Chapter Text
1965
Bent over his guitar case, John is feeling almost sorry to end the session here. They had some good stuff going. Apparently, though, 12 a.m. is too late for Georgie’s sweet sensibilities. “Ey, Paul, want to come over and write?" He flips through their song journal beside him, "I’ve got this bit, think it’ll be good—”
“—Can’t. I’ve got a chat with George, sorry mate.” In the next beat, George Martin calls, and John watches as he skips right over without a single glance spared—the fucking teacher’s pet.
John throws the guitar case shut with a crack, and the guitar inside protests with a discordant groan. There are shuffled feet and whispers before George and Ringo swiftly grab their things and leave.
Lingering, John tidies up the room, despite never having stayed behind to clean up, on the off chance that Paul will include him in the discussion.
It’s his band and all.
For as long as he can tolerate, he fidgets with the equipment, placing the guitar case along the wall or moving an amp from one side of the room to the other aimlessly. When he gives up, the guitar cables are tangled in a frustrated clump.
As he reaches for the door, he looks back for a moment to see George Martin and Paul bowed over the sheet music. Martin, with his prim and proper comb-over, gestures to it. Paul might as well be sitting on his lap, nodding along.
Whatever. And John marches out.
The night is brisk and dark, and John loiters in front of EMI studios, hands packed into his coat pockets. There’s a piece of litter on the sidewalk, a smudged paper covered in lead scribbles. With his mind—or lack thereof—set on waiting out Paul, John bends down to pick up the mangled thing.
Handwriting, almost as familiar as his own, is scratched into the paper. A small smile appears at the thought of perfect Paul misplacing a paper.
Quite easily, John can picture him rummaging through the studio, making a fuss over a measly bit of tree. He’d run his hands through his hair, tugging at the strands so many times that it’d become a wild mess. Then, John would present it to him, acting terribly put out about it. Paul’d be grateful and a bit embarrassed, patting his hair down. But he’d give John that sweet smile, look into his eyes, and say—
—John blinks and squints desperately closer at the page.
A McCartney Original.
They just sit there, innocuously. The words are not stark. They don’t stand out in any way amongst the grime. In fact, they are so faint and smeared he could’ve missed them entirely.
Before he knows it, he’s shoving his way back through those great black doors of EMI Studios.
Through the studio window, he sees Paul from the back, hands flailing about in a crude expression of the sound that only exists in his head. George Martin also watches Paul, with his chin resting on his thumb, and a small smile tucked behind his finger. There's a look in his eyes. Admiration. It only serves to make John angrier, his fist strangling the paper.
John bangs the glass with a sickening thump.
With satisfaction, he watches them startle. Paul twists sharply, then relaxes and gives a smile as he sees him. John doesn’t smile back. He jerks his chin toward the door. Paul’s smile takes on a confused tint as he nods, murmurs to George Martin, and walks out.
Before Paul can speak, John shoves the pathetic scrap into his chest. Paul fumbles for it with pinched, confused brows. John doesn’t care that Martin can watch through the window. Part of him hopes he does.
Paul warily glances up at him through his lashes, then begins to unfold the paper. Not saying a word, John lets his gaze wander to George Martin. They make eye contact; his eyes are unreadable. They flicker to Paul, then back knowingly, pitying John. He doesn’t know anything.
When John looks at Paul, he’s smoothing the creases out delicately. John suddenly wants to snatch it away, make it disappear entirely.
Paul begins to read it, eyes flicking across each line. Shifting and fidgeting, John crosses his arms in front of his chest. He watches as Paul’s gaze gets caught as his finger comes to his mouth. John thinks it must be because he finally realized John’s found his mangy McCartney Original.
Then, Paul drops his hand, folding the lyrics up with clean, crisp creases. He holds it out like an offering. “And? What of it?” His eyes bore into John’s, steady.
All John hears screaming through his head is “I don’t need you anymore.” He’s known it before ever picking up that rubbish. He knew it when Paul chose to live in the heart of London, apart from the rest of them. When he composed “Yesterday” in his sleep. When he sang it on stage, underneath a single spotlight.
John’s known it since the Woolton Village Fete.
Despite all this knowing, he hoped—foolishly—Paul would still keep him around. Like a dog trotting along after its owner.
Well, Paul’s just gone and kicked this mutt away, hasn’t he?
Uncrossing his arms, John tucks his hands away in his coat pockets and ducks his head. “Do whatever the fuck you want, Paul,” he sneers. “See if I care.” John storms down the hall, and the slam of the door cuts off Paul’s call for him. He ignores it.
Outside, it’s damp and cold, and a flush burns his cheeks—his eyes sting. He wants to punch something.
He wants Paul to need him as much as he needs Paul.
~
“And? What of it?”
Paul stands, the lyrics in an outstretched hand, waiting. It’s not a big deal, really, Paul thinks—his eyes flicker to the window where George Martin sits, and wishes he wouldn’t watch. Still, John intensely glares at the paper in Paul’s hand, and he can tell John is gnawing on the inside of his cheek.
Taking a step closer, Paul parts his mouth to say that he wrote the song, and it’s his, and he won’t apologize for it. But then, John seems to completely crumble in on himself. His broad shoulders look half their width, curled in how they are. The light reflects in the corner of his eye just a bit more.
“Do whatever the fuck you want, Paul.” It's rough and sharp, grating on his ears. “See if I care.” And then, he’s gone.
Paul whips around, “John?” his voice cracks, dissonant and horrible. The door has already closed, his stomach twists and turns, and his breathing quickens.
Immediately, his hand darts to his hair and tugs—a dull ache. He looks down at the page in his grasp, neatly folded but stained.
