Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It was only fitting that the first word out of their mouths was love. After all the planning, and the waiting, and the tense moments when it looked like it would all fall apart before it even began, there they all were on a stage for the first time since the rooftop, singing love, love, love.

Paul started it, of course, because he knew Bob Geldof, sort of. Bob had asked him to contribute to the Band Aid single, and even though he couldn't make it and sent along a taped message for the B-side, they kept in touch because Paul wanted to be part of the next project. When that turned out to be the concert at Wembley Stadium, of course he said yes to what he thought would be a solo set, but Bob had other ideas. "I know it's a huge ask," he said. "And I understand if you say no or it doesn't work out. But I can't think of a bigger draw than a reunion of the Beatles."

Paul knew it would be nearly impossible, if it even happened. He said yes to playing the concert by himself because the kids told him he should, but to get the group back together - that would be a miracle on the same level as the loaves and fishes. He knew that he would have to swallow his pride and not try to run the group or else they'd fall apart all over again. He knew that they'd all end up dredging up long buried feelings and the fallout could ruin everything. "I'll try," he said, because even with all of that stacked against him, he had never stopped wanting to go back to the group, never wanted it to end in the first place. "No promises, though."

"No, yeah, of course. Thanks for even trying."

Richie said yes, because he missed the group too. That was the easiest bit, and the most helpful for when he went to George. Even though he'd softened his stance against ever working with Paul again, he had plenty to do without going back to the group that had never completely valued him: his solo career, his film company, his family. Paul made some concessions over lunch at a restaurant in Henley. Meeting George in neutral territory but still on his turf gave him the upper hand. "It's a one-off for Geldof's famine relief, it's not like we're going back to being Beatles," he said. "And we're older now. We've changed. It's not going to be like it was before."

"Is it?" George asked, with a smirk. "Well, if things go pear-shaped, I'll just get up and leave again. That'll keep you in line, Paul."

Paul drank some of his water. His throat was very dry. George wasn't the tag-along kid anymore. He'd walked out once before, they both knew he could do it again. "Rehearsals are going to start in June. Show's in July."

"Richie's in?"

"Yeah." If Richie was in, Paul knew, then George was more likely to join. "He's excited."

"What about John?"

"Haven't asked him yet."

"Tell you what," George said, lifting his glass. "You get John, and I'll be there."

Easier said than done. Paul and John had maintained their warm but distant friendship for so long that Paul didn't quite know how to talk to John about anything more serious than their families anymore. Ever since John's divorce from Yoko he'd stepped around anything that could set him off. They spoke on the phone every few months but hadn't seen each other in several years, around the time that Yoko filed the papers. Double Fantasy hadn't done as well as they'd hoped, and the follow-up came and went with little more than a shrug. A brief joint tour gave them middling reviews. Yoko's official statement was that the music was supposed to bring them together but ended up driving them further apart, but John wasn't convinced. "She picked up with her new man when I was in Bermuda," he said. "And I'm yesterday's news. She only hung around when I came back and told her I wanted to record an album."

"Is it officially happening?"

"Her lawyer is talking to my lawyer. She wants half of everything. All I want is Sean."

He'd moved into another apartment they owned, on the floor below where Yoko still lived, so Sean could see both his parents daily. "When it's official I'm moving to a new place. I can't stay here any more. I feel like the building is going to swallow me. Remember the place I had with May on 52nd? I need something like that."

They had the penthouse of the building, a few blocks from the United Nations and close to the river. John had been happy there; the apartment was bright and uncluttered, and the sun shone through the windows every day. "Let me know when you find it," Paul said. "We'll come for a visit."

"Just like the bad old days."

John's divorce came through; Yoko got her half and they agreed to split custody of Sean. He moved into the Plaza as a temporary place to land, and ended up staying for three years. Paul meant to go and see him, but he had other things on his mind. His own marriage was coming apart at the seams the year of Live Aid. He hadn't told John - or anyone - that they were living apart, separated and on their way to divorce. It was embarrassing, admitting that the woman you thought was the love of your life had slowly become little more than a roommate and co-parent, and bordering on humiliating that she'd had to point it out to him. "There's more to life than this," she'd said. "Having the same conversations over and over again, sleeping in the same bed without touching. It's nobody's fault."

