Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was terribly hectic. Really, it was so easy for John to hate the human race on days like these. It was pouring rain, and London in October was already so cold, so dark. It’s depressing. He walked towards the tube station in Russell Square where a group of kids with their backpack shared a cigarette, probably planning to skip their first class of the day. It was too early for anything anyway. To John, they were simply another target for his callous remarks, as they were clearly lacking in the wardrobe department. Oh, how he would have enjoyed telling those kids what plonkers they were... Who wears shorts in October?

He stopped to adjust his woolen hat and get his oyster card out, but was pushed unceremoniously towards the entry by an old lady who was, apparently, in a big hurry. But it was okay, he told himself, he was not going to get his mood spoiled for the whole day by some blundering bat.

Fate, however, had other plans, because just then the gentleman of the tube staff gently advised him to ‘hurry the fuck up and pass the bloody barriers’ and, John thought, you don’t know the real meaning of the word crowded until you’ve travelled on the London tube at peak time.

Going down the stairs was like entering another world, or going to hell, depending on which side of the fence you fell. There were people everywhere, and John loathed people. But if there was ever something John hated more than people it was people touching him. And Lord, it was awful.

They were all wet from the rain, and someone’s mac was soaking his leg, and look at all those sweaty faces, if they aren’t the epitome of ugly… He was about ready to explode when someone pushed him out of the way to make it onto the train. This person was really fucking pushing, an insistent hand shoving at his back. John turned his head wearing his most murderous glare, a look which he had been dying to throw at someone since the moment his alarm woke him up that morning, and so he faced this whoever-the-fuck who dared touch him. His eyes made contact with his, a honeyed hazel that left him forgetting for a moment that he was supposed to scare the shit out of this god sent from heaven.

That was, until the owner of the eyes said ‘Sorry mate, you gotta be quick!’ And jumped into the train right before the doors shut.

John was furious. He had just lost his train, he was going to be late, he was soaked to the bones and-was that a Liverpool accent he’d heard from the knob head? Getting madder by the minute, he resolved not to think about the incident, nor the person, to avoid a total spiral. He clutched his bag protectively. If he knew anything, it was that if everything was going like shite, it would most likely get worse, and he didn’t want to make it easier for anybody to steal the poor amount of money he carried to buy himself a coffee.

The next train was also crowded, more so than usual; it seemed no one wanted to walk under the rain. John ended up pressed against a small lady with a disproportionately tall beehive which he swore defied gravity and, more importantly, kept assaulting his face, while at his other side a young man with a knapsack wouldn’t stop moving and hitting everyone with it. To sum it up, it wasn’t John’s best day, and he made very sure Ringo knew that as soon as he saw him at the cafeteria.

‘To say you owe me big time is an understatement,’ said John, glaring at Ringo. He felt the slightly older man was to blame for everything bad that had happened to him that morning, and sat at their usual table as if he was doing him the greatest of favours by simply existing. Ringo, quite accustomed to his friend’s swinging moods, just looked at him in amusement while opening his laptop and ordering their usual fare.

‘So,’ started Ringo, ‘how are we going to do this? We both have class tomorrow, you know, even if you hardly ever honour us with your presence, so it would be better if we could have this finished today so we can send it to the Students Union.’

John nodded and started giving Ringo some indications of what he wanted while the other typed it rather clumsily. It would be great if they could make their society ‘official’ and get some money to finance it. It was their last year at uni and John felt as if he hadn’t fully maximized on what they called the ‘university experience’.

During his first year, he hadn't joined any society. Although John wasn’t the least bit shy, he was quite the introvert, not to mention a lazy sod, and he had contented himself with the riveting combination of Netflix and chill. But after binge-watching Doctor Who for the second time in a row, his room full of empty cans and chips bags and smelling of a strangely arousing mix of sweat and marihuana, he decided he needed a change. That’s why in his second year he joined the Creative Writing Society. There he befriended Ringo, which was quite a successful first move in the fixing of his lonesome existence. But despite its obvious title, there was no creativity nor any writing at all, which pissed John off to no end because live up to your name for Christ’s sake!

Quickly realising this was not the place for them, John and Ringo packed their (figurative) bags and left the Creative Writing Society, and off they went to look for something else. And so they found themselves at the (figurative) doors of the Music Society. Though John loved music and was a self-taought guitarist, when he came to the auditions room with Ringo by his side, he lost all confidence and, well, he didn't really like to think about that. Deep down, he knew he was good, but he had some niggling feeling that something was missing, and that if he were to find it, he would be unstoppable.

That was basically the story of how they founded their literary society, 'Words of Wisdom'. their second year. This year they were going to present it to the Student’s Union. If they were approved, they would have their own stand at Fresher’s Fair to scout for new members, possibly scaring them to death with snarky remarks in the process, courtesy of John.

Two hours later and two emptied cups of tea, they had everything they needed ready and agreed that Ringo would take the final document to the chief of the Union the next day after class. They said their goodbyes and John walked back towards the station, dreading having to spend another twenty minutes in the tube, squished up against strangers. Still, it was better than walking nearly two miles under heavy rain.

An so he ended up on a crowded train once again, standing and clutching at the handles. Luckily, there was no overly aggressive hairstyle getting into his face this time, but to compensate, he was back to back with some guy who bumped into John every single time the train stopped. And fucking hell the prick wasn’t even trying to keep his balance. He just trusted John to be there every time to hold him, did he? John was so tempted to move quickly the next time and let the guy’s arse clean the ground, but in the end he opted for the most humanitarian choice. He was about to haul him over the coals when he realised this was the same airy-fairy that made him lose his train that morning! All the better. No one laughs at John Lennon and gets away scot-free.

But as John looked at him he felt a strange ball of anxiety grow in his stomach. He didn’t know why, but the man looked familiar even though he’s sure they’ve never crossed paths. He would have remembered that face. It was a strange face. Not in a bad way; his hair is dark and longish, sad, doe-eyes under surprised eyebrows and the longest eyelashes John’s ever seen. Small, pixie nose, pouty mouth and chubby cheeks, looking altogether boyish, John thought. He was certainly a bright spot among all the miserable, sad-looking people that crowded the train at that hour. He looked like a right nutter though, frantically nodding his head and stamping his feet to the rhythm of the music coming out of his earphones. The train slowed to a stop, and again he collided with John.

‘Sorry mate, it’s really busy, innit?’ And went back to his spastic dancing. So what if he was bloody gorgeous? John still thought he was a prick, and John was fucking pigheaded.

John and the prick got down at the same stop. He didn’t want to walk uncomfortably side by side with a person he’d just been pressed against for fifteen minutes. Luckily for him, the music guy went towards the stairs as he entered the lift. A right nutter, I tell you, didn’t he know how many stairs there were? The tube at Russell Square was so deep he might as well have been walking seven circles of Hell. When John got out of the lift, he looked worriedly towards the stairs before heading to the exit. Well, he will be missed.

John felt genuinely happy when their society became official, and though he tried desperately not to show it, Ringo knew. They felt accomplished, and when they got the money to get it going, John couldn’t believe his luck. Unfortunately for Ringo, his friend’s mood swings were not going to stop overnight, so when he learned about the requisite boring parts-designing flyers, organising the fair, thinking forward to the sessions… ‘Time and effort, Ringo. My time and my effort!’ Well, he just wasn’t as excited as before.

Ringo, God bless him, was probably the most patient and understanding fellow in all of the London area, but even he had his limits. On a day like any other, after receiving a fifth Snapchat from John who was sitting right next to him at the table, complaining about the amount of work, he’d had enough.

‘I’ve had enough.’

‘Of what, my dear?’ asked John, not bothering to lift his eyes off his phone screen.

‘Of you, son. You are doing nothing. You know, I could finish this quicker if you weren’t here sending me those stupidly cute voice-changing filters-‘

‘You love them’

‘Look, let’s make a deal.’ That caught John’s attention, although he took good care not to show it ‘I’m going to finish this by meself. You can go toss off or whatever shite you get up to in that cave of yours you call your room. But!’ he said, raising his voice over John’s whooping ‘you’ll have to deal with the Fresher’s Fair by yourself.’ Ringo smiled.

John knew it wasn’t a fair deal; they were almost done with the work anyway, but he also knew that he was going to accept it the moment he thought about his cozy warm blanket and poetry book waiting at home. Fuck, I’m weak, but it was raining outside and John loved to watch the raindrops fall from his window and see all the people freezing to death while he lay in bed, a hot cocoa with marshmallows in hand... and he could almost taste it, almost. Before he could think anymore of it, he agreed to Ringo’s bargain and was running out of the library and into the Tube.

When he saw the Prick, as he had grown accustomed to calling the fellow Liverpudlian in his mind, he nearly sighed in relief.

For the past couple of weeks, he had been bumping into the dark-haired man almost every time he had caught the train. It seemed that wherever they went, they had really similar timetables, if not the same. The first couple of times John had wanted to confront him about their first encounter, but some strange new feeling had held him back, and that was not normal in him. After a third inexplicable failure to engage with him, he decided to forget it, at least for the moment. That didn’t mean he was friendly to the guy, but he did hold back from drowning him in caustic commentary. For now, anyway.

He sat at a safe distance from the Prick. He hasn’t even acknowledged me, John thought indignantly, it's already been two stops. But just then those droopy eyes locked onto his and the man’s lips curved upwards in a smile of recognition, to which John gave a small nervous nod in response before looking away. What’s the matter with me? John thought, I wanted to go home just because I knew I wouldn’t see him otherwise. I don’t even know him, and if I did I most surely wouldn’t like him. I don’t like him now. I don’t like most people anyway, so he is likely to fall in that category. And yet.

In truth, John was a romantic. Although he would never admit it, he sometimes fancied himself a flaneur of modern London. He had always longed for those kinds of things; exchanging a meaningful glance with a random person, having a deep conversation with a stranger he’d never meet again in a pub late at night, watching the passersby from the window of a coffee shop, reading in the park on Sundays while listening to children playing-though John admitted that not all kids were nice to hear. It was something he looked forward to daily, something he could almost rely on. It was something small enough it did not make him feel the obligation to tell anybody, but it was big enough to add a needed spark to his otherwise numbing routine.

He knew it, and the Prick knew it too. They acknowledged it every time they looked for each other getting on the train without saying a word.

His train of thought was cut off by the train coming to a halt. That was their stop. John felt blissfully happy at the thought of the lazy day ahead of him. He took one last glance at the prick heading for the stairs and then John’s mind refocused on doing nothing but nothing for the rest of the evening.

Chapter Text

He had been at Guy’s Campus since nine in the morning, and it was now almost half past one. Probably the longest period of time John had ever stayed there. The Fresher’s Fair was much more enjoyable than he had first imagined, but thinking about doing it all over again the next day for the kids at Strand Campus still made him want to smash his head against the table, Dobby-style.

There were people everywhere, but he came to realise that as long as no one touched him, it would be alright. Behind a table full of books and in front of a little folding screen featuring some posters he had drawn himself, John lounged happily on a beach chair while the crowd wafted through, occasionally stopping by. He was having a good time low-key tormenting the jocks who probably only got into uni by playing football.

