Arrow Through Me

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/40355517.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: M/M
Fandom: The Beatles (Band)
Relationship: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Character: Paul McCartney, John Lennon, Jane Asher, George Harrison (The
Beatles), Ringo Starr, Robert Fraser (The Beatles), Brian Epstein
Additional Tags: Paul POV, Angst, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff
Language: English
Stats: Published: 2022-07-16 Completed: 2022-10-02 Chapters: 12/12 Words:
116304

Arrow Through Me
by inspiteallthedanger

Summary

This is a look at what might have happened to the band, and especially John and Paul, if
Paul had come to the conclusion before he met John that he wasn't straight. This fic tells the
story of the band with that new context, and therefore it will diverge from the events as we
know them.

Notes

Hello, it's me and I'm back on my bullshit. As before, this is complete, I'm just getting it
beta-read and doing a re-edit as it's posted. This should come out weekly.

Huge, massive, ginormous thanks to Merseydreams for beta reading this for me. You're the
best.

Thanks also to mydaroga for being such a cheerleader and listening to be moan constantly.
Also for always nodding along when I promised every couple of days this was nearly
finished.
 Chapter 1

Chapter one

June 1947

Tommy Mayo kissed Paul when they were five. A fleeting press of dry lips against sun-warmed
skin.

Paul knew kisses were good, something to be given when you were happy or pleased. A little
reward for special behaviour or because you liked someone very much. He’d felt a swell of
pleasure at the knowledge Tommy liked him enough to give him a kiss. They’d laughed, flushed
with the excitement of finding the perfect thicket to make their fort, as the sun beat down on them.

That moment would always remain lodged in his mind: a perfect sun-drenched memory. He could
see Tommy’s freckled face and gap-toothed grin as he beamed delightedly at Paul. Something in
Paul’s head rearranged, slotting the moment into his understanding of the world.

So it felt right to drop a peck on Tommy’s cheek when he gave Paul half his chocolate bar. A
shared ritual of appreciation and pleasure. A marker of good things happening. It was important to
celebrate good moments; his mum always said that. But they never spoke about it. Never told
anyone.

Not because they were hiding it, but for the same reason you don’t mention breathing. It was just
something they did. Natural. Good.

Tommy moved away six months later. Paul watched him walk away that last day and wondered if
he ought to have kissed him goodbye. It seemed different, kissing when he was sad. But he’d
wanted to.

August 1949

His dad walloped him when he saw Paul kiss Simon Farny. The slap was sudden, a jolt that
brought Paul out of his excited amusement and into the cold, dark living room with his dad’s fury.

He’d been playing, excited about finally beating Simon in their made-up game; he hadn’t thought
anyone else was there. The street was deserted, quiet in a way it hardly ever was. His dad’s bellow
for him to get back inside wasn’t all that unusual, he was always after something. So Paul hadn’t
thought anything of it until he was inside and the bellowing hadn’t stopped.

He must have frozen, unsure of the correct answer, when the slap landed. It stung, made his ears
ring, as he swayed with the impact.

He stared, unblinking, up at his dad. He’d never seen him look that mad. Paul couldn’t hear the
words above the roaring of blood in his ears, but he knew what they were about. His cheek was hot
where the blow had landed, but the pain of it didn’t compare to the injustice pooling sickly cold in
his stomach. It wasn’t fair . Kisses were good. Everyone said it. And even if they didn’t, Paul
would have known they were because they felt that way. It couldn’t make a real difference who
was giving them to who. It didn’t make a difference to him . He liked it when the girls in his class
kissed him when he found the right words to make them smile. He felt special, seen , when they
did that. Just like he felt proud when one of his family kissed him on the head, a reward for good
behaviour, for acting in the right way.
It just wasn’t different to Simon kissing him because Paul had leant him his favourite toy car. It
was the same. He knew that. And it didn’t matter that his dad had belted him for not agreeing.

But he didn’t say anything, just balled his hands into fists and tried not to glare.

He knew there were the right words to make it all stop. He could lie. He could take it back. He
could agree. But he wouldn’t. Just like he didn’t back down when he got belted for stealing another
cookie to share with Mike. He was right and his dad was wrong. It didn't matter that he was
younger. Being old just meant you understood less as far as Paul could see.

But he did learn an important lesson that day; he realised that sometimes it was better that people
didn’t see all of you. That sometimes it was easier if you made sure that only people that
understood got to see certain bits of you.

It was like a game. It was like smiling when you didn’t want to so that people stopped looking at
you or saying the prayers at church even though they were stupid. It wasn’t even hard. People saw
what they wanted to anyway.

So he would make sure that he was more careful next time he kissed a boy. He knew, from the way
his dad reacted, that this was more important than the other pretending he did. He knew failure
would make life hard; somehow these sorts of kisses were linked to being soft. That was the worst
thing a boy could be, as far as Paul could tell. It was the opposite of being a man. Men were strong
and they didn’t like things that were soft.

He pushed down his fury, and stared up at his dad.

“Never again,” he bellowed. “Do you hear me?”

Paul nodded. It wasn’t a lie. He could hear just fine, it just didn’t mean he was going to follow the
rest of the implied order.

“Can I go back out now?”

“Not to play with that boy.” His dad’s face was set. He didn’t look so angry, suddenly. It was
almost fear.

Paul shrugged. “Alright.”

It was easier to agree. Easier to avoid another belt by keeping his mouth shut. Simon wasn’t even a
very good friend. He could shed a friend and keep the peace.

September 1954

But he thought about the slap; the feeling of it burnt long after the redness had faded. One day he
was going to be called up for service; every boy knew that. It was the sort of thing you talked
about in hushed whispers, the horrors that awaited you when it happened passed back and forth
like contraband.

One thing was for sure. Once Paul was called up, everyone would know right away if he was soft
or not. He had to be not before that happened. His dad’s words lingered, mixing with other taunts
he’d heard. A lingering suspicion started to take root in Paul that they might be right. He might be
soft.

That wasn’t an option. Which meant he needed to do something to knock the soft out of him. There
was no way he was going to be the one to fail when it was time to go to war. He wasn’t going to let
it happen.

He thought about it. The thought nagged at him at the most inconvenient of times. Like when he
was trying to drift off to sleep or on his walk to school.

There didn’t seem to be a way not to feel things. You felt bad or happy or annoyed no matter what.
But he thought he could control what he did. He did things all the time that he didn’t want to and
no one seemed to notice the difference. Maybe if no one could really see what he felt, then it was
like he didn’t actually feel it.

But he had to be sure. He had to test the theory before it got too late to try something else if it
didn’t work. So he’d be ready when he got called up.

The plan evolved slowly, the idea forming in the dark recesses of his mind. He didn’t look directly
at it, at first, content to let it sit there. It was direct, he thought, but probably effective.

“Hey,” Paul said, tugging on Mike’s arm, one Saturday afternoon a few weeks later.

It was cold, summer had faded to autumn, and the air was heavy with rain. Mike looked up at him
expectantly. He’d follow wherever Paul went; that was just the way it was. Paul led and Mike
followed: the natural order of their lives.

“Come and see this.”

He didn’t know why he wanted Mike to see it. Maybe just because it was the fulfilment of his
plans, the fruit of the seed planted by his dad’s slap. He thought later that perhaps he’d needed a
witness to make sure it was real. Or maybe he knew that it was only acting if someone was there to
see it. Without that it was just the horror in the pit of his stomach when he looked at the fence.

“What-” Mike started, then his voice seemed to disappear, like the note of a piano tailing off into
nothing.

There was silence.

“I killed them.”

The words made it concrete. Mike hadn’t asked, probably hadn’t wanted to know. But Paul didn’t
like that thought. What was the point of bringing him here, if they were just going to leave doubt
between them?

“Why?” Mike whispered.

Paul shrugged. Feeling like he wasn’t really himself, like he was watching a play of someone
speaking his lines. “Wanted to see if I could.”

Mike’s eyes were huge; they looked like the frogs’ did, bulging and scared. Paul looked away,
back at the fence. The little corpses hung, dried and starting to shrivel. He hated them. Hated the
way they made his stomach tie itself in knots.

But it didn’t matter what he felt . It mattered that he’d done it. When it came down to it, he hadn’t
been soft. And he hadn't needed to change himself to do it. If he acted hard. If he acted not scared.
It was the same as being those things. It was all the same.

“Come on,” he said, amazed at how unconcerned he sounded. “Better get back before Mum calls.”
October 1956

He wondered after, if he hadn’t needed to bother with the frogs. It turned out there were more
effective ways to learn how not to show what you were feeling.

His mum died without him knowing it had happened. It felt like he should have, though, should
have woken in the middle of the night with the pain already there. Didn’t it make sense that once
you lost a part of yourself you should know it before someone has to tell you?

The house was bad after that. Like it knew something awful had happened: darker, quieter, colder.
He didn’t see much of his dad. But the rest of the family always seemed to be there, sitting around
muttering and cleaning things that didn’t need cleaning. Cooking too much food that Paul could
never bring himself to eat. He tried to get away as much as he could. No one seemed to notice.

“You're such a good boy,” an aunt said, he couldn’t even remember which one, when he’d try later,
“never made a fuss. Just got on with things. You were ever such a help to your dad.”

He’d felt a little thrill of pride at that. No one had known what he was really feeling inside. No one
could tell that it felt like his whole world had been destroyed, that the pain in his chest felt like
something was stuck in there. But despite that, despite him not wanting to do anything but sit down
and never get up again, not one of the adults had had to stop what they were doing to look after
him. He’d known it would be a big problem, his mum being gone. There was the money to
consider, the cleaning and cooking. Looking after him and Mike too. At least he knew how to sort
one of the things on that list. It was easy to not be a problem, and it was fine anyway. He was
nearly an adult when you thought about it. His mum had always said how fast he was growing up,
what a responsible boy he was turning into. It wasn’t hard to do more of that.

Mike cried for days. Everyone stopped for him, patting his head, telling him to be brave for the rest
of the family. But them doing that meant they had to stop doing important things that had to happen
when someone died. There wasn’t time to look after little children as well. Paul felt a little
embarrassed for Mike that he’d needed to be told. Paul hadn’t. He knew that the best way to help
was to not be a nuisance.

Paul had drifted from room to room. Sitting with guests when there was no one else to do it. His
mum had said that was important. You were always polite when someone was in your house.
Common courtesy.

“You need to stop being such a baby,” Paul told Mike a week after they'd been told.

He was only trying to help. He'd thought maybe Mike had just missed all the cues for how you
were meant to behave.

“You don’t even care,” Mike spat at him, looking furious. “Mum’s dead and you didn’t even cry.”

That wasn’t true. He’d just been smart enough to wait. You could do that, if you really needed to.
He’d just dig his fingernails into the soft skin of his palm. He’d push and push and push them until
the pain was all he had to think about. Then he’d go back to where he’d found the frogs, and cry
for a few minutes. It seemed the best place for it. A grave for another part of his own weakness.

“At least I’m not being embarrassing,” he shot back. “Mum wouldn’t want you being such a
burden on everyone.”

Mike had just burst into tears. Sat down on his bed and sobbed into his hands. Paul frowned at him.
He didn’t understand why Mike was being like that. It was selfish, really, taking all that time on
how you felt rather than trying to be useful. But, he sounded so miserable, Paul wondered if he’d
gone too far in how he'd explained it. So he did the fingernail trick and then sat down next to him.

“Listen,” he said, quietly, “there’s no point in fussing like this. She’s gone and all we can do is to a
live a good life.”

He’d heard someone say that, in the grey blur of days right after he’d been told. It was the only
sensible thing Paul had heard anyone say about it. That was practical. That was something he could
do. He couldn’t bring her back, but he could not waste time being sad about it.

He could grow up instead.

July 1957

Ivan assured Paul the band was good, worth the cost of entry and press of people. Paul doubted it.
Everyone thought their mates were good, and they never were. He could never explain what it was
that he didn’t like about them. Sometimes they just didn’t know how to play. But it was more than
that, he could just look at them and know they didn’t really get it. It was like they were playing at
it. Kids dressing up as adults, not the real thing.

The fete was a blur of colour and sound. Kids shrieked with excitement just as adults admonished
them or laughed along. It made the air seem even closer than it was.

Paul blocked it all out, his eyes were already on the raised bed of a truck that Ivan was heading for.
He’d been able to hear them from the moment he’d entered. He could feel the prickling of sweat
gathering at the small of his back as he followed after Ivan. He shouldn’t have worn the jacket, but
it made him look older. He’d seen similar ones in magazines. And he wanted to be older. He
wanted to be on the side of the adults, despite how often he was pushed toward the kids.

But none of that mattered once the band finally came into view. They couldn’t play. The lead
singer wasn’t even playing his guitar right. But somehow Paul found himself rooted to the spot.

He could feel his heart beating in the back of his throat as he watched them. Paul cocked his head
to the side; he knew the song. He didn’t think he’d ever met anyone else that would even know it.
But he realised, almost at once, that the singer wasn’t singing it right.

He’s making up the words.

It seemed impossible. Not that someone didn’t know the words to a song, but that they could
replace them and it didn’t matter. It felt for a moment like Paul was going to float away. He’d
never met someone who could do that .

“I know him,” Paul said, the words falling out of his mouth without permission.

Ivan turned to him, a frown clearly conveying he didn’t believe him.

“I’ve seen him on the bus.”

He’d more than seen; they’d spoken, just once, outside a chip shop. Paul hadn’t been able to stop
the words then, either. He’d known, really, that the other boy wasn’t the sort you spoke to first.
Probably not at all. He wasn’t even the sort you should look at too close if you didn’t want to get
thumped.

But Paul had looked. In the way he’d only recently found himself looking at other people. Like a
match in his stomach had sparked suddenly, flaring and making his fingers tingle with something
he couldn’t identify. It reminded him of when his mother promised she’d bake a pie or when his
dad had said he could get a guitar if he really wanted one that bad. If he was going to put a name to
it, it would be something like anticipation .

His conversation with the singer had been a nothing thing. He couldn’t even remember what he’d
said; the moment the other boy’s eyes fixed on him, Paul’s body had locked uncomfortably, and
he’d ended up hurrying quickly away. He’d never imagined he’d get a second chance to speak to
him.

He didn’t even have a chance to be nervous at the thought before Ivan was dragging him along
again. The music was over and Paul was almost disappointed. It wasn’t like he hadn’t heard much
better bands, but there was something about them that he’d wanted more of. Just until he could
unpack what it was that made them so interesting. If he had long enough, he could pull it all apart,
look at it from every direction. Then he’d be able to replicate it. He’d not come across a song or
artist that he wasn’t able to fold into his repertoire.

He was still mulling it over, as they entered the church. The group, The Quarrymen, according to
Ivan, were setting up for their second show of the day. Paul was impressed. Two gigs in a day
meant they were either very good or very persistent. Either was a cut above most of the groups Paul
knew.

He looked around the space, considering if the acoustics would be awful or great and was so
absorbed he almost didn’t notice that Ivan had stopped walking. He almost collided with the back
of him and had to skirt around him awkwardly to avoid it.

“This is Paul,” Ivan said, jabbing a thumb to one side. He seemed pleased, like he was showing off
a new toy.

Paul nodded. He was too hot and trying not to show it. He was also too young and wondering how
not to show that either. These weren’t boys: they were men. Or near enough for it not to matter.
Paul knew he was still close enough to being a kid for it to matter a lot. Especially to boys like the
ones in front of him.

Five sets of eyes swivelled to him. He nodded in return. But he was only trying to gauge the
reaction of one of them. The singer. He was the only one worth a thing, anyway. His voice was
good, not as good as Paul’s, but powerful and it sounded more rock ‘n’ roll than any he’d heard
from local bands. The singer met Paul’s eyes. Held them. There was a challenge there. Paul tensed,
forced himself not to look away.

Ivan was talking again, about the set, the fete, the girls he’d seen. Soon the conversation had
moved on. No one told Paul to fuck off, so he stayed. He didn’t say much, but then there wasn’t
much he could say. He chipped in to comment on the likelihood of any of them getting any action,
but otherwise let the conversation flow around him. The singer - John - was loud, brash. Funny.
Paul laughed more than he expected to, and noticed John noticing. He wondered if it was a bad
thing.

Then they were playing again. It was much of the same, but Paul still couldn’t quite understand
what it was that made him want to stand perfectly still, almost hold his breath, while they were on
stage. He frowned, watching the way John played. It was all wrong. It shouldn’t work at all. But it
did. There was no denying it.

“I can restring that for you,” Paul said, almost the moment they’d filed off the stage. Apparently
having something useful he could do meant he found his voice easily.
John’s eyes were sharp as they flicked over to him, a frown etched between them. It made him look
even older, like he knew things about the world Paul could only guess at. Paul didn’t look away,
though, that was how you lost. Stand your ground, don’t show you’re nervous. People always
assumed you knew what you were doing if you did that.

“What?”

“It’s strung wrong,” he said. “That’s why it’s hard to get the chords right.”

Paul tensed as all eyes turned to John as one. The moment pulled long, stretching with the weight
of anticipation. Then John shrugged, held out his guitar, like he didn’t care either way.

Paul wanted to smile, pleased at being able to show something they clearly didn’t know. He sat
down on a chair and got to work, keeping his eyes on the strings carefully.

“Paul plays too,” Ivan said, his head falling one side, towards Paul. He said it like he was
imparting great wisdom.

“Does he now?” John said. “What does Paulie play then?”

Paul forced his shoulders not to hunch under the weight of John’s stare. It was fine. He liked
performing; it was easy. Besides, the others had had their chance to show what they could do, it
was only fair Paul got his. It wasn’t like he minded people watching him; he’d been told often
enough that he was good at playing. He knew he could sing Little Richard better than anyone he’d
met and that he knew more songs. It was easy to be impressive around this city, the competition
wasn’t up to much anyway. So he didn’t let it bother him when there was a, not even slightly
disguised, ripple of laughter as he turned the newly strung guitar upside down.

He wanted to look up at John as he started Twenty Flight Rock, wanted to gauge his reaction. It
wasn’t like it was a test, there was no prize on offer, no punishment for failure. But, he wanted
them to be impressed. He wanted them to be surprised that someone younger than them could be
better than they were. He wanted John to smile at him.

There was a general murmur of approval when he finished. John stayed silent, but his eyes were
focused on Paul. He wasn’t smiling, but he didn’t look unimpressed or bored. That was enough.

So he played another. Then he moved to the piano, because he could, because it felt good, to sing a
medley of songs by Little Richard. By the end, some of the others were joining in or clapping. It
was enough. Paul felt flushed with achievement, a delighted frisson of excitement rippling through
him.

“Right,” John said, eventually, clapping his hands together, “that’s enough of that. Pub?”

There was a general chorus of pleased agreement. Paul very carefully didn’t let disappointment
wash over him. What was he really expecting? It wasn’t like boys told each other they were good
at things, like doing so was giving away their power.

Everyone began gathering their things.

“You coming?” John asked, eyes sliding over Ivan to land on Paul.

He shouldn’t, his dad would want him back home. “Yeah, alright,” he shrugged, getting to his
feet.

John fell into step with him almost immediately. A pleased thrill ran through him, making his
shoulders straighten. He tried to relax, but was suddenly too aware of his own gait, the way his
arms were swinging at his sides.

“I write songs,” he said, needing to break the silence. He kept his eyes carefully on his feet as he
spoke; he’d never said it outloud before. It was just another bit of himself he liked to keep tucked
away from prying eyes. He didn’t know what made him say it. Perhaps he was showing off, or
maybe he just wanted to give John a little piece of himself, an offering of sorts.

John squared his shoulders, like Paul had issued a challenge and not revealed a secret. “Me too.”

Warmth blossomed in Paul’s chest, pleased excitement making his skin tingle like he’d just got out
of a hot bath.

“I can show you,” Paul said, he felt almost reckless saying it. But he couldn’t have kept the words
in even if he’d wanted to. He could only see John out of the corner of his eye; it was impossible to
make out his reaction.

John shrugged. “Maybe. They any good?”

Paul wasn’t sure. He thought, deep down, they were pretty crummy. “Course,” he muttered, and
then forced himself to turn and meet John’s eyes. “I’ve been practising. It’s not hard to do a song
like the ones everyone raves about.”

John narrowed his eyes, looked down his pointed nose at him. Paul was pretty sure that he could
see through his lie. But then he smiled. “Yeah, easy,” he agreed. “Guess, you’ll be the next Elvis
before we know it, huh?”

It should have sounded mocking, but somehow that’s not how it came out. Paul’s mouth curved
into a smile. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Give me five years, I’ll be bigger than him.”

John’s laugh pulled an answering one from the centre of Paul’s chest.

———

The next day, one of the other boys from the band, Pete, the one he’d sensed was the second, found
him. Paul wasn’t sure how. He was cycling by when Pete called to him. A stray shout caught and
almost carried away on the wind. Paul paused, bike skidding slightly as he came to a halt, and
raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement.

Pete narrowed his eyes, like he was almost surprised by what he was about to say. “John wants to
know if you want to join the band.”

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even a request. It was a declaration of intent.

Paul cocked his head to the side. His heart had started racing madly in his chest the moment he’d
realised who it was. John had talked about him when he wasn’t there. John had been impressed. He
wanted Paul in his band.

“I’ll have a think about it,” Paul found himself saying, despite the way his mouth was trying to
curve up into a delighted smile.

Pete shrugged a shoulder. He didn’t care either way, he was just a messenger. Somehow, that was
even better.

October 1957
The summer slipped into Autumn, time moving slowly and then too fast. The heat of the days bled
into warm evenings and then to muggy nights. Paul spent the days with John. Not all of them, but
increasingly the ones that mattered, the ones that felt most real. The colours sharpened, the air
turning bright with laughter when they were together. He felt almost drunk with the feeling of it
some days.

“You’re a wit, Lennon,” he gasped, tears stinging his eyes.

John’s eyes were warm, darker in the shade of Paul’s living room than when they roamed the
streets together, as he blinked away his own tears.

“I can’t help it,” he said, grin turning sharp with a different sort of pleasure. More like pride. “I was
born with an ability to see things like they really are.”

He said it with a mock posh accent, like it was a joke, but Paul knew it was true. They both knew
it. He hadn’t met anyone that really seemed to understand before. It was like he could say anything
to John and he’d get it. He saw through all the nonsense just like Paul, the way most rules were
stupid, didn’t mean anthing, they could do what they wanted. They liked all the same music,
thought all the same people were soft, and what was more, he didn’t care who knew it. It was
electrifying.

“Most people don’t know anything,” Paul said, ducking his head away, to stare at his boots.

Neither of them had wanted to go back to school; there was so much more they could be doing.
John had started at art college, close to The Institute, but it might as well have been a million miles
away. Paul watched the other students file in the door, duffle coats and turtlenecks. They looked so
much older than Paul; he wondered what John did there, but John just shrugged and made a face
that Paul knew meant he thought it was beneath him to answer.

“It takes a lifetime to be as stupid as Mr. fucking Thopson, that’s for sure.” John’s nose scrunched
in displeasure. His hatred of this particular new teacher was curious but, Paul was certain, justified.

He laughed, despite the way his stomach cramped around it; protesting the overworking of his
muscles. He felt them jump under his hand when he placed it there. He’d never laughed like he did
with John. It was like he’d wandered into a room inside himself that he hadn’t even known was
there before. It wasn’t like his other friends weren’t fun, but it was different with John. It was like
they were harmonising without having to try. John knew just how to wrangle a belly laugh from
him almost from day one. Sometimes just a look was enough. But it was almost nothing compared
with returning the favour. It was miraculous, the feeling of making John laugh. It was like
performing, better praise than anything that was said directly.

“Right,” Paul said, pushing aside the paper he’d been doodling on. They were meant to be
practising, but often they did more messing around. Sometimes they drew one another. John
providing a facsimile of his lessons at school, only with a lot more lewd nonsense thrown in just to
put Paul off. “Let’s do this, shall we?”

John’s face morphed immediately into an exaggerated expression of seriousness. “Yes, Mr.
McCarney, please don’t cane me again, sir.”

“Just behave and I won’t have to,” Paul found it easy to slip into his teachers’ accent. Mr Jones, his
maths’ teacher, was his favourite. Pompous and clipped, it always made John’s mouth twitch in
amusement.

John reached for his guitar, his fingers resting on his strings lightly, as he peered intently down at
them.

“We should all match, you know.” Paul’s feet were kicked up on the seat in front of him, his guitar
resting across his legs. “It’d make us look more professional.”

“What?” John asked, blinking like he was coming back from miles away. His fingers had started to
pick out chords, mostly randomly, from what Paul could tell. “Why’s it matter if we’re
professional or not?”

Paul rolled his eyes. He knew John was only pretending not to understand him. It was a tactic he
always used when he didn’t want to discuss something. “It matters if we want to get work.”

There wasn’t much John could say to that. He strummed a few chords. Harder. “But we’ll look
daft.”

“No we won’t,” Paul said, certain. “It’s what people expect.”

“I think it sounds fucking stupid,” John muttered.

Paul let it drift away. There was no point in making John dig his heels in. He could wait. “Right
then,” he said, shifting so his hands were resting against the strings, the tips of his fingers tingling
with the feel of them. “What are we doing?”

———

“It’s about time we got our fucking acts together,” John barked, during the next Quarrymen
practice. “Me and Paul will wear jackets, the rest of you can get shirts.”

Paul tried and failed to bite down on a smile, it crept across his face like an invading army. “Good
idea,” he agreed. “No point in us looking like louts if we want to get paid for this.”

The others nodded, mournful, like they were being sent to Sunday school. Paul stopped even
pretending not to smile.

Not that it was always plain sailing. The others might have accepted that he was in the band, but
that didn’t mean they understood or liked it. They made sure he was at the back on stage. He was
the newest. It was his place. There was no shoving, no barked orders, just a wall of shoulders that
somehow meant Paul was behind them. Paul sighed and fidgeted in place. It was stupid, his being
at the back, when he was the best player they had. Best singer too.

John was half way through Maggie Mae before he turned, his eyes narrowed. “What the fuck are
you doing back there?” he huffed.

Paul opened his mouth. Closed it. Shrugged.

“Come stand here,” he gestured, irritable. “I can’t hear what you’re doing all the way back there.”

Paul brushed by Pete as he stepped forward. He gave way easily to make room for Paul, almost
like he’d been expecting it, water moving around a new rock in the stream.

“We should do one of our own, next,” Paul said, finding his voice easier now he was where he was
meant to be.

John’s arm brushed his as he nodded. “Might as well try,” he agreed.

The others hadn’t known they were writing their own songs, he didn’t think. He could feel the way
they were looking at them. He wondered if it was respect or resentment in their eyes. He wasn’t
sure the swell of pride in his chest cared either way. He liked being able to do that: slot a little
achievement into people’s perception of him. He was now the sort of person who wrote songs. The
sort of person who was in a professional band.

People seeing it, and better yet, acknowledging it, made it real. John didn’t seem to feel that way,
he didn’t do anything for anyone but himself. Or, no, himself and the people that John subsumed
into himself. Pete had been that. His mum. Sometimes Aunt Mimi. And now, Paul.

“Let’s get on with it then,” he said, grinning over at John.

John’s answering smile was amused, warm and sweet as hot tea.

January 1958

John alway looked intently at Paul. He was half blind, as it soon turned out, so Paul thought
perhaps that in itself wasn’t entirely a surprise. But, sometimes he’d catch John looking, like he
was trying to understand a word he’d not come across before. It made the skin on the back of
Paul’s neck prickle.

He knew what that meant, of course. He’d known that for years by then. But he was careful with it,
didn’t push the thought into the light so he’d have to look at it. He let it unfurl slowly, delicate and
fragile.

He liked John, he’d liked him from the first moment John had stepped onto the bus looking like
everything Paul’s mum had told him to cross the street to avoid. But that didn’t mean he had to do
anything about it. Paul liked the look of a lot of people, most days it seemed he couldn’t do
anything but notice the people around him. He couldn’t stop seeing the way girls’ summer dresses
brushed their legs as they walked. Or, more rarely, the way men’s shirts would cling and pull about
their shoulders as they lifted something.

It was different with John, despite also being the same. John always looked good, so it was easy to
forget it. Paul could just relax his eyes, and make himself not see it. He could just see the shape of
him, the outline that made up John. Johnny, his friend. His co-writer. His bandmate. Sometimes
he’d notice it, though, especially when it seemed clear that John was noticing him .

The thing was, nothing compared to playing music with John. It made Paul feel like he was finally
awake after years of dreamless sleep. It would be daft to do anything that might mean he’d have to
stop.

But it was easy to forget that, forget himself sometimes. Because John looked at him. Not at first,
perhaps it was hard to see past Paul being younger than him. Perhaps John wasn’t used to seeing
anyone that wasn’t a girl. Paul didn’t know how it was for anyone else. He’d never asked. It wasn’t
the sort of thing you could ask.

But John was looking at him more and more. Like he’d worked it out finally and now he was
waiting. So one day, Paul leant over and kissed him, soft, on the cheek. John had been showing him
a new tune. It wasn’t that fancy, really, but it was nice enough.

That wasn’t so unusual, John liked to show off for him a lot. Only this time he’d been shifting
closer to him on the bed. That might have been what did it, the change of scene, the suggestion of
that new setting. They hardly ever got to be in Paul’s room together. There were other places to be,
but not today. They’d been pushed up the stairs by Paul’s dad with a plea to keep it down so he
could entertain his mates in peace.
They’d started on opposite ends of the bed. Paul knew that because it was what you did with a
mate: allow enough space for them both to lounge without the chance of a stray touch. They’d
been in there for a long time; the hours seemed to just slip away when they got into the zone
without them noticing. It would be light when they’d start and then moments later someone was
yelling that it was time to get home. So it might have been hours that they’d been playing their
guitars, talking nonsense, attempting some writing before falling about with laughter and having to
force themselves to return to task. He’d not noticed it at first, the way the gap was closing. But
from one hour to the next, John was suddenly close enough that he no longer had to squint at Paul.
Then he was close enough that Paul didn’t have to shift his arm out awkwardly before it brushed
John’s.

He could feel the way the gap was closing like it was electricity sparking. It drew all his attention
until there was nothing else but the lack of space between them. He became aware of his every
muscle, of the way John’s arm was lightly pressed against his own. He didn’t dare move, not
wanting John to notice and move it, but it meant he was stiff, holding himself strangely.

“So, anyway,” John said, suddenly, eyes darting away and down to his own hands. He looked
almost uncertain. Shy. “I wrote this new thing.”

A jolt of affection shot through Paul. He hadn’t expected John to be capable of feeling nervous;
John was all front, all swagger and determined self-confidence. Although, increasingly, when they
were alone, that was fading. What was underneath wasn’t soft by any stretch, but it was
approachable. Paul felt like he was seeing something almost forbidden, or precious. John
obviously guarded this side of himself carefully. Paul knew it was important that he was allowed to
see it; he just didn’t really know how he was supposed to make sure he was taking care of it for
John.

John’s fingers picked out a few chords, and he hummed along as he played. It was short, not even
two minutes before he drew to the stuttering, uncertain close. John didn’t look up, kept his eyes
down and away from Paul. But he shifted again. Paul was now pressed almost against the wall on
one side and the length of John’s arm on the other.

In the end it was impulse, more a desire to soothe than to entice. He leant forward, dropped a
fleeting kiss on his cheek, and whispered, “I think it’s good.”

John jerked around, like he’d been struck. He pulled away, eyes narrowing. “Why’d you do that?”

Paul didn’t look away, despite the way his heart was thumping in his chest. Fear was creeping up
his spine. But you didn’t back down after taking a risk like that; if you looked guilty, people
assumed you’d done something wrong. Holding your ground for long enough usually meant people
just accepted it. Usually. “I thought you wanted me to,” he said.

It was true enough. Surely John knew what he was doing, surely he’d noticed how close he’d
moved. It couldn’t be a mistake. Paul refused to even consider it.

John had frozen in place, his breath caught in his throat. Finally, he swallowed and Paul traced the
movement of his throat. “Most people would kill you for that.”

Paul grinned and relief washed through him, cool and soothing. If John had actually been mad he’d
have done something about it immediately. Paul was safe. “Nah,” he waved a hand, “punch maybe.
But I’m pretty good at guessing.”

“Guessing?”
He shrugged. “At who wants a kiss and who doesn’t. It’s no different with fellas than lasses, you
know.”

John was watching him closely, back to seeming like he couldn’t understand him. When he spoke,
his voice was low. There wasn’t an edge to it, but there was a suggestion of danger, far off but
capable of getting closer very quickly. “Apparently you’re wrong sometimes.”

Paul looked at him, and John held his eye for a long moment. The lie sat between them, heavy and
uncomfortable. The pang of disappointment stung; he hadn’t reckoned on John pretending he
hadn’t wanted it, hadn’t been angling for something from Paul. But, swiftly on its heels, was
relief.

He let out a breath, the tension draining from him with the exhale. It would be so much easier to
pretend it never happened.

“Yeah,” he agreed, allowing his shoulders to rise and fall in an easy acceptance. “Happens
sometimes.”

But John didn’t look away, his eyes were still sharp. Apparently he hadn’t been able to figure Paul
out to his satisfaction. “You a queer then?”

He paused, wanting to flinch away, but not letting himself. John’s tone hadn’t been angry or even
particularly accucatory. Interested at most. “Nah,” he said, “I like birds. I think about them all the
time. I wanna fuck them, you know? So, I don't reckon so.”

That made John stiffen, as though suddenly offended. “Then why did you do that?”

He looked down at his lap, a frown forming. He didn’t know how to find the words to explain. It
was too big, too self-evident. Might as well ask why he’d let his own heart keep beating. He
struggled, licked his lips before pulling the bottom one between his teeth. “Because it’s nice; it’s
not like it hurts anyone, does it?”

“You don’t think it’s wrong, two blokes?” John was still watching him closely, still very clearly
not angry.

But the words made Paul's hands ball into fists anyway. He didn’t like the accusation. He knew
that’s what people thought, just as he knew they were wrong. It was a daft thing to even have to
explain.

“Don’t see why it has to be,” he said in the end, his fingers starting to pick out a random tune. “Just
because people say it is. There’s plenty they say isn’t right: shagging before you’re married,
having your hair too long, wearing your trousers too tight. They just want everything to be their
way.”

John didn’t move for a long time, his expression a fraction too interested. It mattered to him, Paul
realised with a little thrill of excitement. It mattered to John that Paul thought the idea of two men
wasn’t wrong.

“I know you can’t tell people about it,” he continued, finding it easier suddenly, to find the words.

He was safe; John wasn’t going to tell anyone. John wasn’t going to end anything. If anything, he
felt another pull in his chest, like a thread had found an answering one in John and was trying to tug
them closer. It felt the same as when they played together. Or joked around. Or when John had let
Paul read his writing. It was just another thing that tied them together. Secrets were better than
almost anything for that.
“The way I see it,” he said, “it’s just the same as shagging a girl when you’re not planning on
marrying her or going steady or anything. People even know it’s happening, but you just don’t
admit it out loud. If that’s fine, I don’t see why this can’t be too.”

There was a long pause. “Like going for a shit?”

Paul laughed. “I guess,” he sighed, something like joy filling his chest. The easy acceptance,
articulating it together, was better, somehow, than if John had kissed him back. “Or having a wank.
It’s just something that I think feels good sometimes.”

John laughed. “Alright, Macca, you’ve got some crazy ideas,” he said. But it almost sounded like a
compliment. “But enough of that, as we’re apparently not meant to talk about it. Just tell me what
you actually thought of the new tune so we can get something done.”

It was easy to laugh, easy to lean in close to John and tell him his opinion. It was easy to see how if
they tweaked the tune, just went left instead of straight on with it, how it would be more
interesting.

It didn’t take long before John pressed back into him, just slightly. Neither of them mentioned it.

February 1958

“You should hear George play.”

Paul leaned back on the plastic bus seat, pleased with the suggestion. He’d been waiting all day to
make it. There was no point in rushing it, not after the way John had eyed George when they’d first
met. Paul couldn’t exactly blame him. George didn’t look like much; skin and bones, held together
with a frown, all topped with too much hair. He had the air of someone too big for their body, a
too-serious face for someone his age.

But Paul liked him. George understood that rules really only mattered in the broadest of senses. He
didn’t care what people thought and, more important than all of that, he understood about music.
Really loved it. Not just liked it like everyone else. He loved it. Sometimes it was like looking in
the mirror when George got going on the subject of a new song he liked.

“Should I now?” John sighed, slouching down in his seat. He looked a little annoyed, like he
thought Paul was trying to con him into something.

As if Paul would. They needed better players in the band, that was the truth. And Paul hadn’t met
any better than George. John would see that once he gave him a chance.

“Yeah,” Paul agreed, keeping his voice unaffected. There was no need to push anything too hard. It
was just an idea, anyway. “Show him, George. Play Raunchy.”

John’s eyes flicked to Paul and then back to George at the suggestion of the song. They both knew
most people couldn’t get it right; they often couldn’t get it right.

George glared, but that was his default response to most demands placed on him. Paul knew he’d
been itching to show the others what he could do.

“Alright,” he muttered, and shifted around so he could place his guitar in his lap. He paused for a
moment, as though gathering himself, before he began to play.

Paul watched John watch George, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. He could see the
moment that John’s boredom shifted into surprise and then eased into interest. Nothing in his
expression truly changed, but Paul could read it in the line of his shoulders, the way his brow
smoothed just slightly, and how his eyes tried to focus properly on George’s hands. He wanted to
see what chords George was playing. Paul’s heart clenched with affection for him.

“So you can play then,” John said, tone flat when George was done.

“Better than you anyway,” George said, because the little idiot never had any sense.

John rolled his eyes. “Isn’t it past your bedtime?” But then John’s eyes slid to Paul, and they were
warm with amusement.

“Play something else,” Paul said, leaning forward and trying not to grin. He felt pleased, warmed
that he’d been right to get George to play for John.

George played most of the way back, even above the yells for them to shut up.

“He’s too young,” John complained later, as they strolled the dark streets, arms occasionally
brushing. It somehow often ended with just the two of them, without either of them seeming to try
for it. “Bad enough that you look like your mum’s about to call you in for dinner, if we have him in
the band, we’ll look stupid, like we’re just for kids’ parties.”

“But we’ll sound better,” Paul reasoned. He ignored the jab about his looks, just like he always did.
The girls didn’t seem to think he looked too young and that was what mattered most. “We need
someone else that can really play.”

There was no way he was doing another solo, the shame of it still curdled in his stomach when the
memory slunk to the surface of his mind. His body had never failed him like that before; his fingers
just refusing to pick out the right sounds, the hot feeling of terror creeping up his spine. Then John,
stepping forward to rescue him. That had been the worst bit, almost, needing the help because
there was no way out on his own. He wasn’t going to be in that situation again, so George it would
be.

“Whatever,” John huffed. “If you want him so bad, I guess he does know more chords than us.”

Paul laughed. John often gave in quickly when Paul really wanted something. It didn’t even take
that much pushing most of the time.

So George joined the band, and he was good. Not excellent, and it took him a long time to pick
things up, but he would do. John didn’t care for George, offering not much more than a grudging
acceptance of his presence. All the better. Paul preferred John looking at him.

July 1958

It was John that kissed him next. His face was wet with tears as Paul sat, useless, on the edge of
John’s bed. He’d kept coming to John’s even though he’d been told he wasn’t wanted. First Mimi
had sent him away. But that hadn’t even registered. He’d needed to see John too much. He didn’t
know what else to do but to come back.

The first time John had come to the door, he’d scowled and told him he was too busy for Paul’s
“kids’ stuff”. Paul knew it was meant to hurt, a way to measure out a little of the pain that John was
feeling. He could see it in every line of his body, like he felt too heavy to stand. Paul remembered
that feeling. He remembered the way it pressed you down, the sucking pain of it in the centre of
your chest, pulling everything else into it. If he let himself think about it too long, he could still feel
it. Still almost as sharp as the day it happened.
It hurt seeing John; a mirror of himself from just a few years before. But it hurt more not seeing
him. It was like he could feel his pain across the distance between them. He needed to make sure
John knew that he just needed to keep going. That if he got up the next day and then the next,
eventually you didn’t even have to remind yourself to do it.

So he’d gone back the next day, and then the next. After that, John had let him in. Then he’d
continued to let him in. Paul took that as a good sign. They hardly talked. Or, rather, John didn’t;
Paul kept up a stream of consciousness about everything he could think of that might spark some
interest in John. Little did. Music rarely. Gossip occasionally.

He didn’t mention mothers. There were no words for what had happened. It just sat as a terrible
weight between them. Paul wasn’t sure if it was bringing them closer or pushing them apart some
days. On the one hand, he’d never felt closer to John; losing a mum wasn’t the sort of thing anyone
else could understand. But on the other, a sneaking, awful suspicion was taking root that John, or at
least his John, might be gone forever. He’d not seen him really smile in weeks. Not seen him make
a real joke; one that wasn’t barbed to stick in the recipient's skin and gouge til it drew blood.

So the kiss was the last thing he’d expected. Perhaps he had, before. But only in the vaguest of
ways. John was off limits as far as that sort of thinking went. It was too tempting, and Paul kept all
thoughts like that on a very short leash.

He’d hardly noticed John shifting closer to him. His eyes were on his own lap, his story about what
his dad had been on at Mike for trailing off into stilted silence. It wasn’t even an interesting story.

The press of lips was delicate, hesitant in a way that was entirely John while being totally alien.
The cold dampness against Paul’s cheek was the first he knew that John had been crying. A flash
of panic shot through him, had he done something to upset him? But, then, surely he wouldn’t have
kissed him if so.

Paul turned his head, a question forming in the crease of his brow. He didn’t let himself feel
anything about the kiss, he kept his mind on the coming moments. They were silent, heavy and
extended. Expectant.

John’s eyes were steady on him. For the first time in weeks there was something that wasn’t a
dead-eyed stare, terrible agony or rage on his face. Fear.

“I don’t want you to leave,” John sniffed, eventually. His face creased like he was about to cry, but
nothing happened.

Paul met his red-rimmed eyes. He looked young, scared in a way Paul had never seen him before.
More open too. He was waiting for a reaction, just like Paul had been. Paul knew he could lean
back in, kiss him gently, could probably push him back onto the bed and make John forget the pain
and desperate unfairness of life for a few minutes.

But then what? Where would they be but back in the same place, only with John embarrassed and
probably angry?

“You don’t have to kiss me for that, you prat,” Paul huffed. His smile didn’t feel as reassuring as
he hoped, it was all lopsided and sad. “I’m not going anywhere; we’ve got a number one to write
first.”

John was still as he seemed to weigh up the options. It was not a look Paul was used to seeing on
him. Perhaps the last week had aged him, given him the wisdom to know terrible things were
waiting if he wasn’t careful. Paul could relate to that; he’d felt a hundred years older once his mum
had died.

He could see the moment John made up his mind; the set of his jaw changed, his eyes shuttered.
Paul felt a pang of regret that he’d never know what the other options were, other than for them to
pretend again that nothing had happened. But it was swept away almost immediately when John
reached for his guitar for the first time in weeks and weeks, and swallowed heavily. The relief of
seeing him reach for it was a balm to any other hurt he might have felt.

“Reckon she’d have liked me to get a number one.”

Unexpected emotion flooded Paul’s chest. He wanted to twist away from it immediately, but forced
himself to stay still. “Yeah, I reckon so.”

TBC
 Chapter 2

October 1960

Stuart knew. Paul was never sure, exactly, how he knew. The obvious answer was that John had
told him about one or both kisses. But he didn’t think so. That would mean John wanted to admit
they’d happened. And John didn’t like to admit to a lot of things. Like when he was wrong. Or
when he’d messed up the chords to the same song every night for a week. Which was fine. Paul
didn’t really like admitting to it either. The queer thing. It was easier if it wasn’t mentioned, if it
was kept to the space between words, held in shared looks and feather-light touches. Talking
tended to ruin things.

But Stuart knew.

Paul knew the same way he knew when a man was into him. Not that Stuart was into him, thank
God. Paul sometimes thought he might be into John, though. Perhaps he didn’t want to kiss him,
but he did want to possess him, he wanted to be the sole beneficiary of John’s attention and
approval. No. He didn’t want it. He expected it. He thought he was the rightful heir to it.

John seemed happy to give it most days. Stuart had slotted into John’s life with an ease that Paul
found baffling and frustrating. One day he hadn’t existed and the next he was everywhere. Like a
skinny, pale ghost haunting John’s every step. And really, that was fine. Paul had plenty of other
friends, too. It was just unfair, when Paul had worked so hard on the band, for it to be taken away,
just as they were getting good. Because it was inevitable that Stu would end up in the band. John
didn’t know how to keep things separate. He wanted you around. Or not. And if he wanted you
there, there you were. Always.

So Paul didn’t see the point in not joining in the cajoling for Stuart to buy a bass; once John
decided he wanted something, it generally materialised. They needed a bassist anyway, so it might
as well be Stuart; better him than Paul, that was for sure.

And then he was in the band, if you counted standing on stage with them as being in the band. Paul
didn’t. He knew Stuart couldn’t give a shit if they played at all. He didn’t seem bothered with him
or George, and especially not with Pete. It was clear from day one that he was there for John, or
because of John. He just wanted John happy.

It was a gift, John’s ability to inspire that desire in those around him. Paul knew he could get
people to do things for him, knew how to dig his heels in to get his own way. But John never
seemed to have to do that. He just asked for it and people wanted to please him so much they just
gave it to him. What was worse, Paul knew he wasn’t immune to John’s gift. But he at least had the
decency to pick and choose when he gave in. Sometimes he made it a point not to give in, even
when he wanted to, or it didn’t matter. He just wanted to know that he could.

Not that it mattered much since Stuart arrived. Paul gave them the space they so clearly wanted and
John hardly seemed to notice. He never even asked to write together. It hurt, but Paul should have
expected it. John didn’t owe him anything, they’d made no promises. Especially after what had
happened when John kissed him. Paul had wanted to put some space between them. He just hadn’t
meant like this. The whole point was to save the band, to save their connection through music. He
wished he knew where he’d gone wrong.

He wouldn’t have hung around at all, other than that he’d put a lot of work into the band. He
wasn’t going to leave until someone made him. He just had to outlast either John’s fascination with
Stuart or Stuart’s ability to pretend to care about rock and roll.

Sadly neither had happened before Stuart ended up following them to Hamburg. Paul avoided him,
while being careful not to be seen to avoid him. It was a delicate balance. Stuart hardly seemed to
notice, but Paul wasn’t going to be the one to cause issues in the band. It happened sometimes,
mostly by accident. Like when Paul turned up early to an almost empty club to rehearse, and for
unknown reasons, Stuart had done the same.

“Alright?” Paul nodded, and then hurried right by him without waiting for a response.

The instinctive annoyance at Stuart’s presence was frustrating; he wanted not to care. It didn’t
matter if Stuart was there or not, and it wasn’t like he had less right to the space. God knew he
needed the practice and he obviously couldn’t know that Paul had wanted to be alone. He was
struggling to get the chord changes on a couple of their newer songs. He hated messing up on stage
and was determined that he would be perfect by the next performance. But he needed alone time
for that. Not someone watching his every move, probably hoping he messed it up.

He climbed onto the stage, such as it was, and sat down on the chair that seemed least likely to
collapse immediately. He pulled on his guitar and focused on his fingers on the strings. He could
feel Stuart, quiet, but clearly watching him. He ignored him. Paul wasn’t available for chit-chat; he
could go find one of the others for that. He stared at his hands, which didn’t move for a few painful
seconds. Somehow, ignoring Stuart had become the sole thing he was aware of. Paul waited for
him to speak, or to at least pretend he was going to work on his own dubious skills. Anything that
would end his silent vigil. He did neither.

“You going to sketch me?” Paul snapped in the end, annoyed mostly at himself. Usually he could
lose himself in the music easily. He didn’t know why Stuart bothered him so much; it wasn’t like
he ever did anything. Which somehow just made it worse.

“Huh?” Stuart finally approached the stage, squinting at Paul as though he couldn’t see him. Even
though he was wearing his glasses.

Paul could hear his boots stick and unstick to the floor as he walked. He gritted his teeth at the
noise.

“I said, are you planning some sort of art piece? With all the staring.”

Stuart laughed, it was a nice sound. High and sweet. “Nah, got other plans.”

“What’s that? Decided to give practice a go or something?” He managed to make it sound like a
joke. Mostly.

“Maybe,” he said with a shrug. It looked effortless, like a ripple of water. “I’m waiting for Astrid.”

“Right.” Paul nodded and looked away. He tried to muscle on with the practice. But, he stumbled
over the change, just like he had every other time he’d tried it. He flexed his jaw, tried again.
Irritation prickled down his spine, hot and uncomfortable.

“You’re going to hurt him.”

“What?” Paul looked up, irritation sparking and morphing into something closer to surprise.

“You think I don’t like you,” Stuart said, watching Paul with the disinterested expression he
seemed to have perfected over the last few months. “But it’s not that. It’s that you don’t understand
him.”
Paul gave up all pretence of continuing to play. Sharp indignation flooded his stomach. There was
clearly no need to pretend he didn’t know who Stuart was talking about. “I do, you know.”

Stuart smiled, like he’d heard a joke. “You’ve put him so high on that pedestal, you’ll never reach
him. And he wants you to.”

Several responses occurred to Paul all at once. But only one of them seemed fitting. “You’re mad.”

Stuart laughed. He was really very, very handsome. Paul wondered why it had never occurred to
him before that he could have tried something with him. That might have solved a number of issues
all at once. But even as the thought sparked into life, Paul knew the reason. It would be a betrayal.
In what exact ways didn’t matter. Besides, the thought wasn’t actually appealing. Outside the
aesthetics of it, he couldn’t even imagine wanting to kiss Stuart. Couldn’t imagine wanting his
hands on him. He suspected he’d be cold to the touch, like a marble statue.

“I’m sure I am,” Stuart said. He’d picked up a new inflection in his voice since he’d started
hanging around with Astrid and her weirdo friends. It was more grating than his normal voice. All
sharp and sarcastic. “But I’ll still always understand him better than you.”

That was the moment Paul knew they’d never really be friends. Who said things like that? It was
stupid, for one. If anyone didn’t understand John, it was Stuart. His mother wasn’t dead. He didn’t
write music. He didn’t even like it as far as Paul could tell. He didn’t know how to make John
laugh with the right set of words. He didn’t understand how to handle him when he got angry or
too drunk to stand at the end of the night. He wasn’t even usually there at the end of night because
he’d fucked off with Astrid. He’d found someone he liked better than John, and now he had the
nerve to suggest he knew him better?

Paul swallowed down every retort that came to the tip of his tongue. There was no point in saying
any of it.

“Why don’t you go get fucked?” he said eventually. Then, because he couldn’t just leave it at that,
added, “ I’m not the one that’s leaving him.”

And he wouldn’t, either. Not now. He’d made that decision when he’d agreed to join the band.
They were getting out of Liverpool together once and for all. There was no other option.

Finally something registered on Stuart’s face. He looked almost confused for a moment, then there
was a flicker of something else. It looked alarmingly like pity. “John’s going to be fine without
me,” he said, voice heavy. “But, when you break him, do try and stitch him back together?”

With that he turned on his heel and stalked away. Paul was left reeling with just a sense of vague
outrage and confusion to be satisfied with.

It wasn’t why he picked a fight the next night. Or, he could admit it might have been a part of the
tapestry of reasons. But it really had been coming for months. Annoyance passing back and forth
with nowhere to go. There was no outlet, no solution. It was all so pointless. But he’d thought if he
could just lay him out, if he could prove he was better at this thing, it might help. What, exactly, it
would help he wasn’t sure, nor did he much care by the time he was throwing a punch that barely
landed.

The scuffling, of course, wasn’t satisfying. It was frantic and confusing, and when he got right
down to it, embarrassing. Someone threw water on them in the end. He suspected George, directed
by John. The shock of it was enough to give an excuse for Stuart to roll off him and be pulled up
and away into the loving embrace of Astrid. Paul lay on the stage for long moments, breathing
unsteadily, unsure what had just happened. He hadn’t won. But, he hadn’t really lost, either. Was
that good or bad?

A hand came into view. He gripped it and was levered up until John’s face came into view.

“Alright?” John asked, voice raised over the shouting of the crowd. His eyebrows had climbed so
high it was like they were making a bid for his hairline.

Paul scowled at him; resentful for reasons he couldn’t even articulate. “Fuck off.”

John's eyebrows course corrected down into a scowl. “Spoiling for another bout?”

“I said fuck off,” he hissed. “Just play the song.”

And so they did. Stuart eventually joined in, slightly off, but no worse than usual. The night faded
away into the usual haze of pills and booze and music too loud to allow thought, let alone
conversation. Paul let himself drift along with it, stopped trying to swim and sank to the very
bottom where he wouldn’t need to think.

It was more firmly morning than night when John appeared at his shoulder, his presence
unmistakable even through the haze of exhaustion. Paul had barely sunk into a chair before he
arrived, like he sensed Paul was at the end of his ability to stand.

“You should get some sleep.”

“Alright mum.” He folded his arms on the table in front of him and put his head on them. It wasn’t
comfortable and he could feel something seeping through the sleeves of his shirt, but at least he
didn’t have to look at John.

John sat down next to him. Paul wished he wouldn’t. “You still sore about Stu?”

“No,” he lied. Or maybe he didn’t. He wasn’t sure anymore. “You not off tending to his wounds
for him?”

He didn’t know why he said it. He knew where Stuart was, and that he had someone else to do that
for him. Not to mention that John had never shown the least inclination to give comfort to anyone.
Least of all the band.

“Why am I in the doghouse when you’ve had a fight with Stu ?” John muttered, with the distracted
air he got when he was searching his person for fags.

“He’s protecting your honour,” he sniped, because he was tired and sad for reasons he couldn’t
hope to untangle. His whole body ached and he could feel bruises on his ribs from Stuart’s stupid,
boney knees. For the first time ever, he wanted to go home. He wanted to curl up in his bed in
Forthlin road and not have to think about anything for a few hours.

“What the fuck does that mean?” John snapped, all amusement, all traces of end-of-night
wooziness, gone.

Paul forced his head up off his arms. “He thinks that I’m a bad influence.”

That wasn’t true. It probably wasn’t true. Paul still wasn’t sure what Stuart had meant, but he
couldn’t come up with another explanation for it.

“Why?” John’s voice had gone hard.

Anger made it easier to hold John’s eye. “Worried that you’ll catch something nasty from me, I
reckon.” Like you don’t already have it. The words were right there, ready to go. He swallowed
them down. There was no point in starting a second fight in the same night.

“That’s bollocks,” John hissed.

“Well, then why was he telling me to stay away from you?” The voice in his head was suggesting
the opposite could also be true. But this made more sense. Stuart wanted John and that meant
getting rid of Paul. It was common sense.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” John sounded almost afraid.

Somehow that just made him angier. “ I’m not the one who doesn’t know what he’s talking
about.”

He scowled at John, until John did something he’d never done before.

He backed down. He pushed away from the table, legs of his chair screeching awfully against the
wood. He didn’t say anything, just stalked away. Paul watched him go. Then gave up the fight and
lay his head back on his arms. He didn’t move for a long time.

———

Paul hadn’t moved from his position on the tiny bunk for fully three minutes. There was a ringing
silence, it seemed almost shrill, like it was filling the room more than John’s fury had done. He
was cold, the sweat he’d only just begun to work up was drying tacky and unpleasant on his skin.

It was dark, the bare lightbulb had always been shit at lighting their tiny cell of a room. Paul
thought that was for the best; the less you could see of the room was probably the better. But now
he wished he could make out John’s face. It was wreathed in shadow. He looked otherworldly, like
a spectre.

He could see the tatters of the girl’s dress still dangling from one of his hands, the other was
gripping the scissors. The wardrobe door was hanging crooked on the frame, and while he couldn’t
see the holes, he knew they’d be there. John’s breath was ragged, but no longer coming in the
terrible gasps it had been just after it had happened.

He realised with a jolt that John wasn’t going to speak. He cycled through options until the only
one that mattered finally fell out of his mouth.

“Why’d you do that?” He managed not to sound annoyed, confused perhaps. He paused, trying to
understand why there wasn’t more anger, but nothing came to him. He ought to be angry that John
had barged in when he was in the middle of a pretty good shag and had not only chased the girl off,
but also ruined their wardrobe.

George had slunk away, keen to be out of range should John kick off again. It wasn’t likely now;
once John had boiled over he tended to sink down into a deep funk rather than work himself up
again.

John didn’t look at him, his gaze somewhere over Paul’s shoulder. He wondered if it was the drink
or something else.

“Wanted to.”

Paul nodded. “She piss you off before or something?” He licked his lips. “Did you fancy her?”
In the dim, he watched as John hunched his shoulders, as though trying to hide from the
suggestion.

He clearly wasn’t going to get a direct answer. But, really, there was only one reason for John to
behave like that. He was a possessive person. Same as Paul. They didn’t share.

Sitting in the wreckage of it, Paul realised that an outburst had been looming for days. John had
been weird since Paul and Stuart had had their tussle. Not angry with either of them, but unusually
withdrawn. Paul had been relieved. He’d no desire to relive it or endure John’s teasing, so he’d left
him to it. But he’d known something was brewing. He’d felt John winding himself up like a jack-
in-the-box, ready to explode at the most unexpected moment. But he’d never imagined it would
look quite like this. He’d not seen John in this sort of rage since Julia had died.

“John, are you going to–”

“What the fuck were you doing with her anyway?” he broke in, like the words couldn’t be
contained any longer.

Paul frowned, totally caught off guard by the question. “What?” he stuttered, before trying to rally.
“She was willing; I wanted to get off. It’s not complicated.”

“Isn’t it?”

John said it with such pointed malice that Paul had to rub a hand over his eyes. Like it might act as
a shield from the accusation. So it was about Stuart or about Paul’s stupid admission that Stuart
knew about him. He should have known John would work himself up into a frenzy over it. He was
probably worried that if Stuart knew about Paul, then he’d have suspicions about John.

“No,” he said, trying to sound as firm as possible. “I don’t see how it is; I like having sex with
women and that’s what people do here, isn’t it? It’s why they’re in bands: so they can get off with
girls? That’s not complicated.”

“That why you’re with Dot?” he asked, like he’d found a weakness in Paul’s defences he could
latch onto. “For show?’

“Dot’s Dot,” he said, easy. “She’s a good girl and it’s good to have a girlfriend. People expect it,
right? I like her well enough. She’s good in the sack, faithful. Pretty. I don’t see why I shouldn’t be
with her.”

“You always do things because people expect it?” He was trying to work himself up into another
bout of anger. “Good little Paulie, always falling in line, never doing anything bad.”

“No,” he said, but gently, choosing to ignore the slight intended in John’s tone. There was no need
to be defensive because he knew it wasn’t that. He didn’t do it because people told him to. It was
something else. He was constructing his perfect life, one that no one could deny was a success. A
girl was part of that. Along with a car and a house. Money, too, of course. “You know I don’t. I
wouldn’t exactly be here, if I did that, would I?”

His dad had tried hard enough to stop him, tried to forcefully suggest that he not see John. It had
had about the same impact as him being walloped when he stole cookies: he just learnt to be better
at the stealing.

“So you really do like women?” John pressed, his eyes searching Paul’s almost desperately.

“You know I do,” he sighed. “I think the last ten minutes shows that I like them just fine.”
“But you…” he trailed off. Looked away.

“I don’t mind getting off with a bloke either,” Paul finished for him. There was no point in
pretending that he didn’t know what John meant.

Not that he ever really indulged in it. If he were honest, it was mostly a theoretical exercise. He’d
kissed a couple of men since he’d arrived, but he’d never been interested in more, despite their
clear desire for it. IBeing away made it easier, but that didn’t mean he’d totally lost his head. It was
still dangerous, and in part because of that, too much effort. Plenty of women were there and
willing. Not many men were worth the risk.

Not that any of that explained John’s outburst. Although, John’s rages weren’t always directional in
ways that made sense. Sometimes it was just convenient to smash up a telephone box because it
was there. No need to make it into anything more.

The silence stretched on, not heated any longer, but strained all the same. In the end he fell back on
a joke, unsure what else he could say to break John out of his strange mood. “I still like you best,”
he teased. “You’re better looking than any of the girls I’ve got off with here, if that’s what’s got
you all hot and bothered.”

“Fuck off.” It was reflexive annoyance, automatic and without any heat. John’s eyes strayed to
Paul before flicking away.

“Why are you bothered?” he said, too tired to try and untangle John’s mood. If anyone deserved an
explanation, it was him, not John. And for some reason, he was the only one doing any talking.
“It’s not like I told her I was going to marry her or anything.”

“I just- I don’t get you,” John huffed. “You go around like- like you can do whatever you want,
like it doesn’t matter. You tell me that Stu knows and then you just… act like it’s fine. Like you
can just fuck some random girl and it’ll all go away.”

“That’s not what I’m doing,” Paul said. “I told you: I brought her back here because I wanted to get
my end away. It’s nothing more.” He looked at John’s face, still pale, almost gaunt in the dim light
of the room. He frowned. “There- There isn’t any making it go away,” he said, slowly, treading
carefully. “I’m not sure I want to make it go away. But, even if I did, I couldn't. It just is .”

“How does it not bother you?”

“John.”

Nothing.

“John, look at me.”

Very slowly, John’s eyes shifted to him.

“What’s this about?”

“I–” He started and looked away.

Paul took a breath and let it out slowly. There was no point in losing his temper, however satisfying
it would be. He was still mulling over his next move when John finally broke the silence.

“You fucking know what it is,” John burst out all at once. “You’ve known from the start, you said
so yourself. Apparently every fucking one knows.”
“What’s that?” It might have been petty, making him say it. But Paul’s night had been ruined along
with the wardrobe door and John was going to have to work a little harder if he expected
forgiveness for that.

The silence was long, painful and heavy. “I’m queer,” John finally whispered. Miserable and small.
“I fucking… I keep waiting for it to stop, for the feelings to… I can’t scrub it out of me.”

It felt momentous, the way John said it. Paul didn’t know why. Surely it was something he’d
always known, just like Paul. And he knew that Paul already knew. And how this related to the
ruined dress and Paul shagging some random bird or having Dot, he didn’t know.

“And what? You’re annoyed I’m alright with it and you’re not?”

“I just hate it,” he muttered. “But it won’t go away and you just seem to be able to bury it.”

“I don’t, you know. It’s just part of me. Same as it’s part of you.” He kept his voice low, hoped he
sounded as sincere as he felt. He’d never been so open with anyone before. He’d never talked about
any of it out loud. But if it was to help John, perhaps it wasn’t so bad. “It’s silly being upset by it;
like being annoyed you’ve got brown hair.”

John shifted, restless and sullen, from foot to foot. “Well, I fucking hate my hair most of the time
too.”

“Your hair’s fine,” he tutted. “Stop being stupid.”

“Do you really think that?” John asked after a moment. “Everyone thinks it’s sick.”

“It doesn’t feel that way to me. It never has.” He frowned. “You like girls though. You love Cyn?”

John fidgeted. “Yeah, you know I do.”

“Is it that different with… you know? It’s not for me. It’s the same as I feel about girls. So that’s
how I know it’s not sick. If it’s fine with women and it feels the same, I don’t see how it can be
bad.”

At last some of the tension eased from John’s shoulders as he edged towards Paul’s bed. He sunk
down at the foot, letting his head hang. “I’ve never said it before. Not even to myself.”

“Me either,” Paul said. His chest suddenly felt tight with emotion. He couldn’t place it; it reminded
him of sitting around a piano with his family or waking up on his birthday to the smell of a cake
baking downstairs. Excitement mixed with safety.

John’s eyes shifted until they found Paul’s. “Well, that’s that then.” He shook his head. “Two
queers in a band.”

Paul’s mouth quirked. “That’s not all we are, you know. Like, you might as well say two lads from
Liverpool or two blokes. Or two handsome devils with an eye for the ladies.”

“Two musical geniuses.”

“Right,” Paul nodded, felt a laugh ripple up from his chest, “that’s got to be way more unusual.”

Finally John smiled, small and still a little despondent. “It doesn’t mean I have to do anything
about it, either.”

“No,” Paul agreed. “Not if you don’t want. But you could, if you wanted. It wouldn’t matter. Like,
not doing something or doing something doesn’t change what you are.”

It felt dangerous to say it. They always seemed to be walking such a fine line and Paul wasn’t sure
what might tip them over the edge.

“Yeah, I guess,” John nodded, seemed to slot that idea into how he saw things. Paul watched as his
hands closed into fists only to open again immediately, over and over, where they rested on his
knees. “Only, we can’t– we can’t do it with each other.” It was almost a question. Not quite. But
Paul could have chosen to hear one, if he’d wanted to.

And he did. The desire rushed up in him so quickly and strongly that he almost choked on it. But
he couldn’t. It wasn’t like he was ever going to be able to be John’s like he was Dot’s. That just
wasn’t an option. John knew that just as well as Paul did. He could want John, he could have him
as a friend. But those had to be separate.

“Yeah,” he agreed, then had to swallow around sudden emotion that wanted to clog his throat. It
felt almost like grief. “The band’s too important.” He reached out, nudged John’s shoulder. Trying
to offer comfort, but to who he wasn’t sure anymore. “But we have this. Our secret. We’ve got
each other’s backs now.”

John finally shifted so he could look at him properly. “Yeah,” he agreed. “We can- this is just for
us.”

Paul nodded, the excited feeling fizzing just under his skin again. This was good. He could feel
John getting closer, not physically, but it was like he could see Paul again. After so long of it only
being Stuart. This would be enough to get John’s focus back on the band, perhaps even on writing.

“You think we should try and write something tomorrow?” he asked, hoping he didn’t sound as
hopeful as he felt.

“Yeah,” John agreed, easy, like they’d been doing it the whole time. They lapsed into silence
again, but comfortable. Paul was about to lie back down when John spoke again. “Here, you really
mean I’m the best looking person here?”

“Oh fuck off,” Paul said, a surprised laugh undermining the words. “I was just trying to avoid
getting stabbed to death with some scissors, you’re not holding that one against me.”

John laughed and the last of the tension ebbed away. Paul grinned at him and felt warmed through
when John grinned right back.

September 1961

It hadn’t occurred to Paul to say no when John suggested that he join him on an impromptu trip to
Paris. John had come into some money unexpectedly, and it made sense that if he was going,
sowould Paul.

That had been the reality of their lives since Hamburg. Since Stuart had decided to stay and
become the starving artist he was always meant to be. John had hardly seemed to notice, his mood
dipping a little for a few days but shrugging it off again quickly. Paul had wondered if he should
mention it, ask what John thought, but decided against it. It wasn’t like there was anything they
could do about it. Concentrating on getting a record deal was much more productive.