"I love you," Paul said, helplessly, because he did.

"I love you too. But we're not in love anymore. It's a different relationship now."

He couldn't say anything to rebuke that. She was right. He hadn't dared ask himself the questions she had. So he moved into the house in Cavendish by himself. There were nights when he wanted to pick up the phone and ring John, but he held back. He wanted to make sure he was ready to say the words out loud to himself first. He didn't talk to Linda about it either. Ever since he'd moved out of the house in Sussex he'd stopped bothering her with anything more complicated than working out when he was going over to see the kids.

When Paul rang John to ask him about getting the group back together for the concert, he started off with the usual mild pleasantries to get John relaxed: how's Sean doing, what's happening in the city, are you working on anything these days? "Suppose you've heard about this concert that Bob Geldof is organizing," he said, doing his best not to get ahead of himself, but he'd always been a shit actor. "Gonna be a big deal."

"Oh, yeah, I heard. David and Mick are both taking part. What about you, did Bob twist your arm? Is this an apology for putting you on the B-side of the single?"

"No, nothing like that. I want to do it." Paul steeled himself for any reaction: mocking laughter, offended rage, the phone slamming down onto the hook. "But he did ask me one thing."

"What? That you don't play a three hour show?"

"Not that." Deep breath, in and out. "He asked if we would consider a reunion. Of the group, I mean."

There was a long, terrifying pause that was probably only a few seconds long, before John said, "Why now?"

"Well, he did ask. And it would shut everybody up for a few minutes. It's for a good cause." Paul chose not to mention all the times they'd almost gotten together - Richie's album in '73, John going back to Yoko instead of to New Orleans, their decision not to take Lorne Michaels up on his offer. "It's been fifteen years. I think we can get it together for an evening."

"It's not just an evening, and you know it. What about George and Richie, did you ask them yet?"

"I did. Rich is all for it. And George is open to it."

"He hasn't said yes yet?"

"He said he wanted to know what you thought."

John let out a snort of laughter. "We're going to do this by committee? Let's just get the managers and lawyers to go on for us. Slap some Beatle wigs on their heads, strap the instruments on, and get on with our lives."

"You say yes, George will say yes, and we won't need to negotiate."

"What does Linda think about you going back to your glory days? Are you going to insist on having her play the keyboard for us?"

Paul balled his free hand into a fist. He'd never gotten used to John's bitchy comments about Linda. Even though they weren't together anymore he still hated them. She was the mother of his children. "I didn't ask her," he snapped, "but you might as well know now, we're splitting up, so I don't need her permission to do anything."

"Oh, Paul," John said, his tone swinging from irritated to concerned in a blink. He'd always been like that, snapping at someone and then drawing them close again. More than once John had told him to fuck off and then turned up to write like nothing had happened. He even had a song about his two sides: if you're lonely, you can talk to me. It was unpredictable but better than the years he'd spent spitting acid and publicly proclaiming that he didn't give a shit about Paul. "Are you really?"

"Yeah." Paul swallowed. Saying it out loud wasn't as bad as he thought it would be. The walls hadn't fallen down around him, and he had not been struck by lightning. John was still a big part of his life, he deserved to know. "We haven't made it public yet. Just told our families. But I'm living in London by myself."

"You had enough of each other, then?"

"She had enough of me."

John waited for a beat before speaking. "Let's do it, then."

"Serious?"

"Yeah. Let's do it. One night only."

Paul felt his knees tremble. He'd prepared himself to hear John say no and argue with him, he wasn't sure what to do with a yes. "Because I told you I'm getting divorced?"

"Well, you've finally joined the rest of us. It's just - we're older now. Things are different."

