leans in
quickly for a kiss.

"What's that for?" John says, even though he knows, really.

"No reason." Paul hesitates, glancing up the stairs and then back, like he wants to say something
else.

"What?"

"If that happens again, you should ring me. Don't go wandering about." He says it quickly, like
John might interrupt him otherwise.

John feels his face heat — as if he's going to do that again. "I didn't mean for—"

"I know," Paul grabs his sleeve, as if to emphasise his sincerity. "I know you didn't. But promise
you will, if you start to feel…you know."

If Paul wants him to ring every time he can't stop thinking about them having sex, he'll never be
off the bloody phone, but he only says, "Aye, alright." Paul looks rightly sceptical at his easy
acquiescence so he adds, "I'll be okay now, I reckon, what with the daily quota."

Paul makes a face. "Don't call it that."

"What should I call it then?" John says, suddenly wanting very much to know what Paul would call
this thing they're doing. Naturally Mike chooses that exact moment to clatter back down the stairs,
nearly falling to his death when he claps a hand over his eyes at seeing them standing so close
together.

"Don't forget," Paul says, low, then more normally, "See you before practice later?"

"I s'pose," John says, like that's even a question. Paul quirks a smile at him, small and far too
knowing, before he tells Mike to look where he's going.

John says goodbye to Paul and Mike by the front gate, deliberately casual to cover how much he
wants to trail Paul to the bus stop like a sad bastard. Then he goes home and tells Mimi he'd been at
Pete's because he knows Pete would (probably) back him up, no questions asked, should Mimi
ever be so suspicious as to investigate. Fortunately she doesn't notice he's come home coat-less and
wearing a jumper that doesn't belong to him as well, too busy making her shopping list or whatever
she's doing, so he takes the opportunity to escape to his room before she has the chance. Once
there, he finds the last letter he had from the college and shoves that and his sketchbook into a bag,
along with any drawing pencils he can find. Instead of moping around the house all day, he's going
to the college like he told Stu he would — and if it gets Mimi off his back as well, all the better.

But before he leaves, he opens the drawer and digs out the pair of socks stuffed at the back, taking
out the little bottle and looking at the pills inside. He should start taking them again straightaway if
he has any sense, give them a chance to start working and make sure nothing like yesterday ever
happens again. But then he remembers how everything felt before and how it feels now, how it
feels with Paul now, and he wavers. In the end he hides them in the socks again and shoves them
back in the drawer. It's not like he's going to go into heat again yet anyway so he can worry about it
later.
 Chapter 11

Considering he hasn't shown his face at the college in months, it's surprisingly easy to untangle the
mess he's made of things. It helps that Stu insists on coming with him and half the staff think he's
the next bloody Picasso. They don't ask him where he's been of course, or why, and he's more
relieved than he'd expected to be. He still can't talk about Julia, not really, not even to Paul or Mimi
— not that Mimi ever talks about her either these days. The college secretary makes a comment
about his 'emotional nature' anyway, as if his bloody mum dying is something he should have put
behind him by now. He wants to tell her to fuck off, but he can’t risk getting thrown out for good,
his options are limited enough as it is. So he ignores her, and signs the form they give him, and
then he’s back in. He’s on probation for the rest of the term, but it’s still better than whatever Mimi
has planned.

"I thought you were going to pretend to cry?" Stu says when they escape back to the studio he's
holed up in.

John shrugs. "Didn't need to with you stood there lookin' like you were goin' to do it for me."

Because Stu isn't Paul he doesn't make some sarky come back to that, he just laughs and picks up
his paint brush again. He's still working on the piece from the flat, bigger and brighter now than it
was before. John watches him for a while and then digs out his sketchbook and nicks some
charcoal and starts idly drawing him. Apart from lunch from the chippy, he spends most of the day
cross-legged on a table in the corner, sketching Stu at work and generally making a nuisance of
himself as he tries to remember how to do something other than rude caricatures. Stu's an easy
subject, motionless for long periods as he considers this or that addition to the canvas, and when he
isn't, his hands have always been beautiful to watch in motion anyway. By mid-afternoon, John's
covered an embarrassing number of pages in rough charcoal and pencil studies but he doesn't think
they're half bad. More than anything, it’s just nice to do this again and not want to burn everything
after.

He keeps one eye on the clock though, because however good a distraction this is, he's not missing
his pre-practice appointment at Forthlin Road for it. He half considers going to find Paul when the
Inny kicks out next door, but after yesterday he thinks he should preserve whatever shreds are left
of his dignity, so he waits until the buses are full of shop girls knocking off early and then takes his
time fetching his guitar.

There are advantages to making Paul wait anyway, and by the time he's been hustled upstairs and
suffered another stupidly good orgasm, he's not really thinking about college or Stu anymore. At
least not until Paul twines their fingers together, frowning slightly.

"Have you been working down a mine?"

John tries to pull his hand away to see, but it's half hearted at best, and Paul won't let go, so he
gives up and makes a questioning noise instead.

"Your fingernails are grey."

It takes John a moment to realise what he means. "S'just charcoal." He yawns and shifts so he can
see Paul better. "I was at the college today."

"Oh yeah?" Paul says. He's looking at him searchingly. "They're letting you back then?"
"Aye. On probation, mind, so I have to be a model citizen."

Paul looks his opinion of that and John prods him in the side. "Bloody slander."

Paul snickers. "I didn't say a word."

Grumbling, John sits up and starts looking around for his clothes. They should probably get
cleaned up and dressed before George gets here, as little as he wants to, and he really needs a
smoke as well.

"How was Stu?" Paul says, scooting back a bit so John can reach over him for his coat and root
around in the pockets for his ciggies.

John decides to take the question at face value. "Alright. He's paintin' something new, all lines and
colours — not sure what you'd make of it."

"I like art." Paul sounds offended.

John glances at him, amused. "I never said you didn't." He finds his matches as well and lights a
cigarette, inhaling deeply and blowing out a long breath. "I'm not sure I understand it meself. Not
properly. It was interestin' though."

"What were you drawing?" Paul takes the cigarette when John offers it.

John coughs slightly, thinking this probably isn't the time to mention he'd spent the day mostly
sketching Stu. "Just bits and bobs," he says vaguely. "Gettin' my hand back in."

"Can I see them?"

"No, they're only scribbles." He says it too quickly and Paul goes from interested to slightly
suspicious, so he backtracks. He'll just have to dig out one of his other sketchbooks. "Fine, I'll bring
'em tomorrow if you like, we can stick 'em up round the parlour and pretend we're at a posh gallery.
How's that?"

"Only if you do the snooty voices," Paul says, but he's smiling again.

John adopts his best lispy upper class tone. "The contrast of these exquisite drawings with this ugly
fucking furniture was chosen to— Oi! Watch it!" He ducks out of the way of Paul's hand which, by
the way, is still holding a lit cigarette. He snatches it back, moving it out of reach before Paul can
accidentally set the bed on fire. "That's the last time I take you to any posh galleries."

"You haven't taken me to any galleries at all," Paul says, and then reddens, like he didn't mean to
say that.

John eyes him, risking another drag of his nearly burnt out ciggie. "We can go to one if you want.
Stu'll know if there's anything good on." He's never thought to invite Paul along anywhere like
that, or thought he'd even want to come really. There's music and Paul, and then there's college and
art, and the two have never really crossed over. But Paul looks pleased.

"Yeah, alright. I'd like to."

He smiles at John, and John smiles back before realising how bloody soft he must look, mooning
over Paul because he wants to come and look at some art with him. Jesus. He drops what's left of
his ciggie into a discarded tea cup on the floor and shuffles out of bed, dragging his clothes back
on. He always hates this part, swapping all that glorious expanse of warm skin pressed against him
for the cold, rough fabric of his clothes, not to mention having to wash off every trace of what
they've been doing.

He's grimacing at his jumper and wondering if he'll actually freeze to death without it when Paul
suddenly blurts out, "Did he seem different? Stu, I mean?"

John looks at him, still mostly under the blankets. You'd think it was John who always had trouble
getting back out of bed after their sessions, but Paul's the one who has to be prodded into the
bathroom to clean up. "Aye, I reckon he's had a haircut."

"I meant since—"

John cuts him off. "I know what you meant." He's talking about the suppressants of course, which
John is doing his best not to think about at all. "He's… Stu. I dunno. We're not plannin' on eloping,
if that's what you're asking."

"I wasn't asking that." Paul looks annoyed, like John isn't taking his question seriously or
something. "I was just wondering, that's all."

John wants to say that Paul has nothing to worry about from Stu; that he can't imagine letting
anyone else see him like this. But the words stick in his mouth and shrivel there. Outside of the
certainty of heat, Paul's jealousy just feels like another thing to be uncertain of, whether it's really
about John at all or just an alpha encroaching on Paul's territory. The problem with asking, John
thinks, is that you have to hear the answer.

"C'mon," he says in the end. "Else Georgie'll go blind and then who'll do the solos?"

After that, the week seems to fly past — perhaps because it's the busiest John's been in months,
between college and the band and Paul. It's odd to have to get up and go to classes again, and on
the first morning he almost rolls over and goes back to sleep. But if he doesn't find something to
do, then Mimi will find something for him, and he can imagine how that'll turn out. So he goes
back, braced for the stares and the gossip but determined not to give them a fucking inch. It's not so
bad though, in the end. To his surprise a few people actually seem pleased to see him. He gets a
smile off Sheila Finnegan in the canteen — which he supposes he should have expected — but
then Cyn Powell stops him to say how sorry she'd been to hear about Julia, and that he didn't
expect at all.

He does get some less welcome looks, and a couple of alphas linger in the corridor when he's
waiting for his next class, but he's used to that and just gives them his coolest stare and they soon
move on, too familiar with his reputation to try anything else. He knows if he was on the pills
again they wouldn't notice him so much, but he still can't bring himself to do it. Every morning he
gets them out and looks at them, and every morning he thinks about the night before with Paul and
ends up hiding them away again.

Stu must be aware that John isn't taking the pills he went to so much trouble to get for him, but he
never says a word about it and John doesn't either. They talk about normal things; how Stu's
painting is coming along and what John is going to do for a project, and when John isn't in class he
goes and bothers Stu in the little studio he likes to use.

Stu seems happy enough with this arrangement, although John's not so sure about some of his
acolytes who drop in now and then to see the great artist at work and have to put up with John as
well. It's not that Stu doesn't have a sense of humour, he just tends to forget about it when he's busy
working, so John takes it as his personal mission to remind him. None of them say anything
though, either because they don't dare or because they're resigned to John and Stu's friendship by
now.

That there might be another reason doesn't occur to John until Friday morning.

"Stuart," he says very seriously, dropping himself into the seat next to his. "I think people think
we're courting."

Stu looks up from some exhibition catalogue he's flicking through. "What?"

"Cyn just said she's glad I have you and asked if we wanted to come out with her and Drippy Dave
sometime." He waggles his eyebrows as if Stu somehow missed the import of this.

Stu flushes slightly but otherwise remains unmoved. "Yes, a few people do. Some of the teachers
as well I think."

John stares. "You never said?"

Stu shrugs. "Because it's not true and you've always been a bit…touchy about things like that."

That's a polite understatement but John lets it slide. He wonders if that's why they let him come
back, to keep Stu happy and because they think he won't be here for long anyway.

"What did you tell her then?" Stu asks after a moment.

John pushes the unwelcome thoughts to one side and grins. "That we were keepin' our relationship
a secret until you were rich and could support me in the manner I'm accustomed to."

Stu gives him a flat look and John relents. "Alright, I told her she'd got the wrong end of the stick
and I hated the lot of you actually."

Stu looks amused now. "Even Paul?"

John ignores the insinuation. "Especially Paul."

"Is that why you're wearing his jumper?"

John frowns, glancing down to see that, yes, it is actually Paul's jumper. They'd been so rushed
before practice last night that he'd ended up telling George he'd forgotten something and going
back afterwards. After that, it had just seemed easier to stay the night, especially with Paul's
particular brand of persuasion.

He can feel his stupid face growing hot, the embarrassment compounded by the fact that his first
reaction was to feel pleased that he had Paul's scent all over him. He decides he might as well front
it out. "Must've got 'em mixed up at practice."

"Must have," Stu says, but his eyes linger on it thoughtfully before he goes back to his catalogue.

John takes out his packet of cigarettes but doesn't open it, eyeing Stu uncertainly. It's not the first
time he's made comments about Paul, but he can't know anything. Until a few weeks ago there was
nothing to know, after all. It would be easier if he could just tell what he was thinking, the way
Paul is so good at. Maybe it's something he would have learned if he'd ever gone to those bloody
classes. Along with how to bend his neck, he thinks sourly.

He taps out a cigarette and lights it, smoking quietly for a while as Stu pages through the rest of his
catalogue. It reminds him of his offer to take Paul to an exhibition, and that he was going to ask Stu
if there was anything good on. Not that he can ask him now, he thinks, irritated. It would sound
like it was something it wasn't and Stu would think things. Maybe he can read him like Paul and is
thinking them already.

"Did you ever go to those alpha classes?" he asks abruptly. Stu looks a bit confused so he clarifies,
"When you presented, I mean."

"Oh those." Stu doesn't sound like he remembers them all that fondly. "Yeah, but they were just a
lot of stuff I could have read in a book."

"Did you learn to do all that mind reading stuff?" He waves a hand vaguely next to his head and
Stu's eyebrows go up. "Reading scents an' that."

Stu frowns. "I don't remember that part."

John absorbs that. Trust Paul to be a little over-achiever. He stubs out his cigarette and says, "I
didn't go to the omega classes," just in case Stu is wondering.

"I never would have guessed."

John looks sideways at Stu, only to see the bastard laughing at him.

"Fuck off," he says, but he's smiling too.

When he gets to Paul's that night he throws the jumper at him.

"What's that for?" Paul says, when he's pulled it off his head.

"I wore your bloody jumper to college today, you could have said."

Paul rolls his eyes like he's being ridiculous. "Well, you didn't notice either. Anyway, no harm
done." He drops the jumper on the floor and tugs John forward so he can kiss him, impatient like
John's been keeping him waiting (he hasn't, for once).

When they finally pull apart John remembers to say, "Stu asked me about it."

"Did he?"

He sounds so unconcerned that John is immediately suspicious, but Paul kisses him again, more
purposefully this time, and John decides it doesn't really matter. He was the one who picked up the
thing in the first place so it probably says as much about him as it does about Paul.
 Chapter 12

The next morning John wakes to the sound of someone knocking on the front door. It feels a bit
early for visitors, but then he hears Paul's voice and remembers that it's Saturday and their audition
at last. By the time he's found his glasses and opened his bedroom door he can hear Mimi telling
Paul that John isn't up yet and he'll have to wait downstairs til he's dressed — which is fucking
hilarious after what they were doing not twelve hours ago.

He sticks his head over the bannister. "Bloody hell, Mimi, just send him up, will you? I'm not
starkers."

He goes to use the loo and brush his teeth, and when he gets back to his room Paul has somehow
bearded the dragon and is sitting on his bed, guitar propped next to him as he reviews their short
set list for what is probably the fiftieth time. He looks so neat and tidy in his shirt and jumper (John
had put his foot down about the ties this time), that John wants to ruffle him up a bit. But he's
jiggling his leg up and down in that tell-tale way and his scent is off.

"You're not nervous again, are you?" John says, closing the door behind him in case Mimi's
eavesdropping from the bottom of the stairs.

"No, I was…" Paul looks up at that point and sort of trails off, gaze moving down over John and
then coming back to fix on his face.

"What?" John says, aware that he probably looks like he's been sleeping under a hedge in his
pyjamas and grubby t-shirt, not to mention his awful specs. He goes to take them off and that seems
to shake Paul out of his trance.

"No, leave them on."

John stops, taken aback by Paul's vehemence. It's then he realises that Paul's scent isn't nervous
anymore, it's distinctly and obviously interested.

John feels warm all over, but he just says, "I don't think you ought to be seein' me in me
undergarments, it's giving you ideas."

"Sorry," Paul says, not sounding sorry at all. He puts down the set list and reaches out to hook his
fingers over the waistband of John's pyjama bottoms, tugging John forward to stand between his
legs, eyes never leaving his face.

"You better knock that off an' all," John says, when Paul's hands move to bracket his hips. "We've
got the Moral Welfare Society downstairs."

Paul wets his lips. "I know, I just…"

Like this, his mouth's only a bare few inches from John's dick, which is also, unfortunately,
distinctly interested. But they really can't do anything about it, not with Mimi waiting and
listening, and not when they've a bus to catch.

"Paul," John begins, probably sounding more regretful than he ever has in his life.

"I know," Paul says again, and leans forward to press a kiss against John's stomach through his t-
shirt. It should be weird and ridiculous but it makes John's breath catch. Then he lets go of him and
shuffles back on the bed, out of reach. "You’d better get dressed then. I won't look."
"Reckon you'll see something new, do you?" John says, when he recovers his wits.

"Best not risk it," Paul says, and actually covers his eyes like he's shielding himself from
something terrible. Joke's on him though because now John can look at him all he wants, lingering
on his flushed cheeks and smirking mouth. Then Paul says, "You're getting dressed very quietly,"
in a pointed sort of way and John stops gawping and actually looks for his clean shirt.

They get the bus to where they're supposed to be meeting George. It's a Saturday morning so the
bus is packed of course and they end up standing near the doors, clinging on to their guitars and
their amp for dear life.

"Bloody hell," John says, after nearly taking a woman's hat off with his case. "I reckon the whole
of Liverpool's on 'ere."

"Do you want to get off and wait for a later one?" Paul asks. He keeps looking somewhere to the
left of John's shoulder where he's already well aware some bloke keeps leaning uncomfortably
close, thanks.

John shifts his guitar again, deliberately catching the lurker in the shoulder. "Sorry, mate," he says
blithely as the man is forced to take a small step back. Then he adds to Paul, "don't be daft, we'd be
late."

"Swap places then," Paul says. He sees John's expression. "There's more space to put the amp
here."

In that case they could just as soon move the amp as John, he doesn't say. Paul's mouth is set in a
stubborn line, and quite honestly John doesn't fancy some creep breathing down his neck for the
next twenty minutes either, so for once he decides not to argue. They shuffle awkwardly round
until John is tucked into the corner with the amp and Paul is standing between him and everyone
else, which he seems much happier about. Mostly John finds it amusing, but he can't deny it's nice
too, comforting even, to have someone pay enough attention to notice and to give a shit on his
behalf.

"I think our last bus trip was more fun than this," he says after a while. Paul's keeping an eye
trained on the front window for their stop, since the ones nearest John are hopelessly fogged, but
he looks sidelong at that. "Don't you reckon, Macca?"

"Hmm," Paul says. His cheeks are a little pink though, so he's obviously thinking of the same thing
John is and John grins.

"Bit more exciting," John continues. "Well, for one of us anyway."

Paul looks determinedly back out the window again but the corners of his mouth are curling up, so
John counts it as a win.

By the time they get to their stop John is boiling and the damp and chilly November air has never
been so welcome. George is waiting for them, sitting next to his guitar and polishing off a Kit Kat.
The sight reminds John that he hasn't had anything to eat except half a piece of toast, nicked off
Mimi on his way out the house, so he hands off the amp to Paul and goes to get himself some
chocolate.

"You should have had a proper breakfast," Paul says when he gets back, like a disapproving
housewife.

John drops down on the bench beside him, their next bus is another ten minutes yet. "Well, maybe
if someone hadn't barged into the house in the early hours I would've had time."

"It was nearly nine and you were still asleep."

John breaks his chocolate bar in half and passes a bit to Paul. "Can you believe these lies he's
spoutin' about me, George?"

"Yes," George says.

Paul tries to hand the chocolate back, saying, "I had breakfast, you eat it," but John ignores him.

"Bloody outrageous, is what it is. I ought to lodge a complaint."

Paul gives in and starts eating. "To who?"

"Dunno. Your dad? The Bonding Office? I could get it added to your file. No-one'll have you
then."

"I don't think they keep files on people," Paul says, all reasonable.

"Maybe not for alphas," John says darkly.

Paul opens his mouth to argue and then hesitates, looking uncertain.

"See, you don't know either." John finishes off the last bit of his chocolate. "Well, they haven't got
anything on me anyway."

"How do you know?" George asks.

John shrugs. "Not registered, am I?"

Paul stares. "What?"

"I thought you had to register?" George says, frowning.

"Nope," John says, enjoying their reactions. "Mum said they can't make you anymore and she was
right so I didn't." He licks a bit of chocolate off his fingers and chucks the wrapper in the bin. "So
they can fuck off if they think they're making me bond."

Paul gives him a weird look. "I don't think they have to approve for it to happen."

"No, but there's…paperwork an' that for it, isn't there." He's a bit more vague on that front. He
didn't exactly have time to memorise the contents of the many, many leaflets Mimi provided him
with during their short journey from her hand to the bin.

Paul's still looking at him strangely. "Did you actually read anything when you presented?"

"Aye, I signed up for one of them postal courses on how to keep a home. What do you think?"

Paul huffs. "I mean about…bonding, and stuff like that."

"I'm not wastin' my time reading about that," John says firmly.

"Right," Paul says and sort of stares into the middle distance for a while.

"Earth to Macca," John says, when it becomes apparent he's not going to say anything else. "Are
we gettin' our bus or sittin' here all morning?"
Paul looks at him again and sighs, as if he's the put upon one here. "Yeah, c'mon," and they troop
off to yet another crowded bus.

They get to the address Mona gave them at about ten to eleven, which John thinks is in plenty of
time and Paul thinks is embarrassingly late or something because he keeps trying to chivvy them
along on the walk from the bus stop. It's a large house and John half thinks they've got the wrong
place until the door is answered by a dark haired woman who is clearly expecting them.

Paul is immediately all smiles and charm as he apologises for being late (even though they aren't)
and John can see why. Mona's a bit younger than he was expecting, soft and pretty like people
always expect omegas to be, and like John definitely isn't. Still, she has a son who sounded nearer
their age on the phone so she's probably a couple of decades too old for Paul.

"Nice to meet you, I'm John," he interjects, shunting Paul firmly out of the way before Mona gets
the wrong idea about just whose band it is.

He holds out a hand and Mona gives him a swift appraising look before she takes it. "I thought you
must be," she says drily, then adds, "Cyril told me all about you."

John makes a face. "I'm sure he did."

Mona laughs, which makes John like her immediately. "He was very keen to see you play again."

"Is he here?" Paul's peering past Mona to the shadowy hallway beyond like he half expects Cyril to
be lurking there in his horrible suit.

"And you must be Paul," Mona says smoothly. "Cyril told me all about you too. And George of
course," she adds, nodding at George and leaving Paul looking highly disconcerted, which John
finds very entertaining. "Well, come in then, I'll show you the coffee bar."

The coffee bar turns out to be a series of cellar rooms that are currently in the process of being
painted.

"I'm planning on opening next week, or the week after — if I find a band in time," she tells them as
they look around. Not that there's a lot to see yet, but John can imagine it'll look better when it's
filled with people and there's some music going. Their music, hopefully. "And if everything gets
finished in time. It'll be somewhere just for teenagers, I know there's not many places for people
your age; my son tells me all the time."

John wants to point out that he's actually old enough to drink, thank you, but Paul's already asking
about what days it'll be open and how long she'll want them to play for, so he shelves that for now.
She shows them the room with a narrow alcove where they'd be playing, leaving them to get
unpacked and set up. By the time they've got themselves sorted Paul's nerves have evidently made
a bit of a comeback, but John supposes there's more at stake than usual so he warms up with a bit
of trusty old Formby, grinning when Paul finally notices and joins in, followed by George.

"I hope that's not your audition," Mona says, reappearing just as they're bringing ‘When I'm
Cleaning Windows’ to a spirited close.

"Almost was," John says promptly. "I had to put me foot down or Macca would've had us doing
Hits from the Palladium. Can't stand Formby meself."

Paul looks rightfully outraged at this blatant lie. "Who was it knew all the words?"

"Not me, I never remember the words to anythin'." John catches George's alarmed expression and
belatedly remembers that this is an audition. "Except for whatever songs we play in this here cafe,
of course."

Paul snorts, but Mona just looks amused, thank god. She pulls up a chair to settle herself a
comfortable distance away. "Well, let's hear something other than Mr. Formby then."

John fiddles with their lone microphone and says, "Alright, I hope you can all hear us at the back?"
because there's something faintly ludicrous about performing to one woman on a kitchen chair in a
ramshackle cellar. There's not exactly a lot of room where they are; Paul tries to reposition their
amp and accidentally smacks his guitar against the wall. "Don't mind Paul, he can't hold his drink,"
John says, and then snickers when Paul goes to make a gesture he wouldn't make in front of his dad
before remembering Mona is right there.

They run through their five chosen songs, and it's surprisingly straightforward, after all the
excitement and preparation. Mona makes a good audience, tapping her foot along to the music and
smiling at the jokes in between, such as they are. They've picked two slow and two fast ones,
finishing up with ‘One After 909’ because it went down alright at the wedding and they want to
show they're more than just a covers band. He knows they'd sound better with drums and another
mic but they can't afford the latter yet and no-one could be bribed to play drums so they have to do
the best they can. There are clear advantages though, the main one being having Paul pressed
against his side, smiling at him from a scant few inches away as they share the microphone.

Mona claps at the end and John thinks it must have gone well, seeing how pleased she looks. He
can't help feeling nervous though, now it's done, or maybe it's Paul's nerves he's feeling, he's
broadcasting them loudly enough. It's not like her decision will make or break everything, he
knows that, but they need this chance. They can't keep playing occasional pity gigs forever.

Fortunately, she doesn't keep them waiting long.

"How about the Saturday night set then? On a trial for a month to start?"

She's addressing John, which he appreciates, but Paul still manages to get in first with his, "Yeah,
we can do that," before John can open his mouth.

"I'm glad to hear it," Mona says, smiling at his obvious enthusiasm. "Although I hope you know
more than five songs."

"We know loads."

John thinks Paul might be over-egging the pudding a bit but they know plenty, and what they don't
know yet, they can learn.

"We can add new ones as we go," he says, firmly. "And me and Paul have written a lot of our
own."

Mona looks intrigued at that, "If they're anything like that last one I'd be interested to hear them."

She goes to get some paper and write down all the details for them. The moment she's cleared the
doorway, Paul breaks out into a huge grin, making an abortive move towards John like he might be
about to hug him or something before seeming to remember where, and who, they are. He sort of
claps him on the arm instead and then bumps shoulders much more normally with George, who is
beaming in a very un-George like way.

"A regular gig," he says, like he can't quite believe it. John grins back because he can't quite
believe it either. This'll be one in the eye for Mimi.
"D'you reckon we can get people from school to come?" George says and John deflates slightly at
that and who it probably means.

"Yeah, of course we can, and Colin and the rest," Paul is saying confidently. "And John can bring
Pete."

John raises his eyebrows. "Have I only got the one friend now?"

"Pete and Ivan then," Paul continues, as if that makes it sound better.

"I was thinking of people from college," John says, slightly nettled.

Paul makes a face. "I don't think this would be his sort of thing."

John wants to say he has more than one proper friend from college as well, but the truth is he never
went out of his way to make that many, too wary of why they might be seeking him out in the first
place. Still, "He's not ninety, Macca. He listens to music."

Paul scowls. "Fine, ask him then."

"I will." Not that he needs Paul's permission.

"The coffee bar will be open to everyone," Mona says, embarrassingly reappearing just in time to
catch them arguing, or whatever it is they're doing. She looks from Paul to John and back again. "I
hope that won't be a problem for you two?"

"Not for me," John says, with a pointed glance at Paul who quickly adds, "Not for me either."

She looks at them both, considering, then says, "And what about the people who only come to see
John?" John hears Paul's sharp intake of breath and Mona must too because she gives a wry smile.
"I can promise you there will be some. A cafe run by an omega with a male omega playing in a
band? Cyril thinks I ought to be more explicit about what it is not than what it is, so people don't
get the wrong idea."

Paul tenses beside him like he's about to say something he probably thinks is helpful, so John gets
in first, "As long as they stay for the music afterwards, I don't care."

It's not the truth and from the shrewd look Mona gives him, she's well aware, but he's really not that
bloody interesting and he's certainly not available or whatever. Eventually they'll get bored and
fuck off, or they'll stay and listen to what they're actually playing.

"And I expect no fighting either, no matter what they say to you — understand?"

"I've never fought anyone in my life," John says virtuously. Paul makes a weird noise at that so he
adds, "That's what we keep George around for, isn't it George?" He grins at George who looks at
him flatly. "Don't be put off by those eyebrows, he's a right little scrapper."

Now Mona laughs outright. "I'll bear that in mind." She hands John the paper she was holding.
"And we'll see how it goes, shall we?"

John looks it over quickly, lingering on the part where they're actually getting paid, then smiles
back. "Nice doin' business with you."

They get their gear packed, Paul and George discussing who they could get to come and watch
while John mostly tunes them out, mind already jumping ahead to what they might play. He's
fastening his guitar case when he notices Mona watching him. He looks at her questioningly and
she shrugs and says quietly enough that the others can't hear, "I was just wondering why you want
to do this?"

He stands, hoisting his case onto his back. "We're never goin' to get anywhere if no-one hears us,"
he says, deliberately misunderstanding.

"You could have things a lot easier."

"So everyone keeps saying," John says, sourly and probably a bit rudely, considering she's just
offered them a job. But she did ask and anyway, he's yet to see any sign of her alpha around the
place. If she's running this whole thing herself, it's not like she's picked the easy road either.

Mona looks at him silently for a long moment and then smiles, approving. "I can see what Cyril
meant about you."

John wants to ask what exactly Cyril did say but Paul, who has some sort of Cyril sixth sense,
suddenly pops up next to him, tying his scarf. "You ready, John?"

"I've been ready ages, just waitin' for you and George to stop gossiping."

Paul ignores that, picking John's coat and scarf up off the floor. "Don't forget your coat, it's
freezing out."

"Aye aye, Captain," John says, saluting, but then putting his coat on so Paul won't keep standing
there expectantly. Then he realises Mona's still watching them, a too-knowing glint in her eye, so
he says their goodbyes pretty sharpish and they head out into the late November morning.

They said they'd meet Pete after the audition so he could hear all about it, so they get the bus
towards Slater Street and then walk the final few yards to he Jacaranda, trying not to take out any
passersby with their gear. There’s a Pete-shaped blob loitering outside, smoking and looking at
what John thinks might be a new record he's picked up somewhere, but he tucks it away when he
sees them coming.

"Well?" he calls, as soon as they're close enough.

"I hope you're not busy next Saturday night?" John shouts back and Pete cheers, then claps a hand
to his chest.

"Are you finally taking me out, Johnny? I thought you'd never ask."

"Fuck off," John says, nicking what’s left of his ciggie the moment it’s within reach. "As if I'd need
to take you anywhere."

"Oi! I was raised properly, I'll have you know. I don't give it up that easily." Pete nods at Paul and
George. "Alright, lads?"

George, who has less experience of Pete, is looking a bit taken aback, but Paul just says, "Pete,"
like this is completely normal.

John drops the end of the cigarette on the ground and stubs it out with his foot. "What about that
girl at Eric's party?"

Pete opens the door. "I didn't say I wouldn't give it up at all." He looks back at John over his
shoulder as they all troop in to the Jac. "Unlike some."
John's vividly aware of Paul right behind him. "Oi, watch it."

Pete's reply is lost as they manoeuvre themselves through the cafe to the last empty table. John
wonders what Pete would think if he knew how wrong he was. He doesn't usually keep big secrets
from him but this one feels different somehow and anyway, Pete would just ask awkward questions
he doesn't want to answer.

The Jac is busy, and fortunately Pete is easily distracted, scanning the room for people he
recognises and calling out the occasional greeting. He's not the only one, George gets waylaid near
the counter by some girl John's never seen before. She smiles at Paul too, in a way that John can
only describe as inviting, but he just says hello and keeps going.

"Someone you know?" John says to Paul, nodding in her direction as he props his guitar against the
wall and pulls out a chair.

Paul follows his gaze. "That's Diane, her brother goes to the Inny."

He doesn't volunteer any more but he looks conscious enough that John wonders if she's one of the
many girls that’s been mentioned over the past year and carefully doesn't look at her again. He
doesn't really want any visuals to go with the knowledge, thanks.

He drops down into his seat instead and tips his money out onto the table to see how much he's got.
Paul goes to sit beside him but before he can even get his coat off, Pete nicks the chair, leaning in
to hiss, "Guess who's here?"

John pauses in the act of counting. "Dunno, Buster Keaton?"

"Buster wouldn't come in here, he'd go up the Zodiac."

"Alright, who then?"

"Dick Squared!" Pete announces, then pauses for effect like that's going to mean anything to
anyone but John. John wishes it didn't mean anything to him either, but Pete's clearly waiting for a
response so he says, "I thought he fucked off to Manchester?"

"Who's Dick Squared?" Paul asks, taking the seat opposite.

"Nah, he came back a while ago. I heard he's working for his dad and going with an omega from
over Bootle way."

John goes back to his counting. "Poor cow."

"Is he from school?"

Pete finally notices Paul's interest. "He's Richie the Dick. Hence Dick Squared."

He looks far too pleased with himself for that piece of wit so it falls to John to answer Paul's actual
question. "He's just a dickhead alpha from school, that's all."

"Johnny punched him in the face after he tried it on in the loo."

"What?" Paul twists round in his seat to get a better look at the offending Dick.

John hisses, "Jesus, Pete. Shut up."

"Well, you did," Pete says stoutly. "And he bloody deserved it too. John had all sorts of wankers
trying it on," he adds helpfully to Paul. "But they didn't try it twice."

Thankfully for John's sanity, George arrives at their table at that moment to tell them what
sandwiches they've got on today and Pete manages to shut his mouth long enough for them to pool
their money and decide what they're having. Then he offers to go up to order, which John takes as a
peace offering for being such a twat.

He can tell Paul wants to ask about Dick Squared and the Loo Incident so he doesn't look at him
and pointedly asks George about Colin and his new bird from the wedding instead. Then he digs
out his ciggies and lights up, because he really bloody needs a smoke after that. Turns out they've
already gone out again and George heard from his mum, who heard from this girl's auntie, that she
thought Colin was very well brought up.

"Not sure what that's supposed to mean," he finishes.

"It means he isn't getting any," John says vaguely, wondering which of the blobs in the cafe is Dick
Squared and hoping he hasn't accidentally been staring at him because he hasn't got his specs on.

"It's only been a few weeks." George is doing a good impression of someone pretending not to be
shocked and John is considering scandalising him further when Paul says, "He's only messing
about, George."

John was only half messing about but he decides to leave it, since he doesn't want to be drawn even
further into the discussion of Colin's love life. It looks like their food is finally here anyway.

"Didn't realise you'd be making the sandwiches yourself," John says, as Pete puts down his heavily
laden tray.

"Sod off," Pete says distractedly. "I didn't see any of you lazy bastards helping. Anyway Larry
from The Crown stopped me and then Dick showed up." He flops down next to John and helps
himself to coffee and a sandwich.

John divvys out the rest of the food. "What did he want?" He means Larry, since he couldn't give a
shit about what Dick wants, but Pete of course assumes otherwise.

"To tell me about his perfect life I reckon. Think he wanted me to pass it on to you, John, so you
could regret not taking him up on that shag— ow!"

