Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Paul liked John's new stuff. He brought 'Imagine' when it came out and left it spinning on the record player long after the song had finished, as though John were sitting at a piano, waiting for some kind of criticism. Then the tedious sound of static echoed into his ears and he was forced to walk over to the record player, shaking off his idle fantasy that John was there, playing to him.

Often, he'd put the song on again and go about his business.

Often, he'd stop in his tracks when John sung 'yoooouuu' because it was gorgeous, because John's voice sounded at the top of its game. Paul would let his eyelids slowly close just to feel the very essence of the tune rush over him as if it were a hand running over his body, as if it scurried along the floor and enveloped him from his toes upwards.

"You heard John's new one?" Paul asked, sitting across from his old friend, the only Beatle he'd kept in good contact with. Ringo was downing a plate of lunch beside his talkative wife, Maureen, looking smiley as ever. Across from her sat Paul's wife, lounging back on her chair with a soft hand on Paul's back as she listened. 

"Hasn't everybody?" Ringo replied through a mouthful of food. He chewed and swallowed it before continuing with, "Beautiful, though. I'm jealous he didn't have the good sense to write it when we were all together."

"Oh no." Paul insisted, quickly, "It would've been too different if all of us had chipped in. It’s purely John." His voice descended into a dream-like absence, like he was on some kind of heavy drug and was slowly falling under the trippy affects. Where ever he felt he was, he consciously was certainly not where he sat. Ringo gave him a sideways look as though he were trying to remember something, but his train of thought was broken by Linda, who tucked her soft, blonde hair behind her slender shoulders as she leaned forward.

"This one's been playing it non-stop. I never get to play my stuff anymore. It's always 'Imagine' 'Imagine' 'Imagine.' Really puts you off good music when you know your husband loves it more than he loves you." She laughed, joined by Maureen, then re-positioned her hand on Paul's thigh to tell him that she didn't mean it. Paul smiled back at her, but his mind darted over her words again. It was not the song he was in love with, no matter how many times he'd told himself that it was.

Taking each other's arms, Paul and Linda were about to leave when Ringo pulled the former to one side. Linda then took it upon herself to say a warm goodbye to Maureen, assuming that her presence was not needed beside the two Beatles. Ringo, in a low but less than discreet voice, asked if Paul wanted to come over. He added that they needed to talk about Imagine, which struck something in Paul. Ringo knew...

Paul asked Linda if she wanted to go home or come with, then watched her leave in his car, blowing a short kiss to him as he got into Ringo's limo. At least she wasn't mad at him for ditching her.

Paul filed through record after record, feeling each one run on his index finger, then knock against the knuckles of his other hand. He studied each cover with a quick sweep of his eyes, but not one took his fancy. The room was too quiet and he needed something, the sound of someone's voice filling up the empty space. He was too used to it.

He went through the singles huddled in a little black box, then found the very song that he'd been trying not to listen to. He had been trying to go cold turkey on Imagine, yet there it sat with John's faded face amongst a cloud-like mist and a blue tint to the whole image. Paul instinctively drew out the black record and impaled it on the turntable, dropping the needle right on the beginning groove. The familiar sound of a piano chimed in the speakers enveloping the room. At that moment, Ringo walked into his living room where Paul was standing, watching the record spin, holding the cover in a clenched hand.

"You talked to him?" Ringo asked, joining his friend and pulling up a dining room chair.

"No, I doubt he'd speak to me." Paul replied, matter-of-factly, as he walked around Ringo to perch on the back of a corner sofa.

"If you started with how damned obsessed you are with his song, he'd listen to you all day."

"I don't want him to listen."

Paul sighed, collapsing his weight entirely on the hard back two pillows of the sofa, lifting his feet off the ground and angling his butt so it was comfortable to sit. It was akin to taking the heavy weight of John off his mind, instead allowing his ex bandmate to linger in the air along with his new song. Ringo noticed the way Paul was subconsciously running his thumb over the image of John's fair hair as though he were comforting a sleeping lover, the way he shut his eyes when John sung ''yoooouuu' with beautiful ease. He smiled sympathetically and met Paul's eyes once they opened, but it was not returned. Instead, the latter man shook his head, looking away.

"I really fucked up, didn't I?" Paul muttered, looking utterly defeated.

"I think you're a better option, if you ask me. Compared to what he has now, I'd take you any day."