They certainly were different. Paul phoned George and Richie to share the news. Within weeks, a rehearsal space was set up for them at a studio in North London, reserved under fake names to keep it under wraps. Paul got there first to double check the equipment, write out his ideas for a set list, and bite the nail on his pointer finger down to the quick. George walked in next, guitar case in hand, and the look on his face reminded Paul of how he looked when he was walking into a classroom for an exam he hadn't studied for. Richie arrived just after George, dark glasses hiding whatever he'd done the night before, and took his place behind the drum kit like a king sitting on his throne. They made small talk as they waited for John, not playing a note. Just like the old days, waiting for the one who made it clear that he was in charge. Paul checked his watch every few minutes, fidgeted in his chair, resisted the urge to get up and start climbing up the cabinets. When John walked in, twenty minutes late, the whole room relaxed. "Apologies," he said, not sounding sorry at all. "Flight was delayed."

"Good to see you," Paul said, strapping his Hofner on. Using the old bass would help him get into the mood. "Shall we get started?"

At first it felt like being back on the cold stage at Twickenham, as they fumbled their way through the songs they'd all done their best to push away for years. Back then they were trying to find a way to keep going even as they were pulling themselves apart; now, sixteen years later, they were swimming against the current to find the place they used to occupy so easily. Fingers slipped, and chords fluffed, and words that used to be etched into grooves in their minds had faded away. But, as the hours in each day passed, they started to get back into the pocket. The songs they agreed on got tighter, faster as they bounced along, as they winnowed down from two dozen possibilities to five songs.

The years fell away and Paul felt younger, like he still had endless chances to make it all right. He looked at John as they stood next to each other or shared a mic, and wondered about him. What was going on in his head? Paul used to have an idea, at least. John was divorced for the second time, from the woman he'd thrown the entire world over for. He hadn't released an album in almost four years. He was living in a hotel, an impermanent space, with his son only half the time. Was he putting up a front, dragging himself out of bed to be there? Would he go back to New York and not answer the phone for a year?

Paul's situation wasn't so different. His divorce was working its way along slowly; he didn't want to hurt Linda, and she was being kind to him, and that took longer than marriages that ended in anger. He was living alone in his once and future bachelor's house, missing the sounds of children and family life that had once filled its narrow halls. His own career was in a low ebb; ever since Wings broke up, he hadn't been able to get back to that kind of success. People didn't want to see him on his own. They were always so similar, he and John, even when they couldn't be further apart.

When Geldof let it leak to the press that the Beatles would be reuniting for the concert, not even he anticipated the reaction. It felt like 1964 all over again: newspapers, television, the radio, people on the street ecstatic at the news. The whole country felt like Kennedy Airport on that cold day, ready to throw off their regular lives and run towards something that made them feel young. Paul sat down for a few interviews and kept his comments mild: very good to work with them again, hopeful that it wouldn't be the last time, still friends, happy to help out a good cause. Once again he was the spokesman. The night before the show, after getting home from another interview at the BBC, he rang John at his hotel. "Are you ready for tomorrow?"

"I'm here, aren't I?"

"After not performing live for so long?"

"It's like riding a bicycle, yeah? Not like I've forgotten how."

There was something he wasn't saying, but if Paul pressed John would pull away, and the situation was too fragile to risk it. After the concert, he could try again. "And, like you said, it's just a one-off, for famine relief," John added. "Not like we're being run through the meat grinder again."

"Yeah. You can go home and not talk to anybody after tomorrow night."

"I'll hold you to that promise."

The Beatles went on at the very end of the night, just before ten. In the green room before their set, it almost felt like they were back at Shea Stadium or the Hollywood Bowl, letting the audience come to a fever pitch as they waited. They fell back into old habits. Richie was making conversation with anyone who happened to wander in, getting people at ease. George sat with one of his guitars, bending over it as he turned the keys to make sure it was in tune, unaware of anyone else around him. Paul found John sitting by himself, an unlit cigarette in one hand and his lighter in the other. "Five songs," Paul said, sitting down next to him. "And it's over."

"Yeah. It'll make our half-hour shows look like all-night epics."

"Think you'll make it to the party afterwards?"

"We'll see. Right now I just want to get on the stage without being sick."

Geldof had the idea to kill the lights after Elton came off stage. He and John shared a brief hug as he passed them in the corridor leading from the green room. The noise of the crowd quieted to a dull roar as they filed out onto the stage, not like the way they'd gone bounding onto stages all over the world. When they were in their places, the lights slammed back on, and the audience in front of them and in front of television sets across the country got their first look at the Beatles together again for the first time in sixteen years. Even with his earpieces in, Paul was momentarily overwhelmed by the screaming roar hitting them like a rogue wave. When it felt like being a Beatle had all been a dream, the sound of a crowd begging for their music brought him back.

