An old story brought to life.
I was rereading through a few of my older files and I came across four or five Beatles stories that I started writing, got several pages on and then abandoned. Most of them were trite or the characterisations were terrible but some of them (read: one or two) were actually fairly decent. The problem is that I have no idea where to go with them. Instead of letting them sit on my computer, however, I thought I'd share them here. Perhaps someone will be inspired by the half-written pieces and decide to finish them for me! (I honestly would be thrilled.) One of them might be all right to end as-is, as a very short stand-alone. So, we'll see. They're both rather random and both set during the Hamburg-era. Please note, neither have been checked by betas for grammar, spelling errors, logic, etc.
Notes: This is a story I wrote almost exactly a year ago today. I started it on July 24th, 2004. Seems like it'd be appropirate to at least try to finish it. It's John and Klaus Voormann. It isn't slash, per se, although I wasn't going to protest if it went into it. They've certainly got a lot in common. Anyway, here is the fic. If you (anyone reading this) would like to continue it, by all means, please let me know and go for it. All I ask is that the theme keep similar (i.e. don't turn it into some crazy Paul/George thing as it's clearly about John, Klaus, Stu and Astrid).
Goodbye For Good
a Beatles fanfiction
by George H.
thatbritishboy@hotmail.com
24 July 2004
John was already drunk by the time he stumbled into the Kaiserkeller that evening but that didn’t stop him from ordering another beer. It was a stupid place for him to go to, all things considered at that point, but it was familiar to him and he was so pissed that he either had to stick to familiarity or else get hopelessly lost. So he slipped into one of the nautical lifeboat shaped booths and sucked on his beer, avoiding the bar and the narky bartender who he knew even in his blotto state would likely alert Koschmider to his presence. Seeing Koschmider now would only send John into a blind rage. He just wanted to be alone and drink.
It wasn’t as though he had a choice, anyway: George had been kicked out of the country a fortnight earlier for being underage, Paul and Pete had been deported just days earlier because Koschmider had been upset that they were playing at the Top Ten Club and cited them with arson - which was a load of shit - and now Stu was coddled up with his German girlfriend - no, fiancée - shacked up in the attic of the Kirchherr’s. That left John with no mates and no place to stay; even Eckhorn couldn’t be convinced to keep a lone dispirited rhythm guitarist on. Not that John would have played by himself anyway.
“What a fucking joke,” he choked out to himself, mouthing around his beer.
He kept his eyes averted, not even wanting to attract the attention of the waiter for another beer. He just wanted a place to sit, in relative safety (not that the Kaiserkeller really had any security for any of them anymore) and he wanted to nurse his headache. Tomorrow he was shipping out from Hamburg, back to Liverpool, and he felt like a colossal failure. When Alan Williams had promised them luxuries in Germany and a steady gig he thought they had finally found their big break; to have it end this way was miserable. The fact that Stu wasn’t even going to be accompanying him tomorrow on the train to Frankfurt only made the sting worse.
Stu was going to fly home. Stu, who was probably now cuddled up between Astrid’s legs, was going to take the Kirchherr’s money and their fucking plane ticket and he was going to let John take the ferry back to mother England, alone. Stu was picking this girl he’d barely known four months over him, his best friend. That was what burned hard and low in the pit of John’s stomach.
He finally raised his eyes towards the bar, his bottle now empty, and debated if he could order another drink without being recognized and kicked out. He was just about to screw up the nerve to go right up to the bartender, fuck all pretense, and get another beer because even jail would be better than sleeping on the streets tonight when a shadow fell over his table. “I thought you were here,” came a soft voice in accented English.
John squinted at the halo the stage lights produced around the new arrivals’ head and sat back in the booth. “Didn’t know I was being looked for. Get us some pints then, if you’re joining.”
Klaus managed to curl his thin lips into a flicker of a smile and then he shrugged and went to the bar to get them some beer. John casually watched the exis’ back as he went, casually picking out a tiny bit of white lint marring his backside because it stood out in stark contrast to his crisp black drainies and black high turtleneck sweater. Klaus had no problem securing the beer and, as often the rich exis did for the poor Beatles, he paid for the two pints and slipped a bottle into John’s hand without a word as he sat down in the booth opposite him.
“Shouldn’t you be out reading Foucault or reciting poetry?” John dryly commented after he had taken a long draught off his lager. “Or polishing your shoes?”
