#mclnbb

ART: Str.A - FIC: The Man With The Blackbird Tattoos by EbethBeatlebub

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ART: Thisbirdhadflownx - FIC: Camera-less by fingersfallingupwards

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ART: lennonsprincess - FIC: All My Loving by lovely_rita

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ART: MothBins - FIC: I’m Not What I Appear To Be by SittingOnACornflake

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ART: Rufusrant - FIC: TBA

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ART: ihaveaheadacheuwu - FIC: eclipsed by the moon by thisbirdhadflown

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ART: lover_of_blueroses - FIC: a shrill inner sound by peculiar_mademoiselle

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ART: paulmccharmly - FIC: Lonesome Tears In My Eyes by smothermeinrelish AND something to call mine by orphanbeat

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The comments made it worse: not only did they act as a constant reminder that someone had read them, that someone knew, knew about him, his thoughts and his feelings and his problems, at the same time they also defaced those feelings everytime he read them. It felt like they had been rated, assessed to see which of his issues proved most valuable to his art, and while he knew John hadn’t meant it like that when he had written those little remarks, to Paul it was all the more humiliating, not to mention aggravating. His feelings weren’t something pretty to be evaluated based on beauty or artistic significance. The were real, they were ugly, and they hurt.

In the moment, the realisation that John had done all that, intentionally or not, as well as the mess of conflicting feelings that came with it, had become too much for him. Already he had been on edge because of his phone call with Dot, and this, the invasion of his privacy, the fact that John now knew things about him that even Dr Collins or George or Dot didn’t know about, even if he might not understand them, had been the last drop, resulting in a violent eruption of all those feelings that had been aching to come out.

He was certain George and Ringo had noticed something had been wrong when they had come home that evening. Neither had said anything, though, and even now George pretended everything was fine, that he didn’t notice the hurt in Paul’s eyes when he was feeling particularly down, sometimes seemingly for no clear reason at all. He knew it was to be expected and that Paul would come to him if he needed to talk, so he merely kept a close eye on him to make sure it wouldn’t get worse and he wouldn’t do anything stupid, by accident or otherwise, ready to interfere if necessary. It wasn’t unusual for Paul to fall back into old behaviour, that occasionally he would return to his old state of mind, but as long as he bounced back again, it could even help him by showing that those feelings weren’t permanent, thus allowing him to rationalise them sooner as the fear of falling back into his old condition was reduced. Or so they had been told. Paul thought it was bullshit, but it offered George some peace of mind, so he didn’t argue.

As he considered all this for the umptheenth time that week, Paul nudged the front door of their apartment building open with his elbow and held firmly onto the two large grocery bags in arms as he shuffled his way inside, making sure to lift his feet up high enough so he wouldn’t accidentally trip over the threshold. His shoulder bag felt heavy as it hung uncertain from his left shoulder, and Paul had to curve his body at a rather awkward angle to make sure it didn’t slip off, which would surely end with his groceries laying spread out across the dirty linoleum flooring.

It had been George’s turn to do groceries, seeing as his lecture ended at eleven in the morning, which meant he would have plenty of time for a quick trip to the supermarket, while Paul’s last lecture of the day ended only at four, if the lecturer finished on time. But of course the man had texted him last minute to say he was going to see a movie with Pattie and wouldn’t be back till seven, meaning that the task of making sure they had something to eat had been thrusted upon Paul’s already heavy shoulders once more, his school bag being heavy enough without also having to carry two bags of groceries home with him, because of course they had been fresh out of almost everything. Why George hadn’t done the shopping before he had gone off with his new girlfriend, Paul didn’t know, but he resented him a little for it. Thankfully, he managed to get inside without too much trouble.

Relieved to have made it, Paul placed the two bags on a nearby table that stood by the door with a tired groan and hitched his school bag a little further up his shoulder - perhaps a backpack wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all - and took a moment to stretch his arms, which had gone stiff from carrying those bags from the bus stop all the way to their flat, which had been farther away than he had remembered. Now, he just needed to carry it up the stairs and down the hallway and he’d be home. He couldn’t wait to flop down onto the couch with a bottle of beer and his ready-made dinner and watch some telly for a while, to just be alone for an hour or two and do nothing and think of nothing, before he’d have to call Dot. He wasn’t looking forward to it.

Taking a deep breath, he decided it was best to get it over with and make his way up stairs so he could finally do what he had been wanting to do ever since had woken up that morning, while mentally preparing himself for his talk with Dot. She had said she didn’t have a lot of time for him that evening, so if he did tell her - finally - it would be swift and painful, like ripping off a bandaid - a bandaid that had somehow made the wound worse, because he knew Dot would not appreciate the fact that it had taken him literally weeks to finally have the guts to do it.

He had been about to pick up his bags again, when he saw something orange slip past him from the corner of his eye. Frowning, he put the heavy bags back down, including his shoulder bag, which he dropped on the floor, and turned to see what it was.

The foyer was empty apart from him, with even the receptionist’s desk having been left unattended. The two grey couches - or benches as Paul called them, seeing as they were far too uncomfortable to classify as anything more in his opinion - on the one side of the room were empty too, and the little hallway where the postboxes were, was also deserted. For a moment, Paul thought he had been mistaken, when he caught sight of a flash of orange from underneath wooden coffee table by the seating area before it disappeared again. Careful to make as little noise as possible and not startle whatever was under the table, Paul tiptoed over to it and slowly sank down onto his knees to look under it, both hands on the floor, head cocked to the side. A small smile of recognition replaced his frown as he saw two yellow eyes staring directly at him.

