Chapter Text
Paul
They sat with the boy, up on John's bed, one on each side of him, backs against the wall. Playing instruments together.
John noodled away on the harmonica, pausing to raise his nasally voice in song. He made up ridiculous lyrics designed to make one or both of the Pauls laugh. Paul resisted, mostly. His younger self was still too out of it to quite respond, but he was playing chords on the guitar, and that would have to suffice.
Paul held the bass, strumming out the deepest and best notes he could, really putting himself into it. He was jamming with John again, finally. Not quite how he'd wanted to, but he'd take it. It wasn't enough, just a taste, and it tasted good. Somehow doing it for the boy took the barriers away. No ego, no worry about who gave in first, just trying to be silly and happy and musical for the kid.
Paul hid a grin as he imagined poor Aunt Mimi downstairs, covering her ears, rolling her eyes, and despairing of them ever being gone. She was being so patient about it. Probably thought she'd seen the last of them and wouldn't have to put up any more of this nonsense. Mature Paul, younger Paul, and John, still being difficult and not talking to her.
Maybe she was just so sad about not seeing John these days that she'd put up with anything from them just to have him here for a little while. He hoped it wasn't that bad. He hoped John hadn't actually cut her out completely. Hard to know what he'd do anymore. Paul had never thought their friendship would end, especially so painfully.
Johnny lowered the harmonica. "Toot toot toot goes the man in the moon," he sang, then raised the harmonica again and ripped into a bluesy riff.
Paul laughed, following him, digging a deep bass line for him to play off. He loved it when John got surreal and silly with it. Between them, the boy's mouth twitched, almost a smile. He was coming back, then. Good. Not that Paul wanted the jam session to end.
But eventually, of course, it did.
The boy put the guitar down and laughed, leaning forward, pressing his hands against his face. He laughed again. It sounded real. Paul lowered the bass and put an arm around the kid. It was good. It was good; the lad was calming down. And so quickly, too! It used to take ages and ages when he got that upset.
No wonder I got so invested in music. It was my only way out.
He wasn't sure he'd really understood that at the time. Mostly, it had just felt indispensable, like breathing.
"Hey Paul," said Paul gently, rubbing the lad's back. Not going to make him talk about it, but... "Do you think you should go take a bath, maybe? Be nice and clean for when you get home?"
"It doesn't matter," said the boy. "Me clothes won't be clean."
"We can send them out for a quick clean. Bish bosh, fresh as you like."
Young Paul looked worried. "You'll have to go out again. People will be at you again."
"We could always send Mimi, but I don't mind really. It's not something I mind, Paul. Signing autographs, shaking hands. I don't mind that."
"No, I don't mean. I just. The surprise. Like they—were attacking you, even though they didn't. I dunno. Just...a surprise."
Paul took a careful breath. "Well, we used to have people around us to make sure it didn't get out of hand. But now I'm just used to it."
He met John's gaze automatically, rather guiltily over the boy's bowed head. It wasn't quite the truth; they hadn't had nearly as much protection as they'd needed sometimes. The crowds of Beatlemania were like a hungry beast, as if thirsting for their blood, and the actual people involved didn't even seem to know why.
A few fans at a time felt like nothing these days, just a nice reminder that people liked them. It was a reason to put on a smile and make someone's day. Something to be managed, sometimes an inconvenience, but not a problem, really.
John cleared his throat. "You can wear the pyjamas after your bath, and change when the clothes get back. Go on now. Get nice and clean. If you don't want people to worry, you won't show up smelling bad." He gave the boy a gentle swat on the side.
Young Paul scrambled up, face flaming, and moved fast. He grabbed the pyjamas that someone had flung on top of the set of drawers. He didn't look at either of them as he left the room, fast, face down.
Paul fixed John with a hard look. Nice going, John. Telling him he stinks when he was finally starting to calm down. Didn't John know that the boy wanted John's approval more than almost anything in the world?
John shrugged, broad and loose. "What, I'm supposed to tell him he smells good?"
Paul sighed, giving in. "No. I'd best go after him."
John didn't try to stop him, just watched him go, his gaze tracking closely. Paul felt it, even when he didn't let himself look back to see. He always felt it, when John was watching him.
It was hard to not let himself look back.
Paul followed himself downstairs towards the bath. They passed Aunt Mimi, who stared and called after them quickly, "Shall I make tea?" She must be so confused by all of this.
"Tea would be lovely, ta," called Paul, trying to give her a nice smile without slowing down.
He got to the bath before the boy could slam the door and caught hold of it. "Just let me talk to you for a second, okay?" he said, trying to put a smile into his voice, trying to sound reassuring. (How had he been this wild and prickly? Surely it was better to know if you smelled bad. Surely he should want to know the truth.)
The boy let him in. They stood in the bath, tiled, tidy, small. Young Paul stood in front of the big white claw foot tub and stared down at it, his shoulders stubborn.
Paul took a deep, steadying breath. "Hey, Paul. He didn't say that to upset you, you know. It's not you that smells bad. It's sweat when it gets old, okay?"
"Okay," said Paul in a small, embarrassed voice.
Well, that clearly wasn't enough. Paul was going to have to talk about it. He had to explain some things Paul hadn't figured out yet about puberty. Damn it. It wasn't like Dad ever had.
