Archive of Our Own

*Gretna Green is a village on the Scottish border that is world-famous as a wedding destination, specifically for elopers.

Spring, 1950
The wireless crackles in the sitting room as Paul's fever breaks, leaving him weak but restless. He’s two weeks shy of eight years old and gives his mum such a wan smile that she tuts sympathetically, deciding to keep him home for the day.

"Rest up, love," she says, smoothing his damp fringe with her practiced nurse's hands. "We'll head out later if you're feeling better."

Around noon time, he feels a gentle hand on his cheek. His mum's face swims into focus, her kind eyes crinkling at the corners.

"There's my brave lad," she says softly. "Fancy a trip to the hairdresser's? Might do us both good to get out."

The bell above the door jingles as they enter the salon. The familiar scent of perm solution wrinkles Paul's nose, but he doesn't let it show. Miss Lily, a statuesque woman with improbably red hair, greets them warmly.

"Mary! And young Master McCartney, too. What a treat!"

He takes a seat on one of the wooden chairs lining the wall, his legs swinging well above the lino.

As his mum settles in for her usual set and style, Paul watches the bustle of the salon with wide eyes. Miss Maggie, the junior stylist, is wrestling with Mrs. Hodgson's impressive beehive, while old Mrs. Thompson from down the road is under the dryer.

Just then, elderly Mrs. Fitzsimmons hobbles in, leaning heavily on her cane. Quick as a flash, Paul's on his feet. He’s a choirboy and a cub scout and his mother’s son, so he knows exactly what to do.

"Please, sit here," he says clearly, offering his small hand to help her down.

A chorus of “awws” and “bless hims” ripples through the salon. Mrs. Fitzsimmons pats his cheek with a gnarled hand.

“I’ll tell you what,” says Miss Irene, the colorist, loud enough for the whole place to hear, “no one raises boys like our Mary, do they? Look at him, sitting there good as gold. You don’t see that every day, I’ll tell you.”

A murmur of agreement rolls through the salon. Paul feels his cheeks grow warm at the praise, can’t help the proud smile that spreads across his face when he catches his mum beaming at him in the mirror. At eight, little lads still take pride in making their mothers blush with pride.

His show of good manners soon fades into the background as the salon's attention shifts to juicier matters.

Miss Irene, leaning in conspiratorially, shares the hot gossip of the day. "Did you hear about Laurie? Claire’s colorist?" She pauses for effect, reveling in her captive audience. "She’s only gone and run off to Gretna Green with that sailor lad of hers!"

A collective gasp ripples through the salon. Paul's ears prick up at the mention of Gretna Green - he's heard it whispered before, always with a mix of scandalous eloping and romance set against the backdrop of Scotland's lawless nature.

“Just like that, without a word to anyone,” Miss Irene continues, shaking her head. “Broke her mum’s heart, it did. Her dad’s not left the house since, poor soul.”

Miss Maggie clucks her tongue. “I could never. Me mum’d skin me alive.” Then, with a cheeky grin, she adds, “Mind you, I wouldn’t say no to a sailor—”

“Maggie!” Paul’s mum cuts in, shooting a sharp look at her. Paul stifles a giggle, not quite understanding but enjoying the drama all the same.

The chatter shifts to more ordinary topics, and Paul’s attention starts to drift. The steady snip-snip of scissors and the low hum of hairdryers lull him into a doze.

In his dream, he sees a couple dancing. They move in slow circles, like they’re riding the rise and fall of a merry-go-round’s painted horses against what he knows, in his dream, are the endless pastures of Gretna Green. A melody, soft and bittersweet, wraps around him—a tune he doesn’t know but feels like he should.

The couple sways, their faces indistinct but somehow familiar. Paul watches, transfixed, as they glide about. The music swells, filling every corner of his dream world with its haunting refrain.

"Wake up, love, we’re all done." His mum's voice breaks through the reverie.

He blinks awake, the dream dissolving like early morning mist. The salon is bathed in the golden light of late afternoon, making everything seem warm and cosy. His mum stands before him, looking a picture with her freshly set hair.

For a moment, Paul feels a strange sense of loss, like he’s been visited by something from a forgotten time. The tune from his dream lingers at the edges of his mind, like a half-remembered memory. But he’s eight, and still a bit feverish, so it doesn’t strike him as odd as it might.

“Ready to go?” his mum asks, holding out her hand.

Paul nods, sliding off his chair and taking her hand. As they step out into the late afternoon sun, the last wisps of his dream slip away.

Autumn, 1961
When John asks Paul to hitchhike down to Spain with him, flashing a wad of notes thicker than Paul’s ever seen in his life, he’s snagged somewhere between disbelief and a rush of something sharp—something he only later recognizes as vindication.

Coming back from Hamburg this second time has done something to John. There’s a restless edge to him now, like he’s ready to jump out of his skin and out into the great, big universe. Liverpool’s home, but it’s starting to feel like a dead end—one they thought they’d have busted out of for good by now. And yet, here they are again, stuck in the same old dives with the same tired faces watching, while the big time stays just out of reach. They’ve seen the world outside, in Hamburg—rough and raw, but alive in a way this place could never match. And now, being back with their tidy lives, with birds like Dot and Cyn who are all sweet smiles and tea in the front room, feels like squeezing into clothes that don’t fit anymore.

They’ve been messing about for months now, back to playing weddings and dos, when they should’ve broken out by now. Stu was right to stay behind with Astrid, and John knows it. He won’t admit it, but Paul can tell, sees it in the way John’s fingers twitch, the way he looks up at the sky like he's asking for a way out. He’s a shark in a paddling pool, always has been, and it eats away at Paul—wondering if one day John’ll leave him in the dust, looking for a bigger stage and someone else to share it with.

So when John shows up at Forthlin on a grey Thursday afternoon, hammering on the front door like the house is on fire, Paul’s barely surprised. The house is dead quiet with his dad and Mike out working. He’s half-asleep and tangled up in sheets when the banging starts, blinking the sleep from his eyes when he opens the door.

“Get up, Paul! Pack yer bag and don’t be dragging yer guitar.”

“What’re you on about?”

“Spain, lad! Jimmy’s heading to Birmingham, said he’d give us a lift if we’re quick. We can thumb the rest of it and be in Madrid by me birthday, easy. Come on, shift yourself!”

John’s already barged his way in, making the whole house creak. Before Paul can even process it, John’s in his room, rooting through his drawers, flinging shirts and trousers into a duffle.

“We’ve got shows lined up, and that wedding—”

“Forget the bloody shows!” John snarls. “We could be on a beach by next week. Think about it—sun, sangria, proper Spanish birds sipping sangria!”

“Jim’ll have me head—”

“Leave him a note, then.” There’s a crack in John’s voice, a tremor he tries to hide by focusing on the clothes, stuffing them in like it’s the only thing holding him together. Then he stops, finally catching Paul’s eye, and the bravado curls into a challenge: I’m doing this. Are you with me or not?

Paul’s never been much good at saying no to John on the best of days, and now, with him humming and buzzing like that, it’s a lost cause.

“Just us, then?” Paul asks quietly.

“Just us, lad,” John says with a crooked grin. “Mater’s money’s paying the way—cheers to her for keepin’ a stash.”

“Lemme get me toothbrush,” Paul says, and John’s eyes light up like a million suns.

Thing is, this is not really about Spain, is it? It’s the fact that out of everyone John could’ve grabbed—George, Cyn, Pete, even Stu if he fancied—it’s him John’s come for. John’s picked him, and there’s a pride in that, something that makes him stand a bit taller.

John orders him around like a drill sergeant on a bad day, but before they leave, Paul scribbles a note with shaky hands, trying to keep his nerves in check:

“Gone with John for a bit. Tell Dad not to worry. We’ll be back soon. Don’t let him go through my drawers!!!”

He tucks it deep in the dresser under a pile of socks, where he knows Mike won’t find it straight away. By the time his brother spots it they’ll be miles away, long past the point anyone can reel them back in. He grabs a few extra quid he’s been stashing, just in case things go pear-shaped, and slips it into his pocket.

At Mendips, Paul keeps sneaking glances at John, waiting for the moment when he’ll crack a grin and say it’s all a wind-up. But John’s made up his mind and he’s packing fast—shirts thrown in, a jacket on top, and then there’s Stu’s old camera, the one John said he was only borrowing but now, with Stu away in Hamburg, it seems like it's found itself a new owner and is coming along for the ride.

He looks around the room one last time, making sure they haven’t forgotten anything. He grabs two notebooks and some pens—no guitars is one thing, but no songs? That’s out of the question.

“Yer ready?” John asks, his cheeks now ruddy, flushed with that manic energy he gets when he’s on the brink of something wild.

“Ready as I’ll ever be, Johnny.”

***

Jimmy drops them off at a service station just outside Northern Birmingham, the night already fallen cold and crisp. They load up on supplies for the road before sizing up the crowd of truckers. It’s busy enough that they quickly manage to charm a rough-looking fella driving an empty service lorry into taking them down to London. He’s due to make a few stops enroute, but they don't mind. They’re in no rush.

When they reach the cab, they realize the front seats are already spoken for—by three mangy bulldogs, curled up like kings in their thrones. No chance they’re riding up there with those beasts.

So they clamber into the back of the lorry, hauling themselves up onto the pickup bed, huddled over a layer of garlic peels that stick to their trousers. Paul doesn’t mind it, but as they start to settle in and the adrenaline wears off, he clocks that John’s cheeks are still flushed but also clammy, and there’s a shiver running through him that’s got nothing to do with the cold.

“‘S just allergies,” John mutters when he catches Paul looking trying to wave it off, but his head drops back, too heavy to hold up.

“You burning up or what?”

“Nah.”

It’s a lie, clear as day. “Should we go back? We can still—”

“Over my dead body,” John rasps, more stubborn than strong. “Stop fussing, we’re goin’.”

Before Paul can push it, the lorry’s already rumbling away. John’s head droops against Paul’s shoulder, out cold. Paul shifts, wrapping his arm around John’s shoulders, pulling him closer and letting his body warmth do what little it can. The road’s rough, the lorry rattling with every pothole, and Paul lets his chin rest on the crown of John’s head.

It’s in that quiet, the road stretching out beneath them, that Paul’s mind starts to drift. A tune rises up, unbidden, like a memory from some half-forgotten dream. It’s soft, with the feel of an old folk song or lullaby—something familiar that’s been tucked away in the recesses of his mind.

It brings up a flash of Gretna Green, of all places, though he can’t quite grasp why, especially since he’s never even been there. In that strange, dream-like logic, he just knows what the place is. There’s a deep, vivid green swirling in his mind, tangled with the sharp chemical tang of perm solution that stings the back of his nose, mingling with the murmur of old voices—gossip and chatter blurring into the tune. His fingers ache for the feel of guitar strings, desperate to pull that melody out, to give it shape.

But there’s no guitar, just the rustle of the tarpaulin and the soft sound of John’s beery breaths, steady and close. Paul breathes him in and the melody lingers, refusing to let him be, so he shifts between soft humming and nonsensical scatting. He wants to ask John if he’s heard it before, if it stirs the same strange memories for him, too, but he can’t bring himself to wake him.

He stays awake, held up with worry and the deep pull of responsibility. London’s still hours away, but Paul’s eyes are fixed ahead, waiting for the city to appear up in all its glory.

***

When they finally reach London, John’s still out of sorts, half-drunk on exhaustion and whatever’s left of the fever. Paul doesn’t need to twist his arm much to get him on a train to Dover, where they swap the grime and noise of the city for the clean, biting air of the coast as they board the ferry to Calais.

The crossing’s rough, and by the time they’re halfway across, John’s head is buried in Paul’s lap, trying to ride out the sickness on a lonely bench at the back of the ferry. John’s gone green about the gills, and by the time they hit French soil, he’s barely standing straight. He’s in no mood to argue when Paul steps up, buying tickets straight for Gare du Nord. Paris it is, whether John’s feeling it or not. Not much hitchhiking, is it, but it’ll have to do.

They crash in some tiny hotel tucked away in the Latin Quarter. The room’s dead small and reeks of mould, but they’re out like lights, knackered by the trip. When John wakes up he’s finally right as rain; the fever’s blessedly broken, and there’s sunny Paris waiting for them just outside their window.

They step outside and freeze, their jaws dropping to the floor. Right in front of them is a towering billboard featuring Juliette Gréco in The Big Gamble, looking every bit the siren, so they dive into the pictures for a matinee.

Paris has got its hooks in them.

They’re staying.

***

It takes them a good three days to properly twig that, aye, they’re in Paris.

The city’s everything Liverpool isn’t, and a million miles away from Hamburg in spirit, if not in distance. Hamburg was brash, loud, and electric—neon lights flashing from every corner, music spilling out with a raw, reckless energy. But Paris is softer, more deliberate. The streets carry the warm scent of roasted chestnuts, and the cafés are full of people who look like they’ve got all the time in the world, sipping wine as if it’s an art form.

One warm afternoon they find themselves lounging by the Eiffel Tower, sprawled out on wet grass. John’s got his sketchpad balanced on his knee. He’s halfway through a drawing of a one-man band—complete with cymbals strapped to the knees—then he shifts to caricatures of the folks wandering by: a lanky veteran with a cane, a woman in oversized sunglasses, and a couple so entwined they barely seem to notice anything around them.

Paris is all about love—proper love, not the rough, ready stuff in Hamburg or the juvenile flings back home. Everywhere Paul looks, there’s couples snogging, whispering in each other’s ears, carrying on with that half-tortured, half-superior way the French do. It leaves Paul hungry for a bit of it himself, wondering what the city’s got in store for him.

“Oi, you,” John calls out.

