Holding Onto the Things that Slip Through Your Fingers (4-?)
Title: “Holding on to the Things that Slip Through Your Fingers”
Author: Fingersfallingupwards
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: McLennon (John/Paul)
Warnings: PG-13 (for now . . .) SLASH! Boyxboy!
Summary: *Timetravel* Aging change anyone’s point of view, and makes them realize their selfishness as a youth. Paul is given a chance to rewrite his story, and he promises things will be better for all of them. Along the way, he discovers things that perhaps he hadn’t known before . . . TIMETRAVEL! McLennon!
Author notes: This is the story I always wanted to read. Honestly, it’s the piece I’m most proud of.
Much love to beagle_agent and mollybeakers for beta-ing~
A/N: Paul still has a tough time . . . though this chapter is out faster!
Previous chapters are HERE
Phase 4, in which Paul needs a fix
The train was practically empty. At one in the morning that was to be expected. Brian had wisely chosen to set the group on a train that wasn’t boarding. He was rather proud of his clever trick. He picked a train that was just fueling up on its way to Toronto, pulling a few strings to get tickets for a train that was not scheduled to pick up passengers. He knew he was most likely crushing a few of their more avid fans’ hopes as they bought tickets for a direct line to Canada, praying the famous four would coincidentally be with them on the ride. The train that had traveled from Virginia would slip by unnoticed.
The group wearily filed into their cabin, ignoring the shocked and excited looks of the stragglers who had yet to go to bed. The majority of the passengers were in slumbering, having been on the train for quite a few days already and thoroughly exhausted of it. Paul took a moment to be grateful that their manager had found a train that both deterred their fans and let them sleep more comfortably than a short distance line would have.
By the time their group had arrived at the station the four bandmates were on the verge of collapsing. The short burst of energy they’d found at the after-party had deserted them, leaving them sluggish and immensely tired.
Without even stopping, the couchettes in their compartment were turned into the bunk-bed like berths. The tiny spaces were heavenly looking to their tired party. There were two levels to the sleeping compartments, curtains blocking the curious eyes of strangers. The thin mattresses looked uncomfortable, but it was certainly better than sleeping in a chair. Each section would fit two people inside and it was silently decided between them who was sleeping where when George and Ringo slouched into the first space. Paul and John stepped up the rickety stairs and collapsed into their tier. All they had the energy to do was shed their button up shirts and shoes and collapse on the pillows.
“Night,” Paul mumbled into the downy cushions.
John grunted in reply before he was lost in his land of dreams.
Though things had settled down and his body had entirely unwound, ready to embrace unconsciousness, Paul’s mind was still turning matters over. So much had happened. Everything he knew had changed and that fact was still difficult to fully grasp. He was almost afraid to sleep, just in case everything would melt away and leave him as a bitter old man, crying at the cruelty of the crushed hopes.
His eyes alighted on John and he felt himself relax. John was really next to him. He could feel the weight that slightly pulled parts of the mattress into the indention made by his friend. His smell, sweat and cigarettes, was heavy in the air, and Paul felt comforted by it. Having reassured himself, he laid down carefully, face to face, so that all he had to do was open his eyes to see John. Tentatively, Paul closed his eyes.
Paul waited for sleep to overtake him.
The minutes ticked by. He flipped over, trying a different position. Perhaps a new area of the pillow would do the trick. Sitting up, he scrunched the pillow and turned it over, taking long and deep breaths, forcefully slowing his heart rate. His eyelids were heavy, but there was no reprieve. He rolled onto his stomach, figuring his back was just overstretched. Then again his side was really the better choice. His left side played the bass thus it was worked more, so clearly the right would be the one that sent him snoozing. He was being impatient, he just had to wait. Sleep would come; all he had to do was be patient for a little while longer. Sleep would come, he repeated to himself. Sleep had to come.
It didn’t have a bloody choice in the matter.
Despite this fact, nothing was working and bit by bit Paul was beginning to feel more and more frustrated.
He knew why he wasn’t finding sleep. The obnoxious craving had been clawing at him all day, but in the night where there was nothing to distract him, the need was overwhelming. He’d been able to focus on other things, the concert, Pamela, hell; even just thinking about what he wanted to change was a pretty good distraction. Now, there was nothing but him and the burning need.
He needed nicotine.
It was like hunger and it felt just as necessary. He was starving in that regard. Sweat broke over his body as he tossed and turned. He felt completely irritated and the more he sweat and turned and failed to fall into a sleeping cycle, the more agitated he got.
Paul sat up with a slight growl, abandoning his vain attempts.
His hands were trembling as he wiped the sweat that had formed on his forehead away impatiently.
The very thought of a ciggie made his mouth water. Perhaps just one? George didn’t have to know. He could convince them he was still giving up smoking, it wasn’t like they’d be able to tell; everything smelled like smoke. That fact had almost driven him crazy today.
