Sink Or Swim Chp. 1
John was pissed drunk.
It was as simple as that, really. He had downed so much alcohol that he could hardly tell if he was walking forward or backward, or, if at all. John couldn’t of helped himself, he was in all actuality in a bad state of mind and the end result was his consumption of a ‘healthy’ amount of bevvies. George and Ringo had tried to get their mate to slow down, but fell short as they soon fell victims to the alluring intoxication. The only one who had retained any decent level of sobriety was Paul, who was suffering from upset stomach and vomiting almost uncontrollably. So while his band mates were acting like morons (of course he was just jealous himself) he decided to abandon them for a quick wink of sleep.
Because of this, Paul had wandered off to his hotel room (as they were vacationing in Miami) and decided that if he had some rest that perhaps, just maybe, he wouldn’t have to vomit every hour. Perhaps it would of worked, perhaps it wouldn’t of, but Paul would never find out because as soon as he closed his eyes there was a disturbance. He lazily sat up as he turned the direction of the intruder, irritably;
“Bloody ‘ell, John,” John heard as he stumbled through the hotel room door. A lopsided grin shown on his flushed face as he looked at the irritated and sickly bassist. Lifting a pointed finger, his grin grew larger.
“Ta-da!” John slurred as he tried to focus on the sick man rolling his eyes before him. Paul sighed and observed as the inebriated John stumbled toward him in his drunken stupor.
“Door,” Paul started. After he had shut the door, a silly grin became about again.
“You gone and got yourself drunk beyond reason, ‘aven’t ye?” Paul deadpanned as John tripped over his uncoordinated feet. John didn’t seem to react to what had seemed a painful fall, recovering rather quickly as he grasped hold of a chair and pulled himself up.
“Ye ‘aven’t a clue,” John grinned stupidly, “be a mate, m‘over!” John slurred as he began to crawl on Paul’s bed. Paul wrinkled his nose, feeling his bed already far too overcrowded yet he did not protest, instead Paul chuckled before he laid back on his bed. He was tired, in all honesty, and had been so for a couple days since he has come down with the stomach bug. Some good time he was having in Miami.
So John watched as his mate stifled a yawn before attempted once again for slumber. Paul’s eyes felt like lead weights were attached at the lashes, as if he couldn’t possibly not sleep. He should have known better, a drunk John was not very likely to be a mute John. Silence rarely ever pursued when he was around, and usually Paul didn’t mind. However, John did not come to Paul’s bedroom for rest, perhaps maybe his drunken stupor had an ulterior motive.
“Ta sleep now, eh?” He inquired. Paul didn’t answer with words, but with an annoyed groan. John chuckled, bringing his lips to Paul’s baby-faced cheeks with an overly audible ‘mwah!’ effected. Paul shuffled irritably, and without opening his eyes;
“What d’ye want, John, I’m dead tired!” Paul had mumbled but it was audible enough, John was practically breathing unto his face.
“Nuttin Paul, just kissing ye goodnight.”
Paul didn’t really care for the answer, as he was sure he was drifting off now regardless of the drunken John lying beside him. Paul was now in a completely relaxed state, feeling it nearly impossible to move his muscles as he lost thought. Lost thought of the present and he welcomed the shawl of sleep as it took him under. Only subtly noting the shifting beside him, that soon too was fading away from being a nuisance. The warmth of his heated breath on his blanket was comfortable to him, but he couldn’t notice because he was now in a light sleep.
“Paulie.” John stated rather than call, almost as if he didn’t expect Paul to react. And he didn’t, he watch as the younger man rested beside him, and it was comforting to him. It had caused a warming sensation in his gut- well that or the alcohol. He had, despite his drunk stupor, been able to stay focused on the man that laid very near him. He was able to notice upon further inspection how pallid Paul’s flesh seemed to appear. Very pale with a soft sheen of sweat to glaze his pale skin. John had not truly noted how sick Paul was. He knew only that aside from the incessant vomiting that Paul seemed fine. He knew that Paul had followed them wherever they went, engaged in conversation, retained somewhat of and appetite, wrote songs and laughed, but was Paul really all that sick?
