Chapter Text
It was 1961. They were in Paris, after deciding to just stay put instead of hitchhiking all the way to Spain. John received a hundred pounds from his rich relatives for his twenty-first birthday, so he asked Paul to go with him on a holiday. Not Stu, not Cynthia, but Paul. He was quite happy to find himself back in this moment in time. But this was so wrong. The Paris trip was so long ago, a mere, but cherished, memory. It is supposed to be 1998. Well, it was supposed to be 1998. Wasn’t it ironic that he was referring to the current year as past, and 1961 as present? As far as Paul knew, time traveling didn’t exist; it wasn’t possible. How come he was back here? Was it a dream? A wish?
He had so many questions, none he could give a practical answer to. If it was a dream, it felt so real—way too real. Paul felt the mild hangover he had from the rum and coke so clearly, he could smell John’s soap from where he was standing. If it was a dream, he would’ve never known he still remembered what John smelled like in Paris.
They always said to look for a clock to check if you’re dreaming, because there’s never one in a dream. So, Paul looked around, silently wishing he’d see a clock, and this was reality. He halted to a stop when he saw a round device on the wall. It was 9:09 in the morning—this was real.
That crosses off the possibility of this being a dream, at least to Paul. Well, maybe that clock theory was fake. Paul found it easier to doubt himself, because he couldn’t comprehend how this would be real, anyways, though he had a gut feeling he was really there—in Paris, in 1961, with his John. But before he decided it was all genuine, he thought of other reasons why this could be happening.
Did Paul wish for this to happen? He didn’t think so. He didn’t believe in guardian angels or genies or tooth fairies, so there would really be no possibility he’d be caught wishing to one. Something was crawling up his mind, however. Something told him he needed to remember, whatever it was that was trying to be noticed. Slowly, pieces of the memory went into place.
“If John Lennon could come back for a day, how would you spend it with him?”
“In bed.”
Yes, he had said that during his interview. No, he did not think it would come true. Who would? It was just a silly question he was asked, to which he gave a silly (but true) answer. To add on the obvious fact, John was dead. Him coming back from the afterlife was unrealistic, to say the least. But this was much more than that. Not only is John back, it’s also thirty-seven years back in time. They were back in Paris. Paul couldn’t believe it. How could he believe it?
He was still staring at the clock, his mouth slightly ajar. Thoughts were still racing through his head, his heart now copying the action. What was to happen next? Will he have to relive the past thirty-seven years again? Then, a firm grip on his shoulder made him jump back to reality. (Was it real?)
“Paul, are you alright? Why are you acting so daft this morning?”
Paul couldn’t help but stare at his friend. It’s been so long since he saw that face, since he felt that comforting presence near him. He looked so young, just like Paul did. Somehow it felt wrong, because Paul was 55. And yet, his physical body was of a 19 year old’s, and John’s was of a 21 year old. The last time he spent time with John, they’d both been in their late thirties. This felt so wrong.
Wrong. A word Paul has used more than enough for one morning. He couldn’t help it. Everything was a mess, yet so orderly at the same time. In the life he had before this morning, Paul would always think of John—every night before he went to bed. He missed the lad, and now he was back with him. No Yoko, no Linda, no kids. They were free; Paris was the most freedom they ever had. They didn’t know anyone, and no one knew them. John and Paul could’ve done the craziest things and not one soul would tell their parents. They were isolated, could never be interrupted by their mates—their mates who were back in Liverpool, doing god knows what. They were here, John and Paul. John and Paul in Paris, and only them. They didn’t have to hide here. They could do the naughtiest things and nobody would interfere. That was the single most important thing that made the Paris trip so wonderful. Back in England, they already had their own little bubble. But in Paris, that bubble formed into an enclosed wall surrounding the two boys, and no one can just easily pop it now. That wall was specifically built to isolate themselves from the rest of the world, as if in their own planet. So even though everything felt so wrong, it felt so right.
“Johnny”
“Paulie”
“I can’t believe it.”
