Paul awoke that morning to the sound of rain and wind slamming against his little bedroom window. It was supposed to be summer now - school had finished about four days ago - but Paul had yet to experience it, as it had been raining pretty much non-stop, despite it being unusually hot. For once, however, Paul didn't let the bad weather affect his mood, and happily threw his legs over the edge of the bed and got up, excited for the new day. Humming Rip It Up by his idol Little Richard to himself, he opened the curtains, letting the grey light flood into his little bedroom, and greeted the dreary outside with a bright smile, before quickly making his bed and opening his closet to see what he could wear that day. George would pick him up at a quarter past ten to go to John's together for band practice, so Paul wanted to wear something nice for his boyfriend. He wasn't sure why John wanted to start band practice in the morning, as he knew how he could get when he had to wake up early, but frankly he was glad to have an excuse to get out of the house and spend the day at John's, where he wouldn't be terrorised by his brother and his camera.
He debated for a while which clothes would make his chest stand out the least while still making him look sexy at the same time, before grabbing his tightest pair of black drainies (they weren't real drainies, as his father wouldn't allow him to get them, but he had let his regular jeans be taken in to create the same effect), a white shirt, a red pull-over, and his leather jacket - it had cost him a few quid but it was his best buy to date. He could already hear his father's voice in his head, telling him his trousers were too tight and that he was dressed far too hot for the time of year. Paul didn't care, though. He'd rather be a little warm than have anyone call him a "she". He hated it when that happened and, although he had trained himself not to react to it, it still hurt. Grabbing some clean underwear, his binder, and his packer, he rushed to the bathroom, sighing in relief when it was empty.
Turning on the taps, Paul drew himself a bath and studied his face in the mirror as he waited for the bath to fill up. He looked like a mess, with his bedhead of ruffled hair, heavy eyes, loose-fitting pyjamas and rosy cheeks. He had always been called handsome - or "pretty" and "cute" when he had still been a child - and Paul had to admit he wasn't bad-looking, but those perfectly arched eyebrows above his hazel doe eyes always remained something he felt insecure about. He had always been complimented on them when he had been little, and he hated them for it. They were feminine, and no matter what he tried, they remained perfect. Girls were jealous of him for them, and some even thought it made him look even handsomer, but Paul would be more than happy to trade them, wishing they were either less curved or rougher. Grimacing at himself, he shot himself a wink in an attempt to make himself feel better, before splashing some cold water on his face and drying it off with a towel. When he turned back to the bath, it was all ready for him. He made sure to lock the door, before stripping naked and letting himself slide into the warm bath with a content sigh, feeling his body relax as the warm water engulfed him. Maybe he could stay in a tiny bit longer?
It was five minutes past ten by the time Paul got downstairs, and he was already feeling warm in his clothes, which he knew didn't promise much good for the rest of the day. Still, he pretended to be fine and said a cheery "hello" to his father as he walked into the kitchen. The eldest of the McCartney household glanced up from his newspaper and raised an eyebrow as he saw what his son was wearing, but Paul pretended not to see and walked on, having spotted his brother standing at the kitchen counter, eating his cereal as he was going through some of the photographs he had taken.
The McCartney kitchen was small, with only just enough space for a tiny breakfast table at which all three of them could sit if they squeezed. They didn't often have to, though, as they had their dinner in the living room in front of the telly and rarely ate lunch together, the brothers having their lunch at school or out somewhere most of the time. Breakfast was the only time they needed to squeeze together if they wanted to sit, which they rarely did. But that's what you got when you turned your dining room into a music room, Paul supposed.
He glanced over his brother's shoulder to see which pictures he was looking at and smiled as he saw they were the ones he and Mike had taken together four days ago after coming home from school. They had turned out well.
"Paul, please don't tell me you're going out wearing that?" Paul looked up from his brother's pictures back at his father, who was looking at him with disapproval in his eyes as he stared at Paul's dubious choice of clothing. Paul looked down at himself with a surprised frown, pretending not to know what his father was talking about.
"What? Why?"
"It's almost eighty degrees out there, Paul! You'll melt!" Jim McCartney told his son, who rolled his eyes at his father's comment, before turning around to make himself some breakfast.
