I know he likes buses

The wind’s even icier up here. Paul’s coat is made of good, practical English wool, but John misses Yoko’s.  

How they’re supposed to put on a concert out in the open like this in a week’s time is anyone’s fucking guess. Maybe Paul thinks he can bring spring on early by sheer force of will. Maybe they’re all just supposed to grit their teeth and put on their best Beatlemania smiles, pretend they’re not freezing. 

Either way, he tucks his hands up under his arms and leans against the chimney. Wishes he had a smoke. He’s lost the habit of buying his own, and now all he’s got are empty borrowed pockets and a craving in his lungs. He blows out a breath of white mist and tries to make-believe a nicotine rush. 

What he realises after ten minutes of freezing his pecker off is that he’s waiting for Paul to come after him. Of all the bloody things. He must be losing his marbles, or else he just hasn’t had enough sleep. He’d had a better time of it last night than when he was first coming off H, but that’s not saying much: all he’d gotten were restless chunks of shuteye, and then a dream where he was chasing after Yoko, only every time he caught up to her she turned into Paul. And that’d been a bit too fucking on-the-nose for him to go back to sleep after, so.  

Maybe it’s just—last time he was on a roof, like this, Paul did come get him. Just ’cause John was on a bad trip, and George Martin was all worried. Thought he was going to go over the edge. The way John remembers it, one minute he was looking up at the stars and the next there were hands on his elbows, from behind, and he knew they were Paul’s hands, so it was okay. Paul was there, to hold him back. To take him home.