A blond bodybuilder was having problems following John’s snarky remarks when a waifish looking lad pulled up, eating his one piece of free Domino’s pizza given at entry. John noticed the kid’s smirk and was about to ask him nicely whereabouts was the primary school when suddenly he vanished into thin air. John blinked, then shrugged. The bodybuilder had apparently taken advantage of John’s distraction to move on, so he looked around for his next victim. He knew Ringo would probably disapprove of his antics, seeing as not many students were signing up for their society -  it’s his fault for leaving me alone anyway  - but at least he was making sure those who did sign up were not weak of spirit. For they had endured John Lennon’s verbal attacks , he intoned silently with exaggerated solemnity, and only a select few were strong enough to subscribe to more.

John’s eyes moved through the crowd of freshers on the lookout for an easy prey when amongst all the hubbub he spotted the skinny kid he had seen a couple of minutes before, staring intently at him and eating yet another slice of pizza, this time with pineapple. John didn’t know why but the sight made his hair stand on end. The kid had deep, mysterious black eyes coronated by dark, bushy eyebrows, and his strong-boned face seemed out of place atop his twiggy little body. Strangely, no one else seemed to notice him. Is he real, or a ghost with a steady supply of various pizza slices?   John couldn’t help taking a step backwards when the other approached. The kid raised a bushy eyebrow in response but didn’t stop until he was in front of the stand. John comforted himself with the thought that, while slightly murderous, the look he gave John still had nothing on his own more bloodthirsty glares.

‘So,’ the creepy skinny kid started, looking at everything John had on the table. ‘Anything for free?’

John smiled ironically and gave him a pamphlet. Suppose he can’t be a ghost if he can hold things. The kid’s dark eyes looked at it disinterestedly before asking again, ‘No food?’ As a response, John simply pointed to the giant pink letters that read ‘Words of Wisdom: Literary Society.’

‘The rugby team had food.’

John was going from somewhat amused to simply pissed off. ‘Look, son, I don’t have nothing for free, and that includes food. Now, if you want to sign up for the book society write your bloody name on this paper. And give me the pen back because it’s not a souvenir.’ He looked him up and down scornfully. ‘If you just want food to up your BMI, go nick some more of that pizza.’ John looked through a frown as the kid in front of him wrote his name on the formulary. Slightly miffed the grade school looking lad hadn’t fallen prey to his jabs, he crossed his arms like the five year old he was at heart.

‘I’ve walked the fair five times just to get pizza. They know my face now,’ he explained while John snatched the pen out of his greedy hands, proceeding to look at what had been written with feigned disinterest.

‘Alright, George. We’ll send you an email to confirm when and where our meetings will be.’

When George asked him if there would be cake John told him to shove off. George fled towards a gaggle of students and John was once again left to his own devices. The rest of the evening was uneventful save for some poor sod who thought it was a fine idea to swallow a whole pot of Haywards’ spicy onions. He subsequently had to be bodily moved to the nearest toilet to put his mouth under a stream of cold water. John had never seen a face so bright red.

He went home thinking it had not been a bad day after all, but he was dead tired and still not looking forward to doing it all again the next day, this time for the kiddies from the other campus. He landed on the bed as soon as he opened his bedroom door. The last thought that went through his mind was that he had not seen the Prick on the tube that day.

The fair was not as crowded as the day before, but John was much busier. Strand Campus had all the arts and humanities degrees, and it turned out these people who read a fucking lot in class clearly hadn’t had enough and had to be on a bloody book club too, so John found himself for the first time explaining some of the activities he and Ringo had planned to do with the society. They all seemed genuinely interested, looking at him in awe (or so he liked to believe) and excited to get involved. He didn’t have the heart to be as sarcastic as he would have normally been. Instead, he worked .

After an endless q&a session with a couple of very enthusiastic girls, John sighed dramatically and threw himself back into his chair. Just as he was beginning to relax, he felt a set of eyes on him. He looked up just to see the George kid, eating something that John had never seen before. It looked rather disturbing. George swallowed and approached John with a smug grin.

‘Seems you are being made to work today.’ George made to touch The Awakening with a chocolate-stained hand before John swatted him away.

‘And you? Haven’t you got anything better to do than to bother me?’

George shrugged.

‘You must be dazzled by my charms. Don’t worry, it happens regularly.’

The kid kept looking at John.

‘You don’t say much, do you?’

George shrugged again.

‘I like that.’

They stayed in silence for a couple of seconds before John couldn’t help himself. ‘Why are you here again? Haven’t you got a home? I wouldn’t even be here the once if I had the choice.’ George seemed to ponder whether the effort of answering with actual words was worth it or not. At last, he decided he had nothing better to do than to talk to the guy.

‘I do have a home, thanks for your concern. I’m actually here with a friend. He’s on the Veggie Society committee and something of a people person, so he’s on the stand trying to recruit. He asked me to come with him so he wouldn’t be bored and bribed me with vegan food which looks disgusting but tastes amazing. If you want I could get you some biscuits?’

John was dazed by the amount of words the kid had produced. It took him longer than usual to process the information.

‘Well?’

John lowered his glasses while batting his eyelashes. ‘I’d love a biscuit, and a cuppa, if it’s not too much trouble.’

‘I’ll be right back.’

John watched as the boy trotted towards the next aisle over to the green stand that faced away from John, partially obscured by the semi-popular UCL Anime Society table. He could see George’s face but not the person he was talking to, tickling John’s curiosity. He shooed a girl away to try and get a peak of the bloke’s mate. A slender hand gave George several slim, irregularly shaped, pitch black and not at all appetizing biscuits together with a stack of paper. With that in hand the kid came hopping back to John.

‘He gave me a whole lot!’ George showed all his prezzies along with a full vampire smile. Then he passed John the papers, which turned out to be pamphlets and a formulary with a pink post it attached to it. It read ‘Cheers’ beside a doodle of a little heart.

‘The only condition is that you have to sign up to the Veggie Society.’

‘No way I’m signing for that. I’m not a cow!’ John said incredulously.

George shushed him quickly while looking unsteadily towards his friend’s table.

‘You aren’t obliged to go to all the societies you sign up for, you know. I’ve signed up for so many just so I could get food. Why am I telling you this? I’m the fresher.’

John looked at him suspiciously. ‘Yer not coming to the Book Club?’

‘Well, I’m going to that one actually. In fact, Paul wants to come too-‘

‘Paul?’ John cut off.

‘Me mate. The veggie one, he didn’t sign up, but as I did, he was planning on just showing up whenever you guys settled a date.’

‘Was he?’ John was not amused by this. George noticed.

‘Would you like it better if he gave you his contact information?’

John sighed, ‘Not really, it’s okay.’ By this point he didn’t want anyone who hadn’t been vetted by his unofficial elimination process writing his name down . What Ringo doesn’t know won’t bother him. John looked towards the stand where the Paul lad was, just in time to see a mop of dark hair disappear behind the folding screen. He smiled and took a bite of the biscuit. This is surprisingly good . George heard his thoughts and gave him a ‘told you so’ face.

‘Well, I really should get going, it’s getting late for dinner.’ George looked at his phone. ‘I really would like to stay though, It would be very entertaining to see Paul’s reaction to your cow comment. Oh well, I guess I’ll be seeing you at the book society?’ John nodded distractedly.

What a weirdo . John looked again at the other aisle before turning his attention to swiping right on all the Tinder profiles that appeared on his phone screen without even looking at the pictures. I’ll decide later . Suddenly, someone leaned over his table, blocking the light and making John superlike some random guy. ‘Fucking hell!’ Probably some tattoo-obsessed skinhead, because that was just his luck.

The voice was what gave him away. ‘That’s some mouth you’ve got.’ John did not need to look up to know who it was. He would never admit it, but he felt a warm, nervous feeling expand through his body. He could feel his face accept some of that warmth as it bloomed onto his cheeks. He pried his gaze from the phone just to be taken in by those eyes he had been witness to so frequently those past few weeks.

The Prick smiled at him, a small lopsided grin that could have been just a simple hello, but John wanted it to be of recognition. His brain searched desperately for something to say that would not give him away as an idiot. ‘Hi’ was all he could come up with, and little wrinkles appeared curled around the other man’s eyes when his smile grew wider.

‘Hello to you too.’ A pale hand rested itself on top of one of John’s Penguin vintage classics, but his heart wasn’t in it to remove it.

‘You must be Paul, George-the-pizza-kid’s vegetarian friend.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’m John.’

‘I see you’ve already grasped our multilayered personalities.’ Paul shook the offered hand and John smirked, allowing himself to relax under the hazel eyes of the familiar stranger. ‘I’d love to enroll in the literary society. Georgie told me it was alright if I just showed up the first day, but I don’t actually trust what he says, y’know.’

John noticed that the other man had collected all the Veggie Society posters and had put them in a couple of boxes resting at his feet. He tried to look disinterested: ‘You don’t need to enroll, just turn up and as long as you pay the three pound fee it’s fine,’ and failed. He didn’t really know why he was being so passive aggressive. ‘Why’ve you picked up all your stuff already, anyway? I mean, I completely understand not many people want to join the salad union but you don’t have to be so pessimistic, son.’

Paul’s change in posture suggested that he had not taken John’s joke very kindly, although he struggled not to show it.‘I take it you aren’t going to join, then.’ All of a sudden, Paul looked away, blinking. After a beat he turned to face John and smirked lightly. ‘And for your information, it’s half past six, so unless you want to spend the night here, I’d suggest you pick up your books too.’

Shite! John got up hastily, almost knocking his chair over in the process, fucking smartass . John was not happy with the look Paul was giving him, clearly enjoying his embarrassment.

‘Do you need help with that?’ asked Paul carefully when John started to forcefully tear down the posters, to which he only grunted.

‘Well, I should be going then, it’s getting late. If you aren’t planning on signing up-’

‘No, thank you. I am not going to stop eating meat just because some cute know-it-all gives me a couple of burnt biscuits.’ John snapped viciously, the proof of his lie in the black crumbs scattered over the table between them. He knew the only truth of his words was how beautiful the man in front of him was. What really bothered him, he found upon reflection, was that the Prick -Paul, apparently- had spoken to him like a complete stranger and had not at all acknowledged their... their whatever it was that they had. John felt cheated, and instead of going about it rationally, he could not help but lash out. Why am I doing this?

Paul’s eyes went cold. Without uttering a word he grabbed his boxes and, balancing them precariously, held two fingers up to John before walking towards the door.

Once he was out of sight John quickly deflated. Melancholy settled in his chest, slowing his actions. The building felt empty and gray all of a sudden. In the mostly vacated auditorium, the only sound to accompany John’s shifting mood was the tearing of paper. He was already damning himself and his actions, yet as he began to spiral into self-pity he forced himself to remember how Paul had acted. Didn’t he care at all about their little rendezvous the past couple of weeks, those meetings John  looked forward to so much? The thought that they had not meant anything to the other man when they had meant so much to John made his blood boil and his eyes burn. I’m so stupid . John gathered the assortment of well loved hardbacks and paperbacks into his bags and headed out, into the crowd and past the Tube entrance. The books were heavy, but he felt like walking.

As soon as he got home he went to his bookshelf to put away all the books he had brought back. He was taking them out of the bags, two at a time, when the formulary for the Vegetarian Society fell to the floor. He picked it up and threw it into the bin, but not without first removing a certain pink post-it note written by a certain doe-eyed boy. Self-concious, John took Alice in Wonderland, opened it, stuck the post-it to the first page and closed it hurriedly to put it back in its place. He went straight to bed.

Chapter Text

George was enjoying a newfound freedom.

