two of us ;

---

He had had how many beers? Three bottles? Three crates? John had lost count along the way and, bloody hell, was his head spinning around like he was a fairground attraction up in Blackpool. Stumbling through the deserted streets in search of a brief reprieve from the loud lights and harsh yells… or was it harsh lights and loud yells? John vomited next to a garbage can, much to the displeasure of a nearby homeless man and his dog. John muttered a slurred apology that really sounded like nothing at all and continued his way to absolutely fucking nowhere. Where was he going? He had no idea and only followed where his feet took him as he was far too busy trying to stay upright and not fall flat on his already bruised nose. He’d rather not think of how that happened during the night, (fucking bird couldn’t take a joke).

John nearly lost his mind trying to navigate through the inane suburban street he had managed to stumble unto. It looked nothing like something that would be near a pub, yet here he was. For how long had he walked? He checked his wrist for the time and blinked for a few silent moments at the bare, cold skin that he exposed. No watch! He couldn’t recall if he had lost it or simply hadn’t worn it. He hiccuped, whatever. He could rely on his gut feeling for one night and force down the vile building up.

He fell into the hedge of a vaguely familiar house as the result of a failed attempt at getting from the asphalted road to the concrete of the sidewalk. He was unharmed, luckily, save for the poking of the branches and his hurt pride. He heaved and cursed as he tried and failed continuously in getting back up again. He gave up. He was far too drunk and heavy on beer to muster up the energy. The sky was cloudless and dark. He could see nothing but the stars and the faint glow of streetlights just out of his peripheral view.

He wished Paul was here. He desperately wished him to be here. But no matter how hard he shut his eyes with repeats of the divine name, no matter how hard he tried, nothing would make Paul appear. He wouldn’t have let it come to this. Sure, he was a sloppy drunk too, but he would at least have found his way back home from the pub they frequented. But John missed more of Paul than just temperance control and road guidance. He missed his... his eyes; soft and lovely, accentuated by his dark lashes. Looking like something John would have studied back in art school. And, by God, the hair on those arms. John couldn’t tell if it was jealous or lust or both. No seventeen-year-old should have such a growth, fuck.

--

1972,

The album had been out for a month; slowly rising to the top of the charts, slowly passing by names well-known to you. It was released to quiet celebration. Your joy in its release was tentative. The writing process had been hard and years in the making- the recording had been even tougher. A weight had lifted from your chest the moment it was off into the world, but the heaviness was never quite left behind, sticking around at the base of your throat- constricting your breathing as you slept. No amount of meditations and breathing exercises lessened the pain, and you had given in to the unyielding thoughts of it being your constant companion. 

That was until the visit of someone unexpected.

It was George! Your former bandmate whom you hadn’t seen since the break of the band nearing two years ago. He wasn’t the one to blame for the lack of meetings or correspondence during that time. In fact, he had tried very hard to reach you- through sending your letters, ringing you up, contacting your family and friends. But you had stood by in not contacting any of the former Beatles- not for reasons of animosity or anything close to it… It had just been… too much. After all that had gone down, you were scared. Scared of looking anyone of them in the eye and talking about what had happened.

And yet, here he was. And you were left with no other choice of talking to him, no other choice than to look into his soulful eyes and face the facts as they were.

He said your name in a single shaking breath as he let his eyes take you in; you hadn’t aged as visible as the others he thought. But you had changed, as well as they all had. You look dishevelled in loose-fitting clothes and unkempt hair as you stood with bare feet on the hardwood floor. He looked as wonderful as he always had the tendency to be. You croaked an attempt at a greeting, emotions clustering themselves at the centre of your heart as you looked upon him after years of isolation. 

You stepped aside, wordlessly inviting him into your apartment. His back now towards you, you took the opportunity to take a quick whiff of your day's old shirt, quickly grimacing with regret at what small it greeted you with.

In continued silence, you watched the man you admired and loved; something only known to you. The love you felt for him was yours to keep and to hold, to never depart with as it was never to be. He was married to Pattie, a woman whom you still admired. Though you had heard through the great grapevine that ran through the British music industry that their marriage was failing- it was still, as far as you could know, rumours. 

