Work Text:
Brian had been prepared for another entirely boring afternoon in a long series of boring afternoons. His only items on his schedule for that day were a few phone calls, scheduling this interview and that, arranging hotel bookings, making sure that catering would be suitable for the next concert, and other such utterly unexciting tasks. In a long space of freedom between calls, he flipped idly through a novel and lit himself a cigarette. Smoke curled around his fingers and he paid little attention. Quickly growing bored of the stale plot, he leaned his face on his hand, letting his thoughts drift over tour schedules long-finalized and whether a slight improvement could be made. Invariably, he found them without note.
His reverie was interrupted by the loud slam of his door. John burst in, eyes wide, fresh from the studio just down the hall. His thick-framed glasses were hanging out of his pocket, liable to get smudged.
"John?" Brian asked, startled. John, always the one for a quick word, looked at him as if he desperately wanted to say something but said nothing at all. His eyes were distressingly wide and his eyelashes had formed into damp points. "John, what is it?" Brian rose from his desk and stepped toward him, to which John stumbled forward and pressed his forehead into Brian's shoulder.
Brian's hands came clumsily around him to pat his back in some idea of comfort. "Oh, oh dear," he said, voice quite high in stress. "Please don't cry, John." It was too late, of course. There was already a substantial damp patch on the shoulder of his jacket, darkening the grey wool. John let out an awful, pained whimper, and Brian's heart broke.
"It's alright, now, please, dear boy, it's alright." He dimly registered that he'd not so much as seen John's eyes water before. John was trembling quite hard. Brian's other hand reached up to stroke his hair, and John's knees buckled. It was only his hand on his back that kept him upright. John let out another distressed whine and Brian carefully brought the two of them down to the floor, leaning back against his heavy wooden desk which emitted a protesting creak. "John, darling, what is it, what's wrong?"
"I'm awful," John said, voice hoarse, damaged, wrecked. He squirmed closer, pressing his face into the crook of Brian's neck, his knees into his side. "I'm bloody awful."
"Oh, no, you aren't, my John, of course you aren't." Brian felt terribly out of his depth. He could feel John's hot tears on his collar. He was rarely so dear or so intimate with John, but it felt like only the right thing to do.
"I am!" John protested, voice weak. "I... Christ, I hurt people. Paul. George. Rings. All of them. Cyn, Jules, you, even. And... I want to, I do it bloody well on purpose, the fuckin' bastard I am, like, I enjoy it, enjoy getting them riled up and saying this awful shite, till I feel bad about it but then it's too late and I've ruined the whole thing. I get bloody sick of meself, doing it. Can't tell how you bastards don't get sick of me and up and go."
"John... oh John, no. You may be difficult, yes, and stubborn, and short-tempered... but there is not a world in which I or any of the boys would leave you, you understand?" John shook his head and Brian sighed, settling back. "John, love, please. Listen to me. You are one of, quite possibly the most valued musicians of not only the groups I'm managing, or your record label, but the entire history of rock and roll. You are an exceptional, brilliant, inherently kind young man. A few missteps will not change your nature. You may always apologize. You have wonderful friends and a delightful wife and son. They will forgive you. An apology will not ruin things further."
"I always fuck it up, Bri," John said, true misery in his voice. He'd stopped crying at some point, but his large sad eyes were nearly too much to bear, even free of tears. His body was wracked with fine tremors, visible in the tips of his fingers and the line of his shoulders. "You're good with people. I'm awful with them, never learned how."
"You're an excellent student, dear, when you put your mind to things. You have years and years to learn. You're still young yet." Brian's voice was soft and low and soothing. He extricated himself from John's hands for long enough to slip his suit jacket off and drape it around John's shoulders. The scent of his cologne drifted out with the movement of the fabric, faded citrus and cedar, mixing with the wool of the suit itself. A particularly harsh tremor hit John and Brian took his hand, rubbing his rough, calloused fingers with his own. "You'll go out to the band and you'll say 'I'm very sorry' and explain what you've done, in exact terms, and you'll say 'It was wrong of me to have hurt you and in the future I won't speak so harshly about your playing, because that was cruel of me', or whatever else it was, and you'll ask them if they'll forgive you for it, and they will."
