(AU thingy in which paul and john didn't meet at the fete and paul is a huge obsessive fan(girl?)boy of the beatles..... why did I write this)

1963 was the greatest year of Paul McCartney's life, he was sure of it. As he lay in his bedroom floor and smiled up at his ceiling, clutching onto a small slip of paper, the paper that made this the best day he'd ever experienced, he was sure of it. His chest thudded and his cheeks hurt from the muscles being used so often, grinning like it was as necessary as breathing.

To say he felt a tad excited was an absolute understatement. In between his fingertips he held a ticket to a concert, his favorite band. They weren't exactly the most popular yet, but Paul knew they could be, because hell they were talented.

He'd first heard their song Love Me Do at a local record shop and immediately went to the front, asking the lady at the register if she knew who was being played. When she grinned at him and said they called themselves The Beatles, he had only laughed at the silly name.

But the song stuck. He found himself humming it in the shower and hearing the harmonica bits in his head at the oddest times, and eventually he went back and bought their record.

He listened to the entirety of it that night; curled up on his couch and sipping tea quietly. He was enraptured by the voice of the singer, so capable of mastering different types of songs and pitches and it just.. it made him feel nice. He had heard good singers before, - Elvis comes to mind - but he'd never been knocked into complete stillness and silence by someone's voice.

The woo's made him smile and the words sung lower and more slowly made shivers tumble down his spine.

Not only that; the way the band looked, presented themselves. It was smart and dressy but the hair was a funny coincidence, as Paul had his in a similar style, longer and moptop-ish.

He didn't know which bloke on the album cover was the lead singer, but spent many evenings listening to the record spin as he tried to guess, needing a face to go with the lovely sounds in his head. The mystery was part of the allure though, he supposed. But soon he would know.

The ticket was for the third row back, he was going to be so bloody close and God, he could not wait. It would be nice to say that it had been fate that was responsible for him winning the radio raffle, but in all honesty, he probably entered so many times it would be impossible to lose. He was that determined.

In the end it paid off, though. Clutching the ticket to his chest, he let out a disbelieving chuckle and squeezed his eyes shut.

-

The Blackpool theatre gave off a sense of formality with a dark wooden stage and blood red curtains coming from the ceiling, swooping down and cinched midway, the material thick yet flowing. The lighting was dim and yellowish, falling mostly on the drumming equipment in the center of the stage. The name on the front was black and bold, standing out and catching Paul's eye more often than not.

Excitement was bubbling inside of him and his knee was bouncing up and down as he reclined a bit further back into his seat, trying to calm himself before he looked like an idiot around so many people.

It was expected from the girls to squeal and be unable to sit still, giggling like they had no sense at all; it would be odd if they didn't. But Paul felt he should be doing those things too, felt the blood rising to his cheeks at the thought of being in the same predicament as these girls, here to fawn over the men they probably dreamed about at night.

Paul would never admit to the fleeting thoughts that crossed his mind when he saw a certain face on that record sleeve, smiling and squinting down at the camera with his quirky features. Almost handsome, almost charming. If Paul was allowed to say as much as that without being deemed a freak.

Which he probably wasn't.

A girl next to him gasped and he immediately turned his head, grinning widely as four young men walked onto the stage from behind the curtains, three of them carrying their instruments with them. Suddenly the sound in the room was deafening, a sea of people cheering and clapping and a couple of loud whistles sounding out over the chaos.

The one whose face had been imprinted into Paul's mind, the one with the bright smile and auburn hair, had stepped up to the center microphone. He adjusted his guitar so that the strap was comfortable across his front and you could hear him clear his throat briefly.

"Alrigh', you insane lot. The name's John, next to me are George an' Stuart," He gestured to the two at the right and left of him, who responded nonverbally, nodding their heads.

"And behind me is our drummer, I'm sure you all know Ringo." John laughed; Paul felt his heart skip a beat at the sound.