He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, letting his lungs feel the strain. It’s fine. He breathes out and walks towards the studio door; his loafers click loudly on the floor.
The metal handle is cool, he grasps it firmly—he has an arrangement to finish.
Striding in, he avoids George Martin’s gaze, stuffing the song into his pocket. It feels indecent to have that out in the open under the fluorescent light. He sits at the piano, tucking his hands between his thighs.
Martin, the class act he is, simply begins a discussion of polyphony, or something like that. He knots the two of his hands together, tight, and tries to contribute something interesting and smart.
He just feels silly.
The session really goes nowhere. George Martin asks if he has any other songs he wants to work on. A lump sits at the back of Paul’s throat. He says no.
With nothing else to do, Martin claps his hands and says, “Shall we call it a night then?” Then laughs, “Or should I say morning?” Paul doesn’t respond, giving a faint smile—it’s late, he’s tired.
Lethargically, he gathers his things—a notebook of songs, page open to one of John’s, and his coat that he slides on, the sleeves falling to his knuckles slightly too long. Looking around the studio, so hollow without the creation of music, he notices a jumble of cords in the middle of the room—John. He looks away and brings his coat around himself, the fabric layering, wrapping, engulfing him. Distantly, he wonders why he’s never gotten it fitted.
Notebook tucked under his arm, he nods to George Martin and knows there’s staring as he leaves. The bite of the cold air immediately stings; he hates how John can manipulate him like this. And why, he asks himself, do I let him?
He pulls the crinkled paper from his pocket. It looks unremarkable in the dim streetlights, worn and soft as he slowly rubs it between his thumb and finger. He wonders if John even realizes why it was left in the gutter at all.
Some feelings have no right to be in song, too dangerous to exist outside it.
~
There are no cabs at this hour.
It’s the conclusion John’s gotten to after wandering for a while, his mind cycling between raging and nothing.
He can’t get back to Weybridge. He can’t go back to EMI. Dragging himself onto a barstool, he calls out for another shot.
And that’s how John finds himself absolutely pissed. Smashed. Hammered. Three sheets to the fucking wind. There was nothing left. Who cared?
Blurry flashes of lights, faces. A constant sense of dizziness. For a second, he wonders what’s happening—the vertigo pulls him under again. More faces, too close. More lights, too bright. A rush of cold air hits him—not so bright, the trees are far away.
Next thing he knows, there’s a door. It’s nice, painted a dark brown with gilded details. He taps on it overly gently; he doesn’t want to shatter it. Tap, tap, tap—he does this obsessively with no sense of time. Some shuffling on the other side, but he doesn’t pay it mind. He just needs to keep tapping, keep the rhythm, then it’ll all be alright.
Seemingly hours later, John’s hand falls through the space the door once was, nearly falling with it. There’s a warm pressure on his shoulders, keeping him steady. He did it. Closing his eyes, he reaches out, clutching soft fabric in his hand. He can’t let go, now.
There was nothing else.
His next conscious thought comes with streams of daylight hitting his face—Christ, my fucking head.
Rolling over and burying his head in a pillow, he feels like death all over. He groans pathetically. His next inhale, he freezes. It smells of tobacco, of that familiar cologne. Fuck.
Hesitantly, John turns so his cheek is half smushed into the pillow, and there in the gaudy green wingback chair, is Paul. He lounges there looking out the window, legs lithely crossed over one another, cigarette between his lips. John knows Paul’s purposely ignoring him—he hates it when he does that.
He blows out a puff of swirling white smoke, and John follows it with his eyes as it rises, languidly spreading across the room. Paul continues staring out the window.
As always, John breaks first, “So, what am I bloody doin’ here?” Instantly regretting it as he pushes himself up, a deep ache bursts behind his eyes. He buries his head in the pillow again.
Some birds chirp outside, the house creaks as it settles, and his heartbeat picks up. He tries to swallow, but his mouth is so parched that it gets stuck with an itch. He fights the urge to clear his throat.
The chair squeaks as Paul shifts his weight. A sigh, then, “John…” He trails off, another squeak of the chair. Clearing his throat, Paul says, “You scared the shit outta the Ashers, you know. Thought ol’ Richard was going to pull out his golfing club,” he chuckles. “You should’ve seen—”
“Will you shut your gob, Paul?” John grates out and jerks upright with an immediate spike of pain. Looks Paul in the eye. “Stop pretending everything is fine. Christ, almighty. No one gives two about Dick.”
Mouth snapping shut with an audible click, Paul scowls at John as he glares back. John is taken aback when Paul then quickly looks away, glancing down to his lap where he fiddles with his cigarette. “What do you want then, John?” He speaks softly, and it digs straight into John’s chest.
Paul continues anyway, maybe never expecting an answer to begin with, “Y’know,” his eyes flicker up, back down again. “The song, I didn’t mean it. It was just…it’s a difficult thing to write, y’know?”
“Course. Harder writing solo, innit?” John feels like he’s missing the mark somehow.
Paul stares at him blankly, those pouted lips parted, before seeming to shake himself out of it. “Right. Course.” His hands rub at his thighs, abruptly standing, pulling the lyrics from his pocket. He tips his chin up, like a challenge. “Maybe, you should take a second look at this, then.”
The paper is dropped in his lap, and in the next breath, Paul is gone. John scoffs; he’d be satisfied if his second look was this paper blackened in the fireplace. Really, he’d rather forget that Paul even tried to write without him.
He stuffs it in his pocket and prepares to face the Ashers, face the day. Goes on with little mind for the scrap weighing in his pocket.
It doesn’t end up in ashes in the fireplace. The McCartney Original ends up unread and buried in a little drawer in John’s music room in Kenwood. Purposely forgotten.