Chapter Text
Tonight, John thinks about the future.
Somewhere between the pub’s busy corner and a much quieter, but equally grotty, block between Great Pulteney and Lexington, he decides it’s bound to be brilliant.
Proper brilliant.
He’ll be drowning in wads of cash for one, that’s what their sold out shows will achieve ‘course, and he’ll have an army of birds waiting at his door too, anytime he wants one in his bed.
Honestly, he's already gaining more attention these days, mind you, not that he’s ever had a hard time pulling back in Liverpool. He figures it must be their new and well, first, record causing all the extra buzz around them now. Just the other day a bird - a really good looking one for that matter- approached him to tell him how sound his singing was on Twist and Shout. With that being said, all it took was a dirty line about the name of the song and John had her going down on him. She was mad for it too, in a way no bird usually is for a quick blowie with a stranger.
He snorts at the memory.
But back to the monumental topic that’s eating John’s brain up: the future.
He can picture it now, as clear as day.
In a way, he feels as if he always could, at least after he met Paul and got him into the band for good.
He changed everything, Paul did, opened up a world of possibilities he had only ever dreamed about.
Even from the very first day, John was hooked. On his nerve, on his defiance, on his charm, on his smile. On the way life looked brighter with him by his side.
He hiccups, the taste of the beer he had earlier leaving a sour taste in his throat.
Back then he’d see what was coming just like he’d see the world without his glasses on: blurry, a bit shapeless yet still undeniably there.
He’d have to sometimes squint to make it out, like if when they’d make it big it would be with Pete on the drums or someone else. After deciding that there was no way in hell Pete was the answer he’d brought it up to Paul, and then George and on their next Hamburg trip, the answer came in the form of Ringo.
Getting him in felt right in the way it had felt right to name the band the way Stuart suggested, or the way giving fifteen year old George a chance to play Raunchy on that bus did. Or the way he went through with going to that stupid church fete and gotten genuinely impressed, maybe for the first time in his life, by the boy playing his guitar upside down.
As the years went by and he kept getting these hunches, it was sort of like his vision began clearing.
And now John could see it all: Records with their faces lined up in all the shops in Britan. No, sod that. In America too. The whole world, actually. The massive crowds chanting their names, their energy pumping electricity into the soles of his shoes and straight into his veins.
He could picture a nice house and stupidly showy cars - that if he ever gets his license in the first place- as well as nice shirts, proper shoes and all that business.
Though, he won’t become a ponce, he won’t have that and he’ll make sure of it actually. He’ll be himself all the way through, even under the spotlight. He’s always thought it was bullshit when people suddenly found life smiling at them and then started acting like a completely different person.
So he’ll take care of it, he’ll get a nice place for Mimi somewhere, in London maybe, he won't be an entitled jerk and most importantly he’ll stick to the ones who made it all possible.
It goes without saying that those would be his mates. Whether Ringo wants to play a thousand card games per day or Paul and George insist on going hitchhiking like they did when they were young: John's going to be there for it all. Even if one day their creative juice goes dry - which he highly doubts- and all Paul and him can compose are pieces of garbage, he'll stick around. He will. Because he's lived first hand what it means to be walked out on. His dad did it, his Ma did it, his uncle did it, hell, just recently Stu did it too. So, he´s well aware how bloody hard it is to have people stick around, and he´ll be damned if he doesn't take care of those who do.
John rounds a corner. Where in the everloving fuck is he now? Squinting his eyes at the street sign, he can barely make out the words “Winney Street”.
Oh, just his luck, he´s been walking in the wrong direction. A small laugh escapes him. He figures he could use a break from all this walking.
He sits on the curb, heavily leaning against a grimy lamp post. If he had several less drinks in his system he'd probably realize how gross that is, but that's not the case.
So, he twists his head upwards, his cheek squashed against the cold metal as he stares at the blinding lightbulb over his head.
As bright as what´s coming, John grins.
He´s really got reasons for believing it too, not just for the feeling deep in his bones but for the band's new developments.
Take that day, for instance. Brian got them a gig at some show where they got to play a few of their new tunes and later got asked a couple questions too. The whole thing was grand, even if it was some less than top-notch programme, it all felt madly big. There was an interviewer who knew all their bloody names for once and their playing had been incredible.
