Chapter Text
Even though it was a given, the New York City traffic proved to be unbearable. At one point in time, there might have been lanes drawn on the roads, but they seemed to have vanished; or drivers just learned to ignore them. Cars moved a foot at most in the past 25 minutes—well, at least Paul’s car did. Some drivers were reckless, to say the least. And maybe it’s just a habit they accumulate, not giving a damn about anyone else on the road. Everyone just wanted to arrive at their destination as quickly as possible. The city that never sleeps evidently never stopped for anyone. Paul’s driver was a bit more a modest driver than most of the cars stuck in traffic, and Paul had a feeling it was because he did not want to harm a former Beatle or himself. Not that the artist had a problem with that, it was certainly reassuring that his driver cared more about their safety, than getting to the hotel faster.
The windows were fogged up due to the heat being cranked high in the car, another thing Paul internally thanked the driver for. January in northeast United States was rough. Most things were frozen over, including ponds and roads. Even with the biting temperatures, New York City never stopped moving. Although he’s been on the road for decades, Paul never got used to sitting still in a vehicle while trying to get from one place to another. It wasn’t that he was impatient, it was rather he constantly needed to be busy. He didn’t like thinking—thinking too much, that is. It has always been a bad habit of his to overthink situations, and not once did it end well. It led him to see things in a different perspective, one that’s a little more difficult for him to venture. The last time he did that was when John died, and it was one of the worst experiences of his life.
It didn’t make sense for him to blame himself for John’s death, but he somehow found a way to do it. He overanalyzed his every action, every word he’d uttered that could’ve lead to his best friend’s murder. The last years of The Beatles weren’t exactly the most pleasant between him and John, which became a major factor as to why he’d always thought he contributed to what happened to his mate. Paul believed that if he hadn’t let the Beatles break up, John would’ve never lived in New York, and that Chapman bastard would’ve never shot him.
John. A friend, a partner, a loved one. It had been so painful to learn about his death. There never was a day Paul didn’t think about him, never a day his chest did not tighten because of how much it hurt. The guy had been such a huge part of Paul’s life. Even after the break up and amidst their issues, he never stopped caring for John. How could he, anyways? They had such a deep connection, and those weren’t easily forgotten of. Everyday, he’d think of John, longing to talk to him, but never having the courage to just pick up the phone and dial the number he knew so well. Oh how he regretted that now.
The thing about life is that you never know when the last time you’re going to see, speak to, or hold someone. That’s why the morning of December 9th felt so surreal; it was as if a fire died. Paul could still remember that exact moment vividly. Linda was out driving the kids to school when he received the call from his manager.
“John’s been shot,” he said. “he’s dead, Paul.”
A loud sob (or was it a scream?) escaped Paul’s lips. The phone was long forgotten on the floor. The line was dead. John was dead. There must’ve been a mistake? His knees grew weak; he needed to sit down before he fell. He needed to breathe, but all his knowledge on how to live simply left his being.
The fire that went out, it shouldn’t have. That fire was fueled by John and Paul. Their partnership, their feuds, their music. It was a fire fueled by anger and passion. A fire of war and peace. An undeniable spark that lingered between the musicians, that even with the many attempts to put it out with statements such as “I despise you” and “I don’t love you anymore,” the fire kept burning. Without one man or the other, the fire would die out. It was too early for it to turn to nothing but smoke, but somehow it did.
Sure, his mum died when he was fourteen. It had been alright to cry about it then. He was only a kid. He also had a brother that mourned the loss of a mother along with him. But now, he was all alone. He lost John, his partner, his other half. No one else knew John like he did, and no one understood Paul as well as him. This time, he was mourning alone, because no one would understand his pain; no one would understand like John.
Paul didn’t think he could possibly cry. He needed to be strong for the sake of his family. Plus, John couldn’t be dead. What a silly thing to say! John is only 40—that’s young. He couldn’t be dead.
