Work Text:
John tells Yoko he's at therapy. Paul tells Linda he's checking the farm.
Tuesday, John's basement, 1972. Just two amps and a piano with a dead D key. They say it's to finish the songs they left in '68.
It’s a lie.
John knows it every time Paul starts a harmony without being asked. Knows it when Paul still laughs at his worst puns, ten years too late. He still loves Paul.. Like the only person who ever spoke his language without subtitles. Like the person who he didn't wanna push away. The kid who sat next to him on the bus in 1957 and never really left.
And John’s terrified Paul doesn’t feel it anymore.
He sees it in the way Paul is careful now. Polite. How he packs up fast, like he’s afraid to stay too long. John spent years pushing him away. Made being John Lennon a full-time job of being cruel, being distant, being done. He told the world he didn’t need The Beatles. He told Paul he didn’t need him.
He lied.
Yoko hears them from the top of the stairs one Tuesday. John messes up the bridge and swears. Paul doesn’t say “it’s fine.” He says “again,” and counts them in. Same as he did at 22. For a minute, John forgets the lawsuits. Forgets the interviews where he buried them both.
Then he hears the floorboard creak. He stops. Paul stops.
Yoko leaves without a word.
After, John sits with his hands on his knees. He wants to say it: I missed you. I still do. I’m sorry I was so good at pretending I didn’t, I STILL LOVE YOU PAUL.
He doesn’t. Because he’s not sure Paul would say it back. He’s not sure Paul can after everything. You can only burn a bridge so many times before the other guy stops rebuilding it.
Paul zips his guitar case. “Same time next week?”
John shakes his head. “Can’t.”
Paul nods. Doesn’t ask why. That’s what breaks John.
The lock rusts. The tapes stay in a box.
John loves Paul. He has loved Paul so much. But he can't tell him at all. He has Yoko. And Paul has Linda. After everything they went through. John still can't tell him. And it claws at the back of his head every single night. Just wondering if he told Paul when the band was together. When they were kids. When they were happy. That maybe. The stars would have just aligned perfectly. And maybe they would have wound up together. Finally happy. Finally the calm. But no.
That was the day the music died for John.
Not because he was tired of the music.
Because he didn't have Paul.
He didn't have the man that he'd play with. Write these amazing songs with.
And at the end of the day.
He realized
He still missed Paul.
He didn't care about the lawsuits.
The unfinished music.
He just needed his anchor.
He just needed Paul McCartney.
He always has needed him.