'You Can't Do That' (John, J/G, J/P, R)
A class was canceled, I wanted Bastard!John and so I wrote it. I don't know what I was thinking either. Excuse the lame title. Cannot think of good titles or bother with sane writing today.
You Can't Do That
by ignited
John, John/George, John/Paul, John being a whore, etc. R. Inspired by a quote of John's regarding touring, as well as footage from the third episode of The Beatles Anthology. Set in the world tour in the late spring to early summer of 1964.
"I grabbed one and fucked her under the stairs - another one, fucked her in the bedroom - then another one, in the bathroom and one on the kitchen floor... I've never seen anything like it - and it went on the whole night long. Wherever we went, it was like a whole scene going."
- John Lennon
John's violent when he's set on something.
And that's the thing about him. He's violent -- won't need to touch you, do anything. Just his voice, the way he's strained when he speaks or sings -- it's there, waiting, waiting. He'll sing and joke, do a dance, but really it's all for naught. They can't hear him, they don't care about hearing him, any of them.
John will curse at the audiences, make rude gestures, call them Nazis and they just don't care.
So eventually, he takes that as a reinforcing -- no, reassuring -- sign to tell the lot of them to fuck off and he'll go about as he pleases, any way he wishes. As he always does.
It's just that simple. Thing is, it isn't like he'll warn the others first.
--
It starts off when he's got George pinned against a wall, nose right there and buried in George's hair. He doesn't sniff. He inhales, sucks in air and growls, and tightens his grip on George's waist.
"Fucking hell, John -- get off!"
It doesn't seem like George is talking. His mouth is moving, sure, but there's no sound reaching John's ears. John only shoves his hands and connects with flesh, pulling George's jacket, shirt, and trousers.
George only yells and curses, fighting back, spewing insults even as John's pinning him against the wall, pulling his hair. He'll pull and angle George, lick his neck and fuck him right up near the wall, right in shadow. Too much bustling in the other hallways, people getting ready for the concert. People smoking and cursing in the other rooms, other places, but not here. They're alone, terribly alone, the only noises being the scuffling of boots on the floor and George's short gasps.
And soon after, very soon, it's finished and John just goes off into the shadows again, pulling his cap low on his head.
--
First night in Amsterdam and the police find John on the curb, jacket and shirt wet, fringe slick and sticky. He barks insults at them, even as they pull and push him into the police vehicle, all hurried, all whispering. Don't let them know, don't tell the press, don't worry, it's taken care of--
Brian's voice sounds tinny on the phone, John thinks, then suddenly bursts out into laughter.
--
"I hate flying."
George is reading a book, murmuring this, not looking up. John's next to him, in fact, having escaped his aunt for the time being. He's got to do a whole song and dance for her, "Yes Mimi", and it's terribly annoying. So he decides to pull George's book out of his hand, look at it upside down.
"It doesn't have any pictures," John says in an accusing voice, frowning.
George snatches the book, ignoring John giving him a playful jab to the shoulder.
"I fucking hate flying."
--
The world moves too fast for them, right at their doorstep before they blink. They wonder how a thirty-hour flight -- thirty, seventeen, it goes on for ages -- is crammed into twenty minutes.
They've been on Preludin, pills, non-stop.
--
When they get to the hotel in Australia, John goes directly to the toilet and vomits.
--
The door opens a crack, Paul peeking in.
"Are you comin', John?"
He's wearing a nice jacket, probably ready to head out, meet a few girls, so on and so forth. John's supposed to be calling Cyn, and two other girls he met on the plane and on the way to the hotel. The phone's right near him, but he can't be arsed to bother with it.
John lies on the bed and waits. Waits. Waits for Paul to come in, cross his arms and straighten his collar.
"I feel terrible. I'm not goin'," John says, spreads his legs, trousers and shirt rumpled and sweaty. "I think I've caught something."
"Well, don't give it to me," Paul snaps, shaking his head. "You look like shit."
John lights up a cigarette. "Thank you for your honesty, Paul."
At this, Paul rolls his eyes and leaves.
