He Came to Mend It

by origentee

Chapter 1: The Wreckage Still Warm

Paul was unprepared for the horror that awaited him when he made the decision to visit John and Yoko. With a sigh, he brushed back his wild raven hair, his fingers quivering just enough to reveal his identity. Though it felt like years measured in silence, it had been months—technically, weeks—since their last genuine encounter. Ever since John went it alone, recording his suffering on vinyl and labelling it as a solo album,

Paul had attempted writing. tried making phone calls. He made an effort to act indifferent.

Nothing. And now, with hope still clinging to his ribs, he stood foolishly on the doorstep. John might answer the door if he wouldn't answer the phone. Face-to-face could still have meaning. Paul raised his finger to activate the buzzer. For longer than it should have, the sound reverberated throughout the house. He held out. The door parted. John Lennon was there. standing in the doorway as though gravity had changed and he hadn't slept in days. Paul hardly had time to take in what he was seeing before John finished speaking.

John grinned and remarked, "Well, this is a surprise." His eyes were not touched by the smile. Their eyes narrowed as they slowly and intrusively scanned Paul's body in an attempt to find something—anything—useful. Paul felt suddenly vulnerable, as if he had appeared naked and pleading. Most likely, he had.

Paul began, "Well," his voice cracking under the weight of everything he had not said and sounding softer than he intended. "I came because... Johnny, I missed you. We were missed. The group. The notoriety, and—"

John’s hand came up fast, pressing flat against Paul’s chest. Not rough. Just firm enough to stop him. “Let me stop you right there, Paul,” John said. “We aren’t dating, so stop acting like we’re some bloody relationship on the edge of divorce.” The words landed hard. Paul went still beneath John’s hand, breath caught halfway in. Up close, he could see it now—the bruised shadow under John’s eye, the faint tremor in his fingers, the smell clinging to him that wasn’t just smoke. Something sour.

“I’m not—” Paul started, then faltered. “I just wanted to talk.”

John laughed once, brittle and humorless. “Funny. You lot never wanted to talk when it mattered.”

Paul glanced past John and into the shadowy hallway behind him. The house appeared to be lived in but unloved. John saw him staring. He let go of Paul's chest. John stepped back and said, "Are you coming in, or did you just come to haunt me on the porch?" Paul paused. Every instinct cried out that entering would bring about a permanent change. that you couldn't leave anything that existed beyond that line clean.

However, Paul McCartney had never been good at going back.

"Yes," he muttered. "I'm coming."

And as the door shut behind him, the house swallowing them whole, Paul realized—too late—that this wasn’t a reunion.

It was an unveiling.

The interior of the house was colder than it should have been, but the air wasn't the reason Paul was shivering. With the exception of the odour, the entire house was almost painfully clean. Paul wrinkled his nose in an attempt to locate it. His expression was unreadable as John observed him.

John said, "So," without looking back. "So, what do you want?"

Paul trailed behind, being cautious with his gait. With pillows pushed aside, an ashtray overflowing on the side table, and empty glasses gathered like evidence, the floor was cluttered in a way that didn't feel accidental. Paul remarked, "I didn't come wanting anything." "I simply wanted to see you."

John laughed huffily. "There you have it again." They went through the living room. Paul subconsciously slowed. On the carpet, a record sleeve lay face down with its corner bent, as if someone had trodden on it and neglected to pick it up. At the end of a record, the stereo hummed softly, its needle spinning pointlessly, the ticking sound cutting through the silence.

More out of instinct than decision, Paul reached out and raised it.

John's album on his own. There were fingerprints all over the cover. The edge was streaked with something darker, perhaps ink. Paul gently put it back down as though it might bruise. "John," he said now in a quiet voice. "Have you been asleep?"

John paused. Paul briefly considered turning around in rage. Rather, John closed his eyes, tilted his head back, and rested his weight against the wall. He whispered, "Sleep is overrated." "Very bourgeois."