It was a strange image- him in your apartment. In a space that had previously been Beatles free, part from it being your habitat. You had slaved to remove any indications of your past. Your proud past. It wasn’t shame or embarrassment that had driven you to hide all relics of a relished past, but pain. And here a glaring monument of it stood- in the middle of a self-made mess of books and papers with indescribable writing only known to you as your old and ailing record player skipped silently in the background- the music having ended long before the appearance of George.

You swallowed harshly as you moved forward; “hey… George.”

You picked nervously at your nails, already bitten short, as you watched him look at you with a concerned look in his eyes. You hated seeing that in him and a sudden urge to do anything for a glimpse of his toothy smile pulled at your heart. You scratched the back of your neck as your anxiety grew and glanced at your feet as you asked him in a hoarse voice; “want some… some tea? I’ve… only got chamomile, sorry.”

“That’s fine,” he smiled with a nod; saving the conversation that clearly laid heavy on his mind for later. You guided him through your apartment, the wealth of your former career nowhere to be seen, to the small kitchen hiding in a far corner of the house. 

Decorated in lively colours and small plants, it was your ultimate safe haven and where you spent most of your time in the apartment. A square window gave you a view to a peaceful life of a tranquil birdnest of a familiar of four resting in a large old tree that had dominion over the small garden that was adjoined to the apartment complex. You turned on the stove and carefully watched George and his presence in your home as you prepared the tea.

Your hands started quivering, shaking, as you moved the cups to the small table against the furthest wall from the stove, to where George sat watching you. You barely managed to place the cups before the rest of your body followed and you fell to the floor with a sob.

“I’m so sorry, I’m sorry,” you repeated as you felt him kneel in front of you, his hands on your shoulders pushing you into his chest as he embraced your shaking form. You had missed him. You had missed all of them, certainly, but seeing him had struck something up in you that thought had long been buried. You hadn’t handled the end of The Beatles as well as you thought you had.

He patted your hair in comforting waves as he shushed you, telling you that you had nothing to be sorry for. You spent several minutes like this; wetting his shirt, slowly regaining your breath as you enjoyed the feelings of his calloused fingers going through your hair to rest on your neck as you calmed down. You drew back slightly, enough so you could see his face but not enough for his hands to leave your body.

“If you...,” you took a deep breath, something you could feel your chest badly needed, “if you could change the past… travel back in time… would you?”

“No,” he calmly stated and wiped your red cheek of any stray tears, “whatever happened happened for a reason. As painful as it was, it was bound to happen regardless of what we could have done differently.”

“I just,” you started but come at a loss to really convey how you were feeling. You had tried your best in your album ‘Downpour’ but even then it felt like there was an open, gaping wound in your heart. Bleeding and bleeding, and you were yet to run dry. “I don’t know,” you whispered. “I just don’t know if I’ll heal from this.”

His hand rested on your cheek- the comforting coolness of it felt like pure euphoria against your burning cheek. God, you had gone too long with no human contact. You rested your head against his hand; suddenly feeling heavy and weak. 

“Of course you will,” he whispered, leaning closer to you. “’Downpour’ was your first step there. I’ve listened to it many times over, especially ‘Haunting’. You’re stronger than you think. And if you need any help, need anything, I’ll always be here for you.”

--

1959,

The open streets of Bold Street were deserted early Easter Sunday. The tower of St Luke stood imposing and proud, a reminder of the past, as it watched over the shaking forms of two young men, huddled over a trash can as one vomited as he laughed down into the echoing metal. 

“Yer such a fucking lightweight, Paul,” laughed the one left standing as the wind shifted through his pompadour hair that had given up staying intact hours ago. His voice travelled down the empty streets, past the closed shops and yellow and white Easter decor. Paul groaned and waved his hand around, attempting to hit his friend, not daring to remove himself from the can as he felt his body heave and sweat. John’s laughter only grew louder as he playfully slapped the aimless hand. 

When Paul finally emerged, red-faced, letting the cool April air sweep over his face as he breathed in the smell of dew and vomit. John rested on the grass, a stone throw away from Paul- easily proving as Paul did throw a stone at his friend, laughing breathlessly at his little (petty with a pebble) act of revenge. 

He carefully moved himself to the ground next to John, careful not to upset his stomach further. They sat in silence, watching pigeons and seagulls taking over the empty streets, scouring for any food left behind, with the clear blue sky as a calming background. Sound of church bells chimed in the distance and John cursed under his breath, “Mimi’s gonna have my skin.”

