John listened to the rhythmic tapping of the rain against the window panes as he lay stretched out on the sofa with a book in his hand, a cup of tea in the other, and a grey knitted blanket draped over his body, enjoying his free evening in comfortable solitude as he read and drifted off to another world for a while. His round glasses had slipped off to the end of his nose, but since it did little to complicate his reading, he left them as they were, and simply turned the next page instead. He took a careful sip of his freshly made tea, and let out a hum as the warm substance warmed up his throat and belly, making him feel drowsy. On occasion, he let out a yawn or forced his eyes to stay open, wanting to take this free moment he had to read, which he hadn't had the opportunity to do since Mr. Edwards had left a little over a week ago. It seemed like so much had happened since then, that it felt as if it had been longer.

Much to his disappointment, however, his peaceful evening was soon interrupted by the sound of loud and incessant knocking on the front door, jerking him out of his dream-like reading state, and back into the art studio. Groaning in annoyance, he put his tea aside and laid his book upside down on his lap, so he would not lose the page he was on, as he sat up and called out for his maid.

"Dot! Dot, there is someone at the door, love!" John called up to her, knowing she would be upstairs finishing up some last things and getting his bed ready for the evening before she would go home, but she did not hear him. He tried again, but it was futile - no response came. Cursing under his breath, John closed his book anyway - making a quick mental note on the page number - and laid it down on the salon table, before he pushed the warm blanket off himself and rose to stand, leaning with his hand on the armrest in order to steady himself, his sleepy state making him stand clumsy on his feet. Once he had found his balance, he ran a hand through his unruly hair in an attempt to tame it for his unexpected - and rather unwanted - guest, and shuffled over to the front door, hoping that the person behind it had a good reason for disturbing him at this hour, even if he had no idea what hour it actually was.

"Yes, yes, I am coming," John muttered to himself as the knocking started once more. This time, the knocks were short, hesitant perhaps, which sounded strange in comparison to the urgent knocking from before. For a moment, he halted in surprise as he noticed his cat, Pepper, standing by the front door, her front paws placed high up against the wooden door as she scratched at it with her claws, meowing almost constantly at the person behind it. Frowning at her odd behaviour, he walked over to her and picked her up with both hands, gently holding her against his chest as he started to pet her, trying to get her to calm down.

"It's alright, girl. Who are you so eager to see, eh?" he asked her, and with one last little kiss on her head, he laid his free hand on the doorknob and turned it, opening the door to reveal a young man standing in the rain, wearing almost all black and looking soaked through to the skin. The image was too blurry for him to see who he was at first, but as he slipped his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose, he let out a tiny gasp of surprise as the man before him came into focus.

"Paul! I-I mean..." John started, but the young man was quick to interrupt him, saving him from saying anything else that would be inappropriate or embarrassing for the both of them.

"I apologise, Mr. Lennon. I- I know I should not be here, but in all honesty, I did not have anywhere else to go," he said, smiling apologetically at him. Pepper had started to struggle at the sight of the young gentlemen, but John hardly noticed, having only eyes for Paul himself. He noticed he was trembling, more so than what would have been expected from the wet and the cold of the evening, and his eyes were unusually wide, so, without a second thought, he stepped aside and beckoned him inside.

"Please, come in. You are completely soaked through," he said, holding his cat a little tighter so she would not fall by accident with her struggling, but to his surprise, Paul bit his lip and glanced past him rather doubtfully, untrusting. "Mr. Sutcliffe is not in, if that is what worries you," John added, being unsure himself as to why that would matter to him at all, but to his surprise, Paul did calm down at the reassurance and nodded, before stepping past John inside the house.

He was indeed soaked through, from his hat to his shoes, everything was covered in rain water and dirt. His hair stuck to his face as water dripped from it, and more drops of water fell off his clothes, leaving a small trail of rainwater behind has he walked into the hallway. He stood hunched over and trembling on his feet, his hands bawled up as he rubbed them together in the hope to warm them, looking rather at a loss of what to do or say. As soon as he had closed the door behind him, John put Pepper back down on the floor and started to help him remove some of his wet clothes, assisting him with his coat, scarf, and jacket, as he called on Dot, who came hurrying down the stairs, only to suddenly halt halfway as she caught sight of Paul McCartney standing in the middle of the hallway. Pepper started to walk in circles around their feet, rubbing herself against Paul's legs and slipping between them as she purred.

"Ah, Dot! Could you dry these for me, please? Mr. McCartney will need them when he will be returning home again later this evening. And perhaps a warm cup of tea will help him warm up."

