Macca's Medicine Jar

“Oh, starstruck, is he? How nice.” Lennon pitches his voice up and flutters his lashes coquettishly behind thick lenses as he passes the other lad, pulling that stupid face he’s always doing with his tongue packed into his bottom lip. Though he has finally been gifted sight by his submission to Mimi’s long-standing desires (he can still hear her shouting after him when he slides the round-rimmed glasses on each day), John accepts Paul’s habitual gesture without question and shares his appreciation by not taking the piss out of it. He often longs for touch of any kind, and to receive it without asking is a novelty he hopes to preserve. It moves him so that, as the bassist releases him, John is sent positively coasting into the foyer, miles away from where he’d been on the doorstep. This was exactly what he’d needed to come home to, as queer as it may sound; from the very first day they met, McCartney exuded a friendly (now familiar) warmth he’s long since come to rely on. They balance each other. He follows as the other Beatle continues into the bowels of Cavendish, though he lags behind to make a casual entrance into the kitchen rather than following hot on Paul’s heels. His lingering brings him knee to nose with a tiny creature John might have mistaken for a lump of mop heads about two months ago. “You’ve got a dog!” He calls out in dumb surprise, and after a ginger dance of acquaintance, he makes it past the rascal and into the threshold with a genuine grin, watching as his new pal wiggles behind him.  “No biscuits,” Lennon gapes, aiming his scandalized expression down toward the excited pup. “We’ve got t’get out’ve ‘ere,” He then levels his gaze at McCartney once more as he bends at the waist to give the dog’s mop-top a nice, affectionate rub. “I’ll take a tea if you can spare it.”  He makes a point not to mention that no one’s heard from him since he’s been off the plane. How Cynthia might be sitting at home waiting on a phone-call with Julian toddling around the den, worrying and wondering to herself if he’d made it back safely. The guilt begins to bleed into his high, and as he ventures a little further into the room, John seems in a daze as he mulls over whether or not he ought to ring her up before he leaves here. Though it is a silly question, the guitarist is ripe for distraction and follows his partner’s line of questioning willingly as he eventually makes it to Paul’s side.  Of course he’s been writing. A couple lines or so here and there as he lazed about between takes out in the autumnal Spanish sun that would most likely sit in the bottom of his drawer for a while… but he does have one full composition to show for his two month absence. His gaze drops into the ice box as well, keen on figuring out what’s so bloody important about the contents, and his arms cross over his chest. “You show me y’ers an’ I’ll show ye mine.”

Luckily Pauls’ entire head is submerged in the icebox as John’s lewd one-liner drops like a pin in a silent room.  He feels the heat return to his cheeks as his flustered mind derails into all of its various implications.  Truth be told, he doesn’t have terribly much to show for their hiatus- a rework of an older song, one he intends to put more percussion to, thought he’d be hard pressed to admit that he finds it difficult to write in the other’s absence, even if they don’t write together anymore.  Something about John’s presence still fuels him, despite the fierce competition that bubbles up between them- which is why their partnership has devolved into writing in the same room rather than working on the same composition.  He glances at  Lennon, who is now idling at his side, with an age-old expression of exasperation and bewitchment, his doe eyes striking with their countering, cunning, companions, and suddenly their proximity becomes dizzying when he gets a whiff of him. There’s something exotic there, a beguiling musk of heat and sand and dry air, something that makes him feel anemic next to him.  He doesn’t dare tell John how much it suits him; it’s almost criminal what a little Vitamin D will do.

               “We’ll show ‘em at th’same time,” he eventually tuts dismissively, wagging his head a bit, discretely collecting an ice cube and extending a bold wrist forward to deposit it beneath the collar of John’s shirt.

Suddenly horrifically insecure about how the other Beatle will take the impromptu tactical assault, he swiftly shifts gears and closes the ice box, allowing Lennon a second or two to suffer in private as he saunters towards the stove range, obediently filling up the kettle.  Surely it was benign enough- but was it some sort of passive aggressive move to take John down a few notches and see him squirm?  As exhilarating as the unsolicited visit is, part of it almost feels like a power play- - but he quickly reasons with himself that John’s come home, and his heart is swelling at the thought that his place was likely the first place he’s thought of.  The prospect of it creates a swarm in the pit of his belly. He puts the burner on and turns towards the wriggling pup at their feet, avoiding his companion’s gaze and stifling a peal of nervous laughter as he beams at Martha who’s bearing all her teeth and tongue at them from under her fringe.  He feels himself melting towards the floor and he scoops her writhing little body between his legs, capturing her in a full embrace, eventually peering back up at John with that cloying, desperate, sort of new-mum look.

