Sink Or Swim Chp. 2/?
When Paul woke up he rushed to the bathroom with a start. His stomach, having withheld all of it’s contents during that night, now needed severe emptying and soon. So when the disheveled Paul forced his way through the bathroom doors after struggling so desperately to hold down the vomit, he was very disappointed to of seen John beaten him to the cut.
John was indeed on his knees by the toilet himself, vomiting uncontrollably from last nights activities. Paul couldn’t stand there waiting himself so he ran to the sink and vomited half of it on the floor in the process. And then more had came up, slowly going down the drain. Paul swiped the tears from his reddened eyes as he looked up to the mirror. Wiping the vomit from his chin, he huffed then looked to John who himself was wiping his lips.
“Shit,” John mumbled as he stood up and flushed down the horrible mess. His eyes met with Paul’s eyes, a smirked. “Still feel like shit?” John questioned as he now looked to the splattered messes of Paul’s sickness. Paul smiled lightly;
“Feel fine now.” But he was no good in hiding it, as his skin was absent of all color and the whites of his eyes were still red from the intense vomiting. John watched him for a few moments before he began to leave the bathroom.
“Yer cleanin’ that shit up by yourself.”
When it was the afternoon, George has knocked on their door, Paul himself had answered it due to the fact that Lennon was virtually handicapped under the severe headache he was suffering from. Paul had thought it served him right, but he was not going to dare state that.
When he had saw George at the door, he noted that George wore only trunks and a loose t-shirt (perhaps due to how frail and thin the young man looked). Paul let George in then went back to his bed to sit and look out at the beach from his window- ‘bird watching.’
“Ay Rings and me gonna go by the beach, any of you lot want to come?” George openly questioned. He watched as John laid in bed with his arm slung over his eyes, this caused George to broaden his smile.
“Johnny, drink too much, ye did!” John ignored him and groaned. His head was throbbing painfully, and every little sound, scent, light, and touch was like an anvil being hammered in his head. He mentally vowed to never consume that many alcoholic beverages again. Finding something to be annoyed at, he shot irritably;
“Paul for fucks sake, shut the god damn shades!”
Paul jumped at the spike of volume and turned to John with a look of vexation. Paul then resigned and turned to George and sighed.
“John’s biggest enemy is the sun. Don’t think he and I will be joining you lads.”
“What’s yer excuse?” George deadpanned.
Paul almost could feel what George was thinking, but he hadn’t shown it. So Paul turned from the window that he was now closing the shades on and stood.
“Love to join you but I’m afraid I’m gonna have to stay within close proximity of a toilet.”
“Oh,” George muttered, finally getting it, “well me and Ringo’s gonna swim. Nice day out, ay, birds all over as far as the eye can see. Don’t puke yer brains out,” and with that George walked toward the door, whistling and unfamiliar tune. Paul watched George leave, wishing he could enjoy the sun and ‘bird-watching,’ but instead was stuck lounging around in his underwear and t-shirt, expecting his stomach to give any moment from now.
That and he had wanted to talk to John since late last night about the whole ‘maybe I’m hiding something from you but pretend I didn’t say that, let’s sleep now’ moment. It was something Paul couldn’t stop thinking of, and being of the analytical sort, he knew he had to dig for answers. So Paul sat at the edge of John’s bed and for a long time he hadn’t said anything.
He just sat there, looking at the walls and dare not turning on the television in fear that John would rip him to shreds over the unwanted noise.
John could feel the weight that sat easy at the end of his bed, but he chose to ignore it. He was almost sure that Paul was going to say something, and that had bothered him. He just wanted it to go away, not just Paul right now, but these odd… feelings. Just long enough for John to feel a glimpse of normality- whatever that was. He wasn’t so sure that he would ever get to know the day of it if Paul would persistently… be. Not that he wished any ill of him, but it wasn’t helping that he and Paul were so awfully close. He wished that Paul had left with George.
It very nearly drove him insane to have this emotional turmoil in him.
But now John couldn’t take it anymore. He could feel Paul’s weight shift at the end of the bed, and then he could feel his hazel eyes burn into his flesh.
“GOD DAMMIT PAUL!” Paul somewhat startled had jumped.