--
John is slightly disappointed to see the lack of rooms in this hotel. Sure, they've got a whole floor. That's nice. There's rum and coke, and those little sandwiches John will inhale in great gulps. That's all very nice and expected. But there isn't any variety. There aren't any staircases and kitchens, there aren't secluded areas. There's just four walls, a door, sometimes a few doors. Then a long rectangle of a room -- the hallway -- and more rooms, more boxes and walls.
It's all very boring, and he takes no pleasure in the girls Mal lets up into the room. Perhaps George and Paul do, but that's them -- fuck if John could care, he doesn't. He gives a smile, offers an autograph and tells the girls to get out once they're done.
John walks out onto the balcony, seeing nothing but shadows and blurs. He can barely see anything in the dark, stubbornly refusing to wear his glasses for the night. He only breathes in the smoke from his fifth cigarette, squints and glares at the scattering of fans below.
He exhales.
--
Around three in the morning, Paul finally lets go of John and John falls back onto the bed, breathing hard, shaking even. A rare moment: he's speechless. No breath, only staring, watching Paul and George right there in front of him, there, entangled. The way Paul's mouth slides over George's throat and George's got his fingers trailing down Paul's back--
John can only watch, fingertips reaching towards them.
But then, quite suddenly, he passes out from drink. They let him sleep until nine the next morning.
--
When Ringo finally comes back, tonsils out and feeling better, John pats him on the shoulder and shoves a teddy bear into his arms.
"Here you go." He keeps his sunglasses on, dark circles inevitably behind them. "Glad to have you back, Ring."
It's nice when he's there. That Jimmy Nichol is a bit soft in the head and John hated talking to him. Hates talking to George this week, and Paul too. People talk too much nowadays, John included, therefore he hates himself the most of all.
--
He sees the sea of faces before him, a blur of screaming and waving later that day. He's supposed to announce the song. Or Paul is. There. Paul. Paul goes, does his bit. Then the music starts up and his hands are possessed, body on autopilot. Mouth too, starting up again, already on the second verse before his mind catches up.
"Because I've told you before, oh... You can't do that."
He shakes his head and screams for the crowd.
They scream back and let him drift along with the noise.
END
You Can't Do That
by ignited
John, John/George, John/Paul, John being a whore, etc. R. Inspired by a quote of John's regarding touring, as well as footage from the third episode of The Beatles Anthology. Set in the world tour in the late spring to early summer of 1964.
"I grabbed one and fucked her under the stairs - another one, fucked her in the bedroom - then another one, in the bathroom and one on the kitchen floor... I've never seen anything like it - and it went on the whole night long. Wherever we went, it was like a whole scene going."
- John Lennon
John's violent when he's set on something.
And that's the thing about him. He's violent -- won't need to touch you, do anything. Just his voice, the way he's strained when he speaks or sings -- it's there, waiting, waiting. He'll sing and joke, do a dance, but really it's all for naught. They can't hear him, they don't care about hearing him, any of them.
John will curse at the audiences, make rude gestures, call them Nazis and they just don't care.
So eventually, he takes that as a reinforcing -- no, reassuring -- sign to tell the lot of them to fuck off and he'll go about as he pleases, any way he wishes. As he always does.
It's just that simple. Thing is, it isn't like he'll warn the others first.
--
It starts off when he's got George pinned against a wall, nose right there and buried in George's hair. He doesn't sniff. He inhales, sucks in air and growls, and tightens his grip on George's waist.
"Fucking hell, John -- get off!"
It doesn't seem like George is talking. His mouth is moving, sure, but there's no sound reaching John's ears. John only shoves his hands and connects with flesh, pulling George's jacket, shirt, and trousers.
George only yells and curses, fighting back, spewing insults even as John's pinning him against the wall, pulling his hair. He'll pull and angle George, lick his neck and fuck him right up near the wall, right in shadow. Too much bustling in the other hallways, people getting ready for the concert. People smoking and cursing in the other rooms, other places, but not here. They're alone, terribly alone, the only noises being the scuffling of boots on the floor and George's short gasps.