Paul saw his chest rise and fall too quickly and shallowly. He saw that John's jaw was always moving, as if he were chewing on an unseen object. His hands continued to move as well, picking at the skin near his nails until it turned red, rubbing his arms, and flexing his fingers.

Paul felt a shiver run up his back. "Where is Yoko?" he asked.

John opened his eyes. "Out."

“That’s all you need to know.”

They found themselves in what hardly looked like a kitchen. There were cups, spoons, and a syringe floating close to the drain like a lifeless object that Paul would not look at. Instead, he fixed his gaze on the countertop, where faint lines had been repeatedly scraped into the surface and poorly erased.

His stomach turned. John followed his gaze. “Oh, don’t,” he said, suddenly sharp. “Don’t start.”

Paul looked up. “Start what?” That smile appeared again. “That face. That bloody Paul McCartney Concerned Expression. Seen it a thousand times.”

Paul opened his mouth, then closed it. He felt the shift then, the moment when worry tipped into understanding. Not all at once Just enough for something cold to settle in his gut. “How long?” he asked quietly.

John shrugged, reaching for a glass. His hand missed it the first time.

“How long what?”

Paul watched him drink. Watched the way his throat worked too hard, like swallowing hurt. “This,” he said, gestured vaguely. “All of it.”

John laughed again, louder this time, but it cracked halfway through. “Christ, Paul. You vanish for months and now you want a timeline?”

“I didn’t vanish,” Paul said automatically—then stopped. The words rang hollow even to him. He swallowed. “I should’ve come sooner.”

That did it. Liquid sloshing over the edge, John slammed the glass down. "Don't," he yelled. "You can't change it right now. You can't just show up and say you're concerned."

Paul winced, not at the volume but at the truth it contained. He glanced back at John. looked really good. The bruises weren't isolated. His arms were dotted with faint marks that were poorly concealed by long sleeves that were pushed up too hastily. Even in the low light, his pupils were blown wide. His body was powered by fumes and borrowed time, and his skin appeared thin and sallow.

Paul exhaled, "Oh, Johnny,"

John froze. For just a second, the anger dropped. Then it vanished. “You shouldn’t have come,” John said flatly. Paul stepped closer anyway. “I’m here now,” he said. “And I’m not leaving.”

Chapter 2: August Didn’t Ask Permission

John's face became unpleasant. Now he was getting closer, cramming himself into Paul's area. "Why?" he insisted. "What made you come running now when it's far too late?"

No amount of showering could get rid of the smell Paul could detect from him. "I missed you," he uttered.

"Oh," John imitated. "You missed me."

Paul moved forward one more step. He was practically within touching distance. Nearly... Nearly close enough to repeatedly kiss him, as if muscle memory had never mastered self-control.

John saw. He did, of course.

His mouth twisted into something sharp and defensive as his breath caught, barely audible. "Don't," he cautioned. "Stop staring at me that way."

"Like what?"

"As if I'm still—" John's jaw tightened as he stopped himself. He averted his gaze first. That was novel.

Paul's hands remained by his sides, their fists clenched to the point of pain. Every instinct cried out to make this right, to pull John together, to stabilise him, to be the steady thing once more. However, the distance between them now felt tense and unstable. Everything would blow up with one wrong move. Paul whispered, "I didn't come to judge you." or to keep you safe. I simply could no longer pretend.

Hollowly, John chuckled to himself. "Always so respectful."

Paul gave a headshake. "No. I'm just sick of lying.

For a moment, John said nothing. Then, quieter, so he said, “You should’ve stayed gone.”

Paul met his eyes. “I couldn’t.”

Something in John cracked then. Not loudly. Just enough to let the truth seep through.

“Then don’t touch me,” John said. “Not yet.”

Paul nodded, though it hurt.

"Okay. I won't."

