Hello guys! So this is the second chapter angsty as ever. Haha, hope you like it!

Chapter 2

The drive to the studio was as boring as ever, the continuous dappling of the heavy rain only burdening each driver in the string of mass traffic with every drop that splattered on their front windows. That gave them one extra job to do, which was pulling the lever to release the wipers, which seemed all the more pointless since after every push, a new wave of water would just come rushing down in a matter of miliseconds.

"And now, bringing you all the latest hits of 1966!" The radio chimed.

The all too familiar drumwork of Ringo Starr rolled in, followed by an unmistakable voice.

Good day sunshine, good day sunshine, good day sunshine!

It was funny and ironic, hearing his very own composition being relayed to whoever it was tuned in to that particular station; singing about sunshine whilst there was a storm overhead back in reality.

Oh, sweet reality. The reality of fame was greatly unpleasant, and that was exactly what McCartney had to deal with every single day.

Eventually the traffic jam budged and each automobile rushed to beat the red light. They wouldn't have to worry any longer for waiting, because the whole lane branched out into smaller and more convenient roads.

Abbey Road wasn't far now. He'd just have to make one last right turn and…

…There it was, the single zebra crossing that greeted him every morning of his workdays. People wandered by here and there, but Paul wouldn't have to worry about any fans, because everyone was worried enough about keeping themselves dry. Some wore heavy coats that they pulled closer to ensure that they stayed completely dry, and some had the usual umbrella, which didn't really help as the water soaked through to their socks.

Paul steadily opened his car door, umbrella in one hand, bass in the other, ready to open. But he was caught off guard and as the door flew open, a cold harsh wind swirled around him and by the time he was able to shield himself, he was drenched and freezing. Trying his best to shrug it off, he got up, locked the door and trudged to the steps.

Paul was glad he was finally indoors once again, and the calm and quiet atmosphere soothed his nerves.

"Good morning Paul!" The receptionist called out. Cheerful and full of pride receptionists always were, no matter how the day started out. Why it was, Paul never understood, but he wished he had their positive traits.

"G'morning," Paul said in a crunchy voice and managed a small smile. He blushed at the way his words came out. He had barely spoken at all from when had woken up and his vocal cords needed to get a little more loosened.

"Have a great day!" She called out as Paul made his way to the Beatles recording room, dragging his Hofner alongside him.

"You too!" He replied, but as he could see, she was having a better day than him already.

Before he stepped in the room, Paul felt through his raincoat pocket to make sure that it was there.

His little black book.

Satisfied when his fingertips reached a solid surface, he turned the handle.

It seemed that Paul was the last to arrive, as everyone else was already there, the producer at the panel, manager sitting next to him, and the musicians tuning, eating, and impatiently waiting for their bassist.

"Half an hour off the clock, son. You're late." John groaned.

"Well, my apologies, Lennon. I don't have a private jet which I can fly from my house to here. I travel by car like every other human, not that you'd know."

"So I'm not human, eh?" John's voice got a tad louder and he stood up.

"Alright boys, enough with the fuss," Brian said, the annoyance recognizable in the way he spoke. ""Let's just finish those few songs you've been rehearsing. We haven't got all day now."

"Yeah Paul, we haven't gotten all day so come earlier next time," John smirked while the others laughed.

Paul had had it. He was tired of all the same crap that went on and on every time he was there. There was barely anymore actual cooperation between the band members, in terms of both musicianship and likeability. Everyone was fed up with each other, just that no one even bothered to mention it.

"Can we just get to doing what we need to do? I didn't come here to do some idle chitchat." George spoke up.

So start they did, but as the hours passed by and the as the tracks were produced nothing actually got better than as it was before. There was no life in the music they were making, just a mask of enthusiasm that hid the face of devastation.

"No, no Ringo, you have to hit the ride like this," It was the fourteenth time they had gone over that particular part, and it was an hour's worth of a waste of time.

