Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Before John and Paul went to Paris, they had some things to sort out.

Namely - Linda and Yoko.

See; John sometimes wondered, why he'd so easily given up everything for Paul. Not that he didn't know the answer already - but he wondered, nonetheless. He was quite sure he'd loved Yoko, in a way that a husband should love a wife. But that wasn't the type of love he had for Paul - suppose that's why she'd liked to call him a, 'closet fag', so to speak.

Paul was far more difficult than Yoko was - especially at first. Wasn't as hard, now. Seemed simpler than he'd ever given Paul credit for. John had always thought he was the selfish type; but, well, seems not. Not as much as he'd thought so, anyway. He'd stuck with Paul until the good days had started to, miraculously, outnumber the bad ones.

He'd even stopped properly painting, for a short while. Just drew two little stick figures, outside of a house; constantly damp, from the water colours. They'd dripped, and dried; and ran, into John's imagination - of him and Paul, holding hands outside of a house that was their own. Two kids, a backyard, a dog. Maybe even a horse.

John could feel that picture, even closer than it had been when he'd first started to create it. Because it really wasn't that far from the reality of how things were now. That's why John had stuck around.

Because the pain of being without Paul was far greater than the pain of being with him. Through thick and thin, as they say.

Still, John couldn't entirely ignore the responsibilities of his old life. Sure, he'd - partially - made up with Jules. But, he needed to fix the whole mess with Yoko. Though they'd been separated since that phone call all that time ago, they weren't quite yet divorced. And Paul had mentioned more than a few times how he wasn't quite happy with that little predicament.

John would do anything to make Paul happy. Even if it meant having to endure the undoubted telling off Yoko would give him when he finally saw her again. Oh, whatever. He deserved it, anyhow.

They were both meeting up with their ex-spouses. This morning - actually. Yay.

John looked over to Paul, who seemed a lot happier than John did. Pulling his socks on with trembling hands, humming a slightly off-pitch tune. That still sounded perfect - because of course it did. And it'd been such a while since Paul had wanted to actively make sound again, that John couldn't have faulted it even if he tried.

Paul was nervous, of course he was. But he was also happy. And Paul being happy made John feel euphoric.

'It's the day, hm?' Whispered Paul, practically buzzing.

'Yeah, seems so.'

The plan, as established by Paul - John was alright to do anything, really, as long as Paul was alright with it - was to have Linda come to the house, and John go out to meet Yoko at some Scottish bar down the road. Well, down the road being over thirty minutes, considering they were in the middle of nowhere. Somehow, though, the press had caught wind of it all - the hounds were probably camped at that bar, right now. No messing around with them lot.

So, Yoko would be coming here with Linda. John shivered, imagining the two ladies in the car together. Each having worse and worse stories to tell about their foolish, departed husbands.

John sighed, buttoning up his shirt, then went to bug Paul. Wrapped around him like a sloth, all languid, and innocent - like he wasn't blocking Paul from zipping up his trousers.

John's hands travelled down slowly, playing with the brim of Paul's boxers.

'Oi, now, son. What're ye doin'?' Paul always got a thicker accent when he was flustered, which was so unbelievably endearing to John.

'Just checkin' out the goods, is all.'

Paul laughed, fluttering to push John away with weak wrists - 'Johnny!'

'Alright, alright. Don't get your - uhm,' John made another go at having a cheeky feel, but was blocked instantly. 'Your knickers in a twist.'

Paul shoved John away, teasingly, 'you're a dog, y'know.' He sounded absolutely gleeful with it.

John just grinned.

Oh, if only Paul knew.

Paul lifted his head easily, nowadays. The first thing he'd found difficulty with, when it'd all started out.

He'd thought it was stress. Maybe he'd developed some muscular disease. Something.

Then, he'd skipped the first shower. First meeting. First song idea. Too tired to write down the chords.

Now, he could hum again. Albeit, strained. He knew he could still sing; as good as he had used to. But, well, he was more tentative now. Less eager to throw it around.

He liked to hum when John was in the room. Just to remind him. Hey, it's still the same guy you loved in Liverpool.

He and John had been in a sexual relationship for twenty three days. They'd been in a romantic relationship for a few months. 'Platonic' relationship for far too many years.

They'd been together, all their lives.

And Paul felt more than ready to see Linda - Yoko, even - with John by his side. Always by his side, that's what John was. The one that'd held his naked body in the shower, washed his hair for the first time in years. Because nobody but John had seemed to be able to bring themselves to do that for him. Made him feel safe, even in his weakest moments.

A knock - two knocks, actually - resounded at the door.

John grimaced. Paul jumped up. For better, or for worse, they were doing this.

Get all the difficult stuff out of the way.

Then, Paris.

Linda stood at the door, pulling at her shirt awkwardly, fidgeting. Yoko was, in contrast, very still. Really, Linda thought, the pair of them were like night and day.

See, Linda wasn't nervous about seeing Paul, even after all of these years. Yes, it'd been far two long - and, yes, sometimes he popped into her mind now and again. How she hadn't been able to stick it out, hadn't been able to match up to her vows. In sickness and in health, and she'd run away in the middle of the night.

But, then, Heather would come home with a fever. Or Mary would cry for her mother when she had a nightmare. And Linda would think - I did the best I could do for my children, and that's what Paul would have wanted.

Linda didn't feel nervous, because she'd done the right thing. And she wasn't angry with Paul, either. They'd always been lovely friends; so, Linda was hoping, after they'd talked it all out, that Paul would be in her life again. The kid's lives. Because it was lousy, not having a father for them. Even if Linda had taken up with a lovely woman - the greatest partner she could've asked for, with raising the kids.

Linda wanted to see Paul. She was grinning, from ear to ear.

Yoko? Not so much. Linda laid her hand on Yoko's shoulder, said - 'hey, if you need to have a shout at John, you ought to go for it.'

Yoko smiled, slightly, looked at her - she had brilliant eyes, Linda thought - before she glanced away. 'No, I don't think I'll yell at him. Maybe praise him. After all, I wouldn't have been able to be with Sam, if he hadn't have left.'

Linda's smile became wider - yes, Sam was a lovely, lovely fellow.

'And, if he hadn't have left, then John would never have been able to be with Paul. So it all worked out, didn't it?'

The door swung open.

And there Paul was, looking as young and as happy and as carefree as the day she'd first taken his picture.

Before Paul could even say anything, Linda was pulling him into the tightest hug she'd given him, since the day they'd gotten married. All those memories coming back to her, and she was so, so glad Paul was alright.

Linda buried her face into his neck. He didn't smell like alcohol, or like exhaustion.

'Look who's back,' she whispered into his neck.

It took Paul a moment to wrap his arms around her, probably caught off-guard, but his hands were careful and gentle as he wrapped his arms around her. One hand cupping her head, his fingers in her hair.

'I'm sorry, Linda.'

'I know.'

Yoko watched the whole affair with an elated gaze.

