The morning, already filled to the brim with imperfections, only continued to fall apart as it wore on. While the others seemed to be completely in their element at all times regardless of whether or not they actually were, John found he was completely trapped in the realm of exhaustion, irritation, and hunger. To make matters worse, there hadn't been a single pose he'd been placed in that he actually liked and it quickly got to the point where he found himself merely going through the motions just to get it all done and over with. Smiles felt fake, poses felt forced, conversations felt meaningless. Hell, even the frown he felt obligated to wear didn't entirely meet standards. Had it been doing its job in the first place, everyone might know by first glance to sod the hell off and leave him alone. Instead, they were permanently in his face with their stupid makeup and changes of clothes and endless bottles of water. 'Just a touch up here,' they'd tell him while coming at him, unwarranted, with face powder, 'You're looking a bit shiny.''A little bit more beneath his eyes-he looks tired.' Tired. Didn't they understand that that was the least of his problems? Had that been his only issue, he would easily be able to chase it away with a good night's sleep and all would be fine and dandy. He couldn't in any way sleep away half his body weight. He couldn't sleep away his unhappiness. And worse, he could hardly sleep at all because he was so goddamn miserable.

After what may as well have been the fifteenth attempt at bringing to light the final photo shot of the Beatles as a whole, staff was getting increasingly antsy and disillusioned by the rhythm guitarist's ongoing and steadily worsening petulant attitude.

"Bloody hell, Lennon, can't you just comply with what the studio photographer says once and for all and stop being so difficult?" Eppy beseechingly questioned the rhythm guitarist, his tone nothing short of exasperated.

"Haven't we bloody well done enough?" was John's snappy remark, "I've posed so fucking much, I've lost the feeling in me bloody joints!" He made a show of massaging his neck. "I feel like a fucking contortionist in a bloody circus act! Forget it. I'm done!"

Under normal circumstances, Eppy would've felt more than obligated to argue. But something in John's face made him suppress every contradictory word resultantly spun up by his brain. With a sigh, he gave in and went to talk to the photographer. Judging by the dwindling amount of time left in the hour, it was about time they thought about moving on, anyway. Bloody hell, they were always moving, weren't they? Blimey! Twenty-four hours simply weren't enough to cover a day's events anymore.

As Eppy stalked away, he dropped a passing word to Mal who nodded somewhat reluctantly and strolled over to the four boys that had been left to their own devices.

Paul was halfway through a sentence of a conversation that he was sharing with Ringo when he felt the shadow, indicative of an additional body approaching, fall upon him. A quick glance up from Ringo's eye-level brought about the realization that it was Mal. Making way for the tall man to officially join in on their banter; he ceased all talk to offer him a friendly smile. "Hello, Mal!" he greeted him without the slightest bit of hesitation.

"Paul," Mal acknowledged him with a small nod and a responsive though slightly wavering smile.

"Is something the matter?" Ringo asked, taking automatic note of the concealed dejection within the older man's tone.

Mal paused and took in a deep breath before allowing more words to flow from his mouth, "I have just received some unpleasant news that I'm right certain you boys won't be happy to hear," he began slowly with caution.

His statement managed to catch even the restricted attention of George who'd been busy using the band's momentary lull in activity to continue his unrestrained, lust-filled ogling of the unsuspecting models across the room. "What is it, Mal?" he questioned, hurriedly turning to face him.

Paul frowned in disbelief, his gaze shifting briefly from Mal to George and back again. "Unbelievable," he muttered, "I've been trying to get Harrison's attention going on several minutes now. You show up, make one statement, and here he is, hanging on yer every word!"

"I knew all along y'were jus' trying to discourage me from all the birds," George responded starkly, "So I ignored ye'." He punctuated his statement with a smug smirk before returning his gaze back to Mal.

Ringo couldn't help but chuckle. Typical George. Plain and simple. Straight forward as can be.

Mal cleared his throat before taking up where he left off. "I'm afraid to reveal that your lunch hour has unfortunately been pushed back until after your interview. A right shame, really as I know how hungry you all are."

Paul visibly relaxed in the face of the revelation, displaying his feelings with a flippant wave of the hand, "Oh, is that all?" he asked nonchalantly, "I thought something bad was-"

"Hungry?" George echoed incredulously, cutting unexpectedly into Paul's discharge of relief, "Try ravenous, Mal!"

Paul rolled his eyes, quickly seeking out George's outburst as being melodramatic. "Ravenous? The only thing you're ravenous for, George, is those lovely models y'keep staring at!"

"'S'not true, Paul! I 'aven't eaten since this morning! I was looking forward to a good meal being next on the list of events!"

Ringo smirked knowingly, "Y'were looking fer one of those birds to being next on yer list of events. Food wasn't even on yer mind till Mal brought it up!"

