Chapter Text
March 1969
“We need to make another album.”
“You’ve gone ‘round the fucking bend.” John looked up from where he’d been rubbing a towel over his damp hair. “Did I actually manage to suck your brains out this time?”
“I mean it,” Paul said. He stretched a toe out from the bed to tap against John’s leg. “Let It Be’s a fucking mess. You know it is.”
“I like what Phil’s doing with it.”
Paul rolled his eyes. “Fine, but we should do something while we’re waiting for it to be done.”
Poole had agreed to sort Apple, had in fact already started to implement some of his suggested structural changes. Nothing was going to happen overnight, of course. Even with the Eastmans also looking at their contracts and seeing what could be done to improve their royalties. But it had taken some of the load off their mind, and Paul’s had immediately gone to music.
Perhaps he just wanted to wipe away the slightly murky memory of the last album. While it had been one of the best times of Paul’s life, finally getting John had come at the cost of the second most important thing in his life. He felt guilty when he thought of Let It Be, how it could have been better if only they’d all been a little more present, a little more focused. But the only way to fix that was to try again.
John was studiously ignoring him. Which he surely knew wasn’t going to work long term. John seemed more worried about Apple, indeed their whole future, than Paul was. Some of that was just a matter of their natural outlooks: John always assumed the worst while Paul hoped for the best. But, it was more than that. John also had whispers in his ears.
Paul narrowed his eyes. “What did Allen say to you last time you met him?”
Klein was still hanging around like a bad smell. He’d offered some casual advice. Paul suspected it was like getting in with the mob: just one small favour and before you knew it, they owned you. He didn’t like it, but there was really no reason for him to object to John meeting with him casually. Paul just made sure to turn up uninvited at John’s side every so often. Just to make sure Klein didn’t get any ideas above his station.
John waved him off. “Same old,” he said. “We need to sort our shit out, we’re not being smart about the financials.”
Well, there was probably no disagreeing with that.
“We’ll get that sorted,” he said. “But in the meantime, don’t you think we should do what we actually set out to do, and make some music?”
“It’s been about a week since we wrapped.”
“I’ve got the songs,” he said. “So do you. I’ve seen them.”
They both knew George had some too.
“I just think,” he continued when there was no immediate objection, “now we’re all back on the same page a bit more, we can try for an album like it was before. Get George Martin back.”
“Keep the train running,” John muttered. “Don’t have to worry about where the track’s going that way.”
Paul wasn’t sure what he was meant to do with that. So he just pulled John into bed with him, distracting them both until they fell asleep.
— — —
John’s mood remained down after that last meeting with Klein. He was still affectionate. More so, if anything. But Paul knew something was bothering him.
It had actually turned out to be easy to convince George about the new album. He wasn’t sure why, but there was a determined air between them when they met these days. Like they were in the final days before a holiday and needed to get everything tided away. Of course Richie was happy to come along, as he always was.
It was all going so well until the day before they were due to head back into the studio. John seemed to retreat further into himself as the day wore on. His responses grew shorter and shorter until they were down to single words. Then, as the evening drew in, he disappeared entirely. Paul left him to it until gone midnight when decided that John was most likely waiting to be fetched for bed.
He found him on the floor of one of the spare bedrooms, lying with Martha curled around him. Paul paused in the doorway, watching them, unsure if it was endearing or slightly pathetic.
“Alright?” he asked, stepping into the room, “you coming to bed?”
John hardly moved from his prone position. Pathetic, Paul decided, without much heat. He walked over to John and crouched down.
“What’s up?” he asked, looking at him seriously. “You’ve been moping for days.”
It didn’t look like he was going to answer for a long moment. Then John shrugged, sitting up. Martha snuffled her discontent, and moved around until her head was in John’s lap.
Maybe a little endearing.
John sighed. “Just thinking about what happens when this is done.”
“Well, that’s a problem for future us.” He tried to make it sound like a joke, but he could see it didn’t land particularly well.
“That’s still us, Paul.” His eyes narrowed, his face looking pinched with displeasure. “I know you’re allergic to thinking about this, but we’re going to have to at some point. The fairytale isn’t going to last forever.”
The words stung a little although he knew they shouldn’t. He was an adult, he was well aware that everything wasn’t going to be perfect forever. He’d been in love with John for a long time. He knew the realities of that. But he still couldn’t resist making his next comment a little sarcastic. “I thought that was the point of happily ever after.”
John didn’t reply, hardly seemed to notice that he’d spoken. He was looking down at his own hand in Martha’s thick fur. “Allen thinks… I want to quit.”
Paul froze, his mind spinning uselessly as he tried to decide if the first, second, neither or both of the statements were a lie. He ignored the way his stomach turned over. John wasn’t leaving him. He couldn’t be. Not after everything. This was something else. He just needed to figure out what it was. Then he could fix it.
He licked his lips and tried to find a question that wouldn’t sound accusatory.
“Why?” he managed.
“I can’t–” John fidgeted, a strange ripple of discomfort running through him. “I’m not enjoying it. Everything’s always so hard , I feel like I’m dragging it up over nails.” He looked up at Paul, then away again almost as quickly. “It’s better with you now,” he admitted. “I thought maybe that’d fix it… but, I dunno. It’s like, we know each others’ tricks now. Everything I try, I feel like you’re all judging it, like you see right through me. I hate it. I can’t come up with anything decent like that.”
Paul had no idea what that meant. John hadn’t seemed so bad during the end of the last sessions. It might have taken him a little longer to get into it, but that hadn’t stopped him from coming up with the goods when it mattered. Which meant it was something else. He tried to think it through.