“Let’s get away!” John said, the moment Paul had stepped out of his house to join him on the
pavement.
“Get away?” Paul was still fiddling with his coat; it was pulling strangely around his shoulders, his
attention tugged away from John as he tried to adjust it.

“Paris! And then Spain.”

“Right. Yeah,” he nodded, finally freeing the caught fabric and looking at John. “Then a quick
jaunt to Timbuktu.”

“I’m serious,” John said, his mouth turning down into a frown. “Let’s go at the weekend. Just
hitchhike down. See some of the world before I’m too old to enjoy it.”

There were a million reasons not to. But John had looked so excited and hopeful that he hadn’t
been able to voice a single one of them. So they’d sacked off their planned shows, much to
Wooler’s outrage, and left as soon as they could. Wooler wasn’t the only one annoyed with them:
Cyn, George and Pete didn’t seem best pleased either.

Somehow that made it better. Like they were really doing something brave, just them against the
world.

They got the train in the end, it was easier and they were keen to just get to Paris, and more
importantly, as far away from Liverpool as they could. They didn’t waste any time, as soon as they
arrived, they were back out into the city, exploring and getting into trouble. As the evening rolled
in, John had found a pub for them. It was dark, the brass fittings on the bar catching the flickering
lights that did little to illuminate the space. It was cramped, smaller even than the bars back home.
But, it felt older too. There was no mistaking the curved wooden chairs nor the glass mirrors above
the bar for anything you’d find in Liverpool. A dive bar it may be, but it had the sort of class that
Liverpool would never have even considered trying to attain.

Paul loved it and John seemed to be in agreement; he was in fine spirits, his smile quick and
pleased. He looked like he’d lost a weight he’d been carrying. He seemed freer, younger somehow.
Paul wondered how he’d not seen it before it was gone. John had seemed to be increasingly
anxious those last few weeks leading up to his 21st.

“Paris suits you!” Paul shouted over the music.

John turned to him, the hat he’d bought falling slightly crooked to one side. He flung an arm
around the spindly back of Paul’s chair so he could lean closer to speak. “What’s that mean?”

“I dunno,” he said. “You look different.”

John raised his eyebrows. “Better?”

“Alright, enough. Just because it’s about to be your birthday, doesn’t mean you get a load of free
compliments.”

“Need to pay for them, do I? Do you accept credit as well as cash?”

Paul’s own smile was starting to make his cheeks ache. “Just milkshakes.”

John laughed, delighted. “I think you’re right though; I do feel better here. Maybe because it’s
romantic and that’s how my soul is.”

“Lover not a fighter.”

He shrugged. “Dunno, maybe.” He looked away, back to the band. “Somewhere between Oscar
Wilde and Marlon Brando, that’s me.”

Paul felt a swell of affection for him rise so suddenly in his chest that it took his breath away. It
was a strange experience, being friends with John. He was so himself that he tended to fill almost
any space he was in. Eyes strayed to him, whether he was trying to capture them or not. Everyone
wanted to be near him, or be like him. So much so, it was impossible to remember that sometimes
John wasn’t sure of himself, that he was worried about who he was and what that meant.

That had never really been an issue for Paul. He knew who he was. He liked who he was and had
never really cared to change it to suit other people. Not that he didn't want people to like him. He
did. It mattered to him how he was perceived and he worked hard to ensure the people he met came
away with the correct impression of him.

He realised, sitting in that dingy bar, that John might be the exact opposite. It was a crazy thought;
slippery, like trying to hold onto a dream. Because, surely, not John . If anyone should be sure of
who they were and that it was good, it would be John.

“You can be both,” he said. “There’s nothing wrong with taking the bits you like of both of them
and getting rid of the bits you don’t.”

John turned back to him, his expression earnest and totally focused. He looked like a marble statue,
all hard lines thrown into sharp relief by the dim lights of the stage. He was so beautiful that Paul
had to look away. “Do you think so?”

“I do,” he said. “You’ll end up better than both of them, that way.”

John’s laughter was loud and so delighted that Paul’s heart soared. It was still a heady feeling to
get a proper laugh out of John, especially when he was feeling pensive.

“Hey,” John said, and when Paul turned back to him, he found John’s face set as though he’d come
to a decision. He knew that expression, and that whatever was about to happen, he probably wasn’t
going to like it. John leant forward, voice lowering. “I wanna go to a queer place.”

Paul could smell the alcohol on his breath, as the shock of his words curled in his stomach. They’d
been drinking off and on most of the day, but he hadn’t thought John was really that drunk.

“What?” he asked, buying time, given they both knew he couldn’t have missed what John had
said.

“No one knows us here,” John continued. He sounded totally serious. “I’m not going to do
anything. I just want to look.” He pulled back, and stared hard at Paul, raising both eyebrows.
“Don’t you?”

Paul bit his lip. His first impulse was to lie and just deny it to make the situation go away. It felt
too risky; what if someone did spot them?

Calculations rushed through his mind, as he tried to chart a path forward. It seemed like a stupid,
foolish idea. Unnecessary, too, when there was so much more they could be doing with their time.
But, under that, ran the drumbeat of the truth. He did want to see. He’d always wondered. Ever
since he’d found out there were places men got together, he’d been intrigued, drawn to the idea.
But he’d never have dared go. He wouldn’t have given it a second thought in Liverpool. It felt like
something other men did. The hopeless cases. He’d never needed to sneak around in the dark to
find someone he found attractive to get off with.

Then there was the thought under even that: was this the reason John had brought him along? Had
he just wanted someone who would be willing to go to a queer bar with him? He didn’t even know
how he felt about that because it could mean any number of things. Some of which made Paul’s
stomach clench with excitement.

John took his silence for the uncertainty that it was. “We don’t have to meet up with Jürgen for
ages yet,” he said, leaning closer. “We don’t even have to stay long. I just want to know what it’s
like… don’t you, even a little?”

He took a deep breath. It seemed unfair to say no on John’s birthday, and if they were just looking,
it probably couldn’t hurt. Besides, he’d already come this far and saying no would be silly when he
didn't even want to.

“Yeah,” he whispered, surprising both himself and apparently John. “Yeah, alright, let’s go. A
birthday treat for you.”

“Oh fuck off,” John said, but he was already on his feet.

Paul couldn’t seem to stop a smile from sneaking across his face. Seeing John so animated always
made him feel lighter, like he’d accomplished something. John hardly seemed to notice as he
hustled them out of the bar and back onto the dark street.

They didn’t have to walk that far, just down the main road and then down a small cobbled street
that sloped gently up. It looked like the rest of Paris, the same street lamps, same rickety buildings,
all on top of one another. Paul had no idea how John found the tiny, nondescript bar that he
stopped outside of. But John often just seemed to know things; he’d talk to someone briefly at a bar
and come away with not only the best uppers but also a tip on where the best girls were, places that
let you bring booze in while you ate, and what the local cinemas were playing that week. People
just wanted to hand over their insights, and pretty much anything else John wanted too, come to
that.

John hesitated at the door, his eyes darting to Paul and then away. There was a long silence.

“Well, come on then,” Paul sighed, at last, and pushed by John. Their arms brushed as he shoved
open the door. John had got them nearly all the way; he could nudge them over the threshold if
that’s what John needed.

Inside, the bar was crowded and even more dimly lit than the previous place. But Paul felt the
difference immediately. The air seemed thicker, the conversations more intense. There wasn’t a
single woman in sight. All eyes turned to them as they stepped inside. John pressed against him, his
hand going to Paul's waist, to steady himself as he stopped walking abruptly, so they didn’t bump
into each other.

Instinctively he leant back into John. He wasn’t sure how much of that was a desire for comfort
and how much to fit in. Either way, John didn’t pull away and soon enough most of the eyes
slipped away from them. Not all, quite a few lingered, but Paul thought that was probably to be
expected; it happened with enough lasses back home.

“What do we do?” John whispered, breath ghosting against the shell of Paul’s ear.

He almost flinched, both surprised at John’s proximity, but also to suppress the shiver that wanted
to work its way down his spine. “Get a drink,” he said. “It’s just a bar.”

John came out from behind him to look around. “Oh,” he said.

“Well, what did you expect?” Paul asked, mouth turning up.
“Dunno,” John said, eyebrows drawing together. “Orgy or something.”

Paul laughed and reached out a hand to wrap around John’s arm. It felt right, here, to touch in a
way it never did elsewhere. John hardly seemed to notice and Paul wasn’t sure if that made him
relieved or disappointed.

They ordered some beers from a disinterested barman and turned to lean back against the bar, so
they could look around. Not that anything strange immediately revealed itself. It was just a bar.
Perhaps if you were really looking, you might note that the men were sitting very close together. A
couple were even touching; a hand causally laid in an arm or brushed over a leg. But nothing that
was truly scandalous. Paul wasn’t sure if he wanted to join in John’s disappointment or let relief
wash over him.

“It feels normal,” John said.

“Well, it is,” Paul said. “For them.”

John hummed into the rim of his glass. He wasn’t trying to hide his disappointment and a pang of
anxiety rippled through Paul at the sight of his downturned lips. The last thing he wanted was John
to sulk his way through the rest of the night.

“Should we,” he started and then ran out words because his need to fix everything had overruled
the fact he didn’t have a plan. But John was looking at him intently so he had no choice but to
think of an end to his sentence. “Shall we talk to someone?”

The reaction was instantaneous. John’s face froze as colour flushed across his cheeks. Paul had to
fight down a fond smile; it took a lot to make John blush these days. He waited patiently as John
visibly pushed down his first wave of nerves and nodded.

“If you want,” he said, and he actually sounded casual.

Paul was impressed. “Right,” he said and turned to look around.

None of the patrons actually took his fancy. They seemed older, drawn, almost grey in the dim
light. But he met someone’s eye across the other side of the room. He was older, probably in his
thirties, but young compared to some of the people there. He was with another man, blond where
his companion was dark. They were openly watching John and Paul; there was no shyness in their
expressions.

It was shocking, even though that was the point of coming. Paul was used to being admired. Mostly
by women, but he’d caught enough men watching him to know what it was like. But there was
something different in these men’s faces. They were confident, like they knew what they wanted
and were used to getting it.

Paul’s eyes darted to find that John had noticed them as well. John turned to catch Paul’s eye. They
stared back at one another, a challenge made and accepted on both sides. They turned together and
made their way over to the table, tucked near the far right hand corner of the bar.

“Alright?” John said, as they reached the table. “I’m George, this is Pete.”

Paul stifled his laugh by taking a drink and then nodded in greeting. The now familiar expression
of confusion blossomed across the men’s faces as it was recognised they were foreigners and not
speaking French. Then, slowly, understanding dawned as it became clear they were English.

“London?” The blond man said, and gestured to the two empty seats at the table.
“No, George,” John supplied with a grin as he sat down.

Paul rolled his eyes and took the other seat. “We’re from Liverpool,” he said. “It’s George’s
birthday, see, so we’re just visiting.”

The dark haired man smiled. “A flying visit?”

It was hard to make out the words, buried as they were under the thick accent. It didn’t help that he
was speaking quietly, and Paul had to duck his head closer to hear. The man smiled at him, gentle,
almost teasing.

“Oh, umm, yeah,” he said, feeling flustered despite his best attempts not to be. He knew,
realistically it was no different to flirting with girls back home. It was just words and a few
carefully selected expressions. “We’re just- we’re on our way to Spain.”

“We’re in a band,” John said.

He was all confidence now there was an audience and therefore a performance to be made. He
slouched back in his chair, spreading his legs wide. It was a clear provocation, in different
circumstances it would have seemed aggressive; here, with the men’s eyes sharp on him, it seemed
something else entirely. Heat prickled up Paul’s neck. Everything seemed to be moving very
quickly. He took a sip of his drink as the men smiled at them.

“And how do you intend to spend your night in the most beautiful city in the world?” the dark-
haired man asked. He’d clearly decided to focus on John, his eyes hardly strayed from him,
watching his every move.

“Dunno,” John said, lifting and then dropping one shoulder. “Guess we’ll have to see.”

Paul wanted to say something, wanted to break the sudden tension, but wasn’t sure how. He licked
his lips and realised he didn’t know what to do with his hands. He took a drink, flexed the fingers
in his other hand, and ran them over his palm, over and over. The blond man was looking at him,
amused.

“First time?”

“Huh?” Paul asked, looked down at his hand and forced it still. “Well, you know. Not exactly.
But…”

“You look…” the man paused, eyes roaming over Paul before he smiled again, “too warm?”

His lilting accent lifted the end of the sentence, suggesting he wasn’t sure of the phrasing in
English, as much as he was asking about Paul’s temperature.

“Oh, no, I’m fine.” He nodded. Took another drink. Kept his eyes on the table.

“Perhaps a breath of fresh air might help?”

“Um, nah, actually,” Paul said, shaking his head.

Although, now the man had mentioned it, he did feel much too hot. The air seemed too close.
Something about the intensity of the gaze on him felt different than with girls. It was more focused.
Like he knew exactly what he wanted and was capable of getting it.

He looked over at John, but he seemed totally captivated by whatever the other man was saying.
One of them had clearly shifted their chair closer so he could talk almost directly into John’s ear.
John was smiling softly, clearly amused and was saying something back, too softly for Paul to
hear.

He felt stupidly abandoned, although he wasn’t even sure why. It didn’t matter that some man was
cracking onto him. Paul had handled much worse without even breaking a sweat. He didn’t
understand why this was different. It didn’t even feel like when he’d kissed those lads in Hamburg.
He’d been in control then. But not here. He didn’t belong in places like this, unlike the man still
smiling at him. He felt like he’d put himself into this situation and now he wasn’t sure why, what
he wanted to do or how to extract himself without looking foolish.

Then, with a dizzying sort of horror, he realised that the dark haired man had his hand on John’s
thigh. He wanted to knock it away. John hadn’t wanted this, he’d said he just wanted to look, not
get them tied up in whatever this was turning out to be. This wasn’t the agreement at all. Paul
absolutely did not want to spend the night watching John do… whatever with this man. He wanted
to get drunk and listen to music. He wanted John to be smiling at him .

“I think,” he said, looking over at John and then back to the other man, “we’re probably not staying
long.”

“Oh,” the man said, reaching out and then his hand was on Paul’s arm. Paul looked down at it in
surprise. “You could stay a little while. No? It seems your friend is having a nice time.”

Paul tried to move his arm, but the man’s grip was surprisingly firm. Alarm trickled up his spine.
Realistically this guy wasn’t that big, Paul could probably just lamp him and make a dash for it.
But the idea of it wasn’t appealing, and what if it didn’t work?

The man seemed to take his sudden stillness for acquiescence. He shifted closer, Paul could smell
his aftershave and the beer he’d been drinking. He cringed slightly despite himself. This wasn’t
what he’d agreed to at all.

He was in the process of trying to think of the best way to extract his arm and perhaps working up
to some choice words when suddenly, there was John.

“Actually,” John’s voice was loud, so much so that Paul jumped at the abrupt change in tone.
“He’s got other plans for the night.”

He whipped his head around and found John was sitting straight, eyes hard as flint as he stared at
them. Paul knew that look, he’d seen it often enough before John jumped from the stage into a
crowd to beat the shit out of someone. Relief flooded through him, giving him the sudden clarity
that he could just be rude.

“Right,” Paul nodded, gathering himself and tugging his arm back. “We’re meeting a friend,
actually.”

“Come on, darling,” John said, standing abruptly.

Paul blinked in surprise but didn’t question it. “Right, well, nice to err- Yes, nice to meet you
both.” He turned to John, and feeling reckless with relief that they weren’t staying, took his hand.
“Shall we, my love?”

John’s mouth flattened in a way Paul knew meant he was trying not to laugh. Paul didn’t want to
see if he was going to break, just turned and tugged him away from the table. As they made their
way to the door, they got faster and faster until they suddenly seemed to be racing for the exit, John
bumping into him, reaching for the door.

They burst through it, shoulder to shoulder, and into the cold night air. Paul tried to gather himself
from the whirlwind of the last few minutes. Then he turned to John who looked equally surprised.
There was a suspended moment where they looked at one another before they burst into laughter.

“Fuck me!” John gasped, bent in half, both hands on his knees as though he needed the support to
remain standing. “The look on your face when he put his hand on your arm!”

“My face?” Paul returned, tears forming in his eyes as he tried to stop his own laughter. “I thought
you were gonna offer to duel him for my honour or something.”

John laughed, delighted. “Come on, darling,” he said, throwing an arm around Paul’s shoulders
and guiding him away from the door. “I think that’s enough learning for one day. Let’s finish
getting so pissed we can’t stand up.”

“Capital idea,” he agreed, and if he let himself sway further into John’s body as they walked than
normal, then so be it.

TBC
 Chapter 3

December 1961

Something changed after Paris. Paul wasn’t sure what he’d expected from the trip, a better
understanding of the world perhaps. A new perspective that might improve his music and some fun
memories with John. What they seemed to have gained was a better understanding of each other.
Going to that bar had been a shared experience that seemed to rival even Hamburg’s mammoth
shows in terms of bringing them closer. Perhaps because this particular experience was a secret,
part of a shared language that John and Paul were increasingly only able to talk with each other.

Paris opened the floodgates. Not everything revolved around music, because now they were able to
talk about everything else too. Very few topics seemed off limits, only mothers remained safely
tucked away. But even that was a pain they shared. Paul had never felt so close to anyone before.
Even his girlfriends hadn’t known about him being queer.

“You ever think about fellas when you’re jerking it?”

Paul turned his head to John, trying to read his expression. He was almost certain it wasn’t a trap.

“Not that often,” he said, shrugging.

“So yes.”

Paul’s mouth turned up at the corners. “You?”

“Guess so,” he said. “But… I dunno. It’s easier with girls. I know what I’d do.”

Paul nodded along. He had the basics, and a few pretty tame real life examples that weren't more
than a few kisses and awkward roaming hands, to draw from. But it was easier with girls. He had
more of a bank of experiences. On top of which, there was more he was trying not to associated
with sex when it came to men. Or one big thing, really. It seemed safer to stick with girls.

“Who you thinking about then?”

John slapped him gently on the arm. “A gentleman never tells,” he said, eyes warm with
amusement. “How about when you’re doing a five miler?”

That one was easy. “I don’t think about much when I’m actually going at it,” he said. “Just, you
know, what feels good.”

“Really?”

“Why? You need something to finish off?” he asked, surprised.

“Don’t need anything,” John said thoughtfully. “Just sometimes it’s nice, livens it up.”

“Maybe you’re doing it wrong, if you need it livened up.”

John laughed. “Maybe you just lack imagination.”

Later, as the sun was starting to dip, Paul found the nerve to be the one to ask. “Who do you like
then, famous fellas?”
John’s eyes narrowed at him. “Brando’s good. Dean’s alright. Elvis obviously.”

“Obviously,” Paul agreed, his stomach swooping unexpectedly. Which was stupid. It wasn’t like
John actually thought Paul looked like Elvis. Still. It was a nice thought.

“How about you?”

“Brando,” he agreed. “I didn’t mind Kirk Douglas in that one film.”

“Was it the little skirts?”

Paul laughed despite himself. “Think it was his legs,” he said. “So, yeah, I guess it was.”

John laughed, delighted. “Alright then,” he said. “When did you know?”

Paul frowned. “Always,” he said. “Didn’t know I wasn’t meant to until my dad belted me when he
saw me kiss my friend. Just pecked him on the cheek. It wasn’t anything.”

John’s face had frozen. “Your dad saw you?”

Paul nodded. “I was really young. It was just a warning smack, you know? Teach me it wasn’t
right.”

John looked like he was trying to figure something out and failing. In the end he grinned. “Didn’t
take then.”

Paul huffed a laugh. “Not so’s you’d notice.”

“He shouldn’t…” John started and trailed off. “It’s not right that he hits you.”

“I know,” Paul said. “It’s just what he thinks you do.”

“And you’re alright with it?”

“No,” Paul said. “I fucking hate it. Always did. Even when I was little. When he did it, I’d go into
their room and like, tear at their curtains.”

John was looking at him like he’d never seen him before. “Really?”

“Yeah, I just wanted to show them, you know?”

“Jesus, I’d have done him in if it were me.”

Paul doubted it. When it came right down to it, John wasn’t the sort of person who turned his back
on those he loved. “I guess I love him anyway,” Paul said. It felt almost more dangerous to say
than admitting he fancied Douglas.

John was silent for a long time. “It’s hard to hate them, isn’t it?”

Paul shifted in his seat, swallowing. “Yeah, love’s weird like that.”

“Yeah,” John agreed, voice soft and almost wistful. “It sure is.”

“Shall we try and write a song about it now, then?”

The tension broke as softly as it had settled over them. John laughed and shrugged a shoulder. “Go
on then,” he said. “Let’s write a hit.”
July 1962

Paul didn’t trust Brian from the start. He was an adult. He knew they were too, technically. But it
was different with Brian; he was a real adult and not because he was older than them. Paul knew
he was an adult right from the start, because he had the one defining characteristic that all adults
seemed to share: he assumed he knew best. Not just about the world, which Paul could forgive, but
he apparently knew better about the band. He knew who they ought to speak to. What they ought
to wear. How best to get them a record deal. How they ought to stand on stage. How they shouldn’t
move around while performing. Not to mention what they ought to be paying him for his dubious
services. It didn’t so much matter that he was sometimes right. It mattered that he always thought
he was.

Besides, he wasn’t one of them. He wasn’t in the band. Of course John thought he was gear from
the moment they met. Paul wondered if it was because Brian was queer. Not Paul’s sort of queer,
either, the full sort of queer that wasn’t interested in birds. He was, though, very interested in John.
Paul saw it all the way across the Cavern. Which meant so did John.

So, there were two reasons not to trust him. Being an adult was one thing. They were often useful,
so long as you knew how to ignore them when needed. But Brian’s interest in John complicated
things.

It left Paul with two choices: compete with John for attention, or show Brian that actually, he didn’t
hold the power he thought he did. All told, the latter option seemed easier. Besides which, he didn’t
want Brian’s attention.

“You don’t think it’s a bit much?” Paul grumbled, low, as they huddled over their guitars in the
porch at Paul’s.

“What?”

“Having Brian manage us,” Paul hissed back. “You know he’s–”

“Thought there was nothing wrong with it.” John’s voice had gone flat and pointed.

“I never said I thought there was,” he countered, waving his hand. “But other people do, and what
if he brings the wrong sort of attention on us?”

“Why would he?” It was John’s turn to be dismissive; he even rolled his eyes, like Paul was being
overly dramatic. “It’s not like he’s going to announce it. Besides, if anything, he makes us look less
queer, having the real thing right there.”

Paul felt stung by that for reasons he didn’t want to investigate.

“Right,” he said, because really, what else could he say? There wasn’t anyone else that seemed to
want to manage them anyway. And they really needed someone, if they were ever going to get out
of Liverpool.

It didn’t mean he was going to like it though.

August 1962

So Brian managed them, not very successfully at first. The only upside of the whole miserable
waiting-for-nothing-to-happen was him and John huddled in the little cafe near the station waiting
for news from London. Each day was fresh with hope and optimism. They’d talk about what they’d
do when they got the deal, what they’d spend their first million on, who they’d ask to meet. Of
course, the closer it got to when Brian was meant to be getting back, the less and less likely it
seemed. Until he eventually arrived, looking grim but oh so solemn.

“We’ll get there, lads,” he said. The same thing everytime.

Then they were meant to nod dutifully and thank him for his hard work. They’d walk home, quiet
and a little less sure that it would happen.

“Next time,” one of them would say, before they parted.

“Next time,” the other agreed. A promise and a prayer.

Then, all at once, it did happen. Just as Paul had started to think it wouldn’t, after the mess with
Decca. But then EMI appeared, like some sort of saviour from the mist and suddenly they were in
a studio. A real studio with a real producer. They were recording artists. Paul was beside himself
with joy.

Everything was falling into place in exactly the way he’d pictured it. He and John were writing
new material almost every day, and a hit single was surely only a matter of time. It was almost
perfect, Paul could feel the momentum carrying them along, like they were a leaf carried on a
stream that was about to meet a river.

Then John arrived at his house unexpectedly. It was earlier than Paul had ever seen him out and
about; it wasn’t even past noon. That alone should have been enough to tip him off. He was
preparing to make a joke when he caught sight of his expression. Paul’s smile died. John’s face
was pale, his brow drawn down and his jaw set, his mouth a tight, grim line.

Paul froze in place, his hand still gripping the door handle. He’d only seen John look that serious a
few times, and it never meant anything good. The last time had been after Stuart, and Paul hadn’t
been sure that John was going to come back from that. He didn’t know what he was going to do if
something like that had happened again.

It took him a moment to find his voice. “What?”

“Cyn’s pregnant.”

There was a silence so loud that it felt almost deafening.

“Well fuck.”

He let John inside. They traipsed into the kitchen in silence. Paul made tea automatically, unsure
what else to do and needing to keep moving. His mind was blank with shock. It should have
occurred to him as a possibility, especially after everything with Dot. But somehow he’d just
imagined that those sorts of things wouldn’t apply to John . He was invincible.

“I’m gonna have to marry her.” John’s voice was high, reedy, almost.

Paul paused, halfway to pouring the boiling water into the teapot. He found himself nodding
without having consciously decided to do it; he’d said the same about Dot. Neither of them were
that sort of terrible. They faced up to their messes if they made them. That was part of the deal with
messing around. It was all good fun until there were consequences. But you lived with those
consequences when they happened. Paul wouldn’t care to call a man who didn’t his friend. But
still.

“It’s…” he started and then didn’t know what to say. “You have to.”
He finished making the tea. Then found he didn’t want to turn and give the mug to John. Because
when he did that, he was going to have to look at him. He was going to have to see his face and
acknowledge what had happened. What it meant.

John. He’d be married. A father.

Gone.

He wasn’t sure where the word even came from. But it settled heavy and final in his chest, making
it almost hard to breathe around.

“I do,” John agreed. But he sounded strange. His voice was strangled and, if Paul didn’t know
better, he’d say apologetic. He had no idea what to do with that thought so he pushed it away.

“Well,” he said, mustering his voice into something that sounded almost normal, “I guess this is
congratulations, then.”

He turned around finally, and he’d almost managed to wrestle a smile onto his face. It died again
when he looked at John.

“This isn’t what I wanted,” John whispered.

It was a strange thing to say. Of course it wasn’t what he wanted. Who wanted to have a kid just as
they got famous? But that wasn’t what John meant, Paul was sure of it. There was another
meaning, something personal that he was meant to understand in John’s words. But, whatever it
was, he was sure he didn’t want to know. Not now. It would be a useless, painful bit of
information.

“But you love her,” he said, forcing his hand into handing John his tea.

John hesitated for just a fraction too long before he took the mug. He was looking at Paul intently,
searching his face for something. Paul didn’t know what it was, but was certain he didn’t find
whatever it was, because he watched as John’s face fell.

“I guess,” he said. “Do you…?”

“What?” Paul prompted.

“Are you alright with it?”

Sensing some sort of trap, Paul paused to consider his words. “I’ll be happy for you,” he said, in
the end. It was true.

John’s mouth half-rose. “But you’re not at the moment?”

Paul wrestled with himself. His instinct was to deny it. There was absolutely no reason for him to
care one way or another. It was John’s life. It might affect the band, but the rest of them were free
and single. Brian would just have to earn his money and think of something. But, at the same time,
he didn’t think he could deny it. There was a part of him that was disappointed, although why, he
wasn’t sure.

It wasn’t like he thought anything would ever happen between him and John. They’d already
agreed it couldn’t. So, it had to be something else. But he and John didn’t lie to one another. Not
since Paris.
“Guess it’ll make only one of us in the group,” he said in the end.

John’s brows drew together. “Thought that’s not how it worked?”

Paul shrugged, feeling almost curlish at having to discuss it, even though he’d brought it up. “I
don’t know,” he said. “I guess I just mean… Well, you’ll be a married man, so there’s- I dunno.
It’s fine. Just feels like the end of an era or something.”

He couldn’t seem to meet John’s eyes, instead watching the steam rise slowly from his mug. But he
knew John was watching him. He could always feel when John’s eyes were on him. He felt
exposed, silly for having brought it up. Worse, it had somehow made the pain in his chest more
obvious. It had been there since John had first said the words, but now it was sharp and persistent.
He hated it, wanted to twist away from it, but he didn’t know how. This was why it never helped to
acknowledge when things were bad. It just made it harder to ignore.

They were silent for a long time. Both of them drinking their tea, but Paul couldn’t even taste it,
wasn’t even sure how hot it was.

“Will you be there?” John asked. He sounded unsure, his voice uncharastically small. “I know it’s-
I don’t think I can do it without you there to back me up.”

“Of course,” Paul said, immediately. There was no question of that; if John wanted him there, there
was nothing that could keep him away. “Anything you need.”

John nodded. “Thanks,” he said. He took a slow sip of tea. “Not just for saying you’ll come but
for… I dunno. For saying that you’re sad about it too.”

He had absolutely no idea what that meant, so he just nodded. “Yeah, yeah of course.” He sighed,
gathering himself. “Well, congratulations. I wish you and Cyn all the happiness.”

“Oh fuck off,” John said, but he was almost smiling. He still looked pale, like he’d had a nasty
shock, but his shoulders were slowly starting to relax.

Paul tried to be happy that at least he’d cheered John up.

April 1963

John married Cyn at the registry office shortly after they found out she was pregnant. Paul and
George were both there, and Paul only had to remind himself to smile a few times. But really, he
needn’t have worried; nothing actually changed once it was done. John was just the same and,
anyway, they were all far too busy to even really notice it.

That same month, their hot shot producer from London, thank goodness, hated Pete as much as
they all did. Richie was brought in a week or so later, and then they were a band. Of course, they’d
been a band before, but somehow Paul knew it was different now. Almost from the first time
Richie sat at his kit and they laid down a recording, it felt better. More complete.

Then not only were they recording artists, they were recording artists with a single in the UK
charts. At number one. Paul wanted to tell everyone he couldn’t believe it was happening; but that
would have been a lie.

He’d known this was the only outcome from the moment he and John had first sat down to write
together. If anything, the world was finally starting to make sense. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t
giddy with excitement. He wanted to dance around with joy, burst into excited song at a moment’s
notice. Which, to be honest, he did. But so did the others, so he thought that was fine.
“We should get away!” he said, suddenly. They were in another nameless hotel. Somewhere near
London. They all seemed to look the same and Paul only bothered to check right before they went
on stage to make sure he said the right location. “A holiday to celebrate. We can all go; you know,
Cyn and the baby and everything.”

John was silent for a moment before he spoke. His voice was casual, as though mentioning that it
might rain later. Which was only one of the reasons Paul knew that he was being anything but
casual. “Brian’s asked if I want to go with him.”

Paul stopped what he was doing - the bottle of wine he’d been opening hanging loose in his hand.
“What?”

John shrugged. “I dunno; he’s going to Spain and he thought I might want to come along. Said he’d
pay and everything.”

“You?” Paul asked. “Just… you?”

Another shrug. Which wasn’t needed because clearly it was just John, otherwise Paul would
already know about it.

“And… you’re going?”

“Free holiday.”

It was a lie. Of course it was a lie. They might not be earning much yet, but they didn't really need
anyone to take them away anymore. There was really only reason that he could see for Brian trying
to whisk John off suddenly.

“Did you tell him?” Paul asked, slowly, as the full realisation sunk in. It was like he could feel the
colour draining from his face. “About- about me or…”

John scowled, hunching his shoulders. “Don’t see why it would matter if I did,” he muttered. “Not
like he’d say anything.”

“It’s our secret!” Paul burst out. “You said so. You don’t get to just tell other people because you
feel like it.”

“Fucking hell,” John huffed. “Leave it out, I didn’t tell him anything. I’m just saying, it’s my
business if I did. You’re the one that said I don’t count anyway, now I’m married.”

Paul wanted to deny that he’d said it, but of course that would be ridiculous. “That’s not what I
meant.”

“So it only matters if I’m going away with Brian?” he snapped. “Otherwise, I’m not queer at all.”

“It’s not that!” Paul snapped back, frustration getting the better of him. He bit back the impulse to
point out John had been desperate not to have those feelings, and instead he let out a slow breath.
“But, you know he’s only taking you away for one reason, John, and I don’t happen to think it’s
appropriate.”

“You jealous?” John sneered.

“No,” Paul spat back, “if you wanna shag an old man, that’s up to you.”

John went very still. It was such a contrast to his posturing just moments before that it brought Paul
up short. “I meant that he didn’t fancy you,” John said, slowly.

“Oh,” Paul said, heat was prickling against his skin. “No, he’s all yours. If I wanna get laid, there’s
plenty of other people I can go to that won’t mess up the band.”

“I never said I was going to do anything with him,” John said.

“No,” Paul agreed, rolling his eyes. “You’re just letting him treat you like a kept boy for the fun of
it. Jesus, John, you know what people will think. Is it really worth it? Do you really need him to
like you best that much?”

It was too harsh. He regretted the words almost immediately, but the truth sometimes just seemed
to slide right out of his mouth around John. He didn’t know why, perhaps because he was the only
person Paul could be completely truthful with. Not that that was good. Mostly it was bad.

He watched as John deflated, as Paul’s words hit him. His face crumpled from anger into
something more like resignation.

“I just…” John started. He looked away. “The baby’s coming soon.”

Paul frowned, he could only see John in profile, the hard line of his nose and sharp jaw, clenched in
obvious frustration.

“I know.”

“This is…” John shook his head. “It’s my last chance.”

“Last chance for what?”

John let out a short, sharp breath, making his nostrils flare. “I want to be a good husband, a good
dad, you know?” John’s jaw was so tight it was like the words had to fight their way out. “I don’t
wanna be like my dad. I want to be there for them. I want to do right by them.”

“You will,” Paul said, the comfort automatic.

John waved it off with an irritated hunch of his shoulders and a scowl. “But there’s a lot I wanted…
It feels like it’s all closing in. I just wanted- This is the last chance I’m going to get for a break. The
last chance before the baby really needs me around, to…”

He couldn’t say it, but Paul suddenly didn’t need him to. Something cold and terrible settled in his
stomach. “So, Brian’s it, is he?”

John’s eyes slid to Paul, but he didn’t turn his head. “He’s the only one offering. Besides, it’s not
like I can just go out and pick someone up. Not now, it’s too dangerous.”

The air seemed to thicken, drawing taut, like just before a thunderstorm. There was a question in
John’s words, along with a reproach.

The feeling that had been building inside him since before the start of the conversation, perhaps
since the day John had come to tell him about Cyn, was cresting in Paul’s chest. He felt almost
desperate with it. He knew he had to speak but had no idea what the right words were. What he
even wanted to happen next.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he managed in the end.

“It’s a yes or no question, Paul. Not a fucking game of chess.” John sounded so cold that Paul
wanted to shiver against it.

He tried to swallow but found his mouth was too dry. The words were so hard to let go of, despite
how easily they rose to the tip of his tongue. “I didn’t know there was any point in offering.”

John seemed to relax all at once. That allowed Paul to let go of some of the panic in his chest.

“What if I said…” John started, and seemed to run out of words.

Paul let the silence hang for as long as he could bear it. “What?” he croaked in the end.

“What if we just…” John tried and then stuttered to another maddening halt. He let out something
that wasn’t quite a laugh, but also wasn’t a sigh. He shook his head. “If it was just a one time thing,
would that be so bad?”

The air felt like it was starting to crackle around Paul’s head, static hissing and roaring in his ears.
“Just…” he tried, but couldn’t put it into words.

It was a stupid idea. It would be dangerous, not because they could be found out. Although, that
wasn’t nothing. It was more than that, Paul knew enough to know that you didn’t fuck around with
your friends. It messed things up; especially when you were as close as he and John were.

Best friends. Business partners. Creative partners. Band members. Lovers. It seemed too big to fit
in his head.

“It couldn’t happen again.” Paul had no idea where the words even came from; he certainly hadn’t
meant to say them. He’d been preparing to tell John it was a terrible idea. But his mouth had gone
ahead and said what his heart wanted it to. Now it was too late.

John’s head whipped around, so they were facing one another. He looked startled, his eyes darting
all over Paul’s face, as though looking for subterfuge. He was wearing his glasses; they’d been
intending to write. Just knock off a quick song in their hotel room before getting some kip before
another mad day of rushing around. Another long blur of concerts, interviews, photo shoots, more
interviews and more performing. Most days were the same while being wildly different at the
same time.

Now, somehow, they were here. Paul could see the lighter flecks of brown in John’s eyes. The way
his hair turned almost auburn near the ends. He looked good. Like a much better looking Buddy
Holly. Paul’s heart turned over in his chest.

God. He wanted him. He’d wanted him for years and years and years. How long was he supposed
to pretend that he didn’t? Would getting it out of his system really be so bad? Especially when John
was literally asking for it; saying he needed it. It was almost a favour.

“Right,” John said, looking startled, but recovering quickly. He licked his lips, his eyes darting to
Paul’s and back to his eyes. “Just the once.”

“Are you…” he started, then felt stupid, but had to ask anyway. “Are you really sure you want to
do this?”

But he was already leaning in, as though dragged forward towards John like a magnet. His heart
was somewhere in his throat and his dick was pressing against his zipper insistently. John edged
forward on the bed. Paul’s skin tingled like John was already touching him. He felt almost dizzy.
His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, before he forced them back open. He wanted to see John’s
face, needed to know he was really into this as well.
“I just want to know,” John whispered, mouth inching closer to Paul’s. “Just once before I never
get the chance again.”

“Just once,” Paul nodded. His blood thrummed through him almost painfully fast with each frantic
beat of his heart. They were so close. He could feel the ghost of John’s lips against his own.
“Don’t go with Brian,” he whispered, he couldn’t help it. If this was going to happen, then he
couldn't bear it if John went away with Brian afterwards.

“I didn’t want to go with him,” John said, his lips almost brushing Paul’s. “I just… I have to
know.”

Paul couldn’t stand it any longer. He closed the gap between them. John hardly hesitated before he
was kissing him back, like he’d been waiting, wanting it as much as Paul. His hands tangled in
Paul’s hair, dragging him closer.

There wasn’t any room for Paul to really think, to consider what he was doing. His hands were
clumsy on the buttons of John’s shirt as he tugged it open. It wasn’t even fully undone before he
yanked it off his shoulders so he could slide his hands inside.

John made a noise into Paul’s mouth that made Paul’s stomach clench with excitement. There was
a blur of uncoordinated hands and mouths and limbs as they scrambled to take their clothes off. If
he’d had any type of warning that this was going to happen, he’d have liked to have come up with a
plan. Perhaps he’d have taken his time to really appreciate what was happening.

In reality, it was almost immediately overwhelming. The feel of John’s hands touching him, the
way they pressed together, the sounds of John’s harsh breathing filled him completely. He couldn’t
think, wasn’t even sure what he was feeling, really, other than lust. He hadn’t let himself think
about how much he’d wanted this, hadn’t known how desperate he’d feel once it started.

They were stripped and back on the bed before he’d had any concept that he should take stock of
the situation. John was lying over him, kissing him like it was the only thing keeping him from
drowning. Paul felt almost dizzy with it.

“John,” he breathed, it sounded almost like a whine. “What- what do you want?”

John pulled back from where he’d been kissing Paul’s neck to look at him. His hair was a mess,
falling into his face, his eyes wild.

“What?” he breathed.

Paul was already regretting making John stop kissing him. So, he ran his hands over the bare skin
of John’s sides, sweeping up his ribs to loop around his back. John’s eyes fluttered shut at the
feeling, his hips dipped down to grind against Paul’s. The feeling of their cocks sliding together
made them both gasp, Paul’s arms tightening around John, his hips lifting to chase the feeling.

This was different to his other times with men. The only thing he’d managed since those early
kisses were quick handies and or some guy sucking him off in an alley before Paul slipped away
quickly, back into the club. He didn’t know what he was doing, really.

God. That was probably why John had gone to Brian in the first place; Brian had probably done it
all. Panic joined the heady lust coursing through his body.

He found his voice again. “What do you want?”

John was pushing down against him, and looked startled that he’d spoken. “Fuck,” he muttered, his
hips pushing down again. “I don’t– Fuck that’s good. Whatever- whatever you want.”

Paul should have known that it would end up on him to direct the thing. He supposed that’s what
he got for offering. So he tried to really think it through, despite how much his mind just wanted to
switch off completely. There was no way either of them was getting fucked. He had only the
vaguest of ideas how to do that and he wasn’t risking getting it wrong with John. A handjob just
seemed pathetic. Which really only left one thing. He’d never done it. Hadn’t been sure he wanted
to, until that very moment. But if he was going to make this worth it for John, he’d have to do
something worthwhile.

It was hard to think clearly enough and his body wanted nothing less than Paul gently shoving John
off him. The loss of friction was agonising, but he ignored it. This wasn’t about him, anyway.

“Wha-?” John managed, but let himself be rolled over on the bed.

Paul didn’t stop touching John as he repositioned them, couldn’t have even if he’d wanted to. This
was the only chance he was going to get to see John like this, to feel him. He wasn’t about to waste
it. He ended up straddling John’s hips, his hands resting lightly on John’s chest. He could feel
John’s heart fluttering under his palm.

He raked his eyes over John’s body. He was lean, still slightly more filled out than Paul was.
Fucking beautiful, with his hair a wreck and flushed face. Paul’s heart gave an alarming lurch at
the sight of him. He didn’t want this to be the only time he got to have it. It hurt suddenly. He
swallowed, eyes still looking everywhere.

Then, “Come here,” John whispered, and tugged his arm, so he collapsed down.

They met in the middle, kissing again. The wet slide of John’s lips reminded him of what he was
meant to be doing, and it wasn’t moping about what he didn’t get. It was giving John a night to
remember.

He pulled back, and grinned at him. John grinned back. He looked happy, excited and almost
amused. It was the sort of conspiratorial look they’d shared when sagging off school to practise. It
was good, shot warmth right through Paul, down to his toes.

Then he was sliding down the bed. It was no good overthinking the thing. How hard could it be,
really? He’d had it done to himself enough. He put his hands on John’s hips, his fingers splayed
over his hip bones, to keep him in place.

Then he swallowed him down.

“Oh,” John said, above him. It was a shocked sound, cut off at the end as it morphed into a moan.

That was enough encouragement for Paul to redouble his efforts. He hollowed his cheeks, sucked
gently, and tried to fit more of John into his mouth. It was harder than he’d imagined, more to think
about, too. He didn’t want to choke, but he was also aware that he didn’t have even nearly all of it
in his mouth.

“Oh, fuck,” John hissed above him, his hands going to Paul’s hair.

That was good, he thought dimly, and began to lift up. He always liked it when there was a lot of
movement, so he tried to copy that. Lifting his head slowly and then sinking back down. That had
John moaning, his hips trying to rise off the bed. Paul kept them in place, but couldn’t help the
spark of pride at the reaction.
“It’s- yeah, yeah, like that,” John muttered.

Paul knew when to take a direct order, so he carried on the slow slide of his mouth. Then he moved
one hand from John’s hip to wrap around the base of his cock. He pumped in time with his mouth,
and John’s answering groan was enough to send a spike of lust right through Paul. He ground down
against the mattress but it wasn’t going to be enough. He was going mad with the sounds John was
making. With the idea that he was doing that to him. He wanted to touch himself, but there wasn’t
the room.

“Fuck, fuck Paul,” John hissed.

Then, like he was reading Paul’s mind, he was grabbing for him, tugging him up the bed. Paul had
a moment of confusion and then John’s hand was around his cock.

“Oh,” he muttered, dropping his head forward, so their foreheads were resting together.

“Wanna see you,” John muttered. “Fuck, that was incredible. Your mouth.”

“John,” he whimpered.

Paul wasn’t much of a talker in bed; he preferred actions, but hearing the way John’s voice was
rough and breathless was driving him crazy. His stomach muscles were already jumping, his balls
tightening.

He had the presence of mind to reach for John’s cock, bracing himself over him with the other
hand. Their hands brushed as they jerked each other off. John was slick and the thought that it was
with Paul’s own spit was almost enough to push him over then and there.

“Yeah, yeah,” John was muttering, his arm looped around Paul, pulling him closer as they worked
one another faster. “Kiss me.”

“Fuck,” Paul muttered, but then their mouths were colliding. It was too much, the feeling of John
everywhere. He came almost instantly, a muffled cry falling into John’s mouth.

John’s eyes flew open, taking in Paul’s face, like he was cataloguing his every expression. Then
they fluttered closed and he arched up, into the tunnel of Paul’s hand. He came with a soft sigh that
Paul knew he’d be thinking about for the rest of his life. John was still thrusting up through the
aftershocks when he pulled Paul back into a kiss. A hard press of mouth, like he was trying to
cement the moment between them. His hand coming up to thread through Paul’s hair, like he was
anchoring him there.

They kissed for a long time. Their movements sloppy and slow now that the rush was over. It was
Paul that eventually pulled back. He stared down at John who was already looking back at him.
His face was flushed, his eyes almost glassy. He looked so beautiful that Paul had to look away.

“We can’t do this again,” he said, John’s hand still in his hair.

The words slipped out, without him meaning them to. It was a pledge to himself. A desperate
reminder, as he tried to tuck his heart back into his chest, out of sight from John’s prying eyes.
John was married, he was about to be a father.

There was nothing in the world that would make Paul interfere with that.

John’s hand left his hair. He flopped back on the bed and let out a low sigh. Then he shifted,
dislodging Paul from on top of him.
He sat up, back to Paul now, so he couldn’t see his face. “Yeah, Macca,” he said, voice low. “I get
it. Never again.”

Then he was out of the bed, pulling on his clothes quickly, and was gone.

Paul’s heart throbbed painfully as he watched the closed door, feeble hope demanding that John
come back.

He didn’t.

TBC
 Chapter 4

December 1963

The band rose and rose and rose.

Then it rose some more. Paul spent most of his time delirious with excitement and in a sort of
dazed confusion at how fast it was all moving. He was still trying to keep up with everything, still
trying to track how well they were doing in every country, still reading all the news that rolled in
about them. But it was getting too hard and that thought alone was hard to hold onto. So much was
being written about them that it was too much for one person to read.

It was also hard to know where they were or where they were going next. They moved too fast,
never staying still long enough to get used to it. So he was pleased when Brian decided they’d do a
show in the same place for a couple of weeks. It wasn’t a surprise when they sold out all the
shows. But somehow it still shocked him to hear that 100,000 people wanted to see them.

None of them were fans of pantomime, or making that sort of a tit out of themselves, so they
agreed to a different take. He and John already dressed up and messed around, pretending they
were the Goons. It wasn’t so different, even if there was meant to be a story. John as the villain
against Paul’s hero was obvious. George was the only one of them that didn’t care about playing
the girl, which left Richie as the props. It took two shows before Paul was jealous of how easy he
had it.

“Wish all I had to do was throw bits of paper about,” he muttered as they hurried off the stage.

It was always a mad dash between scenes to change and be ready to go back before the next act
was done.

“Ah,” Richie said, “there’s an art to it, you know. You wouldn’t last a day.”

Paul shoved him gently. “I’d swap with you, but no one’s gonna believe you could save the day.”

“I’m very dashing, actually,” Richie sniffed, as they tore off their costumes and tried to find the
next set.

“Not as dashing as me!” Paul insisted, shoving a shirt over his head. “There’s never been anyone
more dashing.”

“It’s true you know,” George said, seriously. “He’s saved my life every day for a week now. Don’t
know how I’ll repay him.”

“You could beg on your knees,” John said, mugging and fluttering his eyelashes at them.

“No thanks,” Paul said quickly. “Think I’d rather cut it off actually.”

There was the usual peel of laughter and some shoving as they finished their changes. But it lacked
some of the enthusiasm it would have had a few months back.

They were all exhausted. Two days off for Christmas. That was all they had to look forward to. It
wasn’t even enough time for a trip back to Liverpool. John was especially annoyed; he’d wanted to
spend more time at home with Julian.
As per his vow before he’d asked for Paul’s help, John had truly dedicated himself to being a good
husband. He was doting, always talking about Julian and showering his little family with affection.

Paul never let himself think about it.

The morning after they’d been together, he’d very carefully locked the memory away. It wasn’t
one he wanted to dwell on. It went to the same place he kept all the other things that were too
painful or too difficult or dangerous to linger on. Like his mother or the times his dad had belted
him for no good reason. Or the time Poppy Maddocks had dumped him in front of the whole class.

At least John hadn’t gone away with Brian, so it had done its job. But he also didn’t take Paul up
on the idea of a group holiday. He went away with Cyn and Julian. Paul tried to enjoy the holiday
with George and the others, but he knew he spent too much of it brooding, trying to pack his
feelings back into the box John had so spectacularly pulled them out of.

It worked, for the most part. By the time they were all back, ready to work, he was able to
concentrate on being pleased for John. On being pleased to have helped. And not on anything else.
No what ifs. No regrets.

Besides, now he knew. Now he knew what it was like to be in John’s bed. He never had to wonder
again. That it was better than he’d even imagined was neither here nor there. There was no need to
think about it again because he knew, and it couldn’t happen again.

None of the rationalising had stopped it hurting, when he saw their happy little family. He hadn’t
expected that, somehow. It wasn’t like there was another way it could have gone. This was by far
the best outcome. John hadn’t gone with Brian, and Paul had finally managed to scratch an itch
he’d had since he was 15. And now John was safely married and no longer a temptation Paul could
afford to give into. It was all good. Great, even.

Although John had been stand-offish with him for weeks. He wasn’t sure why, perhaps lingering
embarrassment or even shame. It might have hurt more had Paul not been grateful for the space to
recover himself. But it meant they hardly spoke in the weeks before Paul's 21st. He’d started to
suspect John might not even come. That hurt was harder to ignore and he sought out a distraction.
He invited Jane Asher, who had smiled prettily at him, ducking her head and nodding. Paul’s heart
had fluttered alarmingly.

But of course John had come. Paul had been pointedly not searching for him, so he’d almost been
taken by surprise. John appeared, the crowd parting before him as he strode up to Paul. There was
the slightest of pauses, long enough for Paul to notice the determined downward slant of John’s
mouth, before he’d reached out and given him a hug. It had taken a moment for Paul to react, to
remember how to bring his arms up and return the gesture. It wasn’t one they’d done often.
Touching seemed out of bounds for them, they’d orbit one another very carefully. Always within
touching distance but never quite doing it.

“Congratulations,” John said, pulling back to look at him, but leaving his hand on Paul’s shoulder.
His expression was serious and focussed, almost like he’d been practising saying the words.

Paul wanted to be annoyed at John’s withdrawal, but ultimately John had turned up when it really
mattered. So he’d just grinned at him. “Thanks Lennie,” he said. “Now I’m a real adult.”

“Ha!” John shook his head. “As if you'll ever grow up. Now, let’s get pissed!”

And that was that. The pain of it had faded. They’d gone back, slowly, to what they’d had before.
Not that there’d been time to dwell on it with how fast everything with The Beatles had taken off.
Then there was Jane. A balm to any situation. A perfect woman sweeping down into his life to
choose him over the rest.

It was easy to move in with her. If nothing else, living further away from the others, and giving
John and Cyn some space, made sense. And it was easier to distract himself when he didn’t have to
see John other than for work. Of course the rumours about his and Jane’s pending nuptials had
started from almost the same week it was confirmed they were together. But they were easy
enough to deny. Especially because there really wasn’t any truth to them.

“Still,” Richie said, peeking through the curtains at the audience, and bringing Paul back to the
present. “It’s nice seeing the kids, isn’t it? Like, it’s a different crowd than we normally get.”

That was sort of true. Paul supposed there were a few more families than normal. Still more than
enough of the screaming girls to drown out anyone that forgot a line, though.

“Yeah, I guess,” Paul said, looking through the curtain with Richie.

There were about three kids in the front row. They looked under ten and Paul wondered if they had
any idea what was going on. At least they weren’t crying.

“Making you want some?” Richie asked, turning to look at Paul.

“What?” he said, shocked. “No!”

“What’s that?” John said, arriving at their side and holding out Paul’s flat cap in one hand.

“Paul’s broody,” Richie supplied.

Paul punched him on the arm making him yelp. “No, I said I wasn’t, think that must be you.”

John laughed. “Natural mothering instinct kicking in, Rings?”

“Haha,” he muttered. “You may laugh, McCartney, but little Jane won’t wait forever you know.
You’ll have to settle down eventually.”

“Eventually,” Paul echoed. The band on stage was finishing up. “I’m not getting married until
there’s literally no other option.”

“Nah,'' John said at his side, “it’s not so bad. You’d like it, I reckon.”

“No,” he said, voice flat and hard. He wasn’t sure where all his good humour had gone, but it had
evaporated entirely. “I really don’t think so.”

John looked almost hurt, and opened his mouth but then George was there.

“Come ‘ed,” he said, beckoning extravagantly at them. “We’re gonna miss our cue.”

Paul didn’t look at John, who was still trying to catch his eye, as they made their way back on
stage.

———

Of course that wasn’t the end of it; when John had something to say, you heard it, no matter what
you may want. He caught Paul alone between performances. They were in their dressing room,
bleak white walls with chips in the paint. Scuffed carpet and cracked mirrors on the walls. The
usual.
“You really not want to get married?” he asked. He looked almost concerned.

Paul startled, surprised by the question. John hadn’t mentioned Jane once since Paul had moved
into the Asher’s house. “Not yet,” he said. “No hurry is there?”

The last thing they needed were more rumours that they were all married. It wasn’t good for their
image. A girlfriend was one thing, and Brian didn’t even like that much.

He leant forward, apparently totally focused now. “You ain’t… Brian doesn’t want to marry,
unless he has to for apparences.”

Paul looked around automatically, but of course they were totally alone. Then he rolled his eyes at
the question. “I wouldn’t marry anyone I didn’t love.”

John was quiet for a beat, like he was trying to work through that response; slot it into his
understanding of Paul. He did that a lot. It wasn’t just that he was curious: he seemed to want to
understand Paul. It might have felt claustrophobic with anyone else, but with John he just felt
flattered that he cared enough to bother. He liked being able to give him more information, liked
watching the way John carefully folded it away, like it was something important and worthwhile.
Even now, with more and more people wanting to know all about him, it mattered more with John.
He’d cared before Paul was famous, so it probably counted more.

“So,” John said, voice casual in a way that meant he was about to ask something awfully
inappropriate, “you’ll never really be a queer, then?”

It felt, inexplicably, like a test. There was something in the way John was watching him, just a
fraction too interested in the answer. He wondered which was the right answer so didn’t respond
right away, instead making a show of taking off and hanging up his jacket. John didn’t rush him,
although his eyes didn’t leave Paul; a clear sign that he wasn’t going to give up if Paul just didn’t
respond.

He knew what John meant: was Paul ever going to try and really be with a man. Not just for a
quick fumble but a real relationship, like with a woman. He knew, dimly, that it did happen. Not
often, and it was dangerous. But men did choose to spend their lives together.

“Who knows,” he settled on. It seemed a totally insane, foreign concept, but also like the right
answer. Anything else would be a cop out, like he wasn’t really queer. Anyway, there was no point
in trying to guess how he’d feel in a few years and no one would hold him to whatever he said.
“Maybe when I’m old, when I’m sixty-four or whatever and I’ve got everything else done.”

John laughed, making Paul’s chest feel light. He’d got the answer right.

“That’s when you’re gonna go full queer, when you’re a little old man?”

Paul shrugged a shoulder. “Why not? I’ll have had a family by then, kids and grandkids, probably.
Why not?”

“What’s your wife gonna make of that?” He seemed almost pleased at the thought.

“Whatever she likes, I reckon.”

John laughed, throwing his head back to expose the line of his neck. “You’re a dipshit.”

“Perhaps we could run away to Paris when we get to just nearly past it,” Paul laughed, the idea
occurring and catching light all at once. A silly fancy, like when they’d plan to become famous
playwrights or write the next great novel. “Find those men from the bar, see if they’re still
interested in that stroll.”

The laughter seemed to fall away from John in a moment. He blinked at Paul for a moment, then
looked down at his hands. “That’s an awfully long time to wait.”

“Waiting’s what makes it sweeter.”

He said it in a cod-French accent, really played it up. But John seemed to have lost his good
humour faster than he’d found it. Paul had no idea why, what landmine he’d stepped on to make
him suddenly change moods. It was always too hard to keep up with and Paul tended to just wait it
out until he came around again, anyway. Perhaps he was just worried about leaving Cyn and
Julian, no matter that it was just a silly joke.

John shrugged. “Or it just turns sour.”

“Yeah,” Paul sighed, giving up on lightening the mood, “or just turns it sour.”

There was a beat of silence, before John clearly decided to drop the subject and move back to his
original point. “But you’ll marry Jane eventually?”

The thought sat cold and uneasy in his chest, just like it always did. Not that it made any sense that
it felt like that. Jane was, had always been, perfect. She was beautiful and smart, she was talented
and successful. Her family were all remarkable. Paul even loved her house.

Marrying her was the obvious thing to do. And he loved her. When they were together it was
always so nice, like they were in their own, private world. It was just when the rest of the real one
got in the way that things didn’t seem to work.

“Sure,” he sighed. “I mean, not for a long while yet. I’ve got too much I want to do.”

John’s head tipped to one side, examining him. “And she’s fine with you doing… all that?”

“It doesn’t matter what she feels,” he said, almost annoyed at the implication. “We’re not married
and I can do what I want.”

“Jesus,” John breathed.

“What?”

“Nothing,” John clearly lied, because then he kept right on talking. “Just, it doesn’t exactly sound
very romantic: you giving in and marrying her when you’ve run down your to-do list.”

He had no idea what John was getting at. “Does it have to be?”

“Marriage?” John asked, his tone turning incredulous.

“Well,” Paul said, trying to sound reasonable and not irritated, “I mean, it’s a serious business
getting married, so I think it makes sense to be sure you’re ready.”

John gave him a flat stare which Paul tried hard not to fidget under. He knew why John was
annoyed with him, but it wasn’t his fault John had got himself cornered. He’d done the right thing
and he loved Cyn so it had all worked out in the end. But that didn’t mean Paul had to want the
same thing.

“But once you’re married,” John continued, obviously giving up on making Paul admit he wasn’t
being romantic enough, “you’ll give the rest of it up? Just the wife and the family forever and ever
more?”

He nodded. “Yeah. That’s the point in waiting, isn’t it? Once I’m in, that’ll be it. I don’t want
to…” He trailed off, not wanting to annoy John even more than he was.

He knew that John had wanted, in some part of himself, to do right by Cyn, to put an end to the
other women once he was married.

It hadn’t worked out like that. Paul understood it; there was just so much temptation everywhere.
They were famous. Women hadn’t exactly been hard to come by before, but now you could walk
into a room and pick one at random. It was heady and he didn’t blame John for wanting to partake
of it. And he was the perfect doting husband the rest of the time. That seemed a fair deal, in the
circumstances, even if Paul wouldn’t want it to be that way.

Besides, it was only with women. John’s vow seemed to have remained firm in that regard. Same
as Paul had. It was simply too much of a risk now; with people knowing who they were, he just
knew the police would love nothing more than taking down a rock and roll group. He could almost
see the headlines.

Anyway, the idea hadn’t appealed so much since John. He didn't think it was that he was wishing
it could be John, or not exactly. But the idea of it being another man didn’t do much for him, like
the wound he’d refused to tend to after their night together was still sore and even going near it was
dangerous.

John looked away, his gaze shuttering for a moment, as though he’d taken offence despite Paul
trying to avoid it. He wondered if that was going to be the end of it, but then John spoke again.
“You don’t ever think it’s…”

“What?”

“I dunno, deceitful, hiding a bit of yourself like it doesn’t matter? Just because you’re married or
with a woman or whatever.”

“Well, we do that all time, don’t we?” Paul shrugged. “There’s plenty we don’t do even though we
want to. It’s just the way it is. I don’t always like it, but I can’t change it.”

“So, what?” John asked. “If society were different, if you could marry a fella and it didn’t matter,
would you?”

The question was so surprising that it drew Paul up short.

“I dunno,” he said, slowly, trying to feel out the answer, “there’s no point in thinking about it, is
there? I can’t and I won’t. And anyway, I want to have kids one day. I want all that. And I want
this, I want the band and the fame and all that. I’m not giving any of it up, just because a little part
of me isn’t acceptable to some idiots.”

John looked frustrated, but Paul wasn’t sure if it was with him, the conversation, or society at
large. Knowing John, it was probably all three.

“So you think you’re just going to find a way to make it all work? You’ll have your family life,
you’ll find a way to be queer, you’ll be famous and rich and succsessful.”

“Why not?” he asked. “We’ve come this far. I think we’re making a pretty good shot at it. If I can’t
have it all at once, I’m happy to wait for some things.”
John sighed, and flopped down on a chair. He crossed his ankles and laid his hands over his
stomach, his gaze at the ceiling, like he was contemplating the nature of the universe.

“You know what the absolute maddest part of that is, Macca?”

“No, what?”

“I fucking believe you.”

January 1964

“I’m trying to help, you know.”

Paul knew the words were sincere. Or at least, that Brian wanted them to be. But somehow Paul
never could bring himself to make that matter.

“You always are,” he sighed.

He turned his head, so he could look out of the window. He could imagine how he was coming
across; bored and aloof. Like he thought himself too important to be there. Which perhaps was true.
He certainly felt he had better things he could be doing with his time. But he didn’t really mean to
come across as rude. There was just something about Brian that made his mood drop, made him
clam up and not want to cooperate. He wasn’t doing it on purpose.

Brian sighed. “I know you’ve never been fond of me.”

Paul raised his eyebrows. Some part of him wanted to deny that; it would be the polite thing to do.
But he couldn’t make himself formulate the words.

“I care about all of you,” Brain continued, apparently not requiring Paul’s input at all. “When I ask
you to do things, it’s not- I just hope that you know it’s because I believe it will help you. It’s not
because I want, or enjoy, having power over you.”

Paul sighed heavily. He didn’t appreciate being called to Brian’s office, like a naughty school boy
that needed to be reigned in. He’d been having a nice enough break, right before he was made to go
back to a tightly packed schedule. He didn’t know where Brian got off, anyway, telling him what
to do with his private life. Like Paul couldn’t say the exact same to him .

“I just don’t see why it matters if people know about Jane,” he said. “We’re not married. It doesn’t
mean anything and it’s silly us sneaking around.”

“It would help,” Brian said, “especially with John married, if you were perceived as more
available.”

“Can’t you do it?” he snapped. “Not like you’ll be finding a girl any time soon.”

It was a petty, uncalled for, thing to say. He hated that those sorts of things came out of his mouth
so often around Brian. He never meant that to be the case. He didn’t go around trying to think of
the meanest thing he could think of and then spewing it out in front of Brian. If anything, he
wanted them to get along. He didn’t hate Brian or anything and he really appreciated what he’d
done for the band.

He couldn’t help that sometimes Brian just did things in a way that made Paul want to scream in
frustration. It wasn’t even that they didn’t agree. Brian was right to get them into something more
presentable on stage, for example. Paul knew very well that Brian was smart and had great ideas.
Like that the best thing about the band was his and John’s songwriting. Most other people didn’t
get that.

“You know why it’s important we’re seen with women,” Paul muttered. He sounded petulant rather
than someone making their business case. Brian tended to do that to him. He didn’t know for sure
that Brian knew about John. He must suspect at the very least, otherwise why had he invited him
away?

Brian stopped for a moment, as though surprised by the suggestion. He carefully sat straighter in
his chair, fussed with his jacket, pulling it perfectly straight.

“You know,” he said, “I would always do anything to protect you all. Nothing any of you told
me…” He trailed off and looked away, as though needing to gather his thoughts. “John is
important to me, as I know he’s important to you.”

Irritation prickled across Paul’s skin. It was ridiculous to suggest his relationship with John and
Brian’s was the same. If anyone was doing a good job of looking out for John it was him. Paul
wasn’t the one that wanted to take John away on a romantic getaway for all the world to gossip
about.

“You don’t know anything about us,” he said. “If you did you’d know that’s not what I’m talking
about.”

Brian pursed his lips and looked down at his desk. It was more annoying than if he’d shouted. At
least it would mean that he had feelings about it. “Perhaps you could tell me what it is I don’t
know. Then I could help.”

Every muscle in Paul locked at once. He’d been planning on telling him. Blurting it out, showing
that Brian wasn’t special. He and John weren’t sharing some secret thing that excluded Paul. It
might have even helped their own relationship. Bonded them, or at least made him like Paul a little
more.

But he didn’t. Couldn’t. Brian didn’t deserve to know anyway. They weren’t friends.

That was important because Paul needed to keep him on his toes, make sure he was doing his job.
God knew the others wouldn’t do it. Not that Paul distrusted him. It was just that he knew how
easy it was to coast, to get complacent and forget that he was working for them. Not the other way
around.

Besides. He didn’t think Brian would get it. He wasn’t queer like Paul was. He was a proper one.
He only liked men. Hadn’t ever been with a woman, if you believed John.

The idea made Paul’s hackles rise. He could preemptively feel Brian’s judgement. If he’d even
believe Paul wasn’t making it up for credit. Worse, what if he thought it was Paul’s way of coming
onto him. That was the last thing he wanted to deal with.

“None of yours,” he gritted out in the end. “Have we finished? I don’t know why you dragged me
here. I’ve already told you I’m not hiding Jane like a little secret.”

“I just wish you’d consider-” Brian tried.

“No,” Paul cut in, “ you consider that I might know best. It’s not your job to control what we do.
Just figure out a way to make it work for us.”

Brain’s cheeks were flushed, with annoyance or embarrassment, Paul didn’t know. But he also
didn’t really care to find out.

“If there’s nothing else,” Paul huffed, “I’ll be off.”

He didn’t wait for a response.

February 1964

Paul was drunk. In truth, he might have passed drunk a few hours ago and was rapidly approaching
off his tits. But he was so happy. A number one in America. It was everything he’d ever wanted,
what he’d been dreaming of for as long as he knew he could dream for anything that unlikely.

He was far too happy to even consider going to bed, which a frustrating number of people seemed
to have decided to do by that time. He wanted to carry on celebrating. Perhaps for the rest of his
life.

There were a few people still up; Richie was holding court happily on the other side of the room.
Neil and Mal were mostly upright, leaning against the back wall of their suite. There were even a
few women that had somehow found their way into the room. Pretty enough, although Paul found
he couldn’t concentrate because nearly an hour before, he’d noticed a problem. He’d found a fly in
his otherwise perfectly prepared drink. He’d looked around suddenly and found John wasn’t there.
He must have slipped away without telling anyone. It was a trick that he often played. Paul was
almost certain John hadn’t got lucky and decided to celebrate in a more horizontal fashion, because
he would have noticed him talking to someone.

It was, after all, really their night. They’d made it happen; it was their music. Their band. And they
were in Paris. It couldn’t be more perfect. So it was only fitting that Paul celebrate the moment
with John. Which meant there was only one course of action: he had to find him.

