Chapter Text
John realizes he’s awake before he even opens his eyes. It’s the kind of morning that announces itself with hesitance. The familiar creak of the old radiator, the quiet drip-drip-drip of rain still slipping from the eaves. The air smells like damp earth and wet concrete.
The storm has passed. He can tell before he even lifts his head. The light in the room is different too, warm and pale, trickling in at a low angle through a slit in the curtains. The birds have started up their symphony outside, a robin, a woodpidgeon, a crow.
He blinks himself into awareness and realizes his face is half-buried in a couch cushion, his neck aching and stiff. He shifts, just enough to peer over the edge of the couch.
Paul is splayed out on the floor below him, on his side, one arm curled beneath his head like a makeshift pillow, the other slack across his stomach. They’d fallen asleep tangled up together, and at some point in the night it seems Paul must have fallen off the couch, but too fucked out to care, simply decided to sleep on the floor. His bare back is to John, scattered with moles and a few purple bruises of popped blood vessels, courtesy of John’s mouth. Their clothes are everywhere. Trousers inside out, shirts bunched, socks flung like petals from a tree in a gust of wind. The room looks like something was torn open, which, John supposes, is exactly what happened.
He props himself up on an elbow, careful not to make too much noise. He watches Paul for a moment, really watches him. The delicate line of his neck, the soft scattering of dark lashes like black lace against his pale skin. His mouth is parted slightly, the tiniest patch of drool gathered on the corner of his lip. That faint scar on his top lip, the only real imperfection on an otherwise annoyingly perfect face, which somehow makes him look even more perfect. It’s bizarrely infatuating.
John feels the urge to run his fingers through that ridiculous shock of hair, trail a thumb along the curve of Paul’s shoulder, kiss and suck on that scarred top lip. Instead, he just sits there, propped up on one elbow.
“You're it, Johnny. Always." The memory of Paul’s voice lights him up from the inside all at once like a bloody matchstick. He’d wanted so badly to believe him. Still does. He blinks his eyes and for a fraction of a second and sees Paul, flush and damp with sweat, split open on his cock, so fucking perfect and all his . A familiar and pleasant tug pulls taut behind his belly button.
Then, another memory slams into him like a brick wall. “I do love her.” And suddenly, John feels very, very stupid.
He’d almost forgotten that Paul had effectively split himself into two different people. There was the Paul who backed John into the wall and kissed him with such force that neither of them could breathe, the Paul who arched his back into John’s thrusts and worshiped his cock with his tongue, the one who promised him forever with every brutal slam of John’s hips. Then there was the other Paul. The one who’s scared out of his mind. The one who’s convinced himself that loving Jane and loving John are two entirely separate matters that can be managed with a bit of proper scheduling. The one who thinks he can split himself in half and it won’t cost anyone anything.
John sits all the way up then, so fast that his vision goes hazy for a second. All at once, the matchstick inside him snuffs out, replaced by a cold, creeping clarity. He huffs out a disparaging laugh. Nothing’s changed. They fucked, that’s all. Said some nice, albeit filthy things to each other in the cover of the dark, but nothing’s changed . This is still a secret. Still something Paul will wipe off the sheets and shove beneath the bed as soon as John leaves.
For christ’s sake– Paul loves someone else, fucking said so. It hardly matters that Jane’s turned him down… he’s kidding himself if he thinks Paul will give up that easily. If Paul is one thing, it’s persistent.
Besides, even if Jane continues to refuse him, it’s not as though there’s a shortage of women willing to tie themselves to the boat that is Paul McCartney. And the truth is, the next time Paul panics, the next time the press comes around asking funny questions, or the next time the papers get a bit too suspicious? He knows they’ll find themselves back here again, with a different leading lady chosen carefully to play the part.
Sourly, John remembers Peggy, a mouthy little thing with too much lipstick and a press pass she liked to flash about. God knows why Paul kept her around. Of course, there was Maggie, who was sweet, soft, and maddeningly kind. John never minded her really, but he didn’t want to fucking share. The idea of Paul with one of these girls, all soft and straightforward and uncomplicated, makes his chest twist up so tight he feels physically ill.
All of a sudden it becomes extremely clear to him that he needs to get the fuck out of here. He can’t believe himself for being so weak, so easily tricked. He’d almost feel embarassed if he didn’t feel so fucking numb. He swings his legs over the side of the couch and stands. His body aches in that sweet, luxurious way it can after a good fuck. But he doesn’t have time to linger in it this morning as he gathers his clothes and begins to tug them on. His undershirt sticks to his skin, still damp from last night’s storm. He finds his pants, half-hanging from the armchair, and tugs them on. His socks are wet and cling to his feet like a disgusting second skin. Each article of damp clothing is a small indignity. He doesn't bother looking for his shirt, just tugs his jumper on over bare skin.
He steps lightly across the room, careful not to wake Paul. At the door, he lingers. Just for a moment. Paul shifts slightly in his sleep, a soft murmur escaping him, his hand stretches out blindly, groping the empty space where John had just been. John steals himself with a deep sigh, then walks out the door.
***
He can’t remember how he ended up on this road, but he’s here now, and the car seems to have its own direction. Out ahead, black pavement stretches out long in front of him, winding back and forth, hugging the geography of the countryside. John’s hands tighten on the steering wheel as he guides his Royce out of London, the concrete and gray brick of the city slowly falling away, swallowed by the open expanse of green and blue. His eyes flick to the rearview mirror and his reflection stares back at him, eyes tired, distant. But he hardly registers his own appearance, his mind’s somewhere else.
