How to Change the World Part 1 (1/2)
It was the summer of 1965, the Beatles’ European tour had just begun, and despite the mountains of praise the group received, Paul still felt a great amount of dismay. Fondly remembered in his mind were the streets of Paris, hiding personal secrets of his own past. But there not only fondness within these bustling streets, there was still a pang of sorrow. Certain memories were conjured as they traveled the narrow streets crowded by buildings. Paul could only remember the trip he and John took four years ago through this rich city. Now forever implanted in his mind, Paul allowed himself to reminisce once more of the sleepless nights he and John spent here. Paul leaned softly against the window of the automobile, resting himself on the glass. Small streets disappeared in the periphery of his vision, and they were soon close to the George V hotel the group was to spend the afternoon in. The bassist’s eyes crept over to John’s figure sitting next to him on the leather seats, his vision resting for a while on his friend. Paul’s eyes explored John’s boy, eventually resting his vision on John’s hands. One insignificant quality of his friend were the beautiful hands he had, but it was only one plus to the intricacy that is John Lennon. Once his eyes found their way to the face of the man sitting next to him, he caught Paul’s eye, flashing him a small vibrant smile. There was a little sense of longing in the bassists eye, and though John’s eyesight was poor, anyone could decipher what Paul was thinking behind those hazel specks. Those lingering eyes fell once again on the outside, his thoughts interrupted when the car door opened.
Around fifty groupies were outside the hotel, waiting for the Beatles arrival, but the crowd wasn’t a large screaming mob. Paul tried to ignore it as a guard escorted him out of the car, along with the rest of The Beatles. Few seconds passed and they made it into the lobby, which was quite beautiful, actually. Paul remembered the marble floors, the glistening chandelier. Though this level of elegance was no stranger, Paul was trying hard to distract himself from his own thoughts. He had a tendency to over think things… a lot. Too much. Maybe just a little.
Brian was at the counter in the lobby, checking in the group so they could stay at the hotel a few hours before having to perform on stage. Quickly he was finished, and the group was escorted to their rooms, though Paul wondered why they needed so much assistance, they were grown men after all.
It was hard, because Paul’s eyes kept insisting on looking at John’s. The whole aura of Paris made him bring back so many memories. The very man he was pining for was ignorantly staring at the floor of the elevator they were standing in.
His eyes fell over his auburn locks, cascading so perfectly over his creamy white skin. His lips pressed into a thin line; how he wished he could just.
Just…
John had a soft chestnut coloured eye, under a harsh scruffy brow and voluminous eyelashes. He really couldn’t handle it much longer, he couldn’t stand John’s body involuntarily teasing him so. Why of all the people he could have fallen in love with… why did it have to be John? The one person he couldn’t have. Slowly his mind turned against him, remembering again the moonlight night in Paris. That night he realized he was so hopelessly, desperately in love with his band mate and friend. He remembered what it was like to see John under the stars, face lit only by the moonlight washing over them, eyes sparkling from the starlight. They sat there on a fountain and John didn’t even look directly at him at first, but when he did and met his eyes, his heart beat harshly against his ribcage. It physically hurt to even look at him, but it was the kind of pain you just pushed through. And then he realized, he was so desperately in love…
In that moment he realized, he didn’t want to be famous; he didn’t want all the money in the world. He just wanted John. He wanted to wake up next to him every day; he wanted to stay in his arms forever. But he couldn’t.
And if he was just half as happy as he was in the moments he spent time with John, he’d be the happiest person alive. It was all that ever mattered.
For a moment on that fateful night, John leaned in a little closer to Paul’s face, or maybe it was just Paul’s imagination. Suddenly, his vision of John’s eyes was cut off by his blink. A husky voice said to Paul, “We should be heading back to the hotel.”
The soothing voice made Paul’s breathing more quick, until he finally said the words…
“Uh, sure.”
Seconds later, he was in a hotel room in 1965, his own thoughts distracting him from how he arrived there in the first place. They’ve stayed the night at this hotel before, and tossed around like young children when they had a pillow fight. Again Paul’s memories brought him back to that day he smacked John on the head with a pillow. The next second, he remembered John sitting on top of him with his auburn locks disheveled. They both laughed and looked at each other for longer than was necessary, and he could remember how oddly large John’s pupils had been. He didn’t know what it meant, but it was his distraction until Ringo smashed Paul’s head with a pillow.
Back in reality, the four Beatles and Brian were sat in comfortable chairs in the hotel room, Brian talking all business and such. The room had a nice golden colour scheme with four windows letting in rays of light which brightened the room even more. Paul sat on the edge of his chair, his elbows resting on his knees.
