Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In the beginning, it’s nice.

The art world of London is fresh, exciting, fun. Paul can’t remember the last time he’s had fun and genuinely let himself feel it, instead of second-guessing his own happiness at every turn. Why should he feel happy, when Brian… when he’s…

Robert is nice, too, really just a fab chap. Charming, intelligent, funny, all qualities that he appreciates and hopes for in a friend. Their relationship had bloomed right away into late-night talks full of laughter and deep, philosophical things. Paul will share about the fascinating new book he’s picked up at the Indica, or Robert will run away with himself in describing some avant-garde piece he’s looking to feature at his gallery. It’s all very proper, posh, and sophisticated, a far cry from the chippies he and John used to pop into, greasy and vaguely unclean in the way that Liverpool could be sometimes. A far cry from cramped beds, from sweating on stage, from singing and screaming himself hoarse until he had nothing left to give, from arguing and swearing in the studio while nothing really got done the way it ought to be. 

Paul’s desperately needed a break from it for a while. He still composes songs, of course, still meets with his bandmates to work out the details of a new track or booking another studio, that sort of thing. But he’s more conservative about his time now in some ways, too. He forgoes visits to John’s place to write new material if he happens to get invited to attend one of Robert’s exhibitions, for example, or have dinner with the Ashers. Sometimes it’s just easier to ask John over to Cavendish so he doesn’t have to shuffle his schedule around too much. 

Now Paul is the kind of man who can boast of having the works of Magritte adorn his walls. He’s getting to enjoy a whole new circle of friends, too, and he isn’t tied down to just music and making more, more, more of it on demand. He was worried at first about fucking it all up, about putting off Robert’s friends (who were a little intimidating at first) by revealing too much about himself with a crude joke or a reference to his less than wealthy upbringing in Liverpool.

He’s been a performer for many years now, of course, and that practice has proven invaluable here in London. He can figure out what people expect from him and mold his personality and tastes accordingly. Charming Beatle Paul becomes posh socialite Paul. Easy as breathing, or so he tells himself.

Yes… in the beginning, it was certainly nice. But later, when he gets to know Robert and his world much more intimately, it becomes much more complicated, not anything he could’ve possibly anticipated.

Robert’s gallery on Duke Street in London is well-known in many social circles, including some of the best rock ‘n’ roll stars at the moment. Paul usually expects to run into Mick and Keith at these sort of events nowadays, or stop for a chat with the likes of William Burroughs, or even be introduced to an up-and-coming artist whose works Robert is beginning to promote. 

On one such evening, with the guests and alcohol flowing freely through the whole place, Robert guides Paul away from Jane - who’s deep in discussion with a fellow actress - until they eventually stop in front of a rather large painting along the back wall of the gallery. 

“I wanted to get your thoughts on this piece, Paul. It’s one of my favorites, in fact, from tonight’s show. Tell me, what do you think it means?”

There’s an expectant sort of twinkle in Robert’s eye, like a professor waiting for his student to catch on to something quite profound. Bit like Alan Durband’s English class, thinks Paul with a smile. He studies the painting for a long moment, wanting to impress Robert with his insights, and more than a little pleased that Robert is welcoming that sort of dialogue. 

The first thing his attention is drawn to is the giant eagle. Its feathers are ink-black and brooding, its wings nearly engulfing the mostly nude figure of a young man. Both of the subjects, it seems, are suspended in mid-air. The man’s eyes are round with surprise, or maybe fear, and his arms almost seem to get swallowed up by the eagle’s much more intimidating presence. A shiver of unease pricks across Paul’s neck.

“It’s a struggle,” he says at length. “The eagle is a force that the man can’t control. Maybe it represents a part of him or something, like his darker half? Or he only thinks it is…” 

Robert hums with interest, nods his head as if to say go on. 

“But the man is afraid. He doesn’t understand the eagle’s true intentions, to help or to harm him. So the two halves are sort of… at war with each other.” 

Paul glances over at Robert, who’s studying him just as intently as Paul was with the painting. After another beat he laughs and chews self-consciously on the nail of his left pinkie.

“I completely missed the point, didn’t I?” says Paul in a light tone, his nose scrunching up. 

At that Robert gives him a polite, knowing smile. “Perhaps. But I rather like your interpretation, in any case. I admit that I’m fascinated by it, Paul. But would you like me to tell you the context behind this work now?” 

Paul nods, so Robert goes on softly, “It’s a depiction of the story of Ganymede. In the Greek myths he’s a beautiful young man, the most beautiful among mortals, the son of the king of Troy. When the god Zeus saw his beauty, he came in the form of an eagle to take the man away with him, up to Olympus, to be his cup-bearer. Although the myths originally didn’t imply it, they did evolve over time to become more… erotic, in tone.”

Paul looks closely at the young man’s face again. The worried pinch of his brow. The taut lines of his out-flung arms - are they trying to push away or embrace the dark swath of Zeus’ wings? And those deadly claws, too, poised to sink into pale, muscled flesh…

It doesn’t surprise him that Robert would choose a piece that might generate some passionate gossip and controversy given the exhibitions he’s held before, like the one featuring Jim Dine’s work that got him charged and fined for indecency a couple years back. But for the life of him Paul can’t fathom the erotic nature of Ganymede and the eagle at all. All he sees is a scene fraught with impending violence. 

“You know,” says Robert, as casually as if he’s reporting on the weather or recommending a book, “I find that I see something of myself in this painting. Perhaps… you might feel the same?” 

Paul bites the inside of his cheek. He understands what Robert’s implying, and again, it’s nothing that surprises him. Robert has never really hid the fact that he’s gay, but he’s never stated it outright either - tonight is the most he’s hinted at his preferences since they’ve known each other. It’s oddly comforting to have someone else’s trust in such a delicate thing as that. It makes Paul feel less alone in his own furious jumble of emotions. 

Robert and I aren’t so different, really, he thinks. Being in the public eye, trying to do our own thing, even while we’re pressured to conform to what others want. Used to think John was one of the few people who understood it, too, who knew what that pressure felt like. I don’t know anymore, though. John won’t let me in these days, not like he did when we were kids. It’s all changed. And with Brian gone…

God, it still hurts. So goddamn much. And the worse part of it is that Paul still hasn’t cried over Brian. He remembers seeing John’s face after the news broke - crumpled and pale, like he’d been split open and left to bleed out. Even George and Ritchie were distraught, quietly leaning on each other’s shoulders, or wiping at their puffy eyes. And Paul… he doesn’t know how he looked to the rest, but he remembers sitting in a corner for a while, barely moving or blinking. Cold all over, belly hollowed out. No tears. He thinks maybe they all dried up after his mum. Or maybe he’s just built wrong, unfixable.

He’s been trying to untangle it all recently, this ragged, mismatched tapestry of his life, picking at each thread until something meaningful loosens and reveals itself. Why did Brian have to die and leave them? Is that why John has been pulling away? But Paul, he’ll do anything for him, doesn’t he see that? It terrifies him a little, the intensity of his devotion to this man - this infuriating, brilliant person he’s been sort of in love with since he was fifteen - and he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that he would get on his knees and worship John, if he will just tell him so. He’ll make a space for himself in John’s bones, he’ll suck the pain and the deep, deep grief right out of his marrow and fill it with the balm of his own reckless love if he has to.

But… John never has, has he? He’s never let on if he feels even an inkling of what Paul does. Perhaps if he knew what Paul really felt, obsession bordering on pure insanity, it would be all over. There would be no getting him back again. 

He feels a bit caught out now, like Robert recognized the truth that he guards so carefully, even from himself sometimes, and decided to lay his own cards on the table. Your move, McCartney.

Paul takes a deep, steadying breath. He tries not to focus on the way his heart is knocking too fast against his ribs, from thinking of John and everything else. Robert’s words are finally beginning to sink in. He frowns.

“Which one are you, then?” he asks before he can curb his tongue.

Robert gives him the strangest little smile. He can’t decide whether it should unsettle him or not. “Why, Zeus, of course.” 

Robert turns away, plucking a wine glass from one of the trays being carried around for the guests. He’s slipped into the crowd without so much as a good evening to you, leaving Paul with his mouth hanging open dumbly. 

Which one are you, then?

Why, Zeus, of course.

Eventually, he has the wherewithal to grab a drink for himself when one of the servers offers it. He doesn’t know what to do now that Robert has left him to ponder over some very uncomfortable questions. He turns to read the little placard next to the painting: destruction/seduction. His stomach clenches hard; he drinks his wine so quickly that he almost chokes.

Which one are you?

I don’t know, I don’t know… which one am I?

Months later, and just a few days after returning from the band’s trip to India, Paul is at another of Robert’s little soirees. He’s definitely high, higher than he ought to be. He can’t keep his mouth shut, either - he’s singing off-key, talking nonstop even as his words begin to slide and bump together. Most seem to be taking it in stride, but then nearly everyone here is high or drunk, too. 

When the party is over Paul is wobbling like a top losing its steam. He follows Robert up to his flat above the gallery, giggling madly, then begins to hiccup from the whiskey he drank and giggles even harder at that.

“Stay here for the night, darling,” Robert urges, concern laced in that warm, deep timbre. “You’ll cause yourself or someone else an injury if you try to drive home.” 

Did he really drive on his own, or did Mal take him over? Paul doesn’t remember. Doesn’t care. Aren’t cars silly, like giant metal bread bins on wheels? He beams at Robert and lets himself settle deeper onto the other man’s bed, elbows holding up his weight, legs a careless and mile-long sprawl. 

God. Robert really is so, so beautiful - like the stars, like music, like Adonis. He must say so out loud, because Robert laughs and helps him out of his jacket. His hand lingers for a moment on Paul’s shoulder.

“You’re out of it,” says Robert, a fond smile lifting the corners of his perfect mouth. 

“An’ yer bloody gorgeous,” Paul replies, triumphant. It’s so easy to say. Why hasn’t he tried to say it before? And Robert called him darling.

He thinks he could tell Robert everything. He wants to. He will. 

“You’ve got nice hands, and yer so smart and funny, you know that? Would you let me kiss you, pretty please, Bob?”

But Robert just laughs again, pushing gently on Paul’s chest with both of his hands, and moves the covers over him. He turns out the light as he’s leaving. Stay, please stay, Paul almost pleads. The bed already feels warm and safe, and he’s so tired despite the weed and the drink. After only a moment or two more he goes into a dream. 

Another month passes before Robert finally asks him, “Have you been with a man before, Paul?”

He’s at Robert’s flat for the evening, carefully perusing his record collection. He hasn’t got many that Paul’s heard of, except for some classical composers and avant-garde stuff, but he exhales with relief when he sees Pet Sounds. He was the one who’d given Robert a copy when it first released, and it warms something deep in his chest, to know that Robert had kept it. Kept it because Paul had given it to him, even if he doesn’t quite see the genius of Brian Wilson’s lyrics the same way Paul does. 