Klaus just smiled at him a little, almost enigmatically. “Yes,” he finally answered, his tone casual.
“Then why the fuck are you here? Mommy throw you out for coming home smelling like axle grease?” he scathed.
Klaus merely laughed, a deep easy sound, and leaned back in the booth. “Tomorrow you leave. I think one more night for drinking first.”
John peered at him across the table; his eyes squinted as he tried to clear the blurriness out of Klaus’ face. Then he sat back and looked a bit more at ease. “You’re fucking pissed too, aren’t you?”
Klaus gave a crooked smile. “No.”
“I mean about Astrid off in the attic fucking me best mate,” John said bluntly. “You’re pissed about that, aren’t you?”
Klaus’ smile faded from his eyes but it remained pasted there on his lips, like some ghost. “Astrid is free to love Stuart.”
“Oh, fuck you,” John snorted and took another gulp from his beer.
---
They out drank each other within another hour and soon found themselves hanging off one another’s shoulders as they stumbled out of the Kaiserkeller into the heart of the Reeperbahn. It was late and the only people out besides them were thugs, sailors and whores (and some combinations of all three). John was used to the nightlife; he and the Beatles had been living it for the past four months and before that he was used to standing his own ground back on the streets of Liverpool.
Klaus, however, was not from St. Pauli or anything even remotely like it. Even in his drunken state his arm clutched around John a little tighter as they stumbled along the deserted street. John was half-heartedly making his way towards the Bambi Kino since that was where he figured he’d spend his last night in Hamburg but Klaus was resisting without actually making a pretense to.
“T’dark out f’ya?” John asked in a slur. “Wanna go home t’mummy ‘n’ duddy now ‘n’ sleep on yer fuckin’ feather bed?”
Klaus muttered something in German and John squeezed him, hard.
“Sprechen Sie mutter fookin' Englisch, y’Kraut,” he demanded and then made the mistake of releasing Klaus. Instead of the desired effect of Klaus dropping like a pile of stones to the ground, they both did.
Klaus laughed. “You fool.” He stretched out a bit, using John as a pillow.
“An’ y’re a bloody queer,” John retorted although he did not shove Klaus’ head off his stomach.
“People will think us whores, lying in middle of road,” Klaus said, his voice laced with the occasional chuckle.
“Ah, I’ll fuck ‘em. I could use th’money,” John muttered darkly. Then he lifted his head off the pavement and glanced around. Two whores standing by a street post smiled at him and he managed to momentarily catch the wary eye of a mysterious looking man walking hurriedly towards the girls but none of them seemed really interested in the two boys sprawled in a pile in the middle of the road. “Or I could blow the rest I got on those birds there,” he offered, sitting up a bit but not enough to disrupt Klaus’ use of his abdomen as a head rest. “Fuckin’ whores have th’nicest beds. All silk ‘n’ shit,” he said, trying to sober himself.
“Silken shit not nice,” Klaus commented, sitting up on his own accord. “You have no place sleep?”
“Sure I do. I’d invite you over for eggnog ‘n’ scones only we’ve just a closet with three bunks ‘n’ two windows.” He hissed and then snorted a laugh. “Not ‘we’ - me. It’s my fuckin’ place now ‘n’ I’m the only one there because my boyfriend is fucking your girlfriend.”
Klaus staggered to his feet, the mood soured again. “She is not girlfriend.”
“Sure she is. Girl. Friend. Girlfriend. Come ‘ead, let’s get another beer somewhere,” he coaxed, ignoring the whores now.
“This is same way Stuart is boyfriend? Boy. Friend. Yes?”
“Shut the fuck up,” John snarled.
Klaus laughed, offering his hand. “Come, I know place we drink.”
John picked himself up and followed the German past the whorehouses and brothels, through the sleeping fish market and completely out of St. Pauli. Eventually they stopped in front of a small black VW bug parked along the street behind a few other cars. “Get in,” Klaus said, leaning over John to unlock the passenger door. He offered a crooked grin and then crossed past him to the sidewalk where he got into the car himself.
John just stood outside the door. “You’re not taking me to some fucking fancy place, are you?” he asked, considerably more level headed. “Because I promise I’ll get us kicked out. Very quickly.”
Klaus shook his head and started the engine. “No. Inside get.”
