Fic: Event Horizon
Wow...I'm so blown away by all the kind words I received on my first forray here. Thank you so much; hope you enjoy the conclusion. :)
This is cross-posted several places, just so's you knows.
Title: Event Horizon (Part Two of Two - Part One available here)
Author: C, aka so_egregious
Rating: PG.
Word Count: 3,668.
Pairing: John/Paul
Warnings: A bit more 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. ;) This part is from John's POV (the first was from Paul's), which no doubt also explains why it's almost 1,400 words longer, slightly more profane and a good deal meaner. Set during recording of the White Album, later the same day as Part One. 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 had remained absolutely silent as they mixed the track. Had he even opened his mouth, John would’ve hit him. Hard. He sort’ve wished the cunt had said something, had dared to challenge him. God knew John had pushed him to break his silence too, fiddling with the arrangement until Yoko’s backing vocals almost overwhelmed his own leading ones. Nothing. John was disappointed; hitting Paul would have given him an outlet for all the rage he was now forced to swallow. Would’ve made him feel loads better. Maybe not loads, but some. But no, stupid cunt had remained dead quiet and pouty, smoking cigarettes one after the other, keeping his eyes on the carpet.
What right did he have to pout? It was John who’d been wronged, not him.
John was excited to record “The Continuing Story of Bungalo Bill.” It had been a right laugh writing it in India, mocking the stupid prat and his overbearing mother after he’d gone. Paul grinned when John handed him the finished lyrics that afternoon. “Stupid prat,” he muttered nostalgically, shaking his head. John chuckled.
Once they were settled in and gotten the cue from the control room, the raucous sing-along began, eliciting smiles and laughs all around. They played through it four or five times, but despite George Martin’s assurances that each take sounded great, John couldn’t ignore the niggling feeling that something wasn’t right.
“Do you want to do another take, John?” George asked. John nodded.
“’s missing something,” he ruled.
“Double time on the tambourine?” Paul suggested. John shrugged.
“Maybe, yeah. At the end. But it’s…something vocally. It needs another voice.”
“Harmony?”Paul tried again.
“No, it…” Inspiration cut John short. He glanced to the quiet figure at his immediate right. “Would you sing? As the mum?”
“What part is that?” Yoko asked, leaning into him as she studied the lyrics.
“What?” Paul blurted.
John ignored him. “This line here. This one too, actually - I’ll sing that with you,” he told her, pointing. From the corner of his eye he saw Paul running his hand through hair once, twice, three times in quick succession. John felt the anger at bay; he forced it back.
“Yes, sure,” Yoko said with a nod and her enigmatic, not-quite-a-smile smile. John smiled back, hoping it looked more genuine than it felt.
“Should we set up another mike for her?” Paul asked. John’s eyes narrowed at the desperation in his tone, and mentally began a round of om shanti. He swore he heard a sigh from George on his left.
“Why?”
Paul twitched, fiddling with the fiddle bass in his hands. “To get her vocal separate. In case it isn’t…what you want.” He half-shrugged, hastily adding, “In the final mix, I mean.” He finally raised his gaze to meet John’s.
After a staredown that seemed to last a year, John managed a cool, “I’ll want it, Macca,” then looked towards the control room. “Right, George? Once more. Mother will sing that line…y’know, ‘the prey looked fierce,’ whatever, then the next as well?” he told the producer, who nodded. John knew he shouldn’t, but he glanced toward Paul once more as Ringo counted them in. He was glaring at Yoko, but when he caught John watching, he cut his eyes to his Hofner, jaw clenched. The anger rose again, but John channeled it into enthusiasm as he sang.
When they finished, John nodded, satisfied, and leaned over to kiss Yoko soundly. “Fantastic,” he told her. She nodded too. “I think we’ve got it, gents.”
“You don’t want one more take?”
Paul again. Now John was sure George sighed. The rage once more. “No.”
“Sure?”
“Dead sure, thanks.”
“Fine.” Arrogance dripped from the word. John stared at Paul.
“Problem, mate?”
“Not at all.”
Om shanti…om shanti… “Really? Could’ve fooled me.” John lifted his guitar from his lap, pulling it over his head. He stood and turned to leave, but was stopped by Paul’s next exaggerated whisper.
“Just think another take wouldn’t hurt.”
“Well, love, you think a lot of things. Most not worth voicing,” John fired back, clearly failing the mantra. He saw a flash of hurt blaze in Paul’s eyes, but it disappeared almost immediately.
“Issat right?” Paul asked hotly, clenching his hands into fists for just a second.
“Indeed.”
There was a long pause, then Paul nodded slowly. “Well, I also think when people buy Beatles records? They want to hear Beatles singing,” Paul spat. “Or was that another of those thoughts I should’ve kept to meself?”
“Lads,” Mal attempted, but John put up a hand, silencing him.
