A/N: Finally a new chapter!! Thanks for waiting patiently. I'm still trying to get back on schedule believe it or not. It's just not working out as great as I hoped. I'm doing my best, though, and get back on it eventually. If you're afraid I might quit, I promise you, I'm really not. I'm still loving this fic and writing in general too much for that.

If John had had to imagine three months prior what he would be doing around this time, lying in bed with a fully-naked Paul McCartney in his arms would not have come to him. And yet, he was certain it was Paul's hair tickling him under his nose, Paul's arms that were wrapped firmly around his waist, Paul's breath that ghosted over his sweat-slick skin, Paul's legs that lay entwined with his own, and that if he would open his eyes for a second, he'd be looking down into Paul's hazel puppy eyes. He didn't dare to, though, fearing it was only his imagination and he wasn't truly there, just a faint memory from their days spent in Paris - if he hadn't imagined that as well. Besides, he didn't want to ruin the moment. It was peaceful, quiet, intimate, everything John had thought they could never have. He was lying in bed, spend and out-of-breath, listening to the faint mutterings escaping Paul's lips as he too returned from his high, while drawing circles on the sweaty skin of his lower back, linking birthmarks together with invisible ink to create various patterns, each one more intricate than the last.

A week had passed since John had practically begged Paul to stay with him despite his engagement to Miss Asher, and neither of them had brought it up since. John had been worried future meetings would be awkward, but surprisingly, they had been able to pick up where they had left off with ease. Paul had shown up the following Wednesday on time, and like before he had waited for John to guide his body into the proper position, something both now knew wasn't needed. Still, John would gladly take any opportunity to be close to the other man and touch him, so he had complied without another word and had knelt down at his feet. At first both had been unsure and John's touches had been light, an obvious tremor in his hands. But once John had laid his hand high on Paul's thigh to keep his balance as he traced his jawline with his fingertips to angle his head just right - something he wouldn't have dared to do before Paris - the initial nerves had been pushed aside and Paul had grabbed his waistcoat with eager hands to pull him into his lap for a determined kiss. John had relished the force with which Paul had kissed him, held him and devoured him, and had easily surrendered to his urgent touches that bordered on the edge of painful. It had been all they had needed to find that old informality again.

Neither had said a lot about Paul's future marriage or his relationship with Miss Asher, either. Paul only mentioned her on to keep John informed about the development concerning their engagement, to which John would reply with a cold nod or nothing at all, and Paul accepted that. It hurt him to think of Paul with anyone but him, and although he had assured him he didn't feel anything for her that wasn't brotherly and platonic, John could not put the possibility from his mind. In the end, he knew he would choose her, marry her, take her to his bed, and produce an heir that was half him, half her, and it didn't matter what Paul's feelings were towards him or her. Having been born a woman, she had already won.

Paradoxically, John preferred Paul telling him about her, about her clear affection towards him, about what she was like, her beauty, their past friendship, and how she felt about the wedding, than to have Paul keep her a secret. From what he had heard, she was a good match for Paul too, someone who cared for him and would look after him, someone whom Paul loved as well. He was relieved Paul would marry someone who would be good for him, even if he hated her for it at the same time. Thankfully, she wasn't the topic of conversation often, and John would never have to meet her.

"That was nice... Hmm, such beautiful hands... skilled, beautiful hands," Paul mumbled softly as he rubbed his head into John's chest, bringing him back. One of his hands trailed down over John's arms to caress the skilled, beautiful hands in question, although John doubted he was aware of what was coming out of his mouth. It was cute, though, and he leaned down to place a kiss on the top of his head. Sometimes it was strange to believe this mess of a man was the same as the determined, overbearing and confident man he saw during sex as well as outside of it.

The bed they were in was too small for the both of them, being only a single, but they made do by lying fully wrapped up in each other, with Paul sprawled on top of John, and John holding him close so he would not lose his balance and fall. Both men relished the closeness, and John smiled as Paul began to play with his fingers, caressing them and twisting them around, while paying special attention to his rough, calloused fingertips and palm, which were so different from his own soft and delicate hands - the hands of a true aristocrat. In the end, Paul took his hand into his own and brought it up to his lips to kiss. Smiling, John opened his eyes, reassured he wasn't dreaming as feared, but frowned when he caught sight of Paul's bare wrist.