“You don’t want…” He trailed off as John’s real meaning sunk in. “You mean you find me hard. You don’t want to work with me.”
There was a long silence. “It doesn’t matter.” John visibly squirmed. “I knew you’d get like this if I tried to actually talk about it.”
“It matters to me,” Paul said, shifting to sit down on the floor with him. “Are you talking about the band now, or…” He couldn’t even say it.
“I don’t know ,” John said. “It’s so fucked, all of this. What are we even doing? Running off to Scotland, that’s a pipe dream.”
Paul went still, his entire being going cold. “If you don’t want the band,” Paul said, knowing he had to put it out there or he’d just end up waiting for John to do it, “or me. You can just say it, you know.”
It was like some sort of nightmare. He’d thought it was all settled. John had agreed. And Paul couldn’t do it again. He didn’t have the strength to put it all back together again, if John tried to leave.
“That’s not fair,” John snarled. “You want me to make the decision so it’s not on you.”
“John-“ he said, baffled about where this was even coming from. Terror was slowly rising up to strangle him. “I’m not the one talking about leaving.”
“But it’s all the same!” he shouted.
The suddenness of the outburst made Paul jump. John hadn’t been truly angry in so long he’d almost forgotten what it was like. The moment of surprise quickly gave way to annoyance of his own and he narrowed his eyes.
“What’s the same?”
“I can’t leave this band and keep you,” John shouted. “It doesn’t matter that it feels like it's suffocating me, that I’m drowning under it. That’s all we have.”
Paul blinked, trying to understand what John was even saying. “I don’t… You really hate it that much?”
John seemed to deflate at the question, perhaps because Paul couldn’t stop the way his eyes were filling or the flush of terror rising to his cheeks.
“Yes,” he said. Then shook his head. “No. Fuck. I don’t know.”
“What do you hate?” he asked, sounding about as desperate as he felt. Perhaps there was some way to fix it, like when they stopped touring.
“Everything,” he said. “Then I love those same things minutes later. I hate you bossing me around in the studio. But I love what we create. I hate having to write on demand like a performing monkey, but I have to write to feel alive. I hate people thinking they know anything about me. But, I want everyone to know who I am, to think I’m worth something.”
He sounded earnest, like these thoughts had been circling his head for a long time, jostling to be released. He gestured wildly as he spoke. Paul hadn’t seen him so agitated since they’d got together. It made his heart race. He thought back to before India, and how John had been afterwards. This didn’t seem to be the same exactly, but he could see the signs of it.
“John,” he said, voice thick, “you’re not well.”
It stopped John short, making him reel back. “Well fuck you.”
“Come on,” Paul sighed. “I didn’t mean it like–” He bit off the end of his sentence. “I just meant, this is what you were saying after India–”
“After you ripped my heart out and stamped on it, you mean?”
John was glaring at him, but Paul wasn’t going to be derailed. It was too important and he wasn’t sure when he’d have the nerve to bring it up again.
“That’s not– John, we both know you weren’t doing well before that.” Paul wanted to touch him, he knew that usually calmed him down, but he wasn’t sure it would be welcome, so he kept his arms tucked to his sides, hands clasped in front of him. “I know I hurt you, and that this whole thing between us always took its toll, but that’s not- It can’t be the only…..”
John sighed so heavily it made Martha look up at him. “Paul,” he said, voice dropping into a flat monotone. “I know I wasn’t fucked in the head because I didn’t have you.”
“Oh,” Paul said, feeling wrong footed. “Good, because I didn’t think–”
“I wanted it to be your fault, sometimes, but it wasn’t.”
Paul felt totally out of his depth. He had no idea how to even talk about these things. He knew there were plenty of people that did. They said there was nothing to be ashamed of. But it made Paul’s insides feel like they were filled with snakes.
“Is there–” he tried, before immediately faltering. “Is there a doctor? Or, I dunno, what you need…”
John shook his head. He looked almost as lost as Paul felt. “Yoko said, ages ago, that there was this new thing. Some therapy where you go and scream. It gets all the pain out. Apparently it can work miracles.”
Paul tried and, judging by John’s face, failed to conceal his scepticism. “Look,” he said. “If that’s what you think you need… But, wouldn’t it be easier to just- There’s that friend of Robert’s, wasn’t there? He’s talking to someone. When he was having funny– When he was having those episodes.”
There was an unreadable expression on John’s face. Paul squirmed.
Eventually John looked away. “I think I need some help.”
Paul let out a slow breath. He wanted to deny it. The words rushed up to the tip of his tongue. But that wasn’t fair. Who was he to say what John did or didn’t need? Wouldn’t that be a doctor’s job anyway?
“Alright,” he said. “I’ll talk to Robert. Maybe I can get a number or- I dunno. Something.”
“You hate this,” John said, he looked almost amused. “Are you worried it’s catching?”
“Don’t be daft,” he said. “I just… I want to fix it.”
But it was more than that. He didn’t want John to need anything more than what Paul could give him. He’d seen what happened to people that stopped being useful, that weren’t able to give what other people wanted. That, after all, was why John had kept him around this long. Paul always delivered when it mattered. He had no intention of finding out what would happen if he stopped.
“I know you do,” John said, soft and so fond that Paul’s heart ached with love for him. “But, you can’t. You’ve been trying for over a decade. Probably time someone else gave it a shot.”
Paul nodded. It still made him want to squirm away from the thought. It was John. There was nothing he couldn’t do. Perhaps they just needed some rest. He opened his mouth to suggest going away together.
