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He’s in love with Paul.
It’s actually one of those revelations that genuinely are the hardest to come to but are absolutely ridiculous just right after, like how could he not see that all those years. John remembers himself even saying ‘wow’ aloud when he has finally put all pieces together.
And somehow it makes everything even more complicated than before.
It was an absolute shitshow, their last tour, wasn’t it? But now they’re trying to record a new album with Paul’s idea of being a different band and stuff. Which is fun, and writing songs again is fun too.
And yet.
Standing next to Paul, so near he’s almost feeling his warm is frustrating. Looking into his gentle eyes while singing is frustrating. Sudden touches and not-so-apologetic smiles are frustrating. And people should know by now that frustrated John Lennon more often than not is an angry John Lennon. And angry he is.
After yet another ugly fight about god knows what John storms out of the recording room and into the kitchen. He’s alone there so he takes his time thinking about what he’s done. Well, trying to think, surely. Because every time he lets his mind wander just a little bit he thinks about Paul and how irritatingly wonderful he is. For some reason. He can’t hold a groan. Oh god, he’s helpless.
That’s where Ringo finds him ten minutes later. Did they send him as a peacemaker or he just went out for a snack, the world will never know.
“Wassup, son?” Ringo’s making himself a cup of tea. “You’re kinda tense these days, aren’t ya, eh?”
John was never good with thinking before speaking, and so, he decides, the hell with it.
“I’m in love with Paul, y’know.” He says casually, though his voice’s shaking just a bit. And of course, Ringo hears it.
“Yeah, I know.” He returns even more casually and hands John a cup. Who’s too dumbfounded to take it properly, so Ringo sets it on the table. “It’s not rocket science, John. You’ve been pinin’ for the lad for good four years already, well at least to me it’s so.”
“But.. aren’t you mad.. or something?!” John says when he recovers.
"Why would I be, eh?" Ringo's smiling at him. "You're me mate, John. Y’know, in that kind of situation, I can only support you or shut up. So I support you."
John didn't realise he was holding breath but before he can let it out he tenses once again when he sees Ringo's happy face turning into a frown.
"Though it'd probably be for the best if you don't think so hard on this, y'know." Seeing John's silent 'why' he cringes and explains. "After America, I doubt anyone here wants a new portion of shit to hit the fan.."
"Oh my god, how many times do I need to apologize?.."
"Just one would be nice, that's for sure!" John knows that Ringo's just joking and they laugh though it's a little bit bitter.
For a few minutes, they sit in silence drinking their tea.
"Paul loves you too, y'know," Ringo starts suddenly. "Maybe just as a friend, but as fiercely nonetheless. Never doubt that, son." He ponders for a moment. "And you should probably apologize to him."
"Yeah, I guess I should. Thank you, Rings. For everythin’."
"Eh, don't mention it."
At this moment Ringo leaves him to collect his thoughts. When he's back in the studio he goes straight to Paul without thinking twice.
"I've been an arse, son," It's the most genuine apology he can master but it seems to be just enough because Paul's smiling anyway and his eyes are shining and all this makes something deep inside John's chest ache.
They finish the day alright, without any big hassle, and he goes back home feeling so very certain that everything's gonna be fine.
***
When he wakes up the next morning, he isn't that certain anymore. His throat is burning and his chest is heavy and his head starts spinning when he tries to get up. Fuck Britain and fuck its stupid weather, he can't – he's not allowed to – get sick. Not now, when they've just started working on their new album. Oh god, Paul's gonna kill him.
Coming down from his bedroom he realises that Cyn and Julian have already left. Which means, he's late at the studio. Well, now Paul's definitely gonna kill him.
(But John still takes his time making breakfast not feeling that he’s fully ready to face a new day.)
Well, if Paul himself won't kill him (though he looks ready to), then just standing next to him while playing definitely has good chances. It's been hard before, but now it's a torture. John can't keep his eyes off him but it's like looking at the sun. So bright and painful that John wants nothing more than to crawl away in some dark corner and never to come out again.
Their faces are so near that John actually can count freckles on Paul's nose, already paling in the approach of winter, when his chest is suddenly bursting with pain, so strong he barely keeps himself from falling. They cut the music and Paul's at his side holding him and trying to understand what's just happened. "John, are you alright?" His voice sounds strangely distant.
Paul's touch burns and mixed with his stupid cold it's too much. There's something in his throat, something big and alien, and he's a little bit conflicted about what to do next, cough it up or throw up his breakfast because of the pain. Both are appealing, to be honest, so he tears himself out of Paul's grasp, tosses his guitar in the vague direction of George not caring much for the safety of both and runs to the loo.