“And who do we have here? You’re not allowed to be here, you know,” Paul said, as he slowly reached out for the cat that was almost as troublesome as his owner, allowing him to sniff his fingers, before gently scratching him behind his black ear when the cat pushed his head against his hand and purred. Blessed that the cat had recognised him from their brief but intensely stressful adventure in the kitchen a few weeks ago, Paul made little kissy-noises at him and spoke in a high yet soft murmuring voice to persuade the animal he meant no harm.  

“Did you escape again?” he asked, speaking as if he was talking to a 6-months-old baby, “‘Cause you really shouldn’t, you know? They don’t allow pets in here and who knows what might happen when you get caught. John must be worried about you. Come on, boy. Let’s get you back home, yeah? Come on, Elvis.”

The cat meowed in response and shuffled further away from Paul as the latter began to reach out for him in an attempt to pick him up, moving himself into a corner to escape the human’s grasping hands. When Paul made a further, slightly quicker, grasping motion in the hope to catch him by surprise, Elvis jumped away with another offended meow and slid under one of the couches, bending his body so he could just fit, there being barely any room for him. Paul cursed as his fingers only just managed to graze the multi-coloured fur.

“Shit! Elvis, come on. Let’s not play any games this time, okay? We don’t have time for this. Just come with me, and I’m sure John’ll have a nice treat for you. Just come with Uncle Paul, yeah? Please?” Paul practically begged as he crawled over to the couch on all fours, keeping his head lowered and cocked to the side so he could look under the couch, where Elvis was lying, just out of reach, watching him, and overall just looking like he was enjoying this little game of cat-and-mouse far too much.

“For fuck’s- I’m only trying to help, you know! If Mr Walford catches you… Ugh, come here, kitty-kitty. Come to Uncle Paul,” Paul tried again, finding the cat far too playful and too much like his owner. One annoying neighbour was enough.

He shuffled closer until he lay on the floor with his shoulder pressed up against the underside of the couch, and could only just reach Elvis. Taking a deep breath to keep his calm, he patiently let Elvis sniff his hand again, before beckoning him over, wiggling his fingers to catch the animal’s interest as he slowly began to retreat his hand, hoping to lure him to him.

“Come on, boy. Come on,” he said, huffing, and slowly but surely Elvis began to move, intrigued by the swift curious movements of Paul’s fingers and Paul sighed in relief when Elvis was finally close enough for him to pick him up. He had been about to, when he heard an unexpected voice behind him, low and disgruntled, calling out his name.

“Paul? What are you doing down there?”

Paul winced and silently cursed everything he held dear - especially John for letting his damn cat escape again - as he moved back up onto his knees, gently holding Elvis in place with one hand as he looked over his shoulder to see Mr Walford, the landlord, standing a few feet behind him, watching him with a raised eyebrow, both hands on his hips, looking unamused by what was happening right before his very eyes. He grumbled as his eyes shifted from Paul to the cat, whose tiny head was sticking out from under the couch.

“Whose cat is that? We don’t allow pets in this building, Paul. You know that,” Mr Walford said, voice grumbling as he watched the cat with light disgust.

“Oh, he isn’t mine, sir!” Paul hastily explained, moving the cat further out from under the furniture so he could pick him up, knowing it was futile as this point to try to hide him from view. Curling both his arms around the slight creature that felt so much smaller now, he pressed him against his chest, holding him close, as if to physically shield him from the glaring landlord. “I think he must’ve walked in here without anyone noticing. Maybe he’s a stray.”

“You shouldn’t play with strays, Paul. You never know what diseases they might be carrying around with them. They’re filthy. You might catch something.”

“Yes, sir. I was just going to take him outside,” Paul said, offering the man his best and most charming smile, that had gotten him out of plenty unpleasant situations before, and much to his relief, Mr Walford huffed in response as he nodded, beckoning Paul to get up.

“Alright then,” he said and Paul quickly scrambled up, holding Elvis firmly against his chest so he wouldn’t accidentally fall, and gently petted him behind his ear to keep him calm as Mr Walford addressed him again. “Take it outside. But if I see that cat here ever again, it won’t be treated as kindly.”

Paul nodded quickly to say he understood and waited for a moment as the landlord studied him for a moment longer, before he gave in with one last final sigh and motioned him to the door. Not needing to be told twice, Paul moved past him and hurried out of the door. He walked with the cat to the corner of the building so he was absolutely certain Mr Walford wouldn’t be able to see him and held the cat carefully in one hand as he pulled down the zipper of his coat with the other to about halfway. Then, he gently lifted the cat inside his coat and held him against his chest as he zipped his coat back up, leaving just enough room at the top so Elvis wouldn’t feel closed in, while still keeping his little head hidden from view. The cat purred at the warmness of the coat and rubbed his head against Paul’s chest, making him laugh as he held up the cat up by his butt, pushing the underside of his coat under it, so he wouldn’t slip out.

“Now,” he said, addressing the cat, “you have to stay quiet. If Mr Walford catches us, we are both done for, so no tricks, okay?”