"You're not wearing the bracelet I gave you."

Paul frowned as he raised his head to look at him, looking adorably bemused as he struggled to process what John was saying. Clearly, he was not as clear-headed as his partner. John, however, found it hard to mind when he was greeted with such a pretty sight. His ruffled hair looked as unkempt as he had only seen it once before in Paris, providing crude evidence of the numerous times John had raked his fingers through it, and tugged and pulled. His lips were red and bruised from kissing, and his arousal-flushed cheeks offered a strong indicator of his recent orgasm. His eyes were still hazy, and it took a while before they had fully focused on him.

"People might start asking questions, John. It's worse enough you stole it. I don't wish to have to lie about it too."

"You could say you bought it. The cost probably would have been like pocket change to you."

"Did you not hear what I just said?"

"Paul, darling, you've been sleeping around with I don't know how many men for half your life. Obviously you're not that pious. Why draw the line at something as silly as a little white lie?"

"Well, it would be nice not to have to hide something for once," Paul said, somewhat taken aback by John's remark. He didn't consider the two mutually exclusive himself, but he didn't comment on it, knowing he didn't mean it badly. John, unaware of the effect his words had had, smirked at his answer.

"Which you do by hiding the exact thing you do not want to hide?" he asked, cleverly. Paul thought about that for a while, searching his mind for the logic that he was certain had been there when he had made the decision to hide the bracelet. Thinking, though, proved difficult when you had just had the best sex of your life and your lover was still rubbing affectionate circles on your lower back with his fingertips. He frowned at himself, but remained at a loss. In the end, John rolled his eyes at him, called him a rude but affectionate name, and pulled him down for a kiss.

"Thank you for hiding the evidence of my heinous crime, though, Paul. I like not spending time in prison," he said against his lips. Paul chuckled as he pulled away.

"Really? I thought you'd feel quite at home there."

"Is that how you see me, McCartney? A low-life, good-for-nothing criminal?"

"Don't worry, dear. I can think of a couple things you're good for." To illustrate he cocked his head and let one of his fingers trail down seductively from John's jaw, over his neck and down his chest, making sure to let his nail graze his right nipple, a particularly sensitive spot, and even further down towards his private zone. John chuckled at his advances, but pushed his hand away.

"Sorry, darling. I'm an old man. I need at least five more minutes before I'm ready to go again," he said and Paul sighed dramatically.

"You're lucky, you're worth the wait."

"Or else you would have left me after the first time? You are using me!" John accused in mock offence. Paul grinned at him in return.

"I'll have you know, you're one of the few people I haven't done that with," he said. John tried to think of something clever to say in response, but decided against it as he caught the slight flush of pink on the younger man's cheeks, figuring silence would suffice for what he truly intended to communicate.

They remained curled up together like that for another minute or so, playfully bickering back-and-forth, before Paul started to get up. He pulled away from the warm body under his, and sat down on the side of the bed with his legs thrown over the edge. Reaching for his clothes, he began to get dressed, pulling various pieces of clothing on over his head, the movements of which stretched his body taut. John folded his hands behind his head as he laid back to watch, allowing thoughts to come and go as they pleased, and licked his lip as he noticed a slight bruise just above the curve of Paul's bum - his bruise, left there by his gripping fingers earlier that afternoon when he had needed to hold on tight as Paul had ridden him, his movements fast, urgent and demanding, but also skilled and deliberate, each bounce reaching ever closer to utter perfection.

"Enjoying the sight, are you?" Paul asked as he caught him staring at him. John, however, didn't answer and simply watched on as Paul stood up to pull on his underwear and trousers, hiding said bruise from view.

"However much I hate to say it," he continued as he grabbed John's comb from his desk to brush his hair, "you should make haste and get dressed before your master or colleague returns. We've been pushing our luck as it is."

"I wish we didn't have to."

