Chapter Text
The first time Paul wrote to John, he had no idea where to start. It was a stupid idea, really.
John-
Hi there!
He shook his head and crossed that out. Terrible start.
John-
Hope you’re doing well
He scratched that out too. This was a bad idea.
Paul sat in silence, hunched over his journal. He’d had the idea to write to John for weeks now, but hadn’t acted on it because, well, it was daft. He knew it was daft. It was immature, manipulative and wrong .
And yet- something about the idea would not leave him alone. Like a weed, the idea had grown to choke out all other creative thought. So here he was, a journal open to a blank page, feeling foolish. He cleared his throat and tried again.
John, I miss you.
That instantly felt better. It was true after all.
It was short, but effective. Paul felt a small sense of release upon writing these words. They were true. Perhaps the truest words he’d ever spoken to John. How strange it was, he mused to himself, that he could be his most honest while acting in deceit. A flare of white hot guilt shot through him at this thought.
Paul shrugged off the doubt with a physical roll of his neck. He consoled himself with the thought that he wouldn’t be doing this if he had any other option. John had left him with no other choice. Paul hadn’t been able to reach John in almost six months, and if John wouldn’t take his calls, then Paul had to find another way to reach him.
–
Their prolonged silence was the direct result of a series of particularly thorny phone calls. On one particular day, Paul had found himself, as he often did, thinking of John… missing him. On a typical day, as this was an embarrassingly common occurrence, he would pour himself into his work or distract himself with the children until the feeling passed. But on that day, the ache had been particularly distressing. Distracting, even. And so, Paul had called the Dakota. They’d been able to talk freely in those days, with Yoko out of the house more often, nobody screened John’s calls anymore.
John had picked up after a few rings and right away Paul could tell he was in a foul mood. John’s voice sounded far away, distracted.
“It’s me.” Paul replied to John’s vacant greeting.
“Oh, hi.” John sighed.
Paul could hear Sean babble from somewhere next to John. An image of his friend floated up in Paul’s mind. John’s wavy auburn hair mussed up from sleep, his strong Jaw sharpened with age, in pajamas or maybe an old tee shirt, holding baby Sean in his arms, propping him against one hip, maybe he was gripping the phone in between his ear and shoulder, letting Sean grasp onto one of his strong fingers. The vision made Paul’s heart twist with a terrible fondness. He wished he could be there, to bask in the warmth of John and his newborn son.
“How’s everything?” Paul asked, pathetically. He never knew how to start these conversations lately. They all seemed to go the same way.
“Same old, y’know.” John grunted as he shifted Sean in his arms. “Was there something you needed?” And just like that, Paul’s stomach sank. Was John already rushing him off the phone? Ever since Sean’s birth, John had been harder and harder to speak to. With all of John’s immigration troubles, the only thing they had anymore were these calls, and even they were becoming a rarity.
“Nothing specific, if that’s what you mean.” Paul rushed, feeling ashamed suddenly. “Just thought we were overdue for a catchup.” He twisted the phone cord in between his fingers. Mary and Heather ran across his feet, giggling as they went.
“A ‘catch up’.” John echoed, sounding uninterested. “You mean, I listen to you talk about whatever album you’re making and pretend to give a shit?” Jesus, John was in a mood .
“We can talk about your music, if you like.” Paul ventured. He braced himself internally for John’s answer, he knew it was a risk to broach this topic. He silently hoped John’s answer would be different this time, that he’d reveal his long-awaited plan to get back to writing again. But somehow, Paul knew his hopes were set too high.
“You know I haven’t got any music to speak of, Paul.” John snorted into the receiver. “Shhh, Sean, Daddy’s on the phone.” He cooed as Sean continued to babble.
“Alright, I just- it doesn’t make any sense!” Paul blurted out. He couldn’t help himself. He knew by now how this conversation would go. They’d had this argument a thousand different ways, probably a half dozen times since Sean was born. It was never a fruitful confrontation, and it always left Paul feeling terribly guilty, and missing John even more. But god damn it, he couldn’t stand by and watch as one of the most talented musicians he’d ever known just give it all up. So, knowing full well that it was the wrong thing to do, he heard himself continue. “ I mean- John Lennon, not writing music?! It’s about as hard to wrap my head around as, as- Nixon doing drag!”
“Yeah, well, things change I suppose.” John sounded resigned, ready to hang up at any second. “Who knows, Dick might surprise us with a frock next state of the union.”
“Yeah.” Paul replied stiffly, unwilling to laugh at the joke. There was a crackle of silence on the other line. “John?” he asked, suspicious for a moment that John had already hung up on him. “I’m here.” John’s voice sounded muffled, as though he’d stepped away from the phone.
“I know it’s not really my place, John, but- I just thought. I have this song--?”
