ᴮᴬᴺᴰ ᴼᴺ ᵀᴴᴱ ᴿᵁᴺˑ ( ♫ )

             The proximity between the two men had become minimal when Paul moved, and John knew that whatever wall it was that he was fronting, it wouldn’t last much longer. He could try and sit stone-faced and quiet, with his only responses being harsh and sharp, but there would come a moment when he looked at Paul, at that’d be it–he’d see past the bullshite and John wouldn’t be able to produce it any longer. Beyond the sentiments he was comfortable allowing out of his mouth to form was his feelings regarding the younger musician. He didn’t even see him that way, younger. John saw Paul the same way they were positioned in the chairs: eye-to-eye, one mate next to the other. But God, did he have such a disdain for the words that had pooled out of his mouth.

             ❛ I never said I wouldn’t do it, Paul. ❜ John moved his cigarette stain digits to the ash-tray, stamping out the ciggie he no longer had any desire for. The remaining smoke in his mouth was blown out the side of his twin-flesh, and his chocolate orbs followed the trail it made down to his lap. As he listened to Paul, John watched his leg bounce, up and down, reflecting the bundle of nerves that danced inside of him. Talk to me. He hated that he kept saying that, like a broken record. John glanced upwards, lips thinned, and leaned his head towards Paul. He lowered his voice and said, his tone incredulous, ❛ I don’t know what it is ya want me ta say, Paul. ‘m so bleedin’ tired of this shite, I’d almost wish the bubble would burst, as it were. ❜ 

        “ NEXT TIME, then. Any time at all, as it happens, ” Paul let out with a cute chuckle, so very like him to make when he says things that impress him. Paul often actually enjoyed thinking about their youth. What the early years of fame were like when it was all fun and exciting breaking through that last wall of performing in terrible conditions just to get their names and music out there . . . for a while. . . everything was good. But now . . . well, Paul might dare think of it as a death sentence. 

@dreamcrboy

                  John swallowed Paul’s comments and they went down like a thousand tiny, glass shards. Perhaps the younger hadn’t intended for the words to feel so calloused and bitter; perhaps it was with good intentions–like a parent–that Paul spoke to John like that, but with an already upset stomach and a raging headache, John merely felt betrayed by words that confirmed all he already thought.

                  ❛ Swallow me fuggin’ pride? ❜ John glared at Paul, waves of anger radiating off his words. This was his mate, the boy who’d always agreed willing, disagreeing. He might as well have joined the rioters, John thought bitterly, sucking at the nicotine that burned away in his hand.  ❛ Fuck off wit’ it, Paul, really. That’s cheap stuff–you tellin’ me that ‘m a shite. Get off ye’r high horse, won’t you? Save that fer Brian, ‘nd stick t’yer fuggin’ lousy, polished charm. ❜ He blew a line of smoke, anger seeping in his veins. He shook his head. John didn’t know what was tumbling out of his mouth anymore than he knew what was happening around him. Anger talk and feared opened his mouth. ❛ Fuck, Paul. If only. ❜

                    DISAPPOINTMENT DEFINITELY  occupied his lips now, sat on his troubled brow as any remaining essence of comraderie faded away like fresh air vacating to an unsettling odor. He knew how to deal with John when he got like this, he’d had enough experience by now. It was all deflection. A facade to mask the very real insecurities that lay beneath such a hardened, angry exterior. Paul can see through it as he always has, and it’s a calming breath he has to take through his nostrils as he ashes the butt of a dying ciggie and moves towards the other, closing the cold, intimidating distance between them. Paul had learned when they were just two dumb kids growing up in Liverpool, trying to start a band . . . help distribute to the people the songs they were singing . . . that John Lennon was, as much as he may seek to deny such things from the pubic, a sensitive soul. Paul can remember many nights they sat up, just . . . TALKING.  Crying.  About their mothers, they bonded quite a bit . . . broke down a wall.  Theirs was a bond that wouldn’t ever be severed, not completely.

     ❛ Cheeky, la, fuggin’ cheeky. ❜ John grins. ❛ Come off it, then, James. ❜

             ❛ Ye’r better for it, Sonny Jim. There’s no room in a rock’n’roll group fer a James. Sounds old. ❜ 

               John was fractious. He licked his lips and stared at the telly playing on low in the corner as he thought about Paul’s question. All of his answers had been filtering through at a slower pace than usual, taking not just moments, but minutes, to be released into the tense air that surrounded the Beatles today. John’s eyes caught Paul’s again and he shrugged. 

               ❛ Thought tha’ about Maureen too, didn’t I Paul? ‘m so fuggin’ sick of this all, yanno. ❜ He couldn’t even laugh in disbelief, he was so bothered. Instead, he sighed heavily and he fished for a cigarette. ❛ It was jus’ a comment, Paul. I shouldn’t ‘ave t’apologize.  ❜

                  PAUL JUST STARED.  It was easier to take John in all at once instead of trying to piece things together through half assembled interjections that never really made land with the Beatle anyways. Once he had finished his piece, Paul drew on his cigarette, paused, released the smoke through his nostrils as the remnants escape from his lips that somehow seemed disappointed. 

          “ An’ that doesn’t matter, does it? ‘Cause y’pissed off th’wrong people John. I know y’want to pull th’ ‘I’m an American’ Card and yap about all this freedom of speech shite while y’hide behind y’r bloody PRIDE -- but I know you, John . . . You’re a fucking shite, y’know. ”  But those words leave not in a manner cold like SPITE, but rather warm like a brandy lingering on the tongue, for his intentions are not to HURT him, but to help him.

         ❛ Yeah, Winston, after Churchill, because me mum likes him…And why’d they name ya James then, if they were jus’ gonna call ya Paul anyhow? Fuggin’ silly, that. Ya look more like a Paul, yanno. ❜

                PAUL’S EYES SHIFTED,  he didn’t like seeing John like this. Never. Not once. Be it before flashing cameras or in the privacy of their own little hotel room, Paul knew when John was not in his right. And right now, he felt the energy coursing through John Lennon’s being that made it feel as if any moment he may burst at the seams and collapse into a heap. Paul would be there, however, if that were the case to happen. He would always be there. 

❛  As  if  I’ve  never  heard  that  before,  ❜   she  responds  with  a  roll  of  her  blue  eyes.  He’s  not  the  first  to  use  those  words.  Nor  will  he  be  the  last.  Her  gaze  drops  to  the  glass  in  her  hand,  a  drink  he  has  so  graciously  brought  for  her.  A  ghost  of  a  smile  curls  on  her  pink  lips  as  she  thinks  of  a  response.   ❛  I’m  not  as  gullible  as  those  other  girls,  y'know  that,  right ?  ❜