"I'll be fine, Dad. It's not as warm as it looks," he tried, despite better knowledge, being well aware that his father had a point. The only thing was, his father knew it too.
"Son-"
"I'll be fine!"
His father huffed at that, but didn't try to press the issue, knowing there was no way to change his son's mind once he had gotten an idea into it, and turned back to his newspaper.
"George's picking me up at quarter past for band practice. I don't know how long I'll be. We're going over to John's so... you know," Paul said as he sat down with his father at the table with his breakfast, hoping the change of subject would make his father drop the issue.
"You better be home for dinner, Paul. I'm making fish pie," his father said as he turned the page with a sigh, his eyes leaving the paper for a moment to look his son firmly in the eye. Paul took the opportunity to nod and smile, wanting to get back on his good side. He liked his father's fish pie, though; it was one of the few things he actually knew to cook well, the recipe having been his grandmother's from Mary's side of the family. She had always been fond of it too, which was why he liked making it; to keep her spirit alive.
"Sure, Dad. I'll be on time. We won't be that long anyway, I don't think," he said in reply, and with one last glance at the watch around his wrist, he started on his breakfast, shoving it into his mouth as fast he as could, wanting to be done before George would knock on the door, something that could happen any minute now. He occasionally blew into his tea to cool it faster.
"Paul, are you sure you don't want to wear-" Jim couldn't help but ask after a couple of long silences, but Paul was quick to interrupt him, not wanting to hear it.
"Yes, Dad. I'm sure," he said, and Jim mumbled something to himself that Paul couldn't hear, but he decided not to give it any thought. He was fine.
Paul was not fine. His father was right, as always. It was too hot, even just inside their kitchen with the back door open, allowing the somewhat cool air in. He had already started to sweat - he could feel it - and he knew he was going to have to put something else on. Only, he didn't want to. What if anyone saw? What if John saw?
The doorbell rang and Paul hurried to put his tea down and get up to answer the door, but his little brother been faster and beaten Paul to it, shouting a faint "I'll get it" behind him as he went, having already shot out of the kitchen by the time Paul had put his tea down. He let himself fall back into his seat with a defeated sigh, and blew into his shirt in an attempt to cool himself at least a little. He could feel his father's eyes on him, but he pretended not to notice. He listened to the muffled voices of his brother and George talking to each other, and picked up his tea to finish it anyway before they'd leave. His guitar stood waiting in the hallway, so he was all set to go.To see John, he thought with an internal squeal.
The volume of the voices increased and soon the two young men entered the kitchen. Paul looked up at his best mate with a large smile, which quickly vanished as he saw the look on his face as George looked him up and down.
"What?" he asked, being slightly worried now.
"Are you fucking kidding me, Paul? It's fucking hot outside and you're wearing a goddamn sweater and a leather jacket?!" his friend exclaimed, swallowing any other rude words when he noticed Paul's father sitting right next to his friend, looking at him with a raised eyebrow at his improper use of language. "Sorry, Mr McCartney."
Paul rolled his eyes. "I'm fine, Geo. You're overreacting," he said, hoping this was going to be the last time he'd hear anyone say anything about his choice of clothes. They didn't understand. They didn't have those weird lumps on their chests. George, however, didn't seem too easily deterred.
"No, you're not fine. Go get changed. This is crazy," he simply told him, but again Paul refused, much to George's annoyance. "You'll die of overheating if you don't lose some layers. Come on!"
"I've been telling him the same thing!" Jim McCartney suddenly butted in, and Paul could already tell he wasn't going to win this argument. Not this time.
"But, Geo-"
"No, Paul. No buts. You're going to get changed. Come on, I'll help you find something," George said, and Paul reluctantly gave in, knowing George would drag him upstairs like a screaming child if he wouldn't go willingly. The moment he got up, George grabbed him by his elbow and dragged him upstairs with him.
"So," George said as he put Paul down onto the bed rather forcefully. "Get those clothes off and let me find you something else. What about that white shirt you like so much? You know, the one with the green buttons and the rolled up sleeves? That one is nice."