Pete holds his ribs like John stabbed him instead of just digging an elbow in. "I can go and tell him
you do, if you like?"

John regrets a lot of things, including inviting Pete today, but not shagging Dick Squared is not and
will never be one of them. He glances at George, who missed the entire beginning of this
conversation and clearly has no idea what's going on. Lucky him.

"Eat your bloody food," he says to Pete in the end, and Pete smirks at him and eats half a sandwich
in one go.

"What did you say to him?" Paul asks, and it takes a second for John to realise he's still on about
Dick Squared.

Pete chews and swallows. "Told him congratulations. Then he asked about John, if he was bonded
yet and that, so I said he was busy up at the college actually — don't think he liked that much. If
Stu had been here I reckon he’d have fucking cried."
"Why would it matter if Stu was here?" Paul says, before John can shut Pete up.

"Because he's all arty and that," Pete waves a hand. "Dick always fancied himself a bit of an artist
and Stu looks like James Dean. Well, according to Johnny anyway."

He smirks at John, who feels his face go hot. Bloody Pete and his big mouth. He said that once,
ages ago, and he was drunk. "I didn't—"

"Anyroad," Pete interrupts, just to finish up his disastrous monologue. "Dick said you shouldn't
leave it too long. To bond I mean, or no-one'll have you." He makes a stupid face, as if to show his
opinion of that. "Bet he wasn't including himself."

Across the table, Paul's expression has gone all weird so before Pete can make things any worse
John says, "Do me a favour next time and mind your own bloody business."

"Excuse me for trying to help," Pete says, too used to John's moods to take any real offence. He
takes another sandwich, oblivious to any awkwardness he's just created. "So what happened with
this audition then?"

George looks relieved at the subject change and John can't blame him. He lets George tell Pete
about Mona and what they played and what she said about it, while he eats his food and tries not to
catch Paul's eye.

There's a cold feeling of humiliation in his gut, and when someone stops by their table it feels like
the inevitable shitty finale to a day that had started off so well.

"Alright, Lennon," Dick Squared says, obviously going for casual but eyeing him much like he did
in the loo two years ago.

"Fuck off," John says flatly, after a single glance.

"I was only sayin' hello," Dick says, like John is being unreasonable. "I was surprised you were
still around, that's all."

"I live here."

"You know what I mean. I thought you'd be claimed by now."

Trust Dick to still talk about omegas being claimed, like it's the bloody Dark Ages.

"Oi, Dickie," Pete says, sounding annoyed. "This is a private meeting, in case you hadn't noticed."

"Oh yeah, it looks like one," Dick says, casting a sceptical eye over their messy table.

"It is actually," Paul says. His voice is colder than John has ever heard it. "It's band business."

John kicks him under the table but it's too late. If Dick had somehow missed what he was before,
he's noticed now. In any other circumstances his expression would be funny, but he recovers
quickly.

"Sorry mate, didn't realise I was intruding." He directs this to Paul and there's a derisive edge to his
tone that makes it clear he doesn't mean the so-called meeting.

"Well, you know now," John says sharply, before Paul can respond. "So off you go."

A couple of people nearby are blatantly listening in and Dick colours angrily. "Just thought you
might be doing a bit better for yourself, that's all, after all the fuss you made at school."

Paul makes a movement but John stands up first and he’s relieved to find he's still barely a half
inch shorter than Dick so he can look him right in the eye as he says, "Compared to what? You?"

Dick looks disconcerted, as if he'd somehow forgotten that he'd been at school with John for years
and should know better than to expect him to back down. But then he was one of those morons
who’d expected John to be panting after every alpha in sight the minute he presented, that’s how
he'd ended up with a black eye in the first place. This close, John can see all the ways he's changed
since then, he's broader now than he was, handsome in a blonde sort of way and his scent is
stronger too. Unfortunately the undercurrent of lust is sickeningly familiar.

Dick's expression flickers as he realises John's noticed and John forces a smirk. "Careful. What
would your omega think?"

Dick takes a small step back. He still looks angry but he looks humiliated too and John meets his
gaze unflinchingly, just daring him to try it. For a moment he thinks he actually might, and god
knows he'd relish the chance to punch him again, but Dick always was a coward.

"You're fucking welcome to him," Dick spits in the end in Paul's general direction, adding a
"Fucking freak" under his breath, just for John's benefit, before he finally leaves, pushing roughly
through the crowded tables in the direction of the door and nearly upsetting a girl carrying a tray of
drinks.

John watches him go, out of the door and off towards the bus stop, before he lets himself relax
even the smallest amount. His heart is pounding in his chest and he's aware the people nearest to
them are staring. When he turns back to the table, he sees George staring as well. He doesn't look
at Paul.

"You alright, Johnny?" Pete says.

"Course," John says, picking up his carton of ciggies and his matches, his expression schooled to
careful nonchalance. "I'm goin' outside for a smoke. It's too bloody hot in here."

He shoves them in his pocket and makes his way to the door, ignoring the looks that follow him.
Once outside he turns in the opposite direction to the one Dick went in and ducks down the little
alley nearest the Jac, out of the wind — and out of view, although he pretends that's not the reason.
Then once he's sure no-one can see him, he sits down on the kerb and presses his forehead to his
knees, taking in deep, ragged breaths, trying to calm himself.

Jesus. What a shit show.

When he hears quiet footsteps after a minute or two, he doesn't bother looking up. "Bloody hell,
Macca, can't a man have a breakdown in peace?"

"You forgot your coat," Paul says, holding it out.

John takes it and puts it on because he is pretty cold actually. He's not sure when Paul's main role
in life became making sure John had his coat with him at all times, but he supposes it's pretty
handy.

Instead of politely buggering off now he's delivered it, Paul sits down on the kerb beside him and
waits quietly while John finally lights a cigarette with clumsy hands and smokes it halfway down
before offering it across.
"Thanks," Paul says, and takes it, his warm fingers brushing against John's cold ones. He finishes
the cigarette and then flicks away the stub before saying, quietly, "I can see why you called him
Dick Squared."

"Aye well, what can I say? You weren't the first to try it on in a loo, sorry if you thought you
were."

He wants to take it back even before he sees the flash of hurt on Paul's face. There's no comparing
what happened at school with their eager fumblings at the wedding and he knows it.

"Sorry," he says, after a few seconds. "I didn't mean it like that."

"Alright."

Paul's doing his impassive face that he thinks makes it look like he has no feelings about anything
but actually does the opposite, and it makes John feel worse. "C'mon, Paul, you know I didn't mean
it. I was just being an arse."

He tugs lightly at Paul's hand like that will convey his sincerity, and after a moment Paul joins their
hands together properly, which is better, but his scent is still itching at him.

"If it's the Stu thing," John tries, "I was drunk, and you have to admit he does look a bit like James
Dean."

Paul turns to look at him, uncomprehending, then his face clears. "Jesus, John, it's not… It's not
about that."

"What then?"

"He shouldn't talk about you like that, or be following you around. It was obvious he still—" He
cuts himself off and his face has gone all blotchy. "It's like that bloke in the pub, it's not right."

"Oh, that," John says.

"Don't say 'oh, that' like you don't care. I can tell how much you do."

John still bristles at Paul being able to read him so well, but he's just so bloody tired of pretending
all the time that he can't be bothered to argue it anymore.

"D'you reckon he could tell? Dick, I mean?"

Paul looks surprised at John's swift capitulation, but he only says, "No. I mean, I doubt it. I'm
just…used to you." John must look relieved because Paul adds, "I don't think he had time to notice
anything, he ran out of there so fast."

John snorts. "He tried to blame it on me, you know, back then. As if the sight of me pissing in the
gents was too much for him, the cowardly little shit."

Paul laughs at that and John immediately feels a bit better. He looks down at their joined hands. It
feels as good as touching Paul always does but he wishes he had the words to ask for what he really
wants. Just to ease the tension thrumming beneath his skin.

He swallows. "Can you…"

Paul raises his eyebrows questioningly but John can't bring himself to say it. He almost wishes Paul
really could read his mind but he only looks at him expectantly. John glances past him to the end
of the alley but it's deserted.

"Just…" he tugs Paul's hand upwards and then drops his head back to his knees again, feeling
exposed and like such a fool but willing Paul to get it without him having to say it.

And for a wonder, he does. After a second of stillness he says "Oh," very quietly and then curls his
hand over the nape of John's neck, squeezing lightly and then resting it there, warm and steady like
he needs. John exhales a long breath, relaxing into it as Paul begins to move his thumb back and
forth and his scent turns sweet and soothing.

It doesn't take long for the sick feeling in his gut to start to fade, replaced by the warm lassitude he
was craving. "Thanks," he mumbles eventually, and yawns. Like this, Dick feels more like the
vague and unpleasant memory he wishes he always was.

"You're welcome." Paul's voice is a little strange and when John turns his head to see him better he
ducks in to kiss him on the cheek, the only part of John's face he can properly get at. Then he
smiles, small, and says, "C'mon, let's go home."

John's only too happy to go along with that. Paul stands first and pulls John to his feet after, and
they go to find Pete and George. They're still waiting in the Jac, having long since finished their
sandwiches. John wonders if they've been talking about him, but the thought doesn't have the sting
it would usually have, thanks to Paul.

"Ready to go then?" Pete asks, when he spots them. "I reckon it might rain soon."

Truthfully, John hadn't noticed but it's as good an excuse as any, and the Jac is getting busier
anyway, so they start loading all their gear again and head out. John manages to avoid catching
anyone's eye but as soon as they're outside Pete drops back to walk next to him, Paul moving aside
to talk to George instead.

"I can carry the amp if you want," Pete offers.

John squints at him, but hands it over readily enough. He's wondering if this is some sort of
apology, and sure enough, "Sorry I didn't tell Dick to fuck off when I saw him, I should have
known he'd be a wanker."

"S'alright," John says. "I wouldn't have minded punching him again."

Pete smirks. "I thought you were goin' to. I reckon he'd have pissed himself."

"Wouldn't be the first time," John says, and Pete cackles, obviously remembering the same
incident at infant school that John is.

They walk in companionable silence for a while, half listening to Paul and George talking about
some new song behind them. Then Pete bumps him lightly, "You're alright though?"

"Of course I am," John says, like it's a ridiculous question. Pete looks a little sceptical but he lets it
go.

For the most part John thinks he's not lying, but when they get to the bus he still manoeuvres neatly
so he's sitting next to Paul, and Paul moves his guitar to lie across both of them so he can take his
hand again without anyone seeing.

It's started spitting by the time they change buses, George going one way and John, Paul and Pete
another, and it soon turns into proper November rain, streaming down the outside of the bus
windows. John knows it would make more sense to go home in this weather, but he only has Mimi
and her disapproval waiting for him there so when Paul squeezes his hand and says quietly, "Come
to mine?" he nods and tells Pete he'll give him a ring tomorrow.

Paul takes his coat off to wrap around the amp when they get off and they half walk, half jog back
to Forthlin Road, getting progressively wetter, although Paul bears the brunt of it. To John's
surprise, and evidently to Paul's too, when they get there the light's on in the front room of number
20, a cheerful, if unwelcome beacon on a gloomy afternoon.

"I thought you said Mike was out?" John says, as they slow down and try to catch their breath.

"He is." Paul frowns. "It must be Dad stopping in."

John hesitates, unsure whether the offer still stands, but Paul notices and says quickly, "It doesn't
matter, come in and get dry. The rain won't stop for a bit."

So John trails him in, because he's pathetic, and sure enough, Jim is ensconced in his armchair,
paper in hand and the television playing quietly.

"Afternoon, boys," he says, turning a page.

Paul puts the amp down and takes his coat off it. "I thought you'd be off at the pub."

"I didn't fancy the walk in this," Jim says, looking past Paul to where John is hovering in the
shadows. "John."

"Alright," John says, with a nod.

He feels as awkward as he always does with Jim these days and it's a relief when Paul says, "We're
just going upstairs to dry off, Dad."

Jim hauls himself up. "I'll put the kettle on then."

John follows Paul up to his room and closes the door behind them as Paul strips off his wet jumper
and starts rooting around in his drawers for dry clothes. “You’d better borrow something of mine,”
he says over his shoulder, and John is relieved to hear it because his jeans are stuck to his legs.
Paul presents him with some faded jeans and a t-shirt and jumper, smiling a little as he adds, "At
least no-one will think it's weird this time."

"You sure your dad won't?" John says sceptically. It's one thing to have Mike around all the time,
but Jim is an alpha, for all John rarely thinks about the fact, and he's far more likely to notice
things, if they give him anything to notice.

But Paul just makes a face like John's being ridiculous and starts getting undressed, moving
quickly because his room is bloody cold. Unfortunately, John's conditioned now to associate Paul
getting undressed with far more enjoyable activities than tea with his dad and it takes Paul quirking
an eyebrow at him knowingly to realise he's staring.

He turns his back at once, ignoring Paul's quiet laughter as he gets on with changing.

"All done?" Paul says, just as John's pulling the jumper on. It smells clearly enough of Paul that he
must have given him a worn one by mistake, but John likes it all the better for that reason.

He looks up to say yes but Paul is standing so near and looking so soft in his ugly knitted jumper,
that he leans in impulsively to kiss him instead, hoping it somehow conveys how glad he is that
Paul's here. Paul makes a pleased noise, immediately pressing closer so he can kiss John properly,
one hand coming up to cup his face, keeping him there.

"Tea's ready," Jim calls up the stairs, putting paid to the brief fantasy John was enjoying that this
could actually go anywhere.

He pulls away, rueful. "I reckon we might miss our quota for today."

"Don't call—"

John kisses Paul again because he knows he hates it when he calls it that and he didn't actually
mean to say it. "Alright, I won't then. C'mon. I hope your dad has some biscuits."

He nips to the loo first and when he gets downstairs, the tea's out and someone's found some
digestives. John sits down on the settee a careful six inches away from Paul and then they spend
the afternoon watching Grandstand with old man Jim. In between the sports results he asks about
the audition, wanting to know how long it'll be for and how much they’re getting paid for it. It's
the chattiest John's ever known him and he does join in, but between the fire, the multiple cups of
tea, and Paul warm beside him he feels himself getting more and more relaxed until he actually
dozes off for a few minutes. He jerks awake to find he's slumping dangerously close to Paul and
straightens quickly, Paul shooting him a small smile.

"I think the rain's stopped now if you need to get home," Jim says, and John takes the hint and gets
to his feet.

"Aye, I should get going, or Mimi'll think I've been kidnapped."

Jim nods at him. "I'll let Paul see you out." Then he goes back to his telly, so John assumes that's all
the goodbye he's going to get.

Paul follows him into the darkened hallway, pulling the door closed behind him and waiting while
John gets his coat on. "Sorry," he whispers. "I didn't think he'd want us to sit with him all
afternoon. You don't have to go yet."

"I don't think your dad wants me hanging around all night as well."

"Well, I do," Paul says cheekily and John feels his face warm, which is just embarrassing after the
past few weeks.

"I know you do," he says, "And I know why an' all."

Paul doesn't bother to deny it. "Come back later," he says, and when John looks confused he adds,
"When Dad's gone to bed. I'll let you in."

John looks at him, or what he can see of him in the dark, to try and gauge how serious he is, but
Paul's expression is deadly earnest. "Alright," he says, still half questioning, because he's not sure
Paul's thinking entirely with his brain, but God knows he's not about to be the voice of reason, not
when he doesn't want to leave in the first place.

Paul smiles, kissing him quickly and whispering, "Come back at midnight. I'll be at the kitchen
door." Then he opens the front door and says, loudly, "See you then, John," like he's in a bad radio
play.

John has a mad urge to laugh; a fierce sort of joy threatening to overtake him, making him want to
say and do all sorts of things he can't. Not with Jim right there, and not with Jim anywhere else
either. He pushes the feeling down so Paul won't see it written all over his face, and just says,
"Night, Macca," as normally as he can, before he hoists his guitar on his back and heads out into
the chilly evening.

Mimi's in the parlour when he gets home so he has to recount the entire morning again. She looks
disapproving at the revelation that Mona is running the business herself, and that her alpha was
nowhere to be seen, but John makes sure to emphasise how nice her house was, because he knows
that's the sort of thing Mimi will care about. He's well aware she doesn't want him playing there
regardless, but if they're going to pay him she can't even hold her usual threat of stopping his
money over his head.

After dinner, the evening drags by. He does a bit of work for college and watches some Saturday
Playhouse with Mimi because she likes it and it's nice and warm with the fire going. She goes up to
bed about ten, and he stays up a bit longer before making a performance of brushing his teeth and
going to his room to lie on the bed and wait and think about Paul.

When he’s sure enough time has passed and Mimi must be asleep he sneaks back downstairs,
checks the clock and then puts his coat on and lets himself out silently to make his way to Forthlin
Road. He half expects someone to call the police on him when he's sneaking round the back of
Paul's house but the road is quiet and still and the kitchen door is already ajar, Paul waiting just
inside and shivering in his pyjamas and his horrible jumper.

"Bloody hell, it's cold," John whispers as he passes him. Paul closes the door carefully and then
kisses him so thoroughly that it takes John a while to notice the drawer handle jabbing him in the
back.

"Ow," he mumbles finally. "I reckon your bed's a bit more comfortable."

Paul snickers and takes his hand and they creep up the stairs to his room. The house is completely
silent, and John's wondering how the hell they're going to manage with the creaky springs of Paul's
mattress when Paul backs him against the wall next to the window and drops to his knees.

John inhales so sharply he nearly swallows his own tongue. "Paul—"

"Shhh," Paul says and starts undoing John’s trousers, almost yanking the button clean off in his
eagerness.

He sucks him off then and there, while John clamps a hand tight over his mouth to try and keep in
the noises he can't help making. The fact that Jim or Mike could come bursting in at any moment
adds an edge of tension that only serves to make everything sharper, intensifying the sensations
until his legs are trembling with the effort of staying upright. His orgasm builds all too quickly and
he shoves at Paul's shoulder, trying to push him off, but Paul bats him away and then he's coming
into wet heat and it feels so incredible that when he's finished he can only slide down the wall,
heaving in great, gasping breaths. He watches uncomprehending as Paul wipes his mouth on the
back of his hand, grimacing.

"What…" John manages.

"No mess," Paul whispers smugly and John starts laughing, pressing his face against his knee to try
and stifle the sound.

Paul hushes him, but he's laughing now too and John finally hauls him closer to kiss him, ignoring
the strange taste as he pushes his hand unceremoniously into Paul's pyjama bottoms and starts
stroking him. Paul's little abortive gasps are addictive and when he feels Paul start to tense he
tightens his grip, not ready for it to be over yet. Paul swears at him, trying to thrust into his hand,
but he waits until some of the tension has bled away before he starts up again, twisting his hand
over and over as Paul presses forward into him. He's muttering "please, please" against his cheek so
this time John lets the tension build to a peak, working Paul through his orgasm until he's a
twitching mess.

His jumper is wet though.

"What happened to no mess?" he whispers when Paul has slumped against him.

"Shut up," Paul mumbles and then yawns hugely. John scratches his fingers through his hair,
feeling hopelessly fond when Paul hums into it and plants a sloppy kiss to his jaw.

"I'm cold," John whispers after a while, because despite how good it feels with Paul draped all over
him, the room is freezing. "Everything's shrivelling up."

Paul shifts just enough to get a hand between them and John hisses when he runs it over his
(mostly) spent dick. "No, it isn't."

"It might soon," John murmurs. "Might fall off."

Paul laughs quietly, his shoulders shaking with it, but he does finally push himself upright. "Can't
have that, can we?" he whispers and kisses John’s cheek before he wriggles back enough to stand,
pulling him to his feet. Paul helps him get his disgusting jumper off over his head and John shucks
his trousers but he's not taking anything else off because it's too bloody cold. Getting into bed
without it creaking too loudly is like a surgical procedure, the more so because Paul starts laughing
again and then so does John, and they're soon reduced to helpless giggles that are more likely to get
them caught than anything illicit they've been doing.

They finally calm down enough for John to lie comfortably on his side with minimal creaking. Paul
immediately curls up behind him, throwing an arm over his waist and pressing his face against the
back of John's neck.

"Your nose is cold," John whispers.

"Sorry." Paul doesn't sound very sorry at all, nor does he move. John can feel his chest rising and
falling against his back.

"I know you're smelling me."

He feels a movement that might be a smile. "Well, you smell good after."

"I don't before?"

"Better, then." Paul brushes his mouth against his skin, and then does it again, more purposefully
this time, making John shiver.

"What do I smell like?"

Paul hesitates for a beat, and then says, quietly, "Happy."

John's not sure what to think of that. He does feel happy, content right down to his bones when
they're like this, but it's a bit pathetic, isn't it? To be so needy? It's what everyone expects omegas
to be like and he's never wanted to be like that.
Paul's arm tightens around him. "Don't. I like it."

John half wants to roll his eyes at that. Of course Paul likes it. He can tell how much Paul likes it,
everything about him is practically radiating satisfaction. "Course you do."

"Well then," Paul says, so low it's almost a mumble. "Don't be weird about it."

John huffs a bit but he supposes if he's happy and Paul's happy, then that makes them equally
pathetic and he can live with that.

"Alright," John says. He pulls the blankets up a little higher to keep the chill off the few parts of
him Paul's not touching. "Better wake me up early."

Now Paul is definitely smiling. "S'pose there's a first time for everything."

"Oi."

Paul kisses his shoulder in apology. "I was only joking. I'll wake you up, don't worry."

And he does, at a truly ungodly hour of the morning when his room is cold as a tomb. John tries to
ignore him at first and then tries to turn over and burrow in closer to leech off some more of his
body heat, but Paul is a persistent little sod. At least he has the grace to look sorry about it, which is
some consolation.

"You told me to wake you up in time," he whispers, when John is mostly vertical and Paul is
helping him put his jumper on in the dark.

"I take it back," he mumbles.

"No, you don't."

John squints at him, wondering why he said it like that. "What's that face for?"

"What face?'

John pokes him in the cheek, "That one."

"I just wish you didn't have to go," Paul says, right out, like it's a completely normal thing to say,
shocking John silent.

He laughs a little, unsure if Paul is messing about — it's not like he wants to trudge back home in
the cold either. "Be a bit harder to sneak out when Jim's havin' his breakfast," he whispers finally.

Paul looks at him for long enough that John finds himself strangely nervous about what he might
say next. But in the end it's only, "yeah, probably." Then he brushes John's hair back from his
forehead, letting his hand linger before he steps away. "C'mon then. Let's sneak you out."

They creep down the stairs and along the silent passage to the kitchen, where John puts his shoes
and coat on before Paul cracks open the door. If Paul's room was cold, the back yard is arctic, the
influx of frigid winter air making John draw back and wish he was still curled up with Paul under
the blankets.

"Last chance," Paul says, and John thinks this is what they meant in church when they talked about
resisting temptations of the flesh.

Happily, he's not in church and he has no plans to be any time soon, so he whispers, "I reckon
you'd better warm me up before I go, so I don't die."

Paul snorts in amusement but steps forward obligingly to wind his arms around John's neck,
pinning him against the door as he kisses him deeply. He moans quietly into the kiss, which is
cheating because he knows what that does to John, but then John slides a hand under Paul's jumper
and down, pushing under the waistband of his pyjama bottoms to palm his hip and pull them flush
together, and that's probably cheating too. It's just hard not to want Paul these days, in whatever
ways he can get him.

He makes himself move back when they're both halfway hard, nearly braining himself on the door
frame. "Alright, that's probably warm enough."

Paul has the gall to look disappointed but he lets him go, reluctantly, and somehow John gets
himself outside and makes sure not to look back as he clambers awkwardly over the wall and sets
off on the long, lonely walk home.

By some miracle, he manages to get back into Mendips and to his room without incident. But once
he's there, and in his own bed which, distressingly, does not smell of Paul, he has to finish what he
started in the kitchen at Forthlin Road, coming into his fist with a groan as he thinks about Paul
doing the same.
 Chapter 13

He sleeps in late that morning and has to endure Mimi barging into his room to make baseless
assertions about his character and work ethic, even though it's a Sunday, for fuck's sake, and even
Jesus had a day off on a Sunday. Her nagging works about as well as it always does, which is to
say he ignores it for as long as he can before he consents to drag himself out of bed and eat some
lunch doubling as breakfast. Then he fetches his sketchbook so she won't keep on and flops on the
settee, doodling nonsense until she goes out and he can finally give up the pretence and doze
instead.

He's watching some rubbish on the telly a while later, idly wondering if he could get away with
ringing Paul, when someone knocks at the door. It doesn't sound like Paul's knock, more’s the pity,
or Pete's for that matter (Pete would've rattled the letter box too), so he pays it no mind, but
whoever it is won’t give up and eventually he gets up to answer it, if only to tell them to bugger
off.

The last person he expects to see is Jim McCartney.

"May I have a word?" Jim says, and John can only stare, his stomach turned to lead, because the
last time someone looked at him like that, hat in hand, Julia was lying dead in the road.

"Has somethin' happened?" he blurts out, before he can stop himself.

Jim looks disconcerted, then a strange expression crosses his face. "No. That is… No. Paul's
alright, if that's what you're asking."

John nearly sags with relief.

"He's at his Auntie Jin's. Can I come in?"

In the wake of the relief comes a cold foreboding because if Paul's alright then there's only one
reason his dad could be here. John would quite like to shut the door in his face and pretend this
isn't happening, but it's Paul's dad, and besides his neighbours are probably twitching their curtains
already, so he reluctantly steps back to let him inside.

Jim follows him through to the sitting room and he wishes he'd had time to hide the saucer
doubling as an ashtray and, bloody hell, the half-baked drawing of Paul playing the piano he'd been
working on earlier. He closes his sketchbook hurriedly, shoving it out of sight, and then turns,
schooling his face to polite indifference.

"What can I do for you?"

Jim doesn’t sit down. "I had a visit from one of our neighbours, Mrs. McKenzie, yesterday
morning. She seemed to think she'd seen you last Monday, coming to the house with Paul when
you were… Well, not yourself."

No beating around the bush then, John thinks. Jim looks deeply uncomfortable but that's nothing to
how John feels. He tries to think who Mrs. McKenzie might be and has a vague sort of memory of
a woman outside a house and Paul telling her something about John forgetting his coat. God, what
must he have looked like? Off his head like that and trailing after Paul in broad daylight.

He can't do anything but try to brazen it out though. "She must have got me mixed up with
someone else."
"I don't think that's likely, do you?" Jim is looking at him steadily and John has the horrible
thought that perhaps Jim can read him too, or maybe he's just that obvious. "But even if she did, I
heard you leave this morning."

John can feel his treacherous face heat, but he just says, "Leave where?"

"I heard you arriving as well. Paul's not as clever as he thinks he is, checking the clock all night
and asking me when I'm going to bed."

John doesn't say anything to that because he can't think of any explanation that would sound
remotely plausible. When it becomes clear he's not going to speak, Jim sighs and finally sits down
stiffly on one of Mimi's uncomfortable armchairs, resting his hat on his knees. He looks smaller
like that, old, and after a moment John sits down too because it feels too defensive to be stood
looming over him.

"You know, when Paul first started talking about you and I realised who you were, I thought the
problem would resolve itself, given a bit of time," Jim says, sounding tired. "You'd take up with
some local alpha, one a lot older and flusher than a fifteen year old from Allerton, or more likely
you'd leave and he'd never see you again anyway, except maybe in one of those posh picture
papers." He looks up in time to catch John's expression. "You needn't look at me like that, it's just
the way of things."

"Not for me it isn't," John says, scornful.

"Well, you're young, you've still time to change your mind."

"I won't change my mind about that."

It's clear Jim doesn't believe him. "Be that as it may, there's always a way out for you, being what
you are, but Paul can't waste his opportunities like you can."

That stings more than he'd ever admit and certainly more than he'd ever let someone like Jim
McCartney see. "He's not wastin' anything. He's still at the grammar, isn't he? Still doin' all his
homework?" He knows there's more than a hint of derision lacing his tone, but he's never going to
see Jim's vision of grammar school Paul the respectable teacher as anything but a waste.

"I'll warrant he wasn't last Monday," Jim says, fixing John with a hard gaze. "And I think if I were
to telephone the Institute I'd find that wasn't the first time either."

John suddenly tires of this. It's not like he doesn't know what Jim's after. "So, what? Am I banned
from the house now, is that it? You don't want my corrupting influence on innocent little Paul? I
didn't twist his arm, you know." Maybe the heats helped things along, but apart from that he'd
always made sure things were equal between them, so no-one could say it was because of what he
was, or at least not only because of that.

Jim's mouth is a firm line. "I'm sure you didn't need to," he says, in an uncanny impersonation of
Auntie Clare. "He's a young alpha and you're… Well. It's to be expected. He's too young to know
his own mind."

"Course," John says, cynicism warring with bitterness. Of course it's his fault. "But it would be
alright for me to be shacked up with some middle aged alpha by now? No-one would have a
problem with that." Older, wealthier alphas always take their pick when they're finally ready to
settle, and never mind if the omega is young enough to be their son or daughter, or worse.

"That's different," Jim says, but he has the grace to look uncomfortable about it at least.
"Aye, it always is."

Jim looks at him like he's not quite sure what to make of him, or of this entire conversation. John
meets his gaze, belligerent. It's unsettling, being alone with him like this. Without his suppressants,
and without the overwhelming presence of Paul, it's more obvious what Jim is and there's
something in his scent reminiscent of his son. But where Paul makes John want to prod at him and
yield to him in equal measure, Jim only makes him want to push back.

"Have you been trying to bond with him?"

John swallows down his immediate response to that; to the way Jim makes it sound, like he's been
trying to trick Paul. "No."

Jim's palpable relief is pretty insulting. He briefly closes his eyes, as if the prospect of John
bonding with Paul had been too horrible to contemplate. When he looks at John again, it's to say,
"Then would you leave him alone, if I asked you to?"

"No," John says again, because he wouldn't. Not just because Paul's dad asked him to. He's not
some drippy heroine in a twopenny novel. Frustration rises up in him at this whole humiliating
conversation. "Why're you askin' me this anyway? Isn't it Paul you should be talkin' to? Does he
even know you're here?"

Jim glances away at that and doesn't answer, and John realises, with some pretty overwhelming
relief of his own, that Paul doesn't know anything about it. He's not sure he could have borne that;
if Paul had known his dad was coming round to tell him to stop leading him astray, or whatever he
thinks John is doing, and hadn't bothered to warn him, let alone stop him. What if Mimi had been
in? Christ, his life wouldn't be worth living.

As if he's reading his mind, Jim says, "I'm sure your aunt would take a dim view of what's been
going on."

John laughs, but there's no humour in it. "She's been taking a dim view of me for eighteen years. If
it got any dimmer she'd be walkin' into the furniture." He shrugs, deliberately offhand, "Anyway
she'd just blame Paul. She thinks he's a bad influence on me, you know."

Jim looks taken aback by that little revelation, which perversely makes John feel better. Maybe if
they're both such bad influences they could cancel each other out and just be John and Paul.

In the ensuing silence there's nothing but the muted tick of the clock on the mantel. Jim watches
him, mouth set as he no doubt tries to think up something new to threaten him with (good luck
finding something worse than Mimi, John thinks). He doesn't know why Jim hasn't just taken the
obvious step of forbidding Paul from seeing him; if they're going to be in a rubbish melodrama
they might as well do it properly. But then that's always the way isn't it? It's never alphas who need
to restrain themselves, it's always omegas who need to be less tempting or some bollocks like that.
Alphas can't help it.

When thirty seconds have crawled painfully by, John raises his eyebrows in the deliberately
provoking way Mimi hates. "Was that everything then?"

Going by Jim's expression, John's pretty sure he'd have had a clipped ear for that if he was Paul or
Mike. His tone certainly suggests he's had just about enough of John for today. "What is it exactly
that you want from Paul?"

"Apart from the obvious, you mean?" John says cynically, because that's what everyone always
thinks omegas want.

Jim grimaces his distaste. "Don't be so vulgar."

John scoffs at that. He doesn't know what Jim expects him to say. The truth is too soft and private a
thing to think about, much less say out loud, so in the end he tries for a version of it, if only so Jim
might finally leave him alone. "I don't want anything from him. We're just playin' in the band and
writing songs. And the… the other stuff is just messing about. You don't have to worry about Paul.
He's got his head on straight."

It's hard to read Jim's reaction to that. He looks at John for a long moment, a slight furrow between
his brows, before he says, "Does Paul know that?"

"'Course he does," John says, because Paul didn't start this and he's the one who's always so careful
about them not risking a bond and all that. As much as he resents Jim bringing it up, John knows
that what he is makes a difference, as it does to every bloody alpha apparently. But Jim's daft if he
thinks Paul has lost his head because of it. He's just a randy little sod, that's all.

"I hope so," Jim says and fucking hell, he needs to make up his mind.

"Would you prefer it wasn't messing about?" John says irritably.

"I'd prefer you left him alone," Jim says, and that shuts John up. "But if you won't, I'd rather he not
think it's more than it is."

"Well, he doesn't," John says shortly. "So you can be proud he's out sowing his wild oats, or
whatever it is you alphas get to do that the rest of us don't."

There's another tense silence and John suspects he'd have got another clipped ear for that one. Then
Jim gets to his feet, waiting pointedly for John to grudgingly follow his lead.

He's hoping this means this whole nightmare visit is over and sure enough, "I think we've said all
we need to then," Jim says curtly. There's a photograph on the mantel next to him, of a young and
unconvincingly angelic looking John in his school uniform and his eyes linger on it for a moment,
before he adds, "I'd ask you to think a bit more about what's best for your future, but I suspect I'd
be wasting my time."

"Probably," John says.

"You might think a little bit more about Paul's then," Jim finishes, putting his hat back on. "Or does
that not matter to you either?"

When John doesn't reply, he nods like that's answered his question and says, "I'll see myself out."

He closes the front door carefully where John would probably have slammed it, but that's the
bloody McCartneys for you.

The rest of the day is a write off after that. Eventually Mimi gets back from wherever she was and
tells him all about it while John makes all the right noises and doesn't listen in the slightest. Then
they have dinner and she puts the radio on while John pretends to work on something for college,
all the while turning the conversation with Jim over and over in his head, like an itch he can't
scratch.

He can’t work out what Jim's game is, is the thing. He could just ban John from the house and tell
Paul not to see him anymore. Alright, John on his own wouldn't care, but Paul would care and that
would probably be enough. Not at first, maybe, because Paul likes what they're doing too much,
but eventually. The only reason he can see for trying to talk John round is if Jim thinks it's all on
him, as if he's got some hold over Paul. What a fucking joke.

Of course he might be round there telling Paul right now. Maybe John should have done it first, in
that case, to get it over with. He hates when someone has something over him, it makes him feel
like he’s always looking over his shoulder, waiting for it. He tries to imagine just telling Paul,
saying, "by the way your dad came by to see me to tell me to fuck off to London, what do you
think about that?" Only he doesn't actually want to know what Paul thinks about that. Paul loves
his dad and he does what he's told. He might be prepared to close a bedroom door to make a point,
or to sneak John in for sex, but that's not the same as openly defying him.