He turns around now at Robert’s question, apropos of nothing, his brows pinching together curiously. “How do you mean?”

Robert smirks at him, running a long, thoughtful finger around the rim of his wine glass. 

“You’ve never actually tried it, then?” he prods. “Being with another man… romantically speaking?”

Paul wants to shake his head ‘no,’ he’s never tried, and he wants to laugh off this whole bloody conversation while they’re at it. But he’s frozen to the spot all of a sudden, unable to form a response that won’t crack open his chest and let out all the ugly, squirming vulnerabilities he keeps hidden away.

Only thought about it since I met you. And John, goes through his mind. Not that it matters with John. Not that he would ever let me try and say the right words. He couldn’t even admit whether he and Brian did anything together, or if he was just taking the piss as usual. 

Finally, after an almost indefinite pause, he makes a decision. Fuck it. What did he have to lose? If John and Brian had fucked off to Spain for a romantic holiday, it doesn’t bloody matter. John clearly never wanted Paul that way or he would’ve spoken up by now. It’ll make it easier for Paul to reach inside his chest and yank out that writhing mess of desire, put it on display for someone he knows won’t recoil from the rawest depths of him.

“I haven’t tried it, no. But I… I think I’d want to, y’know. At least once or twice. To be sure, like.”

Robert makes a questioning noise, an unvoiced oh? in his throat. 

Paul shrugs, laughing a bit helplessly, then says in a rush, “Not like it’s done me any good, waiting ‘round for the right one before. Only other man I’ve thought about it with… well, I still fancy him, have done for years. But he’s married, y’know, so there’s no point.”

He feels stripped open, a little. Even without saying John’s name out loud, he wonders if Robert’s guessed by now, given what Paul’s just told him. He wonders if Robert is trying to glean more information from a subtle spasming of his mouth, or a flickering of anguish in the hazel of his eyes. With a shaky breath, he turns and walks over to the record player across the room, his back to Robert. His heart is hammering in his throat now. As he fiddles with the controls and finally drops the needle on the B-side of Pet Sounds, he hears the creak of the armchair - then the gentle rustle of clothing, and at last, Robert is standing right behind him. Practically breathing on the sensitive skin of his neck, his lips close enough to press a kiss there, if he wanted to. 

“And what if I told you,” whispers Robert, “that I’ve thought of trying this with you? And with other men, too? More than once or twice.” 

“Have you?” Licking his dry lips, Paul leans back slightly into Robert’s space. He feels the other man’s nose bump the nape of his neck, followed by a gust of air, the smallest of gasps. Shivers ripple pleasantly across his own skin. 

The corners of Paul’s lips flick upward like the sparking of a lighter, pleased. With more bravado than he really possesses, he murmurs, “Are you gonna’ do something about it or what, Bobby?”

With a louder gasp this time, Robert’s big hands settle on his waist and his mouth lands, firm and decisive, against his pulse point. Paul expects it and yet, his whole body jolts to life with hot, electric pleasure. He snakes a hand up to bury in Robert’s hair, pressing him closer.

“Oh,” he breathes, and lets his eyes flutter closed, sinking into the feeling. “Mmm, yeah. That’s it, Robert.” 

“Oh, Paul,” he says, breathless already. “You’re incredible. Do you realize that? A masterpiece, a-” He breaks off on a groan as his hips roll forward, both of them trembling from the friction. 

In the background, beneath the rhythm of their blossoming need, is the heart-wrenching strains of Brian Wilson’s voice:

‘If you should ever leave me,

Though life would still go on, believe me,

The world could show nothing to me,

So what good would living do me?

God only knows what I’d be without you…’

They end up tangled in Robert’s bed that night. Paul doesn’t know what comes over him - he’s used to being on top with a bird, the reins of control so well-worn by now that he doesn’t need to think twice before grabbing hold. But with Robert it’s like he’s forgotten everything, turned into a blushing, eager mess of limbs. He loses himself in it fully, delicate moans and sighs that build to embarrassingly loud cries when his cock slides into the warm depths of Robert’s mouth. It’s so fucking good, it’s heaven, it’s everything. 

The storm of their heartbeats gradually winds down to a peaceful rumble. Desire lingers like the raindrops on Paul’s bedroom window back home, a soothing, predictable thing. Robert lays beside him, his fingers branding themselves into Paul’s hip, an afterimage of want when they wake. Consciousness is already blurring at the edges. 

Paul dreams of feathers, of claws and the thunderous roar of the wind in the ears. Is he flying or is he being carried off? He doesn’t know which is more exciting. 

He came in the form of an eagle to take the man away with him, up to Olympus…

Chapter Text

The longer that he and Robert are together, the more Paul comes to realize that he doesn’t have to put on a show for him, doesn’t have to worry or think as much. There’s something especially alluring about not thinking, in giving oneself over to someone else’s flow for a while. It reminds him of John’s song, actually: Turn off your mind, relax and float downstream…

Since that evening at the gallery, and even after this tryst of theirs began, Paul’s thoughts have turned more than once to that painting Robert showed him. He finally got up the courage to ask Robert more about it one afternoon, and it had turned into a rather enlightening conversation. 

“As much as I’m partial to Greek mythology, I do think the reiterations have gotten a number of things wrong,” he’d said, sipping the tea Paul had made for them both. “Like with Zeus and Ganymede. I wholeheartedly believe the stories were expounded upon by people who had no idea of what true homosexual desire is like.”

Paul had nodded, worrying at his bottom lip before he said something daft like, Oh, yeah? And what do you consider true homosexual desire? Growing up he had learned, as he’s certain many of his generation did, that it was a sin to feel attraction toward the same sex. He wonders if that’s the thing which kept him from acting on his feelings before - the seemingly inherent wrongness of homosexuality that religion so often decreed, without any thought to the very real people who might then spend their waking hours agonizing over what could never be changed but praying for forgiveness anyway. 

He still remembers, too, being told by some of the Exis about the chatter between the Hamburg sailors back in the day, the crude, sometimes violent manner in which they spoke of encounters with other men. It had scared him at first, realizing that that could be what awaited him if he tried to be more open with his proclivities. He didn’t fancy getting beat to a bloody pulp, either, like the way John had gotten horribly drunk on Paul’s 21st birthday and assaulted Bob Wooler, over just the suggestion he’d made of anything queer or ‘out of the norm’. 

Paul supposes these unpleasant memories had stuck more than he cares to dwell on now, and could go a ways to explaining his reaction in the gallery. Because with men it had to be intense, had to be violent, because it only made sense for such a ‘sinful’ act to be that way… right? 

But for Paul, at least, he’s seen that most of that is the exception rather than the rule. It is intense when Robert kisses him, certainly, but it’s also been gentle and loving. When Robert murmurs praise in his ear while he attends to Paul’s pleasure, or vice versa, it doesn’t feel like a sin that either of them needs to atone for. He feels cared for, needed, and he desperately wants Robert to feel the same way. He never thought it could be like that with a man until he finally let himself take a chance.

“You see, my darling,” Robert went on, “It’s the commentary of that piece I showed you which captured my attention. Because it’s necessary to acknowledge how this relationship has usually been depicted, versus what it could be in a different set of hands. The artist has planned to create a companion piece, in fact, to showcase that difference exactly. To rework those old myths for the modern era, you could say.” 

“I was a little shocked when I saw it, at first,” Paul had admitted. He let one corner of his mouth quirk up in a conspiratorial kind of smile. “But with everything you’ve told me, I understand it better. And I’ve taken some time to understand myself a bit better, too.”  

“I’m glad.” Robert had looked at him then, really looked at him, with a fondness that curled warm and cat-like around Paul’s heart. “Art finds a way of speaking right to one’s soul, doesn’t it?”

Paul, naturally, had to concur. Their discussion had settled any lingering uncertainties within him. A small part of him had worried that Robert’s aims regarding him might turn out to be insincere or untoward. Just another pretty face in a sea of choices, easily replaced. A ridiculous thing to wonder about now, of course. Robert would never toss him aside like that or mean him any harm. 

Paul is home in his music room at the present, working out a melody and lyrics for a new song. Not a song he’s planning to share with the group, however. Maybe some day. This one, it’s for him and Robert. 

‘You took my heart and held it tight, love,

Kept me warm and true and right, oh yeah,

Let’s hang together on my wall tonight,

Let’s paint a pretty picture of our love…’ 

Martha totters through the room at one point. It must be close to her afternoon meal by now. She always has an uncanny knack for finding Paul wherever he may be in the house and deploying her most effective weapon of pleading puppy eyes. 

This time, though, she sniffs at Paul’s hand moving along the fretboard before spinning around in a circle and plopping down on the rug next to him. Content to wait it out today, it seems. He coos affectionate nonsense at her and keeps playing well into the afternoon, ‘til his fingers simply get too cramped to carry on.

Trying to write with John and the band and get anything substantial finished is a monumental, and infuriating, uphill battle. It doesn’t help that Yoko is hanging off of John’s arm at nearly every turn, her keen eyes observing them all at work - or what passes for it, anyroad.

What is it about her, Paul wonders helplessly, that has such a powerful hold over his best mate? What possible right does she have to the affections of John Lennon? The boy that Paul has known since they were arrogant little nobodies, two scruffy Teds against everyone else; now he’s the man who has it all a thousand times over, and will barely acknowledge that Paul exists in the same room as him. 

As they often do, Paul’s thoughts put him in a rotten mood for most of the band’s next studio sessions. Further exacerbating this is the fact that they’ve been working on Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da for the past couple of days, and Paul still isn’t pleased with how it’s all turning out. He’s already lost his temper with George Martin, telling him “Well, you come down and sing it!” when he’d offered suggestions for the vocal parts. He knows everyone’s else tempers are getting whipped up into a frenzy, too, John’s especially so. 

“Christ, more of Paul’s granny music shite,” he finally snaps at one point. “We can’t keep buggering around with this song indefinitely, you know! It’s time to pick a bloody recording to use an’ move on.”

The granny music comment stings more than it should, and Paul grits his teeth to keep a scathing rebuke at bay. He won’t be deterred, because by god he’s still a part of this bloody band! He tries to explain that he wants to do another take, maybe record a new basic track. But that’s when John just explodes. He launches himself from his chair to the piano with a growl of indignation and starts banging away at the keys, playing the opening chords of the tune in a frantic, music-hall kind of style. 

“It should go like this, come on!” he shouts, staring daggers at Paul from across the room. 

Right then and there, Paul has never felt such a fierce and immediate impulse to wring John’s neck. And what pisses him off even more is that John is right, too. The song would work better at that jauntier tempo. 