"It's in the washer," Paul muttered as he did what George had told him to do, feeling how his cheeks heated up as he exposed more and more of his chest. George hummed at his answer, pulled Paul's closet open and started rummaging through it, searching for something for his friend to wear with a thoughtful look on his face. Once Paul had taken everything off apart from his jeans, he laid down onto his bed, propping a pillow up against the wall to lean against as he watched George pull out different shirts for him to see what he thought. Mostly, his suggestions were met with a negative. When he pulled out a black and white striped shirt, Paul grimaced and shook his head.
"Oh come on! It looks so good on you, I swear!" George tried, holding out the shirt for him with pleading puppy eyes and the most dramatic pout Paul had seen in a long time. Still, he shook his head.
"I don't know, Geo..."
"Please, Paul."
"It just shows, you know? Like, I know it does."
"It doesn't! I promise, you look like a stick, that's how flat you are. Just try it on."
"George..."
"John likes it, you know. Especially with that black jacket of yours. Says you look like Elvis, he does," George told him with a knowing grin, pushing the shirt out into Paul's direction, and Paul bit his lip as he thought it over. In the end, he gave in with a groan and took the shirt from his friend.
"Fine. But if it shows, I'm changing again."
"You won't see a thing," George promised, and Paul gave him a doubtful look before he pulled the shirt on over his head. When he went to grab the jacket his friend had mentioned, however, George took him by the arm and pulled him to the mirror on Paul's closet door. The older lad whined as he saw his own reflection, his eyes staring at his chest, before he briefly glanced at George's and then his own again, not liking what he saw. It showed; the stripes accentuated every curve of his chest, making it stand out more than normally. When George saw him looking, however, he made Paul turn around and look at himself from the side. Paul's eyes grew wide as he saw himself now. He looked so... flat. It was like there was nothing even there!
"See? You can't see a thing. You don't wear that thing for nothing, you know," George said, and Paul nodded slowly and continued to stare himself, not believing what he saw. He looked manly.
"You're looking hot, mate," George added, causing Paul to burst out in a fit of giggles, suddenly feeling so incredibly happy. A large radiant smile stayed behind as his laughter died down. "Now, let's give John his own personal Elvis back, shall we?"
"Macca, love! There you are! Come in, come in! You too, Harrison, if you must." John greeted them by the back door - everyone knew you needed to come in through the back door or Mimi would have your head - and pulled his boyfriend in for a quick kiss by the lapels of his jacket, not caring that he was slightly wet from the rain. Paul giggled in surprise by the sudden display of affection, and tried to kiss back before John released him again, watching with affection at the blush that spread over the younger man's features. Beside them George pretended to gag as he put away his damp umbrella and toed off his shoes.
"Disgusting you two are. No respect at all for the fragile, innocent eyes of the good god-fearing people around them," he joked, and John shot him his middle finger, before pulling Paul in for another - this time overly dramatic - kiss, playing his part in the little play George had set out for them. The youngest pretended to be disgusted and hurried to put his shoes aside, before pushing past the two men who were now consumed in an elaborate kiss, enjoying the other thoroughly. Once he was gone, John pulled away again, lowering his hand, which had been tangled in Paul's damp hair, to his boyfriend's hips and holding him in place, refusing to let him go. Not that Paul had any plans to move away.
"I've missed you, you know," John muttered in a soft voice, causing Paul to let out a giggle.
"We saw each other two days ago," he reminded his boyfriend, looking up into his almond eyes as he reached up to brush a lock of hair out of John's face and tuck it back in place, before cupping the his cheek in the palm of his hand. John leaned into the touch, having missed the feeling of having Paul close to him and touch him.
"I don't care. I still missed you. You look good," he answered, and Paul chuckled at that last as he looked down at himself, feeling stupid for giggling so much, but he couldn't help himself: John simply had that effect on him.
"You ought to thank George for that. He said you think I look like Elvis when I wear this."
"Oh yes, my very own little Elvis," John muttered in reply, an almost predatory grin on his face, as he leaned in and captured Paul's lips for another kiss, moaning as his lover kissed back and curled his tongue around John's. Before Paul knew what they were doing, John had him pushed against one of the kitchen counters and had lowered his hand to his arse, squeezing as he suckled on his tongue. It felt good to have John close to him again, and he moaned eagerly into his boyfriend's mouth as he ran his fingers through John's hair, liking how soft it felt. He wished they could have stayed like that a little longer, liking how wanted John always managed to make him feel, even on days he felt insecure, but of course it couldn't be.