"Wishing is useless. You do and if you can't, then you don't. Come on. I'm not going to help you get dressed. You're a big boy. You can do that yourself," Paul said, turning to the mirror above the fireplace to fix his hair and clothes, making himself look presentable with impressive ease. Finally, despite his efforts to come up with a credible excuse to stay in bed a little longer, John got up to get dressed as well.

"Oh! And I've got a letter from Mr Arpin for you," Paul said, running his fingers through his hair to push every lock into its proper place. He caught John's eye through the mirror's reflection. "It's in my coat, so remind me to hand it to you before I leave. I haven't looked at it yet myself, but I assume it's important."

"He must have changed his mind about me. I wouldn't blame him."

"Don't say that. You're a much better artist than you give yourself credit for," Paul said matter-of-factly, fixing his neckerchief. Being unsure how to respond, John didn't say anything, and finished dressing, after which he led Paul downstairs. He paused atop of the stairs to listen if there was anyone below. The sound of footsteps in the hallway was clearly audible, after which he could hear a door opening and closing, signalling that either Stuart, Cynthia or Mr Edwards had come back. He glanced back at Paul and motioned him to be silent as he waited another couple of seconds to make sure the person wouldn't come back into the hallway, before he deemed it safe to descend the stairs and beckoned Paul to follow him.

"Sneaking around like this is rather exciting, isn't it?" Paul said with a childish giggle once they were downstairs. He got his coat, hat and umbrella from the coat rack and began putting it on as John kept a close eye on the door to make sure they weren't interrupted.

"Remind me again, how old are you exactly?" the latter asked, smirking, as he caught sight of his twinkling eye.

"Don't pretend you're any better, Mr Lennon. I know you secretly enjoy it. Oh! And here's your letter." He reached into the inside pocket of his coat and produced a small, but relatively thick envelop with his name on it, beneath which Paul's address was written in a neat, looping handwriting. John eyed the envelop with distrust before he took it and tore it open. He smirked uncomfortably when he folded the letter open.

"It's in French," he said. Paul looked at him with a blank expression, not understanding what the issues was, so John reminded him he didn't know any French.

"Oh, my apologies. I er... I forgot. I'll read it for you," he said and took the letter back from him to read it. John watched him anxiously, fighting back the urge to bite his nails - a bad habit he used to have as a child, but had learned to overcome in recent years - and preparing himself for the unhappy news he knew would come. When a smile appeared on his lover's face, however, he frowned. Surely it couldn't be...

"Mr Arpin writes he has shown your work to a number of other collectors and has received some promising feedback in return. He urges you to paint more and send him more recent works as soon as possible. The more experimental ones in particular seem to have awakened people's interest, so he'd like you to focus on that if you would be willing to do so. See? I told you there was no need to worry."

"They like it?" John asked in disbelief, snatching the letter back to look at it himself, even if it all appeared like gibberish to him. Paul smiled and leaned in to press a spontaneous kiss to his cheek, taking not only John but also himself by surprise. Blushing, he took a step back as he realised what he had done.

"If you'd like," he continued, pretending nothing had happened, "I could teach you some French. If your works continue to be well received, it may be helpful for you to at least be able to make some decent conversation in proper French. People will be most impressed."

"You'd be willing to do that? I'm not the most hardworking or patient student, in case you weren't aware. Even when the subjects interest me."

"I think I can handle you. It's all about finding the right motivation and I believe I know you well enough to figure that out. We can have our lessons during our weekly meetings and I can bring my old French books from the library. No one will miss them. We should have enough time to make some good process, especially if you could manage to find some time to work on the portrait during the week?"

"I... Yes, I would appreciate that. Thank you," John said truthfully. He smiled at Paul as their eyes remained locked onto one another. A whole minute passed before Paul managed to tear his eyes away and turned around to the front door as he buttoned up his coat, getting ready to leave.

"I'll bring some books we can use with me next time. We can see what level you're on and what we need to focus on then," he said and had been about to open the door to leave when John stopped him.