This isn’t the first time Paul’s left him, and the first time it happened, he wasn’t sure he’d survive it.
They’d been in a pub that smelled like vinegar and damp wool, the kind of place that clings to your clothes for days. The others had peeled off, George chatting up some girl near the dartboard, Pete halfway through a pint and nodding off, probably dreaming about toast. It was mostly quiet, the jukebox humming out some slow number from the corner, and John’s leaned in close over a warm pint, picking at the label.
Paul wasn’t himself. He’d been quiet all night, even when John had been trying, really trying, to make him laugh. He’d been a total ham, tossing out jokes, ribbing him like usual, all that manic Lennon patter that usually earned him at least a crooked little smirk. But that night? Nothing. Paul’s eyes kept darting off into the corner of the room like he was hoping someone would come drag him out of his own skin. It had started to gnaw at John, he’d been at it for an hour at that point, and Paul’s mood had a real tendency to affect his own. Far more than he would have liked to admit.
Eventually, he kicked Paul under the table. Not that hard, just enough to snap him out of whatever spiral he’d caught himself up in. Paul startled slightly and looked up, like he’d forgotten John was even there.
“What’s got your knickers in a twist, then?” John asked, feigning lightness, but it still came out more clipped than intended.
Paul stared at his drink. “Oh,” he muttered. “Nothing… just,” He took a deep breath. “It’s Dot.”
John exhaled, leaning back with a sigh like he’d just been handed the most tedious answer in the world. “Brilliant. What is it now? She nagging you again about the hair?” John reached over then and tousled Paul’s mop back and forth, exposing his pale forehead. Usually, this flirtation elicited a delightful little act in which Paul would giggle, protest, and reach to keep John’s hands to himself, all the while basking in the attention. But this time, Paul didn’t even crack a smile, just carelessly brushed his hair back into place, his face a one-thousand-yard stare.
John tried again, barreling on. “I mean, fuck’s sake, women. Cynthia asked me if I thought she looked nice yesterday. I said, ‘Yeah, love. You look good.’ And she starts crying.” He laughed sharply, too loudly, gesturing with his half-drunk pint. “ Crying. Imagine— good apparently means ‘you’re a cow and I don’t love you.’” He huffed. “Still trying to work out the language barrier.” He was trying to shove the mood into a lighter direction. But, again, Paul didn’t laugh, didn’t even react. That pissed John off. He huffed out a frustrated sigh and fell back into his seat.
“Look, if I’m boring you, by all means–” John spat, motioning to the door with one arm. Paul glanced up at him, and their eyes finally met for the first time that night. He didn’t say anything. The silence between them stretched so long, too long, until it was something uncomfortable. Then, like a stone breaking a still pond, Paul spoke.
“She’s pregnant.” He paused, then added quietly, “I think.” John remembers that moment better than he remembers most of his childhood. Remembers the way the pint had felt slick in his hand. The way his fingers had clenched around it hard.
He blinked, tried to focus, trying to understand Paul’s words. “You think ?” The words were out before he could stop them, an automatic reaction, the only thing his brain could latch onto.
Paul’s voice was dull, like he was talking through cotton. “She’s pretty sure.”
John swore he forgot to breathe for a full minute. There was a fuzziness in his ears, a roaring static that built fast. He reached for his pint, only to realize it was empty. His hands were clammy.
“Dot’s—” He swallows. “Pregnant.”
“Yeah.”
The words didn’t make sense. The future he had just begun to allow himself to imagine, the one that had been coming into focus for the very first time, a future that was starting to take the shape of stage lights and late nights hunched over lyric sheets, and pencil dust and the metallic tang of guitar strings—was gone. Just like that. It evaporated in an instant. Gone. It was like watching a life he never got the chance to live fall out of his pocket and shatter on the pavement. Paul’s voice pulled him out of his fog, but was muffled, like he was underwater.
“John? Did you hear me?”
John shook his head hard, trying to clear the confusion and panic that were dulling his senses. He wasn’t sure what he was meant to say to Paul, or what he could say.
“Hmmm?” The sound came out of his throat too hoarse, like it wasn’t even his own.
Paul leaned in, his eyes searching. “My da thinks I’ve got to marry her.” John’s heart skipped, but he still couldn't process what was happening. He leaned forward, too, his mind scrambling for the right words, the right response. But there was nothing, just an awful, choking weight in his chest.
“And... what do you think?” John asked the question that should matter, but for some reason, it didn’t feel like it did.
Paul shrugged, barely meeting his eye. “Dunno. S’pose it’s the right thing to do.”
John winced like he’d been slapped, then nodded once, a stiff motion, something cracked in his neck. “Right,” he said. “Right, course it is.” He didn’t know what to do. All he knew was how miserable he would be if Paul went through with it. Then, after a long pause, Paul finally shifted his weight, his gaze flicking to the side before meeting John’s again.
“Unless...” Paul hedged, and the word hung there in the silence. He looked at John like he was waiting for something. An answer. A sign. Something.
The quiet rage that had been simmering beneath the surface of John’s panic boiled over then. “Unless ?” he spat, voice cold with fury now. “Unless what , Paul? Unless you finally tell your good-for-nothing Da to go to hell?”