“Christ, John---”
“What the ‘ell do ye want?” What did Paul want? Paul’s brows furrowed. Was this not the same man who had in fact came into Paul’s bed at the late hours of the night and prevented him persistently from enjoying the sleep he wanted? Oh the hypocrisy! But he wasn’t about to go on that tangent. John was suffering from a hangover, and that meant he was suffering from ill temperament.
Perhaps this was not the best time to assess the issue, Paul thought. However, John was here, and would be so for a while. Paul was certain that he’d be in for the rest of the afternoon in bed rest, so if ever did an opportunity presented itself to discuss that which was said last night surely it was this one. So Paul settled on that notion and he spoke up.
“What did you mean last night, when you said you were hiding something from me?” Paul turned his body toward John as John sat up and looked at him a look that Paul couldn’t attached an emotion to.
“What?” John questioned hesitantly. Paul took in a breath.
“Said you felt like a puppet ‘cos you couldn’t do what you wanted in case of criticism. You had to hide yourself and that you was hiding somethin’ fr--”
John laughed incredulously for several moments, pointing at Paul;
“Yer a daft one!”
Paul stared blankly at John, feeling his cheeks go red with embarrassment.
“What?”
“Heavens, I was drunk!
“You’re full of it, you are!” Paul shot, crossing his arms across his chest defiantly. John had to be, right? Because Paul knew people just didn’t mutter things of that nature, drunk or not. The emotion present at the time was far too real. Paul had attested to John’s grasping at thoughts when he had said those things, he could see that it was something that John really had thought about deeply, choosing his words carefully.
The way Paul’s answer wasn’t good enough, which was unusual because Paul had a knack for bringing John down from the clouds. John had implied he was holding something from him. From Paul. Paul of all people, and that very idea set Paul a tad crestfallen. What was John hiding that he feared Paul would judge him on? It made little sense, Paul couldn’t ever recall judging John before.
And now there’s this notion, this god-awful monster that was gnawing at his innards called curiosity. He was so very desperate to prove John wrong. But now John was going to deny him all of that by labeling it nothing more than drunken babble.
But Paul knew his drunken babble, and John knew Paul wasn’t that gullible, right? Paul had hoped so, that, or it was a sad attempt at lying.
But John hadn’t let up, he was now laying in bed with his arm flung across his eyes once again. It was almost as though that brief dialogue hadn’t took place at all! Paul groaned at his dissatisfaction before he stood up. The shift in weight caused John to give a peek in Paul’s direction.
He watched as Paul put on his ‘day clothes,’ a black short sleeve and a pair of dark denim jeans. John sat up once again and crossed his arms. Paul caught the gesture, cease all activity, and lifted a brow.
“What?” Paul questioned irritably. John could hardly hide the annoyance on his face when he had responded to him.
“The ‘ell are ye off to? Ye can’t bloody leave me ‘ere by meself!”
“What the hell makes you so sure about that?” Paul retorted as he now fixated at the mirror, combing his hair attentively. John furrowed his brows.
“Are you fuckin’ kidding me? Ye bastard, I can’t stayed cooped up ‘ere all day!” John shot.
“Then come ‘ead.” Paul knew John wouldn’t, couldn’t, and he was quite fine with that. He had needed his own space anyway, he had to think, to find a way to suss John out. And John wouldn’t put up much of a fight either because if he wanted anything he was sure he wanted to be away from the gorgeous bassist. Not that he was ever going to admit it like that.
So when he watched Paul put on his shoes and walk over to the door without so much as a second glance John was quick to voice his irritabilities.
“Fuck you.”
“Love you too, darling.”
And with that, Paul was gone. John was alone. Good, right? He had time to either sleep or think about his feelings and sort them or respectively. Those feelings that were strangely akin to admiration and depression at the same time.
He wasn’t entirely sure when it had all started. He did not know when that match was lit, what Paul had said, done, or looked like that sparked it. He wasn’t sure where they were, what they were up to. What expression John shone on his face when the emotion presented himself. He wasn’t entirely sure when he even acknowledged the one thing he didn’t want to.
That he loved Paul.