Yoko still looked as serene as ever, despite the insult. Somehow, that only served to further infuriate John. “Oh pretty pretty princess, how thy jealousy uglies thee,” John taunted. “Come now, Paulie. She didn’t steal your lead, she only shared with me. Some of us’re fine not being the center of attention, you know.”
Paul snorted “Yeah, true,” he conceded sarcastically, then tapped a finger to his chin. “Which of us is that? Oh, right, the one who’s been taking snapshots with his prick out and putting them on front of his album. Yeah.” Paul pointed at him. “Thanks for the advice, mate. Appreciate that. You’re like a goddamn guru. Anymore deep thoughts? All I need his love or something?”
“I don’t tend to share my brilliance with fucking half-wit gits, so feel honored,” John snarled.
“I do. I really do.” Paul put his bass down harder than he should have, and a deep clang sounded through the terse silence of the room. “Where would we be without the fucking brilliance of John Lennon?”
John laughed mirthlessly. “You? Fairly certain you’d be home working at the docks, son, still living with ol’ Jim.”
“Fuck you,” Paul barked, taking a step closer to John.
“Doing chores. Baking bread. In your free time you could join a local theatre troupe, do some South Pacific? After work, of course. Oh, that sounds fab, doe’nit?” John gazed heavenward. “But work wouldn’t stop the music in Paulie. You wouldn’t save all that talent for the stage. Oh no. You’d do numbers for the boys at the dock while you loaded those crates. I got it!” He clapped and pointed at Paul, then swiveled his hips. “Give those lonely sailors a little cha-cha-boom, yeah?” It was a low blow, even for him. Especially for him. John had no room to care around all the anger.
Paul took another stepped closer, then stopped. Instead he retreated to the piano, falling onto the bench. His voice was tight when he finally spoke, his head bowed. “Yeah. Right. Well. Thanks for coming along, John. Thanks for sharing your wisdom, and endless talent, and deep thoughts, and art-” with that he shot a look toward Yoko, lighting a cigarette with a slightly trembling hand, “with me.”
“You sure you’re thankful? An amazing life that would’ve been for you, Macca. ’m sorry I ruined it for you.”
Paul cocked an eyebrow and played a few notes with his free hand, keeping his eyes on the keys. “Don’t be. I’m sorry I didn’t let me dead mum fuck me up enough to make me brilliant too.”
A red miasma suddenly swam before John’s eyes and he lunged toward the piano. But before he could get there, or say another word, George grabbed his arm and pulled him from the room. “Enough,” George hissed. “Y’ve both said quite enough.”
Right, so, perhaps John’d been harsh. But…well, so what? Wasn’t the first time. And Paul had it coming - taking yet another passive-aggressive swipe at Yoko. And the bit about his mum…? John shook his head and looked up at the clock from his place slouching against the hallway wall. Now it was midnight, nearly two hours later, and John was still seething. And there was still another track left to record.
Fuck.
Who the fuck did Paul think he was? On everyone’s case, never in short supply of energy thanks to that shit he put up his nose. Playing business man in a way that would be a right laugh, if John wasn’t expected to be there with him. Always, always right there with him. A history spanning more than a decade. (Christ, that long now? Time flew. Well, sometimes, anyway.) Their highs and lows, experienced together, preserved on film and in snapshots. (Some of them. Not all. Some lived only in memory.) Their voices, two threads woven into one harmony. Even their names were linked together; his identity forever tied to that cunt who preened and preached and bossed. There was a time that hadn’t bothered John, not so long ago. A time he’d even enjoyed that he was not simply John, but one half of JohnandPaul. When Paul was not his antagonizer, but his collaborator. His support. His other half, in name and deed. And sometimes it was still that way. Those few minutes, maybe hours, they’d find that groove, that special pocket in the universe and fuck all if it wasn’t ’60 again.
But it wasn’t enough. Not anymore.
John looked to Yoko, as ever at his side. The times, they were a-changin’. And that was all right. No, dammit, it was healthy. How it was supposed to be. John’d found all he needed in Yoko; shouldn’t Paul just be happy for him? John was evolving. Growing. Spreading his wings. Speaking his mind, man, getting the word out there. Paul was still winking at cameras and crooning his granny shite full of granny names. (“Martha?” Really? The sheepdog’s name was the one he went with? Stupid cunt.) People change. Just happens. Can’t avoid it.
Yes, it was tough sometimes. Of course it was. But…well, again, so what? Paul didn’t have to be a cunt about it. It was hard on John too. When he let himself think about it.
“John? About ready for you, mate,” Mal told him, his head peeking out from around the corner and his words breaking John from his musings. John gave him a nod.
“Be right there.”
“How much longer will this take?” Yoko asked quietly. John shrugged.