“John–”
“No– Unless what, Paul? Unless you ask yourself what you want? Have the fucking bollocks to go for it?” Paul just stared into his empty beer bottle, swirling the suds at the bottom. John couldn't take it anymore, couldn’t sit there and pretend for a second longer.
“Unless we, what, Paul? Run off to Paris and die tragically in a flat with no heat?” John scoffed. “Unless what? Say it.”
He didn’t.
Paul’s eyes were wide, glassy. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. He looked like he was tearing apart at the seams.
John was breathing hard. His whole body tight, rigid with the need to scream or break something or grab Paul by the shoulders and shake the truth out of him.
Paul’s gaze fell into his lap, and he leaned back in his chair. “It’s... the right thing to do.”
John blinks himself out of the memory, his hands flexing on the wheel as if he could somehow shake it all loose. But it’s stuck there. The past is never far from the present, no matter how far he goes.
He hadn’t heard from Paul for three weeks after that, the longest they’d ever gone without speaking. John hadn’t been able to function, barely leaving his flat, sleeping all day. To his credit, when the miscarriage happened, Paul showed up on John’s stoop the next day, guitar in hand like a bouquet of roses.
He takes a deep breath, his foot pressing a little harder on the gas. The engine roars with life, and the landscape shifts even faster, cow after cow, sheep after sheep. The countryside rolls out in front of him but he’s still back there, still in that pub with Paul, trying to make sense of what losing him would mean. Trying to understand how he lives a life unmoored from the one person who sees him, needs him, loves him the same way he does them.
***
After a little while, the road bends, and there it is. The clearing Paul brought him to just the other day. He hadn’t meant to end up here, not consciously, but of course he has.
He pulls the car over without really thinking and turns the key. The engine ticks as it cools. For a while he just sits there in the driver’s seat, forehead resting against the steering wheel, breathing long and deep. The inside of the car smells faintly of wet clothes and gasoline and so, eventually, he climbs out, grabbing his guitar from the backseat. It feels heavier than usual. Then again, everything does.
The first thing he notices is that the grass is still damp from last night’s rain. It clings to his boots in stubborn little clumps. A crow calls out somewhere far off, a black sound against all the green. As he walks, the cuffs of his pants gradually become more and more wet, more and more heavy. After a moment, he can make out the willow tree. It stands just as he remembers it, impossibly still, long, green limbs dipping low toward the ground, brushing the grass like fingers dragging through water.
When he’s close enough, he ducks beneath the curtain of branches and steps into the quiet underneath. The air inside the canopy is cooler, softer, like the tree itself. He lowers himself into the grass, cross-legged, and sets the guitar across his lap. Doesn’t open the case right away. Just sits.
He hasn’t written a proper song in weeks. Not since finding that god forsaken ring. Not since Paul went and ruined everything. But here, now, with the tree overhead and the breeze catching the ends of his hair, he opens the case and lifts the guitar out gently, like it’s breakable. Everything feels so fragile right now.
He tunes the strings by ear, lets his fingers settle into shapes and chords. He strums once, twice. The sound is timid, immediately carried off by the wind. He starts to pick, nothing concrete, just the start of something, a feeling more than a melody. But it sounds all wrong. He stops, tries again in a different key, slides the capo up a fret, makes a different shape, but still, it feels all wrong.
It’s not that he can’t write without Paul. Technically, he can. He knows chords, structure, and rhythm, and has been known to write full songs on his own. But writing alone has always felt a bit like clapping with one hand. Like trying to hold your breath and speak at the same time.
Writing with Paul had never been like that. It was a conversation. Always had been. A look, a grunt, a stupid joke that somehow turned into a verse. Paul would say something vague, like “there’s a story here somewhere,” or “what if we put a kazoo on it?” and John would shrug, tell him to try it, and then end up loving it an hour later. They didn’t need words to talk. They just needed a guitar between them and enough time to chase the thread.
It was a bit like making love, actually. They never had to say what they needed. They just knew. They moved together. Took turns leading. They built something between them, out of breath and rhythm and trust. And when it worked, when it really clicked, it was better than sex.
But right now, under the shade of the willow tree, plucking out a tune feels like trying to start a fire with wet matches. He’s got nothing to bounce off, no friction to spark against. It’s just him, and the wind, and this bloody willow tree, which suddenly feels like it’s mocking him. He slaps a palm against the strings, silencing them. He’s been here an hour, maybe more. Time doesn’t mean much today. He shifts in the grass to rest his chin on the body of the guitar. It’s as though Paul’s absence has a physical shape, a mass, a gravitational force. He plucks at a string and winces at the sour note.
“Fuck this,” he mutters, letting the guitar fall against his chest. He closes his eyes, leans back, and waits. For what, he hasn’t the faintest idea, all he knows is if he stands up, he won’t know where to go. His eyes blur in and out of focus, staring up at branches swaying above him, long fronds bending in the breeze, the morning sun shining through green petal-like leaves like stained glass. His mind drifts.
Marriage. It feels like a dirty word to him now, so formal and suffocating. His marriage to Cynthia… God. Where to even start? He never meant to ruin her the way he did.
He remembers being nineteen and terrified and thinking, Maybe this is what people do. You get a girl pregnant, you put a ring on her finger, you buy a small flat and call it “settling down.” Maybe you get lucky. Maybe you even like her. He isn’t sure he ever even loved her. Not in the way he was supposed to. But he wanted to. Christ, he wanted to. Wanted to want her more than anything. He’d wanted a family, or the idea of one. He’d always liked the idea of a place to belong. Somewhere quiet to land at the end of the day.