Taking the animal’s soft but constant purring as a sign of understanding, Paul took a few deep breaths before he started heading back into his apartment building, preparing for the worst.

“Now, remember what I said: all you have to do is be quiet. We’ll be past this horrible man soon, I promise,” he whispered into his coat as he pushed the door open and stepped bach inside. Mr Walford, who had taken a seat by the desk, looked up at the sound of the door opening and closing and smiled as he saw Paul coming back in, completely catless - at least, for as far as he could see. Instinctively Paul held onto the animal a little tighter and went to grab his things from the table as he kept an eye on the landlord, who had turned his back on Paul in favour of doing something on the computer.

Making sure the man didn’t pay him any further attention, Paul hastily lifted his school bag back onto his shoulder, before taking a hold of the grocery bags again, which proved to be a hassle as he also had to make sure the cat didn’t slip out from under his coat. Luckily, the table was at just the right height that he could grab both bags at the same time and miraculously enough, he managed. With even more weight than with which he had started, he wished Mr Walford a good day and made his way towards the stairs, sighing once he was finally safe and out of sight.

John bloody well owed him one for this.

Once he had finally made his way up to the right floor, Paul dropped his heavy bags by John’s door and knocked, hoping the guy was actually in for once. Elvis gave a content little meow from inside Paul’s coat, clearly pleased with where he was, and Paul smiled down at him as he reached inside to pet him, while praising him for how well he had behaved. He opened his coat a little more, allowing Elvis’s head to pop free, his little ears flopping upwards as the material of the jacket gave way, making Paul chuckle at how adorable he looked.

Finally the door opened and both Paul and Elvis looked up at the sound with surprise and curiosity respectively. For a moment, Paul couldn’t speak as his eyes moved up and down John’s form, taking in the rather distracting outfit he was wearing, being not yet properly dressed despite it being past five in the afternoon. Especially the low hanging pyjama bottom were more than a little off-putting.

“Well, aren’t you two all nicely cosied up together,” John remarked with a smirk as he looked the two of them up and down, shifting his weight from one leg to the other as he leaned against the doorframe, his eyebrows raised at the sight of his cat inside Paul’s jacket. Paul huffed in response, but couldn’t get too annoyed with him, already relieved John was actually home this time, so he wouldn’t have to babysit and risk having Elvis break more of his things. The last time the victim had been an ugly vase of George’s that Paul was frankly glad to be rid of, but he doubted he’d be as lucky a second time.

“Your cat escaped again. I was lucky enough to get to him before Mr Walford did, but God, John… Watch your cat next time. You’re playing with fire,” Paul said as he reached inside his coat to retrieve Elvis and hand him back to his rightful owner. The cat was none too happy about this, but still let himself be passed over from human to human with a tiny unhappy meow, his nails digging into the flesh of John’s hand, which John took without so much as a hiss of pain.

“Where did he run off to, then? I tried looking for him, but couldn’t find him. I figured he’d gone outside,” John asked, giving the animal a tiny kiss on his head as he held him in his arms, at which point Elvis retreated his claws.

“Downstairs in the foyer, hiding under the coffee table. And then under one of the couches. And then I had to sneak him up here when Mr Walford caught me with him. Like I said, John, you really ought to be more careful,” Paul said as he reached out for Elvis, petting him with a heavy sigh, not liking the idea of this adorable creature getting kicked out, especially with the way he was purring at his attention.

“So, that’s why you had him-” he said, tugging at Paul’s still half-open coat.

“Oh, no! I always carry animals around in my coat,” Paul retorted as he slapped his hand away, looking up at the other man as if he was stupid, and John chuckled as he nodded, eyes focussed on Paul as he moved a little closer.

“Okay. Fair enough! But erm… thanks for sneaking him back up here,” he admitted, an amused grin playing on his lips, and his eyes dropped down for a moment, before they found Paul’s eyes again. “You… want to come in? I’m not really doing anything so...”

“No, I- I think I’d better-” Paul started, pointing with his thumb towards his own door that was not three feet away, but John was quick to interrupt him.

“Oh, come on!” he said. “It’ll be fun! You can drop your stuff here for now. I’m just watching a movie and I’ve got beer and junk food! ‘Sides, it’s not like you’ve got anything better to do.” John wiggled eyes eyebrows as he stepped aside to make room for Paul to move past him, flashing him his most charming smirk and Paul felt his determination wavering as he glanced up at him, which was his first mistake.

He could stay for an hour or so, though, couldn’t he? After all, he had basically planned on doing the exact same thing as what John was suggesting by himself and doing it with another person would be more fun. And besides, despite everything, they had had fun last time when they had gone out for coffee together, so why wouldn’t they this time? And just because they were hanging out together, in John’s flat, alone, drinking and watching a movie, with one of them not even properly dressed, that didn’t necessarily mean anything!

Sighing, he shook his head, knowing it wouldn’t be smart, even though he wanted to accept the invitation. But that was exactly the reason he had to say “no”! John, however didn't give up that easily.

