Winter had arrived in Liverpool, making the grand old manor house feel cold and drafty as the piercing wind rushed over the sandstone blocks, forcing its way inside through little cracks and crannies in the window frames along with the icy rain that crystallised at night when the temperature dropped to close to zero, creating intricate little patterns on the cool glass which could be seen in the early mornings with the sunrise before they melted away. It was particularly cold for late November and the weather seemed to have dropped on the city without warning. The McCartney household staff had been reduced by half due to people falling ill, catching colds and fevers, and committing them to their beds. George's wife Pattie had fallen ill as well, and George had worried endlessly about her and the fate of their unborn baby until Paul had been forced to send him home to look after her. His father had been none too happy with this decision, but Paul had not for a moment regretted it, glad to have at least bettered someone's life, especially now his own was in such a dire state.

The fireplace in his bedroom was roaring constantly, keeping the room warm and pleasant despite the bad condition of the age-old windows, which didn't seem to do much for keeping the cold out, and for once Paul was glad his room was situated above the kitchens below, the heat from the stoves travelling up every evening and warming his bed. All in all, Paul considered his bedroom to be one of the more pleasant rooms during these rough winter months and Martha seemed to agree, laying ever curled up on the rug Paul had laid out for her by the fire, snoring contently and refusing to move. She had never been one for cold dreary weather like this and was more than happy to curl up in bed with Paul at the end of each day to share body warmth. It was one of the few positives the winter weather brought with it.

While Martha lay fast asleep by the fire, occasionally letting out tiny barks and growls as she dreamt, her body jerking and twitching in that way that would usually have Paul watching her with an adoring, yet slightly worried, smile, Paul sat behind his desk, pen in hand and a multitude of tiny white papers in front of him, waiting to be written on. Next to him lay an extensive list of names and addresses, all of which needed to be specified on each of the little cards as Paul wrote the same combination of words over and over again until his hand began to complain. The task proved dull and tedious, and the fact that every word he wrote onto the clean white paper in his neat and practised hand, was a harsh reminder of the ever looming inevitability of his upcoming marriage, made the whole ordeal a tiring and highly stressful endeavor. But, as with many things in his life, he had no other choice but to do as told, his father having given him till the end of the weekend to finish them. The list of names, however, appeared never-ending, as did the stack of cards.

Two weeks had gone by since John had met with his father to discuss the portrait and Paul's marriage. According to him, Jim had given him another six weeks to finish the portrait, which at this point meant they only had another four weeks left together, their last meeting being scheduled just two days before the ball for which Paul was currently writing invitations. The convenience of this timing left Paul with little doubt in his mind that his father intended to reveal the portrait during the ball, marking it the perfect celebratory end to Paul's life as a bachelor.

He shook his head at the thought. He didn't want to be this negative about the whole affair, knowing it wasn't fair to Jane, who had already been forced into this uncomfortable position, which she did not deserve. She deserved more than a husband who did not love her with a family that did everything to regulate his behaviour and make sure he did not step outside the lines drawn out for him since the day of his birth and which had only gotten more restrictive at the first signs of his "unfortunate fault" as his father called it. She didn't deserve any of it and Paul figured the least he could do was to make it as pleasant and "happy" for her as possible, not just the marriage but the engagement as well. He did love her, even if his love lacked some of the most essential aspects required in marriage.

He feared, however, he wasn't doing enough.

Although the wedding itself would not be until late February, his father was set on making their engagement known as soon as possible and as open and public as he could manage without risking the danger of less perfect aspects of their relationship - especially in terms of his son - seeping through the cracks. The timing of the ball however, it being less than four weeks away, left the guests with little time to prepare for it and to make the necessary arrangements if they had any other engagements. His concerns about this had been met with a dismissive gesture of a hand and his father's reassurance that if people had other obligations on the evening of December 20th, they would cancel them. Paul had to admit he was most likely right.

His hand, however, would have been eternally grateful for some extra time to write the invitations. It was covered in ink, and his fingers hurt whenever he tried to stretch them, having grown accustomed to the constant crutching hold he had on the pen. More than once he had needed to stop for a moment due to cramps and his eyes had grown tired from the constant, intense focus on every sentence, word and letter he all but drew onto the spotless white paper cards, every single drop of ink needing to be absolutely perfect and nothing less. Two days he had been working on them, and he only had this afternoon and evening left to finish them. The end seemed nowhere near yet.

Sighing, he finished another card and carefully put it on the stack with the others and crossed the last name starting with "O" off the list, before taking a new card, which, he saw, glancing at the list of names, would be made out to the Peterson family. He didn't know why his father insisted on his writing every invitation personally; he didn't even know the Peterson family! Still, he dipped his pen into the inkwell and wrote their names in a neat and steady hand, minding every angle and curve and doing them exactly how he had been taught.

He jumped in his seat as he felt a hand on his shoulder, having been too focused on his writing to have heard anybody come in. The movement caused his hand to slip on the paper, and a thick black line of ink now stretched across the whole of the card, rendering it unsalvageable. Paul cursed under his breath and turned to see who had caused him to make this horrid mistake. More work was the last thing he needed right now.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Paul. I thought you heard me come in." It was Jane. She was standing beside him, holding a cup of tea which Paul hoped was for him. He could do with one. Though annoyed, he forced himself to smile and shook his head.

"No, it's okay, Jane. I wasn't happy with it, anyway," he lied, but Jane looked unconvinced. Still, she didn't say anything about it and instead put the cup of tea down on the desk in front of him. A biscuit lay beside it on the saucer.

"I brought you some tea. I thought you could use it. You've been up here for hours. So long, in fact, I've had to resort to your dear brother for company. He's good enough company, although I would have preferred yours, of course."

