A/N: Many, many, many, many, many apologies for not having posted this sooner. I had this up on my Tumblr (same user name) and my AO3 (same user name) about three weeks ago now... I don't know why it wasn't on here. I must have forgotten, although I do remember my internet being annoying while I tried posting it, so maybe it has something to do with that. Anyway, here it is, though, so enjoy!!

Paul woke up the following day with a pounding headache and a loudly buzzing phone rattling on his windowsill. It took him a while to realise where he was; the room was too bright to see anything, every ray of light hitting his eyes like a sword that was being rammed through his skull, and whenever he tried to work through the pain and focus, the too-white room began to spin around him, forcing him to lie back down and close his eyes until his body stopped turning.

Slowly, though, his eyes became better acquainted to the light pouring into the room, and another fifteen minutes later, he was finally able to open his eyes without feeling like someone was sawing open his skull with a blunt butcher's knife. Looking around, he noticed he was in his bedroom at home. Whoever had put him to bed had forgotten to close the blinds, allowing the afternoon light to shine in unobstructed, and the clothes he had worn the previous night lay in a small pile by the bed, leaving Paul only in his boxers. Moving still proved too much effort, his limbs feeling like they had not only tripled in weight, but had also been tied down to the bed using ropes and heavy stones, keeping him firmly in place. His phone was still buzzing too, and with great effort and another piercing headache, he managed to raise one of his arms and pick it up, putting an end to the horrendous noise. He groaned at the brightness of the screen as he unlocked it, but pulled through to see who kept bothering him. Aside from a few notification from various social media apps, most notably his ever-present Instagram and Snapchat accounts, there were ten messages and eight missed calls, nearly all of which came from one person: Dot. He reluctantly opened the messages first.

Dorothy <3:
9.08 Hey babe. Just got home. Gonna take a quick shower. I'll call you after, okay? Sorry again for missing our date. Love you

9.36 Ready! Call me ;)

9.41 Tried calling you. Why aren't you answering? You still awake?

9.47 Paul?

10.03 I tried calling again, but you didn't answer. George told me you've gone out. You okay? Pls call me when you read this.

10.29 Paul, I'm really worried. Just let me know you're okay

10.37 George told me I'm overreacting and I hope he's right and that you're fine, but call me when you get this, okay?

00.35 George said you're still not home. Please let me know you're okay

08.15 Fuck you!! Thankfully George was kind enough to let me know you've gotten home fine or else I wouldn't have slept all night! Thanks for making me worry, asshole. I'm going to work now. Call me when you've slept off that hangover. I get off around 2.

The only other message was from George, sent around 10.40 pm, telling him to call Dot because she kept interrupting him and Pattie, after which he had tried calling him twice at different times, the last one being around half past twelve in the morning. He hadn't even noticed. God, he was a fucking asshole. He had known Dot was going to try calling him, and yet he had completely forgotten about her; he hadn't even bothered texting her to let her know he was going out, and had even put his phone on silent and not looked at it for the entire night. That is, for as far as he could remember. Frankly, he barely remembered anything about last night except that he had gone to that poetry reading event, which had been surprisingly fun. He remembered speaking with that Lennon guy, who had turned out to be not as much of an asshole as he had pinned him for, and meeting some of his friends, but apart from that, the night's events remained fuzzy and out of reach, except for some tiny little glimpses that didn't mean anything to him on the grand scheme of things. He remembered lots of alcohol, though. What a mistake that had been.

Groaning at the pulsating pain in his head, he checked the time to see it was already a quarter to three, meaning he had slept through most of the day already, much to Paul's dismay. He liked making the most of his days, even when he was hungover, but at least it meant Dot would be home by now, so he figured he'd call her and get it over with. He rubbed his forehead to release some of the tension that had build up there, and dialled his girlfriend's number. She answered almost immediately as if she had been waiting for his call, which, as he regrettably realised, she probably had. God, why hadn't he just called her?