“If this is about your notebook and that note you sent me-”

“No! No, I just…”

“Because I’m sorry about that,” John continued, ignoring Paul’s words and taking a step closer to the younger man. Paul looked up at him in surprise, that being the last thing he had expected him to say. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”

“I-I know! I... It’s just… I’ve got to call Dot later and the groceries-”

“-can stay in my fridge, I told you. I haven’t got anything in there myself anyway apart from some beer bottles and a half-eaten package of ramen noodles - perhaps a lost tomato somewhere in the back - so it would be good to get some use out of the damn thing. Come on, sweetheart! I’m so lonely here all by myself. Just for an hour or so. I promise you’ll be in time to call the missus.”

Paul laughed as John gave him one of his most dramatic pouts and before he could stop himself, he had nodded and agreed on the condition John wouldn’t call him by any more pet names, at which John grabbed him by his wrist and pulled him inside with one violent jerk, before pushing Elvis back into his arms so he could drag the groceries inside as well.

John’s flat was pretty much identical to his and George’s: there was a small hallway, just large enough to dump your stuff, an impossibly small kitchen, a living room and two tiny bedrooms that shared one bathroom. The layout of the flat, however, had been flipped, leaving Paul momentarily disoriented as he made his way into the living room, followed by John who grunted as he pulled the heavy bags inside and left them by the door so Paul wouldn’t forget them. More as a precaution than because it was absolutely necessary, John took out the carton of milk and the eggs Paul had bought from the bags, those being the only things that absolutely had to be kept in the fridge.

As for the interior, most of the basics were the same, with the flat having the same white walls, the same dark brown lino flooring - probably because it was easy to clean - and even most of the necessary furniture was the same, meaning that like he and George, John hadn’t swapped out the things the apartment came with either. The things that were his own, were rather dark in colour, being mostly grey, black and orange, with some hints of green here and there, which gave the apartment a much darker look than what Paul was used to, being more used to his and George’s very light and minimalist style. There was also not a single plant in sight, which Paul was certain would give George a heart-attack if he saw.

It was also a lot messier, with books, journals, sheets of paper, pens and various articles of clothing laying strewn around the place. On the couch, there lay a mess of blankets and pillows, and a couple of empty beer bottles stood on the coffee table, which Paul didn’t doubt had there been for longer than today. The tv was on, paused, showing a what looked like a high school classroom. The shot, however, told Paul nothing of the film John had been watching, though he had to admit the whole look of it was faintly familiar to him. And not in a good way.

“Sorry for the mess,” Paul could hear John mutter from the hallway.

“That’s alright. What were you watching, anyway?” Paul asked, turning to John, who was standing a little behind him, watching him, eggs and milk in hand.

“Erm… Twilight...” he answered, giving Paul a pained smile as the latter stared at him in disbelief.

“And you’re watching that because...?” he asked, snickering at how ridiculous it sounded as he put Elvis back on the floor, watching him rush into one of the bedrooms.

“It was on,” John answered with a shrug.

“John, you’re watching it on Netflix.”

“Exactly… it was on,” John repeated with another nonchalant shrug, before heading for the kitchen to put Paul’s stuff away, causing Paul to chuckle as he took a seat on the couch, pushing some of the pillows and blankets aside to make some room for himself.

“I can’t believe you watch Twilight,” he said, still chuckling.

“I don’t!” came John’s answer from the kitchen, “I was bored and I came across it whilst going through Netflix, so I decided to give it shot. To see if it was really so bad as everyone said it was. I’d never seen it before.”

Paul just snickered, shaking his head in disbelief, and, turning around, he let his head rest on the backrest of the couch as he watched John reappear, two bottles of beer and an already opened bag of crisps in hand. Paul had to admit the guy looked great, even in this messy state, with his ruffled, unkempt hair - looking all curly and soft - and his light blue pyjama bottoms that showed off his hip bones and that terrible “daddy’s little kitten” shirt he was wearing above it. It was a sight that was very pleasing indeed, and Paul wondered when he had decided to simply accept that rather than be embarrassed about it. He feared it had happened somewhere during their coffee date last week.

“Nice shirt, by the way” he remarked as he took in the sight, and watched John with a teasing smirk as the latter came to sit down on the couch next to him, a matching smirk of his own adorning his handsome face.

“It was a gift from Stu. You know, the guy you met when we were out for coffee together. The skinny guy with the sunglasses? It was meant kind of like a coming-out present, if there is such a thing, and more as a joke than anything else. But to tell you the truth, it’s surprisingly comfy! And Stu hates seeing me wear it and I live to annoy him, so as I’m sure you can understand, I have to wear it now at every opportunity,” he said, smirking as Paul laughed at him again.

“And you think you’re going to see him today, then?”

“Maybe. I mean, we’re roommates - or at least technically, we are - so there is a chance he might come home this evening. Lately, though, he’s been living more with his girlfriend than with me, but he’s here at least once or twice a week. Sometimes just to pick up or dump some stuff, but still. He gets so see this wonderful shirt and that’s all that matters.”

“That must kind of suck, though, doesn’t it?

“Eh, I’m fine with it now. Beats waking up to them having sex in the middle of the night, anyway,” John said, and Paul could only agree with that, seeing as George and Pattie’s sex life was slowly starting to get on his nerves as well, especially when his own was in such shambles. “Anyway, you ready for some Twilight?”

“Ugh! Do we really have to?”

“Yes! I mean, I have to watch it at least once, don’t I? Besides, it’s really not that bad so far.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Paul asked, raising an eyebrow, but when John just nodded, all Paul could do was stare at him in disbelief.

