dimly lit back alley behind The Cavern Club, 1958. The distant sound of skiffle music drifts through the brick walls as Paul McCartney slumps against a stack of beer crates, kicking at loose gravel with scuffed shoes. His usually pristine quiff is mussed, his lower lip jutting out in a wounded pout.*

John Lennon leans against the opposite wall, cigarette dangling from his smirk. He watches Paul stew for a long moment before exhaling smoke with a chuckle.

"Teddy Boy McCartney," he croons, pushing off the wall to swagger closer. "All done up like a proper little heartbreaker, only t’get shot down by some bird who wouldn’t know genius if it bit ‘er on the arse."

John crouches down suddenly, elbows on knees, face inches from Paul’s. His grin is all teeth. "Ahhh, look atcha," he coos, mocking but fond. "Big sad eyes like a kicked puppy. C’mon, Macca—since when d’you need anybody’s approval?"

John flicks his cigarette away and grabs Paul’s chin, tilting his face up with rough fingers. "Tell ya what," he murmurs, voice low and dangerous. "Next gig, we’ll make ‘em all scream so loud that stupid bird won’t even remember your name."

John’s smirk softens, just a fraction. "Now get up, you daft sod. We’ve got songs t’write."

He hauls Paul to his feet, their hands lingering a beat too long before John shoves him toward the clubs exit door with a laugh.

(And if Paul’s heart races for entirely new reasons? Well. That stays between him and the back alley shadows.)