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The darkness of a 1958 Liverpool night does not merely fall; it settles like soot, thick and suffocating, clinging to the damp brickwork of Forthlin Road and creeping through the drafty floorboards. Inside the cramped, shadow-drenched bedroom, the air is cold enough to turn breath into fleeting ghosts. The faint, metallic tang of cheap cigarettes and wet wool hangs heavy in the space between two bodies.
Paul sits on the edge of the mattress, his fingers idly tracing the rough seam of his trousers. His chest feels tight, bounded by the restrictive, suffocating compression of the makeshift binder hidden beneath his heavy wool jumper—a constant, unspoken weight that makes every breath a conscious effort. He watches the silhouette of the older boy pacing the narrow floor. John moves like a caged animal, all sharp elbows and nervous, frantic energy, the neck of his cheap Framus guitar cutting a jagged line through the gloom. The silence between them is a physical pressure, stretching thin until it threatens to snap.
Paul clears his throat, the sound small and raspy against the quiet of the room. He tries to pitch his voice into a casual cadence, masking the desperate, aching vulnerability that prompts the question. "Hey, John, what do you think it would be like if we had kids?"
John doesn’t stop his pacing. He doesn’t even shift his gaze from the floorboards, his heavy black-rimmed glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose. He scoffs, a dry, dismissive sound that rattles in the back of his throat. "What would it be like? Inconvenient, mostly."
The word cuts, clean and sharp, but Paul forces his expression to remain impassive, refusing to let the sting show in the dim light. He shifts his weight, the old springs of the bed groaning beneath him. He needs more than a cynical brush-off; he needs an anchor, a glimpse into a future that feels entirely impossible from the confines of this drab, unforgiving town.
"No, I mean, what would they be like, the kids? You ever think about it?"
John pauses for a fraction of a second, his boot heel hovering above the floor before he drops it with a dull thud. He shrugs his broad shoulders, his posture rigid, defensive, locked tight against any hint of genuine sentimentality. "Can't really say I have."
A hot spark of resentment flares in Paul’s gut, burning through the damp chill of the room. It is the defensive, protective instinct of a boy who has had to fight for every inch of his own identity, turning his vulnerability into a weapon before it can be used against him.
He snaps his head up, his jaw tight, his voice sharp with a distinct, biting Liverpudlian edge. "You know, for someone as eccentric as yourself, you can be boring as fuck sometimes."
John blinks, surprised by the sudden heat in Paul's tone. The harsh line of his mouth softens just a fraction, a rare glimmer of reluctant contrition flickering across his features. He runs a hand through his pompadour, disturbing the neat, greased lines of his hair and letting out a quieter, less guarded breath. The momentary softness vanishes as quickly as it appeared, replaced by the familiar armor of his defenses.
"Sorry, Paul," John says, his voice dripping with heavy, unbothered sarcasm. He looks at Paul properly now, a cynical, biting smile twisting the corner of his lips as he deliberately feeds the younger boy's despair. He steps closer, leaning over his guitar with a theatrical, mocking intensity that feels like a slap to the face. "For what it's worth, I'm picturing them now. A boy and a girl. Two perfect little freaks of nature raised by people who've clearly got no business bringin' up anybody. Sounds bloody thrilling, doesn't it?"
The cruelty of the words hangs in the cold air, deliberate and precise. Paul watches, his throat tight and dry, as John methodically packs his guitar into its worn case, the snaps clicking shut with finality. John hooks the strap over his shoulder and turns toward the door, completely unwilling to spend another minute in the room with this younger, complicated boy. He doesn’t look back as he steps out into the hallway, leaving nothing but the echo of his footsteps behind. Paul sits frozen on the bed, a bitter weight sinking deep into his chest. Who cares if it's his birthday?
The grey, soot-choked streets of Liverpool dissolve in a sudden, violent rush of sensory overload.
Paul wakes up in a panic, his gasp cutting through the quiet, sun-warmed air of a completely different world. The sheets beneath him are high-thread-count cotton, soft and cool, yet his skin feels scalding hot, drenched in a cold sweat. He is crying, deep, wracking sobs that tear from his throat before he can stop them, his hands clawing blindly at the empty air, reaching through the fog of the fading nightmare. "John! Johnny, come back... don't go..."
Instantly, the mattress shifts beside him. A pair of strong, familiar arms—lined with age but unyielding in their warmth—wrap securely around his torso. John scoops him up, pulling Paul’s trembling frame tightly against his bare chest. He buries his face in Paul’s silver hair, rocking him gently in the bright morning light filtering through the windows of their San Francisco home.
John whispers calming sweetness to his Macca of 65.5 years, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrates against Paul's back, anchoring him back to reality. "I'm here, love. I've got you. You're right here with me. Breathe, Paulie... just breathe."