Amidst all the turmoil, even their recording engineer Geoff Emerick decides that he’s had enough and quits. Paul wishes, in a fleeting, desperate surge of vengeful emotion, that he could join him and tell the rest to fuck off. 

Before he leaves the studio later that day, exhausted and upset, Paul slips quietly into the bathroom and pulls out the small baggie of cocaine from his coat pocket. Robert had given it to him for emergencies, just to take the edge off if he needs to. It’s potent stuff, but through a bit of trial and error he’s figured out a good dosage that won’t overwhelm or totally incapacitate him. 

He wipes off the edge of the sink as best he can. Then he shakes out some powder and forms it into a neat, even line with the edge of one of his plectrums, the first thing he happened to grab. 

Once he’s taken it, he cleans everything up and sets off at a quick pace for his car. His mood is already a thousands times better, rocketing off somewhere in the stratosphere. He grins to himself and thinks, Maybe things would stop feeling so terrible, as long as I felt like this all the time… 

“Oi, hang on, Paul!” 

Paul whips around, frowning when he sees that John is walking toward him from the other end of the hallway. Just him - no Yoko clinging to his shirt or whispering in his ear. He waits until John has caught up to him, but once he does he doesn’t know what to say. So they both just sort of stand and look at each other in awkward silence, until finally, John clears his throat. 

“Glad I caught ye’ in time. Listen, I, uh, I wanted to apologize.” His words are calm, yet almost tentative, as if he’s treading the waters between them carefully. His eyes are starting to flick nervously all over Paul’s face, too, never quite settling on one fixed point. “For bein’ an insufferable bastard in there today. I do care about getting this album done, even if I don’t… always show it.” 

Paul blinks several times. His heartbeat, which is already erratic from the stuff he took, quickens. What the hell is John on about? Why in God’s name is he apologizing? Paul’s the one who, if he’s being wholly honest with himself, has been the insufferable one to work with. 

“‘S all right,” he says, fidgeting with the bag in his pocket. “‘Nowt to be sorry for. I’m not exactly getting a bandmate-of-the-year award any time soon, am I? Turned into a veritable dictator, I have!”

His last remark has a light-hearted spirit to it. And as it turns out this does the trick, earning him a genuine laugh from John, and he can’t help but feel enormously proud of himself.

“We’ll have ye’ tried and charged with crimes against music, Paulie,” John teases, even though they both know it’s a stupid joke, but neither of them care. They laugh anyway, like they’ve always done at each other’s jokes and quips and other nonsense. 

There you are, Johnny, Paul thinks, with a powerful, tingling rush of affection. I knew you were still in there. 

Their laughter winds down. Paul tries to swallow but finds a sharp lump has settled in his throat. 

“I care, too,” he manages. “Maybe too much. It’s just… doing this can be so hard, y’know? After everything.” 

He stops short of admitting it: after Brian. Time still hasn’t made his death any easier; without him, Paul and the band are hanging on by the thinnest possible thread. He’s afraid that it’s only a matter of months, maybe even less, before everything snaps loose once and for all, sending them flying in different directions.  

“Yeah.” John nods, his eyes softening. “Look, um, I’m going to have a chat with George Martin, then Yoko an’ I have to head out. But I wanted to make sure you knew where I stood. We’ll be okay, you know? We always are, in the end.”

Paul breathes shakily through his nose. We’ll be okay, we always are… leave it to John to get right to the point of the matter. He doesn’t know whether John is referring to we, as in the band, or we as in the two of them, John and Paul. Either way, he takes the feeling deep into his chest and holds on tight. 

“Aye,” he says. “Thanks, John. I’ll be seein’ you, yeah?”

“Yeah, see you, Macca. And get some rest, you look like you need it.”

Then John turns and walks back the way he came. Paul is grinning like an idiot, is still grinning by the time he gets to his car and drives off for Cavendish.

We’ll be okay, you know? We always are, in the end…

He’ll try his damnedest to hold himself, John, and the band to that hopeful refrain.

There are fewer and fewer times when Paul feels most at peace - most real and himself - but thankfully, one of those times is still when he’s in Robert’s arms. It’s sappy, perhaps, but it’s the truth. Hardly a thing compares to the way Paul vibrates with excitement or gets a skip in his step whenever he stops by Robert’s place, rapping out a silly pattern on his door until he rolls his eyes fondly and pulls him over the threshold.

Paul’s shirked going to the studio for the day to visit Robert again. He smells like the tea he drinks and the pungent bite of weed; almost at once, Paul maneuvers them onto the couch and licks indulgently into Robert’s mouth, earning him a delighted shudder. They yank at each other’s clothes until they’re naked and pink-cheeked.

“Eager for it today, aren’t we?” Robert pants, and Paul hisses out something in agreement before nipping pointedly at his Adam’s apple. “God, that’s lovely. I like you like this, taking charge. It suits you.”

Paul pulls back a bit, smoothing a hand against Robert’s chest while trying to tamp down a shit-eating grin. “Is that right? Do you really like it, Robert, me taking charge? Do you want to know what I’d do if you let me?” 

Robert’s pupils visibly dilate a little at his words, and he swallows hard before replying in a tight voice, “Yes, tell me. Tell me how you’d do it, Paul.” 

“First, I’d make you touch yerself,” Paul begins, all gravelly and low like he’s just finished an eight-hour set. His accent is coming stronger, as well, the vowels more rounded like they get when he’s been visiting family back home for a while. “I’d tell ye’ to go slow, love, to savor it. And then I’d flip you over on yer hands an’ knees, work ye’ open with me tongue, get ye’ beggin’ for me ‘til you just can’t bloody stand it…”

Robert makes a sharp keening noise in his throat. Pleased, Paul ducks his head to mouth at his neck, but all of a sudden Robert’s hands are pushing at his shoulders, urging him away. He sits up with a frown.

“What is it?” he asks. “Are you all right?”

“I’m sorry,” Robert whispers, “I can’t…we…” and then he squirms and turns his head away, cheeks flaming with what Paul can only interpret as, of all possible things, humiliation. 

After a beat Paul moves off of Robert completely, and it’s then that he registers the problem. Robert’s prick is lying against his thigh, soft and unmoved.

“Oh,” says Paul, dumbly. His own cheeks flush a bit at the realization, and he stammers, “Christ, I’m sorry, I-I didn’t realize, um…”

“Please, don’t apologize. It’s not you.” Robert groans and squeezes his eyes shut. “I’ve been having this particular, ah, health issue for longer than I’d like now. I had hoped it might go away on its own…”

“Hey, it’s all right, y’know.” Paul tilts his head to catch Robert’s eye, smiling at him kindly. “Happens to the best of us at some point. Do you, uh- do you want me to leave, or…?” 

Robert shakes his head, some of his usual good humor returning to his face, in the suggestion of a smile.

“Why don’t we just hold each other?” he offers. “If you’d like.”

Paul nods, and they rearrange themselves onto their sides on the couch, face to face. Paul presses a kiss to his nose, then the corner of his mouth. Robert laughs. Paul keeps a warm, steadying hand on Robert’s back, his fingers rubbing a soothing circle between his shoulder blades.

A slant of light cuts across the room and illuminates the slope of Robert’s shoulder, the curve of Paul’s pale bicep. They close their eyes as one and doze.

Paul’s visits to Duke Street have become less frequent than he would like. The album is close to being completed, thank Christ, and he’s been swallowing some of his pride to help get them over the finish line. He’s spent a lot of his free time these days, too, with Linda and her daughter Heather. He cares for them both so much, more than he even realized he would. 

Over the weekend, Paul tries to call Robert several times but can’t get through to him. He figures it wouldn’t hurt to go ahead and stop by, just to touch base and see how things are going. It’s not unusual for Robert to be out with friends, or get tied up with his assistants in preparing the gallery for another show. Whatever the case, he’s been meaning to check out the gallery again, and the drive there isn’t very long at all.

He leaves some fresh food and water for Martha and takes off for the gallery in his Aston Martin. He parks in his usual spot across the road and hurries between traffic. One of Robert’s assistants, a dark-haired, whip-smart woman named Eliza, is working on some paperwork in his office. A few people are milling around the gallery examining a painting or sculpture, sometimes chatting amongst themselves, while another assistant named Tom is hovering nearby, prepared to answer any inquiries.

Paul knocks on the open office door to get Eliza’s attention. She smiles at him in recognition and takes off her blue cat-eye glasses, getting up from the rolling chair to give him a proper greeting. Her manner had once been cold and quiet, until Paul actually talked to her at an artists reception here and realized she was just a bit of an introvert. She was perfectly charming and witty, full of fresh ideas. 

“To what do we owe the pleasure, Mr. McCartney?” she says.

“Well, I was just in the area, y’see, and I was hoping to have a chat with Robert. Is he around, do you know?” 

“He’s… indisposed, at the moment,” says Eliza, her brow pinching with concern. “Myself, Tom, and a few other assistants are looking after the gallery in the meantime.” 

Paul’s heart drops like a stone. “What do you mean, indisposed? He’s not in hospital, is he? Is it serious?” 

Eliza’s mouth flattens in a thin line. Then she says, “No, he’s at home upstairs. But I am afraid it’s something serious. This morning he stopped accepting visitors or responding to our calls. I was just about to go up and check on him again anyhow, before you came…” 

“I’ll do it,” Paul says, firm. He realizes he must sound presumptuous, though, and adds in a more reasonable tone, “Maybe one of us can convince him to see a doctor. Not always good to tough it out, in my own experience.”

Eliza’s face softens with gratitude. “Thank you, Mr. McCartney, I know you’re a good friend to him. And please, let us know how he is or if we’re able to offer more help in any way. That man does worry me so.”

For the first time, Paul notices the dull sheen to Eliza’s eyes and the faint, purplish smudges under them. He recognizes how exhausted she must be, from Robert’s apparent illness and from having to juggle the responsibilities of keeping the gallery running smoothly. He truly hopes that he can be of assistance, even if it’s just getting Robert to answer the door.

With that in mind, Paul doesn’t waste another second. Anxiety brews in his stomach like an ominous thundercloud as he hurries up to Robert’s flat, taking the stairs three at a time. 

Chapter Text

Paul gets no response from Robert at first. He knocks on his door multiple times, then decides to try the door handle, which won’t budge at all. His panic begins to spike to an even more dramatic level.

“Robert?” he calls out. He presses his ear against the door to detect movement of any sort. “Robert love, it’s Paul, can you hear me in there? I’ve come to see if you’re all right.” 

It takes a few minutes more, but at last, he hears the bolt sliding and leans away. The door creaks open, though barely, and there stands Robert. He’s hunched over a bit, casting a partial shadow over his face, but even so Paul’s chest tightens painfully at the state of him - pale, shaking, his pupils dilated and his skin glistening with sweat.

“What are you doing here, Paul?” asks Robert. He doesn’t sound accusatory, just weak, and maybe somewhat disoriented.

