Archive of Our Own

November 1966

His head was throbbing. That was his first thought, as his brain floated toward consciousness. His head really fucking hurt. 

There was also a low buzzing noise that he couldn’t identify. He blinked and tried to move, and then there was a bright, fluorescent light that was hard to look at, and a lot of people he didn’t know. He was in a hospital, he realised. Well, that didn’t seem good. 

“Paul?” said one of the people, a hopeful lilt to his voice, and Paul tried to answer, but he couldn’t make his throat work and there was so much pain. He closed his eyes again. 

His head hurt a little less the next time he woke up, and the room was dark. He thought he was alone at first, but he managed to move his head to the right a bit, and there was a man in a chair next to his hospital bed, sleeping sitting up, his legs twisted up under him and soft brown hair falling around his face, round glasses slipping down his nose. 

Paul felt a wave of something he couldn’t identify. Comfort, maybe, that he was here, sleeping next to Paul’s bed. It’s okay, you’re okay, he’s here. 

He drifted back to sleep. 

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed the next time he came to, but the room was full again when he blinked his eyes open, and he felt more awake this time, his head less fuzzy.

A small man with bright blue eyes was staring at him intently, a tentative smile on his face. “You with us, Macca?”

Paul didn’t know what Macca meant, but he smiled back because this guy had the kind of face you wanted to smile at. 

He tried to talk, and his voice came out croaky. “I’m with you,” he said weakly. 

There was a collective cheer in the room, and Paul scanned the unfamiliar faces until he found the sleeping man. He was there, sitting in the same chair he’d been in before, but his eyes were open – brown, and kind – and he was staring intently at Paul. Christ, he was – he was really beautiful. 

“Alright?” he asked, and Paul nodded carefully. He wasn’t sure he was alright, but he wanted to get the worried look off this guy’s face. He’d like to see him smile, he thought. It was probably brilliant. 

“Okay, Paul, the doctor’s here,” said a very fashionable older man in a suit, who – like everyone else – seemed to know Paul. 

Paul nodded as the doctor came in and started examining him, looking in his eyes with a small light, taking his temperature. 

“Can you tell me your name?” the doctor asked. 

“Paul,” he said. Sure, his head was throbbing a little, but he knew his name. 

“Surname?” the doctor asked, and Paul wanted to roll his eyes. Of course he knew his own surname. 

“It’s –” he started to answer, but stopped. He reached for it. Of course he knew. It was…he opened his mouth again, then closed it. 

He starred, wide-eyed, at the doctor. He didn’t know. 

“It’s okay,” the doctor said reassuringly, for some reason. Paul didn’t think it was okay, actually. It seemed rather bad. “What about your birthday?”

Paul felt a sharp panic rising in his chest. He didn’t know that either. He looked desperately at the blue-eyed man, and next to him, a skinny bloke with big, thick eyebrows. 

“Well, don’t ask me, mate,” the man with the blue eyes said. “We always forget, don’t we?” 

“We were in Australia for his birthday that one time, remember?” the skinny guy said. “I think in ‘64.” 

Paul stared at them. He could feel beads of sweat forming on the back of his neck. He had no idea who these people were or what they were on about. Surely he’d never been to Australia? 

“I think the point is that he’s supposed to remember it, you idiots,” the beautiful guy said, looking cross. “Which he clearly doesn’t.” 

Paul swallowed and shook his head, eyes wide. 

“Well, it’s June 18th, anyway,” the man said, and then he looked at the doctor. “What the fuck is wrong with him, doc?”

The doctor ignored that in favour of peering into Paul’s eyes again with his tiny light. 

“Paul,” he said, gently, “Do you remember what happened? The car accident?” 

A car accident, then. Paul searched his memory, again, for anything – the last thing he could remember, his surname, who these people were – but there was nothing. He shook his head, frantic. 

“Do you know who these men are?” the doctor asked, as if reading his mind, and he motioned to the others in the room. 

Paul looked carefully from one person to the next – the man in the suit, the man with the blue eyes, the skinny guy, the beautiful sleeper – even though he already knew he didn’t know who they were. 

“I don’t –” he swallowed, trying to calm himself. “Should I know you all?”

They all answered that question with their shocked expressions. Clearly he should. Beautiful Guy, in particular, looked affronted. 

“Paul? You don’t know me?” his eyes scanned Paul’s face like he was waiting for Paul to tell him it was all a joke. 

The thing was, he didn’t remember anything, he realised frantically. It wasn’t just his surname or his birthday. He didn’t know where he grew up, or what his parents were like. He was just…blank. The realisation took his breath away and filled his mouth with a sour taste, choking him, up inside his throat. He took a deep inhale, but it didn’t feel like he got any air, he could feel his throat tightening up. He tried to inhale again, again, but it wasn’t working. He couldn’t fucking breathe. 

He closed his eyes, fighting the panic and trying to fucking breathe, and then he heard a voice, “Paulie, Paulie, you’re alright, just breathe, slow down, just take a breath, alright?” and it was Beautiful Guy, his voice kinda wild and urgent – and it helped, immediately, for some reason, Paul’s body responded to the voice, even though this guy was basically a stranger. Paul inhaled slowly, in and out, and he got air this time. Okay. He was okay. He blinked his eyes open to all of their worried faces peering back at him. He was okay, he could breath, but he still didn’t know what the fuck was going on. 

The doctor just nodded crisply, as thought he was expecting all this. “Just a minor case of amnesia. Nothing to worry about. We’ll run a couple more tests, but your memory will likely come back in the next few days, Paul. We’ve seen this kind of thing before.”

The worried-looking man in the suit didn’t seem any less worried after the doctor finished talking, and well, Paul couldn’t blame him. He wasn’t crazy about the use of the word “likely” in that sentence, if he was honest. 

“You had an accident, Paul,” the doctor told him gently. “In your car. You’re lucky, you just hit your head a little –  could’ve been a lot worse. But there’s likely just a bit of swelling, which is causing the memory loss.” 

Paul didn’t feel lucky. He felt confused and disoriented, and his head was starting to hurt again. 

“Could I speak to you for a moment in the corridor, Dr. Jones?” the man in the suit asked. 

“Of course, Mr. Epstein,” the doctor said. 

“I’ll just be a minute, Paul,” the man in the suit – Mr. Epstein – said, then he glanced over at the other men in the room. “George, not in here!” he said sharply to the skinny guy, who’d been about to light a cigarette, and then he followed the doctor into the hall. 

