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Chapter 19

(Nothing too awfully bad to warn you about, especially if you're used to slash and smut...)

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Part nineteen

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20 Forthlin Road, 1961

Paul finished scrubbing the last plate in the sink, hurriedly putting it to the side and drying his hands off. He stopped on the way to the living room, standing in front of the hall mirror and idly ran his nimble fingers through his locks of soft, clean hair.

He'd gotten out of the bath not too long ago, so his hair was combed neatly, not in its usual style.

He was perfectly peaceful and content as he strolled casually into the next room, seeing his dad sitting and talking to Mike, taking a drink from his cup of tea.

"Da', I'm done with all the chores, can I go now?" He asked hopefully, putting on his most innocent, pleading smile.

He'd been over to John's nearly every day this week, and each time that he asked, Jim's answer became a little more hesitant.

His father eyed him questioningly, studying his son a moment before patting the empty space next to him on the couch. Paul took the hint and went to sit beside of him, the feeling of worry slowly spreading throughout his mind.

He could sense that one of those talks were about to happen and once again he'd have to defend either himself, John, or the band.

"Listen, Paul. You're nineteen, and soon you're going to have to support yourself." He said simply, to which Paul only nodded impatiently.

"Mhm, I'm well aware of this concept. Bye, dad." He mumbled, getting up to go.

They'd had one too many conversations like this, and the young lad was tired of hearing about how being a musician wasn't a real future, that it wasn't practical.

"Paul, if you don't straighten up and get yourself a decent job, you and that Lennon lad both are going to realize the hard way how silly this band is." His dad warned him in that tone that all parents use, making Paul stop to think just a second about what he was saying.

He chewed on his lip uncertainly, walking to the front door as Jim McCartney's words rang in his ears. For a second he wondered if he should come up with some smart-arsed response, but decided against it as soon as he opened his mouth.

That was something John would do, and his dad would say just that.

Oh, there you go again, acting like that little friend of yours. I'm tellin' you, he's a bad influence on ya, Paul.

Paul snorted quietly and raised his eyebrows at the thought, wondering what Jim would say if he knew what actually went on at Gambier Terrace.

He'd have a right fit, McCartney decided with a silent chuckle.

"Go on, then. But this has got to end real soon, son. You're going to college and getting a proper career, hear me?" His father said.

It wasn't much of a question, but Paul just shrugged in response anyways, almost feeling sick at his stomach at the thought of no longer being in John's band.

He opened the door and left without another word, not wanting to argue today. He couldn't help but continue to think of it though, and having to ride the bus alone with nothing to do only made him feel worse and more doubtful.

~*~

John took the heavy-framed glasses off of his face and threw them onto the paper-cluttered wooden desk in front of him. He had been scribbling down pointless lyrics and drawings for the past hour or so, waiting impatiently for Paul to arrive.