“You can’t believe wh-“
He hugged John. Hugged him so tightly that it seemed as if he never wanted to let go—and he didn’t. It had been so long, too long, since he last embraced John. Being in contact with the long lost friend gave Paul so much sanity he didn’t know he longed for. He didn’t care that John was still wet from his shower. He didn’t care that it seemed so strange for him to hug John like this, like he hasn’t hugged him in years, because John didn’t know what just happened. That Paul somehow came back in time, a time when John and him were still together, from a time when they couldn’t have been more separated by fate. The smell of John’s aftershave filled Paul’s senses, and he buried his nose in John’s neck, not giving a damn about anything. He needed this. He needed to take in as much John Lennon he can get, before he was taken away again, before he wakes up from this unexplainable dream and live on without John.
John chuckled at Paul’s actions and hugged him back.
“I smell good, I know. This hotel’s got really nice smelling soap.” Paul only hugged him tighter.
After a few more moments in a long overdue embrace, Paul let go, albeit reluctantly.
“What’s up with you, Macca?”
“I just missed you, ‘s all.”
“Aw, you soft git. I was only in the shower for a moment.”
“I know.”
Paul continued to stare at John, with that longing look that went together with that longing feeling he had. John was really here. That hug they shared was definitely real. He’d be damned if it wasn’t real.
John pulled one of his signature silly faces after Paul stared at him for way too long. He felt strange, but only because Paul was acting strange. They’d been in Paris for a few days now, and he could think of nothing that might’ve caused his friend to act bizarrely.
“Have I got something on me face?”
“No, John.”
“Then why don’t you stop staring at me, then? I’ll take a photograph of meself and give it to you if you want.”
Paul shoved John away playfully and gave the man a grin. He did miss that wit of his. Paul figured he should probably stop looking at John intently. If he was really back in Paris, he’d have to start acting the way he did 37 years ago. And 37 years ago, he was a teenager—a spontaneous young lad who didn’t know any better. That was a completely different person from who he is now. Adulthood turned Paul into an experienced man, who thought over all his decisions—big or small—to make sure he was doing the right thing.
“You all set with the bathroom then?” Paul asked. John gave him a quick nod and continued to dress himself. The younger Liverpudlian entered the bathroom and locked the door behind him, even if there was probably no need for it. He sat down on the toilet and took deep breaths. It hadn’t occurred to him until then that the people involved in his life in 1998 may have been affected of his transport, too. Sure, he’d come to terms with the fact that somehow he woke up to be in Paris 1961. But what did it mean? Were Linda and the kids still in 1998, wondering where Paul went? Or did Linda come back in time as well, and about to marry Joseph? If that was the case, did she remember Paul? His head began to pound; it was all too much. And even though he probably should make the most of this day, given it might be the only time he’ll be with John again, he couldn’t stop but worry about the life he left. He wished everything was fine back in 1998.
Paul’s fatigue got even worse after futile attempts of calming down, so he took a quick shower to see if it’d get rid of the queasiness he felt. It helped a bit, but it may have just been that it cured the hangover he had. His stomach was still tied in knots, however, and suddenly he began to feel claustrophobic in the small bathroom, sectioned off in the already considerably tiny hotel room. Paul turned the shower off and dried himself as fast as he could, so he can finally leave the tiny loo and get some more space.
To John’s poor eyesight, Paul could’ve easily appeared as a ghost exiting the bathroom. Even though John didn’t have his glasses on, he could see Paul’s pale face that made him look lifeless. Paul had a towel around his waist, looking much like John after his shower. Another thing he noticed was that Paul was breathing—hard and shallow. His overall appearance was concerning. Earlier that morning, Paul had been acting off; and now, he looked five seconds away from having a full panic attack.
Paul remained stood right outside the bathroom door. His finger found its way between his lips and teeth, now suffering from an aggressive chewing. His eyes roamed the room, not looking for a particular object. From the years John’s known Paul, he knew this was a habit Paul had whenever he felt anxious. There was definitely something wrong with him, though John hadn’t a clue what it was.
“Paul? Paul.” It took John a few tries to get Paul to snap out of his little trance. He really began to worry for his friend.
Paul jumped, his finger leaving his mouth as he did so. His eyes found John’s, who’s own were squinting at Paul, obviously trying to look at him, but was unsuccessful due to his horrible vision.
“Listen here, son. There’s something screwing with your mind, we both know it. Might as well tell me because I won’t stop asking you about it until you stop acting weird.”
Paul knew John meant it, but how was he supposed to explain his thoughts to John right now? He’d probably ask Paul what kind of Parisian drug he’s got a hold of. Never in a million years would John take Paul seriously if he told John that he was from the future, that one day he just woke up and he was 19 years old again. Paul himself couldn’t even completely wrap his head around the concept, why would he think John could?