“I’m serious! I mean, it’s not good, but it’s just your typical teen angst movie and pure wish fulfillment, and honestly, I’ve seen worse. Then again, I’m only like 7 minutes in or something, so who knows what might still happen.”

Knowing that there was nothing he could say that would change John’s mind, thus rendering Paul with little choice, he gave in with a sigh and a reluctant nod, at which John immediately pressed play before opening one of the beer bottles and handing it to Paul almost as a peace offering.

“No glass?” Paul remarked at he took it, and John shrugged.

“Fewer dishes for me,” he replied with a wink, which Paul had to admit was fair enough.

Although both men tried to focus on the film, wanting to give it a fair chance, not ten minutes passed before they were talking animatedly about university and friends as well as some major news stories they had seen on the news as they watched the film, occasionally cracking a few jokes at the expense of the (lack of) plot and Edward’s undeniable creepiness, which John imitated with hilarious accuracy. Still Paul had to admit that although he could hardly say it was a good movie, it wasn’t all as bad as it had been made out to be. It was as John had said: just an angsty teen romance movie that was pure wish fulfillment, containing barely any plot and being so full of clichés, you could make a drinking game out of it, which they briefly considered doing, only to decide against it as Paul had remembered Dot and John had realised he didn’t have nearly enough alcohol for it. But in all honesty, as long as you didn’t take it too seriously and watched it with a friend so you could make jokes about it to keep your sanity - and John had a great knack for making anything funny - it was surprisingly bearable.

An hour in, Paul still had trouble figuring out exactly what the plot of the film was supposed to be, but he hardly cared, his and John’s conversation being much more interesting and John’s jokes far more entertaining than anything the film had to offer. He had made himself more comfortable, having taken off his shoes and laid down on the couch, with his feet laying in John’s lap, so he could more easily look at him rather than the film, preferring that view even during the scenes with Robert Patterson that were specifically designed to make the blood of the intended young female audience run faster, which somehow included John. Paul had nearly finished his second beer and felt the need to use the restroom, but at the same time he couldn’t be bothered, being far to comfortable where he was.

“To be fair, if you were a sparkly vampire, I’d a goner too,” John said, eyes glued to the screen where Bella almost seemed to be needing to be hospitalised for simply being near Edward, with his pretty sparkling skin. “Especially if you looked like Robert Pattinson.”

“Eh. I never really cared for Robert Pattinson, if I’m honest,” Paul said, turning his head to the tv screen as he gave the actor a quick once over, frown on his forehead. John turned to look at him in surprise.

“Really?!”

“Yeah. I mean, he’s definitely not ugly! And he’s nice enough to look at, but… I guess, he’s just not my type.”

“And what is your type, then, if I might ask?” John asked, sitting up and licking his lips as Paul turned to look at him again.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he replied, hoping that would be the end of it, but of course, it wasn’t, because he was talking to John, and he never let anything go once he had sat his mind to it. The fact that he was here right now was proof enough of that.

“Come on, Paulie. Tell us, eh? I bet you like bad boys. Like that pot smoking ex-boyfriend of yours. Is that why you like me? Am I the bad boy you so desperately want to fix? I mean, you did kiss me. There’s no denying that.”

“Who says I’m denying it?”

“The same guy who says you’re avoiding the question,” John retorted, smirking, and when Paul just rolled his eyes at him, he added, “is that why you don’t like Robert Pattinson, then? Sparkly vampires not bad enough for you, eh? Need bad boy Johnny to treat you right instead?”

“You are awful!” Paul said, shaking his head in disapproval as he gently kicked John’s thigh with his foot, but John just smiled at him as he leaned even closer towards him, hand firmly grasping his ankle.

“Admit it, darling! You like me. We both know you do.”

“I’ve got a girlfriend, remember?”

“Yes, seeing as you barely give me a chance to forget. But that doesn’t change the fact that you like me. Or was the song about smug guys in tight black jeans and thick-rimmed glasses that you wrote in your notebook not about me?”

“You weren’t meant to read that,” Paul muttered softly, his half-annoyed, half-amused smile fading at the mention of his notebook, his throat feeling raspy and dry. He had almost forgotten about that, and the sudden mention of it brought back all those previous feelings again, nearly making him want to run out.

“But it was about me?” John pressed on, barely seeming to notice the change of mood in his friend.

“John…” Paul tried again as he began to get up, but before he could, John pressed him back onto the couch.

“Paul, I know you’re embarrassed about me having read your work, and I already told you I was sorry for having done so without your permission, but you really don’t have to be! They’re bloody good, okay! And besides, if that song was about me, which I think it was, I’m flattered you wrote that about me. Even if you basically said I was an asshole, you still called me a sexy asshole, so really, I’m fine with it. You should have more confidence in your work, you should.”

“No, it’s not that…”

“Then what is it?” John asked. “What about that stupid notebook could possibly be so important that you are still that upset about me reading it?! It’s been weeks!”

Despite John’s obvious annoyance, it sounded more directed at his own failure to understand than at Paul. Paul, however, wasn’t sure if he wanted to tell John at all, not knowing how he would react to the truth, having no clue what John’s stance on such issues was, and over the past few years he knew how differently people could react to what had happened. His closest friends had all been supportive, as had most of his family - the important part of his family, anyway - but John was neither friend nor family, and neither was he foe, leaving Paul with no clue as to how he would respond. And even if he would react positively, it wasn’t that he wanted John to know either. He barely knew him, and really, it was none of his business. Just because they had kissed once, which in Paul’s mind barely even counted, seeing how drunk and high he had been, didn’t mean John had the right to know his entire life’s story.