The man called George lit his cigarette anyway, shrugging. “Don’t think me ciggy is gonna make his amnesia any worse, is it?” 

Paul smiled weakly. He didn’t know these people, but he could appreciate a man who liked a cigarette. 

“Are we all…mates?” he asked, feeling dumb. He wasn’t sure how to ask them who the fuck are you without sounding rude. 

“Yes,” said the little guy, at the same time that George said, “More like co-workers, really.” 

Beautiful Guy rolled his eyes. “We’re in a band together. Don’t you remember? We’re called the Beatles.” 

He looked so eager, so desperate, that Paul almost wanted to lie, but instead he just shook his head. He rather liked the idea that he was in a band, but it didn’t ring any bells. 

Beautiful Guy’s face fell a bit, but he seemed to take it on the chin. He nodded. “Alright. Well. We’re a band, a very good band. That’s Richie,” he pointed to the man with blue eyes, “and George, and I’m John.” 

Paul nodded. He sort of felt like crying. 

It must’ve shown on his face, because John scooted his chair a little closer to the bed and patted the top of Paul’s hand. “It’ll be fine, Paul. We’ll just wait for your memory to come back, like the doc said.” 

A wave of something ran through Paul when John touched him – the same thing he’d felt when he first woke up and saw John sleeping in the chair by his bed. It felt comforting, familiar, to feel John’s hand on his, like his body reacted almost instinctively, like it had when John told him to breathe. He couldn’t remember a single thing about his life, but there was something in him that remembered this. John wasn’t just a bandmate – he was Paul’s person, Paul was certain of it. 

Paul smiled, reassured. He didn’t know why exactly, but John said it would be fine, and John was here – had been here the whole time –  with his creamy, smooth skin and soft hair and kind eyes, and he obviously loved Paul and Paul obviously loved him. 

John tried to move his hand away, but Paul didn’t want him to. He reached out to grab it, threaded their fingers together. 

“God,” Paul said. He couldn’t help it. John was just – just gorgeous, wasn’t he? Normal Paul must be used to it, Paul before amnesia. But he couldn’t help being blown away by it now. “You’re so beautiful.” 

John jerked his hand away, immediate, and Paul heard Richie and George laugh. 

“What did you say?” John asked. Paul didn’t understand why he sounded so alarmed. 

“He said you were beautiful, mate,” Richie said, still laughing. 

“Is he on a lot of painkillers?” George asked.

“I don’t think there’s enough painkillers in the world for him to think John is beautiful,” Richie said. “Must be the head injury.” 

“Fuck off,” John said, and Paul was so confused. 

“No, it’s just – ” he looked from John to George and Richie, trying to work out why they were reacting this way, “It’s just you’re so bloody attractive, I’m only – ”

“Oh, mate,” Richie said. “We’ve got to get the doctor.” 

“It’s not the head injury!” Paul protested. “The only thing I need to know from the doctor is how soon we can shag – ”

John made a choking sound and cut him off. “Stop it, Paul, you don’t know what you’re saying.” He looked serious, stricken, even though George and Richie were still in stitches.

Okay. Okay, maybe George and Richie didn’t know. Paul was obviously crazy about this guy — he could feel that, it was dead obvious — but he had a vague sense that maybe shagging a man wasn’t something you really talked about? 

Paul tried to send John an apologetic look. Sorry, babe, I didn’t know this was a secret kinda thing, but John wasn’t making eye contact. 

Paul was trying to think of something to say when Mr. Epstein came back in, followed by the doctor. 

“What’s so funny?” Mr. Epstein asked George and Richie, who were still giggling. He looked slightly wary. Paul wondered who he was to the band. A manager or something? 

“Hey doc, is there a way that the amnesia can make Paul…like. Different? You know. Into something he’s not?” 

Dr. Jones scratched his face. “I’m not exactly sure what you’re asking, John. He’s certainly going to seem different, of course. He doesn’t have any of his memories.” 

“Uhhhh…” John glanced at Paul, a faint blush on his pale complexion. Paul thought this was all a bit much, if he was doing this all for George and Richie’s benefit, but he supposed he didn’t understand the full context of the situation. 

“Use your words, John,” Mr. Epstein said. 

“Never mind,” John said, shaking his head. “Never mind. What’s the plan, then?” 

“We’re going to keep Paul here for a few more tests, but assuming we don’t find anything else, there’s no reason he can’t go home tonight. Someone will just need to stay with him, wake him up every few hours tonight as a concussion precaution,” Dr. Jones said. 

“John?” Mr. Epstein said expectantly, and John nodded.

“Course, yeah. I’ll take him home. I’ll stay with him,” John said quickly, and Paul beamed at him. Maybe no one else knew what they were to each other, but it seemed a foregone conclusion that John would be the one to take care of him. 

The doctor left, and Mr. Epstein looked around. “Alright, lads. I’ll be off now. No need to come to the studio tomorrow, I suppose.” 

George looked curiously at Paul. “Unless maybe he can still play? Like it’s one of those things you just remember no matter what? What do you reckon, Paul?”

Paul bit his lip thoughtfully. He didn’t like the idea they’d have to cancel their plans because of him. Did he know how to play an instrument?

“What do I play?” he asked.

“The bass,” George told him. 

“Oh. Like…is that a type of guitar?” Paul asked. 

“Ohhh-kay, well, that doesn’t bode too well, I reckon,” Richie said. 

“He should rest tomorrow anyway,” Mr. Epstein said. His face was pinched. 

“But it doesn’t seem like the band should skip a day of rehearsal, does it?” Paul asked. If they’d been planning on a day of work, they should still do it. Maybe if he picked up the bass guitar, he’d remember how to play it. 

Richie snorted and George rolled his eyes. 

“Christ, even with amnesia, he’s still our same Paulie,” John said, “How about that.” He looked pleased as he said it. 

“We’ll take tomorrow off.” Mr. Epstein said firmly. “John, I’ll call over to Cavendish to check on him in the morning. Ring me if you need anything.” 

The afternoon was exhausting. The doctors came in, asked him questions that he couldn’t answer, took vital signs, examined him again and again. His head hurt more the longer he was awake. 

He had a chipped tooth, apparently, from the accident. “You may need a trip to the dentist,” the doctor told him. 

“Better than a trip at the dentist,” John said, which sent George and Richie into fits of laughter. 

Paul didn’t understand, and John frowned. “I don’t like you not getting my jokes,” he said, and it made Paul’s stomach clench a little, because he didn’t like it either. John felt so achingly familiar — like a piece of him — but the actual memory was just out of reach. 

