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The first thing Paul registered when he opened his eyes was the flood of light that greeted him. That wasn’t right for Christmas morning. Not with two toddlers and a baby. It wasn’t exactly right for him, either, early riser that he was. But gradually, he processed another sensation, two in fact, that distracted him somewhat from the irregularity of the morning.
One was the feeling of hands through his hair, starting at the scalp and gently moving down the strands, then slipping away from the ends. It would begin again, stroke after stroke, in a way that only John’s hands could do. He loved those hands, knew their touch anywhere on him, even in more risqué locations of his body. The second was a gentle humming, no particular carol in its tune, but pleasant and warm all the same. John’s hands on him and John’s voice around him… Paul couldn’t have imagined a better way to greet the morning. Except perhaps with the gleeful exclamations from his children that Christmas had arrived.
Paul blinked a few times, accepting the light more graciously than he had the first time, and shifted to find John’s glasses, his warm eyes behind them, and his thin face framed by messy strands of his gracefully thinning brown hair.
“You’re beautiful,” was the first thing Paul thought to say. His full view was occupied by John Lennon, after all. How could he say anything less?
“You must be delirious,” John chuckled, blushing a bit at the sleepy sincerity leaving his husband’s mouth. “You look rather lovely yourself, you know that?”
“What, looking like this?” Paul made a face, feeling the sleep dust crinkle by his eyes and registering some drool at the corners of his mouth. He’d slept soundly last night. More so than he had in a long time.
“Looking exactly like that,” John nipped at Paul’s nose with a playful smile. “Remember I was in love with you when we were in Hamburg, darling.”
“Well yeah, but I looked sexy then,” Paul countered, raising an eyebrow and putting on his old teddy boy smirk.
“Who says you don’t look sexy now?” John challenged.
“The fact that I know me face is all splotchy and chunks of hair are in a bit of a rat’s nest?”
“Doesn’t count. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and all four of mine say you’re looking extraordinarily attractive.”
“Mmm, well that’s nice,” Paul hummed, giving in to John’s sweet talking. He wasn’t just effortlessly witty; he was also handily charming.
“I think so,” John murmured, lips already closing in on Paul’s.
It was beautifully tender and lazy and contained just a dusting of want for something more. Paul snaked his arms out of the blankets and reached them up to wrap around John’s neck. He pulled a bit, gently but with intent, and John responded happily, leaning further down to capture more of his husband’s mouth.
“We’re not going to be interrupted by the little ones, are we?” Paul asked when John pulled back for a breath, pupils invitingly wide.
“Not unless Ringo’s lost his touch for playing with them,” John grinned, going in for another kiss.
“Ringo’s here?” Paul muttered against John’s lips, suddenly distracted. Why was Ringo here so early? Even if the sun was up, he and George weren’t due until early afternoon. And did that mean George was here?
“Shouldn’t have said that,” John laughed, easing a few inches back at the realization of Paul’s slight diversion. “Ruined the moment, didn’t I?”
“Not ruined, perhaps,” Paul assured. “Maybe just… pushed it off for a bit. You know they’ll nap early today.” He finished his sentence with a suggestive grin, making John blush more.
“Such a mind, and at 8:30 in the morning, too,” John teased. “I suppose I’ll postpone, though. You’re worth waiting for.”
“How charming,” Paul teased back. His curiosity was still needling him, though. “Now, why is Ringo here? He’s the reason I’ve been allowed a lie in, is he?”
“He and George,” John supplied. “They’re keeping the kids at bay in terms of presents.”
Paul suddenly shot up, almost smashing into John’s nose. “Shit! We didn’t put out the presents!”
“Relax, love,” John soothed. “I took care of it early this morning when I fed Mary. It’s all taken care of.”
“Why didn’t you wake me up?” Paul paused, mind grabbing some other persistent nagging thought. It came to him after a beat or two. “And why are George and Ringo here so early?”
John’s face shifted. “How much do you remember from last night?”
