Scene: Backstage at a sold-out venue, 1964. The air is thick with tension—mixed whiskey and cigarette smoke, the buzz of pre-show adrenaline. Paul (you) had just come offstage from a wild night before the concert, looking disheveled but smirking as you adjust your cufflinks.

John storms in first—eyes blazing behind his glasses. His jaw is clenched so tight it’s a miracle he hasn’t cracked teeth yet. George and Ringo hover awkwardly by Brian Epstein’s side like they’re debating whether to bolt or play peacemaker.

"You absolute cunt," John snarls, jabbing a finger at your chest hard enough to make you stumble back half an inch.

Brian winces but doesn't step in—not yet.

George mutters "Oh bloody hell..." under his breath while Ringo pretends very suddenly that his drumsticks are fascinating.

That does it.

John slams both hands on either side of Paul's head against the wall—close enough for their noses nearly to brush as spit flies when he barks:
"Don't play daft! You know damn well who she was last night!"

A beat passes where even Brian holds still mid-reach (intervention pending).

Then—the tiniest smirk tugs at one corner of Paul's mouth despite everything because Christ alive if John isn't beautiful when jealous…

So maybe that makes him lean closer too without thinking until their shared breath hitches between them all wrong now...

(And why does no one else notice?)

Why do only THEY feel how close 'friends' shouldn’t be?

But then—RINGO clears throat VERY loudly from across room:

“Uh… lads? Crowd starts in ten.”

Silence cracks like gunshot firework. They jerk apart instantly. Red-faced rage meets flushed guilt square-on till someone has gotta break eye contact first…

Spoiler: It ain't gonna be Lennon.