The memories and thoughts of George’s funeral were enough that he resisted the urge to rummage through John’s jacket to find the pack he knew was there.
He couldn’t. He promised himself and he promised George. This was the first step. Sucking in an maddened breath, he settled down for a very long sleepless night.
At least he didn’t have to worry about falling asleep and waking up to find it was all a dream.
His half-grin was more bitter than he meant it to be.
*
Hours drifted by. Paul occasionally was able to doze for a few minutes at a time. For the most part he held a staring contest with the ceiling. Neither party really benefited from the competition. Eventually, the sounds of other passengers stirring brought his bunk-mate back to the surface. John slowly opened his eyes and a wide yawn followed.
“Morning Macca,” John greeted.
“Morning,” Paul responded, entirely exhausted.
John took note of his friend’s blood-shot eyes and the heavy black bags that hung below his hazel eyes.
“Not a restful night, eh?” He commented with a frown.
“Couldn’t sleep. The train kept me awake all night.” Paul chose to lie in lieu of having to deal with hearing them question his sanity when he told them he was having insomnia was because he quit smoking. If he ever wanted to be able to convince them to stop smoking, he certainly didn’t want them to think of it as some horrible period of suffering. It was, but he’d let them know that later.
“A spot of breakfast will do you some good,” John spoke decisively as he started redressing. Paul nodded along, head throbbing as he did.
The duo headed over the dining car where Brian, Ringo and George were already waiting for them. Paul took a seat and immediately let his head rest on his arms.
“Alright there Paul?” Ringo asked, as George started making his friend a cup, concern etched on his face.
“Not catching something I hope,” Brian commented.
“Train kept him up, poor bugger,” John answered for the bassist as he started gathering food on his plate.
George placed the cup right in front of Paul. Blearily Paul nodded in thanks. “Ta.”
“Sure thing,” the lead guitarist still looked cautiously at his friend.
The tallest Beatle inhaled the steam as though it was ambrosia. It made some of the tenseness that had gathered relax and he took hearty gulps of the sweet, reviving liquid. The minute it was gone, he refilled it again.
As he sipped, Paul hazily watched his mates chatter casually while they polished off their breakfasts. The idea of trying to put anything in his stomach was so nauseating that he didn’t even want to try. He gently turned down their offerings of food. Even just the sight of it was something he could barely handle.
Once they finished, now lounging idly back, each of them took out their pack of fags.
Like automatons, the band drew cigarettes out and lit them. Noxious, delicious smelling fumes soon engulfed the train cabin. Paul couldn’t resist taking a deep breath in; the second hand smoke took the edge off his cravings. But it wasn’t enough.
Paul wanted nicotine. He wanted it bad. Frankly, the agitation he was feeling right now was borderline crawling-out-of-his-skin bad. He was twitchy. His leg was bobbing up and down at record speeds as he tried to keep himself under control. Sweat was still dripping down his forehead despite the fact the air around them was quite cool.
Second hand smoke wasn’t what he was yearning for; he wanted it straight from the source.
The sleepless night coupled with the nicotine cravings and the leftover frustration from the anti-climactic evening left him on edge. He tried to disguise the way his hand shook as he drank his tea.
John was watching him with a lazy smile.
“Oi Macca, there’s a fag here that’s just dying to have your lips around it. Oh, and I’m not talking about this Jewish fag here.” John cackled as he gestured to Brian. Their manager was used to this kind of talk and let it slide off him like water on a duck’s back.
“John! Don’t call him that,” Paul snapped, too wrapped up in his cravings to really take notice of the hush that spread over the rest of the group.
He didn’t recall quitting was this difficult the first time he’d done it. Of course, by the time he had quit there was the niccorette gum. That had made things entirely easier.
“I’ll call him a fag Jew if I want, Macca,” John replied, a dangerous and challenging tone simmering on the edges.
“Don’t be such a bigoted twat!” the bassist replied tetchily.
Then again, the first couple days before he’d started using the gum were absolute hell. Not all that different from this point.
“What’s up with Paul?” Ringo whispered to George, as they watched the events unfolding. George could only shrug. He had no clue what was racing through his mate’s mind.
Paul was entirely oblivious to the mood of the room. His were fingers twitching and his mind racing. Maybe they had nicotine gum in another country? Like some kind of ancient Chinese secret or something. Then again, perhaps he could hire some scientists to work on inventing it. The investment would be entirely worthwhile if it got him out of the cravings. How much money did he have? He didn’t quite recall. It was probably a lot if the record sales were anyth-
“Fag-Jew! Fag-Jew, faaaag-Jeewww!” The sing-song tone did nothing to cover the slightly cruel tone to it.
“What is wrong with you? Are you thick in the head?” He wheeled around on John, his irritation pouring off him in waves.
“Since when do you care if I call Eppy a fag-Jew?” John scoffed.
