Following a rather clumsy, halfhearted attempt at straightening his tie, John Lennon cast one final glance in the mirror; his mind hardly satisfied with the image he could barely bring himself to own up to as his own reflection. Just who was he, anyroad? A musician? A Beatle? That much was obvious. Beatle musician John at that. But who was he really? Surely there was more to him than his wit. He'd always known that to be true, as did his mates. But with all that put aside, what was left of him? Anything? Was there anything at all? And what of his looks? Was he simply just fat? Did nothing else matter to the point that his so-called 'famous' wit was now overshadowed by such a hurtful label? John frowned as he mulled this all over. It certainly seemed that way. He stared loathingly at his face, taking in the doughy roundness that had claimed it over the past several months. His current cheeks could easily rival Paul's from his early, chubby Teddy Boy days. And he was starting to see evidence of a double chin. Bloody hell, what was happening to him? He'd always been somewhat in shape before and now... now he was bloody disgusting. He looked exhausted too; his eyes alone, purveyors of the extreme amounts of insatiable stress he'd been carrying for what felt like weeks on end. Lennon frowned jadedly. The disaster didn't stop there either. He was a right mess right down to his very outfit. Layered from head to toe in the absurd clothing that had been chosen for him just the day before for this particular upcoming photo shoot, he felt especially repulsive. The clothes themselves hadn't been repulsive. Strewn across his bed, they'd looked halfway decent. But from the moment he'd attempted to put them on, his attitude and perception of them had changed drastically, leaving him terribly disillusioned.

For starters, the slacks had been near impossible to squeeze his lower half into. While he'd managed to get them on regardless, he felt so stiff in them; his legs may as well have been hardy tree trunks lacking their ability to fully bend. In addition, the accompanying coat left him so constricted; he felt he had slipped into a girdle. He could hardly breathe, let alone cough or sneeze if he had to. Clearly, he'd have to go up yet another size in apparel; another slap in the face courtesy of his betraying body. This was just the kind of worthless disclosure that would surely make the press' day should they somehow find out. Just the kind of revelation that would, without a doubt, reach the front page of every newspaper across the region; successfully catching the eye of every sorry sap in the world that had nothing better to do than to compulsively obsess over the outrageous life of pathetically fat Beatle. He could just hear the little twat that had felt the nerve to belittle him yesterday. 'Word on the street is you're no longer able to fit into your own garb! It's no wonder you're now the fat Beatle! What does your wife think of you? Surely she must think you're a fat, repulsive, horrible pig of a slob!!' And she'd be right. The rhythm guitarist couldn't even find it in his heart to disagree at this point. Not when there was so much indicating otherwise. His clothes had fit and now they didn't. How else could he go about explaining that? How else could he even rationally begin to defend himself? John shook his head, despondently on the verge of giving up. He simply couldn't. He ate because he was unhappy. He was unhappy because he ate. It was a vicious cycle, really... One with no true logic. It was no wonder he was bloody fat. Ultimately, he'd brought it on himself. And worse, he was a mere half hour away from engaging in some stupid, mindless publicity event that would only succeed in bringing about permanent proof and reminders of what he'd become... The media's dream.

Maybe it wasn't too late. Maybe he could feign ill and get out of the bloody ordeal yet. Maybe he could take a personal day; tell Eppy and Mal that he wasn't in a state of handling the public. It wouldn't be untrue. Just the thought of the day's hellish responsibilities alone drained him a considerable amount. But even that in itself would prove disastrous as not only would Eppy not go for it, but it would more than likely leave the bloody press room to dream up even more madness on his behalf. He could see the headlines now. 'John Lennon missing during Beatles' Photoshoot'. He could see the supporting details to go along with it as well. 'Perhaps he ate himself to death... Perhaps he got so bleeding fat, he blew up... Perhaps he rolled away...' Lies...propaganda all of it. But what good were such categorizations if the press didn't care enough to be affected by them? They were driven by the public and the public wanted what the public wanted. And what they wanted was the deepest, darkest scoop of a seemingly perfect band living in the limelight. And the route they were looking to fulfill such desires happened to lead them into the heads and through the heart of England's 'beloved' Beatles. Up until now, the media had failed time and again to weasel their way into the sound, pristine shell that had perpetually seemed to surround them as a whole. Repeated attempts were futile in regards to picking up on embarrassing flaws and running away with them. But now, they had a means. A way. And currently their way in was through him. Lucky Lennon, who'd unwittingly stepped up to the plate and positioned himself just right enough for target-meeting daggers to be thrown at him. The press had dug their claws deep into his back and most likely wouldn't ease up until they'd succeeded in tearing him apart molecule by molecule. Well, if they thought in the least bit that they could successfully reduce and suppress him, they had another think coming. He'd show them just what he was capable of. Wouldn't he? Or was that easier said than done?