Sometimes, he´s not fully convinced it´s not his mind playing him tricks, making it seem all rose colored like, when they could be playing like shit. In those times, all it takes is a glance to his side, a quick assessment on the pale face bouncing next to him and he´ll know.
That day, that face told him they were properly rockin´ it.
That´s just the thing about Paul: whatever he’s thinking, John’s thinking too. And whatever John’s thinking Paul’s thinking as well. That’s just the way things are, another cold stone fact, as true as the sky is blue and the grass is green.
It’s an undeniable reassurance then, to see him there, lit up on stage by the music. To know he was feeling what John was feeling and they were actually delivering a good set.
Even now, hours later, all these thoughts he’s having, he’s sure Paul must be having them too in some way or the other, maybe he’s putting them in a song or he’s dreaming them at their apartment, already asleep, but John’s certain he must be feeling this upcoming greatness too.
He must be, since he really did look properly electric back there holding his bass.
He’d been winking at the camera all throughout the interview, charming the pants off whoever’s watching at home and using that slow, deep voice on purpose to answer the questions thrown at him.
That by itself, John knows, would already be considered attractive. Objectively speaking of course, like if he were a bird watching from home he’d be into it he s’posses.
But what stood out to him was the way Paul was acting all cheeky with the interviewer.
“Do you think the crowds will be able to keep up with you lads’ accent? It’s quite thick, maybe you ought to tone it down.”
That’s what the man had asked them, which John supposes had become a topic frequently brought up in their interviews. It’s like people couldn't wrap their heads around the fact that yes, people came from different parts of the country and yes, they spoke differently. In fact he was about to open his mouth to throw a jab back informing the twat about it when Paul beat him to it.
“Well, not everyone can manage to speak like you folk do, all BBC like.” Replied Paul, in that unbothered voice that hid a whole amount of bitchiness underneath. “It’d be daft, really.”
And there it was. The bite under it, the cheek. The way Paul always gets his way without getting them kicked out of the show.
He had to turn away then, barely getting a look at the proud glint in Paul’s eye, so the camera wouldn't catch him looking like an idiot because of the stupid grin pulling at his cheeks.
All he remembers thinking is that Paul got it.
That’s the whole of it.
Paul always gets it.
And every time he shows him how much he gets it, when he makes a smart comment, or throws a jab at the press who talks down on their sound or he stands their ground as a band, John has to practically force the lid down on the feelings exploding in his chest.
They move the same, the two of them. When one goes sharp the other sharpens with him. When one’s flat, the other fills the gap.
He’s never heard of anything like this, but it was just the way they are.
He figures the feeling he gets must be some kind of recognition, both in the sense of obviously being able to notice when someone’s both funny and charming.
But also in the sense of seeing himself responsible for these attitudes.
He’s not saying he’s to congratulate for Paul’s smart mouth, because he isn't, the boy’s always been that way. He’d just been the one to unleash it from where Paul had it tightly trapped under the excuse of politeness.
At times he’d felt guilty for doing so, back at Liverpool when things were still uncertain and all people wanted for them, especially for Paul, was a sensible and comfortable life.
Oftentimes, it had felt as if he were the devil taking innocent Paul out of his safe path into ruin.
He was made to feel that way a whole lot too, particularly by ol’ Jim McCartney, who wasted no chance to show his disapproval of John.
He had to remind himself then, that he was actually doing Paul a favour, sort of helping him break free.
Because for all Jim was acting like John was the devil with a guitar, maybe he was.
But he never was wrong.
Because one thing John can tell you is that Paul McCartney was never meant to live a quiet life stuck in Liverpool actin’ all prim and proper.
It seemed obvious to John, how Paul’s edge and ambition were fighting to come out at all times, how the role of responsible son or good student weren’t fit for him anymore. How a boring job at the machines could never be meant for him. How there was Senior Macca who wanted to send that boy to work at the factories.
Who could even think about having Paul do anything but play bass and wail once they've seen him in action?
That’s something John never understood and he’s awfully glad he never accepted, because otherwise they’d be missing out on this.
So now everytime he gets to see Paul baskin’ in their accomplishments, shining under the stagelights and singing the songs they wrote, John’s flooded with a warm feeling, something that tells him he stood right by Paul, that screams “See Paul, I wouldn’t let you down. I’m keeping our promises.” And it thrills him to a high.
