HERE IT IS! Under the cut youâll find all the lovely artworks with their corresponding fics! Thank You to everyone for making this yearâs big bang simply FANTASTIC!
ART: Str.AÂ - FIC: The Man With The Blackbird Tattoos by EbethBeatlebub
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ART: Thisbirdhadflownx - FIC: Camera-less by fingersfallingupwards
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ART: lennonsprincess - FIC: All My Loving by lovely_rita
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ART: MothBins - FIC: Iâm Not What I Appear To Be by SittingOnACornflake
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ART: Rufusrant - FIC: TBA
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ART: ihaveaheadacheuwu - FIC: eclipsed by the moon by thisbirdhadflown
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ART: lover_of_blueroses - FIC: a shrill inner sound by peculiar_mademoiselle
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ART: paulmccharmly - FIC: Lonesome Tears In My Eyes by smothermeinrelish AND something to call mine by orphanbeat
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ART: Tommy_Fuzz - FIC: Nothing But Great Life Decisions by lover_of_blue_roses
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Hey, Everybody! As we know @mclennonbb is going on right now!! (YAAY) And I decided to participate too. This is my first time in the event like that and Iâm so happy to be a part of it.
I want to say THANK YOU to @mccartneyvinyl, She is wonderful and sweet person, who answered my every silly question. Also Iâd like to thank @chut-je-dors and @imaginebeatlesâ for creating such an good event for the McLennon fandom! â€ïž
And special Thank you to discord chat âCJD & Puckâs tea Sessionâ I LOVE YOU, GUYS!â€ïžâ€ïžThanks for your support and jokes (puns)!
 My illustrations are quite specific and the idea has a certian plot. If you want to know what exactly is going on there you can read it down below!Â
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SIR PAUL MCCARTNEY!!! đđ
Itâs all starts with John studing in University of the Art. He has uni debts and now needs to do something, so he wonât be drop out. He takes an easy way and finds a website where are human references for artists to draw. But one paticular model catches his eyes... Black-haired man with a silm body and an interesting tatto of the blackbirds on his chest. But, unfortunately, the manâs face is censored on the right of anonymity. If John could ever find this mysterious man? Maybe with the little help from fate...
Poetry Nights | Chapter 5: In which Elvis makes a troublesome return
Pairing: John/Paul
Rating: PG-13
Set in: Modern AU
Summary: 21-year-old Paul McCartney, who has recovered from a breakdown due to stress and his motherâs unexpected death, has recently moved to London where he now rents a cheap flat with his friend George. Having needed to give up his medicine studies, he has decided to start over and go to art college instead where he meets the rude and troublesome John Lennon, a young poet, who, much to Paulâs dismay, also happens to be his neighbour.
Disclaimer: I do not own The Beatles and this is fictional. I do not make money off this.
Authorâs note: After ages and ages here it finally is. I intend to focus on this fics for a little while in the hope to finally get it done and over with. Itâs been taking too long and I just want to get to the end already. Art and Obligation wonât be forgotten (far from it), but donât get worried if I post another chapter of Poetry Nights before Art and Obligation. Like I said, I want to get this done. I love the fic, but it shouldnât be taking as long as it is.Â
For those of you who prefer reading it on AO3, here is a link! (Iâd recommend that).Â
The incident with the notebook had left Paul more upset than even he had expected. For a while he didnât so much as touch or even look at the leather book and let it lie at the bottom of his bedside table under a stack of books on such artists as Van Gogh, Caravaggio, and Edvard Munch. Although he had always had more of an appreciation for expressionist art, he also loved the older, more traditional and classical style of artists like Caravaggio, and often times he would just open a book when he had a moment to spare, not to read but to simply look at their works. But while his notebook lay hidden underneath, those books too remained where they were, not wanting to even risk catching a glimpse of the red cover.
He couldnât believe John had read through it, that he had seen his deepest thoughts, struggles and concerns, which had to be clear even if they were hidden behind the thin veneer of his writings being âjust songsâ. They meant more than that to him: they were highly personal, as writings often were, but perhaps that was even more true for him, having always used writing as a form of therapy, a way of coming to grips with it all. Naturally, he didnât think John had understood what those lyrics truly meant and the significance they held, but the fact that he had seen and read them behind his back, it had been crippling.
The comments made it worse: not only did they act as a constant reminder that someone had read them, that someone knew, knew about him, his thoughts and his feelings and his problems, at the same time they also defaced those feelings everytime he read them. It felt like they had been rated, assessed to see which of his issues proved most valuable to his art, and while he knew John hadnât meant it like that when he had written those little remarks, to Paul it was all the more humiliating, not to mention aggravating. His feelings werenât something pretty to be evaluated based on beauty or artistic significance. The were real, they were ugly, and they hurt.
In the moment, the realisation that John had done all that, intentionally or not, as well as the mess of conflicting feelings that came with it, had become too much for him. Already he had been on edge because of his phone call with Dot, and this, the invasion of his privacy, the fact that John now knew things about him that even Dr Collins or George or Dot didnât know about, even if he might not understand them, had been the last drop, resulting in a violent eruption of all those feelings that had been aching to come out.
He was certain George and Ringo had noticed something had been wrong when they had come home that evening. Neither had said anything, though, and even now George pretended everything was fine, that he didnât notice the hurt in Paulâs eyes when he was feeling particularly down, sometimes seemingly for no clear reason at all. He knew it was to be expected and that Paul would come to him if he needed to talk, so he merely kept a close eye on him to make sure it wouldnât get worse and he wouldnât do anything stupid, by accident or otherwise, ready to interfere if necessary. It wasnât unusual for Paul to fall back into old behaviour, that occasionally he would return to his old state of mind, but as long as he bounced back again, it could even help him by showing that those feelings werenât permanent, thus allowing him to rationalise them sooner as the fear of falling back into his old condition was reduced. Or so they had been told. Paul thought it was bullshit, but it offered George some peace of mind, so he didnât argue.
