All over Bubbles
Title: All over Bubbles (Chapter 24)
Author: macca44552
Pairing: J/P, P/G
Rating: NC-17
Warning: sexual situations, drug and alcohol use, language
Summary: John notices something that pisses him off: George has a thing for Macca. So John settles this in the only way he knows how: a bet. Who will win Paul’s heart: John or George? And how does Ringo feel about this whole thing?
A/N: Grrr! I’m sorry that this took so long to get out! I was really busy over the weekend, and then Uni decided to smother me with a lot of work! *sigh* Well, it’s here now! :D The next update should be speedier; I’ve got virtually nothing to do this weekend aside from watching re-runs of House! :D
Disclaimer: I don’t own The Beatles, nor do I claim to. This is a fictional story and is not written to be libelous.
Chapters 1-23
Chapter 24
Dear Amber,
Well, it happened. The fanged one got Snarninia. There wasn’t a fucking thing I could do about it either. I watched and I fucking screamed…but it didn’t matter in the end. Snarninia had made her daft-as-fuck choice. She has brain damage anyhow.
And then the big nosed one told me that Snarninia and Fangy split up. When I heard this I was so fucking happy that I started leaking, but now I’m just confused. I dunno if I even want to go after her anymore…the dumb bitch. I shoot out vomit every time I look at her.
Speaking of bile, Fangy tried to apologize to me last night. Fucking idiot. Philip’s dead, you know; Fangy murdered him. Then he thought that he could shove a two cent bar of soap in my hands and expect me to fucking forgive him! After all the shite that he put me through in the last couple of days and he thought that a banal bit of wash was going to send me jumping into his arms? I’m going to revise a statement that I wrote previously; both Fangy and Snarninia have brain damage.
Anyroad, I don’t know what to do. I don’t think I want to continue with Snarninia…not until something fucking changes. Then there’s a thought in my head about the fact that she split with Fangy; for some reason, I think that decision could cause more problems for me than your tiny clouded brain could possibly imagine.
Alright, this shite’s getting long. (Harharhar!) So I’m gonna toss it up. By the way, in your last letter, you mentioned something about surprising me…what the fuck is that all about?
Love, The Incredible John Lennon of Grate Britain!
P.s. Thanks for your kelp. I don’t know what I would do without you, Amberphibian!
John finished up his letter with a crude little drawing of ‘Fangy’ drowning in a tub of boiling mercury before folding it up, putting it in an envelope, and copying down the address that Amber had previously given John. Because of her job, Amber was constantly moving around-chasing the clouds, as she called it. John found her lifestyle to be enormously exciting. He envied her-she wasn’t tied down, married, or expected to be anywhere; she could do what she pleased and follow the clouds for her mental research. If she found any new data, she would give it to a specialist and be paid accordingly. If not, well, her grandfather had a load of money hiding in his mattress, now didn’t he?
John stood up and stretched around a bit.
“Going anywhere?” Ringo asked, lifting his eyes from his book. John sneered.
“That a book, Rings? I didn’t know you could read,” he said.
“Oh I can’t,” Ringo deadpanned and John laughed. Ringo could always make him laugh; the little bugger had skill.
“If this were any of your business, I would tell you that I’m going to drop this off to Mal. Since this isn’t any of your business, however, I’m just going to tell you that I’m off to the loo,” John said as he waved the envelope around in the air. Ringo smiled.
“Have fun with Mal, then.”
John held up his middle finger before making his way out of their suite and into the room that Mal and Neil were sharing. Knocking, John decided, was for pissers, so he crashed inside the room only to find the two assistants getting their arses beat by a Mister Brian Epstein.
“He could have been recognized!” Eppy shouted. Mal and Neil were listening to Eppy’s words with their tails between their legs.
“Sorry…he wanted to get out, though,” Mal said. Eppy stiffened.
“You should have come to me first! I don’t know how you two would think that it’s okay to sneak him out of the hotel and have him wander around the streets without my permission!”
“He wasn’t by himself! We were with him!” Neil said.
“Oh and that makes me feel a lot better! If he wanted to go out, I would have arranged it! I could have gotten him the best body guards and police escorts-”
“He didn’t want any of that, Brian! He wanted to get out!” Neil explained.
