Chapter Text
The three waited outside the office, waiting for their manager to emerge. For the past two weeks, the trio consisting of John, Paul, and Ringo was trying (and failing) to sign on a record label. They were extremely fortunate to get a manager willing to work for them, but finding someone to help produce their music was much more difficult.
"It's been half an hour," Paul said in between long drags of his cheap cigarette. "That's the longest discussions have lasted." Despite his optimistic words, his voice was apathetic.
"Geez, try to sound a little more excited, will ya?" John commented, looking up from his magazine.
"We've already burned through a dozen labels and not a single one of them gives a crap about us," he pointed out, and John loathed to admit he was right. Turning to Ringo, Paul gave an apologetic look. "I'm sorry you're stuck with us, Ritchie. You can go back to play with Rory Storm if you'd like. If I knew what a bust this was, we wouldn't have stolen you."
To John's surprise, Ringo merely shakes his head. "If I wanted to play with Rory, I would never have left 'em. You two are good, don't discount yourselves like that."
His speech was heartwarming, but John couldn't bring himself to say what was on his mind. That fact that if they don't get a label, he might have to disband the group and get a real job. But before he could share his thoughts, Brian exited the office.
He didn't smile, but there was a strange air about him, different from the other times they've been rejected.
"The label agreed to sign you," he said after a moment, and Ringo's eyes lit up. He was the oldest, but he was also the most optimistic. It made him quite childlike in his innocence. And with his innocence, he was about to celebrate when Brian cut in with, "Wait!" He cleared his throat. "They agreed to sign you on... if you get another member."
The excitement was let out like a deflating balloon.
"But three is plenty," Paul argued, but Brian shook his head.
"Either we get a fourth member or give it up. There's no other record labels we haven't tried yet."
John sighed and stood up. "Alright. Paul, Ringo, let's go. We can find someone, easy. Ta, Eppy, we won’t let ya down!"
Their manager shook his head at John’s words but was smiling. There was a sliver of hope in his eyes.
And so they left the office, Brian leaving them. It was apparent he didn’t have the most confidence in the trio, and John felt obligated to agree. He wouldn't show it in front of the others, though. He felt it owed it to Ringo, at least.
“Are you seriously just going to walk down the street and ask ‘Hey, can you play?’ That’s not going to work,” Paul stated while frowning.
“And have you got any better ideas? We need a new member, so I'm getting one! All you've done is complain—”
"We have to do this smart! Hold an audition, for crying out loud! If you ask strangers, we'll only get talentless loaves—"
"It's better than no loaves at all!"
"Both of you, stop!" Ringo shouted, and the two quieted. "We need to hold an audition, John. We’ll have to do it tomorrow since it's too late today." True, the sun was already sinking under the sky.
"Yeah, that's fair," John relented after contemplating his words. Paul smugly nodded along to John and spoke.
"Let's meet at my place tomorrow at nine, then."
"Alright, nine at night," John snarked.
"In the morning , John," Paul huffed. "Please don't be late as you usually are."
"When have I ever let you down, dear Paulie?"
"Too many times to count," Paul said with a playful smile.
The trio split and John trotted back to his cheap flat. He was old enough to move out, but not so much that he could afford anywhere decent. A tiny, one-room flat was all that awaited him at the end of the day. He could have lived in a nicer place with Cynthia but didn't. She's a wonderful girl, but John couldn't commit to her. He couldn't even explain why to himself or her, either.
"It would be nice to have someone to be with," he muttered to himself. "Someone waiting in bed for you..."
If he wanted to, he could probably hook up with Cyn whenever he wanted to. Despite his rejection of her, they had parted as friends. There wasn’t any bad blood between them, just a strange awkwardness. Strangely enough, Paul seemed rather pleased that John wasn't with Cynthia. He even invited John to stay at his place, but he refused Paul as well.
He’s suddenly interrupted from his thoughts by a small cry and a thud with the sound of glass breaking. It seemed to have come from the right and when John’s eyes went to look, they widened.
Two men, most likely drunk, had thrown a glass bottle at a raven. The bottle had shattered on contact, and the bird fell to the ground. Their laughter rang out against its cry.
They wander away, contented with their abuse, slurring meaningless words to each other. John doesn't know why he's so pissed about two bastards harassing a bird, but he was. His blood was rushing to his head as his fists clenched. But he wasn't going to attack the pair; he was going to help the wounded creature.
It’s huge, a little less than twice as big as most ravens he’s seen. It’s motionless against the cold, dark sidewalk. Its black wings were awkwardly bent, and there was a small spot of blood on the pavement.
An involuntary "shit" erupted from John's lips. Abandoning it would be paramount to sentencing it to death, especially with how dark it was. John himself only saw the bird because of the cry of pain it made. He crouched down to pick it up as gently as possible. It was still breathing, but it didn't respond to John's touch. And so he wandered back to his flat, carrying the dirty bird bridal-style.
The door creaked open and John could finally rest. He placed the wounded creature on a nest of towels he made on his bedside stand and moved to open the window. If the raven decided it was well enough to fly again, then it could be free.
It was unconscious, and so John took the opportunity to pet it, running his fingers through its silky feathers. As far as birds go, this one was rather beautiful. John wished he knew how to help it recover, but he didn't want to accidentally hurt it more. All he would do is let time heal it.
He pulled out a small roll of bread out and put it next to the raven. Just in case it woke up and was hungry. With that, he began to shed his clothes and fell into bed.
"G'night there, little buddy," he yawned as sleep slowly took him.
Tomorrow, he would find a fourth band member and have his dream finally come true. As he began to fall into a deeper slumber, his dreams fell into a nightmare. Dreams are usually just a string of random images, but this one wasn’t pleasant. In it, Paul and Cynthia were chasing him in a forest, and he was running away from them. The whole world was in greyscale, and there was no sound other than their repeated chanting of the words, “It’s time to come home.” He loved Paul and Cyn, but the nightmare made him fear them. He kept on running until his foot snagged on a loose branch. The two grabbed him and before they could harm him, John wrenched his eyes shut and prayed he would wake up.
For a moment, he lay in bed, too frightened to open his eyes. Eventually, after his heart rate slowed, he did. The ceiling stared back at him. It was the same old flat, no Paul trying to kill him. He turned to his side to click on the bedside lamp because there was no way he would fall back asleep. When he moved, however, something was wrong. There was a large mass next to him, and when he lifted the blanket to see what it was, he screamed.
There was a naked man in bed next to him.