A/N: I realize that the setting for this depressing sequence of events is all wrong and there's no possible way that I could truly know how it really panned out but lately I've been subject to dark thoughts, more so from my own past. This is my release.
Also, there's no way in hell that I could possibly own the Beatles seeing as they existed as a whole, well before my time. My only wish regarding them in this day and age is that they were all still alive. Long live the Beatles and their music. Long live rock and roll.
We all have different ways of coping with the inevitable. Sometimes it takes these inescapable occurrences to knock us down momentarily before giving us the strength to pick ourselves up and continue on, stronger than before, with the game called life.
An endless trail of hazy smoke filled the pub, swirling lazily around its drunken, stoned inhabitants. Somewhere seemingly distant, someone coughed as constant, lively chatter continually manifested about the place, filling up the remainder of the atmosphere with dull, blended noise. In contribution to the ambiance, glasses and bottles; half-empty, half-full, and crammed fully to the brim with assorted alcohols were clinking all about as various whim-filled, drunken cheers with or without purpose were being made. An occasional fight broke out, but as far as the night went, it was never beyond anything that couldn't be contained. Off in a somewhat remote segment of the building, a makeshift band by the name of the Quarrymen was preparing to leave the premises after quite the night of losing themselves in the infinite, vast world that was their chosen path of entertainment. Nights of the like were forever filled with endless demands that would often require the utmost attention, spirit, and endurance of everyone voluntarily willing, more so, daring to be involved.
"M'telling ye', that bird looks right familiar, John," one member of the band presently stated to another; casting a glance in a far-off direction, "And she's been tuned into us all night! Well, me in particular…"
John's reaction indicated just how much his band mate had brought forth that bit of information over the course of the night. "Stop being so bloody dramatic, Paul. We've been playing a bloody gig all night. No one really 'as a choice but to tune in and I'm sure they've got better things to look at rather then yer face…"
"Blind as a bat, ye' are," Paul muttered in response, "'Aven't ye' yer contacts or are ye' just that plastered?"
John strained for the hundredth time that night to see where it was his mate had been repetitively pointing, "The lone bird with the brunette 'air?" he questioned, unsure of why he even cared enough to search her out. It would only confirm that Paul wasn't in fact making things up. That he'd most likely end up in bed later with some broad… Maybe if he played his cards right, he could beat him to the punch and bed her himself.
Paul grinned. "See her, Lennon? A right looker she is!"
John started to respond with a derogatory comment but the words broke down on his tongue as another bird not that far off proceeded to catch his attention.
"Yer not looking in the right direction!" Paul complained.
Blinking rapidly in attempt to adjust his unsteady drunken vision, John didn't respond.
"Fer chrissakes, Johnny! Just follow me-"
"Paul, that's Astrid!" John spoke finally, a bemused frown beginning to cross his face.
"Astrid? What're ye' on about? Yer really need stronger contacts or something… I've never seen that bird in me life! Rather exotic don't ye' think? Might be from Spain or…"
"Shurrup about the damned bird!" John roared, catching the attention of the rest of his mates, "Just follow me gaze!"
Paul fell silent and did exactly what John insisted. His eyes scanned over many heads before eventually landing on one particular short-haired brunette. She was seated at a table by herself, a single beer in front of her.
Paul's frown suddenly matched John's, "Wait that is Astrid!" he confirmed, "What do yer suppose she's doing 'ere? …And where's Stu?"
"How should I know?" John snapped.
Paul smirked cheekily, "I'm surprised ye' could even find 'er, the way yer going tonight. I'm surprised ye' can even see me right in front of ye'!"
John tried to glare at him but instead ended up in an unexpected chuckle, "Yer lucky I'm in a rather good mood…" he warned, though not without another laugh, "Now make yerself useful and call 'er over 'ere."
"Who?"
"Buddy fuckin' Holly. Who the bloody 'ell do yer think, McCartney?" John derisively retorted.
