#borrowedtimex

[tame-the-fox]

Scribbles in the center of pensive brows with a black sharpie marker; properly marrying the two.

Looks up with delirious cross eyes and the flat of his palm rubsat the newly formed bridge to no avail.

“Say now, what if they can’t tell me and George apart?”

[forthriight]

"have you lost your mind?"

"Can I jus' re-do it?" Harrison huffs, fingers idly picking at guitar strings, ever the perfectionist when it comes to his sound. Dark hues keep themselves trained on Lennon, trying to avoid the eyes of all the other contributors on this very obvious retaliation to their former band member's latest musical attack.Suddenly, this whole session feels a lot like the studio time for Let It Be; like the public peaking in on a private disagreement. He'd use argument, but the younger lad is trying his best to keep it from reaching that level. It's hard, though, when one considers their history... and how their former band's tumultuous fall-out is not that far in the rear-view mirror."I jus' think it migh' be worth a second take. It's y'er song, of course. I know tha’. An' if y'er really against it, I'll concede... but thur's more I can do. I don't think tha' last take was th'good one." He finishes, quietly. 

[xnowhere-man]

“fuck’s sake, what’s your problem?”

Paul pointedly draws circles through abused newsprint, gnarledlead smoldering against his palm, figuring he’s effectively ‘ignored’ John’sentrance long enough to induce a crushing impact. Though he can feel his gutssquirm when he’s finally addressed, loathing how the other lad’s words still prodinto him like stoking coals, the waning rounds of his cheeks pulsing hot beneaththe veil of an abruptly shorn fringe. He’s beginning to see less of him latelyand his mustache quivers into an anxious twitch, a blown out and bloodshot doeeye cautioning the room in one acerbic sweep. A new and unbearable silence persists to mount between them, a testament to Brian’s absence,and there’s a terse sniff before he says anything.

“I don’t cut th’checks John, ye’ve got th’wrong office,” hequips in a low chortle.

[managedbyepstein]

Also, do I owe anyone besides xbeatlettes?

I've tagged a few of you whom I might owe...

[xnowhere-man]

♫ A drabble about our muses inspired by the next song that comes on shuffle

I’ll Be Alright Without You- Journey

The aftershock supersedes the initial rupture as he had been numb from the magnitude of reality heaved onto him at once. McCartney sits hunched forward, solitary, nerves still raw and writhing from theirlast ever band meeting at Apple. Balled fists press into distraughthazels and he inhales a sharpness, the feeling of spite andheartache, a shortness of breath that will not subside for weeksto come.

Surelyit was an inevitable happening, a culmination of years of tension andstrife. To hear the words, though, have wrecked him worse than he hasanticipated. It was always a lingering fear, a paranoid premonitionthat Lennon would be the one to finish what he started. McCartneyfeels naked now- exposed and vulnerable without the guise of unity.He would be envious that he did not beat John to the punch if anyiota of him wanted the band to end.

Perhapsthe animosity shared between them during the final years was nothingbut grim foreshadowing but until John’s formal announcement-McCartney was happy to share anything withthe lads as long as they continued to preserve an element ofcoexistence. And then the facade is tarnished instantaneously- themere drop of a line is all it took- to learn that Lennon’sdeparture is in favour of something plastic.

[artfulwraith]

"Sometimes I wonder why you stay with me."

Their furnishings have mostly dwindled to mounds of ash- once more leaving the expanse of their flat completely devoid of heat. Stu has found himself pressed against his self-loathing companion, lips bruised from the cold, having slunk onto his grounded mattress a few hours before the sun came up.

The artist is bleary-eyed until Lennon’s statement shatters the twilight the other’s warmth has lulled him into. Almond oculars flutter open and settle onto his companion, disbelief painting his features as he regards him. Sutcliffe worships Lennon and it is certainly no secret; he has eyes for the brooding guitarist, ones that are presently devouring him whole.

“Me too…,” Stu seethes, turning further onto side until his narrow breast is grazing Lennon’s, “and then on nights like this I remember. It’s because I don’t want frostbite.”

The lanky artist grasps fistfuls of John’s shirt, fingertips curling into the fabric in frustrated sentiment. He releases the lad just as quickly and settles back against him, turning to face the wall, lithe spine conforming to the contours of Lennon’s side like a smitten feline. 

[xnowhere-man]

"How long are you going to keep this up?"

The hour is indecent- he knows this, and the draft beneath him is becoming sloppier as the minutes drag on. A Dixon Ticonderoga smolders away in his grasp and the document is nearly in pieces, tattered from smudges and assaults from a dwindling eraser. McCartney has been scarcely bearing Lennon’s presence as they attempt to collaborate, him performing much of the initiating, seemingly overzealous in contrast to John’s infuriating aloofness.

Their startling telekinesis is lost; before it was difficult to decipher who wrote what because their psyches were so seamlessly intertwined. Now it is different- a tarnished connection, crossed-wires where fluid clockwork once was. Despite this slew of realisations, Paul has been as vigorously invested as ever, attempting with his every fiber to get them there again- if only for one last tune. He has spent hours holed in the studio, seated across from Lennon, trapping him with half-baked ideas accompanied by a slurry of loose chords.

When John finally speaks, his heart turns to lead and drops through him, plummeting into the Earth to get as far away from Lennon’s steely inquiry as possible. His jaw slackens, throttled by the question- as if all evening had been in vain, as if the guitarist had been somewhere else to suddenly notice that Paul was still seated across from him.

A pathetic and desperate glance is all he can muster before he shifts in his chair, spine aching from maintaining an unnaturally rigid position.

[xnowhere-man]

"POL. I'VE NEEDLED MESELF-"

"Goddamnit, JAWN!" eyes tighten shut against the carnage, "I knew it”.

Fist clenches in exasperation, one hazel braving open to hazard a glance at the other.

Another beat.  

"I told ye’ …I know a fella’ who sews. Why didn’t ye’ let ‘im help ye’?!"