Closed it.
It wasn’t his choice. He wasn’t going to be like Yoko, cutting out the bits of John he decided he didn’t like. He was going to support him. Get him the best help there was. Make sure no one ever found out. That was what he could do.
“I love you,” he said.
“Ah, ya great sap,” John sighed. “I know you do. The one fucking good thing I have going for me.”
“Nah,” Paul shook his head, “you’re alright on a guitar too.”
John laughed. “Thank you, darling.” He leant forward so he could kiss the side of Paul’s face. “With support like that, there’s literally nothing I can’t do.”
“You better believe it,” Paul agreed. “Now, let’s get to bed. We’ve got four million things to do tomorrow.”
“Well, yes sir.”
The way John purred the word, made something fizz right through Paul. He was powerless but to kiss him again. Pulling him close.
“Get to bed,” he said, slow, deliberate.
John’s face lit up like a beacon and he got to his feet, dislodging Martha who snuffled before settling down onto the rug again.
“Yes.”
Paul grinned after John’s retreating form. It felt good. Somehow he was still finding out new things about him, after all this time. That made even the most difficult things seem easier somehow. He wasn’t going to risk not being able to find out everything there was to know about John. There wasn’t any choice as far as he was concerned.
— — —
They went back to the studio.
It was surprisingly good. Everyone seemed to be on their best behaviour. But it wasn’t stiff or too formal. They took the piss, bickered when it was needed, but mostly they got to work on the songs that still needed work.
Although not everything was running quite so smoothly.
“Lordy fucking Poodle-Dumb,” John hissed, walking into Paul’s office without knocking, “is a pain in my fucking arse.” His eyes flicked to Paul. “And not in a good way.”
Paul put his head in his hands. “John,” he said, mildly, “always nice to see you.”
“I’m serious,” John said. “Isn’t it your turn to baby sit him?”
“Absolutely not,” Paul said, probably too sharply. Then, to illustrate the point, “I was just on a call with Lee. Get George to handle it.”
John scowled at Paul’s desk, his eyes flicking to his phone. “Like Mr Westman’s harder to deal with than lists of people we need to apparently fire.”
He couldn’t stop himself from grimacing. “He did say that we’d need to restructure.”
“Yeah, and it’s not like they haven’t all been ripping us off anyway,” John agreed, throwing himself down into a chair. “But Jesus. This isn’t why I started a band. I just wanted to get laid and get the fuck out of Liverpool. Now I’m stuck in a machine that’s eating everyone alive.”
“Has there not been any progress at all?” Paul asked, dreading the answer. He knew there were probably memos about it somewhere on his desk. He could just never find the energy to read them.
John threw his hands up in the air. “Who even knows.”
John let out a slow breath, and brought his feet up to the cushion so he could curl into himself. It was like he was trying to make himself smaller, hide from the reality of corporate life. Paul could sympathise with that. He watched John carefully, trying to read his mood; John brought a thumb to his mouth so he could chew on the side of the nail. A nervous habit he only seemed to allow himself when he was alone with Paul.
“Poole says that he’s managed to stop most of the leakage,” he said. “But, I don’t know what that even means . Are we rich again or still on the way to the poor house?”
“Lee thinks we need a better deal with EMI,” Paul offered.
“And the sky is fucking blue,” John muttered. “Does he have a plan for that, or is he just making a wish to the universe?”
“We can renegotiate.”
“I know that,” John said. “That’s what Klein’s plan was.”
There was the not subtly hidden suggestion he’d have that done by now, if only Paul had let him. Paul ignored it. He wasn’t about to have that fight again. He knew Klein’s reputation, knew that his entire talent lay in finance, in finding new ways to squeeze money from rock. But, he also knew that that same money had a habit of disappearing. Besides, Paul didn’t like him. He didn’t want someone managing them that he actively disliked. No matter that John thought the sun shone out his arse.
“Lee’s also talking about us buying Northern Songs.”
That made John sit up straighter in his chair. “How’d we do that?”
“He thinks Dick would sell.”
John looked up at the ceiling for a moment, as though offering up a prayer. “God, to be rid of that wretched toad.”
The laugh punched right out of Paul’s chest and he didn’t try to stop it.
“How do we do that?” John asked.
“Put together an offer. But he’s keen we keep as quiet as we can about the stuff we’re doing at Apple in the meantime.”
John was quiet, watching Paul for a moment, thinking through what he was saying. “He wants Dick to think we’re financially fucked?”
“And that the band’s falling apart.”
“Well,” John snorted, “we’ll just have to act naturally then.”
“Right,” he said, smiling slightly at him. “Also.”
John looked over at him, making Paul shift uncomfortably in his chair. There was silence.
“Was there an end to that?” John asked eventually. “Or was it some sort of art piece?”
At that moment, Paul did wish he could climb into a bag for a few hours. Instead he swallowed. Took a breath and said, “Err, Lee was talking about… Well, we were talking about Northern Songs and that and I thought– I wanted to say, really….”
He trailed off into silence. He hated talking about money. It felt so awkward. Wrong. Like his skin was becoming too tight for him. John wasn’t helping, either, just staring at him blankly, waiting for him to spit it out.
“It seems,” he tried, licking his lips, “well, you’ve got rid of some of your shares, right?”
“What?” John said, frowning.
“Looks like they were liquidated or passed along,” Paul said.
This was apparently news to John. “When?”
“Around June 1967.”
“Julian’s trust fund?”