“It’s not your place.” John interrupted, his voice audibly irritated now. “Besides, I’ve told you before, I don’t want your bloody throw-aways, Paul. I’m not a charity case.”
Paul felt himself try to backtrack, desperate not to upset John too badly. “I know you’re not, John. I just thought… I don’t understand, John. You can’t just stop .”
“Maybe I’m just done with that part of my life.”
“Music is your life.”
“No, Paul. That’s you, that was always you. My life is here. Sean and Yoko. Being a parent, a husband. All that industry crap is behind me, okay? I like staying home. It’s quiet, I get to watch my son grow up. I’m happy, alright?”
“I don’t believe you.” Paul shook his head, unable to accept what he was hearing. A familiar urgency welled up inside him. The thought of John giving up music made him feel… untethered, scared. Even though they didn’t write together anymore, not really, Paul still found himself deeply attached to John’s music. Half of the reason he showed up to work anymore was to make something that might impress John. Even after all this time.
“Then don’t.” John’s voice rose and Paul could feel the momentum of the fight. He could feel the callus thing he was about to say in response to the callus thing John had said.
“Can you really tell me, with a straight face, that you’re happy in your marriage, John?” There was a loaded silence on the other line. Paul continued. “I mean, I hear all sorts of things about her… her and that designer .”
“Not that it’s any of your goddamn business, Paul, but we have an arrangement.” John spat. “It works. I have Sean. I’m alright.” Paul felt hollowed out at those words. John deserved so much more than ‘alright.’ “Why do you give a fuck, anyhow?” John continued, “You don’t get to have a say in my life anymore, remember?” There was a long pause. Paul’s eyes began to sting dangerously at the sound of utter disregard in John’s voice. He could tell their conversation was at its end. John would make some lousy excuse to hang up any second now.
“I should- I’ve gotta go.” Paul stammered, desperate to be the first one to say goodbye this time. ”I think I hear Mary calling from the garden.” The dial tone buzzed in Paul’s ear before he even had the chance to set the phone down.
Paul had tried John’s number countless times in the aftermath of their argument, but after weeks of nothing from John, he eventually stopped- it was beginning to become embarrassing.
Only a few months ago, they’d spent hours on the phone together, discussing all sorts of banalities: bread and music and gardening and soup. It had been a pillar of Paul’s routine: record at the studio, feed the children, talk to John on the phone, make love to Linda, sleep, wake up, repeat. That’s what his life had consisted of for the healthy part of a year. He hadn’t realized how much he’d relied on the consistency of John’s voice in his ear until it had started to fade. Hadn’t known how much he’d liked it. Hadn’t realized he’d been subconsciously hoarding tidbits of his day for John, until the chance to share them was gone.
One day, after he’d gotten no reply at the Dakota, he’d turned to Linda. “How do you suppose I get a good crust on a sourdough?” he asked, sniffing at his latest loaf. The crust was nicely browned, but it lacked the firm shell that John always talked about.
“Hmm?” Linda hummed, distracted by the newspaper. “Dunno. Bread is more John’s thing, isn’t it darling?” She hardly looked up.
“Never mind.” She was not the person Paul wanted to discuss this with.
–
Their conversations hadn’t turned prickly until after Sean was born. At first, nothing was different. John had even called Paul on the day of his birth.
“Born on my birthday , Paul.” John beamed, the smile in his voice audible. “Like we’re twins.” Paul was thrilled for John, and he’d allowed himself to imagine how the next few years would play out. John would put Sean on the phone every time they spoke, and Paul would babble nonsense into the receiver, until one day Sean might speak, he’d recognize Paul’s voice and he’d squawk something unintelligible like “Pa!” and Paul would say “yes, yes, sweet Sean! It’s me, Uncle Paul!” And he’d send him Christmas gifts and visit on his Birthday. Maybe Yoko would be kinder to him and Linda now that they had a child of their own. Maybe Sean could be friends with Stella. They could have a real reason to be in each other's lives again. Paul had felt full of hope.
The next day, Paul called John, but didn’t receive an answer. He called again the day after that, but Yoko had said it wasn’t a good time. Their communication was sparse for several more weeks until one day John called him unexpectedly. It had been the last real conversation they’d had.
“Is it normal?” John had asked, “To be this tired all the time?” He sounded wiped out. Paul’s chest pinched with empathy.
“It can be murder in those first few weeks, y’know.” He’d reassured John. “Mary was a sound sleeper in the beginning, until she wasn’t.”
“Yoko wants to go back to work.” John sounded a bit shell-shocked. Paul was surprised to hear that.
“And what about you?” He’d asked, shocked. “Will you be alright, y’know, with the baby?”