By the time the door begins to creak open, John’s convinced himself they’re going to have a horrible row because he’s turned up uninvited (despite the mountain of evidence there is to the contrary). The sound itself sends his heart plunging into his stomach, heavy and fast like a bomb during the blitz, but when his fellow Beatle appears on the other side, the waters settle quite quickly. Lennon lets out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding, the air taking any remaining bravado out of him along with it as it escapes. It’s only Paul, he’ll remember thinking when he recalls the whole event to the bassist the next time they’re together. For now, the storm that had been raging inside him subsides leaving behind a mere puddle. John stands about ankle-deep in it now, positively relieved to see nothing drastic has changed about the other lad in his absence. He’d needed it that way, he realizes. Amid the sea of change in which they’re currently all adrift, he’d been counting on his partner to be the life raft, the one bit of familiarity he could cling to until they found their footing as a purely studio band and life, if never ‘good’ again, was at least some semblance of normal. And, unlike Cynthia who’d always been shifting to impress him, here was McCartney, a little more mature than before but still the same old bright-eyed lad he’d always been, seemingly waiting for his return. This was why, at the airport, he’d asked Les to stop off at Cavendish, first before returning home– and it turned out to be a brilliant call. 

Paul offers, at first, nothing but an ‘Oh’– something John loosely considers fixating on until his companion speaks again and the guitarist realizes he’s watching McCartney’s lips a little too keenly. He’s not exactly sure he remembers how or why his gaze dropped– it just sort of happened, as it tended to sometimes. He can only curse himself and stew in his embarrassment as he redirects his focus back toward the other lad’s eyes, just in time for the two of them to gawk at each other like two specimens on opposite sides of a thick glass wall. He follows Paul’s glance over his own shoulder quickly to snatch a glimpse of the Phantom idling in the drive, before his interest is pulled right back like a boomerang, just in time to catch the other Beatle’s stare quite literally raking over him. The whole spectacle is crystal clear thanks to his new granny glasses, and Lennon cannot help the cruel, mischievous smile that spreads on those thin lips of his, the self-preserving idea that bubbles up in his mind. There’s no way McCartney hadn’t seen him staring– and there’s definitely no way he’s going to let his mate have one over on him, so he does what he does best. 

“Take a picture,” He sniffs once. Looks right into opposing hazels.  “Last ye longer.” The malice is minimal here. After all– he’s much too chuffed to cut the bassist down to size at the moment. In fact, he’s quite intent now on finding a way that isn’t too queer for the two of them to embrace each other as they had done when parting ways two months prior. Where before he’d been idling in the comfort of his smoke-packed backseat, blanching at the arrival of this exact moment, John is now up for the challenge of bridging the time and pretending none of it has passed. His hands still in his pockets, he bumps the toe of his boot gently against the door frame, uncharacteristically shy, his heart suddenly galloping as though it’s aware he’s on the precipice of something quite monumental. Oh, shut up, He thinks. It’s only a bloody hug. 

“Well?” He says quite suddenly to cut through all the ogling they’re both quite guilty of. “Are ye gonna let me in or aren’t ye?”

The hairs on the back of his neck, his hackles, shoot up in attention as they apparently devour each other’s souls in the doorway.  It’s maddening and Paul’s aura squirms in agony as he’s helplessly caught beneath the cat claw of Lennon’s gaze.  He smirks, almost dumbfounded, his heart palpitating as John’s eyes catch his lips and he swears those new spectacles can see even deeper into him than before. And once he starts to feel a bit of heat come into his cheeks, he looks away quickly, having lost the game of chicken. More words come and that lecherous grin, thankfully, because even in the form of daggering banter they are a respite as they waltz on layered brick and cement.  If they were hounds they’d be bending circles around each other. Luckily they’ve caught each other in the act so there’s isn’t terribly much to say, hopefully just a moment in time that will be swallowed up in the waves of the upcoming weeks, when they’ll all be back together again, a fragment of pure speculation amongst a million others, becoming undecipherable and thus, beautifully meaningless.  

