Fic: Event Horizon
Hey there! This is my first venture into the world of Beatle!fiction, but by no means my first fan fiction, or even still my first time with RPF. That doesn't change the fact that I'm nervous as hell to post this, though. :) I hope you enjoy - please let me know what you think!
This is cross-posted several places, just so's you knows.
Title: Event Horizon (Part One of Two)
Author: C, aka so_egregious
Rating: PG.
Word Count: 2,307.
Pairing: John/Paul
Warnings: A bit of the language, mentions of drug usage.
Author's Notes: I've tried to keep this as accurate as possible, but I'm sure there are mistakes. That's why it's called fiction. ;) The first part is from Paul's POV; the second will be John's. Set during recording of the White Album. As you could imagine from the setting, it's also mighty angsty.
From Merriam-Webster:
event horizon (noun) - the surface of a black hole; the boundary of a black hole beyond which nothing can escape from within it.
Paul sighed as he plunked aimlessly at the piano keys in the recently emptied studio space. The day had started off so well.
Then, as they were wont to do more and more frequently, all things had just turned to shit.
Oh sure, there were good times too. Of course there were. Times they’d all laugh and kid like before. Times he’d suggest a lyric and John had immediately supplied the next, seated with him at this very piano. Times they’d be playing (and he’d look over to see John looking at him and Jesus, they were just there, man), and it somehow almost, almost, felt like it used to. But even Paul, ever one to put a sunny spin on things, couldn’t get these times to take precedent over the others, especially on days like today.
Why was that?
The blame could be put on one person, sure. That…woman, who more and more often sat in with them even though she’d never been invited. (Well, all right, she’d been invited, but certainly not by him. Not to this studio. Not to his flat. Not anywhere.) But Paul could be honest with himself about the situation; he knew there was more to what’d been happening lately than a mostly-unwelcomed fifth presence in a room that had only ever held four (was only supposed to hold four, dammit). He knew, vaguely, that it was a lack of something that was the real problem. There was something that kept eluding him, eluding all of them, nowadays. They were chasing something. Fuck all, they’d always been chasing after something, hadn’t they? First it had simply been a chance to get on a stage - anywhere, for any audience. Maybe even get paid for it. Once the money and the gigs had been a sure thing, they’d started on the hunt for fame, and success, and adulation. (And birds…always birds.) But they’d long since found all those things in spades; they’d wallowed in them and drunk them in until they were full. Until they were sick of them. Now, though? Now it was something less defined. If Paul had to put a label on it, he’d say they’d lost…them. The music was there, the ideas were there; hell, they were there, playing and recording together. But something…he’d say the “magic,” but that sounded like such cliché rubbish. “We’ve lost our magic,” Paul imagined himself saying aloud. Please. It sounded as worn out as an old, overused proverb. Paul grimaced - proverbs. More granny shite. Har dee har har.
The simple truth was, though, that the cracks were starting to show, were getting near impossible to ignore. Getting deeper every day, deep enough to splinter them apart. It was showing in the music. Not just their stylistic differences; those had always been there. In the careless, sometimes even harsh way they handled each other’s stuff (now Desmond let the children lend an arm and a leg, did he?). But it was more than even that. It was something…shit, it was just another something Paul couldn’t label, but it was the opposite of magic. It was ominous. Nebulous. Dangerous.
Shit, Ringo had quit. (Poor Ring. Always left out. George too, really. Pushed aside by the overwhelming forces of John and Paul. Of JohnandPaul.)
Sure, it’d only been a week or so that he’d been gone, and when he’d come back they’d pasted on happy faces and hugged him and put on quite a show (‘See?’ Paul had thought as it went on. ‘We can still mach schau!’), but it had happened, and it terrified Paul. Just a few years ago one of them simply walking away would have been as unlikely as…well, something pretty bloody unlikely. But Ringo had. And honestly, it could just as easily been George or John. With the rows that broke out with frightening regularity in the rooms of Apple, it was more amazing not that Ringo had quit, but that more of them hadn’t.
