Orange Collision

[macca44552]

Title: Orange Collision

Pairings: J/P, G/R   Equal time for both pairings
Rating: NC-17

Warnings: sexual situations, drug and alcohol use, language, distressing situations

Summary: En route to Los Angeles, a storm diverts the Beatles to an uncharted island in the middle of the Pacific. Finding themselves among the few survivors, romantic tension flares up as they try desperately to find a way home. Meanwhile, some peculiar events occur that lead them all to fear for their sanity...

A/N: I really wanted some practice writing situation-based conflict as opposed to character-based conflict (even though the main theme in this story is still going to involve character-based conflict). Also, this story is very Lost-esque, but obviously it has a different plot. There are just some similar themes.

A/N 2: Haven’t had a John POV in awhile, so here.

Disclaimer: I don’t own The Beatles, nor do I claim to. This is a fictional story and is not written to be libelous.
Chapters 1-10


Chapter 11

“Fuck!” John yelled as he stubbed his toe on a tree stump. He bit his lip and walked on, exploring the green tops on the brown bottoms for a semblance of something to eat. You know, when the trees actually had tops and bottoms. The area that he was in was basically a large landscape of chopped trees-only a few determined little fuckers actually created some type of a skyline in this place. John had to wonder exactly just what had happened there.

His search for fruit and nuts was mostly restricted to the bushes and he wasn’t having much luck so far. His stomach was growling and, as he looked down at his figure, he noticed that his diet of fruit, nuts, and fish was causing him to lose some weight. John smiled. Finally, he had found something good about this place.

The thought of searching in another area had crossed John’s mind, but he had dismissed it. There was a reason, a few actually, as to why he was putting himself through the pain of stubbing his toes every five seconds. Firstly, the food supply at the beach was almost out, and John figured that he would look for some food-contribute and all that communist shite. More importantly, though, John was looking for something else-water. Tosser, and on rare occasions, the rain, had been supplying the camp with water for the past week or so. John wanted to know where this water supply was. He had asked Tosser about it but the arrogant old cunt had given him directions that were so complex and convoluted that he hadn’t even bothered to listen. He hadn't asked for a simpler set of directions either, because he didn’t want to come off as an idiot.

More important than both of those reasons, though, John was searching in that area because he knew that no one was going to be there. No one else was likely to find him. Especially Paul.

“Mother of fuck,” John groaned when last night’s…er…excursion with Paul crossed his mind. He had practically accepted Paul’s advances-fuck-he had told Paul that he wanted him, least of how with words. And now he was completely and utterly fucked. John had enjoyed watching Paul pine for him; he had enjoyed watching Paul’s passion and frustration for him build and build over the past few weeks. But then, somehow, last night had come and Paul had slutted all over him. And, fuck, when he ever used that voice…that fucking I-have-a-baby-face-but-I’m-also-quite-intimidating-and-I-have-the-ability-to-fuck-you-until-you-roll-over-and-die voice…well…John’s hormones had been left with no choice but to snatch up the retreating Macca, hug him, and tell him that he wanted whatever the fuck he was offering.

Besides, unlike the first time that they had kissed, John wasn’t surprised and threatened by his overwhelming attraction to Paul. Something between them had always been simmering and now that it was out in the open, John was finding that his pants were becoming too tight too often around Paul’s presence. To punish the latter, John had created a deep distance between them that was filled with arguments and hatred. Just as he had suspected, Paul had seen right through the arguments and that knowledge only fueled John’s rage. At some point, probably when Paul used that voice, John’s rage had been converted into sexual energy and now he was done for. He was fucked.

Speaking of being fucked, he didn’t know how he felt about Paul’s whole ‘I’m never getting fucked in the arse’ thing, but John figured that he would deal with that when the situation escalated to that point. Because, really, if Paul thought that he was going to be doing the fucking, then he was sorely mistaken. Typically, John liked to be dominated during sex…but he would never let Paul have the upper hand. Not a fucking chance.

“Not a fucking chance,” John mumbled under his breath as he picked a red berry from a bush. He cleaned it on his shirt for a second before he plopped it in his mouth. Damn that tasted good. And when he closed his eyes…it almost tasted like a steak dinner…

It was so fucking good that John began hearing things. A guitar from another world, another life, was playing out to him. A G chord followed by a C chord and an A chord. And then it went to A minor.  And now the strings were being peculiarly plucked and fiddled with-a cacophony of noises coming from somewhere within…

Oh no fucking way. John practically drooled out the berry and listened as his heart rate spiked beyond anything that he thought was physically possible. With his eyes open and his imagination flipped off, John could still hear the guitar sounds, as clear and vibrant as if they were two centimeters away from him. And, well, maybe they were two centimeters away from him.

