A/N: Finally, here is next chapter!! For those who don't know, I'm on exchange to Scotland now for my last year of Uni. Everything is going great so far. The classes are great, the people are nice, and the city is gorgeous. But I did need some time to settle in, which is also why it's been ages since something has been posted on here. But I'm back now and I hope I'll have more time to write again, and you guys won't have to wait so long anymore.

Rainwater splashed up around them as the carriage rolled over the rain-covered cobblestones at a quick pace, making John, sitting inside on the wooden bench, rock left and right as they passed through the narrow passageways towards the main street that led up to the McCartney mansion. He had to hold onto the sides of it to remain seated as they went around a corner, and John wondered how fast they were going, but didn't complain, trusting the driver's expertise.

A few days had passed since he had spoken to Stuart about his history with Paul McCartney, and truth be told, John wasn't sure what he was supposed to think about what he had learnt. Stuart's story had remained drifting in the back of his mind over the last few days, nagging at him, making him doubt everything he thought was true about both Stuart and Paul. It wasn't that Stuart's story was improbable or hard to believe, but that was the problem.

They had been friends before, or more so even, if one could apply such terms with what were essentially still children. Stuart certainly seemed to think so and still appeared heartbroken by Paul's alleged actions, most of which John refused to believe were true. After his initial confession about their history, they had moved their conversation into John's bedroom, where Stuart had produced a chair from another room to sit on while John had taken the bed, thus providing them with a comfortable distance as Stuart began to speak. His voice had been quiet and reserved, as if afraid, and John had wondered if he had ever told this story to anyone before. In hindsight, he could say with confidence he hadn't.

They had met when Stuart had been thirteen, making Paul eleven years of age. He had been living on the McCartney estate with his parents and sister for a few years by then and things had been good: they had had enough money and food to get by, his parents had still seemed happy, and the days had been enjoyable. In the mornings he went to school and in the afternoon he would either help his mother and sister at home or he would be dragged off to work with his father, so he could see what he would have to do on the land when he was old enough to work, which at that point wouldn't have been much longer. The work had been boring and uninteresting, but Stuart had done it without complaint.

On the rare occasion, he had had the afternoon to himself and would often spend those days sketching, be that with a stick in the dirt or with a pencil on some paper he had nicked from school. It was the former he had intended on doing one afternoon after school when his mother had kicked him out of the house, leaving him with nothing else to do but to walk and draw interesting patterns and figures in the dirt with sticks of varying sizes until his father returned from work.

He had walked for a while, softly whistling to himself as he looked around, taking in the different colours of the flowers and trees, while paying special attention to the cheerful chirping of the birds. He tried mimicking them, hoping to find a way to communicate with them, but the birds remained unresponsive to his calls.

As he had ventured further, into what he had known to be the McCartney's private estate, where simple workers were not allowed, he came by a lake and saw a boy, a little younger than himself by a few years, lying on his back in the grass, his bare feet dipped in the cool, refreshing water, a thick book on British birds opened up beside him. He had a notebook in his hands and a pencil clutched between the middle and pointer finger of his left hand, which he used to take notes with on the birds he spotted, specifying meticulously, as Stuart had later learnt, their type, colour, build, health, speed, and direction of movement, as well as the time and place he had spotted them.

Intrigued, Stuart had approached him, and although the boy, who had introduced himself as none other than Paul McCartney, had been shy at first, they had hit it off through their mutual love for art, and a bond had formed between them, first platonic and friendly, later... something else. Something neither of them had known what to do with.

John had felt strange listening to his friend talk about Paul in that way, a way that was familiar and deeply personal. Although it hadn't necessarily been jealousy, he hadn't liked it. He knew it hadn't been his Paul Stuart had spoken off with such fondness, but regardless he found himself wishing there was no one else who knew Paul like he did, like they knew each other. He hadn't said anything, however, but the marks of his nails digging into the palm of his hand could be felt even now.

