Chapter Text
8th December 2030
Hospitals had never exactly been Paul’s favourite places to be.
Ever since he was a kid with a teddy boy haircut and a leather jacket, they brought back painful memories of hours staring at blank walls in waiting rooms and holding his dying mother’s hand. And later, bad memories of being in hospital for his father, George and Linda.
The smell was too chemical, the walls too white, every surface unnaturally clean, and the doctors rarely brought positive news. This hospital was only slightly more pleasant than the others, but he still felt an uncomfortable feeling of anxiousness in the back of his head. Or perhaps that feeling was just the brain tumour.
The walls were a bleak white with medical posters and a few paintings of Scottish landscapes covering the cracks in the paint. His bed was comfy enough, with two pillows, just how he liked it. There was a vase of tulips on the bedside table and the window was open a little, with a soft breeze and the smell of rain drifting through the room. It was an unusually warm day for December at 15°C – well, these days it was more usual, with global warming and all that.
He’d opted for private care and a private room, as it was quieter and more peaceful this way. No one staring at him, no press, limited visitors. Just friends and family, and kind nurses in his final days.
Over the last few weeks he had shared stories, looked through old photographs with his kids (well, adult kids now), and exchanged hugs and kisses with his loved ones.
Amelia, a palliative care nurse in her 30s, was into the Beatles’ music and would sometimes bring in a dusty, ancient record player for him to listen to their old tunes.
Paul was a little forgetful nowadays.
It was so long ago now that he barely remembered the songs and every note was a surprise. He sometimes thought ‘that sounds great, I never would have thought of doing that with the bassline’, then remembered he wrote that bassline. And hearing John and George’s voices still tugged at his heartstrings.
Amelia had said that, while he started to forget the melodies and the lyrics, their legacy continued and new generations heard Beatles music and fell in love with them. She shared how her 2-year-old daughter waved her arms around and sang along to the ‘na na na na’s in Hey Jude. That got a tired, nostalgic smile out of Sir Paul.
And yes, there was no doubt about it. These were his final days. He felt it in the weakness of his bones and the effort it took to breathe. But he was ok with that. The medication numbed him, and it was a pleasant feeling. He had lived a long, happy and successful life. And now he almost understood what George Harrison had said to him days before his own passing. ‘I’m at peace with my mind, body and spirit.’
Nancy, Stella, Mary, Heather, James, Beatrice and his grandkids had all come in over the past few days to say their goodbyes. He had tried his best to be strong for them and not break down crying every time.
Today he was expecting another visitor – Ringo, his brother. It would be ok if he cried with Ringo. By God, they’d certainly seen each other at their best and worst throughout the years. Ringo would probably call him a soppy, miserable old man and then cry with him.
He worried about Ringo and how he would feel when Paul was gone. His friend tended to get lonely. And as an exceptionally healthy 90-year-old he seemed to have no intentions of passing away any time soon.
A knock on the door drew Paul out of his mind, where he had lost himself in his thoughts. He called out quietly, “Come in.”
“Hey, Macca,” came a familiar beloved Liverpudlian voice, and the door swung open to reveal one of Paul’s favourite people. “How're you doing?”
“Not as good as you, I reckon” Paul quipped, his breath laboured and speech slow. “I swear you look younger every day. What are you, 40? 50? Maybe you could quickly share some of your elixir of life, give me a couple extra years and cure my cancer?”
“Haha, funny,” Ringo’s voice dripped with sarcasm. He shut the door behind him and made his way over to sit on the side of Paul’s bed, adjusting his friend’s pillows and taking a hold of his hand.
Paul was right though. There were considerably more wrinkles on his hands than Ringo’s, and even Paul, two years his junior, appeared older and more tired. But – he supposed that was a side effect of dying.
“Well, stars have a lifespan of billions of years,” Paul murmured, taking comfort from his brother’s hand in his. His words were slightly slurred, and he stumbled a bit on them but did his best to continue. “You’re a Starr, Ringo. You're a star. Of course you’d be the last of us to go. I’m… I never appreciated you enough but you’re a wonderful friend and...”
“Oh, fucking hell, don’t ya get all soppy on me now Paul,” a teary-eyed Ringo replied. “You’re a miserable old git, you know that?”
“That makes two of us then.”
Ringo rolled his eyes. “Love you though, man. For all your… enormous ego and annoyingness and sentimentality… you’re a great guy too.” He cleared his throat and Paul could see his old friend trying to hold in the tears. “I’ll… uh, I’ll miss you.”
Paul was feeling more and more exhausted so all he could manage was a loose squeeze of Ringo’s hand and a quiet “Love ya too.” He hoped that Ringo got the message of what he wanted to say but couldn’t. The words left unsaid mattered just as much as the words said.
There was a moment of comfortable silence as Paul stared at the tulips and a bee buzzed outside the window. He gave a heavy sigh. It was coming. Every minute it was getting harder and harder to keep his eyes open.
“How do you feel? Are you comfortable? Anything I can get for you?” Ringo asked gently. It must have been hard for him to watch his lifelong friend dying but he seemed to be holding it together well enough.
