A/N: Guess what? I finally got around to posting this! For those of you who have read this already either when it was on FF for the first time, or on TheCrazyViolist's forum, thank you. If this is your first time reading it, also thank you! I hope you like it.
This is set in late 1963. Enjoy!
I do not own the Beatles. (But I wish I did)
"Paul... Paul!" My eyes snapped open sharply. John was standing over me, his hair hanging in his eyes.
"What the bloody hell do you want?" I grumbled, pulling my pillow over my eyes in an attempt to block him out. He yanked it away and tossed my only protection against this assailment on my precious sleep to the floor. It was then that I noticed the creative glint in his eyes that I knew only too well. "You just wrote a song, didn't you?" I asked right at the same time that he was telling me that he had written a song.
"Uh-huh," he nodded. "But I can't write a middle eight to save me bloody life! Help me?" He pleaded. I yawned and glanced blearily over at the clock: 4 am. There was no way in heaven or anywhere else that I was going to be able to fall asleep again. Damn John and his ideas that always seem to come at the worst times, I thought.
"Why not?" I sighed and rolled out of bed. We were on tour and George, like usual, was rooming with me. He was a light sleeper and we padded quietly out to avoid waking him.
John sat down in a chair and pulled his guitar onto his lap. His calloused fingers strummed the strings and nimbly moved up and down the fretboard. There was never a time that John was more relaxed than when he was playing the guitar. All the walls that so closely guarded his emotions fell down and bared his soul for all to see. If you knew what to look for like I did, that is. His soft lips shaped the words quietly so they just barely reached my ears.
Oh yeah I'll tell you something
I think you'll understand.
When I say that something
I want to hold your hand...
I was so engrossed in watching John play that I was hardly listening. I could tell that it was going to be a good song, but past that I couldn't tell you what I thought. I was too busy watching the way his light auburn hair fell into his eyes with a sort of accidental grace. And those eyes, those sparkling, brown, humorous—I shut down my train of thought before it could go any further. Where in heck was all of this coming from? John was my best mate. I shouldn't have been thinking about him like this. Save those thoughts for Jane, Paulie. I told myself.
John came to an abrupt halt and peered up at me. He had forgotten his glasses and was squinting like a mole above ground. "This is where I got to an hour ago. D'you have any ideas?" I motioned for him to hand the guitar over. He passed it into my hands and I felt a shiver rush over my skin where his rough hands touched mine. It wasn't unpleasant, but I couldn't place exactly what it was. It couldn't be love, could it? No, that was impossible. I flipped the guitar upside down so I could play it and started messing around with chords that meshed with the part of the song that John had already finished. A half-hour later I had a pretty good idea of how it could go.
"Hey, John?" I said, startling a very nearly asleep guitarist.
"Huh?" he yawned, rubbing his eyes and stretching.
"I think I've got your middle eight." I said, shifting the guitar into a more comfortable position.
He sat up, now wide awake. "Well, let's hear it then!" I played it and he nodded approvingly. "But you could do this with the beginning bit..." he said, reaching over and moving my hands on the neck of the guitar. This time I didn't shiver. But I did feel a hot blush sneaking up the back of my neck and was suddenly grateful for the poor lighting situation in the room. For the next little while, we added harmonies and a drum pattern. An extended break in John's contributions prompted me to glance over at him. He had fallen asleep, the guitar hanging loosely in his grasp.
The multitudes of screaming fans kept him awake at night quite often and sometimes those many sleepless nights caught up with him. As they had now.
I got up and gently removed the guitar from his limp hands. A blanket lay over the back of the couch. I pulled it off and draped it over his sleeping form. Suddenly, an overwhelming desire to kiss his forehead overtook me. I pulled myself away before such a royal screw-up could be made on my behalf and settled for brushing his hair out of his eyes. He moved in his sleep a little and murmured something unintelligible. I went back to bed wondering what the hell was wrong with me, and as a result I didn't get any sleep at all. I tossed and turned until George climbed out with a mumbled protest and passed out on the nearest sofa.
At nine I heard George rustling around in the kitchen, presumably looking for something to eat. That kid was always hungry no matter what time of day it was. Forget the Quiet Beatle. Try the Hungry Beatle. Realizing that any further attempts at sleep would be futile, I heaved myself out of bed and shuffled in the direction of the food sounds. George was locked in an intense battle with a new box of cornflakes that was refusing to open.
"C'mon you little bugger, open!" He grunted, reduced to tearing at it with his sharp teeth.
"Um, George?" I called. "You might try this nifty little invention called scissors." I waved a pair in his direction. He shot me the bird.
"Oh, sod off. I was hungry and when I'm hungry I can't think straight! You know that!" He whined, snatching the scissors out of my grasp and going to work on the obstinate bag of cereal.
"Good morning, boys." Brian entered our room from his separate one. He was already impeccably dressed as was the usual.
"Morning, Eppy," we said in unison.
"Well, don't run me over with your enthusiasm." He said dryly, taking in our tired features.
Ringo chose this moment to enter the kitchen, looking more asleep than awake yet. He was probably the least perky in the morning out of all of us and that was saying something. We were tired in the morning, Ringo was comatose. He made a zombielike beeline for the coffee maker and poured himself a cup. "Me little mug of sunshine," he said fondly of the caffeinated beverage.
John was still fast asleep in the chair. Brian looked over at him. "The fans keep him awake all the time," I explained.
"I hardly ever notice 'em." Ringo shrugged, drinking his coffee and pouring himself a bowl of the cornflakes.
"Rings when you're asleep there isn't much you do notice." George informed him, tackling a bowl of the cereal so full it was nearly overflowing.
"Hey Georgie, save some for the rest of us!" I said teasingly. I received an annoyed look.
At last, John decided to wake up. He stumbled into the kitchen and plopped down at the table without a word to anyone. His hair was an absolute rat's nest, sticking up in the most random of places and his eyes were still half-shut with sleep.
But in my opinion, he looked fine, just fine. And then it hit me, all the nagging suspicions that had been circulating around in my waking and sleeping mind came together.
I was in love with my best friend; John Winston Lennon.
A/N: Well, there we have it! Chapter one of Life is What Happens! Did you think it was great? Did you think it sucked? I don't care either way, I just want to know. So tell me in a review? Please?