"No, I think we made eye contact. She's making her way over now." Paul frowned once more, "She doesn't look too happy, either, I don't think…"
John shivered restlessly and took a sip of the Scotch he'd been nursing in his hand for the majority of the night. As usual, on nights of their gigs, he was wired on Preludin. They all were. And with excessive amounts of alcohol thrown into the mix, it was wonder on top of wonder that they could even function on any given night, let alone this one in particular.
Paul wondered vaguely why it was Astrid hadn't eagerly come to greet them as she normally would've and why Stu was currently nowhere to be seen. It was possible that the band had just been occupied and she hadn't wanted to interfere. Things had been of particularly hectic nature tonight. John and Pete had gotten ridiculously plastered early on and that in and of itself spoke volumes of what kind of night it had been thus far.
"John! Paul!" Astrid called, weaving her way eagerly through crowds of people in a struggle get to them. She stopped just short of them, a warm smile that oddly fell short of her eyes aimed in their direction.
Paul was certain by this point that something might truly be wrong. She looked positively knackered and a bit rundown as though she hadn't slept in days.
"Hello, hello!" Astrid greeted them with as much energy as she was normally capable of displaying. If something was wrong, her manner did nothing to give away the truth of the matter.
John, in his altered form, didn't readily seem to notice a thing as he graced her presence with a rather lopsided but legitimate smile of pleasant surprise. "'Ello, love," he greeted her with animated charm, his speech running slightly together.
He was plastered, Astrid could clearly see… Nearly blind with inebriation and even then, he nursed a rather large bottle of Scotch in his right hand. Classic Lennon.
"Good t'see ye' again, Astrid!" Paul greeted her next, his gracious charm ever-present as he pulled her into a hug.
Such a sweet and stable one, he often was. Astrid couldn't help thinking as she moved to return the embrace. Lennon would need someone like him around when she got around to revealing the means for her visit…
"Wasn't expecting yer company, tonight," John went on spiritedly, "Did ye' enjoy the show? Where's Stu hiding?"
John unmistakably had the current persona of a playfully, hyperactive six-year-old; one of his many personality traits that would often unveil itself when he was a pleasant combination of drunk, high, and at his happiest. Happiness was almost always crucial in avoiding destructive consequences whenever the budding musician drank himself to the point that he could readily deem himself a plastered mess.
This disclosure alone reinforced Astrid's sorrow. Just knowing that she was in possession of the detrimental key to change all of it, to successfully rob John of his lighthearted frame of mind, practically destroyed her on the inside. Correction. It killed her.
"Astrid!" George suddenly called out in surprise, bringing about a much needed subject change.
"George!" Astrid responded with just as much animation, "How are you?"
"Can't complain," George smiled, sweetly, "S'always good to see ye'!"
"Too young fer 'er, Harrrison," Pete, blatantly as plastered as Lennon, maybe even more so, slurred as he weaseled his way up beside him. Without any additional words, he merely scoffed and smirked in Astrid's direction, his eyes unfocused as they were, failing to show any trace of real recognition. "Who's shagging this one?" he loudly asked.
And then there was Mr. Pete Best… always quite the charmer.
"Hello, Pete," Astrid had politely turned to greet him, nonetheless.
"No doubt she 'eard about me!" Pete arrogantly affirmed. He approached her slowly, a grin spreading across his face, "Formalities are such a bloody drag, love! Let's-"
"Back off!" John growled. Stepping forward, he shoved him back several feet, his stumbling feet carrying him the extra mile as he dropped to the floor.
"What's yer problem, Lennon?" he slurred from the floor, "Yer didn't claim 'er!"
"Yer about to claim yer death if yer don't shut yer gob!" John threatened, glaring down at him with pronounced menace.
Pete shrank back only slightly, "I'm not afraid of ye', y'know," he affirmed after a while.