John complied, slamming the door behind him and scooting back in his seat. He put his feet on the dashboard and lit up a cigarette. “Fucking small German cars,” he muttered although in truth he was somewhat jealous of Klaus’ wealth. “You sure learned English fast,” he added and smacked Klaus’ arm to offer him a cigarette.
Klaus shifted the car into gear and despite still being rather drunk he managed to get the vehicle onto the road. He smiled down at the offered cigarette pack but waved his hand to indicate he didn’t want any. “Astrid everyday asks me more to know. So, quickly I learn. To please her.”
John studied Klaus’ profile as the bug hummed and jostled along and then he looked to the window. He was too slouched down to watch the buildings pass but he could see the occasional streetlamp and the stars in the distance. After a short while he rolled the window crank down to let his cigarette smoke filter out and he raised a hand to flick the ashes out onto the street. “It’s fucking stupid,” he announced.
Klaus glanced over at John as he drove and then shrugged. “It is easier to being happy than being mad.” He turned the wheel as he made a turn down a residential street. “I only wish for her to being happy.”
John sat up a bit and tossed his cigarette out onto the avenue. “Even if it means making yourself miserable?” he asked in a dark mutter.
Klaus pulled into an old looking living complex and parked the car. He sat for a moment with the engine shut off and took a deep breath. His eyes were fixed on the dashboard. “Maybe I think . . . fate? This is how it is. There is reason.” He then opened his door and stepped out of the car, unfolding and stretching a bit. “Come. Follow.”
John stayed in the car, squinting in the darkness at the blurry building complex Klaus had stopped outside of. He studied what he could see, noted that there was no one else on the streets with them and then he looked at Klaus who’s sharpened features were now peeking back down at him from the open driver’s side door. “What the fuck is this place?” he asked, ignoring the rest of the conversation.
“My house,” Klaus announced.
“It’s a shit hole,” John retorted.
Klaus smiled at him. “Then, we go your place.”
John glared at Klaus then shoved the door open and got out. He jammed his cigarette pack into his pocket, pulled his leather jacket tighter around him and stared at the building again. “Thought you’d live in a mansion with your mum and lots of servants,” John muttered darkly as he crossed the street, following Klaus.
Klaus didn’t reply. He just led John into the building and up a flight of stairs. There he unlocked a door that opened into his small studio apartment. Klaus turned on a few lights to reveal the black and white style room with minimalist decorations and streamlined furniture. It felt like a very strange mix of the 1920’s and ‘the future’. “Please sit,” Klaus offered, gesturing to a low black leather couch that faced a small fireplace. John wordlessly obeyed and sat down, looking around the apartment.
Klaus went to a small bar and poured them both malt liquor drinks before going to the couch himself and offering one of the glasses to John. Klaus sat beside him and drank. “I’d rather beer,” John murmured but drank anyway and rather enjoyed the taste. “I’d rather be in a bar, too,” he added softer although this wasn’t really true.
Klaus just smiled enigmatically at him and John almost wanted to attack him to make him stop grinning. “Did you know,” Klaus began, looking directly at him, “that before Stuart I live in Kirchherr house?” His smile did not fade.
“You weren’t here?” John asked. The apartment looked lived in. There seemed no indication of a recent move; then again, Klaus didn’t have a lot of stuff.
“They offer for Stuart to live. Politely I move out.” He shrugged a little, as if it meant nothing to him. “Now, he sleep in my place.”
John studied Klaus’ face for a moment. “Doesn’t that make you mad?”
Klaus leaned back on the couch. “Maybe once. But, I love Astrid. So I cannot be unhappy.” He looked over at John and laughed. “Do you understand?”
“Sure,” John muttered. “Even if she’s happier getting it from some other guy you’re peachy with it because you want her to be happy.”
Klaus nodded a little, taking a small sip from his glass. “It is not so with you?”
“What? Fuck, no. There’s a difference between switching boyfriends verses ditching your best friends and band mates. Fuck, if it weren’t for me he wouldn’t even have come here to meet her. He fucking owes me and what does he do? Skips practices, blows us off and now? He’s fucking flying home-without me. Because the Kitcheners or whatever the fuck have decided to let him stay on indefinitely. Because they’re engaged.” John snorted. “I’ve had a girlfriend for months but I’m not in any fucking rush to get married to her.” He pulled out his cigarette pack again.