He kneels down in front of the toilet and tries to cough up. Whatever is sitting in his throat is too hard to get out, he actually has to use his fingers. When he can breathe again, his vision is blurry and he feels so dizzy he's afraid he can pass out. There's something in the toilet right in front of his face and it takes a few moments for him to realise that it's a.. flower. Well, more like a lot of tiny blue flowers, but still..
"The fuck?!"
The door opens and apparently, Ringo's chosen exactly this moment to appear. "You alright, John?"
"Um, no." He doesn't want to lie to Richie, especially when it’d be so obvious that he's lying. "No, I'm not." After a moment of an afterthought he continues hesitantly, his voice still hoarse. "You don't happen to know what prick threw a bunch of flowers into the toilet, do ya, Rich?"
"Eh, no. Why?"
John slowly gets up wiping his face with his sleeve and comes out of the booth to face a really concerned Ringo. "Well, 'cause there's a bunch of flowers in the toilet, why d'ya think?" It's not a big deal at all but he clings to the stupid topic for dear life as long as he doesn't have to talk with anyone about his health. "I couldn't cough 'em up myself, now could I?"
At that Ringo's face goes completely pale. "Oh."
"What? What's wrong?"
Ringo looks away and John has to repeat his question, feeling that there's something really serious.
"You.. you could actually, y'know. Could 'em up, I mean.." He says quietly making John think that he's mishearing.
"What's that suppose to mean, eh?!"
"Well, you've said you're in love with Paul.." Ringo tries to explain but only confusing John even more.
"And how is that related?"
"Okay, listen, son. It'll probably sound insane but it's not like I know better." He starts properly. “Well, y’know how I spent most of me childhood in hospitals. So, one time when I was there they rushed in some fella. Not very unusual for hospitals, yeah, but he had.. those flowers on him, on his face and chest. Some red ones, that’s why we first thought that it was blood.
“I asked ‘round later and they said that he had some rare eastern disease – hanahachi.. or somethin’, no, wait, hanahaki. That’s what it’s called, yeah – and he had real flowers growin’ in his lungs ‘cause of it. And the strangest shit is that this disease is caused by love but like.. unrequited.”
It takes more than a few moments for John to let all that sink in.
“So,” He starts hesitantly. “You’re tellin’ me that folks in the east can have some freakish illness when they have flowers – like livin’ plants, yeah? – growin’ inside of ‘em with some serious aftermath just ‘cause somebody doesn’t love ‘em back?”
“Yeah, basically..” Ringo shrugs. “You probably picked it up when we were in Japan. It’s really contagious, they said, y’know.”
“But.. how is that even possible?! Like, biologically?” John jerks his hands through his hair.
“Don’t ask me, son. It’s all I know.” Ringo mumbles apologetically.
“Jesus, that’s absolutely ridiculous!” John covers his face with his hands and takes a deep breath (which is not easy) trying to calm down.
They’re standing in heavy silence for a few minutes until John gest a hold on himself.
“So.. Is there..” He clears his throat as much as he can and tries to sound cool. “Is there any cure for it?”
“They did the surgery on that guy if I ain’t mistaken. But I heard that that way you cut all your feelings, like completely.”
“Oh.” Well, that sounds just straight up horrible.
“But I’m sure that there’s another way!” Ringo starts trying to sound cheerful. “If you love somebody and you aren’t sure if it’s one-sided, you could, y’know, just.. um, say ‘bout it, eh?”
“What d’you mean?”
“Tell him.”
“And what if he doesn’t..”
“Well, then it’s a different problem, isn’t it?”
John closes his eyes, not ready at all to accept it.
“Yeah, okay, but what if I don’t, hmm?”
“If I were you, I wouldn’t be so sure that havin’ fuckin’ flowers in me lungs is healthy in any way.”
“Spoilsport.”
Ringo takes a deep breath through the nose.
“John, please..”
“Okay, I’ll try, I promise.”
“Y’know we don’t want you to..”
“I said I’ll try!”
Ringo sighs but lets it rest.
“We should probably head back now, y’know. The guys are waiting, don’t want to make ‘em more nervous than they already are, eh?” He says turning around and going to the door.
“Yeah, sure, one moment.”
“And John?” Ringo starts all of a sudden with his hand on the door’s handle.
“Huh?”
“It’s a hydrangea, that flower of yours.”
“How d’you know that?”
“Me mum had a garden. The small but pretty thing it was, yeah.” Ringo smiles sadly but quickly shakes off the memories. “By the way, you may wanna clean up those petals from your jacket.”
“Oh? Yeah, ta, Rich.” John murmurs.
“No problem, mate.”