Brain, red and shaking, said, “You should have asked me first!! For hours I had no idea where he was!! Then I come to find out that you two had smuggled him off to parade about in the streets!!!” Ah, so that’s where he was. John was wondering how the fuck George summoned up a shiny new Gibson 12 string, and now he knew-George had gone gallivanting with Abbott and Costello around Canada. Bastard. What gave him the right to go out and have fun while John was wallowing around on his bed!?!
“You make it sound like we forced him or something!”
“I bet Eppy would like to force him to do a few things,” John grinned. Eppy turned around.
“John, I don’t have time for this right now,” Eppy said through clenched teeth before turning back to Mal and Neil, “I should have been notified of this decision!!! What if something had happened out there?! What if he had been recognized? Or worse; what if he had been kidnapped!!?” Eppy shouted.
“At least that would have saved us the trouble of kicking him out of the band,” John reasoned. Eppy gave him a death glare.
“We guard him all the time! What makes you think that he would have been kidnapped under our watch?!!” Neil said.
“Yeah. And George was wearing a pretty good disguise,” Mal offered. Eppy sighed and rubbed at his brow furiously. From his place behind Brian, John put a hand on his hip and copied Eppy’s movements. This action caused Mal and Neil to erupt with laughter and Brian to swing around quickly to find John mimicking what he was doing.
“I see you’re in a good mood,” Brian said testily. John waved his hand around queerly.
“You always put me in a good mood, honey,” John said in his camp voice, finishing off with a giggle. As Mal and Neil hysterically laughed, Eppy stared at John ferociously, but John could’ve sworn that he saw his manager’s mouth twitch.
“It never happens again,” Brian warned Mal and Neil before he stalked out of the room.
“Thanks for distracting him,” Neil said and John smirked.
“Anytime,” John responded as he walked up to Mal and handed him the envelope.
“Er…John…” Mal ventured nervously as John turned around and headed for the door. He stopped in his tracks.
“Hmm?”
“Ah…well…” John turned around in enough time to catch Mal fiddling with the bottom of his shirt before he dropped the garment in embarrassment, “Er…Neil and I didn’t get the chance to ask George yesterday…because…yeah. But we were wondering…if the stuff about George and Paul was true,” Mal blubbered. John smirked and crossed his arms.
“’Course. They’re a couple of filthy queers. I caught them blowing each other once…it was dead nasty,” John said. Mal and Neil looked confused for a moment, but he didn’t care to stick around and humor them all day. He turned around and exited their suite. Now that Mal and Neil knew that George was queer-maybe they’d think twice about taking Harrison on a little outing, lest he decide to bend some dog over and start fucking it up the arse.
He closed the door behind him and looked around the hallway briefly before he came face to face with him.
“John,” Paul said. Now, John was in a fairly good mood that day, relatively speaking. Ever since Ringo had informed him about Paul and George’s little split, John hadn’t been able to resist feeling happy about that bit of news…even though he knew what he had to do. And for fucks sake, he didn’t want to have to do that now.
John ignored him and continued walking down the hallway. He was ecstatic that Paul was making an effort to talk to him, but he really couldn’t handle all of these emotions at the moment. A dark cloud was settling itself over John’s form, and the little bit of happiness that he had collected was slowly staring to fade away.
“John!” Paul called after him. To John’s happiness and horror, Paul started following him.
“Go away, Paul,” John groaned. Paul gave off a little sigh, and John had to remind himself that it wasn’t sexy.
“You’re going to forgive me,” he said cockily. John smirked. Fucking egotistical maniac.
“When you’re dead, son,” John called over his shoulder. Paul chuckled.
“You’re going to forgive me,” Paul sang. John bit his tongue as the sound of his voice went right to his groin. Then a startling realization stung John’s mind…he had already forgiven him. Awhile ago, in fact.
“I can’t wait until you forgive me,” Paul continued to sing. John walked faster, hoping that Paul hadn’t heard him chuckle.
“You’re going to forgive me!”
“Paul, shove off!” John shouted as he turned around quickly, facing Paul head on. Paul stopped, a cocky smile plastered all over his delicate skin.
“Have you forgiven me yet?” he asked innocently. John snorted.