“They’re just songs…” John muttered as Paul remained silent, and although Paul knew he only wanted to help, it was completely the wrong thing to say in that moment.

“They’re not just songs,” he said before he could stop himself. His voice had been quiet as he had said it and Paul briefly hoped John hadn’t heard him over the sound of the tv that was still on in the background, but judging by the way John was staring at him, frown on his face, clearly not understanding at all what Paul was saying, he knew he had heard, leaving him with no choice now but to explain.

“Most of them aren’t, anyway,” he continued, taking a deep breath as he looked up at John nervously. “Songwriting isn’t just something I do for fun, John. For me… Well… It’s like therapy almost, you know?”

“Therapy?”

Paul nodded.

“What do you need therapy for?!” John asked, with more force than Paul could handle at that point, making him shuffle anxiously in his seat as his eyes shifted instinctively to the door, as if looking for an escape.

“M-maybe I should just go-”

“What? No! You can’t go now! What’s wrong? What do you need therapy for? I promise I won’t make fun of you if that’s what you’re worried about. I just… want to know.”

Glancing back at John, Paul was surprised at the worry he saw in his eyes as he stared at him, anxiously waiting for him to continue, waiting for an answer, wanting to understand.

“Well, I er…” he started, taking a deep breath before continuing, “firstly, I didn’t quit medical school because I didn’t like it anymore. In fact, quitting was the exact thing I didn’t want to do.”

He paused for a moment to think of how he was going to explain it. “It was stupid, really, and I’m glad I did now, but… I was having some issues back then. I won’t bore you with all that, because it’s really not important, and I don’t really like thinking about it, but I had to quit uni because of it and to deal with it, my therapist advised me to keep a journal to help process my thoughts.”

“And that’s what your notebook was?”

“Was. Is. I wasn’t good at actually writing down my thoughts and feelings - I still can’t - but with songwriting… it just comes out, and it helps. It’s easier, to be able to look at it but not having to see it written down there explicitly. I mean, not all of the songs in there are like that, but most of them are and so when you read them and commented on them...”

“Shit, Paul... I didn’t know! Why didn’t you tell me?” John asked and Paul scoffed at the mere suggestion of it.

“I don’t know, John. For some reason I don’t really like telling people I just met such personal things, but that must just be me,” he said, with a faint chuckle. It was more from relief that John took it so well, though the way the man cursed himself silently at his stupid remark, was admittedly somewhat amusing, if not endearing.

“What happened, then? At uni, I mean? Were you depressed or…?” John asked after a moment of silence, curious to know more, only to quickly add he didn’t have to tell him if he didn’t want to or felt too uncomfortable to, but Paul told him it was alright, appreciating the way John didn’t try to press him and instead seemed genuinely interested yet concerned.  

“It wasn’t quite like that, no. For me, life just got too much at some point. Everything got too much and then finally I couldn’t deal with it anymore and I shut down.”

“Shut down?”

“I was told I had a mental breakdown of some sorts. My dad took me back home with him when he came to visit me one day and saw how bad it was. I-I never went back.”

“But you’re alright now?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. I mean, as fine as I can be. These things, they take a while, but I can do everything again and generally I feel good. Or I think I do. It’s a little weird. I haven’t felt truly “good” for a long time, so it takes some time getting used to.”

“Christ, Paul…”

“But really, I’m fine!” Paul hastily insisted as he realised how that had sounded, “It’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?! You had a mental breakdown and you're telling me it’s not a big deal?”

“It’s been two years since then, John. I’m alright. Really,” he assured him, and although John still looked unsure, he gave in, sighing as he nodded.

“Alright. Yeah… If you say so. Thanks for telling me, though. I er… I can’t imagine it’s easy. I certainly wouldn’t be able to if I were in your place…”

“Don’t think because I’m telling you now, that it’s easy to talk about or that I even want to. You kinda left me with little choice, but… I mean not telling people was kinda why it got as bad as it did. And having something like that happen to you, it’s kind of a wake-up call you know? You’ve got to be honest with yourself and others, even if it’s scary. Somethings you simply cannot do on your own. There’s nothing weak about that.”

“You’ve been telling a lot of people, then?”

“No. Just those who matter. I prefer not to. People look at you different when they know,” he said. When John just nodded, he took his chance to change the subject, having had quite enough of it. “Now, enough of this! Let’s watch a film that’s actually good, shall we? I’m done with Twilight for today and seeing as you’re clearly terrible at picking movies, I’ll pick something for us this time.”

Not waiting for a response, he got up to get the remote from the coffee table and turned off the film, unable to take it any longer, and searched through the available films until deciding on The Pink Panther, hoping the comedy and intrigue would lighten the mood and move them on from this conversation.

“You know, Paul, you should have stopped me sooner if you were going to pick something like this for us to watch!” John said as the film popped up on the screen, recognising it right away.

“I’ll remember that for next time,” Paul laughed and sat back down on the couch, closer to John than last time and drank from his beer as they watched the opening credits, humming along to the all too familiar theme song together, feet moving along to the song, before falling silent as the film truly began.