Paul knew he was at least partially to blame. With Brian’s death he’d taken it upon himself to start seriously shouldering some of the responsibility. To be the one to rally the troops. To keep them on task. To get things done. Well, someone had to if they were to carry on, yeah? He did it for all of them, dammit. It certainly wasn’t for a laugh, because as they all quickly realized, business wasn’t fun. At all. And honestly, while he’d never admit it out loud (unbearable, that thought was), Paul knew John was right - they were bad at it. Awful, really. “We’re rockers, Macca, not bloody suits,” John had sneered during more than one business meeting.
Oh, the sneering.
Paul was beginning to think the other three had gotten together and voted that the sneer was the official expression that was to be used when looking his way, and he’d no doubt this imaginary (maybe?) vote had been immediately unanimous. He saw more sneers, leers and snarls than he ever had in his life since they’d started on this album, and that was saying something considering Paul had shared a room with a younger brother for years - his mates (and some days he used that word loosely), put Mike to shame. So he was trying to save them - save them as a band, as a business. As mates (because he hated that he’d had to use the word loosely). And yes, he was a perfectionist. What was so wrong about wanting to get things right? Shouldn’t he care - shouldn’t they all? He knew the endless business meetings and countless takes of his songs were endearing him to no one, but…well, so what? What was he supposed to do, settle? That had never been his style, ever. Why should he be punished for having a strong work ethic?
“Ugh,” Paul groaned. ‘Work ethic?’ What a fucking dreadful, boring term. When had this become real, honest-to-God work, anyway? Not just making the music, but all of it - even just relating to each other? It had once - not so long ago - come with no effort. Pleasurably, even. (Especially with John, even when he was being a bastard.) God, he’d used to look forward to getting into the studio with the boys. Now some days it was all he could do to get out of bed.
He’d found motivation, though. Partially the music - Paul felt like he was getting out some of his best stuff yet. They all were. But he’d found other…assistance. He rubbed his nose at the thought. He was sure the white powder wasn’t good for him, at all, but…well, again, so what? They were “rockers,” and rockers fucking did drugs. And how much worse could this be than the prellies? At least he could still sleep on coke. (Eventually.) Besides, he wasn’t the only one. Oh-ho no. George still enjoyed a good toke. Ring never said no to a stiff drink. And as for that bastard, the one whose name preceded Paul’s on every song? He was just as dependent. Problem was, he and John found themselves on opposite sides of the drug spectrum; while Paul was graced with energy to spare on his substance of choice, John’s left him sluggish and hazy. And while it was their polar opposite qualities that usually made them brilliant, now it made some days a living hell. Heroin/coke and Lennon/McCartney was a lethal mix. (So was Lennon/Ono and Lennon/McCartney. Lennon/Ono was worse for him - them - than heroin/coke.) Sometimes Paul was convinced John smoked that shit just to have an excuse to be difficult. Like he needed to be more difficult.
But God dammit, Paul was trying. He’d tried his best to come up with material that would make John happy. “Why Don’t We Do It In The Road?” Come on. That was all for John - inspired by him, by his constant challenge of “Let go, Macca - fucking let go and just do it.” He’d been so embarassingly pleased with the result, so ridiculously excited to play it back for John, and what had happened?
The song finished; John said nothing as he sat in a chair near the mixing board. Paul resisted looking John’s way as long as he could, but finally he gave in and glanced over. “Well?” he pressed. John took a long drag off his cigarette, avoiding Paul’s gaze.
“When’d you do this?”
“Earlier.”
“Earlier when?”
“Today. When you were in the back with Geo.”
John ashed on the floor, then looked over at Paul, who was surprised to see animosity in the eyes meeting his. “You couldn’t have waited for me?”
“You were busy.”
“Not that busy. You got Richie to help.”
Paul sighed. “Rich wasn’t doing anything. You were. You said you and George would be at it all day back there and not to bug you,” he said as patiently as he could.
“So you just forged on alone,” John observed sarcastically.
