"Perhaps, we should wait for the others first, Geo," Paul pointed out, more so barked, as the band's youngest immediately and hastily gravitated towards the elevator buttons upon entering its metallic interiors.

"But 'm'starving now!" Harrison near-whined in response to Paul's ill-timed morality. He glanced impatiently towards the hotel's main entrance; still visible through the entryway of the elevator claimed by both him and Paul. John, Ringo, and Mal had yet to even enter the hotel's lobby, let alone the elevator he was so eager to launch up to their intended floor of destination in all his desperation. "Can't they catch up on their own time?"

Paul settled himself in the elevator doorframe, cleverly using his entire backside to keep the double doors from closing them in, "I somehow have the feeling they wouldn't fancy being left behind," he replied idly.

George glared at the bassist; outwardly fuming at the inconvenience of his inconsiderately staged 'sit-in'. It took everything within him to keep from shoving him out the elevator door and taking off towards the Beatles' suite, himself. By this point of the day, he was past starvation and well on his way to ravenous. Well into the undesired shakiness that could hardly wait to claim him whenever he went long periods without a bite to eat. He was pretty sure that his stomach was beginning to devour itself. Whenever hunger escalated so drastically, he was bound to be a force to reckon with. Bound to overstep boundaries in the least rational of ways. "Why not?" he sharply inquired, "At the rate everyone's going, I'll die of starvation waiting around. I 'aven't eaten a thing since brekky, Paul... 'S'not right!!"

"We're all hungry, Geo!" Paul sternly responded with a roll of the eyes indicative of growing frustration, "You and that bottomless pit y'call a stomach aren't the only ones so do yerself a favor and bloody come off it. It's getting a bit old!"

George reluctantly backed off from pressing any buttons and settled his back against the elevator wall furthest from Paul, "Yeah? Well, so am I..." came his sardonic response. He hastily crossed his arms over his chest in a sulking manner, "I've waited all bloody day listening to the lot of ye' bickering sods. I believe I'm owed whatever bloody bit of solace I can get me hands on."

"Language, Geo."

Laughter filled the silence that followed and both George and Paul turned to see John and a clearly-amused Ringo finally making their long-accounted for presence known.

"What?" George sharply threw at them, the tightness of his voice indicating the flow of his irritation.

"Language!" John repeated with a belittling, condescending smirk, reminiscent of his own unspoken troubles. His voice held a tone lacking kindness or even humor as it would often portray when goading their youngest about the lax use of profanity he'd come out with when miffed.

"Piss off, Lennon!" George snapped, glaring at him in a huff, "Y'know damned well me stomach's not used to the kind of torment y'sods 'ave been carelessly putting it through!"

Lennon held his smirk in place, the typical expression quickly growing colder all the time, "Well, the only current torment stems from yer cakehole, love," he crudely shot back, "and by all means, me ears aren't entirely sensitive to it either."

George continued to scowl at him while Paul and Ringo, finding plentiful humor in the statement, chuckled.

"If the press could see ye' now," John deadpanned, pausing thoughtfully beside Paul in the elevator's entryway. "Perhaps, they wouldn't be so quick to label ye' the 'quiet Beatle'."

"Jus' shut yer gob and get yer arse in 'ere, Lennon," George growled, blatantly remaining un-amused in the face of his abrasive humor.

Paul and Ringo's chuckles increased in volume.

John turned to them, his expression only darkening at their carefree tittering. "What's so funny?! I'm making a bloody point!" he sharply affirmed, "The bloody press can't see a thing beyond what lies at our surfaces!"

"Well, I'd like to give them a little credit," Paul ventured slyly, a mischievous grin gracing his face, "As far as I'm rightly concerned, I am the cute one 'ere and rightfully so."

Lennon turned towards the bassist, fixing him with a somewhat disgruntled scowl, "Must be nice- getting by on good looks alone, Macca," he brazenly retorted.

The self-pleased smile tumbled from Paul's face. "What's that supposed to mean?" he asked, his eyes widening in a mixture of instant surprise and hurt.

John shrugged, his gaze alarmingly derisive as it met up with the offense in his mate's face, "Nothing. Jus' watch out fer that ego of yers, darling. Things like that tend to bite ye' in the aft end when yer least expect it."

Paul flared, his hurt pride evolving into anger, "Well, yer one to talk, John!!" he retaliated, finally coming to his own defense.

John scoffed, apathy ruling his features. "Am I?" he remarked bitterly, "I know I 'ave an ego, love. Only difference is, I don't try and hide it behind a pretty face."

"Like ye' 'ave one to 'ide behind," Paul countered, his anger beginning to surge beyond his control.