Bare feet on top of the coffee table, a bag of Cheetos in one hand and a gigantic soda in the other, he alternated between stuffing cheese puffs in his mouth and lazily scrolling through Tumblr. This was his new life as a first year uni student. The sounds of Dire Straits’ “Sultans of Swing” coming from the telly complemented the bag’s crumpling. George was about to reach into the bag to shove more junk into his mouth when his phone buzzed, indicating he had received an email. Sighing, he wiped his hand on his old Breaking Bad t-shirt and unlocked his phone. Oh, from the book thingy… The message read that the ‘Words of Wisdom’ literary society was going to get together on Wednesdays from six to eight o’clock, as it had been agreed on through a Facebook poll, in the Wellbeing Room. At the moment, George did not feel like going anywhere, but he supposed he would have to move from his self-designated spot on the sofa sometime in the next few days. Hopefully before he’d have an earful of Paul’s lectures on living like a responsible adult. At that very moment  he heard the sound of keys and the front door being opened. As if by some summoning charm, The man himself appeared in front of him.

‘Haven’t you moved at all since I left you here this morning?’ With a swing of his wrist, Paul threw his bag on the table and looked at George’s feet disapprovingly.

George let out a disgruntled sound and moved into a fetal position, his whining muffled by couch pillows, ‘I tried.’

Paul moved the Cheetos’ bag to the side with a disgusted face before dropping himself down in its place on the sofa, rounding on his younger flatmate.

‘George, my friend,’ he could be quite condescending, ‘you are suffering what is commonly known as the freshers’ syndrome. Yer out of your parent’s home for the first time, your class time has diminished considerably and you’re studying what you like, supposedly anyway.’ Paul got up and went to open the window. ‘But you’ve got to be very careful. It’s a delicate situation!’ He turned around to look at George, who looked back at him owlishly from the sofa, ‘You’ve got to start doing something useful or you could get stuck in fresher’s phase forever.’

‘What’s tha’?’ George asked before slurping his soda.

‘You know, when uni students do nothing all day but gaming and eating snacks, go out every night until they get sick, and start essays the same day they're due… Obviously, not many people are able to escape it.’ Paul smiled a bit to himself, Lord knows it wasn’t easy.

George was familiar with mother McCartney’s life lessons and regularly ignored them, but he did feel a certain restless guilt, spending his days as a couch potato and lying to his mom about his less than healthy eating habits. Didn’t he come here for a reason? All the same, Paul could not under any circumstance know that his rant had accomplished its desired effect. It would certainly go to his head.

George adopted a less infantile pose, smoothed his crumpled shirt, and decided to change the topic. ‘I just received an email from the literary society.’

Paul pursed his lips and walked towards his friend. George was not aware of all the details, but based on his friend’s mood when he had come back from the Fresher’s Fair… You didn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to guess that his interaction with the ginger grump hadn’t been the most amicable.

‘So?’ Paul sat down again and crossed his arms. Not a good sign, George thought.

‘Well, it was only to inform us that the meeting is in the Wellbeing Room, and I think it said on Wednesdays.’ Paul kept his eyes on George as if he were thinking, but his face showed little emotion. ‘You are coming, right? You said you were coming.’

The other man sighed and laid back on the sofa. ‘I’ve got the Art Society on Wednesdays.’

George’s eyes went comically wide while he made spastic movements with his hands. ‘Seriously, Paul. Are you in every single extracurricular thing there is under the sun? Of course it overlaps. Now I have to go alone.’ George’s eyebrows went so far into his eyes Paul could barely keep eye contact.

‘Well, I don’t do sports,’ Paul went to get a handful of cheetos. ‘look, I know I told ya’ I was going, and I was really excited about it and, more importantly, I don’t want that John arsehole to think I’m not going because of him.’ He chewed on the cheese puffs loudly. ‘But I love what we do in art society. And I’ve payed for it.’

George smirked, ‘What? Like two pounds?’

Paul got up and went towards his bedroom door, ‘Five, if you want to know.’ He walked through, closing it behind him, effectively ending the conversation.

On the first Wednesday of November, London was exceedingly wet and cold. Autumn was blending into winter, that time when the chill gets inside your bones and the sun barely lets itself be seen. Paul and George had left their flat together and, while George hoped he could persuade his friend to join him for the evening, he knew Paul had made up his mind. They walked in companionable silence. The rustling of the fallen leaves when they moved distracted them from other less pleasurable sounds. Traffic, passersby, horns… The dark, cloudy sky could easily fool you into a sour mood. George was looking at Paul out of the corner of his eye. The other man walked, looking at his feet, without uttering a word. He could get like that sometimes, retreating into himself without paying any attention to what was happening around him. George had known him for long enough to know he was overthinking something. Likely something long done. Beating himself up over it. Feeling guilty.

‘Paul,’ George called, leaning towards him. When the other man didn’t answer, he tried again louder.

Paul’s head snapped up, his eyes finding George’s. ‘No need to shout, son.’ He then raised his eyebrows and pointed at George’s left. ‘That’s where the Wellbeing Room is.’

George grabbed Paul’s arm and approached him. ‘Quit that thinking.’

Paul blinked in surprise, ‘Wha’?’

‘I’ve been looking at you, y’know. You’ve been distant lately, don’t think I don’t notice. I know something’s eating you.’ George explained, trying not to appear too concerned, knowing Paul liked to keep most things to himself.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Paul said shortly.

‘Look, I don’t know what it is. If it’s that you wanted to come to the Literary Society, or that you’re feeling bad about whatever you think happened with that John bloke.’ Paul’s eyes widened and he quickly opened his mouth to retaliate, but George would have none of it, ‘Paul, I know you blurt out things without thinking and you feel guilty about it afterwards, but there’s nothing you can do now. Besides, the guy probably deserved whatever you threw at him. And I don’t think he’s been replaying your exchange over and over again in his head, so why should you?’

Paul looked at his friend and a crooked smile blossomed in his face, “I suppose you’re right.”

‘I always am.’ George made as to wipe the non existent dust off his green jacket.

Paul snorted and gave him a friendly push. ‘Thanks , Geo.’ Paul flashed him a warm smile and George winked back.

‘Now, go! You’re going to be late!’He walked into the building Paul had pointed to while waving at his friend who hurried off towards the Fine Arts school.

Reflecting his good nature, George felt a burst of confidence after helping his friend feel better. He walked with purpose, and when he arrived to a room full of people he had never seen before, he simply introduced himself to a small, sad-looking lad having a snack before he sat down next to him. Ringo, the lad in question, had barely gotten his name out before George butted in, demanding a digestive.

While chewing on the biscuit, George let his eyes wander around the room. A couple of bottle green sofas were placed strategically around a large coffee table. Some books were placed upon it, though more for aesthetics rather than practicality. On the wall behind George was a big world map dotted with colorful pushpins marking different countries. Beside each of them were written words in various languages: paz, amitié, amore, diversitat… George guessed it was from another activity held on the room, and he told Ringo so, if only to make conversation. The wall opposite to them had a window overlooking the football field; beside it, plenty of mugs were stored haphazardly next to a kettle. Overall, George liked it; simple and cozy.

Suddenly Ringo spoke up, ‘Let’s just wait five more minutes to see if anyone else is coming, and then we’ll start.’ He fixed his gaze upon the clock on his left, fidgeting nervously.

George realised the other man must have been part of the committee. Recalling the surly ginger, he looked around the room hoping to find a set of clever-looking eyes, but to no avail. Instead of thinking about the people who weren't present, as Paul would have, he turned to study those who were.

On one of the sofas two girls huddled together, whispering to each other, while a third one clutched a bag to her chest, seemingly uncomfortable. In front of them there were two boys making small talk while a pale girl with jet-black curly hair made a show of looking at her smartphone. The only other person there was a girl with long blond hair falling carelessly upon her face, her floral dress giving her a bohemian air. An old camera sat beside her, her slender fingers caressing its strap. Her eyes were on the window. She looked timeless, thought George before stealing another biscuit from Ringo. The sad-eyed man just smiled at him. How could I not like this guy?

‘So, George, what made you come here? Are you an English Major?’ Ringo asked, turning toward George.

‘God, no! I’m doing Environmental Science. My best mate is, though, and he’s insufferable. Over-analysing everything, quoting Shakespeare every chance he gets… He takes a book everywhere he goes and leaves me to die of boredom. And don’t even get me started on his James Joyce obsession!’

Ringo threw back his head and laughed at George’s dramatic response. ‘I can relate on a spiritual level, mate. I’m doing philosophy, so I do my share of reading and quoting, if only to show off. But my friend… oh boy! He’s taking English and Creative Writing. You can imagine-‘

Just as Ringo was getting started, the door flew open and a very flustered John Lennon came bursting in. John suddenly found himself the center of attention; every person in the room was staring at him.

George took notice of his disheveled appearance: his hair was standing up and his outfit looked as if he had dressed in the dark. He looked around the room nervously, until his eyes fell on George. When they made eye contact, John smirked. However, his face fell when he noticed the empty spot beside George. Interesting… Recovering quickly, John went to sit with George and Ringo, while the latter informed him that he was late. As if we didn’t know already.

Ringo clasped his hands together, looking at everyone in the room, ‘Okay! Shall we start? Does anyone know if anyone else is coming?’ They shook their heads and George noticed John’s gaze upon him. ‘In that case, we better start. Why don’t we do an introductory round? We can all introduce ourselves and explain why we are interested in the Literary Society.’ Ringo looked at John for approval. After getting a shrug in response, Ringo started to introduce himself.

While the hippy-looking girl introduced herself as Linda, George felt something poking his ribs. When he looked up, he saw John’s clever eyes.

‘Where’s your plant-eating friend?’ John asked, trying to sound casual. George knew better.

‘Paul, you mean?’

John nodded. 

‘I didn’t think you’d be interested in him. After Fresher’s Fair, Paul got home in a rather grouchy-‘

‘You live together?’ John interrupted him louder than intended, earning a side glance from Ringo.

George waited until everyone’s attention was on Linda again, before whispering to John, ‘We’re flatmates. We know each other from Liverpool.’ George looked up when another guy started to introduce himself, ‘He wanted to come, but on Wednesdays he’s got another society.’

John seemed to consider this, as if he thought George might be lying to him. Then he sat upright and tried to pay attention to the next student.

After their introductions were done they played Cards Against Humanity, only better. The Students Union had banned the card game because some of the cards were admittedly pretty racist, so, as Ringo had explained, he and John had invented their own version: Cards Against Humanities, using book quotes. It was extremely well thought out and George was really enjoying himself by the end of it, even if there was no food involved.

Before the evening was over, John explained a project he thought they could carry through the whole academic year. Everyone who wanted to participate had to pick an alias that would not give away their identities before writing it down on a piece of paper next to their real name. Under it, they had to list five of their favourite books and then hand the paper to Ringo. He would pair everyone according to shared reading taste, giving the partners only each other's aliases and therefore keeping it anonymous. After that, every week a book would be given out to read, and after doing so, every person would write a letter to their mutual about it. All letters could be dropped off for the other person to pick up in the designated ‘Letter Box’ of the Wellbeing Room - which was in fact only an empty Lego box with a hastily taped label handwritten on A5 pad paper.

George found the idea interesting enough to give it a go and decided this was probably something Paul would like to do too. And after all, he knew his mate’s favourite books better than his own.

