Honestly, John had never expected Paul to ever read them.

When he first got the email back from the newsletter that they'd selected his story for publishing, he gleefully checked his banking app to verify that they transferred over the promised prize money and then promptly forgot all about it. He's not particularly proud of the work and it was certainly nothing to write home about, so he just went back to studying (thinking of the last song he and Paul worked on and the way Paul’s nose sometimes scrunched when he laughed). 

When the newsletter staff reach out a week later about him writing a follow-up story for more money, John is distantly surprised that anyone read the heap of rubbish he wrote the first time around (despite them saying something about it already attracting a ton of site traffic) before opening up another blank document so he could get to earning that money. Meagre earnings but he had a meagre wallet.

It might say something about his attendance and general attention span that it takes Stu, whose nose infamously always has a stripe of paint because of it being so buried in his work, bringing it up to him to realize there’s anything abnormal going on.

“John, isn't this yours?” he interjected during a lazy afternoon when Paul had a lecture. Boring Thursdays at 1:00.

John sat up from where he was laying on the floor of his and Stu’s shoddy room, offended at the interruption. “Oi, I was talking.”

“You were complaining about McCartney's wardrobe plans for the band, yes— I've heard it a million times, this is more important.” Stu turned his laptop around from where he was sitting with it on the bed. “Is this one of yours? From that contest you entered?”

John squinted at the screen. “That's gibberish.”

“Put on your glasses, then.”

Just to be contrary, John only shifted closer. His eyes focused on the screen— it was the university's student-ran newsletter, open to where his latest story was featured on the website. 

“Oh, yeah,” he said, bemused. “Got twenty quid for that one. Didn't realize you checked up on it.”

Stu gave him a look. “I don't. Astrid sent me this— did you know that people from all over are talking about it?”

“Makes sense, I'm a genius,” John said breezily, laying back down. “Anyway, about Paul—”

“John, I'm serious,” Stu insisted. 

“Come off it, Stu, no one reads anything on that silly site,” huffed John. “Not least because its design is stuck in the dark ages.”

Stu nudged the laptop toward him. “Look for yourself. It's been shared a ton— and look at the comments.”

John sat up with a begrudging sigh, taking the laptop from him. He squinted at the screen again and— well, yes, that counter did say 58 shares, but the website really was outdated and that could be a processing issue. And there were 43 comments but that might be those spam bots— offering nudes and the like.

But then Stu was making a triumphant little noise, now with his phone in hand. “And see, it's got its own tag!”

John took the phone from him. #TheBassPlayer was indeed a tag, with a dozen or so posts from students of his university commenting on the ‘chapters’ and the events in them. Like, actual commentary on the negligible plot and the thrown-together characters and the explicit sex scenes. Real people demanding for more.

“What the fucking hell,” said John.

Stu grabbed his phone back. “Yeah. Astrid sent the link to me and asked if I knew who wrote them— apparently everyone's on a mad hunt for you, mate.”

“What?” asked John, still shocked. “How do they not kn— Oh, Christ, I told them to keep me anonymous.” It was all coming back to him now, this little side-hustle of his to which he only dedicated the cognition power that the hour he needed to write a part used up. 

He'd long since switched his major, but he was still in an old group chat that would share writing competitions so that English students could try and earn some money or exposure. John had never taken too many of them seriously but the band really needed funds to rent a van and the newsletter's prompt was 'Write a love story that leaves readers yearning' — he really hadn't imagined he'd actually win, he was just desperate and kind of bored and randy on a useless Sunday night. The first chapter reflected these emotions, which makes it a little sad that so many university students felt it resonated with them.

John had sent in the story without even editing it, requesting he remain anonymous only because he didn't want any of his ex-hook ups from the English college to know that he was writing smut instead of being a broody musician who's also brilliant at drawing. He never thought to check if anyone liked it because no one ever visited that website in the first place, much less to read his dubiously written sex scenes.

“Ah, mate,” Stu said, eyebrows a bit pinched. “What even is this? This is not how vaginas work.”