Those mischievous eyes he had moved over to John’s seat next to him. John lay there with his back to the seat, his feet resting on the charcoal coloured marble table in the middle of the room. For a few minutes, Paul’s eyes scanned John’s legs, thinking how much they extended. Suddenly John laughed about something and turned his head to Paul.
“Haha, don’t you think so Paul?” He heard John’s voice say. He wasn’t really sure what they were talking about. Once again he saw the light brown twinkle of John’s eyes, and felt the need to excuse himself.
Paul responded, “Yeah, right… I’ll be right back.” Soon he fled his chair, making his way to the restroom.
After closing the door, he ran the faucet, pouring some water on his face. He couldn’t do this much longer; it was torture just to be put into the same room as John. Every flash of his face made him ache painfully, yet all he could do was keep his eyes on him.
Then he heard a knock on the door.
“Oi, Macca, what are you doin’ in there?”
No, he couldn’t bear to look at John’s face at the moment, it was too much.
“Nothing John, I just needed to er- freshed up.” Paul thought that sounded a little odd.
“What are you a bird or something? Why did you leave like tha’? Is something wrong, mate?”
Paul internally smiled that John was genuinely concerned for him, but externally he tensed up, hands in a fist at his side.
“N-no John. Everything’s fine, I’m alright.”
There was a small longer than usual silence on the other end. All of a sudden the doorknob started to turn. Shit.
“I’m comin’ in, mate. You better not be ‘avin a wank or something.”
Paul just stood leaned over the sink, waiting for John to come in. He knew better than to stop John Lennon.
“Jesus, you look whiter than a ghost. Are you sure you’re fine?” The guitar player slowly walked toward Paul, grabbing the other’s forearms. “If there’s anything wrong, just say it, alright?”
Under John’s arms, the other man felt like mush, his heart started racing again. No, god damn it! Why did he have to do this to him?
“Uhh” Paul said, his voice cracking a little. “I just. I feel a little sick.”
John stared at him a little while, giving a sweet smile. His hands were removed from Paul’s arms, and instead John put his arm around Paul’s neck in a friendly manner. John started to escort Paul out of the bathroom saying, “Ahh, well. I’m sure you’ll get over it, mate. Just sit down for a while, ‘ave a nice cup of tea, and you’ll be fuckin’ fantastic!”
“Yeah, alright,” was the only thing Paul could say, his thoughts focused on the arm around him.
They arrived back into the room with Brian, George, and Ringo still sitting in the chairs having a chat. Brian noticed them coming in and said softly, “Is everything alright, John?”
John said in his usual lighthearted tone, “Ahh, good old Paulie here just feels a little sick, is all.”
The arm around Paul let go, making Paul feel more cold and empty than it usually felt.
“Just sit back down, Paul. I’ll make you a nice cup of tea so you feel better for tonight.” Brian said, getting up from his chair.
Paul smiled a bit at Brian, returning to his chair. He was sick… he was disgusting. He had a mental illness. Paul hated himself for being one of “those” people. It was illegal for a reason, he knew himself how horrible he was.
And as much as he said that to himself, his heart still ached in John’s presence. It was still eager, it was still longing, it was still pining.
Around fifty groupies were outside the hotel, waiting for the Beatles arrival, but the crowd wasn’t a large screaming mob. Paul tried to ignore it as a guard escorted him out of the car, along with the rest of The Beatles. Few seconds passed and they made it into the lobby, which was quite beautiful, actually. Paul remembered the marble floors, the glistening chandelier. Though this level of elegance was no stranger, Paul was trying hard to distract himself from his own thoughts. He had a tendency to over think things… a lot. Too much. Maybe just a little.
Brian was at the counter in the lobby, checking in the group so they could stay at the hotel a few hours before having to perform on stage. Quickly he was finished, and the group was escorted to their rooms, though Paul wondered why they needed so much assistance, they were grown men after all.
It was hard, because Paul’s eyes kept insisting on looking at John’s. The whole aura of Paris made him bring back so many memories. The very man he was pining for was ignorantly staring at the floor of the elevator they were standing in.
His eyes fell over his auburn locks, cascading so perfectly over his creamy white skin. His lips pressed into a thin line; how he wished he could just.
Just…
John had a soft chestnut coloured eye, under a harsh scruffy brow and voluminous eyelashes. He really couldn’t handle it much longer, he couldn’t stand John’s body involuntarily teasing him so. Why of all the people he could have fallen in love with… why did it have to be John? The one person he couldn’t have. Slowly his mind turned against him, remembering again the moonlight night in Paris. That night he realized he was so hopelessly, desperately in love with his band mate and friend. He remembered what it was like to see John under the stars, face lit only by the moonlight washing over them, eyes sparkling from the starlight. They sat there on a fountain and John didn’t even look directly at him at first, but when he did and met his eyes, his heart beat harshly against his ribcage. It physically hurt to even look at him, but it was the kind of pain you just pushed through. And then he realized, he was so desperately in love…
In that moment he realized, he didn’t want to be famous; he didn’t want all the money in the world. He just wanted John. He wanted to wake up next to him every day; he wanted to stay in his arms forever. But he couldn’t.