Their first song was "All You Need is Love," done as light and simply as it had been for the satellite broadcast. Four voices singing about love and John on lead, older and battered but still singing it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Hadn't love brought him places he never dreamed he would go? And it was still sustaining him, his love for his son keeping him on the ground. He still believed in love, Paul knew, but to hear him proclaim it publicly and so joyfully brought a lump to his throat. Rehearsals hadn't done it justice, but John was unleashed, and there would be no stopping him.

When the last note rang out, George traded his electric guitar for an acoustic. The opening notes of "Here Comes the Sun" were equally matched by the joy of the crowd. It was only fitting that he got the first solo song. Paul wanted him to have it. After all those years of pushing him off to the side, not giving his songs the attention they deserved, being unable to break out of the molds they'd made for themselves when they were kids who didn't know any better, he deserved to have all eyes on him and the others backing him up. The lights warmed until it felt like the sun was rising at night, as they sighed through the chorus. When George smiled, he shined.

The crowd sang along loudest and most enthusiastically to "With a Little Help From My Friends." It was the obvious choice. People loved it, and they loved Richie, and Richie loved being a Beatle. Paul felt like he was twenty five years old again, bringing this jewel of a song into the studio after knocking it out with John in the music room at Cavendish. Back when all he'd needed was his friends to help him take on the world. What had they all really thought, when they'd heard of his bad reviews? There were times he wished he had them to help out, of course: John with a lyric, George with the music, Richie meeting his eyes to let him know that he would be okay. And they were back together for a night. They'd made it that far.

"Twist and Shout" wasn't as easy as it had been when they were twenty years old but John gave it his all just like the night they recorded it. They took turns on the verses for the first time, going in their usual order: John, Paul, George, Richie. Paul shared his mic with George and watched him bounce along to the beat in the corner of his eye. He felt it, too, surging through him. He'd given up acting like a wild animal on stage around the time Brian got them in suits but the feeling of wanting to leap out of his skin never quite left him. Even past forty he wanted to jump in the air, fall to his knees, thrash around, but he wouldn't take away from this song when all of them got a moment to shine.

He came in at the end, sitting down at the piano as his heart slowed from its race. "Let it Be," of course. He couldn't think of a better way to end their set and the others didn't push back. They gave him angelic backing vocals as he sang the song he'd written as his life was falling apart, when John was pulling away and the group he'd worked his adult life for was slowly going to pieces. What else could his mother say but to tell him to let it be? It was out of his hands then, but he'd taken it back now, and he was with the three people he'd never stopped loving and missing. During the bridge he looked into the crowd and saw a sea of lighters swaying before him. Sometimes he forgot how much the Beatles meant to people. These grown-ups with jobs to go to on Monday, children to raise, bills to pay were young again. For twenty minutes they got to go back to being young and not having a care in the world except for when the next Beatles single came out. It was the same for him, too.

They bowed just like Brian had taught them to, all those years ago, before walking off the stage. Bob met them in the wings, so excited he was bouncing from one foot to the other, beads of sweat rolling down his face. "Fucking phenomenal!" he shouted. "The phones are ringing off their bloody hooks! We're bringing in donations faster than we can count them. Lads, we need an encore."

A look bounced between four pairs of eyes. Paul felt the crackle of energy between them and he knew that the others felt it too. It was like the rush he'd felt when he'd first met John and showed him "Twenty Flight Rock," or when they first played with Richie and realized that they had something special, or when George Martin told them they'd just recorded their first number one single. Indescribable but so familiar, like coming home. "Well?" John asked. "What shall we give the people?"

