The Race-Chapter 5/10
Title: The Race-Chapter 5/10
Author: cozyjo
Rating: PG-13
Timeframe: 1965
Pairing: John/Paul
Summary: Off set hi-jinx during the making of “Help!” proves disastrous.
A/N: Inspired by the actual race the boys engaged in at the time.
Disclaimer: I only own them in my head.
Chapter Four
With a minimum of resistance, John drifted off to sleep, his body too worn to fight against the raging tide of fatigue. Content that Paul was present, he allowed himself to enter into the dreamy, kaleidoscopic world of cozy oblivion, further punctuated by the numbing and euphoric effects of pot residue and the paracetamol. Paul sat quietly beside him, occasionally adjusting the blanket that was placed upon him; a barrier against the chill that had invaded the air as a result of the raging storm.
Satisfied that John had fallen asleep, Paul arose, looking about at the various activities the rest were engaged in: Clifford and Nigel quietly conferring with Brian; Ringo in an easy chair, nervously chain-smoking as he regarded John intermittently, and George, standing several yards away, engaging in an intense conversation with Mal and Neil; his voice a heated whisper. Paul suddenly felt lost, as though a large piece of a puzzle were missing without the animated ramblings of his best friend and silently prayed to awaken from this nightmarish dream. But the noisy rattling of the rain-pelted windows and the ominous drone of a foreboding wind reminded him that this nightmare was, indeed, all too real, and not something he could shut his eyes and escape from.
Resigned to circumstance, Paul sat back down upon the edge of the sofa, quietly observing John as he slept. It was a few minutes later before George approached him.
“Aye,” George placed his hand upon his worried mate’s shoulder from behind. “Up for a game of Monopoly, then?” he offered, hoping the activity would prove to be a welcomed diversion for the bassist.
Paul startled, quickly turning around to regard his younger friend.
“Oh! Sorry!” George sheepishly raised his hands in surrender upon realizing he had frightened his friend. “Just thought it might be a good idea,“ he clarified. “Get your mind off things.”
Paul pondered this momentarily, concluding that George was right, yet aware that no amount of diversion could halt the inevitable. John was going to suffer; of that he was sure. And all they could do was suffer right along with him.
Reluctantly, he got up from the sofa, shooting a last glance back at John before addressing the lanky guitarist.
“Alright, then,” he conceded, deciding that a little mental respite from anticipatory anxiety was better than none at all.
George was surprised, yet pleased at Paul’s concession.
“Good,” he smiled, squeezing Paul’s arm in empathy. He could easily use a mental break, himself, for it wasn’t just John he was worried about.
George then approached Ringo, gesturing for him to join them.
“Come on, then,” he urged, reaching to pull the sad-eyed drummer from his comfortable seat. They had always been a team in good times and bad. This would be no different.
Gratefully, Ringo arose from his chair, eager of the opportunity for his mind to focus upon something else. He knew it wouldn’t be easy, but it was something they needed to do in order to cope with their distressing situation. Stretching his legs, he looked over at John’s sleeping form, silently praying for the miracle he knew wasn’t to be. Some things you just couldn’t control.
He was still lost in thought when George handed him an object.
“Here, then….you be the banker,” the young man ordered, presenting Ringo with the well-known game.
Ringo shrunk back in surprise.
“What? Me??” he protested, attempting to hand the game back to his fellow musician. Undaunted, George was insistent.
“Yes, you!” he demanded forcefully. “Everyone’s got a job to do and that’s yours.”
Certain of George’s seriousness, Ringo reluctantly took the board; walking over to the small table and chairs that served for card playing and games such as these.
“John always……” Ringo muttered; the words falling from his mouth before he had a chance to catch them.
Paul, mere feet away, looked up sharply at Ringo’s lament, then lowered his head in defeat. Monopoly certainly wasn’t going to be the same without John.
“We alright, then?” George asked, rhetorically; pulling a chair back to settle into it.
Paul said nothing; his face downcast and solemn as he seated himself beside his younger bandmate. George, concerned, regarded him momentarily before tugging on the sleeve of his shirt.
“Aye,” he alerted, tenderly. “You’ve got a job, too, ya know,” he winked.
Paul responded with obvious annoyance; his eyes never leaving the floor.
“Yeah? What’s that, then?” he asked, his tone lifeless and indifferent.
George scooted his chair closer to lean into the worried bassist.
“See your mate over there?” he pointed at John’s prone figure upon the couch. “Your job’s to forget about him long enough to enjoy this shitty game,” George emphasized, eyeing Paul in determination.