“Since he’s our manager and friend and he deserves some fucking respect!” Paul countered
“Listen, boys, lets not get into a scuffle about this.” Brain intercepted the two awkwardly.
“Eppy doesn’t mind when I call him a fag Jew, do you Eppy?”
Now it was Brian who started to talk but was cut short.
“It doesn’t matter if he’s okay with it; it’s just about respect!” The bassist objected.
“When did you get to be such a crawler?” John sneered.
“When did you start caring more about your image than your friends?” Paul felt entirely justified. His vision was going red. Arguing with John was never something he could do half-way.
“When did you start being such a touchy bitch?”
“Oh, I dunno John, maybe somewhere around the time you completely checked out and started bringing that stupid, Japanese -“
Paul felt the words freeze in his throat. All of his anger and frustration melted away and him being left feeling lost, like a lion out of its habitat. His view of John was cloudy and suddenly, he realized he didn’t know who he was arguing with, his vision was suddenly double. John and John stood next to each other. Each was only minutely different form the other, and yet worlds apart. He knew that there was a high possibility John would grow into the man who he would fight with and lash out at. His best friend that would trade blows with him as they both tried to hurt each other as much as they could as they split.
He didn’t know if his heart could handle it again.
But he was blurring the lines. This was John, his uncomplicatedly complex friend. The one who made sharp comments meant to amuse and at most, annoy, instead of hurt. He hadn’t yet become the man that Paul had gone to war against.
Regret built up in his throat, along with another emotion that felt thick and unpleasant.
“What are you talking about?” John asked, confusion and frustration evident in his voice.
“I-I need to use the loo,” He spoke unsurely and he stood shakily. The urge to escape was so strong right now it consumed him. His head spun and he almost fell over when he started to walk.
“Woah, Paul, you need to sit down mate,” George tried to steady his friend, but Paul shrugged his hands off, practically trembling where he stood.
“I need to go.”
“Paul, don’t be silly now, take a seat,” Brian said firmly, concern just edging in his tone.
Paul just shook his head, ignoring how disorienting the action was. He fled the dining car without another look despite their rising protests.
The train swayed as he moved and he stumbled through the cars, not paying mind to any other soul he passed as he moved. He didn’t really have a destination in mind, so when he found himself at the back of the train, he blinked in confusion before he made the realization. Slowly he opened the door.
Wind whipped past his hair, flowing through his button-up as though it was a sail. Scenery flew past him in blurs of color. The loud and constant sounds of the train echoed through the open landscape. He grasped at the iron bars in front of him. He was standing on the very back part of the caboose. The area had the smallest of standing areas for a conductor to observe things when he so desired. Now, it served as a wonderful little escape for Paul.
Collapsing, he slid his legs through the bars, letting them waver in the air, almost reminiscent of a kid as they swung in the air.
He inhaled deeply. The crisp, fresh air was welcome and it cleared his mind of some of the fog. It was easier to think away from all the poisonous, yet delicious smoke that enticed him against his will.
The time traveler exhaled heavily, feeling dismayed at what he’d just done. He shouldn’t have even been yelling at John in the first place. This era was one where things like being politically correct or being open-minded to different people, wasn’t important. In fact, Paul questioned if it was ever thought of. It wasn’t even the slang that had gotten Paul so riled up, it was just the fact he’d disrespected Brian who may well be dead soon. But John didn’t know that. No one did, and it was silly of him to snap at John for that.
The lack of nicotine made his emotions run high and he hated feeling prey to them.
The sound of a creaking hinge alerted him that Ringo was there. He was probably the only one who guessed that Paul would run straight through the train to the caboose. The older man exhaled in relief when he saw Paul sitting there.
“There you are.”
“Here I am,” The bassist replied with a weak smile. Without pausing, Ringo dropped down to Paul’s level and emulated his position.
For a moment they were silent, just enjoying the lush landscape of Canada. Paul felt a little smile as they passed by an apple orchard. The green orbs flashed in the sunlight, shiny and fresh.
“Everyone’s worried,” Ringo spoke at last.
“I know. Sorry about that,” he replied honestly, before he paused and asked,
“How’s John?”
Ringo mulled over his reply.
“Well, he’s upset, but that’s to be expected, but I think he’s mostly concerned about you. You’ve been really out of sorts recently,” Ringo informed him, peaking at his bandmate curiously through the fringe of his hair.
Paul winced guiltily. He really wasn’t doing as smooth of a job melding back into his old role as he wanted. The results of his missteps were causing upheaval in the band. He was almost amazed. It had only been a day and a few hours since he’d returned and already he had flubbed up just about everything.
He let his head rest against the bars as he stared at the steady flow of train tracks that flew by.