“I…yeah, I guess.” Paul put a hand through his hair.
“Very un-Beatles of you, love.” John’s tone was icy.
“John, c’mon. I’m sorry. It wasn’t personal.” At this John sneered. Again. “I just…” Paul continued, feeling trapped, “I didn’t think it was all that important.”
John stood. “Then why were you so bloody excited to get me in here to listen to it?”
Yoko appeared in the doorway to the control room then and John went to join her. Paul seethed, and yet still requested, against his better judgment, “Just tell me what you think.”
John turned, held Paul’s stare for a moment, then shrugged. “Fine, I s’pose,” he ruled without any emotion, and left the room.
(John had done “Julia” shortly thereafter. Without him. On purpose. Bastard.)
But that wasn’t the end of Paul’s efforts. And some of them had worked, sort of. “Birthday” was one he’d done with John foremost in his mind. He’d even found a smile and a nod when John suggested Yoko take some of the backing vocals, though it had sent a wave of outrage crashing over him. (Thank God for Ringo, suggesting Maureen join in with Yoko. She cut the abrasive shrieking. Some.) He’d channeled John’s love of silly, rambling, nonsensical tales and offered up “Rocky Raccoon.” It had earned him a chuckle or two - more from Ringo, but John had been on board. And “Helter Skelter?” Christ, could that have been a more obvious catering to John’s taste? John had seemed to really approve at first, too, but Paul was fairly certain he’d lost any favor he’d earned with that one after the first ten takes. For Paul it had been fun, to keep pushing himself - all of them, really - to get it as raw and raunchy as possible. For John, who hated more than a few takes even while sober? Forget it. And sure, yes, Paul had stayed true to his own likings with numbers like “I Will” and “Honey Pie,” which he knew keenly that John was sure to hate. But Paul had fucked around with George Martin for hours and made “Wild Honey Pie” too. He’d told George he’d just wanted to see what the new equipment could do, but truth was he’d been trying to the mickey out of himself first. To say to John, “Look, I know you hate this kind of shit, so here you go. See? I can have a laugh at my own expense.” But when he’d finally had a moment to play it for John, he’d barely listened; his attention had been on that bloody…thing.
What was that thing he’d done with George? For days the two had holed up with mountains of tape in one of the smaller rooms, playing and replaying meaningless snippets of sound and rearranging them in some order that only they found fitting. John would always catch Paul’s eye as he’d walked past the room - the John and George creation cocoon, as Paul had secretly called it - and then he’d lean in to George to whisper something. Once or twice Paul had gone in and listened, but the duo’d hardly acknowledged him. The unspoken message was clear: “Sorry, mate, but you won’t get this. Too far out. Isn’t for you.” Paul hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that that unspoken condescension, that dismissal, hinted at more than just that terrible collage of sound. (Nor could he stop fixating on when John started taking any pleasure in creating something with George. Paul could clearly remember when John would go to great lengths to avoid having to counsel George on anything musical. When he’d been adamant time and again, in private, that Paul was the only one he’d ever enjoy working with. ‘And why exactly,’ Paul wondered with no small amount of self-deprication as he mulled this over yet again, ‘do I sound like a jealous bird?’ He knew the answer. They both did, both halves of JohnandPaul. Didn’t much matter, did it?) And when they finally played it for everyone, the truth of that message cut him like a knife. Paul didn’t get it. John and George had been triumphant, proud as peacocks, but of what? It was eight minutes of babble and noises. It had sounded like utter shit.
(Yoko’d loved it. Paul knew it’d be on the album.)
Despite the powdered pick-me-up he’d employed just an hour ago, Paul suddenly felt very tired. “Tired” was upgraded to “exhausted” when he realized they still had to record another track tonight. Fuck. After what happened earlier, it hardly seemed possible to reconverge in this room and have anything happen, let alone anything “magic.” Paul tapped out a few more notes then dragged himself into standing. He needed to get out of here, just for awhile. Fleeing the place he once ran to.
