RPF - Beatles: "If I fell in love with you" by graiae
The room reeked of cheap whiskey and body odour as Paul pushed the door open through the clutter and debris, and stepped into the darkened space.
“John?” he asked, cautiously stepping through the mess. “John, are you here?”
“I’m here,” a voice slurred from somewhere near the sofa. Catching the curtains, Paul drew them aside, cascading light into the chaos, and in the middle of the disaster was John, sprawled on the floor, his head and shoulders against the sofa’s foot.
John cringed at the sudden onslaught of daylight, flinging an arm over his face to protect his eyes. “Macca, fuck,” he groaned, shrinking into himself.
“Cynthia called me when you didn’t come home,” Paul stated matter-of-factly, seemingly ignorant to John’s suffering. “Wanted to know if we were writing…I told her yes, of course.”
John’s other hand groped blindly along the carpet for his glasses. Paul continued to ignore his troubles.
“Though, I would appreciate a bit of advance notice when expected to lie for you.”
“Macca, shut up,” whined John as he gave up his search.
“No, I won’t shut up. I spent all fucking night looking for you, you selfish bastard.” Paul reached down swiftly and tossed John’s glasses onto his chest. In pain, John slipped the glasses onto his nose.
“I don’t know why you care,” he muttered, struggling to sit upright.
Paul gaped. “You don’t know why I- . . . Fuck you.” He marched across the room to stand almost directly over John. After he’d taken a breath to compose himself, he asked, “Why are you getting pissed alone anyway?”
“I’m tired, Paul.” John went limp again. “I’m so fucking tired.”
Softening slightly, Paul slid down beside him on the cold hardwood. “John…”
“Why aren’t you tired, Macca?”
“What do you mean?”
John pushed himself up enough so his shoulder was level with Paul’s. “I go home every night and lie to Cynthia, you go home every night and lie to Jane. Why aren’t you worn down? Why don’t you have to struggle for every fucking breath? It’s not fair.”
“I don’t lie to Jane.” Paul didn’t even sound like he believed that.
“You don’t lie to Jane?” John scoffed. “So I’m sure you tell her all about the birds on tour?”
“We don’t talk about it,” Paul said defensively.
“And your artist friends?”
“It’s not an issue,” he insisted.
“And me?”
“She doesn’t ask, John!” Pulling away to look at him in exasperation, Paul asked, “Why are we even talking about this? What does it matter?”
“It matters because I’m tired of lying to everyone!” Hangover seemingly forgotten, John surged forward to grab Paul’s arm. “Aren’t you tired of hiding this from everyone? George, Ringo…we’re lying to our best mates every time they catch us getting a little too close and you pass it off as a fucking joke.”
“So what do you want me to do? Snog you on national television?” Paul pulled his arm away and moved to stand. “You’re being a fucking nutter, John.”
“I just want to stop lying to the people we care about. Why can’t you just tell them you love me? You certainly write me enough roses and moonlight bullshit on the subject.”
Fumbling in his pocket for a ciggy and match, Paul looked anywhere but at John. “I do love you. You know that. But I can’t hurt Jane.”
“Oh, because you and Jane have such a wholesome relationship.” John pulled himself onto the sofa, searching his own pockets for something to smoke.
“We do fine,” Paul spat, flicking ash into the air.
“Right...you’ve been writing so many songs about how ‘fine’ you are.”
“Like you’re one to talk, always telling Cyn that we’re fucking songwriting because you can’t bear to tell her what we’re really doing.”
John’s lip quirked slightly. “Fucking songwriting? …That’s actually a fairly apt description.”
Paul rolled his eyes and took a puff. “The point is that you’re no saint either,” he huffed. After blowing out another stream of smoke, he joined John on the couch. He slouched close to him so that they were knocking knees.
“That’s exactly my point. I’m tired of lying. I’m sick of hiding this. I mean, let’s be honest: you and me? We’re pretty good together.” John said, lightly nudging Paul’s shoulder.
“So you want to tell George and Ringo?” Paul conceded.
“And Cyn and Jane,” John added.
“I can’t tell Jane.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!”
“No, seriously; if I tell Jane, she’ll leave and then my dad will ask why we aren’t together anymore.”
“So tell your dad.”
“I can’t tell my dad.” Suddenly Paul leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I mean...fuck, it would kill him.”
John rested his head on the back of the couch and blew smoke in the air. “So you don’t love me enough to tell your dad?”
Standing abruptly, Paul crossed the room in three strides before turning back toward John. “I don’t exactly see you telling Mimi, either,” he spat. “So don’t act like I’m some kind of villain.”