John's mouth dropped slightly in a bit of hurt of his own, before blind fury moved in, tightening every feature of his face in the most threatening of ways, "Why, y'pompous, self-centered little-" was all he cared enough to get out before he impulsively drew back a fist. Like a dog on a chain, he was suddenly yanked back courtesy of Ringo who had deftly managed to get a firm grip on both his arms. John thrashed about wildly for a moment before suddenly giving up, the fight draining instantaneously from his face. "Get off me y'fucking git," he growled, his tense muscles going lax in spite of the fire in his words.

"Can y'control yerself?" Ringo calmly asked him before daring to convey to his words.

John abruptly shook away the remainder of Ringo's grip. "Gang up on Lennon," he muttered glumly, "Everyone does." He straightened himself up and turning away, retreated to a corner of the elevator in sought out isolation. He was shaking so much he could hardly walk the short distance in a straight line. As he carelessly dropped himself to a squatting position, he suddenly looked sadder and more distraught than he had all day.

Paul felt immediate remorse branching from the cold uttered words that had nearly led to what might have been the scuffle of a lifetime, "John-" he began, making a hesitant move towards him. Forgetting he was supposed to be holding the elevator door open, it quickly shut behind him, prompting George to hurriedly press the buttons corresponding with the floor of their suite. The elevator began to lift instantaneously leaving behind Mal, wherever he was.

Paul didn't react or even seem to notice as his gaze and accompanying attention remained attached to the miserable form of none other than his best mate in a form of solid fixation. As he drew closer, however, slowly and carefully with all the caution of a wildlife tracker, Lennon's raw sorrow on display went out like a broken light, anger absorbing it once more as eye contact was made. "Sod off, McCartney and leave me the bloody 'ell alone!!" he snarled, much warning present in his voice.

Paul stopped in his tracks despite the duly noted fact that the rhythm guitarist's response was much weaker than it could've been. Desperate to know what he'd done to get the treatment he was currently getting from his best mate; he sternly held his ground, his arms crossing adamantly over his chest, "What the fuck's yer problem, Lennon?" he demanded almost plaintively, "You've been attacking me nonstop ever since we've left the bloody interview fer chrissake!"

"So intellect can coexist with good looks," John grimly muttered turning to look away from him, "Another thing overlooked by the useless press. Bloody idiots, the lot of 'em."

Paul quizzically arched an eyebrow at him, beginning to sense a vague method to the madness he was currently tossing about, "This is about the press, then?" he found himself asking hesitantly.

"Thought I told ye' to sod off!" John grumbled, lifting his gaze towards him once again in the form of a halfhearted glare. "Hard of 'earing as well, are ye'?"

"A reporter say something to ye'?" Paul pressed on, ignoring his mate's repeated attempts at verbal assault.

John chuckled offhandedly from his seat on the floor, the laugh sounding oddly hollow to Paul's ears. "They're always saying things, Macca."

"Well, yes... but-"

John quickly broke eye contact, his restless mannerisms blatantly indicating he had no interest on keeping the conversation rolling. "'S'not important. Piss off and mind yer business 'fore I carry on with the arse-kicking I was about to lay into ye'."

Paul blinked at his sudden change of heart but retreated, nonetheless, deciding it was best not to continue on with his investigative charade by this point; unpredictable as Lennon could be.

The elevator dinged unexpectedly and the double doors opened, drawing a necessary distraction, as well as, awakening the realization that the elevator was no longer at the hotel's ground level but several floors up rather. Harrison, no doubt, McCartney prematurely concluded with a bit of annoyance. Somehow, the lead guitarist had managed to get around him to reach his intended goal. "Where's Mal?" Paul demanded, his eyes zeroing on the culprit responsible.

George turned to gaze at him, his eyes mirroring all the false innocence in the world as he proceeded to shrug.

"Taking the stairs, I guess," John lazily offered in his place with a profound lack of interest in the subject altogether. He pulled himself to his feet and shoving past his mates, exited out into the hall, the rest filing out behind him.

George grinned cheekily at their bassist as he passed him by, eager to be the first to their suite, "A little slow on the uptake, are we, Paul?" he lightly asked, his mood having significantly rebounded by the nearing promise of edible glory.

Paul returned his grin with a devious and smug smirk. "I hate to break it to ye, Geo but... yer crafty lil' move didn't do a whole lot of good," he nonchalantly responded, "We still 'ave to wait fer Mal, y'know. He's got our key to the suite, after all!"

"Y'can't be serious..." George moaned.

Paul laughed at George's reaction, "Serves y'right fer being so impatient," he playfully chided.

"Sod off, McCartney!" George growled, settling a hand on his stomach as it chose right then to announce its own thoughts on the turn of events. "Anyone know how to pick a lock?"

Paul and Ringo laughed and all fell silent as the band began their trek down the long hallway towards the doorway of their suite.