This being their hotel, that didn’t prove too difficult. Nor did getting a key to John’s room. One of
the things he’d noticed happening these last few months was that an increasingly small number of
people ever said no to him when he asked for things with a smile and a polite ‘thanks so much’. It
was almost like magic, really.

He wove slightly, as he made his way down the corridor to John’s room, but managed to slip inside
quietly enough. Although why he bothered, he had no idea; the reason he’d gone to John’s room
was to wake him up or stop whatever else he was doing. But it felt important to show some respect
as he trespassed on John’s inner sanctum.

“John!” he hissed, after standing in the middle of the room for a long, confused moment, unsure
what he ought to do next. Even in the dark, the room seemed to be tilting to one side a little
alarmingly. It would be better if he had something to cling onto.

There was just long enough for Paul to wonder if there was a chance that he was either in the
wrong room or if John had in fact found another bed for the night. Then a voice appeared from the
darkness.

“Paul?” he sounded less surprised than might have been expected.

“You left the party,” Paul said.

In the dark, all there was to concentrate on was his voice and he could suddenly hear just how
much he was slurring his words. Perhaps he didn’t actually need the bottle of whiskey he was
clutching. But it seemed important that he have an offering if he wanted to restart a party.
“You should be in your own bed,” John sighed. “You’re going to feel like hell in the morning.”

Paul ignored him and edged towards his voice. Eventually he bumped against the bed. There he
paused for a moment before lifting up the duvet and clambering in beside John. It was something
they’d done loads and loads. It should have felt weird, after the mess with Spain, to be pressed so
close to him. But it didn’t. It never felt strange when he and John touched. That was probably the
problem, when he let himself consider it. Which he didn’t, because that never led his thoughts
anywhere he wanted them to be.

“You weren’t having fun,” he said, instead, wriggling until John shifted over to let him lie down.

“I had fun,” John said, amusement starting to creep into his voice. The words were soft, slurring
slightly, suggesting that he was telling the truth.

Paul hummed and stared up at the ceiling he couldn’t even see. “Can’t have too much of a good
thing.”

“Pretty sure that’s not how that saying goes.”

“I’m talking about you, though, not some crummy saying.”

John laughed, soft and happy. Something in Paul clicked back into place. There it was, there was
the feeling he’d gone searching the hotel for. He never seemed to find it anywhere else. A warm
buzz, somewhere between excitement and contentment right in the centre of his chest.

“Can you believe we did it?” he whispered, shifting around, knocking into John until he was able
to prop himself up on his hand and look at him. Then he realised it was too dark to make anything
out, so he twisted around and fumbled for the light. A few seconds of fruitless searching later, he
found the light and clicked it on. Only to nearly topple right out of the bed for his efforts.

John’s arm wrapped around his waist, anchoring him in place. Paul laughed, feeling more
lightheaded than ever, as he blinked at John, illuminated at last in the soft glow of the lamp.

He was closer than Paul was expecting; he could see the slight crook in his nose and the smattering
of freckles over his cheekbones. His eyes were heavy with alcohol and sleep.

“Yeah, Paul, I can believe it.”

“An American number one, though!” Paul said, reaching out and nudging him. Like he was tapping
the glass at a zoo to get an animal to perform. John’s hand was still on his waist. Paul wondered if
he knew. “That’s the topper most of the popper most!”

John’s mouth curved up. He looked good like that; relaxed and pleased. He was like a giant cat, all
warm and comfortable in a patch of late afternoon sun. Paul wanted to pet him. Without him
entirely intending to, his hand slipped from where he was gripping John’s shoulder to tangle in
John’s hair. It was softer than it looked, and he combed his fingers through it.

John didn’t move, it hardly looked like he was breathing. All at once Paul realised that John hadn’t
got a top on. He suspected that John was just wearing his underpants. That’s what he usually slept
in when he was drunk.

“I’m–” he started and then didn’t know what he was trying to say. He wasn’t sure why he’d even
come to John’s room anymore. It had felt natural, like he was a homing pigeon. Now it felt
charged. Like it meant something.
There was silence; John didn’t move, he just watched Paul closely, like he was waiting for
something. Waiting to see what Paul would do. There didn’t seem to be much of an option, there
was really only one thing he could have climbed into John’s bed for. So, he leant forward, until
they were so close that Paul could feel every breath John took. Excitement fizzed in Paul’s stomach
as he inched further, his eyes fluttering closed.

It was at the very last second that John shifted, angled his head up so that he ended up dropping a
kiss on the end of Paul’s nose. Paul froze immediately. His heart was galloping in his chest,
adrenaline coursing through him like he was in the middle of a show, only now with nowhere for it
to go.

John was smiling at him softly when he pulled back. Then he whispered, “I’m glad we got to share
this; thanks for coming to find me. You’re my best friend; you’re– You’re the only one that it
counts with.”

Paul didn’t move. It felt like John had pushed him away only to keep hold of his shoulders so he
couldn’t retreat entirely. He had no idea what he was supposed to do with John saying that but not
wanting anything else. But, he hadn’t chucked Paul out of his bed, although a clearer rejection Paul
couldn’t hope to find. He didn’t want to leave, but he also didn’t want John to see anything that
might be showing on his face. So he did the only thing he could think of, and pushed forward to
bury his face into John’s chest.

He took a deep breath, smelling John’s scent and letting it calm the way his heart was racing. John
froze for perhaps a second, before his hand was on the back of Paul’s head, stroking his hair.

“I’m proud of us too,” John said.

Paul nodded against him, his cheek brushing along the bare skin of John’s chest. It felt so good it
was almost painful.

“Thanks,” Paul whispered, not sure what he was even expressing gratitude for. Stopping the kiss.
The affection afterwards. The music. John’s friendship. All of it, probably.

“Always,” John murmured the words into Paul’s hair. Then dropped a kiss on his crown.

The feeling was so nice that Paul closed his eyes against it. Somehow, this was worse than if
they’d kissed. Than if they’d fucked. He didn’t know how, but he could sense it, even under the
heavy blanket of alcohol and jubilation.

March 1964

The thing was, Paul knew he was good at a lot of things. He was a talented musician. He could
sing better than most people he knew, and now he even knew a lot of good singers. He knew how
to tell a good story, his impressions were funny. He was a fast reader and generally liked to think
he understood the text. He had also been told, with increasing frequency, that he came out well on
camera, both in stills and otherwise.

All of which should have meant that he was primed to be, at the very least, an adequate actor.
Anyone could act, really. It was just a matter of learning to repeat some words out loud and then
doing it when a camera was pointed at you. There were some other things, like standing in the right
place, but really, a simpleton should be able to do it. Many seem to, in fact.

“Cut!”

That was both the best and worst word Paul had heard all day. The best because the camera had
finally stopped filming him. The worst because it usually meant he’d fucked it again and he knew
that he was just in a holding pattern until he’d be forced to act again.

He chanced a look over at Richard, who was talking to the cameraman very intently. Perhaps it
hadn’t been Paul’s mistake afterall. It was only the first day, and the idea of all the rest stretching
out ahead of him was making Paul’s palms sweat.

“Alright,” Richard said, surfacing from the conversation with a slight frown. “Let’s turn this
around and come back to it after lunch.”

Paul felt like his strings had been cut. He wanted to sink to the ground, but forced himself to join in
the chat about what they were being fed as everyone headed off set. It all seemed so casual, like
they’d all broken for lunch on a movie set a thousand times. Certainly, no one seemed concerned
about how the day was going.

Paul was absolutely not going to be the one to broach it. Failing was one thing. Bringing it to
anyone’s attention was quite another. Thankfully for him, his resolve wasn’t tested for long.

“Fucking hell,” John whispered, after they were bustled down a corridor and deposited in a mostly
empty room to wait for whatever it was the crew did in these moments and before the food was
ready. “How the fuck are we going to get through the next few weeks?”

Paul froze, convinced John was about to turn on him, single him out for his poor performance.

“I went to pieces,” John whispered. He turned to look at Paul, his eyes wide, like he couldn’t
believe what had just happened.

Relief flowed through Paul like water. He let out a breath, closing his eyes.

“It was awful,” Paul almost whispered back, so quiet that he wasn’t sure John would even hear
them. It felt like shock, almost. “I… Why’s it so hard?”

John shook his head, eyes wide. Then he seemed to really look at Paul, take in his pale face and
wide eyes. His whole demeanour changed, as though finally realising Paul was more shaken than
even he was. He took a step forward, eyes catching and holding Paul’s.

“It’ll get better,” he said. He didn’t sound convinced, but Paul very much appreciated the
sentiment.

He nodded, swayed toward him, like he could soak up the comfort physically.

“What are you two gossiping about?” George said, as he waltzed into the room.

Paul looked up, feeling guilty for no reason, and took a step away from John.

“Just talking about how shit you are at this acting thing,” John said, voice flat.

“Fuck off,” George replied, but without any heat. Then he hopped up onto the table in the corner of
the room. He swung his feet back and forth, looking around at them. “The birds they’ve got in are
well pretty. Think I might ask that blond one out.”

John and Paul exchanged looks.

“You go for it,” Paul said, grinning. “She’s a model, you know.”

George paused, as though adding this into his world view.

“Even better.” He sounded less convinced than before, but was putting on a brave face.

“Alright?” Richie appeared in the doorway, looking totally unconcerned.

John shrugged and made a face at him, making Richie grin.

“What do you think of all this then?” Paul said, sinking into a chair.

“It’s fun,” Richie said, then he winked at them. “And it’s dead easy.”

Paul scowled at him. For some reason Richie seemed almost entirely unphased by everything that
was happening. It didn’t make sense.

“It’s a bit daft,” George mused. “I feel like a right tit.”

“And I’m the left,” John agreed.

Paul snorted. “It’ll get better,” he said, mostly to himself.

A prayer to the universe.

———

It didn’t get better.

If anything, it got worse because as time wore on, a terrible, creeping realisation stole over Paul.
He was not only bad, he was the worst of them. Richie was amazing, the bastard. Of course John
seemed like a natural. George didn’t care either way and that somehow seemed to balance it all out
for him. Paul, on the other hand, could feel every single one of his muscles wanting to lock up the
moment the director shouted action. The harder he worked at it, the worse it seemed to get.

He could sense people looking at him. Not directly, which he was in fact used to after the last year
or so. But, out the corner of their eyes. Like they couldn't understand what was happening either.

Perhaps if he’d been able to contribute more than a couple of songs to the soundtrack, he’d feel
better about it all. But somehow it had ended up falling to John to come up with the bulk of them;
saving the day and possibly the movie. Not that anyone said that. It wasn’t even exactly true, Paul
helped whip the songs into shape. Not that that stopped him from being terrified John was thinking
he wasn’t pulling his weight.

He spent the days on set resisting the urge to hide behind someone, or a prop, failing that. But, also
being far too proud to acknowledge that he was struggling. It was one thing to crash and burn, but
to admit it out loud was simply not an option. As long as he kept going, as long as no one said it ,
then it was almost the same as it not happening.

John had calmed as time went on; his earlier nerves falling away until he was at the stage of
chipping in ideas to Richard. Although he didn’t seem to be enjoying himself as much as Richie, it
was clear Richard thought John was great. He’d pull him aside between shots and whisper to him,
giving him tips or asking for his input. Paul could hear John’s laughter float over to him as he
considered if it was worth trying to pull one of the show girls or not. Try and salvage some of the
day, at least.

“I reckon I should sing this to Paul,” John said, striding back onto the set. It was dressed like any
other TV show appearance they did. Although there was the disconcerting reality of a second row
of cameras behind the first. “He’s not had a scene we’ll be able to keep yet. I can serenade him,
you know, get on me knees for him.” He winked at Victor who predictably laughed uproariously.

Paul rolled his eyes. “Fuck off, Lennon,” he sighed. “Maybe just try and remember the words this
time.”

It wasn’t even a very effective insult, it sounded weak or not amused enough to be in on the joke.
John just grinned away, and dropped to one knee, like a travelling minstrel, and started singing “If I
Fell.” When he looked at him, he found John’s gaze on him, open and almost genuine. He was
reminded, strangely, of Hamburg and all the times they’d played toward one another.

There was general laughter and the ever-present snap of photos being taken.

They didn’t use the set up, of course. It was already in the script that Ringo would be on the
receiving end of John’s jibes. Richie didn’t manage to keep away his smile through any of the
takes they did. But that was just the effect of being around John; it was hard not to be affected by
his mood. If he wanted you happy, that’s usually how you ended up.

“They should have let me,” John muttered, as they walked down the curving staircase towards
their dressing rooms.

Paul turned his head, not breaking stride. “What?”

“Let me sing it to you,” he said, like it was something he’d been thinking about.

He was a step ahead and opened the dressing room door. They were sharing, as they tended to do.
It was nominally to allow them to write if the mood struck them, but they hardly bothered. It was
nicer to just be able to sit together, allow the day to melt off them before they had to pile into cars
and go home.

For John that meant he’d start the writing portion of his day. Paul was pretty sure he was getting, at
most, three to four hours of sleep a night. John had always been prone to bouts of deciding he
didn’t need sleep; weeks and weeks in Hamburg where he relied on pills and music to see him
through. He’d looked gaunt back then, sunken eyes and sallow skin. Of course, none of them had
looked the picture of health, but Paul had tracked it especially in John. Sometimes he’d suggest
they find a real meal and John would reluctantly trail behind him to the mission or Astrid’s. He
always felt better once John had eaten, when he could see the colour rise up in his cheeks.

Now, John just looked tired. Not the usual sort where the person would yawn and be prone to
drifting off mid-conversation into their own world. No, this was the bone-weary sort, where he
didn’t even seem aware of the way his shoulders drooped and his feet scuffed the floor, as though
his legs didn’t have the energy to lift far enough off the ground.

Not that this was evident until after the cameras had stopped rolling. Perhaps only Paul noticed it.
Perhaps he was the only one that cared. He wanted to ask him to come back to his place, make sure
that he stopped work with enough time for some decent sleep or at least be sure he wasn’t back to
relying on pills and booze to make it through. But none of that was his job.

“Why’d you reckon that?” he asked, looking in the mirror and grimacing at the way his hair had
fallen messily to one side.

“Just to go with the other bits I’ve put in,” John said, as though it was obvious.

Paul turned to him, eyebrows raised. He knew John was going to tell him no matter what, no need
to encourage him.
“I’ve been putting in a few nods,” he said, with a pleased incline of his head, “you know, it’s what
they do in these movies. All under the surface.”

It was clear what he meant; John really only used that particular tone about one thing. Besides
which, Paul knew what he’d been doing because he’d seen it. Not that it had occurred to him at the
time that it was deliberate. “Master filmmaker now, are you?”

John laughed, pleased with himself. He flopped into a chair, propping his feet on the coffee table.
He leant forward, snatching an apple from a bowl of the fruit that had been hopefully put there to
be all but totally ignored by everyone for most of the day. “But, me singing it to you would have
looked good,” John said, biting the apple. “And it’s fitting.”

“Fitting?”

“Yeah,” John said, around his mouthful, “seeing as how I wrote it about you.”

“What?” Paul had been about to sit down but froze, his arm resting on the arm of the chair, ready
to pull it out.

John gave him a hard look. “I dunno what else you expect, climbing in a man’s bed late at night.
He’ll get ideas, you know.”

Paul’s face wanted to drain of colour and flush all at once. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to tell
John not to be daft. He wanted to turn around and leave the room. He wanted to walk over and
straddle John’s hips, kiss the taste of apple off his lips. But nothing at all seemed to happen for a
long time, apart from the frantic beating of his heart. There had been no hint, not the slightest nod
towards the idea John even remembered Paul coming to his room that night. It had been months
with not a word about it.

“What ideas would those be?” he asked, finally finding his voice and forcing his limbs into
cooperating enough to allow him to sit down.

“Sweeping you off your feet.” John was grinning at him in such a way that it was hard to tell how
much he was joking. “You know, why wait another forty years? Just get it over with.”

None of John’s words made sense. He was joking, taking the piss somehow. Only Paul’s heart
didn’t seem to realise that.

It couldn’t mean anything; they never discussed what their songs were about outside of the internal
narrative structures they had to adhere to or what music they were inspired by. Paul had no frame
of reference for how to reply. Surely as though John were joking. But if he called him on that, he’d
either look silly, upset John or have to learn that John really thought such an idea was ridiculous.
He didn’t want any of that.

His heart was still beating strangely, almost sluggishly, now. He didn’t feel right. It wasn’t
excitement, but it wasn’t fear either. He didn’t know what he was meant to say. It wasn’t like they
could exactly run off anywhere when the whole world knew who they were. Besides, John would
never leave Julian.

The silence was dragging on, becoming uncomfortable. In the end his mouth seemed to form the
words automatically.

“I guess you owe me one after ‘In Spite of All the Danger’.” His voice was a lot more casual than
he’d expected it to be.
John’s eyes narrowed. He’d been preparing to take another bite, but now the apple hung limp from
his hand. “That so?” he said, voice flat and almost accusatory.

His obvious interest made Paul smile. He shrugged. “Could be.”

John opened his mouth but the door opened to emit George and Richie, followed swiftly by the
hoards of people that seemed to be required to make a movie. They joined in the new chatter easily
enough, but Paul felt John’s eyes on him for the rest of the day. Speculative.

tbc
 Chapter 5

August 1964

“Maybe we should go away,” Jane sighed.

She was lying on the sofa, gazing at the ceiling. Paul turned his head to watch her. She’d only been
back a few days. But that often seemed to be her reaction to being in London; she was as restless as
he was. She preferred to be moving, to be doing. Paul loved that about her.

“John was talking about Greece,” he said, eyes straying back to his hands on the piano. He played
the same few chords over on repeat, trying to feel them out. “Perhaps we could all go.”

“Of course,” she said, and Paul didn’t need to look to know she was narrowing her eyes.

He wanted to find it frustrating how sexy she looked when she did that. But he couldn’t. He
suspected it had stopped the total collapse of their relationship more than once.

“Of course what?” he asked, careful to sound distracted enough for it to be a plausible question.

“You can’t leave John or the band for even a week,” she said. “It’s not… I don’t invite my
directors away.”

“They aren’t your friends.”

“John and Cyntha aren’t my friends either.”

Her bluntness was another of those dual-edged things. He loved her for it. She made him laugh and
never let anyone take her for a fool. But that never seemed enough to stop him finding it annoying
when it was turned on him.

“Because you haven’t been on holiday with them yet.”

She sighed dramatically and he, as was her intent, stopped playing and turned round on the stool so
he was facing her. He reached out a hand and nudged her shoulder.

“It would be nice, you know,” he said. “If you just spent some time with them, you’d see that.”

“The idea is for us to spend time together,” she said, rolling her head to the side so she was finally
looking at him. “You’re with John all the time. You do nothing but spend time with him. Surely
you want a break.”

The question gave him pause. Sometimes that was what he wanted, if he were being honest.
Pressure sometimes piled so heavily on them to produce the next hit that it was easier to escape.
But that wasn’t John’s fault. He liked being with John. It made him happy. Most of the time.

“To be honest,” she continued blandly, “I don’t really understand what you see in him.”

“Oh, he’s a good lad,” he said, feeling affronted. He hadn’t had to justify John’s presence in his
life since his dad had finally stopped harping on at him about it.

“But, he’s not, really, is he?” she said. She wasn’t annoyed, it would have been easier if she was.
“He’s rude and he upsets people. I know you like writing with him and you’re clearly very good at
it, but that doesn’t mean I have to be subjected to it.”
“It’s not like you’ve exactly given him a chance,” he said. Which was the wrong approach. Jane
never responded well to direct attacks. Besides which, it wasn’t an answer, which he could see she
knew.

Her face set into a blank mask and she swung her legs over the side of the sofa so she could sit up.
It took her further away from him. He had to turn his head to be able to see her properly.

“What about all the things he’s said to me?” she asked, voice hard.

“You know that’s just John’s way.”

“What if it’s just my way not to spend time with him and his boring wife?”

“Come on, that’s not fair,” Paul said, trying to sound reasonable, like the adult in the conversation.
He often felt like he needed to take that role when it came to their arguments. “Cyn’s lovely.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “It’s not like you like her either.”

Paul reeled back. “What are you talking about? I love Cyn! I’ve known her for years.”

“Those are not the same thing,” she snapped. “If you like her, why do you hardly ever speak to
her? Come to that, you barely seem to look at her when she’s in the room. I know you, Paul
McCartney. You don’t like her any more than I do. So, I don’t understand why you’re suggesting
this silly idea. What about Scotland or something like that?”

He opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. It wasn’t true. Surely it couldn’t be true.
He was fine with Cyn. They got along; there’d never been anything but kind words between them.
There wasn’t any reason for him not to like her. Which didn’t explain why his heart was racing,
why he couldn’t seem to summon the words to deny the accusations she’d laid at his feet.

Did he resent her, a little, for John having to marry? Before that, he’d had half-imagined plans for
them to get a flat in London together. Images of them running around, causing trouble in all the
right ways. Some part of him, small and hardly acknowledged, had thought it might be possible
they’d finally be freer to explore those parts of themselves that they hadn’t looked at much since
Paris. That had died the moment John announced he was going to be a father. Paul might be happy
running around on Jane while they weren’t married, it wasn’t a secret, but you didn’t do that once
you were married. Paul wasn’t going to be the reason John did anything that jeopardised his
domestic bliss. But none of that was Cyn’s fault; she hadn’t got knocked up on purpose, surely.

“You’re being daft,” he managed when it became clear the silence had gone on too long.

She glared at him, but he didn’t look away. This wasn’t going to be a conversation he revisited,
there was dread pooling in his stomach at the very thought of it. Jane looked away first. She
usually did. Paul was sure to let her have her way enough of the time; it wasn’t fair to only do what
he wanted. But he had hard lines he had no intention of crossing.

“Why do you want to spend so much time with him, anyway?” she said. “You moved here, far
away from the rest of them, to get away from him. You said so. Which is it?”

God. If only he knew. He shook his head. There was no winning this argument, and perhaps she
was right. After everything with the US number one, some space was probably a better idea.

It was time for a tactical retreat in the argument.

“Goodness,” he sighed, throwing his hands up in the air. “If you wanted me to yourself so
desperately you only needed to say so, Lady Asher. You know I’m but your humble servant.”

Her smile was almost immediate. She knew when she’d won a battle. Paul shifted to sit next to her
on the sofa. He wondered for a fleeting moment if she’d known exactly what buttons to press to
make him back down. But there was no way that she could, surely. No one knew there was any
reason other than superficial personality clashes for him to dislike Cyn. Least of all Jane, who he’d
been very careful to reveal nothing of himself to.

She leant into him easily, her hair brushing his cheek as he pressed into her. Then he wrapped his
arms around her waist.

“But, you know, my Lady,” he whispered into her ear, making her squirm, “it would be beneficial
for us to make some new couple friends; we can invite them to Bridge night.”

She smacked his arm but leant into him anyway, let him kiss her until they both forgot the
conversation entirely.

September 1964

Paul felt dizzy. He thought it was probably the heat. Or the bottle of scotch hanging limp between
his fingers. Or perhaps the champagne bottles scattered around the various tables of the bar. A
combination.

Not that it mattered. The dizzy feeling might as well have been joy for all he knew. A day off alone
was usually enough to elicit that feeling in him these days. But this one was special. It was time to
reflect on the last few weeks and the fact they’d conquered America. There wasn’t really any doubt
about that anymore. There didn’t seem to be any breaks on their runaway train; that was one of the
headlines he’d read just this week.

They’d done it. They’d truly made it. Then, as if to emphasise the point, the weather of all things
had conspired to give them a break from the madness to enjoy it. So they had. He wasn’t sure who
suggested it, Richie or John or him. Might even have been George.

“Gotcha!” John yelled. A sudden explosion of excited pleasure.

Paul turned to look at him, remembering again for the millionth time that day the impression of the
last few weeks. It merged mostly into a blur of colour and excitement. Perhaps the dizziness really
was just happiness that couldn’t fit inside his body anymore.

John had been playing cards, although some hours ago they had agreed they were all too drunk to
stick to anything other than Cheat. To the surprise of no one, John was a master of it. How it was
possible that he looked so innocent, despite everyone knowing full well he was nothing of the sort,
was one of the great mysteries of the universe. It seemed the game was over, though, as John
delightedly slapped his hands into the middle of the table to pull the cards towards him. They
mostly landed in his lap as everyone laughed and shouted good-natured abuse.

Somehow, as often happened in the small hours of a party, the game ending sent a signal that it
was time for the players to retire. Many of them drifted away from the table. Not all, the
lightweights had long since been seen off, so those left were hardy and not prone to seeing the
dawn as much incentive to stop a good thing.

Paul rose to his feet, swaying slightly as he went. “I think it’s time,” he intoned, then made a great
show of looking at his watch as everyone laughed.

It was very easy to get a big laugh lately. But John’s voice was among them, so he felt safe enough
claiming the victory of it. He bowed, stumbled, grabbed the table and then tried to turn it into the
beginning of his walk away. It wasn’t elegant by any stretch of the imagination, but he remained
upright, so he would call it another win before the end of the night. He remembered the blurry
outline of the hands on his watch. Morning then.

“I’m going too,” John bellowed behind him. “Make sure he doesn’t drown himself on the way
back to the room.”

“Very galant,” Paul muttered, as John appeared at his elbow.

“Selfish,” John corrected, “no Beatles without McCartney, and that’s turned out to be quite a nice
little earner for me.”

Paul felt a swell of pleasure at the recognition of his importance to the group. Although it was
ridiculous, because it was a self-evident fact. He wrote half the songs, played a quarter of the
music. Obviously he was vital. Still. It was nice hearing it confirmed by John. Sometimes it still
felt like Paul was in the band on his invite only.

Their room wasn’t far, just around the pool on the other side of the courtyard. It was cool and dark
inside, and Paul closed his eyes in relief. He hadn’t realised how hot he’d been in the bar until he
suddenly wasn’t anymore.

“That was a good day,” he announced and fell face first onto the bed.

John laughed at him, as intended. “Yep,” he agreed. “One of the best, I reckon.”

“Just because they let you win at cards,” he muttered into the bedsheets.

A pillow hit him in the head a few moments later, so he rolled over to lob it back at John. Who was
now topless and clearly getting ready for bed.

“Been a lot of those lately,” he said.

John paused to look over at him quizzically.

“Best days,” he clarified. “I can’t believe that it keeps just…” He trailed off and in the end did the
motion of a plane taking off with his arm rather than struggle to find the words.

“Yeah,” John agreed and then seemed to decide that he’d had enough of getting ready to sleep and
plopped down on his back next to Paul. “Who’d have thought it, eh? Two motherless little queers
found each other and fled shitty Liddypool together through the cunning guise of becoming the
most famous people in the world.”

Paul laughed harder than he should. Tears sprung to his eyes. “Reckon they’d be proud of us?” he
asked when he had the breath.

“For which bit?” John asked, turning his head to leer at him.

“The number ones and that,” he said. Then quirked his mouth and raised a single brow. “Not like
we’ve exactly been practising at the other thing.”

John sighed. “Suppose.” He was silent for a long time. Then, “Do you think they’d… if they’d
known all of it, would they have hated us?”

Paul’s stomach dropped. “No,” he said, despite the way the look on his mother’s face when
discussing ‘those people’ drifted into his mind. “Mothers pretty much have to love you, that’s the
rules.”

“Mummy dearest was never much for rules,” John pointed out.

“Right,” Paul agreed, “but if anything that just makes it more likely she’d have… I dunno. She
loved you. You know that.”

John was quiet, but he nodded. Perhaps a fraction too late.

“Even if she didn’t love you like other mothers,” Paul pressed on.

John swallowed. “It feels like I’m doing all this sometimes just for her. Like, if I can just…” He
waved a hand above them and Paul nodded. “If I get big enough, I’ll have earned her love. Fucking
stupid.” He swallowed heavily. “Can’t earn a dead person’s love.”

“Can’t earn anyone’s love,” Paul said. “Don’t think that’s how it works.”

“You sure?”

Paul was quiet. In truth, he wasn’t. He’d always been too aware of ensuring that he stayed on the
right side of things. He was happy to rebel, but only enough to show his worth. He knew his dad
was proud of him for pursuing music, even if he worried. He’d only carried on because he was sure
that he’d show everyone it was worth it.

“Thought so,” John said. Although he didn’t sound pleased with his victory.

“No,” Paul said. “I mean, people don’t earn how I feel about them.”

John was looking at him. “You mean you’re not my friend because I help you write hits? Or
because we’re both queer and make each other feel more normal?”

“No,” he agreed. “Well, I mean, that helps obviously. But I was your friend before that. I was your
friend before you even knew my name.”

John’s eyebrows were ascending towards his hairline.

“From when I saw you on the bus,” he insisted. Quite why it was so important that John
understood, he wasn’t sure. Perhaps because his eyes were still shining with tears that they’d both
pretend weren’t there. “You hadn’t done anything to earn that. It just was.”

A smile was slowly starting to infect John’s face, starting at the edges of his mouth. “You’re a
sap.”

“Your friend, the sap,” he said.

“And then we went and did all this,” John said. “I’d have been your friend without it, too, I reckon.
From the moment you turned up again after I’d sent you away after mum, I knew. That was it for
me. I was always going to…” He trailed off and Paul’s stomach clenched in disappointment at the
cut off thought.

But then John was shifting and rolling onto his side. Paul mirrored him immediately, his heart
pounding in his chest. John reached out a hand, slowly, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed. Paul
held so still that he was hardly breathing, not wanting to do anything that might stop the forward
trajectory of that hand. Finally, it connected with Paul’s shoulder, then slid down until it was
gripping his bicep. He squeezed it gently, and Paul’s fingers were suddenly tingling.

“You know that I love you, right?” John asked, face so serious it would have been funny any other
time. “For that, and a million other things.”

It was like an explosion of happiness in his chest. Warmth flooded through in a wave of pleasure,
his heart leaping and his stomach swooping like he was on a rollercoaster. The effect was so
instantaneous, so total, that it was all he could do to remember to breathe through it.

It took him a while to find his voice. “I love you too.” He sighed the words. They left his mouth
like little clouds of feeling.

“Oh,” John said, his head tilting forward until their foreheads were touching. He closed his eyes,
his eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks. “Good.”

“I know we can’t ever…” Paul had to stop to swallow around the lump that had formed in his
throat. “I know you’ve got Cyn and Julian and it’s… That it wasn’t ever going to be for us. We
can’t have more than this. And it’s fine.”

John’s hand squeezed his arm, almost compulsively. His face was a mask of, if not exactly
surprise, then amazed delight. His eyes were huge, like he couldn’t quite believe what he was
hearing, but wanted to make sure he drank in every word anyway. That, along with the alcohol and
high of the last few weeks, was what made Paul say the next words. Words that he’d always sworn
he didn’t even feel, let alone think he’d ever say aloud.

“I just sometimes wish we could.”

John’s eyes fluttered closed again, like he needed a moment to bask in the words. When he opened
them again, there were tears clinging to his eyelashes. Paul wanted to kiss them away.

“What would you do?” John asked, voice low, so intimate that a shiver ran up Paul’s spine. It made
him daring. “If you could do anything?”

His mouth curved up at the idea of it, one that must have been there all along, even if he’d never
looked directly at it. “Just take off,” he whispered, in a tone befitting a confession. “Take you
somewhere warm, where we could live near the sea.”

“Just us?” John asked.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Maybe we could get a farm, I dunno. Sit on the porch and play our music with
no one there but the sheep to hear us.”

John laughed, softly. “I’d like that.”

It wasn’t as though Paul didn’t know they were playing with fire. There was a reason they never
spoke like this. There was a reason they both pretended that despite what happened just after Julian
was born, and the near misses since, that there was nothing but friendship and shared desire for
men between them. It was an impossible, dangerous situation to admit to anything else. Whenever
he’d let his mind wander too close to it, he shied away so firmly that he usually ended up moving
to the other side of the city to get away from it.

Not that it stopped him wondering over and over, how long they could sustain the game. Even with
Jane and Cyn between them, it was harder than he’d ever thought it could be. How long could they
dance this close to the flame only to back away and pretend none of it ever happened? How long
would these stolen moments be enough? Or become too much? He didn’t know. But right then, at
that moment, he couldn’t seem to stop. It felt primal, necessary, to tell John how he felt. His
emotions were so tight inside him that something vital would snap if he didn’t.

“Sometimes I think I’d do it now,” John said, his eyes fixed on Paul’s again. “Just fuck off with
you.”

Paul’s mouth twisted. “Give it all up?” he asked. “Live in ruin and never perform again? Not see
Julian? Go to jail?” He wasn’t sure why he had to frame it that way, why he didn’t let them live in
the fantasy a little longer. But it was probably too much already, he needed to put a brake on it
before he did something, said something, that neither of them could take back.

John’s mouth curved up into a smile. He looked amused. “Sure, why not?”

Paul laughed, closing his eyes. The joke helped the tension in the room dissipate. The spell was
broken. They both knew it wasn’t going to happen, John would fight him about it otherwise. A
joke from Lennon was often as close to an agreement as you’d get. “Alright,” he said. “I assume
you’ve been investing all your money wisely? I’ve gotten used to a certain lifestyle, you know.”

John laughed with him, just for a moment, before his face fell, settling back into something more
sombre. He looked hard at Paul, like he didn’t see him every single day and needed to soak in his
image in case he forgot it later.

“It’s not fair,” John sighed. “Meeting you and having all this, it ought to be enough. Why’d we
have…” He trailed off. “It makes it so hard.”

There wasn’t much to do but nod his agreement. It was a fly in the ointment indeed. “You
wouldn’t really want me,” Paul said. “Even if we could have that, you wouldn’t really want it. This
is better.”

“How so?” It was a genuine question, not a dismissal.

“Because we can imagine,” he said, and reached out for the first time so he was touching John the
same way John was touching him. John’s arm was warm and solid under his hand. “I never have to
be annoyed about you leaving socks everywhere and you don’t get annoyed about me playing the
piano too much.”

“Who would get annoyed at that?” he asked, seeming genuinely perplexed. “Besides, we’d have a
cleaner for the socks.”

Paul’s heart throbbed with affection. It hurt.

“This is still good though,” he said, not wanting to fight about it. He wasn’t sure if he really
believed they’d never work together or if he just desperately had to. There was no use in pulling on
that thread. “This is good and I won’t give it up. I need you in my life, however I’m allowed you.”

John nodded. “Always,” he agreed. Like an oath. “I’m never letting you go.”

It shouldn’t hurt to hear something so loving. But it did. It always did with John. He wished he
knew how to stand it better than he did.

“Me neither,” he agreed, clutching John’s arm. “I’m not going anywhere you’re not.”

They stayed there, on the same bed, holding onto one another until they both drifted off. They
overslept, of course. Woken by an unceremonial banging on the door and demand they hurry up.
There was no time to discuss the night before.
It was probably for the best. There was nothing else to say.

March 1965

The Beatles train barrelled ever and ever on. There was no stopping it, not that anyone seemed to
want to stop it. The shows were sold out. The records were number ones. Their first film was
adored by critics and film-goers alike. Paul wondered, sometimes, if they really could do no
wrong.

“I think they don’t even bother checking anymore,” John answered, after Paul pondered the
thought out loud. “They see Beatles, they write a rave review.”

Paul knew John didn’t actually believe that, given the share of bad press that continued to roll in
with the good. But, there was no need to argue. John was just being John.

He was distracted from continuing his thought anyway as he attempted to open the door to their
chalet without taking his gloves off. They were bone-tired from the filming, which had been more
physical than Paul had anticipated. None of them were natural skiers; although they’d all got there
in the end. It wasn’t something Paul imagined he’d be doing every year from that point on. Jane
loved it, though, so perhaps he’d end up with no choice.

They burst through the door some time later and into a wall of warmth. John collapsed onto the
floor just inside, struggling to remove his gloves now they were safely out of the wind.

“Shall we listen to something that’ll soon have a rave of its own, then?” Paul asked, as he shuffled
by him into the living area.

“Perhaps it’ll break the streak,” John muttered.

But Paul ignored him, and went to the record player. He was too cold to want to take off his coat
right away anyway. He was enjoying Austria’s filming less than he’d thought he would. He was so
cold that he couldn’t feel his feet and his fingers were hot and tingling unpleasantly.

He’d somehow managed to forget how much he hated acting since the last time. The reviews of A
Hard Day’s Night had been so good it had convinced him that perhaps he’d managed to imagine
his own poor performance. The final version hadn’t made him look too bad, after all. Certainly no
one commented other than to say they wanted more of him. So he’d barrelled into Help! without a
second thought. Then almost immediately regretted it. Although at least he hadn’t been worried for
months in the run up and still been bad.

He put on the demos they’d brought with them, hoping to wash away something he wasn’t good at
with something he was. Besides, they needed to consider what they wanted to do with them. They
listened in silence as they continued the arduous task of removing layers of clothing.

“Ah,” John said, trying and finally succeeding in pulling off his second boot. Then he stopped and
listened for a moment, head cocked to one side. One of Paul’s, “Here, There, and Everywhere,” had
just come on. It wasn’t even really ready for them to work into anything; he wasn’t sure what he
wanted it to be. He’d only included it on a whim. “This is a good one.”

Paul’s stomach still swooped stupidly at the praise, just like it had the every first time John said he
liked something Paul had written. Back when they were still tucked away in John’s bedroom.

“Yeah?” he asked, hardly turning, so as not to show his interest too obviously. He was still cold
through, but that melted away, like the flecks of snow at his feet.
“Yeah,” John agreed, he’d given up taking off his layers and had slumped onto the floor. He was
lying on his back, his eyes closed.

He looked young, impossibly handsome. Paul’s chest hurt with it.

“I wrote it for you.” The words slipped out without him quite meaning them to.

John turned his head, opening his eyes. “Huh?”

“While I was waiting for you to wake up, you know?”

He didn’t know why he didn’t take it back; that would have been easier. Sometimes John just had a
way of making him say things he wasn’t intending. He wasn’t sure if it was because they were
both queer, or if it was the feeling in his chest like his heart was too big to fit properly. But, he
wanted to tell John things he didn't tell any of his other friends. Really, Paul only spoke to his
girlfriends like he spoke to John. He told him things he’d never dream of letting anyone else
know.

But that was John; Paul felt safer with him than almost anyone. Perhaps it was the queer thing.
Maybe it was the fact they were bound by law to make music together. Maybe it was the way John
never let anyone get away with treating Paul like shit when he was there to see it. He’d always
trusted John, since the day he’d kissed him and John hadn’t done anything but accept it.

The feeling only got bigger the more madness happened around them.

“It’s about me?” John asked, sitting up and propping himself against the nearest wall, so he could
look at Paul more easily.

“No,” he said. Then felt stupid for obviously lying and added, “Yeah. I dunno. Not all of it, but…
Sure.”

John’s eyebrows were nearly at his hairline. “Well that’s illuminating. Thank you.”

“Oh fuck off,” he huffed, but only half-heartedly because he could see how pleased John looked
despite the teasing. It made it easier, somehow.

“Didn’t think you’d written about me since ‘In Spite of all the Danger’.”

Paul’s cheeks somehow, even years later, heated. “I never said for sure that was about you.”

“I know,” John said. “You just had a massive row with your dad about never seeing me again.
Then wrote that song a day later. Totally unrelated.”

“So which ones are about me then?” Paul said, changing the subject abruptly. He still wasn’t even
sure if that song had been about John. He knew why John said it; the theme did seem a bit of a
coincidence. But he hadn’t meant to. Not really. This was different.

“You know about ‘If I Fell’,” John said, like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t told Paul in a way that
might have made it into a joke. “Now there’s ‘Hide Your Love Away.’ ‘Ticket To Ride,’ but you
know about that one, I guess.”

Paul’s brows knitted. He didn’t know how to respond. “Hide Your Love Away?” he asked, but it
came out small, unsure of itself.

John looked at him hard. “This isn’t new information.”

“Didn’t know you still thought about it.”

“Yes you did.”

He looked away. “Me too.”

It was on the verge of getting awkward, when John spoke again. “Now’s the time to tell me that
The Night Before’s about Key West and be done with it.”

He was joking, they both knew that. John had been witness to the painful process of pulling those
lyrics together. “Sure,” he said. “It’s about you.”

He didn’t want to really consider it. There was the possibility he was thinking about the days after
Key West; the way they’d both withdrawn to a safe distance from one another. It was what they
always needed if they got too close: some time to put back up their walls. But, he hadn’t done it on
purpose. Not like with “Here, There and Everywhere.” He’d been thinking of John’s face as he
wrote it. His mind had been deliberately blank as he put together “The Night Before.”

“That why you wanted a call and response?” he asked, “Because you thought it was about you?”

John looked away. “Sure,” he said. “Gotta make sure I’m useful for something, otherwise you
won’t keep me around.”

“You’re daft,” Paul huffed. “I’ll always need you.”

That made John laugh again, a delighted smile blooming across his face.

“Let’s go out,'' he said, suddenly sitting up straighter, “let’s find somewhere and perform together.
You know, it’s about time The Nerk Twins had another outing.”

Paul’s chest felt light with joy at the thought. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s do it.”

They didn’t need to go far before they found somewhere that had a piano and a more than willing
audience for them to play a few songs. It felt so different from even Key West. This wasn’t the
Beatles, although that didn’t stop them doing their material. It was him and John, their own brand
of performance.

They sat close on the stool, hands brushing as they played the same piano. It was too hot, the press
of people too close. He could feel the entire length of John’s body against his. Sweat was trickling
down his back, running down from his hair and stinging his eyes.

He loved every moment of it.

He hadn’t felt so joyful in a performance since Hamburg. There was a freedom neither of them had
had in years. It felt like he was shaking off a great weight, using muscles he’d not flexed in years.
He was so elated that they played until the early hours, hardly even noticing the rapturous applause
and encouragement from all around.

They only stopped when the management insisted that they were having complaints from other
guests. Which Paul privately doubted; probably the staff just wanted to go home. But, they agreed,
after just one more song, and he and John collapsed into chairs near the piano. They were out of
breath and sticky with sweat. But Paul couldn’t seem to stop smiling.

He kept an eye on the piano, half a mind to sneak back over once things had calmed down enough.
He never was good at knowing when a night was over. He liked to draw things out, keep a good
thing going until it was totally evaporated. John was chattering happily about the film, the
performance and everything else. Paul turned to watch him, content to just listen. When he was on
form, John could light up a room. It was nice just to bask in it.

He was so focused that he didn’t notice someone approaching until they were sitting down next to
John.

“Great performance, lads.”

Paul blinked in surprise. Then slowly turned his head towards the newcomer. He was older than
them, crisply dressed, with neatly combed, blond hair. He was attractive, sharp cheekbones and a
strong jawline, with bright blue eyes. Paul disliked him immediately. Usually, he was fine with
people coming over unannounced. It was part of being famous, and he liked meeting new people,
especially when they wanted to compliment him. But not tonight, not when he was feeling more
connected to John than he had in months. He wanted to hold tightly to the feeling of it being just
the two of them.

He turned to the man slowly, letting his face show his complete disinterest.

“Thanks,” John said. His tone was neutral. Not rude by any stretch, but it was clear he wasn’t
interested in entertaining him either.

Paul’s chest was tight with affection for him.

“I’d love to hear another,” the man said, leaning forward. He was looking directly at John, his gaze
confident, a man used to getting what he wanted. His voice was lightly accented. Paul couldn’t
place it, meaning he was likely European but educated privately in England.

“That’s nice,” Paul said, his voice sweet, but he let steel creep into the words. “But we’re done for
the day. It’s meant to be our night off.”

The man glanced at him, and then back at John. Paul’s hackles rose immediately.

“That’s a shame,” the man said, all slimy charm. “I’d so enjoy another. I own a few venues across
Europe and I’m used to seeing some of the biggest acts in the world. But your performance was
something more.”

“That’ll be why we’re the biggest band in the world,” John said, flatly. “And why we don’t
perform for free unless we want to.”

“I’m–”

“Sorry,” Paul broke in, “but we’re actually in the middle of an important discussion about the
motion picture we’re filming.”

He looked back at Paul. “I’m sorry?”

“He means,” John supplied, “we’re busy, so please fuck off, Lord Smary.”

The man looked so taken aback that Paul couldn’t keep in his snort of laughter. “Terribly sorry, old
chap,” he said, not attempting to hide his glee at John’s backing up of his implicit dismissal of the
man. “Better luck next time, I’m sure the Stones will be by soon and will be most happy to
oblige.”

The man gave them an outraged stare, but seemed unable to come up with a suitable reply. Instead
he stood abruptly and stalked away from the table. Paul was almost manic with amusement. It had
been a long time since he and John had tag-teamed the removal of someone they didn’t like from
their presence. It was a trick they’d honed in Liverpool.

John would say something outrageously rude, and when the person turned to Paul in appeal, it was
his job to show no mercy and send them away. He allowed them the slightest chance of saving
face, pretending to take his words as a kindness, rather than tacit approval of John's words. He
knew, really, that it was poor behaviour. But the buzz was too addictive. It was nice to let people
know that they weren’t allowed to invade his and John’s bubble. It was an exclusive club and what
made it special was who was allowed in.

They only wanted one another’s company. That was enough. It still felt so good to have it
confirmed, years and years later. He turned to grin at John, who was already smirking at him.

“Still got it, Macca,” he said.

Paul’s heart fluttered at the realisation John was thinking the same thing as him. Of course he was.
They were usually on the same wavelength. John was still flushed, his hair plastered to his
forehead. But he looked pleased, smug really. But then, Paul was sure he had a matching
expression.

“Always, Lenny,” he beamed back.

July 1965

John pressed him into the door, his mouth was hot and slick over Paul’s. He could feel the way the
handle was digging into his back, where John had shoved him up against it the moment their
bedroom was closed.

He hadn’t meant for this to happen, he thought dizzily, as he arched his neck to give John better
access to kiss along it. His head thudded dully against the wood, his eyes screwed shut as he tried
to concentrate on the feeling of John’s mouth on his skin.

Paul was proud of how well he could handle his drink. He’d been getting drunk with older, bigger,
more experienced people since he was thirteen. He knew when enough was enough, how to hold
his buzz, without tipping over into being totally out of control. He knew how to get so drunk that
he danced madly and laughed so loud his voice went hoarse. But, also when he had to stop so he
wasn’t throwing his guts up outside the club before getting lost on his way back home.

He knew how to do all of that. He’d been doing it for years. Sometimes, though, sometimes it was
worth throwing all of that out the window.

They were celebrating. He was pretty sure. A number one? A single. No, an album. It was number
one somewhere. No. Perhaps it was a birthday.

It didn’t matter. There was always something to celebrate. There was always a reason to throw a
good party. There were also always more than enough people willing to come to a party thrown by
a Beatle. Or a Beatle adjacent person. Or someone that might have once seen a Beatle.

The point was. Sometimes Paul threw all his rules out of the window because it was more fun that
way. There wasn’t any particular reason he did it some nights and not others. He wasn’t prone to
analysing it. Took the fun out of everything.

Letting go meant that anything could happen. And in this new life he was living as an incredibly
famous rock star, it often did. Usually that meant he met a lot of interesting people and then had
various types of sex. Which Paul considered time very well spent.

Sometimes though, the nights were different. Sometimes, he could feel his eyes straying to where
he knew they shouldn’t. He and John tended to have different styles when it came to parties. John
grew bored easily, needing the right type of company unless he ended up slinking off to bed, bored
and frustrated. Not so Paul. He always found someone worthwhile.

But the point was, they didn’t always spend a lot of time together at parties. Unless, of course, they
did. Some nights all they wanted was to be with one another. They would sit and talk and talk.
Laugh at everything, drinking and eyeing up the local talent. They were some of the best nights of
his life.

Those nights, sometimes, not always, but sometimes, they tipped over. Paul would shift closer to
John as they talked. John would lean into him to better hear what he was saying. Tensions grew
and ebbed. They both knew they were flirting with danger, of course. That was the point. It felt
good. Playing with fire made them feel alive.

Of course, it was alway going to catch light. Paul had no idea how to track the exact events that led
to being pinned to his door with John’s mouth over his. He might have instigated it with a touch.
John might have, with a stray word. It didn’t matter. They were too high on life and pissed out of
their minds to worry about such matters.

They giggled as they attempted to remove their clothes. They were already half out of their suits.
Strictly speaking, they weren’t meant to wear their stage outfits where they might get messed up.
Strictly speaking.

But it was a night to disregard nonsense rules. So they’d kept them on in favour of getting drunk
quicker. Only, they were too hot, too restricting. So they’d taken their jackets off hours ago. Ties
too. Then the shirts had slowly become unbuttoned. Paul didn’t remember doing so himself, but he
was also sure that he hadn’t allowed anyone else to do it.

He blinked owlishly, grinning to himself, to find John had bent down and studiously trying to untie
Paul’s shoes for him. It was a sweet thing to do. Even if it was just a bid to get him naked quicker.

Paul frowned at that.

“Wait,” he said, reaching down for John and swaying so violently, he had to cling to him to stop
from going over.

“Fucking hell,” John hissed, as he swayed under Paul’s hands. “Careful. I’ll end up on my arse.”

“Don’t need to do that,” Paul said. He’d forgotten, just for a second, what he’d been planning when
he’d leant down to get John’s attention. John’s flushed face, messy hair and warm voice had
distracted him. Dangerous this late at night. His attention was prone to wander and never come
back.

“What?”

Paul held up his hand, arranging his thoughts back into order. It took him longer than he’d have
liked. Then he laughed. Some uncharitable people might have called it a giggle. “Don’t need to be
shoeless to get off.”

John got back to his feet. His eyes were glassy. John never knew when to stop anything. Always
got too drunk. Always took too many pills. But not tonight. Tonight they were perfectly synced.
“Eager,” he muttered, leaning in to kiss Paul again.

There was no point in arguing with that. He was keen to get to the good part. He’d wanted John’s
hands on him all night. That was often the case lately. It was all the forced proximity.

They were laughing, tripping over one another as they fell onto the bed. They ended up on their
sides, facing one another. John was the first to shove his hand down Paul’s pants. Paul wasn’t sure
when they’d been undone. Perhaps when John had been trying to get his shoes off.

“You’re such a gentleman,” he groaned, as John’s hand started to move over him.

John laughed, delighted. “For a quick handy?”

Paul shook his head, thrusting into John’s hand. “Trying to help me get undressed, all proper.”

His hands were sloppy, as they reached for John’s trousers. He needed to feel. He’d thought, too
much, of what John’s cock felt like in his hand. How hot and heavy it felt. The girth of it, how hard
he got for Paul. It wasn’t always at the most opportune times, that Paul would have these thoughts.
Sometimes his mind would meander off in the middle of a meeting with Brian. Or he’d be
watching John’s hands on stage, and somehow that reminded Paul of…

“God, I love the way your dick feels,” he breathed into John’s mouth.

“Fuck,” John groaned, thrusting into Paul’s closed fist.

It was always going to be a quick transaction. Sloppy and blurry. Like the rest of the night. The air
felt thick, and heavy with desire.

“Should have let me take your trousers off,” John muttered, his hand moving as fast as his
constricted access would allow.

“No time,” Paul said, laughing. The whole thing was so ridiculous really. “I’m a busy man.”

John’s laughter mixed with Paul’s own. “Schedule getting your dick tugged.”

He kissed John to stopper his own laughter. This was good. This was why it made sense to shag
your mates. It could be silly. You could have a laugh and get off. Perfect. It was perfect.

“Come with me,” John grunted, his hand twisting as he pumped his fist.

Paul hardly needed the encouragement, his toes were already curling inside his shoes. He thrust his
hips into John’s hand. They were both writhing together, fucking into each other as they exchanged
messy kisses. They finished together, a hissed breath from Paul and extended grunt from John.

They gasped for breath. Then Paul was laughing again. “Right on time, Lennon. Most efficient.”

John laughed again. He looked so happy, open and soft, and Paul wished he’d always look like
that. He sighed, starting to roll away.

“Nah,” John said, his hand shot out to grab Paul’s arm. “More efficient just to kip here with me.”

That wasn’t a good idea. But why that was the case, Paul couldn’t seem to remember. He lay back
down, John’s arms around him. And closed his eyes.

———
“Rise and shine!”

Mal’s voice was too loud. Much, much too loud. And close.

Paul opened his eyes and realised several awful things at once. It was much too bright in the hotel
room. Paul was still in John’s bed. They were late. Mal was in the room, attempting to rouse them.

“Fuck,” Paul bleated, sitting bolt upright. His head spun violently, tight with pain.

Mal was grinning at him. “Didn’t manage to make it out of your clothes?” he asked, looking
almost, but not quite, sympathetic. “Jesus, how long did you go on for?”

“Until about ten minutes ago,” John mumbled. “Now fuck off forever.”

Mal laughed. “You’ve got ten minutes,” he said, turning around. “Brian’s orders.”

Then he was gone. Apparently he hadn’t noticed anything strange in their circumstances. Paul
looked down at himself. Almost completely fully clothed. As was John. They hadn’t even
managed to make it under the sheet.

“Fucking hell,” he breathed. He felt sick. His stomach twisted, his mouth filling with saliva.

“He didn’t notice,” John said. But his voice was cold with fear.

Paul shook his head, but that made the room spin, and he had to stop. “Thank God,” he muttered.

It could so easily have been different. They could have managed to get naked. They could have
still have been fucking cuddling. It could have not been Mal, but a housekeeper or even, possibly, a
journalist. He closed his eyes, willing his stomach to settle.

“That was too close,” John said. “What were we thinking?”

Paul just shook his head. He felt cold right through.

“We should get separate rooms from now on,” John sounded strange, panicked almost. “When we
can.”

Paul swallowed, clenching his teeth. He just wanted to get out of the room. He needed to wash.
Needed to forget what happened. “Right.”

“Fuck,” John hissed, the bed dipped as he got up. “Fucking stupid. ”

It wasn’t like he was wrong. They’d been reckless. If they’d been found… He shuddered. He
couldn’t let it happen again. Even if it meant he got himself a girl every single night to keep
temptation away. It was far too dangerous. John was far too tempting. He couldn’t trust himself.

tbc
 Chapter 6

October 1965

“If you were listening to what I was playing, instead of pissing about, then–” Paul wasn’t, upon
reflection, entirely sure what they were even arguing about anymore. He was fairly sure it had
started being about the solo in “Nowhere Man”, but now it seemed to be about anything that they
could pull from the air to hurl at one another.

“Fellas,” Richie’s voice was tired, rather than annoyed.

Paul and John ignored him.

“I am listening and it’s shit.” John’s voice had probably been the first one to rise, but now it hardly
mattered.

“I think the solo’s fine,” George said.

They ignored him too. Paul’s whole attention was on John. That wasn’t so unusual. Whenever he
wanted one of his ideas to be used, it was usually only worth convincing John. Once they agreed no
one really bothered to disagree, not even George Martin. But, that was a problem when it came to a
stalemate between them.

“You’re not listening to me!” Paul screamed.

“Yes, I fucking am,” John screamed back. “I haven’t got a fucking choice, because you never shut
up. That’s all anyone hears all fucking day. Paul’s opinion on this. Paul’s rules for that. Paul’s
fucking code for fucking everything. And if someone dares not agree, well, there’s a lecture for
that too.”

“Well, maybe if anyone else had any good ideas, I wouldn’t need to come up with everything.”

“Alright, I think that’s lunch,” George’s voice was stern over the intercom.

John’s eyes flicked towards the booth, but he didn’t move.

“Thank God,” Richie muttered, as he slipped from behind his kit and out of the room.

George lingered, eyeing them both, perhaps weighing up if he ought to stay to mediate. Wisely, in
the end he just shrugged off his guitar, which had been hanging limp and unused around his neck
for the last twenty minutes while the conversation had turned into a debate before spiralling down
into an argument and then speeding toward full blown shouting match.

“I just think,” Paul said, managing to reign his voice in slightly from the fury it had contained
before the interruption, “if you would let us play it through, you’d see what I mean. We can do it
your way, or– Or, we can try and play it really well and see what happens then.”

“I know you think you’re an artist now you’ve got yourself some real ones around to tell you so,”
John hissed, “but I still see you. You’re still the little shit from Liverpool that can’t read music, no
matter how hard you pretend you get what George is talking about with his strings and
orchestration. So don’t pull that shit with me.”

The blow landed hard, right in the centre where almost no one outside of that room knew he could
still be hurt. Paul couldn’t help it, he flinched. He hated showing weakness in front of John, he’d
seen what happened to plenty of others who’d not managed to shield themselves.

John’s eyes focused on Paul immediately, gone sharp with recognition. Of course. John was always
good at knowing when a blow landed. It was how he sharpened his arsonal. But this time he
paused, and his face changed. And there was his John again. The transformation was miraculous,
what had been all sharp lines and fury became soft, yielding. He slipped his glasses down his nose,
so he could peer over them. It had the instantaneous effect of making him appear more open.

“It’s only me, you know,” he said, voice gentle as if from nowhere, like he’d been playing a
character and was now back as himself. “I love you.”

Paul’s heart throbbed pathetically. It was absurd how easily John could soothe him. He nodded.

John nodded, pushed his glasses up his nose. “But you’re absolutely being a twat.”

Somehow that made Paul laugh. “Fucking fine,” he sighed. “You and Goerge do it together and
we’ll see how it sounds then. But if he doesn’t get it and you can’t prop it up, we’re doing it my
way.”

“Thank you,” John said, and bowed low at the waist.

Now that he’d won, grace seemed easy to come by. Neither of them usually held a grudge once the
argument had been resolved, no matter which of them had won.

“Let’s go eat,” Paul said, looking around and taking in the empty room, “before there’s nothing
decent left.”

They walked to the lunchroom together. The air between them slightly stiff, but no longer crackling
with fury. So it went with them. Paul couldn’t seem to really be angry at John properly. John
couldn’t seem to properly lash out at Paul. They pushed and pulled at one another. Dragging each
other faster and higher. Never satisfied with anything. But always, in the end, together.

They split up once they reached the large, open dining room, to sit at different tables; the argument
might be done, but they were like cats after a fight. It would take a few hours before they could be
around one another easily.

Paul sat down with George and Richie, while John walked to the techs’ table and started an
animated conversation that Paul could tell was all for show. John always liked to make a big show
after a fight, bring the mood back up to genial. Paul was never really sure how to do the same.

George raised his eyebrows at him in question.

“All good,” Paul said.

He hated when he and John argued in public. It wasn’t so bad when they did it alone. That just
seemed part of the process, but when people could see it, it felt more like a failure; Paul could feel
the judgement, that maybe they weren’t as good at working together as everyone thought. Which
wasn’t even true, but that never stopped people thinking it. At least they’d made sure there was no
pointed red light showing that their every word had been recorded for prosperity. There wasn’t
enough tape to make that practical, and anyway, no one would probably care to hear the details of
how they made their albums.

“We have agreement?” Richie asked.

There was more tension in the studio since it became clear they were going in a new direction with
their music. It was time, no one seemed to disagree with that. But, that didn’t mean that tensions
weren’t running high. They were so popular, why bother risking it with something that might not
sell as well? But Paul knew they were doing the right thing; they couldn’t keep on making the
same old shit album after album. He’d die of boredom.

None of them believed that they’d actually flop, but it didn’t make for the calmest of atmospheres
in the studio. He knew that was why he and John had probably blown up at one another. It wasn’t
about them, it was about making sure the best record came out of it at the end.

“Yeah,” he nodded, then had to grit his teeth to add, “George and John will lay down the solo after
lunch, see how we go.”

Richie and George looked at one another, silent words passing back and forth. Paul didn’t even
want to know what they’d been saying before he arrived.

“Good idea,” George said in the end, managing to only sound slightly sarcastic.

Paul gritted his teeth and nodded along. Better to just pretend the whole thing hadn’t happened.

“You and John alright?” Richie asked, looking across the room.

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Paul said, stung at the implication, despite the fact it was a perfectly fair
question.

“It’s been a tough session so far,” Richie mused.

He was trying, Paul knew, to cheer him up. It was having the opposite effect. He nodded, anyway,
but kept his eyes firmly on the table top. It was chipped and he ran a finger over the imperfection.
Everything seemed old, slightly shabby. But it was amazing how at home he felt anyway.

“It’s gonna be worth it,” George said, apparently deciding that Paul didn’t need another kicking.

He nodded again. “Yeah, yeah, of course.”

“And,” George said, slowly, as though feeling his way carefully forward, “you know John doesn’t
mean it when he gets like that.”

Paul startled, looking up at George. Did he think that’s what Paul was upset by? That he couldn’t
take as good as he got from John? Or that there was some doubt that John cared about him enough
not to let a silly argument come between them?

“I know,” he said.

Irritation trickled up his spine. Just because George and John had agreed on this occasion, it wasn’t
like this was George’s victory, or that it was suddenly him and John against Paul.

He just told me he loves me, he wanted to say, almost pettily. He was pretty sure John wasn’t going
around telling anyone else that.

“I’m fine,” he said, sounding exactly like he was sulking. “It wasn’t a big deal and we’ve sorted it
out. We came up with a way that it’ll work better now.”

George nodded and was clearly about to ask more, but thankfully Richie interrupted, perhaps
sensing a new front about to open up in the war of words of the day.
“You should get something to eat,” he said, nodding towards the counter. “We’ll be going back in
any minute.”

Paul opened his mouth, annoyed at being ordered around, then realising that was silly so closed it
again. “Alright,” he muttered and got to his feet.

He was only a few steps away from the table before he changed direction and went towards John.
He didn’t know what prompted it, but he was suddenly very keen to make it clear that there was
nothing wrong between them.

“You need anything?” he asked, stopping next to John. “I’m going up.”

John looked up at him, surprise quickly giving way to pleasure as he took in what Paul was asking.
He grinned, happy and suddenly almost flushed.

“Thanks Macca,” he beamed. “Why don’t I come with you?”

John stood up, and to Paul’s surprised pleasure, clapped an arm around his shoulders. “Do you
think there’ll be anything edible today?”

He laughed, and managed to resist craning a look to see if everyone noticed their closeness as they
walked away.

March 1966

Paul opened the door quietly, his footsteps almost inaudible as he made his way over to the bed. It
was dark, the city below cloaked in the soft glow of street lamps and the occasional headlight of a
car winding its way through the damp press of mist that rose from the wet street.

He clicked on the bedside light as he lifted the duvet and climbed in. Jane shifted, her breath
coming out in a soft sigh.

“I’m back,” he whispered, settling in beside her.

His arm looped over her waist as she moved back into his arms like she’d been made to fit there.
He kissed the top of her head. She smelled sweet, her shampoo and the lingering hints of perfume.
He closed his eyes. His limbs going loose and warm with the ease of it, at the comfort she gave
him.

“How was it?” she murmured.

Of course she’d remembered their last conversation. He didn’t often complain about the job. It
didn’t seem right, and besides, he knew he ought to be able to handle the pressure. That was what
being a musician was about. But lately the schedule had started to weigh on him. It was hard to
write and perform and travel and give interviews and answer business questions and meet fans and
answer mail and keep up every appearance. Jane understood, though. He never felt smaller for
having told her when he was too tired to keep his eyes open.

“Hard,” he said, dislodging the word, despite it wanting to stay in his throat. It wasn’t even
anything different. Nothing out of the ordinary that made sense for Paul to be exhausted by. It just
happened sometimes, seemingly out of nowhere; he got so tired, like he was being pulled in too
many different directions.

She shifted, rolling over so she could kiss him softly and smooth the hair back from his face. He
closed his eyes, leaning into her touch. “Did you tell them you needed a break this time?”
He fidgeted. “It’s not that easy,” he sighed. “They’re depending on me. It’s fine, anyway. I’m just
tired.”

She hummed. Accepting the brush off. “You deserve a break. You’re always doing too much,
taking on more than anyone else.”

The praise gave him almost more energy than a good night’s sleep. He smiled. “I don’t mind. It’s
better to know it’s done right.”

She laughed, a soft melodic sound that made Paul’s heart swell. “That sounds right,” she agreed.
“Get some sleep. We can catch up in the morning.”

He grinned, pushing forward as his hands slipped lower, finding the hem of her nightgown. “Or we
could catch up now.”

They kissed, a gentle meeting of lips, familiar and safe.

———

He was cross legged on John’s floor, holding a sheet of tatty paper. Smoke was curling from the
joint in his hand, rising like fog up to the ceiling.

“Oooh, did I tell you I need you,” he said, smoke leaking from his mouth. “Every single day of my
life.”

He ground to a halt, eyes flicking to John and back to the paper in his hand.

“That’s alright that, you know,” John said.

Paul grinned at him. He felt mellow. John’s eyes were warm on him, making him feel like he was
performing to a sea of screaming people and not one person. Somehow they were equally
important.

“Why thank you,” he said. “Thought it was time for a good old-fashioned love song.”

“About pot,” John supplied. He sounded pleased, happy and more at ease than Paul had seen him
in weeks. It loosened something in Paul’s chest he hadn’t even noticed was tight.

Paul laughed, the joint making his lips tingle around the sound. He felt light as a feather. “No finer
lover. She lights me up and sets me off.”

“Lucky girl,” John grinned, coming to sit down opposite him. They were so close that John must be
inhaling his second hand smoke.

“Touched by a falling star.” Paul closed his eyes as though demonstrating how she might react to
the moment.

“Burnt up illuminating the sky.”

He opened his eyes so he could grin at John. It was always so easy, the way John completed his
thoughts, took the acorns of his ideas and grew them into saplings and then to mighty oaks. Of
course John was already looking back at him, anticipating the next line. His eyes were red-rimmed
from the pot, his face lightly flushed. Paul tracked the dark crescents his eyelashes made as they
dusted his cheekbones as he blinked.

He wondered, for perhaps the thousandth time, what would happen if leant across and kissed him.
Soft and sweet. Like he’d always wanted to. Easy as that. Sometimes he could see all the moments
that he hadn’t, the opportunities he’d watched sail by and the futures that hadn’t happened because
of it. There were hundreds of them now, a growing graveyard stretching out behind them.

“A show just for us,” he said instead.

John’s smile made it worthwhile.

This was it. This was what he was made to do. Creating things with John and showing them to the
world. This was how he could have everything he ever needed. John at his side as they conquered
the world together, and Jane waiting when he got home.

Perfect.

August 1966

Paul’s first feeling had been relief when the backlash started. He’d known, the moment he’d read
Maureen’s write up, that there’d be trouble.

It was his fault.

He should have been prepared for it. John had been restless in the lead up, they all had. Annoyed at
the never-ending attention, the way story after story painted them all in consistent, but completely
wrong, ways. John hated, for some reason, the idea that he was some arbitrator of truth. The smart
one that had all the witty answers.

“They don’t know anything about me,” he muttered darkly. “They just want me to dance for
them.”

For his part Paul had never much cared for the ‘cute’ label and the connotations that went with it.
It could be worse; he could be the loveable but down-at-heel idiot they painted Richie as. But,
nevertheless, it frustrated him. He was the one that had had the future in academia available to him.
He’d been the one that was on track to the top of an executive career. He might also be attractive,
but that never occured to most people. Apparently boyish charm and intelligence were separate
entities.

