Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It all started with a poster that had eye-catching psychedelic fonts and a proudly displayed piece of student’s artwork used as a logo which was intended to be printed on everything, present everywhere, credited smugly by teachers, in the run up to the event detailed in more a legible typeface under the wildly designed title. It was carried in the hands of the music teacher, a man of medium height and a thin stature that he dressed in varied smart, simple suits. His dark hair was always combed so that not a strand was out of place and ties were always the perfect length. The only problem with his preciseness was that he worked in a school and children often had the smallest amount of care for those who taught them.

That’s why he’d chosen this moment to pad across the school hallways to the assembly hall, whose doors were framed by two bulletin boards either side. The corridors were silent, only mutterings from inside strictly maintained classrooms occasionally disturbed the quiet making it the perfect time to pin up what would be a popular notification before seamlessly slipping away as though he’d never left his room. There would be no flocking around him, no shouting questions at him and attempts to grasp what he would eventually pin up for all to see. He took a golden pin from one of the overly stabbed other posters to put his own up, electing to cover the month-old warning about correct uniform. No one had read it anyway. With kids getting into stuff like this these days, there would be no way any student would pass this poster by. Not with its stylish, ‘hip’ design as well as the fact that people had been anticipating this for a while now. It was the only event every kid wanted to be a part of. Assuring himself again, the teacher nodded at his handiwork and was about to skulk away unnoticed, when a booming voice piped up behind him, well and truly filling up the empty space.

“Ah Mr Epstein. It’s time again for our annual Battle of the Bands, I see.” It was the stout headteacher, who ignored the fact that his employee flinched visibly the sound of his voice being way louder than needed in the silent space. It was as though he didn’t care that his voice may have disturbed the quiet classes. You’d think, as someone who owned a school, he may have had more consideration towards the student’s lesson time, but it had become apparent to Mr Epstein that this was not the case. He was looking as he always did in an oversized pair of suit trousers that had to fit over his beer belly, his long, chubby face stretched into an arrogant smile as he waited for Mr Epstein’s enthusiastic reply.

 “Yes, Mr Kirshner.” Mr Epstein produced a gentle but forced smile at the floor. He promised that he never particularly hated anyone he worked with, it was unprofessional. Yet Mr Kirshner had a way about him that all the teachers found taxing, an arrogance, a lack of interest in anyone other than himself. It was understandable why people would hate him. Still, Mr Epstein kept telling himself that he wasn’t one of those people. He just tried not to take things personally.

“And this is your first, isn’t it? Oh, we have a fantastic band that wins every year, Mr Epstein.” He gloated, again all too loud. It was like he was addressing a whole year of chatting students with that kind of volume. “They’re real stars. They bring all the best people in and we get great awards. Every year, I tell you, every year.” He proceeded to fix his tie while looking in the glass of the school display cabinet, not to see his refection so that his appearance might be refined, but so that he could regard the sports trophies, competition awards and medals in all sorts.

“They’re that good?” Mr Epstein asked, trying to hide his doubt.

“Oh, very good.” Mr Kirshner insisted. He then grinned widely directly at his member of staff, before muttering some half-hearted “I’ve got lots of work to do.” as he hobbled off to his office.

Mr Epstein sighed as he looked, now discouraged, at the poster. For such an exciting project that was so important to the students- he’d been ecstatic, filled with ideas, when it was first given to him- he now wondered how much freedom he would be given to make it even better. He wanted the previous years to look inferior to the show he’d put on. He wanted to wipe the memory of the previous music teacher from people’s minds- they’d never say that they missed him again. Now, he just felt annoyed. He stalked away, hoping no one would sign up this year.

Of course, that was never going to happen. The bell trilled across the school in all its high pitched, ear torturing irritation alerting classes to the end of a lesson. Students flooded out of their classrooms into the wonderful freedom of break time. And, from the few classes who’d already passed the bulletin board, news was spreading of the Annual Battle of the Bands sign-up sheet. Excitement and plans dispersed through the school as new bands were being created, old ones were reconciling and audience members- who would effectively turn into fans on the dance floor- were asking their friends if they’d come too. Already, in barely 10 minutes into their break time, the event’s announcement had reached almost everyone.

“John! John!” Cried an excessively cute-looking 5^th year as he shot out into the playground in search of a 6^th form boy, a boy who was lying on his back on a bench by the sports court. John was wearing a plaid t-shirt tucked into a pair of heavy trousers, a leather jacket lying beneath him, but hooked onto his shoulders. He was surrounded by about four of his friends, all in his year, two of which the 5^th year knew quite well- Pete and Ringo- one of which he disliked a bit- Stu.

“John,” He repeated, almost breathlessly from the run out there, but he refused to look weak in front of the older boys. He gave an icy look towards tall, good-looking Stu, who was always hanging out with John, persuading his slightly more rebellious friend to actually come to the art class they took together.