He knew it was a lie. The urge to touch was too strong. And, judging by the expression on John's face, he knew it too. Paul forced himself to move backwards instead. With a great deal of effort, he kept his hands to himself. "Can I ask you something?"

"I can't stop you."

"When did all of this start?" he asked quietly.

John's breath caught again. He was silent for so long that Paul thought he wouldn't answer. Then finally, "Does it really matter?"

Paul inhaled deeply. "Yes," he said without hesitation. "Because I was there, and I want to understand."

He watched John's face. He saw him shut his eyes, saw the clench and unclench of his jaw as he tried to control the words he said next. Finally, John spoke.

"August."

“August.”
The word, tiny and awful, hung between them. Paul remained silent for a while. He was wise enough not to rush this. Concern had always made John angry, and he detested being cornered by it. Paul softly repeated, "August," without posing a question. 

John let out a slow, deliberate breath through his nose, as if he were counting down from a sharp object. He crossed his arms and leaned back against the counter before quickly uncrossing them once more. "After the interviews," he said at last. "Everyone began to wonder what it meant after that. What I intended to say." 

Paul gave a nod. He recalled. He did, of course. How hungry and unrelenting the press had been. Afterward, John had appeared both hollow and vindicated. Paul asked softly, "And?"

John clenched his jaw. "And you weren't there!"

Paul took a swallow. "I'm aware of it."

John looked at him at that moment, momentarily taken aback that Paul hadn't argued. that he had failed to defend himself. He seemed to lose some of his energy as a result.

John looked at a spot on the floor and said, "It started small." That's what makes it funny. Doesn't it always?'
"Then sleep stopped working," John remarked, shrugging as if it didn't matter. He gave a thin, humourless laugh once. "Silence turns out to be a greedy bastard."

Paul grounded himself by shifting his weight. "Did someone—"
"No," John interrupted right away. Nobody exerted any pressure. Avoid doing that. His eyes flickered. "I made the decision. I always go with it.

Paul gave a nod. "All right."

John's shoulders relaxed slightly. he continued, now more quietly, "August was lonely." "Yoko was present, but—" He paused and waved his hand. "You are aware. Having someone remember you before you were... this is not the same.”
That landed squarely in Paul's ribs.

John flattened his voice and said, "There were nights when I couldn't get the noise to shut up at all." I would watch the light change while sitting there until morning, contemplating— His lips pressed firmly together as he broke off. "Having some really foolish thoughts."
Paul instinctively took a step closer, but he stopped himself.

"What kind of things?" he cautiously enquired.

At first, John did not respond. It was almost conversational when he did.
"That I might vanish if I stayed awake long enough."
"That at least I wouldn't feel that if I didn't feel anything."

Paul's nails dug into his palms as his hands curled once more. “So August,” he said, steady despite himself, “was when it stopped being occasional.”

John nodded once. “August was when I stopped pretending I had it under control.”
Paul took a slow breath. “Thank you,” he said.

John scoffed weakly. “For what?”

“For telling me,” Paul said. “I know that wasn’t easy.”

Then John gave him a serious look. He no longer had an angry expression. or protective. I'm just exhausted. John said, "Don't thank me yet." "I'm not done."

Paul did not avert his gaze. "I'm not either."

John swallowed and returned his attention to the ground.
"Perfect," he muttered. "Because it becomes ugly at this point."

Chapter 3: What August Nearly Took

Paul remained silent for a while. He considered the postcards he had neglected to send. He had intended to make those calls tomorrow. He told himself that he had only partially watched and ignored the interviews. John was always dramatic, loud about his suffering, and ultimately okay. Suddenly, he felt sick. John continued to speak, albeit more softly now, as if he had forgotten Paul was present. "There were nights when it didn't seem like there was much point in waiting for morning," John remarked, his gaze fixed on nothing.

Paul's heart faltered. Though a part of him already knew, he asked, "What do you mean?" Fearful already.