Ringo was trying, really trying to be comforting, but Paul could see nothing except his own mistakes. They were dragging him down. He tossed the needle of the turntable off 'Imagine' with a violent scratch and went home, trying his best to be kind to his friend. He had done all he could, after all.

You talked to him?

Was it really such a bad idea? Perhaps a phone call wouldn't be so bad.

Paul was sitting in his own living room, lighting up a cigarette in the dark orange hue of the lights in his house against the evening backdrop. He was at an odd point between frustrated, angry and confused, each due to a reason linking back to John, John and that bloody song that soundtrack-ed his life at the moment. Once again, Imagine was playing. He both loved and hated it. He laughed at it and sung to it. He couldn't make up his mind if it was helping him, or irritating him more. So this time, he promised his self, this would be the last listen to it.

The song finished, melted away like the wisps of hot smoke expelled from his mouth and for a good 30 seconds, there was silence.

In that moment, Paul wanted something. He didn't want to put the song on again, he'd decided that it was like a bad addition he really needed to rid himself of (he thought, taking another drag of his cigarette, unaware of the irony.) But he wanted to hear John's voice. As though he'd heard John say these words to him before, he could hear him say "c'mon Paulie, give us a call..."

And, for sure he thought he was going crazy, but he gave in none the less. The static started, low humming in the background of Paul's thoughts, which seemed to spark something within him. He didn't think twice, just picked up the phone and dialled John's number.

As he did, Linda walked by. She was dressed for bed, looking tired, and she grinned at her husband when she saw him at the phone. She turned off the record player and pecked him on the cheek.

"Say hi to him for me." She whispered, before shimmering off to bed. Paul just smiled back, not really thinking about what his wife had said. His thoughts were on the dial tones that seemed to get louder, more intense, deeper the more he listened. Would John never pick up?

"Hello who is this?"

Paul held his breath when the voice came through, but it was quickly exhaled when he realized who exactly had picked up. It was not John.

“Yoko, hi. It’s Paul.” He tried his hardest to sound pleased, or at the very least, pleasant, through gritted teeth and a forced smile. He’d heard that, if you smile while you’re on the phone to someone, it makes your tone sound better. It did not seem to help. To calm himself, he looked over once again to his record, now dormant on its player. Any other day, it would have placed a genuine smile on his lips, perhaps just settle his nerves, but suddenly he could see Yoko all over it, as though she’d scrawled her name in thick scratches over the fragile black grooves. He flicked his eyes forward as her voice came back down the line.

“Oh, Paul.” She sounded equally as disheartened, “How are you?” Her fake-ness made Paul feel utterly sick, after all that excitement built up to hearing John again and having her stand between them once again, it would never change. He garbled some quick reply, then without returning the pleasantry, he asked if John was there. She seemed only too happy to hand the phone over.

“Of course, of course, Paul. He’s right here, hold on.”

Paul felt butterflies flap against his stomach lining. There was a short shuffle on the line, then;

“Alright mate?”

Paul could barely breathe, but he managed to reply, “John?” His voice was full of excitement that he couldn’t hide, no matter how much he tried to tone it down, “Hiya!”

“It’s been a while.” John said coldly. Paul wasn’t sure if his friend was pissed off because it had been so long or because they’d never quite got over the Beatles break up.

Then again there was always the underlying problem between them. Both John and Paul had fallen in love with one another, only, not at the same time. First it was John, then it was sort of both, then neither, then Paul, then no one could keep track of it, if anyone could in the first place. It had fucked them both over several times.

“Yeah. Too long, if you ask me. John, I was just calling to tell you how much I love Imagine. It’s…” Paul trailed off remembering his favourite bit again, “…beautiful.”

John was about to spit angrily that he didn’t need Paul’s fucking patronising complements, until he heard how swept away Paul sounded. It was like the younger man was dreaming…

Imagining…

“Thank you.” John almost whispered, “I’m quite proud of it myself.”

“Oh, you have every right to be.” Paul continued, feeling elated, “I’ve been completely obsessed by it.”

There was a short silence. Not an awkward one, just a difficult one because they both wanted to say something, but kept stopping, not even opening their mouths to try. Paul wanted desperately for John to suggest they should meet up. John wanted… something similar. In fact, he wasn’t even sure what he wanted exactly, as he sat by Yoko’s side, stroking her long, black hair, fondly.

Ok, this is your choice. Either you can have John and Paul stay on the phone a bit longer, or they can say goodbye.