Stuart's relationship with Paul had ended suddenly and with more shock and consequence than what would have been appropriate for a boy his age. According to Stuart, they had fallen in love, although neither of them had known exactly what those three words meant at the time. It had begun with holding hands, and the holding hands had gradually evolved into cuddling, and the cuddling into shy kisses on the other's cheek or nose, until finally, Stuart had gathered enough courage and asked him if he could kiss him, like they had seen their parents do when they thought they weren't around. They had been sitting by the same lake again, together this time, their legs touching as their feet twirled around in the chilly water, the sunlight glistening on the surface. Paul had smiled at him and nodded, and they had kissed.

That evening, as Stuart had laid in bed late at night, unable to sleep, he had known for the first time what it meant to be in love.

Sadly, though, the feeling had not been meant to last for long. A few days after, Stuart's father had come home unexpectedly, grumbling and upset, with flushed cheeks and a deep frown on his forehead. He had shoved a letter into his wife's hands and told her to get the children, that they had to leave. When his wife had asked for an explanation, he had gestured at the letter and had left the room without another word to find his children and tell them the same.

His father had yelled at him - not for the first time, but according to Stuart it had never been this bad before that - blaming him and his friendship with "that McCartney boy" as the cause of their new-found misery. His mother had tried to step up for him, saying they were only children, but his father hadn't wanted to hear a thing about it. "He- he touched him, Millie. We are lucky he isn't being locked up! He is disgusting. And unless he is changing his ways he is not. my. son."

For weeks his father wouldn't look at him, wouldn't talk to him, wouldn't do anything but whisper about him to his mother behind his back, and as they had left the estate, Stuart had seen Paul standing atop a small hill, looking down at them as they gathered their things and left, his fingers entwined with those of a red-haired girl of about eight years old, without a twinge of regret, pity or sadness in his eyes. Instead, he had smiled at the girl as she had said something to him, and left, with his mother clutching his hand, urging him to follow her. He hadn't even looked back at him as he had gone back into his large manor house, back to his family, his privileges, his future, his father, to everything Stuart hadn't had.

The next time Stuart had seen him had been a few years later at a ball. Paul had been older, grown up to be a handsome young lad, with delicate features, a perfect posture, an impeccable style of dress, and more charm than any one person should possess. He had stood outside in the garden talking to another boy, about a year older than himself, and had been teasing him, flirting with him, deliberately playing him like he played everyone else, only to be called back into the manor by the same red-haired girl. Paul had kissed the boy's cheek, whispered something in his ear, and had left with an amused chuckle.

The boy had never been heard of again since. Rumours had spread that he had stolen from the McCartneys and had been chased out of town, but Stuart had drawn his own conclusions. He had seen how Paul had played him, how he had enjoyed the power he had held over the boy, and he realised that day that what had happened to that boy, had happened to him. Paul had played him. For nothing but his own pleasure and amusement.

Paul, Stuart had realised, had told his father about what had happened by the lake that day out of boredom, knowing how his father would react. He had seen him as nothing more than toy to be played with, just as he saw everyone else, and he had ruined his life. And for what? A few minutes of enjoyment perhaps? Only to forget about him soon after and return to that red-haired girl? Stuart hadn't been surprised when John had told him she was his fiancee. If anything, it had seemed that he had known it long before anyone else had, perhaps even before Paul and Miss Asher themselves.

John had to admit that he wasn't as certain about Stuart's conclusions as the man was himself. Of course, he hadn't been part of the conflict himself, but they seemed unfounded. But then again, was it really such a stretch? After all, he had heard countless of similar stories about the McCartneys, and although most of them weren't concerned with romantic and personal relationships, it wasn't strange to believe they, and especially Paul, would shy away from anything like that. His brief conversation with Mimi before he had left for France kept coming back to him as well, and everything she had told him about Paul and his family, what they had done, what they were like, how she had experienced them. How Paul had been a master manipulator, always charming, always knowing what to say, always playing people for his own enjoyment.

What if Paul had been playing John all this time too?

A much darker and more unpleasant thought entered John's mind as he considered that option. It sent a shiver down his spine and made the hairs on his arms stand up as his stomach churned. It couldn't be true. He meant more to Paul than that.