It wasn’t even that late when Paul had left for sleep, but John supposed that even with what little they did that day it was strenuous to a sick Paul. However, John was not satisfied. In fact, he was outright bored and despite how pleasing Paul seemed whilst slumbering (even if sick and sweaty) he needed someone to talk to. George and Ringo had without a doubt left already in pursuit of fast women, which left him little option to choose from.
He knew he himself was in no position to proposition a flirty bird, for he already received a firm smack to the face after groping a young brunette named Marla that George was already chatting up. So with options like those obvious completely out of the window, what else was there?
Well there was Paul. And when he went up to the shared hotel room, he had hoped Paul was in a talkative mood. He only had found the opposite, a sickly and tired Paul. But really, John attempted to reason, how sick could Paul be? He could still technically rest, just while awake, and John knew he himself was not in the mood to sleep.
So what did he do? Something any annoying room mate would do when bored beyond all rationality. The kind of rationality that would have told a regulated bored person that ‘no, waking up a sick person for your own entertainment was ignorant.’ However, John was beyond all rationality in most cases, and anything but ‘regulated,’ to respect the word.
So John took his pointer finger and poked Paul in the waist several, slow times. The bassist hardly reacted, sometimes shifting uneasily or breathing notably harder before settling back down to easy rest. John couldn’t take it, he wanted very nearly to just shake Paul into an awake and vivacious lad. He had poked several more times, only to receive a sharp kick from Paul’s heel to John’s thigh. John furrowed his brows.
Crawling atop of the ‘sleeping’ man, John attempted at several obnoxious oral noises, his lips all but brushing against Paul’s ears. Paul grunted.
John smiled, soon he’d the attention he wanted. Still though, Paul seemed to assume the less he reacted the less determined John would become. With that being clearly and obviously not so, John began to groan in Paul’s ear as he rocked mockingly against Paul.
Paul was livid.
“What the fuckin’ ‘ell John!” John smiled as he lifted from Paul, his plan having worked. “Shit! John, if you’re right randy then fuck a horse for all I care!” But Paul knew John was just doing it for obnoxious points, and was proven so when he observed the snide smile on John’s face.
“Macca the night is young,” John started, “talk t’me.”
“You smell like whiskey,” Paul deadpanned with a look of disinterest crossing his hazel eyes. John looked of mock innocence.
“Why, me?” It would had been funny to the bassist if it wasn’t perhaps such a prominent stench in his nostrils. He wrinkled his nose.
“Just don’t vomit on me,” Paul stated as he pulled the blanket over his head, leaving black strands of hair only slightly visible.
“Going t’sleep are ye?”
“Yes. Talking to you while you’re like this is like talking to someone with a mental incapacity.”
“Fuck Paulie, goin’ fer the gut eh?” John pulled the blanket from Paul’s face only to reveal the staunch glare the bassist was now giving him. It was a serious glare, one that read ‘don’t fucking mess with me’ but John knew better. He had the right remedy for that. Soon it was a staring contest, both glaring determinedly, that is until John blew up his cheeks and crossed his eyes.
Paul giggled, rolled his eyes, then smiled. John, sensing the resignation in Paul, shifted slightly out of the way so the bassist could sit up.
“Well then,” Paul began, a smile still somewhat on his face.
“Ye look like shit, yah ya do,” John noted as he ungracefully nudge at Paul’s shoulder. Paul winced at the sharp gesture only before he wiped the soft glaze of sweat from his head. “Make’s no sense wrapped up like a fuckin’ caterpillar if you’re hot.”
“Point taken.” Then the silence ensued after Paul had said those words. Paul had found his eyes wondering about the lit room as if to find some excuse to stay awake. John was clearly thinking of something and was trying to equate it to words, only Paul had to be patient. So between thoughts of gut churning, sickly discomfort, and a deeply thinking Lennon, Paul could only shift rather uneasily. Every so often he could see John open his mouth but only close it as soon as it had opened. John had knotted his brows, growing impatient with himself even, but Paul didn’t speak. He wasn’t sure if he could even focus between the vomit that was itching at his throat. He swallowed it down without John noticing, and grimaced at himself. Then John started;
“Ye ever feel like,” John began, then stop. His face was notably different, like he was trying madly to formulate some thought that was drifting about the universe. Paul almost could take that thought literally, because John has himself proven timelessly again and again how deep his mind was. It was like a universe, because their were so many words John could use to describe something, but it was how he used them that conveyed a large, sparse yet specific thought. So whatever John was now pondering on, drunk or not, it was most likely something he was thinking about for days, if not weeks.