And soon after, very soon, it's finished and John just goes off into the shadows again, pulling his cap low on his head.
--
First night in Amsterdam and the police find John on the curb, jacket and shirt wet, fringe slick and sticky. He barks insults at them, even as they pull and push him into the police vehicle, all hurried, all whispering. Don't let them know, don't tell the press, don't worry, it's taken care of--
Brian's voice sounds tinny on the phone, John thinks, then suddenly bursts out into laughter.
--
"I hate flying."
George is reading a book, murmuring this, not looking up. John's next to him, in fact, having escaped his aunt for the time being. He's got to do a whole song and dance for her, "Yes Mimi", and it's terribly annoying. So he decides to pull George's book out of his hand, look at it upside down.
"It doesn't have any pictures," John says in an accusing voice, frowning.
George snatches the book, ignoring John giving him a playful jab to the shoulder.
"I fucking hate flying."
--
The world moves too fast for them, right at their doorstep before they blink. They wonder how a thirty-hour flight -- thirty, seventeen, it goes on for ages -- is crammed into twenty minutes.
They've been on Preludin, pills, non-stop.
--
When they get to the hotel in Australia, John goes directly to the toilet and vomits.
--
The door opens a crack, Paul peeking in.
"Are you comin', John?"
He's wearing a nice jacket, probably ready to head out, meet a few girls, so on and so forth. John's supposed to be calling Cyn, and two other girls he met on the plane and on the way to the hotel. The phone's right near him, but he can't be arsed to bother with it.
John lies on the bed and waits. Waits. Waits for Paul to come in, cross his arms and straighten his collar.
"I feel terrible. I'm not goin'," John says, spreads his legs, trousers and shirt rumpled and sweaty. "I think I've caught something."
"Well, don't give it to me," Paul snaps, shaking his head. "You look like shit."
John lights up a cigarette. "Thank you for your honesty, Paul."
At this, Paul rolls his eyes and leaves.
--
John is slightly disappointed to see the lack of rooms in this hotel. Sure, they've got a whole floor. That's nice. There's rum and coke, and those little sandwiches John will inhale in great gulps. That's all very nice and expected. But there isn't any variety. There aren't any staircases and kitchens, there aren't secluded areas. There's just four walls, a door, sometimes a few doors. Then a long rectangle of a room -- the hallway -- and more rooms, more boxes and walls.
It's all very boring, and he takes no pleasure in the girls Mal lets up into the room. Perhaps George and Paul do, but that's them -- fuck if John could care, he doesn't. He gives a smile, offers an autograph and tells the girls to get out once they're done.
John walks out onto the balcony, seeing nothing but shadows and blurs. He can barely see anything in the dark, stubbornly refusing to wear his glasses for the night. He only breathes in the smoke from his fifth cigarette, squints and glares at the scattering of fans below.
He exhales.
--
Around three in the morning, Paul finally lets go of John and John falls back onto the bed, breathing hard, shaking even. A rare moment: he's speechless. No breath, only staring, watching Paul and George right there in front of him, there, entangled. The way Paul's mouth slides over George's throat and George's got his fingers trailing down Paul's back--
John can only watch, fingertips reaching towards them.
But then, quite suddenly, he passes out from drink. They let him sleep until nine the next morning.
--
When Ringo finally comes back, tonsils out and feeling better, John pats him on the shoulder and shoves a teddy bear into his arms.
"Here you go." He keeps his sunglasses on, dark circles inevitably behind them. "Glad to have you back, Ring."
It's nice when he's there. That Jimmy Nichol is a bit soft in the head and John hated talking to him. Hates talking to George this week, and Paul too. People talk too much nowadays, John included, therefore he hates himself the most of all.
--
He sees the sea of faces before him, a blur of screaming and waving later that day. He's supposed to announce the song. Or Paul is. There. Paul. Paul goes, does his bit. Then the music starts up and his hands are possessed, body on autopilot. Mouth too, starting up again, already on the second verse before his mind catches up.
"Because I've told you before, oh... You can't do that."
He shakes his head and screams for the crowd.
They scream back and let him drift along with the noise.
END