“Paulie!” John gleefully said as he pulled himself up to sit on the edge of the bench, “What’s going on with you?”

Paul tugged his warm, dark jumper down and tried to ignore the numerous set of eyes, watching and waiting for him to divulge the obvious, important information he’d rushed over here to say. “Battle of the Bands!” Was all he managed without stammering over his words. He then, in the lack of a response, continued, “Should we put our names down?”

Excitement washed over John’s face, “Yes! Of course! Stu, Pete. You ready to rock as the Beatles!” Pete, the cheeky-looking one with Elvis piled hair, nodded enthusiastically. Stu, however, shuffled awkwardly and met John’s gaze with apprehension. As though the two had a telepathic conversation, they suddenly left the group to talk by the metal fencing. Paul enviously gritted his teeth and looked to the remaining 6^th formers. They were often nice to him. Even Stu. But Paul just didn’t like him. He didn’t bother to try and work out why, he simply accepted his dislike and allowed himself to be affected by everything Stu did, it was easier after all. Pete was alright, he guessed. Ringo was cool with all his rings that had given him the nickname. Then there was that shy boy who was closer to Ringo than the others in his group. Alan had a real rocker look about him, a great on-stage or camera presence which no one really understood seen as he had a horrible stutter when not putting on his act. He hated talking in class, he hated being around people, including Paul, so Paul was always kind to him, but steered clear in case he made him nervous.

“What do you say, Alan?” Ringo then turned to the shy boy and nudged him playfully, “Do you want to have another go at Rory Storm and His Hurricanes?”

Turning almost red, Alan timidly began speaking, “O-only if you can g-g-et Lou, Ty and Johnny in on it. H-haven’t played with them in a while.”

John then returned, a lot less keen than before. “Is George going to do it?”

“I’ll put his name down, so he won’t have a choice.” Paul laughed in an attempt to lighten John’s suddenly negative mood. It didn’t seem to have much of an effect.

John muttered something to himself along the lines of ‘if only I could do the same with some people’ that Stu heard and rolled his eyes about, then John perked back up to instruct Paul to, “Go and put you, me, Pete and Georgie down as the Beatles.”

Paul was about to inquire about Stu, but decided against it, before leaving the group with a cheeky smile John’s way. It still failed to produce one back.

Names had filled the sheet to its maximum and other sheets of lined paper were pinned beneath it to accommodate all the potential bands. By the time the break was over, two and a half extra sheets had been placed there. Mr Epstein was very glad to see this was so. He stood in front of the bulletin board, considering how he might audition all of these bands in such a short space of time- there would be two days next week that he could use break time, lunch time and after school to see, but there was still until the end of the week to enter. Three more days of people, if slightly waning amounts, putting their names up, beating the three times champions, the Beatles (formally, the Quarrymen.)

There was also another name that rang a bell. One of the teachers had been telling Mr Epstein about a band that won in the first year they ever put the show on, a band called The Hurricanes, or whatever. They were on there too.

So that the notification board looked slightly more respectable, Mr Epstein tore off the sheets except for the front one, then added some more clear ones to the back. He set about, when he didn’t have lessons, writing the names up again, neatly for his own log. He’d use this list to create other posters for when he was going to split up the auditions, ‘these bands on this day at this time’ sort of thing.

Chapter Text

At the second break time, the lunch hall was always packed. A lanky 6^th form student plodded with a wet tray balanced on his arms to the line of hungry younger kids all waiting for their sloppily served mush. He took his place right at the back and sunk into a moody pose, leaning on one leg. He thought, as he stood there, removing an arm from under his tray so that he could scratch an itchy part of his scalp under his green wool hat, he really should be bringing packed lunch in, but that would require too much effort. He’d rather eat mush.

His mind was, thankfully, distracted from the awful vision of grey potato mixed with browny-green slop, by someone shoving him forward as they bound into the middle of the line. He was just about to yell at some thoughtless little 4^th year when he realised who it actually was, and why they’d done it. Hyper Micky, whose thin, tall body was incapable of being slowed down to any reasonable speed of life, regained himself and grasped his friend by the shoulders. For a 15 going on 16-year-old, in the year younger than his friend, he was a towering figure. Not quite matching his wool hat wearing mate, but close.

“Mike, we’ve gotta sign up, man.” He squealed, half gesturing vaguely towards the doors of the lunch hall.

“Calm yourself, Micky. Sign up for what?” Mike replied slowly. The line moved forward and Mike peered over his shoulder, wondering why no one had shouted at Micky for butting in. There were a few kids waiting, but they looked far too shy to pick on two huge boys in front.

“The Battle of the Bands. C’mon, man, you’ve been wanting to since you started here. I wanna do it. Davy will. And you can get Peter to, right? He’s good on bass.”

