Paul's POV
I just kept staring at the newspaper in front of me. How had they guessed? We weren't even holding hands in the picture, almost, but it just looked like two people walking close together.
"John," I whispered hoarsely. "What are we gonna do?"
"I... I don't know," he admitted, shaking his head. I flipped the newspaper over so we wouldn't have to look at the offending headline.
"What are we whispering about?" Ringo popped his head between the two of us. "Secrets secrets are no fun unless you share with everyone!" he sang, flipping the newspaper back over, ignoring our protests. He stopped dead. "What the-" he cried, scanning the story.
"We all know that Paul McCartney and John Lennon are in the same band, write hit songs, and on top of all that are great friends. But are they more than that?
"They were seen walking to their shared home late last night after yet another busy day in the studio and though our photographer was not at a close enough proximity to be able to tell for sure, it looks as though the two were holding hands.
"Both of the men have a woman in their lives, and in the case of John the woman is his wife and they have a child together. Paul is currently going steady with his actress girlfriend, Jane Asher. But are these women merely clever a clever ploy to keep their own romance a secret?
"We'd like to know your opinion! Write a letter to the editor or call us at 246-8102. We'll feature your opinions in our next edition."
Ringo stared at the article in shock before breaking into a stunned kind of laugh. "What a load of shit!" he said. "What'll they think of next?"
We looked at each other nervously before laughing along. "Yeah, it is isn't it?" John chuckled weakly, twisting his hands under the table.
"The newspapers are really desperate to keep us on the front page, aren't they?" I asked feebly.
"Well, this is gonna make Brian's day," Ringo said. "He's gonna have to organize a press conference to get this cleaned up." I froze. I hadn't thought of that. John could bluff his way through pretty much anything, as was evidence by many frustrating poker games, but I was a terrible liar. Everything always showed plainly on my face.
George sauntered into the kitchen. "Good morning..." he trailed off. "What's up with you guys? You look like you've seen a ghost!" We wordlessly shoved the paper at him. The smile slid off his face like butter in a hot pan. "Let's go to the studio," he suggested. "Brian's probably already there and he'll want to deal with this as soon as possible." We ate breakfast quickly and leapt into the car to drive over to the studio. Thoughts tumbled through my head at an alarming rate. How were we going to talk our way out of this one?
As soon as we got inside, John cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, "EPPY!" Brian came skidding around the corner roughly five seconds later.
"What?" he huffed, trying to regain his breath. "Are the fans breaking in?" His eyes were wild.
I shook my head no and Brian sagged with relief. "We've got the latest copy of the paper," I said, holding it out to him. He took it, looking incredulous.
"You scared me out of my bloody mind to give me the... give me the..." he trailed off, having just read the headline. His eyes scanned the article quickly and he paled with every word. "Bloody hell," he breathed, looking like a ghost.
"What are we gonna do, Eppy?" I demanded. "We've got to get this cleared up before it spreads any further!"
"All right, all right," he ran a hand through his hair in apparent exhaustion.
"I'll get a press conference set up. Depending entirely on the moods of the reporters I could get it set up today or next week." We gave him a look. "I don't control how the reporters act!" he protested. "Look, I'll do my best, go get decent and I'll call if I get something figured out."
The drive home was entirely silent. No one knew what exactly to say. My eyes strayed to John's face often, which was taut with worry. He tried to smile at me, but the muscles in his face wouldn't comply. When we got back to the house, I darted upstairs and went into my room. I closed the door and collapsed on the bed, hands over my eyes. I loved John with all my heart, but I wasn't sure if I could stand the strain of keeping it a secret or the stigma of being gay in a resolutely straight world.
John's POV
My head throbbed painfully as unanswerable, pressing questions flooded it. Paul was taking it just as badly as I was, maybe even worse. He had a tendency to blame himself for things that weren't his fault. I knew that he was going upstairs to his room to brood about this unforeseen bump in the road and I wasn't about to let him do it by himself.
I gently excused myself from the stiflingly silent sitting room and went up to Paul's room. The door was, predictably, closed. "Paulie?" I softly called, knocking.
"Go away," came his mumbled reply. I opened the door and saw him laying on his bed, a pillow over his face. In two paces I had crossed the room and sat down beside him.
"Paul, look at me," I whispered, pulling the pillow from his face. He rolled away from me, but I caught him and pulled him back to me. I laid down next to him and stretched out on my side so I could look down at his face. "It's only a big deal if you make it one, you know." I stroked his hair out of his eyes and kissed his forehead.
"I know," he sighed. "But I feel like what we're doing is wrong." He rubbed his eyes with his fists like a child and all of the vulnerability that he tried so hard to hide came crashing to the surface.