Not in the way he loved George and Ringo. He always loved Paul a little more, but now this love he had for him was taking an entirely different formation on its own. The love he felt for Paul was the love he felt when he had looked at Cynthia a long time ago. It was something akin to wanting only to make Paul happy. He wanted to be the source of that.
But when it had first hit him three weeks ago, when Paul said that something, did that something, or whatever look he gave to John, John speculated it as just some phase where he was more aware of Paul. One that would come to pass on its own, one that would mean absolutely naught later. However he was sadly mistaken. And a week into that awareness had turned into obsession. He couldn’t help thinking of Paul at the oddest of times.
Times that didn’t even make a lick of sense.
Be it whilst driving to visit Julian, while using the loo, while talking about the news with Ringo, while he was shagging birds-- it didn’t matter. Now he was fully infatuated with everything Paul. He would find himself watching the movements of his lips as he spoke. He had found himself obsessed with Paul’s lips for three days before it was his eyes that took his fancy.
Those big, doe, hazel eyes of his! Perfection at its finest, lashes completely effeminate but just masculine enough for Paul to own them. Those thin and arched eyebrows had even added to the over alluringly beauty of those eyes. And even Paul’s nose was something to admire, unlike his own aquiline one.
John had tried to shake those queer thoughts from his head but found it nearly impossible to do so. Every woman he’d sleep with, he had wished was Paul. He hadn’t meant for that to happen, but it had. He even had sex with a girl named Pauline, and he had called her Paul several times during intercourse. He hadn’t meant to, she was none the wiser anyway.
So he did fear the extent of his infatuation for Paul that seemed vary much akin to love. There was no way that John could tell Paul and have it be okay. He knew Paul would act one of two ways;
A: Paul would respond rather awkwardly and they’d agreed it never happened.
Or
B: Paul wouldn’t be able to hide the dissatisfaction and distance himself in hopes that John will cease all queer thoughts.
Ideally he wanted neither of those, he wanted another option. Less realistically, he wanted Paul to experiment with him.
And he was on week three with these emotions, very nearly spilling his guts out to Paul yesterday. He was happy that he was able to pin some of it on alcohol but knew he had a limited amount of time before the same issue resurfaced. Paul was not one to let things go.
With that in mind, John sighed and attempted for rest.
John was indeed on his knees by the toilet himself, vomiting uncontrollably from last nights activities. Paul couldn’t stand there waiting himself so he ran to the sink and vomited half of it on the floor in the process. And then more had came up, slowly going down the drain. Paul swiped the tears from his reddened eyes as he looked up to the mirror. Wiping the vomit from his chin, he huffed then looked to John who himself was wiping his lips.
“Shit,” John mumbled as he stood up and flushed down the horrible mess. His eyes met with Paul’s eyes, a smirked. “Still feel like shit?” John questioned as he now looked to the splattered messes of Paul’s sickness. Paul smiled lightly;
“Feel fine now.” But he was no good in hiding it, as his skin was absent of all color and the whites of his eyes were still red from the intense vomiting. John watched him for a few moments before he began to leave the bathroom.
“Yer cleanin’ that shit up by yourself.”
When it was the afternoon, George has knocked on their door, Paul himself had answered it due to the fact that Lennon was virtually handicapped under the severe headache he was suffering from. Paul had thought it served him right, but he was not going to dare state that.
When he had saw George at the door, he noted that George wore only trunks and a loose t-shirt (perhaps due to how frail and thin the young man looked). Paul let George in then went back to his bed to sit and look out at the beach from his window- ‘bird watching.’
“Ay Rings and me gonna go by the beach, any of you lot want to come?” George openly questioned. He watched as John laid in bed with his arm slung over his eyes, this caused George to broaden his smile.
“Johnny, drink too much, ye did!” John ignored him and groaned. His head was throbbing painfully, and every little sound, scent, light, and touch was like an anvil being hammered in his head. He mentally vowed to never consume that many alcoholic beverages again. Finding something to be annoyed at, he shot irritably;
“Paul for fucks sake, shut the god damn shades!”
Paul jumped at the spike of volume and turned to John with a look of vexation. Paul then resigned and turned to George and sighed.
