Well, well, well. The prodigal son returns. It's hard for John, slinking out of the backseat of his Rolls to stand in front of Cavendish after so many months absence. While he, their often rebellious leader, ought to be buzzing at the opportunity to saunter into McCartney's home with his (decidedly not-Beatley) new haircut and his skin freshly kissed by golden rays in sunny Spain, to frankly piss on any lingering notion that he needs the poor sod... The guitarist is nearly crippled by the fear that he may be sideswept with the other side of the coin. For it's a well known fact that as much as he's grown or hasn't grown, Paul's most likely done the same, if not more. That's the very nature of their relationship, and the threat of Paul having grown past their tangible push and pull makes his first step seem more like it's off a steep cliff than up a driveway. Of course there is an added layer that no one is privvy to besides Lennon himself. His teeth grind with a little extra force against the (quickly hardening) lump of gum in his mouth at the intrusive thought that sneaks up on him as he begins the quick jaunt up to the front door. In a desperate bid to latch on to some form of confidence, John rolls his shoulders back and one hand slides into his pocket, chin tipping up in an age old habit of staring down his nose to look tough. Now that he's surrendered to his prescribed specs, however, his eyes are no longer thin, pinched lines, but sleepy half-moons. He looks quite soft in the dull grey that saturates every corner of England, wind ruffling recently shorn locks, but the insecurity that begins to spring from somewhere deep within hits him in rolling waves. It only takes a couple moments for this hemmorage to begin to morph into frustration, which is where he wades when he arrives at the door, pissed that the stakes feel so high for him, and jealous of McCartney's relatively easier position. Knuckles rap abruptly against the wood in front of him as John simmers, wavering back and forth between anger and fear, and hating the whole trip. He waits only a beat for the other lad's footsteps before he gives the door an impatient kick with the toe of his boot. The action is swiftly followed by a tinge of embarrassment, and the musician takes a very slow, deep breath in to quell the inner turmoil before he's face to face with his partner. He spends his remaining time willing the universe to keep him from making an arse of himself while the other half of his mind begins (un)helpfully providing a list of 'what-ifs' that might occur during their reintroduction ranging anywhere from logical to radically implausible, though it is impossible for him to discern in his present state which is thought is which. @xnowhere-man

    there's haze in the air as george stands to the side of the control panel in rude studio, cuppa in one hand, joint in the other one that's casually propping him up against the soundboard. he's present in no way but physically for a few beats, though wherever his mind is wandering is clearly amusing given the way his lips turn down at one corner beneath his mustache. like he's trying to prevent himself from looking too chuffed.     "so," he says finally, raising the grass to his lips for a quick toke, eyes trained on the glass looking into the studio as that reluctant grin from moments before finally breaks free. "do i 'ave t'worry about this jackson kid?" when his eyes find paul's, they're half-lidded, one thick brow raised, smile tight like it usually is when he's stirring the pot for a laugh. // @xnowhere-man 

"No, no, no, no, no, ye've got no bloody taste y'swine," John, who's been draped in his seat for the last hour, suddenly rises like a mummy from its tomb in his passion. He lands hunched, elbows on knees, his first two fingers and thumbs pinched together in front of his face to hone in on his point (or more likely to keep it from slipping away). The joint they've been sharing has long since gone out as it rests wedged high between the first and second finger of his right hand, but Lennon is too far gone to be aware of this, or of his holding it hostage for the duration of the conversation. “No one who wasn’t off their head would put Piano Man over Th’Stranger. That’d be like sayin’ we’re the second best band on campus, y’know that? ‘Just The Way You Are’, 'Only The Good Die Young', ‘Moving Out'! It's hit after hit. ’Vienna’, Pol. Vienna ‘ates ‘er shoes!” The last bit is only quick wordplay, but the guitarist says it as emphatically as he does the rest of his argument, attempting to take a hit as a button. When he’s greeted with a mouthful of bud rather than a cloud of smoke, his only response is a quick chuckle, a scandalized expression, and an amused declaration. “Ooo, it’s out,” He then offers the clip out to McCartney, followed by a charming waggle of his brow. “Ye fancy lightin’ tha’ for us?” // @xnowhere-man -- this is just a dumb modern au thingie