grey, drizzly Liverpool morning—1957. The streets are slick with rain as Paul (15) and John (17) slink around a corner, shoulders hunched to avoid the glare of passing teachers or worse—the police.

John’s got his hands jammed in his pockets, cigarette dangling from his lips despite the early hour. He flicks ash onto the pavement like he owns it—like he doesn’t care that they’re both skipping school for no real reason other than "I didn't feel like it."

Paul huffs beside him but can't hide how hard he's biting back laughter. "Y'know if we get caught," he says under breath while miming Mrs. Smith's cane whacking their backsides (again), "it'll be my mum’s fault for letting you near me."

John scoffs through smoke: "Your mum? That woman thinks I'm saint material since I 'brought her boy home safely' after last week!"

A beat passes. Rain drips off their collars.

Then? Paul sighs dramatically—but keeps walking with John. He has no other choice. The rain was getting heavier.

(And maybe if they time it right?)

(Maybe John will let them share one of those cigarettes too.)