“John’s biggest enemy is the sun. Don’t think he and I will be joining you lads.”
“What’s yer excuse?” George deadpanned.
Paul almost could feel what George was thinking, but he hadn’t shown it. So Paul turned from the window that he was now closing the shades on and stood.
“Love to join you but I’m afraid I’m gonna have to stay within close proximity of a toilet.”
“Oh,” George muttered, finally getting it, “well me and Ringo’s gonna swim. Nice day out, ay, birds all over as far as the eye can see. Don’t puke yer brains out,” and with that George walked toward the door, whistling and unfamiliar tune. Paul watched George leave, wishing he could enjoy the sun and ‘bird-watching,’ but instead was stuck lounging around in his underwear and t-shirt, expecting his stomach to give any moment from now.
That and he had wanted to talk to John since late last night about the whole ‘maybe I’m hiding something from you but pretend I didn’t say that, let’s sleep now’ moment. It was something Paul couldn’t stop thinking of, and being of the analytical sort, he knew he had to dig for answers. So Paul sat at the edge of John’s bed and for a long time he hadn’t said anything.
He just sat there, looking at the walls and dare not turning on the television in fear that John would rip him to shreds over the unwanted noise.
John could feel the weight that sat easy at the end of his bed, but he chose to ignore it. He was almost sure that Paul was going to say something, and that had bothered him. He just wanted it to go away, not just Paul right now, but these odd… feelings. Just long enough for John to feel a glimpse of normality- whatever that was. He wasn’t so sure that he would ever get to know the day of it if Paul would persistently… be. Not that he wished any ill of him, but it wasn’t helping that he and Paul were so awfully close. He wished that Paul had left with George.
It very nearly drove him insane to have this emotional turmoil in him.
But now John couldn’t take it anymore. He could feel Paul’s weight shift at the end of the bed, and then he could feel his hazel eyes burn into his flesh.
“GOD DAMMIT PAUL!” Paul somewhat startled had jumped.
“Christ, John---”
“What the ‘ell do ye want?” What did Paul want? Paul’s brows furrowed. Was this not the same man who had in fact came into Paul’s bed at the late hours of the night and prevented him persistently from enjoying the sleep he wanted? Oh the hypocrisy! But he wasn’t about to go on that tangent. John was suffering from a hangover, and that meant he was suffering from ill temperament.
Perhaps this was not the best time to assess the issue, Paul thought. However, John was here, and would be so for a while. Paul was certain that he’d be in for the rest of the afternoon in bed rest, so if ever did an opportunity presented itself to discuss that which was said last night surely it was this one. So Paul settled on that notion and he spoke up.
“What did you mean last night, when you said you were hiding something from me?” Paul turned his body toward John as John sat up and looked at him a look that Paul couldn’t attached an emotion to.
“What?” John questioned hesitantly. Paul took in a breath.
“Said you felt like a puppet ‘cos you couldn’t do what you wanted in case of criticism. You had to hide yourself and that you was hiding somethin’ fr--”
John laughed incredulously for several moments, pointing at Paul;
“Yer a daft one!”
Paul stared blankly at John, feeling his cheeks go red with embarrassment.
“What?”
“Heavens, I was drunk!
“You’re full of it, you are!” Paul shot, crossing his arms across his chest defiantly. John had to be, right? Because Paul knew people just didn’t mutter things of that nature, drunk or not. The emotion present at the time was far too real. Paul had attested to John’s grasping at thoughts when he had said those things, he could see that it was something that John really had thought about deeply, choosing his words carefully.
The way Paul’s answer wasn’t good enough, which was unusual because Paul had a knack for bringing John down from the clouds. John had implied he was holding something from him. From Paul. Paul of all people, and that very idea set Paul a tad crestfallen. What was John hiding that he feared Paul would judge him on? It made little sense, Paul couldn’t ever recall judging John before.
And now there’s this notion, this god-awful monster that was gnawing at his innards called curiosity. He was so very desperate to prove John wrong. But now John was going to deny him all of that by labeling it nothing more than drunken babble.
But Paul knew his drunken babble, and John knew Paul wasn’t that gullible, right? Paul had hoped so, that, or it was a sad attempt at lying.