But then the tours kept piling up, and the studio hours stretched longer, and the shrieking fans got louder, and John, well, he just kept disappearing bit by bit. He stopped answering her phone calls, stopped writing back, and stopped coming home. Because how the hell was he ever supposed to be a real father? He barely knew how to be a person.
Julian deserved more, deserved better. A dad who wasn’t just a name on the telly. A dad who didn’t shut down and disappear when things got hard. He doesn’t know how to explain all that to a child. Doesn’t know how to explain it to himself. He opens his eyes and stares up at the branches above. The light has shifted slightly. He lets his eyes find patterns in the leaves, lets his mind float toward something else.
Lennon-McCartney. He’d signed it thousands of times. Lyrics, contracts, royalty sheets. Always Lennon-McCartney, never the other way ‘round. Always the two of them, fused together, a legal entity locked in permanent hyphenation. He didn’t question it when it was proposed, didn’t even blink. Just nodded, because of course.
Because there was no him without Paul. Not really. Anything he’d ever made that mattered had Paul’s fingerprints all over it. Every lyric that came out half-formed found its shape when Paul touched it. He’d handed parts of himself over to him without ever asking for them back. He swallows hard. A lump has formed in his throat, and he doesn’t know what to do with it. He closes his eyes again.
The sun has risen higher in the sky since he got here, warm and unapologetic as it stretches its light across the field. The dew is gone, the grass finally dry beneath him, his jumper discarded and folded behind his head. His limbs are long and slack, his guitar resting loosely over his stomach. He plucks a few aimless notes every now and then, just to fill the silence. He knows he should get up, go somewhere. But where? He has no idea.
Maybe he’ll go to France, back to Paris, back to the crumbling little motel on the edge of Montmartre. He remembers that first trip like it was yesterday. They’d smoked too much and eaten like shit and fucked like they were starving. They had long, late-morning conversations in bed with no one waiting on them. Paul had bought a camera, some cheap thing with a shit lens, and he’d taken photo after photo of John, grinning, sulking, half-naked, cross-eyed, stoned. “Hold still,” he’d muttered, fidgeting with the focus, and John had stuck out his tongue, flipping him off just before the shutter snapped.
One night, they’d run through the streets in the rain because John had insisted on going out for a baguette at midnight. Paul had rolled his eyes but accompanied him anyway, both of them soaked and breathless by the time they made it back, bread in hand, laughter echoing up the stairwell. It had been the first time in years they'd shared a bed without the others around, no pretense, no excuses. Just them.
“I wish we could stay here,” Paul had said one night, voice muffled into John’s chest, fingers tracing a line along his hip. “Like this.” John had said nothing. Just tightened his arm around Paul’s shoulder and pressed his lips the crown of his head.
He sighs now, opens his eyes to the wide blue sky. Maybe he will go back there. Let the world spin on without him. But then again, John thinks, there’s no point going without Paul. Wouldn’t be the same. Would just be a city. A flat place with too many stairs and no one to share the bread with. He groans softly and pushes himself upright, brushing a few blades of grass from his trousers. He should get going. He doesn’t know where, exactly. But somewhere. Anywhere.
That’s when he hears it. A crack, like a twig snapping underfoot, sharp and nearby. His whole body goes taut, head snapping in the direction of the sound. The birds scatter from the trees above, their wings rustling in a burst of movement. Probably just a dog walker, he tells himself. Or some old farmer out on a walk. But his fingers tighten around the neck of his guitar anyway, like it might help him fight back whoever has found him. He fumbles to gather his jumper, his cigarette tin, his lighter—anything to look less like a sitting target and more like someone who knows where they’re going.
Then, the branches part, and Paul is there.
John’s breath catches, and he freezes on instinct, the weight of the guitar sliding a little off his lap. He blinks, once, twice. He doesn’t believe what he’s seeing.
Paul stands framed in the arch of weeping green, haloed in dappled sunlight. His hair is tousled like he’s been running his hands through it, which he always does when he’s anxious or agitated. His chest is rising fast like he’s been running—maybe he saw John’s car and sprinted the rest of the way in. There’s something raw in his expression when their eyes meet. Relief, maybe. Trepidation. Or something else entirely. John just stares at him, too stunned to move.
Paul takes one slow step forward, then another. The branches fall behind him like a curtain, the willow swaying around him in a hush of green. For a moment, neither of them speaks.
“You left,” Paul finally says.
John just blinks again. He’s still sitting cross-legged with his guitar, fingers idle on the strings.
“Very astute of you,” he responds. Paul huffs once, a forceful exhale that isn’t quite a laugh. He walks forward a bit, hands in his pockets, scuffing a shoe against the ground like he’s not sure whether to sit or stand.
“Why?”
“Needed to think.”
“About what?”
John glances over, cocks his head and narrows his eyes. “What do you think?”
Paul shrugs, tight-lipped. “I’d rather not guess,” he replies. He scratches at his chin—John hears the faint scrape of stubble. “Seems like you’ll just have to tell me. For once.”
John bristles, starts to rise. “Oh, fuck off, Paul.”
“Wait, John—look, I didn’t mean it like that,” Paul blurts. There’s a rising edge to his voice, like panic catching in his throat. “I thought… I mean, after last night…” He bites his lip, searching for the right words. “I thought maybe…”
“That I’d forgiven you?” John cuts in.