Mike rolled his eyes. Yes, he wanted to do Battle of the bands, but just because he’d admitted that he wanted to do it never meant that he would. It was known as a ‘severe lack of confidence’ something that Mike had convinced himself he’d had from birth. He shook his head and looked away, “Naw man. Let’s not. It’ll be… we’ll get killed out there.”

Micky dropped his head to the side in disbelief. This was the second year in a row Mike had tried to get out of this, the second year he’d nervously turned away, the second year he’d let his dream die because he was too afraid. In a huff, he stormed away as dramatically as he’d come in. Mike chuckled to himself, then stepped forward with the line. His mind turned to lunch again.

His next job, aside from trying not to look at his food- the smell rising from its smoking heat was strong- was to find a seat. He hated sitting near anyone he didn’t know and he couldn’t see his friends anywhere. Well, that wasn’t strictly true. There was a boy from his music class who he’d talked to before when his other friends weren’t in. They both were really into music, they both played the guitar- though Mike played 12 string- and they had a couple of mutual friends so they sometimes were in groups together without really noticing it. But John was hanging around with his usual lot and there was no space around him for Mike.

He whispered an audible ‘Thank you!’ when he saw the familiar blond blob belonging to his friend, Peter, who had purposefully placed his bag (that was littered with badges of hippy-like flowers) on the chair beside him so that no one else could sit there. Good ol’ Pete, Mike thought as he made a b-line for that table. On the way, he bumped into the short, fiery kid in Micky’s year.

“Ya’ll ‘right Davy?” He said, shuffling along with his tray.

“Oh, hi Mike. I’m groovy, man. You?” Davy flashed his winning smile with all those pearly whites sparkling from the gap between his thick, prettily shaped lips. When Peter saw the smile, he replicated it along with a sweet greeting. Mike sat next to the older boy, while Davy sat across from them. Peter was already halfway through eating the slush served for lunch and smug, little Davy pulled out a lunch box from his backpack. Mike rolled his eyes again in jealousy after seeing what he must eat. By comparison, it looked as though Davy were eating a 5 course, silver platter meal.

“Pete, you doing ok?” Mike asked, willing to do anything not to eat his own food. Then again, if he left it too long, it would go cold, which would be way worse than eating it while hot. Reluctantly knowing that he would get really hungry later, he spooned up a mouthful and held his breath as he shoved it into his mouth.

“Yeah. How are you, Michael?”

“I’m ok.” He thought he was about to throw up, so he hastily shovelled more into his mouth in hope of his mind being too busy to worry about the actual feel or taste of the stuff. He did this three times before Peter thrust a packet of chocolates into his hands and stole away his tray.

“Eat this.” He insisted. Mike could’ve have been more grateful. He knew that Davy was too picky about food to be ok with sharing, but Peter, for some reason, would give his last bean to Mike without so much as a second’s thought. He punched Peter fondly, then took out two wrapped up chocolates and gave one to Peter.

“You two!” Davy giggled, his twinkly laugh infectious to anyone who knew him well, even grumpy old Mike, “You’re like a married couple.” All three of them laughed at that.

Then three turned to four as Micky sat down next to Davy and took Mike’s tray with his hardly eaten lunch on it and started scoffing it without any such reservations.

“Hi, Micky.” Peter said. He was always the one to greet anyone first before the others had the thought to do so. Micky peered up from his food looking randomly guilty.

His voice was lower than usual. “Hi Peter.”

Mike recognised that sound. Being reasonably observant and spending way too much time with these boys- time he could’ve spent revising… or courting some chick- he knew that Micky was trying not to tell them all something. He narrowed his brown eyes and leant forward with his right elbow on the table to get Micky’s attention, his left hand curling around the pouch of chocolates he’d seen Davy eyeing as he ate.

“Micky…” He begun, his voice at a low tone of warning, “What have you done?”

Micky looked up without moving his head. He glanced up through his eyelashes and shrugged his shoulders slowly. Mike’s strong, knowing gaze continued at him, willing his mouth to open, because Mike well knew that it was on the tip of Micky’s tongue, hence why he hadn’t said much when he’d sat down. The staring war gathered two spectators, barely interested Davy and very confused Peter with his huge brown eyes darting from the two participants, wondering if he should say something. Then Micky crumbled, almost physically. He sunk his elbows, that had been on the edge of the table, wider so that his head bowed further down in defeat. He stole his gaze from Mike and changed his expression to a pure ‘don’t kill me’ look.

“I… signed us up.” He whispered. Mike’s eyes grew wide in shock. He insisted he’d heard Micky wrong, but, on request, Micky repeated exactly what Mike feared, “I signed us up to the Battle of the Bands.” He was now informing the two friends either side of him and trying to convince them that it would be a good idea. The thing was, both were already sold.

