The Piano Player
Title: The Piano Player
Time: 1968
Author: Ribbi (Me)
Pairing: John/Paul (somewhat, yeah?)
Rating: PG (Sorry guys)
Disclaimer: I do not write this story in confidence that it is true. Because it's fictional.
Summary: Paul feels frustration when trying to write a song on the piano.
“Hell with it,” Paul mumbled to himself as he sat in studio 2 late afternoon by himself. Raking his fingers through his hair, he let out a heavy sigh of frustration, hoping it would relieve the irritating pressure taking place in his mind. It did nothing of the sort, however, causing the mad pianist to bang a fist to the piano keys that screamed an ugly mixture of notes.
He hardly ever lost control like this, especially in front of his band-mates. Fortunately enough for him, none of them were here to attest to his tireless attempts at music composition. Mangled within the nets of tiresome work that he typically would of enjoyed, Paul felt himself resigning.
How many hours has he spent sitting here, in front of the very keys that taunted him with hideous chords and tunes that no one should ever have to be subjected to listen to? And how many times has he played the same, unoriginal, bland musical arrangement? Sourly enough to cause the dull ache within his fingers, it seemed.
Paul grasped at the non-existent carton of cigarettes that were once in his jacket pocket, no longer there from last nights late work with John, George, and Ringo. Feeling the weight of another disappointment, Paul called it quits.
Standing on his two feet, he felt the slight ache from not stretching his legs in quite a while. Closing the piano lid, Paul turned and walked only three paces before a familiar face rounded the door.
“What are you doing here? We have the day off,” Paul spoke up, coolly covering his austere emotions behind a masquerade of kind eyes and a neutral smile.
John put his hands within his pockets, “Same could be said to you.”
Paul bit back the urge to retort nastily, instead impatience spewed from his mouth. “Why are you here?” John lost his grin and walked a few steps forth.
“Not welcomed am I? I work here too, you know, if that’s okay with you McCartney.” His tone even more bitter than perhaps he meant it to, but he figured that Paul was level-headed enough to not take it personally. Paul looked down at his own feet and let out a sigh.
“Sorry.”
“Rough day?” John could tell right away, he could sense the agitation before he had entered the room. Lighting a cigarette, and then passing it to Paul who took it greedily.
“Yeah, something like that,” he stated as the hazy thick smoke pooled up and above him from his parted lips.
“Need help?” John offered as he lit his own cigarette.
“No, I was just leaving,” Paul admitted honestly.
“Already now?”
“I’ve been here long enough. Need a kip.”
“Ah come on! It’s a perfect time! The juices ought to be flowing now,” John said cheerily, grinning as he walked toward the guitars. Paul looked at him, entertaining the idea of taking the bait.
“So you came here to make music too, yeah?”
“No. Came here to get a book I left at the front desk. You know, the acoustics of this place is fantastic when it isn’t busy, though,” he said as he ran his fingers through the strings of a guitar. “Heard you when I went to take a piss, decided to check out the new song.” He then found himself seated at the same piano Paul had just abandoned.
Paul frowned a little. “Nothing to see, it’s utter shit.”
“I didn’t come to see you play, came to hear you play.”
“Oh, now I feel a headache coming on,” Paul smiled as he walked to the Piano bench and sat down beside John.
Lifting his fingers to the keys, Paul tested a few of them before his fingers found it’s place. He gave John a hesitant look, not feeling his usual sense of confidences to protect him against the hurling winds of Johns criticism to come.
“Well? Go on. Can’t play well by their bloody selves!” John prodded.
Paul began to play what sounded like a catchy tune. To anyone else listening, it was a lovely tune, to Paul, it may as well been a child fiddling with his mothers piano. John didn’t see it that way. As per usual, Paul was being a perfectionist, which was only ever helpful when the idiot was right. Now, Paul was unknowingly going into a pit of self-loathing. John chuckled and let his fingers tap onto his lap as he listened to the tune play.
And then Paul halted rather suddenly and stared down at keys as his fingers slid off and fell onto his lap.
“Rather crash-in-the-wall ending, innit?”
“Don’t be daft, if doesn’t go like that. It isn’t good enough.”
“Isn’t good enough? Sounded half decent to me.”
“Decent isn’t good enough.”
“Good enough to me, if only you change this bit,” John spoke, as his fingers slammed on the keys, causing Paul to jerk frightfully. John laughed, but Paul remained somber.
“This song begs for your input,” Paul mumbled.
“Oh come on, Paulie!” John called out. “It’s fine!” But Paul remained in a state of disappointment. John sighed. “alright, I’ll ‘ave a go.”
John took Paul’s song, or at least what he recalled from Paul’s song, and began to play. It was faster, not by a large scale, but enough for Paul to take notice and observe. John then smoothed out some of the turns, while sharpening others. Where Paul had a coda, he then changed it so that it slid into it flawlessly. Overall, it gave the song a more mature feel. Paul eyes widened, then he smiled with joy.
“Yes! You got it! Haha! How did you know?” Paul was beaming, and John was enjoying the praise.
John removed his fingers and let Paul take over, “it’s a thing called balance. I just know exactly the right chords to make you happy. I always have.”
Paul gave a smile John’s way, sentimental the smile was, “thank you John. Thank you for everything.” Paul had caught the last bit, and acknowledged it. John let that sank in as he watched Paul play joyously with that smile.
Oh how John loved that smile.
John gave Paul a light squeeze on the shoulder as he stood, and Paul contently played while John began to make his departure.
“See you later,” John called over his shoulder as he approached the door, but Paul was too into his music to make notice.
But John didn’t care, he was leaving far more happier than he was when he arrived.