"Oh! Look who's finally decided to call," Dot called out at the sound of her boyfriend's voice, not even bothering with a proper hello. She hadn't cursed at him yet, however, which meant she was at least somewhat happy to hear from him.

"Dot... I-I'm sorry. I-" Paul started, but Dot wouldn't hear it.

"Oh, so you're sorry, are you?" she remarked, her tone sarcastic, "I was worried about you! I told you I was going to call once I got home, didn't I?"

"I know! And I am, but please... could you not shout? I just woke up and my head is killing me," Paul said with a groan, and rubbed his forehead to relieve some of the pain as another knife was thrusted violently into his brain along with his girlfriend's words. It shot all the way through his body, down to his stomach, which felt like it was trying to jump out of his throat. Dot, however, was too upset to care about his well-being at this point.

"You could've told me you were going out at least," she said, her voice still too loud to be comfortable, making Paul whine and close his eyes as his forehead throbbed painfully and his stomach churned. "I don't need much. A text would've done it. But even George didn't know where you were."

"I hadn't planned on going out, you know..." Paul muttered in response as he rolled over onto his side and away from the light coming in through his window, hoping it would relief some of the pain he was experiencing, but it barely helped. On the other end of the line, Dot sighed at his words.

"That doesn't matter! Paul, I thought you were... I thought... Fuck!" Her voice broke as she said that, and even though she hadn't finished that thought, Paul knew what she meant. Guilt washed over him and his throat constricted as he struggled with what to say. Rather than apologise, however, like he should've done, he said something stupid.

"Well, you could've told me you weren't going to make our date yesterday a little sooner as well, you know. I waited for almost half an hour before you finally bothered to let me know you were still at work. You think I'm just going to sit in my room all evening and stare longingly out of the window while I wait for you to call me like some stupid archetypal Victorian love-interest? People have been constantly telling me over the past year to go out more and have fun, so that's what I did. I'm allowed to go out and get drunk if I want to. And who knew what you and that Steve guy were up to."

"It was busy! I didn't know what time it was until I got was standing outside of the restaurant. And it's not my fault my bike got stolen! Steve just offered me a ride because he was heading my way, anyway."

"Oh, I bet he was thrilled about that."

"Don't you dare, Paul," Dot shot back, causing another sharp jolt of pain to go through Paul's skull, making him groan as he grabbed his head and closed his eyes. Then, in a softer voice, she continued, "And it isn't like that. Steve is Mr Strutton's son. He just thought it proper to ask because his father asked me and some other girls to stay behind longer because it was a busy evening. And even if he was interested in me, I wouldn't do that. You know that. You have no right to accuse me."

"I know! I- God, Dot... I know you wouldn't. But I would have liked you telling me sooner. And I am sorry. I know you were simply worried. I should have texted you,: Paul said honestly, and nearly let out a sigh of relief as Dot remained silent for a moment at his words. Her silence lasted much longer than Paul had expected, though, and he almost thought she had hung up on him when her voice came again, her tone a lot quieter this time. She almost sounded tired.

"I just wish..." she started, cutting herself off to take a deep breath and start over, "I'm glad you're safely at home. That's the important part. And I'm not mad at you. Not really. I just... call me next time, yeah? We used to call each other all the time and lately... I worry sometimes. You would too, if I-" she stopped herself again, as if she were having trouble finishing that thought. But Paul understood nonetheless and let out an understanding hum in return. "I er... I have to go now. Mum asked me to look after Mrs Benson's kids. Take an aspirin, drink plenty of water, have something to eat, and take some rest. I'll call you later."

"Dot?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

"...I love you, too."

After she had hung up, Paul stared at the screen of his phone for a moment longer, his eyes glued to the background picture of a short-haired blonde smiling back at him with dimples in her cheeks. The sun highlighted her light freckles and made her usually grey eyes appear as blue as the sea behind her. He had taken the picture himself last year during their summer trip to Wales, when everything had still been perfect between them. It seemed years ago now.