John was running now, his feet had kicked in and scraped the ground in their haste to find the beautiful sounds. A guitar. There had to be a guitar on the island. True, John and the others had scraped every shadow and corner that they could find looking for the damned instrument and they had always come out empty handed. But John…he wasn’t hearing things was he? Maybe he would turn up and find the source of his guitar sounds had only been a bird with a few strings caught in its throat.

Actually, it was almost worse than that. When John had found the source of the guitar sounds, he had almost fallen to the ground in shock, disgust, and longing.

There was a guitar, yes. And in a secluded spot, with topped trees growing all around this small nook, Tucker was seated on the ground, strumming an E chord casually, a few of his other things scattered all around him.

John hid himself properly, not wanting the fucker to become aware of his presence, and squinted at the instrument that was placed in Tucker’s unworthy lap. It was an acoustic, maybe a Gibson by the looks of it. It had a few dents in the body and the dots on the neck were an odd purplish color. Fuck, he hadn’t seen that guitar in his life. Was it Tucker’s? Did that sod really own a fucking guitar?!!?

“John!” Paul called from behind him and John almost wet his pants. He turned around and saw Paul standing there, a few berries in his hands. With quick movements, John darted out of his hiding spot and slapped his hand over Paul’s mouth to quiet him. He dropped the berries in the process.

Paul made a few agitated noises before John said, “Be fucking quiet.” Oh boy did John love irony.

Macca’s eyebrows floated above his head before he rolled his eyes in annoyance. Before he could try to shove John off of him, though, the music from Tucker’s guitar wafted through the air and Paul’s eyes expanded once he had heard the sounds. His mouth went slack underneath John’s palm.

As quietly as he could, John took his hand off of Paul’s mouth and led the lad over to his previous hiding spot, giving him a clear view of Tucker playing the guitar. John watched as Paul’s face turned red and his eyes glazed over. His mouth was open and his fingers started moving of their own accord, subconsciously mimicking the chords that Tucker was playing. It was weird seeing Paul this close to him after what had happened between them last night (once they had reached the hut, John had crawled in between George and Ringo and had forced himself to fall asleep, or to, at least, make it appear as if he were sleeping. Paul hadn’t returned that night and John was almost thankful for that. He had woken up early in the morning and found him sleeping in front of the hut, his arm slung over his eyes in an attempt to block out the sun’s rays. With quiet footsteps, John had crept past Paul and into the forest, where he had spent the majority of the day fucking around and looking for food and water) and, somehow, he felt a sudden surge of connection run through him. Paul understood. His longing was equal to that of John’s-their perpetual need to snatch the guitar away from Tucker, situate their fingers on the strings, and practically pass out in their own drool and spunk, such was the pleasure that the instrument would give them.

Actually, that sounded like a pretty fucking good idea. John looked away from Paul and started marching towards Tucker, fully intending to rip the beautiful instrument out of his grubby hands.

He was being snatched away from his goal, though. Paul’s hands, sharp and hard, were gripping the back of his shirt and dragging him backwards. John tried to protest but Paul gave him a fiery look and John had no choice but to seal his lips.

Soon, they were out of earshot of Tucker and his guitar. Paul released John and shook his head. “What did you think that you were doing?” he asked accusingly. John’s eyes popped out of his skull.

“Did you fucking see that!?!? That little bastard has a fucking guitar,” the last word was spoken sensually.

“Yeah, and in case you haven’t noticed, it’s not ours.”

“It’s not his!!”

“How do you know!?” Paul threw back.

“Because he’s fucking shite-that’s how I know!”

“He’s not shite. He’s pretty…decent.”

“Paul, I’ve seen fetuses play better than that,” John said stonily.

Paul chuckled, “I dunno. He sounds as good as you did when we first met.”

John snorted loudly before he smirked, “Oh right. I forgot, you taught me everything that I know. My life didn’t begin until I met the great and arrogant Paul McCartney,” John finished off with a bow.

“Something like that,” Paul smiled.

John changed the subject, “What were you doing wandering around here anyway?”

“Looking for you, actually. Since you just up and disappeared,” he responded sharply, a hint of worry in his tone.

“Stalking me, more like. I was only gone a few hours.”