“Sorry- - starstruck,” he snickers, peaking his brows, ribcage unhitching for the first time in minutes, delicately stepping out of the way to allow John passage, though not before cupping a bit at his elbow to lead him into the foyer. Not quite what he had in mind, though, nor was it a continuation of whatever that near primal mating dance on the steps was. Just a matter of reflex from almost a decade of leading John through crowds and around corners.

Paul gingerly releases him and pads down the corridor towards the kitchen, feeling a bit hollow now and the ache in his knee returning, hell-bent on finding a steak before he starts limping.

“Y’know, ye’ could ‘ave called from th’airport.  I don’t even ‘ave biscuits,” he chuckles, casting Lennon a demure gaze as he opens the ice box, peering inside with his hands on his hips- Christ- what’s he doing?… He thinks to ask about Cyn and Jules, or if he’s called anyone, but come to think of it, he’s likely had the least contact with Lennon out of the entire lot.

As the river is disrupted by McCartney’s less than graceful entrance, some of it splashes back toward the younger lad. George, tittering in amusement, shuffles backward on the shore to keep the offending droplets off of his bare legs. His chest is still expanding and contracting, winded from the quick jaunt over like any proper smoker might be, and he bends at the waist to brace his hands on his knees, watching his mate’s prone form as it bobs without resistance along with the calm and steady motion of the water. Harrison squints against the reflection of the sunlight that bounces off of the river’s surface, the more mischievous side of him contemplating for a moment whether or not he’d like to leave the bassist floating along and take off with his strewn threads back to the theatre, but the sweat that’s already beading at his temples and the way the quickly growing light heats his scalp under that dark mop of his makes him think better of it. The relief of the water is calling to him, and judging by the way Paul’s limbs have gone limp, it’s already done quite a healing number on the bruised and battered bassist. With that settled, the younger lad walks backward a yard or two, takes a steadying breath, and jogs back toward the water’s edge. Harrison’s done some swimming recreationally back home, and it shows in the neat arc his body makes as he jumps from the bank at the last moment. The way he cuts through the water as he dives in as though he belongs in it, arms out ahead of him, expression screwed up into one of intense focus. The river is cold, but it’s a welcome respite from the already humid morning air, and George allows his eyes to wrench open as he’s submerged, delighting in the familiar discomfort the water’s introduction brings as he takes in the murky visions from below. Lingering underwater, George feels awake and alive in a way the uppers cannot and have not achieved, like he’s plugged into the ebb and flow of the waves, breathing and teeming with life like they are, yet peaceful and unbothered as he exists within them. The Indra club and the Bambi Kino are far from his mind as he drops in, finally fully present in the moment with no jitters to pull his attention one way or the other. He can see a dark shape that might resemble his companion, and with a quick couple of strokes, the guitarist’s crown pops up right beside McCartney before he drags an open hand along the water’s surface to give his mate a rough splash.  ”’Ey ah… message from Mister Jones ‘ere f’er a Mister Pol McCharmly. ‘E says keep y’er soul, ‘e wants a leggy bird instead.” Cheeky.

The water jostles him a fair bit as George disturbs his tiny oasis, causing his limp body to flounder in disorientation before he begins to tread again, squinting at the other lad who appears to be slightly more seaworthy at the present.  The swell of water is deep and reflective and there’s a glare around Harrison until only his silhouette is visible, making him seem ethereal, or perhaps it’s all the lack of sleep.  He stares absentmindedly, browbeat by another blip of creeping dissociation, almost convinced he’s peering into the future, at another George,until he snaps back at that verbal backhand, the entirety of his expression souring, though still in good nature. Regardless of how shit he feels, the presence of the eternal knot in his stomach is becoming more understood as the realization that they are on the cusp of something life altering.  That this may be one of their final few moments as two young Scousers mucking about; his mind’s been playing tug all day but somehow he and George have found themselves straddling a precarious line together, and they may not be the same tomorrow.  Now that’s definitely something he can abandon for now, and he immediately immerses himself in the task at hand, preserving his tender ego from asphyxiation in the murky beds beneath their feet.

“OH HO- Ye’ can tell Mist’r Jones t’shove it.  Can’t reckon he sees much leg at all down thur, so beggars can’t be choosers!”