Offended, John shut the laptop. “I know that! I've been having a laugh with this, I never knew anyone was actually reading them!”

“Hold on,” said Stu. “They've asked you to write two follow-ups and paid you how many pounds overall, and you never thought people were interested in them?”

“No.”

“Well, John, your obsession with McCartney's made you campus-famous, so.”

He stiffened. “It's not about Paul.”

“The series is called The Bass Player,” Stu stated plainly. “And you weren't writing that when I was playing bass for you.”

“Sod off,” snipped John. “It is not about Paul. The love interest is nothing like him, actually—”

“Dark-haired, tall, confident, bass pla —”

“And even if he was, the main character is a woman,” John spoke over him. “Which I am not.”

“Yeah, except you're fairly similar to her, too,” Stu pointed out. “I mean, you're lucky you hardly really talk to anyone in class because anyone who knows you would be able to tell that this is your writing.”

John stood up, feeling jittery. “Yeah, but no one knows so far, right?”

“I think people are mostly guessing virgin first-years.”

John shot him a warning glare.

Stu hid a smile. “Doesn't stop them from reading, though.”

“Right,” said John. “So, really, there's no issue here. I'll keep writing these for a laugh, people will keep reading and getting me paid, and Pa— the band won't ever encounter them. Because even if they did, I doubt they'd ever read them. I wouldn't.”

Oh, how wrong he was.

It's not for another month that the story is brought up around the band. By that point, John's written two more installations — with payment, because apparently the ad revenue from all the site traffic is covering that. They want him to write a chapter every two weeks now, which is easy enough, what with John being inspired on a daily basis.

Now that he's aware of his fame, he tunes into more conversations around campus and realizes people do bring up the story occasionally. It's hardly as spoken about as football matches or class projects, but he manages to catch snippets of people both poking fun and being genuinely interested in where The Bass Player story was going. He pops onto social media and laughs when he sees a meme based off of the romance, with a hundred likes on the post. 

It becomes increasingly hard to not burst with his new acclaim at practice. It wasn't common for John to hide anything from George or Ringo, but especially from Paul. He tried to recall if he ever mentioned entering and winning a writing contest to them as he had to Stu, but he can't imagine bringing it up now without calling attention to the story, which he definitely does not want— he can't remember mentioning it anyway, so he considers himself safe and bites his tongue every time he wants to reference his new infamy to them.

And they all seemed so utterly oblivious to the entire thing until one Friday afternoon during practice when Ringo was ordering food for the lot of them.

“Are ‘ye going out tonight?” George asked them as he plucked at the strings of his guitar. 

“Probably,” said John just as Paul said, “No.”

They looked at each other, a bit stunned.

“You didn't say we had plans,” John accused. He can't remember the last time he and Paul hadn't spent a Friday night with each other, even with that time that Paul had the flu— John was with him until he got it himself.

“We don't,” Paul assured. His cheeks were tinged pink for some reason, and John's stomach turned.

“Ah, does Paulie have a date?” he pressed.

“Probably one of The Bass Player fanatics,” snickered George.

John's stomach stopped twisting just to drop out of him completely. “What?” he forced out with a laugh.

Paul looked positively flushed now. “I dunno.”

“Oh, sure, you don't,” huffed George, blissfully ignorant of John's pallor and Paul's red cheeks. “All the girls are into bass players right now because of that bloody story.”

Paul wasn't looking up anymore so John feigned ignorance. “What story?”

George glanced up. “You haven't heard of it?” When John innocently shook his head, he continued, “Well, I haven't read any of it but everyone's talking about it. It's about a girl who's got a thing for this bass player who keeps stringing her along or summat.”

Hardly, you tosser, is on the tip of John's tongue— the reaction is barely bit back, and he's surprised at his own vehemence to defend his careless work. “Sounds profound,” he made himself smirk.

“It's not that bad.”

John's eyes snap over to Paul, who's concentrating on his own guitar with laser vision.

“Hm?” prompted George.