The separate profiles had seemed like such a simple answer. A chance for the world to get to know
the real them. Or the them they wanted people to know. Maureen was the perfect choice, too. She
knew them, and what was more, she liked them. Especially John.

That had been the iceberg Paul should have seen several miles off. John was prone to showing off
around Maureen and she was prone to indulging him. It might have taken a few weeks for the
resulting shit to hit the fan, but Paul had known it was going to the moment he’d read the article.

“I didn’t mean it,” John said, tone low. The almost apology wasn’t pleasing, because John never
did that when he was actually in the wrong. But there was something in his voice that let Paul
know he was upset, genuinely contrite at what was happening. “I never mean it ten seconds after
I’ve said it.”

Paul nodded.

“I only said it because it stopped me from going on about…” He trailed off, jaw clamped tight.

Paul had been enjoying the article until that moment. It had started with proclamations of their
enduring fame. Comparisons to the Queen were always something to behold and Paul enjoyed
them a great deal. But, then John had managed to stray onto culture. Somehow he’d got there via
India, a stray thought about the British going over there, telling them that we knew better. Or
something like that, he couldn’t remember and couldn’t bring himself to read it in full again.

“It’s not like we have it all figured out over here,” John complains, waving a dismissive hand, “we
think we know it all. But other cultures are more advanced. They’re not worried if you’re having
sex out of marriage. They’re not worried if you’re queer or whatever. We could learn from them
more than the other way I reckon.”

Paul had noted with something like dread the subsequent mention that Paul was the only unmarried
Beatle. It sat on the white page in stark black, like a threat. The whole scene of the ‘married
Beatles’ and domestic bliss together seemed somehow pointed, even before he got to John’s
comments.

He’d gone right around to John’s the moment he’d read it, annoyed and wanting an explanation
that he already knew wasn’t going to satisfy him.

“I know,” he finally managed.

“Then why are you sulking?” John demanded, frustration bubbling over.

“I’m not ,” he hissed. “But excuse me if I don’t appreciate you going on about how being queer’s
something we should be celebrating in the bloody papers.”

“I didn’t mean anything by it!” He snapped it this time and ran a hand over his eyes. “Don’t you
ever get tired of hiding?”

“That doesn’t mean I’m hoping anyone starts looking for me,” he gritted out.

“Looking for you?” John asked, voice cold.

“I’m the only ‘unmarried Beatle’,” he made the quotation marks with his fingers, stabbing them
through the air. “You think anyone would miss that? Who else would you be worried about
protecting with your concerns with how the queers are treated if not your best friend?”

“Brian?” John suggested, probably not unfairly. “Me? Probably not the most notorious shagger the
world has ever known. Jesus, Paul, is there no situation that you can’t make about yourself?”

“Fuck you,” Paul spat, surprising even himself.

But the terror of seeing those words had him on edge. They never really argued. They had plenty of
disagreements, some of them even heated. But none of them had felt truly personal; they were
always consigned to the music or the band. This felt different, more precarious. Paul wanted to shy
away from it, but he was too angry. He opened his mouth to make a further point, but John beat
him to it.

“Hey,” John sighed, one hand out as though to ward off further argument and the other going to rub
over his eyes. He looked over his glasses at Paul. “It’s only me, remember?”

Paul stopped. His anger halting its upward trajectory.

“I get it, I do,” John continued, “I’m just…” He swallowed. “Don’t you ever feel trapped by all
this?”

Paul shook his head, even though he knew what John meant. John had spent enough time lamenting
the tribulations of fame. Paul didn’t always agree with him. But, this, this he did understand. It was
hard, hiding something, the fear that it would all come out lurking even in the happiest moments.

“It’s opened as many doors as it’s closed.” He took a step closer to John and froze, unsure if they
were still arguing or not. “Just think of all the people we’ve been able to meet, all the places we’ve
gone. None of that would have happened without it.”

“But we’re trapped in this fucking cage while we do it,” John sighed.

Paul didn’t know what he meant by that, it wasn’t how he felt at all. London, if anything, was wide
open; there wasn’t a room he couldn’t get into, not a single person that didn’t take his call. He
loved every moment of it, tried to take advantage as much as possible.

“Are you trying to burn it all down then?” he asked, a strange cold feeling creeping up his spine.
“Trying to shed the ill-fitting suit?”

John looked at him and his face crumpled. “No,” he said. “Come on, I’d never do anything like
that on purpose. I was just trying to say there’s more to me. I hate all these people looking and
looking and yet none of them getting it.” He rubbed a hand over his face again.

“Yeah,” Paul sighed, some of the anger draining away. It wasn’t like anything had happened, the
comment was buried in the middle of the article. It probably didn’t matter. “Just, be a bit more
careful?”

“Sure,” John nodded, “anything for you, Paulie.”

———

Of course, Paul had missed the actual iceberg entirely. The queer quote hadn’t made it over to
America. Thank fuck. Who even knew why. But somehow the nonsense about Jesus had. And all
hell had broken loose.

“Fucking hell, it was just an opinion,” John hissed, pacing the hotel room. “Who gives a shit what I
think about God? What does it even matter?”

Paul didn’t know what to tell him. None of it made any sense. Not much of their lives did anymore.
He wasn’t even sure he disagreed with anything John had said. Not even the queer stuff, despite his
inital anger. And it wasn’t like John would ever say anything that was meant to be this
inflammatory. None of them could have imagined the level of fuss that was being made all around
them. It felt like they were the only sane ones left.

“It’s alright,” he said, trying to sound calming. “It’s not your fault this is happening. I can’t even be
mad at Maureen, though I’ve tried.”

“You’ve never liked her,” John said, stopping his pacing to look at Paul closely.

“You’ve liked her enough for both of us.”

The old argument was enough to break the last of the tension and John laughed. It wasn’t much of
one, hardly even a chuckle, but Paul was glad of it anyway.

“It’ll blow over,” he said, trying to sound confident. “Give it a couple of days.”

———
It didn’t blow over. It got worse. And then worse again.

John was forced to issue a proper apology. He gave in once the death threats started rolling in.
None of them could quite believe they were in real danger, but the terrified looks on Tony and
Brian’s faces had finally convinced John he didn’t have a choice. He’d been almost in tears by the
end of the meeting, and Paul had had to work hard not to lose his rag at Brian for upsetting him
even more, despite it being in no way his fault.

Still, Paul couldn’t help the small, resentful feeling that Brian should have been able to stop it.

“Klein would have had this thing done by now,” he sniped, looking away from John’s pale face.
“He’d have met with some church leaders and it would all be over.”

Brian ignored the comment and looked at John.

“Let’s just get this apology written,” he said, soft and almost pleading. “Then it’ll blow over.”

It didn’t work.

If anything it seemed to encourage more questions. Paul took to fielding them. It was easier that
way. They weren’t annoyed at him and he was better able to keep his cool.

Paul hated almost every moment of every press conference. He was furious: at the reporters, at the
stupid DJs, at the crowds that gathered because they had nothing better to do than be hateful. But
he mostly swallowed it down. They just had to get through the tour. Once it was done, they’d all
be able to breathe again. Reassess.

But the days plodded by, each one marked by another stupid set of questions. Each more awful
than the last.

“Do you hate your fans?”

“Do you hate God?”

“Why are you so rude and conceited?”

It was starting to make him feel almost trapped. They all took to hiding in their rooms when they
weren’t needed elsewhere.

Then someone set off an explosive near the stage in Memphis. Paul hadn’t truly believed they were
in real danger until that moment. But for a split second he’d thought that was it: one of them was
going to die. The terror was bone deep and lingered for hours after the show was over.

Paul took a bath automatically, when they finally managed to get back to the hotel, because that’s
what he did after a show. But then he seemed to run out of energy to do anything else but sit on the
edge of his bed with the thin white towel wrapped around his waist. He wasn’t sure how long he’d
been staring blankly ahead when John’s voice startled him back to himself.

“I just wanted to say,” he said, standing not quite within touching distance of Paul’s bed, “thanks
for… You know, sticking by me with the press and everything.”

“Of course,” Paul said. “You’re making me look bad too, you know. It’s my job to clean it up.”

The joke was feeble, not helped by the fact it contained too much truth for either of them to be
happy about.
“I wish you didn’t have to.” John looked at his feet, meaning Paul couldn’t see his expression. “But
I’m glad you do.”

“I don’t mind.” It wasn’t even really a lie; he enjoyed being able to protect John for once. God
knew they’d all set him on plenty of people they didn't want bothering them in the past. “It’s going
to be alright, you know.”

John nodded.

“It’ll all blow over.”

“It’ll be done for Christmas,” John finished, still not looking at him. “Long as we’re not all dead by
then.”

He looked so genuinely distressed that Paul’s stomach clenched painfully.

“John,” he tried. “Seriously, this is all mental; everyone’s lost their damn minds. You didn’t say
anything wrong.”

“I wanted people to think I was smart,” he said.

“Well, they certainly think you’re a thinker,” he tried, unsure what John was trying to get at.

“I mean, I was just showing off,” he said. “That’s me, always fucking up because I need to be the
centre of attention. Which I fucking hate when I am, anyway.”

“John, I—”

But he wasn’t listening. Paul could see the way his breathing was accelerating, the nervous energy
coursing through him, making his body twitch. “I thought we were going to die tonight. I thought
I’d- fuck, Paul if anything had happened to you, because I couldn’t keep my mouth shut, I don’t
think I could…”

“John,” he said again, getting to his feet. He walked the few steps over to him and paused, looking
at him intently. John looked tired, almost gaunt. “It’s okay. We’re okay. Nothing happened.”

“This time,” he breathed. “But what about when I say the next stupid thing or forget myself and do
something that I can’t take back?”

“Well try and not do that,” he said, knowing the joke would fall flat. John looked away from him,
his gaze falling to the floor. “If anything else happens, we’ll sort that too. Maybe it’ll be me next,
or George. Maybe Brian’ll mess up. We can’t know. But what we do know is that we’ll be able to
fix it.”

John finally looked up, his eyes were wide and shining. “I thought I’d got you killed.”

Paul’s heart clenched again. The terror of the evening flooding back all at once at the look on
John’s face. He swallowed fruitlessly around the pain in his throat.

“I know,” he managed. “I thought - just for a second - but I thought something had happened to you
too.”

John reached out and grabbed his shoulder. His hand was shockingly warm against Paul’s skin.

“It’s getting more and more insane,” he whispered. “The Philippines, Texas, and now this. It feels
like it’s getting too big, moving too fast. I can’t keep ahead of it. I can’t figure out how to keep us
all safe and moving forward.”

He didn’t know what to say. It did feel like that. This thing, this Beatles Train, really had started to
feel like it was running away with them. Like it was hurtling forward towards what might end up
being a sheer cliff edge.

“We’ll do it together then.”

John’s mouth quirked but he didn’t smile. “If someone had hurt you…” he started.

Paul put out a hand, resting it on John’s chest to stop him. “I know,” he whispered.

If something had happened to John he wasn’t sure what he’d have done, but he didn’t think it
would be pretty. It made his vision go dark around the edges. His knees felt a little weak at the
memory of the explosion, the way the terror had hit him like a physical force.

He pressed forward, hardly aware of how little he was actually wearing, of how it would look. He
just needed to be closer to John. His other hand joined the first on John’s chest; he could feel
John’s heart hammering like a trapped bird. He felt solid. Alive.

“Paul-” The word sounded like a plea, a prayer. It set something aflame in Paul’s chest.

He had no idea which of them leant in. Perhaps they met in the middle. But one moment they’d
been staring, almost desperately at one another, and the next John was in his arms.

The kiss was inelegant, like most of their kisses started out. It seemed as though they weren’t quite
able to control them; too desperate to hold back the swell of emotion. It always felt more like a dam
breaking than anything else. The irrepressible release of feelings they’d been holding back for too
long.

“We have to be careful,” John whispered when he pulled back. He was still clinging to Paul. His
grip was almost painful, but Paul didn’t want him to loosen it even a little. “Fuck, if anyone found
out about…” John swallowed, pressed his forehead to Paul’s. “We’d be dead.”

Paul didn’t respond. There wasn’t anything to say to that. John was right. If his innocuous
comment could cause this … a shudder ran through Paul at the thought of what would happen if
anyone discovered these moments between them.

“I hate it,” John whispered. “I hate that I can’t stop feeling like this about you when it’s…”

“Don’t,” he cut in. He couldn’t bear to hear John discredit it. He understood, could sympathise
even, but, “I wouldn’t change it. I wouldn’t change a single thing about us.”

“Fuck,” it was a choked exclamation of pain, that Paul swallowed with a kiss.

His hand went to John’s trousers. It wasn’t a conscious decision, just a primal need to touch, to
reassure himself that John was there, safe. That they were together.

“I need to feel you,” he said, desperate, “John, I need...”

“Fuck,” John breathed. “Yes, yes. Yes.”

He’d barely managed to slip his hand into John’s trousers to brush his fingers over John’s cock
before John moaned into his mouth and pulled away. Paul’s huff of frustration was cut off as John
yanked the towel, that miraculously had remained around Paul’s waist, away. Then he dropped to
his knees.

“Oh,” Paul breathed, as John swallowed him down.

His mind hadn’t had time to fully catch up with what was happening before that moment. The
feeling of John’s mouth around him was so intense that his knees almost buckled.

He reached out blindly, hands landing on John’s shoulders. He patted blindly over him, brushing
over his neck and face until touching his hair. It was that which brought it home to him. This was
John on his knees for him in a nameless hotel room. Paul’s hands tightened in John’s hair, not
tugging, but wanting to feel it between his fingers.

John groaned around him and that sent a wave of pleasure so intense through Paul that he thought
he might have cried out. He didn’t even have any idea if what John was doing was technically
good, because just the knowledge of what was happening was enough. The wet, hot, suction was
driving him crazy.

Then one of John’s hands moved from where it had been resting on Paul’s hip. It moved between
Paul’s legs to cup his balls, tug on them gently.

“Ah yes.” Paul knew he was probably being too loud, but there wasn’t any way he could have
stopped himself. “Please, yes, don’t stop. Yes. John.”

It was clear from the moment John had taken him into his mouth that he wasn’t going to last.
Everything was too heightened. The stress of the last few weeks, how long he’d wanted to touch
John and not been able to. He’d wanted it too much and now it was happening he wasn’t going to
be able to hold onto the feeling for long enough.

“John,” he panted, reaching out, cupping his cheek. “John, stop, I’m going to-”

He wanted to pull back, but there was no way he had the willpower for that. Not when all he
wanted was to drive forward into the welcoming heat of John’s mouth. And then John’s arm
looped around his back, anchoring him in place.

“Oh my God,” he managed, as he realised what John was giving him permission for.

Then it was all over. His world went momentarily dark as the pleasure crashed over him.
Everything went tight and focused as he rode the wave of pleasure, feeling it spark and catch right
down to his toes.

When he came back to himself, the first thing he felt was John’s arm around him, then the way his
hands had curled in John’s hair. He was panting like he’d just finished a set. His every nerve
ending was alive with contentment.

He didn’t think, just reached blindly down and yanked John up to his feet and kissed him. He
realised with growing frustration that John was almost entirely clothed. He tugged at his shirt, only
to find a vest under it. Then he moved to John’s trousers, found he was hard, leaking into his pants
and groaned into their kiss.

He tried to pull his hand out, intending to finish getting John naked, but somehow got stuck and had
to wriggle it to free it.

“Fucking hell,” he groused.

John laughed. But then he was tugging out of his shirt and vest and stepping out of his trousers.
Paul didn’t wait for him to do more, just reached for him and pulled him close. He breathed a sigh
of relief as their bare chests touched. He wanted to touch him everywhere, feel every part of him.

He dragged him to the bed, falling back onto it and pulling John down on top of him. He hooked a
leg around him immediately, arching up to rub against him. He wasn’t hard, not yet, but it was
enough to feel John’s cock push against his stomach. It felt illicit, despite the fact he’d done far
more out there things in the past.

“Want you,” he breathed, between kisses. “Want all of you.”

John’s eyes were closed, his hips working to press down into Paul, meeting his thrusts.

“Want you to come on me,” he said, surprising even himself with it.

“Fuck,” John hissed, his movement stuttering.

The thrill of power was enough to have Paul’s cock perk back up and he reached between them to
grip them in one hand.

“That’s it,” he breathed, as they moved together. “Fuck, you feel good.”

John was making little noises, half cut-off moans, as Paul’s hand moved over them. The sound of
them was almost better than the feel of John’s cock in his hand or the way their precome mingled
as he pumped them.

“Come on, darling,” he moaned, arching up into his own hand. “Let me hear you. Let me feel
you.”

“Paul,” John hissed. It wasn’t quite the shout Paul wanted, but it was a good starting point.

He moved his other hand down John’s back to his arse, grabbing it so he could pull them together.

“Wanna fuck you,” he said, the words slipping out easily, like he’d been waiting to say them for
years.

“Yes,” John said, nodding as he gasped the word. Pressed a kiss to Paul’s lips. “Want to feel you.
Want you inside me.”

He was already on the edge again, and John’s words were too much. He kissed him hard. Shoving
his tongue into his mouth, wishing they had more time, that it wasn’t always like this between
them: snatched moments of desperation.

“So close,” he gasped, “come on, come for me.”

“Oh God,” John said, and then he was coming between them.

The feel of it, the splash against his hand, on the hot skin of his stomach was enough to tip him
over for the second time. He kissed John, their groans muffled as they worked themselves through
it.

They were both sticky with sweat and come, when John finally pulled back, and rested his head on
Paul’s collarbone for a moment before he rolled off him onto his back. Paul sighed and reached
down beside the bed and grabbed the closest piece of clothing, an under vest, and used it to clean
them both off. Then he looked at John, saw that he was being watched closely. He needed to say
something. He opened his mouth, although without any idea of what was going to come out.
“Don’t,” John said, putting a finger on Paul’s lips, “Don’t fucking say anything. Let us just have
this. I know, alright. Let me just have this for now.”

“Yeah,” he managed, arms snaking around John and pulling him close. “Yeah, okay.”

They held each other close. Paul didn’t think he managed to sleep until the sun was already
bleeding in through the thin hotel curtains.

———

“Marry me.”

The words hung in the air between them. Paul hadn’t really planned to say it. But it was out there
now, and he wasn’t about to back down. He wasn’t on one knee; that had always seemed like it
would be awkward. Like begging, which was silly when you knew what was going to happen
anyway.

Jane didn’t leap into his arms, crying with joy. Instead she blinked in obvious surprise. “Where’s
this come from?”

He thought of the last reporter, the way they’d alluded to, but not actually asked, about John’s
other comments in the article. He thought about the death threats and the explosion on stage. He
thought about John’s skin under his hands, the sounds he’d made for Paul.

“I dunno,” he said. “It’s time, isn’t it? Besides, this tour, I… It feels like it’s not worth the hassle
sometimes. This fame stuff. I want to concentrate on the things that matter.”

Jane’s mouth was forming into a smile. She looked beautiful. More radiant than he’d ever seen her.
Dread filled his chest with such force that he almost staggered under the weight of it. His stomach
was twisting itself violently. None of which made any sense. This was supposed to be the best
moment of his life, wasn’t it? Proposing to the woman he loved, people said that. You weren’t
meant to feel hollow and afraid.

“Oh, Paul,” she sighed, and hugged him tightly. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” he repeated back, mechanical sounding. Which was strange, because he meant it.

“Of course I’ll marry you!” She laughed, delighted and still obviously surprised. “And to think I
thought you’d make me wait another year at least before you got all that Beatle nonsense out of
your system.”

“What’s that mean?”

“You know,” she said, “the fame thing. Thinking all those girls love you like I do.”

“Oh,” he said, relieved, “no, of course, I know it’s different with you.”

“Come to bed,” she said. “Do you have a ring?”

“No,” he said, then added quickly, “I thought you’d want to pick it out. More fun that way.”

In truth he’d never in his life considered going to a jewellery shop to look at engagement rings.

“That’ll be lovely,” she agreed. “I am sorry that the tour’s been awful.”

“Yeah, you know, it’s fine really. It’ll all blow over.” He paused. “I think we might even stop
touring.”

tbc
 Chapter 7

September 1966

When he’d bought his own house the year before, it had felt like a release; indisputable proof he’d
made it. He’d been able to decorate it however he pleased, invite as many people over as possible
and generally feel like the king of his own castle at last. It was brilliant.

Of course, since the engagement, Jane had busied herself with changing it from his to theirs. She’d
set about decorating, ordering all manner of new art, and arranging furniture like a second job. Paul
wanted to help, but whenever he tried, a strange out-of-body feeling overtook him, like he was
watching some other couple decorate their perfect little house. The feeling was so strange that he
always quickly made his excuses to leave. Perhaps it was better to leave her to it; it was important
that she felt comfortable in the house when she was officially living there.

In the meantime, he was still able to explore London. In fact, it felt more important than ever that
he make the most of being able to properly enjoy it. There was a ticking clock, nearing the end of
its countdown. He threw himself into it, using the free time he’d never had before.

In truth, he’d needed the distraction to keep him from thinking of either the wedding or, worse,
John. The image of John’s face when Paul had told him about the engagement lingered when he let
himself pause too long. The way it had lost colour, the grim set of his mouth. The way he hadn’t
even been able to look at Paul.

“Congratulations,” John finally mumbled. It was a small, sad sound.

Paul’s heart had given a pathetic throb. He wanted to reach out, give comfort. But he kept himself
perfectly still. They were just inside John’s house, hardly over the threshold. Paul had just blurted
it out, all at once, unable to keep it inside a moment longer.

“It’s-” he started and had to stop to lick his lips. “It’s time.”

John had nodded. His eyes on the floor. “Because of what happened on tour?”

His instinct was to deny it, to push a way the pain that was gathering like a cloud around both of
them. “I… We can’t have people looking too closely. Not now.”

John’s jaw went tight, Paul’s eyes caught on the way his hands balled into fists. For a moment he
looked like he did when they were back in Liverpool. Just another angry young man, prowling the
streets looking for trouble.

“Right.”

“It was always going to happen.”

“Right.”

“Nothing-”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” John spat, eyes flashing as he finally looked at Paul, “say nothing’s
going to change.”

Paul closed his mouth. He wanted to apologise, but really, there was no point. He wasn’t sure there
was anything to even apologise for, especially when John was already married. It was inevitable
he’d have to do the same. And a way to keep them both safe. It was the right thing to do. Just
because it hurt, didn’t mean it wasn’t.

He swallowed the words. “Will you…” he didn’t know what he wanted to ask. If John would be
okay. If he’d come to the wedding. If he was angry with him. Probably none of those were fair to
ask.

John looked at him, waiting. But there was nothing else to say.

“The announcement will be out in The Times tomorrow.”

“Great,” John gritted out.

Paul wanted to say more, wanted to find a way to make it better. But there was nothing else to say.
Nothing that would change the situation for them. Nothing that would make it hurt less.

“I- I better go,” he said, in the end. His voice broke, just slightly, the smallest hitch, on the final
word. He cleared his throat. “Jane’s waiting for me.”

They were going ring shopping. He felt queasy and sad at the thought of it. He wanted to ask for
comfort but wasn’t sure how. Knew it was selfish.

“Great.”

John hadn’t looked away. Paul felt rooted to the spot. He couldn’t move towards him, but the
thought of walking away was awful. They stared at one another for a long moment.

It was John that finally looked away. Back down at his shoes. “See you around, then.”

A dismissal. Paul tried not to feel the rejection and nodded instead. “See you soon,” he said,
although it sounded hollow.

John hadn’t said anything else. In the end he’d had no choice but to walk away.

That had been weeks ago. He hadn’t seen John since. He needed to give himself, and more
importantly John, some space until they were able to return to some sort of equilibrium.

“Do you like it?” Robert asked, startling Paul out of his wandering thoughts.

Robert’s head was cocked close to Paul’s as he stared at the painting hanging on the wall in front
of them. He’d given Paul a tour of the exhibit early and personally.

Paul loved going there when things were being set up. It felt exclusive, more personal. Plus he was
able to ask all the questions he wanted. He still wasn’t exactly an expert.

It wasn’t that he hadn’t been interested in art before. He had, even back at school he’d wished he
could be at the Institute with John, studying something that seemed actually interesting. But, before
Jane, he hadn’t known much about art. It had seemed too big, too closed, for him to really engage
with.

But then Peter took him out and showed him an entirely new world. It had helped, having the
Ashers around. Another thing that he loved Jane for. He loved all of them. They were interesting
and educated. Funny and welcoming. They’d given him so much, made him so welcome. Marrying
Jane to keep it all, it made sense.
Peter had shown him a world that seemed to be inhabited exclusively by the elites of London, and
more, the elites with their fingers on the pulse of what was hot. Well, Robert’s fingers were on it.
Everyone else seemed to rely on him to point the way.

Not that he was different, really. But he knew Robert genuinely liked him. Or at least, he got early
access whenever he wanted it.

“Does that matter?” he asked, grinning and turning to look at Robert.

He laughed, rolling his eyes. “Honestly,” he said. “So practical, Mr. McCartney. Art is about more
than an investment. It’s meant to move you; I thought you’d appreciate that more than most.”

It was the same joke they’d been telling each other since they’d met years before. Paul had liked
him right away. He was forthright and funny, easily sharp enough to keep up with whatever Paul
threw at him. He was smart and clearly on the make, which Paul appreciated about him most of all.
He’d also always loved being able to learn from someone, and Robert had always been more than
happy to share his expertise.

“Can’t make you dance, can it?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Robert said. “There’s a piece over there that made my hips sway a little with the
sheer brilliance and vibrancy of colour.”

“You’ll have to show me that one next, then,” Paul said. He looked back at the painting. “This is
the one, you think?”

Robert tipped his head from one side to the other. “Perhaps,” he pursed his lips. “Most likely.”

“Go on then,” Paul sighed. “You only let me in early to strong arm me into it anyway.”

“My dear,” Robert put his hand to his chest in mock outrage. “I would never have an ulterior
motive for seeing you.”

There was no need to dignify that with a response.

“Shall we have dinner?” he asked, still looking at the painting. He did like it, on reflection. It was
impressionist, the sort of thing that Jane often hated. But, perhaps she’d be alright with it in one of
the halls.

“Yes, yes,” Robert said, distracted as he busied himself with placing a sold sign, discreetly, next to
the information. He liked to make sure at least twenty percent of the pieces were sold before an
opening. Apparently that was the sign of a good show.

“Good, you’re paying.” Paul patted his pockets. Of course he hadn’t brought any money with him
anyway. Not that that seemed to matter.

“Preference of venue?”

“Whatever you think.”

He’d always trusted Robert as a guide to what was most interesting around London. And together,
there was nowhere that was ever closed to them. It felt, increasingly, like London was his personal
playground, where he knew everyone and everyone knew him. There was always something
happening, and if there wasn’t, he could change that with just a phone call. There really wasn’t
anything that was off the table for him.
As long as that didn’t involve seeing John. Not that he was even sure what he was doing anymore.
John had gone off to Spain with Richard Lester not long after the announcement. Paul hadn’t let
himself dwell on whether he’d come back. It was easy to see it; John as a big movie star, he had the
talent and the looks, after all, and increasingly few reasons to want to come back to England.
Perhaps he’d start writing scripts with Richard, what a pair they’d make. Hollywood would be
theirs within a year.

He turned to Robert. “Then let’s get drunk.”

Robert grinned at him, delighted.

They ended up somewhere beautifully refined, quiet but with a definite buzz of activity in the air.
They were quickly ushered to a table at the back; it was cosy but not at all dingy. Exactly the sort
of place Robert always seemed to know how to find. Paul envied that; he was never really sure
how to find a new trend. He knew what he liked and was generally not shy about showing it off.
But, he was aware that was not the same as what was considered cool.

“Thought you’d take me a queer place,” Paul said, after they’d ordered and he’d leant back in his
chair to look around.

Robert raised both eyebrows. “Thought we were eating first,” he said. “I also wasn’t aware it was
one of those nights.”

That Robert was queer had been obvious from day one. Paul knew when someone was checking
him out, knew to take note when he automatically turned on the charm in return. It usually meant
he was going to like them a lot. And he did; he adored the London that opened up for them when
they were together. Especially the queer places Robert seemed to know about as soon as they
opened.

“Being queer isn’t what it was, you know,” Robert said, one day, as he showed Paul around one
such establishment. He’d paused, taking a long drag, his eyes fixed on Paul the entire time. “Not
long for us to be hiding in the shadows now. This is our time. We’re running London: from the art,
to the theatre, to the music scene.”

He’d grinned wickedly at Paul, and Paul had been helpless but to smile back. He’d never talked
about his own feelings for men and Robert never asked. Paul thought it was just implied.

Robert talked about the history of queer men through the ages, and gave Paul books and
philosophy that talked about it. They gossiped about which other famous men perhaps had the
same leanings. He’d never been so free with anyone before. Not even John, because there was none
of the lingering resentment of what it meant for their own relationship. It was just fun. Joyful
almost.

Robert also took Paul with him to his clubs and showed him an entire culture thriving and creating
right out in the open. It was intoxicating to be around, even the danger of it. Not that Paul ever took
any of the men home, unlike Robert. It was all about plausible deniability. Robert made no secret
that he was only for the men. So, people would assume Paul was just there on his behalf. They’d
all done it before, with Brian. It wasn’t so unusual, especially as the clubs became known as being
the top nightclubs.

On the rare occasions Paul indulged with a man, it was always a mutual friend. Someone he was
completely sure of. But it was rare. Vanishingly so. Although the frequency had crept up since the
engagement. Like some awful part of him was rebelling.
It was clear, being around it first hand, that things were changing. Homosexuality was soon going
to be legalised, and people were becoming more daring with their own lives. It was only a matter of
time. Then… Paul didn’t really know what then. Nothing most likely. It wasn’t like it was going to
become acceptable overnight. But perhaps one day. Too late for him, of course. He’d be long
married, probably a grandfather by then. Still, it was bittersweetly comforting to think about.
Perhaps one day he might be able to say how he truly felt out loud to a crowd of people.

“It’s always potentially one of those nights with you,” Paul said, bringing himself back to the
present.

Robert looked delighted. “Very well,” he said, mock bowing over the table at him, “whatever sir
wishes.”

Dinner was elegant; full of flavour while remaining delicate, and not overpowering. The night
afterwards bent and blended in Paul’s memory into a blur of colour and sound. It was laughter and
music. Dancing, interspersed with serious conversations about the state of the political culture in
Britain. Then back into tables slick with spilt drinks and the hot press of bodies on the dance floor.

Nights like that always spilled over and landed back at Cavendish. It was why he’d bought it to
begin with. There were too many people. His living room was overflowing as he played music,
sometimes himself at the piano and sometimes by putting on records. The night tumbled forward
until it was almost light outside.

Only Robert remained. He always seemed to outlast anyone. Sometimes even Paul. Another thing
Paul liked about him immensely. He knew how to handle his drink - and whatever else - and never
became a gibbering wreck like some people. Never embarrassed himself. He was always so
refined. Paul liked watching him, seeing how he held himself.

“Another capital evening,” Paul sighed, collapsing down next to him on the sofa. “Thank you for
providing the entertainment, Bob.”

He meant finding the clubs. But then also the little packets of white powder that had fuelled them
right through and past dawn. He could still feel the dregs of it, humming through him.

“And thank you,” Robert sighed, turning his head where it rested on the back of the sofa, so he was
looking at Paul, “for being there.”

He laughed. He knew he was about to crash, but he liked the time just before that. He let himself
drift as he sat close to Robert, their arms pressing lightly together.

“Thank you,” he agreed, turning his own head, slowly. It felt heavy, just like the rest of him.

He found Robert watching him carefully. Surprise shot through Paul like a bolt of lightning,
erasing the easy, sleepy feeling in a moment. He’d expected Robert to make a move when they’d
first met; he’d waited for it. He’d seen him looking, had enjoyed their flirting. But he never had.
Paul had assumed he’d decided that it was a bad idea to mix such a good business stream with sex.

Now, he realised it was more than that. Robert had waited because he liked Paul. Not in a shag and
discard the morning after sort of way. Liked in a way that made you want to savour the moment.
He frowned. The special treatment, the after-hours tours and first-come offers to events were
thrown into a new light.

And Paul had let it happen. Not just that. He’d encouraged it. It wasn’t Robert that had called and
asked to go out. It wasn’t Robert that turned up unannounced at the gallery, wanting to be shown
around. It wasn’t Robert putting on showings of films for them to watch together. It wasn’t even
Robert who had suggested they go to the queer bars.

Paul swallowed, unable to look away. It happened almost in slow motion. He watched, frozen in
place, as Robert leant forward. And kissed him. It was a soft press of lips, not demanding or
insistent. It was a statement of intent, the culmination of months and months. Of the hours they’d
spent together. The laughter and the partying.

To his great surprise, Paul let out a little noise. A half wounded sound, as Robert pressed forward,
his hands coming to cradle the side of his face.

Paul had fucked his friends before. Even a couple of his male ones. This didn’t feel like that. It
didn’t feel like when he and Tara had hooked up. A silly fumble when they were so drunk they
could barely get off for laughing so much. Paul felt his heart turn over in his chest. He knew a kiss
when it was something else. Something more. Bigger.

Panic swept over him in a mighty wave. John’s face flashed into his mind, followed closely by
Jane’s.

He pulled back. Robert didn’t chase him, just opened his eyes and waited. Paul tried to find the
words to apologise or explain. But nothing came out.

“I was thinking,” Robert said, his tone careful, like he was gently exploring an idea. “That a
holiday might be in order. I have a mind to see Paris; there’s some shows that seem like they might
not be utterly tedious. And I have a list of restaurants that I’m meaning to try as long as my arm.
Would you be interested in coming along?”

He was. He knew he’d love it. He could almost see it; Robert showing him the sights. Drinking
expensive wine and eating fancy food. Then they’d go back to a beautiful hotel that would
probably overlook the tower. And they’d make love. Because that’s what it would be, if he went. It
couldn’t be anything else.

But then he thought about John. He imagined telling him about going away with Robert, after Paul
had insisted that John not go to Spain with Brian. This wasn’t the same, he knew that. Robert was a
friend and not their manager. But it was also worse. More dangerous - not as dangerous as being
with John, probably. But not so different.

The silence dragged on as he tried to find the words to explain it to Robert. He didn’t know about
John, he didn’t think. He certainly didn’t know about how Paul felt about him. It was all too
tangled to try and tease out of him now.

“I’m not one of your boys,” Paul finally managed to say. His voice was weak, still clearly shaken.
So he forced himself to relax, to adjust his posture into something more open. He managed to
smile, coy and gently mocking.

He watched Robert’s face change as understanding dawned on him. “Ah, I see,” he said, after a
moment of silent observation. “You like the chase but not the catching. A pity.”

It was lightly admonishing, but not angry or even accusing. Then, to his great relief, Robert smiled
back at him.

“I’m–” he started,

“Oh please don’t apologise,” Robert said, grimacing, “that’s worse. Makes me feel like one of
your girls.”
Paul didn’t know what to say.

“Maybe I’ll see if John wants to come away again,” he said, winking at him. “Perhaps he’ll buy
another island.”

Paul huffed a laugh. It was awkward, but he appreciated Robert trying to lighten the mood. He’d
heard the story of Robert’s impromptu trip with John; another in a litany of ‘mad John stories’ that
made their way around London. The number grew daily.

“You never know your luck,” Paul said, voice almost normal.

“Excellent,” Robert said, and then Paul felt the sofa dip as he clearly pushed himself up. “With
which thought, I shall leave you.”

“Right,” Paul said, sitting up so he could watch him leave. “See you later then.”

Robert paused, looking at him for a long moment. He looked sad, the disappointment clear in his
expression.

But it would pass. Paul knew it would. It wasn’t like Robert could have expected any other
outcome, not really.

Indeed, after a moment, the expression was gone, replaced by something much more cheery. “See
you, Mr. McCartney.”

October 1966

Paul stared at the phone. It looked innocent enough, its sleek black plastic gleamed dully in the low
light of the lamp next to it. He narrowed his eyes at it. It looked innocent, but Paul knew better.
Anything that caused him so much anxiety couldn’t possibly be morally neutral.

He knew it wasn’t going to ring. Or at least it wasn’t going to ring for the right reason. It had
already rung three times that evening for the wrong reasons. He was starting to resent the sound of
it, the way it made his heart leap only to sink down to somewhere around his toes when he ran over
to bring it to his ear only to find it wasn’t the person he wanted on the other end.

John had only arrived home the day before, and it had been weeks and weeks since he’d heard
anything at all from him. Nothing, in fact, since his engagement. There had been some perfunctory
business dealings. But no more. So there was no reason on Earth to assume John would suddenly
break his silence to call Paul now. Just being back in England made no difference. He probably
needed to settle in anyway.

Even after a holiday, John liked some time just to be. He didn’t really like to be bothered. Paul
knew he probably should be happy that he’d come back at all, and hadn’t just gone off to make
more films. But any joy he might have felt was dampened by the knowledge that John had been in
Paris for a break after filming.

And Brian had met him there.

The memory of John’s planned trip to Spain had raced through Paul to land cold and heavy in his
stomach. Rationally he didn’t think anything had happened. Not now. John and Brian were friends,
but often even that was tempestuous. Just because Paul and John weren’t speaking, it didn’t mean
anything. He was pretty sure. He’d be more sure, though, if he could just hear John again, then
he’d know if anything had truly changed between them.
It was getting late. Shadows were lengthening across the room and Paul had to squint to see the
phone’s numbers. The longer he sat, unmoving, the deeper his unease got. With the engagement he
was already anxious most of the time; he wasn’t sure he could cope with the uncertainty of John’s
feelings towards him on top of that. He wasn’t sure if anything in particular sparked him into rising
all at once to his feet and going over to the phone. Perhaps the dread had just gotten so heavy he
needed to shake it off. He needed to move, to take action; he couldn’t wait any longer.

Cyn answered the phone after it rang for what felt like a week. She was polite and kind, just like
she always was. She went to fetch John immediately, there seemed no doubt in her mind that John
would want to speak to him. That was some comfort at least. But he still held his breath while he
waited for John’s voice. He didn’t dare consider that he’d refuse the call. He’d just drive around in
the morning, if so, no matter how desperate that might seem.

“What?” John barked, making Paul start slightly. His voice was hard, almost brittle.

Paul’s chest filled with warmth. It was so sudden that it was almost painful. “You’re back.”

There was a pause, just a fraction too long. Paul imagined John narrowing his eyes. “Seems so.”

There was silence. He floundered for something to say that didn’t sound totally inane. Perhaps he
should have gone over, it was always easier when he could see John. But the prospect of having the
door shut in his face was too much. “Good trip?”

“Yeah. Paris. You know.”

He closed his eyes. “Yeah, I know. How’s Brian?”

“What do you want, Paul?” John’s voice sounded, for a moment, so like Mimi’s when she was
demanding to know what they were thinking, traipsing mud all through the house that Paul was
rooted to the spot. He didn’t know what to say, if he ought to apologise, stand and fight or turn tail
and flee. “If you want to know about Brian you can call him, I’ve got stuff I need to do.”

“George’s going on at me to write this film thing,” he blurted out.

He was holding the receiver too tightly, like it might be his only lifeline. He hadn’t planned out
exactly what he was going to say and the score was a flimsy excuse, something John would see
through in a moment. But he didn’t have anything else, nothing else he could offer. At least
nothing that wouldn’t be embarrassing to say out loud.

There was a pause. “And? Got stage fright or something?”

Paul swallowed. It was clear that John didn’t want to hear from him, that he was still hurt by the
engagement. Usually this would be the moment where Paul backed off, not wanting to rile John
into full anger. He’d found that if he just waited long enough, John would usually cool off.
Sometimes he’d even make the first move in getting them talking again.

But there was a cold pit in his stomach that made him unsure that it would happen this time.
Perhaps John had found something, or some one , that would occupy him. That would finally take
Paul’s place. He wasn’t ready for that, might never be ready. So he forced himself to speak.

“Well, didn’t we always say that we wanted to do one?” he asked. “You know, this is something- I-
If you’re not about to head to Hollywood, it’s something that we could do that’s just us, you know?
Out- Outside of the band.”

There was a long pause. He wished he could see John’s face, wished he hadn’t been so cowardly in
not going over.

“You want my help?”

There was something pointed in John’s voice, like he was wanting something more from Paul than
a simple answer. He had no idea what it was, and his stomach twisted with anxiety.

“Well, we’re Lennon/McCartney, aren’t we?” he said, and knew he was dodging the question. But
he didn’t know what else to do. He knew he wouldn’t be able to just agree, just lay himself so open
in front of John. Not when rejection was still so close that he could practically taste it.

“Are we?”

“What’s that mean?” he asked, swallowing around the terror that wanted to rise up his throat. “Of
course. We’re going to keep going until we’re too old to hold guitars, remember?”

There was another long pause.

“And you still want that?”

“Of course,” he said. That was easy. That he could give without hesitation. “Listen, this’ll be fun,
right? Something we’ve not tried before, show all them snobs that think we don’t know anything
but pop.”

“When?” John asked.

“Tomorrow?” he said, the word slipping out without him meaning it to. He bit his lip. “Or, you
know, whenever you’re ready.”

“Tomorrow could be alright, I guess.” He sounded almost reluctant, but Paul thought it might all be
for show.

He began to relax, his shoulders climbing down from around his ears. “Great,” he said. Then he
paused to gather his remaining courage. “It’ll be good to see you. It’s been ages.”

“Miss me, Macca?”

He meant to make a joke. He was sure he had one ready to go. “Always.”

John sighed. It sounded almost put upon, which wasn’t exactly the response he was hoping for. But
then, “I bloody hated filming.”

It felt like all of Paul’s strings had been cut, he leant heavily against the wall. His other hand came
up to grip the chord of the phone, as though it might keep him balanced. “Yeah?”

“I missed you like hell.” John sighed again. “Didn’t really know who I was over there. Without-
Well, you know.”

Paul closed his eyes, trying to picture John’s face, wishing he were there. He’d reach out and touch
him if he could, reassure himself that he was really there, that they were going to be okay.

“Yeah,” he said. “I know, it’s been… I dunno. It’s weird not touring and not seeing you.”

John hummed and Paul felt the vibration right down to his toes. “I guess we need to figure out what
it means, us not touring.”
“Right,” he said. “But, like. The score is something, right? We can figure out everything else
later.”

“But it’s…” John trailed off into maddening silence.

“It’s what?” he asked when he couldn’t stand it any more.

“It’s us, right?” John sounded unsure, as though perhaps Paul hadn’t been the only one uncertain
about what their future was going to look like.

“Yeah,” he breathed, his heart swelling with pleasure. “Yeah, it’s going to be us, no matter what.”

The last of his fear evaporated. They were going to be fine. Just because he was getting married it
didn’t mean John was suddenly going to find someone else. That was silly. Nothing needed to
really change. Not yet. Perhaps not ever, if he was really clever with it.

He bit his lip. Wondered if he should push his luck, just a little further. It was risky, he knew well
enough that John hadn’t fully forgiven him, that he probably never really would.

“How was Paris?” he asked, blurted, really. But he couldn’t keep it in, couldn’t keep wondering a
moment longer.

“Fine,” John said, easily. “Bit boring after Brian took up with some frog and disappeared on me.”

Paul wondered, just for a moment, if John was telling him the truth. If it was just a lie, like the
many that must trip off his tongue to Cyn. Then he pushed the thought away. John didn’t lie to
him. Despite the fragile peace they’d just made, he didn’t think John would hesitate to break it, if
something had happened with Brian. It was too big. He was sure.

“Ah, bad luck,” he said. “Still, Paris has plenty of delights for the lonely.”

“Yeah,” John said, although his voice was heavy. “Not sure it had what I needed, to be honest.”

“Oh,” Paul said, surprised. “Well, I hope that Surrey treats you better in that case.”

“Thanks Paulie.” He sounded almost sincere.

That was probably his cue to leave while he was still ahead. “Alright,” he said, “should I come by
tomorrow?”

“That’s fine,” he said. “Just not-”

“Too early,” he finished for him. “I know, Johnny.”

A soft laugh floated over the line to him. “Night Paul.”

“Goodnight, John.”

He hung up the phone, placing it gently back in its cradle, and smiled down at it. Maybe it wasn’t
so bad after all.

January 1967

Somewhere along the following weeks, the engagement turned into plans for a wedding. Paul
understood that was how it was meant to work, but he just hadn’t expected it to happen quite so
quickly. Thankfully, there wasn’t a date; he was quite careful never to be drawn on that. The
Beatles’ plans were still up in the air and he didn’t know when he’d have time. But, all the same,
words like “spring” were being bandied about. Paul felt like something heavy was being placed on
his chest the more the word was casually dropped into conversations. The weight of it grew daily
until it felt like he might not be able to breathe for it.

He never seemed to find the words to express his feelings. He didn’t even know exactly what his
feelings were, even if he’d wanted to. He knew this was the entire point of being engaged. They
had to marry. That was what everyone expected. Even him, when it came right down to it. So there
was no point in talking about any of it. From what he knew, men usually felt similar feelings to the
ones he was experiencing, in the run up to their weddings. There was a whole song about it in that
film with Audrey Hepburn.

So, when the part came up in a play that meant Jane would have to be away, he did everything he
could to make sure she went. Short of packing her bags, he couldn’t have been more supportive.
Jane seemed pleased with his sudden change of heart about her need to leave for work, even if it
meant they’d need to put a hold on the wedding plans for a few more months.

“It’s your turn to tour,” he joked. “About time you gave it a go. Now I can keep the home fires
burning for you.”

“Thank you,” she beamed. “I know you hate it when I’m not around for you, but we can call and
you can visit.”

“Yes,” he agreed automatically. He did remember their conversations before and how this might
appear to be a sudden change in opinion. Which it wasn’t; this was just a matter of timing. He
frowned, needing to clarify. “It makes sense you fit it all in before…”

He trailed off as she looked up at him from where she was neatly folding a dress into her suitcase.
The silence grew heavy as her expression darkened, like the gathering of a storm.

“Before I’m a mother and have to stop?” she asked, when Paul didn’t say anything.

He shrugged. “I guess.”

Her mouth pressed into a thin line. “And you’ll be stopping the music will you?”

“That’s different,” he said because it was different. Jane would be a mother and that came with a
whole host of responsibilities; everyone knew that. A father had them too, of course, but they
weren’t the same sort. A family had to be together, that was self-evident. She wouldn’t be able to
drop everything to run off for a part then.

“You’re a pig,” she sighed. But it was without much heat. It wasn’t a new argument between
them.

“Yes,” he agreed. “But we can agree on in which exact ways when you get back.”

That made her laugh and the moment was gone. Although he knew it had simply slunk away to
loiter in the corner of the room. Ready to creep back the moment the topic of what would happen
once they were married was brought up.

“I do love you,” she sighed, although it seemed to bother her somehow.

“And I you,” he smiled.

He kissed her, she let him, folding herself into him easily. This was never the issue between them,
it was always easy. He loved it. She was perfect in almost every way. Surely that meant everything
would find its way to working out for the best.

February 1967

Paul opened the door, feeling almost awake. It had been a long night; first in the studio and then
after he’d invited a few people over. He was still trying to make the most of Jane being away, and
anyway, it was hard to switch off after a session.

“Oh, hello,” he said. Blinking into the watery sunlight at John.

He wasn’t particularly surprised to find John on his doorstep; he’d taken to turning up probably a
couple of times a week. It was nice, Paul always felt a little thrill of something that was almost like
accomplishment when he saw John there; a little confirmation of his desire to see Paul even when
they weren’t forced together through touring. But, he hadn’t seen him in probably over a week.
He’d been considering taking the drive to Weybridge to check on him, but apparently that wasn't
needed now.

Although, it was a little surprising to see Julian hanging off John’s hand, almost half-hidden behind
his legs.

John looked at him, a little pleading and said, “We’ve come to stay for the night.”

“Well good morning,” Paul managed, as he noticed that in John’s other hand was a large suitcase.
His mind ran through at least forty things he was going to have to tidy away immediately. Then he
grinned brightly. “Nice to see you both. Come on in.”

Things between them had been good since they’d done The Family Way score together. George
Martin had been pleased with what they’d done, including the little love song they’d knocked off in
a hurry in November. It seemed to have put them back on a more even keel, knowing that they
could do more than just be in a band together. It seemed clearer than ever how well they worked as
creative partners and best friends. It seemed easier, too, with the wedding delayed while he and
Jane sorted out what was happening with their various careers. Things weren’t back to normal,
exactly, but they seemed to have cemented something between them. It felt almost more stable than
it had before.

It had turned out that they’d needed the space from touring to do the new record; it meant they
could make it something different. Paul was absolutely going to make sure that if they weren’t
touring, it was going to mean something. They needed to do something new, something free from
anything that had gone before, where they could totally reinvent themselves. He’d been brimming
with ideas since the end of the previous year, the blur of London and everything he was learning
crammed into his brain, ready to fall back out as the perfect record.

John seemed to feel the same, despite their time apart after the engagement. He seemed alert,
excited and ready to get to work. To Paul’s utter non-surprise they clicked together to create in a
new way. It didn’t seem to matter that the methods were a bit different, they still knew how to read
one another, how to bounce ideas and elevate them. They made tape loops at home, found new
ways to make sounds and tried out new techniques in the studio. It was fun, engaging, especially in
comparison to the previous album which had started to feel almost repetitive.

George Martin seemed to be in his element. He strode around the studio like a man on a mission.
Paul grinned as he watched him march from the studio to the control room and back. The rest of
the band seemed less sure. George seemed bored, Richie a little withdrawn, but perhaps that wasn’t
surprising. They were still finding their feet with it all. Besides, George had been off in India and
seemed a lot less interested in what they were doing than before he’d left. But it’d all work out fine
once the record was done and they saw it had been worth it.

“Hello Uncle Paul,” Julian said, politely, always a little formal at first.

He grinned and leant down so he could scoop him into his arms. “Welcome to Cavendish,” he said,
stepping back through the door. Julian’s hands were already around his neck, and Paul’s heart
clenched with affection. “Would you like to see your room?” he asked, as Julian’s serious face took
in his surroundings.

“I have my own room?” he asked, almost suspiciously.

“Of course,” Paul agreed. “All the most special guests get their own room.”

He seemed to consider it for a moment before he nodded, holding Paul’s eye as though still
uncertain if he was joking.

“Excellent,” he said, “then perhaps we can play outside? I know Martha will be pleased her best
friend’s come for a visit.”

Julian grinned delightedly and immediately began chattering about all the things he’d seen on the
way over in the car. He didn’t often come to London, and Paul wondered if they ought to take him
out. Show him Big Ben, perhaps. It wasn’t exactly the day he’d planned, but that hardly mattered.
This would be a different sort of fun.

———

“Thanks for this,” John sighed, as they watched Julian throw a ball for Martha, a few hours of
running round London later. She barked happily and obediently went to bring it back for him. Paul
wondered which one of them would get bored of the game first, or if they’d still be at it at
midnight. “Cyn needed a break.”

Paul frowned, turning to him. “Everything alright?”

There was a silence. John’s jaw pulled tight, his eyes narrowing slightly. “She’s gone off to Greece
with her friends. Probably found some greasy waiter to shag her woes away by now.”

Paul raised his eyebrows, disbelief rippling through him at the apparent ease of John’s words.
“What happened to ‘Better run for your life?’”

“I’m too old for all that,” John said, with a wave of his hand. “God knows, I can’t blame her for
it.”

He wanted to ask, knew that he should, but somehow the words wouldn’t come. John seemed so
different since he’d got back from Spain. He knew that acid was meant to change your outlook,
how you thought about the world, and God knew John was taking more than enough for it to
completely transform him. But mostly he’d just seemed calmer, more mellow and affectionate.
Which was good, Paul supposed, although he found John’s propensity to drift away in the middle
of a conversation worrying and frustrating in equal measure.

“It’ll work out,” he said instead of the million other things he wanted to. It sounded hollow.
Suddenly, sitting around seemed like a bad idea. He stood up, smoothing a hand over his shirt. “It’s
getting late, Julian’s probably starving. Should I–”

“The truth is,” John broke in, voice pointed, “it’s over. You know, between me and Cyn.”
Paul sat back down. His mind went blank for a long, startled moment. “What?”

“I’m leaving her. Or, she’s leaving me, it doesn’t really matter,” John wasn’t looking at him, his
eyes focused on Julian at the other end of the garden. He didn’t sound upset, just resigned. “It’s
way past time regardless.”

“How?” Paul couldn’t imagine Cyn ever leaving John, ever really walking away from him. The
idea was sort of insane.

He watched as John swallowed. He tracked the movement of his Adam’s Apple as he waited for
him to say it. He knew what the words would mean, what was about to happen. He held himself
totally still, braced with creeping dread.

“I told her,” John said. His eyes were fixed ahead, watching Julian intently.

Paul’s vision went dark around the edges. “Everything?”

“Enough.”

“About…” He couldn’t seem to say the word ‘us’ like it was a bad omen.

John’s eyes slide to him and away. “Nothing about you ,” he said. “Didn’t need to.”

He wondered what that meant but couldn’t form the words to ask. He swallowed over and over,
trying to force something past his lips. Eventually he managed to choke out, “Jesus, John. What did
she say? What if she–?”

“She won’t,” John cut in. “She needs my money too much for that.” He sounded bitter and Paul
opened his mouth to point out how unfair that was, but John spoke over him. “She doesn’t want the
drama, anyway. No one wants to admit they married a queer, do they? Besides, there’s Julian to
consider. She won’t say anything.”

That Paul could believe. He relaxed slightly, letting out a slow breath. “Jesus,” he said again.
“You’re really sure you can’t work it out? You love her.”

John’s mouth turned up into a lopsided smile. “You know we weren’t even shagging by the end?
Truth is, I couldn’t stand the thought of it most days.”

Paul blinked unseeingly at the side of John’s face. “What do you mean?”

“It just all felt…” he sighed. It was a sad, defeated sound. “Pointless. I can get it easier anywhere
else and she wasn’t bothered.”

They were silent as Paul tried to sort through his shock to find a coherent thought. “You need to
stay here?”

John finally turned to him and smiled, it seemed almost pointed, which Paul didn’t understand. “I
think…” he started and seemed to think better of whatever he was about to say. He shook his head.
“I reckon it makes sense to get my own place. Richie’s got that flat and I wouldn’t want to cramp
your style.”

“Oh, right,” Paul said, feeling disappointed and not wanting to show it. Why was John going to
Richie when he’d already brought Julian to Cavendish? Besides, they had so much work to do on
the new record, it seemed silly him moving elsewhere.
There was a long silence before Paul managed to pick up the thread of the conversation again. “Are
you- Are you sure things with Cyn are done? It’s going to be… It’s just a shame is all.”

John sighed and slipped his hands under his glasses to rub his eyes. “Yeah, I probably shouldn’t
have married her, other than it being the right thing to do. But now I can still do right by them
and… I dunno. I think it’s only fair that we let each other be happy.”

It sounded almost noble when he said it like that. But the knot of worry in Paul’s chest didn’t
loosen. “You loved her though,” he said, unsure why he was even arguing.

“Yeah, yeah,” John agreed. He sounded tired. “But that was a million years ago in a different
universe.”

The truth of that hit Paul all at once. It did seem a long time ago, he could barely remember who
they were back then. Everything had changed so much, so fast.

But we’re still together, he nearly said, but captured the words behind his teeth at the last moment.
It was a stupid, unhelpful thing to say. Not even related to the conversation. He closed his eyes
instead. He could hear Julian laughing, and birds calling out in the trees.

It would be alright. The press would probably have a field day. But, it would blow over eventually.
It was common now. Divorce wasn’t the scandal it used to be. As long as Cyn really kept quiet,
there wasn’t anything to worry about.

“I’ve been talking to Bob,” John said suddenly. “He thinks it’ll be legal next year.”

Fear trickled up Paul’s spine. He opened his eyes to look at John. “Yeah, I’ve heard that too.”

John wasn’t looking at him; his eyes back on Julian and Martha. “Things are changing.”

“Slowly,” he said, voice gone sharp. “Inch by tiny inch. It’s not like a law change will make a
difference to what most people think about it.”

John hummed and didn’t turn to look at him.

The anxiety in Paul’s chest flared.

———

He waited for the backlash after the news got out. But, nothing much happened. Of course the
press screamed about it for a few days, but there wasn’t any great scandal to report. Cyn didn’t say
a word and John let Brian handle the announcement. Who, for his part, looked stressed but not
nearly so bad as America which Paul took to be a good thing. Then John kept a low profile,
working hard on the album, not being seen out.

Slowly, all mention of the divorce died away. Paul let himself relax, feeling almost silly for
worrying in the first place. John wouldn’t do anything that might jeopardise their reputation. If
America had taught him anything, it was that. He should have trusted him.

They released Strawberry Fields and Penny Lane, a test of their new direction. Paul pretended not
to care as they watched it limp its way to number one, despite the unusually sluggish sales.

“See,” John said, when they heard the news, “me being a sinner and ruining Britain’s youth is still
good enough to get us a number one against the odds.”
Paul rolled his eyes but couldn’t stop himself from smiling. “We might have sold double without
it.”

“As if,” John said, lifting his head up, so he could mock-glare down his nose at Paul.

Everything else carried on much as it had been. John seemed to take the upheaval in his personal
life in his stride; if anything, he seemed happy. Once the decision had been made, he looked
lighter, laughing more, being faster to deliver a compliment. He was still tripping almost daily, as
far as Paul knew, but he was more lucid than in the months leading up to his departure from
Kenwood.

Of course Paul should have known that something else would happen. John wasn’t the sort of
person to let things lie.

“You know I’m queer.”

John said it all at once, voice clear and strong. Like it was the natural progression of the
conversation and not a bombshell dropped from a clear blue sky.

Thankfully he at least didn’t say it in the studio. Somehow they’d all ended up at John’s flat. Paul
wasn’t sure how, but later assumed John had orchestrated it without seeming to.

The flat was small compared with what John must have been used to, but it was nice. He’d put up
some art, presumably with the help of Robert, and the walls of the living room were now a rich
green. There was a record player and speakers taking up more room than the space could
accommodate, and John’s guitar and a piano took up the rest. But it made it feel homely rather than
oppressive. Paul liked it and then wondered how he’d never quite managed to make Cavendish feel
that way.

They hadn’t been doing much before John’s sudden proclamation; they’d listened to some of the
tapes from the day and chatted about what they’d do once it was launched. It was a quiet night, a
calm after the rush of the studio. Then John brought it all to a screeching halt.

He’d made announcements in a similar tone before. Like Brian managing them. Or going to
Hamburg. Sometimes he just announced a new reality and expected them to just live with it. He
didn’t pose it as a question, it was a statement of fact, wrapped in an accusation. Or a challenge.

Paul’s whole body locked at once. It was like a bucket of ice had been poured over him, even the
hairs on the back of his arm rose. Like he’d sensed danger.

His first, abstract thought was that John had broken their secret. Ten years they’d shared it and now
it was out in the open. It hurt, even under the rolling terror that followed on the thought’s heels.
But he carefully didn’t react, kept his face blank as he looked at the other two.

George’s face didn’t move at all. Richie’s eyes flicked to Paul, to George and then back to John.

Paul couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.

“It’s legal now,” John added, as if it mattered.

“What about Cyn?” George said in the end. His voice was hard, but not furious or horrified.

“What about her?” John asked, as though he didn’t understand the question, but surely he must.
“Come on, you know I like women fine. But this is just… well. It’s what it is.”
There was silence. Paul wondered if they were waiting for him to be the one to break it.

“Did Brian finally get to you?” George said when it became clear that no one else was going to
speak.

“Fuck off,” John said, although without much heat. “This isn’t about him. It’s not about anything.
It just is.”

“Right,” Richie said, slowly, like he was filtering the information, slotting it into his understanding
of the world. “You going to start taking up with fellas now?”

He didn’t look pleased with the idea, but he also didn’t seem angry or repulsed. Paul’s heart was in
his throat. He couldn’t believe what was happening. He’d never seen anyone announce their
queerness before, had never seen anyone have to react. It felt so surreal that he was almost dizzy.

“No,” John snapped, as though annoyed by the question. “Well, no more than I was before. No one
else is going to know. I just thought you deserved to know who I am. I’ve been thinking about it a
lot and I love you all. It’s important that we understand each other, so I’m telling you this about
myself.”

Paul didn’t hear anything else after ‘No one else is going to know’, the ‘for now’ seemed to linger
in his mind with awful certainty.

There was silence. John wasn’t looking at him, which Paul was grateful for. He wasn’t sure what
was showing on his face, but knew there was no way he’d be able to wrestle it into anything else.

“And you’re not going to–” Richie started, looking a little concerned.

“If you ask if I’m going to try and hump any of your sorry looking hides, then I swear to God I’ll
kick the shit out of you right here and now,” John said, voice sharp.

Richie closed his mouth.

There was more silence. Paul wished he could think of a single thing to say.

“Huh,” George said in the end, “at least we know who the one in four is now.”

Paul felt a jolt of panicked shock race through him like he’d tripped over a loose paving stone. The
amusement in George’s voice sounded almost too close to mocking and his heart ticked up. He’d
been ready for something awful to happen since John first spoke and he was so tense that it felt as
though he might pull a muscle.

Then John laughed. It gave permission, all at once, for the others to do the same. The tension
broke. Paul tried to join in, but all he could seem to muster was a half-hearted smile.

Paul’s heart was still beating strangely hours later when they all said their goodbyes. He wasn’t
sure why. Nothing more had been said. In fact, George and Richie seemed to have filed the
information away along with all the other strange facets of John’s personality. Paul wasn’t sure if
that meant they didn’t even believe him, had suspected all along, or genuinely didn’t care. Perhaps
they were just good at masking their horror and they’d get two calls in the morning explaining
they’d both decided to leave the band.

Even if they were fine with it, there was a creeping sense of dread settling over him, that this was
just the start. If John got away with telling George and Richie, then it might encourage him to tell
more people. Eventually he’d find someone that didn’t take it in their stride, or someone that
wanted to talk. It was dangerous. That was the point in them agreeing to keep it secret in the first
place.

He hardly heard Richie as he chatted on the way to his car. He’d offered to drop Paul home on his
way back to Surrey, and Paul hadn’t been able to think of a reason to refuse. He’d wanted to stay
with John, ask him what he was thinking. But that seemed almost dangerous now. It was probably
a stupid thing to think; they’d all shared beds with John before. Paul being alone with him wouldn’t
seem any stranger than it ever had. Still. He erred on the side of caution.

“You worried he’s gonna make a move on you?” Richie’s voice was low, gentle and serious.

Paul startled, turning his head suddenly. He wondered wildly what he’d missed, how many
conversational cues he’d missed in the last few minutes. Richie’s eyes were firmly on the road, his
face serious but not grim or annoyed.

“What?” Paul asked, his heart ticking up again.

“John,” Richie clarified, as if it was needed. “He’s just… It’s not like it means anything. You know
what he’s like. He’s not going to suddenly start trying to get his leg over you, he’s had years for
that.”

Oh God. Did Richie think Paul was upset that John was queer?

“I know,” he said. But it sounded too harsh. Too defensive. “I’m just worried.”

Richie’s eyes slid over to him and then back to the road. Paul bit at his thumb nail.

“It’s been a strange year for us, you know?” he continued. “I just don’t want him to do something
he’ll end up regretting.”

“You mean talk to the papers and not just us?”

Paul shrugged. He rubbed his thumb nail over the underside of his other fingers over and over.
Then popped it back into his mouth to gnaw on the nail. It hurt, but that was a nice distraction. Was
that his fear? He wasn’t even sure. The tight ball in his chest seemed aimless. There were so many
ways it could all go wrong that his mind wouldn’t alight on one long enough to come up with a
solution.

“If one of us does it, we all do.” Richie said it like the fact it was.

“It’s not even that,” he lied. “You saw what happened in America. If he says something
careless…”

He sighed. “Lad needs a distraction,” he said. “The record or a new project. Something.”

“You sound like Mimi,” he said, trying to smile and almost managing it.

“I’ve been called worse.”

They lapsed into silence. Paul listened to the engine, the sound of the tires over the tarmac, and
tried to let it lull him.

“He’ll be alright, you know,” Richie said, gently. “It’s John.”

“Sure, I know that.”

“And it’s still John.”

Paul frowned, turning his head to look at Richie. Who was very pointedly not looking at him.

“Do you think I’m bothered by him saying he’s queer?” he asked, sounding as increduous as he
felt.

“Well,” Richie said, “I know you’ve always been a bit weird about it. With Brian and that. But, this
is John . He’s one of us. Doesn’t matter where he sticks it.”

Paul stared at him for a moment. The laughter bubbled up from somewhere deep in his stomach. It
was so violent that he thought for a long moment he might not be able to stop laughing. Tears
gathered in the corner of his eyes.

“What’re you on?” Richie asked. “You packing and not sharing or what?”

“Nothing,” Paul gasped for breath, “but, no. I’m not bothered about John being queer. Believe me.
That’s…” he trailed off, not sure how to put it into words. “He’s John.”

“Right,” Richie agreed. “Exactly. If it was six years ago, we’d all probably all be giving it a go just
to fit in.”

Paul laughed again. It would have been easy then to say it. To follow John’s lead and admit the
truth. He opened his mouth but the words wouldn’t come. He closed it again.

“Yeah, I’m sure you’re delighted it’s not then,” he said, instead.

Richie shrugged. “Give anything a go once, that’s my motto.” He pursed his lips. “Apart from
morris dancing and incest, that is.”

It was easy to laugh again. Easy to put the conversation aside and consider it done. Even if the
anxiety didn’t recede.

April 1967

The record rolled on. It became almost all consuming. Paul liked it that way. John seemed happy
enough; his focus was complete when he was in the studio. He was happy to spend hours
experimenting, trying new tricks to make different sounds. The luxury of having no deadline, no
one rushing them out of the studio, gave them a freedom that was almost heady.

But, that didn’t mean the pressure wasn’t mounting. He knew Brian Wilson was out there
somewhere, racing to get something better, bigger out before them. And that was just the one Paul
knew to be concerned about. Everyday there was a new band heralded as the new Beatles. They’d
been quiet longer than ever before, even with Strawberry Fields and Penny Lane. They couldn’t
afford to get distracted.

Besides, it seemed better for all of them that they didn’t have time to think. Jane was due back the
following month. He’d barely seen her since she’d left, although he’d flown out for her birthday. It
had been nice. She’d seemed to be in her element, almost glowing with pleasure as they celebrated
her birthday.

