Chapter Text
Paul felt like he was watching himself from a distance take wary steps down the stairs, one by one as he gripped the railing as tight as he could.
He could hear his father clinking plates together and setting the table as Mike pushed past him down the steps, face still to his telephone as he quickly typed a message much faster than Paul could ever imagine doing.
As he took the last step, socked feet curling in against the carpeting of the floor, Paul stood still and found he couldn’t will himself to just take a few more steps into the kitchen. He wanted to just sit down, eat whatever delicious thing it is that his father cooked, and then pretend he did not see for even one second the video of John.
Or that he’d glanced back at it for a better look.
Slapping his hands over his face, Paul felt like screaming as his face heated up yet again. He felt dizzy and nauseous and like he’d just gotten off an amusement park’s ride just to dive head first into the nearest bin to vomit. He couldn’t get the image out of his mind. The implications of it all.
These were private messages between the present version of themselves. No one else was meant to see them, and more importantly, receive them. Those videos were hidden away in the confines of their messages to one another. For just the two of them.
And, sure, considering that the videos were back to back and that implied equal reciprocity, Paul didn’t want to actually consider that this event might not be one sided.
He leaned back against the nearby wall, two fingers to his lips as he pursed in thought.
John looked terrified, and it made sense considering just how vulnerable the entire situation was, but for him to just run out and not even talk about it…
“Fuck…” Paul groaned. What would they even talk about!? Hey, John, I know I just saw you touchin’ your prick but don’t worry about it! Nothin’ neither of us have never seen before! Not that I ever looked! Just like when we were randy teens at the hotels, right!?
Paul just kept his face straight ahead, eyes on the old and peeling wallpaper his father refused to waste time in changing until he felt a ringing in his pocket.
He didn’t want to pick it up, nervous that he’d find himself in another momentary lapse of delusions, but he still wanted to know who was calling. Fishing it out, he found a photo of George on his screen. A rather goofy photo of him actually, with an up close shot that could flatter no one. Paul didn’t want to admit it was disappointing to not see John calling instead.
Answering the phone, he held it up to his ear. “Hey, Geo--”
“Mate, go to channel 5 right now,” George said immediately.
“What?” Paul couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re with your family while all of ’this is goin’ on an’ you’re watching the telly?”
“Turn it on, Paul. Now.” George was clearly in no mood to banter. His voice was even, unwavering.
“Alright, alright.” Paul headed to his television, looking around for a controller after finding out the box lacked any buttons, and turned it on. He read the controller for a moment before successfully changing the channels. “Impressed at the colors…” He noted into the speaker as he finally landed on channel 5. “George? I’m on channel 5. What exactly am I lookin’ for?”
“Son! Food is gettin’ cold an’ we’re startin’ without you!” James called out from the kitchen, head peeking out for just a moment.
“Just a moment, dad!” Crouching down as he stared at the screen, Paul felt an odd inkling at what he was seeing. “Geo, what is this?” He couldn’t help but lean in as he watched a young boy enter an empty auditorium on the screen.
He watched as the boy with a leather jacket just a hair too large for his body pulled his guitar out and began to play in front of a boy with the same style jacket. Paul’s heart began to beat the same way it had at the sight of the photograph back in the restaurant when he heard a very familiar song.
”Oh, I got a girl with a record machine,” the actor sang, eyes on the other boys with one in particular as he moved his fingers along the frets, “when it comes to rocking, she’s a queen.”
Paul moved to his knees, eyes as wide open as his mouth while he took it all in.
He watched as the boy on the screen showed a false veneer of judgment as he listened to the other one sing. The paired actor stared down at the shorter boy with slicked hair, an eager grin, and big eyes. He asked his question. “How old are you?”
Paul couldn’t help but mouth the lines. “Fifteen.” He knew them by heart.
He knew it all. He knew exactly who was there in the space with them. Different faces with different actors in a space that so clearly was a movie set, but he knew it all too well.
“George, Georgie--” Paul’s hand trembled as he kept the phone to his ear. “What the fuck am I lookin’ at?”