“Just tell us what’s going on,” Ringo said nudging the taller man’s knee with his own. His tone was encouraging, and Paul honestly felt like spilling his guts. There was just something about the other man that oozed trustworthiness. The feeling of Ringo’s aqua eyes on him drew up decades worth of memories, ones that urged him to tell the other man everything. Paul’s shock at being thrown into an entirely different situation with different rule coupled with the immense stress he’d felt in the last twenty-four hours, was almost too much for him to handle.
Yet, it was marked with those precious moments he shared with his most beloved mates. He shut his eyes. He could see it all. Joking and laughing together and at each other, getting high in a bathroom, childish spats, creating marvelous sound together, spending down time as a group, annoying one another, finding birds, comforting and worrying about the other human being they knew so well. Paul saw these moments all connect and he let the feeling of belonging wash over him.
Opening his eyes, he let the new resolution set into his bones. He’d found the strength he needed. Looking at Ringo, he pasted on a smile and scratched his head sheepishly.
“I’ve been thinking too much, that’s all.”
Ringo studied Paul carefully for a few moments, his expression indecipherable. Eventually he nodded, accepting the explanation. Paul inwardly sighed with relief, glad to have Ringo’s piercing blue eyes off of him for the moment.
“Just tell one of us when things get too much like before. You really looked awful and unsteady mate,” the drummer admitted. Paul agreed readily.
The door slammed open making the two jump. John stood there, looking very worked up.
“-aul! Pa-“
He fell silent when he noticed Paul and Ringo on the floor. The bespectacled man’s eyes formed little slits as he observed them. Ringo was quick to excuse himself.
“I think I hear George looking for me, I’d best be going,” The drummer edged around the angered Lennon and disappeared down the corridor.
With the third member gone, it was just him and Paul. John noticed his cowriter swallow awkwardly.
On one level, he was glad to notice Paul was looking more stable. Initially, John had decided that if Paul wanted to make up for being such an arse, the bassist could come to him and apologize. He’d sat in their section, simmering for some time, waiting impatiently. Then flashes of Paul and his sweaty, shaky posture and his eyes so bleary and bloodshot that he’d looked almost mad, began to filter into his brain. Unwillingly, concern started to worm its way into him.
He’s tried to shake it off. The feeling persisted and he’d cussed, and not very quietly,( much to the alarm and appall of his fellow passengers.) John supposed that he would have to be the bigger man and confront Paul about his rude behavior.
His stare, which was really more of a glare, bore into Paul like a screwdriver. The black-haired man squirmed uncomfortably underneath it.
“I’m really sorry for lashing out at you, John,” Paul started. His mate stared stoically and Paul hid a grimace before he went on.
“I had no right to get upset with yo-“
“Then why did you do it?” John demanded, cutting him off.
Paul though over his answer very carefully. He knew that he hadn’t only made John angry by what he’d said, but he’d also bruised his ego when he challenged him like that. John really was a very intricate guy. He could be very delicate and self-conscious feeling and entirely violent about it. It was just part of what made him, him.
“I dunno. Any time someone else calls Eppy things like that we all pretty much bash their heads in,” he stated honestly remembering times when people had stepped over the line and they had all risen to the defense of their manager. The offenders never got off lightly.
“Yeah, but we’re all mates,” John replied, “That makes it okay.”
Paul bit his lip.
“I know. It’s just that sometimes I dunno if we’re any better than they are,” He suggested the idea calmly, as though he felt conflicted on the matter too.
John surprised him by thinking about what he said for a few moments.
“If Brian got offended, all he’d have to do is say so,” John pointed out.
He wasn’t really sure, but he wasn’t too keen on challenging the issue any more.
“I suppose you’re right.”
“I am.”
The silence was tense and uncomfortable for both parties.
“And what were you going on about some Japanese bird?” John asked, bringing up Paul’s near-fatal slip.
“I haven’t really been thinking straight today. Me head feels like I put it through a blender,” he admitted honestly.
“Yeah, we noticed that,” John commented sarcastically. Paul was glad when his co-writer didn’t pursue the topic though. He’d avoided the bullet so far.
“So am I forgiven?” He asked, feeling brave enough to flatter his eye-lashes in a false-pleading way.
John scanned the doe-eyed man. He wanted so badly to lash out, to make Paul feel a little bit of what he had. It was never really clear to him why he had those kinds of urges to make others suffer similarly; it was just a defense mechanism. But in that moment, looking at Paul who looked pretty pathetic, John found himself unable too. Maybe it was the red-rimmed gaze, or the light trembles that still wracked the other man’s body, but John couldn’t hold onto his anger properly.
He let out a deep sigh and shook his head before he responded.
“You little tart. Don’t be using your feminine wiles to try and change me mind,” John replied sternly. Not breaking character he held a finger threateningly.
“I’ve still a mind to punish you,” he warned.
“Well that jumped from zero to fifty quite fast,” Paul spoke with a smile. John’s lip twitched.
The air between them had been cleared and really, nothing else needed to be said.
*
**
Alas, Paul still is hitting dead-ends. Things will get a bit better next chapter.
