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The air in Rishikesh is thick with the scent of damp earth and the heavy, sweet perfume of jasmine. It’s 8 October 1968, and the Chaurasi Kutia ashram is settled into a profound, meditative silence. In the shadows of the stone bungalows, the band—along with an eclectic circle including Bob Dylan, Mia Farrow, and the ever-ethereal Donovan—is supposedly chasing enlightenment. The sounds of the Ganges rushing nearby provide a constant, low-frequency hum to their advanced Transcendental Meditation training.
John sits on the edge of the shared bed, staring down at Paul as the moonlight catches the faint, jagged line of a scar on his upper lip—a permanent souvenir from the moped accident on Boxing Day three years ago. The two men have both recently abandoned their mustaches; the heavy facial hair had become a barrier at home in Cavendish. Julian, with the blunt honesty of a five-year-old, had flatly refused to kiss "the whiskers," and John, who could never deny his son a single whim, had been the first to reach for the razor.
It has been a year of narrow escapes and shifting tides. Brian Epstein is alive, a miracle that still makes Paul’s chest tight when he thinks of that frantic London afternoon. Rehab and the unexpected, grounding influence of Bob Dylan have softened Brian’s edges, turning the frantic manager into a man who finally looks comfortable in his own skin. But peace is a fickle thing. Only months ago, George and Ringo were approached to record an album with Eric Clapton for the psychedelic film Wonderwall. Watching his younger "brothers" venture into the world of film soundtracks without him had sparked a cold, sharp jealousy in John’s gut—a feeling he tries to drown in meditation, but which often resurfaces the moment he closes his eyes.
Now, free from the haze of scotch and the numbing drift of pills for the first time in years, John finds the clarity of sobriety to be a double-edged sword. His mind is a racing engine with no brakes. Tonight, the insomnia is a physical weight. He carefully slides out from under the thin cotton sheets, moving with a ghost-like grace to avoid waking Paul. He gathers his Gibson J-160E and a sheaf of scribbled-on paper, wandering out into the garden where the stone remains cool under his bare feet.
He settles onto a bench, his fingers moving tentatively over the strings, whispering a melody into the humid night. “When I hold you in your arms... When you show each one of your charms... I wonder should I get up... And go to the funny farm, no no no... You say I’m putting you on…”
The lyrics are raw, jagged, and tinged with a frightening vulnerability.
"Quite melancholy, that," a voice remarks softly.
John doesn't jump; he knows that voice better than his own heartbeat. Paul stands in the doorway of the bungalow, his hair a mess of dark curls, looking sleepily beautiful in the silver light. He’s wearing a simple cotton tunic, looking every bit the man John has been married to for eight secret, tumultuous years. "Supposed to be," John confirms, his voice gravelly. He doesn't look up, focusing instead on a stubborn chord. "We can put it after 'Martha My Dear'. 'S about you, after all."
Paul’s expression softens, a mix of concern and affection crossing his face. "Yeah? You're missing me?" he asks carefully. He walks over, the grass damp against his skin, and slides onto the bench. He doesn't just sit next to John; he maneuvers himself behind him, gingerly pulling John back until the older man is tucked firmly into his lap. "I'm right here, Johnny. Not a mile away."
John stiffens for a moment before collapsing into the contact, his head resting against Paul’s shoulder. The bravado he wears like armor during the day is stripped away by the darkness. "You went and bought that Aston Martin just 'cause of Sean Connery," John mutters, the words tumbling out in a rush of insecurity. "Actin' like you're bigger than me. Than the band. Then, Geo and Richie go an' make a soundtrack... Yoko's following Geo 'round like a puppy. Soon enough, Eppy's gonna step down and make music with Bob. The band's fallin' apart. Everyone's leavin' me."
Paul sighs, a long, patient sound. He leans forward, breathing in the scent of John—soap, sweat, and the faint lingering smell of tea. He begins to plant tiny, grounding kisses along the line of John's neck.
"Johnny," Paul murmurs against his skin. "I bought the Aston Martin 'cause I loved the books—which, yes, he drove a Bentley then—but we saw Goldfinger, remember? Back in '64? I was tryin' to get you interested in Connery, but you were interested in the car. I wasn't tryin' to be James Bond, love. I was just tryin' to have something nice for us. I bought it when I was finally able to afford the dream, that's all."
John sighs, his shoulders dropping an inch. He listens to the rhythmic thump of Paul’s heart against his back. Paul continues, his lips moving to John’s cheek, leaving soft "kitten bites" that make John’s breath hitch.
"The soundtrack for Geo and Rich... it's a big step-up for our friends, I know. But it's just a little side project, John. A bit of fun. Nobody's said a word about leavin' the band. We're the Beatles; we're a four-headed monster, remember?" Paul pauses, his voice dropping an octave, tinged with a shadow of his heritage. "And Yoko... she’s a little off-putting, I'll grant you. But if she becomes too much for any of us... I could leave word with Uncle Stellan. We're family, after all. He knows I’d do anything for him, and he’d do the same for me."
John lets out a small, jagged hiccup at the mention of the mafia. Even after all these years, the reminder of Paul’s "family" and the maneuvers he’d learned in Sussex still caught him off guard. He doesn't dissuade the idea, though; there's a dark comfort in knowing Paul has the backing of men who can make problems disappear—the same men who ensured their 1960 wedding could actually happen.
Paul gently reaches around, lifting the guitar from John's lap and setting it carefully on the grass. He helps John readjust, turning him around in the cramped space of the bench until they are chest-to-chest. Paul cups John’s face, his thumb grazing the dip of John’s bottom lip before lifting his chin so their eyes meet.
"And Bob's good for Eppy," Paul says firmly. "We've all gone through rehab, and I think it's for the better. The air is clearer now. They're already coming up with ideas for another album after White. The Beatles is still going strong, love. We’re not finished yet." He leans closer, his forehead resting against John's. "Nobody's leavin' the band, and there's no way in hell I'm leavin' you. Or Heather. Or Julian. We've got our life in Cavendish, we've got our songs, and we've got each other. Do you believe me, baby?"
John looks into Paul’s eyes—the same eyes that had stared back at him in a Parisian cemetery eight years ago. The fear that usually fuels his insomnia begins to recede, replaced by a heavy, warm certainty. He nods slowly, his hand coming up to rest over Paul’s heart.
"I believe you," John whispers.
Paul doesn't wait for more. He leans forward, capturing John’s lips in a kiss that is both a promise and a sanctuary. It’s passionate, tasting of the cool night air and years of shared secrets. John melts into it, his fingers tangling in the hair at the back of Paul’s neck. The racing thoughts in his head finally go quiet. For the first time in days, the prospect of sleep doesn't feel like a battle he's destined to lose.
As they eventually break apart, breathless and smiling in the dark, John feels the weight of the world lift. They stand together, hand in hand, and walk back toward the bungalow, leaving the guitar and the melancholy lyrics behind in the garden. Tonight, the silence of Rishikesh is finally a peaceful one.