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The days in the studio are beginning to blur together, the constant chatter and gossip of a grand spectacle to come boring him to his core. Sure it wasn’t all a drag: the lads were there to kick up some music, even if most of it wasn’t to John’s taste. It was lively when they workshopped the first few songs, Two of Us a riot despite the way George took off in the midst of tinkering with it. Paul was laughing then, and despite the way things were growing strange between them, they had made their own fun. It had been a while since they made music together. Actually together; none of those songs they penned with their god damn double-barreled surnames to despite the fact one of them was just standing there, taking direction instead of offering their piece.
But that was short lived. John made some songs, George made that little waltz, and Ringo toyed around with a jolly tune reminiscent of that old song he sang on Sergeant Pepper. Hell, that little concert was even canceled. Then Paul had to go and ruin it with his blubbering.
It was awful. He’d flit around with the piano keys, making melodies on his lonesome in some corner while John went and had a smoke with Yoko, looking into that camera that the director kept shoving in their faces with sad, sad, eyes, as if he was Christ on the cross Himself.
”The long and winding road…”
He should have seen the McCartney change coming, ever since he came out with that feeble Yesterday that caught the awe of all middle aged mothers and grannies alike. He had been cross the song had even ended up in that album back then, if only he had seen the flurry of sentimental slush Paul could pull out of his ass now, replacing their rock and roll style with something straight out of a church. It made his arms itch that he even had to put his name next to it. But it was just one album. One more album and show to appease that weeping part of Paul’s heart that saw their band they made as teenagers in that club as everything.
”You left me standing here…”
He lets the lyrics wash over him, not looking as the man played the piano like an angel, eyes awash with a teary shine that made John’s stomach twist uncomfortably. Looking at Yoko’s slow knitting told him what he needed to know. His morning rush was tapering to an end, his arms holding his guitar suddenly feeling weak. Unimpressed, he manages to do his part in finishing the song, Paul wiping a bit at his eyes near the end of it, acting like it was sweat.
“It sounds good.”, Paul says with a nod. “I think if we even add some background orchestrals-”
“It’s fine.”, John says. The last thing the song needed was more theatrics. The clock on the wall ticks, hands on an evening time. His mouth felt dry, but he knew if he asked for another beer they would be sitting there for hours more. Standing, he stretches his legs, Yoko looking up at him in a questioning gaze before he nods. It was all she needed to grab her coat off the chair, putting it back on.
“Heading out then?”, Ringo is the one who asks. He’s been fairly quiet these days, his eyes looking between John and Paul. As if Paul was his keeper.
“Yeah.”, John says simply. “Be back tomorrow.”
“Night then.”, George says, his stormy expression from the earlier sessions gone, replaced with a cool indifference. Christ, John’s head hurt.
“Wait- Just wanna show you one more thing.”, Paul says, sliding out of his piano seat to stand and walk over, paper in his hands. “Y’know I was thinking for the Two of Us we can add-”
“Still with that song?”, John asks.
“Well you liked it well enough before.”, Paul huffs at the tone, lips pursing.
“Yeah, I did. It’s a good song, Paul. But we have a dozen other songs to make besides that one song.”
“I know-”
“And I can’t make anything when I’m tired.”
“And I know that too, but this will only take a minute-”, Paul pushes on, John’s irritation climbing as the man all but blocks his path. Grinding his teeth, he takes a hold of Paul’s wrist, snatching the papers from his hand.
“I’ll look at them well enough tomorrow then, since it will only take a minute.”, He says, pausing minutely when he sees the pinched look on Paul’s face, eyes drawing to where John still was holding his arm.
“Alright then.”, Paul finally says, wrenching his arm from the hold, quickly tugging at the bottom of the green button-up sleeve. John stares at it, confused by the reaction, by the way Paul suddenly gave up his fight to butt his way into John’s schedule. Then there it is, a pin-prick of red seeping through the fabric, making that little tingling of nausea grow tenfold.
“You’re hurt.”, He says simply, stepping closer to Paul.
“What?”, Paul says, panic flashing there before he’s laughing, his feet turning away to go back to the comfort of his sturdy piano before John grabs his shoulder and plants him firmly in place.
“Your arm. It’s bleeding.” Paul doesn’t even bother to look before he’s shaking his head.
“Yeah. Ok. I had a little spill yesterday and scraped up my arm. It’s all taken cared of.”, Paul pushes out again, eyes weaving between Yoko standing next to them, to the band in the back, to the camera still pointed right at them, before finally they settle onto John.
