Now and Then- 𝓂𝒸𝓁𝑒𝓃𝓃𝑜𝓃

𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒯𝓌𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓎

"...for several days, I was quite upset abou', y'know. Abou' what John said abou'  Yesterday." says Paul, pushing his bangs from his eyes. "But I got over it within' a week or so, because I began to quickly realize that John hadn't meant to hurt my feelings. He was in an awful mental state, he was- so I forgave him, because I knew tha' he probably hadn't meant what he'd said."

"Interesting." says Michael, tapping his chin once and pointing to Paul with his index finger,

"That was around the time that the Help! album was released, wasn't it?"

"Oh, yes. Help! was released, toppin' the charts and all tha'. We did Shea Stadium, then, with a record-breakin' attendance." Paul pauses thoughtfully. "But it kills me to think abou' that time, 'cause John was essentially depressed, and no one had any clue. He didn't show tha' side of himself to the public, and sometimes, not even to me.

"He'd become irritable: almost comparable to when his mother 'ad passed, in the early days." Paul says, his voice soft, "The high we'd experienced in Key West was far behind us, now."

___________________________________________

Paul was laying in the hotel bed that he shared with John, staring up at the ceiling.

He was humming to himself, enjoying this little bout of peace and quiet- composing a tune for a song he'd had in the works for several weeks, now.

George was asleep in the other bed, and John was sitting at the little table beside the door, scribbling madly onto a new piece of paper, after crumpling up his five previous rough-drafts of whatever he was writing and starting anew. Ringo was out in the hotel cafe with Brian and Alistair, presumably, having an afternoon coffee.

Paul sat up slightly to glance at the clock: it had seemed to be 3:00 for the past three hours.

Paul heaved a great sigh, then, turned to where John was sitting and muttered, "What'cha workin' on, John?" John seemed to not have heard him, because he remained bent over his paper until Paul repeated, "John?"

"What?" John's head snapped up, and meeting Paul's eyes, his own looking wide and stressed and sleepless. He said, "Oh, ehm... a letter. For Cyn."

"Ah," Paul mused, falling back onto his pillow with his hands behind his head. "How's she?"

"Oh, I... I dunno. Haven't written in a while." John rubbed his eyes, shrugging lightly. "I feel like shit about it, though. Her an' Julian, y'know... I've been away for ages." Paul muttered a "yeah" in vague agreement, and after several beats of silence, John asked, "How's Jane?"

Paul blew out a breath. "Christ, ehm." He chuckled lightly, his eyebrows raised, wondering where to begin. "I dunno, ehm... she's very... independent."

"Oh?" said John, glancing over at Paul between strokes of his pen, grinning slightly, "Don't like your women independent, eh?"

"Oh, I dunno." Paul shrugged, smiling slightly, himself, "She's amazin', y'know. I jus' feel like... like we're on two different pages, y'know?" He pauses, "And, I mean, if she knew abou' all my other girlfriends and such, she'd have a fit, I tell ye."

"Mhm," John hummed, stretching in his chair, seeming exhausted beyond measure. "I dunno. Me an' Cyn are like tha', too. But I can't quite-"

The sound of a key unlocking the hotel door made both boys jump, and in walked Ringo and Alistair Taylor. With them, came a cloud of cigarette smoke.

"Come downstairs," Ringo announced jovially, ambling up to John, who shoved the letter he'd been writing beneath the table's placemat before Ringo might've been able to read it. "Brian's got dinner all set up in the cafe. It's early, but, y'know- we're leavin', soon."