“I dunno, we had Mike and Dad over and I know we put Mary to bed together. Uhh, I think I remember talking to Ruth a bit about her winter piano recital at the very start.” Paul carded a hand through his hair, like he remembered John doing this morning. “I tucked the kids in by myself, though. And then Dad got mad, I think. No wait, that was before. Something about Angela being upset at Mike. Christ, it’s all muddled, isn’t it?”
“Ah,” John bit his lip, looking a little sheepish. “That would be, uh, that would be the Valium.”
“I took Valium?” Paul’s hand stopped in his hair. “When? Last night?”
“Erm, yes, though you weren’t exactly aware of it, I don’t think,” John said carefully. “You were pretty upset, Paulie. I needed to calm you down for bed, so you could sleep.”
“You gave me it?” Paul’s eyes widened. John was terrified of him using Valium, ever since he accidentally overdosed when Julian was about 6 months old.
“I know, I know,” John rushed to explain. “But really, darling, you weren’t about to settle down very much to sleep. I made you drink some water when I was getting you washed up. Do you remember that? I gave you the pill then, just one I promise.”
Paul racked his brain. It sounded familiar. “You kissed my ears, right? I was sitting on the chair, the little one, in the bathroom. Wait, you carried me in there! You caught me on the stairs! Why did I almost fall down the stairs?”
“Shh, please love, deep breaths, we don’t want a repeat of last night, yeah?”
“What happened last night, exactly? It had something to do with Mike, right? And Dad got mad at him. So did Angela… So did you, didn’t you?” Paul pressed.
“Paul. Deep breaths.” John repeated, tone uncompromising. When Paul had done so, several times, he continued. “Thank you, now if you stay calm and don’t get too ‘worked up’ as they say, I’ll talk you through it, alright?”
Paul nodded, keeping quiet to prove his current state of calm. John eyed him carefully, caringly, then began. He started with Mike’s inebriation, then his growing insults, Julian’s interruption, how Paul took him and Heather up to bed, then neared the end with an explanation of how he put Paul to bed a bit later.
“I called George and Ringo last night, and they said they’d come down early. I didn’t tell them everything, just said you were stressed, and we’d need some help with the kids. They’re downstairs now, keeping an eye. Ringo’s been taking pictures of Mary with different ornaments on her head. It’ll be a classic series, I’m sure,” John finished, smiling cautiously to gauge Paul’s reaction.
“I want to talk to him,” Paul said almost immediately.
“Who, Ringo? He’s not going to publish the photos, love, they’re just for us to see.”
“No, not Ringo, he can take as many photos as he wants.” Paul waved the thought away. “Mike. I want to talk to him.”
John’s face shifted in the same way it had earlier. “I don’t know if that’s the best idea for you right now. Or for the family.”
“How do you mean?” Paul demanded, his voice coming out harsher than he’d intended.
John placed a hand on his arm, squeezing softly. “Last night… it wasn’t good, Paul. I’m not mad at you, not at all. But I am worried. If you talk to him and things turn sour again, I don’t think it’ll be good for you. You’ve been stressed, love. More than I think you realize. And you and I both know we don’t want that transferring to the kids. It’s not good for them, either.”
Paul sighed, looking away from John’s gentle gaze. He was remembering more and more of last night, the specific feelings and the moments of worry he had in relation Julian and Heather. A tugging, muddy feeling was beginning to pull his heart down, too. It was embarrassing, knowing he’d fallen apart that way. The only relief was knowing that the kids hadn’t seen any of it. He didn’t want to risk that changing, risk them seeing it in the future.
John cupped his chin. “None of that now, Mr. Lennon-McCartney,” he tutted kindly. “You’re not to feel any kind of shame for this, understand? You were so strong for our little ones. For me. For our family. I’m so proud of you, and you deserve to feel the same way about yourself, too.”
Water gathered in Paul’s eyes, small wells with the same wish: to be good for his family. He was proud of himself, that encouragement from John helping bolster him up a bit. He didn’t want to falter in his success, either, see the kids stressed from all of this.