“Really?” Peter excitedly gasped. Micky nodded, happy that at least one person thought it a good idea, but he saw Mike’s continuing astonished expression and wondered if he may want to take their names off. If Mike went, they wouldn’t perform.

“Groovy!” Davy had exclaimed, “What’s our band name then?”

“The Monkees.” Micky said, “Because it was the first thing that came to my mind. But its spelt with two e’s, you see. Look,” He grasped a napkin and started to doodle the name in different styles. There was a brief conversation about why the misspelling of monkey, but it was agreed that it fit them nicely. Then Mike managed to join in.

“Ok…” He bleated, “What song do you want to do?”

Chapter Text

Plonking herself down on a circular picnic table in the grass green area of the school playground, a girl with a classic, blond beehive- not too high, not so low that it was indistinguishable as a purposeful hairstyle- joined her friends with a loud huff, before dramatically burying her head in her crossed arms. As though that were not enough, she also let out a muffled cry and looked up with her blue/green eyes begging for help.

The long, sharp-faced girl sitting diagonal from her stretched out her hand to hold her friend’s comfortingly, “Pattie, are you ok?” She asked quietly.

“No!” Pattie cried, her lips then turning up in the corners as she shook her head, “Its him again. The boy in 6^th form.”

“Eric?” Chimed in the red head who had been re-arranging the badges on her black newsboy hat, “Him again, really? I thought you were all for George?” She checked that all the badges were on and checked both sides before placing it stylishly on her head. Boys were not really her strongest subject, but she tried to make conversation as best she could.

“I love George, but every time I see him in school, he’s hanging around with Paul and Eric, then Eric wants to see me and…” She threw herself back into her arms and gasped.

Then the girl opposite her with thick, dark hair, heavily applied eye make-up and a rounded jaw sighed in frustration, “Must we really lower ourselves to common female stereotypes and talk about boys constantly?” She got several mocking looks her way as well as a high pitched ‘oooo get her’ sound from the red-head, “Look Niki, just because you’re off trying to get guys 10 times your age, you Phyllis have been running off to see that moody thing from 6^th form and Jane is all love struck over Paul, doesn’t mean we have to talk about it all the bloody time.” The three girls she mentioned hid small grins as they did not have any grounds to deny it.

“Well that’s decided then, what should we talk about?” asked Jane with a distinct amount of sass in her voice as she knew that Maureen, the dark-haired girl, wouldn’t have any better ideas. Dropping back into silence, Maureen shrugged her shoulders and started idly tying up her great mass of hair with a white patterned bandana. She swore that break times had never been this long before. She really wanted to just go to lessons now, rather than talk about banal boys or dull ‘what are we going to do after school’ type things.

“We could talk about the talent show thing they’re doing again in school.” Suggested Niki, bringing the attention of several of her friends, “I’ve always wanted to do it.” She looked around the circle of girls in hope that there might be at least one other that wanted to do it too. She already had talked to Eliza, her friend who sat next to her in quite a few classes, about it. Neither of them did music as a subject, but they both loved it. They often talked about what they listened to on the radio and they’d gone to the school Battle of The Bands together twice in the passing years. This year, though, they both had wanted to be a part of it, instead of just being another two screaming fans for The Beatles.

Thankfully, Jane sat forward with immediate interest, “Are you saying you want to start a band?”

Niki’s eyes lit up in delight, “Do you play anything?”

“My brother taught me a bit of bass. If you tell me a song, I could learn it for the show.”

The two then swept their eyes around the other girls with an encouraging gaze. Their sole purpose: recruitment. Remembering about Eliza, Niki said that they already had a singer, so they didn’t need another front man. She then stared at her friends intensely, attempting to creep them into joining. When she did so at Phyllis, who was a sweet, shy, young girl that really didn’t like letting her friends down, she made the excuse that she couldn’t play an instrument.

“Backing singers are welcome, you know!” Jane exclaimed with a cheery slap on Phyllis’ back.

She ended up nodding at the ground, “Ok fine,” She whispered, smiling, “But you know that Sam plays guitar, she would be pretty good to have too.” Sam was in their year. She had huge blue eyes and was Phyllis’ opposite. She was pretty wild and out there, a social butterfly. That’s why the two got on so well. Niki enthusiastically agreed, then said she’d go and find the other girls to tell them that they would be signing up. Before she could go, though, Jane tugged her wrist to bring her back to the group.

“What’s our name going to be?”

Ah, a name. They hadn’t considered that part of it. The Beatles had their memorable one. Rory Storm and the Hurricanes was a good formula to follow, but there would always been the problem of choosing who would be the main girl and what they’d call the rest of them. Sitting back down, Niki assumed an over the top thinking pose making the other girls giggle.