John wants to call him again to say thank you, to say how grateful he is for Ringo’s help and support, to say that without it he wouldn’t have any hope at all. But Ringo’s already opening the door which leaves John with nothing but to take an as deep breath as possible and follow the drummer.
“What happened, Richie? Is he alright?” John hears Paul’s hushed tone when he enters the studio. “John? Are you alright?” Paul repeats as he comes closer and places his hands on John’s forearms. Suddenly it’s harder to breathe and John tumbles a little not being able to pull his eyes away from Paul’s hands unconsciously rubbing his.
“No, I’m not” He admits quietly for the second time today and lets Paul and Ringo, who is unnoticedly appears at his side, to lead him to sit on an amp. “Think I caught a cold.”
It’s not much he can do now except watching his bandmates exchange disturbed glances. He wants to say that he’s okay, that they needn’t worry, but there’s a lump in his throat again that feels alarmingly like a flower and he doesn’t want to risk it.
“Well, let's call it a day then, shall we?” Paul says after a pause, obviously unhappy. “I go up and tell George, right?” He pats John’s back and head to the control room.
As Paul leaves, John’s left with a very concerned Ringo and a very irritated George.
“What?” He groans.
“Tell him,” George says paying no mind to John’s shock.
It doesn’t last long though. The very thought that everybody around him seems to already know what he feels (and what he is, essentially) burns down through his mind making him cringe with rage. He jumps up and storms out of the studio not caring in the slightest about the shouts behind his back.
When he makes it back home, he tells Cynthia that he’s ill and she should probably take Julian to her mother (Jules’s just got well after his own cold, so Cynthia understands).
It’s still rather early but John’s too tired to try and stay awake. So he goes up and locks himself in his bedroom, falling on the bed and burying himself in the blanket.
Before he falls asleep, John takes a few moments to reflect upon what happened today. It’s still really hard to believe, legitimately so because who in their right mind won’t see it as absurd? Maybe he just needs some time away from Paul, that’s all.
It's gonna be alright in the morning, he reasons.
***
It's not.
Waking up with a bouquet of flowers on a pillow would be a really nice way to wake up if he hadn't coughed them up himself and if there wasn't even bigger stuff sitting in his throat. By the time it's out, John can't hold back the tears and his lungs are burning but it's little easier to breathe. It's a real mystery how he endured the night. He gets up, folds sheets covered in petals – he suspects that it's the flowers that cause all this shit – and soaked in his sweat and goes down to the kitchen.
It's a good thing though that Cynthia and Julian aren't here, John ponders, because five minutes later he stands in the back yard looking at burning sheets with a mug of tea in one hand and a cig in the other. A sight to behold only for him and annoyingly curious neighbours. It's still hard to wrap his head around this hana-shit thing but flowers cringing in fire do have some calming effect on him. Who knows, maybe it's even big enough to be a song material.
Thinking about music makes him wonder should he mayhaps do something like start working but he thinks better of it. It's his day off, for god's sake, and a well-deserved day off, mind you.
"The hell are you doin', John?!"
Well, apparently thinking about music and work also makes a certain Paul suddenly appear somewhere nearby. Yeah, the very same person he decided he should be avoiding at all cost, John shrugs to himself, it's really gonna be just fine.
"The hell are you doin', Paul?! Sneakin' up on people like that! Almost gave me a fuckin' heart attack!"
Paul's standing there, a bit ruffled from climbing over the fence and irked by John's greeting, in his ridiculous excuse of a sweater and with a bag in his hands. John hopes that there's food because he's hungry but too lazy and tired to make himself breakfast. Though it's nearly noon.
"I've tried the front door but you weren't answerin'," Paul explains. "Then I saw smoke in the back and went to check. And here you are doin'.. What exactly are you doin', John?"
That's the question John isn't sure he can answer and not be seen as a fucking lunatic. So he avoids it as much nonchalantly as possible. And, he thinks, he's making a pretty nice job of it.
"Okay, yeah, why are you 'ere anyway, eh?" Because answering a question with a question is always working. Paul's got that look of his like he's ready to press further but John really looks so genuinely tired, almost beaten up, so he holds himself back.
"Well.. I was around and.. y'know.. I just thought that it'd be nice to stop by. Since you're sick and stuff, yeah," Well, John may have his world turned upside down being in love with a man and having goddamned flowers in his lungs but it's nice to know that some things remain the same. Paul McCartney still completely sucks at lying. "By the way, where're Cyn and Jules?"
"Ringo said it might be contagious so I sent 'em to her mother. You probably shouldn't be 'ere too, y'know," I don't want you to pick it up and suffer too is left unsaid.