John hadn't yet shown his sorry arse - but that was alright, really. Linda and Paul had always been the best of friends, and Yoko wasn't really surprised that any uncomfortable air that had been between them was immediately melted by the first few words. The complicated discussions would come later; but, here, they were simple.

If only John were.

She saw the glint of his glasses before she saw him, watched as John lingered behind the embraced pair, like he could hide himself in the shadows. He'd never liked proper confrontation, something which had slightly irritated Yoko. She wanted him to be direct with his words, tell her what he was thinking. That'd always been reserved for Paul.

Then, without Paul, everything that had been tangled in John's head went nowhere. Trusted with nobody.

He and Yoko were kindred spirits, in their respective fields, that's what she'd always said. Artistically speaking. Personality-wise? Not so much. Though, on the outside, they didn't seem all that different.

Yoko stepped forward, tilting her head, as John followed her movement. His adam's apple bopping up and down, the only hint of his apprehension. His eyes darting back and forth from her to Paul. A dance she knew well. Familiarity, that's what made her extend her hand to him.

And he took it, shook it tenderly, then led her to the kitchen.

Leaving Paul and Linda to sob it out by the front door.

'Tea?' John asked, busying himself at the kitchen, seemingly wanting to look everywhere but at her.

Yoko rolled her eyes, fixing them firmly on John. 'I'll have coffee.'

'Don't know if we 'ave much of that, but, uh - let's see.' John dug around clumsily for a bit, shooing away the cobwebs in the corner - huffing when Yoko commented on the state of disrepair his kitchen was in. He finally pulled out a sorry looking jar, then held it to her, like a prize.

'Coffee.'

'Well, go on, then,' Yoko chuckled, crossing one of her legs over the other. Truth be told, she didn't want to drink that coffee. But English people always seemed so much looser over a warm drink; so, she'd accept it. Courtesy, that's what it was.

Yoko didn't know if she'd ever been truly fussed about John leaving her. Taking off to Scotland, without even a word. She supposed other wives would have been quite scorned; and, alright, it's not like she didn't love John. She still did - he meant the world to her, he always had. But she'd seen it, had known it.

Their lives were mapped in different directions. And there was no blocking a path once it had already been travelled.

John placed down the cups haphazardly, liquid spilling over the edges. He cursed, then wiped the surfaces off with his sleeve.

'Well, uh.' John sighed, looking down. Yoko knew that look; one of shame.

John'd talked to her, about a lot of things, actually. Never about what was truly in his heart - but what had, once, been. His parents, mostly. Them, leaving him. How he'd explained to her that he'd vowed never to leave anyone, not ever again. Not like he'd done to Cynthia and Julian. Then, he'd left Yoko.

Yoko knew what he must be thinking. That the familiar dread was rising up in his stomach, the guilt expanding and rising. The inability to believe that, sometimes, people who were left behind didn't mind it all as much as he thought they did.

Yoko sighed, 'it's fine, John. You can say sorry, and we can forget it.'

John blinked, then scowled. 'Forget it? Yoko, ye don't need to pretend for my sake. Ye can yell it all out, it'll make me feel better. I was a bastard.'

'Okay.' Yoko's eyes glimmered.

'Okay? It's not - it isn't, y'know. It isn't. We need to talk - talkin'…It's good. Yeah?'

'Who told you that?'

John stared at her incredulously for a moment, looking down. 'You told me that, Yoko.'

'I did - but you still don't know what it means.'

Yoko took a sip of her coffee, trying not to break her neutral expression with a grimace of disgust. God, they desperately needed to clean their storage out. John looked as if he was about to protest, but he bit his tongue. Good.

'No, Yoko. Suppose I don't.' A pink flush was rising up his neck. 'Suppose I didn't.'

'Do you understand, now?'

John looked away shiftily, then huffed. 'I loved you, I did. I promise, it wasn't false. Nothin' like that. I married ye because I wanted to.'

'And…?'

'And, well, y'know.'

Yoko rose an eyebrow. A, not good enough.

'Enlighten me.'

'Paul.'

Yoko deflated. At last. She'd known it ever since she'd walked into the studio for the first time with John.

Everyone had looked at her with a sort of disinterest - hostile, or curious. But Paul had looked at her like his world had just been taken from him.

John had looked after Paul like the world hadn't gone anywhere at all; like it was right in front of him.

Yoko had felt sorry for the both of them. Unbelievably idiotic. It had taken John long enough to run off; she'd thought it'd never happen. And she'd known, when she'd woken up to an empty bed, exactly where John was.

All those jealous glares Paul had been sending her way - really, they were the only things she was pissed about.

'Paul and I…We're, uhm. Y'know, together.' John looked like he was about one second away from gagging. 'Never told anyone, you see. So, yeah. That's it.'

'Any other news?'

'W - uhm, pardon?' Baffled, John finally made eye contact with her. At last.

'I already knew, John. I'm not - what's the word? Daft?'

'Yeah - but, how-?'

'It's obvious to anybody with eyes. I was always connected to you, John. I knew what you felt for him. I knew I had to be there for you, until you finally found him again.'

John didn't say anything to that, just shot her a little look. 'So, we're,' he paused, hopeful. 'Alright, again?'

'You're still a bastard, John,' she laid her hand on his. 'But, okay. We're alright.'

'C'mon, Lin, just - just give me a good whack.'

Linda laughed, shocked. She hadn't exactly expected Paul to take it this far - not when she'd told him that, for the better part of their relationship, all she'd wanted to do was slap him out of it. They were in some sort of creek, now, and the water was running.

Linda could feel it cold on her legs, could feel how her hands twitched.

Paul, becoming nothing, trailing away; like the water. His own wife not enough to get him back, his own children. How unfair it was that she was still angry with him, despite long ago accepting that none of it could have been helped. Angry at how he'd made her angry; even though he was such a sweet man. Even though they were the best of friends.

Even though he'd hurt her, so badly, so terribly. Because he was hurting; and she understood that. And she didn't want him to have hidden it, but she sometimes wondered why she wasn't enough for him to manage that. That she had to remember he was human, and in terrible pain, and not the larger than life giant that she'd once revered him as.

Here he was, the source of all that pent up turmoil, real. In the flesh, warm, and encouraging. Eyes finally looking at her - instead of some long ago memory, that further consumed him, until he was whittled down.

Paul was back. The man she'd once loved was back. Her best friend in all the world.

The one that got on her nerves, constantly. With a, 'wear this, not that', and an, 'I'll get better,' - with a 'John, John, John', and all the empty promises that came along. A bird whistled in the neighbouring tree.

Paul offered his face to Linda, like some sort of proverbial lamb. The cold made its way up her legs.

Her hand, warm, as it came to land squarely on Paul's face. Shocked, as he dramatically fell over - even though she really didn't hit him that hard - and grabbed her before he completely fell, causing the two of them to tumble into the water.

'Paul!' Linda screeched, trying to grab onto her hat as it floated off of her head.

