Day 2: Write a FanFiction
He hastily grabbed his jacked and keys and slammed the door behind him. He found his car and he managed to jam the keys into the ignition before he realized what he was doing. What was he thinking? He was Paul McCartney. He couldn't go out in public, not unless he wanted to get mobbed. He turned the car off but didn't leave the driver's seat. Taking a couple deep breaths helped to calm him down. In, out. In, out. Soon he couldn't even remember why he'd been so angry in the first place.
From their apartment thirty meters away, he could just make out the sound of a dissonant chord, from a guitar. Probably George's. He rolled his eyes; he now remember why he'd stormed out of the flat earlier: they were fighting. Presently, it was George and John, but all four were to blame. Today had been especially brutal.
xXx
They were working on a new album, but they were all having a severe case of writer's block. Not even a good smoke could free up their imaginations, and it was frustrating.
George was playing some chords, switching between major and minor and back again. John was on the couch, hair disheveled, a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, scribbling lyrics on a notepad. Ringo was sitting at the drums, sticks in hand, but he was staring into space. Paul wasn't much better. He was just observing, absentmindedly playing notes on his Hoffman.
"Fuck," mumbled John, running his hands through his hair yet again.
"Just take a break," George suggested. "Get something to eat."
"Is that all you can think about?" John snapped in reply. "I'm trying to write a bloody album here."
"And I'm trying to help you, so don't you be a bastard."
Ringo slipped out of his reverie and turned his eyes to the quarrel taking place on the couch across from him.
"I'm not being a damn bastard! Don't be a git." John could never let things settle. His tendency was to keep them going and keep them escalating. George opened his mouth for a comeback, but Paul interjected.
"Come off it." He closed his eyes. He was tired of the fighting.
"Stay out of this, Paul." John sounded dangerous. "Just because you're on your lazy arse doesn't mean you can boss around the rest of us."
"I'm not bossing you lot around," Paul bit back. "I'm trying to stick up for my mates, cause all you do is attack them."
"I do everything around here! I think I can get a little mad when the people who are supposed to be helping me don't do god damn anything."
Paul slammed his guitar down in its stand. The responding noise didn't sound very good, but he'd deal with that later.
He threw an insult at John, and he bit back. Ringo stood up, looking worried, and tried to separate the two, but for all the good it did he might have tried to feed Dynamite to someone. The fight escalated, and soon all four of them were yelling. Finally, Paul couldn't take it. He turned around and walked toward the door, not quite sure where he was going but knowing he needed a break. Hell, maybe he'd even quit the band. The fighting had been going on for far too long.
"I'm not finished with you!" John called after him. "Get back here!" Paul ignored him.
xXx
Now that he thought about it, he didn't want out of the band. In fact, that was the last thing he wanted. He remembered everything that had gone on over the past seven years. Of course there had been shit between them; Paul remembered all too clearly the day John had broken up with him, and how awkward it had been for all of them after. He also remembered fights with George over whose songs went on the albums.
So there'd been some turbulence.
But, as cheesy as it sounded, it had been a very short seven years and their friendship couldn't end over something as stupid as an album. Granted, there was a lot of pressure from the fans to release this album sooner rather than later… But still. It wasn't more important than the people writing it, right?
Paul heard another quiet chord from the apartment, then another. He figured George had just gone back to playing, and nobody was using his guitar as a very expensive weapon.
Okay. He'd wait a while, until everyone had calmed down, and he'd talk to them. Maybe he'd talk to George first. They needed to make a serious effort to keep their tempers under control unless they were simply ready to be done. Mind set, he pulled himself out of the car and entered the apartment, looking for George. He heard John stomping around in the other room, George still playing guitar on the couch. Paul raised his eyebrows, and George shrugged.
Maybe he'd talk to John first.
xXx
Paul made his way down the hallway to John's room. He figured he'd given him enough time to cool down completely; it had been a couple of hours and he'd been his usual lively self at dinner. Paul knocked on the door and was greeted with a perky "Come in!" He pushed the door open and found John sitting at his keyboard, playing one of his old compositions. Paul sat on the edge of the bed and folded his hands casually.
"What's up?" John asked him, not looking up from his fingers.
"Nothing, really," Paul responded. Why was he nervous, again? "I wanted to talk to you."
John turned around awkwardly. "If this is about the break-up, it's not happening. I'm sorry, but we've been over this."
"No, no, no, no!" Paul dismissed the idea hurriedly. God, was that awkward. John looked awkward too, but relieved. "What about, then?"