As he considered all this for the umptheenth time that week, Paul nudged the front door of their apartment building open with his elbow and held firmly onto the two large grocery bags in arms as he shuffled his way inside, making sure to lift his feet up high enough so he wouldnât accidentally trip over the threshold. His shoulder bag felt heavy as it hung uncertain from his left shoulder, and Paul had to curve his body at a rather awkward angle to make sure it didnât slip off, which would surely end with his groceries laying spread out across the dirty linoleum flooring.
It had been Georgeâs turn to do groceries, seeing as his lecture ended at eleven in the morning, which meant he would have plenty of time for a quick trip to the supermarket, while Paulâs last lecture of the day ended only at four, if the lecturer finished on time. But of course the man had texted him last minute to say he was going to see a movie with Pattie and wouldnât be back till seven, meaning that the task of making sure they had something to eat had been thrusted upon Paulâs already heavy shoulders once more, his school bag being heavy enough without also having to carry two bags of groceries home with him, because of course they had been fresh out of almost everything. Why George hadnât done the shopping before he had gone off with his new girlfriend, Paul didnât know, but he resented him a little for it. Thankfully, he managed to get inside without too much trouble.
Relieved to have made it, Paul placed the two bags on a nearby table that stood by the door with a tired groan and hitched his school bag a little further up his shoulder - perhaps a backpack wouldnât be such a bad idea after all - and took a moment to stretch his arms, which had gone stiff from carrying those bags from the bus stop all the way to their flat, which had been farther away than he had remembered. Now, he just needed to carry it up the stairs and down the hallway and heâd be home. He couldnât wait to flop down onto the couch with a bottle of beer and his ready-made dinner and watch some telly for a while, to just be alone for an hour or two and do nothing and think of nothing, before heâd have to call Dot. He wasnât looking forward to it.
Taking a deep breath, he decided it was best to get it over with and make his way up stairs so he could finally do what he had been wanting to do ever since had woken up that morning, while mentally preparing himself for his talk with Dot. She had said she didnât have a lot of time for him that evening, so if he did tell her - finally - it would be swift and painful, like ripping off a bandaid - a bandaid that had somehow made the wound worse, because he knew Dot would not appreciate the fact that it had taken him literally weeks to finally have the guts to do it.
He had been about to pick up his bags again, when he saw something orange slip past him from the corner of his eye. Frowning, he put the heavy bags back down, including his shoulder bag, which he dropped on the floor, and turned to see what it was.
The foyer was empty apart from him, with even the receptionistâs desk having been left unattended. The two grey couches - or benches as Paul called them, seeing as they were far too uncomfortable to classify as anything more in his opinion - on the one side of the room were empty too, and the little hallway where the postboxes were, was also deserted. For a moment, Paul thought he had been mistaken, when he caught sight of a flash of orange from underneath wooden coffee table by the seating area before it disappeared again. Careful to make as little noise as possible and not startle whatever was under the table, Paul tiptoed over to it and slowly sank down onto his knees to look under it, both hands on the floor, head cocked to the side. A small smile of recognition replaced his frown as he saw two yellow eyes staring directly at him.
âAnd who do we have here? Youâre not allowed to be here, you know,â Paul said, as he slowly reached out for the cat that was almost as troublesome as his owner, allowing him to sniff his fingers, before gently scratching him behind his black ear when the cat pushed his head against his hand and purred. Blessed that the cat had recognised him from their brief but intensely stressful adventure in the kitchen a few weeks ago, Paul made little kissy-noises at him and spoke in a high yet soft murmuring voice to persuade the animal he meant no harm. Â
âDid you escape again?â he asked, speaking as if he was talking to a 6-months-old baby, ââCause you really shouldnât, you know? They donât allow pets in here and who knows what might happen when you get caught. John must be worried about you. Come on, boy. Letâs get you back home, yeah? Come on, Elvis.â
The cat meowed in response and shuffled further away from Paul as the latter began to reach out for him in an attempt to pick him up, moving himself into a corner to escape the humanâs grasping hands. When Paul made a further, slightly quicker, grasping motion in the hope to catch him by surprise, Elvis jumped away with another offended meow and slid under one of the couches, bending his body so he could just fit, there being barely any room for him. Paul cursed as his fingers only just managed to graze the multi-coloured fur.
âShit! Elvis, come on. Letâs not play any games this time, okay? We donât have time for this. Just come with me, and Iâm sure Johnâll have a nice treat for you. Just come with Uncle Paul, yeah? Please?â Paul practically begged as he crawled over to the couch on all fours, keeping his head lowered and cocked to the side so he could look under the couch, where Elvis was lying, just out of reach, watching him, and overall just looking like he was enjoying this little game of cat-and-mouse far too much.
âFor fuckâs- Iâm only trying to help, you know! If Mr Walford catches you⊠Ugh, come here, kitty-kitty. Come to Uncle Paul,â Paul tried again, finding the cat far too playful and too much like his owner. One annoying neighbour was enough.
He shuffled closer until he lay on the floor with his shoulder pressed up against the underside of the couch, and could only just reach Elvis. Taking a deep breath to keep his calm, he patiently let Elvis sniff his hand again, before beckoning him over, wiggling his fingers to catch the animalâs interest as he slowly began to retreat his hand, hoping to lure him to him.
âCome on, boy. Come on,â he said, huffing, and slowly but surely Elvis began to move, intrigued by the swift curious movements of Paulâs fingers and Paul sighed in relief when Elvis was finally close enough for him to pick him up. He had been about to, when he heard an unexpected voice behind him, low and disgruntled, calling out his name.
âPaul? What are you doing down there?â
Paul winced and silently cursed everything he held dear - especially John for letting his damn cat escape again - as he moved back up onto his knees, gently holding Elvis in place with one hand as he looked over his shoulder to see Mr Walford, the landlord, standing a few feet behind him, watching him with a raised eyebrow, both hands on his hips, looking unamused by what was happening right before his very eyes. He grumbled as his eyes shifted from Paul to the cat, whose tiny head was sticking out from under the couch.
