#i poured it into a bigger cup and now ive already drunk half of that sugar powered shit

[sunkingwrites]

Happy 2023, everyone. Starting off the new year strong by accidentally dumping half the sugar pot into my coffee this morning/afternoon (it's already past noon and I just woke up)

That white lump at the top? Yeah, that's a sugar-coated ice cube

I'm about to have a great day ☆

[phoneybeatlemania-bit-the-dust]

9. “Do you believe in soul mates?”

This was it; they were calling it quits. They’d been on and off each other for God knows how long - and throughout it all, they’d driven not only themselves insane over the years with the turmoil of their relationship, but the people around them too. It wasn’t difficult to observe the looks George and Ringo would throw each after John would make an insinuating remark, and Paul would ricochet back with one, perhaps more subtle, but just as bitter. And things would naturally only escalate from there, though few would dare to stick around to hear the real arguments, the real nastiness. It wasn’t difficult either to notice the tiresome eye rolls after they’d make up and were plunged back into their honeymoon phase. Of course, they’d never really outwardly stated that they were partners - after all, Paul had Linda, and John had Yoko; and that’s not even to mention that they’d never truly been sure if they were really together. They knew they’d had sex, but they never knew if it was more then that.

But there was something different about their breakup this time, it didn’t involve shouting, or crying, or desperate pleas to the other not to leave them, that would prove only to be followed by insults and orders never to speak to them again. No, this time it was simple, it was cathartic. It was a weight off their stooping shoulders.

Paul was sat at his kitchen table, a cigarette in hand, looking out of the window-door into his garden. It was a rainy afternoon in springtime - some strange sort of solace came from this, there was something comforting about it; perhaps it served, in his own mind at least, as a reminder that he had a fresh beginning now.

John was making himself a cup of coffee, black, as per usual. He came over, placing himself in a seat opposite Pauls.

They maintained that silence for some time - it wasn’t resentful, nor was it awkward, only it simply acknowledged that there wasn’t so much to say.

“D’you remember that time we bunked school,” Paul said contemplatively, “and we took our guitars and our little song book to the park,” he smiled to himself, knowing what he’d say next, “and then a coupl’a minutes after we got there, it started absolutely pissing it down.”

John smiled at this too, “Think we lost half the Lennon/McCartney anthology that day. The early years at least.”

“Well, the early-early years, I guess. Probably weren’t very good anyway.”

“Probably not.” John said, stealing the packet of fags from the table and lighting himself a cigarette, then proceeding, “Why’d ye bring it up?”

“Dunno. Just a fond memory I suppose.” As Paul took another drag from his fag, John smirked, “Didn’t I kiss you that day?”

“Yeah…” Paul grinned further at the thought of that, “we went back to yours and Mimi was out, so we opened up a bottle of…well, something…and then you kissed me. Big deal that when yer 16 or 17 or so.”

“Hm.” John hummed in agreement. “D’you want a drink?”

Paul thought about it for a second (or perhaps he just pretended to think, as not to look like an alcoholic), then said, “Yeah, alright.” Getting up and walking over to his drinking cabinet, he asked, “What’re we drinkin’ then?”

“Whiskey – neat.” John quipped back quickly.

“Bit intense for a rainy afternoon, isn’t it?”

“Not driving, am I?” he retorted with some sarcasm.

“Suppose yer not, no. Alright then - why not?”

***

Paul was at that stage of tipsy where you feel just about drunk enough to the let words that a sober you would never admit to, fall from your drunken lips. He expressed without batting an eye to his former lover, “You know, I never wanted you to hate me.”

“I don’t hate you.” John remarked in a simple response.

“You don’t like me much anymore though; yer always fighting me.”

“It’s only cause I love you – beneath it all, beneath all that malice, I love you. I love you,” the next words crept from his throat slowly, “and I fuckin’ hate me.”

Turning to him, Paul said in a strained voice, “I wish you liked yerself more. I mean, ive tried for years to make you like yerself more, but I just don’t know what to do with ye.”

John said nothing, just taking another sip of whiskey, and so Paul continued, “Did you ever like yerself?”

“Sometimes – sometimes im convinced ‘m the greatest-”

Paul interjected, “That yer bigger than Jesus.”

“Fuckin’ Americans…” he muttered back, gaining a small hum of a laugh from Paul. “But d’you know – ‘m only confused when I say those things. That hate – that self-loathing – it’s still there. It’s always there, but y’know, sometimes it hides.”

“Maybe we could’ve worked out, y’know, had ye not projected all that hate onto me.”

“Don’t act like yer blameless Paul, alright? Ye never would have had me. Not forever. Ye got yerself the wife and kids you always wanted, and what’ve I got?”

“You’ve got Yoko.” Paul suggested.

“Fuck off.” He whined back spitefully.

Defeated, Paul admitted, “Yer right – I can’t blame you completely; you are right about me wanting a family, and im sorry. Im really am; but I wanted more.”

With slight slurred speech, John groaned back, “Fuckin’ cheers.”

They went back to that consolatory silence for a few moments, until eventually Paul remarked, “D’you know, whatever happens to us in the future, y’know, whatever ill say to you someday - and I know ill say something horrible - I just want you to know that im glad that I met you,” he joked, “even though you’ve never given me a moments peace, I am still glad to have met you.”

With his usual stark, self-loathing, John responded, “Yer life would’ve been a lot easier if you’d never met me though.”

“Wouldn’t have been as interesting though. At least you’ve given me a coupl’a anecdotes to tell at parties-like.” John grinned softly at the little joke, but there was something melancholic in that smile; not offended or hurt, but inexplicably melancholic to some degree.

After another moment of quiet contemplation, Paul asked, “D’you believe in soul mates?”

“Don’t know what I believe in anymore, to tell ye the truth.”

Paul discarded this, and persisted, “Well I don’t know if I do – but I think, if they do exist, then…” he was reluctant to say the next line - it was just so American, so cliche. Still he continued, “I think you’re mine, y’know.”

“Not Linda?”

“Well, maybe Linda too - I don’t really know, can you have more than one soul mate?”

“Why don’t ye ring up George on this one, seems more like his area.” John quipped sarcastically.

“Nah, wanted to know what you thought.”

John stubbed out his cigarette, and declared, “I think – I need another drink.”

Paul chuckled softly at this, saying, “Yeah gowan then – pour me one too, will ye?”

“Alright.”

This wouldn’t be their last argument, in fact just a week or two later John would have enraged outburst at Paul again, and then they’d be back to where they started. But still, it was the end of something. Though something died with that earlier argument, something else was revitalised or rebirthed with this subsequent conversation. Somethings lost, but somethings gained.

*** @johns-diqi requested this one, took a screenshot of your ask though just cause id already answered it for no. 18 as well. Hope you enjoy! <3