For 'STAY ON THE LINE' go to chapter 2

For 'SAY GOODBYE' go to chapter 3

Chapter Text

“Obsessed?” John laughed, gently. He just couldn’t handle the silence much longer.

Paul chuckled, awkwardly, “Yeah. I can’t stop listening to it. Oh, and Ritchie said that you should’ve had the good sense to write it when we were…” He stopped himself, realising what a sore subject the break up could be, “He really likes it too.” John didn’t take offence, he laughed again.

“Yeah, yeah. I know, of course he’d be jealous.” Then they slipped into yet another silence. On their side of the phone, they were smiling, they were so glad to be talking… when they actually were talking, but even knowing that the other was on the other end of the line, even their breathing was so pleasant. They could pretend that they were sitting beside one another, never having feuded, never having broken up. As they sat there, trying to think up something else to talk about, as Imagine was not cutting it, someone else had picked up the receiver and was listening in. They were frustrated with the sound of silence and the pathetic attempts at conversing.

“Will you please both just meet up and stop being so damn awkward!” They yelled, forcing the boys to pull their heads away from the speaker.

“Linda?” Paul cried in embarrassment, but his loving wife had hung up before he had a chance to scold her. He heard a chuckle from John’s end and he prayed that John was not as humiliated as he felt. “I’m so sorry.”

“No, forget it. She was saying what neither of us had the courage to. Tomorrow?”

“Your place?”

“If you want.”

Upstairs Linda lay in bed, swaddled by duvets and hugging a pillow, her eyes shut and all the lights out. Paul stood in the doorway of their bedroom, not buying the act, but he took that moment to think. For the first time, he hadn’t noticed the absence of music in the silent house. He didn’t feel the need to fall asleep to Imagine, subsequently forcing Linda to get up once he was asleep to turn the record player off. He whispered a thank you that she didn’t hear, then got into bed beside her, wrapping his arm around her slender body.

“You little eavesdropper.” He spat, curling up so that his body cradled hers.

“I don’t know what you mean.” She whispered back.

Paul fell asleep easy with a smile on his face. He dreamt of John. He wasn’t sure what happened or if anything did, he just remembered a very young John looking back at him with a grin on his face.

At the front door, a brown-bristled welcome mat beneath Paul’s feet read ‘Peace.’ He drew his head upwards to stair squarely at the peephole as though it might be able to work both ways, but he was met with the disappointing sight of himself reflected in the rounded glass. He’d rung once and he was not going to ring again. Desperation was not an image he wished to give off on a day like today. It was too important. Instead, he stuffed his shaking hands into his jacket pockets, so not to be tempted to ring once more, and looked to a curtained window where shadows shuffled in the illuminated room. Butterflies had returned to Paul’s stomach, making him feel sick with excitement. The door could not be opened quick enough.

“Hi!” Finally, John was there, standing in the door way, smiling in the same way he did when he was younger. Despite the longer hair and slightly thinner, aged face, he looked much like his younger self, so cheeky and ruggedly handsome.

“Hi. Please come in.” John stepped to the side, allowing his friend to walk through. They wandered down a short corridor and came to a living room, a very open plan type thing with French doors leading into a garden. “Do you want anything? A drink? Something to eat? A cigarette?”

“I’ve never known you to be so accommodating.” Paul quipped lightly, as his attentions were drawn to a beautiful, old piano where scrawled song lyrics written on sheets of paper rested on top.

“Yeah, well, there’s going to be a bit we don’t know about each other. We haven’t quite kept in touch, now have we?” John didn’t mean to sound so biting. It seemed that there was still some frustration pent up within him that he mistook for anger at Paul. Paul’s head shot up and he looked apologetically at older man.

“I know. I’m sorry, but it was such a shit… situation. I thought you were mad at me.”

“Hey,” John said, trying to recuperate the jokey atmosphere they had before, “I wasn’t expecting you ever to call. It’s over now, right?”

“Over.” Paul agreed. He idly ran his fingers over the sheets of songs, curious to see what masterpiece John had set up next, and felt the weighted piano keys beneath his fingertips, just because it was an intoxicating feeling. He then noticed Yoko’s name written on one of the sheet and felt an absence in the room- not a particularly taxing absence, mind you.

“ ‘s Yoko not here?” He asked.