Paul lazily opens one eye and turns his head. “Eh?”

John’s holding up his sketchbook, a cheeky grin on his face, showing off a rough but endearing caricature of Paul sprawled out on the grass. It’s exaggerated, of course—Paul’s head’s drawn huge, with little clouds and hearts floating above it—but there’s something warm and genuine in the way John’s captured him.

“Can’t believe they let ya into art college with that kinda kit,” Paul says, blinking into the sun.

John just shrugs. “Aye, well, you love it, don’t ya?”

Paul huffs a laugh and closes his eyes again, losing himself in the murmur of the city.

***

It’s their third, maybe fourth day there when they stroll into a record shop tucked away down a side street, not far from the Olympia. Half-hidden behind a window cluttered with avant-garde posters and flyers for underground gigs, a sign above the awning, barely visible, is a hand-painted thing in faded gold that reads Vinyl & Love. A poster plastered to the glass for the more international crowds shouts:

BUY! BUY! Records - Zines - Posters - BUY! BUY!

They’ve just stumbled into their own little Valhalla.

“Bloody ‘ell, look at that,” John says, taking it all in with childish glee—the poetry books, hand-bound surrealist zines, and the sort of obscure records that’d put even London’s best spots to shame.

“Aye,” Paul replies, his eyes fixed on a gorgeous acoustic guitar in a glass cabinet, its wood catching the low light just right.

It’s more like a salon than a shop, really. The items for sale are just an excuse for sharp-dressed beatniks in turtlenecks and berets, art students with paint-splattered clothes and wild hair, and a few older intellectuals to linger, flipping through the bins with fingers that know exactly what they’re after. The walls are covered top to bottom in racks stuffed with records, almost too many to take in at once. Paul catches a Miles Davis right away, a Coltrane next to it, alongside stacks of European jazz, post-war French chanson, and a whole section devoted to local electronic experiments. Among all these wonders are peppered chairs, stools and benches, welcoming patrons to not only come in, but better yet—stay and be seen.

It’s not long before they’re intercepted by the owner: Radek, a chatty Czech bloke in his late thirties with wire-rimmed glasses and a thick beard. His Eastern-European accent flavors his otherwise fluent English, lending an unexpected, exotic elegance to even casual conversation. 

Between the two of them—Paul’s charm and John’s rough edges—they’ve got a knack for getting folk to do what they want. Most times, one or the other might work, and sometimes a mix of the two does the trick. And Radek’s no different. Within minutes, they’re laughing like old mates and cracking dirty jokes.

Paul flashes that grin of his, and that’s how, twenty odd minutes later, he’s sunk into a battered leather chair, finally cradling that beautiful guitar after days without it. His fingers have been itching for it, and the relief is written all over his face as he starts strumming, like he’s just got a bit of his soul back. He’s working through the tune that’s been nagging at him since Birmingham, humming along under his breath.

“What’s that, then?” John’s voice cuts through, cigarette dangling from his lips as he flips through unmarked Musique Concrète records.

“You tell me,” he says. He half-expects John to know, ’cause surely he didn’t just pluck it out of thin air.

“Been humming it for days, you have,” John presses.

“Aye.”

“What’s it called?”

“Erm…” Paul strums away. “Gretna Green Waltz.”

John huffs. “’S not a waltz, is it?”

“It is if I say it is,” Paul says, puffing up a bit, dead pleased with himself. It’s a proper waltz in his head, but as he plays it, it shifts—loses that three-step sway, turns into something else, something in four, more modern, less grand.

“Changed me mind,” Paul declares, humming louder now, enough for the whole shop to catch it. “Think I’m calling it Johnny’s Waltz!”

Never one to pass up the chance for a bit of mischief, John starts mock-dancing around the shop, arms held out like he’s got some invisible partner. He glides between the record bins with exaggerated grace, spinning himself with a flourish that’s part ridiculous, part surprisingly elegant. He’s long known John’s a proper dancer—Aunt Mimi didn’t raise no slacker, after all, and she made sure her John could do it with the best of them, even when he’s just taking the piss.

But when John catches Paul’s eye mid-spin, Paul’s smile falters. For a fleeting second, he remembers a pair of ghostly figures, pale and distant, waltzing across some misty, endless field. And there’s John now, moving just like them—graceful, otherworldly, like he belongs somewhere beyond all this, someplace Paul can’t quite reach.

A small voice in the back of his mind pleads to some unknown recipient: Leave me here, right here, in this dusty shop, with Johnny alive and beautiful and dancing. He’s not quite sure if it’s a premonition or a recollection; whether he’s reliving an echo from some lost past or catching a glimpse of a future that’s not yet taken shape.

Whatever it is, it leaves a hollow, aching pit at the bottom of his stomach.

John finishes with an exaggerated bow, tipping an invisible hat. There are a few chuckles from the other customers, and Radek gives a slow, approving clap. Paul blinks, like he’s trying to shake off a daydream, fingers resting on the guitar strings as the moment slips away.

John’s still grinning, none the wiser.

***

That afternoon, they’re sat in some café up Montmartre way when a bunch of Swedes plonk themselves at the next table. John clocks they’re art students, over for a mate’s wedding. Their English is spot on, and when the light starts fading and the sun dips behind rooftops and spires, the Swedes ask if John and Paul fancy a bit of bar-hopping to round the night off.

They’re led through cobbled streets and tucked-away alleys, winding their way towards Gare Saint-Lazare. The Swedes stop outside a place down a street lined with violin shops and luthiers, more like someone’s front room than a pub; half the lot’s crowded round battered tables, the rest spilling onto the pavement with drinks in hand. English mingles with shaky French—just enough to get by—with laughter covering the gaps.

As the hours tick on, the Swedes start to flag, peeling off one by one with tired waves and slurred goodnights. That leaves just John and Paul, still wandering, drawn by the faint sound of music drifting through the night.

They find themselves outside a small, unmarked club, and without much thought, push through the rickety door. It’s dark inside, all low lights and close-packed tables, a jazz trio playing something slow and smoky in the corner.

The crowd’s different here—sharp-dressed lads sharing sideway glances and knowing grins. Takes a minute for it to click, until one of the barmen, a big fella with muscles like a boxer, leans over the bar and snogs some young blond lad like it’s the most natural thing in the world. People jostle past; a shoulder bumps into the blond lad. Neither of them flinch and no one around bats an eye.

No one but Paul.

Not that he’s some prude—two rough stints in Hamburg knocked that out of him. Whatever innocence Paul had before that first trip got left behind on Hamburg’s docks, along with the last bits of his baby fat. He’s seen plenty there, done even more, but back in Hamburg, they always skirted around the queer clubs. Everything else they tried and saw stayed safely tucked away between the prossies and punters in agreed-upon transactions, forgotten as soon as the sun came up.

It’s John who snaps him out of it, nudging him with a smirk. They squeeze into a tight spot by the bar, giving them the best angle to the stage. There’s some grumbling from the lads they nudge aside, but John, cig dangling from his lips, shuts them up with one sharp look. He props himself on an elbow at the bar, staking their claim, while Paul slides in kitty-corner, pressing himself against the bar and up and down the length of John’s body. It works—pulls his eyes and mind off the barman and his beau, who are still at it like they’ve got something to prove.

“They’re alright,” John says, nodding toward the stage and letting out a low whistle as the place erupts into applause when the number wraps up. He pulls the cig from his lips and offers it to Paul.

“Yeah, gear,” Paul replies, a bit daftly, his gaze lingering on John’s sweaty, lit-up face. He’s a vision tonight, so different from everyone else in the room—his white shirt clings damply to his skin from the press of the crowd, collar slightly askew, but it all just adds to the wild, untamed edge he carries so naturally.

The past year or two’s seen Paul shoot up with a late growth spurt. These days he’s nearly eye to eye with John and filled out in all the right places—no longer the younger lad looking up to him, at least not physically so. With every inch he’s grown, with every challenge John’s thrown his way, Paul’s been inching closer to standing as an equal. It’s a quiet pride he carries, like he’s finally earned his spot beside him. Maybe that’s why John picked him for this trip—to see if he could keep up when it really mattered.

Paul’d rather keel over than screw this up.

But then, just as that thought settles in, his gaze shifts across the room. He spots another pair of blokes, stood so close they might as well be stitched together—one’s got his hand casually shoved in the other’s back pocket, while he nuzzles into his neck. It hits Paul like a ton of bricks.

“Alright?” John mutters close to his ear, and Paul nods, his cheek brushing against John’s nose as he does. “Fancy a pint?”

Paul swallows. “Let’s share, eh? Don’t wanna blow it all in the first week.”

John hands him the pint, but his eyes keep straying back to the pair across the room. He forces himself to focus on the trio up on stage instead, the clatter of jazz winding through the room. John’s foot taps out the rhythm, and soon enough Paul’s foot follows, the tension bleeding out just a bit .

He takes another drag of the cig, passing it back to John, who points over at a bloke wearing a beret that’s practically swallowing his head.

“I’m gettin’ meself one of those tomorrow,” John snickers, nudging Paul, who nearly chokes on his beer, spluttering as it dribbles out of his nose. They both snort, barely holding it together when someone brushes past Paul, closer than necessary, and leans in with a playful wink.

“Salut,” the bloke says, his thick accent laced with cheekiness.

“’Hullo,” Paul blurts out, caught off guard.

"T’as envie de danser?" the bloke asks.

“Er, no thanks, mate,” Paul stammers, inching closer to John. “Cheers.”

The bloke gives Paul a lingering look before leaving, leaving Paul feeling exposed. The music isn’t one to dance much to, really, but Paul’s been pulling girls at dance halls for years now. He knows how this works.

“What’s got ya so twitchy tonight, Macca?” John asks. “Not usually this easy to wind up.”

“Nothin’,” Paul shrugs, though they both know he’s off-balance. “Just keeping me options open.”

“That so? What d’you reckon yer missing out on?”

Paul takes a deliberate drag from the cig, holding John’s gaze. “Maybe I’m just waiting for something better to come along.”

John’s grin tightens. “Better than me? Good luck with that, sunshine.”

“Guess we’ll see, won’t we?”

And even though Paul’s no longer the shorter, younger lad, John still manages to give him a once-over from under his nose, calculating something Paul can’t quite pin down.

After taking his fill, John raises the cig to his lips. The drag is slow, deliberate, like he’s savoring it, letting the smoke curl from his mouth as he shuts his almond eyes, letting tension seep out of him.

A barman slaps a fresh pint down in front of Paul, the thud of glass on wood jolting him back to the present. “Pour toi, rosbif,” he barks.

“For me?”

“Oui,” the barman replies, nodding toward the back of the room. “Compliments de ces messieurs.”

Paul squints, spotting two blokes in military uniforms, their dog tags catching the dim light as they lean casually against the wall. One’s cap is tipped just enough to give a glimpse of his cropped, sandy hair, and the other, taller and broad-shouldered. They exchange a glance and then flash matching smiles— effortlessly easygoing, and in this dim light, impossibly beautiful.

“There’s yer lucky break, son,” John murmurs, his tone dry.

“Wha—”

“Yer dead slow tonight. They’re practically servin’ it up on a plate.”

“Sod off,” Paul huffs.

“Keeping your options open, are you? Round these parts, they call it a ménage à trois,” John says. Almost by instinct, both he and Paul glance over at the soldiers, who wave Paul over to join them.

Paul'd be lying if he said certain thoughts hadn’t crossed his mind, watching them all bright-eyed and carefree. He takes a long swig from his drink, hoping the alcohol will wash away the heat rising in his face.

John leans in closer, voice dropping low. “Bet ya a tenner yer don’t have the bottle for it.”

Paul arches an eyebrow, takes another slow sip of his pint, and grins. Never one to back down from a challenge, especially not one thrown out by John, he sets the pint back on the bar and straightens up, peeling himself away with a bit of swagger, his gaze still locked on John’s.

But just as he’s barely taken three steps, John lets out a scrambled, “Oi!”. His hand shoots out, grabbing Paul’s sleeve with a force that’s just shy of desperate, pulling him back into place.

The soldiers boo, but it barely registers with Paul because he’s too busy with the look on John’s face—somewhere between worry and something else. And if Paul notices the way John flicks two fingers up at the soldiers behind his back he doesn’t mention it.

He reckons he’s won this one.

Leaning in close, his lips brush against John’s ear as he murmurs, “I’ll take that tenner now, ta.”

“Aye,” John’s lips twitch, but his voice stays dry, almost too casual. “Not worth old man Jim chewin’ me out for corrupting yer young mind.”

Paul grins, something reckless sparking in him. “What Jim doesn’t know can’t hurt him, eh?”

John snorts, stubbing out his cig on the edge of the bar with more force than necessary. He clears his throat, like he’s letting go of something. His pride, maybe. “Come on, let’s scarper.”

Paul watches John cover their tab, the scrape of coins hitting the counter loud in the space between them. As they head for the exit, the soldiers lift their pints in a wordless goodbye. John’s hand wraps around the nape of Paul’s neck, firm and familiar. It’s something that’s always been casual, brotherly in its rough affection, but right now it feels different—like a claim, a quiet “back off” meant for anyone still watching.

It’s all Paul can do to hide the smile threatening to break free as they step out, John’s hand lingering just a bit longer than usual before sliding both hands back into his pockets.

***

The muscles in John’s shoulders ripple under his white shirt as he leans over the sink not an hour later, spitting out toothpaste and rinsing his mouth with a practiced swish. In the dim light of their hotel room’s cramped bathroom, every flex of sinew catches Paul’s eye like it’s the only thing in the world worth seeing. His brain has gone utterly silent—deadly quiet—leaving only a single, unbearable sensation in its wake: a pulse of desire so intense it almost feels like it could stop his heart.