Why John? Why him? Why couldn’t it have been somebody else? Though he had a feud going with John, it always kept him sane to know he was alive and well. He was so young, had a brilliant life ahead of him, that John. Those feelings of devastation and hatred when he thought about the man’s last moments on Earth was worse when he was in New York. Of course, it was worse. He knew he had to, but Paul had never been able to accept that John was gone. It was just too painful. So, sitting in a typical New York traffic, not able to do anything but sit and think, was not what Paul needed.
Q Magazine contacted Paul’s agents a few weeks ago asking for a quick interview with him. At first, he was reluctant to accept the offer. Linda was very sick, and he wanted to be by her side as much as possible. As usual, Linda tried to convince Paul to do it. She wanted him to have a distraction from it all; she didn’t like Paul thinking about her illness every minute of the day. After lots of persuasion, they came up with a compromise: Linda will accompant him to New York. She’ll stay at their property in the Hamptons, while Paul will meet with the magazine people in the city.
Paul loved Linda deeply, and Linda loved Paul just as much. They’ve been through thick and thin; she stuck by Paul through the band’s break up, his struggle to coming back to the top as a solo artist, and everything in between. Many people predicted their marriage wouldn’t last, just like most of Hollywood’s marriages. It was a true wonder how they managed to stay together for many years—and very happy at that. But if you asked them, they’d tell you the key is love. Simple as that.
When John passed, Linda was there for Paul. Comforting and loving him. She knew that Paul loved John very much, in more levels than one.
John was an obviously open minded individual. He was unconventional, unorthodox, whatever word you wanted to use to describe such a unique soul. John was not a person to stop before he achieved his goal, the trait that was responsible for getting them to the top as a band. In his somewhat wild teenage years, John learned about sex and alcohol. He loved to experiment and try to win birds over, as any young man did. In school, John frequently got in trouble with his teachers for the simplest things—he’s got that reputation. Paul was warned not to hang out with “that Lennon,” but unlike himself, he did not listen.
It is believed John was bisexual; though the term did not exist back in the 60s. People would have immediately called him a queer and turned against him. As one of John’s closest mates, Paul knew he wasn’t a queer, but he wasn’t strictly attracted to women. John’s free spirit allowed him to venture the possibilities with men. They were taught as children that queers were bad, but John was incredulous. He didn’t believe that two males or two females could not fall in love with each other. So, old enough to know what he wanted to try, but too young to go to prison, he turned to a friend: Stuart Sutcliffe. From what Paul remembered, John was very fond of Stu. The lad was enigmatic; a very cliche art student who wore eccentric clothes and had a mysterious aura. It was all too pretentious for Paul, but John liked Stu just fine.
John told Paul that Stuart was the first guy he made a move on. John and Stu hit it off quickly after meeting each other at art college. Sutcliffe was a quiet lad, but John’s humor helped him crawl out of his shell. The two hung out quite often outside of college, always at pubs or with Cynthia. One weekend, John came over Stu’s flat and was rather tipsy. His mind in a haze and curiosity-ridden libido out of hand, he kissed Stu. The encounter was brief, not by John’s choice, but because when Stuart realized what was happening, he hastily pushed John away and admonished him like a little boy. John seemed to snap out of it and sober up enough to become aware of what he’d done. John hurriedly apologized, rightfully reasoning that the alcohol controlled his actions, and that it will never happen again. He was being honest; he didn’t want Stuart like that, though he couldn’t deny he found the bloke attractive at times. Stu couldn’t help but still be upset by the occurrence, though he was nice enough to not say anything and just forget about it.
Sticking to what he told Stuart, John was careful not to do anything of the sort to Stu again. They maintained to be great friends, but there was an invisible barrier that the two built between themselves. It was all in good reason, and as long as it didn’t make either man uncomfortable (though that was the sole reason the wall was there), they never mentioned it. That was the gist of the story of John and Stu. Paul righteously swooped in and reminded John that Paul was his best mate.