Paul finally looked at George, then; his face a mask of disbelief before looking away.
“Sure…no problem, George,” he dully dead-panned, bristling at the thought that it would be that easy or that he’d even want to forget about John for a moment.
George sighed, squeezing Paul’s shoulder in understanding. He knew he was asking the impossible, but thought he would try just the same. As if sensing this, Paul suddenly turned to face him, his manner tentative.
“Thanks, mate,” he winked, offering up a small smile. “I know you mean well.”
George smiled, too; somewhat relieved that at the very least Paul understood and was grateful of his motives.
“Come on, then,” George encouraged, offering a light slap to Paul’s back. “Which piece do you wanna be?”
******
It was an act of compassion, but it was all for naught, for while the game played on amidst the howl of the wind and the dim light cast, courtesy of makeshift accoutrements, there was an air of ominousness that invaded their space, making it difficult to truly focus one’s attention away from the anticipated.
This, especially for Paul.
Prevalent among the shuffle of “money”, moving pieces and game-play chatter was a mind spent observing the goings-on of his other mates; their meanderings an obvious attempt at keeping busy while they awaited what was yet to come with their beloved friend: Mal and Neil over by the wet bar nursing drinks; their mood nervous and distracted; Brian flipping through a magazine; a crust of disinterest heavy in his features, and Nigel and Clifford, bouncing between idle chit-chat with their new friends and repeatedly seeing to John’s condition. At one point, Paul observed Brian, his approach tentative as he advanced towards John; bending down to light a hand to his head as he whispered something softly into his ear. Paul pricked with curiosity at what the elegant man must have said, making a mental note to eventually ask him about it before he was abruptly snatched away from his thoughts.
“Park Place! Pay up!” George ordered, holding out a hand to Paul in expectation.
Paul stiffened, his mood soured by the contrast of what he had just witnessed and the trivial demand of his younger friend. It all seemed so pointless, really. Annoyed, he wordlessly rifled through his paper money, pulling out the exact amount that George needed; a biting scowl upon his lips.
“Take it! Who cares!” he hissed, carelessly slapping the money into George’s waiting hands; the paper sheets erratically flying about in protest.
George raised a brow in alarm.
“Easy, luv,” he said quietly, hesitantly gathering the wayward paper pieces in between eyeing his friend, worriedly.
But Paul, at a crossroads mentally, was long past the point to where a silly game could provide the soothing mental balm he had needed and just didn’t care, anymore.
“No,” he bit, abruptly getting up and pulling a cigarette from his front shirt pocket. He was surprised at how difficult it was to smoke; his hands shaking uncontrollably as he attempted to light up.
George hurriedly rose from his seat and made haste to his distressed friend.
“Easy,” he soothed, cupping Paul’s hands to still them so Paul could carefully ignite his cigarette.
Having finally lit his much craved-for vice, Paul took a drag and blew out a shaky exhale.
“Ta,” he thanked, suddenly closing in upon himself and failing to look at the younger guitarist. He didn’t wish to reveal the anxiety-riddled state he was in, but it was too late. His body gave him completely away; mercilessly teasing him with stuttered movements and an aching stream of uncustomary self-consciousness.
George stood by him a moment more, completely awash in a sea of concern.
“You okay, then?” he asked, studying his doe-eyed friend with intensity.
Paul bristled; shaking his head in irritated response.
“’m okay, George,” he lied, keeping his eyes averted and downcast.
George shrugged his shoulders in reaction, knowing full well his friend was hurting, but powerless of what to do about it. He knew it was bad when the tidy seams of Paul’s constitution unraveled; the normally composed singer revealing a chink in his seemingly pristine coat of armor.
In resignation, George turned around, walking over to where Ringo stood just a few feet behind.
“Rarely seem him like this, ya know,” he leaned sideways towards the drummer in a quiet whisper. “Pretty bad, him shaking and all that.”
Ringo said nothing, nodding silently in agreement. They had two mates to worry about. This wasn’t looking good.
Restless, Ringo pulled a cigarette from his jacket pocket, eagerly lighting the tobacco-laden article when he heard Brian’s call.
“Come here, Paul,” the soft, empathetic voice of their manager beckoned to the anxious bassist.
In curiosity, Ringo’s eyes alit on Paul, just in time to see him obediently walk towards their older friend.
And then it happened. The unmistakable sound of a pitiful moan crashed against Paul’s ears, making him falter mid-step as he made his way to their worried manager.