He'd figured it all out eventually, but without Mum to push him to take extra baths, without enough hot water to waste, without knowing how much more you needed to bathe as a teen, it hadn't been his priority. He'd had to attend to chores, school, and homework and still find time for the band. Bathing had been slapdash for a while.
"So, you understand that you're not a little kid anymore, right?" said Paul to his younger self.
He went to the tub and sat down on the side, looking up at the boy and giving him an encouraging smile. The boy looked sulky and ashamed. Paul touched his arm gently, trying to regain his attention. The boy glanced at him quickly, then away again.
"So, Paul," he explained, "when people get bigger, their bodies start changing. You know about all of that. I don't have to explain. But the things that make your body change, the hormones, they change other things, too. They make you sweat more, and it's different from little kid sweat. It has a stronger smell. Just part of growing up, right? Right. So that's why it's important to wash often enough. It's all normal. It happens for everyone."
"Even girls?" Paul looked shocked at the idea.
"Yes, even girls. That's why, when you get big, it's important to wash often and well. Especially your private area and underarms." He raised an arm and mimed washing, trying to lighten the mood, making a goofy expression. "See? Not hard! Now then. Eventually, you'll get in the habit, and it won't be at all difficult." He had to say the rest of it, too. "Dad doesn't always notice, does he? How you’re doing, or if you’re properly clean. And Mum can't remind you anymore. So you have to do it for yourself. You're getting to be a man, and it's important."
Young Paul nodded fast. "I will. I’ll do better. I don't want to, uh, stink for John."
"I don't think John really cares," said Paul, thinking of their Hamburg days, how filthy they'd all got between washes. How nasty they'd smelled sometimes. It hadn't stopped John and Paul's intensity about each other. Sometimes it seemed to make it worse. If they were already filthy and disgusting, it somehow made it seem okay to do whatever they wanted with each other. Like the sheer nastiness of the squalor they were stuck in made it okay to break other rules, too.
Make out. Touch each other. Playing dirty, giggly games that turned from roughhousing to humping against each other. Or just cuddling up at night to chase away the cold, so close they were like one person. Yes, the stench certainly hadn't stopped them from doing anything they wanted to do.
That all felt like such a long time ago now.
"It's just nice to be clean when you can," he told the boy. "Especially if you have to be around grownups or girls."
The boy nodded hard, looking down again.
Paul clapped his hands together, feeling like an awkward school teacher trying to give 'the talk.' (Thank god he didn't have to do that for young Paul!) "So, I'll leave you to it. You didn't do anything wrong. It's normal not to know until someone tells you or you figure it out on your own."
The boy cleared his throat awkwardly. "Does this mean I stink? At school? Does everybody smell me?"
"No, I don't think so," lied Paul. “Hardly that.”
Once or twice, someone had laughed or said something cutting. It was stupid that it had taken him so long to figure out he really needed to wash more often, make more of an effort. It really only happened because everything had come at once: the horror of losing Mum, the loss of any real parenting for a while, and being busy and distracted with other things. Some days, hygiene simply hadn't felt like a serious concern. It would be now for the boy. John and Paul had certainly changed that.
Paul waited outside the bath till the boy knocked on the wall, then ducked in to grab the clothes without a word and left to see about getting them cleaned.
When he asked her, Aunt Mimi harrumphed and rolled her eyes, but agreed quickly to do it.
"Did they eat breakfast?" asked Paul. He was sat across from her at the table, trying to focus on finishing his tea, even though every fibre of his being screamed at him to run back upstairs to see John.
Her mouth, already set disapprovingly, tightened further. "Nothing could tear them away." There was a surprisingly defeated look in her eyes.
He found himself feeling a bit sorry for her. Well, she'd hate it if he felt sorry for her; best not. "Perhaps you could pick up some fish and chips," he offered brightly. "I'm sure they'd eat that."
"Fish and chips!" Mimi flared up immediately. "They'll eat real food or nothing at all! Fish and chips, in my house!"
She was being ridiculous, and he just smiled at her. "As you please. I'll make them show up if you bring something to eat." He gave her a wink.
"They will eat a proper home cooked meal, and that's final," said Mimi.
"That's lovely, thank you," said Paul, rising, tea unfinished. "Excuse me, I'll just go and speak with John. Don't forget the clothes." He gave her a cheeky smile and left before she could find the words to tell him exactly what she thought of him.
#
John was plucking at the guitar. He looked up when Paul entered. Paul shut the door behind him and leaned against it. "I think I've sorted it. Don't tell him he stinks."
"I didn't mean it like that," said John softly. He plucked two notes, discordant.
Paul stared at John, and John stared at Paul.
There was a kind of hopeless, yearning, almost pleading look in John's eyes. But he wasn't saying anything, and neither was Paul. He didn't know what to say. He didn't know if there was anything to say.
He moved at last, away from the door, bent to pick up the bass, and held it. He plucked two notes and stared at John. His Hamburg Johnny, his boyhood friend, his beloved, his partner, his nemesis. And whoever he was now.
John stared back at Paul and began to slowly play the guitar, gaze never leaving Paul’s face.
Paul fell in with him, matching him, their instruments in conversation with each other the way they no longer knew how to be with just words.
Quietly, Johnny began to sing. Paul joined in. It was just as easy as it used to be. If only everything else was.