Petty Little Beatles

Act IV: Scene ii

"John?"
"What, Paul? It's five o'clock in the morning..."
"Nothing, but I think Ringo farted."
"Wow, that's a nice wake-up call."
"I guess so."
"I'm going to go get the guitar."
"Your guitar, my guitar..."
"You sound like you could use some coffee."
"Y'know, Mum doesn't let us drink coffee."
"She also didn't want you to play the guitar in the car, and look how that went."
"..."
"Are you sure Ringo farted and it wasn't George?"
"Oh, sod off," George mumbled.

Outside, there was the faintest chirp of birds. It was a noise barely audible through the window, but it was still audible, and the noise traveled into each of the boys' ears. It was a small and simple sound that announced the daybreak of morning; the second sound was George's stomach.

John shook his head. "Gosh, George, you're like a bottomless pit."

George shrugged.

Paul, George, and John left the room and went to the kitchen for breakfast. Neither Mum nor Dad was awake, so they took the manners into their own hands.

John was grinning as he pulled out a box of cereal. He heard the fridge open, and Paul placed a carton of milk on the table. They poured a bowl for each, and were nice enough to set a bowl for George and the still asleep Ringo, too. John had just finished his bowl when -

"John, cornflakes again?" The question was followed by Mum's laughter.

"Yeah, they're good!" John was about to pour himself another bowl. He picked up the box and turned it upside to nothing. He cursed, and he heard Mum make a noise.

"John Winston! That language is not allowed at breakfast." But she wore a smile, too.

Blonde and bed-headed, Dad walked in with a yawn. "What language - Latin?"

Even in times like this, he could make Kay laugh.

"No, the one of cornflakes," John said. He was eyeing the bowl he had set out for his brother. "Ah, Ringo would not mind..."

"Actually, I would." Ringo slipped into his line of vision wearing orange pajamas and the ring he seemed to never take off.

Dad snorted and made himself a coffee.

"May I?" Paul asked.

Dad raised an eyebrow. "What?"

Mum sighed, but she had an expression of amusement in her eyes. "He wants your coffee."

Dad spared her a glance as Paul kept staring at his coffee. His eyes seemed to nearly burn a hole into the mug.

"He can have a sip," Dad said, handing over his mug.

Paul put his lips to the glass and lifted it back slightly. He almost choked - he could simply not imagine why he had wanted to try the filthy beverage in the first place! The coffee - such a pleasant name - was hot, which may have been bearable had it not been coupled with bitterness. He stopped himself from spitting out the coffee, but just barely.

Dad laughed. "I guess I forgot to ask if you wanted any sugar." Mum's laughter accompanied his.

Paul shoved the mug away, muttering something about bitterness.

It was sometime a bit after breakfast, after Tom had gone to the studio for a planned-to-be brief time in the studio, that Kay had closed the bedroom door, her hand already reaching for the telephone. She bit her lip, thinking. The emotions had already got to her; she could feel something building up. She felt near nausea.

She hadn't felt these emotions before, not like this, not about what she knew it had to be about. She called the oh-so-familiar number of the only person she knew who had been through something like this and would understand. Maybe.