Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Blue Hawaii. Something in the name spoke of promise. It sounded fun, original. And his mates thought it would be an interesting spot—a place epitomizing their friend’s interests.

But John inevitably hated it.

“What the fuck is this?” His sharp nose wrinkled in disgust.

Stuart turned to face his girlfriend, Astrid, in the backseat with a torn expression. He spared a glance to Ringo in hopes either of the two could clarify the reaction. John continued to stare out the window.

“Are…are you serious?” Stu tried. John was hardly new to masking excitement with criticism.  

“You’ve been planning my birthday for two weeks, and this is what came of it?” He blindly tossed a hand toward the restaurant. His head soon followed similarly. “A middle finger with a bow wrapped ‘round it would’ve felt like less of a kick to the crotch.”

“I told you he wouldn’t like it,” Ringo interjected, an all-knowing lilt to his tone.

John wanted to be a good sport about it. Truly, he did. His mates wanted to celebrate his twenty-second birthday after all, and the least he could do was muzzle his complaints, no matter how ridiculous the restaurant. But as the car sat by the curb of the mock fifties diner, it was all John could do to keep his lip from curling in distaste.

“What a fucking tourist eyesore,” he muttered as he exited the car.

His friends joined him on the walk. There they all stood, on the bend of a busy street corner at 4 p.m.. John wondered how a filthy pub and raunchy stripclub had slipped their minds. If Lennon championed anything, it was wholesome liquor and topless broads.

He peered through the spotless windows from afar. People hunched forward in conversation on the opposite side of the glass. The scene reminded him of some intangible painting. Perhaps one he’d seen himself or one materialized in his mind.

“Can you at least pretend to enjoy it?” Stuart pleaded. “I thought you’d spare us the bitching on your birthday.”

John’s insults nearly wavered at his tone of desperation. Nearly.

“Come, come now, Stuey, I love it, I really do. It’ll be just like a little walking wax museum.”

His friend sighed, longsuffering. “Are you done yet?”

“Nope, one more.” John bit his lip on a cheeky grin. “I feel like I’m on the set of a Quentin Tarantino film.” Quips and criticisms piled themselves high on the tip of his tongue.

“What is that even supposed to mean?” Ringo asked.

“I don’t know, but I just hope Samuel L. Jackson murders us in here and puts us all out of our misery,” he said as he reached for the door.

A black-and-white checkered floor caught their footfalls just before the decor caught their attention. Untrue to its name, but true to America’s Golden Age, red booths filed along the walls. Framed memorabilia hung low and high like a second coating of paint. Doo-wops occupied the speaker, only interrupted by chatter and shuffling feet. Women caked in makeup—their modest dresses flowing below the knees—and men weighed down by the grease in their hair moved around the music.

As increasingly expected, John had insults for them as well. No one was spared.

“Christ, look at these idiots,” he remarked, glancing around. “Audrey Hepburn over there looks like she did one too many lines in the bathroom, if you get what I mean,” he whispered, discreetly rubbing his nose with a sniff.

Astrid smacked his arm, a frown cracking her pretty face. “Stop it, John, she does not.”

Delighted by the offense he caused, John laughed and blazed on. “Monroe’s beauty mark is about to fall into that man’s soup, and—okay, James Dean actually doesn’t look too bad, but I think he’s doing a very bad job of hiding a rather large stiffy.”

“Aye, probably got that from Brigitte Bardot, he did,” Ringo fueled the barrage.

“Okay, come on,” Stuart gripped their biceps and guided them farther into the restaurant, “we’re gettin’ a table and some food to put in his mouth to keep it busy for a while,” he directed at John.

They snagged a booth in the middle. Ringo slid in, and John followed after him. Opposite them, Stuart slung an arm around Astrid and immediately distributed their menus.

John snorted, childlike, as his eyes scanned the list of specials, so cleverly categorized under “Some Like It Hot.” Marilyn Monroasted Chicken. Audrey Hepburger. Buddy Holly and The Chilli.

Truly insufferable.

“God, I hate friendship,” John muttered, only partly to himself.

Before a quip could be tossed back, a foreign presence hovered at their booth. John’s eyes flicked over and landed on a slim pair of hips. Fitted around them were denim pants, white stitching crawling up and around the legs, like inch-long snakes. Higher up, a torso clad in a horizontal-striped shirt, a black jacket hung loosely around it.

When he at last saw the face of the ensemble, John forgot how to breathe.

The word handsome hardly did him justice. The waiter was stunning, breathtaking, the most perfect man John’s sorry eyes had ever seen.

His coal-black hair was styled in an expert pompadour. A bit messy at the tips, the occasional swoop along the front. The eyes spilling over to his own were large and accentuated by swirling lashes. A color so warm it heated John’s skin from one look alone. Far from blue, a gentle hazel splashed with copper flecks. Arching like the wings of a primitively drawn bird, the waiter’s eyebrows bowed thin and prim just above them.

“What can I get you folks to drink?” he asked, deep and dark as mahogany. That voice splintered John, left his stomaching toppling madly. He expected an egregious impersonation of The King’s voice—all curled lip and exaggerated southern accent. Something like the pot-bellied blokes in Vegas, stamping a bad name all over his hero.

What he heard instead flowed into his ears smooth as silk. Rich and edged with a slight drawl, a bloke in a cowboy picture. The seduction of it sludged thickly through John’s blood.

“The…the water,” John stammered, mind too fuddled to supply coherency. He caught Stu’s perplexed frown from the corner of his eye.

The corner of the waiter’s lips lifted in the slightest of smiles. They had a natural pout and a thick lower lip much like Elvis himself. They parted in concentration as he jotted down the order.

The lad moved on to everyone else, each of them making John appear more imbecile as they ordered their drinks normally. When the waiter walked away, John’s mates looked at him expectantly. Heat rushed to his cheeks; he avoided their gazes with an intent stare at nothing in particular on the menu.

In a sinister bout of instant karma, they turned on him.

“Lennon, what’s wrong, lad?” Ringo bumped his shoulder teasingly. “You seem… all shook up.”

Stuart leaned forward, two elbows on the table in overt interest. “Reckon he wants a hunk o’ that burning love?”

John prickled, but stood by his undeclared vow of silence. He rolled his eyes with nearly enough force to dislodge them from his head completely and cast them to the floor. In that case, at least some piece of him would be able to escape the embarrassment.  

“Glad we picked this spot now, ain’t ya, John? Come on, you can tell us,” Astrid prodded, truly the most forgiving of the group. She had a way of tempting all of the secrets off of his tongue.

With no point in ignoring the obvious, he begrudgingly confessed, “Jesus, the bloke is gorgeous, okay?” He slammed down his menu, thoughts too soaked to process words anyway. He glanced over each set of eyes madly.

The closest John ever got to his Elvis fantasy was the musician’s ghostlike cameos in his naughty dreams. Now reality granted him more than he ever imagined possible.

“And how do you plan on gettin’ in Elvis’s pants, Johnny?” Ringo inquired.

“‘M gonna chat ‘im up, what else?” He shrugged casually, as if he hadn’t floundered during the first few seconds of conversation with the lad.

“Dunno. These folks seem reluctant to break character, mate.” Stuart straightened himself to peer around the diner. “You might be getting more of pretend Presley than waiter boy.”

“It’s good to know he already has a knack for role playing.” John’s bushy brows wiggled suggestively. “Besides, no one can resist my charm, Stuey.” He tucked his tongue in his bottom lip and crossed his eyes.

