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Chapter Text

9 Nov, 1966

Like any other rainy day, the people of London adorned themselves in at least a lightweight jacket or umbrella to shield against the cold drizzle. The roads glistened with wet reflection, and most cars moved cautiously—except for the one Paul McCartney was driving.

He was late. A pounding toothache had kept him up all night, and the painkillers he had taken all day yesterday were finally wearing off now. This meant he was supposed to be at a dentist’s office across town within the next fifteen minutes. That alone would be enough to stress anyone, but Paul's mind wasn’t on the pain—it was on John.

He smirked to himself, mind drifting to the night before, when John had him bent over the kitchen table, fucking him with a hunger that still made his pulse race. The man’s cheeks flushed with heat as the memory came back in vivid detail. His chest tightened with arousal, and for a moment, he forgot about traffic laws entirely.

There wasn’t time to reschedule. He figured he could beat the congestion and make it on time. His car weaved through the lanes, overtaking slower drivers as raindrops skidded across the windshield. The tires sliced through puddles. He failed to check his mirrors.

As he changed lanes to pass another car, a large truck carrying lumber merged onto the roadway—its speed increasing too fast, too recklessly. Paul didn’t see it. Didn’t have time to react.

The impact was instant.

The truck plowed into the driver’s side with unforgiving force. Glass exploded in all directions. The car crumpled like paper, bent, broken, wrecked beyond recognition. The shriek of metal and the weight of thousands of pounds bore down on him like a hammer.

He wasn’t killed on impact—but he couldn't move voluntarily.

A crowd formed around the twisted heap of what now resembled junk metal. Some tried pulling open the door. An old woman stumbled away, nauseated at the sight of blood streaming from his skull. Others tried to assess the situation carefully, knowing he soon needed out of there. His face was mangled. A portion of his cranium cracked open just enough to expose something pink and soft beneath. One leg was bent unnaturally; his arm hung limp, shattered. It was a miracle he was still breathing at all.

His eyes closed slowly, and the sounds of the outside world dulled like a fading radio station. Every second stretched out like pulled thread.

So this is what it’s like to die? he thought, fading away.

Oddly, the pain didn’t register as pain anymore. It felt more like static. Distant. His body knew the agony, but his brain couldn’t catch up. He was aware of just how severe the situation was, but his body couldn't make a move to better his position.

I can't die like this… No. Not like this… he thought, watching the wreckage around him like he was peering through a telescope. Then a red haze filtered everything, rendering it impossible to see anything in clear detail.

The car was upside down. His vision now blurred as if sand filled his eyes, shards of glass cutting into them, burning, scratching, destroying. His body didn't respond when he told it to move. He lifted a hand to his face. Or maybe he only thought he did…

His breath slowed. He shivered. Instantly Paul was freezing with a sensation so strong he had almost forgotten what it was like to be warm. He wanted—no, needed a blanket. But within seconds, that cold sensation had left him entirely. He felt like a ghost trapped in flesh.

Then: flashes.

Every lasting yet loving memory in his life poured out at once—kaleidoscopic and fast. A life of music, laughter, love. His childhood. His mother’s soft hands caressing his face whilst he battled a nasty cold, making him feel secure. His father teaching him how to ride a bike. His 5th birthday. Drinking lemonade with his brother on a random September night. The first time he met John. Their first kiss. That night in Hamburg. The moment their lips met beneath stage lights, unseen by the crowd. The first song they wrote that only they ever heard. Laughing with George. Keeping a beat with Ringo. Cuddling with and shagging hundreds of pretty girls.

Tears welled in his unseen eyes, a tightness forming in his chest at his beautiful memories. For a fleeting moment, it hit him—this means the end.

He felt like he was floating upward. Away. Detached from the broken shell of a body still pinned inside the vehicle. His awareness hovered somewhere above, in the corners of the ceiling, watching.

I must be dead. I saw it. I died… he told himself.

But then—

“You don’t get to leave this body just yet, Paul.”

The voice was warm. It smelled like rose petals. It embraced him like wool. He knew that voice.

“Mum?” he gasped.

He looked around, only seeing the sky and birds above. McCartney was desperate for her face, but there was nothing. Only the cold grey sky and the sound of ambulance sirens approaching. He couldn’t even see his own hands. He was everywhere, yet nowhere.

“Mum, where are you?!” he cried. “Tell me what happened! Please!”

“I’ve always been with you, my son,” the voice said, calm and close. “You just couldn’t hear me until now.”

“I want to see you,” he sobbed. “Please, Mum. Let me see you. Tell me what’s happening to me…”

“My beautiful boy,” she said gently. “You’ve been in a terrible accident. Right now, you are barely holding on to a heartbeat. You’re not dead—not yet. But you are close. You’ll have to watch from here now, until the end finds you.”

His mind reeled.

“A fatal wreck…? I’m still alive? For how long?”

Then, the high-pitched ringing in his head returned, like a blade of sound twisting through his thoughts. He watched the scene below as bystanders pulled him out of the car, seeing how his body flopped like a marionette with cut strings. He had no attachment to himself; no way could he move anything on his body nor feel what was happening to him below. He felt no pain. No breath. No steady heartbeat.

“I can’t believe it,” he whispered. “It’s really over. I was supposed to meet John… I was supposed to-”

“You will,” she said softly. “You will communicate with him. But from now on… in a different way. Without words.”

//

It took seven minutes before an ambulance came, and by this time he was on the brink of passing away. Another crucial five minutes trailed by before he arrived at the hospital.

The medical staff soon found out through looking in his wallet that the man was identified as none other than Paul McCartney, and they rushed to at least stabilize his condition as they would with any person in such a state. His heartbeat was barely there since he was losing so much blood. Nurses had given him several blood transfusions all the while a surgeon was on the way to get the brain injury looked at. Medicine was given to stop the clotting, but his prognosis was that he just was too far gone to even try. But still, because of who he was, those in the emergency room tried with all their might to not let this day be his last.

Around the time the brain surgeon arrived at the hospital, nurses had established contact with Paul's father. He was rushing to make it there, but not before calling Brian Epstein, because Jim knew Brian was closer to Paul than he was.

Brian was first to make it. He didn't bother to alert any bandmates; he simply hurried himself to see the state Paul was in. He burst through the doors of the ER, went to the receptionist, and demanded to know where Paul McCartney was. He sprinted towards Paul's room alongside a nurse's aide, where a physician awaited any visitor for the victim. The man practiced over the course of time it took for someone to arrive all he needed to tell the family or friends of Paul. He wanted them to know Paul's death was a possibility. It was more likely for him to die than to survive the crash.

“Sir, I want to be transparent with you. It's not looking good. We feel there's a chance that, even if he survives the stabilizing repair, he will remain in a comatose state. He will likely require facial reconstruction, physical therapy, among other therapies…”

“Oh God,” Brian gasped, panic rising in his chest. “What the hell happened to him?! Please—someone tell me something!”

A physician, still in surgical garb, stepped forward. His tone was grave but professional.

“Sir, the patient has sustained extensive trauma to the right side of his body—deep lacerations to the head, arm, torso, and thigh. Most concerning is the open skull fracture where a portion of the cranium was exposed upon arrival, and there is likely cerebral involvement. His right arm is badly mangled… We suspect it may require amputation above the elbow.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Then we have where the right eye was severely damaged in the collision. It could not be saved. He’s also lost a significant number of teeth on that side, and will require major dental and facial reconstruction, assuming he survives the initial surgeries. Given the severity of his injuries, I must be honest with you—even under the best of circumstances, his appearance will be permanently altered. And this is, frankly, a guarded case. If he survives the current operation, we must still prepare for the possibility that he may not regain consciousness… or worse.”

Brian stared blankly toward the operating theatre, a rising knot of dread in his throat. The words felt distant, like they were being spoken under water. Paul—his friend, the face of the Beatles, the charm, the balance. What would become of the band if he didn’t pull through?

“Who was responsible for this?” Brian asked, tears falling down his face as if the physician would know. But the physician did, however. The EMS workers quickly spoke to people along the roadway, who relayed these messages to the staff of the emergency room.

“All first-hand accounts stated that he was speeding, and didn't realize a large semi was also flying down the roadway.”

“I- I see… My god…Who hit him?” He tried to look in the glass pane but the doctor stepped in the way to block his view.

“Nobody knew who it was. It was a hit and run. It was a company semi.”

“No, no… No, oh, Doctor, I'll pay you good money out of pocket for him to get through this, I swear to you. I can't let him go. Pl-please.”

“Absolutely. And I personally am telling you that we're doing what we can. I will update you as changes to his condition occur. I'm… I'm so very sorry.”

Chapter Text

*

To not upset the band members with the prospect of Paul potentially dying, Brian informed them all that he needed to see them all together at once. They met at his home at around 4 o’clock, and all were worried once they noticed Paul did not attend the meeting. At the same time, Brian looked absolutely devastated. It was obvious he had shed tears. George's first assumption was that Brian had them come there to tell them Paul quit the band.

“Where's Paul?” He asked the manager. “You didn't bring us ’ere to tell us he quit, did you?”

“I'm afraid not,” said Mr. Epstein, before saying the next bit like tearing off a band-aid. “Paul isn't well. He… was in a terrible car crash this morning. He fell into a coma.”

The bandmates panicked. John demanded to know where McCartney was, but Epstein refused to share with him his whereabouts. He immediately took off on his own and decided he would go find out where Paul was his own way: going to every hospital in the area and finding out if Paul was there.

At the second one he arrived at, he was told he was there, but he couldn't have visitors at this time because he was having major surgery done. The same physician eventually had to be called to come explain to John the same things he told Brian. He was spared some of the gruesome details, but he still was told the severity of it. Especially about the possibility of lasting brain damage. John was heartbroken. He fell to the floor and cried into his knees. Lennon didn't see a future of any use to him if Paul died. He sobbed at the doctor's feet, begging for him to save McCartney's life.

“I need him. Please don't let him die on me. Please save my best friend.” He had never cried so hard for anything before. He was in pieces over his mother, but another big loss was sure to doom him. And it was due to another vehicle accident. He sat there sobbing, feeling that he must've been cursed. Everyone he seemed to love deeply and completely got hurt. He didn't think he could live without him.

At some point nurses decided to intervene with John's emotional breakdown by taking him to a room made for families to cry in during similar situations. He again begged them to let him simply see Paul, but it was out of their hands. John stayed there for five hours before Brian came there as well, and he brought the other guys with him. He lied to the bandmates, saying he supposed they could see Paul if the doctors allowed it, but still they weren't able to (which he knew was the case). There was still much to do. A doctor told them all that they may be allowed to see him the next day and with that, they all left. Rich was practically helping John walk to the car. Everyone knew he was taking it the hardest because of the love affair they had. John just kept repeating, “He was supposed to come back…”

*

The label was furious once Brian informed them of Paul's state. Paul McCartney was as good as gone. The lover boy of the band was dying a bit more each day he stayed sleeping still in a coma. As the days passed and the machines did the work of keeping Paul alive, Brian realized hope was slipping. And with it, the empire they had built would surely crumble without him. So, Brian made a slight suggestion to the label, a wild idea that hit him out of nowhere, spun together out of pure desperation. Their bonds and promises of cash would dwindle down, he thought, without him. So, he thought about what could happen if there was a possibility where Paul could be replaced. From then on, the management team, George Martin, Brian Epstein, along with a few private investigators searched for weeks to find a doppelganger that may or may not agree to take on the new identity. A contest was held to find the best lookalike, and it was purposely not promoted in English speaking countries. There would be a promise of a monetary exchange along with the great responsibility of being a Beatle. The winner would have to learn all of Paul's mannerisms, and most of all his musical ability. He was alive but only to be kept alive on life support, where Epstein paid off the prolonged stay there to set aside for future use if needed, because he simply didn't believe in letting the band's success fail due to McCartney's death. Neither did the label's highest level of management.

*

William Campbell was on a work trip in Germany when he noticed an odd article posted at the local market where his love interest worked. He'd come there to visit frequently, whether it be job related or just to see her. And posted in the corner of the bulletin board where all the local festivities were listed was a “Paul McCartney Lookalike Contest”, and the entirety of the wording was in German. Seeing as he was interested in a German girl, he was quite fluent in that language alongside English.

All his life he'd been told he resembled McCartney, if only he would shave and take off his hat and glasses. For a laugh, he took the flier with the intention of entering the competition.

Back in his motel room at around eleven at night, he called the number printed on the paper. An assistant to Epstein answered.

“Hello?”

“Eh, hi, um, ich habe gesehen, dass es einen Wettbewerb gab, bei dem — um, es darum ging, wie Paul McCartney auszusehen. But… I also speak English more effectively if that's more like it.”

“Oh, oh. Okay. Yes, that's…excellent. Hi, okay, yes, may I ask… where you learned of this contest?”

“I saw it posted here in Marburg, Germany.”

“You speak English quite well,” the assistant quickly noticed, “Are you of English descent?”

“Yes.”

“All right, swell. What is your name, sir?”

“William Campbell.”

“Mr. Campbell, where are you currently?”

“Still in Marburg,” replied William. “But I am due to travel home in about twelve days. What are the details of this competition? The flier had little information on it. Will there be a prize?”

The assistant laughed. Of course there was a prize. The chance to become Paul. What more could someone want?

“The prize may vary from person to person, but the closest look-alike will be compensated heavily. I'll tell you what, Mr. Campbell. When you return to England, give this same phone number a call. From there, we will discuss the date and time in which we can judge your appearance.”

Though the person seemed very suspicious, William could do with winning a doppelganger contest. “Can do. May I have your name?”

“Jennifer. Ta. Have a good day.” Click.

William wrote her name down next to the typed phone number, and stuffed the sheet in his suitcase.

*

When William returned and attended the contest, the ‘judges’ were stunned by how closely he resembled Paul. In fact, “Jennifer” had to make a phone call to Epstein himself to reveal the finding. He swiftly cleared his schedule and traveled to where they were in over thirty minutes.

It was no longer an open contest. Brian knew from the very second he laid eyes on William that he was the winner. Now, he didn't sound like Paul in any way. In fact his accent was quite posh. But where Paul's remains were preserved on life support, one of the private investigators who attended the contest as a judge made the quiet suggestion that perhaps a doctor would be able to transfer Paul's vocal cords to Campbell.

But first, they had to tell Campbell all about their actual intentions.

“Mr. Campbell, could you please remove your glasses?” Epstein asked, genuinely needing to see his face without the frames.

Complying, he watched Brian's eyes soften as he looked into his soul.

“My, you're absolutely his twin. Listen… Mr. Campbell, you resemble him so much. Please, please consider taking this opportunity we're about to offer you. Please.”

“What is it?”

“I- I'm afraid we have some classified information. Will you sign this waiver stating if you refuse the offer, you will tell no one about what we tell you?”

William furrowed his eyebrows, but nodded nonetheless. He signed the dotted line and sat back in his chair, awaiting to hear what the catch of all this was.

“To put it quite bluntly, we are in a bind because Paul McCartney is in a comatose state. He was in a motor accident. And we have permission from his only living parent to…for lack of better words…replace him. He needs to go on, for the sake of The Beatles, for the sake of his reputation, and for the sake of his family. If…if you accept this offer, you will simply take his identity. His assets will be your assets. His life will be yours. This way, your identity will perish, but his, well… You are swapping places. We…can make this a real success for you.” Epstein repeated the speech he'd been practicing for days. He crafted it so that the contest winner would consider the likelihood of “becoming Paul.”

William didn't find it funny.

“Jesus. Wh-What sort of twisted game is this?” William felt it was distasteful for this to happen.

“It is not. Hear me out. Paul has one point two million dollars, is dating Jane Asher, is in the world's largest band, has properties, all amongst other amenities. All of this could be yours, if you just accept the role to let it all become your life.”

“That's preposterous! How dare you? I-”

The private investigator Terrence, who was also a judge for the contest, interrupted William as he was going off. “Brian, I knew the winner would react like this. Now he knows the truth. That waiver he signed won't mean a thing if-”

“I'll handle this,” Brian cut the investigator off now. “Mr. Campbell, please… You're our only hope. Sir, you simply don't understand. I'll give you half of my life earnings on top of his. I'm willing to give you an amount of money that is life changing. Please… Not only that, but I've read fan letters before that said they would kill themselves if something happened to Paul.” He tried to make him feel sorry for fans. “I get to see him, day in, day out, where each day he lives it only means another passes by where he's miserable… He's as good as gone. But with you, he won't be. You can become him. Don't you want that? What do you do for work?”

The lookalike had never felt his head and chest pound with such pure adrenaline. He did not know how to put into words how sickening their wishes and promises appeared to him. “That is none of your concern!” William spat. “Do not try and guilt me into replacing someone's whole identity! Are you all fools? This won't work!”

“Oh, yes it can. Trust me. With you it will, undoubtedly. There are only about ten people who know the truth. Everyone in this room, Paul's father, and three professionals.”

Brian opened the folder on the desk, revealing a set of photographs from the hospital. Among them was one that froze William in place—a photo of the real Paul, lying unconscious in a hospital bed. His face was nearly unrecognizable, bruised and swollen from trauma, with thick bandages wrapped around his forehead and covering his right eye. His right arm was missing below the elbow, and wires snaked across his body, feeding into IVs and machines that beeped faintly in the background of the shot. Tubes framed his mouth and nose. He didn’t look like a man sleeping — he looked like a man hovering between life and death. Brian then exhaled through his nose, collecting himself like a man rehearsing control. “William - is it? You don’t understand. We have no choice. The world can’t lose him. The others can’t lose him. We’re buying time here — trying to keep everything from… falling apart.”

William sat frozen, jaw locked, not speaking.

Brian reached for the folder again, his hands trembling just faintly now. “I’ve seen him. Every day. What’s left of him.” His voice faltered. “His arm’s gone, his face is—God, he doesn’t even look like himself anymore.”

He paused, pressing the heel of his palm to his eye. “I used to yell at him if he missed rehearsal. Called him arrogant. And now I just stand at his bedside hoping he blinks.”

Silence.

Then Brian snapped the folder shut, wiping his eye in a single brisk motion. His voice returned, tighter. Sharper. “But it doesn’t matter how I feel. None of this does. What matters is what comes next. And what comes next is you.”

William flatly refused. Shaking his head, he declined, “What? Absolutely not. Never. What you're wanting done has to be against the law. I mean - what real professionals would allow this to morally happen?”

“I know a few. I know, as well, that it isn't against the law if you work for it, is it? Think about it. If you took his place, nothing happened to Paul. Only you. Just imagine it. You'd become best friends with The Beatles, you'd have a gorgeous fiancé, and nearly six and a half million pounds, with all of the money combined! Never again would you have to work another day in your life! Lose your old life to have your chance at fame.”

“I- I can't believe what you're requesting of me. Something needs to be done about this. I need to call-” Campbell stood, going to turn his back on them so he could escape the premises. But the investigator stood up with him, taking his badge out of his breast pocket.

“Who do you think police authorities would report this to? Me. I will do nothing about it. Sir, you need to help us here. If you don't, you don't want to find out what happens.” The entire room was quiet, the air still as the threat the law enforcement worker just made toward William Campbell frightened them all. None of the people in the room knew the investigator would react in this way, not even Brian. He couldn't believe Terrence took matters into his own hands.

“What? Are you- are you insinuating you'd what — kill me if I don't comply?”

“I wouldn't kill you. But you may very well go missing, if you catch my drift.”

Campbell felt his eyes become heavy with tears.

“I have a life. I can’t leave it behind. Please, please let me go. I won't tell anyone. I won't call the police! I promise! I just can't replace him! Nobody can! I thought this was a simple contest!”

Terrence got out from behind the desk, taking his steps toward William. He revealed the weapon he had holstered on his side. “You will replace him. And your old self will go missing. Never to be seen again. Paul is now you. In other words, his life will now be your life. Understand? William Campbell will be the one who passes away. Not Paul… Just accept it.”

The gravity of it all weighed down on him. He couldn't get out. They had him now.

With his heart beating out of his chest, he nodded. The man felt intimidated, for he was afraid to disagree.

*

They forced William to take over Paul McCartney’s life without his full consent. His sense of despair deepened when the investigator personally delivered an obituary with William's name on it. Brian could only look away in that moment. He hadn’t wanted it to come to this. Nothing had been done yet with Paul's body, but the men behind the scheme wanted to scare him into compliance. When the actual Paul died, they planned to bury his body in a casket labeled as William Campbell’s.

Chapter Text

William felt defeated, overwhelmed, and trapped. He was too scared to contact the authorities. Who would believe such a wild story? Worse still, he suspected more law enforcement was involved, like Terrence was. It was obvious things were very hidden carefully. That meant people were assisting from inside police headquarters.
The imposter was forbidden from going outside. Blinds and curtains in the home were immovable. Locks on tops of locks bolted to each and every exit to the outside. The telephone wires were removed, rendering the phone useless unless the ones in control wanted to use the landline. He had no control over the terrifying transformation the men were forcing on him. For his first 2 days there, all he could do was cry and feel an incredible sense of grief.

He thought back to his life from before. The hectic schedule of a car salesman, he had worked at a used car dealership just outside of Glasgow. He was good at it, and in doing so was making a good, honest living. Not because he loved cars, but because he understood people. He knew what their vision was when they were looking for transportation. William could read their doubts before potential customers voiced them, soften them with a smile, push just hard enough to close the deal. Single mothers. Lonely pensioners. Couples on the edge of a financial cliff, just needing a way to get around reliably. He made things happen out of old rusted metal and threadbare upholstery, and when the keys changed hands, they always thanked him.

“That seat? Yeah, it's a bit ripped. But we threw a little blanket over that bad boy. Can't even tell it was there. And that little pop of color, that right there gave life to the inside, that's for sure.”

William remembered that car that had a big rip in the seam. He made it not seem so bad; he actually made it look more appealing than it did coming right off the factory floor. That knack for reading a room, for being able to bend the truth without breaking it—that’s what got him noticed. That’s what got him chosen. And this was bending the truth, to an extent he never thought he'd be able to do.

He finally snapped out of his inner thoughts though to continue overhearing the men speaking in the kitchen. The manager, the investigator, and another unidentified man discussed disturbing plans. William’s dread grew as he learned more about the surgery they wanted him to have.

This larynx transplant they spoke of was no ordinary procedure. Though medically possible, it was exceedingly rare and shrouded in secrecy. Only the wealthiest and most powerful individuals—presidents, influential leaders, and those with substantial hidden resources—could afford it. The doctors who performed these operations were few, demanding hefty fees paid fully in advance, and in cash, wary of legal and ethical scrutiny.

These surgeons operated far from public eyes, in secret facilities shielded from the world’s knowledge. They guarded their methods jealously, treating such cases like favors for the elite rather than medical advancements for humanity. No ordinary person could hope to access this treatment; this was only reserved for those with leverage, money, or some type of influence.

William realized that he was being forced into a costly and dangerous procedure not because of care, but because of cold, calculated decisions made by those who treated him as a mere instrument. That he was a means to more money to be made on down the line. The greed of these doctors and the men behind the plan bound him tightly in place, with no way to refuse.

It wasn’t just about surgery. It was about power, control, and erasing the truth.

"I don't know what to say. He doesn’t sound like Paul. He may look like him, but that’s meaningless if his voice doesn't match." the investigator snapped. His voice was cold and commanding. William found his harsh tone threatening. If only the investigator would let up, William thought, maybe he could escape. But the man was always one step ahead.

"He’ll have time to get there. Larynx transplants are new, but I believe we can get his voice close to McCartney’s. Besides, McCartney’s in terrible shape. The poor lad's got no cognitive function at all. Time is running out. We need to act." said the unidentified man.

*

In just a few days, William was scheduled for a dangerous surgery: a larynx transplant using the real Paul’s very own body as a donor. It was a major risk. If it failed, the imposter could die. If it went badly, he might lose his voice permanently.

But William wasn’t given a choice. The doctor assigned to the surgery was confident he could perform it successfully. He even proposed transplanting McCartney’s entire throat to enhance the outcome.

Meanwhile, William was ordered to train himself to be left-handed. He received a box of tapes featuring Paul’s voice and was told to memorize his speech patterns. That could wait until after the surgery. For now, he focused on mimicking Paul’s signature, tracing it hundreds of times. He practiced writing sentences, copying from real samples of Paul’s handwriting.

Then, without warning he made a startling discovery in Paul’s personal journal: the man had been in love with John Lennon. And what's more is, they were deeply involved in a love affair.

"2 June 1966
John left today in a hurry—something’s going on at his house. I offered to go. He said I shouldn’t, Cyn would feel left out. I miss him too fuckin much. Gonna call him soon. He makes me feel things I shouldn’t feel. I can’t wait to be with him again. I want him to need me like this. I hope he does. I wrote a song just for him an hour ago, ‘Here, There, and Everywhere.’ I need him to know it constantly. I want him to forever feel me, to remember us and how far we’ve come from shagging in strawberry fields to this."

The beautiful complexities that made up McCartney's mind had the replacement feeling hopeless. How could these people force him into Paul's skin? William wasn't creative. He didn't ooze music out of his fingers, yet he was forced to learn it. He was forced to eat, think, dream, and pretend as a man who was once full of life. Full of whimsical individuality. But William couldn’t fight the men in control of him. Everywhere he looked was bolted down, shut or locked. There were controllers watching him everywhere except the bathroom, and that was because there were no exit strategies. The only freedom he had was being allowed to order whatever food he wanted. Even then he couldn't eat too much junk food to “maintain Paul's stature”. He wasn’t allowed to leave the house or use the phone. So, he continued practicing Paul’s handwriting and musical skills daily. What else could he do? He filled page after page in a notebook tracing the alphabet and playing basic bass guitar. He had a long way to go before convincing anyone he was Paul. He needed to pass the time, needing a way to get his mind off of the surgery that was sure to follow.

Chapter Text

After William Campbell’s funeral was over and the real Paul was buried, Brian Epstein finally went public with a fabricated story: Paul McCartney had been in a car accident and was recovering in hospital. Fans were shocked. Brian acted as the media spokesman, constantly giving false updates. He claimed Paul was slowly getting better, that doctors saved his eye and arm. John Lennon was especially upset. He constantly asked to visit, but Brian insisted Paul couldn’t receive guests. The truth was William just sat in Paul's home, perfecting the dead man's same handwriting and left-handedness. He couldn't speak, so he did what he could to get that part out of the way. It was so frustrating, living all your life as a right handed man, only to have to force yourself to become left handed.

*

Meanwhile, as the five-week post-operative appointment arrived, the new “Paul”—William—was under pressure to match McCartney’s voice. Finally and carefully, the once unidentified man (the doctor) told him to speak.

“Don't overwork the vocal chords. They are in dire need of relaxing. Just say one word, and one word only. No clearing of the throat, none of that. I just want you to say, hello.” said the doctor.

“Hello.” William said.

Everyone was stunned—his voice was surprisingly close. There was still work to be done to perfect the accent and intonation, but it was amazing progress. William sounded too posh to be Paul, and that would have to be corrected in the following days.

And that’s what he did. William trained nonstop. Over the course of a few weeks, he focused on learning the songs from the first album, took acting lessons, and listened to Paul’s full record collection. By this point, he had worked through all of Please Please Me—though I Saw Her Standing There still tripped him up, especially with its tricky bass line. He managed the other tracks better, and his relentless day-and-night practice was enough for him to play the bass parts and harmonies without completely falling apart. The rest of The Beatles’ albums remained a mystery to him, and that worried him. Still, it was enough progress to convince the men in charge that he might soon be ready to meet The Beatles.

The scariest part would be seeing John Lennon face to face. William knew Paul and John had a deep, emotional bond. William didn’t mind Paul’s romantic feelings for John, but he had no interest in continuing that connection. He knew it would hurt John to not pursue the once flaming relationship, but he could only do so much. He would not succumb to a homosexual relationship. All his life he’d never allowed himself to look at a man that way, afraid of the consequences too much to delve into that lifestyle. It wasn't for him, and he constantly reminded himself—no matter how handsome Lennon was in photographs. Or how humorous he sounded in the studio outtakes.

So, seeing as he had gotten Please Please Me down for the most part, the ones behind the plan decided it was time to reintroduce "Paul" to his bandmates. Also, Jane Asher, Paul’s fiancée, had been vocal in the press about how much she missed him. The lie had become complex—everyone believed Paul had been in hospital for months, regaining back his strength after the crash. Brian, the investigators, Paul’s father, and even paid hospital staff kept the secret. Not to mention the underground elite doctor who performed the transplant surgery.

It was time for the band to reunite with the new Paul. In a car with the band, Brian prepared them to see him again. He had to get them ready for what they were about to see and hear.

“He’s not the same as before,” Brian said. “Doctors say he has memory loss. He may regain it, or maybe not. He’s lucky to be alive. You might notice slight changes in his face, and remember—his voice has also changed slightly. He had some work done on it to repair it. But he just needs time…and help to remember who he was."

“I’m glad he’s finally fuckin’ back home,” John said. “But is he really okay to be around us?”

“Yes. He hasn’t spoken too much. He just nods or shakes his head mostly. The doctors say it’s trauma. He understands everything, but won’t talk a lot yet. Hope that changes when he sees you lot.”

“My sweet Paul,” John said, visibly emotional. This time apart had made him the most serious he’d been in ages. “He…really doesn’t remember anything?”

“No. Not his parents, not his brother…’n not even you lads. The good thing is, he played a bit of bass and guitar… He may still have some music in him. But other than that, we'll have to help him find his footing again.” The plan was far from over. But William had made it this far. Now he had to survive being Paul McCartney in front of the people who knew him best.

John cried to himself in the backseat of the car after learning his love wouldn’t remember him. The one in love was desperately hoping just seeing him again would trigger the memories they shared, though he knew this was only wishful thinking. His knee bounced with anticipation, and he bit on the skin around his index and middle fingers on his right hand. Still, he prayed harder than he had in a long while. Even though a sick feeling resided deep in his stomach about it… There was an overwhelming feeling of gloom in the air.

Before they pulled in, he dried his eyes, honestly just wanting to see Paul alive and well at this point… The man put on his shades, swallowed the lump in his throat, and made his way inside. It was an uneasy feeling as Paul would never be the same, but he had to be strong. For the sake of everything. At least he fucking made it, thought John.

Fake Paul was eating when they arrived. John approached him first by sitting with him at the table. The imposter looked at him with wide eyes, never having a celebrity as famous as him so close to his body. William was given a strict dialog to follow, and he needed to be on top of it at all times. His heart raced, and his hands began to feel sweaty. He couldn't let his guard down. Not even once. He was forced to stick to a loose script he memorized and needed to follow.

Alas, the other bandmates allowed them to have privacy. Brian watched from the doorway.

“Paul… We- I just- I need you to first know that I missed you. So fucking much... I missed everything about you. My god. I never thought I'd see you again. You look great. How do you feel?”

“Just okay, thanks.” He furrowed his brow, looking back down at his plate.

John continued to stare him down, wishing the man said more than that. He wondered if he recalled his face at all, if he remembered the love they were deeply involved in together. Even just a little bit.

“Do, uh… Ye really not remember me, Paulie?”

William sighed, his acting lessons finally coming into play. It was the most words he had spoken to anyone other than the acting lessons instructor. “You look like who they keep saying is a bloke called John Lennon, but, no, I don't know you at all. Brian said me and you used to be close. I- I'm sorry. I wish I understood it all.”

John cried instantly, though the tears fell slowly and silently.

“Not even a little? You don't remember Mendips, or Forthlin? Or your birthday in ‘63, or… anything that happened…between us?” he asked, voice choked in his throat by the last word.

The imposter gave him a confused look, shaking his head quickly. “It's almost as if…I’ve never seen you before in my life. I'm so sorry. What…all happened between us?”

John swallowed hard, looking down before glancing at Brian. His manager gave a sad smile, shaking his own head. “I told you, Lennon. He doesn't even know himself. How could he remember you?”

“But Brian… We— he was involved in everything with me. I can't understand how—”

“John, man, listen… I'm really sorry I don't remember. I wish I did. It's frustrating… They— they tell me I had a girlfriend I was engaged to, that I even drove a car. I don't remember how to drive… I picked up a guitar and I could faintly recall some shit, but I don't know the words to anything. I can't remember a fucking thing. I don't know who I am. I haven't a clue who my own family is, so how could I remember you?” he snapped.

Brian appreciated the true acting skills it took for this to happen. Everything was working perfectly, according to plan. Besides John running off, that is.

John got up and stormed out of the room at this revelation. Paul forgot everything. Nothing they did resonated in his memory, and in the man's mind they were nothing short of strangers. This fact set him in such a horrific, sour mood. Didn't want to talk about it, didn't want to think about it. Only thing his mind wanted was to get fucked up. He needed to forget, too, then.

The other bandmates weren't as harsh or pushing toward him. They were more understanding. Ringo and George stayed over that night, filling him in on a few details of what Beatlemania was and simple experiences they all had together. George cried about it, but he felt like one day it would all come back to him. Boy, how wrong was he?

Brian tried to chase Lennon, but once the man wanted out, he got out. Not a trace was left behind of him, and this was a terrible sign.

*

Nothing about where he went was safe for him. If Paul was around and actually remembered anything about John, it would be no surprise that he turned to drugs in a time of desperation. Paul wouldn't let him get away if he had his mind. John went to his dealer mate and got himself heroin, a bad habit McCartney was finally able to talk him out of before the accident. He remained at the dealer's house, ready to lose himself in the substance that made him relax, made him forget about it all just like Paul did. When he was on it, nothing mattered anymore. Just felt like he was flying high on a crisp breeze, away from every earthly problem that ever grazed his rollercoaster of a life.

Brian nor any of the other members knew who John's hookup was due to it being kept a secret. John never shared any names with Ringo or George as to who he spent time doing drugs with because they would always tell Paul. But they all knew what he was doing. They just hoped he'd be back soon.

The bandmates spent time with “Paul” and slowly began telling him all about things he couldn't recall any longer. George even attempted to explain the love John had for him, but didn't want to go into extreme detail as he didn't know “Paul” already knew it from the journal he read. The members of the band with their memories intact had loving spouses that didn't mind them staying there for days on end, since it meant they were trying to help “Paul” create a timeline of events, filling him in on major milestones that mattered most.

On the first day, they shared stories of the tour days, not forgetting to shed light on the imposter of the dozens and dozens of beautiful women they all slept and partied with. They also told him of the times in Hamburg, and Harrison recalled fondly the nights they were young and just beginning a blossoming friendship in Liverpool. “Paul” wrote such things down in his own notepad as he felt some things were crucial to have in his possession, crucial for him to try and “dig into a deeper self-awareness.”

The second day George began opening up about John's relationship to the imposter, stating that there was a spark that was ignited between them the very moment Lennon was introduced to McCartney.

“I remember the first time you told me you met John. You played for him the first time you saw him. You told me he loved it, but with ‘is friends all ‘round he played it cool like he didn't wanna admit it.”

“When did I play for ‘im?”

George explained the time John played a local concert with his first band, The Quarrymen, and that after the show Paul played Twenty Flight Rock just to impress him with the hardest song he knew.

“I knew that song?” The imposter was genuinely interested in hearing this, as it was brand new information. He immediately wrote it down and drew a star next to it, indicating that this was a song he needed to learn how to play soon. He heard the track in Paul's record collection undoubtedly, and rather enjoyed it. But it seemed too hard. Especially the bassline...

“You knew a lot of songs. Hundreds of them. Probably thousands, really. We first learned all the chords, actually. When we knew the chords, it was like any song seemed easy for us. God, I really can't believe Macca don't even know one song anymore.” George looked to the drummer in disbelief. It was like a shotgun to the chest to know that all their hard work learning all those mountains of songs, all those countless hours spent grinding, were flushed down the drain.

“I'm truly at a loss for words. I'm glad he made it but damn, he doesn't remember not one thing.” Ringo agreed. “When you woke up, did you know your name?”

“No,” answered the forced imposter. “I didn’t know anything. I understood what everyone's saying, but… It's like I never had a memory to start with. Now… I mean, I just actually realized something a few days ago.”

“What?” asked the drummer.

“Paul” felt his heart race. He knew the first album, but was it in Brian and the investigators’ plan to reveal that so suddenly? Seeing as there was no one of the sort present, William went with his gut and cleared his throat. “Well, y'know, I— I felt… like, like there might be a memory of… some music. It felt like I'd played it a bunch. Familiar. I dunno… It's like…a part of me remembers how to play certain things. Not the words or the titles, though. Just the song itself.”

The other men shared a look, and George wasted no time in leaving the room to grab one of Paul's guitars.

Handing it over, George smiled, hope rising in his chest. “Play what you can, Paul. Please.”

One of the songs that William had learned with ease was Love Me Do. Starting with the opening riff, Harrison grinned fondly, not expecting any of the songs he'd play to be so clear and crisp in sound—and certainly not one from their earliest works. “Paul” pretended like he didn't recall the lyrics, so he kind of just hummed what he “thought” the vocal melody was. Rich noted that his hums sounded a bit off but it made sense because McCartney was supposed to have been through a surgery to repair his voice. Brian told them it was expected that it could have changed some. George picked up the other guitar and actually started singing the words, making the imposter's cheeks heat up at the prospect of playing with a legend for the first time. All the time he spent learning the first album was paying off.

The bandmates had no problem believing it was Paul now. All hope wasn't lost after all. But everyone else had to believe it—especially John, who was off getting as high as he could get.

Chapter Text

The next day, “Paul” had to meet with his father, and then Jane. Jim knew of McCartney’s true death, but in a sense he was trying to force himself to believe his son never died. It was an unhealthy way to live, and William wasn't aware Jim already knew it. The deciders liked it that way.

When the father first walked in, he hugged him hard. He couldn't believe how closely they looked alike, almost like they could've been twins. William's birthday was 19th August, 1945, though. Now he had to remember his new birthday was in June. Studying a binder full of Paul McCartney facts seemed so unorthodox, but the imposter was trapped there, unable to change anything about the situation. Being promised fame and fortune didn't sound so bad after a while of doing so much to change himself, almost as if he had some kind of case of Stockholm syndrome. Paul's brother tagged along with Jim. He had no idea that his brother was truly dead. Jim never revealed it to him, wanting no one else to know the truth. He treated the imposter like he would his own son, and together the two spent time informing the man of old stories. It was an odd feeling for William and Jim alike, but it was the new reality for them.

An hour after Jim left, Jane was pulling in the driveway.

Jane wanted to see Paul after learning about his fate, but was never allowed to because Brian told her everyone had to wait until he was “back to himself.” He said it was for medical reasons—that he needed to heal before she saw him, that he had a lot of work that needed doing to fix the state of his appearance. He also said Paul himself requested to not be seen by anyone until he looked better. Brian explained that he knew she was abroad working on an important movie. He didn’t want to disturb her with the haunting truth, he said.

Jane entered the home nervously, knowing that Paul didn’t even remember her anymore. Still, it was the man she had loved dearly and missed to no end. She already had tears in her eyes as she approached him, and “Paul” stood to greet her.

She reached her hand up to his face, and “Paul” furrowed his brow. He allowed her to feel his cheek and felt his heart speed up as she pulled him in for a warm embrace. The lovely woman smelled like vanilla and cocoa butter, reminding him of his very own girlfriend he used to have months ago. In a dark way he enjoyed this—enjoyed having this woman by his side. It was the first connection with a woman he'd had in such a long time, and it excited him to no end. “Paul” hugged her hard as well, and during it he noticed her hair smelled even greater. “You’re so beautiful,” he told her quietly, causing the red-headed girl to cry.

“Paul, it's me. Jane… I missed you so,” she sobbed into his neck. “Please tell me you remember something about me...”

Paul shook his head. “I don't. Like I told everyone… I-I'm sorry. But… you look like someone important to me…”

*

He asked her to stay the night, and from there the two spent a while just chatting and eating small snacks. William told her fake stories about his time in the hospital, even telling her about the vocal cord surgery he actually did go through. Briefly he wondered what she would think if she knew he had the real Paul's throat and larynx transplanted into him, but he hated the way the truth made him feel—so he completely threw it away as soon as it crossed his mind.

That night, when he finally joined her in the bedroom, Jane was already curled beneath the blankets, her hair spilling across the pillow like a soft halo. She reached for him without hesitation, and he kissed her slowly—lingering, tasting, as though he didn’t want to rush anything. His mind drifted to how he used to kiss Annaliese, missing her beautiful soul. Don't get him wrong, now—Jane Asher had it all. But he and Annaliese had a deep history and bond rolled into one. He was fixing to propose to her soon, but now he'd likely never see her again. With that in mind, he pulled away, looking deeply in the actress’ eyes, seeing something foreign in them that he couldn't fully get a grasp on. God, she was too perfect for him. He didn't deserve her. Instead, he imagined this was his time to shine, that this woman before him was waiting for him to turn her on. William had to perform excellently; she needed to see what he was capable of. If his soul didn't deserve her, perhaps his body did. He'd been through a hell of a lot, and now he could actually be allowed to take his time with an extraordinary woman. The man pressed his lips to hers again, closing his eyes and pretending Annaliese was the one below him.

The way he was kissing her contrasted deeply to how Paul had always been eager before. He always dove in with an urgency that sometimes left her breathless but rarely gave her time to melt into it. Tonight, though, he was deliberate on purpose. His hands wandered slowly over her, memorizing her curves to give in to the illusion that he was rediscovering them for the first time.

They kissed again, deeper this time, and when they broke apart his forehead rested against hers. His voice was low, almost uncertain, as if he were admitting a secret. “Do you know how lucky I feel if you’re the woman who wants to marry me?”

Her breath caught. The way he said it—quiet, sincere—sent warmth flooding through her. She kissed him again, harder this time, unable to stop herself.

She noticed his slower pace without a doubt. He’s going so slow, she thought, her pulse racing. He never went this slow before… But the surprising thing was—she liked it. More than liked it. It made her feel wanted in a way she hadn’t felt for years, as though every touch had meaning. Her breath caught when his lips traced the line of her collarbone, moving lower, his pace unhurried, coaxing shivers from her skin.

William liked to take his time with a woman. He found the female orgasm to be a work of art that needed time to be perfect, not rushed and carelessly done.

When he finally entered her, it was with the same deliberate rhythm. At first, she almost wanted to urge him faster out of habit, but then the slow, steady pace began to drive her wild when he put force behind it. Each movement seemed to build, stretching out the pleasure, winding it tighter and tighter until she could hardly stand it. She clutched at his shoulders, whispering his name between gasps. With the way she moaned Paul's name, he soon learned to like the sound of it leaving her lips.

And when he finally did go faster—right near the end—it felt like a dam breaking. The release was so intense her eyes filled with tears, not from sadness but from the sheer rush of it.

Afterward, they lay tangled together, her head resting against his chest. She could feel his heart hammering beneath her ear, and she smiled in the dark.

This is better, she thought, drifting toward sleep. Whatever changed in him… I’m glad it did.

*

The next day around noon, unexpectedly, Brian came into the study to find “Paul” going through the dead man's things. Jane was in the bedroom, still sleeping. The ones in charge gave him privacy while Jane was there, which was a relief to her. To Jane, their relationship was almost brand new. This version of Paul had no memories, no memory of hurting her before by cheating. It was freeing, being able to have a second chance with him. The waiting was worth it. She slept the most soundly this day she had in many moons, all thanks to being back with the man she felt was all hers now. The slate had been somehow wiped clean, and she had no other women to compete with, because he didn’t remember them.

“I hope you find this position well and not a total loss,” the manager said. “You're adjusting great, finally. I'm happy he—well, you—are still with us.”

“He isn't,” replied the imposter. “He died. I'm here to replace him, and it feels disgusting… The one most hurt is that Lennon fella. And it—it’s like the happiest is Jane. I don't know if you've been made aware, but Paul and him were secret lovers, Brian. For me to act like I don't remember must keep him so depressed. I feel terrible.”

Brian took a seat, grabbing one of the personal journals the real Paul kept. He opened it and flipped to a random page. He silently read it.

27 March, 1965

I've been thinking, I need a holiday away from Jane. It's not that I hate her or anything, but she always pushes me. I can never just relax after a hard day. There's always a strict routine with her, if the schedule goes off track even once it seems her whole day is ruined. I can't control the weather. But I wish I could just to make her happier. Damn !!! Hate to say it, but kinda glad she's gotta work on that film of hers again. She left just yesterday!
George is coming later, he's bringing pot and we're gonna jam a bit. Have another tune in mind, but no words to it yet. That's where John comes in. He’ll be in later, hopefully in time to practice with us for just a few.
I invited Rich, but he is spending time with his lady. Family man, that one.
I miss my Johnny. We really need to get away. Need to get a bit of rest with him. Always get the best sleep when we're together.

The manager then sighed. “I really did know of their relationship. So did the other members. But that's all who knew it. We acted like it wasn't so, but we knew it was. I knew that would be the hardest to come to terms with. That's why I wanted you to find that out for yourself. And I wouldn't force you to continue that if it's not ideal for you.”

William scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Real shocker. Finally, something you lot won't force me to do.”

“You confuse me… Sometimes you enjoy it, other times you act like this is just a right tragedy.”

“Are you going to sit there and act like the way you brought me in to do this wasn't a scare tactic? I mean, to me, the whole part with John, it's something I can't stop feeling guilty about.
I'm here to take Paul's place physically, but… John is still mourning him. And that man's fiancée tells me she's the happiest she's ever been, only to have me back. But I just can't let myself enjoy it like I need to.”

Brian happily noted the interchangeable way William used “Paul” and “me” in the same sentence. It was slowly coming about—the fusing of their thoughts as one. “About John, well, it wasn't healthy anyways. They fought and made up every couple days. Jane was always the better choice. Not the best for John, but let me worry about him. I'll get him out of that state of mind. I promise. You do what is best for Paul.”

“I—really, I don't care if it was healthy or not… I know that feeling. I miss my girlfriend, too. I can trick myself into thinking I'm with her with the lights out and me eyes closed, but Liese thinks I'm dead… When I last saw her, I told her I'd see her again in just a few weeks. Never knew this all would be the case.” The man sounded exactly like Paul in speaking that part that Brian had to look to the floor to keep himself from reacting too noticeably.

“Lad, look… I-I'm sorry. This is just how it is. How it has to be. Think of what you can accomplish as Paul McCartney. You are him, he is you. There is no William, only Paul. When you're looking at your substantial bank account, don't feel anything less than important, Paul.”

“Paul” felt tears spill down his cheeks. “But I keep remembering what I wanted to accomplish as William.”

The manager sighed. It was very hard for him to keep up the act, because Brian knew William was right deep down. However, with all this happening and it being televised on the news, the manager had been told that recently their record sales were up greatly due to the publicity with Paul's accident. “With all due respect, you as William were nothing. You were a nobody. Paul is a public figure. He mattered to millions. I'll tell you what—let's make an appearance in public. Let them see you through their eyes. Everyone misses you, Paul. You need to understand just how much you mean to them.”

Shrugging his shoulders, he knew they never gave him much choice other than what to eat or drink. And it gave him something else to study for…

*

The extravagant mirror before him didn’t recognize who was in front of it.

William sat in a dressing room that wasn’t his, under lights that made his skin look artificial. He had been caked down with foundation, and the hired stylist tugged at his hair while another man compared photographs. Nobody spoke to him like a person.

“You need to learn to smile like McCartney.” Brian said behind him, reaching his hand onto “Paul's” chest to fix his buttoned-up shirt more neatly.

He blinked. McCartney.

William wasn’t sure when he’d agreed. Maybe it was when he realized he had nowhere to go. Maybe it was when he saw how easily they’d erased Paul—how quickly a life could be deleted.

He clenched his hands in his lap.

“This has been a bloody murder. Not of the body, but of the truth.” he thought, his heart hammering as the nervousness coursed through his veins.

They were carving it into him, etching it directly into his memory—the memory of a self erased, while Paul McCartney somehow lived on. And McCartney had to be that charming man everyone once adored. He was that man now. He had to carry the weight, and bear the burden of someone already buried.

The dressing room door swung open behind the two men. “McCartney's on in 5,” said a stranger's voice. “He needs to look mostly in cameras 1 and 3.” Then the door shut.

“Now,” began Brian. “I need you to stick to the script. You have no recollection of the life you once had. You're trying to get it back by learning from everyone. Don't discuss much else, don't talk too long.”

“I know. I only went over it five hundred times.”

“Now is not the time to be smart,” Epstein sighed. “Remember, all eyes will be on you, Paul.” He said it as if he were truly talking to Paul. How could he not come to terms with McCartney really being gone? William was not Paul. He wasn't him, though they've exhausted every effort to make him be Paul.

“It's William,” he uttered slowly.

“No, it isn't.” The manager heard him. “Don't go on with that name in mind, lad.”

*

The lights were hot. Brighter than he'd expected. William blinked into the cameras, spine straight, smile measured. A lot was riding on this broadcast.

“Paul, how are you feeling?”

William paused. That name still felt like a coat a size too small—tight around the chest. But he smiled. Just like he’d seen in the tapes. That charming, boyish smirk that crinkled the eyes. He’d practiced it in the mirror so many times it now came without thinking.

“Better every day,” he said smoothly. “Still piecing everything together. But I feel… lucky. Very lucky.”

The reporter nodded, offering a sympathetic look. The audience sighed in relief.

William’s heart thudded quietly beneath his suit. He had them.

He answered the next question about songwriting with a laugh—light and quick, almost cheeky. He tilted his head just like Paul used to. He scratched his ear the way he’d seen in a dozen interviews. He tossed in a “You know, mate,” as if it were second nature.

And it was starting to feel that way. Especially with the crowd hanging on his every move. He noticed the girls squealing at a particular smirk, and the attention—it was intoxicating. This was what he needed to feel alive, to feel powerful, to feel seen in a way William never had.

It had been months. He had watched every interview, heard every isolated vocal track, memorized every twitch of the man’s face. And now he was here—not as William, but as Paul. And they believed it.

A thought bubbled up, uninvited: “Maybe I really can be him.”

Not just on camera. Not just for Brian, or the fans, or the band.

He could live it.

“They love him. They never loved me. Not like this.” he thought.

The idea curled around his brain like smoke. He straightened up, let his eyes gleam just a little. Reached into Paul’s old bag of expressions—raised brows, soft grin, shrugged shoulder—and dropped them into place like the costume of a person he was forced to be.

“I may have lost my memories,” he said to the reporter, “But the music... the music just, it never left. Not really.”

The crowd erupted in applause. William felt it wash over him, warm and thick, vibrating in his chest and echoing in his ears. Applause for Paul. But it rattled through his body too. They were right. He was him. His hands tightened slightly, heart hammering—not just from nerves, but from the rush of being adored.

And for the first time…he liked the way it felt. The public bought it. The applause was real. William could feel it echo in his chest…and he really wanted it now. Too much.

“Maybe…I am him.”

Chapter Text

The interview had gone better than expected. He’d tilted his head just right, kept answers vague, making Brian practically glow behind the curtain. William had never performed under such pressure before—and certainly not on this scale. Selling a car to a widow who couldn’t afford it? Easy. But selling the image of a man the world adored? That was something else. The approval was addictive. That version of him—the smiling, soft-spoken, once impossible version—was being etched deeper into the world’s memory. He was Paul now. Every little success made him crave another hit. To have all those eyes on him at once gave him a rush of euphoria like no other.

It wasn’t long after the interview aired that William found himself pacing Paul’s old bedroom, restless and electric with ambition. He wanted to go back into the studio—not to mimic, but to create something new. Something the others wouldn’t expect. A gentle piece. Something true to him.

Listening to all the Beatles’ music in chronological order—Please Please Me to Revolver—it was clear the men were up for experimental changes. If he was to be Paul McCartney, he needed to embrace that desire to travel into unknown territories, to establish new ideas from scratch, to be perfectly unconventional.

He sat down with Paul’s acoustic, determined. This was his new mission: begin again, with something untouched, something that could belong only to him. McCartney had always stitched feelings into songs; every joy, every ache lay hidden behind a catchy melody. So he would try the same. Clear in words, honest in sound, but never giving away too much.

He told himself Paul was a man without memory, and he tried to echo that silence inside. To reach the deeper self he once called William. The dissonance unsettled him—he felt out of place—the way Paul would feel if this were truly his life.

The guitar still felt foreign in his grip, mostly because he was a right-handed man forced into a left-handed lifestyle. William couldn’t make it sound pristine yet. However, in the limited time that had passed, he knew he was on the right track to become great. And the real Paul's journals were invaluable. Many notebooks, some old, fragments rather than full songs, odd sketches, single lines, scribbles, and bizarre dreams written at 3 AM. Some pages smelled faintly of cigarettes and lavender soap. William had read them all repeatedly, underlining clues about how he should think. They were his pages now, after all.

Using his own struggles, he wanted to surprise everyone—John, George, Ringo, even George Martin, and the world at large—with his personal twist. He needed another big moment in the limelight.

One line struck him, and wouldn’t leave:

"He sees the world differently. Like he's watching from the outside of the glass, not inside it."

He plucked at the strings until they formed something close to a major seventh. Soft. Distant. That felt right. It resonated.

He jotted the chord down on a page of his own, beside a line that came mid-strum:

“Day after day, alone on a hill…”

He stared. Could he make this something great?

That’s not Paul. That’s me.

He looked at the mirror. The man in it wore Paul’s smile, Paul’s haircut. But the eyes were uncertain, searching.

He returned to the notebook, tried a new progression—C to Em to D. Clumsy, but it worked. His fingers ached from forcing them into place. He rubbed his wrist, then tried again.

“The man with the foolish grin is keeping perfectly still…”

He stopped, repeated the line while playing the chord, and listened.

The notes hung in the air like ghosts. Gentle. Strange. Beautiful.

He smiled.

He bent over the page, pen hovering, acoustic against his knee. Words tumbled in fragments, half-thoughts shaped by the ache he carried.

"But nobody wants to know him…" The line stared back mercilessly. As William, no one had cared—not Brian, not Terrence, not the surgeons who had sliced him apart and put him back together. He’d been disposable, faceless enough to wear another’s skin. They had made it clear he was nothing more than a fool.

"They can see that he’s just a fool…" He whispered it aloud, and the truth stung. All his years before this—selling cars, scraping by—had meant nothing. His past, his words, his existence, buried under Paul McCartney’s shadow. No one wanted William’s voice. No one ever had.

Yet here he was, writing as if Paul himself were bleeding onto the page. Perhaps that was the trick—the only way he could matter was to wrap his own worthlessness inside McCartney’s melody. A fool’s truth, disguised as genius.

His pen scraped again, almost without decision.

"And he never gives an answer…" That was William too, wasn’t it? Never asked for answers, never trusted with them. In this new life, he was forbidden from speaking the truth even if he wanted to. Silence wasn’t choice—it was design. A man without answers was easy to control.

"But the fool on the hill sees the sun going down, and the eyes in his head see the world spinning ‘round…" He mouthed the words, staring past the paper toward the window where dusk pulled shadows over the garden. That image felt too close: a man set apart, misunderstood, watching the day end while the world carried on without him. And yes, the world spun on, crowds screaming for Paul McCartney, headlines printed, and none of it stopped because William Campbell had been erased. They had buried his name, his mother’s grief, Anneliese’s suspicion. The world turned, whether he stood on the hill or not.

As he tried to play the song, something felt missing between the chorus and the next verse—a space that cried out for breath. For color. A piano solo would be too heavy, too expected. No, this needed something…stranger. His mind drifted to the airy voice of a flute, or something close. That was it. He jotted it down quickly, a sudden stab of clarity.

That was McCartney’s lesson: detail was everything. William had heard it in the session tapes. Paul was always directing, insisting, reshaping songs until they bent to his will. Arguments followed, especially with John, but Paul never backed down. That stubbornness was as much part of the music as the notes themselves. If William was to wear the man’s face, he would have to wear that too. In the studio, he would have to stand firm, fight for the flute or anything else. His way or the highway. That’s what Paul would have wanted.

He flipped through a notebook, scanning chords, half-finished lyrics, little sketches of instruments. Most pages were neat enough to feel intentional, orderly, but then—something felt off.

The next page practically throbbed with chaos—scribbles overlapping words, letters leaning at impossible angles, doodles of stars and faces crowding the margins.

At the bottom, in tight, looping handwriting, Paul had written:

"Damn, I was really high on acid last night !”

William blinked, a laugh escaping him. The honesty, the freedom—it was intoxicating. Here was Paul, untethered, unafraid to admit the strangeness of his own mind.