âWhose cat is that? We donât allow pets in this building, Paul. You know that,â Mr Walford said, voice grumbling as he watched the cat with light disgust.
âOh, he isnât mine, sir!â Paul hastily explained, moving the cat further out from under the furniture so he could pick him up, knowing it was futile as this point to try to hide him from view. Curling both his arms around the slight creature that felt so much smaller now, he pressed him against his chest, holding him close, as if to physically shield him from the glaring landlord. âI think he mustâve walked in here without anyone noticing. Maybe heâs a stray.â
âYou shouldnât play with strays, Paul. You never know what diseases they might be carrying around with them. Theyâre filthy. You might catch something.â
âYes, sir. I was just going to take him outside,â Paul said, offering the man his best and most charming smile, that had gotten him out of plenty unpleasant situations before, and much to his relief, Mr Walford huffed in response as he nodded, beckoning Paul to get up.
âAlright then,â he said and Paul quickly scrambled up, holding Elvis firmly against his chest so he wouldnât accidentally fall, and gently petted him behind his ear to keep him calm as Mr Walford addressed him again. âTake it outside. But if I see that cat here ever again, it wonât be treated as kindly.â
Paul nodded quickly to say he understood and waited for a moment as the landlord studied him for a moment longer, before he gave in with one last final sigh and motioned him to the door. Not needing to be told twice, Paul moved past him and hurried out of the door. He walked with the cat to the corner of the building so he was absolutely certain Mr Walford wouldnât be able to see him and held the cat carefully in one hand as he pulled down the zipper of his coat with the other to about halfway. Then, he gently lifted the cat inside his coat and held him against his chest as he zipped his coat back up, leaving just enough room at the top so Elvis wouldnât feel closed in, while still keeping his little head hidden from view. The cat purred at the warmness of the coat and rubbed his head against Paulâs chest, making him laugh as he held up the cat up by his butt, pushing the underside of his coat under it, so he wouldnât slip out.
âNow,â he said, addressing the cat, âyou have to stay quiet. If Mr Walford catches us, we are both done for, so no tricks, okay?â
Taking the animalâs soft but constant purring as a sign of understanding, Paul took a few deep breaths before he started heading back into his apartment building, preparing for the worst.
âNow, remember what I said: all you have to do is be quiet. Weâll be past this horrible man soon, I promise,â he whispered into his coat as he pushed the door open and stepped bach inside. Mr Walford, who had taken a seat by the desk, looked up at the sound of the door opening and closing and smiled as he saw Paul coming back in, completely catless - at least, for as far as he could see. Instinctively Paul held onto the animal a little tighter and went to grab his things from the table as he kept an eye on the landlord, who had turned his back on Paul in favour of doing something on the computer.
Making sure the man didnât pay him any further attention, Paul hastily lifted his school bag back onto his shoulder, before taking a hold of the grocery bags again, which proved to be a hassle as he also had to make sure the cat didnât slip out from under his coat. Luckily, the table was at just the right height that he could grab both bags at the same time and miraculously enough, he managed. With even more weight than with which he had started, he wished Mr Walford a good day and made his way towards the stairs, sighing once he was finally safe and out of sight.
John bloody well owed him one for this.
Once he had finally made his way up to the right floor, Paul dropped his heavy bags by Johnâs door and knocked, hoping the guy was actually in for once. Elvis gave a content little meow from inside Paulâs coat, clearly pleased with where he was, and Paul smiled down at him as he reached inside to pet him, while praising him for how well he had behaved. He opened his coat a little more, allowing Elvisâs head to pop free, his little ears flopping upwards as the material of the jacket gave way, making Paul chuckle at how adorable he looked.
Finally the door opened and both Paul and Elvis looked up at the sound with surprise and curiosity respectively. For a moment, Paul couldnât speak as his eyes moved up and down Johnâs form, taking in the rather distracting outfit he was wearing, being not yet properly dressed despite it being past five in the afternoon. Especially the low hanging pyjama bottom were more than a little off-putting.
âWell, arenât you two all nicely cosied up together,â John remarked with a smirk as he looked the two of them up and down, shifting his weight from one leg to the other as he leaned against the doorframe, his eyebrows raised at the sight of his cat inside Paulâs jacket. Paul huffed in response, but couldnât get too annoyed with him, already relieved John was actually home this time, so he wouldnât have to babysit and risk having Elvis break more of his things. The last time the victim had been an ugly vase of Georgeâs that Paul was frankly glad to be rid of, but he doubted heâd be as lucky a second time.
âYour cat escaped again. I was lucky enough to get to him before Mr Walford did, but God, John⊠Watch your cat next time. Youâre playing with fire,â Paul said as he reached inside his coat to retrieve Elvis and hand him back to his rightful owner. The cat was none too happy about this, but still let himself be passed over from human to human with a tiny unhappy meow, his nails digging into the flesh of Johnâs hand, which John took without so much as a hiss of pain.
âWhere did he run off to, then? I tried looking for him, but couldnât find him. I figured heâd gone outside,â John asked, giving the animal a tiny kiss on his head as he held him in his arms, at which point Elvis retreated his claws.
âDownstairs in the foyer, hiding under the coffee table. And then under one of the couches. And then I had to sneak him up here when Mr Walford caught me with him. Like I said, John, you really ought to be more careful,â Paul said as he reached out for Elvis, petting him with a heavy sigh, not liking the idea of this adorable creature getting kicked out, especially with the way he was purring at his attention.
âSo, thatâs why you had him-â he said, tugging at Paulâs still half-open coat.
âOh, no! I always carry animals around in my coat,â Paul retorted as he slapped his hand away, looking up at the other man as if he was stupid, and John chuckled as he nodded, eyes focussed on Paul as he moved a little closer.
