A/N: Yet another angst-filled story involving my all-time favorite Beatle. Yikes. You guys are going to hate me if ya don't already... but yeahh you'll get over it ;). BESIDES, there will be lots of love and comfort to balance it out.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Beatles...blah blah blah... If I did, they'd all be alive today and would have killed me off a long time ago. Yup.
A/N: Did some tweaking like I said I would. Re-read if ya want or calmly await the next chapter which I'm ashamed to say is just getting underway.
"When 'Help!' came out. I was actually crying out for help. Most people think it's just a fast rock and roll song... but later, I knew I was really crying out for help. You see the movie: he - I - is very fat, very insecure, and he's completely lost himself." –John Lennon
Lennon could hear it already as he neared the exit of yet another building that had unkindly housed them. Sounds of fame. Sounds echoing the exasperating, undesirably fake, lonely, miserable lifestyle that was fame. Sounds mirroring and repeatedly bringing to light, everything the rhythm guitarist saw himself as and strongly wished he no longer stood for. Reminders were everywhere he turned. The fans. The screams. The cries. The madness. The pandemonium. All of it, once capable of sending deep tingles of adrenaline dancing through the entire base of his spine, no longer held the desired effect on him any longer. The accompanying spine-tingling sensation of unwavering mortality once craved and coveted by the restless aspiring musician, simply wasn't doing the wonders it had once done. More so, it had grown overrated. It had deteriorated in the form of a thrill, becoming as much a part of his daily charade as was everything else. A mere part of the scenery. The wallpaper. It just was. Noise. A constant headache without the relief. And his initial instinct; his initial impulse, as had been for what seemed like years now, was to cringe. Recoil. Duck and cover. Maybe even to run from it all and never look back.
As discovered over the past several months of tiresome album recordings, movie-making, and endless touring, John was tired. Worn down. And not just physically. The mental wear and tear had been most unbearable of late, and worse, it was present all the time— eating at his insides; clawing at the inner walls of his skull. And there was never time to slip away from it, even for just several minutes at a time of coveted solitude. There was hardly the time to properly tend to one's self even, let alone think or clear one's mind. As irritating as it all was, John didn't see himself fit enough to even bother questioning the way of life anymore. There simply wasn't a point. He hardly bothered with the minor detail regarding why the Beatles could never seem to hear themselves while performing no matter how much they strained to be heard or whether or not their fans actually even appreciated the quality of their music. For all he knew, they— the Beatles, were just mere faces. Faces everyone seemed to worship for whatever stupid reason suited them. Faces that somehow stood apart from everything and everyone else, regardless of what levels of talent were attached. It was rather maddening. Disgusting. And when it all came down to the wire, the world of mental madness always seemed a mere matter of steps away as did the brink of self-destruction.
"It's your chosen way of life, John," Brian would tell him over and over again with that unwavering smile he was often capable of, especially when dealing with the likes of him, "You just cope with it. Learn to live with it if you haven't already."
In the admirably rose-colored eyes of Brian Epstein, everything just was. Regardless of the tarnished quality of the way of the universe, everything just was. When life knocked you down, you simply pulled yourself to your feet and kept going. Kept thriving. Kept coping. John assumed Brian knew what he was talking about. After all, he'd been forced to copewith the simple act of being his entire life, being queer and all. Forced to cope, despite the undeniable and unforgiving fact that there was a world full of cold-hearted people that was far from all right with what he stood for. Coldhearted like John. Like what he'd predictably grown into. Perhaps, he should feel some sort of remorse on his own part for his own selfish wants and needs. There were far more significant and commanding problems harbored by others that exceeded his own petty ones by a long shot. Eppy was a prime example of that. But somehow even then, the rhythm guitarist couldn't bring himself to give even an ounce of a fuck. Never could. He was more than coldhearted. He was downright awful. As awful as he was miserable… and he could hardly stand it. One could only cope for so long.