"Paul," he said, catching his attention and making him turn his head to look at him, "I er... just to be clear, I don't mind you not wearing the bracelet I gave you, but... I do like seeing you wear it. From time to time."

"I'll remember that," he said and offered John one last smile before he turned and went out, closing the door behind him.

John let out a deep sigh and remained standing by the door for a few seconds longer, the letter still held firmly into his fist. He could hardly belief people liked his work, people who actually knew what they were talking about. And Paul was going to give him French lessons. The thought made him smile as he stared at the letter in his hand. He barely heard the sound of the kitchen door opening and closing.

"You feel strongly about him, don't you?" the person said. John froze and held his breath as he thought of what to do. He could hear soft footsteps approach behind him. "You don't have to lie to me, John. But I had thought you were smarter than to get involved with someone like him," Stuart continued.

"He is not half as bad as you think he is. I know you think he is arrogant, selfish and manipulative, but he isn't. That's not all he is."

"John, he doesn't care about you. He'll only hurt you. You're nothing but a distraction to him. You may not want to hear it, but it's the truth. I'm only looking out for you. I know what I am talking about," Stuart said, and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder, which John shrugged off immediately.

"How can you, Stu? You don't know him like I do," he said with anger in his voice. For a moment Stuart remained quiet and John thought he had actually won this round, but then Stuart said something that caused shivers to run down his spine.

"He hasn't told you, has he? About me and him?" Puzzled, John turned around and stared at his friend with a dumbfounded expression as he searched for his voice.

"That your family used to live on his father's land, you mean?"

"No, not quite. It was more than that."

"More than that? Wh-what are you talking about?"

"If he hasn't told you yet, which I sadly don't find surprising, I think you should ask him about it first," Stuart said, and when John pressed on, he merely shook his head, repeated his answer a second and third time, and turned around to walk back into the kitchen again. John had been about to follow him, when Mr Edwards came in through the front door and called him back.

"John, you're here! Wonderful. I need to speak with you for a moment. If you'd come up to my office with me."

Knowing it was useless to refuse, John reluctantly did as told. He glanced back at the door through which Stuart had gone and nervously nibbled at his bottom lip as he waited for Mr Edwards to finish taking off his coat, hat, and shoes, and worried endlessly about Stuart's last words. What did he mean?

***

He did not get another chance to ask Stuart about what he had meant when he had hinted at a history between him and Paul McCartney so different from the one John had been made aware of. Although Stuart had had no qualms to bring it up, John thought it strange he did go through painstaking trouble to avoid telling him any more about it, no matter how often John would try questioning him. Often he would walk away without speaking a word or he would tell him to ask Paul about it first, considering the intimate nature of their relationship, and tag a small disparaging remark on after it. Still, Stuart was one of his closest friends and John regarded his friendship highly, so he refrained from commenting on it or pushing him on the subject as not to create a rift between them. That didn't mean, however, John wasn't annoyed by his attitude towards his and Paul's relationship. But Stuart meant too much to him to deliberately damage that friendship.

But this did mean questions regarding the unknown history between Stuart and Paul remained unanswered for almost a week as John waited for Wednesday to come. They plagued his mind until the early hours and would pass by during brief moments of silence during the day, making it hard for him to push those thoughts away. By the time Wednesday had finally arrived, John had made up his mind and decided to ask Paul about it first like Stuart had said, despite his earlier reservations. Although he feared what the answer might be, he needed to know.

His hands shook as he welcomed Paul inside and kissed his cheek, not daring to do anything more passionate in fear of being caught. It was then unsurprising when Mr Edwards came downstairs not long after to welcome Paul in person as well, and offered him a friendly hand to shake, which Paul took graciously without a moment's thought. It seemed like second nature, which John supposed it most likely was.

As promised, Paul had brought a couple - five to be precise - of his old French books with him to start off their lessons, the sight of which filled John with dread as memories of his school days came flashing back. Those dark anger-filled eyes of his teacher which had first been so amusing to him, now haunted him and would never be forgotten. John pushed those thoughts aside.