With newfound energy, he jumps to his feet, only getting a bit dizzy when doing so, and heads the other way now. The right way, back to the apartment Brian rented for the four of them the week.
This is what he’ll do, John decides. He’ll keep coming back and back home, they’ll nail all their performances and write hits and make it to the top.
The Toppermost of the Pottermost.
He grins to himself.
Yeah, that’s what’s coming.
And after that he’ll keep going home time and time again.
Just like he’s doing now, fumbling for his keys at the entrance of the building.
He makes the way to their floor, his steps clumsy and a bit heavy on the old wood though he couldn't care less.
He’s truly wrung out, he doesn't know why he decided to stay behind at the pub when all the others decided to turn in. Maybe he wanted to drag the night a little longer, he guesses as he pushes the door open.
Of course, he’s greeted with the sight of a chaos only four- very undomesticated- boys are able to create in less than three days.
Barely managing to avoid stepping on the guitar cases, underwear and magazines that decorate the dark floor, all while being in the dark, he finally gets to one of the rooms which he shares with Paul.
It turns out Paul’s deep asleep already, his face squashed against his pillow, his nose is bent at an odd angle and he’s practically drooling over the fabric. Still he somehow manages to look flawless.
John stands there longer than he means to.
There’s that stupid sensation again, taking over John as he stands in the middle of the room.
“Good looking bastard,” he mutters under his breath.
Unsure what to do then, he moves his hands to Paul’s pillow and slightly tugs it down with no small amount of effort to move Paul’s heavy head with it, so that he can breathe properly.
For the good of the band, obviously.
Can’t have a broken nose when they’re meant to conquer the world, can they?
Of course not, how will they achieve all the sold out shows and get their fancy houses, then?
He toes off his shoes and drops onto his own bed, staring at the chipped ceiling in the dark.
The future’s sorted, the band’s solid, Paul’s here.
He shuts his eyes, there’s just one thought in his head as he falls asleep.
He can’t wait to see what’s coming.
When he wakes up, the bed feels like heaven. How come he didn't notice, until now, how much Brian had put into this apartment?
He takes a moment to just stay still, his head buried in the soft pillow. He figures he must’ve gone all out.
John also figures the others must be awake and out of the place, because the apartment’s as quiet as a mouse.
There’s no loud breathing to his right signalling that Paul’s there, still asleep. There’s no laughter either slipping through the thin walls that separate the room from the living area.
It’s blissfully quiet, in a way it hasn’t ever been up here in the few days they’ve stayed.
Sluggishly, John opens his eyes. The room’s far too bright for his hangover head. Did Paul open up the blinds that morning when he woke up? That’s plain cruel really, who does that to his sleeping mate?
He turns to lay on his back, rubbing his eyes.
It feels like more than just the blinds open. It’s like Paul has bulldozed a hole right through the wall where the window’s at because it feels like he’s surrounded by broad daylight.
Finally, John fully opens his eyes to come face to face with a beautiful white ceiling. One that's in a much better state than the dirty and cracked view he fell asleep to last night.
He sits up and his heart comes to a halt.
That’s not his room.
It’s not even a room he’s ever been in before or has come close to being in.
He’s never seen anything like it.
This might be where the Queen lives, for all he knows, because he’s never seen such high windows or thick curtains or-
Are those skyscrapers?
Now, John hasn’t travelled too much in his twenty-two years on Earth, but he can say for a fact, that there are no such buildings in England. Not in Liverpool, not in London, not anywhere he´s ever been to.
So where the fuck is he?
He scrambles off the bed in horror. Whose bed is that, then?
The whole room’s so blindingly white, with just a few green accents here and there that have John feeling like the walls are caving on him.
He hurries to the door. He’s got to get out of this odd place, he’s got to find his friends, find Paul, go back to their apartment and get ready for the next gig.
On the other side of the door, there’s a long hall, decorated with big paintings that look completely unfamiliar to him. He makes his way through, willing his feet to move at a quick pace without turning into a nervous sprint like his nerves are begging him to do.
He finally reaches the end, finding himself in another bright and open space. There’s a living room with a huge telly and-
“Mr.Lennon?”