âOkay. Fair enough! But erm⊠thanks for sneaking him back up here,â he admitted, an amused grin playing on his lips, and his eyes dropped down for a moment, before they found Paulâs eyes again. âYou⊠want to come in? Iâm not really doing anything so...â
âNo, I- I think Iâd better-â Paul started, pointing with his thumb towards his own door that was not three feet away, but John was quick to interrupt him.
âOh, come on!â he said. âItâll be fun! You can drop your stuff here for now. Iâm just watching a movie and Iâve got beer and junk food! âSides, itâs not like youâve got anything better to do.â John wiggled eyes eyebrows as he stepped aside to make room for Paul to move past him, flashing him his most charming smirk and Paul felt his determination wavering as he glanced up at him, which was his first mistake.
He could stay for an hour or so, though, couldnât he? After all, he had basically planned on doing the exact same thing as what John was suggesting by himself and doing it with another person would be more fun. And besides, despite everything, they had had fun last time when they had gone out for coffee together, so why wouldnât they this time? And just because they were hanging out together, in Johnâs flat, alone, drinking and watching a movie, with one of them not even properly dressed, that didnât necessarily mean anything!
Sighing, he shook his head, knowing it wouldnât be smart, even though he wanted to accept the invitation. But that was exactly the reason he had to say ânoâ! John, however didn't give up that easily.
âIf this is about your notebook and that note you sent me-â
âNo! No, I justâŠâ
âBecause Iâm sorry about that,â John continued, ignoring Paulâs words and taking a step closer to the younger man. Paul looked up at him in surprise, that being the last thing he had expected him to say. âI didnât think youâd mind.â
âI-I know! I... Itâs just⊠Iâve got to call Dot later and the groceries-â
â-can stay in my fridge, I told you. I havenât got anything in there myself anyway apart from some beer bottles and a half-eaten package of ramen noodles - perhaps a lost tomato somewhere in the back - so it would be good to get some use out of the damn thing. Come on, sweetheart! Iâm so lonely here all by myself. Just for an hour or so. I promise youâll be in time to call the missus.â
Paul laughed as John gave him one of his most dramatic pouts and before he could stop himself, he had nodded and agreed on the condition John wouldnât call him by any more pet names, at which John grabbed him by his wrist and pulled him inside with one violent jerk, before pushing Elvis back into his arms so he could drag the groceries inside as well.
Johnâs flat was pretty much identical to his and Georgeâs: there was a small hallway, just large enough to dump your stuff, an impossibly small kitchen, a living room and two tiny bedrooms that shared one bathroom. The layout of the flat, however, had been flipped, leaving Paul momentarily disoriented as he made his way into the living room, followed by John who grunted as he pulled the heavy bags inside and left them by the door so Paul wouldnât forget them. More as a precaution than because it was absolutely necessary, John took out the carton of milk and the eggs Paul had bought from the bags, those being the only things that absolutely had to be kept in the fridge.
As for the interior, most of the basics were the same, with the flat having the same white walls, the same dark brown lino flooring - probably because it was easy to clean - and even most of the necessary furniture was the same, meaning that like he and George, John hadnât swapped out the things the apartment came with either. The things that were his own, were rather dark in colour, being mostly grey, black and orange, with some hints of green here and there, which gave the apartment a much darker look than what Paul was used to, being more used to his and Georgeâs very light and minimalist style. There was also not a single plant in sight, which Paul was certain would give George a heart-attack if he saw.
It was also a lot messier, with books, journals, sheets of paper, pens and various articles of clothing laying strewn around the place. On the couch, there lay a mess of blankets and pillows, and a couple of empty beer bottles stood on the coffee table, which Paul didnât doubt had there been for longer than today. The tv was on, paused, showing a what looked like a high school classroom. The shot, however, told Paul nothing of the film John had been watching, though he had to admit the whole look of it was faintly familiar to him. And not in a good way.
âSorry for the mess,â Paul could hear John mutter from the hallway.
âThatâs alright. What were you watching, anyway?â Paul asked, turning to John, who was standing a little behind him, watching him, eggs and milk in hand.
âErm⊠Twilight...â he answered, giving Paul a pained smile as the latter stared at him in disbelief.
âAnd youâre watching that because...?â he asked, snickering at how ridiculous it sounded as he put Elvis back on the floor, watching him rush into one of the bedrooms.
âIt was on,â John answered with a shrug.
âJohn, youâre watching it on Netflix.â
âExactly⊠it was on,â John repeated with another nonchalant shrug, before heading for the kitchen to put Paulâs stuff away, causing Paul to chuckle as he took a seat on the couch, pushing some of the pillows and blankets aside to make some room for himself.
âI canât believe you watch Twilight,â he said, still chuckling.
âI donât!â came Johnâs answer from the kitchen, âI was bored and I came across it whilst going through Netflix, so I decided to give it shot. To see if it was really so bad as everyone said it was. Iâd never seen it before.â
Paul just snickered, shaking his head in disbelief, and, turning around, he let his head rest on the backrest of the couch as he watched John reappear, two bottles of beer and an already opened bag of crisps in hand. Paul had to admit the guy looked great, even in this messy state, with his ruffled, unkempt hair - looking all curly and soft - and his light blue pyjama bottoms that showed off his hip bones and that terrible âdaddyâs little kittenâ shirt he was wearing above it. It was a sight that was very pleasing indeed, and Paul wondered when he had decided to simply accept that rather than be embarrassed about it. He feared it had happened somewhere during their coffee date last week.
âNice shirt, by the wayâ he remarked as he took in the sight, and watched John with a teasing smirk as the latter came to sit down on the couch next to him, a matching smirk of his own adorning his handsome face.
âIt was a gift from Stu. You know, the guy you met when we were out for coffee together. The skinny guy with the sunglasses? It was meant kind of like a coming-out present, if there is such a thing, and more as a joke than anything else. But to tell you the truth, itâs surprisingly comfy! And Stu hates seeing me wear it and I live to annoy him, so as Iâm sure you can understand, I have to wear it now at every opportunity,â he said, smirking as Paul laughed at him again.