"You like it your way; I like it my way, Paul. I'm the drummer and I think I have the right to decide for myself what I play," Ringo snapped.

Paul was a little taken aback by the blue-eyed boy's reply. Ringo usually wasn't the one to show his annoyance, even in the slightest of ways. Paul just shrugged it off and let himself believe that the bad weather brought bad moods.

Something then caught Paul's ear; the swift guitar work that belonged to George. He seemed that he was trying to come up with something for his opening riff. It was a little off to how Paul wanted it to turn out, though.

"Here George, lemme show ya," Paul grabbed one of the guitars lying around, one of those that belonged to the studio and was shared by anybody recording in that room.

"See, I think it would be better if it was done like this," Paul set his amplifier to a crunchy but smooth tone, with just noticeable enough reverb, and hit the notes with great but calm force. The riff was a small set of three separate lines, just the way he wanted it in the first place.

"Play it like that, yeah?" Paul turned away before the younger boy could even have a say in it.

"Y'know, Paulie, we're getting real tired of ya son." John put down the glass of water he was drinking and walked closer to the bassist.

"Real tired of what? I'm only doin' me job."

"No, Paul, you're doing too much of a job. Don't you realize what you're puttin' us lot through?" George randomly busted out. From the way he blurted it out it seemed that he'd been wanting to throw that out of his mouth for quite a long time.

Paul just looked at the turnip-haired Beatle, his light hazel doe eyes meeting with his dark brown piercing ones.

"Oh, you haven't a clue, Macca?" John yelled with such a sarcastic and ticked off demeanor. "Allow me to demonstrate." He began imitating Paul, mocking him in every way, from his standing and sitting, and even the teeniest of habits, one of them being his scratching of his nose using the middle finger, which every time was being directly pointed at the person being imitated.

In other words, John was flipping off Paul.

"Hey Ringo!" John called out in his best Macca impression, "I want you to drum like this. Hey George! Play this riff I made. Hey John! I don't like how your voice sounds. Sing it more smoothly, will you?" John spun around to face Paul again. "Got it now? You've been controlling us for the past few months ever since we've started recording your bloody album, and you've been completely oblivious that none of us are interested."

Paul had nothing to say in reply, or protest. He was absolutely speechless, and everyone, from the booth all the way to the panel kept awkwardly silent, watching. John simply looked at Paul with flame in his eyes.

"Well?" John spoke up after no words were produced.

"I…" Paul started. He hated himself for bringing this whole thing upon all of themselves. Maybe if he hadn't been so much of a prick, there would be much less tension between everyone. Then he thought, What if the whole reason for the tension in the first place was…because of me?

He started to get furious. He was so frustrated with everything that he wasn't able to think straight. And before he knew it, he said the last words he had ever spoken to the band.

"I wish I was never in the Beatles."

The words hung in the air and captured everyone with such great shock nobody moved a single muscle. Had he really said that? Soon Paul came to that awful realization and quickly grabbed his things and bolted out as fast as he could.

….

The room was silent. Without any verbal conversation, everyone understood that they were done for the day, maybe even done for their lives. That was it. Paul was gone, and it was his fault in the first place.

What a prick... George thought, his face scrunched up. He put down his guitar on a table and bent to sit down on the floor. His legs had turned to jelly and would have given way for him if he had stood there any longer.

He buried his face in his hands, letting out a deep sigh while doing it. Ringo just continued to slowly twirl his drumsticks, resisting the urge to not snap them in half. John remained in his position, looking down at the floor in deep thought. George just hoped that something would just randomly happen so the awkward slience could be broken.

And something did happen. Well, more like appeared.

George spread out his hands a little so he could get a view between his fingers. Nothing out of the ordinary, just some shoes, an extra pair of drumsticks and something that made George raise an eyebrow.

A small black book lay face down, open somewhere in the middle, and if one had good eyes, they could be able to see the initials JPM scratched on the corner.