“Go on,” Paul encouraged lightly, as he was now becoming awake with interest. He watched as John mentally selected his thoughts.
“Like ye are meant to say or do something. Like you’re a walking expectation of people so you behave a certain way, but in all actuality you’re aching to say that something. Do that something, that something you think people wouldn’t dare think ye’d do. But then ye know if ya did it, people would give you hell for it, like ‘hey, that’s not like you.’ But all I can think to say is ‘what the fuck thinks a sod like you know what I am like?’”
Paul stared blankly. Either John was very drunk, or sobered up completely, because he was not sure which one he was getting. John sighed frustrated at the lack of response.
“… You mean as if your wearin’ a mask?” Paul began.
“I feel like someone’s fuckin’ puppet, man.”
Paul scratched absentmindedly at the left side of his nose as he thought. “Well, sometimes. But that’s only for them to see, y’know? What I mean it’s like when we’re like this, we don’t have anything to hide. You’re here, I’m here, and all that stuff. You know what I’m thinking, because we don’t have to perform for each other. So I can’t really say it’s bothered m--”
“But what if that’s not true, Paul,” John stated flatly.
“What?” Paul stated as if somewhat offended, “I’ve got nothing to hide John, I--”
“Not you Paul, me. What if I have something I need to tell you, but I haven’t said shit?”
“Well then bloody tell me!” Paul exclaimed as his doe-eyes grew wider. John looked on to the younger man, somewhat hesitant. John sighed and stood. Paul watched as the his mate walked (rather stumbled) toward the light switch and flicked it off, then he watched as John ungracefully fell on his own bed.
“What the ‘ell John! You wake me up only to leave me hanging on this note?” Paul called sourly. John didn’t say much besides ‘g’night mate,’ ignoring Paul’s desperate calls the rest of that night.
It was as simple as that, really. He had downed so much alcohol that he could hardly tell if he was walking forward or backward, or, if at all. John couldn’t of helped himself, he was in all actuality in a bad state of mind and the end result was his consumption of a ‘healthy’ amount of bevvies. George and Ringo had tried to get their mate to slow down, but fell short as they soon fell victims to the alluring intoxication. The only one who had retained any decent level of sobriety was Paul, who was suffering from upset stomach and vomiting almost uncontrollably. So while his band mates were acting like morons (of course he was just jealous himself) he decided to abandon them for a quick wink of sleep.
Because of this, Paul had wandered off to his hotel room (as they were vacationing in Miami) and decided that if he had some rest that perhaps, just maybe, he wouldn’t have to vomit every hour. Perhaps it would of worked, perhaps it wouldn’t of, but Paul would never find out because as soon as he closed his eyes there was a disturbance. He lazily sat up as he turned the direction of the intruder, irritably;
“Bloody ‘ell, John,” John heard as he stumbled through the hotel room door. A lopsided grin shown on his flushed face as he looked at the irritated and sickly bassist. Lifting a pointed finger, his grin grew larger.
“Ta-da!” John slurred as he tried to focus on the sick man rolling his eyes before him. Paul sighed and observed as the inebriated John stumbled toward him in his drunken stupor.
“Door,” Paul started. After he had shut the door, a silly grin became about again.
“You gone and got yourself drunk beyond reason, ‘aven’t ye?” Paul deadpanned as John tripped over his uncoordinated feet. John didn’t seem to react to what had seemed a painful fall, recovering rather quickly as he grasped hold of a chair and pulled himself up.
“Ye ‘aven’t a clue,” John grinned stupidly, “be a mate, m‘over!” John slurred as he began to crawl on Paul’s bed. Paul wrinkled his nose, feeling his bed already far too overcrowded yet he did not protest, instead Paul chuckled before he laid back on his bed. He was tired, in all honesty, and had been so for a couple days since he has come down with the stomach bug. Some good time he was having in Miami.