John straightens up. He’s ditched his glasses now that they’re back in the room, leaving nothing but those sharp eyes and the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. He squints at Paul behind him through the foggy mirror, trying to read what’s written in Paul’s blank stare.

“Paul?” John’s voice is rough around the edges, softened by the tiredness of the day as he ruffles his damp hair with one hand.

The simple movement sends those muscles rippling again.

Paul blinks. He forces a smile, but it’s strained—almost manic. John’s pajamas are loose on his hips, and there are the back pockets. They’re just like the ones that bloke in the club had, the one whose boyfriend casually slid his hand into like it was the most natural thing in the world.

When John is gone, he’s left alone with the thrum of his heartbeat in his ears, foamy toothbrush still dangling from his mouth.

***

Paul spends half the night watching John’s face in quiet panic. When sleep comes, he dreams about slipping his hands into pockets.

***

Jürgen knocks on their door at some ungodly hour the next morning, dragging them out of bed and whisking them off to breakfast. The streets are just waking up, with the smell of fresh bread wafting through the crisp morning air. They stuff themselves with flaky croissants and rich, dark coffee at a tiny corner café, and Jürgen passes second-hand news from home along through Stu’s postcards. He casually mentions how everyone—George especially—has been rattled by their sudden departure.

Paul stops mid-bite. It’s the first real crack in the bubble they’ve built around themselves since they left. Up until now, Paul’s been happy to let everything else fade away, content to bask in the attention John’s been giving him, in the easy rhythm of their little escape.

He glances at John, searching for reassurance, but John doesn’t linger on things that might cloud the mood. He catches the subtle shift in Paul’s expression and scrunches up his face before launching a piece of croissant across the table, aiming straight for Paul.

“Catch!” John shouts, eyes gleaming with mischief.

Paul barely has time to dodge, the butter packet smacking against his cheek and landing in his lap. He blinks, caught off guard, before bursting into laughter, the tension in his chest easing just a bit.

After breakfast, they wander aimlessly down flower-lined boulevards, the kind of picture-perfect streets you’d find on a postcard. Paul feels more at ease, falling into the rhythm of the day, cracking jokes as they amble past little market stalls and shopfronts. They dip into hushed art galleries, where the air is thick with the smell of old wood and paint, and Jürgen snaps candid shots of them with Stu’s camera.

They puff their chests proudly when they introduce Jürgen to Radek and his swinging shop, which he hadn’t heard of before. The shop has become a home away from home by now, and they seem to discover new treasures every time they enter.

After browsing for a while, Paul starts shifting on his feet, glancing around. “Got a bog I can use?” he asks, trying to sound casual.

“Through the back,” Radek waves him off with a flick of his wrist. “Blue door.”

Paul follows the directions and passes a flat with a sign saying "À louer" hanging by the slightly ajar door. He’s seen enough of such signs around the city by now to recognize another flat to let.

He pauses, curiosity getting the better of him, and peeks through the gap in the doorframe. The place is cluttered—piled high with the leftovers of someone who clearly couldn’t part with anything. The most unholy mix of odds and ends: army boots, a parachute, candlesticks, even two battered sleeping bags lie strewn about. His gaze falls on an old, neglected piano in the corner, and it takes his breath away. Beautiful white stenciled letters adorn it: ‘J U B I L É’.

He steps inside cautiously, holding his breath.

The flat is grimy but it hums with potential that clings to the walls. In his head, he pictures it transformed: warm light spilling across the floor, canvases stacked against the walls, a guitar propped up by the window overlooking the overgrown postage-stamp yard.

He looks around, wondering what it’d be like to live there, to soak in the atmosphere of the city through those windows and turn it into something all his own.

The thought sticks with him as he drags himself away and finds the shabby door Radek mentioned. It leads to an even shabbier loo, with peeling paint and a rusty chain.

When he’s done, still lost in thoughts of the flat, he spots Radek near the door, chatting quietly with a man. Stands to reason Radek would live nearby. Paul’s just about to slip past unnoticed when he sees it—a brief exchange of words, then a kiss. It’s soft, casual, and feels as natural as saying goodbye.

He hurries back to the others, but the scene stays with him, playing over and over in his mind as they move on to whatever comes next.

***

Evening comes, and they find themselves queuing outside the Olympia for a Johnny Hallyday show. They’re surrounded by screaming birds and the marquee glares down at them with the blinding promise of “FRENCH ELVIS.” Paul raises a skeptical brow as they hand over seven and a half quid each—a small fortune for a couple of lads far from home.

Two hours later, they’re shuffling out of the theater, waving Jürgen goodbye with tight-lipped grimaces.

“That was—” John starts, trying to find the words.

“—Rubbish!” Paul cuts in, louder than he meant, catching a few sideways glances from passersby. “Absolute rubbish!”

John stares at him for a beat before bursting out in laughter, the sound echoing down the street. His cig nearly slips from his fingers as he bends over, giggles shaking his shoulders.

“French Elvis, my arse!” Paul huffs, genuinely offended on behalf of the man himself. “Who’re they kidding?”

“’s two hours of me life I’ll never get back,” John snorts as they stride off, shoulders bumping with every step.

Paul kicks at a stray pebble, sending it skidding down the cobblestones.

“Do you reckon we look that daft back home?” John asks, half talking to himself, half to Paul. “Small-time, like?”

“Nah, nothing like that,” Paul says. “We’re just bein’ us, aren’t we?”

They’ve spent years convincing themselves, and everyone else, that they’re destined for more than the Cavern, more than just being another band slogging away in Liverpool. But out here, in the quiet streets of Paris, that confidence feels a bit shakier.

“Easy to get caught up in it all, though, innit?” John finally asks, like he’s chewing on the thought.

Paul isn’t entirely sure what John’s getting at, but he nods, humming in agreement. “That’s what it is, though, isn’t it? You’ve gotta believe in your own bollocks till everyone else starts believing it too.”

John hums, a noncommittal sound deep in his throat.

“But what we’ve got, Johnny, what we have—it’s real, yeah? We’ve come this far, haven’t we?”

“Aye,” John says distractedly, flashing a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

***

John’s muscles are rippling again, just like the night before, only now his shirt’s gone.

Madness is closing in.

Paul now twigs he’s made two very wrong decisions coming here: one was agreeing not to bring his guitar, and the other was not insisting on bringing the other lads along. They’ve done this a hundred times before—washed up side by side, squeezed into tight spaces—not least in Hamburg, crammed together in dingy rooms, living in each other’s pockets. Top and tail, shagging birds, sleeping off the booze, all part of the routine. But there was always someone else around to cut the tension, to keep Paul’s thoughts from drifting where they shouldn’t.

But now, it’s just the two of them. The city, with its free, non-judgemental love and easy smiles, has been doing him in, chipping away at all the little defenses that’ve kept him safe, if frustrated, for so long. It’s all well and good when it’s just a dream, just a bit of a fantasy he can push aside when the lights come on. But what’s he supposed to do now that John’s here, shirtless, wearing pajama bottoms that sag just enough to drag Paul’s gaze to all the wrong places?

There’s that—the gazing, and John’s pajama bottoms and his hands on Paul’s neck—but there’s also the fact that they’ve been here for days and haven’t pulled any birds, not one. They smile at them, and chat the pretty ones up, but that’s just out of habit, really. But they never split off or stayed away with any of them, and Paul’s not once, ‘til that very moment, thought about Dot, or even wrote to her. Far as he knows—because they haven’t been out of each other’s sight for a moment—John hasn’t written to Cyn, either.

Which is all circumstantial, really, if it weren’t for the fact that they’d spent a night—albeit unplanned and unintended—at a queer club, and John hadn’t been snarky or taking the piss about it at all. If anything, he’d looked like part of the furniture.

“Paul? Y’goin’ funny in the head or what?” John asks through the mirror.

That—more than anything—tells Paul just how far gone he is. He catches a glimpse of his own reflection, tongue flicking out to wet his lips hungrily.

“Paul?”

“Aye?”

“Yer alri—”

But Paul doesn’t let him finish. He steps forward, mind blank except for the need pulsing through him. He closes the gap, his lips brushing—so, so chastely—against the corner of John’s bottom lip. It’s barely a kiss, more a ghost of one, but it’s enough to make John’s hand slip from the sink, the clatter of it ringing in Paul’s ears like a warning.

John breathes, wide-eyed and stunned.

Paul wipes the toothpaste from his lips with the back of his hand in a long swipe. Before he can second-guess himself, he’s closing the gap again. This time, he presses in with more intention, catching more of John’s mouth, letting the kiss linger and his fingers drift up John’s knobby spine, tracing the ridges of bone.

The touch triggers something in John; his breath catches, and he moves closer, pressing into Paul. The kiss deepens, open-mouthed and slow, all traces of hesitation melting away. They’re a tangle of fumbling, grabby hands smelling of mint and cigarettes, and Paul knows, right down to his bones, that this moment is both the worst and best moment of his life. John’s either gonna snog him senseless or deck him, and either way, it’s bound to end in tears.

John turns fully into Paul’s arms now, pressing closer, deepening the kiss. Paul’s hands find purchase on John’s scrawny ribs, fingers shimmying up his bony shoulders before locking there, dragging him in impossibly closer.

“Ngh,” John growls and with a sudden, raw energy, shoves Paul against the wall behind them in one swift motion that knocks the breath right out of him. He pulls back from Paul with a sloppy, wet break in the kiss and they size each other up, like they’re seeing each other for the first time.

“Cheeky Paul,” he says appreciatively, close enough for Paul to feel the heat of his breath.

“You gonna snog me or punch me or wha’?” Paul asks, and if he bats his lashes, well, who’s counting?

“Why? D’you get off on that?”

Paul gives him a playful shove in the ribs, knocking the wind out of him just enough for John to huff out a sultry laugh. Paul chases for his lips again, but John shifts back, refusing the contact.

“What is this?” John mutters, like he’s trying to figure out the joke. Paul buries his face against John’s neck, letting his tongue trail along the pulse point there. “Don’t— Ah, fuck! Don’t go starting something if you can’t see it through.”

Paul cuts him off with a quick, restless kiss. “Can’t start nothing if you won’t stop running yer gob, now can I?”

“Paul—”

“Johnny—”

“Yer gonna break me heart?” John asks, softer this time, like he’s scared of the answer.

Paul’s head falls back against the wall with a dull, frustrated thud. “Are you?”

John swallows hard, not bothering with words this time. He lets the kiss answer for him, their threadbare excuse for pajama bottoms barely concealing their straining erections. Paul laves at barely-there freckles on John’s shoulder while John grabs one of Paul’s knees and hangs it around his waist. This new angle is divine; they thrust helplessly against one another, exchanging choked grunts into open, eager mouths.

John pulls his cock out of his own pajama bottoms, working himself quickly once, twice, before reaching for Paul’s; a tug and a jerk and John finds his cock under the fabric and—

“Christ,” Paul hisses, his arms locked around John’s neck.

“Say yes, Paul,” John says in a strained breath, seeking a rather useless permission.

‘“Yes, Paul,” Paul chokes, and John brings their cocks together.

“Fuckin’ ‘ell,” John moans, his face buried in Paul’s neck as he works them, slowly at first, picking up quickly to frantic, incoherent tugging for what feels like an eternity and barely a second.

“More,” Paul begs. Every moan, every groan reverberates in the acoustic of the cramped bathroom, sending Paul extremely close to the edge when they’ve only just begun. “Please, God, please…”

“Jesus, don’t say that,” John croaks, sinking his teeth into Paul’s shoulder in a desperate bid for control.

“Johnny—”

“Argh, oh——”

“Look at me, please, open your—”

John’s eyes snap open for him, unfocused and hazy. Paul locks onto them—his beautiful, beautiful eyes—and smiles, a thing rising from the depths of his soul, from the place where he’s kept his love for John hidden all this time.

“Oh, God,” John cries, undone by Paul’s smile, twisting in agony when he comes, hard and fast, between them; Paul’s entire body contorts, aching for release, folding himself into John’s rocking body as soon as feels the hot spurts hitting his chest.

They collapse into each other, noses brushing as they settle. It takes a moment for their breaths to steady, bodies still entwined, neither ready to let go. A cheeky grin slowly creeps across John’s face, breath fanning over Paul’s eyelid.

"Naughty," John exhales, his voice thick with astonishment, as if his mind’s only just caught up with what’s happened.

Paul giggles back, the sound light and a bit breathless.

“Lucky I didn’t let you bugger off with them soldiers, eh?” John’s fingers squeeze Paul’s waist, as if to make sure this is real.

“Thank God you’re sharp like that,” Paul breathes, the warmth in his voice unmistakable.

***

And that’s how the greatest love of Paul’s young life begins: up against a peeling wall and against all odds. Paul offered, and John took.

***

The next day or so is lost in bed, consumed by an inevitable loop of shagging and gathering just enough sustenance to continue shagging.

‘Round noon of their second day in, they’re sticky and naked as the day they were born. John sits up in bed, leaning against the wall, his head hitting it with a weary thud.

“Knackered, then, old man?” Paul, ready and loaded for another round, mounts John’s lap, eliciting a throaty groan from the other man. That's all the response he gets for now but for a pair of hands that crawl up to his arse cheeks, kneading the soft, sensitive skin there.

He’s rocking shamelessly against John’s thigh now, patting John’s face lovingly, smoothing bits of hair sticking with a heady mix of sweat and saliva from Paul’s kisses.

“’s nice,” John purrs and leans into Paul’s hands on his face. Paul leans in to kiss his lashes, picking up the pace on John’s thigh, like a bloody dog humping a pillow. John’s tongue, lazy but clever, finds his, a perfect companion for his grinding.