“Not sure. ‘s a fairly simple song, so not too long.” He ran a hand along her face. “You tired? Should you get home? To bed?”
“Should I?” she asked in response, the slightest hint of a challenge there.
“If you’re tired. I understand. Been a long day.”
“A difficult day. I should leave.” Yoko stared up at him. John usually loved when she spoke in this way. So coded. Now it just added to his exhaustion. John sighed and reached in his pocket for his smokes.
“Maybe…just for tonight,” he finally said. “I’ll be home soon.”
He read the look in Yoko’s eyes clearly - you’re letting them win (he wanted to say no one was winning anymore) - but she still kissed him, then headed toward the door without another word. John watched her retreating form. He wanted to follow her home. He wanted to follow her anywhere. He instead lit his cigarette and started toward the large studio.
Everyone was in their usual spots, looking more or less as John himself felt. He tried to take no notice of Paul sitting off to the side, talking quietly with Neil. He glanced up at John briefly but quickly turned back to Neil, taking a short series of drags off his smoke. John followed suit, then sat down and picked up his Rickenbacker. After a few tense moments George Martin gave them the cue that all was ready, and the droning strains of his own song started.
“I’m So Tired.” Well. It was fitting.
After just three takes John had a satisfactory backing track - everyone was playing particularly well, no doubt in the effort to get the hell out of there sooner. “Ready for the vocals?” George asked from the booth.
“Sure,” John replied, snagging his lyrics and heading to the microphone a few feet away. Paul approached the other mike, frowning at the empty stand in front of him.
“Don’t seem to have the words,” he muttered to no one in particular. John handed his across the space between them, but Paul paused before taking the paper. “Don’t need them?” he asked.
John was almost offended, but there’d been no nasty undercurrent to the question. For once. “’m fine.”
Paul took the sheet from John’s hand without looking at him, his index finger just barely touching John’s in the exchange. “Ta.”
George started the playback and John leaned in to sing. Paul joined in the bridge. John knew immediately it wasn’t right; Paul’s voice was too weak. Too soft.
They did a second take. Same thing. John felt his hackles raise.
Third take. Third shit vocal from Paul. At the end John yanked off the headphones. “Are you even trying?” he barked.
Paul finally looked at him. “What?”
“I know the fucking song’s about being tired, son, but Christ. A little effort might be nice.”
“I…” But Paul waved his hand, cutting himself off. “What exactly d’you want?” he asked wearily, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“You know what I want.”
“Do I?” Paul challenged.
“Yeah. You do. You should. Fucking feeling, man. Feel it. Sing it. Fucking…just sing it,” John demanded. Paul stared back, his eyes gone nearly black. John saw something ablaze there. He felt the fire in his own eyes, his veins, too, burning up the honey river with which the H usually left him.
“Fine,” Paul said. “Go. Do it.”
John pointed at George up in the booth and playback started again. John sang his lines, then the bridge came.
This time it was different.
Paul hit the “do” with him hard, and they plowed into their shared lyrics. The voice joining his had a raw edge John had never heard. And Paul’s expression…John couldn’t tear his eyes away from the intensity etched into every feature on Paul’s face. He raised his gaze from the paper and met John’s across the few feet separating them.
I’d give you everything I got for a little peace of mind…
The song had nothing to do with Paul, and yet, in one line he’d claimed it as his own. The pain, and agony, and fucking pleading Paul packed into that line? John was suddenly dizzy, and coupled with that stare, John had to take a half step back to regain his sense of equilibrium. He managed through the next lines alone, but now unnerved, he felt himself singing-no, almost growling through clenched teeth, not daring to look at Paul again. But when he started in with John again, John had no choice. He had to watch Paul. It was fascinating. And heartbreaking. Paul had a death grip on the music stand in front of him, his knuckles white. John blinked quickly, surprised by the tears pricking at his eyes. Tears he saw shining in Paul’s eyes, which would not stop watching him, either. And then came that line again…that line…God. John heard the begging and promise in his own voice, matching Paul’s, repeated three times over.
I’d give you everything I got for a little peace of mind.
And then it was over.
Paul pulled off his headphones immediately, dropping them to the floor. “’ll be back,” he announced, barely audible. John, for just a heartbeat or two, was frozen. He couldn’t turn to watch Paul leave; all he could do was stare at where Paul had just stood. His spectre remained, staring into John’s soul, those dark orbs burned into his brain. No one said a word.
Finally Ringo cleared his throat. “Should I, ah…?” he offered, his tone heavy with confusion.
It broke John’s spell, and he looked around, a little surprised that the room hadn’t shattered and flown to pieces. It felt like it had. He saw Ringo’s confusion on all the faces watching him. Waiting for a ruling, an explanation. They knew something had just happened. What or why, they had no idea. John shook his head some.
