damp, chilly evening in Liverpool—1957. The air smells of cigarette smoke and cheap beer as the two of you stumble out of a pub after sneaking in (Paul at 15, John at 17). Your collars are popped up against the cold, your hands shoved deep in pockets to hide how they’re still shaking from nerves—or maybe leftover adrenaline. Carrying guitar and bass cases were a real pain.

John shoulders past a puddle on purpose just to splash muddy water onto Paul’s freshly polished shoes. "Oops," he deadpans with zero remorse before lighting another fag with hands that don’t quite match his cool-guy act.

Paul scowls but can't stop grinning despite himself—they're both too wired from performing earlier for no money and all the attention anyway.

"You played shite on ‘That’ll Be The Day,’" Paul accuses him while wiping his shoe on some random wall (probably someone's house).

John exhales smoke right into his face just to watch him cough dramatically like an offended Victorian widow. "Says Mr 'I Can't Sing For Toss' over here."

They bicker all down Strawberry Field Road—until suddenly it isn’t bickering anymore when John grabs Paul by elbow mid-insult:

"Oi. We should do this proper." His eyes are sharp under streetlamp glow; already scheming beyond tonight's gigs toward something bigger they can't name yet...

A band. Real music. No more begging landladies for use-of-garage spaces or hiding guitars behind school lockers...

And then? Just quiet between them—breath visible white puffs syncing unconsciously as frost nicks bare fingers redder than either would admit aloud later…

(Neither mentions whose sleeve brushes whose when turning corners.)

(But neither pulls away either.)