They conferenced briefly before making their decisions, telling Bob, and filing back out onto the stage to the crashing wave of sound. "We thought you could use a little more," Paul said into his mic, before stepping back as John took center stage and hissed "Shoot!" as Richie led them into the song with the heavy dragging beat. "Come Together" had almost made it into the setlist, but John had replaced it with "All You Need is Love." More in the spirit of the evening, he said. Paul hadn't objected. The song was brilliant and he was proud of the contributions he'd made to it, but that was such a painful time in his past that he preferred not to think of it, with John slowly and yet suddenly leaving the group and Paul without looking back. It would have comforted him, he thought, to learn how it would all end up when he was lying in bed and drinking himself into oblivion, but it still took so long.

Paul sat back at the piano for the last song. No need to introduce it, since everyone would know it from the opening notes. At first he could barely hear himself singing as the crowd howled with joy. The last time he'd played "Hey Jude" live wasn't even really live, it was for The David Frost Show, pretaped with the studio audience crawling on them in the second half. He wished he brought it out more when he was touring, but he hadn't done a proper tour for years. When he was with Wings he'd tried to push the Beatles aside so he could stand on his own, but that meant acting like the songs he was so proud of didn't exist. He could bring them together, he thought. John, George, and Richie joined in for the singalong, along with the crowd. It felt like the whole world was singing. Paul fought back tears as he gave in to the song, let the wild shrieks and hollers come because he felt free. Back on top of the world with the group that gave him everything good in his life.

When it was over - when Band Aid had sung the single, and the last bows had been taken, and the multitudes were slowly leaving to return to their lives - Paul found John in the green room, tucking his pack of Gitanes back in his shirt pocket. "Going to the party?" he asked.

"No. Bit much."

Yes, Paul supposed, for someone who was out of practice from public life, going to a party and being the center of attention would be a bit much. "Back to your hotel?"

"Unless you've got a better offer."

"Could go to mine. It's not very far, and it'll be quiet."

"Drinks are free, too," John said, with a smile.

Just over half an hour later, Paul was opening his front door and John was following him across the threshold. "Care for a tipple?" Paul asked, trying to sound casual. "I've got a few bottles I never got around to opening."

"Whatever strikes your fancy."

Paul grabbed a bottle of wine, only a few years old, and two glasses. They were from a set he and Linda had gotten from some distant relation as a wedding present. He thought about packing them up and giving them to her as he poured two glasses, but there was a decent chance that she wouldn't care and he could just leave them with the rubbish, or smash them. Better that way - less of a chance they'd end up on an auction block for people to bid on a piece of Paul McCartney's personal failures. "Cheers," he said, passing one glass to John and tapping them together. "To a fucking good one-off."

"Maybe we could use it as the end to that film you keep bothering us about making," John said, starting to walk from the kitchen into the sitting room. Paul followed, a few steps behind. "The one you want to name after your song."

"Film? What - you mean The Long and Winding Road?"

"Needs a new title." John took a sip. "What is this? Tastes American."

"Didn't look at the label." Paul tasted it. Not the best he'd ever had but it would do. "I think I'd end the film with the end of the group."

"Yeah. Make it a clean break. And then we can huddle at the premiere. Embark on a new era of peace and understanding. Ain't gonna study war no more and all that." John sat heavily on the sofa and a bit of wine sloshed over the side of his glass and onto his hand. "Oops."

Paul looked around for a box of tissues, but John was already dragging the tip of his tongue over his wrist to catch the drops. He looked young again, like the last twenty years had been a dream. John was still there, despite everything he'd experienced and become. He was still himself. "I meant it," he said, moving his glass to his other hand. "What I just said. About burying the hatchet and all that."

"Yeah?" Paul said, sitting down next to him and holding his glass in his left hand because his right was next to John's left. He was curious, but cautious. John said a lot of things and professed to mean most of them. How many flights of fancy had carried him away, and how many times did he come crashing back down to Earth again. "I thought we already buried it."

"Deeper. So we're not walking around it or tripping on it." John took another sip, grimaced, set his glass aside. "Not even the first time I've tried, truth be told. 'S why I picked 'Come Together' as one of my songs. Back when I wrote it, it was sort of a last attempt for us to reconcile."

"I thought you wrote it for Timothy Leary."

"He was a convenient excuse." John smiled but it didn't fully reach his eyes. "That's why there's a verse for each of you."