Pathetic.
And the day had started off so well, too.
PS, Yes, in Part Two you will learn just why this day was a bad one. :)
This is cross-posted several places, just so's you knows.
Title: Event Horizon (Part One of Two)
Author: C, aka so_egregious
Rating: PG.
Word Count: 2,307.
Pairing: John/Paul
Warnings: A bit of the language, mentions of drug usage.
Author's Notes: I've tried to keep this as accurate as possible, but I'm sure there are mistakes. That's why it's called fiction. ;) The first part is from Paul's POV; the second will be John's. Set during recording of the White Album. As you could imagine from the setting, it's also mighty angsty.
From Merriam-Webster:
event horizon (noun) - the surface of a black hole; the boundary of a black hole beyond which nothing can escape from within it.
Paul sighed as he plunked aimlessly at the piano keys in the recently emptied studio space. The day had started off so well.
Then, as they were wont to do more and more frequently, all things had just turned to shit.
Oh sure, there were good times too. Of course there were. Times they’d all laugh and kid like before. Times he’d suggest a lyric and John had immediately supplied the next, seated with him at this very piano. Times they’d be playing (and he’d look over to see John looking at him and Jesus, they were just there, man), and it somehow almost, almost, felt like it used to. But even Paul, ever one to put a sunny spin on things, couldn’t get these times to take precedent over the others, especially on days like today.
Why was that?
The blame could be put on one person, sure. That…woman, who more and more often sat in with them even though she’d never been invited. (Well, all right, she’d been invited, but certainly not by him. Not to this studio. Not to his flat. Not anywhere.) But Paul could be honest with himself about the situation; he knew there was more to what’d been happening lately than a mostly-unwelcomed fifth presence in a room that had only ever held four (was only supposed to hold four, dammit). He knew, vaguely, that it was a lack of something that was the real problem. There was something that kept eluding him, eluding all of them, nowadays. They were chasing something. Fuck all, they’d always been chasing after something, hadn’t they? First it had simply been a chance to get on a stage - anywhere, for any audience. Maybe even get paid for it. Once the money and the gigs had been a sure thing, they’d started on the hunt for fame, and success, and adulation. (And birds…always birds.) But they’d long since found all those things in spades; they’d wallowed in them and drunk them in until they were full. Until they were sick of them. Now, though? Now it was something less defined. If Paul had to put a label on it, he’d say they’d lost…them. The music was there, the ideas were there; hell, they were there, playing and recording together. But something…he’d say the “magic,” but that sounded like such cliché rubbish. “We’ve lost our magic,” Paul imagined himself saying aloud. Please. It sounded as worn out as an old, overused proverb. Paul grimaced - proverbs. More granny shite. Har dee har har.
The simple truth was, though, that the cracks were starting to show, were getting near impossible to ignore. Getting deeper every day, deep enough to splinter them apart. It was showing in the music. Not just their stylistic differences; those had always been there. In the careless, sometimes even harsh way they handled each other’s stuff (now Desmond let the children lend an arm and a leg, did he?). But it was more than even that. It was something…shit, it was just another something Paul couldn’t label, but it was the opposite of magic. It was ominous. Nebulous. Dangerous.
Shit, Ringo had quit. (Poor Ring. Always left out. George too, really. Pushed aside by the overwhelming forces of John and Paul. Of JohnandPaul.)
Sure, it’d only been a week or so that he’d been gone, and when he’d come back they’d pasted on happy faces and hugged him and put on quite a show (‘See?’ Paul had thought as it went on. ‘We can still mach schau!’), but it had happened, and it terrified Paul. Just a few years ago one of them simply walking away would have been as unlikely as…well, something pretty bloody unlikely. But Ringo had. And honestly, it could just as easily been George or John. With the rows that broke out with frightening regularity in the rooms of Apple, it was more amazing not that Ringo had quit, but that more of them hadn’t.
