As the end of the week drew nearer, Paul and George were glad there hadn't been any strange smells coming from the neighbouring apartment, which meant, as George grudgingly concluded that Thursday evening during dinner, that their neighbour was simply a prick who was very much alive and living of their internet connection for free. Music was once again blasting through the walls, and Paul recognised the opening bars of Elvis' All Shook Up immediately, which he figured accounted for something, seeing as a guy who listened to Elvis couldn't be all bad. George, on the other hand, didn't agree and grumbled some more curses to himself as he pricked a potato tart onto his fork. He glared at it before stuffing it into his mouth.

"You know, instead of sitting there grumbling to yourself, you might as well knock on his door and confront him if you're that worked up about it," Paul remarked as he watched his friend in amusement. It was rare to see him worked up about something silly like this, as he was usually a relatively calm and peaceful person. Paul always found it interesting when something happened that made him react this way. He even kept a list, which at the moment consisted of three things that Paul could prove ticked him off: video games, people stealing his food without asking, and internet stealing neighbours. According to Ringo, littering was another one, but he hadn't seen George react to that yet himself, so it wasn't on the list; he needed that proof first.

"I'm not worked up about it," George contended, ignoring the "oh really?" look Paul shot him in response. "Besides, I'm not going to let that prick ruin my dinner. I'll talk to him after."

"If he's still there..."

George didn't reply and continued to aggressively put food in his mouth as he stared at the wall that separated their flat from their neighbour's, as if glaring at it would magically fix everything. Unsurprisingly, it didn't, and after dinner, once he had gathered enough courage to try to talk to him - two times he had come back without having even knocked on the door - their neighbour had already left again.

"Perhaps he really is a ghost?" George suggested once he had returned from his defeat. He eyed the same wall again, suspiciously this time.

"So, what d'you want to do? Call the Ghostbusters? Or go ghost hunting ourselves? I'm in if you are."

"Well, considering this might finally prove ghosts exist, we should at least film it, whatever we do. We'll go viral in no time. Especially with all your Instagram followers to share it with."

They had little time to make any definite plans, though, as not long after the doorbell rang, causing George to cry out "Pattie" in a high pitched, overly excited voice, his face lighting up. Paul had never seen his friend's mood shift so drastically and in such a short period of time as in that moment. Before he knew what was happening, George had hurried into the hallway to open the door, not wanting to let her wait any longer than necessary, and soon after sickening sounds of murmurs and kisses drifted into the living room, which were quickly followed by the sounds of heels clacking on their oak-coloured parquet flooring, as well as a cheery "hiya", which Paul guessed had been directed at him. They had only been together for a month and already they spent more time together than he and Dot had done during his last week in Liverpool. Although perhaps that was more illustrative of his relationship with Dot than George and Pattie's. Turning around, he saw the two lovers emerge from the hallway.

"You alright?" Pattie added and smiled kindly at him as she took off her light blue grey coat. She draped it over the back of their couch and got her phone from her bag before she put the latter down on the floor by her feet and took a seat on the armrest of the couch. George meanwhile headed into the kitchen to get her something to drink, playing his newly acquired role of good and caring boyfriend as well as Paul had expected him to, while Pattie checked her messages and used her camera as a mirror to fix her hair, which had become ruffled by the outside wind, tying it up into a bun without any effort. Paul took a seat next to her.

"So," he said, figuring he might as well try to entertain her while she waited for George to come back, "you and George still doing well, then?"

"Oh yeah. He's a great guy. Though, I don't think I have to tell you that, do I? Seeing how long you've been friends. It's kind of impressive! I barely know anyone from when I was thirteen. How about you, though? George told me you and Dot... well..."

"You two talk about me?" Paul interrupted, raising an eyebrow. Pattie grinned.

"Only good things, I promise."

"Such as my highly troubled relationships?"

"Exactly. Besides, I need to keep up with all the drama now George is taking me to meet you guys. If there are going to be tense moments and sudden arguments about literally nothing, I at least need to know who, what and why, don't I?"

Paul chuckled and nodded.

"I suppose. But we're alright. I mean, it's not like we're not fighting or anything, and I'm calling her tonight, but... It's been kinda different, I guess, since the mis- since I moved here, but that's to be expected, isn't it?"

"Yes. Up to a certain point... It's never easy when someone you care about moves away. I hope it works out though. From what George told me, she sounds like a great girl."

"She is," Paul agreed, and although he knew she was and that he ought to consider himself lucky to have her, there was something nagging it him while he said it. Pattie, who appeared to be aware of his conflicted feelings, was kind enough to change the subject and started talking about her new classes and lecturers, for which Paul was grateful. She was a nice girl; he could see why George liked her.