Slowly, the frantic racing of Paul's heart begins to ease. He presses his face into the hollow of John's neck, inhaling the comforting, familiar scent of old paper, cedarwood, and the faint trace of morning coffee. The horrific isolation of 1958 recedes, replaced by the solid weight of the man who has held him through decades of music, revolution, and the chaotic joy of raising a massive, sprawling family. John shifts slightly, pulling back just enough to look down into Paul’s tear-stained face. His hazel eyes are soft, crinkling at the corners with an affection that has only deepened over nearly seven decades.
Needing to break the lingering spell of the dream, John lets a familiar, playful smirk tug at his lips. "Hey, Paulie, what goes up but never comes down?"
Paul lets out a wet, shaky breath, wiping his nose with the back of his hand as he glares up at his husband with a mixture of fondness and lingering annoyance. "The amount of stress you're bringing to this conversation."
John lets out a loud, barking laugh, the sound bright and boisterous in the sunny bedroom. He puffs out his chest, feigning a look of severe, aristocratic disapproval. "Macca! I assume you realize that this kind of idiocy will not be tolerated in this house."
Paul rolls his eyes, a faint smile finally breaking through his distress, his own quick-witted nature returning to the fore. He shifts his weight against John’s chest, completely at ease in his own skin, comfortable in the life they have built together. "Is there any kind of idiocy you would be more comfortable with?"
"You little demon," John growls affectionately, nipping gently at the soft skin of Paul’s shoulder.
"I thought you were my demon," Paul murmurs back, his voice dropping into a softer, more intimate register as his fingers tangle in the fabric of John’s pajama pants.
John’s expression turns tender, his thumb gently brushing away the last wet track of a tear from Paul’s cheek. "Well, it looks like you're feeling better. Mind telling us what that nightmare was about?"
Paul sighs, the lingering shadows of the dream losing their teeth in the warmth of the bedroom. He leans heavily into John's arms, resting his chin on his husband's chest as he reluctantly reveals the details of his nightmare. He speaks of the cold room in Liverpool, the biting sarcasm, and the terrifying, hollow ache of being abandoned by a version of John who couldn't see a future for them. John listens intently, his grip tightening around Paul's waist.
As soon as Paul finishes, John lets out a loud scoff, dismissing the entire premise with an aggressive wave of his hand. "What absolute rubbish. Paulie, that's complete nonsense, and you know it. There's no universe in which I wouldn't love you and the kids we create. Seven bloody children and eleven grandkids later, and you're still dreaming up stories where I walk out on you?"
John shakes his head, a soft, reminiscent smile replacing his scoff. He tilts Paul's chin up so their eyes meet.
"You've got it all backward, love. Let me remind you how little Paulie's 16th birthday really played out. We were supposed to be at practice, remember? Colin and the boys were waiting, and we were late by over two hours because we were sitting on that bloody hill, completely wrapped up in each other. We spent the whole time discussing exactly how our kids would look and act. I told you they'd all have your bloody eyes and my terrible attitude, and I was right, wasn't I?"
Paul chuckles, the memory warm and vivid, completely eclipsing the dark fiction of the nightmare. "They did get your attitude, Johnny. Every single one of them."
"Too right," John beams.
Then, a look of mischievous determination crosses his face. He groans softly as he shifts his weight, muttering a brief complaint about his joints as he dips beneath their bed. He reaches deep into the shadows under the frame, shifting a few old storage boxes until his fingers wrap around a large, heavy object wrapped in bright, mismatched paper. With a triumphant grunt, he hoists it out, carefully managing the movement to protect his bad back.
Paul swats his arm playfully, though his eyes wide with curiosity. "You bloody idiot, you're going to throw your hip out." But the reprimand is empty; he leans forward and kisses John deeply on the lips, a lingering, sweet expression of gratitude.
"Open it," John urges, shoving the heavy package onto the mattress between them.
Paul tears into the paper, his hands steady as the bright wrapping falls away to reveal a sleek, hard-shelled guitar case. His breath hitches in his throat. He pops the heavy chrome latches one by one, the metallic clicks echoing in the quiet room. He lifts the lid, and a beautiful, iconic violin-shaped Hofner bass stares back up at him, its sunburst finish gleaming perfectly in the California sunlight.
"Johnny..." Paul whispers, his fingers trembling as he hovers them over the strings.
"Stole it just for you, Paulie," John says, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper, his eyes dancing with old, youthful rebellion. "Again."
Before Paul can even process the weight of the gift, John digs around in the pocket of his pajama pants, his fingers grimy with something sticky. He pulls his hand out with a flourish, revealing a classic, vibrant Fender Bassman sticker. Since Paul isn't wearing a shirt—sitting comfortably in the warmth of the bed—John waggles his eyebrows suggestively, a wicked grin spreading across his face. With a theatrical flourish, he leans forward and presses the sticker firmly onto the white fabric across the front of his husband's Y-fronts.
John smooths down the edges of the sticker with a grin, patting Paul’s hip before leaning in close to press a warm, firm kiss against his temple. "Happy 84th birthday, James Paul McCartney."