He figured it must be all the nerves from being in this place, finally putting a face to that voice. Nothing more.

"The first number we'd like to sing is Twist and Shou-"

Before John could finish his sentence the noise increased again, this time enough to make Paul cover his ears with his hands, though he still had a pleasant feeling about this. A moment later the song had started and everyone decided to hush and listen, some singing along and dancing. Paul saw a couple girls blush as they bit their lips and heard the melodious harmony of ahhs, ducking his head bashfully because he felt the same.

When his eyes flitted back up to the band he let them roam to each member, taking in the vibes they gave off and the features of each. George moved non-rhythmically despite his amazing guitar playing, always playing his awkward actions off with a grin at least.

The bassist - Paul was having a hard time remembering his name - was admittedly handsome but couldn't keep up with the others to save his life. Jim McCartney had taught his son to play many instruments, bass included, so it was hard to look past that.

The drummer was a funny guy, bopping his head and maintaining an open-mouth grin, incredibly good actually.

Finally Paul let his gaze settle on the singer, John. He'd been avoiding staring too long out of embarrassment and shame, but now he didn't quite care anymore. No one here would notice he had gone all heart eyes over the auburn man, because they were all in a similar predicament themselves.

It was hard not to notice the charismatic leader of the group, his bouncing knees and witty jokes and good natured digs at his band mates. This John fellow was like a magnet, and when he paused in between songs to reach for a glass of water, lips sliding against the smooth surface as he set it back down, Paul thought he might actually have to step outside.

He kept tugging at the collar of his shirt from all the heat that was gathering in his chest but it was of no use. He kept his eyes on John for the rest of the show, hoping his longing glances would be reciprocated.

Unsurprisingly, they never were.

-

After the show was hectic; a frenzy of young people all heading for the same exit door, probably on their way to ambush the band's vehicle or follow it to find out what hotel they were staying in. It was a jumbled mass of bodies, adrenaline pumping through their systems after one of the best nights in their lives, and Paul felt like he was drowning within the group.

After being pushed and shoved around so much that he was positive his ribs were bruised, he put in a effort to get out of that chaos, and soon he succeeded. It was a breath of fresh air, literally, as he could stand off to the side and watch them as a third party observer, shaking his head at the madness.

Turning away, Paul found himself presented with two options; explore the hallway to the left of the stage, which could have an alternative exit from the building, or wait until everyone left from this door. The answer was obvious.

His fingers dipped into his trouser pockets as he walked down the dim hallway, sighing blissfully as he was met with his folded ticket in his left pocket. It was unreal that he'd seen them in the flesh, really feeling as though he had a connection with all of them.

Moments from the show kept playing over in his head like they were projected onto a screen behind his eyes, thinking about John Lennon's electrifying smile and raw voice and - he suddenly had no idea where he was going.

The corridor was dark and every door was the same, numbered at the top but none indicated that they led outside. Paul could have turned back and left from the main door, but something kept tugging him further into the deserted passage, dragging his feet along the carpeted floors.

He slowed when he heard something from a few feet behind him, yet kept his eyes ahead, quietening his breathing. There was another set of footsteps and the soft padding of feet made his face lose all color; afraid of being followed or maybe being thrown out by the security for coming here.

The footsteps quickened and so did Paul's heartbeat, his throat feeling tight and his fringe falling into his eyes as he looked down at his shoes frightfully.

Fingers wrapped around his upper arm and he yelped, moving forward as if he'd been burned with an iron. He turned to face his follower, squinting his eyes in the darkness to let them adjust and focus in on the features. Definitely male, he could see.

Broad shoulders, crooked nose, caramel irises that seemed to shine on their own. All of Paul's held breath was released at once, his quivering lips parting. Shit.

"Lost, princess? I didn't think the exit was that difficult to miss." The auburn-haired man's words made Paul's cheeks go bright pink and he fumbled around for something to say, utterly speechless in the guitarist's presence.