"I'm sorry, Jane."

"Don't be. You've been busy enough as it is without having to look after me as well. How are the invitations coming along?" she asked, perching herself on the edge of his desk as she picked up the stack of written cards and began flipping through them. Paul sighed, exhausted, and rested his head in his hand as he placed his elbow on the desk and watched her, following the movements of her eyes and fingers as she read all the names, her eyes occasionally coming up to look at him. He was glad she'd come up to see him, appreciating the distraction she offered. The way she was handling the cards was somewhat unnerving, however, making him worry she'd ruin one by accident somehow - either by tearing it or dropping it or smudging the ink with her fingers - and make him have to rewrite it. He didn't ask her to put them down, though, secretly wanting her to.

She didn't.

"Briefly said? Slowly. In case you were hoping for a longer answer: I've started on the invitations for the people whose names start with 'p' just now, and I am convinced my hand had developed a mind of his own and is plotting against me now, hoping to overthrow its master and stop him from writing anything more ever again."

Jane gave him an empathetic look in return as she finished flipping through the cards and gently pushed them back into a neat little stack, which she placed back on the desk. "If you need any help..." she suggested, reaching over to pick up the list of addresses and her eyes widened as she saw the length of it. "It's hardly seems possible for you to write all of them!"

"Darling, I agree, but you know my father insists I write them all myself and I wouldn't put it past him to inspect them after I've finished them. I'm going to be the head of the household soon - my household - and this is what I'm going to have to do from now on. It's only good manners."

"As if anyone is going to notice..." Jane remarked, mumbling, and Paul grimaced at the numerous times he had said those exact same words himself to his father whenever he made him help writing the invitations. "For practise" he would say, and Paul had always been met with the same basic explanation whenever he would question the need for it. It was an explanation he gave Jane now too, and he hated himself for it.

"Good manners often go unnoticed. It's the point of them."

Jane scoffed.

"Paul," she said, reaching out to cup her fiance's cheek in her hand, gently turning his head to make him look at her, "this isn't you."

"I don't have a choice."

"We always have a choice. You don't have to be like your father."

Paul shook his head and turned back to job at hand, picking up a blank card from the pile and dipping his pen into the ink again before starting over, writing "Dear Mr and Mrs Peterson" in neat cursive letters at the top of the page. It didn't look quite as perfect as the original, but it would have to do.

"Did you talk to John about it, yet?" Jane asked. She had gotten up and was now sitting on the sofa by the fire, her arm stretched out to pet Martha, who leaned into her touch and gave her wrist a lazy lick out of thanks, eager for some attention as she lay dozing. The sight of her, sitting comfortably on his sofa, in her light blue dress, her copper hair tied up loosely on her head, petting his dog as they spoke, was both beautiful and terrifying as Paul realised that was going to be his life from February onward. In a little more than a year with the added image of a baby in her arms. He had to look away.

"Talk about what?" he asked and he could practically feel the disappointed look on her face as she looked at him, both knowing Paul had understood her perfectly.

"The ball. And what it is on the occasion of?" she said as if she was speaking to someone exceptionally stupid. Paul hummed, shaking his head.

"No. Not yet."

"Paul-"

"I'll tell him!"

"When?"

"Soon."

"You said that two weeks ago. Paul... he has the right to know. You don't have much longer. What else are you going to do? Break it off on the day itself?" Jane said and Paul sighed as he put his pen back down, sliding the card away from him so he would not accidentally ruin it, and turned to look at Jane again.

"It's not that easy, Jane. You don't-" cutting himself off, Paul took a deep breath to calm himself before continuing. "What benefit does knowing have? It only distracts you to know."

"You know that isn't true, Paul! And you had a fixed end date before this, didn't you? Our wedding? Or did you plan on continuing it after that as well?" Jane asked and Paul sighed as he took his head in his hand, feeling a headache coming up.

"I wouldn't do that, Jane. It would put him in too much danger. Not to mention it wouldn't be fair to you. I know I have to tell him, but..." It wasn't the same. Jane didn't understand that, but how could she when he barely understood it himself. And knowing did distract. It distracted him! He'd prefer not knowing if he had a choice; to continue without knowing until one day it would be over.

"You don't want to hurt him, do you?"

"Jane-"

"I know it's hard, Paul..." she whispered, ignoring his faint attempts to contradict her and catching his eye. Her voice was soft and gentle and for a moment they merely looked at each other, sharing the same air. Paul was reminded of all the times he had been with John like this: close, touching, breathing in each other's air, feeling the other's warmth. He knew something ought to happen, but he felt nothing. He wanted to pull away, but before he had had the chance to, Jane had leaned in and kissed him.

Her lips were soft, her movements careful, as if trying not to spook him, and her breath tasted sweet on his tongue, like caramel, but with a hint of bitterness from the tea she had been drinking downstairs. Her hands were still holding his, and although there was nothing about it that was bad , it didn't feel good either, and it made Paul want to cry. He pulled away, shaking his head.

"I'm sorry..." he said, forcing his eyes closed as he let his head hang in disappointment, fighting back the sudden urge to cry. It wouldn't help. It wouldn't solve anything. Nothing could solve anything. Jane, God bless her, could not solve anything. "I'm sorry."

"No... No, Paul... I'm sorry," Jane whispered in return, shuffling even closer to him, and thus causing Paul to jerk away from her, needing space, needing to get away. He was surprised at his own reaction, the intensity of it. Never had he really minded his attraction towards the wrong sex. Never had he been bothered by his lack of attraction to women. Never had he felt disgusted by himself. But now... he did mind, he was bothered, and he was disgusted... "Paul.. it's fine. It's okay. I know."

"I- I can't, Jane. I just can't!"