“Yeah well…considering…” Paul stuttered, scratched his nose, and focused his eyes on a tree behind John’s head, “Considering what happened…last night, n’all…I was…I didn’t know…I was just looking for you, alright!” Paul finished with an angry sigh and John smiled. He’d let that slide. Besides, Paul seemed keen on changing the topic anyway, “It’s weird around here, though. Wonder what happened with the trees.”

“Does that even fucking matter, right now? The only thing that matters is that Tucker’s been going out every night and playing his fucking guitar. That was probably what he was doing last night when he ran into us!” John yelled as he mentally envisioned himself knocking Tucker’s head in. “We’re the musicians, Paul!! We’re the fucking Beatles!! If it’s anyone who deserves that guitar-it’s us!!!”

“But what can we do about that!!? It’s his!”

“For all we know he just found it in the fucking woods,” John breathed, “Come on, Paul! We have to take it from him!! He’s a right cunt!! Don’t you want to play again!?!” John said, using his best persuasive powers, which wasn’t saying much. Still, Paul’s teeth were clinging to his lips and John could practically hear the clogs churning around inside his head.

“Alright fine,” Paul decided and John did an excited dance, “But we have to make sure that it’s his first. If not, we can’t take it.”

“And how exactly are we supposed to do that? In case you haven’t noticed, mister nighttime pisser isn’t exactly an honest sort!”

“The same way I get anything that I want,” Paul said casually as he leaned his body against the tree in a very, to John’s eyes, sexual pose, “manipulation.”

This was turning him on, “Really?” he said as he stepped closer to Paul and leaned his arm against the tree, over Paul’s head, “Are you suggesting that we bring back the Nerk Twins?”

Paul’s smile widened, a frivolous glint in his eye, “That’s right,” he said as he knocked John’s arm off the tree and chuckled quietly as John struggled to situate his weight. “We should get back to the camp and sort it out.”

John backed away from the tree and stared at him pointedly, heavily, before he walked ahead of him and muttered, “Well hurry up, then.”

John was only walking in front for a few minutes before Paul stepped ahead of him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“So,” John said as he plopped down next to George, “Are you and Ringo fucking yet?!”

John asked this question because George was in the middle of drinking something, and he delighted in watching the act of the frazzled man choking on his water.

“W-WHAT!!?” he stuttered loudly, looking around to make sure that Ringo was nowhere nearby.

“I SAID,” John boomed and he couldn’t get out the rest of the question before George had roughly kicked him in the foot.

“What the fuck are you talking about!?” George asked, his tone was frantic and he was blushing. John smiled. This was turning out to be a good day.

“I’m just asking. ‘Cause you and Rings have been acting dead awkward around each other lately. So that means that you’re either fighting or you’re just a-swimmin’ in sexual tension. The last one was the more interesting choice.”

“Nothing…nothing is going on, okay? We aren’t fighting and we’re not a-swimmin’ in anything,” George said, moodily looking at the ocean.

“So you’re just staring at each other and blushing whenever you have a conversation for the fuck of it? That sounds fun-where can I sign up?” John joked but George was not amused.

“Look, something weird has been going on between you and Paul for ages now, and I haven’t pried into your business. Stay out of mine,” George warned before he got up and walked away, leaving John to stare after him incredulously.

“Your dick in a knot today or what, Harrison?!” John called after him but he continued walking away. Annoyed, John plucked a stick off of the beach and started stabbing the sand with it, closely watching the way that the sand rose and fell on the brown stick. He didn’t know when Paul’s plan was going to commence, but until then he obviously couldn’t talk to George. Perhaps he would talk to Ringo. After all, he had to ask him whether or not he had spoken to Jessica about her dead kid.

No time for that, though. “Hey asshole! Tell your boyfriend to stop flirting with me,” Tucker yelled as he and Paul began walking towards him. Ah, excellent.

“Can’t. He’s an invalid-only speaks in twitches. Which is why he’s taken to you, I reckon,” John smirked and Paul discreetly glared at him before he turned to Tucker.

“Look, I just want to know if it’s yours.”

“Too bad,” Tucker spat. John threw his stick on the ground and stood up.

“What the bloody hell are you two bitching about!?” he asked.

“Your boyfriend wants to know if this shirt’s mine. Probably wants to snatch it off my back like a pervert.”

“Probably,” John agreed and, once again, Paul glared at him.

“I don’t want to take it off your back! It just looks like my shirt, alright!? And if it is, I want it back after you’re done with it!”

“Even if it isn’t my shirt what makes you think that I would want to give it to you!?” Tucker challenged, crossing his arms.

