John's giggles punctured the silence that had inevitably fell upon the group of worn rock stars he sat with. His laughs floated throughout the air for what seemed like an hour to him. His stomach tightened, his cheeks ached and he was struggling to breathe, but he keep laughing. Then Harry, who sat to John's right with a beer in one hand, and his head reclined on the back of the sofa, began too, but his laughs hadn't went on nearly as long as John's.

Why was he was he laughing? He wasn't sure. There was nothing laugh at; he felt horrible & tired, but he had to keep doing it, laughing. He had to laugh because there wasn't anything else to do.

"John?" May asked him, in deep concern, but even then, his laughs didn't falter. He laughed and laughed, like he'd been given the best laughing gas to exist, and didn't stop until Harry was shaking him. Then the giggles faded from the air and he struggled to catch his breath.

"Wha'?" he asked, annoyance etching itself into his countenance. John's glasses were thick and shaded, so Harry couldn't see the glare his almond eyes had narrowed to, but if he could he would know not to mess with him. There was no remainder of happiness left in John -- if there was some to begin with -- and the alcohol he'd consumed earlier had made him quickly temperamental. It was Harry who had urged him on though, telling him to drink more and to heckle the group of comedians they'd gone out to seen. And what had come of it? He'd gotten kicked out of that club and he'd hit somebody. Who, he wasn't positive but he'd felt flesh connect with his knuckles before he'd been pushed out of the door, so he knew he had. John hardly had an ounce of care in his body, though. He was just angry -- angry at life, angry at May, angry at Yoko, angry at Charlie, & angry  because his laughs no longer surrounded and overtook him.

May's hand clutched his own. "John, you should get to bed," she told him. Her slanted eyes screamed concerned, but it only aggravated him. He jerked his hand away from her, and rested his head on the couch like Harry was doing.

"'m fine," he grumbled. "Ye go, I'll be there in awhile."

John's eyelids fluttered close after the words left his mouth, but he knew that May remained beside him, continuing to look at him. He felt her eyes bore into him unforgivingly and he tried to ignore it -- to get back to the place of tranquility that his giggles had allowed him to almost drown in -- but it proved useless. She was focused too intently on him, and it'd even begun to affect her breathing. It seem to grow louder with each second.

In and out, in and out, he told himself as he listened, in and fuckin' out.

He was so miserable, and he hated himself, he really did. More than he ever had before. It didn't feel like the kind of self hatred he carried before either, the stuff that wore when happiness found it's way in his life, but it felt deeper, more real. It was because of Charlie too, and their kid, whatever it's name was. John had thought about them since he'd found out from Charlie's co-worker that them existed. And he thought, truly, if he persisted and keep on with his charades, Charlie would not only talk to him, but tell him about the child who he had been unknowingly one half of. She'd rejected him though, in the worst possible way, and he hadn't meant to let out the information like that, but it'd slipped.

Miserable cunt, he thought.

"John?" May raked her hands through his locks. He only flinched, but his mouth did not dare fall asunder; he was too worn to talk to her.

"John?"

Once again, her voice went ignored. His digits dug gently and slowly into the fluffy edge of the seat, and he focused on other things. Things that didn't make him want to scream.

"John?"

"Ringo," he spoke. Perking his head up, John scaled the room for his former band-mate. "Ringo?" he called once more.

"He's in his room, John," May informed, continuing to tossel with his hair. John nodded his head.

"Right, then-" He rose to his feet, pushing her hand away from him before having done so. "-'m going t' talk t' 'im. Let me be fer a bit."

May shook her head and tried to go for his hand, but he was too quick, moving before she had the oppurnity. She clearly didn't want him to go in there, but he didn't care. John needed something familiar, and if it had to be the sound of Ringo's accent, then so be it -- he was going to hear it, and now.

Stepping over a sleeping Keith Moon on the way to the hallway, John stifled a small chuckle. "Ah Moonie, ye fuckin' rock star," he whispered, pushing his spectacles upwards on his nose. The hallway was fairly dark, illuminated by nothing but the light shinning in from the room he'd just escaped. John knew which door was Ringo's though; he'd travelled this path many times before, even more drunk than he was now. The map to it was practically ingrained in his mind.

A heavy hand fell upon the drummer's door. "Ringo!" was all that passed for a warning, and then John was twisting the knob, and barging into the room.

The sight before his eyes wasn't bothersome, he'd seen it before: a naked woman & a naked Ringo. John wasn't even the slightest bit uncomfortable with it, crawling up in between the two who sleep calmly, and shaking his friend. "Ritchie," he spoke.

"Bloody 'ell." Ringo stirred, shrugging John's hand away.

"Ritchie." He persisted, shaking Ringo more violently now. The girl behind him was beginning to wake too, he could feel her stir, but he didn't have much care for her; she was a who're in his opinion anyways.

"John, wha' the fook are ye doing?" Ringo asked, sitting upwards. The man was quick to cover himself properly once he was conscious of his surroundings. "What's wrong? What do ye need?"

"T'talk."

Ringo raised a brow. "'bout what John? What's wrong with ye?"

"Nothing." He shook his head. "Jus' talk to me, Richie."

"'ave ye gone bloody mad?"

John shook his head no, but he wasn't so sure. He probably had -- why else would he be in the middle of his friend's bed, lodged between him and his naked groupie?

"Come on Rich, say somethin' fer me."

"Get the fook out -- how's that?"

"Come t' the bathroom with me Ritchie. I need t' tell ye something."

"Tell me 'ere, John."

"No, I can't."

Ringo stared at John, narrowing his large orbs. He looked angry, and was angry, for a brief second, but it faded when John remained idle there in his bed, looking back at him emotionlessly. He looked like such a lost puppy then, so vulnerable and tired; Ringo didn't have it in him to tell him to get out again. "Why the bathroom?"

"We used t' go t' the bathroom when all the loons filled the place. Me, ye, George and Paul. The loos safe, Rich. The bathroom was always safe."

Ringo nodded his head, not quite understanding what his friend was going on about but not wanting him to further his explaination. Sometimes John did these things, Ringo had experienced it a few times. He'd get too high on uppers and then he'd get violent and vulnerable when he was coming down off of them. Usually it was Paul or Yoko who talked him down from these  disasters, but Paul wasn't here and Yoko wasn't either. John was practically alone.

"John we can't go t' the bathroom. Not now. It's safe 'ere, jus' tell me what ye'r on about."

John shook his head again, pursing his lips. "I can't, not with the sl--the groupie in 'ere. She'll probably go on about it when ye return her t' the home."

"She's asleep!"

John remained silent, debating whether or not to let the information to slip or not. It wasn't the kind of thing he wanted in the papers, painting him yet another bad light, but he really wanted to tell Ringo. He hadn't told anyone in the house. or anyone at all, for that matter. Not even Yoko, and he told her everything when she'd call.

"Rich," he whispered. Ringo looked at him, waiting, but John didn't open his mouth after that. He didn't want to tell Ringo anymore. Not after all the fighting and thinking he had to do about it.

Climbing out of the bed, John left Ringo there puzzled. "What are you doin'?"

John didn't respond, and just kept walking away, shutting the door behind him as he exited. He was very tired and he was sick of being awake, so he went to the only place he wanted to be: the bathroom.

A light was not flickered on that night, nor was another peep made from John. The Liverpool native just made home in the tub, and with little effort, he was asleep, dreaming of better things.

Ah! böwakawa poussé, poussé.

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This was kinda just a filler chapter, I'm sorry ;-;