'Linda!' Paul screamed back - though much more nicely, sounding like a falsetto, rather than the croak Linda had emitted. Linda scowled at that, splashing a great deal of water at Paul.

He laughed, trying to block the barrage coming at him; trying to splash back at her. Like they were kids again.

Paul looked so very young like this - so alive, and so real. That Linda cried. Paul paused at that, wading over to her, a look of understanding passing over his eyes.

Linda looked to Paul, eyes misty. She reached for his hand, held it in hers. Watched as he actually responded. Back again. She could hardly believe it.

'Oh, dear - hum. I am still upset with you, Paulie.'

Paul looked away, then returned his gaze to her. 'I know..I - I'm upset with myself, too. Y'know, I - I hate it. What I did, t'ya. To the kids. To meself, and I don't even know why. Why I did any of it.'

'It's been far too long, Paul.'

'I know, love.'

The two of them didn't move from the water, just tilted their heads, and pressed their noses against one another.

Linda felt Paul's breath on her face. How glad she was that he was still breathing - because, at one point, she'd really thought he was dead. She'd really thought she wouldn't care if he was. And she'd been very, very wrong.

'I missed you, Paul.'

Paul hummed, then ran his hands through Linda's hair. Beautiful hair. Golden in the sun. Hazy, and almost auburn. But not harsh, not like John's. Just soft, and warm. Easy, and welcoming.

She was the love of his life. But she wasn't John. He'd never love anybody like he loved John. Nobody had ever loved anybody like he'd loved John.

'I missed you, too, Linda.'

Later in the day, after John and Yoko had had some sort of feud over the divorce papers, they all sat on the grass, watching the stars.

'You don't get this in America,' Yoko murmured, digging her hands into the soil. 'Not in New York, anyhow.'

John looked at her, 'benefits of livin' in a practical wasteland.'

They all laughed, Linda the least.

'But it's not really a wasteland, is it? So much life around, everywhere. Listen.'

They all went silent. All Paul could hear was John's chest moving up and down. Maybe there were other sounds to be heard, but all that mattered was just that one small thing.

Linda spoke again, after a minute or so. 'I miss this place, I do. It's wonderful. Of course, the girls love where they are, but this farm - it's magical. Just magical.'

Paul frowned, remorse tugging at him. Then, he looked to John, whose eyes were trained on him, and a silent agreement passed between them.

Paul turned to Linda. 'I'll give it to ye.'

Yoko didn't move. Linda, on the other hand, flinched - 'what, Paul?'

'The farm. It's yours, if ye'd like.'

Linda didn't say anything, just shook her head. 'No, no. It's yours.'

'And John's', Yoko chimed in, earning her a fond look from all of them.

'And John's!' John reaffirmed, getting up and doing a silly pose, playing the clown. They all chuckled at that, an easy sort of peace settling over them.

So many years had passed, since everything. So little time at all. Maybe it wasn't perfect, not yet - nothing was. Paul wasn't in a rush for it to be.

But, with George and Rich. And now with Linda - even Yoko, everything felt safer.

Paul curled his hand around John's. Went stiff as he felt eyes looking over, judging, tearing him to pieces. A pretty face; that's all, suited to being a queer.

When he looked up, all of their eyes were open. And light.

Paul's hand tightened around John's. His shoulders loosened. Everything was getting better.

Life did that, funnily enough. It got better.

All things had to, eventually.

'Make sure to call, Paul. The kids would love to speak to you!' Linda yelled over her shoulder, as she helped Yoko climb into the car.

Yoko shouted to John, 'and make sure you don't call me!'

John cackled, 'I'll ring ye Monday, Yoko!'

John and Paul waved as the car drove off. The second car to drive off in the past few months that made Paul feel like he was on top of the world again.

Paul turned to John. John turned to him.

'Race ye!'

And they ran back to the house. Paul won.

John didn't let him win, either. Paul had made it, genuinely. Without John's help.

The two of them had gotten their bags packed in less than an hour. Would be on the next plane to Paris in less than five.

Logistics damned - they'd just go there like they had done when they were kids. Nothing to them but the clothes on their backs, and teenage dreams.

Nothing to them, but Paris.

'Ah, fuck,' John huffed, as they hid in an alley somewhere.

Turns out, two Beatles - both of who were believed to be dead - turning up in one of the most popular cities in the world was bound to cause a stir. Luckily, they'd made it away from the huge mob that had accumulated, but; well, they were both bent a bit out of shape.

Paul held a stitch, huffing a laugh. He felt more alive than he had in ages. 'Well, that was a nice welcome, wasn't it, John?'

'They wanted to rip off our heads! Bloody wankers.'

Paul groaned, sliding down the wall, holding his bag to his chest. He'd dropped the other one on a little street somewhere a few miles back.

'Right, then. What now?' John considered, then grabbed Paul's hand, and began to run again.

Paul yelled, laughing - 'what are you doin'?'

'Quiet, now, son; don't want to get caught, do we?'

John ran for a bit longer, until they found a quaint little hotel - small, and run down. A lot like the one they'd stayed in all those years ago.

John grinned, a proud little look on his face. 'Right, then, it's perfect.'

And so it would be, Paul thought - as, when they went in, the receptionist didn't even give them a double look. Just tutted at Paul's bumbling French.

Went, 'you can talk in english, here.'

Paul blushed red to his roots - but, he barrelled on. 'Would like a room, please.'

The receptionist rose an eyebrow, scratching his head, bored. 'Two beds?'

'Nah, just one, ta.'

Paul scoffed, going even more crimson - this was all so embarrassing!

'John!' He squealed, pushing at him softly. They could afford two beds. They could even have afforded it when they were kids with just a hundred quid to burn. Still a lot of money, then - but they had much more now. No excuse…

The receptionist just handed them a key, yawned, uttered a small, 'don't be noisy', then went back to daydreaming. Such class, Paul thought, amused.

They made their way up the stairs, Paul's hand tracing the peeling wallpaper. They hadn't quite been able to brave the lift; it looked once second away from collapsing in on itself. As they got to their floor, their ears were assaulted with the sounds of obnoxious opera - ugh! John scowled, yelled, 'roll it over, won't ye?'

Paul shoved him, whispered, 'shut up!' And they managed to run into their room before anyone could come and yell at them back.

The two collapsed against the door, looking around at the room.

Drooping plant, that desperately needed water. Curtains - near non-existent, Paul able to count each thread. Yellow, molding wallpaper. In desperate need of a replacement. Sticky, wooden floors. One bed, with a thin mattress, and an even thinner blanket. One measly pillow. Paul laughed.

To him, this was Paris.

Looking over to John, he knew the other man felt them same.

And, once again - he whispered, 'what now?'

For there were so many things to do.

Those things included having a quick wash, and collapsing onto their singular bed.

See, they weren't as young as they had been - and they, before rushing out, needed to figure out how to fix the issues of their faces being so, hum, recognisable.

