Now and Then- 𝓂𝒸𝓁𝑒𝓃𝓃𝑜𝓃

𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒯𝓌𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓎-𝒻𝒾𝓋𝑒

"I... I was very confused after what 'ad 'appened that night." Says Paul, his head tilted. "I didn't know why I was feelin' the way I was. I had this new sort of passionate feeling abou' John, and it... it frightened, and confused me, to be honest."

"Hm," Michael mused, smiling slightly, "And what about that frightened you?"

"Well, y'know- I was starting to sound rather queer, wasn't I?" Paul pauses to smile, "And that wasn't somethin' I was very fond of- at least, not for myself. I didn't mind if other people were queer- not in the slightest." Paul pauses again, placing a hand across his heart, "It was just something that I could never be. Never."

___________________________________________

Several days had passed since getting high with John, and since having that grand revelation that had completely shifted Paul's perspective about him.

There was a strange new complexity about their relationship- another layer, leaving them both in a perplexed sort of daze that they couldn't quite understand the cause of. Despite this, despite this awkward new feeling that had become present between the two- they had, oddly enough, become closer and more intimate than ever.

There had been no studio rehearsal scheduled for the afternoon, so, naturally, John met Paul at Cavendish to spend the day. Present, too, was a man they'd only met once or twice before: an author and journalist called Hunter Davies, there to observe the songwriting process as the two developed a track for Pepper called With a Little Help From My Friends.

Their songwriting process, as it had been for the past few days since their acid trip, was noticeably slower than usual. They still seemed to be in that trance, unable to break out of it, even in the attentive presence of Mr. Davies.

Paul sat at the piano, staring off into space, one hand laying limply on the keys. A foot or so behind him was John, sitting sprawled on the cushioned armchair with his guitar, his head lolled lazily to the side.

Hunter Davies was across the room, sitting straightly on the edge of the couch, staring expectantly at the two with his notepad and pen. He seemed almost sorry for them, his eyebrows scrunched together, with a pitying sort of look.

It had been nearly a an hour before either of them had any good ideas, when John offered, "How 'bout we use, 'What do you see when you turn out the light? I can't tell you, but I know that it's mine.'"

"Oh," Paul replied slowly, breaking briefly out of his daze to say, "I like that. Shall we add that to the second verse, then...?"

"That's exactly what I was thinking." John replied, playing some note progression absently on the guitar.

Paul nodded, turning back to the piano to start playing just as absently as John: in chords that had nothing to do with the song they were writing in the slightest.

For several slow, painstaking hours, this same pattern of coming up with a nice line or several good notes and then falling back into their trances ensued. The better part of the day was spent simply strumming and banging away on their instruments, to the immense surprise of Mr. Davies, who'd expected a much more structurally sound process of songwriting from the world's greatest musical partnership.

Paul seemed to be in some sort of writer's block- and John, presumably, was the same, and neither of them could think very cohesively, nor could they clear this thick fog from their minds.

They'd only written a minute of the song before the clock struck five- when Cynthia Lennon and a great friend of the band's, Terry Doran, arrived at Cavendish.