With a wearied sigh of finality, Lennon miserably pulled his eyes away from his betraying image and with all the remaining strength in his body, forced his unwilling feet to move towards the not-so-inviting doorway. He'd already concluded reluctantly that there wasn't much to be done about his ill-fitting outfit. Not at this hour and not without threatening to bring a panic attack upon his manager. As amusing as it sometimes was to watch the older man get worked up into a tizzy, John found he really wasn't in the mood for such bollocks. He was alarmingly every bit as exhausted as he'd looked, growing more so all the time, and the headache he had earlier lied to Paul about was beginning to become a reality. He was a bit shaky too... not to mention sluggish-feeling; his body, weakened from lack of food intake stemming all the way back into the evening hours of the day before, clearly protesting its neglect in numerous ways. John sighed as his stomach took that very moment to openly announce its discomfort. Chances were he'd probably need to grab a small bite to eat before he left...

"There he is!" Ringo announced as the guitarist finally emerged from the doorway leading into the sitting room. Everyone scattered about the vicinity in what resembled a disorganized circle turned to look expectantly at him; silence falling abruptly like a thick blanket of snow as a result, making it seem as though they had all been chatting openly about him beforehand. Lennon scowled at the slowly forming mental conclusion crafted by his head. 'Maybe they'd discovered the most recent disclosure in the news...' he thought bitterly as he swung his eyes, half-lidded in their usual portrayal of cynicism, about his surveyors. 'Maybe they're secretly agreeing that I'm... fat. And why shouldn't they? It's every bit the truth, ain't it?'

His eyes locked briefly with the gentle doe eyes of McCartney who attempted to hold his gaze, desperately projecting forth every ounce of concern he was obviously still clinging to. John wasn't blind to his antics nor was he the least bit flattered by them. He knew what the bassist was up to. He was questioning him. Prodding him. Analyzing him. All with his eyes. The rhythm guitarist broke eye contact as quickly as it had been made, his gaze dropping sharply to the floor. 'Try and read me now, Macca...' he challenged mentally with surfacing irritability.

"Are you ready to go now, John?" Brian presently asked, offhandedly choosing the moment to break the tense silence. He'd witnessed the exchange between rhythm guitarist and bassist and somehow immediately felt that an intervention was necessary before anything could escalate. "John?"

But he'd slipped unwittingly into another world. '...Maybe they're all judging me then,' the troubled guitarist meanwhile frowned; still trying to seek out the reasoning behind his irrationally growing uneasiness in what should've been a comfortable atmosphere.Or maybe it was all in his head.

"John?" Eppy repeated, using his loudest tone yet.

Ringo flinched visibly, causing a snicker to ease out from George.

Slightly startled now, himself, John finally lifted his eyes to the level of his manager. "What?" he questioned casually, his demeanor underlining his oblivion to how many times his name had actually been called.

"Are you ready now?" Eppy demanded. His manner and use of inflexion was a blatant harbinger of his already present impatience and growing frustration, making it all the more evident.

John hesitated a moment before giving way to a slight, almost indeterminate nod. "Yeah..." was his distracted response.

His gaze lingering on him in a quizzical manner, the manager opened his mouth about to question him even further before thinking better of his actions and changing his mind altogether. "Into the car then, all of you!" he stated briskly instead, opting to address the band as a whole. "We're quite on the edge of running late and as you all know, it's not the least bit professional to show up past the time one is expecting you!" He glanced again briefly to Lennon, half expecting one of his witty, often derogatory comments to follow as would normally ensue but none came.

Brian frowned, feeling oddly disappointed and somehow even more irritated by this for reasons unknown. Perhaps Paul had been right about John. He certainly didn't seem to be acting quite like himself. Bloody hell, and in the face of a crucial publicity event when he expected everyone to be on their best behavior.