“What about the Lonely Hearts, seen as you all are chasing after boys like they’re going out of fashion?” Maureen quipped flippantly, but neither Niki nor Jane took it as anything other than a serious suggestion. They looked at each other for confirmation as though they could talk telepathically and, when they seemed to have reached an agreement, did the same to Phyllis to ask with their eyes whether she thought it was a good name too. Maureen realised that she had actually had a good name and laughed, “You lot owe me 50% of all the earnings you make.”

Boys and girls usually had their separate groups at school. They’d each travel in same sex packs, rarely approached huge groups alone and hardly talked unless they were forced to in their lessons. The exceptions were those cool boys who stalked up to any chick thinking that they were the most desired character in school and would gladly take every rejection with good cheer. There were those girls who ignored the laughs or stares they got when talking to boys they considered as friends outside of school. Then there was the rule of ‘singles.’ It wasn’t officially named that, or ever officially referenced by either gender, but if someone was alone, anyone could talk to them. It was the only way you wouldn’t get laughed at, the only way you might join an opposite-sex group in the long run, the only way you might get a proper conversation out of a person.

For Eliza, she fitted into the category of the girl who ignored people. She was quite close (as friends) to some of the boys, so she would happily wander up to any group had she seen someone she wanted to talk to there. In this case, she saw her friends Paul and George standing with a 6^th former, so she went over to talk to them.

Niki was never that confident. She saw Eliza leaning on the school’s brick wall opposite George and had to pluck up the courage to go over there. It wasn’t George that she worried about. George was quite a passive kid, reasonable smart, and anyone with half a brain was alright in Niki’s book. It also wasn’t Paul, the cute one in her history class who had helped her when she neglected to revise on more than one occasion. Her problem was the shaggy-looking boy rocking a layer of stubble better than some of the teachers did. That was Eric, the one that made Pattie a little crazy.

It took quite some time, but she ended up striding over to them, her eyes set on Eliza so that she might forget about all the boys surrounding her. It would’ve been easier had Paul, always kind Paul, not greeted her first, “Hey Niki.”

“Hi Paul,” She muttered as she nervously grabbed her arm for comfort. Without a pleasantry to anyone else, she turned to Eliza, whispering, “We’re on for the show.”

“What show?” Eliza overenthusiastically yelled, knowing full well which show, but couldn’t quite believe it. Niki anxiously glanced around her, forcing an awkward smile at George when he met her eyes.

“Battle of the Bands.” She stated. Eliza instantly looked beyond thrilled. She seized Niki and began to drag her off to discuss it further when Paul’s voice paused them.

“Wait, who’s going to be in your band?”

Eliza glared expectantly at Niki, waiting for her to reply. It took a second to gain the confidence to address the three boys whose attentions were now solely on her, but she managed, “Jane Asher,” the name made Paul smirk, “Phyllis Barbour, Samantha Juste and us two.”

“Pattie isn’t doing it?” George asked, but Niki didn’t answer. She was beaten to it by Eric.

“No, she’d never.”

George shot Eric a filthy look of confusion. Niki and Eliza knew what was going on, making it a really awkward situation for them to be in. They slowly turned away and began talking all about their band on the way to the sign-up sheet. Once there, they noticed a lack of students. There was just one teacher standing, scrutinising the names. They panicked, thinking that they might have run out of time to join.

“Mr Epstein,” Eliza said as she walked towards him with a pen poised in her hands, “We can still sign up, right?” She accidently gave him a bit of a start, but in seeing that it was only her wanting to put her name down, he relaxed as he handed as sheet of paper to her.

“Of course you can, Miss Barnes.”

“Wow,” Niki exclaimed when filing through the 5 or 6 pages worth of other entries, “There’s… a lot of people who want to do it…” She felt nervous. She really wanted to do the show, but she had lost a bit of faith that the band would get past the auditions. Being a newly formed one that had never played a song together before, she doubted they’d have the time to learn before Mr Epstein would judge them, then they’d fall at the first hurdle without a chance of a second go.

Mr Epstein, however, saw the obvious doubt on her face and tried to encourage her, “No need to look so worried. I’m sure you all will be fantastic. And people sometimes don’t turn up or pull out before the auditions. Just… don’t be that girl and you’ll probably do very well, what do you say?”

She beamed kindly and promised, “I won’t be that girl.” And with that, ‘The Lonely Hearts’ were all signed up.

Chapter Text

With last day of recruiting done, Mr Epstein wrote out every ridiculous band name, every guitarist’s, singer’s and drummer’s names down into his own list. What he needed to do over the weekend was to make new posters detailing when each band should come for auditions. He had Tuesday and Wednesday, now for before school included, to audition them all, to have a small panel of judges helping him choose which would go forward to the actual performance and to break the hearts of so many aspiring musicians when he would tell them that they hadn’t got in. He could pick around 10, one less if he thought about Mr Kirshner’s prize winning band that he’d snidely hinted at wanting in the final show, if not to win it again.