“Oh, no. She went out. It’s nice, though, right? We can pretend we’re like kids again, just us two.”  John cast his gaze out the French doors as though Yoko had walked that way. His eyes sparkled with affection that made Paul feel utterly jealous. But he noticed how quickly John looked back at him, without changing his expression. Paul suddenly got the notion that whatever John had felt all those years ago for him, he was feeling it again. Love? Lust? Infatuation? They’d never been able to name it. “Linda’s still good?”

Paul was brought back from the brink of his imagination by the mention of his wife, and thank God. He felt like he was just about to take a stupid chance on John. “Oh, you heard her. As good as ever.” He said. John laughed a little.

They went back and forth, talking about their lives now, their songs, their music. They always seemed to get onto the subject of how things used to be, then one of them would yank the conversation back as though it were a tug-of-war and there was a line not to be crossed. As much as they both wanted to talk about… something, neither would allow themselves to be the first. They must’ve talked for hours like this before finally plonking themselves down on either end of a sofa and lit up a cigarette each to make themselves feel more comfortable. They also allowed a bit of drink to help them loosen up.

“You still talk to the others?” John inquired.

“Oh yeah. Ringo’s always around in some way or another. George not so much, but apparently, he speaks to Ringo a bit so…” Paul answered, spitting out smoke from his mouth and nose as he spoke.

“But that’s what it was always like, wasn’t it? People always said ‘it’s John and Paul’s band, isn’t it? Who were the other two again?’”  John joked, permitting the smallest amount of nostalgia to seep through as he remembered old interviews and Q&A type things with a load of microphones shoved in their faces. Paul was also forgetting to censor all thoughts of ‘the younger days.’

“Yeah, it was always us, wasn’t it? Lennon and McCartney.”

“Is it strange to say I miss it?”

“Not at all.” Paul hesitated before he had the courage to say, “I miss every bit of it back then.” He then looked directly into John’s brown eyes for conformation that he’d not gone too far and was glad to see a positive glow under those heavy, round lens glasses.

“You, me, Georgie and Ringo.” John continued Paul’s trip down memory lane, “And George Martin and…”

Paul finished his sentence, “…Eppi.” And a sudden silence came over them both. Yes, Brian’s death had marked the start of the downfall of the Beatles, but that was not the reason that they both paused. It was because that man had been more than a manager and a friend. He’d been their first confidante. He knew that John liked Paul and, when Paul decided that he may also like John, he knew that too. He’d taught them both that it was ok to like men, that there was nothing wrong with it, no matter what society told them. He tried his best to get them together, or at least keep the peace between them. He was central to what Paul and John had and might have had before, which was a touchy subject.

“If it wasn’t for him…” John muttered, mostly to himself, but with Paul’s eyes on him, he couldn’t keep even his thoughts in his mind. He tapped his cigarette and placed it down in the ash tray on a coffee table that sat in front of them. He then sat forward and ran his eyes over Paul’s tense body. “I’ve missed you a lot.” He said, quite out of the blue. Paul shuffled rigidly, taking a quick sip of drink to steady himself.

“I’ve missed you too.”

“No, Paul.” John said, his voice lowed to a very hushed tone, but not a whisper, not anything so breathy, “I’ve really missed you.” He was trying to say something else, but it came out as the same words.

“I know John, I know what you mean.” Paul tried matching his tone, but it kept shaking.

“I’ve missed everything, everything. And when you called last night, I realised what we… fucked up.”

“Well, the band was…”

“Not the fucking band.” John hissed, “I’m surprised the band lasted as long as it did. I mean… we’ve never been good at saying things. Look at us, we can’t even now!” He was getting visibly frustrated, with his self more than anything. He looked at Paul as though he might provide some guidance, but Paul was in the same predicament. Everything he wanted, he stopped himself from doing.

The only difference was, John was better at doing than saying. He threw caution to the wind and leaped at Paul, pressing a kiss on his lips with an intensity that Paul remembered from their days in Hamburg. There were these nights when they both wanted each other so bad that they’d push each other against hotel room walls or buckle the other onto a bed and they’d crush their lips together, getting what they felt they needed in that moment. In this one, they both remembered these days, the easy days when acts like this almost felt like nothing. Unfortunately, this meant all too much to Paul. He remembered who exactly had persuaded him to come here today and what he was doing to her. His wife…

“John…” Paul cautioned, muffled by John’s lips, “John, you’re married.”

John let up for a second, repositioning himself on the sofa. “Never stopped me before.” And it wasn’t going to stop him now.