“I’m just feeling a bit grotty today. Woke up with a headache and I feel like I could throw up any minute really.” He decided he’d just make up an excuse. It wasn’t as if he was telling a lie, he was only telling half of the truth.
John held the back of his hand against Paul’s forehead, checking to see if the lad had a fever.
“Look, Paul. I don’t really know how hot you must feel to be able to tell if you have a fever. Don’t really know why I’m feeling your forehead at all. But tell you what, I’ll go to that French bakery across the street and get us some proper breakfast. Maybe it’ll help you feel better.”
“They only call it bakery here, y’know.”
“Oh sod off.”
Paul gave his friend a genuine smile. Not that it was rare, but it wasn’t everyday that John Lennon showed his soft side. The tough persona he strived to put up wasn’t easy to take down; he’s only ever affectionate to his closest friends and family. Paul was grateful he got to be one of those people John was comfortable enough to be sweet around. It made him feel that John loved him.
“Alrighty then. I’ll be right back with your tea, your highness.” John took an exaggerated bow before vacating the room, leaving Paul in chuckles.
The younger man took this time to roam the room. He looked for things that could remind him what exactly has happened in his life so far—going back 37 years ago didn’t exactly give him crystal clear memory of what occurred during 1961. With his aging brain, events that happened decades ago weren’t as sharp of a memory as it was years prior. He realized how difficult it would be to not say something strange, like asking John about Sean or living in New York. Paul had to start thinking from 19-year-old-Paul’s perspective. He still wasn’t sure how long he’d be staying in this year, didn’t know when he’d wake up to his 56 year old self. For now, Paul just had to be careful with his words.
In a weird way, Paul felt like a curious teenager again. However, this time, instead of looking for new experiences, he was looking for how little experience he had when he was nineteen, so as not to say anything wrong to John. Paul couldn’t even mention Brian Epstein to him! The Beatles still had a month before they met their manager, the man who would bring them their lifelong dream of fame. Maybe this time around, if he stayed long enough to re-meet Brian again, he could rearrange the financial deals between him and the band. He snickered at that thought; like we need more money. Well, maybe this time, he could save Brian from his unexpected death; maybe that way, he could save the band, too.
Paul decided to dig through his bag to see what his younger self brought to Paris. He found that they were just clothes for the most part, besides the occasional coins he saw and a bowler hat that was sat right next to his bag. Paul still had it in his Scotland home, the only difference was that the hat he was holding now was brand-new looking, instead of the felt being covered in dust. Memories flooded him as picked up the hat. He could still remember the photographs John and him took wearing the silly little thing. From what he remembered, John nicked it from a costume shop a couple months ago. It felt so surreal to think about the things John and Paul did before they became so famous.
On the desk sat a camera. Paul instantly remembered asking his brother Michael for it, and how he had to buy his younger brother a grand dinner from the chippy for him to allow Paul to bring his beloved camera to such a foreign place. Mike still had that camera in his house (the McCartneys are very sentimental people) and is still well taken care of, unlike the bowler hat.
Looking at all his belongings almost seemed like going down a very vivid memory lane. Every little thing reminded him of a story from way back when, and it felt so nice. John probably wouldn’t have appreciated Paul going through his bag, but the latter couldn’t resist. He opened John’s pack and saw crumpled clothes, as if they were just thrown in there while packing—which Paul didn’t doubt John did. He also found some folded pieces of paper and opened them, realizing they were song lyrics that John and Paul were working on based on the two different handwritings. He was about to dig through more of the older man’s stuff when he heard the door unlocking. He just had enough time to stand up and rush to sit on the bed before John saw him.
“Honey, I’m home!” John declared sarcastically. He held a brown bag and two cups of tea, one on top of the other. It was a wonder how John didn’t manage to spill the hot beverages on himself. He threw the bag at Paul and situated the cups on the nightstand in a more careful manner. Afterwards, he sat right next to Paul on the bed, taking a sip from his cup before fishing his food out of the bag.
“Ta, mate. I’m properly starving.” As if on cue, Paul’s stomach started growling. John let out a laugh at the comedic timing.
“s’alright Paulie. I got you some freshly baked bread and soup. Not really sure why they serve soup this early in the day, but I’m glad they do. Anyways, there’s some strange herb broth and some chicken soup, pick whichever you want.”