They'd been interviewed individually and numerously that day; each Beatle condemned to one reporter at a time. As always, they'd found themselves tiresomely and unwillingly catering to the ongoing competition that was the formed rivalry between individual press groups. Groups, that somehow made unrespectable livings off of creating slander for exclusive papers and magazines fueled by nonstop malicious intentions allowing them to hone in on personal lives at limited costs. It was a corrupt way of life, really. A corrupt way to be. And what made it even more loathsome, was how these reporters would hide within a sugar-coated bubble at the mercy of the falsely-implied truth that they were doing the world good. The way they were trapped beneath the constant assumption that it was okay to pry and ask millions of irrelevant, mindless questions regarding someone's personal lifestyle, for their own benefit. Any normal person would be labeled a stalker in that sense, but these people… these people got paid to pry. Paid, to milk any unsuspecting victim of targeted interest dry of what they saw as vital information, and send them on their way like defective, worn-out items of useless variety.
In Lennon's honest opinion, it was bollocks. All of it. And this particular publicity event had been no different. Hours and hours of utter bollocks, was all it had been. It hadn't helped matters one bit that none of them had gotten much sleep the night before, as they'd gotten back late from some show they'd played at some formless place. It had all been a blur to him, but what else was new? Lately, it often was. Lately, it always was. But blur or not, it was never enough to take away any from the increasing exhaustion that would, in the aftermath of all the madness, threaten to tear his muscles and mind to shreds. It was never enough to even begin to lessen the agonizing phenomenon that was forever stalking him from around every corner from which it would proceed to tackle him and smother him in all his moments of 'rest', as fleeting as they were. Time, would always slow down at times of the like. Slow down, to the point that he would inconveniently feel every bit of resulting excruciating misery; all of it stemming from the constancy of life in the fast lane. And the continuously nagging will to self-destruct would grow even stronger.
Always, the band would try and figure out what was wrong with him and allegedly attempt to piece him back together like it was their god-given right and he was fucking Humpty Dumpty or something. But they'd' never get anywhere as John would often in turn, slap on a fake grin, crack a joke reminiscent of his 'old self', and send them on their merry way as though it was all a misunderstanding and he was fine, after all. Sometimes, he'd blow up at them for simply caring and they'd slip away like skittish deer fleeing into the safety of the woods— away from Lumberjack Lennon who they feared just as much as they loved. No matter the consequences, Paul was always the least reluctant to flee. Somehow, he'd always had that uncanny ability to see through every one of his constructed guises and the facades. And he'd needlessly worry. He'd been worried about him for quite some time now, months at least. And if he kept on, the silly git would probably worry himself straight into the ground one day and for what? For the sake of one John Winston Lennon? The sorry sod who'd, just as soon, turn to the comforting hand of food, drugs, and alcohol rather than grow a set and own up to his problems? Daft git of a bassist would only end up hurting himself. And Lennon solemnly stood by that cold revelation.
The roar of the fans somehow managed to escalate from plain annoying to unbearably overwhelming, the moment the Beatles finally crossed through the main door into the late autumn sunshine. As per usual, the sight of them wasn't any more comforting than their sound had been. It was utter chaos, not that the Beatles weren't used to utter chaos. Chaos played a part everywhere they went with everything they did. But John's tolerance level in the face of it all was on a rapid and sporadic decline; today especially. Whether or not he was used to it didn't matter.
A brisk wind blew from somewhere up north only adding to the generated irritation spawned by the yielded outcome of the day; rudely taking away from whatever bit of warmth the sun was straining to provide. He was tired. No, exhausted. John was exhausted and fed up and he just wanted to get hom— back to the stupid hotel they'd bloody be confined to until whatever stupid event would next drag them from their jail cell courtesy of Warden Epstein.
