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Tanwa picked up a crumpled newspaper he found on the sidewalk in front of his shop and brought it inside, brushing off the dust. The morning was slow, the air still thick with the scent of incense and leftover liquor from the party they'd had last night at Echoes of Euphoria.
He moved behind the counter, listening to the sound of Sucha rinsing bottles and humming to himself, when suddenly, his mango smoothie, his only breakfast, slipped from his hand and shattered on the floor.
Tanwa didn’t flinch. He was staring at the headline of the English newspaper.
“John Lennon Leaves the Beatles.”
Sucha heard the commotion and came around the counter, curious about the sound of glass breaking. He found Tanwa frozen, staring into the void, clutching the newspaper like it had personally betrayed him.
“What happened?” Sucha asked, calm as ever.
Tanwa didn’t speak. He simply stretched the paper towards him.
Sucha took it, and as he read, his face went pale.
“This has to be more Western propaganda,” he muttered, taking a drag from his joint. “They’re trying to destabilize the collective consciousness. John Lennon would never do this. Paul wouldn’t allow it.” He said incredulous. “Is it April Fool’s? Nine days after?”
Tanwa remained motionless. Then he whispered, serious and low, “We should gather everyone. All of our friends.”
He wanted to mourn, to say goodbye. But Sucha, eternal optimist, had a better idea.
“We should hold a spiritual ceremony!” he said. “A ritual. So they can work it out. Get back together!”
Tanwa sighed. “Sucha, it is not the time for rituals. We should gather the whole commune and give them a proper farewell.”
“Why not both?” Sucha grinned. “First, a farewell ritual with everyone. Then a spiritual manifestation with our sister Yoko Ono,” he added, winking.
୭ৎ ࣪ ♡ -- ୭ৎ ׅ ♡
Tanwa wasn’t convinced, but he helped anyway. They built an altar in the patio using Beatles vinyl sleeves, incense sticks, and a suspicious amount of fruit that Tanwa had no idea where Sucha had found. He was mildly concerned the neighbors might scold them again.
They also painted a giant flower in the center of the patio. Sucha was gathering wood for the fire that would go in the middle, while Tanwa watched him place the last piece into the container.
“Do you think this will actually work?” Tanwa asked, taking a drag from his joint.
“I didn’t know you were such a pessimist,” Sucha teased.
“I’m not a pessimist! But when was the last time a band like the Beatles got back together? Did our rituals even work for The Astrambons?”
“They did work! You got to play with Prasert, their lead singer. You should be thanking me!” Sucha said, clapping his hands clean. “Done!”
Tanwa hesitated. “I don’t know, Sucha. I was hoping to find Trin today and-”
He stopped. A chicken wandered into the patio, clucking.
The joint fell from Sucha’s mouth. He jumped.
They locked eyes.
“It’s a sign” they said in unison.
That night, the ritual would be held. And their new friend, Yoko Ono the chicken, would help them reunite the Beatles.
୭ৎ ࣪ ♡ -- ୭ৎ ׅ ♡
Much later, Tanwa and Sucha lay on the shop floor, their arms scribbled with Beatles lyrics in marker. Surrounded by incense smoke and scattered records, their eyes slowly fluttered closed. The others had already left.
Trin had vanished without saying goodbye. Tanwa had searched for him all night, but it was nothing he couldn’t survive. He’d find another way to reach him, as always.
Without warning, Yoko Ono the chicken entered the shop, flapping her wings. Tanwa made a mental note to talk to the neighbor about their pets.
He sat up, picked up his guitar, and began playing the chords to Here Comes the Sun.
Sucha stirred.
“I like it when you play,” he said. “My own private concert from the lead singer of Moonshine. And with Yoko Ono,” he added, watching the chicken peck at a weird insect on the floor.
Tanwa laughed and scooted closer. He wanted to be optimistic, like Sucha. But some things still hurt in moments like this.
“I guess everything ends eventually,” he said softly. “And in the end, everyone leaves.”
Sucha looked at him carefully. Tanwa always played the carefree role, trying to spread joy —through his band, his records, his silly facade— but Sucha knew how afraid he was of endings. Of being left behind. Of abandonment.
He took Tanwa’s hand when the guitar fell silent and passed him the joint.
“The Beatles might be over,” he said, “but maybe our friendship is the real band.”
Tanwa laughed.
“We’ve got better rhythm. And a chicken. They never had a chicken.”
Tanwa laughed again and squeezed his hand. Of all the people in his life, Sucha was the only constant. If there was anyone he could trust not to leave, it was him.