They filled him in on as much as they could. Paul had a dad, and a brother, who didn’t know about the accident and would be told once they knew more. He didn’t have a mum, or not anymore, a fact that made him feel impossibly sad, a tight ache in his chest, even though he obviously couldn’t remember her. 

They told him about the band, which was – according to them – really quite successful. They had been Australia, apparently, and America, and Asia. Paul wasn’t sure if they were having him on, but they said it all very straight-faced. 

Eventually, Paul was discharged, with painkillers and careful instructions to John on waking him up throughout the night. 

George drove them to Paul’s house. Paul’s car had apparently been totaled in the accident, and no one seemed to think John driving was a good option. (“Believe me, mate, it’s better you don’t remember,” George told him.) 

Paul’s house was nice. Like, really, really nice. “This is actually mine?” Paul asked, as he and John made their way through the gate to the front door. 

Before John could answer, there was a loud noise from the side of the drive – screams, shouts of their names – and Paul startled. There was a group of women there, maybe 15 of them, and their attention was pointedly focused on John and Paul. Fans of the band, apparently. 

“What the hell – ” 

“I told you,” John said, shaking his head, “We’re very popular.”

They got to the front door and Paul realised he had no idea where he’d keep a key, or where any of his personal items were, but before he could say anything, John pulled his own set of keys from his pocket and let them in. 

It was weird, inside, because this was his house, these were his things — and that was his puppy, Martha, an old english sheepdog (“young english sheepdog for now,” John joked) — but none of it looked at all familiar, and his head was starting to throb, and he was starting to feel…well, what if he never remembered any of this? What if he had this beautiful life, with this beautiful man who loved him and a huge house and adorable puppy and a band that was so good that a group of birds stood outside his house waiting for him, but he never remembered any of it? 

Something must’ve shown on his face, because John looked worriedly at him and started to steer him to one of the bedrooms. “Why don’t you take a hot shower, and I’ll make you some tea?” 

It’s exactly what Paul wanted to hear, and what’s more, it hit him suddenly that he and John were alone, and he could finally touch him without having to worry about anyone seeing. 

He moved into John’s space without hesitation, slipped his hand around John’s waist, and pulled him closer. He turned his face toward John’s and pressed their lips together, gently, chastely. He wasn’t trying to start anything right now, he just needed to feel John’s mouth on his mouth. 

He knew it was wrong right away. John’s body turned rigid, then he jumped back like he’d been scalded, pushing Paul off of him with so much force that Paul almost stumbled over Martha, who was hovering behind him.

“What are you – ” John started, staring at Paul, his voice a little too loud. 

“What’s the matter?” Paul asked, confused. Had he read this wrong? Were they not — 

“What are you doing, Paul?” John said again, his already pale skin was somehow even paler, and he was looking at Paul with wide, horrified eyes. 

“Are we not…” Paul started, but he already felt so stupid, it was hard to finish the sentence. He couldn’t believe he’d gotten this so wrong. “I thought we were…” He motioned back and forth between them. 

“What the fuck. No,” John said, still wide-eyed and a little manic. “No, no, no. It’s not like that. We’re just mates.” 

Well. Paul wanted to crawl into a hole and die, and he might literally die, actually, because his head was pounding so hard now, and he felt like he could sleep for a hundred years. He wanted nothing more than to take a hot shower and curl into bed with his head on John’s chest, but apparently that was not an option. Apparently they were just mates. 

John opened his mouth like he was going to say something else, but then closed again, still looking like he didn’t know what to do with himself. 

“Okay,” Paul said, holding up his hands. “Okay. Sorry. Okay. I’ll just…take that shower now, I reckon,” and he slipped down the hall in what he hoped was the right direction before John could regain the power of intelligent speech. 

He found his way to the shower. There was a mirror in the loo, and he stared at his face, which was tired, a little bruised, that tooth chipped. He didn’t remember his face, which was weird, felt horrible, but he thought he was pretty alright looking, honestly. Good looking, even. At least there was that. 

The shower didn’t help. His head was throbbing now, and there was a low level of panic buzzing in the back of his brain — what if he was like this forever? A blank slate, with a dog he didn’t recognize and a famous band he couldn’t remember being in?

And…fuck. A “mate” that felt like a soulmate, but was so horrified when Paul tried to kiss him that he couldn’t say much of anything beyond “no no no, it’s not like that.” 

A mate that was supposed to take care of him tonight, but was likely long gone by now, Paul thought, as he dried himself off. There was little chance that John would stick around after that embarrassing scene. 

But, well, no — he was there, waiting in the hall, when Paul got out of the shower, with a mug of tea in his hand, seemingly ready to pretend like nothing had happened. 

“Your bedroom is just here, come on,” he said, ushering Paul down the hallway and ignoring that Paul was in nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. “You’ve got pyjamas in that top drawer, and I’m putting your tea here by the bed.” 

Paul thought that might be it, but John busied himself with the duvet while Paul wiggled into his pyjamas, and then he hovered by the bed when Paul crawled into it. 

“I didn’t know how to make your tea…I mean, I made it how you normally take it, but if you’d like it a different way now…” he trailed off. 

Paul took a sip. “No, it’s perfect like this,” he said honestly. 

“Here, these are for your head,” John said, handing Paul two pills. “And to help you sleep, I reckon. But I’m meant to wake you up every four hours, so I’m sorry about that.” 

“No, that’s okay, thank you,” Paul said, washing the pills down with his tea. 

“I took Martha out, but she’ll need a proper walk in the morning,” John said. He was fidgeting. “She has a little bed in the front room, ‘cause you didn’t want her to get used to sleeping with you.”

He looked hesitant, and then started for the door. 

“Wait — ” Paul started. He knew John must be headed to a guest room of some sort, but the thought of being alone was gripping him like a vice around his insides. “Can you stay?” 

John got that hunted look on his face again, an animal stuck in a trap. “Paul –  ”

“Just until I fall asleep?” Paul tried not to sound as desperate as he felt. 

John sighed. “Yeah…yeah, of course.” He sunk into a chair by the window, and Paul frowned. 

“Will you – ” he pulled back the covers next to him. “I know we’re not…but you could just…? Just as mates?” 

He expected another rejection, but John just moved silently from the chair to the bed and settled in next to him, switching off the lamp. 

“You took the pills?” he asked. 

“Yeah,” Paul said obediently. 