Dot nodded and stepped closer to them, bowing her head so she would not have to look at the young gentleman, as she took his clothes from John, before disappearing back upstairs to do what had been asked of her. John was glad to note Mr. McCartney had not paid her any mind himself, and had instead glanced down at the cat with an amused grin, liking the attention she was giving him. When John started to speak, he turned his head to him, looking him directly in the eye.

"Now, I think it would be best for you to change into something else, unless you want to catch a cold. I think, I must have something that will fit you, as I suspect we are roughly the same size, so you can borrow something of mine to wear while you wait for your own clothes to dry. If that is alright with you, of course."

Paul nodded, but his expression remained doubtful. "I am not intruding, am I? I-I can leave if you would prefer me to," he asked, but John shook his head.

"I will not even consider it. Now, if you would follow me please, we can find you something to wear and warm you up. You must be freezing," he said resolutely and took the man by the arm to lead him up the stairs to his bedroom on the first floor, swallowing at the rush he felt as his hand touched the other man's arm. Pepper followed closely behind them, meowing curiously at their guest.

As they reached the small bedroom, John opened the door for them and guided Paul inside, where he motioned him to sit down on the bed as he knelt down by the small fireplace to light it. He took a couple of dry logs and a few smaller twigs, arranged them in the fireplace and lit them, using a couple of matches and his own breath to add some extra oxygen. Once he got a pretty good fire going, it seemed to warm their surroundings immediately as it lit up the room, giving it a warm, almost golden glow. Turning back at the young man on his bed, he smiled as he saw that Pepper had laid down beside him, her head resting on the man's thigh as the man in question gently ran his fingers through her fur, petting her as he smiled down at her. The image had something domestic about it, but John preferred not to think about it. He shuffled over to them on his knees and remained knelt at the younger man's feet as he looked up at him and attempted to catch his gaze.

"How are you feeling?" he asked as their eyes met, a slight tremor to his voice. Paul shrugged in return.

"Cold," he answered, his voice uncharacteristically quiet, and John nodded as he looked him up and down.

"Let's get you out of these wet clothes, shall we?" he suggested and Paul nodded, as he moved his fingers to the buttons of his vest. John followed them, watching as they started to pull the buttons back through the loops, thus loosening his vest button by button, exposing more of the white shirt beneath it, which was completely soaked through as well and clinging to the man's chest, giving John an impression of his small pink nipples, which stood erect from the cold, being only just visible through the now almost see-through material. He swallowed, wondering what to do.

"I-I'll er... I'll get you a towel to dry yourself off with. There are some clothes is my closet. You can pick whatever you like," he said, glancing back up into Paul's eyes, and the younger man nodded in reply, his fingers still moving from button to button, until he had reached the last one. John nodded back at him and coughed, before he rose back up to his feet and hurried out of the room, only to meet Dot in the corridor, who was holding a couple of fluffy towels in her hands.

"Mr. Lennon, I thought Mr. McCartney might like a towel to dry himself with. The tea is almost ready, so I will bring that up once that is done," she said, quickening her pace to catch up with him. John nodded as he took the towels from her with a small thanks.

"Is there anything else I can do, sir?"

"No, thank you, Dot. This will be all for now. You have done well. I'll er, call for you if we need anything else."

Dot, although she looked somewhat disappointed, nodded and left with one last small bow, leaving John alone outside the door. Taking a deep breath, he knocked once to announce himself, before he opened the door and stepped back inside, only to almost drop the towels as soon as his eyes landed on the man standing beside his bed, wearing nothing more than his tight trousers and socks, the former of which were clinging to the man's legs in a way that made John's brain feel fuzzy, and his bare chest of ivory skin shone in the warm light of the fire. For a moment all thought was cut off from his brain; all he could do was stare.

Even unclothed the man was gorgeous, being slim, yet not too skinny, with smooth ivory skin and ever so slightly muscular arms, which were decorated with small brown hairs. His shoulders were broad, his stomach flat, and his hips narrow, and there was a little trail of light brown hairs leading from his bellybutton down into his trousers, guiding John's gaze down. He gave himself a little mental corrective kick for looking at him so freely, and forced himself to look away from him, offering the man some privacy, as any well-manner young man was supposed to do in a situation such as this.

"I er... I have a towel for you here that you can use. As I have said, you can help yourself to some of my clothes, and there must be a small wooden drying rack at the back of the closet from which you can hang your own clothes so they can dry before the fire," John said, and Paul nodded as he walked over to him, the sound of his feet thumping lightly on the floor making it difficult for John to keep his eyes lowered.