“John,” Paul managed again, “I’m married!” He exclaimed. John was about parrot ‘Never stopped you before’ when he felt that Paul was pushing against him, trying to fight him off. He slid back onto his side of the sofa, feeling Paul’s body one last time before he was totally rejected. He looked at the incarnation of Paul in front of him, the longer haired, barely aged, baby faced man and wondered if the rumours were true- had the real Paul, his Paul died long ago. Not in 1966, he wasn’t a bloody conspiracy theorist, but he did not recognise the man who he’d let into his house.

“I’m sorry.” John murmured.

“No… I am.” Paul said, quietly, looking down at his lap in disappointment, “I shouldn’t have been afraid when I was younger. We should’ve been together back them. I should’ve told you that I loved you when I first did.”

John nodded his head, then looked out the windows again. It was getting dark already, they were way into that afternoon. He hadn’t even noticed time going by, not a single second. It was like Paul had only just walked into the room a second ago.

“Yoko’ll be back soon.” John said, almost as a warning. Paul followed his gaze. He knew what that meant.

“I should get going then.”

“Well it was nice…” John wanted to say, nice to see you, but words failed him again.

“Yeah.”

“Don’t be a stranger.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

And then the door shut behind Paul, and his little moment of reliving every dream he’d ever had of John was gone, slipping out of his hands like the sun out of the sky.

Chapter Text

“Obsessed, hu?” John mused.

“Yeah, I can’t stop listening to it.” Paul chuckled back. Oh, this felt torturous. There were silences after silences, piled up to seem so loud. Not being able to stand it much longer, he shut his eyes tight and continued, “Erm, I’m going to head to bed now. Talk some other time?”

“Oh,” John sounded despondent, “Yeah, sure. It’s nice talking to you again. And I’m waiting for you to knock me off the charts with one of your masterpieces next.” He quipped.

“You can count on it,” Paul ignored the feeling like all the butterflies he’d felt before had died and were plummeting to the very bottom, churning his stomach, when he heard the quietness in John’s voice. Was John truly sad that Paul had to go? He couldn’t quite believe that after all the shit they’d put each other through, they could fall into old habits of being brothers of a sort… or not brothers at all… something that rhymed with it perhaps. Paul said about a million soft goodbyes, then hung up the phone and wandered off to bed.

Well, that could’ve gone better.

Sleep. It’s something most people do from the moment they’re born to the day that they die and yet it proved too difficult to some. Eyes refuse to say shut when it should be more comfortable. The mind forgets to turn its self off. The body does not want to rest.

Paul probably stared at the ceiling for several hours, his mind swimming in the lyrics to Imagine, and making some up of his own.

Imagine we’re together, it’s easy if you try. No one to judge or lie to….

He’d closed his eyes and tried to dream. He’d tried wrapping his arms around Linda and buried his face in her skin, feeling her warmth around him, but he couldn’t get comfortable. He tried addressing his feelings, but all that soppy crap wasn’t helping either. He wanted to listen to Imagine and fall asleep to it. If he could’ve muster up the energy, he would’ve set up shop downstairs in the living room, but he thought Linda might have a few things to say if he did so, so he spent one hell of a sleepless night, tossing over the duvet, wondering what he really wanted and why the phone call, left unfinished, was bothering him so much.

“I called John.”

Ringo’s head shot up in surprise. He looked at Paul with an encouraging expression, begging him to tell all. Paul sat across from him in an arm chair, slumped with some drink in his hand that he’d barely drunk any of. He was looking tired, very tired and reluctant to talk about the call, but Ringo noted that he would not have brought it up had he not wanted to talk about it.

“He seemed a bit arse-y with me at first,” Paul admitted, “And Yoko picked up first. Exactly what I didn’t need.” Ringo understood, wincing at the idea, “But apart from that, it was really nice to hear from him again and he was happy to hear that I liked imagine and…” He trailed off, finally taking a sip of his drink. Ringo waited, expectantly for more to come, but Paul huffed, frustrated and shook his head.

“Didn’t end well?” Ringo asked, sympathetically.

“No, no. It was fine. I just ended it too quickly and… Richie! I wanted to see him, I really did. He sounded disappointed when I said I had to go, maybe he wanted to see me.” Paul’s voice had gone from quietly reminiscing to desperate and frustrated. He slammed down his glass on the side table to his left and met Ringo’s gaze, helplessly waiting for some kind of guidance.