“Why would I forgive a queer like you?” he asked maliciously. Paul stiffened and chewed on his lower lip. Fuck! Why did John do that?! Why did he bait Paul!? Christ, did he want to move this conversation along? No, he didn’t, but if Paul was going to respond in the way that John suspected he would…
“Me and George…we’ve stopped…doing that. We’re not queer,” Paul said in a small voice, a sense of pleading becoming apparent in his large eyes. John sighed and rubbed his brows. Yes, Paul responded the way he knew he would. Now what the bloody hell was he supposed to do? He couldn’t prolong the conversation, could he? Fuck! He wished that there wasn’t so much at stake. John was a master of manipulation, and this moment was no exception, but the risk involved was enormous. John could rein victorious, or he could fall flat on his face. He’d already fallen on his face, he was still in the process of getting back up, and he was in no mood to do that again. However, the thought of winning…of succeeding was overpowering the larger chance of losing.
“John? Look, I mean it. I’m not a fucking qu-”
“You should go back with Harrison,” John blurted. There! He said it! As a block of cement lifted from his chest, an atomic bomb went off in his stomach.
“What!??!?” Paul shouted, his eyes bulging out comically. John bit his tongue.
“I was…when I found out,” John started, summoning his acting chops to try and make himself seem as remorseful as possible, “…when I first found out about you and Harrison…I was confused, alright? And pissed as fuck. So I exploded. Nothing new, that. Look…I don’t have a problem with you bein’ queer, alright? I haven’t got a problem with it at all, Paul,” John stressed as he carefully watched Macca’s shocked expression, “I didn’t know how to handle it before, but I do now. This won’t break up the band, promise. And if you want to go and hold hands with Harrison, then fucking do it. Just make sure you have towels nearby,” John finished with a joke.
“Er…what?” Paul asked. His voice sounded new and scratchy. John sighed out of irritation.
“I’m not pissed!! Just be with Harrison!” John said, even though the thoughts inside his head were drastically different from the sounds coming out of his mouth. Paul was still standing there, mouth agape, and staring at him as if he were some type of odd-looking being from Planet Starkey.
“You keep looking at me like that, I’ll knock yer teeth in,” John threatened as he held up his fist. Paul blinked a couple of times before it appeared as though his mind was congealing again.
“I…so, wait…You’re okay with me and George?” Paul asked, disbelief etched in every syllable.
“Yes, you tit! I’m okay with it!” he said. Truth was, John was fucking disgusted by the very thought of Paul and Harrison shagging each other. But he had no other choice. When Ringo told him that Paul broke things off with George, underneath all of that happiness that had encompassed him at this bit of news, John knew that he had made a mistake. John and Paul were best mates; Macca didn’t do anything if it didn’t have John’s checkmark on it (of course this didn’t apply to all things, if the lovely Jane Asher wasn’t proof enough of that). And John, through his bitter and angry words, had instilled a horrible thought in Macca’s head; Paul thought that John didn’t like queers. Paul was affected deeply by his words and the last thing John wanted was to make Paul think that he didn’t approve of queer relationships, otherwise, how the fuck was he going to get with Macca!?! John knew that just telling Paul that he was okay with queers wasn’t going to do the trick; he had to prove it. And prove it well. If accepting Paul and George’s shenanigans wasn’t proof enough, then he didn’t know what was!
The risk was detrimental. Paul could listen to John then run right up to Harrison and shag him to death. John couldn’t keep Paul on a tight leash either, because then he would suspect too much. Paul had to have some blinding proof that John was okay with queers (actually, John had a momentary thought of staging a scene in which he would kiss Eppy while Paul watched, but the idea of snogging a male that wasn’t Paul made his stomach churn nauseatingly. John hadn’t even let Eppy kiss him in Spain!). Lennon had no choice. He had to allow Macca to go off with George…let them make up…and then somehow catch them in the act of doing something particularly fairy-like. Once that happened, John had to act nonchalant, accepting. Then Paul would believe him. After that, all John had to do was make a quick little move on Paul and bam! Paul was his.
If not, though, then he was done.
“Hello…John?” Paul said, snapping his fingers in front of John’s range of vision.
“What?” John swatted at Paul’s digits.
“I’ve been talking to you for the last couple of minutes!”
“Really? Must’ve been boring, then,” John drawled.
Paul sighed and glared at him in annoyance, “I asked you if you were just taking the piss.”