âAnd you think youâre going to see him today, then?â
âMaybe. I mean, weâre roommates - or at least technically, we are - so there is a chance he might come home this evening. Lately, though, heâs been living more with his girlfriend than with me, but heâs here at least once or twice a week. Sometimes just to pick up or dump some stuff, but still. He gets so see this wonderful shirt and thatâs all that matters.â
âThat must kind of suck, though, doesnât it?
âEh, Iâm fine with it now. Beats waking up to them having sex in the middle of the night, anyway,â John said, and Paul could only agree with that, seeing as George and Pattieâs sex life was slowly starting to get on his nerves as well, especially when his own was in such shambles. âAnyway, you ready for some Twilight?â
âUgh! Do we really have to?â
âYes! I mean, I have to watch it at least once, donât I? Besides, itâs really not that bad so far.â
âYouâre kidding, right?â Paul asked, raising an eyebrow, but when John just nodded, all Paul could do was stare at him in disbelief.
âIâm serious! I mean, itâs not good, but itâs just your typical teen angst movie and pure wish fulfillment, and honestly, Iâve seen worse. Then again, Iâm only like 7 minutes in or something, so who knows what might still happen.â
Knowing that there was nothing he could say that would change Johnâs mind, thus rendering Paul with little choice, he gave in with a sigh and a reluctant nod, at which John immediately pressed play before opening one of the beer bottles and handing it to Paul almost as a peace offering.
âNo glass?â Paul remarked at he took it, and John shrugged.
âFewer dishes for me,â he replied with a wink, which Paul had to admit was fair enough.
An hour in, Paul still had trouble figuring out exactly what the plot of the film was supposed to be, but he hardly cared, his and Johnâs conversation being much more interesting and Johnâs jokes far more entertaining than anything the film had to offer. He had made himself more comfortable, having taken off his shoes and laid down on the couch, with his feet laying in Johnâs lap, so he could more easily look at him rather than the film, preferring that view even during the scenes with Robert Patterson that were specifically designed to make the blood of the intended young female audience run faster, which somehow included John. Paul had nearly finished his second beer and felt the need to use the restroom, but at the same time he couldnât be bothered, being far to comfortable where he was.
âTo be fair, if you were a sparkly vampire, Iâd a goner too,â John said, eyes glued to the screen where Bella almost seemed to be needing to be hospitalised for simply being near Edward, with his pretty sparkling skin. âEspecially if you looked like Robert Pattinson.â
âEh. I never really cared for Robert Pattinson, if Iâm honest,â Paul said, turning his head to the tv screen as he gave the actor a quick once over, frown on his forehead. John turned to look at him in surprise.
âReally?!â
âYeah. I mean, heâs definitely not ugly! And heâs nice enough to look at, but⊠I guess, heâs just not my type.â
âAnd what is your type, then, if I might ask?â John asked, sitting up and licking his lips as Paul turned to look at him again.
âWouldnât you like to know,â he replied, hoping that would be the end of it, but of course, it wasnât, because he was talking to John, and he never let anything go once he had sat his mind to it. The fact that he was here right now was proof enough of that.
âCome on, Paulie. Tell us, eh? I bet you like bad boys. Like that pot smoking ex-boyfriend of yours. Is that why you like me? Am I the bad boy you so desperately want to fix? I mean, you did kiss me. Thereâs no denying that.â
âWho says Iâm denying it?â
âThe same guy who says youâre avoiding the question,â John retorted, smirking, and when Paul just rolled his eyes at him, he added, âis that why you donât like Robert Pattinson, then? Sparkly vampires not bad enough for you, eh? Need bad boy Johnny to treat you right instead?â
âYou are awful!â Paul said, shaking his head in disapproval as he gently kicked Johnâs thigh with his foot, but John just smiled at him as he leaned even closer towards him, hand firmly grasping his ankle.
âAdmit it, darling! You like me. We both know you do.â
âIâve got a girlfriend, remember?â
âYes, seeing as you barely give me a chance to forget. But that doesnât change the fact that you like me. Or was the song about smug guys in tight black jeans and thick-rimmed glasses that you wrote in your notebook not about me?â
âYou werenât meant to read that,â Paul muttered softly, his half-annoyed, half-amused smile fading at the mention of his notebook, his throat feeling raspy and dry. He had almost forgotten about that, and the sudden mention of it brought back all those previous feelings again, nearly making him want to run out.
âBut it was about me?â John pressed on, barely seeming to notice the change of mood in his friend.
âJohnâŠâ Paul tried again as he began to get up, but before he could, John pressed him back onto the couch.
âPaul, I know youâre embarrassed about me having read your work, and I already told you I was sorry for having done so without your permission, but you really donât have to be! Theyâre bloody good, okay! And besides, if that song was about me, which I think it was, Iâm flattered you wrote that about me. Even if you basically said I was an asshole, you still called me a sexy asshole, so really, Iâm fine with it. You should have more confidence in your work, you should.â
âNo, itâs not thatâŠâ
âThen what is it?â John asked. âWhat about that stupid notebook could possibly be so important that you are still that upset about me reading it?! Itâs been weeks!â
Despite Johnâs obvious annoyance, it sounded more directed at his own failure to understand than at Paul. Paul, however, wasnât sure if he wanted to tell John at all, not knowing how he would react to the truth, having no clue what Johnâs stance on such issues was, and over the past few years he knew how differently people could react to what had happened. His closest friends had all been supportive, as had most of his family - the important part of his family, anyway - but John was neither friend nor family, and neither was he foe, leaving Paul with no clue as to how he would respond. And even if he would react positively, it wasnât that he wanted John to know either. He barely knew him, and really, it was none of his business. Just because they had kissed once, which in Paulâs mind barely even counted, seeing how drunk and high he had been, didnât mean John had the right to know his entire lifeâs story.
