"Dreaaaaaam, dream dream dream, dreaaaaaam--"
There's a strange comfort in the way their voices meld together and the way Paul's knee brushes against John as they tap the time with their toes in tandem. He finds himself often feeling disgustingly euphoric around the other bloke the more time they spend together, mooning over the sod, even. And why shouldn't he, ol' Wimple Lennon? He's found it! That's all he's been able to think since the kid said hello. He's found his other Everly brother, his own personal Elvis, right down to the lips... it's electrifying if he does say so himself.
In the months since meeting McCartney and the weeks since getting to know him, John has seen less and less of Pete Shotton and his old cronies. And he’s quite right to ditch the other lads, honestly. How could they be expected to hold a candle to this? What need do any of them fill that Paul can’t anyway? Sometimes they look at each other... stare into each others eyes as they play some silly tune... and it's better than getting off.
"I can make you mine, taste your lips of wine,
anytime, night or day..."
They sing practically in each other's mouths and John isn’t bristling in the face of the coziness they’ve created together. He couldn't do this with Shotton. The intimacy. He couldn't do it with any of his other mates. Wouldn't want to, either if he's honest.
"Only trouble is... gee whiz!
I'm dreaming my life away!"
John's watching Paul's lips form the words now, looking up in time to catch McCartney looking back at him and... there it is. For a moment, their voices, their bodies, are totally in sync. It's nirvana.
Later, as they’re reviewing that neat new chord they'd learned from some old so-and-so in front of NEMS a few weekends ago, and Lennon can feel the other lad's breath against his cheek, he chances a peek at Paul's face. They're inches away. When he can stand it no longer, his eyes wander down the necks of the guitars between them.
"We're like a mirror, y'know," He says, a fond smile shyly taking hold of his face as he squints at his mate through his peripheral.
McCartney, ever-oblivious, turns to him, brows arched.
"Huh-op!--" He notices first how they're nearly nose to nose, and then, after letting John marinate in what should have been discomfort, the bastard starts making the most grotesque face imaginable. Lennon, in turn, begins to giggle as he tries his best to mimic his companion's commendable movements. Their chests cave and shoulders hunch together as the two lads try to keep all the laughter inside but it escapes in a few hisses and scoffs along the way, and John swears he can see McCartney's eyes watering.
When they've worn themselves out, they slump against the couch in the sitting room, guitars resting against the cushions on either side of them. John's running his hand against the fabric and wondering what kind of woman Mary McCartney was when Paul's voice breaks the silence.
"Tea leaves," He tuts, shoulders shaking with another chuckle. "Who'd've thought?"
John huffs an unconvincing laugh. He can't blame the tea leaves.
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