John had come up with a various assortment of ludicrous ideas, like growing back their beards overnight. Like shaving their heads; and Paul having the glasses, instead of John. Like dressing in drag, and pretending they were birds with a suspicious resemblance to those two musicians from England.

Instead, they settled on wearing two of Paul's gaudy scarves around their necks - hiding their mouths - and wearing conspicuous bowler hats. Better to look like stupid tourists instead of two of the most famous men in the world.

Soon as they'd put them on, they'd started to relentlessly tease each other, bursting into fits of giggles. John leaning over to nibble at Paul's scarf - the wet spots appearing there causing Paul to gasp in dissatisfaction, shoving John away.

'Slimy git!' Paul yelled, rubbing at the cloth.

'Oh, don't fuss, love. You'll live.'

Paul glared. John rose his hands, smug.

'Fine, take my scarf. We'll switch.'

Their hands brushed as they passed the garments over. Lingering slightly longer than they needed to. They'd always lingered for longer than they needed to.

No surprise, there.

'So, uh, where do you wanna go?' John asked, nuzzling his face into Paul's neck. Last time they'd been here, he hadn't been able to do that. He'd wanted to, so badly.

'How far d'you reckon this place is from, uh - Avenue des Anglais?' Paul messed up the pronunciation a little bit, but John's face brightened with recognition all the same.

'Let's go nick a map from our lovely landlord down there, yeah?'

Paul nodded, laughing.

Back with their map - after having been glowered at by the receptionist - they trailed around uselessly.

There were more people around than they remembered. More litter, too; which a disapproving Paul whined about. There were more cars, and more lights, and more shops, and just; well, more of everything. It was impossible not to veer off course.

At one point, John and Paul had found themselves at an artist's booth - one of those where they drew a caricature. It was quiet enough that John and Paul felt safe to take off their disguises, and that they did. Nothing from the artist indicated he knew them, so that was alright.

When they got it back - after paying a pretty penny for it, mind you - they both couldn't help themselves from bursting into hysterics.

John's nose had been drawn far out of proportion, more pointy than one you saw on a witch. His eyebrows bushier than ever, and his beautiful hair; made stringy, and clumpy.

Paul's wasn't much better; though it wasn't as ugly as John's. His eyes were drawn massive, lashes longer than his face; which had been drawn rather round and pudgy. Paul had thought he'd left his baby fat behind him long ago, now. Seems not as much as he'd thought.

'John, ye look like me Dad!' Paul cackled, dodging as John went to clout him.

'Well you look like a bird!' John pointed at the droopy eyes the painter had given Paul. 'Bedroom eyes, there. All Marilyn Monroe, like.'

'Well, it's better than the slugs he gave you for eyebrows!'

John shrugged, 'I think he even gave you tits, Paul.'

Paul gasped, scandalized. He hadn't noticed that, else he wouldn't have paid! 'Y'what?!' Furious, he grabbed at it. 'Where?!'

'I was just pulling your leg!'

Paul pocketed the drawing, then chased after John, giggling as the stupid man tried to jump over a bush - but, instead, went flying over some poor couple's picnic.

Paul clasped his hands over his mouth, almost dying right then and there as John shook himself of the sandwiches.

'Ducon!' The lady screamed, whacking at John with her handbag.

John tried to dodge out of the way, making more of a fool of himself. Before setting off as quickly as he could, checking behind him to see if Paul was following.

Paul let out a huff, and followed him. The two of them, running through the streets of Paris, tripping over themselves. Yelling, and laughing, and shouting. A far cry away from that bedroom, where John had found Paul.

John looked behind him again, checking to see if Paul was still with him.

A cobbled road, the hill, framing a giant expanse of sea. John screamed in joy, hands managing to grab Paul's, then he practically danced them down to the water, not caring if there was anyone around to see - even as he brought Paul into a clinging hug.

Some kid snorted, and pointed at them. An old lady huffed, and covered her poodle's eyes. John hugged Paul like he was the only person in the entire world. Because he was, really.

In this moment, he was. Forever, he would be.

Suddenly, it was so easy to say, 'I love you.'

And it was so easy to hear it in return.

At last, they made it to Anglais, palm trees blowing with the gentle wind that caressed them.

Long gone were the disguises. But it didn't matter. Everyone seemed so wrapped up in their own little holiday, that they hardly cared for anything else.

John was still dancing, singing little nothings, growing more eager when Paul joined in. They sounded so perfect together, so lovely, that John knew immediately that he'd never stop singing again. Not if Paul kept joining in with him.

Here Paul was now - his hair, in funny little tufts, his clothes in disrepair. His smile, wild and free, and the love in John's heart growing beyond anything. He grasped Paul's hand, running his other up and down Paul's arm.

It was good to touch, and there was something about Paul's hand in John's that made him feel like the luckiest man in the world. That he really had reached the toppermost of the poppermost.

'Want to get a sandwich?' Paul murmured, singing that, too - John nodded his head up and down, slipping into the role of a suave gentleman.

'Yes, three-course at the Ritz, my gentleman. Couldn't get a looker like you any less, could I?'

Paul smiled mischievously, dragging John along the promenade, to see if they could locate a suitable café. It was so simple, letting Paul lead him. That he wondered why he'd ever tried to take the reins away.

John stumbled, leaning into Paul's side. Melting, fusing there, into that little nook. So close he could see the little scar on Paul's lip. He ran his finger across it, just shrugging when Paul glanced at him questioningly.

Responding with, 'I love you.'

Paul stayed, when he said it. That's all John had ever wanted, really. The only way he'd ever wanted to Paul. To stay. Even if John loved him.

A lump formed in John's throat, but it dispersed as soon as Paul dragged him into a little building - flowers growing all over its brick walls, the bustle and smell of pastry, a welcoming woman smiling at them; eyes creasing, all motherly.

Paul, once again, tried with his dodgy French. The woman shook her head. 'Oh, no, dear. It's alright, where would you like to sit?'

Paul pointed at a little table right next to the window, where it overlooked the ocean - all of the children playing, the dogs running around them, the adults tutting. The world went on. Smelt like salt.

John walked to the table, with Paul, as the lady followed behind.

'What can I get for you, lovelies?'

John thought she probably came from Suffolk, or something like it. Paul just looked at the menu, like he could actually read what the dishes were.

'Sandwiches, please.'

'All of them?'

The lady rose her eyebrow, lips curling amiably.

'All of them, yeah. Uh, please. Beer, too, if you've any.'

The lady gave them a thumbs-up, then walked off, likely to get them what they ordered.

John's hand curled around Paul's again, mirroring all of the other lovers in the place. 'Y'know, ye don't look half bad in Paris, Paul. Bit pale, but, y'know. Not everyone's perfect.'

Paul rolled his eyes, tapping his nails on the table's surface, and looking out of the window. 'Oh, shut up, you. Proper bat, that's what you are, Johnny.'