John turns around so fast his neck protests.
“Who the fuck are you supposed to be?” He chews out before this man notices how shook up John really is.
He quickly takes him in: dark hair, boring face and tidy clothing. He can’t begin to make sense of who this could be or why he knows John.
Said man blinks at John before slowly replying with a clear American accent: “Freddie, sir. Freddie Seaman.”
That’s rich now, isn’t it? Someone must be playing a cruel joke on him. Maybe he’s in one of those stupid TV shows where they play pranks on people and they all have a laugh afterwards. He doesn't feel like having a laugh, though.
Who’s this arsehole calling himself Freddie Seaman? As if John’s bum of a father isn't called Freddie and coincidentally is a seaman.
He’s fully raging now as he moves closer to this so-called Freddie.
“Oh, so you think ye´re funny, you div?”
The man looks completely confused if not a little annoyed as well.
“Have you taken something, John?” He asks with a crease in his forehead, he says placatingly, looking oddly unsurprised at the prospect. “You weren’t supposed to be back for at least another week, and you’re talking funny and well you look…”
“Look what, you prick?”
“Younger.” Freddie replies simply.
“Yeah? Well ye look like yer about to get your head kicked in if you don't start explaining soon who you are and what I’m doing here.” He seethes, digging his finger into the man’s chest, then adds “And tell me where the hell are my friends.”
Freddie looks stressed as he gestures to a nearby couch, like he´s asking John to take a seat.
As if. John remains stubbornly on his feet.
Freddie sighs, mumbling to himself. “This is something Yoko would know how to solve.” He rubs his forehead and addresses John again. “Would you like me to call Yoko?”
John throws his hands in the air “What the fuck are you talking about? What 's Yoko?”
Freddie blinks at him, his eyes as wide as saucers. If John weren't so mad, he might’ve laughed.
“This is worse than I thought” the man starts mumbling to himself before saying “Your wife John, Yoko. Should I call her, she left this morning for a meeting but-?”
“Wife? I’m not married, you pillock! I mean Cyn and I have been doing well but- Just don’t fucking call this Yoko character alright?” John exclaims, more than done with whatever is going on.
Freddie pales so much then that John thinks he’s about to faint.
“You’ve been talking to Cynthia?” He asks and starts pacing, all while he grips his forehead. “Shit, shit, shit.”
“I don’t see how that’s any of yer business.” John snaps. What does this nutter care for what John does with his girlfriend? “All you need to do is tell me where I can find my friends and stop bugging me.”
“Alright, alright. I can do that.” Freddie says coming to a stop but still sounding awfully unstable. “Elton’s out of town, but Harry should be here, last time I checked with his assistant he was doing an appearance at the Ed Sullivan show-“
“Who are these people? And I don’t think ye’ve got your head right, the Ed Sullivan show is all the way across the Pacific in the bloody States.” John cuts in.
“We’re in the States John! In New York, you know that, you live here for Christ’s sake. And these are your friends, Harry Nilson, Elton John. Ringing any bells?”
“No.” He says defensively. “I’d like to speak to my real friends. Ye might have not heard about us, but you’ve got to put me on the phone with any of the Beatles. That’s me band, that. Ringo Starkey, George Harrison, Paul McCartney."
Freddie looks like he’s about to faint again so John hurries.
“You’ve got to put me on the phone with Paul. He’ll know what’s goin’ on.” He demands. It’s true after all: If anyone can help him, it’s Paul.
“I will do no such thing, Mr.Lennon.” Freddie says urgently, clearly growing agitated. “You’re in a state right now but you wouldn't want that, I know. Plus, Yoko said no more contact with the Beatles for now-“
John slams his hand onto the wall. Why the hell is this bloke being so difficult? Can't he see there’s something obviously wrong? And who the hell does this woman think she is to tell him who to contact and who not to? He’s so done with this.
“I don't give a shit, Freddie.” He sneers, “And I’ll do what I please, whether you like it or not.”
And with that, John’s storming back to the room he woke up in, slamming the door shut behind himself.
He moves a desk chair towards the door to lock it for good measure, that Freddie bloke didn't seem like danger -if anything he looked permanently stressed- but John’s not taking any chances. He knows better.
So, he begins rummaging around the room and each object he finds is more distressing than the last.