“Maybe you’ll wake up tomorrow and remember everything,” John said. “Right?” 

“Maybe,” Paul said, but the underlying panic didn’t listen. He badly wanted to snuggle up to John’s body. He had to keep reminding himself of how John’s face looked when Paul tried to kiss him. 

“What if I don’t, though?” he whispered, his voice small.

“Well,” John said. “You might just need a few more days, that’s all.” 

Paul felt a prickling behind his eyes and he knew he was about to start crying. It was all just a little too much, the pain, the memory, the rejection from John. 

“What if I’m just like this forever though?” he asked, and his voice broke. “What if I never remember?” 

John’s hand moved to stroke Paul’s hair, and it immediately drained some of the tension from Paul’s body. 

“Well, then, you’re like this forever,” John said. “And we’ll figure it out. I’ll teach you to play guitar again.” 

Paul swallowed. “Oh, were you the one who taught me the first time?” 

“I taught you everything you know, son,” John said, and then huffed out a laugh. “Well, okay, no. But I could teach you this time, if it comes to that. We know the music is in there, don’t we?” 

“Okay,” Paul said, nodding. He tried to tell himself that John was right. 

It was just that this was such a horrible feeling, really. He had this desperate longing to go home, but he had no memory of what home was, and apparently, he was home, but it didn’t feel familiar at all. 

John moved his hand away from Paul’s hair, and he, just, wasn’t close enough, and Paul felt panic snaking through his body, choking him. 

“What if the music isn’t in me anymore? Or I can’t remember it?” he asked. “What if I’m just like this forever…just nothing?” 

He couldn’t help it, he burst into tears at that, and it was too dark to see anything, but he heard a sharp intake of breath from John, like he was surprised by the outburst, and then John was shuffling closer and wrapping his arms around Paul so that Paul was sobbing into John’s chest. 

“Shhhhh…it’s okay, Paulie, it’s okay,” he murmured gently, and Paul cried harder. “You could never be nothing…even if you can’t ever remember, I promise you, you aren’t nothing.” 

“I might be,” Paul said, crying harder, egged on by the sympathy. “I might never remember to play music, I might just be this blank slate, this nothing person.” 

“Paul, you will never be nothing. You’re everything. You’re everything,” John whispered into the top of Paul’s head, and Paul didn’t understand how John felt so familiar and right and comfortable when everything else was strange and confusing. 

They stayed like that for a few more minutes until Paul felt like he was breathing normally again, and could feel the painkillers starting to kick in. He felt floaty and relaxed, and John had said he was everything. 

“Hey,” he asked, thinking of the noise of surprise John made when he started to cry. “Am I not usually a crier like that?” 

John laughed into the top of Paul’s head. “No, actually. Not really one for crying. You’re usually more of the strong, silent type.” 

“Sorry,” Paul said, drifting off. 

“I don’t mind it,” John said. He was carding his hand through Paul’s hair again, which felt so nice. “I don’t mind it at all.” 

***

Paul didn’t remember everything when he woke up. He woke up to light flooding his bedroom window, with a clear memory of the day before, and fuzzy memories of John waking him during the night, but nothing more than that.

He and John were wrapped around each other, his arm snaked over John’s waist, John’s legs wedged between his, Paul’s head resting on John’s chest. 

He wiggled a little, to test how he felt, and it must have woken John up, because John shifted too, and then blinked his eyes open and scanned Paul’s face. 

“How are you feeling?” he asked right away, his voice hoarse from sleep. 

“Alright — I mean, the same,” Paul said. “Nothing — I mean, still no memory.” 

“Okay,” said John. “Okay.” He tightened the arm he had around Paul, and they were already so entangled, so close to each other, but Paul wanted to be closer. 

He turned his head up to John’s face and it was right there and was he actually wrong about this? John had stayed with him all night, had slept in the chair next to his hospital bed – he had a key to Paul’s house, knew how Paul took his tea, knew exactly what to say to make Paul feel safe and good and right, and – fuck it. He raised his chin just a fraction, until his lips met John’s again. 

John didn’t jump away this time, he responded immediately, his mouth welcoming and warm for Paul’s, and god, it was perfect. It felt so right to open his mouth for John, to tighten the arm around John’s waist. Paul knew he hadn’t been wrong about this. 

But after thirty seconds, maybe forty, of a really, really good kiss, John was backing away again, untangling himself from Paul and putting space between them — firm about it, too, when Paul tried to resist. 

“Why not?” Paul asked, almost a whine. He knew he must sound pathetic, but he couldn’t help it. It was clear John wanted this too, why were they stopping?

“I told you, this isn’t – we’re just mates. It isn’t like this,” John said, his voice strained. 

“Well, it should be,” Paul said, “Right? I want you, it sure seems like you want me, I don’t know what the problem is.”

He pressed his mouth to John’s neck, miles of unblemished, creamy skin. 

John went rigid. “You don’t want this, Paul.” There was an edge to his voice now that Paul hadn’t heard yet. “You don’t want me like this.” He pushed Paul off of him, not roughly, but with enough force that it was unambiguous. 

“Me? I don’t want this?” Paul asked. “That’s crazy, I’m definitely not the problem here.” 

He flopped back on his pillow, frustrated. There had to be something John wasn’t telling him, because he didn’t think he was reading this wrong. He may not remember fuck all about anything, but he knew how it felt to kiss someone who wanted to kiss you back. 

“This is just…your head isn’t right right now. When you remember everything, you’ll understand,” John said. He was taking deep, slow breaths, as if the conversation was causing him physical pain. Paul didn’t understand it. 

“Look,” Paul said, frustrated. “I know…I mean, okay, I don’t totally know, but I have a…sort of, like…I understand it’s not totally okay for two men…? I know we’d have to keep it a little quiet, okay? Is that what this is about?” 

John got out of bed, then, like he was purposely putting as much space as possible between them as possible. 

“No. I mean…well, that’s true, but that’s not the problem…Paul, you just…you don’t know what you’re asking for. You have to trust me on this, alright? We’re mates. We’ll never be more than that, alright?” 

It was very much not alright, and Paul did know what he was asking, but what can you do? He nodded, a little sullen, and a lot humiliated. 

John was at the doorway now, looking awkward. “Listen, I’m gonna go and give Brian a call, okay?” he asked. 

Paul must’ve looked confused because John clarified. “Brian. Uh, Mr. Epstein, our manager.” 