“No. I’ll…no. I’ll do it.” He wasn’t sure what “it” was, but dammit, he would be the one to do it.
“Are we done?” George asked.
“Yeah, Geo, good,” John answered stupidly as he made his way quickly out the door. With instinct guiding him, he went for the stairs to the roof. The echo of each footstep bounced off the concrete walls, matching the pounding of his heart. John took a deep breath before pushing open the door, steadying himself.
Paul sat on a large box off to the right, against one of the squat brick walls surrounding the roof’s perimeter. He didn’t look up as John exited, just stared over his shoulder out into the night sky over London. John studied him; stripped of his usually pompous air, of all the Beatle trappings? John smiled in spite of himself, strangely reassured - he looked like Paul again. Only Paul. Shivering as a gust of cold October air blasted him, he strolled over to where Paul sat and made to take a seat. Paul didn’t move.
“C’mon, then. Shove over,” he ordered of Paul, not unkindly. Paul did and John sat down. He pulled out his pack of cigarettes, removed two, put them between his lips and lit them both. He handed one to Paul, who took it wordlessly, and they enjoyed a few drags in silence.
“Everyone gone?” Paul finally asked, still turned away.
“Dunno. Probably. Told them to go.”
Paul nodded. He took a long inhale, held the smoke for a few ticks, then slowly exhaled out his nose. “And Yoko?”
None of the usual snark in the way Paul said her name. Wonders never ceased. “Went home awhile ago.”
“She didn’t have to.”
“I know.”
Silence claimed them again. John felt Paul shiver next to him and, without thinking, slipped his arm through Paul’s. Paul tensed, then shifted and leaned almost imperceptibly into John.
“We can’t do that anymore,” Paul said on an exhale of smoke, now staring straight ahead and giving John full view of his profile. “I shouldn’t…I mean, earlier-”
“Yeah, you’re a cunt,” John interrupted, again not unkindly. “Already knew that.” He saw a muscle twitch in Paul’s jaw, the corner of his lips rising just a bit.
“From a bastard? High praise.” Paul dropped his head a little, then finally looked over at John. “Where are we going?”
“After another fag? Back down to the control room to mix, then to bed I hope. ‘m fucking knackered,” John replied airily, but Paul didn’t smile.
“No, Johnny…where are we going?” he repeated, his voice dropping an octave. John smiled wryly.
“Why, to the toppermost, boy,” he said, hearing a note of sadness in his voice that he hadn’t expected.
Paul heard it too, John knew, and matched John’s sadness in his smile. “But what happens when you’re already there?” he wondered softly, the cherry of his cigarette illuminating his features in a way that highlighted the fear behind the query.
“Love, you fucking wrote that answer. You get to the bottom, you go back to the top. Suspect the opposite’s true too,” John told him, nudging Paul with his shoulder.
Paul nodded, then turning back to look out at the murky blackness again. “It’s almost the end of the line for us, innit.”
The tone used may have suggested it was a ruling, but it was a question. John knew Paul needed it to be a question. John always knew these things. He might ignore them, but he always knew.
He also knew, instinctively, he’d tell lies about this later, about this. This friendship. This coexistence. This relationship into which he’d put more of himself into than any other - more than the ones with other mates, or his soon-to-be ex-wife, or even with his mother. He’d already started, telling Yoko - more than once, and usually while high - Paul was nothing but a second-rate hack who’d ridden his coattails to fame and fortune. When the circus called the Beatles came to its end (and it would), John knew that he would deny, over and over, that the man next to him had been anything more than someone with whom he’d shared stages and songs.
And despite never fucking planning a thing further than suppertime, John was also certain in that instant that he would break Paul when all was said and done. Not just once, but many times. He was good at breaking things, and better at breaking people, especially those he loved. He did it because he didn’t know any other way. He did it because he could. It made him feel powerful; it gave him desperately-needed control in a life where he’d so often been in control of nothing. Paul had been his salvation once - just as Mimi had been initially, as Stu was briefly, and just as Yoko was now - and he would repay him in the only way he knew how. But it wasn’t about being vindictive; it was his only way of continuing. John could have no hope of surviving as John, let alone JohnandYoko, with the truth - or even the myth - of JohnandPaul existing in any way. And somehow, he would break Paul for Paul’s own good; because he loved Paul. Because Paul loved him. It didn’t make sense - he knew it didn’t. But it was the truth. He looked into Paul’s dark eyes, searching his for hope, for anything, and he was assaulted by overwhelming guilt over Future John’s actions. It swallowed him whole, and brought a tightening in his throat. He wondered if he’d feel this guilt later too, after the deed had been done. Maybe, although if ever this intensely he couldn't say.
“John?” Paul said quietly.
And that revelation made John Lennon - a man who never slacked on a truth, no matter how much it might have spared someone hurt feelings - look Paul in the eye and, with quiet conviction, lie.