“I’m ok,” Paul whispered. It was a lie. He wasn’t ok, but he was as ok as he could be considering the circumstances. He felt relaxed and comfortable. “I don’t hurt much. I feel… at peace.”
“Peace and love?”
“Peace and love, my friend,” Paul repeated Ringo’s favourite saying and gave him his best smile. Still, he soldiered on. He had always been quite a chatterbox and didn’t want dying to stop his words. And he certainly didn’t want to pass on with words left unsaid. “That’s what I feel. I feel peaceful and I know my time has come but I still feel so… incomplete. There’s a song in my head but I’ll never get to write it down or record it. There are words I’ll never get to say. Life is so short and… I have so many regrets. There’s still so much to do.”
Ringo laughed quietly. “I’ll never get you. Even on yer deathbed you’re writing songs in your ‘ead.”
“Not just that,” Paul murmured. “I just… there’s so much I wanted to say to John. And I never got the chance to, or I was too self-centred to not say it. I regret it so much.”
“Would you go back, if you could?” Ringo asked.
“In a heartbeat.”
“What exactly do you regret?” It was obvious that Ringo was trying to push the conversation on as he saw Paul becoming more lethargic and heard the beeps on the heart monitor getting less frequent. He was keeping Paul engaged so he didn’t fall asleep… he wanted as much time as possible for his old friend. He treasured every second that went by.
“Sometimes… I still dream about him. John,” Paul breathed, and though his voice was weak it still held just as much reverence and love for John Lennon as it did in 1962. “I dream that George and him made it to retirement like us old codgers as they should have done, and in my dreams we talk for hours on the phone. That’s all… we just talk. And at the end of the phone call we’ll always hang up with a ‘love you, old pal, see you soon’ and I’ll wake up with a pain in me that feels so much worse than my physical pain. 'Cause I regret not telling him – and George – when they were alive. I loved them both so damn much but I was a right twat sometimes. I wish I could go back to the 60s and tell myself to stop being an arsehole.”
Ringo chuckled. “You were kind of an arsehole, man. But we all were. John and George included. We all argued, and we were all just as much at fault as the others for our… falling apart.”
“I’m a dying man,” Paul replied dryly. “Let me wallow in the past and have my regrets.” He shifted in the bed and, with great effort, moved over a little. “Here – come here. You know – you’re a brother to me.”
Ringo looked a little alarmed. “Macca. Stop exerting yourself.” But he still climbed in next to him, sitting with his back against the headboard and legs above the covers, holding the other man close to him. “Oh,” he muttered. “I think I just heard me bones creaking.”
Paul seemed to be trying for a laugh but just let out a breathless wheeze. “Welcome to… old age, pal. You’re a bit late for the party.”
“I’m two years older than you, y’know,” Ringo pointed out.
“Yeah… but you’re an immortal being and nothing can convince me otherwise.”
“Ha. Ha,” Ringo gave a sarcastic laugh. “And you really died in 1966 and nothing can convince me otherwise.”
“Oh, shut up,” Paul whispered with a smile.
His breathing slowed, and his eyes closed.
Ringo’s heart leapt in his chest. He worried for a moment that Paul was gone and his last words would be “shut up”. Wouldn't that be ironic?
Ringo was about to panic but it seemed Paul was clinging onto every last thread of his energy, and he piped up after a few seconds, in a voice so soft Ringo could barely hear. “I wonder how he felt. In those last minutes.”
Somehow, Ringo had a vague suspicion of what Paul was talking about.
“John. In his last moments,” Paul sighed lightly, opening his eyes and staring right into Ringo’s soul. It was the most vulnerable Ringo had ever seen his friend and he felt a sudden tightness in his throat and moisture starting to build in his eyes.
In Paul’s last minutes, when he was struggling to breathe or move, he wanted to talk about John.
It was such a Paul thing to do.
“Scared,” Ringo replied. “So very scared, shocked and alone. It was such a horrible and sudden way to go. I wouldn’t wish it on anybody, not even the man what shot ‘im.”
“It was 50 years ago…” Paul murmured, eyes glazed and unfocused, staring into the middle distance. “You know, I can see him… standing right there, at the window and he’s smiling at me. He looks… so young and happy. Only 40 years old… he was… taken too soon. I want to… be with John again.”
Ringo kissed his brother’s head, tears now streaming down his face. It was tearing him apart to think of John’s last moments, but he felt comforted knowing that at least Paul was about to pass away painlessly in his sleep.
Even as one of their closest friends, Ringo had never fully understood the extent of the friendship between Lennon and McCartney. There had been something about them both when they were together that was so… transcendent and magical. Even to this day, he knew there were secrets Paul was keeping about John, and it was like parts of John would forever stay locked away in Paul’s heart, never to be opened again.
Ringo wasn’t a particularly religious man, but he hoped John and Paul would be reunited again. After all, nothing else could have been Paul’s last words, except for a fleeting wish to be with John.
“Then go to him. Sleep well, Macca. And I’ll see you again soon.”
Paul smiled peacefully and fell asleep, giving his last breath. The world ceased to exist.
There he was. John Lennon, holding a hand out to his best friend with that same old cheeky grin on his face. His eyes were shining.
Paul took his hand and followed him into the light.