And fuck. Standing there, inches apart, face in front of him without the glimmer of the music and dancing, John wonders just when the hell did Paul begin to look this terrible.
He looked like a well-together man from afar, smiling and working, and playing the part. The same bossy busy-bee that didn’t fail to drive the rest of the band nuts. But now he can catch the sour smell of the man’s breath, can see the shiny sheen of grease on his messy black hair, and the scraggly beard that did little to hide the softness of his features.
“It suits you.”, George had said about the facial hair at one of their meetings. Like hell it did. This was Paul. The man who went nuts when the clue of a shadow showed on his chin, always trying to wrangle John into the bath to shave it for him. It should be driving him crazy. He should be fussing in the mirror over his hair, making sure each strand was tidy and in place. A syrupy horror fills his lungs, makes it difficult to get a breath in and out with the sight of his best friend so broken, and yet he fucking missed it. What was wrong with him?
“Must have been a nasty spill if it’s still bleeding like that. I’m sure we have a first aid kit here somewhere.”, Lindsay-Hogg is saying, about to motion for one of the people milling about the studio to go and fetch one. Paul shook his head with a slight laugh.
“Don’t worry, it’s nothing to stop the show.”, He says with a wink to the camera, his fingers nervously flexing before he's biting at one, eyes averting, ignoring the hand still on his shoulder. Yoko looks up at John expectantly. It was time to go home. His feet couldn’t move.
“Let’s chat.”, John decides suddenly, Paul looking at him in surprise. He holds up the papers still in his hand, scribbled lyrics and notes and odd doodles. “About these.”
“Right.”, Paul looks slightly relieved at the subject change. “Ok, yes.”
“First, let’s get that first aid kit. Don’t need you messing up that shirt more.”, John says casually, putting his arm around Paul’s shoulder, quietly motioning for Yoko to follow with his free hand.
“John. It’s really nothing.”, Paul says again, voice firm.
“We can get that for you. You lads stay here.”, Lindsay-Hogg pipes up, John shoots him a quick glare, ready to tell him just how little he cares about his damn show before Paul shoots him a look, nodding.
“It’s ok. Let’s just go.”, Paul says.
“Alright…”, The director allows, the people in the room watching quietly as they leave, none the wiser to the slight panic in Paul’s eyes.
John plucks some emergency first aid kit off the wall in the hallway, not letting go of Paul as he leads him to a quiet room, shutting the door behind them and leaving the three in rare privacy. Paul looks tiredly between John and Yoko before reaching into his pocket, pulling a pack of ciggies out.
“What a scream. You even picked up the damn thing.”, Paul says, lighting a stick up before motioning to the aid kit still in John’s hand. Paul moves from his touch, walking over to the table in the room and sitting atop it. “What was it you really wanted?”
“You’re different.”, John says, frowning at the way Paul laughs, puffing at his cigarette.
“That’s rich, Lennon.”, Paul says. “Want to complain more about the songs?”
“That’s not what I’m talking about-”
“Then what? Have more to say about Linda?”, Paul plays obtuse again.
“As if you haven’t said your piece about Yoko-”, John snaps before he pinches the bridge of his nose, his headache growing. “That’s not what I’m bloody talking about and you know it. Something is going on with you!”
“Yeah. We have the band going on right now. While it’s lasting.”, Paul says, continuing to smoke as he picks at the fake flowers on the table piece. “Speaking of which, can we actually talk about the song now? I was thinking-”
“You’re not well.”, John pushes, stepping closer.
“And you are?”, Paul says in disbelief, eyes looking him up and down before his face pinches. “How can you say that when you’re standing here looking like that? You look like a corpse!”
“So I lost some weight-”
“Some? That’s not the half of it.”, Paul looks to the side, lips turning downwards. “Christ. It keeps me up at night. You look sick. It’s that stuff you take. You and her-”
“John losing weight is not an issue.”, Yoko speaks up, her voice making Paul’s face go blank, any softness there before disappearing behind a cool indifference. Yoko steps beside John, putting a hand on his arm. “What is it about Paul that is worrying you?”
“You wouldn’t know, Yoko.”, John turns to her, voice gentler. “This isn’t like Paul. It’s never been like Paul to let his appearance go like this.”