It was just the beginning.
Author: cozyjo
Rating: PG-13
Timeframe: 1965
Pairing: John/Paul
Summary: Off set hi-jinx during the making of “Help!” proves disastrous.
A/N: Inspired by the actual race the boys engaged in at the time.
Disclaimer: I only own them in my head.
Chapter Four
With a minimum of resistance, John drifted off to sleep, his body too worn to fight against the raging tide of fatigue. Content that Paul was present, he allowed himself to enter into the dreamy, kaleidoscopic world of cozy oblivion, further punctuated by the numbing and euphoric effects of pot residue and the paracetamol. Paul sat quietly beside him, occasionally adjusting the blanket that was placed upon him; a barrier against the chill that had invaded the air as a result of the raging storm.
Satisfied that John had fallen asleep, Paul arose, looking about at the various activities the rest were engaged in: Clifford and Nigel quietly conferring with Brian; Ringo in an easy chair, nervously chain-smoking as he regarded John intermittently, and George, standing several yards away, engaging in an intense conversation with Mal and Neil; his voice a heated whisper. Paul suddenly felt lost, as though a large piece of a puzzle were missing without the animated ramblings of his best friend and silently prayed to awaken from this nightmarish dream. But the noisy rattling of the rain-pelted windows and the ominous drone of a foreboding wind reminded him that this nightmare was, indeed, all too real, and not something he could shut his eyes and escape from.
Resigned to circumstance, Paul sat back down upon the edge of the sofa, quietly observing John as he slept. It was a few minutes later before George approached him.
“Aye,” George placed his hand upon his worried mate’s shoulder from behind. “Up for a game of Monopoly, then?” he offered, hoping the activity would prove to be a welcomed diversion for the bassist.
Paul startled, quickly turning around to regard his younger friend.
“Oh! Sorry!” George sheepishly raised his hands in surrender upon realizing he had frightened his friend. “Just thought it might be a good idea,“ he clarified. “Get your mind off things.”
Paul pondered this momentarily, concluding that George was right, yet aware that no amount of diversion could halt the inevitable. John was going to suffer; of that he was sure. And all they could do was suffer right along with him.
Reluctantly, he got up from the sofa, shooting a last glance back at John before addressing the lanky guitarist.
“Alright, then,” he conceded, deciding that a little mental respite from anticipatory anxiety was better than none at all.
George was surprised, yet pleased at Paul’s concession.
“Good,” he smiled, squeezing Paul’s arm in empathy. He could easily use a mental break, himself, for it wasn’t just John he was worried about.
George then approached Ringo, gesturing for him to join them.
“Come on, then,” he urged, reaching to pull the sad-eyed drummer from his comfortable seat. They had always been a team in good times and bad. This would be no different.
Gratefully, Ringo arose from his chair, eager of the opportunity for his mind to focus upon something else. He knew it wouldn’t be easy, but it was something they needed to do in order to cope with their distressing situation. Stretching his legs, he looked over at John’s sleeping form, silently praying for the miracle he knew wasn’t to be. Some things you just couldn’t control.
He was still lost in thought when George handed him an object.
“Here, then….you be the banker,” the young man ordered, presenting Ringo with the well-known game.
Ringo shrunk back in surprise.
“What? Me??” he protested, attempting to hand the game back to his fellow musician. Undaunted, George was insistent.
“Yes, you!” he demanded forcefully. “Everyone’s got a job to do and that’s yours.”
Certain of George’s seriousness, Ringo reluctantly took the board; walking over to the small table and chairs that served for card playing and games such as these.
“John always……” Ringo muttered; the words falling from his mouth before he had a chance to catch them.
Paul, mere feet away, looked up sharply at Ringo’s lament, then lowered his head in defeat. Monopoly certainly wasn’t going to be the same without John.
“We alright, then?” George asked, rhetorically; pulling a chair back to settle into it.
Paul said nothing; his face downcast and solemn as he seated himself beside his younger bandmate. George, concerned, regarded him momentarily before tugging on the sleeve of his shirt.
“Aye,” he alerted, tenderly. “You’ve got a job, too, ya know,” he winked.
Paul responded with obvious annoyance; his eyes never leaving the floor.
“Yeah? What’s that, then?” he asked, his tone lifeless and indifferent.
George scooted his chair closer to lean into the worried bassist.
“See your mate over there?” he pointed at John’s prone figure upon the couch. “Your job’s to forget about him long enough to enjoy this shitty game,” George emphasized, eyeing Paul in determination.