He split the bands into the two days. He put the younger years, 1-3, on Tuesday’s side, then years 4-6 on Wednesday. This would surely create conflict as to what days certain bands could do and which they couldn’t, but it would probably weed out a few who didn’t care enough to come after or before school or during their break times to audition, narrowing them down before he’d even heard them. Was he excited anymore? He wasn’t sure, but he didn’t mind spending some of his private time sorting this stuff out, meaning he wasn’t entirely dreading it.

Alan had planned to practice at his house with his band on Saturday and set up a mic on the porch of his garden. There were enough plugs to power amps if need be, as well as plenty neighbours to annoy with the sound of a loud drum set from either side of his house. His friends Lou and Ty, carrying their bass and guitar respectively, turned up, followed swiftly by their lovingly nicknamed Johnny Guitar and they all went out to the porch to also set up. The only problem with actually practicing was, with half an hour over the time Alan had said to meet, there was a member absent.

“Ringo said he was coming, right?” Lou asked, plucking the strings of his bass with careful pride. Alan turned his head to see his friend, he had been sitting on the edge of the porch, his legs swung off it into the grass that continued until the wooden fence surrounding the garden. His expression was a mixture of confusion and annoyance. He had been secretly sick of having the Beatles beat his band every year when they didn’t even exist before school had started. Rory Storm and the Hurricanes had been something Alan tried to create all the way back in the latter years of his primary school.

John Lennon turned up one day in their first year of secondary school, took a year to let Alan win the first Battle of the bands, then created his own band instead of joining Rory Storm. It was stupidly unfair when they’d been friends that entire time. And, with the absence of Ringo, it looked as though band practice would fall through. As he sat there contemplating all this, his bandmates had long left the conversation hanging at ‘yeah, he was going to come down here with his drumming stuff. I don’t know how he was getting here.’ They’d moved onto talk about what song to do, by the time Alan caught up.

“Sh-Should I c-call him?” He said, interrupting Johnny’s rant about… some tune or another. The three boys looked at him.

“Who?”

“…Ringo.”

“Oh,” Lou rewound his mind to remember the previous chat, “Yeah. Just see where he is.”

Alan strode off into his house and dialled Ringo’s home number. His mum picked up, sounding slightly rushed off her feet judging by the lack of pleasantries she offered to find out who was calling.

“Mrs Starkey? It’s… A-Alan Caldwell. I…I was wondering where R-Ring… Richie is today. We had band practice…” He hated talking on the phone. In fact, he hated talking. People got so frustrated with him because of his stutter, because he took too long, while they usually had long finished his sentence for him. People on the phone were often even worse. Elsie Starkey was very patient with him, though.

“Oh, Alan, I’m very sorry. Richie is very sick. He’s gone to the hospital again, sweetie. He should be in school on Monday if everything goes ok, but he won’t be able to come over this weekend.” She may have been crying, her voice was very quiet and different. Alan said some apology and wish for Ringo to get better, then returned to his group. He was, however, not sad to tell the news, he was annoyed.

“Ringo’s not coming.” He huffed, kicking a plant pot over as he sat back down on the porch. His bandmates all looked over at him in unison, surprised at his anger.

“What’s up?” Ty tried, sitting close by Alan with his guitar squished between his chest and slightly bent legs.

“He’s s-sick. How are we go-ing to be a-able to re-rely on him for the sho-w?”

Ty’s eyes narrowed beneath his Buddy Holly glasses. He couldn’t understand why Alan’s primary concern was this show and not how Ringo was doing. Alan really like Ringo. They always had that joke about ‘Starr Time’ where Ringo would be allowed to sing a song from all the way behind his drum set. They were… had been really close. Ty was even under the impression that Ringo had asked Alan if they were going to do this year’s show and without a second’s thought, the answer was yes.

He placed a hand on Alan’s shoulder before getting it shoved off in a huff.  Alan, are you alright?” He asked.

Alan was about to say something, but in his frustration, his stutter worsened and he stormed off. He’d be back to play a few minutes later, but he told the group that Ringo would be asked to leave the band, whether it was mean or not. They had another drummer, so it was worth sticking to who they’d practiced with, rather than trying to teach someone else the style they wanted to do the song in- was his reasoning. Nobody could find the words to dispute it.

Meanwhile, on the same Saturday, the Beatles gathered at John’s place to choose a song and give it a go to see what it sounded like. All four members of the band were there and John was filing through some of Paul’s lyrics he’d written in an old school book for some inspiration.