“Oh so that’s what this is?”, Paul scoffs, fingers pinching his cigarette so hard it might snap. “Don’t look good enough for the band? Want me to shoot up with you and lose some pounds?”
“Oh shut up already!”, John snaps, turning on his heel and jabbing a finger into the man’s chest, Paul narrowing his eyes. “Since when does Paul McCartney grow a beard? You come in here smelling like shit, playing your sentimental slosh and weeping in front of a camera. Don’t you see something wrong with that?”
“So it is about my songs-”
“I didn’t leave you!”, John says, the grating lyrics he tried to ignore coming back to him in a fit of anger. Lyrics about times of trouble, about being left out alone. All sad doe eyes right at fucking John who can’t bear to look. “Why are you singing that shit when I’m right here?”
“That’s rich. Everything isn’t about you!”, Paul laughs, something high pitched and crackling, his angry eyes shiny again. “The song is about a road. A bloody road!”
“And I’m the Queen of England.”, John runs a hand through his hair, clenching his teeth before shaking his head. “Just. Let me see the scrapes then. And tell me the truth. You got into a scrap didn’t you?”
“A scrap? You just think I’m a drunk don’t you-”, Paul says, putting his arms behind him to latch onto the edge of the table, petulant as he looks past John and at the door to the room. “Go home. You were so eager to leave before. Don’t worry, you successfully made me feel like shit.”
“I’m not a villain here.”, John says. “I’m not going to sit here and feel sorry for you, or apologize for wanting to leave the band. We all want to leave. We’re not going to sit here playing A Hard Day’s Night forever just because you’re sad.”
“I’m not keeping anyone from leaving.”, Paul says, blinking rapidly before nodding. “You’re right. You’re not the villain. Happy? Now just go.”
“Paul-”, John says, anger dying down into something worse. Sighing, he tilts his glasses down, still seeing the way Paul’s face is red from holding back those tears. “It’s just me, Paul.”
It used to always calm Paul down. When they would scuffle with words until the two were shaking from anger. But now Paul doesn’t look into his eyes and understand. He looks past him, looking at Yoko who watches the two of them, John’s new faithful shadow. Looking down, Paul says nothing. There is no “I know”. There’s nothing. Just a silence that makes that awful feeling in John grow. Yoko takes a step, probably thinking that this is it, that they will leave, but Christ, John can’t leave things like this.
Grabbing onto Paul’s arm, he pries it away from the table, ignoring the way the man tries to wrestle the touch away, a protesting noise in his throat when the sleeve is tugged down, a mess of red and bandages going down to the elbow. His heartbeat rings in his ears. He’s heard of this before. Of course he has. In those foggy days in Liverpool when he just wanted to sleep and sleep. There was always a way out. There were people who slit their wrists and bathed in bathtubs until all the pain stopped. He never gave into those nagging thoughts. He couldn’t when that doe-eyed left-handed guitarist was always popping up in his life, showing him new music, telling him new dreams.
His Paul. His flower, his love. With trembling fingers, he peels off the bandages, not caring when Paul hisses at the sudden movement, an awful noise escaping John’s mouth when he sees neat and tidy lines overlapping ones scabbed over or scarred.
“Paulie.”, John chokes out, unable to stop the string of unfinished questions. “When did you-? Why did you-? How many times have you-?”
Paul’s shoulders shake, his arm slack where John holds it, any fight left in him sapped out and replaced with a numbness that reaches his eyes. Shaking his head, John drops the arm, taking a hold of Paul’s shoulders and shaking them, as if the action would make the light in his eyes come back.
“Paul. How could you?”
Those red lips part, a shaky breath escaping him before they thin into a line that quickly wobbles from the force of whatever thoughts were rattling inside his head. With the way Paul was shaking, it was a miracle he was still standing upright. John runs a hand through his hair, ignoring the oil of the strands and touches the side of cheek where the stubble burns against his skin.
“Answer me. Paul-”
“This is a wound to the soul.”, Yoko steps beside them, looking at Paul with pity. “Something like this needs-”
“Go.”, Paul interrupts, voice small and shaking but stabbing as he furiously pulls his sleeve down, not even bothering to fix the unraveled bandages.
“I’m not leaving. I’m not letting you kill youself-”
“If I wanted to kill myself I’d be gone.”, Paul snaps, chest heaving, breaths stuttering before he swallows thickly. “I’m leaving for the day. Just stay out of my business.”