“Go on, then, ‘s dead lovely,” John murmurs, watching Paul’s face shifting with desire now that the friction builds into a real rhythm and Paul’s grown impossibly hard again.

They rock into each other, drunk on pheromones and smooth, blotchy skin. With nowhere else to go and nothing else to do, they lose themselves in each other and every so often they share a knowing smile.

John’s middle finger finds his opening, his eyebrow shooting up with a daring question.

“Oh,” Paul breathes in surprise.

“Easy.” John tilts his head, studying the shifts in Paul’s expression at this new intrusion, like he’s examining a priceless piece of art.

The stretch changes from uncomfortable to satisfying as the finger slides deeper still. Paul lands his sticky forehead against John’s in concentration, settling into a toe-curling pace, pressing back against John’s long finger and then forward, into the hot air locked between sternums.

“Alright?” John’s voice is gravely with desire.

“Yeah, agh—” Paul nods unevenly, hanging by a thread as it is. John crooks his finger inside him and Paul’s body undulates faster now, seeking a better angle. “Ah, Fuck me.”

John hums. “Think ya can get off on it?”

Paul scoffs. He’s nineteen and in love, he can get off on far less.

“Let’s see it, then,” John says urgently. Their tongues tangle, desperate and exhausted, lighting Paul’s entire body up from the inside in all the right places.

John has one hand inside him and another crushing his hip in concentration, guiding their rhythm and picking it up. It’s not long before Paul’s lost to his own, distant world on his way to oblivion, when a rough knock shakes the door to their room.

“What the—?” Paul freezes mid-grind. Their hazy, hooded eyes snap open as a sudden flicker of fear passes between them.

“Allô!”

“Come in!” John shouts in a daft voice, his eyes glinting with mischief. Paul immediately clamps a hand over John’s mouth, shooting him a dangerous glare.

“Message pour vous!” The shapeless voice says, slipping an envelope under their door. They must look a vision as they stare at it, cheek to cheek, crawling on their floor like it’s a snake about to pounce.

“Well?” Paul finally asks, raising an eyebrow at John.

“Well what?”

Paul tilts his head toward the envelope. John just shrugs.

“Bloody hell, alright, you lazy sod,” Paul mutters, hissing when John pulls his finger out. He snatches up the envelope and holds it out like it’s cursed, before quickly stepping back into John’s eager hands.

“Leave it, ‘s probably just a wanker having a moan about us being too loud,” John demands, trying to pry the thing away from Paul’s hand. He’s less indignant when Paul mounts him again and lands his arse back in his lap.

“It’s from Radek,” Paul says, his interest suddenly piqued as he scans the note.

John barely reacts, offering only a disinterested “meh,” from somewhere in the vicinity of Paul’s left nipple.

“Says they’ve got a folk night thing tonight, we should swing by if we fancy it.”

“Think they’ll be buzzing to watch me suck yer nipples?” John drawls.

“Doubt it.”

“Right, I’ll give it a miss, then, eh?” John says, snatching the letter and chucking it aside like it’s not worth a second glance.

A spark of an idea lights up Paul’s eyes. “We should go.”

“What for?”

“Just for a bit, yeah? Somethin’ I wanna show you,” Paul says.

John sighs theatrically, rolling his eyes, but the smirk tugging at his lips gives him away. “Anything you say, dear.” Then, without warning, he flips Paul so that he’s sprawled over the bed underneath him, like a fresh canvas.

“Right, where were we?”

***

The shop is packed and stuffy, the air thick with incense that winds its way through the room. The crowd is a mix of the strangest, hippest types Paul’s ever laid eyes on.

John’s taken up residence on the old worn-out leather chair. He lounges like a wise Oracle, watching the proceedings with a mix of detached amusement and sharp critique. Meanwhile, Paul’s by the front desk, quietly conspiring with Radek.

When Paul returns to fetch John from his seat, interrupting what appears to be a rapt viewing of a xylophone player performing an unforgivable travesty, John’s more than happy to make an exit.

“Come on,” Paul says, jerking his head towards the back of the shop. He offers a hand, and John takes it. He doesn’t let go.

“What’re you up to, then?”

“Shush,” Paul whispers. He leads John down the narrow corridor, the sounds of the shop fading behind them.

Paul opens the door to the flat with a reverent air, glancing back at John with a look that’s equal parts excitement and caution.

John steps in, taking it all in. “What’s this, then?”

“It’s a flat,” Paul says, a bit too quickly.

John’s eyebrows shoot up, as if to say, No kidding. When he spots the old piano tucked away in the corner, he lets out a soft, appreciative whistle.

“She’s a beauty, ‘int she?” John asks.

“It’s for let,” Paul adds, trying to keep his voice steady, hoping John will catch on to what he’s really getting at all by himself. “The flat, not the piano.”

“Right,” John says.

Paul takes a deep breath, nerves jangling. “We should take it,” he blurts out before he can stop himself.

John blinks, looking at him like he’s grown a second head. “What?”

“You and me.” Paul steps further into the room, the floorboards creaking underfoot. “We should take it. Radek’ll give us a fair price for it. Says we could work at the shop for a bit, help him keep it open longer for a bit of coin in our pockets.”

John paces around the flat, giving a quick glance out at the tiny yard that’s barely more than a patch of grass.

“Yer off your head, or what?”

“This is Paris,” Paul says, his voice almost coaxing. “This could be it. This could be our big break. Isn’t this what you wanted?” John huffs, but Paul doesn’t back down. “Can you really see yourself going back home now? I sure can’t.”

“What about yer dad? And yer girl?” he asks, his voice softer, as if trying to find the cracks in Paul’s resolve.

Paul just shrugs, like it’s the easiest thing in the world to brush off. It is.

“And the lads?”

“They can come down here if they fancy it,” Paul replies, firm and steady. “Radek’s got mates all over, y’know. He’ll sort us out, get us gigs in no time. There’s all sorts of industry types knocking about in a place like this, yeah? Who knows.”

John looks around the flat for a few moments, like he’s lost. He walks over to the ancient piano, lifts up the cover and strikes a random key. The note echoes, bitter and hollow. It’s like time has stopped; like he's waiting for a life sentence.

“Bit of a mess, innit?” John finally asks, and Paul thinks—though he isn’t quite sure—that’s a yes.

“Reckon some mad artist lived here before,” Paul says carefully, trying to keep the hope in his chest from spilling over. “Me mum used to say hoarding is what lonely people do when they’ve got love to give and no one to give it to.”

John huffs, running his hand over a dusty side table. “Should write that down.”

Paul shrugs, glancing around the cluttered room. “We could flog the lot, anyroad, make a few bob.”

John pauses, looking at the mess around them, then back at Paul. “Just us, then?” It’s a question with a lot riding on it.

“Just us.”

John pauses again, the silence heavy between them. Without meeting Paul's eyes, he asks, "So, you're gonna live in sin with me, are ya?" His voice is light, but there's a serious undertone to it.

"Reckon I already am," Paul says, and he means it, every bit of it.

Their eyes meet for just a moment, and a cheeky, knowing smile passes between them.

“Let’s have a proper look around, then,” John says, his voice almost casual, like this is just another Sunday stroll.

They move through the flat together; taking in the clutter in the yard

“I can sort that, no bother,” Paul says, spotting a busted fuse in the hall. There’s a room that could be a bedroom, completely empty except for a ghastly California-style shell lampshade hanging from the ceiling.

They find the loo next, tiny and in need of a good scrub, but it’s functional. Paul opens another door, revealing a narrow window that offers a view of the city below them. It’s grimy and could do with a proper clean, but that’s not what stops John in his tracks.

Through the small, cracked window, they can see the Olympia in the distance, its marquee glowing softly in the evening light.

Paul’s breath catches.

“Not a bad view, that,” John says.

“Could be worse,” Paul agrees.

“Let’s make it ours, then,” John murmurs, his voice low but sure.

They go and do just that.

***

On the morning of John’s birthday, Paul quietly slips out of bed, careful not to wake him. His mind’s set on finding a birthday cake, something simple but special.

As he shuffles through their pockets and rummages in wallets for francs, a realization comes like a slap to the face—they’ve only got just enough to get by for a few more days, a week at most if they stretch it. Paul had handed over his backup money to Radek, the little stash he’d built up from several birthday gifts and odd jobs, as a downpayment on the flat. Now it’s left them with barely enough for a few essentials and their ride back home.

Only they’re not going back, are they?

He wakes John with a trail of kisses, starting from his toes and working his way up. They share the cake—a rich, chocolatey, drippy thing. Morning light filters in, and things pick up between bites of cake, very quickly.

They eventually have to part from the bed, to wash off the remnants of chocolate and come and sweat. They tumble to the bathroom together, pecking kisses with legs entangled. Even though the room is dead small, it takes them several minutes to reach the door and accomplish anything remotely productive, at least when it comes to washing up.

Paul has to bite back a grin, trying to keep his lips from twisting as he washes his hands. He can feel John’s intense, glasses-less gaze burning into him, and it makes him both self-conscious and amused.

“Wha’?” Paul asks, bashful.

“Nothin’.”

Paul rolls his eyes, but there’s a playful lilt to his tone. “Yer staring.”

“Wasn’t,” John insists, a flicker of a smirk dancing at the corner of his mouth.

“You WERE!”

John snorts, feigning indifference, but there’s a glint in his eyes. “Get off it,” he quips, and before he can react, John throws himself at him, crawling into Paul’s body in a sudden, rib-crushing hug.

Paul’s laughter spills out, his initial surprise quickly melting into warmth. He wraps his arms around John, melting into the embrace, but as the seconds stretch on, John clings to him.

“Johnny?” Paul begins softly, his voice laced with concern. He tries to pull back, just enough to see John’s face, but John only tightens his grip, hiding his face in Paul’s chest.

Paul always knew—deep down—there’s a lonely, abandoned kid inside John. Probably always will be, even when they’re eighty.

He didn’t know, at first, the cool lad he kept clocking on the bus or in the chippy was really broken inside, and for ages, all Paul could do was be there, laughing it off when things got uncomfortable and having John’s back when he started swinging punches because the anger inside him couldn’t stay put. It was never about the insults or the provocations that led to those fights; it was about the pain John was lugging around, a pressure cooker waiting to release its steam.

When they first met, Paul wished he could do more, offer something beyond just being there, but he was just a kid too, muddling through like everyone else. But now, Paul reckons, he’s finally got something real to offer—something solid and lasting to patch up the cracks life’s left in John. Some of them, at least.

“I know,” Paul says, pulling him in tight until he’s up on his toes from the force of the hug, burying his nose in John’s hair. He doesn’t, really, does he? He doesn’t know what it’s like, but it sounds like the right thing to say.

“I know,” he says again, and John must get it—get something, at least—because Paul feels him relax, just a bit, the tension in his body easing.

Then, almost reluctantly, John pulls back just enough to meet Paul’s eyes. It’s a start. It’s small, but it’s something.

***

“Got a bit tucked away from the lorries,” Paul says the next day, thinking out loud. “Me mum had Auntie Gin squirrel away some money for me, for college, y’know. Could ask Mike to bring it down with the guitars and the four-track. Should tide us over for a while, I reckon.”

A busy murmur comes from somewhere between his legs. They’ve been at it so much by now that Paul’s body has now been completely surrendered to John’s every whim and fancy, any hour of the day.

“George owes me a bit, too,” Paul continues. “Think you could get Mimi to cough up a bit?”

“D’yer mind?” John’s voice is muffled. “Trying to get me best work done here.”

“Sorry,” Paul mutters, his hand reaching down to give John’s hair an apologetic tug. Then, after a moment: “Maybe if we press that bastard Williams hard enough…”

John shoots up, his mouth wet with saliva. “I’ll be selling Mimi and me great-auntie Edna if it’ll shut yer gob!”

"Sorry," he says, relaxing his body, hiding a cheeky grin. "Sorry."

***

The hotel clerk stares at them with a mix of disdain and indifference, rattling off an amount for international calls that nearly makes John’s eyes pop. Radek, ever resourceful, directs them to an American Express bureau that won’t completely bleed them dry.

They each take turns at the phone booth, only to be met with the hollow echo of a ringing tone. Sunday morning. Of course, no one’s home to answer.

Jürgen takes pity on them, still unaware of their plans to stay. He invites them over for lunch and an impromptu haircut. Paul’s lost to the mental list of everything they’ll need to make this city their home while locks of John’s hair drop to the floor.

After Paul’s had his turn under the shears, they take a good look at each other’s mops, shaking their heads like a pair of scruffy mutts, before bursting out laughing.

Sometimes, Paul wonders what they must look like from the outside, caught up in their own little world where everything seems to exist around them, as insufferable as they are inseparable.

Back at Radek’s, the Czech approaches John with a proposition he’s been sitting on for days: painting a mural in the shop for a fee. He’s seen John’s doodles and cottoned on to his talent, and it’s a chance to make a bit of money and leave his mark on the place.

John’s soon up on a ladder, paintbrush in hand, each stroke bringing them closer to carving out a place for themselves in this unfamiliar city. He works until the late hours of the night, long after the shop has closed. Radek watches over, rocking his head to the tune of whatever’s playing on the speakers, pipe smoke curling around him as he moves about the shop.

Paul all but serenades John from the sofa chair throughout the night, watching as John’s clothes become spattered with paint and the once-blank wall comes to life.

“Brilliant!” Radek exclaims come morning, stepping between the two of them to take in the mural, as though it were the Mona Lisa herself.

John lights up a cig and crouches by the bottom of the wall. He leans forward and, with a slow, deliberate hand, signs it: “𝓁ℯ𝓃𝓃ℴ𝓃.”