John shrugged, too casually considering the seriousness of the situation. "Just sitting there." Thinking about how easy it would be to stop fighting the noise. to end everything.

Paul's knuckles whitened as he grasped the back of a chair. He had no recollection of sitting down, but all of a sudden he was. Before his mind could react, his body made the decision. Paul asked, his voice hardly audible, "How close, did you come?"

At last, John turned to face him. He remarked, "Closer than I like to admit."

Paul's internal structure collapsed. At the time, he thought of it as absence rather than imagination. The world in which this kitchen was empty. Where no one had answered the door.

“I didn’t know,” Paul whispered.

John laughed weakly. “That’s sort of the point.”

Paul stood abruptly, pacing once, then stopping himself, like a caged animal learning the limits of its enclosure.

“I was there,” he said again, but this time it wasn’t defensive—it was broken. “I was there, Johnny. I could’ve come. I should’ve come.”

John flinched. “Don’t.”

“I was across an ocean pretending space would fix things,” Paul continued, voice shaking now, “while you were trying to survive your own head.”

“That’s not fair,” John said, sharper. “You didn’t put the thoughts there.”

“No,” Paul agreed. “But I left you alone with them.”

Paul stopped pacing and dropped to his knees in front of John, bringing them eye level. He refrained from touching him. He wouldn't just yet. Paul said, "I need you to hear this." "There would not have been a song on the planet that could have made it bearable for me if I had lost you."

John's breath trembled.

Paul hastily added, "I don't say that to guilt you." "I say this because you are important to me. Beyond just albums. Beyond bands. More than what the newspapers claim we destroyed. You’re not allowed to disappear,” he said softly. “Not on my watch. Not ever again.”

John swallowed hard. “You can’t promise that.”

“No,” Paul said. “But I can promise this: you won’t be alone in it anymore.”

Chapter 4: Coming In The Air Tonight

John’s eyes glistened faintly with unshed tears, which he blinked away. He lifted his chin, still refusing to appear weak. When he spoke, his voice was steady. “I’m not going to make any promises. Don’t expect some magical fix.”
Paul remained on his knees, staring into John’s eyes. He could see the subtle tremor in John’s shoulders and the slight loosening of his jaw’s tight clench. Unspoken need thrummed in the brittle, tense air between them. Cautiously, Paul extended a hand. Hovering just above John’s elbow, his fingers lingered lightly, as though asking permission to breathe. “May I?” he whispered.
John’s eyes fluttered closed. He didn’t refuse.
Paul let his fingers brush the back of John’s hand, a feather-light contact. John swallowed, breath catching sharply. His defenses wavered, trembling like candlelight in the dark. When he opened his eyes again, they were wide, raw, searching Paul’s face.
“I…” John began, voice breaking. He swallowed hard. “…I can’t stop myself.”
Paul’s heart thudded in his chest. “Then don’t,” he murmured.
Before the words had even left his lips, John moved closer. One trembling hand came up to cradle Paul’s face. Paul leaned instinctively into the desperate, beseeching touch, his own hands rising to rest against John’s chest, feeling the quick, erratic pulse of a heart that matched his own. Their lips met. Tentative at first, testing the water, before urgency took over. John’s hands tangled in Paul’s hair, pulling him closer, as though this single touch could make up for the months of absence and pain. Paul’s hands moved slowly, carefully, tracing the familiar contours of John’s back and shoulders, letting the connection steady them both. Something ached deep in him as he felt John tremble beneath his touch. When they finally broke apart for air, John rested his forehead against Paul’s, their breaths mingling, shaky but steadying. He whispered, barely audible, “You’re here.”
“I’m here,” Paul said, lingering, pressing another soft kiss to John’s temple. “I’m not leaving.”