He still remembered the moment when George had first mentioned her. It had been last December, when George had come back to Liverpool for Christmas, and had spent some time with him as well. Although he had tried to be considerate at first and had asked him how he had been doing, how Dot had been doing, and if he hadn't been getting any stupid ideas in his head - to which Paul had responded it wasn't that kind of a thing - he soon hadn't been able to hold back any longer and had shoved his phone into his face. "Isn't she gorgeous?" he had asked him as he had bounced excitedly up and down on his bed. A picture of a pretty blue-eyed blonde with a button nose and bunny teeth had been displayed on the phone, but Paul had been too dumbstruck to keep up with his friend's excitement. He had barely gotten the time to answer, or George had gone into a tantrum about how great she was, how kind and sweet and stylish, how soft and melodic her voice, how fair her skin, and elegant her fingers, what her major was - fashion, with a focus on tailoring - what she did for a living - she was a waitress - and what her favourite kind of muffin was - carrot cake muffins - all while barely pausing to breathe. It had been a welcome distraction at the time, but he hadn't seen any merit in the crush. How wrong he had been.

They spoke for about a minute longer until George returned, carrying two glasses of coke, one of which he handed to her, accompanied by a kiss on the cheek, to which she responded with a look that could only mean one thing. Flustered, George turned back to his friend.

"We er... we'll be in my bedroom if you need us. Just er... well... you know, make sure you knock before coming in, yeah? Or don't come in at all. That'd be preferable."

"Don't worry, mate. I'll be having my own little date with Dot, remember? Just keep the noise down and you won't see me all evening," Paul said with a wink and smirked when he saw George's cheeks flush pink in response. Before any of them could say anything more, George was roughly taken by the arm and dragged into said bedroom. The door slammed shut behind him, after which another thud followed, as well as some light feminine giggling and a low surprised groan. Paul didn't need much of an imagination to know what was going on in there.

Grinning to himself, he stayed true to his word and finished cleaning the dishes, before he got himself a beer and a chocolate bar, and retired to his own bedroom as well. The room itself was small, being a little over two meters wide and three long, but it had everything he needed. His single bed stood at the opposite end of the room, fitted perfectly against the wall and beneath his window, leaving no more than an inch of space at either side of it, next to which he had a small bedside table with a record player. If left little room for anything else, but Paul didn't mind. He could still use the windowsill, which was, in fact, easier to reach when he was watching Netflix in bed. His desk stood opposite the bedside table, pressed against the foot end of the bed, which allowed him to easily twirl around to flip the record when he was studying. His acoustic guitar and bass hung above it, within easy reach and surrounded by his Polaroid collection. And lastly, seeing as he hadn't any room left for a full on wardrobe without feeling like he was sleeping in a closet, he had a simple clothes rack on the other end of the room, which he may or may not have taken from the street. It made the whole place appear more spacious than it was. On top of that, everything was coloured white, except for the geometric blue rug beside his bed and some other blue and golden accents, such as his pillows, curtain, lamps and wall decorations, as well as the large mirror that hung on the back of his door, the rim of which he had sprayed golden. It wasn't much, but to Paul it felt like home, which was the most important thing.

He put his beer and chocolate on the windowsill by the bed, and plugged in his laptop, which he placed in the middle of his bed, leaving enough space for him to sit behind it, his back pressed comfortably against the numerous pillows he had propped up against the wall. Checking his phone, he noted it was only a quarter past seven, which meant he still had about forty-five minutes before he would need to call Dot on Skype, so he decided to watch half an episode of BBC Sherlock to pass the time. Occasionally, he would hear giggles, groans and moans from the room next to his, often followed by some shushing noises from George.

"Shh! Paul will hear us," he'd say, before he erupted into a fit of giggles himself, which were far louder than the ones before. Nonetheless, it made Paul smile.

Once the digital clock on his computer read 8.00 pm, he logged in on Skype and checked his Instagram while combing his hair and straightening his clothes as he waited for Dot to come online, needing to look presentable at least. From time to time, he would click back to see if he had perhaps missed a notification saying she was online, but the little grey ball besides her name remained grey.

Twenty minutes passed like that, switching between different windows, and with every minute Paul became both more worried about whether something had happened to her, as well as more angry, although he felt ashamed to admit it. They had a date! She was supposed to be there, or at least let him know if she couldn't make it! In the end, he decided to call her, but before he could, his phone vibrated in his hand and a message from Dot popped up onto the screen.