But he couldn’t let the issue with Mike lie. There was too much there that needed answering. He lifted his eyes, finding John, and spoke with quiet earnestness.
“I’ll keep it away from the kids, whatever it is that ends up happening from this, but I need to talk to him. You understand, don’t you? It would be like if Mimi said that to you about Julia.”
“I know,” John answered quickly, following along easily. Their emotional sides were so closely intertwined. “But let’s be careful about it, yeah? Get him to meet in person, though somewhere away from the house, and make sure he gives you some kind of an explanation before you even meet up. I’ll pummel him if he tries to change his story, because there’s certainly no excuse for what he said, not from where I stand.”
“Perhaps not,” Paul admitted. “I’ve no idea how to even approach forgiving him or not. I just, I need to know. Whether it’s bigotry or something else horrible or something less atrocious, I’ve got to know. He’s my brother, Johnny. I can’t sweep it all away.”
John clasped Paul’s hands, an expression of time-worn awe dancing on his features. “You’re the strongest man I know. Imagine me being so lucky as to sit beside you on a bed we sleep in together, in a home that contains our family.”
“And here I am being called the lyricist by all the press,” Paul chuckled, blinking away little pools of saltwater. “I love you, darling.”
“I love you three.” John kissed his nose again, then gave a firm squeeze to his hands. “Shall we alleviate our children’s impatience, then?”
Paul answered with a kiss, and soon they were descending the stairs in their robes, bound for the small parlor, the one they used just for their family. It was too small to entertain guests in, hence why they hadn’t used it last night, but it did just fine for the five of them, plus George and Ringo of course.
The two men were seated in the room, Ringo on the couch with a cheerful Mary in his arms, and George on the rug, holding still as Heather and Julian draped him in toy Christmas lights. The latter was managing remarkably well for someone who was self-described as “not being ready for children of me own,” and Paul made a small note to inquire into his feelings on parenthood at some point.
That would have to wait, though, as Julian and Heather quickly took center stage, racing to greet their parents – especially Paul, who they hadn’t seen all morning.
“Dada! Santa came and he even filled the stockings for Martha and Pyramus and Babaghi and Mimi!” Julian chattered excitedly, gleeful that the pets would receive their own share of Christmas cheer.
“He did, didn’t he?” Paul agreed enthusiastically, stealing a kiss from John in thanks for all his present arranging. “What did he put in your stocking, baby?”
“We don’t know yet! We were waiting for you and Daddy!”
“You were so patient, too! Thank you both so much!” Paul gave a kiss to Julian and Heather’s heads. “Why don’t you bring them over here and we can see what’s in them?”
The two of them did so enthusiastically, dragging the stockings from where they leaned against the hearth and plopping down in front of the couch, where Paul had taken a seat next to Ringo and Mary. George freed himself from the lights and sat himself on the couch as well, smiling encouragingly at Paul. The gesture gave a thrum of reassurance to Paul, and he settled back against the cushions. Just being in the same room with his family – and his closest friends – was improving his nerves.
John took the role of the more active parent for this year’s stocking examination, sitting on the floor next to Julian and Heather and ensuring they didn’t accidently miss things in the wrapping paper. Julian was more careful than Heather was, but with John’s guidance, she carefully made her way through the oversize knit sock.
Most of the gifts were small, simple little things that John and Paul had collected through the year and knew would light up Julian’s freckles and Heather’s eyes, but some of the presents had a bit more thinking behind them.
One such item happened to be at the very bottom, in the toe. Curious at the pair of shiny metal dinosaurs they withdrew, Julian and Heather handed them to John, who patiently taught them how to wind the key in their stomach, pull it out, and then set them walking. Paul had found them at a toy shop in the small village near the coastal cottage, and he felt another thrum as he watched his toddlers line the dinosaurs up for small races across the rug, bound for the space between John’s hands.