Paul shrugs again, sheepishly. “I dunno. Maybe. But then I woke up and you were gone. Christ, John.” He rubs the back of his neck, flinching at the memory. “I’m not a mind reader, y’know.”
“Oh, come off it,” John scoffs. “You’re the one who found me, didn’t you? Knew right where I’d be.”
“Course I did,” Paul almost laughs, “we were just here last week, remember? Fucked in the grass like a pair of goddamn teenagers.” John looks down at the ground, avoiding eye contact. “Ring any bells?”
He moves to stand up, sets his guitar down, and brushes off his trousers. “That predictable, am I?”
“‘Fraid so.”
John exhales through his nose, runs a hand through his hair. “Already know what I’m going to say next, then?”
"Say it anyway," Paul replies, shrugging again. John just looks at him, this man he’s known since they were boys. Tall, lanky, beautiful. Cocky, stubborn as hell. Funny, sweet, gentle.
John runs a hand through his auburn hair, disheveled and thick with sex from last night. “I can’t – I can’t stop thinking about it. About all of it. About you. About this.” His voice wobbles slightly with emotion, and it makes him angry. “I’m not good at this, Paul! I can’t do it anymore.”
Paul tilts his head, takes a small step forward. “Do what?”
“This,” John says, motioning between them. “Whatever this is. I’ve spent years pretending I don’t want you in the ways that count. Like, really count. But, fuck, Paul– I do. I don’t want to share. Not with Jane, not with Peggy or Maggie or anyone else.” He looks at Paul then, fully open, raw. “And look- I’m sorry if I never made that clear before. I should’ve. But-but I’m saying it now, okay?”
There’s a pause. Then Paul grins—just a flicker—and John squints at him, shading his eyes with a flat hand.
“Why are you smiling like that?” Paul doesn’t answer right away. Just keeps looking at him, fond and unreadable. “I’m here, pouring my bloody heart out, and you’re standing there grinning like a loon.”
“Maggie?” Paul smirks. “Peggy? Really?
“I dunno, I just thought–”
“No you didn’t,” Paul interrupts. “If you had, you’d know I’d never run off with either of them.”
“Would I?” John challenges, still bitter.
Paul’s expression dims, but he rallies. Straightens. Looks him straight on.
“You said you needed to think.”
“Yeah, course I did.”
“Well,” Paul says, taking another step closer, “I didn’t.” And before John can ask what the fuck that means, Paul bends, slow, deliberate, and drops to one knee. John’s stomach lurches like he’s going to be sick.
“No,” he says, stepping back like he’s seen a ghost. “What the fuck are you doing? Get up from there!”
Paul doesn’t budge. He stays right where he is, hands planted on his knee, looking up at John with calm, clear eyes.
“I’m staying right here,” he says simply.
“Jesus Christ,” John breathes, eyes wide. “Are you having me on? Get up, this is—this isn’t funny.”
Paul pats down his pockets. “Didn’t bring a ring,” he says mildly, “bit of a cock-up.” John just stares at him, completely incapable of forming comprehensible speech. Paul clears his throat, his voice steady now, each word coming with purpose.
“I never thought I needed to tell you like this. I thought I’d already told you—thought the songs were enough, the lyrics. But maybe I wasn’t clear. Maybe I wasn’t obvious enough.”
John opens his mouth, but nothing comes out except a pathetic squeak. Paul continues.
“I’ve loved you since I was a kid. Maybe longer. Thought I’d outgrow it. Thought I’d get over it. Thought I could love her instead. But it’s always been you, John. Even when I was with her, even when I was acting like a bloody fool, even when I bought that hideous ring–”
“Oh, so you admit the ring was hideous?” John can’t help but bark it out in between shaky breaths. For a second, they both break—just briefly—into matching cackles. But then Paul sobers, locking his eyes with John’s again. John’s breath is coming fast and heavy now, his heartbeat loud and thudding in his chest.
“Its you, John. It’s always been you.” Paul’s eyes are so open, so wide. “You don’t believe me, not fully. I know that. You think I’ll run again. Maybe I will. I’m not perfect. I’m scared and selfish and I’ve fucked up more times than I can count. But if you think I haven’t committed to you, really committed to you, John, then you’re thicker than I thought.” Paul’s voice is trembling now, but he keeps going.
“My name next to yours for the rest of our lives. That’s me choosing you. That’s me saying I choose to be tied to you, in every fathomable way.” Paul swallows. His eyes shine. John wants to say something, anything, but his thoughts are slow to catch up. “So I’m asking now, properly. Not just for forgiveness, but for you. I’m asking for a chance to do it right. Whatever that looks like. With you.”
John feels his throat begin to close up. Finally, softly, Paul adds, like a final plea:
“Let me stay yours. Please, John.”
John’s eyes are glassy, mouth parted. His voice, when it finally arrives, is wrecked.
“You bloody idiot,” he breathes, and he falls to his own knees in front of Paul. Paul’s still on one knee when John reaches for him, half-disbelieving, half-starved, yanking him forward by the collar like he needs him in arm’s reach immediately or he might combust.
Their mouths crash together in the same second, teeth clashing, noses bumping, but neither of them cares. It’s wild and unpracticed, sloppy from how desperately they want it. Want each other. Paul’s hands go to John’s jaw, his cheeks, his hair, like he doesn’t know where to touch first, like he wants to hold all of him at once.
“Jesus Christ,” John breathes, pulling back just enough to catch his breath, “I cannot fucking believe you.”