âTheyâre just songsâŠâ John muttered as Paul remained silent, and although Paul knew he only wanted to help, it was completely the wrong thing to say in that moment.
âTheyâre not just songs,â he said before he could stop himself. His voice had been quiet as he had said it and Paul briefly hoped John hadnât heard him over the sound of the tv that was still on in the background, but judging by the way John was staring at him, frown on his face, clearly not understanding at all what Paul was saying, he knew he had heard, leaving him with no choice now but to explain.
âMost of them arenât, anyway,â he continued, taking a deep breath as he looked up at John nervously. âSongwriting isnât just something I do for fun, John. For me⊠Well⊠Itâs like therapy almost, you know?â
âTherapy?â
Paul nodded.
âWhat do you need therapy for?!â John asked, with more force than Paul could handle at that point, making him shuffle anxiously in his seat as his eyes shifted instinctively to the door, as if looking for an escape.
âM-maybe I should just go-â
âWhat? No! You canât go now! Whatâs wrong? What do you need therapy for? I promise I wonât make fun of you if thatâs what youâre worried about. I just⊠want to know.â
Glancing back at John, Paul was surprised at the worry he saw in his eyes as he stared at him, anxiously waiting for him to continue, waiting for an answer, wanting to understand.
âWell, I erâŠâ he started, taking a deep breath before continuing, âfirstly, I didnât quit medical school because I didnât like it anymore. In fact, quitting was the exact thing I didnât want to do.â
He paused for a moment to think of how he was going to explain it. âIt was stupid, really, and Iâm glad I did now, but⊠I was having some issues back then. I wonât bore you with all that, because itâs really not important, and I donât really like thinking about it, but I had to quit uni because of it and to deal with it, my therapist advised me to keep a journal to help process my thoughts.â
âAnd thatâs what your notebook was?â
âWas. Is. I wasnât good at actually writing down my thoughts and feelings - I still canât - but with songwriting⊠it just comes out, and it helps. Itâs easier, to be able to look at it but not having to see it written down there explicitly. I mean, not all of the songs in there are like that, but most of them are and so when you read them and commented on them...â
âShit, Paul... I didnât know! Why didnât you tell me?â John asked and Paul scoffed at the mere suggestion of it.
âI donât know, John. For some reason I donât really like telling people I just met such personal things, but that must just be me,â he said, with a faint chuckle. It was more from relief that John took it so well, though the way the man cursed himself silently at his stupid remark, was admittedly somewhat amusing, if not endearing.
âWhat happened, then? At uni, I mean? Were you depressed orâŠ?â John asked after a moment of silence, curious to know more, only to quickly add he didnât have to tell him if he didnât want to or felt too uncomfortable to, but Paul told him it was alright, appreciating the way John didnât try to press him and instead seemed genuinely interested yet concerned. Â
âIt wasnât quite like that, no. For me, life just got too much at some point. Everything got too much and then finally I couldnât deal with it anymore and I shut down.â
âShut down?â
âI was told I had a mental breakdown of some sorts. My dad took me back home with him when he came to visit me one day and saw how bad it was. I-I never went back.â
âBut youâre alright now?â
âYeah, Iâm fine. I mean, as fine as I can be. These things, they take a while, but I can do everything again and generally I feel good. Or I think I do. Itâs a little weird. I havenât felt truly âgoodâ for a long time, so it takes some time getting used to.â
âChrist, PaulâŠâ
âBut really, Iâm fine!â Paul hastily insisted as he realised how that had sounded, âItâs not a big deal.â
âNot a big deal?! You had a mental breakdown and you're telling me itâs not a big deal?â
âItâs been two years since then, John. Iâm alright. Really,â he assured him, and although John still looked unsure, he gave in, sighing as he nodded.
âAlright. Yeah⊠If you say so. Thanks for telling me, though. I er⊠I canât imagine itâs easy. I certainly wouldnât be able to if I were in your placeâŠâ
âDonât think because Iâm telling you now, that itâs easy to talk about or that I even want to. You kinda left me with little choice, but⊠I mean not telling people was kinda why it got as bad as it did. And having something like that happen to you, itâs kind of a wake-up call you know? Youâve got to be honest with yourself and others, even if itâs scary. Somethings you simply cannot do on your own. Thereâs nothing weak about that.â
âYouâve been telling a lot of people, then?â
âNo. Just those who matter. I prefer not to. People look at you different when they know,â he said. When John just nodded, he took his chance to change the subject, having had quite enough of it. âNow, enough of this! Letâs watch a film thatâs actually good, shall we? Iâm done with Twilight for today and seeing as youâre clearly terrible at picking movies, Iâll pick something for us this time.â
Not waiting for a response, he got up to get the remote from the coffee table and turned off the film, unable to take it any longer, and searched through the available films until deciding on The Pink Panther, hoping the comedy and intrigue would lighten the mood and move them on from this conversation.
âYou know, Paul, you should have stopped me sooner if you were going to pick something like this for us to watch!â John said as the film popped up on the screen, recognising it right away.
âIâll remember that for next time,â Paul laughed and sat back down on the couch, closer to John than last time and drank from his beer as they watched the opening credits, humming along to the all too familiar theme song together, feet moving along to the song, before falling silent as the film truly began.
The transition from the serious subject to the film was easier than Paul had expected, as John seemed to move on from their conversation with relative ease. They could watch the film without any sort of awkwardness and laugh at the jokes without it feeling weird, for which Paul couldnât help but be thankful, having feared that the same thing would happen between John and him as had between him and another old friend. Â
After half an hour, John got them both something to eat as they began to feel rather peckish. Despite Paulâs suggestion to pause the film while he did so, John insisted he didn't, which in turn only resulted in Paul having to shout what was happening on screen back at John, something that proved impossible as Paul couldnât stop laughing at how ridiculous they were being. Annoyed at having missed a good ten minutes of the film, which he blamed on Paulâs utter inability to take his task serious, John for a moment refused to speak to Paul as they continued watching the movie, which only made Paul laugh more.