One by one led by Mal; George, Ringo, and Paul obediently began their trek towards the suite's doorway with Ira trailing behind them. John didn't budge. To further emphasize Eppy's suspicions, he failed to even look up in their direction, wondering what orders he'd ceased to grasp hold of. The manager shot his eyes to the ceiling in a fit of internal distress. What on earth was on with him today? Whatever it was, he surely didn't have the time to deal with it nor did he have the time to properly coax it from him as he'd prefer. How maddening! "John!" the manager found himself shouting at him.

The remaining Beatle lifted his eyes finally and regarded him apathetically, his eyes glazed over in a display of indifference. While he blatantly had the competency to readily conclude by this point that his band mates had all gone and left him behind, he still made no move to follow in their footsteps.

"Well?" Brian exasperatedly prodded, his already present irritation bubbling up even more at the sight of what he commonly perceived to be Lennon trapped in one of his difficult moods. "What are you waiting for, a bloody invitation? Haven't you heard? We're running late!"

"I suppose y'wish to blame me fer this, then?" John challenged, his wearied eyes narrowing.

Eppy furrowed his brow. "What?"

"Being late."

Brian sighed heavily, "John, really I'm not in the mood for whatever it is you're getting at so please..." He gestured tiredly towards the door.

Still, John didn't move towards it. "I want an apple," he stated tiredly, petulantly, "I haven't eaten yet today, y'know."

The manager was past rationalizations. "It'll have to wait, John!" he seethed uncontrollably, "You should've thought of that earlier while you were holed up in your room doing God knows what!" He knew he was in the wrong but he was desperate to save the day that quickly seemed to be going to hell in a basket. Timing was everything. And right now there wasn't room for fulfilling even the smallest of requests. "Please try and understand. We'll stop on the way! Better yet, I'll arrange for you to have a snack once we arrive at our destination!" He was struggling now to get his pronounced aggravation under control but try as he might, he just couldn't seem to tame his edges. Bloody hell, he hated his temper. Though he wasn't immediately known for it, once it was provoked, he had a hard time putting it away. He was almost similar to Lennon in that sense.

John bristled, visibly put off by his words as well as his tone. "Piss off with yer bloody, fucking mood then, Brian!!" he sharply growled back, his eyes narrowing even more upon him, "Y'go about calling all the shots as ye' always do, creating all the fucking hoops fer us to jump through like some kind of deranged ringmaster and still y'have room to bitch about every bloody little thing. It's not a perfect world, Brian. So we're fucking late for once. What happens next, the world explodes? Christ, I'm fucking sick of molding to everyone's selfish wants and needs!! I'm sick of being told what to do, how to dress, how to look, how to speak, how to fucking scratch me arse fer fuck's sake... I'm sick to death of all of it!!" He was yelling by the time he was through, his blatant anger and the unambiguous message behind it causing Brian to shrink back uncomfortably in alarm, his face paling.

"John, what's this about?" he dared to ask, softening his tone now while attempting to regain any bit of control over the spiraling situation, "Where's this coming from?"

The rhythm guitarist scoffed scornfully, blinking back a collection of tears that threatened to spring from his eyes. "Now y'wish to 'ave a chat?" he sneered mockingly, allowing his glazed over eyes an arrogant sweep over the older man's face, "Would y'bloody like t'take some tea while yer at it?!"

Brian opened his mouth and closed it, unsure of how to proceed.

Lennon scoffed again with a disgusted shake of the head, "Thought as much, y'fucking queer... Maybe you'd rather me bend down and pleasure ye' instead!! What's one more bloody demand t'live up to?! What's one more fantasy t'fulfill?!"

Brian blushed deeply, his cheeks growing hot in an air of bewilderment. "That's not... I-"

"Am I too repulsive now fer ye', love?" the guitarist challenged, his tone as dark as his expression, "Am I no longer up to yer posh standards?"

The manager's jaw was quivering now. "John... I-" he fruitlessly began, his voice trailing off once more, "I-"

"Now y'can't speak," John sneered, his own voice growing hoarse in his struggle to keep his miserable emotions at bay, "Bloody brilliant. Best thing to 'appen in days." He rolled his eyes, quickly growing bored with the new development he'd brought about. "I thought we were fucking late!" With that final announcement made, he started to push past Brian towards the door where a visually perturbed Ira now waited but was stopped midway through his attempt as the manager finally worked up the nerve to reach out and grab his arm.