"You two love birds just going to fuck in there all day, or are we actually going to make some music?!" someone called out at them from the front room, followed by a roar of laughter. John and Paul reluctantly pulled apart, both somewhat flustered that they had let things get this far, and Paul reached up to straighten John's clothing for him, before he fixed his own. John looked down at him with a little smile as he worked on his clothes, liking the feeling of Paul's slender hands tugging at his clothes and smoothing it, and called back at his friends.
"Yeah, yeah! We're coming. Don't get your knickers in a twist, Shotton!" he said, and winked at Paul, before taking him by his hand and leading him from the kitchen to the front room, where Mimi would sometimes let them practice for a while. When they entered, everyone was already there, sitting scattered across the small living room around the fireplace, instruments ready. No one said a word about the obvious make-out session they had had and simply continued on talking to each other. They all knew they were together and it wasn't a big deal, and if you couldn't deal with them being that way, you would be kicked out of the band. It was as simple as that, and Paul liked it that way. It made him feel safe. John and Paul took the empty spots on both sides of Colin, their drummer, but they didn't mind not sitting together. Once the music started, that was all that mattered: good rock 'n roll.
They played well that morning. They mostly did what they usually did, which was going through their set list over and over again, repeating songs where was needed. Paul and John would do suggestions, and occasionally George would bring something in. The others simply did what was asked of them, not knowing much about music and being well aware of this. It worked that way; it had always worked that way, and it was how they spent the first hour and twenty minutes. Paul helped Colin on his drum work on the song 'I Got a Woman', not being perfectly happy with the sound, and John helped George figure out a riff that he just couldn't get quite right. When they decided to have a break, John got them something to drink - no alcohol though, as Mimi would soon be home from running some errands - and some sandwiches Mimi had made for them all for lunch. George and Pete helped him, as Paul messed around on his guitar some more, trying to take his mind off the promise of food, feeling his stomach growl. When the other men got back into the room, he was one of the first to reach out for a sandwich, though George got one soon after. John ruffled his boyfriend's hair affectionately, before handing him an opened bottle of coke to drink.
"Thanks, love," Paul said with a full mouth, and forced himself to swallow his first bite, before he leaned up and pursed his lips, asking for a kiss that John was more than happy to give him.
"Hey John, you're bi, right?" Eric asked as he got himself a sandwich as well. John nodded as he pulled away from Paul and sat back down in his own little seat, leaving his guitar to lean against the couch beside him.
"That all you wanted to ask me?"
"Well," Eric continued, his cheeks growing a light pink from embarrassment. "I know you've been dating Paulie for a while now, but... are there any erm... differences? You know, between dating boys and girls?"
"Why? Trying to figure yourself out, Griffiths?"
"No! No, I was just curious, is all," Eric quickly answered, and John grinned at him as he leaned back in his seat with a shrug. His eyes briefly met Paul's, who had sat up at the question, curious to hear what John's answer would be. He had only ever liked guys, so he didn't know if there would be a difference. But at the same time, the potential answer also kind of scared him. Not because he doubted whether John actually loved him, but... he didn't know. About him.
"Not really. I mean, it mostly depends on the boy or girl, you know? I mean, boys take more time at first, though. They're more difficult to woo. It's probably an ego thing or something, right Macca?" John said with a wink at his boyfriend, who flushed red at that, remembering the days when John had tried to 'woo' him all too well. He had rejected John more times than was probably normal, but for him it hadn't been an ego thing, as such. Maybe at first it had been, but then it had changed into something else. John had always thought of him as a boy - hadn't even questioned it once, not even once they had started to hang out together - and Paul had liked that. He liked the idea of not having to worry about whether he was masculine enough, to be able to simply be himself. But then, Paul had started to become scared to see what would happen if John would find out, and had tried to stay away from him, refusing to go out with him despite the almost feral want that pooled in his stomach whenever he saw the older man. If it hadn't been for George, their occasional drunken kisses, and John's persistence, they would probably still be circling each other like cats.