“I’m not joking, Paul! Bring Harrison out now! You two can snog right in front of me!” John said, hoping that he successfully hid his grimace. It was a small one, though, because in actuality, having Paul and George make up right there in front of him was the best thing that could happen.
“John, I’m not a queer,” Paul said seriously. John stared at him. Ah. So the little boy was in denial.
“Paul, I don’t care what the fuck you are. You’re my mate, alright?” John said in a gentle voice. The last thing he needed was to have a debate with Paul on whether or not he was queer.
“John…” Paul trailed off. John searched his eyes (Paul was ridiculously easy for John to read, even when he was closed-off) and found that Paul’s skepticism was slowly fading away.
“You know,” John said after Paul had been creepily staring at him for the last few seconds, “I did what your annoying granny lyrics told me to do and I forgave you. If you’re just going to stand around and-OW!”
John recoiled as he felt the effects of Paul’s fist crashing into his arm.
“What the bleedin’ hell was that for!?!” John asked as he rubbed his arm. Paul smirked.
“For bein’ such a git before,” Paul answered.
“You say ‘git’. I say ‘respectable human being’.”
“Same thing,” Paul responded and John laughed heartedly.
“Cheeky. Next time I need a synonym, I’ll just ask the great Paul McCartney!” John said as the both of them started walking back towards their suite.
“That would be the best course of action to take, yes.”
“Gear. Then I’ll ask him the next time that I see him.”
“He’s walking right next to you, John,” Paul said, speaking in a posh accent.
“No he’s not, James,” John stressed.
“Fuck off, Winston,” Paul retorted, only to be violently poked in the stomach.
“Keep that up son and I’ll rip your tongue out and shove it down your throat,” John deadpanned.
“Only Shotton can call you that, then?”
“Shotton? Haven’t heard from him in awhile,” John responded slyly and the two Beatles crashed into their suite, roaring with laughter. George Harrison was sitting on the couch, strumming his new guitar before he looked up and saw who had just entered the suite.
“Anyroad, I’ve got a song that I’ve been working on. Wanna take a listen?” John asked, carefully watching George’s shocked expression.
“Yeah okay. I’ll get me guitar,” Paul said excitedly, seemingly not noticing George as he bounced off into his room. And there it was. George’s expression turned from shock to envy. John couldn’t help but smirk.
“Ah! It’s so nice to have friends, isn’t it George?” John sneered before closing himself in his room and eagerly waiting for Paul McCartney to join him.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Nothing was going as he planned.
He supposed that he shouldn’t be complaining, but George and Paul still hadn’t talked to one another. John hoped that by telling Paul that he was okay with his and George’s relationship that Macca would get off his arse and apologize to Harrison! Now John was just playing the waiting game; waiting until their pointless row could be over with so that they could make up, John could catch them petting each other or something, gain Paul’s trust, and then make a move on Macca. There was always the thought popping in John’s mind that he could just get the fuck on with it and shove Paul against a wall regardless of Paul’s current state with Harrison, but he just couldn’t bring himself to do that. He needed Paul’s complete trust. He needed Paul to believe, without a doubt, that John was accepting of queers, otherwise Paul might just think that John was flirting with him as a joke. Or out of curiosity. But underneath all of these excuses that John was telling himself; underneath all of John’s risky, complicated, and downright unnecessary plans; John knew that he wasn’t going to make a move on Macca. He didn’t fucking want to.
No, nothing was going as planned. Most of all their tour. After their stay in Canada, they were supposed to fly down to Florida, but a hurricane was apparently heading right for the city that they were going to be playing in.
So they had to go to Key West instead.
Not that John minded. He was in the mood for a bit of a vacation. He just wished that Mal and Neil didn’t decide to act like complete wankers the second that they stepped into their new hotel room. Neil singlehandedly grabbed every Beatle and shoved them on the couch while Mal slammed a few bottles of whiskey on the tea table.
“You lads are going to talk to each other. No more of this bullshite! No more buggering up shows! I don’t care if you get drunk to do it, just move past this shite, please,” Neil demanded. John snorted but did as he was asked. Not like he needed help on how to be more social. John was friendly with everyone who mattered. The one who really needed the help was Harrison, who wasn’t even talking to Ringo. John hadn’t a clue why the two of them were in a row, and he found the subject to be more than intriguing. He had wanted to ask Ringo for days, but he was afraid of upsetting the lad.