Paul shrugged. “I've read it. It's not that bad. The author's updating it tonight.”

John felt his entire body tense, but George just laughed. “'Course you have. Were you studying them for moves to try on girls?”

“They're actually really well-written and funny,” Paul was saying, and he sounded like the bloody comment section. “It's not just smut, you know, the author puts a lot of work into building the characters.”

Or he just takes all of the characteristics from real life people, John immediately thinks, before internally cursing himself.

But he had to know if Paul knew. “And what's got you reading bodice rippers, you saucy little minx?”

Paul didn’t look the least bit embarrassed anymore, even as George laughed again. “Astrid sent the link to me,” he said plainly, scrubbing a smudge off of his guitar with the sleeve of his jumper. “No one knows who the author is and she was wondering if it was one of my exes.”

“Of course she was,” muttered George.

“And is it?” John pressed on, insistently staring down Paul. “One of your exes?”

Paul finally met his gaze. “No. I would know if someone felt like that for me.” Oh, sure, you would, John thought bitterly. “And besides, whoever the author is— she obviously knows more about playing than any of my exes have.”

Cor. Did Paul think it was a bird writing the stories?

John examined Paul's expression to see if he was being obtuse on purpose, shy or anxious because he knew John was the author but— no, he only found defiance because John and George weren't fans of what is apparently his new favorite web series.

Paul really thought some lovesick bird was writing John's series, and he really actually liked this series and, by extension, the supposed-womanly author. 

Every time John thought he'd put his foot as deep as it could go in his own arse, he felt it kick a little deeper.

Following his review, John's slightly offended to realize they heavily edited most of his writing, though he's not so unaware of his own capabilities to act like it didn't need the editing. He thinks he wrote ‘cock’ in his original submission, but ‘manhood’ was both better and funnier. Still, he resolves to write new installations more carefully than he used to.

Upon informing him of this, Stu replies, “Wait, you're still writing more?”

John didn't bother to glance up from his laptop — he was planning the next several chapters and it was a laborious effort. “Of course, why wouldn't I?”

“Er,” said Stu. “Because the bloke you wrote about knows that it exists and can at any point realize you're writing about him?”

John winced, his attention drawn away from the dramatic conflict of another girl vying for James's attention that he's trying to outline. “I didn't write it about Paul.” At Stu's dubious look, he protested: “I swear! He might've... inspired some of the love interest, but he was hardly in mind.”

“The character's name is James,” deadpanned Stu.

“Fourth most common masculine name for our age,” scoffed John. He'd Googled it. “'Sides, no one calls Paul that.”

Stu sighed and turned back to his painting. “I don't know why I'm even trying. Maybe this will all work out and you'll finally get together.”

John's temper flared. “Will you shut it about that? It's not happening.”

Stu didn't reply, just shrugged.

John tried to return his focus back to his outline. Though it was slowly becoming a welcome release for all of his time spent with Paul in endless queer torture, it only seemed to add more tension when he would read it back and realize this could all be real— if only Paul was actually into blokes, and, even then, if he would ever be into John.

Despite Stu's concern, John had accepted that Paul really wouldn't figure out that he was the author. On top of the content being suitably ambiguous, John doubted Paul had ever even considered John in a romantic context, which meant he would probably never consider John as the potential writer of an online romance series with a character that he may find more or less relatable. The only writing that Paul had ever read of John's were his songs and poetry, which were massively different from the dime novel content he wrote for the series. Even though Stu might be right that Paul was very similar to James and John might be like Winona in some ways, Paul hardly even considered John a visual artist — got downright pissy about it when people described that as John's primary focus because he always wanted them to be considered as musicians, first and foremost, which John agreed with.

Writing and playing music with Paul was the most invigorating thing that John has ever done. He could still remember in vivid detail when they first started writing together— the first time they played a full song together, voices blending cozily. When John lost his mum and Paul was the light back to sanity. Paul was a remarkable combination of feelings, both home and the exciting future, passion and ambition and comfort in one, and it seemed like he had been John's very favorite person ever since he met him. 