Beside him, McCartney grinned, waved, and batted those precious, enviable eyelashes as though someone had flipped a hidden switch somewhere on his body, activating the nauseating crowd-pleasing aspect of him that John could hardly get his mind to wrap around. Such a people-pleaser, he was. The only one by this stage in the life of the Beatles, who completely and devoutly bought into the nonstop hype the media would constantly provide. The only one, still willing to play the game, no questions asked. John couldn't, for the life of him, figure out why this bothered him as much as it did, these days. Perhaps, it was due to a simple change in mindset; a change yielded by how they were perceived by the world and their return perception of said world. In the beginning, they'd all bowed down to the monster that was fame, not one of them able to help themselves any more than the last. After all, they'd only been a couple of nobodies from Liverpool struggling to forage their way and make necessary names for themselves. And they'd been rightfully equipped with the charm and charisma required, as well as the looks coveted by the public eye. So why wouldn't they have chosen to have a bit of fun with it? Why wouldn't they have intentionally chosen to bask in the standard splendor their fans had been generously tossing their way? With years and years worth of mindless obsession blindly being thrown at them in their honor, however, it was hardly necessary anymore. In fact, it was all sickening. Becoming more sickening all the time. What was it about McCartney that kept him so aloof and resilient? Even Ringo could feel the downward pull. George too. And John… he was tired. So goddamned fucking tired all the time. And this Paul, who refused to bend beneath the constant overbearing weight of the world, somehow only contributed to more exasperation. He sparkled like the sun in the presence of the fans, fed off the press like a bloody vampire straight out of Transylvania or wherever it was they came from. The press hardly deserved the best of McCartney with his endless charismatic charm… They hardly deserved the worst of him either. They hardly deserved the worst of any of them, though Lennon was certain he had a few choice words for the blinkered gits.
The press. John clenched his fists in a bit of surfacing anger. The stupid, bloody press made up of lousy reporters who hadn't a clue what was going on or what was happening all about them in real time. They were like ravenous sharks in a manner that proved them not much different from the most senseless of their fans. Only difference was, they were the annoying sort of shark that fed on whatever bit of information they could get their oversized jaws on, no matter how harmful… or how hurtful it might be. They simply didn't care. John hung his head in a bout of despair as the already realized conclusion resurfaced within his brain for the hundredth time since leaving behind the series of tormenting interviews. They simply didn't care… The anger slipped from him and the rhythm guitarist found himself frowning as his haggard mind shifted into an uninvited replay of the most recent of interviews. They simply didn't care.
"She's ready to meet with you now, John," Brian had gently prodded, shaking him from what would've been sleep's grip had time allowed it, "George's all set and you're next."
In weak anticipation of what might as well have been his thousandth interview of the day, John had risen from his seat, walked into the intended room, and sat down; his eyes, having been crying out for sleep at the time, hidden behind its typical wall of cynicism. The smile had been there; nonetheless, heavy as it had been from the never-ending trials of the day. He'd extended a hand out to the reporter who'd regarded him with a smile of her own before taking it in a handshake. She'd introduced herself immediately, her tone of voice presenting itself as being overeager. Potentially fake. More likely fake. Like fame was.
Regardless, John had nodded in polite response to her introduction, "I'm John Len—"
Her eyes had been wild with recognition, the reporter, as she'd crudely interrupted him with blind excitement, "I know exactly which one you are!" she'd stated animatedly, "You're the fat Beatle!"
And John had struggled to keep the shock of the statement from showing on his face. But the hurt had been imminent. The anger. He'd blinked and turned away, swallowing back a few choice words.
"You know!" the dumb tart had gone on to explain to him as though he hadn't a clue what was happening, "Just like how the others have nicknames! Paul's the cute one, George is the quiet one, and Ringo—"
"Quit talking like y'know all about them!" John had growled, refusing to look her in the eye. She might see the hurt then. And it was satisfaction he just hadn't been able to let her have.
"Have I offended you?" she'd stupidly asked, "There's been quite a bit of talk of your new image. Was it intentional or…" her voice had trailed off as she caught sight of the menacing glare John remembered springing on her, "Not intentional, then," she'd concluded.