“No, Paulie. Not even close. Not yet.”
This is cross-posted several places, just so's you knows.
Title: Event Horizon (Part Two of Two - Part One available here)
Author: C, aka so_egregious
Rating: PG.
Word Count: 3,668.
Pairing: John/Paul
Warnings: A bit more 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. ;) This part is from John's POV (the first was from Paul's), which no doubt also explains why it's almost 1,400 words longer, slightly more profane and a good deal meaner. Set during recording of the White Album, later the same day as Part One. 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 had remained absolutely silent as they mixed the track. Had he even opened his mouth, John would’ve hit him. Hard. He sort’ve wished the cunt had said something, had dared to challenge him. God knew John had pushed him to break his silence too, fiddling with the arrangement until Yoko’s backing vocals almost overwhelmed his own leading ones. Nothing. John was disappointed; hitting Paul would have given him an outlet for all the rage he was now forced to swallow. Would’ve made him feel loads better. Maybe not loads, but some. But no, stupid cunt had remained dead quiet and pouty, smoking cigarettes one after the other, keeping his eyes on the carpet.
What right did he have to pout? It was John who’d been wronged, not him.
John was excited to record “The Continuing Story of Bungalo Bill.” It had been a right laugh writing it in India, mocking the stupid prat and his overbearing mother after he’d gone. Paul grinned when John handed him the finished lyrics that afternoon. “Stupid prat,” he muttered nostalgically, shaking his head. John chuckled.
Once they were settled in and gotten the cue from the control room, the raucous sing-along began, eliciting smiles and laughs all around. They played through it four or five times, but despite George Martin’s assurances that each take sounded great, John couldn’t ignore the niggling feeling that something wasn’t right.
“Do you want to do another take, John?” George asked. John nodded.
“’s missing something,” he ruled.
“Double time on the tambourine?” Paul suggested. John shrugged.
“Maybe, yeah. At the end. But it’s…something vocally. It needs another voice.”
“Harmony?”Paul tried again.
“No, it…” Inspiration cut John short. He glanced to the quiet figure at his immediate right. “Would you sing? As the mum?”
“What part is that?” Yoko asked, leaning into him as she studied the lyrics.
“What?” Paul blurted.
John ignored him. “This line here. This one too, actually - I’ll sing that with you,” he told her, pointing. From the corner of his eye he saw Paul running his hand through hair once, twice, three times in quick succession. John felt the anger at bay; he forced it back.
“Yes, sure,” Yoko said with a nod and her enigmatic, not-quite-a-smile smile. John smiled back, hoping it looked more genuine than it felt.
“Should we set up another mike for her?” Paul asked. John’s eyes narrowed at the desperation in his tone, and mentally began a round of om shanti. He swore he heard a sigh from George on his left.
“Why?”
Paul twitched, fiddling with the fiddle bass in his hands. “To get her vocal separate. In case it isn’t…what you want.” He half-shrugged, hastily adding, “In the final mix, I mean.” He finally raised his gaze to meet John’s.
After a staredown that seemed to last a year, John managed a cool, “I’ll want it, Macca,” then looked towards the control room. “Right, George? Once more. Mother will sing that line…y’know, ‘the prey looked fierce,’ whatever, then the next as well?” he told the producer, who nodded. John knew he shouldn’t, but he glanced toward Paul once more as Ringo counted them in. He was glaring at Yoko, but when he caught John watching, he cut his eyes to his Hofner, jaw clenched. The anger rose again, but John channeled it into enthusiasm as he sang.
When they finished, John nodded, satisfied, and leaned over to kiss Yoko soundly. “Fantastic,” he told her. She nodded too. “I think we’ve got it, gents.”
“You don’t want one more take?”
Paul again. Now John was sure George sighed. The rage once more. “No.”
“Sure?”
“Dead sure, thanks.”
“Fine.” Arrogance dripped from the word. John stared at Paul.
“Problem, mate?”
“Not at all.”
Om shanti…om shanti… “Really? Could’ve fooled me.” John lifted his guitar from his lap, pulling it over his head. He stood and turned to leave, but was stopped by Paul’s next exaggerated whisper.
“Just think another take wouldn’t hurt.”
“Well, love, you think a lot of things. Most not worth voicing,” John fired back, clearly failing the mantra. He saw a flash of hurt blaze in Paul’s eyes, but it disappeared almost immediately.
“Issat right?” Paul asked hotly, clenching his hands into fists for just a second.
“Indeed.”
There was a long pause, then Paul nodded slowly. “Well, I also think when people buy Beatles records? They want to hear Beatles singing,” Paul spat. “Or was that another of those thoughts I should’ve kept to meself?”
“Lads,” Mal attempted, but John put up a hand, silencing him.