"Thank you," he said once he was only two feet away from John. The latter finally looked up at him and forced himself to not look anywhere else but his face as he offered him the towels he was holding, which he took with thankful nod.

"I shall give you some privacy then," John said, his voice tight, and Paul uttered a thank you as he turned around and walked back to the bed, unwittingly giving John one last opportunity to sneak a look at him. He frowned as he saw a darker spot on the back of his neck and low on his hip, but he did not dare to ask about, figuring Paul would most likely find such a question in appropriate. "I will be in the kitchen downstairs if you need anything."

"Thank you, John. I truly appreciate this," Paul said, and with one last nod, John walked out of the room and closed the door behind him with a sigh of relief. It was only when he was halfway down the stairs that he realised Paul had called him by his first name, though he was uncertain what exactly he had to make from that.

It was not long before Paul returned downstairs and walked into the kitchen wearing a set of John's clothes, which were only slightly too big on him. He had kept it simple, wearing only a grey pair of trousers, which hung low on his hips due to the lack of a belt, and a simple white button-down shirt, but even though his clothes were not what John would consider flattering under normal circumstances, he still caught himself looking at him longer than what would be considered appropriate. At least, Paul had not yet seemed to have noticed the effect he had been having, and took a seat at the small table when John offered him one, smiling as he put down a cup of tea before him.

"Thank you, and thanks again for the letting me in. I realise it was rather rude of me to come here without notifying you at first," Paul said, taking his cup in his left hand and blowing some air on it to cool it a little, before taking a sip, careful not to burn his tongue. John shook his head and took the seat opposite him.

"It really is no bother, Paul. And please stop thanking me every two minutes, it is making me feel uneasy. I am only doing what any person would do," he told him, and the younger man nodded, though he did not seem convinced by that last.

"I suppose so," he said, and he took another sip of his tea as he looked around the kitchen, taking in his surroundings. Unlike the last time they had sat at this table together, upon their first meeting for the portrait when they had sat here while John had finished his dinner, he now looked genuinely interested in it, and even in him, making legitimate effort to maintain their conversation, albeit rather clumsily, but John decided to humour him anyway, appreciating the attempt. "So, you live here then?"

"In a way, I do. Actually, I live with my aunt, and I do try to visit her as often as my work allows me to, but her house is too far away from here for me to travel up and down to work almost every day, so Mr. Edwards offered me the spare room upstairs when I first started here. He holds part of my income in exchange, but it is much cheaper than if I had bought a room by myself, which I really cannot afford on my small weekly salary."

"That is very generous of him," Paul remarked and John glanced up at him as he nodded.

"Yes... yes it is. He is a kind man, you know. Strict, certainly, but kind."

"And, you live with your aunt?" Paul asked, and John nodded once more, but did not say anything in the hope Paul would let it rest at that, not wanting to go deeper into that aspect of his life, and to his relief, he did not have to today. The other man looked down at his tea and stared into it for a moment, seeming lost in thought, which caught John's curiosity. He wanted to ask him what he was doing here, why he was not at home or with other friends or acquaintances of his. After all, he barely even knew him, and yet here he was, wearing his clothes and drinking his tea in his kitchen, while his own clothes hung out to dry in his bedroom from the sudden rain that had started to fall down from heaven an hour or two ago. It was rather curious, and he wanted to know more, know what was bothering him, but he felt it would be to bold to ask and mingle in his personal affairs; it was not his position, after all.

"My aunt, she does not mind terribly, though. Since uncle George died she has been having it difficult, money-wise that is, so she appreciates my help. Of course, she would rather have had me do something else, but at least I am doing something that is of some use," John continued, not wanting the conversation to turn uncomfortable, though he was unsure why he had chosen this subject to talk to the other man about, especially after Stuart's warning about him last Friday. Because, even if he felt that his friend might be wrong about him, he had noticed that Stuart knew more about Paul and his family than he had let on, especially if his father had been a tenant at the McCartney estate, meaning it was probably good to keep a safe distance from him until he had more knowledge to make a proper judgement himself. For some reason, however, it felt easy to talk about such things to Paul. Maybe exactly because they barely knew anything substantial about one another - it was safer.

"You do not earn this money for yourself?" Paul asked, looking up at him in what seemed like honest surprise.