The man in question arrived with all four drinks balanced between his two hands. They clinked together as he placed them on the table. He straightened, pushed a hand through his greased hair, and clicked his pen. Smiling eyes made their way around the table, landing lastly on John.

Lennon took a drink of water to assuage the cotton-like dryness of his throat.

“Fellas and the lady know what we want to eat over here?” That same sultry tone clung to his words.

This time, John couldn’t stop himself.

“Mmm, are you on the menu?” he leered.

No sooner had he spoken, than a straw wrapper struck the side of his face, like a flimsy bullet. He snapped his head to see Stu with a straw in his mouth and a cheeky grin fitted around it. Fucker. John pulled a spastic face, dipped his fingertips in his water, and flicked the droplets at his friend.

Rounding on the waiter again, he caught an amused smile at their antics. John grinned sweetly and mended, “You were saying, love?”

“Ah, yes—right here we have our Presley Peanut Butter and Banana Buttie.” The waiter sidled closer to him and pointed to said sandwich, listed under “The Platters.” John instead studied his hand, the dark, fuzzy hair scaling up his arm. Then he noticed the raised veins, winding cerulean canals trailing towards slender fingers.

With every inch of John’s space the man occupied, the air disbanded, rendering his lungs useless and silently gasping. The thump of his heart and the blood in his ears, shrouded the waiter’s words. But beyond the thundering cacophony of rushing blood, John realized the bloke was still in character.

Was slipping back into reality against the rules, or was he truly disinterested in John’s passes?

Regardless, John only nodded dumbly as he backed away.

The waiter left him time to think his decision over and moved around the rest of the table in the meantime. Each one ordered animatedly—a burger here, a chocolate shake there. At last the spotlight shone back on John. But his appetite resided in his eyes, and the jailhouse hottie standing long and lean just before him plenty satiated it.

Needless to say, like the staunch flirt he was, he fired another shot.

A casual clearing of his throat. Sudden feigned intrigue by the menu. “Right, I’ll take the buttie you so kindly recommended.” He paused as the order was noted. “And, if I may, I’d like to order my dessert early.”

“What can I getcha?” So beautifully innocent.

A wicked smile crossed his lips. His hand cradled his chin, and he lit a spark within his own eyes, the heavy drape of his eyelids miraculously doing little to extinguish it.

“A nice. Slice. Of you,” John enunciated clearly. Just in case the lad hadn’t caught on the first time.  

Beside him Ringo snorted gruffly, a sound rattling in his throat rather than piercing the air. Stuart stifled a laugh of his own. Astrid’s jaw nearly knocked into the linoleum table top. Their reactions merely encouraged John; the smirk on his lips deepened.

The man swiftly lowered his head. He seemed as unfurled as the loose curl lying limp against his forehead. A thin string of cherry red stalked along the crest of his round cheeks. Perhaps John was a come-on away from cracking that well crafted fifties persona.

Just before he responded, John had a brief moment to silently plead, Sweet Jesus, please don’t let him refer me to the menu again.

However, far from telling him to fuck off—not in so many words—the waiter replied, “I’ll get right on it,” and tossed a wink. In the time it took John to blink, dizzying lengths of legs carried the man off to the kitchen.

John ever so graciously slumped into his seat with a dramatic flutter of his eyes. Out for the count.

“By God, we’ve lost ‘im!” Ringo cried and immediately set to patting John’s cheeks.

Stuart was equally quick to join and snatched a wad of napkins from the dispenser for a makeshift fan. Pathetic gusts of wind kissed John’s face. “Johnny! Johnny, baby, come back to us! Don’t be cruel!”

Still in a love-struck comatose but privy to the pun, John hurled a blind kick beneath the table. Stuart’s prompt yell greeted the air, and he knew he’d struck the intended target.

“You boys are far too much,” Astrid sighed, patient as a saint.

The food arrived in gluttonous heaps. John’s Elvis-inspired sandwich was sliced into two triangles, toasted and oozing with peanut butter. Frankly, the meal sounded horrific when it stared back at him from the laminated menu; but here, wafting the homey scents of comfort food to his nose, John couldn’t have imagined a better birthday lunch.

As Mr. Presley made to lower his plate, John’s fingers inadvertently skimmed his wrist in their attempt to assist. The skin was soft and gone too soon. He smothered the urge to curl his fingers around him and lock tight, like a fleshy handcuff.

Just as John began to grab his buttie, another plate hit the table. On it was a crumbly crust folded over a glazed mass of plump peaches.

“Presley peach cobbler, at your request,” he answered to John’s stupefied expression.

The gorgeous, cheeky fucker.

“Enjoy, y’all,” the man said, voice warm as melted butter. He tucked his tray beneath his arm and left them to their food.

John could hardly ward away his smile long enough to enjoy his meal.

He ate in a contemplative silence. His jaw worked as tirelessly as his mind, both gnawing at something coarse. A crust and a thought. Lennon schemed—as was often custom of him—and devised a rather mediocre plan. But a plan nonetheless. Like a cunning predator, he’d catch the lad in solitude, away from the safety of his work. No doubt he’d forgo the charade when his guard was lowered.

John stared beyond his friends’ heads and into the neon bars of light trimming the top of the opposite wall. The fiery red beams stung his eyes. “Earth Angel” crooned in the interim of determined chewing—a most flammable fuel to his blazing thoughts.

“Awfully quiet over there, Lennon.” Stuart’s voice impaled his musings. “Is the peanut butter that thick?” A kind smile worked wonders on his dark eyes, made them a bit less brooding.

“I think his mind’s in the ghetto,” Ringo offered. Something of an afterthought, he added, “The ghetto being our waiter’s pants, of course.”

“No, no, that’s a plotting face,” Astrid said, a keen squint piercing John’s eyes. “You’re hopeless, John. A teenage girl if I’ve ever seen one.” The thick German accent mingling with her sweet voice cushioned the blow of any jab she lobbed.

Even so, John flicked a bread crumb at her for good measure. “We’ll see who gets the last laugh when I’m gettin’ a long lick of Graceland in the bathroom stall a while from now.”

Unanimously, they groaned, and John reveled in it. For, in his heart of hearts, he found a glimmer of truth in the jest.

Roughly five minutes passed, and the walking composite of convict getup and greased hair returned, more so out of obligation. Crisp American accent still coating his words, he ensured everything was up to par in terms of food and service.

“Actually, quick thing,” Ringo spoke up, mouth half full with fries. Stuart looked up with mild interest. John ignored everything in absolute favor of his latest obsession.

“It’s this one’s birthday, you know,” Ringo enlightened. He wrapped an arm around John’s shoulder and nudged him fondly.

But John had yet to peel his eyes away from their waiter, only smiled salaciously at his friend’s words. About time they showed him some support.

Before Ringo managed another breath, John interjected, “Yeah, so when’s your next break, love? You can take me out back for a li’l prezzie.” He wiggled his thick eyebrows, the movement casting them underneath his chestnut-brown fringe.

Imitation Elvis abandoned their brief eye-lock—still long enough for John to regard the smile in his eyes— and looked to Ringo as the lad spoke again. “Reckon he can have a treat that isn’t dressed in leather?”

“A birthday, you say?” John nodded affirmatively, an eager feeling itching at his ribs. “I’ll see what we can do for ya,” and he swept away, leaving a beautiful air of ambiguity in his wake.