He’d thought of his own 21st. It felt like a lifetime ago. He wasn’t sure who the man was that had
invited a beautiful actress up to Liverpool with him. Surely not the same one who had felt obliged
to fly out to Dallas to see that same actress for her own.
But Jane’s arrival and their self-imposed deadline of Summer for launch meant that the pressure
was slowly mounting. They needed to focus. To make progress. Brian hovered, always in the
background, always so terribly polite. But always asking for details, for dates, for agreement on
launch plans.

John stopped even bothering to return to his flat at the end of the studio sessions; it was easier just
to end up at Cavendish. That way as soon as they woke up, they could start again. It was nice. It
somehow reminded Paul of Gambier Terrace. Only with more furniture and the benefit of cleaners.

“You know,” John said through a yawn, one afternoon as he stumbled from his bedroom and down
the stairs to join Paul in the living room.

“I do,” Paul agreed, frowning down at the piano like it might yield its answers if he glared long
enough at it.

“You always did,” John agreed, and collapsed down onto the sofa. “You’re good like that.”

“I always have been,” he nodded, “born like it, apparently. Mother said so.”

“Perfect Paulie,” John said through another yawn.

There was the possibility that they could carry on like this until dinner, so Paul turned on the stool
to look at him. “What is it, in particular, that I know on this fine afternoon?”

John looked confused for a fraction of a second. His face was soft with sleep, his body loose and
hair in disarray. Paul couldn’t help but grin hopelessly at him.

“Oh,” John said, managing to catch the thread of his previous thoughts, “that we should have a
party tonight.”

“Ah,” Paul said, considering the work they needed to get done and then sweeping it aside. There
wasn’t going to be much time left for parties thrown at Cavendish. It seemed silly to turn one
down. “Yes, that’s right.”

“Yes, see,” John nodded.

“Just need to finish off these songs.”

John waved his hand dismissively. “We’ll work now, party later.”

Paul pretended to consider it. Then threw his hands up in the air, like Jane might when she was
admitting defeat but didn’t want to be seen to be. “Fine, I’ll call Mal and get things sorted. But
you’re finishing Mr. Kite while I’m gone.”

“Yes, dear,” John trilled as Paul walked away towards the phone.

———

John did in fact finish Mr. Kite that afternoon. It didn’t take much, only a few lyrics needed to be
shifted around and replaced. Paul liked it, and he could see John was satisfied. They’d need to play
around with it in the studio but it’d get there. It would be good.

Then there was a general rush as Mal arrived, arms laden down with clicking bottles. The party
didn’t so much start as a groundswell of people slowly drifted into the house. Paul preferred it that
way, it was more relaxed.
He put on some music, as John stood over his shoulder suggesting titles. Mal poured drinks; which
he always seemed to enjoy. It meant the party swirled around him, and gave him a purpose which
always made him more settled.

“Welcome!” John shouted as he opened the door to another group of people that Paul thought he
only vaguely recognised.

He wondered if John knew them. It was hard to tell. John often seemed to react the same to
strangers and friends alike. For good and ill. Perhaps they were new friends that he’d made since
he moved to London proper. He wasn’t going out much, not with the album and the fuss over his
divorce. But that didn’t mean he was staying in either; John had never been good at being alone.
He was like Paul in that way. It was a strange thought, John having a new group of friends that
Paul didn’t really know. But, he reasoned, if John was inviting them to their party, then he clearly
did want Paul to know them. He waved in their direction, and they merrily waved back.

There was a pleasant buzz about the house. He loved it when it felt like that, like the rooms were
almost alive, the hum of conversation interspersed with tinkling laughter. There was something
different happening in almost every room: people playing games, listening to music or dancing.
John was usually to be found in a quieter room, surrounded by a group of people hanging off his
every word. Paul tended to leave him to it, unless there was a game of something being set up, then
he’d wander to collect him and bring him in. If there was a doubles game of snooker he and John
would team up and wipe the floor with everyone. The hours they’d spend playing while they
waited for inspiration to strike paying off almost every time. In the meantime, Paul would be
where the music was. He enjoyed playing some old classics and getting a sing along going. It
reminded him of being back home, how his dad would entertain people. It made him feel somehow
more grown-up, throwing the sorts of parties he’d always imagined he would when he was a kid.

It was nice, too, knowing John was there, even when they weren’t together. It meant he didn’t have
to worry about constantly circulating the rooms, checking that everyone was getting enough
attention and not nicking the silverware. Between the two of them, most people seemed to get what
they were after.

Which left Paul able to pursue his other favourite activity during a party. He looked around, and to
his delight, as though the universe were just waiting to deliver him his desires, a woman was
already watching him from across the room. Her brown hair was shiny and her big green eyes
traced with dark pencil. She grinned at him. Paul grinned back, and picked up two drinks on his
way towards her.

She was a model or perhaps a singer. He couldn’t keep track, not once the drinks started to really
flow. He kept it casual. There was no need to rush anything, no need to miss his own party in the
pursuit of only one goal. Certainly not once it was clear she was interested. She seemed content to
sit close as he played a few songs for the group that gathered around them. They spoke in snatches
of conversation as the evening wound on, while others drifted in and out of range. It was a game
that he was used to playing, but never seemed to tire of. The gentle teasing, the knowing looks, the
way she swayed closer and closer the darker it got outside the windows.

It was a careful balance, deciding when to take her upstairs. It might be a well practised routine,
one he still found immense satisfaction in, but that didn’t make it any less delicate. It was a matter
of enjoying the best of the evening, waiting until people had become dull with drink, before he
slipped away. Leaving too early was not only rude, it meant he often missed out on the best of the
fun. Waiting too long often made what happened upstairs uninteresting, too muted and numbed by
drink. Too sloppy.
He found that he’d timed it perfectly. She was beautiful, her hair and make-up still flawless as she
undressed for him. Then she was malleable in his arms, sweet and sexy when called for. He lost
himself in her easily.

She didn’t linger when they were done. Somehow girls increasingly knew when the moment was
over. Only very occasionally did he need to find excuses to usher them out the door.

When he was alone, he considered rejoining the party, but decided to wait. It was probably when
those that weren’t meant to stay late were lingering, making a nuisance of themselves. If he waited,
he’d be able to go back when the mood was mellow and only those that knew how to handle a long
night would be there. That was when the deep conversations, often the most interesting ones,
would begin. He lit a joint while he waited, wanting to extend the peaceful, loose limbed feeling a
while longer.

He floated. He wasn’t sure for how long, didn’t bother trying to hold onto time and or any stray
thoughts that floated to him. He must have been longer than he meant to, though, because all at
once his bedroom was opening. He sat up, ready to offer an admonishment, but relaxed the
moment a head popped through the crack.

“Oh good,” John said, fully opening the door and coming inside in one smooth motion. “I thought
you’d be shagging in here.”

Paul flopped back onto the bed. “Then why did you come in?”

“To interrupt,” John grinned. He looked misty eyed, a little spaced out, but still mostly lucid. Paul
knew he was probably joking; he’d have seen the girl leaving. “I just wanted to see you. Check
everything was alright.”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

He shrugged. He walked the room, slowly, as though inspecting it. They hadn’t spoken much all
evening. John was holding court in the kitchen while Paul had lingered near the piano. Not that
there was much need for them to speak when they’d spent the rest of the day together. But this was
usually how they’d end the night; talking quietly, assessing the evening, swapping stories and
gossip. Like news reports of other areas of the party.

“Everyone’s gone anyway,” he said, finally coming to sit on the edge of the bed.

Paul was surprised; he must have been upstairs longer than he’d intended. He was never good at
keeping track of time where sex and pot were concerned.

“Good night?” he asked, folding an arm under his head and shifting until he could feel his back
release and sink into the mattress.

“Of course.” John leant over to take the joint from Paul’s hand. He shifted around until he was
mirroring Paul’s position on the bed and took a long drag. They watched the smoke rise to the
ceiling. “I was the perfect host, especially since the actual host buggered off.”

He laughed. “It was your party,” he pointed out and took the joint back from John’s outstretched
hand.

“Ours,” he said. “Joint givers of the party.”

“Hmmm,” he agreed. “The perfect hosts.”

“The hosts with the mosts. Talk of the town.”

He laughed. Pleased with the image and warmed from the joint and John’s proximity. “I like when
you’re here,” he sighed around another exhale of smoke. “It feels better.”

“Me too,” John said. “Feels more right hosting this with you than it ever did with Cyn.”

A dangerous flush of pride crept up Paul’s neck. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to grin madly or
frown. “Shame you don’t cook for shit,” he said, picking each word carefully. “You’d make a half
decent wife, otherwise.”

John snorted. “I’m not the wife.“

“And yet, this is my house,” Paul said, a smile pulling at his mouth.

“Out of the two of us,” John countered, “you’d look better in the dress. It’s the hips.”

“Fuck off,” Paul laughed. “You’ve growing that long hair now. You’re all delicate looking, too.
Feminine wrists.”

John snorted. “Bet you say that to all the girls.”

“Only the best ones.” He shifted on the bed, moving a little closer to John, as though that might
help him win the argument.

“Not that it matters who’s the wife,” John said, as he took the joint again.

“How do you work that out?”

“We’re already basically married,” he said. His voice was mellow, no accusation. Just a statement
of fact. ”Silly fighting over the roles at this late stage.”

Paul turned his head on the pillow so he could see John's face. He was staring up at the ceiling, his
expression serious.

“What’s that mean?” he asked after a moment of study.

“Well, our names are joined on a legal document. I’ve basically been living here,” he waved a hand
above his head, painting the picture with his hands. “You’re better with Julian than I am. We’ve
fucked about as much as me and Cyn were by the end, too, come to think of it. If anything, we’re
more married given our babies number over a hundred, rather than just the one.”

Paul didn’t know if he was being serious. It was hard to tell with John sometimes. He considered it,
on balance it was easier to assume it was a joke, and play along, rather than make a fool of himself.
“Don’t think songs count in the same way as human babies.”

“To you or to other people?” John grinned, a quick flash of sly lips and slanted eyes. “Besides,
wouldn’t it just be easier if we could make it official?”

The question was so unexpected that Paul was lost for words. “I—” he started, and then couldn’t
think of anything else to say.

John waved him off. “Don’t answer that. It’s not like any answer’s good.”

That Paul agreed with at least. They’d never come close to discussing anything like it since Key
West. He didn’t even know what John meant, what he was imagining. Throwing a party to tell all
their friends and family? Placing an advert in The Times . Starting a family somehow? It seemed
ridiculous, like something out of a fantasy novel.

“Thought you were done with marriage?” he said in the end, hoping to show it wasn’t a dismissal
of the topic at least.

John huffed. “I suppose. I’m not sure I’m good at being alone, though.”

Paul nodded. They’d had girlfriends or wives since pretty much the moment they’d met. It was just
what you did. Having someone steady was nice. More, it was expected.

He’d expected John to find some girl almost immediately and while he certainly seemed to be
seeing a lot of women, none of them seemed to stick. It had worried Paul at first, a nebulous
anxiety, that without Cyn’s steadying influence, John might fall further into a haze of acid or worse.
But so far, he seemed happier, lighter and more sober than Paul had seen him in months. Perhaps
even years. He suspected it was the rush of freedom, of being able to come and go as he pleased.
Not having to lie about where he’d been or who with. Paul didn’t know what it was like to be in a
relationship that didn’t satisfy him, but he could imagine that it must have felt stifling. Perhaps it
wasn’t a surprise John hadn’t rushed to fill that void, or maybe it was respect for Cyn.

“Thought you were seeing that producer,” he said, in the end just to fill the silence.

He couldn’t remember her name, but he remembered that she was pretty. Blond and small. From
the pictures in the paper she’d fit neatly on John’s arm. She was making some sort of experimental
film, Paul hadn’t bothered to follow the details. But understood that she was part of Robert’s
crowd, at least tangentially.

“Hmmm.” It was neither an agreement nor a dismissal. “She’s fine. Thick as shit. But funny.”

Paul winced. He immediately wrote the producer off. There was no way John could be with
someone that wasn’t whip smart. He’d be bored within a week.

“Shall I see if Jane has any friends?”

John turned to head to give him a flat star. “Jane hates me, god only knows what I’d end up with.”

“She doesn’t,” he said. Automatic, just like every other time Jane or John said something similar.

“Nah,” John said. “I probably shouldn’t anyway. I just want to focus on this. On the music. On…”

He trailed off, eyes on Paul. The meaning was clear enough and it made Paul want to look away.

“This record will be something else,” he said. Somehow it came out as a whisper, as though he
didn’t want to break the mood.

John smiled at him. “Another perfect baby.”

Paul’s lips pulled up, a mirror of John’s. “It’s been good, hasn’t it?”

“Yeah, I’ve loved it.” He rolled over, so he was fully facing Paul, his head on the pillow.
“Especially leading you astray.”

He rolled his eyes. It had seemed to happen almost over the span of a weekend. Suddenly everyone
was desperate for him to drop acid. One moment no one seemed to have even heard of it, the next,
it was the thing to be doing. Of course John had fallen head first into it. George too. Richie had
followed almost immediately, although he seemed far less enthusiastic about its merits. But that
was just his way; he was too steady to tip too far to one side. Paul found it hugely comforting to
have his presence in the band for exactly that reason.

It hadn’t taken John long to convince Paul. He’d been gentle but persistent in his arguments. In the
end it had been the idea of what it might do for their music, how it might open new avenues for
them to explore together. He’d been scared; he’d heard a thing or two about what it might do, how
it could change the way you think. But, John was there and Paul trusted him. It hadn’t felt such an
extreme decision, once he knew John had been partaking almost daily for weeks and didn’t seem to
have lost himself.

He thought he’d been prepared, having grilled John, for what would happen. He’d expected to see
things, to feel things, to even have the way he thought changed. But he hadn’t thought, before
they’d done it, that it would be possible for him to feel closer to John than he did during playing or
writing. But it had turned out to be one of the most intense experiences of his life.

And he’d never done it again.

Just one crystal clear memory of John and he falling into one another, becoming one mind, was
more than enough. He didn’t want it with anyone else and he didn’t think it was particularly smart
for him to even try it with John again, either. They’d barely so much as shaken hands since
America. Which was fine. Better really, given the risks involved. So, he wasn’t about to risk
upending the delicate balance they’d found by tripping together too regularly.

“Yes,” he agreed with a grin. “I know you loved that.”

“I’m glad you did it with me,” John sighed. “Was good.”

“Yeah, it was good.” He watched John settle, his breathing starting to even out. His heart clenched,
something bitter sweet, painful but the sort you lean into rather than push away. “You staying?”

“Hmmm,” John nodded. “That alright?”

“Always,” he said.

He considered suggesting that John go to one of the other bedrooms. But he was too tired to bother
with it. Besides, it had been so long since they’d shared a bed. He missed it. Missed the particular
form of intimacy it brought. Missed seeing John straight from sleep. Missed waking to the warmth
of him.

It had been so long since he’d let himself have anything even close to it. He kept waiting to stop
wanting it, missing it. Wanting him. But he hadn’t and he was starting to suspect that nothing
would stop the dull ache inside of him. He knew that was the price of having John close and of
having the band. Of having Jane. Of having fame and fortune. A little pain was worth all that.

John’s mouth quirked. Then he clumsily flung out a hand, patting along the mattress until he
grabbed Paul’s arm. He rested it there. They were silent, gazing at one another from their pillows.

“I guess I was just saying,” John said, suddenly, picking up the thread of his earlier point, “that
maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.”

“What?” he asked, as though he didn’t know exactly what John meant. It came out as a whisper, his
heart thudding in his chest. He could have made a joke, dismissed it right away. He knew he
should have, John would probably have let him. But, he wanted to hear John say it. As selfish and
reckless as it was.
“Being married to you doesn’t sound that bad.”

He could feel every pump of blood as it went around his body. He was acutely aware of the way
his breath was coming in shorter gasps of air. He could feel the warmth of John’s hand as it rested
on his arm. It gripped him, gently, as though he knew holding too tight would just make Paul pull
away.

He swallowed, searching in vain for the right response. What he landed on wasn’t it, but he
couldn’t think of anything else. “There’s a few reasons that’s not going to be a problem for us.”

“I know we couldn’t…” He trailed off, clearly reordering his thoughts into something Paul would
understand. “Obviously we’re not going to a church any time soon. But, things are changing. Free
love, right? Maybe it’s not always going to be such an impossible thing.”

Paul’s heart was in his throat. John had said many, many inflammatory, borderline insane things
since they’d met. Often Paul had liked them, even encouraged them. But this, this was something
else. They’d never spoken like that before. Even in Key West, it had all been framed in a way that
said clearly it wouldn’t really happen. This was dangerous, hurtful, even. He knew he could
patiently explain the five hundred reasons John was wrong, that there were a million things
keeping them from being more than songwriting partners that had dabbled with one another in the
past. But, somehow, he knew that would make it worse. This wasn’t a rational debate. John was
stating an intent, and it was up to Paul how he took that forward.

Or didn’t.

“I think,” he started and he could hear the fear in his own voice as he spoke, “it’s probably for the
best you’ll never have to test that out. I’m a nightmare to live with long term. I have that on good
authority.”

The silence that followed was heavy.

John’s face remained perfectly still. Something about his expression reminded Paul, absurdly, of a
painting by Reni he’d seen months ago. There was pain in John’s eyes, but it wasn’t the sharp stab
of something unexpected; it was an old wound, one he was used to feeling and had come to accept.

That hurt more.

He hated it, sometimes, that John forced him into the role of the sensible one. The one that had to
reign them back in, to make the plans for how it would actually happen. It always seemed to end
with him as the bad guy. But what choice did he have? Agree that despite the fact it would ruin
them completely, that yes, it was possible they could have a future together? That they could live
together as more than friends?

He didn’t think about it. He couldn’t. The idea of it was tantalising and painful, like nostalgia for a
place he’d never been. It wasn’t worth torturing them both with it.

Then John did the worst thing he could have. He smiled. Open and fragile. And then he let Paul off
the hook. “Night, Paulie.”

The message was so clearly understood that Paul almost wanted to take it back. But he couldn’t.
They both knew that. “Night, Johnny,” he said instead.

John didn’t move, didn’t pull away. It was a strength that Paul knew he didn’t possess himself. He
would have withdrawn entirely, rebuilt his walls until he could pretend the hurt hadn’t happened at
all. But John didn’t pull away, he stayed in the moment, wanting the closeness, no matter how
much it hurt.

Paul stayed awake, even after John finally drifted off. He watched the even rise and fall of his chest
for as long as his stinging eyes would let him.

TBC
 Chapter 8

August 1967

Brian died.

Paul had a strange moment upon receiving the news, like he was outside of his own body, seeing it
happen to someone else.

Not again. Not someone else. No.

Jane was crying, everyone seemed to be crying apart from Paul. His mind was totally blank, unable
to think of what to do, what to say. Horror was trickling up his spine, like it might be about to wrap
around his neck and strangle him. The one thing he was sure of was that he couldn’t be around
people, couldn’t stand the crying, the questions, the aimless chatter.

He forced his muscles to unlock enough so he could get to his feet, swaying almost like he was
drunk. There were voices, raised as they called out to him, but he ignored them. He went to the
only place he could think of. To the only person that he wanted to see.

When John opened his door, he blinked back at Paul, like he was surprised to see him. It was clear
that he already knew. He looked as dazed as Paul felt. They stared at one another, unblinking.
Paul’s heart beat sluggishly, time moving on, as he failed to think of a single thing to say.

“We’re fucked,” John finally whispered. “It’s all over.”

Paul swallowed heavily, as John’s words hit him directly in the centre of his chest. Then he did the
only thing he could think of. He reached out and wrapped his arms around him. There was a
moment of resistance before John was clinging to him, his hands balled in the fabric of Paul’s shirt
so tightly he wondered if it might rip.

“It’s going to be alright,” Paul managed, his voice hoarse. It didn’t sound like his own. “It’s going
to be alright.”

John’s face was buried in his neck, his breath warm and damp against the skin. Paul’s arms
tightened around him, not letting him pull back right away. He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to stay
standing without John’s arms around him.

“You telling me that or yourself?” John asked, as though suddenly realising that he might not be
the only one upset. He pulled back slightly to look at Paul, his eyebrows drawing together. But
neither of them stopped holding the other.

It wasn’t like he and Brian had had the best relationship, but they’d been better with each other
recently. They were talking about business, more like equals than ever before. It had been nice.
And now he was gone.

“Both,” he managed, but it came out pinched and strange.

John’s eyes were red-rimmed, although Paul didn’t think he’d been crying. It wasn’t like with
Julia. Not even like with Stuart. This was more. Less. Different. He wasn’t sure.

“Someone’s going to need to talk to the press,” John said. “They’re already swarming.”
He nodded, his brain starting to tick back over. It was always easier with John there; he could start
to see all the things that would need to be organised.

“Someone should be in London,” he said, a continuation of the thought. He took a mechanical step
back. “There’s so much going to need doing.”

They nodded in unison. It should be him in London. He was the only one of them with the slightest
understanding of the business side of things. The only one likely to be able to make the sorts of
decisions that would be needed. John would be better with the press. Even with Cyn gone, they
seemed to respond better to John’s brand of honesty.

Neither of them moved. He realised with a start that his hand was still gripping John’s sleeve so
tightly that his knuckles were white.

“Want to come back with me?” he found himself asking. “George will know what to say to the
press. He can ask the Maharishi if not.”

John swallowed. “I don’t…”

He looked so lost that Paul’s eyes filled with tears. It was so unexpected that he almost choked on
them. “I don’t want to leave you here,” he managed after a moment. “Come back with me.”

“You and Jane,” he said after a moment.

Paul’s brow creased. “I suppose.” He shook his head. “I can see if she wants to go back with Pattie.
There’s things we’ll need to sort out in the car anyway. It’s probably not practical for her to be
there.”

He knew it was a mistake, knew that Jane would be furious. But it was an emergency, and he and
John were the only ones with the authority to get anything done. There was Northern Songs to
think of, amongst a million other details that hadn’t even occurred to him yet.

“You arrange the car,” he said, voice almost back to normal now there was a plan. “That way I’ll
be coming with you, not the other way around.”

John’s mouth almost quirked. “I’ll- I guess I can…”

“Get Mal,” he said, voice firm. “He’ll sort it.”

John nodded. But didn’t move.

Paul let go of John’s sleeve, his fingers stiff after the tight grip, but only so he could squeeze his
hand gently instead. He tried to press all the comfort he could manage through the brief touch,
before he forced himself to let go entirely.

“I’m going to pack. You do the same. We need to leave in under half an hour or we’ll never get out
without the press noticing.”

“Okay,” he breathed, at last.

Paul turned, mind whirling with lists of questions and the people he needed to ask them to.

“Paul?”

He turned. John was staring at him, eyes lost and scared. “I…”
The tightness in the throat was back. He nodded. “Me too.”

John nodded, just once, and turned back to his room.

December 1967

Paul slammed the phone down. It did nothing to ease the fury burning in his chest, and he glared at
it, wondering if it might help to pick up and slam it down again.

“Helpful were they?” George asked from the doorway.

Paul looked up at him and frowned. He wasn’t used to having an office, somewhere that people
knew how to find him easily. He supposed that was the point in having the building, but it was an
adjustment, like trying on a new suit. He was a businessman now and not at all sure how he felt
about it.

“Not usually,” he snapped. “Fucking Dick James.”

George nodded in understanding, his mouth twisting like he’d tasted something unpleasant. He
didn’t move from the doorway, his hand coming out to run along the newly painted wooden frame
instead. He was clearly there to ask something but thinking of the best way to frame it. In the end
he appeared to give up.

“Edit done?”

He ran a hand through his hair. His chest felt tight, as it had, off and on, for the last few weeks. He
wanted to rub at the spot between his chest, like it might loosen it, but didn’t. He knew it wouldn’t
help and, anyway, he didn’t want George asking questions. It was a nightmare, the whole thing. He
hadn’t expected how much work it would be to make the film entirely themselves. Part of him
relished the challenge, loved learning something new. But the rest of him was exhausted. There
was so much else going on that he could only spare, at best, half his mind to any one thing. It left
him feeling anxious, concerned that something was going to slip, unless he kept on running full
tilt.

At least the album was being well received, showing that even at their worst, they were still doing
the right thing. It put him at ease, at least a little, with all the new things they were expanding into.
Everything always seemed to work out in the end. This would too. Once the film was out and
Apple was stable things would calm down. He just needed to keep going until then.

“Not yet,” he said, his eyes skirting away for George’s. “Did you want to see the cut?”

George scrunched his face, exactly as Paul knew he would. He wasn’t interested in much outside
the studio, and increasingly not even that. He was too set on the Maharishi and changing the world
by sitting and not doing anything.

“You ready for India?” he asked, as if on cue.

Paul ran a hand over his eyes. He’d wanted to say no. But George had pointed out how ragged they
all looked. They’d been running on autopilot since Brian’s death. It felt like they were desperately
laying the track as the train barreled down it towards them. In truth, Paul couldn’t imagine stopping
for any length of time, let alone for an entire month.

He’d had no idea how much Brian did, while also somehow managing to make a complete mess of
certain things. Their finances were a disaster, the sort that made him sick to his stomach to even
think about. There was a huge task required to straighten them out, and they weren’t any closer to
completing it. That was before it got to the wider issues. Apple had seemed the most sensible way
out. He and Brian had been talking about it before he died. It was a nice thought, that he was
completing something they’d started together. A little tribute to him.

But the pressure was intense and he was starting to suspect he needed a break, to just get away
from everything. They all did. Especially John, who seemed to have taken Brian’s death harder
than any of them. Paul understood why, with everything that had already happened to John. But,
without even Cyn there to steady him, he seemed to be in freefall. Most days no one knew where
he was, he often went days without answering the phone. Unless someone went to his house to
collect him, he couldn’t even be relied on to turn up to meetings. Getting him dried out was a
priority.

“How would I know if I’m ready or not?” Paul asked, knowing he sounded short and bordering on
sarcastic, but unable to stop it. “Isn’t that the point of going? To find out?”

George just shrugged. He didn’t look bothered whether Paul went or not. “Guess we’ll see,” he
said, as he pushed away from leaning on the doorframe. He’d almost turned away, before he
looked back. “Oh, I’m meant to tell you that Jane’s been ringing.”

Paul tried not to actively flinch. One of things that had got lost in the shuffle with everything else
was plans for the wedding. Much to Jane’s frustration. But he’d honestly been too busy to even
think about it.

“I’ll- I’ll call her back,” he said. It didn’t sound all that convincing. “Once I’m done with these
calls. And chasing on the edit.”

George didn’t move for a moment, gaze focused on Paul. “Do you need any help?”

A twinge of embarrassment shot through him. Did it look like he was struggling to keep up? He
shook his head, automatically. “No,” he said, as firmly as he could. “No, it’s fine. I’ll do it.”

He watched as George’s jaw tightened, just slightly. He had no idea what he’d done to annoy him.
But the moment was gone so quickly, that it didn’t seem worth lingering on.

“Right, course not. I’ll be…” He trailed off and made a circular motion with his hand, presumably
indicating that he’d be around the office if needed.

“Right,” Paul agreed. “See you.”

———

It was a cold night, the wind biting at any exposed skin, despite the heavy fabric of Paul’s pearly
king costume. He and Jane hurried into the hotel, ducking to avoid the stares of any passers-by.
They’d been running late, and Jane’s frustration was obvious. Paul had been on calls and then
needed to stop to get a melody worked out before he got ready. They weren’t very late; there was
time before the broadcast, so he didn’t know what the fuss was about. They passed through
reception and up into the suite without anyone even seeming to consider stopping them.

It was hot inside, thanks to the press of people, already making the most of the free-flowing
alcohol. It was planned as an intimate gathering, just their friends and some of the crew, but the
rooms still seemed almost full. There was a lively, celebratory atmosphere; as though the stresses
of the last few months were falling away in the wake of both the film being done and Christmas
lurking just around the corner.

He and Jane seamlessly infiltrated the ranks of party-goers, complimenting people’s costumes and
being complimented on theirs in return. The fancy dress seemed to have been a success, adding to
the overall feeling of cutting loose and forgetting the previous weeks. He almost did a double take
when he saw John for the first time.

He was on his way into one of the rooms he’d only done one circuit of when he saw him. He
paused mid-step to swivel his head in his direction. It was, for a brief moment, like they’d taken a
step back in time. The feeling was so strange that his heart rolled over in his chest. Just for a
moment, as John looked up, and saw Paul, it was 1957 all over again. He wasn’t wearing his
glasses, and his hair was greased up in curls around his head. Perhaps John of ten years ago
wouldn’t have been able to afford the quality of leathers he was currently sporting, but the effect
wasn’t so different.

“Play Searching!” Paul called, delight coursing through him, as he walked across the room. He
used his very best impression of the girls back home, knowing it would make John smile.

John’s face split into a grin. His cheeks were flushed, and as Paul got closer, he could see that he
was drunk. His heart sunk, just a little, at the sight of him. It had been weeks since he’d seen him
anything but out of it or on a come down from something.

“Forgot me guitar,” he muttered, when Paul was close enough to hear him. “You like the outfit,
then?”

“It’s certainly striking,” he agreed. He waited for John to mention his own. It had been a nice idea,
he’d thought, a good way for him and Jane to match. When nothing happened, he opened his arms
wide, and looked down at his suit, complete with pearly buttons.

“As is yours,” John said, but he was clearly winding himself up into a comment . The sort that only
his bandmates still made to him. Paul waited, smiling at him. ”But you’ve forgotten your roots,
son. What would dear old Jim say about you dressing up as a soft Southerner?”

Amusement rippled through him. “No more than Mimi would about you going back to being a
hoodlum.”

John laughed, and drained his drink. “You’ve got me there,” he agreed. Then raised his eyebrows
meaningfully. “The glorious day has finally arrived.”

“Yeah,” he nodded, a strange thrill that felt like fear, running through him, “our third film will soon
be out in the world.”

“Good we’re celebrating, then,” John said.

“Looks like you got a head start,” Paul said, then snapped his mouth shut. He sounded like Jane.
“I’ll have to work hard to catch up.”

John laughed, and slung an arm around him. It landed heavily, and Paul staggered slightly under
the weight of it. “I believe in you, Paulie.”

“You here alone?” he asked. He didn’t think John was seeing anyone. But then he seemed to be
making up for lost time, with a new woman every couple of weeks, so it was hard to keep up with.

“Was thinking of inviting me dear old dad,” John mused, looking around, as though he might have
appeared anyway.

“Oh, really?” Paul had known that Alf had got back in contact. He was pleased, in an abstract way,
for John. He’d still never met the man himself; John seemed to guard his time with his father
closely, which Paul understood.

“Yeah,” he said, then shrugged. “But I didn't want to shock him with what we get up to at these
things.”

“Can’t be any worse than what he’s seen on the docks,” he pointed out. “Perhaps next time. I’d like
to actually meet him, you know.”

John paused, as though considering this information. “Maybe,” he said, eventually. “I don’t know
if he’s staying yet.”

Paul didn’t understand what that meant, and felt a little stung at being excluded. But he didn’t get a
chance to ask, because Jane appeared at his side.

“There you are,” she said, slipping her arm through his. “I’ve been waiting to dance.”

“Nothing stopping you,” John supplied, in a tone so sweet that it made Jane glare at him.

“Right,” Paul said, quickly, “alright. Come on then.” He took her hand and turned to leave, but
looked at John over his shoulder. “See you in a bit, then.”

John’s reply, if there was one, was lost to the crowd.

He didn’t see him again until everything stopped so they could watch the film. He made a beeline
for where John was already sitting on a small sofa, so they could watch it together. That seemed
fitting given how much work they’d put into it. Richie and George were there too, sitting on the
floor in front of them. They laughed and joked through it, pointing out things to the assembled
crowd that they thought were important.

The party resumed as the credits rolled and the BBC announcer introduced the next programme. It
was a lively affair, once it got going again. Louder, in keeping with the amount of drink that had
been flowing. He kept a look out for John, who he mostly saw in snatches: leading Lulu around the
dance floor, both of them flushed and laughing; holding court with some of the crew; talking
animatedly to a woman wearing a 1930s dress; dancing with Pattie, twirling and then dipping her to
make her laugh. Paul looked away. Busied himself with other things.

He felt a twinge of regret. It felt like a lifetime since he’d really seen John; they were all so busy
with Apple and the finances, and the album and the film and, and and… They hadn’t been able to
properly sit down and talk since before Brian had died. He wondered if it was about the
engagement, the fact that Jane was demanding a date be set. It was clear he’d have to agree to one
over Christmas. There was no way around it. Perhaps John was distancing himself for when that
happened. The thought made him want to reach out and grab hold of John so he couldn’t slip
away.

Instead, he focused on the party, on Jane and the other guests, on all his friends and people he
enjoyed being around. It was nice, dancing with Richie and Mo, chatting to George and Pattie.
Everyone seemed so optimistic. He let them soothe him.

It got late, and then it ticked through to early. Mal was sent to get the papers. They sat in silence as
they read the reviews of Magical Mystery Tour. He read them once, then again. Then again. Not
one good thing to be found amongst them. He looked down at the paper in his hands, and felt
woozy, the same out of body feeling he’d been experiencing off and on for months, creeping over
him. He couldn’t seem to grasp what was happening.

Terror sparked through him; John’s words just after they’d heard about Brian echoed in his head.
In the end, he got up and left. He couldn’t seem to breathe properly with everyone there. They were
all saying the right things, that the papers never knew what they were talking about anyway, that
the fans would still love it, but it all felt hollow. And it was his fault. He knew it was.

He stumbled away, out of the room and then the suite, and then up, up, up, until he found himself
on the roof. The cold air hit him like a wall and he took a deep breath, trying to let it cool his
flushed skin. He walked right over to the low wall on the ledge and closed his eyes. Took another
deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart, trying to think of a way forward.

“You alright?”

He jumped, spinning around. John. A flash of relief rushed over him, followed quickly by a wave
of embarrassment that anyone had noticed that he’d fled the room, despite it probably having been
obvious. He nodded, and looked back out at the city.

“Not convincing.” He could hear John’s footsteps as he made his way over to where Paul was
standing, but didn’t look back at him.

He shrugged. “I’m fine. Just needed to think.”

There was a beat of silence, where John repositioned himself so he was leaning with his back to the
city. It meant he could look more easily at Paul, and it was harder for him to pretend not to notice
John was doing it. “So, turns out the Beatles name isn’t enough to get a rave review no matter what
after all.”

Paul shook his head again, like he might be able to shake out the memory of them. He swallowed,
flexing his hands against the brick wall he was resting on. “I’ll-” he started and had to stop to clear
his throat. “I’ll call the papers tomorrow. Get it squared away.”

John hummed his agreement. “We could also do a TV spot.”

“Could we?” he sniped, his anxiety turning to frustration suddenly. He’d been managing
everything on his own for weeks. It was a bit rich for John to suddenly suggest he’d be around to
save the day when it was probably too late. “You’ll be available, will you?”

John held up both hands, his eyebrows rising. “At least signal the attack before going for my
throat.” He didn’t seem annoyed; it was closer to genuine confusion. His voice was slurred, heavy
with alcohol and probably more.

Irritation prickled across Paul’s skin. John was always checking out. Always finding a way to not
be present, leaving him to pick up the pieces.

“I've been calling you all week.”

It was John’s turn to shrug. “I’ve been busy.”

“Which is why I asked if you’d actually be free for anything so lofty as an interview.” He scowled.
“Besides, like George said. This is my baby, I need to defend it.”

“That’s not how it’s worked before,” John said. “But if you’d rather go it alone…”

He wouldn’t. Of course he wouldn’t. But while they weren’t unused to bad press, it was generally
about them personally and it wasn’t universal. But this, this, seemed to be blanket disgust. Perhaps
they had gone a bit far, allowed too much of the avant garde into the film. He’d thought it would
be enough, with the music, for everyone to come with them. But perhaps they were out there all on
their own, and really what was the point in that? If you didn’t have an audience, then what was the
point?

He ran a hand over his eyes. He felt so tired; he’d been certain he could push through it. Just keep
going until things got better. But only worse things seemed to be happening.

“Perhaps I’m cracking under the pressure,” he tried to say it like a joke, but it fell flat.

“There’s a lot of it,” John agreed. “More and more as time goes by, it seems. You’re allowed to be
sick of it.”

Paul let out a long breath, just to watch the smoke billow and drift away. He didn’t have anything
left to say. He watched the lights flicker across the skyline.

“I didn’t mean to leave you,” John said. “I just… it’s been hard, you know? With Brian and not
touring and… I don’t know. Seems like I’m losing myself.”

Paul turned his head so he could look at him. “You could have come to me.”

“And you could have come to me,” John said, but there was no bite in the words. He looked away.
“Besides, you have the little wifey at home.”

“She’s not my wife.”

John’s mouth quirked a little. “Call it a practice run. Just assumed that you probably didn’t need
the help. You never said otherwise.”

“I don’t need the help,” he sighed. “Sometimes, I just wish you wanted to be involved in some of
it.”

There was a long silence. “More of a partner.”

He nodded. “I guess. I know you all hate the business stuff, but someone has to do it.”

“Perhaps we do need that break,” John mused. “I know I- I know I need to stop being so out of it. I
want that. It’s just hard.”

“What’s hard?”

“Being in my own head.”

Paul wasn’t sure he understood what John was getting at. He supposed he’d always been better
when he was busy, better when he had something to concentrate on. Otherwise, John had a
tendency to get maudlin and withdrawn.

“That why you trip so much?”

John shrugged. “Looking for the way out.”

It hurt, somehow, that John was trying to find that with acid, that it hadn’t occurred to him to come
to Paul.

“I could help, you know.”

He knew he shouldn’t say it, knew that with him getting married that John really should be looking
for other support systems. Paul was going to be busy, especially once he had a family of his own.
But the thought made him feel queasy. He didn’t want John to find anyone else. Some part of him
felt that it shouldn’t even be necessary. He could do both. He wanted to do both.

“Yeah?” John had gone very still, his focus suddenly absolute. He took a step closer, and Paul
turned so they were facing each other. “How are you going to help me get out of my mind?”

“However you need me to,” he said, meaning it.

He couldn’t look away. It had been so long since he’d been able to really look at John. It might not
have been since their service for Brian. He’d missed him. It was an almost physical pain in his
chest. He wanted to reach out, pull John into him, feel the heat of him. The impulse was so strong
that his hand moved from the wall before had time to stop himself.

John’s eyes tracked the movement, his eyes flicking to Paul’s hand and back to his face. Neither of
them moved for a long moment. Paul could feel it, the tension was mounting between them, like
the gathering of clouds before a storm. He didn’t know what would happen when the front finally
broke.

“You better find your fiance,” John eventually said, leaning back. “She’s looking.”

Paul blinked, confused for a long moment before he managed to come back to reality. “Oh,” he
breathed, taking a step back. “Right. I’ll- err, I’ll give you a call once I’ve set up the interview,
should I?”

John nodded, and patted his pocket and brought out a cigarette. He put into his mouth, his eyes on
Paul, even as he rooted around in his pockets for a light. Paul paused, unable to move, as John lit
the cigarette and took a deep drag. He blew the smoke out into the night. “See you, Paul.”

“Right,” Paul said, blinking and taking a step back. “See you tomorrow.”

February 1968

“What do you make of all this, then?” Paul asked.

He’d found John easily, sitting cross-legged on the stone floor outside his bedroom. John’s eyes
were closed, his stone-coloured shirt flowing down to his waist. He looked peaceful and Paul
almost felt bad for disturbing him. Almost.

He opened one eye to look at Paul.

“You mean has the whole transcendental meditation malarkey unscrambled my noggin and
retwisted my melon?” he asked.

He smiled. John seemed more himself than he had in weeks. Months perhaps. Things hadn’t got
much better since the Christmas break. There hadn’t been any time to slow down, to reassess what
they were doing. Not when they’d gone almost straight back to work and needed a single done to
cover them while they were away. Paul felt like he hadn’t stopped to so much as catch his breath in
months. He’d been more relieved than he’d care to admit, to be away from everything for a while.

“If you like,” he said, coming to sit down next to him.

He tried not to stare, but it was hard. John had seemed so much more relaxed, almost at peace,
since they’d arrived. He looked good. More like his old self and Paul was so relieved that he could
have kissed the Maharishi for that if nothing else.
“I’m not on anything at all,” John sighed. “Feel like I’m about to peel my skin off. But it’s good. I
dunno. George sure does love it, though, so we’ll give it our best shot, won’t we, Macca my
dear?”

Paul laughed. George had done the rounds on the telly after their trip to Wales. He’d wanted John
to join him, but John hadn’t been so sure.

“Don’t need another Christ to save me,” John had said at the time, slowly, as though he was really
thinking about it. “Not unless I’m sure about the methods of the saviour. Does he even like queers,
Georgie? Who knows what methods of torture he’d be able to reap on me, if he so desired it.”

It was unusually cautious of him. But Paul suspected it was as much because he was too busy with
his new friends. Robert’s friends, technically, but who was counting now anyway? Robert’s friends
never told John no. They found him drugs and took him to the types of parties where everyone was
on another plane of existence entirely.

John had been enjoying it so much that it had been agreed among the rest of them that a break
might be a good idea. It was like Hamburg after Stuart all over again. Only this time the world was
watching and Paul was keen that they all disappeared for a few weeks. Give John the chance to
decompress. Give all of them that chance, come to that. He’d been talking about perhaps bringing
an artist he’d met a few weeks before, but Paul had been pleased when he hadn’t. He’d come alone.
Well, if alone counted when Magic Alex dogged his every step, along with Pete and Mal.

“We’ll give it our very best,” he agreed, tipping his head back so the sun hit his face.

There was no denying that it was peaceful. Beautiful too, in its own way. He preferred the lush
green of the English countryside but he appreciated its difference, and the wildlife was incredible.
He’d already taken his camera to record some of it. He hoped the reels would be useful for
something, if nothing else.

“You not having your life changed from the inside out?” John’s tone was teasing, his smile making
him seem open, more approachable than he’d been in weeks.

“No, it’s fine,” he said, waving his hand. “Jane’s not too keen, but I reckon I can see its use.”

John raised an eyebrow and knocked his shoulder into Paul’s. “That mean you’ve not won the race
to enlightenment yet?”

“Wasn’t aware I was competing.”

“Of course you were,” John said, gently amused.

He shrugged, unsure why he’d even come to find John at all. He’d just started to feel agitated, like
he was missing out on something. It was already clear that the trip wasn’t going to be what they’d
all wanted. He could see the frustration in George as he and John slowly disengaged from the
practice to write more and more. It wasn’t like he and John wouldn’t have loved for the whole
thing to be it, to totally transform them, fix everything that was wrong. But that wasn’t practical.
There was too much going on for them to drop everything and pursue something that took a
lifetime to perfect. They needed something faster. Instant relief.

“Guess it’s just hard not thinking about what happens when we leave,” he said, reaching out to grab
at a long strand of grass and tugging on it.

“Ah yes,” John hissed, extending the word. “The Beatles train trundles ever on and on.”
He swallowed. Nodded. “We should probably figure out what direction it’s heading in.”

“Least it can’t be as bad as Mystic Magic Movements.” There was no recrimination in the words,
but they still stung.

None of them had said the name of the film since it came out. Looking back on it, Paul wondered
if it was some form of madness that had gripped them. Gripped him. In his desperation to keep
moving forward he hadn’t been sure to chart the path correctly.

“Maybe,” he said, pulling at another steam. He felt a little vindictive pleasure at the destruction.

“Oh dear,” John said, voice going grave. “We are in dire straits, if even Macca isn’t putting on an
impenetrable front of optimism.”

“It’s not always got to be me, you know,” he said. He sounded petulant and hated it, but the
unfairness of the situation was pressing in on him. He hadn’t realised how close to the surface it
still was. “Perhaps someone else could plan, could take us forward for once.”

“I…” John started. He looked away. “It’s been hard since Brian.”

“I know.”

“I’m not- Someone always wants something and I don’t… It all feels so much all the time. And the
stakes only get bigger.”

“I know.”

Anger was bubbling just under his skin. It prickled uncomfortably. He wanted to tuck it away
before John could see it. Perhaps the meditation was doing something after all, albeit not
something good; with nothing to distract him, he’d been wallowing more on the problems that
were lingering back in England for them.

“I know we lean on you,” John said. “I didn’t… I guess I thought having my dad back would make
things better, you know? Having someone else there. I got caught up in it, forgot what fucking
bastard he was.”

Paul winced. He wanted to defend Alf, on principle more than anything. But he knew John
wouldn’t hear anyway. “I’m sorry that didn’t work out.”

John waved a dismissive hand. “Just another shit Christmas. But, I just meant… I didn’t mean to
leave you alone. I guess, I didn’t know it was possible for it to get to you.”

He shrugged. He wanted to explain how it had felt after the film had aired. Before even. Like he
was being slowly stretched and stretched until tears were appearing everywhere.

He knew he should have realised the film wasn’t what was expected. He knew he should have at
least tried to make sure it was seen in colour. Made sure there was more music in it. Done
something. But there had been too much to focus on. He felt more tired than he’d been in his entire
life, weak, like the colours were slowly seeping out of everything around him.

“We know one thing that’ll happen at least,” John said. His tone mock-upbeat. “The glorious day is
almost upon us.”

The reminder made his breath catch in his throat. He took a shuddering breath and found all he
could do was nod. He’d run out of excuses over Christmas and the date had finally been set. May
21st.

The time was almost gone. He was no longer going to be single. He and John wouldn’t be able to
see one another whenever they pleased. He’d tried not thinking about it. But that just made him
anxious. Then he’d tried to think of all the good things that it would bring, instead of the rising
sense of dread. That hadn’t worked either.

He nodded, pulling at another steam of grass and throwing it at his feet.

“This is my last chance,” he found himself saying. The words echoed back across the years.

“What?” John’s voice was sharp.

“Time’s nearly up,” he said. He hadn’t come to John to say it. He hadn’t even realised he’d been
thinking it. But, once it was out there, it felt inevitable. Ever since that moment on the roof, he’d
known it was coming, no matter how he tried to pretend he didn’t. He swallowed heavily before he
continued, voice low. “Once May comes, I’m going to… Family. Everything.”

“Yeah.” The word sounded so final Paul felt a little queasy.

“I guess I just needed a break before it happened. I hoped it would make me…” He couldn’t finish
the thought but it was clear what he meant. He’d hoped it would calm his nerves. Help him settle
with the idea.

“You know you don’t…” John started and stopped. “This isn’t like with Cyn.”

“I know,” Paul said. “But this is- She's perfect, isn’t she? What good would not doing it achieve?
I’ve got to marry one day. Might as well be now to her.”

“Jesus Paul.” John’s voice was rough. “That’s not how it works.”

“Don’t.” It sounded more like a plea than a command. “I can’t hear it all again. It’s happening.”

John deflated and nodded.

“I just need…” Paul started. But he didn’t know what he needed. Just that whatever it was, he
wasn’t going to find it through meditation.

Somehow the kiss was as unexpected as it was totally unsurprising. John’s lips were warm, a little
dry as he pressed them against Paul’s. It was instinct for Paul’s hands to shoot out to cradle John’s
face, and then John’s hands were in his hair, tugging in just the way Paul liked.

He opened his mouth, deepening the kiss, chasing the feeling of it and leaning into John. They
shifted, hands desperately roaming over clothes until they could be pulled up or away.

He couldn’t stop the moan from escaping him as John’s hand ran down his side. The sound was
loud, unquestionably erotic.

It shocked the sense back into him. He pulled back and looked around, terrified for a moment that
the spot wasn’t as secluded as it had felt moments before. But they were totally alone.

“Fuck,” he panted.

John swallowed, still leaning forward like he was fighting with himself not to pull Paul back into
him. “Come find me,” he said, voice rough. “After dinner.”
Paul couldn’t have found any words if he wanted to. Instead he nodded. There was no other option.
He thought he’d go mad if he didn’t have John against him again. Perhaps he’d already lost his
mind. He wasn’t sure if he even cared.

His hands gripped John’s arm tightly. For a strange moment he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to let go.
Then he forced himself to his feet and away.

———

Paul knew what it meant when he snuck away from dinner early, following in the direction John
had gone minutes before. He knew he probably should have waited longer, but he was done with
that. He’d been waiting for years. It was probably their last chance and there was nothing in the
world that was going to stop him.

He didn’t bother knocking on the door. He just pulled it open and walked right in. John turned
immediately; it looked almost like he’d been pacing.

“You came,” he said, eyes wide.

He nodded. “Had to.”

He took a step closer and then faltered, unsure how to bridge the remaining space. They stared at
one another. The air felt thick with heat and expectation.

“I need…” he stated and then ran out of words. He licked his lips. “It all feels like it’s closing in on
me. Like there’s no escape and I—”

John took the remaining steps toward him, reaching out to grip Paul’s arm. He sagged in relief,
taking hold of John's sleeve and wrapping it in his fingers.

“I feel like I’m drowning,” John whispered. “Nothing interests me anymore. If I’m not high, I’m
just… I’m so alone.”

Paul knocked his forehead gently against John’s, needing the comfort and wanting to give it in
return. John gripped the sleeves of Paul’s shirt and pulled him closer.

“I thought it’d be better away from Cyn, you know? That I’d find myself or something. But I don’t
know. I don’t know any better. Less.”

Paul screwed his eyes closed, his hands dug into John’s arms, hard enough to hurt, but John didn’t
flinch away. Instead he pushed forward until they were flush against one another.

“I couldn’t keep going,” Paul admitted, the words almost hurt on the way out. “After Brian, I just
— I wanted to keep us together. But it’s all so big. And Jane keeps on and on.”

“Fuck,” John breathed. “Fuck. I hate it.”

Paul’s breath stuttered. “I wanted this to be it,” he said. “I wanted it to— I dunno. I wanted it to fix
it.”

“Thought he’d be able to give me the meaning,” John sighed.

“What if…” Paul breathed out. “What if we’re it? What if I found my reason at fucking 15? What
then?”

“The other half of myself,” John nodded, his forehead pressing gently into Paul’s. “God, Paul,
what are we going to do?”

It was too much. Of course it was. They always ended up in the same place. There was only ever
so long they could hold back the tide before it broke over their defences and swept them away.

He didn’t know what to do, how to take the pain away, how to show that he wanted to. In the end,
it was instinct. He tilted his head blindly and kissed him. John didn’t resist. It was simple, how
they slotted together again, as though there had been no break since America.

One good thing about India was that the clothes were easy to remove. They were in a pile at their
feet in a matter of seconds. Then John’s hands were everywhere, roaming over Paul’s skin like he
was desperately trying to relearn every inch of him.

They took some stumbling steps back before they were able to lie down on the bed. They didn’t
pull back from kissing long enough to say anything else. There was no need for more words; they
both knew what this was.

“I wanna suck you,” Paul muttered, sliding down John’s body immediately.

He’d been thinking about it for months. Sometimes he woke hard and desperate for it. He hated it.
No amount of groupies seemed to be enough to take the edge off it. He wasn’t sure why, what had
shifted, but he was terrified it was what John had said after their party about marriage. He blocked
the thought out over and over. Took another girl home. Then another. Then two more. It did
nothing but make him feel miserable and faintly ashamed of himself.

This time Paul took his time, kissed his way down John’s stomach, lingering over his abdomen,
licking over his hip bone. He nipped at the meat of his thigh and John cried out, his hands going to
Paul's hair, not trying to guide him, it seemed more to anchor himself.

When Paul reached his cock, he didn’t take it into his mouth. Instead he kissed the tip, slowly,
making John sigh. It sounded almost pained. Paul closed his eyes, wanting to savour the sound, the
smell of him, then, slowly, the taste. He opened his mouth and took the tip inside his mouth.
Sucked it gently, used his tongue to tease at the head.

John arched up, but Paul was ready for that, relaxed his mouth to allow the movement. It felt so
good, the sting of it. The way John was tugging at his hair.

“I’m going to—” John groaned.

Paul’s cock was hard and leaking when he touched himself. Just enough to take the edge off the
desperate pressure.

“No,” John huffed. “No, not like this. I wanna—” He didn’t finish, just tugged at Paul, until he was
pulling off him.

“Like this,” John whispered, shifting around. “Come on, come on.” He moved them around until
Paul was behind him, slotted together like puzzle pieces.

He took Paul’s cock, guiding it between his thighs, where he was clenching them tightly. The
sweat and precome enough to slick his way. He hadn’t expected it to feel so good, so intimate. He
was overwhelmed, his hips stuttering to a halt, as he gasped for breath.

“Wish you could be inside me,” John muttered, reaching behind himself to grab at Paul, tugging
him closer. “Imagine that you are.”
He arched up, his cock slipping between John’s thighs. The friction was so good, he moaned,
wanton and desperate.

Paul wanted to stop, to demand they find some fucking lube, but of course that was insane. This
had to happen right then. They probably wouldn’t get another chance. Jane was already impatient
for them to leave. He didn’t know how much longer he could pretend to care about the lessons he
wasn’t even really listening to. He’d spent most of the time watching John, charting the way his
skin dusted pink, and then tan. Laughing as he talked with the others, wondering when they could
sneak off to write something new.

It was driving him crazy.

He pushed his hips up again, the slide easy. Hot and slick.

“Wanted to so bad,” he whispered in John’s ear, arm wrapped around his chest, pulling him closer
with every thrust forward. “Hate you being with all those other people.”

“Yeah,” John moaned.

With an almost painful wave of lust, Paul realised that John was touching himself. His hand was
palming his cock, slowly, almost teasing, like he was drawing it out.

“Oh, fuck,” he gasped.

“Please,” John moaned, throwing his head back, so it landed on Paul’s shoulder. “Put it in me.
Paul, I want it. Want to feel it.”

It was too much. He shifted, so he could tease it, slip the head of his cock between the crease. It
wasn’t going in, there wasn’t nearly enough slick and no time to make sure it wouldn’t hurt. But
the tease was enough. Too good. Too much.

They were both moaning, every movement enough to spark waves of pleasure through Paul. He
slipped his hand down John’s stomach, reaching for his cock. He wrapped his hand around it.

“Come on, darling,” he groaned, arching forward, pushing into the heat between his thighs. “Open
up for me. Let me fuck you.”

John made a noise somewhere between a whine and sob, and came over Paul’s hand. It was
enough, the pleasure cresting over Paul moments later. He cried out, then bit down on John’s neck.
Not hard, just enough to let him feel it. John convulsed in his arms.

They lay together as they came down from the high. That was new. Neither of them found reasons
to leave the moment it was done. There was no point in pretending anymore. Paul lay with his head
on John’s chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart.

“I don’t know what to do,” he whispered. “I have to… People expect us to get married.”

John’s arm tightened where it was wrapped around his waist. “I tried that,” he said. “Felt like I was
slowly suffocating.”

“So what?” Paul asked, feeling almost dizzy with desperation. “We run away together? Where? It’s
not like we can disappear.”

John was silent, as though genuinely considering it. “Is this really enough for you?” he asked in the
end. “Us hooking up once every couple of years and then pretending it didn’t mean anything and
ignoring each other for months and months until we start the whole thing over?”

The question hit him like a punch. He’d never considered it quite like that. It wasn’t like he’d
meant for them to fall into a pattern. He couldn’t seem to help anything that happened between
them; it wasn’t a matter of what he wanted, it was a matter of what it was.

“I love my life, I love being in the band, I love Cavendish and everything in London. It’s not fair
that I’d have to give any of it up.”

He could feel the way John locked up under him. “So it’s me that gets the shove?”

“I just said that I didn’t want to have to choose!” Frustration pressed at his skin, making him hot,
tight. He wanted to scream.

“Well, darling,” John said, tone dripping with sarcasm. “I’m not sure that’s an option.”

“You tell me John!” he exploded, sitting up, so he could glare down at him. “What’s the solution
here? What’s the get out? How do we have this without the world knowing and it destroying
everything we love?”

John’s face had shuttered. “If you really wanted it, you’d find a way.”

It was too much. “Fuck you for saying that,” he hissed. “Fuck you for expecting me to always be
the one to sort everything out for you. What about what I need?”

“Are you kidding me?” John said, pushing himself up so they were both sitting, the sheets tangled
around their waists. “It’s always what you need. You’ve been juggling me and Jane for fucking
years. You take whatever you want when you want it and then you go back to the other one. And
we let you.”

“What are you talking about?” Paul almost shouted. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. As
though it wasn’t John that had been calling all the shots since the day they met. Tugging Paul
around after him like a pathetic balloon on a string.

“I’m so fucking sick of waiting for your to wake up.” John shook his head, looking away.

“I don’t understand what you mean,” he said, through gritted teeth. ”What are you waiting for?
What do you think is going to happen?”

John reeled back and Paul knew he’d gone too far. Although how or why he didn’t know.

“Get out.” John’s voice was flat, emotionless.

He blinked at him, trying to understand what was happening. “Are you kidding?”

“Fuck off.” John wasn’t looking at him. “Now. Or I swear to God…”

Paul got up. There wasn’t anything else he could do. His chest hurt like something was stuck there,
jagged and cold. He searched for his clothes, pulling them on roughly, not daring to look at John.

“Just…” John said, as he was headed to the door. He stopped, and Paul turned to see him swallow,
and refuse to look back at him. “Just remember this was your decision. You’re walking away right
now.”

He threw his hands up in the air. “You’re literally throwing me out of the room.”
“I can’t do this anymore.”

“Me either,” Paul huffed. He couldn’t have another fight that didn’t have an end, especially when
he wasn’t even sure they were having the same one.

“Well,” John sighed. “That’s one decision made at least.”

Cold dread trickled down Paul’s spine. John’s voice was hoarse. He hadn’t heard that tone since
Brian. John wasn’t the sort of person who cried. But Paul watched, dumbfounded, as he roughly
wiped at his eyes.

He didn’t know what was happening, how they’d got there when moments before they’d been
tangled together in the sheets.

“I…” he started. “John, I—”

“Don’t.” The word was pained. “Just. Don’t. Go back to Jane. Like you were always going to.”

Terror was starting to claw at his chest. “John—” he tried.

“Please.” It was a plea. Quiet and sad.

Paul’s heart felt like it was in a vice. But there was nothing he could do. Nothing he could say.

He turned and walked away.

March 1968

“Jane,” he tried, his voice high with panic. “Please, be reasonable.”

She whirled around, her face white with fury. “Reasonable? ” she hissed. “I’ve been reasonable.
I’ve been nothing but reasonable for years. I’ve waited, I’ve been patient. I’ve been the good
girlfriend, gone where you’ve asked, worn what you told me to. Fucking trailed around after you
since I was 17! And what have you ever done in return? I didn’t mind the girls, the hundreds of
them that you paraded around. I kept my mouth shut. But how dare you ask me to do that after you
swore that it was done. I’m done waiting.”

“Jane-”

“I’m done,” she shouted, “pretending not to see what you don’t want me to see.”

That drew Paul up short, terror siezing his chest. “What are you talking about?”

Jane’s eyes were red-rimmed, but she was standing tall. She never backed down when it came to it.
Paul had always loved her for it. “Don’t you dare pretend you don’t know,” she hissed. “I suppose
I’m lucky I’m getting out now.”

Fury was rising up to smother even his horror at what she was saying. He couldn’t be sure, of
course, what exactly she was hinting at. But, really, there were only a very few options.

“Be very careful,” he said, voice low and hard, “about what you’re about to say.”

She stopped short, perhaps surprised by his tone. It looked for a moment like she might be about to
continue despite the warning, but then she deflated and looked away.

“I’m done,” she sighed finally. “You can find someone else to pick up after you, to prop you up
when all the groupies and so-called friends have left you.”

“Well, at least I won’t have to hear the constant nagging,” he snapped back. He didn’t even know
why, but her words were landing heavily, leaving him feel ragged and raw.

“Good,” she said. “You can never hear from me again. Then see how you do when you’re left all
alone in this big house, with no one that cares, no one that will put up with you never committing,
never giving anything back. You’re going to be alone, Paul. I hope you realise that. I want to feel
sorry for you, but I can’t. You’ve done this. You wanted to be alone.”

He reeled back, his mind blank with shock. Of course she knew exactly how to hurt, knew the
words to pick like the perfect weapons. He wanted to sit down or to turn around and leave. He
couldn’t hear more, it was one thing for her to leave, to walk out on him after everything, but he
didn’t have to listen to her nonsense.

His heart was racing as he turned away and slammed open the door.

“That’s it!” Jane shouted after him. He could hear the tears in his voice, but didn’t turn around.
“Leave. That’s all you know how to do. Run away from any problem. But sooner or later we all get
tired of running after you!”

He slammed the door shut behind him and kept walking. Right out of the house.

———

He didn’t know why he ended up where he did, didn’t know why he knocked on the door. It was
unfair. Selfish. Risky. He just wished his eyes would stop stinging. He could feel how flushed he
was, knew his eyes were red, but there was nothing he could do about it.

John opened the door, a frown on his face, which morphed to confusion and then quickly to mild
panic.

“Paul? What happened? Are you-?” he cut the question off as Paul pushed by him and into the flat.

“Who’s here?” Paul asked, his voice rough, probably from all the shouting. Also, probably from
the crying on the way over. Fuck. He was such a mess.

“What?” John asked, shutting the door behind them.

“Are you alone?”

The thought had been plaguing him since he set off. The chances were very high that John would
have people over. He thought he’d even seen in the papers that he was dating someone, but he’d
made himself put it down before he read any further. But he couldn’t do this in front of anyone
else.

“Yeah,” John sighed. “Well, Julian’s in bed and there’s dear old Dot, of course. Though, I think she
might have gone. What’s going on?”

The relief only lasted a second as he took a breath and then found that it hitched embarrassingly.
“Jane—”

John had followed him into the living room where Paul lingered in the centre of the room. He felt
too restless to settle, but pacing seemed to give too much away.
John’s expression went from confusion to slightly frustrated clarity. “What did you do?”

He shrugged. “Nothing,” he said. Then his voice wobbled awfully. “Just a girl.”

John raised his eyebrows. “Thought you weren’t doing that?”

“I dunno,” he said.

But he did. He’d made a big deal out of it after India, of agreeing to the commitment of being an
almost married man. It had been a rash decision, driven entirely by guilt. He wasn’t even sure now
about what. For cheating on Jane with John or for the way things had ended with John. He
suspected a terrible mix of both. Either way, he’d been a mess when they’d flown back to England
after just three weeks. George had been silently furious and John had refused to even look at him as
they left.

An anxious energy had thrummed through him for days once they were back in England. It felt like
something dreadful might happen at any moment. He wasn’t sure what, he couldn’t even see the
shape of it. But the pressing feeling of it getting closer and closer made it impossible to sleep or
even settle on one task at a time.

Jane had cornered him a week later and demanded to know what the problem was. He hadn’t had
any real clue how to answer her. Clearly, he’d never be able to say what had happened with John,
but any other explanation had stuck in his throat. In the end he’d broken down, tears filling his eyes
as he explained how tired he was, how done with everything. He just wanted to settle down. To
have a family. To stop all the nonsense with the girls and the partying.

What was more, as he’d started speaking, he’d realised he almost meant it. It probably was time he
settled down. And he did want a family. If what had happened with John had shown anything, it
was that they needed a proper break from one another. They’d been too close to something so
terrifying Paul wouldn’t even look at it. He’d somehow allowed all his carefully controlled walls
around their feelings for each other to crumble. If there was any chance of putting them back up,
they needed a good, clean break. Marriage and a new start seemed the best way of achieving it.
Once he was truly satisfied, once he had a real family of his own to care for, surely he wouldn’t
still want John. They could both move on.

Of course Jane had been pleased. She’d smiled at him, hugged him tightly and whispered that she
understood. That she was pleased he’d told her. That they’d build a beautiful life together.

None of that had made the anxiety loosen in his chest. If anything it felt like a belt was tightening
around his ribs, squeezing and squeezing until he couldn’t even take a proper breath.

“So,” John said, bringing him back to the present. “What happened? Can’t you charm your way out
of it like always? Say nothing happened with whoever it was?”

Paul looked away from him, around the flat. He realised with a start that it had been redecorated.
The walls were white, and there was a new painting on the wall. He thought he recognised the
artist, but couldn’t concentrate enough to place them. He felt sick. How long had it been since he’d
seen John? How long since they’d been alone?

The thought made his eyes sting again, which was ridiculous. He didn’t know what he was doing.
He hated it. Hated being so weak.

“No.” He shook his head, looking down at the carpet. It needed replacing, There were little burn
holes dotted neatly around the furniture. Black marks depicting the travel of pipes around the
room, passed hand to hand. “She was meant to be away, meant to be on a job. I don’t know what
happened. I just thought– Just one last time, you know? There were all these girls outside and I
thought, well, this is the last time I’ll even really be able to let them hang around out there. So I
just…”

“She came back early?” John’s voice was hard, no hint of the sympathy that Paul hadn’t really
expected but still hoped for.

He forced himself to nod, despite it not really being true. The worst part of it, the thing Jane had
screamed at him, was that it wasn’t a mistake. He knew when she was meant to be coming home.
He could have made the girl leave. But he hadn’t. They’d got high together instead. He hadn’t
known he was waiting for the sound of an opening door until he’d heard it.

“She thinks I wanted her to find me,” he managed to whisper. “She thinks that I don’t want to
marry her and that– that I just couldn’t say it.”

John’s eyebrows drew together. “And? Is that true?”

He shrugged helplessly. “When she left,” he said, “when she said it was all off, the first thing I
thought – the first feeling – it was relief.”

John let out a slow breath. “Jesus Christ, Paul.”

“I don’t know what to do,” he said. “I have to– I need to get married. I’m the last one to do it, and I
know people are talking. But I just… the thought of it, it makes me feel like I’m trapped in a tiny
room with no windows.”

John’s eyes were hard as they watched him steadily. It was clear he was considering how to
respond. “What does that mean?”

“What?”

“Why do you have to get married?”

Paul frowned and gestured. “Because that’s what people do. They grow up, they have families.”

“Right,” John nodded, as though slowly working through a maths problem. “And if they don’t do
that, what then?”

“I don’t… I guess people feel sort of sorry for them or think that they’re–”

He saw the trap he was about to stumble into a little too late and closed his mouth around the
words that had been able to fall out.

John crossed his arms over his chest. “You worried people are talking about you?”

“People are always talking,” he hedged.

“But, that’s it, isn’t it? You’re worried about people thinking you’re queer so you were going to
marry a woman you don’t even love.”

“I do love her!” he shot back. “I do, it’s just– Marriage is a big commitment and I’m not ready.”

“You’ve not wanted to marry her since the day you started dating,” John said. He didn’t sound
angry, or even particularly scornful.
“Well,” he stuttered, before realising with awful clarity that John was right. “I thought I’d change
my mind.”

“Fucking hell, you’re a moron.” There was still no heat in the words, just gentle frustration. “But
despite that you’ll marry just because you don’t want anyone thinking you’re queer.”

A flush of hot embarrassment shot through Paul like a wave. “Not just that.”

“You’re still young,” John’s eyes were narrowing, “what’s the hurry?”