“Probably because I would make you,” John challenged back. Tucker only smirked.

“You will? And then your boyfriend can get in on it too, right?! We’ll make it a threesome.”

“Sure. Then we’ll toss your beaten body over a cliff once we’re done, how’s that sound?” John snarled.

“If you won’t give me the shirt,” Paul’s voice sliced in between their heated glares, “Then we’ll have to make a trade for it.”

Tucker looked at Paul, “What kind of a trade?”

Paul stepped forward, showing all of his pretty white teeth, “There’s something in the forest that I have…something that you’ll want. I can show it to you and, if you’re interested, we can make a trade. My shirt for that thing.”

John’s eyebrows rose. This wasn’t part of the plan. Tucker seemed suspicious as well, “If what you have in the forest is as…desirable as you say it is, then why are you willing to trade it for a stupid shirt?”

“Because I said I have something that you’ll want. Not me. I just want my fucking shirt,” Paul shrugged nonchalantly and John studied him scrupulously, trying to detect any clue of where the fuck Paul was going with this improvisation, but he found none.

After a few minutes, Tucker agreed, “Show me.”

And Paul led the way. Whenever Tucker looked at him, John pretended as if he knew exactly what was happening, as to not create suspicion. A few times during their travel, John had tried to talk to Paul, find out what was happening, but Paul had remained irritatingly silent. They weren’t going in the direction that John had thought they would go in-he had expected Paul to lead him to the tree-stump location near where Tucker kept his guitar, but instead they were heading down a much shallower path through the jungle. One time, John even suspected that Paul was walking in circles, but he had kept his mouth shut.

“Where exactly is this thing!?” Tucker groaned.

“Oh, is the queer getting tired?” John taunted and Tucker actually laughed at the comment.

“It’s right here,” Paul said. John looked around, the surroundings seemed slightly familiar.

“Where?” Tucker asked, stepping forward.

And then John looked down. And then John understood. With quick movements, Paul ran behind Tucker and pushed him into an eight-feet deep hole-the hole that John had dug and had intended to use as a mass grave for all the bodies on the beach…before they had burned away in the fire.

Tucker screeched when he hit the bottom of the cold hole and Paul kneeled down, looking at him as if he were a small, wounded animal, “You okay?!”

Tucker growled, “WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE!!?” he yelled as he tried, in vain, to pull himself out of the hole. That was obviously not going to happen-he was shorter than Ringo.

“I need to ask you about that guitar that you were playing a few hours ago-is it yours?” Paul asked and John really, really wanted to fuck him. This was brilliant.

“What!?!? You threw me in a fucking hole because of a guitar!?!” Tucker was outraged.

“Are you insinuating that you’re worth more than a guitar? ‘Cause I’ve got to tell you, mate. You’re a bit off,” John joined in, kneeling next to Paul and looking down at Tucker with an enormous amount of satisfaction.

“We’re musicians, alright?! We need the guitar-we need music! I just want to know if it’s yours!!”

“What difference does it make if it’s mine!? You’re going to take it anyway!!” Tucker yelled.

“He’s got a point Paul,” John said as he stood up eagerly but Paul ignored him.

“Because if you love music even half as much as I do, then I’m not going to take the guitar away from you,” Paul said, his eyes rounding out and his lips settling into a pout. Hell, his eyelashes even looked as if they had grown longer-Paul was pulling out all of the tricks. And John watched in amazement as Tucker seemed to be falling for this sappy shite.

“Fine. It’s not mine; I found it in the forest. Take it and actually write a decent song, will you?” Tucker said and Paul breathed a grateful ‘thank you’ before John had fisted his hand in his shirt and was pulling him away. Fuck. The guitar. It was theirs for the taking. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“HEY! YOU CAN’T JUST LEAVE ME IN HERE!!” Tucker yelled and Paul stopped short, muttering an ‘oh right’. Just as he was about to help Tucker out, Ringo showed up chewing on a leaf, which he had taken to doing since the cigarettes had run out. When Ringo caught one look at the situation surrounding him, the leaf fell from his mouth and he stared at John and Paul in complete shock.

Before he could say anything, though, John had waved at him innocently and pointed to Tucker, “Hello Ringo. Take care of this for us?” before he had pulled Paul away desperately. He needed to feel his hands on those strings. Right fucking now. Paul must have been thinking the same thing, because soon he had stopped complaining about leaving Ringo alone to deal with Tucker, and had actually broken into a sprint as they moved closer and closer to the holy instrument.