"No. Or at least, I keep what I need for all my basic needs, like food and clothes, and all else I send to my aunt. Thankfully, living here I get some things almost for free, like dinners and breakfasts, as my master buys the shopping for that, so it is relatively inexpensive for me," John explained and Paul nodded as he looked John up and down, a small smirk pulling at the corners of his lips. "What?" John asked with a chuckle.

Paul shrugged. "I just had not expected something like that from you. You are rather... well... sweet, I suppose one could say."

"And you are rather pleasant company, which I had not expected," John replied without thinking about it, but fortunately, Paul only chuckled at that, and did not take offence as John had feared for a brief moment.

"What is it that you do then? When you are not working?"

"I write, read, play piano when I can, and, of course, paint."

"Paint?"

"Oh yes, of course. Doing people's portraits wasn't what I had always wanted to do, you see, but at least it allows me to earn a decent amount of money. As an aspiring artist, your income is rather non-existent, you see," John said and Paul chuckled again as he nodded. John could not help but think his laughter as being "cute", which was a strange adjective to use to describe Paul from the stories he had heard, but it was simply what came to mind as he listened to it, though "magical" still remained in the back of his mind.

"And what exactly is it that you paint, Mr. Lennon. I must admit that I am rather interested in art myself, so one cannot help but wonder, as I am sure you understand."

"I like portraits, but I like nature landscapes and cities as well. Would you like to see?" John asked, smiling as Paul nodded. He stood up and beckoned Paul to come with him, as he led him back upstairs to his bedroom, where he had his own art stored away, as Mr. Edwards did not like to have it lying around in the studio where the clients would come. Paul followed closely behind him in silence, not saying anything as they walked back into John's bedroom, where the fire was still smouldering in the fireplace. The younger man let his fingers slide over the material of his clothes, seeing whether they were drying, but much to his disappointment they were still wet. In the meantime, John had opened the drawers of his desk, pushed the drawings he had done of Paul aside, not wanting the man in question to see those, and got out some of his work that he was satisfied with, most of them being scenic landscapes of Liverpool, especially around the docks. He handed them to Paul with trembling hands, nervous to hear the man's opinion of them, knowing him being interested in art was an understatement. He was knowledgeable, to say the least, and would often attend events of the most prestigious art galleries that had started to emerge all around Europe in the last couple of decades, to buy and sell, but fancying himself somewhat of a critic as well. Needless to say, John valued his opinion highly. He watched with anticipation as Paul looked through his work, humming at and examining different aspects of his work, his face never giving anything away.

"I have to say, these are really good. You continue to surprise me," Paul finally spoke after what seemed like far too long, and John let out a sigh of relief as he smiled up at him, feeling how his stomach twisted at those words, making him feel nauseous.

"Do you really think so?" he asked, eager to hear the answer, yet nervous in case he had misheard Paul the first time.

"Oh yes. It is very promising. Naturally, I have seen more interesting works, but it is better than some of the art I have seen exhibited in Vienna, Prague, or Paris. Then again, I never gave those longer than five seconds," Paul said and John frowned as he tried to understand what exactly the man thought of his work, his way of wording it being rather confusing. In the end, he decided that if Paul was to compare him with such artists who got their art exhibited, that could only be positive.

He looked up at him and studied his profile as Paul continued to examine his work, his expression serious, but with a hint of pleasant surprise that twinkled in his eye, giving him away. His fingertips traced the sides of the artwork, slender fingers gently moving along the edges in an almost tender way. His cheeks were flushed from the warmth of the fire, and his plump lips moved ever so slightly, as if he was muttering things to himself, words that John could not hear, only meant for himself like some kind of open secret. Once again, he found himself wondering what such a man was doing here with him, but unlike last time, he could not swallow the question down, repress it in favour of good manners, and he could hear himself say it, causing Paul to turn his head at him in surprise, before he smiled sadly.

"I do not have many friends, Mr. Lennon," he replied and laid a number of the artworks onto the desk in front of him, before moving to sit down on the bed, his arms resting on his thighs as he went through the three he was still holding. John followed him with his eyes and before he knew what he was doing, his feet had brought him to his bed and he had taken a seat beside him, their bodies only inches apart.

"I find that hard to believe," he said, but Paul shook his head.

"I know people do not like me. I am not likeable, as I well know. If I had gone anywhere else, they would have let me in, I can be certain about that, but they would not have done so for the right reasons. I do not want to be merely tolerated, either out of fear for my family or for myself, and with you I knew you would not care about any of that. You would have turned me away if I was unwanted."