“I don’t understand.”

“I mean, are you worried because you think there’s something that might come out? Some rumours
that you need to stamp out?” John’s tone was low, almost dangerous. He took a step closer to Paul.
“What have you been up to, Paul, that’s got you so worried?”

He opened his mouth to contradict him, but John was already talking.

“Is that really what happened with Jane? Or did she hear about you and Groovy Bob at all his
special clubs?”

Paul curled away from him, turning into himself. His heart was racing, Jane’s dark hints echoing in
his ears. “I’ve never done anything with someone that would talk.”

“You sure?” John asked, slow, his voice hard and cold. Paul wasn’t even sure why he was angry,
other than that was John’s permanent state with him since India.

“Yes,” he hissed. But then anger got the better of him. “And who have you been dragging up to
this little den of debauchery? Perhaps me getting married might protect both of us from getting
caught up in something we can’t talk our way out from.”

John looked utterly furious for a second and, they glared at one another. Paul wondered if John was
going to shove him. A sick feeling shot through Paul that at least it would be him touching him
again. But then John turned abruptly away, shaking his head.

“What are we even doing?” John whispered. “What’s going on here?”

“What’s that mean?”

John’s jaw was tight, his face pinched. “Why are you here?”

“Because when I feel like this I come to you or Jane.”

He knew it sounded ridiculous. But it was true. There were two people he felt able to speak to
about his fears and one of them had just cut him out of her life forever.

John let out a breath and closed his eyes. “I can’t do it anymore,” he said, his eyes still closed.

It felt like the breath had been punched out of Paul all at once. “What?” he breathed.

“I can’t be the backup option for when you run out of road with whatever woman you’ve got on the
line that week,” he said. “I thought that was clear after India. I’m done, Paul. This little pain party
between us has to end.”

“That’s not fair,” he said. “You’re my best friend.”

“Fuck you,” John hissed. “We are not friends. I don’t know what this mess between us is, but it’s
never been friendship. Don’t you dare try and call it that.”

Paul felt winded. It hurt worse than when Jane had started packing her things. When he’d realised
that he’d finally broken what was between them.

“Don’t,” he said, but it came out small, wounded. His eyes were stinging again, and he knew there
wasn’t anything he’d be able to do to stop the hot tear that leaked from his right eye, trailing
damningly down his cheek. “Don’t say that to me.”

John finally looked at him and his whole face crumpled when he saw Paul’s expression. “I’m not
trying to hurt you,” he whispered. “I’m not… I’m not even angry with you. I’m just so tired of this.
I don’t have it in me any more.”

“I just needed a friend,” Paul reasoned. “I didn’t mean anything by coming here.”

“I know,” John said, stepping closer before seeming to realise what he was doing and pulling up
short. “That’s exactly the problem.”

“What do I do now then?”

John’s arm lifted, as though he was going to touch him. Paul swayed on the spot, wanting
desperately to lean into the warmth of him. He could almost feel it, how comforting it would be.
How right. But John dropped his hand again.

“I don’t know,” he said, voice low and so sad that Paul’s heart clenched in his chest. “But you
can’t do it here. Not anymore. It’s not fair.”

There wasn’t anything for him to do or say to that. He felt rooted to the spot. Gutted and cold. It
took him several seconds before he could even manage to nod his head.

“I’ll– I’ll go,” he managed, voice hoarse and tight.

John didn’t even watch him leave.

TBC
 Chapter 9

May 1968

New York was a living nightmare. John was cold, distant, in a way that Paul had never seen him
before. He wasn’t angry or confrontational. That would have been so much better. Paul knew what
to do with that. Instead, he was polite, painfully so. It made Paul want to pull his hair out. Every
time John looked right through him, as though he didn’t matter, it felt like a part of him was dying.

Jane hadn’t contacted him. Mrs. Asher had come by to collect her things a few days after Jane had
left. She’d looked so disappointed when he opened the door that he’d hid in his music room
pretending it wasn’t happening. The whole house felt empty, cold and uninviting, once Jane’s
things were gone. So he went out. Drank until he couldn’t see straight and someone had to pour
him into the nearest bed.

Of course, everything else all went to shit at exactly the same time. Everything he’d worked so
hard for, years upon years of effort and sweat, was all falling apart. Somehow he’d run out of road.
He’d thought himself so clever. Managing Jane and John so carefully. Getting everything he
wanted. But it was all over. He’d lost both of them. He was falling and there was nothing left for
him to grab onto as he fell. None of his friends truly understood what was happening. Even with
Jane, they were sad, a little perplexed, but none of them could see why it hurt so much.

Somehow Apple was launching anyway.

There wasn’t any stopping it now, and really it didn’t make sense to try. It made financial sense,
whichever way you looked at it. The plans were already in place, they’d started thinking about it
before Brian died. Besides, there wasn’t another plan.

Things just moved around Paul as he watched them helplessly. Peter came around for the final box
of Jane’s things. John took up with that Japanese artist he’d been talking about before India.
Contracts were signed for Apple. Sessions were booked for their new album. Paul didn’t want any
of it. He just sat in the middle of it, watching helplessly, totally lost. Terrified to even move unless
another domino fell, even worse than the one before.

It probably wasn’t sensible for it to have been him and John to go to New York. But, he could
hardly complain when the others suggested it. There was no reason that he could give for not
going. Apple was his idea, John was the spokesperson nowadays. So there he was, sitting in
interviews and desperately wondering how clear it was that he was terrified of what was happening
around him.

“And what is Apple?” The interviewer was looking directly at Paul.

“It’s…” he started before trailing off, as he had with almost every other question they’d been asked
since they arrived. He couldn’t seem to hold onto the thread of a thought long enough to get the
words out satisfactorily.

He could feel John shifting next to him. He looked so put together, with his scarf and bus prefect
pin. Paul hadn’t felt like such a junior member of their relationship since the early months of their
friendship.

“It’s a business,” John cut in, when it became clear that Paul really didn’t have the end of the
sentence he’d started, “concerning records, films, and electronics. And as a sideline, whatever it's
called... manufacturing, or whatever. But we want to set up a system whereby people who just want
to make a film about anything, don't have to go on their knees in somebody's office. Probably
yours.”

There was a smattering of polite laughter. Paul remembered vividly when they’d talked about their
dreams for Apple. How lofty their ideals had been. They’d wanted to make a difference, make sure
that other people didn’t get screwed the way they’d been when they started out. Now, it seemed
almost absurd. They were barely able to keep their heads above water at the best of times. How the
hell were they going to run a business when John wouldn’t even speak to him?

But it was too late. The thought circled Paul’s mind over and over, like a rat caught in a maze.
There was simply no way out of any of this but to go through. They were tied together by god
knew how many contracts. Their finances were a mess. They had to do something. This was still
the best something any of them had come up with.

Just because Paul felt almost dizzy at the thought of having to live like this for even another week,
let alone years and years, didn’t mean that there was another option.

“We really want to help people,” he managed, now that John had laid out the basics, “but without
doing it like a charity or seeming like ordinary patrons of the arts. We're in the happy position of
not really needing any more money. So for the first time, the bosses aren't in it for profit. If you
come and see me and say 'I've had such and such a dream,' I'll say 'Here's so much money. Go
away and do it.' We've already bought all our dreams. So now we want to share that possibility
with others."

He wanted to look at John. He wanted to see if he still felt like that, like they could make a
difference together. He didn’t. He kept his eyes on the journalists. He could see the barely
contained snarls of disapproval. That, at least, hadn’t changed much over the years. He knew
where he was with that.

They wrapped the press conference without Paul having any real sense of what they’d said. Had
they made their case well enough? Would people really understand what they were trying to do?
He had no idea and he was so exhausted that he couldn’t even attempt to untangle the twisted
memories of the last half hour. Most of them were of John anyway; his cool answers, his absolute
determination not to look at Paul, the way he leant forward when he made a journalist laugh. John.
John. John.

Of course, the frosty politeness followed them back to the flat they’d borrowed for the stay. There
was a pretty young housekeeper there, which neither of them seemed inclined to make a move on.
If that wasn’t a sign of how bad things truly were, he didn’t know what was. John managed to
avoid him. Despite the small space they were sharing, he never seemed to be in the same room for
more than a couple of fleeting words before he was gone.

Paul was going out of his mind.

They couldn’t go on like that. They were meant to be a team. They had albums to write. A new
business to run. He couldn’t do that with John unable to even look at him. More, he wasn’t sure
how he was meant to behave, who he was meant to be without John there. He smoked almost
constantly, lighting up almost the moment he put the last one out. It numbed him, at least a little.
But it also left him hazy, unsure of what he was doing or if he was forgetting something vital. He
hated it, but he hated the pain in his chest, like his heart had been extracted, which snuck back he
hadn’t had a smoke for a few hours, even more.

Eventually, John ran out of luck. Paul started as he left his room, heading to the bathroom to get
ready for bed, when he found John on his way back from doing the same. Their bedrooms were
opposite one another in a small corridor, with the bathroom at one end and the living room at the
other. They both froze when they saw each other. Paul’s chest was so tight that he couldn’t
breathe.

Then John nodded. “Night,” he muttered, and brushed by Paul, as he made his way down the hall.
His eyes were firmly averted, his posture stiff, as though not wanting to touch Paul more than the
small space allowed.

“I hate this,” he whispered, just as John was nearly through the door to his bedroom.

He paused, the tension in his frame clear, despite his back still being to Paul. “What?”

“You know what,” he said. “This; you being furious with me but not saying why. Ignoring me
unless there’s literally no other choice.”

“I’m trying,” John said, voice cold.

“Trying to do what?”

Finally he turned around. His face now a mask of poorly disguised anger. “Trying to figure out
how to be around you when all I want is to never have to see you again.”

He reeled back. “What?”

“Every time I’m with you,” John said, “it hurts. Sometimes I think that’s how it’s always been.
Only now I know what it is. And, I’m trying to figure out what to do with that. But it’s not easy and
you’re not helping with whatever you think you’re doing.”

“I’m not trying to do anything.”

John blinked at him. Then shook his head. “The sad thing is, I actually believe that.”

“What’s that mean?”

“The point is,” John said, jabbing a finger in his direction, “that you never think you’re wrong. It
never occurs to you that you might need to change. You might need to make a move to fix
something.”

“How am I supposed to fix something when I don’t even know why it’s broken?” He could hear
his own voice rising with agitation, but didn’t know how to stop it. The anxiety of the last few days
was too much. Something had to break. “Maybe, given you apparently know everything, you could
do something about it. You’re always going on and on about how shit everything is, how hard it all
is, but have you ever done anything to make it better? Why does it always have to be someone
else’s job to clean up after you, to look after you?”

“Of course,” John’s jaw was clenched so hard that it looked painful. “It’s my fault. It doesn’t
matter if I’m going through hell, it’s all about how it makes you feel.”

“If you’re that bloody unwell,” Paul almost shouted, “get some fucking help and stop waiting for
someone else to fix it.”

John shook his head. “You’re a piece of work, you know that?” He gestured. “I’m the one that
always has to make the fucking decisions. Who manages us. When we release things. What’s on it.
You never want to take responsibility for any of it until you’re sure there’s credit to be had. And
I’m fucking sick of it. I’m done with the whole fucking lot of it. I’ve tried every single thing I
could think of to get you to make a bloody choice. So, fine, I made it for you and yet that’s still not
good enough.”

The feeling of desperation was rising in his chest, something like panic making his heart pound.
“What choice? I don’t see any good options for any of this.”

John reeled back like he’d been slapped. He took a sharp breath and seemed to hold it. “You’re
such a cunt sometimes.”

It wasn’t even particularly vicious, perhaps if the venom had outweighed the hurt, Paul wouldn’t
have seen quite how close to the edge they truly were. It was like he could hear the wind whistling
through the cavern just below their feet, the swirling of rushing water at its base. He knew if he
took even a single wrong step, they’d be doomed. But he couldn’t see the path. He was starting to
think he hadn’t been near one for months, perhaps years.

He was quiet for too long, unable to think of a response. When he managed to find some words,
they were small and afraid sounding. “Is it still only you?”

John startled, the wind suddenly dropping from his sails. He looked at Paul, as though searching
his face for something. He wished he knew for what, he’d have given it to him in an instant. In the
end he looked away, his mouth pulling into a tight line. “I wish I knew.”

Paul’s world tilted for a moment, the roaring got louder, like he’d taken a step closer to the edge of
the cliff.

June 1968

It wasn’t that he was looking for reasons to get away; it was just that they needed some way to
announce that the Beatles were now on the Apple label. It would be easy enough, say a few words
to some grey suits, play a film they’d made, then he’d be able to relax.

Although the idea of escaping London was appealing too, he hadn’t even bothered to read to the
end of the memo before volunteering. Things seemed to have only gotten worse since New York.
The weeks were a long grey blur of misery that Paul had given up trying to track. Apple wasn’t
going to get up and running as easily as they’d assumed. It was so much work. Derek and Neil
looked dead on their feet. That was before he got into the finances, which he tried not to even think
about, because it made the hair on the back of his arms stand on end. It was bad news. That was
the headline of every meeting they went to. The finer details were mostly irrelevant. Things were a
mess and there was a long way to go before they wouldn't be.

Perhaps that might have been more manageable if John was speaking to him. It was subtle, John’s
dismissal of him; when they were in the same room, John would speak, but he’d be addressing the
room as a whole, his eyes never landing on Paul. If they were alone for even a moment, John
remembered somewhere else he apparently desperately needed to be. Paul started to aid him in his
mission to never be around him by trying to ensure they didn’t need to be at Apple at the same
time.

John was still with Yoko. In fact, he was never without her. When they’d arrived together at the
first sessions for the new record, Paul’s heart had plummeted to his feet. She was beautiful,
strange-looking, but in an interesting, fragile sort of way. She spoke quietly, holding onto John’s
arm as though afraid she might fall over without it. Paul couldn’t look at them. He’d tried bringing
Francie with him, but all that had done was make him distracted further.
In short, he needed to remember that there were actually some good things about his life. Being
famous was fun. He could go to interesting places. Do interesting things. Meet interesting people.
Like Linda. She’d given him her number, leaning close and slipping it gently between his fingers
as they’d said goodbye in New York. He’d gripped it tightly, his eyes on John as she gave him a
chaste peck on the cheek and walked away. He barely remembered what they’d spoken about
during their car ride to the airport, he’d just been desperate not to be alone with John again. He
wasn’t sure what he’d do. Something awful like beg for forgiveness probably.

But he’d liked her. She was funny, smart and clearly knew what she wanted. He appreciated that in
a girl. Perhaps she’d be fun to while away a few days in LA with until he had to go back to the
realities of London life. Once he’d done that, he’d be fine. He’d have the energy he needed to get
Apple under control. Perhaps even by the time he was back, John would have got over whatever
had fractured between them in India.

“Hey, aren’t you that musician?” Linda was on her feet before Paul reached her in the lobby of the
hotel. She was more beautiful than he’d remembered. Her fine bone structure, the soft fall of her
hair. That wicked smile.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Paul grinned back at her. “I’m the other one.”

“Pity,” she said, pouting prettily. “I really dig his music.”

“Well, come with me,” he gestured towards the lifts, “perhaps I can demonstrate some of my more
interesting overtures and you’ll see that I’m not such a bad substitute.”

Hours later, he wondered why he’d waited so long to take her to bed. She was incredible. Funny,
warm, insightful. Up for almost everything. Perfect. She was perfect. They didn’t get out of bed for
the rest of the day. She called room service and they didn’t bother dressing. Paul laughed as she got
out her camera to ‘document the occasion’. His chest felt lighter than it had in months.

They lay together, talking easily. That was something that he’d stopped bothering with the last few
months with any of the girls he’d tried to lose himself in. It hadn’t seemed worth it. Now, there was
no question that he might ask her to leave. They both seemed to know that.

“So, what brings you to the land of movie magic?”

He shrugged. “Just business.”

“Ohh,” she said, using the tone he’d already grown familiar with that meant she was about to tease
him, “business stuff? Something a little lady couldn’t understand?”

He rolled his eyes. “Something a little lady wouldn’t be remotely interested in.”

She tilted her head. “Why are you here then?”

“Huh?”

“Well, if it’s not important enough to be interesting, then surely the lead songwriter of the Beatles
doesn’t need to be here to do it.”

“I’m not the lead writer,” he supplied, automatically, despite the little thrill her words gave him.

She waved him off. “What are you running away from?”

He froze. “Whoa now,” he said, holding up a hand. “Where’d that come from? Perhaps I just
wanted a reason to come to America.” He gave her a pointed look.

“I’m more than worth the trip, I’m sure.” She winked. “But, there’s more. You,” she said, pointing,
“are sad.”

“I’m not.”

“No, you are.”

“How would you even know?” A tension had crept into his voice that he didn’t want. This wasn’t
why he’d called her. It wasn’t why he’d brought her to his room. He’d wanted an escape. What
was she thinking, bringing it all up?

She clearly noticed the tone. Paul waited for the retreat.

“Where’s the other lead songwriter?”

“None of yours.”

She smiled at him. “In which case,” she said, apparently totally unbothered. “May I interest you in
another go round?”

He let out a relieved breath. Pulled her to him. “You certainly may.”

Of course that didn’t mean the conversation was over. He should have known that. She was smart,
inquisitive. Interested in him. But, when they moved onto other things, he let himself start to feel
secure, relaxed and open, before it happened again.

“This is our, what, third date?” she asked, leaning closer, and dropping her voice.

Paul could smell her perfume, something soft and flowery, and under that, the scent of sex and
weed. “Do car rides count as dates?”

“I think when you’re dating a rock star, they do,” she confirmed, as though working through an
intellectual puzzle.

“Fine,” he waved a hand. “Our third date.”

“Which would usually be when I’d start to wonder if this meant you liked me,” she said, slowly.

“I do,” he said, surprising himself. He’d been drawn to her from the moment they met. Despite the
turmoil and how stressed he’d been, Linda had remained in the back of his mind. A little spot of
something that he hadn’t been able to explain away.

Her smile was radiant. Paul’s stomach did an alarming flip. “Which is good to hear,” she nodded.
“And yet. You’re sad.”

He couldn’t hold in the sigh. “It’s just business,” he said, deciding just to give in. He trusted her.
He wasn’t sure why he knew he could, but he did. Besides, he wasn’t sure how long he could keep
it all inside. It was months of having no one to really talk to; he probably shouldn’t have been
surprised to find it was weighing on him. He just wanted to lay some of it down. At least for a little
while. “It’s all- It’s harder than we thought. We’ll sort it, but it just needs more attention than we
thought it would.”

“Thought you’d be too busy making music to bother with it, I guess,” she said, nodding around the
room, presumably indicating his entire trip.
“Duty must.”

In truth, the music hadn’t been any better than being at Apple. The sessions seemed to veer
between stifling boredom and tense near-arguments. None of them seemed happy but none of them
seemed able to express exactly why. They had the material, too much of it, in truth. It made it
easier to find excuses to be away from each other. Everyone working on their own material. Paul
tried to lose himself in it, but he found it hard. His mind wandered to the other studios, wondering
what the others were doing. If they even cared that he wasn’t there to help.

“You know,” she said, “my dad’s a lawyer; he might be able to help.”

Paul shrugged. He knew who Linda’s family were, knew they had an excellent reputation. “We
need all of that we can get.”

“I’ll have him call you when you’re back, if you like.”

“Thanks,” he said. He tried to smile. It was almost genuine; it felt like he had someone on his side
for the first time since Jane had walked out. “That’s one of my problems solved. What else have
you got?”

She smiled mischievously at him, then spun around on the bed to reach down to the floor. When
she sat back up, she had a canvas bag in her lap. She rolled a joint with deft hands, the smile on her
lips never dimming. Paul couldn’t help but smile hopelessly back at her. Once it was lit, she
handed it over to him.

“Good,” he said, with an incline of his head. “That’s a big move.”

“Now, what else ails the most famous man in the world?” she said, reclining back on the bed, a
hand behind her head.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he said, sucking in a lungful of smoke and holding it for a long
moment.

“That’s generally why someone asks a question.”

They laughed, their amusement mingling and multiplying.

“It’s too much to go into,” he sighed. “It’s not even… I doubt you’d even find it very interesting.”

“You keep saying that,” she said, propping her head up on one hand, the joint between her fingers
curling smoke gently towards the ceiling. “I suppose you think it’ll throw me off the scent.”

“Got a bloodhound on the case, have we?” he asked, sounding a little more surly than he meant to.

“When it comes to problems,” she said. “I’m a fixer.”

He eyed her pointedly. “I can see that.” He looked down at his hands, flexed them against the
sheets. He wasn’t sure why he was considering explaining anything at all to her. It wasn’t like he
owed her anything. But he was considering it, even as the words tangled themselves in his chest.
He had no idea where to start.

“It’s John.”

He looked up, startled at the way the name had hit him right in the centre of his chest. He’d so
been enjoying not having to think about him. London had seemed so very far away. Linda, the
hotel room, even the city, felt safe. He didn’t want to drag reality into it. He felt almost resentful as
he looked over at her.

“What’s that mean?”

She shrugged a shoulder, but her face was set and serious. “He’s all over you.”

He flinched, wondered what was showing on his face. “You’re daft.”

“Usually,” she agreed without any heat, “but I’m not wrong. All three of our dates, he’s been right
there.”

Paul made a great show of looking around the room. “Where exactly is he now, under the bed?”

“In your head.”

He could feel that he really was glaring now, but didn’t make himself stop. “You can’t possibly
know what’s in my head.”

She met his eyes easily. A girl used to being in control. He liked her so very much. “Am I wrong?”

Of course she wasn’t. But how she could possibly know that, he had no idea. He opened his mouth
to deny it, to sweep it all away. He could see himself doing it. Could see himself pulling her close
instead, telling her that she was the only one in his head currently. She’d let him, too. She wanted
that to be true. Together they could probably make it true. Eventually.

But that didn’t change the fact it would be a lie. Their relationship would start with a lie and that
seemed so wrong. Completely unfair to them both. He didn’t want that.

He’d never spoken to anyone about John. Not truthfully. Not like he wanted to. God he wanted to .
He hadn’t realised until that very moment how much. The knowledge of it was so heavy. He
wanted to pass just a little of it along. But, more than that, he wanted it to be real somewhere other
than in his own head. Perhaps he was mad. But at that moment, he didn’t care.

He took a breath. “No.”

He waited for her reaction, his every muscle coiled tight.

“We need more food,” she said, slowly, eyeing him intently.

“What?”

“There’s a story,” she said, “and you’re starting at the beginning of it. You’re going to need some
sustenance.”

He didn’t argue. It would be good to have something else to think about instead of what he was
about to say. He took his time, waiting until the food was there. He took a bite, chewed it slowly.
Then he started to speak. He didn’t tell her everything. Some of it was too personal, or perhaps too
much for him to look directly at. He left out the detail, the colour. But he said enough. The
meaning was clear.

She was silent when he finished. She hadn’t interrupted, hadn’t exclaimed in dismay or disgust.
Just watched him steadily while he fumbled his way through it.

“So you ran away?” she asked into the silence, when he’d finally ground to a halt. The food was
done, or at least Paul didn’t have the appetite to finish it.
“It’s not running,” he said, offended, “he doesn’t want me around. What else am I meant to do?”

Her lips turned down in an expression of doubt. “What do you want to do?”

That was the question. Paul hated it. He wasn’t sure there was a time he’d had a certain answer for
it that extended beyond the end of the week. Planning had never been his strong point. He never
knew what was going to happen, it seemed silly making plans when something else might come
along any moment. That was what John or Brian were for. He just made the plans happen.

“I don’t know,” he said, quietly, feeling embarrassed although he wasn’t really sure why.

“You want to be with him.” It was somewhere between a question and a statement.

“It’s not my choice,” he said. “The way he talked about it before- It’s not… We can’t do that.”

She cocked her head to one side, as though regarding him in a new light. “Thought you weren’t
afraid of things?”

He wasn’t sure where she’d got that idea. Sometimes it felt like he was afraid of more things than
he wasn’t. Although a little part of him thrilled at the thought she hadn’t noticed that, for all she
seemed to see right through him.

“I want a family,” he said, instead of trying to explain the rest. “I need kids, I can’t- I don’t know
what the future is without all that.”

That has always been the plan. He’d have John, as much of him as he could, for as long as he
could. He’d even been doing a good job of it until India: playing the line. Half in John’s world, half
in the real one. But he’d always known, deep down, he was going to have to jump one way. And
he’d always known which way that would be. There hadn’t seemed to be a choice.

“That what I am?” she asked, cocking her head again. It put Paul in mind of a curious bird. Her
eyes were sharp, setting off her cheekbones. She seemed more real than almost anyone he’d ever
met. “Ready made family, straight from the shelf? Paul McCartney’s travelling family band?”

“No,” he said, suddenly confused. “I- Why do you think I’m asking for anything?”

“Because you’re here with me, halfway around the world, when you have every woman in England
at your feet, ready on their knees.” She narrowed her eyes. “So I know you like me, I know you
want me, same as I want you.”

It seemed presumptuous. That wasn’t what he’d been thinking. Had it? Of course he loved that she
was a mother, that she was making it work, her job, Heather, and everything else. But that didn’t
mean he was planning on anything. He was almost sure of that. He balled his hands into fists.

“So what are you after? An artist? Someone rich? What?”

She grinned, sharp but still amused. Her eyes glinted in the dim light, like cold steel. “A British
gentleman that can grow decent facial hair.” She laughed at him when he glared at her. “And who
knows what he’s doing in bed. Most men don’t, and practice sometimes makes it worse.”

It was a challenge, not even a subtle one. It didn’t stop Paul bristling. “I’ve not had any
complaints.”

“Of course not,” she laughed. “Imagine giving a Beatle tips on sex.”
“I’m very good in bed.”

She just laughed again.

“You didn’t answer,” he pointed out. “Not really, what do you want?”

“I can tell you what I don’t want,” she said, serious suddenly. It was mesmerising, watching her
shift gears. Her command of the conversation was so complete that Paul nearly found it hard to
keep up. He almost never felt that way.

“Go on,” he prompted.

“To be someone’s life raft.” She said it so seriously that Paul felt almost guilty. “Or someone’s
consolation prize.”

“You make a lot of assumptions,” he said, annoyance creeping into the words.

She nodded, without any apparent concern. “I have to. I don’t have time for games I don’t know
the rules of. I’m busy, I’ve got a little girl that needs raising. We don’t need anyone that’s going to
mess us around.”

“I wouldn’t,” he said, hurt suddenly. “I’m serious about you.”

It was an insane thing to say; they’d met three times and he’d just admitted to something about him
and his songwriting partner. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t true. If Linda wanted it, if she made a
play for it, for him, he thought he might just go for it. They could be married by the end of the
year. A baby within two. And why not? Wouldn’t that be easier? Safer?

“I know,” she said. “And I am about you. I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

They looked at one another. He was on the very edge of the precipice again, could almost hear the
wind rushing below him and the crashing of water far, far below. It would be so easy to step back,
away from the danger. Linda would be there, her arms open and so wanted.

“I love him,” he said, instead.

The words fell heavy and final between them.

Linda’s smile was soft and gentle. There was regret in her eyes, but that didn’t dim her affection.
Paul’s heart throbbed dimly.

“That the first time you said it to someone else?”

He nodded. Then a laugh bubbled up from his chest, it felt like relief.

“Feel better?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. His eyes were watering, which was embarrassing.

She nodded along with him, her smile now almost blinding. “So, now what?”

He looked away, the good feeling evaporating almost as soon as it had appeared. “I don’t know.
Nothing. He hates me.”

She sat up, drawing a deep breath. “Okay,” she looked over at the clock on the wall, “I have
another three hours before I need to be in a cab. Let’s see what we can do with you.”
Emotion rushed up in his chest, sudden and overwhelming. He opened his mouth, realised he
didn’t know what to say. Closed it. Tried again. Then again. Finally, he managed, “Thank you.”

She rolled her eyes, fond. “Put some clothes on, musician man,” she said. “There’s work to do.”

August 1968

Paul had returned to London with an uncertain sense of purpose. They hadn’t come to any real
conclusions in the hours before Linda had kissed him gently and bade him farewell. Paul had held
himself still, forcing himself not to reach out to her, ask her to stay, come back to London with him,
let him come to New York with her. Anything but for him to be left alone with the newfound
knowledge that he needed to do something , but no real clear idea of what.

He didn’t. He watched her go and the next day flew back himself. He knew he ought to have a
plan, but it wasn’t that easy. There were so many very real reasons he and John had danced around
what they felt, what they were, for so long. None of those had simply disappeared since India. If
anything, there were more than ever. There was a wounded quality to the air between them now
that Paul had no idea how to breach, let alone move them on to something new. If that was what
John even wanted. If it was what he truly wanted.

Then there was Yoko. He shouldn’t have been surprised to find that she’d installed herself even
more firmly since he’d been away. She’d been circling John for months and after the mess of New
York, it made sense John would want a barrier, some way to shield himself from Paul while also
finding a distraction.

Paul didn’t dislike Yoko. She was weird, but he generally liked that. He’d spent enough time
around the art scene to be used to her brand of strange. But the way she looked at John, like she
wanted to eat him whole, bothered him. He didn’t like the way she shadowed his every move.
She’d even arrived at their last business meeting. And had some choice fucking opinions to go with
her ever-lurking presence at John’s side.

“She’s a fucking witch is what she is,” George had hissed once Yoko had trailed John out of the
room. He’d never been one to mince his words but Paul had been surprised by the strength of
feeling.

“Where’s that coming from?” he asked, his surprise making him do a double take at George.

“Other than her eating my biscuits?”

Paul laughed; it felt more like hysteria than genuine amusement. “Other than that crime of the
century, yeah.”

“She’s not interested in being his wife. It’s not even about wanting fame or any of that shit. It’s like
she wants to consume him,” George said. “Total domination. She’ll have him out of the band
before the end of the year.”

Paul’s stomach twisted, cold tingling up his spine. “Nah, come on. They’re just new to each other.
You know what it’s like.”

“You’re soft if you think that’s all it is.” George gave him a hard stare, like he was waiting for Paul
to get it.

“Well, it’s not like it’s our business,” he said eventually, not sure what else he was meant to say.
He wondered, for the first time in years, what George knew. He was smart, and he was closer to
them than almost anyone. He licked his lips, looking away. “It’s not like he’d listen to me
anyway.”

“Now I know you’re soft,” George snorted. “You’re the only one he’s ever listened to. Princess
Paul.”

It wasn’t exactly the kindest nickname he’d ever been given. He wasn’t meant to know about it,
but there wasn’t much he didn't know about what happened in Apple.

“Think I might have lost my crown,” he said. It felt strange, not denying it, not pushing every
inference towards his and John’s relationship away. But since Linda, it appeared a floodgate had
opened and he was having trouble getting it closed again.

George sighed. “Not sure that’s possible, actually. You could try actually trying with him.”

“What’s that mean?” Paul asked, stung.

“I’m not getting between you,” he snapped. Like he hadn’t been doing just that since the start of the
conversation. “I’m just saying that you’ve been avoiding him as much as he’s been avoiding you.
You know you’ve got to chase him when he gets like this. He’s worse than any girl.”

“I’m not bringing him flowers.”

“If it gets rid of the Wicked Witch of the West,” he muttered, “I don’t think you should rule it
out.”

“Might need a tornado and a house for that.”

“Wrong witch,” he said, then seemed to almost soften. “But, I would like to see that.”

They laughed. Paul wondered, with a stab of shame, how long it had been since the two of them
had done that.

“Want to get dinner?” he asked.

George looked taken aback, then almost suspicious. “I’ve got plans.”

The wind dropped out of him immediately. Of course he did. Everyone had plans that didn’t
involve him. He wondered when that had happened, when they’d all constructed lives that didn’t
include one another.

“But, tomorrow?” George sounded almost as uncertain as Paul had felt asking the first time.

God. What had happened to them?

“Sounds good,” he agreed. “Bring Patty if you want, but, it’ll just be me.”

“Alright,” George nodded. “Just us.” Then he grinned. “But I’m not helping you pick out flowers.”

———

Paul and Yoko didn’t spend much time together, and zero of that was alone. John seemed to make
certain of it. He’d remembered her the moment he’d seen her again, why he’d known her name.
She’d turned up at his house, wanting lyric sheets or something from him. He’d told her, politely,
where to go. He wondered if there was a way to do that a second time.

But she never gave any indication that she remembered that they’d met before, and Paul followed
her lead. There was nothing to gain from it anyway. But they didn’t talk; there was no need with
John hardly speaking to him anyway. They hadn’t even written together since India. Paul had
considered asking but it seemed unfair when John clearly needed the space.

He thought, as he watched them kiss, touch each other constantly, that perhaps he’d missed the
boat. John had all the markings of being in love. Totally and utterly smitten. He remembered
something like it with Cyn, albeit more self-conscious. It wasn’t fair of him to mess that up. The
shame that he wanted to anyway made him feel sick.

He took to avoiding them. It just hurt, seeing them. Seeing John get further and further away, while
he was paralysed with indecision about what to do to stop it. If he even should.

So he was caught off-guard when he suddenly found himself alone with her in the studio. George
had managed to extract John through sheer force of will.

True to his word, George hadn’t brought up John once during his dinner with Paul. It had been a
good night. They’d laughed and reminisced about simpler times. They’d talked about the album
and what they both wanted from it. Those things turned out to be different, but that hadn’t seemed
too bad when they talked it through. It was good, actually, seeing George so animated about his
own songs for once.

Then once they were back in the studio, George had seemed different. He was more forceful,
asking for what he wanted and telling John what he ought to be doing. Yoko didn’t seem to like
that, but John took it with an amused grin, like he was indulging a younger brother. They’d seemed
closer since John told him and Richie he was queer. It didn’t make sense to Paul, how that worked,
but he didn’t feel like he could ask either of them about it without seeming jealous. But however he
managed it, John had followed George out of the studio up to the control booth, alone. Paul wanted
to follow but he’d waited too long and knew it would look pointed now.

He looked over at Richie for support, but found him in his own world, tapping out a rhythm and
staring blankly ahead. He wondered, for the first time, if that had always been a ploy of his to get
out of being dragged into awkward conversations. He was smarter than he looked was old Richie.

“You enjoying seeing how it’s all done?” he asked in the end, unable to bear the silence.

Yoko looked up at him, as though surprised he was still there. Of course she couldn’t have been.
He tried not to let it bother him.

“It’s not very different from any artistic project,” she said, smiling at him.

Paul knew that wasn’t true in the least. He swallowed down the comment and tried to think of
something neutral to say instead. “I’m sure John appreciates you being here.”

This made her smile widen. “He likes me close.”

His stomach twisted. “Yeah.”

“He finds the process,” she paused, as though searching for a word, “difficult. He wants it to be
perfect. But it isn’t easy to do on his own.”

He balled his hands into fists. Of course John found it hard to make a Beatles’ album on his own.
That was why he was in a band. Why he had a creative partner. He took a slow breath. It couldn’t
be that she knew she was being rude. She was just making conversation. There was no need for
him to be upset by it.
“He’s a great guy,” he managed after a moment, his smile not as wide as he would have liked.
“He’s been- It’s been a rough few months. So, it’s good that he’s got you.” He wondered if she’d
pick up on how wooden he sounded.

“John doesn’t know himself,” she said, as though pondering a question Paul had never posed. “He
finds decisions hard because he’s not sure what he wants. I think he would find it easier if he knew
who he was. If he left behind the bits of himself that are- erm, obstructing him. I think that would
be better for everyone.”

Paul frowned. He wasn’t sure he was following what Yoko was trying to say. She spoke slowly,
almost haltingly and so quietly it was almost hard to follow unless you paid very close attention.
He wondered if that was why she did it and then felt guilty for the uncharitable thought. He didn’t
know what was even wrong with him; he’d never minded Cyn in the least. They’d got on, no
matter what Jane used to say. But this felt different. For one, Cyn had never inserted herself where
she didn’t belong.

Besides, what Yoko was saying didn’t make any sense to Paul; John was the most solid, the most
real person he knew. He got the impression that he was missing something.

“I don’t know,” he said, eyes flicking up to the door and wondering when John would return and
save him from what was increasingly feeling like dangerous waters. “John’s seemed pretty good
these last few months. He’s more himself.”

He didn’t know how true that was, given his limited contact with John. But he had seemed less
withdrawn, he smiled more. Even if it was mostly at Yoko. Another wave of guilt rolled over him
at the fact he couldn’t just let John be happy. Couldn't just leave him be.

“He was trying to get away from his more authentic self, because it hurts,” she said. “But it is
worse to cloak himself in these new trends. Moving away from even being a man.”

Her words fell like stones on his shoulders. “I think John’s definitely still a man,” he said, his
words exiting his mouth mingled with forced, uncomfortable laughter. “Last time I checked,
anyway.”

She giggled. Although it didn’t sound like she was amused so much as she was dismissing him.
“Of course he is,” she said. “But, there are elements of himself, parts that he’s been indulging in
that are not. Those parts of himself that he calls the fag part. He’s scared of that part, but I can see
it.”

Paul felt like she’d slapped him. He froze, every muscle locking tight. “I’m sorry?” The question
seemed choked off at the end, like most of it hadn’t been able to even form properly.

She giggled. That strange noise that seemed to be made more of nerves than genuine amusement.
“I think perhaps, he needs to better understand himself. He was indulging too much before we
started together. He’s not a queer and art is the expression of self; I think he recognises that in me,
that I am truly free in my own expression. He was missing that before, looking in the wrong places.
It’s better now.”

She smiled at him, sweet, peeking out through her hair. Not for the first time, Paul had the distinct
impression there was something incredibly pointed in that smile. Smug, even. A flash of white hot
rage burnt through him so unexpectedly that he almost rocked backwards with it. If he’d had less
practice at controlling himself when angry in public, his smile might have fallen off his face.
Instead he turned it up into a rakish sort of grin.
He had no idea if John had told her anything about them, or his own leanings. But it didn’t matter
what he’d said. How dare someone suggest there was something lacking in John?

He simply wasn’t having that.

That was the moment he realised he wasn’t going to just let it go. He wasn’t going to cede the
ground to her. He wasn’t going to let John go to someone like her. No one had the right to cut out
any parts of John, no matter if they thought they were hurting him, or making him less of an artist.
As if such a thing were even possible. It was John. Even on his worst day he could stand shoulder
to shoulder with the greatest there was and come out better. How dare she suggest he needed
pruning like he was fucking house plant.

But he was careful not to react outwardly. It was possible she was trying to bait him, but there was
simply no way he was falling for it.

“I’m sure you know exactly how to give him what he’s been missing,” he said, leaning forward to
give her a wink. “It’s not as if he could find it anywhere else.”

He let just the hint of a question roll into the statement. Nothing she would pick up on unless she’d
also been goading him.

Her smile froze, like she knew that he wasn’t being entirely genuine. It was hard to bullshit a
bullshitter, after all. But she could no more call him on that than he could call her out. A
stalemate.

“I know he’s searching for something that has left him unfulfilled,” she said, recovering. “Perhaps
he’s been looking in the wrong places.” She smiled, only this one didn’t reach her eyes.

The words hit him squarely in his chest, cutting him softly in his most vulnerable places. He took a
breath, let it out. Continued to smile.

But that absolutely settled it; there was no way he was going to let her stay.

———

“I don’t know what I’m even going to do,” Paul sighed. His hand gripped the cord of the phone
tightly, twirling it around his hand only to unwind it again. Over and over.

“Am I being paid for this?” Linda asked, her voice warm, almost smokey.

Paul smiled despite himself. She could always make him do that. “What’s your usual hourly rate?”

“More than even you could afford,” she sniffed.

He laughed. “I believe that.”

There was a beat of silence. “What do you want to do?”

The problem was that while he knew Yoko needed to go, he wasn’t sure of either how to go about
that or what would happen afterwards.

He wasn’t sure why he’d even called Linda. This wasn’t her problem. But this was what friends
did, wasn’t it? Called each other to complain about their problems. And that’s what they were,
what they’d agreed to be as they parted in LA. She’d called him first, moaned about a shoot she’d
done, how the guy that had hired her had wanted to pay less than they’d agreed. She’d called a few
times after that too; it was always friendly, nothing outside of the gentlest of flirting. He’d thought
it would be strange, being friends with someone who could have been more. But it wasn’t.

“Bump her off?” he suggested, eventually.

Linda’s laugh was lovely. “I think I know a guy for that, actually.”

He let the laughter soothe him for a moment, before pulling himself back to reality. He knew,
realistically, he couldn’t just yank John’s support system away from him and then expect
everything to go back to how it had been before India. Things had to change. But into what, he
couldn’t even imagine. It seemed too strange, too unlikely.

In theory, pushing Yoko out of the picture should be simple. He’d done it before with Stu or even
with Cyn or Brian. In the end John had chosen him. When he’d pushed, he’d been the one left
standing. Only that was a few million mistakes ago. A thousand missed opportunities and silent
hurts.

“Have you tried,” Linda said, when it became clear that Paul wasn’t going to pick up the slack in
the conversation, “and I know this is very controversial, actually speaking to him?”

He rolled his eyes, realised she couldn’t see that and infused his next words with enough sarcasm to
relate the idea of it to her. “And say what? Besides, he won’t even be in the same room with me.
Not even to write.”

That stung the most. He knew they’d been doing less and less of it together, once they didn’t
actually need another person to figure out how to write a song. But they’d always brought material
to one another for polishing or to work out the kinks. John apparently didn’t even need that any
more, not outside of the studio at least.

“You’re going to have to put yourself out there,” Linda said. “You’re going to have to just ask right
out for what you want.”

Paul’s stomach twisted. “He might say no.”

She sighed, but he knew that it was sympathetic rather than frustrated. “He might,” she agreed.
“Maybe he’s really done.”

Paul’s stomach went from tying itself into knots to dropping to his feet.

“But,” she said, “then you’ll know. And you can… figure out what’s next. You can’t stay like this,
you’re both trapped in stasis, neither of you can grow like that.”

She was right. That was the thing. He knew she was right.

“I hate it.” There wasn’t any other way to put it.

“I know,” she agreed. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too.”

———

He thought about what Linda had said, the idea of it played over and over in his head, his chest
filling with the tingle of anxiety. But he couldn’t actually seem to do it. Not just because he didn’t
know what he was even going to ask for. He felt like he was back at school, trying to ask someone
to be his friend.

The problem was there was no obvious way into a conversation like that. But the longer he left it,
the longer John walked out of every room Paul entered without a word, the worse the feeling in his
chest got. That shouldn’t have been possible when they were in the same band and recording an
album. But somehow John was managing. It wasn’t even pointedly angry, like he usually was
when they weren’t speaking. It was worse. John was slipping away from him. Every day he let go
by without trying to hold on, the further away he got.

He had to do something. There was rapidly becoming no choice.

So, when John was finally forced to be in the studio with him, he knew he had to take the first
moment he got. The very first chance when Yoko was forced to leave John’s side. He just needed
to make a crack, the slightest fracture in John’s resolve. Then he’d be able to… he wasn’t sure, but
he’d think of something.

“I like her,” Paul blurted, the moment Yoko’s figure had disappeared out of the door.

John’s eyes landed on him, his face totally set, like a statue. He looked pale. Thinner than he’d
been even at the start of the sessions. Paul’s chest was tight, looking at him.

“She’s nice, you know?” he said into the silence.

“Yeah,” John finally agreed, his eyes going to his hands, as he strummed a few notes. “She’s— I
think she’s a way out.”

That wasn’t what Paul was expecting at all. “A way out of what?”

John gave him a baleful look, bewildered and sad, like he couldn’t believe it needed to be spelled
out. “My head. My life. Everything.”

This conversation wasn't what he'd been prepared for at all. He’d expected John to be furious with
him, accusing or even spiteful. “You need that?”

Another of those looks that said plainly this should not be news to Paul.

“I thought…” Paul started. “I thought you’d been doing better.”

John laughed, a strange bark that lacked all humour. “Sure,” he said, “I’ve been peachy.”

There was a growing sense of panic in Paul’s chest that he wasn’t sure how to interpret. “I
didn’t…” he started and then closed his mouth. John hated it when people stated the obvious.
“You should have told me.”

John’s face was almost entirely covered by his hair as he bent over his guitar and Paul desperately
wished he could see his expression. “What for?”

The question pulled him up short. He searched his blank mind frantically for an answer that would
explain what he meant. “Because you being in pain isn’t something I’m willing to put up with.”

John finally looked up at him, a frown pulled tight across his brow. “Why?”

He sounded so genuinely perplexed that the panic in Paul’s chest flared uncomfortably. How had
he let things get so bad? How long had John believed that Paul wouldn’t care about his suffering?

“I love you.”
It wasn’t the first time he’d said it. But he could probably count the number of times he had on one
hand.

“You’re my best friend,” he continued, knowing that it was softening what he really meant, but he
also didn’t want to scare John off. He needed to give them both some wiggle room to interpret it
any way they chose later. “I’d do anything for you.”

There was a moment when John went completely still, it looked like he wasn’t even breathing.
“That's not always enough.”

“I know,” he said, feeling wretched. Then remembered his conversation with Yoko and his resolve
returned. “But at least there’s nothing I’d change about you.”

John snorted, and for the first time in months Paul recognised him. That was a sound he’d had
directed at him countless times. It was pure derision, yet somehow he was comforted by it
anyway.

“Then why you been running the other way for the last decade?” John asked, still not looking at
him. “Besides, she likes me more than anyone else ever has. That’s not nothing.”

There wasn’t an answer for that, and besides the door opened and Yoko glided back into the room.
Paul looked away as she sat down next to John, grabbing his hand and pulling him into a kiss. For
the first time, he got it, John’s need for her. It was the steadfast way she never, not once, backed
away from showing him affection.

Well. Two could play that game.

———

Things didn’t get easier, not really. But Paul managed to find his footing.

John hadn’t invited him to the session, but it wasn’t like he could actively keep him away. This
was still their band, after all.

“That’s great!” he said. “Do you like the bit after oooh, you broke the rules? ” He sang it,
mimicking John easily. He was careful to phrase it as a question. “I could sort of do it like,” he
gestured, marking out the beats, “if you think that’s better.”

The look he received from John was confused, like he was looking for traps. Eventually he
shrugged. Paul had been expecting that. The cold shoulder wasn’t new, at least he hadn’t been
blanked entirely.

“I think it’s alright for now,” he mused. “The lead in was great though. I reckon you’ll nail it the
next take.”

Yoko was glaring at him, he realised with a delighted thrill. Stu had never bothered to glare at
him.

———

“I got something, I think,” Paul said, trying to keep his voice casual. “I dunno, might be something.
Thought you’d want… I thought you’d be able to help with it.”

John had gone still. He didn’t say anything.

“It’s just this,” Paul said, his heart hammering. “Why don’t we do it in the road?” That was all he
really had, just that one refrain. But he knew John was into that anyway. Repetition of message.
The focus it gave.

He could feel John’s eyes on him. He felt the moment John got it, felt the way his focus
sharpened.

“It’s…” John started. “Yeah, alright, I can help.”

Paul beamed at him. “Tomorrow?”

John paused, “I’m meant… We’re working on that piece, you know…”

He did know, their soundscape. He shrugged. “Shouldn’t take long,” he said. “And I can always
help out with that after, if that’ll make up the time?”

Another strange look, like John knew Paul must be playing some sort of game, but couldn’t reckon
what it was.

“Alright then.”

Paul didn’t stop smiling for the rest of the day.

TBC
 Chapter 10

John found him the next time.

He’d thought he might. The sessions for “Why Don’t We Do It In The Road” and what they were
calling “Revolution in the Mind” had been good. John had been more animated, more collaborative
than he’d been in months. It was like he was coming back to life right before Paul’s eyes. It made
his heart sing.

Paul was packing up for the day when John slunk into the room. Paul had been planning on laying
down another demo, but wasn’t sure if he ought to work on it a little more first. It wasn’t really
anything yet.

John appeared in the doorway; Paul sensed him before he’d even looked up.

“I’m recording Julia,” John said, his eyes on Paul, like he was waiting to gauge his reaction. “I
thought...” he looked away and shrugged.

Paul’s heart leapt. His fingers tingled with anticipation. He’d known John had written about her
while they were in India, but he’d had no idea he was thinking of actually recording it. He nodded,
watching John carefully. “When should I be there?”

John’s mouth curved up, very slightly, at the edges.

Paul felt like he could fly.

He knew John was nervous from the moment they entered the studio the next day. Paul had got
there early, and John was late, which meant he’d been there for over an hour before he arrived. He
hadn’t wanted to start anything else, instead listening back to the previous day and considering any
overdubs that might still be needed.

He looked up, startled more because of how highly-strung he felt than because of actual surprise.
Yoko was practically glued to John’s side. Paul ignored her. Just as she did to him. They were
locked in a stand-off with neither willing to be the first to speak or admit there was anything
strange about their silence. John was also ignoring it, if he’d noticed it at all.

“Good morning,” Paul chirped, smiling at John. “You ready?”

John hadn’t wanted anyone else to be there. Not even George or Richie, “They didn’t know her,”
he’d said when Paul had asked. He didn’t point out that neither had Yoko. All three of them knew
it, and that was enough for Paul.

At least the lack of other people meant it was easy enough to set up.

“What are you going for?” Paul asked, stepping close to John, his voice low. It wasn’t like they
couldn’t still hear them in the control room, but it gave the illusion of privacy.

John shrugged, but then looked at him, holding his eye. “I want it to sound like a lullaby,” he said.
“And I want- It needs to sound like how I feel.”

So that was why he was there. John knew there was no one else that knew exactly what that meant.
His chest gave a throb. It shouldn’t be that the grief hurt just the same now as it had the week his
mum had died. But it did. It was still as sharp, it just happened less, lasted less time. He swallowed.
“Got it,” he murmured.

His hand reached out, an instinct to offer comfort and then froze. He wasn’t sure it would be
welcome. Then he remembered Linda’s advice. He needed John to know what he wanted, and he
wanted to touch him. Needed to, at that moment. It was awkward, when he finally made his hand
move again. But John was warm, solid, under his palm when it gripped his bicep. John was still
watching him steadily and their eyes met and held.

“You ready?”

John nodded.

Paul turned, intending to go to the control room, give John the space he no doubt needed.

“You can stay,” John said, abruptly. Paul turned back and John’s eyes slid away from him and to
the floor. “If you want.”

“I do,” he said, instantly.

Yoko’s eyes were burning into the side of his face. He didn’t look at her. John was the only person
that mattered.

He went to one of the other chairs and sat down. It felt strange, having nothing to do other than
stare at John, but if that’s what he needed, Paul would do it. He’d just have to nip between here and
George to see how they were getting on. He could do that.

John watched him settle in the chair before heaving a sigh and finally taking one of the seats. Yoko
did the same, shifting closer and closer until she was practically brushing arms with John. He
smiled at her, a sort of grateful expression on his face that made Paul’s heart hurt. He remembered
abruptly why he’d started avoiding them to begin with.

“Alright,” John said, suddenly, voice strong and certain, like his obvious uncertainty from
moments before had never been.

Paul’s heart filled with something alarmingly strong. He looked away. It hadn’t occurred to him,
until John started the first take, what the song would mean. It was raw. Open and honest in a way
only John really knew how to be. Paul couldn’t imagine even writing something so plainly sad, let
alone putting it on an album. He balled his hands into fists. The wave of emotions, admiration,
affection, nostalgia, grief and something sweeter, like hope, rolling through him all at once.

The session was gruelling. Not because the song was technically difficult. It was by its nature a
simple melody, there wasn’t the need for much overdubbing, despite John wanting to do it all
himself. But he could see the toil it was taking on John, like he was ripping open parts of himself
with every take. Paul felt the echo of it, like a series of papercuts.

“That’s it,” he said, coming back from the control room. He smiled, hoping he looked encouraging,
and not patronising. “I think we’ve almost got it. You can- It’s probably just once or twice more.”

John nodded. “How’s it sounding?” He looked nervous again, his face drawn and tired.

“It’s beautiful,” he said gently. “She’d love it. Loves it, wherever she is.”

John nodded, then shrugged, seeming almost irritated with the praise. “You can,” John started,
then shook his head. “It’d go quicker if you do one of the parts. We could try some harmonies.”
He opened his mouth. Closed it. His eyes flicked to Yoko without him meaning them to. She
looked as surprised as he felt.

“It’s yours,” he said, dumbly. It didn’t even really make sense. They’d never done it like that
before. But then this was different. This was John’s mum.

He shrugged. “It’s got your name on it regardless, might as well earn the royalties.”

That obviously wasn’t it. John wanted him on the record. Paul wanted to ask why, but knew John
would read it as rejection if he did. So he just nodded and went to fetch his guitar. He’d left it on
the other side of the room, hoping it would prove less of a temptation. He’d only planned to ask
John what he wanted, to make sure his vision for the song translated. He had no intention of
suggesting he play anything.

He felt unaccountably nervous lifting it up and setting up a mic near John. “We’ll try it,” he said,
“but we’ll get a take of you doing it too, so we can just have you on the final thing if that’s better.”

John’s mouth curved up into a smile. “Got it,” he said. “I’m the boss again.”

He snorted. “You’re always the boss.”

“Sure thing, Macca,” he said. Paul’s heart skipped. He hadn’t called him that in months. Then
raised his voice to say, “Let’s go then.”

“Excellent,” George’s voice was firm, comforting and sure. “Take eight.”

They played together. Paul wasn’t sure why he hadn’t expected it to be easy, because it was. Of
course it was. They’d never buckled under the weight of expectation and they weren’t about to
start now. It seemed to help, John’s voice was clearer, his playing surer, as Paul’s voice tangled
with his. Paul felt a wave of emotion roll through him that was difficult to describe. It wasn’t
pleasure, because it definitely hurt. The song was still raw, perhaps more so, but under that was
something else. Connection. Something he hadn’t felt since India. That hurt too, the realisation of
how long it had been. They’d played together before this, of course, but it hadn’t felt the same.
He’d been acutely aware that something was off, some barrier lay between them. Now it was
gone.

He didn’t need George’s voice coming from the speaker above their heads to know, “That’s the
one, boys.”

He turned his head and found John was already looking at him. He smiled, pleased and a little
smug. “That’s the ticket.”

John laughed, a little thing. “Alright, don’t show off.”

They packed it in after that, there was no point in flogging it. They’d see if anything needed adding
later. It was better to leave it for awhile, come back fresh.

He waited for Yoko to file out ahead of John before he spoke, calling out his name. It was too late
for Yoko to turn back by then. He waited, watching John steadily, with his heart beating like a
trapped bird in his chest. There must have been something in his expression that told John plainly
that he wanted to speak with him alone.

“I’ll be right out,” he said, nodding his head down the corridor. Yoko looked back at Paul, her face
set. He resisted the urge to give her a jaunty wave. “Yeah?” John asked, walking back into the
room as the door swung shut, leaving them alone for the first time since New York.
Paul stared at him. He didn’t know what to say. But this was the moment. He couldn’t let John
walk away and decide that what had happened between them during the song didn’t mean
anything. He had to find a way to cement it, make it real for John.

“I just- I wanted to say,” he whispered, despite knowing they weren’t actually being recorded. “It’s
not true, what you said before. She doesn’t like you more than anyone else.”

John looked so startled that it would have been funny if Paul hadn’t felt sick with terror. But he
didn’t let himself look away. He held John’s wide eyes for a long moment, showing that he wasn’t
backing down.

“And she certainly doesn’t know you better.”

John blinked at him. “I’ve got to go,” he said, sounding dazed. “She’s waiting.”

Paul let out a breath. He hadn’t really expected John to say anything back. He was sort of relieved
he didn’t. There was no way they could actually talk about it then and there. But it was something.
He knew John would consider it, and it might make a difference. Stop him pulling away so fast if
nothing else.

———

The album needed to be finished off and ordered. And somehow, despite the months they’d had to
finish it, they’d run out of time. Paul knew he should have worked faster, could have worked faster
if he’d let John just get on with his own tracks. But he hadn’t wanted to. He’d wanted it to feel like
old times, or as close to as they could make it. Only it wasn’t old times because, for some reason,
they’d all agreed to the double album and a stupid amount of songs.

So now they had to deliver the thing the next day and the album was still a mess. It was a
nightmare; he wondered what Brian would have done if he were still alive. Stopped it from
happening, perhaps. But then, George Martin hadn’t even been able to keep control. Perhaps Brian
could have found a way around the deadline.

But, none of that mattered. It needed to get done. George and Richie had already gone, so it was
him and John. The idea was thrilling, would have been perfect if Paul wasn’t distantly terrified that
they’d mess up the album because he was finding it hard to concentrate on anything but John’s
every reaction to him when they were together. He arrived early, not really expecting John to be
there. He could feel the tension immediately. There was too much activity, too many people
rushing around despite there not really being much they could do without some decisions from the
band.

John must have also felt the pressure mounting because he arrived just before ten. He’d not been in
before noon since they started the record. Paul went limp with relief at the sight of him, which was
probably why he wasn’t able to keep the panicked words inside like he normally would have.

“What the fuck are we going to do?” he asked, without letting John even fully enter the room.

He didn’t ask what Paul meant, he knew full well the stakes. To probably everyone’s surprise, John
grinned at him. He looked more himself than he had in months. Something loosened in Paul’s
chest.

“Get it done,” he said, voice firm, like there was to be no arguing with him.

Paul straightened, meeting John where he was. He nodded. “Alright then, let’s get to it.”
The hours dragged on. What they’d optimistically thought would take twelve hours dragged to
sixteen, and then to twenty. No one suggested they call it a day. They couldn’t, without missing the
deadline. Yoko fell asleep in a corner. Paul shifted closer to John, leaning into the seat between
them.

John’s handwriting was scrawled over nearly every available space. They were almost done, it
really was the home stretch. Somehow, they’d managed to get through everything and the album
actually worked. It sounded great, like an intentional exploration of styles rather than a mess of
disparate songs that they couldn’t agree to whittle down.

Not once had either of them suggested taking a shortcut. They both knew it was too important for
that. Nothing mediocre could go out from The Beatles. It simply wasn’t an option.

“I think people might actually like this,” he said, rubbing a hand over his eyes. They felt gritty, his
skin slightly clammy. Everything had started to take on a slightly unreal quality around the twenty
hour mark. Almost like being high, but without the mellow underpinnings.

John stretched, yawning so wide his jaw cracked. “Yep, another hit record for those four lads from
Liverpool, who’d have thought it?” He looked relieved, but pleased. It had been a long time since
they’d really had to dig that deep to get something done.

“What are you doing after this?” Paul asked, suddenly realising that they would have time off with
no real obligations before Christmas. The album had taken his whole vision for so long that it
hadn’t occurred to him that he ought to plan for what happened after it. That had been Jane’s job.
“We’ve got a few weeks, right?”

John shrugged, looked over at Yoko. She looked younger, more fragile, when she was asleep. Paul
felt a stab of guilt that he couldn’t find even a slither of affection for her.

“Think we’ve got some stuff planned out.”

Paul wondered how much truth there was in the ‘we’. He knew that wasn’t even fair, given Yoko
had given up months to sit with John while he made an overly long album. But he couldn’t help the
resentful feeling in his chest. Perhaps that’s what made him say it.

“Come away with me.” The words fell out of his mouth so abruptly they ran together, a mess of
surprised feeling.

John’s head snapped to him. “What?”

Paul’s heart took off at such a pace that he went a bit dizzy. But it was too late to back down, John
had heard him and he wasn’t going to look weak as well as desperate. “To Scotland,” he tried,
amazed that he sounded so casual, his eyes went to Yoko and then back to John. “Just us. It’s been
years since we went away. It’d be fun, wouldn’t it?”

John seemed to hesitate, which was more than he would have done a few weeks ago. “Not sure
Yoko’d be thrilled with that.”

“I’m just saying,” he said, slowly, trying to sound reasonable and not pleading. “That, maybe, she’s
not your only option.” He paused, licked his lips. His heart was pounding so hard that it was hard to
breathe through it. “Maybe sometimes running gets tiring.”

“Paul,” John whispered, his voice going almost plaintive. “Don’t. We’ve been through this.”

“I know,” he agreed, giving up any pretence that he wasn’t making a play. “But I’m not going to
apologise. Maybe I wasn’t ready, but maybe I am, and I don’t know what that will mean... But, I
just want you to think about it.”

John didn’t answer that day nor the ones that followed. Not even George somehow stepping in at
the last possible second to save the entire album from ruin, was enough to make John break his
silence. Paul had had several words with several people after George’s frantic phone call. But, John
was nowhere in sight.

He knew he ought to leave it. Knew it probably wasn’t even fair to John to bring it up again. But
then he remembered every time John had reached out to him over the years. Remembered how
he’d pulled away every time.

He tried again. The phone rang six times before John picked up.

“We should go away.” He hadn’t figured out a better way to say it while the phone was ringing, he
suspected that might have been a mistake, but it was too late now.

“I’m sorry, what?” John’s voice was tinny, like he was coming from far away. How had that
happened? How had Paul not noticed how far away John had got from him sooner? “Didn’t we
already do this dance?”

“Me and you,” Paul said, his chest tight, “like old times. Well, I guess we don’t need to hitchhike
now, although imagine us doing that. Wouldn’t that be a laugh?”

There was a short silence. “Have you gone daft?” He hissed the words, but Paul knew it was in a
bid to keep his voice down rather than anything else.

Possibly, Paul thought, and then pushed it as far away as he could. “Nah, just…” He struggled to
think of what he meant by calling, what he was trying to communicate by even suggesting it. What
he wanted. “I miss you.”

There was a long silence.

“Since when?”

That was a very good question. Paul tried a few answers out in his mind, all of which felt like a lie.
In truth, he hadn’t realised he’d needed to miss John. His life was what it was, and he’d always
liked his life just fine. John had always been there when he needed him. Paul hadn’t worried about
turning around to realise he’d been going in the wrong direction for years. He wished he’d realised
sooner. Saved them both a lot of heartache.

The silence had gone on too long. He had to speak.

“I always miss you when you’re not there.” That was the best he could do. It was true, he knew. It
just hadn’t occurred to him that he was allowed to. “Think I just made myself get a little too used to
the feeling.”

“You’re a fucking piece of work,” John sighed. John sounded genuinely angry, which Paul knew
wasn’t totally unfair. There was a beat where Paul listened to the blood roar in his ears. Then John
spoke, dropping his voice to not much more than a murmur. “Are you actually serious? Don’t you
have a million things to do?”

“No more than you do,” he countered. “Besides, we’re the boss, ain’t we?”

“Is this about Yoko?” He sounded suspicious. “This didn’t seem to occur to you before she came
on the scene.”

Paul curled the phone cord around his finger, wound and wound and wound it until it hurt. “It’s not
about her.” Which was true. But obviously it was also a lie. Half true, could be worse.

“Why now then?”

“I just… I looked around and you weren’t there.” His finger had gone numb. “I didn’t like it
much.”

John sighed. “That line work on Jane, you prick?”

He almost laughed. “Not at the end.” He let the truth of that settle over them both. Then, “It work
on you?”

The answering laugh made his stomach clench. He wished he knew if it was with pleasure or fear.

“I’m not sure I like being cast as the jilted girlfriend.”

“You can’t be jilted if I’m right here,” he pointed out.

John signed. “I don’t know. I’ve got- There’s things I’m meant to be doing. I can’t just drop it all to
run off with you.”

“That’s never stopped us before.” He couldn’t keep the eager note from his voice. It was
embarrassing, but then really he was way past that with John.

“Well, we’re adults now.”

“Thought you were Peter Pan,” Paul said. It was an old joke. One they hadn’t revisited in years.

“That was you,” John snapped, proving Paul wasn’t the only one who remembered it. “I was
Wendy if you recall, and fucked off about it.”

Paul laughed. “Can’t we both just agree to be Hook?”

“I can’t.”

It drew Paul up short. He knew what he meant, knew a rejection when he heard one. Still, he’d
come so far that it seemed stupid to stop when he could hear the doubt in John’s voice.

“You can,” he said.

“I know,” John said. “But, Yoko’ll go spare and it’s not that simple.”

“It’s as simple as we make it.” The lie was an awful thing to lay between them.

“You mean what you said?” John almost whispered. “After… When we finished working on the
record?”

“Yes,” he said, on an exhale of air. “Always will.”

John was silent. Paul waited for a response. It was painful, the pressure building in his chest, as it
became clear he wasn’t going to get one.

He sighed. “Call if you change your mind,” he said, gentle and annoyed at how sad he sounded.
Then he hung up before he could hear John not answer again.

John didn’t call.

January 1969

The studio was cold and almost comically large. He hardly had time to register any of that as he
hurried in, while trying to appear not to. He hated being late. But he’d missed the bus and there
hadn’t been time to call for a car. He still felt bleary, had almost dozed off on the bus and missed
his stop. Wouldn’t that have been a thing? What a time for the weeks of hardly sleeping and
drinking too much to catch up with him.

The others were already there, huddled together in one corner. He glanced around; there were
cameras everywhere, a lot of people apparently busy in mysterious ways. He was halfway across
the room before he noticed what was strange about the tableau he was walking towards.

His heart turned over in his chest. By the time he was taking off his coat and picking up his bass,
his hands were shaking, a smile creeping across his face. The shot of adrenaline jolted him so
sharply awake that it was like he was seeing in colour for the first time in months. The others were
already playing, so he sat down, trying to pick up the thread of the song. But his hands were
clumsy on the strings. His fingers tingled with shock.

He couldn’t stop looking around, as though checking he’d seen it correctly. But nothing changed.
Richie nodded a greeting and Paul tried to reciprocate, but it felt strange, like he didn’t have
complete control of his limbs.

“So,” George asked, when they finished, his voice pointed as he looked at John, “where’s the
shadow?”

Paul cringed at the bluntness of the question, despite his relief that he wasn’t going to have to find
a way to ask himself.

John looked over his glasses at George as though it was the most absurd question he’d ever heard.
“She’s giving today a miss,” he said. He looked tired. Drawn and pale. It was clear from his tone
that he intended that to be the end of the conversation.

Paul’s heart was in his throat. The hope, which he’d thought he’d manage to tamp down over the
last few weeks, suddenly flared back to life. He’d promised himself that he was going to leave well
enough alone. John had made his decision and it wasn’t for Paul to meddle. Not if he was truly
happy.

Then he’d drunk himself into a stupor and invited every single girl he’d had in his phone book
over. It had almost been distracting enough that he could pretend to be having fun. Then he’d slunk
back to Liverpool and moped around the house until his dad had almost gone spare at him.

“Right,” he said, cutting in and realising with some horror that he was smiling. “Let’s crack on,
shall we?”

John was looking at him. His expression was careful, almost unsure. “Whatever you say, Paulie,”
he said, voice gone falsetto.