Paul leans in, pecking his mouth to John's between words, still grinning like a man undone. “Believe it.”
John pants, laughter caught somewhere in his throat. He knocks their foreheads together, dizzy and overwhelmed. “What about the press? What about all those papers you’re always moaning about?”
“Let them write whatever they want,” Paul says, barely even hesitating. “Let ‘em try to make sense of it. I don’t give a fuck.”
John’s eyebrows shoot up. “You don’t give a fuck?” he echoes.
Paul grins against his mouth. “Not anymore.”
John stares at him for a beat, searching his face, as if trying to find the catch. “And Jane?” he asks, quiet, but firm.
“She’s so done with me,” Paul says, groaning softly, dragging John back in by the lapels, kissing him again. “You’ve no idea.”
John pulls back again, still wary, still aghast with disbelief. “But you said you… you love her.”
“I love my Auntie Gin too,” Paul snorts, pressing kisses along John’s jaw, between words. “Doesn’t mean I want to fuck her senseless in a field.”
John chokes on a laugh, eyes wide. “You’re something else.”
“You’re one to talk.” There’s a pause as John opens his mouth to ask another question, but Paul cuts him off gently by placing his hands on either side of his face. “Look,” Paul says, low and steady, “I don’t have all the answers. I know I’ve been a coward. But after you found that ring, and then you walked out—I don’t know, I just, I felt like dying.” His voice breaks, just a little. “I swear to God. I’ve never wanted anything more than I want this. You. Us. All of it.”
John nods slowly, swallowing against the lump in his throat.
And then they’re kissing again, harder this time. Mouths slotting back together like they’ve been doing it forever, like there’s no other place they were meant to be.
Paul practically tackles him down into the grass, and John goes willingly, laughing breathlessly against Paul’s lips. The earth is still damp beneath them, but neither of them notices or cares. John’s back hits the grass with a soft thud, the earth yielding beneath him as Paul follows, sliding over him like he belongs there, which, of course, he does. Their bodies move together, Paul’s body pressing flush to John’s. Their kisses deepen, then scatter, drifting from mouths to cheeks to the soft underside of jaws. Paul breaks the kiss only long enough to shift his weight and roll John properly onto his back, straddling him, claiming the space above him with a kind of surety that makes John’s head spin. Paul pulls back just enough to see John properly laid out beneath him, flushed and tousled and blinking up at him like he’s trying to memorize the moment.
“I can’t believe you,” John murmurs, but there’s no venom to it, just awe. “I really can’t.”
Paul smiles, slow and lopsided. “You said that already.”
“I meant it twice.”
Paul hums, a hand drifting under the hem of John’s shirt and across his ribs, slow and reverent. John shivers even though his touch is grounding, like he’s mapping him, charting the lines of someone he’s always known, but now gets to call his again. He leans down to press a kiss to the hollow of John’s throat, then lower, to his collarbone. When he nips lightly at the skin there, John lets out a breathy curse and shifts beneath him.
“You’re gonna leave a mark,” John says, half-warning, half-want.
Paul licks the spot he’s just kissed. “Good,” he says into his skin. “Let ‘em see.”
John shudders against Paul. Those words sooth something inside him he hadn’t realized needed soothing. He tilts his head back as Paul mouths along the base of his neck, silently begging for more. Let Paul suck at his skin until it’s blue, let everyone know who he belongs to. The rush of the thought lights up his entire body. His hands come up, instinctively, but Paul catches them, pins them gently above his head with a soft smile.
“You always squirm when I do this,” he murmurs.
“Do not.”
Paul only grins wider. “You do. Like you don’t know what to do with all the attention.”
John lets out a shaky laugh, breath caught between disbelief and affection. “Shut up.”
Paul just laughs but doesn’t move away. Instead, he hovers there, eyes flicking over John’s face like he’s drinking him in. There’s a moment of quiet between them that settles in the air like dust motes in sunlight. Paul leans in again, presses a kiss to John’s temple, then his cheek, then finally his ear.
“I want to fuck you,” he whispers, barely more than breath. John swallows thickly. His whole body responds before his mind can even catch up; his muscles tighten, heart thunders. He opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out.
Paul writhes on top of John, pressing his semi-firm cock down against John’s groin. “Would you have me?” It’s not filthy. It’s not even a question about sex, not really.
John nods, vigorously. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Yes.”
Paul’s face softens at this, and then he’s smiling, his crooked bunny teeth on full display. John can hardly stand it, cranes his neck up to catch Paul’s mouth in another kiss. Paul meets him halfway, and they tumble deeper into the grass, limbs tangled, mouths fused, their kiss slow and wet and thorough. John’s back presses into the earth, the soft give of it cradling his spine as Paul looms over him, practically draped across him like he can’t bear to let any part of them go unconnected. Their bodies slide together with the slick of leftover rain and fresh sweat, John’s hands roam Paul’s back, gripping at his shirt, at his skin, pulling him closer.
Paul so rarely takes control like this. It’s not that he doesn’t take charge . Christ, Paul could take control with just a look, with the press of a knee between John’s legs under a table, with the way he’d sometimes say “don’t move” with such casual authority that John didn’t dare disobey. But this, Paul, asking– wanting to fuck John, was much more rare. John could count the times on one hand.