Sighing, he threw his phone aside on the bed and got up. His head was still pounding and his stomach churned at the sudden change of position, making him almost throw up. His knees and legs were wobbly under his weight as he stood and he needed to hold onto the walls and objects around the room to guide himself towards the door, onto which he now saw someone had stuck a green-coloured sticky note. There was only one person who used green-coloured sticky notes. It read:

Paul,
There's a package of aspirins on the kitchen counter so TAKE SOME!
Also, Richie brought coffee with him, so drink some of that too.
I'll be home around 4.30. Don't be stupid and TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF.
You're an idiot. But I love you anyway.
George.
Ps. Please call your girlfriend. She's blowing up my phone.

Paul rolled his eyes at the note, but that only hurt his head more, so he tore it off, balled it up, threw it into the bin, and stumbled his way into the kitchen to those heaven-send aspirins his friend mentioned, while silently thanking him. Where would he be without him? Probably at home, arguing with his brother Mike over silly, unimportant things. He wasn't sure which was worse.

Once inside, he went for the package of aspirins first. He considered taking a handful, but figured George would possibly kill him if he accidentally overdosed on them, so he took the usual two the packaging advised him to take and went to grab himself a glass from one of the overhead cupboards. He filled it with cold water from the tab and let the pills dissolve in it, stirring all the while with his finger, until he was left with a substance that looked like watery milk, and swallowed it all down in one go. It tasted disgusting, and he drank another glass of water immediately after to try to wash it all down. It helped somewhat, but he could still taste the bitterness on his tongue, even after a second glass. His headache, however, was still too bad for him to really care about something small as that, so he ignored it and went to make himself some coffee. Two large packs of freshly grounded coffee stood in the windowsill. They were most likely a present from Ringo, who had gotten a job at one of the coffee houses near them and could take as much coffee home as he wanted. It seemed like he was taking all the advantage he could get from that rule, which Paul figured was a smart move on his part, considering Ringo rarely managed to hold a job for longer than two or three weeks. Though perhaps it was behaviour like this that had something do with it.

Paul also picked out his favourite mug to drink from - a bright yellow one that George had gotten him for Christmas last year with the words "I'm a happy go lucky ray of fucking sunshine" written on it in fat black letter - which was also not-so-coincidentally the largest one, and sat slumping on one of the bar stools as he waited for the coffee machine to be done and the aspirin to take effect as he played with his mug. The irony of drinking from it now wasn't lost on him.

Although Paul did most of the cooking, the kitchen was very much George's space. It was small, but bright, with a large stretch of windows above the kitchen counters that let in so much light they hardly ever needed to switch on a light except in the winter. On the wall above the breakfast bar hung a large rack with potted plants hanging from them, most of which were holding herbs, such as basil, rosemary, thyme, parsley and mint. He also had a couple of flower baskets hanging outside their windows with edible flowers, and on the windowsill there stood two large pots of tomato and orange bell pepper plants, the last of which didn't do as well as the other plants, but George wasn't ready to give up on them yet. The tomatoes on the other hand, were delicious and Paul tried to use them in his cooking as often as he could, much to George's delight.

He picked a small basil leaf from the rack to sniff at while he waited for his coffee. Slowly, his headache began to subside. Closing his eyes, he enjoyed the calming prattling sound of the coffee machine and the scent of basil as he rubbed the leaf between his thumb and middle finger.

Suddenly, though, a loud clash sounded from the kitchen counters, making Paul jump up in his seat, his eyes flying open to see what had happened. His empty water glass lay scattered on the floor next to a dirty knife, but that wasn't even what bewildered him most. Right there, on the kitchen counter where his glass had stood, sat a multi-coloured calico cat, looking very pleased with herself as she stared at him with her large green eyes.

"What the..." Paul muttered to himself in confusion, not understanding how she possibly could have gotten there. Their flat was located on the fourth floor, and the only way she could have gotten inside would have been through the open kitchen window. But from where? She couldn't have come from their building, seeing as their landlord didn't allow for pets - Paul had asked him that himself when he had decided to move in with George, having hoped he could get a puppy, as he had always wanted one but never had one at home. The no he had received then still hurt now.