The man in the suit from the hospital. Worried look on his face. Paul nodded. “Sure.” He felt a little dizzy now, a little nauseous. Could be the blow to the head, or could be hearing the man he was weirdly certain he was in love with tell him that they’d never be more than mates. Hard to say. 

“Right,” Paul said. “I’m just gonna rest a little more, I reckon.” 

John gave him a tight nod, and shuffled away, shutting the door behind him. Paul felt horrible, physically and emotionally. He wondered what he’d done to make John so certain that Paul didn’t want him. Was he sort of a prick? His normal self? 

Wait…was that it? Was he sort of a prick and John was attracted enough to him to kiss him in a moment of weakness, but he didn’t actually want to be with him? 

That was an idea. Maybe he could improve himself, or something, he thought, closing his eyes. His head was really pounding now. Maybe he was too much of a prick for John, but he could improve. 

He fell asleep. 

***

Paul dreamt of a dark cavern, a stage, and a room of people. He was playing music, singing, and John was there, and George, and two other boys that he didn’t recognize. He was dressed in all leather, and he was tired, and sweaty, and there was an older man, yelling at them from off-stage. Shouting louder than the crowd of people, louder than the music. 

Paul wished he knew the man was yelling, but it was in another language. It might have been German. 

***

Sun was streaming through the curtains when Paul woke up again. He was alone. John must be long gone, he thought again, just as he had last night. It was one thing to take care of your mate after an accident, it was another thing altogether to take care of your mate who had no idea who he was but kept insisting you wanted to snog him. 

Before he could figure out what to do with himself, Paul was proven wrong again. John was there, peeking through the crack in the door until he saw that Paul was awake, and then bringing him a glass of water, counting out pills on his palm, watching intently while Paul took them. 

“Alright?” he asked, when Paul came into the kitchen after taking a slash. He handed Paul a cuppa, his eyes searching Paul’s face worriedly. 

“Nothing new,” Paul said regretfully. “Unless…did a German man used to yell at us?” 

He described his dream to John, who looked increasingly excited the more Paul told him. “That’s a memory, Paul! That’s exactly how it was. In Hamburg. Germany. Can you remember anything else?” 

Paul closed his eyes and tried to picture what he’d seen in the dream, tried to access more of it, but there was nothing there. Like everything else, it felt just out of reach. 

“Still,” John said, “It’s good, right? I’ll ring he doc later and see what he thinks.” 

Paul nodded. It was good, he supposed. He wished it was more, was faster. What good did it do him, to remember that there was a man who used to yell at him in German? He wanted to remember everything. 

John was spreading marmite over toast. “Brian wants us to come to our studio after all today, if you’re feeling up to it. We were meant to be doing mixing on one of our new songs today, but they can do a bit of it without us and he figured it might do you good to see the studio, you know? Might jog something.” 

He slid the toast to Paul, who accepted it with enthusiasm. He suddenly felt starving. 

“That’s great,” he said. “I don’t think you all should stop working on account of me.” 

He took a big bite of toast and gagged. “Oh my god, this is horrible,” he said, and then felt immediately guilty for being ungrateful. “I’m…I’m sorry, I don’t think I like this.” 

John was looking at him warily. He nodded. “Yeah, you hate marmite.” He turned to put two more pieces of bread in the toaster. “Just wanted to see if….well, I guess your taste isn’t different. That’s…well, I guess you remember what you like.” 

“Hang on.” Paul snorted. “Was that a test?”

John looked at him guiltily and Paul laughed. Well, okay, maybe they could joke about this. 

“Guess my preferences are the same, then. Hate marmite, like snogging you.”

A flush ran up John’s creamy skin. “That’s not what I –”

“No, it’s good,” Paul said. “Glad we straightened that out.” 

***

The music studio was crazy. Paul was hoping that as soon as he got there, he’d remember how to play the bass or write songs or sing, but instead, he just looked around with awe at how fancy and professional it all seemed. 

Everyone there had obviously been briefed on his - uh - situation, but even still, all the people they encountered treated him and John and George and Richie with respect bordering on reverence, and it was, frankly, a lot to take in. 

George and Richie listened to him recount his dream and then filled in more detail about Hamburg and the screaming German man and anything else they could think of. 

“Lads,” a voice said, over a speaker from a booth above them. “We’re going to play back version four from last week, with the mellotron. Let me know what you think.” 

Let me take you down

'Cause I'm going to strawberry fields

Nothing is real

And nothing to get hung about

Strawberry fields forever…

Paul was gobsmacked. The song was incredible. They were incredible. 

“That was us?” he whispered to the others, when it had finished. “Was I on that?” They all laughed. 

“That was us,” George confirmed. “That was you, on bass, and singing harmony. It was mostly John, though.” 

“My god,” Paul said, turning to John. “That was you singing?” He squeezed his hands into tight fists so that he would remember not to touch John. “Your voice is beautiful.” 

John was shifting uncomfortably in his chair, and he was bright red, but he looked pleased, his eyes crinkling in the corners. “Shut up, Macca, don’t be daft.” 

“Who wrote it?” Paul asked, turning back to George. “Did he write it, too?”

George and Richie were extremely amused for some reason, but Paul couldn’t worry about that right now. George nodded, and Paul turned back to John, his eyes shining. 

“God, John, the lyrics…No one I think is in my tree…Christ, you’re talented.” 

George and Richie were laughing out loud now, and Paul didn’t understand. John looked embarrassed, but there was also a small smile he was clearly desperately fighting. 

“What?” Paul asked, realising. “Am I not usually one for compliments?” 

“Mate…not really,” Richie said. He was still fighting laughter. “Not like that.”

Paul remembered his worry from earlier that day. “Am I…” he cleared his throat, stalling for time. “Am I normally a bit of a prick?”

“No,” said John and Richie.

“Sometimes,” said George, at the same time, with a smirk. Richie rolled his eyes.  

Paul smiled, relaxing a little. They were teasing him, but they all seemed to like him. Okay, he wasn’t usually one for compliments. But why not? The song was bloody great. 

“Well, I know I don’t know as much about music as you,” he said, looking at John. “But for whatever it’s worth, I think you’re very talented.”

John reached over and put his hand across Paul’s mouth. “Alright, enough of that, you’re really freaking me out now.”

“No, but, I think it’s the best song I’ve ever heard,” Paul said around John’s hand, both because it was true, but also because he was enjoying seeing John blush and try not to smile. 

“Alright, but…and I hate to play the amnesia card here, I really do, but isn’t it the only song you’ve ever heard?” John asked, and Paul couldn’t help laughing, too.