A pair of funny looking glasses prescripted exactly for John’s eyes. Shoes in his size with the heel slightly damaged for toeing them off while still tied. Notebooks filled in his handwriting.
But there’re also other things, unfamiliar ones. He shucks dozens of fur coats out of the closet, weird looking jackets and jeans two sizes down, tinted sunglasses and colognes. John opens a bedside drawer and finds a strawberry flavoured lube.
For christ’s sake that's just nasty. And since when do these things even exist?
After a second he hesitates, he should actually try it out someday before passing his judgment.
He quietly slips it into his pocket before going back to his search.
There are books and magazines all over the place, each with provoking titles about wars John didn't even know were occurring.
It strikes him as odd that there’s something so like himself in that room but at the same time so incredibly unlike him.
After emptying the contents of about every closet and drawer and shelf in the room, he finally finds it: an address book.
Quickly, he finds the name Paul McCartney on the list and moves to the odd looking device by his bedside he figures is a telephone. He dials the right numbers and waits anxiously until finally-
“Hello?” Paul’s familiar voice breaks through the static.
“Paul.” He breathes, even if he just saw him last night, with all this mess he feels like it’s been months since he last spoke to him.
“It’s me, John.” He rushes. “Listen, you’ve got to help me-“
“Oh, you’ve got some nerve.” Paul says suddenly and he doesn't think he’s ever heard him so angry. It’s not just anger really, he sounds so resentful and so, so done in a way he’s never been before with John.
“What?” He says and his voice breaks a bit in disbelief but he keeps going. “Look-“
“How dare you? Really how the hell do you dare call me- and pretend to ask for my help- after what you fucking did?” Paul’s practically shouting in his ear now.
“I didn’t do anything! We were fine just last night, remember? We did the interview, played and went down to the pub. I don't know what the hell you’re talking about Macca.”
“That’s a good one, yeah. Go fuck yourself John.” Paul spits “I’m done with you, properly. You really crossed a bloody line, outshined yourself actually, saying that shit about me, ‘bout my Mom. You’re a miserable fuck, you know that?”
And before John can reply Paul has hung up the phone on him.
He’s left speechless. Not a thing of what Paul just said makes sense to him. It’s practically impossible that he messed it up so badly with Paul in the span of last night to today- he’s been asleep for God’s sake!
Still hearing Paul say those things feels like a splinch in his chest. He really sounded hurt. But what’s he so wound up about? What could John ever do that could put Paul in such a right state?
He's as clueless as he can be.
He said something about talking shit about him and his mom and that’s just not possible.
John may tease Paul all the time, but he’d never let anyone, least of all himself, trash him behind his back. And he knows that in arguments he sometimes goes low, lower than he’s proud of, but he draws the line at Mary. He knows what she meant to Paul and most importantly he knows what losing your mom feels like.
Ever since he woke up things have just felt wrong. And all he wants is to be back at their apartment with his friends, who’d ideally be acting normal.
Growing worried, John´s next attempt is to call Brian, but his number’s not on the list for some reason. So he calls Ringo, though he fears this is some band issue and the whole group’s mad at him, like that one time when he accidentally locked them all out of their hotel room when he was with a girl.
Once again, he dials the number and waits. He takes longer to answer than Paul did, but he finally picks up and before he can say anything John starts speaking.
“Ritchie, hi. It 's me John.” He starts “ I’m sort of in a bind right now, I figure you guys are mad at me for some reason, but I really need your help.”
There’s a slight pause on the other side of the line.
“John, it’s good to hear from you.” He says slowly, but he can tell Ringo’s not actually mad, at least not like Paul was. His stomach churns unpleasantly at the thought. “I’m not mad, son, just..er, a bit surprised that you went through with it.”
“What? Look I don't understand, I’m not getting much of anything actually, but I need us to meet up, all of us I mean, though I doubt Paul will want to come anyways.”
“You’re right about that. He wouldn’t be able to come, anyway. Paul won’t be in New York for two weeks at least.” Ritchie says, like it’s completely normal that just three of them are in bloody America and Paul’s not there with them. He figured they’d gone on some sort of surprise trip or something of the sort with the band that he can't remember but that theory is starting to crumble with each passing minute. “We can meet up alright, Johnny, if that's what you want. It's convenient George’s in the city too, I don't remember why though. I think he said something about-“
“Yeah, yeah. We’ll talk there, I’ve just- I’ve got to get out of this place now, it’s freaking me out.” John says scratching his neck.