He stands back, takes a drag of his cig, and then turns to Paul, holding out the brush. “Your turn, lad.”

Paul blinks, caught off guard. “Me? ‘S yours.”

John doesn’t waver, his gaze steady, almost challenging. “You’re in everything I do, aren’t ya? Go on.”

Paul swallows. Carefully, as if the whole world’s watching, he adds “𝓂𝒸𝒸𝒶𝓇𝓉𝓃ℯ𝓎” right beside John’s name.

Without missing a beat, John grabs the brush back and quickly adds a plus sign between their names.

Paul snorts, shaking his head as he watches John step back to admire the addition. “Soft lad,” he mutters, but his heart sings.

***

Paul tries his dad or Mike again the next day, but the phone just rings and rings—no one picks up. He steps out of the booth and heads over to a side table, scribbling down a set of clear-as-day instructions for his brother—what to send overnight: the cash, the guitars, what to tell their dad, and how to break it to George, Pete, and Dot without causing too much of a ruckus.

John’s up next, and it takes him a good few minutes to get through to Mendips. When he finally does, he’s hanging on by a thread, trying to keep up with the pleasantries from Mimi’s lodger.

Eventually, Paul catches snippets of the usual sharp-tongued back-and-forth that’s reserved just for the Lennons.

“Don’t be naggin’, it’s barely been…” John’s voice drifts over. “Well, alrigh’,” and “How would I know, now!”

Then, after another volley of pointed exchanges, John says, “Just need a bit to tide us over, y’know, till we get things sorted.”

It takes Paul a few moments to realize that John’s gone strangely, deadly quiet. When he steps out of the booth, he looks like he’s seen a ghost. Paul hands the receptionist his letter for Mike, barely registering what he’s doing, before quickly following John out into the chilly air of the street.

“John?” Paul calls after him, but John doesn’t answer, just keeps walking. “Alright?” he presses, his heart thumping harder with every step.

John finally stops, turning to face Paul. His eyes, usually so sharp, are wide and panicked.

“She won’t be sending the money, then?” Paul asks, trying to make sense of it. “‘S alright, I could ring me dad again—”

“Cyn’s late,” John blurts out.

“What d’yer mean, late?”

“Cyn, she’s…” John stammers. “Mimi says she’s been going round there, telling her she’s late. Y’know… her time, like.”

“But… but is Mimi sending the money, though, is she?” Paul asks, desperate to latch onto something, anything that isn’t this. “Cos Radek—”

“Paul.” John’s voice is firmer now, his eyes locking onto Paul’s with a seriousness that cuts through the fog in Paul’s mind. “We’ve got to go back.”

“We can’t,” Paul says. “We’ll lose the deposit, won’t we?”

“Deposit?” John echoes, disbelief in his voice. “I’m telling yer Cyn might be up the duff!”

“You can’t be sure, can you? You’re… using something when you… aren’t you?”

John shrugs, a helpless, almost defeated gesture.

“Well…” Paul’s voice rises, grasping at straws. “We can get us a few gigs ‘round here, send some money back for when…”

John’s face hardens, hurt flickering in his eyes. “What’re you on about? Paul, think about Cyn, eh? She’s not some bird I picked off the street, is she?”

“But…”

Six days.

For six fleeting days, Paul’s tasted what it’s like to have everything, and now, in the blink of an eye, it’s slipping through his fingers, and it’s not even his fault.

John’s expression twists, and he reaches out, fingers just brushing Paul’s arm. “Paul…” John says, voice soft, but before he can get any closer, Paul shoves him—hard. His hand lands between a slap and a punch, right across John’s face.

“Paul!” John stumbles, his feet fumbling to find the floor, but he doesn’t hit back. He just ducks his head, absorbing the blow, like he knows he’s got it coming.

“Piss off!” Paul spits, the words rough and torn from deep in his chest, too bitter to hold in. He swings again, desperation making him clumsy, but he misses again, adrenaline leaving him blind and helpless. He spins on his heel; he walks at first, his legs trembling with the effort of holding himself together, but it’s not enough and soon he’s running.

“Paul!” John calls after him, but Paul doesn’t stop.

***

“Paul!”

John finds him back at Radek’s flat, banging on the old, heavy door like he did when this whole cursed mess kicked off. Paul’s inside, but he’s paying him no mind, belting out a wonky version of "Honey Hush" on somebody else’s knackered piano. It’s not perfect—bit like driving someone else’s car, feels all wrong at first—but it’s enough to keep him busy.

“Paul!” John hollers. “For God’s sake, open the door!”

But Paul’s off in his own little world, whistling along with Big Joe Turner like he hasn’t got a care. He starts over after a minute or two, not a peep to the door. By the time he’s onto his third jerky go at it, he catches John’s voice again, faint but there.

John’s standing behind the screen door, chest heaving like after conquering the short fence.

“Paul, what’re you playin’ at?”

“What’s it look like?” Paul says, posher than the Queen herself. “I live here.”

Finally, there’s a sharp jolt as John forces the screen door open. “What?!”

“‘m stayin’,” Paul says, not budging.

“Like hell you are,” John snaps, marching over to the piano. He slams the cover shut with a bang, nearly catching Paul’s fingers.

“Why shouldn’t I?” Paul finally looks up, the bravado fading as he meets John’s eyes. The pain on John’s face is clear—red-rimmed eyes from crying, clothes stinking of stale smoke, proof of hours spent chain-smoking.

“Well, for starters, yer dad’ll have me head on a spike if I go back without you, won’t he?” John retorts.

"Always with me dad, eh? Always a cover-up for your own cock-ups!" Paul fires back.

John flinches but stands firm. "What d’you expect me to tell them all if you're not there, then?"

"I could givefuck all," he says, though inside, the storm brews.

Tell them you broke my heart, if you dare.

Tell them I sucked you off in an alley behind Notre Dame on your birthday, and all I got was this—you, looking down on me like I was a fool.

Tell them I took a leap of faith for you, so you can be happy, and all I found was you at the bottom, watching me crash.

“Paul, c'mon," John says. "Think about Cyn. I'd be doing the right thing, for a change, and I need you for that, don't I?”

“Me? You need me?” Paul snaps, his tone cutting. “I didn’t screw this up, did I?”

“You’re right, Paul. I’ve cocked it up, like always,” John admits, bitterness creeping in.

“Oh, fuck off you, always the victim!” Paul spits, turning away and heading down the hall. “You do have a choice in this, y’know. You could just stop fucking us all over!”

“D’yer think I want this?” John hurls back. “You think I enjoy destroying everything I touch?”

"I don’t think you care enough to stop!" Paul snaps, and they collide, chest to chest, both breathing hard.

"What d’ya think’s gonna happen?" John shouts. "That we’ll just live here like a pair of queens, and that’ll magically fix me? That I’ll stop being a bloody loser just for a change of scenery?"

Paul turns abruptly, storming into the empty bedroom and slamming the door in John’s face. The truth is, he did think that. That was the plan all along—that if it were just them, here, maybe things would finally start to make sense.

"Paul," John knocks on the door. "I can’t be another shitty father like me dad, can I? It ain’t right, doin’ that to a kid. You know that."

Paul stays silent, holding his ground.

"You’d never do that, would you?" John’s voice softens, almost pleading. "Isn’t the whole point of having you around so I can be at least half the man you are?"

The words land hard, but Paul doesn’t flinch, keeping his back to the door.

“C’mon," John urges him, and Paul hears the dull thud of John’s forehead hitting the door. "You can’t just hide in there. Won’t make the baby go away, will it?" Then, when Paul doesn't say anything, his voice finally cracks. "I’m flying out tomorrow, I have to."

"Fine, go," Paul replies, voice cold.

John pauses for a beat, then throws out his final shot, sharp and sure. "If it was you and Dot, y’know I’d be there for you in a heartbeat."

For the first time since John showed up, Paul feels it like a punch to the gut. John’s a screw-up, a right bastard sometimes, but he’s a good mate.

But If Paul goes with him, if he so much as looks at him now, there’ll come a moment when John sobers up from this past week, from the dream they’ve spun here. And when the scorn and denial hit, Paul knows he won’t be able to bear it.

John waits, and waits.

Eventually, Paul hears the quiet shuffle of John’s footsteps retreating, each step heavier than the last, until finally, the flat falls silent.

***

Paul heads over to the shop’s front desk around noon for his first shift the next day. It’s taken him hours to pull himself together, to piece himself back into something resembling a semi-presentable human being, but Radek’s been far too kind in fronting them the flat, and now with Paul left to shoulder his finances alone, he knows he has to manage.

There’s a bitter irony in him standing there, raw and hazy, under the shadow of John’s mural. He forces a smile, trying to make the best of it, when a beautiful bird hesitantly steps inside.

After he shows her to the literary section, Radek quietly approaches and slips an envelope onto the front desk. The gesture is filled with gentle empathy, one that Paul isn’t quite sure how or why he’s earned it.

“People like us, we must take what we get,” Radek says, his accent giving the words a certain weight.

Paul frowns, turning the envelope over in his hands. His breath catches when he sees John’s uneven, achingly familiar handwriting scrawled across the front. He opens it slowly, and his heart skips as he pulls out a plane ticket inside.

When he looks up, Radek is watching him with a small, knowing smile. It’s a smile that offers no solutions, no easy answers, but somehow it makes Paul feel a little less alone in that moment.

***

He barely makes it to the gate, breathless and hurried, pulling his ticket out of the envelope as he charms his way past the security guard, just as the heavy gate door begins to close.

As he steps onto the plane, his eyes quickly scan the rows of seats until they land on John, already seated. John’s eyes widen in surprise, watching Paul negotiating with the stewardess and straining to catch snippets of their conversation.

John hastily clears the seat next to him, but Paul doesn’t look back. Instead, he walks past him, continuing down the aisle, and settles into a seat a few rows away—the one he’d arranged with the stewardess to switch to.

And there Paul stays.

***

December, 1961
Cyn isn’t pregnant after all.

It takes weeks for Paul to cotton on, and he seems to be the last one who does.

They’re at Brian’s, celebrating his official takeover as their manager. It’s the kind of evening that’s meant to be full of promise and new beginnings, but Paul can’t shake the feeling that something’s off. Ever since they came back from Paris, he’s felt a strange disconnect, like he’s on the outside looking in.

He’s been noticing things lately—small, almost imperceptible shifts in the way John carries himself, the way he speaks, or doesn’t speak. There’s been a silent agreement between them—for Cyn’s sake and for their own survival, now that the band’s caught a lucky break—to pretend Paris never happened and to leave it behind, buried under the weight of unfortunate circumstances and bad timing.

But here’s Cyn, looking more relaxed than she has in weeks, taking a swig of bubbly, and for a moment, Paul’s heart stutters in his chest.

“Doctor reckons it was just nerves over her exams,” Dot says, appearing at Paul’s side as if summoned by his thoughts. “Proper dodged a bullet, didn’t she?”

Paul forces a smile, but his mind is reeling. “Aye,” he mutters, though he’s not sure what he’s agreeing to. He looks over at John, who’s been unusually quiet tonight, sticking to the shadows like he’s trying to avoid being seen. Paul’s gaze sharpens, trying to catch John’s eye, but John is deliberately evasive, his attention flitting from one thing to another as if he can’t bear to be pinned down.

Paul’s been raised far too properly to even entertain the thought—much less voice it, even in his own mind—that it might have all been a plot to get John back in her arms. He’s seen enough of this world to understand that, in the end, it doesn’t really matter. From a man like John—for whom words are mere currency—actions inevitably speak louder.

From that day on, Brian’s got them wrapped around his little finger. For better or worse, their lives aren’t their own anymore, every move managed to a tee.

“Nowt to fret over, lads,” Brian chirps, his voice always too smooth, too practiced. “Leave it with me, John,” he sing-songs, as if they’re children who can’t even tie their own shoes.

Brian lays it on thick, and John loves it.

It stings more than Paul wants to admit, this feeling of being sidelined, of decisions being made without him.

Then Cyn falls pregnant for real. This time, there’s no doubt about it—no nerves or tests to blame, just cold, hard reality.

Brian appoints himself best man and wastes no time making it clear the lads won’t be attending the wedding.

“Miss Powell prefers it this way, and it’ll save us from the press.”

Paul tilts his head dangerously, his gaze slicing through the room, sharper than any words.

John just stands there, hidden behind Brian, both in body and spirit.

He tightens his grip on the Höfner, his knuckles whitening, and gives it a hard, deliberate strum. The ugly, sour note reverberates through the studio, so jarring that it draws every eye in the room to him.

On the day Miss Powell becomes Mrs Lennon, Paul and his guitar hide behind the washing lines in his father’s backyard and stay there for a whole week. Anyone foolish enough to come within a five-mile radius gets their head snapped off, as if Paul’s got a thorn stuck in his heart and nowhere to shove it but out at everyone else.

***

When the baby arrives, Paul is determined to keep his distance. But Cyn insists, and the baby gurgles, tugging at Paul’s heart despite his resolve.

Julian has his father’s eyes and they work their quiet magic. Whenever he’s left alone in the room with the baby, Paul finds himself playing that nameless tune—his father’s not-so-waltzy-waltz—for Julian.

The baby, blessedly, seems to like it just fine.

October, 1963
The biggest party in London in the fall of 1963 is held in Brian’s very own Versailles on Charles Street. The place is draped in opulence, with chandeliers glittering overhead and velvet curtains framing every window. It’s the kind of do where everyone’s dressed to the nines, all under Brian’s orders, gathering to celebrate John’s twenty-third with everyone who’s anyone in the city.