Klaus evidently didn’t understand John’s entire spiel but he obviously got the intent of it. He just shook his head. “She tells me, from first seeing Stuart . . . ‘This is different.’ She is not romantic. She is not . . .” he gestured, not knowing the word. He paused for a moment, thinking and then sighed. “So quick.”
“Impulsive,” John muttered. “Whatever. I don’t care if he’s fucking her. They can do anything they fucking want but he still has an obligation to his fucking mates and me. We didn’t come here to fucking marrying you Germans-we came to play music and make money. He’s ignoring that responsibility and his friendships.”
“Did you not notice?” Klaus earnestly asked. “Stuart is painter not musician.”
John narrowed his eyes at Klaus, sharpening the man’s face and said in a flat voice, “Stuart is a friend.”
“Then you should treat as one,” Klaus plainly answered.
John opened his mouth to scream at Klaus but his hands instead gripped his pack of cigarettes and he held his tongue. He counted for a second before he coldly said, “Friends don’t abandon friends.”
“Ah,” Klaus said, raising his eyebrows. “Then, why do you leave?”
John’s eyes widened, incredulously. “I have to go home! He’s not playing anymore, the rest of the band has been deported and I’ve got no fucking money! I’m not abandoning him-he’s abandoning me!”
“You think Astrid is replace you.”
John hesitated for a moment and then shrugged. “Well, he’s fucking choosing to stay with her over going home to Liverpool with me so, yeah, I guess so.”
“And you chose Beatles over him. I think it is fair.”
----------------
That's as far as I got.
And the second one, title tenative:
Notes: I wrote this in April. It could stand-alone as-is, although I'm not sure what purpose it'd serve as such. Then again, I'm not sure where else to go with it, either. Suffice to say, it's pre-established Pete/Paul, my second real attempt at this pairing (and, most likely, second failure). The title is lame and quite possibly subject to change.
Silence Like a Cancer Grows
a Beatles fanfiction
by George H.
thatbritishboy@gmail.com
12 April 2005
It was so humid that moisture seemed to drench the walls and acrid smoke from cheap cigarettes wafted through the thick air. The tiny cot bunk bed was crowded and an elbow was jutted into Paul’s side. He stretched his arm out to mash his cigarette butt on the concrete wall beside him and then he flicked it onto the floor. The elbow was still poking into his side and in the inky blackness of the room he couldn’t tell if his companion was awake or not. “It’s fucking hot in here,” he drawled softly.
He received no reply so his hand moved to find the bare chest near his and he touched it, running his fingers over the sprinkling of hair there. He remained silent for a moment, listening to the soft breathing beside him. He thought he could make out the faintest glint of eyes in the darkness, illuminated by the naked bulb in the hall that filtered in the room through the sliver of space beneath the door.
“Say something,” Paul urged, shifting so his bare legs rubbed up against Pete’s. “Why are you always so fucking quiet?”
Next door they could hear the creaking groan of a bed as John or George got his intended target right where he wanted her. Pete shifted enough to sit up. Paul couldn’t see him for the darkness but he felt his departure. “I’m tired,” Pete finally said, his voice soft and gentle.
Paul stretched out on the cot, now that he had it to himself. “Well, yeah. I would imagine.” He lazily scratched his balls, grinning at the place he imagined Pete was now standing.
He heard Pete grunt as he hoisted himself onto the top bunk. The room fell silent except for John’s soft moans coming faintly through the wall and Paul’s smiled faded softly as Pete didn’t say anything more. “What?”
“Nothing,” Pete answered, his voice almost too soft to hear. “I’m just tired.”
Paul rolled over, causing the bed to speak loudly beneath him. “You’re full of shit but I’m not fucked enough to actually care.”
“So I’ve noticed,” Pete drawled.
Paul was silent for a moment. “What the fuck does that mean?”
Pete was silent again. He let the silence stretch on, almost as though he was listening to the noise on the other side of the wall. John said something encouraging and then fell silent; the act was through. Pete ran his fingers over the wall. “The next time you want a meaningless fuck,” Pete finally said into the darkened room, “pick up a bird or a whore. I’m not interested in being your bed warmer at night and your punching bag in the morning.”
In the silence that followed this statement Paul could hear Pete rolling over on his top bunk, hunkering down to sleep, most likely. “I’m just joking when I say those things, you know,” Paul stated into the quiet. “I don’t really mean them.”