Dorothy <3: Srry. Can't make it. Got stuck at work and some asshole stole my bike so Steve is driving me home. I'll call you later. X

Groaning, he messaged an "Okay :(" back, before he threw his phone aside and let himself fall back into bed with an exasperated groan. He had no idea who Steve was, but he didn't really care either, so he put on some music on his laptop, before rolling over onto his side to stare out of his window and watch the rain like he always saw sad teenagers do in the movies. He began to feel worse, which he didn't think was the intended purpose of whatever he was doing, and rolled over so he was facing away from the window instead, which kind of helped. The sounds coming from George and Pattie's room had gotten louder as well, and more explicit as time went on. It began to annoy him now. He changed the music to some ABBA with his toes and turned up the volume, which usually managed to cheer him up a little, but it did not appear to help this time - even Super Trouper sounded sad. Despite this, he left it on.

"George!" he could hear Pattie cry out from the other side of the wall, followed by even more giggling. George didn't even shush her this time, which was just plain rude. Sitting up, he had a look around the room, wondering what else he could do on this lonesome Thursday evening while pretending not to listen to his best friend shagging his girlfriend in the other room, but he couldn't see anything in particular that struck his fancy. That is, until he noticed a crumbled up piece of paper lying next to his school bag. Curious, he crawled out of bed and picked it up. It was another flyer of that poetry night thing that John guy had invited him to. But... hadn't he thrown it into the bin? How did it get here? Determined to solve the mystery, he sneaked out of his room, went into the kitchen to check the bin and found the old flyer still visible beneath the rotting left over food. The bastard must have slipped multiple flyers into his bag. He looked back at the flyer in his hand. That cunt, he mused, and continued to stare at it, his eyes lingering on the address.

"Fuck it," he finally decided, and hurried back into his room to change into something more suitable, gather his things and make one last stop at the bathroom before going out. George and Dr Collins were right, he did need to go out more and have fun, and listening to some amateur poetry while drinking away any thought of Dot did not seem like a bad night. Besides, George had said these nights were fairly popular, so chances were slim he would ruin into that John guy again. He needed to live a little.

***

The cafe mentioned on the flyer was easy to find, being situated right next to the university library as he vaguely remembered John saying. He had never been inside, but he doubted it was any different from the usual overcrowded student cafes with their ridiculously overpriced coffees, extensive easy-listening playlists, and tiny uncomfortable wooden chairs which people assured him were just "quirky". Besides, going into a cafe meant social interaction, awkward social interaction to be precise. George and Ringo were enough social interaction to deal with on a daily basis.

Stepping inside, though, the place looked different from what he had imagined. It was busy, as expected, but not overcrowded, the place being larger than it appeared on the outside. It was narrow but long, with a stage at the far end with doors on either side leading through to the bathrooms. The inside was decorated in that vintage, industrial style people seemed unable to get enough of nowadays, with its old timber flooring, brick walls, fake iron beams that served no structural function whatsoever, and old furniture, most of which looked like it belonged in a classroom from the nineties. At least he had been right about the uncomfortable wooden chairs, although the leather couches lining the walls looked relatively comfortable. The bar itself was placed at the front of the cafe for a change, allowing for as much space as possible by the stage for people to sit and even dance if they felt like it. It was nice.

As per usual, he ordered himself a scotch and coke and took a seat at an empty table a little further away from the stage than what would've been ideal, but it was close enough to be able to hear the person on stage without having to strain your ears. At the moment a girl with dark hair and dark make-up was sitting on the bar stool that had been placed on the ragged stage for the occasion, reciting her poetry into the old fashioned mic that stood before her. She was about the same age as he was, and although her poetry sounded like it came from an edgy nineties movie, it worked for her.

He took out his phone to check whether Dot had tried to call him yet, but there was nothing. Unsure if he was disappointed or not, he put his phone on silent and slid it back into the pocket of his jeans, deciding tonight he was simply going to have fun and not worry about anything else, just as Dr Collins had told him to do. That dusty git better be happy with him about this. He took a large gulp from his drink and turned back to listen to the girl. Amateur poetry was always better listened to drunk.

As the night dragged on and Paul consumed drink after drink, while amateur poet after amateur poet ascended the stage for their ten minutes of fame, Paul began to feel more and more relaxed to the point where he actually began to enjoy himself. His troubles seemed far away and unreachable, while his greatest concern appeared to be the words of poetry coming out from the poets' mouths. After every half an hour, there was a 5-minute intermission with some light jazz music, so people could go to the bathroom, talk to their friends and get themselves something to drink, while Paul mainly took the opportunity to take out his notebook and make some notes on things he had found inspiring, always making sure to sign each individual note with the correct time and the date. On occasion he was spotted by some people he knew from class, after which a quick exchange of words followed, but mainly he stuck to himself as he drank, wrote and listened. That is, until a familiar voice called out to him, causing him to tense up as he eyes darted around the room looking for an escape. There wasn't any. God, why did it have to be him?!