John was quiet for a moment, then said, “I’ll figure it out.” He didn’t sound confident. Paul felt himself move into a place of selfish concern. “And what about the music, John? Will you have time to write?”
“Dunno. Maybe I won’t. Gonna stay home with the baby for now. Raise him up. Do it right this time.” John sounded like he was convincing himself more than anyone else.
“You’re just- not going to write music, then?” Paul repeated, completely taken aback. “How can you even- how do you figure that?” He felt himself becoming indignant, as though John’s disregard of music was a personal rejection.
“Was mother’s idea, in the end.” John said, casually, like he was reporting the weather. Anger and disappointment rose in Paul’s throat. He struggled to swallow it down.
“Of course it was.” He heard himself grumble.
“And I agreed- alright Paul? This is good, y’know. Yoko has spent too much time in my shadow. It’s time we focus on her career.” Shadow , Paul thought to himself bitterly, right . As if Yoko’s marriage to John wasn’t one of the biggest spotlights in the world.
“But, giving up what you love?” Paul interjected, unmoved by John’s rationale. “That doesn’t seem right, John. Not right at all.”
“It’s what we want, alright?!” John was audibly agitated now. “Why can’t you just leave it alone, hm? You always do this- you always make things so…” He trailed off, choosing his words. “I’m not someone you can boss around anymore, Paul. Just- leave me alone about my life, why don’t you?!”
Their latest argument must have been the nail in the coffin. John had had enough of Paul’s pestering, he’d pushed him too far. And Paul had no one to blame but himself.
–
The idea to write the letters came to Paul as ideas often do, as he was playing guitar. He had been struggling to find a chord, and he knew he was close. There was just something slightly wonky about the sound of it. The urge to phone John came on spontaneous and overwhelming, but just as quickly, Paul remembered. They hadn’t spoken in six months. Earlier that day, a song from the late 50s, a song Paul had completely forgotten about, came on the radio. It had taken every fiber in his being not to dial John’s number, put the phone to the speaker and ask John if he remembered dancing to this in the foyer of Mendips, if he remembered Mimi yelling at them to turn it off. It was getting to be an all consuming thing, missing John. Unrelenting. And so, as Paul sat in his studio, trying and failing to pluck out a chord, it occurred to Paul; he had to find another way to reach his friend.
***
The first time John received one of the letters, he almost threw it away. Fan mail was a nuisance at this point in his life, the novelty and excitement of fame long faded. But he didn’t throw it out. Instead, he let it sit on the kitchen table for three days. Each morning after it arrived, John would look at it over the lip of his coffee mug. There was something strangely intimate about the tiny envelope, something inviting about the lazy scrawl across the front. “Attn: Dr. Winston O’Boogie” it read, the indents of the blue ink visible in the soft cardstock. His lips pulled into a halfhearted smile, someone had been paying attention.
Amongst the monotonous pile of commercial envelopes, the tedious bills, banking slips and adverts, the tiny handwritten thing looked so precious, so personal. It looked exciting. Like seeing a card in the mail on your birthday as a boy and realizing it was for you . Not your parents or your cranky old aunt, you .
On the third day after it arrived, John picked it up. As he held it in his hand, he thought the weight of it was inviting, practically begging John to open it and peer inside. So he did, sliding his callused forefinger beneath the lip, he tore the envelope open and pulled out a tightly folded sheet of what looked to be a page torn from a journal. That struck John as odd. Typically when fans sent mail, they went to great lengths to ensure their letters appeared polished and professional- the letter usually the result of several drafts. The ripped paper suggested that this was nothing like that.
Even more curious, when John unfolded the torn pages, he noticed that the words had been typed using a typewriter. How odd , he’d thought to himself. Such a drastic contrast to the intimacy of the envelope. The opposite of what he expected when seeing the torn page.
Sean shrieked from the next room and John put down the letter to attend to his son. The letter sat untouched for several more hours.
It wasn’t until that evening, after Sean was asleep, Yoko not yet home, that John remembered the note. It was still sitting there, on the dining room table, resting on its side, half open. The torn edges of the page looked haphazard, and again John found himself intrigued by the funny thing.
He picked up the paper and read.
I miss you.
These three words greeted John as he unfolded the typed letter. Who missed him? He glanced down to the bottom of the page. There was a name printed there, some French name he’d never heard before, Cheri Guacher. It was then that he realized the letter sported no return address. That was weird . Fans who wrote to John always wanted a response, in fact the letters usually ended with a desperate plea for him to reply. But this person seemed completely uninterested in being reached. This intrigued John even more. He flipped the page over, it was blank on the other side.
It was fascinating, John thought. Simple and true and straight to the point. Instead of throwing it away, he folded it up and placed it in his breast pocket for keeps. Something about the words had felt oddly intimate, strangely tender. They’d soothed something deep within him, that place that craved love, acceptance, care. This person… Cheri? Missed him. It felt nice to know that someone, somewhere missed him. Maybe he missed himself too.