Paul received nothing in return but silence.
---
Now that I post these I half think I might have posted them before. I can't be bothered to remember though. Anyway, I feel like posting them both now, even if nothing ever comes from them. However, if you have suggestions for their continuation, or would like to continue to write them, please let me know.
Notes: This is a story I wrote almost exactly a year ago today. I started it on July 24th, 2004. Seems like it'd be appropirate to at least try to finish it. It's John and Klaus Voormann. It isn't slash, per se, although I wasn't going to protest if it went into it. They've certainly got a lot in common. Anyway, here is the fic. If you (anyone reading this) would like to continue it, by all means, please let me know and go for it. All I ask is that the theme keep similar (i.e. don't turn it into some crazy Paul/George thing as it's clearly about John, Klaus, Stu and Astrid).
Goodbye For Good
a Beatles fanfiction
by George H.
thatbritishboy@hotmail.com
24 July 2004
John was already drunk by the time he stumbled into the Kaiserkeller that evening but that didn’t stop him from ordering another beer. It was a stupid place for him to go to, all things considered at that point, but it was familiar to him and he was so pissed that he either had to stick to familiarity or else get hopelessly lost. So he slipped into one of the nautical lifeboat shaped booths and sucked on his beer, avoiding the bar and the narky bartender who he knew even in his blotto state would likely alert Koschmider to his presence. Seeing Koschmider now would only send John into a blind rage. He just wanted to be alone and drink.
It wasn’t as though he had a choice, anyway: George had been kicked out of the country a fortnight earlier for being underage, Paul and Pete had been deported just days earlier because Koschmider had been upset that they were playing at the Top Ten Club and cited them with arson - which was a load of shit - and now Stu was coddled up with his German girlfriend - no, fiancée - shacked up in the attic of the Kirchherr’s. That left John with no mates and no place to stay; even Eckhorn couldn’t be convinced to keep a lone dispirited rhythm guitarist on. Not that John would have played by himself anyway.
“What a fucking joke,” he choked out to himself, mouthing around his beer.
He kept his eyes averted, not even wanting to attract the attention of the waiter for another beer. He just wanted a place to sit, in relative safety (not that the Kaiserkeller really had any security for any of them anymore) and he wanted to nurse his headache. Tomorrow he was shipping out from Hamburg, back to Liverpool, and he felt like a colossal failure. When Alan Williams had promised them luxuries in Germany and a steady gig he thought they had finally found their big break; to have it end this way was miserable. The fact that Stu wasn’t even going to be accompanying him tomorrow on the train to Frankfurt only made the sting worse.
Stu was going to fly home. Stu, who was probably now cuddled up between Astrid’s legs, was going to take the Kirchherr’s money and their fucking plane ticket and he was going to let John take the ferry back to mother England, alone. Stu was picking this girl he’d barely known four months over him, his best friend. That was what burned hard and low in the pit of John’s stomach.
He finally raised his eyes towards the bar, his bottle now empty, and debated if he could order another drink without being recognized and kicked out. He was just about to screw up the nerve to go right up to the bartender, fuck all pretense, and get another beer because even jail would be better than sleeping on the streets tonight when a shadow fell over his table. “I thought you were here,” came a soft voice in accented English.
John squinted at the halo the stage lights produced around the new arrivals’ head and sat back in the booth. “Didn’t know I was being looked for. Get us some pints then, if you’re joining.”
Klaus managed to curl his thin lips into a flicker of a smile and then he shrugged and went to the bar to get them some beer. John casually watched the exis’ back as he went, casually picking out a tiny bit of white lint marring his backside because it stood out in stark contrast to his crisp black drainies and black high turtleneck sweater. Klaus had no problem securing the beer and, as often the rich exis did for the poor Beatles, he paid for the two pints and slipped a bottle into John’s hand without a word as he sat down in the booth opposite him.
“Shouldn’t you be out reading Foucault or reciting poetry?” John dryly commented after he had taken a long draught off his lager. “Or polishing your shoes?”
Klaus just smiled at him a little, almost enigmatically. “Yes,” he finally answered, his tone casual.
“Then why the fuck are you here? Mommy throw you out for coming home smelling like axle grease?” he scathed.
Klaus merely laughed, a deep easy sound, and leaned back in the booth. “Tomorrow you leave. I think one more night for drinking first.”