"What a surprise to see you here, bright eyes. Decided to come after all, huh?" Slowly, Paul turned around to see John Lennon standing a couple of feet away from him by the bar, surrounded by other people who he guessed were his friends. He snatched his bottle of beer from the counter, excused himself for a moment to said group of friends, and came over to him, that annoying grin of his plastered across his face. Without a word, he slid into the empty seat at Paul's table and took a swig of his beer as he looked him up and down, taking him in. Paul forced himself not to look away as his eyes finally came to rest on his. It was only when he caught John squinting at him that he realised he wasn't wearing his glasses. Disappointing, he thought.

"Didn't think you'd come, actually," John said, his voice low and grumbling. He leaned in closer and Paul retreated right away as he caught the strong whiff of cigarettes and alcohol that surrounded him. God, he'd kill for a smoke right now.

"Are you performing too, then?" John pressed on and Paul shrugged in response.

"I take it you are?"

John eyed him for a moment, but before he could answer, the announcer did it for him.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, before we continue," he said, his voice more serious than it had been all evening, "Mark has asked me to tell you to please stop smoking in the bathrooms and go outside instead. Oh, and we're not responsible if any of you get arrested for possession, just FYI. Thank you. Now, up next is our very own John Lennon! John, come on up, mate!" The guy, whose voice had suddenly regained its energetic nature, smiled broadly as he beckoned John over, his arms open wide in a welcoming gesture. John shot Paul a wink before he slid out of his chair and stumbled towards the stage, half-empty beer bottle in hand. He was clearly overdoing it, but the crowd laughed anyway.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Good evening, good evening," he mumbled in what was admittedly a quality Elvis impression, and put the bottle down next to the microphone before he slid onto the bar stool, that same grin still on his face. Taking a little black notebook from the pocket of his leather jacket, he cleared his throat and began to read as if he was reading to a child, but much creepier. It took Paul by surprise.

I'm a moldy moldy man
I'm moldy thru and thru
I'm a moldy moldy man
You would not think it true

I'm moldy till my eyeballs
I'm moldy till my toe
I will not dance I shyballs
I'm such a humble Joe.

It was a silly little poem, but Paul found himself smiling at it nonetheless, enjoying the childlike rhythm and nonsensical words. At least the guy was witty. He took another sip from his drink to hide his smile as he noticed John's eyes sliding over towards him, but he seemed to look right through him and winked at him, causing Paul's cheek to heat up in something he could not quite define. He rolled his eyes at him in the hope to come across as unimpressed, but his smile would not leave his lips, no matter how hard he tried. Finally, after far longer than Paul had been comfortable with, John's eyes left his and he turned back to the rest of the audience to crack another joke before reciting another one of his poems. This time he put on a different silly voice, making sure to roll all his Rs and keep his voice a lower register, to the point where it sounded like he was doing a bad Scottish accent.

Thorg hilly grove and burly ive,
Big daleys grass and tree
We clobber ever gallup
Deaf Ted, Danoota, and me.

Never shall we partly stray,
Fast stirrup all we three
Fight the battle mighty sword
Deaf Ted, Danoota, and me.

With faithful frog beside us,
Big mightly club are we
The battle scab and frisky dyke
Deaf Ted, Danoota, and me.

We fight the baddy baddies,
For colour, race and cree
For Negro, Jew and Bernie
Deaf Ted, Danoota, and me.

Thorg Billy grows and Burnley ten,
And Aston Villa three
We clobber ever gallup
Deaf Ted, Danoota, and me.

So if you hear a wonderous sight,
Am blutter or at sea,
Remember whom the mighty say
Deaf Ted, Danoota, and me -
(sometimes we bring our friend, Malcolm.)

He actually managed to get a real laugh out of him with that final line, for which Paul now hated him. But he did like his poetry, however much it hurt him to admit it. It reminded him of those Lewis Carroll poems he used to read as a kid. He had loved them at the time and had often stayed up all night reading them in his Alice in Wonderland books, covers thrown over his head, flashlight in hand, ready to pretend to be asleep as soon as he'd hear his mother's footsteps on the landing.

He had been so lost in his memory that when John looked at him again, he forgot to hide his smile until it was too late. To his surprise, John lit up at the sight and bowed his head to him in what appeared to be an over the top way of saying "thanks". His third poem was a longer one and Paul didn't like it as much as the last one, but he still clapped when John finished and was ushered off the stage by the announcer with a lot of hassle, getting the crowd to laugh again.