Paul snorted at that. Did John forget his friend was vegetarian? Then he remembered...
“I’ll take the strange herb broth. Thanks again.” Paul offered him a smile and started to dig in right away. He moaned at the goodness of the savory warm bread and the fantastic soup—which was finished just a couple minutes after the initial taste. He forgot how good food was in the 60s; the nearing end of the 20th century brought more popularity of instant-food. Of course him and Linda cooked their food most of the time, but some days they just didn’t have the energy to do so. He missed the freshly made French meals. Paul was eating so quickly, though he hadn’t noticed until John, who was only on his second bite, commented on it.
“Slow down there, Macca. You might actually make yourself sick by eating that fast.”
Paul just glared at him with a look John found so adorable. It might’ve intended to scare John off, but Paul just ended up looking cute with his chubby cheeks puffed out. The younger Scouse placed his empty bowl next to John’s on the nightstand, which remained untouched. Paul managed to get bread crumbs on his cheek, so John gestured to wipe it away with his thumb. The doe eyed lad automatically leaned into his touch before thinking, and let his eyes gaze at his friend. John, in turn, looked into Paul’s eyes as well. He really found his eyes beautiful; they were usually brown when he was happy, and green when he was stressed out or mad. There was no question that Paul’s eyes were windows to his soul, and John loved that about them. Without realizing, his right hand—which had been loosely balled up into a fist against Paul’s face, with his thumb stroking his cheekbone—unfolded, and was now completely cupping Paul’s left cheek. The younger man’s eyelashes fluttered as they shut close, leaving John to stare at his angelic face. A soft sigh escaped Paul’s lips, feeling utterly blissful at the moment. He just needed to feel John’s presence right now, and their current interaction provided for that need. The two continued to bask in the relaxing quietness until John broke the silence.
“You just made me spread the crumbs all over yer face instead of wiping it away.” John said, his voice sounding breathless, as if he’d just ran a mile and was just getting started to calm down.
Paul just smiled softly, and John felt the movement of his features against his palm. All John could think about was how smooth Paul’s skin was, and how he wanted to kiss him all over. He couldn’t do that, could he? Him and Paul have already been here before, been through the conversation about how they should never let anything like that happen between them again. But why was Paul letting John cup his face like like that now? It wouldn’t hurt to ask, would it?
“Paul?”
“Hmm?”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“You’re already asking me one right now.”
“Git.” Paul chuckled at that.
“Go on then.”
John was quiet for a few seconds, hand still against Paul’s cheek, before proceeding.
“If I said I wanted to kiss you, what would you say?”
Paul finally opened his eyes and stared at John. He’d been longing for him for so long, and finally it’s happening. He couldn’t even start to think of how thankful he was that he got this opportunity to be with John again—before the fame and the wives—in Paris. He’d be a stupid man to decline John now.
“I’d say you should do it.”
John almost didn’t hear Paul’s response from the loud beating of his heart. He did not know how Paul would react to his question, and his nerves quickly got ahold of him after his words slipped from his mouth. But once Paul’s answer hit him, he didn’t waste any more time. He took Paul’s chin between his forefingers gently, and slowly pulled him in. Their eyes didn’t close shut until the space between them did, too. The sensation of their lips against each other’s was wonderful; Paul’s mouth was so soft and plump and fit perfectly against John’s thin and strong ones. The latter felt butterflies in his stomach then, not that he’d ever admit to it. He had always craved Paul but never got the courage to act on it until that night at the pub. Their first kiss was sloppy, and he was intoxicated, so he couldn’t really remember how it was as much as he’d like, but he knew it had felt good. This time, he was going to make the most of the kiss.