Next chapters are HERE
Let me know your thoughts~!
Author: Fingersfallingupwards
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: McLennon (John/Paul)
Warnings: PG-13 (for now . . .) SLASH! Boyxboy!
Summary: *Timetravel* Aging change anyone’s point of view, and makes them realize their selfishness as a youth. Paul is given a chance to rewrite his story, and he promises things will be better for all of them. Along the way, he discovers things that perhaps he hadn’t known before . . . TIMETRAVEL! McLennon!
Author notes: This is the story I always wanted to read. Honestly, it’s the piece I’m most proud of.
Much love to beagle_agent and mollybeakers for beta-ing~
A/N: Paul still has a tough time . . . though this chapter is out faster!
Previous chapters are HERE
Phase 4, in which Paul needs a fix
The train was practically empty. At one in the morning that was to be expected. Brian had wisely chosen to set the group on a train that wasn’t boarding. He was rather proud of his clever trick. He picked a train that was just fueling up on its way to Toronto, pulling a few strings to get tickets for a train that was not scheduled to pick up passengers. He knew he was most likely crushing a few of their more avid fans’ hopes as they bought tickets for a direct line to Canada, praying the famous four would coincidentally be with them on the ride. The train that had traveled from Virginia would slip by unnoticed.
The group wearily filed into their cabin, ignoring the shocked and excited looks of the stragglers who had yet to go to bed. The majority of the passengers were in slumbering, having been on the train for quite a few days already and thoroughly exhausted of it. Paul took a moment to be grateful that their manager had found a train that both deterred their fans and let them sleep more comfortably than a short distance line would have.
By the time their group had arrived at the station the four bandmates were on the verge of collapsing. The short burst of energy they’d found at the after-party had deserted them, leaving them sluggish and immensely tired.
Without even stopping, the couchettes in their compartment were turned into the bunk-bed like berths. The tiny spaces were heavenly looking to their tired party. There were two levels to the sleeping compartments, curtains blocking the curious eyes of strangers. The thin mattresses looked uncomfortable, but it was certainly better than sleeping in a chair. Each section would fit two people inside and it was silently decided between them who was sleeping where when George and Ringo slouched into the first space. Paul and John stepped up the rickety stairs and collapsed into their tier. All they had the energy to do was shed their button up shirts and shoes and collapse on the pillows.
“Night,” Paul mumbled into the downy cushions.
John grunted in reply before he was lost in his land of dreams.
Though things had settled down and his body had entirely unwound, ready to embrace unconsciousness, Paul’s mind was still turning matters over. So much had happened. Everything he knew had changed and that fact was still difficult to fully grasp. He was almost afraid to sleep, just in case everything would melt away and leave him as a bitter old man, crying at the cruelty of the crushed hopes.
His eyes alighted on John and he felt himself relax. John was really next to him. He could feel the weight that slightly pulled parts of the mattress into the indention made by his friend. His smell, sweat and cigarettes, was heavy in the air, and Paul felt comforted by it. Having reassured himself, he laid down carefully, face to face, so that all he had to do was open his eyes to see John. Tentatively, Paul closed his eyes.
Paul waited for sleep to overtake him.
The minutes ticked by. He flipped over, trying a different position. Perhaps a new area of the pillow would do the trick. Sitting up, he scrunched the pillow and turned it over, taking long and deep breaths, forcefully slowing his heart rate. His eyelids were heavy, but there was no reprieve. He rolled onto his stomach, figuring his back was just overstretched. Then again his side was really the better choice. His left side played the bass thus it was worked more, so clearly the right would be the one that sent him snoozing. He was being impatient, he just had to wait. Sleep would come; all he had to do was be patient for a little while longer. Sleep would come, he repeated to himself. Sleep had to come.
It didn’t have a bloody choice in the matter.
Despite this fact, nothing was working and bit by bit Paul was beginning to feel more and more frustrated.
He knew why he wasn’t finding sleep. The obnoxious craving had been clawing at him all day, but in the night where there was nothing to distract him, the need was overwhelming. He’d been able to focus on other things, the concert, Pamela, hell; even just thinking about what he wanted to change was a pretty good distraction. Now, there was nothing but him and the burning need.
He needed nicotine.
It was like hunger and it felt just as necessary. He was starving in that regard. Sweat broke over his body as he tossed and turned. He felt completely irritated and the more he sweat and turned and failed to fall into a sleeping cycle, the more agitated he got.
Paul sat up with a slight growl, abandoning his vain attempts.
His hands were trembling as he wiped the sweat that had formed on his forehead away impatiently.
The very thought of a ciggie made his mouth water. Perhaps just one? George didn’t have to know. He could convince them he was still giving up smoking, it wasn’t like they’d be able to tell; everything smelled like smoke. That fact had almost driven him crazy today.
The memories and thoughts of George’s funeral were enough that he resisted the urge to rummage through John’s jacket to find the pack he knew was there.