“Well of course he wanted to see you!” Ringo cried, equally as frustrated. He couldn’t bare being the caring one, the friend who sat there and said, ‘I understand.’ No. He couldn’t believe that Paul had wussed out, “Paul, he’s lost a great friend, a brother, like you. He’s not going to just write you out of his life. He may be good at writing songs but he’s not that good. He can’t do that with any one of us, least of all you.” Paul was going to reply, but everything Ringo had said was true. They sat there in more, painful silence until Ringo pushed himself up, out of his chair, and declared that they were “Going to lunch!” then added, “I’ll just be a minute.”

Paul wasn’t entirely sure where Ringo said that they were going to get lunch, but he was ok to just tag along for the ride. Ringo was a good friend. He always had been. A little hot tempered at times, but they all were.

But Paul didn’t want to think about what they ‘were.’ What they had once been. Every time he thought of that, he thought of John.

Ringo was a good friend and will be until the end of time.

That was, until he made his car stop outside some café. It looked like any normal, pretty, little family business type thing. The type of place they believed they couldn’t go anymore for fear of press and fangirls attacking. Little did Paul know that the end of time looked a hell of a lot like toasted sandwiches and croissants.

They walked in with the hoods of their jackets hiding their memorable faces and Ringo had a quick word with the young waitress behind the counter. “Oh, yes Mr Shears,” She said, gently, “There’s a table out the back.” She led us out to the garden area, which had a transparent, plastic cover and several tables with their chairs stacked up. The only table that sat properly made up was one that seemed taken by a familiar face. Paul staggered backwards when he saw John, writing something on a napkin.

“Richie!” Paul hissed, his face turning deathly white right in front of Ringo. He wanted to run away, and he probably could’ve, before he’d said anything. However, John had heard his distinct liverpudlian accent and looked up, equally as taken aback by the sight of his friend. Paul smiled, awkwardly and looked back at…

Ringo had escaped. Behind Paul, the waitress beamed, biting her bottom lip in apologetic guilt. Forced, Paul stalked up to the table and sat across from John, trying to look anywhere other than in those rounded-lens glasses that had become iconic to John’s image.

The waitress took their order of any strong alcohol they had in stock and promptly left them with a sparkle in her eye. No doubt she was well aware of the three celebrities she’d just met. Perhaps she even thought she might have a chance with one of them, as when she came back in, the second button on her blouse was undone and her soft, caramel hair was out of the tight ponytail it had been pulled up in before.

This had happened in perhaps 10 minutes and within those, neither Paul nor John had said a word to one another. They’d barely looked in each other’s direction.

Then John did the only thing that he always felt comfortable doing. He brought out a packet of cigarettes and, finally, offered one to Paul. Relived to be interacting, Paul happily agreed, taking one and allowing John to light it for him.

“I ended the call too quickly, didn’t I?” Paul chuckled, nervously.

John burst out in laughter, smoke billowing out of his mouth, “Yes, that you did.”

“I did want to see you,”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me. I wanted to see you too, I was stupid…”

They each took a sip of drink, one after the other, then grinned.

“You haven’t changed,” John observed, looking fondly over his old friend. Paul wasn’t sure what to say. He glanced at his reflection in the cutlery and agreed, but he didn’t want to tell John that he’d changed so much he barely recognised him as anything, but the famous hippy who was a little up himself, and who wrote a song that was bound to go down in history. Paul hadn’t quite gotten used to John’s new image, probably because he was no longer a part of it. It had always been John Lennon and Paul McCartney. It had been the clean cut boys from Liverpool, then the greatest band in the world, then the strange Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band with moustaches, then the guys who walked across the now famous crossing. Where John went, Paul had always followed.

Remembering that, it seemed to be easy to talk to John. They talked about the past, how good it was back then. They laughed about their cheesy little songs and dug at the ones they didn’t like- even those that the other wrote. In fact, they especially made a point of talking about those songs they didn’t like of each other’s, and neither felt at all angry when they did. They talked about Ringo and George and George Martin and Brian Epstein, and then John made an interesting comment.

“He did so much for us… Me and you, especially.”

Paul nodded his head slowly, wondering in what context John meant the complement.

Brian had been more than a manager and a friend. He’d been their first confidante. He knew that John liked Paul and, when Paul decided that he may also like John, he knew that too. He’d taught them both that it was ok to like men, that there was nothing wrong with it, no matter what society told them. He tried his best to get them together, or at least keep the peace between them. He was central to what Paul and John had and might have had before, which would have been a touchy subject.