A thrill ran through him. He wanted to do that too. To feel unchained while he wrote, while he played. To let the music—and the man he was becoming—twist and turn in ways no one could predict. He could be wild, chaotic, alive in the song, just like Paul had been, just like he had glimpsed on this one messy page.

He put the notebook down and knew he needed his hands on the substance. But how?

A man like Paul had connections, sure, but that address book of his was something William still hadn’t gone through. He couldn’t use the phone; Brian had forbidden it. But now, things were different. He knew Brian saw it too—that William was liking his new persona. Perhaps it was time to dig into the list of people he once knew.

He went to the desk, fetching the small leather-bound contact book, its edges frayed, smelling faintly of varnish. William’s fingers trembled slightly as he opened it. Names, numbers, scribbled notes in Paul’s handwriting—some practical, some cryptic.

One entry made him pause. It was just what he was looking for. The name was unfamiliar, but a notation beside it caught his eye: “Dentist—acid for sessions.” His stomach flipped. A jolt of thrill ran through him. The man had supplied Paul with LSD. The same wild spark he’d glimpsed in the messy notebook page.

William hesitated. This was a bridge into someone else’s world, a risky one. But he wanted it—he wanted to feel that pulse of chaos, to understand Paul in ways no one else could.

So he lingered. For days, when he needed a break from the tantalizing musical practice, he kept the contact book close so he could plot about getting LSD for himself. In the quiet of his room, he practiced what he might say, coaching himself in front of the mirror. He tried on Paul’s cadence, his phrasing, even his casual indifference. If Brian stood nearby, he couldn’t afford to slip.

Finally, one afternoon, he leaned in the doorway of another study, the one downstairs that Brian had claimed over his time living there. “Paul” had the contact book clutched in his hand. The number—unfamiliar, dangerous—prickled at the edge of his curiosity.

“Brian,” he said, sliding into the doorway with a practiced calm, “I need to make a call.”

Brian looked up from the desk, eyes narrowing. “About what?”

William held his gaze. “It’s just research. For the music. I want to understand how Paul worked, the people he trusted. There’s someone in here—someone who could help me capture that, that freedom he had.”

Brian’s fingers tapped the desk, slow and deliberate. “And you think calling this person is necessary?”

“Yes,” William said, keeping his voice steady. “I need to feel it. Not just mimic it. I can’t get into the studio fully prepared unless I understand how Paul saw the world sometimes—how he let go.”

Brian sighed, leaning back. He studied William for a long moment, weighing the risks. Finally, he said, “Fine. But you stay on the line here. I want to hear this conversation. And if anything sounds off, I will cut it immediately.”

William’s chest tightened, a mix of relief and excitement. Permission granted. Not total freedom—but enough. Enough to step further into Paul’s shadow, and maybe, just maybe, find a piece of himself in the chaos.

William held the receiver carefully, Brian standing just behind him, silent and alert. He adopted Paul’s easy, casual tone—smooth, controlled, but not revealing too much.

“Hello—Paul here,” he said.

There was a brief pause on the other end, then a softer, concerned voice. “Paul? Paul McCartney? Oh wow! How are you holding up? I heard about the accident… the memory loss and all. You doing alright? I wasn't sure if you'd ever ring me again.”

William hesitated, just a fraction, before replying with the practiced calm of the man the world expected him to be. “I’m…getting there. Slowly. Trying to get m’ head back into music. It's the only thing familiar anymore.”

The dentist’s tone lightened, a hint of a smile in his voice. “Good to hear. You must be remembering some things if you knew to give me a call…”

“Paul” laughed. “Heh, y'know… I just-”

“Don't say another word, lad. You still have unclaimed scripts from me anyhow. With this batch, you'll want to be careful. I can give you some tips on how to manage things safely—how to take it, how to prepare. Little details make a big difference.”

“Of course,” William said, jotting notes silently as he listened. Every word was useful. Every instruction was a piece of Paul’s past he could now replicate or adapt.

“And don’t worry,” the dentist continued, voice low and reassuring. “When I drop off the box later, I’ll leave notes inside. Step by step. You’ll know exactly what to do.”

"Ta, I really appreciate this. I'll talk to you later then. Bye."

"Uh huh, bye." said the dentist.

William felt a thrill pulse through him—the combination of access, guidance, and trust. He was pretending to be Paul, yes, but through this pretense he was stepping closer to the wild energy that had fueled the songs, and learning how to wield it safely. Brian’s sharp gaze didn’t faze him; he had the instructions now, the pathway, and the enthusiasm.

Chapter Text

The man waited, watching out a single window blind that he was able to turn up after messing with it long enough. Finally, after about two restless hours, he noticed a man leaving a small package at the doorstep. He frantically made his way to the door, and that's when Brian stopped him.

“Where do you think you're going?”

“Oh, I was just-"

"Now, you've been told a million times you are not to leave under any condition without me or Terrence accompanying you." The manager said sternly. "What has gotten into you?"

"Paul" scoffed. He decided to play it cool as the man he was forced to be. "Stop being fucking daft, Bri. I'm not going anywhere." He turned the doorknob, grabbed the package, and shut the door back.

Brian Epstein stood there dumbfounded. For a fleeting moment he almost forgot that Paul was really dead. He had the man's mannerisms down pat with how he had just been addressed. The sharp-dressed man at once forgot how to speak, not to mention how he should even respond to the imposter. "Well...then just what is that?"

The paper crinkled in William’s hand as he held the small brown parcel against his chest. He tore off the string quickly, as though it were nothing important, just a delivery he had been expecting all along. “What’s it look like?” he muttered, half-grinning, half-daring Brian to challenge him.

Brian crossed his arms. His eyes narrowed. “I should like to know exactly what you’ve just picked up.”

“Paul” chuckled and tossed the brown paper onto the nearby table. “Scripts. Just scripts. Nothin’ worth fussin’ about.”

Brian stepped closer. He could smell the faint tang of ink and medicine even through the paper. His gaze lingered as if he could will the truth out of it.

“Who sent this?”

The man shrugged, feigning boredom. “Doc. Remember? Same one as always. You’ve got eyes, Bri—you think I’m makin’ a bloody order with me own old name? Be serious.”

That seemed to land. Brian hesitated, torn between suspicion and the eerie way William had Paul’s scornful tone down perfectly. He finally gave a stiff nod and stepped back. “...Fine. But I’ll be checking in later. No games.”

Once Brian retreated down the hall, William tore into the package with trembling fingers. Inside lay a small cardboard box lined with folded slips of paper. At the top sat a tightly sealed vial, amber glass catching the dim light. Beneath it—notes, written in sharp, neat handwriting.

Take one drop only at first. Wait an hour. Do not combine with spirits.
—J.

William’s breath caught. He ran his thumb across the signature, the single letter. He briefly wondered who J was, but nevertheless folded the note carefully before slipping it into his pocket. He figured it must be the doctor's first name initial, not pausing to linger. Going to his study, “Paul” needed only a single moment to act. Sliding a chair under the doorknob of the study, this would ensure no one could walk in unexpectedly. Next, he flipped on the record changer—and that scratchy warmth of “That’s All Right” began to fill the room. The music felt like a signal, a beat to carry him into something new.

He knelt beside the desk, rifling through the journals once again. Pages and pages of memories, sketches, lyrics, and notes sprawled before him, but one of the books caught him immediately. Only detailed accounts of moments with John, intimate and playful, filled the margins and margins of the paper. Each line pulsed with a life he could almost taste, a world he could inhabit for just a few hours.

His fingers shook slightly as he uncorked the amber vial, reading the dentist’s instructions once more: One drop. Wait an hour. Do not combine with spirits. He counted slowly in his head, imagining the sensations that would follow. One drop. One moment. And he would see what it was like to be Paul, fully, alive in the chaos of his own making.

The liquid hit his tongue and slid down his throat with a faintly bitter tingle.

As the hour spent reading journals was nearing its end, “Paul” soon blinked, and the edges of the room seemed to breathe. Before the effects kicked in too strongly, he went to add another vinyl to the changer. The familiar strum of guitar and Paul’s inked words on the pages on the desk began to merge into something unreal—yet somehow alive. The walls, the floor, and the ceiling appeared to be solid, but had a colorful fluid within it.

He soon sank into a chair, journal open on his lap, and let the first wave wash over him. He zeroed in on the words before him, and the lines about John—the laughter, the arguments, the quiet moments in the early mornings—twisted in his mind. Each word seemed to pulse with a hidden energy, a current he could almost reach out and touch. It was warming and he laughed softly at a memory Paul had scribbled—a careless doodle of a shared joke with John, and suddenly he felt a rush of unknown familiarity, a pulse of connection that was entirely foreign except…it wasn't. For once wasn’t William pretending to be Paul. He was something in between—Paul’s ghost and his own self, tangled, chaotic.

The music swelled. The journal’s words danced before his eyes. The room tilted slightly, the light refracting off the walls in slashes of color he knew didn’t exist. William grinned. This intensity, this pure pulse of life, was what he had been craving.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, buried beneath the rush, he felt a flicker of recognition... The Paul he had studied, mimicked, and lived as was alive inside him now, if only for a heartbeat. One drop. One moment. And he was flying, free, into the world Paul had left behind.

*

“Paul” had soon become higher than the clouds in the dimly lit study. He had nowhere, at this point, taken off his shirt—his bare back resting against the cold wood paneling. Already satisfied from pleasuring himself, he felt spent, relaxed in a way he never had in his entire life.

After a beat, his mind started to drift someplace else with his eyes closed, and in some dark corner within it he saw his old self standing there, alone. A mirror had appeared on the wall to his right, amd he walked to it. It was calling him to look in it. But what was first his reflection twisted into something that wasn’t. Paul stared back at him—not the broken, bloodied version William had seen in the pictures that kept him awake sometimes—but one that was whole, alive, with eyes burning into him.

“You’ve taken everything,” the apparition sneered. “My voice. My songs. You even think you got a chance with John. My John. And you think you can just happily wear my skin and be me?”

William’s stomach dropped. His grip tightened on the journal in the real world.

Paul’s grin widened, sharp as glass. “Pathetic. You’re just a salesman playing dress-up. But if you want to fool them-” His tone shifted, colder, instructive, head shaking in disbelief. “The bridge needs to lift higher, not drag. John’ll hear it otherwise. He always does.”

William swallowed hard. It was advice. Real advice. He almost scribbled it down without thinking, but he couldn’t find the strength to. It didn't matter though; Paul knew what he wanted to do.

The image leaned closer, breath fogging the inside of the glass. “See? You can’t shake me. You’ll never write a song without me whispering in your ear. I might as well own you. Especially since, y'know, those little creative ideas you've gotten? They're from me. It's all been me.”

The mirror cracked at that last word, a jagged line splitting Paul’s face in two. The left side was McCartney’s, while the right remained his old self. William staggered back, heart hammering.

The journal slipped from his lap in real life, pages spilling across the floor. His eyes shot back open. He tried to cling back to what reality he could make out still instead. Even as he tried to steady himself, the words clung to him—both the venom and the guidance, inseparable, like chains tightening around his ribs. The sharp sting of Paul’s words still gnawed at him, and he never wanted to experience a conversation with him again.

A sharp click of the study door jolted him. The chair must not have been secured enough to allow him true privacy. Brian Epstein soon stepped inside, eyes narrowing as they swept over William, shirtless, cheeks flushed, and the scattered journals across the desk. The noise slightly jarred the man high on acid, but not enough to make him care the way he should have.

“William,” Brian said, voice tight, almost trembling with something between concern and incredulity, “what on earth—”

“I’m fine, Bri,” William cut in, keeping his voice light, teasing. “Just…writing, you know. Getting a bit—into the…music. That's all.” He smiled, knowing his excuse was bullshit but needing to say something to show he wasn't fully lost.

Brian paused, gaze flicking to the scattered journals, the chair still jammed under the doorknob, and then to the amber vial in William’s hand. His breath hitched.

“You’ve been…taking something?” Brian’s voice was sharp now, but not angry—more alarmed, like a man watching a fire flicker dangerously close to his papers.

“Nothing...bad. Just following the old notes,” William said quickly, tucking the vial behind a journal, remaining his cool despite what just happened in the confines of his mind. “He left instructions. I’m being careful, Bri. Everything’s under control.”

Brian’s sharp eyes didn’t leave him. Silence filled the room, broken only by Elvis crooning in the background. Then Brian let out a slow exhale.

“You really are…committed,” he said finally, tone softening. “I can almost forget that you’re not really Paul...”

“Paul” smiled faintly, heart still racing. He now focused entirely on Brian, sitting up and fixing his posture more straight against the wall. The man rubbed his eyes, “That’s the idea, isn’t it?”

Brian shook his head, unsure if he should be amused, concerned, or both. “Just…don’t let this get out of hand. I’ve seen what obsession can do.”

“I know, Bri,” William said, voice firm but calm. “But this is how I write. This is how I feel. I’ll be careful. Promise.”

Brian studied him a long moment longer, then stepped back. “Alright. Just…keep it under control. And put your shirt back on,” he added, half-scolding, half-relieved. “I’m leaving, but I’ll be checking in. Don’t give me a heart attack.”

As the door clicked shut behind him, William sank back into the chair, chuckling quietly to himself. The thrill of transgression mingled with his lingering high. He returned to the journals, tracing Paul’s words, letting the memories of John guide his pen and mind once more.

Chapter Text

“Paul” stayed up most nights, tripping on acid to achieve clarity about the mind from within. He never took more than one drop, and he was quite pleased to never see Paul in his mind again.

Over the next few weeks, he spent hours rehearsing. Bass, piano, guitar—each felt unnatural, and a bit clumsy under his hands. Notes buzzed, chords jarred, his fingers ached. But slowly, patterns began to settle. Every correct sound gave him a flicker of triumph. It wasn’t Paul’s skill, not yet—but it was something. While high he'd come up with pieces of songs, but they were mere fractions; unfinished, waiting for that extra spark. That would be perfect fuel for John, he thought, excited to show the man what he had been trying his hand at.

Then one night, from the record player, Paul’s voice cracked the quiet: a rough take of Drive My Car. The cocky inflection froze William where he sat. That raw passion—he hadn’t found it yet. He sang along, throat straining, until the echo in the room felt eerily exact. Almost exact. But almost wasn’t enough.

In the next room, Brian and Terrence listened. For Epstein, it was unbearable… Paul’s voice rising from the dead through another man’s lungs. He fled the house at once, unable to face it today. Terrence and another cop took turns housesitting, and where it was his shift he couldn't just up and leave like the manager did. Whether it was shame or embarrassment, Brian didn't know. It was likely a mixture of both all rolled up into one. But Terrence could live well knowing what they had covered up, while Brian had finally let it get to him.

Paul’s spirit lingered though, horrified. He pitied William’s struggle, envied his ability to breathe, and the sight of Brian’s scheme hardened into hatred. And the more William started engaging in his lifestyle, the more Paul began to feel powerless. He was a ghost in his own life, and even though he tried to warn him about getting close to John, he couldn't do anything else. It took so much effort to get inside the imposter's head that he didn't know when he'd get another clear opportunity. His spirit was weakened from that now, and it would be a long time before he could explicitly reach out again. Besides – Even if Brian felt remorse and guilt about what happened, it would never bring Paul back. Not even by trying to replicate him or his work. No matter how close they'd get, no matter how many countless hours William would put in to strengthen his musical abilities. Paul McCartney simply was not a living musician and William was a mere clone, feeding off old ideologies left behind.

William, meanwhile, found Paul’s worn notebook and traced a penciled chord progression. He strummed it on the Epiphone—somber, uncertain.

“John would probably like that one…” he whispered, not sure whether the idea was truly his or Paul’s bleeding through.

*

At last, when he felt ready, he reached for the phone. Brian wasn't here, and the decision to allow him phone calls had been more lenient than in previous days. The ones in charge of covering the scheme felt that he wasn't going to do anything stupid—he liked being Paul so much these days.

His stomach knotted. Of all the people he might have to face, John terrified him most—not because John was cruel, but because he was brilliant. Sharp as glass, unpredictable, and deep down, kind. William admired him already, far more than he should. Paul had warned him, begged him, not to cross that line. And yet… here he was, about to hear John’s voice for the first time.

He dialed George’s number first out of the notebook, thinking it would be easier. His hands shook so hard he nearly dropped the receiver.

“Hello?” he choked out forcibly once he heard the click of the other line answer.

“Paul? Wow…It’s been so long, mate,” George said, relief filling his tone. “A good surprise, today.”

“Yeah… And… I’m sorry, for how long it's been,” William said, his voice uneven.

George’s reply was warm, forgiving. “Don’t be sorry. We’re all here, just waiting on you. Brian said it’s your call when we start talking again. We’ve kept busy, though… John’s even got a whole album in mind. You ready to get back to it?”

“I want to. That's what I've called about. And yeah? What's the new concept about?”

“It's just like, John, y'know, he's been trippin’ on acid for weeks, see. Calls the next album Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. I'm digging it, myself, actually. I think it could be just the thing we need to turn the trajectory of our sound into something really great. Especially this current number we've been working on, well—he's been working on. Me and Rings haven't done much but try to help him find chords or the beat when he can't think of where to take it next.”

“Well, that's what I wanted to hear. I'm happy to try and contribute, if I can. I've been doing the best I can to get better, to try and remember what shit I used to know.”

“You'll get there. I believe in ye.” In the background, a loud crash occurred. “Damn! I- I gotta go. Think the cat knocked down me vase, git!” he chuckled, making “Paul” do the same.

“Okay, I'll talk to you later. I'l call John now.”

“He'd be glad to hear from you I'm sure. Bye, now. I'll be sure and call Ringo to let him know.”

Those words nearly made him choke up… The fact that John would be glad…

“Great. Bye, George.”

William’s pulse spiked, a tightness in his chest. He wanted to hear John, and he dreaded it all at once. Speaking to him was something he knew had to happen, even if it scared the living shit out of him. In his mind, he was such a big part of the real Paul's life that he had inadvertently placed Lennon on a pedestal without much thought. Since the replacement, he'd only spoken to him once. And it had been months now without a single word spoken. So the stakes were high, and so was the level of anxiety. But, like he used to sell cars, he could sell himself as Paul McCartney. Without a bloody doubt.

Then the line clicked, and there it was—time to make this identity shine.

“John?”

“Paul? Is that really you?”

The imposter froze. He felt every nerve firing, the weight of Paul’s warning heavy on his back. He almost couldn’t speak.

“Yeah, John. It’s me.”

John’s breath caught. “God, I thought I’d lost you forever. What's it been? Three, four, nearly five months without a word? I fuckin' just about gave up.”

William’s throat closed up, nervous. “I know,” he whispered, trying to sound steady. “But you didn't give up yet, right?”

The line went silent for a beat.

“Never can. I don't know what's wrong with me. I wish- I wish I could stop caring, but it's—it don't matter. You don't remember any of it. I could spend hours talking ‘till I'm blue in the face. You don't know me.”

Curiosity piqued his interest, getting the best of him. “No, but I've been reading my journals. And-”

“Journals? You had more than one?”

“Heh, uh, yeah, did you not know that?”

“Not at all. Maybe you didn't want me to know about ‘em before, I dunno. I only knew about the song books, and the one brown leather journal. But- so what do they all say?”

He blushed even if John couldn't see him. The details were too embarrassing for him to explain. He felt that these words were his now, and it was a bit embarrassing to be so revealing. Some pages were filthy with detailed accounts of their sex, some were loving poems, some were drawings of women and just overall sappy nonsense. But it was what made Paul so great to study, because that man lived a dirty secret double life, that's for sure.

“Paul? You there? What's in the other journals?” John had asked since William went quiet for a bit.

“Oh… Nothing… Forget I told you about it…” he laughed nervously, “I just- To tell you the truth, it's hard seeing me being with a man. But the way I put it in writing, I loved you so much. I- I don't understand how I could, but- I clearly did. And I'm just- I don't know what to do about it.”

John ’s voice cracked into anger and grief. “Christ… Of course… So the memory wiped you clear of even your homosexuality, too?”

“John, I-”

“I understand. It's a lot. I- I just want to know why didn’t you reach out sooner? You think I haven’t been losing my mind without you?”

William’s hand clutched the phone so tightly it hurt. Don’t say too much more. Don’t cross the line anymore…

“I- I was scared,” he admitted. “But I’ve been writing… I’ve got songs. I want to get back into the studio.”

That shifted John instantly. “Songs? You’ve been writing?” Lennon sounded shocked. That's what William intended to happen by telling him that.

“Yeah. I thought we could work on them together. Get the band back.”

Silence. William heard John breathing—deep, careful, wounded.

Finally, John’s voice softened, breaking into something almost tender. “Of course. We’ll make music again. Maybe it’ll bring you back to me.”

William shut his eyes tight. His heart ached to answer in a way that was his, not Paul’s. But he forced himself to stay inside the lines.

“I hope so too,” he said. And it was true—more true than he wanted to admit. “I really wish I remembered everything… You seem- you seemed important to me. I want to know you like that again.”

Lennon swallowed hard, tears in his eyes. He twirled the phone cord in his fingers, carefully weighing the options of what his reply should be. His wife was playing with their son outside, so he had all the privacy in the world, yet he knew Paul didn't remember anything. He didn't know what to say that wouldn't seem inappropriate to the man suffering from memory loss. McCartney was the only person he truly considered not hurting his feelings.

“We mattered a lot to each other, that's all I know. We spoke every day, we- we did a lot together each week. You knew my thoughts, I knew yours. You were the only one who could ever reach me when I felt anything I shouldn't. You were there when Mum died, when I had no one. We were in love, y'know? S'what makes it so fuckin’ hard for me, Macca.”

William felt himself choke up, hearing that man break down over the phone. He wished he was there so he could hold him, tell him they could get it back. But he just couldn't go any further, not over the phone.

“I'm sorry. I wish this never happened… You sound like an amazing person. That's why we need to start writing together again, okay? I want to try and fix me head.”

“I want that too, Paul.”

“Well then I'll see you soon.”

“Yeah. Bye, love.” Then he hung up the phone, full of hope and happiness that Paul had called him with anything to say. It settled his nerves greatly, but they still weren't in the clear just yet.

Paul’s spirit pressed close, not quite gone, not quite here. Somewhere beyond him was the echo of his mother’s voice, telling him to rest.

“You should go to sleep now. Your time has been up for a while now, my son.”

But he couldn’t—not while John still reached for him in dreams. The imposter may think he had a chance, but McCartney's true self knew just what to show Lennon in dreams to have the man quivering.

John had many recurring dreams where his mind replayed their “greatest hits,” more or less. He would always wake up with a stiffy, and more often than not it was because of a dream about how he and Paul used to make love. He tried to fuck his wife with that same deliberate rhythm that Paul liked, but nothing was the same. She was great, but she wasn't him.

So much passion had filled the bedroom when he and Paul were an item, or the couch, the car, the tour bus, an airplane bathroom—or wherever they ended up. He knew he’d never be able to replicate that with anyone else. Paul was the only man he’d ever been with, and the two of them had tried everything together. He could almost feel how tight Paul was around him, begging him not to stop before moaning into a pillow, or biting his hand to keep quiet. John knew he’d never get that kind of pleasure anywhere else, and he mourned it.

But he mourned more than just the sex. He mourned the moments he once used to dismiss or mock, too. Times when Paul kissed his knuckles like they were something holy, and John had rolled his eyes. When Paul slipped behind him with arms around his waist, resting his chin on John’s shoulder, whispering little endearments, and John had laughed it off.

“Ain’t a bird, Macca, fucking hell. Chill out with that.”

He remembered how Paul’s face had fallen for just a second, before the grin snapped back in place. John had always been too quick to cut down anything that felt too tender, too sappy. And yet—those were the very things he craved now. The warmth of Paul’s arms. The soft press of lips against his fingers. The way he hummed against John’s neck when words weren’t enough.

Now, he’d give anything to feel those hands around his waist again.

And somewhere, at the edges of his sleep, Paul’s spirit lingered—watching, aching, reaching. Not quite gone, not quite here. Still answering him in dreams.

Chapter Text

It was time. The band was waiting on him just inside the well-known and beloved Abbey Road Studios. “Paul” had been practicing all night, like any other day lately, not having much sleep on account of it, too. But he didn't worry; he had two cups of coffee, and he was sure being there in the moment with the world's greatest band would surely wake him up quickly.

The taxi hissed to a stop outside. William’s hands shook as he smoothed the lapel of Paul’s jacket, now his second skin. Every step toward the door felt like walking into a hall of mirrors—half familiar, half terrifyingly foreign.

Brian hovered beside him, cigarette tapping lightly against his palm. “Remember,” he said, voice low, “-they need you. Not a shadow of you—they're counting on the real Paul. Hold your confidence. You’ve got it, I know you do. Smile when you need to, lead when you can. They’ll follow your rhythm, trust me.”

Terrence, silent until now, leaned forward slightly. He clapped him on the shoulder and squeezed it, almost in a fatherly gesture. “And if it gets tricky, I’ll step in. They'll think I’m your psychiatrist. I’ll cover you. But from what I heard from you, you’re ready, lad.”

William swallowed hard, the words lost in the tightness in his chest. The faint hum of instruments leaked from behind the studio door. He could hear the careful tuning of George’s guitar, Ringo’s drumsticks tapping impatiently, and somewhere, the soft strum of John experimenting with a chord progression.

He took a deep breath. You’ve got this. You are Paul McCartney.

The door opened from his own shaky hand, and the smell of smoke hit him immediately. George looked up first, eyes widening. “Macca…” Relief softened his features. “We weren’t sure this day would ever come.” Everyone's eyes were on him at once. He smiled and made short eye contact with all the men, nodding a bit just to show respect.

Ringo grinned, bouncing slightly in place. “Hey, you made it! Don’t get lost on the way to the drum kit, mate.” He gently poked fun, noticing his hesitation and nervousness instantly.

John, arms crossed, leaned against the console. The corners of his mouth twitched in the faintest smirk. “Tsk tsk, you’re late. Typical. Guess some things never change, huh?”

“Paul,” and the others chuckled genuinely, “Oh, y'know I had to make sure I made an entrance that actually deserved applause.”

Ringo added with a grin, “Wouldn’t be the same if you just strolled in quietly, mate.”

“Well, it nearly had me thinking you’d forgotten us entirely. Or better yet - changed your mind about being ready for all this.” John stated.

The man sighed, then rested back on the piano. “Believe me, I'm ready. Feels good to move toward doing something I actually remember anything about.” he answered reasonably. The words were just what the men awaiting his return wanted. He soon began lighting a smoke, just to fit in. William used to smoke a bit in his brief university days, but stopped. The other bandmates smoked a lot, and he was aware Paul did too, so he wanted to keep up with that image.

Just then, the band members took notice of the man trailing in behind Brian. Terrence. John had seen him before, briefly, and recalled him at Paul's house the time they first met after the accident.

“Who are you, then? I don't believe I've caught your name.” he boldly asked just what everyone was thinking, unafraid of confrontation like the others.

Brian moved smoothly to introduce him. “Gentlemen, this is Terrence. He’ll be assisting Paul as necessary. Top psychiatrist. Full attention, fully funded. He's just here in case Paul needs a word or a minute away. This all could be very intimidating for someone in his state.”

Ringo gave a half-laugh. “A shrink in the studio? Bloody hell, won’t he analyze the drums next?”

Lennon furrowed his brow. The joke from Ringo was funny, but he had more important, serious concerns in mind. “You do realize there's pot and acid, and… whatever else here right?” He threw the “whatever else” thing in there because he also had a bit of coke with him to keep the ball rolling all day and night long.

Terrence laughed, “I'm here for Paul, lad. Those things aren't my concern. I know just where I'm at, and what to expect.” He was a detective and head of the department, so John openly admitting to having all of these drugs on hand would usually make him react in a rash way—but he wasn't there to arrest anyone or cause a scene. This was something he was paid to take part in, and this was a lifestyle he needed to help make believable.

“Right… We'll carry on then…”

George shrugged. “Okay, but y'know, as long as Paul’s steady, I don’t care who’s here.”

John muttered, softer this time, “Yeah, whatever helps him keep on track.” His eyes lingered on Paul, not with suspicion, but with a flicker of concern. The months of silence between them thinned just a little. The one joining them after such a long wait exhaled slowly, tension unwinding in his chest. They weren’t pushing him away.

John clapped his hands, cutting the heaviness. “Alright then. I’ve been working on something—a new direction. Concept album, like we talked. George gave you a bit of the rundown, yeah? This one’s different. Got some LSD in the veins, new textures, y’know? Nothing like what we’ve done before.”

George smirked. “Sounds about right for you, John.”

“Right,” John said, eyes brightening. He gestured toward the console. “You’ll want to hear this. Strawberry Fields Forever. We’ve got several rough takes down already. Thinking of layering Mellotron here.”

The tape hissed to life, filling the room with a surreal, haunting melody. John’s voice spilled out—dreamy, confessional, otherworldly. “Paul’s” chest tightened at once. It was so far from the Beatles he’d first fallen in love with—yet so alive, so honest.

His fingers ached to play, to join, to shape it. But he stayed quiet, listening, reading the men around him, waiting for his opening.

This is it. This is your moment.

“Play the beginning back, if you don’t mind,” said “Paul”, steadying his voice. John rolled the tape back, anticipation running in his veins.

“It’s good but…don’t you think the Mellotron should have a bit of an intro? What’s the opening chord?”

“E major,” replied John.

“Paul” remembered learning that chord. Piano had always been his favorite—easiest, too, after all the instruments he’d been practicing. He walked to the Mellotron and sat down, pressing the keys gently. The chord rang out, and he toyed with a few variations until one stuck. Then, almost without thinking, he hummed the beginning of the song, matching the melody John had recorded.

John’s eyes flicked up, and a grin spread across his face. He hummed along, the two of them falling into rhythm. “Yeah—that’s better. A bit of a Mellotron intro. Makes you ready for what’s coming. Play it again.” he told him as he grabbed the guitar.

“Let me take you down, ‘cause I'm going to… Strawberry berry fields…” sang Lennon after the new intro was played.

George nodded, his voice calm but warm. “It sounds great with that.”

“Paul’s” chest swelled, a flush of relief sparking in him. For the first time since stepping into the studio, he felt like he belonged.

The group spent about a half hour getting the intro perfectly incorporated into the track. After that, the song was almost finished. But John still felt something important was missing—one key element—and that was simply experimentation. Dreams were unpredictable, and that's what he wanted in the track, too.

“Alright,” John said, a mischievous grin tugging at his mouth, “Now let’s mess with this a bit. Speed it up, slow it down—see what happens. Could give it some character.”

Ringo leaned over the console, fingers poised over the tape controls. “You sure about this, John? Don’t want to ruin the magic.” He smirked, but his eyes sparkled with anticipation.

“Trust me, Ringo,” George chimed in. “It’s all part of the fun. Let’s experiment. We don't have to keep it. We've got the main one intact.”

“Yes, so Paul,” John said, nodding toward him, “give us a hand with the Mellotron while we play.”

“Paul” slid over, fingers brushing the keys lightly, humming the melody along with the tape. He watched as John carefully adjusted the speed—first a little faster, then slower. The voices warped, pitch rising and falling, the dreamlike quality of the track stretching into something almost surreal.

It’s like floating in a different sky, he thought. The room felt electric. Even Terrence, standing back quietly, seemed caught up in the energy, nodding his head slightly to the shifting rhythm.

Ringo chuckled, eyes wide. “Bloody hell, that sounds mental! Faster! Faster!”

George laughed, twirling a finger like a maestro. “Careful, Ringo—you’re gonna melt the tape.”

“Don’t care!” Ringo shot back, and everyone burst into laughter. John’s grin widened, enjoying the playful chaos, the sound bending and stretching as they pushed the boundaries of the song.

“Now slow it down a touch,” John said, his voice softer, almost hypnotic. The melody dragged out, haunting, and “Paul” adjusted his chords to match the elongated notes, letting the Mellotron’s eerie tones weave through the room.

“Perfect,” George murmured, swaying with the warped rhythm. “This is…wild. I love it.”

“Keep going like this,” John said, eyes gleaming, “we’ll never get tired of hearing it. Every take’s a new world.”

And “Paul,” sitting at the Mellotron, felt that thrill—part nostalgia, part discovery. The band laughed, argued, experimented, and played. For a moment, nothing else existed except the studio, the music, and the delicate balancing act of pretending to be someone else while helping to create something timeless.

This is what it’s all about, he thought. Playing, creating, and somehow…fitting in.

Chapter Text

*

After a few more takes, the tape clicked off and the room fell into a calm hush, each member catching their breath. George Martin began mixing, and he was steadily focused on completing the song today. In the meantime, the bandmates sat quietly, and Lennon could see McCartney had a lot on his mind just from a quick observation.

“Paul,” John said, leaning forward, eyes curious, “you’ve been, I dunno… A bit quiet. You got something to add?”

“Uh…Yeah,” “Paul” swallowed, chest tightening. Now’s the moment. Don’t overthink it. Just play. He walked over to the grand piano and sighed, tracing his fingers over the keys as if rediscovering old friends. The chord shapes felt strange—he still had plenty left to learn—but somehow, they worked. He nodded to John. “I… wrote something,” he said carefully. “After everything that's happened. Thought we could try it out. A lot more softer than Strawberry Fields though, that's for sure. I dunno.”

John raised a brow, intrigued. “Go on.”

The first notes trembled out cautiously, simple at first, just piano and soft humming, until “Paul” gained confidence. The melody unfolded—melancholy, haunting, but with a spark of hope. The band listened, silence hanging heavy but electric, each member exchanging glances. George picked up a guitar, Ringo a brush on the snare, and John slowly joined with light chords on his guitar.

This is mine. This is really mine.

The song grew organically, tentative at first, then daring. Layer by layer, it built—new textures, new rhythms, unfamiliar but strangely familiar. “Paul” felt the notes ripple through him, the music anchoring him to the world he was now part of, yet separate from the past. Every chord was a claim—his own creation, yet impossible to separate from the identity he wore.

John’s eyes widened as the last notes faded. “Bloody hell, that’s brilliant,” he said softly, almost reverently. “Where did that come from?”

“Just…something I’ve been working on,” “Paul” said, voice steady but quiet. Don’t say too much. Just let it speak for you.

George leaned back, a smile tugging at his lips. “Love it. It’s fresh, man. Really fresh.”

Ringo nodded, tapping a soft rhythm on the edge of the snare. “Yeah, mate, it’s…you. Definitely need that on the record.”

For the first time in months, “Paul” felt completely himself. The act, the mimicry, the shadows—all melted away for just this fleeting moment. He had contributed, had belonged, had been seen not as a copy, but as a creator. And the band, laughing and swaying to his song, didn’t need to know the truth. This is just who Paul is now.

“Cheers, lads,” said the new McCartney, forcing a smile as he pushed back from the piano. “Gimme a tick, yeah?”

John gave him a lazy salute, still strumming on his guitar. “Don’t be long. We’ve only just got you back, mate. We need t’ get a few variations of this song. What'd you call it, The Fool On The Hill?”

“Yeah,” he blushed, “Did you lot really like it, or are you just having a laugh?”

“I really liked it, Paul. It's the softest we've gotten from you in a bit, but it's written well. Melody is nice, too.” answered George honestly.

“Man, don't go second guessing yerself. It's one of my favorites, lyrics wise, that you've written. At least in a long time.” John gave him a serious look.

He nodded at that profound compliment, slipping out before his hands betrayed the trembling in them.

The corridor felt colder, quieter. He found the washroom at the end of the hall and ducked inside, shutting the door with a hollow thud that echoed through the tiled room. After using the restroom, he went to the sink.

The tap sputtered, water and soap rushing over his hands. He leaned down, splashing his face, trying to steady his breath. But when he looked up—his heart lurched.

There was a figure standing there, behind him.

It looked a lot like Paul.

Not whole. Not smiling. Mangled—his right side crushed and bloodied, teeth knocked out, one eye swollen shut, arm bent in an impossible angle, leg twisted beneath him. His chest rose faintly, as if still clinging to a machine’s rhythm. A thin line of blood traced from his temple down to his jaw. It was how he appeared physically after the accident, his body broken and his once beautiful features distorted.

William’s own breath rattled. He staggered back, gripping the sink until his knuckles went white. The reflection’s one good eye locked on him, unblinking, unrelenting. A silent accusation. He turned to look at him not through the mirror, but the man was not there. Glancing back at the reflection though, he was in it once more.

The seconds stretched, unbearable, looking into his one salvageable eye. Then Paul’s ruined lips parted.

“Are you having fun, Paul?”

William’s stomach dropped. “Come on, man! What do you want from me?” His voice cracked, bouncing off the tiles. He spun around—the room was empty still, only the dripping tap breaking the silence. For some reason he could only be seen in the mirror, his spirit not strong enough to make itself known in the physical realm.

But when he faced the mirror again, Paul was still there. Broken, bleeding. Staring.

William squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head, refusing to look. “Please leave… Fucking go away!”

When he finally dared a glance—the reflection was gone. Only his own pale, sweating face stared back. The deceased man had let him see all he needed to see.

William stumbled for the door, nearly wrenching its hinges as he fled the washroom. He sped down the hall, desperate to be with other people. People who were really here, really alive.

When he returned to the studio, Brian’s eyes snapped to him at once. His eyes bore into Epstein’s, a pit in his stomach. Tears were falling freely down his face and he swallowed, sniffling hard to try and compose himself. He even wiped the tears away, but everyone had already noticed them. Terrence followed in his concern, sharp and watchful. William muttered, “I… I’ve got to go. Can’t—can’t do more today.” he rushed to say to Terrence, mostly, who was supposed to be his “psychiatrist.”

Brian was on his feet in a second. “Of course. First day back, no one expects more.” He soothed the band before they could protest, his tone easy, practiced. “Let him rest. You’ve seen how well he’s done already.”

Terrence’s firm hand rested on William’s shoulder, guiding him out. The others exchanged glances.

John frowned, watching him go. “That wasn’t right. He looked—terrified.”

George shifted in his chair, eyes down. “He’s been through a lot. Maybe it’s just catching up.”

Ringo rubbed at his arm, soft-voiced. “Still… I don’t like seeing him that way. Didn’t look like Paul at all, did he?”

Brian cut in quickly, voice smooth. “Stress, that’s all. He’s pushing himself too hard. Best thing you can do for him is give him space.”

John muttered, jaw tight, “Doesn’t feel like just stress…” His gut twisted. He didn’t believe the easy answers, not anymore.

“Paul” didn’t look back. All he could think of was the mirror, and the ruined body staring out at him.

No more mirrors. Never again.

*

On the car ride back home, William's knee bounced. He lit cigarette after cigarette, staring out the window, dark shades shielding his eyes.

"You two don't get it," he said after a long silence. "He's haunting me through mirrors. The second time now. I saw him, plain as day, all messed up, trying to get in my head, taunting me for stealing his life!"

Brian glanced in the rearview mirror at him, then met his eyes. "Haunting you? You mean...you saw his ghost?"

"What else do you think I mean? He was standing there, mangled, showing me what he looked like after the crash. What the fuck have you dragged me into? It's almost not worth it anymore."

Brian’s stare deepened. "William, listen to me. Calm down. You can’t just let this—whatever it is—control you."

"I don’t care," William snapped, his voice trembling with anger. "You don’t understand. It’s him. I saw him, Brian. The wrecked, bloody mess he became after the accident. He’s there in my head, in my eyes—taunting me for living his life!"

Brian’s gaze flicked to him in the rearview mirror. "I understand it’s frightening, but you have to stay in control. You can’t let fear make you act recklessly."

"Control? Ha!" William’s laugh was bitter and hollow. "I’ve been controlled since the day I stepped into his skin. And now his ghost—his literal ghost—reminds me every second of what I took, what I can’t undo."

Brian exhaled. Terrence gripped the wheel tighter. "We’ll figure this out. You’re not alone in this. But panicking, lashing out—won’t help you, or anyone else."

William shook his head, staring out the window. "No one gets it. No one ever will. And maybe that’s just how it’s supposed to be."

When they pulled into his home, William was the first to rush inside. The door slammed behind him, rattling the frames on the walls. He leaned against it, chest heaving, ears still ringing with the echo of the ghostly stare. Every reflective surface caught his eye—those damned mirrors, the framed photos—and a shiver ran down his spine.

"No. No mirrors," he whispered, voice tight, ragged. He grabbed the first tabletop mirror he saw, yanking it from its stand. With a grunt, he hurled it to the floor, glass shattering in a spray of tiny diamonds. The sound was cathartic and terrifying all at once.

Brian and Terrence followed discreetly, trying to intervene. "William, wait! This isn’t—don’t—"

"Don’t tell me what to do right now!" William snapped. "You don’t get it! He’s there—he’s always there! Every reflection, every glimpse—I can’t breathe!"

Brian held his hands up, calm but firm. "Destroying everything won’t make it stop. You need to—"

"Stop?!" William’s laugh was almost hysterical. "Do you hear yourself? Stop? He’s dead and yet he’s living in me! I see him, Brian! I can’t unsee him!"

He stormed through the rooms, hands clenched, smashing mirrors wherever he found them. The sound of shattering glass filled the house, a violent symphony of fear and desperation. Brian kept close but didn’t try to grab him—he knew William was stronger, more determined than anyone had expected.

“Boy, that's enough of this!” Terrence yelled. “Calm down!”

“Let me do this!” William shouted back, needing to reclaim his sanity.

By the time the last mirror was gone, William stood in the center of the room, chest heaving, eyes wide and unseeing. The house felt smaller, emptier, but for the first time since the washroom, he felt a flicker of control. The ghost might have been there before, but now there was nothing to reflect him back. Nothing but silence.

Brian exhaled slowly, walking over. "It’s done," he said quietly, almost to himself. "You’re safe for now. We’ll figure out how to face the rest later."

*

Brian had swept up all the broken mirrors and glass himself. He felt responsible—after all, he had been the one to suggest finding a replacement for Paul. At the time, he hadn’t considered how it might affect the man forced into the role. But now, having seen William up close, he couldn’t ignore how badly the experience had taken its toll. Quietly, without protest, Brian cleaned up the mess, shouldering the guilt alone.

That night, long after the session ended, John sat by the phone in his office and lit a cigarette. Still, Paul’s pale, scared face refused to leave John’s mind. He thumbed the dial, waited through the rings, and then heard the voice he had been hoping for.

“Hello?” said the man on the other end.

“It’s me—John.” He kept it soft.

“John.” William’s voice was small. For a moment John could hear only the quiet breathing on the line.

“I just, I just wanted to make sure you were all right, after earlier.” The words came with a speed born of worry.

“Yeah. I’m- I’m fine.” William swallowed; John could hear it. “Sorry about that. I…had a breakdown in the loo. Saw something. Flashback from the hospital, I think.” He twisted what really happened to fit his own narrative.

John listened, patient. He hadn’t seen Paul in hospital—Brian and the doctors had kept things tightly closed. He’d known it was bad, but not the details. “What happened there? You can tell me, if you want.”

William hesitated, then tilted the truth into shadow. “You don’t really know, John. I was alone a lot. When the bandages finally came off—I saw myself. I didn’t recognize the man in the glass.”

“What do you mean?” John’s voice tightened, careful now.

“They had to do a lot to me.” William’s breath came quick. “Plastic surgery, teeth—all this stuff I don’t remember. They even fucking said I lost a small bit of my brain. That’s why I don’t remember everything. I saw myself again and it just—ruined me for the day.” He sounded small enough to break.

John’s hand clenched around the receiver. “Bloody hell. Brian never told us that. He said plastic surgery, yes—but none of that.” He swallowed. “You don’t have to hide it from me. I care, Paul. You know that, right?”

“Yes, but- Please don’t tell Brian I said anything,” William murmured. “He’s always on me about what gets out. I- I don’t want him breathing down my neck more than he already does.”

John’s voice softened. “I won’t tell him. Not a soul. You can tell me anything. If you want me to come round, I will. Don’t suffer alone, yeah?”

There was a beat of silence, fragile. William let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “I appreciate it. I’m okay for now. Just—don’t make it a fuss, all right?”

“No fuss,” John promised. “But I’ll call again—later. If you need me, you call. Don’t let Brian or anyone else run your life for you. You hear?”

“Yeah,” William whispered. “Thanks, John.”

They hung up with the kind of quiet that was like an agreement. The call scratched a line between them—small, secret, something that would be there in the dark hours to come.

Chapter Text

After that first call, there were others. Short ones at first—John checking in late at night, “Paul” answering soft and weary, always insisting he was fine. But the truth seeped through in the pauses, in the sighs. John could hear the loneliness in his voice, the weight in the silences. He’d tell him not to bottle it, not to suffer alone, and “Paul” would mumble thanks but never quite open up. Still, the line between them grew warmer, familiar again, as if the months of distance had shrunk down to a thread that could be pulled taut whenever John dialed.

“Paul” spoke to others too. Jane called when she could, her voice bright, happy to hear him, always eager to fill the quiet with talk of her days and gentle encouragement. Her cheer warmed him, but it didn’t settle the deeper ache inside. Of course he engaged playfully with her, indicating he couldn't wait for the two to be together again. Paul's other old friends rang as well, offering light conversation, but none of it touched the hollow in him the way John’s voice did. The others were complete strangers to him. Albeit, he did enjoy and always thought about the few times he had sex with Jane. But with John, it wasn’t the politeness or obligation that he liked—it was just the raw, messy, and real topics they talked about.

One night, the call came later than usual. John’s voice was casual at first, teasing even. The conversation drifted from light banter, to how the two found a sense of relaxation nowadays.

“You still keep away from the old stuff we used to party with like Brian tells you to do, or have you given in yet?”

“Paul” hesitated. “I… I remember reading that I did smoke pot a lot. But… I don’t know if I should try again. Scared, I guess. Don’t want to end up…well, messed up.”

John chuckled softly, shaking his head at the line. “You’re worried? Bit late for that, mate. You’ve handled worse. Pot is like—a calming cigarette that makes everything taste, sound, and feel better, man.”

“Paul” let out a small laugh, brittle, fragile. “Yeah, I'm sure I've handled worse. Still…smoking weed feels different now… But LSD—that I love. That I can handle. Makes me feel…alive. It felt like I needed it back in me life.”

John paused, listening. “I get that... Fair enough. But pot's actually less of a hassle, y’know. I still smoke. Could bring some by for y'to try it again. Nothing has to be a big deal. We can just sit, play some music, talk a bit. Want me to?”

“Paul” swallowed. The temptation was there. He wanted it—wanted to feel normal again, do something with someone he wanted to actually be around. But there was a hesitation buried deeper than caution: the ghost of Paul’s warnings, the memory of that broken face in the mirror during his first acid trip.

“I… yeah, maybe. But…careful. Don’t want it getting out of hand. Brian got upset when he learned I was doing acid again...”

“Of course, but fuck him and his opinion,” John said, the warmth in his voice grounding him. “With me, this would just be a chill night and nothing else. No seeing crazy colors or…y'know, that type of shit.” he laughed a bit.

So he said yes. It was decided. That call became the bridge that would bring John to his home later, carrying the small baggy and a quiet hope of connection.

That was how the visits began. At first just smoke lingering in the air, guitars resting against the sofa as they talked nonsense and let the tension unravel. Then came scraps of melody, half-songs pieced together between drags and laughter. John made a habit of it, showing up with his guitar and that look in his eyes that said he needed this as much as “Paul” did. They also discussed possibly making a film where some of their songs are played in it. John had the idea after telling the man about the movie he was in, called “How I Won The War”. The friends knew they'd have to get with Brian about it to figure out what the moves for that were for it to happen.

And then came the night where John had found Paul’s old journals.

The house was dim, the curtains drawn against the late afternoon sun. Terrence was out resting in the sunroom, not giving William any problems lately. John had settled into the worn armchair by the window, a cigarette smoldering in the ashtray beside him, the faint scent of marijuana and cigarette smoke curling through the air. The loveseat was littered with Paul's guitar and a jumbled up blanket. The homeowner went to make them some freshly hot tea, and that had left him to be alone in the bassist's study. He remembered so much happening in this very room with Paul before the accident. How many times they'd had sex in there, and how far they were now from how close they used to be back then. The truth was he imagined they could still get back to that, and he was trying to pry more each time they spoke or hung out. He fantasized so deeply that the man would recall at least one time where he felt in love with him. His fingers drummed absently on the armrest, restless, carrying the echo of their recent calls. He kept thinking about the sound of “Paul’s” voice—the small, careful pauses, the weight behind his words, the way he clung to trust as if it were fragile glass. It seemed like now he was scared to say the wrong thing, that he thought more before speaking—like he didn't want to hurt anyone and also make sure his words came out right. Like the brain injury took away his ability to be impulsive.

Lennon then remembered a phone call where “Paul” had said something about there being more journals. He only recalled there being only one journal where he wrote songs, poems, and drawings in there. He set out to find the other ones, hungry to see if and what he had written about him.

They were in one of the desk drawers, neatly stacked. None were labeled. He flipped through a couple until he found one with his name mentioned many a time, with detailed accounts of their sex written in Paul's writing.

2nd April, 1965
Still sore from yesterday with John. Somehow that makes it feel greater, when it hurts like that inside, shows that he actually fucked me proper. Not like when we had quickies in the hotel. Those times still felt good, but I couldn't be as loud as I'd like so he never went too hard. Yesterday we had the place to ourselves over at his. Christ I seriously thought for a second that was the hardest I've ever came. Then! I remembered everything in Hamburg and took it back

John agreed; nothing could beat what happened in the hushed alleyways or hidden brothels in Hamburg.

17th January, 1965
I've been giving it to him for a week now, think he can't handle all that shit talk he tries to say when it actually comes down to it! ‘Oh, you can't make me moan like a bird’ he said. Ha! Fucker begged me, ‘please, paulie’ and thinking about it has me solid in 2 seconds. He'd never admit it but I know he loves it more. If I didn't crave it too so much, we'd take turns more often.

He flipped back with flushed cheeks, having gone too far in the previous year.

20th August, 1965
What happened to the good old days when I could just snap my fingers and have a foursome with John and none of the girls batted an eye when I touched him? Last night they acted like I made a mistake and kissed him “on accident.”
Yes, honey, I slipped and fell into his mouth, won’t happen again. My eyes were closed. Who honestly believes that?
Didn't want a fucking scandal to happen so we rolled with it. It was a mistake, apparently. Don't judge a book by its slutty cover - they sometimes get weird when you kiss another man like they don’t get paid to eat pussy every other day. HYPOCRITS

John chuckled so hard at this entry. He remembered having this exact conversation with him after the ladies left. But John tried to tell him he didn't know how they'd react. Two of them looked like they wouldn't mind, but the third girl looked too prim and proper for anything too rebellious. Paul thought she could handle seeing them at least kiss—no.

5th February, 1965
I suggested going on a date with John, and he thinks it's too weird—said it would be ‘too much.’ But he doesn't think it's too much with my cock down his throat. He doesn't think it's too much when he's telling me I'm the best lay he'd ever had, when he's honestly making love to me like I'm something that could break. Not too much when he tells me he loves me. It matters, it's real, it is definitely too much the way it is. Then he wondered why I don't want to stay over for the night after gettin made fun for wanting a date. He doesn't get either. Why I need more. Why I need to be seen, not just used. I don’t understand him. I've never seen him be tender like this with any girl, not even Cynthia. She's lucky he fucks her at all, meanwhile he's clawing at my fucking feet every other day, begging me for simple acts like a bloody kiss. Says I’m the only one that can really do it for him. How? How, when he won't go on a little date with me, somewhere nobody would know about, just to eat and have a couple drinks, when we been at this almost 4 years. Does he even care about the rest of me, or only the parts he can touch? Whatever, fuck it all. I'll just do what he does then, see then if he'll even notice or give a shit. I guess if eating dinner and having drinks with him alone makes me more of a fag than when he fucks me, whatever. It's like we're loving friends who occasionally have sex and that's how he wants it to be.

John leaned back in the armchair, letting the words sink in. His chest ached with a mixture of guilt and longing—he hadn’t realized just how much Paul had craved more than the fleeting physical moments they’d shared. The raw honesty, the frustration, the need to be truly seen—it hit him harder than he expected. He had fantasized about them being close again, but seeing it written, the desperation for tenderness, made it feel like he was intruding into something private, something Paul had quietly carried all along.

Chapter Text

Lennon thought about the months since the accident—the cautious phone calls, the silences, the careful pauses in “Paul’s” voice. All those small moments suddenly carried a weight he hadn’t noticed before. How much of the old Paul was still there? How much could ever come back? John’s gut twisted at the thought. He wanted to reach out, to show that he saw him, that he cared, that he could meet him somewhere in the quiet space between them.

And yet there was a thrill in the thought that “Paul” didn’t know which entries he’d read. Some pieces of their old intimacy remained just between them now—a fragile, unspoken bridge. John’s fingers drummed lightly on the armrest, restless, heart pounding. He imagined having Paul near, to see if the man in front of him would let him close enough—closer than the phone calls ever allowed.

The late afternoon sun slanted through the curtains as William pushed the office door open. He froze at the sight of John in the armchair, cigarette smoldering, journals spread across the table. John glanced up quickly, then shifted to the loveseat as though covering his tracks.

“Come sit,” John said softly.

Cautiously, “Paul” settled beside him. Their shoulders brushed—heavy with unspoken things. John’s fingers drifted across the couch, grazing his. A subtle invitation. He leaned into it.

“So—you actually read some of that…”

“Yes,” John admitted. “Please don't be mad. I wanted to remember how you were before. Bold, unafraid. Your jokes were filthy, you told the truth straight. Now you’re…a bit timid.”

“I try,” William whispered. “I just wish I could remember everything. I don’t want to do something stupid. I don’t remember how I used to think, how I acted.”

John shook his head. “No, love. I was the idiot. I should’ve taken you on a few dates, at least.”

William’s stomach twisted. He knew John had read the personal entries—the ghost of Paul’s mind he was expected to wear.

“I think you were just scared,” he said softly. “Putting me so high up was fine when it was just sex. But once I wanted more…that scared you.”

John hummed. “I just wish you’d give me another chance. Sometimes I dream of us being close again—just being with you. And now you’re here, Paul, right in front of me. Feels like maybe we could actually try.”

“Paul” swallowed. The temptation was palpable, and the way Lennon looked into his eyes with hunger made everything about this moment feel urgent.

John didn’t wait this time. He leaned in and captured “Paul's” mouth with his own, the kiss urgent, desperate. William stiffened for a heartbeat—his first time kissing a man—but then heat surged through him, dizzying, alive. His lips parted, and John’s tongue slid against his, coaxing him deeper.

William shifted, straddling his lap without thinking, and John smirked against his mouth, hands immediately locking around his waist to pull him closer. The heat of John’s body pressed flush beneath him, and William shivered at the shock of desire racing through his veins.

He hadn’t expected to enjoy it so much. The taste, the warmth—it all surged through him, dizzying and electric. It wasn’t just the kiss; it was the way John moaned beneath him, the subtle yielding of his body. Control and surrender tangled together, and William hadn’t realized how deeply he craved that. There was a thrill in giving in to something forbidden, something he once thought taboo, and allowing himself to revel in it. John kissed him with a confidence and tenderness that left William breathless—it was probably the most intoxicating kiss he had ever experienced, and it stirred a fire in him far too quickly.

John’s hands framed his jaw, thumbs grazing his cheeks, tilting his head to deepen the kiss. William’s own fingers wandered almost shyly at first—up the back of John’s neck, tangling in his hair, testing the shape of him. The sound John made in response, low and guttural, sent fire down his spine.

William pressed harder, intoxicated, kissing like he might drown if he pulled away. Each brush of John’s lips, each flicker of his tongue, was deliciously addictive.

John moaned again, tugging him closer until their bodies pressed flush, heat sparking between them. For a moment William let himself believe—believe he could stay here, tasting this, being this. That maybe John would always want him like this, even if he wasn’t whole.

Then John’s hand drifted lower, sliding across his chest. William froze. Panic and desire collided, and he scrambled off John’s lap, heart hammering, hands trembling slightly. He put a small distance between them, trying to regain control.

“I…I can’t,” he stammered. “I want you… but not now. I'm sorry.”

John’s eyes narrowed, hurt flashing. “We’re here, right now. So why stop?”

William shook his head, voice cracking. “I just… I’m not ready. I don’t know if I can ever be him again.”

John’s jaw tightened. “I’ve waited so long to hold you, and you—you freeze. On the phone with Jane, you sounded playful, sweet even. But with me? You shut me out.”

“I liked it, goddammit, John… I know,” William muttered. “I want to, but… I don’t know how to be him again. Some parts…maybe they’re gone.”

John exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah. Maybe. Maybe you’re too scared, too…fucked up. Maybe I’ll never get the man I knew back, not fully.”

William flinched. “I said I’m sorry.”

John stepped closer, voice low and teasing. “Typical. Felt like you wanted more…like you enjoyed it. You’re still hard from it.”

William’s cheeks burned. “You’re hard too,” he shot back, defensive.

“Yeah. And I wanted it! I’d have done whatever you asked.”

William’s hands clenched at his sides. “I’m not ready!”

The tension hung heavy. “I don’t need all of you, Paul. I just want whatever I can get. You’re enough.”

“Clearly not, since you’re not willing to slow down.”

“You’re the one who got in my lap, Paul. Christ.”

William swallowed, pulse racing. Desire and frustration tangled inside him like a live wire. Silence filled the room when John left, leaving William alone.

Brian caught John just inside the hallway.

“Oi, wait a second,” he said. “Everything all right?”

John exhaled, flustered. “Yeah…well, we were just practicing. I need air.”

Brian didn’t waver. “Bullshit. You look mad.”

John flushed. “I just—”

“Tell me what happened in there, or I can’t help you.”

John sheepishly looked at his feet. “I kissed Paul. He liked it. So why’d he stop?”

Brian shook his head, not expecting this to have happened. His heartbeat sped up, and he rushed to fix this. “Oh, John... Let him have his space for now. You’ve both been through enough without adding more pressure.”

John nodded slowly. “Yeah…maybe getting out is best. God damn. I can't fuckin' go home right now. I'll just be too aggravated. Don’t wanna have another argument.”

Brian clapped him on the shoulder. “Good lad. Let’s move before anyone overthinks anything else too much. Just breathe.”

John walked out, going to the car with a racing mind. He just needed out of there.

Brian slipped away, going to the room Paul resided in, aggravation clear to read in his expression.

“Before I go—what the hell did you just do in here? Are you serious?”

William’s throat tightened. He swallowed hard, frightenedof what he'd done. “He…kissed me. Then I ended up on his lap, and we were—he wanted more, and I just… I dunno, I lost control for a moment.”

Brian shook his head, lips pressed tight, fists clenching at his sides. “I fucking knew it. Do you have any idea how reckless that is? John’s already been through enough, thinking you’d forgotten him and everything else. Don’t let him fall for you again. I told you it was not good for you two to be together. Before, you argued too bloody much and almost got caught—I can’t even count the times, shagging in places you had no business being. Just ask the others about that movie, A Hard Day’s Night. The bloody public train, of all places. They had no sense of anything other than themselves.”

He leaned closer, eyes burning, voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “But listen, Paul,” he mocked, letting the name twist bitterly on his tongue, “I’m all for you reconnecting with John—repair the friendship, by all means! But don’t light that flame again. I’m telling you now: it won’t end pretty for you if you keep it up.”

William’s chest tightened, guilt and fear threading through him. He nodded slowly, the weight of Brian’s warning sinking deep. A single teardrop escaped his eye at once. Brian noticed the tension in his body and the obvious arousal still straining at his trousers. He let out a short, shocked laugh.

“Unbelievable,” Brian spat, shaking his head. He gave him one last sharp look before turning away toward the house, leaving William alone with the echo of John’s absence and the gravity of his own actions. For the first time, William was left to live purely as Paul McCartney—no one standing over his shoulder, no one to stop him.  

*

Later, in the car, Brian’s voice stayed calm. “You’re thinking about continuing things with Paul… but he has brain damage. Skull cracked in the crash. He’ll never be as he was. Meet him where he is, not the ghost you want.”

John snapped toward him. “Don’t call him that. He’s not broken.”

“I didn’t mean it cruelly. Only that chasing a ghost will do more harm than good.”

John flinched but admitted, “Maybe…maybe I can guide him. He said he wants to know me again. That kiss…he wanted it. I saw it, Brian. He was hard.”

Brian shook his head. “He won’t know you the way he did before. Think of him—don’t burden him. He deserves peace, not pressure.”

Silence filled the car. John exhaled, shoulders slumping. “I…understand. I’ll try.”

Brian nodded. “Good. I’ll be here to make sure you don’t get lost in the mess.”

*

At Brian’s home, evening was quiet. He poured them each a double whisky. “Clear your throat first,” he teased. John chuckled, the tension finally loosening.

Back at Cavendish, William lingered in the doorway after the car had gone, the night pressing in around him like a second skin. For the first time since he had arrived, he was alone. Free to move, free to make choices. Yet the memory of John, the guilt, the forbidden thrill—all of it pressed against him like an unshakable weight.

He needed a way to focus, to redirect the chaos churning inside. The studio. That was where he could lose himself, where music could anchor him. He had planned it out as he walked the quiet back streets, head down, avoiding anyone who might recognize him wandering alone. The studio would take him in without judgment. The instruments and unfinished tracks would not ask questions, only demand answers in sound.

By the time John and Brian toasted with their whisky, William was already unlocking the door at Abbey Road. Inside, his fingers itched to strike keys, to finish what had been left incomplete, to let the melodies absorb the guilt, the desire, and the dangerous freedom he’d just been handed.

Chapter Text

*

The studio was quiet except for the low hum of equipment and the faint scratch of a reel-to-reel spinning. William’s fingers danced over the piano keys, tracing the melody of The Fool on the Hill. Notes spilled into the air, familiar and comforting, yet carrying a strange weight—each one a thread of the man he had to be.

A sudden cough made him freeze mid-phrase. He looked up, heart skipping.

“Paul?” George’s voice was half surprise, half amusement, leaning in the doorway with arms crossed. “I didn’t expect you here, mate. Thought you’d be resting or something.”

William swallowed, forcing a casual smile. “Just…needed to get back to it. Can’t let it sit, can I?”

George stepped closer, eyebrows raised, but the faint grin never left his face. “Fair enough. Didn’t think you’d finish The Fool on the Hill today. You’re on a roll, eh?”

“Yeah,” William said softly, trying to sound relaxed. “Felt like it needed finishing. I had the melody stuck in my head.”

George chuckled, moving to the other side of the piano. “Well, you’ve certainly got the touch. Bloody brilliant, actually. Just…didn’t think anyone else would be messing about in here, like I was goin’ to. Been watching you a minute. You didn't even notice me walk in.”

The man blushed, “O-oh… I really just needed to be surrounded by things I can remember. It's the only thing that makes sense.”

George leaned against the edge of the piano, arms crossed, watching William’s fingers hover over the keys. “Oh, alright. C'mon, Paul. What happened? You look like you’ve got a chip on your shoulder, mate.”

William paused, letting his hands rest lightly on the keys. “Just needed some space,” he said, keeping his tone casual. “Clear my head, a lot's going on lately.”

George raised an eyebrow. “Space from John?” he asked, a hint of a teasing grin tugging at his lips. “He’s been getting on your nerves again, hasn’t he? He said the other day that you two have been hanging out again…dunno to what extent, y'know. That’s all he told me.”

William flinched slightly but forced a laugh. He sighed, ready to lay it all on the line in the limited way he could to live out the lie. “Yeah. We were hanging out and writing, and… and it all was fine, until today... He complicated things… The thing is, with him, see, is, I know he was this important, amazing figure who I loved…just from my journals and, y'know, just hearing everything everyone has said to me about him. But I don't remember any of it. I can, y'know…faintly remember that he mattered, that I had love for him. Just like I can remember how you mattered, Ringo, Jane, y'know, all these people mattered. And you all feel familiar. But I can't recall what me and John did, or really anything from the past in vivid detail at all. And he's just…always trying to get me back to…to how I was before. Always expecting me to be bold, to say what I think, to remember everything. Today it felt purely like he’s chasing a ghost, not me. He doesn't want to believe I can't remember.” He vented without being too descriptive as to what took place.

George nodded knowingly, settling onto the piano bench beside him. “Aye. That can be heavy, I know. But you can’t let it eat you up. You can’t be bitter, Paul. John’s… John. He means well, but he doesn’t always know the weight of what he’s asking from you.”

William let the words hang, guilt prickling at his chest. “I know,” he whispered. “It’s just… I feel like I’m supposed to be someone I can’t be right now. And the more he pushes, the more I…freeze. Some days it’s easier to just lose myself in the music than face him.”

George’s brow furrowed. “Aye, well… we’ve all changed, haven’t we? But you’ve got to be careful, lad. Don’t let it build up. If it bursts out at the wrong time, it’ll only make things messier.”

William nodded slowly, taking a deep breath. “I just needed to get this done. Music helps t’ keep me focused. Keeps me from…y'know, thinking too much.”

George smiled faintly. “Good. That’s the Paul I know. Keep at it, and maybe it’ll sort itself out. But don’t let it fester. Not with John, not with anyone.”

The actual Paul McCartney as his own spirit hovered in the corner of the studio, his presence nearly imperceptible, lingering at the edges of sound and light. William’s fingers soon danced across the piano keys, playing Fool on the Hill back while George sat there watching in awe. Paul allowed himself a brief, aching swell of pride—William passed. Remarkably. Could have been his identical twin, save for a few minor differences Brian explained away as plastic surgery. The imposter even had his voice, quite literally, completing the illusion. It differed only in slight ways, but overall William was on the path to look and sound just like he would have.

And all of this made Paul feel defeated. Done. The exhaustion that had been building for months settled deep in his bones. He had poured every shred of energy into this mess of a situation, and now there was nothing left to give. The whole thing—the corporate greed, the manipulation, the endless cover-ups running under the radar—had worn him down. The police had turned blind eyes and even helped cover everything up, the tabloids had swallowed half-truths whole, John had believed him, and Brian had worked around the clock to keep it all contained. Paul had lost hope of the truth ever escaping. That was who he was now, and meanwhile, his actual body lay beneath a tombstone labeled as William Campbell.

Watching William at the piano, chatting with George as if he’d been this man his whole life, Paul felt a strange mix of relief and sorrow. Nothing more could be done—not really. But even now, a piece of his spirit itched for one last act of mischief: Brian Epstein. After all, he had been the mastermind behind this morbid operation. And he'd been saving up all his last remaining energies to pour into one hell of a last rude awakening.

He left the studio, appearing at Brian's home at once. He watched as his old manager shared shots of whisky with John, the love of his life whom he'd miss sharing dreams with. But they weren't real. Nothing was, not anymore. His soul now belonged to another realm of existence, one where everything made sense and all of what were once worries could be laid to rest. He couldn't tell John the truth; he thought about doing that but it would do no good. Terrence would do something irrational if John found out; he could tell that the man was willing to die to keep this secret forever.

So Paul's spirit lingered, waiting for the perfect moment. He was only able to communicate through reflections, so he had to wait until the perfect moment. Brian rose from his chair, muttering something to John, and headed toward the restroom. The mirror in the bathroom—his only conduit—caught Paul’s attention. Slipping through its reflective surface, his awareness curled around the glass like smoke did. As Brian stared at his own reflection while washing his hands, a subtle chill ran across his spine.

The mirror fogged, the glass trembling slightly as Paul’s voice slithered through, sharp and bitter. “You thought you could erase me…hide me behind his face, his name… But I’ve been here, Brian. I've seen everything you did. Watching. Waiting. And now you know.”

Brian froze, his hands gripping the sink. “Paul… I—I did what had to be done—”

“What had to be done?” The voice cracked with fury. “You let them take my body…toss it in that staged wreck, declare me dead…all for what? Convenience? Control? You buried me under another man’s name… My life was stolen, my existence is gone! And you call that protection?”

Brian’s throat tightened, words failing him. “I… I was trying to protect…You! The band…The world…”

“No. You're a liar. It’s clear now. You were worried about the band failing without me. In fact, that’s why you went along with it in the first place. I heard you and that man, Terrence. How can you live knowing they threw my lifeless body in William’s car, injected with heroin, just to stage this... this fucking lie? You’re destroying another man’s mind, and yet you act like nothing happened. No. You know what happened. You knew it all. Shame on you, Brian. I thought I was special to you. But all I was…was a tool. A way to make yourself rich. I hope you come to understand the weight of what you’ve done, every single day.”

Brian’s knees buckled. His hands clutched the edge of the sink as tears pooled in his eyes. “Paul… I… I didn’t mean for any of this. Please, I beg you. Please forgive me. I—I thought I was protecting everyone… I thought I was doing the right thing… Those teenage fans, some of them said they would kill themselves if you died!”

The mirror seemed to darken, shadows curling like smoke around the edges. Paul’s voice was ice, and like a chisel the words cut deep. “They say things, but doing them is another. If that's the only other reason you've got, you're out of luck. So no. I’ll never forgive you. Hopefully, one day, maybe you’ll be able to forgive yourself. But I never will.”

Paul vanished into thin air at that last word, leaving Brian crying and feeling an immense amount of guilt from the truth being thrown in his face from the man they erased. Now, he knew that William had told the truth about Paul's spirit haunting him through mirrors. And he now understood the man's violent outburst to destroy all mirrors in that house afterwards. Epstein turned his back on the reflective surface, his head hanging low as tears fell freely.

Back in the studio, the atmosphere felt impossibly still. Paul’s ghost returned for one last look at his replacement, who was now laughing with George, blissfully unaware of the spirit hovering near him. A small, private grin curled Paul’s lips. He drifted close, closer, until his voice slipped into William’s ear—quiet, weighty, undeniable.

“William is gone,” he whispered. “You’re fully me now. I’m laying myself to rest. As for John, do what you want… But don't break his heart.”

Then the ghost allowed himself to drift, drawing a deep, invisible breath, feeling the final weight lift from him. John, the music, the living world—he had left it all behind. Ahead, a greater plane awaited: greener, quieter, truer. A place where he could finally rest, where his mother waited, arms open, and the ache of lingering was no more. And then he let himself dissolve, heading into the light he'd been ignoring for months now. Finally, his spirit faded away as he stepped wholly into peace.

A shiver rippled through William’s shoulders, but he kept playing, not daring to turn back. Somewhere deep inside, he understood: there would be no more guidance, no more hauntings, no more shadow at the edge of his vision. From this moment on, he didn't have to think of it as pretending—no, he was Paul. Entirely. He wasn't William, or “Paul” anymore. He was now, purely, James Paul McCartney.

Chapter Text

The afternoon drifted by with Paul and George lounging around Abbey Road Studios, half-working, half-faffing. George had rolled a bit of pot, and the two passed it back and forth between lazy strums and idle chatter. He spoke quietly about the troubles at home, while Paul nodded, grateful for the haze that dulled his nerves.

Just as they were debating whether to pack it in, the door creaked open and in strolled Ringo, his usual lopsided grin in place.

“Look what’s been going on without me,” he teased, glancing around the room. His brows rose when he caught sight of Paul. “Well, well—back in action, are we? What’s been a’cookin’?”

“Fool on the Hill,” Paul replied lightly. “Finished my takes on it, actually.”

Ringo blinked. “No kidding?”

Paul shook his head, lips twitching. “Dead serious.”

“That’s fab.” Ringo stepped further in, glancing around. “Truth is, I only came back ‘cause I left my watch here. Thought I’d see if it was still lying about. You spot it anywhere?”

Paul chuckled, picking up the watch. “Here it is. Honestly, leaving fifty quid lying about—what were you thinking? Someone could’ve nicked it.”

Ringo laughed, slipping it back onto his wrist. “Anyone cheeky enough to nick it wouldn’t get near me drums again, I’ll tell you that.” He leaned against the doorway, eyes glinting. “Anyway—speaking of things lying around—what about you two tonight? Just planning on staring at my kit or what?”

Paul shrugged. “Nothing in mind. Might tinker a bit, go home, sleep.”

George strummed a lazy chord. “Yeah, same here. Nothing mad.”

Ringo’s grin widened. “Well then, you’re in luck. I’ve got us a little outing lined up—proper posh place. Velvet ropes, champagne on ice, front of the line treatment. Be a crime to waste it without the rest of you. Wish John were here to go with us.”

At the mention of John, Paul’s expression faltered. His eyes dropped to the piano keys, fingers tracing the wood as a quiet sigh slipped out. The room went heavy for a moment, but George caught on quickly.

“Front of the line, eh?” George said, raising a brow with a smirk. He brushed past the name like it hadn’t been said, giving Paul the out he clearly needed.

“Front of the line,” Ringo echoed, tossing the watch from hand to hand. “All we’ve gotta do is show up.”

George stood, already brushing down his jacket. “Come on, Paul. Be a laugh.”

Paul hesitated, fingers drumming on the piano edge. Parties had never been his comfort. William had lived quietly, neatly—this was new territory, and the thought of lights, crowds, and endless eyes made his chest tighten. Still, he saw George waiting, Ringo’s grin egging him on.

“It’s been ages since you’ve come out proper,” Ringo added, softer now. “Would do you sime good.”

A picture flashed in Paul’s mind—Elvis Presley in some Vegas lounge, laughing with mates, champagne glass raised, the very image of freedom. If Elvis could let go, surely so could he.

Paul let out a shaky laugh. “Alright. But only ‘cause you promised it won’t get out of hand.”

Ringo clapped him on the shoulder, triumphant. “That’s the spirit. Just follow us, mate—you’ll be grand.”

Paul nodded, though his stomach churned. As they filed out of Abbey Road, fear and thrill twisted together inside him. Tonight, he’d step into the Beatle world he was still learning to wear.

/

Brian stepped out of the bathroom, his eyes still glassy and rimmed red from the tears he hadn’t been able to stop while Paul’s voice seared through the mirror. His chest felt heavy, each breath a reminder of the guilt and helplessness that had clawed at him.

He walked down the hallway in a slow, deliberate rhythm, the quiet of the house pressing in around him. Once inside his bedroom, he closed the door and leaned against it, letting himself breathe deeply, trying to steady the trembling that threatened to undo him. The confrontation with Paul had left him shaken—raw, vulnerable, exposed.

From the drawer, he pulled out a small packet, tapping a line of coke across the edge of the dresser. One sharp inhale hit his sinuses, burning and electrifying. The chemical surge chased away the weight of the tears, sharpening his focus. His pulse picked up, heart hammering—not from fear this time, but from adrenaline. Red eyes, still glossy from crying, met his reflection in the mirror, and he forced a steadying exhale. He couldn’t let Paul’s ghost—or his own guilt—stop him. John was counting on him.

Straightening, Brian smoothed the crease in his jacket, wiped at the last remnants of moisture under his eyes, and walked back toward the living room. He flipped the light off at once, and decided to turn on the telly before sitting back down in his previous chair.

When he looked back up at John, he had noticed that he clearly helped himself to a couple more drinks. His hair was disheveled, and expression was more lax. The bottle was now a little under half full at this point.

“How many more did you have while I was away?” Brian asked, his voice calm but curious.

“Three…maybe four, I think. Wasn't countin’,” John replied with a teasing lilt, blinking a few times for dramatic effect. “Why? Am I in…trouble, Mr. Epstein?”

Brian felt his cheeks heat, a sudden warmth creeping up as he tried to maintain composure. He straightened, tugging lightly at the crease in his jacket and brushing at the last remnants of moisture under his eyes. Behind all the substances, he was still mentally exhausted; he forced himself to breathe evenly, telling himself the ghost of Paul couldn’t touch him here. He needed to focus—on John, on the night, on pretending everything was normal.

He picked up his glass, swirling the amber liquid. “Fine,” he said, voice low, trying to sound casual. “You always have too much to drink, and I…haven’t done that in ages. Maybe tonight I’ll let myself have some fun.”

John raised an eyebrow, a small, knowing smirk on his lips, but said nothing. He leaned back, letting the moment hang between them, subtle and charged, his gaze steady but not probing.

Brian’s lips twitched, a hint of a smile tugging at one corner. “Don’t get any ideas,” he added, in a teasing tone that made his chest tighten with both excitement and guilt. He immediately wished he hadn’t said it, cheeks heating at the flirtation, the audacity of it, and the way John’s eyes had flickered with approval.

John’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “Don’t worry, Brian. I’m a gentleman…most of the time.”

He stifled a laugh, taking another sip to steady himself. The truth—the ghost, the weight of what he’d done to cover it up—remained locked away. He couldn’t let John see that part of him. That’s why he needed to drink, to push the guilt and shame down deep enough to simply enjoy the moment without thinking too much.

The silence stretched a beat too long. John leaned forward, reaching over the coffee table, and flicked on the little radio Brian always kept there. A soft crackle filled the room before a DJ’s voice cut in, followed by a drifting melody. The hum of music settled into the air, making the atmosphere looser, safer somehow.

John leaned back again, glass in hand, and gave a crooked smile. “Y’know…This sort of thing always takes me back. Nights on the road, sneaking about with Paul. You’d never guess half of what went on.”

“Oh, with how loud you two got sometimes, I can only imagine.” the other man chuckled as he swirled another shot of whisky in his glass.

“All night, sometimes. Of all the bloody instruments in the world, he was my favorite to play,” John jested, his grin crooked, voice dripping with mischief. Both of them laughed, though Brian’s laugh carried a touch of nervousness.

“You played him that good, yeah?” Brian teased back, arching a brow.

John’s smile softened, a flicker of sincerity slipping through the joke. “I always did. Always…” His voice trailed, eyes turning distant for a moment as though he could almost see Paul there.

He leaned back, the drink stillin his hand. “We used to stay up ‘til sunrise, y’know. Wrote half our best stuff knackered out of our minds, passing a fag back and forth, laughing at nothing. He’d hum something, and I’d jump in before he’d even finished the line. Like I already knew where he was going. Like…like we were the same bloody person sometimes.” He then downed the shot at once, the memory of Paul too much to take.

The words hung heavy, no longer a jest but a quiet confession, his smile turned bittersweet.

/

The taxi pulled up to a narrow side street, where the velvet ropes and a sharp-suited bouncer marked the entrance. The faint hum of a jazz trio spilled out from the doorway, mingling with the scent of smoke and personal fragrances that drifted into the street.

Paul stepped out first, pausing for a moment as the warmth and murmur of the club seeped through the doors. Inside, amber-colored lamps hung low, casting soft reflections off the mirrors lining the walls. Patrons lounged in velvet booths, glasses of champagne and whisky catching the light, while a trio tuned their instruments on a small stage in the corner.

Ringo guided the way, weaving between clusters of patrons, and George followed, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning the room like he’d been there a thousand times. Paul’s chest tightened; the scene was alive and intoxicating, far from the quiet safety of Abbey Road Studios.

They reached a reserved table near the back, already occupied by friends and familiar faces. The low murmur of conversation, punctuated by soft laughter, made the space feel intimate yet thrilling. Paul sank into the booth, taking in the polished bar, the soft music, the subtle swirl of perfume and smoke.

For the first time that evening, he allowed himself to exhale, letting the lights, the music, and the lively atmosphere wash over him. The night had begun, and there was no turning back.

“First thing's first,” Ringo said. “We need some drinks.”

The velvet ropes parted, and the four of them stepped into the pulsating heart of the club. Colored lights cut across the room, bouncing off mirrored panels and glittering gowns. Paul’s eyes swept over the crowd, taking it all in: stylish men, elegant women, laughter, the hum of conversations and clinking glasses. He felt his chest tighten for a moment, nerves prickling at the edge of his skin.

He shook it off. He was Paul McCartney. Half the women here—probably more—he could have in minutes if he chose. That thought alone made him straighten his shoulders, feel the familiar surge of confidence. He grabbed the nearest champagne flute from a passing waiter, letting the bubbles roll over his tongue, warming him from the inside. Another glass followed quickly, and the fizz seemed to wash away the last remnants of hesitation.

“I’ll be back,” he said to George and Ringo, who were chatting with the crowd near the dance floor, their laughter blending with the music. Paul moved toward the bar with an easy stride, forcing himself to see the night through the lens of boldness rather than fear. He needed to take action on his own a bit, venture out more.

“Something strong,” he told the bartender, his voice carrying the casual authority of someone used to attention. “Good and neat.”

As he turned, a woman in a black glittery dress slid onto the stool next to him. Her eyes widened slightly, and a faint, knowing smile played across her lips. She didn’t need an introduction.

“You’re…Paul McCartney,” she said, voice low, tinged with admiration and surprise.

Paul offered a half-smile, finishing his drink in one long sip. “That’s me,” he said smoothly, tilting the glass as he ordered another. “And you are…?”

“Angela,” she locked her lips, and at once the smell of her rose-petal perfume entered his nose. It wasn't his favorite, but she wasn't a bad looking woman so it would do until he sized up another prettier girl. “I used to be such a big fan of The Beatles in ‘64. I saw you play live in New York City.”

“Used to be?” he furrowed his brow. “What happened?”

“I still like you a lot, but I have my individual tastes as to which Beatle I find the most interesting. And most talented.” He could tell she was flirting with him hard, but he noticed the ring around her left hand's ring finger.

“I take it that, what, you like me best, love?” He played along for only one moment.

“Oh, what gave that impression?”

He was over the games, not wanting her sexually when other ladies were better eye candy walking by. “Nothing. Look, babe, I'd- I'd really fancy further conversation, but I see you're engaged and- truthfully, I am, too.”

She blushed, not expecting him to call her out so bluntly. “Well, all right. Can I at least ask you a few questions for an article I’m writing?”

He snorted, typical. “I'm not open to an interview at the moment. My apologies, love.” Then he looked the other way, taking his newly poured shot with him back to Ringo and George's claimed table.

When he sat back down he sighed, shaking his head. “I wasn't over there for, what, three minutes? And a lady was already hitting on me under the guise of wanting some interview questions answered. I mean—really? Here? And she had a ring on her finger!” he said, genuinely taken aback.

George chuckled, leaning back in his seat. “People tend to be like that in scenes like this, Paul. I mean, you were, before, you know. Girlfriends all over America while engaged to Jane.”

Paul paused, a small knot of guilt tightening in his chest. He’d never done that himself—not truly, not before he became Paul. Seeing the flattery, the attention, even knowing the lady was engaged, made him feel a flicker of shame.

But then he rationalized it, breathing out slowly. This was the life he’d stepped into. Paul had done it before, and the world expected certain behaviors, certain charm. To maintain the image, to live the role, he had to play along just as Paul would have. Fame, friendship, expectation, see, they all demanded it. He took another sip of champagne, straightening his posture, and let the guilt slide to the back of his mind. For tonight, he would be Paul, with all the charisma, all the allure, and all the complications it came with. When it came to women, Paul could have as many as he wanted. William wouldn't do that, but that man, well, he was gone now. He buried that hatchet today.

/

The radio hummed softly, Buddy Holly drifting through the room. John leaned back, head tilted, humming along as if the melody belonged only to him. A few more drinks were drank, and melodies played back to back, setting the mood for a peacefully quiet evening.

Brian’s chest tightened. Against his better judgment, he joined in with a low, shaky hum. Not perfect, but enough to make his skin prickle, enough to draw John’s attention.

“Bloody hell,” Brian muttered under his breath. “You make it sound effortless. Every note, every nuance… it’s—well—it’s something.” His cheeks warmed as his eyes met John’s. “You’re… something.”

John blinked, then smirked, leaning forward, a teasing glint in his eye. “Careful, Brian. You’re dangerous with compliments. Might get me thinking things.”

Brian laughed, shaking his head, fingers brushing the glass. “And what would you be thinking?”

John leaned closer, voice low and smooth, his grin sharp and knowing. “Thinking… that I can leave someone a little breathless, in ways you wouldn’t even imagine. Plenty of practice, trust me. Age? Irrelevant. Experience? That counts for everything.”

Brian’s stomach tightened. “Are you serious? You really think you’ve got that much experience?”

John’s grin widened, eyes flicking over him like a challenge. “Better than anyone who’s ever sat across from you, that’s for sure. I know exactly what I’m doing… and you? You’ll feel it—if you let yourself.”

Brian swallowed hard, heat creeping up his neck, yet he didn’t look away. “And here I thought I had some control.”

John leaned back slightly, voice soft but teasing, gaze fixed on him. “Control’s dreadfully boring, Bri. Everyone needs a little surprise now and then… and I do enjoy showing them what they’ve been missing.”

Brian laughed, low and nervous, heart hammering. The energy between them shifted, private, charged, teasing, and daring. Neither moved closer—not yet—but the air was thick with something they both knew, something that didn’t need words.

The radio played on, a gentle backdrop to the quiet, intense conversation that filled the space between them.

Chapter Text

Meanwhile, across town, Paul sat back in the plush booth at the club, letting the warm light and soft hum of music wash over him. The champagne had loosened some of his nerves, and for the first time that evening, he allowed himself to take in the scene: the laughter, the glittering dresses, the effortless sway of dancers moving to the jazz trio’s rhythm.

His eyes flicked over the crowd, catching glimpses of faces he recognized and others that were new, vibrant, alive. He raised his glass to his lips, drinking in the warmth and the confidence that came with the persona he now inhabited.

A beautiful woman in a short red dress slid onto the stool next to him, her eyes lighting up instantly. Here was a woman, pure, through and through. His eyes darted over her fair skin and beautifully done makeup, her dirty blonde hair tied in a fancy up-do. Paul gave her a flirty smile, finishing his drink in one long sip. She messed with her nails, sipped on her drink, and his eyes stayed on her for a good few minutes, off and on. He could feel the weight of her gaze, too, the subtle flirtation, and the ease with which the night allowed him to play the part of the famous Beatle. The thrill was undeniable, yet beneath it, he reminded himself: his old self was William, and this was all a performance, a mask he wore to navigate the world Paul had left behind.

“Hey, love,” he said to her first. “Beautiful night tonight, huh?”

She caught him staring again and finally turned, one brow arched, lips curved in a sly smirk. “You’ve been looking at me for the past few minutes.”

Paul laughed softly, leaning an elbow against the bar. “Can you blame me?”

“Oh, I’m sure you’re used to women melting the second you look at them.” She tilted her chin, deliberately unimpressed. “But I’m not in the habit of being easy, Paul McCartney.”

“That right?” His grin widened. “I like a bit of trouble. Keeps things interesting.”

She sipped her drink, eyes never leaving his, then said, “If you want me, you’ll have to prove you’re more than a pretty face with a guitar.”

Paul chuckled, feeling the heat of the chase spark in his chest. “Usually, I play bass. But, yeah, maybe I’ll prove it tonight, anyway.”

“Maybe you will.” She tapped her glass against his, then slid off her stool, brushing past him just enough for her perfume to linger. “Come on. Let’s see if you can keep up.”

She led him back to her table, and instantly the air shifted. Heads turned. Voices dropped. Every man and woman there seemed to straighten in their seats, watching with a mix of awe and disbelief as Paul McCartney joined their circle.

He gave a casual nod, but his attention snagged on the scene at the corner—one of the women bent low over the glass tabletop, drawing out a line of powder like it was nothing. No effort to hide it, no care in the world. She leaned down, inhaled sharply, and sat up with a satisfied sigh.

Paul blinked, thrown off, and she caught his stare. With a mischievous laugh she said, “Oh, did you want some? Here, no problem, Paul.” She tapped the mirror, cutting him a neat line and sliding it toward him.

He lifted a hand, trying to brush it off. “Think I’ll sit this one out-”

But the girl beside him leaned in, her lips almost brushing his ear. “It keeps the night young,” she murmured, her grin daring, eyes glittering with mischief. “Don’t worry about us, Paulie, we’re all doing it.” Her voice dipped lower. “Don’t tell me you can’t keep up.”

A ripple of laughter circled the table, everyone watching him now, waiting. His chest tightened, but not from the powder—he wanted her, wanted her attention, wanted to match the wildness she was drawing him into.

So, with a quick grin and a shrug, Paul leaned down, pressed his finger to the glass, and pulled the powder to him. One sharp inhale, and it burned his nose, his eyes watering for a second before the rush began to hum through his body. He sniffed hard after it was gone, and he felt a sense of exhilaration from doing something he'd never dreamt of before.

The table cheered lightly, glasses clinking. The girl clapped him on the knee, delighted. “See? Not so bad.”

Paul laughed, the edges of everything already starting to sharpen, glitter, and blur all at once. “Bloody hell,” he said, shaking his head with a grin. “Guess the night’s just getting started, then.”

/

The bottle sat empty on the table, a silent witness to how far the night had gone. An old film flickered on the telly, its voices low and half-forgotten beneath their quiet laughter.

By now the two of them had shifted closer, so close the line between leaning and holding was nearly gone. John’s head tipped against Brian’s shoulder, his hair brushing the collar of Brian’s shirt, while Brian angled toward him in return, the faintest press of his arm against John’s side.

For a long moment neither spoke. Just the hum of the TV, the warm haze of drink, the steady comfort of someone choosing to stay right there. Then Brian exhaled, low and almost resigned, and with a gentle hand at John’s back he pulled him closer—closer still—until the space between them finally dissolved.

Brian turned his head just slightly, enough that John’s hair brushed against his cheek. He hesitated, nerves fighting with want, before finally leaning in. His lips found John’s in a brief, uncertain kiss—gentle, testing, as though he might pull back at the first sign of rejection.

But John didn’t pull away. Instead, he stilled, then pressed back with a quiet tenderness that surprised even him. His hand came up to rest against Brian’s chest, not pushing, just feeling the steady rise and fall beneath his palm. When the kiss broke, John’s forehead lingered against Brian’s, his voice low, almost shy.

“Brian, it- it’s alright,” he murmured. “Don’t be scared.” He gave a faint smile, eyes half-lidded, softer than Brian had ever seen them. “Been waitin’ for you to do that.”

Their lips met again. Each click of their tongue Brian's hands got more daring in terms of exploration.

Brian had managed to undo the first few buttons of the younger man’s shirt when John pulled back, shrugging it off entirely. Then John’s hands moved to Brian’s shirt, fumbling slightly but determined, undoing it just enough. Soon they were bare-chested, lips pressed together in a heated, urgent kiss.

Lennon soon had to pull back for air, though, heart racing, as Brian's hands instinctively slid up behind his neck, holding him close and keeping them tangled in the intensity of the moment.

“What do you want to do?” Brian asked, breathless, voice thick, cheeks flushed. He could feel how hard John was pressing against him, the warmth spreading through his chest and down low, making the room spin slightly.

John let out a soft, drunken laugh, leaning closer, fingers trailing lazily along Brian’s side. “You…uh, really wanna know?” His voice was low, rough, and teasing, tipped with whisky and heat.

Brian swallowed hard, heart hammering. “Yes… Anything.” His hands trembled slightly, a mix of nerves and excitement.

John grinned, mischief sparkling in his eyes. “I…would really like t’fuck you,” he admitted, cheeks flushed, words slurring just enough to be dangerous. “All I can think about is feeling you. God, please, Bri.” He shifted, grinding lightly, sloppy in the way only tipsy desire allows, and Brian let out a startled, shaky laugh.

“You’re… so bold,” Brian murmured, a mix of flattered and shocked, fingers tangling in John’s hair as he tugged him closer. “I—God…” His breath caught, his body betraying him, reacting before his brain could catch up.

John laughed too, soft and low, letting the sound rumble against Brian’s chest. “Aye, well, you make it hard not to be,” he said, sloppy but confident, pressing closer, letting the heat and desire take over.

Brian moaned, voice rough and dizzy with whisky and need. “Fuck… Well, I'd do anything for you. I can- I can take it. C’mon, love,” he murmured, giving in fully, tipsy enough that consequences didn’t matter, drunk on heat and the boldness of the moment.

/

Paul smirked, straightening. Without missing a beat, he signaled for another shot and ordered her a drink, determined to keep up the chase. The cocaine made him feel unstoppable, like every word hit exactly the way he wanted it to. When she leaned close, lips brushing his ear, she tilted her head toward a velvet curtain in the back.

“Okay, baby. You got me. You know about the rooms?” she whispered. “Not everyone gets in. They’re…exclusive.”

Paul’s grin sharpened. “Then let’s not waste any time, shall we?”

She took his hand, tugging him toward the curtain at the back. Paul hesitated for a heartbeat, then let himself be pulled along. From their table, George and Ringo exchanged wide-eyed grins, nudging each other.

“Well, that’s our Paul,” George whispered, a laugh in his voice. “Looks like he’s in for one hell of a night.”

Ringo snorted, eyes gleaming with amusement. “Bout time someone made him sweat a little. Go on, mate—show ‘em how it’s done.”

The two of them slipped through the crowd, laughter following like a trail of smoke. Behind the curtain, the music dulled, replaced by the muffled sounds of other couples who had slipped away to the privacy of the plush back rooms. The air was heavier, yet sweet, the walls painted with shadows. Paul felt her hand slide into his, tugging him deeper, and he let her lead without hesitation. The further they went, the more he convinced himself that this was what Paul McCartney was meant to do—be reckless, adored, alive. He leaned in for another kiss, already forgetting where the mask ended and he began.

/

On the couch in Brian’s house, cushions sagged under their weight, springs groaning with every shift. John had flipped Brian over, steadying him with one hand at his hip while the other worked slowly, almost clumsily, between his thighs. Epstein was tight, every stretch a sharp drag of sensation, but John didn’t rush, letting his fingers wander, sloppy but precise enough. Whiskey haze blurred his coordination, yet he somehow knew where to press, and when his fingers brushed Brian’s prostate, the older man gasped, head tipping forward against the cushions.

“G-god—” Brian choked out, moaning when John pressed again. His thoughts swam, guilt still lodged deep like a stone, but the pleasure smothered it, muffling it enough to let him sink into it. He clung to the fabric, drunk enough to ignore consequences, drunk enough to follow every uneven movement.

John pulled his fingers free with a sloppy sigh, lining himself up. “Re-ready f’me, love?”

“Y-yeah… yes,” Brian slurred, catching his own words on the air. It had been too long since he'd been in this position, but he loved it nonetheless. In essence, he was living out one of his deepest, darkest fantasies. Nothing would make him say no, not to John.

One knee braced awkwardly against the couch, the other foot planted shaky on the rug, John pushed in slow, dragging a ragged sound from his throat as the warmth swallowed him. Brian arched beneath him, the sharp stretch fading into a haze of messy bliss. John leaned his chest along Brian’s back, thrusts uneven, fueled by whiskey and need, and Brian took it—tilting his head back, fumbling lips meeting John’s whenever they could.

The couch rocked under them, springs groaning, the stale smell of whiskey and sweat thick in the room. Nothing was graceful or careful. Two drunk men losing themselves, fumbling toward release as if it might save them, as if anything could make sense.

When it was over, John collapsed forward, face pressed to Brian’s shoulder, breathing hot and ragged. Brian stayed still, every nerve thrumming, guilt creeping back as the heat ebbed. John shifted lazily, already drifting toward sleep, careless and messy.

Careful not to wake him, Brian eased himself up, sliding quietly from beneath John’s weight. He moved through the spacious bedroom with slow, measured steps, each one muffled against the thick carpet. The hush of the mansion around him made the silence almost palpable, every creak and whisper of the house reminding him how alone—and yet responsible—he felt in this moment.

Returning a few minutes later with a spare blanket, he tugged it over John, a small, unsteady smile tugging at his lips. His body still hummed from the line of coke he’d done before they started drinking, sharp and restless under the haze of whisky. Every nerve tingled, making him hyper-aware of the room, of John, and of his own heart hammering.

He slipped quietly into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. He didn’t dare look in the mirror—the image of Paul still hovered in his mind, unforgiving, judgmental. Instead, he splashed cool water on his neck and wrists, trying to chase the sweat and flush from his skin. His pulse raced, a cocktail of adrenaline, lust, and lingering guilt keeping him alert.

When he eased into the recliner next to a sleeping soundly John, he enjoyed the leather being cool against flushed skin, the TV flickered with voices he couldn’t follow. His body buzzed—coke high and whisky warmth intertwining into jittery, restless energy. He glanced at John occasionally, heart thudding, mind replaying the night in sharp bursts: every touch, every daring word, every shared laugh and sigh, all amplified by the mix of substances.

Sleep teased him but refused to settle. Only between 5 and 8AM, when the last edges of the cocaine high ebbed and the alcohol wore thin, did he drift into a restless, tipsy, half-dream sleep, tangled in a throw blanket and lingering thoughts.

Chapter Text

Brian woke up, only to find John was no longer there on the couch. His headache was pounding, the kind that throbbed behind his eyes and jarred him awake, dragging the memories of last night up from out of nowhere.

As he shifted in the recliner, a sharp ache in his arse reminded him all too clearly of what they had done…What he allowed John to do. He winced, pressing a hand against the armrest to steady himself. It all came rushing back—the way he had given in to John’s desires, how wild it had been in the moment, how intoxicating and reckless. A fantasy lived out, yes, but it was wrapped in a terrible decision he could never take back. And it was something that would have a tremendous affect on the future of his and John’s relationship.

But then, what was worse was remembering the ghost of Paul. How he saw him, recalling the words he said, how Paul would never forgive him… The memory of being haunted, those piercing words echoing even after he had faded. Paul had reminded him of the damage he had done to his body in life, the pain Brian had ignored, and yet Brian had gone further—betraying him in the most intimate way possible. Sleeping with the man Paul had loved dearly. The ultimate trespass.

Brian squeezed his eyes shut, not able to think about just how awful he'd been to Paul in his last days on Earth before and after William's throat transplant. He remembered crying a single tear, and nothing more that day. What did that make him? Yesterday, he'd cried more while faced with the ghost of him more than when Terrence told him the staged accident was finished.

He quickly shook out two aspirin from the bottle on the side table. He swallowed them down dry, grimacing at the chalky burn, then reached for his small pill case he had hidden in the coffee table drawer, disguised in a stomach medicine bottle. One of the uppers went onto his tongue, bitter and sharp, and he knew it would be enough to drag him back into focus even if it couldn’t wash away the shame.

He sat for a moment longer, head in his hands, before forcing himself upright. The room tilted slightly but he steadied, tugging his crumpled jacket straight as though it could fix what he felt inside.

The kitchen light stabbed at him when he flicked it on. The smell of coffee grounds, the faint hum of the fridge—it was almost normal. Almost. He reached for the kettle, filling it with water.

Then he forced himself still.

A low murmur came from the next room. A voice he knew better than anyone’s.

John. On the phone.

Brian leaned against the doorframe, pulse quickening, straining to hear.

John’s words were all he noticed, between long pauses after each of his sentences.

“…Yeah, I know, Cynthia. Well, it doesn’t matter. We argued again. Nothing really happened last night. Just…we first were writing. Then we argued. You know how he can be. Even though his memory’s wiped, he’s a natural at being fucking daft. I just needed to clear my head, ‘cause Paul wanted to pick fights, and I’m tired of fighting. So I went over to Brian’s. Didn’t want to come home drunk like that and make things worse.”

Brian’s stomach twisted as he listened, waiting for the inevitable slip—the truth spilling out in some careless Lennon drawl. But it never came. Instead, John’s words wrapped him in an unexpected balm: a lie that covered them both. Relief washed through him, almost dizzying in its warmth, though guilt followed quickly behind. Paul’s ghost still echoed in his mind, bitter and accusing, but for now John had spun the night into something survivable.

Brian lifted the coffee cup he’d just poured, taking a long sip, though the bitterness turned his stomach. He wasn’t sure if John was covering for himself—or covering for both of them. Either way, guilt and fascination knotted together inside him. He lingered there, unwilling to interrupt, caught between wanting to step in and the knowledge that some truths were better left unsaid.

//

Across town, Paul stirred beneath silk sheets, two beautiful women draped beside him. Morning sunlight filtered through the curtains, soft and warm, and for the first time in weeks, he felt fully free. A flicker of guilt tried to creep in—memories of what he had been, the ghost’s words—but it was drowned out by the intoxicating indulgence of this life. William, a shadow from a past life, felt distant now, almost laughable. Paul was here, fully himself, and he could live like this. He liked it. The pain of mourning his old life almost never existed.

He pushed himself up, careful not to wake the girls, slipping out from under the sheets in nothing but his underwear. Stretching, he padded toward the sitting area, imagining what the day had in store now that he could have privacy after Brian left him alone for the first time. He had thought that reprieve meant he could finally breathe without oversight. Where he could act for himself, not caring about overstepping boundaries.

Then he froze in his tracks. Terrence stood near the window, arms crossed, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

Paul’s stomach lurched, red-hot heat rushing to his cheeks. “You...what are you doing here?” he stammered, suddenly aware of how exposed he was.

Terrence’s gaze flicked over him, sharp and unflinching. “Morning,” he said, calm, almost teasing. “Did you really think you were alone?”

Paul’s mind raced, remembering how Brian had left him yesterday after the argument with John and that tense, awkward moment. He’d thought that meant freedom, time to live as himself. Now, facing Terrence fully alert and watching him like that, he felt a jolt of embarrassment—and a flash of daring ignite deep inside. “Actually, I did. Brian left me alone last night, so why are you still here?”

The investigator furrowed his brow. He hadn’t spoken to Brian today yet, seeing as it was 9 a.m. “I’m still here because I’m paid to do a job, and that job is to keep my eyes on you.”

“I can handle myself now,” Paul said, voice low but firm. “I’m done being watched. I’ll call Brian and sort this out meself.”

Terrence’s smirk deepened, thinking he was joking. “I wasn’t told anything, but if you think I’m not needed…go for it, kid.”

Paul rolled his eyes, heading to the phone and dialing the number for Brian that was written on a post-it nearby—mostly there for when Terrence needed to call him from previous evenings. For a brief, fleeting moment, he thought of himself—as his old self as William—but the thought was quickly buried under the thrill of living fully as Paul McCartney, untethered and alive. This superstar mattered. He could get shit done.

//

Meanwhile, in Mr. Epstein's kitchen, morning dew clung to the windows, their glass misted with condensation, while steam curled lazily from the two mugs of coffee Brian had poured. John had just hung up the phone with Cynthia, his tone carefully casual as he’d lied about the night before—arguing with Paul, nothing more than a drunken bender, again. He had paced the small kitchen while talking, hands braced against the counter, trying to make the story sound natural, even as a faint flush lingered on his cheeks.

Brian sat across from him, leaning against the edge of the counter, watching in silence. His own mug went mostly untouched, cooling in his hands. There was something unsteady in the air between them—guilt, maybe, or the dangerous echo of what had happened hours earlier.

Finally, he spoke, voice quieter than usual.
“I… shouldn’t have let you see me like that last night,” he said. “I usually have better control. I don’t know what got into me.”

John tilted his head, smirking faintly, the kind of grin that covered discomfort. “Is it a bad thing, losing control?”

Brian sighed. “When you manage people for a living, yes. It’s bad form.”

“Come on, Bri, it wasn’t business,” John said, turning to face him. “You talk like we signed a bloody contract. It was just- us. And it felt good, didn’t it?”

Brian’s jaw tightened. He looked away, fingers brushing the rim of his cup. “That’s exactly why it’s dangerous. Because it did feel good. And it makes it far too easy to forget what we owe to all the others. To the work.”

John chuckled dryly. “You mean to him.”

Brian froze a moment too long before answering. “I mean to all of you.”

“Sure,” John muttered, lighting a cigarette. “But mostly him.”

Brian didn’t reply, but the flicker in his eyes gave him away.

Before the silence could thicken, the phone rang sharply. Brian reached for it, grateful for the interruption, even as tension prickled under his skin. He slipped into his usual polished tone.

“Brian speaking.”

Paul’s voice came through the line, low but steady. Terrence stood nearby, listening. “Brian, yes, hello. It’s Paul. I just wanted to clear something up.”

Brian’s pulse jumped. “It’ll have to be brief,” he said carefully.

“Right,” Paul said, a pause stretching long enough for Brian to imagine the edge on his face. “Then I’ll make this quick. I don’t need Terrence, or any of those people watching me anymore. I’m fine on my own. You can call it off.”

Brian frowned. The words were confident, but that tone—too smooth, too rehearsed. “You’re certain you’re ready for that?”

“Absolutely,” Paul replied. “I told you I was getting back to myself. Ask him yourself, he’s right here.”

Brian’s eyes flicked toward John, who was pretending not to listen. “Very well,” he said softly. “Just stay balanced, won’t you? You know how easily things can tip if you move too fast.”

Paul chuckled lightly. “Nothing’s tipping, Brian. I’m just living, like I should.”

“Good,” Brian said, though his voice was taut. “Then I’ll see you later. Be safe.” He lowered his tone. “Put him on.”

Terrence’s voice came next. “Yes?”

Brian leaned slightly away from John. “He’s confident,” he murmured. “But keep watching. If he shows any…distortions, I want to know. You understand?”

Terrence hesitated. “He’s steady for now. But yes—he's...acting self absorbed.” Paul rolled his eyes at that last remark.

“Exactly. Never know what that could mean later,” Brian said. “But no interference yet. Just observe the state of him. We remember what happened, y'know, with the mirrors and all.”

John’s brow furrowed faintly, cigarette paused midair.

“Understood,” Terrence replied. “You’ll hear from me if anything shifts.”

“Right. I’ll be at the studio soon,” Brian said, forcing his voice smooth again. “Good lad.”

When he hung up, he exhaled hard, adjusting his cuff as though that could iron out the guilt and longing in him.

John smirked faintly. “Christ, you sounded like Paul's bloody therapist.”

Brian gave a brittle laugh. “He’s been…up and down. You know how he gets.”

“Yeah,” John said quietly. “Don’t I.”

There was a weight to the words that made Brian’s stomach twist. He looked away first.

John took another drag, then asked, “Wait. That Terrence bloke—you mean he’s still with him?”

Brian’s tone shifted slightly, too defensive too fast. “You’re so full of questions this morning.”

“If it’s about Paul, damn right I am,” John said. “It’s odd, that’s all. He doesn’t need a bloody babysitter.”

Brian set his mug down sharply. “He’s not being babysat. He’s being protected. You didn’t see him at his worst, John.”

John’s frown deepened. “I wasn’t allowed to. I begged you. I cried to see him but nobody would let me.”

“That’s because he wasn’t safe, and he was going under the knife too many times to count.” Brian snapped before catching himself. His voice softened, almost pleading. “You didn’t see the aftermath. You think you know him—but he’s not the same man you used to…” He caught himself again. “Work with.”

John’s eyes narrowed. “Work with?” he repeated, mocking. “Funny choice of words. Thought you’d say care about.”

Brian looked at him then—really looked. “And what else would you have me say?”

John stubbed out his cigarette, jaw tight. “That maybe you don’t like how close we were.”

Brian’s expression didn’t change, but his silence said enough.

He forced himself to straighten, smoothing his sleeve. “Believe what you like. But I’d rather see you angry with me than broken over him again.”

John let out a short, bitter laugh. “Christ, you think I’m still in love with him. After how he treated me yesterday.”

Brian didn’t respond. His throat worked as he swallowed.

John’s voice turned sharp again, cutting through the tension. “You just don’t want me close to him, because you want me for yourself now. That it?”

Brian’s jaw clenched, the heat in his chest sudden and raw. “You have no idea what I want.”

The words hung between them, bare and trembling.

John turned away first, muttering. “Fucking hell. Just take me to the bloody studio. You can spare me the speeches.”

Brian hesitated, then sighed, forcing his composure back like armor. “Fine. But remember, things are delicate. You need to be careful around him.”

John laughed bitterly. “Delicate. Sure. We’re not defusing a bomb, Bri.” He brushed past him toward the door, leaving Brian standing alone in the kitchen, the faint scent of cigarettes and coffee wrapping around the space where tension had just been.

//

Directly after Paul had noticed Terrence hang up the line, he smirked. “I told you. What's the point of you being here when I like living this life n’ I don't need anyone to watch over me?

“It wasn't just that. It was also making sure you don't ruin…your reputation. You do realize you are someone who has quite a devoted fanbase? You don't need negative publicity. Parents soon would say you're to blame if their little girls act out, trying to be more like you.” Terrence spoke, and for the first time, Paul really did think critically about the investigator's words. “So I'll leave. I just need you to understand, what you do in the public eye needs to be careful and it always needs to be a relatively good thing, when you do branch out on your own. Don't mess this up.”

“I won't.”

“Then what are those girls doing hanging out with you?” he smirked, shaking his head. “Don't you remember Jane?”

“What about her?”

“Something tells me she wouldn't be too fond of them, in your bed, naked…”

“She wouldn't know about it! They're just my fans anyway. I'm just gonna show them the studio and send them on their way, that's it.”

“Right…”

Paul’s smirk returned, sharper now. “Then I guess it’s settled. You’ve done your job, Terrence. You can go.” The investigator’s brow furrowed, but Paul didn’t give him room to argue. “I don’t need anyone hovering over me, not when I’ve got this under control. Trust me, I’ll be fine.”

Terrence studied him for a moment longer, something unreadable flickering in his eyes, before finally nodding. “Fine. Just remember what I said.”

Paul waved him off with a dismissive flick of his wrist. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll remember. Close the door on the way out.”

He stood still until Terrence’s footsteps faded, then turned back toward the bedroom with a swell of triumph. Crawling onto the bed, he gently shook the two girls awake. They stirred, giggling as they blinked at him.

One of them—a dark-haired girl with smudged eyeliner—grinned lazily. “We’ve still got more coke from last night, if you want.”

Paul hesitated for a moment, a flicker of resistance, then sighed. “Alright…just one line to start the day.”

The blonde from the night before perked up, already reaching into her purse. Soon the mirror on the nightstand was dusted white again, the only mirror he didn't mind getting to know. Paul leaned down, inhaled sharply, the sting in his nose sending a rush through his veins. The girls laughed, high-pitched and teasing, climbing over each other until their hands were all over him.

He leaned back against the headboard, watching them with a slow, deliberate grin. “Fuck. Would you do anything I ask, girls?”

“Yes,” the dirty blonde snickered, eyes glinting.

Paul’s voice dropped lower, coaxing, commanding. “Then I want you two to make out…while I watch. And do to you as I please.”

Their laughter spilled into the room as they leaned into each other, lips meeting, bodies pressed close. Paul’s chest swelled with the thrill of control, the intoxicating power of the moment.

*

The room was thick with perfume, sweat, and the sharpness of coke. He was completely satisfied, never realizing there’d be a time when he could take turns fucking two beautiful models. He didn't even bother to remember their names in great detail. Empty condom wrappers lined the bed once he bothered to look down, and he exhaled in bliss.

He sat back, lighting a cigarette as the girls lounged beside him, still giggling and tangled in sheets. Reaching for the phone on the bedside table, he dialed George’s number with a lazy grin tugging at his lips.

“Hello?” George answered, his voice still scratchy with sleep.

“Aye, George. What’re up to?”

“Fuck, mate, I should ask you the same. What happened to you? You disappeared last night!”

“I had a fab time, George. Just fab.” The two women snickered at that, and the blonde brushed her hair back as they stretched out beside him. They were also thoroughly pleased, not expecting Paul to focus on their orgasms so much. “Sorry. I just couldn’t help meself, man. Felt like the first proper party I’ve ever been to. Most alive I've felt since I got out of hospital.”

“I hear you. They still there? Old you would’ve kicked them out at six AM sharp!”

“Aye, well, the old me must not have wanted seconds,” Paul teased, drawing a laugh from George on the other end.

“Right. Well, I’m just glad you got out and had a great time. You deserved it.”

“Thanks. Actually, I called to ask—are you heading down to Abbey Road today?”

“Yeah, I was just about to get dressed and head there now. You wanna tag along?”

“Of course, man,” Paul agreed, flicking ash into the tray. He shot a sideways glance at the girls and smirked. “Think we could show these ladies the recording rooms? They’ll be gone after that—I just fancy letting ‘em see where the magic happens.”

George chuckled. “Figures. Alright, then. I’ll swing by and pick you lot up.”

“Perfect,” Paul grinned, exhaling smoke through his nose. “See you soon, mate.”

He hung up, leaning back into the pillows, the cigarette dangling from his fingers. The girls curled close again, playful and eager, and Paul let the thrill of it all wash over him. For once, he felt untouchable.

One of the girls disappeared into the bathroom, leaving him with the other—the one who’d brought the coke—and Paul leaned back, a lazy grin tugging at his lips as he let the playful tension linger. He exhaled a slow drag from his cigarette, then leaned toward her, voice pitched just for her.

“D’you mind giving me your number, love? For later. In case I want a bit more of that fantastic powder of yours… My last guy, his stuff’s not so good.” He let a sly grin play at his lips, leaning back slightly, trying to make it feel both casual and as if he had some long, practiced history with this sort of thing.

Her lips curled into a sly smile, equal parts playful and knowing. “Knew you’d be askin’ sooner or later,” she teased, reaching across him for the notepad on the bedside table. With a casual flick of the pen, she jotted down her number, then pressed the paper into his hand with a wink. “Don’t lose it. That’s not just my number. It’s your ticket if you ever fancy another good night.”

