Title: “(Almost) Conversations with Him”
Author: bello_romantico, Kat, just me. :)
Warnings: None at all.
Summary: Paul hasn’t ever stopped talking to John (even if John isn’t there to answer).
Time frame: Modern day Paul – I picture him without Nancy or anyone in this, though.
(almost) conversations with him
The sizzle of pancakes and the bubbling of hot water fill the air as Paul bustles around the kitchen. The clink of a spoon, fork and lone plate are amplified by the emptiness of the room.
Tea is prepared with deft motions of the wrist, fruit is cut and arranged and a chair is pulled back. Paul sits with his meal and cuts into his stack of pancakes, spearing a strawberry before taking his first bite.
“Remember when I used to make you pancakes, John?” he asks with a little smile, a syrupy glaze over his eyes.
“Good pancakes they were,” answers John, “That is, before all this flaxseed and whole grain shit you put into them now.”
Paul sighs gently, chuckling softly as he takes a sip of his tea. “You bloody hippie – you’d love ‘em. I know you would.”
John smiles. “O’ course I would.”
Paul escapes from the loneliness of his house, settling behind the wheel of his – and only his – car, shifting the gears with delight. He pulls out of the garage and onto the road with a squeak of tires.
The road is blurry – blurrier than the last time he drove all by himself – so Paul reaches down to retrieve the glasses he keeps in his pocket, pushing them onto his nose.
“Laughing at me, John?” asks Paul under his breath, catching a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror.
“You look like such an old man, Macca,” chuckles John.
“Shut up,” whispers Paul, “You wore bloody grandfather glasses, too.”
John puts on his posh accent, “Well, they looked positively dashing on me.”
Paul sits in his dressing room, staring into the large mirror before him – his lone face looks so small and wrinkled in the glass.
He remembers the time when he shared a dressing room with three others; the hustle and bustle of slipping into matching costumes and the frantic tuning of instruments before the show.
The silence is crushing.
“I miss you, John,” murmurs Paul, staring at his reflection, “I feel so bloody alone.”
John’s eyes soften behind his glasses. “I miss you, too, Paulie.”
Paul takes a swig of water, sloshing it around in his dry mouth before swallowing. “You were my best friend, you know. I never found another you.”
“You were my best friend, too.”
Paul buttons up his jacket with wrinkled hands, but stops mid-way, shaking his head. “Jesus,” he breathes, “I’m getting old, John.”
“Yeh still look pretty damn good to me,” says John firmly, seriously.
Paul grins softly. “Always were a liar,” he mutters.
John laughs. “I love you, too, darlin’.”
Paul turns off the lights and slides into bed, his sore back feeling instantly relieved the minute it touches the softness of the mattress. He sighs, pulling the covers around him and nestling his thinning head of hair into the pillow.
“Wish I could just invite you over to spend the night, John,” comments Paul into the darkness of the room, closing his weary eyes.
“That’d be nice,” says John, “Just like old times, eh?”
“I hate sleeping alone,” murmurs Paul, little voice sounding old.
“I know,” sighs John, “Just pretend I’m there, yeah?”"Always do," Paul whispers just before drifting off.