---

1966,

The open air was refreshing after a day in the studio- the open space that during the day felt more cramped and more claustrophobic as the day went on. It was a late night, slowly nearing midnight as they all finally said adieu and parted. Well, not all had parted their own ways- evident by the fact that two Beatles sneakily trailed you on your way towards the Violet Hill Gardens. You supposed they thought they were being clever- hidden and unseen behind cars and signs, as if you couldn’t hear their loud giggling. You looked up towards the sky with a deep, relaxing sigh.

“Wonderful clear night we got today, isn’t it, boys?”

You heard the sound of heels stopping abruptly on concrete, and a soft thud followed by a string of curses. You turned around to find George on the ground, looking up at Ringo with a grimace rather unbecoming of him. You sputtered as you tried to form a sentence, but it was all for nought as you burst out in laughter- laughing until your throat felt raw and your chest ached. They looked at you bewildered, smiles creeping slowly up their faces, as your laughter turned into dry heaves. 

“Did you- Did you really think that would work? Sneaking up on me?”

You slid down the side of a car, holding a hand against your chest as George stayed on his place on the ground, Ringo looked back and forth between the two of you, before finally sitting down next to George with a placid smile on his face. You rested your hand on your cheek as you looked at them over the small distance, ignoring the people passing by with confused stares. 

Eventually you all inched closer to sit in a line up against a cold metal fence as you stared wistfully up into the open sky, seemingly free from the pollution of the large city for once. A Beatle on each of your sides, you felt the heat radiate from their hands that rested atop of yours as you sat in silence, listening to the sounds of city and nature melting into one.

---

1964,

A tender hand gently wrapped around his arm, guided him to the front door of a humble house; his home. Well, their home- he shared with his bandmates, his friends. It was the perfect place to be in his hour of need, all caring and attentive to his troubles. Paul guided him carefully over the steps and looked around the house- “where d'you wanna go?”

He smiled at Ringo but looked curiously around, as if looking for something or someone. Except from them- the room was otherwise empty, the only source of light was the sun that shone through large windows. A door leading to the terrasse stood open; letting in a comfortable breeze and the melodic singing of birds- blackbirds, it sounded like to Ringo.

“It’s lovely weather out,” he commented, half answering the question. He had had enough of being indoors after his stay at the hospital- he craved the wind in his hair and the sun in his face. He desperately needed a cup of tea and the smell of freshly mowed grass. “It is,” Paul chuckled and went towards the door, halfheartedly continuing his search around the room. He sighed as he helped Ringo down on a cushioned garden chair.

“Nasty business that- your leg, that is.”

They both shared a glance down at the large, imposing plaster cast around Ringo’s leg. It was not to be missed. And nasty business it had been. They hadn’t seen the car coming- least of all Ringo as he got the blunt of it. John took most of the emotional damage, as demonstrated by himself- either throwing violent fits of rage at the driver or trips of guilt and blame unto himself. He should have been home by now. Oh, Ringo realised, that’s who Paul is looking for.

Ringo sighed and shrugged, “Yeah. Not much to do about it now though, other than wait.”

Paul nodded and breathed in heavily the sharp and fresh air; “all right, I’ll go fix us up somethin’ to eat then,” but before he could take any steps towards the door- John finally made his appearance, running from out the bushes at the end of the garden, covered in leaves.

“I’m cookin’!” He yelled as he went past. Paul looked hurriedly to and from Ringo and John before taking off after the singer. “The bloody hell were you doing there- wait! Your cooking is shite!”

Ringo laughed ‘till his chest hurt. Those two always were an easy laugh. It had been a blessing at the hospital- the large cold rooms, all the whiteness and hurt that laid there; it only worked up bad memories, that bleak nothingness. Of missed school days and sleepless nights. But he had his friends now- all three of them to keep his spirits up. But he hadn’t seen George since that early morning and like Paul had wondered about John- so Ringo started to.

But it wasn’t for long, for as if his mind had been read- George appeared at the same spot John had. The guitarist, wide eyes and a large smile, laughed as he neared Ringo. “What’s down there? A secret cave you’ve not told us about?”

George shook his head (his hair was getting longer, too long for Brian’s image of the band) as he continued laughing breathlessly. “Not at all,” George flopped down on the grass in front of Ringo and nudged his good foot with his own.  “John was just helpin’ me look for somethin’, that’s all.”