“Alright, well, I’m staying at The Carlyle. Room 86, I’ll call George and tell him to meet us there at what? Eleven o’clock?”
“Yeah that works for me, see you Ritchie.” He’s got no idea where that hotel is located actually, but he’ll figure it out.
“See you John.”
He hangs up and takes the most normal looking shoes he can find on the pile he went through. After putting his hand out the window, he borrows a jacket from the closet. It’s bloody cold outside.
He makes his way out of the hall, not caring if this Seaman sees him leaving or not.
Though, it seems like he did because he’s setting his newspaper down on the couch and rushing to John.
“Mr.Lennon, you’re not thinking of heading out, are you?” He says anxiously.
“‘Course I am, I’ve had enough of this nuthouse. What? Are ye goin’ to stop me?” John sneers at him and Freddie just stands there looking all conflicted. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
With that, John pushes past him, grabbing a set of keys and going out the door.
Truth be told, he’s still got no idea where he’s right now, just that it’s somewhere posh in New York. He also doesn't know where he’s heading.
But he walks and walks and as he does, people stare. There must be something seriously wrong with the folk in this city. Something wrong with the world ever since he woke up this morning.
And even now, John still can't shake that uneasy feeling he got while on the phone with Paul, daft right?
He knows he shouldn't pay mind to it, that he’ll make it all right - whatever it is Paul’s under the impression he did - just like he always does. Still there's a small voice in the back of his head telling him he knows it sounded different. It sounded serious.
He shakes the thought away and approaches a man wiping his glasses in the corner of the street.
“Excuse me Sir, do you happen to know what’s the way to The Carlyle?”
The man squints at him, placing his nose over his nose.
“Are you John Lennon?” He asks disbelievingly.
He figures another stranger knowing him can't be good by any means, so he lies in an instant.
“Uh no, I’m uh- Winston Stanley.”
“Oh, my bad, sorry.” The man says quickly, looking a bit taken aback but quickly recovering and pointing to the left. “The Carlyle’s that way, five blocks or so.”
“Ta” John calls out, already moving towards that direction. The sooner he gets to the bottom of this the better, he decides.
After walking a few blocks, he finally arrives to the hotel, where the bellman seems surprised to see him, though he doesn't comment.
John hurries to the elevator and marks the floor.
He can't help but notice how posh the whole place is. How on Earth did Ringo afford to stay here? Actually, how did any of them manage? And why’s Paul the only one missing?
Maybe that’s why he’s so mad. Because they didn’t bring him on the trip. Still it doesn't make sense based on what he said on the phone.
All he can do is hope Ritchie and George have answers because this is all causing his head to hurt more and more by the minute.
A ring tells him he’s reached the right floor and he quickly finds Ringo’s room.
He knocks hurriedly and within a few seconds the door opens.
John’s mouth goes slack and so does Ringo’s.
“What’s wrong with you?” John exclaims, though it’s quite hilarious to see Ritchie wearing some sort of grown out version of a quiff and a beard that long.
Ringo looks proper scandalized and brings his hands to his face in shock. “With me? Have you looked at yerself?"
Suddenly, George’s face pops up over Ringo’s shoulder and now John’s fully hollering, practically on the floor.
Between the tears, he vaguely registers the horrified glances his friends are exchanging.
“Oh, god.” He wheezes between cackles, trying to calm down. “Take those costumes off, come on, we’ve got to solve this right mess.”
“Take off our costumes? Are you serious, Lennon? You're the one who’s lookin’ like a Beatle impersonator with that mop top.” George replies, his eyebrows practically touching his hairline.
“What’re you goin’ on about? You look like bloody Christ and Ringo’s looking like a caveman.”
The two of them protest instantly, clearly protective over their looks.
"Doesn't matter, just come in, will you? Y´er causing a racket in the hotel hallway.” Ringo says gesturing to the room.
John dusts himself off but obeys, eyeing both of his friends curiously on the way in.
Just like the rest of the building, the room’s proper fancy. There’s a huge bed, tall windows and- is that a bar?