He keeps thinking about it the next day. About what Jim said and whether he might have gone
home and had words with Paul. What Paul might be thinking about it all, about John, and what
they're doing. Finally, he can't stand worrying about it anymore and he gets the bus home from
college early and goes to Forthlin Road, only to remember that nosy cow Mrs. McKenzie and
wonder if she's peering out of her window already, poised to report to Jim. Christ, it's really turned
him paranoid. He ends up ringing the doorbell three times, just to make Paul get a bloody move on
in case she is.

He's so early that Paul's still cooking his and Mike's tea. He comes to the door carrying a tea towel
and John braces himself for something in his expression, some tell that he won't have time to hide,
but Paul just looks happy to see him like usual.

"You don't have to break the doorbell, I heard it the first time."

He steps back to let John in and as soon as the door is closed again he kisses him, just a quick kiss
but probably not something he'd do if he was feeling guilty about his dad.

"You alright then?" John says, and it comes out sounding all awkward, like they haven't seen each
other for a month.

Paul looks at him like he's daft. "Course. I'm just making tea if you want some? It's just sausages
and that."

He's already walking back to the kitchen so John follows him and says yes, he'd like some tea if
Paul's got some spare, and yes, he knows he's early. It's all unsettlingly normal, right down to Mike
rolling his eyes when he sees him and telling him he can't use up the last of the tomato sauce
because they're running out. It's so easy he almost wishes Jim had said something to Paul, just so
he wouldn't have time to notice all the things he'll miss when he gets tossed out on his arse, Paul's
burnt sausages notwithstanding.

He forgets George isn't coming round tonight until they've finished eating and Mike announces he's
going to his friend's house.

"Alright, don't be back too late," Paul says, like a proper grandad. "Dad said ten."

"Dad said a lot of things," Mike says, pointedly.

Paul flicks a bit of bread at him so John knows he's just messing about, but he still tenses.

"You're being very quiet," Paul says, when Mike's gone to put his coat on. He's frowning slightly.

"Me mouth's all dry from the charcoal," John says and moves his leg back sharpish so Paul's kick
misses him.
"Get your own tea next time."

"Mimi won't let me any more, she reckons it's not worth the damage."

Paul laughs at that and gets up to dump the plates in the sink. The slam of the front door signals
Mike's departure and then the house is quiet save for the sounds of Paul washing up. He's singing
something under his breath, tapping out a rhythm with his foot because he can never stay still for
long. He's already thinking about afterwards, John can tell. He's a long way off Paul's creepy levels
of mind reading, but he's been around a randy Paul too often now not to know how his scent
changes, taking on that edge that he can't help responding to. Much like he is now in fact. Only
tonight it's like the fucking spectre of Jim is in the room with them, reminding John that of course
Paul wants him, being what he is.

Paul folds up the tea towel and John panics. "Did you get some new records?" It comes out too
loud but there's a string bag on one of the chairs that he'd half noticed when he came in and it
seems as good a subject as any.

Paul turns, taking a second to catch up. "Oh yeah, Auntie Jin lent them to me. They're not ones
you'd like, but I thought there might be something we could borrow from. For the coffee bar."

Even better. "We should go and listen to 'em then, make some notes on which ones might work."

Paul glances from John to the records and back again, a furrow forming between his brows. "You
want to…listen to records?" he says, like he's checking he heard him correctly. "Tonight?"

"Aye, no time like the present."

Paul clearly thinks there are plenty of times like the present, and all of them preferable to an
evening when they have the house to themselves, but after another perplexed silence he just says,
"okay then, let me get the record player."

He fetches the record player, and the oil heater from Mike's room as well so they don't freeze to
death, and then they actually do sit in Paul's room and listen to his Auntie Jin's old records. John's
ostensibly in charge of the record player, but it's really just an excuse to sit on the floor with his
back to the bed so he can't see the way Paul is lounging on top of the blankets, shirt and jumper
rucked up just enough to draw John's gaze to the small sliver of skin on show like it's a bloody
magnet.

Paul gets out a notepad and pencil to write down ideas, and reads out the notes off the back of the
record sleeves for a bit, but after a while he starts lazily playing with the hair at the nape of John's
neck, and it's as distracting as he probably intends it to be. There's no mistaking what he'd rather be
doing and while normally John would appreciate him having his priorities straight, tonight he feels
antsy; guilty, and then irritated that he feels guilty.

"Stop that," he says, twitching his head away, when he can feel whatever Paul is doing starting to
work.

Paul stills. "What's up with you?"

"Nothing. Just not in the mood."

It's hardly his best excuse. He's never not in the mood these days. He's not even not in the mood
now, he just… can't stop thinking of the things Jim said. About what it means. Clare had said the
same, that it was so easy for him — as if he was just luring in alphas all over the place. He knows
how stupid it is but now it's lodged in his head and this time there's no Julia to talk sense into him.
Paul, of course, can't just leave it alone. "Did something happen at college?"

"No," John says, and wishes he hadn't left his ciggies downstairs in his coat pocket.

"Alright."

A few seconds later Paul's pencil starts scratching again but John can practically hear his mind
working.

They get through another half a song before John cracks. "Did you ever—" he starts abruptly, and
then stops, not quite sure what he even wants to ask.

"Did I ever what?" Paul prompts, after a moment. On the record some double act is warbling about
putting on their dancing shoes and going up the West End.

"Before I had my heat — did you ever think about doing this?"

There's such a drawn out silence that John almost turns around to see Paul's expression, but it was
mortifying enough to even ask the question, he can't look at him as well.

"Yes," Paul says at last, but he sounds cautious, like he's not sure if it's the right answer. Maybe
he's thinking of that disastrous gig.

"I don't mean that time at Christmas."

"I know what you meant."

He takes that in. He wants to ask when Paul had thought about it and what exactly he'd thought
about. Whether it was anything like John's most deeply buried imaginings or just what Jim said,
inevitable for a young alpha. He can't imagine asking any of those things though so in the end he
just says, "I was on suppressants though."

"So?"

So you weren't supposed to notice me, John wants to say. But then he wasn't supposed to notice
Paul either, and he did anyway. "You never said anything."

Paul snorts, sounding amused. "Well, neither did you."

"Maybe I wasn't thinking about it." But even before the words are fully out of his mouth, he
realises.

"I just thought you might be," Paul says, a fraction too late to be convincing and John feels a hot
rush of embarrassment. Of course, Paul would have known. How fucking stupid of him to think he
wouldn't.

"I've got no bloody secrets from you, have I?" he says, voice sour. Trust Paul to be the exception to
every sodding thing where his pills were concerned.

The mattress dips abruptly against his back as Paul sits up. "Don't be— It was just sometimes, and I
thought, you know, it's either me or it's George."

He's trying to make a joke of it but John says, "Maybe it was George then."

"I think George has his eye on someone. Sorry." When John doesn't respond, Paul nudges him
lightly with his knee. "Anyway, I was thinking the same thing so it doesn't matter, does it?"
John picks up one of the other records and pretends to look at the back of it, then gives up because
he can't even fake an interest in dance hall music. "Maybe you were just thinkin' it because I was,"
he says, trying to sound casual about it and not like the idea has been consuming his thoughts all
day.

He's not sure how he expects Paul to respond, but it's certainly not for him to make a sharp,
dismissive noise and say, "Don't be daft," like it's not even a theory worth entertaining. Then when
John stays quiet, "You don't really believe that, do you?"

"No," John says because he doesn't. Mostly. It's just…

"Is this because of what happened at the Jac?" Paul sounds confused.

John is about to deny it when it occurs to him that it would probably be better if Paul did think it
was because of that. "Maybe. It's just what people think, isn't it? That omegas take advantage."

"Well, that's stupid," Paul says, and he sounds so utterly certain that John feels some of the tension
easing. No wonder Paul always got on so well with Julia, he's got her talent for cutting through the
tangle in John's head. "And why would it only be omegas that take advantage?"

"I think we're meant to be more naturally persuasive," John says, cynical. "On account of our
charming natures an' all that."

There's a sceptical silence, then Paul traces a hand very deliberately across the back of John's neck
and he startles and half turns to look at him, heart rate picking up. "I reckon I'd be better at it," Paul
says, and he's smiling a little, like he's hoping John will follow his lead.

John can still feel the ghost of Paul's fingers on his skin. "At takin' advantage or being persuasive?"

"Both, probably." Paul raises his eyebrows, looking John over with no attempt at subtlety, and John
gets a surge of the helpless fondness he's come to associate with Paul, even after discovering what
an underhanded bastard he's been all this time.

"I don't reckon you need me when you've got—" He squints at the album cover in Paul's hand.
"’Songs from the Golden Age of Romance’ to get you goin'."

Paul's smile settles into something more real, and perhaps a little relieved, before he puts the
record down and slides off the bed, moving to neatly straddle John's lap.

"That's quite persuasive," John says, tipping his head back to look at him.

"I thought it would be."

Paul ducks down to kiss the corner of John's mouth, then his cheek and the line of his jaw, and
John tilts his neck a little more to the side, hoping he'll get the hint. He does. John feels him smile
and then he moves to the side of his neck, soft and careful like he always is when they do this now,
ever since John's second heat. It still feels good, even if John wants to feel it more. He sighs into it
anyway and runs a hand along Paul's thigh and then up, sliding it under his untucked shirt so he
can touch the warm skin beneath. Paul immediately presses closer, trying to bring them flush
together, even if there's not really room to do it with the bed behind them. He's always so easy for
it, John thinks. He makes it seem like it should be easy, just something they do and not John laying
himself bare, all his most tender spots exposed for Paul to laugh at. Not that he thinks he would,
although Christ knows he's had enough chances.

It seems bitterly unfair it's all going to blow up in his face in the probably not too distant future,
when they could just have this instead. But if it is, it seems all the more reason to make the most of
it now.

"You're too much of a bean pole, Macca," he says, when Paul makes another failed attempt to get
close enough for what he'd clearly like to be doing.

Paul pulls back, looking so disgruntled that John has to tug him down to kiss him properly. Paul
kisses back eagerly, obviously happy that John's fully on board now, before breaking away to say,
"Alright, what do you want to do then?"

The scent of Paul's arousal is all around them, and no doubt John's too, and he thinks that he could
get him off easily enough here on the floor, with just his hand, and Paul would be as satisfied with
it as he always is. But today John wants something else.

"Let me suck you off again."

Paul's breath stutters audibly. They haven’t tried it since that first time. Paul's been so squirrelly
about it, and John hasn't bothered to push since there are plenty of other things they can do. He
knows it's all to do with Paul not being good at it, or nearly scalping John, or whatever he's been
brooding about, but if everything is going to go to shit, he doesn't want that to be the only time. He
wants Paul to feel like he does when Paul does it to him, so he'll remember it.

Of course Paul's not that easy to persuade. After a too-long pause he says, "I could do you first?"
As if John's going to fall for that one.

He gives Paul an unimpressed look. "Or how about I do you first? It's your turn."

"We don't need to take turns," Paul says, as though they haven't been (mostly) taking turns since
the start.

John stops pretending he doesn't know what this is about. "I don't care about last time, the hair's
grown back."

The joke falls flat. Paul flushes dully, gaze moving somewhere over John's shoulder. "It's not about
that." He looks all uncomfortable now, the signs of his arousal distinctly muted, and that wasn't
what John wanted at all. He reaches up to kiss him again, trying to make it slow and sweet the way
Paul does it. He must manage alright because it doesn't take long for Paul to soften, opening his
mouth and relaxing the hand braced against his shoulder. He probably thinks John's given up on
the idea. John takes the opportunity of his distraction to palm him through his trousers, and Paul
groans and pushes into his hand, trying to get the friction he wants as John does it again and again.
He keeps going until Paul's most of the way hard and kissing John back with a clear end in sight,
before he stills his hand and pulls back enough to say, "I could do it to ‘Hits from the Music Hall’,
it'd be like all your dirty dreams come true."

Paul blinks his eyes open, breathing hard, and his expression wavers for a split second, like he
might actually laugh this time, so John presses his advantage, rubbing him again slowly as he leans
back in, this time to press his mouth to his pulse point. He even risks a scrape of teeth that has
Paul's hips jerking forwards before he gasps out, "You can't do that, remember."

"Well, me mouth hasn't got anything better to do, has it?" John says. "C'mon Macca." He kisses his
cheek, then the underside of his jaw, coaxing. "It'll be better this time, I promise." He presses
another soft kiss to his neck, moving his hand all the while, but keeping it just short of enough.
"And you're the one who's always goin' on about gettin' better with practice."
When he gets a look at Paul's face again, he looks so exasperated and fond and turned on at the
same time that John's not all that surprised when he finally blows out a breath and says, "Fine. But
just… Just don't…" he trails off looking embarrassed so John says, "Aye, alright," and then adds,
"You can kick me in the head if you need me to stop."

"That's not funny," Paul mutters, but he's already shifting back, grimacing a little at the tightness of
his trousers. John helps relieve him of that problem, and of his jumper and shirt as well, kissing
him soundly between each one so he doesn't have the chance to get all caught up in his own head
again.

When he's got them both mostly naked he crouches down to root through the stack of records for
the one he knows he saw earlier.

"I don't need to do it to a stupid song," Paul protests, once he realises what John's doing. "C'mon,
John."

"Better not risk it," John says, finding 'Dance Hall Delights' which looks right up Paul’s street.
"Don't want you flaggin' halfway through and underminin' my self esteem."

He changes the record over quickly and gets Paul, still protesting about the music, on the bed so
they can get the rest of their clothes off and get started. Unfortunately, the opening number turns
out to be some bloody awful comic song and John starts sniggering before he can do more than get
a couple of good strokes in.

"I'm not doing it if you're just going to laugh," Paul says, all pink in the face as he starts to sit up.
He's only at half mast now and that's not going to work at all.

John kisses him in apology and pushes him firmly back down, trying to think serious thoughts.
"Don't be like that, I was just gettin' into the spirit of the song." He nudges at Paul's knees to get his
legs apart properly and gets back to it, getting a pretty good rhythm going thanks to the musical
accompaniment.

"Don't—" Paul chokes off on a gasp as John twists his hand. "Don't do it to the song." But he's
trying not to laugh now too, so John counts that as an improvement.

Fortunately for Paul the song's not that long and the next one's a bit less jaunty so John stops
messing about and decides Paul's probably hard enough for what he wants. He shuffles back and
ducks down to get to work, before Paul can second guess it any more.

Paul's obviously taking no chances this time. He has a white knuckle grip on the blankets
underneath him, tense and unnaturally still as John licks over the head, working his way up to
taking him into his mouth. It's obvious Paul wants to move, his legs are twitching with the effort
not to, so after putting up with his unsettling stillness as long as he can, John tries tracing his free
hand along his inner thigh and takes the risk of thumbing his balls and then, even more daringly,
his knot. That certainly gets him moving. Paul jerks his hips up convulsively and John has to pull
off a bit sharpish to cough, eyes watering.

"Oh god, sorry, sorry," Paul sounds mortified, struggling to sit up again and bloody hell, John is
going to make this work if it kills him. He thinks if it doesn't, Paul will never let him try again.

He wipes at his eyes quickly and takes Paul firmly back in hand, abandoning subtlety and just
running a hand down the shaft and over his knot, twisting his fingers a little so the calluses catch.
Paul makes a noise that would probably be funny in any other circumstances and falls back against
the mattress like his arms have stopped working. That seems more encouraging so John keeps
going, working his hand faster and rubbing at the base of his dick with every stroke until Paul's
hips are jerking helplessly into his grasp and his breath is coming in harsh pants.

Suddenly he twists out of John's grasp, reaching down clumsily to shove his hand away. "S—
Stop." He's grimacing like he's in pain and John realises that his knot is starting to bulge like
before, only more obviously this time, and he'd been so busy watching Paul's face he hadn't even
noticed.

"Shit, sorry." He moves back a bit and lets Paul calm himself down or think horrible thoughts or
whatever he's doing. It takes a couple of minutes and he's still breathing like he's had to run for the
bus. John rubs his leg soothingly, feeling a bit breathless himself at the sight of him so
overwhelmed.

"You don't have to stay still," he says, because that's what got them sidetracked in the first place.
"Just go steady."

"I was trying to," Paul manages.

"Well it felt like I was giving a blowie to one of them shop window dummies."

Paul glares at him a little for that and alright, he's probably making this memorable for all the
wrong reasons. "Look, just…" He tugs at Paul's bent legs until he rolls properly onto his back
again and straightens them enough that John can crawl in between them. Then he puts an arm
across his hips, trying to put as much of his weight into it as he can to hold him down, "There, now
you can move but not too much, how's that?"

Paul looks a bit dubious about this plan but his knot looks to have returned to something a bit more
normal so he nods, still far too tense, and John takes him back into his mouth, carefully at first but
then more confidently when Paul doesn't push him away again. He tries to relax his jaw a bit this
time so when Paul pushes up — and he will — it's a bit more manageable. Sure enough, Paul
manages about thirty seconds before he starts moving, little abortive thrusts and moans that are
such a fucking turn on John tries taking him in further, flicking his tongue just to make him do it
more. Above the roaring in his ears he hears the song change and has the idea to try humming,
meaning it mostly as a joke until Paul's whole body jerks beneath him and one of his hands swoops
dangerously close to his head. John catches it this time and laces their fingers together, and then he
carries on humming along to the stupid song until Paul has been reduced to babbling John's name
and he might be about to lose all feeling in his hand, with how tightly Paul's holding onto it. It's not
like he has to do it for long though before Paul's ready to come. He tugs at John's hand, trying to
warn him, but anything Paul can do John can do as well so he ignores his signals and keeps his
mouth around his dick until Paul goes tense, fingers tightening almost to the point of pain as he
spills into John's mouth.

He can't say he particularly likes the taste, but it's worth it for the way Paul stares at him after,
chest flushed and heaving. He looks like something John wants to draw, like one of those dirty
pictures they have to hide in the back rooms of galleries to protect delicate sensibilities. He pushes
the errant thought away, relieved once again that Paul can't actually read his mind.

He's expecting to have to get himself off, remembering what Paul was like last time, but to his
surprise Paul tugs insistently on his hand and says, "C'mere."

John wipes his mouth and obediently crawls up the bed, only now realising how painfully hard he
is. As soon as he's within reach Paul hooks an arm around his neck and pulls him down. He kisses
him like he wants to devour him, his tongue hot in John's mouth. He must be able to taste himself,
John realises, and the thought sends such a shocking wave of lust through him that he starts
moving against Paul, helpless not to between the heat of his mouth and the perfect pressure of his
arm across the back of his neck. Paul urges him on, keeping up a litany of encouragement in
between sloppy open mouthed kisses that's doing just as much to get John there as anything that's
happening to his dick. He ruts against him, increasingly desperate, until Paul reaches down and
takes him in hand, managing barely three strokes before John comes, forehead pressed to Paul's as
he gasps and shakes through it. Then he slumps down, half on top of him, and Paul wipes his hand
somewhere he can't see and wraps both arms around him, kissing the side of his face.

"See, that wasn't so bad," John mumbles, once his breathing’s returned to something like normal,
and bloody hell, his voice sounds awful now.

Paul laughs a little, and it sounds incredulous enough that John decides to take it as a compliment.
Then he kisses John again, this time somewhere around his ear, arms tightening so John can't move
away like he probably should, now that they're finished. Not that he wants to go anywhere. He has
a shameful secret love of this part, where he can drift for a while, blissfully wrung out, in a Paul
scented cocoon — however much he might pretend he's just humouring him and resting his eyes.

When he comes back to himself it's to Paul lightly moving his fingers over his back. It takes a few
confused seconds to realise there's a pattern to it, like hands moving over piano keys.

"Are you writing a song on me?"

Paul's fingers still, then start up again, more noticeably this time. "I had an idea."

"Was my tongue that inspirin'?" John's still, officially, resting his eyes, but he thinks he could
probably stand to go again in a bit.

Paul taps him on the shoulder blade, then runs a hand down his back, making him want to arch into
it like a cat. "Might have been Dance Hall Delights."

"Liar."

He hears a quiet huff of laughter and then Paul starts humming something that he vaguely
recognises as one of the songs they were listening to earlier.

"Fuck off," John mutters after a moment.

"Thank you, that was very inspiring."

After a while, Paul twists to check the clock to see how long they've got til Mike gets back, and
John decides there is more than enough time for a McCartney Two Minute Special. Paul needs no
persuading, of course, so they kiss and move lazily together with the top blanket pulled over them
because it's getting colder now, even with the radiator going. Then afterwards they doze until Paul
absolutely cannot wait any longer to get his guitar out and play John the parts of the song he's been
working out. John makes a few token protests but he's easily bribed with a cup of tea and his pack
of ciggies from downstairs. Truth be told, with all the other activities in recent weeks, they've
barely worked on any new songs together and contrary to what Jim might think of him, he does
actually give a shit about them getting somewhere with the band. All the more so now they
actually have a chance to get noticed at the coffee bar.

It's a very Paul song, he thinks as he smokes and listens, which is to say that the scrap of melody is
annoyingly catchy but he's so caught up in it that he hasn't bothered to think of any words yet. So
John tries to fill some in, stealing Paul's notebook and pencil and getting him to start from the
beginning again. If it's going to be a Lennon original as well as a McCartney one, it had better be
decent. He wishes they could write all their songs this way, half dressed in Paul's dimly lit
bedroom, after a couple of excellent orgasms. It's surprisingly good for the creativity.

They get a verse down, and half of a serviceable chorus when the slam of the front door heralds
Mike's return and John's cue to shove off.

"You don't have to go yet," Paul protests, as soon as John starts looking around for his socks.
"We've still got the chorus to finish and it's not even ten."

Paul can look at him like that all he wants, but between Mrs. McKenzie twitching her curtains and
Mimi lying in wait, John's not taking any bloody risks. He knows if he stays longer there's a fair
chance he'll just fall asleep here, and then he'll have to sneak into Mendips in the early hours, or
use Pete as an excuse again, and Mimi'll only fall for that one for so long.

"Sorry, Macca, Mimi's a fierce woman to cross." Even more than your dad, he doesn't say.

He finishes putting his socks on and stands up, then hesitates and stoops back down to kiss Paul,
just because he wants to and because he's weak to that daft face.

"Stay," Paul mumbles against his mouth.

"Can't."

He makes himself pull away and gather up the rest of his stuff, then makes a swift exit before he's
tempted to do otherwise. Mike's in the kitchen when he gets downstairs so he calls goodbye to him
too and then he's outside, where the sharp, cold air wipes away any remaining sleepiness. He does
up his coat and then lights another cigarette for the walk home. He should have thought to bring
his glasses so he could try and work out where that interfering busybody Mrs. McKenzie lives and
piss on her garden or something. Nosy old cow. Just because she couldn't mind her own business,
now he has the proverbial axe hanging over his head in the form of Jim McCartney and whenever
he decides to put his foot down with Paul. Well, until that day comes, he intends to make the most
of it, and if it gives Mrs. McKenzie a nervous collapse, all the better.

What could she do now anyway, he thinks, as he crosses the road and sets off towards the golf
course. Jim already knows and after their little chat he knows John's not stopping away either. He's
likely guessed he's been here tonight, and what they've been doing. Or what he thinks they've been
doing. It's not whatever grubby thing Jim is probably imagining, after all, it's just him and Paul, and
Paul had laughed at the idea he couldn't bloody resist John or whatever Jim was suggesting.
Alright, so it turns out he'd known John might have thought about it once or twice before, and of
course they wouldn't be doing this if John wasn't what he was, but it's not like Paul had tried
anything when he'd known John wanted to, so he can't be that bloody alluring, can he? He should
have told Jim that, he thinks, annoyed at himself. He should have said Paul's a stubborn cuss and
no-one can make him do something he doesn't want to, least of all John. It's just harder to
remember that when Paul isn't there to remind him and all his doubts come clamouring to the
surface instead.

It's started drizzling by the time he gets back to Mendips so he lets Mimi fuss over him before she
starts in on her inevitable comments about where he's been and how late it is.

"Leave off, Mimi, it's barely half ten," he snaps finally, when she suggests, not for the first time,
that it isn't safe for him to be wandering around a place 'like that' at this time of night. "Allerton's
not a crime den, Paul's house has got proper windows and everything."

Mimi does not appear particularly appreciative of his sarcasm so he resists the urge to tell her that
George lives in Speke and escapes to his bedroom with his cup of tea, pleading tiredness, "What
with the shocking late hour an' all".

When he gets there he sees that Mimi's been on another of her 'tidies', his little stack of crude
sketches from the shelf is gone, along with his dirty clothes and the two cups he'd been using as
ashtrays — she can never bloody leave things alone. He has a sudden flash of panic that she might
have been more thorough than usual this time but a frantic check of his sock drawer reveals the
little bottle of pills still tucked away at the back where he'd left them. After a moment's hesitation
he sticks them, sock and all, into his bag, buried down deep under his art supplies and a dog eared
notebook. It's not just because of Mimi. He's on borrowed time now as it is, and he's not going to
speed things up by having another disastrous heat, or any heat for that matter. What if next time it
was the weekend or just any day when Paul wasn't around and Mimi found out? Or, worse, what if
he goes looking for Paul again, out of his head in front of Mike or Jim or any of Paul's other million
neighbours? Just the idea of it makes him feel ill. It's alright for Paul to say he should ring him if it
happens, but going on previous evidence, his body's not exactly following any kind of timetable
and it's been a week now since the last time. Even before the pills his few heats had been all over
the place and now he doesn't know what the fuck they're doing. He doesn't want to go back on the
pills like before, not until he has to. But that doesn't mean he can't use them a bit more…
strategically.

As much as it pains him to admit it, it would probably have helped if he'd glanced at some of
Mimi's leaflets before he threw them away. Or if he'd paid a bit more attention to Julia when she
tried to talk to him about how things would be. He just never thought he'd need to know any of that
stuff. But now he's stuck getting most of his information from Paul, and he's not sure he's the most
reliable source of knowledge when it comes to something that might stop him getting his end
away. He feels guilty as soon as the thought enters his head. It's not that he thinks Paul would lie,
exactly, but at best he'll worry and nag him about it, and at worst he'll just disapprove of him using
the pills again at all, especially just to avoid needing Paul for his heats. Either way it's not a
conversation he wants to have with him, so the next morning he skips a drawing class to walk into
town and duck into the WHSmiths by the station. The local Bonding Office would have more
information, but there's no way he's announcing his existence to any of those bastards, so Smiths it
is.

It's early enough to be quiet still, and he loiters by the detective paperbacks for a while, pretending
to be absorbed in one set in the Wild West until he's sure no-one's watching and he can sidle over to
the section titled 'Health and Family'. It's hardly an embarrassment of riches; a few books on
motherhood, some compendiums of 'Health for the Home', and various booklets for the
newfangled 'Teen-Ager'. He spots the twee violet branding of the Bonding Office on the lower
shelf and pulls out the single pamphlet on 'Building a Bond', featuring a godawful picture of a
perfect alpha and omega, beaming at him from the front cover like they've just won the football
pools. He's tempted to just nick it to read later, except he can't risk anyone seeing him with the
damn thing. The pamphlet is as dull as he expected, sections on the physical and so called
'emotional' differences between alphas and omegas, and advice on patiently waiting for your bond
to form. Maybe he should show that bit to Paul so he stops worrying so much about them bonding.
Unsurprisingly, there's nothing on the actual reality of heats, just a lot of unhelpful euphemisms
about flowers. There's certainly nothing about stopping them, what with them being such a blessing
and everything, but at least it says they settle into something more regular with a bond. Not that
that's much help to him. He flicks back a page to see if it says anything about before a bond, and
finds a shitty rendering of a flower in a pot by a sunny window, next to the heading 'The Path to
Bonding'.

'The time between presentation and Bonding can be a confusing time for the vulnerable young
omega. They may experience unfamiliar urges, and irregular or spontaneous heats. This is not a
cause for worry, however, but rather a natural process as, like the flower opening as it turns its
face to the sun, the omega seeks out the safety and security of a Bond.'

His first instinct is to laugh, because whoever thought they were being subtle with all the 'flower
opening' stuff wasn't doing a very good job of it. But close on its heels is the cold, unwelcome
thought that maybe, underneath the flowery bullshit, some of this might apply to him. Is that what
he's been doing with his heats? Trying to bond?

He shoves the pamphlet back on the shelf hastily, and looks round to make sure no-one has seen
him reading it. Then he walks quickly back to the entrance and out, turning instinctively in the
direction of the college as he tries to remember what Paul had said about his heat last time.
Something about them being together every day and then stopping and maybe that being enough.
He's not sure he ever asked what it was enough for, and Paul hadn't said, and it occurs to him that
perhaps that was because Paul fucking knew and didn't want to say. It would certainly explain why
he'd been so determined to avoid anything that might risk a bond, if he knew what John was trying
to do, however unintentionally, and was trying to make sure it didn't happen. Why he'd been so
reluctant for them to mark each other too much after that first time. Bloody Paul, keeping
everything to himself and letting John flounder around. Well, now John knows too and he can do
something about it. Namely by sticking to his plan to never have a heat again, at least not while he
still has Paul and they're still doing whatever it is they're doing. Paul should probably thank him for
it, after last time and how close they came to slipping up, having to be so exhaustingly careful
afterwards. Then again, he can't imagine Paul ever thanking him for saving him from hours of sex.

He might even miss them himself, he thinks, as he slips back into the college by the side door and
tries to look like he's been there the whole time. Not the parts where he's practically climbing Paul
and embarrassing himself in front of the neighbours of course, but the rest; the parts where that
awareness recedes and he can just lose himself to it. The way it feels to have all that desperate need
thrumming under his skin and know Paul will take it all and turn it into something overwhelmingly
good. The indescribable relief of touching him when it feels like his skin is burning up. Ever since
he presented he's had to be so careful and it's never come naturally to him. If it wasn't for the stupid
bond, they could just get on with it, with no holding back, and he thinks the results might be pretty
bloody spectacular.

Not that he can't make do quite happily with what they've got. He spends the rest of the week more
than making the most of it, and if Paul is wondering why he's suddenly even more enthusiastic
about what they're doing, he doesn't ask and he certainly doesn't complain. John feels like there's a
ticking clock following him around now and it makes him reckless in a way he'd never be
otherwise, not with this, anyway. Everything else he has to do, bar rehearsing for the gig, just feels
like time that could be better spent watching Paul's face when he comes, or listening to the noises
he makes when John puts his hands on him, or better still his mouth.

"Aren't we going to mine?" Paul says on the Thursday afternoon when he meets John as arranged
in the road by the college and John promptly pulls him inside.

"No time, I can't miss the last class today." He wants to, none of it seems important, but he
promised Stu he wouldn't miss any more of them, at least not for a while. Fortunately he's found a
temporary alternative to Forthlin Road. He tows Paul along a deserted corridor and pushes him into
the poky little cupboard used for nothing but storing a few blank canvases and a mop.

"What's this for?" Paul's looking around with interest.

"Who cares?" John replies and gets down on his knees so he can do what he's been wanting to all
day.
Paul looks like he's about to swallow his tongue but he doesn't stop him (of course he doesn't) and
John sucks him off using every one of the tricks he's learned in the past couple of weeks, intent on
nothing but Paul and the muffled helpless noises he's making, the way he can't keep still, even
now. He feels a surge of primal satisfaction when he comes, gasping, into John's mouth, knowing
that it was him, John Lennon, who did that to him. Paul looks like he's about to fall over afterwards
and John stands up so he can press him back against the wall, holding him up so he can kiss him,
licking into his mouth and swallowing the sounds he makes.

It isn't long until Paul's hand starts groping between them but John catches it. "Can't. I've got to
go."

"What?" Paul looks half dazed. "But you haven't got off yet."

"You'll have to owe me for later," John says, trying to ignore the insistent pressure between his
legs. He gives Paul a grin that probably looks a bit mad, judging by his startled reaction, and then
kisses him again, running his hand over his spent dick until Paul hisses and wriggles away. "I'll see
you later then, the door's back out and to your right."

He leaves Paul there, confused and with his trousers undone, and escapes to the loo to splash cold
water on his face and will his dick to behave before he goes to class. Luckily Stu isn't in this one,
so he doesn't need to bother avoiding him, and if one of the other alphas looks at him a little too
long, he just blocks it out and thinks of what Paul looked like when he left him.

Paul must make it home alright, because he's waiting for John later, practically on the doorstep,
and exacts a very enthusiastic revenge for being abandoned in a cupboard. It's not a very effective
sort of revenge, all things considered, not if the aim is to make sure John never does it again.

"Well, that's me told," John says, on a yawn, when he can make proper words again.

Paul props himself up on one elbow to look at him, still frowning a little, and John pokes him in the
cheek. "Put that face away."

Paul raises his eyebrows and his pissy expression really shouldn't be such a turn on. "Can't, it's my
face."

John rolls onto his side, suddenly enough that it knocks Paul off balance and onto his back, all the
better for John to clamber up to sit astride him. Paul brings his hands up automatically to steady
him, looking a bit surprised, but then John rocks his hips and his breath catches.

"Do you reckon you can go again yet?"

Paul wets his lips and says, like he's testing, "George'll be here soon."

John leans down and licks a stripe right over the point on Paul’s neck where he knows he's most
sensitive and Paul gasps, bucking up. John does it again and then murmurs, "We'll have to be quick
then," right against his ear, just to feel him shiver.

They almost don't make it in time. The clean up after is a bit perfunctory and Paul's face is still
flushed like he's taken a fever by the time they make it to the front room, about one minute before
George knocks at the door. Paul keeps looking at him, all through practice, and when he actually
makes a mistake on one of their songs and George has to point it out, instead of feeling bad, John
feels bloody amazing.
 Chapter 14

All the sex must be invigorating for the nerves because come Saturday he is raring to get on the
stage and play. Not that they actually have a stage, but he's raring to stand in a corner and play
anyway. Unfortunately they don't have to be there until five at the earliest so there's the whole of
Saturday to get through first, and he can't work off some of his excess energy the way he'd like to,
thanks to the twin spectres of Jim and Mimi. Naturally Paul thinks he should just come to Forthlin
Road anyway and they can 'listen to records' upstairs — like that would work even if Jim didn't
know. But he does know, and there is no way that John is going round with Jim there, not now.
And he's willing to bet a pound note that Jim will be sitting in that front room the entire day, just to
make sure he doesn't.

"C'mon, Dad won't care," Paul says, when they meet up on Saturday morning. His nose is red with
the cold and he keeps looking longingly back in the direction of Forthlin Road as John hurries him
towards the bus stop.

"I'm not spending three hours watchin' Grandstand again," John retorts, because Paul knows him
well enough to believe that excuse.

Sure enough he makes a face and says, "Fine. What do you want to do instead then? It's freezing."

"Stu said there was a good display of funny prints on at the art gallery, so I thought we could go
along for a bit." He makes sure to be looking down the road for the bus as he says it, so Paul won't
see how weirdly nervous he is. Stu just happened to mention it yesterday and he thought it would
be a good way to kill a bit of time, since Paul had asked about it before. Only now he feels like a
girl asking someone to go to the pictures with him, which is stupid because it's just Paul and they
spend most of their time together anyway.

Paul doesn't say anything for a moment and John squashes the urge to rubbish the whole plan. He's
glad he did when Paul bumps their shoulders together and smiles at him, all pleased. "Alright then.
I reckon it'll be warmer in there."

John snorts to hide his relief. "I wouldn't bet on it, the place is like a barn."

They share a ciggie on the bus and for once there are no disapproving alphas to glare at him. Well,
unless you count Paul when he tries to flick the stub into some old bloke's hat.