Slowly, he rose from his seat, careful not to scare the cat and chase her away.

"What are you doing here, eh? Come on. Off you trot. You don't live here."

The cat, however, didn't move and only looked at him curiously, as if he were the strange creature that had invaded her home, cocking her head to the side as she watched him approach her. The multitude of colours was a gorgeous sight to look at. The orange patches in her fur shone in the light on the sun, offering a striking contrast to the darker patches that covered most of her body, leaving little space for any white. She meowed and extended her neck towards him, as if encouraging him to pet her.

"You're a pretty cat, aren't you? I bet your owner would be very happy to have you back, you know. Come on, girl. Just hop on back through the window," Paul said gently, ignoring the thumping in his head. He had been about to reach out and carefully push her back towards the window when she let out another, somewhat annoyed, meow and jumped through his arms onto the kitchen floor. Paul followed her movements out of habit in the hope to catch her mid-jump, but failed and swore are his headache came rushing back, making his head pound. He cursed loudly and closed his eyes as he hissed through clenched teeth and curled up into himself. He waited for it to pass, before he turned back around to look for that damned cat again. He spotted her on the breakfast bar, idly licking her paws and showing little regard for the human who stood cursing on the other side of the kitchen. The coffee machine gave a little beep to let him know his coffee was done.

"Fucking hell," Paul muttered, and began approaching the cat again, hoping to hurry up and get her this time so his coffee wouldn't go cold, while making sure he didn't accidentally step in glass. The cat had originated from hell, Paul thought grudgingly as he tried his best to ignore the pounding in his head and the protests of his stomach. He stepped on tiptoes to make as little noise as possible and extended his hand to let the cat sniff at it first, which she accepted.
God, why did this have to happen now? They'd never had a cat or whatever else come into their flat before, not even a spider, and now, exactly when he was hungover and standing half-naked in the kitchen with a pounding headache and a churning stomach, he had an unknown cat sitting on his breakfast bar, cleaning herself.

She sniffed at his fingers once, but then turned and jumped away again, escaping Paul once more. Like before, he stupidly tried to follow her, but it only resulted in another bursting headache and more cussing.

"Goddammit!" he moaned, rubbing his head, and the cat meowed again, looking pleased with herself as she regarded him from the top of their fridge. Paul shot her an accusatory glance and had been about to try grabbing her again, wanting to go for a swift approach this time, when the doorbell rang, stopping him mid-jump.

"Just you wait," he warned as the cat began licking her right paw again. She meowed challengingly in response, as if she had known exactly what he had been trying to achieve and had been thwarting him on purpose just because she could. "Stupid cat," Paul mumbled more to himself than the cat, and had been about to pull the kitchen door close behind him to make sure the cat couldn't get any further into the flat, when she slipped past his legs and into the living room. Paul let out an aspirated sigh, but decided to ignore her for the sake of his sanity and stumbled over to the front door.

"Yes? What?" he grumbled as he pulled the door open, only to freeze up in shock as he saw who was standing on his doorstep.

"Afternoon, Paul. Nice to see you're still very much alive. I was almost worried, you know," John said, as he looked him up and down, making Paul painfully aware of his lack of clothes. He was leaning with one arm against the door frame and shot Paul another one of his smug little grins, of which Paul had seen too many that previous night.

"Wh-wha..." he tried to speak but the words wouldn't come to him. John looked so different from how he was used to seeing him: he was wearing a pair of old, loose-fitting jeans and a white novelty t-shirt with the words "Daddy's Little Kitten" written on it in cursive, pink letters, that was slightly too small for him. Whenever he raised his arm, his shirt would ride up and reveal a tiny bit of tummy that was far more distracting than it should be. He was bare-footed and his hair hung in loose curls around his face, making him appear more geeky than usual, especially in combination with his thick-rimmed glasses that were resting on the bridge of his aquiline nose. Paul licked his lips at the sight and tried not to blush or stare too much, keeping his eyes glued on John's.