Paul fidgeted slightly, wanting to participate, but knowing better than to carry himself too far into the game. The Valium was still muddling its way through his system. Ringo, seated next to him, seemed to notice Paul’s quiet agitation, and nudged him gently.
“Here you are, mate.” Ringo handed Mary over into Paul’s arms. “Miss Mary wants her dad, too, I think.”
“Well not on account of not liking you, Uncle Ringo,” Paul smiled. “You’re husband’s a charmer, Geo.”
“Don’t I know it,” George laughed. “He’s been talking to all the gnomes, telling them they have beautiful features. I think he’s getting bored lately.”
Ringo lightly smacked George’s arm, then grabbed the collar of his sweater and kissed him with quick fervor. He pulled away as if nothing had happened, but gave a cheerful comment all the same:
“That’s the only face I’m interested in, thank you very much!”
John and Paul tried to stifle their chuckles, hoping not to interrupt Julian and Heather, who had missed the stolen kiss. Both children continued their dinosaur games unawares of their uncles’ antics, and the adults partook in their own quiet conversations.
The four of them hadn’t had time to truly sit and talk since September, when Mary had her first visit to Friar Park, and there was a multitude of things that had passed since then that lent themselves to a small chat or witty joke. There was George’s escapade into growing a type of spineless thistle which hadn’t actually been that harmless, Ringo’s discovery of a new alcohol-less cocktail that he knew John would love, and John shared a few stories from the family’s time at the seaside, including a flock of pesky seagulls and one very persistent stray dog that insisted Julian was its new best friend.
Paul provided a few tales of his own, but he enjoyed listening even more, rocking Mary and gently dancing one of her stocking gifts on her chest, earning some adorable smiles and giggle in the process. John scooted closer to the couch, kissing her cheeks with playful sounds. Paul felt his heart melt every time, and it melted again when George leaned across Ringo to give Mary some tickles under her chin. He loved being part of both these families – band and biological – and that they had come together.
He remembered what Ringo had said last Christmas, that he had motherly instincts around his children. Ringo had meant it kindly when he compared Paul to a woman, Paul knew that, but there was also a sense of pride in knowing he had that nurturing aspect to his fatherhood. He hoped Julian would grow up knowing that men could be just as gentle and open as society said women were. If there was one life-changing concept that being with John had taught Paul, it was that there was strength in showing one’s emotions.
“Dada, I’m hungry!” Julian disrupted the adults’ conversation from his seat on the rug. “Can we have breakfast, please?”
Paul smiled to himself. Asking for what he wanted was a good start to knowing himself emotionally. “Would you like breakfast now, or just the Christmas rolls?”
“Rolls!” Heather exclaimed. Julian nodded in support.
“Right, well let’s see what we can do about that, then!” Paul made to stand up, but John placed a hand on his knee.
“You want me to do it? Let you sit a bit longer with Moo?”
“Nah, that’s alright. I’ll be sure to monopolize cuddling with her after we open the rest of the presents,” Paul assured. He passed her off to John, who took her with a positively blinding smile, continuing his playfully loud kisses on both her cheeks. “It’ll be good for me to get up a little. It’s small work anyway.”
“Sure you’re not gonna get drowsy on us?” John prodded, looking up from their giggling daughter.
“Promise,” Paul vowed. He kissed John’s lips, which caused a new set of giggles, this time from Julian and Heather. “You can entertain our little dinosaurs over there!”
“Mind if I tag along?” George spoke up. “I’ve been sat so much recently and could use with some standing.”
“If this is aimed at me not letting you walk for two hours in the garden yesterday,” Ringo started defensively, “I’m sorry. I have small legs and I prefer not to get muddy on festive occasions.”
“You’re forgiven, Ritchie,” George promised. “You won’t be off the hook after New Year’s, though!”
