Dear Sean

Three

Back then I was still living with Aunt Mimi. So when we went to go write songs together, she'd be there. We'd say hello to Aunt Mimi then we'd go to my room.

"Quiet," I muttered. Paul slowed and tried to make his footsteps softer. Mimi was asleep, which was probably the best news I'd gotten all day. We could stay in our room, and do whatever without the old lady raging at us to keep it down.

I placed my hand on the door of my room and breathed a sigh of relief. We'd made it now, and I learned from experience that though Mimi could hear every step we took in the hall, my room wasn't directly above hers so when she slept, I could usually play some records without waking her up.

Finally, we were alone.

I picked up a pack of cigarettes and shook it while Paul locked the door behind us; he knew the routine: Mimi couldn't come bursting in on us, or she'd be furious at me and make Paul leave.

I lit a ciggie and handed one to Paul, who took it gratefully and lit his as well.

Sometimes we'd even have tea to help us focus on our work.

"Got... a little something to get our creativity flowin'," I said mysteriously, and rummaging under my bed I pulled out four beers.

Paul's eyes glinted. Though he was always a good boy and listened to old man McCartney's every word, I knew that he couldn't resist the temptation of doing something a bit delinquent, if he knew he wouldn't get caught.

The door was locked. We wouldn't get caught.

We'd drink lots of tea because it gave us good ideas. But sometimes we'd drink too much tea, and we'd get a bit silly from all the sugar. Uncle Paul liked to put a lot of sugar in his tea.

Paul's eyes were unfocused only fifteen minutes later. He reached over blindly for another bottle of beer, and tripped over himself, already giggling wildly.

If only his father could see him now, I thought.

He emerged from the floor, and exaggerated pout on his lips. "Where's...where's the beer?" he slurred.

"You drank it all, wanker."

Paul laughed as if this were the funniest thing in the world. He reached out and pulled the beer I was drinking from my hand. Surprised, I saw him take a swig, then hand it back.

He was close now. Very close.

"Let me...let me finish that..." Paul asked, his eyes half-closed.

I smirked. "Why?"

"Jus'... jus' lemme..."

"You can have my beer for a kiss," I said, not believing my bravery; I must have been more drunk than I thought.

Paul doubled over in giggles, laughing his bloody head off until tears formed in the corners of his gorgeous eyes.

I shut him up with my lips, grabbing his face and holding him there, tasting the beer and feeling his smell surround me. He fell into me, almost completely out of it, crumpling my shirt in his fists and pressing closer.

I pulled back, wondering how he'd react, my own breath shorter and making me light-headed. Paul looked at me, a strange smile on his face, and started to laugh again, silly, inebriated giggles. He grabbed my beer and downed it in one swig.

His laughing subsided slowly into low chuckles, and he started to blink slowly, his eyes drooping closed, until finally he keeled over and fell into my lap, passed out.

Not McCartney's most glorious moment. I watched him for a while; the slow rise and fall of his chest, the outline of his ruffled hair, before setting him down properly on my bed.

We'd have so much tea and write for so long that Uncle Paul would stay late, and he'd stay the night in my house. In the morning we'd both wake up and go to school.

Paul stirred and my heart leapt to my throat. Now was the moment. Would he be angry? Disgusted?

He opened an eye and looked confused for a moment, most likely wondering where he was. He rolled over and saw me standing above him, waiting. His face spread into a sleepy smile.

"Mornin', John."

I took a deep breath.

"Mornin'."

"Cor, I've got a terrible headache... Did we have drinks last night? Can't remember a thing."

"Er, yeah, we had drinks," I said, with a sinking feeling. He didn't remember. I'd worked up all that nerve for nothing.

Paul would go to his school and I would go to mine, and sometimes we'd meet up in the mornings to write, sometimes in the afternoons. Some weekends I spent almost entirely with Paul.

We were good mates.