Astrid shook her head at the unraveling scene. Pete clearly seemed to be the most intoxicated of all, with John close behind. In contrast, George seemed to be the most in touch with reality, slightly more so than Paul. They all looked as though they'd been on their way elsewhere when she'd decided to finally make her presence known. She wondered what she'd unwittingly managed to interrupt.
John perfected his menacing glare on Pete from which he worked much too hard to avoid as he scurried to regain his footing. "Like I said," he muttered, looking away at nothing in particular, "formalities are a real drag! Jus' chivvy along with the bloody small talk, Lennon. If y'plan to shaggg'er, get on with it. M'nnot lookin' to set up 'ouse 'n some pub and m'sure as 'ell not leavin' 'ere without finding first me own birrd t'shag."
While the others didn't seem to think much of the inconvenience of her manifestation, Pete, paralitic as he was, was blatantly getting impatient with the hold up. 'Good,' Astrid thought. He could wait. Clearly he didn't recognize her in the state he was in. Somehow, she wasn't sure it even really bothered her. It wasn't him she was here to see, anyway.
"Bugger off, then. Yer a big boy," John presently growled in response to Pete, "Can't yer see m'busy?"
Pete huffed but didn't move from his spot.
John turned sluggishly back to Astrid, half-lidded eyes struggling to focus, "You were saying, love?" he went on as though nothing had happened.
Astrid's eyes were wide as though she wasn't quite expecting the attention to turn back to her so quickly, "Saying?" she echoed.
"About Stu?"
"Right…'e's…" Astrid began and faltered, choking back a sudden and unexpected sob. She fell immediately silent, realizing she might not have what it took to refrain from bursting into tears midsentence.
John's eyes softened as he gradually came to terms with the fact that something was really the matter. "What? What is it?" he asked, "Y'guys 'ave a row or something?"
Astrid shook her head, "John… there's a reason why I've come alone… Stu… Stu's… gone…"
John arched an eyebrow before taking a swig from his bottle of Scotch. "Gone? Where's the bastard off to? And what's 'e mean by not coming by t'see me first? I 'aven't seen 'is sorry arse since 'e left the band, it feels like…" he slurred impatiently.
Astrid let loose an additional series of uncontainable sobs, shaking her head frantically all the while. Tears, plain as day, could be seen streaming down her porcelain cheeks. "Y'don't understand, John…" she whimpered, "Stu's gone… forever…"
John frowned, trying to get his drunken mind to properly grasp what it was the dismayed girl was on about. "I-I'm sure 'e'll turn up again, love," he stated uncertainly, "Never could stay away from ye' fer too long, y'know."
'It's not that simple though, is it…?' Lennon's mind went on to question in a fleeting moment of clear-headedness. 'Gone… forever…' Astrid's words echoed within his hazy mind. Frowning even more, he took another swig from his bottle of Scotch, his eyes drifting contemplatively beyond his mates. He could hardly focus…
"Bloody 'ell…" Paul gasped aloud, suddenly catching hold of the unraveling situation in the form of an unnerving chill coursing through his spine. Stu was… Astrid meant… Bloody, sodding hell… How could it be? "Johnny, I think she's trying to tell ye'…" He trailed off, unsure of how to carry on with the accursed words that would then need to be uttered…
"Fuck…" George subsequently whispered, having come to the same realization himself. He started to wonder how it was that one particular John Lennon, sharp and witty as they came, wasn't picking up on the blatancy of the situation.
"Bloody 'ell, what is it?!" John snapped, suddenly frustrated that everyone seemed to have a clue but him.
"He's…he's dead, Johnny…" Astrid stated finally, choosing finally not to mince words. There was no mincing of words when it came to Lennon and she should've known better than to try in the first place. He was known to tell it as it was and respected those that would dare do the same with him. Such honesty left minimal space for even the smallest of doubts.