His words were rude but spoken in such a soft manner, a smile tugging at his thin lips.

"You're not mute are you? Need me to escort you to the front of the building?"

John Lennon, the John Lennon was asking him, tilting his head to the side a tad like a small puppy. Paul swallowed hard, shaking his head in a minuscule motion.

"I...I didn't mean t-to bother you. It's just- there were so many people an-and I thought there might be another way to-"

"Hey, hey, relax okay? There's no need to get worked up, you're not in trouble." John cut him off, eyes widening at the anxiety that seemed to be affecting the kid in front of him.

Well, not exactly a kid. He was probably a year or two younger, and looked every bit of it. He had a round face and Bambi eyes, not to mention the full set of lips and button nose. John thought perhaps he'd find him attractive, if he felt that way about guys.

He wasn't against that sort of thing really, he'd even shared a kiss or two with his mate Stuart before deciding it was too awkward and complicated to carry on like that. So John didn't want to be rude while thinking this, but the shy, dark haired boy before him would fit the perfect description of a fairy if he had to give one.

A proper queer kid, and a cute one at that. Probably broke all of the girls' hearts.

"I'm making a fool of myself, aren't I? Christ, I'm sorry. Uh- I'm Paul, by the way. You were really great tonight. With the concert and all, I mean."

The boy - Paul, John bothered to take note of the name for once - was blushing profusely and refusing to make eye contact, chewing on his lower lip.

"Thanks." He replied smoothly, a light laugh escaping his mouth.

"It's not often I meet th' blokes who like us, it's always the insane birds who cry and sniffle and cling onto us like leeches, so this is kind of nice. I'm glad you liked it."

Paul shuffled his feet and tried to calm himself down with the realization that he's not being thrown out or yelled at by someone who happened to be his latest idol. It was rather humiliating though that he was still babbling on like a idiot and his eyes were wide as saucers. Hell, he was staring too. Didn't even notice, in his state.

"Yeah, I loved it! I've been listening to your record like crazy, it's so good. But uh, I hope you don't mind me asking, does your bassist play on the album? He sounds different in person."

John smiled slightly at how the boy had gained some confidence in his speech, his face lit up as he talked so animatedly of the band. He tried not to think of how interesting and enticing he was.

"Stuart? No one's ever asked that before, but I'll let you in on a secret, Paulie. He's pretty shit at bass, so I play it for the records. He's my best mate though, so I can't just let him go. And he's good for our image, the girls like 'im."

Paul bit down on his lower lip and tried not to meet the elder's eyes, knowing it wasn't even his place to ask something like that, so invasive. He thought that John was right, Stuart was awful, but he kept it in his mind in fear of sounding like a twat.

"Oh." He nodded slightly, but his tone made the syllable sound like a question.

"Do you want to come by our dressing room and meet the others?" John asked.

Paul grinned at that, previously thinking his time with the musician was running short. He was glad he hadn't been ushered out of John's hair yet, so he enthusiastically agreed although he wasn't really as interested in bothering the other members.

"If it's not any trouble?"

"Course not, love. They don't bite."

They walked down the dark hall side by side, joking as if they'd known the other all their life, until John stopped in front of the right door which had the band's name written on a piece of paper taped front. Professional, Paul mused with a quiet snort.

John reached for the door handle, before he felt a gentle tug on his jacket.

"Wait."

John turned to see Paul, immediately letting go of the handle when he was met with the actual embodiment of hesitation. Paul's lips were pouty and his feet were doing that weird shuffly thing again, not moving an inch when his cautious hazel eyes were met.

"I dunno if I can go in there. I'm barely comprehending that you're wasting your time on me and I jus' should go, I'm sor-"

"Stop that."

"What?"

"Stop acting like you're all lowly an' that shit. You're not, alright? If you don't want to go in it's fine. Just let me walk you outside."