"It was!" George argued petulantly, "Y'don't know what me stomach was thinking so sod off!" Blocking out both Ringo and Paul, he turned to Mal, his eyes searching for confirmation. "So we're going straight into our interview without even a small bite to eat?" he asked.

Slowly, the road manager broke into a faint nod, his eyes projecting forth all the remorse in the world. "I'm afraid so, George."

"But... why?" George half asked, half whined , "It's been hours since me last meal, y'know! And earlier, y'guys said that we'd get to-"

"I know what we said, George," Mal sighed heavily while struggling to maintain his calm composure, "Unfortunately, things change. The important thing to keep in mind is that you will eventually get to eat. Just... not until after the interview. I realize that's not quite what you were hoping for but-"

"How do we know y'won't go and change things again?" George snapped, his hunger-fueled words filled with venom, "How do we know we'll even see another meal before the day's end? How do we know-" He trailed off abruptly only to begin again at a different angle to the same problem that lay in his way, "I'll bloody starve, won't I? Bloody hell, this is all Lennon's fault, isn't it? If he hadn't spent all that time in the bloody loo, bloody wanking off or whatnot, I'd-"

"That's enough, Geo!" Paul quickly intervened, growing sick of his endless tirade, "I-"

"It's your fault too!" George turned on him, his face contorted in direct irritation as he jabbed a finger at the bassist's chest, "All those first takes on set jus' weren't good enough fer ye', were they? You just had to look prim, proper, and perfect in all of 'em, didn't ye', McCartney?!"

McCartney sighed, his eyes briefly rising up to meet the ceiling tiles before lowering back down to his youngest band mate's level. "I'm going to go ahead and ignore that because I'm certain it's yer stomach talking over yer brain," he levelly informed him.

"Me stomach is talking!" George was whining once again, his anger replacing itself with self-pity, "It's professing its hunger!"

Mal frowned and walked away. Watching him depart the scene, Paul couldn't help but envy him.

Ringo found himself shaking his head as he crept closer to the flustered bassist, "I should hope these meltdowns won't become a habit for our George..." he whispered discreetly, his words strictly for the ears of the band's third oldest.

"He's jus' stressed," Paul automatically responded, "Stressed and hungry don't go hand in hand least of all fer George."

"But we're all stressed and hungry!" Ringo hissed back through gritted teeth, "That doesn't give us the right to start verbally attacking each other!"

Paul shook his head, biting back a sigh. "No, it doesn't." He turned to George who had lapsed recently into an uneasy silence. Though the lead guitarist's face remained twisted into a scowl, the bassist almost didn't want to say anything to risk undoing the bliss that had recently fallen. George had grown quiet after all. Paul allowed forth his restricted sigh. If only he hadn't known any better. He knew enough to tell that this wasn't George's usual 'I don't wish to talk because I have nothing to say kind of silence.' It was more of a tantrum. Like one a three year old might have by vowing to hold his breath until he got his way. If such childish antics prevailed especially as their interview loomed closer, a delayed lunch certainly wouldn't be the worst thing the day would have in store for them. Driven by the exposed logic, McCartney finally opened his mouth. "Look George, I don't like the way things are going anymore than you do... but it is what it is. So we have to wait a bit longer than expected to partake in lunch and a much needed break. What if we do? An extra hour or two isn't going to kill anyone least of all you!" Lecture finished, he analytically took in Harrison's less than pleased reaction before glancing briefly at his two remaining mates for much needed support, "Right boys?" he elbowed Ringo.

"Right!" Ringo chirped automatically.

Without waiting for John who more or less was sulking in his own little world, Paul turned back to George, ready to take on his response. Ringo found himself turning to John, meanwhile; noticing something Paul hadn't allowed himself to fully register. Lennon hadn't even glanced in Paul's direction following his plea for support, let alone responded. Seemingly distant and potentially in another universe altogether, his gaze was fixated on the floor.

Ringo frowned pensively as he stared at John with surfacing wonder. Had he even heard Mal's news? Had he even the slightest clue of what was going on about him? He'd thought things had seemed quiet. Especially when George had gone about laying blame on John in particular for the unfortunate misgivings that had befallen them. Had John taken the time to process such accusations, there was a small but very real chance that every bone in the offending lead guitarist's accusatory body would be broken by now. And if not, he'd certainly have gotten a brutal earful.

The drummer briefly removed his eyes from John and swung them back to his two other band mates to see if any of them were taking in any of what he was seeing and forming similar conclusions in their heads. They weren't. Paul was still talking to George who looked, to his relief much calmer now, and Mal had even rejoined their conversation. "I'll see if I can track down a muffin to tie you over until after the interview, all right?" he vowed, in the process of negotiating with George, "I won't have another one of you boys fainting on me today. Lennon's incident was hardly a disaster averted as it was."