Yoko still looked as serene as ever, despite the insult. Somehow, that only served to further infuriate John. “Oh pretty pretty princess, how thy jealousy uglies thee,” John taunted. “Come now, Paulie. She didn’t steal your lead, she only shared with me. Some of us’re fine not being the center of attention, you know.”
Paul snorted “Yeah, true,” he conceded sarcastically, then tapped a finger to his chin. “Which of us is that? Oh, right, the one who’s been taking snapshots with his prick out and putting them on front of his album. Yeah.” Paul pointed at him. “Thanks for the advice, mate. Appreciate that. You’re like a goddamn guru. Anymore deep thoughts? All I need his love or something?”
“I don’t tend to share my brilliance with fucking half-wit gits, so feel honored,” John snarled.
“I do. I really do.” Paul put his bass down harder than he should have, and a deep clang sounded through the terse silence of the room. “Where would we be without the fucking brilliance of John Lennon?”
John laughed mirthlessly. “You? Fairly certain you’d be home working at the docks, son, still living with ol’ Jim.”
“Fuck you,” Paul barked, taking a step closer to John.
“Doing chores. Baking bread. In your free time you could join a local theatre troupe, do some South Pacific? After work, of course. Oh, that sounds fab, doe’nit?” John gazed heavenward. “But work wouldn’t stop the music in Paulie. You wouldn’t save all that talent for the stage. Oh no. You’d do numbers for the boys at the dock while you loaded those crates. I got it!” He clapped and pointed at Paul, then swiveled his hips. “Give those lonely sailors a little cha-cha-boom, yeah?” It was a low blow, even for him. Especially for him. John had no room to care around all the anger.
Paul took another stepped closer, then stopped. Instead he retreated to the piano, falling onto the bench. His voice was tight when he finally spoke, his head bowed. “Yeah. Right. Well. Thanks for coming along, John. Thanks for sharing your wisdom, and endless talent, and deep thoughts, and art-” with that he shot a look toward Yoko, lighting a cigarette with a slightly trembling hand, “with me.”
“You sure you’re thankful? An amazing life that would’ve been for you, Macca. ’m sorry I ruined it for you.”
Paul cocked an eyebrow and played a few notes with his free hand, keeping his eyes on the keys. “Don’t be. I’m sorry I didn’t let me dead mum fuck me up enough to make me brilliant too.”
A red miasma suddenly swam before John’s eyes and he lunged toward the piano. But before he could get there, or say another word, George grabbed his arm and pulled him from the room. “Enough,” George hissed. “Y’ve both said quite enough.”
Right, so, perhaps John’d been harsh. But…well, so what? Wasn’t the first time. And Paul had it coming - taking yet another passive-aggressive swipe at Yoko. And the bit about his mum…? John shook his head and looked up at the clock from his place slouching against the hallway wall. Now it was midnight, nearly two hours later, and John was still seething. And there was still another track left to record.
Fuck.
Who the fuck did Paul think he was? On everyone’s case, never in short supply of energy thanks to that shit he put up his nose. Playing business man in a way that would be a right laugh, if John wasn’t expected to be there with him. Always, always right there with him. A history spanning more than a decade. (Christ, that long now? Time flew. Well, sometimes, anyway.) Their highs and lows, experienced together, preserved on film and in snapshots. (Some of them. Not all. Some lived only in memory.) Their voices, two threads woven into one harmony. Even their names were linked together; his identity forever tied to that cunt who preened and preached and bossed. There was a time that hadn’t bothered John, not so long ago. A time he’d even enjoyed that he was not simply John, but one half of JohnandPaul. When Paul was not his antagonizer, but his collaborator. His support. His other half, in name and deed. And sometimes it was still that way. Those few minutes, maybe hours, they’d find that groove, that special pocket in the universe and fuck all if it wasn’t ’60 again.
But it wasn’t enough. Not anymore.
John looked to Yoko, as ever at his side. The times, they were a-changin’. And that was all right. No, dammit, it was healthy. How it was supposed to be. John’d found all he needed in Yoko; shouldn’t Paul just be happy for him? John was evolving. Growing. Spreading his wings. Speaking his mind, man, getting the word out there. Paul was still winking at cameras and crooning his granny shite full of granny names. (“Martha?” Really? The sheepdog’s name was the one he went with? Stupid cunt.) People change. Just happens. Can’t avoid it.
Yes, it was tough sometimes. Of course it was. But…well, again, so what? Paul didn’t have to be a cunt about it. It was hard on John too. When he let himself think about it.
“John? About ready for you, mate,” Mal told him, his head peeking out from around the corner and his words breaking John from his musings. John gave him a nod.
“Be right there.”
“How much longer will this take?” Yoko asked quietly. John shrugged.
“Not sure. ‘s a fairly simple song, so not too long.” He ran a hand along her face. “You tired? Should you get home? To bed?”
