Peace And Love

1965

how could he ever tell you how grateful he was to have you in his life? just when things were getting busy, he thought he may have had everything he needed in life. his band was getting ridiculously popular, and he had a beautiful girl by his side to be his secret muse. secret wasn’t the word. because he was absolutely shameless when it came to his woman. that was why he married you in such a hurry.

some newspaper had come out about him, naming him something along the lines of ‘the chubby beatle’. oh, it crushed your complicated husband. his emotional range was that of a vast ocean, and he felt things at such a high level. when something upset him, it was almost endless. in truth, he hated being compared to all of his friends in such a ruthless way. he was happy that his small little band had exploded somewhat overnight after a television performance, but he hadn’t anticipated the hate that came along with it. how could the media make fun of a bloke who just sang and wrote musical poetry?

it hurt. his name beside all of his friends. macca, the cute one. haz, the quiet one. rich, of course, the funny one. well, john was cute. john was quiet. and john was funny! he wasn’t fat. not by any means. or had he become? his beautiful wife made the best dessert after dinner, but that was nothing! just a spoonful here and there… a lick of frosting…

“don’t put that on my plate,” he grumbles at you, waving his hand dismissively as you try and plate him a piece of delicious, warm cinnamon apple pie. it was a recipe you learned from that cookbook you bought yourself. see, you figured that while john was out on the road, you could spoil your tired husband with good home cooked meals so he wouldn’t have to scrape around pubs. of course, you were allowed to have your own life, your own fun. and you did. dinner was one of few things you spoiled your lover with. and sweet treats afterwards! which, he always seemed to love.

“why not, sweetheart? you love my pie, look, crust’s nice’n crispy.” you reply, idly tapping at the top crust of the slice you had cut for him. it makes a crunchy, hollow, and utterly delicious sound. the smell of the sweet cinnamon wafted through the air effortlessly, faint grains of sugar scattered off of the pie crust and all over the small white plate it was set on. “i have to watch what i eat. come on, don’t nag me to explain more! come off it already..” he grunted back angrily.

something was wrong. you knew it was. john wore his heart on his sleeve. as easy as that made it for him to get it broken, it was just as easy to see that it was broken, too. you don’t pry. you set the pie down somewhere on the table beside a stack of messy guitar picks he had scattered around. some snapped in half, some brand new and freshly picked up from a corner shop because he knew he would need them eventually. john was always busy these days. you hated that when he was home, you two argued.

to be completely honest, john hated it too. that was why he was avoiding you. that was why he had allowed you to take your big, fluffy bed for yourself as he slept on the stiff couch of your flat. he always used the excuse that he was writing more music and needed his privacy, but you knew the truth. or at least, you thought you did.

“enough of this,” you stand up for yourself, sitting in a chair beside his own. “i know what the papers have been saying about you, johnny. i know it hurts you. that’s all fine. something we can work together… what’s not fine is the fact that you’re pushing me away and snapping at me nonstop.” john still doesn’t look at you, the petty man he is.

“i barely get to see you. and when i do, i would give anything for us to share a night of tenderness, i would give anything for you to touch me like you once did before. god, john— see? you won’t even look at me! are you hearing anything i’m saying?!” you snap, so unlike you. though it was reasonable considering the fact that john had practically been neglecting you. the entire situation was being misread. neither of you understood. you didn’t understand that john was being distant because of insecurities; and he didn’t understand that he had accidentally been leaving you high and dry all week.

“i hear you, darling.” he replies in such a condescending, patronizing tone back at you. it almost makes you flinch. since when was he so cruel to you? he only turned back when he heard the most nerve wracking sound: nothing.

your silence was a surprise to him, so he turned back at you (at first with a nasty glare), though it immediately went away when he saw that you had your head perched on the heel of your hand. fingers curled inward and your bottom lip quivering. you were turned away as well, and he felt a stab through his chest.

“lovely, look at me.” he said finally, after torturing himself by watching your pained expression. the only suitable punishment.

“johnny..” you mewl, turning towards him. you curse yourself for your weakness, though john responds immediately to the way you magnetized towards him.

“yes, darling, come here. let’s talk about this.” oh thank god. you half expected this to end up in another blowup fight. another screaming match. another night where john threatens to hit the road and never come back. god, you hated how black-and-white he was sometimes. how sudden he made everything be. something didn’t go his way? divorce! paul got on his nerves? leave the band! john was ridiculous sometimes. but it was that hot-and-cold thinking that got you to where you were now. married.

“i don’t mean to hurt you, gorgeous, yeah? you know that, don’t you?” he cooed at you, taking your feminine hand into his larger one. your rings collide, and you smile sheepishly at the sound of the metals clicking. “i hate when you’re pained. i do.”

“then why do you keep snapping at me?”

he sighs, swallowing harshly and taking one glance toward the pie sitting abandoned on the table. it looked delicious, and he realized that maybe he shouldn’t be so hard on himself.

“please understand. it… it’s hard for me to, y’know, express my feelin’s. i just… it’s the papers, y’see… they’re out there plastering my face about, calling me fat and other nonsense. i guess, well, i suppose i got a bit lost in my own feelin’s. drowned a little for a while. it hurts me when i see that title among all of my mates’, cute and funny and whatever else. i don’t mean to take it out on you, lovely.” he explained gently, slowly, like each word was something he had to force out. gosh, to hear such an earnest expression from john made your heart squeeze in the cage of your chest. you smile, hands reaching up to cup his face.

you didn’t think he was fat at all. in perfect honesty? he wasn’t. at all. you had been very shocked when you saw what the papers were saying, because how could they even draw that conclusion? his soft boyish features? his big hands? you weren’t sure. but the person in the papers they were writing about was not your husband. the man in front of you was.

“i knew it was hurting you..” you say, head tilting upwards to meet his. your noses poke, and john smiles through the ache in his chest. “you always know everythin’…”

with those words hanging in the silence, he leans forward to kiss you slow. his hands gently brush along your hair, both of them coming down back to your shoulders. you haven’t kissed in a few days at the very least, and he tasted just as amazing as you remembered. “that’s because i love you… and i’m sorry i got upset with…” another kiss cuts you off. “…ah… you..”

he smiles, gently walking you backwards and out past the hall of your kitchen. the corridor is dim and thin from the tight small space of your flat, and you two are nearly pressed together like puzzle pieces when your back hits the door.

“‘m sorry more..” he murmurs lovingly against your cheek, pressing a kiss there as his hand reaches behind you to turn the knob and walk you both into your room…