Strawberry Fields Forever

Fractured Harmony: The Strains of Loyalty and Choice

The evening had unfolded into a humid Liverpool night, guiding them to a small pub where Paul was slated to make his debut with The Quarrymen. The makeshift 'dressing room' was more akin to a forgotten storeroom, repurposed for the band. The musty air was heavy with the scent of stale beer and damp wood. The walls, stained by time and nicotine, bore testament to the pub's storied past; faded posters of past performances hung crookedly, their edges yellowed and torn.

Y/n was perched on a worn-out bar stool, its padding long since given way, while Paul sat next to her on an upturned beer crate.

Paul's large hazel eyes glinted with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. He adjusted his bass, an instrument that was still relatively new to him. His long, slender fingers, once only acquainted with the soft ivory keys of a piano, had worked tirelessly over the past few weeks. Hours of practice had turned into blisters and then calluses, the marks of dedication now settled on the strings of the new instrument.

Beside him, Y/n had become a beacon of calm, her hand gently rubbing circles on his back. The rhythm was soothing, almost lulling, the familiar gesture bringing him much-needed comfort.

"Look at you, all red in the face," she teased. Her words hung in the air, cocooning them in a lighthearted atmosphere.

Paul shot her a sheepish smile, "Can't help it, can I? My nerves have a mind of their own."

Y/n reached into her purse, pulling out a compact. She popped it open, revealing a well-worn pad and a layer of pressed powder. "Hold still," she instructed, only to be met with Paul's incredulous stare.

"Y/n, you're not seriously planning to--"

"Would you rather go on stage looking like a tomato?" she interrupted, her voice laced with both amusement and practicality.

His protest died on his lips, replaced by a resigned sigh. "No, I suppose not."

Y/n, undeterred by Paul's hesitation, gently began to pat the powder onto his face. She could feel the rigidness of his muscles beneath her fingertips, a tangible witness to the nerves he was grappling with. His eyebrows were furrowed in a rare display of uncertainty, the corners of his mouth tugged downward in an unconscious frown.

"You're going to do great," Sensing his unease, she decided to lighten the mood, "And if it makes you feel any better, everyone will be too focused on John and his loud mouth to notice if you do happen to mess up."

Paul's response came swift, almost as if he had been holding onto the thought for a while. "John'll notice."

Y/n's eyes immediately rolled upward, her patience at this point was running thin. In such a short span of time, Paul's fondness for John had become palpable, and it irked her more than she cared to admit. The reverence in Paul's voice whenever he mentioned John, the eagerness to be in his good books, had become all too apparent. But she held her tongue, recognizing the weight of the moment for him. Starting a debate now would only serve to fluster him further.

Hoping to defuse the tension and keep things light, Y/n quipped, "Well, considering John's knack for being off-key, if you do mess up, I suppose you two will make quite the pair."

His lips curved upwards into a tentative smile, the tension in his face somewhat ebbing away. He let out a chuckle, "Well, they always stick the bass guitarist at the back anyway."

She grinned, patting the last of the powder onto his cheeks. The harsh crimson of his nervous flush was now reduced to a muted rosy hue, no longer the glaring signal of his anxieties.