In the beginning, they just engaged in short, tentative almost-peck kisses. However, after a minute or so, John pulled away—Paul even began to open his eyes—only to smash his lips roughly, desperately, against Paul’s. John finally held the younger’s face with both his hands to secure him in place, not letting him go just yet (after all, in John’s mind, they were just getting started). Paul made a small sound that resembled a moan, and kissed back with the same amount of passion. He wrapped his arms around John’s neck and pulled him impossibly closer. He could taste the tea from John’s lips, but it was so vague, and he needed more. He combed his left hand through John’s hair (which was still a bit damp from his shower) and tugged on it, eliciting a moan from the lad. Paul took advantage of the newly parted lips and slipped his tongue inside John’s mouth, the taste of tea much more evident now. John’s tongue met Paul’s, and their tongues danced around, fighting for dominance. Eventually, the younger man surrendered, and let John take over the kiss. It was John’s turn to explore Paul’s mouth now, and he ravished the warm and inviting mouth expertly. He massaged Paul’s tongue with his, successfully earning another deep moan from the lad. John and Paul continued to kiss heatedly before they had to pull away and catch their breaths. When it happened, John kissed Paul’s face all over, making him giggle, and pressed his forehead against Paul.
“God, Macca. I’d buy a bed made out of yer lips.” Paul laughed and gave John one final peck on the mouth. “Thank you.”
“What’re you thanking me for?”
“For letting me kiss you. I’ve always wanted to do that properly, you know. I wish you understood how much I wanted to taste you. I’m really happy you let me.”
The thing is, Paul did know. He understood how it felt to want someone and not know if they’ll reciprocate that desire. It felt amazing to finally have kissed John again. And in the midst of it all, some weight had been lifted off of Paul’s shoulders somehow. It almost felt like closure, though he didn’t understand why it felt like that.
“Oh yeah? How long?” Paul tested.
“Ever since the day I met you.”
Paul chuckled in disbelief. John couldn’t have been serious.
“John, are you alright? I was a little fat boy back then. You even called me the Humpty Dumpty.”
“That was a term of endearment, luv.”
“Of course it was.”
The two laughed lightly, then fell into a comfortable silence once again. What could only be heard were their currently steadying breathing and the light traffic outside. It sounded like New York, and Paul was again reminded of the fact that he still didn’t know why he was there, or how he could go back to the present (though he didn’t really want to). Like before, he started to slightly panic just thinking about his situation.
“Paul, do you feel better now? I thought maybe we could go see more of the city today.” The older lad inquired.
Paul didn’t want to disappoint John, but he didn’t feel he could really stomach going outside and getting more confused over to why he’s back in Paris. He had no other way to get out of sightseeing other than turning John down straightforwardly.
“I still feel like pure shite. I’m not really up for walking ‘round right now, but maybe later on love.”
“That’s alright with me. We can just stay in bed. Maybe snog a little more.” John winked.
“You bastard.” Paul punched his friend jokingly on his shoulder, laughing at the not-so-subtle suggestion he just gave.
So stay in bed, they did. Shortly after giving John another loving kiss, he cleared the bed of any food that might’ve laid forgotten after they started snogging. Meanwhile, John stood up to open the only window in their room, explaining that some fresh air would do Paul some good. The goings-on in the busy streets of Paris could be heard louder now, as well as the crisp, fresh air of October. Paul got under the sheets, feeling the chill after John opened the window, but he couldn’t deny that the fresh air helped him breathe better. John joined Paul in bed not long after, and immediately wrapped his arms around his friend. Paul moved along with John, so his head was laying on the older lad’s chest, and his right arm slung over John’s stomach. For a while, they just laid tangled with each other in quiet solace. The silences that occurred rather often between the two were always comfortable, and it felt good.
Conversation came naturally when it did, and Paul and John talked about anything and everything. Paul’s measured replies (he still had to be careful not to say anything off) worked well with John’s witty remarks, though sometimes Paul couldn’t help but join John in his silliness.
“How much sex do you think Queen Elizabeth gets?”
Paul had sat up to sip some of his now cold tea, and when he heard what John just said, he snorted, and the tea he’d been drinking went up his nose. The lad started to cough violently, feeling an intense burning sensation in his nose and throat.
“What the fuck, John? Why’d you even think about that?” Paul said hoarsely, still coughing, though much less now. He’d just noticed that John was rubbing his back lovingly the whole time, trying to help him calm down, which made him smile.
“Dunno, just wondering and all that. Shags must be royal.”
“Okay, why don’t we talk about something else, then? Something a bit less disturbing?”
“The Queen’s probably kinky-“
“John,”
“Probably likes to be tied to the bed with gold handcuffs-“
“John stop,”
“Then she probably loves being blindfolded with a silk handkerchief and a-“
This time, instead of trying to stop the scarring imagery John was describing by saying his name, Paul kissed John forcefully, successfully shutting him up. Paul only let the kiss linger for a few seconds, then pulled away, replacing his mouth with his hand.