He couldn’t. He promised himself and he promised George. This was the first step. Sucking in an maddened breath, he settled down for a very long sleepless night.
At least he didn’t have to worry about falling asleep and waking up to find it was all a dream.
His half-grin was more bitter than he meant it to be.
*
Hours drifted by. Paul occasionally was able to doze for a few minutes at a time. For the most part he held a staring contest with the ceiling. Neither party really benefited from the competition. Eventually, the sounds of other passengers stirring brought his bunk-mate back to the surface. John slowly opened his eyes and a wide yawn followed.
“Morning Macca,” John greeted.
“Morning,” Paul responded, entirely exhausted.
John took note of his friend’s blood-shot eyes and the heavy black bags that hung below his hazel eyes.
“Not a restful night, eh?” He commented with a frown.
“Couldn’t sleep. The train kept me awake all night.” Paul chose to lie in lieu of having to deal with hearing them question his sanity when he told them he was having insomnia was because he quit smoking. If he ever wanted to be able to convince them to stop smoking, he certainly didn’t want them to think of it as some horrible period of suffering. It was, but he’d let them know that later.
“A spot of breakfast will do you some good,” John spoke decisively as he started redressing. Paul nodded along, head throbbing as he did.
The duo headed over the dining car where Brian, Ringo and George were already waiting for them. Paul took a seat and immediately let his head rest on his arms.
“Alright there Paul?” Ringo asked, as George started making his friend a cup, concern etched on his face.
“Not catching something I hope,” Brian commented.
“Train kept him up, poor bugger,” John answered for the bassist as he started gathering food on his plate.
George placed the cup right in front of Paul. Blearily Paul nodded in thanks. “Ta.”
“Sure thing,” the lead guitarist still looked cautiously at his friend.
The tallest Beatle inhaled the steam as though it was ambrosia. It made some of the tenseness that had gathered relax and he took hearty gulps of the sweet, reviving liquid. The minute it was gone, he refilled it again.
As he sipped, Paul hazily watched his mates chatter casually while they polished off their breakfasts. The idea of trying to put anything in his stomach was so nauseating that he didn’t even want to try. He gently turned down their offerings of food. Even just the sight of it was something he could barely handle.
Once they finished, now lounging idly back, each of them took out their pack of fags.
Like automatons, the band drew cigarettes out and lit them. Noxious, delicious smelling fumes soon engulfed the train cabin. Paul couldn’t resist taking a deep breath in; the second hand smoke took the edge off his cravings. But it wasn’t enough.
Paul wanted nicotine. He wanted it bad. Frankly, the agitation he was feeling right now was borderline crawling-out-of-his-skin bad. He was twitchy. His leg was bobbing up and down at record speeds as he tried to keep himself under control. Sweat was still dripping down his forehead despite the fact the air around them was quite cool.
Second hand smoke wasn’t what he was yearning for; he wanted it straight from the source.
The sleepless night coupled with the nicotine cravings and the leftover frustration from the anti-climactic evening left him on edge. He tried to disguise the way his hand shook as he drank his tea.
John was watching him with a lazy smile.
“Oi Macca, there’s a fag here that’s just dying to have your lips around it. Oh, and I’m not talking about this Jewish fag here.” John cackled as he gestured to Brian. Their manager was used to this kind of talk and let it slide off him like water on a duck’s back.
“John! Don’t call him that,” Paul snapped, too wrapped up in his cravings to really take notice of the hush that spread over the rest of the group.
He didn’t recall quitting was this difficult the first time he’d done it. Of course, by the time he had quit there was the niccorette gum. That had made things entirely easier.
“I’ll call him a fag Jew if I want, Macca,” John replied, a dangerous and challenging tone simmering on the edges.
“Don’t be such a bigoted twat!” the bassist replied tetchily.
Then again, the first couple days before he’d started using the gum were absolute hell. Not all that different from this point.
“What’s up with Paul?” Ringo whispered to George, as they watched the events unfolding. George could only shrug. He had no clue what was racing through his mate’s mind.
Paul was entirely oblivious to the mood of the room. His were fingers twitching and his mind racing. Maybe they had nicotine gum in another country? Like some kind of ancient Chinese secret or something. Then again, perhaps he could hire some scientists to work on inventing it. The investment would be entirely worthwhile if it got him out of the cravings. How much money did he have? He didn’t quite recall. It was probably a lot if the record sales were anyth-
“Fag-Jew! Fag-Jew, faaaag-Jeewww!” The sing-song tone did nothing to cover the slightly cruel tone to it.
“What is wrong with you? Are you thick in the head?” He wheeled around on John, his irritation pouring off him in waves.
“Since when do you care if I call Eppy a fag-Jew?” John scoffed.
“Since he’s our manager and friend and he deserves some fucking respect!” Paul countered
“Listen, boys, lets not get into a scuffle about this.” Brain intercepted the two awkwardly.