“Paul…”
“I can’t do this right now.”, Paul pleads, tears pooling in his eyes before they tumble down his face, his shaking legs circling around the two, as if he was a wounded animal trapped in a box. “Just mind your own business.”
“I can’t just let you go now-”
“Why not?”, Paul laughs wetly. “You’ve done a lot of that these days-”
“I’m here now-!”
“With her!”, Paul cries, words hyperventilating as he steps backwards, nearer to the door. “How could you do that? If it was just you I might have told you. But with her? I barely know her and you go and do that.”
“Yoko isn’t going to tell anyone.”, John tries to reassure, hand reaching out but faltering when Paul takes another step back, uncomforted even by Yoko nodding along to John’s words.
“What a relief.”, Paul laughs terribly, trembling from nerves and anger as he turns the knob and yanks the door open. He turns his head, those eyes finally looking at John’s before his shoulders deflate. “Goodbye John.”
John stands there, watching as Paul walks out the room, door slamming shut behind him, the sound making him feel like he might throw up right there on the floor.
“John…”, Yoko says, putting a hand on the small of his back for comfort. “Let’s go home. Nothing will be solved with you like this.”
“I just don’t get it.”, John says wetly. “He almost killed himself and I didn’t even notice. He didn’t tell me anything.”
“Let’s go home.”, Yoko repeats. John opens his mouth, tries to explain, but he finds he can’t. Nobody but Paul would know just what he was feeling. Disheartened, he allows her to lead him out of the room.
It was a miracle he made it to the studio the next morning with the state he was in, nerves abuzz and body feeling worn from a sleepless night. Any other day he would have considered just turning over and getting a few hours in, even if it would make Paul cross. But how could he do that when the cause of his sleeplessness was Paul himself.
When he and Yoko make it to the studio, the man is already there, sitting on the piano with a little girl by his side, smiling away as he takes her hands in his and directs them in a shoddy rendition of Mary Has a Little Lamb. It was Linda’s girl, Heather he thinks her name was. It only takes a turn of his head to see the woman sitting to the side, adoration in her eyes as she watches the two.
Frowning, John walks over to her, a quiet hello said in greeting. She looks up at him, smile falling before it's replaced by one less than sincere.
“Good morning John.”, She says back. “And Yoko. How are you two?”
“Splendid.”, John throws out, peering over at Paul still playing at the keys. He sits next to Linda, questions forming on his tongue, like why didn’t she bloody know that her boyfriend’s arm looked like he dipped it in a paper shredder ten-times over.
Before he can ask anything of the sort, she sighs. “It’s nice to see him like this.”
“Why’d you say that?”, He challenges, watching the way Paul giggled along with the child. Linda pauses, looking down at her hands before she speaks in a quieter voice.
“I think…He is going through a lot.”, She confessed. “I feel like he can really use a friend right now.”
“I’ve been here haven’t I?”, He says defensively. She looks over him before hesitantly nodding.
“I suppose so. But it’s all about work isn’t it? When he’s home he just looks so sad…”, She says before shaking her head and sitting up straighter. “Sorry. I guess I just worry…”
“Well the thing is-”
“Ah, John! In early, good, good.”, Michael walks over to them, his loud voice making Paul look up and pause his playing, freezing up when he sees the two sitting together. John nearly curses before he bites his tongue to keep from glaring at the director.
“Yes. What is it?”
“I was telling Paul earlier…About how sorry it is that we didn’t get to do the performance.”
“Real sorry.”, John says dryly.
“But- I was thinking that perhaps we don’t have to abandon the idea altogether. We could do something sporadic to the public. Perhaps play at a park.”
“A park?”, John muses, entirely uninterested.
“Yes! But, Paul did have the brilliant idea of going up to the roof to play.”
“Come again.”
“The roof! We could bring all of your instruments up there easy enough. And the people could hear the album as they go on their way to work or what-not.”
John’s ears ring, his gaze once again looking at Paul whose expression is blank. The roof. Leave it to Paul to think of something so drastic. The image of them playing in the London cold makes his expression sour.
“I don’t think so…”
“Come on. Even you can climb up some stairs, right?”, Paul finally speaks up from across the room. “It would be fun.”
“Fun.”, John repeats.
“Fun.”
He’s serious about this then. He sees the display smile on Paul’s face, the light absent in his eyes, so obviously fake it makes his stomach churn.
“Alright then…”, John says finally, just to get them all to stop looking at him.
