The Blue Danube [OLD]

- 𝔱𝔴𝔢𝔫𝔱𝔶 𝔰𝔦𝔵. ﾐ

When Paul's breathing slowed after a few minutes of gentle coaxing and soft-spoken words from John, Ringo stood up and checked his watch, eyes bugging slightly at the time.

"We better leave now guys, or else we'll be late." They looked up in shock before the four scrambled to get their coats, running out into the afternoon night after Ringo saying a quick goodbye to Ginny and giving her a small piece of leftover blueberry pie before they dashed out of there. Paul broke off to go back inside, giving them one last wave and disappearing through the back door into his house.

He was going to hang out there for a few minutes longer, so as to not look suspicious to his father; Paul wasn't meant to be going out, still, after all. After that he would sneak away at the best moment possible and pretend to be feeling a bit sick before putting pillows and round-shaped nicknacks in his bed and covering them with a blanket to make it look like he was fast asleep in bed -
then make his great escape and meet the rest of the boys at the pub, just in time for his audition. That was their plan, at least. John just hoped to god it would work out.

"Y'think Paul will make it out ok?" George drawled as they made their way, relatively fast, down the street, Ringo leading the way as he knew the direction to the pub, leading them through many streets as it began to change from run-down, working-class houses to middle class areas, more and more people bustling about and shops looming above them.

"Hopefully. Surprised Jim didn't give 'im worse of a punishment, to be honest." Ringo replied with a shrug, apologising when he bumped into a lady that gave him a glare. They weaved through the growing crowd as best as they could; finally reaching the corner where Presley's pub was situated, they knocked on the door that had a sign that displayed "sorry, we're closed until 8pm - auditions in progress" on it. Faint piano ditty's were drifting from the building, and John strained his ears to listen to it. Alcoholics and drunkards next to the group of boys were banging on the windows and closed doors, stumbling on their unsteady feet with grumbles like; "fuck, why're they closin' this damn place early" and "fuckin' cunt Presley, I need a goddamn beer" followed by more incomprehensible mumbling.

A few seconds of no reply followed, standing there awkwardly while trying to avoid the drunkards swarming all around them, hands shoved in pockets nervously. John was wearing a disguise, having borrowed Paul's clothes (which were surprisingly fitting and comfortable, a lot more scratchy though; he couldn't stop breathing in the scent of Paul that enveloped the clothes) and slicked his hair back with a fake moustache, no glasses. It would make him legally blind and make it hard hard to get around without bumping into everything in sight, but he had his friends to guide him around.

Suddenly, a tall, handsome-looking man with jet-black, slicked back hair and pouty lips opened the door, looking vaguely disinterested before he spotted the three boys before him.

"Ah, hey, Ringo." His voice was deep and smooth, and had an American twang to it. "What's up, boys?"

"Aye Elvis. We're here fer the audition? Me friend's comin' in a few minutes." Ringo greeted his friend before they were let inside, Elvis giving a quick "fuck off would ya" to the protesting alcoholics swearing at the owner of the pub for him to reopen it before slamming the door.

"Right. Tell me when you guys are ready, grab a drink or somethin', I gotta attend to some other chumps first." He led them through the unusually empty pub to the bar, where the bartenders were getting set up to open once they finish the auditions; once he did so he moved to the other end of the pub, where the piano was situated, a few people lined up to audition, looking nervous.

Catching the attention of the bartenders, Ringo ordered their drinks while John decided to look over the people waiting to audition. There was a scruffy, middle aged man with a long greying beard standing fiddling with a rumpled piece of paper in his hands, looking as if he was ready to be out the room the moment someone even glances in his general direction - a young man, maybe seven or so years older than John looking nonchalant, smoking a pipe and leaning against the wall; and another older man, possibly late 30s sitting politely in one of the booths next to the piano, digging into a box which contained chicken and rice. So the competition looked tough-ish then; at least the young man that was leaning against the wall looked to have some potential at least. John had faith in Paul, though - he knew his boyfriend would blow all the competition out of the waters.