Yesterday - A Beatles Fanfic

Chapter The Twenty-Sixth

By now, press conferences and interviews were as normal as brushing teeth for The Beatles, and had been for some time. But having one the very day after their adventures in the future snapped them back into the reality of their regular lives.

"Paul, do you really curl your eyelashes?" One female reporter called out.

"No!" Paul shook his head insistently. "I swear I've never touched the damn things! They just do as they like, thank you very much." He crossed his eyes and fluttered his eyelashes several times to emphasise the point.

"Is it true that John has an obsession with Monopoly?" A man with thick glasses and slicked back hair asked.

John started to say, "I wouldn't say obsess-"

"YES!" The others all yelled at once.

"He's a Monopoly maniac!" Ringo said.

"He probably has a pocket version with him this very moment." Paul added.

"Once ye' sit down to play, there's no stoppin' him," George said gravely. "If ye' finish the game with Park Place or the Boardwalk, ye'd better sleep with one eye open."

The small crowd of journalists laughed. John opened his mouth to protest, then decided against it.

"Do you have any plans for touring any time soon?"

"We're actually easing up on touring for a while," Paul said. "Gonna hide in the studio for a while, but we'll be back!"

"John, what are your thoughts of the future of the band?" A young woman with hair pulled back into a tight bun asked.

This time there was no witty reply, no sarcastic comment. John thought seriously for a minute before answering. "Well, one of my greatest fears used to be growing old. I used to think 'who'd want to listen to a grey-haired, croaking, wrinkled Lennon?' But now I realise there's nothing to stop Paul and I writing smash hits when we're old, or even George and Ringo here. We'll make music 'till whichever comes first: death... Or arthritis!"

There was a roaring applause from the people in the room and even the other three Beatles clapped along.

* * *

"Death? Or arthritis?"

John looked over to where his wife was reading the newspaper with an amused expression. "Yeah?" His left hand hovered in the air, clutching a small wooden train carriage. "I was bein' perfectly serious, darling." His son continued piecing together the wooden tracks, attempting to build a bridge over John's leg.

As soon as he'd got the chance, he'd tidied up Mendips and came home to his family with new purpose. The other lads had also left to their own homes. He was truly making an effort to spend time with Julian to make sure he grew up to be a child he could be proud to call his own. Cynthia had noticed too, but hadn't said anything - just enjoyed her husband's good mood.

"Well I'd rather neither happened." Cynthia smiled, flicking her blonde hair back over her shoulder with one finger.

"Me too, love." John helped Julian, who was making enthusiastic "train sounds", fit the tracks together. "Me too."

* * *

"Ciggie?"

The bar was about as typical as they came. Shelves of pint glasses and tumblers glittered in the orange glow of the pub. Smoke hung in the air with the sound of raucous yelling and laughter. A group of burly men in leather were gathered round the dart board so close that it was a miracle that no one got impaled. Though with the amount of alcohol in their system, they hardly would have noticed.

George turned his head to see Ringo with a lit cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. He was holding out the box, offering one to George.

Part of him instinctively reached out to take one. Then memories echoed in his mind.

"...why not? It's not like it'll kill me."

"But it will George... It will."

"In 1997, Harrison was diagnosed with throat cancer..."

"...on 29 November 2001, Harrison died at a friend's home in Los Angeles..."

He shuddered and withdrew his hand. "Nah, not this time, mate," he shook his head. "They give ye' cancer, y'know."

Ringo narrowed his eyes for a second and then shrugged, shoving the packet back in his pocket. Conversation continued as normal, but George did note that Ringo's cigarette ended up in an ashtray much sooner than it usually would have.

* * *

"Hello, Brian Epstein speaking." The manager of The Beatles picked up the phone, absentmindedly twisting his fingers in the phone cord.

"Hey, Bri. It's Paul."

"Is it now?" Brian smiled. "I thought it was the Queen!"

"Can I talk to you?" Paul asked, ignoring the sarcasm.

"Aren't you already?"

"I'm serious, Brian."

"And so am I," Brian could almost see Paul's eyes rolling. "Fire away, I'm all ears."

"I just want to let ye' know that the lads and I think you're an absolutely amazing manager..."

"What have you done this time?" Brian feigned a stern tone. "How much is the bail?"

"I don't want anythin', Bri. I just want to say that you're more than a manager to us. You're a friend. Please don't play dumb, I know you're stressed out that we don't want to tour."

Brian was silent for a while. Then he let out a long sigh. "I guess I have been a little highly strung lately... I guess my mind just cooked up all these fears that with all the studio time you boys have, you'd stop needing me so much... That you wouldn't want a... A queer for a manager..."

"How could you think that!?" Paul interrupted. "We wouldn't trade ye' for anyone else, ever! You're like an Uncle that stops us gettin' into too much trouble. Even if we had no use for ye' whatsoever, we'd pay you to stick around!"

Brian smiled at that. But Paul wasn't finished. "Besides, ye' should see what 2015 is like."

"Yeah?"

"They practically worship the gays."

Brian snorted. "Sure they do."

"Well maybe not worship... But we saw this cute lesbian couple snoggin' outside a cafe!"

Brian pulled a face. "Thanks for that image, Paul."

"Anytime, Bri. Anytime."

"But seriously, thanks for calling. I guess I really needed that talk."

"Like I said, anytime. I'm always here to talk to. See ya t'morrow?"

"Yeah, goodbye, Paul." And with that, he hung up and felt lighter and happier than he had in weeks.