“I miss him.” Paul said, choosing his words carefully. As much as he wanted John, as he realised that he did actual love John, he would not be the first to talk about the past relationship- if you could even call it that.

“Paul, I’ve missed you.”

Paul’s heart stopped beating. The smile that had formed on his face throughout the conversation dropped in an instant. He couldn’t reply, because he knew what he’d say. He’d say something to really kill the mood, something stupid. I love you.

“Paul?” John was trying to catch his friend’s eye, “I’m sorry for everything with the band and the break up and… the times I fought with you, but hearing you on the phone yesterday…”

Paul couldn’t listen to the cliché lines he knew they’d probably put into a song several years ago, “John, this is ridiculous.” He sighed, “Let’s just say what we want from each other and get this shit over with.”

John did not take being told what to do well. He sat back in his chair and demanded for Paul to go first. It took some thinking, but there was something Paul had wanted from John since the moment he’d heard ‘Imagine.’

“What I want from you?” He parroted himself, then cocked his pretty head to the side and lurched over the table. His lips crushed against John’s and hands intertwined on the table. John suddenly pushed him off with a grin on his well-kissed lips.

“Funny, I was going to say the same thing.”

There was a tiny hotel somewhere ‘across the road’ (which was actually a few blocks down, but John’s memory was not what it used to be due to drugs, drink and so many messy years, so Paul forgave him, he was no better after all) and the receptionist allowed the two men to borrow a room for a couple of hours- that was after John had announced that he would write a song in her honour if she did so. He turned to Paul, whose hand he was holding as they charged up the stairs, and whispered ‘It would be called Bloody Slut in a Shitty Job’ to which Paul remarked ‘It would still sell.’

They found their room with ease and appreciated the old feel to it. It may not have been a nice room, particularly decorated or big, but it reminded them of the years that they would top and tail with Ringo and George, and the days when they would play in tiny, scruffy little bars. It also reminded them of these nights when they both wanted each other so bad that they’d push each other against hotel room walls or buckle the other onto a bed, getting what they felt they needed in that moment. They both remembered the easy days when acts like this almost felt like nothing.

They kissed once again and John threw off his glasses. Paul stared into his eyes, laughing to himself as he thought of how blind John had always been without them. He just prayed that these famous ones would not be stepped on or destroyed in some manor like many had before. They removed what few clothes they could manage between kisses and manoeuvring themselves to the bed, then sat on the edge on the mattress with Paul almost sitting on John.

It was just like they’d never stopped this. John was as confident and overpowering as he’d always been, forcing Paul onto his back and using his weight to keep him down. Paul fought back for the first few minutes, just to see if the thinner, slightly older man could be persuaded to let up, but as usual, he didn’t.

Paul’s last properly conscious thought before he descended into the fantasy coming true was that this moment was missing something, a soundtrack, a final song…

His mind played Imagine over and over until the lyrics were scrambled as his mind stopped functioning properly. John tended to have that effect on him.

Yet another cigarette was lit and the room filled with the smell of smoke. At least it might mask the other smells in the room. Paul gathered his clothes from the floor and threw the few he didn’t recognise over to John. In the bed, John began pulling on his pair of flares, arching his back with the cigarette in his mouth. He had an enormous smile on his face, bigger than any other he’d mustered that day, but it could not compare to Paul’s. His whole face was alight, beaming from ear to ear. Every time he caught John’s glance, he’d smirk even wider and look down at the floor.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” John giggled.

“Not so bad, but I do have to be getting home.” Paul suddenly got a sinking feeling. Home… to his wife. John noticed the drop in Paul’s expression and got up, partly to grab his shirt from off a chair, partly to tap comfortingly on Paul’s back.

“You alright? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“No, no.” Paul said quickly, “It’s just… Linda.” John looked away. He hadn’t even thought of Yoko, nor did he want to now.

“They don’t have to know.”

“No… They can’t know. John, this was fun but…”Paul trailed off.

John gritted his teeth, “You have to go. You said.”

Paul did up the last few buttons of his own shirt, then spotted John’s glasses sitting, hazardously on the ground. He’d completely forgotten John didn’t have them on. He picked them up and handed them to his friend.

“This was really… really fun,” He said, his voice lost again at the last word. John nodded again.

“Real fun.”

And just like that, Paul left. He was pretty sure he said goodbye, but he wasn’t entirely sure and scolded himself as he turned a corner.