Paul shrugged. “Could be. Well, anyway, about that time I also– I bought some– some more. So, it’s…”
It had somehow gone very quiet in the room, like all the noise had been sucked into John’s slowly comprehending thought process.
“It’s what, Paul?”
“It means I have more shares than you… in Northern Songs,” he finally managed to say. “Not– It’s not many more.”
“You bought more fucking shares than me?” John snapped, as it all clicked into place for him. He uncurled from the chair, sitting ramrod straight as he glared at him.
“I guess,” he started, feeling heat rising up to his cheeks. “Not that many, really. Less than you gave away, anyway.”
John had gone very pale. “Are you fucking kidding?”
“No.” The word was barely audible.
“Why?” John sounded so hurt that Paul’s whole chest felt like it was on fire.
“I don't know,” he said. He felt embarrassed, stupid and ashamed, now he was trying to talk about it. “I just– I had some beans, and I guess I wanted some more.”
“More than your partner?” John’s face was a mask of betrayal.
“It’s not like that,” Paul said. “It doesn’t mean anything. I can’t– I can’t do anything you can’t.”
“Why are you telling me this now?”
“I dunno,” he shrugged. He really didn’t have an answer and, in truth, he was rapidly wishing he hadn’t. “I don’t want to keep secrets from you. Even if you’re going to hate hearing it. Besides, if we’re going to buy the whole company, we’ll have to put our shares up as collateral anyway for the loan. I dunno, I just wanted you to know.”
“Fine time to come to that decision,” John snapped.
Paul just nodded. There wasn’t anything else he could say. At least John wasn’t yelling, hadn’t stormed from the room. He left John to consider the news for as long as he could stand the silence before he spoke again.
“You can buy more,” he offered, “you know, to even it up.”
John’s eyes snapped over to him. “And then you buy more again?”
“Well, that’s one way to try and take it over, I suppose.”
“It’s not fucking funny, Paul,” he spat. “You tried to fuck me over.”
“No,” Paul said, voice turning to steel. He put both hands on the desk, flat against the wood, in a slow, deliberate motion. “I wouldn’t. I just… I dunno. It was a stupid investment. I didn’t mean to do anything that would hurt you.”
“You just wanted more beans than me.” He did the voice he did that was meant to be a mocking impression of Paul’s own. It was stupid that it still hurt his feelings after all these years, like he was still fifteen and John was taking the piss out of him in front of all his cooler, older friends.
Paul swallowed. “I guess,” he sighed. “You had everything else. It was petty, I get that, but it wasn’t some evil scheme to take over. Besides, it’s not like it was a secret, and you could have done the same any time you wanted.”
John shook his head. “You getting tired running through all those excuses?”
He sagged back into his chair. “Yeah, alright. There’s no excuse. I’m sorry.”
There was another silence. “I suppose,” John said eventually, “it’s not the worst thing we’ve done to each other.”
Paul frowned, wondering what John was thinking of, then realising that he didn’t want to even ask. “I’m still sorry,” he said.
“Yeah, whatever, you fucker,” he sighed. “I’m so sick of this shit. I just wanted to be a rock and roll star.”
“I know,” Paul said.
Increasingly he looked at himself and didn’t have any concept of how he’d managed to end up in the position he was in. He wasn’t sure he even wanted most of it.
“Let’s talk to the fucking Eastmans about Northern Songs,” John said suddenly, through gritted teeth. “See if they’ve got a solution. But, if not, I’m going back to Klein.”
Paul held up both hands in surrender. “Of course. Let’s just see what they have to say. I’ll set up a meeting.”
“And now I’m going home.”
“It’s 2pm.”
“Fuck off.” John was already out of the door before he’d finished the insult.
Paul let out a slow breath, raised his eyes to the ceiling. That could have gone a lot worse.
June 1969
“You ever feel like you’re wasting your life?”
Paul stirred, opening his eyes suddenly. He’d been about to drift off when John spoke. He was curled around John, head pillowed on his chest. It was getting too hot for it, really, but he found it difficult to stop touching him when they were alone. It felt like he was storing it up for all the time during the day that he wanted to and couldn’t.
He lifted his head to find that John had managed to lift a book from the bedside table and was reading while Paul dozed.
“Being in the biggest band in the world not enough for you?”
“That’s my point,” John said. “It just feels… Shouldn’t we be doing something with that? You know, Yoko used to say–”
“I don’t fucking care what the greatest artist that no one cares about said,” he snapped.
Then he immediately felt embarrassed about it. But, John brought up some nonsense she’d filled his head with at least once a week. It wasn’t like he thought John was about to go running back to her, he’d made enough snide comments of his own about her to put Paul’s mind at ease about that. But, it still rankled. He knew how close he’d come to losing John to her once, and if he were being honest, he’d prefer John never think of her again. Let alone quote her like some sort of guru.
John paused, the silence pointed, and then carried on like Paul hadn’t spoken. “We could be making a difference.”
“Aren’t we already?”
“But more,” John said. He shifted, like he was getting agitated. “Like, take a fucking stand for something, you know?”
“Like what?” Paul asked, finally moving so he could sit up and allow John to do the same. They shifted around so they were facing one another. John’s face was half in shadow, but Paul could see his eyes were blazing with passion.
“I feel like I ought to be out in America or something,” John said, gesturing. “You seen the riots? Stonewall?”
Paul looked away. He had. He’d also seen the way people were reacting to them. There wasn’t a more contentious issue. Not even drugs. Obviously he knew it wasn’t right that the police continued to harass them when it was legal. Someone had to stand up for what was right. He knew that.
