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John hunched over his guitar, hair falling over his face as he looked down at the fretboard. Across the room, Paul sat at the piano, watching unintentionally as John attempted to play through “It’s Only Love.” The beginning of each verse seemed half-forgotten, eroded from time, so John would play it a few times over in an attempt to remember the chords, filling in the lyrics with gibberish.
“I get high as I see you go by,” Paul corrected absently, unable to stop himself. John looked up. Paul didn’t meet his gaze, but he caught a glimpse of John nodding in his peripherals. He started again, picking up where Paul prompted.
“B flat,” Paul added, catching the next stumble. Another nod. Neither commented on the serendipitous irony there—that somehow, both of them seemed to know the other’s songs better than their own. Just earlier, John played “I Lost My Little Girl,” the first song Paul wrote. John knew it by heart, whereas Paul could hardly remember half of it.
When John reached the chorus, he diverted his gaze from his guitar to Paul, who kept his gaze downcast to the piano. But Paul felt the weight of it—John’s intense, searching look—and he failed to fight off the smile tugging the corner of his mouth.
John moved to the next verse, and Paul could breathe.
Another stumble. “It’s, um… ‘Is it right that you and I should fight,'” Paul prompted, glancing up in time to glimpse John’s cheeky grin.
“Thanks, Paul.”
Starting from the spot, John fell into rhythm. Paul’s eyes drifted back to him, almost of their own accord. He didn’t steer them away.
As John reached the chorus again, his gaze found Paul’s, lingering. He stared Paul down, eyes hardening as he sang, “It’s so hard loving you.” Paul quickly glanced down, failing to stifle a giggle, feeling the warmth rise in his cheeks.