“Eppy doesn’t mind when I call him a fag Jew, do you Eppy?”
Now it was Brian who started to talk but was cut short.
“It doesn’t matter if he’s okay with it; it’s just about respect!” The bassist objected.
“When did you get to be such a crawler?” John sneered.
“When did you start caring more about your image than your friends?” Paul felt entirely justified. His vision was going red. Arguing with John was never something he could do half-way.
“When did you start being such a touchy bitch?”
“Oh, I dunno John, maybe somewhere around the time you completely checked out and started bringing that stupid, Japanese -“
Paul felt the words freeze in his throat. All of his anger and frustration melted away and him being left feeling lost, like a lion out of its habitat. His view of John was cloudy and suddenly, he realized he didn’t know who he was arguing with, his vision was suddenly double. John and John stood next to each other. Each was only minutely different form the other, and yet worlds apart. He knew that there was a high possibility John would grow into the man who he would fight with and lash out at. His best friend that would trade blows with him as they both tried to hurt each other as much as they could as they split.
He didn’t know if his heart could handle it again.
But he was blurring the lines. This was John, his uncomplicatedly complex friend. The one who made sharp comments meant to amuse and at most, annoy, instead of hurt. He hadn’t yet become the man that Paul had gone to war against.
Regret built up in his throat, along with another emotion that felt thick and unpleasant.
“What are you talking about?” John asked, confusion and frustration evident in his voice.
“I-I need to use the loo,” He spoke unsurely and he stood shakily. The urge to escape was so strong right now it consumed him. His head spun and he almost fell over when he started to walk.
“Woah, Paul, you need to sit down mate,” George tried to steady his friend, but Paul shrugged his hands off, practically trembling where he stood.
“I need to go.”
“Paul, don’t be silly now, take a seat,” Brian said firmly, concern just edging in his tone.
Paul just shook his head, ignoring how disorienting the action was. He fled the dining car without another look despite their rising protests.
The train swayed as he moved and he stumbled through the cars, not paying mind to any other soul he passed as he moved. He didn’t really have a destination in mind, so when he found himself at the back of the train, he blinked in confusion before he made the realization. Slowly he opened the door.
Wind whipped past his hair, flowing through his button-up as though it was a sail. Scenery flew past him in blurs of color. The loud and constant sounds of the train echoed through the open landscape. He grasped at the iron bars in front of him. He was standing on the very back part of the caboose. The area had the smallest of standing areas for a conductor to observe things when he so desired. Now, it served as a wonderful little escape for Paul.
Collapsing, he slid his legs through the bars, letting them waver in the air, almost reminiscent of a kid as they swung in the air.
He inhaled deeply. The crisp, fresh air was welcome and it cleared his mind of some of the fog. It was easier to think away from all the poisonous, yet delicious smoke that enticed him against his will.
The time traveler exhaled heavily, feeling dismayed at what he’d just done. He shouldn’t have even been yelling at John in the first place. This era was one where things like being politically correct or being open-minded to different people, wasn’t important. In fact, Paul questioned if it was ever thought of. It wasn’t even the slang that had gotten Paul so riled up, it was just the fact he’d disrespected Brian who may well be dead soon. But John didn’t know that. No one did, and it was silly of him to snap at John for that.
The lack of nicotine made his emotions run high and he hated feeling prey to them.
The sound of a creaking hinge alerted him that Ringo was there. He was probably the only one who guessed that Paul would run straight through the train to the caboose. The older man exhaled in relief when he saw Paul sitting there.
“There you are.”
“Here I am,” The bassist replied with a weak smile. Without pausing, Ringo dropped down to Paul’s level and emulated his position.
For a moment they were silent, just enjoying the lush landscape of Canada. Paul felt a little smile as they passed by an apple orchard. The green orbs flashed in the sunlight, shiny and fresh.
“Everyone’s worried,” Ringo spoke at last.
“I know. Sorry about that,” he replied honestly, before he paused and asked,
“How’s John?”
Ringo mulled over his reply.
“Well, he’s upset, but that’s to be expected, but I think he’s mostly concerned about you. You’ve been really out of sorts recently,” Ringo informed him, peaking at his bandmate curiously through the fringe of his hair.
Paul winced guiltily. He really wasn’t doing as smooth of a job melding back into his old role as he wanted. The results of his missteps were causing upheaval in the band. He was almost amazed. It had only been a day and a few hours since he’d returned and already he had flubbed up just about everything.
He let his head rest against the bars as he stared at the steady flow of train tracks that flew by.
“Just tell us what’s going on,” Ringo said nudging the taller man’s knee with his own. His tone was encouraging, and Paul honestly felt like spilling his guts. There was just something about the other man that oozed trustworthiness. The feeling of Ringo’s aqua eyes on him drew up decades worth of memories, ones that urged him to tell the other man everything. Paul’s shock at being thrown into an entirely different situation with different rule coupled with the immense stress he’d felt in the last twenty-four hours, was almost too much for him to handle.