Paul grinned, tucking it into his pocket with a flourish. “Don’t worry,” he said, voice low and teasing, “I plan on keeping this very, very safe…just like I’ll be keeping you in mind, too.” His eyes danced with mischief, and the warmth in his tone made her chest flutter. “You’re special, you know that, right?”

“I know it now.” she giggled, then pressed a quick kiss to his cheek before darting forward to brush her lips against his neck.

He leaned into her touch just a beat before he sighed, knowing he had to get up and get dressed.

The man soon opened up the closet door, pride deep in his soul at the amazing clothing options he now had, free to choose for the first time without Brian or Terrence telling him what to wear. He selected a bright blue colored suit, one that really captured the essence of Sgt. Pepper that John had been dressing up in lately. It really felt psychedelic, but not overdoing it with too many colors, not yet. Because what was on his mind was a bright and colorful song, one he drew inspiration from his old journals. It was things he wrote before the accident. So he thought he'd give it a go, wanting to let himself have a new colorful insight to things.

Chapter Text

The car ride to Abbey Road was quiet, the engine’s hum filling the small space between John and Brian. John stared out the window, watching the city blur past, his thoughts twisting around last night—the kiss, the denied touch, the bitter ache of longing that refused to settle, then how Brian had taken him fully and completely without hesitation.

Brian drove with careful composure, hands steady on the wheel, the faint scent of his cologne mixing with the leather interior. Neither spoke, each lost in their own private torment, the silence heavy with things unspoken.

John’s mind wandered, replaying Paul’s lips on him, the sudden flush of heat, the shiver that ran down his spine when Paul had stiffened just as he pressed closer. He remembered the brief flash of desire being denied at the exact moment he wanted it most. And then Brian—God, Brian—flooded his thoughts. The way he’d moaned, polite yet needy, so very alive in the act, so impossibly present while John had drowned in drink, guilt, and longing. He loved Paul, always would, but yesterday's rejection had driven him toward someone who wouldn’t recoil—someone who wanted him, even in the haze of drunken confusion.

The city lights faded into the early morning gray as they pulled up outside the studio. John exhaled, pressing a hand to his forehead as Brian killed the engine. He ran his hand through his brown hair and huffed. The moment of quiet in the car lingered like a promise and a warning. They then stepped out, footsteps muted on the gravel path, and entered Abbey Road.

Inside, the studio was alive but calm—the soft hum of equipment, the faint scent of wood and metal. Immediately, the music caught John’s ears: George Martin, headphones perched crookedly, mixing Fool on the Hill. The sound was familiar, but it hit differently today—melancholic and sweet, weaving into the ache already lodged in his chest. The take seemed more refined, more distinctive than the ones before.

“You…uh, when did Paul get here?” John asked, trying to sound casual. The question came out brittle, curiosity edged with something sharper—resentment, longing, the sting of yesterday. Brian lingered near the door, leaning against the wall in silence, reading every tone in John’s voice.

George looked up, adjusting his glasses. “No clue, honestly. I was in yesterday morning, but he wasn’t—just Harrison. Got in today, and the finished takes were sitting there, waiting. So I started polishing the track.”

John nodded absently, his mind slipping back to last night—the kiss, the rejection, the sharp pull of need. The ache lingered, knotted with the warmth of Brian’s body, his soft desperation. It was a tangle of guilt and desire, and he hadn’t begun to make sense of any of it.

And then the air shifted.

Paul strolled in, vibrant and alive, a girl on each arm, perfectly confident in his sharp blue suit. Thrill radiated from him like electricity. George Harrison trailed behind, smirking, amused by Paul’s antics—grateful, at least, that he was back—unaware of the storm churning in John’s chest.

John’s heart clenched as he watched, torn between awe and longing, frustration and desire. Paul was fully himself again—untouchable—but John was left tangled in the aftermath, trapped between love, lust, and the confusing weight of Brian’s shadow. The music of Fool on the Hill swelled around them, its bittersweet melody threading through every thought.

John’s deep green suit, pressed and proper, complemented Paul’s vivid blue almost too perfectly. It should have been harmonious, but instead it twisted like a knife in his gut. They weren't an item like before; before they'd coordinate their outfits together. The color contrast made them look like a pair again though—balanced, even deliberate—and John hated that it felt intimate. Paul’s eyes flicked up, deliberate, and that teasing smirk curved his mouth. “Well, would you look at that…we match. Blue and green—perfect combo, don’t you think?”

John’s chest tightened, heat creeping up his neck. “We…match?” he said, flat but raw, pulse fluttering beneath the collar of his shirt. His mind replayed the night before—Paul hard in his lap, then suddenly gone, like a door slamming shut. The kiss that should’ve ignited them had ended in rejection, leaving John aching and confused. And now here Paul was—smirking, radiant, flaunting two women who hadn’t earned an inch of what John had lost.

Paul’s grin widened, satisfied. “Feels good, doesn’t it? Like we’re…coordinated. You and me.” Took the words from his mind.

“Almost. But don’t get used to it—I didn't plan on matching with you like we’re the bloody Monkees.” John forced a smile, jaw tight. His words caused a few laughs around the room.

Everything about him—the green suit, the careful grooming, the effort—felt mocked by Paul’s ease. He was jealous and rather furious, not at the girls, but at Paul’s effortless freedom, the way he could still command a room while John simmered beneath his own want and guilt. Like he wasn't bothered by yesterday at all, while John was eaten alive by it.

He told himself he wouldn’t let Paul get one on him.

John’s eyes flicked to the girls on Paul’s arms. Despite the knot in his chest, he smirked. “But well, well, Paul,” he said, voice dripping with mock admiration, “bringing in some fancy new eye candy, I see.”

“Oh, they're just a couple fans who wanted to see more of what we do in ‘ere.” he playfully winked at the dark haired girl.

The girls giggled, lashes fluttering. John’s gaze locked onto the dirty blonde—sharp, mischievous, and impossibly tempting. He sauntered over, flashing the kind of smile that had never failed him. “Hey,” he said casually, “why don’t you come see the instruments? Paul was going to show you anyway, right?”

Her eyes lit up, and before Paul could say anything, she followed John toward the scattered keyboards and guitars. He turned on the charm easily, showing off like a performer on his own stage. “This one?” he said, gesturing to a guitar. “It’s the magic wand—touch it, and poof, the ladies swoon.” His teasing tone earned the laughter he wanted, bright and fluttery.

Paul watched from the mixing booth, seeing them through the glass, a smirk curling at his lips. He didn’t intervene; why should he? He was riding his own high, twirling on a private magic carpet of attention and thrill. The music pulsed behind him, his blue suit gleaming under the studio lights. John was doing exactly what he intended—showing off, strutting—and Paul didn’t care. Not really.

He shook off the thought at first, and explained what song was playing to his lady, then he glanced around the room. Soon he noticed Harrison now stood nearby. The guitarist was leaning over the knobs next to their producer. He was listening to his track, ignoring what was happening in the recording room. But Paul couldn't ignore it.

Meanwhile, John leaned close to the blonde at the keyboard, whispering something that made her laugh and brush her hair back. He was having fun, yes, but there was an edge beneath it—an old fire, a need to prove himself, to remind Paul he wasn’t the only one who could command a room.

Paul’s eyes glinted with amusement and faint disbelief. Let him have it, he thought. He had his empire, his freedom, his choices—and that was far more intoxicating than John’s petty games. He’d let John strut and smirk all he liked. Paul would simply keep flying.

And yet, deep down, both of them knew this dance—the fire, the jealousy, the unspoken longing—was stitched into the rhythm of the morning. The pulse of Fool on the Hill carried through the air, wrapping them all in something neither of them could name.

“So,” John said at last, ready to get to the real meat of their little talk while the two of them were out of range for Paul to hear. His fingers idly played an easy progression in F major. Turning his head toward the blonde with a grin, he asked: “You got to spend some time with ol’ Paulie, yeah?”

She laughed, twirling a strand of her dirty-blonde hair around one finger. “Mhm, last night? Yeah, we were all out, weren’t we? He was in rare form. Music, champagne, bit of…fun.” Her smirk turned knowing. “You know, that sort of white powder fun. He's a wild time. Nothing like I thought he'd be.”

“Oh yeah? How d'you reckon that?”

“He just- he looked at me like I was everything. Kind of like how you're doing to me now…”

John raised his brows, his interest piqued. His eyes darted over her body, finding her curves to be delightful. She had a slim waist and large breasts that were quite revealing in the dress she wore. “That right?”

“Yes…” She leaned closer, lowering her voice. “Didn’t think he’d stop. Said he wanted to have a good time for once.”

John chuckled, pretending it was casual, but his eyes sharpened. The pit in his stomach seemed to grow. During the kiss, he thought the two were having a grand time until Paul hopped up like John was the plague. So it hurt hearing that he wanted to have a good time for once. “Yeah, he's been through a lot since that accident. So I’ll bet he did.” His tone dropped, teasing. “Tell you what, love. I’ve got a bit of my own, if you fancy keeping the morning bright.”

Her eyes lit up. “You do?”

“Course I do,” he said, flashing that lazy grin. “Come on then, I’ll show you where I do the good stuff. Too many prying eyes in here...”

He stood, nodding toward the door, and to Paul’s disbelief, the blonde—the one he’d fancied most of all—rose and followed. John rested his hand low on her back as he led her out of the control room, his laugh echoing faintly as the door shut behind them. Of course, Paul didn't know where they were going, or what they were going to do, but he just noticed them taking off together in a hurried fashion. His jaw flexed. He didn’t look up from the coffee cup in his hand, but his knuckles whitened against it. The remaining girl said something flirty, giggling, but he didn’t hear her. The sting sat too deep.

George Harrison glanced over and smirked. “Didn’t waste time, that one.”

Paul forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah. Good on him.”

Brian noticed—of course he did. He always caught the smallest fractures.

He stepped forward, his voice low and calm. “Paul. Step out with me for a moment, will you?”

Paul looked at him, a flicker of irritation and confusion mixing behind his eyes, but he nodded. Together they left the others behind, the studio hum fading under the weight of whatever was about to be said. George knew that last line Paul said was the reason behind Brian asking him to step outside. Recalling their brief conversation yesterday, he knew that Brian was probably aware of the deeper meaning behind what really happened between the pair recently. While they sat outside talking, he pushed his sleeves up to his elbows with a sigh, then made his way out with the instruments like John and the blonde.

Brian took him out back into the windy air. He lit a cigarette, leaning against the brick wall. Smoke coiled in the space between them as he studied Paul in silence for a long moment before speaking.

“What, Brian?” Paul muttered, still raw from watching John walk off with the girl.

“Well, for starters,” Brian said evenly, “John was already in a foul mood before you came in. Then you stroll in with two birds on your arm like you’ve not a care in the world. You think that helps him? Do you not recall yesterday?” His tone stayed controlled, but there was heat underneath—the kind that comes from knowing too much.

Paul’s eyes flicked toward him. “And what would you know about what’s in his head, then?” he asked, half defensive, half curious. “You talk like you’ve got him all figured out. You don't know everything."

Brian exhaled through his nose, watching the smoke fade. “Oh, maybe I do. Maybe I just notice the things you don’t.”

Paul frowned. “Such as?”

“He’s hurting,” Brian said simply. “You push him, then pull away, and he’s left wondering what he did wrong. You’ve no idea what that does to him.”

The words hit sharp, but not cruel. Paul looked away, lips tightening. “I do care,” he said after a beat, quieter now. “I know I’ve mucked it up. I just…I don’t know how to be what he wants.”

Brian’s expression softened slightly. “Then stop pretending you do,” he said. “That’s all I’m asking. Don't push and then pull.”

Paul hesitated, the fight draining from him. “It’s not that simple. With John, it’s—bloody hell, it’s different. I want him, but I freeze up. I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with me.”

Brian studied him closely, his tone dipping lower, quieter. “There’s nothing wrong with you. But if you don’t understand what you’re doing to him, you’ll lose him altogether. I say, don't push for that romance. You've no idea the amount of trouble you're going to get into with Lennon.”

Paul’s throat worked as he swallowed. “You talk like you’ve got him wrapped around your finger.”

“I just know how to steady him,” Brian replied, too quickly. He looked away, flicking ash from his cigarette. The defensiveness in his tone wasn’t lost on Paul.

Something in the silence shifted—a subtle unease, a recognition. Paul’s gaze sharpened. “You care about him more than you’re letting on,” he said slowly. “That’s it, isn’t it? You think I’m the one hurting him, but it’s because you’re…what, jealous?”

Brian’s jaw tightened. “Don’t start with that.”

But Paul didn’t stop. “You act like it’s your job to guard him. Like you’re afraid he’ll look at someone else and forget you.”

Brian’s voice cracked then, low but sharp. “I’m afraid he’ll be destroyed by someone who doesn’t know how to love him properly.”

Paul fell quiet. The wind pressed cold against his back, but he barely noticed.

Brian let the silence linger before continuing, quieter now, almost weary. “He needs someone steady, not someone who flinches every time things get real. And until you can give him that, stay out of his head.”

Paul bristled. “So I’m supposed to sit by and watch you play the saint?”

Brian looked at him, tired but unyielding. “You’re supposed to stop playing with his mind. One second you’re drawing him in, the next you’re jumping off like you're- like you’re ashamed of wanting him. So there should be no wonder as to why he took that girl from you. He’s trying to show you that she’s easy. That he can take what you parade around and make it his, just to prove a point. He doesn't really want her, Paul. He’s showing you how it feels.”

Paul’s face went pale, jaw tightening. “That’s not what it looked like.”

Brian scoffed. “Of course it didn’t. He wanted you to see it. He wanted you to hurt. Because that’s what you make him feel. Uncertain, and unwanted. Like he’s always got to test you just to know where you stand.”

Paul’s voice cracked, angry and defensive. “I don’t make him feel that way on purpose—”

Brian cut him off. “It doesn’t matter. You still did. You can’t keep pulling him close one minute and pretending it never happened the next. The sheer audacity of your antics today... and you think you can do this whole thing unbidden?” he was talking about the whole identity.

Paul’s eyes flashed, quick to defend himself. “At first, hell no. But now I know I can. It's just- it all piles on me.. Give me a damn break!”

“How?” Brian snapped, stepping closer. “When you’re confusing him? You’re even confusing yourself. You’re overdoing this act, Paul. You need to back off before you wreck him completely.”

Paul gave a short, bitter laugh. “Oh, right. And what, you’re the one who can sort him out then?”

Brian’s expression hardened. “No. But I can stop him from falling apart while you figure yourself out.”

Paul’s breath hitched, something dark flickering behind his eyes—jealousy, regret, defiance. He wanted to argue, to tear Brian’s words down, but they landed too close to the truth.

Brian exhaled, voice dropping low. “Until you know what you want, don’t play at it. Don’t make him a casualty of your confusion.”

The words stuck like splinters.

Even after Brian went back inside, Paul stayed where he was, motionless against the cold brick wall. The cigarette smoke lingered in the air, faintly reminding him of Brian's presence. He thought about what he truly wanted. On the surface, he wanted everything—the fame, the women, the parties, the attention that never stopped. But underneath, deeper than even he liked to admit, he wanted what the real Paul had once had with John.

And what did that mean?

Something true. Something private. Something that had nothing to do with the spotlight.

He remembered reading it—Paul’s handwriting in those old journals, the lines where John was painted in gold. Where the world seemed to stop and start only when John was near. Paul had seen it in words and felt it in his bones when they’d been alone those weeks—the easy laughter, the music, the quiet. And then that kiss.

God, that kiss. Before, as William, he would have turned the other cheek and possibly acted disgusted at the mere idea of two blokes kissing. Now, as Paul, he was free of public scrutiny as he was almost untouchable, so long as it could remain a closely guarded secret. And with John, clearly it could be.

He’d replayed it over and over in his mind—the taste, the shock, the surprising heat—and then the way he’d panicked. He wasn’t disgusted. Just terrified. He didn’t know how to be that kind of man, how to give himself to another man, how to even begin to please one. But John—bloody hell, John made him want to learn.

He just wished he would’ve said that. Before Lennon turned to Brian, before that gap widened into something that couldn’t be crossed.

And the brutal, harsh reality was this: if John ever knew the truth—about any of it—the burial, the deception, the resurrection that made Paul (William) McCartney out of a corpse—then Brian Epstein and William would without a doubt be the last men John Lennon could ever forgive.

Chapter Text

By the time Paul went back inside, the dirty blonde and John were already back. The slam of the heavy metal door jolted the room, and all eyes fell on him, even John's. He forced a smile and dropped his gaze as he walked toward the instruments. George noticed the shift immediately.

Paul realized Brian had been right—he’d been wrong to act like yesterday never happened.

John sat at the piano with the girl perched in his lap at this point, and Paul took a seat next to his Hofner without a word. Lennon continued to play for her, allowing her cute smiles and impressed nature to stroke his ego.

Paul spotted the pen and notebook he’d left behind after finishing Fool on the Hill yesterday. He began writing a letter. Everyone returned to their own tasks, George settling with his guitar. Occasional glances fell on Paul, curious, but he didn’t look up, and no one asked him what he was doing. He had leapt in the studio with confidence but returned from his outside break calm, collected, something quietly being altered inside him.

The dark-haired girl approached, her hand brushing lightly over his shoulder. He didn’t give her attention, just sighed, the weight of Brian’s words still in his chest. The pages before him were full of half-finished lines that were words she wasn’t meant to read.

She tilted her head. “You were all smiles when you came in,” she said softly. “What happened? Did we…do something wrong?”

Paul finally glanced up, forcing a small smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “No, love. You didn’t do anything wrong. I just—need to focus a bit, y’know? Can't have distractions right now. I got a new idea just a minute ago.”

The brunette hesitated, confusion flickering. As if he’d been told off and now was trying to make it right—to that Brian guy.

“I’ll call you, sweetheart. I promise,” he added gently, shielding what he was really writing.

She nodded, cheeks flushed, and motioned for her friend. The blonde huffed but rose, smoothing her dress. On her way out, she bent to give John a quick kiss on the cheek, murmuring a teasing goodbye before following her friend.

The studio door shut softly behind them, leaving a stillness heavier than before. Paul exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and bent over his notebook again.

The words flowed, filling the page.

John—

I keep thinking about us, about how we write together, how easy it felt when the music just came. I want that again. I want you again, but not in the way that hurts. What I did today, bringing those girls around, it wasn’t to prove anything or to get at you. I wasn’t trying to start another mess. I was just having fun. I realized I could do what I wanted and I ran with it. After yesterday, I felt alone. I came here and finished Fool on the Hill just to have something that made sense again. Then George and Ringo dragged me to some party. We drank too much, did a bit of coke, and I got caught up in it. For a night, it felt easy, like none of the heavy things existed. I was still clinging to that this morning, and I didn’t want to let it end, so I brought them with me. It was careless. I didn’t think. I didn’t stop to wonder how it would look to you. I only saw the surface of it all.

But I saw your face when you looked at me, and I knew. I figured it out the moment you took that girl from my side that I’d gone too far. I’m sorry, John. I don’t ever want to be the reason you feel small or doubted.

And that kiss. John, it mattered to me more than you think. I wanted more, bad. But everything in my head feels new, like I’ve been dropped into someone else’s life and told to live it right. I don’t remember the times we were close. I’ve read about them in my journals, but reading isn’t remembering. I wish it were. I wish I could feel what we had, instead of just knowing it used to exist. It's like I never lived it.

You scare me, in a way. Not because of what you want, but because I can feel that I want it too. And I don’t know how to move in it yet. It’s like learning to breathe again. I don’t want to get it wrong with you. I don’t want to hurt you.

All I know is when I look at you, something inside me still answers. I know I loved you. And I think I still do. But being close, being that way again, it feels like uncharted ground. I need time, not to forget, but to find it again.

Please understand it’s not rejection. It’s fear. It’s wanting to be right with you, not reckless.

If you still want me after I find my way there, I’ll be glad to start again.

Paul

He read it once, twice, then closed the notebook carefully, pressing his palm flat over the cover, trying to trap the words inside. His heart still raced. How could he give this to John? He’d probably slip it before leaving today’s session, he reasoned.

John leaned over the piano, curiosity getting the better of him. “Hey, what’s that?” he murmured, pointing.

“Oh,” Paul swallowed, furrowing his brows. “It’s—well, it’s nothing, really. Just thoughts, or reflections, I guess.”

John’s fingers brushed the edge of the notebook, seeing the folded page inside. It shifted slightly. He glanced down at Paul’s neat handwriting. All he could make out was something at the beginning, and something at the end of the note:

John—

and…

If you still want me after...

His breath caught. He looked up, meeting Paul’s eyes for a fleeting moment, then looked away, letting the page stay tucked safely. Not yet, he told himself. Paul didn’t want him to see it.

Before they could linger, the studio door creaked open.

Ringo stepped in, grin familiar, a folded newspaper tucked under his arm. “Heyo! What’s everyone up to?” He let his gaze sweep the room, hesitant, unsure if he should interrupt or settle in.

George looked up from his guitar with a small grin. “Bout time you showed up.”

John chuckled under his breath, leaning back at the piano. “Yeah, Ringo—session doesn’t start till our Starr walks in.”

Ringo laughed heartily, the sound bouncing off the walls. Paul stayed quiet, eyes fixed on his notebook while George idly strummed a soft chord to fill the space. He barely registered the laughter; his mind was somewhere else entirely, words spilling onto the page as if guided by something outside himself.

Ringo wandered further in, settling onto a nearby stool and setting his folded newspaper down on the amp beside him. “Thought I’d check in—see if you lot needed coffee or a break or something,” he said with a grin. His gaze landed on Paul, noticing the furrow in his brow, the quiet intensity in his movements. “Ah,” he murmured, smiling. “Looks like someone’s busy.”

Paul didn’t answer. His hand drifted absently, brushing the corner of the newspaper. A headline caught his eye: a teenage girl gone missing nearby. She’d left home with a man, leaving only a note behind.

Paul felt a shiver of interest. Words struck a chord, stirring a melody. He picked up the paper, scanning the column, piecing together the story—tragedy, hope, rebellion—all floating, ready to be shaped into song.

John noticed Paul’s stillness. “What’s that?” he asked softly.

Paul’s lips twitched. “Something that might just be…a story,” he murmured, turning over tentative notes in his mind. A soft hum rose from him, delicate but persistent, as if the story had been waiting all along.

George leaned back. “Wait—what’s going on? What’s the story?”

Ringo, still holding the newspaper, leaned against the amp. “Ah, it’s some teenage girl nearby. Ran off early this week, left home with a man. Parents worried, left a note and all. You’ve probably never heard of her.”

Paul’s gaze lingered on the headline, reading aloud faintly: “‘She leaves home…with a man she’s known for years,’” then flipped to a blank page in his notebook, pencil poised. “Bloody hell.”

John smirked. “You’re thinking of turning it into something, aren’t you?”

Paul looked up, distant. “Maybe. Feels like there’s a story in it…Probably another sad one.”

Ringo, seated behind his drum set, teased lightly. “What’s up with you and sad tunes lately? You okay? Thought after last night you were anew.”

Paul gave a small laugh. “I’m trying. But that line here-” he pointed to the father’s quote;
‘I just simply can’t believe she’s leaving home after living with us for so many years, like we haven’t mattered to her,’ “-it just screams…a certain sadness.” He glanced at John. “Know what I mean?”

He tossed the paper to John, who caught it mid-air, scanning the column, a faint melody humming in his head.

John read aloud, exaggerating a posh British accent like an old radio host:

“Just last Wednesday, around seven in the morning, a mother awoke to find her loving daughter's room empty. She left nothing behind but a letter, briefly describing where she was going.”

He continued, keeping the accent. Ringo and George laughed. Lennon glanced at Paul, then back at the column. “This could be enough for a song. One that tells the story.”

Paul nodded. “Yeah. Feels like something’s there, y’know.” He began writing lyrics immediately.

Wednesday morning, at five o’clock, as the day begins.

He hummed a melody, tentative but steady. “Could I…get on the piano, John?” he asked nervously.

John slid off the bench. “Go on, then. Let’s see what you’ve got, Mr. Inspiration.”

Paul sat, fingers hovering, pressing soft chords—hesitant, then steadier. Foot tapping unevenly.

“Wednesday morning, at five o’clock, as the day begins…” he sang, gentle, haunting. John’s brow lifted in surprise.

“Bloody hell,” John muttered. “That’s pretty, good start. But somber, like.”

Paul shrugged. “It’s what the story feels like. Parents waking up, she’s gone…makes you wonder what she wrote.”

“Something about needing to live, probably. Feeling caged in.” John said softly. “People don’t vanish for no reason.”

Paul’s gaze flickered, half nostalgic, half wounded. “No. They don’t.”

The room fell quiet, only the hum of the studio filling the gap. Paul refined the line, trance-like focus shaping chords before lyrics.

George glanced up, exchanged a look with Ringo, tapping drumsticks idly.

“They’re at it again,” George murmured with a grin. “Feels like the old days.”

Ringo smiled faintly. “Yeah. Look at John.”

John leaned closer, eyes following Paul’s hands. Sharpness gone, something gentler showing. Paul, absorbed, didn’t notice, shaping chords for the song.

“We could tell both sides, maybe,” John said quietly. “Her bit, and theirs. They’re trying to understand it. You tell her story, I’ll sing what the parents would say.”

Paul tilted his head. “Yeah. Sounds like a plan.”

George smiled, strumming softly. “This is gonna be one of those that’ll stick.”

Brian poked his head in. “Everything all right in here?”

John groaned. “Just peachy, Bri. Can’t you see we’re having a moment?”

His snippy tone gave Brian a reminder of who really held his attention.

Brian smiled faintly, tapping his watch. “A moment that’s running long. I’ll be outside sorting tomorrow’s schedule—carry on, but don’t go leaving, or arguing before I get back.”

He left, the heavy studio door clicking shut.

For a while, nothing but Paul’s melody wove through the room. He hummed where the words would go, the song not fully formed but shaping itself.

Minutes later, the door swung open again. Brian stepped in, slip of paper in hand, caught between surprise and importance.

“Well, sorry to cut this short, but The Sunday Times wants photos of you all in the studio. Sudden, but good publicity. Hard to catch everyone at once, ‘n we finally a chance.”

John groaned. “Photos? Now?”

“Yes, John. Now.” Brian adjusted his cufflink. “Try not to look like you’ve been brooding for hours when they arrive.”

Paul laughed, shaking his head as he rose. “Guess the song’ll have to wait, then.”

“Only for a little while,” Brian assured, as if everything could be neatly set aside.

Paul’s eyes lingered on the piano keys a moment longer before following the others out—the melody still echoing in his mind.

*

The morning blurred into flashes and film reels.

By ten, they were all in the studio again—but this time, under the bright lights of a photographer’s lens. John adjusted his collar and gave an exaggerated grin when told to “look natural,” while Paul followed suit with a more reserved smile. Ringo cracked jokes between shots, easing the tension that still hummed from the night before. George stayed quiet, fidgeting with the strap of his guitar that he wasn’t even holding.

Brian stood off to the side, arms folded, barking occasional suggestions about posture or charm.

“One more, lads—this one’s for the Times!” the photographer said, camera clicking in bursts.

It all felt strangely hollow. The smiles didn’t quite reach the eyes, but they looked the part. That was what mattered now.

Afterward, they were ushered into a corner booth for a short interview. The reporter, a young woman with round glasses, leaned forward with her recorder, asking about the new record.

John leaned in, half-serious, half-teasing. “It’s a bit of a trip, this one. We’re trying out something that feels...bigger, y’know?”

“More theatrical,” Paul added, eyes flicking toward him. “Different instruments. Even strings.”

“Strings?” she repeated, intrigued.

Paul only shrugged. “Something sentimental. I think it’ll fit this song we’ve been working on.”

She pressed for a title, but they didn’t have one yet—just a melody that had taken shape hours before.

When the interview wrapped, Brian sent them back into the studio for a few test takes. The mood had shifted; whatever tension lingered between John and Paul earlier had dissolved into rhythm. They traded lines easily now, bouncing between the piano and notebook.

“She’s leaving home after living alone for so many years...”

Paul sang it softly, half-smiling at how the words fell together. John hummed in agreement, adding his own twist to the phrasing.

“Bit tragic, innit?” John said. “But beautiful.”

Paul nodded. “It’s real. That’s the thing.”

They built the song’s bones that afternoon, voices and melody weaving together, laughter cutting through the fatigue. For a few hours, everything else, the secrets, the guilt, the pressure, all of that fell away. He had forgotten what it was like to be genuine, but there it was, right in front of him when writing with John Lennon.

By evening, they had most of it mapped out. Paul suggested they hold off on recording until they could bring in someone for a string arrangement.

Brian reappeared, tapping his watch. “Wrap it up, lads. We’ll revisit tomorrow.”

As the others packed their things, Paul stayed by the piano, humming the same bittersweet line to himself. He thought of how he would give the letter to John.

Glancing over at Brian, he flipped to the page with his true words written. “Oh. Don't forget this, John.” He nonchalantly handed the notebook to John, his song writing partner. The page, still not ripped out, looked like a few paragraphs. John gave him a confused stare but took it anyway. He couldn't read it with the band still present, especially with Brian staring right at them too. The man closed the cover and nodded, shoving it into his breast pocket.

“Yeah, I'll see if I can add more to the song.”

“Great. And good day today, man. We got a lot achieved. I'll see you lot later.”

Everyone gave their goodbyes, and soon all the people present headed for the door. When Paul was the last one in, he sighed, knowing George was waiting for him in the car. He pushed a hand through his hair, craving a smoke. Having so much pent-up energy wasn’t something he could ignore. He needed to do more, not just turn in for the evening. His gut instinct wanted to turn to John, but he couldn’t forget what Brian said: You need to back off before you wreck him completely.

He knew what came next, and it was something hot. He wasn’t ready—not for sex, not for what John really wanted.

That was the heart of it all. The epiphany. Sure, he could probably accept a blowie from him, and they could make out. Maybe, just maybe, they’d lend each other a hand. But anything else—actual penetration—was intimidating. For someone who’d never considered it before, it was terrifying, a point of no return. He could sense the anticipation, the heat of the moment calling for it, but he didn’t know how to answer.

So he couldn’t go further right now. Not when he was held to such a high standard. The old Paul knew how to do everything. Now he had to learn it all from the ground up—and some things, he just couldn’t rush, no matter how much money they gave him.

With that thought, he headed to George’s ride.

Chapter Text

John sat quietly in the back of Brian’s car, the notebook heavy in his hands. He didn’t open it right away. Brian was still nearby, but the weight of that page pulled at him. The words were there, waiting. He could feel them.

Finally, when the car hit a rare pocket of stillness, he flipped to the page Paul had written earlier. The one meant for him. He needed to read it, start to finish.

His eyes moved over each line, lips parting slightly as he took it in. The sentences felt alive, humming quietly between the words. He held the notebook in his lap, fingertips tracing the paper as if touch alone could summon Paul’s voice. Every line echoed in the quiet of the car, each one steady as a heartbeat.

He mouthed the words aloud, soft enough only for himself to hear. I keep thinking about us… The phrase lingered, heavy and light all at once, an anchor and a spark.

Even though Paul wanted him someday, the ache of not being now sank deep. He missed the closeness, the small things, shoulders brushing, laughter shared between chords. The way Paul’s presence filled a room. Regret pressed against his ribs; he wished he’d held him just a little longer, stayed a moment more before pulling away. All of it was memory now, one he returned to too often.

Outside, the city blurred past, the hum of Brian’s car turning into a kind of lullaby. John reread the letter, again and again, as if repetition could unlock its meaning or ease what it stirred in him. Each read peeled back something new: hesitation, longing, fear, honesty. It wasn’t just a letter. It was a map, Paul’s mind drawn in ink. And John didn’t feel anger, only sadness. Whatever they’d been, whatever they might’ve been, would have to wait.

He could’ve ignored it. He knew that. He could’ve tucked it away, pretended he hadn’t seen. But he didn’t. Couldn’t. Every line pulled him deeper, toward questions he wasn’t ready to answer. He smiled faintly, pressing the notebook to his chest—a small rebellion, a small treasure. It grounded him even as it set his heart racing.

Brian’s voice finally broke the spell. “Your home awaits up ahead, mate.”

John blinked, reality catching up. He wasn’t sure why he’d been brought home, but he didn’t argue.

He nodded, closing the notebook carefully, tucking it inside his coat. The quiet anticipation in his chest didn’t fade, instead it settled inside him. For now, he let the city roll by. He’d think about it later. He’d think about Paul again and again until he found the courage to act, or until Paul gave him a sign he couldn’t ignore.

“Call you later, Bri.”

“Yeah, okay. Be careful, love.”

“Okay. You too.” John squeezed Brian’s shoulder, then turned away before he could change his mind.

Brian watched him go, eyes tracing the swing of his coat and the way his hand stayed tucked over the pocket where the notebook hid. Something about the whole thing unsettled him. He’d seen John reading—intensely—but couldn’t tell what it was. The way Paul had handed it over, the way John had clung to it—it wasn’t lyrics. It was something private. Something he wasn’t meant to see.

He drummed his fingers on the wheel, engine idling. For a fleeting second, he almost called out to John, demanded to know what it was. But that would only push him further away. He knew better than to spook him. Still, the thought nagged: what had Paul written that made John look that way?

Jealousy crept in, familiar and unwanted. He told himself it wasn’t that—just concern. He’d seen this before, the two of them closing ranks, leaving everyone else outside. He couldn’t afford that. Not again. Not when things were finally steady, not when Paul was finally steady.

He sighed, adjusting his tie. “Must be private,” he muttered, almost amused by the word. Paul and John’s version of private had always been dangerous.

With one last glance toward the house, he shifted into gear and pulled away, city lights catching his reflection in the window. Still, unease clung to him—the image of John holding that notebook like scripture.

Once home, he gave in to the impulse and dialed Paul’s number, curiosity gnawing. He didn’t even know what he’d say—some excuse about schedules, probably—but he just needed to hear his voice. To feel included. But Paul never answered.

He was at George’s instead, the air thick with pot smoke, guitars resting against softly humming amps. Ringo tapped out a lazy rhythm as they ran through songs Paul had been relearning. Laughter filled the gaps between chords.

For a while, Paul let himself forget—the pressure, the deception, the ghost of the man whose life he’d inherited. For a little while, it was just music again.

/

They spent the next few days in and out of the studio, the air hazy with cigarette smoke and static from the amps. Paul worked the bass line until it clicked—bold and brassy, something that could lead the others in. The band within the band. John caught on fast, rhythm guitar snapping into place with each take, his laughter echoing through the room.

“Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band,” Paul said, testing the name aloud. “The title track’ll be loud, bright—like a stage show. Somethin’ you can’t ignore.”

Ringo tapped his sticks. “What, with a crowd cheering and all that?”

“Yeah,” Paul grinned. “Exactly that. Like we’re playin’ live.”

Hours blurred—vocals layered, harmonies stretched thin, George trying new licks while Ringo added fills that made them all grin. Between takes, John sprawled on the floor, humming what would become Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. They laughed over the lyrics, over how strange and freeing it all sounded—the sly nod to LSD tucked inside a child’s drawing.

By week’s end, they had the bones of five songs: Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds, Fixing a Hole, Getting Better, and something darker—A Day in the Life. John brought that one in, all crumpled pages and half-thought headlines; Paul filled the gaps with something almost hopeful. They argued, then laughed, then argued again. It worked.

Brian watched from behind the glass, arms folded. He saw the rhythm between them—the shorthand, the way one’s glance could steer the other. Every time John laughed, Paul’s eyes lit just a bit too bright. Every time Paul nailed a take, John’s whole face softened.

It was creation, chaos, communion—and Brian hated that it didn’t include him.

When the real Paul died, John and I were supposed to become closer. Instead, the imposter’s more like him every week. Looks like him. Sings like him. I should’ve let him die. Maybe everything would’ve been better.

The thought came uninvited, dark and sharp. He turned away before the take ended, pretending to check his watch. Guilt pressed heavy in his chest. If he hadn’t gone to the label with that suggestion, none of this would exist. Too much money, too many secrets now. The lie had roots too deep to pull. All he could do was live with it—and watch the man he’d created live more convincingly than the one who’d died.

Behind the glass, John and Paul laughed again, heads close, music rising. For a moment, it almost looked real. Almost like nothing had ever gone wrong.

When the session wrapped, John stretched and reached for his coat. He hadn’t brought up the letter again, content to wait as long as it took for Paul to be ready. Their friendship had strengthened since, steadier somehow. The two shared a quick half-smile before George called out.

“Come on, mate. There’s that place up on the corne where we can get a bite to eat.”

“Yeah, alright,” John said, grabbing his smokes.

He was halfway to the door when Brian’s voice stopped him. “John, wait—need a lift tonight?”

John blinked, turning. “Eh? I’ve got one with the others. We’re grabbing food.”

Brian’s faint smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Oh. Right. I just thought maybe we could talk a bit. I’ve been feeling rather…off lately. Wouldn’t mind the company.”

John hesitated, seeing the weight in his expression. “You alright, Bri?”

“Not particularly.” Brian laughed softly, a fragile sound. “That’s why I asked.”

That was enough. John sighed. “Alright, give me a sec.” He turned back to the others. “Hey, I’ll catch you later, yeah? Gonna go with Bri.”

George shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Paul didn’t speak. Just nodded, lips pressed thin, eyes on his bass. He told himself it didn’t matter—but the knot in his stomach said otherwise. The words Brian had once whispered echoed back, jealousy threading through him anyway. He forced a grin. “See you tomorrow then.”

“Bye, man,” John said, following Brian into the night.

In the car, silence lingered, broken only by the hum of traffic. Streetlights flashed across the windshield like thoughts John couldn’t quite name.

After a while, Brian spoke. “Would you mind coming back to mine? Easier to talk there.”

John glanced over, eyebrow raised. “Talk about what—that night we drank too much?”

Brian’s grip tightened on the wheel. “Come on. It meant something to you, didn’t it? We haven’t talked since. I don’t know where I stand with you anymore. I just…missed having you around.” His voice wavered, practiced vulnerability slipping into something real. “What? The night didn’t matter to you?”

John’s jaw flexed. “Bri, it mattered. I think about it daily. I just…got Paul on my mind too much, man.”

At the red light, Brian turned to him, eyes catching the glow. “I don’t want anything you don’t want to give. I just want a bit of what we had. Someone who listens. I just thought- y'know, I could be someone who really sees you.”

John didn’t answer. The light turned green, but neither moved. Something in Brian’s tone—something quietly aching—hooked into him. Maybe it was being seen. Maybe it was loneliness. Maybe it was just need.

“Yeah,” John muttered finally, half-smiling. “Alright. Let’s talk then.”

Brian smiled softly, easing the car forward. “Good. I’ll go in and put the kettle on.”

*

At Brian’s, they talked—about the album, the press, small things that filled the space. When the words ran dry, John leaned back. “You been thinking about that time we had, right?”

Brian’s eyes dropped. “It’s all I think about, honestly.”

“I think about it too,” John said, quieter. “Hope I didn’t hurt you.”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” Brian teased, blush creeping in. “Not then, not now.”

John smirked. “Cheeky bastard.”

Brian shrugged, playful again. “That’s me. But I wouldn’t mind a repeat. Sober this time.”

John laughed. “Sober, huh? You want me to actually remember it?”

“Exactly,” Brian said softly. “No excuses. No haze. Just you and me.”

John’s brow lifted, teasing. “Tryin’ to lure me in again?”

“Maybe,” Brian said, grin curling. “But mostly…I just missed this. You. Us.”

John exhaled, chest tight. “Really, I did too. But that night—it was more than fun. I haven’t stopped thinking about it. I just-”

Brian’s voice gentled, cutting him off. “Then why not try again? No rush, no pressure. Just…this.”

John’s lips twitched. “You make the impossible sound tempting.”

Brian chuckled. “Because it is.”

John laughed softly. “Alright. Sober, you said.”

“Sober,” Brian echoed, smiling. “Better this time.”

John smirked. “We’ll see.”

*

Later, the TV flickered quietly. John sank into the sofa, warmth creeping through the stillness. Brian sat beside him, cologne faint, laughter easy. For the first time in weeks, John felt calm—yet guilty for it. He thought of Paul, the way they’d shared nights like this before the accident. But maybe it was okay to branch out, to satisfy his needs while he waited, he told himself. Maybe he could let himself feel something again, with someone who was more than willing and ready.

He hesitated, then let his arm drape around Brian’s shoulders. Brian chuckled, soft and approving, easing the knot in John’s chest.

He thought briefly about whisky, about numbing his anxieties, but decided against it. Maybe he didn’t need it. Maybe courage was just leaning closer.

Brian’s hand brushed his—light, deliberate—and John felt the spark. He reminded himself he wasn’t helpless, that this wasn’t weakness. He could choose this.

Brian noticed the shift, the subtle nervous energy that ran through John’s movements, and he let a slow, deliberate silence hang between them—the kind that promised understanding without words. Then he nudged John gently with his elbow, a playful reminder of the distance they’d closed.

“Relax,” he murmured, tone low, teasing but warm. “You don’t need to overthink everything.”

John’s lips curved into a small, uncertain smile. “I know,” he admitted, though his arm stayed lightly tensed around Brian’s shoulder. “It’s just…different. Hard not to think too much.”

“Good different?” Brian’s voice was softer now, leaning in just a fraction, eyes bright. “Or…dangerous different?”

John’s throat went dry, heart skipping a beat. He shook his head slightly, half-laughing, trying to ground himself. “A bit of both,” he said quietly. The words felt honest, and the admission somehow made the room smaller—more intimate.

Brian’s smirk softened into a quiet smile, his gaze holding John’s. “Then we’ll take it slow. No rush, no expectations. Just…this. Tonight.”

John let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The tension inside him eased, replaced by a cautious warmth. He shifted closer, letting his arm rest more naturally, fingers brushing Brian’s. “Alright,” he murmured. “Just this.”

*

For a long while, they sat in that quiet closeness, the TV murmuring nonsense in the background, the world outside fading into a blur. John felt a thrill he couldn’t name—part comfort, part yearning—and he allowed himself to simply enjoy it, for now. No plans, no pressure, just the warmth of another person who wanted to be near him, who understood without needing to be told.

Brian shifted to meet the small glance John offered, hand brushing lightly against his own knee, a subtle, unspoken promise that the night wasn’t over, that the closeness could linger as long as John was willing. And for the first time in a long while, John let himself relax, trusting that maybe he could have both—Paul and Brian—without losing either, at least in this quiet, fleeting moment.

After another episode finished, the manager sighed, stomach starting to growl from genuine hunger. He hadn't eaten since 8 o'clock that morning today and it was now around 7 in the evening.

“Fancy something to eat, love? We could order it, I dunno.”

John raised a brow, shrugging. “What d'you got in mind?”

Brian sat up a bit, leaning forward to open up a drawer on the coffee table full of takeaway menus.

John shifted on the sofa, glancing at the stack of takeout menus Brian had fished from the drawer. “So…what’re you thinking? Chinese, Indian, pizza?”

Brian chuckled, spreading the menus across the coffee table. “We could do anything, really. I’m easy. I just want something to fill the gap before we go back to the telly.”

John raised an eyebrow, smirking. “You thinking something fancy?”

Brian grinned. “Fancy’s overrated when it comes to late-night hunger. How about we get Chinese food to nibble on? I can call it in.”

John nodded, relief flickering over his face. “Alright, but no one’s judging how many spring rolls I eat.”

“None at all,” Brian said, picking up the phone. “A couple of mains, some prawn crackers…maybe a bit of everything. Sound good?”

“Perfect,” John replied, settling back into the cushions, the edge of his anxiety softening just a little. “You’re spoiling me, Bri.”

Brian laughed softly. “Just a bit. But only because you deserve it.”

Chapter Text

The food arrived, and the pair ate happily while watching television.

Eventually, Brian began tidying the takeaway containers, glancing at John with a teasing eyebrow. He gathered them into the bag they came in, tied it up, and left it on the table for now. “You’ve been unusually quiet tonight, love. Nervous, are we?”

John shifted in his seat, fingers fidgeting slightly with the edge of his sleeve. “I dunno…maybe I am. It’s just…being here with you, like this. Feels- well, it just- feels different. And I keep thinking I’m messing with someone I shouldn’t have interest in.”

Brian raised an eyebrow, curious. “Messing with me? Come on, John. We’ve both been clear, haven’t we?”

John sighed, running a hand over his face, voice low. “I dunno…It’s not just that. I feel…guilty, y’know? Enjoying this, enjoying you, when before I wished I could have Paul. Like I’m betraying him—or the old version of him. But at least here, I know you actually want me back..”

Brian’s gaze softened, his hand settling lightly over John’s. “Hey…none of that. You’re here with me now, and that’s enough. You don’t have to feel guilty for wanting to be close to someone who wants you back. It doesn’t take away from anything else—just…this moment, us, right now. That’s what matters.”

John blinked, relief washing over him. “I- okay. I’ll try. I don’t want to mess this up.”

Brian gave a small, reassuring squeeze. “You won’t. Just breathe, and let it happen. I’ve got you, John. That’s all I ask.”

John swallowed, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “Just…don’t laugh if I hesitate or… I dunno. You’re the first to get me this way since Cynthia.” He didn’t mention that with Paul, it had always come naturally, without a hint of nervousness.

Brian’s grin returned, gentle but warm. “Never. I promise. We’ll take it slow, or however you want it to go, together.”

As the night deepened, John grew more comfortable with Brian. He kicked off his shoes and settled into a relaxed position on the couch. Brian mirrored him, draping an arm over John’s shoulder. He sensed John may have been the nurturer with Paul, likely feeling the need to take that role again. But Brian was naturally the one who led, who cared—his touch came effortlessly. He rested his head against John’s, content with the quiet intimacy, and brushed a light kiss along John’s ear. Lennon’s eyes fluttered closed at the gentle nuzzle.

“John,” he murmured, voice sincere, “you're so beautiful to me.”

“Right,” John snickered, cheeks warming, “sure I am.”

“Oh baby, you really are,” Brian assured him. “I’ve never seen anyone so…sexy. So funny. Always thought that.”

“You're serious?” Lennon smirked, not believing it but, it felt good to be complimented by someone he looked up to for years.

Brian leaned closer, hand brushing John’s cheek. “Absolutely,” he whispered. “And I want you to know it.”

At once their lips met softly, testing, tentative. John’s hands hovered over Brian’s shoulders, unsure but drawn in. Brian’s fingers slid behind John’s neck, tilting his head, deepening the kiss with slow, deliberate pressure.

“Relax,” Brian murmured, pressing John gently back against the couch. He straddled him, knees on either side. The weight was grounding, the closeness electric, heat rising between them with every slow, lingering kiss.

John’s hands traced Brian’s arms, fingertips brushing sleeves. Each movement was careful, teasing, a dance neither wanted to rush. Brian rested his forehead against John’s, lips flicking softly against his skin. “You're mine tonight, John,” he murmured, voice low, full of quiet certainty. Lennon knew it without being told, pressing up instinctively. Their bodies aligned, desire growing, Brian reading the signs in every glance and gasp.

“God, you're all I ever wanted,” Brian admitted, and John’s cheeks flushed deeper. Desire mingled with uncertainty, old feelings stirring faintly at the edges.

“You know what I’ve always wanted?” John asked, breathless.

“What?” Brian asked, curiosity and anticipation lacing his tone.

“All I’ve ever wanted was to be the one to make you listen. Always barking orders—but how well do you listen?”

Brian laughed, shocked, tilting his head back, fingers grazing John’s jaw. “I'll listen to whatever you say… God. You’ve got me flustered,” he murmured, low and teasing.

John smirked. “Good. That’s the point. I want you thinking about me, wondering what’s next.”

Brian’s gaze flicked toward the bedroom doorway, then back. “We don’t have to stay here forever, you know. If you want, we could go somewhere a bit more…comfortable.”

John’s chest tightened with a mix of nerves and excitement. He nodded, a playful spark in his eyes. “Yeah, maybe we should. Lead the way, Bri.”

Brian grinned, gentle and possessive, as he helped John up. Fingers brushed as they moved toward the bedroom, laughter and quiet murmurs slipping between them.

Once inside, Brian closed and locked the door.

John raised a brow. “Ooh, locking us in, are we? Should I be scared?”

Brian shook his head, tone low and certain. “No. You should be thanking me.”

He approached, crowding John’s space until the younger man sat on the foot of the bed.

“I was gonna be the one to give you orders, babe,” John teased.

“Go on, then,” Brian replied, loosening his tie, already anticipating obedience.

“On your knees.” John’s blush deepened as he palmed himself briefly, excitement and nerves mingling.

Brian lowered himself between Lennon’s knees, biting his lip, waiting.

“You know what to do next,” John said, voice low, unbuttoning his pants and pushing them down slightly. Brian’s hand brushed his tent, maintaining eye contact, his mouth tracing every inch slowly.

He slowly took his time licking it from the top to bottom, stopping to kiss his balls and moving to lick his shaft again. John hated being teased, but god, it felt good either way. Finally when he least expected it, Brian closed his lips around the tip, now closing his eyes while taking him down his throat. The pace wasn't as fast as John would like. He also wanted to feel the back of his throat.

“Oh, faster, babe. C’mon,” he ordered, and Brian did so with a slight smile. John's eyes closed, taking in every moment that Brian moved quickly up and down, up and down. After a bit he decided to lose his fingers in the man's hair, pushing him further, further until he gagged on it. When Lennon heard that guttural sound, he moaned, soon practically fucking Brian's throat. And the man just let him, no questions asked, with no issue. But he needed to stop, because fuck, he could definitely come just from doing this, when he wanted it to last. It took every ounce of his being to stop chasing that hot pleasure, given the fact that Brian was heavily skilled and perfect at giving head. But eventually, he had to make him quit. “Fuck, wait, Bri. Hang on.”

Brian pulled off with flustered cheeks, still catching his breath, and looking at him like he was now awaiting his next task.

“Christ, I- I can't come so quick, not yet. I want to last for you.”

“What do you want me to do?” Brian asked, causing John's heart to swell.

“Enough of me…What do you want?”

Brian blushed, not expecting to be asked that. “I just want to make you feel good, love. It doesn't matter what I want.”

“All right, then, I want to hear you moan. Want you to enjoy it, y'know. Last time, I might've been too hard. Now I want you to love it.”

“John, love, I'd love anything you'd do to me. That's what you need to understand.” he looked at him with such a sincere expression.

John swallowed hard, standing up to completely get undressed. The heat in the room was getting too much, and he needed to be bare. Brian followed that lead, soon taking initiative to lay down in the center of his mattress, thinking John would want to have him on bottom. The younger man crawled up to him, a shaky hand wrapping around Brian's solid member. He loved the size of it, at least six or seven inches in length. It was bigger than his own, and he hadn't been properly fucked since before Paul's accident last year. He lightly began moving his fist up and down it, but it was too dry so he pulled his hand off to spit in it just a little. After that he continued with that again, embarrassed and looking into Brian's eyes.

“The truth is… I-I want you, this time,” John admitted, voice low, cheeks warming. He avoided Brian’s eyes for a moment, but his words were clear.

Brian gave him a small, reassuring smile. “Darling, you have me. Anything you want, I’m yours.”

John swallowed, fidgeting with the edge of the sheet. “Actually… I mean, I want you to…y’know, do me this time. It’s been…a long time since- well, since before Paul’s accident. And- you’re, y'know, bigger than him, too.”

Brian’s chest tightened slightly at the mention of Paul. He forced a calm tone, hiding the frustration he felt. “If that’s what you want, love, we’ll take it slow. I’ll make it feel exactly how you need it. Come on, lay down.”

John nodded, a mixture of nervousness and certainty in his eyes. He leaned back, letting the tension ebb slightly while still holding the honesty of his confession. His shyness softened the boldness of his request, making it feel intimate, personal, and undeniably real.

Brian sat up and moved aside to let John take his spot. Reaching over to the end table, he opened the drawer to retrieve a bottle of lube. It was halfway gone, John noted, and his mind went wild thinking of Brian masturbating alone in this same bed. The man now clouded his thoughts, and for the first time in forever Paul was in the back of his mind.

Brian lubed up a single finger before pressing it into John's hole at a tantalizing speed. His eyes bore into Lennon's as it went in as far as he could, and he began looking for the prostate by curling the tip of his finger upward with every push in. Soon one finger became two, and that was when John reacted. He hadn't even bothered to finger himself now that Paul wasn't interested. It was something he reserved for him, and now Brian was about to take his place. And when he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend it was McCartney fingering him. The thought made him instantly moan.

“Yeah? You like that?”

“Fuck, yes,” he answered, pre-come beading at the tip of his dick. Brian continued, and before long he increased his speed. His fingers prodded directly into John's prostate with practiced ease, and he loved making him moan so sweetly. John Lennon, a hard macho man, was crumbling beneath him and all it took was four minutes.

“You want me now?”

“Yeah, yeah. God, m'ready.”

Finally Brian squirted lube on his cock, soon rubbing it in to coat the entire base. “Look at me,” he commanded lightly, needing John to look into his eyes while he pushed in. And John did, he opened them, spreading his legs more while Brian lined up. The stretch was still uncomfortable at first, but the slickness helped tremendously. John grunted as Brian was fully inside of him, eyes focusing in on Brian's lips.

The older man tested a thrust upward, not too hard, but it was just in the place John craved more out of. Lennon gasped. He had never been touched like this before. So deliberately, so very exact. He was completely at a loss for words. It usually took Paul a few minutes to find that spot, but Brian found it so quickly. And he kept it up, soon allowing his thrusts to become harder, more driven, directly into that delightful spot. It was enough to make John whimper so sweetly, his complete hard persona melting away while Brian did exactly the right things. He was made entirely vulnerable as his manager gave him what his body needed. What Paul couldn't do, not anymore.

But soon, his thoughts carried him away. John closed his eyes as Brian fucked him harder and harder, not knowing what to say other than moan when he couldn’t hold it in.

“Oh, John, so perfect,” Brian groaned, intertwining his fingers through Lennon’s own, holding on tight while rolling his hips into that special place..

The touch jolted something in John.
Paul used to do that—that same tender, stupidly romantic thing. The memory hit before he could stop it, warm and cruel all at once. God, he should’ve begged Paul not to stop touching his hand, not to drift so far away.

“Pa-please, don’t stop,” he gasped, catching himself too late, twisting the word to hide the slip.

He prayed Brian hadn’t noticed. But the way Brian’s rhythm faltered for just a second told him he had.

Brian couldn’t stop now. The air between them burned—all heat and noise and heartbeats colliding. He was close, but he didn’t want to lose control too soon. Instead, he slowed just enough to savor it, driving forward with steady, deliberate motion that pulled soft, helpless sounds from John’s throat.

John’s legs tightened around his waist, locking him there, wanting the connection to last. “Look at me,” Brian said hoarsely, and John did—eyes glazed, face flushed, sweat catching the lamplight.

He felt exposed in every possible way. The slip from earlier hung heavy between them, but neither spoke of it. Brian’s gaze sharpened, all possessive devotion and desperation rolled into one.

“Told you. You’re mine tonight, John,” he rasped. Each word landed like a vow, rough and trembling.

John swallowed hard, torn between shame and need, between memory and the man holding him now. “I know,” he breathed out, voice shaking. “Just- don’t stop, Bri. Please.” he begged.

The man quickened his pace, driving into John like it was the only thing that mattered. Both of them teetered on the edge, but John gave in first. He looked down at Brian moving inside him, and with a sharp groan, he came, shuddering as his seed spilled over his stomach. Every nerve seemed alight, vibrating with the intensity of the moment as Brian followed swiftly, pressing into him with his own release, deep inside of him. He grunted and moaned possessively, slowing just enough to ride out the high.

God damn, John thought, breath catching. Beautiful fucker knows exactly what he’s doing. Christ.

When the heat of the night finally ebbed, Brian collapsed beside John, chest rising and falling in the dim light. The air between them felt heavy, charged, yet quieter now. He turned to look at John, searching for some clue about what he was thinking—but all he found was vulnerability, tangled with faint echoes of the past.

John sat up slowly, breath uneven, skin flushed. “Brian…” he murmured, unsure what to say. He just wanted him to know it had been good—amazing, even.

Brian watched him quietly, then, with a small teasing edge, said, “You don't have to say anything. I already know what you were thinking about earlier… Probably why you kept closing your eyes.”