Looking out of the window, John could see the McCartney manor emerge before them as the carriage turned another corner and started driving up towards the large iron gate that was blocking the path to the house to keep unwanted guests out. It opened up before them as they approached and John felt that familiar sense of awe building up inside him at the sight of it, the opened gates revealing the manor house behind it. The sight, however, although gorgeous, daunted him, but he knew he had no other choice but to go through it.

He was supposed to meet Mr McCartney Sr. about his son's portrait and discuss its progress. Mr Edwards had arranged it for him on Mr McCartney's insistence and John had been left with no other choice but to do what was expected of him. Strangely, it was not so much his appointment with Mr McCartney Sr. that made him reluctant to visit the manor, but rather the chance of seeing his eldest son, Paul.

He hadn't seen him since his conversation with Stuart and he knew they were going to have to discuss what he had learnt. He needed to know whether Stuart had told him the truth, but at the same time John feared the answer, feared the possibility that Paul had done all that Stuart had said, but more so, that he might be doing the same thing with John. He didn't want to be Paul's toy, someone for him to occupy himself with and play with, only to be discarded when he grew tired of him.

But... was that not what he had done with most of the other men Paul had told him about? The stable boy? His father's colleague? The French boys? Perhaps he had done the same to the young actor, but had come to regret it later. The idea that John might only be there for Paul to entertain himself before he would get married and would need to settle down was not improbable. But it couldn't be, right? John didn't know what to believe anymore.

As they drove through the gate and over the gravel pathway, John could see people happily working on the estate. It was a nice day out, with the sun shining brightly, and although it was chilly, there was barely any wind, making it relatively pleasant to be outside. The large scruffy dog John had seen before and still assumed belonged to Paul, was running around as well, sniffing around in the planters and annoying the gardeners as she walked over all the plants with her big hairy paws. The gardener closest to her, a young scrawny man with big bushy eyebrows, was laughing loudly at her antics, amused by the highly annoyed look on the face of his colleague. The sight had a somewhat soothing effect on John, although his nerves quickly came back to him as the carriage came to a halt right before the stone white steps leading up to the large front door.

With some help from the driver, John stepped out of the carriage, the large canvas with a quick copy of Paul's portrait held tightly under his arm. He hadn't dared to bring the actual portrait with him, despite Mr McCartney's request to do so, fearing something would happen to it. An older man of about fifty with greying hair and a neat black suit stood waiting for him on the steps and offered John a polite bow as he came over to him.

"Mr Lennon, I presume?"he asked and John nodded politely. "Mr McCartney is still in a meeting I'm afraid, so he asked me to escort you into the parlour and have you wait for him there. It will not take longer than a few minutes, I assure you. If you would follow me?" John nodded a second time and with that he was being led inside the house.

It was as grand as John had imagined it to be: the entrance was of double-story height, with two large mahogany staircases on either side of the room, a large chandelier hanging in the middle and large wooden doors on all sides of the room. The marble flooring was impeccably clean and John could hear his every step as he was being led through one of the doors at the side, into a hallway, and through another door that led into an airy parlour with large windows overlooking the formal gardens. On the large coffee table between the white sofas and the fireplace stood a tray with a couple of glasses and a carafe of water. The walls had various paintings hanging from them, most of which portraits of great skill, though many depicted old deceased relatives, which made John wonder where Paul's portrait would be displayed.

"Please refrain from touching anything. You may have something refreshing to drink while you wait. I shall be back to fetch you once Mr McCartney is ready to see you. If there are any issues, just ring the bell next to the door and someone will come for you," the older man said, and John thanked him to say he understood, before he was left alone. He put his things down on the floor by one of the sofas and poured himself a glass of water, before he began to examine the room, his curiosity taking over. He had never been in a house like this before, and most likely he never would be again.

The McCartneys were rich. If John hadn't noticed it before, he sure knew it now. Every object in the room, not matter how small or insignificant, looked like it cost more than John made in a month. The white couches were spotless, every little nook and cranny looked impossibly clean and the few pieces of decorative sculptures, as well as the art on the walls looked like they were made by the best artists of the age. Then again, Paul was an art collector, albeit amateuristically - his own words, not John's - so John didn't doubt he would often bring works he fancied home from his trips to Paris or London.