For a long time, they remained that way. Paul's hair was still entangled in John's hands, as if he was scared to let go. Paul continued to gently press his own hands against John's back, grounding him with soft caresses and comforting murmurs. The rest of the world appeared to become hazy. At that moment, they were the only ones. A sudden, sharp jangle on the door echoed across the room, startling them out of their reverie. John stiffened, gasping for air. 

Yoko was home.

With a mixture of caution and disapproval, John's wide, unreadable eyes flicked to the door. Paul whispered, "It's okay," and lightly touched John's forehead. We are here, no matter what."

John swallowed, opening his mouth for a moment before shutting it again. He appeared to consider for a heartbeat whether to flee or remain rooted in the precarious, pilfered security Paul provided. Footsteps on the floor began to sound closer.

With a creak, the door opened. Behind it came the sound of a small, familiar voice. "Daddy?"

John's body instantly stiffened, but Paul's hands remained firmly planted on his back, supporting him. Sean clung to Yoko's side as she emerged in the doorway. When she saw John on his knees, leaning into Paul with his hands clasped over his chest and tangled in his hair, her eyes widened a little. She froze, torn between caution and surprise. Paul, still pressed close to John, looked up at her. "Yoko," he murmured. "It's alright. We're alright."

John moved a little, releasing a tense breath while maintaining eye contact with Paul. He repeated, his words tight and brittle, "We're... fine." Curious, Sean glanced over her shoulder and felt the tense silence, but he was too young to fully comprehend it. Yoko's eyes darted from Paul to John and back, her lips pressed into a thin line as she surveyed the space. Paul cautiously leaned forward to remove John's hair from his face. He remarked lightly, "We were just... reconnecting." "Nothing... unexpected."
John’s hand tightened slightly in Paul’s hair, and Paul felt the faint tremor beneath his touch. “Nothing unexpected,” John repeated.

Yoko's intense but unreadable gaze lingered on them for a beat longer. Then, gripping Sean's hand tightly, she stepped slowly inside. She muttered, "I see," without making any accusations or endorsements. John and Paul maintained their physical relationship. "We'll figure this out," he muttered against his hair. 

John let out a slow breath and leaned slightly closer to Paul's touch, seemingly gaining strength from it.

Chapter 5: Fragile Equilibrium

Yoko took a chair and sat down, her sharp eyes still observant and cautious. Sean, with his wide-eyed curiosity, observed the scene. Paul gently withdrew his hands, but remained close by, a silent and unwavering presence. John, his head resting on Paul's shoulder, closed his eyes for a brief moment, as if to collect his thoughts.

Yoko broke the heavy silence, asking with a cool detachment, "How have you been?"

John shrugged a little, his demeanor stiff. "Alright," he replied, his voice carefully neutral. "Surviving."

Yoko nodded. "Surviving," she echoed, her eyes flickering to Paul for a brief moment before returning to John. "That's all you have to say?"

John chuckled darkly, "Would you prefer I lie?"

Yoko didn't flinch, her gaze hardening a little. "I'd prefer the truth. But that was too much to ask, wasn't it?"

John's eyes snapped open, his expression hardening in response. "Oh, now you want honesty?"

Yoko, her voice sharpening, retorted, "I always wanted honesty. But you never gave it."

John's jaw clenched, his expression turning defensive. "You never asked."

Yoko let out a humorless scoff, a flicker of anger flashing in her eyes. "Oh, so it's my fault now? I should have held your hand and coaxed things out of you? Is that what you needed? A personal assistant for your feelings?"

John's anger flared, his voice rising.

"No, what I needed was someone who cared!"

Before the argument could get out of control, Paul moved—not stepping between them, not shielding, just standing there, a steady gravity reasserting itself. "Hey," he uttered softly.

Already, John's chest was heaving. Old reflexes took over, and his hands balled into fists at his sides. The words had flowed too quickly, too unfiltered, like blood on tile. He appeared to want to take them back and toss them somewhere inaccessible right away. Yoko's stance became rigid. Something in her spine straightened, defensive in its own way, but she did not get up from the chair. With tiny fingers clenched in the material of her sleeve, Sean shifted his weight. Paul positioned himself so that John could still lean on him if necessary. He didn't push it. He simply remained receptive. Paul repeated, softer this time, "John," he replied. "Easy."