John fell unnervingly quiet in the aftermath of the disclosure, his jaw quavering for a moment in a lack of self-control. His world spun sickeningly and for a split moment, he felt utterly stifled by the suddenly overwhelming smoky atmosphere of the club. Astrid might as well have kicked him in the stomach…
None of his band mates had words, their own voices having been stolen by the sharp blow of the startling revelation. One by one, like robots, they offered words of condolence to those deeply affected by the tragic news. Hugs were offered to which Astrid warmly accepted while John stood limply, almost zombie-like in nature.
"Johnny?" Paul asserted, turning to him in the aftermath of giving Astrid the last hug of the group.
"She's lying…" John murmured; his words barely audible. He turned with sudden impulsion towards her, "Yer lying!" he repeated, louder now, accusing eyes wet and unnervingly feral.
"John, why would she-" Paul began.
"Shurrup!" John barked, pointing a finger at him. Just as suddenly as his anger reached a climax, his blurred eyes fell to the floor in conceded defeat, heralding the rapid oncoming change in his demeanor. "S'not true…" he muttered now to no one in particular.
Astrid was unfazed by the tough façade that was John's known defense mechanism. "It's all right, John," she spoke softly, "Let it out."
John scoffed, avoiding eye contact with any single person that surrounded him. "There's nothing to let out, love," he stated indifferently, "That well's run dry long ago." He laughed bitterly in the aftermath of his cutting words, the action somehow becoming somewhat uncontrollable as though a switch within his mind had been activated. He laughed and laughed in the presence of his four startled onlookers, only managing to stop at the breakthrough of a large sob-induced hiccup. "…So the bloody bastard took the easy way out, did 'e?" he mumbled, thickly, not even making an effort to remain lucid, "So what? It's what they all want in the end, ain't it?" He lifted his bottle of Scotch and mechanically brought it to his mouth, tilting it back bottoms up. There, he chugged, and chugged, and chugged till it was drained completely of its contents.
The others stood around him, eyes wide. John didn't seem to notice. "How did it 'appen?" he asked finally, his eyes appearing tired and subdued.
"Turns out the headaches were something after all…" Astrid responded mechanically, "Robbed him of his…" She burst into a sob unable to complete the explanation. John didn't need to hear it, anyway. It went without saying.
"He was so young, y'know?" Paul murmured, his own eyes wet in tears of empathy, "Too bloody young, really…"
"Jus' cann't be…" John drunkenly slurred, clearly beside himself and in denial, "Jus' can't… He woullldn't d'serrrve… He didnn't…" His words faded into nothingness.
"All right, Johnny?" Paul slowly approached him with worry, a comforting hand outstretched towards him as though coaxing forward an untamed animal.
John backed away from him. "What are y'bloody onn about, McCartney? M'fine!" He laughed again, "Can't yerr tell m'fine?"
"Anyone withh two eyes an' a work'ng brain can tell yerr about off yer trolley," Pete muttered flatly with a drunken roll of the eyes. In his plastered mindset, he seemed slightly amused by the turn of events.
"But I am… er…not!" John shouted, heated unfocused eyes, fixated on the drummer, "Yer donn't know what it is yerr on about, bloody…git…"
"Don't I?" Pete retaliated, mocking eyes narrowed at John, "Mind if I show ye'?"
"Shut yer cakehole, ye' blinkered sod, its blatant yer too sloshed to fully understand what's 'appened!" Astrid stood her ground, eyes darkly narrowed.
"Who's the birrd?" Pete sneered drunkenly, gesturing towards her as if just seeing her for the first time, "'Nother shag in the makinng, Lennnonn?"
The pending reaction swung into motion well before John was fully able to fathom what it was that was happening. All he knew was that in one instant, Best was standing before him with a smug, self-satisfied grin glued to his face, and in the next, he was on the floor groaning. To say the least, John hadn't a full recollection other than a newly throbbing hand, of what had led to such a well-deserved conclusion. It was possible he'd clocked him… but how was it, he couldn't quite remember?
"He had that coming," Paul presently muttered, glaring down at him, "Might 'ave knocked some sense into 'im, as well."