"Are you goin' to report me to the conductor?" John says, when Paul tuts at him. He feels light and
uncomplicatedly happy, as though he'd had a couple of beers that morning, and not just a mug of
tea.

Paul spares him a considering glance. "Dunno. You're a bit old for the borstal."

"Maybe they'd take me with a special recommendation."

"I'm sure Mimi'd write you one."

John feigns outrage. "Bloody cheek. That's my dearly beloved Aunt, you're talkin' about. I reckon
she'd skip the borstal and send me straight for hard labour."

Paul raises his eyebrows. "You'd die of shock — bit harsh for a first offence, isn't it?"

John cackles and says in his best leering voice, "Only the first one they caught me for, son."
Paul laughs properly at that, shaking his head, and John thinks that if they were alone he'd
probably kiss him. Maybe Paul is thinking the same thing because he clears his throat a little and
turns towards the front again, fiddling with the end of his scarf.

"What are these funny prints about then?"

"Stu said they're satirical," John says. Then, just to annoy him, he adds, slowly, "That means
they're using humour to criticise political—"

"I know what satirical means," Paul interrupts, huffy as he always is when he thinks someone's
talking down to him.

John stops winding him up, even though it's one of the few joys left to him in life. "They're from all
different newspapers, or maybe old books, I dunno. Uncle George used to have a book with a load
of 'em in, although they were from Punch I think and these are older. Anyway, they're good,
properly clever. Even if they're about people and things you've never heard of."

"I might have heard of them," Paul says, haughtily, and John has to turn away to hide his
amusement.

"Where was it you said you went to school again? The Boys' Industrial?"

Paul opens his mouth to reply and then catches John's smirk. "Oh piss off." But he's smiling too
when he turns to look out the window.

As it happens, they don't need to have swotted up on their history because the gallery's done handy
little cards for all the prints so you can still get the joke, even if you've never heard of the Corn
Laws. The little side room is pretty quiet for a Saturday and they make their way around slowly, or
rather Paul makes his way around slowly because he insists on reading every scrap of information
and then studying each picture like someone's testing him on it after. Meanwhile John doesn't
actually intend to spend the rest of his life there so he looks at the pictures first and only looks at
the cards if he can't guess the meaning.

"But what if you get it wrong?" Paul says, all reasonable.

"Then they're not very good," John replies, squinting at a picture of a woman in a very exaggerated
hat. "No-one could read back then anyway."

"I think some people could read," Paul mutters, and John ignores him.

The cartoons tickle John's sense of humour, full of monstrous grotesques and bawdy imagery, as
though no-one and nothing is too good to be skewered, not even royalty. He's left Paul a few prints
behind when he spots one that makes him stop and lean in close enough to get tutted at by the
gallery attendant. It shows a pretty, delicate looking girl that he guesses is meant to be an omega,
being dragged, weeping, by her grim faced father to the Bonding Office. Only the artist's written
Bondage Office instead and her waiting alpha looks eighty if he's a day, with cobwebs in his wig
and a stick to prop him up. John wonders if the girl is meant to be someone real, or if the alpha is,
but the little card only tells him that it's dated circa 1775 and that the cartoonist is unknown, but
the few cartoons attributed to them by style are 'notable for their sympathetic view of omegas and
somewhat critical assessment of the growing powers of the Bonding Office.'

He looks back at the picture. It seems mad to think that people were drawing this stuff hundreds of
years ago, and apparently getting away with it too. He wonders if there's a postcard of it in the gift
shop so he could stick it up at home to annoy Mimi.
"What're you looking at?" Paul says, coming up beside him. Unlike John he doesn't need to have
his face two inches from the picture to see it and he looks from the frame to the little card with
interest. "That's a good one. I wonder who he was? The artist I mean, it doesn't say."

"Maybe he had to keep quiet because of who he was criticisin'?" John suggests.

"Might have been a woman," Paul says, "Even more reason to keep quiet."

It might have been an omega, John thinks, and he's struck by the idea. They wouldn't have put their
name on it then, not if they were sticking it to the Bonding Office. Paul goes wandering off to ask
the gallery attendant about the mysterious artist and the bloke blathers on about some theories,
none of which match John's so he chooses to ignore them. He likes the thought of it being an
omega. Maybe that's the sort of art he should be doing, instead of fruit bowls and calligraphy.
Something that would change people's minds about the stuff that matters.

"Why don't you then?" Paul says, when John tries to put his vague thoughts into words.

He always makes everything sound so easy. "I used to do a newspaper at school," John replies
instead. He hasn't thought about it in ages. "Not a proper one. Just stuff I made up, cartoons and
silly stories and things like that. I called it the Daily Howl.”

Paul looks interested like he always does when John tells him things about himself. It's what makes
him such a good audience. "Do you still have any of them?"

He should have known Paul would want to see them. He’s always wanting to poke through his
sketchbooks. “Dunno. Maybe. Mimi didn’t like ‘em much so she might have thrown them out.”

Paul looks gratifyingly disappointed and John turns back to the picture of the omega. “Mum liked
‘em though,” he says, and then wonders why on earth he brought that up. He can remember how
delighted she’d been, the night he took one round — properly laughing at it and reading bits out
loud to Bobby; telling John he’d be in all the papers one day. There’s a tightness in his throat and
he coughs slightly to clear it, keeping his eyes on the picture even though he can tell Paul is looking
at him. “Anyway, there weren’t that many of them in the end.” He'd been going to do more, but
then he went and presented, and his life went to shit.

"Well, if you find any, I'd like to see them," Paul says, quiet, and John shrugs, like he's not
bothered either way, but Paul's probably had too much experience of him by now to fall for it.

By the time they've finished looking round the gallery and loitering in the gift shop, it's lunchtime
and John thinks his stomach's actually caving in, so they get some chips to scoff in the little park
nearby. It's busy, despite the cold, and John indulges in some people watching, made all the more
enjoyable by getting Paul to do the voices for everyone. He has a surprising knack for little old
ladies.

It's a good day, even if John wouldn't mind an orgasm to go with it. No chance of that though. He
can't even grope Paul on the bus because it's crowded with shoppers and there's a bloke standing in
the aisle right next to their seats. Blue balls aside, he probably needs to grope Paul at least a little
bit for science. He has his pills on him today like always but he'd rather solve the whole heat-
avoidance problem the old fashioned way, by having as much sex as possible.

He sneaks a look at Paul, who's humming something to himself as he taps out a rhythm on his
knees, and starts mentally planning out the route from the bus stop to Mendips, trying to think of
somewhere they could go. It's not like he doesn't have to change before the gig anyway, so it won't
matter if his clothes get dirty, as long as he can get in the house without Mimi seeing them. When
Paul's thinking about this sort of stuff he can usually tell and he wonders if it works the same the
other way around. So he tries thinking about it as loudly as possible, letting all his dirtiest
daydreams about Paul, and him and Paul and what they could be doing, run wild in his head until
he starts feeling a bit more hot and bothered about it than he intended.

"Stop it," Paul whispers suddenly, grabbing his wrist. It makes him jump a bit because he'd
forgotten he was trying to get Paul's attention and was just enjoying the vivid sense memory of
Paul pushing him down onto the mattress, his weight settling over him and the sure movements of
his hands. Paul's a little flushed, and his eyes are definitely darker than normal, but he's frowning
too, which was not part of the plan. "People will notice."

John wants to tease him for suddenly having standards about buses but it occurs to him belatedly
that Paul looks worried, not disapproving. It takes him a few seconds longer to clock the odd
atmosphere around them, a sort of pervading awkwardness that's killed the conversations of those
sitting closest. A young woman's fanning herself lightly with a library book.

He has a sense of foreboding. "They can't…tell, can they?"

"They can when you're broadcasting it like that," Paul hisses, and John stares, but Paul looks deadly
earnest.

"Whoops," he says, after a moment. He should be utterly mortified but instead he feels a contrary
urge to laugh bubbling up out of him. Fucking hell, the couple across the aisle from them look
about seventy — has he just revved up some old age pensioners by accident? They look
uncomfortable enough for it, the old woman's face is bright red and the man keeps clearing his
throat. John abruptly snorts with laughter and Paul looks cross.

"It's not funny!"

Unfortunately the man in the aisle chooses that moment to pull his coat a bit more closely around
him. Maybe he's just cold or something but John feels a little like he might be about to go into
hysterics if he doesn't get off this bus soon.

Evidently Paul is well aware because he snaps, "Oh for— Come on, we're getting off at the next
stop."

He yanks at the bell pull and then practically hauls John to his feet and down the aisle the moment
the bus starts to slow. John's vaguely aware of heads turning as he passes, just in case he'd thought
this was a particularly elaborate wind up by Paul, but mostly he's just intent on Paul's hand on his
arm, the hard grip he has on him and how much he likes it. Paul marches him right off the bus and
into the shabby bus shelter, where he can finally drop down onto the bench and laugh until he cries
at the fucking ridiculous situation he's just got himself into.

"I'm glad you think it's funny," Paul says, sounding as cross as he looks now. He keeps shifting
awkwardly on the bench and John straightens up, shoving a hand under Paul's coat to check that,
yes, he is hard.

Paul makes a funny noise and twists out of his grasp, his face all red. "Get off! This is all your
fault."

"Good," John says. "I only wanted it to work on you."

Paul seems to flounder a bit at that. He smells so turned on that John knows he isn't really annoyed
and it's hardly a surprise when he suddenly surges forward to kiss him, sloppy and desperate. John
lets him of course; he thinks there's not much he wouldn't let Paul do by now, feeling him up in a
bus shelter's probably the least of it. However, this is a fairly popular route and it is a Saturday
afternoon.

"C'mon. Up," John says against Paul's mouth, once Paul's hands start wandering. He pulls him up
and leads the way into the little bit of woodland behind the shelter where he can back him up
against the nearest convenient tree and kiss him like he was daydreaming about on the bus. It's not
an ideal place to get off in darkest November but they manage it. Since Paul's already most of the
way there (thanks to John's sterling mental efforts), he jerks him off with a brisk efficiency that has
him making little punched out gasps, face pressed to John's shoulder like he can't bear to actually
look at him. He returns the favour after, mouthing sloppily at John's neck until he reluctantly has to
get him to stop it because the twin workings of Paul's mouth and his hand are making him too wet
and he still has to get home and up to his room yet. Still, at least he got his orgasm.

He must look far too pleased with himself because Paul makes an exasperated sound. "You can't—
You can't do that. Not where it's busy. It's not safe."

John rolls his eyes. "I don't think Ethel and Ernest were going to jump me."

Paul actually catches hold of his sleeve and shakes it a little. "John, I'm serious. People don't like it
when omegas do that, you could get in trouble."

John frowns, irritated that he's making such a thing of it. "Well, I didn't do it on purpose, I was just
trying to see if you'd notice, and you did so, no harm done, was there?"

"Yeah, and half the bus noticed as well," Paul retorts. "And they saw it was you. I thought you
didn't want people to know what—" He looks like he's regretting the direction he's gone in when
John raises his eyebrows, daring him to finish. He does, but quieter, "what you are."

"They know anyway, don't they?" John says, annoyed. It's what everyone's always telling him. "It's
not my fault if they're gettin' off on what I'm thinking, nothing stoppin’ them ignoring it."

Paul makes a face. "It's a bit hard to ignore it when you're doing that."

He doesn't know why Paul's saying it like that, like he was trying to spread it around on purpose.
"Careful, you sound like one of them alphas who think they can't help themselves."

Paul stiffens and draws in a sharp breath to reply, before he visibly swallows down whatever he
was about to say and lets the breath out again instead. He's always been better at keeping a handle
on his temper than John, and when he speaks again, he sounds normal, mostly. "You know I don't
think that, c'mon John. I was just worried."

"You don't need to worry about me."

Paul snorts, like John's just said something ridiculous. "Tell that to Ethel and Ernest."

John feels something in him unwind a little. If Paul's joking about it then that means he's over
whatever that just was. "I don't reckon they mind. Not with the memorable afternoon they're goin'
to have."

Paul's mouth quirks. "They're probably not the only ones."

"Maybe we should've handed out some flyers for the gig on the way off. Capitalise on the
interest."
Paul doesn't look as amused by that one and alright, John was just messing about, but if he was
ever going to use the weird omega powers he never asked for, it might as well be in aid of the
band. In the meantime that's what they've got Paul for. "I don't s'pose we need to hawk me out
when we've got you," he says, all serious, and Paul looks at him suspiciously, clearly knowing
there's some sting in the tail. Sure enough, "No-one can resist that face. The aunties go wild for it."

Paul scowls, like he always does when someone teases him about his looks, but he only says, "Not
all the aunties."

"Aye, well, Mimi's a tough nut to crack," John concedes. "She thinks you've got nefarious
intentions."

Paul gives him a look, making John grin. "I do have nefarious intentions."

"Glad to hear it." He lets his shoulder knock against Paul's as they start walking back towards the
main road, since he can’t hold his hand or anything soppy like that. "I reckon you could still win
her over, you know, if you flutter them eyelashes."

"Stop going on about my face," Paul says, sounding a little grumpy about it.

"Why? I like it."

"I know you do, but your jokes aren't very original. I've heard most of them at school."

John has a moment of confusion before he realises what Paul means. "No, I mean—" He breaks
off, feeling like an idiot. He's not about to say 'I like your face', even though he does; like Paul's
that is. Paul must know that, he spends enough time looking at it.

Paul gives him a sidelong glance, a bit wary, and it occurs to John that maybe, somehow, Paul
doesn't know he likes his face. Or perhaps he doesn't know he likes it as much as he does.

"I thought you looked like Elvis you know, when I first saw you at that fete," he offers.

Paul waits, obviously expecting another sarky comment, but when it doesn't come he actually
perks up, the vain little sod. It's on the tip of John's tongue to point out that he didn't have his
glasses on at the time, but truthfully it didn't make much difference when he did. He still thinks
Paul looks a bit like Elvis, the dark hair and eyes, the shape of his face a little bit — and the way he
sings and plays of course, with his whole self in it. But he's not about to tell him all that, he'd be
fucking unbearable. He already feels enough of a fool for telling him about the Elvis thing in the
first place.

To cover himself, he says "This is where you say you almost confused me for Buddy Holly when
we met." He's only half joking, he knows what he thought when he met Paul but he doesn't know
what Paul did and he wants to.

Paul has an odd, knowing little smile at that which makes John want to ask what he's thinking, but
before he can, Paul says, "George Formby maybe."

"Ruddy cheek." John pretends to be outraged but in fairness he had been on the beers that day and
he definitely did at least one Formby impression.

He gets out a cigarette and lights up as they turn in the rough direction of Forthlin Road. They got
off the bus three stops early so they've got a bit of a walk unless they catch another one — and
John doesn't fancy reminding Paul of their weird spat a few minutes ago. He wonders what
happened on the bus after he got off, whether they were all talking about it. About him. Probably
not. It's England after all. But now he's thinking about it, something strikes him as odd.

"It wasn't all alphas and omegas on the bus," he says, passing the cigarette over once he's had a
couple of puffs. In fact, he thinks he only noticed one other alpha besides Paul, although it was
crowded enough, and Paul close enough, that maybe he just missed it.

Paul takes a deep pull of the cig and flicks him a glance. "I know."

"Just didn't think betas would notice anything, that's all."

Paul's expression suggests he's once again astounded by John's lack of knowledge of his own life.
"You were being pretty obvious and they're not completely scent blind."

John makes a face at that and they walk in silence for a bit, until a new and terrible thought
presents itself. "You don't think George has ever noticed?"

They've been a bit sloppy lately, or rather John has and Paul hasn't stopped him, dragging their
clothes back on with barely a wash first, scant minutes before George knocks at the door. Not that
George has ever said anything, but then he wouldn't, would he? Not to John.

Paul shrugs, not looking particularly worried. "Course not. George isn't that good at pretending."

John decides that's good enough for him. It's bad enough thinking about Jim (and Mike) knowing,
without having to factor George in as well.

He splits off at the top of the road and heads towards Mendips, but not before one last attempt by
Paul to persuade him to come round 'just for a bit'. Mimi's not even in when he gets home, so he
could have had Paul round his instead if he'd known. Their little interlude in the woods had been
too rushed to do more than take the edge off, and it's going to be a bloody long weekend til Jim
fucks off again on Monday. Mimi's not one for giving him much warning though when she has
plans, probably too worried about what he'll get up to with advance notice. Still, it's only an hour or
so til he needs to get ready, so he has a wash and change and then wanders into the kitchen to see if
she's left him anything for his tea. After retrieving a pork pie, he spends what's left of the afternoon
in the front room trying to do some cartoons like the ones at the gallery, in between wondering
what Paul's doing without him. Having a cold bath probably. He better not be having a wank
without John there. Not that there's anything to stop John doing that too, it’s just not as much fun
on his own.

Unfortunately, Mimi gets home about ten minutes before Paul turns up with his guitar and the amp
so there's no chance of anything quick, although Paul kisses him up against his bedroom door like
he's willing to try.

"No cold bath then," John says, once his mouth's free.

"What?" Paul sounds distracted, but he has a hand under John's shirt so that's probably why.

"Never mind." John gets back to kissing him, until they really do have to go.

They get the bus to meet George and then spend five minutes trying to rearrange all their gear
before they file onto the next one. The excitement that John was feeling earlier has returned in full
force, and he spends most of the journey trying to spread some of it to George who's looking a bit
on the peaky side.

"It's just…people from school are coming," George says, by way of explanation.
"Fuck 'em," John says cheerfully. "If they don't like our music we don't want 'em there anyway."
George doesn't look particularly comforted by this so John tries another tack. "Macca buggered up
his first guitar solo with the band, you know."

"I didn't—" Paul starts, and John cuts him off ruthlessly. "Point is, Georgie, nobody cared and all
the girls were still swooning over him for some reason. Mind you, they were all about fourteen so
there's no accounting for their taste."

"I'm not after 'em swooning over me," George says quickly, but he's dressed pretty sharply tonight
and Paul said he had his eye on someone so John's not sure he believes him.

"More for Paul then," John says, and elbows Paul, who just ignores him and goes back to looking
out the window. At least he's not having to talk him off the ledge as well. He seems alright so far,
although maybe he's just leeching off John again.

They get to the house in plenty of time and it's obvious when Mona lets them in that she's been
busy. The cellar rooms are no longer bare and gloomy; the brick walls have all been painted, and
not just painted but decorated too, with bloody dragons of all things. Mona takes the three of them
on a mini tour and John's impressed. It feels like somewhere cool, somewhere he could imagine
coming even if he wasn't being paid to. It’s also bigger than he remembers, although they'll only be
playing in one part of it. Hopefully the part with the audience. They dump their stuff in their alcove
and are just having a nose at Mona's newfangled 'espresso' machine in the little room next door
when a dark haired lad comes in with a stack of cups. John guesses he must be Mona's son, Pete.
He's also an alpha, which will thrill Paul.

"Alright?" Pete says, and he shakes Paul's hand first, which John tries not to be annoyed by
because Paul is standing closer, after all.

Still he makes sure to stick his hand out next. "I'm John."

Unlike Cyril (thank god), Pete doesn't feel the need to give him the once over, but John gets the
definite sense he's being sized up. Then again, if it was his mum's business venture, maybe he'd be
sizing him up too.

"Is it just the three of you then?" Pete says, once he's met George as well.

He glances behind them like he thinks they're hiding someone, so John says, "No, Cecil's just
fetchin' his tambourine."

It seems to take Pete a few seconds to realise he's joking. "Oh right. But aren't you all on guitar?
Who's keeping time?"

John turns to Paul, making a little 'after you' gesture as he immediately and predictably says
"Nobody. The rhythm's in the guitars," and then scowls at John when he realises he's being
mocked.

Pete glances between them. "Well if you need a drummer, I've done a fair bit. Just to keep you on
beat."

He sounds pretty matter of fact about it but he couldn't have said a worse thing to Paul, who has
ridiculously high standards when it comes to them all keeping to time, drummer or no. "We're
alright for now, thanks."

Pete doesn't seem put off by Paul's frosty tone. He just shrugs and says, "You know where I am if
you change your mind."
"Yeah, cheers," John puts in, before Paul can tell him they won't.

Pete wanders off again, presumably to get more cups, and John waits til he's out of earshot to say,
"Try not to offend the boss's son if you can, Macca. Not at the first gig."

"I didn't offend him. I just told him we don't need a drummer."

They actually do need a drummer but John's guessing an older, good looking alpha is somewhere
near the bottom of Paul's list of potential recruits. He glances across at George, who's still looking
a bit green. "Alright, we can argue about that later. Let's get sorted or Cecil will be playing
tambourine all by himself."

George looks a bit more himself by the time they've got their kit set up. People start trickling in
after six and Mona's got a record player going for now in one of the other rooms, giving the place a
bit of atmosphere. It's decent music at least, although John's a little worried she's going to end up
playing half their set before they finish tuning up.

"That's why we need to try something different," Paul says, when John's squinting down at his
guitar to the accompaniment of the real ‘Be Bop a Lula’. "It'll put us ahead of the competition."
Some people look in as they pass the doorway and John hopes they'll actually come back when
they start playing.

"I don't think anyone's coming to a coffee bar for the show tunes," John says, and fiddles with a
tuning peg. It's bloody hard to see now Mona's turned the main lights off and put lamps on
everywhere instead, even without him being blind as a bat. Paul and George of course are already
tuned up and ready to go, what with their fully functioning eyes and all.

Paul tuts and takes the guitar off him, turning it over and fiddling with the pegs as he listens
carefully to what he's playing. "We can speed 'em up," he says eventually, when he's satisfied with
the tuning. "Stick a faster beat under it or put more guitar in."

"We'd need a drummer if we want a faster beat," John reminds him and Paul wrinkles his nose.

"Well, maybe we could ask—"

"Paul!"

John startles and looks up at the same time Paul does to see what he thinks must be Sue coming
towards them, a little gaggle of friends following behind. She comes into slightly better focus when
she stops in front of Paul, looking picture perfect, despite the cold that's turned everyone else's
noses red. She doesn't bother to greet John, of course, but he didn't expect her to. Paul gets straight
to his feet and starts thanking them all for coming, being his usual charming self. Not that there's
any need whatsoever to thank Sue, who's only too excited to be here apparently.

The girl beside Sue's an omega too, John notices belatedly, although she looks markedly less
thrilled to be here. She keeps glancing around the half empty room and then at John, and he's about
to ask her if she'd like his autograph or something when, thank god, Stu turns up as well, looking
reliably handsome and cool in his black coat and red scarf.

Paul very gratifyingly abandons Sue mid-sentence to turn his attention to the new arrival, saying,
"You found it alright then?" like he thought Stu might not be able to follow some fairly basic
directions.

"Just about," Stu says, sounding amused. "It's a nice place." He looks around, taking in the wall
paintings with interest, seemingly oblivious to how several of Sue's friends are gawping at him.
"When are you playing?"

John looks pointedly at the gawpers to remind them they're not actually invisible and they have the
grace to look away. "Why? Have you got somewhere else to be?" Underneath Stu's familiar scent
he can definitely detect the strong tang of oil paint.

Stu looks caught out. "I'm just working on a new piece, that's all."

Bloody typical. "Well you can't fuck off before you actually hear us." Stu's only ever heard him
play when he's been messing about, he's never seen the band before and John wants him to. Not to
mention, with Paul's little harem here, he'd quite like the moral support.

Maybe Stu guesses that, or some of it, because he smiles and says, "Alright, I didn't come all this
way to not hear you at all." He starts unwinding his scarf, then spies the set list neatly written out
in Paul's handwriting. "Is that what you're playing?"

"Aye, that's the lot." John hands the list to Stu, ignoring the annoyance emanating from Paul
because he doesn't want people seeing it before they play for some reason. It's a very Paul list, with
little annotations and instructions dotted about like 'John singing this one' and 'John + Paul sing',
which John secretly finds quite endearing. Stu's mouth quirks as he reads through it. "I don't know
all of these. I don't suppose you take requests?"

"No," Paul says, before John can even open his mouth. He seems to hear his own rudeness because
he adds, a bit more graciously, "We need to learn them first."

"Course," Stu nods. "That makes sense. Shame though, I heard you're quite a hit with the Pat
Boone songs."

"Fuck off," John says, grinning. Trust Stu to remember up his long and animated retelling of the
Pat Boone saga.

"Wasn't that the one you did at that wedding, Paul?" Sue interjects. John had almost forgotten she
was standing there.

Evidently Paul had too because it takes him a moment to respond. "Yeah, it was just a request for
the bride and groom though, it wasn't— It wasn't one we'd normally do."

"But you sang it so beautifully," John says, smirking at him. "It went down a storm, especially with
them lovely harmonies."

"I'm sure people enjoyed it," Sue puts in firmly. She's eyeing John uncertainly, like she knows
there's a joke being made but she's not sure what it is, but then her voice turns more confident. "It
makes it a bit more interesting, doesn't it? To do songs people don't expect, jazz and dance hall
numbers and the like."

She sounds like she's parroting one of Paul's many speeches on Diversifying Their Set List, which
means she probably is, and John wonders how often he's talked to her about this stuff, or whether
he just drones on at everyone about it. All he says though is, "Oh aye, the dance hall hits really get
Paul goin'."

He gets a look from Paul that promises retribution for that one later, which he very much looks
forward to actually.

"Pete's here as well," Stu says. "He's got a table in one of the other rooms." He's looking at John a
bit oddly and maybe he was being a bit obvious before, with Paul, so he says, "Alright, lead the
way," even though he'd rather hang around and make sure Sue doesn't get any ideas.

He trails Stu through the passageway and into another larger room where Pete and Colin have
taken over one of a handful of tables. Pete, because he's a bloody excellent friend, has snuck in
some beer as promised for the break, or interval, or whatever Mona's calling it. Colin's not met Stu
before but Pete's friendly enough to cover any amount of awkwardness so John pulls up a chair and
has a quick ciggie as he surveys the room. As best he can anyway. It's probably about as busy as
it's going to get now, and it certainly feels busy enough, the press of bodies taking the edge off the
cold. There's a strong smell of coffee in the air, battling with the usual fug of cigarette smoke, so he
reckons Mona must be doing a roaring trade already. There's also the distinctive scent of alpha, but
not from Stu beside him. It's impossible to tell without his glasses, and among so many people,
where it's coming from, but he supposes they're allowed to have a social life too. They can't spend
all their time beating their chests or bothering omegas, or whatever it is they do.

It takes less than five minutes for Paul to turn up again, out of breath like he'd had to fight his way
through the crowd. "There you are. Mona's shutting the doors, so we have to get ready, c'mon." He
nods to Pete and Colin, a bit late.

"Aye, aye Sergeant," John says, stubbing out his cig in a cup. It's even harder to see his way now,
with the lights low and the smoke in the air, but Paul grabs his elbow to steer him when he nearly
knocks into a table, and then just leaves his hand there so he gets back to their alcove mostly
uninjured.

There's only a handful of people watching when they kick off with some Eddie Cochran, but it's
loud enough in the enclosed space that John feels the vibration of it right through the soles of his
feet and soon people start coming by to find out where the noise is coming from. It's not exactly
packed but it's a crowd and he grins at Paul beside him as he sings, and Paul grins back, hopefully
feeling every bit of the excitement that John is. There's something to be said for being half blind,
because in the dimness the audience becomes a single indistinguishable mass and the only thing
that feels real are Paul and George and the sound of their music.

There's clapping though, and it's a little louder after each song, so he knows people are enjoying it.
He thinks some brave souls are even trying to find some space to dance. The room gets hotter and
hotter the longer they play, or perhaps it's just them getting hotter and hotter. George's carefully
arranged hair is going limp and Paul's shirt is sticking to him by the time they're nearing the
interval. It's probably some sort of illegal torture, being stuck next to a sweaty, excited Paul in an
enclosed space. That sort of thing sets off all sorts of unfortunate associations in John's head, not to
mention how it's spiking his scent, making John want to dump his guitar and kiss him senseless.

Paul's gaze keeps sliding to his so John suspects he might have some idea of what he's thinking
about. Either that, or he's thinking the exact same thing.

They finish to a decent burst of applause. John's so sweaty at this point he thinks he could take his
shirt off and wring it out, but that's probably not the kind of memorable opening night Mona is
going for. He wipes his face with his discarded jumper instead and gratefully accepts a mug of
water from her when she appears out of the throng like some kind of ministering angel before
disappearing again to see to the coke and coffee queue. He'd rather have a beer, if he's honest, but
he'll have to find Pete again first. He chugs the water down anyway and then there's a hand curling
around his wrist and Paul leans in close to say, "John, do you want to—"

Unfortunately he'll never find out what he might want to (although he can guess) because bloody
Sue is there again, leading Paul and George's little gang of followers. She's looking a little less well
put together now in all the heat, but she's no less enthused about being there, it seems. John feels a
strong urge to shove her out of the way and reclaim Paul's attention, because of course Paul is
pathologically unable to be rude to his adoring fans and lets go of John to listen to her go on about
how fantastic he is. It doesn't take long for George to get drawn in too, the traitor. Well, John
doesn't have to hang around and watch everyone fawning all over them, so he puts his mug down
and goes to find Pete and his beer instead.

It's a proper struggle now to get through the throng outside and even without his glasses on he can
tell people are looking at him as he pushes past. It throws him a little, stoking a small curl of panic
that something is off. But he feels like himself, no telltale signs of another heat, thank god, unless
you count the fact he's actually melting. Paul would have said something anyway, if he was, so he
supposes it must just be the usual shite — the shocking existence of a male omega in the wild.

The first alpha takes him by surprise, blocking his path so he can tell him how impressed he was
by John's guitar playing. It should be a compliment, and perhaps he means it to be one, but there's
such an obvious undercurrent of condescension that John snorts and says,"Thanks, I only learned
last week."

He ducks around him and keeps on down the passage but then, bloody hell, yet another alpha
dickhead wants to know where he's going. "To get a drink, if you fucking move," he says irritably
and the alpha's expression darkens quickly enough that John starts wondering how flexible Mona's
'no fighting' rule actually is. Stu's arrival is well timed, or more likely deliberately timed, because
he appears from nowhere and takes John's arm, steering him quickly away as he says loudly,
"Pete's been looking for you."

John lets himself be steered, just in case there are any more idiots waiting to piss him off before he
can get to the beer.

"You took your time," Pete says, when he gets to their little corner. They've moved to another table
by a small window and the cold breeze coming in feels incredible. "I know," Pete grins when he
sees John's reaction. "We had to miss half your last song to make sure we snagged it, sorry."

"I'll let you off," John says, dropping into the free seat and fanning himself with a beer mat.
"Fucking hell, it's hot."

"I reckon I know what you need." Pete ducks under the table and reemerges with a coke bottle.

"That better not have coke in it," John says, but he already suspects it doesn't and when he takes a
swig he's proven right. Thank god for Pete.

"How come you smell better when you're sweating like a pig?" Pete says, leaning in, and John
nearly coughs up a lung.

"Fuck off."

"Well, you do, even I can tell. Is that why that bloke stopped you by the door?"

John looks around the room but of course he can't see anyone well enough to know if they're
looking over.

"You've been attracting a bit of attention," Stu says, quiet enough that only John can hear him.

John pushes down the instinctive annoyance because he’d expected this, and Mona had as well.
Still, he doesn't understand why people can't just mind their own fucking business. "As long as
they stay around for the music," he says, echoing what he told Mona last week. He glances around
again, but it's no more clear now than it was a minute ago. He doesn't like the idea that people are
watching him, not if it's because of that.

"Where's Paul?" Stu asks, seemingly mistaking what he's looking for.

"Off with his fanclub," John says sourly, then remembers who he's talking to. "I think. I dunno who
they were, actually, I didn't look."

Stu doesn't look very convinced by the sudden show of nonchalance but he leaves it alone. "You
were good up there, by the way. I enjoyed it."

"Worth leaving your painting for?" John says, pleased.

"I wouldn't go that far."

John elbows him, but not very hard. Truthfully he hadn't been sure Stu would come at all so he's
just glad he did, even if he is dreaming of his paintbrushes.

A few more people come into the room then and although he can't see who they are, John thinks
one of them might be the alpha he'd pissed off before. They sit at the table right behind John and
Stu turns his head slightly, like he's watching them.

"I might go out for a ciggie," John says abruptly, because he doesn't actually want any trouble (for
once), not when he intends to be back here next week.

Stu doesn't bother to point out he can just smoke in here, he just nods, and keeps an eye on the
other table as John checks his pockets and gets up, dodging dark and blurry shapes as he makes his
way back out. At least once he's out in the passageway he knows where to go, he just keeps his
head down and follows the fresh air up the stairs and out the front door.

Stepping outside is instantly cooling but he doesn't move to put his jumper on. It might not hurt for
him to get cold, not if him being the opposite is causing all the trouble. It's funny, he thinks, how
he'd been so focused on how his pills affected him and Paul that he'd forgotten how they affected
everything else. It's only been a month and everything he fucking does seems to attract attention he
doesn't want.

He perches on the low wall and lights up, taking a drag and feeling it smooth out the edges of his
irritation, enjoying the peace after the noise indoors. He nearly jumps a mile when sudden
footsteps sound behind him, and he turns, tensing, half expecting to see the dickhead alpha in the
doorway. But when he squints he realises it's Sue's friend, the other omega. He looks past her to
check Sue isn't with her, but she says, "Don't worry, she didn't see me leave."

She doesn't wait for him to say anything in reply, just plonks down on the wall beside him and
says, "Give me a ciggie, will you? It's been murder watching everyone smoke all night."

John raises his eyebrows. "What's been stoppin' you?"

"My cousin's here and he'd love to tell my dad. He doesn't even like me coming out to these things,
let alone smoking." She snorts. "He thinks it's unladylike, especially for me."

John wordlessly passes her a cigarette and his matchbook and watches her light it like she's had
plenty of practice. "You should tell him to fuck off."

She blows out a long plume of smoke and gives him an unimpressed look. "Yeah, I'm sure. And
then live where exactly? I'm sixteen."
"Get a job then,"

"What, like you have?"

Against his will, John thinks he might quite like her, even if she is friends with Sue.

"Paul's looking for you, by the way," mystery girl says, after a moment.

"Is he?" John makes sure to sound completely uninterested.

"And I reckon a few other alphas are as well. I saw that one bothering you in the hallway."

John makes a face. "Aye, well, they can all fuck off."

"Even Paul? You'd be down a guitarist."

He pretends to think about it, but only for a second. "Alright, maybe not Paul then."

The girl smokes for a bit longer then says, "Sue really doesn't like you, you know."

"Am I s'posed to give a shit what Sue thinks of me?" He can't say he likes her much either, not that
he knows any more about her than she does about him.

"I told her she's wasting her time anyway, chasing after Paul. Are you two going to bond then?"

John coughs. "No."

"Really?" She looks speculative. "Well, maybe Sue's in with a chance after all."

"Paul's not—" John starts, annoyed, and then realises she's smirking at him round her cigarette, the
cheeky mare. He glares. "Are you sure Sue wants you tellin' everyone her business?"

"We're not best friends." She taps some of the ash off her cigarette. "She's the ‘right sort of person
for me to know', according to Dad. I met her at one of the Bond Socials. She's not a bad sort, just
likes everything done properly and I don't care about that."