"You still hangover, Princess? Not that I'm surprised. You were looking absolutely terrible when I dropped you off last night. You're lucky your friend was home to look after you." In a flash, many more memories from last night came rushing back to him, causing Paul to cringe internally and groan in embarrassment at his own stupid actions. He remembered how he and John had gotten drunk and smoked pot together, offered to them by some girl called Astrid, and how John had come onto him, how he had gotten sick and how John had helped him outside to get some fresh air, only to have Paul drunkenly kiss him before throwing up all over him. Twice. And now that same guy was standing at his door wearing the most distracting clothes while he was dressed in nothing but his boxers. Mortified, he shuffled over to the door and pushed it a little further close so he could stand behind it and procure at least some sense of privacy as he fought back a burning blush that was daring to appear on his cheeks, but it was already too late. God, why did he have to be such a stupid fuck up? He couldn't even hang out with someone without making an ass of himself.

"What are you doing here, John?" Paul asked, keeping his eyes focused on the other man as not to give away the burning embarrassment he was feeling. What mustn't John think of him?

John shrugged. "Just seeing how you were doing. And my cat kinda escaped my flat and ran through into yours through your kitchen window. I thought you might like it if took him back."

"Wait. That's your cat?" Paul asked, and right at that moment another loud crash could be heard coming from the living room behind him, making him wince and hope nothing of too much value had been broken. John scratched the back of his head as he offered Paul an apologising smile.

"Yeah... he's a bit of a trouble maker. Usually, I don't let him out at all, seeing as Mr Walford will kill me if he ever finds out I have a cat. I almost had a heart attack when I saw him go out of the window. Luckily, he went into your flat and not some tell-tale who was going to rat me out." Paul blinked at the mention of Mr Walford, who was their landlord, and, as it appeared, also John's.

"Mr Walford? You mean you live here?" he asked and John snickered as if he said something really stupid.

"Mate, I've been your neighbour every since you moved in here and I've been your friend's neighbour for even longer. But thanks for noticing," he said sarcastically and the first thing that entered Paul's mind was that he now finally knew who had been stealing his Internet. He didn't even have to ask. This guy was totally using their Internet. The second thing was that John listened to Elvis as well.

"Well," he said with more sass than he had intended, though he supposed it was probably the hangover, "how could I have known if I hadn't even seen you here before? It's not like I can look through bloody walls."

"I noticed you, didn't I?" John immediately replied and Paul was momentarily at a loss for words. Thankfully, right at that moment, something black, orange and white ran between their feet into the hallway and into what Paul now knew to be John's flat, taking them both by surprise.

"And Elvis's back home. You're not going to rat me out, are you, McCartney?" John asked with another wink as he reached over to close his front door, not wanting his cat to disappear again. Paul smiled at the name.

"His name is Elvis?" he asked and he could see a slight hint of a blush appear on the other man's cheek as he nodded. "I like that name."

"You into Elvis Presley?" John asked and Paul shrugged.

"Kinda. A lot. Yeah."

"Good. As everyone should. Anyway, you ought to be glad I noticed you, you know. I wouldn't have known where to go last night if I hadn't. You couldn't speak a word without throwing up. Not to mention that you passed out five minutes from our building. You're heavier than you look," John said and Paul flushed as the realisation that John must have carried him. Fuck his life.

"Yeah... Thanks by the way. And sorry about the whole... you know," he gestured vaguely at John's clothes, "Too much alcohol and cheap pot probably wasn't been the best idea I've had." John laughed at that, loudly, and Paul couldn't help but smile along with him.