It didn't change crap. Didn't change the fact that Stu… John closed his eyes, swaying unsteadily on his feet. He was beginning to see double. "I-I need the loo…" he murmured, a sudden weakness creeping into his voice. He staggered backwards his entire body knocking clumsily into Paul who had crept up behind him. Eyes wild, he spun on him as though it had been his fault. "Christ, take it easy, will ye', McCartney?" he growled.
"But I didn't…" Paul allowed his voice to drift off, realizing that it was no use. Any additional words would only succeed in driving Lennon even further into no-man's land.
"Will ye' be okay, Johnny?" George quietly asked, speaking for the first time since the initial unleashing of the news.
John turned to him, allowing a fleeting condescending look to grace his face, "Of course…Herr… Harri…" He paused as though struggling to recall the young guitarist's name, "…Harrison," he stated suddenly, "What yer think I'll fall in or something? Get lost? Would ye' rather hold me hand, Georgie, as we skip merrily off into the sunset? Would yer… Would yer rather?"
George stared blankly at him, unsure of what to say.
John's eyes fluttered blearily and for a fleeting moment, he looked as though he'd join Pete on the floor.
"Ye'sure y'don't need company, John? Sure yer all right?" Paul asked, breaking the silence that George had allowed to fall. He'd been taking in, with ample concern, John's increasingly quavering form. His fists were clenched so tightly, they were nearly as white as his face now was. It didn't take a rocket scientist to reluctantly embrace the fact that John was, once again, forcing himself to bottle up his explosive emotions as he often would whenever things got to be a bit too much to handle. It was a terrible thing for the guitarist, and Paul knew this from experience. Consequently, when even the defensive mechanism got too much to handle and failed as it often did, he'd explode further on down the road in the most threatening of ways. Paul hoped with a passion John wouldn't. Not this time. Not in the aftermath of such a newly devastating chapter of his life… He had yet to recover from his mother's death… He didn't need this… No one did.
"I'm fantastic… fucking wonderful, actually," John responded, offering a feigned smirk in Paul's direction, "Sod off if yer think otherwise." He stumbled drunkenly for a moment, "Right… the loo it is, then…" he murmured, turning finally on his unsteady feet, "None of yer nesh… nancies better come lookin'…"
"Yer a big boy now," Pete called after him, leering in his direction, having finally gathered his bearings.
John dizzily stalked off, leaving the gathered group to their next order of affairs. He was most grateful to find the loo completely void of people. He'd have kicked anyone out automatically regardless of what it was they were doing. So Stu was dead… Stu…
John wanted desperately for the news to be wrong, a misunderstanding, an ill-crafted joke…anything. Unfortunately, it didn't seem as though reality would allow him to have his way. Why should it? It never had… Reality hadn't been the least bit considerate in that fleeting moment in time just before that drunken off-duty bobby had brutally struck his mum, killing her mercilessly with his car… Still… couldn't this all be a dream? A messed up altered intoxication-induced dream?
John approached one of the many mirrors of the bathroom overlooking the sink and peered apathetically into its smooth, reflective surface at his betraying mirror image as though to assure the blatant reality of his surroundings and accompanying events. Stu's dead… His bottom lip quavered as a wet light sprang into his tired, bloodshot eyes. He looked like shit. He felt like shit. It was no wonder, really. Stu was… He was… John could no longer get himself to finish his own ragged thoughts. His head ached… His ears rang… His heart, thudding incessantly within his chest, felt ready to jackhammer its way out from within him… He was a mess. A bloody, fucking mess… and Stu was…
"You did this…" he slurred drunkenly at his reflection. "M'not sure how, but ye' did… Ye' did yer mum in and now…" A frustrated growl escaped him. Before he entirely knew what he was doing, he drew a fist back and shattered his mocking face. All around him, silver shards of glass flew. And it was then, alone within the secret confines of the bathroom, that John sank to his knees and finally allowed himself his first initial breakdown in honor of the two he loved dearly.