Once, after the Parlophone audition, after George told Mr. Martin he didn’t like his tie, and their whole world cracked open. Once, when they’d gone number one in America. John remembers the hotel room, the champagne and the way Paul had pulled John into his lap that evening like it was the most natural thing in the world. And a few scattered times right after Paul bought Cavendish, when the townhouse still echoed with emptiness. Paul filled it by pressing John into his mattress over and over again, like he was staking claim.
Every time had felt momentous like Paul was marking something. Or maybe it was gratitude. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was just the only way he knew how to say, thank you for choosing me. Thank you for bringing me along.
Paul never demanded to Fuck him, instead he held it up like an offering, like he was meeting John at the altar of something bigger than he could name.
And now, here they are again, beneath this willow tree, on the heels of what should’ve been an ending and maybe still could be, if John lets himself doubt again. But Paul is here holding him like something precious. Giving, yes– but taking too. Taking the chance to show John, with every kiss, every fuck, that he is staying. That this time, he means it.
John let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, his hand fisting in Paul’s damp curls. Paul’s hand drifts down towards John’s waistband, his fingertips ghosting against the elastic there. John squirms beneath Paul, thighs twitching, the press of his warm body maddening. Their clothes still cling damply to their bodies, clumsy and in the way. John fumbles with Paul’s jumper, tugging it up over his head, baring his broad chest to the filtered light through the willow branches. His skin is pale and smooth and overall a sight to behold. Paul doesn't protest, in fact he helps, tossing the garment aside, then he reaches down to yank John’s off too, not gentle, but not rough either, just absolutely starved for it. It’s like they’re removing every last thing that ever separated them.
Paul kisses John again, long and filthy, his soft tongue darting in and against John’s before pulling back, enough to fumble with the waistband of John’s trousers, tugging at them awkwardly, clumsily. John eagerly helps, kicking them off as Paul does the same. They’re stripped bare, skin against skin now, and it’s overwhelming in the best possible way.
They come together again slowly, Paul positioning them face-to-face, keeping his gaze locked with John’s. Their fingers intertwine, foreheads press together. It’s like they’re breathing from the same set of lungs, like their back in the front room at Mendips, eyeball to eyeball. Everything is warm, and trembling, and golden.
Paul shifts again, sliding down John’s body, his hands steady on John’s hips. He trails kisses across his chest, over his stomach, before dipping lower. John has to bite the inside of his cheeks to stop himself from crying out in anticipation.
Paul wraps a silky hand around John’s swollen, aching cock with something between reverence and possession. It’s all John can do not to scream, so instead he gasps and bucks into the gentle touch, already undone by how slowly, how confidently Paul strokes him. Paul’s other hand drifts lower to gently cup John’s balls, then they trail teasingly behind, rubbing soft, deliberate circles around his soft, downy hole. His fingertips tease, coax and seduce the muscle there to release. John moans quietly, his body arching into Paul’s touch. They lock eyes and the intimacy of it nearly undoes him. John moans, low and ragged, his hips rocking upward against Paul’s palm.
“Christ,” he hisses. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
Paul leans over him, mouths at his ear. “Let me fuck you, Johnny,” he whispers. “Want to see you. Want you looking at me.” His voice is a rasp, breath hot against the shell of his ear. “Can I?”
John nods, fast, frantic. “Yeah. Yes. Fuck, yes.”
Paul locks out his elbows and grasps at his own cock, tugging at it with sharp and erratic desperation. It’s so hard it looks painful, all purple and rigid like that. Paul holds it between two fingers, scarlet and weeping with arousal, and lines it up with John’s entrance, shaky and needy. John breathes deep as Paul eases himself in, one centimeter at a time, until he’s fully seated inside, nestled and secure.
“C hrist -” Paul breathes, nearly choking on his own pleasure, “forgot how fucking good you feel.” John can only respond with noises, deep and unctuous from the deepest part of himself.
Paul starts with a soft, slow grind, just enough friction to leave John aching for more, but he doesn’t rush it. Paul’s inside him, holding his face like he’s memorizing it, kissing him between every thrust like he’s trying to say all the things he never managed to say before. Each thrust feels like a promise, like a vow.
“You’re mine,” Paul whispers into John’s mouth. “Tell me. Say it.”
John exhales against his lips, trembling. “Yours,” he chokes out. “I’m yours.” Paul’s cock, short but thick, finds John’s prostate and begins to tease at it relentlessly. John can only bite down through the intensity of sensation. Pressure and red hot bliss begin to wind like a spring deep in his core, Everything just builds from there: the pressure, the rhythm, the desperate embarrassing need. Paul kisses him deeper, tongue sliding against John’s, filthy and raw.
All of a sudden, the tenderness gives way to something far more messy, far more urgent. Suddenly, all this sweet eye contact and long deep kissing is not nearly enough. Paul shifts, pulls out just enough to flip John onto his stomach, then guides him up onto his knees. Without needing to ask, John lifts his hips, letting Paul shift them both up. Paul pulls John gently to his feet, walking him backward until his spine meets the rough bark of the willow tree. They don’t stop touching, don’t stop kissing. Paul mouths along John’s jaw, the corner of his mouth, his throat. His hands travel down John’s waist to grip beneath his thighs. John lets him lift one leg high and split him open like Christ on the cross. Lets Paul line himself back up with John’s hole and slide back in with one smooth motion. Their bodies align perfectly, head to toe. It’s harder like this, faster, messier. And it’s everything.
“Still mine?” Paul pants into his ear.
“Still,” John moans. “Always.”