A shiny grand piano standing by the large windows on the other side of the room caught John's eye as he turned away from the sitting area. It had been a long time since he had last played - his aunt had a piano at home which he used to play on whenever he had had the opportunity to, having had a deep love and passion for music for as long as he could remember, but since he had moved away, the only chance to play was when he was visiting, which wasn't often.

The butler - John assumed he was the butler - had told him not to touch anything, and really, John did not even want to touch anything in fear of breaking anything, but his fingers itched as he stared at the ivory keys. And really, what harm could it do? It wasn't likely he would accidentally break a piano by playing it.

He smiled, put his glass on the coffee table and glanced at the door to make sure it was closed, before he slid onto the piano stool, making sure his back was perfectly straight like he had been taught. He stared down at the keys for a moment, and then gently pressed one. The sound the instrument produced was clear and perfectly in tune, and John pressed another, this one slightly higher, and another one, lower, and another one, even lower, until a soft melody began to sound through the room, echoing back to him against the walls.

The feeling of the cold keys against his fingertips felt good, familiar and comfortable, and John easily fell into a song he hadn't played for months. He occasionally hit the wrong key, but he managed it all the way through, ending in a small piece of improvisation. Smiling to himself, he started another piece, one his mother had taught him before she had passed away. He became fully lost in it, and didn't hear it when the door opened. He only noticed someone had come in when he caught a glimpse of him in the corner of his eye, making him jump in his seat in surprise, the song getting rudely cut off.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you," Paul said and walked over to the man behind the piano, an apologetic smile on his lips. Instinctively John got up from his seat and took a step back as he muttered an apology, which only made the other man chuckle. "You have nothing to apologise for, John. I enjoyed hearing you play."

"It's just... I was told not to touch anything," John said, and watched as Paul sat himself down behind the piano, raising his right hand to start playing a small tune himself as he glanced sideways at John, his eyes kind and inviting.

"I take it our butler told you that," he said, and smiled when John nodded. "I thought so. Our butler, Mr Garrow, tends to worry excessively about the state of anything in the house he is in charge of. Which constitutes everything. Come sit." He patted the empty space on the piano stool besides him and John did as told, his cheeks flushing as he sat with his thigh squished firmly against Paul's, the seat being too small for the both of them. The younger man, however, didn't appear to mind and played a whimsical tune with his right hand, high up on the keys. Occasionally he would glance back at John, as if waiting for him to join him in his play, but John refrained, not wanting to interrupt and potentially ruin Paul's song, enjoying the musicality in it. Of course, Paul would be an excellent pianist.

"How did you know I was here?" John asked instead and Paul hummed at the question, his fingers never stopping their play.

"I was studying, actually. Latin. The library has a brilliant view and it is not unusual for me to occasionally glance outside to enjoy it. Especially when it's a subject like Latin. I just happened to see your carriage approach and was very pleased to see you stepping out of it. My father always lets his guests wait in the parlour, so I decided to come by and pay you a visit. It's not often we get to see each other outside our meetings. Not since Paris."

"Do you often think about Paris?" John found himself asking, a lump in his throat. Paul shrugged.

"Why? Do you?"

John couldn't answer. He raised a hand and joined Paul in his play, providing a grounding left hand to the airy melody of Paul's right, allowing their fingers to dance together as they improvised their own piece of music. It wasn't anything spectacular that came out of it, but they could easily feel what the other wanted and intended to do, and added with skill to the other's play, creating a soft and gentle tune that seemed to work.

"You play well," Paul noted, and John smiled at the compliment. "What was the song you were playing. Before I interrupted you?"

"Oh. It was nothing special."

"No, tell me," Paul insisted, nudging John's side with his elbow. John's fingers stilled on the keys for a moment and he glanced uncertainly at the man beside him. Paul, however, wasn't looking at him, but only looked down at his fingers, his expression peaceful as he played, his eyes soft and his lips slightly parted in concentration. It was rare for John to see him like this, with his guard down, nothing hiding what he was feeling, and John thought he looked most beautiful like this, when John could see all of him. This wasn't Paul playing him. This was Paul as no one saw him. Only him.