Leaving the room amid a good-natured groan from Ringo and the continued bubbly laughter from the children, Paul and George made their way to the kitchen. It was all cleaned and organized after yesterday evening, and Paul felt a bit guilty at the amount of chores John must have done this morning. But mostly he felt a sense of calm. The dough, having risen over night, was ready to be dealt with and sectioned off into rolls, and he had the company of someone who might as well have been his little brother. Certainly more of a brother than his real one was at the moment.
Ah. That stress had returned then, it seemed. If George noticed a shift in Paul’s mood, though, he didn’t show it as they sorted the dough and arranged the rolls into the shape of a Christmas tree on a baking pan, then slid it into the oven. It was only once Paul started making the icing, sourcing powdered sugar and milk from the cabinets and fridge, that George ventured forth with a question.
“You’ve got your business mask on, mate. You know it always helped for you to talk about it, yeah?”
Paul nodded. He knew. And he knew George knew. The business mask went up whenever he couldn’t control things the right way but had to stay calm all the same. George had grown used to Paul putting it on after Mary died, often for days at a time. John knew it well now, too, of course, but there would always be some factor of George having seen it on Paul first that connected them that way. He’d been the first person to help Paul take it off, after all.
“John said it was about the family party,” George stepped forward lightly with his words. “And I’m willing to bet it wasn’t Jim that caused an uproar.”
Paul smiled at that. Jim was about the least problematic person either of them knew, only stubborn in his old ways. Hardly the personality type to make a scene, especially not when he was a guest. The humor that brimmed in Paul was enough to open his mouth, and as he mixed the icing, he quietly told George of yesterday’s uproar, as much as he remembered and the rest of it filled in with what John had provided this morning.
George listened stoically, as he always did, but when Paul signaled the end of the account with a shrug of his shoulders, George pushed himself away from the counter and wrapped his lean arms around Paul’s robe-clad figure.
“I’m so sorry, Paul,” he murmured, holding Paul close. “I know logic isn’t the best reassurance at the moment, but Mary would never have thought those things. I’m so sorry Mike thought it apt to say them anyway.”
Paul breathed into George’s hair, years of friendship in a scent, and nodded against his shoulder.
“Thanks, Geo. I’m glad… I’m glad you met her. She thought you were brilliant, you know. Told me you were the best kind of friend I would ever find. ‘bout as right as she could have been.”
Paul felt George’s face fold into a smile.
“Mum said the same thing about you. First time she cooked for you, after you’d walked home. Said I’d do right to stick with you, that I’d found someone good in you. Mum’s, aye?”
They pulled apart and found sheepish grins on both their faces. The familiarity in seeing the same thoughts, the same feelings, radiated back at you in the colour of reassurance was so beautiful Paul thought of ruining the moment and writing it all down in one of his notebooks, but he resisted. He knew he’d remember this moment for long enough to record it. Longer, really.
Story divulged, the two men sat at the small kitchen table in their familiar understanding and stuck cloves in a set of navel oranges, continuing their scattered conversations from earlier. Without a child to distract him, not that Paul was glad for her absence, Paul found himself recounting the little adventures with his and John’s little family.
There must have been some degree of worry invested in the stories, though, because when he reached the part where John had suggested moving, back on St. Nicholas Day, George quietly interrupted.
“Paul mate, how stressed are you?” George’s brows were arched high above his dark eyes, concern but also some appropriate humor in them.
“Stressed?” Paul repeated. “Not that much, I don’t think. Just a bit from yesterday, probably.”
George almost laughed out loud. “Not a chance. Haven’t you been listening to yourself?”
“Haven’t I?”
“Not to my rather protruding ears,” George countered. “You’ve just listed off about five separate and ongoing things that are actively – and obviously – wearing your nerves.”
“Come off it,” Paul dismissed.
“Paul, I’m being completely serious.”
“Alright, name them,” Paul challenged. He heartily doubted he was that stressed, but something in him was entertained by the thought of what George would come up with.
George propped up an elbow on the table and began listing them off with his fingers.