“I…” Paul can’t even gather his thoughts, doesn’t remember what his goal is now. Fucking hell, Robert looks like a wreck. “Can I come in?” 

Distantly Robert nods, stepping back to allow Paul inside. He hovers for a moment, then gently puts his arm around Robert’s back and guides him over to the couch. He goes without any resistance whatsoever.

“What is it, love, what’s happened?” asks Paul. He takes both of Robert’s clammy, trembling hands in his own, like he’s consoling a child; when Robert grips him back fiercely, as if he’s afraid Paul will let go, he has to swallow a lump in his throat. 

“I was-I was behind… on payments,” Robert says haltingly. “They wanted me to pay m-my debts all at once, before I’d get any more. But I don’t have much money left, Paul… and the-the gallery, it’s close to ruin, and I have no one to blame but my-myself…”

With a sudden surge of energy, Robert twists around and pulls Paul tightly against him, his head pushing against Paul’s shoulder. 

“It hurts so much,” he admits, voice breaking on a sob. “Please make it stop hurting, Paul, please. I-I don’t know what to do anymore. Tell me what to do, I don’t, I don’t…” 

Paul holds him firm, squeezing his eyes shut, desperately hoping to keep his own emotions in check.

“Shh, shh, I’ve got you,” he says. “It’s okay.” 

They sit like that for a long time, clutching at one another like two ship-wrecked passengers left to the mercy of the sea. Finally, Robert seems to compose himself and begins to pull away. His eyes are cast downward as if in shame, his cheeks and nose moist from tears and the sweat that still lingers on his body. 

Paul cradles Robert’s face in his hands, a gesture he remembers his mum doing sometimes when he or Mike were upset. What else would she do if she were in Paul’s shoes now? She might try to offer some tea or water, then find some food and medicine if it was needed. When he and his brother were really ill, she would sit at their bedside and cool them off with a flannel, or distract them from their misery by reading a Just William book. 

Well, Paul isn’t exactly sure what will work for Robert to feel better now, or if he’ll even welcome help of that sort while he’s coming off whatever drug he’s last taken. So he just starts by wiping the moisture from Robert’s cheeks with his thumbs, then switches to the edges of his shirt sleeves. 

“We’ll figure this out, all right?” he promises. “Together. Do you understand?”

“Okay.” Robert’s voice is uncharacteristically small. 

“I’ll make us something to drink, yeah?” When Robert nods, he says, “I’ll be right back.”

Reluctantly, Paul gets up and goes to the small kitchen at the other end of the flat. His muscle memory kicks in as he finds the kettle, then the cups and the sugar. The task at hand keeps his mind focused; he doesn’t let himself dwell on Robert’s condition for long, or on whether he still has a stash of other drugs some place, or even if he’ll try different, more dangerous means to get them.

After a while the tea is ready. Paul grabs a bit of food from the cupboards that Robert might be able to stomach, as well, just some bread and plain biscuits to start with, which should be bland enough. He returns to find Robert almost exactly where he left him, hugging his knees against his chest, his gaze lost and faraway. 

“Oh… thank you,” Robert mutters when Paul comes round, taking the proffered teacup and grabbing a couple of the biscuits.

Paul sits down with his own tea, and after a beat Robert says with an urgency to his words, “I don’t think I can… can trust myself to be alone right now. Could you stay, Paul, just for today? I’d… I’d feel much better, you know, if you were here.”

Paul swallows, unable to answer right away lest he says something too soft or too trite. But he already knows he’ll do it - he’d do anything for Robert, no questions asked. The housekeeper can look after Martha for one day, too, and he’ll see if Linda is willing to cancel the plans they had for dinner this evening. He’s glad that he doesn’t have to go into the studio again for a bit, doesn’t have to explain another impulsive absence to anyone and sense their unspoken judgment. He knows he’s already lost the trust and respect of the band - of John - by trying to keep a tight hold of the reins. His behavior in the studios the last few months alone has been embarrassing, to say the least. The band certainly doesn’t need further proof that Paul can’t set a good example or manage the group effectively, that he’s not their answer to Brian and probably never was, that the pressure to keep going has been wearing him down so utterly.

But with Robert, he’s reminded of the fact that he doesn’t need to prove anything. He’s never had to, truthfully, but it’s always been in his nature to want to impress someone a bit, or to push himself harder so that he keeps them happy. To Robert he’s not just a performer, not just a Beatle. He’s a friend, now a lover. He’s someone who doesn’t run away when others stumble or fall.

Robert Fraser is one of a small handful of people who have gotten to see the real Paul. The Paul who wasn’t ready to grow up without a mum. The Paul who didn’t have a handy rule book for taking care of his brother - or, in turn, his father. The Paul who buried himself in music to cope, and longed to be plucked out of his increasingly dull, predictable life. To be noticed. And he certainly did everything within his power to stand out, to improve on his failures, to charm and please and dazzle.

He’s tried to make his peace with it over the years, his different roles, how they’ve both served him well and burdened him. He cares for his brother and his dad, there’s no question of that. None of them could have foreseen how Mary’s death would cause an enormous ripple in the usual stillness of their lives. For them, and for Robert now, he understands one of the reasons why he’s taken on the responsible, caring role, one reason above most others: love. 

And oh, he really does love Robert. He wants to stay by his side, be there for him in every possible way, but not out of obligation for their relationship or out of pity for Robert’s struggles. It’s because he’s such an important, such an intrinsic part of Paul’s life, and if he should ever leave him… well, it’s like what Brian Wilson says, isn’t it? So what good would living do me?

“Well now,” Paul says, putting on a lighthearted American drawl, “I’m sure I could make myself mighty comfy here then, Bobby.” He puts special emphasis on the nickname, and Robert responds by giving him a weak smile. “Ain’t got anywheres to go that can’t wait, do I?”

Maybe it’s a trick of the light, but as Robert drinks his tea carefully with shaking fingers, Paul swears that he already sees a hint of that usual effusive glow returning to his eyes.

It’s a small achievement, perhaps, but Paul will take anything he can get. 

One day turns into two, then three, then an entire week. Paul does end up having to call the studio and explain to Mr. Martin that he might not be able to attend the upcoming sessions to mix and record some of his and George’s songs, on account of looking after someone who’s very ill. Mr. Martin is sympathetic, of course, though understandably concerned about having Paul come in, as well. He encourages Paul to reach out again if there’s any updates. 

Even though he’s already apologized for snapping at Mr. Martin months ago, Paul feels guilt flood his chest again. Like Brian, Mr. Martin has only ever worked in his and the band’s best interests. He doesn’t know what they’d do without a producer like him. 

Maybe I’ll finally get voted out of the group, and our George Martin can be in the lead role, thinks Paul with a private, rueful chuckle.

In the meantime, he tries to make Robert as relaxed and comfortable as he can. He helps cook meals and keeps the flat tidy. He makes sure that Robert has blankets and sweaters if he needs them, and he throws these into the washer when Robert gets too sweaty. Even Eliza and Tom drop by with a care package of sorts, everything from fresh toothpaste and deodorant to fruit and extra teabags.

Paul feels a bit useless at times, though, especially when the vomiting and other gastrointestinal issues properly set in. He winces whenever he hears Robert stumble to his feet and make for the bathroom. He can relate to that particular unpleasantness, having suffered similarly in Hamburg, the prellies and the horrid food combining in the worst possible way. 

The most painful aspect of the ordeal, however, has to be the muscle spasms. More than once Paul has been awoken by Robert crying out, like he’s being stabbed over and over with no relief. It’s awful, and it sort of terrifies Paul, but somehow he manages to push it down and stay by Robert’s side, stroking his hair or cooling his forehead off, or even singing a bit to ease him back to sleep. Anything to give some temporary relief. 

The phone also rings fairly often during Paul’s extended stay. He gets down messages from several artists and art dealers of Robert’s acquaintance, and during his more lucid periods, Robert takes the calls himself. 

The most surprising call, as fate would have it, happens to come from John. 

“Housekeeper said you’d been stayin’ over, gave me the number from yer phone book,” he explains when Paul questions him about it. “How’s it going, then?”

“All right,” Paul says, biting the inside of his cheek. The last thing he needs, quite honestly, is for John to make some snide or backhanded remark and put him in a foul mood. “Look, if yer wonderin’ if I can make it to the studio tomorrow, I-”

John cuts him off in a surprisingly gentle tone, “Don’t worry about it, yeah? We can have George Martin reschedule if it really comes down to it, I reckon.” After an uncertain pause, he asks, “So, um, how is ol’ Groovy Bob faring? Is it just a bad flu, or is it, you know, the drugs again?”

“Drugs, aye,” Paul says, lowering his voice instinctively, even though Robert has sought out the bathroom yet again. “Been off the stuff all week, he has. Withdrawal’s a real bitch.”

“Yeah, Christ, must be rough. Do you think he needs to be in hospital?”

“I think he should,” Paul admits, “but the publicity, y’know… he told me just yesterday that if the press managed to get wind of this, he thinks it might be the final blow to his career. So it’s probably a good thing that we’ve stayed here the whole time. His assistants have come ‘round, too, they’ve been a huge help in lookin’ after both of us.”

The line fills with faint, buzzing static as John remains quiet. Paul clears his throat, then asks, “How’re things with you? You’re still well, I hope?” 

“Well as ever, I suppose,” John says, almost sounding bemused that Paul’s shown any curiosity about him. 

“And Yoko? She’s good, too?” Paul couldn’t care less, really, but he’s not about to start a row over his dislike for his best mate’s girlfriend, either.

“Oh, you care about her all of a sudden, do you?” There’s, predictably, a more guarded note to John’s voice. “She’s fine. I’ll send her yer coldest regards, mate.” 

Paul rolls his eyes and says, “Oh, ta,” glad for the fact that they’re not speaking face to face. He worries at his bottom lip for a moment, pondering over which direction to steer their conversation.

“You know, some people might get the wrong idea,” says John, the change in track throwing Paul abruptly off kilter, “with you and Robert Fraser being such close friends. And now you stayin’ over at his place, looking after him… well, the rumor mills are a relentless thing these days. They’re bound to get their story one way or another.”

Paul doesn’t know what to say. A nervous, exasperated sort of laugh bubbles up from his throat. How the hell is he supposed to take that, exactly? What in the world is John even trying to imply?

“Oh, is that right?” Paul says flatly. “Can’t imagine they would come up with much, if I have a say in it. They’d have to run some old piece like, ‘McCartney Ditches Music Business for Partying and Paintbrushes’.”

“Hmm, not how I heard that one.” John’s voice is strange now, rough and lower in pitch like he’s got a cold. It makes Paul blink rapidly with alarm. “Actually, a while back I heard that you and him were…” 

“What? That we’re what, John?”