Little Lamb Dragonfly/Paul McCartney

Nicholas Nickleby, Charles Dickens

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, James Joyce

Alice in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll

Leaves of Grass, Walt Whitman

Mrs Dalloway, Virginia Woolf

Later that evening, Ringo was at his flat reading what the Literary Society members had written. He felt satisfied with how the meeting had gone despite John’s moodiness and reluctant cooperation. Just as he was thinking of his mate, his card appeared in front of him. Ringo smiled.

The Walrus or the Carpenter?/John Lennon

Alice in Wonderland and Alice Through the Looking Glass (this counts as one )

The Raven, Edgar Allan Poe

Howl by Allen Ginsberg

Enduring Love, Ian McEwan

Les Flors Fleurs du Mal, Charles Baudelaire

A Tale of Two Cities, Dickens

Nineteen Eighty-Four, George Orwell

I KNOW THIS IS SIX LEAVE ME ALONE RINGO!

The man with the bright blue eyes knew exactly who he was going to pair with John Lennon.

Chapter Text

7 Nov.

Dear ‘The Walrus or the Carpenter?’,

First of all, let me tell you, I love Alice in Wonderland . Therefore, you must have deduced I really like your alias! It’s quite thought-provoking. First I thought, ‘well, he better not be either of those,’ then I started to think about which one I would rather you be, if you had to be one. I found myself reliving Alice’s conversation with Tweedledum and Tweedledee! I was so lost in it that a friend asked me if something was wrong. So maybe you could tell me the story behind it? Or did you do it just to mess with my head?

Sorry, I know we’re supposed to talk about this week’s book. I must admit, I know this book by heart. I’ve read it a thousand times and I still read it when I feel a little down. It’s like warmth and familiarity. I know this novel will always take me through the same ups and downs and end on a high note with its fairytale ending.

I don’t often say that Pride and Prejudice is one of my favourite books. Or that Jane Austen is one of those authors I keep coming back to. I know it’s not ‘cool’ to say you love Pride and Prejudice. But I can’t help it. Why can’t we enjoy happy ever afters or impossible love stories? Why do we have such a low concept of optimism and enthusiasm? Once a friend told me he was living on a cloud; he felt he was having the time of his life. He is a writer. Or wants to be, so I told him, why don’t you write about it? He said he didn’t think ’happy’ was good literature. And I didn’t answer. But I thought, why the hell not? It’s not about the feeling, it’s about how you translate that feeling into words.

I’m sorry, I’m not really writing about the book, am I? I like Elizabeth’s character (who doesn’t?). She’s strong, funny, extroverted… But still it’s hard for her to talk about her feelings. She seems very real to me. I laugh at Mrs. and Mr. Bennet’s antics every time. And what can I say about Mr. Darcy? Just that Colin Firth will forever be Mr. Darcy to me, no one else will ever compare. -Two thousand pounds a year, Mr. Bennet!-

I look forward to reading your thoughts, Mr. Walrus. I’ve decided I’m just going to call you Mr. Walrus, boy or not! Otherwise it’s too long. Is that okay? Don’t answer, I’m going to call you whatever I want. I’m just being polite. English polite, that is!

Best regards,

Little Lamb Dragonfly.

P.S. I suppose if it really bothers you I might call you Ms. Walrus. Or Mx.

8 Nov.

My dearest Little Lamb Dragonfly,

Your name is deserving of the mostest endearing of epithets. A little lamb is charming enough, but you had to go and add dragonfly to the equation and that just messed me up. And the musicality of it all! I think you must be as lovely a human (if you are human) as I am to invent stuff just for people to break their heads over. My alias has no deeper meaning, really. I just love Alice in Wonderland, and I’m glad you do too. That shows a good enough literary taste. I’m glad you wasted your time thinking about it, though. It makes it all worth it!

As this is anonymous, I’ll be honest with you. I kinda enjoy Pride and Prejudice too. I’m pretty cynical most of the time. I’m one of those writer people you so rightly described. I claim to like dark better than light. I go to the movies to criticise the next Sandra Bullock rom-com. But in my heart of hearts, I enjoy Meg Ryan going to France and falling for the guy to the sound of Charles Trenet’s voice. Harry and Sally painfully slow burning love. Hugh Grant’s cockiness in Four Weddings and a Funeral, Notting Hill, Love Actually… and, talking about Pride and Prejudice, I fucking loved him in Bridget Jones! I guess I’m a middle aged woman at heart. All Hollywood clichés, ay?

Anyway, joking aside, what I’m trying to say is that I understand what you mean. And the way you express yourself… I can see you rambling on about a subject for hours. Tumbling through words. I like that.

Just to feel we’ve done the ‘writing about the novel’ assignment, what do you think of Catherine de Bourgh? She’s the spitting image of my auntie Mimi!

I’m more than okay with Mr. Walrus. It sounds sophisticated. Just the way I am in real life. I hope you’ll appreciate me addressing you as Lil’ Dragonfly. It creates a funny image in my head. Hopefully I’ll read about the meaning of that name in your next letter.

Yours Faithfully,

Mr. Walrus

10 Nov.

To my darling Mr. Walrus,

Full disclosure, it’s my friend who made me pick the alias. But it’s funny you should mention the musicality of it, because it’s actually the name of a song I wrote some time ago. That’s something I like, writing songs. It’s not like it will take me anywhere, but I enjoy doing it. It’s also a good conversation starter. But only a start, because most people I meet are only impressed and not actually very interested. The topic dies instantly, and with it my hope to find someone to share this love with. (It’s okay if you’re only impressed.)

I do have one friend who is equally interested in music, but he’s more guitar-obsessed, not into writing a full song. I still keep him around though. He’s an interesting bloke, that’s for sure!

So nice to hear you share my rom com guilty pleasure. We should do an evening screening of classic 80’s rom coms, wrapped in a blanket and eating ice cream, (which is a contradiction on its own) but, if we’re going for stereotype, let’s do it right!

I don’t know if you’ll get my letter before the week’s over. I know it’s too early for me to post it (we haven’t even got the next book assignment!) but I felt I needed to write to you, not about anything in particular. There are some things bothering me, but I’m not one of those people who open up easily. In fact, quite the opposite.

I probably say a lot without really saying anything.

This just feels right. I don’t know you and I can’t put a face to your words. I guess that makes me feel safe. I’m rambling again, you were right! I do ramble a lot!

I don’t know how I feel about lil’ Dragonfly. But you know, the part of the song about the dragonfly is longer than the part about the little lamb, so maybe you got it a little right. Just a fun fact about my song, anyway. I’m very humble, you see.

If I’m to call you Mr. Walrus, perhaps you ought to accord me the same formality, if it’s all the same to you.

I’m going to seal this letter before I regret what I’ve written.

Yours,

Esteemed Dragonfly

P.S. your auntie must be entertaining if she is anything like Lady de Bourgh.

xxx

12 Nov.

My Lovely Lily Larking Little Lamb Dragonfly,

It’s not all the same to me! Your name is so fun to play with, it’d be a shame to give up so much lyrical potential. But I’ll take it under consideration. (Dragonfly by itself does sound pretty fierce.)

Strangely, I did check the letterbox earlier hoping to find a letter from you. Something told me you need more than a letter a week to say what you want!

I sincerely enjoy reading your thoughts, and if you knew me you’d take this as a high-class compliment. God knows I’m hard to please. Likewise, I’m glad you’ve taken a shine to me. This doesn’t happen too often either. Probably my fault since I’m so socially awkward; I don’t like most people, and those I do I push away by being a sarcastic arse.

I can’t believe you write songs! What are you, the perfect human being? And by ‘perfect human being’ I mean my double! I (try to) write songs too. I’m not a professional or anything. I’ve never played any of my songs in public, but I do write them. I’m a little shitty with the melody to tell you the truth. I write poems (SURPRISE! I’m a pretentious fuck!) and then I try to make them into a song. Sometimes they work. Maybe you could lend me some of your songwriting skills sometime? If they’re any good. If not, keep them to yourself. Maybe we could do that before the rom com marathon? (Are we flirting?)

I hope whatever is bothering you is nothing serious. I’m sorry if it is. I know the smallest things can turn me inside out, but you don’t seem that kind of person.

If you need me to smack someone, just let me know, and instead I’ll pour apple juice down their pants. I’m crazy, man. Watch out for me!

But really, I’m not all that much of an action man, so I wrote this instead, and if it makes you smile, that’ll be alright.

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 til my toe

I will not dance I shyballs

I’m such a humble Joe.

Yours faithfully,

Mr. Walrus

Paul chuckled, his smile lingering on his face while he studied the little doodle ‘Mr. Walrus’ had drawn beside the poem, illustrating the moldy man in question. He could not wait to start writing his latest response, this one dated for the twenty-seventh on a bright page he had pilfered from the art room. They had been exchanging letters for some weeks now, and Paul found himself rereading them often, as was the case that afternoon. The messages were just as refreshing as the first time he had received them, only now he read them with a peculiar fondness, as if he had known Mr. Walrus for years. He was about to write the greeting of his next letter when George barged into his room, holding up a piece of paper.

‘Paul,’ George threw himself onto Paul’s bed where he was lying, making Paul bounce.

Paul gazed pointedly at George, letting him know he was not welcome. ‘What do you want?’

George considered whether it had been a good idea to interrupt his best friend after all.

‘Please, don’t tell me you hacked the neighbour’s wi-fi again.’ Paul said while folding the letter and placing it in the nightstand drawer that held his socks.

As a response, George shoved the piece of paper into Paul’s face. Paul grabbed it and skimmed it. It was a pamphlet for an art exposition, held in Fine Arts’ school’s main building. London’s most celebrated contemporary artists were exposing some of their work for charity.

Paul vibrated with renewed energy, and he jumped out of bed, turning to George as he tripped out of the room. ‘Well, what are you waiting for? It’s today!’ This is gonna be great!

George sighed and got up idly to follow him, ‘You give him the world, and this is how he repays you.’ He shook his head, ‘Kids these days.’

Paul finished lacing his converse and threw an arm around George. ‘C’mon, old man. I’ll pay for your ticket.’

‘I wouldn’t have it any other way,’ George disentangled himself from his friend and went to get his jacket. ‘You know, I almost didn’t tell you because you get so insufferably excited about these things. But I did tell you, didn’t I, so I hope you appreciate what a good friend I am.’

Fluttering his eyelashes, Paul turned his head towards George, ‘You love me so.’ He checked his pockets to see if he had everything. ‘You know I would’ve killed you if I’d found out you hadn’t told me,’ He pointed warningly at his younger friend, lowering his voice, ‘and I would’ve found out.’

George smirked, and held out Paul’s phone when he saw him looking for it. ‘I thought so too. I wasn’t going to push it.’

The door closed behind them with a soft thud.

Chapter Text

When they got out of the tube station Paul allowed himself to relax. He had been so anxious about bumping into that nasty ginger that George had taken notice. Those spider senses... George had been listing all the reasons why the fourth Pirates of the Caribbean film should sink into oblivion when Paul drifted from his friend’s monologue and instead thought about what a blow it had been when he realised the man he had been fantasizing about was merely another arsehole to add to the world’s already overpopulated collection. Still, Paul knew his disappointment was his own fault, for letting his mind wander, for creating situations that could never be real. The farther one rises, the harder one falls . And now he suspected he was at it again. Idealizing my letters’ correspondent to fit my desires… is that what I’m doing?