Paul knew he was at least partially to blame. With Brian’s death he’d taken it upon himself to start seriously shouldering some of the responsibility. To be the one to rally the troops. To keep them on task. To get things done. Well, someone had to if they were to carry on, yeah? He did it for all of them, dammit. It certainly wasn’t for a laugh, because as they all quickly realized, business wasn’t fun. At all. And honestly, while he’d never admit it out loud (unbearable, that thought was), Paul knew John was right - they were bad at it. Awful, really. “We’re rockers, Macca, not bloody suits,” John had sneered during more than one business meeting.
Oh, the sneering.
Paul was beginning to think the other three had gotten together and voted that the sneer was the official expression that was to be used when looking his way, and he’d no doubt this imaginary (maybe?) vote had been immediately unanimous. He saw more sneers, leers and snarls than he ever had in his life since they’d started on this album, and that was saying something considering Paul had shared a room with a younger brother for years - his mates (and some days he used that word loosely), put Mike to shame. So he was trying to save them - save them as a band, as a business. As mates (because he hated that he’d had to use the word loosely). And yes, he was a perfectionist. What was so wrong about wanting to get things right? Shouldn’t he care - shouldn’t they all? He knew the endless business meetings and countless takes of his songs were endearing him to no one, but…well, so what? What was he supposed to do, settle? That had never been his style, ever. Why should he be punished for having a strong work ethic?
“Ugh,” Paul groaned. ‘Work ethic?’ What a fucking dreadful, boring term. When had this become real, honest-to-God work, anyway? Not just making the music, but all of it - even just relating to each other? It had once - not so long ago - come with no effort. Pleasurably, even. (Especially with John, even when he was being a bastard.) God, he’d used to look forward to getting into the studio with the boys. Now some days it was all he could do to get out of bed.
He’d found motivation, though. Partially the music - Paul felt like he was getting out some of his best stuff yet. They all were. But he’d found other…assistance. He rubbed his nose at the thought. He was sure the white powder wasn’t good for him, at all, but…well, again, so what? They were “rockers,” and rockers fucking did drugs. And how much worse could this be than the prellies? At least he could still sleep on coke. (Eventually.) Besides, he wasn’t the only one. Oh-ho no. George still enjoyed a good toke. Ring never said no to a stiff drink. And as for that bastard, the one whose name preceded Paul’s on every song? He was just as dependent. Problem was, he and John found themselves on opposite sides of the drug spectrum; while Paul was graced with energy to spare on his substance of choice, John’s left him sluggish and hazy. And while it was their polar opposite qualities that usually made them brilliant, now it made some days a living hell. Heroin/coke and Lennon/McCartney was a lethal mix. (So was Lennon/Ono and Lennon/McCartney. Lennon/Ono was worse for him - them - than heroin/coke.) Sometimes Paul was convinced John smoked that shit just to have an excuse to be difficult. Like he needed to be more difficult.
But God dammit, Paul was trying. He’d tried his best to come up with material that would make John happy. “Why Don’t We Do It In The Road?” Come on. That was all for John - inspired by him, by his constant challenge of “Let go, Macca - fucking let go and just do it.” He’d been so embarassingly pleased with the result, so ridiculously excited to play it back for John, and what had happened?
The song finished; John said nothing as he sat in a chair near the mixing board. Paul resisted looking John’s way as long as he could, but finally he gave in and glanced over. “Well?” he pressed. John took a long drag off his cigarette, avoiding Paul’s gaze.
“When’d you do this?”
“Earlier.”
“Earlier when?”
“Today. When you were in the back with Geo.”
John ashed on the floor, then looked over at Paul, who was surprised to see animosity in the eyes meeting his. “You couldn’t have waited for me?”
“You were busy.”
“Not that busy. You got Richie to help.”
Paul sighed. “Rich wasn’t doing anything. You were. You said you and George would be at it all day back there and not to bug you,” he said as patiently as he could.
“So you just forged on alone,” John observed sarcastically.
“I…yeah, I guess.” Paul put a hand through his hair.
“Very un-Beatles of you, love.” John’s tone was icy.