"I can see that," John says, sardonic.

"You're one to talk," she retorts. "I bet you've never set foot in a Bond Social."

"Not while I've got feet to stand on," John says emphatically, and she laughs, surprising him.

"Paul went once and never again, but Sue keeps hoping he'll come back."

John didn't even know he'd been once. He wonders when that was, Paul's never mentioned it in all
the time he's known him.

"You're lucky, not having to go. I'm surprised they let you get away with it."

John looks sideways at her, considering, then decides to just tell her the truth. The whole situation
feels odd enough for it. "They don't know about me, not officially anyway."

She looks as shocked as Paul and George had, and then just plain envious. "Well, lucky you. Once
they do it's nothing but leaflets, and those stupid classes, and going to boring events just so alphas
can measure you up like a prize cow they might want to buy later." She stubs out the last of her cig.
"I wish I could be in a band instead."
"Get on and learn an instrument then. You can get a second hand guitar cheap enough." When she
just gives him an irritated look, he tells her, "Don't let those miserable bastards win, I'm not goin'
to."

There are footsteps behind him again and he knows, without looking, that it's Paul this time, but he
keeps his eyes on mystery girl, so she'll know he means what he says. She's frowning at him again,
but more in thought than irritation now.

"What are you doing out here?" Paul says, as he hoves into view, coke bottle in hand. He looks
enticingly dishevelled and John would quite like mystery girl to piss off now.

"Making friends," John says and Paul does a double take when he sees John isn't alone.

He recovers quickly and switches on the charm. "Sorry Janet, I didn't see you there."

"I just came out to borrow a ciggie," Janet says, getting to her feet and brushing down her dress. "I
think John was hiding from his alpha admirers."

Actually John takes back his previously favourable opinion of her, the little snitch. She waves at
him as she heads back into the smoke and noise of the cellar, leaving John stuck with a displeased
looking Paul.

"Has someone—"

"No," he says. "Not that I can't sort out myself." He stubs out his cigarette, not particularly wanting
to go into it all so Paul can sulk about it for the rest of the evening. Not when they could be doing
something more enjoyable. Out here, without the myriad of distractions, Paul's scent makes him
want things they definitely don't have time for.

"Won't Sue be wondering where you are?" he asks, testing.

Paul looks a bit thrown by the question. "What?"

Good enough, John thinks. He stands up and takes hold of Paul's hand, towing him out of sight of
the steps and into the shadows round the side of the house. Paul goes all too willingly, laughing a
little giddily when John trips and nearly brains himself on a tree root on the way. Paul catches him,
of course, turning him safely against the nearest wall and then kissing him, so slow and unhurried
that it threatens to turn all of John's bones to water. John wants him too much to let it stay that way
though, and he pushes back until it turns messy and urgent instead. It's probably not the most
sensible idea he's ever had halfway through a gig, but he's never exactly been known for those.

"Alright, stand down," he says at last, sniggering at his own joke because he can feel Paul's half
hard against him, and so's he for that matter.

Paul rolls his eyes and kisses him again, muttering, "You started it."

He did and he's not sorry, but it probably wasn't a good idea to start something they couldn't finish.
He just wanted Paul to remember that— Well, that he wasn't Sue's anyway. He kisses him one last
time, walking them back a step so he can sneak a hand down to palm him quickly through his
jeans, darting out of reach as Paul makes a stuttery "ah" noise and glares at him, all murderous.

John grins back. "C'mon then, back to the grindstone. Some of us have got bills to pay."

Paul grimaces as he tries to adjust his trousers. "You've never paid a bill in your life."
"I might have to one day, so I'd best start thinking about it now, for the practice."

He starts walking back towards the entrance and after a moment he hears the crunch of Paul's
footsteps following. They get almost to the doorway when Paul suddenly hooks a hand around his
elbow, slowing him just long enough to press a kiss to the back of his neck, making him startle and
shiver. Then Paul releases him and skips cheerfully past and through the door, smirking back at
him over his shoulder.

John has almost forgotten, til he gets back into the crush of bodies, what had sent him outside in
the first place, but apparently Paul hasn't because he's waiting for John at the bottom of the stairs.
He proceeds to stick to him like particularly stubborn glue as they make their way through the
crush, brushing against him far more than is justified even in this crowd. They've still got a bit of
time until they play again so they head back to Pete, Stu and Colin, and then John realises he left
his jumper outside and goes to fetch it, and Paul follows him there as well. It's not that he minds
having Paul following him around — better he's where John can see him than off somewhere he
can't — but sometimes a bloke does actually need to be alone.

"Bloody hell, Macca, you don't need to follow me into the bog."

Paul stops, looking disconcerted that he'd someone missed where John was heading after, but he
recovers quickly. "I'll wait outside."

"That's very obliging of you," John says sarcastically and goes in to enjoy a piss in solitude, as God
intended.

John has another beer and then they go and play their second set. He can't be sure but he thinks
there are more people this time, a proper crowd forming. Paul seems to have noticed too, because
he keeps looking out across the room like he's checking to see who's there.

"It looks like it's filling up," John half shouts to him while George is busy doing his solo.

Paul keeps playing as he looks at the crowd again, mouth turning down before he leans in to say,
"Yeah, I reckon there are a few more."

John wants to roll his eyes because he can guess what the face is for, but no-one's going to slow
roast in this cupboard just so they can watch John pissing about with his guitar, not if they're not
enjoying the music. "We'll have to start a fan club for you at this rate," he says instead, moving
closer so he doesn't have to shout this time. "Either that or they've seen Stuart. D'you reckon we
can teach him drums?"

He grins at Paul's expression but at least he's scowling at John and not their audience. They're
sharing a microphone for the next song, guitars mirroring each other, so John pulls a few stupid
faces at him to make him laugh, which works as well as it always does, and the moment passes. If
Paul really is worried about some alphas coming to watch him, then he's being a bloody idiot. John
couldn't care less about any of them, and he doesn't think they'd be very interested if they had to
spend more than five minutes with him either. Only Paul's daft enough for that.

Somehow they get through their final songs and a last round of applause without John having to
defend himself against a marauding crowd, and then Stu, Pete and Colin are there, and Sue and her
little gang of course. By the time he's got himself packed away and nearly finished another one of
Pete's special cokes, the crowd have drifted out again anyway and the little room is a hell of a lot
quieter.

Janet's standing a little off to one side and it looks very much like she's eyeing up George's guitar.
John smirks as he takes a swig of his bottle and then wanders over to say, "I wouldn't if I were you,
Georgie's terrible fierce when he's riled."

Janet gives him a withering look but unfortunately he's caught Sue's attention as well. "Janet
doesn't play guitar," she informs him primly, turning away from where she's been listening to Paul
and George talking about something or other.

"She doesn't yet," John says.

"I don't think your dad would like it." Sue directs this to Janet, sounding all concerned.

Janet's dad sounds like a right miserable bastard. "Don't tell him then," John butts in. "Or tell him
all the alphas like it. An omega with talents an' all that. Other than the obvious, of course."

He doesn't know what possesses him to say the last bit. Maybe it's the three bottles of beer on a
near empty stomach, or the high from the gig, or more likely it's just to scandalise prissy little Sue.
It works anyway, she goes pink, looking at John with clear distaste.

Fortunately Janet isn't so easily shocked. "I can't learn much if I don't have a guitar."

"I reckon we could find you one," John says, because he feels pretty invested in pissing off Janet's
dad now, never mind that he didn't know the girl two hours ago. "We can ask around."

"What are we doing?" Paul bumps his shoulder lightly as he comes to stand beside him.

"Fermenting rebellion and sticking it to alphas."

"Oh right," Paul says, like that's a normal weekend activity. "Is that all alphas, or…?"

"Well, maybe not Stuart," John says, just to be provoking. He gets a flat look in response that
makes him grin, but when he glances across to Stu, he's got that strange look on his face again
which means he should probably rein it in a bit.

He has another swig of beer and tries to sound more normal, "We're finding Janet here a cheap
guitar."

Paul looks unflatteringly surprised. "I didn't know you played, Janet?"

"I don't," she says. "But I bet I could."

John salutes her with his bottle. "That's the spirit."

"Is that beer?" Sue asks suddenly, eyeing the bottle with disapproval.

John tips back the last of it and wipes his mouth on his sleeve. "Not any more, it isn't."

"Alright, time to go home," Paul says, but he looks pretty amused so John thinks he won that
round.

"Aye, I reckon it's past Georgie's bedtime."

George, who is busy chatting up one of Sue's gang, tells him to piss off, which is rude, and then
announces he's going to stay a bit longer actually. All casual, like John can't guess what he's hoping
for.

So he says, "Don't do anything Paul wouldn't," and waggles his eyebrows in case George didn't
catch his meaning. George goes hilariously red, but Paul elbows him and takes the empty beer
bottle out of his hand like a bloody spoil sport.

"Go and sort the amp out while I get our money."

"See, this is why we need to end their reign of tyranny," John says, mostly to Janet who's watching
them like she's finding all this vastly entertaining. But he does go and sort the amp out because the
sooner they get out of here, the sooner he'll have Paul to himself again, without Sue's irritating
presence.

John's feeling pretty buzzed now. He's definitely not drunk, because he's not that much of a
lightweight, ta, but it feels like everything is ten times funnier than it should be, starting with Stu's
confused face when he's trying to help pack up the microphone stand.

"It's got a knack to it," John says helpfully and then knocks the microphone off the stand entirely.
"Whoops."

"Are you safe to get home?" Stu's laughing at him, the bastard.

"Paul'll get me home," he says confidently, because he's very reliable, is Paul.

"I'm sure he will," is all Stu says to that and John wanders off to find the right bag to pack it away
in.

Stu ends up getting the bus with them part of the way but then it's just Paul, John, Pete and Colin
and their pile of gear. The cold air is pretty sobering, unfortunately, although not so much on Pete
who keeps laughing at random things.

"How many did you have?" John interrupts him, when he starts telling a rambling and apparently
hilarious story about some woman he saw at the Post Office.

"Dunno," Pete says. "You kept going off places and I didn't want to get caught with 'em."

"Very noble, I'm sure. Are we goin' to have to carry you home?"

"Colin'll take him," Paul puts in. "He's going that way." He's stuck in the seat behind because Pete
plonked down next to John before he had the chance to.

"Yeah, alright," Colin says good-naturedly. "But if he's sick on me I'm taking it out of your gig
money."

Paul's suggestion means of course that Colin and Pete get off first, which was probably the point.
As soon as they've gone, John shifts to sit sideways, the better to see Paul. "Fancy getting off near
mine?" he asks, and Paul snorts at the not terribly subtle innuendo. "I'll walk you over the golf
course."

"That's very considerate of you," Paul says, smirking.

"Mimi always says I have a selfless nature."

"I bet she doesn't."

"Somethin' beginning with 'self' anyroad," John says, and Paul laughs, easy as always. The bus is
quiet at this time of night, but not quiet enough to do any of the things he'd like to.

"Mona seemed pleased tonight," he says instead. They'd seen her briefly on the way out and she'd
said she'd heard some good things, so that boded well for the end of their month's trial.

"Well, we were good," Paul says readily. "I had a rummage through her record box when I was
waiting for her to fetch the money. Just to see what she has so we can make sure to play something
different. I reckon—" He stops when he sees John's expression. "What?"

"Nothing," John says, looking away because he's feeling foolish things about Paul again. He
wonders if Paul can tell, or if it's not as obvious when he's not trying to make him notice. Maybe he
can, a bit, because after a moment he smiles, looking pleased.

"Well, anyway, I've had some ideas we can try out next week."

"Alright." John doesn't mind some extra work. Tonight has been as good a reminder as any of how
much he likes getting up there and actually performing, when he gets the chance to.

They get off the bus at John's stop and head towards the golf course after rearranging their stack of
equipment. By staying behind George has somehow managed to wriggle out of taking home
anything but his guitar, the jammy sod.

"How d'you reckon George is getting on with that girl?" he asks Paul, as they pick their way across
a wet bit of the path.

"Dunno," Paul says. "He hasn't really…" He hesitates like maybe he shouldn't be saying it, before
finishing, "done anything much with girls, you know?"

John's not sure if he's meant to be surprised by this, George still looks about twelve. He goes for a
noncommittal "hmm" sound. Then, "he's not learned from the master then?"

It's a dangerous question to ask considering he might not want to hear the answer. But Paul just
says, "Not lately, no," which manages to be both hilariously big headed and reassuring at the same
time in the way only Paul can be.

They walk a bit further and John's about to ask if Paul wants to stop at the handy copse of trees he
seems to be steering them towards when he stops walking so suddenly John nearly smacks right
into him. Then he swears, quietly, and John looks past him to see what must be a torch bobbing
towards them.

"I thought I could hear you," Jim McCartney calls and John understands why Paul was swearing
now. He'd quite like to swear himself.

"You didn't have to come and meet me," Paul says, in what must be the understatement of the year.

"Aye, well, it's late and you weren't back yet so I thought I'd come and see what's keeping you.
Make sure you got home safe." Jim's close enough to see now, bundled up in his big coat and
winter scarf.

There goes John's plans for a proper end to his evening. Jim comes to a halt, looking at John like
he's waiting for an explanation of why he’s there, as if he didn't know.

Paul, of course, just takes it at face value, saying, "John was just making sure I got back alright,"
which wouldn't be very convincing at the best of times. John's not exactly known for seeing people
safely home any more than he is for helping old ladies across the road. That's very much Paul's sort
of thing.

"Well, you'll be alright from here," Jim says, and Paul turns to John, pulling an apologetic face
where his dad can't see.

"I'll see you tomorrow then?"

"Not tomorrow," Jim cuts in, before John can even open his mouth to reply. "I've promised your
Auntie Joan that you and Michael will help her sort her shed out."

Paul looks extremely put out. "That won't take—"

"And you'll have your homework after," Jim interrupts, neatly cutting off whatever workaround
Paul was about to suggest.

John wonders if this is the big plan. Instead of banning John from the house and telling Paul not to
see him, he'll just make sure he's too busy to bother. Christ knows that wouldn't work on John,
who's never been dispatched to help an auntie in his life, but it might on Paul, with his thousand
aunties and his love of being helpful.

"I'll see you at practice then," John says, because he does have some pride and he's not above
reminding Jim that they meet up for a proper reason, not just for what he thinks.

Of course Paul has to spoil the whole effect by saying, "Alright, we'll work on that new song
before though, come round early," rendering their trusty songwriting excuse pretty unusable from
now on. Not that Paul knows that of course. He thinks this is a normal conversation with John and
his dad so John just nods and says, "Aye, alright," like he's not bothered either way.

"Goodnight then, John," Jim puts in, rather pointedly John thinks, but he takes the hint and says,
"Yeah, night. I'll see you Monday."

Paul throws him another apologetic look before he turns to follow his dad, the light of their torch
wobbling over the ground. John watches them for a few seconds more and then trudges back to
Menlove Avenue alone, hoping this isn’t going to be a habit.
 Chapter 15

Sunday is fucking deadly. You can't go from performing for a crowd to listening to Sunday
morning radio with Mimi and not want to off yourself, so John goes to Pete's after lunch, only to
find him flopping around like a sad sack because he's still hungover from the night before. He
drags him out of the house regardless, amidst much complaining, and they go and watch a film. Or
rather, John watches the film while Pete snores. Then he ends up staying round the Shottons' house
too late after, to avoid his Paul-less room, and Mimi gets shirty when he finally gets in because he
missed tea.

By the time Monday rolls around he's feeling pretty fucking deprived and not a little worried about
what effect it might have. He's got his pills, so he's not as worried as he would be otherwise, but
he'd rather not have to have that whole conversation with Paul and he definitely will have to have it
if he nearly goes into another bloody heat. It's not like he can't rely on his own hand in the
meantime, but if that was an effective substitute for Paul he'd never have gotten into this whole
mess in the first place.

He's not much use to anybody at college and then has a row with Mimi about going out yet again
on a weeknight. Considering she's never properly tried to stop him before, he can only assume that
him getting a regular paid gig has got her in a tizzy about what he might get up to with his own
money in his pocket and a bit of encouragement. As it is, he ends up getting to Forthlin Road as
early as his dignity allows. He rings the doorbell about three times because, as it turns out, he has
even less dignity than he thought. But when Paul answers the door he just grimaces at him and
stands aside so John has a perfect view of the vaguely familiar woman coming down the hall.

"Auntie Jin's had to come by a bit later today," Paul says, and Auntie Jin, who John recognises
from Paul's birthday now she's close enough to see, smiles at him in a friendly enough way.

"I was held up this afternoon so I couldn't bring the sheets before now. Then I thought I'd stay for a
bit and hear how this band of yours is coming along."

John has no idea, from the way she's looking at him, if she knows more than she's saying, or
whether the universe just has it in for him personally and this is some bizarre coincidence. Either
way, he has no choice but to say hello and then trail Paul through to the dining room where Auntie
Jin's put out a proper teapot and everything.

"Don't worry," she says, "I won't disturb you when you're writing. I'll just be upstairs getting these
sorted," and with that, she picks up a pile of washing and goes out again.

John waits until he hears her tread on the stairs and then drops down onto a chair. "Well, that's
fucked it." He digs out his cigarettes because he really bloody needs one.

Paul looks positively miserable, which is some consolation. "She just turned up! I couldn't get rid
of her and then she kept asking about the band and when I said we had a practice, she…" He
waves a hand, as if to illustrate the stupid situation they're in.

"How long's she stayin' for?" John asks, around his cigarette. He finds his matchbook and lights
up.

"Dunno," Paul says gloomily. "And she won't like you smoking in the house."

John glares at him because Christ's sake, but he does get up and go through the kitchen to the back
door so he can freeze his arse off on the step while finishing his ciggie in peace. Paul sits down
beside him and John gives into the urge to lean into him, just enough for it to look accidental
should Auntie Jin make a surprise reappearance. Everything about Paul feels more enticing for him
having been without it for two long days, from his scent, to the way he keeps fidgeting with his
hands, to his stupid pink mouth.

"Jesus Christ," John mutters and takes another deep drag on his cigarette. He blows out a lungful of
smoke and then glances over to find Paul looking at him in a way that's fairly unmistakable after
the past month.

"That's not helpin'."

"Sorry," Paul says and looks away again.

They sit in glum silence. "How about a blowie round the back of the coal shed?" John says at last,
just to make Paul laugh. It works, although Paul gives him a sidelong look that suggests he'd
probably go for that, the randy sod. Well, he can join the club.

"Alright," John says, when he's dragged out his cigarette as long as he can. "I s'pose we'll have to
actually write a song then."

"Yeah," Paul says, with a sigh, which must be the least enthusiasm he's ever shown for it.

They do actually get a bit of a song down in the end because there isn't anything else they can do
when Auntie Jin keeps walking past the open doorway approximately every three minutes. It's not
even a bad bit of a song, all told, it's just very much not what John wants to be doing.

"Stay round after," Paul says, low, when John's looking through their notebook.

"Can't," John says, despondent. "Mimi's got a cob on about me being out too late all the time."

"Since when do you care about that?"

It's a fair point, but with Jim already onto them he can't risk Mimi suspecting as well. "Alright, but
only for a bit, I can't stay over."

And as long as Auntie Jin fucks off in time, he doesn't say. But Auntie Jin does not fuck off. She
stays through the entire practice, sitting with Mike once he gets in and by all appearances quite
enjoying herself. Then she fetches her coat and says she'll walk a little way with George and John.
It's that, more than anything, that convinces John she must know something. Jim has to have told
her or why on earth would she be so bloody persistent? He wonders if she's going to turn up
tomorrow with some pillowcases she forgot, and then come back on Wednesday to wash the
curtains. If she keeps it up all week, number 20 will be the cleanest house in Allerton.

She takes forever to leave and then walks along the road with John and George at a snail’s pace.
They’re making such slow progress that John actually has to walk across a bit of the golf course
when he splits off, just to make it look convincing. When they’re finally out of sight he stops,
waiting and stamping his feet against the cold until he can be sure they’ve turned the corner at the
end of the road and he can safely double back. Mimi's probably watching the clock right now but
he can't go another night without something, even if it's quick.

Paul opens the door so fast he must have been standing right behind it. "Thank god, I thought you'd
actually gone," he says and drags John upstairs. John spares a thought for poor Mike in the front
room, but only a thought.
"I haven't got long," he says, out of breath and nearly vibrating with anticipation when they get into
Paul's bedroom.

Paul shuts the door behind them. He doesn't look any better off. "We won't take long then."

They get off rushed and messy against the most convenient wall, Paul getting a hand around them
both to save time and because it feels fucking fantastic like it always does. He comes far too soon
and when Paul follows after he presses his whole body against John's, kissing him with an urgency
that threatens to undo all of his resolve, as though he's trying to fuse the two of them together. John
thinks he wouldn't mind that actually, not if it meant the Jims and Mimis and Auntie Jins of the
world couldn't keep getting between them.

Somehow it's harder to think of leaving now that he's got what he wanted than it was before, when
he was dying of frustration. It doesn't help when Paul's urgent kisses slow and shift into the soft,
sweet ones that always come after, feeding the warm languor that John loves so much.

He knows Paul's going to ask him to stay again, even though he said he couldn't, and he's not sure
he'll remember why he has to say no next time, so he preempts him by kissing him once, twice
more, and then moving out quickly from between him and the wall.

Sure enough, Paul gets that stubborn look in his face. "Don't go yet."

"Sorry," John says, trying to make himself vaguely decent for the walk home. His shirt is fairly
disgusting. "Mimi'll be round with a rolling pin if I'm not back by ten." He really doesn't want to go
though, not when tonight has reminded him that their time is running out. He swoops in to kiss Paul
once more, impulsive. "That's for tomorrow. In case Auntie Jin's back to polish the banister."

Paul snorts a little at that. "If she is, we'll just have to make do with the coal shed."

"And go home with your sooty hand prints all over me?" John says. "What would the neighbours
think?"

It's just a stupid joke but Paul regards him in that unnervingly intense way he has sometimes, when
John wants to know what's he thinking and doesn't want to know at the same time. Then his
expression shifts to something more normal and he starts buttoning up John's coat. "That you're a
dirty stop out probably."

John would never normally let someone do his coat up for him, he's not five, but somehow he
doesn't mind when it's Paul. "That's the pot callin' the kettle black, isn't it?"

"It's not stopping out if I live here," Paul says. He does up the last button and smooths it down.
"Anyway, there's no reason for her to come back again now."

John's not so sure of that. "If you say so."

"I do," Paul says, confident in the way of someone who didn't have Jim McCartney judging him in
his own front room last week. When John doesn't reply, he frowns a little. "You're not actually
worried about it, are you?"

"No," John says immediately. "It's just…we're a bit fucked if she does, aren't we?" It's as near as he
can go to saying that Paul's family probably all know and they're not going to get a moment's peace
from now on. Jim's no doubt arranging a transfer back to the cotton warehouse in Liverpool as they
speak, the better to keep an eye on his son, or rather on John.

"She was just held up today, that's all," Paul says after a moment, decisive like John is just being
silly. He leans in to kiss him, obviously meaning it to be quick and reassuring, but John feels a
sudden spike of panic at the thought of not having this again and turns it into a proper kiss, trying
to put his whole self into it the way Paul does. It clearly catches Paul off guard, but he adapts
quickly, bringing a hand up to cup John's face and then, when John opens his mouth, letting it slide
down to his neck, digging his fingers in just enough as the kiss deepens. The pleasure of it skitters
through John and he wishes Paul would do it properly, that he would mark him again. He won't, of
course, he's as careful with it as he always is, outside of the recklessness of heat.

It's an effort to stop, and when he does, Paul blinks at him from bare inches away, aroused and not
a little confused. "Everything's alright, isn't it?" he asks eventually.

John makes himself step back like a normal person. "Yeah, just…long day, you know?"

A spark of humour lightens Paul's expression. "Hard shift at the docks, was it?"

This is something John's more familiar with. "Sod off, some of them paint brushes are really
heavy."

"Good thing I did all the work tonight then."

"Well, I reckon your hand's had more practice."

Paul snickers at that, not in the least bit offended. God knows, it's probably true anyway. "Your
turn tomorrow then," he says, and John certainly hopes so.

Paul walks him downstairs, which is completely unnecessary, and then stands in the doorway to
watch him go, as if he doesn't have a hundred neighbours probably on the lookout. John actually
hopes Mrs. McKenzie's one of them.

He gets in before ten, so Mimi doesn't have something to tell him off for, and escapes upstairs as
soon as he can, before she can ask him why he still has his coat on in the parlour. But even when
he's safely in his room and his grubby shirt is stowed away for washing in the morning, he can't get
to sleep. After pointlessly lying in his bed for half an hour, he opens the window so he can smoke
without Mimi squawking about the curtains, and then flops back down to light up. Bloody Auntie
Jin, and bloody Jim McCartney too, sticking their noses in where they're not wanted, and all
because they think Paul needs protecting from John, of all people. As if he would ever hurt Paul on
purpose. If either of them could do damage, it would be Paul, not him, and then most likely
accidentally, because he doesn't know how far into this John's gone.

He wonders what Mimi's reaction would be, if she'd been the one to find out about them instead of
Jim. Then his mood sours further because he knows what her reaction would be. Paul might be too
common for her tastes, but that's not why she thinks he's a bad influence. She thinks he's a bad
influence in the way she'd think any unsuitable alpha was a bad influence. Not because of Paul, but
because of John and his seeming inability to behave properly and make the right decisions. Or what
she sees as the right decisions anyway, which means the heavy hand of the Bonding Office
looming large. She wouldn't take his side like the McCartney clan would take Paul's. It would just
be more evidence of how John's gone wrong. Too selfish, too reckless, too much like his mother —
although she'd never be stupid enough to say that out loud, not with Julia gone. If he wasn’t such a
coward he’d just tell Paul, just lay it all out so Paul knew the worst of it and they could get the
consequences over with, rather than drawing it out to the painful and humiliating conclusion.
There's something to be said for it, for picking at the scab. It would bleed for a while and then it
would heal up again and he'd get over it. Probably. Likely without Paul though, and without the
band as well, although he knows which would be worse. Still, the thought of just setting fire to
everything has a certain perverse attraction.
He lets himself consider it for a while and then he swears and stubs out what's left of his ciggie on
his bedside table. It's a fucking stupid idea anyway. As if he's going to deny himself before he has
to, or before he's made to, more like. That's never been John's way, even before his life went so
disastrously wrong. He'd decided after his run in with Jim that he was going to make the most of
whatever time was left before it all blew up in his face, and no amount of Auntie Jin and her
pressed sheets is going to stop him doing that.
 Chapter 16
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Of course he goes into heat again the next day. Not straight away, thank god. Not like last time.
His body has the courtesy to wait until he's got out from under Mimi's eye and made it all the way
to college and through a morning of classes before he starts noticing that something is wrong. He
keeps thinking about last night with Paul, but then, that in itself isn't particularly unusual these
days. It's only when he realises he's actually getting hard from it that it occurs to him that maybe
this isn't the normal way he thinks about Paul. He's in the canteen, which isn't ideal, but he's alone
and it’s fairly quiet still so it's easy enough to slip out, forcing down the panic that only seems to
heighten the unwelcome arousal. He finds the the oldest, most decrepit bathroom in the building in
which to hurriedly swallow two of his pills and wash them down with a mouthful of water from the
tap. His hands are shaking slightly already.

He has no idea if people will be able to tell, just by looking at him. There’s no mirror in the
bathroom to check, but he thinks he probably looks normal enough, just a little red in the face,
maybe, and damp along the hairline. Nothing that anyone would look twice at in a busy canteen
with the coffee urn going. Still, he's not about to walk back in and test the theory, so he waits until
he's sure everyone will have gone to their next class and then walks as quickly as he can to the little
back studio that Stu always uses. It's empty at this time of the day so he can hole up in there while
he waits for the pills to do what they're supposed to.

He waits, feeling progressively hotter until it feels less like heat and more like he might have an
actual fever. There's a sink in the corner for washing out brushes and he scoops some more water
into his mouth, trying to quench the awful thirst, but instead it just turns his stomach and he has to
press his face against the porcelain until the wave of nausea has passed. Maybe it's like the first
time he took the pills before, when he felt shitty for a while and then got used to it, he thinks. Only
he doesn't remember feeling quite so ill the last time or Mimi would have been onto him
straightaway. As the minutes tick past and the clock on the wall tells him he's been here nearly an
hour already, he starts to properly worry. Somehow the arousal is still there, but it feels all wrong
now, curdling in his stomach. He can't think of anything he wants less right now than to get off, not
even if Paul was here. Not that that stops him wanting Paul here anyway.

After another ten awful minutes the feverish heat gets too much and he sits on the floor and then
gives in and presses his burning forehead to the blissfully cold lino. He's probably getting all sorts
of germs, Mimi would have a fit. In the distance, a bell rings for break and for a confused moment
he thinks it's the bell at the Inny and that brings his thoughts back to Paul and how close he is
whilst not being close enough at all. He's just through the wall, he thinks, through the wall and
across the road and then another wall and then Paul, and probably George and Ivan, but it's only
Paul he needs.

"Fucking hell," he mutters to the lino. Maybe he's actually poisoned himself; or maybe Sheila
Finnegan's poisoned him. She always did look at him funny, he should never have trusted her.

When the door eventually creaks open he can't bring himself to move, too afraid that if he does
he'll see his breakfast again. There's a smatter of footsteps and then they stop, but John already
knows it's Stu, his scent is as familiar to him as Paul's is and about ten times stronger than usual.
He hears Stu swear and then he's crouching down on the floor next to John, saying his name and
trying to roll him over so he can see his face. John shrugs him off and does it himself so Stu will
stop touching him.

"I'm not feelin' too well," he says, when he can finally see Stu properly, or as near to properly as he
ever can when he hasn’t got his specs on. Stu stares down at him, then laughs a little incredulously,
which seems rude when John is dying on the floor.

"I can see that." He looks incredibly relieved that John is not, in fact, dead, so maybe John will let
him off.

"What happened?" Stu goes to help him sit up, but as soon as he gets too close he freezes and then
jerks back like John's scalded him. "Are you—?" He breaks off, looking confused.

"I hope not," John says. He makes himself sit up, moving gingerly as his stomach protests the
attempt. "I reckon you ought to ask Sheila Finnegan for a refund."

Stu's intelligent enough to work that one out, thank god. "You took the pills to stop a heat?"

"Aye, and now I seem to be dyin' instead so it looks like they worked."

Stu doesn't laugh, but then it wasn't a very good joke. John'll think of some better material when
his stomach isn't trying to crawl out of his mouth. Another wave of nausea washes over him and he
puts his head between his knees.

"I'll ring for a doctor," Stu says, sounding more worried than John's ever heard him. He actually
starts getting up.

"Don't you dare," John says, looking up too quickly and then regretting it when the room swims in
front of him. He takes a deep, steadying breath. Then another, because if Stu goes blabbing then
he's fucked. "You can't tell anybody. I'd get chucked out, or worse."

Stu hesitates and then swears, frustrated. "Alright, fine," he crouches back down and places a
tentative hand on John's back. It's not so bad through his shirt. "Should I go and fetch Paul then?"

John's stomach seems to flop over itself again with something worse than nausea and he has no
idea what his face just did. Hopefully nothing too obvious. "Why? So I can throw up on him an'
all? Don’t be daft."

"That's not what—"

"I just need to sleep this off,' John says, talking over whatever disastrous thought Stu was about to
put voice to. "It'll pass in a bit."

Stu falls silent for a few, agonising seconds, and then he sighs, short and exasperated. "If you say
so. You'd better come back to mine then, you can't sleep in here, there'll be people in later and I
don't imagine you want it all round the college."

John thinks he'd rather be dead for real than have that. He nods, and then takes a few more deep
breaths before he very carefully raises his head and then gets to his feet. Stu hovers, trying to help,
but knowing John doesn't want him to, and John thinks if Paul was here he wouldn't care, he'd just
do it. But then, he'd want Paul's hands on him, if he were here.

Fuck's sake, he needs to stop thinking about Paul.

"Come on then," Stu says, once John is mostly vertical. "We'd better use the fire escape."
They make their way out slowly, mostly because John feels as dizzy as if he'd drunk four pints
straight off and he keeps needing to stop until the nausea has passed. It's actually a little better
outside, the sharp cold air like a balm on his overheated skin as they emerge into the alley that
separates the college from the school. He can feel Stu looking at him like maybe he's about to
change his mind and go looking for Paul after all. More fool him then, John's got this far into his
stupid plan and he's not messing it up now.

Instead he just concentrates on putting one foot in front of the other, pathetically grateful that Stu
decided to live barely five minutes away. There aren't many people about for the short journey, but
John still gets at least one disapproving stare from a passerby. Probably because he looks drunk, he
realises, leaning on Stu and staggering down the road in the middle of the afternoon like one of
those youths people write letters to the paper about. The thought strikes him as funny, but his huff
of laughter must come out weird because Stu says, "Don't be sick yet, we're nearly there," like he
thinks John's about to vomit on his shoes.

Stu takes forever to get his keys out, and John is just thinking he might actually vomit on his shoes
after all, when he finally gets the door open and hustles John inside. The house is silent as a tomb.
The girls downstairs are probably at work and when they get into the flat Rod isn't there either.

Stu takes John straight through to the bathroom where he proceeds to finally get rid of his lunch
and probably his breakfast as well. Then he lies down on the bathroom floor for a bit, despite Stu's
attempts to get him to move somewhere less disgusting, and maybe falls asleep, he's not quite sure.
Everything feels vague and he thinks he's outside in the snow and then remembers he's inside and
he's just cold, despite his jumper. His stomach hurts, even though it can't have much in it now, and
his head is starting to as well.

He's not certain how much time passes before Stu tells him, apologetically, that they do actually
need to use the bathroom and John would be better lying down on an actual mattress anyway. So
John drags himself to Stu's room and lies down on Stu's mattress instead, which is a hell of a lot
more comfortable but smells all wrong.

"Here," Stu says quietly, and he gives John another blanket to wrap around him. "I got it off
Kathleen downstairs, it's clean. I thought you might find it easier."

It is clean, and nicer than anything Stu and Rod have. It also smells better, a pleasant neutral beta
scent with an edge of some girly floral soap that John doesn't want to admit he thinks is quite nice.

The next time Stu comes in it's dark out and John feels a spike of panic before he says, "It's alright,
it's only six." Stu hands him a mug of water and waits until John props himself up to drink some of
it. "Do you need to phone Mimi? She must be wondering where you are."

She won't be the only one, John thinks. He's usually at Paul's by now. There's a squirming feeling
of guilt in his stomach when he thinks of Paul waiting for him, wondering where he is and why he
hasn't phoned. He can't ring him though, he can probably convince Mimi he's out somewhere, but
Paul would never fall for it, not after last time.

Stu's waiting patiently for an answer so he says, "Yeah, I better do," and somehow gets himself
downstairs. After a startled look, Kathleen tactfully removes herself from the hallway so he can use
her phone to lie to Mimi about stopping over at Pete's, and then ring Pete to tell him he'd better lie
as well if Mimi asks.

"Alright," Pete says easily. "Where are you really then?"

"Just at Stu's with some college mates."

Pete makes a rude noise. "Alright for some, I'm stuck watching the bloody cricket with mum
again."

"Lucky you," John says, and means it.