"I know. I know," Jane repeated, as she began to retreat from him. Her warmth was the first thing that vanished, but unlike what he had thought, this didn't make Paul feel any better either. He wanted to reach out for her, pull her to him, kiss her and hold her and hug her and feel. Feel something. Anything! But he was frozen in place, knowing that wasn't going to help either. Nothing would. It would only hurt him. But maybe that was what he deserved. Was this his punishment? "You know you're going to have to eventually? You and I, I mean," Jane said, her voice suddenly a lot colder and Paul nodded frantically.

"Yes... I- I will. I just... I need time." You've had 22 years already. Jane didn't say it, but Paul could hear her think it, and he didn't even blame her for it. She was right. He was a failure and a coward who couldn't even kiss his future wife without dissolving into a whimpering mess. His father was right. There was something wrong with him. He was a disgrace to the family and if anyone was ever to find out... He swallowed thickly, not even daring to continue that thought. He was a weak and filthy disgrace and God hated him. His father hated him.

Jane was retreating. Paul could feel her move away from him, staring at him, a mixture of empathy and misunderstanding in her gaze. Jane - sweet, gentle, kind-hearted Jane - she could never be angry with him or disgusted like she had every right to be. She ought to loath him, fault him for tricking her into this life of love-less marriage, constant adultery, and unhappiness. Paul would have preferred her to despise him, to hate him, be disgusted by him like everyone else. He didn't deserve her.

He didn't deserve John.

"I don't understand you, Paul," Jane said finally, her voice quiet but angry, causing Paul to look up at her, wide-eyed, guilty, ashamed. "I try... Fuck, I try ... But sometimes... I just can't."

"Jane, I do love you," Paul said, though he didn't know why. Jane shook her head.

"No, you don't. Not in the way you love him," she said and Paul swallowed thickly at that. He didn't love John. He wanted to tell her, but something kept him from forming the words. After a small pause she added, "You know, I almost began to understand you. But the fact that you cannot even admit how much you love that man... not just to me, but to yourself... that's what baffles me most."

"Jane..." Paul tried, but she shook her head.

"I need a moment, Paul. I can't- It's not just about you, this marriage. It's not just about you..." she said and with that, she turned around and left, leaving Paul, broken and guilty, behind.

***

She came back late that evening. Paul had been asleep for over three hours when he was awoken by the sound of his bedroom door opening.

"Paul?"

Groaning, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he pushed himself up onto his elbow, turning his head towards the half-open door. It was too dark in the room to see, and Martha growled impatiently beside him as she too raised her head, ready to protect her owner if needed and Paul gently petted her to let her know it was alright.

"Paul? Are you awake?" Jane's voice came again and Paul sat up even more as he recognised her. He growled something unintelligible back at her, his voice was still too thick with sleep for him to produce anything more than some grumbles. Clearing his throat, he tried again.

"Jane? What are you doing here?" His voice was still barely more than some low growling, but at least he seemed to have made himself audible. Martha jumped off the bed to investigate, her paws clattering on the wooden floor as she snuffled her way over to the door, finally pausing as she reached Jane. When she didn't bark, Paul knew for certain it was her.

"Can I come in?" she asked and Paul frowned, finding it difficult to comprehend words at the moment, his mind still fuzzy from sleep. Eventually, as the words began to make sense to him, he nodded and growled an affirmative response, though he was not any less confused. Jane hadn't spoken to him all day after she had left. What was she doing here now?

He could hear the door close in the dark and he shuffled over to make room on the bed, leaning across to his bedside table to light a candle. Before he could, though, Jane stopped him.

"I like it dark," she whispered as the bed dipped, her voice closer than Paul had expected it to be, and he complied. They sat on the bed together for a while in silence, a wide gap between them, both afraid to speak, and Paul wondered what she was doing here.

"I just..." Jane started after a good couple of minutes, and Paul could hear her taking a deep breath beside him to steady her trembling voice. "I'm sorry. For what I said."

"No. You were right. I-"

"No, Paul," Jane interrupted him, and Paul fell silent at the intensity of her voice, having heard it like that only a handful of times before and never directed at him. She took another deep breath. "I shouldn't have said what I've said. It was unfair. It's just... sometimes it's hard for me, to think about the fact that my future husband doesn't only not love me, but does not find me attractive in the slightest - and no, don't say you do love me, because that's not the kind of love I'm talking about. But whatever I'm dealing with... I can't blame you. Neither of us wanted this."

Paul hummed at that, not sure what else there was to say. Jane, however, wasn't yet finished.

"What I mean to say, I guess, is that it frustrated me, to see you so caught up in another person, another man, and when you didn't react positively to me... I just... I'm sorry. You don't disgust me and I'm sorry if I gave you that impression. I know this is difficult for you and if you need time, then I understand that."

It remained silent between them after that. For a moment there was no need for words, just silence, and Paul smiled as Jane moved to curl up around him, laying her head on in his bare chest.

"If anyone were to find us like this," Paul could not help but point out, "I bet they'd be thrilled." Jane chuckled at that and nodded, before softly sighing, rubbing her head in his chest.

"I've been thinking..." she started, pausing to think about the best way to phrase this. Paul looked at her curiously. "If you wish to take a - well, I suppose 'mistress' wouldn't be the correct term in this case, but you know what I mean - I would not mind." She raised her head to look at him, eyes gentle and Paul stared at her for a moment, before shaking his head.

"Jane, I don't-"

"I mean it, Paul. I wouldn't be opposed to it, both of us taking a lover."

Paul didn't say anything in reply to that, not knowing what to say or think and simply laid his arms around her with a sigh. Jane, however, looked serious.