Got to be good looking 'cause he's so hard to see. Paul had bristled when he first heard it. He tried to put it out of his mind. He was always on the outside in those days. "You sounded good," he said, determined to redirect the conversation to a place where they could both be comfortable. "It was the right choice to start with 'All You Need is Love'. Set the mood."

To Paul's momentary relief, they got to talking about the set. They agreed that George hadn't sounded so good in years, and that Richie had never lost his indelible charm; that their selection of songs was perfect, and their performance was tight; and that the encore was entirely appropriate and necessary. "You got the last word twice," John teased, giving Paul's leg a nudge with his knee. "Just like you, always leaving them wanting more."

"What can I say?" Paul tipped the last of the wine into his mouth. The more he drank the better it tasted. "I'm a song and dance man."

"I've seen you dance. Stick to songs."

They both laughed, John tilting his head back and Paul leaning forward for a moment. John wiped his eyes and sighed. "It was good, you doing that one," he said. "'Hey Jude'."

"Yeah, they loved it."

"Doing it for me."

Paul looked over and saw John looking at him like he could see directly inside him. "Who says it's for you?"

"Come on. It always was. And you talk me into reuniting, and you sing that. I know what you're doing."

"Then tell me." Paul sat back against the sofa. He needed a refill but he could already tell that he was going to wake up with a headache. "Since you know everything."

"First time you sang it you were telling me it was okay to leave. Now you sing it so I'll know that you're welcoming me back."

Sometimes John saw things a certain way and it made Paul wonder what planet he was really from. He could justify any opinion or belief with the thinnest of connections between thoughts, strange ideas born out of jealousy that made no sense, or sheer coincidence that he could spin any way he waited. "If you say so."

"I've had plenty of time to think, in the Plaza," John said, picking up a thread of the conversation that was lying next to the one they'd just been having. He liked jumping between thoughts. It kept him from getting bored. "Alone in my suite."

"What about?"

"The usual. Where do I want to move to, how are my children doing, what am I doing with my career - such as it is - and my life, as I pass the middle of my fifth decade?" John paused. The house creaked as it settled. Down the street a dog barked, and Paul missed Martha. "I thought about things I'd have liked to have done, back when I had a chance."

Paul had the vague sense he was walking into some kind of trap, but he couldn't stop himself from taking another step. "What would you have done?"

"Same as anyone. Said what I really wanted to say. Acted like I should have done instead how I really did." John moved his arm and the back of his hand brushed against Paul's, and Paul felt a strange tightening feeling on his scalp and down the back of his neck. "Been honest, mainly. You know, I look back on parts of my life, and you know what I realize? I was the only one not having fun and it was because I was making myself miserable. And I blamed everyone else: Mimi, Cynthia, the bloody milkman, you. But it was me."

"Where is all this coming from?"

"In vino fucking veritas." There was that look about him again, the flashes of John being John despite the years and the damage. He had gotten closer, his arm pressed up against Paul’s and his face - older now, tired after a night's exertion, but still, still, always himself - filling Paul's vision. "Even bad wine brings the truth out."

Paul relaxed. For whatever reason, he was not at all surprised. What was about to happen felt like it had been coming for years. They'd done just about everything else in their relationship. "So," he said, rolling his lips. "What's the truth?"

John kissed him: dry white wine, lips slightly sticky, rough where he bit them but easy to kiss back. Paul leaned into John's touch when he felt John's hand curling under his chin. A warmth he hadn't felt in a lifetime was slowly spreading through his body, top to bottom. If John wanted to believe that "Hey Jude" was about him, let him. Maybe he was right and the whole fucking song was a subliminal message telling him to do what he wanted. Paul wasn't going to think about it anymore.

John pulled back, eyes bright and face pink. Paul could see the seams of his contact lenses around his irises. "Like that," he said, simply.

Suddenly, as if he'd just been slapped awake from a dream, Paul panicked, and as he often did when he was in a panic, he said something stupid. "I'm going to bed," he announced, standing up. "I'm - been quite a day. I'm tired. Aren't you? Spare room's all made up. You can stay."

"Paul, come on."

"I'm going to bed," he repeated, like that made it less idiotic. "I'll see you tomorrow. We can talk about this then."