“Right, well first there’s the public’s knowledge – or suspicion – about the true nature of your relationship with John and the family you have. Next, there’s your worry about how Julian will do in school once it becomes more obvious to his peers that he has two fathers.” George moved to his middle finger. “Third, Mary’s illness, even though you’re clearly taking care of it and she’s been improving considerably. There’s also whatever the hell your brother has caused; that’s making you worry a fair bit more than you realize.”
“That’s only four,” Paul observed. He wasn’t as entertained as thought he would be. Now he just wanted to see if George could fill all his fingers and make the scene look more balanced. He hated unbalanced things.
“Well to be honest I’m not entirely sure what you said about you and John moving to the seaside,” George admitted, “but you rambled on for a bit about how difficult it would be to move house and get Julian reestablished in a new school, so that seems like an appropriate item to put my pinkie up for.”
“… Impressive.”
“I’m not accusing you of anything,” George continued, reassurance in his tone, “but I think you should look at everything going on in your life and maybe that might explain a bit of why you were upset to the point of John needing to give you Valium last night.”
Paul swallowed. He felt a bit ill, suddenly. He hadn’t taken Valium in years. It had been prescribed to him as an anxiety reducer, and had done its job well, keeping him less worried and antsy through the latter half of the band’s career. He stopped the prescription when Julian was about 18 months or so, and he’d only needed to take an emergency dose once since then. He couldn’t quite remember exactly what for, either. That he had needed to take it again – or, more accurately, that John had needed to give it to him – wasn’t exactly indicative of successfully managed anxiety.
“Do you think I should start taking it again?” Paul asked, looking at George with eyes that were unapologetically brimming with worry.
“That’s not for me to say at all, mate,” George said kindly. “Doctors have degrees for those types of questions. … But I do have something that might help.”
“Hmm?” Paul felt himself sit up a bit.
“You’d be doing me a favor, as a matter of fact,” George grinned. “I sort of bought Ritchie a rather large Christmas present, but I’m rather nervous to, uh, experience it with just the two of us. Safety in numbers and all that.”
“Please say it’s not what I think it is,” Paul implored, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“What…?” George cocked his head, then his eyes filled with realization. “Oh no! Lord, no! Just, oh my gosh, not all! Not like that!”
Paul leaned forward with laughter, dropping his handful of cloves into the bowl. George shrank backward, face flooded with red-tinted embarrassment, and did his best to speak over Paul’s laughter.
“It’s not that! It’s, Paul, stop laughing, will you! Ritchie will hear us and then you’ll have spoiled the real thing!”
Paul wiped his eyes and sat at attention as best he could, side stitch forming from suppressed laughter. George sighed.
“Thank you. Now. As I was trying to say. I bought him a rather large gift and I’m nervous to give it to him just on me own and I don’t want it to be just the two of us, because I don’t like new spaces and I don’t like being away from home, so this is sort of a nightmare for me, but I did it anyway.”
“Did what anyway?” Paul inquired, curiosity overcoming his urge to continue teasing.
“Oh, yes, well,” George cleared his throat. “For some reason or another, I bought him a house. In Hawaii. With gardens and a beach. And also a giant fish tank with a miniature octopus.”
Paul’s mouth fell open. “You bought him a what?” He whispered with the intensity of a yell.
“A house in Hawaii with gardens and a beach and an octopus!” George whispered back with the same urgency. “And I’m bloody terrified he won’t like it or something will go wrong or the octopus will die or something and I really, really would prefer to not be there just the two of us!”
“You bought him a house?”
“Yes Paul, we’ve covered that! We’ve moved from that to my intense fear of everything going wrong once he actually is ‘given’ the house!”
“I see,” Paul found himself chuckling again. “So you’re asking me to bring John and go to Hawaii with you so you don’t panic when it’s just you and Ringo.”
“In a manner of speaking, yes,” George huffed. “But, not to get lost in the weeds with all that, I think it would be really good for you and John. And the kids, of course. I’d like for you all to come. From everything you’ve just told me, it sounds like you need some time for yourselves to just be together, yeah? Family time without looking over your shoulder.”