"Piss off, Lennon," he muttered in reply, and took a sip from his coke as he turned away from him. The others chuckled at that.
"How long did it take you then? To seduce the knickers off of Paul and drag him into your bed?" Pete asked with an amused grin, and John and Paul shared an embarrassed look, before John uttered an answer.
"Well, I knew I wanted him after he got back from camping that summer after we met, looking all tan and having lost his baby fat, but Paul here wouldn't have me till New Year's."
"Worst decision of my life," Paul joked, and John made a rude gesture at him before continuing.
"Anyway. Even that is only a small difference and it depends on the guy or girl. But girls are a little easier, also because you don't have to figure out if they're into guys or not, because you can just go up to them and they'll like tell you, you know? But apart from that... girls are gorgeous, but so is our Paul here. Presents and remembering important dates and fancy dinners and romance are very much a focus with girls, but really only because they're more vocal about that stuff. Guys like it just as much, and if you really like someone you do that anyway and it doesn't matter. There are tons of girls who aren't that bothered with romance, just as there are tons of guys who love to be surprised and be taken to a fancy dinner. It's really not that different. I do prefer guys, though, like Paulie here. There is no particular reason. It just is," John finished with a little smile into Paul's direction, who stared back at him in reply, a little smile appearing on his face, while at the same time feeling his heart race in his chest from nervousness. Girls are gorgeous, but so is our Paul here.
"Well son, looks like you're in the clear!" Colin joked as he slapped Paul's back, nearly causing Paul to fall off his seat as he hadn't been prepared for that, almost spilling his drink. The others laughed again and Colin patted his back - gently this time - as an apology. Paul smiled and shook his head, as he muttered it was fine.
"Alright, ladies. Enough talk. Let's get back to the music, shall we?" John suggested, and with some mediocre cheers, the band got started again, occasionally taking bites from their food and sips from their drinks as they played.
Paul found it harder to focus during the second set. Not only could he not stop thinking about John's answer to Eric's question, but it was also getting rather hot in the front room, the sun shining directly through the window and into the small room where all the lads were cramped together. The heat wasn't just uncomfortable: it also made him sweat a little, which started to irritate his binder. He found himself shuffling in his seat a lot, bending his body in different ways in an attempt to fix his binder and feel a little more comfortable, but it only got worse and his back started to ache, making it more difficult to breathe properly as well. He took off his jacket, but even then it was too warm. At first it had been easy to ignore, but when John came up with the idea of adding Long Tall Sally to their set list and have Paul sing it, it became worse. They had had to play it a few times, and Paul had to give it his all when he sang, the song being hard on his voice, with all the rough screaming. He managed to get through it four times, before he asked John to do another song, as they could always come back to it, being exhausted and sweaty and needing to sit to relieve some pressure off his back and catch his breath. He saw George give him a calculating look from the corner of his eye, and he raised an eyebrow at him as Paul looked into his direction, asking him if he was alright. Paul faked a smile and nodded, not wanting his friend to worry. Besides, how long could practice still take?
Well, longer than he had thought, apparently. So long even, that when he had thought they'd be wrapping it up, Mimi came home and John announced another short break, and got up to get them all something more to drink - Mimi had gotten them more cokes, bless her. Colin stood up to help him, leaving the chair beside Paul empty for George to sit in.
"Are you okay?" the younger man asked as he sat down, turning his worried eyes directly onto Paul, who groaned in reply.
"Do I look okay?" he asked, knowing that lying to George was futile, especially because his friend probably knew exactly what was bothering him. Sometimes it really was as if the guy could read his mind, which was ridiculous, but one day Paul would find proof. He groaned again as he stretched his back, hoping to relieve some of the pain.
"If you'd rather go home, you know you can right?" George asked, and Paul nodded with a sigh, already having thought about going home. He really wanted to take off his binder, but he wasn't going to do that here; apart from George, no one knew yet. God, why couldn't he just come out about it? It would save him so much trouble.
"I'll be fine, Geo," Paul said stubbornly, and George bit his lip at that.
"You know, no one is going to hold it against you if you go home because you're not feeling good. People get sick, you know."
"But I'm not really sick, am I?"