“Should I?” she asked in response, the slightest hint of a challenge there.
“If you’re tired. I understand. Been a long day.”
“A difficult day. I should leave.” Yoko stared up at him. John usually loved when she spoke in this way. So coded. Now it just added to his exhaustion. John sighed and reached in his pocket for his smokes.
“Maybe…just for tonight,” he finally said. “I’ll be home soon.”
He read the look in Yoko’s eyes clearly - you’re letting them win (he wanted to say no one was winning anymore) - but she still kissed him, then headed toward the door without another word. John watched her retreating form. He wanted to follow her home. He wanted to follow her anywhere. He instead lit his cigarette and started toward the large studio.
Everyone was in their usual spots, looking more or less as John himself felt. He tried to take no notice of Paul sitting off to the side, talking quietly with Neil. He glanced up at John briefly but quickly turned back to Neil, taking a short series of drags off his smoke. John followed suit, then sat down and picked up his Rickenbacker. After a few tense moments George Martin gave them the cue that all was ready, and the droning strains of his own song started.
“I’m So Tired.” Well. It was fitting.
After just three takes John had a satisfactory backing track - everyone was playing particularly well, no doubt in the effort to get the hell out of there sooner. “Ready for the vocals?” George asked from the booth.
“Sure,” John replied, snagging his lyrics and heading to the microphone a few feet away. Paul approached the other mike, frowning at the empty stand in front of him.
“Don’t seem to have the words,” he muttered to no one in particular. John handed his across the space between them, but Paul paused before taking the paper. “Don’t need them?” he asked.
John was almost offended, but there’d been no nasty undercurrent to the question. For once. “’m fine.”
Paul took the sheet from John’s hand without looking at him, his index finger just barely touching John’s in the exchange. “Ta.”
George started the playback and John leaned in to sing. Paul joined in the bridge. John knew immediately it wasn’t right; Paul’s voice was too weak. Too soft.
They did a second take. Same thing. John felt his hackles raise.
Third take. Third shit vocal from Paul. At the end John yanked off the headphones. “Are you even trying?” he barked.
Paul finally looked at him. “What?”
“I know the fucking song’s about being tired, son, but Christ. A little effort might be nice.”
“I…” But Paul waved his hand, cutting himself off. “What exactly d’you want?” he asked wearily, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“You know what I want.”
“Do I?” Paul challenged.
“Yeah. You do. You should. Fucking feeling, man. Feel it. Sing it. Fucking…just sing it,” John demanded. Paul stared back, his eyes gone nearly black. John saw something ablaze there. He felt the fire in his own eyes, his veins, too, burning up the honey river with which the H usually left him.
“Fine,” Paul said. “Go. Do it.”
John pointed at George up in the booth and playback started again. John sang his lines, then the bridge came.
This time it was different.
Paul hit the “do” with him hard, and they plowed into their shared lyrics. The voice joining his had a raw edge John had never heard. And Paul’s expression…John couldn’t tear his eyes away from the intensity etched into every feature on Paul’s face. He raised his gaze from the paper and met John’s across the few feet separating them.
I’d give you everything I got for a little peace of mind…
The song had nothing to do with Paul, and yet, in one line he’d claimed it as his own. The pain, and agony, and fucking pleading Paul packed into that line? John was suddenly dizzy, and coupled with that stare, John had to take a half step back to regain his sense of equilibrium. He managed through the next lines alone, but now unnerved, he felt himself singing-no, almost growling through clenched teeth, not daring to look at Paul again. But when he started in with John again, John had no choice. He had to watch Paul. It was fascinating. And heartbreaking. Paul had a death grip on the music stand in front of him, his knuckles white. John blinked quickly, surprised by the tears pricking at his eyes. Tears he saw shining in Paul’s eyes, which would not stop watching him, either. And then came that line again…that line…God. John heard the begging and promise in his own voice, matching Paul’s, repeated three times over.
I’d give you everything I got for a little peace of mind.
And then it was over.
Paul pulled off his headphones immediately, dropping them to the floor. “’ll be back,” he announced, barely audible. John, for just a heartbeat or two, was frozen. He couldn’t turn to watch Paul leave; all he could do was stare at where Paul had just stood. His spectre remained, staring into John’s soul, those dark orbs burned into his brain. No one said a word.
Finally Ringo cleared his throat. “Should I, ah…?” he offered, his tone heavy with confusion.
It broke John’s spell, and he looked around, a little surprised that the room hadn’t shattered and flown to pieces. It felt like it had. He saw Ringo’s confusion on all the faces watching him. Waiting for a ruling, an explanation. They knew something had just happened. What or why, they had no idea. John shook his head some.
“No. I’ll…no. I’ll do it.” He wasn’t sure what “it” was, but dammit, he would be the one to do it.