John nudged Paul's foot with his under the table, not letting up even when the food was set down, and the beer. Which they'd ordered as pints - but seemed far, far larger than they usually were.

Paul held his glass up as a toast, 'to an old beginning', he muttered.

Smile on his face the same as it had been over a decade ago.

'To an old beginning.'

Yoko and John had squabbled quite a bit when they'd been together.

Once, it'd been so bad - John had said, 'I wish I was back with Paul.'

Yoko had never looked at him the same again.

John had never thought about Paul the same again.

They laid in the sand, as the sun set. Full on sandwiches. Not drunk - not from beer, of course. They'd built up their tolerances in their youth. But tipsy enough to be quite liberal with their movements, all slung out over each other.

'Y'know, don't you think that collection of stars looks a little bit like a fanny?' John said, squinting.

Paul didn't even humour him with a laugh - just murmured, 'constellation, you oaf.'

John groaned, rolling onto his stomach, dipping his hair into the incoming wave. 'I missed Paris, y'know.'

Paul looked over to him, 'me too.'

They fell asleep on the beach, tangled around each other.

…

Did Paul regret it? Yes, of course he did. His back hurt like hell, his neck was stiff. His skin was itchy and scratched, from all of the sand.

Did he care? Not really. Paul stood up after a bit, stretching himself out, and running his hands through his hair.

Then, he sat down on his haunches, looking at John as he slept. He looked peaceful like this, face lax, and open.

Paul ran a hand over John's brow, through his hair. Trailed it wonderingly down the slope of John's nose. Oh, John had always had Paul. That's why Paul had been so scared. Because Paul'd thought that he didn't have John, in return.

The thought of that - that Paul was willing to die, without John knowing. Without John understanding why he did what he did. Why he acted the way he did.

John's light brown eyes cracked open, like little chestnuts, and he wrestled Paul to the sand, slinging a lazy arm around his chest.

'Sleep well, love?'

'Well as I could out in the open, John.'

John huffed a laugh, then gave him a peck on the cheek. 'Let's get goin', okay? Whilst the day's still young.'

'Off we go, then.'

And, today, Paul loved John more than he had yesterday. He'd keep on loving John more, and more, and more until the day he died.

The next week - two weeks, three weeks, a month. Pass by in a sort of blur.

Paul and John spend most of their time at bars, and cafes - not really producing music, but drawing quite a bit. John'd procured some weed at some point, some LSD, too. And it'd all gone from there. Paul's face distorting, tripping up as they ran through an art gallery; when they eventually got kicked out for hooting and hollering at one of Yoko's pieces; running through the parks, up and down the hedges. Greens, reds and yellows passing by in a sort of hazy blur - all blending into one great, big sunset, only coming after a very long day.

Time passed differently, here. It was slower, more hazy - smoky, foggy under the weight of the sky. Sometimes, it reminded Paul of when he'd been cooped up in bed, not able to count the days; but this was different. Very different, in a way that Paul couldn't put a name to it.

They went to the beach, they swam around; they dived and swam and ran amok; they got burnt by the sun, and Paul developed a lovely tan. John stained as bright as a tomato, and they'd laughed about it for days and days and days; laughter, laughter, laughter - there seemed to be so much of that going around between them.

The room they were staying in got even filthier, if that were possible; their sweat and shit and piss sticking to the walls like a festering fungi - not really romantic but, well, what can you do. The receptionist sent them hisses, and threats; none of which landed, because they were above the entire world. Floating, floating, floating away.

To this lovely little alcove, John on one knee, looking the shiftiest he had since he'd stolen Mimi's jewellery, that one time. Only to try it on, mind, not to steal it.

'What?' Paul giggled, looking at John, curious.

'Marry me, yeah? Won't ye?'

Paul shook his head, and rolled his eyes - 'don't joke.'

Then, John was pulling out a ring box. Inside, a thin little thing. Grey, and a bit weasel-like.

Paul gasped, taking a step back, then he righted himself. 'Y'know, it's illegal. We can't.'

'We can - c'mon, what do ye say? Or are you too chicken?' John started imitating bird noises, but his hands shook. With the weight of what he was asking.

Paul sighed, then took the ring, and slid it over his finger. 'Suppose we're already as good as married.'

'Suppose we are.'

Fat grins on their faces as they ran back to their room - John, writhing under Paul, gasping and clawing at the covers; ignoring the receptionist's first warning of, 'quiet', whatever that meant. The two of them creating a symphony so wonderful it'd be sure to become a single.

Their first time becoming their second time until they'd lost count along the way; and how wonderful that felt, to not know where they started, and where they ended.

How wonderful everything felt.

John danced around a little, sloshing drinks down his front, to the disapproval of Paul.

'C'mon, John, we're not even drunk yet - no excuses, lad.'

John sighed - 'oh, it's just the feel of the place, y'know? Gets the blood pumping, and all.'

Paul looked over to where two men were groping at each other, like there was nobody else in the room, and then looked away. 'You could say that, yeah.'

John scoffed, setting the drinks down heavily. 'Now, if ye don't mind. I'm off to the loo.'

Paul grunted, raising an eyebrow, then shooed John off. Watching as he clacked to the bathrooms with the confidence of a man who frequented gay bars. Maybe he did. Paul frowned at that thought - not that he was jealous, or anything.

He was just on his second sip of beer, when the lights around him were shadowed by a rather tall figure. Looming, almost; but friendly, with a droopy smile on his face. Reminded Paul of Ringo a bit, so he was quick to grin back at the man.

'What's your name, then?' The man slurred, in what seemed to be a German accent. Sounded slightly similar to Klaus, really. Which made Paul soften even more.

'Paul. And you?'

The man sat down, a bit too close for Paul's liking; but, well, it was rather noisy in here. No other way to be heard.

'Uh, my name is Jens.'

'That's nice,' Paul yelled a little, over the music.

'Yeah. You come with anyone?'

Paul nodded, glancing to the bathroom - 'yeah, my mate. He's just pissed off to the bog, though. Might take a bit.'

Jens beamed, shifting closer - 'I wouldn't leave you alone, sir, not for one minute.'

Paul laughed, a bit discontent, now. 'Right…Well, must be off, you see.'

'No, no. It's alright, it's alright. Where you come from?'

'Uh, England…' Paul looked around, but all he could see was some sort of orgy taking place in the corner. Great, fantastic. 'Liverpool.'

'Ah, Liverpool? Beautiful place?'

'Shithole, more like.'

A look of confusion passed over Jens' face, but he quickly shook it off. 'You'd like to dance?'

Paul's eyes widened slightly. The dance floor; full of gyrating bodies, and sweat, and God knows what else. Absolutely not.

'No, don't think I do. Thanks, though.'

'Oh, come on. Dance -'

'He said no, mate,' a tight voice came from behind. John, then. Paul sighed, hoping this wouldn't escalate, watching as John practically sat on his knee.