He forced himself to come back down to earth with some unconscious help from George and his emphatic complaints about the priest and the mermaid love story. As his willful companion shouted ‘She has a name!’ over and over again, the two friends walked through the campus together. On their way to Fine Arts’ school they were given at least five different flyers for events they would never attend, but beyond that, it being Sunday afternoon, they barely saw anyone. The campus felt like an old silent movie save for Paul and George’s laugh whistling through the wind.

Soon they arrived at the building where the exposition was held, and the entrance looked as timelessly muted as everywhere else. Paul bought the tickets and guided George through the doorway. They found themselves immediately surrounded by an altogether different atmosphere. Vibrant music merged with candied colors and the fruity, rusty smell of the wine enraptured Paul’s senses. Without a moment’s hesitation, George hurried to the canapés, while Paul got them a drink.

George found his friend again, munching caviar as if it were fifty pence crisps. ‘Bloody fancy.’ As Paul handed him a glass, ‘you’re so posh, Paul.’

Paul simply shrugged. ‘I’m not posh. I'm proper skint, la. Besides, you can’t be posh if you come from Speke.’ As if to prove his point he slurped his cava. ‘I do like fancy, though. Who doesn’t?’

George nodded absentmindedly and Paul directed his attention to the room they were in. Clothing of different colors was hanging from the ceiling, supposedly as a part of the exposition. Groups of people gathered around different sculptures located arbitrarily around the room, or so it seemed to Paul. Pictures hung from the pearly white walls. Paul looked at the pamphlet George had given him earlier.

‘There are five rooms.’ He explained to George, ‘each of them exhibits two artists except for the fifth, which has only one. It says here that one of them is an audiovisual exposition that starts every fifteen minutes.’

George looked at the information on Paul’s hands. ‘Like a film?’

Paul looked dubious, ‘More or less. Usually is just images and words or music, and if it’s good, it should awake some kind of sensation in you.’ Paul could hear George thinking, boredom, for example and added, ‘Doesn’t mean you’ve got to understand whatever the artist may be trying to say, though.’ George made a face and Paul chuckled. ‘C’mon, it’ll be fun !’

‘Good lord, McCartney. We have such different conceptions of the word fun…’ Paul ignored his friend and walked towards one of the sculptures. ‘Wait, I’m going to need another drink.’

Paul studied the abstract figure in front of him and waited for the images and feelings that it should evoke to overcome him, though in vain. He couldn’t focus on the uncanny beauty of it, for the atmosphere was being broken by the rude comments a man in front of him was aiming towards the work. He moved his eyes to said people. They were a pair who were obviously asking for attention: black pants tucked into big leather boots, dark turtleneck sweaters, and heavy-rimmed dark glasses through which they condescendingly inspected the sculpture. One of them, hand on his chin, spat out pompous comments to the short-haired girl at his side, his voice loud for everyone to hear. They were so stereotypical Paul couldn’t suppress a laugh and searched for George to share the joke. Sadly, the lad was nowhere to be seen. Nor near the scran, nor anywhere else in the room. Paul grew curious. Deciding to look for him, he turned around vigorously, and bumped into something. Or someone. When Paul raised his head to apologize, he found a pair of mischievous eyes surveying his own. He found himself face to face with none other than John Lennon. Shite.

‘Alright?’

‘Ye wha?’ The beaut laughed at Paul’s awestruck expression. He could feel how his eyebrows had gone all the way up but couldn’t seem to be able to return them to their original position.

‘You know this guy, John?’ One of the posers asked, ill-mannered, looking at Paul as if he had somehow sullied the scenery.

John took his time before he decided to break eye-contact with Paul, and addressed the man who had spoken. ‘Barely,’ he glanced sideways at Paul and added, ‘seen him once in me life’s long and winding road.’

The gobshite! How dare he? Paul was fuming. Both of them knew that was not true. Even if they hadn’t exactly sought each other out after the awkward fair encounter, he didn’t have to lie about it.

His friend emitted an awfully high-pitched laugh. Addressing John as if Paul was not there: ‘Why bother, then?’

Paul didn’t understand why the man standing by him was acting so rudely, but he did not like it one bit. Looking straight at the other man he muttered a ‘Classy’ and turned away from the arrogant threesome. What am I, a bastard’s magnet? Set on finding George and not wanting to wait until he got upset, he went to the next room.

Without much effort, he spotted his friend touching one of the fabrics hanging from the ceiling.

George waived at him and beckoned him to come over. ‘Where were you?’

‘That’s what I was going to ask,’ Paul humphed. Before George had time to say anything about Paul’s change of mood, he saw John Lennon hurrying towards them.

‘Hey, Paul!’

The man in question rolled his eyes at George, but did not turn. When he felt a hand on his shoulder, he quickly shoved it off. John seemed put off by this. Serves him right.

Only then did John notice Paul had company. ‘Alright, kidder?’

George simply answered with an unimpressed raise of eyebrows, and Paul wanted to hug him.

‘Pri-Paul!’ John let out a nervous laugh, ‘Paul… Don’t listen to Stuart. He can be a proper pretentious arse when he gets to it.’

And you don’t? Paul simply kept on looking coldly at him, hand on his hips.

’Erm… Eh… How are you liking the literary society, George?’

George felt he was being thrown in the middle of a battle he wasn’t privy to. ‘It’s nice.’

Noticing he was not going to get much out of George, who made himself busy caressing the huge, furry, hanging blanket, John tried again with Paul. The second year had decided he would be civil with John, as long as he behaved. After all, he appeared to want to make normal small talk, and Paul wasn’t one to hold grudges. Maybe he wasn’t such a whopper, after all?

‘George told me you can’t make it to the society because you’ve got something else?’

Paul noticed how tense he had been and allowed himself to relax. ‘Yeah, I go to art. I was already on it last year and I like it a lot, so…’

There was a short but uncomfortable silence before John opened his mouth: ‘Well, it’s better that way, we are planning on reading Hannibal next.’

Paul would have laughed. In fact, he was about to. But then he remembered John was not his friend. In fact, the other man hadn’t once been friendly to him. The only thing he aimed for was to mess with him. There go my expectations again . To show he had not succeeded in pissing him off, Paul gave him a strained smile and after some poor excuse, grabbed George by his arm and dragged him towards the next room and, most importantly, away from John.

The rest of the evening Paul pretended to focus on the exhibition, the colourfulness of it helping improve his mood considerably. When George asked ‘What’s the matter with that guy?’ That guy being John, he had just shrugged, as if he did not care.

Paul’s negative opinion of John was only reinforced when, on their way out, they noticed John and his gang of pretender existentialists plainly making fun of one of the paintings. Not only was it extremely impolite, Paul thought, but it was also one of the exposition’s work that had made a great impression on him. We couldn’t be more different.

Nov. 27

Dear Mr. Walrus,

You already know I love your poems and drawings. They make me laugh. They made me laugh again today when I certainly needed it. I think (I may be doing a tremendous mistake by telling you this) that you are fairly talented: you write poems, you draw, you play music… Anyone would say you are a nineteenth century upper-class lady! And an accomplished one, I must admit.

I’m just taking the mickey of course, because I enjoy doing all those activities, too. I wouldn’t say I’m a good poet, though. I think I’ll leave that to you.

The actual reason why I’m writing you although I don’t need one is to vent about what happened to me today. Mainly I want to reassure myself that I’m not overreacting.

Okay. I don’t want to give details for obvious reasons so I’ll try to explain this as well as I’m able.

This evening, a friend of mine and I attended a very sophisticated social gathering. I was very much looking forward to it because I appreciate some aged mescal accompanied by good caviar. I was enjoying myself when, at some point of the soirée, I misplaced my escort. Finding myself alone but not entirely disenchanted with the idea of solitary exploration, I seized the opportunity and decided to launch on an enterprise of studying my surroundings. Imagine my surprise when I found myself face to face with the most fearsome of my enemies! What could I do? I was unaccompanied while he was protected by his crew of pompous posers. They surrounded me… Now, you must know I’m not one for confrontations, and I much prefer a placating strategy when it comes to it, but I just couldn’t muster the strength. Therefore, when I felt my dignity was threatened, I silently retired. Nevertheless, I had not foreseen that my archenemy would follow me, infiltrate  my territory and wait huddled till I was safe and vulnerable to attack. What a powder wetting swine! (This is from a pirate insults generator app. Very useful, you should get it.)

I know it sounds like I’m joking here, and I am. But what happened today really got to me and that pisses me off. I don’t want to react this way because I know that it’s what he wants, but I can’t control it. You know how it goes, emotions and stuff. It’s just that I had known this person before, and he seemed like such a nice guy. Someone I could really get along with. I mean, I didn’t really ‘know him’, but I saw him almost every day. And I guess I filled my head with preconceived notions about who he was and what we could be friend-wise . Of course, it all came to nothing when I actually met him and he was a great blert. I guess it’s my fault for having my head in the clouds.

I hope you enjoyed this (juicy? not really) gossip. I have a feeling you will, because you seem like the kind of person who would read Ok! Magazine (online) and make fun of every new article about the next Eurovision contestant.

Nice talking to you, Mr. Walrus. A great listener, as always. Cheers!

Yours faithfully,

Dragonfly, xxx

John finished the letter, the lump in his throat growing larger with every word. He lowered the inappropriately sunny yellow paper and looked into nothingness; it felt cold in his hands. His brain was screaming at him and he didn’t want to listen. After what seemed like a long time but was only seconds, he got up from his bed. His heart was pounding in his chest, ever so strong. Hesitating, he moved towards his bookshelf and ponderously reached for a certain novel he’d cherished ever since he was a wide-eyed kid. The Cheshire cat smirked from its perch on the cover, daring him to open the book. He did. Paul’s little note stood out from the ivory page. John diverted his gaze to the letter in his left hand to find the same neat handwriting, laughing at him.

Chapter Text

The next letter Paul received was full of profanities aimed at that manky tit of a man who dared be an insufferable arsehole to the “uttermost gifted dragonfly to ever charm the face of the earth.” John had made an excellent job of writing an essay that attacked the character of John Lennon while making Mr. Walrus appear sweetly engaging.

After that, more letters followed, and none of them were about their book assignments anymore. They wrote about poetry, music, nature… Dragonfly told Mr. Walrus how, when he was a kid, he would go to the forest near his house all alone to birdwatch, how today he still had dreams of having a farm, in the middle of nowhere, full of animals to take care of. John smiled and thought about the boy of honest eyes and finely chiselled features, sitting behind a table full of animal rights’ pamphlets at the Fresher’s Fair. And soon that smile faded, because he realised how idiotic it was to make fun of something that meant so much to someone you cared about. When he thought about the way he felt about Paul, he could feel his heartbeat speed its rhythm. When he thought about the opinion Paul had of John Lennon, he felt it heavy in his throat.

But John was never one to pass up a challenge, and he needed to make Paul feel for John at least a half of what he felt for him. Talking to each other could be as easy as breathing, as easy as it had been for weeks through pen and paper, if only John could make Paul see that.

They had been exchanging letters regularly for two months already, but the last time John had talked to Paul in person was two weeks ago, when he apologised (apologised!) to him for stepping on him on the tube. They still bumped into each other occasionally, although much less frequently now that both of them were making a point of avoiding the other. Well, this hide and seek game is over. John knew (hoped, feared) that any day now Paul would want to meet up with Mr. Walrus. He also knew that, as things were between John Lennon and Paul McCartney, Paul would not take very kindly to him being Mr. Walrus. John would go straight to the top of Paul’s blacklist, because let’s face it, Paul most likely had a blacklist.

