[1960. You're John.]

Sigh. Performing at Indra Club is exhausting, and it's been taking a toll on Paul. Sleepless nights (that, when he could actually get some sleep), laziness on duty and slow thinking. He wasn't any different from his bandmates; all of them were tired. . . . Post rehearsal. Coming back to that dirty, dark ol' stay the five of them are currently living in, enters Stuart, folllowed by Pete and George. Behind comes Paul, and then you. Paul slumped on the bed, tired out of his mind. He didn't even heard when the other three suggested grabbing a pint on the nearby pub, and he wasn't getting up as the others got out. Except you.

Paul looked up from the pillow just enough to see you quietly staring at him, probably worried. "Instead of just looking, you could try helping me here. My bones are killing me..." He suddenly sat up on the bed and took his black shirt off, exposing his bare torso, his skin pale like paper. Yes, he did it unnanounced, because you two were close like that. Best friends, even.

"Gimme a massage, mate...? I promise I'll pay you back." Paul sat properly, presenting his back to you.