“I like this one.” Paul said, pointing out one titled ‘All My Lovin’.’ John read over the lyrics with half-heartedness, then looked up at Paul, unconvinced. It wasn’t the song that had got him like that, he’d been this way every practice they done so far- which was three, after school every day. Paul had tried everything to cheer him up, but he knew what was wrong and it killed him. John missed Stu. Stu wasn’t even that good a musician, taking up the bass just because John wanted him in the band. With begging eyes, Paul tried to communicate with him as he had with Stu, that telepathic moment when they both knew what each other meant. It wasn’t working.

“You got a sound for it?” John asked, almost drowned out by George playing a very loud C chord over Pete’s drumstick falling onto the snare. Paul nodded, but wanted to try something else, other than just picking a song out of his book.

“What about if we wrote a song together?”

John cocked his head to the side with a small smile on his lips. “Really? Now?”

Paul loved the reaction and ran with the idea, probably waffling his words in all his breakthrough excitement. “Yeah, yeah, we could write a song, you and me, and then we could play it and… it really would be our band then, wouldn’t it? I have some unfinished ones, or we could start from scratch.

John laughed, his head flung back as he usually did. Paul flashed an eager smile at George who was well aware of what he had been trying to do. George nodded reassuringly and Paul, at John’s request, turned the pages of his book to the unfinished lyrics.

It was a while into the band practice and Pete was feeling bored. The amount of actual playing was so minimal he’d thrown his drumsticks down, had got several things to eat and drink and gone to the toilet just so he had things to do. It would’ve been the same for George had the kid not got into creating the sound for Paul and John’s song as they were writing it. He had no input to give them, nothing other than ‘Does anyone want another coke?” as he nipped into the kitchen for the 5^th time.

“Look,” He then said, standing right in front of his bandmates, boredom dripping off him like sweat, the sweat he should be soaked in from drumming, but no, “it’ll take too bloody long to write a song. Just pick one of Paul’s and let’s get on with it.”

John moved his head up slowly and met Pete’s gaze as though he was that irritating guy at the movies who was throwing popcorn and talking all the way through, “Hey, could you just wait a bit longer, Pete? We’re almost finished here.” He was not asking, he was telling. His tone was all authoritative and hostile.

But Pete wasn’t having it. Not again. It was always these three, always thought they meant more to the band than him. “No, John. C’mon you’ve been at it for half an hour, just take one of Paul’s things. We’ll win easy anyway.”

John’s mouth dropped open in disbelief, “One of Paul’s things?” He parroted, though his tone was not matching Pete’s, it was far harsher, “One of Paul’s things? Give him some fucking respect. How many songs can you write, hu?” Neither Pete nor John could see, but George thought he caught a smile on Paul’s face, a shy, little grin cross his perfect lips. Yes, it had definitely been there when John told Pete to give him some respect. It wasn’t the fact that Paul wanted the respect, he just loved hearing John insist that he needed some. It was a complement way beyond anyone saying how ‘nice’ a song was, or how ‘cool’ it sounded. John was demanding respect for it.

“Come off it, John.” Pete dismissed it, shaking his head. He probably didn’t think his complaining would get him into a fight with John and he didn’t fancy his chances.

“No, you come off it.” John continued, now shouting. “If you think you’re so good at ordering us around, make your own band with some people who will take your shit.”

Pete realised he was too deep into it and started to shout back. He couldn’t stop himself. He felt so backed into a corner, the truths and accusations all sprouting out of control; you are this, I am that. Every little thing either had ever had a problem with came out in that moment, but John had more to say, yelling all the hurtful things he could think off, every bit of profanity he’d ever come across. All the while George and Paul sat there watching, unable to interject.

“Fine, you want to fight? You haven’t been in the band long enough to know what that means.” John finally screamed, his voice shredded, making the chance of a good band practice look even more dismal than before.

Pete grinded his teeth before opening his mouth one last time to spit, “Do without a drummer today. I’ll be at home when you realise that you actually want to win this year.” He proceeded to storm away, hop on a bus and head home, regretting ever having lost his temper. Back at John’s place, the remaining three members agreed to continue forming their song, then had a couple of practices. It was sounding good- John thought- even without a drummer.

George was first to tap out and went home with the promise to be back in the morning for a proper rock out day. That left Paul and John alone, what Paul had wanted for a long time, to look through the songs in his book.

“Do you think I’m good on bass. I think I can drum too, if you’d prefer me there.” He said, sitting beside John with his hand on the left page of his book. John swung his arm around Paul’s shoulders, giggling breathlessly from all his singing.

“No! I want you next to me. What would I do without you making my shit voice sound amazing?”

Paul couldn’t stop the admiration in his smile lighting up his entire face, “You don’t have a shit voice.”

“Neither do you.” John quipped.

Paul wanted to ask about Stu, but given John’s earlier outburst and obvious disappointment in the lack of his friend, Paul thought it best not to. He just continued to sit there, laughing and joking with John, hoping he was filling the space that Stu had left empty.