John was pacing up and down the far end of Russell Square station, glancing nervously towards the entry every two seconds, hoping to catch a glimpse of Paul’s dark hair. He had been waiting for him at least twenty minutes, and he did not like waiting. The toasted smell of the pair of teas in his hands was starting to fade, as well as its warmness. When he was about to give up, he heard the smooth, mellow tone of Paul’s laughter. He looked up and discovered, unfortunately for him, that Paul was escorted by George. Or as John had grown accustomed to call him in the society, Noo-Noo, the vacuum cleaner. Not one plate was ever left with food when he was around.

Now or never, John marched straight towards the couple.

‘Hey John!’ George waved at him warmly, which made everything else that much easier, and John could have kissed him. If he wasn’t already so invested in kissing the person next to him, that is.

‘Hi Noo-Noo.’ John saw the questioning look Paul directed towards George, ‘Paul.’

Paul’s eyes moved to his and John’s hand shook a little when he offered him one of the teas, because I know so much about you and I love every single bit of it . Paul was puzzled but took the paper cup gingerly.

‘Erm…’ John adjusted his scarf, ‘I knew you had to catch the train because we always meet on Tuesdays, so I just thought I’d get one for you too.’

Paul looked at him suspiciously, but thanked him.

‘I know I haven’t been very nice to you.’ John started. ‘I swear it wasn’t on purpose, I’m just awful at interacting with other human beings,’ George interrupted him to back that information up, ‘and I thought, as we seem to keep bumping into each other, why not try and be civil. We may discover we like each other. Or we may not, but in any case, it’ll be more entertaining having someone to talk to while we travel from one moment of our important lives to another. It’s lost time, anyway.’

To John’s surprise, Paul smiled.

‘Isn’t the journey itself more important than the destination?’ he asked, sipping at the tea to hide his shit-eating grin. ‘This tea is cold.’ Paul said, matter-of-factly.

John would never admit to having blushed, ‘Yeah, I’ve been waiting for some time.’

Paul blinked rapidly, while George kept looking from one another, as if he were watching a tennis match. He wished he had pop-corn.

‘Well, it’s okay. I appreciate it.’ They headed towards their train as he added, ‘Green tea is my favourite.’ John almost let out an I know. Thankfully, he caught himself in time.

John had planned on sitting on the other side of George, because he could feel Paul still didn’t trust him, and because he was a coward. As if to self-check his uneasiness, he passed a jerky hand across his forehead. It was damp with sweat. However, his little scheme failed when George maneuvered himself to one end, and somehow John wound up sitting between the two better friends. Paul put his bag between his legs and sipped from the tea, and John smiled despite himself. He studied Paul’s full, moist lips as he drank from the paper cup. Never before had John felt so jealous of an inanimate object.

‘Ahem!’ George roused John from his reverie. When John turned to look at him venomously he encountered George’s gotcha! grin. ‘Why, John. Didn’t you bring me a nice cup of tea? I thought we were friends.’ The kid leaned toward John while moving his wormy eyebrows.

‘Of course, and a couple of carrot cupcakes too.’ John put his hand on George’s face and pushed him away, ‘Besides, I didn’t know you’d be here. Although, now that I think about it, it wouldn't have rustled any more change from my pocket, because I still wouldn’t have gotten you anything.’ George looked mock-hurt. ‘And we’re friend-ly Noo-Noo, different things.’

Paul let out a giggle and John turned to smile at him but then Paul said, ‘You’ve been friendly? Well, thank God for that! Who would’ve said?’

‘I know you think I’m an arsehole-‘

‘I do.’ Paul looked at him straight in the eye; John’s tongue seemed unable to articulate what he wanted and he felt his lips tremble a little. Thankfully, Paul seemed to take pity on him and smiled, expressing that there were no hard feelings.

‘I understand, I did act like a prick, but I’m not actually. Well, I am a little. But a nice, charming prick.’

Paul chuckled again, ‘Is that your go to pick up line?’

Letting out an uncomfortable laugh, John ignored the comment. ‘Can we start from zero?’

‘I’m not going to overlook what has happened between us, John. But I’m willing to give you and your witty remarks another chance.’ recited Paul with melodramatic gravity. John, playing the part, threw himself on his knees and thanked Paul’s grace and mercifulness towards him. The rest of the passengers, already used to the types of eccentricities regularly witnessed on the tube, observed them unapologetically but apathetically before refocusing on the grimy floor below them. George, however, was drawn to it as if it were a particularly good rendition of a Shakespeare play and, for the second time that afternoon, he wished he had brought a snack to enjoy it better. John was in the process of grabbing Paul’s hands and making to kiss them when George had an idea, and decided to butt in.

‘Eh, John!’ The two men seemed to recall George was there and turned their attention to him. ‘Paul and I are playing for the UCL Christmas show. It’s in a couple of weeks, the twenty-second, I think.’ Paul’s eyes grew wide with panic and he started to move his hands frantically, trying to communicate something to George that he decided to ignore. ‘Why don’t you come?’

John laid his eyes on Paul, who tried to appear casual. A wicked smile crept its way onto John’s face, ‘Of course I’ll be there, Georgie. How could I not?’ He leaned back into his seat while Paul fidgeted beside him.

As per John’s olive branch (green tea) speech, John and Paul began to deliberately find each other on the tube and, to Paul’s surprise and John’s relief they got on quite well. At first, they talked about neutral topics; the weather, George, John’s extravagant tea preference (banana pineapple bubble tea, which after one try quickly became Paul’s favourite as well)… Then, one day, John decided to call Paul out on his abuse of flashy colour outfits, which Paul considered very tasteful but John declared had made him even blinder than before. The next day Paul arrived sporting a purple Shakespeare t-shirt consisting of the writer’s face wearing some very stylish pink shades above Hamlet’s ‘Oh, I am slain’, a warm patterned cardigan  over it, yellow jeans, red converse and his Starry Night tote bag. He left the lime green overcoat at home in favor of something warmer, but only just. John knew it was all on purpose because yellow and violet of that intensity should never get together, but the laugh he had was therapeutic and he couldn’t stop looking at Paul and smiling. He is so daft and so fucking cute.

On another grey afternoon, Paul waited for John at the tube entry with two travel mugs filled with homemade banana pineapple tea. It was their last day of class for the semester and John hoped Paul felt as sorry as he did at the prospect of not seeing him every day, at least for a little while. He approached him and grabbed the offered cup, smiling at the thought of Paul spending time making something for him.

‘How are you enjoying this fine day, Mr. McCartney?’

Paul moved his hand to scratch his nose as he chuckled. ‘Last day of freedom, you mean? Now we’ll have to spend our precious christmas break doing essays.’ Paul said this last word as if all the evil of the universe was hidden in the content of his words.

They sat on one of the first cars of the train, leaving uni behind for the last time that calendar year. For class, at least. John was still planning on going to see Paul at the Christmas concert. A couple of weeks ago, he would have told you a university concert was the last place he would want to be three days before Christmas. But now he couldn’t wait to hear Paul singing. He hoped he would play one of his original songs, although he knew he couldn’t ask that of him as John Lennon. He wondered why Paul hadn’t told Mr. Walrus about the recital.

‘Now, don’t tell me you’re going to start with your essays already! They’re due February for Christ’s sake, Macca.’

Paul smiled at the pet name. ‘Of course, you wouldn’t start your assignments until the last moment. I bet you don’t even do your formatives.’

John spread his arms widely, ‘Duh! They’re formative, not imperative , of course I don’t do them.’ Then he proceeded to take a sip of the most disgusting beverage ever drunk by a human being. He swallowed, ignoring the urge to gag, and smiled up at Paul. John drank again, keeping his eyes on Paul’s.

‘You like it, then?’ John nodded so hard his neck cracked. Paul snorted and took a sip of his own. Immediately, he went green. ‘This is the most nauseating thing I’ve ever tasted!’ He started to laugh uncontrollably. ‘How could you? Oh my God, you are such a liar!’ John joined his laughing fit.

‘I didn’t want to offend you,’ John noticed the tears falling from Paul’s eyes and couldn’t stop himself. He reached out and ran his thumb across his cheek. Paul’s mouth went agape, while John’s felt suddenly dry. His hand had moved without giving his brain time to process the information. And it seemed to be doing so again when he put the tea of horror up to his mouth and gulped without thinking. When he realised what he had done, it was too late. The horrendous concoction impregnated his tongue and he started pulling all kinds of faces to cope with the taste. Thankfully, Paul’s infectious laughter sparked off again and John followed suit, having mixed feelings about his spontaneously intimate gesture being dutifully ignored.

The journey felt shorter than usual. Soon they were at their stop and John couldn’t find it in his heart to part from Paul just yet. ‘Have you got anything to do, now?’ John asked while Paul dug in his pockets trying to get his Oyster out.

‘Erm… Sorry,’ Paul answered distractedly while passing the barriers, ‘what did you say? Right now?’

John nodded before following Paul towards the stairs with resignation.

‘I was planning on doing nothing really. Why?’

‘Maybe we could do nothing together?’ Paul raised his eyebrows at John, his eyes looking pure green as they stepped outside and the little sun that filtered through the cloudy sky fell on them. ‘I mean, go for a real tea, maybe. Or just walk about…’

Paul’s lips curved into a sly smile, ‘that would be doing something , wouldn’t it?’

John merely rolled his eyes because, really? Paul let out a boyish chuckle, ‘I like the walk idea.’

John placed both his and Paul’s travel mugs inside his backpack and they set off towards an unknown destination. The air was biting cold, but Paul and John did not seem to notice the bleak weather as they strolled side by side, talking about everything and nothing. They did notice the fresh smell of the ever present rain, the woodsy perfume of damp trees as they passed by, and the warm, inviting aroma of the corner’s patisserie. The vibrations of the busy city were only a back beat to Paul’s voice melody. John was captivated. And if he had stopped to look at Paul’s reactions to his words, he would have easily guessed he was too. However, John was too busy studying the way Paul interacted with his surroundings like a figure in a painting. What John had always regarded as dull and grey felt lively and colourful when experienced with Paul by his side.  

Sadly, while John’s heart was jumping gleefully at the sight of the man beside him, his body was starting to surrender to the forces of nature. He was sure his toes had frozen an hour ago and his feet hurt like hell every time he took a step. He glanced at Paul and wondered how on earth he wasn’t limping too. Paul caught his eyes and John realised he had asked something.

‘Sorry?’ John asked while blowing at his hands, in an attempt to warm them up a little.

‘I said you look cold. Do you want us to go in there?’ Paul pointed with his head at a small book shop on the other side of the road. A warm and cozy air seemed to envelop it. It was one of the only shops still open, apart from a couple of independent cafés. They crossed the street and went to enter by the dimly illuminated window, but Paul touched John’s arm to get his attention.

‘Why don’t you go in first and get warm? I’ll be right in.’ John’s eyebrows knitted together in confusion, but he nodded and went through the door. He wasn’t going to argue when he was about to become Frosty the Madman.