"You came to me, because you were certain I would turn you away?"

"I suppose there is some irony to be found in my coming to the one person who was the most likely to refuse me, I'll admit," Paul said with a small grin, amused by his own atypical logic, but John could understand what he meant, and thus refrained from laughing along. After all, he could understand what it was like to not be wanted somewhere, to feel as if no one cared for you. Yet, he was surprised by such sentiment expressed by the younger man, not having expected such thoughts from a man like him, someone who - in John's mind, as in the mind of most people - had everything he could desire, and could buy whatever else he might wish for. For a moment the two men only looked at each other, saying nothing and leaving the other to his thoughts, as they studied each other's face and the shadows that danced upon them in the flickering light of the fire. Paul's eyes, John noticed, were almost honey coloured in this light, warm and sweet, yet light and glistening, matching the colours of the embers that sprung up from the fire. His eyelids hung low over his eyes as he looked down at him, tracing the lines of his face as he studied him, his eyes finally resting on his lips, and for a moment it looked like he was coming closer to him.

The movement had to have been minuscule, barely noticeable to anyone who would have looked at the two men in that moment, and even for John if it hadn't been for the fact that he could suddenly feel the warmth of Paul's breath on his face, brushing his lips. He felt how his own fingers trembled where they rested on his thighs at the thought - the mere suggestion - of what Paul might do, the possibilities making him both nervous and afraid. He was unsure if he was disappointed or relieved when Paul moved away, turning his gaze away from him and back to the fireplace before him, watching the wood burn.

"We er... could do some work on the portrait if you would like?" John suggested, feeling the need to break the silence between them after that odd moment between them, but Paul shook his head.

"No, I think I should better go. The portrait is in no real hurry to be finished, as far as I am aware, and I do not wish to overstay my welcome."

"Oh, it is no bother. Or perhaps some supper?"

"No, thank you, John. I really should be heading home. My father will not be pleased with me if I return home late, and I still need to walk to The King's Arms, where my coach will be waiting for you. Thank you, though, for everything," Paul said as he laid the last of the artworks aside on John's bed and rose to his feet.

"If you are certain," John said as he stood up as well, feeling little to see him go so soon, "I'll have Dot bring you your clothes. I don't think they will be dry, but at least it will give you something to wear outside. At least the rain has stopped."

"Yes, I suppose that is good. I'll er... better go change so you can have your clothes back," Paul said, but John stopped him right away, laying a hand on his arm to catch his attention as he shook his head.

"Oh, no. I insist that you will not. Yours are still wet, and it will not do to let you catch a cold out there. You can return my clothes at our next meeting, and please, take an umbrella with you if you still need to walk all that way. You can never trust the weather here," he said and Paul nodded thankfully in reply, and watched as John started to gather his clothes for him, folding them up before handing them to the younger man and guiding him downstairs, as he called for Dot to get the rest of Mr. McCartney's clothes. They had only just stepped down the last step, when Dot came into the hallway with Paul's jacket, scarf, and coat, which she handed to him with a polite nod, helping him into the latter, and handing him the rest.

"Thank you, dear," Paul said to her with a little wink, watching with amusement as she giggled in return and wished him a bashful goodnight, before walking away with an excited little skip, much to John's annoyance. He had been about to wish Paul the same, when Paul reached into the pocket of his coat and got out some money, which he briefly counted, before turning to the other man and offering it to him.

"Wh-what is this?" John asked, glancing at the money in Paul's hand with a frown.

"Just a small thank you for your trouble. Do something fun with it for a change, instead of being a good nephew," the younger man explained, and before John could object, he had already dropped it into John's hand, folding his fingers close around it. "I insist on it, Mr. Lennon."

"Why, thank you, sir."

"Paul. Please, call me Paul."

"Thank you, Paul," John corrected himself obediently, and Paul smiled at that, before wrapping his scarf around his neck, and taking one of the umbrellas that stood by the door, after which he turned the door handle and opened the front door, causing a gush of cold wind to blow into the house, making John shiver.

"Good night, Mr. Lennon. I suggest we shall see each other again this Friday, if you do not mind. Seeing as we have already seen each other today, it might be best to give this Wednesday a miss, and give us both our free evening back, don't you agree?"

"Yes, if you would prefer. And er... Paul?" John asked, biting his lip as he considered his next words with care, "if you ever feel the need to, know that you are always welcome here. It's fine."

Paul smiled at that in return and with one last polite nod, he stepped out of the house and into the cold evening, closing the door behind himself as he walked away.