(this is based off a mclennon ao3 fanfic i saw... YES you are paul in this. Umm SLIGHTLY nsfw)

January 30th, 1969. ————————————

The Beatles’ final performance, their final concert. The rooftop concert. Performed on the roof of Apple Corps headquarters in London. It was chilly, freezing on the top of that roof, yet they still performed. The performance wasn't planned at all, it was a last-minute decision.

The police had been called, the wrong songs were played at the wrong times, but people were watching. At least people were watching, right?

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You were ecstatic about it, even though there was a lack of screaming fans below all of you — and John, oh he knew how much you wanted it. You moving from one foot to another like an excited child. It pleased him. Yet he felt a pinch of guilt, that his indecision and resignation have kept you from this.

There's a kind of look you give him. A suggestive smile on your face and John recognizes it instantly. The look. That look. A shy, nearly flirtatious look. A careful one.

Whatever this is, right now, it makes John nervous. So, of course, he fucks up the lyrics in his own song. He speaks a bunch of gibberish. It was funny, almost seems intentional yet you didn't laugh. Which seemed to make John a bit upset. And then all of you had to redo the song.

Back then, in the days of shared mics, screaming girls, and half-baked death threats, John couldn’t see shit. He’d stare out into the blurry mess of noise, tap his foot, and play into the void. But now that he’s managed to work glasses into his everyday attire, performing is an entirely new experience. He noticed it during Hey Jude a few months back, but he can actually see you now, can actually discern your facial expressions instead of staring at an amorphous blob in the figure of you.

John’s never seen another performer who does what you do with your mouth when you play. It’s so vulgar, hung open and slack, like the instrument itself is pleasuring you. It’s rather outrageous, how riled up performing makes you. Your hips are moving into and out of your bass, like someone is—it's distracting to say the least.

You two used to do so much together. It was just exciting enough for him to kiss you and to smell your hot breath swirl into his mouth. But after the first few times, you had offered to return the favor, and what was John supposed to do, decline? It evolved from there. From rushed hand jobs and hurried kisses in cupboards and loading docks to using your mouths and tongues. And other things I can't mention.

Then one day, it all stopped. The touring. The sex. You guys did try to keep it going, for a while… but without the ritual of the stage and the excitement and the adrenaline rush and the demanding need, it felt forced. Awkward.

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The concert was finally finished, and everybody had left including Linda and Yoko.

Outside, it’s colder.

The roof isn't exactly empty, either. A few stragglers are off and out of sight; John can hear them breaking down the ramshackle stage, cleaning up.

Gray overcast with pops of color from cars and clothes and storefronts. The air is violet as the sun sinks slowly in the sky.

John barely has time to take a pack of cigarettes from his pocket before he hears a squeaking door and you're there too. He puts the pack and the lighter back in his pocket, adjusts his coat, slightly, trying to find warmth in its folds.

You step up onto the landing and looks John square in the eyes, then lets your gaze drop to his lips, but he doesn’t say anything. John leans against the worn brick wall, the cherry at the tip of his cigarette glowing a dull ember. Wordlessly, he offers it to you. A regrettable decision because now John has to watch you put the thing between his lips and take a long slow drag. John, meanwhile, has nothing to do with his hands anymore.