“Do you want a drink, Johnny?” Ringo asks, seemingly having read his mind.
John grins, “Yeah.”
He sits next to George on the couch as Ringo messes about at the counter.
Although they’re all in the same space, it feels so different from what he’s used to. He means, they practically live together nowadays but this, now, feels like one of those awkward hangouts you sometimes find yourself in with some -barely- acquaintances.
Soon, Ringo brings over a fancy-looking cocktail. John wasn't expecting such a thing, a beer would've done the job just fine, but he takes it nonetheless.
“Ta.” He says, he takes a sip and licks his lips. “This taste like… cream?”
“Course, it’s your favourite. The milkshake you call it.” Ritchie replies like it’s obvious. “It’s got Brandy in it, makes sense.”
“Sure.” John says despite never having tried such a weird drink in his life. He figures it makes no sense calling him out on it when he’s put the effort of making it for him. So, he starts approaching the pressing topic at hand. Slowly. “So, er, what’re we doing here in New York? This hotel’s grand, how are you even affording it Ritchie?”
George snorts “You know damn well we’re here to sign the papers, John.”
He really doesn't.
“Yeah, and I’ll let you in on something, son.” Ringo says conspirationally, pointing at George, “That lawsuit I won against little Georgie here has definitely been great help in paying for this palace.”
As soon as he says that, he’s cracking up and at first George just rolls his eyes but soon he’s laughing too, leaving John completely in the dark.
“Oh come on mate, don't be so serious. I mean even I’m laughing and the whole thing cost me a fortune.” Says George, addressing John again. “What’s been bothering you anyways? That you wanted to talk about, I mean.”
John gulps, he’s never been one to think much before he speaks but suddenly putting the whole situation in front of his mates- who are not acting that much like his mates- seems ridiculous.
Still he speaks.
“Well, I uh, went to sleep last night after the pub. We were all at Eppy’s apartment, you know, where we've been staying.” John starts slowly. Neither of the two say anything yet, they just look as puzzled as Seaman did. “But today I woke up and I was in this huge apartment on top of a building. In New York. And you’re here too.”
He takes in both George’s and Ringo’s faces but all he gets is a gesture to go on.
“There was a man there, Freddie Seaman, a tosser really. That was talkin’ nonsense saying I lived there and was apparently married to someone called Yoko and such.” John explains. “And it was so odd because there were things that suggested…that what he was saying could be true. I mean, pages with my handwriting and shoes my size. But at the same time it doesn't make any sense does it? Why would I’ve been there? We were in London just yesterday, I would remember it. And- to top it off, before I called Ritchie, I rang Paul and he was mad as hell. I’ve never heard anything like it, really. I've got no idea what's goin´on.”
After a while, George finally speaks. “You’re havin´ us on, right?”
“What? No!” John cries.
“Let’s listen to him, George.” Ringo scolds. “You really don't know who Freddie or Yoko are? Or what you’re doing in New York?”
John shakes his head.
“And what was it that you said was the last thing you remember?”
“Going to sleep in London. We appeared on the Six-Five Special, went to the pub, Dregs I think it’s the name, you headed back to the apartment and later I went back and fell asleep. That 's all.” He recounts.
Ringo mulls over it for a second while George looks properly unconvinced.
“I mean, I’d think your memory’s screwed up but..” Rinngo looks over at George "Don't you think he looks different? Like he's young?”
“We’re all young for Christ's sake, I’m twenty two. You're just a few months older, Ritchie.” John huffs.
“I think you mean to say thirty-two.” George quips.
Ringo speaks again: “John, what year do you think it is?”
“1962 of course, Christmas is coming.” He replies immediately.
“No, John. It’s February. 1972.” Ritchie corrects.
“Alright, you’re pulling me leg.” Says John.
George drops the newspaper next to him onto the coffee table.
“We’re not.” He says dryly.
And undeniably, the front page reads February 20th 1972 and on the cover, his own face, wearing round specs, a bit older and with a different haircut, stares back at him.
FEUD BETWEEN EX-BEATLES REACHES A NEW PEAK. LENNON TRASHES MCCARTNEY ON HIS NEW ALBUM WITH THE SONG “HOW DO YOU SLEEP?”.