Paul & John

[Chapter Thirteen - Songwriting Sessions and Rejection]

-- J O H N --

Later that day, when he and Paul had finally awakened from their morning slumber, John grabbed his guitar and began to strum the chords Paul had shown him a couple of days ago.

He began to hum something, and then the sound of his voice sang out what he was thinking.

". . . Hello little girl,
Hello little girl,
Hello little girl,

Hello little girl. . ."

"Alright, John, you've said 'hello' to this bird four times already!" Paul joked, a smirk evident on his face.

Paul followed John's chords, but added a bit of a rhythm to it. He made sure that John's strumming was good, but he added bass to the chords that didn't seem to flow as well as the others.

"Fuck off, McCartney!" John argued, absentmindedly strumming. He then grinned, thinking of another set of lyrics.

". . . When I see you every day I say,
Mm. Hello little girl,
When I see you make yer way I say,
Hmm. . . Goodbye, little girl. . ."

"May I suggest somethin', Lenny?" Paul asked, quirking his eyebrow.

John nodded. "What is it, McCharmly?"

Paul grabbed John's notebook and scribbled what he thought was best fitting for the song.

John looked down and read it. He then looked up at Paul and nodded.

"I like it."

Paul motioned to the older lad's guitar.

"Play it."

---

". . . When I see you passing on yer way,
I say,
Mm, hello little girl.
When I see you passing by, I cry,
Hello little girl.

I send you flowers, but you don't care,
Ye never seem to see me standing there;
I often wonder what yer thinking of.
I hope its me,
Love, love, love! . . ."

Paul smiled as he continued to hear his friend sing. It was like an angel came down from Heaven and gave him that voice.

And what made it more beautiful was John's muscular frame holding the red guitar; strumming away happily as he sang away his heart out.

John smiled. He was finally making something of himself.

---

-- P A U L --

About an hour later, Paul and John decided to take a break. Mike and Jim were gone for the day, so the house was just left for Paul and his friend.

Paul couldn't help but wonder about the other day. The kiss. It was something he had never experienced before with any bird. He wanted to feel John's lips on his again; to feel whatever it was that the young lad wanted to know.

"John?" Paul said, snapping the older lad from his trance. John turned to Paul, letting the cigarette smoke tendrils escape his lips.

"Yeah, 'Macca?"

The younger lad fumbled with his fingers, slightly embarrassed that he was going to ask such a thing. He didn't know how to phrase it. How could he without it sounding completely and utterly queer?

'Hey John, I really liked you ramming yer tongue down me throat and I'd like to do that again.'? It was simply preposterous!

He couldn't hold it in any longer. He had to ask---he just had to.

"D'you remember when we uh. . . kissed?" Paul felt his cheeks rise up with a sense of heat.

John nodded. "Yeah. What about it?"

Paul bit his lower lip. "I was wondering if. . . if we, could. . . Y'know, do tha' again?"

He looked at John with pleading eyes, hoping to get a yes. John looked at Paul and bit his lower lip. He wasn't queer---he had a million birds willing to give him a shag just for the Hell of it!

"Look, Paul," John breathed, "that whole thing. . . It was just a one time experience, y'know?" he turned away from Paul; watching as the clouds grew dimmer. "It wasn't supposed to 'appen."

Paul nodded in understanding, but the pang at his chest hurt. It was if someone had stabbed him right in the back.

"I know," Paul said a little too quickly, "I was just, y'know, asking because we 'ave nothing else to talk about. . ."

His voice trailed off as he fumbled with his chubby fingers. "You should probably get going. Dad and Mike are going to be 'ere soon and I don't want you to see them when they get crazy."

John nodded, swinging his leather jacket onto his body as he grabbed his guitar; leaving Paul to sit alone in his own backyard.