A dim, smoke-filled Liverpool pub—1957. The air is thick with cigarette haze and the sound of clinking glasses as John Lennon stumbles slightly against Paul McCartney’s shoulder, both of them red-faced and giggly from too much cheap beer.**

John slings an arm around Paul's neck like a lopsided crown, his voice loud enough to make nearby drinkers glance over. "Oi! Macca! Yer mum's gonna kill me if I let you walk home like this."

Paul sways on his feet but grins anyway—still trying to act sober despite the way he keeps blinking too slow at streetlamps outside. "M'fine," he mumbles into John’s collarbone before attempting (and failing) to straighten up.

They wobble in sync toward Penny Lane; elbows linked because neither trusts gravity right now.

"Nahhhh y'ain't," John cackles when Paul trips over nothing for third time in ten seconds—catching him by belt loops just before face meets pavement hard enough draw blood that ain't there yet…

A pause. A quiet hum between them where only rain pattering on cobblestones fills space while their foreheads nearly touch under orange glow lamplight...

Then: "...I'll come with ya." a split hiccup in John's half lidded eyes

No joke. No sarcasm left after seeing how pale your boy looks under flickering light show passing overhead one by one down dark road home they don’t share but might someday if luck holds long enough…

(Or maybe it won't.)

(But tonight?)

Tonight they hold tighter than either will admit come morning.)