“You thinking of dropping out and joining the cause?” He sounded mean, sarcastic, and hated it. They both knew it was just because he felt defensive.
“Better than fucking hiding in my ivory castle,” John spat. “I could be out there making a better world. You know, for us, as well as other people.”
Paul stared pointedly at him. “Yes, John, I’m aware we’ll be affected by the fight. But, you go out there, and then what?”
“I don’t know!” he said. “That’s the point. But I could at least go and lend my voice to it, you know? Tell people they need to rethink some things.”
The idea sent a sharp stab of panic right through Paul. “How does you throwing away your career, both of our careers, help?”
“At least I’d be doing something.” John glowered. Then his eyes shot to Paul. “Both our careers?”
He rolled his eyes. “You don’t think I’d let you go alone, do you?”
He watched as John softened. “Really?”
“Where you go,” Paul said. Then shifted, so he could press himself against John. “I’m not saying we do nothing. But, going around making a fuss isn’t always… We need to be smart about it.”
“So, what? I’m an idiot loudmouth?”
Paul swallowed down the first couple of comments that came to him. “I’m just saying that maybe you don’t need to be saving the world on top of saving Apple and finishing the album.”
“You just want more music out of me,” John huffed. “You’re worse than a factory boss.”
“As if you’d know anything about that,” Paul sniffed. “You’ve never worked a day in your life.”
“Fuck off!” John howled. “I was the one who was a bloody builder. You just worked in a fancy office.”
“It was a factory,” Paul corrected. “They just thought I’d be running the place in a few years.”
John shook his head. “Well, in that case, why aren’t you Managing Director of Apple?”
“I’m very busy and important,” he said, “making an album and looking after my idiot loudmouth boyfriend.”
John’s face went through an entire series of expressions before landing on a mixture of awe and pleasure. He leant forward, kissed Paul hard. “Say it again.”
“Say what?” Paul asked, feigning ignorance despite the smile that was curving his mouth. “That you’re the love of my life? Or that you’re my boyfriend?”
John kissed him, hard. The passion never seemed to dim with them. It was electric every time they connected. Paul was sure now that he wasn’t ever going to be able to get enough of it.
“Wanna move in with me?” John muttered, when he pulled back.
A surprised bubble of laughter punched right out of Paul as he shifted to look at him. “Bloody hell,” he said. “One minute you’re moving us around the world and the next you’re asking me to live with you. Never a dull moment with you, is there?”
John smiled at him, waggled his eyebrows. “That’s why you’re with me. Keeps you on your toes.”
Paul laughed again. Delighted by him, despite the lingering unsettled feeling he had about John’s desire to do something drastic. But being with John seemed to make him happy, no matter what else was happening. He felt secure, more confident than he had in years.
“No,” he said, and watched John’s face fall. “You’ll move in here. It’s nicer and bigger than your place.”
John grinned. “Ask me nice, and I’ll consider it.”
“Darling,” Paul said, pulling him in, winding his arms around John’s neck. “Live with me. I don’t want to wake up another day without you.”
John would have to keep his flat, of course. Probably even have to be seen there from time to time. But they’d know. Perhaps Paul could find a way to have John’s name added to the deeds of the house. He kissed him, slow and sure.
“Yeah,” John whispered, when he pulled back, and pressed his head to Paul’s forehead. “Yeah, I’ll live with you.”
July 1969
The silence was almost a physical thing. The credits were rolling and Paul didn’t even want to move, like it might draw attention to him. He felt almost numb.
He was used to seeing himself on screen. But not like that, and he felt exposed. Scared, although he couldn’t exactly say why.
“Well,” John said, slow and heavy. “That’s a fucking embarrassment.”
There was a sound, a sharp, high thing. It sounded like a cry of pain, but then it happened again. It was a laugh, Paul released. And it was coming from him . He couldn’t seem to stop.
“Oh God,” he tried to breathe, but couldn’t. “What a mess.”
George was shaking his head. “At least my outfits look good.”
That set Richie off. His peels of laughter were tinged with hysterics, and the others joined him. The other occupants of the room were staring at them, aghast. But none of them could seem to get a hold of themselves. As soon as one of them tried, someone would start again and they’d all be off.
“I suppose there’s worse reactions,” Michael eventually said. He looked hurt, but was trying his best to go along with the joke he clearly didn’t understand.
“Ah, Hoggy,” John said, shaking his head. “It’s totally fucked.”
Michael drew his brows together. “I thought– The rooftop concert works well.”
“Yeah,” George said, “the four of us playing as the Titanic goes down around us.”
It wasn’t that the film was bad, exactly. Michael had clearly tried to save their dignity in that regard; there was hardly any of the fighting and Yoko’s name was never uttered. Although Paul noted that he and John were hardly shown interacting at all. He felt scared, almost queasy, at the thought of why that might be. What must have been showing on their faces that Michael couldn’t include it.
He’d not seen it before, not seen what they were like together. He’d dismissed everything John and George had been saying for months and months. He hadn’t been able to see any of it. But now, watching it in dingy colour on the crappy screen, it was so clear.
It was all over.
“I think,” Michael said, leaning forward, “that we can make some changes, if we’re not pleased.”
John barked a peel of laughter. Although there was little humour in it. “That’ll be interesting to see.”
Paul’s heart was starting to race in his chest; it was hard to catch his breath. For a dizzying moment, he wondered if he was having a heart attack. Panic was rising from his stomach, up to his chest, his fingers and toes starting to tingle like with pins and needles.
There was still talking, but he couldn’t make out the words.