And if he was just half as happy as he was in the moments he spent time with John, he’d be the happiest person alive. It was all that ever mattered.
For a moment on that fateful night, John leaned in a little closer to Paul’s face, or maybe it was just Paul’s imagination. Suddenly, his vision of John’s eyes was cut off by his blink. A husky voice said to Paul, “We should be heading back to the hotel.”
The soothing voice made Paul’s breathing more quick, until he finally said the words…
“Uh, sure.”
Seconds later, he was in a hotel room in 1965, his own thoughts distracting him from how he arrived there in the first place. They’ve stayed the night at this hotel before, and tossed around like young children when they had a pillow fight. Again Paul’s memories brought him back to that day he smacked John on the head with a pillow. The next second, he remembered John sitting on top of him with his auburn locks disheveled. They both laughed and looked at each other for longer than was necessary, and he could remember how oddly large John’s pupils had been. He didn’t know what it meant, but it was his distraction until Ringo smashed Paul’s head with a pillow.
Back in reality, the four Beatles and Brian were sat in comfortable chairs in the hotel room, Brian talking all business and such. The room had a nice golden colour scheme with four windows letting in rays of light which brightened the room even more. Paul sat on the edge of his chair, his elbows resting on his knees.
Those mischievous eyes he had moved over to John’s seat next to him. John lay there with his back to the seat, his feet resting on the charcoal coloured marble table in the middle of the room. For a few minutes, Paul’s eyes scanned John’s legs, thinking how much they extended. Suddenly John laughed about something and turned his head to Paul.
“Haha, don’t you think so Paul?” He heard John’s voice say. He wasn’t really sure what they were talking about. Once again he saw the light brown twinkle of John’s eyes, and felt the need to excuse himself.
Paul responded, “Yeah, right… I’ll be right back.” Soon he fled his chair, making his way to the restroom.
After closing the door, he ran the faucet, pouring some water on his face. He couldn’t do this much longer; it was torture just to be put into the same room as John. Every flash of his face made him ache painfully, yet all he could do was keep his eyes on him.
Then he heard a knock on the door.
“Oi, Macca, what are you doin’ in there?”
No, he couldn’t bear to look at John’s face at the moment, it was too much.
“Nothing John, I just needed to er- freshed up.” Paul thought that sounded a little odd.
“What are you a bird or something? Why did you leave like tha’? Is something wrong, mate?”
Paul internally smiled that John was genuinely concerned for him, but externally he tensed up, hands in a fist at his side.
“N-no John. Everything’s fine, I’m alright.”
There was a small longer than usual silence on the other end. All of a sudden the doorknob started to turn. Shit.
“I’m comin’ in, mate. You better not be ‘avin a wank or something.”
Paul just stood leaned over the sink, waiting for John to come in. He knew better than to stop John Lennon.
“Jesus, you look whiter than a ghost. Are you sure you’re fine?” The guitar player slowly walked toward Paul, grabbing the other’s forearms. “If there’s anything wrong, just say it, alright?”
Under John’s arms, the other man felt like mush, his heart started racing again. No, god damn it! Why did he have to do this to him?
“Uhh” Paul said, his voice cracking a little. “I just. I feel a little sick.”
John stared at him a little while, giving a sweet smile. His hands were removed from Paul’s arms, and instead John put his arm around Paul’s neck in a friendly manner. John started to escort Paul out of the bathroom saying, “Ahh, well. I’m sure you’ll get over it, mate. Just sit down for a while, ‘ave a nice cup of tea, and you’ll be fuckin’ fantastic!”
“Yeah, alright,” was the only thing Paul could say, his thoughts focused on the arm around him.
They arrived back into the room with Brian, George, and Ringo still sitting in the chairs having a chat. Brian noticed them coming in and said softly, “Is everything alright, John?”
John said in his usual lighthearted tone, “Ahh, good old Paulie here just feels a little sick, is all.”
The arm around Paul let go, making Paul feel more cold and empty than it usually felt.
“Just sit back down, Paul. I’ll make you a nice cup of tea so you feel better for tonight.” Brian said, getting up from his chair.
Paul smiled a bit at Brian, returning to his chair. He was sick… he was disgusting. He had a mental illness. Paul hated himself for being one of “those” people. It was illegal for a reason, he knew himself how horrible he was.
And as much as he said that to himself, his heart still ached in John’s presence. It was still eager, it was still longing, it was still pining.