"At least think about it," she said, running her hands over the naked skin of his chest in a comforting gesture, and Paul nodded. He knew Jane meant well suggesting they would both find their sexual gratification elsewhere, but to Paul it felt like another sign of defeat, another sign something was wrong with him, for the idea of Jane spending the nights with another man didn't hurt his pride as much as he knew it should. If anything, he felt relieved, and if that wasn't sickening, he did not know what was.

***

Paul let his head rest on John's naked thigh for a moment to catch his breath and smiled as he felt John's fingers running through his hair, gently combing through it as he whispered soft words of encouragement under his breath, as if afraid he would stop. To appease him, Paul tightened his hold on him and angled his head up to press a light kiss to the underside of the reddened tip, drawing a moan from the man above him that made him chuckle, finding it rather adorable.

It was still early in the afternoon, and they were lying in John's bed, clothes strewn around the room from the haste and eagerness with which they had rid each other of their clothing, aching to have the other naked now they had a rare moment alone, the house being deserted except for the two of them. Once they had tumbled into bed, however, their haste had melted away and had made room for slow, languid kisses, lingering touches, and deep, low moans as they had explored each other, movements unhurried, taking their time to just be for once.

The idea to make their two-hour session, a three-hour one had been John's, and despite Paul's initial reluctance to it, fearing it would draw suspicions, he now declared the man a genius, enjoying the time they now had to explore and to feel and enjoy without a sense of hurry. He revelled the warm touch of the other man against his naked skin; the puffs of hot breaths that mingled with his own when they kissed or stared into each other's eyes, their lips inches apart; the slight chill of the room against his heated body; the way the sheets rustled against his skin as they moved together; the way John held him; caressed him; smiled at him; whispered and moaned and gasped and muttered his name.

He had taken his time with John, kissing and caressing him all over, needing to feel he was still there with him, physical, tangible, his . He had worked him open slowly, dragging it out, bringing John to the brink before pulling him away again, had spent what felt like ages inside of him - though it had only been twenty minutes, twenty-five at the most - moving slowly, letting John feel every inch of him, thrusts smooth and direct, but too gentle, too soft and too slow to tip him over the edge, merely bringing him there again, until finally, Paul had come inside of him, leaving John unsatisfied on the bed. Before he had had the opportunity to complain, however, Paul had made himself comfortable between his legs and gingerly sucked the head of his cock into his mouth, and there it had been till now. He still found himself relishing in having John beneath him like this: beautiful, nonresistant and yielding to his every will as long as he wouldn't stop touching him.

To make it even better, all this was his to enjoy without the incessant nagging of the voice in his head, which he had been hearing since he had first realised his interest in boys at the young age of eleven, telling him to be careful, to be aware, to not make the wrong move and to hurry up before they would be caught. He preferred this, wished it could always be like this, and it hurt to think they could only have this now, with the end so near-at-hand. It was unfair and Paul would stay here forever if he could. If only...

He hummed contently as John's fingers began massaging his scalp, and peppered kisses all over John's inner thigh in return as he stroked him, occasionally licking at the salty skin, enjoying the taste of him and savouring it, knowing some day soon it would be the last time he would have the other man like this and wanting to appreciate every second they had together. Turning his wrist, he changed the angle of his strokes and let his fingers dance rhythmically over the length as he glanced up at the other man through his lashes, wanting to see what he was doing to the other man.

John looked stunning as he lay there, eyes half-open, dark with lust and arousal as he stared down at him, taking in the sight as he groaned, voice deep and thick as his orgasm drew near after what must seem like an eternity. This time Paul would give it to him, and he could see John knew it too. His thighs tensed as he wrapped his legs firmer around Paul, refusing to let him go until he had finished what he had started. Not that Paul would have pulled away if he had had the chance; he would never be that cruel.

He caressed him, letting him know he was there for him, that he had him, that he could let go, and raised his head to take John back into his mouth, wrapping his lips around the head and sliding them all the way down to the base as his tongue worked at the thick vein that ran along the underside of the shaft, licking and pushing and massaging as John let out a prolonged whine in response, his hips inching desperately off the bed. Repressing a smirk, Paul continued to hollow out his cheeks and started sucking, drinking him down as he moved his head up and down, pleasing John in the exact way he knew he would find the most satisfying.

John was getting there. It was easy enough to see: John's cock lay throbbing on his tongue, his legs were shaking, his bottom lip was caught between his teeth, and his fingers tightened their hold on Paul's hair, letting him know all he needed to know. He could read John like a book, knew exactly what he needed, what he wanted most, and Paul was more than happy to give it to him. So, holding his gaze, he opened his throat and went down, causing John to tremble under him.

"Paul..." he muttered, his eyes briefly falling close before they snapped open again, landing right onto Paul's, watching him with hungry eyes as Paul devoured him, his left hand coming up to fondle his balls, applying just the right amount of pressure he knew would get John there. Sure enough, the man's eyes fluttered close again, another breathless moan escaping his lips, and his eyebrows creased in concentration as he thrusted up to meet Paul's movements, his hand tangling in the sheets beneath him while his other pulled at Paul's hair, bringing him even closer and keeping him there, refusing to let go.

He was a mere inch away from orgasming. Paul would only have to apply the exact right amount of pressure with his hand, suck just hard enough, or simply hum and John would come. Just one more deliberate, well-timed suck... and that was exactly what Paul gave him: a suck, a hum and a squeeze, all at once, only to cough as his lover came with a cry and a hot spurt of cum shot out of his member and down Paul's throat.

Keeping his eyes open and breathing through his nose in order to keep himself from gagging, he swallowed it. He held John as far down his throat as he could manage as he let him shoot rope after rope into him, swallowing it all as he let out a moan himself at the warm, familiar taste. Once John had finished, he pulled off with a plop, made quick work to lick him clean, chuckling at the occasional jerks John's body made from overstimulation, and moved back up to lay beside him, where he was met with a long, lazy kiss.

