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john couldn’t write anything.
it all traced back to that cold night in december when the two of them fought over something that was stupid enough to forget in a few days, but apparently good enough reason for them to stop talking to each other for weeks, even during the holidays. everyone was telling john he was the one that fucked up, but, for god’s sake, he honestly didn’t even recall what the hell he did that was so wrong.
after that, though, john’s mind decided to go on strike. he stared at the blank page and nothing came up. no verse, no tunes, no melody. not even a shitty piece of poetry. nothing. he’d never felt so empty and so frustrated in his life.
the small, worn out journal he kept opening and closing every five minutes was almost making fun of him, pointing at him and laughing right at his face. and yet, there was nothing in his mind to fight back. no witty response, no sarcastic comment. just white noise, again and again. like a broken tv in the middle of a stormy night. all he knew was writing; now, he didn’t even have that.
fucking hell.
at that point, he didn’t know what to do anymore. listening to his rock and roll records made no difference; if only, it made him feel even worse for not being able to write songs like those. he wanted to find stupid elvis and punch his fucking face twice. everything seemed to mock him; every piece of art ever painted, every book ever written and every song ever recorded were only made as a way to showcase to the world how much of a piece of crap john lennon was. how useless john lennon was.
it’s been six weeks now. six weeks of pure nothingness. no matter what he did, no matter how much alcohol he drunk or cigarettes he smoked, no matter how hard he tried or how long he spent fidgeting with his guitar, there was no longer music inside of him. it was all gone, slammed shut by a door in his face. it was driving him mad. he was not like that - he always had so much to say that it was almost an inconvenience. and music - music had been a constant in his life. never leaving his mind, be it melodies or words that he would furiously write down somewhere and then lose the paper and curse himself for it. but now it all seemed to be have just - vanished.
every time he closed his eyes and took deep breaths, trying so hard to find something, anything, all he could find was the annoying truth that deep down he knew where his music was hiding. his music had a face, for that matter. john knew his music's phone number by heart and soul. it was probably the only phone number that ever mattered. john knew his address so well that if someone found john drunk at a joint somewhere and put him in a cab in the middle of the night, he’d tell the cab driver to drive to his address, because his own john would probably forget. but not his. his address was engraved in john's brain like an unwanted tattoo.
but there was a line there that he refused to cross, because john's music had always been his own. john's music was the thing that made him who he was. his words, even more so. as much as he knew it was true, he refused to admit that he needed someone else - him - to break his own silence, for him to be able to write something. john didn’t need anyone else - it was just always himself, pure and simple; it had always been. that’s how he survived. and having someone else affect that very thing like that was just too much. they could fight all they wanted, argue all they wanted, but to let it affect his music - john was not prepared to cave in like that. not for anyone.
and yet.
he couldn’t write anything.
not. a single. word.
it had been six weeks. six weeks, and it finally got too much for him, too frustrating and too hurtful. he needed to get back on track or else he’d suffocate on his own frustration. so, when he had the choice to either drown in his own pride or to go and get his music back, john somehow found himself walking alone in the dark at three in the morning.
to hell with lines.
***
it was cold. after a while john noticed, absently-minded, that it had started raining. despite not having had anything to drink, he felt drunk, his foot and his mind both operating in pilot mode. john couldn’t even see the road ahead of him, but he knew he’d end up going in the right direction. the universe had brought the two of them together so many times before that john somehow knew that, no matter how many wrong turns he made, the road would always lead john back to paul.
eventually, like magic, john found himself at his front door. john wanted to run away, but he was exhausted, so instead he rang the doorbell and stood there, waiting for something to happen.
when paul opened the door, confused and angry, john looked at his face for a few seconds and, at the sight of his big eyes staring back at him with so much darkness, john broke down and cried tears that he didn't even know he had been holding in.
paul held him tight, and john just let all his feelings flow out of him like rain pouring into a paper cup.
he was crying and he cried because he finally figured out that he was not enough, and that he would never be. he cried because he was a thoughtless bastard that always screwed up so bad and pushed people away and then found himself needing them back again, and he knew it was unfair but he didn't know how to stop. he cried because he didn’t know what the fuck was the matter with him. he cried because he wanted to be better, plain and simple, and that was so, so hard to face when he didn't know how to do it.
in his mind, he was faintly aware of saying all those things to paul. in his half-unconscious state, he was vaguely sure he was saying so many things, some of which would normally embarrass him, but there was no longer room for embarrassment.
"paul, paul, paul. i’m so scared," john's mouth was saying, almost on its own, amisdt broken sobs. "paul, i'm so sorry, paul, paul, i love you. paul, i need my music back. paul, you are my music."
through it all, paul held john. despite everything, he pet john's hair, planted small kisses on his forehead. he held him so close, made sure he was warm. john didn’t even realize he had been taken inside, but he had. they were lying down somewhere, but john couldn’t tell where it was. all he knew was paul. he cried some more because paul was taking care of him and he didn’t deserve it; he treated paul like shit and yet paul took care of him. paul was holding him in his arms.
“baby, it’s okay. you’re okay. you’re wonderful”, paul whispered, and john cried and cried.
john cried until he didn’t anymore, and then it was just him and paul and the tea he made for john once he calmed down a bit. “so you won’t get sick. it’s cold out there, y’know," paul said.
it was just paul’s eyes, staring at him, full of so many unsaid words. eyes full of so much love that john wanted to look away, but couldn’t, because the most important thing in the world was to look back at the man that held him while he cried, even when john didn’t deserve to be held.
they laid in what john later concluded was paul's bed, and hours went by where none of them said anything.
they didn’t have to.
the both of them knew exactly what they needed to know. their eyes told everything. until, after a while, john noticed he was thinking - not for the first time - about kissing paul and hugging him close and keeping him in his arms forever.
so, because he couldn't think of a reason not to, he did. john got closer and closer and, as if he was writing the verse for a new song, he brought their mouths together and repeated, "paul i love you i love you i love you".
as if for a miracle, paul laid his hand in john's cheek ever-so-lightly, smiled and kissed john back with a tenderness that was so natural and at the same time so overwhelming. they kissed until they couldn’t breathe anymore, they hugged so tightly their bones hurt, paul sang love songs to john so sweetly that he could melt in the spot.
the world fell into place in ways that it did not even seem possible before. being there, kissing paul, having paul close to him. it was all that mattered. no more crying, john thought to himself.
eventually, when sleep caught on to both of them, john fell asleep to paul singing softly in his ear. he dreamed of sunny days and daisy fields, and love songs that the two of them would write together for many years to come.
he woke up to paul's arms around him, the afternoon sun shining bright in his face, making him seem like a painting of the most perfect human face mankind could ever put together. watching him sigh gently in his sleep, john thought about how love was so, so real.
and, right then and there, all the world was music.