When he gets off the phone he goes back upstairs and curls up in the blanket to shiver and drift off
in too brief snatches. At some point in the night Stu comes in and lies down on the floor to sleep,
and it's comforting not to be alone when he feels like this, even if he wishes it was Paul.

"How're you feeling?" Stu whispers, when he sees John is awake.

"Fucking awful," John says, because it's true and he can't be arsed to lie about it. If he stays still at
least he feels less dizzy, but it doesn't stop everything aching like he has a nasty bout of flu.

"I wish you'd let me ring someone."

"And get chucked in the Borstal? No thanks."

"Alright, not a doctor, but let me ring Paul at least."

John makes a face, he wishes Stu'd stop harping on that one. "I don't reckon he'd thank you for it in
the middle of the bloody night."

"I think he would," Stu says, quietly, and the words hang there between them. When John doesn't
reply, Stu sighs, and it sounds tired. "I know what you two've been doing."

"We haven't been doin' anything," John says, but it comes out too quick and defensive, his heart
skittering in shock.

"Don't lie. I can smell him on you most of the time, and the other night… It was just obvious, that's
all. Even without you not bothering with your pills, after worrying so much about getting them."
John doesn't say anything, he doesn't know what there is to say. Has it been obvious to everyone?
"I don't care," Stu says at last. "It's not any of my business, but if you're going to do that then this
will keep happening until you stop or you bond."

"It didn't happen to that girl you were with," John says eventually.

"No, but—" Stu hesitates. "I don't think it was the same thing, with her."

He means because of him, he realises, because of him and how he is about Paul. Christ. Maybe
what they've been up to isn't the only thing that's been obvious to Stu. He feels his face grow
impossibly warmer and he’s only glad it's too dark for Stu to see it.

Stu sits up a little, like he's trying to anyway. "Does Paul not want to spend heats with you? Is that
why? Because that's not fair. This is as much his fault, he can't just dump you when it's
inconvenient."

It's so odd to hear Stu sounding so indignant on his behalf that it almost distracts him from the
bizarre notion of Paul ever trying to avoid sex in any form, especially heat sex.

"You must be jokin'," he says, when the slightly hysterical urge to laugh has passed. "Have you
met Paul? Of course he's got no problem with 'em."

There's a slight pause, then Stu asks, "How many have there been exactly?"

He thinks about it, it's harder when his head hurts. "Uh…two, and this one, so three, I s'pose,
altogether."

"In how long?"

Stu's voice sounds a little odd and John pauses before cautiously saying, "About a month? Or I
dunno, a bit longer than a month now." It feels like it's just always been this way between them, it's
hard to remember that there was a time before.

Stu doesn't immediately say anything to that and John gets a bad feeling. "John…" he starts at last
and John decides he doesn't want to hear it.

"We'll be stoppin' soon anyway so it doesn't matter."

"How do you work that out?"

John's tired and irritable and he doesn't want to have to explain it all. "'Cause I had a visit from
Paul's dad and he's as happy about it as you'd expect."

"Oh," is all Stu says to that.

"Yeah."

Stu lies back down again and contemplates the ceiling for a bit while John tries to find an even
vaguely comfortable position. He's too hot still but he can't stop shivering anyway, and it's making
all his joints ache like he's ninety. Then Stu's voice comes out of the darkness again. "What did
Paul say about it?"

"Nothing, 'cause I didn't tell him." He doesn't need to see Stu to know how he's probably looking at
him, all judgemental. "Don't start. Paul's a little boy scout and he's not goin' to tell his dad where to
shove it, is he? As soon as his dad says something it's all done with, and I didn't—" He breaks off.
There's a tightness in his throat and he blames it on how shitty he's feeling already. "I just thought I
might as well enjoy it while it lasts, you know?"

"Well, it seems like you're having a great time so far."

"Fuck off, it's not normally like this."

"What's it normally like then?"

Stu sounds like he genuinely wants to know, and probably not about the grubby details of John's
sex life. "It's just…me and Paul," he says at last. It seems painfully inadequate but John doesn't
know how to put it into words at the best of times, let alone now. But he remembers what Paul
said, about him being happy after, and tries again. "We're not like all that Bonding Office rubbish,
we're just the same but…" he tries to think of the right word, "but better."

"You always said any alpha who tried it on would get a knee to the balls," Stu says, and John
thinks he can detect a hint of amusement in his voice. Bloody Stu being smug.

"I know I did, but it's different, with Paul."

"I see."

He can definitely detect amusement now. "Shut up."

"Alright."
Stu rustles around like he's going to shut up and go to sleep for real, and John thinks he actually has
when he suddenly says, "What are you going to do if this happens again?"

"Dunno," John says. He hadn't ever thought that far ahead in his plans, he just knew he couldn't
have another heat. "Try the pills again, I s'pose, or try and find some different ones. Paul's worried
about us bonding so I'm just tryin' to make sure we don't."

"And what's Paul doing to make sure you don't? Is he poisoning himself too?"

"Don't—" He swallows down the instinctive annoyance and tries to sound more normal about it.
"He's the one who's always bein' careful so don't start on him."

"Alright. Sorry," Stu says after a moment. "I'm just worried about you."

He says it so easily but it warms something in John all the same. This can't have been much of a
fun day for Stu either. He probably had plans, was going to work on his beloved project maybe,
and then John turns up and he spends the afternoon and evening playing nursemaid instead and still
manages to be worried about him.

"Thanks for not leavin' me to die on the floor," John says, which he hopes gets the point across
clearly enough.

Maybe it does, because Stu says, "You're welcome," but John can tell he's smiling. "Now try and
go to sleep, but wake me up if you feel any worse."

"Aye aye," John says, although he can't imagine he's going to manage much sleep.

He doesn't in the end. Not much anyway. He gets an hour or two in the early hours but the rest of
the time he's too achy and hot to manage it for long. The night seems to last for several years in the
way nights always do when you feel like shit and everyone else is asleep. He can't shake the fear
that his heat is about to start up again, even though he's not felt any arousal since roughly the time
he was throwing up his dinner in the loo. He's really and truly fucked if it does, stuck here in Stu's
bedroom. He wants to wake Stu up for a second opinion, alphas can usually tell, can't they? But he
can't bring himself to disturb him yet again, and he doesn't want to face it if he is, so he just lies
there and shivers and worries about it instead.

He must nod off again sometime near dawn, because when he jerks awake Stu's gone and he has a
brief moment of panic before he hears the loo flush and sounds of movement outside the door,
reminding him he's not alone. He drifts again, wondering if his stomach has settled enough yet to
try getting up and wishing his head would stop pounding.

When he hears the front door open and close an indeterminate amount of time later, he has a few
seconds of blissful ignorance before he hears the low voices and realises what a conniving shit Stu
has been. As it is, he barely has time to scramble to a sitting position before the bedroom door
opens to admit Stu, followed, of-fucking-course, by Paul.

John sits up far too quickly for his head not to protest the action, but he still manages to hiss, "I told
you not to ring him!" at Stu, who at least has the grace to look like he feels bad about it.

Paul doesn't. He just says, "He didn't ring me, he was waiting outside school," as if that makes it
alright. John ignores him but it doesn't seem to matter because in the next moment Paul adds,
"We're alright now, thanks," to Stu, and Stu, for a wonder, just leaves his own bedroom, shutting
the door behind him.

There's a silence then, during which Paul looks at John and John looks somewhere else and
wonders what he's thinking.

"What?" he says at last, belligerently, when Paul's still just standing there.

"You said you'd ring me, if this happened again."

"Aye, well, I was lying." He risks a glance at Paul, whose mouth is set in a thin line now, and
relents the barest fraction. "It wasn't s'posed to happen again."

"Because you were going to take your pills every time it tried to," Paul says. "Because of what my
dad said."

Bloody Stu and his big mouth. Jesus.

"No, not just— Not because of that. Not—" He grinds to a halt, feeling woefully unprepared for
this conversation. His head hurts and the room is still spinning, albeit less violently now. He'd
quite like to lie down again regardless.

He must look pathetic, or maybe like he's about to vomit all over the mattress, because Paul's scowl
wavers and he abruptly puts down his bag. John wonders if he had trouble sleeping last night too,
he looks tired enough for it.

"I suppose this would explain why Dad's been talking about me and Mike going away for a few
weeks."

There's a lurching sensation in John's gut, like the floor’s gone out from under him, but he makes
himself say, "maybe you should."

"Don't be soft," Paul says. He's looking John over in that way he does, like he's cataloguing him a
piece at a time. "How are you feeling now?"

"A bit better," John says, grudging. Paul seems to take that as an invitation to come over and John
jerks back, alarmed. "Stay over there!"

Paul stops, frowning. "Why?"

"Because you might start it off again!"

Paul rolls his eyes and comes and sits down next to John anyway, so John shuffles along the
mattress, but not too far, because just having Paul in the room is taking the edge off his headache.

"You look awful," Paul says, which John appreciates about as much as Paul reaching out like he's
going to touch him. He bats his hand away and Paul blows out a frustrated breath. "Fine, feel shitty
then."

"We need to give the pills time to work," John points out, but Paul just makes a rude noise and
says, "didn't you throw them all up yesterday?"

John glares at him for that, and after a moment Paul softens. "I could just do it for a bit and if you
start feeling… you know, then I'll stop and go and sit outside or something."

He's got his reasonable voice on, so John thinks about it, but he doesn't actually think about it for
long because he's never been one for suffering when he doesn't have to. "Alright, fine," he says at
last, like he's doing Paul a favour, and maybe he is, if the relief on Paul's face is anything to go by.

He gives into the pressing urge to put his head back between his knees until the world stops
spinning, and Paul wastes no time in doing whatever magic alpha thing it is he does when he gets
his hand on the back of John's neck. John could almost cry with how good it feels, gradually
relaxing the tension he didn't even realise he was carrying and quieting his spinning head and
churning gut enough for him to function vaguely like a human being again.

"Did you learn this in one of your classes?" he mumbles, after a few minutes have gone by, or
maybe more. He's not exactly keeping count.

"No," Paul replies, sounding closer than he was before, the sneaky sod. "It was in mum's medical
book."

John thinks of the dusty old bloke he and Mimi usually see at the surgery. "Not sure how I'd feel
about Doctor Bernard doing this, to be honest."

"It's not for doctors," Paul says, like it should be obvious. "It's for alphas if their— if an omega is
in a…. a stressful situation."

John thinks about that for a few seconds and then says, pointed, "This better not be from one of
your mum's midwife books."

"Um…no," Paul replies in the most unconvincing way possible. Then when John sits up to look at
him narrowly, "Shut up, it works, doesn't it?"

It does work, annoyingly enough. He wonders what other weird things Paul has memorised from
his little medical library. On another day he'd probably make a joke about him training to be the
perfect alpha, but he doesn't much want to think about the faceless omega that'll be reaping the
benefits some day, so he doesn't.

"I reckon you could set yourself up in business and make a fortune," he says instead. "McCartney's
Magic Hands, two shillin's a go."

"Half a crown, surely," Paul says. "Do you think you could eat something now?"

John considers it; his stomach is certainly feeling steadier. "Dunno – maybe?"

"Alright, wait here." Paul gives his neck one last squeeze for luck or something, and then gets up
and goes to presumably beg some food off of Stu. That's if Stu's still here and hasn't escaped while
he can. He hears voices somewhere beyond the door so someone's still here anyway.

Paul's not gone long, but it's long enough for John to get a bit antsy, and then nervous that he's so
antsy, but there's still no sign of heat so maybe it's just a normal Paul thing. He's considering
whether to abandon his pride and just go out and find him when Paul finally reappears, carrying a
mug and a plate of toast.

He crouches down in front of John, and hands him the plate. "Here, see how you get on with this."

John obediently takes a piece of toast and tries a bit. It only takes a few bites for him to realise he's
bloody starving and scarf down the whole piece.

"Go careful, you don't want it back," Paul says, but he looks pleased when John eats some more,
slower this time, and washes it down with some of the tea.

Paul seems content to just settle on the floor and watch John eat, which makes John suspicious
after the way this whole visit started. "You're being very nice," John says eventually. "What did
Stu say to you?"
He regrets asking when Paul gets that pissy look on his face. "Nothing. I don't need Stu to tell me
what to do."

"Oi," John nudges him with his knee. "Don't be weird about Stu. I'd have been in the shit yesterday
without him."

"You wouldn't have, not if you'd phoned me like you said you would."

"You weren't exactly on the phone at the time. Was I s'posed to pop a note round to the Inny?"

"Would you have bothered even if you could?"

Paul’s scent has lost all the sweetness of before and it occurs to John that maybe he's actually hurt
that he didn't phone him, or want to phone him. Whatever.

"Look, I didn't mean it like that," he says, when Paul carries on looking at a discarded sock on the
floor like it's the most fascinating thing in the room. "I was just tryin' to make things a bit easier."

"By poisoning yourself?" Paul says, sharply.

"Well, not that bit, no. I just thought they'd make the heat go away, I didn't know they'd do all this,
did I?"

Somehow, that doesn't seem to make Paul any happier. He glances at John and then away again,
like he doesn't want to look at him when he says, "I didn't know you hated your heats that much."

He really is hurt, John realises, and he has the overwhelming urge to make it right again somehow,
so Paul knows it's about John and not him and anything he's done. "I don't hate them," he says,
forcing himself to some sort of honesty. "I always thought they'd be bloody awful, but they're not
so bad, when it's us. But I can't keep havin' them all the time or people will know." He grimaces.
"More people, anyway."

"What does it matter if they do? It's none of their business," Paul says, ridiculously, because John
can think of at least two people who would think it was very much their business. Three if you
count that nosy old cow next door to Paul.

So he says, "I'm not sure your dad would agree," and then immediately regrets it when Paul's
mouth sets in that familiar, stubborn line again.

"It's got nothing to do with him."

As much as John likes hearing him say that, he knows it's not true, and he doesn't much want to
hear him pretend that he doesn't care what his dad thinks when John knows he does. It'll just make
it hurt more later.

"I'll be sure to tell him that next time he pops round," he says, a bit too sarcastically if Paul's
expression is anything to go by.

"Next time, you can tell him to speak to me about it, not you," Paul says, clearly annoyed, and not
just at his dad, apparently, because he follows it up with, "you should have told me he'd come to
see you."

It's obvious he's been wanting to say that from the moment he turned up, and probably since Stu
told him. As if John was going to ring him up and cry down the phone about it after. "So you could
get in a tizzy over it?" he says, since he's not about to admit he was scared it would all be over once
Paul found out. He's still not convinced it won't be, once Paul's had a chance to think about it and
the reality of disappointing his dad sets in. "Truth be told it wasn't a very exciting visit so it didn't
seem worth mentionin'."

Paul obviously sees right through that one. "What did he say in this unexciting visit?"

John shrugs. "The usual."

"What's the usual?"

"What do you think?" John says, exasperated that Paul can't leave it alone. "That he'd like me to
fuck off out of Liverpool and stop ruinin' your life."

"I don't want you to fuck off."

John hardly expected Paul to say anything different but it makes something in his chest flutter to
hear it, all the same. "What about the ruinin' your life bit?"

Paul raises his eyebrows. "That depends."

"On what?"

"On whether you do something stupid like this again."

This time Paul doesn't look away from John's glare. He's still all flustered so John knows he really
is upset about it all, and he supposes that if it was the other way around, he'd be pretty pissed off at
Paul too. But then, Paul probably thinks he only did it because he's scared of Mimi or something,
and that's not true at all. Well, maybe it's partly true, but he wouldn't do all this just because of her.

"It's not… it's not just because of your dad or other people finding out," he says, trying to explain it
properly. "If I don't have a heat, then you won't have to worry about us bonding either, isn't that
better?" If he has to spend another heat with Paul being careful not to touch him too much, he
thinks he'll actually lose his mind.

The explanation seems to land strangely with Paul. He looks less pissed off, it's true, but that's
mostly because he's just staring at John instead.

"Then I won't have to worry about us bonding?" he says eventually, like he's making sure he heard
John correctly.

"Yes, you, with your little list of all the stuff we can't do." He decides to just say it all, now he's
started. "Look, I got this book from Smiths about it and it said, you know, that omegas have
irregular heats when they're lookin' for a bond or tryin' to make one happen. Accidentally, I mean,"
he puts in hastily, in case Paul thought he was trying anything. "So anyway, I thought that might be
why I had another one so quickly, and why you were so careful about it all. Because you knew that
already and were making sure we didn't. And between that and your nosy neighbours it just seemed
better not to have 'em at all."

He knows it's a lot of information but Paul seems to take longer than necessary to absorb it. There's
a little crease between his brows, like he's puzzling things out, and he's still staring at John in that
fixed way.

"It's not that complicated, Paul," John says at last, when all the staring is starting to become a bit
unnerving.
"I don't…" Paul stops, and the pause draws out. He looks oddly wary, and that's the only thing that
stops John laughing in his face when he finally says, "I don't mind if we bond."

"What?" is about all John can manage in response instead.

Paul's whole body is fairly radiating tension, but he ploughs on, regardless. "I'm not being careful
because I don't want us to bond. I…I want us to. Bond, that is. And I'm scared I'll make it happen,
if I'm not careful with you. I don't think you'd like that very much." He looks down. "Not without
knowing, anyway."

John laughs a little nervously. Maybe he's still feverish and hallucinating. "Don't be daft, you'd be
stuck with me then."

"I'm stuck with you now, aren't I?"

"Forever though."

"Yeah," Paul says nonsensically.

John's mind seems to have gone horribly blank, and it takes him a few painful seconds to dredge
up, "We don't have to bond to keep shagging, you know. I'm up for it as long as you are, Jim or no
Jim." As far as Paul's concerned, he's as sure a bet as they come.

Paul doesn't look relieved at this pronouncement. If anything, he looks offended. "That's not why I
—" He breaks off and pushes the plate off John's lap, the better to capture his hands, buttery
crumbs and all. "I would want to do it anyway. As soon as you do."

He looks so earnest that John's stupid heart starts thumping embarrassingly loudly. But all he can
think is that Paul's bound to want him, he's practically conditioned to want him, but that doesn't
mean forever, or any of the things he's promising, whether he realises it or not.

"Anyway if we weren't shagging? Or anyway if I was still on the suppressants?"

Too much of his scepticism must be showing because Paul's expression shutters. "You don't
believe me," he says. He lets go of John's hands again, his scent dulling.

The awful thing is, John really wants to believe him. It seems mad to be sitting here talking about
bonding of all things, and with Paul of all people. Like that's something they might actually do,
now or ever. But he thinks if he was going to do that with anyone it would be with Paul. Not that he
is going to do it, because when Paul starts regretting the impulse in a month or a year or a couple of
years, they'd be shackled to each other and John would have to know every day how Paul felt, and
he doesn't think he could bear that.

"It's not that I don't," he says, trying to inject some sense into a conversation that's currently
making none. "It's just, you know what people'd say. That's just what happens when you're around
someone like me for a bit too long."

Paul's face turns blotchy. "Is that what people like my dad would say?"

"Actually it was your Auntie Clare, but I don't think your dad would argue with her much."

Paul's expression doesn't bode well for Auntie Clare at the next McCartney family get-together. "I
knew she said something to you!"

"Aye, we had a lovely chat over the ham sandwiches."

"Well, it doesn't matter what she thinks either," Paul says. "It's still true." He's more subdued now
though, as if John's reaction has knocked his confidence. Not that Paul's confidence doesn't need
knocking occasionally, but John would never have chosen to do it for something like this. Not
when Paul's sitting here telling him he wants him enough to bloody bond with him. At John's
convenience, apparently. And alright, he knows there's plenty of alphas who'd want to bond with
him, him being what he is, but Paul knows all of his sharp edges and plenty of the soft bits
underneath too, and he still thinks he'd like to be stuck with him forever. He can only assume Paul's
gone off his rocker, but just the idea of it, of Paul belonging to him and him to Paul, warms him
from the inside out, kindling a fragile sort of happiness he doesn't dare try and put a name to. Mimi
always did say he was too easy for compliments.

"What are you thinking about?" Paul asks suddenly, and John realises he's watching him closely,
and that whatever he's feeling is probably not as much of a secret as he'd like.

He shoves the feeling down, too conscious of how obvious he's being and all the ways that will
only encourage Paul to think they could actually do it.

"I was thinking that you'd gone barmy," he says, and ignores Paul's attempts to interrupt him.
"How can you be so sure it's not just because I'm…what I am? When we first met you'd just
presented. Maybe you were feelin' impressionable."

To John's surprise, Paul reddens. It's not the blotchy, angry red of before, despite John's dig, but an
embarrassed flush that leaves him disconcerted. John eyes him, wondering what he said to provoke
a reaction like that, and then Paul says, "Actually, we met before that," and that's just… What?

"No, we didn't," John says, because he would definitely remember meeting Paul. But then he
remembers that Paul did see him before that, although he'd hardly call that a meeting. "Are you
talkin' about Rosebery Street?"

"It was on Woolton Road," Paul says. "It was raining and you were coming out of the newsagents.
You said "Nice day for it," and helped me with the cover for my bag because it kept falling off and
the newspapers were getting wet."

John stares. "I don't remember that."

Paul shrugs a little, rueful. "Why would you? I was a chubby fourteen year old on my paper
round."

But it was still you, John wants to say. Something as momentous as his first meeting with Paul
should be etched into his memory, the way he thought it was, but try as he might, there's nothing.

"Then after that I kept seeing you around," Paul is saying. "On the bus, and outside the chip shop
with Pete, just around." He pauses, awkwardly. "And then I didn't see you anymore."

John can guess when that was. "Bet you heard of me though," he says, a touch sour.

"No," Paul says immediately and he's looking at him all earnestly again. "I mean, I heard some
things but I didn't know it was you. I never knew your name. But then I went to Rosebery Street
and you were up on the stage and you had a band and everything. You were putting on a proper
show." It's not the first time Paul has said he liked their gig, but John never tires of hearing it. "I
thought maybe I could go and introduce myself when you were finished, since Ivan was there. But
then you… you went home early, so I didn't."

That's a very diplomatic way of saying John got chased off by the Neighbourhood Watch for
corrupting the audience, or whatever it was he was supposed to have done.

"Anyway, I asked Ivan about you after, and he told me about your gig at the fete, so I thought I'd
go."

That part, at least, is familiar. "Ivan said you asked about us. He said you wanted to know if we
needed another guitarist."

"Well, yeah," Paul says, looking self conscious. "That's what I told Ivan. But that wasn't… That
wasn't the only reason." He sees John's gleeful expression and mutters, "oh shut up," but he's
smiling a little now.

"So you came to the fete under false pretences then," John says, just to poke at him some more. He
thinks he'd quite like Paul to tell the whole story again, or better still to write it down so he can read
it back whenever he wants. Maybe perform it for the lads.

"No," Paul protests at once. "I did want to be in the band!"

"My band," John says, just to be clear, and Paul makes a face.

"Yeah, your band. That was the point."

John's still busy enjoying this revelation when Paul reaches out to take his hand again, determined.
"But that means I don't just want it because you're an omega, it was before that."

John looks at him, caught off guard by all this McCartney sincerity. "You didn't know me then
though."

"I knew I wanted to know you, and I know you now."

As usual, he makes it sound so easy, so possible. But in the midst of it all, John can't help thinking
about Tommy Johnson.

"There was this lad in the year above me at school," he starts, and Paul looks a bit thrown by the
sudden tangent. "I s'pose I'd always noticed him around, because he was older and nice enough
looking. But one night when I was drunk we started—" Judging by his expression, Paul's guessed
where this story is going so John skips the details. "Well, never mind that, the point is he turned
out to be an alpha later, and Pete reckoned that was why."

Paul frowns. "Why what?"

"Why we did that."

"Did you not…want to?" Paul asks, after a moment, like he's trying to work out the point of John's
ramblings.

That's a stupid question, since when did John do things he didn't want to? "Well, yeah, or I
wouldn't have done it."

"Then why isn't that the reason?"

"What?"

"Why isn't that the reason you did it?" Paul says patiently. "Why does it have to be just because he
turned out to be an alpha?"
Bloody Paul, always so reasonable about everything. "I dunno, that's just what Pete said and it
made me wonder."

Paul wrinkles his nose. "Since when is Pete an expert on anything?"

"Pete's an expert on everything, Macca, you know that.”

"Pete has an opinion on everything, that's not the same thing. And anyway," Paul says, before John
can defend Pete's good name or something, not that he was going to bother because Paul's only
speaking the truth. "If that was the reason, you would have remembered meeting me before,
wouldn't you? And you don't, so…" He breaks off, with the look of someone who's just delivered
the unassailable winning argument and John wants to laugh at how ridiculous this all is. That he's
sitting here arguing Paul out of telling him what he wants to hear because he, what? Wants him to
admit he doesn't really mean it?

"Well, in that case we better get on and bond so we can tell Jim and Mimi before tea. I'm sure Stu
won't mind."

"I'd mind," Paul says rudely, as if they're in a disgusting hovel and not an untidy but otherwise
unremarkable bedroom. Not that John was being serious, of course, and Paul knows it if the
displeased tilt of his mouth is any indication.

"Oh sorry, did you want something more romantic? A bit of Pat Boone playin'?"

Paul makes a sharp, frustrated noise. "Why are you being so—" He shifts forward suddenly so he
can kiss John, hard, one hand against the side of his face to hold him there. Then he pulls back and
fixes him with a look. "I know you like the idea really, I can tell."

John glares at him because that's really fucking underhanded. "Surprised you bothered to ask first
then," he snaps before he really thinks about it. He wants to take it back the moment he sees the
flash of hurt on Paul's face, but it's too late because Paul releases him and starts to stand up.

"Where are you goin'?"

Paul doesn’t look at him. "To tell Stu we're leaving. There's a bus coming soon."

"Maybe I'd rather stay here."

"I thought you were worried about your heat coming back?"

John knows better than to say he'll just try the pills again if it does. Paul will likely toss them out
the window, and heat isn't worth dying over anyway. "I might chuck up on the bus driver."

"You won't if you're with me," Paul says, as though he's reminding John that he does actually need
him for some things.

It's really fucking annoying that he's right about that. "Well I can't go back to mine, and I don't
fancy gettin' judged by Auntie Jin, thanks." He probably looks like a vagrant after sleeping in his
clothes, never mind sweaty and grubby.

"Auntie Jin isn't coming round," Paul says. "I reckon your disappearing act convinced her you've
got better things to do."

"That's what she told you."

"Well, if she does, we'll hide you in the coal shed. Put your bloody coat on."

He stalks off without waiting for John's reply and John makes a face at the door before he looks
around for his coat, because he can't actually have a heat in Stu's bedroom, Paul's right about that
much. He finds it and puts it on and then gets to his feet, feeling tired and out of sorts, and already
needing Paul back again. He's still annoyed at him for saying all that stuff about bonding in the
first place and putting the idea in his head, but he's annoyed at himself more for being such an arse
about it when he did. Now he's hurt Paul's feelings, or his ego, or whatever it is, and they're
probably never having sex again. Unless he goes into heat today, in which case it'll be pretty
bloody awkward sex, he supposes.

After dithering for perhaps half a minute, he slopes off to the bathroom to use the loo and wash his
face, nicking Stu’s nice soap, and then a bit of his toothpaste as well because he owes him. When
he thinks he's taken long enough to make his point (and when he can't wait any longer) he finally
allows himself to go and find Paul. He's in the living room with Stu, looking like he'd rather be
anywhere else. Stu breaks off whatever he was saying the moment he spots John, looking him over
with something like relief. "How are you doing? Paul says you're going to his for a bit?"

There's enough of a question in it for John to guess that Stu is picking up on the tension. But Paul
looks over at him too, wary like he half expects John to start discussing their personal business, so
he says, "Yeah, it seems like a good idea. Just in case. I'm feelin' a bit better now anyway."

"Glad to hear it."

Stu still looks guilty, and so he should, the treacherous bastard, but it's hard to be too angry with
him when John's no longer feeling like death warmed up and Paul knows the worst of it. God
knows when John would have told him. Probably never. Now he knows and there’s a relief in that,
like ripping the bandage off. It's not Stu’s fault everything else is a mess.

Stu follows them to the door and then claps John on the shoulder as best he can with Paul standing
about three inches away. "Give me a ring if you're going to be away for a bit and I'll let college
know," he says. "Or give Kathleen a ring and she can pass on the message."

"I reckon I'll be back tomorrow anyway."

Paul makes a sceptical noise, which John ignores, but Stu only smiles a little and says, "Alright,
look after yourself though." He hesitates and then nods goodbye at Paul, and Paul manages a
muttered "thanks," which is, frankly, more than John was expecting.

The short wait at the bus stop is awkward. John lights a ciggie and tries offering it to Paul, but
Paul's apparently decided he doesn't smoke anymore, or some rubbish like that, because he says a
very polite no thank you and goes on watching for the bus. So John gets the whole cigarette to
himself, which isn't half as enjoyable as it would normally be, not with Paul all stiff and unhappy
beside him. The awkwardness continues onto the bus and then off it and through the short walk to
Forthlin Road, until John thinks he's going to go barmy with it.

When Paul lets them in and offers John a cup of tea in a tone more appropriate for a trying relation
who's just dropped by without an invitation, he can't take it anymore.

"Paul, I didn't mean it, about you not askin' first."

"You never do," Paul says, going to fill the kettle up at the sink. John trails him into the kitchen,
feeling like he's really and truly put his foot in it this time. Both feet even.
"Just forget I said it."

"Alright."

"We can just forget all of it," John says, hopefully.

Paul sets the kettle on the stove with a loud clang and turns to face him. "I don't want to forget it, I
meant it."

"Well, yeah, you do now," John says, trying to be reasonable.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just that, you know, it'd be a bit awkward if we went and did it and then thought better of it later."

"Why would we think better of it later?"

John opens and closes his mouth, trying to think of an answer that wouldn't expose all his most
secret, shameful fears. Because what he really means is why wouldn't Paul think better of it later.
What on earth does he want from John besides sex, which he's already getting and can continue to
have whenever he wants? He doesn't need to bond with him for that, and if he thought having John
made him more of an alpha or some shite like that, he'd have told people about them already, and
he hasn't done that either.

Paul's still waiting, so in desperation he borrows off of Jim, of all people. "I mean, when you're
older, you might—"

"When I'm older? Bloody hell, John, if that's the best you can do—" Paul turns away and starts
angrily rooting through the cupboard for clean cups, slapping them down on the worktop like
they've offended him personally.

Alright, that was a shite argument because John knows as well as Paul does that it's only ever used
for alphas. Omegas can get bonded off as young as is legal, but god forbid an alpha not sow their
wild oats first.

"Alright, not older, but just… I dunno, you might change your mind."

He thinks he's said it flippantly enough but Paul must think differently because he pauses in the act
of wrestling with the tea caddy, and then puts it down with an exasperated sigh.

"Would you want to? If you thought I meant it?"

"I don't—"

Paul turns, cutting him off. "Would you or not?"

He doesn't know why Paul's asking when he apparently knows already. He goes to say that but
stops himself, just in time, because he's probably been enough of an arse for one morning, and if he
keeps it up even Paul's endless patience might finally wear out. Anyway, if Paul knows the answer,
it's because he'd sensed what John felt earlier, and John had felt happy, hadn't he? When he'd
thought about him and Paul being bonded? He can hardly say no, he'd hate it, when he’d only had
to think about the idea to know he felt the exact opposite.

The thing is, he's always thought the only thing worse than bonding was presenting in the first
place. Being there for someone else's pleasure, and treated like he didn't have a mind and will of
his own sounded like a pretty shit deal to John, if anyone had ever bothered to ask him (which they
hadn't). But none of those things are true for him and Paul, and he doesn't think that would change,
bond or no bond. It's not that he stops being an omega when they're together, it's just that it doesn't
matter very much that he is, or not in any of the ways he thought it would. He's just John, and Paul
is Paul, and alright, they have a lot of sex now, but they still write songs together and play in their
band, and one day they'll be famous for it. Well, hopefully not the sex part or Mimi would have an
aneurysm.

"I can see your brain working," Paul says, reminding John that he's still waiting for him to actually
answer in words. Proof, if it was still needed, that he can't really read John's mind, thank god. John
looks at him, composing and discarding about ten different answers while Paul just watches him. It
would be easy to lie again — but if Paul can tell things about John, then John can tell things about
Paul too, and he can tell, now he's really looking, that Paul is actually nervous about what he might
say. Then again, if John had tried to talk about his feelings and Paul had laughed in his face, he'd
be nervous too. In fact he'd probably have fucked off out of Liverpool by now, never to be seen
again.

With that in mind, he ends up skirting as near to the truth as he's ever going to. "I dunno. I mean, I
suppose so."

"You suppose so?" For the first time since they left Stu's flat, there's a glimmer of humour in Paul's
expression.

"Alright, yes. But—"

"Well, I do mean it," Paul says, like he's daring John to argue otherwise. "So there's nothing
stopping us then."

John eyes him, but Paul just raises his eyebrows like he's waiting for another rubbish excuse.
"Simple as that, is it?" John says, more uncertain than he'd like, because it can't be that easy.

Paul shrugs, and the corner of his mouth ticks up. "There's a bit more involved, but I reckon you'd
prefer doing that to standing around here talking about it."

Something hot shivers through John, because there's no mistaking what he means. His mind
helpfully conjures up the memory of his last heat and how close they'd come to it. How desperate
he'd been for Paul not to stop. If they really did this, then next time he wouldn't have to stop.

His reaction must be obvious because after a moment Paul pushes away from the worktop and
comes closer. He looks intent, but he looks hopeful too, and as soon as he's close enough he wastes
no time in leaning in to kiss John. It's one of his persuasive kisses, the bastard; the slow and
deliberate kind that inevitably makes John think of sex. He feels a stubborn need to resist the effect,
just to make a point (though he's not quite sure what the point is), but then Paul brings a hand up to
grip the side of his neck, firmer than usual, curling his fingers to scratch at the skin, and John
moans and shoves forward before he can help himself, pressing Paul back against the worktop and
kissing him hard. He only manages to pull away when Paul laughs, breathless and a bit too pleased
with himself.

"That's cheating."

"Imagine if I could do it properly," Paul says, because he has no shame whatsoever. While John is,
unfortunately, busy imagining just that, Paul kisses the line of his jaw, then trails his mouth lower,
dragging his mouth over skin that suddenly feels too sensitive to suck at his pulse point. It's still
careful, but not as careful as he's been keeping it lately, and John can feel himself responding too
easily. He probably needs to stop this soon or his heat really will come back, it's just hard to think
when Paul is doing that.

Just when he decides he really is going to push Paul away, Paul lifts his head to look at him instead,
too close and too bloody tempting. His gaze flits over John's face and whatever he sees there is
evidently enough to convince him his devious tactics are working.

"C'mon Johnny," he says, like something straight out of Mimi's worst nightmares. "We're most of
the way there anyway, and no-one would be on at you to bond anymore." John tries to think of an
answer to that but Paul kisses him again, a brief, sweet kiss, and slips a hand under the hem of his
shirt to palm his hip, and he forgets whatever it was he might have said. "And your heats would
settle," Paul carries on, like he's worked out a laundry list of reasons and has just been waiting for a
chance to reel them off. "And you could save your gig money for something better than those
stupid pills.”

All John can manage is, "We'd have to register it though."