Paul’s stomach twists with something like dread, or perhaps it’s the first ominous rumblings of hostility. What has John heard, exactly? If it’s what Paul suspects it is, then what is the goddamn problem? What he and Robert have been doing isn’t technically illegal now under English law. It’s still frowned upon by certain parts of society, sure, but they can’t do a thing about it, especially when it’s behind closed doors. It’s their business, not the rest of the world’s.

John should have the fucking balls to spit it out, right over the phone - I heard you were one of those queers - instead of resorting to vague, possibly threatening statements. At least if he was bloody honest, then Paul would finally know where he stood on the matter. 

After another long moment, John exhales as though he’s been keeping the air in for a significant amount of time. He shuffles some papers on the other end of the line, then lets out an over-the-top series of coughs. 

“Ah, it’s nothing, just rubbish,” John insists at last, even though it’s most absolutely something, the miserable bastard.

Paul knows that insouciant quality to his speech, as if he’s not really concerned about the conversation anymore, even though he is. Oh boy, he certainly is, and he won’t let it go. He’ll keep pretending nothing’s wrong for a while, then get increasingly more passive aggressive and unpleasant. Then, the dam will eventually break and he’ll find the right moment to sink his claws in - maybe in front of the whole band, too, if he’s feeling particularly vindictive. 

Paul almost wants to curse the fact that he’s devoted so much time to memorizing every subtle variation of John’s words, his voice, his face. He used to stare into John’s eyes when they were writing songs - still does it, sometimes, when their arguments aren’t making the walls shake - and feel this all-consuming want, this need to find a piece of his own self tucked away in this infuriatingly brilliant boy.

Over the years he’s become more aware of the cracks in John’s armor, too, the places where he was once able to seep in, fit himself exactly where he was needed. John’s friend. John’s songwriting partner. John’s confidante. He doesn’t know where he fits anymore, though. Perhaps he’s managed, through no conscious means of his own, to outgrow those familiar roles.

But maybe, maybe that’s not it. Maybe the honest truth of the matter is that John is the one who’s outgrown Paul. John simply doesn’t need him anymore, as a friend or a partner or anything. He’s moving on with his life. And if that’s the case, despite all the tense circumstances they’ve faced these last several months, it makes Paul’s heart just break right open.

“I’ve, um, I’ve got to go.” He closes his eyes, which are suspiciously watery, and swallows hard. “I’ll try to make it in tomorrow. See you then, yeah?” 

“Right. Goodbye, Paul.”

Paul sets the phone down. Doesn’t even remember stepping into the living room or collapsing on the couch, until Robert moves from his spot on the other side and loops one arm around Paul’s back.

“What’s the matter, darling?” he murmurs, trying to catch Paul’s eye. He sounds tired, but when Paul looks over his eyes are shining with awareness and worry. 

“It’s nothing,” he says, unintentionally echoing John’s words from earlier. He clears his aching throat and forces a smile onto his face, before he turns to kiss Robert’s cheek. “I might stop by the studio tomorrow, just for a few hours or so. We really need to get this bloody album done an’ over with, y’know? Be a great load off me mind once we do. I’d better call Linda and try to get Martha back on her usual routines, too, of course. Do you think you’ll, uh, be all right though, for a bit? Because if not…” 

Softly, Robert tells him, “Of course. I can always reach out to my assistants, if I need anything else. Don’t let me keep you from your life or what you do best.”

He leans forward, pressing his forehead briefly against Paul’s, and Paul lets out an unsteady breath. 

“You’ve been so good to me, darling,” says Robert, looking him right in the eyes. “How I’ll ever repay your compassion, I don’t know. But if you hadn’t come over this week, Paul, I… I don’t care to think what would’ve happened. Nothing good, I’m sure. Thank you.”  

Paul doesn’t respond at first; the words are too heavy, too tangled together. He’s still thinking about the phone call with John, too, about everything he didn’t say. John usually never holds back what he thinks of someone; when Paul first introduced him to Robert, John had pulled him aside and joked what a ‘posh twat’ and ‘snobbish bore’ he was. Paul had laughed along at the time, said something equally stupid, before he actually got to know Robert. Then John’s little jabs weren’t so funny anymore. 

It was foolish to believe, then, that John’s opinion of Robert had really changed since that time. Perhaps he had been keeping his mouth shut for Paul’s sake, out of a sense of respect for his best mate, and it had lulled him into a false sense of security. Now that their friendship had become strained and the band was in near shambles, John was clearly through playing nice. 

Paul places a kiss to the corner of Robert’s mouth. Then he bites his lip, waiting for his churning thoughts to settle for a moment. 

He’s rightfully astonished, just as Robert must be, when the words just slip right out without preamble, words he’s hardly uttered aloud to anyone, “You know I love you, right?” 

Robert’s face twists, a whole reel of emotions flickering across those handsome features - confusion, amazement, gratitude. At length, he sniffs a bit wetly and looks down at his lap, an endearing little smile plucking at the corners of his mouth. 

“Oh,” he says, “no, I didn’t know. Not until this moment, actually.” 

Robert looks up again. A single tear rolls unheeded down his reddened cheek. Paul holds his breath, bracing for the worst, thank you, you’re too kind, but it’s not like that for me… which he fears might be said. Because a confession that bares his soul so completely like this can’t be without its inevitable, painful rejection, right? The universe does so enjoy its cruel little plot twists. 

But, no. Robert, incredible, breathtaking Robert Fraser, bares his own soul in return, and oh, oh yes — it’s the most wonderful feeling in the world.

“Then I hope you know, Paul… I hope you know that I love you, too.” 

Actually hearing the words, so sincerely spoken, is a miracle, an affirmation that shifts Paul’s whole reality onto its axis. He is, beyond a doubt, the happiest he’s been in a long, long time. Maybe ever. His body feels lax and golden, like the sun has melted through the hollow, closed-off places inside him and filled them with light, revealing the beauty there again. The windows have been opened into the dusty, unkept rooms of his heart. 

Paul’s own lyrics flit through his mind, like a bird filling the air with a few sweet, ephemeral notes of its song, Who knows how long I’ve loved you… love you with all my heart… 

The day after George quits the band, Robert stops for a late-morning visit at the Twickenham film studios. 

Mal Evans brings the news of Robert’s arrival directly to Paul, gesturing to where the man in question has just stepped into the bright, noisy studio and is looking around with interest. The debonair cut of Robert’s suit, combined with his perfectly coiffed hair and sunglasses perched on his strong nose, make him look like some sort of James Bond type. Paul has the brief, scorching urge to say to hell with the consequences and have him right there, for anyone to see.

Paul hops swiftly from the piano bench to his feet, turning on his heels to greet Robert with a barely-suppressed grin. 

“How are ya’, Bob?” he exclaims. He vigorously shakes Robert’s hand, then proceeds to slap him on the back.

It feels like ages since they’ve last seen one another, though in truth it’s only been something like two and a half weeks since they last got caught up in person, and less than a week since they conversed by phone. Still, the time has been far too long in Paul’s opinion. 

Robert looks fantastic, effortlessly so. He’s since gotten his color back after his lengthy withdrawal (from heroin, as Paul later found out, Jesus) and his moods and energy have mostly returned to normal in the months that have passed. Except for the occasional joint, Robert has otherwise assured that he’s clean. Paul couldn’t have been more pleased to hear that. The difference in him is astounding.

Paul walks Robert over to the piano. Ritchie and John are jamming rather frenetically on their instruments, while Yoko is making odd, periodic noises into one of the microphones. Linda is conversing off to one side with Michael Lindsay-Hogg, with Mal and some of the other personnel hovering nearby. 

“Do you want to hear some of the songs we’ve been working on here?” Paul asks, and when Robert nods and leans expectantly against the piano lid, he lets his fingers take off.

He starts with Let It Be, before moving on to The Long and Winding Road. Then he grabs his acoustic and plays a bit of John’s Across the Universe and the majority of his own Get Back. The energy that Paul puts behind the last one makes Robert smile and tap his foot along to the rhythm. 

“Superb,” Robert says when he’s finished. “It sounds to me that your album is coming along very nicely. Although…” He pauses and glances over first at John, then at Ritchie and Yoko. “I don’t see your George Harrison around. He’s a rather gifted guitarist, from what I remember.”

Having apparently been listening to Paul and Robert’s exchange, John lifts his head up from his own guitar and says, point-blank and gruff, “Haven’t ye’ heard the latest, Bob? George quit the band.” 

Robert blinks, taken aback. “Quit the band?” 

“Yes,” Paul sighs, firing a glare in John’s direction, but he’s pretending to be busy fiddling with his tuning knobs now. “Yesterday, in fact. Things haven’t been going as well as I’d hoped. I wanted us to actually enjoy making music again, to do a live performance an’ everything. But I dunno’…”

Paul runs a hand through his long black hair, laughing without a trace of humor. Robert frowns and comes to sit on the bench beside him. Paul folds himself up to make room, legs crossed, back hunched. He starts chewing self-consciously on one of his cuticles. 

“Christ, Robert, it’s a disaster, it really is,” he says, low. “We’re up the bloody creek without a paddle.” He shuts his eyes briefly, takes a deep breath, and whispers, “It’s my fault, too.”

Robert’s jaw spasms at that. “Not everything is your fault, my love. You do realize that, don’t you?” 

“Yeah. Except it is, in this case. I’ve pushed too many boundaries. Took charge because I really thought I could help, could keep this little group together despite our personal differences. I’ve always been willing to help, to step up and be a man an’ what have you. ‘Soldier on,’ as me dad used to tell me and Mike. But now…” 

His gaze wanders over to his bandmates. He watches John, his back turned to them, serenading Yoko with a garbled Elvis tune. She’s sitting in front of Ritchie’s kit, balanced on the edge of the raised platform like a serene bird. She’s stopped singing now and is just staring at John, her eyes two dreamy pools of desire. 

Paul tears his focus away from the scene. He’s afraid, after what the last twenty-fours have been like, of the things he might feel emboldened to say. 

“I think you desperately need a change of scenery, Paul,” declares Robert, placing a hand on his knee, which had been bouncing with restless energy. “How about I treat you to lunch?”

Frankly, it’s the best offer Paul’s heard in a while. He grins and nods with great enthusiasm. 

“Ta, let me just grab me coat,” he says, then adds in a whisper, “I can be ready in five minutes, darlin’.” 

Robert winks, giving his knee a brief but comfortable squeeze.

They have lunch at a quiet, out of the way place near Covent Garden, and afterwards they drive back to Robert’s. He’s moved flats, though his new pad at Mount Street is not far at all from his Duke Street gallery. 

Paul’s restlessness hasn’t abated since Robert invited him out. It’s only natural, then, that he finally gives over to the suggestion that Robert’s been making all morning and afternoon, those subtle touches on the small of his back, near the inside of his thigh during lunch - designed, of course, to drive Paul positively mad. 