"Call me a genius again," John asked as they broke apart and Paul laughed as he rolled over, grabbing a shirt from the floor and slipping it on, feeling chilly, the winter cold having invaded John's room as well. He didn't bother buttoning it, though, and simply let it hang from his frame as he laid down on the bed with John, turning to him with a good-humoured grin.

"I don't think so, love. You might begin to believe it if I do," he said, rolling over onto his side to face him, his legs resting against John's. He wished he had something to smoke, feeling the familiar itch in his throat, but they had nothing at hand. Instead he simply lay there for a while, looking down at where his legs lay tangled with John's, chuckling drunkenly as he noticed his legs weren't only longer than John's, but more hairy as well, John's legs being smooth with only a few light hairs covering them. They appeared almost hairless and Paul liked them that way, liked how soft they felt to the touch.

Smiling at the thought, he glanced up to see John was looking at their intertwined legs as well, but instead of a smile, a frown lay on his face. He looked lost in thought, and Paul wondered what he was thinking of that could have caused such a serious frown. He had seen that particular expression on him more and more during their last meetings, and Paul had often caught him staring at him as well, to which John responded by quickly averting his eyes.

John tended to stare, always had, even during their very first meeting, and Paul doubted the man was even aware of it most of the time, but neither of them had ever minded, and never had John looked away when Paul had caught him doing so, choosing to respond with a smile instead. But now, he only looked embarrassed.

Generally, Paul was used to people staring at him, from awe or something more negative, it didn't matter, and he had learned to be flattered either way. It was a sign of status, of power, of influence. His mother and father had always told him that when he had complained about it. "Your pretty face will only benefit you in that respect, Paul. You'd better look after it," he remembered his mother telling him when he had been about five years old and had become fed up with people - especially girls and older women - fawning over him. He had taken that advice at heart and since then he had used his looks to get what he wanted, not just from those girls or those women with their cheek pinching, but his parents as well, something he had had difficulty with when his mother had passed away.

But with John, it was different. John looked at him in admiration, with a look of tenderness rather than one of fear and respect. Or at least, that is how it had been. But when he caught him staring now, he saw something else in there, something he had a hard time figuring out. He wanted to ask what he was thinking, hoping it might explain why he was acting strange, but already he knew what John would say, so he didn't.

A strange and sudden feeling overcame him as he lay there a moment longer, the thoughtless haze of sex fading as he lay thinking, wondering, while staring at John and listening to his heavy breathing as he caught his breath. He felt odd, and he wasn't sure if it was a feeling of happiness or sadness. It was like a combination of both, a strange kind of melancholy he found hard to place. Somewhere he felt happy - he recognised it in the way his lips would curl despite himself when he touched John, or noticed the little marks he had left behind on his pale skin - but yet something felt wrong - off. Something was nagging at him, and Paul could not put it aside. Mostly because he knew exactly what it was.

It was the same feeling he had felt that day with Jane, but to a lesser extend. He could hear her voice in his mind, talking to him, reminding him of what he still had to discuss with John. He didn't want to though, and that only made the feeling worse. He had to regain control over the situation; he had lost it in Paris when John had first persuaded him to continue their affair back home in England, despite Paul's better knowledge of how dangerous that was, that it was a mere prolonging of the inevitable. He could say he had lost it long before that, on the evening when he had gotten drunk and first kissed him, or even when he had invited John to come to Paris with him in the first place, or even when he had allowed himself to be caught with the stable boy - he had already forgotten his name - and the more Paul thought about it, the more he wondered if he had ever had any kind of control over any of his affairs. And now Jane had suggested they could have separate lovers! Going along with that was asking for trouble.

He did know, though, that if he was going to have an affair during his marriage, it couldn't be with John. He had let himself get too caught up with him, and although he wasn't certain what it was about the man that made him have such a strong influence on him, he knew it was dangerous. He had to end it, regain control, be the son and heir his father wanted him to be, the husband Jane needed and deserved. But he didn't want to. Something was stopping him. It didn't make any sense.

Even so... he had to.

"Paul? Is everything alright?"

A moment passed before Paul registered the words. They sounded far away, and once Paul had understood the meaning of them, the usually simple question seemed impossible to answer. He focussed his eyes on John and forced a smile.

"Yeah. I'm fine," he said, though his tone carried a weight with it that undid everything he had just said. The smile felt painful and fake on his lips, and slowly it faltered. A lump formed in his throat as John reached out and laid a comforting hand on his naked thigh, and with a sigh, he gave in. John would not like this, and Paul doubted he would even understand, but he had to tell him. He had to regain control.

"There is a ball coming up. In a little more than three weeks from now," he said, deciding to start out easy. It gave him a little more time to think about how he was going to let John know he would need to end their affair two months early without hurting him too much. He wondered, rather unwillingly, if John had hoped their affair would have continued even after his marriage, or whether he had even thought that far ahead at all. Maybe he simply took it day by day and didn't think about how it would end or when or why. He found it hard to imagine John either way and didn't know which one would be preferable, knowing John would react badly regardless. "My father's organising it. Family, friends, acquaintances, complete strangers... they are all going to be there. I've been writing invitations for it all weekend."

"I thought you liked dancing and social gatherings and things like that?"

"I do. Ot at least, as long as my family isn't there and I can be free enough to dance with whomever I please." He caught John smiling bashfully at that, and Paul knew he was thinking about the dance he had taken him to in Paris, which in turn made his chest tingle at the knowledge John knew he was talking about him specifically.