John had forced his face into a leering smirk, "I think we're done 'ere, princess," he'd coldly responded.
The tart's face had paled dramatically, "But I've barely begun!"
John's smirk had widened into a leering grin of complete insincerity; the only thing keeping him from lashing out at her, "That's not me problem, love."
"Don't you understand? I'm only speaking from information I've heard!" she'd tried to defend herself as though her words held the key of undoing the hurt she'd just caused; as though they were capable of justifying everything.
John hadn't wasted his time with an answer. He'd had enough. Impulsively clenching his fists, he'd gotten up. He'd been shaking all over by the time he'd sought out Brian and informed him that he was ready to leave.
"But why, John? We've still got a bit of time to go," the manager had calmly replied as though watching the members of his band squirm had all been but a simple game to him. He might've recognized the look in his eye by that point because his eyes had softened in instant concern. "All right, John, if that's what you want. Lucky for you, we've squeezed in quite a bit today."
Lucky. Lucky. What a stupid word. But John hadn't bothered with any unnecessary remarks as enough had been made at his expense. He'd merely turned away with a heated glare for the entire room and stormed towards the nearest exit. Once again, everything had turned into a blur… He lived in a blur.
"Coming, Johnny?" John looked up from his reverie, presently noting that Ringo had stopped beside him. Stopped. John frowned realizing right then that he too had stopped walking at some point. Stopped walking towards whatever bit of bliss the limo would have to offer them.
John's eyes were heavy with despair as he turned to regard the drummer. As though remembering they were windows to his soul, he quickly shifted his gaze in an alternative direction for a fleeting moment of composure and drew in a deep breath. When he brought his eyes back to Ringo, cynicism had regained its throne within them. "Of course I'm coming!" he barked. He hadn't meant to sound so snippy. His mouth and mind seemed to have their own set course of action.
Ringo didn't recoil, however, only looked at him harder now as though he could see through him, "All right?" he asked, a bit of worry present in his blue eyes. He'd witnessed firsthand the change in personality as it had uninvitingly crept over his mate throughout the course of the day. The guitarist had been so mischievous and animated earlier on, much like his old self; it was hard to see him in current form. Now it seemed he was spontaneously entering an even deeper world of gloom as was the case more often than not as of late.
John hesitated slightly before responding. "Yeah." He continued on right then, desperate now more than ever to seek out solace away from the madness all about him. He was cracking up. He'd surely lose it like a madman if he continued on in prolonged exposure.
Ahead of him, George gave the occasional subdued wave typical of him, while Paul continued to mug for their fans like a bloody robot. The bassist radiated all the sugar in the world. So much that John was certain that if he kept at it, there'd be none left in the world. "Bloody 'ell, don't ye' ever get tired of it, McCartney?"
"Tired of what, John?"
John blinked in a bit of surprise as Paul turned towards him. Surely he hadn't meant to be heard. "Nothing. Nothing, Paul." Again he was coming off ill-tempered.
Paul furrowed his brow at him in confusion, "But—"
John plastered on a thick grin as though to disengage Paul's interest in him and joined in the act of his other mates, waving incessantly like a good little Beatle. Jumping through hoops like some kind of circus act— created by the hand of ringmaster Brian Epstein. This time, it felt even more fake. This. Everything. Because not one of these people knew a thing other than what their eyes were graced with on a daily basis. The fans, the press; none of them. They thought they knew him but they didn't have a clue. At this point, John wasn't even sure he even knew himself. Not anymore.
A/N: I'm sure a lot of you will be able to tell what famous and terribly degrading moment in Beatles history this story will be based on. Just so you know where I stand, I never once saw John Lennon as fat during his self-proclaimed 'Fat Elvis' days. He was a sexy beast if anything ;). PERFECT in every way.
And soo my loves, this is the part where you're more than welcome to provide feedback. You know the drill by now! :) Seeing how this is a brand new story in the making, I might add to this chapter at any point in the near future. Just a heads up.