He pins Robert to the door and starts yanking his shirt open, almost ripping several buttons in the process. When Robert growls, “Heel, boy,” both sultry and commanding, Paul loses it. He lets Robert’s shirt pool at their feet, then sucks desperate bruises into his throat. He rubs his calloused fingertips over both of Robert’s nipples, which makes him jerk and hiss out unintelligible words of encouragement. 

Eventually, when the two of them are panting and agonizingly hard in their trousers, Robert leads them to the bedroom, helping to get their clothes off and out of the way. He proceeds to open Paul up with utmost care and lays back, allowing him to sink onto his cock. 

“Fuck yeah, oh yeah,” Paul gasps. He gets a good rhythm going, bracing his hands on Robert’s chest for leverage as he rocks his hips forward and back, forward and back. 

“Such pretty noises you make, darling. I know how much you love this.” Robert meets him on each thrust, his eyes blown wide, ravenous, while his hands dance restlessly over his waist and chest. He’s forgotten to take off his glasses, too, which are fogging up and leaning sideways. He almost looks like some disheveled art professor, and the idea of that lances red-hot and sudden through Paul. 

He surges forward, kissing Robert hungrily and raking his hands through his hair, mussing it up even further. The change of angle has him alternately groaning and whimpering into Robert’s mouth, the friction of his cock dragging slickly across the other man’s stomach absolutely maddening. 

“There, oh, oh god, yeah, yeah, Robert, please,” he pants, verging on delirium. 

“That’s it.” Robert takes hold of his weeping prick, setting a furious pace that has Paul keening. “There now, it’s all right. I always know what you need, don’t I? I’ll take care of you, Paul, you’re all mine, my gorgeous boy…”

Paul’s head goes limp with a broken whine, completely overcome. His hand joins Robert’s between his legs and he lasts maybe five more strokes before he comes and comes, shouting hoarsely. He slumps over Robert when he’s finished, chest heaving up and down like a ship in a storm. He closes his eyes and presses their foreheads together. 

“That was…” Paul lets the sentence trail off, then manages a weak laugh. “Christ. I really needed a great fuck like that.” 

“I always aim to please,” Robert purrs, oh so smug, and he of course has every reason to be.

He’s still hard inside of Paul, having stopped to give him the chance to recover a little. Tentatively at first, then with more purpose as he gets some momentum back, Paul resumes fucking himself on Robert’s cock. He grins when his lover lets out a series of faint, breathless curses.

“Such language,” Paul teases, and Robert shoots him a half-hearted glare. “What’s the matter, sweetheart? Is my arse too much for ye’ to handle?”

Instead of a verbal response, Robert winds both of his arms around Paul and pins him against his chest. He takes control of the pace now, plunging deep and slow into Paul’s body, and he can’t do anything but accept it, breathing hard into Robert’s neck.

He’s vaguely conscious of babbling encouragement, inchoate pleas like, “Baby, oh baby. Christ, yes. Come on…” until Robert writhes like he’s been struck by a bolt of lightning, smothering his cries against Paul’s shoulder. Overwhelmed moans and gasps escape both of their mouths, scratching their throats raw. 

Afterwards, they curl almost protectively around each other. Paul is pressed flush along Robert’s side, head pillowed on his chest. Robert runs his fingers through Paul’s damp hair, scratching lightly at his scalp and making him shiver. Paul rubs his face appreciatively into Robert’s skin.

“I meant to tell you earlier today, but your beard suits you,” Robert says, and Paul’s nose scrunches up with delight. “I think I may be a little in love with it, actually.”  

“Oh, aye?” Paul chuckles. “Should I be worried about gettin’ jealous of me own beard now? Will you two go an’ elope behind my back?”

“No, no, not to worry,” Robert assures, a smile in his voice.

A soothing silence falls over them for a few moments, before Robert shifts on the bed and clears his throat.

“I’ve been thinking about many things lately,” he says, hesitant but hopeful. “Foremost, of shutting the gallery down for good. And of traveling. It’s awfully depressing in London these days, and I believe getting away will be a great restorative to my health.” With a lighthearted tone that belies his words, he adds, “Anything’s better than lying in bed for weeks, feeling completely useless and without hope.”

Frowning, Paul lifts his head and searches Robert’s face, his mind racing to catch up. “Wait, do you mean that? You’re going to-”

He huffs, oddly sullen and displeased over the whole idea - of Robert shutting down his gallery, his pride and joy, of just up and leaving. He puts his head back on Robert’s chest, squeezing his side more firmly. 

“Where would you go?” he asks despite himself. 

“I’m not certain. But I had considered India as one option, however.”

Paul doesn’t understand why, but that makes him laugh. “Followin’ in the Beatles’ footsteps, are you? Looking for a bit of meditative clarity and a way to cleanse yer chakras?” 

The joke doesn’t quite land. Robert makes an awkward, almost embarrassed noise, but he smooths a hand up and down Paul’s back with the same patient gentleness. Paul, for his part, has gone tense as a bowstring. Christ, you stupid bastard, what was that, he thinks, wishing he hadn’t said anything at all.

“Don’t act so out of sorts, my love,” Robert soothes, after another beat. “I’m not about to pack my bags and rush off for adventure this minute. I had thought, if you’d be willing to indulge my fanciful whims, that you might come along with me at some point, in the possibly near future?” 

Paul relaxes a tad. He would love to come along, as a matter of fact; he needs a change, too, needs a different goal in his sights once this album wraps up, or else he’s liable to go ‘round the bend. But on the other hand, he knows he shouldn’t agree right away to Robert’s proposal without stopping to consider the whole picture first.

Is he truly ready for a trip like that? He’s done it before, of course; he’s been to several parts of the globe and back by now. But when, too, was the last time he’d gone somewhere because he wanted to, not just because he was expected to as part of the band? Either way, there’s a lot for him to ponder over.

“That sounds like a grand idea, actually.” Paul swirls his index finger along a vein that runs down the soft underside of Robert’s arm. “Could I think about it, though, love? I’d like to tie up all of my loose ends here, y’know, get business sorted out.”

Robert hums in pleased acknowledgement. He presses a loving kiss to the crown of Paul’s head. 

“Of course,” he says. “Please, take all the time you need. As I said, there’s no rush. I’ll be waiting for you, as always.”

Sighing deeply, Paul lets his eyes flutter shut. He knew Robert would understand. Somehow, he always does.

Paul finds himself imagining what the weather in India is like now, and if the snow in the Himalayas is as beautiful as the snow in England. Perhaps if he and Robert do go there before winter is through, he’ll get to see the mountains up close and compare it with his own eyes, one of these days.

Chapter Text

Thanks to George rejoining the band and having their setup moved over to the Apple Corps studios, the album is now coming along much more efficiently. It’s been a significant boost to everyone’s moods, to the point that Paul’s genuinely optimistic again that this project wasn’t all for naught. It feels like the old days when they were just having fun, listening to each other’s input throughout the process, all of them focused on the same goal.

John in particular seems to have a lot of his former spark back. It’s not that he hasn’t been working at this album like the rest of them, but his attention has almost always flitted elsewhere - to Yoko, to their goings-on behind the scenes and so forth. His heart, for lack of a better expression, just wasn’t quite in it.

But Paul has seen the hope return to John’s eyes now. Hope in the band, and maybe hope in the Lennon-McCartney partnership, too. Every time they laugh at each other’s jokes or do something silly with their guitars, or just get up and start dancing around the studio for the hell of it, he feels like he’s gotten his John back. His best friend, the one he still loves, although he would have many reasons not to.

Robert had already guessed it was John who Paul had feelings for, by the time Paul plucked up the courage to tell him at the end of last year who the ‘old friend’ was that he kept hinting at. But Robert hasn’t pressured him to talk about it, or tried to make him feel any differently than he does. It’s baffling, really, how he can be so understanding of these things.

For his own part, Paul doesn’t know what kind of person it makes him to feel this intensely about two people, one who actually loves him back and the other who baffles him even where their friendship is concerned. He shouldn’t spare another thought, really, to how John feels about him in any sense. Things are as they’ve always been, more or less, so why should now be any different than the past twelve years?

But the problem is that he believes his love for John won’t ever truly go away, that he’ll be forced to live with this bone-deep yearning until he’s gray-haired and eighty. They’re like two celestial bodies, him and John, their paths forever bringing them closer or farther away, but never completely breaking them from the other’s orbit. 

Yet Robert has also become an integral part of this mental solar system of Paul’s. Maybe that’s the only reason John has been acting put out, because of this unexpected closeness Robert and Paul have gotten to share. Maybe it has nothing to do with them being queer at all, but who knows. John won’t say another word about it. Paul certainly couldn’t have imagined in 1966 how his and Robert’s bond would transform, or how he would be given the chance to act on his feelings, to love and be loved in return. He’s still trying to comprehend it himself, all of the smalls way in which Robert’s unique gravitational pull has affected him.

Paul can feel confident in his grasp of something, however, which is hope. He’s a great believer in the power it holds over him and others, and the lengths he’ll go to chase it even in the most dire of situations. Especially now, hope is absolutely essential not just to him, but to the band, as well. And if there’s even a tiny glimmer that the ‘Fab Four’ are still a solid team, then it will make their inevitable comeback even more powerful.

It makes Paul absurdly pleased to think about, pushing out all other concerns for a moment. They’re actually collaborating again. They feel like the Beatles again, cohesive and inseparable, instead of four disgruntled blokes butting heads over every decision. He wants to shout his joy from the rooftops, let the whole world know what they’ve managed to do.

Look at us! Look at the incredible things we can still do when we’re together! Isn’t it just fantastic? 

During a break in recording, Paul decides to take Linda out for a quick lunch. Heather is adamant on remaining in the studio despite Linda’s insistence to come along. She’s been fascinated by all of the instruments and recording equipment, taking everything in with a voracious curiosity.

After several failed attempts to make the young girl listen, George Martin and the rest promise to keep an eye on her. Linda is frustrated but agrees. She and Paul watch as Heather squeezes next to Ritchie and begs to try out one of his drumsticks, which he allows with a delighted grin. He’s patient as he teaches the girl the right way to hold the stick and how to hit each of the drums.

“She’s in good hands with Uncle Ritchie,” Paul chuckles. “She’ll learn the ins and out of that kit in no time.”

Linda smiles, some lingering tension releasing from her shoulders. “You’re right. He’ll keep her happy and occupied for a while. Now, where did you say we were heading again?”

They go to a place not far from the Apple Corps building and order sandwichs and coffee. Paul’s spirits remain high, and Linda keeps smiling at him from across their table, the mood clearly infectious. 

“It’s nice to see you happier like this,” she says. “I was starting to worry that the rest of you would start calling it quits after George was gone.” 