“What if I did?” John leaned forward, subconsciously mimicking Paul’s earlier posture.
“Did what?” Paul sighed, crossing his arms over his chest.
“What if I told Mimi?”
“Oh, fuck off.” Paul turned, searching for anything to distract him from John. “You won’t tell Mimi.”
“But if I did, would you tell your dad?” John stood and took a step toward Paul. Paul shifted away.
“You won’t.”
“But if I did?”
“It’s irrelevant because you won’t.” Paul turned his back, looking out the window and mentally counting the cars outside.
“You wouldn’t, would you?” John stopped. “Even if I told Mimi, you wouldn’t tell your fucking dad.”
Paul whirled around furiously. “That’s easy for you to say! Everyone already expects you to be a fuck-up! If you told Mimi, she would just add it to the long list of ways you’ve disappointed her. I’m the good one, the reliable one. My father is fucking proud of me! If he ever did find out, it would destroy him. I would lose my whole family.”
“You would still have me,” John offered, meekly.
“Well, maybe that’s not good enough, John!”
John stared at him a moment before turning away, rummaging through the empty bottles on the countertop.
“Whatever, Macca,” he muttered, swallowing a chug he found at the bottom of a discarded bottle.
Paul’s bit his lower lip, his eyes losing their hard edge. “John, I-”
“What?”
“I’m sorry.” Paul took a step closer. Then another.
John chuckled mirthlessly, still searching through the bottles. “Yeah, I don’t give a shit. No skin off my back. You’re the one obsessed with silly love songs, not me.”
Paul reached to still John’s searching hands. “John, I’m really sorry,” he pleaded.
John pulled out of Paul’s grasp. “I’m not some fucking bird, Macca,” he near snarled. “Besides, not everything in the whole fucking world is about you!”
Paul crossed his arms. “How is this not about me?”
“You’ve got an ego the size of North America, son,” John joked, wearing a mask of indifference.
“John-”
“Go see Jane, tell Cynthia I’m fine…hell, write a whole fucking album. Just leave me in peace.”
“John-” Paul tried one last time.
“Seriously, Paul, get the fuck out.”
John turned away in dismissal and refused to react when he heard the door slam.
“Good fucking riddance,” he mouthed around the spout of a new bottle, seeking oblivion once again.
“John?” he asked, cautiously stepping through the mess. “John, are you here?”
“I’m here,” a voice slurred from somewhere near the sofa. Catching the curtains, Paul drew them aside, cascading light into the chaos, and in the middle of the disaster was John, sprawled on the floor, his head and shoulders against the sofa’s foot.
John cringed at the sudden onslaught of daylight, flinging an arm over his face to protect his eyes. “Macca, fuck,” he groaned, shrinking into himself.
“Cynthia called me when you didn’t come home,” Paul stated matter-of-factly, seemingly ignorant to John’s suffering. “Wanted to know if we were writing…I told her yes, of course.”
John’s other hand groped blindly along the carpet for his glasses. Paul continued to ignore his troubles.
“Though, I would appreciate a bit of advance notice when expected to lie for you.”
“Macca, shut up,” whined John as he gave up his search.
“No, I won’t shut up. I spent all fucking night looking for you, you selfish bastard.” Paul reached down swiftly and tossed John’s glasses onto his chest. In pain, John slipped the glasses onto his nose.
“I don’t know why you care,” he muttered, struggling to sit upright.
Paul gaped. “You don’t know why I- . . . Fuck you.” He marched across the room to stand almost directly over John. After he’d taken a breath to compose himself, he asked, “Why are you getting pissed alone anyway?”
“I’m tired, Paul.” John went limp again. “I’m so fucking tired.”
Softening slightly, Paul slid down beside him on the cold hardwood. “John…”
“Why aren’t you tired, Macca?”
“What do you mean?”
John pushed himself up enough so his shoulder was level with Paul’s. “I go home every night and lie to Cynthia, you go home every night and lie to Jane. Why aren’t you worn down? Why don’t you have to struggle for every fucking breath? It’s not fair.”
“I don’t lie to Jane.” Paul didn’t even sound like he believed that.
“You don’t lie to Jane?” John scoffed. “So I’m sure you tell her all about the birds on tour?”
“We don’t talk about it,” Paul said defensively.
“And your artist friends?”
“It’s not an issue,” he insisted.
“And me?”
“She doesn’t ask, John!” Pulling away to look at him in exasperation, Paul asked, “Why are we even talking about this? What does it matter?”