Being with Paul had always been exhilarating, in a way that they hadn't been with anyone else John had ever met. He was both challenged and met levelly by him and it drew him in to no end, the way Paul could make him feel, sometimes by only looking at him. John tried to not dwell on these things but he was a natural dweller, his thoughts always turning for the worse before even realizing there might be a better, and it wasn't rare for him to find himself sitting around uselessly, just thinking of Paul and everything about him that John could never have to himself.

Paul was straight. That fact made it even more useless to dwell on what could never be, but that didn't stop John from doing so. And it certainly didn't stop him from writing a fictional series where someone like Paul did fall for someone like John, despite all the odds.

So he couldn't imagine giving up the story now, even if Stu was right and Paul might figure it all out one day. He couldn't stop it for himself, and he couldn't stop it now that he knew Paul enjoyed the story— that he got excited when it was time for the biweekly update.

It would feel like not having a chance with Paul all over again.

“Did you fucking comment on that stupid romance story?”

There was a long pause. “Oh, hello, John. How do you do.”

John dismissed the reply with a noise, trying to talk quickly while walking to his next lecture. “Did you? I saw a comment from a 'macca_roni' — cheeky of you, by the way.”

“I don't know how you did, there were like a hundred of them,” said Paul mildly. “Anyroad, does this mean you're reading it now?”

Caught off guard, John froze where he was standing. “What's it to you?” he eventually croaked.

Paul laughed, sounding delighted. “I told you it was good!”

“Right,” John said weakly.

“You've got to tell me what you think so far,” said Paul, sounding eager. “God, what do you think of this new Steve character? Seems like an arsehole.”

“I dunno,” said John, eyebrows arched. “Seems like he's Winona's only friend who's trying to help her with James.”

“He seems like a prick,” Paul said cheerfully. “But it's obvious that he's just a side plot— I mean, Winona and James go so well together, don't they?”

John's chest panged. “They do.”

“Yeah, and— Ah, wait, I just realized what time it is. You're supposed to be in class!”

John scoffed, running a hand through his hair as he continued his path to the class. “I'm on my way right now, don't get yer panties in a twist.”

“You're going to be late,” Paul said primly. “So ring me later, I'll come over and we can talk all about the series.”

That was the last thing John wanted to do but otherwise he was only facing going to Stu to mope about the situation even more. “Yeah, alright,” he said.

The first sign appears in the English college. 

John would have never seen it if Stu hadn't sent a picture of it to him with the accompanying message, It's begun. 

It was a discarded piece of paper, nondescript except for the message scribbled across it in black lettering — BRING BACK WINNIE & JAMES >:( !!!!

It's the first of many that begin littering the campus. Every time Stu encounters one, he sends a picture of it with a laughing emoji (to which John then threatens him as a sort of cease-and-desist) but even without Stu's little reminders, John was encountering them himself. His beloved fans were plenty and they were angry without their biweekly fix. It didn't help matters for the newsletter staff that they were a mere month out from the end of the semester. The devoted fanbase of The Bass Player were worried that the anonymous author would stop posting new installations during the summer holiday. They were even trying to get a saying going — We Want Winnie — and John was admittedly glad that people didn't find the Winona character an unmitigated disaster of a human being and actually seemed to like her.

Though it was all very kind of them, the truth was that John had to start focusing on his final projects for many of his courses given that he was supposed to be working on them for the entirety of the semester. Even more, the band was finally beginning to really pick up gigs, some returning ones where people were actually showing up just to hear them. He and Paul had even heard talk of some posh guy going around looking to manage a band, and they were throwing in full weeks of practice now with George and Ringo, resolving to be the band that got picked up. 

So, really, since he's no longer getting paid for the story, it's hard for him to rationalize spending precious time on writing the thing, even though he would be willing to write it for free at this point. Still, it's been two misses of updates when he can no longer keep ignoring the adoring public— or, more so, the adoring Paul.