Cyn and Brian move through the crowd like they’re the ones being toasted—Cyn with her warm, honest smiles, and Brian with his commanding presence. They clink fine champagne flutes, flashing practiced grins at music execs and movie stars. The air’s thick with posh accents and expensive perfume, and Paul can’t help feeling like a fish out of water, even after all these months of being dragged deeper into this world.

The lads—well, three of them, at least—are embalmed in starchy tuxedos that make them look more like guests at a royal wedding than rock ‘n’ roll stars. The room’s full of strangers—people who know their names but don’t know them, not really. Jane squeezes his hand excitedly, and Paul tugs at his collar, the fabric stiff against his neck like a noose. He glances around the room, trying to spot something—anything—that feels remotely familiar.

And John—well.

John’s gone and locked himself up on the fourth storey before Paul and Jane even arrived, and hasn’t come out since. Paul knows because he asked around, got the same answer from everyone, each shrug or casual dismissal causing his eyes to flick up to the backstairs. No one seems to bat an eyelid that the guest of honor’s done a runner, like it’s just another one of John’s little quirks—something to be shrugged off.

Typical John. Get the whole world to gather ’round for him, then just disappear with scorn, as though they’re all out to get him.

Paul kisses Jane’s cheek and mumbles something or other in her ear. She nods and beams at him, trusting and loving, as Paul grabs a guitar and legs it up to the fourth-floor lounge.

The door is locked. Paul knocks, first softly, then louder, his knuckles rapping against the wood in a steady rhythm.

“Johnny,” he calls, trying to keep his voice calm, steady, like he’s not worried—not really. But the silence on the other side is thick, pressing against him.

He knocks again, leaning his forehead against the door.

“C’mon, Johnny. It’s your party, eh? They’re all down there waitin’ for ya.”

Nothing. Paul sighs, sliding down to sit on the floor, the guitar resting on his knee. He starts strumming, soft and coaxing, hoping the notes will find their way through the cracks and into whatever dark corner John’s hiding in.

Eventually, he hears the soft click of the door unlocking.

“Oh, ‘s you,” John says, as though he’d have opened the door to anyone else.

John turns his back on him and slumps onto the French damask sofa, legs spread wide. There’s a whisky bottle in one hand, nearly empty, and a Cuban cigar in the other, which he drags on with long, angry pulls.

Paul steps inside, closing the door softly behind him. John’s been dropping deeper into bottles and growing wider in his figure this past year, his self-loathing festering deeper with each gold record. The more the world adores him, the more Cyn and Jules look at him like he’s the sun and the moon, the more Brian grovels for his every single whim—the more John seems to despise himself, spiraling further into a deep pit.

Paul hates this John with a vengeance. There’s something about self-pity in a talented, married, rich father of one that he finds very unswinging—downright pathetic.

Paul crosses the room, putting the guitar down and flipping open the cover of the beautiful piano at the center of the room. Brian’s gone and built them a rehearsal space in his own home, so they don’t deign (read: dare) take their business elsewhere when they’re out of the studio and away from his prying eyes. The whole setup reeks of privilege—the kind he and John used to mock but now seem to drown in, among damask and gold.

Paul starts playing a jaunty, cheerful rendition of Heart and Soul—the kind John hates with a passion. The kind that gets under his skin, every note carefully chosen to push all the right buttons, to cut through the whisky-fueled haze John’s been drowning in.

“How was she, then?” John asks, dripping with venom. That was fast.

“Who?”

“The nanny,” John spits.

As though Paul doesn’t know, hasn’t been making a point of shagging any bird that comes within a mile of John’s orbit. Just because he can. Just because he’s hoping it’ll get a rise out of him, hoping he can scar a bit of John’s heart, if only a tenth of how John has scarred his.

“Oh, her! Lovely bird, right up me alley,” Paul says, smirking to himself as he plays.

John’s knuckles go white around the whisky bottle. “Did ya have to have her in our bloody bed?”

“Well, she wanted it on all fours, didn’t she?” Paul quips.

“Just like you, eh? All fours and gagging for it,” John says bitterly. Paul’s left finger slips from the key, but he plays on, determined not to let it get to him. “Funny, that.”

“Oh, be a mate, Johnny, let a bloke have some fun.”

John takes another sip from the whisky and eyes Paul. “Yer pushin’ it, mate.”

Paul shrugs, trying to keep his cool, though the tension in the room is thick enough to choke on.

“Why d’you always have to tear at everything I’ve got? It’s so little as it is,” John asks, his voice quieter now, tinged with something closer to hurt.

“Is that what I’m doing, then?” Paul mutters.

“Cut the crap, I know exactly what you’re doing!” John slams the piano lid down with a sharp, deliberate thud, barely missing Paul’s dancing fingers. He wedges himself between Paul and the piano, towering over him, almost suffocating. It takes Paul right back to Paris—the last time he was the only thing John had his sights on.

“Just taking what I can get. What’s wrong with that?” Paul asks, his voice carrying a hint of defiance.

John’s expression hardens, the easygoing facade slipping away. “And what does that leave me, eh? What’s left for me when you’ve had your fill?”

“Plenty.” Paul forces the words out. “Everything. You’ve got everything.” John’s upper lip twitches, but he doesn’t speak. “Listen, mate, if this is about the nanny, you can have her. I’m sure she’ll be keen—”

“‘S not about the nanny,” John hisses, the venom in his voice catching Paul off guard. He shifts uncomfortably on the piano stool, his gaze dropping to John’s tuxedo buttons—anywhere but those eyes that seem to see right through him.

“You with your pretty face and yer silky words,” John sneers, his voice sharp as a blade. “If I did half the things you do, I’d be a monster, wouldn’t I? But not you, eh. Not Saint Paul, always getting everything he wants.”

Paul’s face contorts with something sour, bitter. “Not everything.”

John tuts, shaking his head. “Aye, you poor lamb.” He takes a long swig from the whisky, the bottle landing on the piano with a dull thud that’ll leave a stain Brian won’t miss. “I did everything right, didn’t I? Right by Cyn, right by the baby, right by you lads?”

Paul listens, his breath catching.

“I’ve done everything right by everyone, but I’m still so bloody miserable,” John admits, his voice raw with the kind of vulnerability he rarely lets slip.

“Well, if you’re doing everything right and yer still miserable, maybe you’ve gone and done the wrong thing.”

“Oh, piss off with yer clever shite!” John’s eyes flash with something between anger and hurt. “Why don’t you screw up for once, eh? Do the wrong thing, take the load off the rest of us for a change!”

“Alright.” He drops to his knees and a sneer curls at the corner of his mouth—he never could resist a challenge.

Paul catches John’s hips and draws him closer, burying his nose in John’s stomach. His familiar scent is all but gone. He’s a different man now, after all, but Paul can work with that.

"Jesus, what are you...?" John says, anger and confusion battling across his face.

"Screwing up," Paul replies. "Just like you wanted me to."

"Right now?" John asks, grabbing hold of the piano behind him as Paul unbuckles his belt.

"Imagine the headlines, eh?" Paul glances up at him, a hint of challenge in his eyes. He clucks his tongue, feigning scandal. "The wagging tongues."

"Christ. God, yes," John hisses, fingers tangling in Paul’s hair. "The door, get the door."

"Where’s the fun in that?" Paul teases, a wicked gleam in his eyes.

"Not fun at all," John growls, one hand shoving Paul’s mouth exactly where he wants it, the other scrambling for purchase on the slippery surface of the piano. Paul jerks John’s pants down, doing away with those pesky layers between them.

"I miss you, I miss—" John breathes, his hips rocking unevenly already, even though Paul’s barely touched him. "God, I’ve missed you."

“I’m right here,” Paul purrs, his voice steady. John shakes his head in frustration. “Always have been.”

The second Paul takes John in his mouth, it’s as though the entire world falls into a hush. The hum of the party fades into nothing, the ticking of the grand clock on the wall slips away, and all the little voices in his head, with their little plans and schemes, vanish into thin air.

John cries out, something primal and incoherent, as the head of his cock bumps against the back of Paul’s throat. “Fuck, Paul,” John breathes. Paul sucks and swallows, his tongue working the tender skin as though his life depends on it. He looks up at him through long lashes, and when their eyes meet he takes him deeper, ignoring his gag reflex, letting spit and precum spread between them. John squeezes his eyes shut at the sight of him and groans in a bid to keep going.

John’s entire body tenses and Paul knows he’s deliciously close to the edge; John can feel it too, and he grabs for Paul, pulling him up and bending him against the piano. “Want you,” John breathes in his ear and Paul hears a rustle behind him, of John shoving his own trousers down and then, with trembling hands, Paul’s as well.

Paul’s tight body gives in easily when John presses in. “Fuck,” Paul keens, and then, when the stretch turns rough, hisses in pain.

“Easy.” John’s breath is hot on his neck, watching as Paul’s body relaxes again. “Alright?”

Paul nods eagerly, rocking his hips for John to try again, releasing the knot in his body until John bottoms out. When John starts rocking, Paul grabs one of John's hands behind him, urging him to squeeze the soft skin of his arse. The touch makes John growl like an animal and immediately turn manic.

“Yes, yes, John, John.” Paul breath hitches to the punishing rhythm, like an obscene morse code. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—”

“I’m close,” John cries. “God, I’m close,” he says, losing control and biting the neck laid out in front of him to keep him from crying out loudly. Paul smiles winningly, a petulant little thing growing wider with each thrust, each jerk, at the thought of their come spread all over Brian’s persian rug.

John pulls on Paul’s cock in one last coherent thought, sending them both over the blind, winding edge.

They collapse onto the piano’s back, heaving and shaking, John’s sweaty forehead buried in the dip of Paul’s shoulder. They fumble for their trousers, struggling with untucked shirts, then take their time, finding their place back in the universe as them, as this.

Paul, his hands still trembling, opens the cover of the piano and carves out the first notes of Happy Birthday.

“Yer a cunt,” John huffs against his skin, squeezing his waist.

“Happy birthday, Johnny,” he says, his voice rough with use.

John steals a languid, open-mouthed kiss, tasting like himself again. For the first time in two years, Paul feels his soul click back into place. From the look in John’s eyes, Paul thinks he’s much the same.

Neil and Brian walk in on them ten minutes later, finding them both perched on the piano stool, looking for all the world as though they’re deep in the creation of a new melody. They’re disheveled, ruddy-cheeked, and high on love, but Paul knows that’s not what tips Brian off, no. It’s the smell—the unmistakable blend of sex and sweat drying on expensive wood.

Brian knows; Paul can see it in his eyes. He shoots him a winning smile, daring him to say something. When John nudges him, Paul turns, grinning at the man beside him, and begins to play a slow, loveful rendition of his Johnny’s Waltz, a melody played for its very own subject.

***

From that day on, they make a habit of sneaking into each other’s beds (and loos, and hotel storage rooms, and a grotto in Florida, the one time).

Paul, always the romantic, learns to come to terms with life as a star-crossed lover. It’s tormented, punctured love, and every time Paul watches him go, he swears he wouldn’t wish it on his worst enemies, but it is love, and isn’t something better than nothing?

***

The tune—that bloody tune—haunts him for years after that, never quite solidifying into a full song, but always there, humming under his skin. Every so often, he catches himself testing it out out on the piano when someone’s about.

“Does this sound familiar?” he asks Mike one evening, fingers drifting over the keys as dinner plates get cleared away. His brother’s puzzled look says it all.

For Jane’s mum, he plays it with a kind of desperate hope blooming in his chest. Surely, the music professor would… But she just gives a vague ‘hmm,’ promises to think it over, and never comes back with an answer.

“’s a nice one, that,” Ringo says with patented, distracted kind-heartedness at George and Pattie’s reception.

'Yesterday’ comes to him in a dream, clear as day. Paul never tells a soul, but sometimes he reckons his mum’s sending him musical bits and bobs from beyond the veil—except this time, she sent the whole package, tied up with a bow. Maybe the post service is getting better on the other side.

Paul’s not daft, but grief and love do funny things to the mind, shaping absences into ideas. And if those ideas make him write songs the whole world sings, well, he’s hardly going to complain. And so, by and large, he comes to think of his Gretna Green Waltz as just another odd little gift from his subconscious, or his mum, or maybe a bit of both. But in the small hours at Abbey Road, when he’s knackered and John’s sharp words sting for reasons he can’t quite pin down, he finds himself mumbling nonsense lyrics to George Martin. If anyone can spot whether it’s an original or just some half-remembered tune, it’s the maestro.

"Gretna green,

Hearts unseen,

Dee-da-dee, da–da,

Da-da-da, da-da,

Shadows dance,

Missed our chance,

Da-da-da, da-da..."

The producer's smile is wistful and kind, his foot tapping along with Paul's, but the melody guards its secrets still.

He plays it for Julian in Greece. Paul cradles his guitar as Julian sleeps next to him on a beach towel, eyes fluttering in that space between wakefulness and sleep. The steady pulse of the Aegean sea mimics the lullaby as if nature’s trying to soothe the little one alongside him.

Cyn sits beside them, watching John out on the golden stretch of sand, restlessly pacing back and forth like he’s searching for something the waves took away. The sight of him makes Paul dizzy, but he’s grown used to John leaving, coming back, and then leaving again, like a revolving door that never quite stops spinning.

“D’you reckon he’s happy?” she asks.

Paul keeps his eyes on the fretboard. It’d be too cruel to lie, and even worse to tell the truth.

“D’you reckon he’ll ever be?” Cyn tries again.

He shifts into another wordless verse, letting the tune carry the weight of his silence.

“I don’t know what else to do,” she admits, then falls silent. Drops of sea water glide down her hair, tracing a path over her skin.