But John hadn’t let up, he was now laying in bed with his arm flung across his eyes once again. It was almost as though that brief dialogue hadn’t took place at all! Paul groaned at his dissatisfaction before he stood up. The shift in weight caused John to give a peek in Paul’s direction.
He watched as Paul put on his ‘day clothes,’ a black short sleeve and a pair of dark denim jeans. John sat up once again and crossed his arms. Paul caught the gesture, cease all activity, and lifted a brow.
“What?” Paul questioned irritably. John could hardly hide the annoyance on his face when he had responded to him.
“The ‘ell are ye off to? Ye can’t bloody leave me ‘ere by meself!”
“What the hell makes you so sure about that?” Paul retorted as he now fixated at the mirror, combing his hair attentively. John furrowed his brows.
“Are you fuckin’ kidding me? Ye bastard, I can’t stayed cooped up ‘ere all day!” John shot.
“Then come ‘ead.” Paul knew John wouldn’t, couldn’t, and he was quite fine with that. He had needed his own space anyway, he had to think, to find a way to suss John out. And John wouldn’t put up much of a fight either because if he wanted anything he was sure he wanted to be away from the gorgeous bassist. Not that he was ever going to admit it like that.
So when he watched Paul put on his shoes and walk over to the door without so much as a second glance John was quick to voice his irritabilities.
“Fuck you.”
“Love you too, darling.”
And with that, Paul was gone. John was alone. Good, right? He had time to either sleep or think about his feelings and sort them or respectively. Those feelings that were strangely akin to admiration and depression at the same time.
He wasn’t entirely sure when it had all started. He did not know when that match was lit, what Paul had said, done, or looked like that sparked it. He wasn’t sure where they were, what they were up to. What expression John shone on his face when the emotion presented himself. He wasn’t entirely sure when he even acknowledged the one thing he didn’t want to.
That he loved Paul.
Not in the way he loved George and Ringo. He always loved Paul a little more, but now this love he had for him was taking an entirely different formation on its own. The love he felt for Paul was the love he felt when he had looked at Cynthia a long time ago. It was something akin to wanting only to make Paul happy. He wanted to be the source of that.
But when it had first hit him three weeks ago, when Paul said that something, did that something, or whatever look he gave to John, John speculated it as just some phase where he was more aware of Paul. One that would come to pass on its own, one that would mean absolutely naught later. However he was sadly mistaken. And a week into that awareness had turned into obsession. He couldn’t help thinking of Paul at the oddest of times.
Times that didn’t even make a lick of sense.
Be it whilst driving to visit Julian, while using the loo, while talking about the news with Ringo, while he was shagging birds-- it didn’t matter. Now he was fully infatuated with everything Paul. He would find himself watching the movements of his lips as he spoke. He had found himself obsessed with Paul’s lips for three days before it was his eyes that took his fancy.
Those big, doe, hazel eyes of his! Perfection at its finest, lashes completely effeminate but just masculine enough for Paul to own them. Those thin and arched eyebrows had even added to the over alluringly beauty of those eyes. And even Paul’s nose was something to admire, unlike his own aquiline one.
John had tried to shake those queer thoughts from his head but found it nearly impossible to do so. Every woman he’d sleep with, he had wished was Paul. He hadn’t meant for that to happen, but it had. He even had sex with a girl named Pauline, and he had called her Paul several times during intercourse. He hadn’t meant to, she was none the wiser anyway.
So he did fear the extent of his infatuation for Paul that seemed vary much akin to love. There was no way that John could tell Paul and have it be okay. He knew Paul would act one of two ways;
A: Paul would respond rather awkwardly and they’d agreed it never happened.
Or
B: Paul wouldn’t be able to hide the dissatisfaction and distance himself in hopes that John will cease all queer thoughts.
Ideally he wanted neither of those, he wanted another option. Less realistically, he wanted Paul to experiment with him.
And he was on week three with these emotions, very nearly spilling his guts out to Paul yesterday. He was happy that he was able to pin some of it on alcohol but knew he had a limited amount of time before the same issue resurfaced. Paul was not one to let things go.
With that in mind, John sighed and attempted for rest.