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Paul sometimes feels his heart stagger when he wakes up. Not so much as a palpitation, that John teasingly asks if he’s had when Paul’s being particularly sharp—"Not caught up to old Jim Mac, have you?”—but a flutter. A mere moment where he feels as though he’s slipped between the cracks of his present world and the many that already lie behind him, tinged with the memory of what once was.
He thinks, sometimes, that he sees the silhouette of his mother, bundled up in her uniform and winter coat, stark against the sloped, winter landscape even though he hasn’t slept on the first floor of any of his residences since she passed. Other times the sunlight peaks through the frosted windows too promptly; his hands feel the instinct to go onto the next chord until he realizes he’s far from the glaring stage lights.
He doesn’t know why, but the split instances always linger a little longer in his heart than their initial jolt of surprise. It reminds him of a mild dream. Not the nightmarish sort, but the kind where you’re brought back to a juncture, all past emotions and thoughts flooded back into your nervous system.
The past, they are to Paul. It doesn’t matter that the last time he performed was only a few months ago, his feet have never tried to stop and stay. But perhaps that’s why the oddest of it all surges in his mind in the aftermath of these snapshots of before. He finds himself expecting a body beside him, one in particular if his mind is too groggy to filter his own thoughts.
It often is, because all Paul finds himself wanting in the basking of such a melancholy feeling is John. John peeking out from behind his lounged legs with a smirk as they topped and tailed, John bumping knees with him as he learned a chord from Paul in his Forthlin Road living room, John beside him in their tour’s hotel room for the night, not even trying to hide the way he met Paul’s eyes as the dawn cracked overhead.
And just as the want is there, it’s gone just as suddenly, replaced by the reassurance that he’s in his bedroom on Cavendish Avenue, tangled up in the sheets beside Jane.
Paul let out a breath, only to be met by the gentle rub of Jane’s thumb into his collarbone. She must’ve been awake for however long he’d been in a trance. He pushed the momentary feeling of embarrassment aside, though, instead meeting his fiancée’s touch as he turned onto his side.
“Hi,” his voice pierced through the silence of the room, though still soft and breathy with sleep. He felt another wave of shame for not being able to conjure up his normal, witty self so quickly, but Jane didn’t seem to mind, a gentle smile perching itself upon her lips at his greeting.
“Good morning.”
Paul let himself smile as well, endeared by her politeness in such an informal routine. Jane’s, however, only grew.
“What’s the matter?” he whispered, acting as though she was in on something he wasn’t.
“Nothing.” Jane nestled closer to the pillow, cheek pressed into the cushiony surface and red hair cascading around her—like the path of ivy along a trellis. Her smile seemed to fall perfectly into the curvature of it. “You just look so… peaceful when you sleep. Like a baby.”
“Slept like a baby, that's for sure.” Paul mirrored her position, absentmindedly thinking of how he and John hold their guitars in the same way. Left hand, right hand. Jane broke her momentary nuzzle against the pillow to lean forward and press a kiss to Paul’s head.
“I’m glad.”
Paul felt his eyelids flutter shut and a hum escape his mouth, almost on instinct. It wasn’t particularly that it was Jane that made it pleasurable, just the feeling, Paul supposed. Something felt complete within him whenever he felt the touch of another person. A cradling, enveloping feeling.
“Paul.”
“Hm.”
“I love you.”
Paul’s lips twitched at the corners, a mimic of a smile in his drowsy state.
“I love you too.”
“Open your eyes, sleepyhead.”
“Argh—” Paul arched back against the mattress as he stretched. “Must I?”
But without another word from Jane, he did, greeted by blue eyes boring into his hazel. She was still smiling, cheeks carved into by the fall of the gray morning light upon her skin. It felt too gentle in the moment, like his insides had turned into stuffing at the sight. He ached to see rough edges. Irises darker than his and the callous of string-touched fingertips. His heart staggered again and he closed his eyes.