Ringo had to smile. Mal was genuinely sympathetic inside and out. It was no doubt he cared for each their wellbeing. Partially grateful that George's situation was being taken care of, he turned back to John to find that his gaze was still fixated on the floor... in the same spot... Probably the same tile... of the floor. Probably the same grain of dirt on the same tile of the floor. He hadn't moved. And Ringo had had enough. This was too peculiar even for Lennon who'd been acting anything but normal the vast majority of the day. "John?" he prodded finally.

No response. Hardly a blink.

"John?"

More of the same.

Sucking in a lungful of air, he tried again. "John!!" he bellowed, the elevation in his voice causing all conversation near to him to cease.

Lennon jumped with a start, blinking rapidly as confusion descended upon him like a heavy blanket. "What?" he snapped.

Ringo faltered. Now that he had gotten John's attention, he realized that he had no idea how to proceed with the conversation he had stirred up. "What on earth have you been thinking about?" he asked, acting upon the first thought to cross his mind.

"What?"

"Y'were really out of it jus' now."

"So?"

"You've missed quite a bit. Are you all right?"

"Fine... Fine!" The rhythm guitarist's entire demeanor proceeded to go from appearing caught off guard to blatant irritation in the blink of Ringo's eyes. "Mind yer bloody business, Ringo, would ye'?!" he harshly added, his words matching his change in manner.

Ringo frowned, "I only asked if y'were all right, John. I wasn't seeking out yer bloody alibi, y'know!"

"Well whether or not I'm all right or not is more than y'need to know!" John growled irrationally, "I'm fine, Ringo. Fine! F-I-N-E!! Y'wanna run off to the reporters with that bit of information? John Lennon is fine? Well go 'ead! It's right up there with all the other colorful words they describe me with! Grab a dictionary while yer at it. In fact, if y'flip the pages back a bit, you'll find another word! F-A..." Lennon trailed off without warning, realizing right then what his uncontained anger was about to reveal. His weakness. His latest weakness. The subject of his 'newfound body image'. Over his dead body, he was going to let the bloody press win by allowing them to witness him admitting out loud to such a thing. True or not. "I jus' wanna get out of 'ere..." he half-whispered, half moaned.

Without waiting to see how Ringo fared through his uncalled for explosion, he turned away with feigned disinterest in him altogether. How he hated himself right then. Ringo was only concerned. He didn't have to go off on him as he did... But then again, he didn't have to do half the things he somehow ended up doing either. He didn't have to be an arse to Eppy earlier... or Paul... or George... or Gigi... but he'd done so anyway. He didn't have to do the opposite of what was right for him... but he did that too. He was backwards. So bloody backwards that he couldn't even stop himself in the slightest from considering the poisonous words of one glamorous model. He hadn't been able to stop thinking about her advice since he'd received it... and somehow without even realizing it, he'd made his decision.

"John!!" Paul and Ringo chorused in unison, instantly breaking his concentration.

Again, the rhythm guitarist found himself blinking in a fit of confusion followed by ample frustration. "Christ, what?!!" he barked, once reality had managed to take hold once more.

"Are you sure you're all right?" Paul asked, his tone a blatant contrast to John's, "You're more distant and moody today than I've seen ye' in months! And that's saying quite a lot!"

"I'm bloody fine! What aren't y'gits getting about that?!"

"Me arse yer fine!" Paul asserted indignantly, "You've been a bucket of pent-up frustration all day!! No one can get near ye' let alone talk to ye'!! And to make matters worse, none of us are even the least bit prepared to deal with ye' because we haven't the slightest clue what the problem even is!"

"Has it occurred to ye' that maybe... jus' maybe I don't wish to be dealt with?" John's voice was calm now but his voice had taken on a warning growl.

"Can't you just talk to us, John?" Paul pleaded.

"Sure, love! Mind. Yer. Fuckin'. Business," Lennon responded, "How's that fer some choice words?" His voice casual on the surface, blatantly depicted something entirely different underneath, "Anything else?"

Paul was scowling now. "Yeah. Eppy's ready for our next venue, though I don't know why I'm bothering to tell you for. You can stay behind for all I bloody well care." And with those very words, McCartney turned away and stalked off. What he didn't let on was that he'd regretted his words the minute they'd slipped out. It had been his anger talking. Not him. It was just, John had this uncanny ability to get him so frustrated. It was a favorite pastime of the rhythm guitarist, it seemed. It always had been. But lately, he'd been overboard with his antics. And for the first time for what seemed like ever, Paul had no idea how to deal with him. It was foreign, really, to know that something was clearly bothering his best mate and he'd rather shut him out rather than talk to him. For Paul, that was as good as a slap to the face or a punch to the gut. His feelings were hurt. So what else could he do but return the hurt to its sender?