The transition from the serious subject to the film was easier than Paul had expected, as John seemed to move on from their conversation with relative ease. They could watch the film without any sort of awkwardness and laugh at the jokes without it feeling weird, for which Paul couldn’t help but be thankful, having feared that the same thing would happen between John and him as had between him and another old friend.  

After half an hour, John got them both something to eat as they began to feel rather peckish. Despite Paul’s suggestion to pause the film while he did so, John insisted he didn't, which in turn only resulted in Paul having to shout what was happening on screen back at John, something that proved impossible as Paul couldn’t stop laughing at how ridiculous they were being. Annoyed at having missed a good ten minutes of the film, which he blamed on Paul’s utter inability to take his task serious, John for a moment refused to speak to Paul as they continued watching the movie, which only made Paul laugh more.

In the end, the only way for him to make it up to John was by giving him both his sausages, which came with his microwaved meal, and which John accepted as a peace offering with unrestrained eagerness. For Paul, though, it didn’t matter seeing as he didn’t eat meat anyway and would have given them to John regardless of whether or not he was upset with him. Not that he told John that, of course.

It was only when the film ended that Paul thought of checking the time. John got up to take the rubbish away - they had eaten out of the plastic containers with plastic forks to save John from doing the dishes again - and asked Paul if he wanted some coffee, to which Paul replied with an eager “yes”, as he took his phone from the back pocket of his jeans. He nearly dropped it on the floor when he saw the time. Needless to say, 7.30 had long passed.

“Oh fuck!”

“What? What happened?” John called from the kitchen, only the appear in the doorway not a second later with two coffee mugs in hand. All Paul could do was stare at his phone as he cursed himself under his breath, unable to understand why he was this fucking stupid.

“Dot! I forgot to call Dot. Why didn’t you say anything!?” he exclaimed, still staring at the four digits on his phone, as if hoping they would change to something else and someone was just playing a trick on him somehow.

“Don’t go blaming me, dear! I didn’t know what time you were meant to call her!”

“Ugh, she’s going to be pissed!”

“Well, what are you staring at your phone for then? Call her, stupid!”

“Right! Yes. Call her. Yes.”

Swallowing thickly, he unlocked his phone with trembling fingers and selected Dot’s number, ignoring the frustrated texts he had gotten, asking him where he was and why he wasn’t answering his phone. He hoped, perhaps rather foolishly, that she wouldn’t be upset with him for constantly forgetting their dates - because really, their calls was the closest things they had to dates these days. Thankfully, he didn’t have to wait long before she picked up.

“Paul?”

“Dot! Fuck, I-I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know it was so late already!” Paul tried, clutching at his phone so hard it hurt his hand, his foot tapping rapidly on the floor. Dot, however, didn’t pay any attention to his apologies.

“Where even are you right now?! I tried George, but he said you just didn’t come home!”

“I’m at a friend’s.”

“At a friend’s?!”

“Yes! I do actually have friends. Just because I haven’t come home doesn’t mean I’ve died or gotten lost or have been kidnapped!” Paul replied defensively without thinking, regretting it as soon as he had said it.

“Well, I’m sorry for being worried, but the last time you suddenly didn’t come home, your dad found you spacing out on your bedroom floor!”

“You know I didn’t mean it like that. Shit, Dot. That’s not going to happen. I’m fine! I-” he started, but Dorothy interrupted him, her voice sounding more tired than angry, which Paul knew to be worse.

“I worry about you, Paul. I can’t help it. When you don’t answer your phone and no one knows where you are, it… it scares me.”

“Dot, honey, I’m fine. I promise you. You don’t have to worry about me.”

“Maybe that’s the problem...” Dot muttered in a tone that Paul didn’t know how to place.

“W-what do you mean by that?” he asked, although somewhere he knew where this was going. He could hear it in everything: in her words, her tired voice, her lack of anger, and the sigh that followed. She was fed up. “Dot?”

“Maybe we shouldn’t do this anymore.”

“What do you mean? Not do what anymore?” Paul asked, his phone beginning to slip from his hand as fear grasped at his heart. Dot, however, didn’t answer.

“Where are you?” she asked instead.

“I told you, I’m at a friend’s place. Dot, what do you mean you don’t know if we should be doing this anymore?”

“What friend’s place?” Dot pressed on, and Paul froze for a moment.

“John’s. Our neighbour,” he answered.

“You mean the guy who brought you home that time you got drunk during that poetry reading event?”

“Yes, he er... he’s nice, actually.”

“Yes, I thought you’d think that...”

“Dot?”

There was a pause before she finally answered. “Paul, I know you kissed him. I know you were drinking and got high and then you kissed him before he brought you home. I know.”

“H-how did you-?”

“I’m not stupid. Pauline told me. Stuart’s sister. He’s a friend of John’s, I believe. Not to mention that I found a particularly interesting tweet from the man himself that pretty much proved it. I didn’t want to believe it at first. I wanted to hear it from you first, but-” “Tweet? What tweet?” Paul asked, frozen in place. He hadn’t seen any tweets about them when he had gone through John’s twitter feed that one time. Well, except for that one about kissing guys who had just thrown up, but… that couldn’t be the one she meant! It didn’t even mention his name or anything else that could point to the fact that he was the one John had kissed that time. Surely she wouldn’t have been able to draw any conclusions from that one. Could she? Or was it just that obvious?