The little bell on top of the door tingled when he closed it, and a pleasant atmosphere engulfed him. An old lady welcomed him from behind the counter and told him all the books were second-hand, that he could look around as much as he liked and ask her if he had any problem. John thanked her and went straight to the classics, looking for nothing in particular but well aware of his interests. The familiar scent of worn paper filled his nostrils and soon he was immersed in the pages of the most precious literary gems.

He was going through an old edition of Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse, when he heard the door jingle again. He turned around to see Paul animatedly greeting the bookseller. After a couple of pleasantries, most of them regarding the weather, Paul turned towards John and let his face settle into an easy smile. John noticed the paper cup he was carrying.

‘What’s tha’?’ John moved his hand towards the sweet-smelling beverage. Paul held it up for him to take.

‘It’s for you.’ Paul said. John had a startled look in his eyes and Paul hoped it wasn’t obvious he had blushed a little. ‘You looked really cold and I know this place just around the corner. They have the most delicious Spanish hot chocolate.’ Paul pointed at the cup. ‘I reckon you could do with a hot drink to help you warm up?’

John beamed at the attention; he sipped from the chocolate. It was thick and smooth. The bitter flavour of cocoa slowly filling his mouth. ‘So this is what chocolate really tastes like?’

Paul laughed at John’s remark and nodded. ‘Yeah, nothing compared to our usual unflavored hot cocoa.’ Paul was still smiling and John couldn’t tear his eyes away from him. His face was flushed from the cold, his little nose bright red. They were standing close and for the first time John noticed Paul’s little freckles scattered around his nose and his neck. His eyes were wide and clear, exaggerated by dark eyelashes. His head was protected by a silly-looking green hat, although some of his tangled, dark strands of hair escaped from under it and rested on his forehead and collar. John then lowered his eyes at his full, pink lips. Paul parted them slightly and John mimicked the action. His eyes snapped up and found Paul studying him, the other man swallowed and John couldn’t help thinking how much he would like to kiss that neck. But he couldn’t. Instead, he turned towards the shelf and grabbed the first book he saw.

Paul seemed to recover quickly and pointed at the book in John’s hand. ‘Do you like Jane Austen?’

Surprised at the question, John looked down at the book that read Persuasion . He smirked to himself. Show time .

‘Yeah, I do.’ John said. ‘She’s that kind of author I keep going back to, you know?’ Paul looked at him in amazement. ‘Although my favourite is Pride and Prejudice .’

Paul yelled and jumped excitedly, ‘No shit! Mine too!’ John’s lips formed a smug smile. ‘I mean, it’s not my absolute favourite, but one of them for sure.’

John opened the book and saw it had a cute little inscription on the first page. Mary, I hope this story will bring you as much joy as it brought me. Without a second thought, he walked over to the old lady and payed for the book. She smiled sweetly at him and wished him a good time reading it. Paul was still looking at him when John went back to him and gave him the novel.

‘As a thanks for a great evening, and a rollercoaster of new gustatory sensations by your excellent knowledge of worldly drinks.’ Paul giggled and thanked him while he stored his new book in his tote bag. They kept looking through the shelves simply because neither of them felt like going home just yet. They talked about every book that came across their path, and John noticed how Paul’s face became more open and excited with every word he said. However, John’s own mouth went still with fright when his friend uttered one dreaded question.

‘Hey, are you participating in this letter exchange thingy from your society?’

Fuck, what do I do now? Think, quick! John thought quickly. Should he tell Paul the truth and blow his cover? He felt Paul wouldn’t appreciate the way he had been using his knowledge to woo him as a friend or otherwise, and before he could think much about it, a ‘No,’ escaped his lips. John cleared his throat, ‘Not really. Ehm… I’m one of the organizers so I couldn’t participate even if I wanted to.’

Paul uttered a small ‘oh’ and John would like to think he looked disappointed. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Nothing.’ Paul said. ‘It’s just, my friend George signed me up, so I’m doing it. You probably know that if you organized it.’ John made a great show of denying any knowledge about such a thing and being surprised that Paul was participating in it. He explained that Ringo, his friend, took care of that part. Paul laughed it off. ‘Oh, it’s a shame… Y’know, I thought that maybe you could tell me a little about Mr. Walrus.’

John’s eyes twinkled mischievously, ‘Mr Walrus? Is that your pen pal’s alias? What could it mean…?’

‘Obviously, it’s from Alice.’ Paul answered while touching the side of his delicate nose.

‘Obviously.’ John followed Paul towards the exit, waving goodbye to the lady behind the counter. ‘But it has to mean something, doesn’t it?’

Paul glanced at him inquisitively.

‘I mean, could be, for example, that he’s as fat as a walrus?’ John mused.

Paul looked amused but decided not answer John’s provocations.

‘Or that his teeth are big and yellow!’ John let out a shrieking laugh. He wouldn’t stop now that he got himself going…

‘Maybe it’s because his breath smells even worse.’ Paul chipped in, and soon they were both crying, competing to see who could come up with the biggest nonsense.

They stopped at the last corner before their journeys home diverged. Paul wiped away a tear with the back of his hand, ‘They’re great, y’know. Mr. Walrus. We get on really well; we’re very similar but different at the same time. I don’t know if I’m explaining myself.’ He laughed at his own babbling and John smiled up at him.

‘Why don’t you ask whoever it is to meet, then?’ John proceeded to get the travel mugs out and give them back to Paul.

‘What? In real life?’ Paul looked as if he had asked him to do all his semester’s coursework in a night.

John rolled his eyes, ‘No, in Sims. Of course in real life, Macca!’

Paul fidgeted with his scarf. ‘I don’t know. What if I don’t like them?’ Paul’s eyes grew wider, ‘What if they don’t like me?’

John raised an eyebrow at him because really. ‘Who’s not going to like you, Paul?’

Paul lowered his gaze at his feet, coyly. ‘A lot of people, John.’

‘You should ask him to meet you after the Christmas concert. I think it’s a good idea. I mean, you can’t spend all of your lives sending letters to each other.’

‘Who says we can’t?’ Paul shifted his weight from one foot to the other uncomfortably. ‘But, y’know, you’re right. I do want to meet this person. I’m just a little scared it won’t turn out to be as I imagined. I tend to blow things out of proportion.’ Paul bit his lip. ‘But I’ll do it. Otherwise I’ll never know what it could have been.’ He then seemed to remember John was standing in front of him. ‘Will you come to the concert?’

John smirked, ‘I thought you didn’t want me to go?’

Paul eyed him mock-fiendishly.

‘Of course I'll be there, I wouldn’t miss it. And I want to see you next morning so you can tell me everything about the Mr. Walrus fiasco.’

‘Thanks for the encouragement.’ but Paul was grinning.  John smiled and Paul’s phone buzzed. ‘It’s George, reminding me to buy some pizzas because there’s no food at home. Mainly his fault, if I must say. Why do I feel like I’m his mam?’ Paul raised his eyes at the sky and sighed dramatically. ‘See you on Monday?’

‘Right-o.’ John stayed on the corner until Paul’s silhouette disappeared into the night.

Chapter Text

John couldn’t believe himself. He couldn’t believe he was taking flowers to Paul, even if “flowers” meant two daisies joined by a single stem he had plucked from a park on the way. It had crossed his mind to go to a florist for an actual bouquet, but in the end, he had settled on something simpler, which he knew Paul would appreciate more.

He was on his way to the campus; late, as per usual. He had wanted to be there early so he could talk to Paul before the concert started. Instead, he seemed to be training for the next Olympic race walking, and it was plain to see he would never qualify to compete. His phone was buzzing non-stop, but John did not have time to look at it. It was probably Ringo, as they had agreed to meet at the doors of the Pavilion. Twenty minutes ago.

John felt the dampness of sweat beneath his coat. His steps were quick and firm, as if he feared what would happen if he stopped his forward motion. Unconsciously, he moved his hand to his chest pocket, feeling for the letter he knew was there. He reached inside and caressed the smooth paper with the tips of his fingers, thinking of Paul’s practised, grammar-school handwriting. He forced a deep breath, allowing his lungs to fill with air and form the sigh that escaped his lips.

I’ve given this plenty of thought and, after convincing myself it is unlikely you are a serial killer, I think we should meet. Would you like to? I think it’s a nice idea, since we get along so well, on paper anyway. Whatever you decide, I’ll be waiting at the back entrance of the Pavilion, under the almond tree, 8 pm this Friday. If you decide not to come, I’ll understand, and it’ll be more than fine if you simply want to keep on with the correspondence. I’ll rather do that than miss someone like you.

Surprisingly, John did not feel as nervous as he thought he would be. He was ready to let go of Mr Walrus and be pure Lennon to Paul’s eyes. Naturally, he wasn’t sure how Paul would react, but he was eager to get this double identity off his shoulders. He had really only been keeping it from Paul, but it had been enough. How did Batman do it? No wonder he was batty.

By the time he reached the Pavilion, he was panting. Holding the flower delicately and observing the beginnings of a wilting process, he marched towards Ringo, who looked resigned. John opened his mouth to plead his case but Ringo raised a hand.

‘Save it, John.’ They set off towards the auditorium. ‘I’ve heard every single one of your excuses and to be honest, they’re deteriorating. I think second year was your peak, narratively. ’  

‘Well, maybe it’s my audience that’s gotten worse over time!’ John said. Ringo’s clear eyes sparkled with amusement.

‘How’s it my fault?’ Ringo demanded, mock-hurt.

‘Everything is your fault.’ John deadpanned, and Ringo rolled his eyes. They passed by a group of first years sporting Santa Claus hats and deer antler headbands. John snickered.

‘I don’t need to defend myself against your unfounded accusations when it was me waiting out in the cold for half an hour!’ Ringo countered as he waved at one of the girls of the group, ‘Why do I put up with you?’

John raised an eyebrow at him. ‘You’d be bored without me .’

‘You may have hit the head on the nail with that one.’

John didn’t comment on what was one of several of Ringo’s every day’s verbal idiosyncrasies. Instead, he decided to tease Ringo about other things. ‘Besides, I can’t believe you’re friends with someone who thinks wearing deer antlers around Christmas is cool.’

‘Well, you wore all green on St. Patrick’s Day while claiming colour blindness in order to pinch everyone else. My bar just isn’t very high.’ observed Ringo, affecting a practised even tone.

John cracked a smile. ‘I asked for that.’

The hall had been dutifully decorated with Christmassy colours. Glittery garlands were hanging from the ceiling; the familiar smell of mince pie blending with that of sweet red wine, a little snack for after the show.

To their surprise, the auditorium was quite full; there were other students, probably friends of the performers, but mostly families waiting to see their children. There were also some elderly couples, happy to spend their evening watching a free performance. John and Ringo moved carefully through the dimly illuminated aisles until they found a couple of free seats marked by a pamphlet each. They were on the left side of the theatre, but close enough to the stage that John had a perfect view of the piece of lettuce stuck to the front tooth of the girl singing ‘Amazing Grace’.

Ringo fished under his butt for the programme he had accidentally sat on. John peered over Ringo’s shoulder looking for Paul’s name, without much luck.

‘It must be this one.’ Ringo signalled to one of the last acts.

Molly Bloom ______________________________________‘Little Lamb Dragonfly’ by Bernard Webb

John smiled at the name of the group, no doubt Paul’s idea, to which George had probably agreed to right away if it meant not hearing Paul rant about its deep and clever significance.