"Nah, don't worry, Johnny boy. I'm tougher than I look," Paul smiles and John feels a pang near his heart so he tries to cover it as best as he can.
"You look like a twat, son!"
That makes Paul chuckle but his small glee is soon replaced with sadness and worry. "And you look worse than yesterday." Ignoring John's 'Why, thank you, Macca!' he continues. "John, what's goin' on?"
"Nothin’. Just a cold. What, d'you care ‘bout me or somethin’?" John teases and Paul huffs but at least he's smiling again.
"I care mostly ‘bout our album, y'know," He teases back. "But I brought some stuff for you so you wouldn't die and we could actually finish the thing."
Well, that hits too close to home. John's suddenly anxious because it's a real possibility, isn't it? For him to.. to die because of this flower shit. He can't look Paul in the eye, so he lowers his head and tries to hold back tears and swallow a lump in his throat. Plain ol' lump – thank god – because of the tears, as everyone else has.
John's almost calm again when the sudden yet so warm thought of Paul bringing him stuff because he's ill and caring about him when he's definitely the last person to deserve it turns that lump into a freaking flower and the feel of petals at the back of his throat is sickening.
He falters a bit and Paul's right here holding him upright. One touch is enough for his chest to burst and he feels so dizzy he can't breathe. Paul's calling his name but John's a little busy trying not to cough up half of his entrails.
"Just go inside and leave your stuff. I'm right behind you." John wheezes when he can actually see through sudden blackness.
"But John!.." Of course, Paul won't let that shitshow go that easily. John hates to lash out at him but there's nothing else he can do.
"Just. Go. Inside."
Paul hesitates for a good full minute with all conflicting emotions clear on his face but eventually lets go of John's hand. John almost flings after him but he knows better - or so he thinks.
When Paul closes the back door behind him, John lets himself loose. Paul's right, it is worse than before. He coughs so hard he falls on his knees, almost tripping face-first in his poorly done but still alight bonfire.
It feels like a whole fucking flowerbed with soil and a fancy fence is coming out but it's just one inflorescence. There's something wrong with it, he can see that even through the steam of tears. At first, it looks like a different colour but John blinks the tears away and sees more clearly. The petals of the flower he's holding in his shaking hands are covered in blood.
Well, shit.
***
It takes him some time to burn those new flowers (damned things just wouldn't light up properly) and to scrape off the blood from his hands.
"So, are you gonna tell me what was that ‘bout, hmm? With you bein’ ill yet standin’ outside in November in nothin’ but your pyjamas, I mean? And what was in that fire?" Paul starts immediately after John enters the house. He's sitting on a sofa with his legs crossed and with a plate on them.
"Nothin’ much. But it was warm, so, y'know, I'm fine." John brushes off ignoring the first question. He sets his empty mug on a table quickly as possible so Paul wouldn't notice that his hands are still shaking. It's so bad he doesn't even dare to grab some of that food that Paul's brought, though it smells so delicious he almost faints.
"Yeah, sure," Paul says clearly not buying it. "And what's with those flowers?"
John freezes like a deer in headlights. Oh no. Oh no no no. He couldn't see them, no way he could..
"What flowers?" John acts dumb trying to sound as calm as possible.
"Those ones." Paul simply points with his fork in the direction of a hallway and John feels his heart sinking. There, on the floor, lies a lot of little blue flowers (hydrangea, John reminds himself, for some reason). Apparently, they fell out when he was carrying the sheets outside. He's fucked. "Is this some kind of scheme to lure me into your bedroom, eh, Lennon?" Paul jests humorlessly though his eyes are filled with worry.
The anxiety takes John’s already hitched breath away and the next second everything goes dark and he feels like he’s falling.
***
When he regains consciousness, it's dark outside. It takes him a few moments to realise that he's not on the floor anymore. Somebody apparently put him on a sofa and even wrapped him in a blanket which is nice and warm. He wants nothing more than to stay here forever but his body betrays him.
He's used to pain in his chest by now but he's itching all over the place. He grunts and runs his hands along his ribs to scratch them when his fingers touch something strange. It's like little bumps on his skin and they hurt. He raises the blanket and lifts his t-shirt in haste and stops dead in his tracks. Because it must be a dream or hallucination or anything.
But it's not. And apparently there's not enough room for the flowers inside of him anymore, so they crawled their way out through his veins and skin. There's a lot of small sprouts growing through his chest and one full inflorescence in the crook of his neck that grew out from the artery, and he tears it off as gently as he can. Which is not very gentle and he can't hold a moan full of pain.
"John?"
Oh god, he completely forgot about Paul. How is he still here, John doesn't know. Maybe he’s dreaming.