Just when he thought the afternoon couldn’t possibly get any better, out from the kitchen came their waiter and a bloke with a guitar. He escorted the instrument with care, skinny fingers firm on the fretboard. Such reverence, and John already noticed a harmony between the two though a string had yet to be plucked.

The man (perhaps the descriptor “boy” was more fitting) himself was nigh as tall as their waiter, but far lankier and with an angular visage. Dark eyes hid beneath even darker brows—thick, too, as if the wiry hairs were doused in black ink. The sharp line of his jaw and fierce squint to his eyes clashed spectacularly with his counterpart.

Though clothed as any modern boy—white tee and dark jeans, hair a shaggy mop on his head—he seemed entirely out of place. Adrift in a vintage sea of dead idols. In this joint, being normal was considered an abnormality.

The duo stalked over to their table, magic in their eyes. The colored lighting played around the curves of their figures, ringing them with red-orange halos.

The bloke with the guitar drug a chair from a nearby table, the legs scraping the floor in protest. He slunk into it, all business, and tuned up the instrument.

Seldom had John Lennon fallen speechless in his life; however, this moment wholly seized every syllable on his tongue. In wonderment he gaped at the stunning waiter. A slow wink shot his way. John trapped it in his smile, sealed it between his lips and savored the gesture like a kiss.

Eventually, a melody sung to life, sauntering into the air low and resolute. A slowed rendition of “Happy Birthday.” For once, John’s eyes found a different subject. He watched the vibration of the strings; an earthquake against the fret. Then he followed their shaken path to the curled fingers extracting the sound.

John knew he had to be dreaming when a riveting baritone spilled from pillowy lips. His attention stolen yet again, and he was certain, with a voice like that, there could never exist any other distractors.

“Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you.” The signature lip curl at last made itself present, oh-so subtly. His voice, pulling from low in his throat, nearly knocked the air from John’s lungs.

“Happy birthday, dear….” He faltered, holding the note and glancing around the table for assistance.

“Johnny!” Astrid supplied with a small jump, her hands folded daintily beneath her chin. She almost looked like a bigger fan than John, all soft smile and enthralled eyes.

“Johnny,” he smiled around the name, seemingly elated to know it. “Happy birthday to youuuuu!” Elaborately, he gestured a hand to the birthday boy.

The guitarist quickened his strumming in a most appropriate denouement.

An uproar of applause surrounded their table. Only then did John realize all had been silent, the other customers had been listening contentedly.

The guitarist turned, and, as if from thin air, presented an impressively spun milkshake. With a similar dose of magic, the waiter plopped a cherry on top of the mound of fluffy whipped cream. His fingertips grazed the side of the cream, and he licked away the remnants with a cheeky wink.

“Happy birthday, darlin’.” A lazy smirk and yet another fatal wink. And to the rest of them, he offered yet again, “Enjoy, y’all.”

Consider John deceased. Surely his heart would explode from his chest if it suffered even a second more of the rampant thumping. His ribcage took quite the beating, but John would be lying if he said he wasn't a bit masochistic.

“Bleedin’ Christ, he even sings like Elvis!” Stuart gawked.

From his peripheral John spotted their waiter duck out of a side exit. Now was his most opportune chance.

The chatter continued around him, without him. Heedless were his mates to the faraway haze that had blanketed his eyes.

“New theory!” Ringo shoved a jeweled finger into the air, blue eyes sparkling brighter than the ring itself. “Elvis isn’t dead. He just took a hearty gulp from the Fountain of Youth, lost some weight, touched up his face, and now works in a fifties-themed diner in Liverpool.”

“New theory!” Stuart mocked. “Ringo’s a—John, where you goin’?”

Before Stu could finish, John had sprung from his seat and made a beeline for the same exit. He waved away their questions, refusing even to turn around.

“We’re eating your dessert!” Astrid called after him.

But the thing could melt for all he cared.

There were sweeter things in which to indulge himself.

Outside, the autumn air instantly enveloped him. He turned his head to the right, facing the mouth of the alley. Nothing. He turned his to the left, and there he was, already staring back.

And if John unintentionally laughed with relief, well, who could blame him?

A cigarette dangled from the bloke’s lips, already lit, with smoke rushing from its tip. Around it rested the slightest of grins.

John came closer and stood before him as he leaned against the off-white bricks. “Mind yourself being out here lookin’ like that.” He indicated his style with a nod. “You’ll only perpetuate the ‘Elvis is still alive’ rumors. Got a mate cookin’ one up in there as we speak.”

That earned him a chuckle. “Wise friend of yours, considering I am Elvis.” He cocked an eyebrow, knocked flurries of ash from his cig.

This was going to be fun….

John swallowed a sigh. “Sticking to that charade, then, are we?”

“Far from a charade. All genuine, baby.” The accent suddenly seemed ridiculous when outside of the confines of the diner. But John nearly buckled at the pet name.

Perhaps a brief Q&A would throw the man for a loop.

“What’s yer real hair color?”

“Blonde. Dye this all mahself,” he pointed to the jet-black pompadour, looking up as if he could grasp a glimpse of it himself.

“How old were you when you got yer first guitar?”

“Eleven. It’s a shame mama didn’t let me get that rifle instead.”

“And that gospel group you auditioned for?”

“Oh, you mean The Songfellows? Yeah, those lousy cats just weren’t into my sound.”

John’s face stretched in unabashed glee. “Damn, son! You know your shit!”

He hid his prideful smile behind the cigarette, the spark in his eyes behind a squint. But John catalogued the out-of-character moment. And it was such that equipped him with a grand idea.

He planted his palm right beside the lad’s head, against the rough brick, it’s coolness not enough to dissuade his touch.

“I wonder…,” John’s voice slipped to a seductive octave—whispering lips just near the other’s ear, “just what it takes to get you to break character….”

He leaned his head into the perfected hair, breathed in the gel and smoke, deep and slow. A puff of dislodged air breezed against his jaw. John nearly shivered. The body against his own was trapped somewhere between stiff and pliant. He took advantage of it.

With his right hand, he tipped the lad’s face towards his own. Running his fingers along a soft jawline and onto softer lips, John plucked away his cigarette. He took a drag, then flicked it behind his shoulder.

His next words rode upon clouds of smoke. “Come on, Mr. Presley, give it a rest, eh?”

Sultry eyes stared at his thin lips, and John dared to lick them invitingly. The man leaned in, and John closed his eyes in blissful anticipation. Their noses grazed, lips brushed. And just when John thought he’d experience a kiss from impossibly luscious lips, words escaped them instead.

“Baby, let’s play house some other time, okay?” He placed a hand against John’s cheek and nuzzled the other side of his face. “Gotta be gettin’ back.”

The sound of his jacket scraping against the wall as he ducked beneath a forearm barricade grated John’s ears.

John’s feet pinned him in place, heavy as concrete. He watched the waiter disappear through the door, then dropped his forehead against the bricks with a groan. He sighed and sought composure somewhere between the frantic pounds of his heart.

So. Fucking. Close.

“Where’d you fuck off to, then?” Ringo questioned as soon as John’s arse touched the seat.

John wore a smile—and, oh, how he wore it well. Perhaps any sane man would slump from the weight of dejection at mock Elvis’s cruel teasing; but John always considered himself one antic away from the loony bin and a relentless flirt.

He clicked his tongue and delved into the milkshake his friends had indeed helped themselves to. “Can’t even say I’m surprised a lad with a schnoz like yours would be so nosey,” came his witty remark, as he shoveled a spoonful into his mouth.

Astrid shared a smile with her plate, then it reached her eyes, at which point she shared it with John. In some way he figured she knew. Call it feminine instinct.