'So? What were you asking him?' John hissed, clambering all over Paul's lap now. Paul sat there, wishing a hole would swallow him up; still couldn't stop himself from wrapping a hand around John's waist. Matter of habit.

Jens seemed to get the hint, but he needed one last little bit of persuasion.

'Fuck off, then,' John scowled, happy as the man finally stumbled off to pick up some other bloke. Who seemed far more receptive than Paul had been.

John settled into Paul's lap more, now, wrapping his arms around the other man's neck. In a public place, no less. Paul thought he ought to feel more uncomfortable, really. Maybe a little bit out of place. It's not like queer bars were his place of picking when it came to going out for the night.

But, well, ignore the illicit actives - and the place was practically buzzing with welcome.

So much so, that Paul decided he'd brave it out. 'Dance with me, John.'

John rose an eyebrow, but he didn't question it. Just jumped off of Paul, and practically ran to the floor; already jumping around, ecstatic.

Paul laughed, then dragged John closer - 'y'know, I can see the coke on your nose.'

'Be a helpful dear, and do somethin' about it, then.'

Paul chuckled, then kissed at John's nose; until most of the powder had gone.

It was awkward, at first. They didn't know who was supposed to lead the dance; but they, eventually, settled into the rhythm of dancing however the fuck they wanted. John knew that Brian - God rest his soul - would be rolling in his grave seeing them dancing so lewdly.

Oh, well, what he didn't know wouldn't do him any harm.

Paul twirled around, wiggling his arse in a way that made John wanted to just bend him over one of the tables, and…Well, the gist was there. He'd wanted to do the same at that village fete; make Paul know just how gorgeous he actually looked, standing there, in the crowd like that. Far lovelier than any other face there.

Eventually, a slower song came on, and John nestled into Paul's neck. Warm, and safe. Alive.

They began to sway, breathing like it'd be there last.

'I'm sorry, John.'

'For what?'

Paul hesitated, thought about what he'd become when the band had broken up. Thought about his failure as a son, as a brother, as a father, as a husband; and as a best mate.

'For all of it.'

'Well, don't be.'

From that point on, they talked about everything and nothing at the same time. It made perfect sense to them, yet no sense at all - a secret code between them that didn't even exist, that just was; that seemed to follow them around, lingering on every conversation they had, on every kiss they shared.

When they got back to the hotel, John couldn't wait. Just took Paul on that awful, sticky floor. Beautiful sounds, their own little language.

'Oh, shit,' John heaved over the toilet, coughing into the shallow basin.

Paul just wandered in - looking a bit dazed but, otherwise, fine. Right as rain, even with the worst hangover he must've ever had in his entire life.

John groaned dramatically, choking into the toilet.

'Oh, grow a pair,' Paul muttered, splashing his face with water. Limping slightly. Served the bastard right, John thought, with a smug grin.

'Right, what do you wanna do today, Paul?'

Paul thought for a moment, then, 'you brought our guitars, didn't you?'

'Don't go anywhere without 'em.'

John paused, as if realising what Paul was asking him. Then, 'you want to-?'

Paul smiled, a quiet little thing. One that didn't need answering for. So, John went to fetch the guitars.

Paul held his in his arms, like it was a newborn, and he didn't know quite yet how to hold it. He strummed a few notes, the ones that had been swimming around in his head for months now. And, at once, it was as if a dam burst. Rushing, rushing back to him; all the colours of music, disjointed at first, but naturally as more time passed - little nothings, turning into songs from their childhood; jazz, rock, Little Richard and Elvis Presley. None of theirs, but still; they knew it as well as they knew their own, fingers reaching the strings before their eyes could even catch up.

Catching up, as another few weeks went by.

Strolls in the summer evening, queuing up for ice-creams; discarded, crumpled pieces of paper; all laid out, and stained with ink - scribbled lyrics, strewn about. The music coming in bursts, those bursts Paul had missed for so, so, so long.

John called Mimi every week. They wrote a song, just for the two of them.

Paris passed by in a silly film of events; that neither of them could recall perfectly, but loved nonetheless. Paul had only had one day (yet) where he'd needed to shack up in bed, couldn't bear to talk - had hurt John. Had put him right back on his feet the next day, when Paul was up and merry again.

Paris, their city. Like only they were in it; a secret world, for just the two of them, that nobody knew about.

Was there trouble in paradise? Of course there was.

Paul still had his nightmares, sometimes. Derived from real events, usually, that his mind had twisted and sickened into something they never had been.

Klein, grabbing at him, forcing his hand to sign, sign, sign - the others only egging him on, as he couldn't move. John and Paul fighting about something stupid. George walking out. Rich not saying anything.

Paul would wake up, heavy breaths - John fast asleep beside him, curled in on himself in a foetus-like position. And Paul would remember where he was, that he was in Paris.

Nothing could touch him here; only the memories of 1961, all fond, and lovely.

Paul took John to get banana milkshakes, most days. Just to laugh as John ordered more and more of them, piling them on Paul's side of the table, like he had all of those years ago. When he'd complained about Paul spending all of his money - when, really, Paul had never asked for any of it. But John had bought them, anyway. Because Paul never needed to say anything, not when John could so easily do just what he needed.

They fought, naturally, they did. Hard not to in such close proximity.

Of course, nothing major - just small falling outs. Like John's habit of hogging the blanket. Or Paul's habit of leaving toothpaste all over the sink. Normal things, which they'd been sorely lacking.

The songs came, in lovely bursts. And, every single time John took Paul to an art gallery; Paul could only see one face in each painting.

John's.

'C'mon, Paul, just -' John hesitated, before roughly jerking his head, 'just move your arm this way.'

Paul sighed, trying to do what John had told him to. The older man had come up with this ridiculous idea to paint him; and, here they were, struggling more with the positions than the actual creating of it.

'Come closer, come 'ead.'

Paul shifted, making sure an annoyed scowl was present on his face.

'And relax your eyebrows would you? Wrinkles, Paul.'

Paul laid as still as he could, watching John's hands carefully glide over the canvas. Making swirls and loops, long ribbons of colour; the drawing changing shape, like how day turned to night - bursts of vibrancy mixing with monochrome.

Paul tried very hard not to smile, instead focusing on the chipped paint of the door behind John.

John puffed at a cigarette, rubbing at something on the canvas furiously - 'you should've been a model, y'know, Paul.'

Paul guffawed. 'A model? Please. I'm not a bird.'

'You wouldn't have to be,' one line down the page - 'you're gorgeous, yeah?'

Paul's heart palpitated, and he fought the urge to run away. Just grunted out a subdued little, 'yeah', whilst the train of his heartbeat went and left the station without him. Laying here with John, hearing that. Really left nothing to be desired.

This holiday truly was perfect.

Paul sat, list full of songs in his hand, proud.

Enough to make an album, they were.

Linda had called him earlier in the day - he'd already given her the hotel's phone number - and had asked if he'd be up to seeing the girls soon. He'd immediately said yes, and had been in a wonderful mood ever since.