‘Bernard Webb?’ John simply shrugged and took the programme from Ringo. I’m going to keep this, thank you very much. As he tucked it into his breast pocket, the university’s chamber choir started to sing.

Going through the hills on a night all starry, on the way to Beth-le-hem!

Sweet mother of God, kill me now . John sank back into the seat, the most distressed look on his face. Ringo simply laughed, taking in John’s suffering. ‘Well, it is Christmas.’

John crossed his arms and pouted, ‘I hate Christmas.’

Ringo made an unsympathetic sound, ‘You don’t mean that.’ John kept on pouting. ‘Here,’ Ringo took his phone out, ‘I’ll let you play with my Clash of Clans if you promise to behave.’ John quickly unsunk from his seat to grab the phone, letting out a high-pitched ‘yippee’ that earned him more than one look.

John pinched Ringo’s nose, ‘Thank you, Richard. You’re my hero.’

‘Just shut up, please.’

Various performers came and went while John kept busy robbing villages. He was about to tell one of Ringo’s clan mates to get their shit together, fkn noob, when his friend elbowed him in the ribs. John’s eyes snapped off the phone.

The stage was empty.

Someone had placed three maple wood stools in the very centre of the set. White spotlights illuminated them. The audience around him had started to clap and he looked to one side to see Paul, George and a familiar looking girl walking towards the seats carrying their instruments. George and the girl both had acoustic guitars, George’s a little worn out. Paul held an old-fashioned violin-shaped bass by its neck. He plugged it into an amp and sat at the left of the girl, who was in the middle. George took the remaining spot. They fidgeted a little with their instruments, and Paul got hold of the mic.

‘Erm… uh… Good--good evening, everyone.’ There was some cheering from a group some rows behind John and Ringo. Paul’s friends, if the ‘Go Vegan!’ shirts were anything to go by. ‘Er, thank you. Now, we’d like to play an original song.’ The audience whispers which had been steadily rising stopped, and John felt the whole world was silent.

‘It’s called “Little Lamb Dragonfly.”’ As if on cue, the two guitars started with a riff. A few bars later, Paul’s bass joined in, clear and rich. Everyone in the room was captivated when the trio started singing, the girl’s soprano harmonising beautifully over Paul and George’s voices. John felt an impulse to shout ‘accio guitar!’ and jump to the stage and join them. Somehow managed to be whimsical while maintaining a sturdy beat.

The blond girl kept rhythm while Noo-Noo took the opportunity to play lead with just the right amount of flourish. Ringo and John looked at each other: the kid could play . Together with Paul’s melodic bass line, the sound was bright and full.

John knew he had well and truly fallen (as if it wasn’t clear from the moment he laid eyes on the man) when they finished with the Little Lamb segment and started on Dragonfly. Paul was singing on his own, strong against the counter melody of his bass. His voice was high and lively at first, but at the end of every verse, it went low and throaty with deep, smooth notes that went straight to John’s gut. He would not, could not, move a finger, for fear of distracting himself away from the cadence of Paul’s mellow voice. As mesmerised as he was, when the song reached its middle eight, John couldn't help smirking. Paul had shut his eyes and was singing the part with an intensity John couldn’t help being suspicious of his sincerity. But he charmed the pants off the whole audience anyway, himself included.

Dragonfly,

fly by my window

Paul’s eyes wandered through the crowd, his hands never failing a note. When hazel met brown, Paul’s lips curled into a smile that was so genuine it filled John with warmth. John kept eye contact, trying to communicate something to Paul. Did you think I wouldn’t come? or I’ve never felt this way about anyone before . He wasn’t too sure. Whatever it was, Paul must have understood because his smile grew wider and he forgot to sing his next bit. John chuckled.

Unexpectedly, the trio stopped playing and encouraged the public to join them in a little sing-along. John had to roll his eyes, because that was so Paul.

Inevitably, he put up his hands and found himself clapping along with the continuous ‘la la la’s’.

By the time the song had finished, they were all standing. John whooped together with Ringo and the veggie crowd behind them. Perhaps it didn’t matter if Paul played up the anguished emotion for a show, because he put on a fucking show . John wasn’t sure if it was the words or the music or the audience he was feeling, but the smile on Paul’s face was genuine. And he felt himself mirroring it.

John felt Ringo poke at his ribs for the second time that night. John sent him a murderous glare: how dare he rouse him from his reverence? Ringo pointed at the stage with a ringed finger.

It seemed Paul’s band was preparing to do another number. The first thing John noticed was George, who was sporting a Santa hat alongside the most venomous look. The feeling of discomfort that his whole body emanated was remarkably undiminished by the ridiculous outfit he had been (unmistakably) forced to wear. His gaze then fell upon Paul.

‘What did you say about deer antlers headbands?’

John knew Ringo was taking the piss out of him, but Paul’s deer headband had a red and blue rattle that shook when he bobbed his head, and he looked like such a goof. Jesus Christ . Death had warmed over.

‘I love deer headbands.’

It’s the most wonderful time of the year,

‘I love Christmas.’

After the show, Ringo and John found George and Paul chatting with some friends backstage. Noticing their arrival, Paul trotted over to them.

He went straight for John. ‘So?’

‘So what?’ John watched Paul mischievously, before moving to stand closer to him. His eyes followed a drop of sweat roll down his neck.

‘What did you think of our performance?’

Absently, John raised his eyes to find Paul’s half-closed but intent on him. ‘It was okay, I guess.’

Paul deflated. ‘Seriously?’ he asked with disbelief. John simply smirked.

‘Don’t listen to him, he was dazzled by your voice.’ Ringo intervened. Paul seemed to shake himself before turning towards him.

‘Sorry, I don’t think we’ve met,’ Paul offered his hand, charming smile on full force. ‘I’m Paul. And you must be Ringo.’ Ringo took his hand, nodding.

‘Yeah. Don’t believe anything John told you about me.’ Paul shook his head in amusement, strands of silky, black hair falling on his eyes. He raised a hand to remove them, and John followed the movements of his long fingers. He couldn’t tear his eyes away, even when George appeared beside him and gave him a friendly pat on the back.

‘Don’t worry. I think I know when he’s trying to be funny.’ John was about to retort, keen on a battle of sharp tongues. A battle of tongues… fuck . He controlled himself, deciding that if he wanted Mr Walrus to stand any chance of anything, he would have to be on Paul’s good side tonight. And he didn’t think Paul would take very kindly to a spat right this second, even a light one.

‘Hey, Macca.’ The three men turned their attention to John. George muttered under his breath about how unacceptable it was that his nickname was Noo-Noo while Paul’s was just Macca. John moved his face closer to Paul’s, ‘Why don’t you fly by my window, some time?’ He waggled his eyebrows under Paul’s impassive stare. He was hoping for a better reaction, if he was honest. The other two snorted fondly.

‘Excuse us for a moment.’ Paul grabbed John’s arm hard and dragged him away, much to George and Ringo’s astonishment.

‘Paulie, darling, I don’t think this is the best pl-‘

‘I asked Mr Walrus to meet me here.’

John blinked, confused.

Paul looked around anxiously. ‘You… Remember what I told you, about Mr Walrus?’

‘Yeah, yeah. Of course.’ John followed Paul’s gaze, which had come around to himself. He squinted slightly, his expression unreadable. Enjoying playing the part of the clueless friend, he lowered his voice.  ‘Do you think they might be here somewhere?’

Sighing, Paul tilted his head away. ‘I don’t think so, I asked them to come in about half an hour, but who knows.’ He crossed his arms and made a face. ‘I’m a little nervous.’

‘Ey, Macca.’ John grabbed Paul’s upper arms to make him look at him. ’Believe me, you have no reason to be nervous.’ Paul did not seem very convinced. ‘Wait here.’

Hastily, John went over to Ringo and whispered something in his ear. Ringo nodded and gave John the daisies.

Immediately, John went back to where Paul was waiting restlessly, biting his bottom lip. ‘What’s that?’ he asked right away, pointing at the flowers in John’s hand.

John scratched his head, trying to play down the fact that he was about to give flowers to another human being. To Paul. In that moment, he wished he had bought a bouquet of roses. Yellow, maybe, for friendship and sunny congratulations. Something that did not look as if you had been thinking about it at length. Something less personal. Suddenly, a daisy picked at the park seemed awfully romantic, like giving too much away. These daisies laid bare the truth that, if Paul turned him down in half an hour, he would not walk away unscathed.

He held the offending flowers out for Paul to take.

Paul blinked, his nose twitched with confusion. He reached out, ‘Is this…?’ John nodded. ‘Thank you, John.’ A soft smile made its way up to Paul’s lips while he studied the details of the now quite wilted bit of green. John could see thoughts pass through his eyes, too quick to recognise.

‘I wish I hadn’t been an arsehole to you that day at the Fair.’ An empty laugh escaped John’s lips. ‘I wouldn’t have to be worrying about someone named after a pinniped mammal.’

Paul smiled softly. ‘John…’ Paul closed the little space left between them and put his arms around John, burying his face into his neck. John rested his hands on Paul’s waist. He could smell the fresh, woodsy scent of his smooth, thick hair. It took all his willpower not to confess who he was right there and then. He moved away from Paul’s embrace, his whole body protesting its removal from the warm source of all his sorrows. Paul made a little sound of disapproval.

‘Now,’ John searched Paul’s face. ‘You better get going. You don’t want to be late for your date.’

‘No,’  Paul delivered a sad smile, ‘I guess not.’ He was hugging himself, his right hand moving up and down his arm. ‘When will I see you?’

‘Why, tomorrow, of course!’ answered John, with a grin that threatened to turn grim. ’You’ll have to tell me all about the encounter, remember?’

‘Right.’

John fidgeted. Reluctantly, Paul started to walk away.

‘Paul!’ Paul turned around, a spark of hope in his eyes. ‘Don’t be disappointed when they turn out to be a geeky weirdo.’

Paul rolled his eyes, ‘I like geeky weirdos,’ and went outside, daisies in hand.

When John stepped outside the building, he was welcomed by the cold winter air.

He walked with light steps. Looking around the deserted campus, he let the faint breeze whistle his uncertainty away. He felt oddly sad his double-identity adventure was about to end. He would have felt like a gothic novel hero if it were not for Paul, who by dint of existing next to John, somehow refashioned the story Austen romantic. At the same time, he could not wait for their next major plot point.

He was fast approaching the staircase where Paul was waiting, who stood at the top under the almond tree. The pale, white moonlight filtered through the poor number of leaves that still survived on its branches.

Paul hadn’t noticed John yet. His face was in profile, head tilted slightly down, hands clasped together. John marvelled at such dramatic irony; he almost envied Paul’s ignorance, but he was also secretly pleased to be the source of the unknown. John moved towards him, and the sound of his footsteps against campus concrete made Paul raise his eyes.

When they found ‘Mr. Walrus,’ Paul remained stoic. John did not know what was going through his head. He kept walking. When he reached the stairs, he climbed the first step, then halted.

Paul descended the staircase, stopping one step higher than John. A bright laugh escaped his lips. ‘Did you bring me flowers?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Flowers.’ Paul raised his left hand, showing him the daisies. ‘My friend John brought me some.’ He smiled. Not giving John the chance to answer, he moved down and to John’s left, meeting him on his step, aligning their toes. ‘I wanted it to be you.’

John lifted his hand to Paul’s neck, his thumb caressing his cheek.

‘I’m so happy it was you.’