John froze. Heat rushed to his face. “No—no, don’t think that,” he said quickly, fidgeting with the sheets. “It…God, I haven’t…come like that in ages. Probably never. It felt fuckin’ amazing. You- what you did, when you grabbed my hand like that- it reminded me…just a flash of Paul. Just for one second. Then I thought of you so much more, Brian. I was thinking of you.”

Brian’s chest tightened slightly. He wanted to push, to ask more, but he didn’t. “You were thinking of him,” he said softly, almost to himself.

John shook his head, gripping Brian’s hands. “No. Just a moment, I swear. It’s you. Tonight, everything was you. Not him. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to.”

Brian searched his face, looking for the truth. John’s eyes were bright, honest, and nervous. He nodded slowly, sighing. “Okay,” he said quietly. “I believe you.” He said, though it wasn't the total truth.

John leaned in, pressing a light kiss to Brian’s cheek. “I promise you. It’s you now. Not the past.”

Brian returned the kiss, holding him close. He felt the relief, the warmth, but still…a small shadow lingered, the memory of being second. He let it stay in the background for now, focusing on the here and now, on John’s touch and presence.

John shifted closer, resting his head lightly against Brian’s chest. “Really, thank you,” he murmured. “For tonight. For…letting me feel this. I-” He trailed off, unsure how to finish, just squeezing Brian’s hand.

Brian pressed a kiss to the top of John’s head. “No need to thank me. You’re here. That’s enough.”

They stayed like that for a while, quiet and tangled together, letting the night settle around them. The past still lingered, but for now, Brian decided it didn’t matter. What mattered was this, John, here, in his arms.

Chapter Text

The weeks blurred together in a haze of studio lights and endless takes. Sgt. Pepper was taking shape—horns, laughter, arguments about the album’s direction, and long nights that bled into morning. Between takes, John would slip out for an hour here or there, always with some excuse about “meeting a friend” or getting more weed. No one questioned it at first. They were all tired, drifting through the sessions like ghosts.

Brian’s mansion became a kind of myth among them—no one else was invited, and no one had a reason to ask. But every Monday morning, John showed up to the sessions looking softer around the edges, hair still mussed, eyes a touch too bright. And Brian, when he dropped by, carried that same quiet ease.

It was Paul who noticed them getting close. He’d stayed late one night, alone in the control room, fiddling with his vocal levels on Fixing A Hole. The hum of the tape machine filled the silence, a steady whir that almost lulled him into calm, until faint laughter from the corridor cut through. Voices. Familiar ones.

John’s low chuckle came first, followed by Brian’s smoother tone chasing after it. Paul froze, one hand still resting on the mixer. Something in their laughter quiet and private that made his chest tighten.

He turned the volume down, letting the real world creep in through the cracked door.

“And it doesn’t help that I've been thinking of you all day…how you were last night,” Brian teased, voice low, playful.

John snorted softly, that breathless laugh following. “Can you blame me? Christ, you’re fuckin’ huge.”

Paul’s throat went dry. The reel kept spinning beside him, tape whispering uselessly through the head. His pulse began to drum in his ears, loud enough to drown out the rest. He didn’t want to hear more—yet couldn’t move.

They went on, talking in that light, careless way people do when they think no one’s listening. Brian’s laughter trailed off into a hush, the kind that felt almost intimate.

“You were so sexy, waiting for me, y'know, in the air,” their manager said, deep voice that only one pair of ears were supposed to hear. “A man can get used to seeing a Mr. John Lennon like that. So perfect.”

Paul heard clicking of lips, briefly, and his stomach burned full of pure jealousy. Paul reached out and stopped the reel. The sudden click echoed too sharply. He sat there in the silence that followed, every muscle locked, eyes fixed on nothing.

The door down the hall opened and closed. Footsteps faded, spooked by the loud tape stopping.

Still, he sat there, fingers trembling slightly. Jealousy wasn’t new to him—but this was different. It wasn’t just John with someone else. It was him, Brian, the man who’d built this whole charade, the one who’d taken Paul’s life and handed it to him like a script. And now he had John, too.

Paul leaned back, staring at the blank studio glass. His reflection looked foreign under the red glow of the “recording” sign, eyes hollow and burning. For a moment, he thought about storming out there—but instead, he just sat, letting the tape cool and the silence swallow him whole.

*

The next morning, Paul was quiet. Too quiet.

Not brooding—but cold. Distant. Filed into himself. Working only on his bassline, no collaboration, no banter. Every time John spoke, Paul’s replies came clipped, dismissive, or not at all.

John leaned over the desk, tapping a pencil. “You gonna look at this bridge or reckoning you can hear it telepathically?”

Paul didn’t look up. “Already heard it. Three times. You swapped two words and acted like you reinvented music.” Flat. Icy. “I’m tired of doing everything twice, sometimes three or four bloody times with you.”

Ringo froze mid-sip. George’s brows shot up.

John blinked. “Ouch,” he forced a laugh. “Tell us how you really feel, Macca.”

Paul looked up then—eyes like blade edges under the fluorescent lights. “I would, but you don’t listen half the time anyway.”

The room held still.

John’s smirk faltered. “Right then. Noted.”

Paul returned to writing, pen scratching like he was carving bone.

Later, John tried again. Showed him a lyric sheet. Played him a new intro. Paul ignored both.

“So?” John asked finally.

“So keep it,” Paul muttered. “Working on my own today.”

He put his headphones back on.

When Brian asked if he wanted a drink, Paul snapped before thinking. “I’m not thirsty. Don’t fuss. I’m busy.”

The room stilled again.

*

By the end of the day, John had enough.

When the others left, he cornered Paul near the door. “Alright, what’s your trouble then? You’ve been givin’ us all grief since morning.”

Paul’s jaw set. “You truly don’t know?”

“No, I really don’t,” John shot back. “So say it instead of sulking.”

Paul folded his arms, breath shaking. He knew what he was about to open up with could be groundbreaking, but it was at a head now. “I told you I needed time. Space. And you-” His voice cracked. “You went and spent it with Eppy? Really?”

Silence. A gut-punch.

John blinked. “Christ. That’s what this is.”

“You think I wouldn’t notice?” Paul hissed. “The looks, the tone, you don’t even bother hiding it.”

“You wanted distance!” John snapped. “I was-”

“Oh, you were distant, alright.” He spat with pure venom behind his tone. “Crystal clear.”

John’s patience snapped. “Don’t start! I wanted you. When we were at your place—you’re the one who pulled off. And you handed me that letter, said you needed time! You don’t want me, but you can’t stand me touching another man?”

Paul flinched. Stayed silent.

John surged on, frustration fraying. “I’ve been waiting for you. All the bloody time you asked for. I can’t force you to want me! So yeah, maybe I went elsewhere.” His voice shook. “And I felt like hell for it. Because it wasn’t you.”

That hit something raw.

“You could’ve fooled me,” Paul whispered. “I heard you and him talking last night.”

John went red, lit a cigarette like it might save him. “And what, you’re jealous?”

“For God’s sake!” Paul burst. “I don’t want to picture Brian and you together!” He stopped, breath jagged. “I want you. But I don’t remember any of that world. I don’t know… how.” His voice fell to a confession-whisper. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

John stared. Anger wavered. Hurt surfaced.

“You think it’s easy for me?” John’s voice cracked. “Watching you walk around like none of it ever happened? You were everything. And you still are.”

Paul’s throat tightened.

“And Brian?” John added quietly. “Just a blanket when I was cold. He’s not you.”

Paul exhaled, guilt crushing him. “You were never invisible to me.”

“Then why do I feel like I’m the only one trying?” John breathed.

“Maybe because I’m still learning how,” Paul murmured. “And I’m frightened.”

A long beat. Amps hummed in the background.

Brian stepped in, oblivious. “Ready to go, John?”

Paul stiffened. Rage re-ignited. “Oh, perfect timing. Of course he is.”

“Paul, wait—”

But Paul shouldered past him. “Sorry, mate,” he tossed over his shoulder, voice hollow with exhaustion.

The slam shook the corridor.

“What the hell is going on?” Brian demanded to know.

John didn’t even answer Brian—just chased after him.

“Paul! Paul, wait!” he called, finding him in the alley behind Abbey Road. Nobody was around, due to not being allowed back there typically.

“Leave me alone, John. Be with who you want.”
Paul’s voice cracked between fury and heartbreak. “He gets to have you now—just trade one of us for the other, like nothin’ ever mattered.”

John’s voice came sharp, desperate. “God, stop! If you wanted me, I wouldn’t even think of him!”

That stopped everything.

The words hit Paul like a slap. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. His expression crumbled, the fight draining out of him.

John stood there, chest heaving. “But you didn’t, did you? You still don’t, not like I want you.”

Paul looked shattered. His voice came soft, pleading. “That’s not true.”

“Then say it,” John whispered. “Say you want me.”

Paul’s eyes begged him to stop, but John only repeated, low and steady, “Say it.”

Paul swallowed hard, his voice rough and trembling. “God, I want you,” he breathed, stepping closer, eyes wild. “I need you. But I just- where do we even begin? I can’t just-” He broke off, hands flexing helplessly. “It’s all bloody tangled, John. I don’t even know how to start. I don’t know how to do anything.”

John’s face softened, the anger fading into pure ache. “Then let me teach you,” he said, quiet but firm. “But stop pretending you don’t feel it. ’Cause I can’t keep doin’ this.”

“I can't keep doing this either. Can’t. I’m done with it, John,” Paul said, the words spilling out before he could stop them. “I don’t want to keep getting jealous anymore. I’m bloody tired of it.”

John nodded slowly, eyes soft. “Okay. And there’s no one else I’d rather be with. I won’t do anything with Brian anymore.”

That admission settled between them—not painful, just honest. For once, Paul felt like he wasn’t the one losing. “Good,” he murmured. “I’ll- I’ll call you. I promise.”

John gave him a faint, knowing smile. “And I’ll be waiting,” he said, gentle and sure. “Like I always do.”

Paul managed a small, crooked grin at that, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes but tried to. Then he turned, heading the other way down the gravel, the sound of his footsteps echoing faintly behind him.

The night air was cool and clear, brushing against his face like something alive. He drew in a breath, deeper than he’d taken in months. For the first time in what felt like forever, the weight on his chest didn’t crush him; it only reminded him he was still breathing.

Maybe he could make something of this after all. Maybe there was still more to him than the ghost of who he’d been—more than a car salesman with a dull life and a future already written.

He wasn’t Paul the stand-in, or William the replacement, or anyone’s shadow anymore. Just a man, walking home under the streetlights, trying to make sense of the world and maybe, just maybe—start living in it for real.

Chapter Text

After heading straight home and reorganizing his bedroom and living area by himself, Paul finally sighed with quiet satisfaction. It was now how he wanted it—no more forcing himself to live by their old foolish rules of keeping everything exactly as before. The space looked more practical now, shaped by his own hands. Sure, maybe he would’ve picked a different sofa or a nicer rug, but it felt honest this way. His.

When he checked his watch, it read nine o’clock at night...

He’d let four hours slip by, just fooling around and cleaning. A pang hit his chest—loneliness again. Being around so many people as Paul made him realize how empty William’s old nights had been. Now there were countless faces who wanted to hear from him, but only one that really mattered.

John.

Without thinking, he dialed the number.

“Hello?” A woman’s voice. Cynthia.

“Hi, um—yes—is this Cynthia?” he asked, polite but uncertain.

“Yes? Is something wrong?”

“Oh, no, nothing’s wrong, love. It’s Paul. Just looking to speak with John, if that’s all right. If he’s busy, I can call later.”

“Of course not. But hold on now—I haven’t really spoken to you since the accident. How are you holding up?”

He smiled faintly. “Oh, you know... it’s been hard here and there, but I’m adjusting well. As well as I can.”

“I’m really sorry about the memory loss, Paul. We all have so many good memories with you—especially John. I felt awful for him. But I hear you two are getting on better now, yeah?”

His pulse picked up. Time to play the Paul everyone remembered. “Yeah, we’re doing well. People say we argued before—still have a few musical differences now and then—but it’s all right. We work it out.”

“That’s lovely to hear. Do the doctors think you might get any memories back?”

He paused, thinking. Brian had always told him to stick with the story. But what if he started pretending a few things were coming back other than music?

“They say it’s possible,” he said slowly. “Maybe if something triggers it—a smell, a sound. So far, only music’s come through. But I keep hoping, you know?”

Cynthia sighed kindly. “I hope so too. It’d make things easier. Anyway, I’ll fetch John. It was good to hear your voice, Paul. Take care of yourself.”

“I will, love. It’s good to finally talk with you. John says wonderful things.”

“Does he now? That’s sweet. Hold on—he’s right here.”

Muffled shuffling, a few quiet words—and then:

“Paul?”

“Yeah, mate. How was your day?”

John chuckled. He hadn’t expected this call tonight. “Eh, nothing special. Cyn made dinner, we listened to the wireless, played with Jules. Same old.”

“Sounds like a proper night to me. Know what I did?”

“Hm?”

“Rearranged the house a bit. Cleaned up. Felt... I dunno, lighter somehow. Like I needed a change.”

John hummed in agreement. “Yeah. Gets tiring, looking at the same things too long. I get it.”

Silence fell. Paul’s mind drifted to what he’d overheard—that night when he learned John and Brian had been together. The thought still stung. He exhaled sharply.

“What?” John asked, voice softer now.

“Nothing,” Paul said. Then, quieter: “Just thinking.”

“Say it.”

He hesitated, then let the words fall out. “I just can’t believe you and Brian. Of course he’d know what to do. Makes me feel a bit out of my league, like I told you.”

“Stop that,” John said. “You’re perfect. Brian’s got his flaws, but you—hell, you’re something else. He was just... someone I used, y’know? But it was always you I compared him to. I even said your name once. Had to try and fix it, but I know he’s still sore over it.”

Paul twisted the phone cord between his fingers. “Yeah, well, you compared me to someone with a lot more experience.”

John’s tone softened. “Experience with what? You mean... sex stuff?”

“Precisely,” Paul murmured, half-laughing. “Feels like I lost all mine with the accident. With women I can do everything no problem. But now I’m scared to even try with you. It’s like—it feels different, and I don’t know.”

“Paul,” John said gently, “I wouldn’t make you do anything you weren’t ready for. That day we kissed—I only meant to touch you, nothing more. I know you forgot everything. I’d never push you. I’d rather teach you again. Same as before.”

Paul’s face warmed, really letting the words sink in. “You taught me before too?”

John chuckled, low and fond. “Yeah. You’d only had a couple of girls before me. Didn’t know much, really. Guess I’ll just have to start over with you.”

Paul’s curiosity flickered alive. “Then tell me, John. How did we even start... all that?”

John sighed through a smile. “That’s a long story for a phone call, love. Sure you want to know?”

Paul checked his watch again—9:13 p.m. “If you don’t fancy saying it over the line, come over and tell me. I’ve got a favor to ask too, if you do come over.”

John’s stomach flipped. “Anything.”

“Got any pot?”

John laughed under his breath. “Course I do. Give me a bit—I’ll be over soon.”

“Great. Bye, John.” Paul’s voice softened. “I’ll be waiting.”

“This time,” John said, joking, as he hung up.

*

And so Lennon explained yet another thousandth lie to Cynthia—that Paul had a late-night idea about A Day In The Life and needed to get a rough demo down before he forgot it.

He drove there himself instead of calling a cab, sporting his psychedelic colored Rolls, perfect for the visions he had about Sgt. Pepper—wild, bright, abstract. He’d taken an upper an hour ago and didn’t want to sleep yet, itching to experiment on the guitars in the makeshift studio he’d set up in his spare room. But Paul had called, and there was nothing he’d rather do than spend time with him. Anytime.

Paul opened the door almost as soon as John knocked twice.

“That was quick, yeah?” Paul said, smiling faintly.

“Oh, yeah. Already had a few joints rolled in me room. Just grabbed ’em and came straight here. And it looks good, how you’ve changed it around,” John said, glancing about the newly arranged space.

“Yeah, like I said, I needed a change. Even a small one.”

John sat on a chair, letting Paul take the sofa. “And how are you feeling about a big change—us, working things out again?”

“I knew it’d happen. Just didn’t know when, truthfully. But I couldn’t sleep or deal with it knowing about you and Eppy. Turns my stomach. Can’t believe he’d do that to me. He knew how I felt, I told him. And he still went ahead. He never cares about how I feel.”

John bit the inside of his lip, ashamed of the conversation Paul had overheard.

“I’m sorry. Don’t be mad at him. He was only tryin’ to make me feel better.”

Paul leaned back, voice sharp but quiet. “He had a real knack for makin’ you feel special, didn’t he? Bloody shame it worked.”

John blinked, caught between guilt and admiration for how effortlessly Paul could twist a knife with just his tone. “You’re jealous,” he said softly, almost amused.

“Wouldn’t you be?” Paul muttered, eyes fixed ahead. “He knew what he was doing. And you knew what I wanted.”

John’s lips twitched into a small smile. “Guess we all wanted the same thing.”

Paul rolled his eyes but couldn’t quite hide the corner of his mouth lifting. “That’s not funny.”

“Didn’t say it was,” John said quietly, lighting the joint. He took a long drag and passed it over, the tension easing only slightly as the smoke drifted between them. “Love, I don’t wanna think about him. I didn’t come here to think about him at all. I wanted to tell you how we started...bein' together.”

Paul sighed, understanding. He took a big hit himself and handed it back. To move forward, he had to let go of the past. “Okay. You’re right... Well—how did it happen?”

They passed the joint between them as John told the story.

“Back in ’57, you came to one of my shows with a scrappy band I had, The Quarrymen. We played popular hits at the time, all energy, no polish. I was about seventeen. You came up to me after, grabbed the guitar off your back, and played Twenty Flight Rock. Impressed the hell out of me mates. Course I acted like it was basic know-how playing, ’cause no way I’d admit that you—a little lad—were better than me.”

“Was I better than you?” Paul teased, smiling faintly.

“Had to be. Y'know, I didn’t even know the proper chord names.” John chuckled at himself, shaking his head. Paul laughed softly too, the sound easing the air.

“Anyway...we became mates. You joined the band. We’d practice at each other’s houses, get in trouble, argue, laugh—it was always something. But you grew on me. You looked—well, how do I put this?”

Paul blushed. “However you’re thinking, put it like that.”

“At first it was just a cute look, y’know? But by about ’59, it was different. One night we did those stupid things we all did back then—before rehearsals, lights off, lads being idiots. We’d sit around, wankin’, like it was normal.” John laughed under his breath. “Don’t ask me why we thought that was a good idea.”

Paul smirked. “Sounds like something you’d think was normal.”

John ignored the jab, continuing, “Well.. one of those nights, I noticed you watching me. Not just glancing—watching. And I watched you too. Whole room went quiet for me after that. I couldn’t think straight. We all used to call out girls’ names while we did it, but... I couldn’t even speak anymore. You were on my mind too much. Didn’t know what to do. Everyone was still there, so I just... did nothing. But that’s when I knew. You felt it too.”

Paul leaned forward a little. “When did we first... touch?”

“After that night. Everyone left, and you stayed. We said we’d run through one more song, but I had other ideas. I turned the light off, just to see what you’d do. You didn’t move. You looked at me, same as before. My stomach dropped. I started slow... and you did too.” John smiled faintly at the memory. “Then I said your name.”

Paul blinked. “You did?”

“Yeah,” John said quietly. “And you said mine right back. I’ve never forgotten that.”

Paul’s eyes softened, unsure what to feel. “What did I...say exactly?”

John smirked, voice dropping. “All you said was, ‘Yeah, Johnny,’ as you came. That was all I needed.”

Paul’s throat tightened, embarrassed slightly, a strange mix of awe and discomfort washing through him. “That’s... a lot to take in.”

“Yeah, well,” John said with a low laugh. “It was a lot for me too. After that, you laughed—said we were ‘bloody fucked now,’ and shoved my knee. Then you grabbed my hand.”

Paul’s brow furrowed. “I did?”

“Yeah. Told me not to worry. Promised you wouldn’t tell anyone. And you never did.”

He leaned back, staring into nothing for a moment, as if the air itself carried ghosts of the past. “We just kept on like that. Practicing, writing, sneakin’ around. Nobody ever guessed.”

Paul stayed quiet, the hum of the clock in the background filling the silence. He stared down at his hands, thumb tracing slow circles over his knee.

“It wasn’t just a fling,” John said finally. “It was us. Always was.”

Paul looked up, eyes tired but soft. “It’s strange hearing all that. Feels like I lived it in another life.”

John smiled faintly. “Maybe you did, love. Maybe you just forgot the right parts.”

Paul exhaled, a slow, heavy breath. “Then help me remember them.”

John lightly patted the joint out in a nearby ashtray and set it down. “Honestly, Paul, that’s all we did for a long while—just wank secretly, together. It went on for months. Sometimes our legs would touch, y’know, but not every time. A few nights you even woke me up doing it, when you’d stayed over...you don’t know how bad I wanted to—ah, never mind that. 'Cause listen... one day, Macca, you got bold on me. You actually touched me. Made me lose my bloody breath with it. I never expected it, but I’m glad you did. I’d been thinking of that for so long. Course, I gave you a hand too, same time.”

“Hmm…” Paul sighed, letting a small grin curl at the corner of his lips as he shifted in the seat. “I never realised you had that effect on me. Dangerous, you know.”

Lennon licked his lips and smirked back. “Shit. We had that effect on each other. Wait until you hear about our first time..”

Paul cleared his throat, cheeks warming. “Did I suggest that, too?”

“No, that was me. I asked you what your thoughts were on that.. You were scared, like you are now. But back then in Hamburg… I, uh- I learned how to- how to make it feel good for a man, not have it hurt and that. And- and when I told you, you- you used me as a test. You had a turn the next day. We- fuckin’ hell, we had such a good time there, in 1960. Such a good time.”

Paul shifted in his seat, rubbing the back of his neck. “I…I can’t believe I’m even thinking about that,” he muttered, voice low. “Feels…strange, like I’m remembering it, but not really.”

John leaned back, grinning, clearly enjoying Paul’s flustered state. “That’s the point, Macca. You’re remembering enough to know it mattered, but not so much that you’re in over your head.”

Paul swallowed, trying to steady his racing heart. “Yeah. I mean, I’m- I don’t know. Part of me wants to…to try, but another part is just…terrified.”

“You’re allowed to be scared,” John said softly, reaching across to lightly touch Paul’s hand. “We don’t have to do anything. Not yet. We can just…talk, like this. I like watching that little mind of yours work.”

Paul bit his lip, glancing at John’s hand, then back up into his eyes. “Talking. Well, all right. I think I can handle talking. I can start with that.”

John’s grin widened. “Good. That’s a start, Macca. One step at a time. No rush, no pressure. We’ve got all the time in the world, yeah?”

Paul nodded, exhaling slowly, a mixture of relief and anticipation coiling in his chest. “Yeah. All the time. But…you’re, like I said, bloody dangerous, you know that, right?”

John laughed softly. “But you’ve got the perfect amount of curiosity to survive it.”

Paul shifted on the sofa, trying to look casual, but he couldn’t help glancing at John. The light from the lamp caught the curve of his jaw, the way his hair fell just so, the faint glint of mischief in his eyes. Paul’s chest tightened, a mix of awe and desire curling low in his stomach.

He felt ridiculous, nervous as a teenager all over again, yet drawn in like a magnet. He wanted…everything. Yet the thought of taking the next step made him freeze. His hands twitched, itching to touch, to feel, but he forced them to rest on his lap.

John’s foot nudged his from the recliner, a casual brush that made him swallow hard. Paul felt heat rush to his cheeks. He wanted to react, wanted to lean in, wrap his arm around John, feel that closeness—but the fear of being too forward, of breaking some invisible rule, held him back.

“You know,” John said quietly, leaning back in his chair, “it’s kind of nice, just…being here. No cameras, no crowds. Just us.” His voice was soft, a teasing undertone that made Paul’s pulse stutter.

“Yeah,” Paul breathed, trying to keep his composure. He shifted again, just enough so their knees almost touched. His stomach fluttered, every nerve alive, and he cursed himself for the warmth spreading through him. He was caught—part of him wanted to lean in, part of him wanted to run.

John noticed the glance, the tension, the subtle movement. He didn’t comment, didn’t push. Just smiled faintly, letting the silence settle. That smile, the quiet confidence, the sheer presence of him—it made Paul ache in ways he hadn’t felt in years. Not even with Liese, in his past. Desire and fear warred inside him, a battle he wasn’t sure he could win tonight.

Paul leaned back against the sofa, trying to slow his racing thoughts. His eyes flicked to John again, and he let himself imagine the possibilities, the warmth of being closer, the feel of just holding him…even if he didn’t dare go further. For now, that would suffice. The tension, the longing, the quiet acknowledgment of what was simmering between them.

John’s eyes wandered around the room, lingering on the shelves lined with vinyl. “You’ve got quite the collection here, Macca.. I remember being with you when y'got half of these. Mind if I- uh, put something on?”

Paul nodded, his stomach tightening slightly. “Of course. Go ahead, pick whatever you want. It’s all yours for the night.”

John got up and began rifling through the records, pulling a few favorites from the stack. He hummed quietly to himself as he slid one after another into the changer, careful not to knock anything over. Paul watched him, noting the way he moved—graceful, sure, confident—and felt a flutter of desire twist into nervousness in his chest.

Once the first record, Buddy Holly's Everyday, was spinning, John glanced at the shelves once again. He spotted a white photo album, the same one he and Paul used to do as a project together. He instantly grabbed it, and before he could sit down in the recliner, Paul stopped him.

“W-wait, you know you can sit with me,” he said, inviting him to sit together.

The album's opener began, and Paul knew that in his past life as William, he deeply loved Buddy Holly. He recalled being excited to hear it on the radio all the time.

John nodded, carefully taking a seat with the photo album in hand.

“You ever looked at this yet?”

“No, what is it?”

Lennon sighed, opening it. “An old picture album we were working on together. Yeah, you were obsessed with it.”

He began showing Paul the many photos within it, explaining the sights and dramatic shots of scenery they took. He showed him a picture with a hidden photo behind another inconspicuous one. It was a polaroid of them together, resting their heads on one another in this very room. John reminisced with him about the images with a bittersweet smile.

John set the photo back between the album pages and closed it softly, as if afraid to disturb the ghosts inside. For a while, neither of them spoke. Only Buddy Holly’s voice filled the room, that gentle rhythm spinning on, each note pressing warm against the quiet.

Paul stared at the floor, his thoughts drifting far beyond the photographs. Something was happening to him—slowly, dangerously. Every word John said, every look, every careless laugh—it was all beginning to sink deeper than comfort should allow. He didn’t understand it. He wasn’t supposed to.

When he’d first been confined to that house months ago—before the surgery, before the public appearances—he’d spent nearly every waking hour studying Paul’s life. Films, tapes, lyric sheets, interviews, hundreds of records stacked and played until the needle dulled. He had listened until the songs carved themselves into his bones. Some days, he didn’t even feel real outside of them.

One song had always stayed with him more than the rest—It’s Only Love. He didn’t know why. Maybe because John sang it. Maybe because of the way he sang it—bare, unguarded, like someone caught between wanting and denial. The line “Why should I feel the way I do?” played in his mind more often than he cared to admit.

It used to be just part of the lesson plan, a melody to master, a tone to mimic.

Now it felt like confession.

Back when he was William, the very thought of loving a man was something unspeakable—sinful, wrong, the kind of thing you swallowed and never named. But as Paul, the rules didn’t seem to apply. Fame insulated him, power disguised everything, and John—John was the exception to every law he’d ever known.

He glanced at John beside him—barefoot, slouched, cigarette in hand, the lamplight catching the curve of his grin—and something inside him shifted again, fragile but certain.

He wanted to know everything. Not just about the music or the photographs, but about them—how it started, how it felt, why it had meant enough for John to still be here now. The craving to understand had turned into something heavier, something dangerously close to love.

The room was still except for the gentle hum of the record, Buddy Holly’s voice fading into the soft crackle of vinyl. Somewhere in the back of his mind, that other melody rose again—the one he’d memorized months ago in his confinement, studying Paul’s voice and John’s.

It’s only love, and that is all…

The words drifted through him like a quiet ache. Maybe it wasn’t just a song anymore. Maybe it was the reason his pulse stuttered every time John looked at him that way.

Paul swallowed, nervous, and before he could talk himself out of it, he acted on the pull instead of the fear. He leaned in gently, resting his head against John’s shoulder, his hand finding its way to the other man’s thigh.

John’s breath hitched—soft, surprised—but he didn’t move away. He tilted his head until it rested against Paul’s, eyes slipping shut as though afraid the moment might vanish if he looked at it too closely.

“I—I missed you,” he murmured, voice low and trembling. He found Paul’s hand and held it tightly. “I missed this. Just having you like this again. I took you for granted before. I can’t let you slip away this time.”

Paul turned his face slightly, their temples brushing. “I won't.. I think, I feel like my body missed you too,” he whispered, eyes flicking up through his lashes.

John turned toward him until they were almost face to face. His soul itched to kiss him, but something—respect, fear, reverence—held him still. He waited.

Paul’s breath caught. The need was there, but so was the hesitation. He lifted a shaky hand to John’s cheek, thumb tracing lightly along his skin. Their foreheads met, warm and steady, grounding them both. He looked down at their joined hands and gave a small, reassuring squeeze.

“The hardest part is…I want to,” Paul said softly. “I’m just scared.”

John’s lips parted, his face flushed, but he nodded without hesitation. “Of course,” he said gently, his voice barely above a whisper. “We’ll take it slow.”

For a heartbeat, neither moved. There was only the low hum of the record spinning behind them and the sound of their breathing—unsteady, nervous, expectant.

Paul leaned in first.

Tentative. Testing. His lips brushed John’s like he wasn’t sure the moment was real—like his body feared it would vanish if he pressed too hard. John met him halfway, soft and patient, letting Paul set the pace.

At first it was just gentle pressure, lips barely moving. A careful slide. A breath shared. Paul’s hand trembled slightly where it rested against John’s jaw, thumb tracing the edge of his cheekbone like he was mapping something sacred.

Then Paul exhaled—shaky, surrendering to it—and the kiss deepened.

John’s fingers curled at Paul’s waist, grounding him, steady but not demanding. Paul leaned closer, letting instinct take over, lips moving with more certainty, more want. His breath hitched as John kissed back with a warmth that was firm but tender, familiar but new again—like coming home to a place he’d forgotten he’d ever lived in.

Paul let out a small, startled sound—half gasp, half sigh—when John’s lips parted slightly against his, inviting rather than taking. It sent a bolt of warmth through him so strong he had to tighten his grip on John's shirt to stay steady.

The kiss grew into something slow-hungry, a rhythm that wasn’t rushed but was undeniably alive. Every brush of lips felt like a rediscovery, every breath between them threaded with something almost electric. Paul didn't realize his eyes had fluttered shut until he opened them, dizzy and flushed, catching the faint tremble in John’s lashes, the quiet awe in his expression.

They separated only when their lungs demanded it, foreheads resting against each other, mouths still tingling, breath mingling in small uneven puffs.

Paul’s heart hammered so hard it ached. John’s smile was soft, lopsided, impossibly warm.

“Well,” Paul whispered, voice barely his at all, “I…didn’t expect it to feel like that.”

John’s eyes flicked to his, shining with something fragile and fierce all at once. “Feels like it always did,” he murmured. “Just, been waitin’ for you to feel it again.”

McCartney’s lips still tingled. Every nerve felt alive, aching for more. He wanted to tilt his head, press another kiss to John’s mouth, trail one down his neck, maybe even leave a mark there—one John would carry and remember. The thought made his stomach twist with both guilt and want. He wanted to feel John’s breath against his ear, his lips at his jawline—wanted to taste him, to explore.

It terrified him how much he wanted it.

He swallowed hard, willing himself to stay still. The fear of losing control kept him grounded. If he let himself go, if he chased those urges—he didn’t know who he’d become in that moment.

John’s thumb was still tracing slow, idle circles against his hand, and that tiny bit of tenderness undid him all over again. Paul blushed, eyes flicking up, unable to stop a small, breathless laugh from escaping.

He leaned forward again, needing to do something, anything to ease the ache twisting in his chest. His voice came out rough, barely a whisper. “One more…”

Before John could reply, Paul kissed him again—firmer this time, but still slow. A little longer. A little braver.

When they finally parted, Paul’s cheeks were flushed deep red, and he laughed quietly, shaking his head. “Fuck,” he murmured, voice unsteady.

John grinned faintly, though his heart was pounding just as hard. He could still taste Paul on his lips, could still feel the tremor of the man’s breath when he’d leaned in. It took every ounce of control not to pull him close again.

He wanted to. God, he wanted to.

But the way Paul had trembled, the look in his eyes—equal parts hunger and fear—told John exactly how fragile this was. He couldn’t risk frightening him off. So he let out a shaky laugh instead, his thumb brushing over the back of Paul’s hand again, softer this time.

“You always loved kissin’ me,” he murmured, smiling at him, but it wasn’t teasing anymore. It was tender, almost reverent. “You just don’t remember.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. The record spun quietly in the background, a soft hum filling the air. The room felt smaller, warmer. The world outside didn’t exist—just the two of them, learning each other all over again.

They stayed that way for a while, breathing the same quiet air, neither daring to move too much in case the spell broke. The record kept spinning, soft and low, a heartbeat under their silence.

Paul’s head eventually found its way to John’s shoulder again. The weight of it felt right, like something long overdue. John shifted, careful not to disturb him, and draped an arm around his back.

No more words were needed. Just warmth. Just the steady rise and fall of their chests, in sync.

“Stay,” Paul murmured at last, so softly it barely left his lips.

John didn’t answer with words. He simply nodded, pulling the soft quilted blanket over them both. The lights hummed low, and the music faded to a soft crackle.

By the time the second record ended, Paul was half-asleep, face tucked against John’s shoulder. John let his hand rest on Paul’s arm, thumb brushing slow circles. He stared up at the ceiling, heart full, mind quiet for the first time in months.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t easy. But it was something real.

And for now, that was plenty.

*

As Paul began to faintly snore in deep sleep, John remained wide awake. His mind spun in endless circles, restless from the upper he’d taken before coming over. He hoped it would wear off soon—he’d give anything just to drift off, to sleep soundly with Paul in his arms.

He flipped on the telly and muted it, the flickering light painting soft shapes across the room. He watched it in silence, doing everything to not wake the man sleeping against him. Every so often, he’d glance down at Paul’s peaceful face and feel his chest ache with love—and guilt.

He hugged him a bit tighter, sighing. Tomorrow, he’d have to face Brian. There were things to say, things long avoided. But for now, he just wanted to hold on to this moment.

His gaze softened. He traced the line of Paul’s hair with his eyes, the faint rise and fall of his chest. He’d give anything to have him back the way he was before the accident—the spark, the wit, the knowing look that always outsmarted him. He could live with teaching him everything again. But the old Paul—the wild, rowdy, spontaneous, unashamed, unabashed one—still haunted his dreams.

Nothing could be done now but accept the truth, however cruel it felt.

*

Around three in the morning, exhaustion finally crept in. John blinked against the fuzziness in his head and gave Paul a gentle nudge.

“Hey,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “Let’s get you to bed, love.”

Paul stirred, stretching lazily before opening his eyes. He nodded without a word, letting John help him up. They shuffled quietly to the bedroom, the world outside still and black with night. John pulled back the covers, settling Paul beneath them.

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” he said softly, brushing hair from Paul’s forehead. “G’night.”

Paul’s voice came muffled against the blanket. “No. Lay with me. We're tired.”

John hesitated only a second before giving in. He slipped under the covers beside him, careful not to disturb the warmth Paul had made.

Paul shifted closer on instinct, his head finding its place against John’s shoulder.

John exhaled, long and low, his heart finally beginning to slow.

For the first time in what felt like years, he allowed himself to relax.

*

The next morning came too suddenly, the loud pounding on the front door jolting both men awake from their cuddled slumber.

Paul’s heart lurched, and he sat up quickly. “What the-”

John groaned, rubbing his face. “Bloody hell, who’s knockin’ like the place’s on fire?” He fumbled for his glasses on the nightstand and blinked against the morning light. “You expectin’ someone, Macca?”

Paul shook his head, already getting up. “Nobody that I know of should be here; Christ.”

He raked a hand through his hair, trying to make himself look halfway decent. He tugged on a shirt, buttoning it unevenly at first, cursing softly as his trembling fingers fixed it.

John watched from the bed, annoyed and bleary. “Want me to hide under the bed or somethin’, then?” he muttered, half joking.

Paul threw him a quick glare, voice hushed. “Just- stay here, alright?”

He made his way to the door, heart pounding harder with each knock. The moment he pulled it open, he froze. Standing there was Jane—suitcase in hand, face pale from travel and worry.

“Paul,” she breathed, eyes filling with a mix of relief and frustration. “I had to come. You haven’t called, haven’t written… I just- I needed to see you.”

He blinked, caught between guilt and confusion. Behind him, he could feel John’s presence like a shadow at his back.

“Oh- Jane,” he stammered. “You- you shouldn’t have…I mean, you didn’t have to come all the way here.”

She smiled faintly, stepping forward. “I wanted to.”

There was a heavy, suffocating silence before he finally reached for her suitcase. “Right… well, come in, then.”

From the doorway of the hall, John crossed his arms, saying nothing. His expression said enough.

Jane stepped inside, brushing off her coat as Paul shut the door behind her. The air felt heavier somehow, as if the warmth of the flat had turned solid.

From down the hall came the sound of shuffling feet—John, now dressed in his undershirt and trousers, rubbing sleep from his eyes. When he saw her, he gave a half-smile.

“Well, if it isn’t Miss Asher herself,” he said. “Didn’t think we’d be havin’ company this early.”

Jane blinked in faint surprise, then smiled politely. “Oh—John. I didn’t know you were here,” she said, pretending she hadn’t noticed the flashy car parked in the driveway with his name practically written all over it.

He grinned lopsidedly, tone dripping casual mischief. “Aye, well, someone’s got to keep an eye on him before he burns the place down, eh?”

She let out a small laugh, but there was something tight in her expression, a flicker of unease that made Paul’s stomach twist. He shot John a warning look.

“Anyway,” Paul said quickly, forcing a smile. “How long are you free from filming, love?”

Jane brightened a little. “Two weeks.”

Paul froze. Two weeks.

“Oh—that’s…that’s brilliant,” he managed. “Couldn’t’ve come at a better time.”

Behind her, John stretched and muttered, “Perfect,” just loud enough for Paul to hear.

The day, it seemed, had already been ruined.

Chapter Text

Jane’s eyes roamed the living room, taking in the freshly rearranged shelves, neat stacks of records, and the new sense of order. “Wow,” she said softly, tilting her head. “You’ve really organized the place, Paul. I like it. Feels… calmer.”

Paul smiled, a little flush of pride warming his cheeks. “Thanks, love. Thought it was time for a bit of change.” He glanced toward John, who only grunted from the recliner, crossing his arms.

“Would anyone like some tea?” Paul asked, stepping toward the kitchen. Anything to get the conversation shifted.

“Yes, please,” Jane said warmly.

“Uh… I’ll take one too,” John muttered, still half-grumbling, clearly not thrilled about the interruption. He fancied a bit more time in bed, warm with Paul.

Paul nodded and busied himself with the kettle, humming softly as he prepared the tea. The sound of the water heating and the clink of mugs filled the small home. He carried the tray back carefully, setting it down between them.

“Here you go,” he said, smiling at both of them. “Hope it’s to your liking.”

Jane gave him a gentle smile in return. “It’s perfect, Paul. Thank you.”

John took his cup with a subtle glare toward Paul, though the twitch of his mouth suggested he couldn’t quite hide a small smile threatening to escape.

The three of them settled awkwardly around the living room, the tea steaming between them, the air heavy with unspoken tension but softened by the mundane comfort of being together.

Jane sipped her tea, settling back into the sofa. “So, the flight to Rome was… something else,” she began, animated. “Filming on location was gorgeous. And the other stars, I swear, you’d think they all compete for who can be the loudest in the hotel lobby. It was exhausting, but exciting. Oh! And I tried this little cafe near the set…”

Paul listened politely, nodding and smiling at her anecdotes. John, on the other hand, remained in the recliner, arms crossed, clearly growing restless. His foot tapped quietly on the floor, eyes drifting to the shelves, to the window—anywhere but the conversation.

“…and then we had to rehearse the scene for the sunset shot three times because the lighting kept changing, and I-” Jane continued, unaware of the brewing storm beside her.

John finally stood, letting out a long, impatient sigh. “Right… I think I’m going to head off, then,” he muttered.

Paul blinked, caught off guard. “Already? Where are you going?”

John glanced toward him, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Need to..y'know, break that news to Brian. You know how it is.”

Paul’s stomach tightened, the weight of understanding settling in. He gave a small nod. “Yeah. Okay, of course. Got it.”

Jane tilted her head, confused. “Break… news? About what?”

John gave a quick shrug and a teasing grin at Paul before grabbing his coat. “Just business stuff. Don’t worry about it. Catch you later, Macca.”

With that, he was gone, leaving the home quieter, the hum of the city beyond the windows filling the space.

Jane set her cup down, frowning slightly. “What did he mean by that? Break news to Brian? Something serious?”

Paul gave a faint, reassuring smile, hiding the tension beneath it. “Oh, could be, a little, actually.. We’re just…thinking about looking for new managers soon. You know, change things up, see what’s out there.”

Jane nodded slowly, still unsure, but satisfied with the explanation. “Ah, okay.. Any reason why?”

“Well,” he sighed, “he’s been kind of, slacking, you could say. We need someone active.”

“Ah.. okay. Well, anyways, the lighting just wouldn't cooperate, so—”

Paul sank back into the sofa, letting out a small sigh disguised with a smile. With John gone, the apartment felt both emptier and calmer, the lingering presence of him still palpable in the quiet room.

*

The morning air was crisp as John slipped into his car, the city still half-asleep around him. He didn’t feel much like enjoying it—his mind was caught between Paul and the task ahead. Paul’s warmth, the closeness of last night, it lingered in his chest like a quiet fire. And yet, he had a duty to face, a confrontation that couldn’t wait.

John gripped the steering wheel tighter than needed, knuckles white against the leather. The streets were starting to bustle with morning traffic, yet everybody drove with an odd sense of unhurriedness. But, his thoughts were anything but calm. Every turn, every stoplight brought him back to Paul—the night they had shared, the soft, hesitant kiss, the closeness that had left his chest aching and his mind spinning. The memory made his heart race, but also steeled him for the conversation ahead.

Brian. That was the real reason he was here. He had rehearsed the words in his head a dozen times, trying to strike the balance between firm and careful. He was done with Brian. Done with the complications, the manipulation, the way their twisted arrangement had played out. He loved Paul, and Paul wanted to take things slow, to rebuild trust, to explore what they had without shadows hanging over it. John owed it to himself, and to Paul, to make that clear.

And there was the matter of the management contract. John wasn’t sure how Brian would take it, but he had to plant the seed: the Beatles may not renew with him after this year. They’d finish out the obligations, of course, but anything beyond that—was likely over.

The city hummed beneath the tires as John pulled up to Brian’s building. The glow of the windows above felt almost like a stage, casting shadows that reminded him of Brian’s control, his power, and the danger of misstepping. He took a slow breath, ran a hand through his hair, and opened the car door. Time to be honest. Time to face Brian and claim the life and love that he wanted with Paul.

He knocked a few times, then waited a while for him to answer the door.

Finally, it opened, revealing his band's manager wearing his fresh-out-of-bed robe.

“John. Wasn't expecting you this early. Wasn't expecting you at all, actually,” he said, cutting low. John had left Brian at Abbey Road yesterday without uttering a word, and he hadn't forgotten it. But it was nothing he hadn't noticed before, how quickly John ran to chase after Paul.

“Can I come in?”

Brian stepped aside to let him in, his pulse quickening despite himself. Something had changed, and he could feel it. He’d have to tread carefully.

John stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a muted click. His chest felt tight, but he forced himself to speak before he lost his nerve. “Brian, I just have to say it. I can’t keep doing this. My heart—it’s with Paul. That’s where it’s always been.”

Brian’s face didn’t move at first, only the faint twitch of his jaw betrayed the tension. He folded his arms. “You’re really going back to him? Even with his mind half gone?” He laughed softly, but there was no humor in it. “After everything that’s happened, after I’ve fucked you like nobody else ever has? He’ll never be half as good as me. And if you think he will be—you’re lying to yourself.”

John froze. His face went hot in an instant, pulse hammering in his ears. He took a step forward, fists clenched at his sides, barely keeping his voice even. “You don’t get to say that. You don’t know him the way I do.”

Brian tilted his head, eyes darkening. “Oh, but I do know you, John. I know what you want—what you crave when no one else is looking. Do you really think he can give you that?”

John shook his head, teeth gritted. “Get real, Brian. You think this was about more than sex? It never meant a damn thing. Paul’s more than—more than what you think. He’s not just-” He stopped himself, swallowing down the fury building in his throat. “You’ve no idea what love is.”

Brian’s jaw tightened, his voice dropping to a near hiss. “And you think he does?”

John’s answer came through clenched teeth. “Yeah. I do.” He stepped back then, running a hand over the lower half of his face to steady himself. “Look… as for the band—we’ll finish the year out. But after that, we’re probably done. No renewal, no new contract. We’re not gonna be your bloody puppets anymore.”

Brian’s composure cracked. “Of course, why not this on top of everything!” His voice rose, sharp and trembling with anger. “Why can’t we at least work together? After everything I did for you fuckin’ boys, this is the thanks I get? Why does that kid have such a hold on you, John? You deserve to be nurtured. With Paul, you’ll be the one doing the nurturing. You need a real man—someone who knows how to treat you, keep you living large and satisfied. Paul’s a child now, one you’ve got to teach from scratch.”

John’s eyes hardened, fury flashing behind them. “He is not a fucking child! Don’t talk about him like that. You don’t know a bloody thing about what I need.” He took a step closer, voice low but steady. “You think love’s about who can fuck better? About who’s older, richer, smarter? You don’t get it, Bri. You never did. It’s no wonder you haven’t found someone who’d keep you.”

The biting words hit their mark. For a moment, Brian just stared, his expression faltering—eyes widening, lips parting like he’d been struck. He could not believe John would go there. All the bravado drained from his face, leaving something raw and unguarded beneath the surface. He looked smaller somehow, the room swallowing him whole.

When he finally spoke again, his voice had lost its smoothness. It cracked. “And what’s he giving you, then? A charity case to fix?” His tone was brittle, desperate. “You’ll burn yourself out trying to play savior for him.”

“Maybe,” John said, his voice breaking just slightly. “But at least it’s real. At least it’s not some twisted game where I’ve gotta prove I’m worth your attention. He doesn’t make me feel small.”

For a moment, Brian’s face flickered—hurt breaking through the arrogance—but it vanished as quickly as it came.

John exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Anyway, like I bloody well said, we’ll finish the year out. But after that, we’re done. No strings, no control. You can call it whatever you want—but I’m done letting you pull the wires.”

That landed hard. For a long second, Brian didn’t speak. His expression softened, just slightly—hurt flashing beneath the pride. “So this is it,” he murmured. “After everything.”

John looked at him, eyes glassy but unflinching. “Yeah. This is it.”

He turned on his heel before Brian could respond, the air heavy with everything unsaid. The sound of the door closing behind him echoed through the flat—a sharp, final punctuation to something that had gone on far too long.

Brian had created a monster, one that was inevitably taking everything from him, everything he tried so desperately to save.

*

After finishing their tea that morning, Paul lingered by the window, shoulders relaxed for once. Jane came up behind him to collect his cup, brushing her fingers along his hand in a quiet, familiar way.

“You're thoughtful today,” she teased, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his cheek. It was quick, light—like she wasn’t trying to interrupt the moment, only join it.

He managed a small smile and gave her wrist a gentle squeeze in return. Domesticity. Comfort. Borrowed, but real enough for now.

The day unfolded slowly. Paul practiced a few interview lines by the piano, lowering his voice and mimicking that practiced charm. Jane sat nearby flipping through a magazine, occasionally glancing over the top to watch him. At one point, she slid a sugared biscuit across the table toward him without looking up.

“For when you inevitably forget to eat,” she murmured.

He huffed a quiet laugh and nudged her foot under the table in thanks. She nudged back, playful, like they were sharing a secret language made of small touches.

Paul had been restless all afternoon. Between Jane’s gentle chatter and the way her eyes followed him around the room, he could feel the weight of their lives pressing down on him—the life that wasn’t truly his. He wanted to do something simple, something that looked normal. Something Paul McCartney would do without thinking.

He picked up the phone and spun the dial.

“Good evening, this is the Savoy Grill.”

“Evenin’, love—this is Paul McCartney callin’,” he said easily, slipping into the voice the world knew. “Wonderin’ if there’s a quiet table open tonight for two? Somethin’ a bit private if you can swing it.”

A pause, then the immediate shift in tone. “Of course, Mr. McCartney! We’d be delighted to have you. Would you prefer your usual section?”

He hesitated just a moment before answering. He remembered seeing a note once—Paul’s usual reservation—scribbled on a folded card left in the desk drawer. “Perfect,” he said, almost automatically. “Appreciate it. Eight o’clock sound all right?”

“Absolutely, sir. We’ll have it ready.”

He hung up and forced a grin when Jane turned from the sofa. “Perks of the job, love.”

She smiled. “You’re spoiling me.”

“When I can,” he said lightly.

When she turned away, his smile slipped. He stood there a moment, fingers brushing the phone’s cord. It still felt wrong sometimes—saying Paul McCartney like it belonged to him. The name came so easily now, smoother every time. Too smooth. Like he’d stolen the man’s breath along with his voice. And God help him, he loved the life that dead man left behind.

Later, while he straightened his cuffs before they left, she adjusted the knot of his tie for him—slow, deliberate, her fingers smoothing the fabric as though the ritual steadied her too.

“You’ll charm them all,” she said, faint pride in her voice.

“I just hope I don’t trip over my own feet,” he joked softly, and she kissed the corner of his mouth—brief but grounding.

Evening settled in, and they stepped outside. Cameras would be there, inevitably, but Paul instinctively shifted closer, a protective hand at the small of her back as they walked to the car. He'd seen the real Paul do the same in old photographs—he only hoped he mirrored it convincingly, naturally.

The restaurant glowed with warm gold light, polished and dignified. Once seated, Paul adjusted his tie again—a nervous habit—and Jane smoothed his jacket sleeve, smiling at him like he’d already passed whatever test tonight would bring.

He ordered a bottle of champagne, the first of two they would share. Glasses clinked lightly between them, each sip loosening inhibitions and making laughter come easier. By the second glass, Jane’s eyes sparkled more mischievously, and by the third, her hand rested casually over Paul’s across the table, fingers brushing. He felt the warmth spread through him, his mind wandering despite the laughter and light chatter.

“You know,” he said between sips, “we’re set to take the album cover photo next week.”

Jane leaned closer, intrigued. “Oh? What’s the idea this time?”

Paul’s lips curved into a faint smile. “It’s a bit mad, honestly. Bright uniforms, flowers, a whole crowd behind us. Like…a ceremony, or a carnival. Sort of larger than life.”

“That sounds very…you,” she replied, eyes glinting under the candlelight.

“Yeah,” he said softly, staring into his glass. “Supposed to be, anyway.”

As they continued their meal, more champagne followed, softening edges, loosening worries. Between bites and sips, Jane leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a teasing whisper. Paul felt a flutter of desire in his chest but also the nervous pull of hesitation. He laughed softly, masking the conflict, and returned her playful banter without giving in too quickly.

By dessert, both were feeling the tipsy warmth of champagne. Paul’s mind, however, kept drifting back to John—the quiet, intimate moments from last night, the closeness they had shared. A pang of longing mixed with guilt and curiosity, leaving him both exhilarated and unsettled. Jane noticed his faraway gaze and reached for his hand again, more sultry than before, but Paul only offered a shy, affectionate squeeze back, the craving for John lingering like an unspoken echo between his thoughts and the present.

They finished their meal, laughed politely at the paps outside, and called a cab—a rich, black vehicle that had brought them there. They smiled for the paps outside, Paul gently guiding Jane’s hand away from being too visible, his posture protective, just like he’d seen in old photographs of the real Paul, how he was protective of her. On the ride home, Jane rested her head lightly against Paul’s shoulder, a playful glance now and then. Paul smiled softly, his hand lightly brushing hers, fully aware of the pull of her warmth, yet still consumed by memories of John.

*

John drove to George’s home next, the night air cool against his face through the slightly cracked window. He rehearsed what he’d say in his head—how he and Paul both agreed Brian’s management had run its course, how things had changed, how they’d changed.

He half-expected George to put up a fight. After all, George had always seemed to enjoy Brian’s neat order, his knack for turning chaos into something that sold records. John braced himself for a lecture, for that calm, slightly condescending tone George used whenever he thought John was being rash.

But when he told him—when the words actually came out—George just leaned back on his sofa, silent for a moment. His brow furrowed slightly, but his voice was steady.
“Not surprised, really,” he said finally. “Been feeling that way for a while too.”

John blinked, a little thrown. “Yeah?”

George nodded, resting his arm along the back of the couch. “Brian’s done a lot for us, don’t get me wrong. But lately it feels like he’s just... there. Not part of it. We’ve been managing ourselves anyway.” He gave a faint smile. “Or trying to.”

John gave a quiet laugh through his nose, lighting a cigarette. “Trying, yeah. That’s a word for it.”

George tilted his head, thoughtful now. “So who do you reckon we’d get to manage us, then? Someone new?”

John took a drag, exhaling slow. “Maybe no one.”

George frowned. “No one?”

“Yeah,” John said, leaning forward now, elbows on his knees. “Think about it. We’ve got everything we need—the name, the money, the songs. We could run it ourselves. Make our own label, even. Call the shots for once.”

George looked at him, not dismissive, just… considering. “That’s mad.”

John smirked. “So was forming a band, wasn’t it?”

For a moment, they sat in the soft hum of the room—the faint ticking of a clock, the gentle hiss of John’s cigarette, the soft rock jamming from George's personal collection.

George finally sighed, rubbing his neck. “You really think we could do it?”

“I dunno,” John admitted, gaze distant. “But I’m tired of other people deciding what we do next. Maybe it’s time we decide for ourselves. And think about it. We wouldn't have to pay any extra fees to other people, y'know. That's extra money in our pockets.”

George didn’t argue. He just nodded slowly, thoughtful, as if some part of him liked the sound of it.

He remained there until dark, chatting and passing weed for a bit. John even listened to tapes George had recorded of songs he wrote himself, tapping his foot along to a couple he really liked.

They spent a while tossing around tentative ideas—possible names, simple strategies, ways to keep the band protected but free. It felt good to talk about control, about taking charge, instead of being caught in other people’s schemes.

By the time John left, the city lights were sparkling against the evening sky. He felt lighter, oddly energized despite the weight of the day. Paul was still in his thoughts, as always, but at least here, with George, they’d laid the groundwork for something better, something safer.

Chapter Text

Back at the home, the city lights spilled through the windows, casting soft reflections across the polished floors. Paul and Jane shed their coats, and she playfully sank onto the sofa, patting the cushion beside her.

“Come on, Paul,” she said, voice low and teasing, “don’t make me sit here all alone.”

He chuckled nervously, still carrying the buzz from champagne and the laughter of dinner. “I wouldn’t let you do that,” he said with a smile, sliding onto the sofa beside her, careful to keep some space.

Jane leaned in slightly, resting her head near his shoulder, letting her hair brush across his neck. She let her fingers trail lazily across his arm, light, teasing touches that made him flinch and laugh simultaneously.

“You’re tense,” she murmured, lips just brushing near his ear. “Need me to loosen you up a bit?”

Paul swallowed, mind flickering to John and the quiet moments they’d shared—private warmth that felt a world apart from this polished, public intimacy. He let out a soft, shaky laugh. “I-if you wish,” he muttered.

Before the words even settled in the air, Jane’s hands slid up to his shoulders, fingertips beginning a slow, deliberate rub beneath the fabric of his jacket. Not forceful—just enough pressure to coax tension loose.

“You carry everything up here,” she said softly, kneading at a stubborn knot near his neck. “No wonder you look like you’re thinking six thoughts at once.”

He exhaled, breath catching halfway between relief and guilt. Her touch wasn’t unwelcome; it was gentle, but his mind was traitorous, and it kept drifting to another pair of hands, another kind of closeness.