George stayed quiet for a moment. “You an’ John meetin’.”
“How!?” Paul scrambled to his feet, pacing around the living space as he heard in the background his father shout about his dinner again. “George, how!? Who made this!? Who knows about this!?” He glanced back at the screen. “E-Everyone is there! Where are you in all of this?”
“Paul, Paul,” George began, voice inkling with nerves, “this movie isn’t about us. It’s about John.”
Paul froze. “John?”
He didn’t have to see George to know he was nodding along. “It was on the telly an’ somethin’ about it caught my eye. I-I don’t know why but I started watchin’ along an’ thats when they showed this lad with the same glasses an’ I thought how strange it was to see a movie about a-a boy gettin’ into rock music.” In the background, George’s family seemed uncaring of his panic as they continued to chatter loudly about whatever they pleased. “I kept watchin’ and that’s when they showed Mimi. They showed her chastizin’ him for some shit he pulled an’...”
“What, George?” Paul kept his eyes on the screen as it showed him and John practicing their guitars together, with the actor playing him training the other on chords. “What did you see?”
“They showed Julia, Paul. They showed his mum.” George sighed. “This film’s about his time as a teenager. Before us. Aroun’ the time she died.”
And Paul watched as the actress playing John’s mother appeared. Her smile was bright if not pained. She had long golden hair and was playful with John despite it all. She was exactly like he’d told them of her. “Why would they do this? Who made this?”
“I don’t know. I’m askin’ my family and they’re lookin’ at me like I just came down from the moon today.” And the reality was that they practically all did. “They’re all just sayin’ it’s a film about John’s life. That there’s hundreds of these. Films an’ shows an’ movies all about us.”
Paul didn’t know what to say. All he could do was head to the door and grab his shoes to tie them up his ankles. He didn’t bother announcing that he was heading out as he ran out and headed down the street.
“Paul?” George asked, alarmed. “Paul, are you still there?”
“I’m gonna find John! He ran out of the bloody house and I have no idea where he is now!” Paul groaned, steps slowing down as he headed down the hills of the road. “I-I’ll give you a call when I’ve found him!”
“Alright, just make sure--”
Paul didn’t bother listening to the rest, hanging up instead as he passed by each block while he kept his face to the floor and attempted to call John over and over and over again. No answer each time. As he ran across streets and headed over a bridge and lost his breath more than once, he tried to send messages and do everything he could to contact John. The bastard didn’t answer once.
“God--” Paul groaned, mouth dry as he placed his hand on his knees to catch his breath, “God, where the fuck are you, you git…” So much for a quick look around. He was starting to regret not just taking a taxi-cab and telling the driver to go through the streets. But considering the prices now…
Taking another moment to himself, he let his feet guide him to the only place he knew he was ultimately trying to end up at.
And with some light jogging and a momentary realization that he wasn’t as active as he thought he was, Paul finally found not only Mimi’s home, but Mimi’s wonderful nephew standing right in front of it.
“John!” Paul called out, heart thrumming in his chest as he slowed his steps. “Johnny?” He stopped short of crashing into his friend as he followed his gaze from where he stood outside of the house, unwavering as he watched a team of people head in and out with large filming cameras.
“A wall is missing.” John said quietly.
“What?”
John turned his head towards Paul. “A wall is missing.”
Paul only stared, squinting as he slightly shook his head.
“They took down one of Mimi’s walls for filmin’.” He went back to staring at his childhood home as he shoved his hands into the pockets of the jacket he wore. “I asked someone walkin’ on set.” His voice was acrid. “Told me they’re filmin’ all about a Mr. John Lennon’s life. That they were given permission to take it all down to make room for their cameras.” He let out a puff of air from his nose. “The bloke I spoke with couldn’t help but notice how similar we look. When I told him I’m the man they’re filmin’ all about he started to laugh before leavin’ me behind.”
Paul didn’t even know what to say. He could only blurt out the one thing he still had on his mind. “A movie about you and your mum was on the telly before I started lookin’ for ya.”