"Paul, what's this?" Ringo asked one evening before practice started. He had Paul's jacket in his hand, looking at something on it.

Paul glanced up. "Oh, just a Winnie pin." Then he casually went back to tuning his guitar.

"A Winnie what?" demanded John. 

Paul looked at him. "You haven't heard of them? You should get one, they're just a quid."

John went to Ringo's side and peered at the thing. It was bright blue with white letters reading, WE WANT WIN.

"Oh, I want one," said Ringo. "I finally caught up and I can't believe we were left on a cliffhanger."

John, betrayed, gawped at Ringo. "You're reading it, too?"

"Yes," Ringo said. He was wearing a little smile. "Hey, you've written anything new?"

Caught, John was speechless before Paul spoke for him: "Yeah, we've got something really good turning about, don't we, John?"

Songwriting. Ringo was talking about songwriting. 

John, relief hitting him like a train, merely nodded before slinking away to George on the settee. They always met at Ringo's place because he had the drum set and they were lazy arses who hated moving it about. Plus, the old lady who lived under him couldn't hear anything so she never complained. 

"Man, it seems like everyone's reading that bloody fiction," John said, relaxing next to George. "It’s not even that good."

George gave him a look. And then turned his body to the side, brandishing the lapel of his denim jacket. 

"Aw, not you, too, George," said John, almost wounded.

"It's really quite good." And then one side of George's lips quirked up as he stopped tuning his guitar. "You're quite the writer, Johnny."

John went still. "What?" he laughed, trying to stop himself from nervously looking over his shoulder at where Ringo and Paul were messing about in the kitchen.

"He definitely doesn't know," commented George. "I told him that I had a clue as to who wrote it and he said something about respecting people's privacy and not being intrusive and exploitative."

John cracked a smile at that before paling again. "It's not about Paul, you know, I just— It was just for laughs."

George gave him a more genuine smile. "I think it's flattering. You should tell him."

"No, I should not."

"Stu agrees."

John felt betrayed for the third time in less than fifteen minutes. "You two have talked about this?"

"'Course we have, Johnny," he said loftily. "All of your friends derive great pleasure from seeing you squirm about whenever it's brought up."

"Ringo knows, too, doesn't he?" John said miserably.

"There's a whole group chat," George confirmed gleefully.

On a Sunday night, John stays up until the early hours to finish the next part of the story before sending it to the newsletter staff with a message that goes something like, edit this so I sound great or I’m back on strike. It's just as well because they reply the next day with lots of thanks and go on about something that John ignores in favor of two hours of sleep between lectures.

He only goes back to read it when he realizes his bank account had received a generous bump. 

"Bloody hell, this romance writing is a lucrative business," Stu remarked.

"Apparently they posted this announcement that they couldn't continue the story because of funding," John explained, smug. "So all of the great students of this distinguished university pulled together the crummy contents of their wallets and made a donation. Christ, I would've written it for free, I was just busy!"

"Well, since you posted before knowing, everyone thinks you're amazing for being willing to work without pay," Stu reported after texting Astrid. "Are you planning to continue posting?"

"Sure, I'd feel rotten if I didn't," shrugged John. "'Sides, I've decided to just toss something together for exams, I really can't be bothered. I'm gonna try to finish the story before the summer holiday and post twice a week."

Stu smiled. 

"What?" John said.

He shook his head, still smiling. "It's just nice of you, that's all." Then he dodged the dirty sock John threw at him. "So you've got this all written out?"

John scratched the side of his nose. "Not quite."

Stu blinked. "You don't know how it's going to end? But if you update twice a week until summer then there's only six chapters left."

"I know," said John, crossing his arms. "I'll figure it out."

Except John does not figure it out.

The days between each chapter seem to both drag on and tumble into one another meaninglessly. He manages to start building up a credible climax, and there’s more comments than ever on each chapter, but he’s officially run out of backlog for future updates — he’s left staring at the blinking cursor, haunted by his muse being so present in his life that it’s officially preventing him from creating. Paul is like a parasite, he’s so pervasive that John can’t even write about his fictional counterpart.