Paul couldn’t have asked for anything more fitting. It sounded cliché to say “perfect,” but George’s offer really encompassed everything he and John had been wanting. And it would be a good way to start the year.
“When are you leaving?” He probed.
“Maybe a week after New Year’s. If all goes well, I hope he'll want to stay through to the end of February, celebrate my birthday and then face the real world again. You can stay for as much of that as you want. More, if you like,” George smiled earnestly.
“Mum didn’t know the best kind of friend is one with money,” Paul joked. “I’ll have to talk to John, of course, and we’ll have to see what we think is best for Julian’s school and Mary’s health, but I’m sure he’d want to. Thank you, Geo. You’re almost as charming as Ringo.”
George grinned, clearly pleased his offer was well-received. “And don’t forget you’d be doing me a favor. My biggest concern is if the octopus dies. That’d be terrible.” He shuddered. “Having you and John there, an octopus in your own right, might help.”
The oven timer trilled before Paul could make a sarcastic comeback, and soon George was calling in the rest of the extended Beatle family for morning tea and rolls. Julian and Heather scurried in, dinosaurs still in their hands, and Ringo followed close behind them with a slightly more precious item in his possession: Mary, dozing against his chest. John trooped in a few moments later, somehow more wound in Christmas lights than George had been, and with a paper star stuck in his glasses to cap off the look.
“You look rather dashing, darling,” Paul teased. “I think next year we should just decorate you for our tree!”
The kids laughed, as did George, relieved that he was no longer the object of their decoration-themed escapades. Ringo handed Mary off to Paul, knowing full well that he was eager to have his baby in his arms again, and helped George set the table with rolls, tea, and small bowls of strawberries they’d brought from their greenhouse.
They were just sitting down to eat when the phone rang. It didn’t ring overly often. It was vetted by an operator that worked for a few families in St. George’s Hill, which removed the possibility of any reporters or fans getting through. The approved calls were usually from Apple or EMI, and around birthdays and holidays, extended family called from both the Lennon and McCartney groups. That seemed a likely explanation for this morning at any rate.
“It could be Jim,” John pointed out, reminding Paul that the two of them were scheduled to talk today.
The phone rang out again.
“Should I pick up and have him call back?” Paul paused in getting up, Mary now more awake in his arms.
Another ring.
“He won’t mind, will he?” John asked. Proper etiquette was always to be used when Jim was concerned.
It was getting close to the last ring.
“Not if I tell him we’re eating breakfast,” Paul hurried to the phone, “and that George is here.”
George did a mock bow just as Paul picked the receiver off the hook.
“Hello?”
“Whatever you do don’t hang up.” The voice was practically begging. It had an odd ring of familiarity, too.
“… Mike?” At Paul’s question into the phone, the kitchen fell quiet. Paul was suddenly reminded of last night.
“Please, just don’t hang up,” the voice crackled with urgency.
Paul bit his lip. He did want to hang up. As much as he wanted to talk to Mike, he also wanted to hang up. It was breakfast, he was busy with his family, Mary needed a bottle… and maybe some spiteful part in him wanted the satisfaction of hanging up on the person who had called him a dirty queer.
“Paul?” Mike asked, the silence worrying him.
“What do you want.” Paul finally said. It was not a question. There were no right answers. John’s eyes glowered.
“I want you to hear me out, I want–” Mike began.
“Not to apologize?” Paul challenged.
“Well that, too, but–”
“You do realize it’s the time at which people eat breakfast, don’t you?’
“Lord, Paul, look, I’m sorry, I can’t find my watch, alright?”
Paul’s heart twinged just slightly at that. If it was the same watch he always wore, it would have been from their maternal grandfather. When Mike got it from Jim after Mary died, saying she wanted him to have it, it was hardly a light-hearted affair.
“Alright. I’ll look in the parlor,” Paul acknowledged. But he wasn’t going to give Mike any more leeway. “It’s still breakfast, though, and I’ve got to give Mary her bottle soon or she’ll get fussy. You do know that about babies, don’t you?”