Time: 1968
Author: Ribbi (Me)
Pairing: John/Paul (somewhat, yeah?)
Rating: PG (Sorry guys)
Disclaimer: I do not write this story in confidence that it is true. Because it's fictional.
Summary: Paul feels frustration when trying to write a song on the piano.
“Hell with it,” Paul mumbled to himself as he sat in studio 2 late afternoon by himself. Raking his fingers through his hair, he let out a heavy sigh of frustration, hoping it would relieve the irritating pressure taking place in his mind. It did nothing of the sort, however, causing the mad pianist to bang a fist to the piano keys that screamed an ugly mixture of notes.
He hardly ever lost control like this, especially in front of his band-mates. Fortunately enough for him, none of them were here to attest to his tireless attempts at music composition. Mangled within the nets of tiresome work that he typically would of enjoyed, Paul felt himself resigning.
How many hours has he spent sitting here, in front of the very keys that taunted him with hideous chords and tunes that no one should ever have to be subjected to listen to? And how many times has he played the same, unoriginal, bland musical arrangement? Sourly enough to cause the dull ache within his fingers, it seemed.
Paul grasped at the non-existent carton of cigarettes that were once in his jacket pocket, no longer there from last nights late work with John, George, and Ringo. Feeling the weight of another disappointment, Paul called it quits.
Standing on his two feet, he felt the slight ache from not stretching his legs in quite a while. Closing the piano lid, Paul turned and walked only three paces before a familiar face rounded the door.
“What are you doing here? We have the day off,” Paul spoke up, coolly covering his austere emotions behind a masquerade of kind eyes and a neutral smile.
John put his hands within his pockets, “Same could be said to you.”
Paul bit back the urge to retort nastily, instead impatience spewed from his mouth. “Why are you here?” John lost his grin and walked a few steps forth.
“Not welcomed am I? I work here too, you know, if that’s okay with you McCartney.” His tone even more bitter than perhaps he meant it to, but he figured that Paul was level-headed enough to not take it personally. Paul looked down at his own feet and let out a sigh.
“Sorry.”
“Rough day?” John could tell right away, he could sense the agitation before he had entered the room. Lighting a cigarette, and then passing it to Paul who took it greedily.
“Yeah, something like that,” he stated as the hazy thick smoke pooled up and above him from his parted lips.
“Need help?” John offered as he lit his own cigarette.
“No, I was just leaving,” Paul admitted honestly.
“Already now?”
“I’ve been here long enough. Need a kip.”
“Ah come on! It’s a perfect time! The juices ought to be flowing now,” John said cheerily, grinning as he walked toward the guitars. Paul looked at him, entertaining the idea of taking the bait.
“So you came here to make music too, yeah?”
“No. Came here to get a book I left at the front desk. You know, the acoustics of this place is fantastic when it isn’t busy, though,” he said as he ran his fingers through the strings of a guitar. “Heard you when I went to take a piss, decided to check out the new song.” He then found himself seated at the same piano Paul had just abandoned.
Paul frowned a little. “Nothing to see, it’s utter shit.”
“I didn’t come to see you play, came to hear you play.”
“Oh, now I feel a headache coming on,” Paul smiled as he walked to the Piano bench and sat down beside John.
Lifting his fingers to the keys, Paul tested a few of them before his fingers found it’s place. He gave John a hesitant look, not feeling his usual sense of confidences to protect him against the hurling winds of Johns criticism to come.
“Well? Go on. Can’t play well by their bloody selves!” John prodded.
Paul began to play what sounded like a catchy tune. To anyone else listening, it was a lovely tune, to Paul, it may as well been a child fiddling with his mothers piano. John didn’t see it that way. As per usual, Paul was being a perfectionist, which was only ever helpful when the idiot was right. Now, Paul was unknowingly going into a pit of self-loathing. John chuckled and let his fingers tap onto his lap as he listened to the tune play.
And then Paul halted rather suddenly and stared down at keys as his fingers slid off and fell onto his lap.
“Rather crash-in-the-wall ending, innit?”
“Don’t be daft, if doesn’t go like that. It isn’t good enough.”
“Isn’t good enough? Sounded half decent to me.”
“Decent isn’t good enough.”
“Good enough to me, if only you change this bit,” John spoke, as his fingers slammed on the keys, causing Paul to jerk frightfully. John laughed, but Paul remained somber.
“This song begs for your input,” Paul mumbled.
“Oh come on, Paulie!” John called out. “It’s fine!” But Paul remained in a state of disappointment. John sighed. “alright, I’ll ‘ave a go.”
John took Paul’s song, or at least what he recalled from Paul’s song, and began to play. It was faster, not by a large scale, but enough for Paul to take notice and observe. John then smoothed out some of the turns, while sharpening others. Where Paul had a coda, he then changed it so that it slid into it flawlessly. Overall, it gave the song a more mature feel. Paul eyes widened, then he smiled with joy.
“Yes! You got it! Haha! How did you know?” Paul was beaming, and John was enjoying the praise.
John removed his fingers and let Paul take over, “it’s a thing called balance. I just know exactly the right chords to make you happy. I always have.”
Paul gave a smile John’s way, sentimental the smile was, “thank you John. Thank you for everything.” Paul had caught the last bit, and acknowledged it. John let that sank in as he watched Paul play joyously with that smile.
Oh how John loved that smile.
John gave Paul a light squeeze on the shoulder as he stood, and Paul contently played while John began to make his departure.
“See you later,” John called over his shoulder as he approached the door, but Paul was too into his music to make notice.
But John didn’t care, he was leaving far more happier than he was when he arrived.