He’d probably take that as a compliment, John thought, annoyed, as he sat across from Paul on his single bed. Paul was still living in a hall while John shared a flat with Stu and four others, but they had plans to move out and move in together during the summer holiday. Stu thought he was daft for moving in with the bloke he’s been in love with for so long but John generally didn’t listen to Stu’s suggestions, even if they were inarguably sensible.

“So how ‘bout that one?” asked Paul, idly strumming through one of their songs. “Reckon we should add it to the setlist?”

John stretched to shake himself of his wandering thoughts. “Little fast for this gig, isn’t it?”

“We can sneak it in at the end, get the people going,” Paul grinned. “Coffeehouses need more life, Johnny.”

John smiled. “Ah, fine. But if they look at us like we’re nutters, I’m kicking you out of the band.”

“Oh, no, mister,” Paul pleaded in a high-pitched, Oliver Twist-esque voice. “I still need the two quid for supper!”

“Starve,” John said, deep and stern, before he got distracted by the edited setlist. “When did we plan to do that one?”

Paul glanced at the one he was pointing at, then beamed. “Oh, I added it in after we finished it, it’s great.”

“George and Ringo don’t even know it yet,” protested John.

“Then we’ll play it through at practice for the next two. We’ve already got the others memorized twice-over,” said Paul. “Come ‘ead, Johnny, we’ve got to have this one.”

John grimaced. You’ve Got To Hide Your Love Away was great for the environment they were playing for, but it was also the song John had written while concentratedly Not Thinking About Paul which meant that everytime he heard it, he definitely Thought Of Paul. 

“My song, isn’t it? I’ll just not sing,” he said decisively.

“Mutiny?”

“I’m the captain, aren’t I?”

“Ringo is,” Paul answered. “And we have to play this one. You already know that the owner would love it, it’s all Dylan-like.”

John frowned. 

“We would get paid handsomely,” Paul reminded him with a conniving little smile, and John had no idea how someone could both irritate and arouse him so much with the same stupid expression. 

“Fine,” he said, long-suffering. It’s not like the song could make his life any harder— he was too busy doing that himself, what with him purposefully spending every minute he could with Paul for the last five years. “But if we don’t get a tambourine for it, I’m going to delete all of your little gig-related spreadsheets.”

Paul glared. “That helps the band, John, that’s sabotage.”

“No one needs that many spreadsheets, Paul.”

“Whatever,” Paul dismissed. “Anyway, I’ve got another new one.”

“Another?” said John, surprised. 

Paul avoided his gaze. “Yeah, well, I’ve been inspired.”

John would start feeling nervous that he might be talking about a bird if it wasn’t for the ruddy color overtaking his cheeks. “Don’t tell me it’s that daft  romance, Paul.”

Paul went proper pissy: “It’s not daft. And it’s not that, I’ve just— got ideas, that’s all!”

But it definitely was the stupid story that was the source of John’s sleepless nights and potential hair loss (hasn’t happened yet but it just might and imagine that, John Bald Lennon) which was flattering because, even without Paul’s knowledge, it seemed that John had found another way to help him write such amazing songs, but it was also terrible because, without Paul’s knowledge, he loved the story that John had based off of his ridiculous crush.

Crush. He wished it was still a bloody crush— even wished it was the infatuation he felt when they were kids. No, it’d grown into something giant and immovable now, heavy on his heart and mind and lungs.

“You’re a parasite, Paul,” John informed him.

“Oh?” Paul said, pleased. 

John gets drunk at a party with Stu and some other artist types the evening before the gig, and they stumble back to their flat at something close to four in the morning. There was a laundry list of things to do tomorrow in preparation, as well as coursework, and the sight of his open laptop on his bed made him instantly groan.

“Fuck, Stu,” he whined. “I forgot to send in the new Bass chapter.”

Stu didn’t reply. John turned and saw him lying face down on his bed, knocked out. 