I wrapped my arms around him. "Don't ever think that, Paul," I whispered in his ear. He snuggled instinctively into my chest and I stroked his back comfortingly. "There's nothing wrong with us being in love. Nothing." We laid there for the longest time, holding each other and bracing ourselves for the inevitable press conference looming over our heads.
The phone suddenly shrilled, making us jump apart. I jumped from the bed and grabbed the phone, Paul watching anxiously. "Hello?" I asked.
"John?" Brian's voice came through the phone lines and I tensed, hoping he had good news.
"Brian? What's going on?" I asked tersely, clutching the phone tightly.
"I've managed to get a press conference scheduled for three hours from now. They want you there in two hours to do mic checks and the like." I sagged against the table in relief. We were going to get this cleared up. It was all going to be okay.
"Okay Brian, thanks." I hung up the phone and turned to Paul. He was sitting bolt upright, his eyes wide.
"Well?" he demanded.
"Brian's done it again. I don't know how he manages, but he's got a press conference scheduled for three hours from now. We've gotta go over there in two hours for mic checks and such." Paul deflated with relief. I pulled him into a tight hug and kissed his cheek.
I nearly fell down the steps in my haste to tell Ringo and George. "Whoa, mate!" Ringo laughed. "Where's the fire?" I laughed.
"Brian's managed to get a press conference under way," I explained. George grinned.
"Good old Eppy," he said appreciatively. "Now we can get this crap cleared up. When do we have to be there?" I filled them in on the details and then Paul came downstairs.
We sat around for awhile, jamming on our guitars and in Ringo's case the table until we had to start getting ready. The stupid suits that Brian made us wear in order to look "presentable" went on and we actually combed our hair for once.
Getting into the conference was pure hell. About a million people were crowded around the building and we had to struggle every inch of the way. Eventually, I stopped apologizing to the people I bumped into. There were far too many.
The mic checks were horrendous. No matter what they did, George's mic refused to work and he had to settle for sharing with Paul. Which was fine, since George instantly clammed up at the sight of a microphone, camera, or reporter.
"Paul, John! Are the rumors true about the two of you?"
"John, what does your wife think of all of this?"
"Paul, what does Jane think of it?"
"Ringo, George, what are your thoughts on the subject?"
The questions slammed against us in a frightening torrent, poking, prodding, and at times outright shoving.
"One at a time!" I bellowed. They instantly quieted and repeated their questions in a slightly more orderly fashion.
"The rumors are absolutely not true," Paul stated, nudging my ankle gently, hidden by the tablecloth.
"Absolutely not," I affirmed, nudging him in return. "And I don't believe that Cynthia knows yet, but I'm sure she thinks it's not true," I added.
"And Jane probably doesn't know anything of it either, but I'm sure she doesn't believe it," Paul said.
"I think it's a load of crap if you'll pardon my bluntness," Ringo said. "Paul and John are very good friends and nothing more. Their friendship is stronger than most, which probably helps them when they're writing music. But they love the women in their lives very much." My heart swelled with gratitude toward Ringo. He always knew just what to say and he always said it well.
"Yeah, they're probably some of the closest friends you'd ever meet, and also the best friends. I really don't think it extends any farther than that, though," George said, uttering the longest string of words that he had probably ever said in public.
The conference lasted for a little while longer, but I thought that it was far too long. At times the questions became so irrelevant that we sat and stared at them until someone asked another question.
The car ride back was as silent as the one there, but it was more of a relaxed and relieved kind of quiet. I wanted to cuddle with Paul for the rest of the night, but we decided to have a celebratory dinner in front of the telly.
"Well folks, looks like the Lennon and McCartney rumors were just that," a reporter told the camera. "At a press conference today, the boys sat down to answer some questions and laid to rest the theories that the two were more than friends." They showed some of the clips from our interview. I'd forgotten about some of our more cheeky comments and I laughed in surprise a few times.
"Ringo, did you really say that?" I asked after a particularly cheeky comment from the drummer. He shrugged, raising his eyebrows.
"I suppose so, unless they've found a rather excellent lookalike," he said.
That night, I waited until I was sure that everyone was asleep and then tiptoed into Paul's room. He was sitting up in his bed, fingering some bass chords in the air.
"Hey, Johnny," he whispered, moving over so the bed would accompany me as well.
"Still awake?" I murmured, wrapping my arms around his waist and resting my chin on his shoulder. "You naughty boy."
He laughed quietly, twisting so that he could reach my lips for a gentle kiss. "That I am," he replied, nuzzling my cheek. "This is why I need you, to keep me out of trouble." We collapsed back on the bed and pulled the blanket over ourselves.
"Don't you have that a little backwards?" I questioned, pulling his back to my chest. "Aren't I the one always getting into trouble?" By then, Paul's breathing had slowed into a deep sleep and I followed his example.
One thought flashed through my head before I drifted off into the land of dreams: We had dodged this problem, but how long could we continue to keep our love a secret?