John paled, looking close to fainting. “What?”
Paul couldn’t look back at John, knowing he’d see those sharp eyes staring deep into him. He felt like, despite it all, John would’ve read the other’s mind if they shared eye contact for even just a split second. “Saw it for just a second. Georgie called me about it because his family was watchin’ it.” He cleared his throat. “I watched them show how we met. You and I. I performed for ya, even. Asked me how old I was.”
“I-I mean, we’ve talked about that before but--”
“I don’t understand how they know these things, John.” Paul almost felt ease underneath and anxieties knowing now that there was something else to discuss instead of their messages and videos. “I don’t understand why they’re filmin’ in Mimi’s. Is she even responding to your telegrams?”
John shook his head. “Said she was busy when we were at the station. Left it at that. That she’ll be back home after work.”
“Back to all of this?”
John sighed, head turning as he watched a bus come up the road ahead of them. He didn’t take his eyes off the colorful vehicle as he spoke. “I’m assumin’ she’s the one who allowed them in there. This is Mimi, we’re talking about. She wasn’t exactly eager to even let my pals into her home at times unless I asked ten times in a row.”
Paul kept his eyes on John, hearing the bus roll closer from behind. Maybe they could get on it to get back home. He was still a bit out of breath despite how he tried to hide it. “George’s family told ‘im that the film on screen, and I guess the one they’re makin’ here, aren’t the only movies about you. Us even, maybe.”
John froze. “Us?” He motioned between the two of them with his finger, nearly grazing Paul’s chest a few times.
Paul’s eyebrows raised to the Heavens as he gasped. “N-No! No!” He shook his head so fast he must’ve given himself whiplash. “I-I meant us as in the band! With George and Ringo!” He could’ve choked, fallen over from how his breath caught in his chest as he waved his hands in front of his body. “That would be insane, John! Somethin’ like that about a-a fling that two band members are havin’ with one another!” He knew he should stop talking. Stop shaming this version of themselves. But it came out like vomit as the words pushed themselves past his throat. “It’s probably what you called it! A silly shag that probably happened in Hamburg or a trip or somethin’! A gag taken too far!” Fuck. “Nothin’ to take seriously!”
John, if anything, looked taken aback. But he probably also didn’t expect Paul’s little monologue about how laughable the idea of them being together was. “Oh.” He blinked, adjusting himself for a moment as the bus stationed in front of them and covered the view of Mimi’s home. “Well, alright…” his thick brows pressed together as he diverted his attention to the vehicle that parked right in front of them. “Good God, this is one fuck-ugly bus.”
Paul turned his attention to the bus that had people with physical cameras as well as phones out in the open, taking photographs of Mimi’s home. Some took photos from the bus’ windows while others stepped out and stood in front of Paul and John as they were completely ignored in favor of focusing on the building in front of them.
Magical Mystery Tour.
“You think they’ll notice us here?” Paul asked, leaning to his side towards John.
John only shrugged, arms across his chest. He looked tired from it all. Like he didn’t want to question things anymore. “Maybe they’ll consider us doppelgangers. Wonderful entrants for a look-alike contest.”
Paul nodded, the smallest quirk of his lips at the thought. “We should suggest it to Brian. I’m sure he would love to have another set of us around.”
“Like you would ever allow another person to touch your bass.” John scoffed, hands moving to his hips. “You would have a fit, princess.”
Paul made a face. “Just like you did right now? Running out of my home with your damn tail between your legs?” He raised a brow. “Incredible that Mimi gave you such a convenient and convincing phone call.”
“Convinced your brother, at the very least.”
“You can’t avoid it, John. We need to talk.”
“About what, Paul?” John frowned. “About what? How’bout you tell me what you want to talk about and we’ll start there.”
Paul opened his mouth to speak but couldn’t get a single sound out. He’d just made an ass out of himself mere seconds ago and now he couldn’t even conceive how to form a single syllable. He had his thoughts going a mile a minute and he knew that with how avoidant the two of them could be, there wouldn’t be anything forcing them to confront this world the way they needed to unless someone held their hands every step of the way.