John wiped his face and scoffed. "Don't," he whispered. "Don't try to calm me down like I'm some kind of—" With his jaw working, he interrupted himself. "Christ."

Once more, a deeper quiet fell. Yoko broke it, but her voice had become softer and more composed that it sounded like glass that had been carefully placed down rather than hurled. She said, "I care." "If I didn't, I wouldn't be sitting here."

John chuckled to himself. He shot back, making a vague gesture between himself and Paul, "You're sitting here because you walked in on this." "Let's not change the past."

Beneath his hand, Paul sensed the tremor returning. There, he allowed John to sense his authenticity. Yoko glanced at Paul once more, this time for a longer period of time. "Then let's go back to John. She questioned, "And what is this?" Not making accusations."

John hesitated. That was sufficient in and of itself. He swallowed. "I'm not drowning," he eventually said. "For five bloody minutes." Sean shifted again, restless now, sensing that the emotional environment was shifting. Paul crouched slightly to bring himself down to the child's level, but he stayed near John.

Paul smiled reassuringly and said, "Hey, mate." "Are you okay?"

Uncertainly, Sean nodded.

Yoko also saw that. Her expression cracked, not completely, not dramatically, but enough to reveal exhaustion. She rubbed her temple and let out a breath. “This isn’t a fight I want in front of him,” she said. “Not tonight.”

John's shoulders slumped slightly. He was exhausted as the rage seeped out of him. This time, he instinctively leaned back into Paul, pressing his forehead against his shoulder. Paul remained silent about it. He simply made space by adjusting.

John muttered, "Neither do I."

 

It appeared to have shifted the balance a bit, just slightly. The tension loosened. For a few minutes, nothing was said. When the silence became too overwhelming, Sean abruptly asked, "Are you crying, Daddy?" The question startled everyone, not least of all John, who stiffened again and looked away from the boy.

"No, lad," he said, voice raw. "Just... thinking."

Paul's hand naturally rested lightly on John's back once more, providing a sense of stability. With a gentle, comforting smile, he looked down at Sean. He remarked, "There are moments when thinking feels heavy." "Even for adults."

Still intrigued but aware of the gravity of the situation, Sean nodded slowly. He shuffled towards Yoko and pulled at her sleeve. The hard line of John's jaw slightly softened as his gaze shifted to Paul, and he saw the quiet support there. With a trembling breath, he whispered, almost to himself, "Thinking..."

"You don't have to carry it alone," Paul said, leaning slightly in and whispering against John's temple. " Not longer." After a heartbeat of silence, John slowly released his breath, allowing some of the tension to escape. His hand flinched in Paul's direction before settling on his own thigh. It was an acknowledgement that he wasn't alone right now. "Are you sad, Daddy?" Sean's tiny voice spoke up once more, but it was quieter.

John's mouth tightened. After swallowing hard, he finally turned to face his son, his eyes weary but sensitive. "A little," he said quietly. " However, that's alright. Being able to feel things means you're alive.

Paul kissed John's temple tenderly. "That's right," he muttered. "And you're no longer dealing with any of it alone."

With John leaning against Paul, Sean near Yoko, and Paul's hand silently promising that at least some things would stay steady, the room maintained a calm equilibrium for a considerable amount of time.

 

 

---

 

They remained seated on the hard kitchen floor.  Nobody moved.  No one spoke for several more minutes.  John still leaned against Paul, quietly finding comfort in the simple, unspoken connection.  The longer they sat, the more he began to relax against the subtle support provided.  His back was now slightly arched as he rested his head against Paul, and his hand remained lightly gripping Paul's shirt.

