Now and Then- 𝓂𝒸𝓁𝑒𝓃𝓃𝑜𝓃

𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒩𝒾𝓃𝑒

"Was I mean to him, John?"

Said Paul one afternoon in July of 1961, shortly after returning home to Liverpool from their second stay in Hamburg. Paul and John were sitting on the swing of the McCartney's back porch, characteristically without the rest of the band. They were drunk on old whiskey and were passing a cigar back and forth, the coals scorching the thin pages of their shared journal.

They were, of course, discussing the fact that Stuart had permanently left the band and stayed in Hamburg with Astrid. Paul felt as though he, himself, was partially responsible, as he'd never been particularly kind to Stuart.

"No," John said after a moment's thought, leaning back on the swing. "No, you weren't mean. You obviously weren't as fond of him as you are of George or especially as fond as you are of me." He gave Paul a little grin. "But honestly, it might've been more my fault. 'Cause him and I started as really good friends, and eventually, I started gettin' sharp with him, and that affected our friendship."

Paul shrugged lightly, lowering the cigar from his mouth. "Still. If I wouldn't 'ave gotten..." He paused, wondering if he should say it or not. "If I wouldn't 'ave gotten jealous of him like I did, and jealous of how close the two of you were, maybe he'd still be around."

John didn't reply for a moment. He nodded, amusedly, because finally, Paul had admitted to his jealousy of Stuart. But John didn't say anything about it, because it was still an open wound. "We mustn't dwell on it, Paulie. Stuart was always more interested in art than music, anyroad." He relaxed again, draping his arm across the back of the swing, practically putting it around Paul's shoulder. "We can only move... forward. And where are we headed?"

Paul lowered his head as he grinned. His cheeks were still chubby with adolescence, and John found that absolutely endearing. "To the toppermost of the poppermost, Johnny."

___________________________________________

In early August, the band decided to have an impromptu meeting at Paul's house, more so to simply talk and sit off with each other rather than to rehearse.

George and Pete were laying on the check-patterned rug on the floor of Paul's room, propped on their hands to look up at John and Paul, who were draped across Paul's bed. George and Pete were smoking cigarettes, but the other two, wary of putting burn holes through Paul's bedding, were sipping tea from little China cups that they'd found buried in the glassware cupboard.

"It's a miracle that Stu left you 'is Hofner 500/5, Paul," said George in between drags. "I reckon it cost 'im at least a month's pay."

"I know," Paul nodded, lifting his teacup to his lips. "I told 'im that 'e didn't have to, but he sorta insisted. Who am I to refuse?"

"I'll say," Pete nodded, tossing his cigarette into the ashtray on Paul's bedside table. "Do any o' ye know how much money we made performin' in Hamburg?

"Collectively, a few hundred pounds." John replied, absently tracing his fingers along Paul's hand. Paul, smiling slightly, didn't mind John's gentle, absent-minded touch, and figured John probably didn't even realize he was doing it. "Knowin' us, though, we've probably already blown through half of it."

"I know I have." George smiled cheekily. "I've only got abou' twenty pounds left. I spent most of it on new clothes while we were in 'amburg."

"Oh, I did, too," John grinned at him. "I..." his grin disappeared suddenly. "What time is it?"

"Ehm," said Pete, stretching back to glance at the clock. "It's quarter-to-seven. Wh-"

"Shit." John muttered, pulling away from Paul, startling him, and leaping off the bed. "Shit, shit, shit."

"What's it...?" Paul sat up in bed, his eyes wide. He blinked up at John incredulously, watching as he pulled on his jacket and put his shoes on.