"It was an Irish folk song," John said after another moment of silence, and he took a deep breath before he continued, his hands resuming their play, "I- I can't remember the name or the words, but... My mum taught it me. Before she passed away."

This time, it were Paul's fingers that halted on the keys, and John could see a flicker of pain on his features before that wall came back up, hiding whatever glimpse John had been allowed to see from view as Paul laid his hands in his lap, his aura suddenly a cloud of sadness and empathy. Immediately, John retreated his fingers as well.

"I'm sorry about your mother," Paul said, a deep sadness in his voice that did not sound like the feeling of discomfort and awkwardness people usually showed when they would hear about his mother. Undoubtedly, he was thinking of his own mother.

Everyone knew Mary McCartney had died from sickness when her two boys had been only young, but John had never quite realised what that had meant for Paul. He had never needed to, the McCartneys never having been people he had needed to concern himself with, seeing as they were so far apart on the social ladder. They had always seemed like this far away concept, in a way not even real.

But now, with his relationship with Paul having developed the way it had, things were different. He saw them differently. And he could see they were hurting, just like everyone else. Paul was hurting. He had lost his mother, just like he had, and had been too young to know how to deal with that, just like he had been, and a sense of guilt overcame John at the realisation. He wondered if he ought to say something, but the tiny glimpses of pain he saw in the other's eyes kept him from doing so, knowing it would only make things worse if he did.

"My family is part Irish. I always felt connected to the place, you know? My mum knew that so she would tell me stories about my great, great grandfather and his move to Liverpool when he was barely seventeen. She taught me folk songs as well, taught me how to sing them and play them on the piano."

"Have you ever been there?" Paul asked, his voice sounding broken. John shook his head.

"I'd like to someday. My family never could afford to travel like that." Paul looked at him curiously at that, his eyes never quite meeting his, as if he was embarrassed, as if he had never considered money could be an issue for anyone.

"Would you play it for me? The folk song, I mean," he asked. He had his mask still on, but John had a good idea of what lay behind it, so he agreed. He shuffled a little closer to the other man so he was sitting more in the middle, giving his hands enough room to play, and Paul helpfully moved as far aside as he could without falling off, his body now fully pressed against the other man. He watched John's hands closely as John rested them on the keys before he began to play.

He struggled a bit at first, his nerves getting the best of him with Paul sitting besides him, watching his every move. But eventually he started to get the hang of it and he felt the nerves leave him. He started as Paul suddenly began to speak, and his fingers slipped on the keys.

"What happened to her? Your mother?"

"She died." John said nothing for a while, and his fingers trembling as they tried to find their positions again, but he regained his composure with relative ease and sighed.

"She-" he continued, his throat squeezing tight as his feelings regarding that day came flooding back to him. He never spoke about his mother, to no one. He had done so only ever to Mimi, and had always considered that to be enough. But now... he wanted to.

"She never was the best mother. I had been living with my aunt since I was six and I never minded that, but... she was my mother. I visited her a lot. She taught me the piano and how to sing. And then one day... she was gone." John paused for a moment, needing a second to retain control over his emotions. He had expected Paul to say something, anything, but instead he kept quiet and kept looking at John's hands. For some reason, that was better.

"It was an accident at the factory she used to work at. One of the machines broke down. They did that sometimes, so my mother went down beneath it to fix it, but... She got stuck. And when the machine started working again... She was... She was crushed. The men who told us said accidents like that happen sometimes. I had never seen my aunt so furious." John forced a sad smile in the hope to lighten the mood and try keep himself from feeling loss again, the agonising and dulling pain of having someone ripped away from you like that, so suddenly, and without reason.

He had stopped playing somewhere in his story and the silence around them was deafening. John needed sound, needed something to ground him, but Paul wouldn't speak. He wasn't looking at him anymore either, but was now staring down at his hands in his lap, his eyes wide and his cheeks slightly pale in shock. Instinctively, John reached out and embraced Paul's hands with his own.

"You must miss her," Paul finally spoke, and John knew he didn't have to answer that question. Paul knew.