Ever since that hot summer day in 1957, Paul and John barely forgot about each other’s existence. Something would always remind John of Paul, and Paul with John alike. Even a simple glass of water could remind John of the boy. When the younger lad was over Mendips one summer, they’d been situated in John’s uncomfortably humid room. Paul incessantly complained about the heat, so John dipped his fingertips into his glass of water and flicked his hand in front of Paul’s face, spraying water onto the unsuspecting teenager’s hot skin, and into his nose. The simple action progressed into a full on water fight—as good of a water fight with only two glasses of water can be, at least. John and Paul’s little goof off was abruptly cut off by Mimi’s piercing, strict voice, asking them what the distracting noise was all about. John and Paul snickered and began roughhousing, trying to keep quiet—which proved to be difficult when John kept tickling Paul. The two just got on so well, and having fun just came naturally whenever they were together.
Similar to Stuart’s situation, John made a move on Paul during one drunken night out. Both boys were quite pissed, so neither stopped it when John began to stroke Paul’s cheek and eventually closed the gap between their lips. At first, their lips were just firmly pressed against each other. Though after feeling how soft Paul’s lips were, John parted his lips and kissed Paul properly, to which the latter responded to fast. In no time, the lads were engaged in an unarguably heated kiss. Hands all over each other, tongues exploring each other’s mouths. After a few minutes of sloppy kissing, however, Paul sobered up and pulled away, then ran home.
In the next couple of days, John and Paul completely avoided each other, wanting to spare themselves with the awkward confrontation of what happened during that night. But unfortunately, it had to come sometime. The Quarrymen had their almost weekly band practice, and never had Paul missed a meeting. He didn’t think he should break that record just because of a stupid bloody kiss, which he didn’t start or was sober for. He entered Pete Shotton’s home and instantly locked eyes with John. Paul asked to talk to John outside, and even though the older bloke almost used a witty remark to excuse himself from Paul’s request, he knew they needed to talk about what happened someday. There were a few seconds of silence before Paul started speaking, cutting right to the chase and making it very clear he wasn’t queer, and he didn’t think John was either. Deciding to blame it on the alcohol, they cast the memory aside and moved on with their lives as if nothing happened.
Through the course of the years, the two got involved in several more situations similar to that drunken night, but it always stopped before anything escalated. Now, Paul wishes he could change that.
John’s death was something of a wake up call to Paul. He realized just how much he loved John, how he should’ve let John know that. There would have been major risks and consequences, had they been caught together, but it didn’t matter to Paul—at least in hindsight. Those moments he had shared with John were amazing. When their lips connected, it was as if they molded together perfectly, like they belonged together. If he thought about those times, Paul could still taste the cigarettes and bubblegum that lingered in John’s mouth. He could still feel John’s heat emanating from his cheeks in that close of a proximity; the heat that told Paul John’s cheeks were flushed just like his. He could still smell John’s hair when John went down to kiss and suck on his neck, which had felt heavenly. He could still see John’s swollen lips after he pulled away, mouthing something in the lines of “I don’t know why I did that.”
If Paul could change anything from the past, he would have absolutely done something about him and John. Those kisses had been great, but he needed more—John’s passing away made him realize that. When the news reached him, it was like he was veered to the other road at a fork. The road full of what if’s and I wish’s. The road that entails the story of what would have happened if Paul just gave in, if he just let his feelings control him instead of his morals. He often wandered that road in his head, wishing he could know how his life would have turned out had he gone that path. Before, when he had the chance to be with John, he was never certain enough to just choose him. Now, Paul knew he would take all the risks if it meant he got to be with John.
Amid a painful breakdown, Paul confessed to Linda the intimate moments that transpired between him and John. Being the lovely and open minded woman that she is, Linda was accepting of Paul’s confession. Paul was extremely grateful of her understanding, granted not a lot of people at the time would accept such love between two men. Her modern views on sexuality issues proved true. Paul was so distraught at the time, wanting to quit music and life altogether. Linda didn’t want her husband to throw his life away because of John’s death, so she did all she can to help him move on. She had a brilliant idea; even if it wasn’t the easiest thing to talk to Paul about his love for someone else other than his wife, Linda held an John Intervention of some sort. She tried to help Paul utilize the love he bore for John into writing songs about him, instead of becoming utterly depressed for the rest of his life. The Lennon/McCartney partnership’s strongest bond was music, and Linda didn’t doubt John would’ve wanted Paul to continue creating that art, even after his death.
