He can feel the back of his throat close as the words sting every part of him. They all have known it’s been coming for quite some time now, but Paul’s been quite happy turning a blind eye to the situation, just as he’s always done— carrying on like they’re all still friends.

         Standing there in front of John as the words come out of his mouth, the elder looks hardly recognizable. The youth looks as though it’s been drained out of him, as though the John he knew, and grew up alongside for all these years has seemingly vanished— this tall, thin, lithe stranger in his place. And like a flash from a camera, McCartney thinks for a fleeting moment; Is this really what I want?

         If he’s honest, the tension in the studio every time they’re together is simply unbearable. No one is willing to work anymore— no one is willing to strive to be the band they used to be. John least of all. Wouldn’t you rather work on your own? Wouldn’t you rather slave over an album with people who care? And he finds the answer is yes. But hearing John end it with those four words—— it makes it so much more personal than the ambition to create his own music with no blockades. Because although John wants out of the band, and Paul does too, he feels as though his friend is meaning to say much more. To the bassist, the words he’s saying are “I need to get away from you.“

       And that’s a thought he can’t stand. He’s done everything to keep John in his corner. Played nice with Yoko, let the elder work on whatever song he’s brought in— and it’s still not enough. They’ve all outgrown their music but Paul doesn’t want to stand thinking that they’ve out-grown each other. He doesn’t want to be right about thinking the others can’t stand him. 

       Just barely, he manages to keep himself from sucking up all of his pride and landing on his knees in front of the guitarist. Narrowly, he escapes begging John to reconsider, groveling for them to come together and try to make it work, salvage what they can. The only thing that stops him is the tiny prod of betrayal in his chest. With tears gathering on ebony lashes, the younger’s brows bend in hurt. He only shows John the sort of emotion he’s feeling for a moment, however, before it’s covered over with a mask of indifference. His coping mechanism, when things get tough.

        “Fine,” He responds, tone curt. “We’re hardly a band anymore anyways.” 

But last time I reblogged one ten/fifteen minutes later I got a call offering me a job

But I reblogged it because I was waiting on hearing back from the job. So there you go.

         Snuffing out the very last bit of a smoldering fag, McCartney’s lithe brows bend in bemusement. Something’s changed about their manager, that’s for sure. 

       Of course, Eppy’s always been on them about toning down the teddy boy look-- shaping up for their audiences.... but never once has he gone so low as to call them common before. Paul’s sure the last time he’d heard that word, it’d been used by John’s aunt Mimi.