Like always, Mr Edwards respected Paul's insistence on privacy without question and made sure they wouldn't be interrupted as they made themselves comfortable on the two sofas in the atelier, while he remained upstairs in his office, working on some paperwork and correspondence with important clients, of whom Mr McCartney Senior was one. Mr Edwards had told John during their conversation last week that he intended to make an appointment to discuss the progress on his son's portrait, though a time and date had not yet been settled on. Pepper, John's white feline who had taken a strong liking to the young aristocrat who had captured her human's eye, had managed to sneak into the atelier with John and Paul, and had made herself comfortable in said aristocrat's lap. Despite John's futile attempts to chase her off, she remained where she was, perfectly content, which amused Paul greatly. He laughed and told John it was better to give up, to which John eventually listened. He could always clear away the few strands of hair she'd leave behind later.

The portrait was placed on the easel, ready to be worked on if necessary, as were John's brushes, scrapers, pellet knifes, rags and other utensils, though neither John nor Paul had any expectations they were going to be used in the coming two hours. Paul sat leaned back in his seat with one of his books open in his hand and used the other to pet Pepper behind her ear, keeping her satisfied while he quizzed John on some basic French words and phrases. Although it was only beginner's material, it surprised John how much he remembered from his French lessons in school. Yet Paul deemed his grasp of the French language as "virtually non-existent" anyway and decided they needed to start from the beginning, which John had to admit was fairly disappointing.

Despite this, the first half of their first lessons went by without any issues. They focused on relatively simple but necessary words and phrases that would prove helpful early on so John would have the idea he was making good progress and was learning something that would actually be useful, such as how to introduce oneself, say goodbye and ask some easy but crucial questions, such as how the other person is doing, what the weather is like, what time it is, and where they nearest bathroom is situated, before they moved on to some counting and naming of colours, after which John insisted they needed a tea break. It proved a lot to digest in a short amount of time, but the fast pace at which they went through it managed to keep John interested throughout. It was only after they'd finished their tea, when, after they had swiftly gone over the words and phrases from before, Paul decided they could look at verb conjugation that John began to lose interest. Irregular verbs had never struck John as anything but highly annoying. The fact that he knew how to do them in English without so much as a thought didn't matter to him either.

"They don't make sense! Why are they all different? All the other verbs have the same endings! It's stupid."

"I know, John, but you know how to do this. You did them perfectly the first time I asked. You can do them again. First list all the personal pronouns for me again," Paul answered with an exasperated sigh, but managed to keep his calm as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. John grumbled something inaudible to himself, but did as told.

"Je, tu, il, elle, on, nous, vous, ils, elles. I know those, Paul."

"Good. Now, conjugate the verb 'to be'."

"'To be' is 'etre', so... je suis, tu es, il est, nous... nous..."

"Sommes."

"Nous sommes. I knew that. Vous êtes and ils... som?"

"Ils sont. Almost there, John. Once more."

"Can't we stop here for today. I cannot remember all of this at once. I am not that smart."

"Yes, you are. Now, je...?" John grumbled more inaudible nonsense to himself and shot Paul a glare, but did as he had said, though he wasn't sure why. If anyone else had been sitting before him, such as his old teacher or his aunt, he wouldn't have thought twice about leaving or throwing a tantrum like the well-mannered adult he was.

"Je suis," he answered reluctantly.

"Good. Tu...?"

"Tu es, il est, nous... sommes?" Paul nodded to let him know he was correct. "Vous êtes and ils sont."

"I told you, you could do it."

"Have we finished now?"

"Well, actually I thought we could do the verb 'to have' one last time to finish it off for today."

"Oh please, no. My apologies, but not only is my brain in high need of some rest, I already get to see so little of you throughout the week, I'm going to start associating our meeting with the pure pain of studying French. Which isn't a good thing, even if you're very handsome when you play the teacher. Can't we have some time to ourselves?"

"John, however flattering that remark is..."

"I don't want to waste the little time we have solely on work." Paul regarded his lover for a moment, but gave in with a sigh.