"Seeing as we are already discussing dead family members," John said, still hoping to bring some lightness to the conversation, though he could see from his lover's face, it was hardly working, "what about your mother? I know she was ill, but-"

"She was the most wonderful woman I have ever known. She-," Paul said, and he swallowed thickly before he continued, his fingers grasping at John's for support. "I know most people will say that, but... she was, at least to me. Mike and I were never told she was ill. When her condition turned critical, we were sent to Scotland, and when we came back, well... We were told on our way home, but... Nothing quite prepares you, does it? When we got home, she was already gone, the funeral had already happened, and every part of the house felt cold and empty, lacking and different. The first few weeks, I barely left her grave."

"They... Never told you? They never told you your mother was ill?" John stared at the younger man in disbelief as the latter shook his head. "Weren't you angry?"

"I was at first. But it's no use being angry about something like that. It doesn't change anything, so I don't mind anymore."

"You don't- Paul, your mother was ill and dying and no one ever told you! They had the funeral before you even knew she was dead!" Paul flinched at the words, but John ignored it, anger and disbelief swarming through his head, both at what had been done to Paul, as well as the man's complete indifference about it. "How can you not mind?! They should have told you."

"John, my father only wanted to protect us. There was nothing we could do with that information if we had known. It would only have made things worse. If we had known, we would only have constantly feared for our mother's life. We wouldn't have been able to spend the little time we had left with her like we always did, without worry. It was the best for us."

"You don't honestly believe that."

"It would only have caused unnecessary pain, John," Paul said, with more force that John had expected. "My parents... they wanted us to live on carefree and enjoy our time with our mother in the best way we could, without the pain, without the worry. Sometimes it's better not to know certain things and enjoy your time with that person without those intervening emotions."

"Well... I would have wanted to know. It doesn't seem right," John said and he could feel Paul shift uncomfortably beside him. It remained quiet for a while after that, a certain tension hanging in the air that John could not quite place.

Paul, however, was still refusing to look at him, and did not look in the mood for answering any more intrusive personal questions. He raised his hands and started playing again, something mournful, despite being played at the higher octaves. Not daring to speak another word, John merely listened for a while as he thought over what Paul had told him.

He still found it odd Paul did not seem to mind at all that no one had told him about his mother's illness before she had passed away. He had had his mother ripped away so suddenly, at the exact moment where they had begun to rekindle their relationship, where she had begun to feel more like a mother again, he would have done anything to know she had been about to leave him again. There were so many things he would have done differently, things he wouldn't have said, or things he wished he had told her if he had known, and that's what hurt him most. For Paul to not mind... it was strange and unthinkable to him.

It wasn't long after that the butler, Mr Garrow, returned with a polite knock on the door, giving John time to stand up and move away from Paul so they were at a more appropriate distance from one another. Mr Garrow paused in surprise as he saw Paul sitting at the piano, but didn't say anything about it and merely greeted him with a polite nod.

"Mr Lennon? Mr McCartney is ready to see you now," he said and John nodded as he began to collect his things, taking deep breaths to calm himself and making sure to leave Paul with a polite and distant "afternoon, sir" before he followed Mr Garrow out and through numerous hallways to Mr McCartney's study. Paul's playing continued to follow him, even when he was well out of hearing range.

As they came to stand before two large doors of a rich, polished wood, John felt his nerves coming back to him. He had been so worried about seeing Paul, he hadn't realised till now, when there was only a set of doors between him and the other man, that he was going to meet Mr McCartney Sr. His stomach did an odd little twist at the thought, and he took a deep breath as the butler opened the door for him.

"Mr McCartney, sir? Mr Lennon's here to see you," he said and with that John was gently pushed inside. A large mahogany desk stood a few meters away from him at the other end of the room, behind which a thin, balding man sat. He was shorter than John had expected him to be, and although his smile was welcoming and charming - he was briefly reminded of Paul - it had something unnerving about it at the same time, as if he knew more about John than John even knew about himself.

"I'm having an affair with your eldest son and you would most likely have me killed if you knew," John thought, suddenly overcome with shame and guilt, and stepped inside to offer the man his hand. "He is so good with his fingers."