Those days seemed long ago, a distant memory Paul couldn't even be certain had truly happened, and he often wondered if he hadn't dreamt it all up. But seeing John, smiling and looking at him like that, he knew it had happened, and he could almost feel the press of John's body against his own as they danced, the firmness with which John had held him, and how easily he had let Paul guide him. He hadn't been much of a dancer compared to other people Paul had danced with - both men and women - and yet there was something about the other man that made Paul want to dance with him rather than anyone else.

"Besides," Paul continued, swallowing thickly as he pushed the memories away, not wanting to think of that now, every thought of John and him together making it even harder for him to say what he needed to say, "my father expects me to be there with Jane... as... a couple. An engaged one." Paul wanted to clarify what he meant exactly, but before he could, John had already spoken.

"I see.." he said, even though Paul highly doubted that he did. "And you'd rather be dancing with someone... closer to your interests than her?"

There are many things I'd prefer doing with someone closer to my interests than her, Paul thought, but only nodded.

"Maybe," John continued, a mischievous little smirk on his lips as rolled over and curled his hand around Paul's hip, pulling him closer as he began to move on top of him, letting one of his legs fall between Paul's, "maybe I should come too, then?" Paul blinked up at him in surprise, failing to understand what he meant.

"You? Come too?"

"Yes! Maybe I could come to the ball as well and make it a little more interesting for you. We could... oh, I don't know! Sneak off somewhere, perhaps, dance in secret like we did in Paris, steal some food and hide under the table to eat it, make fun of people's silly dresses and suits, drink ourselves into a stupor, I could... make the whole evening more pleasant." John wiggled his eyebrows suggestively as he said that last, making it more than clear what he meant exactly and Paul almost gasped at the mere suggestion of it. John had completely misunderstood what he had meant!

"You're not serious!"

"Well, maybe I am," John replied with a wink, but Paul could only stare at him. "Might be fun. And it will keep you happy during the whole affair."

"Are you insane?! We could get into some serious trouble! Not to mention it'd be highly inappropriate, whisking me away from my own party like that. People expect me to be there. The ball, it-"

"You will be! But in between you talking to all those boring people and dancing with your beloved future wife," John reached out to take Paul's hand and pressed his lips against the back of his fingers, before kissing his way up to the man's bare arm as he looked up at Paul with a heated gaze that caused a warm feeling to spread from Paul's stomach to his groin, "I can make sure you'll enjoy the evening in many different ways."

"By dancing with me and stealing food?" Paul asked, voice tight, and John grinned at him as he finally reached his shoulder, pulling Paul's arm around his waist and guiding his hand to his arse.

"Amongst other things," he said in a suggestive tone of voice that would usually have Paul melting in his arms. Before Paul could object and explain what he had meant exactly, John had leaned down and captured his lips in a soft and teasing kiss, deliberately keeping it chaste yet with a hint of sexual passion that never failed to leave Paul wanting more. He found himself moaning against John, his fingers subconsciously squeezing John's arse as he relaxed against him, pulling him closer despite himself.

He shouldn't be doing this. It was clear John had not understood what the purpose of the ball was and why it was being thrown at all. But then again, did it truly matter? In the end, John knowing the function of the ball would not change anything, and maybe it would be better not to tell him, to just enjoy their last weeks without having to worry about those things, to just enjoy and be with each other, like now. Knowing would do nothing but distract from what was truly important.

"We could sneak off," John continued, pressing Paul down into the mattress as he climbed on top of him, legs on either side as he straddled him, causing Paul to let out a heated moan as he sat in his lap.

"We could find an empty room somewhere, somewhere secret," John whispered, his voice low and hoarse, as if he had been held balancing on the edge for hours, and Paul let out another moan as John leaned in and kissed the side of his mouth. His lips were soft and firm, and Paul's eyes fluttered close for a moment as John's lips trailed down to his jaw, sucking on it. "Somewhere no one will bother us..."

His fingers, persuasive little things, moved up over Paul's arms and chest, gently rubbing his nipples whenever he passed one, making Paul hotter and hotter as he let John do what he wanted, letting out the occasional gasp whenever John did something that felt especially good.

"I can make you feel better," he continued, his voice barely a whisper, sending shivers down Paul's spine, "I could suck you off, or eat you out, right there and then, with so many people just a few rooms away, wondering where you are. And you'd be with me, hard, wanting, whispering my name, grunting it while you bend me over a table or push me against the wall or a bookcase or onto the piano and fuck me, take me hard, because you need me." His mouth was only inches from Paul's ear as he whispered to him, his hot, damp breath ghosting over Paul's skin, and the younger man gasped in pleasure as John closed his lips around it. He sucked and nibbled lightly as he rocked his hips down into Paul, letting Paul's half-hard dick slide between his firm, round arse cheeks, and pulling another heated growl from his parted lips.

"John-" Paul tried, his hands coming up to push at the man's shoulders, but he found little motivation to pull through with it, liking what John was doing to him too much. John felt so good against him, warm, firm, soft, yet hard in the right places, and although Paul had only just come and still felt exhausted, he was miraculously growing hard again.

"I know you'd like that. And the afterwards you go back and dance with your pretty lady and talk to all those boring posh people, and no one would know just what you've done to me, and why I wince whenever I sit down, so I remain standing, and you'd know why. You'd know it was your fault. You'd know how much I like it and how I would let you do it all again. You'd only have to say so..."

"John, it's not..." Paul tried once more, but couldn't bring himself to say it, his word cutting off in a pained groan. John paused his movements as his words reached his ears and pulled back to look Paul in the eye, a frown on his face, seeming completely out of place on his otherwise flushed and aroused expression. "The ball... it's-"

"It's what?"

"It's just..."