Jane leaned in, grin turning playful-sultry. “Maybe I’ll do the rest later,” she whispered, still working his shoulders, “but I like seeing you smile like this first.”

Her thumb brushed just under his collar, warm and steady. Paul felt heat rise to his cheeks, torn between resisting and the hazy comfort of champagne making him more pliant, more willing to let himself be guided into the moment—even if his heart wasn’t fully there.

He leaned back slightly, letting her laugh fill the room, and gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “You’re irresistible,” he admitted, voice low, almost a whisper.

Jane tilted her head, eyes glinting under the soft light. Her lips curved into a mischievous smile, and she leaned in again, so close he could feel her breath. “That was the goal.. And I could make it worth your while to relax more.”

Paul’s heart raced. He wanted to melt into her warmth, to let go—but a part of him was still tethered to the memory of John, the intimacy they’d shared, the kiss that lingered in his chest. He laughed softly, shaking his head, trying to ground himself. “I…I think I’ll just enjoy you being here for now,” he said, giving her a shy, affectionate squeeze.

Jane laughed lightly, brushing her lips near his cheek in a teasing, almost daring gesture. “Fine. But don’t think I’m giving up so easily,” she murmured, settling back with a satisfied grin, though still pressing close enough to keep the tension humming between them.

And so, they stayed there, laughing quietly, leaning into each other, her playful provocations filling the room without forcing anything. Paul let himself enjoy the closeness, the touch, the warmth of her presence—even as thoughts of John flickered through his mind, bittersweet and impossible to ignore.

Eventually, when she tugged him toward the bedroom with a soft, hopeful laugh, Paul let her.
Not because he wanted her—not in the way she wanted him—but because he couldn’t bear to disappoint her again.

In the dim bedroom light, he let her guide the moment.

He kissed her gently, let her cling to him, let her warmth envelop him.

And when her hands grew eager, when her fingers tugged on his brown hair, Paul focused on her entirely—moving his mouth on her clit with the practiced tenderness he knew would unravel her.

Her body tensed, shuddered, then softened beneath his touch. Her breath caught in quiet, shaky sounds—small, broken murmurs that told him he’d done exactly what she needed.

She melted into him completely, warm and adoring, her hands still clinging to his shoulders even as the tension drained from her limbs. But Paul stayed somewhere else entirely. His body moved with hers, patient and practiced, yet inside he remained unreachable.

She was ethereal in the lamplight, soft as a dream…but he wasn’t in it. Not really.
He knew what to do to please her, but his heart didn’t follow.

When Jane finally slipped under the covers, drowsy and content, she kissed his cheek and murmured something soft and grateful before drifting into sleep.

Only then did Paul ease away, heart pounding with a different kind of longing entirely.

He padded into the living room, the silence humming around him, and sat in the soft lamplight—his skin still warm, his mind still somewhere else.

Thinking of someone else.

*

With a mischievous grin and a shaky hand, he picked up the phone and dialed John’s number. He wiped his mouth with the blanket on the couch, huffing a breath.

The line rang once, twice…then a familiar voice answered, calm and smooth even at this early hour.

“Hello?”

“John…” Paul’s voice was low, warm, and slightly slurred, carrying a teasing lilt. “Guess who’s thinking about you?”

John’s tone lifted with a faint chuckle. “Oh? I could hazard a guess…but it’s late, Paul. Very late. Or very early.”

“I realize that,” Paul replied, voice playful, leaning back against the couch. “But I figured…someone should hear about how good you looked, waking up lookin’ ready for the day.. Shame you weren’t here for dinner to appreciate it.”

John raised an eyebrow, amusement clear even over the phone. “Is that your way of complimenting me, or getting me riled up?”

“Both, maybe,” Paul said with a laugh, eyes sparkling despite the tipsy haze. “I mean…it’s unfair, you know. You’re just…distracting. Even over the phone.”

A short pause, then John’s voice softened. “How?”

“Your fucking voice just-” Paul whispered, purposely not finishing his rambling, almost leaning closer to the phone. “I-I keep imagining your stupid smirk…makes it hard to think straight. Not fair at all.”

John laughed quietly, shaking his head. “You sound like you’ve had a few.”

“Maybe…two or three,” Paul admitted, a teasing edge to his words. “Bottles of champagne, that is, me and Jane shared ‘em. But I'm not drunk, y'know. And it doesn’t make me wrong. You’re just…impossible to ignore, Johnny. I had to hear your voice.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” John replied, a faint smile in his voice. “Though I think you’re enjoying torturing me a bit.”

Paul let out a soft, mischievous laugh. “No. Maybe I just…wanted to hear your voice while I dream a little.” He paused, lowering his voice to a husky whisper. “And maybe…I wouldn’t mind if you teased me back. Just a little.”

John chuckled, keeping his tone gentle but amused. “Paulie, it's 3 in the mornin’. And you’re flirting with me.. I dunno if you put two and two together, but those things—usually where it heads is…well, y'know.”

“I know,” Paul said softly, voice playful yet sincere. “You’re worth the risk.”

“It always was worth the risk,” John agreed.

Paul sighed, unable to contain the sexual frustrations from yesterday now that John was here, and his inhibitions were down from the drink. Plus he was hard, achingly hard, with nothing else on his mind other than John fucking Lennon. “God, John—you don't know. I had so many thoughts on my mind last night when you were here. I had to force myself not to act on ‘em.”

“What were they?”

“You can't know ‘em,” Paul snickered, “You're not allowed to.”

“C'mon,” John was itching to know the truth. “Tell me. Tell me anything. Please.”

He began to bite his nail, nervous. “I just- thinking of kissing you, on your neck. Fuck- I really wanted to hear you moan for me.”

John gulped, cock twitching in his pants. The tent there told him Paul was running his mouth dangerously. “Careful, Macca.. You're on the edge—about to talk in a way you might regret.”

“No, I won't regret it. It's the truth. Listen to me… And Jane- she- she wanted me tonight.. I had to please her. She wouldn't stop. But- I can't lie. I wanna fuck you. So bad.” Paul spilled out in a voice barely above a whisper.

Lennon's breath hitched. Looked around the room, knowing his wife and son were sound asleep upstairs. He used to have late night “conversations” with Paul all the time, before the accident. It was heading there now, to some kind of phone sex moment.

“Is she asleep now?”

“Yeah, she- she got a bit drunk, more than me. Why do you ask?”

“I'm hard too, love.” John admitted, a hand pressing against his erection, offering a tiny bit of friction.

Paul blinked, heat rushing to his cheeks. He also looked around the room, and got himself more comfy on the sofa. “Yeah? Talk to me while- while we take care of it.”

John groaned, continuing his hand movements of rubbing himself through his pajama pants. “You don't know how many times I've dreamt of just your lips,” he started, low and barely dirty enough yet. He'd work his way up. “Just thinking of your tongue against mine, fuckin’ hell.”

Paul had already put a hand inside his underwear, lightly moving his hand up and down around his erection. “Mm.. What else?”

“I- I just want to touch you again. I haven't had you in so long. I wanna taste you again, have you use my fucking throat. All you want..” John told him truthfully, admitting everything he missed.

Paul blushed, imagining John sucking him off and taking it perfectly well. “Y-yeah.. I need that.”

“Paul, y'know I'd give ye anything.” John breathed, voice unsteady now, thinner than a heartbeat. “Say you want me again,” John whispered, like the words were oxygen.
“Just once more.”

Paul’s pulse thundered in his ears. “I want you,” he said, real and raw. “You don’t know how badly I want you.”

There was a silence, not empty, but charged. Heat. Nerves. Need.

And then, neither of them held back anymore. No more teasing.

John closed his eyes, left hand gripping the receiver and right one fully immersed in pleasing himself. At the same time, Paul was doing the exact same except his hands were switched. They didn’t need instructions. They didn’t need to say what they were doing. They chased the edge together, breaths syncing, voices shaking, both of them trying and failing to stay quiet. Paul whispered John’s name like a confession. John whispered Paul’s like a prayer he wasn’t supposed to say.

And when they came, it was messy and breathless and wrong—but God, it felt like coming home, especially for John.

Silence followed, heavy, ragged, full of pounding hearts and things neither could take back.

Paul swallowed hard. “I shouldn’t have.”

John’s breathing cracked. “No. You- you're fine, Macca. That was- fuck, trust me. You did nothing wrong. Promise..”

Then, neither hung up. They just listened to each other breathe in the dark, two men who had crossed a line that was never going to disappear again.

Eventually, the heat in their voices faded into something quieter, slower—not shame, but a fragile tenderness neither dared name. Paul shifted on the sofa, the champagne haze softening into heavy warmth, his nerves finally settling.

“You still there?” he murmured, voice low, almost boyish now.

“’Course I am,” John whispered. “Not leaving you alone with all that in your head.”

Paul let out a tiny laugh—tired, fond.
“I'm finally getting tired, John.”

“All right. Night, Paul. Sweet dreams.”

“Goodnight,” They didn't hang up so much as drift apart—each waiting for the other to end the line until sleep finally tugged them under. The connection clicked silent, but the closeness lingered like a heartbeat.

Paul rose unsteadily, the house dark and still around him. He wiped himself off with a few tissues, before tossing them in the kitchen rubbish bin. He then padded his feet to the bedroom. Jane's soft breathing floated through the doorway, where he stood. He stared for a long moment—torn, guilty, aching—before climbing into bed beside her, careful not to wake her, curling onto his side with the echo of John’s voice still warm in his ear.

Across the city, John lay awake longer, staring up at the ceiling. His chest felt too full—desire, relief, fear, all tangled together. He traced a thumb over his lower lip like he could still feel Paul’s breath there.

Only when exhaustion finally crept in did he turn toward his sleeping wife, eyes closed, knowing sleep wouldn’t change anything..

He fell asleep still half-smiling, half-terrified, and thinking of Paul.

*

Paul woke before Jane.

The early light spilled across the bedroom, soft and hazy, brushing the edge of her hair where it fanned across the pillow. She looked peaceful—beautiful, really—the kind of scene any man should feel lucky waking up to.

He didn’t feel that lucky.

He felt hollow. And buzzing. And like his skin didn’t quite fit right.

Jane murmured in her sleep and shifted closer, her hand sliding across his chest. Her warmth should have grounded him, but instead, all he could think of was John. The warmth of him, the way his breath hitched when their foreheads touched, the sound of his voice whispering filth in the dark hours of the morning.

Paul closed his eyes, swallowing.

What he wanted thrilled him and terrified him all at once. He wondered how the old Paul was able to juggle everything with such a careful practiced ease.

That craving shouldn't have survived the night, not after everything. But it did. It pulsed beneath his ribs, alive and insistent. Not even champagne nor Jane’s touch had smothered it.

If anything, it made it worse. It only lowered his anxieties surrounding the subject, enough so that he went and acted on them with John last night.

He pressed a hand lightly over hers, a gentle gesture—but his heart wasn’t in it. His mind was already elsewhere, back in the dim glow of his living room, skin flushed, breath shaking, listening to John unravel on the line like he was the only man who existed.

He exhaled shakily.

God, what’s happening to me…

*

Paul arrived at the studio first—a rare occurrence—bass already in hand, pretending to study the controls on a nearby amp. The studio smelled like dust, cables, and the faint aftertaste of cigarettes and tape. Comfort. Familiarity. Safety, usually.

Not today.

His pulse ticked unevenly in his throat.

The door creaked and John slipped in second—early as well. Their eyes met for only a fraction of a second, but it was enough to make Paul's chest squeeze tight. John’s expression flickered—surprise, warmth, and then a smirk threatening at the corner of his mouth.

Paul immediately looked away, fiddling pointlessly with the strap of his bass. Denial. His safest armor.

John sauntered over to his guitar case with that lazy confidence he always carried when he knew more than he should. He didn't sit. Instead he leaned against an amp, arms crossed, eyes locked on Paul with a knowing amusement.

“You look tired,” John finally murmured, voice low and smug. “Late night?”

Paul's fingers froze mid-adjustment. He kept his face as neutral as possible, shoulders tense.

“Yeah,” he said casually. “Had a bit of champagne. Long night.” He avoided the topic of last night like the plague, though his referral to the evening as a long night should have made John know he was at least acknowledging what occurred.

John hummed thoughtfully—like a predator amused by the prey trying to walk straight.

“Oh, right,” he said lightly, snickering, “Must've been exhausting. Entertaining all your guests.”

The air between them snapped electric for a heartbeat. Paul swallowed, heat rising up his neck.

“John…” he said, giving a quiet warning.

John only raised a brow and tugged the corner of his lip into a small smirk. “Relax. I'm only saying—you might talk in your sleep, y’know.”

Paul’s heart lurched. He forced a half-glare, half-flustered stare at the opposite wall—his breath stuttering despite his best efforts.

Before he could respond, the studio door swung open. George entered first, whistling casually, followed by Ringo carrying a takeaway coffee tray.

“Mornin’,” George muttered—then paused. The tension was palpable enough to slice. His brow creased briefly, but he didn’t comment. Not yet.

Paul forced a breath. John turned away and picked up his guitar, whistling a cheerful tune as if nothing had happened—like he hadn’t just set Paul’s bloodstream on fire.

And just like that, the world returned to ordinary.

Except it wasn’t.

Not for either of them, and for the first time it was actually a good thing.

George set down his guitar case and stretched his shoulders. “Everyone actually early today? Miracles do happen.”

Ringo handed out coffees with a grin, oblivious or choosing to pretend he was. “Thought I’d bring fuel. Figured we’d need it if we’re gettin’ through Pepper without a fistfight.”

Paul managed a faint laugh, though it caught in his throat. John plucked a lazy chord, eyes down, mouth still curved like he was about to say something wicked again at any moment.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he just watched Paul for half a breath too long, a silent acknowledgement, before turning a page in his notebook as though none of it mattered.

Paul lifted his bass strap and squared his shoulders, face smoothing into the familiar public mask, the one that belonged here, among amps and tape reels and the silent expectation of genius.

He forced his heartbeat quiet. Forced his expression neutral. Forced himself into the role.

“Right,” he said, clearing his throat. “Shall we get to work, then?”

George nodded, already tuning. Ringo clapped his sticks together in a steady rhythm.
John answered only with a chord, bright and ringing through the room.

And just like that, they began.

But beneath the music, beneath the routine and the banter, the hum of the tape machine, something pulsed between them, impossible to ignore.

A secret chord only they could hear.

Chapter Text

Brian did not go to the studio.

He sat in his quiet, empty house instead, curtains half-drawn, the morning having come and gone without him moving much more than a hand through his hair. The record player spun without sound—needle set, volume low, as if even music felt too sharp to face.

He’d known heartbreak before, but never like this. Never a heartbreak he built with his own hands.

The boy he practically resurrected from death, the lie he orchestrated, and the love he stole a piece of—everything was slipping from him. He lost the real Paul, now trapped like a ghost under William’s skin. He lost John, who ended up choosing the ghost anyway. And now he was losing his prize possession, The Beatles, the only thing that ever made him feel indispensable. Brian pressed a shaking hand to his eyes. He’d created the world that was destroying him. And now he had to watch it go on without him.

*

The weeks that followed were unlike anything Paul could’ve imagined.

Without Brian’s rigid schedule to keep them in line, the studio turned into something lawless and brilliant—equal parts circus and sanctuary. They’d start in daylight and finish long after sunrise, leaving trails of cigarette smoke, teacups, and half-scribbled lyric sheets behind them.

Paul lived for it. He arrived early, humming new arrangements while adjusting mic stands, sketching harmonies in his head. When he worked, the world held steady again—like gravity snapped back to where it belonged.

John strolled in later, bleary eyed, notebook tucked under his arm. The atmosphere shifted the second he entered. Ideas spilled from him in sparks: some absurd, some genius. Paul caught each one, refined it, and fit the pieces together. Together, they turned madness into melody.

George and Ringo exchanged knowing looks whenever the pair started bickering or laughing too loud.

“They’re like magnets,” Ringo muttered.

“Aye,” George sighed. “And we’re the poor sods stuck in the middle.”

*

Soon came the day of the Sgt. Pepper photo shoot—a full blown carnival of color. Cardboard cutouts, wax figures, and mannequins crowded the studio like ghosts of pop culture. Fresh paint mingled with the scent of roses, and the stage lights made the sequins on Paul’s uniform shimmer gold.

Jane was there, gracious, and ever so poised. She kept her distance while the crew adjusted props. Paul had insisted she come—to look the part, to play the role. It should’ve felt right.

But John stood by a cardboard Dylan, arms crossed, wearing that crooked grin that always gave him away.

“So that’s us lookin’ at ourselves,” John murmured.

“That’s dead clever, that,” Paul said, unable to stop his smile.

Camera flashes burst like fireworks. Between shots, Paul and John exchanged glances—small, wordless ones that lingered a touch too long. George rolled his eyes. Ringo whispered something that made him snort under his breath.

By the end of the day, Paul felt wired and exhausted. Jane looped her arm through his for the last photos; he smiled for the camera, but his eyes kept drifting toward John, who was still teasing the photographer with a lit cigarette.

*

A week later came the orchestra session for A Day in the Life.

Forty one musicians filled Studio One in tuxedos, bewildered by the instructions Paul gave through the talkback mic.

“Start at the lowest note you can,” he said, eyes bright. “Climb to the highest note you can, all together. Crescendo. Full madness. Make it sound like—earth shattering loud.”

The conductor hesitated—until John leaned into the mic.

“He means it. Don’t hold back.”

They didn’t.

Chaos erupted—strings screaming, horns blaring, timpani booming. John stood in the center of the room, head tilted back like he was witnessing divine revelation. Cameras rolled, capturing every second.

When silence finally fell, four grand pianos slammed an E major chord together. The sound lingered in their bones.

John grinned. “There’s that big ending you wanted.”

Paul nearly glowed. “Yeah. About bloody time. And—it's just what I imagined. Fantastic.”

For a moment, nothing else mattered—not the lies, not the ghosts, not the guilt. Just them, and the sound hanging in the air.

And just like that, the album was done. All the nights Paul spent fighting for the right lyrics and melodies only made sense when John joined him—shaping, refining, completing what Paul had started. Without John, the whole thing would have fallen apart.

*

Jane’s two-week visit slipped by in an uneasy rhythm. She adored him; he tried to adore her back. But when the cab took her away, the house felt so silent Paul couldn’t tell whether he felt more guilty or relieved. Probably both.

The truth was, the moment she left, he knew exactly where he wanted to be.

*

John was waiting at the studio when Paul arrived—strumming, scribbling, pretending he hadn’t been anxious for him.

“You live here now?” John teased.

“Maybe,” Paul said, smiling as he sat beside him at the piano. “Cheaper than rent. And, well…Jane left today.”

John’s eyebrows rose slowly, grin curling. “Oh, did she now? So what you’re telling me is-" He leaned in, voice dropping. “I can come back home now, lovey?”

Paul froze, heat blooming in his chest. “You’re ridiculous,” he laughed—soft, flustered. "I can't just steal you from your family."

John laughed too, low and pleased. “Aw, but I know you missed me holdin’ you that night, babe.”

Paul swallowed, turning to the keys. “Well, yeah I did,” he murmured. “But don’t let it go to your head.”

John smirked, softened, reached out, and squeezed Paul’s knee. “Too late.”

Paul didn’t pull away. Instead, he leaned forward and pressed a quick, shy kiss to John’s cheek. “That’s for the song ideas,” he teased. “Not the ego.”

“Sure it was,” John said, cheeks warm.

*

They drifted into music. Nothing about it was planned—it never was. Notes met halfway, their voices blending like instinct. Paul played something wistful; John fell gently into harmony. They worked until others arrived, though the glow between them stayed.

Later, while recording Lovely Rita, they leaned too close to the same microphone. Their noses brushed; the tape caught John’s sharp breath and Paul’s soft laugh.

George Martin sighed. “You two going to record the song or do each other?”

“Depends which sells better,” John shot back, quick and witty.

Everyone laughed—except the two who understood exactly what was happening. They just smirked, and Paul blushed like mad—entirely embarrassed.

*

Later that night, after the others left, John lingered alone. He watched Paul across the studio, cigarette forgotten between his fingers. Thought maybe McCartney would invite him over, but Paul left with George again. The memory of the microphone, the warmth, the breath—they clung to him long after he went home.

The silence there felt wrong. Cynthia slept upstairs. Julian’s toys were scattered along the centered rug. It should’ve been grounding. It wasn’t.

He wandered the rooms like a stranger, touched the mantle, stared at old photographs. Everything looked fine. It wasn’t.

He poured a drink. Didn’t touch it.

All he could hear was Paul’s laugh.

All he could feel was the space where Paul had been.

*

The next few days dragged by. John drifted internally—still joking, still tossing ideas, but hollow underneath. He’d show up late, stare at the piano for minutes before playing, abandon half-written lyrics, muttering, “Doesn’t mean anything.”

George noticed. “You alright, then?”

“Fine,” John lied.

He wasn’t.

He waited for Paul to call him, to ask him over, to do something. But Paul did nothing either, holding back. McCartney kept replaying that kiss, and the phone call... He kept wondering if John regretted it, if it had only been the heat of the moment. Paul refused to be the one who made it messy again.

John hated the quiet—especially the quiet inside him. And he didn't want to push Paul too far.

He was unhappy. He’d gotten Paul back in one sense, but the closeness wasn’t what it used to be. He wanted more. He needed more. He didn’t know how much longer he could live in half-measures.

His mind drifted where he didn’t want it to go—toward the last thing that had made him feel a piqued curiosity beyond Paul. A stray memory tugged at him, something he kept pushing down.

Yoko.

Chapter Text

Yoko Ono.

Her name alone felt like a disruption—uninvited, yet strangely magnetic. It crept in at the edges of his mind, soft as a hum he couldn’t tune out. He’d catch himself wondering what she was doing, if she ever thought of him, if some other man already knew the sound of her laugh. And what had she gotten into in these months?

The thought unsettled him.

And yet—he leaned into it.

It was November last year, just before Paul’s accident.

He’d gone to an art gallery in London one evening—mostly out of boredom, dragged along by a friend who’d promised “something different.” He expected another dull night of handshakes and nonsense hung on white walls. But instead, the place was small, quiet, alive with a strange sort of electricity.

Yoko Ono stood at the center of the room, barefoot on a low white platform. She wore a black turtleneck and wide trousers, her dark hair framing her pale face like both halo and shadow. In her hands: a hammer, some nails, and a calm, deliberate gaze that seemed to strip every pretense away.

Behind her stood a ladder with a magnifying glass suspended from the ceiling. At the top, faint pencil on white canvas, a single word waited.

Yes.

John had nearly laughed when someone explained it—but curiosity got the better of him. He climbed the ladder, peered through the glass, and saw the word himself. Small. Sincere. Ridiculous. Brilliant.

When he came back down, she was watching him, head tilted slightly.

“Did you like it?” she asked, voice steady.

He smirked. “Didn’t hate it. It’s better than all the bloody ‘no’s I usually get.”

That made her smile—barely, but enough to stick in his mind. “That’s the point,” she said. “It’s the only word that matters.”

He didn’t know if she was joking or dead serious. That uncertainty fascinated him. Most people tried to impress him. She didn’t. She saw through him.

He left the gallery half amused, half dazed. Didn’t tell Paul or Brian or anyone. But later, lying awake, the image returned: her dark eyes, her quiet voice, that absurd ladder to hope.

Now, months later, as he sat in the quiet house and thought about everything he’d built and lost, he realized it wasn’t just the art that stayed with him. It was her.

Nothing had happened between them—but the pull was there. Quiet. But purely persistent.

*

It wasn’t long before curiosity got the better of him. After everyone had gone to bed, John found himself dialing a number he hadn’t used in months—the friend who’d dragged him to that gallery.

“John Dunbar speaking.”

“Yeah, it’s me,” John said, rubbing a hand over his face. “Listen, you remember that art show last year? The one with the lass hammerin’ nails?”

“Yoko Ono?” Dunbar repeated, amused. “Didn’t expect you to bring her up again.”

“Yeah. Her.”

“You’re still thinking about that night?”

John scoffed. “Don’t turn it into therapy. Just wondered if she’s still…around.”

“Oh, absolutely. Still confusing half of London and fascinating the other half.”

Something tightened in John’s chest. “Right. And does she…ever ask about me?”

A pause—then Dunbar let out a low laugh. “More than once, actually. Twice.”

“…Twice?”

“First time after the show. Second time a few months later. Wanted to know if you’d ever come back.”

John felt heat rise to his face. “And what’d you tell her?”

“The truth. That you didn’t laugh it off.”

John stared at the wall. “Well…If you want to give her my number, I won’t stop you.”

“You sure? She doesn’t hesitate once she commits.”

“Good,” John muttered. “Someone’s gotta make the first move.”

Dunbar chuckled. “I’ll pass it along. And John?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t panic when she calls.”

John swallowed. “I’ll try.”

*

The phone rang two nights later—late enough that John almost didn’t answer it. Cynthia had gone to bed already, the house dim except for the lamp beside the sofa. He sat there restlessly, flipping through an old sketchbook when the sharp trill cut through the silence.

He hesitated, let it ring three more times, then picked it up.

“Hello?”

A pause—soft breath, the faintest tremor of air.

“John Lennon?”

His heart lurched. He knew the voice instantly.

“…Yoko?”

“Yes.” Her tone was calm, deliberate. “John Dunbar said you wouldn’t mind if I called.”

John swallowed, gripping the receiver tighter. “Right. Yeah. I—didn’t think you’d actually ring.”

“I wasn’t sure either,” she admitted. “I don’t call people unless I feel there’s something to hear.” A beat. “And with you, I thought there might be.”

He exhaled slowly, leaning back. “I’m not sure I’ve got anything profound to offer, love.”

“I don’t ask for profound,” she said. “I only want real.”

He rubbed his thumb along the cord, staring at the dark hallway. “So, what are you calling for then?”

“To see if you’re still curious.”

The words landed deeper than he expected.

“…Maybe I am,” he murmured.

“Then we should meet.”

His breath hitched—just slightly. “Meet?”

“Yes. Not for art. Not for the press. Just to talk. Maybe dinner.” Her voice softened. “Something simple.”

John almost laughed. “You asking me on a date, then?”

“If that’s what you need it to be.” He heard the faintest smile. “I was going to suggest tea. But you sound like someone who needs real food.”

He stared at the wall, guilt and longing curling tightly in his chest. He shouldn’t say yes. He already knew that.

But the silence inside him had become unbearable.

“When?” he asked quietly.

“There’s a small cafe near the gallery,” Yoko said. “Quiet. They stay open late. Tomorrow night at seven?”

He hesitated for only a moment—not because he didn’t want to go, but because he understood exactly what crossing that threshold meant.

“All right,” he said finally. “Seven.”

“Good.” Another soft breath. “And John?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t overthink it. Just come as you are.”

For the first time in weeks, he smiled—a small, tired curve of his mouth, but real. “I’ll try, love.”

“Goodnight, John Lennon.”

“Night, Yoko.”

The line clicked softly.

John remained there long after the call ended, the receiver still warm in his hand.

The house no longer felt suffocating.

It felt like the air itself was waiting.

*

The next afternoon at Abbey Road dragged endlessly. Pepper was finished, but playbacks, mixes, and paperwork stretched late. The day had already felt wrong to John, and the latest conversation with George Martin hadn’t helped.

It had happened barely an hour earlier.

George called him into the control room with that calm, apologetic tone he used when he knew Lennon wouldn’t like something.

“John,” George said, folding his hands, “I’ve been thinking about Strawberry Fields. It’s brilliant, but it doesn’t sit on Pepper. Not the way the others do. It’s too introspective, too dream-like. It pulls the record inward when the album wants to explode outward.”

John stared at him, jaw tightening. “So what then? Bin it?”

“God, no,” George said. “It deserves its own space. A different release. Separate. It’s too important to get buried in the concept.”

“Right,” John muttered, pretending he didn’t feel something crack a little inside. He’d poured himself raw into that track. Of course it didn’t fit the technicolor circus. Of course he didn’t.

When he stepped back into the studio, the room felt smaller. Lighter. Like he was drifting outside the edges of their world.

Now, as the clock neared six twenty, that feeling stayed with him. He kept glancing at it, tapping his foot, as if the minute hand might break off and free him from the room.

Paul noticed.

“You in a rush?” Paul asked. “Could grab a bite. I’m starving. And Jane’s gone, so I’m a free man.” His voice softened. “I…missed you. Sorry I haven’t called. I’ve been nervous. But it’s just food. Just us. Nothing crazy.”

John froze mid-drag.

Of all nights — tonight was the one Paul finally reached out.

He almost said yes.

But his mind flicked back to the control room, George’s quiet voice saying the track didn’t belong. And then to the phone call the night before. Yoko’s voice. Calm. Certain. Seeing him.

That hum in his chest pulled harder.

He forced a grin. “Can’t, mate. Promised someone I’d look over lyrics. Bloke from the label.”

Paul’s smile faltered. “Oh. Right.”

“Tomorrow,” John added quickly. “We’ll go proper.”

Paul nodded, mask slipping. “Sure. No rush.”

The guilt hit so hard it winded John. So he stepped close, brushing Paul’s hand, gently taking it. Paul startled as John lifted it to his lips and pressed a slow kiss to his knuckles—tender, apologetic.

“Don’t look so gutted, love,” John whispered. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“You better,” Paul said.

John let go last.

Paul stayed there in the quiet of the room, watching the doorway long after John disappeared down the hall. For a moment he considered calling him back—saying something real, something that didn’t sound like a joke or a promise he already doubted. But the moment slipped, like it always did.

Chapter Text

When he finally gathered his things and headed out, the air outside Abbey Road felt colder than it should have. He shoved his hands into his coat pockets and started toward home, headlights flashing across wet pavement, the night alive with the metallic scent of nearby rain.

He hadn’t gone far before he heard quick footsteps behind him.

“Wait—that’s him.. Paul! Paul McCartney!”

He stopped and turned, not because he needed convincing who they meant, but because hearing it spoken by strangers carried a different kind of charge. Three girls hurried toward him, cheeks flushed, eyes shining like they’d stumbled into fate.

“Sorry!” one of them gasped, already fumbling for paper. “Could we please get your autograph?”

Paul smiled—not forced, not cautious. Easy.

“Yeah, love,” he said, taking the paper and signing Paul McCartney with practiced ease that no longer felt like rehearsal.

Another girl lifted a Polaroid camera. “Could we get a picture? Promise we won’t keep you.”

He nodded and slid instinctively into a camera ready posture. The flash burst, too bright for the dark, leaving a brief white fog across his vision.

He blinked, then smiled genuinely, voice warm and confident. “Always happy to make someone’s night. You don't realize you lot just made mine, too..”

They squealed softly as the picture began to develop, clutching it like something sacred.

One of the girls whispered, breathless:

“We actually met Paul McCartney.”

Their excitement drifted away into the night, but something settled in him, making him feel electric. There was no doubt, no echo of William, no hollow space left to question. Every hour of practice, every single session tape studied, every reel watched tenfold—it had all led here.

He straightened his coat and continued down the street with a quiet, satisfied certainty, feeling the night open up in front of him like a promise.

Once he got home, he hung his coat and sighed—nothing to do, nowhere to go.

But he had too much energy to let the night waste away.

He got into the drawer by his bedside, searching for the written note with that party girl's phone number on it from months ago.

*

The cafe was tucked away on a narrow side street near the gallery, dimly lit and half-empty by the time John arrived. A faint hum of jazz drifted from a radio behind the counter. The air smelled of coffee, rain-soaked pavement, and something sweet from the kitchen.

Yoko was already there, seated at a small table near the back. She wore a simple black dress and her hair loose around her shoulders, calm and self-contained amid the flicker of candlelight. A notebook lay open beside her teacup, pages scattered with quick, fluid handwriting.

John paused near the door, shaking off the drizzle from his coat. For a brief second, he almost turned around—almost called Paul and said he’d changed his mind. But then Yoko looked up, met his eyes, and smiled.

It was small, knowing, and enough to draw him forward.

“You’re early,” she said softly when he slid into the chair opposite her.

“Old habit,” he replied, brushing a damp curl from his forehead. “Means I’m either nervous or hungry. And you’re early too, love.”

“Then we should fix both,” she said, signaling to the waiter.

He ordered a black coffee; she asked for another jasmine tea and a small plate of sliced fruit to share.

John smirked. “That all you eat, love? No chips? No sandwich? You’ll waste away.”

“I don’t like heavy things when I talk,” she said. “It slows the thoughts.”

He let out a low laugh. “You’re one of those deep ones, aren’t you?”

“Only when the conversation deserves it.”

The waiter set down their drinks, steam curling between them as rain traced slow streaks down the window. A quiet pocket of stillness formed, not awkward—just aware.

Yoko studied him a moment, fingers lightly wrapped around her cup. “You think while you speak,” she said softly. “Most people talk to drown out what’s inside. But you…you leave the door open and stand in the threshold.”

John exhaled through his nose, gaze fixed on the rising steam. “Feels like my head never picked a room to live in. Too many unfinished things.”

She didn’t blink away from it. “It looks heavy,” she said. “Not painful. Just something you haven’t set down because you don’t know where it belongs yet.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, half-deflection, half-truth. “Trust me, you don’t want the tour. Half of it’s song scraps, and the other half’s the marriage I keep promising to leave once I figure out how, without burning the house down on the way out.” He grinned like it was a punchline, sipping his coffee as if that made it lighter.

Yoko didn’t laugh at the joke. She held his eyes with quiet certainty. “I could tell that much. People who are free don’t sit like they’re guarding something fragile.”

John lifted a brow, attempting playfulness again. “And what about you then, Miss telegraph reader? You sit like someone who’s already sorted.”

Her expression barely shifted. “Not sorted,” she said. “Still married, technically. But that part is just a contract now, not a life.” She traced the rim of her teacup with one finger. “He lies to protect what he owns…not what he feels. Some people care more for the world in their pocket than the one in front of them.”

John’s grin softened into something real and worn. “So we’re both in the waiting room.”

“Only for as long as we keep pretending the door is locked,” she answered.

The quiet that followed didn’t feel empty. It felt like recognition—quiet, inevitable, settling into his bones. He didn’t know why, but something in him understood: she wasn’t just a stranger in a café. She was someone his life was already bending toward.

The fruit arrived, softening the moment without ending it. She nudged the plate his way, palm open, unforced.

“Try the mango,” she said. “It’s sweet enough to ruin your cigarette.”

He did, laughing softly. “You’re trouble, you know that?”

She smirked, eyes down, voice quiet but certain. “Then that’s convenient,” she murmured. “You look like someone who would invite trouble in just to see what it does.”

They talked until the waiter dimmed the lights for closing. When she rose, John followed instinctively. Outside, the rain had softened into a fine mist.

Under the awning, Yoko tore a page from her notebook and handed it to him—in it was her phone number, address, both in clean handwriting.

“In case you ever want quiet instead of noise,” she said.

He took it carefully, heart thudding. “You’ll have to teach me how to deal with the quiet.”

“I can’t,” she said. “But I can sit with you while you learn.”

One small smile. One shared breath.

Then she stepped into the rain, and he stayed beneath the awning, watching her disappear like a thought he’d been trying not to think.

John stayed there awhile, under the humming neon sign and dripping awning, the street around him washed in silver light. He stared at his reflection in the window: a man who had just opened a door he wasn’t sure he could close again.

And somewhere across town, Paul’s laughter drifted through the hum of a crowded bar—warm, careless, and a little too bright. The girl arrived with the same effortless energy she’d had months before, coat falling from her shoulders like she was stepping onto a stage only she could see. Her perfume hit first, sweet like something fruity. It was strangely comforting, like a scent he remembered from a dream but couldn’t place.

They found a velvet tufted booth near the back where the lights glowed low and gold, softening every edge. Drinks arrived before either of them finished asking, bubbles rising like tiny promises. She lit a thin cigarette, coiling smoke between them as she leaned in, smiling as if they were picking up a conversation paused mid sentence rather than months ago.

Coke appeared casually, the way some people produced mints, and he didn’t even think about saying no. They dipped into it quietly, even elegantly, not frantic, not messy, just another part of the evening that seemed already scripted. The burn felt familiar, like a memory instead of a shock, and for a few minutes his whole body hummed with a soft, steady thrill.

They talked about nothing and everything—fame, dreams, clothes, voices, the way the ceiling lights looked like stars if you stopped focusing properly. She touched his wrist once mid-story, not flirtatious, not demanding—just there. And he liked that. She didn’t want answers, truth, or soul-bearing confessions. She didn’t want Paul or William or the ghost sitting between them.

She just wanted just one night. And, he understood nights.

For a moment, it felt like he had stepped outside himself, into a life where nothing was heavy or haunted. He almost believed it was freedom. Almost.

He wondered if the real Paul had ever chased nights like this, and if he’d ever be able to stop.

And the question tasted better than the answer ever could.

Chapter Text

John didn’t sleep.

He lay there in the gray half light of morning, staring at the ceiling while the house breathed around him. Cynthia shifted once in her sleep, the sheets rustling like distant waves, but it didn’t reach him. Nothing did. Not the quiet, not the cold, not the pale light bleeding through the curtains.

Only the note in his pocket felt real—Yoko’s handwriting pressed against the fabric of his trousers like a secret burning through cloth.

He touched it once, fingertips brushing over the outline of the folded paper. It felt like permission. Like danger. Like possibility.
He didn’t know if it was salvation or ruin, and he hated that he cared.

By the time he reached Abbey Road, he felt wrung out—skin too thin, thoughts too loud, heart stumbling behind everything else. He pushed through the door and found Paul already there at the piano, bathed in warm studio lamplight.

Paul looked up immediately, full of energy and wide awake.

“Morning, then,” he said softly. “You look like hell.”

There was no teasing in it. Just concern wrapped in a familiar voice.

John tried to scoff, dropping his coat onto the back of a chair. “Cheers. Always a warm welcome with you.”

But Paul’s faint smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, and the sight hit John harder than he meant it to.

“Rough night?” Paul asked.

“Something like that.”

John sat beside him. They were close enough that their knees brushed. Paul didn’t move away. He never would want to.

The silence stretched, warm and fragile. John stared at the keys as if they were a confession booth.

John had a heavy feeling, and it hit him so suddenly that he exhaled.

It was a feeling he could’ve buried away—he’d buried worse and slept fine. A lie was easy, silence even easier. But something about lying directly to Paul made that kind of trick feel rotten, like he’d be grinding sand into a wound they hadn’t even named yet. Anyone else, he’d shrug it off and wait for the feeling to die.

He didn’t know what Yoko was yet— a spark, a doorway, or a bloody detour he’d regret—but she wasn’t a passing face. She wouldn’t vanish from his world. He could tell. And Paul, well he deserved to know she existed in his world, too, not as a rumor, not as a secret, but as the next real thing he couldn’t pretend away.

“I need to tell you something about yesterday,” he finally said, voice rough. “And I don’t want to lie about it.”

Paul froze—barely, but enough for John to notice. He turned a little, giving John the space to speak. “Alright,” Paul murmured. “Go on.”

John’s throat felt tight. He rubbed the back of his neck, searching for words that wouldn’t make him sound like a coward.

“Yesterday…when you asked me to grab food with you, I lied.” He swallowed. “There wasn’t anyone from the label. No work, nothing like that.”

Paul blinked, his expression flickering—surprise, hurt, something deeper. “…Okay,” he said quietly. “So what was it?”

John breathed out slowly, eyes falling to the floor. “I made plans with someone last night. Yoko. She's an artist I met from the Indica show, many months back. I arranged it on Monday.” He shook his head. “And when you asked me to stay, I panicked. I didn’t want to disappoint you, so I disappointed you worse by lying, I know that..”

Paul looked down at his hands in his lap. He flexed his fingers once, jaw tensing.

“You could’ve just told me,” he whispered.

“I know,” John said. “But the way you asked…” His voice cracked. “You looked at me like you really wanted me there. Like it mattered. And I felt guilty before I even left. I still do.”

Paul’s lashes lowered, but there was no anger in his voice when he answered.

“I’m not mad,” he murmured. “I just…wish you’d trusted me to hear the truth.”

John closed his eyes.

“I didn’t expect her to matter,” he said, softer. “Didn’t expect the night to stick. We talked—about things I never say. And it felt good. But I won’t lie to you again. Not about her. Not about anything.”

Paul nodded slowly, breathing out through his nose.

“Thanks for bein’ honest,” he said. “Really.”

“You’re not angry?” John asked again, desperate, like he needed Paul to be the one steady thing left in the world.

Paul let out a tiny humorless laugh. “I’d be a hypocrite if I was.”

John frowned. “What do you mean?”

Paul hesitated. “I…I get it,” he said. “Wanting something real.” His voice dropped lower. “Something that’s yours. Something that doesn’t feel like a performance.”

John looked at him—really looked—and something inside him shifted.

He reached out instinctively, fingertips brushing the back of Paul’s hand. The touch was featherlight, reverent. Paul’s breath caught, barely audible.

“We shouldn’t feel guilty,” Paul whispered. “For wanting what makes us feel alive.”

John’s thumb moved without thinking, tracing a slow circle against Paul’s skin.

“That right?” he murmured. “Even if it’s you?”

Paul’s breath hitched. His eyes, warm and wounded and wanting, lifted to meet John’s.

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

John leaned in.

For a suspended heartbeat, their foreheads touched—breath mingling, warmth blending, the space between them folding in on itself.

Then John kissed him.

The first press of mouths was hesitant, almost breakable, like a question shaped from breath rather than words. They pulled apart immediately, eyes flicking over each other’s faces as if searching for refusal or regret—and finding neither.

The second kiss came faster, needier, a choice instead of an accident. Paul inhaled sharply and leaned into him, fingers curling behind John’s neck like he’d been waiting years to remember how. John’s hand slid to Paul’s shoulder, pulling him close, holding him with a kind of desperate care—as if he believed this moment could shatter or save them.

The piano bench creaked under their shifting weight, but the world had already narrowed to the warmth of a mouth, the tremble of a shared breath, and the dizzying relief of being wanted in return.

For one impossible moment, nothing in their lives was a performance.

John kissed him like a man starving.

Paul kissed him like a man finally allowed to live.

It wasn’t careful anymore. It wasn’t hesitant. It was everything they’d been avoiding, colliding at once. John moaned, something guttural, taking what he finally had been waiting on.

It was too inevitable.

They were still kissing when the door opened.

It wasn’t loud—just the soft creak of hinges—but it sliced through the moment like a blade. They broke apart instantly, breathless, stunned, the piano bench rocking beneath them.

Ringo stood in the doorway holding a paper bag of pastries. His eyes widened for half a second—then softened into something quiet, understanding, painfully kind.

He cleared his throat gently. “Didn’t see a thing, lads.”

He set the bag down on an amp and slipped out with a soft click of the door, giving them more mercy than they deserved.

The silence he left behind was crushing.

Paul’s hands shook as he raked them through his hair. “Fuck, I thought we were alone.”

John tried to laugh, but it came out raw. He leaned in, pressed his forehead to Paul’s, grounding him. “Hey. You didn’t do anything wrong. He- he doesn't care, Paul.”

Paul’s eyes fluttered shut. His breath trembled once, then steadied. “Okay.. Alright.”

They stayed frozen for a few breaths after Ringo left, both staring at the floor like it might offer an escape route. Paul wiped his mouth with the back of his hand—not erasing, just steadying.

“Damn,” he whispered. “We shouldn’t have done that here.”

John nodded slowly. “Yeah. I know.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “It… went further than it ever has.”

Paul let out a shaky laugh. “When has it ever not?”

“That was different,” John said quietly.

Paul didn’t argue; he lowered himself back onto the bench, elbows on his knees. “We’ve mucked about before, but that wasn’t just foolin’ around.”

John sat beside him again, leaving a breath of space. “Did you mean it?”

Paul hesitated, then nodded once—not dramatic, just true. “Yeah. I did.” His voice dropped. “Scares me a bit, if I’m honest.”

John swallowed. “I don’t want to pretend it was nothing.”

“Me neither,” Paul said. “But we can’t be stupid with it like that, not anymore.”

“No,” John agreed. “We’ve got lives. Houses. And then there's people who’d never accept it.”

Paul stared forward. “And I don’t wanna stay stuck where I don’t fit. Not with anyone.”

John glanced at him, surprised by how close it sounded to his own thoughts. “Same idea I’ve had.”

Paul drew a slow breath, then said: “If we have to keep up the, y’ know—normal picture, then… it shouldn’t be with someone we can’t stand being around.”

John let that settle, then nodded. “That’s all I want, too.”

Paul finally looked at him, eyes softer. “Slow, then?”

“Slow,” John echoed.

“No mad promises,” Paul added.

John hummed. “And no disappearing.”

Paul’s mouth twitched—not a smile, but close.
“That makes two of us, then.”

They didn’t kiss again. They didn’t have to.

Chapter Text

Then the studio phone rang.

Mal poked his head in. “Paul—phone for you. It’s Jane.”

Paul froze like a man caught in a spotlight.

John raised his eyebrows slowly, leaning back with interest.

Paul grimaced and stepped into the hall. John followed silently, posting up against the wall just out of sight.

“Hey, love,” Paul said, trying to sound steady. “Everything alright?”

Jane’s voice felt sharp even through the static. “Paul… Lydia said she saw you last night. In a bar. With a girl.”

Paul’s blood ran cold. “Love—no. That- that's not what I did. She’s exaggerating. I just had drinks. Whole place was packed. Wall to wall.”

“She said you were close,” Jane insisted, hurt edging her tone.

Paul squeezed his eyes shut. “We weren’t. I swear it. It must’ve looked wrong from where she was. That’s all.”

John smirked in the shadows—not unkindly, just amused at how utterly shit Paul was at lying.

There was a long pause.

“…Alright,” Jane finally said. “I believe you.”

Paul exhaled shakily. “Thanks, love. I’ll call you later.”

He hung up, leaning his forehead against the wall.

John stepped into view, arms crossed, wearing the smuggest expression known to man. “You’re a bad, bad liar, Macca.”

Paul glared, cheeks burning. “Oh, piss off.”

John laughed softly. “She bought it, though?”

Paul sighed, rubbing his face. “Aye..think she did.”

“Then stop looking like the world’s ended,” John said, nudging his shoulder.

Paul tried to smile, but his jaw tightened instead. He looked down at his hands, fingers tapping restlessly. “…John,” he sighed, “you’re not the only one who was out last night.”

John’s expression shifted, interest sharpening. “Go on.”

“I went out with her again,” Paul muttered. “Same girl from a few months back—the hot one I brought to the studio that morning. The one you took off me, remember?”

“Oh yeah,” John smirked. “I remember that bird.”

Paul’s face went pink, the admission catching in his throat. It felt humiliating to say to John Lennon of all people. “I did coke with her,” he said quietly.

He swallowed, voice tightening. “I’ve done it before, y’know. At that last party. And it… helped. I stayed sharp. Everything felt better. Clear. Like my head finally stopped trippin’ over itself.”

John blinked—not judging, not shocked—just focused. “What’s her name again?”

“Some model,” Paul muttered. “Fiona. Or something close to that.”

John huffed a quiet disbelieving laugh. “So you don’t even know her name, and you’re takin’ whatever she drops in your hand? C'mon, Macca..”

Paul flinched, eyes flicking away. “It wasn’t like that. I trusted her.”

“You trusted her body, not her brain,” John said, softer now. “You don’t let strangers run your bloodstream. If you’re gonna touch that stuff, you keep it clean and you know where it came from.”

Paul finally looked up, uncertain, almost hopeful. “…And you’d know?”

John leaned back, smirk slow, voice low. “I don’t buy mystery powder in a nightclub, love. If you want the real thing, I’ve already got it. On hand.”

A beat of shock mixed his emotions with temptation, curiosity, and shame. Paul’s voice dropped. “So.. you saying you’d share?”

“With you?” John said, like the answer was obvious. “Course I would.”

Paul opened his mouth to respond—but the studio door swung open again.

Ringo stepped in holding two cups of tea and the same bag from earlier. He froze the instant he saw the two of them sitting too close on the piano bench, knees still brushing, air still too charged to hide.

A slow grin spread across his face.

“Well,” he said, voice light and instantly wicked, “morning to the newly rekindled happy couple.”

Paul nearly choked. “Rich—shut up. We weren’t- it wasn’t like th-”

“Oh, sure,” Ringo said, setting the tea down with exaggerated care. “Just two lads, kissing for the hell of it. Perfectly normal Tuesday morning.”

John barked out a laugh, unable to help himself as Paul went scarlet.

“Someone’s gotta keep morale up,” Ringo added, nudging Paul’s arm as he passed. “Your hair’s all mussed, by the way.”

Paul immediately ran a hand through it, ears turning red. “Bloody hell…”

John just smirked. “Ever so subtle, Rich.”

“Subtle’s for people who didn’t just walk in on their bandmates snogging like schoolboys,” Ringo murmured under his breath as he left the room again.

Paul groaned into his hands. “He’s never gonna let that go.”

“He will,” John said. “Or he’ll get bored. Or we’ll bribe him with biscuits.”

Before Paul could answer, the latch clicked again.

George Harrison stepped in, guitar case slung over his shoulder, scarf still half tied. He paused when he saw them—really saw them—caught the afterglow in the air, the closeness, the way Paul still couldn’t quite look up.

“Oh,” George said softly. “You two are lookin' better this morning.” Almost like old times.

Paul cleared his throat. “We’re just- y’know. Talking more.”

George gave a tiny, knowing smile. “Right. Talkin’.” He set his guitar down. “Whatever it is, it’s good. Whole place feels lighter.”

John blinked, taken off guard by the sincerity. Paul looked away, touched in a way he tried desperately to hide.

Ringo yelled from somewhere down the hall, “Tell 'em to get a room, George!”

“Ignore him,” George muttered, rolling his eyes. “He’s been unbearable since he got those pastries this morning.”

The atmosphere settled then. The air became warm, teasing, yet oddly calm.

John and Paul drifted into casual positions around the piano, pretending nothing had happened while every one of them knew better.

A few minutes of studio normalcy followed—George tuning, Ringo tapping the snare, John scribbling lines on a scrap of paper, Paul humming a half formed melody under his breath. The morning melted into a strangely easy rhythm, each of them slipping into the familiar shape of working together.

The sound of a door opened filled the room once more.

And—this time, no jokes came for the person entering.

It was Brian—finally, he'd stepped inside Abbey Road for the first time in weeks, coming in through the console booth to see George Martin..

Chapter Text

What happened was, George Martin had invited him today specifically to hear the finished record. Brian agreed out of politeness rather than longing. But the moment he stepped inside, the familiar scent of warm tape, cigarettes, and faint ozone from the mixing desk struck him like a memory he’d tried to bury—stepping back into a life that kept going without him.

George Martin greeted him warmly. “It’s remarkable, Brian. Every track sharper than the last.”

Brian managed a small smile. “That’s what I’ve been hearing.”

They settled into the control room as the lights dimmed and the tape reels spun. Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band burst through the speakers—vivid, with a tiny hint of strange. But it was still triumphant. And then came that voice.

Paul’s voice.

Except Brian knew exactly whose throat it came from.

He leaned forward slightly, unable to stop himself. Every nuance—the laugh between takes, the breath before a high note, the way he phrased a line like he already knew the listener would believe him—it was all there. William had crossed some invisible border and there was no going back.

By the time the final piano chord of A Day in the Life faded, the room felt suspended, almost reverent.

George Martin exhaled. “You can’t deny it, Brian. That’s Paul.”

Brian’s throat tightened. “Extraordinary,” he murmured.

George lowered his voice. “He doesn’t just sound like him anymore. Look at how he moves. How John watches him. They’ve found something again.”

Brian didn’t answer.

The intercom clicked and the door opened. John walked in, hair a mess, eyes sharp, presence filling the room without asking. He paused when he saw Brian—not startled, but caught off guard for a fraction of a second.

“Oh,” John said, casual on the surface. “Didn’t know you’d be here.”

“George invited me,” Brian replied evenly. “Wanted to hear all you’d done.”

John leaned over the console, tapping ash from an unlit cigarette he never fully remembered to smoke. “Best thing we’ve done, if you ask me. Hard to beat.”

George Martin crossed his arms, smiling. “If the next record has even half of this spirit, I’ll count myself lucky.”

John cut in, tone light but carrying a strange finality beneath it. “Next year’ll be different, though. Whole new setup, new hands on things.”

The air shifted—not loudly, but with weight.

George Martin blinked. “Different how?”

John shrugged, barely glancing at Brian but never fully avoiding him. “We’ve talked it through. Come January, we start fresh. New arrangement.”

Brian didn’t move, but his breath stilled. It was evident the producer was not told of the changes until just now.

George Martin looked between them, recognizing the shape of something he wasn’t meant to witness. “And…Is that official, Brian?”

Brian’s voice arrived a fraction late. “Yes. They’ll continue without me.”

George’s face softened. “That’s quite a change.”

“Change keeps things from going stale,” John said, too casually to be unintentional.

Brian nodded once. “You’ll have everything you need by December.”

John finally looked directly at him—not angry, not mocking, but guarded. “You’ve always kept things running. You’ll finish it properly.”

Not praise, no comfort, only closure.

George Martin stood slowly, sensing he should leave. “I’ll…get some tea.” He offered Brian a gentle look, quiet sympathy without intrusion, then stepped out.

The door clicked shut, leaving only the faint hum of equipment.

For a moment, neither spoke.

John cleared his throat, eyes fixed somewhere near the floor. “No bad blood,” he said. Not quite a question, not quite a truce.

Brian’s reply was thin but steady. “Maybe not on your behalf.”

John’s jaw clenched—a tiny wince he didn’t hide quickly enough. Then he nodded once, like accepting punishment.

“Right, well..” he swallowed. “It was a good run.” he said quietly, and left, almost like he'd said too much.

The control room was quiet after John left—only the faint buzz of the amplifiers and the soft hum of the tape reels filling the space. He entered the room and sat down next to Ringo's drums with an exasperated sigh.

Brian stayed where he was, hands clasped, staring at the doorway as if it were still moving.

Paul noticed John's tone shift sffer talking to Brian. So, the door creaked again a moment later as he went to check out what just transpired.

“Brian?”

Paul stepped in, still holding a cup of tea, hair falling slightly into his eyes. His gaze circled the room slowly, trying to make sense of the tension still hanging in the air.

“What was that about?”

Brian didn’t answer at first. His eyes drifted back toward the studio floor, where Ringo and George were still gathering cables and cases, unaware of anything amiss.

“Nothing that needs your worry,” he said quietly.

Paul frowned. “Didn’t look like nothing. He looked pissed.”

“John’s always angry at something,” Brian murmured.

Paul set the cup down gently on the console. He continued to pry a bit, seeing the worry hidden in his face. “You alright? You’ve been gone for weeks. We barely see you anymore.”

A brittle, humorless laugh escaped Brian. “I thought the distance was what you wanted…William.”

Paul froze. “No. No! Don’t fucking call me that.”

Brian still didn’t look at him. “Oh. But…there was a time you held onto it like a breath. A time when you corrected me, and you actually wanted me to keep calling you by your real name..”

Paul swallowed hard. “That was when I didn’t know how to survive. I’m not him anymore, Bri. And I can’t ever be again. You were the one who told me to move on from that.”

A slow, shaky breath left Brian. “All right.” Another quiet lingered—thin, fragile. “Anyway, you know why I stayed away,” Brian said at last.

Paul hesitated. “Well, I'd suppose it was because John said you two, y'know, sorted things. Business and all.”

Brian let out a hollow, humorless exhale. “He more than ended it. Cleanly. Something I truly wasn't prepared for..”

Paul’s shoulders lowered, some of his anger draining. “Brian. I’m sorry.”

Brian finally lifted his eyes—tired, not accusing.
“No, you’re not. But that’s fair.” He gestured faintly toward the window, where the studio lights cast a warm glow on the empty floor. “I built this entire world for him, got them to play at many arenas—made a lot of money with these lads… And for all of you. I thought if I kept it perfect enough, the real Paul might remain…somewhere. And then I tried to believe I could still see him in you. That wasn’t fair. To either of us. I went too far.”

Paul’s throat tightened. The room felt as if it had shrunk. It was now only a time for honest truths to come about.

“I didn’t ask for this, remember,” he whispered. “But you shaped me into him, and I shaped myself even harder. Somewhere along the line, I forgot where he stopped and I began. I- and the truth is, now, I don’t know how to exist now, without this act.”

“I know,” Brian whispered back. “You were never meant to do it alone.”

Paul steadied his breathing. “And then…you with John. I couldn’t handle that. That was the last line.”