How had he not seen it before? How could he have been so blind? He’d thought, he’d been so sure, that if he could just keep them moving forward they’d be fine. Especially after how well the last record had gone. No matter what John and George would mutter, The Beatles were there to stay. They were the cornerstone to Paul’s life. They were everything.
He could see all the issues, the same ones that had followed them into Abbey Road, plainly. They might have pasted a polite veneer over them, but none of them had gone. The cracks were huge, so clear that it was a wonder the whole thing hadn’t collapsed under them months ago. Amazing what dumb faith could do. But no more. He’d seen it now and there was no going back.
They were over.
And Paul hadn’t even noticed.
He was up and out of his seat without quite meaning to be. He heard someone say his name, but he ignored them, just stumbled out of the room without looking back.
— — —
John found him a few minutes later. He hadn’t got very far. His eyes were burning and his throat hurt from trying not to cry like a baby in front of everyone. He’d opened the first door he’d come to and, relieved to find it was some sort of empty office, had sat down on the floor. He’d tried to take some deep breaths, hoping they’d calm him down. But they all caught in his chest. It was embarrassing.
“Go away,” he hissed, not even looking up when the door opened.
“Come off it,” John said, walking across the room. Paul tracked the soft sound of his boots on the carpet until they came into view. “I’ve never done anything you tell me to.”
Paul looked up at him. “We both know that’s a lie.”
John laughed, soft and surprised. Then he turned so his back was to the wall, so he could slide down and join Paul on the floor.
“Alright?” he asked, knocking his shoulder gently into Paul’s.
“No,” he snapped. “Now bugger off.”
John was silent for a moment, like he was thinking about Paul’s words. “It hurts, doesn’t it?”
Paul felt a fresh, hot wave of tears want to roll over him. He blinked hard. “Which bit exactly?”
John’s smile was small and sad. “That we don’t fit anymore.”
Even though he knew that, even though he’d just seen the evidence of it clearly, it was like receiving a physical blow.
“So, what’s that mean?” he asked. His voice was almost petulant. “It’s just over because we bicker sometimes?”
He didn’t want that. The idea tasted like failure on the tip of his tongue. He could feel the judgement, the assumptions, like insects crawling over his skin.
“Yeah,” John rubbed a hand over his face. “Yeah, I think so.”
Paul couldn’t look at him. He felt sick.
“What happens to us, then?” he asked, voice small.
“I don’t know,” John said, voice low. “But we can’t keep it going just for that. George isn’t going to put up with it. Richie’s already got one foot in Hollywood. And you–” John sighed. “We both want to write separately. I know you’ve got material you’re working on.”
“I give the best of it to the band.”
“I know,” he said gently. He reached and took Paul’s hand in both of his. “But maybe you shouldn’t have to.”
He thought back to John’s words before the start of Abbey Road and a hot tear leaked out of one eye to roll down his cheek.
“Are you done with me too?” he whispered, voice so tight he could barely get the words out.
“What?” John looked horrified. “What are you talking about?”
“You said,” Paul swallowed around the lump in his throat. “You said we’re done without the cover of the band.”
And it wasn't like Paul didn’t understand what he meant. Without The Beatles, there would be no good reason for him and John to be together all the time. They’d have to find new projects apart from one another. That was what people would expect, otherwise there was no point in ending the band. The idea of that alone was terrifying enough. He didn’t know who he was without The Beatles, and certainly not without John. He was one half of him. But without them having to see one another all the time, what would they do? How could they ever go unnoticed?
“Please don’t listen to me,” John said, firmly. “What do I know about anything?”
“But you’re right,” he said, voice wobbling. “This is it. We’re not going to be together. You saw what happened after touring, and this is worse . You’ll find other people to write with. Fuck. You’ll tour and I’ll be…” He shook his head, swallowing heavily. “I hate the idea of being away from you.”
“Yeah, I know.” John’s voice was soft, understanding. He shifted until he could press his forehead to Paul’s temple. He dropped his voice to a gentle murmur. “I want to be so tied to you I don’t know where I end and you start.”
“Yeah,” Paul said. “I don’t want to be where you aren’t.”
“Right,” John said, his lips lifting slightly. “You realise how fucked up we sound, right?”
“But, isn’t that what you said, when you were with Yoko?” Paul reached out, feeling desperate, clinging to John’s arms, keeping him in place. “That it’s about the being together all the time?”
“And you saw how well that worked out for us,” John said.
Paul shook his head, and realised to his utter mortification, that he was crying in front of John. After everything they’d been through, he’d done that before. But this felt so different. He felt stupid for not seeing what John clearly had - what he’d been trying to tell Paul about for months. He wanted to hide, to not show weakness on top of his stupidity.
But it was too much. He’d been working so hard, for so long, and it was all for nothing. They’d turned Apple around, bought out Northern Songs, got a better royalty deal. And none of it, none of it, mattered. He was losing it all anyway. He was so tired of running and running and running and getting nowhere.
The tears were almost painful and he screwed his eyes shut.
“Oh,” John breathed, gathering Paul into his arms. He shifted so he could pull and tug until Paul was buried against his chest, almost in his lap. “Don’t, darling. Don’t cry.”
“I’m not,” Paul muttered.
John’s hands were in his hair, stroking gently. “It’s alright,” he said, even though his voice was thick with tears now too, “we’ll be alright.”
He wanted to believe him, but there was so much change coming. He couldn’t see a way through. He gripped John’s arms, hands digging in so hard it probably hurt.
