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“What the fuck are you wearing?”
“Erm, watch your mouth, McCartney,” remarked a certain John Lennon, twirling fantastically to show off the offending outfit. “Such foul vocabulary is unbecoming of a knight, you know.”
Paul scoffed, wrinkles gathering at the place where his eyes drooped as he squinted at his husband with obvious disdain. “Like you're any better!”
“Yeah, but at least I watch my fucking language.” This statement was accompanied by another spin, one that very nearly ended in John crash-landing directly into a cabinet.
“Okay, okay, enough spinning! Just- what are you wearing?”
John grinned and struck a pose. He was wearing something that Paul could only compare to a poncho, but much more.. fluffy. “D'ya like it? It's called an ‘Oodie’.”
“A hoodie?”
“No, no ‘h’.”
“Thought that was just yer inner Scouse coming out to play.”
“Oh, piss off!”
“Where'd it even come from?”
“Bought it on the interweb.” John wiggled his eyebrows at that, and Paul narrowly bit back laughter.
“You look like a fuckin’ marshmallow.”
“Indeed I do.” After giving a particularly theatrical wink, the older of the two crossed the room to the wicker chair Paul was sat on, looped his arms around his neck, and swung his legs onto his lap. “Paul?” he asked.
“John.” replied Paul.
“Would you still love me if I was a marshmallow?”
“Oh, for fu-” Paul pinched the bridge of his nose in disbelief, but couldn't hold in his laughter any longer. “You, John Lennon,” he managed through bouts of giggles, “Are fucking ridiculous.”
“I aim to please.”
“But,” he announced, once the hysteria had subsided a little. “Yes. Yes, I would.” And with that, he pressed a kiss to his lover's forehead, who giggled and leaned into the contact.
“That's good,” said John, “Because I'm probably going to live in this thing now.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Oh, but Paul!” - the whine John let out made Paul wonder, not for the first time, just how he could still manage to be so childlike even in his old age. “It's so comfortable!”
“Prove it.” Paul challenged - so John did.
And as a pair of arms enveloped in soft padding pulled him into a warm hug, Paul couldn't help himself from thinking back to how thin they had once been. But that was all just a memory now; John was happy, and confident - actually confident in himself rather than just confident for the press - and his appetite had come biting back with a vengeance. And, most importantly, he was just there. With Paul.
And there he would stay for as long as he lived. By the side of the man he needed the most in his life.
And there the two of them would remain, snuggled up in that wicker chair, for at least another half an hour.
But who was counting? Not them.