"I may have a tempting proposition as a compromise," he said, smiling as John sat up in his seat and leaned forwards to listen more closely. "If you can manage to get the conjugation for 'to have' correct in two tries, we will stop for the day and, as a reward, I will allow you to kiss me." He paused for dramatic effect and noticed John licking his lips at the prospect. "But if you get it wrong, we will continue for another fifteen minutes and you will get no kiss. Know, though, that I wouldn't propose this if I didn't think you couldn't do it."

John thought for a moment, but agreed, thinking he could still remember the conjugation for the most part. Besides, how could he ever refuse kissing Paul? He decided to give it his best effort.

"Fine. J'ai, tu ais, il ait, nous avons, vous avez, ils ont."

"Not quite. Second and third person singular were incorrect. One more try."

"What did I say?"

"Tu ais and Il ait, which is actually the conjugation for the imperfect tense. You were close, though. Think carefully. I know you know it. J'ai..."

"Tu..." John thought closely, not wanting to be wrong again and have to do this for another fifteen minutes. Strangely, he had thought he had mastered the singular forms fairly well, and had been more worried about the third person plural. He thought about it for a while, thinking hard, but couldn't think what else it could be. He had been about to give up when he suddenly realised.

"Tu as, il a, nous avons, vous avez, ils ont. "

The sound of a book slamming shut had never pleased John more than in that moment. Before he knew it, Paul was on him, pressing him back into the couch, and sitting himself down beside him, his body pressed up firmly against his.

"I told you, it is all about finding the right motivation," he said, his lips only inches away from his, and instead of saying anything back, John cupped his cheek in his hand and leaned in to capture said lips with his own and claim his reward. The sound of the giggles Paul let out in response made his heart and fingers ache for more, and god... he wanted to. But they were not alone: Mr Edwards was right upstairs and Dot, although having been told to stay away from the atelier while Mr McCartney was there unless told otherwise, was here as well, doing her job. So, John refrained and simply let himself enjoy the kiss they shared.

They didn't move after the kiss ended, both being far too comfortable to. Paul let his head rest on John's shoulder, while they let their fingers dance together, lightly pulling and coaxing and playing, enjoying the other's touch as they sat in silence. A few minutes passed until the original question came back to John. He had to ask. He had to do it now.

"Paul?" he said, his voice barely louder than a whisper. He cleared his throat before he continued. "Now we've put away those horrid books, can I... can I ask you something?" Paul blinked up at him, his eyebrows knitting together cutely in confusement at John's serious tone-of-voice.

"Yes, of course," he said, his fingers briefly pausing their movements. John, on the other hand, continued his as he took a deep breath.

"I wanted to ask you, what is your history with Stuart Sutcliffe?"

"Your friend?" John nodded in response. Paul let his hand drop in John's lap as he pulled away slightly to look him better in the eye. His brows were still knitted together, though now more in serious thought than confusement.

"Why do you ask? I've told you his family used to live on my father's land."

"Well yes, only Stuart doesn't like you very much and I was wondering why that was. Stuart preferred not to talk about it, though he told me I could ask you." The words didn't appear to reassure Paul.

"Well, people have a tendency not to like me," he said, "I cannot act the way I act around you with other people. So generally I'm not a likeable person. Truth be told, I'm not surprised your friend doesn't like me either. He has no reason to think otherwise, has he?"

"Any particular reason why he has no reason to think otherwise?" John pressed on. Paul shrugged, but continued.

"I was only eleven at the time, so apologies if I don't recall correctly or in great detail, but as I remember it, my father forced his family leave our estate. Their work was unsatisfactory in his eye and they couldn't pay him what they owed him so he had to tell them to move away. He didn't have another choice, but I think that's a pretty good reason to dislike anyone, even if the reason is not unreasonable." He did not seem ingenuine, but John sensed he wasn't telling him everything. He considered leaving it, but his curiosity got the better of him, so he pressed him about it further, to which Paul half-heartedly obliged.

"My father didn't make life any easier for them. He didn't help when they needed it. Of course, I am not my father, but with issues like this, it's easy to confuse the part with the whole. My mother objected to his decision. According to her, they deserved more time, another chance. But my father had his mind made up. I was too young to have a say in the matter, and even now, my voice barely carries any weight. My father doesn't trust me very much, which I think is understandable, considering my behaviour."

