Paul & John

[Chapter Seven - A Living Nightmare]

-- P A U L --

                         "Hello?" Paul said into the receiver once he made it downstairs and picked up the phone.

"It's about fuckin' time you picked up the phone!" It was Paul's father calling up from the hotel to make sure his fat son didn't eat the entire house. "What took ye so long?!"

Paul could feel his wrists going tense as an anxiety attack began to taunt him. He wove his hand feverishly; trying to get the adrenaline to disperse his wrists.

"I was with my friend John," Paul replied truthfully. "We were upstairs playin' guitar and I guess we lo--"

"I don't give a shite if ye were floating on clouds!" Jim snapped, "Ye stupid piece of shite. You better pick up the phone next time---and don't let that teddy whore grab me Playboys."

Paul nodded. "I underst--"

Before he could finish his sentence, the phone line cut off; indicating that Jim didn't want to hear the chubby-faced lad's voice.

Placing the phone piece into its holder, Paul sighed then raced up to his room where John was waiting for them to continue their guitar lesson.

And with every step, lingered the bothersome feeling of butterflies as they erupted in Paul's stomach. His throat became tight.

And it was because John Lennon and his damn good looks.

---

-- J O H N --

                      While he waited for his friend to return from the kitchen, John scoped around his room and found a huge stack of Playboy magazines. Even though they were Jim's, John assumed they were Paul's collection.

Well 'Macca, don't you know how to pick the birds. John chuckled, turning to the next page as he saw a hot brunette on her knees, taking hold of her pink nipples.

"Yeah, aren't ye a dirty thing?" John mumbled to himself, a sexual fantasy coursing through his perverted mind.

Just then he heard footsteps. John immediately threw the magazine to the pile where he had found it and lied back on Paul's bed; staring up at the ceiling fan.

"Who was on the phone?" John asked once Paul entered the room. He never met the hazel-eyed lad, he kept his gaze up at the ceiling.

Paul exhaled a breath, the anxiety still in place.

"My father."

Just the mentioning of the word father made John go tense. It wasn't so much the word, it was the fact that Jim was a horrible father to Paul.

"Is everythin' alright?" John asked, sitting up. Paul nodded, but by the way he was fumbling with his hands, said something completely different.

"What's wrong, Paul?" John asked.

Paul sat down on the bed, looking down at his fumbling hands as his fingertips rubbed the side of his pinkie in slow circles.

"D'you 'ave any idea what it's like to wake up every morning with the fear that ye might be dead at any moment?" Paul asked, tearing up.

"I wake up with the feeling of losing my breath and my chest heaving with weight. I hate it, John. I hate myself."

He cowered his face into his shaking hands, trying to make sense of it all.

"I hate," Paul blubbered. "I hate waking up with adrenaline rushing to my wrists, and all I can think about is dying.

"I want to die, John. I want to di--"

John cut the blubbering mess with a warm embrace. Paul was taken aback as he nearly toppled to the floor. As the younger lad attempted to sit up, both of their bodies fell to the floor; causing John to hover over Paul.

John looked down and smiled, his gaze softening. He leaned closer to Paul, nearly touching his nose.

"Ye aren't a lost cause Paulie," John muttered, his voice sounding sweet. "I like you a lot. I don't want you to kill yerself. You 'ave a lot to offer to the world."

Paul nodded, now awakening to his senses.

"I like you too, John." he felt a blush rise to his child-like cheeks.

They laid there, on the floor, staring into each other's eyes. John moved a little closer; fanning Paul's button nose with his hot, intoxicating breath.

He then closed his eyes, leaning one more centimeter to Paul.

He did what they both were waiting for.

He kissed Paul McCartney---right on the mouth.