At the hotel, Paul was accompanied by his secretary, Val, to the room he was told his interview was taking place. There was, surprisingly, only a small crowd of paparazzis waiting for Paul outside, who, even in their small number, were still as startling as dozens of them. Undoubtedly, they would increase by the time Paul’s interview is over. He was greeted by ecstatic people when he entered. Most of them were dressed casually, asking him about his trip, and if he needed anything. Paul answered the questions fired at him with composure, something he quickly learned in fame. One of them instructed Paul to sit on the couch by the hotel room’s balcony. Paul decided to look out the sliding doors before taking a seat on the red velvet sofa (which he would most likely be sat on for the next couple hours). The view was lovely; the city looked so peaceful from the 40th floor of the establishment. The busy New York streets weren’t visible unless he walked out into the terrace. The famous buildings that made up the city’s skyline were in perfect sight: the Chrysler building, the Empire State, and the World Trade Center looked undisturbed from the distance. He could see what John loved about it—everything was right there. Anything he needed, whether he needed to go clothes shopping or eat lunch, he could just walk out his Upper West Side flat, stroll a few blocks, and a boutique or restaurant would be there. He could be one of the people without having to stand out. He could roam the streets and hardly be bothered, because everyone minded their own business.
The Big Apple was a very sharp contrast to Paul’s Scotland farm. In the city, it was peace under chaos, and chaos under peace in the farm. It all depended on the person, and which lifestyle appeared to be more favorable. Deep down, Paul always knew John would end up living in the city, where he’d live a busy bohemian life and no one would bother him. Paul, however, wanted a simple rural life with a wife and kids.
Paul effortlessly fell into a pensive mood, but was quickly cut off by a nervous young woman who asked him to take his seat as soon as he’s ready. Wanting to get this over with, Paul went to sit on the couch and took a sip from the tea he was apparently fixed.
The interviewer was a man who looked to be in his late thirties. Clean cut and shaved, he wore a simple but nice black suit. He introduced himself as John Smith, which was as crazy as a coincidence can be. John had the right amount of professionalism in him, knowing when it was alright to add a bit of humor in the conversation and when to be serious. Their meeting was quite pleasant—certainly much more pleasant than other interviews Paul has had in the past. Some “professionals” just never knew when they crossed the line. Fortunately, Mr. Smith was very proper and sensible.
“Now, if you don’t mind, for the last segment of this interview, I will ask you some questions sent to us by our readers.” John said. Paul just nodded, signaling he was ready.
The idea of letting readers send in questions was clever. It gave the opportunity for new insightful questions instead of the repetitive “is there going to be a Beatles reunion?” or “what was your reaction when you received the news of John’s death?” The questions readers had were more creative, per se. They weren’t media-based, trying to get the latest gossip, or trying to manipulate Paul’s words into a scandalous headline—they were genuinely interested. Paul wasn’t bothered by the segment; he could even say he enjoyed it a little bit. Everything went exceptionally smooth, and Paul even got a little bold with his answers. There was one question that caught him off guard. His answer could’ve been taken in two very different ways.
“If John Lennon could come back for a day, how would you spend it with him?” John asked.
“In bed.” Paul answered.
Paul was asked several more questions, then a series of thanks and goodbyes were exchanged as Paul left. The magazine team was immensely grateful for the opportunity of interviewing Paul, and gave him a small present. He was just outside the hotel room when his assistant spoke to him.
“Paul, the snow storm is very bad at the moment. The weather report says it’s not going to stop until tomorrow morning. We think it’s best for us to stay in the hotel tonight,” she said. “Linda already called, said she saw the weather report too. She agreed it’s a good idea for you to stay in the city until the roads are safe.”
“Alright. Are the hotel rooms taken care of?”
“Yes, I’ll bring you to your floor,” she handed him his room key.
“Thank you so much, Val. Take the rest of the night off, I’ll be all set” Paul gave her a smile. He truly was grateful of Val. She understood her job and was very conscious of overstepping his privacy. She reminded him of Freda, who was an outstanding assistant to Brian Epstein and a lovely friend to the boys during the Beatlemania.