"Why? Because of your affairs?"

"Partly. But also because as the eldest, it seems everything I do isn't enough in my father's eyes. He expects a lot from me, more than I am able to do."

"That's... hard," John said, but Paul merely shrugged and smiled.

"I'm used to it. But like I said, I'm not surprised your friend doesn't like me. Neither do I resent him for it. Because... he isn't wrong not to like me."

***

The following day, John waited patiently for Stuart to come in for work. His conversation with Paul was still running through his mind, and although he knew he had no reason to distrust what Paul had told him, there was something that didn't sit right with him, something that he felt was missing, though he couldn't put his finger on what that might be. He hoped he was wrong and that what Paul had told him was all the reason Stuart had needed to despise Paul so fervently, though he doubted that was the case. Stuart's anger and hatred seemed more personal than that, if he could read his friend well, which he thought he could. That is, he had though he could. Until now. But why would Paul lie to him?

What had struck him the most, however, was what Paul had said regarding his relationship with his father. He had said it with such nonchalance, but John couldn't imagine the mental and physical stress trying to fulfil your father's unreasonable expectations may cause. Especially since he was already a failure to his father for one thing, something John knew very well wasn't Paul's fault - it wasn't his choice to fall in love with the wrong sex. John had barely known his father, seeing as Mr Lennon Senior had taken off with a ship when he had been six, never to return, leaving his mother heartbroken and unstable, and him alone and abandoned. He had been with the navy, so John had already seen so little of him before that, but that abandonment had been different somehow. But even though if he had never known - if only a little - what it was to have a father apart from his early memories as a child, he knew what it felt like to be a failure, and let the family down. He knew all too well, and the nonchalance in Paul's voice when he had told him about it hurt, because he knew it wasn't real.

Still, he worked diligently on Paul's portrait while he waited, humming a soft tune to himself to drown out the silence surrounding him to stop himself from overthinking, as had become a tendency of his since he had met the young McCartney heir. Stuart came in about fifteen minutes later than usually. He looked grim, with dark circles under his eyes and his cheeks white from lack of sleep. When he caught John's eye he nodded at him and vanished into the kitchen to come out again five minutes later with a cup of tea in his hand, looking more refreshed.

"Parents?" John asked. Stuart nodded. He put down his tea on the coffee table and laid down on the couch, his head resting on the armrest as he looked up at the ceiling and massaged his forehead.

"Pauline got into an argument with my mother about money, after which my father drunkenly decided he needed to join in as well. It wasn't pretty."

"Is your sister alright?"

"She's sleeping over at my place for a while. She is fine. And a good girl. She meant well, if only my parents would see that."

"She is lucky to have a brother like you," John said, smiling, but Stuart scoffed in return and rolled over to look at him. For a moment it was silent between them as Stuart studied him, and when John looked away, he sighed.

"You asked him about it, haven't you?" Stuart asked. John nodded. "And you doubt his answer."

"His family forced your family to leave the estate because the quality of work faltered and they couldn't pay what they owed. That's how the money problems started, isn't it?" John paused for his friend to answer, but he didn't speak, so he continued. "That is why you dislike him. He ruined your lives." Stuart, to John's surprise, shook his head.

"We had money problems before that. Although it certainly didn't help that we had to leave, it would be foolish to blame them completely."

"Then what is it?"

Stuart remained silent for a while longer, as if unsure whether or not he ought to continue. The wait got onto John's nerves, so he urged him to speak.

"Tell me, Stu. I... I need to know," he said. Stuart regarded him for a short while longer before he sat up and took a deep breath.

"I had hoped he would be honest with you, but clearly I had hoped in vain. John, my family wasn't forced to leave only because of money problems. You see... It was Paul who caused us to leave. He... I was his first kiss, and he betrayed me."

A/N: Just so you know, I'll be writing the next chapter of Poetry Night next, and then will write chapter 22. Poetry Nights should be done quicker, though, so hopefully it won't take too long. I love you all and thanks for sticking with me <3