So John watched as his mate stifled a yawn before attempted once again for slumber. Paul’s eyes felt like lead weights were attached at the lashes, as if he couldn’t possibly not sleep. He should have known better, a drunk John was not very likely to be a mute John. Silence rarely ever pursued when he was around, and usually Paul didn’t mind. However, John did not come to Paul’s bedroom for rest, perhaps maybe his drunken stupor had an ulterior motive.
“Ta sleep now, eh?” He inquired. Paul didn’t answer with words, but with an annoyed groan. John chuckled, bringing his lips to Paul’s baby-faced cheeks with an overly audible ‘mwah!’ effected. Paul shuffled irritably, and without opening his eyes;
“What d’ye want, John, I’m dead tired!” Paul had mumbled but it was audible enough, John was practically breathing unto his face.
“Nuttin Paul, just kissing ye goodnight.”
Paul didn’t really care for the answer, as he was sure he was drifting off now regardless of the drunken John lying beside him. Paul was now in a completely relaxed state, feeling it nearly impossible to move his muscles as he lost thought. Lost thought of the present and he welcomed the shawl of sleep as it took him under. Only subtly noting the shifting beside him, that soon too was fading away from being a nuisance. The warmth of his heated breath on his blanket was comfortable to him, but he couldn’t notice because he was now in a light sleep.
“Paulie.” John stated rather than call, almost as if he didn’t expect Paul to react. And he didn’t, he watch as the younger man rested beside him, and it was comforting to him. It had caused a warming sensation in his gut- well that or the alcohol. He had, despite his drunk stupor, been able to stay focused on the man that laid very near him. He was able to notice upon further inspection how pallid Paul’s flesh seemed to appear. Very pale with a soft sheen of sweat to glaze his pale skin. John had not truly noted how sick Paul was. He knew only that aside from the incessant vomiting that Paul seemed fine. He knew that Paul had followed them wherever they went, engaged in conversation, retained somewhat of and appetite, wrote songs and laughed, but was Paul really all that sick?
It wasn’t even that late when Paul had left for sleep, but John supposed that even with what little they did that day it was strenuous to a sick Paul. However, John was not satisfied. In fact, he was outright bored and despite how pleasing Paul seemed whilst slumbering (even if sick and sweaty) he needed someone to talk to. George and Ringo had without a doubt left already in pursuit of fast women, which left him little option to choose from.
He knew he himself was in no position to proposition a flirty bird, for he already received a firm smack to the face after groping a young brunette named Marla that George was already chatting up. So with options like those obvious completely out of the window, what else was there?
Well there was Paul. And when he went up to the shared hotel room, he had hoped Paul was in a talkative mood. He only had found the opposite, a sickly and tired Paul. But really, John attempted to reason, how sick could Paul be? He could still technically rest, just while awake, and John knew he himself was not in the mood to sleep.
So what did he do? Something any annoying room mate would do when bored beyond all rationality. The kind of rationality that would have told a regulated bored person that ‘no, waking up a sick person for your own entertainment was ignorant.’ However, John was beyond all rationality in most cases, and anything but ‘regulated,’ to respect the word.
So John took his pointer finger and poked Paul in the waist several, slow times. The bassist hardly reacted, sometimes shifting uneasily or breathing notably harder before settling back down to easy rest. John couldn’t take it, he wanted very nearly to just shake Paul into an awake and vivacious lad. He had poked several more times, only to receive a sharp kick from Paul’s heel to John’s thigh. John furrowed his brows.
Crawling atop of the ‘sleeping’ man, John attempted at several obnoxious oral noises, his lips all but brushing against Paul’s ears. Paul grunted.
John smiled, soon he’d the attention he wanted. Still though, Paul seemed to assume the less he reacted the less determined John would become. With that being clearly and obviously not so, John began to groan in Paul’s ear as he rocked mockingly against Paul.
Paul was livid.
“What the fuckin’ ‘ell John!” John smiled as he lifted from Paul, his plan having worked. “Shit! John, if you’re right randy then fuck a horse for all I care!” But Paul knew John was just doing it for obnoxious points, and was proven so when he observed the snide smile on John’s face.
“Macca the night is young,” John started, “talk t’me.”