It embarrassed him to even want to talk about what they’d seen. All the questions he had, the way he wanted to talk about the situation as if they were characters all a part of a story they were reading. These people weren’t them. These future versions of themselves. Their actions. Their desires. Their dreams. It all felt so formulaic. A parody of themselves that Paul wasn’t even sure at what point it could turn into a pastiche.
“I figured as much.” John took his silence as an answer, no longer willing to humor the conversation for much more. “I’m going t’ see if they’ll let us get on the bus.”
Paul followed behind, pushing through the crowd as he ignored the driver giving his monologue. “You’re here at Mimi’s. You’re already home.”
John scoffed. “I’m out of a home, Macca. At least until they wrap it all up.” Getting to the doors of the bus, he found them open and welcoming. Heading up the stairs, not even announcing it to the driver, he headed to the very back seat. “Maybe Ringo will let me borrow his ma’s couch for a day or two while I sort it out with Mimi.”
Paul nearly tripped over himself as avoided some large bags and purses visitors left on the floor. “People need to watch their things.” Why someone would get on the bus just to leave their things at the next stop, he didn’t understand. “And you don’t want to take a chance with our dearest Hassa?”
“And get my head bitten off when I suggest sharing a bed with him all throughout the night?” John leaned back into the colorful cushions of the back seat as he glanced out the windows to find people still chatting and taking photos. “Oh, Paul, I have a horrible feeling this isn’t a regular bus,” he sighed.
Paul crossed his legs and rested his elbow on a knee. “What gave you that idea? The name? Maybe the tourists takin’ photos like there’s no tomorrow? What about the driver yakkin’ away?” His words were too grainy from the inside of the bus, making it difficult to decipher what exactly he was talking about.
John pushed Paul at his shoulder. “Yes. But more than that.” He leaned up to the speaker, trying to figure out what was being said. “They’re all takin’ photos of Mimi’s and I don’t appreciate it.” He looked unnerved at the attention being splayed to a single building. An unassuming one at that.
And Paul couldn’t lie, it did feel weird to see everyone so enraptured with the place John called his childhood home. He didn’t like the sight especially after the film on the television screen and the men walking in and out with large film cameras as they ignored the tourists with their phones and cameras. “Why do you think they’ve stopped here, then?”
“I don’t know.” John tried to stand up as the driver finished speaking. “But I think we should find a double-decker an’ get out of here before things start up again.”
Standing up, the pair took careful steps past pieces of luggage. At least, until John tripped and landed flat on his face.
“Fuck!” He groaned, slowly moving to his hands as Paul laughed from behind.
“You’ve got the bus lines on your face, mate.” He couldn’t stop the giggles bubbling up as he reached from behind to help John to his feet.
“Hey, can you get to your seat?” A man with an American accent appeared in front of them, standing with a line behind him as tourists gave them both a look.
“Oh--” Paul fumbled with his words, flushing red again as he realized people would be staring again. And he didn’t want to be caught falling over himself again.
John got up, dusting himself as he looked down at the passenger. “Hey, we’re just trying to get off--”
“Well, you missed the stop so get off at Paul’s house, then!” The tourist motioned with his hands for the pair to hurry back to their newly assigned seat.
“My house!?” Paul shouted as him and John were pushed all the way to the back as the crowd walked through the length of the bus and gave them no other option than to sit.
The man had a seat in the middle and didn’t seem to want to give either of them an answer as people piled onto the bus and got comfortable the way someone would for a plane trip.
“Arse,” John spit as he spread his legs and leaned back yet again. “So, what, we’re stuck here now until the next stop?”
“The next stop? You mean my bloody home, John!?” Paul hissed as he looked around, finger between his teeth as he bit down on his nail. “Why did he say that? Why did he say they’re headin’ directly to Forthlin? The buses don’t stop there, John. They stop around the corner.”
The bus turned on, rumbling to life as it began to drive onto the street and head towards the very bridge that Paul had exhausted himself running over.