Soon enough they’d finished their meals and made to leave. John alone left a rather generous ten-pound tip, and even slipped his number between the bill. Only partially in jest, John blew their waiter a kiss when the bloke noticed the group leaving.

He shook his head, perhaps fondly, smiled, and waved them off.

But, for better or worse, that wasn’t the last he’d be seeing of John Lennon.

Chapter Text

John returned the next day for lunch.

It was essentially social suicide to waltz into a restaurant all on your lonesome. But a noose had already wrung around his heart and led him like a dog on a leash. The fierce knot only yielded when each footfall landed closer to the diner.

The scuffed heel of his boot kissed that checkered floor with familiarity. He removed his sunglasses, and the red beams streaking the restaurant nearly demanded he shove them back over his eyes. But the sting in his pupils abated, and a smile stretched across his lips.

It was good to be back.

John pocketed the shades into his flannel shirt. His heels clicked with purpose as they escorted him to that sacred booth. The place moved sluggishly—a Tuesday afternoon far from supplying hungry customers. In fact, the pathetic handful of them sat miles apart, their distance dulling the air that much more.

James Dean swept the floors listlessly while Little Richard manned the register at the counter. John’s heartbeat quickened when he saw him, back turned to fill a glass at the soda pump. It had been a blind toss-up when he betted on seeing the waiter a second day in a row. But his gamble paid off.

The man walked the drinks to their table, and upon turning around, stopped dead in his tracks. John erupted into a knowing smile and waved his fingers at him daintily. The receiver of the exaggerated wave ducked his head to smile at the floor, then approached John’s booth.

“Back again?” He peered at John through his lashes as he groped around for his notepad. But John sensed no traces of annoyance beneath that Southern-dipped question.

“Something about the place just wouldn’t let me stay away.” He stretched an arm along the back of the seat and nodded to the vacancy in front of him. “Have a seat, why don’t ya?”

He smiled, but declined. “I’m a busy man, Johnny.” The flirtatious tone wrapped around his own name percolated a yearning through John’s blood.

Leveling his cool, he glanced over the restaurant. “Mate, there’s like five people here. Just humor me, yeah? I could use the company.” He poised a saccharine smile.

The man’s hazel eyes scanned the restaurant with hesitance. John kept his own hopeful eyes on him, knowing he himself hadn’t seen anyone lurking about who could pass as a manager with the authority to castigate. Seemingly bested, the waiter sighed and slumped onto the bench seat opposite of John. In an obvious refusal to initiate conversation, he stared at John with large, challenging eyes.

“Now.” Elbows digging into the table, very business-like, John leaned forward. He squinted his eyes largely due to his shabby vision, but it afforded him a helping countenance of seriousness. “I’ve got a feeling trying to see the real you is gonna be like trying to catch a shadow. Tell me I’m wrong.”

The man quirked his lips. John read the answer in his eyes before it even crossed his lips. “Everything you see now is everything you’ll be gettin’ today. Nothing more, nothing less.”

This boy thrived on secrecy. And, frankly, deserved a raise for his commitment to this ludicrous role.

“Mm, thought so.” John nodded, tight-lipped.

But that tidbit of truth did little to dissuade John from desiring his company. Rather, these clouded interactions paralleled the mind games John always seemed to be getting himself into. There was a thrill in trying to dissect someone who hid behind a mask. And John ached to know the man who embodied his idol so flawlessly.

“So, while you’re keepin’ me company”—John knocked a heavy boot alongside the man’s right leg, effectively blocking any potential escape—“it seems fair enough to know who yer dinin’ with.”

An amused twinkle flashed like a comet in the man’s eyes, or so John imagined. With a long-limbed barricade by his side, John planned to ensnare his Presley impersonator until, by will or by blunder, he dropped his ruse. Lennon’s tenacity was nothing to think light of.

Soon enough a slather of diabetes-infused diner foods and profanity-strewn conversation filled their linoleum tabletop.

As John popped another gathering of cheese-smothered, American-style fries into his mouth, he marvelled over the ease of this impromptu lunch. Mainly it consisted of complimenting the other man until genuine laughs trickled up his throat and a ruby-red blush dusted his cheeks. (John quickly discovered that was his new favorite color). But the air around them was beautiful, and for the moment John welcomed any version of himself the man gave him. Even one convicted to a jailhouse jumpsuit and flashing a Memphis smile.

“Presley tickled me fancy from the first day I saw you on the telly,” John continued with their easy conversation, coyly fiddling with his straw as though he were confessing to the authentic Elvis himself. “I had a sitter who had to be like a century old, and one day I see she’s watching Jailhouse Rock. Deep voice, gyrating hips—how can a lad not fall in love? Thought my seven-year-old world was gonna start crumbling right there in front of the TV set.”

John shook his head and smiled fondly. Truthfully, he knew not to whom his last confession applied. By now the lines between his true idol and the man portraying him blurred immensely.

But there was no confusing the unabashed joy in his wide eyes—in the way he propped his chin in his palm like an attentive child. “Well, don’t stop there, Jock! Flattery preserves beauty, son.” He winked. John’s heart slammed against his ribcage.

After such a primal reaction, there was little to be done but oblige.

John shrugged, readying his deepest memories—magazines to the barrel chamber of his mind. Among the half-eaten plates, he positioned his elbows to the table and fired a round.

“Well, everything quickly became ‘Elvis this’ and ‘Elvis that’ from then on out. Me killjoy of an auntie sent the old bag packing, though, and hired another one with hairs on her chin and an obsession with Wheel of Fortune.” Pretend Presley smiled as he bit at an index finger, eyes glittering as if John’s daft childhood stories were the only things keeping the world in motion. “Nothing much stopped me, though. Rebellion runs strong through Lennon blood.”

He smiled and shook his head. “Poor Aunt Mimi kept you around, then?”

“Half expected her to send me off back to from where I came when I dyed my hair jet black one year.” It rippled through his mind—the splotchy patches of black, the ghastly shade of red swallowing Mimi’s otherwise cardboard features, and the lily-white row of his teeth beaming with a smile. Embarrassment was often a concept lost on children. “But she stuck with me. Even sends me an Elvis record every birthday as part of tradition.”

The man stared at him for a moment. The grin on his lips was headstrong, and his eyes flickered between John’s as though they’d lost something amidst the flakes of gold in his irises.

The man was breathtaking in the red halo of the neon lights racing around the diner’s walls. His skin looked utterly soft and smooth and pale against all of the black surrounding it—lashes and leather and locks of hair. He was right there in front of John but still so far out of reach.

“What?” John finally questioned, an insecure smile grabbing his lips under the inspection of those eyes.

“I like talkin’ to ya, John,” he at last admitted, then lowered his eyes to the table as though he could see the fallen words. “There’s just somethin’ about you.”

“There’s a lot of somethings about you. Just don’t have the bollocks to show ‘em to me, do you?”

He laughed and John wanted to kiss the sound from his lips. Before the scrap of thought had time to settle, the bloke patted John’s shin and rose from his seat. A spur of heat from the touch ascended his leg, and a smirk crossed the table. “Break’s over now.”

Back to business, he leaned over to collect the empty plates from the table. After one hand expertly balanced a small stack of dishes, he lingered at the table. With bottom lip caught between his teeth, worrying at it in thought, he stared peculiarly at John.

And nothing could have prepared him for what came next.