“You smell like whiskey,” Paul deadpanned with a look of disinterest crossing his hazel eyes. John looked of mock innocence.
“Why, me?” It would had been funny to the bassist if it wasn’t perhaps such a prominent stench in his nostrils. He wrinkled his nose.
“Just don’t vomit on me,” Paul stated as he pulled the blanket over his head, leaving black strands of hair only slightly visible.
“Going t’sleep are ye?”
“Yes. Talking to you while you’re like this is like talking to someone with a mental incapacity.”
“Fuck Paulie, goin’ fer the gut eh?” John pulled the blanket from Paul’s face only to reveal the staunch glare the bassist was now giving him. It was a serious glare, one that read ‘don’t fucking mess with me’ but John knew better. He had the right remedy for that. Soon it was a staring contest, both glaring determinedly, that is until John blew up his cheeks and crossed his eyes.
Paul giggled, rolled his eyes, then smiled. John, sensing the resignation in Paul, shifted slightly out of the way so the bassist could sit up.
“Well then,” Paul began, a smile still somewhat on his face.
“Ye look like shit, yah ya do,” John noted as he ungracefully nudge at Paul’s shoulder. Paul winced at the sharp gesture only before he wiped the soft glaze of sweat from his head. “Make’s no sense wrapped up like a fuckin’ caterpillar if you’re hot.”
“Point taken.” Then the silence ensued after Paul had said those words. Paul had found his eyes wondering about the lit room as if to find some excuse to stay awake. John was clearly thinking of something and was trying to equate it to words, only Paul had to be patient. So between thoughts of gut churning, sickly discomfort, and a deeply thinking Lennon, Paul could only shift rather uneasily. Every so often he could see John open his mouth but only close it as soon as it had opened. John had knotted his brows, growing impatient with himself even, but Paul didn’t speak. He wasn’t sure if he could even focus between the vomit that was itching at his throat. He swallowed it down without John noticing, and grimaced at himself. Then John started;
“Ye ever feel like,” John began, then stop. His face was notably different, like he was trying madly to formulate some thought that was drifting about the universe. Paul almost could take that thought literally, because John has himself proven timelessly again and again how deep his mind was. It was like a universe, because their were so many words John could use to describe something, but it was how he used them that conveyed a large, sparse yet specific thought. So whatever John was now pondering on, drunk or not, it was most likely something he was thinking about for days, if not weeks.
“Go on,” Paul encouraged lightly, as he was now becoming awake with interest. He watched as John mentally selected his thoughts.
“Like ye are meant to say or do something. Like you’re a walking expectation of people so you behave a certain way, but in all actuality you’re aching to say that something. Do that something, that something you think people wouldn’t dare think ye’d do. But then ye know if ya did it, people would give you hell for it, like ‘hey, that’s not like you.’ But all I can think to say is ‘what the fuck thinks a sod like you know what I am like?’”
Paul stared blankly. Either John was very drunk, or sobered up completely, because he was not sure which one he was getting. John sighed frustrated at the lack of response.
“… You mean as if your wearin’ a mask?” Paul began.
“I feel like someone’s fuckin’ puppet, man.”
Paul scratched absentmindedly at the left side of his nose as he thought. “Well, sometimes. But that’s only for them to see, y’know? What I mean it’s like when we’re like this, we don’t have anything to hide. You’re here, I’m here, and all that stuff. You know what I’m thinking, because we don’t have to perform for each other. So I can’t really say it’s bothered m--”
“But what if that’s not true, Paul,” John stated flatly.
“What?” Paul stated as if somewhat offended, “I’ve got nothing to hide John, I--”
“Not you Paul, me. What if I have something I need to tell you, but I haven’t said shit?”
“Well then bloody tell me!” Paul exclaimed as his doe-eyes grew wider. John looked on to the younger man, somewhat hesitant. John sighed and stood. Paul watched as the his mate walked (rather stumbled) toward the light switch and flicked it off, then he watched as John ungracefully fell on his own bed.
“What the ‘ell John! You wake me up only to leave me hanging on this note?” Paul called sourly. John didn’t say much besides ‘g’night mate,’ ignoring Paul’s desperate calls the rest of that night.