Julian stirs but doesn’t wake, soothed, as always, by his voice.

It’s not until they’re rattling along towards Bangor to meet their next guru that he finally gets the answer he needs—the only answer that matters. John, who Paul could’ve sworn was asleep beside him, starts whistling; it winds perfectly into Paul’s idle strumming in an impromptu duet.

“It’s yours,” John mutters, eyes still shut tight against the world. “No one else’s.”

No, Paul doesn’t say when it all clicks. It’s yours. It’s you. Always has been.

Winter, 1968
Rishikesh turns out to be a disaster from the off. Their first morning, Cyn shuffles into breakfast with dark glasses perched on her nose, hiding puffy, cried-out eyes—the fallout from John’s public, humiliating insistence on separate bungalows the night before. She never takes the glasses off again after that, a constant reminder of John’s cruelty, catching the Indian winter sun every time she turns her head.

Paul's heart aches for her, it really does. He's intimately acquainted with John’s jagged edges, too, after all. Who knows the shape of a heart broken by John better than himself? But Cyn doesn’t turn to him for comfort; she turns to the girls. Like the regulars at his mum’s old salon, they’re all-seeing, all-knowing, their whispers just loud enough for Paul to catch snatches about John sneaking off at the crack of dawn for postcards and telegrams from Yoko. The revelation leaves him reeling, blindsided by an enemy creeping up on him that he hadn’t fully clocked.

The days crawl by like molasses, turning to a week, then another, thick with unspoken accusations and simmering resentment. Every now and then, Jane fixes him with a look that’d curdle milk. Her eyes narrow, suspicious, as though Paul's somehow complicit in John's betrayal.

He is, in more ways than one, but Paul was there first and he reckons he’ll be there far longer.

It's not just Jane, either. Mo does the same to Ritchie, her usual carefree cheer replaced by a frigid silence. Pattie's gaze follows George like a hawk, ready to swoop on the slightest misstep. The whole bloody lot of them have split into opposing camps—birds versus blokes, husbands against wives. Paul thinks back to when John put his foot in it over Jesus. John kicks the hornet's nest, and the other three are left swatting away the angry swarm.

Paul wants to laugh at the absurdity of it all, but the sound sticks in his throat like a fishbone. They’re supposed to be finding peace here, expanding their minds and all that rubbish. Instead, they're fracturing along fault lines none of them knew existed until now, threatening to tear apart everything they've built. John was first to marry, albeit begrudgingly, paving the way for the others to settle down despite Brian's protests. He can't imagine John leaving Cyn and Jules for... anybody, really. But if he did, he doesn't doubt the whole thing would launch a chain reaction from hell in their little group, a right powder keg just waiting for a spark.

The mood in the camp shifts when, a few days on, the girls head off to visit a nearby village. A strange calm descends over those left behind, settling like dust after a storm.

They’re scattered about, some lying under trees, others fiddling with instruments, all waiting for the Maharishi to make his appearance for the day. When he finally does, it’s with John trailing behind him, and Mal, trailing behind John as ever.

John swaggers over, giving the lot of them a cheeky wink before dropping himself down between George and Paul, who’s holding his guitar like a shield. John, always keen to poke at whatever’s raw, goes straight for it.

“Dreamt about ya last night,” John drawls, putting on a show. “We were dancing in ‘Pari’.”

“Wasn’t me, was it?” he mutters, not meeting John’s eyes. “Must’ve been some other poor sod.”

John’s smile stiffens. “Yer mad at me too, now?”

“Bugger off,” Paul snaps back, the words coming out harsher than he intended.

They fall into meditation, though Paul’s mind is miles away. The distant sound of the Ganges rushing down into the valley hums in the background, and something inside him cracks. He mutters an excuse about a dodgy tummy and slips away, heading back to their bungalow. He feels John’s eyes on him, sharp and probing, but he doesn’t dare turn around.

Inside the air is thick, almost suffocating. Incense mingles with the fading scent of Jane’s perfume, clinging to the damp walls. Paul flops onto the bed, his legs dangling over the side, his feet thudding against the floor.

His hand reaches out on instinct, finding another guitar and pulling it to his chest. Something’s been gnawing at him. It’s been growing for days, that nagging feeling, ever since he, too, saw John disappear into his bungalow clutching postcards, and writing furiously like he was scribbling out confessions instead of letters.

The door creaks open, and another wave of that ever-present smell—cow dung and damp earth—drifts in. He barely registers it, too lost in his own head, until a familiar, wiry figure moves into the room, creeping closer.

John crawls onto the bed, sliding up his body like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He pries the guitar from Paul’s grip, setting it aside. His breath is hot against Paul’s neck, smelling of cigarettes and sesame oil.

Then, just like he’s done so many times before, John’s lips find Paul’s collarbone, pressing there. It’s a well-worn routine—John’s way of slipping past every defense Paul’s built up, every nerve on edge as John’s tongue traces slow, deliberate circles around his Adam’s apple.

“Gerroff,” Paul groans, barely louder than a breath. John doesn’t budge, trailing kisses up the side of his neck. "John," Paul says, firmer now. "Lay off, will you?"

John pulls back with a sigh, his hand still resting on Paul’s stomach as he props himself up on one elbow. He studies Paul, who keeps his eyes fixed on the ceiling, refusing to meet his gaze.

“Not in the mood, then? Can't say I blame you. This bloody place is doing my head in."

“Can’t,” Paul says.

“Can’t what?”

“Can’t do this anymore.” The words scrape out like gravel. “Promised Jane I’d stop.” Of course, he’d promised Jane he’d knock it off with the other birds, and Jane doesn’t know about John, but he’s sharp enough to know the deal would cover the one bloke, too.

John scoffs, reaching for his fags. “What’d you go and do that for?”

“Because we’re engaged,” Paul bites back. “She’s my fiancée now.”

“Oh, right. That still on?”

“Yeah, it is.”

John lights up, blowing out a stream of smoke as he eyes Paul sideways. “She up the duff, then?”

“No—God, no.”

"What’s it for, then?" John cuts in. "She’s got the money and you’ve got your bit of skirt for the nightly perks. Why mess with a good thing?"

“Because she loves me,” Paul says. “And… it’s the right thing to do. I’ve strung her along long enough.”

John arches a brow, letting the smoke curl lazily around him. Paul knows he’s just given all the wrong answers, and John’s like an animal now, circling in, ready to pounce on his weakness.

"Oh, you've got it all arse-backwards. You either get hitched 'cause you've knocked her up or ‘cause no one else will have yer. Either way, you end up like the rest of us—old, miserable, and stuck. Run while you still can, lad.”

"To Yoko, like you?" Paul's words cut through the air like a knife.

“’m not shagging Yoko,” John grumbles, eyes darting away from Paul’s. “She’s a cold fish, her. Only after me coffers, she is. They’re nice coffers, mind.”

Paul scoffs, a bitter little sound. If John really believes that, he’s blind and stupid. But John’s neither; if anything, he’s a brilliant liar when he wants to be, and Paul reckons he’s being audaciously lied to right now. John lives for admiration, thrives on it, and Yoko, sharper than most, must’ve clocked that straight away and is now laying it on thick as treacle.

Not that Paul doubts she’s got her eye on his coffers, too.

Thing is, Paul could live with John’s marriage to Cyn; he’d gotten used to the unspoken understanding that came with it. It was a marriage of convenience, really, stitched together out of obligation and the need to keep up appearances—John’s way of cleaning up after the mess he’d made. Competing with Cyn, or even the string of birds John’s had on the side since, never felt like a real fight. There was no contest—Paul always wins. Always will. So he can handle John being with Cyn, and he could even handle John leaving her. But what he cannot handle—not in a million lifetimes—is John leaving Cyn for somebody else. Somebody who isn’t him.

This new thing with Yoko unsettles him. It’s been creeping up behind his back, a secret that John’s tried—clumsily, at times—to keep from the lot of them.

Yoko is a statement. An escape route.

But an escape from what?

From him?

“You leaving Cyn, then?"

John shrugs. "Unless she kicks me out first, yeah. That’s how it’ll go."

“You’ve been treating her like shite,” Paul mutters, eyes fixed somewhere on the floor.

“I’m a shite husband,” John retorts, matter-of-fact, like it’s carved in stone—just another truth he’s learned to wear like armor. “Not like you’ve been a bloody saint, have you? Had you in that poky little bedsit up in her parents’ house, didn’t I?”

Paul shrugs, brushing off the barb. That’s really neither here nor there.

John lets out a weary sigh, running a hand through his hair. “Just… don’t make it worse. Don’t go saddlin’ yourself with something you’ll regret.”

Paul’s mouth twitches, frustration creeping in. “Why shouldn’t I?”

“’Cause she’s not the one, now, is she?” John’s voice is flat, like he’s pointing out the most obvious thing in the world, and in that moment, Paul hates him for it.

He wants to argue, to tell John he’s wrong, but the truth sticks in his chest like a splinter. Jane’s perfect—on paper. She’s kind, patient, beautiful—so, so bloody beautiful— everything a man should want. But that’s the rub, isn’t it? She ticks all the boxes, but there’s no spark, no fire. He’s known it for a while now, but saying it out loud would tear open something he’s not ready to face.

“Well,” is all he finally manages; a weak admittance. “You married Cyn for all the wrong reasons. Still went through with it, didn’t you?”

“She was pregnant,” John says, exhaling smoke that curls in slow spirals. “What was I supposed to do? Leave her in the lurch?”

“But she wasn’t, was she?” Paul’s words tumble out sharp and jagged, each one laced with the sting of an old wound still festering.

She’d thought she was, but when the bloodwork came back, it was a false alarm. Still, John stayed, when they could have packed their bags and headed back to Paris and…

There’s a tear in the fabric of Paul’s life—a life that could have been, one where choices weren’t made out of fear or obligation. It’s a path he’s glimpsed in quiet moments, in the spaces between the noise and routine. And he’s been dragging that burden for years, too stubborn, too scared, or maybe just too naive to let it go.

He feels John’s eyes on him, sharp and unrelenting, reading him like an open book with all the pages laid bare. It’s unnerving, the way John can see straight through the layers Paul’s tried so hard to wrap himself in. In this moment, it’s like he might as well have ripped his heart out and handed it over, warm and bleeding, leaving it there between them, exposed and vulnerable.

“Paul.” John shifts on the bed, moving closer. “Paul.”

The way John says it—normally a comfort, something easy and familiar—now feels like an accusation, a question hanging heavy in the air: Is that what all this is about?

Paul laughs, but there’s a brittle, manic edge to it. He swallows hard, the idea that’s been gnawing at the edges of his mind suddenly taking root, wild and impossible and yet so very real.

"Let’s go back to Paris."

John blinks, caught off guard. “What?”

“Let’s just leave,” Paul whispers, his voice almost breaking. “Break it off with all of them and start over.”

John hesitates, crushing the fag in the ashtray with a deliberate, final twist. “Can’t do that.”

“Why not? You’re John bloody Lennon.” Paul’s voice rises, desperate. “And I’m Paul fucking McCartney. We can do whatever we want. Who’s gonna stop us?”

“I can’t.”

“Why? Why not?”

“’Cause you’ll leave me with nothing, same as everyone else,” John spits out before catching himself. “You’ll leave, and I’ll die.”

Paul scoffs, expecting John to laugh it off, but he doesn’t. “Why would I leave?”

“Because you will,” John says, and there’s a finality to it, a certainty.

"No. No, John—"

“Yes, Paul.” John’s voice is cold, resigned. “One day you’ll find some bird who’s perfect and beautiful, and she’ll give you a perfect and beautiful baby, and you’ll leave. Might be in two years, might be in ten, whenever.”

“John, hold on—”

“And if it’s just us two in Paris or Rome or wherever and I’ve got to watch you walk away from me, it’ll be the death of me. You know it will.”

They stare at each other, breathless, John’s confession landing like a bomb in Paul’s mind.

“But if I’ve got Cyn, or Yoko, or whoever, if there’s some skirt, y’know, I can hide behind that, can’t I? Pretend it’s got nothing to do with you.”

“Christ, John, you can’t say that—”

“Brian warned me about you, you know, all the time.” John’s voice shifts, taking on that mocking edge as he mimics Brian’s posh accent with a cruel twist. “‘Those eyes and those cheekbones—he’ll sell us all out for some tweedy blonde stick soon as she bats her lashes, you just wait.’”

“Sod Brian, what’d he know about any of this?”

“He knew enough,” John insists.

“That bloody, conniving little cunt!” Paul snaps back. “Where’s he now, eh? Gone and topped himself, and I’m still here, ain’t I?” Paul takes a breath, trying to steady himself. “So… so, what, you reckon Yoko’ll never leave you?”

Aiming for John’s rationale has always been a fool’s errand, but he has to try.

“She won’t,” John says, his voice soft, almost childlike. Paul barks out a harsh, bitter laugh. “She promised,” John repeats, and he sounds like a fool. Like a damn fool.

“Why can’t you believe me when I promise you?” Paul’s voice cracks, his desperation bleeding through. “You could just believe in us, for once. Fuckin’ ‘ell, John, is that too much to ask?”

“Paul, why mess with this, eh? This works. It’s good.” John reaches for Paul’s hand, but Paul slaps it away, the sting of betrayal sharp and undeniable.

“No, it’s not,” Paul’s voice finally shatters, bitter and raw. “’S not good at all.”

John’s face twists. Paul’s just redrawn the lines of their whole relationship.

“Just say you don’t love me,” Paul says, his voice splintering. “At least then I’d know where I stand.”

“I could.” John stares at him. “And that’ll make this better for you?”