"Mr McCartney, it is an honour to finally meet you," he said instead and took a seat in one of the armchairs that were placed before the desk when Mr McCartney offered him one.

"Likewise, Mr Lennon. My son has been telling me only positive things about you."

"That's very good to hear, sir," John said in reply and sat in silence for a while as Mr McCartney looked him up and down, studying him and taking in every little detail, like Paul had done the first time they had met. They were a lot alike, John noticed, not only in mannerisms, but in looks as well. Both had the same arching eyebrows, the same ears and similar lips, though John could easily see Paul must have gotten a lot of his features from his mother as well. They held themselves in similar ways too, and John wiggled uncomfortably in his seat as he tried to expel all thought of the younger man. "Your son took me on a holiday to Paris and posed for me naked."

"Mr Lennon, I must admit I had my doubts when Mr Edwards suggested we would let you paint my son's portrait, but I've been pleasantly surprised so far. From what my son has told me, you are not only talented, but a true professional as well."

"I do my best, sir," John said politely. "Except every time he poses for me I want to crawl between his thighs and stay there forever." He cursed his thoughts and tried to push them away, but he couldn't keep them from popping up. "He likes it when I watch him."

"Yes, I appreciate that, only... well, I wanted to ask if it would be possible for you to finish the portrait a couple weeks early. You see, my son is getting married in a few weeks and I would like his portrait to be finished before that."

"I- yes, sir. Certainly. Erm... Congratulations. When would you be needing it?" John asked, forcing a smile and trying not to look to shocked at the news that Paul's wedding wasn't as far away as he had thought. Mr McCartney, thankfully, did not seem to notice.

"That is what I wanted to discuss with you. You see, I know these things take time and I do not want you to have to rush through it. I do want the portrait to be of the highest quality you can manage, and I understand that takes time. Do you mind if I..." Mr McCartney gestured at the large canvas at John's side and John immediately got up and began to carefully unfold it from its wrappings, while Mr McCartney made room on his desk.

"Please bare in mind, it is only a hastily-made copy. I didn't want to bring the original one, as I was afraid something would happen to it," John said as he laid the portrait out, biting his tongue as he saw Paul staring up at him from the canvas, the likeness being uncanny, even in this one. It was the first time he had shown it to anyone but Paul or Stuart or Mr Edwards, and he couldn't help but feel nervous, hoping Mr McCartney liked it. It was strange looking at it now rather than on his easel back at the atelier, and he couldn't help but fear something about it would give him and Paul away, like a certain brush stroke, a certain detail, or a hidden look in Paul's eyes.

Mr McCartney inspected it closely, occasionally humming in a manner that sounded neither positive nor negative in John's ear. Despite his nerves, he didn't say anything or ask any questions, knowing from his experience with Paul, the man's father would most likely not react positively to that and simply watched on, his hands behind his back so Mr McCartney wouldn't see him fidgeting. When the man then finally straightened out his back and turned to John was a broad smile on his lips, John heaved an unintended sigh of relief.

"I should have known better than to doubt my son's taste in art. If this is only a quick copy, I cannot wait to see the real thing. How long do you think you would need to keep up this standard of quality, Mr Lennon?"

"Perhaps seven or eight weeks. But it depends on how much time you can offer me," John said, trying not to think that he may never see Paul again once the portrait was finished. Seven or eight weeks wasn't a long time.

"Eight weeks would be prefect, Mr Lennon. You must be thrilled to finally be able to finish this project. I admit is has been a long one," Mr McCartney said as he took his seat again and waved at the portrait to let John know he had finished with it. John immediately started wrapping it back up into the large piece of white cloth he had brought with him, and smiled at the man as he shook his head.

"Not at all, sir. It has been a pleasure to work for you," he said and Mr McCartney nodded in response.

"I hope my son has behaved himself well."

"Yes, sir. He has. He has been most cooperative," John said and could not help the little grin pulling on the corners of his mouth.