It had only been six weeks since The Beatles was released. It felt too soon to be back at work, and
also like they’d already taken too long. They’d crossed paths in Apple, had meetings together,
where John had been as normal as could be expected. Paul tried not to let the humiliation he felt
show too clearly on his face. He’d never allowed himself to be left so open to hurt before and had
no idea if it was showing on his face. He was sure everyone would be able to see it, even if no one
would actually say it.

He’d tried to tell himself that John being polite to him was the best he could hope for. Perhaps if
nothing else, he could stand it if John wasn’t gone entirely. He would make that work if he had to.
It had felt hollow every time he repeated it to himself.

They broke for lunch after a stilted and somewhat uncomfortable session where no one really
seemed sure what they were doing. The cameras didn’t help. He had no idea why they’d agreed to
the TV show. Other than it was something to do. They needed to promote The Beatles record and it
was as good an idea as any. Besides, “Hey Jude” had gone so well, it seemed simple enough to
repeat it on a grander scale.

John was at his side as they walked to a table in the cafeteria.

Paul forced himself to be the one to break the silence. “How was your break?” he asked, voice low,
despite knowing they weren’t being filmed any more.

“Fine,” John said, hardly looking at him. He seemed almost as uncomfortable as Paul felt.
“Yours?”

“Awful,” he said. He wouldn’t have dared, had Yoko been there. He’d have put it away. Pretended
that he hadn’t felt anything at all that John had rejected him. They could have pretended together
that it never happened. Just as they’d been doing for years and years and years.

John looked at him sharply. “That so?”

He nodded. “Yeah, thought I’d lost something.”

They sat down and John gave him an incredulous look. “That so?”

“Yeah,” he said, swallowing around the tightness in his throat. “Enough to ruin my Christmas.
Whole year, maybe.”

John shook his head, his expression clearly showing that he wasn’t sure if he ought to be pleased or
frustrated. “Yeah, well, don’t get cocky now. The jury’s still out.”

He nodded, unsure how to feel about that.

“Nice beard, by the way,” John added after a moment. “Suits you, you fucker.”

Paul smiled, couldn’t have stopped himself even if he’d wanted to.

———

There was screaming coming from down the hall. Paul looked towards it and then back at George.
The first day had been mostly a wash out. John had been distracted and so Paul had been distracted.
George and Richie had clearly noticed, but were polite enough, for now, to pretend they hadn’t.
He’s somehow been late again, just a little because the confused but somewhat delighted haze from
the day before had followed him home and he was having trouble concentrating. Even simple
things like getting dressed or having breakfast got defrauded as his mind scattered into several
directions at once as he tried to guess what would happen when he saw John again.

“What’s that?” he asked when George stubbornly pretended not to hear it.
Day two seemed a bit soon for a meltdown from anyone.

“Yoko apparently decided that she didn’t need to give all the sessions a miss.”

Paul’s head whipped around towards the shouting again. It was so clear, suddenly, that one of the
voices was John’s.

Paul had spent the evening before in a constant state of excited anxiety. The misery from the
Christmas break had suddenly become a distant memory after Yoko’s absence and John’s hints
that he was willing to at least consider Paul’s suggestion. He oscillated wildly between wanting to
ask John what he was thinking and being terrified of the answer. In the end he left well enough
alone; John knew where he was. Paul had laid it all out and there wasn’t much left to say until John
knew what he wanted to do.

He hadn’t truly believed that would be the last they’d see of Yoko. Hoped, perhaps. But, she
wasn’t going to be that easy to get rid of. He’d known that. Still, he couldn’t help the way his heart
sank at the sound of her name.

“Should I…” he started, looking back towards where the raised voices were coming from.

“Bet you’d love that,” George said.

“No more than you,” he snapped back.

George just laughed. “I think John’s got it handled.” He grinned, malicious. “He didn’t seem too
pleased to see her.”

Paul tried to keep a smile from his face and knew he didn’t manage it. “Oh dear.”

“Oh shut up you two,” Richie said, coming up behind them. “That’s his life.”

There was a pause where Paul felt like shit and George looked at his feet.

Then Richie added, “Reckon it’s too much to put on a sweepstake for when she finally gives up?”

Paul laughed, then clamped his mouth closed. “Alright, enough of that,” he said, as though he
hadn’t started it. “Let’s get on with something useful.” He winced at a particularly loud shout. “Or
at least try to drown some of that out so it doesn’t end up on the telly.”

Paul led them through a pretty disjointed jam of stuff they hadn’t played since Hamburg. It was
strange how easily his fingers still knew where to move without him having to put too much
thought into it. There was a growing sense of dread in the back of his mind about how directionless
the whole session was. He told himself there was plenty of time, but he knew he and John really
ought to have at least three songs each almost ready by now. They had perhaps one each.

It had been him that had called the others suggesting they use the time to write more material. It
had seemed a better move, something to move them forward. He just couldn’t face going back over
the last record, doing the same over again, only this time with an audience. A fresh slate had
seemed like a better idea. He’d written a few things over the break, although when he looked at
them again they were all embarrassingly maudlin. He was reluctant to bring them out, like they
might dampen an already fairly bleak atmosphere. He could tell that George didn’t even want to be
there; he’d muttered darkly on the first day that he didn’t have any desire to do a TV show. Richie
was the steady presence he always was, but even he didn’t seem enthusiastic.

John hardly seemed to be there at all. Paul understood why, he clearly had a lot on his mind. Most
of which Paul had put there. But The Beatles without John’s commitment was almost impossible to
manage. He hated it. He hated trying to drag them all forward when it didn’t even seem they liked
where they were going. Let alone the lack of any thanks for the effort.

“You alright?” he asked, voice low, when John skulked back in and sat next to him. He was alone,
so clearly he’d won the argument.

George looked over at them and began strumming loudly. Paul assumed in a bid to at least give
them the illusion of privacy, despite the fact that Paul had insisted that no filming happened while
Yoko was in the building. Michael had seemed almost relieved to receive that request, so Paul was
fairly confident it was being fulfilled.

“What do you care?” John snapped. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“No,” he said, then shook his head. “I mean, I didn’t want you to get more hurt. You know I
didn’t.”

“Well, it’s too bloody late for that.”

“Can I…” he started. “Is there anything I can do?”

John sighed, ran a hand over his eyes. “No.” He swallowed. “You better not have been fucking
around, Paul. I swear to God, if I’m out here all alone, I’m going to-”

“You’re not.” He wanted to reach out, but held himself still. It felt like too much. John wasn’t even
really saying anything. They hadn’t had a real conversation. “Should I come over later?”

John started, like the suggestion had come out of nowhere. “No,” he looked almost panicked at the
idea. “Just. Not yet. I’m still sorting things out.”

Paul wondered if that meant Yoko or his own feelings. He suspected both.

“Alright,” he said, softly. Then, more loudly, “Alright, let’s get on with it then. Shall we try ‘I Dig
a Pony’ again?”

———

“I’m getting a fucking security on the door,” George hissed the next day. There wasn’t any
shouting this time. But John had been gone for over an hour and the session had ground to a halt. If
something that hadn’t even really started could grind to a halt.

“Don’t think that would actually stop her,” Paul sighed.

He looked over at Michael who was chewing on his cigar with the look of a man that didn’t know
how he’d gotten himself to where he currently was. Paul could relate to that. Even though he was
frustrated that even Michael didn’t seem to have any idea how to move them forward. Other than
apparently taking them halfway around the world when Paul had already told him Richie wasn’t
going.

“He shouldn’t go and see her when she just turns up like that,” George muttered, like he was
voicing Paul’s internal monologue of the last hour.

“He feels bad,” Richie said, from next to Paul. “He gave her something she wanted and then took it
back. That’s hard.”
“Fine time for him to grow a heart,” George sniped.

But they all knew he wasn’t being fair. John had never found it easy to walk away. Paul pulled his
lip between his teeth and thought about what John had said the day before. Had that been him
asking for reassurance? He wasn’t sure, and the last thing he wanted was to put more pressure on
him. Whatever was going on with Yoko was clearly weighing on him enough as it was.

The day drew to a slow and uneventful end, with nothing done but an aborted attempt to work on a
new song of George’s and a seemingly endless attempt to turn “I’ve Got A Feeling” and “I Dig a
Pony” into something they wouldn’t be embarrassed to play for anyone else.

Paul went home and spent the evening restlessly pacing the house, unsure what was causing him
more anxiety: their lack of progress around the show or John’s continued silence about what was
happening with him and Yoko. Or what that meant about how he was feeling about Paul.

It was well past midnight by the time he was sitting down and writing something new. He wasn’t
sure, even as he was getting the hook done, if it was too derivative. It sounded like something
they’d have written in the early days, pressed together in Paul’s old house, his dad in the next
room. But really, wasn’t that the point? They were meant to be getting back to basics, coming up
with material they could play easily live in front of an audience.

He fell into an exhausted doze a couple of hours later, unsure if he’d even show it the next day. He
felt jittery, unsure of the best path forward. Clearly they needed new material, but what he had was
probably too on the nose, as likely to scare John off as reassure him.

He never got the chance to make a decision one way or the other, because John apparently decided
to answer Paul’s concerns all at once.

“I’ve got something,” John said, standing up.

Paul blinked at him, surprised. “You holding out on us, Johnny?” he asked, defaulting to a silly
voice in a bid to cover the sudden rush of adrenaline that shot through him.

“I was working on it over the break,” John said, not looking at him. “But, needs some more work.”

Everyone stared at John, presumably as surprised at how long it had taken him to share as Paul
was. Then John began to play. It took maybe five seconds for Paul to feel like he might have been
struck by lightning.

“Don’t let me down

Nobody ever loved me like she does

If she does

Yeah, she does

And if she loves me like she say she do

Oh she do”

The meaning was clear. Surely. For John to have written it over the break and then show it now,
after their conversations. Somehow it seemed unlikely it was about Yoko given the screaming and
it wasn’t the first time he’d written a song for Paul. It felt unreal, watching John perform it, his
whole focus on the music. He looked so beautiful that Paul’s chest ached.
He realised with a jolt that George and Richie had already begun to join in, picking up the thread of
the music. It was simple, classic John in the repeated refrain and raw melody. Paul tried to shake
himself into action, but found himself sluggish, his hands clumsy. He turned away, hoping he’d be
able to concentrate if he didn’t have to look at John.

It did help, a little, but he couldn’t stop his mind racing through meanings. What did John even
mean by showing this to them now? And even if it was the obvious, how should he respond?

“Those all the bits you’ve got?” George said.

Paul started, and realised that he hadn’t even noticed John stopping playing.

“Yeah,” John said. “That’s it.”

He could feel all eyes turning to him. He was meant to say something. That was his cue to jump
into action and explain how they could expand it. Turn it into a fully realised hit song.

“It’s…” He swallowed around a sudden tightness in his throat. He looked away. “It’s good. I like
it.”

“Well alright,” John said, he sounded almost amused. “Good then. Let’s get on with it.”

Paul tried to concentrate as they went through the different elements John had, pulled it apart and
attempted to put it back together. He knew the others were waiting for him to make some sort of
contribution, but his mind remained painfully blank. All he could think about was getting John
alone, asking him what it meant.

“So,” John said, stretching out, “that’s that one for now.”

Paul had the feeling John was drawing it to a dignified close because Paul had yet to contribute
anything of use. They’d gone around and around for over an hour without Paul being able to pull
himself together. He was becoming increasingly aware of the cameras recording their every move;
he was going to look like a proper moron.

“Wait,” George said, plaintive, “we haven’t got anywhere with it. We need to actually learn
something, you know.”

“Right,” John said, his eyes sliding over to Paul. “But getting so tired we can’t achieve anything
isn’t going to help either.”

“We can-” Paul started, unsure what he was going to do, but feeling the need to at least try. “Let’s
just try the first bit again. Maybe George you can just-” he strummed for a moment, looking over
at George, “and then maybe we can come back in with If she does.”

George gave him an incredulous look. “We’ve been doing that for an hour. We need to actually
play it.”

“I get that,” Paul said, “I’m just trying to help you.”

“To do what?” George snapped back, his hackles already raised.

“I can’t–” he said, feeling stupid and frustrated. How was he supposed to do this? There was too
much happening all at once. John was trying to tell him something and he knew he had to respond,
but there were cameras everywhere. Then there was the fact that they had to play 14 new songs in a
matter of days and they didn’t have anything. His chest was tight, his leg unable to keep from
bouncing over and over.

“I can’t do this on camera.” He stood up, taking off his bass and walking away. It felt like he
couldn’t breathe.

“Forget about candid camera,” John muttered, as he paced by, reaching out a hand. He didn’t grab
hold, or even linger, it was just a gentle brush of fingers against Paul’s leg; it might almost look
accidental to anyone else.

Of course it had the intended reaction and Paul stopped walking immediately. He took a breath and
ran both hands through his hair. He wanted to lean into John’s touch, but that was ridiculous.
Instead, he bent down to pick up some chewing gum on a chair near John, hoping it would appear
that had always been his intent.

“We’re not getting anywhere,” he huffed, as though he didn’t know that was as much his own fault,
his own inability to concentrate, as it was anything else. He went back to his seat, picking up his
bass, even though he didn’t really have any intention of playing.

“Well, if you’d just let us play,” George sniped.

“Let’s just move on,” John said, voice firm and final. “Someone else go. We’ve done all of mine.
Well, both of them.”

Paul looked sideways at him and found John was already looking at him. He looked almost serene
when their eyes met. Like he’d made his point and was at peace with it. Especially with the idea
that Paul was flustered, which he clearly knew he was. The fucker.

Well, he realised, with a strange stab of excitement. Two could play at that game.

“Alright,” he said, not looking away from John, “I’ve got this one. Started it last night.”

He wasn’t convinced, despite John’s goading, that he was making the right decision, even as he
started strumming. His nervousness lasted until perhaps the end of the first line. Then it was easy.
Just like it always was when he was performing. Even more so when he knew he had something
good.

“Two of us wearing raincoats

Going backwards to the sun

You and me chasing paper

Does it matter?

On our way back home

You and I’ll make memories

Longer than the road that stretches out behind”

He opened his eyes when he was finished and found John watching him intently.

“Last night, huh?” he asked, casual despite the sharp focus of his eyes.

Paul shrugged, but then couldn’t help but grin at him. He felt elated. He’d been so sure when he
came to the sessions that the month would be awful. And now, now, it seemed like he might just
get everything he wanted.

Just so long as he didn’t manage to mess it all up.

“Another Lennon-McCartney original,” John said, his smile almost blinding.

“Shall we run through it again?” Paul said. “Let’s start with the opening.”

Of course it was easier with his own song. He knew what he wanted, and John seemed so animated
that it carried them through the afternoon.

“Well alright,” John said, his smile hardly dimming at all, when it was gone five. “Looks like we
might have something after all.”

They all knew that was the signal for the end of the day. Michael called cut and there was the usual
frantic activity as everyone in the room rushed to finish so they could make it home as quickly as
possible.

John gathered his things slowly, as though trying to delay without seeming to. Paul took the
opportunity, and sidled up to him.

“Do you want to come over?” he asked.

“Not yet,” he said, his eyes sliding away. Paul’s heart dropped to his feet. “I just need to– Just a
little longer.”

“Why?” he asked, then felt stupid. The word had just dropped out of his mouth. What was John
delaying for? Hadn’t the songs been clear enough?

“I don’t know,” he sighed, still not quite looking at him. “Because I always rush into everything
and this time I don’t want that. I want to be sure. I want you to be sure.”

“I am sure,” he hissed.

“Sure,” he said. “Listen. I just… Can you give me just some more time?”

There wasn’t exactly anything he could say to that. It had been two decades. What was another few
days or weeks?

“Yeah,” he said, swallowing and looking away, “take all the time you need.”

— — —-

“I’m still in love for the first time

Don’t you know it’s the last

It’s a love that lasts forever

It’s a love with all my past”

Paul looked down at the lyrics scrawled over the paper in front of him. The realisation kept
washing over him, in dizzying waves, that John had written this for him . It was like they had a
secret again. It had been so long he’d forgotten how good it felt. It made him feel special,
important in a way nothing else ever really did. He’d shared a lot with other people, beautiful,
important moments. But somehow, the ones with John were always slightly sharper, more in focus.
They made his blood pump harder and his chest want to puff out with pride.

He tried to keep that tamped down, of course. They did actually have a job to do. Besides which,
the song was full of questions. And it seemed they hadn’t been answered to John’s satisfaction yet.

“I dunno,” George sighed, “it sounds like the same old shit.”

“Well I like the same old shit,” John said, although without much heat. “If it’s clear, you know? If
it gets the message across.”

“Well, we can change it up,” Paul said, looking between them, feeling a bit panicked. He didn’t
like the idea of this song being rubbished, it was too important. And anyway, he thought it was
good. Or it could be. “It’s good, though. I think it works.”

He could feel George’s glare on him. He shifted. He recognised the tension in the room and what it
meant. This was what had happened at the start of the last album. None of them had been able to
work together without it descending into bickering. It had been easier not to even be a band by the
end. They retreated to separate rooms and just got on with it. But that wasn’t possible with this
record. In fact, that was the entire point of it. They were meant to be using it as an opportunity to
gel as a band again. Get some of their mojo back.

Not that it was going particularly well. None of them seemed totally focused on the music, veering
between over-invested and resentful of how it was taking them away from other things. Somehow
it always resulted in him and George falling out. It was like having Mike in the room sometimes.
Worse, because at least Mike usually got he was the younger brother.

“Not sure this is going anywhere,” John said. “Let’s leave it before we get to the hair pulling part,
shall we?”

Paul glared at him, but couldn’t really disagree. “Okay,” he said, “let’s leave it. We can try Two of
Us, that was going well yesterday.”

It went even better than that. John got to his feet halfway through the first run through, stepping
close to Paul. Their eyes met and Paul felt a wave of relief wash over him. It was like the first puff
of the day, like he’d been fixing for something for years, unable to sate the need. And now there it
was. John right there with him, finding the perfect ways to blend their voices, their guitars,
together.

That was it, he realised. The best feeling in the world. And, looking at John, there was absolutely
no doubt that he was feeling it too. Paul could see the excitement in his eyes. There was something
like joy passing from his look into Paul, where it mingled with his own pleasure and went back to
John. A feedback loop that grew stronger and stronger as they went through the song over and
over.

Paul felt almost dizzy with excitement and relief. John stepped closer and then closer again, until
they were nearly nose to nose. It was going to happen, he realised with a jolt of understanding. John
was going to–

“Erm.”

The interruption was quiet, but no less abrupt for it.

Paul blinked, coming back to himself all at once. He turned to look at George.

“I think, I’ll be leaving - the band - now.” George was already on his feet before Paul had fully
comprehended the words.

“When?” John said, frozen at Paul’s side.

“Now,” he said, already heading to the door. He didn’t look angry, if anything he looked slightly
embarrassed.

John jerked, as though coming to from a trance, and followed after him. Paul stood rooted to the
spot, before turning and signalling to Michael.

“Alright,” Michael called out, eyes wide with surprise. “Cut.”

Paul watched the now familiar buzz of activity as the crew stopped rolling. Then he was turning
and hurrying after John and George’s retreating backs.

“… think you’re doing?” John’s voice drifted down wind as Paul gained on them. They’d paused
just outside the large doors into the hanger.

“Leaving,” George said, voice clipped with irritation.

“I can see that, you daft sod, I’m asking why.”

George’s arms were crossed over his chest. He glared as Paul came to stand next to them. “I’ve put
up with a lot,” he said. “Fucking crazed fans, never getting a song on a record, being ignored at
every turn, girlfriends turning up and telling me how to play, but this is it. I’m not doing this too.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” John grunted.

“Whatever fucked up thing you two have going on that we’re all supposed to pretend not to know
about,” he hissed. He jabbed a finger toward Paul. “If you’re finally going to be bending over for
each other, I’m sure there are choirs of angels rejoicing or whatever, but I’m not sticking around to
see it.”

Paul moved on instinct, his arm flying out to lay across John’s chest. He knew, or at least he was
almost certain, that John wouldn’t have actually hurt George but it was clear that John had coiled
tight, ready to spring forward. Paul remembered nights in the Cavern, John leaping from the stage
to dispatch a thug who’d screamed the wrong insult at the stage. A swift headbutt and a couple of
punches, before he’d be jumping back on stage and picking up like he’d never left. That was the
last thing they needed. He instinctively looked around, a few of the crew were milling around the
doors, but at Paul’s look they drifted away, pretending they hadn’t been there at all.

John didn’t push against his light restraint, but he could feel the tension in his entire frame.

“Okay,” he said, holding out his other hand to George, “let’s just take a moment here.”

“No,” John hissed, “he can fuck off. If that’s what he wants. He can go and sulk like the child he
is.”

George looked genuinely taken aback for a moment. Then he turned and stalked away without
another word. There was a ringing silence left in his wake. Somehow everything had gone from the
best moment of Paul’s life to his band imploding in less than ten seconds. He turned to look at
John. He looked more furious that Paul had seen him in years.

There was so much that he needed to say. Somehow fucking George had beaten them to the punch
of making whatever was building between them real. He’d pushed it out into the real world. They
had to deal with it now, or it would all drift away forever. He needed to find the right words to
reassure John, show that he understood what had just happened was serious, but also… he didn’t
give a shit. John was coming back to him. He wasn’t sure he could find it in himself to care about
anything else. Whatever it meant, practically, being able to feel his connection to John again was
all that mattered to him.

“Well, that was dramatic,” was what finally came out.

John’s eyes flicked to him and then he visibly sagged. “Bloody hell.”

“He’ll be back,” Paul said. “Once he’s stopped sulking, he’ll see he’s just being… It’s not like
anything has to change with the band.”

John’s gaze was almost like a physical force. “Why would anything change?”

“Because you’ve finally made up your mind to come home with me.” It was easy to state it as a
fact. He was done giving John the option, it was clear what both of them wanted. Time to make a
real play.

“Have I?” But John was smiling. “And I’m still thinking that, am I? Even after we just lost a
quarter of our band because of it? That’s not a terrible portend we should be worried about?”

Paul wished he could stop smiling. He knew the situation was dire. They had just a few days left
and not a single finished song. And now, only three-quarters of a band. But, somehow he couldn’t
seem to care about any of it.

“Come back to mine.”

“Come on,” John said, like he was trying and failing to stop smiling, “we need to go back and sort
this mess out.”

He turned, but Paul moved his head, catching John’s eye. “Come to mine after.”

“After, we need to go and see George.” But he could see the pleased look John was trying not to
give him.

Paul got the impression that John was saying it simply to make him ask again. “Come back to mine
after that.”

John finally laughed. “Yeah,” he said, voice rich and warm. “If you want it that bad, I can do
that.”

tbc
 Chapter 11

John arrived at Cavendish under the cover of darkness. Paul had been pacing the downstairs for
what felt like hours by that point, annoyed that he’d agreed to let John go and see George alone. He
knew it was probably for the best, going together would likely just confirm whatever it was that
George was worried about. But he hated not knowing what was happening. Hated not knowing
when John would arrive. If he’d arrive.

“You’re here,” Paul said dumbly, pulling open the door. It felt almost unreal, despite John having
been over countless times.

Just not like this.

John’s eyebrows climbed his forehead. “Looks like it.”

“Oh, come in,” he said, feeling flustered and off-centre now John was actually there. He’d been
wanting it for what felt like years and now it was happening he didn’t know how to process it.
“How was George?”

“Other than a whiny little brat?” John was looking around the house as though he’d never seen it
before.

Paul trailed after him, an awkward laugh dropping from his lips. “Other than that, yes. Will his
lordship return, or do we have to make him manager first?”

John turned to him, a smile turning up his lips. They always did well like this; banded together
against a common foe.

“Dunno.” John picked up an ornament. Put it back down. Shifted another back slightly on the shelf.
“He wasn’t there. Apparently.”

Paul swallowed heavily. “Oh. Well, probably when he’s had the chance to calm down a bit…”

“Hmmm.” John turned to look at him. “Ticking clock.”

He wanted to pretend not to know what that meant, but there didn’t seem much point. “Should we
both go tomorrow then, if he doesn’t turn up like nothing’s happened?”

“Yeah,” John turned away again. “We should probably take Richie too, hash it all out once and for
all.”

The idea of that, of everything it would mean, fell heavily on Paul’s shoulders. He couldn’t quite
picture how that conversation would go. He couldn’t seem to think past the next few minutes.

There was silence and John wasn’t looking at him, so he said the only thing that truly mattered.
“You came.”

John froze, then nodded. “That song about me?”

“What do you think?”

John turned, so he could look at him out of the corner of his eye. “That you always know how to
get what you want, and then you often don’t want it.”
That was unfair and it stung. “I think you’ll find that’s you, actually.”

Unbelievably that made John smile and throw his hands up to cover his heart. “You wound me.”

The annoyance drained out of Paul all at once, like it had never been there. Typical John, winding
him up only to deflate him immediately.

God. He loved him.

Also wanted to throttle him.

He balled his hands into fists and crossed the space between them. He was too old to pretend to be
coy. This had been too long in the making to waste any more time on stupid games. Once he was
inside his personal space, he tilted his head until he caught John's eyes and held them.

“You came.” He kept his voice low. Intimate.

John let out a slow breath, his shoulders dropped. “Yeah,” he said, then nodded. “I came.”

Paul smiled. “I’m glad.”

Perhaps John had a witty rejoinder to that, but Paul would never find out because he reached out,
grabbing two handfuls of John’s coat and yanked him forward until their lips crashed together. He
only had a second to wonder if perhaps he’d overstepped before John’s hands were in his hair.

There was nothing elegant about their journey to Paul’s bed. It was sloppy kisses, frantic hands,
popped buttons and stumbling feet. He could feel the same desperation that always seemed to
infuse every encounter they had. It made the blood pump hard in his veins, made him hard almost
instantly. He felt the anticipation of it, the way his hands shook from the months of having to hold
back, and pretend he didn’t want it.

They had lost most of their clothes before they fell backwards onto the bed. John was pawing at his
pants, yanking them down, when Paul finally realised what was about to happen.

John had made his choice. He’d chosen Paul again. And Paul had chosen him. For the last time.

This wasn’t some desperate shag when neither of them could stand the pressure of staying apart
from one another. They were really going to do this. They were going to be together. And Paul had
no intention of letting that end. Ever.

He reached down and took hold of John’s hands.

“Hey,” he said, soft, and waited until John finally looked at him.

His eyes were wild, his expression full of desire and frantic hope.

Paul let out a slow breath. “Hi,” he said, grinning at him. “You’re here now. No need to rush, not
any more. We’re both here.”

It took a long moment for John to seem to understand what Paul was saying. Then he sagged. The
wild look was replaced with something gentler, more uncertain.

“Come here,” Paul said, “kiss me.”

John complied easily, letting Paul tug him up until they were kneeling on the bed, pressed chest to
chest. He led the kiss, allowing the tension to crest and then ebb away. He touched John gently, his
hands lightly exploring his body in a way he’d never really allowed himself to before. It was good,
the feel of him under his hands. John was warm and solid. Real. He was there, after everything.
After all the years and pain, he was still there.

Paul wondered if he was the luckiest man alive. He smiled into the kiss.

“What’s funny?” John asked, not pulling back, so the words ghosted along Paul’s lips.

He shook his head. “I’m just happy.” He kissed him, gentle and lingering. “I’m so glad you’re
here.”

“Hmmm.” It was a sound that probably meant a lot of things. Scepticism at Paul’s sentiment, but
also an almost agreement.

That was fine; he could work with that. He’d just have to show John that he was serious, that he
wanted him and everything that came with it. He thought he knew where to start. He kissed him
again, pressing him back gently, until John shifted and lay down on his back. Paul smiled down at
the sight of him. He looked so different to even a few months ago, thinner. But he could still see
the boy he’d first met, the rocker from Hamburg, the silly mop top. All of them were still there.
Still so very loved.

Now that it was finally happening in Paul’s own bed, there were plenty of supplies close to hand.
And an abundance of time. He reached into the bedside drawer and pulled out a little tub and a foil
wrapper. He wanted to ask if John had done this before but an affirmative answer, while probably
better for their current situation, would not enhance Paul’s mood. Although the way he arranged
himself on the bed, his legs dropping open, probably gave him the answer.

“You want this?” he asked, his voice sounded breathy, his excitement clear.

John rolled his eyes, shifting on the bed restlessly. “I swear to God,” he huffed, “if you don’t hurry
up and just fuck me, I’m leaving.”

He laughed. He couldn’t help it; somehow John always managed to surprise him. “Well, excuse
me for trying to be a gentleman.”

He opened the tub, dipping his finger in. It wasn’t like this was his first time; he knew the basics.
Had fucked a couple of men and even some more adventurous girls in the same position. But this
was different. He didn’t want to rush, didn’t want to hurt John. If it was in his power to make this
the best shag of his life, he’d do it.

“I love you.”

John’s whole face changed, his expression softening. His eyes flashing warmth at him. “Love
you.”

He watched John’s face carefully as he pushed a finger inside of him, the way his eyes flickered
closed, the slight grimace of discomfort. Then it gave way to something else, it looked almost like
relief. As though John had been waiting for this moment for time untold and now could finally
relax. The thought sent a bolt of lust right to Paul’s dick.

It was an effort to keep the pace slow, methodical. His body felt like it was slowly being wound up,
like a spring, and if he didn’t release the tension soon he was going to scream.

But he held back from it. He could be patient. Especially when watching John was one of the most
amazing things he’d ever done. He became entranced by every micro-expression, the way he
would sigh and moan when Paul pushed in another finger or moved them in just the right way. It
made him feel so good, almost powerful, to be able to make John feel like that.

“Come on,” John muttered, squirming under him.

Paul blinked back to himself; he’d become entranced in watching the way the muscles on his sides
were pulling tight, stretching and contracting, over and over, as he moved. He could see the way
the pleasure was starting to tip from good, to too much, to needing more.

“Alright,” he said, “I got you.”

He slicked himself up, having to stop, when his hand rubbed over himself. He was hard and
leaking already. He hadn’t realised how desperate he was until that moment. He took a few
steading breaths, it wouldn’t do for it to be all over the moment it started.

John’s hand grabbed at his thigh, flexing for a moment. Paul looked down at him, meeting John’s
eyes.

“You good?” John asked.

“Too good,” Paul said, giving him a rueful little grin.

That made John smile, look almost smug. Paul felt ten feet tall for being able to make him look
like that.

He didn’t wait, just lined himself up, and began to push slowly inside. It was tight, hot, but slick. It
felt incredible.

“Yes,” he muttered, hands gripping John’s hips, positioning him just right, “God, that’s good. You
feel so good.”

John grunted, his face drawn tight. It looked like a mixture of pleasure and pain. Right on the edge.
Just as John liked it. Paul kept going, pushing in until he was fully inside him.

Finally.

He let out a stuttering breath, it sounded like a gasp of pain. It was so good. Better than he’d ever
thought it would be. He had to still his hips, however much he just wanted to move them. His cock
was throbbing, little shockwaves of pleasure shooting right into his abdomen. His fingers flexed on
John’s hips, slick from sweat and lube.

It felt obscene. He knew that almost anyone else would think it was depraved, what they were
doing. Somehow, that made it even better.

“Come on,” John gasped again. “Move. Please, want to feel you.”

It wasn’t possible for him not to heed the request. He pulled back, slow, gently as he could bear it,
and then back in. The slide felt better, looser already. He did it again, trying to get the angle and
the rhythm right.

“Faster,” John hissed, already arching up to meet Paul’s thrusts.

Of course they were going to be attuned here too. There wasn’t any awkwardness, just the slide
into John as he pushed back onto him. Over and over, the pleasure building, filling Paul to the
brim.
He just had the presence of mind to reach out and wrap a hand around John’s cock, hard and
straining between them. It made John arch right off the bed with a shout of pleasure that Paul felt
right down to his toes. He couldn’t stop the way his hips sped up, driving forward, faster and faster
towards release. John was flexing around his cock, tightening and relaxing every time he managed
to hit the right spot inside of him. Paul shifted so he could hit it every time and then they were both
crying out together. Wordless shouts until it was too much.

He came with John’s name on his lips. He kept pushing forward, heard the distant cry of John’s
own release. His hips were still moving when he came back to himself, little aborted thrusts, like
he was eking out the last of the pleasure.

He blinked back to himself, and immediately leant forward, capturing John’s mouth in a heated
kiss. Only when he pulled back, did he let himself slip out of him. He toppled forward, landing on
his side next to John, chest still heaving.

Afterwards neither of them seemed to want to pull away.

“Well,” John said, eventually, his hand resting on Paul’s stomach, “here we are again.”

Paul closed his eyes. Shifted so he could rest his forehead against the side of John’s head. Breathe
him in. “No, we’re somewhere else, I think.”

“Where’s that?” John sounded guarded.

Something like apprehension rose in Paul, despite everything that had just happened. It wouldn’t be
the first time one of them pulled away immediately after something so intimate. In fact, that was
basically their only move. “What’s happening with Yoko?”

John rolled his eyes. “She’s gone.”

Paul raised his eyebrows.

“She’s in the process of becoming gone.” John amended and then smiled thinly. “I’m harder to
leave than you might think.”

“But it’s really done?” Paul asked, needing to be sure. “You don’t want to be with her?”

He sighed. “Don’t you fucking dare pretend it has nothing to do with you.”

Paul shifted. It was stupid to pretend, but the idea didn’t sit well with him anyway. “She said she
was trying to make you not be queer.”

John went very still. “Yeah,” he said, after a moment, “sounds like something she might say.”

“Then why were you with her?”

“Because I needed someone and no one had ever wanted me like that.” He looked up at Paul, from
where his head had been on his chest. “Plus, she is actually a genius, you know. She could always
keep up, give me what for. I loved her.”

The words hurt, which was stupid, because John was still there, with him. He nodded, swallowing
hard. “But?”

“But,” John said, shifting so he could lie facing Paul, “I’m not falling for that until you tell me
exactly what you think you’ve been playing at these last few months.”
There was the four billion pound question. He swallowed. “I couldn’t lose you,” he said, the basic
truth of it. “It felt like cutting off a limb or worse. I know I fucked up. I get why you thought you
had to get out. I thought I agreed. But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t walk away.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m in love with you,” he said. “Have been since we were teenagers and I’m fucking sick
of pretending that doesn’t matter.” He touched John’s face, fingertips tracing the fine skin over his
cheekbone. “It’s all that matters.”

John’s eyes were big, bright and a little glassy. He opened his mouth, and seemed unable to think
of anything. He tipped his head forward and and kissed Paul instead.

“Me too,” he said. “I love you. I love you so much.”

Paul beamed at him. He reached out so he could wrap his arms around him. “I’m not going to let
this go,” he whispered. “We’ll figure it out.”

John nodded. “Yeah, yeah, we’ll figure it all out.”

———

They both knew, of course, that was much, much easier to say than to actually achieve. But, they at
least knew where to start.

“You still on strike, is it crossing the picket for us to come in?” Paul tried to make his voice sound
light and gently teasing. It came out accusatory.

He hadn’t forgotten George’s jab before he stormed away. Anger simmered just under his skin at
the thought of it. If George was planning on making a fuss or trying to cause a problem between
him and John, there was going to be trouble. He and George had never truly fallen out, keeping
their arguments to sniping and glowering silences in the past. But, that didn’t mean he wasn’t
willing to go a couple of rounds with him if he had to. There was simply no way he was going to
let anyone make John reconsider what was happening between them.

He hadn’t wanted to bring Richie to the meeting, but there was no way to keep him out of it. Not
unless they explained the problem, and Paul hadn’t been able to find the words for that. So, the
three remaining Beatles had traipsed over to George’s house the next afternoon after spending the
morning pretending they might rehearse something, but never really getting around to it.

Paul was too jittery for that, anyway. Too aware of John at his side. They weren’t touching. Not
even really close enough to brush arms, but it was like he could feel the heat of him. He was
conscious of John’s every movement, his every expression.

He wanted to touch him. Wanted to get him alone. Not just so they could shag again, although he
was already gagging for that after just a few hours. But more, he just wanted to be with John. To
soak in his presence properly without onlookers. He wondered if John felt the same way, but it was
too hard to tell.

It became clear after a couple of hours at Twickenham that they weren’t going to achieve anything.
A band meeting had been their only real option; they needed to know what was going to happen
with the project - the band - and soon. It was getting too late in the day, and they’d need to move
the performance date, if not call the whole thing off, if something miraculous didn’t happen.

Paul didn’t want to cancel. They’d never failed to deliver before, and this couldn’t be the first time.
Not when he and John were finally on the same page. He had the terrible feeling it would be a bad
omen, or at least John might take it to be one. He had to fix it, had to make sure they were a
success. It was vital that they show they could do both: be together and still make incredible,
cutting edge music. He was going to make it happen, or someone was going to die trying.

Probably George, if he didn’t stop sulking like a spoilt little brat.

“I quit, you colossal toss pot,” George said, but there wasn’t much heat in his words. He was
eyeing Paul with something that looked like curiosity as he stepped aside to let them in. Perhaps he
was surprised they’d come at all.

The four of them trailed behind George into the kitchen. There was no sign of Pattie; the whole
house had a vaguely solemn, deserted vibe. There were no lights on, despite the gloom already
settling outside and no noise came from any of the other rooms they passed.

They all sat at the kitchen table. George didn’t offer them anything. So, instead they sat in silence
not quite looking at one another.

It was John that broke it. It felt like old times; it had been months since John had much of anything
to contribute to a band meeting.

“So, do you want to unquit or what?” he asked, leaning forward. He hadn’t taken his coat off, like
he wasn’t sure if he was about to storm out. Or be shown the door. “We’re in the middle of a
project here, you know.”

George shrugged. “Have you learnt to speak for yourself again?”

His eyes slid to Paul and then back to John. Paul tried and failed not to visibly bristle.

“Don’t be such fucking child, just because Pattie’s chucked you,” John snapped back.

“This is nice,” Richie said abruptly, “can’t think of the last time it was just the four of us
together.”

There was a pause and then George snorted with laughter. John let out a sharp bark of laughter and
ran both hands through his hair. Paul looked over at Richie and tried to convey his gratitude. He
honestly didn’t know how he managed to do it, to keep his cool, to be so steady the whole time.
Richie winked back at him.

“Think that’d be bloody ten years ago at least,” John said, grimly.

“Look,” Paul said, deciding that someone needed to actually start talking about the real reason for
them being there, “we’re– I know it’s not been the best start, with everything. But, we did all agree
to do this, you know? We need to see it through at least.”

“Says who?” George asked, narrowing his eyes and leaning forward on the table. His hands were
clasped in front of him, resting on the wood. “I said I didn’t want to do a live thing. I didn’t even
want to do new stuff. I’m sick of being ignored, and if there’s anything worse than trying to force
myself to care about all that shit, it’s doing it on camera.”

“We have a contract,” Paul tried. “None of us want to do it on camera. But, we all agreed to it.”

“I just said that I didn’t,” George said. “You wanted it and like fucking usual we all went along
with it.”
“This isn’t getting us anywhere,” John cut in. That was new. He usually stayed well away from
Paul and George’s disagreements. Paul wondered if that was a result of what had happened the
night before, or if he was just as sick of it as Paul was. “What do you want? All you keep going on
about is what you don’t want. Come up with a solution.”

“Didn’t I do that when I quit?” he asked. “You’re all here, so I assumed you had an idea.”

“But you let us in,” Richie said.

George looked almost betrayed for a moment, before looking away, his jaw flexing in annoyance.

“We all agreed to this,” John continued, “we’ve started it now, seems daft not to finish. We’ve got
some songs and some time to decide what we actually want to do with them.” His eyes slid over to
Paul, without turning his head. “Unless– Unless there’s something that really means you don’t
want to play with us anymore. In which case I fucking will call Clapton and be done with it.”

George shrugged, clearly irritable at being called out. Paul’s heart ticked up. He knew it was
inevitable; John wasn’t going to be able to let George’s comments go unanswered. Besides, if that
really was the issue, it was better that they knew. He just wished he didn’t feel almost sick with
fear about what was about to happen.

“What I said,” George said eventually, slowly and through gritted teeth, “when I left, I didn’t
mean– I don’t care about where you’re both sticking it. But I do care about what it’ll mean for the
band. I honestly don’t give a shit if you don’t want my songs, because I can use them somewhere
else. In fact, I don’t even want them involved in this mess at all. But, that leaves the question of
why I’m there at all. And it’s not going to be to watch you two eye fuck and ignore everyone else
even more than you already do.”

John let out a harsh breath, but Paul didn’t miss the way his shoulders sagged. He’d been scared,
same as Paul, that George really had been disgusted with them. It didn’t matter that he’d stuck by
John after he said he was queer, knowing it, seeing it, was very different from being told it.

“I think…” Richie said slowly, “I’m missing something.”

There was a long, long, silence. John looked at Paul. He looked back at him. There was a silent,
forceful argument about who was going to speak next. He was the one to look away first. John, the
fucker, never knew when to back down.

“John and I are together,” Paul said, unsure how he’d lost but knowing he had. His voice was
shaking which was embarrassing. He tried to hold Richie’s eyes, but didn’t manage it. He ended up
looking just over his shoulder at the wall.

Richie froze. His eyes were wide, although it was clear that his mind was racing. The silence that
followed was one of the longest in Paul’s life. If Richie walked, that would be it. There was the
slimmest of chances they’d replace George for an album, just out of sheer spite, but not Richie. He
was the moral centre. You knew you were in the wrong when he cared enough to tell you so.

“So, you weren’t freaked out about him queer,” he said, after long enough that Paul was starting to
wonder if he was ever going to speak again.

“No,” Paul agreed. “I’m– I guess I am too. But, listen, we haven’t…”

But he didn’t know what he was trying to say. The words tangled themselves in his chest, sticking
in his throat. He hated it. He could feel heat rising up his neck, making him shift in his seat. John
fidgeted next to him, moving ever so slightly closer. He didn’t reach out, didn’t touch him, which
Paul was grateful for. He didn’t want to look weak on top of everything else. But, that didn’t mean
he didn’t appreciate the silent support.

“We aren’t planning on telling anyone else,” John said. “Nothing’s going to change.”

“That,” George cut in angrily, “is my entire point!”

Paul almost wanted to smile.

“Oh my god,” John huffed. “Fine, what is it you want? A single? Ten songs on the album?
Complete artistic control? Can you just tell us, so we can tell you to fuck off or give it to you
already?”

George looked almost taken aback for a moment, but rallied quickly. “I don’t know, I just don’t–
Fine. No stupid TV show.”

Paul shifted.

“Fine,” John said, immediately. “Let’s just turn what we have into a film.”

“What?” Paul said, but knew he was going to be ignored before it happened.

“They’d be mad not to take it,” George was already saying before he finished. “Fine.”

“Good,” John said, like it was all settled. “And?

“I hate Twickenham,” he said.

“We can go to Apple,” Paul suggested. “It’s pointless us being in that giant space when we
probably won’t be using it anyway.”

George looked a little confused that all his demands were being met so easily. He eyed them
suspiciously, as though searching for traps.

“Capital idea,” John boomed, doing his best George Martin, and clapped Paul on the back. “I’ll
talk to Alex.”

Paul cringed, but thought he’d leave that one well enough alone. George and Glyn could sort any
issues with that out.

“None of my songs are to be used in the film,” George said, stiffly.

John heaved a sigh. “You’re such a- fine,” he said, through gritted teeth. “Me and Paul’ll have
enough anyway.”

There was a tense silence where John and George glared at one another. Paul wondered if there
was a secret conversation going on that he didn’t understand. It made him feel a little uneasy. He
made a mental note to ask John about it later.

“Fine,” George sighed, deflating, his expression suggesting he was doing them a favour. “If it
means that much to you all. I can come back.”

Paul let out a sigh of relief that made John turn and grin at him. He smiled sheepishly back.

“So we’re just ignoring the fact you two are shagging now?” Richie said suddenly. “Only, that’s a
big fucking revelation that no one but me seems surprised by.”
“They were writing songs about each other,” George hissed. “Paul made John dump Yoko.”

“He did not.”

“I didn’t.”

George ignored them both. “What did you think was happening?”

“I don’t know,” Richie said, plaintive. “They’ve always done that sort of weird stuff. How was I
meant to know it was suddenly more?”

“We have not!” They both said at once, and then turned to look at one another. They both knew it
was a lie. They looked away, down at the table.

“Well, it is different now,” John said, eventually. “You can tell us right now if that’s going to be a
problem. Otherwise I don’t want to discuss it again. It’s none of yours, what me and Paul do.”

“Until it fucks up the band,” George cut in.

“The band you literally didn’t give a shit about and left five minutes ago?” John sniped.

“It won’t,” Paul said, firmly, giving John a silent look. “We’re adults.”

That was met with three sets of raised eyebrows, which Paul felt mildly betrayed by.

He sighed. “Fine,” he conceded. “Let’s just see how this goes. We’ll get a film done-”

“And an album,” George cut in. “Might as well get that ticked off, what EMI wants from us too.”

Paul squirmed. “Maybe.”

“Fine,” John cut in, giving Paul a look which suggested he wasn’t going to take kindly to
disagreements. “But, we do need to do a performance.”

“We can decide on that when we’ve got the songs,” Paul said. He’d had more than enough for the
day. His nerves felt shot as it was. There were only so many arguments he had it in him to fight.
Especially when all he wanted was to be alone with John.

Three pairs of eyes landed on him. But none of them actually disagreed.

“Well, now that’s sorted, are we allowed a beer or are we to be escorted from the property?”
Richie asked brightly.

George glowered, but it was clear he wasn’t actually annoyed. “Fine,” he said, “but then you can
fuck off. I’ll be seeing enough of your ugly mugs tomorrow.”

“That’s the spirit, lad!” John said. He looked pleased, warmed perhaps by the others’ acceptance of
them.

Paul wanted to feel the same. He did, he supposed, but it still felt too strange. He and John were so
new, he didn't know how to feel about other people knowing.

Part of him loved it. There was a thrill at the idea that at least someone knew John had picked him,
over everything, after all they’d been through. It made it realer somehow. But it also meant there
was no hiding from it. They’d have to face up to what that meant.
But not that day. There would be time for that later. All he needed to worry about was not getting
so drunk he and John couldn’t shag when they left. The thought snaked its way through him, warm
and appealing. He felt himself relax, a smile starting to play on his lips.

———

“Well that could have gone worse.” Paul stretched out on the bed, naked and sated in a way he
hadn’t felt in years. It was like every nerve ending was humming with contentment.

“No one else quit,” John agreed, nuzzling against the side of Paul’s temple.

He grinned, leaning into the feeling of it. They’d never allowed themselves this: simple affection.
It was so easy, so new, and yet he already knew he’d do anything to keep it. The thought was
terrifying, given their situation. But, it was too late to be worried about that now.

“Now we just need to finish the songs,” he said.

“And agree how we end the bloody film.”

“And get them to agree it can be the next film.”

“And figure out how to stop Apple from bleeding us dry before we can get another album out.”

“And find a new manager.”

“And decide what we’re going to do about us.”

They looked at one another. He wasn’t sure which of them started it, but soon they were laughing
so hard that tears were streaming down their faces.

“Oh, we’re fucked,” John gasped.

“Nah,” Paul shook his head. “We’ll do it.”

It even felt true. With the two of them united, it all seemed so possible.

John shook his head, like he couldn’t believe what they were doing. He was grinning almost
helplessly at Paul. “We’ve done more with longer odds.”

He nodded. “Together, mind.”

“Oh, yeah,” John agreed. “Just another Lennon-McCartney original.”

———

They got back to work, but that didn’t mean it was easy going. They still didn’t have much in the
way of actual songs. In fact, all of their previous problems were disappointingly still there when
George returned.

At least the new location helped, when they finally got there. They’d had to wait a few days for a
rush job in getting it finished. Then another day while George Martin and Glyn made it into
something that would actually work as a studio. They struggled on in Twickenham in the
meantime. When it finally came, the difference being in a real studio made was immediate. It was
so much easier to make music in a room that was at least sort of familiar. A studio was a studio,
and it seemed like just the surroundings unlocked something in them.
In sheer desperation, John suggested they do an old one of his. The song, when he started singing
it, brought on such an onslaught of memories that Paul felt overwhelmed for a moment. A lump
formed in his throat, despite the fact he also wanted to laugh in delight.

“Now, there’s a good one,” he managed, when John was done. He sounded almost breathless.
“Never understood what it was about, though.”

“Wrong location.” John took a drag of his cigarette and grinned at him. Clearly enjoying the praise,
even as he pretended not to.

“Oh, it’s great,” Paul nodded, delighted and so happy at the pleased expression on John’s face that
he didn’t want to stop talking about it.

The idea came to him in a flash. He thought it was probably something about John’s expression,
the cock-sure smug look he threw over at Paul.

“But, how about,” Paul said, frowning down at his hands. And then began to sing, playing along
almost without stumbling.

“In spite of all the danger

In spite of all that may be

I'll do anything for you, anything you want me to

If you'll be true to me”

“Now there’s a classic,” John said, his face lit up like a beacon. “But I think you’ll find it’s my lead
vocal.”

“You wanna arm wrestle for it?” Paul asked. “Besides, you had your go.”

They laughed and played through both, trying to see if either of them were worth considering for
real. Even George couldn’t seem to find it in him to be grumpy about it. He laughed along, playing
his old riffs easily. It felt like they’d all been playing both songs just the week before.

———

Their evenings were quiet, bathed in soft light, music playing in the background. Paul felt content,
like he’d run a great race and was finally able to rest. He soaked in the closeness. Not just physical,
but emotional.

They talked in a way they never had before. Paul hadn’t realised how much he was censoring
himself until he suddenly didn’t need to. They started in the past, talking over moments both
treasured and painful. But, inevitably, it tended to veer into where it had nearly all gone so wrong,
like a bruise they couldn’t stop prodding at, checking if it was healed.

“It always felt like you couldn’t do wrong,” John said, on one of those evenings. They’d settled on
the sofa, Martha at their feet. Paul had thrown his arm over the back of the sofa and John had
slowly edged into him until he was almost lying against him. “Like nothing touched you. You
found it all so- so easy. Fame, the pressure of it all. I just… I dunno, it felt like it was crushing
me.”

It seemed like such an insane thing to say that he had to pause and gather his thoughts for a long
moment. The idea that he’d never been stressed or miserable during the last ten years was
ridiculous. But then he thought about John’s retreat from public life, when he was in Surrey. The
way George stopped talking in interviews. Even Richie seemed done by the time touring was
finished. Perhaps there was a difference between them all, even if Paul hated the thought.

“I don’t know,” he said, slowly, trying to be as honest as possible, to understand where he and John
might have felt things differently. “It wasn’t always easy, I was exhausted sometimes, and it got too
much - like after Brian. But I guess, overall, yeah, I always liked it.”

John nodded, a twist forming on his lips. “I couldn’t keep up.”

“It wasn’t a race,” he swallowed down the rest of the lie. “We shouldn’t have made it into one. Or,
I should have stopped it.”

It was easy, when they were together now, to talk about things that had seemed impossible before.
Things that Paul hadn’t even wanted to conceive of. Paul wouldn’t have believed how it could be.
They’d been so close before they’d decided to try and be something new that he’d assumed it
would be like that, only with sex that happened more than once every six months. But it wasn’t. It
was more, like they’d unlocked a new part of themselves, something gentler, more at peace.

“Hard to do that when you’re winning,” John said, with an uneasy shrug.

“But there’s no winning if you’re not with me,” he countered, with as much force as he could.
“That’s the point. I thought that’s just what we did, that we were having fun. You never said you
weren’t.”

“I tried,” he said. “I’m not sure you wanted to hear it.”

It hurt, despite it being clear John wasn’t trying to be cruel. He pushed down his inclination to deny
the problem entirely.

“I just,” he said instead, “never believed there was anything you couldn’t do. It’s not that I didn’t…
I guess I always saw you as unbeatable, you know? I always felt like I needed to keep showing you
that I was good, that I was getting better and doing new things. I assumed you’d get bored
otherwise.”

John’s hands tightened around him. “I just saw you getting further and further away,”

“I was afraid to stop running,” he said. “We’d been going full tilt for so long, I didn’t know how to
stop. If I even could.”

“Can’t believe how close we got to the edge of losing everything.”

The thought of it still made Paul’s heart race. “I know.”

“You know I never stopped loving you,” John muttered, kissing the side of his head. “Even when
things were bad. I don’t think I can. It’s part of me.”

“Good,” Paul said. “That’d be awkward otherwise.”

John laughed, the mood lifting easily. Talking about the bad stuff didn’t hurt so much now they
weren’t circling around the same unwinnable argument. It felt good, like they were making
progress, airing out a room they’d neglected to even enter for years.

———
Paul found a series of songs appeared to him over the next few days. It was like a fog had cleared
and he could see that they’d been there all along, just waiting for him to see them. The songs were
sad, more melodic than the rock songs they’d started out intending. But, they worked. They added
a nice counterbalance to the album, if nothing else.

John came up with a couple of new ones too, over their first weekend together. They hardly made it
out of bed, other than to grab guitars and play together. It felt like they were teenagers again. Full
of excitement and unbound energy for what they were doing.

“Reckon ‘Let It Be’ could be a single,” Paul said, stretching.

“Could be,” John agreed. “See what I come up with first.”

He threw Paul a wink. It was so easy, suddenly, between them. He wasn’t sure it had ever been that
easy. The teasing no longer felt quite so cut-throat. He almost didn’t care which of them got the
next single. John was writing again, his concentration and energy back since they’d moved
locations. He’d happily give up a lead single to keep the look of pleasure on John’s face as new
material came to him. Paul knew he’d have something great they could test against “Let It Be”
once it came time to release the album. That was all that really mattered.

They were in bed when the song came to him. John over him, as they kissed, eyes never leaving
one another. They got like that, sometimes, like they were still scared the other was going to be
taken away at a moment’s notice.

He didn’t play it for anyone, not at first. He wasn’t sure it was anything. Then it felt almost too
personal. He wasn’t even sure what convinced him to play it. Perhaps it was just a need to show
off. He knew the vocals were going to be different, something he’d never tried before.

“So, I might have something.” They were still at home. He didn’t want to show anyone else, not
until he was sure about it.

John raised both eyebrows at him. He was reclined on the bed, dozing happily. He looked less tired
than at the start of the session. Which shouldn’t have made sense, because they weren’t exactly
getting a lot of sleep. Perhaps he was just more relaxed.

Paul hoped happier.

He went to the piano and sat down. His hands were acting strangely, like they wanted to shake.
Almost like he was about to go on stage. Only that was daft; it was just John. He hadn’t worried
about showing him anything in years. He took a breath and began to play.

Oh darling

Please believe me

I’ll never do you no harm

Jonn was staring at him with such open affection when he was finished he felt almost embarrassed.
Almost. Because the entirety of his body was taken up with a warm feeling of satisfaction and
pride. He’d never believed that he could get John to give him such clear appreciation. He almost
wasn’t sure what to do with it.

He stood up, ran both hands through his hair, as though it might shake off some of the feeling so he
could concentrate on anything else. “Anyway, might not work,” he muttered, stepping away from
the piano.
“Fuck off,” John hissed. “I love it. Now, get over here and fuck me senseless.”

Paul grinned and did exactly that.

———

He played it again the next day, this time for the rest of the band. John grinned delightedly at him
the entire time and Paul couldn’t quite seem to look away.

“Don’t think I won’t fucking quit again,” George muttered in his ear, when he was done.

Paul turned to look at him. His expression was so stern that Paul couldn’t help but laugh. Then,
slowly, like the sun coming out, George grinned back at him.

“How about we try ‘Something’?” he said brightly, giving George a little wink.

———

“You want to listen to something?” Paul asked, watching as John flicked through his records, a
frown on his face. He’d been looking at them in silence for what felt like an age. They’d gone back
to his after the session, but John had disappeared suddenly.

“What?” John startled, looking around at Paul as though surprised to find him standing in the
doorway.

“Was there something you wanted to put on?” Paul repeated, smiling at him.

It still felt good, seeing him in Paul’s living room. Back where he belonged; the whole place had
felt sad, emptier since John had stopped coming over.

“Oh,” he said, eyes flicking back to the records. “No.”

“Okay,” he said, slowly. “Well, food’s ready, so-?”

“When did you get Fleetwood’s album?” John said over him.

It pulled him up short. “Erm, around Christmas?”

“Thought you didn’t rate them?” He sounded almost angry, which made no sense at all.

“I- No, they’re alright.”

John swallowed and turned back to look at the records again. “I thought you said you didn’t.”

“I guess I didn’t before, but they’re alright.”

“I didn't know.” John’s voice had taken on a distant quality that made concern trickle down Paul’s
spine.

“Well, now you do,” he said, brightly. “If you’re done inspecting my collection, can we eat?”

“Erm, sure,” John said, throwing a last look at the records.

John’s strange mood persisted through dinner and even after they’d retired to Paul’s bedroom. He
was withdrawn, still affectionate, but melancholy hung around him like a cloud. Even after they’d
had sex, he didn’t chatter like Paul was coming to expect. He just laid in Paul’s arms, head against
his chest, his hand coming to rest over Paul’s heart, like he was trying to feel it through his ribs.

After a moment his hands started to trail over Paul’s chest, the feeling was so good it made Paul’s
eyes flutter closed in pleasure. He wondered if it would ever be enough, if he’d ever not feel like he
needed John’s hands on him. He thought - hoped - John felt the same. When they were alone, they
were almost always touching. Hands on arms, trailing over shoulders, pulling the other close. A
broken dam after years and years of self-denial of the feeling.

Then John sighed. It sounded so sad that Paul tipped his chin down to try and catch his expression.
He couldn’t quite make it out, but he could imagine the downturn of his lips, the line between his
eyes. Perhaps even a few months ago Paul might have ignored it, not wanting to start any
unpleasantness. But he knew better now; leaving John’s moods alone usually didn’t help anything.

“Are you going to tell me what’s bothering you?” he asked, gently, running his hand over John’s
hair. “Or am I going to have to guess?”

There was silence.

“Come on,” Paul said, “just get it out and we’ll deal with it.”

It took a long moment before John let out another sigh.

“We don’t know each other anymore.”

“What?” he said, a cold jolt of surprise running through him.

“I don’t even know what music you’re into,” John said, sounding agitated. “And you sure as hell
don’t know everything about me.”

“Nah,” Paul soothed, automatic. “I still know you. It’s only been a few months - there’s no one that
knows me better, at any rate.”

“No, it’s… I’ve been-” John shook his head, swallowing heavily. “You didn’t see me. After Brian,
I really thought I was going to lose my mind. Like I’d drifted so far apart I wasn’t going to be able
to get back together. Yoko, she- I dunno. I’m better now. But I don’t know… I’m not the same,
Paul. Part of me died. This is all cobbled back together, broken pieces.”

Paul felt almost queasy. He wanted to deny it. He could see John, he seemed the same to him.
Perhaps a little quieter, a little less cock-sure. But when he thought about it, they all seemed like
that; as though being so on show for so long had knocked them around. Or maybe they’d just all
grown up and learnt when not to run their mouth. But he was trying not to sweep away every bad
thing, like he could stop it being true just by refusing to see it. He let the truth of what John was
saying, or at least, what he believed, to settle between them.

Then he said the only thing he thought was worth saying. “I should have done more to help.”

He had known John was hurting. He’d been at the meetings where he was jabbering nonsense,
watched his erratic behaviour from afar. He just hadn’t wanted to think it was anything more than a
weird trip. He’d been a coward, too wrapped up in his own pain and fear. Too crippled with
uncertainty to reach out. Brian’s death had put them all in a tailspin they were only just beginning
to come out of.

John shrugged. “You were busy.”

“Yoko wasn’t.” It hurt, affirming it, but it felt important, to acknowledge what had really
happened.

“No,” John said, softly, a little sadly. “Yoko wasn’t.”

“Fuck.” He swallowed around the lump in his throat and pulled John closer.

“Hey, I’m still here,” he said, clearly sensing Paul’s mood and moving so he could look at him
properly. “Broken but… I dunno. I’m here.”

“See, the thing is,” he managed when he’d got ahold of himself, “I don’t think you’re broken. I
know you went through something bad. But maybe it made you stronger. Different isn’t worse.”

John shrugged, not a total dismissal, but it was clear he didn’t entirely agree. “It’s going to happen
again.” He sounded certain. “I’m better now, but it was the same before; I keep thinking I’ve beat it
but…”

“Alright,” Paul said, suddenly, a swell of determination to not just sit around this time and hope
things would be better. “We can- I dunno. We’ll figure out when it might happen, if there are
things that make it worse. Perhaps we can see it coming and- and make it better.”

“Cushion the fall.”

“Yeah, yeah exactly. And if I have to learn you all over again,” Paul shrugged, smiling down at
John, “I’m okay with it. Finding new things to love is a bonus.”

John ducked his head, but not managing to hide his obvious smile. “Sap.”

“Yeah,” Paul agreed, “good thing too.”

———

It wasn’t perfect. Somehow Paul had thought that once George came back, they’d be back to
getting along and the songs would all fall into place. But of course, they were still themselves, no
matter that Paul also felt happier than he had in years.

Many times I've been alone

And many times I cry

Anyway, I hope you know

That I’ll always try

“No,” Paul said, drawing to a close, “it needs to be…” He hummed out the notes, tapping his feet.

George ignored him, played the same riff again.

“No, we need–”

“I just want to play it,” he snapped back at him. “I can’t work it out otherwise. That’s just how I do
it.”

“But, we need to actually work out the parts,” he reasoned. “I know it’s frustrating for you, but if
you’d just listen for a second. I’m not trying to tell you what to play–”

“I’ll play whatever you want,” George snapped. “Or I won’t play at all. Whatever will please you,
I’ll do.” He shook his head, looking away. “But I don’t think even you know what that one is.”

They lapsed into sullen silence, until John started to play again, like nothing had happened. Paul
held in his sigh and did the same. There was no point in starting a fight about it all. They’d get
there in the end. They always did.

“It’s not like I’m trying to piss him off,” Paul said, for probably the tenth time, later that night.
They were reclined on the sofa, the television flickering in the background but neither of them had
really been watching it.

John looked at him, his eyes steady and focused. Just as they’d been since Paul had begun what
even to him had started this circular conversation. It felt good, having John’s total concentration
again. It was hard not to preen under it, just a little. He hadn’t contributed much, just nodded along
or offered some small agreement. Enough that Paul had felt justified carrying on talking.

“The thing is,” John said, slowly, as though delivering some final judgement, “you don’t actually
want to be in a band.”

Paul stopped short. It felt like he’d been electrocuted. He blinked dumbly at John for a long few
seconds, trying to understand what he was hearing. He’d thought John would be on his side.
Wasn’t that the point of being with someone? Weren’t they supposed to have your back?

It didn’t even make sense; Paul had done nothing but try and keep the band going for what felt like
years. How could John possibly suggest he didn’t want it?

“What are you on about?” he asked, unable to keep the note of hurt out of his voice. “Of course I
do!”

“No,” John said, voice flat. He didn’t seem angry, but he was firm, like he was stating a fact. “You
really don’t. You like being in The Beatles because we’re the biggest group in the world. It’s easier
than doing something else. But, you don’t want to hear what any of us have to actually say, unless
we agree with you.”

It was the first time John had been even remotely critical since they’d decided to give it a go. Paul
was at a loss for what to say. He knew the hurt was showing on his face.

“It’s not like I enjoy being the boss,” he said, trying to sound reasonable and not upset, “you know
that. If I just got some help- ”

“With what?” John said, frustration starting to creep into his words. “Realising your vision? It’s
your vision and we’re not your session musicians.”

The words stung and Paul drew back from where they’d been leaning into one another. “But what
choice do I have?” he asked. “If I don’t say anything, no one does, and nothing happens. I’m sick
of it. None of you want to be there, and I keep waiting for someone to admit it, but you won’t.”

He wasn’t even sure if that was true, or if it was lingering resentment from the previous record.
But it didn’t matter. Perhaps it needed to be said either way.

“We don’t want to fly the nest,” John sighed, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “We’re all just too
scared to jack it in.”

Paul looked away back at the television, not even seeing it. He bunched his hands over and over,
like he might be able to make himself speak if he didn’t have to think about anything but the
feeling of his flexing fingers.
“I can let you go,” he managed to lie in the end. “If that’s what you need. Freedom or whatever,
I’ve always tried to… You don’t have to stay with me at all.”

“Fuck off,” John sighed. “If the group’s fucked, the last thing I need is you running in the other
direction.”

“So, you want me to stay and you want me to leave?”

“About covers it, yeah.” John reached for him, his hands landing softly on his arm and shoulder.

Paul heaved a sigh. He couldn’t find the words to argue, although he wanted to. Desperately. It
didn’t matter that they’d all threatened divorce at least once during the endless meetings over
Apple. It wasn’t like any of them really meant it. They were just grumpy and tired. This project had
had bad vibes from the start. They just needed to get through it, and they could figure out what to
do from there. He managed to shrug.

John kissed the side of his head. “We’ll figure it out. But you have to decide if you’re going to let
us actually be a band for a bit.”

“I’m not…” Paul started, then gave up. He took a breath and decided if John was going to be
brutally honest, then so should he. “What if I let everyone just do whatever they want and it’s
shit?”

That got a laugh. “Then you can tell us you told us so.”

It was preposterous; there was no way he was going to let anything go out that wasn’t perfect. He
knew John felt the same.

“We could- We could try and work it out together,” he said. “Like we used to.”

John took a breath, something unreadable on his face. “Yeah,” he said, eventually, although his
expression didn’t look like he meant it. “Yeah, we can do that. See how George takes it.”

The air went out of Paul all at once. He looked away, feeling panicked and unsure what to do. Of
course he understood exactly what John wasn’t quite saying. It would be hard for them to offer a
totally united front now without pissing the others off.

“I love you,” he said, just wanting to hear the words, feel the comfort of them.

“Me too,” John said without hesitation. “We’ll always have Lennon-McCartney, you know. No
matter what.”

He truly did want to believe that. It felt more true than it had in years, at least. He sighed and laid
his head on John’s shoulder.

“But I like The Beatles.”

“Eh,” John said, lifting his hand up and wiggling it from side to side. “I’ve heard they’re
overrated.”

He laughed and let John kiss him.

———

“You wanna come to this meeting, then?” John asked him, raising his eyebrows, as he got to his
feet. “He’s been on at me since Rock and Roll Circus.”
Paul sighed. It was literally the last thing he wanted to do; it was getting late and he was so tired.
He knew he probably wasn’t helping by keeping him and John up all night, but he wasn’t about to
give up on making up for all the sex they’d missed out on over the years. If only his days were
easier. If only they had any decent answers about what to do with Apple or the end of the film. But,
for all that, there was no way he was letting John go alone.

“Yeah, I guess.” He rubbed his eyes and yawned, trying to will himself to his feet.

“No need for all the enthusiasm,” John said. He knocked his shoulder gently into Paul’s, when
he’d finally managed to stand up. “Brian and Derek mentioned him, you know. And he’s done
decent stuff with the Stones.”