In the end, the only way for him to make it up to John was by giving him both his sausages, which came with his microwaved meal, and which John accepted as a peace offering with unrestrained eagerness. For Paul, though, it didnât matter seeing as he didnât eat meat anyway and would have given them to John regardless of whether or not he was upset with him. Not that he told John that, of course.
It was only when the film ended that Paul thought of checking the time. John got up to take the rubbish away - they had eaten out of the plastic containers with plastic forks to save John from doing the dishes again - and asked Paul if he wanted some coffee, to which Paul replied with an eager âyesâ, as he took his phone from the back pocket of his jeans. He nearly dropped it on the floor when he saw the time. Needless to say, 7.30 had long passed.
âOh fuck!â
âWhat? What happened?â John called from the kitchen, only the appear in the doorway not a second later with two coffee mugs in hand. All Paul could do was stare at his phone as he cursed himself under his breath, unable to understand why he was this fucking stupid.
âDot! I forgot to call Dot. Why didnât you say anything!?â he exclaimed, still staring at the four digits on his phone, as if hoping they would change to something else and someone was just playing a trick on him somehow.
âDonât go blaming me, dear! I didnât know what time you were meant to call her!â
âUgh, sheâs going to be pissed!â
âWell, what are you staring at your phone for then? Call her, stupid!â
âRight! Yes. Call her. Yes.â
Swallowing thickly, he unlocked his phone with trembling fingers and selected Dotâs number, ignoring the frustrated texts he had gotten, asking him where he was and why he wasnât answering his phone. He hoped, perhaps rather foolishly, that she wouldnât be upset with him for constantly forgetting their dates - because really, their calls was the closest things they had to dates these days. Thankfully, he didnât have to wait long before she picked up.
âPaul?â
âDot! Fuck, I-Iâm sorry. Iâm so sorry. I didnât know it was so late already!â Paul tried, clutching at his phone so hard it hurt his hand, his foot tapping rapidly on the floor. Dot, however, didnât pay any attention to his apologies.
âWhere even are you right now?! I tried George, but he said you just didnât come home!â
âIâm at a friendâs.â
âAt a friendâs?!â
âYes! I do actually have friends. Just because I havenât come home doesnât mean Iâve died or gotten lost or have been kidnapped!â Paul replied defensively without thinking, regretting it as soon as he had said it.
âWell, Iâm sorry for being worried, but the last time you suddenly didnât come home, your dad found you spacing out on your bedroom floor!â
âYou know I didnât mean it like that. Shit, Dot. Thatâs not going to happen. Iâm fine! I-â he started, but Dorothy interrupted him, her voice sounding more tired than angry, which Paul knew to be worse.
âI worry about you, Paul. I canât help it. When you donât answer your phone and no one knows where you are, it⊠it scares me.â
âDot, honey, Iâm fine. I promise you. You donât have to worry about me.â
âMaybe thatâs the problem...â Dot muttered in a tone that Paul didnât know how to place.
âW-what do you mean by that?â he asked, although somewhere he knew where this was going. He could hear it in everything: in her words, her tired voice, her lack of anger, and the sigh that followed. She was fed up. âDot?â
âMaybe we shouldnât do this anymore.â
âWhat do you mean? Not do what anymore?â Paul asked, his phone beginning to slip from his hand as fear grasped at his heart. Dot, however, didnât answer.
âWhere are you?â she asked instead.
âI told you, Iâm at a friendâs place. Dot, what do you mean you donât know if we should be doing this anymore?â
âWhat friendâs place?â Dot pressed on, and Paul froze for a moment.
âJohnâs. Our neighbour,â he answered.
âYou mean the guy who brought you home that time you got drunk during that poetry reading event?â
âYes, he er... heâs nice, actually.â
âYes, I thought youâd think that...â
âDot?â
There was a pause before she finally answered. âPaul, I know you kissed him. I know you were drinking and got high and then you kissed him before he brought you home. I know.â
âH-how did you-?â
âIâm not stupid. Pauline told me. Stuartâs sister. Heâs a friend of Johnâs, I believe. Not to mention that I found a particularly interesting tweet from the man himself that pretty much proved it. I didnât want to believe it at first. I wanted to hear it from you first, but-â
âTweet? What tweet?â Paul asked, frozen in place. He hadnât seen any tweets about them when he had gone through Johnâs twitter feed that one time. Well, except for that one about kissing guys who had just thrown up, but⊠that couldnât be the one she meant! It didnât even mention his name or anything else that could point to the fact that he was the one John had kissed that time. Surely she wouldnât have been able to draw any conclusions from that one. Could she? Or was it just that obvious?
âYou know, the one about the two of you on a date at a coffee shop about a week ago? Something about âgetting coffee with the cute throw-up guy?â or something along those lines. I recognised your bracelet, the one I gave you for your birthday. Really, Paul. If youâre going to cheat-â
âI wasnât cheating! Dot, that didnât mean anything! Yes, I kissed him, but Dot⊠I was drunk. And high! It didnât mean anything! Thatâs why I didnât tell you. I didnât want you to get upset about nothing. And that thing at the coffee shop was nothing! We just got some coffee together after class. As friends! That wasnât a date! I swear, Dot.â
âWell your supposed âfriendâ certainly thought it was.â
âIt was nothing! I swear! It was a joke! A stupid joke. To embarrass me. He likes making jokes and embarrassing me with stuff like that because he knows I love you, okay? Dot, I love you, you hear me? I love you.â
âI know you do. But fuck Paul⊠why didnât you fucking tell me? Whether it meant something or not-â
âI was going to! I swear I was. I tried. Before. But shit, DotâŠ. I didnât want to hurt you. I knew how youâd react, and with every day that passed when I didnât tell you, I knew I was just making it worse. And I tried, but every time something came up, like a birthday or you working late. And yes! I chickened out. And yes! I know I should have told you. But Christ, Dot, it didnât mean anything. I didnât mean to betray you. I wouldnât do that. Not to you. Never to you.â
âAnd yet you did.â
âNo, Dot, please-â Paul tried again, feeling where this was going, and not wanting it to, regretting every moment when he had even dared to think about what was now surely about to happen, every moment he had considered doing it himself.