John waded through the tree stumps and into Tucker’s little nook where he kept his belongings, grabbing the guitar triumphantly. He played the beginning of Chuck Berry’s “Johnny B. Goode”, nearly trembling at how good that felt. He didn’t realize that he had been out of tune before Paul snatched it away from him and began fiddling with the A string.

“I’m gonna fucking pass out,” John said happily, “That was brilliant back there, you know. First you managed to put out the fire by using a suitcase, and now you got us a guitar by pushing Tucker in a hole.”

Paul raised his brows, “Are you actually praising me?”

“It’s the guitar,” he deadpanned as he snatched away the instrument and broke out into “Tutti Frutti”. Paul grabbed the guitar once he was done and countered John’s “Tutti Frutti” with “Good Golly, Miss Molly.” Then John played some Bo Diddley just for the fuck of it.

This went on for hours and soon their fingers were pleasantly numb. John sighed happily and leaned against a tree, staring up at the setting sun. “I was thinking,” he said after a few seconds of mental deliberation, “We should keep this guitar just between the two of us.”

Paul didn’t even think about it, “Are you kidding?! George would have a fit if he knew that we were keeping this from him.”

“He’s already having a fit. In a right foul mood today, he is.”

“Well we’re not keeping this from him. I can’t wait to see the look on his face when he sees this, actually. He’ll probably wet himself,” Paul smiled and John didn’t answer at him, continued looking at the sky. Paul put the guitar down. “Besides, there are other things that we could have that are just between the two of us.”

John’s eyes snapped to Paul’s in record time. The latter was looking at him in a cursory manner though, as if he hadn’t just muttered something that suggestively hinted at the state of their relationship.

“Like what?” John said as he stood up and stretched his legs, Paul doing the same.

“Dunno. Just other things.”

John inspected him thoroughly. His flushed cheeks, his dirt-stained pants, his sweat-filled hair sticking to his forehead. It was all too much. Paul was so fucking...good looking, and John wanted him. He didn’t give a fuck anymore, couldn’t give a fuck anymore, he wanted him. Now.

Blood pounding, John lunged and pushed Paul against the tree just the same as he had done the previous night. “Care to expand?” John asked huskily, pressing their foreheads together. Paul’s tongue darted out and licked his lips.

“I don’t think I need to,” he responded. John’s hands tightened in Paul’s shirt before he flat-out pushed his body against Paul’s and pressed their lips together. With a growl, John licked and sucked and prodded at Paul’s lips, but something was wrong. Paul’s lips were sealed and his jaw was set-he was having no reaction to this whatsoever.

John backed away in frustration and searched Paul’s face urgently, wondering if he had just completely fucked everything up. What he found, though, was that Paul was smirking. He was smirking winningly and he looked at John as if he were the center of some fucked-up joke.

“What the fuck are you doing!?!!” John yelled angrily, the blood boiling beneath his skin. Paul casually stepped forward until he was right in front of John.

With the widest smirk that he had ever seen him use, Paul said, “Making a point.”

John almost started stuttering like an idiot. Before he could, Paul stepped up to him and nearly pressed their lips together. John could feel Paul’s heavy breathing hitting his skin and it was making his pants very tight. He was about to close the distance between them, but before he could, Paul had slid his hand in John’s hair and roughly yanked it. John gasped in shock and Paul took that opportunity to stick his tongue down his throat with an animalistic force. John growled and Paul followed that with his own sub-human noises, running his hands down John’s body and clutching at his shirt so intensely that John was afraid that Paul would actually put holes in it. John pulled Paul closer towards him and ran his hands up and down Paul’s slender neck.

Meow.

For a second, John had thought that Paul had made that noise, but a quick look at the ground told him otherwise. The lust nearly drained from his body when he saw a small, tattered gray cat sitting on the ground, licking its paws. Paul moved away from him and stared at the animal curiously.

“What the-what the fuck!!?” John hyperventilated, his breathing labored. As a reward for his cursing, the cat stepped forward and rubbed its body against John’s leg, its yellow eyes looking up at him affectionately. That’s right. That fucking cat better show him some affection after interrupting him and Paul.

“John…look. She’s got a tag,” Paul kneeled down and grabbed the silver tag between his fingertips. He couldn’t see what it said because his glasses were nowhere to be found, but Paul told him that its name was ‘Tidbits’. John blinked…what the fuck was a house cat doing out in the forest? Had it come from the plane, or had it come from…

Tidbits licked Paul’s knee gently before she turned around and ran off.

To be continued…