“Paul, we’ll need you to write down that thing you said about John knowing more about music than you and sign it for us, alright?” George said. “We’ll be wanting that once you’re back to normal.”

“Oi, George, play Yellow Submarine!” Richie yelled up to the booth, and then turned to Paul. “Listen, don’t make any decisions about the best song you’ve ever heard just yet. All our songs are really good, especially the ones where I’m singing.” 

“No, play Taxman!” George called. “You’re gonna love that one.” 

The man in the sound booth was called George Martin, apparently, and he wouldn’t play any of their requests, but he played several more versions of John’s song that they’d recently recorded, Strawberry Fields Forever –  Paul wasn’t sure exactly what they were meant to be listening for –  and everyone seemed relatively satisfied that Paul’s condition wasn’t putting them too far behind schedule. Both Mr. Martin and Mr. Epstein were very kind, and told Paul not to worry, assured him he wasn’t causing them any problems, he should just focus on resting and getting his memory back. 

George was certain that Paul would remember how to play the bass if he only just tried it, but he picked it up and ran his fingers over the strings a bit, and no magic happened. 

“I’m sorry,” he told George, who was looking at him, wide-eyed. “I don’t remember how.” 

Paul hated letting everyone down. It was clear that they were on a tight schedule and even if they were all being kind, he felt a sort of underlying anxiety about it, even beyond just wanting to get his memory back. Like they were all so disappointed he’d forgotten this musical side of himself. 

He tried mimicking how John and George had been holding their hands, hoping to wake up some kind of muscle memory. 

“Alright, enough of this,” John said. “Christ. What does it matter? He’ll have his memory back any day now, George, just let him be.” 

George looked affronted. “I was just – ” 

“Alright, Paul, I’m getting you home now, come on,” John said, shuffling him out of the studio. “Look at you, you’re exhausted.” 

Paul went with him because, well, did feel a bit tired, and what’s more, he liked John worrying about him. 

When they got home, John settled Paul on the settee with another cup of tea and Martha curled up next to him. 

“I’m just gonna ring the doctor to update him while you rest a little, alright? Do you need anything?” 

“Can you put on one of our records?” Paul asked. He really did want to see if they were as good as everyone seemed to think. 

John put on their latest – it was called Revolver – and went to the kitchen to ring the hospital. Paul scratched Martha’s head and sipped his tea while he waited for John to come back. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on the album, tried to will himself into remembering writing it, singing it. His head was hurting a little less than yesterday, which felt like progress, but the album didn’t unlock any memories.  

“Alright, we’re doing half doses of these blue pain relievers now,” John announced, coming back into the room a few minutes later. He handed the pill to Paul with a glass of water. “You haven’t been feeling dizzy, have you?”

Paul shook his head, and John put a hand on his forehead as though he was checking for a fever. 

“He said the dream is a good sign, just like we thought,” John continued, while Paul took the pill. John pushed a notebook into Paul’s hands. “He wants you to write down anything you dream, or think of, that might be memories. Like a little journal.” 

“Okay,” Paul said, immediately setting the notebook down on the end table next to him. He really just wanted to talk about the album. 

“I still think the Strawberry Fields Forever song is the most beautiful song I’ve ever heard,” he said honestly. “I do like this album though.” 

John flopped down on the other side of the settee. “It’s a good album,” he agreed, ignoring the first part. 

Paul gestured at the record player. “This one is great, too. I’m Only Sleeping? It’s you singing again, right?” He recognized John’s voice this time. “You’re really talented, John,” he said. He slipped his hand into John’s as he said it, and then immediately retracted it when he felt John tense up at the contact. Right, right. It was just really hard to remember that they weren’t like that. 

He patted Martha instead, kissing her head, and slid his eyes sideways to John, hoping he hadn’t scared him off again. 

“You know,” John said, clearing his throat. “When you first got Martha, I was…well, not jealous exactly, but…it was strange for me, seeing you being so affectionate with her. So loving.” 

“With the puppy?” Paul asked. 

“Right,” John went on, scratching at his neck. “I’d never seen you like that before. Because normally you aren’t…affectionate like that. Definitely not with me.” 

Paul tried to make eye contact, but John wasn’t looking at him. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know why he wasn’t usually affectionate with John, when it felt like the only thing he really knew how to do. 

“And you…wanted me to be?” he asked carefully. 

John was picking a piece of lint off the settee, still not looking at him. “I suppose. I mean…yes. Only now you’re this, like, fake Paul, who tells me I’m talented and wants to touch me all the time, and I don’t really know what to do with it.” 

“I’m sorry,” Paul said automatically, because he was. “I don’t know how to be any different.” 

“No, I know,” John said, his voice strained. “You’re like real Paul in a lot of ways, too, so it’s…I don’t know, it’s just…confusing.” 

“How am I like real Paul?” Paul asked and then laughed. “Oh, you mean not liking marmite?”

John finally looked at him. “Right,” he said, and he was smiling as he said it, but it was tight, didn’t reach his eyes. “Plus you’re stubborn, and opinionated, and bossy, and – ” 

“Oi!” said Paul. He shoved John’s shoulder, earning an indigent look from Martha, who was jostled in the process and jumped off the settee to relocate to the rug. “You said I wasn’t a prick!” 

“Well…you’re a bit of a prick, I guess. But, you know, not…not in a bad way.” 

Paul rolled his eyes and took the opportunity to wiggle a little closer to John now that Martha was gone. He closed his eyes, paying attention to the music again. “Oh, this one’s really nice.” 

And if she’s beside me, I know I need never care

But to love her is to need her everywhere

“You wrote it,” John told him. “It’s one of my favourites.” 

Watching her eyes and hoping I'm always there…

Paul opened his eyes and looked at John. “I wrote this song about you.” He didn’t remember writing it, of course, but he was sure it was about John. 

John made a sort of strangled noise that sounded somewhere between a laugh and a cry. “No, Paul, you really, really didn’t.” 

“I did,” he said, and he took John’s hand again, gripping it hard so that John couldn’t move away. “I thought that exact thing when I saw you in the hospital. About your eyes, about how you were looking at me.” 

John just shook his head. He looked miserable. “Believe me, Paul…if I thought you meant it…if I thought this was really how you felt…” 

Hope pounded frantically in Paul’s chest. That wasn’t a no, not exactly. 

“I do mean it,” he said, stubborn. 