"I wanted to talk about earlier, when we were all bloody yelling at each other." He saw John's eyebrows shoot up, so he continued, faster, spitting the words out before John had time to get mad or defensive. "I'm not blaming you, mate. I'm just saying we've been fighting a lot lately and I don't want the band to break up or any of us to lose our friends or anything. Cause that's the way it's heading. All I'm saying is maybe all of us should try and, I don't know, manage our tempers a bit."
John sat staring at Paul, in thought. He was sitting backwards on the keyboard bench, mimicking Paul's position; hands clasped, elbows on his knees, leaning forward. They'd sat like this many times before, but much closer, their faces almost touching. They used to talk for hours, about nothing in particular, just enjoying each other's company. Sometimes they'd even end up kissing. Paul mentally shook his head; he couldn't think like that anymore.
"Are you blaming me?" John said, scarcely louder than a whisper. He didn't sound angry, though. Just somewhat incredulous.
"No, I'm not," Paul pleaded. The last thing he needed was another blow-out. "We're all to blame here. I'm saying if we all think a little bit, it can be like it was when we all first met. We don't have to fight all the bloody time anymore."
"You think I want to fight with you guys?" John asked. He wasn't trying to start a squabble now, but he was passionate about this topic lately. He'd been doing some thinking himself. "Because I don't. I hate fighting with George, or Ringo, or you. You especially." He added. "I'm trying not to start things, but things are frustrating. We can't write any damn music or anything, we can't go anywhere without getting attacked by strangers… Don't tell me that's not frustrating. And don't tell me you can always keep from yelling, cause you know as bloody well as I do that you can't."
"I'm not saying it's easy," Paul replied. "I know it's frustrating with all the fans and the new album and things. But I do think with a little concentration and taking anger out on, oh I don't know, pillows, we can stop all this rubbish."
John was silent. Paul had a point. But he was stupid for thinking it would be that easy. Didn't he know how frustrating they all were? Of course John loved them. They were all his brothers. But things were starting to wear on him, and he was tired. John thought for a second, then asked, "Have to talked to George or Ringo about this?"
Paul shook his head. "Not yet. You're the first one."
John was about to make a remark about Paul seemingly blaming him, but he bit his tongue. He stood up. "Alright. Thanks. I'll go talk to George, then. You wanna work on something?" He gestured to the keyboard behind him. Paul nodded. "I think I have some ideas." John nodded to him and left the room.
xXx
Paul was getting frustrated. He hadn't left the room since John had left to go talk to George; he'd been trying to write something since. So far, he'd only gotten a couple bars written down and they weren't even that good. Certainly not good enough to go on their next album. Yet again, he tried to play something he felt was almost ready, but it didn't sound right. He couldn't get it perfect, and he was a perfectionist. He hit random notes with all ten fingers and slammed his hands into his lap. He stared at the keys, willing them to tell him which notes were eluding him. He cautiously picked his right hand up and started playing slowly, not really meaning to do anything, but simply keeping his hands busy. He messed up and meant to start over when he realized that's what he had needed. He played it again, and it was definitely right. He joined his left hand and improvised. It sounded great; he could already hear it on the radio. He hurriedly wrote it down and kept going. The rest of the piece didn't come completely naturally, but it wasn't hard.
Half of the song was done, and he was playing it through to see if it needed anything else or if he'd made any mistakes. He was really getting into it, and started humming a tune, the way the melody might go.
"That sounds great." He stopped playing and turned around to see John nodding and half-smiling behind him.
"You think?" he asked, turning around again and setting his hands on the keys.
"Mhmm." John thought for a moment, listening to Paul playing. It was a happy tune, somewhat choppy. Lots of staccatos, something he could get into. "Oh, darling, if you leave me, I'll never make it alone. Believe me when I tell you I'll never do you no harm," John sang. He nodded again, grinning widely. "Some lyrics I'd been working on. Fit marvelously."
"Fuck yeah, they do!" Paul said. He continued playing, and John kept singing and making corrections to his lyrics. They worked together for hours.
Paul stopped playing to rub his eyes, which were beginning to feel heavy. He glanced up at the clock mounted on the wall and saw that it was past two in the morning. "Holy shit," he said. "I need sleep."
John followed him and looked at the clock himself. "Oh, Jesus, I do too. We can finish this tomorrow. Maybe we don't have damn writer's block anyways, huh?"
Paul smirked. "See ya in the morning." He made his way to the door but before he could close it behind him, he felt a hand on his shoulder. John turned him around to face him and before Paul knew it, John was kissing him. It didn't last long at all, but it was enough to make him stand there like an idiot. "Night," John said meekly, and closed the door.