Even John had seemed happier - going out and buying a loaf of banana bread as a surprise.

The two sat, now, looking out of the window, pensively. The streets of Paris below seemed very small, and John's auburn hair framed his face; little wisps, so lovely. Once, that hair had held so many secrets; had blocked Paul, it felt, from truly being able to see John.

His glasses perched on his nose; he grew more beautiful every single day.

Paul couldn't wait to see what John would look like when he was old. Because, he realised, they would grow old together. It hadn't all ended with the band. They were still them.

John nudged up to Paul, setting a gentle kiss on his neck. Then, his face, and Paul met him halfway; melting into John, as his hands came to rest on his shoulders. They'd done this a lot, changing from day to day; the sun warming their backs, as they became one.

'Cheeky, there, John.'

John laughed, sent Paul a little wink, and tucked himself into the other man's side.

Then, 'want to write another song, John?'

'Only when I'm up against the wall, you'll have me at my best.'

They laid in bed, both - quite frankly - satisfied.

John was already dozing off, really, when the phone rang. A sharp, shrill little thing. Paul had no idea why they'd gotten it installed. John groaned, grabbing at Paul when he tried to walk off, but giving up eventually.

'Hello?' Paul said, into the phone, 'who's this?'

'Take a guess, lad.'

Paul's face split into a grin, his grasp on the cord becoming weaker - 'Rich, how're ye?'

'Alright, I am. Missus is happy, kids are alright. You and John?'

'Oh, y'know. Paris.'

A light chuckle from down the other end - 'yeah, Paris. Well, when you get back, how about you come over t'mine? George has already said he'd be up to it.'

Paul's chest swelled at that. God bless Ringo.

'I'd be more than happy to.'

'Good, then. I'll let you be.'

'Thank you, Rich. I mean it. I do.'

'I know, Macca.'

The line went silent, and Paul bumbled back off to bed, feeling quite happy with himself - 'Rich invited us over t'his, when we get back.'

John dug his head into the pillow. 'Right, yeah.'

'And I think I know what I want to name our album.'

John perked up at that, raising his head blearily. 'Hm?'

'Ram.'

'Bit of a silly name that, innit?'

'I think it'll do well.'

John laid a lazy arm over Paul as he settled in. 'Then it's good enough for me.'

As soon as John woke up, he knew it'd be one of the bad days. The sun was gone, rain pelting. Sea receded miles out.

Paul staring blankly at the ceiling.

John didn't say anything, just closed his eyes. Just tried to wish the Paul from yesterday to be back - tried to wonder why he'd allowed himself to think that Paris would go perfectly. He knew Paul did this. The good days, now, far outnumbered these ones. Hadn't been like that at first.

Paul would have one good day every five months. Then two. Then he'd have a good week. Then a good month. Never more than that, there'd be something to break it. John was just annoyed that it had to be now. Then, he was annoyed at himself. Paul couldn't help it. And the way he was - it was all John's fault.

Paul had been so happy, before John.

Though, that wasn't true.

He'd seen Paul, sometimes, on the bus. Staring off, glum. Quiet in a way none of his friends had seemed to notice.

Paul had always had something there. Chewing away at him.

John had spit him out. Been the final nail.

'Paul, love?' John whispered, to which Paul just grunted at, eyes avoiding him. 'Do you want breakfast?'

Paul shook his head, and rolled onto his side. 'Not hungry.'

Right, it was like that, then. John just sighed, tried not to let his face fall, and gave a forced smile. That Paul didn't return - because, of course, he didn't.

John went off into the damp kitchen, trying to distract himself. He didn't know how long Paul would be like this - for the entire day, the entire week, a month. Maybe just a few hours. It was unpredictable, really. And, as much as John tried to understand, he couldn't. Not as well as he would have liked.

Because, beneath the care, there was always a simmering confusion. That he couldn't shake, no matter how much he told himself it wasn't Paul's choice to act the way he did.

John began to sing - an automatic little tune, it was, out of habit. He didn't realise - not until a shout came from the bedroom, a sharp and angry, 'be quiet!'

John paused. Went still, and his hands shook. 'Why don't you be quiet, eh?'

Nothing came back in retort, and John left it. Because he always left it.

Just as the clock turned to eleven, Paul bundled in, eyebrows furrowed. Not a sad day, then. An angry day.

Worse. Accusatory, it always was.

'I want to go back.'

John didn't look at him. 'What, to the farm? No chance.'

'I want to-.'

'Yeah, I heard ye the first time. And we aren't goin' back, not yet. It's - it's stifling, there.'

Paul raised an eyebrow, crossed his arms. A dark look coming over his face. 'Oh, stifling, is it? Why don't ye just leave, then?'

John scoffed. Tensed. Paul was only ever like this once in a blue moon - so it wasn't something John was really used to. Not something he wanted to be used to, obviously. He didn't say anything.

'Because you're good at leavin', John. Might be the only thing you're good at, anyhow. Better at it than music. I always wrote all them hits - you -.'

And Paul knew just how to get John right where it hurt. How to make him engage, instead of giving the cold shoulder and willing it all away.

'Oh, shut up, Paul. You can't even hear somethin' on the radio without havin' a tantrum, so you can't even be talkin' about music. Because ye don't know anything about it, now.'

Paul immediately went from subdued irritation, to fury, and John felt a wave of satisfaction wash over him. 'What, are you goin' to cry? Goin' to lock yourself away for another year?'

Paul shoved him, and John didn't even budge.

'Well, you're here havin' a go at me for distancing myself - c'mon, look. When was the last time you spoke to your own bleedin' son? You've only just started talkin' to him this year.'

'Don't talk about Julian, ye wanker- like you have any right-'

'Oh, I have all the right.'

The two glared at each other. Then, Paul shoved at John again. And John shoved at Paul, lightly, far more lightly than Paul had done it to him - but the other man still went flying, wind knocked out of him. A look of panic crossing over his face.

John immediately sobered, anger draining out of him faster than water in a leaky cup, and he went to help Paul up.

Paul just flinched away from him, a low growl in the back of his throat, before he stormed off.

Paul laid in bed, spiralling. Hadn't meant to say all that shit to John.

It was all rubbish, the lot of it - and he didn't mean any of it, because it wasn't true. But John had been right in everything he'd said.

Far more right than Paul had been.

Because Paul couldn't talk about music anymore. He didn't write hits anymore. He couldn't even write a simple three-chord song.

Maybe Ram would be good - he could play again, he could write again. Maybe Ram was shit, maybe it was all shit.

But he'd made it with John. So, it couldn't be all bad.

He buried his face in his hands, trying not to go back there. Trying not to drift away, to that place of nothing. Before him and John and everything that had ever been, because that's where he always went.

It wasn't dark, but he couldn't see anything. And his skin would stop feeling like his.

And Paul would feel so, so tired. Couldn't sleep.