“John Winston Lennon. If you say anything else about how you think the Queen’s saucy sex life is, I’m going to cut yer tongue off.” Paul threatened, trying to sound as stern as he could; however, he could feel John smiling against his palm. The older man then proceeded to open his mouth a little and stick out his tongue, licking Paul’s hand. The gesture effectively made Paul withdraw his hand from John’s lips.
“Ew, Lennon! You’re such a kid sometimes!” Paul proceeded to wipe his hand aggressively on John’s shirt.
“Aw, c’mon Macca. You know you love me.”
“Maybe I secretly hate you.”
“Oh really?”
“Yeah, really.”
“Hm,” He took the hand Paul’s was rubbing against his shirt to pull Paul closer and kiss him. Paul hummed in satisfaction when his lips met John’s, feeling instant pleasure to be near his love. And just like that, the two started making out passionately, again.
Paul was still in a somewhat sitting position, so he took advantage of this and straddled John’s lap. The man under tried to sit up whilst having the daylights snogged out of him by his best friend. His arms snaked around Paul, and he began to run his hands all over Paul back; he might’ve groped Paul’s rear in the process, and Paul might’ve let out an involuntary moan at the action. Paul’s hands were all over John as well—his left hand rubbed John’s chest, while his right tugged on John’s hair. The room was filled with moans, heavy breathing, and the typical sounds of people snogging. The electricity and desire between the two Liverpudlians was so strong, but neither man made a move to go further than kissing. So, they spent all morning and noon either talking, cuddling, or making out.
“What changed your mind then?”
“About what?” The two boys finished another heated make out session a half hour ago, and were now completely calmed down. Once again, they were a sea of entangled limbs in the French hotel’s full bed. Paul was drawing random circles on John’s chest, and John was playing with Paul’s soft, brown hair.
“About me kissin’ ya. Told me once before we shouldn’t let anything of that sort happen between us again.”
“You’d think I’m daft.”
“Try me.”
Paul tried to think of a way to explain his thoughts without sounding too strange. It wasn’t the easiest task, but he came up with something to say, just like he always did. After a few moments of silence, Paul spoke up.
“Have you ever felt like you should’ve done something a different way? Like if you had the chance to do something over again, you’d definitely change how you did it?”
“Maybe,”
Paul raised his head to look at John.
“Well, that’s me with you. I mean, I don’t want to feel that way when I think about what could have been between us. And yes, it might—no, it will have consequences eventually, but I’d rather go through those than to never find out how it would feel like to kiss you and hold you,” Paul explained. “You probably think I’m some soft queer now, but I’m not, and neither are you. It’s just different, with the two of us, y’know? You and I have always had a unique bond. And it’s not like any other friendship. Not just like my friendship with George, or yours with Pete. We’ve got something entirely different. And I guess what I’m trying to say is that, I’d be okay with having to deal with criticism and harsh judgement if ever people find out about me and you, than to not ever know what it’s like to be yours.”
John just stared at Paul after hearing his brief speech. He needed time to let it all sink in, but deep down, he already knew how he felt about what Paul said—and it was good. Paul, on the other hand, was a nervous wreck. Sure, he’d thought about this exact scenario a hundred times, where he confessed his thoughts to John, but he’d never actually thought it would happen, given John was dead. For once, the silence between them carried tension, and he didn’t like it at all. So, he asked another question.
“Do you want me to be yours?” Paul looked hopefully at John. In the latter’s perspective, Paul looked so beautiful then. His expression had the elements of worry, nervousness, and hopefulness, and it was so endearing.
“You’re right. I do think you’re daft.”
For a second, Paul could practically hear his world crashing down. His biggest fear of rejection from John came, and he felt so foolish to think John would ever want him. But then John continued.
“Of course I want you to be mine. I can’t believe you even had to ask me that.”
If Paul was asked what the happiest moment of his life was right now, he would’ve definitely picked the moment John told him he wanted to be together. Maybe Paul would’ve felt bad about thinking that, given he was happily married and had children, but right now, he couldn’t remember. Couldn’t remember anything else but John and him. He was allowed to feel that way, right? After all, he didn’t know when he’d return to his actual reality, where he was separated from John. He let himself savor how beautiful his life was currently—he deserved that.
But when was the bubble going to burst?