"So," John said as he slid back into his seat at Paul's table, shooting him a knowing smirk as he took another swig of beer, finishing it, "what did you think?"

"Eh... it wasn't as bad as I'd expected," Paul replied with a shrug, and looked back at the stage where another young man had taken his seat. He looked like he was about to throw up, poor lad, but Paul understood. He hated performing for a crowd, even though he loved it at the same time. But to see all those eyes on you, watching you, judging you, waiting for you to mess up so they could laugh at you, he couldn't get used to it.

"Fuck off! I know you liked it. I saw you smiling." John nudged his side with a knowing smirk. Paul, however, ignored him and pretended not to hear him as he listened to the man on stage, who sadly wasn't very good. John nudged him again to get his attention. He nodded at the notebook that lay well-protected under Paul's arms.

"Is that your work?" he asked. Instinctively, Paul moved it further out of John's reach.

"No...?"

"So that's a yes, right?"

Paul ignored him again, which seemed to frustrate John, who let out a sigh in response. A few seconds passed before he nudged him again.

"You want another drink?" he asked, gesturing at the empty glass Paul was subconsciously fingering. He glanced down at it and shook his head.

"No, thanks."

"It's on me."

"Yeah... Still no."

"I don't buy people drinks often, you know. You should be grateful." John pressed on, but Paul once again declined. Annoyed, John leaned closer to the younger man, purposefully invading his personal space, so Paul was forced to look at him.

"Listen," he said in his ear, his voice softer now, "I know I was a prick last time, okay? I just..." he paused for a moment, as if thinking about what to say, and looked Paul deep in the eye, before continuing. "I tend to be a prick to beautiful people."

Paul blinked at him a few times as he let those words sink in. In the end, he burst out laughing.

"Is that a pick up line?"

"Only if it's working," John replied with another wink, and Paul laughed again as he shook his head in disapproval.

"You're unbearable."

"It's my speciality. Now, how about that drink, then? Anything you want, on me."

Paul regarded the other man for a while, and was once again struck by how handsome he was, with his slight stubble, his square features, his roman nose, and artistic hands that were gently teasing his glass from his fingers, edging him on. His dark brown eyes pierced into him and Paul found himself accepting the offer, albeit reluctantly.

"Alright then. If that's what it's going to take to get you to stop bothering me about it. Scotch and coke, would be grand," he said, his gaze darting down to the other's lips as he caught sight of a hint of tongue sliding over said lips. When he looked back up, John was watching him with an almost fond expression.

"Grand," he repeated with a lopsided smile, his tone more affectionate than mocking, "I'm going to get you a beer." Before Paul could say anything in response, John reached over between his arms and snatched his notebook from him before he got up and fled to the bar, leaving Paul momentarily dumbstruck behind. Cursing, he grabbed his jacket and bag and followed him.

"Fucking asshole," he muttered to himself, but an amused smile played on his lips nonetheless.

It was easy enough to catch up with him at the bar, most people having taken their seats, and managed to snatch his notebook back without much trouble, John barely given any resistance as Paul pulled the red leather book from his arms.

"Calm down, princess. I wasn't going to read it."

"Sorry that I don't trust you just yet, Han Solo."

"Han Solo, eh? So, you think I'm ruggedly handsome?"

"I think you're an arrogant, untrustworthy bastard, that's for sure," Paul said, turning away from him to lean against the bar, hoping John would not see the blush that had begun to appear on his cheeks. The light in the cafe was dimmed, so he should be fine. He could see John smirk from the corner of his eye as his gaze burned into him.

"I can live with that," he said. Paul thought of something clever to say in reply, but had his thought process interrupted by the barman sliding them two bottles of beer. John handed one of them to him.

"Thanks," he said, eyeing his drink, "still would have liked a scotch, though."

"Yeah, yeah. Come on, I want you to meet a few people." Without another word John started heading towards his group of friends. They had taken up two of the couches and were all drinking beer and laughing with each other as they talked and handed different pieces of paper around. They were artsy types, most of them dressed in black with some bright pops of colour and fancy patterns, and from the sound of their accents, Paul guessed at least a couple of them were German. He didn't know why, but he followed John, his notebook clutched to his chest.

"Guys, this is Paul. Paul..." he didn't bother introducing them properly and just waved into the general directions of his friends, before he flopped down onto an empty spot on the couch. Tapping the space beside him, he motioned Paul to do the same. He complied. It was tight squeeze, but he managed and tried to ignore the way John's thigh was pressed against his own. He at least did not seem to mind, so Paul decided he didn't either and drank from his free beer.