John peered at him across the table; his eyes squinted as he tried to clear the blurriness out of Klaus’ face. Then he sat back and looked a bit more at ease. “You’re fucking pissed too, aren’t you?”
Klaus gave a crooked smile. “No.”
“I mean about Astrid off in the attic fucking me best mate,” John said bluntly. “You’re pissed about that, aren’t you?”
Klaus’ smile faded from his eyes but it remained pasted there on his lips, like some ghost. “Astrid is free to love Stuart.”
“Oh, fuck you,” John snorted and took another gulp from his beer.
---
They out drank each other within another hour and soon found themselves hanging off one another’s shoulders as they stumbled out of the Kaiserkeller into the heart of the Reeperbahn. It was late and the only people out besides them were thugs, sailors and whores (and some combinations of all three). John was used to the nightlife; he and the Beatles had been living it for the past four months and before that he was used to standing his own ground back on the streets of Liverpool.
Klaus, however, was not from St. Pauli or anything even remotely like it. Even in his drunken state his arm clutched around John a little tighter as they stumbled along the deserted street. John was half-heartedly making his way towards the Bambi Kino since that was where he figured he’d spend his last night in Hamburg but Klaus was resisting without actually making a pretense to.
“T’dark out f’ya?” John asked in a slur. “Wanna go home t’mummy ‘n’ duddy now ‘n’ sleep on yer fuckin’ feather bed?”
Klaus muttered something in German and John squeezed him, hard.
“Sprechen Sie mutter fookin' Englisch, y’Kraut,” he demanded and then made the mistake of releasing Klaus. Instead of the desired effect of Klaus dropping like a pile of stones to the ground, they both did.
Klaus laughed. “You fool.” He stretched out a bit, using John as a pillow.
“An’ y’re a bloody queer,” John retorted although he did not shove Klaus’ head off his stomach.
“People will think us whores, lying in middle of road,” Klaus said, his voice laced with the occasional chuckle.
“Ah, I’ll fuck ‘em. I could use th’money,” John muttered darkly. Then he lifted his head off the pavement and glanced around. Two whores standing by a street post smiled at him and he managed to momentarily catch the wary eye of a mysterious looking man walking hurriedly towards the girls but none of them seemed really interested in the two boys sprawled in a pile in the middle of the road. “Or I could blow the rest I got on those birds there,” he offered, sitting up a bit but not enough to disrupt Klaus’ use of his abdomen as a head rest. “Fuckin’ whores have th’nicest beds. All silk ‘n’ shit,” he said, trying to sober himself.
“Silken shit not nice,” Klaus commented, sitting up on his own accord. “You have no place sleep?”
“Sure I do. I’d invite you over for eggnog ‘n’ scones only we’ve just a closet with three bunks ‘n’ two windows.” He hissed and then snorted a laugh. “Not ‘we’ - me. It’s my fuckin’ place now ‘n’ I’m the only one there because my boyfriend is fucking your girlfriend.”
Klaus staggered to his feet, the mood soured again. “She is not girlfriend.”
“Sure she is. Girl. Friend. Girlfriend. Come ‘ead, let’s get another beer somewhere,” he coaxed, ignoring the whores now.
“This is same way Stuart is boyfriend? Boy. Friend. Yes?”
“Shut the fuck up,” John snarled.
Klaus laughed, offering his hand. “Come, I know place we drink.”
John picked himself up and followed the German past the whorehouses and brothels, through the sleeping fish market and completely out of St. Pauli. Eventually they stopped in front of a small black VW bug parked along the street behind a few other cars. “Get in,” Klaus said, leaning over John to unlock the passenger door. He offered a crooked grin and then crossed past him to the sidewalk where he got into the car himself.
John just stood outside the door. “You’re not taking me to some fucking fancy place, are you?” he asked, considerably more level headed. “Because I promise I’ll get us kicked out. Very quickly.”
Klaus shook his head and started the engine. “No. Inside get.”
John complied, slamming the door behind him and scooting back in his seat. He put his feet on the dashboard and lit up a cigarette. “Fucking small German cars,” he muttered although in truth he was somewhat jealous of Klaus’ wealth. “You sure learned English fast,” he added and smacked Klaus’ arm to offer him a cigarette.