Their bodies rock in tandem, the rhythm deep and steady, Paul’s hand under John’s knee, hi other pinning his hip to the tree. The bark digs into the soft skin of John’s back, and he faintly thinks he should check later for splinters as each thrust from Paul shoves him harder and harder into the trunk. Their rhythm falters only when the emotion swells to a breaking point, when the need to kiss each other overwhelms even the need to fuck. The world narrows to the sound of their breath, the slap of skin against skin, the rustle of branches overhead. Paul holds John so tightly it’s as if he’s trying to anchor them both to the earth.
John’s voice is thick, his words muffled into the bark of the tree. “Don’t stop. God, don’t—don’t stop, I need you.”
Paul’s only response is to thrust his cock into John deeper, kissing the base of John’s neck, whispering broken things into his skin: “So perfect. Always were. You’re mine. You’ve always been.” That's when Paul’s thrusts become more erratic, more frantic and John clutches him by the back of the neck.
“Come for me, Paul.” He breathes, their noses knocking together. “Fucking come for me, damnit.” Paul, panting now, continues to pump, his eyebrows creased in a filthy, obscene expression.
“I’m so close.” Paul whines.
“I know, love.” John grits out, he’s not far off himself. The way Paul has them positioned, his cock is trapped between their bodies, slapping hard against Paul’s taught tummy with every thrust. “I’ve got you,” he coaxes, gripping the hair at the base of Paul’s neck as if to drive the point. “Let go for me.”
“You sure?” Paul gasps, his strokes slowing down just in case. John nods furiously, this time clutching at Paul’s ass, forcing him deeper.
“Don’t stop.” John begs, and thank God, Paul listens. He speeds up his movements and within a few pumps, they’re both letting out a string of curses and moans.
“Fuck-” Paul grunts, and that’s when John feels it, the twitch of him inside, followed by the warmth of his come, silky and sweet and plentiful. He’d almost forgotten how much he fucking loved feeling Paul come inside him, how close he felt to him, how intense their connection could really be. He reaches between them to grope for his own cock, and when he finds it, he tugs at it once, twice, three times and then with an explosive groan, he’s coming too– long and hot and true into the space between them.
Their heads knock together and Paul lets go of John’s leg. They slump into one another, boneless and weak. John’s legs give out first, his knees buckling as he sinks to the ground, taking Paul down with him. They sit there, at the base of the willow tree, breathing heavily, heads resting together, arms intertwined. The earth is warm. The sky is endless. And for the first time in weeks—maybe months, maybe years—John feels at peace.
Three Weeks Later.
It’s early again, dawn, the way it always seems to be for them.
They’re in Scotland this time. Paul’s uncle had a cottage nobody was using, and they’d needed to disappear for a while. No press, no phones, no outside world. Just trees and fog and the sound of sheep bleeting in the distance.
They’ve been here long enough that John has a routine now. Every morning he wakes up, makes tea in the tiny stovetop pot, smokes on the back step, watches the clouds roll over the hills. Paul sleeps late, which is new. He needs rest from all the work he’s been doing around here.
This morning, though, Paul’s up early too. He comes outside barefoot in one of John’s sweaters, still tugging it down over his belly. His hair’s a mess, his eyes barely open. He looks impossibly young and impossibly old all at once.
He’s watching him with that look again—the one that sees through bone.
“Come on,” Paul says softly, nodding his head toward the field.
“Now?”
Paul just smiles. “Yeah. Now.”
—
The grass is still dewy when they get there, soft and shining in the early light. They don’t talk much. Just walk until they’re deep enough in the field that the cottage is out of sight and it feels like the rest of the world has blinked away. Paul sits first, then lies back, arms spread. John joins him after a beat.
They lie there side by side, fingers brushing and casually interlacing. The sky above them is massive—pink-tinged and waking up slow.
“I’ve been thinking,” Paul says eventually.
“Oh Christ,” John groans.
Paul kicks him lightly against the shin. “I’m serious.”
John props himself up on one elbow. “That so?”
Paul nods, staring up at the sky like he’s reading something written in it. Then he sits up and reaches into his coat pocket. John’s heart kicks up a little. He rummages around for a moment before presenting John with something small and tangled. It’s a thin leather cord with a narrow silver ring looped onto it. He offers it out to John without ceremony.
“No priest. No church. No fuckin’ press release. Just you and me and the bleeding sheep.” John’s throat gets tight. His fingers close around the ring on instinct. Paul shrugs, a little shy now, perhaps interpreting John’s silence as disappointment. “We don’t need anything else, right?”
John’s quiet for a long time. Then he snorts, croaky with emotion. “You daft romantic bastard.” He fumbles in his own pocket and pulls out a battered guitar pick on a chain. “Swapped this with George years ago. Liked the look of it.” Paul grins at him like he’s just been handed the moon.
Then Paul stands, tugging John up by the hand. He spins them to face each other, then loops the chain over his own head. John grins, and takes his cue to loop the leather chord over his. They stand there and take eachother’s hands, tokens around their necks like garlands at a wedding.
There’s no speech. No vows. Just the two fo them, and that thing that’s always been there: I am you, you are me.
They kiss, slow and purposeful. The sheep watch from the hillside. The sun spills like honey across the field. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell rings—but it might just be in John’s head.
They’ll go back, eventually. To London. To the band. To the world. But not yet. For now, it’s just them. Married in everything but name, with a leather cord and a guitar pick and the wind singing hymns through the grass.