"So, what your major, Paul?" one of the supposedly German guys asked. He had a camera hanging from his neck and was wearing a leather jacket much like the one he had seen John wearing last Tuesday.

"Art history," he answered, taking another sip from his beer. The guy sat up in surprise.

"Oh! You must know already know Klaus then. He's a bit older than you probably, but he's still taking some electives. Maybe you guys have had the same class once," he said, nodding at a guy one the other couch, who, luckily, was just out of hearing range. Paul grimaced as he let himself sink further into the couch.

"I doubt that. I er... I'm a first year," he admitted, hoping the guy would leave it at that and not pursue the issue any further. He winced when the guy cocked his head at him.

"Yeah. Paul studied medicine before this, didn't you Paul? Could've become a bloody surgeon. But who needs a high paying job when you can sit home alone eating pretzels at two in the morning with a useless degree in your pocket instead! Right Paul?" John said, and Paul blinked up at him in surprise, before he smiled thankfully and nodded. Maybe he wasn't that bad after all?

"Oh I hear that! Nice to meet you, Paul. I'm Jürgen," the German guy said and they shook hands before he turned back to his camera. A blonde girl sitting next to him smiled at Paul, before she too turned to look at her friend's camera, whispering things in his ear in German as she pointed stuff out to him on the tiny screen. Despite his German classes in secondary school, Paul couldn't understand a word of what they were saying.

"So," John said, leaning in closer as he looked down at the notebook that lay in Paul's lap, "you going to show me your work, then?"

"Don't think so, Lennon," Paul said, pretending not to notice how close he and John were now; he could feel his warm, beery breath on his face, but this time, he did not try to move away. John, however, didn't give up that quickly and shot him another smirk, making Paul wonder if he was always this unrelenting. He stopped that train of thought before it drifted into dangerous territory.

"You can't come to a poetry night with a notebook and expect to come out unharmed. Come on, I'm curious. You heard my work," John said, nudging him again. Paul, however, wasn't quick to give in either.

"Yeah, but you weren't peer pressured into it."

"Every artist is forced to share their work, Paul. It's our obligation as the messiahs of Art and Truth. Now come on. Just one. I won't laugh if it's bad. Too hard, that is."

"Ugh fine." Reluctantly, Paul handed him his notebook. "It's er... it's not like your work, though."

"What? Not as good?"

"They're not... poems, really. Well, they are but... they're more like songs, I guess." He waited in fear as John started to skim through his notebook, pausing on every page to read and look at his doodles. From time to time he would pause for longer to read one of his works in its entirety, only to hum in a manner that made it impossible for Paul to discern whether it was positive or negative. He wished he would just bloody say something.

"And?" he asked, when he couldn't wait any longer.

"You're so... organised," John remarked with a chuckle, showing Paul one of the pages as an example. Although it was full of information, lines, symbols, and different colours, all of which appeared to indicate something, it looked neat and well-organised, just as Paul wanted it. His neat and handwriting only emphasised it, as did every little box after every entry, stating the date, time and place of when he had written it down, as well as what type of entry it was, the options being general, observations, inspiration, words and phrases, names, music, artwork, and miscellaneous, which yes, was different from the general category. There was a legend on the very first page. "I thought doctors were supposed to have crappy handwriting."

"Failed that course. That's why I needed to stop. It was unsalvageable. Can't have a doctor with neat handwriting," Paul said and John laughed at that as he turned back to the notebook.

"They're good songs, though! I like the In Spite of All the Danger one. Written for anyone in particular?" Paul flushed at the question, clearly this time, because yes, it had been, and what a mistake that guy had been. He and John were kind of similar, although John was wittier and... sweeter? Oh god... He took his notebook back and closed it before putting it away in his back, safe and out of sight.

"You don't have to lie, you know. They're all bad, I know they are. I'm not a lyricist. Melodies are more my thing. And painting," he said, refusing to answer his question. But if John's smirk was anything to go by, he already knew more than Paul wanted him to.

"You paint?"

"Yeah. I do abstracts mostly. Kind of like Picasso, but worse."

"You're too hard on yourself. I just know they're brilliant." He sounded genuine and Paul only just managed to keep his lips from curling up in a smile. His hands felt sweaty as he looked up at John, his eyes lingering at his lips, before moving on to his eyes. They shone amber in the dimmed light of the club.

"I'm just aware of my strengths and weaknesses."

"Well, maybe you should play me one of your melodies someday then, Mr Melody Man." Paul barely knew what to say. He jumped as he felt a hand on his thigh, hot, firm and grasping. He needed to pull away. He had Dot, he needed to pull away, but why didn't he?

