Chapter Text
1966
Living in a tiny studio apartment was difficult. Their living space consisted of one room. Two twin beds, a stove, refrigerator, shower, toilet, sink, and a single closet were jammed within the tiny area. Still, Paul was slowly learning to adapt to such cramped conditions. He could get through anything as long as he had his best friend at his side. Speaking of which, John still had to be woken up. He couldn't tell exactly what time it was, but he knew it was too late to still be in bed.
"John, come on. Get up."
Paul said, gently shaking his friend. That earned him a few annoyed groans.
"Come on. Gotta keep that brain stimulated. Can't have your mind going mushy yet."
John turned over onto his back, his eyes fluttering open and landing upon his roommate. He outstretched his arms.
"Pull me up."
He demanded groggily.
"My back is still sore."
Paul sighed but still retained a gentle smile as he grasped John's hands and pulled him, really putting his back into it.
"Alright, upsy daisy, you lazy tart."
Once John was upright and sitting on the bed, he rubbed his eyes and turned to his mate.
"What's on the agenda today."
Paul's eyes darted across the apartment, noticing the accumulation of trash and clutter.
"Well, we should probably do some cleaning. It's a pigsty in here."
John groaned childishly.
"On the second thought, I think I might go back to bed."
"Absolutely not! You contributed to the mess; you can help clean!"
__________________________________________
When they first moved in, the boys frequently fought, frustrated with the lack of space and privacy. The worst part was when they fought, they couldn't get away from each other. All they could do was retreat to their side of the room and sulk until their furies cooled. Luckily, apologies (Often involving tears) always followed.
They drove each other mad but also kept the other sane.
It was Paul's turn to cook breakfast. Meanwhile, John swept and mopped. They didn't have a table and chairs, so they needed a clean floor to eat on.
"What's for breakfast?"
John asked, dumping a pile of debris into a metal garbage can.
"Same thing we have every morning. Eggs and toast."
"Is the bread stale today?"
"Doesn't matter if it's toasted. Anyway, would you set the "table" for me?"
"What's in it for me?"
Paul playfully scoffed at the cheekiness.
"What you'll get is scrambled eggs with no spit, now chop-chop."
__________________________________________
While John gathered up the dirty clothes scattered across the floor, Paul did the dishes. As he dumped the clothes into the laundry basket, John could hear Paul hiss in pain.
"Water too hot?"
Lennon asked.
"No, it's my wrist."
McCartney replied, clenching his teeth as he held the aching appendage.
"It's still sore?"
John now had a worried expression on his face.
"Yeah…"
Paul let out a long, pained sigh before leaning back over the sink.
"Hey, at least it's only my right hand."
Paul said, trying to lighten the mood and ignore the throbbing pain in the joint.
"I guess this is the only time being a left-handed abomination worked in your favor, eh?"
Paul whipped his head around, holding up a fork.
"Oh, keep it up, Lennon, and this is going right up your arse!"
__________________________________________
The boys' favorite part of the day was undeniably songwriting. In the closet were notebooks filled to the brim with lyrics, melodies, sad songs, happy songs, and many that didn't make sense.
The two sat close on Paul's bed, jotting down whatever came to mind. Most of the songs would end up being scrapped, but that didn't mean they were worthless. The silly songs brought happiness, smiles, and laughter; Something the two young men desperately needed.
"Hey, I think I finally finished a song."
"Will it make ears bleed?"
"Hilarious, McCartney."
John said with a pout, flipping through the pages of his cheap notebook. He let out a low, frustrated grumble when he tried to write, but no ink came out.
"Bloody hell…"
He muttered, shaking the cheap pen, trying to coax the last of the ink out.
"Come on, laugh a little, Lenny."
Paul said, giving John a playful jab to the side. Although he tried to fight it, the older man couldn't help his lips from curling into a shy smile. It grew wider when Paul did it again.
"Still ticklish, are you?"
Paul cooed, a foxish smile on his face. John scoffed in response and started to scoot away, knowing what his friend was planning.
"Of course not! Being ticklish is for babies and-AHAHAHA! Stohahahap!"
"-And for rugged rockstars, it seems."
Paul said, smiling at John's explosive reaction as he wiggled his fingers up and down his belly. John wrapped his arms around his middle, trying to shield himself from the attack. However, Paul's skillful fingers still managed to poke and prod at his "victim's" tickle spots. The attack ceased after John started to wheeze, and his attacker decided to be merciful.
"To…To hell with you, McCartney!"
John shouted, still trying to catch his breath.
"I fucking hate you!"
"Love you too!"
Paul said snappily before refocusing on his writing. He was so distracted that he didn't even notice John creeping closer. He let out a shriek when his friend suddenly pinned him to the bed.
“John, what are you-NOHOHOHO! NOHOHOHT THAHAHAT!”
Paul bellowed as John's fingers scraped along his ribs. Paul thrashed like a wild animal, hands grasping at John's wrists. Usually, he'd be able to push John off quite quickly, but the weakening ticklish sensations rippling throughout his body left him at a grave disadvantage.
Luckily, John didn't torture him much longer, ceasing his tickle attack when he noticed Paul turning a deep shade of red. John smiled before shifting his position, lying on top of Paul, head against his chest. In response, the younger man wrapped his arms around his friend's middle, pulling him closer.
John could hear the rapid thumping of Paul's heart and feel a hand settling in the small of his back. It all felt incredibly intimate. A year ago, something like this may have been somewhat awkward. Best friends holding each other like lovers would definitely raise eyebrows. However, the two were beyond caring. Social norms seldom meant anything in their tiny world.
The songwriting duo stayed in that position long ago; Their notebooks were discarded on the floor, long forgotten.
"I wish I could have you like this forever."
John suddenly said. Paul, who had nearly drifted off to sleep, hummed in response.
"I just want to keep you close and safe forever."
"Hmm. Me too, Johnny. It'd be more challenging for me to keep you safe, though. Not only would I have to protect you from other wankers, but from yourself."
Paul said teasingly, causing John to pull his head up.'
"Now, what is that supposed to mean!?"
"Well, let's be honest, Lenny. That mouth of yours has gotten you in plenty of trouble before."
John scoffed but settled back down on Paul's chest.
"It's not my fault no one can take a joke."
Paul smiled fondly, tangling his fingers in John's unkempt moptop. He quietly hummed a tune. He didn't remember the name, but it was soft and sweet. John's eyes fluttered shut, and he let out a soft moan from the scalp massage. Paul's lullaby felt like a warm blanket over his sore body. Lennon found himself well on the way to dreamland until he heard footsteps and a door swinging open.