Paul nods and laughs lightly in agreement. He has to make himself brush it off that way, with a laugh or a dismissive remark or what have you, because he doesn’t wish to dwell on the intense panic which often threatens to derail his sense of comfort. Things are fine for the moment, but they could just as quickly turn sour again if they’re not careful. It’s not the first time one of them has left the group and returned, but Paul is doubtful that this luck will hold forever without a more long-term solution.

“Oh, I know,” he says. “It was all going to pot there for a while, wasn’t it? And that wouldn’t have been a great look for us, y’know, not great at all. They’d be screaming ‘Beatles Breakdown!’ and such in all the bloody papers by now, if we hadn’t pulled ourselves from the brink.” 

Linda hums around her coffee cup. She pauses to gather her thoughts, then says, “You know, I’ve been watching you all during this whole process, and out of the four, I actually thought that John would be the one to walk away and quit instead of George. John seems to have a lot of pent-up feelings, you know? And he doesn’t always seem to know when to let them out in a healthy way, if at all. Yoko’s mentioned how hard it is for him to open up and talk about things that are bothering him, too. The two of us get to chatting quite a lot behind the scenes while you’re all working. But it’s possible we’re not seeing the whole picture, that being said… you, George, and Ringo know John better than most people, I’m sure.”

Paul bites hard on his pinkie nail. The automatic urge to defend John rises up in him, though what Linda’s saying is fairly accurate. Paul wishes that John would be more forthcoming to him and to the rest of the band. It would certainly save them all a lot of headaches and unnecessary drama. Linda’s right, too, in that they know John better than most. They’ve been around him long enough to recognize his moods, to read between the lines to understand what he really means, not always believing what he says. It’s an imperfect system, and they’ve made errors and missteps in interpreting John, but at least it’s something. 

Now, though… Paul isn’t sure what in the bloody world is going on in John’s mind, and neither do George or Ritchie. Not even now. One minute he’ll be going along and joining their banter while they work out a new tune, and the next it’s like he’s back at the ashram in India, withdrawing into a deep mediative state of mind, with Yoko seemingly being the only one who can reach him. If John does want to quit the band later on down the road, if the quiet resentment that Paul sometimes catches in his eyes still won’t go away, then why doesn’t he just tell them? 

Paul thinks it might break something already fragile inside him - John Lennon leaving the Beatles, Christ - but maybe John would actually be happy again, if he did. Maybe they all need to give each other space for a while, so that they can learn how to be friends again. 

John’s endured a hell of a lot of pain throughout his life, and if Paul can make sure that he feels even a little less of it, then he’ll do what he must to see that it happens. And if this really does mean letting John go…

Paul takes a deep breath, shaking himself out of that line of thinking before his anxiety has time to properly kick him in the arse.

“Yeah, I see what you mean, I suppose,” he hears himself say. “But things are going better now, we’ve talked it over an’ such. I’m sure if we run into another disagreement later down the line, we’ll just call another meeting to straighten things out.”

Linda nods, her eyes flicking carefully over his face. She must sense some of what he’s left unsaid, but thankfully she doesn’t try to poke or prod for a reaction, a slip of the tongue.

Instead, she says, “You know, maybe it would be good for you - for all of you - to take a break. If you had a chance to rest and recharge yourselves, maybe that would be a huge help to the band in the long run.” 

Wow, you’ve really just read my mind, Lin, thinks Paul, relieved. 

“God, me too,” he says, and the words come out in a rush, “I haven’t felt this wound-up since our Hamburg days. I’ve been seriously considering a holiday soon, as a matter of fact, in between projects for the band. Might go ‘round the bend otherwise, y’know. What do you think about that idea, Linda? Traveling an’ all? Is that… wrong?” He lowers his voice to nearly a whisper, giving the dining area a reflexive once-over. “To want time away from it, the music and everything, just for a few weeks, or a month even?”

Linda laughs, but not unkindly. She reaches across the table and gives Paul’s hand a squeeze. 

“No, that’s not wrong,” she insists. “Believe me, Paul, it’s very, very normal. As your friend, I think I can tell you honestly that you work yourself too damn hard sometimes. Your work ethic is phenomenal, it really is, but please don’t keep sacrificing your health for the sake of it. You’re going to drain yourself totally dry one of these days, and then you’ll have no choice but to rest. So do it while you’re still ahead and able to enjoy it. I’m positive you’ll thank yourself later.”

Sighing through his nose, Paul turns his palm up and gratefully clasps Linda’s hand.

“Thank you. Seriously, you don’t even know… I’ve been obsessing over what to do for days! I just appreciate you bein’ here an’ listening to me gab.” 

“Of course,” Linda says. “Thank you for trusting me enough to gab about everything.” 

Paul smiles. He knew he’d be able to trust her advice on matters like these. Their relationship, though platonic, has become a close one, which is a great blessing. He’s immensely thankful to have someone like Linda Eastman in his life. 

“Better get back soon, I reckon,” he says with an exaggerated groan. “They’ll finish that album without me if I let ‘em, the cheeky sods.”

Within five more minutes they finish their lunch. Once the bill’s settled up, they slip out and make their blissfully uneventful return to Apple Corps, Linda’s arm looped amiably around Paul’s back. 

After finding the opportunity to talk with Robert again, Paul comes to a decision. He wants them to start their travels together by going back to Paris.

Besides the geographical advantage of it being closer to England, Paul would also prefer Paris over a place like India so that he can still fulfill his commitments to the band. This way, Paul figures if a problem comes up between now and later this month, he’ll be easier to reach from Paris than from somewhere in which distance and communication access might be a much greater factor. 

Thankfully, Robert is more than pleased with this proposal. They agree to leave on the 3rd of February and return by the 20th - plenty of time to enjoy a chilly Paris and make it back so that Paul can help with recording new material by the scheduled date of the 22nd. 

Robert laughs warmly over the phone and says, “It’s endearing that the hopeless romantic in you is still alive and well.” 

“Of course,” Paul says, grinning against the receiver. “I never disappoint when it comes to my romantic gestures. Would you like me to bring over the expensive wine and a dozen roses now, or shall I wait until we get to our hotel?” 

At that, Robert lets out a deep, appreciative guffaw. “You flatter me, Paul, truly. Although I typically don’t believe that a magician should reveal all of his tricks to his audience.”  

Paul assures him, “Trust me, this magician has many more tantalizing tricks hidden up his sleeves. Just you wait.”

He gets things squared away at Cavendish, then makes a series of somewhat awkward calls to his bandmates, informing them of his weeks-long holiday. George’s raised eyebrows are audible even over the phone. John sounds frustratingly neutral about the whole thing. Ritchie is the only one who seems happy that he’s getting away for a bit. He doesn’t tell them who he’s going with, just that it’s a good friend of his, and they don’t attempt to pry very deeply (not even John, but Paul knows he wants to). If they really want the details they’ll have to ask when he comes back.

Paul is able to have Mal to drop him off at London Heathrow Airport, where he’s agreed to meet Robert. To avoid being recognized, he bundles himself in a big dark coat with the collar turned up, along with a thick scarf and a large-rimmed cap. It’s early enough in the morning, thankfully, that Paul doesn’t have to dodge too many fellow travelers.

He finds Robert leaning against a wall by a payphone. They’re dressed similarly as it turns out, though Robert hasn’t brought a cap, and a pair of big sunglasses are peeking out from his top coat pocket. They’re both carrying two medium-sized duffel bags apiece. 

“I’m surprised you didn’t decide to bring one of your trusted guitars along with us,” Robert comments, smiling as Paul approaches him.

“Thought people might notice me and put two an’ two together,” Paul explains. “Besides, this is supposed to be a nice little getaway, and we can’t very well have that if I get caught up in writing songs, y’know? Even musicians can get tired of their craft.”

Robert’s mouth twists, something amused and terribly fond in it.

“Ah, I see. How commendable of you to give yourself a break. Though I still imagine you’ll become very musically deprived, but it will be of your own doing, not mine.” 

After they confirm the flight time and gate of departure on their tickets, they board the plane and find their seats near the back. Like the terminal it’s quiet on board, most of the passengers either having not arrived yet or drifting to sleep after they sit down. Paul shimmies out of his coat and lays it over himself and Robert like a blanket. He keeps his scarf on and his cap pulled down low. He knows his beard will go a ways in concealing his identity, but still - better safe than sorry.

Later, their takeoff is a bit unsteady (“Apologies, ladies and gentlemen, looks like we still have some patches of ice on the runaway!” their pilot informs them) but once they get in the air, the flight is much more smooth and normal.

Robert stretches his legs a bit, trying to get into a more comfortable position. When he’s done he opens up a little soft-cover book that he’d pulled out earlier and flips it halfway through to a blank page. 

“What’s that you’ve got?” asks Paul. 

“Oh, this?” Robert glances at him, then produces a simple pencil from inside his coat and writes something down quickly. “Nothing revolutionary, I’m afraid. It’s a journal to keep all of my thoughts and important dates sorted out. I just remembered that I’ll need to contact Jann Haworth about an exhibition I’m helping her with later this year. You remember Jann, yes? She was rather instrumental in the creation of the Sgt. Pepper album cover.” 

“Oh yeah, rings a bell now. And that’s great to hear, actually.” Paul smiles and nudges Robert’s side. “Have you got more shows planned before you, y’know, pop off to go see the world?” 

Robert’s lips quirk at his nonchalant choice of words. “A decent amount are in the works, as a matter of fact. At least I can be assured now that my gallery will eventually go out with a strong and resounding bang.” 

They chat back and forth about their respective projects, then meander more broadly into art and music. Robert has been in on and off again talks with Andy Warhol, hoping to attract him back to gallery, while Paul sings his praises of Jimi Hendrix’s album Electric Ladyland that came out back in October. It’s a familiar scene for both of them, pressed so close they can feel each other’s breath, their voices low but excited. 

At some point, Paul isn’t sure when, he begins to nod off against Robert’s shoulder. He distantly becomes aware of a hand stealing into his, careful but with purpose, beneath the coat. He smiles and squeezes Robert’s hand once, murmuring something unintelligible even to his own ears. Before he can muster up the energy to try and figure out what he means to say, he’s answering the insistent demands of his body to go back to sleep. God, it really is too bloody early, what were they thinking…

As he slips pleasantly away, Paul catches a final soft laugh that seems to wrap around him, the way his coat is now - a warm, safe embrace. 

Paris is cold, of course, but magnificent. A light snow is falling by the time Paul and Robert find a taxi to escort them to their hotel. They both speak some French, though Robert is definitely more fluent than most, and more confident than Paul is in communicating with their driver. 