“We can always take a break, you know?” John said, soothing. “Let George make a couple of albums and Richie can go get an Oscar. You can make that album where you go too far. Then, I dunno, maybe we can–”
“No,” Paul cut in, voice hard. “No, I’m not doing that. I– I can’t. If we’re done, we’re done. You know it. There’s no going back.”
John was silent for a moment, clearly absorbing Paul’s words like a physical blow. “Alright,” he said, eventually with a slow nod. “Yeah. Yeah, alright.”
He sounded so sad that a fresh wave of misery rolled over Paul and more tears filled his eyes. John’s arms tightened around him, pulling him back against his chest.
“I can’t do this,” Paul whispered. He felt desperate, terrified, and he wasn’t even sure why. “I don’t know what I’ll do without you.”
“I’m not leaving you,” John whispered into his hair. “I’m always going to be with you. I promise. This isn’t the end.”
Paul pressed himself closer, trying to soak in the words. His breath hitched, another tear slipping down his cheek.
“I want us to be married.”
That made Paul freeze for a moment, then screw his eyes even more tightly closed. “Are you deliberately finding things you know I can’t deliver to make me feel worse?”
John laughed, a wet sound. “No,” he said. “I don’t mean literally.”
“Then what?”
“I mean, that to me, that’s what you’ll be.” His voice was soft, but firm. “No more fucking around. No more hiding from what we are. Just us against the whole fucking world. So, it doesn’t matter if you’re off touring the world with another band. You’ll still be mine and I’ll still be yours. You’ll always have to come back to me.”
It sounded good. Not the being apart, but the idea of coming back was very appealing.
“You want us to tell people?”
“Yes,” he said. Then squeezed Paul gently. “I’m always going to want that. But I– I do understand we can’t. I love making music too, you know. I’m not a complete moron. I know if this gets out then it’s all over.”
“For now.”
John sighed. “Sure, for now.”
“But, in the meantime,” Paul said, managing to take a breath that was only very slightly hitching and sit up so he could look at John, “we find some way to make a life.”
John nodded firmly, he smiled. Paul recognised it from the early days. It was meant to show his surety of something good being just around the corner. “And a family.”
“You have Julian,” he said, and then wasn’t sure why he’d said it. But it was true. He loved Julian. That was a sort of a family.
“I remember something about that, yes,” John nodded. “But I want that with you too.”
Paul gave him a confused look.
“Not literally, you pillock,” he narrowed his eyes, “although I love you enough to do it, if I could.”
As sentiments of love went it was strange, but somehow incredibly endearing anyway. “Thanks?”
“But, I mean it, we’re getting you some kids. I’ll find someone willing to squirt one out for you. Twins. Girls.”
He couldn’t help but smile. “I don’t think it works like that; it’s not Somerfield, you don’t get to go in and pick some off the shelf.”
“Might be able to in a few years,” John shrugged. “We’ve got time.”
That was all they had now. He took a breath. “Come away with me?” he asked, plaintive. “I can’t stay here, not if– I just need to get away.”
“Of course,” John nodded. “Anything. Anywhere. We can go right now if you want.”
Paul’s heart soared, despite the pit in his stomach. He was about to answer, when:
“Knock, knock.”
Paul was scrambling away from John before the voice registered. He looked up to find George and Richie in the doorway.
“This an exclusive pity party, or can anyone join?” George said, looking down at them.
“Come on,” John said, gesturing to them. “Band meeting on the floor of this abandoned office.”
There was something so depressingly fitting about that that Paul felt tears prickle at his eyes again.
Paul shifted away, and John reached out a hand, grabbing his and stopping him. “Come here,” he said, looking at Paul. “It’s just the lads.”
Richie had turned and locked the door behind him. “Keys!” he said, turning back around. “Useful for when you’re looking for some privacy.”
He followed George over to John and Paul and they ended up sitting in a rough circle on the floor. Richie shifted, getting closer to John, until John reached out and wrapped an arm around his shoulders.
“So,” George said, looking down at his knees, “are these dramatics because we don’t like the edit?”
“Oh,” Paul said, darkly, “I hate the edit. Don’t you worry about that.”
George chuckled.
“Jigs up, huh lads?” John said, after a moment. Of course it was John. It was what they’d all been waiting for: some final decision to be dictated down to them. “It’s been a hell of a ride.”
There was a long silence. “Fucking hell,” Richie said. “After all that work on Apple?”
“Apple’s not going anywhere,” George said. He looked at Paul. “Just the band.”
Paul tried to nod and found he couldn’t seem to make himself move.
They lapsed into silence.
“Better make this album fucking amazing, then,” Richie said.
George nodded, slowly. “Already is,” he said. He looked around at them, his face a mask of grief. “It’s been good, yeah?”
Paul’s heart throbbed with affection for him. “Yeah,” he nodded. “Yeah, it’s been pretty good.”
“Aw, fuck,” Richie said, his eyes filling. “Really? This is it?”
No one said anything, there wasn’t anything to say.
“Come on lads,” John said, “let’s go out on a high, yeah? Before we all can’t stand the sight of each other.”
There was a pause where they waited for George to make a sarcastic rejoinder, but it didn’t come.
“It has been alright, you know,” George said, instead. He was flexing his jaw, swallowing over and over.
The sight made Paul’s eyes fill with tears. “Oh bloody hell,” he muttered, “the state of us.”
They laughed wetly, none of them quite able to meet one another’s eyes.
“Did you see how many shots there were of Glyn?” John said suddenly. “Michael trying to get a leg over there or what?”