"Say," John said as he leaned in close, his voice almost a whisper, "what about we blow this joint and then each other?"

Paul nearly choked on his own spit.

"Excuse me?!" He could not have heard that correctly, but John's eyes and grin said differently.

"You heard."

"I er... I've got a girlfriend."

"Is it serious?"

Paul was silent for a moment, stunned by what John was proposing. His gaze darted down to where John's hand was still grasping his thigh, hot and unrelenting, while his thumb rubbed circles on his skin through the rough material of his jeans. It felt good. But he was with Dot, had been for almost three years now. She had always been there for him, especially last year when he had been struggling with his mental health, as well as many other stressful, life-changing issues. She had always come to him when he had needed her, and answered the phone when he had called, be it during work or at four in the morning. She had been there for him, had supported him, despite her own issues, which had been about to become their issues. It wasn't strange they had been having problems since all that had ended. He couldn't betray her. Not even now. Not for a simple hook up.

"It... Yeah, it is," he answered, and looked away from the other man.

"Pity..." John said. Paul sighed in relief when he took his hand back.

For a moment it remained quiet between them, the momentum of whatever it was that had started to develop between them lost. Paul didn't know what to say and had been about to get up and leave, when John moved first.

"You want another beer? I'm still buying if that matters." Paul considered the offer for a moment, uncertain, but John did not seem like the type to keep failed hook ups around if that was all he wanted from them. He also knew he shouldn't drink too much more, the alcohol already having taken effect on him: his movements had begun to slow and his defences were lowered considerably. Moreover, he still needed to get home, which meant a twenty minute walk through London if he missed the last bus, but he accepted the drink anyway, feeling that whatever friendliness he had managed to achieve with John depended on it.

"I'll be right back," John said with a half-hearted smile. Paul watched him walk away, before he leaned back in the couch and closed his eyes for a moment as he let out a deep sigh.

"He likes you, you know."

Opening his eyes, he saw the blonde girl from before looking at him. She was sitting closer now and her friend appeared to have left. Paul glanced at the bar, where he could see John talking to the barman as he waited for their drinks. The girl followed is gaze.

"I've known him for a while," she said, bringing Paul's attention back to her. "He's different around you. In a good way. I'm Astrid, by the way." She handed him a smoke he hadn't seen she had been holding. Then again, he hadn't noticed much about what had been going on around him during his conversation with John. The poetry night itself appeared to have ended, the announcer was sweeping the stage and most people had left, leaving only John and his friends and four or five others, two of which Paul was certain was staff. He politely declined her offer.

"I've quit, actually," he said. Astrid giggled as if he had said something very funny, and only now Paul noticed the unpleasant, yet familiar smell that hung in the air.

"Different kind of cigarette, Paul," she told him with a wink.

"Right..." He took the joint from her and studied it for a moment. It had been a while since he had last smoked pot, the last few times not having gone too well, but that had had more to do with other things in his life than the actual drug.

"I thought we weren't supposed to smoke inside," he said before taking his first drag. The pot burned in his throat, pleasant and familiar. God, he had missed this almost more than tobacco. Astrid shrugged.

"The night's over. We're basically the only ones left. Mark, the guy who runs this place, doesn't actually mind as long as we offer him some too. He'll probably be here soon," she said and Paul took another drag before handing it back to her. She took a drag as well and together the shared the joint as they spoke about nothing in particular. It wasn't long until John came back.

"You two seem to be having fun," he said, handing Paul his drink. He sat back down on the couch, though he kept his distance this time and left a gap between them. "You've got another?"

Astrid nodded and started rolling another one, which she handed to John, who thanked her with a wink. Paul felt his heart sink at that, wishing it had been him who he had winked at. But he knew he had no right to be jealous. He had been the one to turn him down, after all, and even if he hadn't, it wasn't like they would have been exclusive. And he doubted the wink had been romantic or sexual in nature at all. He took another drag to calm his nerves and closed his eyes as he slowly blew out the smoke, relishing in the feeling of all the tension leaving his body, while his brain clouded over in a comfortable haze. It was good stuff.

He, Astrid and John spoke about nothing for a while as they smoke and drank, enjoying their haze as it started to kick in. It was peaceful and quiet. George had been right about him going out more; this was the best thing he could have done all evening.

"You didn't strike me as the guy who smoked pot, though, Paul," John remarked after a while and Paul turned his head to look at him. John had moved and was now half lying on the couch, his legs throw up over the back of it as he sucked smoke into his lungs. He looked positively blissed out and relaxed, his free hand resting in his lap. Paul chuckled happily.

"There is a lot about me that you don't know," he said mysteriously.