With a roll of his eyes, John blearily wiped at his face and picked up his laptop. The document was open and the update was nearly finished, though he still had to throw in some details and give a proper cliffhanger until next week’s last two installations.

But then great clarity hit him. He would later say that this was some divine intervention, but it was, in reality, the liquor settling in and making him confidently begin typing away at the document. The words that had seemed to be torturously evading him suddenly flowed freely and with as many typos as one might expect from a typing dog. 

“Ha, typing dog,” John wet-snorted, before returning to writing furiously.

By the end of the hour, the story was ready for editing. He sent it to the news staff with fanfare and a cute little message before snuggling under his covers and falling fast asleep, job well done. He’d make sure to pat himself on the back the next morning.

“Come on, John, it's exams.”

John didn't bother to lift his head. “No.”

Stu sighed. “John, you can't stay here forever.”

John didn't bother replying to that. He could definitely stay in his bed forever, and it was offensive that Stu didn't believe that he could.

“John, you've got to talk to him, it's the only way to know—”

“I’m never talking to him again,” announced John, ignoring how his stomach turned at the mere idea. But really, there was no other way forward — he could never speak to his best mate ever again.

All because of that stupid story.

“John,” said Stu, exasperated, but John just stayed buried under his covers, eyes squeezed shut. 

Fortunately, there's no legitimate reason that John must see Paul in the immediate future, so he mutes him on all social media and doesn't reply to George or Ringo when they text and ask him if he's spoken to Paul, who's trying to reach him. He doesn't speak to anyone and gets Stu to tell everyone that he's deathly ill and no one can enter the room. 

He is deathly ill. Of mortification. Though he'd already been pushing his luck by allowing Paul to read what was obviously written about him, he'd officially put the last nail in the coffin by publishing that stupid story with his stupid song included. If he'd only remembered what he'd written that night then he could have retracted it the following morning, but the business of the gig had him distracted from remembering the drunk email he'd sent off until it came back and bit him in the arse when it was published two mornings later. He was only lucky that they'd played it at the coffeehouse gig and others had heard it before the chapter was published— there was still a chance that Paul didn't know that it was him and thought his admirer were one of their newly collected fans, but John wasn't looking to speed up the process of Paul realizing by encountering him.

No. No, this was all going to be over now— John was not going to publish the last two chapters and he'd be reducing his exposure to Paul McCartney. Band business alone now. He was tired of being so fucking lovesick and so fucking hopeless over him.

It was a plan that was starting effective-immediately, he decided as he slunk out of the room to take a shower for the first time in a day. No more Paul.

“Ah, shi— John, shut the d—”

Alarmed, John sat up in bed as Stu came tumbling inside. The door was pushed open wider and then—

“Paul?” John choked out. 

“What the fucking hell, McCartney?” Stu snapped.

“John, I've been trying to reach you!” Paul ignored him. “What the hell have you been doing?”

John stiffened. “I’ve been sick.”

“You have not,” snapped Paul, heated. “You ring me when you're ill.”

“Well, maybe I didn't want you here,” hissed John, feeling cornered.

“Oh, god, you're both mad,” Stu complained. “I’m going to Astrid’s.” 

“Stu, don't le—” The door slammed shut. John frowned at it. A severe betrayal.

Paul looked frustrated and— hurt. “You didn't want me here?” he asked, quiet.

Tiredness swept John. As quick as the plan came, No More Paul seemed to fall apart. Now that he was here with him, John couldn't imagine avoiding Paul for any longer than the weak three days he'd managed— barely managed, what with how he'd been thinking of him every passing second.

He'd face whatever truth Paul demanded of him. And when Paul left him, awkward about it all, it's not like that would be anything new for John.

“What do you want, Paul?” he asked tiredly.

Paul took in the sight of him, and then slowly sat down on his desk chair. “I want… I just wanted to see you.”

It was things like that which made John question his sanity, truly. “Here I am.”

“Am I here,” echoed Paul. 

John gave him a small smile. 