"Come on, Paul. You know I'm joking. I'm sorry if that makes you uncomfortable. I just thought it'd be nice for you to have some mental support if you're that nervous about it. I know it can't be easy having to put up that mask all the time, the lying, pretending to be the happiest couple in the world... I just thought it might be nice if I were there with you. You don't have to fuck me against the wall in some deserted room, if you don't want to."

Paul smiled at that, but felt something tugging at his heart, painful and unforgiving. It was sweet how much John cared, that he would doubt Paul wouldn't be into that - he was, though he wasn't sure if he would actually want to do it, the chances of being caught too high for him to want to risk it. But there was something inside of him that kept him from saying what he needed to say, that made him doubt whether he should even say it at all.

What difference would it make if John knew? The final end result would be the same: they would finish off the portrait and either end it there, or John would come to the ball and they would end it after that. Paul didn't know when he had decided to accept John's proposal to come to the ball. It would be too dangerous and could only end in disaster. But it would be nice to have him there, have him as support, some kind of safe haven Paul could run to if it got too much.

However, he doubted John would be willing to come if he knew what the ball was for, and that afterwards their relationship would be over and they would never see each other again. It did not seem fair. Perhaps John would want to end their relationship right now if he knew they needed to end it once the portrait was finished. Perhaps John would see it as a waste of time, and would want to focus on finishing the actual thing he had been asked to do the last few week insteads.

Frankly, Paul had more to lose than to gain if he were to tell John the truth. If it were to end in a fight, it didn't matter, did it? Because they would never see each other again. It was like it had been with his mother's death: knowing what was going to happen would only take away from joy and happiness they had now. It would ruin it, leave a sour taste in his mouth, and although it would hurt in the end, it would've have hurt regardless.

"No, I... I'd like you to be there," he heard himself saying, glancing up at John with a self-satisfied smirk as he stared into his eyes. "It might be fun to see how far you're willing to go to live up to your promises. As long as you make sure you look handsome and well-dressed, of course. My father will kill me for inviting you otherwise."

"I think I might have invited myself, but don't worry, I'll make sure to look pretty and worthy of an upper-class gentleman like yourself," John said, fluttering his eyelashes and Paul smiled at that, trying to ignore the sudden feeling of nausea in his stomach.

"I can't wait," he said, and John chuckled as he leaned in and pressed their lips together again.

"Want to enjoy the remaining one hour and twenty minutes together before you're going to have to leave and I'm going to have to sneak off to finish your portrait in secret?" John suggested, muttering it against Paul's mouth and Paul eagerly nodded, his fingers tangling themselves into John's sweaty locks and keeping him close, needing his touch and kisses, to have him with him now he still could. He was here with John and they were going to enjoy the last few weeks they had together. It would be worth it. John was worth it.

***

Paul paced nervously back and forth in front of the door to his father's office, hands clutched behind his back, gathering courage as he felt like he was eight years old again. His heart felt as if it was stuck in his throat, making breathing difficult and whenever he swallowed, he got the extreme urge to throw up. He had never liked having to speak to his father in this way, whether it was from his own initiative or because his father had called him to him. Although the man was very different outside his office, inside Paul always felt he was under constant scrutiny and attack, making an actual amicable conversation with him all but impossible, which is why Paul would always try to talk to him outside of it if he could manage. Today, though, he had no choice.

Since he had been young, his mother had told him not to disturb his father unless it was absolutely necessary, because he was such a busy man, and while he now knew she had only told him that to stop him from running into his father's office during important meetings to show him a drawing he had made or to insist he'd listen to something he had learned on the piano or hear him recite a poem he had learned from the top of his head or something similarly silly, the fear of disturbing his father had never quite gone.

As he had gotten older, and as a result had gotten into a lot more trouble, going to his father's office more often than not resulted in marks on the palms of his hands or a sore arse depending on his father's choice of punishment for that day, and soon Paul had started to avoid the room as much as possible. At first, Paul had been able to charm his way out of most of them, but once his mother had passed away, the spankings had gotten worse and more frequent.

He still felt those same old nerves whenever he stood in front of the door - not that his father had stopped his punishments with him, like he had with Michael, though one hard slap would now usually suffice - the memory of those rare but painful spankings coming back to him. His father wasn't a cruel man, but he believed a disciplinary spanking or hit when he was pushed to such measures. Paul doubted he'd have any reason for such measures now, though, as he doubted he'd be punished for inviting someone to his own ball. The chance, however, was there, especially if his father were to find out about the true nature of his relationship to John. That could not happen.

Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to relax and knocked on the door. His father wasn't busy. Mike had told him that himself. He would be fine.

"Yes?" James McCartney's harsh voice came through the door, and Paul swallowed thickly.

"It's me, Paul. Can I come in for a moment? There is something I have to discuss with you."

It remained silent for a moment behind the door, and Paul could hear some light stumbling and cursing as he pressed his ear against the door, trying to listen for any indication of his father's mood. He had to hastily take a step back as the door suddenly opened and his father appeared in the doorway. Paul tried to keep a straight face as he looked up at him, trying to look casual, and although his father narrowed his eyes at him for a moment and it seemed for a moment he would make a comment about the rudeness of listening in on people, he then stepped aside and beckoned Paul to come in.

"I'm sorry I snapped at you. I thought you were Garrow. He's been bothering me all afternoon. Something about chewed up curtains or something similarly unimportant. Now, what is it you want to discuss?" he asked as he moved to sit behind his desk again with a sigh, and Paul bit his tongue to repress his nerves as he went inside and closed the door behind him, hoping it hadn't been Martha who had ruined the curtains. Mr Garrow already did not like her, claiming she made his life and job as butler ten times harder. Paul had tried disciplining her, but in all honestly, he would not mind if he was talking about those awful curtains in the dining room. He would be glad to see them gone.