Klaus shifted the car into gear and despite still being rather drunk he managed to get the vehicle onto the road. He smiled down at the offered cigarette pack but waved his hand to indicate he didn’t want any. “Astrid everyday asks me more to know. So, quickly I learn. To please her.”
John studied Klaus’ profile as the bug hummed and jostled along and then he looked to the window. He was too slouched down to watch the buildings pass but he could see the occasional streetlamp and the stars in the distance. After a short while he rolled the window crank down to let his cigarette smoke filter out and he raised a hand to flick the ashes out onto the street. “It’s fucking stupid,” he announced.
Klaus glanced over at John as he drove and then shrugged. “It is easier to being happy than being mad.” He turned the wheel as he made a turn down a residential street. “I only wish for her to being happy.”
John sat up a bit and tossed his cigarette out onto the avenue. “Even if it means making yourself miserable?” he asked in a dark mutter.
Klaus pulled into an old looking living complex and parked the car. He sat for a moment with the engine shut off and took a deep breath. His eyes were fixed on the dashboard. “Maybe I think . . . fate? This is how it is. There is reason.” He then opened his door and stepped out of the car, unfolding and stretching a bit. “Come. Follow.”
John stayed in the car, squinting in the darkness at the blurry building complex Klaus had stopped outside of. He studied what he could see, noted that there was no one else on the streets with them and then he looked at Klaus who’s sharpened features were now peeking back down at him from the open driver’s side door. “What the fuck is this place?” he asked, ignoring the rest of the conversation.
“My house,” Klaus announced.
“It’s a shit hole,” John retorted.
Klaus smiled at him. “Then, we go your place.”
John glared at Klaus then shoved the door open and got out. He jammed his cigarette pack into his pocket, pulled his leather jacket tighter around him and stared at the building again. “Thought you’d live in a mansion with your mum and lots of servants,” John muttered darkly as he crossed the street, following Klaus.
Klaus didn’t reply. He just led John into the building and up a flight of stairs. There he unlocked a door that opened into his small studio apartment. Klaus turned on a few lights to reveal the black and white style room with minimalist decorations and streamlined furniture. It felt like a very strange mix of the 1920’s and ‘the future’. “Please sit,” Klaus offered, gesturing to a low black leather couch that faced a small fireplace. John wordlessly obeyed and sat down, looking around the apartment.
Klaus went to a small bar and poured them both malt liquor drinks before going to the couch himself and offering one of the glasses to John. Klaus sat beside him and drank. “I’d rather beer,” John murmured but drank anyway and rather enjoyed the taste. “I’d rather be in a bar, too,” he added softer although this wasn’t really true.
Klaus just smiled enigmatically at him and John almost wanted to attack him to make him stop grinning. “Did you know,” Klaus began, looking directly at him, “that before Stuart I live in Kirchherr house?” His smile did not fade.
“You weren’t here?” John asked. The apartment looked lived in. There seemed no indication of a recent move; then again, Klaus didn’t have a lot of stuff.
“They offer for Stuart to live. Politely I move out.” He shrugged a little, as if it meant nothing to him. “Now, he sleep in my place.”
John studied Klaus’ face for a moment. “Doesn’t that make you mad?”
Klaus leaned back on the couch. “Maybe once. But, I love Astrid. So I cannot be unhappy.” He looked over at John and laughed. “Do you understand?”
“Sure,” John muttered. “Even if she’s happier getting it from some other guy you’re peachy with it because you want her to be happy.”
Klaus nodded a little, taking a small sip from his glass. “It is not so with you?”
“What? Fuck, no. There’s a difference between switching boyfriends verses ditching your best friends and band mates. Fuck, if it weren’t for me he wouldn’t even have come here to meet her. He fucking owes me and what does he do? Skips practices, blows us off and now? He’s fucking flying home-without me. Because the Kitcheners or whatever the fuck have decided to let him stay on indefinitely. Because they’re engaged.” John snorted. “I’ve had a girlfriend for months but I’m not in any fucking rush to get married to her.” He pulled out his cigarette pack again.
Klaus evidently didn’t understand John’s entire spiel but he obviously got the intent of it. He just shook his head. “She tells me, from first seeing Stuart . . . ‘This is different.’ She is not romantic. She is not . . .” he gestured, not knowing the word. He paused for a moment, thinking and then sighed. “So quick.”