"I could've told you that, you know. Anyway, I'll let you sleep off your hangover now. You look dead grotty, which is a real pity for what's usually such a pretty face. I have taken up enough of your time as it is," John said and shot him a wink as he pushed himself away from the door frame. "I'll see you around, Paul." He didn't even give Paul any time to reply and simply turned around and slipped through the door of the neighbouring apartment into which his cat had disappeared only a few minutes ago, leaving Paul standing by the door. It took him a while to realise John had actually left, but when he did, Paul was quick to slam the door shut behind him and took his head in his hands as he scolded himself for being such a fucking embarrassing idiot. Not only had he kissed and thrown up all over his sexy, hot, Elvis-loving neighbour, but that neighbour had actually needed to carry him home as well! What the fuck was his life?!

By the time George got home that afternoon, Paul's hungover state hadn't changed much. Although he felt less sick and his headaches had lessened in fierceness and become less frequent, he was still living off aspirins and spend most of his time lying half dead on the couch, watching television with the sound muted and his back turned towards the screen, feeling sorry for himself. He was still in his boxers too, though he had pulled on an over-sized shirt and a pair of socks and had thrown a blanket over himself to shield himself from the cold and keep him warm. His phone lay silenced on the coffee table next to a large, almost empty glass of water and a half-eaten chocolate bar. He didn't even bother lifting his head as George announced his presence, half-eaten doughnut in hand.

"I see you're having a wonderful day," his friend said with a voice that was far too cheery and energised in Paul's opinion. He put down his half-finished extra large white chocolate raspberry milkshake and box of doughnuts onto the coffee table and took a seat in the only armchair they had to finish eating his doughnut. It had a strawberry cheesecake filling; Paul could smell it from the couch.

"I thought you had class?" Paul mumbled into his pillow, not even bothering with lifting his head to make himself more audible, fearing that if he would, the smell would only be worse and he'd need to throw up again. George on the other hand didn't seem to mind the smell, and happily continued eating as he nodded.

"I did."

"Then why are you so happy?"

"I study music, remember? Like, some of the classes are actually fun, believe it or not. Plus, I'm not hungover. Unlike some people."

"I hate you," Paul said, but George only looked smugger.

"That's what you get for drinking so much. Never mind the pot. For someone who says he's been smoking weed since he was sixteen, you did make a rather rookie mistake last night, Paul. Drinking and smoking at the same time... and you're actually surprised you nearly died last night."

"Fuck off, Geo. I know, alright?" Paul moaned into the couch, but that only caused George to snicker in amusement.

"What the hell did you even do last night, anyway? I thought you went to that poetry night thing?"

"I did," Paul moaned, rubbing his head in the pillow beneath his head, "some girl had weed on her and she offered me some. It was fine at first. But then I got sick and hot and dizzy and the like... that Lennon guy was kind enough to take me outside for some fresh air, but..."

"But what?" George asked, eagerly urging him on. He was enjoying this way too much, Paul thought, but had too little energy to say anything off it.

"I threw up on him. Twice. And that isn't even the worst of it," Paul paused for a moment, not so much for dramatic effect, but rather to make sure he didn't accidentally threw up again, though it worked both ways, he supposed. "I kissed him too."

"After you threw up on him?!"

"No! Ugh, no. Don't be disgusting. Before that, you git!" For a moment there was no reaction from the armchair, but then, when Paul thought his friend was actually going to be supportive for a change, George burst out laughing.

"It's not funny, George!" he objected, but that only caused George to further descend into hysterics.

"I'm sorry, Macca, but that's golden! You drunkenly kissed a dude and then covered him in your sick. Twice! Poor guy. He must've felt awful, walking around like that. And his clothes... oh, that must have been disgusting!"

"I didn't mean for it to happen! God, I don't even know why I kissed him in the first place! And to make matters worse, he actually had to fucking carry me home as well, and turns out he's our neighbour too. I'm such a fucking idiot."

"Wait! Lennon, John Lennon, is our neighbour?" George asked, sitting up in his seat at the newfound information. For the first time, Paul turned his head to the side and looked up at him to see George already deep in thought, most likely trying to figure out how to get him to stop using their Internet. Suddenly, his face lit up, and Paul feared the worst.

"Don't even thinking about it, Geo. I'm not going by his apartment to ask if he's been stealing our Internet," he said and George's face immediately fell.

