Things (she) Said Today
A/N: Hello, thanks for giving this a chance! I suppose this has implied time travel/omniscience (but not sci-fi, supernaturalness, or fantasy). I see it more as angst with a twist than anything. This was the first fanfic I wrote (originally posted on AO3). I always encourage critiques, corrections, and reviews! Enjoy. Expect an update sometime this week, I promise it’ll be a bit longer.
Warning: Implied (not explicit) sexual content. Could be read as possibly dub-con. Slurs.
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An outdated Chuck Berry song swirled around our thoughts as he balanced me on his knee. For the time, it was absolutely fab. The whole party was.
I sucked in his cigarette, half-lidded. I was perfect. My hair was blonde, just as he claimed he preferred. My thighs couldn’t touch when my feet stood together. My breasts filled my minidress, being playful and naughty all at the same time. I was disgusting, in a way. I was a figment of some horrible man’s fantasy that in truth, he didn’t even really want. Everything about my appearance served to please him. Or, please his need to show off a beautiful trophy while his wife waits at home with their baby.
My arm hooked behind his neck. Neither of us were drunk, only uncaring. It was like we were barely there. My fingers played with his hair.
He smiled at his mate across the room. Anyone could tell why he looked so happily mischievous. He’d gained something here, something to boast about. Something that told everyone exactly who he was. The macho Liverpudlian. At least, he was about to when he took me up to his room. And in his mind, it was nothing selfish. It was a gift I was allowed to get near him at all. Every girl wanted him, every man wanted to be him. John Lennon. The Funny Beatle. That’s who he was in 1963, anyway.
At some point, we left the party and entered the hotel lobby. Despite his drunken stumbling, his hand is firm on my waist. The people who watched us leave knew what was to come, and he liked that.
We were outside his hotel room now. He told me Paul shared the room, yes, Paul McCartney, the Cute Beatle, the bassist, the other songwriter, the better one - he was babbling now. He was smiling and chuckling and trying to insert the key. There was the slightest blush across his nose when he drank.
“He’s - Paul - he’s still downstairs with Jane. She’s leaving soon - I think she got a modelling gig… She’s not staying with him here tonight.” He rambled, unprompted, slightly giddy as he entered the suite. He realized with an endearing look back at me, “I mean, he won’t come up needing to use the room. You saw him chatting up that blonde, but he doesn’t do that - that sort of thing to her. Not to Jane. Paul doesn’t run around behind her back, and you can tell that to the papers.”
“Oh, good,” I replied, dumbly. He knew that I was acting dumb. It didn’t deter him. In fact, it made it easier when women were like this with him. So, he graced me with a smile and started kicking off his shoes and undoing his tie. I didn’t like that. I didn’t like that he smiled just because it was easy.
“But, don’t feel bad,” I stopped his busy hands and gently took off his tie myself.
“I don’t,” he said airily, still with an open smirk, barely taking in what I said, distracted by the removal of clothes.
“Don’t feel bad,” I continued, stuffing the tie somewhere underneath my dress. “Just because you would do that ‘sort of thing’ to her. You must know that Paul does, too. He seems too good for that, doesn’t he?”
His expression barely changed. “Paul? He is too good, too nice, he loves Jane too much... She’s not my girl, that’s why I, erm, I guess I would do that to her”. Quickly, he added, “but I’m not.” Did he purposely misunderstand me? Or did he just have that much faith in Paul? Nonetheless, John grabbed the small of my back, almost as if to change the subject. He closed his eyes, drew us closer, and felt that electric sensation of touch.
“Not to Jane, I mean. To Cynthia.”
That’s when he stopped smiling. His eyes shot open and his hands fell to his sides. He scoffed, “Cynthia?” His head turned away hesitantly, “Cyn… cor, what are you on about?”
“Yes, Cynthia. I know you’re on tour, but don’t tell me you’ve forgotten your own wife?”
There was a beat of silence. His eyes went blank and his mouth hung a centimetre open, a bit ashamed like a little boy found playing Elvis too loud in his aunt’s house. He searched my face for an answer, and I could provide nothing for him. That smirk was wiped off. I started taking off my heels.
“...’m not married,” he broke. “I don’t even have a bird.”
To any Beatlemaniac at the time, this was the absolute truth. John was a bachelor, the bachelor that everyone wanted. A paper had just reported “girls” as one of his hobbies. He was presented to be for the admiration of thousands upon thousands of desperate teenage fans, not that he particularly minded. It made nights like these easier to bear. When everyone around him forgot about his wife and baby boy waiting across the Atlantic, John could forget about them too. He could forget about the roles of husband or father. It would be a shame to allow that, I thought.
“Did your manager tell you that? To pretend Cynthia doesn’t exist?” I said, gently wrapping an arm around his stiff body and breathing into his ear: “Don’t you ever wonder why that fairy is asking a man like you to forget your wife?”
His negative response was barely loud enough to travel to my ear. One hand snaked down his pants. I whispered sweet nothings in his ears, asking him to prove he wasn’t a dirty queer. His shaky breath wasn’t telling me to stop. Perhaps I just didn’t hear it.
John curled in a little ball underneath the blanket after we finished. He had fallen asleep childishly quickly. I sat up on the bed with one leg extended and fished his pack of Marlboros from the bedside drawer. His shoulders rose and fell, as vulnerable as a boy from Liverpool.
Did he dream of his family? Or of fame and fortune? Maybe he dreamt of songs he’d write someday - those were the kind of songs he’d soon get so jealous of for ensuring Paul’s success, his easy superiority in the hearts of millions. Someday. Not today. Today, it was 1963, and everyone loved him. Brian had just told him that he was the frontman. His name came first in the credits. It wasn’t Hamburg anymore, where every girl loved the cute bassist and John was overcome with love for a girl he had met at college, writing “I LOVE YOU” back home to her thousands of times. None of that mattered, maybe none of it even happened. Presently, he was overcome with pure admiration rivalling God himself - and it was so easy to mistake that for love. I almost felt bad for him.
When it was morning, I was gone. Paul had stayed at Jane’s house for the night and John was alone.
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A/N: I know, 1st person POV. I thought of turning it to 3rd person but I thought this whole (semi-) omniscient narrator who’s being all introspective on poor John could be interesting. Let me know if it’s distracting. Or terribly done. I’m aware I probably fluffed up the real timeline of the Beatle’s history, as this takes place during an American tour but also in 1963? That’s minor, though, I think. I also think I’ll do some more with this concept, maybe, possibly teasing Paul’s infidelity with Jane?
Expect an update with a chapter with Johnny’s best mate around Wednesday! Y’know, the Cute Beatle.
Disclaimer: I love the Beebles, including John, and don’t necessarily hate/blame him or his actions even if the main character lowkey does. Don’t get mad at me, Beatlemaniacs (haha).