"That's good. Well, thank you, Mr Lennon. I will contact Mr Edwards personally to propose a proper date on which you may hand over your work. Thank you for your time," he said and with that, he put on a pair of glasses on his nose and waved at the door, sending John on his way, before he turned to the newspaper lying in front of him. John stared at him dumbfounded for a moment, before he quickly gathered his things and bid the man goodbye before he left.

Although he was relieved the meeting was over and the man had been pleased with his work, John still felt dejected and downcast as he stood outside the study. He had been given eight weeks to finish Paul's portrait, which was plenty of time - he could finish it twice in as little as six weeks if he needed to - but after those eight weeks, not only would the meeting between him and Paul stop, he would most likely never see the man again. He would be married soon after and there would be no opportunity for them to meet outside the comfort and safety of the atelier. He had known their relationship would come to an end, but to be given such a fixed date... it made it all the more real.

Perhaps Paul had been right, John thought as Mr Garrow led him through the halls of the manor back outside where his carriage was waiting for him. Perhaps it is sometimes better not to know certain things.

***

Paul stood silently overlooking the garden and driveway from his bedroom window, his hands behind his back, his legs comfortably apart, his shoulders and back straight, and his chin up high. He was standing exactly how he had always been taught to stand, but whereas it would normally help him feel strong and in control, he now felt his body slumping whenever he let his thoughts drift even for only a second. His eyes felt heavy and hurt from lack of sleep, but he forced them to remain open as he looked down at the carriage standing below.

He hadn't stayed long in the parlour after John had left, and rather than going back to the library to continue his studies, he had gone to his bedroom where he now still was. He had sat there on his couch in silence for awhile, thinking and worrying, before he had moved to the window, needing to see John again before he left.

Time seemed to go horrendously slow, guilt and longing grasping a hold of his body as he waited, until finally the familiar auburn head appeared below him. His chest tightened painfully at the sight and his throat turned into sandpaper as he watched John exchange a few words with Mr Garrow while the driver helped him put his things safely into the carriage.

He could see how tense John was, his movements tight and forced and his shoulders and arms were strained, as if it took him great effort to control himself. His expression, although too far away for Paul to judge properly, was troubled, and he had what Paul suspected was a knit in his brow. He knew John thought he didn't notice those things when they were together, but although John had been harder to read than other people, Paul had always had knack for reading body language and he had quickly caught up on the signs, though he still had troubled interpreting them. It was enough, though, and Paul preferred John to remain unaware, fearing he would pull away from him even more if he knew.

He let out a sigh as he watched John climb into the carriage, and his breath stocked as the man suddenly turned around, his eyes scanning the many windows on the building, until they finally landed onto Paul's, catching sight of him. Paul stared down at him, unmoving, his breathing shallow, frozen into place as John offered him a pained smile. Paul knew what that smile meant. He knew what his father had discussed with John, or rather, he knew why John had been called to him, and his chest ached as he looked down at him, wishing, if only for a moment, he could reach out for him and touch him, guilt gnawing at him.

Finally, he had to look away from the other man, and he closed his eyes as he turned his back towards the window, taking a few steps away from it so John wouldn't be able to see him. He took a couple of deep breaths, his shoulders slumping, and let himself collapse onto his bed. He needed sleep, but countless of thoughts swirled around in his head, making it impossible for him to find rest, and whenever he closed his eyes he saw John, sitting beside him at the piano, so close and yet so closed off. He rubbed at them until he saw sparks of colours before his eyes to try banish the sight, but not matter how hard he tried, John was always there.

A/N: Again, sorry for the long wait. I also just now as I was posting this realised I didn't actually put of chapter 3 of Poetry Nights on here yet either (I remember my internet being suckish when I tried doing it, so maybe that's why), which is unacceptable, so I'll be doing that now too.

Also, let me know if you think Stuart has been telling the truth or not. I've already had one or two people on Tumblr tell me and I'm just curious. Anyway, I'll be working on the third chapter of Poetry Night next, and after that I'll do the next chapter for this. Hopefully, it won't be too long between parts. Also, you can follow me on Tumblr (same username) if you want to see updates on the writing progress and other The Beatles and McLennon related stuff.

I hope you enjoyed it! Love you all! <3