Brian nodded once. No argument, no defense.
“I understand.”

Silence settled again—heavier, but not cruel.

“Bri. I didn’t want you gone from the group, not totally.” Paul said. “I only needed distance from that part of it. You know.” he was referring to the part that Brian was getting too close with John.

A faint, tired smile ghosted across Brian’s face, not bitter, just worn. “Oh, it doesn't matter. I’m more gone than you realize.”

Paul took a small step toward him. “Bri-”

The man rose and smoothed his jacket, each motion deliberate, like someone preparing for the last scene of a play rather than a walk down the hall. “You’ve got music to finish,” he said softly. “You won’t be seeing much of me from here on.”

Brian paused in the doorway, but didn’t turn back.

“Thank you for trying to mend it,” he said. “Even if this isn't meant for me anymore.”

Then he left. Paul didn’t call after him. He couldn’t.

For the first time, Abbey Road felt like a mausoleum instead of a studio.

/

A few minutes later, George Martin returned, adjusting his glasses, unaware of what had just happened.

Paul stood there for a long moment after Brian left, the silence of the control room turning cold around him. The ache behind his ribs felt heavier than it had in weeks. And as if the universe wanted to press just a little harder, George Martin returned—papers in hand, expression unreadable. The man was trying to figure out how to word what he'd been thinking for days.

But he didn’t yet seem aware of the emotional wreckage in the room.

“Paul,” George said gently, “before we continue with the playbacks.. I need to talk to you about something.” He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “It’s about your song.”

Paul blinked, still raw. “Which one?”

“Fool on the Hill.”

Paul stiffened.

George sighed, pressing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “It’s a beautiful piece. One of your strongest. But it just doesn’t sit on Pepper. Not thematically. Not sonically. It pulls the album inward when it’s meant to be outward-facing.” His voice softened. “It deserves its own space. A different release. Something that lets it breathe.”

Paul looked down, throat tightening. “So it’s not good enough for Pepper.”

“No, Paul. It's good,” George said, leaning in. “It’s too good to get lost. Too intimate. Too honest. Pepper has its own world, and this belongs just outside it. So—save it. Hold it. We’ll use it later, when it can shine.”

Paul nodded, but the words struck deeper than George intended—landing on a mind already bruised.

First Brian calling him William. Then John disappearing down the hall without looking back. Now this—even his music didn’t belong.

He managed a faint sound of agreement. “Right. Keep it for later.”

George offered a sympathetic look but didn’t linger. “We’ll figure out where it fits proper. I promise.”

He stepped away, shuffling papers, unaware of the quiet devastation he’d left behind.

Paul stayed in the chair, the ache sharp and constant, staring through the glass at the others. He felt something inside him fold in, small and tight, as if one more misplaced word might flatten him entirely.

Paul lingered by the console, eyes glassy and unfocused. Ringo and George Harrison were still out on the studio floor, talking and tossing around ideas for new management as if they weren’t standing in the ruins of something once sacred.

Paul finally sank into the chair beside George Martin, voice rough and unsteady. “You…uh, you know about everything, right?”

George glanced at him over his spectacles. “Know about what, exactly?”

Paul stared through the glass at John chatting with Ringo, pain coiling tight in his chest. “The scheme. The one Brian made happen.”

George’s expression softened. He lowered his voice. “Of course. I’ve known since the start.” It was the first he’d ever spoken about it with him specifically. “And I wanted to say—you did something I never believed anyone could.”

Paul’s eyes filled, a single tear slipping down his cheek. “But I still ain’t him, George. No matter how much I try.”

“No one ever could be,” George murmured. “But you’ve carried it with dignity. That’s more than anyone could ask. You're what’s left of him.”

Paul wiped his cheek with the heel of his hand. “Well Brian’s not alright over all this. I could hear it in him.”

“He’s hurt,” George said gently. “Anyone would be after losing what he built. But he’s clever. Someone will want him.”

Paul stared at the blinking console lights. “Yeah. Maybe.”

George hesitated, then placed a hand on his shoulder. “Paul—don't worry about him.. Listen. If you ever need to speak freely, about the replacement, or just anything troubling you, you come to me. I've been waiting, actually wanting to talk to you about these things. So I won’t judge you. Not a word gets said about anything you mention. That's a promise.”

Paul nodded, swallowed hard, and looked back out through the glass.

John tapped a playful drumroll on Ringo’s snare, untouched by the storm that had just ended.

Paul managed the faintest smile.

The ache didn’t move.

Chapter Text

The next two weeks didn’t explode into anything dramatic. Paul still stayed concerned about Brian. He tried calling him one night, but no one ever came to the phone. He called Terrence and questioned how Brian was doing, and the man confirmed he was doing just fine. He just didn't like talking on the phone. Things with John and Paul though, those things simply shifted.

It happened the way weather changes—quietly, then all at once.

They started staying later at the studio. At first it was work, or that’s what they told the others. But somehow they always ended up in the same corner of the room, sharing a cigarette, talking about nothing, letting the hours slip.

Nights grew softer. John stopped rushing home. Paul stopped pretending he had somewhere else to be. Together, they always ended back up in Paul's home.

Cynthia knew John no longer loved her, but she'd never guess what was really going on. She just assumed he was out partying with many women, and honestly John didn't care if she thought that or not.

Once, after a long mix session, John stretched out on the sofa and muttered he was too tired to walk to the car. Paul had just laughed and dropped down beside him, shoulder brushing shoulder. They fell asleep that way, breathing the same air, waking with their legs tangled and John pretending he didn’t notice.

Another night, Paul came over to John’s house “just to listen to a new demo,” they told everyone around them. They didn’t make it past the first playback. The song faded, but they stayed close, talking in low voices until Paul’s head tipped against John’s shoulder. John didn’t move for a long time. When he finally did, it was only to pull a blanket over both of them.

They never talked about their previous kisses in the piano room. But they also never stepped back from the gravity that followed. They then fell into a rhythm of acid and coke, nights blurring warm and bright, every trip pulling them closer, every comedown dropping them into the same bed without question.

Somewhere in those days, they began sharing the same bed—John claiming the sofa was wrecking his back, Paul saying the floorboards creaked too much, both of them knowing it was a lie neither needed to correct. Sometimes they just slept, steady breathing and warm limbs, no questions. Sometimes John would tuck his face into Paul’s hair, or Paul would hold his shirt in a fist like he was afraid of drifting out of reach.

They kissed twice more—quietly, almost like they were testing a language neither fully trusted yet. Paul was too afraid to venture any further, but he knew where it would inevitably end up. Each time left them breathless in different ways. Each time ended with both of them pulling back before it could become something they didn’t know how to survive.

They didn’t label it. They didn’t hide it very well. And, they didn’t stop.

By the time May blurred into June, the edges between them had softened into something unmistakable.

Pepper was ready. The world was waiting.

And John and Paul were tangled in something fragile and bright, too new to name, too real to ignore, carrying it straight toward the night the album would change everything.

*

Before they knew it, the album release party was upon them.

Brian had phoned George Martin a week earlier, sounding steadier than anyone expected. He’d explained, almost clinically, that he’d coordinated the entire event with Mal and a few trusted hands. Invitations had gone out to the right photographers, the right columnists, the right tastemakers, and everyone important in between. Everything was arranged. Everything would shine.

He didn’t ask for approval. He didn’t ask who would attend. He just said it was done, wished George a good evening, and hung up.

Now, standing outside Brian’s townhouse, Paul felt the air thrum with noise before he even walked through the gate. A crowd pressed close to the front steps, talking over each other, shifting like a restless tide. Camera bulbs cracked the dusk into brief white shards. Cars eased up to the curb, dropping off faces he half-recognized from magazines and late-night parties. Perfume, cigarettes, rain dampened into velvet. Every sense sharpened.

Inside, the house was already warm from bodies and light. Music pulsed low beneath the roar of conversation. Laughter spilled across the rooms like spilled champagne, bright and careless. Someone called Paul’s name and he turned automatically, mask slipping into place. Smiles, handshakes, the easy charm that felt almost natural now.

But the nerves still hummed under his skin.

Every time a flash went off, his chest tightened. Every time someone said “It’s brilliant, Paul,” he felt the words land in the wrong place, as if meant for someone else. He could taste copper on his tongue, the edge of adrenaline, the whisper of something he hadn’t earned.

John wasn’t beside him yet. That alone made the walls feel closer.

Mal brushed past carrying trays of drinks. A few reporters were already circling, notebooks ready, waiting for the perfect clever line. Brian had arranged all of it. Not with pride, not with showmanship—just obligation. A job finished.

Paul caught a glimpse of him across the room. Brian stood near the bar, suit immaculate, posture perfect, observing everything with a distant calm that didn’t match the brightness around him. He nodded when people greeted him, but nothing warmed in his eyes. He was hosting, but he wasn’t present.

George Harrison found Paul first, giving him a gentle pat on the shoulder. “You alright?” he asked quietly, cutting through the noise.

“Yeah,” Paul lied. “Big night.”

Ringo passed with a tray of drinks and winked. “Smile, McCartney. They’re here for the star.”

Paul rolled his eyes, but the tease eased the knot in his stomach.

Still, he kept scanning the room for John.

Because the entire place felt slightly off its axis, and would continue on that way until John entered it.

And tonight, something in the air insisted that when he did, the night would change again.

*

John arrived late.

Not fashionably late, just late. Like he’d stood on the pavement for a full minute debating whether he could handle walking into a house full of bodies and noise. Through the curtains he could see silhouettes moving, glasses raised, someone’s laugh cutting sharp through the night air.

He finally went in.

The noise hit instantly. The music, chatter, clinking glasses, cigarette crackle, all collided into one to become background ambience. The warmth of too many people in one place after months of studio nights felt almost unreal. He shrugged out of his coat, scanning the room with that restless, searching attention he always had when he wasn’t sure who he was supposed to be.

People noticed him fast. They always did.

“John! John, over here-”

“Lennon! Give us a look!”

“How’s it feel, mate? Pepper’s already being called a masterpiece!”

Flashes went off. He grinned when he had to, nodded when needed, but moved through the crowd with one intention only: finding him. He hadn’t been in a scene like this since before the accident—and John knew he'd need someone to make him feel grounded.

Paul was near the back of the room.

Laughing a bit too loudly, drink in hand, wearing the kind of smile that lit up the room without quite reaching his eyes. People orbited him automatically—press, musicians, a couple of women touching his arm like that alone might bless their night. His cheeks were pink, nerves tucked neatly beneath charm, but he was doing what he always was told to do. Perform with ease while holding himself together behind the mask.

John watched him a moment too long.

Paul noticed.

That perfect, party ready smile faltered just enough—but something softer replaced it. Something warmer. Something meant only for him.

John pushed forward through the bodies, ignoring people reaching for him, until he slipped into Paul’s orbit like it was the most natural thing in the room.

Paul leaned in, voice low. “Thought you weren’t coming, love.”

John sneered playfully. “Wanted to see what all the fuss was about.”

“You missed Brian’s speech,” Paul said, eyes bright, joking. “Said he practically built Pepper with his bare hands.”

Lennon rolled his eyes and laughed. “Wouldn’t put it past him.”

Their shoulders brushed—too subtle to draw eyes, too familiar to be dismissed.

Ringo appeared with two drinks, smirking like he’d been waiting for this moment. “You two doing alright?” he asked, tone dripping with implication.

Paul’s face flushed instantly. John elbowed Ringo. “Knock it off, Rich.”

George drifted over next, guitar calluses still visible even in the dim light. “Good turnout,” he said, eyes flicking between them. “We all look great.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Ringo muttered.

From across the room, someone called Paul’s name—another interview, another handshake, another picture. Paul sighed, finishing his drink.

“Duty calls,” he murmured.

But before he stepped away, he brushed his fingers along the back of John’s hand. Quick. Barely there. Thoughtless, except it wasn’t.

John’s breath caught once.

Then Paul disappeared back into the crowd, leaving John near the wall, watching him with a quiet, dangerous kind of pride.

Chapter Text

The party swelled around them until it felt almost alive, shifting in waves of color and heat. Music thumped low against the floorboards, glasses clinked in an uneven rhythm, and every room in Brian’s house seemed packed with more bodies than the walls were meant to hold.

Someone dragged a spotlight near the record display, making the Pepper sleeve glow under the warm bulbs. People kept drifting in to point at it, whispering, laughing, taking photographs. The whole place smelled like champagne, smoke, perfume, and something faintly metallic from the rain still drying off guests’ coats.

Paul tried to make conversation with the crowd, but his eyes kept moving back to John. It wasn’t obvious, but it was constant, like a pulse he couldn’t control.

John leaned closer, voice low enough that only Paul would hear. “You’re takin’ all the air in the room.”

Paul blinked. “What?”

John tilted his head, studying him with a look that felt too intimate for a party. “You look good. Really good. Whole place turned when you smiled at that photographer. You had him giddy, love.”

Paul flushed right to the ears, nearly choking on his drink. “Oh, shut up.”

“I’m serious,” John murmured. “You’ve always had it. But tonight…God, it’s like you figured out how to turn it on without trying.”

Paul swallowed, eyes darting down for half a beat. He looked up again, lashes low, voice warm.
“You’re one to talk. Walk in here ten minutes late when the party’s been waiting on you.”

John grinned, slow and crooked. “Don’t pretend you weren’t too.”

Paul’s breath caught. He looked away toward the crowd, pretending to search for someone, pretending he wasn’t shaking a little.

Near the piano in the adjoining room, someone started playing a sloppy, drunken version of Fixing a Hole. People clapped, the melody drifting across the space like a half remembered dream. Flashbulbs kept popping from the hallway. Someone yelled for a toast. Somewhere else a bottle shattered and everyone laughed.

But around John and Paul, the air felt tighter, quieter, warmer.

John leaned back against the bookshelf, half-shadowed by the lamp above them. “You nervous?”

“A bit,” Paul admitted. “All eyes on us, y'know. It's a lot.”

“Not talking about the record.”

Paul paused. “Oh.”

The softest smile tugged at John’s mouth. “You hide it well.”

“I’m not hiding anything,” Paul said, then caught himself. “Alright. Maybe a little.”

John stepped closer, only a few inches, but enough that Paul instinctively looked up.

“You don’t have to,” John murmured. “Not with me.”

Paul’s laugh was small, almost shy. “Stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Looking at me like that.”

John raised a brow. “Like what?”

“Like you’re…thinking something.”

“I am.”

Paul’s heartbeat thudded so hard he felt it in his teeth. “What are you thinking?”

John let the question hang just long enough to make his skin prickle. “That you’re beautiful when you’re nervous.”

Paul’s breath hitched, sharp enough to betray everything. He tried to recover, a faint smirk forming. “You’re not so bad yourself when you’re trying.”

“Oh, I’m trying?”

Paul wet his lips without thinking. “Think you know you are.”

A group of executives stumbled past them with a camera crew, laughing too loudly, pushing the energy higher, brighter, chaotic. But none of it reached them.

John’s gaze lowered to Paul’s mouth for just a fraction of a second.

Paul noticed.

He felt his knees go weak.

Someone called Paul’s name from across the room, but he didn’t break eye contact. Not yet.

John leaned in, voice barely above a whisper.
“You keep lookin’ at me like that, we’re not making it through this party.”

Paul swallowed, pulse racing. “Who said I want to?”

Their hands brushed when someone jostled past them.

Neither pulled away.

The room roared around them, all color and sound and bodies in motion.

But between them, it fell very still.
The noise surged again, the kind of full-tilt party roar that made the floor hum under their shoes. Someone uncorked a bottle nearby, champagne hitting the ceiling, people cheering. But John leaned in close, lips near Paul’s ear, voice low enough to cut through everything.

“Come with me for a minute.”

Paul blinked. “Where to?”

John smirked, soft and sly. “Someplace quieter. Could use a line.”

Paul’s stomach dipped. He knew what that meant and what it didn’t. The coke was an excuse, a door they could both pretend wasn’t really a door.

He swallowed. “Right. Yeah. Okay.”

John’s fingers brushed his wrist quick, and then he turned toward the hallway. Paul followed before he had time to think himself out of it.

They slipped past a laughing group near the stairs, ducked through a cluster of photographers trying to coax George into posing, and edged down a narrow corridor lit with low amber sconces. Every step away from the crowd made the air feel heavier, closer.

Halfway down the hall, Paul felt eyes on him.

Brian.

He stood near the entry to the sitting room, a glass in hand he wasn’t drinking from, half in shadow. His gaze followed them with an expression that didn’t shift, didn’t crack—not anger, not shock. Just a terrible, quiet understanding.

Paul looked away first. John didn’t look at all.

They reached the end of the corridor, stopped at the bathroom door. Music thudded through the wall, muffled and distant. John’s hand closed around the knob; he nudged it open and glanced back at Paul, a small tilt of the head, an invitation he never needed to articulate.

“You coming in, or you gonna hover out there bein’ pretty for the wallpaper?”

Paul exhaled a shaky laugh. “Get in before someone sees you.”

“Someone already did,” John murmured. “Doesn’t matter.”

Paul stepped inside. John followed.

The door shut behind them with a soft click that felt louder than the whole party.

John turned the lock.

Chapter Text

The bathroom light was low, yellowed at the edges like old film. A framed print hung crooked above the sink, some seaside sketch Brian must’ve bought years ago. It felt too quiet in here, the noise of the party flattened to a low, steady pulse.

Paul leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, trying to look casual even though his pulse skipped whenever John drifted closer.

“You brought it?” Paul asked.

John grinned, already fishing from the inside pocket of his jacket. “Course I did. What d’you take me for, an amateur?”

He set the small wrapper on the counter, flattening it with a practiced thumb. Paul watched him work, that easy confidence, the way his shoulders rolled when he bent forward. There was something intimate in the simplicity—the ritual of it, the familiarity.

“Not much,” John said. “Just enough to take the edge off. Don’t want you fallin’ through the floor.”

Paul snorted. “Please. You’re the one who nearly toppled over at Studio Two last week.”

“That was the bloody rug,” John shot back. “Had it out for me.”

He tapped out two neat little lines and slid one closer to Paul with a fingertip.

“There. Your royal portion.”

Paul huffed a quiet laugh, leaning in. “You’re daft.”

“Yeah, well,” John said, cutting his own line with the edge of a credit card, “you like me daft.”

Paul held his hair back with one hand and bent down, inhaling sharply. It hit clean, immediate, a warm spark behind the eyes. He exhaled slow, blinking. John did his next, faster, more practiced than Paul did.

“Good fucking stuff, I told you.”

“Yeah- yeah it's really good.” Paul admitted, “Better than the shite Fiona, or whatever her name had.”

John rolled his eyes fondly, a grin on his face he couldn’t fight off. “She could’ve handed you powdered milk and you’d have lit up like Christmas.”

Paul scoffed, nose still pink. “Wasn’t that bad. Not as easy as this, but-”

“Oh, it was bad, compared to this.” John leaned in just enough that Paul felt the warmth of his breath. “But—you go soft any time someone bats their lashes at you.”

Paul swallowed, electricity running under his skin. “Not just anyone.”

John’s eyes flicked to his mouth. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I know.”

Soon they were laughing—soft, easy—but something unspoken hung between the cracks of it, thick and warm. The high settled quick, not a rush, just a looseness in the chest, a faint hum beneath the skin.

John rested a hand on the counter beside Paul, close enough that their arms touched. “Feeling better?”

Paul nodded, too quickly. “Yeah. Steady.”

“Good,” John murmured. “Hate seeing you wound tight at your own party.”

“Not my party,” Paul said.

John’s eyes flicked to his. “Could’ve fooled me. You’re the one everyone’s watching.”

Paul felt the heat crawl up his neck. “They’re watching all of us.”

His mouth formed a small, knowing grin. “Not like they watch you.”

That landed softer than it should’ve. Paul swallowed, staring at John’s mouth because looking at his eyes felt like stepping off a ledge.

John smirked, noticing. “You’re flushed, love.”

“S'the coke,” Paul said quickly.

“Sure it is.”

“John-”

“Oh, relax,” John said a bit more soft, leaning in, “I’m only winding you up.”

But his voice had dropped. His body was closer. The space felt different now, tighter, charged, the kind of moment neither of them could laugh away anymore.

Paul’s pulse stuttered. He tried for nonchalance but it came out thin. “We should…get back soon.”

“In a minute.” John braced a hand on the counter behind Paul, boxing him in but not touching him. “They won’t miss us yet.”

Paul’s breath hitched, barely. The coke softened every edge of his fear, sharpened every bit of want.

John tilted his head, eyes sweeping over his face. “You alright?”

Paul nodded. “Yeah. Just…feelin’ it.”

“Good.”

Silence settled. And nothing about it was awkward.

To break the silence, John’s thumb brushed the side of Paul’s hand, just enough to tilt the room.

Paul’s breath shook. “John-”

“I know,” John whispered. “I know.”

He leaned closer. Close enough that Paul could taste the faint mix of coffee and powder on his breath. Close enough that his own heart felt too loud in his chest, syncing to the throb of the distant music.

Paul didn’t step back.

He couldn’t.

John’s fingers slid up, every so slowly, touching the inside of Paul’s wrist, a place tender enough to undo anyone.

Paul inhaled sharply. The moment was balanced.

Right on the edge of something they’d never be able to take back.

Lennon leaned forward, slightly, until his shaky breath was hot against Paul's neck. He said nothing and kissed the skin there, stomach nearly in knots when the man moved to give him more access to his neck. He lightly sucked a sloppy kiss on the crook of his neck while a hand slid up through the back of his hair, then moved back to look in his eyes.

“God, I can’t stop wanting you,” John admitted at once, not letting himself hold back like he'd been forcing himself to do.

Paul, in his old life, had never let anyone kiss him with that kind of tenderness—slow, almost reverent. He’d never been looked at this way either, like he was something rare, something worth pausing for. But John did. John looked at him as if he were studying a masterpiece—one he’d memorized already, yet still couldn’t get enough of.

And Paul—God—he supposed this fluttering in his chest, this warmth spreading through him despite everything, meant he was falling in love too.

Paul shut his eyes for one long second. “I know what you mean. I'm tired of fighting it.” When he opened them, his voice was nearly gone. “Do whatever you’re about to do.”

Lennon licked his lips, eyes half lidded as he took the first step toward him. The space between them vanished in a single breath. Paul felt the cold wall at his back while John’s warmth pressed in from the front, the contrast making his pulse stumble.

His breath hitched, caught somewhere between a gasp and a laugh he couldn’t quite let out.

John lifted a slow hand, giving Paul every chance to pull away. He didn’t. He tipped his chin up instead, offering more, letting the moment choose its own direction.

John’s fingers brushed along his jaw, tracing the faint stubble there, gentle despite the wild thrum of coke still racing through his veins. Nothing rushed—no matter how unsteady his heartbeat was. Nothing hidden—no matter how often he locked these desires down.

“You sure?” he murmured, voice roughened by restraint and want that had held back far too long.

Paul shut his eyes briefly, steadied himself with the faintest shake of his head. “I’m past sure.”

John exhaled, something relieved and wrecked all at once. He moved in until their foreheads nearly touched, until Paul could feel the whisper of his breath. He looked at Paul like he was a prize possession, almost glass, and he was afraid to move too fast yet.

Paul’s hand found the front of John’s shirt, not pulling, just holding, grounding himself before he tipped forward. A steady heat rose between them, like the bass from the party downstairs had climbed the stairs and settled in their chests instead.

John’s thumb brushed Paul’s lower lip.

The smallest touch.

Barely a touch at all.

Paul shivered like he’d been struck.

John’s voice dropped, low and warm against his cheek. “Tell me where you want me.”

Paul swallowed, pulse pounding. “Anywhere you are.”

John didn’t wait another minute.

His mouth found Paul’s with a force that wasn’t rough, just urgent—like he’d been leaning toward this moment for months without realizing it. Paul let out a quiet sound, something caught between relief and hunger, and kissed him back with the same trembling want.

John’s hand slid to Paul’s waist, fingers splaying there as if learning the shape of him. Paul clutched the front of John’s shirt, pulling him closer, closing the last inch that polite reason might’ve left between them.

The kiss deepened—slow first, then sharper, more certain. Paul opened to him with a soft inhale, letting John take the lead for once. John groaned low in his throat, one hand moving up Paul’s back, tracing along his shoulder, mapping him like something he’d been afraid to touch.

Paul’s fingers slipped to John’s collar, brushing the warm skin just beneath it, testing how far he could go without losing himself. John shivered, pressed closer, kissed him harder.

They broke for air only when they had to, foreheads pressed together, breaths tangling.

John murmured against his mouth, “Baby, you feel good.”

Paul swallowed, dizzy. “Don’t stop.”

He didn’t.

John kissed him again, slower this time, savoring. His hands roamed—up Paul’s ribs, lingering at his sides, sliding around to the small of his back. Nothing crude, nothing rushed. Just wanting. Learning. Claiming.

Paul gasped softly when John’s fingers brushed under the hem of his shirt, warm against skin. He leaned into the touch without thinking, heart pounding so hard it echoed in his ears.

John pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes dark, searching. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

Paul shook his head, breath unsteady. “It’s not enough.”

That shattered John's wall completely.

He crowded Paul back against the wall, kissing him again, deeper, hands exploring with an urgency that still held care, tracing down his sides, up his spine, memorizing every part he could touch without crossing a line they weren’t ready to name.

Paul’s hands slid into John’s hair, giving a gentle tug that drew a sharp exhale from him. John pressed his body fully against Paul’s then, no space, no hesitation. He was hard, his cock begging for some kind of attention. And he felt the other man's erection firmly pressing against his leg. John breathed erratically, barely holding on. He couldn't take it anymore—he had to act fast.

The man at once dropped to his knees, body thrumming full from pure heat mixed with adrenaline. “I'm not stopping unless you say it.”

McCartney shifted his hips, leaning back against the wall and knew he wanted it. He said nothing to stop him whatsoever, actually deciding to help him rush things along. Unbuttoned his pants with an urgency he hated to admit he had.

John's cheeks heated up as he licked his lips. He offered no sarcastic teasing remark, making direct eye contact with the other standing against the wall while he pulled down his under garments.

John didn’t move at first.

He just breathed there—close, warm, wanting—and his eyes flicked down for a split second.

And he froze.

Paul was already thick in his hand, flushed and heavy, and—Christ—it was bigger than he remembered. Not by miles, not enough to panic over, but enough that John had to blink once, steady himself.

Jesus fucking Christ. he thought, pulse kicking. When did he get this big?

Memory tangled for a second—old flashes of shared hotel rooms, drunken groping in the dark, nights when they’d laughed and compared like idiots. He remembered what Paul felt like back then. He remembered exactly.

This was…more. He had no doubtedly grown in size.

John’s mind scrambled to rationalize it.

Growth spurts happen late, don’t they? Stress does odd things to the body. Fuck, maybe he's just hard in a different way tonight…been months, hasn’t it?

He forced a soft, shaky laugh under his breath, covering the flicker of confusion with heat. Probably just the coke. Blood’s up. Bodies change.

If anything, it thrilled him.

“Macca…” he murmured, voice low and reverent despite himself. “Look at you”

Paul’s breath hitched, not catching the nuance—just the want.

John swallowed hard, instinct overriding thought.

He leaned in, lips brushing the warm skin just above where Paul needed him, letting the disbelief melt into hunger.

Bigger or not… he thought, dizzy, I’m not complaining.

Then he wrapped his mouth around him, letting all rational thought dissolve. John’s hands slid up the back of Paul’s thighs, calmly, claiming, thumbs pressing lightly as if learning the shape of him all over again.

Paul’s head tipped back against the wall, a soft, helpless sound breaking from him. It wasn’t loud, barely more than a breath, but John reacted to it like it was a command.

He pulled away to kiss just where Paul needed him most—one slow kiss to the head of his cock, then another—his mouth warm, the scrape of his stubble dragging heat straight up Paul’s spine. He took him inside his lips again, tongue swirling around it to taste him.

Paul’s fingers threaded into his hair again. “John-” His voice cracked, more plea than word. “Please don’t stop.”

John looked up, eyes dark, pupils blown wide. Pulling away to respond: “I wasn’t planning to.”

Paul’s breath trembled, legs unsteady beneath him. John leaned in closer, his wet mouth brushing hot against him. His lips traced slow lines along the tip, Paul’s whole body tensed in answer, thighs tightening, breath stuttering in his throat.

“Yeah,” Paul whispered, barely managing the word. “Mmm.. fuck.”

That reaction pulled a low, pleased sound from John, something almost smug. He moved his hands higher, holding Paul steady, guiding a new rhythm on his cock. Soon he began bobbing his head on him, closing his eyes and focusing on nobody but Paul. This was who he’d been wanting for so long—and he needed to taste all of him.

Paul’s fingers gripped his hair harder, hips twitching forward before he could stop himself. “I can’t-” he breathed, voice frayed. “Keep going. Please-”

John’s answer was a soft, rough hum against his dick, approval and hunger tangled together. His mouth worked in a way that made Paul’s knees buckle, making the heat coil low and tight in his stomach. Every pull back of his Every movement was sure, practiced, and devastating. Even when Paul pushed in, John took it well in the back of his throat, gagging slightly but knowing how to keep his composure.

And Paul groaned; John knew exactly what he was doing. He felt himself getting close, too close, and the realization hit him fast, dizzying. “John.. Wait, I’m- I’m not gonna last.”

John welcomed that. He didn’t pull away, just kept taking him into his throat.

He held Paul’s hips tighter, taking everything he was giving without flinching. His shoulders locked, his mouth working with a sudden, deeper insistence..

Paul’s breath shattered.

And everything inside him broke open.

He came hard, head thrown back, a strangled sound caught in his throat as pleasure ripped through him so sharply he had to clutch the wall to stay upright. John swallowed it all, stayed with him through every trembling pulse of it, unrelenting, until Paul was shaking.

When Paul finally sagged against the wall, boneless, breath gone, John pulled back slowly. His lips were swollen, his cheeks flushed, his eyes dark and glowing.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He moved too casual, confident, and pretty for his own good. John stood, pressing his body to Paul’s again, caging him gently against the wall. His palms pressed flat on either side of Paul's head and he smirked.

Paul was breathless, stunned, pupils blown wide.

John stifled a laugh, voice low against his ear. “You alright, baby?”

Paul swallowed, dizzy. He leaned his forehead into John's touch. “That was..I can’t even think-”

“You don’t have to talk,” John murmured, brushing his thumb along Paul’s jaw. “Not yet.”

Paul’s hand slid down John’s chest, lower, fingers trembling with purpose now that he could breathe again. “Oh I’m returning the favor,” he whispered. “Not leaving you hanging. Not tonight.”

John’s breath caught, his composure cracking for the first time. “Paul- you don’t have to.”

“I want to,” Paul said, eyes steady. “Let me.”

John shuddered visibly. He nodded.

And Paul dropped to his knees, pliantly.

With slightly trembling hands he worked to free John's erection, cheeks rosy, still reeling from such an amazing blowjob. He only hoped he could do good enough to make John come.

Paul’s hands shook only for a moment—then settled with intention. He had no reason to truly be scared, and so he leaned in, breath warm against John’s skin. John jolted like he’d been waiting months for this exact moment. McCartney took him inside his lips, trying to copy what he'd seen women do to him along with John's motions from minutes ago.

John’s fingers slid into Paul’s hair, not pushing, just guiding. “Easy, love… go slow at first,” he taught him. “Feel it before you try to do anything with it.”

Paul obeyed. He tested, learned, focused with a hunger that made John’s knees weaken. He gave all of himself to the moment, the kind of attention that made a man feel chosen, wanted, undone.

John swallowed hard, breath hitching. “Yeah… that. Christ, you-" His hand tightened slightly in Paul’s hair. “Use your hands too. Don’t be shy with it.”

Paul adjusted, catching the rhythm John reacted to. The sound John made in return went straight through him, urging him on.

“That’s it,” John whispered, almost pained with pleasure. “Quick study, aren’t you? Look at you..”

Paul glanced up once, eyes heavy and intent, and it nearly undid John. Those eyes…identical to before, big and dark and hungry. It pulled something deep out of John. So McCartney focused harder, determined to give back what he’d been given, determined to make John fall apart in his hands.

John’s voice cracked. “Slow down a bit… God... That- that's it. Oh, Paul…” His head thudded softly back against the tile. “Always were so perfect.” Paul took the guidance without embarrassment, without second guessing. Desire was the only thing on his mind. And the need to see John unravel.

When John’s legs finally trembled, when his voice broke on moaning his name—Paul knew he’d done exactly what he wanted.

He’d finally done it; he'd finally taken John Lennon apart. Got to hear how he sounded when he came, his panting moans, his head rolled back while he shot his come deep in Paul's throat.

He tried not to think about the taste as he swallowed it without thinking. Came with the territory, he supposed. But it wasn't bad. Just something he wasn’t completely prepared for.

When it was over, both of them leaned against the cold bathroom tile for a moment, trying to gather themselves. Paul slid down to take a seat, basking in the afterglow. The music outside thumped through the door, muffled and distant, like the world had kept spinning without them.

John slid down beside him, breathing hard, resting his head against the wall. “We should- fuck, we should pull ourselves together before someone comes in.”

Paul laughed quietly, breathless. “Too late for that, don’t you think?”

“Probably,” John replied, smiling faintly. “But I don’t regret a thing.”

Paul’s pulse beat hard at that. “I don't either.”

Outside the bathroom, the party surged on—music, laughter, lights—completely unaware that something irreversible had just happened behind a locked door.

Chapter Text

They stayed on the floor for another minute, backs resting against the tiled wall, letting their breathing even out. The muffled thump of the party outside felt unreal, like it belonged to someone else’s night.

John nudged Paul’s knee with his own. “We need a plan, y’know.”

Paul let out a shaky laugh. “Right. Can’t just walk out looking like we’ve been hit by a bus.”

John grinned, still flushed. “You go first. You're the golden boy. Gives me time to look less…pleased with myself. M'gonna need a few minutes.”

Paul rolled his eyes, but a blush crept up his neck anyway. “Three minutes?”

“Five,” John corrected, voice low, “That way no one will notice me weak in the knees.”

That earned him a weak shove. “Stop.”

“Aye. Not lying, though.”

Paul pushed himself up slowly, adjusting his shirt. His hands were still trembling; John watched them with a look that was half pride, half ache.

“You look normal,” John said. “Well. Normal for you.”

Paul swallowed. “And you?”

“I’ll sort myself.” He stood, brushing off his trousers. “Just act like we came in here for a line to Rich and them. Nobody will question it.”

Paul paused at the door. “John?”

“Mm?”

His voice softened. “Don’t disappear on me tonight.”

John’s expression shifted—something honest, settling his plans for the evening. “I won’t.”

Paul nodded once, then slipped out into the madness again.

Paul reentered the party with his hair slightly mussed, collar a little higher than before, pulse still deciding whether it wanted to calm down or keep sprinting. The room swallowed him at once—music, shouts, perfume, smoke, the warmth of too many bodies.

He spotted Ringo first.

Rich leaned against a drinks cart, balancing a flute of champagne between two fingers like it was born there. His eyes found Paul instantly—and went soft, then sly.

“Alright, then?” Ringo asked, tone mild. Too mild.

Paul tried for normal. “Yeah. Just stepped out for a bit.”

“For air?” Ringo asked.

“For…a line.”

Ringo raised one eyebrow, slow. “Both of you?”

Paul stumbled. “Yeah, eh-”

Ringo took pity. Or pretended to. “Never mind, lad. Whatever you two are doing, you came back lookin’ ten years younger. Must be good medicine.”

Paul nearly tripped over the edge of the rug, “Rings.. Jesus—keep it down.”

Ringo only sipped his drink, absolutely delighted. “My lips are sealed.”

The bastard winked. Paul’s cheeks went warm.

Before he could escape, George Harrison drifted up beside Ringo, arms crossed loosely, eyes bright with that quiet way he had of noticing everything but choosing what to comment on.

“Thought you’d ran out early,” George said. “Party’s bloody mad tonight.”

“And that's with Brian setting it all up last minute,” Paul muttered. “Nearly had a heart attack when I saw all these cameras.”

“I like it,” George said. “Album’s brilliant, party’s brilliant, and everyone’s half out of their minds. Feels like we made something that matters, and we needed that.”

Paul nodded. “Aye. We did..”

Ringo nudged him lightly. “Where’s John, anyway? Lad disappear on your watch?”

Paul swallowed. “He’s around. S’crowded.”

Ringo smirked. “Sure he is.”

Paul didn’t rise to it. Couldn’t. His nerves were still alive from the bathroom, still replaying every sound, every breath, every second of John’s mouth on him.

He tried to steady himself.

He failed.

*

Exactly five minutes later, John followed.

John cut through the room like he was swimming upstream—greeting people too posh for their own good, fielding journalists who wanted him to sound clever. He gave them just enough charm to keep them hungry:

“Oh, psychedelic’s not a phase, love… It’s a musical evolution.”
“Art’s supposed to knock you sideways, otherwise what’s the point?”
“No comment on the rumors—unless they’re the flattering ones.”

They drank it up.

But John's tone shifted the second he saw Brian across the room.

Not dramatically. Just…quieter. Sharper. His eyes flicked to Paul, joking weakly with George—and something protective hummed through him.

He excused himself from the crowd without ceremony. “Right—gonna wander. Don’t print anything stupid.”

He slipped toward Brian like a man approaching a ghost he wasn’t sure he feared.

Brian spoke first.

“You’ve always been good at drawing a crowd,” he said, voice polished, eyes tired.

John shrugged. “You always told us to use that natural charm, yeah?”

For a heartbeat, it almost sounded like things could be simple.

But Brian didn’t take the bait.

“You were late,” he said, not cruel, just factual. “As usual. And when people asked me where you were, I couldn’t find you. Then I turn around and—I couldn’t find Paul either.”

John smirked, looking at the floor. “Took him for a line of coke. Nothing deadly. We’re back now, aren’t we?”

Brian’s expression didn’t move, didn’t soften. “You’re a terrible liar.”

He turned as if to leave.

John didn’t stop him.

He only muttered, “Not my best talent tonight,” under his breath—knowing full well Brian heard.

John scanned the room again until he found Paul. He was still talking with Ringo and George, laughing at something Rich had said. His shoulders were looser now, his mouth easier, his eyes warm. Not as guarded as he’d been when John first arrived.

John smirked to himself, knowing exactly why. He drifted toward them like gravity had made the decision for him.

Ringo spotted him first and lifted his champagne flute in greeting. “Speak of the devil.”

Paul’s eyes flicked to John. For a second, something knowing passed between them. Not obvious enough to be noticed by strangers. But Ringo's lips twitched, and George’s gaze sharpened, quietly observant yet amused.

John slipped into the circle effortlessly. “Miss me?”

“Not really,” Ringo said. even if John wasn't talking to him. “But you’re prettier than the blokes I was talkin’ to, so I’m relieved.”

“Ta,” John deadpanned.

Paul just smiled, small, crooked, something private.

John moved to stand beside him.

Too close for friends. Close enough for truth.

Ringo watched them with the smug patience of a man who knew far more than he’d ever say.

George Harrison just shook his head fondly, snickering. “You two have always been trouble when there's a big event..”

“That so?” John asked lightly.

“Mm,” George replied. “Everything's louder when you are.”

Paul ducked his head, flustered. John nudged his shoulder lightly.

And for the first time all night, everything felt…aligned.

No cameras pointed. No crowds listening. No eyes judging.

Just the four of them, just music humming through the walls, just the warmth of something dangerous and good settling into place.

And Brian, somewhere in the house, was already slipping away.

*

Just as the party finally began to thin—voices softening, smoke drifting low toward the floorboards—a familiar clipped voice carried over the fading music.

“Gentlemen?”

George Martin.

He stood near the doorway to the dining room, a champagne flute in one hand, the other tucked politely behind his back. His expression was warm, proud, and just a touch mischievous.

Ringo perked up. “Uh oh. Dad’s got news.”

George Martin laughed under his breath. “Not bad news, I promise.”

John drifted closer first, tugging Paul along with him by the sleeve as though he didn’t realize he was doing it. George and Ringo followed, forming a small semicircle around their producer.

George Martin lifted his glass slightly. “Now that most of the reporters have cleared out—and before the rest of you wander into the night—I wanted to give you all something officially.”

Paul tensed, expecting criticism.

Instead, George Martin beamed.

“Our World has chosen you.”

George Harrison blinked. “Chosen us for what?”

George Martin’s smile widened. “For the broadcast. The first global television program. Twenty four countries simultaneously. They want the Beatles to represent the United Kingdom.”

Ringo let out a low whistle. “Christ.”

John straightened, brows rising. “How many people are gonna be watchin’?”

“Between 350 and 400 million,” George Martin said calmly, as if he hadn’t just dropped a bomb.

Ringo choked on his drink.

Paul felt his stomach flip—half excitement, half nerves. “Bloody hell…”

George Martin nodded. “Indeed. And they want a new piece from you. Something original. Something written specifically for the event.”

John smirked, glancing at Paul with that dangerous, crackling look that always meant he’d already started planning something bold. “We can manage that.”

“I have no doubt,” George Martin said warmly. “You four have just made an extraordinary album. And now you have the opportunity to make something even larger than that—something the entire world will share at the same moment.”

George Harrison crossed his arms, thinking. “When is it?”

“June twenty fifth. And—that gives us about three weeks.”

Paul sputtered. “Three weeks?!”

George Martin chuckled. “Yes, Paul. Three weeks. But you’ve done more with less.” Then, softer, “And truly… I can’t think of anyone more fitting.”

The boys exchanged looks—shock, excitement, exhaustion, fear, pride.

John nudged Paul slightly. “Global broadcast,” he muttered. “Not bad, eh?”

Paul managed a breathless laugh. “Just a little pressure.”

Ringo threw his arms up. “Well lads, better get writin’ before the planet tunes in to watch us argue.”

Even George Harrison cracked a smile at that.

George Martin raised his glass one final time. “Congratulations, boys. Enjoy the rest of your night—you’ve earned it. And tomorrow…we begin.”

He drifted back into the party, leaving the four of them in a stunned hush.

Paul let out a slow whistle. “Four hundred million people.”

Ringo grinned. “Better get me hair brushed.”

George shrugged. “Think we can do it.”

John felt warmth bloom under his ribs. “We always do.”

And just like that, the next chapter of their night—and their future—quietly began.

Later, Paul barely made it halfway down the front steps before he felt the air shift.

A woman’s voice cut through the fading chatter behind him, instantly familiar, too bright to be casual.

“Paul?”

His whole body went cold.

He turned.

Jane stood just inside the entrance hall, coat still on, hair damp from the rain. She looked beautiful, composed, and slightly breathless—as if she’d run the last block. Her eyes lit when she saw him, a small desperate relief slipping through before she caught herself.

“There you are,” she said. “I thought I’d missed everything.”

Paul swallowed. “Jane. I…didn’t know you were coming.” He fully meant it.

She stepped closer, brushing rain off her sleeve. “Brian rang me. Said it would mean a lot if I came. That you’d be disappointed if I didn’t.”

Paul’s stomach dropped. “Did he,” he muttered, barely managing a polite tone.

She didn’t notice. Or pretended not to. She reached for his hand lightly, hesitating just enough to make the gesture feel practiced rather than natural.

“I wanted to be here for you,” she said softly. “You worked so hard on all of this. I shouldn’t have been late.”

Paul’s throat tightened. The guilt hit instantly. Not because he’d done something wrong tonight—but because she was standing right in front of him with open hands and he couldn’t feel anything that matched.

He forced a small smile. “It’s alright. Really. It’s been a long night, anyway.”

She squeezed his fingers gently. “Are you alright? You look flushed.”

He stepped back a half inch too quickly. “Just warm. Too many people.”

Jane frowned a little, sensing something she couldn’t name. “I’ve barely seen you lately. I was hoping we could talk. Sit down somewhere quieter.”

“Right,” Paul said, nodding automatically. “Sure. Just—let me check on something first. Mal said he needed me for a minute.”

She looked disappointed but gave him space. “Okay. Don’t take too long.”

Paul turned away before the tension in his face cracked. He moved quickly through the thinning crowd, heart beating hard against his ribs.

He didn’t head toward Mal.

He went straight to find John.

*

John was near the record player now, pretending to help choose the next album even though the party was moments from dying. He looked over his shoulder the second he felt Paul approaching—he always did. A small, private acknowledgment flashed between them before it sharpened into concern.

“You alright?” John asked under his breath, stepping closer.

Paul shook his head once. “She’s here.”

John stiffened. “Jane?”

“Aye.” Paul rubbed the back of his neck, restless. “Brian invited her. Said it was on my behalf.”

John’s jaw tightened. “Of course he bloody did.”

Paul let out a shaky breath. “I didn’t want her here, John. Not tonight. Not after-”

He stopped himself, glancing at the last few guests lingering near the windows.

John understood anyway.

He lowered his voice. “He’s twisting the knife because he knows he’s losing the reins. This is his way of reminding you who used to control the picture.”

Paul’s eyes flashed. Pain, frustration, something close to betrayal. “Well, it’s working.”

John touched his elbow, subtle enough not to be seen, firm enough to anchor him. “Hey. Look at me.”

Paul did.

“You don’t owe him a damn thing anymore,” John said. “Not tonight. And you don’t owe her anything either. You’re shaken because she showed up unexpected, not because you want to be with her.”

Paul nodded, breath uneven. “I know.”

“You want to be here,” John continued quietly. “With us. With me.”

Paul’s chest tightened. He didn’t answer. That alone was answer enough.

John’s expression softened, something protective rising in him. “So what d’you want to do?”

Paul hesitated, glancing back toward the hall where Jane waited.

“I need to go say something to her,” he said finally. “Something small. Then I’m done.”

John nodded slowly. “I’ll be right here.”

*

Paul found Jane near the piano, hands folded neatly in front of her, trying not to look like she was waiting for him. When he approached, her smile brightened again—too quickly, too hopefully.

“There you are,” she said. “Thought you’d forgotten me.”

He shook his head. “Just needed to sort something.”

She reached for his arm. “Paul, can we talk? Really talk? It feels like you’ve been drifting away. I don’t get any letters from you, or calls.”

He looked at her—really looked. At the earnestness in her eyes, the way she kept trying to bridge a gap she didn’t even know existed. She didn’t deserve cruelty, not tonight, not ever. But he couldn’t keep performing the version of himself she wanted.

“Jane…” He took a slow breath. “We can talk. Of course, just—not here. Not right now. And—I don't know why you're not getting any of my letters, love. I must've sent four or five by now..” he lied on the spot.

Jane froze.

For a moment, she looked almost relieved—like she’d been waiting for reassurance, for a sign he still cared. But the relief flickered, then faded. Her brows knitted together.

“Four or five?” she repeated softly. “Paul, I haven’t received anything.”

Paul forced a puzzled frown. “Well, I sent them. Honest. Weeks ago.”

She searched his face, trying to read him, trying to make it make sense. “Did you post them yourself?”

“Aye,” he continued to lie smoothly. “Dropped them in the box near Cavendish.”

Jane swallowed hard. “Then something must’ve gone wrong. Because I would never ignore your letters. I check the mail every day.”

Her voice wavered—hurt slipping through the cracks.

Paul nodded gently. “I know you would. That’s why it’s strange to me too.”

She tried to steady herself, clinging to any explanation that didn’t point to him pulling away. “Maybe the addresses got mixed. Or the post is backed up. It’s been all over the papers.”

He let that excuse sit between them like a lifeline.

“Must be that,” Paul murmured. “I’ll write again. Properly. Soon.”

Jane’s shoulders softened—not fully, but enough to keep her from breaking. “Alright. I’d like that.”

A quiet beat.

“Paul… I just want us to feel close again. I miss you.”

The words hit him with a weight he didn’t know how to carry.

He touched her hand lightly—gentle, careful, not promising too much. “We will. Just…not tonight, yeah? I’m worn out. I'm sorry.”

Jane nodded, blinking quickly, fighting off disappointment. “Right. Of course. I understand.”

She stepped back, composure slipping for only a second before she collected herself and walked away.

Paul exhaled softly the moment her back was turned—the lie still hot on his tongue, the pressure of expectation crushing his ribs.

He didn’t have long to sit with it.

When he looked up, John was standing at the edge of the hall, watching him with that too knowing look.

“Everything alright?” John asked quietly as he stepped closer.

Paul nodded once. “Yeah. Sorted.”

John tilted his head, eyes softening. “Good. ’Cause you look like you need savin’.”

Paul huffed a tired laugh. “Aye, well, that I do.”

John’s mouth curved—small, warm, private. “Then you’re with the right fella.”

And just like that, the tightness in Paul’s chest loosened—not because he’d handled Jane well, but because John was there, seeing him clearly, choosing him anyway.

Paul lingered in the front hall, hands in his pockets, hair still a little mussed from earlier despite his attempts to fix it. John stood beside him, half hidden by the dim wall sconce, looking both wired and worn, the kind of tired that didn’t come from dancing or drinking.

“Car’s out back,” John murmured. “Mal said he’s waiting whenever we’re ready.”

Paul nodded, brushing a curl behind his ear. “Good. I’m knackered.”

They didn’t announce anything. Didn’t explain. They simply moved—shoulder to shoulder—toward the side stairway like this had been their plan all along. Ringo spotted them slipping off and gave a lazy two-finger salute without even slowing his conversation. George Harrison noticed too; he only smirked and went back to tuning the random mandolin someone had shoved at him.

Paul didn’t look for Jane.

She’d mentioned she had a friend in the city to stay with. Said it in passing, voice quiet, resigned. He wished—just for a moment—that guilt would spark somewhere in him.

It didn’t. Not tonight.

The alley behind the townhouse was cool, lit by a half-dead lamppost that buzzed faintly. Mal stood beside the car smoking, his collar turned up against the damp air. He flicked the cigarette aside and opened the back door without a word.

Paul slid in first. John followed.

The door shut with a soft, final thump—an ending, a beginning, something neither of them knew how to name.

Mal drove with the radio low. London blurred past in streaks of blue and gold, the city wet from earlier rain. Paul stared out the window, heartbeat still unsteady from the bathroom, from the party, from John’s breath on his skin. He wasn’t sure which part of the night had marked him the deepest.

John watched him in the window’s reflection—quiet, thoughtful, thumb rubbing slow circles on his own knee, like he was stopping himself from reaching across the seat.

Halfway home, John spoke.

“You want company?”

Not sly. Not suggestive. Just honest.

Paul didn’t look away from the glass. His breath fogged a small circle on the window.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I do.”

He felt John sit back—not satisfied, not triumphant, just…steady. Like something between them had finally clicked into place instead of slipping. The truth neither of them had the words for eased into the dark.

Chapter Text

They reached Paul’s house just after two. Mal waved off help, muttering something about instruments left in the boot, and disappeared down the pavement. The street was quiet—the kind of quiet that only follows too much noise, too much champagne, too much celebration.

Paul unlocked the door and flicked on the hallway lamp. The house felt different with John behind him. Warmer somehow. Less haunted. As if something long missing had followed them home.

“You eat?” John asked softly, shutting the door with care.

Paul shook his head. “Not hungry.”

“That’s a first.”

A tired smile tugged at his mouth. “Well, everything today wore me out.”

In the sitting room, Paul kept his hands moving—straightening coasters, lining up the glasses, wiping a spot on the table that wasn’t there. It looked casual enough from a distance, but John wasn’t at a distance. John never was.

He watched him circle the room like a man trying to outrun his own thoughts.

“You alright?” John asked quietly, not teasing this time. “You haven’t stood still since we walked in.”

Paul’s shoulders tensed. He kept his back to him for a moment before forcing himself to turn. “I’m fine,” he said lightly. “Just…keyed up after the party, I guess.”

John gave him a look that said he didn’t believe a syllable. “It’s not the party.”

Paul’s breath caught. He looked down at his hands, flexing them once, like he was checking they still worked. “I’m just—thinking.”

“About?” John asked.

Paul hesitated. He couldn’t say the truth: I’ve never done that with a man before.. I don’t know if I did it right.. I don’t know if you noticed I’m not him.

So he went with the version that fit “Paul’s” supposed memory gaps.

“About whether I…did that the way you expected,” he murmured, trying to sound casual. “I can’t really…remember how we handled things like that before.”

John blinked, startled. “Expected? Paul, what-”

Paul flushed hard and looked away. “I didn’t want it to be lousy.”

Understanding flickered across John’s face — the way he softened, the way his shoulders dropped. He reached out and tapped the back of Paul’s hand.

“Lousy?” John said, voice warmer now. “Christ, no. You weren’t lousy.”

Paul swallowed. “You’re sure?”

“If I thought you were shite, I’d tell you.” John smirked, but it was gentle. “You were…different, maybe. But not bad. Not even close. Just looked a bit nervous, that’s all.”

Paul’s heart thudded. Different. His stomach twisted, but John kept going before the panic could rise.

“Truth?” John tilted his head, staring at him like he was trying to peel back thoughts. “It was sweet. Soft. Like you actually wanted me to feel good.” He huffed a laugh. “Christ, if we were kids again I’d tease the hell out of you for that—tell you you were being all tender just to get me off.” His voice dropped. “But you did fine. More than fine.”

Paul smirked, breath easing—just a little.

John nodded toward the sofa. “Sit down. You’re wearing a hole in the floor.”

Paul finally sat, not close enough to touch, but close enough to anchor himself in the warmth of John’s presence. And John didn’t push, didn’t prod—he just stayed there, steady, giving him room to breathe.

For the first time since the bathroom, Paul let himself exhale.

John grabbed the remote and flopped onto the sofa. “Fancy watching a bit of telly?” he asked, patting the space beside him.

Paul nodded and slid in, resting his head lightly on John’s shoulder. John’s arm came around him almost instinctively, fingers brushing softly along his back, a gentle anchor. Paul let himself relax, letting the warmth seep in.

They flicked through channels until a silly comedy caught their attention. Laughter bubbled from both of them, soft and easy, Paul leaning into John whenever something on the screen made him smile. John adjusted, holding him a little closer, rubbing circles on his arm absentmindedly, whispering a quiet comfort in his touch without needing words. John felt his chest tighten in that familiar, tender way.

Paul’s fingers found John’s hand and squeezed it lightly, the motion unspoken yet intimate. They stayed like that, warm and quiet, some things too deep to put into words, letting the soft glow of the television and each other’s presence speak instead.

*

Across the city, Jane sat on a guest bed in her friend’s flat, coat still on. She told herself Paul was just overwhelmed, tired, in need of space. But she’d seen him glance at the door, like he was waiting for someone else.

Sleep didn’t come. Something small and sharp cracked quietly inside her.

*

They drifted toward the bedroom once the laughter had softened and the weight of the night finally settled in. Neither of them said much as they washed up side-by-side, the kind of quiet that felt easy rather than awkward.

When they slipped under the covers, the room felt warmer somehow—dim, safe, almost suspended from the rest of their lives. Paul lay on his back at first, still a little unsure of where to put his hands, but John didn’t leave any room for hesitation. He shifted closer, slid an arm over Paul’s middle, and settled his chin lightly against Paul’s shoulder as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

Only then did John tilt his head up, brushing a slow, soft kiss against Paul’s mouth—a quiet goodnight more than anything else, warm and unhurried. Paul kissed him back, and they stayed close afterward, foreheads nearly touching, the air between them steady and gentle.

John’s hand stayed firm and comforting around him, thumb tracing small, absent shapes against Paul’s side. The closeness didn’t feel rushed or stolen; it felt like something they’d both been missing without knowing it.

Eventually, their breathing evened out, and the room settled into stillness, the two of them wrapped loosely around each other as sleep finally came.

*

Morning arrived slowly and pale. Paul woke first, warm under tangled sheets, with John’s arm slung across his waist like it had grown there overnight. John slept deeply—mouth parted, lashes dark, hair a mess.

Paul didn’t move. He simply watched him, feeling an unfamiliar sense of safety settle in his chest. Watched him right up to the point the phone rang.

Paul blinked, startled, and slipped out from under John’s arm as gently as possible. He padded into the hallway and picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

A crisp voice barreled through. “Paul! This is The Telegraph. Hoping to confirm whether you left the Sgt. Pepper release party early.”

“No,” Paul corrected softly. “We stayed almost till the end.”

“Oh! Thank you, sir. And might we—”

Paul hung up.

The phone rang again, right as he turned to walk back in the room.

“Yeah?” he answered with a sigh.

“Daily Mail here. J-just checking if the rumors that you quietly slipped out—”

“I didn’t slip out,” Paul said. “The party was over. I went home.”

