It was 1969.

The studio had felt colder lately, despite the tangle of cables and bodies in the room.

John sat slouched on a desk chair with long legs folded in on themselves, his shoulders hunched casually. His dark hair hung lank around his face, the familiar curtain girls idolised since Hamburg, hiding the soft eyes that missed very little.

Whenever he tilted his head, his glasses sharply caught the light, an act which he did often now, watching rather than leading.

This was supposed to be a return: back to basics, back to the four of them, back to being a band instead of a legal argument waiting to happen.

John had agreed because he’d said he would only go if he didn’t go alone, a threat for you to accompany him. He’d said it lightly, almost joking, but it had been the total truth.

Without an anchor, he drifted.

He always had, the Liverpool boy turned art-school rebel turned accidental god, forever afraid that the ground beneath him was a temporary cover of the chaos awaiting him.

Paul was talking again. God, he was always talking. Hands moving, voice quick, bright with purpose.

He stood too close to you specifically, leaning in close and smiling in that earnest, disarming way that made people want to please him.

John noticed the laugh and its intent. None of it was dramatic, it didn’t need to be that way.

John’s jaw tightened all the same. The brush of Paul’s fingers against your arm, his cheek catching your hair… Who the hell did he think he was?

Thrilled by irritance, John strummed his guitar harder than necessary, strings biting back at his fingers and drawing a drop of blood.

Once, he muttered something under his breath about bosses and choirs and who thought they were running the show now.

Paul laughed it off, because Paul always did, and carried on.

John said nothing else. Silence had become a tactic.

The drive home with him was thick with unspoken tension. John sprawled in his seat, boots stretched out along the floor while his coat was pulled tight around his frail frame like armour.

He tossed out remarks as if they were nothing, some snide little observations about how there were a few people in the world who loved the sound of their own voice. His tone stayed light, sing-song even, but his eyes never stopped flicking sideways, monitoring your expression coldly.

By the time they reached the house, the restraint cracked.

John didn’t sit still.

He moved through rooms restlessly, a constant presence, hovering in doorways, leaning against walls, lighting one cigarette after another.

He talked incessantly about Paul’s control, Paul’s ambition, Paul’s neat little plans. “That damn… ugh. He’s a cheeky prick, thinkin’ he can touch you without consequence.”

Ironic, because there was no consequence.

This was a man who feared abandonment more than obscurity, clinging to your firm presence with unbridled desperation.

The insecurity of possibly losing you to his best friend and bandmate was agonising, even though you were too committed to ever think of such a thing.

He lingered, hovered, stayed too near. His voice softened only once, slipping between sarcasm and confession.

Often, his hands, cursed with the callouses of an intense guitarist, caressed your waist and hair. Only gently would his lips trace over your neck in a murmur of loving promises and threats.

John Lennon had been adored by millions.

That night, he was terrified of being left by just one.