“Excellent! I’ll tell the rest of the lads when they arrive.”
“Tell us what then?”, Ringo says as he pops in, George right behind him smoking a cigarette. The director bounces over to them, excitement in his voice as he explains the idea, the two looking unsure.
The idea hangs in the air, the four just wanting to get on with their playing as they sit down at their posts, goofing off with a few covers before delving into their music making. It was easy then to forget about it. The concert and Paul. With the way the man was smiling and singing it was easier not to think about the sight from yesterday. He half expected the man to say something about their encounter, but that was a mistake on his part. When has Paul ever continued a serious conversation like that? It was so easy for him to avoid and evade. He’s had practice all his life with the presses in that. If John didn’t say something about it again, it will probably never be brought up again.
The days pass, the album’s completion comes to a taper, and despite John’s careful looks, he doesn’t see any sign of blood nor Paul ever speaking to him alone again. And still, the threat of the concert looms over them.
“I dunno about this rooftop thing.”, George says during their break. “What if some wind comes and knocks us away?”
“Really?”, Ringo laughs at the image.
“I’m being serious. With the weather we’ll be lucky not to turn into ice up there.”, George continues, sipping at his drink.
“We should put barricades around the building. Make sure there’s no people too close to the building.”, Paul speaks up, picking at his sandwich.
“Why’s that? We’ll be too up top for them to mob us anyways.”, Ringo says with a raised eyebrow.
“Won’t stop them from seizing the entrance though, will it?”, Paul says, picking at his nails. “Besides, who knows what can happen? Like George said about the wind, something can be knocked off and with our luck it’ll hit somebody’s noggin.”
“I guess so.”
“Now what would bloody hit them-?”, John snorts at the idea before suddenly his mouth grows dry, his head whipping around to look at Paul, that same horror from before hitting him like a train.
“Anything, I guess.”, Paul says with a shrug, not looking at John. “Well, with Ringo’s star acting business, we’ll have to do it soon enough.”
“Star acting? I hope so!”, Ringo laughs, the three of them delving into a chat about the movie, John unable to tear his thoughts away from the awful image of Paul going to the edge of that roof and tipping off, falling splat on the concrete beneath him like nothing.
He was going to bloody kill himself. And John was just going to sit there and let him.
“Break times over.”, Paul breaks John out of his trance. “Let’s go through all the songs once more. Then…we can take everything to the roof.”
“Right on.”, Ringo agrees, George huffing at the idea of the concert but still getting up to join them. John sits there, frozen in his seat. He doesn’t think he could grab his guitar if he tried. What was he supposed to do?
“John?”, Yoko says, putting a hand on his arm. John swallows, legs pulling himself up before he joins the band, watching them all go to their stations.
He stares at Paul as they play, searching for a sign, any sign at all, that this was all in his head, that when they went on the roof it will all be fine. But Paul just does what he does best, putting on a show, laughing along to the first songs, even smiling at John despite the mood he has been stewing in the last days. He keeps his head up even when he plays the keys to his woeful songs without any tears.
Was this going to be the last time they sang together? He hadn’t even thought of such questions before. He was so eager to rid himself of the obligation of the band, to make his own songs and be his own man with Yoko at his side, that he didn’t even consider what that really meant. There would be no more Lennon-McCartney. There would be no more doe eyes staring at him from across the mic, no more lips almost touching, no more sleeping in the same bed with limbs tangled. There would be no more Paul McCartney. He’s lost so many people, the thought of his best friend being on that long list made it hard to breathe.
“Don’t let me down.”, Paul sings with him. Heart aching, John makes his decision, watching his friend as the practice dies down.
“Alright, I’ll go up to the roof.”, George groans, Ringo smiling at his skills to convince the man, as if George would ever really say no to him. They pick up their instruments, Ringo reluctantly allowing people to help carry his drum set, the lot of them making their way towards those tall stairs.
“Paul.” He’s grabbing at Paul’s hand like a lifeline before he can even take a step up. Paul looks at him with wide eyes, quiet as the man continues. “Can we talk?”
“We have a show to play.”, Paul looks down at their hands, a frown tugging at his mouth, no doubt thinking back to their last talk.
“Alone.”, John reassures, for the first time in so long, sure of what is going on through his partner’s head. “Just me and you.”
John shifts on his feet as the other studies him, silent for a minute before he nods once, quietly giving his beloved bass over to one of the helpers to bring up before he steps past Yoko and follows John whose hand still holds his. In the quiet of the room, John’s heart collapses.