"Ah, but please, Paul! You know him. You're already on first name basis with him - or first kiss basis, I should say - can't you just pay him a little visit? You don't have to drink tea with him or anything. Just... convince him to stop hacking my passwords."

"Don't fucking think so, Geo, so you'd better get that idea out of your head right now."

"But, Paul!"

"No! I'm not hearing this!"

"Why not?"

"Er... did you not just hear what I said? I threw up on him, twice, which should be reason enough, but then he also has a crush on me. And then this afternoon he came by our door because his cat escaped and I was just standing there, looking like a fucking zombie. A half-naked zombie, I might add. I'm never talking to that guy ever again. What mustn't he be thinking of me?"

"He has a crush on you? We could use that. You could-"

"No!" Paul interrupted George before he could finish that sentence, seriously fearing what he might suggest. "I'm not doing it. Not ever. You can visit him yourself if you care so much. For all I care he can use our Internet all he wants if that means I won't have to see him ever again. I'm not doing it, and that's the end of it, you hear?" Paul said firmly. George rolled his eyes at his friend and quickly finished the last bite of his doughnut, before leaning close to him.

"Paul, sweetheart, people have done crazier things than make out with some random guy while drunk. People have thrown up over other people plenty of time before as well. Hell, you've done crazier things while drunk. And I'm sure John has too. You're overreacting! You just got sick. Happens to everyone."

"But not all in one night, with the same person... And I wasn't even dressed when he showed up, either... I'm such a fucking idiot! I knew I shouldn't have gone to that bloody poetry night thing. It's all your fault! You told me to go out and live life and shit."

"I told you to go out and have fun, Paul, not to drink your ass off," George said laughing, and Paul groaned into his pillow at the noise. He jumped in fright as he suddenly felt a hand come down on his butt cheek, causing his headache to come back twice as bad as before as he threw his head back in a reflex.

"Fuck, George!" he snarled and reached behind himself to rub his butt and sooth the slight unease that slap had caused, as he buried his face into his pillow again. At least George hadn't hit him hard, but Paul still felt like killing him for it. George, however, merely winked at him as Paul shot him his best death glare.

"Stop fretting so much about it, Paul, and go take a shower. You still smell like pot," he said and slapped him again, this time on the other cheek, before he picked his box of doughnuts and milkshake back up and took it into the kitchen to put them away for later, shouting a cheery "love you" at Paul as he went. Paul grumbled in annoyance, but forced himself to sit up and sniffed at himself, only to revolt at the stench of alcohol, marijuana smoke and sick that was still clinging to him. He smelled worse than Ringo's sock drawer and he had always thought that to be impossible. Reluctantly, he pulled himself up and stumbled into the direction of his bedroom to grab some fresh clothes and easy-to-wear underwear, before he headed towards the bathroom to do as George had said and take his well-deserved shower. God, he fucking needed one. He hoped John hadn't smelled him.

Once he stepped under the hot, steamy shower and he could feel the warm water hitting his naked skin, Paul felt his body relax for the first time since he had woken up that morning. He hadn't noticed how tense and stressed he had been until then and let out a long, content sigh as he revelled the feeling of the hot water hitting his shoulders, massaging him as it washed away the last remains of the previous night. Nothing had ever felt better.

For a long time, he merely stood there, taking it all in and letting his body warm up as the horrible smells were washed away, and let the water run down his face. Paul had always enjoyed showers, and it were moments like this, when he was simply standing there in the shower without anything or anyone around to interrupt or bother him, that were the most comforting. His water bill had truly suffered his last year as a medicine student. He would often forget the time while in the shower, and one day he had sat there for almost three hours, contemplating his existence, before his roommate had turned the water off and dragged him out of the bathroom. It was simply relaxing and comforting to be alone under a soft stream of warm water where you could stay as long as you liked until even the water didn't feel real anymore. He wasn't allowed to do that anymore, though, and he knew George always kept track of how long he had been in the bathroom whenever he took a shower. He understood why, though. It wasn't healthy. He knew it wasn't, but sometimes... it was good to have something unhealthy.

