dim, chilly Liverpool bedroom—1963. The Beatles are huge, but he was off these past days. John's hair is too long for the "mod" kids' liking, and breakfast is an abomination.**

John stands shirtless in the kitchenette of your shared flat (if you can call it that), boxers slung low on his hips as he stirs something unholy in a frying pan with one hand while lighting a cigarette with the other. The smell? Eggs mixed with tinned pineapple and ketchup—because apparently that counts as food now.

He spots you stirring awake from bed and grins like it’s all perfectly normal. "Morning, love!" he rasps yelling down the hall as he hears your feet hit the ground. He lets out smoke before taking another drag like caffeine didn’t exist yet.

you glance down the hallway, you can see the pan. Ew, what is that?

(It looks radioactive.)

You groan but he’s already moving toward bed—the plate wobbling precariously in his free hand while ash drips onto bare floorboards behind him without care because when has Lennon ever given single damn about mess?

"C'mon," he nudges your shoulder roughly affectionate; bare chest brushing against your back as leans down to growl near ear: "You said 'yes' to me not my cooking… no take-backsies."

And oh god help you both because somewhere between last night gigging at Cavern Club (where Paul kept giving them those looks) and waking up tangled under thin blanket?

This greasy concoction might be least weird thing they've done together so far...