“I mean, if I thought real Paul meant it –” John started, 

“But I am real Paul!” Paul snapped. “I might not remember buying this house or writing this song or getting this puppy, but I’m telling you –”

“-- and I’m telling you, you’re going to remember everything and then you’re not going to want me anymore, and –”

But Paul had had enough of this, it was so clear they wanted each other, John had basically admitted it, hadn’t he? He closed the distance between them, crashing his mouth into John’s to shut John up, and they were kissing again, and this time John didn’t stop him – this time, John kissed him back like he wanted him. 

The angle wasn’t quite right, though, so Paul shuffled over and moved himself up onto John’s lap, his legs straddling John’s. He managed to do the whole thing without taking his mouth off of John’s, and John made a little noise of surprise. 

Paul positioned his hips a little so that he could feel the press of John’s cock against his, and ground down. 

“Jesus, Paul,” John groaned against his mouth.

“What?” Paul asked, pleased enough with that result that he did it again, getting a similar reaction. “Am I not usually this slutty?” 

“Oh no, you definitely are.” John laughed into his neck. “You just don’t usually direct it at me.” 

“Well that’s weird,” Paul said. He fumbled clumsily to get John’s trousers undone. “Because I know I don’t remember anything, but I really feel like I was put on earth to suck your cock.” He pulled back to move to his knees and John made another strangled animal noise. 

“But,” John said weakly. “What about your concussion?”

Paul looked up at him. “Do you want to call the doctor back real quick and ask him if blowies are okay?” 

“I hate you,” John said, but then Paul took him in his mouth, all at once, and he shut up. 

Paul didn’t have any memory of either getting or giving blowjobs, but he didn’t have any trouble with giving one – or at least it didn’t seem like he did, if John’s enthusiastic reaction was any indication. And when they went into Paul’s bedroom and John returned the favour, he didn’t have any trouble receiving one, either. Like riding a bike. 

“I didn’t suck your cock because of all the compliments,” John said, after, in Paul’s bed, when they were both recovering. “Just so that’s clear.

“I know,” Paul said. He kissed the soft skin on the inside of John’s wrist. “You don’t even believe them, anyway.” 

“How does your head feel?” John asked. 

“I don’t know…you tell me,” Paul quipped, and John rolled his eyes. “Seemed like you thought it felt pretty good, from all that moaning.” 

John was feeling his forehead again. “Paul, I’m serious, you were supposed to be resting, not sucking cock. Do you have a headache?” 

Paul shook his head. “No, it’s good, I feel really good,” he said truthfully. He realised he was probably being a bit ungrateful, for all the caretaking, so he added:  “And thank you, John…you’ve been doing an amazing job of taking care of me.” 

“I have, haven’t I?” John looked pleased with himself. “I’m usually kind of a mess, you know. Not all that responsible.” 

It was hard to believe, what with John’s constant reminders to take his pills and drink water, and waking him up throughout the night, but Paul shrugged. “Well, you’ve been very responsible with me.” 

“I was really scared, you know,” John said, his fair skin flushing a bit pink. “When they called and said you were in an accident…when you wouldn’t wake up…” 

“Yeah?” he asked. He liked hearing it. “I’m sorry I scared you. But I’m glad you were there, in the hospital. When I woke up and saw you sleeping…well, I didn’t know you, obviously, but I suppose there are just some feelings you don’t forget.”

He thought he’d put that rather well, but John immediately looked miserable again. “You’ll feel different when you get your memory back.” 

Paul bristled. He didn’t want to have this fight again, not when he’d finally gotten John to let down his barriers. He didn’t know how to make John see that he’d woken up in a world where he didn’t know anything or anyone, but he’d known that John was right. 

“That’s not true,” he said. He grabbed John’s face with his hands. “I love you.” 

John winced and looked kind of wildly around the room, like he was looking for someone there who could help him. “God, Paul, please don’t say that. I told you – you don’t.” 

Paul could scream. He didn’t understand why John was sure of this, when it was the only thing Paul really knew. 

“Paul,” John said, gently now, like he was talking to a small child. “This is just…the head injury just has you thinking things you don’t normally think, you’ll see when you’re yourself again.” 

“No,” Paul insisted. “There’s not…there is no version of me that isn’t in love with you.” 

John ran a hand through his hair and huffed out a laugh. “There is, Paul, I promise you. It’s the version of you I’ve lived with for the past 10 years. It’s the only version of you I’ve ever known.” 

“How can you be so sure – ” he started.

“Because you told me!” John said, loud enough to make Paul jump.

John exhaled massively and looked up at the ceiling. “Because you told me, Paul. I tried to…I kissed you, once, or tried to, when we were on tour, and you made it very clear how you felt about that.”

“What did I…what do you mean?” Paul whispered. 

“It doesn’t matter,” John looked back at him now, his face twisted in pain. “Just…you pushed me away…told me you weren’t queer, and you didn’t want that.”

“Oh,” said Paul, deflated. “Well maybe I didn’t mean...”

“And then…” John continued, ignoring him, “The next night you brought a girl into our hotel room and shagged her, loudly, right next to me. Just to, you know, drive home the point, I reckon. And we never talked about it again.”

Paul opened his mouth, and then immediately closed it because he couldn’t think of anything to say. Well. That wasn’t very “this is the man I love” of him, was it? 

“Right,” John said, getting up. “I know, I should’ve told you that sooner. I just…anyway. I’ll sleep in the –” 

“No!” Paul said. He grabbed John by the arm and pulled, until John fell back on the bed. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t remember that, I don’t remember any of that.” 

He didn’t understand it. He didn’t know why he’d done that, why he’d treated John that way. Maybe it really was the head injury, making him feel this way. He didn’t care. 

“I don’t care…that’s not how I feel now. You can’t leave, you have to stay here and sleep with me, remember? I have a head injury. You have to stay here and make sure I don’t die in my sleep.” 

“God, you’re so bloody stubborn, jesus. Didn’t you hear me? You’re going to be furious when you’re back to normal, you’re never going to forgive me,” John said. He was biting his lip with uncertainty, but he was also back under the duvet, so Paul felt like he’d won. 

“If I ever get my memory back, I’ll remember all this too, won’t I? I can hardly blame you for not being able to resist when I seduced you. I’ll know you tried to stop me,” Paul said. 

John snorted. “Seduced me,” he grumbled. “So that’s what happened, is it.” 

Paul hit the lamp before John could make any more moves to escape. He burrowed himself under John’s arm and rested his head on John’s chest. 