Yet, it was marked with those precious moments he shared with his most beloved mates. He shut his eyes. He could see it all. Joking and laughing together and at each other, getting high in a bathroom, childish spats, creating marvelous sound together, spending down time as a group, annoying one another, finding birds, comforting and worrying about the other human being they knew so well. Paul saw these moments all connect and he let the feeling of belonging wash over him.
Opening his eyes, he let the new resolution set into his bones. He’d found the strength he needed. Looking at Ringo, he pasted on a smile and scratched his head sheepishly.
“I’ve been thinking too much, that’s all.”
Ringo studied Paul carefully for a few moments, his expression indecipherable. Eventually he nodded, accepting the explanation. Paul inwardly sighed with relief, glad to have Ringo’s piercing blue eyes off of him for the moment.
“Just tell one of us when things get too much like before. You really looked awful and unsteady mate,” the drummer admitted. Paul agreed readily.
The door slammed open making the two jump. John stood there, looking very worked up.
“-aul! Pa-“
He fell silent when he noticed Paul and Ringo on the floor. The bespectacled man’s eyes formed little slits as he observed them. Ringo was quick to excuse himself.
“I think I hear George looking for me, I’d best be going,” The drummer edged around the angered Lennon and disappeared down the corridor.
With the third member gone, it was just him and Paul. John noticed his cowriter swallow awkwardly.
On one level, he was glad to notice Paul was looking more stable. Initially, John had decided that if Paul wanted to make up for being such an arse, the bassist could come to him and apologize. He’d sat in their section, simmering for some time, waiting impatiently. Then flashes of Paul and his sweaty, shaky posture and his eyes so bleary and bloodshot that he’d looked almost mad, began to filter into his brain. Unwillingly, concern started to worm its way into him.
He’s tried to shake it off. The feeling persisted and he’d cussed, and not very quietly,( much to the alarm and appall of his fellow passengers.) John supposed that he would have to be the bigger man and confront Paul about his rude behavior.
His stare, which was really more of a glare, bore into Paul like a screwdriver. The black-haired man squirmed uncomfortably underneath it.
“I’m really sorry for lashing out at you, John,” Paul started. His mate stared stoically and Paul hid a grimace before he went on.
“I had no right to get upset with yo-“
“Then why did you do it?” John demanded, cutting him off.
Paul though over his answer very carefully. He knew that he hadn’t only made John angry by what he’d said, but he’d also bruised his ego when he challenged him like that. John really was a very intricate guy. He could be very delicate and self-conscious feeling and entirely violent about it. It was just part of what made him, him.
“I dunno. Any time someone else calls Eppy things like that we all pretty much bash their heads in,” he stated honestly remembering times when people had stepped over the line and they had all risen to the defense of their manager. The offenders never got off lightly.
“Yeah, but we’re all mates,” John replied, “That makes it okay.”
Paul bit his lip.
“I know. It’s just that sometimes I dunno if we’re any better than they are,” He suggested the idea calmly, as though he felt conflicted on the matter too.
John surprised him by thinking about what he said for a few moments.
“If Brian got offended, all he’d have to do is say so,” John pointed out.
He wasn’t really sure, but he wasn’t too keen on challenging the issue any more.
“I suppose you’re right.”
“I am.”
The silence was tense and uncomfortable for both parties.
“And what were you going on about some Japanese bird?” John asked, bringing up Paul’s near-fatal slip.
“I haven’t really been thinking straight today. Me head feels like I put it through a blender,” he admitted honestly.
“Yeah, we noticed that,” John commented sarcastically. Paul was glad when his co-writer didn’t pursue the topic though. He’d avoided the bullet so far.
“So am I forgiven?” He asked, feeling brave enough to flatter his eye-lashes in a false-pleading way.
John scanned the doe-eyed man. He wanted so badly to lash out, to make Paul feel a little bit of what he had. It was never really clear to him why he had those kinds of urges to make others suffer similarly; it was just a defense mechanism. But in that moment, looking at Paul who looked pretty pathetic, John found himself unable too. Maybe it was the red-rimmed gaze, or the light trembles that still wracked the other man’s body, but John couldn’t hold onto his anger properly.
He let out a deep sigh and shook his head before he responded.
“You little tart. Don’t be using your feminine wiles to try and change me mind,” John replied sternly. Not breaking character he held a finger threateningly.
“I’ve still a mind to punish you,” he warned.
“Well that jumped from zero to fifty quite fast,” Paul spoke with a smile. John’s lip twitched.
The air between them had been cleared and really, nothing else needed to be said.
*
**
Alas, Paul still is hitting dead-ends. Things will get a bit better next chapter.
Next chapters are HERE
Let me know your thoughts~!