In one fluid motion, the man stepped forward, tucked his free hand into John’s hair, and guided him into a kiss. John’s eyebrows shot up as he stretched into the kiss. Only, he had but a second to give all he could muster before impossibly soft lips vanished beneath his own. Tender and perfect and over too soon. Eyes still closed, he cleared his throat while the cogs in his brain sputtered and flagged.

“Um…wha’…?”

Looking stupidly adorable, with a loose curl tickling his forehead and an authentic Elvis snarl snatching at his lips, he shrugged and offered, “Just…really enjoyed your company.”

John blinked slowly, senselessly, every movement reduced to an ungainly flub. His thoughts narrowed to the lingering impression on his lips. Swallowing was suddenly an arduous effort.

“Come see me again sometime, Johnny.” A wink shot off like an arrow from a bow. With the precision of any archer, it pierced John in the stark center of his heart. For once, he was rendered speechless and his silver tongue was minced to useless pieces.

Those were the last words he heard from him that day, but they meant more than any goodbye. His eyes fixated dazedly on a delectable bum swaggering away towards the kitchen. He shook his head and the realization of the moment flooded his brain like a tidal wave. In the most unexpected way—by being himself—John actually managed to carve away a sliver of that granite facade.   

Another generous tip fluttered to the table. With a smile that refused to wane, John slipped out of the booth and strode to the register. Upon ringing him up, Little Richard flashed him smirks venturing far from subtle.

Just when John was about to snap at him about the obnoxious looks, he finally imparted, “Fancies you, that one does.”

John’s eyes narrowed in thought. Subconsciously, he spared a look to the kitchen. “How can you tell?”

“You mean besides the fact he just planted one on ye? Well,” he shrugged, “staying in character ‘round here ain’t as strict a rule as he’s makin’ it out to be.” As a matter of fact, the bloke himself had no inauthenticity smeared across his own accent.

John bit the inside of his lip. A nip in suppressed glee.

So, the two young men were in a tasty tangle of teasing exchanges? John was setting traps when, unbeknownst to him, his own feet were already bound around the ankles.

To outsmart and scheme were just two of many mastered Lennon crafts. To think yourself immune or more clever to either of them was a massive disillusion.

* * *

Expecting to see him on a third visit was wishful thinking. But beneath his layers of cynicism, John always shuffled around some emotions to afford room for the occasional optimism.

When he stepped foot in the restaurant, however, he instantly deflated as he noticed the man’s absence. John even had spaced the interval of his visit, so as to avoid coming off as creepy. The speakers taunted him—crooning a woeful story of Marie, and reminding John of his own missing flame.

Fortunately, all hope was not lost.

In fact, hope occupied a lone seat at the counter.

Just as he was about to commence his dejected walk of shame out the door, a voice bouldered towards him. “You lookin’ for Paul?” John turned and recognized the owner of the question as the guitarist from a few days prior, glancing over his shoulder at him.

Unfamiliar with the name, he frowned. “Who?”

“Oh, sorry,” he waved a dismissive hand, “I meant Elvis. Christ.” Shaggy, chocolate-brown hair shook like feathers in exasperation. He turned back around, lanky figure hunched over a plate of food. John swallowed the resurgence of heartbeats and sat in the empty barstool beside him.

So, Paul was the coveted man behind the mask. John and Paul. The three words rushed to the forefront of his mind, nestled together most close and comfortable. Had two names ever rang with such harmony?

“Yeah, he workin’ today?” Vainly he fought not to sound as anxious as he felt.

“Nah, has the day off,” he informed, idly picking at his food. John caught a glimpse of the plate and noticed the bloke wasn’t even eating the diner’s food. A glut of noodles, vegetables, and rice covered the plate. Any other day John would have snorted at the irony.

Presently, however, his eyes fell in mild disappointment. On his tongue perched the one-syllable word that would ooze the true extent of his distress: Oh. So simple, just a breath. But escorting with it all of the emptiness paradoxically trapped within his chest.

Side-eying with a smirk, the young man pressed, “Sniffing around for ‘im, were you?”

Defensiveness itched in the creases of John’s palms. Bloody well wasn’t. It nearly soared from his lips and painted the walls with denial. Wisely, he settled for, “Told me to come ‘round again, s’all.”

“S’okay if you were, you know.” Was Lennon truly so transparent? “He rather fancies you, too. Said so ‘imself.”

John, with skepticism being yet another defense mechanism, narrowed his eyes at this boy, who seemed to be a medium of sorts between John and the world of Blue Hawaii. Frankly, John envied his blasé attitude. Sitting there, picking at his appetizing distraction, when John’s fingers desperately itched to toy with something of their own. A fag would satiate him nicely. Instead he could only periodically skewer and toss the meal of thoughts in his head.

“And who’re you to him?” he asked, sounding a bit more accusatory than intended.

He shrugged. “George, his best mate, if that gives me any credibility.”

John sat up straighter, curiosity lengthening his spine. “Tell me, then, best mate George, what all did Paul say about me?” After all, he loved flattery as much as the next Elvis impersonator.

The fork at last met the trim of the styrofoam tray. Dark truffles of eyes at last met John’s pressing gaze. “I’m not gonna bloody well sit ‘ere and spill all his secrets, am I? Just know he fancies you, which means yer undoubtedly doing somethin’ right.” Locking his eyes on the table, then back to John’s, he asked, “What d’you want with him anyway?”

John sighed. His finger flitted to his sideboard and stroked the fine hairs there.

“A date, ideally. ‘M just…real taken by ‘im, if you must know. He’s a right beauty, has clever sense of humor, too. So much so that he won’t talk to me without some exaggerated Southern drawl and an Elvis perspective.”

The thought was laughable. John felt like he’d toppled down the rabbit hole during each interaction with Paul, where vintage was modern and Scouse was Southern. Some headtrips were more than even Lennon could handle.

The eyebrows arranged like hedges above his eyes bolted towards his soft fringe. “Oh, come off it! Really?” A smile widened around his long teeth, canines a wondrous sight.

Intuition told John he was about to hear news reminiscent of Little Richard’s.

“Can’t make this stuff up, George.”

“Just yesterday he was talkin’ up a Scouse storm with a couple codgers in here. Servers only respect that ‘personify the times’ rule when Brian’s around.” He shook his head. “McCartney’s really takin’ the piss. Oh man, fuckin’ brilliant, he is.” More animatedly now, he dug back into his food. The fork’s metal tongs split his smile.

John couldn’t resist one himself. “I know he is, the gorgeous bastard,” he laughed with unmistakable fondness. “Still, you can’t give me a little something to work with? Don’t wanna walk into this more blind than I already am.”

The lid of the Chinese takeout tray snapped closed. Long guitarist’s fingers folded neatly on top of it. “Fine,” he sighed, “I’ll give you three things.” He proffered a visual—pointer, middle, and ring standing to attention.

John nearly cracked a quip about George being some skinny oracle of wisdom to John’s sad dating life. He had the magnetic eyes for it at least, swimming with ambiguity. But John kept his inane comments at bay and instead lent both ears to a triad of crucial information.

Three Important Macca Facts™

1) Even when he's wrong, he's right
2) Little gestures go a long way
3) Huge. Fucking. Romantic.

John compiled the list of facts and slipped them into the folds of his brain like post-it notes. In the span of a minute, he studied each one forwards and backwards. He savored the audible illusion of the paper shuffling. He ingrained even deeper the chicken-shit scrawl of his invisible handwriting. How he would use these facts, John had yet to figure out. Fairly enough, George couldn’t give him all of the answers.