Paul shrugged. “He’s not exactly…” he trailed off, unsure how to put voice to exactly what he
meant.

“You’re being a snob,” he said. “Just because he’s not a fancy posho. He’s one of us, that’s better,
isn’t it?”

“Not if he rips us off.”

John rolled his eyes. “Let’s just meet him.”

They walked into the hotel room together. Paul was already on edge. He knew Klein’s reputation,
combined with his natural dislike for anyone that wanted to tell him he knew best. Besides, he
resented that Klein had gone to John alone. It felt underhanded, for someone that apparently
wanted to manage all of them. He was in no mood to deal with a hustler who thought they could be
taken for a ride.

Klein looked up as they entered his fancy hotel room. His brows drew together in obvious surprise.
“Oh,” he said, getting to his feet, and addressing himself only to John, “I thought you’d be with
Yoko.”

Paul’s irritation crested and he balled his hands into fists at his side.

“Yeah,” John said, voice low and already going cold, “there’s a lot of that going around.”

Paul felt a little thrill of pre-emptive victory. That was a shoddy opener by Klein. Yoko’s name
generally resulted in John’s complete withdrawal from a conversation these days. It was like he
was pretending she’d never existed and was frustrated that not everyone was playing along.

“I believe you have some suggestions for us, Mr. Klein?” Paul asked, suddenly feeling much better
about the situation, and smiling at him.

———

“The fuck are you going on about?” John didn’t sound angry, but the words still made Paul stop
short outside of his office. The door wasn’t quite pulled-to, because John hardly ever bothered to
close it. If Paul was careful, he could move right up to it, probably even peek through without
being noticed. Which he knew was wrong, and so he froze, fighting with himself about what to do.

“I’m just asking.” It was Richie. Probably anyone else’s voice would have made Paul knock on the
door and let them know he was there. But he was so surprised to hear John and Richie even mildly
disagreeing that he didn’t move at all. “It’s not like I know anyone that’s-”

“Alright, keep it down,” John hissed, “I think there might be some girls in the canteen that haven’t
heard you.”

Richie paused, but apparently wasn’t entirely deterred. “I just wondered what it means, you
know… practically.”

“Why are you asking me this?” John sounded exasperated, Paul could picture the way his eyes
probably narrowed, the way his hands would cut through the air as he gestured along with the
words.

“I dunno, I just figured you’d have talked to him. Are you sort of married or–”

“I’m not his fucking wife,” John said, his voice rising suddenly.

“I’m aware,” Richie said. “I just don’t know which of you… I just don’t know what it even
means.”

John sighed. “Probably nothing,” his voice was so low that it wasn’t possible to detect any
emotion. “He’s not taking me out dancing at the clubs like one of his new girls, we’re not talking
about it, we’re not… We’re not anything, really.”

“So it’s just sex?”

“I fucking swear to God,” John said, his voice rising again, “if you ask any more stupid questions,
I’m going to launch myself across this desk.”

“Alright,” Richie said, “don’t get your knickers in a twist. I’m just not sure how to- Like, are you
coming over to dinner together like you and Cyn used to?”

“Probably not,” John said, slowly. “Listen. This is- It’s new, right? You know what he’s like, he’ll
probably be bored with it soon enough and everything will be back to normal.”

Paul felt his breath catch. Surely John couldn’t believe that. Not after everything they’d been
through. They hadn’t discussed it, not in those terms, but surely he knew. His chest was tight with
emotion so intense he didn’t know how to untangle it to even know what it was exactly.

But it made him so anxious that he was spurred into action. He took a breath and stepped forward,
knocking on John’s door.

“John,” he said, not waiting for an answer and pushing open the door. Then he made a show of
stopping abruptly, as though shocked to find him not alone. “Oh, Ringo’s here.”

John was watching him carefully, probably wondering if he’d been listening in or not. But Paul just
grinned at them both. “Lunch?”

———

Paul continued to mull on what he’d overheard as the day wore on. Lunch was normal, John and
Richie chatting and joking around like they hadn’t just been discussing Paul moments before he
walked in on them. They talked about their plans for the end of the film, the proposed roof-top
concert and plans for releasing the record afterwards. It was fine, neither of them seemed bothered
by their conversation. But it continued not to sit right with Paul. Not just that Richie seemed unsure
of whether Paul was serious about John, but more that John hadn’t put him straight on the matter.

Surely Paul had been clear in his intentions? They might not have any real idea how it was going to
work between them, in practical terms, but that didn’t mean he didn’t intend to make it work. No
matter what. They’d been through more than enough for him to understand what he was getting
into. But apparently John didn’t know that.

He considered what he was going to do. Thought through several options and discarded them all.
He’d already tried all his usual tactics with John. He was going to have to do something new,
something bigger that befitted the fact that they were something new, something bigger.

“Come by mine later,” he muttered, as they left the canteen.

John turned to him, eyebrows raised in question.

“Around eight,” Paul said, trying to make it sound like they’d already agreed it.

John gave him a bit of a strange look, probably because that was essentially what he’d been doing
for weeks by that point, but didn’t put up any objections. That left Paul needing to rush around that
afternoon, making preparations. He considered his purchases carefully, waves of doubt washing
over him periodically. But in the end, even if the method of delivery wasn’t going to be
appreciated, he hoped the message would at least be understood.

He was just putting the finishing touches to the living room, when John arrived. He’d carefully
overseen the preparations for dinner, before ensuring that he and John would have the house
completely to themselves.

“Alright?” John said, when Paul opened the door.

Paul’s heart was beating madly, the fizzy feeling he associated with going on stage filling his chest.
So, he sounded breathless when he said, “Alright, John?”

“Bloody London,” John muttered, taking off his coat on the way through the door. “The fucking
traffic’s…”

He trailed off as he entered the living room. Then he stopped walking entirely.

“What’s all this?” he said, slowly, like he was perhaps wondering if he’d come into the wrong
house.

There were candles on almost every available surface, flickering warmly, making the shadows
dance on the walls. Flowers took up the surfaces where candles weren’t, the room smelling more
sweetly than it had since Paul had moved in. He’d carefully selected the music, something that he
hoped would set the right mood.

“I heard what you said to Richie,” he blurted, unable to keep it in a moment longer. He watched
John carefully, trying to gauge his reaction.

“I know,” he said, voice flat and unimpressed.

Surprise, and not a little outrage, rippled through Paul. “How?”

“You’re not exactly James Bond,” he sighed. But Paul watched the way his eyes were roaming
over the room, as though checking he really was seeing it correctly.

“Right,” Paul said, trying to recover. “Well, anyway. What you said, what he said, I didn’t…”

“It’s fine, you know,” John cut in, saving Paul from the way the words were tangling in his mouth.
“I’m not a girl. I don’t need–”
“This isn’t about you,” he cut in, and then felt stupid when John gave him an incredious stare. He
swallowed, and tried to remember the points he’d been running over in his mind most of the
afternoon. “I mean, it’s about us. We haven’t– I know we didn’t really talk about it. But, you can’t
really think this is some whim of mine. Maybe for you…”

“I’ve been waiting for this for over a decade,” John said, sharp, as his face abruptly closed off.
“I’m not the one that’s about to run.”

“Neither am I!” Paul snapped and then closed his mouth before he started the world’s stupidest
argument. “But, we obviously haven’t talked about what it means for us.”

“Like what?” John sounded suspicious.

“Like, are we…” he almost lost his nerve, and had to ball his hands into fists. “Are you going to
carry on running around town?”

“I’ve barely been anywhere but here for weeks,” John said, low like he was trying not to be angry.
“I haven’t fucked anyone else, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I just–” he said, trying not to show how relieved he felt. “We hadn’t agreed what we’d do about
all that, so it wouldn’t be surprising if… I guess I want you to be clear on where I stand.”

John straightened. “And where is that?”

“This is it,” he said, slowly and clearly, so there could be no doubt. “I’m not looking for anyone
else. Not to sleep with, not to- not for anything else.”

John was watching him closely, his eyes darting over Paul’s face, as though searching for some
doubt or subterfuge. Paul let him look, let him take his time with it, knowing that he was never
going to find anything.

“I love you,” he said, after the silence stretched on. “I want you to be with me. In- Well, I guess in
any way that you want that. I know I can’t talk about it, we can’t share this with the world, but
that’s what I’d do if we could. I’d take out an announcement in The Times, take you home to meet
me dad, take you out dancing and to dinner.”

“None of that’s possible,” John said.

“Right,” Paul said, starting to wonder if he’d made a terrible miscalculation. “But that’s what
tonight’s about.”

He gestured to the record player, still gently playing in the background.

“And what’s that?” John asked, eyes narrowing.

“We are dancing,” Paul said, finally reaching out and taking one of John’s hands to pull him close,
just deciding that he’d need to front his way through the conversation.

“To fucking Brian Wilson?” John muttered, but let himself be tugged closer to Paul.

“You love Brian,” he tutted. “Come here.”

John didn’t move, he was eyeing Paul like he was expecting him to suddenly burst into laughter.
To take it all back. He shook his head and stepped forward and took John’s other hand and pulled
him closer.
“We’re going to dance,” he said, firmly, “in the candle light. Then we’re going to have dinner. Also
with candles. Then I’m going to take you upstairs and we’re going to make love.”

The music was playing softly, the harmonies lifting and falling around them. Paul shifted so he was
holding one of John’s hands and the other was on his back. He began to sway with him. It was
stiff, John not quite actively resisting but certainly not helping.

“Also by candle light?” John asked.

“Yes,” Paul said, firmly. “I might not be able to take you out,” he dropped his voice, leaning into
John so his lips were touching his ear, “but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to. I want this. I want
you.”

He swallowed. It felt strange, like he was admitting to some terrible secret. He’d known for so long
that he loved John that it was now just a part of him, one of his essential building blocks. But this
was different. This was something that men and women did. Men didn’t dance together. It was soft.
It was…

He let out a slow breath. It was what he wanted. John did too, he could see the way his cheeks were
flushed, something like hope sparking in his eyes.

Slowly, as the song played, the music seeming to swirl around them, he felt John relax against him.
First his hand softened in Paul’s, their fingers curling around one another’s. Then he dropped his
head to Paul’s shoulder, the muscles in his back loosening so they could really sway in time to the
music. Paul smiled, his chest so full it felt like the warmth might spill right out of his eyes.

“I didn’t think…” John started, lifting his head as the song came to a close. “I didn’t you’d
ever…”

“I know,” Paul nodded. He hadn’t either. It was so strange to think it now, that he’d ever been
scared to allow himself to want it. He’d just never been able to see the shape of it, but he wasn’t
going to give up trying to find it.

“I’m yours,” he said, smiling. “You’re mine and I’m yours. That’s how it’s going to be now.”

John’s smile was hesitant but then slowly it grew and grew until he was ducking his head again.
He tucked his face into Paul’s shoulder as though embarrassed.

“You want that?” Paul asked, unable to resist the need for reassurance.

There was a slight pause before John nodded against him. “Yeah,” he whispered, then began to
sway them gently to the music. “Yeah, I want that.”

“Good,” he whispered, relief flooding through him.

“I just…” John sighed.

“What?”

“I just want to know what that means,” John said, eyes not quite meeting Paul’s. “You know,
longer term than tomorrow afternoon.”

“We don’t need to know that now,” he said. “Not so long as we know we want it to last, right?
When have we ever known what we were doing, really? We can figure it out as we go.”
John opened his mouth, dissent clear in his eyes. But then closed it again. “Alright,” he said,
slowly. “If you want this, and I want this. Maybe that can be enough.”

“Of course it can,” Paul said, making it sound as final as he could. “Now less talking more dancing.
Dinner won’t keep forever.”

February 1969

Of course finishing the film wasn’t the end of it. For starters, none of them could agree what the
record should even sound like or what to do with it once it was done. But, at least they had time for
that. Michael was going to need a few months to edit everything together, anyway. They’d worry
about the record once that was done. Hopefully it would give them the distance from it and some
clarity.

In the meantime, Apple was still losing money like a sieve that was actually just one giant hole, as
John had so eloquently put it during their last meeting.

“This is a fucking nightmare,” John sighed, head in his hands.

It wasn’t like Paul disagreed. “Maybe we should just run away,” he offered. “Just take off to
Scotland or something where no one can find us for a few weeks.”

“Yeah, alright,” John said.

He was so serious that Paul looked up and over at him in surprise. They were in Paul’s office, John
often ended up there during their days at Apple. John slouched on the sofa, reading and irritably
going off to meetings. Paul found it easier with him close by. He took calls, tried to wrestle the
whole mess into something that even vaguely resembled what they’d all wanted for it.

“Really?” Paul asked, not bothering to keep the surprise from his voice.

“I’m up for it if you are.” John’s eyes were on the papers in his hands, but there was no trace of
teasing on his face.

Of course John wasn’t one to back down from a dare. Paul ought to know better. Still, the idea of it
was appealing. Very appealing.

“Perhaps I should look for somewhere,” he said. Upping the stakes was the only way to deal with
John in that mood. He tapped his pen against his mouth and thought for a moment. “Just
somewhere we can just disappear to whenever we want.”

“Just the two of us,” John half-sung, “going nowhere.”

Paul smiled at him, feeling better already at just the thought of it. He looked down at the piles of
paper on his desk and grimaced. “Just as soon as I’ve sorted this out.”

Paul had obviously known ignoring the problems at Apple wasn’t going to make them go away.
Yet, the hope had lingered. Perhaps he was just birthing pains. But Alister remained adamant that
they needed someone else and there was no improvement on the finances as the weeks rolled on.
They needed to act. Soon.

“By which you mean our impending financial doom,” John said, finally looking over at him.

“Yeah,” Paul sighed. “Just as soon as that’s all done and dusted.”
“What about that guy,” John said, waving his hand in a circle. “The posh one.”

“They’re all posh,” Paul yawned, and ran a hand through his hair. He really ought to cut it. Only
John said he liked it longer, which was a silly reason not to have his own hair the way he liked it.
But every time he went to make an appointment he couldn’t seem to do it. “Thought he said no
anyway.”

“Not that one.” John scrunched his nose. “The other one. The queen one. Said he’d do it for free.”

“Oh, yeah,” Paul said, the memory suddenly sparking back to life. “Thought we agreed it was
suspect, him saying he’d do it for free.”

“Get the Eastmans to sort it - tie him up in legal tape so he can’t even move without us knowing
about it.” John said it like he hadn’t stopped every attempt Paul had made to use them for anything
more important than letter opening since the end of the previous year. “We can pay him fair and
square if it’ll make you feel better.”

It wasn’t a terrible idea. Still, he felt reluctant. “He wants the glory of talking about how he saved
us. Besides, he might say no, it’s been so long.”

“Won’t help us if we’re sunk before anything else comes along.” John looked at him. He got up
and walked over to Paul’s desk, sitting on the edge of it. He reached out, running a hand over
Paul’s hair, tugging him in so he could drop a kiss on his temple. Paul let out a breath, relaxing into
John’s touch. “You’re going to have to swallow your pride on this one, Macca. Give the old boy a
call.”

Paul opened his eyes to slits. “You’re a crafty sod, Lennon.”

John grinned at him. “I’ll swallow something of yours in return if you like.”

Paul laughed. “Yeah, fine, alright. I’ll call him in the morning.” He fixed John with a mock glare.
“But I’m taking payment up front.”

“Smart boy,” John nodded, “we’ll make a businessman out of you yet.”

———

“So what do you see?” John asked, later that night, his feet kicked up in Paul’s lap. “You know,
when you think about after all this is done with Apple and that?”

Paul smiled. “You. Music. I dunno. Guess I want to perform again.”

John laughed, sipping his wine and grinning at Paul over the rim. “You’re a simple man, aren’t you
Paulie?”

“Oh I’m sorry, should I have included world peace or something?”

“Sure,” John said. “If that’s what you want. I guess I just… it’s nice knowing what we’re working
towards.”

Paul thought about it. He hadn’t been able to see a future for so long. Not since Brian, and
probably longer. He’d never been very good at it, too focused on what was right in front of him to
much worry about what happened next. But he didn’t want to brush off John entirely either. “I said
about the farm earlier, didn’t I? I wouldn’t mind having somewhere like that. Remote.”
“Scotland?”

“Yeah.”

“You were serious about wanting to run away with me there?” John didn’t sound horrified, just
intrigued.

“Always.” Paul grinned at him. “I’m one bad meeting from suggesting we make a complete get
away.”

“Then let’s do it.”

He said it so matter-of-factly that Paul was brought up short. “What?”

“If you want it,” he said with a shrug, “if you need to go and raise sheep or something, we can.
Why not?”

He frowned at John. “Because you’d hate it? You’ve done nothing but live up the London life
since you and Cyn split. The last thing you’d want is a boring country pile somewhere.”

“I would if you were there.” He said it simply, like he was obvious. “I could help or, I dunno. I’ve
been thinking about painting or writing. You know? Something a bit different.”

A creeping sense of unease trickled over Paul. “I need to- I’m going to write again.”

“I don’t mean forever; I’m talking about a holiday. A little break from life, you know?”

Perhaps a chance for them to really connect again. Learn who they were together and what they
wanted to become. He smiled. “I’d like to- I think it’d be good to make it together.”

John raised his eyebrows. “I’ve been a builder. I wasn’t exactly made for the life.”

“I know, but you could do other stuff. You could decorate it.”

“Now you’re just taking the piss.”

He was. “I’m not! I just think- we can play to our strengths.”

John pursed his lips, clearly thinking it through. “I would like to, like we talked about in Key West.
Just us and the wind.”

“And sheep.”

“And the sheep.” John agreed. “So? That’s it? That’s the plan, once this is all done?”

Paul’s chest constricted, uncertainty filling him. He didn’t like the idea of a break. Never had.
Brian had always been so sure that if they were going to remain current, they needed to be working,
releasing music.

And that’s who he was. That’s what he and John did.

Still. A holiday couldn’t hurt. Perhaps they’d even be able to write something.

“Alright,” Paul said, sounding as unsure as he felt. “I’ll think about it.”

John just shrugged and finished his wine.

———

I want you so bad

It’s driving me mad

It’s driving me mad

You’re so heavy

“John, is it possible without affecting yourselves too much to turn down a little? Apparently,
there’s been a complaint.”

They were back in the studio. Apparently EMI was going to need another song and John had one
ready to go. Paul loved it, loved how it felt to really play with the others again. It felt heavy, the
song wrapping around them, like a physical thing as they played. It was good. He couldn’t wait to
release it. Something new and different from them.

“From who?” John called back. He looked startled for a moment, as though he’d been brought back
from a trance.

There was a pause and the slight hiss of static before Glyn answered over the comms. “From
someone outside the building.”

John looked vaguely outraged at the news. “What are they doing here at this time of night? What
guy?”

“It’s his own fault for getting a house in such a lousy district,” Paul muttered, making John turn to
grin at him.

“Well, we’ll try it once more very loud, and then if we don’t get it, we’ll try it quiet,” he looked
around him and received the nods of agreement from the others before he nodded back. “Okay.
The loud one, last go. Last chance to be loud.”

“How’s that?” Paul called a few, equally as loud, takes later.

He looked over in the pause before Glyn responded and found John grinning.

“Sounds good boys.”

“Alright then,” John said, “that’ll do for the night lads.”

“Coming back to mine?” Paul asked, leaning in close as the others gathered their things amongst
the usual chatter that went with the end of a session.

“If you want,” John said, a strange look on his face.

“Yeah,” Paul agreed. “It’s usually what we do, right?”

“Sure,” John sighed. He didn’t look at him. “Same as ever.”

Paul frowned at his tone, but knew that it wasn’t the time to ask. He waited until they’d bundled
through the front door. John hadn’t so much as looked at him on the ride home, staring out the
window as though fascinated by the passing traffic.

“You going to tell me why you’re sulking or am I to guess?” He probably could have chosen his
words better. But it was annoying to learn that John apparently hadn’t got any better at just telling
Paul what was on his mind.

There was a silence that dragged on so long, panic was starting to creep over Paul. “Well?” he
snapped eventually.

“I’m just wondering if we’re ever going to talk about it,” John said, his jaw so tight that his mouth
hardly opened to let the words out. His face was set, annoyance clear in every line of his body.

Paul blinked at him in confusion. “What?”

“The fact that what we’re doing is fucking insane?” John’s voice almost exploded and Paul took a
step back.

It was the stress, he told himself firmly. John hadn’t wanted to go back to the studio so quickly,
despite it not being their choice. He hated having to deal with the business stuff. He was taking that
out on Paul. He knew that. That’s what he had always done.

Which was why annoyance was simmering just under his skin.

“What exactly,” he snapped, “is insane? And why is it only now occurring to you?”

“Don’t be daft.” John glared at him, dismissive of his annoyance in a way he knew full well fucked
Paul off.

“Why are you even here?” he snapped, gesturing around them. “If it’s so stupid? I assume there’s
something new that’s got you all hot and bothered, that I’m meant to just guess. Read your mind,
or whatever. You could just tell me, you know. Rather than being such a prick about it.”

John gritted his jaw and turned away from him. “You know the band’s a mess. Apple too.”

“None of that’s new,” Paul snapped. “What’s the real problem?”

“You’re not going to be happy with me!” John shouted. “For now, sure. It’s all new and shiny. But
what about a year from now, when I’m less easy to live with? What about when you meet some
other nice actress that’s willing to pop out some babies for you?”

“I’ve told you, you’re what I want,” he said. “Trust me, I’m well aware of all the reasons we’ve not
done this before.”

John was watching him closely, like he wanted to believe him, but couldn’t bring himself to. “But,
you won’t even consider the future! Every time I try you just brush it off like it’s not even
important, like I’m just meant to blindly wait around for you to make a decision. And in case you
forgot, I’m done with that.”

“Why do we need to know that now?” he asked. He’d never understood John’s - or anyone’s - need
to have all the answers right away. “We know what we want now. We know we’ve got to get this
LP out and the film. Isn’t that enough for us to be worrying about?”

“And that,” John sighed, gesturing at Paul, “is why we nearly fell apart last time.”

“But things are different now,” Paul insisted, stepping closer to John, as though physical proximity
would make it easier. “We know what we want, what’s important to hold onto.”

John didn’t push him away. “It’s also why Apple’s going bust and we’re going to end up
penniless.”

But he was trying not to smile at the way Paul was dropping kisses along his neck and Paul knew
he’d won. He wasn’t even sure how, really. Perhaps John had just wanted to be coddled. God knew
John didn’t make it easy. He felt a little guilty for thinking it, he knew he wasn’t exactly good at it
either.

“But at least we’ll have each other,” he said.

“Fuck you,” John muttered, but arched his neck to allow better access for Paul’s lips. “Once the
money’s gone I’m finding some rich old gay man to look after me.”

“Better hurry up if that’s the case,” he said, kissing along his jaw. “Your good looks won’t last
forever you know.”

“Paul,” he said, serious suddenly, making Paul stop his ministrations. “I’m being serious. This is
going to be an issue. We will need to make some plans.”

“I’m not disagreeing,” he said, holding up both hands, palms facing John. “I’m just saying that
we’ve got a lot on our plate at the moment. How does it help to add more?” He grabbed him again,
squeezing him gently. John sagged into the touch. “Do you want to be here, now, with me?”

“You know I do.” John muttered, dropping his head to Paul’s shoulder. “Nowhere else I’d be.”

“So, let’s just enjoy that,” Paul whispered, arching forward to kiss the top of John’s head. “Haven’t
we waited long enough for it?”

John didn’t answer, just lifted his head and kissed him. Paul let himself be taken to bed, and soon
neither of them were worried about anything at all.

tbc
 Chapter 12

March 1969

“We need to make another album.”

“You’ve gone ‘round the fucking bend.” John looked up from where he’d been rubbing a towel
over his damp hair. “Did I actually manage to suck your brains out this time?”

“I mean it,” Paul said. He stretched a toe out from the bed to tap against John’s leg. “Let It Be’s a
fucking mess. You know it is.”

“I like what Phil’s doing with it.”

Paul rolled his eyes. “Fine, but we should do something while we’re waiting for it to be done.”

Poole had agreed to sort Apple, had in fact already started to implement some of his suggested
structural changes. Nothing was going to happen overnight, of course. Even with the Eastmans also
looking at their contracts and seeing what could be done to improve their royalties. But it had taken
some of the load off their mind, and Paul’s had immediately gone to music.

Perhaps he just wanted to wipe away the slightly murky memory of the last album. While it had
been one of the best times of Paul’s life, finally getting John had come at the cost of the second
most important thing in his life. He felt guilty when he thought of Let It Be, how it could have been
better if only they’d all been a little more present, a little more focused. But the only way to fix that
was to try again.

John was studiously ignoring him. Which he surely knew wasn’t going to work long term. John
seemed more worried about Apple, indeed their whole future, than Paul was. Some of that was just
a matter of their natural outlooks: John always assumed the worst while Paul hoped for the best.
But, it was more than that. John also had whispers in his ears.

Paul narrowed his eyes. “What did Allen say to you last time you met him?”

Klein was still hanging around like a bad smell. He’d offered some casual advice. Paul suspected it
was like getting in with the mob: just one small favour and before you knew it, they owned you.
He didn’t like it, but there was really no reason for him to object to John meeting with him
casually. Paul just made sure to turn up uninvited at John’s side every so often. Just to make sure
Klein didn’t get any ideas above his station.

John waved him off. “Same old,” he said. “We need to sort our shit out, we’re not being smart
about the financials.”

Well, there was probably no disagreeing with that.

“We’ll get that sorted,” he said. “But in the meantime, don’t you think we should do what we
actually set out to do, and make some music?”

“It’s been about a week since we wrapped.”

“I’ve got the songs,” he said. “So do you. I’ve seen them.”

They both knew George had some too.

“I just think,” he continued when there was no immediate objection, “now we’re all back on the
same page a bit more, we can try for an album like it was before. Get George Martin back.”

“Keep the train running,” John muttered. “Don’t have to worry about where the track’s going that
way.”

Paul wasn’t sure what he was meant to do with that. So he just pulled John into bed with him,
distracting them both until they fell asleep.

———

John’s mood remained down after that last meeting with Klein. He was still affectionate. More so,
if anything. But Paul knew something was bothering him.

It had actually turned out to be easy to convince George about the new album. He wasn’t sure why,
but there was a determined air between them when they met these days. Like they were in the final
days before a holiday and needed to get everything tided away. Of course Richie was happy to
come along, as he always was.

It was all going so well until the day before they were due to head back into the studio. John
seemed to retreat further into himself as the day wore on. His responses grew shorter and shorter
until they were down to single words. Then, as the evening drew in, he disappeared entirely. Paul
left him to it until gone midnight when decided that John was most likely waiting to be fetched for
bed.

He found him on the floor of one of the spare bedrooms, lying with Martha curled around him.
Paul paused in the doorway, watching them, unsure if it was endearing or slightly pathetic.

“Alright?” he asked, stepping into the room, “you coming to bed?”

John hardly moved from his prone position. Pathetic, Paul decided, without much heat. He walked
over to John and crouched down.

“What’s up?” he asked, looking at him seriously. “You’ve been moping for days.”

It didn’t look like he was going to answer for a long moment. Then John shrugged, sitting up.
Martha snuffled her discontent, and moved around until her head was in John’s lap.

Maybe a little endearing.

John sighed. “Just thinking about what happens when this is done.”

“Well, that’s a problem for future us.” He tried to make it sound like a joke, but he could see it
didn’t land particularly well.

“That’s still us, Paul.” His eyes narrowed, his face looking pinched with displeasure. “I know
you’re allergic to thinking about this, but we’re going to have to at some point. The fairytale isn’t
going to last forever.”

The words stung a little although he knew they shouldn’t. He was an adult, he was well aware that
everything wasn’t going to be perfect forever. He’d been in love with John for a long time. He
knew the realities of that. But he still couldn’t resist making his next comment a little sarcastic. “I
thought that was the point of happily ever after.”

John didn’t reply, hardly seemed to notice that he’d spoken. He was looking down at his own hand
in Martha’s thick fur. “Allen thinks… I want to quit.”

Paul froze, his mind spinning uselessly as he tried to decide if the first, second, neither or both of
the statements were a lie. He ignored the way his stomach turned over. John wasn’t leaving him.
He couldn’t be. Not after everything. This was something else. He just needed to figure out what it
was. Then he could fix it.

He licked his lips and tried to find a question that wouldn’t sound accusatory.

“Why?” he managed.

“I can’t–” John fidgeted, a strange ripple of discomfort running through him. “I’m not enjoying it.
Everything’s always so hard , I feel like I’m dragging it up over nails.” He looked up at Paul, then
away again almost as quickly. “It’s better with you now,” he admitted. “I thought maybe that’d fix
it… but, I dunno. It’s like, we know each others’ tricks now. Everything I try, I feel like you’re all
judging it, like you see right through me. I hate it. I can’t come up with anything decent like that.”

Paul had no idea what that meant. John hadn’t seemed so bad during the end of the last sessions. It
might have taken him a little longer to get into it, but that hadn’t stopped him from coming up with
the goods when it mattered. Which meant it was something else. He tried to think it through.

“You don’t want…” He trailed off as John’s real meaning sunk in. “You mean you find me hard.
You don’t want to work with me.”

There was a long silence. “It doesn’t matter.” John visibly squirmed. “I knew you’d get like this if I
tried to actually talk about it.”

“It matters to me,” Paul said, shifting to sit down on the floor with him. “Are you talking about the
band now, or…” He couldn’t even say it.

“I don’t know ,” John said. “It’s so fucked, all of this. What are we even doing? Running off to
Scotland, that’s a pipe dream.”

Paul went still, his entire being going cold. “If you don’t want the band,” Paul said, knowing he
had to put it out there or he’d just end up waiting for John to do it, “or me. You can just say it, you
know.”

It was like some sort of nightmare. He’d thought it was all settled. John had agreed. And Paul
couldn’t do it again. He didn’t have the strength to put it all back together again, if John tried to
leave.

“That’s not fair,” John snarled. “You want me to make the decision so it’s not on you.”

“John-“ he said, baffled about where this was even coming from. Terror was slowly rising up to
strangle him. “I’m not the one talking about leaving.”

“But it’s all the same!” he shouted.

The suddenness of the outburst made Paul jump. John hadn’t been truly angry in so long he’d
almost forgotten what it was like. The moment of surprise quickly gave way to annoyance of his
own and he narrowed his eyes.

“What’s the same?”

“I can’t leave this band and keep you,” John shouted. “It doesn’t matter that it feels like it's
suffocating me, that I’m drowning under it. That’s all we have.”

Paul blinked, trying to understand what John was even saying. “I don’t… You really hate it that
much?”

John seemed to deflate at the question, perhaps because Paul couldn’t stop the way his eyes were
filling or the flush of terror rising to his cheeks.

“Yes,” he said. Then shook his head. “No. Fuck. I don’t know.”

“What do you hate?” he asked, sounding about as desperate as he felt. Perhaps there was some way
to fix it, like when they stopped touring.

“Everything,” he said. “Then I love those same things minutes later. I hate you bossing me around
in the studio. But I love what we create. I hate having to write on demand like a performing
monkey, but I have to write to feel alive. I hate people thinking they know anything about me. But,
I want everyone to know who I am, to think I’m worth something.”

He sounded earnest, like these thoughts had been circling his head for a long time, jostling to be
released. He gestured wildly as he spoke. Paul hadn’t seen him so agitated since they’d got
together. It made his heart race. He thought back to before India, and how John had been
afterwards. This didn’t seem to be the same exactly, but he could see the signs of it.

“John,” he said, voice thick, “you’re not well.”

It stopped John short, making him reel back. “Well fuck you.”

“Come on,” Paul sighed. “I didn’t mean it like–” He bit off the end of his sentence. “I just meant,
this is what you were saying after India–”

“After you ripped my heart out and stamped on it, you mean?”

John was glaring at him, but Paul wasn’t going to be derailed. It was too important and he wasn’t
sure when he’d have the nerve to bring it up again.

“That’s not– John, we both know you weren’t doing well before that.” Paul wanted to touch him,
he knew that usually calmed him down, but he wasn’t sure it would be welcome, so he kept his
arms tucked to his sides, hands clasped in front of him. “I know I hurt you, and that this whole
thing between us always took its toll, but that’s not- It can’t be the only…..”

John sighed so heavily it made Martha look up at him. “Paul,” he said, voice dropping into a flat
monotone. “I know I wasn’t fucked in the head because I didn’t have you.”

“Oh,” Paul said, feeling wrong footed. “Good, because I didn’t think–”

“I wanted it to be your fault, sometimes, but it wasn’t.”

Paul felt totally out of his depth. He had no idea how to even talk about these things. He knew
there were plenty of people that did. They said there was nothing to be ashamed of. But it made
Paul’s insides feel like they were filled with snakes.

“Is there–” he tried, before immediately faltering. “Is there a doctor? Or, I dunno, what you
need…”

John shook his head. He looked almost as lost as Paul felt. “Yoko said, ages ago, that there was this
new thing. Some therapy where you go and scream. It gets all the pain out. Apparently it can work
miracles.”

Paul tried and, judging by John’s face, failed to conceal his scepticism. “Look,” he said. “If that’s
what you think you need… But, wouldn’t it be easier to just- There’s that friend of Robert’s,
wasn’t there? He’s talking to someone. When he was having funny– When he was having those
episodes.”

There was an unreadable expression on John’s face. Paul squirmed.

Eventually John looked away. “I think I need some help.”

Paul let out a slow breath. He wanted to deny it. The words rushed up to the tip of his tongue. But
that wasn’t fair. Who was he to say what John did or didn’t need? Wouldn’t that be a doctor’s job
anyway?

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll talk to Robert. Maybe I can get a number or- I dunno. Something.”

“You hate this,” John said, he looked almost amused. “Are you worried it’s catching?”

“Don’t be daft,” he said. “I just… I want to fix it.”

But it was more than that. He didn’t want John to need anything more than what Paul could give
him. He’d seen what happened to people that stopped being useful, that weren’t able to give what
other people wanted. That, after all, was why John had kept him around this long. Paul always
delivered when it mattered. He had no intention of finding out what would happen if he stopped.

“I know you do,” John said, soft and so fond that Paul’s heart ached with love for him. “But, you
can’t. You’ve been trying for over a decade. Probably time someone else gave it a shot.”

Paul nodded. It still made him want to squirm away from the thought. It was John. There was
nothing he couldn’t do. Perhaps they just needed some rest. He opened his mouth to suggest going
away together.

Closed it.

It wasn’t his choice. He wasn’t going to be like Yoko, cutting out the bits of John he decided he
didn’t like. He was going to support him. Get him the best help there was. Make sure no one ever
found out. That was what he could do.

“I love you,” he said.

“Ah, ya great sap,” John sighed. “I know you do. The one fucking good thing I have going for
me.”

“Nah,” Paul shook his head, “you’re alright on a guitar too.”

John laughed. “Thank you, darling.” He leant forward so he could kiss the side of Paul’s face.
“With support like that, there’s literally nothing I can’t do.”

“You better believe it,” Paul agreed. “Now, let’s get to bed. We’ve got four million things to do
tomorrow.”

“Well, yes sir.”

The way John purred the word, made something fizz right through Paul. He was powerless but to
kiss him again. Pulling him close.

“Get to bed,” he said, slow, deliberate.

John’s face lit up like a beacon and he got to his feet, dislodging Martha who snuffled before
settling down onto the rug again.

“Yes.”

Paul grinned after John’s retreating form. It felt good. Somehow he was still finding out new things
about him, after all this time. That made even the most difficult things seem easier somehow. He
wasn’t going to risk not being able to find out everything there was to know about John. There
wasn’t any choice as far as he was concerned.

———

They went back to the studio.

It was surprisingly good. Everyone seemed to be on their best behaviour. But it wasn’t stiff or too
formal. They took the piss, bickered when it was needed, but mostly they got to work on the songs
that still needed work.

Although not everything was running quite so smoothly.

“Lordy fucking Poodle-Dumb,” John hissed, walking into Paul’s office without knocking, “is a
pain in my fucking arse.” His eyes flicked to Paul. “And not in a good way.”

Paul put his head in his hands. “John,” he said, mildly, “always nice to see you.”

“I’m serious,” John said. “Isn’t it your turn to baby sit him?”

“Absolutely not,” Paul said, probably too sharply. Then, to illustrate the point, “I was just on a call
with Lee. Get George to handle it.”

John scowled at Paul’s desk, his eyes flicking to his phone. “Like Mr Westman’s harder to deal
with than lists of people we need to apparently fire.”

He couldn’t stop himself from grimacing. “He did say that we’d need to restructure.”

“Yeah, and it’s not like they haven’t all been ripping us off anyway,” John agreed, throwing
himself down into a chair. “But Jesus. This isn’t why I started a band. I just wanted to get laid and
get the fuck out of Liverpool. Now I’m stuck in a machine that’s eating everyone alive.”

“Has there not been any progress at all?” Paul asked, dreading the answer. He knew there were
probably memos about it somewhere on his desk. He could just never find the energy to read
them.

John threw his hands up in the air. “Who even knows.”

John let out a slow breath, and brought his feet up to the cushion so he could curl into himself. It
was like he was trying to make himself smaller, hide from the reality of corporate life. Paul could
sympathise with that. He watched John carefully, trying to read his mood; John brought a thumb to
his mouth so he could chew on the side of the nail. A nervous habit he only seemed to allow
himself when he was alone with Paul.

“Poole says that he’s managed to stop most of the leakage,” he said. “But, I don’t know what that
even means . Are we rich again or still on the way to the poor house?”

“Lee thinks we need a better deal with EMI,” Paul offered.

“And the sky is fucking blue,” John muttered. “Does he have a plan for that, or is he just making a
wish to the universe?”

“We can renegotiate.”

“I know that,” John said. “That’s what Klein’s plan was.”

There was the not subtly hidden suggestion he’d have that done by now, if only Paul had let him.
Paul ignored it. He wasn’t about to have that fight again. He knew Klein’s reputation, knew that
his entire talent lay in finance, in finding new ways to squeeze money from rock. But, he also knew
that that same money had a habit of disappearing. Besides, Paul didn’t like him. He didn’t want
someone managing them that he actively disliked. No matter that John thought the sun shone out
his arse.

“Lee’s also talking about us buying Northern Songs.”

That made John sit up straighter in his chair. “How’d we do that?”

“He thinks Dick would sell.”

John looked up at the ceiling for a moment, as though offering up a prayer. “God, to be rid of that
wretched toad.”

The laugh punched right out of Paul’s chest and he didn’t try to stop it.

“How do we do that?” John asked.

“Put together an offer. But he’s keen we keep as quiet as we can about the stuff we’re doing at
Apple in the meantime.”

John was quiet, watching Paul for a moment, thinking through what he was saying. “He wants
Dick to think we’re financially fucked?”

“And that the band’s falling apart.”

“Well,” John snorted, “we’ll just have to act naturally then.”

“Right,” he said, smiling slightly at him. “Also.”

John looked over at him, making Paul shift uncomfortably in his chair. There was silence.

“Was there an end to that?” John asked eventually. “Or was it some sort of art piece?”

At that moment, Paul did wish he could climb into a bag for a few hours. Instead he swallowed.
Took a breath and said, “Err, Lee was talking about… Well, we were talking about Northern Songs
and that and I thought– I wanted to say, really….”

He trailed off into silence. He hated talking about money. It felt so awkward. Wrong. Like his skin
was becoming too tight for him. John wasn’t helping, either, just staring at him blankly, waiting for
him to spit it out.

“It seems,” he tried, licking his lips, “well, you’ve got rid of some of your shares, right?”
“What?” John said, frowning.

“Looks like they were liquidated or passed along,” Paul said.

This was apparently news to John. “When?”

“Around June 1967.”

“Julian’s trust fund?”

Paul shrugged. “Could be. Well, anyway, about that time I also– I bought some– some more. So,
it’s…”

It had somehow gone very quiet in the room, like all the noise had been sucked into John’s slowly
comprehending thought process.

“It’s what, Paul?”

“It means I have more shares than you… in Northern Songs,” he finally managed to say. “Not– It’s
not many more.”

“You bought more fucking shares than me?” John snapped, as it all clicked into place for him. He
uncurled from the chair, sitting ramrod straight as he glared at him.

“I guess,” he started, feeling heat rising up to his cheeks. “Not that many, really. Less than you
gave away, anyway.”

John had gone very pale. “Are you fucking kidding?”

“No.” The word was barely audible.

“Why?” John sounded so hurt that Paul’s whole chest felt like it was on fire.

“I don't know,” he said. He felt embarrassed, stupid and ashamed, now he was trying to talk about
it. “I just– I had some beans, and I guess I wanted some more.”

“More than your partner?” John’s face was a mask of betrayal.

“It’s not like that,” Paul said. “It doesn’t mean anything. I can’t– I can’t do anything you can’t.”

“Why are you telling me this now?”

“I dunno,” he shrugged. He really didn’t have an answer and, in truth, he was rapidly wishing he
hadn’t. “I don’t want to keep secrets from you. Even if you’re going to hate hearing it. Besides, if
we’re going to buy the whole company, we’ll have to put our shares up as collateral anyway for the
loan. I dunno, I just wanted you to know.”

“Fine time to come to that decision,” John snapped.

Paul just nodded. There wasn’t anything else he could say. At least John wasn’t yelling, hadn’t
stormed from the room. He left John to consider the news for as long as he could stand the silence
before he spoke again.

“You can buy more,” he offered, “you know, to even it up.”

John’s eyes snapped over to him. “And then you buy more again?”
“Well, that’s one way to try and take it over, I suppose.”

“It’s not fucking funny, Paul,” he spat. “You tried to fuck me over.”

“No,” Paul said, voice turning to steel. He put both hands on the desk, flat against the wood, in a
slow, deliberate motion. “I wouldn’t. I just… I dunno. It was a stupid investment. I didn’t mean to
do anything that would hurt you.”

“You just wanted more beans than me.” He did the voice he did that was meant to be a mocking
impression of Paul’s own. It was stupid that it still hurt his feelings after all these years, like he
was still fifteen and John was taking the piss out of him in front of all his cooler, older friends.

Paul swallowed. “I guess,” he sighed. “You had everything else. It was petty, I get that, but it
wasn’t some evil scheme to take over. Besides, it’s not like it was a secret, and you could have
done the same any time you wanted.”

John shook his head. “You getting tired running through all those excuses?”

He sagged back into his chair. “Yeah, alright. There’s no excuse. I’m sorry.”

There was another silence. “I suppose,” John said eventually, “it’s not the worst thing we’ve done
to each other.”

Paul frowned, wondering what John was thinking of, then realising that he didn’t want to even ask.
“I’m still sorry,” he said.

“Yeah, whatever, you fucker,” he sighed. “I’m so sick of this shit. I just wanted to be a rock and
roll star.”

“I know,” Paul said.

Increasingly he looked at himself and didn’t have any concept of how he’d managed to end up in
the position he was in. He wasn’t sure he even wanted most of it.

“Let’s talk to the fucking Eastmans about Northern Songs,” John said suddenly, through gritted
teeth. “See if they’ve got a solution. But, if not, I’m going back to Klein.”

Paul held up both hands in surrender. “Of course. Let’s just see what they have to say. I’ll set up a
meeting.”

“And now I’m going home.”

“It’s 2pm.”

“Fuck off.” John was already out of the door before he’d finished the insult.

Paul let out a slow breath, raised his eyes to the ceiling. That could have gone a lot worse.

June 1969

“You ever feel like you’re wasting your life?”

Paul stirred, opening his eyes suddenly. He’d been about to drift off when John spoke. He was
curled around John, head pillowed on his chest. It was getting too hot for it, really, but he found it
difficult to stop touching him when they were alone. It felt like he was storing it up for all the time
during the day that he wanted to and couldn’t.
He lifted his head to find that John had managed to lift a book from the bedside table and was
reading while Paul dozed.

“Being in the biggest band in the world not enough for you?”

“That’s my point,” John said. “It just feels… Shouldn’t we be doing something with that? You
know, Yoko used to say–”

“I don’t fucking care what the greatest artist that no one cares about said,” he snapped.

Then he immediately felt embarrassed about it. But, John brought up some nonsense she’d filled
his head with at least once a week. It wasn’t like he thought John was about to go running back to
her, he’d made enough snide comments of his own about her to put Paul’s mind at ease about that.
But, it still rankled. He knew how close he’d come to losing John to her once, and if he were being
honest, he’d prefer John never think of her again. Let alone quote her like some sort of guru.

John paused, the silence pointed, and then carried on like Paul hadn’t spoken. “We could be
making a difference.”

“Aren’t we already?”

“But more,” John said. He shifted, like he was getting agitated. “Like, take a fucking stand for
something, you know?”

“Like what?” Paul asked, finally moving so he could sit up and allow John to do the same. They
shifted around so they were facing one another. John’s face was half in shadow, but Paul could see
his eyes were blazing with passion.

“I feel like I ought to be out in America or something,” John said, gesturing. “You seen the riots?
Stonewall?”

Paul looked away. He had. He’d also seen the way people were reacting to them. There wasn’t a
more contentious issue. Not even drugs. Obviously he knew it wasn’t right that the police
continued to harass them when it was legal. Someone had to stand up for what was right. He knew
that.

“You thinking of dropping out and joining the cause?” He sounded mean, sarcastic, and hated it.
They both knew it was just because he felt defensive.

“Better than fucking hiding in my ivory castle,” John spat. “I could be out there making a better
world. You know, for us, as well as other people.”

Paul stared pointedly at him. “Yes, John, I’m aware we’ll be affected by the fight. But, you go out
there, and then what?”

“I don’t know!” he said. “That’s the point. But I could at least go and lend my voice to it, you
know? Tell people they need to rethink some things.”

The idea sent a sharp stab of panic right through Paul. “How does you throwing away your career,
both of our careers, help?”

“At least I’d be doing something.” John glowered. Then his eyes shot to Paul. “Both our careers?”

He rolled his eyes. “You don’t think I’d let you go alone, do you?”
He watched as John softened. “Really?”

“Where you go,” Paul said. Then shifted, so he could press himself against John. “I’m not saying
we do nothing. But, going around making a fuss isn’t always… We need to be smart about it.”

“So, what? I’m an idiot loudmouth?”

Paul swallowed down the first couple of comments that came to him. “I’m just saying that maybe
you don’t need to be saving the world on top of saving Apple and finishing the album.”

“You just want more music out of me,” John huffed. “You’re worse than a factory boss.”

“As if you’d know anything about that,” Paul sniffed. “You’ve never worked a day in your life.”

“Fuck off!” John howled. “I was the one who was a bloody builder. You just worked in a fancy
office.”

“It was a factory,” Paul corrected. “They just thought I’d be running the place in a few years.”

John shook his head. “Well, in that case, why aren’t you Managing Director of Apple?”

“I’m very busy and important,” he said, “making an album and looking after my idiot loudmouth
boyfriend.”

John’s face went through an entire series of expressions before landing on a mixture of awe and
pleasure. He leant forward, kissed Paul hard. “Say it again.”

“Say what?” Paul asked, feigning ignorance despite the smile that was curving his mouth. “That
you’re the love of my life? Or that you’re my boyfriend?”

John kissed him, hard. The passion never seemed to dim with them. It was electric every time they
connected. Paul was sure now that he wasn’t ever going to be able to get enough of it.

“Wanna move in with me?” John muttered, when he pulled back.

A surprised bubble of laughter punched right out of Paul as he shifted to look at him. “Bloody
hell,” he said. “One minute you’re moving us around the world and the next you’re asking me to
live with you. Never a dull moment with you, is there?”

John smiled at him, waggled his eyebrows. “That’s why you’re with me. Keeps you on your toes.”

Paul laughed again. Delighted by him, despite the lingering unsettled feeling he had about John’s
desire to do something drastic. But being with John seemed to make him happy, no matter what
else was happening. He felt secure, more confident than he had in years.

“No,” he said, and watched John’s face fall. “You’ll move in here. It’s nicer and bigger than your
place.”

John grinned. “Ask me nice, and I’ll consider it.”

“Darling,” Paul said, pulling him in, winding his arms around John’s neck. “Live with me. I don’t
want to wake up another day without you.”

John would have to keep his flat, of course. Probably even have to be seen there from time to time.
But they’d know. Perhaps Paul could find a way to have John’s name added to the deeds of the
house. He kissed him, slow and sure.
“Yeah,” John whispered, when he pulled back, and pressed his head to Paul’s forehead. “Yeah, I’ll
live with you.”

July 1969

The silence was almost a physical thing. The credits were rolling and Paul didn’t even want to
move, like it might draw attention to him. He felt almost numb.

He was used to seeing himself on screen. But not like that, and he felt exposed. Scared, although he
couldn’t exactly say why.

“Well,” John said, slow and heavy. “That’s a fucking embarrassment.”

There was a sound, a sharp, high thing. It sounded like a cry of pain, but then it happened again. It
was a laugh, Paul released. And it was coming from him . He couldn’t seem to stop.

“Oh God,” he tried to breathe, but couldn’t. “What a mess.”

George was shaking his head. “At least my outfits look good.”

That set Richie off. His peels of laughter were tinged with hysterics, and the others joined him. The
other occupants of the room were staring at them, aghast. But none of them could seem to get a
hold of themselves. As soon as one of them tried, someone would start again and they’d all be off.

“I suppose there’s worse reactions,” Michael eventually said. He looked hurt, but was trying his
best to go along with the joke he clearly didn’t understand.

“Ah, Hoggy,” John said, shaking his head. “It’s totally fucked.”

Michael drew his brows together. “I thought– The rooftop concert works well.”

“Yeah,” George said, “the four of us playing as the Titanic goes down around us.”

It wasn’t that the film was bad, exactly. Michael had clearly tried to save their dignity in that
regard; there was hardly any of the fighting and Yoko’s name was never uttered. Although Paul
noted that he and John were hardly shown interacting at all. He felt scared, almost queasy, at the
thought of why that might be. What must have been showing on their faces that Michael couldn’t
include it.

He’d not seen it before, not seen what they were like together. He’d dismissed everything John and
George had been saying for months and months. He hadn’t been able to see any of it. But now,
watching it in dingy colour on the crappy screen, it was so clear.

It was all over.

“I think,” Michael said, leaning forward, “that we can make some changes, if we’re not pleased.”

John barked a peel of laughter. Although there was little humour in it. “That’ll be interesting to
see.”

Paul’s heart was starting to race in his chest; it was hard to catch his breath. For a dizzying
moment, he wondered if he was having a heart attack. Panic was rising from his stomach, up to his
chest, his fingers and toes starting to tingle like with pins and needles.

There was still talking, but he couldn’t make out the words.
How had he not seen it before? How could he have been so blind? He’d thought, he’d been so sure,
that if he could just keep them moving forward they’d be fine. Especially after how well the last
record had gone. No matter what John and George would mutter, The Beatles were there to stay.
They were the cornerstone to Paul’s life. They were everything.

He could see all the issues, the same ones that had followed them into Abbey Road, plainly. They
might have pasted a polite veneer over them, but none of them had gone. The cracks were huge, so
clear that it was a wonder the whole thing hadn’t collapsed under them months ago. Amazing what
dumb faith could do. But no more. He’d seen it now and there was no going back.

They were over.

And Paul hadn’t even noticed.

He was up and out of his seat without quite meaning to be. He heard someone say his name, but he
ignored them, just stumbled out of the room without looking back.

———

John found him a few minutes later. He hadn’t got very far. His eyes were burning and his throat
hurt from trying not to cry like a baby in front of everyone. He’d opened the first door he’d come to
and, relieved to find it was some sort of empty office, had sat down on the floor. He’d tried to take
some deep breaths, hoping they’d calm him down. But they all caught in his chest. It was
embarrassing.

“Go away,” he hissed, not even looking up when the door opened.

“Come off it,” John said, walking across the room. Paul tracked the soft sound of his boots on the
carpet until they came into view. “I’ve never done anything you tell me to.”

Paul looked up at him. “We both know that’s a lie.”

John laughed, soft and surprised. Then he turned so his back was to the wall, so he could slide
down and join Paul on the floor.

“Alright?” he asked, knocking his shoulder gently into Paul’s.

“No,” he snapped. “Now bugger off.”

John was silent for a moment, like he was thinking about Paul’s words. “It hurts, doesn’t it?”

Paul felt a fresh, hot wave of tears want to roll over him. He blinked hard. “Which bit exactly?”

John’s smile was small and sad. “That we don’t fit anymore.”

Even though he knew that, even though he’d just seen the evidence of it clearly, it was like
receiving a physical blow.

“So, what’s that mean?” he asked. His voice was almost petulant. “It’s just over because we bicker
sometimes?”

He didn’t want that. The idea tasted like failure on the tip of his tongue. He could feel the
judgement, the assumptions, like insects crawling over his skin.

“Yeah,” John rubbed a hand over his face. “Yeah, I think so.”
Paul couldn’t look at him. He felt sick.

“What happens to us, then?” he asked, voice small.

“I don’t know,” John said, voice low. “But we can’t keep it going just for that. George isn’t going
to put up with it. Richie’s already got one foot in Hollywood. And you–” John sighed. “We both
want to write separately. I know you’ve got material you’re working on.”

“I give the best of it to the band.”

“I know,” he said gently. He reached and took Paul’s hand in both of his. “But maybe you
shouldn’t have to.”

He thought back to John’s words before the start of Abbey Road and a hot tear leaked out of one
eye to roll down his cheek.

“Are you done with me too?” he whispered, voice so tight he could barely get the words out.

“What?” John looked horrified. “What are you talking about?”

“You said,” Paul swallowed around the lump in his throat. “You said we’re done without the cover
of the band.”

And it wasn't like Paul didn’t understand what he meant. Without The Beatles, there would be no
good reason for him and John to be together all the time. They’d have to find new projects apart
from one another. That was what people would expect, otherwise there was no point in ending the
band. The idea of that alone was terrifying enough. He didn’t know who he was without The
Beatles, and certainly not without John. He was one half of him. But without them having to see
one another all the time, what would they do? How could they ever go unnoticed?

“Please don’t listen to me,” John said, firmly. “What do I know about anything?”

“But you’re right,” he said, voice wobbling. “This is it. We’re not going to be together. You saw
what happened after touring, and this is worse . You’ll find other people to write with. Fuck. You’ll
tour and I’ll be…” He shook his head, swallowing heavily. “I hate the idea of being away from
you.”

“Yeah, I know.” John’s voice was soft, understanding. He shifted until he could press his forehead
to Paul’s temple. He dropped his voice to a gentle murmur. “I want to be so tied to you I don’t
know where I end and you start.”

“Yeah,” Paul said. “I don’t want to be where you aren’t.”

“Right,” John said, his lips lifting slightly. “You realise how fucked up we sound, right?”

“But, isn’t that what you said, when you were with Yoko?” Paul reached out, feeling desperate,
clinging to John’s arms, keeping him in place. “That it’s about the being together all the time?”

“And you saw how well that worked out for us,” John said.

Paul shook his head, and realised to his utter mortification, that he was crying in front of John.
After everything they’d been through, he’d done that before. But this felt so different. He felt
stupid for not seeing what John clearly had - what he’d been trying to tell Paul about for months.
He wanted to hide, to not show weakness on top of his stupidity.
But it was too much. He’d been working so hard, for so long, and it was all for nothing. They’d
turned Apple around, bought out Northern Songs, got a better royalty deal. And none of it, none of
it, mattered. He was losing it all anyway. He was so tired of running and running and running and
getting nowhere.

The tears were almost painful and he screwed his eyes shut.

“Oh,” John breathed, gathering Paul into his arms. He shifted so he could pull and tug until Paul
was buried against his chest, almost in his lap. “Don’t, darling. Don’t cry.”

“I’m not,” Paul muttered.

John’s hands were in his hair, stroking gently. “It’s alright,” he said, even though his voice was
thick with tears now too, “we’ll be alright.”

He wanted to believe him, but there was so much change coming. He couldn’t see a way through.
He gripped John’s arms, hands digging in so hard it probably hurt.

“We can always take a break, you know?” John said, soothing. “Let George make a couple of
albums and Richie can go get an Oscar. You can make that album where you go too far. Then, I
dunno, maybe we can–”

“No,” Paul cut in, voice hard. “No, I’m not doing that. I– I can’t. If we’re done, we’re done. You
know it. There’s no going back.”

John was silent for a moment, clearly absorbing Paul’s words like a physical blow. “Alright,” he
said, eventually with a slow nod. “Yeah. Yeah, alright.”

He sounded so sad that a fresh wave of misery rolled over Paul and more tears filled his eyes.
John’s arms tightened around him, pulling him back against his chest.

“I can’t do this,” Paul whispered. He felt desperate, terrified, and he wasn’t even sure why. “I don’t
know what I’ll do without you.”

“I’m not leaving you,” John whispered into his hair. “I’m always going to be with you. I promise.
This isn’t the end.”

Paul pressed himself closer, trying to soak in the words. His breath hitched, another tear slipping
down his cheek.

“I want us to be married.”

That made Paul freeze for a moment, then screw his eyes even more tightly closed. “Are you
deliberately finding things you know I can’t deliver to make me feel worse?”

John laughed, a wet sound. “No,” he said. “I don’t mean literally.”

“Then what?”

“I mean, that to me, that’s what you’ll be.” His voice was soft, but firm. “No more fucking around.
No more hiding from what we are. Just us against the whole fucking world. So, it doesn’t matter if
you’re off touring the world with another band. You’ll still be mine and I’ll still be yours. You’ll
always have to come back to me.”

It sounded good. Not the being apart, but the idea of coming back was very appealing.
“You want us to tell people?”

“Yes,” he said. Then squeezed Paul gently. “I’m always going to want that. But I– I do understand
we can’t. I love making music too, you know. I’m not a complete moron. I know if this gets out
then it’s all over.”

“For now.”

John sighed. “Sure, for now.”

“But, in the meantime,” Paul said, managing to take a breath that was only very slightly hitching
and sit up so he could look at John, “we find some way to make a life.”

John nodded firmly, he smiled. Paul recognised it from the early days. It was meant to show his
surety of something good being just around the corner. “And a family.”

“You have Julian,” he said, and then wasn’t sure why he’d said it. But it was true. He loved Julian.
That was a sort of a family.

“I remember something about that, yes,” John nodded. “But I want that with you too.”

Paul gave him a confused look.

“Not literally, you pillock,” he narrowed his eyes, “although I love you enough to do it, if I could.”

As sentiments of love went it was strange, but somehow incredibly endearing anyway. “Thanks?”

“But, I mean it, we’re getting you some kids. I’ll find someone willing to squirt one out for you.
Twins. Girls.”

He couldn’t help but smile. “I don’t think it works like that; it’s not Somerfield, you don’t get to go
in and pick some off the shelf.”

“Might be able to in a few years,” John shrugged. “We’ve got time.”

That was all they had now. He took a breath. “Come away with me?” he asked, plaintive. “I can’t
stay here, not if– I just need to get away.”

“Of course,” John nodded. “Anything. Anywhere. We can go right now if you want.”

Paul’s heart soared, despite the pit in his stomach. He was about to answer, when:

“Knock, knock.”

Paul was scrambling away from John before the voice registered. He looked up to find George and
Richie in the doorway.

“This an exclusive pity party, or can anyone join?” George said, looking down at them.

“Come on,” John said, gesturing to them. “Band meeting on the floor of this abandoned office.”

There was something so depressingly fitting about that that Paul felt tears prickle at his eyes again.

Paul shifted away, and John reached out a hand, grabbing his and stopping him. “Come here,” he
said, looking at Paul. “It’s just the lads.”
Richie had turned and locked the door behind him. “Keys!” he said, turning back around. “Useful
for when you’re looking for some privacy.”

He followed George over to John and Paul and they ended up sitting in a rough circle on the floor.
Richie shifted, getting closer to John, until John reached out and wrapped an arm around his
shoulders.

“So,” George said, looking down at his knees, “are these dramatics because we don’t like the
edit?”

“Oh,” Paul said, darkly, “I hate the edit. Don’t you worry about that.”

George chuckled.

“Jigs up, huh lads?” John said, after a moment. Of course it was John. It was what they’d all been
waiting for: some final decision to be dictated down to them. “It’s been a hell of a ride.”

There was a long silence. “Fucking hell,” Richie said. “After all that work on Apple?”

“Apple’s not going anywhere,” George said. He looked at Paul. “Just the band.”

Paul tried to nod and found he couldn’t seem to make himself move.

They lapsed into silence.

“Better make this album fucking amazing, then,” Richie said.

George nodded, slowly. “Already is,” he said. He looked around at them, his face a mask of grief.
“It’s been good, yeah?”

Paul’s heart throbbed with affection for him. “Yeah,” he nodded. “Yeah, it’s been pretty good.”

“Aw, fuck,” Richie said, his eyes filling. “Really? This is it?”

No one said anything, there wasn’t anything to say.

“Come on lads,” John said, “let’s go out on a high, yeah? Before we all can’t stand the sight of
each other.”

There was a pause where they waited for George to make a sarcastic rejoinder, but it didn’t come.

“It has been alright, you know,” George said, instead. He was flexing his jaw, swallowing over and
over.

The sight made Paul’s eyes fill with tears. “Oh bloody hell,” he muttered, “the state of us.”

They laughed wetly, none of them quite able to meet one another’s eyes.

“Did you see how many shots there were of Glyn?” John said suddenly. “Michael trying to get a
leg over there or what?”

There was a pause and then they all laughed. It wasn’t even funny, but it broke the tension.

“I know!” Richie said, looking delighted. “I’m hardly fucking in the thing.”

“At least when you are, you don’t look like you’re sucking a lemon,” George said.
“That’s just your face,” John shot back.

“Right,” George said, “you know what…”

And so on they went. They stayed on the floor of the office for hours, none of them wanting to be
the one to leave first. They talked about the film. Then about the album. Then about anything and
everything else. It was the best night Paul had had in years.

Epilogue

May 1970

“Darling,” Paul called, “are you coming or what? The car’s coming any minute.”

John appeared in the doorway, nearly colliding with him. He looked good, his hair was shorter, and
his beard was gone. It made him look serious, like a proper rockstar rather than a hippie. Paul’s
dick perked up at the sight of him. He looked at the clock.

“None of that,” John said, clearly catching the look in his eyes. “No time.”

“But,” Paul moaned, “we’ve only done it twice since you got back.”

True to his word, John always did come back to him. Just as Paul did with him. There was travel
and nights when the studio kept them too late for even a kiss hello. But, they worked hard on their
schedules to ensure they got at least a week a month together. They used Apple as the excuse, and
John kept his flat. Even took women there frequently, just as Paul did the same in Cavendish. The
women were all friends, and someone else’s girlfriend or wife, but the papers never seemed to care
about that.

It was a tightrope. One they’d only just begun walking, but so far it had been working.

“I know, my love,” John sighed, kissing him. “But that was this afternoon if you remember.” Paul
pouted at him, and John laughed, just like he hoped he would. “If only we didn’t have international
film premieres to attend.”

He rolled his eyes. “Bloody Beatles still stopping me having my way with you, even when we’ve
chucked it in.”

The news had been announced the week before. Let It Be the film and album would be the final
Beatles’ project. The news had been met with the expected dismay, and not a few recriminations.
Everything from Richie’s film career to Lord Poole had been blamed so far.

“Maybe it’ll help with sales,” John had said, darkly, as he read the headlines the next morning.

Paul certainly hoped so.

He and John had made good on their promise to disappear. They’d gone to Scotland, found a house
that needed a bit of work, but nothing they couldn’t handle between them. John had bitched
through the work over the next six weeks, but Paul knew he’d loved it really.

John laughed. “Poor Paulie,” he cooed. “Later, I promise.”

“I’m holding you to that.”

“You can hold me to whatever you want,” he said, with a lavish wink. Then he sobered almost
comically fast, as a thought seemed to occur to him. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you.”

“Alright,” Paul said, looking out the window as headlights flashed into the driveway. “But it’ll
have to be in the car.”

“I’ve been thinking,” John said, as they gathered their things.

“Uh oh,” Paul said, pulling on his coat. “Dangerous.”

“Funny,” John shot back and then carried on as if nothing had happened. “We could carry on
writing together, you know.”

Paul’s heart stopped for a moment, the thrill of it strange after all that time. “You asking me to join
your new band?”

The Plastic Macs weren’t really even a band, or so John insisted. They were meant to be a
collective. Artists and musicians that had a joint vision. It sounded faintly ridiculous to Paul. But
he’d heard what they were working on and he couldn’t deny it was impressive. John’s song writing
still had the ability to fill him with something between awe and frustration.

His own album hadn’t exactly been greeted with universal praise, but it wasn’t negative. ‘Muted’
was the word Neil had used. It was fine. Something to build on. Besides, he’d done it all himself.
Every instrument. Just to prove to himself he could. He’d had to, the terror of not being in the band
anymore wouldn’t let him do anything else.

Not that he cared what anyone thought. Well, almost anyone. John had liked it, had said so,
whispered the words into his skin at night, over and over. Paul found come morning he hadn’t
cared much what anyone else thought.

“No,” he said, shortly. “You’d bring the vibe down.”

“Well thank you very much.” He grinned at John.

“I meant,” he said, “we could write for other people. You know, like we always said we would.”

The idea wasn’t unappealing. “We’d need to use pseudonyms,” he mused.

“Naturally,” John agreed. “Could even, I dunno, might be nice to manage someone together for a
bit.”

“Like through Apple?”

John shrugged. “Yeah, I guess. I just, I miss working with you. Being in the studio, it’s– Well,
actually, it’s good, but it’s weird too.”

Paul nodded. He knew that well. He’d hated the first couple of days. In the end, John had popped
in, under the cover of darkness. He hadn’t offered any contributions, he’d just been there. Offering
support, silent and otherwise, when needed. It had been enough to get him through it even when he
wasn’t sure he could do it.

“Me too,” he said. They reached the car, and Paul opened the door, ushering John inside.

They were picking up some dates for the evening on the way. A couple of friends of Robert’s, who
they’d met a few times previously. Nice girls, who happened to be a couple too. John found that
hilarious for reasons Paul could never quite make out.
“So, you’re up for it?” John asked, as Paul slid along the seat until they were pressed together.

“Always,” he said, grinning at him.

John smiled at him. “Can’t believe we’re here,” he whispered, serious suddenly. “Can you?”

“Launching a film and an album for a band we’re not actually in anymore?” He raised his
eyebrows, making John laugh.

“Yeah,” he said, shaking his head. “Can’t believe we made it through.”

“I can,” Paul said, serious and firm.

“Really?” John asked. “Even after India?”

He paused, thinking about it. “Yeah,” he said. “From the moment I met you, I knew.”

“What’s that?” John asked, eyes bright even in the dark interior of the car.

“That I’d make you mine,” Paul whispered, so John had to lean even closer to hear it. “And then
I’d keep you forever.”

THE END

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