A pause. “Right. Thank you, Paul.”

Click

Another ring.

He froze, answering it annoyed and aggravated. “No comment.”

“Wait…Paul?”

Jane.

Her voice was small, fragile around the edges.
“Jane,” Paul murmured. “Morning.”

“Sorry if I woke you,” she whispered. “I saw chatter that people thought you left the party early. I just…I wanted to know you were alright.”

Paul glanced toward the bedroom. John lay asleep, face buried in the pillow.

He stepped farther down the hall. “I’m alright. Truly. We stayed till near closing. Dunno who's spreadin’ lies again.”

“Oh.” Relief bloomed in her voice. “Good. I thought…well, I really don’t know what I thought, honestly.”

Paul swallowed softly. “It was just a long night. That’s all. I needed to relax. Had to get up around 5 in the morning yesterday, was right knackered ‘time you saw me.”

A small, aching pause filled the void.

“I didn’t like how we left things,” she admitted. “I didn’t mean to seem...emotional. I just care about you, Paul.”

Guilt flickered through him—then faded. It didn’t land the way it used to.

“I know,” Paul whispered. “I’m alright, love. Don’t worry. I care about you too. I’ve just been, y’know, caught up in this album. It’s taken everything out of me.”

Jane exhaled shakily, relief slipping into her voice. “Thank you,” she breathed. “For answering.”

“Anytime,” Paul lied, but kindly.

“I’ll let you rest,” she whispered. “Goodbye, Paul.”

“Bye, Jane.”

He hung up slowly, staring at nothing. He let the phone hang off the hook, then walked back into the bedroom.

John was now sitting up with his back against the headboard. “Press?”

Paul nodded. “And…Jane.”

John processed that quietly. “Everything alright?”

Paul hesitated. “She just wanted to hear me. Make sure I wasn’t upset. Apparently there's rumors I left the party early.. Dunno what the hell that's about.”

John gave a sleepy, crooked half-smile, tugging him back under the sheets. “Too early for headaches. C’mere.”

Paul let himself melt into him, forehead brushing John’s jaw, warmth still clinging from last night.

After a few minutes of comfortable silence just basking in each other's warm presence, John was the first to speak. “You know…before the accident,” he said quietly, “you used to be so spontaneous.”

Paul tensed faintly.

John kept going, not unkindly, just remembering. “You’d talk without a filter. Say the most ridiculous shite out of nowhere. Half of it was daft, the other half so filthy it’d knock the wind outta me.” He huffed a little laugh. “Didn’t matter where we were. Studio, car, hallways. You’d say it.”

He turned onto his side, really looking at Paul.
“And hell, you were raunchy,” John murmured. “In the best way.”

Paul’s heart thudded hard.

John’s fingers brushed his hand gently. “Now you’re…different. Careful. Like you’re scared to do somethin’ with me, or break me.” His voice softened. “I don’t hate it. Honest. But sometimes I wonder if that wicked bastard’s still in there.”

Paul stared down at the sheets. Not as Paul. But as William. A flicker of his old self passed through him, just ever so slightly. He straightened his posture and threw that mannerism away, though, knowing who he was now.

The man John described—the one with the sharp tongue and filthy timing—that man had existed. Just not here. Not in this bed.

But William wanted to be him. Needed to be him. He was trying his hardest to act more like him all the time.

He lifted his head. “I’m still me.”

John studied him with gentle doubt. “Are you?”
Not suspicion, but a feeling oddly close to heartbreak.

Paul forced a small smile. “John… I just—forgot parts of myself. I’m trying to find them again. Every day.”

“Well,” John whispered, brushing his thumb along Paul’s cheek, “I really fuckin’ hope something turns up in your memory, love..”

Paul closed his eyes. Something dark and determined clicked into place. He would remember. Study every diary. Letter, film reel, every filthy joke, every secret the real Paul left behind. He would become the man John missed—even if it hollowed William out completely.

He opened his eyes. “Maybe I can find it again.”

John smiled, relieved. “Good. Cause I liked that part of you.”

Paul leaned in and kissed him—slow, gentle, promising.

In that moment, William chose his path. He would become Paul McCartney entirely. Piece by piece, almost obsessively..even if it completely broke what little remained of his true self.

For a moment, the room felt warm, a steady quiet. Paul thought this was all he wanted to do, just sit here and lay with John for eternity.

Then John exhaled, ruining the tender air. He glanced toward the window, guilt tightening his jaw. “I should…head home for a bit,” he murmured. “Check on Cyn. See Julian.”

Paul’s fingers stilled. The shift in his expression was tiny—barely a dip of his eyebrows, barely a drop in his gaze—but John caught it instantly. That little fall in his face. That quiet, aching disappointment.

And God, it hit John harder than it should.

He didn’t know why leaving Paul stirred something sharp and uncomfortable in his chest, like he was breaking something fragile by stepping away. He didn’t feel that when he left Cynthia. He didn’t feel that when he went out all night without calling. But looking at Paul now—his Paul, this softer, shaken version of him—it twisted deep.

“Hey,” John said, stepping closer, voice low. “Don’t…don’t do that.”

Paul blinked up at him. “Do what?”

“That look.” John cupped the back of his neck, thumb brushing lightly at the hairline. “Like I’m walking out on you.”

"I'm not..."

John smirked, reading that in his expression instantly. Before Paul could react to his expression, John leaned in and kissed him—slow, warm, with his hands sliding into Paul’s hair. A soft press of tongue, gentle, soothing, nothing rushed or needy. Just an anchor. A promise. Something he couldn’t quite name but needed him to feel.

When he pulled back, he stayed close, noses brushing. “I’ll be back soon,” he whispered, guilt threaded through the words. “I don’t like leaving you when you’re like this.”

Paul swallowed, breath trembling slightly. “I- I'm fine, babe. Really. I’ll see you at four?”

“Four,” John echoed, brushing a thumb over his cheek. “And I’ll be thinking of you ‘til then.”

A faint smile touched Paul’s lips. It wasn’t enough to erase the ache—but it steadied him.

John finally stepped away, lingering at the door for a last glance before slipping out, leaving a hush behind him that Paul felt immediately—an emptiness he wasn’t sure how to live with yet.

How the fuck did the real Paul deal with feeling like this?

*

Jane flew home that afternoon, numb and ghostlike. Rain streaked the carriage window beside her. By the time she reached her flat, she felt hollowed out.

She sat at her writing desk, hands trembling slightly as she opened her stationery drawer.

She wrote slowly and carefully:

Paul ♡

Thank you for taking my call. I know things have been difficult for you, and I don’t want to be another source of pressure. I only want to understand you again, the way I used to. We’ve both changed these past months, but I’m trying—truly trying—to meet you where you are.

Love,
Jane Asher

She then signed it in perfect, practiced cursive, then wrote down every number she could be reached at.

But the page looked empty, begging for more content.. Hesitating, she opened the top drawer and pulled out a small photograph she’d taken recently—playful, soft, flirtatious, nothing indecent but undeniably intimate. She blushed, imagining him seeing it tucked inside the letter.

She sealed the envelope, walked into the drizzle, and dropped it in a red post box. It clattered faintly as it fell. She exhaled. Maybe—finally—something would reach him.

*

Across London, Paul stood in his study, door shut behind him like a promise. The room felt fuller than usual—every shelf lined with bits of the real Paul’s life. Not just items. Evidence.

Shadows of a man he was on the verge of becoming entirely.

John’s voice echoed in his mind about the things he missed most from the old Paul:
Spontaneous. Raunchy. Filthy. Slightly daft.

Paul walked to the shelves and opened the drawer where the real Paul’s diaries lived. Flip after flip of messy handwriting, filled with jokes, scribbles, songs half written, crude little comments that would have made the newspapers explode if they ever leaked. He had read them before but never truly studied them.

He felt something tighten at the sight. “Man,” he whispered. “He was fearless.”

He moved deeper into the study, pulling old reel cases from the box beneath the desk—one, then another, then three more—and carried them to the projector, threading the first with shaking fingers.

The machine hummed to life. The wall lit up.
There he was—Paul McCartney—dancing like an idiot in the studio, shirt half buttoned, laughing with his whole body. He fell onto a sofa mid sentence because George said something stupid. He threw a biscuit at John’s head and ducked behind Mal when John retaliated. He kissed a camera lens as a joke, then lifted his shirt and shook his hips until the cameraman nearly dropped it.

Another reel showed the real Paul at home, teasing Jim for singing flat. Jim threw a pillow at him. Both of them laughed.

Another reel: Paul and John on holiday, sunburnt, drunk, daring each other to run straight into the freezing water. Paul did it first, screaming like a madman. John followed, swearing and laughing so hard he choked on the salt spray.

Paul—William—froze. He understood exactly what John missed, what the world expected, the shoes of the man he needed to fill, the life he had to inhabit.

He shut off the projector. Dimmed the room. He sat at the desk, pulled out a fresh blue notebook with a stiff spine, and opened to the first page.

At the top: Memories to Remember

He filled in lines urgently—pages dedicated to Liverpool alone, random moments tied to conversations, small memories after concerts, fleeting feelings during Beatlemania. Anything that could be shaped into a memory, recited back with the weight of truth.

When he finished the first page, he flipped it. Then another. It still wasn’t enough. He needed more. More details, more leverage, more of the real man’s life to inhabit completely, so John wouldn’t have to reminisce too much longer.

That’s when the idea hit him. Jim. Paul’s dad. The one person who knew and approved of it from the start, the one who wanted this—the replacement—because the alternative was unthinkable. If anyone could help, it was him.

Paul picked up the phone with trembling fingers and dialed. It rang once. Twice.

“Hello?” The sound of Jim’s voice nearly broke him.

“It’s me,” Paul said softly. “I was…wondering if you could help me remember some things.”

“Oh, sweetheart, yes. Yes, of course Paul. Anything. God, I’m so glad you called.”

Paul’s chest tightened. “There’s a lot that’s still.. fuzzy. I want to do better. I’d like to be more.. like myself, d’ye know what I mean?”

“I do, but Paul, you’re all right. I’ve been keeping tabs on you. You’re doing beautifully. Better than anyone could’ve dreamed.”

Paul swallowed, letting the compliment settle in his mind. Now comes the real reason behind the call. “But I just- I need to know more... Could you tell me some stories? About when I was young. Anything. Things John and I did, maybe stuff from the early band days…I’m trying to remember.”

“I’ll do you one better,” Jim said, excitement bursting through the receiver. “I’ll come down Sunday. Early. I’ll bring photos, albums, old scrapbooks, even Mary’s box of ticket stubs. You’ll remember everything, lad. We’ll go through it together.”

Paul felt warmth in his throat—gratitude, pressure, something like belonging.

“That’d mean a lot,” he whispered.

“Anything for you,” Jim said. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Actually…I hate to even bring this up, but I’m a bit short this month. The car broke down, and the bill was more than I expected. I’ve covered most of it already.. I just need a little to get the rest handled. I’d pay you back as soon as I can. I just—I could use the help.”

“Of course,” Paul said instantly. “Whatever you need, just let me know. Don’t worry about paying me back.”

Jim exhaled shakily. “Thank you, son. Thank you.”

Paul closed his eyes.

“Call me anytime,” Jim added. “Night or day. I’m here. Always…I’ve been waiting for your call.”

“I know. I’m sorry I haven’t called… Everything’s been a lot. Been nervous, n' embarrassed.. I dunno. But I will call more now,” Paul murmured. “Thank you.”

When the call ended, Paul sat in the dim study, surrounded by reels, diaries, and his fresh notebook, half-filled with someone else’s past.
For the first time since stepping into Paul’s life, he didn’t feel like an imposter. He felt like a man building a blueprint—a backbone of a real plan.

By the time John arrived at the studio later that evening, Paul would be someone new. Or rather—someone old. Someone remembered. Someone loved. Someone real.

Chapter Text

Paul arrived at the studio a full hour early—not by plan, not even by nerves, but because the house had felt too small after the dream. Too full of shadows. Too full of John.

The studio, by contrast, felt open. Quiet. Safe in the way empty places can be when they belong to you.

He slipped inside, shutting the door with a soft click. Afternoon light slanted across the floorboards, catching dust in the beams and illuminating the piano in a warm haze. Nobody was here yet. Perfect.

He dropped his coat over a chair and went straight to the piano, lifting the lid with a careful hand.

“Penny Lane is in my ears and in my eyes…”

He hummed the line under his breath—soft, testing, like he was poking at a bruise. The melody wasn’t real yet. Not to the world. Not to the band. It was still private. Still something of his own.

But the journals had mentioned it so often—Penny Lane this, Penny Lane that, Paul writing ideas in margins—enough times that the song already existed inside him like a memory he’d inherited rather than lived.

He pressed a few notes. Light. Dreamy. Almost there.

He allowed himself to drift for a moment. Imagining the barber pole. The blue suburban skies. The roundabout. Children laughing. Liverpool wet from the rain.

The details felt so real he had to remind himself: These weren’t his. Not truly. But they would be.

He straightened his shoulders the way the acting coach had taught him—occupying space with confidence, not doubt. Loosening his jaw so he wouldn’t stutter. Softening his eyes so he wouldn’t seem guarded.

Breathe in as Paul. Speak as Paul. Remember as Paul.

He rehearsed it all in the quiet room, fingers wandering over the keys in a vague Penny Lane rhythm.

Footsteps sounded down the hallway.

Paul snapped the notebook shut instantly, slipping it into his coat pocket. His back straightened, his expression softening into something casual—effortlessly casual, the kind of casual that took hours of practice.

The door pushed open.

John entered like he always did—loud footfalls, sunglasses on even indoors, pretending he hadn’t been thinking about this session since he woke up.

“Oh, there he is,” John said, shrugging off his jacket. “Our resident workaholic. Couldn’t wait for four, eh?”

Paul offered a half smile. “Got bored at home.”

“Pathetic,” John teased, tossing the jacket onto a chair. “But endearing.”

Paul rolled his eyes, hiding the warmth blooming under his ribs.

John wandered toward him, drumming his fingers on a tambourine. “What were you playing just now?”

“Nothing,” Paul said quickly. “Just messin’.”

John eyed him like he didn’t believe a single word—but decided not to push.

He plopped down into a chair, stretching out. “Fuck, I’m right knackered. Cyn had me chasin’ Julian around like a dog. I needed this. Needed music. Needed—” He waved vaguely. “to be back here, with you.”

“You missed me,” Paul said lightly, leaning into the acting coach’s rule number one: Say the line like it belongs to you. Because it did, if John would rather be here than there.

John smirked. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

They settled into easy conversation—John talking about Cynthia yelling at him for losing his shoes again, Paul pretending to be exasperated, the two falling into their usual rhythm of banter.

It felt natural. Too natural. Then it happened.

John said it without thinking, without intention—just a tossed-off remark while rummaging through his guitar case.

“Feel like wantin’ a bit of Hamburg again,” John muttered. “All of us knackered, half starved, hopped up on God knows what… We had a fuckin’ good time.”

And Paul—before he could stop himself—laughed.

“When you lost your guitar strap and blamed it on the bloke who winked at you.”

Silence cracked through the room.

Paul froze.

His own face startled him. He hadn’t meant to say it. Hadn’t rehearsed saying it. It had just slipped out—smooth, natural, so flawlessly timed it felt like muscle memory.

John turned slowly. “What?” he whispered.

Paul’s pulse spiked. He forced his expression to stay loose. “I—I dunno. I, uh.. It felt like…somethin’ I remembered.”

John’s eyes softened, bright with curiosity. “You remember that?” he breathed.

Paul looked up, throat tight. “Yeah… that, I do. But it’s foggy still. Hard to hold onto. Some things I don’t… understand fully.”

He looked at the ground in a thoughtful, believable fashion. Imagined what more he could roll with.

He had a memory of the life he could never return to, sharp and aching. All those acting lessons, all those rehearsals for emotion—he’d learned to anchor himself in personal truth to make it real. Now, the hollow ache of being forever cut off from his mother hit him full force. He remembered the afternoons he’d spent with her, the ordinary warmth of her presence, the small laughter that had filled the house. And now, knowing he could never go back, never hear her voice, never sit beside her again—he could feel that emptiness echo through him.

That was the grief he could pour into John, the ache of a son who had to bury his own life to live another’s. He could make John see that he understood what it was to lose someone in a way that left a permanent void—not really death, but exile. And in that truth, in that unbearable closeness to something he loved but could never touch again, he could let the tears spill.

“Hold on,” he said, voice low, trembling.

“I… I can remember losing Mary now,” he admitted, swallowing hard, tears filling his eyes from the hurt. “Seeing her…n’ feeling it, the way it tore through me—having to leave her, never speak to her, never be near her again. That- it’s always been with me. But now I- I understand it now, John. I really do.”

The tears came then, spilling down hot and unrelenting. He buried his face in his hands, body trembling. “I can’t… I can’t stop… Just—leavin’ her behind forever. It’s all coming back.”

In his mind, he saw her—gone, unreachable, erased from his life. The grief hit like a weight pressing on his chest, sharp and unyielding. He realized how much he’d buried beneath being “Paul.” It wasn’t just her. It was the version of himself he’d been forced to leave behind. He shivered, rocking slightly on the bench, letting the heaviness settle.

John stayed close, hands gentle on his shoulders. “Shhh… I’m right here,” he murmured. “Breathe, love. You’re safe. You’re not alone. I lost my mother too.”

Paul leaned into him, forehead pressed against the crook of John’s neck. Sobs shook his body, but he let them come, unfiltered. Each one carried a lifetime of loss, of impossible choices, of being unseen. He didn’t try to sort whose grief was whose. He just let it spill. John was his safety, and he prayed he could always count on him.

John’s hand brushed slow circles on his back. “I’ve got you. Right here. Always. Just let it out.”

Paul’s breath came in shuddering gasps. He didn’t move immediately, didn’t speak. His eyes were wet, unfocused, tracing nothing. The room felt heavy with silence, and that silence allowed him to sit in the grief, to feel the emptiness in his chest, and slowly recognize it as something he could carry.

Finally, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a cigarette. Fumbling with the lighter, he took a slow drag, letting the smoke curl lazily around him. The warmth and scent grounded him, made him feel his own body again. He exhaled, long and slow, trying to let the ache settle a little.

He kept tapping the ash into the tray beside him, then lit another when it was spent, staring down at his knees. In fragments, images and memories of the life he had left behind flickered in his mind—all the losses, betrayals, moments of helplessness—and he let them mingle with the grief of Mary. He didn’t need to organize them yet; just feeling them, naming them in silence, was enough.

Minutes passed, smoke curling in soft spirals. His shoulders loosened, chest rising and falling with steadier breaths. Finally, he looked up. The piano and lyric sheets were there, waiting. The edges of grief still clung to him, but now they were tempered by presence. He could think again, slowly. Maybe write.

John watched him, eyes soft, patient. “Whenever you’re ready,” he said quietly. “No rush.”

Paul nodded, throat tight, heart pounding in that way he only felt around John—frightening and safe all at once.

And just like that—his slip became truth, his grief became connection, and John believed him completely.

*

The session had later yielded something special—All You Need Is Love had come together in barely half an hour, rough but unmistakably brilliant. John was pacing again, the way he always did when a new idea clicked, tapping his pencil against his palm as he read the words aloud.

Paul watched from the piano bench, feeling that familiar warmth in his chest he tried not to make obvious. The earlier conversation about their mums still hung in the air—not heavy, just… there. Every so often John glanced up, and the look he gave Paul was softer than usual, almost careful.

“Could put a harmony here,” John said, pointing. “Somethin’ light. Somethin’ only you’d think of.”

“I’ll sort it,” Paul said, brushing the keys absently.

They were about to start a rough take when the studio door cracked open. A young assistant poked his head in—cheeks flushed, clearly terrified of interrupting.

“Mr. Lennon?” he said, voice cracking. “Sorry, sir. You’ve got a phone call from Liverpool.”

John stopped mid step.

“Liverpool?” His voice went flat. “Who’s ringin’?”

The assistant swallowed. “Your aunt. Miss Smith. Said you’d want to know straight away.”

Paul felt the mood shift. Mimi never called studios. And she certainly didn’t chase John unless something was genuinely wrong.

John’s face tightened. “Right. Thanks.”

The assistant nearly tripped over himself leaving.

Paul set down the pencil he’d been twirling. “Go on,” he said quietly. “She wouldn’t ring if she didn’t need you.”

“Yeah.” John’s jaw flexed. He was already halfway out the door.

The room fell silent once he was gone. Paul stared at the lyric sheet—still brilliant, but suddenly hollow without John’s voice filling in the gaps.

A few minutes later, John came back in. He didn’t look panicked—just tense, tired, and appeared almost older than he did ten minutes ago.

“Mimi’s got the flu,” he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Proper flu—bad chills, high fever. Neighbor called the doctor but he’s in and out, can’t stay long.”

Paul felt the bottom of his stomach drop. “Damn…is she alright?”

“Dunno yet. She sounded awful. Asked if I’d come home for a couple days.” His voice dipped—guilt, worry, duty all tangled up.

“You should go,” Paul said. “She’s on her own. She’ll want you there.”

John nodded but he didn’t move. “I don’t want it to look like I’m just leggin’ it the second things get tricky.”

Paul huffed a soft laugh. “John, it’s not that. She’s your family. You’d be mad not to go.”

“Yeah, but…” John hesitated, glancing at the lyric sheet between them. “We were on a roll. And… I don't want to leave you this way..” He broke off, shrugging like he didn’t want to say the rest aloud.

Paul swallowed. “We’ll pick it back up. I promise. I’m okay.”

John let out a slow breath, almost relieved. “I won’t be in tomorrow. Maybe the next day, maybe not. Depends how she does.”

“Love. It's fine,” Paul said. “You’re doing the right thing.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then John stepped a little closer, not enough to be obvious, just enough that Paul felt the air shift.

“Paul…” he said quietly.

Paul looked up. “What?”

John’s expression flickered—emotion sharpening for a second before he hid it. “Just—don’t think I’m ignoring you. Or this. I’ll ring when I can.”

Paul’s throat tightened. “I know. Go on.”

He cleared his throat, keeping his eyes down, being careful with his next choice of words. “I, uh… I’ll miss you, Paulie.”

Paul’s chest tightened. He felt warmth in his throat. “Gonna miss you, John,” he said back, giving a genuine smile, soft, letting the truth of it sit between them. If John had it his way, he'd kiss him goodbye, but they learned their lesson with doing that in an open studio.

Instead, John managed a small, uneven smile in return. Then he grabbed his coat, hesitated at the door, and slipped out.

The studio felt empty right away.

Paul sat there awhile, listening to the faint hum of the equipment. John’s pencil lay where he’d dropped it, teeth marks and all. Paul picked it up, rolling it between his fingers.

All You Need Is Love had felt like something massive. Now all he could feel was the space John left behind.

He sighed, grabbing his brown notebook—his private one. The page with the half-formed title stared back at him:

Penny Lane.

He didn’t have the real memories, not properly. But he had scraps of Paul’s handwriting, places and faces he was supposed to know. It was enough to start with.

He sat at the piano and let the melody wander out—bright, nostalgic, easy in a strange way. Images formed without belonging to him.

A barber. A banker. A nurse. A fireman with an hourglass.

He didn’t know if any of them were real. But they felt true. And John was in there somewhere too—Liverpool streets, laughter, the kind of things he wished he could remember for real.

“Christ…” he muttered, rubbing his eyes.

He worked longer than intended. A line here, a chord there. When he finally stopped, the room felt too quiet, the kind of quiet that made you notice yourself thinking too much.

And then the urge crept in.

Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a thought sliding up through the cracks.

A bit of coke would help. Just enough to calm you down.

Paul exhaled sharply and rubbed his face. “Not tonight.”

But the itch stayed. It always did.

He shut the piano, grabbed his coat, switched off the lamp, and locked up. The hallway outside was cold and dim, the kind of evening that made London feel a bit too big.

His footsteps echoed down the stairs. Each one felt heavier than it should’ve.

*

Home was quiet.

Painfully quiet.

He dropped his keys in the bowl near the front door, kicked off his shoes, and didn’t bother with lights beyond the hall lamp. Everything felt too heavy to face in full brightness.

The craving circled back as he climbed the stairs.

He paused halfway up, leaning against the wall, heart pounding with a kind of restless ache.

One line. Just one. And you wouldn’t need to sleep.

He took a breath—slow, steady—and forced himself upward.

In the bedroom, he stripped down, crawled beneath the blankets, and lay on his back staring at the ceiling.

His whole body buzzed—the ghost of John’s voice in his ear, the echo of the melody he’d shaped, the gnawing want for something he refused to make a true fuss over.

He turned onto his side, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Just sleep,” he muttered. “Just sleep through it.”

It took ten minutes. Then a few more.

Paul’s breathing slowed. His muscles loosened. His fingers twitched once, as if reaching for someone who wasn’t there. And finally, the edge of consciousness softened.

Paul slipped under—into sleep, into memory, into whatever waited for him once the world went dark.

/

He wandered Liverpool with a confidence that felt borrowed yet familiar. Streets he had only walked once as William unfolded perfectly beneath his feet. Each turn was correct. Each sign familiar. His feet carried him as if fate itself had taken the reins.

He arrived at Strawberry Fields. The gates glowed red, almost pulsing. The trees swayed in a warm, summer-tinted breeze. Birds hovered lazily above, suspended in sunlight.

“William,” a voice called. “Billy! Over here.”

He froze. That voice—it wasn’t William’s memory of it. It was Paul. The real Paul McCartney, barefoot on a picnic blanket, shirt sleeves rolled up, curls loose. Relaxed. Joyful. Familiar.

William’s breath hitched. No one called him Billy unless they loved him. He ran across the lawn.

Paul grinned. “Finally, Billy. Sit down, lad. Been waitin’ ages to talk to you. You’re ready now.”

“Paul-” William whispered.

Paul’s eyes softened. “Don't worry. I have never felt better. I’m free now. I’m with Mum again.” He leaned closer, voice steady and warm. “Listen, I’m not mad at you. Not one bit. Everything they forced—you weren’t at fault.”

William’s throat tightened.

“Brian and Terrence—they’re the ones with blood on their hands. Let them watch. They’ll get what’s comin’. But you… You, lad. You’re doing everything you can with a life you didn’t choose.”

“I had to kill who I was,” William whispered.

Paul reached out, tapped his knee. “I know. And I hate that. I hate that you had to bury Billy to live as me. But you’re doing alright, lad. Keep diggin’ through my memories, the notebook… it matters. You’re on the right path. You'll become something great.” William blinked, searching his face. Paul smirked, mischievous. “You don’t have to become a carbon copy of me. But for God’s sake—stop livin’ like you’re forty and afraid of breaking the furniture.”

William chuckled.

He poked William’s shoulder. “And sex, affection, fun, stupid nights that turn into mornings. You’re allowed. Don’t tiptoe around John like he’s glass. He’s not. He likes confidence and initiative. Responds to it. Needs it, half the time.”

William’s breath hitched.

Paul winked. “And between you and me? You’d enjoy it. More than you think. Feels good lettin’ go. Feels even better making him fall apart for you. Don't be scared to tell him what to do.” He leaned back, satisfied. “Start living, Billy. Not pretending. Not hidin’. Have some joy. Be spontaneous. Say something filthy once in a while. It won’t kill you.” Paul then leaned forward, voice almost conspiratorial. “Listen, man. This is important. Strawberry Fields wasn’t just John’s retreat. We hid behind the old wall, talked about the future, picked stars off trees. And… well, once we got carried away in the dark. Johnny tried to be on top on the ground—but got a cramp.. I took over, obviously. He loved it. Swore me to secrecy.” The real Paul smiled fondly telling that story.

“We wrote Ask Me Why under the trees. He told me my hair smelled like strawberries, I threw a stick at ‘im. Daft sod kissed me then.” Paul’s tone softened, gentle and earnest. “As for Penny Lane—we’d meet there when we didn’t want to go home. The barber knew us. The nurse… she was real. Johnny flirted once, I mocked him for a week. And the night his Uncle George died… he came to my house crying. I sat with him in the kitchen till sunrise. Feet touching. Don’t leave, he said—I said ‘I won’t.’ First time he really knew he could trust me.”

He leaned closer. “And when his mum died… he didn’t cry for weeks. Then one day, playing in my room, he just…broke. Silent tears. He called himself soft. I told him ‘crying makes you human.’ Hugged him till I couldn’t breathe. Never told anyone that.”

Paul’s hand found William’s. “Write them down when you wake up. Hide the book. These aren’t just memories—they’re a map to who he is. And you’re ready now. Proper ready. Go live it for both of us.”

William’s chest warmed at the thought: I’m allowed. I can feel. I can live.

/

The dream evaporated. Paul woke with a gasp, heart hammering, breath catching. The room was dim, pale light bleeding through the curtains, too quiet compared to Strawberry Fields.

He scrambled for the notebook, pencil rolling to the floor, and wrote with trembling hands:

Strawberry Fields picnic
John panicking, cramp, let me take control
Ask Me Why under the tree, strawberries hair, threw stick then he kissed me
Penny Lane, saw nurse, barber knew us
John crying over Uncle George, feet touching, kitchen sunrise
John breaking after Julia, hugged him, tears made him human

His chest eased only once the memories were anchored in ink.

“Thank you,” he whispered to the one whi was physically not there. “I won’t forget. I promise.”

Chapter Text

*

John Lennon’s childhood house hadn’t changed much since he was a boy—same narrow hallway, same ticking clock, same faint smell of old books and furniture polish. But tonight, it also smelled of Vicks, damp towels, and lemon steam from the kettle.

Mimi’s breathing rasped faintly from the bedroom. Feverish. Weak in a way John had never seen her, not even when he was small.

He moved through the house quietly, sleeves rolled up, checking on her again. She slept, but her face was too pale, her hair damp with sweat. He adjusted the blanket and set a fresh glass of water by the bedside.

His heart pinched. Mimi never asked him for anything. Not once. If she’d rung him at the studio, it meant things were worse than she’d ever let on.

He stepped into the living room and pulled the phone receiver off the hook.

He needed to call Cynthia.

It took a few rings before she answered, sounding groggy.

“Hello?”

“Yeah, hey. I-it’s me, babe.” John replied.

“John? Everything alright?”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Well—no, not really. Mimi’s bad off with the flu, we think. High fever. I’m stayin’ here for a couple days.”

“Oh… John, I’m sorry.” Her voice gentled, that warm softness she always gave him when someone was hurt. “Is she sleeping now?” Cynthia asked.

“Yeah. Doctor came earlier. Gave her something. She was shakin’ like mad an hour ago.”

“You’ll take good care of her.”

He swallowed. “I will.”

“And John… don’t worry about us. Me and Julian are fine. Be with her.”

Those words eased something in his chest he didn’t realize was tight.

“Thanks, Cyn,” he murmured. “I’ll ring again tomorrow.”

He hung up and sat on the sofa, elbows on his knees, staring into the dim room lit only by the lamp. Caring for Mimi brought up old, knotted feelings—duty, guilt, love, and that strange ache of being her half-son, half-boarder for so many years.

He needed something to focus his mind.

His eyes landed on Mimi’s writing pad on the coffee table.

He shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t.

But the urge tugged. The need for clarity. For someone whose questions cut sharper than kindness did.

He picked up the notepad and pen.

He stared at the blank sheet until the words formed without permission.

Yoko,

His shoulders stiffened.

It’s been a madhouse—album deadlines, then my aunt falling ill. I’m back in Liverpool for a few days looking after her.

What have you been making? I'm interested in your stuff proper. Your art makes people have to think, and that's important.

Don't know why I keep thinking about your work lately. Maybe just need something that gets my mind out of the bloody fog.

He paused, breath shaky.

The next lines came slower.

If you want to go see some galleries, I’d come along. Been ages since I went anywhere for myself.

Write back when you want.

He signed his name quickly—like if he hesitated, he’d tear the page up.

He folded the letter and slid it into his jacket pocket, feeling the guilt settle somewhere dull and familiar. He'd put it in the envelope later, after Mimi was feeling better.

Whatever else he was—mess, coward, artist—he was still her boy. And now she needed him.

*

The next morning, Liverpool rain tapped quietly at the windows.

Mimi was still feverish but steady. When she drifted off again, John stepped into the hallway and dialed the number he knew by heart.

Paul answered quickly, as if he’d been waiting.

“John?”

“Just checkin’ in,” John said. “On the song. Didn’t want you thinking I’d disappeared.”

Paul huffed softly. “No, I didn’t think that.”

A pause—warm, fragile.

“How’s Mimi?” Paul asked.

“Feelin’ rough but better than last night,” John said. “Won’t admit it, but she’s glad I’m here.”

Another pause.

Then Paul said it—quietly, almost like he surprised himself saying it aloud:

“I feel like I remember her always makin’ a fuss over you. Not in a bad way. Just… her way of showin’ she cared.”

John stilled.

Paul exhaled shakily. “When I’m not tryin’ to remember a damn thing. That’s when it all sneaks back in. Little moments. Feelings. They come on their own when I ain’t lookin’ for ’em.”

John leaned his shoulder into the wall, pulse tightening. “Does that happen a lot?”

“More lately,” Paul admitted. “It’s like… the less I force it, the clearer it gets. But only in flashes.”

John swallowed. “What else came back?”

Paul hesitated, then offered the truth he could manage.

“Well… Penny Lane,” he said softly. “Feels like I knew it before I knew it.”

“You got a picture of it in your head?” John asked gently.

“Not the way proper memories look,” Paul murmured. “It’s more like… I know the shape of it. The feel of it. Enough to write about. Like it was always there under everything, waitin’.”

John closed his eyes briefly.

“That’s something,” he whispered.

“In a way,” Paul answered. “In another way, it scares the hell out of me.”

John’s voice softened. “I get that.”

Another silence—charged, intimate.

“You alright there on your own? After…” John asked after a moment, not wanting to call his crying out if Paul was upset over it properly.

Paul let out a breath. “Yeah.. As alright as I can be. The music helps. And hearing you helps more.”

John’s throat tightened. “Yeah. Well. You matter, don’t ya.”

Paul’s breath caught, barely audible. “So do you.”

John cleared his throat before his voice could give anything away.

“I’ll ring again tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Paul said. “And John… tell Mimi I said hello. She’d probably fuss at me too.”

John smiled, small and stunned. “Yeah. She would.”

They let the line hang for a few seconds before either moved.

“Bye, Paul.”

“Bye, John.”

John hung up gently, staring at the receiver with a tangled ache in his chest.

Behind him, Mimi coughed faintly.

Duty pulled him back toward her room,
while something else entirely pulled him somewhere he wasn't ready to look.

He pocketed the guilt from the half written letter to Yoko—and went to tend to Mimi again.

Right now, his aunt needed her boy beside her.

*

John washed up the breakfast dishes quietly, listening to the kettle rattle faintly as it came to a boil. Mimi was dozing in the sitting room now, wrapped in her blanket, her fever broken at last. She’d insisted—ordered, really—that he go home now.

“Get back to your life, John,” she’d said. “I’m fine. You’ve done more than enough.”

Maybe she was right.

But when he grabbed his coat from the peg by the door, he felt the stiff edge of the folded letter in the inner pocket. His stomach flipped.

He should tear it up. He should throw it in the bin. He should pretend he’d never written the bloody thing.

But—he ignored the things he shouldn't do pretty consistently. Especially when he continued filling out the envelope using the address for Yoko he remembered by heart, for some reason. When it was done he stepped outside anyway. The Liverpool air was cool, damp, and a bit salty. The small terraced houses stood quiet under the late morning light.

And halfway down the street stood the red post box.

John stopped dead.

Don’t do it.

It’ll only complicate things.

Is this something you really want? She could be the type to really take hold of you..

His feet still carried him forward.

He tried to argue with himself—tried to think of Cynthia, of Julian, of Paul’s voice last night saying. But all the arguments slid off him like water.

He reached into his pocket.

His fingers brushed the letter, edges slightly worn from being handled too much. His pulse kicked.

He stood in front of the post box for a full ten seconds. Truly contemplating his options, weighing which one would do the most good for him in the long run.

Then—without letting himself breathe, without giving himself time to run—he shoved the envelope through the slot.

It disappeared with a soft metallic clatter—final, irreversible.

A rush of guilt hit hard. Then a strange kind of relief. Then a deeper guilt underneath it. But it was for Paul, now.

He didn't really know what the hell actually was good for him and what wasn't. However, if his instincts told him to do one thing, he better do it, or else he'd live with the nagging thought that he missed a golden opportunity.

He pressed his palm flat against the cold metal for one beat longer, as if he could take it back. As if the letter might fall into his hand again.

It didn’t.

He turned away before he could second guess himself another minute and headed toward his car, shoulders tight, jaw clenched.

Only when he reached the driver’s seat did he realize his hands were trembling.

He forced them steady, started the engine, and pulled away from the curb.

He didn’t look back at the post box.

He drove back to London slowly, the road stretching long and gray ahead of him…

*

Cynthia and his son were gone when he arrived home. He had no clue where they were, but he supposed they'd probably come back by dark. Honestly, it wouldn't phase him that much if they didn't come back at all tonight, that's how detached he was.

So he went to his study and began fumbling with All You Need Is Love...

*

Later, John slipped the finished pages back into the notebook, shut it quietly, and reached for the phone mounted on the wall beside his desk. The study was dim, lit only by the yellow glow of his desk lamp. The silence of the otherwise empty home felt steady—almost protective.

He dialed Abbey Road from memory.

It rang twice before someone picked up—Ken or Richard, he couldn’t tell which. The voice sounded tired, polite, and unmistakably part of George Martin’s crew.

“EMI Studios.”

“Evening, mate. John Lennon here.”

There was a startled pause—then a shuffle of papers. “Oh! Yes—er—good evening, John. What can we do for you?”

“Need Studio One tomorrow,” John said, leaning against the counter. “Afternoon. Earlier the better, but we’ll make any time work. Got somethin’ important for Martin.”

Another pause. Softer this time. “Is this about the song for that Our World broadcast?”

John huffed a quiet laugh. “Aye. Got the bloody thing wrote.”

“That’s…excellent news.” The excitement on the other end was unmistakable. “We can slot you in. Let me check—ah, yes. Two o’clock is fully available. Studio One.”

“Book it,” John said. “Tell Martin to invite the lads.”

“Of course.”

John hesitated for half a second—and then added, voice low:

“And don’t mention this to anyone outside the circle, yeah? Want it tight. No leaks.”

“Absolutely, John.”

He nodded even though no one could see it. “Good man.”

When he hung up, the click echoed in the small kitchen.

Tomorrow was set. Studio One. Two o’clock.

He’d bring the lyrics, the melody, and whatever version of himself managed to show up after this long, heavy week.

And Paul…

John exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck.

He wasn’t sure what tomorrow would look like between them. Not after the party, not after cuddling in Macca's bed. Or the memory he finally uncovered.

But the song was ready. The world was expecting something great. And he, finally, felt steadier than he had in days.

He turned off the light and headed upstairs.

Tomorrow, the Beatles would begin their part. And with any luck, the world would feel just a little simpler once the music started.

*

That next morning, Paul woke with a violent jerk.

For one disoriented second he didn’t recognize the room—he only felt the heat still clinging to his skin, the phantom weight of someone beneath him, the echo of a voice begging in his ear.

John.

Not just John—John flushed and writhing, pulling at him, voice gone raw with want. Letting Paul take control over him, eyebrows taut, expression needing anything he could give. “Fuck me,” he begged, and he could feel John's hands pulling him down for a sloppy kiss. How willing he was for him.. How, with just the look in his eye telling him he absolutely was wrecked because of him. Paul had jolted awake at the brink of release, panting, shaking, unable to make sense of how vivid it had all felt.

He pushed a trembling hand through his hair. “Fucking hell..”

And then—the phone rang.

Paul froze.

It kept filling the room. Once. Twice. A third time..

He swallowed hard and picked up the receiver, still catching his breath. “Hello?”

“Yeah, mornin’,” John said—careless, warm, completely unaware he was stepping into a minefield. “Hope I didn’t wake you.”

Of all people, of all mornings—it had to be him.

Paul’s stomach flipped. “You…did.”

John snorted lightly. “Figures. You sound half dead. Sorry.”

If only he knew.

Paul scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to steady his voice. “It’s fine.. What’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing.. Just ringin’ about the studio,” John said. “Martin was gonna probably call you about this soon anyway. I got us to be scheduled there at two. I finished the last bit of the song yesterday—thought I’d run it by you before we get there.”

Paul hummed, forcing normalcy, pretending his cock wasn't fully erect from a dirty dream of him. “Right. Good.”

The conversation drifted into talk about the melody and John hummed and sang it along, then about the broadcast, especially the orchestra George wanted—but Paul could barely hear any of it. Not with the dream still burning behind his eyes. Not with John’s voice coming through the line—deep, close, painfully real.

After a few minutes, the song talk settled into a comfortable lull.

John sighed softly. “Feels like we’re onto somethin’, y’know?”

Paul hesitated. His heart kicked hard at his ribs.

He shouldn’t say anything. He absolutely shouldn’t.

But Paul’s ghost had told him to be bold. And Paul’s ghost had never lied to him.

So he let it slip—quiet, reckless:

“Yeah…I can’t get you off my mind.”

There was a tiny, shocked pause.

“Well—good,” John said, trying for teasing but sounding a little breathless. “That’s when we do our best.”

Paul exhaled sharply. “Maybe. But…I’ve got somethin’ else that’ll have us working well today.”

Another beat. John perked up like he’d just sat forward in his chair.

“Oh? What’s that then?” His tone was light—too light. Excited under the surface.

Paul swallowed.

“You really wanna know?” he asked.

“Yes, for fuck’s sake,” John said immediately.

Paul shut his eyes and let the truth hit the air.

“I had a dream,” he whispered. “About you.”

John went dead silent.

Paul pressed on, voice low: “Not the kind I’ve had before.”

He heard John gulp.

“…Go on,” John said, voice strained. Careful with what he allowed himself to say outloud, with Cyn in the other room.

Paul felt his whole body go hot. “I was…fuckin’ you.”

The reaction was instant.

John sucked in a sharp breath—audible, unguarded—like Paul had punched the air right out of him.

“Jesus Christ,” John rasped, voice cracking. “Paul—bloody hell—”

Paul winced. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said that.”

“No—no—wait,” John stammered, breath stumbling over itself. “You can’t just—just say that to a man first thing in the morning you absolute menace.”

Paul blinked, flustered, but wholly amused at John stammering over his words. “Are you alright?”

“No!” John blurted—then immediately caught himself. “…I mean—yeah. I mean—fuck, give us a second.”

Paul bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. “You wanted to know. I even asked you twice.”

“But i didn't expect that,” John groaned, somewhere between scandalized and thrilled. “Shit, I thought you meant you dreamt we were writing another tune or on some bloody beach—not—” He cut himself off, swallowing hard. “Not you doin’ that to me.”

Paul’s pulse jumped. “Sorry.”

“Don’t you dare say sorry for that,” John muttered, voice low, rough, almost a growl.

A hot, charged silence pulsed through the line.

Then John—quiet, hesitant, unbearably curious: “So tell me…Was it good?”

Paul exhaled shakily, “Too good. God—it was unlike anything I expected. I-”

John’s breath hitched—loud, sharp.

Paul added, barely above a whisper, “I woke up…hard. Because of you.”

There was a muffled thud, like John had smacked his hand against something, followed by a very soft, very helpless, “Fuck.” John took a breath like he was steadying himself. He failed. “Right,” he managed. “Okay. I—I need to.. to process that.”

Paul swallowed. “Should I not’ve said it?”

“For the love of God, Paul,” John murmured, voice wrecked but trying to stay level when his wife was just down the hall. “-don’t take it back now.”

Another beat.

Then John’s voice dropped lower—controlled, but barely: “Get your arse to the studio early.”

Paul’s heart jumped. “Why?”

“So I can look you in the eyes,” John said, breath catching, “and you can tell me that to my face.”

Paul closed his eyes, pulse hammering. “You really want me to?”

“I bloody do,” John whispered. “Now get there before I lose my mind.”

Despite everything, Paul smiled. “See you soon.”

“Yeah,” he laughed, shaking his head, “you bloody well will.”

Chapter Text

Paul got there first.

London was grey and soft outside, the studio quiet in that early-afternoon lull before anyone respectable showed up. His footsteps echoed faintly as he crossed the lobby, the dream still burning under his skin—too vivid, too intimate, too real. He slipped into Studio Two, hung up his jacket, and sat at the piano, hands resting on the cold keys.

He was still catching his breath when he heard it: footsteps. Fast. Decisive.

John appeared in the doorway, hair wild from the wind, cheeks pink, breath uneven like he’d half run across half of Marylebone.

“There you are,” John said, voice trying—and failing—to sound normal. “Knew you’d make it.”

Paul swallowed, amused. “For you, yeah.”
John didn’t answer. He just stared for a second—too long, too openly—before jerking his head toward the hall.

“Come here. Before the others get in.”
He grabbed Paul’s sleeve and tugged him down the corridor with a nervous urgency that made Paul’s pulse race. They slipped into a practice room, and John locked the door behind them—the click sharp and deliberate.

The air tightened around them.

John leaned back against the wall, chest rising too fast, eyes dark and hungry. “We’re talkin’ about it.”

Paul kept his voice steady. “About the dream?”

“You know damn well,” John muttered, voice cracking. “You don’t just say that to a bloke and- and expect me to breathe right.”

Paul took a slow step forward. “You wanted honesty.”

John’s breath hitched. “I didn’t know you meant-”

But Paul cut him off, voice low, purposeful. “John, let me stop you. I’ve been thinking of you like that. Every…single…day. And having to keep it to meself. Finally having that dream, seeing you like that, all for me.. God, I just…I need it for real.”

John broke.

He lunged forward, grabbing Paul’s jaw, and kissed him—hungry, breathless, messy—like he’d been starving for months. Paul made a soft, shocked noise into his mouth and kissed him back just as fiercely.

John pressed him against the wall, hands desperate on his waist, kissing him like he’d die if he stopped.

Paul let him—only for a moment.

Then he took over.

He fisted a hand in John’s shirt, pulling him closer, kissing him deeper until John actually whimpered, hips pressing forward helplessly.

John tore his mouth away only long enough to gasp: “Paul, if you keep on with that, I swear I’ll let you bend me over right here—”

Paul laughed softly against his cheek.
“You’re acting like I should,” he teased, voice rough with heat.

“Yeah,” John breathed, frantic, pupils blown wide. “God—do it already.”

Instead, Paul grabbed his hips, lifted his knee between John’s legs, and pressed up.
John choked out a sound, half moan, half swear, hands flying to Paul’s shoulders to stay upright. “Fuck..”

Paul kissed him again, deeper, more attentive, then dragged his mouth down the side of John’s neck. He sucked a bruise there—low, dark, unmistakable—right where everyone would see it with the shirt John wore today.

John gasped. “Damn it, Paul. Fuck…”

“Sorry,” Paul murmured against his skin, licking lightly over the mark. “Couldn’t help it.”

John trembled. Actually trembled.

Paul kissed his jaw once more, then eased back with a wicked little smirk. The real McCartney was right. John needed someone to be confident. Knowing what to do.

“Look at you,” he whispered. “If I don’t stop, you’ll come apart in here.”

John swallowed hard, dazed. “I don't want you to fucking stop.”

“It will happen,” Paul said softly. “Just not here. Not like this.”

He stepped back, leaving John pressed to the wall, bruised and breathless and shaking. For a moment, neither moved. The room hummed with the ghost of their breathing.

Then Paul breathed out, steadying himself. “C’mon. We should go get set up in there already.”

John tried to answer, but only managed a strangled noise.

Paul smirked and opened the door. They walked out trying—honestly trying—to act normal. But the practice room saw everything. John’s hair was tousled, lips swollen, breathing uneven. Paul’s curls were pushed back from John’s hands, his shirt slightly open, a faint flush still across his chest.

He sat at the piano, rolling his shoulders and adjusting the mic with a calm that made John’s head spin. Concentration softened his mouth, parted his lips, exposed the curve of his neck every time he leaned forward.

John nearly forgot how to breathe.

He gripped his guitar like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

Paul raked a hand through his hair in thought, exposing the soft line of his throat. John’s eyes followed automatically.

“You alright?” Paul asked without looking up.

John coughed. “M’fine.”

“Then quit staring.”

“I’m not,” he whispered, embarrassed. “But god damn, I can’t help it when you look like that.”

Paul looked at him over his shoulder, teasing, joking. Assuredly. A look that said: Just wait.

Before John could fall to pieces again, the door opened.

George Harrison stepped in, guitar case slung over his shoulder. Ringo followed behind him, dripping rain.

“Hey, lads,” George chirped—then paused.

“Why d’you both look like you’ve run a marathon?”

Paul shrugged. “We’re eager.”

John stared at the floor, praying for divine intervention.

George Martin came in not much long after, cheerful and polished. “Good afternoon, boys. I see you’re early—wonderful.”

He took the sheet from John.

All You Need Is Love.

“It’s perfect,” George said. “We’ll build the orchestral framework around this. Very strong.”

John nodded—but his eyes slipped again to Paul.

Paul felt the stare and bit back a smile.

George went on. “We’ll need a tempo reference today. Nothing fancy—just structure.”

“Right—yeah,” John said, voice cracking slightly. “We can do that.”

George returned to the booth.

The moment the door shut, Paul leaned toward John—barely, just enough that John felt it.

“Don’t worry, baby,” Paul murmured. “We'll get what we want later.”

John’s face went scarlet.

Boots scuffed in the hallway. The others were coming back.

Paul walked away, brushing John’s arm as he passed.

John didn’t breathe again for a full fifteen seconds.

And Paul—sitting at the piano, curls falling over his eyes—only smiled to himself.

Because both of them knew the truth now. This wasn’t just wanting—this was something unavoidable.

*

They started shaping the song’s structure, sketching out the parts John heard in his head.

Paul worked through chord voicings on the piano while John described the horn lines he imagined—bright, triumphant, simple. George Martin moved briskly between the control room and the floor, arranging the first drafts of orchestral sheets while John shifted fully into work mode, pacing, humming, adjusting the phrasing as inspiration hit. He couldn't afford to slip up by letting his eyes fall upon Paul too long.

They were finally in the groove—or trying to be.
John at the mic, guitar hanging a little low. Ringo tapping out a lazy warm-up roll. George Harrison fiddling with the tone knob on his guitar. Paul at the piano, posture straight, curls falling into his eyes.

George Martin’s voice floated through the talkback. “Right then—rolling. Take one.”

Ringo clicked his sticks. “One, two. One two three—”

They went into it; messy but promising.
John sang the opening lines, voice warm, steady, carrying the melody with that signature half-lazy confidence. Paul followed in perfect harmony, fingers tapping out the chords without effort, eyes on the lyrics only when he needed to pretend he wasn’t watching John.

Halfway through the take, Ringo leaned back slightly, tapping his sticks idly on his knees. His eyes flicked toward John, catching the faint mark near his collarbone. With a sly grin, he rubbed the same spot on his own neck, making quick, playful eye contact with John.

“Keeps you on your toes, eh?” he muttered, voice light, joking, as if the gesture meant nothing more than a passing itch.

John’s face flushed, a mix of embarrassment and amusement, and he let out a soft, incredulous laugh, shaking his head. Paul’s curls fell forward as he caught the interaction, and he bit back a grin, letting the moment sit in the comfortable, unspoken space between them.

George Harrison, catching the brief exchange, smirked but said nothing, while George Martin continued to call out directions through the talkback, oblivious to—or deliberately ignoring—the subtle undercurrent of glances and half-smiles threading through the band.

The room hummed with music and quiet mischief, and though no one spoke the truth aloud, the shared understanding lingered: everyone knew, and everyone was letting it happen, safe in the knowledge that nothing would get them into trouble today.

George Martin: “Good. Again, boys. From the top.”

Paul leaned toward his mic to adjust the stand.

And without thinking—without filtering—he said, gently: “Whenever you’re ready, baby…”

It landed soft. Soft…but unmistakable.
John’s head jerked the tiniest bit. Not shock—just something warm and private slipping across his face.

Ringo looked down at his snare with the ghost of a grin tugging his mouth. George Harrison’s eyes flicked between the two of them, amused, unreadable.

No one could say a bloody thing.

But the room felt it. That shift. That slipping of something intimate into the open.

Paul froze for half a second, breath catching, praying no one caught it.

They all did. They just chose not to comment.
John’s eyes softened in a way Paul hadn’t seen before—wide, bright, almost shy around the edges. He didn’t smile fully. Just a tiny curl at the corner of his mouth, like he’d tuck the moment into his pocket for later.

Ringo clicked his sticks again, easy as anything. “One, two… A-one two three—”

They launched into take two like nothing had happened.

But Paul could feel John’s eyes on him between verses. And every time their harmonies blended just right, John’s lips twitched—that same quiet, knowing smirk.

It was subtle. Exactly the kind of moment only they would understand.

And somewhere on tape, clean as day, soft as breath—Paul McCartney had called John Lennon baby.

They all just…let it roll.

*

Hours passed like minutes after that.

They shaped the entire skeleton of the track—tempo agreed, harmonies loosely mapped, John humming the brass lines while Paul mirrored back on piano, adjusting voicings with that sharp little frown of concentration he always wore.

George Martin drifted between the control booth and the floor, marking down orchestration cues, muttering things like, “We’ll need a stronger transition here,” and, “This will sit beautifully under the strings.”

By late afternoon, pencils were worn to nubs and ashtrays were overflowing.

Martin finally closed his notebook with that decisive, gentle clap that meant enough for one day.

“Well,” he said, pushing his glasses up, “I think we have a solid foundation. Let’s pick it up again Monday morning and start tightening the structure. Everyone alright with that?”

Everyone nodded—some tired, some wired, all buzzing with the quiet triumph of a song taking shape.

Paul stretched his arms above his head, shirt shifting open just a touch more in the movement. John pretended not to notice. Failed miserably.

Ringo snapped his sticks together. George slung his guitar over his shoulder. The studio lights hummed softly overhead, warm and golden.

By the time the last take ended, the energy in the room had dimmed into that soft, late evening hush Abbey Road always seemed to take on after a long day. George Martin checked his watch, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

Harrison packed up his guitar quietly, humming a line from something half written. Ringo yawned hard enough to make his eyes water.

Within a minute, the two were shrugging on their jackets, offering casual goodbyes as they shuffled toward the door.

“Don’t stay too late,” George Harrison called over his shoulder.

“And... no trouble,” Ringo added with a knowing grin.

Paul laughed it off. John couldn't even manage that—just raised a hand in a vague wave without looking away from Paul.

The door shut behind them.

The studio went still.

Just the low hum of the amps cooling down, the soft tick of the clock on the wall, the faint scent of warm cables and dusted piano felt left behind.

John exhaled a long breath he’d been holding since before the others even left. “…Well,” he said, voice quieter now, almost careful. “It’s just us.”

Paul didn’t speak at first. He reached up, smoothing a curl behind his ear, suddenly aware of how impossibly quiet the room had become.

John stepped closer—not too close, not enough to be reckless, but enough that Paul felt the warmth of him.

“When,” John asked softly, honesty bleeding through the cracks in his voice, “do you want to…follow through?” He didn’t say it to be teasing, cocky, or even impatient. It was just John finally being vulnerable.

Paul’s breath stilled for a moment. John wasn’t looking at him with hunger now—he was looking at him with hope. Cautious hope, like he expected Paul to pull away, laugh it off, or deny everything they had let themselves feel.

And Paul didn’t. He stepped closer. Close enough that their sleeves brushed, barely a whisper of contact.

“You fancy comin’ over to mine?” Paul asked, voice low but steady. The polar opposite of what John was expecting.

John’s eyes flickered—surprise, desire, fear, relief—all at once. “Tonight?”

Paul nodded, gentler this time. “Yeah. Tonight.”

John blinked, disbelieving. “You mean it?”

Paul let out a breath that felt like a truth finally spoken. “I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t.”

For a moment, John didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. He looked Paul up and down, a faint smirk toying on his lips.

Then his shoulders softened like he’d been clenching the whole day and didn’t realize it until right now.

“…Alright,” he whispered. “Yeah. I’ll come.”

Paul’s mouth tugged into a small, warm smirk in response. “Was the plan, love,” he murmured. “Let’s head out before I lose my nerve and ask you twice.”

John laughed under his breath—short, startled, and completely wrecked in the sweetest way.

Paul held the door open.

John walked through.

Both of them knew exactly what tonight meant.