#borrowedtimex

Looks up with delirious cross eyes and the flat of his palm rubsat the newly formed bridge to no avail.

Paul pointedly draws circles through abused newsprint, gnarledlead smoldering against his palm, figuring he’s effectively ‘ignored’ John’sentrance long enough to induce a crushing impact. Though he can feel his gutssquirm when he’s finally addressed, loathing how the other lad’s words still prodinto him like stoking coals, the waning rounds of his cheeks pulsing hot beneaththe veil of an abruptly shorn fringe. He’s beginning to see less of him latelyand his mustache quivers into an anxious twitch, a blown out and bloodshot doeeye cautioning the room in one acerbic sweep. A new and unbearable silence persists to mount between them, a testament to Brian’s absence,and there’s a terse sniff before he says anything.

I’ll Be Alright Without You- Journey

The aftershock supersedes the initial rupture as he had been numb from the magnitude of reality heaved onto him at once. McCartney sits hunched forward, solitary, nerves still raw and writhing from theirlast ever band meeting at Apple. Balled fists press into distraughthazels and he inhales a sharpness, the feeling of spite andheartache, a shortness of breath that will not subside for weeksto come.

Surelyit was an inevitable happening, a culmination of years of tension andstrife. To hear the words, though, have wrecked him worse than he hasanticipated. It was always a lingering fear, a paranoid premonitionthat Lennon would be the one to finish what he started. McCartneyfeels naked now- exposed and vulnerable without the guise of unity.He would be envious that he did not beat John to the punch if anyiota of him wanted the band to end.

Their furnishings have mostly dwindled to mounds of ash- once more leaving the expanse of their flat completely devoid of heat. Stu has found himself pressed against his self-loathing companion, lips bruised from the cold, having slunk onto his grounded mattress a few hours before the sun came up.

The artist is bleary-eyed until Lennon’s statement shatters the twilight the other’s warmth has lulled him into. Almond oculars flutter open and settle onto his companion, disbelief painting his features as he regards him. Sutcliffe worships Lennon and it is certainly no secret; he has eyes for the brooding guitarist, ones that are presently devouring him whole.

“Me too…,” Stu seethes, turning further onto side until his narrow breast is grazing Lennon’s, “and then on nights like this I remember. It’s because I don’t want frostbite.”

The hour is indecent- he knows this, and the draft beneath him is becoming sloppier as the minutes drag on. A Dixon Ticonderoga smolders away in his grasp and the document is nearly in pieces, tattered from smudges and assaults from a dwindling eraser. McCartney has been scarcely bearing Lennon’s presence as they attempt to collaborate, him performing much of the initiating, seemingly overzealous in contrast to John’s infuriating aloofness.

Their startling telekinesis is lost; before it was difficult to decipher who wrote what because their psyches were so seamlessly intertwined. Now it is different- a tarnished connection, crossed-wires where fluid clockwork once was. Despite this slew of realisations, Paul has been as vigorously invested as ever, attempting with his every fiber to get them there again- if only for one last tune. He has spent hours holed in the studio, seated across from Lennon, trapping him with half-baked ideas accompanied by a slurry of loose chords.

When John finally speaks, his heart turns to lead and drops through him, plummeting into the Earth to get as far away from Lennon’s steely inquiry as possible. His jaw slackens, throttled by the question- as if all evening had been in vain, as if the guitarist had been somewhere else to suddenly notice that Paul was still seated across from him.

"Goddamnit, JAWN!" eyes tighten shut against the carnage, "I knew it”.

Fist clenches in exasperation, one hazel braving open to hazard a glance at the other.

Another beat.