They soon get acquainted with their hotel (checking in under fake names, of course) and make use of the amenities it has to offer. They put their bags in their room on the topmost floor, then Paul takes a quick shower before he and Robert wander back downstairs to partake in a light breakfast. They get to enjoy some coffee, along with a variety of delicious baked treats, while they go over the casual itinerary that they had discussed prior to their arrival. 

Robert is eager to revisit several of the museums, as well as touch base with Alexander Iolas, a fellow art dealer who both he and Paul have done business with in the past. (“Maybe he can nick another Magritte for me,” Paul teases, to which Robert grins and replies, “For you, darling, I’ll have him nick the bloody Mona Lisa.”) While Paul is more than happy with these plans, he’s also looking forward to - among other things - visiting the quaint shops and getting to walk along the Seine. 

They eventually finish their breakfast and return to their room. On the far end is a set of windows which reach to the floor, opening out to a balcony. They have a glorious view of the Eiffel Tower from here, its dark, sturdy point looming up from the cityscape in sharp contrast to the hazy-white sky. Paul brushes some snow from the balcony ledge before leaning forward, taking a deep, appreciative breath. 

“Get back inside, you dolt, and close the windows,” Robert complains after a long interval. “You’re letting all of the warmth out of our room.” 

Paul casts a smile over his shoulder. Robert is lounging nearby on a settee with pale red cushions, journal open in his lap. He offers an affected little pout which makes Paul’s chest feel even funnier than hearing him say our room. It’s still knocking around in there like a set of pool balls, heavy but in a good way, trying to find a place to settle. 

He spares a last longing look for the Eiffel Tower, then closes the windows and strides over to the settee. 

“Move over, tosser. We’ll conserve the warmth if we huddle together.” 

Robert groans dramatically but does as he’s told, setting his journal aside and making room for Paul to lay next to him. Paul arranges himself so that his face is pressed snugly against Robert’s chest, one arm slung across his back. Robert sighs, then hums with contentment as he reaches to card a hand through Paul’s hair. 

“Your nose is already an icicle,” he grumbles. “And your hand is going to give me pneumonia.” 

Paul giggles, pressing his nose more firmly into Robert’s shirt, while sneaking his hand underneath it to stroke his bare skin. Robert gasps and shoves at his shoulder, saying, “Christ, you’re a menace! I will get up this instant and leave if you don’t-” 

He’s quickly cut off by Paul leaning up and kissing him. He tastes like espresso, and the sweet butter of the croissant he last ate. Paul wants more; he darts his tongue inside, flicking it against the roof of Robert’s mouth. The hand on Paul’s shoulder relaxes, then grips the material of his sweater to pull him in, closer, closer. 

“Paul,” he manages with a soft growl, not quite a warning.

With a beatific smile Paul lets his hand roam, pausing to map out the shape of Robert’s ribs, then flick and pinch lazily at his nipple. Robert bites on his bottom lip in gentle reprimand. They drift in this languid ebb and flow for a little while, until at last Robert stills him, a hand cradling his jaw. 

“We really should be using this time wisely, darling,” he groans, which sends a little thrill up Paul’s spine. “But it seems you’ve decided on other plans for the moment. So go on, then… let’s see you put that clever mouth to good use, before I change my mind. I may not be so lenient with you later. Get on your knees, now.”

It’s exciting to hear Robert talk like that, unlocking a restless need in Paul to comply at once, pleasing him however he needs. He’s swept up by it, practically crumbling to the floor like a drowning man finding the shore again. A sweet, impossible relief. 

Paul’s hands go to Robert’s belt. Go on, then, McCartney, mach bloody shau! he thinks, laughing at the unbidden memories that phrase dredges up, before carrying on with his task like the good boy he is.

The days go by almost too quick for Paul’s liking. But he’s enjoying himself immensely, an experience that’s been made all the better with having Robert at his side. 

They visit cafés, museums, and all manner of wonderful French neighborhoods. After Robert finally contacts Alexander, they’re invited to have dinner and peruse his gallery, where he’s acquired many new works which he believes might interest them. Paul is sorely tempted by several paintings, especially a Renoir and a Picasso, but Robert starts looking noticeably unwell, so they go back to their hotel and promise Alexander that they’ll return later.

Paul wonders if food poisoning is to blame, or perhaps the flu. Robert is quiet and sullen for the rest of that day, insisting he’s fine, despite the concerning paleness of his skin and the fine tremors in his hands. 

Whatever the problem is seems to lessen, and at Robert’s insistence the following day they go back out together to enjoy the lovely Parisian atmosphere. Mostly they walk to get where they’re going around the city, but sometimes if their destination is too far away for comfort, they manage to find suitable transportation. Paul has yet to be recognized by a single soul, which is nothing short of a miracle. He desperately hopes to keep it that way. 

It’s late one morning when they decide to take a stroll through the park that’s located a couple of blocks away from their hotel. More snow has fallen since they’ve arrived, but only enough today for a light dusting. Nevertheless, many local children and their families are taking advantage of the weather, whizzing down well-worn slopes or making snow angels. 

They come upon a stretch of the park where two children are playing by themselves, a brother and sister, if Paul has to guess. They both have dusty blonde hair tucked haphazardly into their knitted caps, as well as small scarves and matching coats with fur around the collars. Paul guesses that they must be about seven or eight. The pair are giggling near hysterically as they lob hastily-made snowballs at one another. He can’t help but smile and poke Robert’s side, gesturing to them. 

“Looks like fun, yeah? We could do that, too, if you like,” he says.

“What, running around and catching our deaths in the cold?” comes Robert’s retort, but there’s no sting to it. “No, thank you. I haven’t felt the need to take part in that sort of pasttime since I was a boy. Given the choice, in fact, I’d rather be at our hotel or at any indoor location which has a working furnace.”

Paul pulls a face and elbows him this time. “Aw, c’mon, don’t be daft! It’s only a wee bit of snow, Robert, it won’t kill ya’.”

Robert rolls his eyes, then shakes his head, clearly holding firm on his point. Paul looks at the children again before he turns away with a regretful sigh, almost putting the business of snowballs and other wintry activities out of his mind.

That is, until he hears a distinct thwack! and watches Robert’s back, now adorned with glittering clumps of snow, go tense from surprise.

Both children gasp, stock still and wide-eyed. The boy, seemingly the accidental culprit in this case, scurries behind his sister, a worried look pinching his small face.

The girl drops her own snowball, saying, “Oh, desolée, monsieur!” 

“Ah, ce n’est pas grave.” Robert turns toward the pair and smiles thinly. He tries to shake the ends of his coat to be rid of the snow. “Au revoir.” 

He continues to walk for a few paces, but Paul hangs back, a mischievous impulse quickly taking root in his mind. He bends down and packs some snow together into a suitable ball. He gets his aim just right before he lets his ball fly in a dazzling arch. It lands just a few inches below the last one, closer to the center of Robert’s back.

This time, Robert is less tolerant and verging instead on annoyed. He spins back around and glares first at the children, then at Paul, who just shrugs and looks from side to side as if the real perpetuator must have run off. The children continue to linger nearby, giggling, delighted that one of the adults has joined in the fun. 

“Are we quite finished now?” asks Robert with an exasperated huff. 

“Hmm, I dunno’,” Paul says, stroking his bearded chin as if considering. “I think I still need to get a few rounds out of my system, monsieur.” 

Biting his lip, either to stem an involuntary laugh or some choice profanity unsuitable for the young ears present, Robert springs into action. He scoops up snow into his gloved hands and begins to mash it between his palms, getting it packed tight. Paul lets out a whoop of delight and triumph, scurrying to do the same, but he’s not quick enough to avoid the mild sting of a snowball glancing his leg. 

They go back and forth for a while - Paul, Robert, and even the two children - scrambling to construct their arsenal for the next line of attack. The earlier tension is gone, replaced with breathless peals of laughter from all parties.

“Oi, they teach you to… to throw like that at Eton, did they?” Paul teases when a snowball rushes past his ear. “Guess you never… never learned to hit a moving… target!”

With a helpless half-gasp, half-cackle Robert says, “Hardly! I’m going… easy on you, Paul, but rest assured… I… I will succeed in wiping that… that smug look off of your hairy face!” 

Exhaustion begins to set in, and after being hit several times in the back, Paul soon collapses to his knees with an almost theatrical flair, clutching at his heaving chest. 

“Et tu, Fraser? Then fall, McCartney!” he cries.

Robert kneels down shakily in front of him, leaning on Paul’s shoulders for support as he throws his head back and laughs.

“Vive la France!” he crows madly, and then he proceeds to belt out the first few lines of La Marseillaise. “Vive la bloody Angleterre!”

They sink to the ground as one, giggling and wrestling half-heartedly in the snow like schoolboys. The children are carrying on with their national anthem, inspired now by Robert’s outburst, kicking up ice crystals as they march about, until a voice in the distance starts a long, plaintive cry.

Closer it comes, until Paul can hear the voice much louder now, a woman calling over and over again, “Estelle! Jacques!”

“Maman!” the children exclaim in unison. 

They give each other panicked, guilty looks, then wave goodbye to Paul and Robert. Paul watches them run, their scarfs whipping behind them like elegant little banners, their small figures backlit by the sun peeking from behind the thick wall of clouds.

A strange, pervasive ache grips his heart. He doesn’t quite know what it means. Maybe he’s missing those days on Forthlin when he and Mike would play in their tiny backyard, their world contained and predictable, but always rich with imagination. Or perhaps he’s thinking what it would be like, as he has before, to have a child of his own.

For a fleeting moment he actually does let himself imagine it - taking his son or daughter to a park like this one, helping to create wonderful memories for them, watching their beautiful, smiling faces while they have fun. He thinks he would be a good father, but it’s little scary to think about, too. The joys and the responsibilities would be equally important to consider. 

Slowly, Paul sits up with a loud groan. He gets to his feet, and Robert follows, hands on his knees. The two of them spend the next several minutes brushing snow off of each other’s coats and trousers. 

“You’re absolutely ridiculous,” Robert huffs, tucking a strand of wet hair behind Paul’s ear. “Childish and irritating, and furthermore, a ruffian of the worst kind.” 

Paul bites his bottom lip to suppress a grin. He busies himself with Robert’s lapels, then readjusts his sweater which had gotten rucked up in their passionate tussle.  

“Oh, aye,” he murmurs. “Although it seems to me that I wasn’t the only one acting, as you say, ridiculous and childish and all those other things.” 

He spares a quick glance around the park, in front of him, side to side, and finally behind. Then he darts forwards and pecks Robert squarely on the mouth before he retreats.

“This irritating ruffian is peckish now,” Paul declares. “Come on, love, I know just the place.” 

Robert tries to look displeased, mouth fighting to turn into a scowl. But there’s a stubbornly tender glint in his eyes, and his cheeks are two pink, glowing smudges against the morning light. It’s hopeless. He can’t hide a thing from Paul.