“You know, the one about the two of you on a date at a coffee shop about a week ago? Something about ‘getting coffee with the cute throw-up guy?’ or something along those lines. I recognised your bracelet, the one I gave you for your birthday. Really, Paul. If you’re going to cheat-”

“I wasn’t cheating! Dot, that didn’t mean anything! Yes, I kissed him, but Dot… I was drunk. And high! It didn’t mean anything! That’s why I didn’t tell you. I didn’t want you to get upset about nothing. And that thing at the coffee shop was nothing! We just got some coffee together after class. As friends! That wasn’t a date! I swear, Dot.”

“Well your supposed ‘friend’ certainly thought it was.”

“It was nothing! I swear! It was a joke! A stupid joke. To embarrass me. He likes making jokes and embarrassing me with stuff like that because he knows I love you, okay? Dot, I love you, you hear me? I love you.”

“I know you do. But fuck Paul… why didn’t you fucking tell me? Whether it meant something or not-”

“I was going to! I swear I was. I tried. Before. But shit, Dot…. I didn’t want to hurt you. I knew how you’d react, and with every day that passed when I didn’t tell you, I knew I was just making it worse. And I tried, but every time something came up, like a birthday or you working late. And yes! I chickened out. And yes! I know I should have told you. But Christ, Dot, it didn’t mean anything. I didn’t mean to betray you. I wouldn’t do that. Not to you. Never to you.”

“And yet you did.”

“No, Dot, please-” Paul tried again, feeling where this was going, and not wanting it to, regretting every moment when he had even dared to think about what was now surely about to happen, every moment he had considered doing it himself.

“Paul,” Dot said, the calmness in her voice only making Paul more afraid.

“I’m so sorry, honey. We can work it out. I promise it was nothing. I-”

“Paul,” she simply said again, even softer this time, and for whatever reason, it got Paul to stop, his breathing slowing, his fingers trembling even more.

“Y-yes?”

“Maybe it’s better if we stop.”

“S-stop? No, Dot, I-”

“Come on, Paul. You, me, this whole thing, it- it’s not working anymore. It hasn’t been working for a long time and I don’t care how often you tell me you love me. I know you love me and God knows I love you but… sometimes it isn’t about that, you know? I mean, who are we even fooling anymore?”

“Dot...” Paul said again, only to fall silent, having no words left that would change her mind, that could change any of this. She was right.

          The world felt hollow as Paul came home that evening. The sounds were far away and almost inaudible, the light didn’t seem to be landing on his eyes and the air seemed to have vanished, leaving behind nothing, not even pressure. Everything he touched offered resistance, but yet he couldn’t feel it. He couldn’t feel the texture, the shape, whether it was hot or cold, hard or soft, solid or liquid. He could only touch, but he couldn’t feel. He could hear but not listen. He could make sound but not speak. Nothing was making sense.

He could hear voices, unreal voices, lacking pitch and air, talking gibberish that faintly sounded like English. He couldn’t understand them. Couldn’t even understand what “English” was, only that whatever those voices were saying, that was “English”. They were laughing, speaking, and they were loud, too loud.

The only thing he could feel was the nausea in his stomach and the only thing he could hear the sounds of Dot’s voice, saying the same things over and over again, no matter how hard to he tried to push it away from his mind. He couldn’t believe it had happened, couldn’t believe that after weeks they had finally had that conversation, that they had finally addressed the issues they had been having for month, before he had even left Liverpool, before he had decided to go back to university. She was gone now - actually gone - and it left Paul feeling empty, empty in a way he hadn’t felt for a long time, and it scared him. He had sat on John’s couch for another hour, after they had hung up, not speaking, unmoving, until John had guided him home, not knowing what else to do.

Stepping into the living room, he noticed George and Pattie on the couch, curled up together, sharing take-out chinese food, feeding each other bites, but all Paul could see was himself and Dot, doing the same thing, not too long ago, back at home, in Liverpool, one evening when his father and brother had both been out. Dot had looked beautiful then, blue eyes sparkling, blond hair curling in that perfect way around her ear, his hand on her tummy, feeling-

“Paul! God, Paul, what happened to you! Dot said she couldn’t reach you, but I just thought you were with friends or something. Jesus, what happened to you? Come sit down,” George exclaimed as he saw the state his friend was in, and Paul wondered briefly just how bad he looked: pale face, red eyes, hunched-over, moving slowly from the shock. Before he could say anything, which wasn’t as quick as it otherwise might be, George was at his side, holding him by his arm, a firm hand on his shoulder, guiding him towards the couch as Pattie moved some stuff aside to make room for him. Her expression was weird. And her eyes… so blue.

He was sitting down. He didn’t realise he had been moving to do so, but he was sitting down, and yet he could not feel the couch under him. George was next to him, saying words Paul couldn’t understand, while Pattie sat in front of him on the coffee table, watching him with that same odd expression. He knew he had to say something. He had to say what had happened. George expected him to, even though the reason why didn’t make any sense to him at the moment. He had been in this situation before. He knew what people wanted. Even if it didn’t make sense.

“Dot.”

“What about Dot, Paul? Did you talk to her?” George asked, voice calm and soft, almost a whisper, which to Paul still sounded too loud. He nodded.