“I’m sorry.”
“W-What?”
“I’m so sorry, Paul.”, John repeats, voice aching from how much it catches in his throat. “For what I said. For being an idiot.”
“Well…Can’t deny that.”, Paul tries to lighten up before he looks at John softly, free hand reaching up to touch his cheek. “What’s going on? Oh John don’t cry-”
“You’re seriously worried about me?”, John laughs, letting a few tears spill before he shakes his head. “We really are messed up.”
“Don’t think you’re doing half bad.”, Paul says with a shrug. “I know I was all bent up about the band breaking up. Maybe a bit about Yoko, I shouldn’t have said the things I did. But really, I know you’re gonna be just fine. I was just so angry-”
“You still are.”, John interrupts, not being able to handle Paul speaking in past tense a moment longer. “And who bloody said you won’t still be there when the band’s broken up? What if I want a McCartney feature on every album of mine, what then?”
“John…”
“I might be an idiot. But I know what you were gonna do just now.” Paul scarcely breathes at the words.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”, Paul mumbles, a choked laugh forcing him to finally take a breath.
“I know. I know, love.”, John says quietly, cupping Paul’s face with his hands, watching those eyes that he loves to get lost in fill with tears. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. To let this go on.”
“Not your job to worry about me.”, Paul finally says.
“You tried killing yourself-”
“I didn’t.”, Paul says quickly. “That…That wasn’t me trying to kill myself.”
“I saw your arms Paul-”
“It was just a stress reliever.”, Paul mumbles, voice growing so so quiet. He shakes his head, any attempt to explain given up on. “I know it’s disgusting. I know I was a mess. But you don’t have to worry-”
“Can I see?”
“What-?”
“I just…There were so many.”
“I…I dunno.”, Paul mumbles self consciously, pulling at his sleeves.
“Please.”
The raw word was all Paul needed to nod hesitantly, stepping back before he touched his sleeve with shaking fingers, rolling it down to reveal the bandages again. Another wave of tears hit John when he moves to roll down his other sleeve.
“Oh Macca…”, John laments at the sight of him. How did the man hide his hurt so easily? “Why?”
“It just…made me feel a little better. It just made sense.”, Paul mumbles, shoulders trembling. “It isn’t anything. It doesn’t matter.”
“Doesn’t matter? You might not have killed yourself, but you could have. They look so deep.”, John says as he looks over the cuts on pale skin, brain automatically attempting to count them before it gives up. Just one was too many enough. “It’s not right.”
“Well. Maybe I’m not right.”, Paul mumbles with a half laugh. “Y’know, Linda really wanted to tell you. I stopped her though. Made her promise not to…”
“You should have told me.”
“I couldn’t. Haven’t been giving you many reasons to stick around lately.”, Paul swallows. “When you saw them…you looked so disgusted.”
“That’s what you thought?”, John says mournfully, mind spinning to try and fix this mistake. “Paul, I was just worried. I was scared out of my mind.”
“Hm…”, Paul hums, processing the words, head bowing as stray tears fall.
“I should have said more.”, John continued. If it had just been a year earlier he probably would have taken Paul straight home and rid every sharp item in his house. He would have demanded to know what was wrong. God damn it, he would have been over so much that he would have already known. “Bloody hell, Paul, what happened to us?”
“I…I don’t know.”, Paul says. “You don’t have to stay because you feel bad for me. You don’t have to worry at all.”
“You were gonna jump off that roof.” Paul says nothing, refusing to meet his eye. John tilts his head back up, putting his forehead against Paul’s, breath stuttering. “I would have jumped right after you, you know. You can’t just do that to me. What were you thinking?”
“I don’t know.”, Paul says brokenly. “I don’t know…”
“What’s going on with you? Remember the way you’d knock these thoughts out of my head? Let me do that for you.”, John says.
“You can’t tell anyone.”, Paul pleads.
“I won’t.”, John says in disbelief before he pauses. It was no wonder why Paul would think that. He’s already made a mess of the man’s trust. “I…I should have talked to you alone. You were right.”
“You can say that again…”, Paul mumbles, tears still falling. He looks into John’s eyes, choking back a sob. “It was…just too much. This all ending. I thought you’d never speak to me again. You always seem so angry at me.”
“I’m not-”
“This is all I’ve ever had. There’s nothing after this.”