Could never sleep. An hour later, Paul woke up. The shame had settled in firmly now, and he was out of the slump - which he really was grateful for. It could have lasted far longer, but it hadn't.

He needed to find John. And he did find him - holed up in the bathroom, tuning silently at his guitar.

As soon as Paul entered, John tried to tuck it away, but there was no disguising it. Paul just shrugged, sat cross-legged next to him. 'I'm okay, now. And sorry.'

John's face dropped in relief, then a casual smile. 'Good. I'm glad. And I'm sorry, too.'

It was easy. Just like that, it was easy. Other than the elephant in the room.

Paul looked pointedly at the guitar, raising an eyebrow. John gulped guiltily. 'Sorry, Paul. I know you don't…Uhm…When you have one of your moments, it's…'

Paul's fingers twitched. A small tune in his head began to play. 'Could I - y'know, try?'

'What?'

'John, pass it. Please?'

John hesitated for longer than was necessary, before he passed it over. Watching Paul expectantly.

John had been festering all morning, music the only thing able to calm him down.

He'd snuck his guitar, and was just about to tune it when Paul had walked in. When Paul had asked to play it. And, now, he waited in baited breath. Felt more right seeing Paul hold a guitar again than anything did.

Paul flipped it upside down - it being a right-handed guitar - then looked up at John, eyes big and nervous. Excited. Like he wanted to play music again. Like he could bear to hear it. And he could, of course he could, now. What, with their new album. Maybe they'd release it. Keep it to themselves.

John didn't look away, stared right back. Waiting. And begging.

Paul's mouth opened, and it was like a day had never gone by. 'Ooh, well, I've got a girl with a record machine.'

And, boy, if John didn't know exactly what song that was - and how it captivated him so unequivocally, how it captivated him just as much as it had the first time he'd seen those perfect lips move along to the lyrics. Strumming the chords just as perfectly. Twenty Flight Rock. The song John had thought about every single night. The song he'd thought Paul had long forgotten - what, with them going to the toppermost of the poppermost, and all of those moments before seeming so small in comparison.

The only moment he remembered with perfect clarity. Paul's fingers didn't fumble. Just as they hadn't when he'd played it the first time - a scrawny 15-year-old kid that John wouldn't have looked at twice if not for the fact Paul had managed to blow his socks right off. Out of the water. Alright, maybe he would have looked twice. Just not a third time. Possibly.

John had sent him away that day, heart going through the motions. Knowing it would be a long, long time before he was brought around and realised how silly he was being. That he shouldn't let Paul into the band; because John knew, even then, that Paul would far outshine him.

Let Paul into the band, anyway. Didn't regret it, too, not for one minute.

…'Get to the top, I'm too tired to rock.' Paul let the guitar drop slightly, before he sent a cheeky, shy smile to John.

'So, did I pass the audition, then?'

One single tear made it past John's eye. Rolled down his cheek, ever so slowly. Before he responded in turn. 'Oh, we'll have to see.'

And that was lovely, really. From that point, they sung and played all that they could think of - other than their own songs, of course. All covers, like the old days. No new songs, either. Not even one they'd made these past few weeks, in Paris.

John had waited for Paul. Would have to wait forever. But these moments made it all worth it. It was just right - it was. Paul and John, playing together.

John wondered why'd he ever bothered leaving the band, why he'd ever wanted more than to just sit and harmonise with Paul. He'd wanted to make it on his own. He'd never be alone. Not with Paul.

Just like an angel's, Paul's skin was soft, and his voice floated like a feather. John's voice cracked plenty, he hit the wrong note more times than he could count. And Paul played perfectly. Because he was Paul McCartney, and always would be.

The softness to his edge.

They went out, when the sun had set. It wasn't raining, but the clouds looked plenty scary, so they had put on coats before they'd made their way out.

Sensible like that, really.

'Oi, John, can we double back? Seems I've forgotten me shoes.'

John rolled his eyes, then took off his own, wincing as his foot squelched on something wet. At least he'd worn socks. 'We aren't goin' all the way back. Here ye go, like a silly old woman, forgettin' things. How do ye even forget ye shoes, anyhow?'

Paul shrugged, covering his feet gratefully, then linking his arm around John's.

'I'm sorry about earlier today, I am. I said some things I shouldn't have, John.'

'Me too.'

John and Paul had found their little alcove again, tucked neatly away, and hidden by some great rocks.

The sand here was nicer, smoother. Untouched. And it was peaceful.

Paul leaned into John's side, and he fit perfectly. Was a given, that.

A wave tickled their toes, and they laid down, looking up at the sky; little silver circles twinkling. John sighed appreciatively. Paul's eyes went misty.

'Y'know, John. I wasted - I wasted so long, moping. Missing all of this.'

John rolled over. Waited for Paul to continue. Held his hand, and rubbed his thumb softly.

'I feel like - like I wasted so much time. I - I -'

'Paul, you're only just in your thirties. Your life hasn't barely begun, yet.'

Paul didn't say anything to that, and they were silent for a long while.

'Thank you, John.'

'What for?'

'For puttin' up with me, I s'ppose.'

John laughed, like there wasn't anything else in the world he'd rather be doing. And Paul leaned into his warmth.

'Do you ever miss them, John?'

'Who?'

'Y'know - the people we love. Georgie, Richie, your Julian. My Linda, my Heather, and little Mary. Uhm, Yoko, you - I mean, God, even George Martin. And I know we've been makin' all this progress with them, I know. But it feels like - like maybe one day they'll remember how much they hate me.'

John cupped Paul's face softly, ran a finger down the graceful slope of his nose. 'Paul, they'd never hate you. Yeah? We still love 'em, they still love us. We can give them a ring, anytime, send them a line. A little letter, y'know. And even if it was just us - us, alone, in this little world of ours - who else would there be for me to miss but you?'

Paul snickered. 'Okay, gettin' a bit sappy, there.'

'Fair. But - well, it's true. For me, it is, at least.' John said, biting his lip, going a delicious shade of red.

Paul gave him a quick kiss, 'me too.'

And they laid there, quiet.

'Just the two of us.'

'That'll be fine.'

For the rest of the evening, they played board games. Monopoly, Snakes and Ladders, the usual.

John liked to play these games with Paul - brought his competitiveness out, always simmering underneath the surface. Paul cheering, and gloating when John was made bankrupt in Monopoly. John pretending to be indignant, but secretly wanting to pick Paul up and twirl him around the room.

They'd played cards at some point, and John had pretended to have forgotten the rules. Had asked Paul to explain it to him - had hid a grin when Paul had leaned over his shoulder, pointing at all of the cards.

John didn't want to leave this place, this little hotel. With its stained walls, its chipped paint, the ivy crawling over it - and a quaint rocking chair outside, that rocked in rhythm to the sea.

John fell asleep to that sound. Had another dream - of Paul, again. Had a dream about home.

Because there was no dream bigger to John than Paul. And what was a bigger dream than going home?