Mike swallowed over the line. “I, I know was rather horrible last night.”
“Rather?”
“Alright, straight horrible, awful, despicable.”
“You can keep listing,” Paul muttered. “There are a few choice words I’d suggest were it not for my audience.”
“I’ll use them in person, alright?” Mike rushed out.
“In person?” Paul looked at John in surprise. They hadn’t expected Mike to volunteer for that. “Alright. Where?”
“Uhh, your house?”
“No,” Paul shook his head as he looked at John. “Not my home. Not with the kids. You’ve lost that privilege for now.”
“… A park, then?”
“Kensington.” Again, it was not a question.
“Fine, fine,” Mike said swiftly. His voice was tinged with disbelief. He must have doubted Paul wouldn’t have hung up. “We could do the 31st?”
“That’s Heather’s birthday, as you’ve obviously forgotten,” Paul bit off the words. “She’s turning three, Mike. She’s your eldest niece. Her full name is Hea–”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, look, it’s like with my watch, alright? I can’t remember all sorts of things, I can’t even recall where to phone Angela.”
Again, Paul’s heart twinged. He knew Mike loved Angela, genuinely, and he had seen their affection at numerous family events, excluding last night. It would hurt to wake up hungover and alone on Christmas, with no way of knowing when the person you loved most in the world would want to come back to you.
Paul sighed. “Is the 31st the only day that works?” He supposed he could cut Mike one more portion of slack.
“It works the best, I think. I can call you back when I find my calendar.”
“Don’t bother,” Paul waved the offer away. “Noon on the 31st, Kensington, just inside the main entrance.”
“Lord, thank you Paul, I didn’t think you’d actually pick up, I thought you’d know it was me or something.”
“If I had, I might not have,” Paul grunted. He prepared to give a frosty farewell, but John’s eyes caught his again.
Ask him.
What?
Ask what he’s going to say.
To me?
The explanation, the small one, of what he said that rubbish.
Paul nodded in understanding, and focused back on the phone.
“Mike?”
“Yeah? Paul?”
“Tell me now, or I won’t come.”
“What?”
“Why on earth did you say all those… things.” Another not-question. “If you don’t tell me a bit now, I’m not coming.”
“Paul, please, I’ll tell you when I see you.”
“Fine. Have it your way. Happy New Year’s, Mike.” Paul moved the phone away from his head.
“No! Wait, Paul, wait! Please!”
Paul returned it to his ear, scowling. “I’m waiting, but Mary’s beginning to fuss.”
“Alright, alright, it’s just, umm,” Mike paused, and Paul knew he was tugging at his ear. He always did that when he was stressed. Evidently the tugging made him decide to answer, though. “What the hell, it doesn’t matter, I’d tell you soon anyway. I found a letter, in a box of stuff from Forthlin, some of the stuff that got packed up when you bought the other house for Dad.”
“Riveting,” Paul dead panned.
Mike hurried forward. “It was a letter to Dad, I don’t know when it was written, there wasn’t a date and the envelope was gone, but unless Dad knew another ‘Mary Smith,’ with a nephew named ‘John Lennon,’ I’m fairly certain it was from Mimi.”
Paul said nothing, waiting for Mike to continue.
“Anyway, I got curious and I read it, and like I said, I don’t know when it was written, but you must have been a bit young, still just, uh, friends,” Mike stumbled over his words. “And it said, well Mimi said, that John seemed so much happier and ‘better,’ not sure in relation to what, because of your friendship, how close you were. Because of how you had a more delicate and graceful way of going about life. Said it would have made mum very proud.”
Paul kept his silence.
“And I just, I dunno Paul, I know I should be happy for you, and I am, though it probably doesn’t seem that way right now. And I know this is awful of me to say and I don’t even know what it means, but I… I wanted that.” Mike swallowed again. “I wanted to be close to John.”