Unsure whether his father wanted him to sit down or not, he remained lingering in the back of the room near the door, not wanting to intrude or do anything that would give cause to his father to be annoyed with him. He needed him as unassuming as possible if he didn't want his father to be suspicious about his motivations for inviting John.

"Well, I er... went to see Mr Lennon-" Paul started, but his father immediately interrupted him, barking at him to take a seat.

"Don't just stand there. You're my son, for God's sake, not an employee," Jim said and Paul blinked at him a few times in surprise, before he hastily did as told. Once he had taken his seat, his father motioned him to continue.

"Right... Well, I went to see Mr Lennon earlier today," he repeated, fighting the smile that was daring to creep up onto his lips at the mere mention of him and what he had done to him after he had invited himself to the ball - the man had an impressive imagination even Paul could learn from, "and I erm... I thought it would be polite to invite him to the ball, to show some gratitude for his hard work on my portrait."

His father looked at him in surprise, his head cocked to the side, and Paul forced a careful smile, repressing the urge to say any more, knowing it was best to make it seem as normal and self-explanatory as possible. He had spent his entire way home thinking of a good reason for why he would have invited John to the ball, fearing his father would otherwise suspect something, and this was the best he had managed to come up with. It wasn't the best lie, even a weak one when thought about for too long, but there was only so much he could work with in this case and he hoped his father would buy into it, against all odds and expectations.

It already was a miracle his father didn't insist on someone accompanying him to his meetings with John in the first place, seeing as he was a handsome young lad of a similar age as himself, and Paul didn't want to give him any reasons to start doing that now, as it would make for a greatly unsatisfying end to their affair. He crossed his legs and sat up a bit more, taking on a more confident pose as he looked his father directly in the eye, but with the meekness and respect his father expected to see in him.

"You invited Mr Lennon to show him your gratitude for the portrait?" his father repeated and Paul nodded as he kept his eyes on him, knowing one wrong move, look or word would mean the end of this, and worse, the end of his relationship with John.

"I thought it would be the appropriate and courteous thing to do, considering the high quality he's delivering, while only being an apprentice. Not to mention we asked him to finish the portrait an entire month early, to which he agreed without so much as a word of objection. He's been most polite and accommodating and so I thought it would be suitable to thank him for that," he said with more confidence than he felt, and Jim hummed as he sat back in his seat, looking at his son with narrowed eyes as he studied him.

"Is that so?"

"You always taught me it was important to be thankful and polite. Besides, I er... I thought you would have the portrait displayed somewhere perhaps, alongside your own, and... well... it would be fitting for the artist to be there when it's first admired, don't you think? It's important to give him some recognition for his efforts. It would help his career as well. I thought it would be the least we could do for him."

"And you think inviting him would be fitting? It's not just any ball, after all."

"He and I have become good acquaintances during the weeks we have spent together. He would not be out of place," Paul readily replied, and immediately wished he could take those words back and rephrase that sentence, fearing his father would see through him. Fortunately he only hummed again and folded his hands in his lap as he nodded, thinking. Paul swallowed thickly, but refrained from looking away. "What I mean to say is-"

"I know what you mean to say, Paul," his father interrupted him and Paul fell silent immediately, a cold shiver running up his spine, fearing what he father thought, his mind spinning as he tried to think of anything that might save him at the last moment.

For a moment, Jim remained silent, but then a small smile broke on his lips, and he sat up with a proud shimmer in his eyes. "I have to admit, that was very thoughtful of you to do, to think about him. Yes... Yes, let him come, why don't you! He seems like a nice enough young man when I met him. Just... make sure he dresses and acts properly. I don't want anyone disturbing the evening. It is one for celebration after all! We don't want want one person's presence to leave a sour taste."

"Yes! Thank you, father," Paul said, with slightly too much enthusiasm than what might have been appropriate, but his father didn't comment on it. "I'll make sure of that, I promise."

"I don't doubt it, son," Jim said, smiling and Paul felt his chest expand with pride as he father regarded him like that. He hadn't seen that look in his eye for a long time. He could hardly remember when. Surely it had to be before his mother had passed away... "Now, write him a formal invitation and let him bring his young lady if he has one. Do you know if he has a young lady, Paul?"

"No, it er... it never came up in conversation," Paul said, checking himself to keep his cheeks from flushing. His father hummed, though Paul could not discern if it was a positive or negative hum.

"Well, either way, he can bring someone if he likes. Now, Paul, I have some other business to attend to before dinner. If you please..." Jim said motioning towards the door and Paul nodded as he got up and hastily made his way out of the room, eager to get out, excitement rushing through his body. Before he could close the door behind him, however, his father called him back.

"Oh, and Paul?" he asked, and Paul winced softly before turned to face him. "I am proud of you. It seems you have picked up more of my advice and lessons than I had thought. Your Mum... she would have been proud too."

"Thank you," Paul said, smile faltering slightly and his heart thumping in his chest as he said it. He nodded at him and hurried out of the room as his father turned back to the stack of papers on his desk, giving him leave to go with a wave of his hand.

As soon as the door was closed, Paul collapsed against it, groaning softly to himself, feeling his heart creep its way back up, as if trying to crawl out of his throat. His dad had been proud of him... It had been the first time he had said that in years, and the reason why was a lie - a lie that could have him be disowned if his father would find out.

He was a terrible son.

A/N: As a quick side-note, I do not condone hitting your child as a form of discipline.

Also, thanks for the ever-present support on this fic and all the others. I know I'm not updating a lot, but I really hope I get to post more often again soon. It's getting ridiculous. At least the chapters are getting longer, which I hope at least makes up for something.

I'll be writing the next chapter of Poetry Night next before continueing with chapter 24, and I also have something special planned for Christmas, so get excited for that! I'm not going to tell what it is yet ;) You'll just have to wait.