"No, we wouldn't," Paul says immediately. "Not if you didn't want to. We don't need their
permission, we don't need anyone's permission. We can just do it, and once it's done, no-one could
interfere."

No Sue, or Jim, or Mimi, or bloody Auntie Clare either, John thinks. No-one could make them
undo it, once it's done. No-one except him or Paul anyway, and Paul says he wouldn't.

Still. "Your dad'll go spare."

"So what?" Paul says, as if he's not spent his whole life pleasing his dad.

"So I don't reckon you'll like it very much." If Paul's going to regret it, he'd rather he waited a
while. "I'm not sure I'm quite what old Jim has in mind."

Paul looks annoyed at that. "Well, it's not up to him, you're—" He breaks off.

"I'm what?"

Paul hesitates for a split second, like he's weighing up answering him at all. But then his
expression turns stubborn again, and he says, "You're mine. So it's got nothing to do with him."

This time the feeling that shivers through John is easier to put a name to. He wets his lips, just to
watch Paul track the movement. "Am I?"

"Yes," Paul says, with no hesitation this time. His dark eyes are fixed on John. "I know you are."

It occurs to John suddenly that maybe this was why Jim came to warn him off instead of just
telling Paul to stay away. Maybe he was just choosing the option he thought would actually work.
With that thought comes a rush of fierce satisfaction, because that means Jim knew this might
happen and Paul has just proven him right. Paul has chosen him over his dad, over his Auntie Clare,
and Sue, and everyone.

If Paul can tell what he's feeling he knows better than to comment on it this time. He just watches
John, waiting for him to say something. He still has a hand under his shirt, hot against his skin, and
John feels it like a brand now, like Paul is laying claim to him. He should hate the idea but,
unfortunately, Paul’s confidence has always walked a fine line between irritating and irresistible,
and now is no exception. So John makes him wait a while, and then a while longer just because,
before he screws up his courage and says, "I'm not doing it in the kitchen."
Paul's whole face lights up in a way that John would put up with a visit from Jim McCartney ten
times over to see. He kisses John hard, then does it again like he can't help himself, and John says,
"Alright, don't be soft," to try and cover the happiness threatening to bubble up out of him. "And I
meant it about the kitchen so cut it out."

"We don't have to do it today," Paul says, like he hasn't been groping John by the fridge. "Just…
soon, just to be on the safe side. I can do it whenever."

John fights a giddy urge to laugh. "That's very accommodating of you."

Paul kisses him again, and this time it's not a quick one, and Paul's not the only one with wandering
hands. The shrill whistle of the kettle makes them both jump, but it's probably for the best if they're
not actually going to go ahead and bond in the McCartney kitchen. It seems to take Paul a few
seconds to remember he was supposed to be making them tea, and it takes John even longer to
remember he was supposed to be making sure his heat didn't come back.

He moves away and tries to straighten himself out a bit while Paul goes back to the abandoned tea
caddy. He looks flushed and a little out of breath and it's such a good look on him that John has to
redirect his gaze out of the window for a bit, while he waits for his racing heart to slow down.

"Are you hungry?" Paul asks, after he's made them both a very haphazard cup of tea. "You've only
had toast, I can make us some proper sandwiches if you like?"

It's not escaped John's notice that Paul keeps doing this, bringing him tea and toast and sandwiches
and even the occasional chocolate bar. He's never been stingy with the tea and biscuits during band
practice, but it feels different now, or rather since, because John can pinpoint exactly when it
started.

"Do you have to feed me or something? Is it an alpha thing?"

Paul says, "What?" a bit distractedly, and then frowns, all offended, when he realises what John
means. "No. I was just being polite. You don't have to have anything. I don't care."

"Alright," John says mildly. Paul's gone red so John suspects it is, in fact, an alpha thing. Still, he's
not one to complain about being fed, so he waits for Paul to stop frowning before adding, "I
wouldn't mind a sandwich actually," and then watches as Paul automatically starts making him one.

They eat their sandwiches in the front room, once Paul's poked the fire into sluggish life and put
the radio on. He sits right next to John, so close they keep bumping elbows, and he smiles every
time he catches his eye, which seems to be approximately every five seconds. He's obviously
thinking about sex, or John and sex, probably, and it’s impossible not to react to it, especially when
he’s already so turned on. He can't tell if Paul is doing it on purpose, or whether he just can't help it
— or whether John's abortive heat is making a determined return.

"Do you reckon my heat will come back?" he asks suddenly, when Paul's nearly finished his food
and his scent has become too distracting to ignore.

Paul swallows the last bit of his sandwich and shrugs. "I dunno, maybe." He looks sideways at
John, as if assessing his mood on the subject. "It wouldn't be so bad, would it? You're here now."

With him, he means. "But what about—" John stops, not sure how to say it, but Paul guesses.

"We could. If you wanted to."

It's obvious Paul wants to, and truth be told there's something pretty appealing about the idea.
Nothing settles the nerves like being half out of your mind with lust. But John's not a coward and
he's not going to behave like some desperate omega either, letting Paul control everything. If he
does it, he wants to know what he's doing and not make a bloody idiot of himself in the attempt.
Not that he's doing anything while he feels so disgusting, skin still tacky with dried sweat from the
night before, not to mention grubby from lying on the floor. So he says, "I'll think about it. Can I
borrow your bathroom? I reckon I need a hose down after last night."

Paul looks confused by the change of subject but of course he doesn't mind, so John escapes
upstairs to shut himself in the loo and consider his options. He really does need a wash, but first he
scrubs a hand over his face and contemplates himself in the mirror. He looks pale and tired, hardly
a prize for anyone, but then Paul's not exactly known for his good taste and it's not as if John was
invisible downstairs.

As he sees it, he's got two choices. Well, three, if you count just going home (which he doesn't). He
can wait and see, or he can just get on with it. He knows what he'd rather do, what he wants to do.
He doesn't want to wait, not now he’s said he’ll do it. He's never been one for backing down and
now Paul's put the idea in his head he can't get it out again. Logically, he knows that everything
they've done so far has felt fucking amazing, so why would this be any different? He wants to
know what it's like and he wants to know whether it'll work. This mad plan to just go ahead and
bond, that is, not the knotting; he's fairly sure that part will work regardless. The pamphlet said
you had to wait for a bond to form though, and Paul hasn't said anything about that. What makes
him so confident they can just do this and bond? What if it takes weeks and people find out what
they’re doing and put a stop to it? More than anything, he really needs to have sex again. It's been
two days and half a heat, and that stupidity in the kitchen was enough to set something going again,
he's sure of it, and he reckons Paul knows it too. If he waits around too long, he might not care how
he gets it. At least this way he's still in charge.

He stares at himself some more, as if fixing the decision in his mind, and then strips his grubby
shirt off and fills the sink up before he can think himself out of it again. He doesn't bother locking
the door, knowing Paul will probably come and go as he pleases, and sure enough he's barely been
in there five minutes before he comes wandering in with a towel and some clothes.

He drapes them over the side of the bath and then just perches there to watch him.

“Don’t you have something else to do?" John says, but there's no bite in it because he prefers to
have Paul here anyway. There's a warmth pooling in his stomach that has nothing to do with the
heat of the water, and everything to do with the way Paul is looking at him.

"No," Paul says easily.

John flicks a bit of water at him, making him scrunch his face up, and then reaches for the soap
and actually gets himself clean. He doesn't usually think twice about the boring routine of washing,
but now that he can feel Paul's gaze on him the whole time, he's too conscious in his own skin, like
there's something thrillingly illicit about washing his arms and the back of his neck. It doesn't help
that he's getting halfway hard and Paul has definitely noticed.

"Do you need some help?" he says after a while, and the look John gives him must be very
unimpressed because he grins. "Worth a try."

"Aye, it always is with you."

Paul fails to look the least bit ashamed. "I could scrub your back?"

"Sod off," John says, trying not to laugh. "And stop starin' at me in the altogether."
"You're not in the altogether," Paul says, eyes dropping to John's trousers speculatively.

"Oi!" Paul looks up again, all innocent, and John's face feels warm. "I might as well be. Go on, I'll
be out in a minute."

Paul blows out a long breath like John is being extremely unfair and unreasonable, but he does
finally get up and leave him to finish in peace. Which is for the best, because if he's going to do
what he's planning, he'd better lock the door after all and make sure he washes everywhere.

By the time he's done, he's more than half hard and practically vibrating with anticipation. He can
hear Paul pottering around in his bedroom, which is unwittingly good planning on his part. He's
got a record on, which is less good, since John doesn't fancy getting a hard on every time he hears
the Everly Brothers from now on. Still, it can't be helped. He dithers over whether to bother
changing into the clothes Paul left for him, but it seems a bit pointless when he's just going to take
them straight off again. In the end, he just wraps the towel around his waist and pads across the
landing to Paul's room.

Paul is standing by his bed, reading the back of a record sleeve. He glances up when John comes
in, then looks again, confused. "Didn't you want the—"

John kisses him, trying to make his intentions as clear as he possibly can. Paul's on board with the
kissing immediately, but he doesn't seem to understand what else John wants, not until he pulls
back and says very clearly, "Are we goin' to do it or not then?"

Paul's landed fish expression is deeply satisfying after all the shocks he's dropped on John this
morning. It also reminds him vividly of the first time he offered him a blowjob, only this time it
seems to take Paul even longer to get his brain working again.

"Well?" John prompts him in the end, trying not to let a single shred of nerves creep into his voice.

"Yeah," Paul breathes. Then he makes a visible effort to pull himself together. "Yes. Okay. We can
—" He seems to realise he's still holding the record and chucks it to one side. Then he kisses John
again, and smiles at him so brilliantly John feels his stomach flop all over itself. He smiles back
and for a moment they're just smiling at each other like a pair of gormless idiots. Then Paul gives
himself a little shake and starts yanking his jumper over his head. It messes up his hair which John
deliberately doesn't mention. He's not waiting while Paul preens himself again and he prefers him a
bit ruffled anyway, especially with what they're about to do.

Jumper off, Paul starts on his shirt, fumbling the buttons in his haste until John helps him, hands
bumping against each other. Then Paul has to kiss him again apparently, tugging the knot on his
towel free so he can get his hands on him properly. John jerks forward the moment Paul gets a
hand around his dick, the sensation too intense after how long he's been waiting for it. Paul starts
stroking him with the ease born of long practice. The bastard knows all the things John likes now,
and how to draw it out in just the right way, and John pants against his mouth, trembling as he feels
the familiar burn building, fast and overwhelming. He's going to come extremely quickly if they
don't stop and he thought the whole point was not to do what they do every other time.

He grabs Paul's wrist to still it, managing to say, "I thought we were meant to be doing it
properly?"

Paul licks his lips. "Let me get you off first."

He looks determined and John wonders if there's a purpose behind it, besides the obvious. Is it
meant to hurt? God, he hopes it doesn't hurt, not too much anyway. It's not like he's ever tried
anything like it before to know. He can't bring himself to ask Paul though so he just says, "Alright,
but on the bed, and finish getting undressed first." Paul's still got his trousers on for fuck's sake.

Paul shucks the rest of his clothes at what must be record speed — John's pretty sure a sock ends
up in the bin — before he's finally naked. He kisses John again, pressing the whole hot length of
his body against him until the pressure on his dick becomes unbearable.

"Bed, c'mon," John mumbles, before Paul can start distracting him again. Paul's only too happy to
comply this time, and the moment John gets on the bed he clambers over him to kiss his jaw,
running a hand down his chest to his stomach and then pausing there, tantalisingly close, until John
bucks up impatiently to remind him to stop pissing about. Paul gets the message, working him with
long brisk strokes until John is slick and on the verge of orgasm, and then waiting until he starts to
tense up to suddenly duck his head and suck hard at his pulse point. John swears, his whole body
pushing up into Paul's as he comes, desperate to be closer. Paul keeps sucking hard at his neck like
the bloody vampire that he is, all through his orgasm and the aftershocks, and then beyond that
until the arousal starts building again and John is shivering uncontrollably. Then Paul scrapes his
teeth over the too sensitive mark on his skin, a quick light pain, and John spasms and pushes him
away because it's too much.

"Alright?" Paul asks breathlessly, shifting up enough that he can see John, eyes flitting over his
face.

John just nods because he doesn't trust his voice yet and Paul grins and kisses him, putting his hand
on his stomach again but more carefully this time, soothing instead of tormenting. He's hard, John
can tell, but he doesn't try to do anything about it. He just carries on kissing him, hand moving
gently until the floating feeling John loves so much starts to creep over him and he relaxes into it,
winding an arm around Paul's neck to hold him there.

Eventually however Paul starts moving against him, the smallest shifts of his hips but enough to
remind John he must be desperate to come. When the small shifts become something more urgent,
he breaks the kiss to say, "Alright, go on then," because it's not like they don't both know what
they're here for.

Paul slows, looking at him incredulously. "Thanks, that was very romantic."

He actually sounds quite put out about it so John says, "How should I say it then?"

"Like you mean it, would be nice," Paul mutters.

"What? Like an omega from a dirty magazine?" John stretches up to kiss Paul, then murmurs
against his mouth in an exaggerated approximation of the worst omega stereotypes he can think of,
"Oh please Paul, hurry up and knot me, I need it, I want you to—"

Paul suddenly jerks forward like he can't help himself and John stops talking, eyes widening.

Paul reddens. "Don't."

John feels a surge of unholy glee, amongst other things, and it proves to be quite the inspiration. He
pushes up to roll them over, giving Paul no chance to protest as he starts kissing across the soft skin
of his neck, all the while keeping up a breathless litany of "Please, Paul. I want it, I want you," and
whatever else he can think of that might get Paul going.

"You're— You're the worst," Paul manages, but he can't stop moving now, thrusting up to rub off
against John, his scent curling around them, addictive and inescapable, making John so wet Paul
must be aware of it. When John shifts to wrap a hand around his dick and run it down and over his
knot, he actually feels it swell a little under his hand, startling him. Paul makes a strangled noise so
he keeps doing it, while Paul pants harshly, his whole body tense and shaking with need.

"S–Stop it," Paul gasps eventually and John does; he thinks he's turned the tables on him enough by
now. He kisses his cheek instead and moves back so he can see him better. Paul's face is pink and
his eyes are so dark they're almost black as he looks up at John. Well, it's more like a glare really,
but lust shivers through John anyway. Even though it was far too much fun tormenting him, he
feels the sudden urge to make sure Paul knows he really does mean it.

"I do want it," he says, and Paul's breath catches audibly, eyes moving searchingly over John's
face.

"Are you sure?" he asks after a moment, as if he can't tell how turned on John is.

John resists the urge to roll his eyes. "Don't start getting cold feet now."

"I'm not," Paul says immediately. "I just wanted to make sure you weren't."

He looks so earnest that John resists the urge to wind him up again and just says, "Course I'm
sure." Then, because they might as well be prepared, he adds, "Anyway, we don't know it'll work
yet."

Paul frowns a little at that. "Of course it will work."

"I just mean today," John clarifies. "That pamphlet said you have to wait for it to happen."

"For other people maybe, not for us." Paul sounds so sure of it that John's dick, which was already
nearly hard again, gets the rest of the way there.

He raises his eyebrows "You think so, do you?"

"I do," Paul says, still with that unshakeable certainty.

"Alright," John says after a moment. "Well, let's see then." He climbs off of Paul and gets onto his
back, as that seems the most practical position for what they're going to do. There's a flutter of
nerves, beneath the arousal, that's neatly undercut when Paul gets up awkwardly onto his knees,
painfully hard, and then looks a bit lost, like he's not quite sure how to begin.

"Do you know where to put it?" John asks helpfully, feeling an inappropriate urge to giggle.

Paul gives him a dark look, which just makes the urge worse. Maybe it's hysteria. His mum knew a
woman once who used to laugh at funerals because she got so nervous about them. Not that he's
comparing this to a funeral.

"I was just wondering if I should use anything first," Paul says. He looks embarrassed, which is all
the more endearing after his confidence before. "Like with girls. I know you're not a girl," he adds
hastily, at seeing John's face. "But I don't want to hurt you."

"I'm made of pretty strong stuff," John says, which is a complete lie. He skinned his shin once
climbing over a fence and he definitely cried and had to swear Pete to secrecy about it after.

Paul looks pretty sceptical about the claim anyway and goes rooting around down the side of his
bed for the vaseline, "just in case," apparently.
To start with it's not that different to what they normally do outside of heat. Paul kisses him and
strokes a hand over his stomach, giving his dick a few light strokes that makes John hiss at the too-
much feeling of it, and then settling a vaseline slick hand on his thigh. He nudges at it gently,
urging John's legs further apart and running callused fingers over the delicate skin there until John
moans into the kiss, wanting more. Finally, he moves his hand further back, over his balls and to
where John is so wet and open he can't believe the vaseline is remotely necessary. Paul's careful
anyway, or maybe he's just nervous. John can feel his hand shaking a little as he rubs his fingers
across the slick ring of muscle there, pressing in, just a little, and then John stops noticing any of
that because it's just like before, like discovering nerve endings he didn't know he had. He stops
kissing Paul and breathes through the feeling as Paul does it over and over again, building up a
rhythm, pressing in a little deeper each time. He's watching John's face fixedly, as if he's waiting
for a wince or grimace or any other sign of discomfort. But John doesn't feel uncomfortable, not
really. It feels odd, certainly, but he doesn't want Paul to stop. It feels like he's on the cusp of
something and when Paul pushes a finger properly inside he gets a flash of it, a bone deep need to
be filled. He says, "keep going," in case Paul was planning to do otherwise and Paul shifts a little to
get a better angle and then starts pushing his finger in and out. John bends his knees more, trying to
force him in further, and Paul eventually gets the hint and adds a second finger once he's satisfied
himself there's little resistance to the first. John wonders vaguely if Paul read about this in one of
his medical books; if there’s some dry, technical guide he’s trying to follow. He seems determined
to go as slowly and carefully as possible and it's maddening, keeping John forever skirting the edge
of something he's sure he needs.

By the time Paul gets to three careful fingers most of the way inside him and looks to be
considering a fourth, John thinks he might go barmy waiting for him to just put his dick in instead.
"Fucking hell, Paul. Get on with it," he says, and Paul has to stop to squeeze himself, grimacing at
what must be a fairly pressing need to come by now.

Fucking finally, Paul stops messing about and takes his fingers out, shuffling about to get into the
right position and taking his sweet time about it until John just tightens his legs around him,
yanking him forward.

"Alright, alright," Paul says, choking on a shaky laugh. "Let me just…"

He shifts a bit more and then John feels it at his entrance, a blunt pressure that grows as Paul
begins to press in. He's moving slowly, but he still feels enormous inside John and the flutter of
nerves makes an unwelcome return. Paul pushes in a little way, then withdraws and does it again,
and John wills himself to relax, to push through any pain like he's sure he can. But the pain he fears
never actually comes, not in any way that matters. Instead it feels… It feels like something that
could be good, could be bloody amazing, in fact, but isn't yet. Paul keeps moving in and out in that
same cautious way, and John soon stops noticing the odd discomfort of it as the rhythmic friction
sparks the beginnings of a delicious heat in his gut that might actually be the real thing. It's harder
to know when John is so painfully aroused anyway. Stlll, it feels like there should be more, like
there almost is more, but it's so tantalisingly out of reach that he frowns in dissatisfaction.

"Does it hurt?" Paul asks immediately, falling still, still half inside of John. He's trembling all over,
a fine sheen of sweat on his face, but his eyes are anxious.

"No," John answers honestly. "But I don't reckon you're doing it right."

Paul scowls at that, because he's not one who will ever appreciate his performance being criticised,
on stage or off it. "I am doing it right, I'm just trying to go slow."

"Well, don't," John says bluntly. Abruptly, he tightens his legs around Paul again and it must catch
him off guard because he makes a stuttery "Ah" noise and jerks forward, pushing in much harder
and deeper than he has been so far. John inhales sharply and clenches down because there's
something… He definitely felt something. He kicks lightly at Paul with his heels and says, "do that
again."

Paul seems to need a moment to recover first, breathing hard and holding himself unnaturally still.
Then he obediently withdraws and pushes back in, hard, until John can feel his knot pressing at his
rim. He kicks at him again, impatient. "That's it, go on."

So Paul does, each time pushing in a little harder, and the hot feeling is building properly now,
stoked by the blunt thrusts of Paul's hips and the little grunts of effort he's making. Then Paul shifts
a little, perhaps to get into a more comfortable position, and the next time he pushes in there's a
spark of something so intense it makes John's whole body jerk uncontrollably. Paul stops yet again
and John will actually murder him if he doesn't keep going.

"Don't you dare fucking stop," he manages to gasp and Paul, thank god, doesn't ask stupid
questions this time, he just gets back to it. There's no spark on the second go, or the third, but then
on the fourth…

"Jesus fuck," John says loudly and Paul laughs breathlessly when John kicks him again because he
needs that feeling. He'll die if he doesn’t get it.

"Stop kicking me," Paul says, but he looks inordinately pleased by John's reaction and wastes no
time in trying to repeat exactly what he did before. It takes him another couple of tries but then he
catches that spot again, and John spasms, his dick so hard it's actually hurting. Now Paul has
worked out where the thing is, whatever the fuck it might be, he starts trying to hit it every time,
frowning in a very Paul-like way until he starts getting it on every thrust and John is shaking all
over, struggling to catch his breath against the strange, overwhelming intensity of it, like liquid fire
running through his veins. The more Paul does it, the more John tightens his legs around him,
tilting his hips up to try and pull him deeper inside until suddenly Paul shoves forward and his knot
pushes in fully for the first time, filling John so perfectly that he almost sobs with frustration when
Paul withdraws again.

"Jesus, Paul, will you just fuck me properly," he snaps, goaded beyond endurance, and Paul
shudders, making a strangled noise before he finally stops bloody torturing them both and does
what John wants, shoving in hard, and then doing it over and over like he can't help himself, the
bedsprings creaking outrageously as he builds up a rhythm. Now John knows what the feeling was
that he was missing before, it was this, the intensity of whatever that spot is inside him and the
pressure of Paul's knot, pushing in and dragging out of him, lighting up all his nerve endings and
keeping him forever chasing the sensation, desperate for more of it. Paul's knot starts to swell
almost immediately, making it more difficult to push in and pull out the longer their bodies work
together, so Paul has to shove in harder each time and it's shocking, how good that is, how it
punches the breath out of him every time Paul does it. John's so turned on by now he's amazed he
hasn't come again yet, but he can't get a hand on himself, he can't even catch his breath. He can't
do anything but cling on to Paul, urging him on with his body.

Eventually the inevitable happens and Paul pushes in and the knot catches and holds. He tries to
pull back again but John hisses, so he stops. "Sorry." He kisses him shakily in apology, sounding
embarrassed. "I didn't— I didn't mean for it to happen so quickly."

John returns the kiss distractedly, too preoccupied with the fullness inside of him. The knot seems
impossibly still to be swelling, and with every second that passes it stretches him more, a perfect
pressure that has him shifting restlessly, trying to get more of it. Paul groans whenever he moves,
burying his face against John's neck as his knot swells still further, bringing his dick into delicious,
inescapable contact with that magical spot inside him. John clenches down automatically, arching
up because Jesus Christ, he's never felt anything like it in his life.

Paul's hips jerk convulsively and although he can't move very much, he starts again anyway, tiny
abortive thrusts that send pleasure sparking wildly through John with every shift of his body. He
feels like he has to come soon, it's not possible to feel so much and not come; his heart hammering
in his chest and his breath coming out in sharp pants. He can't even see his own dick properly
under Paul's body, but he knows he must be impossibly hard. Then Paul moves to suck hard at his
neck again and John manages to get a hand on himself, only to realise, with a distant sort of shock,
that he's come already and his stomach is wet. And yet still the feeling keeps building, tightening
inside of him until he's shaking uncontrollably, until he feels like it can't be contained any longer
but will have to spill out somehow. It's almost unbearable, the need he has, and he digs blunt
fingernails into Paul's back, frantically twisting his head to scrape his teeth over the tendon in his
neck, and then bite him there, guided by an instinct too strong to question.

Paul makes a desperate sound and shoves forward like he's trying to fuse the pair of them into one
being, and then there's a rush of heat inside John as he starts to come at last. He's held open and
helpless as Paul pulses into him, and he needs to come so badly, or no, he thinks confusedly, not to
come because he's done that already. But whatever it is that will relieve the clawing need inside of
him.

"Paul," he gasps when the feeling becomes unendurable. His voice doesn't sound like his own.
"C'mon. Please."

Paul, thank god, seems to know what it is he's asking for, even if John doesn't. Somehow, he
pushes in still further, pinning John to the bed with the force of his body as he presses a fierce kiss
to the underside of his jaw and then bites down on the skin of his neck, a bright, perfect
counterpoint of pain to the spiralling pleasure. The unbearable feeling abruptly breaks in a wash of
sensation so intense, John thinks he might actually black out for a moment. Time must keep
passing, but he has no idea if it's a few seconds or a few minutes before he comes back to himself
to find his face embarrassingly wet. He wipes at it quickly with clumsy fingers, then curls a hand
around the back of Paul's head where he's pressed into the crook of John's neck, licking and
sucking at the mark he's made there, fine tremors running through the muscles of his back. He's
still pulsing into John, and between that and the working of his mouth, John feels like he's lost all
control of his body, waves of bone deep pleasure rolling through him, inexorable and
overwhelming. He can barely think; the only thing he's aware of with any certainty is Paul. The
shocking heat of him inside and all around him; how much he can't bear the thought of Paul ever
letting him go. He can't physically get any closer to him but he tries anyway, wrapping himself
tightly around him and kissing his shoulder, his ear, and the side of his face, whatever part of him
he can reach, then doing it all over again. John thinks they could merge into one person and it still
wouldn't be close enough for him.

He doesn't know how long they lie there, unmoving but for the tiny shifts of Paul's hips and the
heat of his mouth, but eventually Paul stirs himself properly, kissing the tender spot on his neck
one last time and then lifting up enough to see John's face. The movement pulls at the place where
they're joined together, making John suck in a shaky breath, twitching involuntarily at the
sensation. It doesn't hurt, quite the opposite in fact, but Paul stills anyway, grimacing.

"Sorry," he says, quietly. He looks down at John and John wonders if he looks as shocked as Paul
does, as if the world's just abruptly rearranged itself around another person. Paul's face is flushed,
his eyes still dark with arousal, but John's relieved to see that his eyelashes are suspiciously wet too.
"Looks like it worked then," he manages, although it comes out all wobbly.

Paul smiles at him, a sweet, happy smile that lights something inside John that's better than
anything they've just done. "I should have bet you ten bob."

John makes a dismissive noise, only half joking when he says, "What's yours is mine now, isn't
that how it works?"

"Yes," Paul replies, like he isn't joking at all.

John swallows around the sudden pressure in his throat and casts round for a change of subject. "So
what do we do now?"

"Uh…Nothing, for a while," Paul says, rueful. "I don't know how long this lasts, I've never done it
before."

Bloody good job, John thinks. It would have been an awful time for him to reveal he had.
"Hopefully not til your Auntie Jin comes round with the washing," he says instead. Paul huffs a
laugh at that and the movement produces another interesting sensation that makes John twitch and
try to pull Paul closer. Paul goes easily, nosing into the side of his neck and licking over the mark
there until John feels the urgent need to kiss him. He's no sooner turned his head to nudge at him
then Paul moves to kiss him deep and messy, exactly like he wants.

John's hyper aware of all the points where they're touching and normally he'd roll them over, get a
hand or his mouth on Paul until he makes the noises John loves so much. But he can't do either of
those things now, trapped beneath Paul like he is, so he tries to pour all of it into the kiss instead,
tightening his legs to hold Paul inside him, though he's hardly going anywhere yet. Paul definitely
gets the message, returning the kiss fervently as he starts to rock into him again. It's impossible to
thrust properly, but every time Paul moves, his knot pulls at John, sending tiny sparks of pleasure
zipping along his spine. He's never been so aware of how much Paul wants him, and it's such a
heady sensation to feel so much of Paul's desire as well as his own, that he thinks he's already
becoming addicted to it. He pushes back against him, and Paul's rhythm stutters and then picks up
again, faster, until the sparks along John's spine are coming so frequently they're just one
continuous line of fire and he can't seem to shut up, little gasps and choked off moans escaping
despite his best efforts. He comes before he can even get a hand on himself, or before Paul can
either. He must clench down hard when he does because Paul abruptly falters and John feels
another hot pulse inside him before Paul slumps forward.

"Jesus Christ," John says eloquently, when he can speak again.

Paul sounds like he's been running for the bus. "Yeah."

"Maybe we should just stay still now til you're finished." John's a bit worried he won't be able to
walk after at this rate.

"Good idea," Paul says shakily and he nuzzles into the crook of John's neck again but this time
keeps his tongue and teeth to himself, content to just lie there quietly, breathing him in. John can
feel his chest rising and falling against him.

"Go on then, what do I smell like?" He remembers that other night in Paul's bedroom.

Paul smiles like he's remembering it too. "Happy."

John snorts. "You're soft."

"No, I'm not," Paul grumbles, and he's not really, except for when they're like this. Except with
John, it seems. John likes that idea, that he knows things about Paul that no-one else does, just like
he now has something of Paul that no-one else has, not George or Sue or anyone. First the
songwriting and now this, a proper bond. The incontrovertible proof that he, John Lennon, is
perfect for someone. So much so that they can bond without hardly trying, like in films.

"What are you thinking about?" Paul asks. He sounds amused and John wonders what he can sense.

He wraps his arms more tightly around Paul, letting the truth of it fill him up so he'll feel it as well
as hear it. "I was thinkin' that you're mine now too."

Paul makes a pleased noise and kisses his collarbone, which is apparently the nearest part of John
he can reach. "I was anyway."

John lets the weight of that settle in his chest. "Since when?"

"Since I saw you playing your guitar like a banjo and doing that dodgy George Formby
impression."

John pokes him in the side and Paul snickers. He smells happy too, John realises, and like he's
thinking about sex — which is not surprising given they're currently still having it. Technically
anyway, he's not sure if it counts when they're just stuck here, but it certainly feels like it does.

"What did you think of me? When you first saw me at the fete?" Paul asks, breaking into his
thoughts. "Apart from that I looked like Elvis."

Christ, John's probably going to live to regret telling him that. "I can't remember, I was blinded by
your jacket."

"Johnny," Paul says, drawing his name out and then nipping him lightly, the bastard. John twitches
his head away and Paul licks over the sore spot in apology.

He casts his mind back to the warm church hall, and the way Paul had looked at him. "I thought
you were goin' to be trouble," he says at last.

"Good thing you were wrong about that then," Paul says equably and John feels a slightly
hysterical urge to laugh bubbling up. After what happened last time it doesn't seem like a very good
idea so he tries to think of something boring instead. It must bleed into whatever Paul can sense
because he suddenly rocks forward, as if John needs a pointed reminder of what they're doing. John
really doesn't but his breath hitches all the same as a spark of heat licks up his spine.

"Stop bloody cheating," he mutters as he feels Paul laughing to himself, and then he kicks him
lightly again to make sure they're even.

It takes another ten minutes or so after that before Paul's knot is small enough for him to finally
pull out. He does it slowly, with many apologies, but John feels oddly bereft anyway. Paul kisses
him as he stretches out his aching back and then they discover the other, less exciting part of
bonding, namely that it's really fucking messy.

"I reckon we might have to burn the whole bed," John says, because it hadn't occurred to him that
everything was going to be quite so wet after.

Paul makes a face, and then decides they better clean up, at least a bit, so they take their disgusting
selves off to the McCartney bathroom and take turns washing up with the last of the hot water in
the tank. Paul politely turns his back to give John some privacy, which John appreciates but also
finds hilarious after how they've just spent their morning. Or possibly morning and afternoon, he
has no idea what time it is.

He could do with being hosed down in the yard, he thinks, but he has to make do with tepid tap
water and an old towel instead. He rinses himself off as best he can and then hesitates when he
picks up the soap, because the thought of scrubbing Paul off his skin now is more than awful. It's
unbearable, just the idea of it sends his pulse rabbiting, panic threatening.

"It's alright," Paul says, turning round again. He’s in the middle of drying himself off but he drops
his towel on the floor so he can press himself fully against John, winding his arms around his neck
and kissing him til his heart slows to something like normal. "It'll be alright now we're bonded." He
pulls back and touches a hand to the mark on John's neck and quirks a smile when John sucks in a
breath. "See, I've marked you properly so it's just soap."

He's right of course. It does still feel weird, but it's not awful like it was before. It doesn't feel like
he's washing Paul off because Paul is his now, and he's Paul's, and he can feel that so deep in his
bones that it can't be scrubbed out that easily.

As soon as they're mostly decent Paul fetches the oil radiator and they retreat back to Paul's room.
He stuffs the horrifying top blanket under the bed and then they get under the remaining covers
and Paul proceeds to wrap himself around John as closely as if they were still tied together. John
doesn't realise, until the relief washes over him, how tense he'd been from not touching him.

"When does this wear off?" he asks, a bit worried because he does have to face the wrath of Mimi
at some point and he doesn't want Paul tagging along when he does.

"It doesn't," Paul says, a little muffled from where he has his face squashed into the crook of John's
neck again. "You have to come to the Inny with me now."

"What?" John pokes his head up to try and see him better, then realises Paul's shoulders are starting
to shake. "Oh sod off." He flops back down. Jim'd love that, having John trailing Paul to school.

"I dunno when," Paul says, once he's recovered from his own wit. "Not long, probably, and it's not
like we can't be apart. It'll just be better when we're not."

Which isn't much different to before, really. Not for John anyway and, if everything Paul's told him
is true, not for him either.

"Probably for the best," John says. "Else Mimi would have murdered you."

Paul tenses, and then shifts to look at him. "I'm coming with you to talk to her."

"No, you're not," John says firmly. "It's bad enough I have to talk to her."

Paul frowns, which just adds to the general air of unhappiness emanating from him. It's going to
take a while to get used to the effect that has on John now, worse even than it was before. How
much it makes him want to stop doing whatever it is that's making Paul feel that way. "Don't be
stupid. I have to come with you to help you explain."

John looks at him, wondering if it's worth telling him that Mimi's probably going to throw him out,
or threaten to. At least until she decides whether to forgive him or not. And that if she does, he's
already decided to fuck off to Stu's. Taking in Paul's stubborn expression, he decides to save that
one for later. "I think it'll just be better coming from me," he says instead, trying for conciliatory.
"You know what she's like." Paul still looks dissatisfied so John adds, "And to keep it fair, I'll let
you talk to Old Man McCartney on your own too, how's that?"
That gets him a laugh, like he expected it would. "That's very generous of you."

"I thought it was."

Paul lies down again and John thinks the conversation is over, but after a few minutes he says
quietly, "I wouldn't make you talk to dad anyway, not after last time."

"I'm not scared of your dad," John says, a bit offended Paul would even think it. It's not Jim he's
scared of, or even the things he'd say, it's Paul hearing them and John having to stand there while
he does. He's not sure he could take the humiliation of that and it's not like he can start rowing with
Paul's dad right in front of him.

Paul presses a kiss to the underside of his jaw. "I know that. I just don't want him speaking to you
like that again."

His tone would not go down at all well with Jim, but John likes it. He likes the reminder that, for
good or ill, Paul’s thrown his lot in with him now, even in the face of his dad’s disapproval.