“Probably the same reason they stopped in front of mine,” John said. And he left it at that.
Paul frowned, head snapping to his left when he heard a ring of a telephone. Looking over, he found a woman pull out a device all too familiar to him. She held the pink and silver device in her hand, flipping it open as she pressed a button and spoke into the receiver.
Blindly, Paul began to slap John’s body as he kept his eyes on the woman nearby. “John, John.”
“What, Paul?”
“H-Her phone. Her telephone.” Paul’s voice was a whisper, fearing that at any moment something would happen to him. “It’s different. It’s changed.” Like his had.
Looking over, head lolling to the side as John expressed himself as bored, he only stared with empty eyes. “She’s answering the telephone. Her telephone.” He looked over at Paul. “And? I thought we were done making fools of ourselves over phone calls.”
“It’s different!” Paul didn’t know how else to express that he felt that the phone was different. That it was technology that didn’t fit what he understood of the present day. “No one is holding a screen! Just that!”
“It’s just new technology, Paulie.” John sighed as he fished his own phone from his pants pockets. “Simple as that. I’m sure that they invented all forms of--”
Looking at his palm, he found a completely new device looking back at them.
It didn’t look like the one that Paul had before, or like the one the women held that still needed to be flipped open. No, this one slid across and revealed a full keyboard. It’s screen was much smaller, as were the buttons, but it still featured the notable details of being a mobile telephone.
The bus shook them side to side as they stared in silence, small bumps here and there as the driver began to speak again.
“Hello, dearest riders, I hope you’re all excited to visit the home of Sir Paul McCartney!” The driver held the microphone close to his mouth as the riders cheered, even more grainy and disjointed than before. “Born on June 18th, 1942, after being housed in Knowsley and growing up for a few years, the McCartney’s moved to Allerton. Growing up with his brother Peter Michael McCartney and father James McCartney, this is where he found his love of not only music, but of singing!”
The driver continued speaking, relaying the minute details of Paul’s childhood ranging from his gifted trumpet to his left-handed string reversal to properly play the guitar. He explained his school life, talked about when he’d met George, and even brought up the churches he’d auditioned for to join their choirs.
Reaching over, Paul gripped one of John’s wrists tightly as he listened closely to the speakers surrounding them. He felt like he couldn’t breathe as the driver began to speak about how him and John met. How old he’d been.
It was vivid. Maybe not as much as the film on the television, but the driver knew as much about Paul as Paul knew about himself.
“Paul,” even John was beginning to look concerned, “how do they know all of this about you? I-I don’t think you ever told me about the choirs you applied to.”
Paul shook his head, seeing from the corner of his eye how much closer they were to his house. The streets were becoming familiar again and the suburbia of his neighborhood was becoming more obvious. Each street they passed by, a tourist would pull out a camera and take a photo out the window. They were all enraptured not by Liverpool, but by a Beatle.
And it was different.
It was so different to the fame Paul was accustomed to. There was no presence in the driver’s words. He spoke from a script so clearly, so obviously, and he didn’t seem to stray for even a moment. The facts he gave, the story he weaved, it was all one line. Nothing about it gave the energy of someone relaying something they knew themselves. It was all too professional.
“Now, as we station ourselves at our very last stop,” the driver said as he moved to park the bus on the sidewalk across Paul’s home, “I’d like to thank you all for giving our magical tour it’s very first chance. We’re honored to begin a tradition here in Liverpool that we hope lasts a lifetime. Just like you all, we hope there will be hundreds of new stops ahead of us.” The doors squeaked open as the tourists began to stand up to head out. “Now, feel free to take photography. We’ll be lingering for 20 minutes…”
As the driver spoke, Paul refused to let go of John as he got up and dragged them both out of the bus. The hot, humid air of the oncoming summer was relief against the frigid cold of the bus. Paul wanted to do nothing more than kiss the pavement beneath him as he jumped off the steps and kept his bandmate close while making a beeline for his home.