“Y’know… he feels really guilty about what happened to you. Blames himself for it.”

“Oh… how so? I don’t fault him for it.”

“I know, but I doubt he does. And he won’t believe me if I tell him so. Or Paul.”

Ringo looked down, staring at the edges of his shirt- at the seams slowly coming apart at its stitchings. Laughter ruptured from behind them and they spotted the Lennon-McCartney pair playfully push and shove each other as they made their way towards the door.

“I’ll try to say somethin’ to ‘im,” Ringo muttered as they stumbled out the door. George patted his knee and leapt out the way lest he wanted to be trampled down by the pair more resembling hyenas now than the musicians they were.

They commenced in good humour, any ill thoughts soon forgotten as they ate. It had been surprisingly good, (none in the band anywhere near being chefs). John congratulated himself on being a master chef as Paul tried to talk over him with all his might that he was the one to save the dish from John’s ‘fiendish ways’.

---

November 11th, 1943.

The old mansion crept over the trees and looked quite like something out of a motion picture; something ominous, like Dracula or Frankenstein. Paul shuddered at the thought. His father had forbidden him from going to the theatre. Warned him about the movies but, yet Paul had ignored him and gone with a group of his friends. One of the many transactions that had landed him in front of the massive building.

It was a place for young and troubled boys; that was what he had been told, though he himself felt he far from fitted that description. Though young, his fifteenth birthday had just come and gone, he was hardly troubled- rather strong-willed, surely. Alas, his father disagreed and here he stood; at the stoop of the school with a single bag at his feet with some clothes (that wouldn’t be needed much as uniforms were the common wear here) and the sound of the roaring engine of his father’s vehicle disappearing in the forests behind him.

He stood alone, reluctant to knock; wishing he could turn around and run off into the wild, wishing to follow the bellowing winds and disappear. But his feet wouldn’t move, neither forward and backwards. He counted the minutes, and the nocks in the door's wood, meditating on his situation and the sound of crows in the trees. A sudden rustle made him look up, and he saw a window open and three dark-haired heads poke out, pushing each other for room in the narrow space. They were young boys; around his age. One with high cheekbones, one with a remarkable nose, and one with narrowed eyes- out of judgement or poor vision, Paul didn’t know, but it left a heavy weight in his chest.

“What’re ye doing there? Just standing there like a right idiot? The weather is bloody nasty!”

And sure enough, a loud crack of thunder gave out from the skies, clearing the way from rain that followed soon after. Had it rained on Paul’s way here? The ground had been wet when he left the car, but he couldn’t recall it ever raining. He had been lost in his thoughts; leaving home, leaving his brother, the war and all that followed such a thing.

“Shh, don’t talk like that! She’ll hear you…”

“Eh, blast her, Rings! See if I care.”

Only the two bickering boys stood left. Paul didn't know how to feel; about the strangers, about the house, about anything. But the way the boy had talked about the unknown women left a cold dread down his spine, making him wish full control of his limbs again, to run back to the city as fast as he ever could. He blinked, drops of water falling off his lashes. The boys had disappeared again; leaving him alone again. 

Paul contemplated finally knocking, getting it over with, but before he could even lift his fist- the decision was made for him with the aggressive opening of the door. A woman stood in the entrance to a brightly lit room- behind her was a grand staircase that turned halfway up the room, and on it Paul could see the three boys from before, peeking over the banister. 

“You must be Mr McCartney,” the woman muttered through gritted teeth. Paul wondered about her anger- she couldn’t possibly be mad at him? He had just arrived! He quickly made sure to nod; his voice suddenly stuck in his throat.

“Come in,” she said more calmly, though it seemed distant and cold all the same, and turned sharply around, “and wipe your feet.”

He tutted demurely after her- feeling scolded, though he had done nothing to deserve it. 

Inside wasn’t particularly warmer than the roaring storm outside. While there were flicking candles abound, all around the room- the heat seemed drained out of them, abandoned somewhere out of reach. He heard the muffled sound of feet above his head as he watched the boys ascend the stairs- mindful in sneaking away from the old lady leading Paul near the oak steps. 

“You’re sharing room with Mr Harrison. Third on the right. Breakfast is at six precisely. Your uniform for tomorrow is on your bed. You will get your orientation after breakfast. Goodnight.”

