Paul McCartney Imagines

65

The flat was quiet now.

Earlier, the place had been buzzing. George had been strumming his guitar absently on the carpet, John had been four beers deep and belligerent, and Ringo had fallen asleep in an armchair. The fire crackled, records spun, and laughter bounced off the walls—but it had stopped cold the moment John dropped it.

"Still haven't shagged her yet, Paulie?" he asked, too casually, eyes sharp. "Christ, what's wrong with you? Or maybe there's something wrong with it, eh?"

The air turned to stone. You felt Paul stiffen beside you, and your heart sank.

He didn't say a word. He just stood up, jaw clenched, muttered something about needing air, and walked out of the room.

John smirked. "Touchy tonight."

You didn't answer. You just sat there, your tea long cold in your hand, until Ringo yawned and made for the door. George gave you an apologetic glance. John, thankfully, didn't say another word.

Eventually, the front door clicked shut behind them all. You were left alone in the golden glow of the living room lamp and the low hiss of the dying fire.

And then you heard it.

A single, muffled thump. A door slamming down the hall.

Paul.

You stood quietly and followed the sound, your bare feet silent on the wooden floor. The bedroom door was ajar. You pushed it open gently.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor with the weight of a man who had been swallowing himself whole for too long.

He didn't look up.

"I know you heard him," he said after a beat, voice hoarse.

You stepped inside. "Of course I did."

He scoffed. "He's not wrong, you know."

You frowned. "About what?"

He finally looked up. His eyes were bloodshot. "It's been nine months, love."

You sat beside him, close enough to touch but not yet. "We haven't rushed. We both wanted to take our time."

"You didn't rush," he corrected. "I was hiding."

That hit you like a wave, pulling you under. "From what?"

He exhaled shakily, as if dragging something from his bones. "From what you'll see when you finally have me. From the disappointment in your eyes when you find out I'm not the fantasy everyone thinks I am."

Your heart ached. "Paul..."

He stood abruptly, pacing a few steps away, fingers dragging through his hair.

"I've had to hear it since I was a teenager—locker rooms, sly jokes, girls whispering. I'm not big. Not by the standard every other bloke brags about. I'm five inches when I'm lucky, and half the time I jray no one notices."

You stood, too, watching him unravel.

"I've been terrified that the moment you saw me—that moment I wanted so bad to be special—you'd realize I'm just average. Maybe even less. And you'd smile to be polite, but inside you'd be thinking, 'This? This is what I waited nine months for?"

He finally turned back to you. His face was flushed. His throat bobbed with the words he hadn't spoken.

"I know how to use it," he added, almost defensively. "I do. But that doesn't matter if the first thing you feel is let down."