None of the tourists seemed to care as they continued to take photos of Paul’s childhood home, all of them crowded together and facing the same way as their camera’s hid their faces behind flashes of light. The driver continued to speak, spouting facts and trivia about Paul’s life in Liverpool as the sentences began to repeat themselves. Over and over again, he would announce when Paul was born. June 18th, 1942. June 18th, 1942. June 18th, 1942.
Their darling Paul McCartney was born June 18th, 1942.
Glancing back, Paul could only grab the handle of the door and shove John inside before running inside and shutting the door behind him.
He fell to his knees, hands pressed against the carpet floor as he wheezed out a breath, fighting back every urge to sob as his heart raced. He felt like it were to jump out of his chest and run off the way he wanted to so badly. But he could only stay in place, carpet dampening from his hot breath as he groaned in pain.
“Paul…” John murmured as he kneels down and placed a hand against his trembling back. “Paul, I don’t know what just happened but--”
“Paul!” James shouted, looking over their way from the middle of the staircase. “I’d made food for you and John after a last minute arrival and the lot of you end up leaving right while I’m serving it up!”
“Mr. McCartney--” John started.
“Don’t give me that, John.” James huffed. “Both of your meals are still on the plate. I let them go cold until you two got your acts together. Roasted lamb with plenty of vegetables and for what? An ungrateful son and his lousy partner who decided to run out for nearly two hours.” Heading up the stairs, James continued speaking. “If John is spending the night, he’s your responsibility!”
John made a face as he listened to James stomp against the floor above them. “I’m not a dog.”
Paul shakily stood up, hand back to John’s thin wrist as he wiped his nose with the shoulder of his shirt. “I-I’m not hungry.” He tried to head towards the steps before he was tugged back.
“Hold on,” John said, feet firm against the floor. “You’re not going to bed without something in your stomach. You look like you’re about to faint.”
Paul steeled himself, gritting his teeth together as he looked away. “Not as bad as you did at Mimi’s.”
John’s nose twitched as he adjusted his glasses. “I’m to ignore that for the sake of you not passin’ out right now. Your dad cooked an’ I can heat it on the stove if that’ll make you swallow somethin’.” No mention of himself eating, but Paul didn’t have the energy to point it out.
Paul didn’t response. He just kicked off his untied shoes to the side and headed to the kitchen. Sitting down at the table, he stayed quiet as John came in and grabbed the two plates on the table to heat them up.
After exclaiming at the sight of a microwave, he got to work slipping a plate in and pressing a few buttons to turn it on. But as the hum of the machine vibrated through the kitchen, John didn’t allow for it to be the only communication between them.
“So, you auditioned for some choirs.”
Paul lifted his glassy-eyed gaze from where he’d been staring at the edge of the table. “What?” He realized just how dry his mouth felt. “Oh, yeah, yeah. Thought they’d like my singing, y’know.” It felt strange for John to ask him about something he’d heard second-hand.
“Hard to deny a prepubescent with a cracking voice, I’m sure.”
That got a smile out of him. “St. Barnabas liked me enough. Liverpool Cathedral, not so much.”
“How come you never told me?” John asked as he grabbed a nearby dining chair and turned it around, resting his arms and chin against the back.
Paul shrugged, glancing back at the microwave as his plate crackled from the heat. “Didn’t think I needed to. Never came up.” Truly, it never did. He was a kid when he’d joined and had such a sparse career as a choirboy that he didn’t think of it as necessary when trying to impress the guitarist who was a year older than him of a band he’d desperately wanted to join.
“I like knowing things about you,” John said as the microwave alarm went off, making him get up to pull a plate out. He’d left his own to the side as he served Paul his meal. “Makes you feel more real to me.”
Paul prodded his food with a fork. “I am real, git.”
John smiled the small, lopsided smile he’d give when they were alone. Soft and tender, a curl of his lips like he was thinking of another quip to give up if it meant pulling a laugh out of Paul. “Nah,” he hummed, “I mean I get to know James more than I get to know Paul. All the little things that make you-you.”
Paul pointed with his fork to the plate left on the kitchen counter. “Go heat up your food.”