“Yes,” Paul says, locking his eyes on John’s, because he needs—needs—to anchor all of this in something solid, something he can point to and say, there, he doesn’t love me, that’s the reason. Because he doesn’t know how to live with feeling so deeply loved and yet so completely abandoned at the same time.

John just sits there, mouth half-open, the words caught in his throat like stones he can’t swallow. They both know John could never say it—won’t say it—because no one loves Paul quite like John does.

The sun rises in the east, night falls every day, John loves Paul, and Paul loves John. Everything in between is a tragic complication.

“Jane’s had enough of this place,” Paul mutters under his breath. “I told Neil to sort us out and get us gone as soon as he can. Might want to get yourself sorted before that.”

“What’s that s’posed to mean?”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

John’s face goes pale. “What if I don’t?”

“Dunno.” Paul’s voice is flat as he picks at a loose thread on the bed cover. Probably nothing. The sun rises in the east, and Paul loves John. Always has, always will. Doesn’t know any other way to live, and truth be told, doesn’t care to know. But his heart aches, so an ultimatum feels like something to do.

John inches closer, pressing his lips softly against Paul’s. It’s gentle, almost desperate.

“Don’t,” Paul breathes. He shifts away, putting a bit of space between them. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

John’s face crumples—half panic, half heartbreak. For a split second he catches the shadow of the violent incarnation of the lost boy, betrayed by the world, rearing its head like a monster. It’s never been aimed at Paul before, only at others.

John’s fingers fumble with the door handle, clumsy in his rush to leave. The door creaks, and he pauses, speaking without looking back at Paul.

“You would’ve left me in Paris, you know you would’ve,” he confesses, the years not softening a sting Paul never even knew existed. “What was I supposed to do?”

Then he slips out, the door shutting behind him with a soft, final click.

In the days that follow their conversation in Paul’s bungalow, Cyn isn’t the only one stalking the ashram in oversized sunglasses that double as armor, hiding puffy cheeks and eyes that haven’t had a decent rest from crying. John does the same whenever he drags himself out of his bungalow, masking whatever storm’s brewing behind them. Paul finds himself following suit, the three of them barely acknowledging one another.

On Paul and Jane’s last day at the ashram, the usual tension hanging over the group is shattered by Neil, who barrels into the scene with his typical lack of subtlety, all bright smiles and forced cheer.

Completely oblivious to—or perhaps determined to bulldoze through—the mood, he urges them all to pick out their favorite photos from the past few years for a feature in Time magazine. The piece is meant to showcase how much they have “grown” and “evolved,” with promises of favorable coverage—conveniently brushing over John’s recent PR disasters—in exchange for exclusive, unseen personal pictures.

They’d all been asked to bring stacks of photos from home, and now, nudged into reluctant participation by Neil’s persistence, they find themselves hunched over piles of memories.

“What’s all this, then?” George asks, holding up a stack of photos for John.

Paul’s stomach twists when he recognizes them—photos he never meant to share. They’re from his own stash at home, private memories he’d rather keep hidden. John’s been half-heartedly flicking through his own pile, barely looking at the pictures before tossing them aside, but when he sees what George is holding up, his expression freezes.

“‘s Paris,” John mutters, his voice low and strained.

“Paris?” Cyn echoes, frowning in confusion. “I don’t remember—”

“The other time,” John cuts in.

“But what is it?” Mo presses, leaning closer.

“Just some flat,” John blurts out, his voice a bit too sharp. “Some shite flat down the hall from a record shop we used to go to.”

“What’s that behind you?” Mo gestures at the photo.

“Nothing,” John mutters. “Just a load of junk.”

Paul feels a tightening in his chest, something twisting inside him, close to breaking. He stands without a word, his movements slow and deliberate, as if any sudden motion might shatter the fragile hold he has on himself.

When he’s gone far enough, he catches the edge in Neil’s voice behind him. “Lads?” Neil calls out, the question tinged with concern and hesitation, which can only mean one thing—John’s walking out too.

But Paul doesn’t turn around, doesn’t bother to search for his eyes.

Later that night—his and Jane’s last at the ashram—Paul wanders the grounds like a ghost, strumming his hollow not-quite-waltz on his guitar. For the first time ever, words start to fall into the orphaned melody, piecing themselves together.

Parachutes, army boots, candlesticks.

Broken-hearted jubilee.

Junk.

By dawn's first light he’s perched outside John’s bungalow, guitar in hand, softly singing his new song. He doesn’t even know if John’s in there, but he waits anyway, hoping John will hear him, step outside, and give him a reason not to leave India without him.

The sun rises in the east, but John never comes out of his room with it.

***

Weeks, months, years down the line, that day in the bungalow would be the one Paul looked back on and wished he could rewrite; too selfish in Paris, not selfish enough in Rishikesh.

If he could, he’d turn back time, let John kiss him, let him have him, let him have whatever he wanted. He’d have taken crashing and burning together any day over the slow, torturous descent into the kind of hell Dante would’ve written a new circle for.

***

And that's how the greatest love of Paul’s young life ends—not with a bang, but with a long, suffering whimper.

And it breaks his heart.

***

When Jane gives him the boot on the telly, Paul finds a strange sort of comfort in the public spectacle. It gives him the perfect stage to parade his supposed heartache—a smokescreen of sorrow that hides the real wound. While all of London whispers about poor Paul, pining for his lost love, no one suspects the true source of his grief: John, who’s made his choice and drifted further into Yoko’s orbit.

May, 1968
Paul pulls out his little black book a few days before they’re set to leave for New York. He flips through the pages, rings them up one by one, desperate for a bit of easy affection. Peggy won’t see him—something about being busy, but Paul knows it’s more than that. He can hear it in her voice, the finality of it. The others don’t even bother ringing back.

His eyes settle on a name near the bottom of the list. A blonde stick, the tweediest of them all—the perfect poke right in Scott and Zelda’s eyes.

Lucky, that.

He can hear her smile over the phone even before she says his name. Joke’s on him; he’ll fall for her like a brick wall before the year’s out.

January, 1969
He plays his Gretna Green Waltz at Twickenham one afternoon when the camera crew’s out for lunch and the cameras are off. The melody bounces off the bare, unforgiving walls as Paul hunches over the piano, shoulders tight, like he’s trying to shield this fragile thing from all the acrimony hanging in the room.

He’s brooding, and there’s not a thing he can do about it. Last week, Linda’s bloodwork confirmed they’ll be having a summer baby, due in August. She’s not showing yet, but it’s only a matter of time. Last night, Paul rang his dad to have his mum’s engagement ring shipped overnight. Now it’s buried in his pocket, and he feels like screaming for the whole world to hear.

He could just stop playing and tell them all, couldn’t he? Ritchie’d give him a clumsy hug, George would flash him one of those daft grins, and Derek would probably shove a cigar in his hand while he’s busy turning beetroot red with pride. That’d do the trick, wouldn’t it?

But then there’s John.

He’s sprawled nearby, a master of calculated indifference behind those glasses that make him look like an owl. There’s a tension in his jaw that Paul knows better than he’d like. He’s high on something—coke, acid, or those weird macrobiotic pills Yoko’s got him on. Or maybe, Paul thinks with a twist in his gut, he’s high on her, too far gone to notice Paul bleeding out all over the keys.

Paul dreads telling him, knowing it’ll be met with a silent “I told you so”, because John was painfully, achingly right: Paul’s gone head over heels for Linda, perfect and beautiful, and now she’s carrying his perfect and beautiful child.

It’s been less than a year, and he’s lost what was a losing bet in the first place.

Linda looked at him, soft and shy, and said, “I could make a home for you,” and went ahead and did just that. And his heart, starved for a simple, uncomplicated kind of love for a change, gave way and let that bit of hope bloom. Paul hadn’t planned on it, didn’t see it coming, but in their own fumbling way, he and Linda made their choice, too.

The melody twists under his fingers, turning sadder, more resigned. He lets it wind down, trailing off into silence like the last breath of something dying.

No one says a word when the music stops. They’re too busy falling apart to notice.

August, 1969
When the baby comes and they place her in his arms for the first time, she’s wailing like a banshee and the dead spit of his dad.

His dad!

Paul giggles, ruddy-cheeked, thinking how bloody unfortunate that is for a little girl. Instinctively, he glances up, searching for a pair of eyes to share the joke with—but the eyes he’s looking for aren’t there.

The joke dies quickly in his throat.

January , 1970
“Paul?”

The rain lashes against the windows as Linda calls from the door. A soaked courier from EMI, looking for all the world like a drowned rat, shivers on their doorstep, waiting for Paul’s latest demo reels. Paul hurriedly shoves them into a bag, giving each a quick once-over to make sure he’s sending the right ones.

“Coming!” he shouts back, eyes darting over the mess on his desk. Linda, ever the polite hostess, offers the poor sod a cuppa while Paul’s gaze locks on one reel in particular. The paper insert, yellowed like nicotine-stained fingers, peeks out accusingly from the stack.

“TRACK NAME: GRETNA GREEN WALTZ” it reads, and his heart trips in his chest. His teeth find his thumbnail, gnawing at it as he stands rooted to the spot. Somehow, a pen ends up in his hand, and the tip scratches against the paper.

TRACK NAME: “GRETNA GREEN WALTZ”

And instead, writes:

“JOHNNY’S WALTZ”

“Paul?” Linda’s voice is closer now, tinged with gentle concern.

“Give me a mo’!”

The name hangs there. The pen moves again, driven by some stubborn impulse, striking out the second line.

TRACK NAME: “GRETNA GREEN WALTZ”

“JOHNNY’S WALTZ”

It’s not a waltz, and Johnny’s gone, and before he was gone, he’d made his thoughts perfectly clear about it all, hadn’t he?

His hand shakes, and something cracks inside as he scratches out one more title, this time with grim finality.

“JUNK”

And there it lies, a truth laid bare in four letters; Paul’s heart condensed into a single, harsh syllable.

November, 1971
Months bleed into a year, almost two—a hazy blur of regret and half-empty bottles. One night, he’s shuffling down the hall during a rare break from listening to “How Do You Sleep” on repeat until the grooves nearly wear out.

Linda’s on the phone with some hack from the papers, no doubt doing damage control after his latest meltdown.

“Oh, he doesn’t give it a second thought,” Linda’s saying, weaving pretty little lies. “It’s just… John being John.”

She falls quiet for a moment, humming softly as she listens to whatever rubbish the journo’s spouting. Paul recognizes a diversion when he hears one: “‘Junk’ is my absolute favorite. Yes, from the first one. It’s pure Paul, you know. Everything I adore about him.”

Paul slumps against the wall, suddenly knackered. One day, he thinks, he’ll muster up the courage to thank her properly—for bearing the weight of his broken heart, for pretending not to see John’s ghost lingering in every corner of their life. Linda deserves better than half a husband.

Some day, soon, he’ll give her just that.

But not tonight. Tonight, he’ll drag himself back to the studio, drop the needle on the vinyl once more, and pretend that the tightness in his chest is just the strain of legal wrangling and business headaches—nothing more.

***

And so it goes, year after interminable year; John, in his self-imposed exile, forever reading between the lines, finding barbs where none exist but oblivious to Paul’s heart when it’s right there, laid bare for the entire world to hear—track number 6, another little reprise, just in case, for those daft enough to somehow miss it.

Epilogue
John’s death isn’t just a loss, it’s an erasure.

Paul eventually releases “Here Today”—a neat little eulogy for the masses, perfectly tailored for the collective grief machine. It’s polite grief, grief with all the sharp edges sanded down to keep up appearances. But it’s a lie, a façade—packaged and palatable.

Grief, in truth, looks like this: after giving one disastrous interview, Paul reacts the same way he did when his mum died—he stops talking for a fortnight.

Not a word.

The phone goes unanswered, the letters stack up, and Linda handles everything because Paul’s mind has gone somewhere she can’t follow. A doctor comes round, offering something to take the edge off, but Paul nearly takes his head off with an ashtray. Linda sends the kids away, just like they did when his mum died. He hated his dad then for retreating into that blank, unreachable space, but now he understands.

Mike pops by some days, and at one point, he’s sure he can hear George clattering about with the kettle somewhere in the background. Then there’s George’s familiar hand on his back and a cuppa set down in front of him that goes stone cold while a silhouette, George-shaped and still as anything, stares blankly out the kitchen window.

It dawns on Paul that they’re taking turns, that he’s being watched over, his beloved Cavendish now turned into his own private Bedlam, but he’s past caring.

Ritchie shows up next, just sits with him, quiet, smoking away the hours, neither of them daring to break the silence. At some point, Paul almost opens his mouth to say, “I’m only thirty-eight. How’m I meant to go on another fifty years feeling like this?”

But he doesn’t.

The days blur together, and eventually, Ritchie fades away like smoke.

Then, one night, Linda finds him in the back garden, wild-eyed and running on fumes, standing over a pyre made of everything he owns that John ever touched—old photographs, a shirt worn soft from years of wear, torn sheets of half-written lyrics.

He’s doused it all in petrol, hands shaking as he fumbles for the box of matches he swears he had on him.

His mum once told him that hoarding is what lonely people do, collecting little tokens to hold onto when love’s got nowhere else to go. John’s dead, and Paul’s drowning in love he’s got no use for anymore, with no one left to carry it with him. Better to just burn the whole lot down.

Linda doesn’t say a word as she leads him back inside, but her hands are steady, her grip firm. She presses a pill into his hand, coaxes him to bed.

When he wakes, he locks himself in the studio, losing himself in the one melody that’s been haunting him for decades—a love letter returned to sender, composed by his fevered mind long before they ever met.

Gretna Green Waltz

Johnny’s Waltz

their waltz,

his John.