Paul finally looked at George, then; his face a mask of disbelief before looking away.
“Sure…no problem, George,” he dully dead-panned, bristling at the thought that it would be that easy or that he’d even want to forget about John for a moment.
George sighed, squeezing Paul’s shoulder in understanding. He knew he was asking the impossible, but thought he would try just the same. As if sensing this, Paul suddenly turned to face him, his manner tentative.
“Thanks, mate,” he winked, offering up a small smile. “I know you mean well.”
George smiled, too; somewhat relieved that at the very least Paul understood and was grateful of his motives.
“Come on, then,” George encouraged, offering a light slap to Paul’s back. “Which piece do you wanna be?”
******
It was an act of compassion, but it was all for naught, for while the game played on amidst the howl of the wind and the dim light cast, courtesy of makeshift accoutrements, there was an air of ominousness that invaded their space, making it difficult to truly focus one’s attention away from the anticipated.
This, especially for Paul.
Prevalent among the shuffle of “money”, moving pieces and game-play chatter was a mind spent observing the goings-on of his other mates; their meanderings an obvious attempt at keeping busy while they awaited what was yet to come with their beloved friend: Mal and Neil over by the wet bar nursing drinks; their mood nervous and distracted; Brian flipping through a magazine; a crust of disinterest heavy in his features, and Nigel and Clifford, bouncing between idle chit-chat with their new friends and repeatedly seeing to John’s condition. At one point, Paul observed Brian, his approach tentative as he advanced towards John; bending down to light a hand to his head as he whispered something softly into his ear. Paul pricked with curiosity at what the elegant man must have said, making a mental note to eventually ask him about it before he was abruptly snatched away from his thoughts.
“Park Place! Pay up!” George ordered, holding out a hand to Paul in expectation.
Paul stiffened, his mood soured by the contrast of what he had just witnessed and the trivial demand of his younger friend. It all seemed so pointless, really. Annoyed, he wordlessly rifled through his paper money, pulling out the exact amount that George needed; a biting scowl upon his lips.
“Take it! Who cares!” he hissed, carelessly slapping the money into George’s waiting hands; the paper sheets erratically flying about in protest.
George raised a brow in alarm.
“Easy, luv,” he said quietly, hesitantly gathering the wayward paper pieces in between eyeing his friend, worriedly.
But Paul, at a crossroads mentally, was long past the point to where a silly game could provide the soothing mental balm he had needed and just didn’t care, anymore.
“No,” he bit, abruptly getting up and pulling a cigarette from his front shirt pocket. He was surprised at how difficult it was to smoke; his hands shaking uncontrollably as he attempted to light up.
George hurriedly rose from his seat and made haste to his distressed friend.
“Easy,” he soothed, cupping Paul’s hands to still them so Paul could carefully ignite his cigarette.
Having finally lit his much craved-for vice, Paul took a drag and blew out a shaky exhale.
“Ta,” he thanked, suddenly closing in upon himself and failing to look at the younger guitarist. He didn’t wish to reveal the anxiety-riddled state he was in, but it was too late. His body gave him completely away; mercilessly teasing him with stuttered movements and an aching stream of uncustomary self-consciousness.
George stood by him a moment more, completely awash in a sea of concern.
“You okay, then?” he asked, studying his doe-eyed friend with intensity.
Paul bristled; shaking his head in irritated response.
“’m okay, George,” he lied, keeping his eyes averted and downcast.
George shrugged his shoulders in reaction, knowing full well his friend was hurting, but powerless of what to do about it. He knew it was bad when the tidy seams of Paul’s constitution unraveled; the normally composed singer revealing a chink in his seemingly pristine coat of armor.
In resignation, George turned around, walking over to where Ringo stood just a few feet behind.
“Rarely seem him like this, ya know,” he leaned sideways towards the drummer in a quiet whisper. “Pretty bad, him shaking and all that.”
Ringo said nothing, nodding silently in agreement. They had two mates to worry about. This wasn’t looking good.
Restless, Ringo pulled a cigarette from his jacket pocket, eagerly lighting the tobacco-laden article when he heard Brian’s call.
“Come here, Paul,” the soft, empathetic voice of their manager beckoned to the anxious bassist.
In curiosity, Ringo’s eyes alit on Paul, just in time to see him obediently walk towards their older friend.
And then it happened. The unmistakable sound of a pitiful moan crashed against Paul’s ears, making him falter mid-step as he made his way to their worried manager.
It was just the beginning.