Surprisingly, they all followed Neil’s directions. After Ringo had tried to apologize to Harrison (but of course the stubborn git wouldn’t forgive him) he lapsed into silence and practically started spilling the alcohol down his throat. George drank in silence as well, throwing deadly glares at John and Paul when necessary. John couldn’t blame him though, since and he Paul were the liveliest of the group; they talked, laughed, and joked around like two lads that were good and drunk.
Very drunk.
In the late night hours after George had angrily retired to his room and Ringo had fallen asleep on the couch, John and Paul were still awake. The joking was gone, though. A much more serious topic was painting the air.
“She was brilliant, you know. Always packed me my lunch, just in case I wanted to hang out with me mates at school. She smelled good too. And her hair was soft. She always hugged me when she came home,” Paul whispered. On any other occasion, Paul would have spoken about his mother with a forced detachment, but the presence of alcohol was far too strong, and he ended up shedding a tear as he said those words. John looked away and took a sip of his whiskey. He didn’t remember how their jovial conversation had elapsed into a somber conversation about their mothers, but now that it had, he found himself powerless to stop it. He was always powerless when he thought about her.
“Julia. She was a funny woman. ‘Member Paulie, when she used to wear those glasses without any frames so she could reach in and scratch her eyes. Fucking freaked me out, the first time I saw it,” John said, his eyes glistening. Paul chuckled as another tear fell.
“I remember how Julia used to let us practice in the bathroom. Great acoustics in there,” Paul said quietly. John snapped his eyes to look at him, his heart feeling like the heaviest thing on the planet.
“I wish I remembered your mum,” John whispered. Paul bit his lip and closed his eyes as tears ran down his face. He picked up an end of his shirt and tried to relentlessly wipe away the tears that never wanted to stop falling.
“I wish you remembered her too,” Paul gasped. As soon as the words left his mouth, his body shrunk into the fetal position. He was rocking back and forth on the floor, his head resting on his knees as he unabashedly let the tears quake his body. John couldn’t hold back anymore. He bit his lip and his own tears fall-tears that had been building up for years-and put his hand on Paul’s leg.
“I don’t get it. Why does everyone else get to have a mother but us?” John practically wailed as his grip on Paul’s knee became tighter. Paul didn’t answer, but his hand snaked out to tangle with John’s in a comforting grasp. John threw the bottle of whiskey across the room and delighted in the noise it made when it smashed against the wall.
“It’s my fault you know,” John sobbed and Paul shook his head in response, but John continued, “I don’t know what it is about me Paul, but everyone always leaves. Once they get to know me…they all leave. Everyone.”
“S’not true,” Paul said as he picked up his head and gripped John’s hand tightly, “Her death wasn’t your fault. Stu’s death wasn’t either. Please, just listen to me!”
“No no no! All my fault! All my fault! Uncle George…everyone…my fault,” John sobbed and gasped in earnest, shaking his head back and forth.
“No it’s not. I’m still here, John. I’ll always be here,” Paul gasped.
“No. You’ll leave too. You’ll die or you’ll get sick of me-”
“John, I’ll always be here. I promise.”
John looked up at Paul; both of them wore matching red eyes that held nothing but a deep earth-shattering sadness.
“Yeah?” he asked. Paul licked his lips.
“Yeah,” he replied. John pulled their adjoined hands over towards himself and brought Paul into a tight hug. They rested their heads on each other’s shoulders and sobbed heavily. John latched onto Paul ferociously; he never wanted Paul to go. Not like the others.
“Me mum…she would have loved you,” Paul whispered. John bit his lip and squeezed Paul tightly.
“Let’s go to bed,” John whispered. He was tired and weak from the mixture of grief, sorrow, and tears. Paul nodded and stood up. He reached out and locked their fingers together before leading him into the empty bedroom. Without making a sound aside from their sniffling, without letting their hands go for a second; they both climbed into the same bed and allowed sleep to heal their broken forms. During the night, John clutched onto Paul’s hand tightly. He didn’t want to let him go. And that was why he didn’t want to make a move on him. Everything was safe when they were mates. John didn’t have to worry about his feelings getting too out of hand. John didn’t have to worry about Paul rejecting him. John didn’t have to worry about Paul leaving him for a bird and a family…
And that’s why John decided to give up.
To be continued…
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