With his mental appetite full, John rose from his seat with the intent to go digest all of these new, tasty revelations among his mates. John patted the young man’s shoulder. “Well, then, George—”

“Oh, and one other thing. Don’t tell ‘im I told you, but um…,” his Adam’s apple lifted and fell uncertainly, “Paul’s gonna be closin’ by himself Friday night. So, do with that what you will.” Seemingly as an afterthought, he added, “But…don’t like rob us or anything, okay? He’ll fuckin’ pummel you.”

He stood up, empty container in hand and cautionary lift to his eyebrow. John smiled disarmingly. He rather enjoyed this best mate George.

“I wouldn’t dream of stealing from such a pretty face, mate.” On a more serious note, “And thanks for all the tips, yeah? We’ll see what comes of it.”

George nodded and, before disappearing into the kitchen, served Lennon a final handful of encouraging words, “I’m rooting for ye, John.”

Chapter Text

The stars were Christmas lights in the charcoal sky, strung up around the smiling crescent of the moon.

By now, the flower in his back pocket had re-rooted itself and made a home in the rough soil of denim. The stem itched at the hems of his jeans with every light swish of his hips. It was growing as anxious as John.

In the reflective glass he noticed the word, invisible though it was, etched upon his skin. He squinted, despite the heavy specs ensuring he didn’t need to. The letters were punched out in bold print, stamped definitively against John’s forehead. A straight line right below the drooping tips of his quiff.

D-E-S-P-E-R-A-T-E!

A calloused hand brushed across a smooth brow and the letters fell to the pavement in a scrambled alphabet soup. With a firm boot heel he smeared them to the surly concrete. He didn’t take kindly to spontaneous self-doubt when he was but a pace away from commitment.

A final breeze swam through John’s hair as he reached for the door of Blue Hawaii. Silence and the acerbic smell of cleaning supplies swarmed the diner. A warm voice quickly disturbed all of it.

“Sorry, mate, we’re closed.” No American affectations. Not even a glance towards the after-hours customer. Just a young man with English blood bent over a red-and-white booth for a thorough scrub of the tiled floors.

“Yeah, I was kinda countin’ on that,” John called back. He nearly spotted the moment his voice collided with Paul’s back. It tensed then loosened when the rich timbre tiptoed up his spine and crawled into his ear. A thin strip of skin on his lower back was exposed from where his shirt had ridden up. John stared with unabashed interest.

Resurfacing from the booth and carrying a smile with him, Paul turned around. He hung his head, displacing the silence with the grace of his laugh. A knee on the bench of the booth, he crossed his arms over the top. For half a minute or forever, all he could do was stare at John with adoration cascading in waves from his smile.

Even stripped of leather and grease, it was uncanny how Paul still favored Elvis so. This time around he only wore the plain white t-shirt that his leather jacket usually topped. Faded blue jeans encased his mile-long legs, the cuffs rolled up at his ankles. Scuffed from years of wear, an old pair of Converse replaced the more era-appropriate boots he typically donned. His DA was messier, dark tendrils flopped uselessly against his forehead like fallen soldiers.

“You’re a clever one, John.” He sighed and tossed a dishcloth over his shoulder in verbally unexpressed but silently acknowledged defeat.

“Surprised?” He grabbed a seat at the nearest barstool. Warm, maple eyes followed Paul as he discarded the broom.

“A little bit, yeah.” His voice traveled from the back of the diner, past the kitchen. “No one’s ever gone to such great lengths just to get to know me.”

Grinning ear to ear, John crossed his legs in immense triumph. “No one else has ever been John Lennon.” And a pining one at that.

“What’re you doing here so late anyway?” He was back in the main part of the restaurant, brushing his fringe along the side of his head in a naturally seductive manner. John also couldn’t deny the seduction of Paul’s authentic accent. Part of the appeal was the fact he wasn’t putting on a show this time—wholly genuine.

“Just stopped by for something creamy and delicious.” A suggestive smirk wrapped around his lips. Eyes alight stalked after Paul. “Take that as you will.”

Paul smiled but snapped his cloth at John’s hip. It kissed him violently. “I just cleaned the machine, you fucker.”

“Which one?”

“The milkshake machine.” He nicked John with a glare. But contradicting his annoyance, Paul cruised the corner of the counter and beelined for the said machine.

“Well, I’ll fucking clean it again when we’re through, won’t I?” John assured with silly inflection.

Paul snickered and eyed him over his shoulder. “Ah, come off it, ‘m teasin’ more than anything.”

Even so, Lennon figured the least he could do was help. May as well tick off as many components of the Macca Facts™ as he could. He rounded the counter and stood beside Paul and the polished machine. Ingredients and inquiries were passed into Paul’s awaiting hands.

“Just like you’ve been doing since day one, right?” John nudged his shoulder and Paul shrugged with a grin.

He sucked an ice-cream-covered finger into his mouth and murmured around the digit, “Can’t say it wasn’t worth it.”

No, he couldn’t. Paul had baited him as soon as he hit the water, and every moment since was just a slow churn on the reel. Even as he flopped bonelessly on dry land, the hook nestled against the gummy inside of his cheek and suffered tug after tug. A week later, and Paul still had him strung up on a wire in all of his floundering glory.

Pathetic.

“How long have you been working here?” he asked as he handed over a glass.

“Ta—the place has only been here six months, and I’ve been here since day one.”

“And how long have you been fancying us?” He quirked his lips, glanced at Paul sidelong with a lick of expectancy in his belly.

His cheeks inched higher on a coy smile. “I dunno what yer talking about.”

“Bollocks!” John poked Paul’s side and the smile grew instantly. His own nearly ripped the corners of his mouth. “Don’t try’ta hide it. I kissed a lot more than The King the other day—we both know it.”

Paul rolled his eyes fondly, clearly a bit squirmy when he was back in the teasing hot seat. “Shut it, shut it. ‘Ere, milkshake’s ready.”

He passed over a frothy masterpiece. Banana slices were mixed throughout, and a thick mound of whipped cream and two cherries, sat like red dice, topped it off. At the sight of it, John abandoned his pestering questions at the machine, along with the smeared remnants of ice cream. Already shoving a straw in as he walked back to the counter, he took a never-ending greedy gulp.

Undoubtedly understanding there’d be none left if he kept wanking about, Paul rushed over. “Well, budge over, then! You don’t get it all to yourself.” Underlining his words, he plucked one of the cherries off the top and pulled the little red ball from its stem with his teeth.

“Can you tie the stem?” he asked John, flourishing it between his fingers.

“I can, actually,” John said, handling his own cherry similarly. “My mum used to do it as a party trick and explained it to me once.” He also recalled it being the tell-tale sign of a good kisser. And John prayed to about thirteen different gods that Paul Fucking McCartney’s tongue was talented in more ways than one.

His pulse quickened as Paul suggested, “Let’s have a race, then, shall we?” with a tempting glint in his eyes.

John leaned forward, rightfully intrigued. “What does the winner get?”

His shoulders lifted and fell lazily. “Bragging rights.”

“What a prissy little incenti—”

“One, two, three—go!”

“Oi!—” John groaned in protest as he popped the stem into his mouth and raced to match Paul’s headstart pace. Disapprovingly, he shoved his shoulder. Paul giggled around the faint pucker of his lips.

Eyes locked intensely on one another, their mouths pursed and squirmed as they slickened the stem with enough saliva to properly manipulate it. John’s brain struggled to complete his own task when Paul’s cherry-stained tongue continuously peeked between his long teeth and his full lips parted in concentration.