Sunlight slanted through the curtains in the late afternoon.  Without saying anything, John remained close to Paul's side, his eyes half closed, taking in the steadiness and warmth Paul provided.  Paul's thumb moved slowly in circles along John's back, creating an unspoken rhythm that brought back memories of their peaceful mornings together before everything fell apart.  Now lying slightly on the rug with a small toy in his hands, Sean looked up from time to time, interested but satisfied to observe the adults' subtle interactions.  Seated close by, Yoko watched with a cautious calm, her posture slightly relaxed to show that she wasn't about to explode, but her eyes remained alert and focused.

"We don't have to talk," Paul said, bending slightly and whispering in John's ear.   In a silent acknowledgement of the relief he hadn't given himself in months, John's lips briefly touched Paul's collarbone.  He said in a low, raspy voice, "I forgot what it felt like to... not be fighting against everything."

 Paul muttered, "You're not alone anymore."  "Not in this location.  Never again.

 For the first time that day, John moved slightly, nuzzling closer, and nearly completely let his guard down.  His shoulders relaxed, the tremor in his hands subsided, and a brittle sense of security enveloped him like a thin blanket. At last, Yoko let out a tiny, barely noticeable smile that tugged at the corner of her mouth.  "Good," she uttered in a more subdued tone.  "Give this to him."

 For a moment, Paul's eyes locked with hers, and they acknowledged each other silently.  Then he turned back to John, who was leaning his head against Paul's chest and closing his eyes. Only the gentle rhythm of breathing—John's, Paul's, and Sean's sporadic shuffle—could be heard as the room grew quieter.  The outside world didn't press in for once.  For once, they just coexisted as a shaky, precarious family bound by compassion, love, and the tiny miracle of being there.

 John allowed himself to relax in that quiet. Paul whispered, "I'm here," and planted one last, soft kiss on the top of his head.

 For the first time in months, John took a deep breath and allowed the words to sink in.

 

---

When a car pulled up outside, the quiet of the late afternoon was broken.  John remained motionless, but Paul's hand on his back stilled slightly.  Curious, Sean's gaze darted to the window.  George and Ringo entered when the front door opened a moment later.   "Hey, thought we'd check in," George said softly, as though he had entered someone else's peaceful bubble.  Ringo nodded, his round, perceptive eyes sweeping the room.  "Is everything okay?"

 John did not raise his head, but he did move slightly while still leaning against Paul.  "It's okay," Paul whispered after giving him a light shoulder squeeze.  They are merely present. Sensing a John and Paul, George and Ringo approached but kept a respectful distance.  "We didn't mean to interrupt," George said softly, crouching slightly and placing both of his hands on his knees.

 With a tiny smile on his lips, Paul shook his head.  "You're not disrupting.  Basically, timing." Ringo's eyes softened as he turned to face John and then Paul.  "It seems like you two have come back together."  

 John let out a small hum.  "Yeah... I suppose we have," he muttered.  Before settling back down, he let his hand flicker slightly against Paul's shirt as a silent reminder of their common ground.

George's gaze darted from John to Sean, who was currently leaned slightly against Yoko's leg.  He spoke cautiously, sensing the slight tension in the room, "We're just glad you're here, John."

 Ringo smiled a little, unevenly.  "All of us collectively.  That's what matters.

 With his thumb continuing to move slowly along John's back, Paul moved just enough to tilt John slightly so that he could lean into the comfort.  While George and Ringo stayed silent and watched. The room remained that way for a long time, with two friends reverting to the silence of their shared past and others standing close by, providing space while quietly affirming the fragile peacefulness.

John sighed softly, barely audible.  "I didn't consider...  This is how I would feel once more.

 Paul whispered, "You deserve it," as he lightly touched John's forehead.  Remember it.

 George and Ringo exchanged silent looks outside the tense bubble, allowing the moment to happen as they knew it wasn't their place to ruin what had just started to heal.