“Impulsive,” John muttered. “Whatever. I don’t care if he’s fucking her. They can do anything they fucking want but he still has an obligation to his fucking mates and me. We didn’t come here to fucking marrying you Germans-we came to play music and make money. He’s ignoring that responsibility and his friendships.”
“Did you not notice?” Klaus earnestly asked. “Stuart is painter not musician.”
John narrowed his eyes at Klaus, sharpening the man’s face and said in a flat voice, “Stuart is a friend.”
“Then you should treat as one,” Klaus plainly answered.
John opened his mouth to scream at Klaus but his hands instead gripped his pack of cigarettes and he held his tongue. He counted for a second before he coldly said, “Friends don’t abandon friends.”
“Ah,” Klaus said, raising his eyebrows. “Then, why do you leave?”
John’s eyes widened, incredulously. “I have to go home! He’s not playing anymore, the rest of the band has been deported and I’ve got no fucking money! I’m not abandoning him-he’s abandoning me!”
“You think Astrid is replace you.”
John hesitated for a moment and then shrugged. “Well, he’s fucking choosing to stay with her over going home to Liverpool with me so, yeah, I guess so.”
“And you chose Beatles over him. I think it is fair.”
----------------
That's as far as I got.
And the second one, title tenative:
Notes: I wrote this in April. It could stand-alone as-is, although I'm not sure what purpose it'd serve as such. Then again, I'm not sure where else to go with it, either. Suffice to say, it's pre-established Pete/Paul, my second real attempt at this pairing (and, most likely, second failure). The title is lame and quite possibly subject to change.
Silence Like a Cancer Grows
a Beatles fanfiction
by George H.
thatbritishboy@gmail.com
12 April 2005
It was so humid that moisture seemed to drench the walls and acrid smoke from cheap cigarettes wafted through the thick air. The tiny cot bunk bed was crowded and an elbow was jutted into Paul’s side. He stretched his arm out to mash his cigarette butt on the concrete wall beside him and then he flicked it onto the floor. The elbow was still poking into his side and in the inky blackness of the room he couldn’t tell if his companion was awake or not. “It’s fucking hot in here,” he drawled softly.
He received no reply so his hand moved to find the bare chest near his and he touched it, running his fingers over the sprinkling of hair there. He remained silent for a moment, listening to the soft breathing beside him. He thought he could make out the faintest glint of eyes in the darkness, illuminated by the naked bulb in the hall that filtered in the room through the sliver of space beneath the door.
“Say something,” Paul urged, shifting so his bare legs rubbed up against Pete’s. “Why are you always so fucking quiet?”
Next door they could hear the creaking groan of a bed as John or George got his intended target right where he wanted her. Pete shifted enough to sit up. Paul couldn’t see him for the darkness but he felt his departure. “I’m tired,” Pete finally said, his voice soft and gentle.
Paul stretched out on the cot, now that he had it to himself. “Well, yeah. I would imagine.” He lazily scratched his balls, grinning at the place he imagined Pete was now standing.
He heard Pete grunt as he hoisted himself onto the top bunk. The room fell silent except for John’s soft moans coming faintly through the wall and Paul’s smiled faded softly as Pete didn’t say anything more. “What?”
“Nothing,” Pete answered, his voice almost too soft to hear. “I’m just tired.”
Paul rolled over, causing the bed to speak loudly beneath him. “You’re full of shit but I’m not fucked enough to actually care.”
“So I’ve noticed,” Pete drawled.
Paul was silent for a moment. “What the fuck does that mean?”
Pete was silent again. He let the silence stretch on, almost as though he was listening to the noise on the other side of the wall. John said something encouraging and then fell silent; the act was through. Pete ran his fingers over the wall. “The next time you want a meaningless fuck,” Pete finally said into the darkened room, “pick up a bird or a whore. I’m not interested in being your bed warmer at night and your punching bag in the morning.”
In the silence that followed this statement Paul could hear Pete rolling over on his top bunk, hunkering down to sleep, most likely. “I’m just joking when I say those things, you know,” Paul stated into the quiet. “I don’t really mean them.”
Paul received nothing in return but silence.
---
Now that I post these I half think I might have posted them before. I can't be bothered to remember though. Anyway, I feel like posting them both now, even if nothing ever comes from them. However, if you have suggestions for their continuation, or would like to continue to write them, please let me know.