If John was being honest, he’d been feeling adrift, lately. Unsure what was next for him. He loved spending time with Sean, watching him grow up, but something was missing. He felt stuck in a monotonous routine: wake up, feed sean, go for a walk, put sean down for a nap, feed him again, change his nappy, try to get some shut eye, fail miserably, wait for Yoko to get home, ask her how her day was, pretend to believe her when she told him where she’d been, serve dinner, go to bed before Yoko, wake up to her already gone. Repeat.
He’d agreed to stay home, he reminded himself weakly. He repeated his reasons for staying home like a mantra. It was Yoko’s turn in the spotlight. He’d had enough of the music business, anyhow… Fucking vultures, all of them. Lately, if he ever spoke to someone outside of his inner circle, it was always the same tedious questions: When’s the next album, John? Are you writing new music, John? What are you working on, John?
Christ, he was sick of it. As though he hadn’t been putting out multiple albums every year since he was twenty one years old. He deserved a rest, didn’t he? Why couldn’t these fucking leeches give him a break? It was the biggest reason he hadn’t called Paul back in over six months. Every time they’d spoken, Paul had been so up his ass about work. Nagging him like Mimi used to nag about school work. It had been so tiresome. He could hardly stand the niggling press, he didn’t need the same bullshit from Paul too.
–
A few weeks after the first letter, a second letter arrived. John recognized the lazy scrawl almost immediately, but it was the small cream colored envelope that confirmed his suspicion. It surprised him, the tiny hum of excitement in his chest when he saw it among the usual assortment of mail. Something about that envelope once again drew him in, stirred something in him. He couldn’t help but wonder what this person was trying to tell him.
John,
The dream isn’t over. I believe, yes, I believe.
-Cheri Gaucher
Again, simple and short. He flipped the page over, nothing on the backside. He inspected the piece of paper, unsure what he hoped to find. The note was typed onto another sheet of lazily torn journal paper, no more than three by five inches. He could picture this person ripping out a slip of paper from their journal and rolling it into their typewriter, centering it on the enormous machine just to type these nine simple words. Again, it touched him in a strange, unexpected sort of way. Cheri , whom John decided must be a bird, had quoted his lyrics back to him. She’d heard some sort of dialogue between these two songs. She refused his cynicism in God, and instead rebuffed it with the hope in Number 9 Dream. Using his own words to let him know she had heard him. It was exquisite, really.
Again, he tucked the letter away with the first one, in a small box on his dresser. Sean called out to him from upstairs, and John went to wake him from his nap.
***
There had been the issue of Paul’s handwriting, for starters. John would be able to spot his handwriting from a mile away, even without his glasses on. So Paul began practicing using his right hand to write things down. It looked like a child’s chicken scratch at first, but the harder he focused, the better it became. After a while, he was able to write legibly enough to address a single envelope. It was perfect, it looked nothing like his familiar loopy scrawl.
But after a while, writing with his right hand became exhausting, and so, he decided to type. That was better, anyhow, less risk that John might somehow make him.
Once he had addressed the envelope, he typed out his message and folded it several times into a small, off white envelope. He found an old, generic stamp, and tucked it away. He didn’t want to send it from his home in Scotland, otherwise John would be able to track the letter to its source. Instead, he saved it until the next time he was in London, which he traveled to every few weeks. It was there that he slipped the letter into an unassuming letterbox, hoping against hope that it would reach John, somehow.
–
On his flight home, Paul sat against the window. His forehead pressed to the glass, his gaze unseeing, he watched the English countryside slip by. He chewed nervously on one finger. He couldn’t help but feel a twinge of worry that this plan wouldn’t work. But it was too late, the letter had been sent. Now all there was left to do was wait.
It’s just, Paul didn’t know how he'd cope if he and John had a true falling out. They’d close once, after India. Those had been some of the worst, most lonely years of Paul’s life. He closed his eyes at the memory and sighed, his breath fogging up the window. If Paul were another kind of man, it would have been simple. He'd have said the words back to John; "I love you," and John would have smiled at him with that warm, reassuring smile. Paul might have even leaned in and kissed him, perhaps they'd end up making love. It might have been awkward, it wouldn't have mattered because what they shared was beyond the mere physical.
He loved John. It was one of the few things he knew to be true in this world. The best moments of his life happened sitting across from him, strumming or singing to each other like mirror images. There would never be another John, and now this one was slipping away from him. It wasn’t John’s fault, of course. Paul had had years to sort out the puzzle that was himself. So now the old puzzle had been replaced by a new one: How could he keep on going when the person he loved most, would not speak to him?