“I don’t know why I said that stuff, John, I really don’t,” Paul said in the darkness. 

“I do,” John said, but he kissed the top of Paul’s head. “But it’s okay, let’s just enjoy this while it lasts.” 

Paul wanted to tell him it would last forever, but he didn’t want to argue anymore. He felt so good, so happy, wrapped up in John, that his memory loss almost felt like it didn’t matter anymore. He remembered what was important. 

***

He was on a stage, and the noise from the crowd was so loud he almost couldn’t think. It was screaming…the crowd was huge, there must’ve been thousands of people, and they were all calling to him. 

No, to them. Because George was there, too, and Richie, and John. They were wearing suits and playing their instruments and singing, even though Paul couldn’t hear a thing over all the noise. 

John kept looking at him. They were sharing a microphone, and John kept giving him these little looks, like there was a joke that only the two of them could understand, and Paul loved him, he could feel it on that stage, could feel it when he looked at John. Paul loved him so much.

***

Paul woke up, and he remembered everything. 

That gig was…Boston, he thought. Maybe Philadelphia. The second U.S. tour? That seemed right. It didn’t matter, not really –  it could’ve been anywhere. It always felt like that. 

He remembered meeting John at the Woolton fete, he remembered the Quarrymen, and Hamburg, and the Cavern. 

He remembered touring and writing songs and feeling like he loved John so much he might die from it. 

He remembered the hotel room in Florida when John tried to kiss him, and how scared he’d been, scared of being queer and scared that John didn’t love him as much as he loved John, scared of everything changing. He remembered telling John he didn’t want it, and how hurt John had looked, and he remembered finding that girl to shag. To prove to himself he really didn’t need it. 

He remembered the accident, driving home alone after a long day at the studio, the other car coming from nowhere and crashing into him, his head slamming into the steering wheel.

He remembered the last two days, too, waking up in the hospital and the fear and confusion and the one thing – the one person – that kept him from completely losing it. 

God. He remembered…well, throwing himself at John, insisting that they loved each other, not taking no for an answer. 

“Oh my god,” he whispered to himself, “Oh my god.” 

John was still asleep – his arm still wrapped around Paul, his breathing quiet and steady, his face peaceful. 

Paul fought a wave of intense panic. He’d sucked John’s cock. He’d told John he loved him. There was no coming back from this. Oh fucking hell – he’d told John how much he loved Strawberry Fields Forever, how talented he was. He’d said it over and over. Oh dear god. 

He wanted to crawl out of his skin. Maybe he could just pretend to have amnesia for the rest of his life to avoid facing all the humiliating things he’d done when he didn’t know any better. 

Before he could work out the details of that plan, John stirred, and opened his eyes, and Paul froze, nearly choking with his embarrassment. 

“Good morning –” John started, and then clearly clocked Paul’s expression because his face changed immediately from soft to tense. “Oh. Oh you – you remember.” 

“Yeah,” Paul managed. He was still mentally cataloging all the horrifically embarrassing things he’d said over the last two days. 

“Right,” John said. He cleared his throat. “That’s – well, that’s great, obviously.” He didn’t look like he thought it was great. His face was sort of ashen and he wasn’t making eye contact. 

….you’re going to remember and not want me anymore…

Oh, fuck. Right. Right. That’s what John had said last night, and now Paul was just sitting here staring at him, dumbstruck, thinking about himself and his own embarrassment. Letting John think that was true. 

“So, uh. Yeah, I remember everything now,” Paul stuttered. 

Well. It was just much harder to talk to John now that his memory was back. Now that he remembered to be afraid. 

John was getting out of bed, naked and scrambling around Paul’s floor for something, probably trousers. “I’ll just go ring Brian and the lads, let everyone know –”

“Wait, wait,” Paul said. Fuck. Okay. He took a deep breath, gearing up to say something, anything, that would explain to John that nothing he’d said in the past two days had been wrong, even if it was a little horrifying that he’d said it all out loud. 

“That night in Florida –” he started.

“God, Paul, please,” John said, a little pleading. “We don’t need to talk about that. Not ever again, far as I’m concerned.” 

“But I… I remember it now! I remember what happened.”

“Yeah, well. Congratulations. I remember it too. So no need for a trip down memory lane.” 

Paul forged ahead, desperate to explain. “You kissed me, and I wanted to kiss you back, I did, but I was scared. But I regretted it right away, so I brought that girl back to the room because I thought you’d freak out, I wanted to get a reaction from you –”

John sputtered. “What the fuck was I supposed to do? You’d just rejected me outright –”

“I know! It was stupid, I was stupid – ”

“Why didn’t you just tell me, if you regretted it?”

Paul made a noise of frustration. “I don’t know, I couldn’t! You said it yourself, real Paul is shite at that sort of thing.” He shrugged. “I told you, I was scared –  I was dumb, and overcome with…well, I mean, you know now, you can see how big my feelings are.”

John stared. “What do you mean, I know now?”

Paul bit his nail. “You know now. How I feel about you. I’ve been telling you, the last two days.”

“But that wasn’t…you didn’t remember.”

Paul rolled his eyes. “Don’t be an idiot. I told you a thousand times. It’s the only thing I remembered.”

John was shaking his head, his jaw set. “You were just confused. You were acting crazy. You said I was beautiful.” 

“You are beautiful!” 

“So now that your memory is back…” John wrinkled his brow, like he was trying to solve a complicated math equation.  

“I still love you,” Paul said, wincing a little. It was easier with amnesia. 

But John smiled, a real smile, maybe kind of nervous, but without the tension in his eyes from the last couple of days. He put his hand up to Paul’s forehead, like he was checking for fever again. 

“I think we’d better call the doctor,” he said. “There’s definitely something wrong with your head.”

He dropped his hand and looked away. “And, well. Uh. I guess you already figured out that I love you, too.”

Paul had sort of figured out how John felt, but Christ, it was good to hear. He kissed him. 

“And I’m not going to be like that, now, just so you know,” Paul said, pulling back for a minute. “With all the compliments. Saying you’re beautiful and talented, and all that.” 

“It’s alright, I’ll just hit you over the head sometimes, whenever I need to hear it,” John said, pulling him closer. “Bring back amnesia Paul.” 

Paul put his head on John’s shoulder. He did sorta wish he could be more like amnesia Paul sometimes, not so worried about being embarrassed, just saying how he felt all the time. 

“John, I love you so much,” he said, trying it out. And well, who knows, maybe he could.