And with that, she left- leaving Paul in front of the stairs that seemed to grow larger and longer the more he stared and lingered at its feet. Was this to be his life now? Hollow and cold rooms? Fear of the wars and storms outside as he sits silently in a mansion in the forest away from family and loved ones? He felt the fear crawl and cling to his heart as he felt his pulse beat along to the hard rain on the windows. He took a shaking step up, one hand tightly gripped on the railing, the other on his bag, and swallowed deeply. And another. And another. And soon he found himself on the top- his eyes suddenly meeting a pair of bespectacled curious ones; so sudden he lost foothold on the polished wood, and surely he would have fallen if it weren’t for the quick action of the stranger who, with a strong, hold grabbed his wrist, pulling him safely back.

His heart was in his throat as he left the steps behind, left for safer ground. The strange boy’s hands were still around his, and Paul’s head was reeling. He felt his pulse quicken under the warm touch of the boy. He felt himself shaking, his face flushing, and looked up wide-eyed at the stranger, stammering out his thanks for the rescue. The boy only shook his head with a relaxed smile (though his cheeks were tinted pink and his chest heaved). 

“W-Who are you? I-I’m Paul...”

Paul cursed inwardly at himself. A new life, and this was his first introduction to someone of his own age?

The boy shook Paul’s hand; his hand still tightly around Paul’s, his fingers feeling Paul’s sharp pulse. He shook his head once more and let go- finally to introduce himself. 

---

1967,

He had been in the garden for hours, tending the flowers; warm and gently, making sure they got the care they needed. The sun had remained high and proud on the clear blue sky since early morning; a perfect picture for the summer day to come. He had stayed in the garden as much as his body allowed- only going back inside for bathroom or lunch breaks, of which were rare. He found himself unable to tear himself away from the busy work of studying the flowers’ health and making sure no pests had gotten to them. So it came as a great shock when a pale hand landed suddenly on his shoulder, almost knocking him off his feet as he sat kneeling, looking at the lilac posies blossoming.

He steadied his heart, his thin hand feeling it beat rapidly underneath his clothes, it was going faster than a race car from the shock, and he shifted lightly around on his feet to find Paul standing there, looking at him with a lazy smile and hazed look, distant in his eyes. He smiled widely as he greeted his friend with a croak of his name; George’s throat had gone dry from the long and silent stay out in the sun. He rose quickly to greet his friend with a tight hug.

“Hiya, Georgie,” Paul said in a light voice, melodic, almost like singing, as he swayed on his feet, arms gripping tightly at George’s shoulders; his dark brown hair was a beautiful contrast to the clear blue background of the bright sky. Smoke filling the hair in front of them from Paul’s cigarette, perched lightly between his lips.

It didn’t take long before Paul eventually tired of standing (George had already guessed his drugged state by… everything about him). Paul dramatically dropped to his knees in front of the other Beatle, fingers holding tightly to his ciggy, desperately not to drop it on his way down. He swayed back and forth on his feet for a few unnerving seconds before falling completely on his arse on the sun-warmed grass. 

“Are ye high?” George asked the obvious, smiling as he watched Paul adjust himself on the grass, failing on doing so with only one hand- the other holding on to the cigarette for dear life. “Just a smidge,” Paul giggled as he looked up at George, eyes half-closed as he tried to see George through the sharp sun rays. 

Paul petted the grass as he felt the cool dew on the grass seep through his thin and loose trousers, enjoying the last few puffs of his ciggy, feeling himself sobering up in the bright sun. George had returned to silence, studying his friend, wondering what to do next. His thoughtless mind was full again as he heard cackles turn into deep giggles from the bassist on the ground. Paul sat, pulling healthy green blades of grass free from the ground, colouring the tips of his fingers green, as he sat and smiled at his own little thoughts. He heard Paul whisper ‘I got the best ideas’ and watched him creep and crawl towards his feet; silent and confused, curious as to see what the older man was about to do. 

The linen fabric of his trouser as Paul pulled himself to his knees by the aid of George’s knees. He questioned the acts of the bassists, audibly wondering what was on his mind- the mind so fogged up from the joyous weeds. Sharply. Paul pulled down the trousers in a swift and sudden movement and George was left bare arsed in his vast and empty garden. “P-Paul!” He erupted in a mixture of shock and amusement. It would hardly have been the first time this would have happened; Paul leaving George bare-arsed, that is, as they had had many dalliances in their youth.