John had barely gotten the blasted thing stable enough to form a loop when Paul presented his against the soft platform of his tongue. The thin red stem sheened from his saliva, its legs crossed in a loose knot. John resisted the urge to kiss it right from his mouth and then keep kissing until their tongues knotted into a delicious tangle of their own. He nearly choked on his own goddamn stem at the thought.

When he poked out his tongue, the stem lay there flaccid and defeated. He shot it like a bullet at Paul, who laughed with a childish sort of glee.

“Doesn’t count cause you cheated.” But his smile chipped away the petulant irritation in his tone.

Paul took a victory sip from their shared shake. “I gave a countdown, all official-like. You were just slow poking around.” He winked and nudged John’s knee.

Even when he’s wrong, he’s right.

The little gift curving over his back pocket wasn’t initially intended to be given under this context. But he deemed this the most opportune and least awkward time. With sweaty hands and a niggle in his gut, John reached for the flower and placed it gently on the countertop. “Well, congratulations, cheater.”

“Eh?” Paul’s boyish excitement sobered to surprise as his lips parted from the straw with a soft smack. “What’s this, then?” he asked, picking it up as if the stem was crafted from glass, then looked to John.

“A daffodil. Your prize.” He shrugged despite the sudden boulder on his shoulders. “It represents new beginnings or some rot. S’what the internet told me anyway. And since I know nothing about you and a hell of a lot about Elvis, I figured this would be a nice icebreaker.” Vaguely he realized he was rambling, but his mouth moved of its own volition. There was no way to reach a hand in and reroute his train of thought, for the rush of his pulse harnessed all of his attention. That and the unbridled joy on Paul’s face.

John swallowed a pebble-sized lump as Paul brought the orange, horn-shaped center and surrounding yellow petals up for a sniff. A smile instantly folded onto Paul’s lips. “It can also mean, ‘Hey, sorry for coming on so strong and borderline harassing you, thanks for not calling the cops.’”

Flower still narrowly brushing his nose, Paul chuckled and glanced at John through the long black stems of his lashes. “Thank you, John. Really, it’s lovely.” An entire garden bloomed in John’s lungs from the raw shine of adoration in his hazel eyes. He averted his gaze, lest his corneas combust or his heart stop beating.

A single syllable of soft air pushed through his nose. “It better be. I got it by the skin of me teeth before Mimi came chasing me off with a broom for digging ‘round her garden. Had to hightail it back to my apartment before I caught a whack on the head.”

Even the crinkles at his eyes flashed John a smile. “You really shouldn’t be such a menace to poor ol’ auntie.”

He eyed Paul pointedly. “Believe me, love, she’s hardly the victim in our relationship.” His thin lips crooked into a smirk and his almond eyes drew to slits behind his specs. “What about your folks, then? Aware their baby-faced boy is secretly a teasing fiend?”

“I’m no angel, but I try to treat ‘em well. Got this daft job between some uni courses to help out with the finances, you know. I live with my dad and younger brother.” He cleared his throat. His eyes cut to a faceless place over John’s shoulder before returning. “And, well…mum’s are always the complicated part of the story, aren’t they?”

John nodded, smiling grimly but grateful for the hefty air of understanding between them. “Absolutely.”

After all, digging like a gopher through Mimi’s prized flowers wasn’t a new feat for John. Often times, though, the fruits of his efforts were placed delicately and mournfully at the barren foot of a headstone.

Once the stale melancholy lingered for an unfavorable moment too long, Paul inordinately perked up with a glimmer in his eyes. They smoldered with the makings of a ludicrous scheme, and John was glad for it.

“Hang on a sec.” His chipmunk cheeks nearly bursted as he scooted from his seat.

He breezed over to the jukebox and dropped some change into the slot. For a moment he stood with legs crossed, hip cocked, and arm propped against the glass as he filtered through the selection of songs. John occupied his eyes with the nice curvature of his bum, accentuated by the trousers hugging his waist and the shadows stalking the corner of the room. Finally, he turned around, flower still in hand, John noticed with a fervent thump to his heart.

Midway between John and the juke, he clamped his teeth around the daffodil’s stem, like some ridiculous casanova, and extended his hand. As if by the cue of his hand, Elvis’ warm baritone rippled from the speakers. The brassy, swinging sound of “Such a Night” padded across the checkered floor as John thoughtlessly took Paul’s hand, eyebrows raised in amusement.

“You wanna dance, pretty boy?” he asked with a smile, somewhat aware it sounded like an antiquated threat to fight.

Paul pulled him from his seat and guided him to the center of the room, just a few paces away from the seat where John first landed his eyes on him. “The stars are doing it.” He shrugged. “Why shouldn’t we?”

John glanced through one of the many windows encasing the diner, and indeed, every glint of a star was a graceful pirouette across the night sky. They twinkled and entangled like an audience before the boys putting on a show in the empty diner.

“Touche, Shakespeare,” John teased with a smile, deflecting from the fact Paul’s words catapulted titillating sparks through his stomach.

“Shut up,” he mumbled, that beautiful shade of red settling across his smooth cheekbones. John’s smile softened as he ran his knuckles along the heated skin.

Then, synchronizing more with the tempo of the music, he spun Paul beneath the arc of his arm. When Paul returned to his hold, body compliant and trusting, John dipped him with an arm supporting his lower back. His stomach shook against John’s from suppressed laughter. Ebony hair swept away from his forehead, revealing the true boyish features of his face—nose scrunched and skin begging to be kissed. Sweeter music than the notes spilling around them was the animated shouts Paul ad-libbed in between. Twirling in and out of John’s arms like a rogue top made for a challenge of singing along, but he pulled it off flawlessly.

“You know, John,” he began over the thump of sound, “I could get you a job here if you wanted.”

Lennon frowned as he swung Paul away from his body. “And who exactly would I play in yer little nineteen-fifties Barbie Dreamhouse?”

He laughed and fell back into the strong clutch of John’s arms, as natural as if they had danced this dance a million times before. “Dunno. Buddy Holly’s probably the best bet, what with your specs and hair,” he offered, hand moving to John’s nape. His fingers brushed his thick curls. He smiled, high on his own rampant ideas and the dizzying chemistry between the two of them.

John fended off a shiver but couldn’t resist the lustful hooding of his eyes. “I’ll throw on a skirt and be the best goddamn Doris Day this side of the Mersey has ever seen if it means working alongside you everyday.”

A boisterous laugh bursted from his lungs and knocked John in the chest. Yeah, that adorable face was absolutely one worth working with. Or under, John considered with a prickle of heat.

As the most appropriate narrative of a magical night whipped around them, the two smiled at one another with captivating eyes. Their arms extended and folded between their bodies like waves—the ricocheting splashes of which soaked John’s thoughts. Paul’s hands linked so eagerly with his own that it drowned his mind in musings of dancing until his feet quivered at the ankles or the moon sunk from the sky, whichever happened first. It was the most fun John had ever had with someone so new, and he gripped Paul’s waist tighter at the mere thought of him slipping from his fingers.

The rhythm slowed and Paul stepped forward as if to follow it. Instead, he slid further into John’s welcoming embrace, one hand riding up and down the ridge of his spine. From the jukebox, a slower melody. Frank Sinatra ensured their two minutes could last a lifetime as the lively jive evanesced and a gentle sway commenced in seamless transition.

“I've got you under my skin.

I have got you, deep in the heart of me.