"I didn't mean it like that, Paul," George said sternly, and Paul sighed as he ran a hand through his hair, pushing it out of his face.
"I know you didn't, George. I'm sorry. I just get frustrated."
"Which is why I'm saying... Paul, just be honest. Do you want to go home? I'll come with you if you do. I don't mind. No one else will mind if you don't feel good."
Paul thought about it for a moment, weighing the pros and cons in his mind as he looked doubtfully at the door that led through to the kitchen, where he knew John was, not really feeling like leaving him and instead wishing he could just be with him without needing to worry about anything. But his back did ache terribly, and he knew he was lying when he said he would be fine.
"Yeah. I'd like to go home," he said, and George nodded as he patted Paul's knee sympathetically, before helping him up to his feet and towards the kitchen, so they could say goodbye to John and leave. The others around them looked a little worried, so Paul pretended to feel ill, like he always did when he felt like this. It felt bad to lie and he wished he didn't have to, but he knew all too well this wasn't the moment nor the way to come out. If only people wouldn't make such a big deal out of it.
"John! John, we're going home," George said as they entered the kitchen just as Colin left, carrying a bunch of cokes in his arm, and making John look up from where he had been standing with his head in the fridge, a surprised frown on his forehead.
"Already?" he asked, looking from George to Paul and back again. "Mimi's not going to bother us, if that's what you're worried about. She'll be in the garden until we've finished. Or at least, till she's decided we've finished." He chuckled at that, but Paul was too uncomfortable to join him, wincing as he arched his back to try to relieve some of the pain. George steadied him with a hand on his shoulder, just in case, though. For Paul, it already helped to be reminded that George was there to help him.
"Paul? Are you okay?"
"Actually, he's not feeling well, John. I'm just going to take him home," George explained, and Paul nodded in agreement with a somewhat awkward smile, seeing how worried John now was, looking him over with wide eyes as he bit his lip thoughtfully, and wishing he didn't have to lie to him about this and make him feel worried.
"It's nothing serious. I think I just need to lie down for a while," he muttered, making his voice croaky on purpose to make himself seem even sicker.
"You know, if you want, you could go upstairs and lay in my bed for a while?" John offered, clearly not wanting Paul to leave and for a moment, Paul was tempted to say yes, but he knew that was stupid. Just lying down wasn't going to help, after all; he needed to take off his binder. He wasn't going to do that here at John's with the possibility of John finding out on his own. If he was going to come out, he was going to be the one to do it.
"John, love, I'd rather just go home. I-I'm sorry. I just really don't feel good and I just want to go home and have some sleep," he about half-lied, and John nodded with a sigh.
"If that's what you want," he muttered, and when Paul nodded, he pulled him in for a hug, and kissed his cheek as a goodbye, and Paul melted in his arms, allowing himself to slump against the older man and relax his body a little. When John pulled away, with a little kiss to the tip of Paul's nose, George gently took him by his arm and started to guide him towards the backdoor.
"I'll tell the others you've left. Call me when you're feeling better, okay love?" John said, and Paul nodded, before he allowed George to help him with his shoes and get him out of the house, leaving John feeling slightly disappointed behind.
The walk home was pretty uneventful and relatively easy, considering Paul's physical condition: the two men mostly walked together, the older one leaning on his younger friend as he occasionally moaned in pain, rubbing his lower back with his hand, as they slowly walked from Menlove Avenue back to Forthlin Road under one umbrella. Once they finally got there, the walk being longer now as they moved at a slower pace and couldn't take any shortcuts, Paul let them in with his key, and leaned against the wall as George helped him take off his shoes. They could hear Paul's father listening to a football game on the radio in the living room, and they softly made their way up the stairs and to Paul's room, not wanting to disturb him. Once they were there, George closed the curtains, allowing a yellowish light so shine through the curtains, and helped Paul sit down on the bed. He helped him out of his clothes and then got up to get Paul an oversized shirt to wear. He turned around to offer Paul some privacy as he shimmied out of his binder with difficulty and pulled on his shirt. When he turned back around he helped his friend to lie down on his stomach, trying his best to ignore the whines of discomfort that escaped Paul's lips as he moved, leaving them both glad he had managed to take Paul home with him.