âPaul,â Dot said, the calmness in her voice only making Paul more afraid.
âIâm so sorry, honey. We can work it out. I promise it was nothing. I-â
âPaul,â she simply said again, even softer this time, and for whatever reason, it got Paul to stop, his breathing slowing, his fingers trembling even more.
âY-yes?â
âMaybe itâs better if we stop.â
âS-stop? No, Dot, I-â
âCome on, Paul. You, me, this whole thing, it- itâs not working anymore. It hasnât been working for a long time and I donât care how often you tell me you love me. I know you love me and God knows I love you but⊠sometimes it isnât about that, you know? I mean, who are we even fooling anymore?â
âDot...â Paul said again, only to fall silent, having no words left that would change her mind, that could change any of this. She was right.
     The world felt hollow as Paul came home that evening. The sounds were far away and almost inaudible, the light didnât seem to be landing on his eyes and the air seemed to have vanished, leaving behind nothing, not even pressure. Everything he touched offered resistance, but yet he couldnât feel it. He couldnât feel the texture, the shape, whether it was hot or cold, hard or soft, solid or liquid. He could only touch, but he couldnât feel. He could hear but not listen. He could make sound but not speak. Nothing was making sense.
He could hear voices, unreal voices, lacking pitch and air, talking gibberish that faintly sounded like English. He couldnât understand them. Couldnât even understand what âEnglishâ was, only that whatever those voices were saying, that was âEnglishâ. They were laughing, speaking, and they were loud, too loud.
The only thing he could feel was the nausea in his stomach and the only thing he could hear the sounds of Dotâs voice, saying the same things over and over again, no matter how hard to he tried to push it away from his mind. He couldnât believe it had happened, couldnât believe that after weeks they had finally had that conversation, that they had finally addressed the issues they had been having for month, before he had even left Liverpool, before he had decided to go back to university. She was gone now - actually gone - and it left Paul feeling empty, empty in a way he hadnât felt for a long time, and it scared him. He had sat on Johnâs couch for another hour, after they had hung up, not speaking, unmoving, until John had guided him home, not knowing what else to do.
Stepping into the living room, he noticed George and Pattie on the couch, curled up together, sharing take-out chinese food, feeding each other bites, but all Paul could see was himself and Dot, doing the same thing, not too long ago, back at home, in Liverpool, one evening when his father and brother had both been out. Dot had looked beautiful then, blue eyes sparkling, blond hair curling in that perfect way around her ear, his hand on her tummy, feeling-
âPaul! God, Paul, what happened to you! Dot said she couldnât reach you, but I just thought you were with friends or something. Jesus, what happened to you? Come sit down,â George exclaimed as he saw the state his friend was in, and Paul wondered briefly just how bad he looked: pale face, red eyes, hunched-over, moving slowly from the shock. Before he could say anything, which wasnât as quick as it otherwise might be, George was at his side, holding him by his arm, a firm hand on his shoulder, guiding him towards the couch as Pattie moved some stuff aside to make room for him. Her expression was weird. And her eyes⊠so blue.
He was sitting down. He didnât realise he had been moving to do so, but he was sitting down, and yet he could not feel the couch under him. George was next to him, saying words Paul couldnât understand, while Pattie sat in front of him on the coffee table, watching him with that same odd expression. He knew he had to say something. He had to say what had happened. George expected him to, even though the reason why didnât make any sense to him at the moment. He had been in this situation before. He knew what people wanted. Even if it didnât make sense.
âDot.â
âWhat about Dot, Paul? Did you talk to her?â George asked, voice calm and soft, almost a whisper, which to Paul still sounded too loud. He nodded.
âShe- she broke up with me. Dot broke up with me,â he finally managed, and before he knew what he was doing, he had fallen against Georgeâs chest and silent tears were streaming down his cheeks. âShe broke up with me.â
The year is 1934, and the Golden Age of Hollywood is in full swing. Paul McCartney is a new actor on the scene, fresh off his debut musical-comedy movie that smashed box office records and charmed the critics. His next role is in a big-budget thriller film co-starring one of Hollywoodâs biggest namesâa one John Lennon, infamous for his versatile acting ability and leading roles and attitude. It will come down to more than just top billing as the two verbally spar with each other (both in-character and out of it) and harass their fellow actors and crew to the point of distraction. Of course, itâs well-known that a solid way to measure a filmâs success is through the chemistry of its leadsâŠwhich might be less of a problem than anticipated.
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"When it hit, John thought a bullet had broken the windshield. He half rose in his seat, his hands gliding over his body, searching for wounds. He was unharmed. The broken body of a bird was caught in the windshield wipers, its tiny wings bent at an unnatural angle. He could see its pinprick eyes, minute beak. Pink streaked the glass, a daubing of blood. One morbid step in a ritual sacrifice. John felt his stomach heave. He was trapped inside John Lennon. Trapped inside that monster. He was writhing against his skin, against his bones, he needed out. Needed out now.
âStop,â John said, a mounting panic grabbing hold of him with its clammy hands. âStop the car! Fuck, just stop the car, okay?â
(They say itâs a portent of death.)
He stood up, his head grazing the dripping palate of the beast. He could see a flash of Siâs nondescript face in the mirror. He squinted and saw a flash of bone white, the sharp-angled, cheekless, bare-toothed grin of a skull."
Fanart for
"Bird Passing Through" by Savageandwise/darkspaceknight
Done for the Mclennon Big Bang artists' challenge.
San Francisco, Spring 1967. The Summer of Love is around the corner, the city is full of music, sex and drugs. Paul watches from across the water at Berkeley, happy to be on the outside looking in. That is until a twist of fate brings him face to face with John, a young musician here to experience everything the city has to offer.