“Don’t be daft. You still can sing. You will be fine. And bloody hell, I won’t just leave you-”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”, John says easily. “Which means you can’t leave either.”
“Alright…”, Paul says hesitantly, shoulders sagging, like a great burden was taken away. He wipes at his eyes, sniffling. “Sorry.”
“Oh shut up.”, John says with a slight smile, wiping at his own tears, brushing the back of his hand over his beard. “After this, I’ll help you shave that mess off.”
“People like it I think…”
“Well, you don’t.”, John says knowingly.
“Guess not.”, Paul says, voice lighter. “And you’re still letting me go up there?”
“With how much we talked about this bloody show we better get it over with. Doesn’t mean I’m not keeping an eye on you.”, John says, pointing his finger. “One step towards the ledge and I’ll be grabbing you and tugging you down the stairs.”
“I won’t do it.”, Paul confirms, a quiet laugh at the image. His fingers tug his sleeves back down. “Can you…come over after?”
“Thought I made it clear it was.” The easy smile on Paul’s face makes his heart melt, relief overwhelming after the days of worrying. Nodding he wipes at Paul’s tears. “Let’s get you cleaned up. They’re gonna think we had a row.”
“Look at yourself.”, Paul says, but leans into the touch. “So we’re gonna be ok?”
“We will.”, John confirms, smiling. He still wasn’t sure why Paul did that to himself. He knew bloody well that those thoughts plaguing him wouldn’t just whisk away in this room. But right now, that didn’t matter. Whatever rift was standing before them was finally melding away.
Overtaken with warmth, he leans over, placing a kiss on Paul’s forehead, the man blinking at him with wide eyes. There used to be a time when little affections were traded between them in private, so a part of them that they weren’t even mentioned. Why had he stopped doing that?
“Ready?”, John asks gently.
“Ready.”, Paul says, wiping at his eyes one last time before he takes John’s hand, the other accepting the touch easily before he leads them out the room, the two standing at the bottom of the stairs, looking up and seeing the rest of the band there talking quietly, waiting.
“Still on?”, Ringo says with a smile.
“Still on.”, Paul says, a big smile on his face.
“Right on.”, George says, butting out his cigarette before looking between the two. “Weren’t snogging were you?”
“Oh shut it!”, John says with a grin bounding up the stairs with his hand out to grab at him, George immediately running away, laughing. Paul follows, tugged along with John before he grins and grabs Ringo’s hand to join them, the man yelping as he’s pulled along the odd train. Ringo blinks, looking at all of them before laughing too, relief clear on his face.
The four giggle as they end up on the roof, shoving each other through the door, their instruments waiting. Looking out at the view, Paul stands there in the cold air, not offering the ledge a moment's more time before he picks up his bass, looking to John at his side. He nods.
“All ready then?”, John turns to the others, the two giving an affirmative.
“And a one, a two…”
“This is taking too long.”, Paul grumbles as John carefully puts the blade against his cheek, scraping away the hair.
“Stop crying, I’m almost done.”, John continues, making sure to get the hair down to the skin, holding Paul’s face in place. It felt familiar, and it only felt more right when he finished, letting go and allowing the man to turn towards the mirror, a small smile there as he admired his reflection. John rests his chin on his shoulder, wagging his eyebrows. “Much better, eh?”
“Much.”, Paul agrees. “Hope you’re not expecting payment for this job.”
“Y’know the rules, Macca. My fees haven’t changed.”
“You’re such a git.”, Paul laughs before he turns his head, pressing a quick kiss on John’s cheek. His heart flutters in his chest.
“Why thank you.”, He says, pulling away, scratching the back of his neck before he pockets the blade. “I was thinking…Maybe you should stay with me for a while.”
“With you?”, Paul blinks. “What about Yoko? What about Linda?”
“We can go somewhere new. They can have the houses to themselves for a while.”, John shrugs. “We can go to Paris.”
“Paris.”, Paul breathes, eyes lighting up. “Can we go tomorrow?”
“Yes-”, John says quickly, grinning at the enthusiasm. “Tomorrow it is then.”
“Oh Johnny!”, Paul laughs, flinging his arms around John in a tight hug that makes the man laugh, barely catching him to keep them both from falling over.
The next day they land in Paris, seeing sights from their first trip there, sharing a bed once more. John holds Paul when he cries at night, and Paul holds his hand when he struggles to take down a bite of food. Things were getting better.