They headed to the elevator, which was fortunately empty—no paparazzis following Paul to his room. In the elevator, Paul conversed with Val, asking her how her family was doing and such. When the bell dinged, signaling they were on the destined floor, Paul quickly bid a goodbye to his assistant and headed to the room he was given. Room 909, it was. Instantly, he recalled a particular song, a particular person, and it was almost as if that very soul haunted him in the city.
Paul entered the room, took off his coat, and sat on the full bed. He briefly remembered the gift bag the magazine people gave him, but he did not feel like looking inside yet. It's probably only some promotional merchandise crap, anyways, he thought. A heavy sigh escaped his lips as he looked around the space. It was no different to the other hotels he’s stayed at, and there had been a lot. The same off-white walls, wooden desk, mini bar, and television. Similar to the room he was interviewed in, there was a balcony that showed off the beautiful city at night; the snow falling down heavily from the sky just made the whole scene more animated-like.
Paul took off his shoes and entered the bathroom, discarding the rest of his clothing as he did so. He folded his shirts and trousers neatly before placing them on the elongated sink, wanting his only outfit to stay as wrinkle-free as possible. He turned on the shower and instantly hummed a tune without so much as thinking about it as he waited for the water to warm up. The fact that there’s always a song playing in his head amused him for some bizarre reason.
It had been a rather uneventful day for Paul, save the interview. He was traveling for the most part, and the excessive amount of time spent in a cramped vehicle seemed to leave him sore and drained.
A few moments later, he was in the shower, automatically relaxing under the warm water. Paul felt his muscles unwind and the tension leave him as the water cascaded his body. He washed himself, making sure he was as clean as possible. The pollution of the city got to him, though he was barely exposed to the streets of New York. It might’ve been that he was spoiled with the clean, fresh air back in Scotland. (But it was not as if taking care of his farm animals was so glamorous either.) The shower gave Paul time to think through his day, and he remembered that he needed to call Linda before going to bed. Doing the interview put him back on the mindset of being a celebrity. In the past few years, he’d been active in the media less and less to be with his wife and her battle with cancer.
Hearing the doctor reveal Linda’s illness broke Paul’s heart. He’d already lost a mother to cancer, he didn’t want to lose his wife to that too. The doctor’s prognosis was that Linda had a chance to survive, if she agreed to try out some experimental treatments. Of course, the couple immediately said yes to this, wanting to find a cure for the cancer.
The therapies took a huge toll on Linda. She became weak and grew thinner, but she fought through it, for her children and husband. Daily activities that was once done with little to no difficulty turned into draining tasks, so Paul decided to take a small break from his work and help Linda with the household responsibilities. They could have easily hired help, but Paul wanted to be with his wife. Paul had also been thinking of staying away from the media anyways, so it worked out fine. The love never faded out in their marriage, and in sickness and in health, they stuck by each other.
Paul got out of the shower after about half an hour of standing there, going over his thoughts. Since he had no change of clothes, he wore his under shirt and boxers to bed. He checked the clock, seeing that it was only half past nine, he called Linda and talked to her for a while. Being separated after spending every day together for years felt strange—it left Paul feeling empty. Whenever Paul went places, he’d always been with someone. Whether it’d have been his band mates, his family, or Linda, he was never really alone in a hotel room, at some place he didn’t call home. On the phone, Paul told Linda about his day, and he asked about hers in turn. She was very glad to hear his meeting with Q Magazine went well. Linda also mentioned she’d drive to the city next morning as soon as the roads were clear. She wanted to go see New York before going back to Scotland, missing the liveliness of Manhattan.
After a couple hours spent on the phone, Linda grew sleepy and eventually said goodnight. Paul gave Linda the number of the hotel room and told her to contact Val if ever she needed anything else.
Paul settled in his bed, which was surprisingly comfortable. It didn’t occur to him just how exhausted he was, and his body thanked the soft but firm mattress the hotel provided. He closed his eyes, heightening his hearing. Though the room was quiet, he could still hear the angry car horns of the city’s traffic. Before he fell asleep, though, he thought of John again. Most nights, Paul would think about him before going to bed, saying a simple “Night, John,” not really caring that the habit might’ve made him seem mental. Finally, his mind turned off and he slowly fell into a deep slumber.