“It matters because I’m tired of lying to everyone!” Hangover seemingly forgotten, John surged forward to grab Paul’s arm. “Aren’t you tired of hiding this from everyone? George, Ringo…we’re lying to our best mates every time they catch us getting a little too close and you pass it off as a fucking joke.”
“So what do you want me to do? Snog you on national television?” Paul pulled his arm away and moved to stand. “You’re being a fucking nutter, John.”
“I just want to stop lying to the people we care about. Why can’t you just tell them you love me? You certainly write me enough roses and moonlight bullshit on the subject.”
Fumbling in his pocket for a ciggy and match, Paul looked anywhere but at John. “I do love you. You know that. But I can’t hurt Jane.”
“Oh, because you and Jane have such a wholesome relationship.” John pulled himself onto the sofa, searching his own pockets for something to smoke.
“We do fine,” Paul spat, flicking ash into the air.
“Right...you’ve been writing so many songs about how ‘fine’ you are.”
“Like you’re one to talk, always telling Cyn that we’re fucking songwriting because you can’t bear to tell her what we’re really doing.”
John’s lip quirked slightly. “Fucking songwriting? …That’s actually a fairly apt description.”
Paul rolled his eyes and took a puff. “The point is that you’re no saint either,” he huffed. After blowing out another stream of smoke, he joined John on the couch. He slouched close to him so that they were knocking knees.
“That’s exactly my point. I’m tired of lying. I’m sick of hiding this. I mean, let’s be honest: you and me? We’re pretty good together.” John said, lightly nudging Paul’s shoulder.
“So you want to tell George and Ringo?” Paul conceded.
“And Cyn and Jane,” John added.
“I can’t tell Jane.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!”
“No, seriously; if I tell Jane, she’ll leave and then my dad will ask why we aren’t together anymore.”
“So tell your dad.”
“I can’t tell my dad.” Suddenly Paul leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I mean...fuck, it would kill him.”
John rested his head on the back of the couch and blew smoke in the air. “So you don’t love me enough to tell your dad?”
Standing abruptly, Paul crossed the room in three strides before turning back toward John. “I don’t exactly see you telling Mimi, either,” he spat. “So don’t act like I’m some kind of villain.”
“What if I did?” John leaned forward, subconsciously mimicking Paul’s earlier posture.
“Did what?” Paul sighed, crossing his arms over his chest.
“What if I told Mimi?”
“Oh, fuck off.” Paul turned, searching for anything to distract him from John. “You won’t tell Mimi.”
“But if I did, would you tell your dad?” John stood and took a step toward Paul. Paul shifted away.
“You won’t.”
“But if I did?”
“It’s irrelevant because you won’t.” Paul turned his back, looking out the window and mentally counting the cars outside.
“You wouldn’t, would you?” John stopped. “Even if I told Mimi, you wouldn’t tell your fucking dad.”
Paul whirled around furiously. “That’s easy for you to say! Everyone already expects you to be a fuck-up! If you told Mimi, she would just add it to the long list of ways you’ve disappointed her. I’m the good one, the reliable one. My father is fucking proud of me! If he ever did find out, it would destroy him. I would lose my whole family.”
“You would still have me,” John offered, meekly.
“Well, maybe that’s not good enough, John!”
John stared at him a moment before turning away, rummaging through the empty bottles on the countertop.
“Whatever, Macca,” he muttered, swallowing a chug he found at the bottom of a discarded bottle.
Paul’s bit his lower lip, his eyes losing their hard edge. “John, I-”
“What?”
“I’m sorry.” Paul took a step closer. Then another.
John chuckled mirthlessly, still searching through the bottles. “Yeah, I don’t give a shit. No skin off my back. You’re the one obsessed with silly love songs, not me.”
Paul reached to still John’s searching hands. “John, I’m really sorry,” he pleaded.
John pulled out of Paul’s grasp. “I’m not some fucking bird, Macca,” he near snarled. “Besides, not everything in the whole fucking world is about you!”
Paul crossed his arms. “How is this not about me?”
“You’ve got an ego the size of North America, son,” John joked, wearing a mask of indifference.
“John-”
“Go see Jane, tell Cynthia I’m fine…hell, write a whole fucking album. Just leave me in peace.”
“John-” Paul tried one last time.
“Seriously, Paul, get the fuck out.”
John turned away in dismissal and refused to react when he heard the door slam.
“Good fucking riddance,” he mouthed around the spout of a new bottle, seeking oblivion once again.