Work Text:
John laid in his bed hating himself. He loved sleep now only because the visions his slumbering mind gave him but because nothing could worry him in the unconscious fog.
He was uncomfortable but couldn’t bear rolling over. Cynthia was over there. He was rather nasty to her today. He hated that he did it, that he mouthed off about something or other and she gets that hurt look before steeling herself and ignoring it. Some part of him wanted her to tell him to fuck off, that it was bullshit. She couldn’t have known. Not her job to fight him if she did.
She needed better, someone more consistent, that at bare minimum acted like he was married to her, that wouldn’t make snide comments because his brain was restless and never made her doubt that she was loved. He never wanted to let go, she loved him she loved himself she loved him. He had thousands of adoring fans but she loved him. She could probably never see all of him, he barely could. She wouldn’t see the fullness of anxiety as he wondered how quickly this all could turn. She couldn’t see when he was reading Alice in wonderland not just because it was his favorite but because the bubbling manic rose inside him and he didn’t want to scare her with too much affection and energy at once.
Paul sort of knew, but he interpreted it differently. Anxiety is just momentary cold feet that can be distracted. Mania is just typical rock and roll fever. That’s what scared John, that there was a part of Paul that would always see the confident Teddy Boy. He had cried in front of him. Exactly twice, after Julia and in Miami during the hurricane and Paul had cried just as much. Paul still believed John liked that Paul challenged him but John was scared that Paul would pass him by. John could strong some words together and make suggestions but Paul was a certified rock and roll prodigy. All that was keeping Paul there in John’s eyes was that faded image of a teddy boy at the fete. Millions of vans thousands of albums sold and it could all blow down the moment Paul ever wanted to. George too for the matter.
John was terrified of the kid from Speke, that night on the bus. He’s only gotten better too, writing songs now, all by himself. They’re not Lennon-McCartney caliber but they were better than John would ever admit to the kids face. Hardly a kid but George being anything but a kid scared John. He’s got a good head on his shoulders, really. He’ll wisen up before long that he’d be better elsewhere
. Julian deserved better. He did, full stop. John can’t do it. He gets toys, nicknacks postcards but Johns not a dad, he convinces himself. Never learned how to, really. He snapped at him for playing too loud the kind of think John wouldve hated an adult forever for doing. Paul’s doing better when he sees Julian just a few times a month, loves playing with the tyke. Ringo too. Ringos fine. He’s always been just dandy.
Mimi’s disappointed. She always will be ,he reckons. If he were a general and conquered the entirety of North America, south America, Africa, Asia, Europe she would ask why he had neglected Australia. She was all he had. She had taken care of him and he was going to make it up to her but he would never be done.
He can’t keep doing this. He is torn in half from wanting to run away from anyone who would’ve ever even heard of rock and roll and keep fighting for the top ever closer ever distant. He can’t say it. He doesn’t know how. He knows he’ll fuck it up. Someone has to know how to help, right? He’d push them away, knowing him but… but he needs it, more than he’s needed anything. He doesn’t think he deserves it but the worry just pours out of him.
John sits up and shuffles got the music room. Cynthia hardly stirs. Moonlight filters in through the window, enough that he doesn’t bother turning on the light. He grabs his guitar and a pick and plays what’s on his heart.
When I was younger
So much younger than today
I never needed anyone’s help in any way
But now these days are gone
And I feel so insecure
Now I find I've changed my mind
And opened up the doors