"John, I demand that you tell me what's going on with you this instant!" he sternly commanded. Despite the fresh authority in his tone, concern and hurt radiated from his eyes all the while.

After wiping frantically at teary eyes, John turned to face him halfheartedly and for a split second, looked as though he had every desire to break down and confide in him. Then just as instantly, the fragile look left his face and he pulled frantically away. "What're y'trying to 'ave me off, fucking fairy..." he grumbled. But his tone had lost all the fire of his earlier outburst. He didn't even feel like talking anymore... let alone yelling. "Jus' fucking piss off, Brian..." he murmured lamely, his voice cracking painfully. He turned away once again and advanced towards the door.

"John, please..." Brian beseechingly called after him.

Lennon reluctantly paused just inside the doorframe and drew in a deep breath while closing his eyes for the sole purpose of attempting to center his off-kilter state of mind. By the time he forcefully turned to face his manager, he felt a bit more in control of his actions. "What?" he quietly sighed. His voice despite presenting itself in its weakest, weariest manner yet, still held a clear edge of warning.

Brian's eyes remained soft and full of increasing worry as he continued to regard him. Great. Lennon couldn't help thinking. He probably thinks I'm well on my way to a mental breakdown. With the way he was going this morning, maybe he was.

"Won't you talk to me?"

John sighed. What a waste of a question. Allowing his own expression to soften, more so out of physical exhaustion; he slapped on something of a small smirk, "There's nothing to talk about, Brian..."

The manager shook his head and tried again, "You referred to yourself earlier as being... repulsive..." he hesitantly stated, "Quite preposterous, really. This has nothing to do with the local news, does it? Because if it upsets you, I'd be more than happy to settle things on your behalf."

John's face fell, his eyes resultantly dropping to the floor. So he knew. Of course he knew. Why the hell wouldn't he know?

"You know you're not fat, don't you, Johnny?" Brian questioned in immediate absence of his response. "I didn't think you'd be bothered by such rubbish..."

John lifted his eyes once more, his face a blank slate. "There's nothing to talk about, Brian," he repeated softly. I'm a Beatle... so naturally nothing in the world ever bothers me...I don't think... I don't feel... I'm practically a robot...Just like how the world perceives me...

Brian nodded solemnly, clear doubt present in his eyes as though he'd been able to read the train of thought following his short response. "Well, if you say so, John." He didn't know what else to say as far as the moment went. He was at wits end. Lost, confused, mentally tormented... all at the hand of his beloved rhythm guitarist.

Again, John rolled his eyes. "Of course I bloody say so, Eppy..." he loudly affirmed, managing now to sound a bit more like his old self, "...Now... let's get this crap you've arranged over with already. We're late, y'know." He punctuated the statement with a characteristic cheeky wink and a tiny, fleeting smile that seemed for the sole purpose of sweeping his most recent meltdown under the nearest rug and instilling a protective façade in its place.

Though Brian could see through the poorly-crafted guise, he felt a bit better for the time being as he knew from experience that a Lennon smile in the aftermath of a Lennon explosion was the closest thing he'd ever get to a Lennon apology. At least he was making an attempt to push whatever was bothering him aside for the moment. This was more like it. The manager nodded, taking it in with a small smile of his own. "You're all right then?" he asked.

"Better now," the Beatle responded without missing a beat, "A-are you?" He seemed deeply shaken and ashamed of the pent-up anger he'd exhibited and clearly misdirected.

"Yes. Yes, I am, John," Brian affirmed, pleased with the questioning of his wellbeing. Correction, this was the closest thing he'd get to a Lennon apology. He wondered vaguely what it was that had gotten him so up in arms in the first place. Rather than immediately dwelling on it, however, he took a step back and gestured once again for the rhythm guitarist to step out ahead of him. This time, Lennon obeyed. "As late as we are," the manager nonchalantly went on to declare, "I suppose it's better than being completely absent."

John didn't respond, his mind seeming to have escaped to other things once more.

"Are you sure you're all right, John?" Brian asked, staring uneasily at the back of his auburn head.

John nodded. No words needed. 'Just get through the day, Lennon...' he mentally told himself, 'It's all you can do to keep from falling apart. It's all you've got to do...'