"You won't sleep," John called after him as he left the room.

John was right. He didn't even try. Lying in bed, listening first to John settling down in the spare room down the hall and then to the sounds of the city around the house, he thought about the last time John had changed his life and then warned him that he wouldn't sleep. That acid trip had brought them closer together at a moment when they'd begun drifting apart, and for a little while Paul thought everything was fine between them, until it all came crashing down around him so violently that he had to take his leave from the world to recover. Would that happen again? There was no way to know. John kissed him - that had never happened before. But he'd been thinking about it. What else had he thought about? Oh God. And Paul had kissed him back like it was the most natural thing in the world. It had felt good, before he remembered who he was and who John was. He could think about it more clearly in the morning after a good night's sleep but of course he wasn't going to sleep.

Paul swung his legs out of bed and went across the hall. He didn't bother to knock before he opened the door because he knew John wouldn't be asleep either. John was lying on his side facing the door. "Told you," John said.

Paul didn't answer. He climbed into the bed and pressed himself flush against John, chests together and knees bumping up against each other until they settled and fit themselves comfortably. John put his hand on Paul's back and gently pushed him in closer. "Your heart's pounding," he said, fondly. "You're not scared, are you?"

"What do you think?"

"It's okay. You just have to let it happen and it'll be over."

Paul closed his eyes. John smelled good, familiar, like home. His touch was loose but insistent; he didn't want Paul to go anywhere. That was fine. Paul didn't want to get up. A line from one of his old songs flashed in his mind: deep in love, not a lot to say. He and John spent years talking in their own language, a shorthand they developed after living in each other's pockets. No one could understand them anyway so they might as well talk like it too. They'd forgotten how to talk to each other, and left each other, and their conversations were short and stifled - but there they were, not talking at all, and they didn't need words to tell each other what they were thinking.

Paul didn't realize it when he fell asleep. He opened his eyes and saw John sitting up next to him, smoking a cigarette. "Haven't smoked Benson and Hedges in years," he said, as Paul stretched and sat up. "Found a pack in the nightstand. Helped myself."

"Go ahead. I quit smoking cigarettes. Forgot I had a pack." Paul yawned and rubbed his temples. "What time is it?"

"Around half-eight." John exhaled a cloud of smoke. "I think."

"When's your flight back to New York?"

"Twelve. So I have a little time."

"I'll make breakfast," Paul said, starting to get out of bed, before he felt John's hand on his arm. "What?"

"Can you sit still for five minutes?"

John was the one who could sit still, sleep his life away, let the droning sound of the television wash over him. Paul had to act. It kept him from unraveling. "For what?"

"Quite a night we had. It's good to just sit with things sometimes."

"What things?"

"Well, you learned something about yourself last night, didn't you?" John smiled, took another drag, exhaled. "No going back from that."

"Do you want to?"

"Do you?"

Paul found a seam on the blanket that was beginning to separate. He pinched the two sides together and pulled the thread taut. Linda could fix it. She took the basket of sewing supplies back to the house in Sussex. He could just buy a new blanket. "No," he admitted. "I don't want to act like it didn't happen."

"Good," John said. "What's for brekkie, then?"

Paul made scrambled eggs, toast, and two mugs of hot, sweet tea. They ate in comfortable silence, just like the thousands meals they'd shared in the canteen at EMI. He didn't want to turn on the radio or the television, or fetch the newspaper from the front step, because he didn't want to read anything about the concert. He knew how it had gone, and that was enough. He didn't need to know what anyone else thought.

"Bit late to ask you to come with me," John said, when the car he'd called pulled up outside the gate. He had to go back to his hotel to get his things first, then he'd go to the airport. At least he didn't look too much like he was wearing the same clothes as the night before. "You're not even dressed."

"I'll come see you," Paul said. "Soon."

"Good. Wouldn't want to drop something we just picked up." John winked at him. "Come here."

Another kiss, before John slipped out the door. Paul stood rooted to the floor until he heard the car pull away from curb, and then the spell was broken. He meant it when he said he would go soon, and the next time he spoke to John he reiterated his pledge, but between their families and their careers and the other obligations that got between them, it was another year before Paul got on a plane to New York City.