The first thing his senses picked up were the soft sheets he laid on. The bed, though comfortable, squeaked as if in pain even to Paul’s lightest movements. It was obvious that the bed was old, but despite its audible defects, it completed the task of giving the lad a place to sleep in. Deciding to finally open his eyes, he looked around the room, spotting a few luggages that were familiar, though he could not remember bringing the worn out looking things with him to his hotel. To think about it, the room itself did not look right. There was one lonely window accompanied by thin, white curtains that were separated to let the sun light in. (Wasn’t there a balcony?) The wallpaper was somewhat of a lime green, but years of its existence caused a discoloration. (Weren’t the walls white?) In the corner opposite the bed, a small dresser, chipped and in need of some polishing, was topped by a tray that held a bottle of rum and a few glasses of coke. (But, he didn’t touch the mini fridge?) Evidently, there was a bucket for ice, though Paul doubted it still contained anything but water. The carpet was visibly stained and outdated. Clothes were on the floor. Leather everything—from trousers to jackets—laid on the ground. Paul was more than puzzled by the garments that were strewn carelessly. It wasn’t his size, it wasn’t his style, though he was reminded of the years way back when, when his wardrobe consisted of leather more than anything.
His senses began to warm up at last, and he realized that the shower was running. Must be Linda, he thought. That explained the suitcases he couldn’t particularly remember. But still, a lot of things didn’t make sense—odd clothes, strange hotel room, even the overall ambiance of the place seemed...wrong. Wrong for the current year, at least. Wasn’t this supposed to be a five-star hotel anyways? Based on what he’s seen, it couldn’t even pass for a three-star hotel. Maybe his memory was fading, but he was certain that this was not his hotel room. Paul began to sit up, his head feeling woozy, a word that came naturally in his mind to describe his feeling. Must’ve been the rum and coke. Though, again, he did not recall drinking the night before. He felt that there was something up, and he was not sure what it was. He called Linda’s name, but he did not get an answer. The water kept running, so he just thought Linda didn’t hear him. He approached the nearby mirror, checking his appearance. After seeing his reflection, a loud gasp filled through the room. This can’t be...how could it be?
Suddenly, everything made sense. No, it did not make sense! Paul realized where he was, when it was, who was in the bathroom. He was not in New York, it was certainly not 1998, and Linda was definitely not the one occupying the bathroom. He looked at himself once again in the mirror. Oh, how young he appeared. The wrinkles in his face disappeared—well, it had not yet existed. His skin was so smooth, so young. His graying hair was instead a full head of dark brown hair styled in DA. Oh god, he hadn’t even gotten the well-known Beatle haircut yet! (However, he was meant to get it in a few days’ time.) Though it made sense, with what he realized a few moments ago, it still did not add up why he was in this point in time. Paris was decades ago. Paris was just an old memory. Paris was a trip with-
He was way too deep in thought to hear the shower stop running or hear the bathroom door opening. A young bloke emerged, only a towel wrapped around his waist. The steam from the hot shower taken followed the man as he left the bathroom, and diffused into the bedroom. Water was dripping from his hair and onto his skin, though he did not seem to mind. He bent down to pick up a few articles of clothing from the floor and began to dress himself. Finally, he decided to look at his mate—the one he asked to hitchhike with him to Spain—but ultimately ended up wanting to stay in Paris—and started to speak.
“Early morning and yer already ogling at yerself, Macca. What a narcissist, you are.”
His voice. Though it didn’t change much over the course of the years, there was still something in the raspy, deep voice that resembled a younger version of himself. A voice that was yet to develop a small strain from years of non stop touring around the world, a voice that no longer needed to ask his bandmates, “Where are we going boys?” as they have already reached the toppermost of the poppermost. Paul missed that voice. It belonged to his best mate. It belonged to the man he loved deeply. It belonged to John.
A million thoughts ran through his head the moment he processed what was happening. John talked to him. John is talking to him.
John is alive.