Paul looked troubled, the fury and concern that swept him into the room having been swept away. “Really, John, I just— I realize, now, that it sounds mad, but it's just… It's been days and usually we practically talk every hour so…”

“Yeah,” John said after a moment. “Yeah, it's fine, you’re not mad. Go on.”

“There’s really no one thing,” Paul said quickly. “I mean— Nothing important. The reason I wanted to talk to you in the first place is really pointless.”

John schooled his features. “Come out with it, then.”

“Really, I don't— Alright, fine,” Paul laughed, a bit stiff, when John just gave him a pointed look. “It’s just about… Have you read the latest Bass chapter?”

John nodded.

“Well, then you saw our song lyrics were in there!” exclaimed Paul. “Wasn’t that strange?”

He… didn't know that it was John? Still?

John just nodded again, testing out a lie: “Mighty strange. S’pose George was right, it really is some fangirl of yours.”

“Right,” Paul chuckled, gaze shying away. “Yeah, so— That's just it. We only played it once and I hadn't seen anyone recording, so did anyone come up to you and ask for the lyrics? Because really, who remembers so many of them from just one performance? I don't think even George or Ringo remembered all of them, so really if anyone in that crowd learned it so quickly, that'd be a shocker. I mean, only me and you know all the wor—”

He stopped.

John’s heart raced. He tucked his legs closer to his body, curling his arms around them.

Paul's eyes flickered up and met his. 

John did his best not to shrink.

“John,” he said slowly. “Did… Did you write the chapter?”

He barely bit back a lie, only managing to nod.

“Did you… write the rest of them, too?”

Another weak nod.

“And,” said Paul, wetting his lips. “And you created Winona and… James?”

Bloody hell, of fucking course, John thought. But he just nodded again.

“Oh,” said Paul.

A pregnant pause. They stared at one another.

And then Paul was on his feet. “You never told me!”

John mirrored him, panic and fear rushing through him. “You’re straight, what would be the point?!”

“God, you really—” Paul pinched the bridge of his nose, the picture of frustration. “Is James supposed to be me? He's a fucking twat!”

“He is not!” defended John.

“Yes, he is!” he insisted. “All he wants is sex and he doesn't even ask after or care for Winona!”

“Not true. Besides, you're the one who always wanted her to be with him over Steve.”

“That’s because Steve reminded me of—” Paul’s face lost color. “Have you had sex with Stu?”

John looked at the ceiling, irritated beyond belief. “Just because Winona has done it doesn't mean that I’ve done it. God, you're mad, McCartney.”

“Says you?” scoffed Paul.

John tensed up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean, instead of telling me how you felt, you wrote a bloody romance novel about it!”

“You weren't ever supposed to fucking read it,” snapped John. “No one was supposed to! I didn’t ask for any of this.”

A moment of silence swept over the room again, John with his arms wrapped around him, looking at the ground, as he felt Paul stare at him.

“I just,” Paul began. Then he inhaled and exhaled. “I just don't understand why you'd write James like that.”

John glanced up at him. “Like what?”

Paul looked pained. “Like he didn't care about Winona. Like he wasn't... Like he wasn't also in love with her.”

Something in John went aflutter.

“What?” he croaked.

“I can't believe you didn't know,” said Paul, his expression shifting from hurt to something softer. 

“Didn’t know wh—”

But then lips were against his, hard and insistent and— soft and passionate and it was Paul, Paul was kissing him, John was being kissed by Paul and— fuck, he should be kissing him back, fuck— 

John didn't understand why Paul wasted even a second arguing when they could've been doing this as soon as he confessed. Honestly.

Paul’s arms holding him close felt better than perfect, and John gripped his waist tighter to him, putting everything he had into the kiss so that Paul might feel something even close to how good John was feeling.

By the way he gave a soft moan, he thinks he might've succeeded.

The door opened behind him. “Hey, John, I forgo— Oh, really.”

“Shut up, Stu,” said John, muffled, and Paul grinned into the kiss. Stu muttered something before shutting the door behind him again.