“John, c’mon. I’m sorry. It wasn’t personal.” At this John sneered. Again. “I just…” Paul continued, feeling trapped, “I didn’t think it was all that important.”
John stood. “Then why were you so bloody excited to get me in here to listen to it?”
Yoko appeared in the doorway to the control room then and John went to join her. Paul seethed, and yet still requested, against his better judgment, “Just tell me what you think.”
John turned, held Paul’s stare for a moment, then shrugged. “Fine, I s’pose,” he ruled without any emotion, and left the room.
(John had done “Julia” shortly thereafter. Without him. On purpose. Bastard.)
But that wasn’t the end of Paul’s efforts. And some of them had worked, sort of. “Birthday” was one he’d done with John foremost in his mind. He’d even found a smile and a nod when John suggested Yoko take some of the backing vocals, though it had sent a wave of outrage crashing over him. (Thank God for Ringo, suggesting Maureen join in with Yoko. She cut the abrasive shrieking. Some.) He’d channeled John’s love of silly, rambling, nonsensical tales and offered up “Rocky Raccoon.” It had earned him a chuckle or two - more from Ringo, but John had been on board. And “Helter Skelter?” Christ, could that have been a more obvious catering to John’s taste? John had seemed to really approve at first, too, but Paul was fairly certain he’d lost any favor he’d earned with that one after the first ten takes. For Paul it had been fun, to keep pushing himself - all of them, really - to get it as raw and raunchy as possible. For John, who hated more than a few takes even while sober? Forget it. And sure, yes, Paul had stayed true to his own likings with numbers like “I Will” and “Honey Pie,” which he knew keenly that John was sure to hate. But Paul had fucked around with George Martin for hours and made “Wild Honey Pie” too. He’d told George he’d just wanted to see what the new equipment could do, but truth was he’d been trying to the mickey out of himself first. To say to John, “Look, I know you hate this kind of shit, so here you go. See? I can have a laugh at my own expense.” But when he’d finally had a moment to play it for John, he’d barely listened; his attention had been on that bloody…thing.
What was that thing he’d done with George? For days the two had holed up with mountains of tape in one of the smaller rooms, playing and replaying meaningless snippets of sound and rearranging them in some order that only they found fitting. John would always catch Paul’s eye as he’d walked past the room - the John and George creation cocoon, as Paul had secretly called it - and then he’d lean in to George to whisper something. Once or twice Paul had gone in and listened, but the duo’d hardly acknowledged him. The unspoken message was clear: “Sorry, mate, but you won’t get this. Too far out. Isn’t for you.” Paul hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that that unspoken condescension, that dismissal, hinted at more than just that terrible collage of sound. (Nor could he stop fixating on when John started taking any pleasure in creating something with George. Paul could clearly remember when John would go to great lengths to avoid having to counsel George on anything musical. When he’d been adamant time and again, in private, that Paul was the only one he’d ever enjoy working with. ‘And why exactly,’ Paul wondered with no small amount of self-deprication as he mulled this over yet again, ‘do I sound like a jealous bird?’ He knew the answer. They both did, both halves of JohnandPaul. Didn’t much matter, did it?) And when they finally played it for everyone, the truth of that message cut him like a knife. Paul didn’t get it. John and George had been triumphant, proud as peacocks, but of what? It was eight minutes of babble and noises. It had sounded like utter shit.
(Yoko’d loved it. Paul knew it’d be on the album.)
Despite the powdered pick-me-up he’d employed just an hour ago, Paul suddenly felt very tired. “Tired” was upgraded to “exhausted” when he realized they still had to record another track tonight. Fuck. After what happened earlier, it hardly seemed possible to reconverge in this room and have anything happen, let alone anything “magic.” Paul tapped out a few more notes then dragged himself into standing. He needed to get out of here, just for awhile. Fleeing the place he once ran to.
Pathetic.
And the day had started off so well, too.
PS, Yes, in Part Two you will learn just why this day was a bad one. :)