"Enlighten us then, eh, Paulie. How did you get into it?" John pressed on and Paul felt his chest tighten at the nickname. He leaned back on the couch and let his head rest against John's legs as he turned his head to look at him.

"Kinda had a boyfriend in secondary school who had the right connections. Must have been what? Sixteen? He introduced it to me. He er... said it made the er... sex really good."

"And?" John enquired, raising his head from the armrest to look at him. Paul grinned and shrugged, causing wolf whistles to erupt from both Astrid and John.

"Naughty boy," the latter half-moaned, thrusting his hips up into the air, though Paul supposed it was only his blissed out mind that made it appear in any way sexual, as John probably just moved to make himself more comfortable. Not that he particularly minded. If he couldn't touch, he might as well look, right? God, it was hot in the room, though. A little too hot for comfort if you asked him. He tried to take another sip from his beer, hoping it would refresh him, but it was already empty. He let it fall to the ground with a groan.

Far away, he could catch snippets of John and Cynthia's conversation, but was unable to focus on it. Groaning, he rolled onto his side and pulled his legs up on the couch as he rubbed his forehead into John's legs. His eyes started to hurt so he closed them.

"You okay, Paul?" he could hear someone ask him. He shook his head with a moan. "Come on, lad. Let's get you some fresh air. Astrid, watch our stuff while we're gone yeah? That's it, Paul, careful now. Put on your jacket, it's cold out."

Paul did as John said, although he barely registered what was happening. He felt John's hands on his body, helping him up and move. His body, however, didn't feel like his own, but disconnected, as if it wasn't him who was controlling it. God, what was happening? He realised he was walking and suddenly he was outside. It had gone completely dark, and the air was chilly, but still made him feel a little better. He clung onto John as he was taken into a nearby alley, where he was lowered onto the damp ground to sit. John let him slump against the cool brick wall behind him, and knelt down to sit beside to him.

"I don't feel very good," Paul said, rubbing his forehead into John's shoulder as he shuffled closer to him, needing the warmth and comfort of the other person's body. He barely registered it when John brushed his hair out of his face.

"Do you think you need to throw up?" John asked, his voice quiet and gentle. It was so different from what it normally sounded like, it almost caused Paul to panic. He wanted to cry, but couldn't.

"No. No, I don't think so," he mumbled instead, trying to take deep breaths, and reached out for the other man to ground himself, twisting his hand into his shirt as he let out another groan. A pleasant smell invaded his senses. "You smell like oranges. I normally don't like oranges." John chuckled in his ear.

"Better than that weed smell," he said and Paul chuckled faintly as he pulled away and looked up at the other man. It took a while for him to come into focus, but when he did Paul had a hard time looking away. Above him, he could see the stars, scattered around like tiny little diamonds in a watery black lake.

"Paul?" John asked, He repeated his name when Paul didn't react. "Paul, you still there?" Before Paul had had any time to think properly, he had leaned up and pressed his lips against John's. It wasn't much of a kiss, both of them staying completely still as it happened, but it had been a kiss nonetheless. Neither spoke when Paul pulled away.

"I don't know why I did that," Paul said. He frowned at himself and tried to roll away from the other man, but John wouldn't let him and turned him back to him, needing to keep a close eye on him to make sure he was alright. He smiled when Paul's eyes met his.

"It's okay," he said, but Paul shook his head.

"No. No, it's not, because I have a girlfriend and you're an asshole and I kind of want to do it again." He frowned once more at the words streaming out of his mouth. Being drunk and high at the same time was a weird experience. His stomach churned.

"I don't feel good."

"I know, Paul Just keep breathing."

"I don't- I- I-" before Paul could do anything to stop himself, or at least move away from the other man, he was heaving forward and emptying his stomach all over the ground and, worst of all, John.

"I- I'm sorry," he moaned, appalled by his own actions, and tried to pull away, but the world was spinning and that only made him throw up again.

"Goddammit, Paul... No! Don't fucking say anything! You might throw up again! Ugh... You're fucking hopeless. Let's get you home," John muttered, much kinder and gentler than Paul had expected of him after what he had done. He nodded weakly as he stared down at himself in shame as he grabbed his stomach. "Come on, on your feet. The last bus already left, so we have a bit of a walk to go. Just... tell me when you have to throw up again. We'll go get cleaned up first. Fucking hell, this is gross."

"I'm sorry..."

"You're lucky you're cute."

A/N: Remember this? It's been ages, I know, but here is the second chapter of this fic. At least it's extra long, so I hope it lives up to your expectations :)

The two poems in here are actually written by John and can be found in his book In His Own Write.