"You should wait a couple of weeks and tell him for his Christmas present."

Paul laughs a little at that and John's surprised to find there's no undercurrent to it. Even with his
new awareness of Paul, all he can feel from him is satisfaction — and that he's still thinking about
sex, but John's not sure he can ever completely switch that off.

"Aren't you bothered?" he asks after a bit.

"About what?"

"About your dad finding out?"

Paul huffs quietly. "No. I meant what I said before. And anyway, he didn't let anyone stop him
bonding with my mum, and everyone said she wasn't a proper omega because she was too old and
had a job."

It takes a moment for John to get past the fact he is apparently being compared to the sainted Mrs.
McCartney, but once he does he's almost intrigued by the notion of a rebellious Jim. "What did he
say to that?"

"He said he just saw her and knew, and after that whatever they said didn't matter." Then Paul
adds, "like with me," with such conviction that John starts laughing and has to roll them over so he
can kiss him thoroughly.

"I mean it," Paul protests, in between kisses, sounding quite put out about being laughed at for it.

He really does too, John can feel it, so he mostly stops laughing but he doesn't stop kissing him. It's
warm under the blankets, and warmer still with Paul trapped underneath him, and for a while, as
they're kissing lazily and he's revelling in the ease of it all, he thinks that's all it is. But of course it
isn't.

"Fuck's sake," he says at last, pulling back.

Paul's eyes are dark. "Sorry." The bastard doesn't look sorry and he definitely doesn't feel it.

John can already feel himself responding. He can't believe that after all the worrying he just did
about going into heat, it's bloody Paul going into rut that buggers it all up.
"Can't you turn it off?" he asks, even though he knows the answer to that one. "What if we dunked
you in a cold bath?"

Paul wets his lips. "I don't think it's a proper one." His hands slide down to bracket John's hips and
it's a bit distracting, what with him looking up at John like he's all of his wet dreams come at once.

"It better not be," John says weakly, because it's really distracting actually. "I'm not even in heat."

"I know, but we just bonded and you smell really…" Paul hesitates like he's searching for the right
word, and in the end settles on, "available."

"Well, I'm not available, I'm goin' on strike," John says, just to be a shit, and Paul's hands tighten
like he thinks John actually means it.

"We don't have to—" Paul starts, sounding uncertain.

John rolls his eyes and bends down to kiss him, quick and firm. "Don't be daft. Just have some
consideration for me delicate health."

He clambers off Paul and rolls onto his back again, and after a moment Paul follows him, radiating
a confusing mix of relief and want. He goes straight for John's neck of course, biting at the bruised
skin and sending a surge of arousal skittering through him that he's not sure is his or Paul's or both.
John tilts his head back to give him room, running a hand down Paul's back to feel the smooth shift
of muscles beneath his palm.

"Is this goin' to make me go into heat again?"

"Don't know. Maybe a bit," Paul says, licking over the bruise and then kissing along his jaw before
lifting his head up enough to look at him. He's already flushed and it looks as good on him as it
always does. "lt'll be better this time though, now we're bonded. We can do it properly."

John raises his eyebrows. "Weren't we doing it properly before?"

"No," Paul says, so decisively that John feels a flutter of anticipation. He's half hard already, just
from Paul's mouth on his neck — but he's also too aware of how long they've been doing this
already.

"What time's George coming round?" he asks, because he doesn't much fancy being in heat when
he does, but Paul just says, "He isn't, I told him not to bother," and goes back to trailing kisses
down his neck to his collarbone, shoving the blankets off so he has better access.

John hopes Paul's going where he thinks he is, otherwise he's getting cold for nothing. "That was
very presumptuous of you."

Paul presses a kiss to his chest and says darkly, "I wasn't going to leave you with Stu."

"Aye, fate worse than death, that."

"Not in heat," Paul says, like John isn't understanding the seriousness of the situation or
something. To be fair, John wouldn't want to be in heat around Stu either, but that's because it
would be bloody mortifying, not because he might accidentally bond with him. Or might have,
anyway, it's a bit late for that now, he supposes.

"Thank god you saved me," John says, watching Paul press kisses against his stomach as he moves
lower. Any other time he might have argued the toss with him over Stu's honourable intentions, but
right now Paul is fairly radiating possessiveness and it's really doing it for him. The flutter of
anticipation has become a constant hum by the time Paul gets to his destination, but he still takes
his sweet time about it, running his fingers over John's inner thigh and then down, to the sensitive
skin behind his balls, lingering over it like he's revelling in just touching him, until John's fully
hard and trying not to move.

When it gets to be too much, he pushes up onto his elbows unsteadily. "Do you mind? I'm not
gettin' any younger here." He's already too hot, his skin hypersensitive under Paul's hands.

Paul looks up at him then and John can't see his face clearly, even at this short distance, but he
doesn't need to be able to see to know how turned on he is. The scent of Paul's arousal is filling the
room, feeding the butterflies under his skin.

Evidently Paul thinks he's tortured him enough because he finally ducks his head and takes John
into his mouth and John flops back, letting out a sigh of relief because fucking hell, it's about time.
He starts off easy enough and John closes his eyes, letting the waves of pleasure ripple through him
as Paul works him with one hand and his mouth does the rest. But Paul's too good at it now. Like
with everything he does, he's not content to just do it well if he can find ways to do it better, and it's
not long before his hand starts wandering again, first back to John's thigh and then over his balls
and to the skin behind — which is somehow ten times more sensitive than it was before. When
Paul nudges his legs further apart John thinks he knows what's coming but he's still unprepared for
when Paul dips a hand between his slick thighs and pushes two fingers inside with no preamble.
John gasps, arching up, but Paul moves with him and there's no respite, caught between his fingers
and the shocking wet heat of his mouth. His coordination needs some work, but once Paul finds
that spot inside him again it hardly matters. He rubs his fingers over it as best he can while
humming around John's dick and John starts trembling all over, hardly knowing whether to push up
into the delicious heat or bear down to force his fingers in further where he needs them. He ends up
trapped between the two instead, shifting helplessly, as he pants through it, sharply aware of how
much Paul's getting off on it with him. It makes more sense now, he thinks vaguely, why Paul
nearly ripped his hair out that time.

He doesn't have to endure it for long, in the end. His heat hits about the same time as his orgasm
does, and Paul swallows it all and then pulls away, mouth and fingers both, and presses his face to
John's thigh, taking great gasping breaths like it's too much for him. It takes John a second too long
to realise he's actually finished coming because the sensation continues to pulse through him,
feeding off the overwhelming want he can feel from Paul. He lies there, spent and still shivering
occasionally, as he listens to Paul's erratic breathing and tries to hold off his heat long enough to
bask in the afterglow for five fucking minutes. But of course there isn't really an afterglow, just a
smooth transition from one kind of wanting to another, only more urgent this time.

He pushes the blanket further away, not wanting to be any hotter than he is already, and looks
down at Paul, who's being weirdly quiet, and also pretty useless. He nudges him with his knee,
trying to get his attention back where it should be. "Oi, no sleeping on the job."

Paul pushes up to look at him and John thinks he's probably got that pissy look on his face. Well,
he can go ahead and look that way, he can't set John off and then just lie there, not doing anything
about it, especially when John can tell how much he wants to be doing something.

"I wasn't asleep," Paul says, and John has a full body reaction to the hoarse edge to his voice, Jesus.
"I just needed a minute."

"What for? You haven't even come yet."

"I know." Paul ducks his head for a moment and takes a couple of steadying breaths. John waits
and then thinks he's waited long enough as it is.

"Bloody hell, Paul, just come up here." He reaches down to yank at Paul's arm and after a couple
of goes Paul finally crawls forward until he's over John, and John can kiss him like he needs to.
Paul kisses him back hard, which is perfect, but then he pulls away again, which isn't, and John lets
out a whine of frustration he will deny to his grave.

"You're very pushy." Paul's breathing is still shaky.

"Aye, well, I learned off the master," John says, as he tries to tug Paul down again. When Paul
refuses to be tugged, he lets his arm flop back to the mattress and glares. "I thought it was s'posed
to be better now we're bonded." He sounds petulant even to his own ears but the longer Paul just
stays there, looking at him and doing fuck all, the hotter he feels and the more desperate he is for
Paul to touch him like he needs him to.

Paul's face does something complicated at that and John feels another surge of desire, muddled
with something less easily defined, the split second before Paul ducks down to kiss him properly at
last, licking into his mouth and shifting to blanket him with his body. John groans in relief,
wrapping his arms around Paul to hold him there as he kisses back enthusiastically. Paul's so hard,
he can feel it, and as he pushes up against him, John thinks maybe he does feel pretty available
after all.

"You can—" He mumbles against his mouth. "C'mon Paul you can knot me again. I want you to."

Paul shivers all over and kisses John harder, one hand moving to grip his thigh, tight enough to
bruise. It feels so perfect against his burning skin that John wants his hands everywhere.

"Please. C'mon. I need it." Maybe tomorrow he'll remember how to feel shame again, but right now
he's consumed by this need for Paul and he knows, because he can feel it, how desperate he is for
John, and it makes him want to give him everything he wants.

"We already— We don't need to," Paul manages between kisses, but the hand on John's thigh is
already slipping down to curl underneath, hauling it up so he can press in closer. His dick slides
easily into the slick wetness between John's legs, and it's so agonisingly close to where he needs it
that he brings his other leg up to curl around Paul, trapping him with his body.

"Please," John says again, trying to think about how much he wants it as loudly as he can, since
that worked so well before. It must work this time too because Paul thrusts down erratically, like
he can't help himself, and it's enough to remind John of what he's missing. He kisses Paul again, a
messy promise of a kiss. "C'mon, I know you want to."

Paul’s eyes are hazy with lust but he still says, "I'll go slow. I don't want to hurt you."

John feels frustration rising up in him again because why can't Paul just give him what he needs?
"I don't want you to go slow."

Paul kisses him again. "It'll be better."

"No it bloody won't, do it properly."

Paul laughs, breathlessly. "I will do it properly, I promise. You'll like it."

John still thinks it won't be the same but he's desperate enough to take whatever Paul is offering at
this point. "Christ. Fine."
Paul kisses him once more, quickly, but then there's no more build up this time, no hesitation at all.
He simply shifts back, repositions himself, and pushes in, entering John in one long, breathtaking
stroke, knot and all.

"Fuck," is all John can manage to say to that, when he can say anything at all. He tightens his legs
around him but Paul's not trying to move away anyway. He stays where he is for a perilously long
moment, breathing hard, the weight of his body and the heat of him inside and all around
containing John in the most perfect way. John thinks vaguely that he'd like to stay this way forever,
but of course they won't, or rather can't, because eventually he feels Paul move, just a small
convulsive jerk of his hips before he stops again, bites his lip, and then fixes his eyes on John. He
pulls out, almost all the way, and then pushes back in, slowly, and then he does it again, and keeps
on doing it, somehow maintaining the same controlled pace despite the obvious strain of it, a
tremor running through the muscles of his arms. Its not like before though, when he was uncertain,
this time it's deliberate and it's fucking devastating. John can feel every single inch of the slow
push in and then the drag over that spot inside him that makes him arch his back, trying to get more
of it, fucking desperate for it. But Paul doesn't speed up, and he can't be goaded into it either like
last time. When John tries, he just ducks down to nip at his neck, the sharp sting of it sending a jolt
of heat through him that shuts him up more effectively than anything Paul might have said instead.
After that he just gives in to whatever Paul's trying to do because it feels too good not to. Paul
keeps his dark eyes trained on John's face and just keeps going, a slow, steady rhythm that's
relentless in its intensity.

John's so hard he thinks a single touch would send him over, but he doesn't try it, he can't focus on
anything but the feeling building between them. Paul was right, about it being different now they're
bonded. He can feel all of his own fierce desire, but he can feel all of Paul's as well, the one
amplifying the other until John's nearly lightheaded with the force of it. And underneath it he can
feel something else too, and it's that which keeps him looking back at Paul, the gravity of it settling
in his chest and making him want to blurt out stupid, embarrassing things, to keep Paul a part of
him forever.

Paul must be feeling the same because he suddenly swoops down to kiss John, stilling inside of
him as he presses their mouths together, the kiss clumsy in its urgency. John bucks up against him,
just wanting his knot in him now so they're joined together like he needs, and Paul shoves forward,
filling him. His knot is nearly big enough to catch, John can feel it, but just when the pressure is on
its way to being perfect, Paul groans and pulls back, pulling out completely despite John's attempts
to stop him.

He stares at Paul, confused and panicked, but then Paul says, "Turn over," in a strained voice and
John does it without question, feverish with the need to get Paul inside again. He rolls onto his
belly and then pushes up onto his hands and knees, but he has no time to brace himself before Paul
is pressing back in. He swears, collapsing forward onto his elbows and then wondering why they
didn't do it this way before. The new angle feels impossibly deeper, and Paul finally speeds up, or
maybe he just can't make himself go slow any longer. He's hitting that magic spot inside dead on
with every thrust, a blunt shock of electricity that's different again to the slow drag of before,
threatening to rob John of what's left of his coherency.

He wants to kiss Paul but he can't like this. He can only endure it, the heat spiralling inside him
until he's making constant needy gasps and moans, pushing back to meet Paul, feeling the knot
nearly catch every time. Finally, finally it does, and when Paul suddenly reaches under John to get
a hand on his painfully hard dick, he thinks he might actually die from how much he needs it. Paul
doesn't mess about at least, jerking him off hard and fast. He comes, shaking and gasping, only to
find that it offers no real relief because Paul is still hard and rocking into him, giving him no
opportunity to catch his breath, let alone recover from the lingering aftershocks
Paul finally comes with a grunt and a sharp sting of his teeth to the back of John's neck. He slumps
forward, which means John does too, and for a long while he just lies there, blissfully squashed as
Paul pulses into him. The warmth he feels is only half to do with his banked heat and everything to
do with the way Paul has started sucking kisses to the sensitive skin of his nape, blanketing John in
a feeling sweet enough to set his throat aching.

"I'm squashing you," Paul mumbles eventually. He goes to pull back, then remembers he can't
when John flinches. "Shit, sorry." There's a pause. "Push back and I'll roll us over."

It takes John a few seconds to coordinate his limbs enough to do what Paul says, but when he does,
it works. Paul moves with him and they roll to the side, which means John can breathe again and
Paul can wrap himself around him like an octopus and they're both satisfied with the arrangement.
He's still shivering intermittently, waves of low burning heat rolling through him, heightened by
Paul's occasional movements and his mouth pressed against John's neck, the pressure of his knot
inside him. It feels a little like it did before, like he's been taken apart and put back together
differently.

"We're not still bonding, are we?" he asks, after a particularly intense wave of whatever Paul is
feeling sets his heart beating faster, eliciting a yearning that's hardly necessary when Paul's already
inside him, as close as he can possibly be.

Paul presses his mouth to John's shoulder. "It's just settling, I think."

"Making sure we don't change our minds?"

"We won't."

His certainty sends another shiver through John. "We'd have to stay apart a while if we did. I
dunno how long it would take."

He’s not sure where the thought comes from. It’s as though there’s an insidious doubt still worming
its way in, despite how impossible it is to imagine cutting himself off from Paul now. Evidently
Paul agrees because his arms tighten around him and his scent takes on the sour edge of fear.
"Don't— Don't say things like that." He sounds upset and perversely that goes further to reassuring
John than any amount of easy confidence would have.

He brings a hand up to twine with Paul's where it's resting against his stomach. "Alright. I was just
wonderin', that was all."

"Well, wonder about something else," Paul says, sharp.

When John doesn't immediately reply, he scrapes his teeth against the mark on the back of his
neck, and John pushes back instinctively, his breath catching even as he says, "Stop that, or I'm
goin' to be wearing a scarf for the next fortnight."

John feels such a wave of possessiveness it's hardly a surprise when Paul says, "Don't hide it then, I
don't care if people know."

John wants to laugh at that. "I know you don't, but I do. I'm not puttin' out an announcement."

"People will know anyway," Paul sounds peevish now. "And we have to tell Stu and George."

It probably isn't a good idea to talk about this stuff when Paul's in rut, but John's never exactly been
known for those. "Why do we have to tell Stu and George?"
"George is round here all the time, we can't not tell him," Paul says, all reasonable, conveniently
ignoring the other part of the question.

"Stu isn't round here all the time."

"No, but—" Paul's arms tighten again. "You're with him a lot so he should know."

"D'you want to stamp Property of Paul McCartney on me an' all?"

He says it sarcastically, but of course he gets the immediate sense that Paul fucking would want
that, and then he realises he quite likes the idea as well – in theory, if not in reality. Paul stirs
behind him, clearly aware that John's dick has started taking an interest in proceedings.

"I'd want everyone to know you're mine," he says, and John's still recovering from that one when
he frees his hand from John's and slides it down his stomach to wrap it around him again. "Not just
Stu."

Whatever John was going to say is lost in a groan as Paul rocks forward, stroking him with a
confident hand as he does it. "Can we not talk about Stu while we're doing this?" John manages,
because his traitorous dick, which was definitely soft and spent half a minute ago, is somehow
getting hard again with Paul's help and he doesn't want to think about Stu when he's hard. It doesn't
feel quite right.

"Fine with me," Paul says, darkly, and starts working him properly, rocking into him as he presses
his mouth to the back of his neck. It takes John about two minutes flat to come again, which he
blames partly on his heat and mostly on Paul for putting awful ideas in his head and then thinking
about them really loudly while he's fucking him.

"Stop thinking dirty thoughts at me," he manages, when he's got his breathing back to something
like normal and his limbs are only twitching occasionally.

Paul snickers quietly behind him, kissing his shoulder and rocking forward again, but clearly trying
to be more gentle with it now. He's hard again, John can feel it, just like he can feel him trembling
with the effort of moving slowly. It's strange not to be able to get a hand on him to do anything
about it except clench down to try and help him along.

"Doesn't it hurt?"

Paul seems to know what he means straightaway. "No, it feels…" He trails off, and rocks forward
a little harder than before, catching that spot seemingly by accident and making John shudder.

John pushes back into the feeling. "That good, is it?"

"Yes," Paul says, with so much conviction that John wants to kiss him again and is frustrated he
can't. Paul holds still for a moment, slowing his breathing enough that he can resume his gentle
rhythm. "You should try it."

John half turns his head, frowning. "Not sure it would work the same for me."

"No, but—" Paul's breath stutters as he readjusts himself the tiniest amount, and John's does too. "It
might still feel good. We could try it and see." He's not just saying it either, John can tell he's into
the idea and it's not like John didn't like sex the usual way, the few times he managed to have it. It
can't feel all that different this way around; better, probably, if it's with Paul.

"Alright," he says, but can't resist adding, "Might have to pencil it in for next week though, I'm a
bit knackered."

Paul starts laughing and it's that, rather than anything clever John does, that sends him over. He
presses his teeth to John's shoulder as he comes, and John feels the rush of heat inside him as Paul
shivers through his orgasm.

He reaches back to pat him on the hip, since he can't do much else. "Better?"

"Yes." Paul kisses the new mark he just made on his skin, one hand coming up to rest on John's
stomach.

"What are you thinking about?" John asks, when that familiar sweetness starts to steal over him
again. "I can feel it."

Paul hesitates, and John wishes he could see his face. "I was just thinking how much I like doing
this with you." He sounds a bit embarrassed, like he expects John to laugh at him.

There are many things John wants to say to that, and none of them mocking, but in the end he can
only bring himself to say, "I don't mind it either, as it happens."

He can feel Paul's smile against his skin, then he makes an irritable noise. "I can't kiss you like
this."

John shares the irritation. "It was your idea."

"I thought it would be better for your back," Paul says, as though John is ninety and a martyr to his
rheumatism. He's probably right, though not about the rheumatism.

John tries an experimental movement, then quickly abandons the attempt. "How much longer do
you think it will last?"

"Dunno, I think you made it worse just now." Paul's hand is creeping downwards again, which
doesn't help matters.

"Stop that," John grabs his hand to still it. "Or we'll be stuck here an hour."

Paul stops, but says, "Billy Dean from Scouts said he heard about a couple who were stuck
together nearly a whole day once."

John snorts. "Fuck off, he made that up."

"Probably," Paul says easily. He doesn't say anything else until John pinches his hand. "Ow! What
was that for?"

"Stop bloody thinking about it."

Paul subsides with a grumble which means he was thinking about it. John could tell he was
thinking about something that was getting him going again, and, by extension, John as well.

A few more seconds pass and Paul yawns.

"Am I keeping you up?" John says and then wants to bite his tongue when Paul sniggers and says,
"You are actually." He walked right into that one.

Come to think of it, John's feeling pretty knackered himself. "Maybe that couple just fell asleep,"
he says, after catching Paul's yawn.
"Billy Dean said they didn't."

"Oh well if Billy Dean said it, it must be true. How old was he when he said this? Twelve?"

"Fourteen," Paul says grudgingly. Then, "I wonder what it would feel like though? To do it for
hours without stopping."

John feels a flutter of interest and squashes it ruthlessly. "Bloody awful I should think. What if you
got hungry?"

"Well," Paul starts, and then stops again, apparently thinking about it. "You don't get hungry when
you're in heat or rut, do you?"

"How d'you know they were?"

That seems to stump Paul. "I just thought… They must have been."

This is a stupid conversation but John feels committed to it now. "If they weren't, someone would
definitely get hungry."

"They wouldn't be thinking about food."

"I would definitely be thinking about food. I'd have to hide a Kit Kat under the pillow or summat, I
reckon."

Paul makes a displeased noise and John feels a surge of amusement and affection both at how easy
he is to tease, even now. "Oh sorry, am I ruinin' your little fantasy? Am I supposed to lie there for
eight hours and think of England? I'd be hallucinatin' bacon butties three hours in."

Paul snorts at that, and then starts laughing properly, shaking against John's back. Making Paul
laugh feels as good as it always does, but the little shocks of pleasure he's getting from the
movement are even better, if a bit counterproductive.

"Alright, one more go then," John says at last, because bloody hell, this is ridiculous. He likes sex
as much as the next man but his heat should have given up trying by now out of sheer exhaustion.

Paul pushes him forward, trapping his half hard dick against the mattress as he rocks into him
again, rougher this time, like all the talk of knotting for hours really has got him going. John
presses his sweaty face into the sheet beneath them and pants through it, swearing when Paul keeps
rubbing against that spot inside that's still somehow managing to light up all his nerve endings at
once.

"Wouldn't you like to do this for hours?" Paul says breathlessly.

Yes, John thinks. "No, I wouldn't. Shut up."

Paul leans down to bite at the bruise on his neck from earlier and John's whole body jerks. "Don't
lie, I bet you would."

John thinks he'd probably die, actually, but it would be a hell of a way to go. "Just get on with it."

Paul laughs and does, speeding up until the sensations rolling through John are balancing on a
delicious knife edge of too much, and he thinks he can't stand it a second longer. He pushes back to
relieve the pressure on his dick and comes almost immediately. After that he's pretty useless, just
letting Paul use him as he needs to until he groans and follows him over.
"Don't you dare move again," John says, muffled, when Paul has finished twitching on top of him.
If that hasn't killed his rut, John's not sure what will.

"I won't, I promise." Paul sounds winded.

"Scout's honour?"

Paul snorts with laughter again and then presses his face to John's shoulder blade. "Don't."

"You owe me a lot of bacon butties, Macca."

Paul presses kisses to his damp skin. "I do. As many as you want."

"And don't you bloody forget it." Jesus, John feels tired now, exhausted and wrung out. They move
back enough that he's not being crushed by Paul and then he drifts in and out of sleep for a while,
warm and comfortable, until he feels Paul shifting behind him.

"It's alright," Paul whispers. "I think we can move now."

He pulls out slowly and John immediately rolls onto his back to look at him. Paul's hair is a sweaty
mess and his eyes are still darker than usual but he mostly just looks like Paul, and John realises
he's missed his daft face, even though it can't have been all that long really since he was looking at
it.

"Alright?" Paul asks, quirking a smile.

"No, I'm knackered."

Paul's smile grows and he feels extremely smug, so John has to tug him down to kiss him. Paul
meets him eagerly, kissing him so deeply and perfectly that John winds his arms around his neck so
he can't possibly stop and move away. Everything they just did was brilliant, but John still missed
this.

They kiss for long enough that if John hadn't come about twenty times already, he thinks it would
probably be the warm up act for another round. But even Paul can't manage anything quite yet so
eventually the kiss slows and gentles, turning into the kind John loves just as much. He basks in it,
soaking in the sweetness emanating from Paul. He cups a hand to his face, then lets it slide down
and over the soft skin of his neck as he kisses him and thinks about how he gets to do this forever
now, how Paul's his and no-one can take him away from him.

Paul pulls back to look at him, only a few inches because John won't let him move any further.

"What?" John says, a little unnerved by the intensity in Paul's expression, even after everything.

"I love you, you know," Paul blurts out. His face, which was already flushed, goes redder still
when John stares at him. "You were just— I know you were just thinking about me. I love you
too."

John thinks he’s had enough shocks today to last him a week, but his heart starts thumping
painfully at yet another one and his face feels hot. "I wasn't—" He doesn't know where he was
going with that, since he was just thinking about Paul, and he was thinking… He was thinking that
he couldn't be without him now. "How d'you know what I was thinking about you?"

For the first time, uncertainty creeps into Paul's expression and John hates it immediately. "I don't,
not exactly. But that's what it felt like. So I thought it might help, you know, if I said it first." He
trails off, looking nervous.

John can't actually remember the last time anyone said they loved him. He knows people do love
him, but you don't just go round saying it. Mimi certainly wouldn't, and if Julia did, he can't
remember it so it must have been a long time ago. There's that pressure in his throat again when he
looks at Paul, because love seems such a small, everyday word for everything he feels for him, but
he supposes it will do as well as any. He swallows, and says, a little unsteadily, "It does. I mean I
do. Love you an' all that."

Paul looks so enormously relieved, John can't be anything but glad he went ahead and said it. He
smiles down at John, and it's more like a beam. "An' all that?" he says, in a terrible John
impression.

John pokes him in the side, trying not to smile because he thinks once he starts he won't be able to
stop and Paul's big headed enough as it is. "Just accountin' for the possibility I might feel other
things about you at times."

Paul frowns. "Depending on what?"

"On whether you keep the bacon butties coming, what do you think?"

Paul’s frown disappears and he laughs and kisses him again, shifting onto his knees so he can kiss
him harder, pressing him down into the mattress like he's never going to let John go. Which John is
fine with, actually.

John's not sure how long they're kissing for, but they're rudely interrupted by the unlocking of the
front door and the unwelcome reminder that it's a school day and Mike does live here too.

"Don't come upstairs!" Paul calls out, panicked, and John hears a faint curse before the front door
closes again with a distinct slam.

"I reckon he'll be thrilled when he hears the news," John says into the ensuing silence. Truthfully
it's probably going to be one of the more positive reactions.

Paul snorts and starts climbing off him, then grimaces and looks John over. "C'mon then, we better
get cleaned up again before he comes back. There might not be much hot water yet though. Sorry."

John sits up gingerly, he's not sure he's ever had so many washes in a day in his life. Then again,
he's not sure he's ever been so dirty before either. "I think a cold bath's just what you need
actually."

There's a little hot water, in the end, so this time John fills the bath a few inches while Paul's
downstairs boiling the kettle for more. He gets in and scrubs himself down quickly, then changes
the water over for Paul. Mimi would think it a scandalous waste, but he's not making Paul sit in his
dirty bath water, he's got some standards.

Paul of course looks extremely put out when he arrives with the kettle to find John wrapped in a
towel and just swishing the water around. "You didn't have to rush."

John can see right through that one. "Haven't you seen me starkers enough for one day?"

"No," says Paul, shamelessly. He turns the hot tap on again and dumps the entire kettleful of boiled
water in as well. Then he wastes no time in reaching out to tug John's towel off, pressing him back
against the sink before he can do more than make a faint noise of protest. Paul's wearing some old
clothes now but he stills smells of sex, and johnandpaul, and John can't bring himself to push him
away. "Looks like I've got you dirty again now so you'll have to get back in the bath."

John fights the urge to laugh but Paul knows anyway and he grins at him, looking far too pleased
with himself. He leans in to kiss John softly, running a hand over the damp skin of his hip.

"I'm not having sex in your bath," John says against his mouth. "Just so you know."

Paul pulls away and makes a face, like John has said something completely ridiculous. "I know
that, the water would go everywhere," he says, proving he's already considered the possibility.

He starts stripping off and that's enough to crumble the last remaining piece of John's willpower.
That, and the fact the bathroom is bloody cold. So he climbs back in and Paul squashes in behind
him, his bony legs just about fitting either side. The water's deep and nicely hot now, for however
short a time, and John sighs as he relaxes into it.

"Better?" Paul says. There's a sound of soft splashing which means Paul is actually using the soap
and this isn't all an elaborate trick to get John naked and wet.

"When we're rich I'm goin' to have one of them heated indoor pools," John says, idly. Mimi's
always so stingy about bathwater and all they had at school was an outdoor swimming bath you
had to break the ice on in winter.

"Yeah?" Paul reaches past John for the chipped mug and uses it to rinse his hair, then goes ahead
and does John's as well.

John splutters and pushes the wet hair out of his eyes, before he says, "I reckon it'd be like having a
giant bath."

"Better than this anyway," Paul says, sliding forward a little to put the cup back and then just
staying there.

He's like a damp furnace at John's back. "Dunno, this isn't too bad."

Paul presses a kiss to his neck and he's definitely smiling. "It could be worse."

"Aye, you could be Pete."

Paul snickers at that. "I don't think Pete would scrub your back."

He sounds so hopeful, but then he's a persistent little sod. "Go on then," John says, like it's some
terrible imposition. Paul wastes no time getting started, and, as it turns out, a brisk scrub is no
substitute for Paul's soap-slick hands all over him.

"Oi, that's not my back," John says, but only half-heartedly, when Paul's hands slide round to his
stomach, a little low down for deniability.

"I'm just being thorough."

John lets him be thorough for a bit longer, but eventually he has to put a stop to it because he thinks
if he goes one more time today he might actually break something. Paul pouts about it, but only for
a second, which proves he must finally be knackered as well.

They get out and help dry each other off, then Paul fetches John some of his clothes and doesn't
bother to pretend now that he doesn't like him wearing them.

"I like you smelling like me," Paul says defensively, when John catches him looking at him in a
wrinkly jumper a little too long.

"Stu said I do anyway now."

Paul perks up at that. "Did he?"

"Aye," John says, dry. "I reckon it's the only thing keeping us apart. The power of your jumpers."

He gets a look for that but no clever remark this time. He digs his neglected pack of cigarettes out
of his coat pocket and follows Paul downstairs. There's no reason he can't smoke in the front room,
but he gravitates to the back step instead, needing the fresh air, however cold, after a day indoors.
Paul sits down close beside him, looking out across the dark yard as John lights up and smokes his
ciggie halfway down before passing it across. Their fingers brush and, ridiculously, John still gets a
little thrill out of it.

"D'you remember when we were out here before?" he says, after a while. "After my first heat?"

Paul slides a sideways look at him, tapping cigarette ash onto the floor. "D'you mean when you
ignored me all night and then ran away when Colin asked about your scarf?" John glares at him
and Paul smirks. "Yeah, I remember that. Why?"

John tries to claw back some dignity. "I was just thinkin' it seems a long time ago, that's all." It isn't
of course, but it feels like half a lifetime ago for all that's happened since.

"Yeah," Paul says. "We could have been doing this the whole time."

"We have been doing this the whole time," John points out, because he's fairly sure he didn't
hallucinate the outrageous amounts of sex they've been having since that wedding gig.

"Not bonded," Paul says, like John's being deliberately obtuse.

"Oh sorry, I didn't realise it didn't count if you weren't putting your dick in some— Ow!" He tries
to jerk out of reach of Paul's pointy elbow but he can't get far, thanks to the doorframe.

"You know that's not what I meant. I just meant we could have been bonded all this time."

John moves back, now the elbow's no longer being wielded. "Christ, imagine tellin' your dad that.
We shagged for the first time on Tuesday, it was very special and now we're bonded. Hope you
don't mind." He snorts at the thought but it's not like Jim's going to be happier with a month or
whatever it's been instead, and what Mimi'll say doesn't bear thinking about.

"Hey," Paul says quietly. He flicks the cigarette stub away and twists to face John properly. "They
can't do anything about it now."

"They won't like it."

"Well, fuck 'em."

John raises his eyebrows. "That's usually my line."

"Maybe you're rubbing off on me."

John doesn't take the obvious opening, it's too easy.

"What do we do now then?" John's not sure if he means in the next hour or the next year really, but
Paul gamely tackles both.
 "We go and have some food and then tell Mike when he gets in, and then we tell dad and Mimi,
and we keep on with the band til we get somewhere."

"Get our names on some records?" John says, half smiling, because that's the way out of all of this.
The band. And he doesn't want to do it without Paul.

"Yeah, course," Paul says confidently. "And," he adds, with the air of someone about to pull a
rabbit out of a hat. "We've got another gig."

John blinks at him. "Since when?"

"Since yesterday, but you didn't turn up to practice so I couldn't tell you about it."

John skirts hastily past that bit. "Where is it then?"

"The Christmas party at the bus depot in Speke," Paul says apologetically, and John starts
laughing. "Shut up." He's clearly trying not to laugh too. "George's dad got it for us, but I reckon
once we've played at the coffee bar a few more times we'll start getting more bookings."

"Might get the Sally Army Easter knees up as well if we're lucky," John says, grinning, but he's
only messing about, and judging by his long suffering expression, Paul knows it. It's another gig,
another chance to perform and get noticed, and a bit more money in their pockets. "Maybe I could
stick some posters up around the college," John says, feeling buoyed up by the idea.

"We should write to people too, tell them we have a load of our own songs."

John thinks that might be overegging the pudding a bit at present, but they can always write more.
If they can find the time that is. "I reckon we'll have to cut down on all the shagging," he says, very
seriously. "Just to make sure we devote proper time to our songwriting."

Paul gives him a very unimpressed look. "We'll be together more now we're bonded," he says,
pointedly. "So we'll have plenty of time for all that."

John eyes him. "Is that so?"

"Course. You're stuck with me now."

John's not sure he'll ever get used to Paul looking at him like that, not now he knows what it
means, but he hopes he never stops.

A bitter wind whistles along the narrow alley behind the houses, making the back gates creak, and
it suddenly seems daft to be out here freezing, when he could be inside in the warm with Paul,
doing all the things he said they'd do.

"Alright, the coffee bar and the bus depot it is then," he says, bracingly. He gets to his feet and
turns to Paul. "Onwards and upwards, eh Macca?"

Paul rolls his eyes, but his expression is soft as he takes the hand John offers. "It's a start though,
isn't it?"

"Yeah," John says, and pulls him to his feet. "It's a start."

The End.

Chapter End Notes

Chapter End Notes

If you have made it to the end - thank you so much for reading! I never intended it to
be such a long fic, but the story took on a life of its own (and kept me going through
some difficult months), so here's to The Beatles for being so inspirational :)

I have written a couple of tiny follow ups - 4k from Jim's POV and 16k from George's
- all set after this fic. They're complete but they still need a bit of editing and I'm
currently moving house and have a minor operation coming up so please bear with me.

Please drop by the archive and comment to let the author know if you enjoyed their work!