Don't Do Drugs Kids

"So you guys don't want to?" John squinted at Paul, and Ringo, the later sighing.

"I just wanna sleep, man." He chuckled, voice flat, and rumbly. John hummed, looking for Paul's excuse.

"I'm not trying to miss our interview tomorrow." Paul narrowed his eyes at John, and George. The two Beatles sat on the hotel couch, already passing a joint around. George rolled his eyes, and leaned against John, taking a drag.

"Well, you guys are boring." John snickered.

"Goodnight, John! Night Hazza!" Paul called walking out, obviously annoyed with John. Ringo followed, sending a meek wave to the two young men on the couch, and following Paul back to their shared room.

They sat in silence for what felt like hours, and could have been a very short time, or what felt like minutes, and could have been ages. John couldn't really tell all that much.

The smell of pot was already in the air around them, and John almost laughed out loud thinking of the poor cleaners trying to get ride of it the next day. George leaned on his shoulder still, and John only realized that was odd when a bit of ash fell onto his shorts, just barely missing his thigh. John snatched the joint, wiping the ash off with his free hand, as he nudged George with his shoulder.

"Geo? Did you die?" John asked.

George gave an adorable laugh, and shook his head, "No, John, I'm alright."

"Good. You're not allowed to die." John huffed, deeply inhaling smoke from the mediocre-rolled joint. It was a bit loose, and crumbled, but John could care less. He just wanted it to affect him, and bring out a calmer side he wished he could feel more often.

"'Cause if you do, I'll kill you." He added, and George snickered, snatching their shared joint- in fact made with the last pot they had, since Brian didn't want to stop simply to get pot, not matter how much John swerved his hips, or batted his eyelashes- and taking his own deep drag, smoke slipping past his lips. John noticed the top one was much thinner than the bottom one, and the bottom on was nice, and plump. They sat well on his angular face, not quite soft, or girly, but supple enough to not be outright crusty.

"John, this stuff takes like half an hour to work, and you're already saying... I dunno, stop being weird."

"Well, we've been smoking it for a while- just look at the ashtray." John pointed, and covered a yawn, leaning back on the couch. He held out his squarish hand for the joint, for it to be passed into it by George's spindly fingers. The calluses brushed his own, and put a weird warmth in the area. In fact, everything seemed pleasant. Dull, yet immensely detailed- maybe that was because John never wore his glasses.

When John looked over, blowing out some smoke, and holding back a cough, George's dark eyes were very much fixated on him. Or more specifically, his lips. John didn't know if he was reading into it too much, or imagined it, and just stretched his chapped lips into a smug smile. George looked up, blinking, lashes fluttering, and John was close enough to see that George was pretty enough to quite likely be his demise. Through their eye contact, George licked his lips, and swallowed thickly.

"You've probably seen men kissing- back in Hamburg?" George asked. John hummed, and nodded, taking the oppertunity of George's baked ramblings to smoke as much of the joint as he could. He sucked it in until the tip glowed a brighter orage than before, finally turning his head to not blow smoke into George's face.

"Well, have you ever wondered what it's like? Like just, in general." George asked.

"I guess?" John shrugged, taking another deep drag, and accidentally breathing through his nose, and burning the inside. He passed the joint back to George.