There was a pause and then they all laughed. It wasn’t even funny, but it broke the tension.
“I know!” Richie said, looking delighted. “I’m hardly fucking in the thing.”
“At least when you are, you don’t look like you’re sucking a lemon,” George said.
“That’s just your face,” John shot back.
“Right,” George said, “you know what…”
And so on they went. They stayed on the floor of the office for hours, none of them wanting to be the one to leave first. They talked about the film. Then about the album. Then about anything and everything else. It was the best night Paul had had in years.
Epilogue
May 1970
“Darling,” Paul called, “are you coming or what? The car’s coming any minute.”
John appeared in the doorway, nearly colliding with him. He looked good, his hair was shorter, and his beard was gone. It made him look serious, like a proper rockstar rather than a hippie. Paul’s dick perked up at the sight of him. He looked at the clock.
“None of that,” John said, clearly catching the look in his eyes. “No time.”
“But,” Paul moaned, “we’ve only done it twice since you got back.”
True to his word, John always did come back to him. Just as Paul did with him. There was travel and nights when the studio kept them too late for even a kiss hello. But, they worked hard on their schedules to ensure they got at least a week a month together. They used Apple as the excuse, and John kept his flat. Even took women there frequently, just as Paul did the same in Cavendish. The women were all friends, and someone else’s girlfriend or wife, but the papers never seemed to care about that.
It was a tightrope. One they’d only just begun walking, but so far it had been working.
“I know, my love,” John sighed, kissing him. “But that was this afternoon if you remember.” Paul pouted at him, and John laughed, just like he hoped he would. “If only we didn’t have international film premieres to attend.”
He rolled his eyes. “Bloody Beatles still stopping me having my way with you, even when we’ve chucked it in.”
The news had been announced the week before. Let It Be the film and album would be the final Beatles’ project. The news had been met with the expected dismay, and not a few recriminations. Everything from Richie’s film career to Lord Poole had been blamed so far.
“Maybe it’ll help with sales,” John had said, darkly, as he read the headlines the next morning.
Paul certainly hoped so.
He and John had made good on their promise to disappear. They’d gone to Scotland, found a house that needed a bit of work, but nothing they couldn’t handle between them. John had bitched through the work over the next six weeks, but Paul knew he’d loved it really.
John laughed. “Poor Paulie,” he cooed. “Later, I promise.”
“I’m holding you to that.”
“You can hold me to whatever you want,” he said, with a lavish wink. Then he sobered almost comically fast, as a thought seemed to occur to him. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you.”
“Alright,” Paul said, looking out the window as headlights flashed into the driveway. “But it’ll have to be in the car.”
“I’ve been thinking,” John said, as they gathered their things.
“Uh oh,” Paul said, pulling on his coat. “Dangerous.”
“Funny,” John shot back and then carried on as if nothing had happened. “We could carry on writing together, you know.”
Paul’s heart stopped for a moment, the thrill of it strange after all that time. “You asking me to join your new band?”
The Plastic Macs weren’t really even a band, or so John insisted. They were meant to be a collective. Artists and musicians that had a joint vision. It sounded faintly ridiculous to Paul. But he’d heard what they were working on and he couldn’t deny it was impressive. John’s song writing still had the ability to fill him with something between awe and frustration.
His own album hadn’t exactly been greeted with universal praise, but it wasn’t negative. ‘Muted’ was the word Neil had used. It was fine. Something to build on. Besides, he’d done it all himself. Every instrument. Just to prove to himself he could. He’d had to, the terror of not being in the band anymore wouldn’t let him do anything else.
Not that he cared what anyone thought. Well, almost anyone. John had liked it, had said so, whispered the words into his skin at night, over and over. Paul found come morning he hadn’t cared much what anyone else thought.
“No,” he said, shortly. “You’d bring the vibe down.”
“Well thank you very much.” He grinned at John.
“I meant,” he said, “we could write for other people. You know, like we always said we would.”
The idea wasn’t unappealing. “We’d need to use pseudonyms,” he mused.
“Naturally,” John agreed. “Could even, I dunno, might be nice to manage someone together for a bit.”
“Like through Apple?”
John shrugged. “Yeah, I guess. I just, I miss working with you. Being in the studio, it’s– Well, actually, it’s good, but it’s weird too.”
Paul nodded. He knew that well. He’d hated the first couple of days. In the end, John had popped in, under the cover of darkness. He hadn’t offered any contributions, he’d just been there. Offering support, silent and otherwise, when needed. It had been enough to get him through it even when he wasn’t sure he could do it.
“Me too,” he said. They reached the car, and Paul opened the door, ushering John inside.
They were picking up some dates for the evening on the way. A couple of friends of Robert’s, who they’d met a few times previously. Nice girls, who happened to be a couple too. John found that hilarious for reasons Paul could never quite make out.
“So, you’re up for it?” John asked, as Paul slid along the seat until they were pressed together.
“Always,” he said, grinning at him.
John smiled at him. “Can’t believe we’re here,” he whispered, serious suddenly. “Can you?”
“Launching a film and an album for a band we’re not actually in anymore?” He raised his eyebrows, making John laugh.
“Yeah,” he said, shaking his head. “Can’t believe we made it through.”
“I can,” Paul said, serious and firm.
“Really?” John asked. “Even after India?”
He paused, thinking about it. “Yeah,” he said. “From the moment I met you, I knew.”
“What’s that?” John asked, eyes bright even in the dark interior of the car.
“That I’d make you mine,” Paul whispered, so John had to lean even closer to hear it. “And then I’d keep you forever.”
THE END