For now, though, he allowed himself to enjoy it and let his worries wash off along with the filth. George was right: he shouldn't be worrying about last night's occurrences as much as he was. People did stupid shit while they were drunk or hangover, which is why they had invented those words in the first place, and he wasn't any different - it didn't matter. And besides, John hadn't seemed to mind the state he had been in when he had knocked on his door earlier that afternoon. And what did he care about what that Lennon guy thought anyway? It wasn't like was going to see him again. Nope. Never.

Picking up his bottle of shampoo - lavender scented - Paul washed his hair and took an excessively long time messaging it in, before he finally washed all of the soap out the best he could and did the same with his conditioner, before he moving on to washing his body, paying special care to every little bit of skin to make sure he was completely clean. After he had rinsed off completely, he glance down at his cock to see he was semi-erect. He took it loosely in his hand and hummed as he felt a pleasant little tingle at the touch. He considered masturbating, weighing off the pros and cons of either option in his head, and eventually began to slowly stroke himself, sliding his hand up and down his shaft at a lazy rhythm, knowing that if wanted to masturbate today, he had to do it now, as he couldn't do it in the privacy of his own bedroom due to George's warped sense of personal space and privacy. He thought of Dot as he worked himself, and pictured the last time they had sex before he had left for London and soon he was softly moaning to himself. Still, he couldn't really get into it. His thoughts kept drifting away to other things, most of them not even remotely sexual. He couldn't find the calmness he needed, so eventually, much to his annoyance, he gave up and turned the shower off. He ignored his semi-erection as he dried himself off, and slowly but surely, it went away, allowing him to pull on his clean clothes with ease. He wrapped a towel around his head to dry his hair and make sure he didn't leak water everywhere.

Stepping out of the bathroom, he saw George sitting on the couch playing another one of his video games while enjoying another one of his doughnuts. He offered Paul one as well as he saw him, putting his game on pause, but Paul quickly refused, feeling his stomach churn unpleasantly at that idea of eating one of those. George shrugged, but continued to look at him with what was undeniable amusement.

"Don't you dare ask me again," Paul warned him, and George shrugged innocuously in response, which only made Paul more worried and suspicious.

"I haven't even said anything!" George said, outraged, and Paul rolled his eyes at the terrible lie. "However," George continued a little later, and Paul groaned in annoyance and started heading towards his bedroom, ignoring his friend as he continued the question Paul had already known he would ask, "if you could hop by our lovely neighbour, that would be wonderful!"

"Don't think so, George. Do it yourself if you're that worked up about it. I'm going to bed."

"But, Paul," George whined, doing his utter best to use the tricks Paul had taught him himself during their first trip together to pick up girls and talk yourself out of unpleasant situations, such as detention and speeding tickets. He even attempted to pull of the pout, but Paul was too acquainted with those techniques for them to work on him.

"No, George," he simply said and slammed his bedroom door shut behind him. He sighed a sigh of relief as he let himself fall onto his bed, letting himself sink away in his soft, plushy blankets, hoping he'd never have to get up again. From behind his wall, he could hear Elvis's voice singing Love Me Tender. It was muted and dull, but it was there, and Paul smiled as he rolled onto his back and listened. At least he listened to Elvis, he though, and closed his eyes.

A/N: I hope you liked the chapter despite the long wait. I'll be working on chapter 4 next, seeing as I've already posted Art and Obligation now. So, the long shouldn't be as long, which is kinda a positive thing that came out of this mistake?

Anyway, for those of you who don't know, I'm away on exchange now in Scotland for my last year of Uni. It's been great so far, although very busy with settling in and getting to know the city and the people and arranging things. But I'm enjoying myself and the classes are interesting. I hope, now that I'm pretty much settled, I'll have more time to write again, so the waits between chapters won't be as long. I guess we'll see.

Love you guys! <3