#its-macca

[johnlennon1964-blog]

"To tha' top, Johnny."

"Where’s that, Paulie?" John asked with a slight smile.

[itspeterasher]

PAUL

[jock-lennon]

Early October, 1968.

Today is recording day. John knows it, but it doesn't mean that he cares.

Yoko's out of the country. She had to run to America for an exhibition or something. John had to stay, as the band was in the middle of recording an album.

It had been agreed that they didn't have to be all together in the studio, but today was a day they'd also agreed to make an effort to do so. Not that John remembered, though. The past couple days, he'd spent solely in the company of alcohol, heroin and endless cigarettes-- so no one to remind him. Not that he wanted to be reminded.

He was staring at a blank point in the wall when the doorbell began to ring incessantly, cigarette burning, unnattended to, in his hand. He'd just come off a big heroine high.

The sound drives him crazy, so he screams, and walks, angry and heavy-paced, to the door. 

He opens.

Paul. 

Who else?

"What do you want?" He asks. The cigarette is no longer in his hand, but on the littered floor. He doesn't care. 

[jock-lennon]

3.

3; A gentle kiss from my character.

[At home in Kenwood, St. George’s Hill, 1964.]

Paul smiled at the sight. “John— Johnny, it’s me.”

The older man opened his eyes at that, and turned to see if he was dreaming. 

He wasn’t. 

"Paul— what are you doing here?! Where’s Cy—"

"Shh." The bassist pushed him gently so he could slip into bed. "Cyn called me and said she had to head off somewhere," He began, running his fingers through John’s auburn bed-hair. "She asked me to come look at Jules ‘cause she knew you’d want to sleep, and that I was coming by anyway to write. It’s four o’clock, Jules’ asleep." Paul kissed his forehead, then his cheek. "And I’m here. So, up, up, up you get, sleepyhead!"

[jock-lennon]

⌘~

Things you do that piss me off:

The bloody jiggly legs — you can’t sit still for a fucking second and it’s infuriating.

You always get what you want. Even from me. I hate it.

How you’ll sometimes call me up just after we get home from a tour and want to write. Christ, son, give it a fucking rest.

How you’re good at bloody everything you try to do. Seriously, it’s not bloody human.

You can sing better than me. You can play the guitar better than me. The piano. The bass. The drums. Bloody everything. It drives me nuts.

Things you do that make me jealous:

Everything that doesn’t involve me.

Reasons I’m glad you’re in me life:

I guess I’m a better songwriter because of you. Well, not you, but the partnership. Whatever.

Sometimes I think if you didn’t pull me out of my misery, through calling me up or however else, I’d just rot in bed for weeks.

You don’t snore or have any other annoying bedroom habits. I’d go mad if I had to share rooms with George or Ringo for the rest of me life.

You can complete any song I might have written only halfway. 

Without you, I probably wouldn’t be famous. I mean, let’s face it, every band needs a pretty face in it. I’m not pretty, and neither is Geo or Ritch. You are.

Reasons I wish I’d never met you:

You make me feel like shit.

You’ve made me softer than I was, before I met you. I hate that.

Your face.

The fact you’re better than me.

You make me feel like shit.

[beautifulboysean]

+1

its-macca is now following you

Hi Paul!!!