"I don't talk like that," John said, an attempt at teasing in his voice. It came out terribly flat instead of amusing. He looked down at his hand and Brian holding it, as if he'd never seen such a thing in his life, his hand limp in Brian's grip.
Brian gave him a gentle half-smile. "Of course you don't. You're John. Say it how you'd say it, and as long as it's something to that effect, you'll do just fine." He stroked the back of John's hand with his thumb. "You have surprise on your side, at the very least, if you're so certain they're not expecting it."
"You're talking as if it's easy," John snapped, looking away from him. He weakly tried to pull his hand away but didn't put much heart into the action. How could he, when he was still curled neatly against Brian's side?
"It'll be much easier if you stop convincing yourself it's such a difficult thing. It's only words, John, and I know you're quite skilled with words. They're your friends, John, not a jury out for your execution. I'm sure they'd all like to forgive you. I tend to think the best of my friends, and I'm certain that they're the same." John tugged Brian's suit jacket tighter around his shoulders and curled into it, like a child. Brian released his hand and gently swept John's fringe out of his eyes.
John tossed his head irritably, quite like a horse, but it was again but a pretend protest. "Only words," he repeated, bitter.
"Yes, only words," Brian said, just a touch sternly. He fished his own handkerchief out from his pocket and took John's glasses from his and briskly cleaned them and handed them back to be stuffed in his breast pocket again, and then brushed the remaining tears from his face and straightened his collar and tie. "There you are, I think you're quite presentable. Go, John, now, and tell them."
"Now?" John pleaded, that terrible heartbreak from when he'd walked in appearing in his eyes again, the primal loneliness, and Brian almost gave in. He knew what was good for him, of course, and didn't, but by God, it was hard to resist. Brian stroked his cheekbone with his thumb. John leaned forward for the touch, eyelids fluttering, and that made Brian's heart seize so terribly in his chest that he had to let his hand drop for fear of a heart condition.
"Yes, now. If I was wrong, and it goes poorly, you can come straight back here, and I shall be there. Even if it does not go poorly, you may come back here if you wish. But there will never be a better time to do it than now, John, so you must." Brian carefully pushed John away from his side and stood, brushing the dust off his trousers. He extended a hand to him. Reluctantly, John took it, and stood. Brian slipped his jacket off John's shoulders and back onto his own. John looked at him, surprised, as if he hadn't realized it was still there.
"It'll go poorly," John muttered, always the pessimist, but he headed for the door regardless. Brian smiled, reassuring. The sound of the door clicking closed echoed on his way out.
Brian sat back down at his desk heavily, burying his face in his hands. The poor boy, Brian thought, because what else could he think? When he was presented with a young man so clearly desperate, so starved for all affection that he went to his manager for such a thing, what else was there to say? He hadn't been certain if he'd at all said the right thing, but he'd gotten him to apologize, and that would have to do. As always, he did the best that he could. As always, he had his boys' best interests in mind. Brian had to convince himself that there was nothing more than that that mattered.
Later that afternoon, after another period of torturous boredom and the aching pain of waiting, Brian walked down the hall to the studio. He stepped inside, 'just to check in', he said, but truly it was for but one purpose. Brian saw them all, sitting close, Paul focused on the music, George distractedly whispering something to John, who burst out laughing, Ringo watching the proceedings with a grin on his face while pretending to practice. He met John's eyes, and John smiled at him, and nodded, and all was right in the world. Brian stayed. They played their music. It was utterly perfect, as always. It would never not be perfect to him.
And if in the evening, when they were all leaving, John lingered for a while, looking as if he had something to say but instead said nothing at all, and then suddenly stepped forward and embraced him, and mumbled 'Don't know what I'd do without you, Eppy,' and then leapt back, as if burned, embarrassed, and ran for the door, and if Brian nearly had to retreat to compose himself because of the deep, deep feeling of love and pride and heartbreak in his chest, then what was wrong with that?