"Thanks, Geo," Paul groaned as he closed his eyes and let himself relax into the comfort of his bed. George hummed in reply and put Paul's clothes away before he sat down next to his mate. When he raised his hands and placed them on Paul's shoulder blades, the older man leaned into the touch eagerly, causing George to grin as he started to massage Paul's back, hoping to relieve some of the pain he knew Paul was feeling.
"That good?" he asked, and continued what he was doing when Paul nodded with a content hum.
"That's lovely," he muttered, and sighed as he felt himself relax already. His back still ached, but now that his binder was off and he was actually lying down, he already felt better, and George kneading his muscles only helped with that. He turned his head to lie down on his cheek and glanced at George from the corner of his eyes, feeling thankful to have such a great friend. After a few minutes of silence, he felt his eyelids grow heavy, so he closed his eyes and focused purely on the feeling of George's hands on his back, relieving the tension.
"Paul?" George asked after a while. Paul merely nodded with a little hum. "You haven't been wearing it for too long, have you?" Paul blushed at the question and looked away from his friend as he shrugged. "Paul!"
"It's not my fault! I haven't been sleeping with it or anything. It's just... I've been spending more time with John and well... sometimes it's nice to just stay there a while longer, you know."
"Paul, you have to be careful with that. Whether you like it or not, you do have this body and you need to take care of yourself. It isn't healthy to have it on for too long. You know that."
"I know. I just didn't feel like leaving, okay? Besides, it's not like I left it on all day! I didn't know it would turn out to be this bad," Paul objected, and George sighed at that with disapproval.
"You have to promise me, you're not going to leave it on longer than you normally do, okay? I know it sucks, but you can do some serious damage."
"I know, George! I promise," Paul agreed, and when George didn't say anything more, he allowed himself to relax again with a deep sigh. He knew George was right. He had known that he had been wearing it for too long and that combined with the warmth... it hadn't done him much good; he couldn't deny it. He just wished he didn't need to wear the damn thing. Why couldn't he have been born with a flat chest, like everyone else? Or... nearly everyone else. It wasn't fair.
"You know you're going to have to tell John one of these days, right? You cannot keep lying to him about this," George said after a few moments of silence, letting his hands slide off Paul's back, being done with his brief but effective massage. Paul carefully rolled over onto his back to meet his friend's eyes, sighing in relief when his back didn't start complaining.
"You can't keep on keeping this up forever. He deserves to know," George added.
"I know, Geo. And I want to tell him, I really do. I hate having to leave so suddenly like this and make John feel worried about me. I don't want to lie to him, but..."
"But what?"
"But what if he leaves me, Geo? What if he decides he doesn't want me anymore? What if he doesn't think I'm manly enough? You heard what he said: 'Girls are gorgeous, but so is our Paul.' He prefers men, so what if he-"
"Yes, men like you!" George quickly said, but Paul rolled his eyes at that. "Come on, Paul. You know John is supportive of people being trans. And he really loves you. Of course, he'll still want you."
"But what if he doesn't, Geo? Not minding trans people and dating them are different for people, you know. What if I lose, John? I don't want to lose him!"
"You won't lose him, Paul. I promise you," George said, but Paul sighed as he shook his head.
"I wish I could be as certain of that as you are," he muttered, rubbing his forehead as he felt a headache coming up. "I know I should tell him, Geo. I want to tell him. You know I do. I don't want to have to keep lying or being careful. I just want to be myself around him. I just don't know if I can..."
"I think you can," George said, but Paul only scoffed at that.
"I think I'm just going to take a nap, George," he said, and with that he rolled over onto his side and away from his friend, curling his legs up and hugging them to his chest as he closed his eyes. He felt the bed beside him move, and he could hear George's footsteps on the wooden floor, as the younger man started walking away. When the door opened, Paul stopped him.
"Thank you, Geo. For all this. You're a great friend," he said, and he meant it.
"Thanks, Paul. Now get some rest. I'll call you in the morning to ask how you are," George answered, and he left without another word. But Paul was too tired to actually feel alone, and before he had even fully realised George had left, he had already fallen asleep, his backache having reduced to a light soreness.
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