So deep in my heart that you're really a part of me.”

John’s heart pounded. His blood loudened. Paul was impossibly close, his hands folded gingerly over the breadth of John’s shoulders, and John curled his toes in his boots just to ground himself in the moment. Raven-black hair fatigued by the night shift lowered onto his shoulder. Subconsciously, John held his breath. He feared even a whisper of air could shatter the moment.

A glass dome encased them in a sensual air, so transparent even they were unaware of its existence. And the world was reduced to the simple feeling of each other and the lyrics showering them like a rainfall. At a hesitant pace John wrapped his arms around Paul’s trim waist. One hand gently gripped the jut of his hip as it swayed rhythmically under his touch. His eyes fell shut as the steady rise-and-fall of his chest rhymed with the one pressed to it. A content sigh fell against the side of John’s neck, jostling the fine hairs.

“Huge. Fucking. Romantic,” John whispered. A deep breath through his nose supplied him with a scent uniquely Paul’s. Strikingly familiar yet unplaceable.

At those nearly noiseless words, his head raised. But the smell of him remained imprinted in the crook of John’s neck and shoulder. “Do what?”

He shook his head fondly, smiling lightly. “Nothing. Just—I guess you could call this our first date.”

A slender eyebrow lifted in defiance. “Why?”

“Why?” John repeated, astounded. “Why, he says! I brought you flowers—”

“A flower,” but he was smiling, and John hadn’t missed the sparkle in his eyes when the daffodil unfolded its petals beneath his unsuspecting eyes.

Ignoring him, John tucked the flower into Paul’s hair. The green stem peeked between curtains of black, and the scooped petals sat like a pastel yellow crown above his left ear. Funny, John thought, even Elvis wasn’t given a crown. Yet here was some Liverpudlian waiter who pranced about in imitation of him wearing one most fittingly. A beautiful dose of irony.

“And there was dessert,” he continued, “and now there’s music and dancing….”

“It’s not a date until you kiss me.” His sultry eyes, swirling with the forbidden colors of temptation and lust, bored into John’s own.

John chuckled and wrapped his arms tighter around him. His tone venturing somewhere between amused and flirty, he asked, “Oh, it’s up to me, then, is it?”

“I made the dessert!” Paul laughed. “Besides, you came here to woo me, Lennon.” He squeezed his shoulder playfully and waggled his eyebrows. “Show us whatcha got. What exactly can that cherry-stem-tying tongue do?”

John threw his head back and laughed loudly. “You absolute dork,” he mumbled before leaning in.

It was different this time, better. Paul smiled against John’s lips before he actually fell into the give-and-take press of kissing them. Then, all at once, his mouth was soft and full and settled so nicely between the gap of John’s own it threatened to weaken his knees with want. When he nibbled at his bottom lip, Paul’s fingers curled against John’s neck. John nearly moaned at the gesture, fingernails nestled comfortably against his freckled skin.

The intricate taste of banana and tobacco ghosted into John’s open mouth. As his tongue sought after the taste, his fist clenched around the cotton of Paul’s shirt, loose at his waist. Paul groaned, pressed himself closer, starved for John’s hands wrapped around his body. For a more satisfactory angle, he cocked his head, desperation underscored by his impassioned licks. John shivered as Paul’s fingers crooked against the bolt below his ear and steadied the sharp line of his jaw. Whipped into action by the white straps of heat splintering down his spine, John’s hand raked into Paul’s hair. It dislodged the daffodil crown from its ebony confines and sent it fluttering to an uncertain fate at the scarce gap between their feet. Not that it much mattered; Paul’s locks were petal-soft between the slits of his fingers.

With a final farewell, the music faded away and gave due to the intimate sounds of two boys kissing on an empty checkered floor. At this rate, John had half a mind to drag Paul out back and finish what he started against those rugged bricks on day one. But this wasn’t that teasing bastard Elvis. This was Paul. Soft, romantic, cherry-stem-cheating, insanity-inducing Paul.

Paul and their new beginnings.

And John wasn’t willing to lose that over a shag in the alley, in spite of the slow-churning undulations of lust in his lower belly.

So, instead, he tugged on his swollen lips and fisted at his messy hair until the boy was leaning so heavily into John that he’d fall without him. Finally, cradling Paul’s face like it would shatter under his calloused touch, John slowed their kiss into little electric pecks. He half expected the room to be spinning when he opened his eyes, and so rested his forehead to Paul’s as he caught his breath. His lungs pounded as though he’d run a marathon. Their beaten breaths amalgamated between their bodies into a fresh air all of its own. It impregnated the silence like the tinny ringing after an explosion.

“There,” John at last said, voice thick and coated—words lost on his tongue. “Now it’s all official-like.”

Paul smiled and chastely kissed him again, off kilter this time and tucked away at the corner of John’s mouth. His grip at John’s shoulder refused to relent, and their lips brushed as he confided, “I don’t wanna fucking move.”

John knocked their noses as he chuckled breathily. His head thrummed with disbelief over the perfection of this moment while his lips tingled with the blissful evidence of it. Truthfully, he didn’t care to be anywhere else either. Except perhaps a million fucking places, barren or beautiful, with Paul by his side to experience it all.

Sensing no harm in jumpstarting such an ambitious fantasy as soon as possible, he offered, “How’s this for enticement? If yer not an outrageously stubborn hipster and opposed to modern transportation, I’ve got a yellow Royce that can take us somewhere for a late English brekky and not this American shite you sell.”

At that, Paul pulled his head away from John’s. “Oi!” He smacked his arm. “You loved that American shite!”

John shook his head, smiling. “You mean I liked the stunning waiter serving it to me.”

He looked torn between glaring over the jab at his business and blushing at the compliment slipped between it. So, he settled for rolling his eyes and agreed, “Breakfast does sound bloody delicious right now, though.”

Thus, it was settled, and after cleaning up the residing mess at the milkshake machine, the two stood at the chilly stoop of the diner’s entrance as Paul locked up.

“So…a yellow Royce, you said?” he asked John, jerking on the door to ensure it was shut tight. A frown creased his brow, as though he hadn’t heard John correctly the first time.

John smiled, leaned against the cool glass. “That I did, son.”

His round nose climbed his face as he scrunched it in distaste. “That sounds like a fucking ghastly color for a car. You must look like the bloody sun coming down the streets.”

“‘Ey! The shaggin’ wagon’s gotta attract attention somehow!”

“The shaggin’—Jesus, and you call me a dork.” Lithe fingers pushed his hair from his eyes, tightened the coat hanging off of his shoulders like an oversized blanket, and finally burrowed into his pockets. One graceful move after another, he snatched John’s breath more than the autumn air.

“I do and you are,” he felt the need to remind him. “I, on the other hand, came here to woo you, remember? Who says I can’t use a few props?” John’s thick eyebrow raised questioningly.

Paul shrugged. “Well, I think you get along rather fine without ‘em,” he assured John and grabbed his hand. Lennon struggled to still the sudden dip in his stomach.

Like that, fingers intertwined like links on a chain, they continued down the pavement. Their footsteps rhymed with their heartbeats—relaxed and steady. Faces wore the dopey sort of grin specific to lads on the cusp of discovering something novel and breathtaking.

After all, the most nerve-wracking parts of it were over. When given a list and a challenge, John finally broke down a boy who once seemed unreachable. The birthday wish he didn’t breathe but was granted anyway.

Call it fate or dumb luck, but life always had a remarkable way of staying one step ahead of itself.

~The End~