“Are we done?” George asked.
“Yeah, Geo, good,” John answered stupidly as he made his way quickly out the door. With instinct guiding him, he went for the stairs to the roof. The echo of each footstep bounced off the concrete walls, matching the pounding of his heart. John took a deep breath before pushing open the door, steadying himself.
Paul sat on a large box off to the right, against one of the squat brick walls surrounding the roof’s perimeter. He didn’t look up as John exited, just stared over his shoulder out into the night sky over London. John studied him; stripped of his usually pompous air, of all the Beatle trappings? John smiled in spite of himself, strangely reassured - he looked like Paul again. Only Paul. Shivering as a gust of cold October air blasted him, he strolled over to where Paul sat and made to take a seat. Paul didn’t move.
“C’mon, then. Shove over,” he ordered of Paul, not unkindly. Paul did and John sat down. He pulled out his pack of cigarettes, removed two, put them between his lips and lit them both. He handed one to Paul, who took it wordlessly, and they enjoyed a few drags in silence.
“Everyone gone?” Paul finally asked, still turned away.
“Dunno. Probably. Told them to go.”
Paul nodded. He took a long inhale, held the smoke for a few ticks, then slowly exhaled out his nose. “And Yoko?”
None of the usual snark in the way Paul said her name. Wonders never ceased. “Went home awhile ago.”
“She didn’t have to.”
“I know.”
Silence claimed them again. John felt Paul shiver next to him and, without thinking, slipped his arm through Paul’s. Paul tensed, then shifted and leaned almost imperceptibly into John.
“We can’t do that anymore,” Paul said on an exhale of smoke, now staring straight ahead and giving John full view of his profile. “I shouldn’t…I mean, earlier-”
“Yeah, you’re a cunt,” John interrupted, again not unkindly. “Already knew that.” He saw a muscle twitch in Paul’s jaw, the corner of his lips rising just a bit.
“From a bastard? High praise.” Paul dropped his head a little, then finally looked over at John. “Where are we going?”
“After another fag? Back down to the control room to mix, then to bed I hope. ‘m fucking knackered,” John replied airily, but Paul didn’t smile.
“No, Johnny…where are we going?” he repeated, his voice dropping an octave. John smiled wryly.
“Why, to the toppermost, boy,” he said, hearing a note of sadness in his voice that he hadn’t expected.
Paul heard it too, John knew, and matched John’s sadness in his smile. “But what happens when you’re already there?” he wondered softly, the cherry of his cigarette illuminating his features in a way that highlighted the fear behind the query.
“Love, you fucking wrote that answer. You get to the bottom, you go back to the top. Suspect the opposite’s true too,” John told him, nudging Paul with his shoulder.
Paul nodded, then turning back to look out at the murky blackness again. “It’s almost the end of the line for us, innit.”
The tone used may have suggested it was a ruling, but it was a question. John knew Paul needed it to be a question. John always knew these things. He might ignore them, but he always knew.
He also knew, instinctively, he’d tell lies about this later, about this. This friendship. This coexistence. This relationship into which he’d put more of himself into than any other - more than the ones with other mates, or his soon-to-be ex-wife, or even with his mother. He’d already started, telling Yoko - more than once, and usually while high - Paul was nothing but a second-rate hack who’d ridden his coattails to fame and fortune. When the circus called the Beatles came to its end (and it would), John knew that he would deny, over and over, that the man next to him had been anything more than someone with whom he’d shared stages and songs.
And despite never fucking planning a thing further than suppertime, John was also certain in that instant that he would break Paul when all was said and done. Not just once, but many times. He was good at breaking things, and better at breaking people, especially those he loved. He did it because he didn’t know any other way. He did it because he could. It made him feel powerful; it gave him desperately-needed control in a life where he’d so often been in control of nothing. Paul had been his salvation once - just as Mimi had been initially, as Stu was briefly, and just as Yoko was now - and he would repay him in the only way he knew how. But it wasn’t about being vindictive; it was his only way of continuing. John could have no hope of surviving as John, let alone JohnandYoko, with the truth - or even the myth - of JohnandPaul existing in any way. And somehow, he would break Paul for Paul’s own good; because he loved Paul. Because Paul loved him. It didn’t make sense - he knew it didn’t. But it was the truth. He looked into Paul’s dark eyes, searching his for hope, for anything, and he was assaulted by overwhelming guilt over Future John’s actions. It swallowed him whole, and brought a tightening in his throat. He wondered if he’d feel this guilt later too, after the deed had been done. Maybe, although if ever this intensely he couldn't say.
“John?” Paul said quietly.
And that revelation made John Lennon - a man who never slacked on a truth, no matter how much it might have spared someone hurt feelings - look Paul in the eye and, with quiet conviction, lie.
“No, Paulie. Not even close. Not yet.”