Paul nodded, lost for words and wringing his hands nervously behind his back. He knew his sudden change was confusing and probably at the roots of the guitarist's irritation, but a bout of sudden star stricken fear had bolted into the pit of his stomach, twisting it and sending tremors throughout his body without a proper warning.

Fucking hell, John Lennon was here with him. Offering to walk him outside, even if his words were choppy and agitated. Feeling slightly ashamed, he trailed behind the man, color drained from his face at the opportunity he'd just lost and how he'd managed to get on John's nerves already. It was no surprise though, John was fucking perfect and probably had much better ways to spend his time.

They ended up leaving through the exit Paul had previously avoided, but all remains of teenage girls were vanished. The atmosphere of the stadium had shifted into one more mellow and relaxed, the echoes of their footsteps bouncing off of the red walls.

Paul was still slightly nervous, muscles tense and heart beating like it wanted to escape his prison of a ribcage. His eyes were glued to the back of John's head, wondering desperately why no one had spoken since the incident in the hall.

"Hey... John?" He mumbled to break the silence, his voice scratchy.

The aforementioned man stopped in his tracks, nearly causing a collision between the two bodies and earning a inaudible gasp to escape Paul's lips. He was met with John's guarded but curious expression, and a raised bushy brow that disappeared under a reddish fringe.

"Yeah?"

"Have I.. done something wrong? Are you upset with me?"

"It's just.. different. Something is different with you and I can't say what it is, if it's even a bad thing or not, but it's not something I've had to deal with before, you know?"

Paul shook his head at the question, looking particularly perplexed. He was.. different? What was that supposed to mean, had he acted like a complete freak and not realized, oh god, was he totally embarrassing himself?

"What exactly are you dealing with?"

He swallowed, taking a step back and keeping steady eye contact even though it felt incredibly forced.

"Fucking hell, don't ask me. You're-You're not a normal fan, didn't attack me or try to get in my trousers or some shit, you've not done anything to bother me at all. You're bloody human, and surprisingly good at it. And you're also confusing as hell."

The confessions spilled from John's lips before he could consider them, get a taste of the bitter truth and slosh it around a little to decide whether or not they were okay to project into the air. They just bloody tumbled out, but they were true.

"Oh-um, well, thanks, I suppose. But confusing?"

"Yeah, I mean.. Don't take offense to this or anything, but I kind of made an offhand guess you're probably queer, and ever since I jus'- Christ, I'm usually not so wordy, sorry. I want to fuckin' kiss you and I don't know why."

John thought he would regret that immediately, that he would have to take it all back as a joke, but Paul didn't look disgusted, only taken aback. His mouth has fallen open in the most tempting way, cheeks reddening.

John could practically hear the younger boy's heart hammering from a foot away, and he knew he had hit the nail on its head.

"Are you just taking the piss? There's no way you'd-"

"I meant it. Can I?"

Paul nodded too quickly, biting his bottom lip to stop an excited squeal.

The next thing he knew his back was against a red, velvet wall and all the breath had left his lungs when his body had rejected his oxygen due to his chest being squeezed between the wall and John. His head was spinning and he couldn't think, couldn't care less about anything, besides this.

His arms found their way around a slender torso and fingers dug into a black suit jacket, probably expensive, but he didn't stop his nails from pressing into the fabric, because fuck.

John had taken him by surprise and now warm lips were attached to the underside of his jaw and a rough hand had started to knead his hip and he felt like fainting. The lips moved to his own and moved in such an intricate way, as Paul tried to keep his lower body planted firmly against the red wall, not wanting to accidentally let himself try to take this too far.

As soon as he began to really enjoy himself though he lost all contact, and he was left panting lightly and being met with an amused smirk, slowly dragging his gaze up John's body to meet his bright eyes.

"You're not awful, Paulie."

"Suppose you're not too tragic either."

"Cheeky bastard. Can I give you my number, then?"

"I'd be really pissed if you didn't."

1963 really, truly was the best year of Paul's life, he decided.