“Jesus, you scared the shit outta me, son, fallin’ like that. Let's hope you didn’t get a concussion, eh?”
Well maybe, it’s not a dream, John realises when Paul gently puts his warm hand on John’s forehead to check the temperature.
“John! You’re so cold.”
John doesn’t care. All that matters is that Paul’s stayed with him, that Paul’s done so much for a fuck up that John is. It seems impossible to love him even more, but John can literally feel how flowers are growing out of him little by little whenever he concentrates on Paul’s hand now cupping his face or Paul’s gaze filled with concern.
“Lie with me..” He’s not sure he actually says that aloud. “Please..”
Paul looks away for a second as if pulling himself together. And then he carefully lays down next to him trying to keep a little distance.
John would hug him if he wasn’t feeling so tired. Because he is. Oh god, he’s tired. It’s so hard to not to give in to pain and despair. Even more now with Paul’s warm so close and yet so far.
If there're flowers already growing out of him, he wonders, so then when he'll die will he turn into a flowerbed? Oh, he would make a great flowerbed! Especially in front of Paul's house. Yeah, he thinks, that would be just wonderful.
He can feel the darkness creeping at the back of his mind so clearly now, it’s overwhelming. He closes his eyes, his eyelids are too heavy.
“I love you, Paul.” He whispers in a last-ditch effort. There’s nothing more for him except for Paul who’s stroking his hair and lulling him to his last sleep, completely unaware. He doesn’t want to leave Paul like that, leaving him to clear up all this mess, but there’s not much he can do, is it? Not with flowers tearing him apart quite literally now. Well, it’s been fun.
“I love you too, John.”
Must be his mind playing with him for the last time.
But then pain runs through his body like fire, burning everything and making him curl up though he barely can move his limbs and cough up so badly it leaves him shaking. But at least he can breathe again.
Wait…
He can breathe.
He takes a deep breath. And another one. And one more just to convince himself that it’s real. Oh god, he’s alive. ‘But how?..’ he starts thinking, opening his eyes.
Next to him Paul’s frozen with fear that’s so clear in his eyes. He looks like he’s just said something that wasn’t meant for John’s ears.
“Is it true?” John dares to ask, his voice weak and hoarse.
There’s an obvious emotional struggle on Paul’s face and he lowers his eyes in shame, which speaks to John louder than any words.
"Can I kiss you?" John asks still not quite able to accept that it's all actually real.
Paul looks at him again, with his big gentle eyes full of disbelief and hope. He takes his own deep breath, calming himself.
"Yeah, okay, but if you're too bad at it, I'm tellin’ you to stop," He laughs, recovering remarkably quickly.
"What d'you mean 'bad'?! It's not like you're bein’ kissed by blokes often!"
"Well, I was, once thought."
"And who was it, eh?!" Well now John's fuming, his weakness and uncertainty completely forgotten. He's creeping closer, feeling ready to go out and kill the bastard.
"You, you wanker!" Paul isn't in the slightest intimidated and shoves John in the shoulder, making him (and himself) tumble a little. "It was like five or so years ago. We were at some club, you've got completely shit-faced, and, y'know, bein’ your usual moron self and not wearin’ your glasses, you grabbed me hand, pulled and kissed me, like I was some freakin’ bird." Paul snorts which John finds too adorable to bear. "The kiss was nice though. Probably, the only reason why I didn't punch you."
John looks at him in absolute awe and somehow it makes his face softer, and he's having no idea, how much Paul cherishes this expression of his. "You should 'ave though." John murmurs.
"Well you can kiss me now and we'll see if that's gonna be necessary, eh." Paul smiles and John doesn't need to be asked twice.
Paul's lips are soft and warm and John feels just a little bit guilty for his three days bristles (and for the taste of old dry petals and ash on his tongue).
They both are a little out of breath afterwards, which in John's case is still not the most comfortable feeling. There's no need to rush, so Paul hugs him and John's just happy to be in his arms. Paul runs his hand through his hair making John truly relax for the first time in the last three days.
"So.." Paul's voice is gentle but his breath tickles John's ears and makes him giggle. "Will you ever tell me what exactly happened with you? ‘Bout those flowers and stuff?"
Never, John decides, he won't ever let Paul know how his love for him nearly killed John. This and his stupidity.
"No way, Macca!" John grins. "I know you too well, son! You'll turn it into a silly sappy song!"
"Oh, so there is somethin’ worth a sappy song!"
"And silly, don't forget."
"Yeah, how could I?" Paul deadpans and pulls John closer.
Once again John feels like from now on everything’s gonna be alright. And, well, this time he’s not wrong.