Chapter Text

It seemed that Saturday was going to be a very musical one, with Mike inviting his friends over, much as his fellow classmates had, for a band practice. Davy, Peter and Micky turned up on Mike’s doorstep all at once, all dressed in similar shirts, but in different colours.  Davy was in red, Peter in blue, Micky in a light yellow and each had a panel under the collar with 4 pairs of white, round buttons. In their arms or slung over their shoulders, their instruments they’d carried remained. It was like the strangest appendages anyone had ever grown, they looked like mutants heaving their way around town. Micky had rounded cases in each hand as well as one on his back and drumsticks awkwardly slipping from between his fingers. Peter was hunched over having his bass in a huge, black, shell casing on his back while Davy was all smug holding a tambourine hooked on his forearm and a bag that let out a hissing sound as the red maracas inside rolled around. He also had a folded-up piece of cloth pressed between his bicep and chest.

 They rang the doorbell- Davy had to, being the only one with hands completely free- and Mike came to let them in, but he paused when he saw the mass of instruments barely held up his three friends in uniform costume.

“What…?” He muttered, pointing at their torsos.

“Chicks love appearance,” Davy somehow explained, “We’ve got to look good on stage.”

At Mike’s apparent disproval, Peter snatched the cloth from under Davy’s arm to hold it up, unfolding into a long, black shirt, again with the same eight buttons. Mike still did not seem to have a positive response, if any at all, so Peter thrust it into his hands with a very sweet grin, “So you look like us. We thought you’d prefer a darker colour.”

“Thank you, Peter,” Mike managed, genuinely. He could never say no to Peter. He didn’t care much for the puppy dog eyes on Micky or the twinkle in Davy’s, but Peter’s all adoring beam where his whole face smiled so sincerely, there was no turning that away. He thought it best to just accept the kind offering and allow them in. He didn’t have to put the shirt on. Not yet, at least.

He led his friends into the living room where a small stage had been set up, bits of a drum set to be completed by the stuff Micky had lugged there sat at the back of the room, while two mics on stands were set up either side. Scrutinising the equipment, Davy and Micky walked around the little stage, pretending they had any idea of what they were doing.

“Groovy… groovy man.” Davy mumbled, then tapped on the mic to see if it was working. Peter, meanwhile, was removing his caramel coloured bass from its case.

“I got the stuff from a guy down the street. Said I could borrow it for band practice.” Mike clarified. His friends nodded in mild interest. They all were buzzing with excitement in becoming a band like they had talked about doing so many times since they heard that the school did the Battle of The Bands. In all honesty weren’t much interested in where the equipment came from as long as they sounded alright, or at the very least, they sounded reasonable enough to practice. The tiny speakers and battered amps seemed less impressive than the slim mic stands or barely used drum set in all its sparkling gold beauty, but it was really all thy had.

Once everyone was set up- Micky sat in slightly at the back at the drums, Davy and Peter to his left just a bit in front and Mike standing at the same level to his right- Mike turned to his new bandmates, hanging his tailor-made blond 12 string around his neck with a patterned strap to leave his hands free for holding a sheet of paper in his slightly shaking hands. One thing the band needed was a song to perform and he had one that he’d written. He was just sickly nervous because he’d never told them that he wrote songs, so he was a little afraid of their reaction.

With a loud G chord, he gathered their attention by almost bursting their eardrums. Once the complaints died down, he presented the lyrics to them, “It’s called ‘Mary Mary’ And I thought you could sing it, Micky, because I’m not so…” He quickly trailed off before thrusting the sheet of paper into Micky’s hands.

“Woah, Mike,” Micky said, scanning the words, “It’s really good, but are you sure it’ll work with me at the back on drums?” With the two mics, one set up for Mike, one set up for Davy and Peter, it seemed as though Micky’s voice would get lost in the loud bangs and echoing clashes from his drum.

“Try this,” Peter then piped up. He grasped one of the mic stands and readjusted it. He placed it just behind where he and Davy would stand, made it much taller so that it could reach over the symbol, and used the joint bit in the middle to bend it right next to Micky’s mouth. “Now drum.” He commanded.

Micky slapped a lazy drum roll and, in its echo, sung “Hey hey, we’re the Monkees.” in a mocking powerful, even soulful voice. The tiny speakers wired up to the mics spat out the mixture of song and drum, but it didn’t sound so bad. They’d sound even better with the amps at school. Mike nodded appreciatively as he announced that Micky would sing his song. He then played a bit of it to his friends, showing them the chords, the riff, how he wanted the bass line and all. He’d never had so much fun ordering his obeying friends around.

“Are we ready?” He asked, taking to his side after about half an hour of conducting everyone. His friends blurted excited conformations, before Micky had the pleasure of counting them in. Davy’s tambourine was to start, followed by Mike’s riff on guitar, followed after a run of that by the other instruments, coming together in one band new sound.