"What do y's'ppose is taking Mal so long?" Ringo proclaimed after a while, breaking the advanced silence that had befallen them, "He said he'd be with us shortly jus' moments before I came in." He glanced down at the watch hugging his wrist. "Something or someone must've slowed him down."

"And what of it, Sherlock?" John sharply muttered, turning to stare the drummer down, "He was a big boy last I checked..." he faltered momentarily as though to re-gather his thoughts, "or would y'rather hold his hand through this most difficult of times?"

Paul shook his head in regards to the rhythm guitarist's unnecessarily extreme overreaction. Rather than address him on his sporadic behavior as was his initial instinct, he decided to casually carry on with the source of conversation Ringo had been trying to infuse, "Well, I suppose he should be along any moment now, I'd think, Rings..." he responded slowly, wary eyes discreetly probing John all the while, "Might take a while considering the fact that he either has to wait fer the elevator or take the stairs... courtesy of a certain someone!" He glared at the back of George's head.

"Regardless, I'm bloody knackered as is," John responded, wasting no time on asserting his own opinion, "So he'd better hurry up. I've got an irreversible date with me bed that begins the moment I enter the suite." He then added with a bit of a sneer, "Hope none of y'sods plan on needing me fer the rest of the evening."

"But aren't ye' hungry?" Paul asked, still outwardly baffled by Lennon's cryptic behavior.

"No more than ye' are intrusive," John retorted snidely.

Paul recoiled once more. Jesus Christ. This was getting bloody ridiculous. Perhaps, John was upset with him after all. But why? Did he even want to know by this point? The way Lennon was carrying on, any insight alone might kill him. "Are... you... upset with me, John?" he hesitantly blurted out.

John turned on him so fast, Paul was certain he was about to fall prey to some sort of verbal abuse. But just as suddenly, the rhythm guitarist softened and all traces of impulsive exasperation melted away. "No..." he sighed.

"Then what's the matter, John?" Paul prodded, "Are... you ... all right?"

John looked as though he was about to reveal something but he quickly thought better of it, his demeanor changing yet again, "I'm fine, y'fairy. Go bother someone else."

Despite the smile he flashed following his statement, he somehow looked mentally tormented. Painfully despondent... It was all in his eyes. 'Something's wrong...' Paul concluded. Though what it was, he didn't know. All he knew was that it didn't take a psychiatrist to be able to see past his charade. "Are ye' sure yer-"

"Great," George took the time to impatiently butt in from his distant settlement in front of their suite's locked door. "He's fine, yer fine, we're all fine. Now, does someone know how to pick a lock or what? If I wait fer Mal, I might die waiting..."

"I told ye', George!" Paul snapped, momentarily tearing his eyes off John so he could fix him with a glare, "We're waiting fer Mal!"

"Waiting, waiting... always waiting fer someone..." George muttered.

"Yer a selfish bastard when yer hungry, y'know that?" Ringo laughed.

"Well good," the lead guitarist responded indignantly, "Perhaps, you'll think better of depriving me of food next time."

"We didn't deprive you of anything!" Paul responded in a fit of incredulity, "Jesus Christ, Harri!"

"I'm about to deprive 'im of something all right," John challenged, his eyes narrowing in growing aggravation. He pushed past Paul and made his way to the door, roughly casting George aside. Within a matter of seconds, he had the door open.

"John Winston Lennon!" Ringo exclaimed in disbelief, his voice going high-pitched to mirror a mother scolding her son.

"He did!" George proclaimed in pure elation, "Ta, Johnny!!" He was the first one into the suite, his legs carrying him swiftly towards the kitchen.

"Mal will 'ave yer head," Paul admonished with a shake of the head as he made a move to close the door after everyone had entered.

"Do I look worried?" John responded, aiming a cheeky grin at him. Again, his eyes were contradicting; telling stories all their own that weren't related to the subject at hand.

Paul frowned, "Well, not quite... though y'do look-"

John dismissively waved him off. "I'm gon' catch up on me sleep..." he interrupted, making it quite obvious that he wasn't interesting in hearing how he currently looked. "Tell Geo to keep quiet should he find the need to intrude on me privacy." He turned his back on the bassist and had only taken but a few steps in the direction of his bedroom before the sounds of a key in the lock of the suite's main entrance caught his ears. Paul too, stopped to listen. "Blimey, it's Mal!" he apprehensively announced after a while.

John brushed off the bassist's obvious concerns, "Settle down, would ye'? What, y'think he's gon' punish us? Confine us to our bedrooms? Aren't we pretty much under house arrest?"

Paul snickered. "We are, aren't we?"

The door opened right then revealing, as expected, their road manager. The look on his face justified Paul's initial concerns to a tee. "How'd y'boys get in?" he demanded, his eyes settling on John's first before gravitating to Paul.

"Magic," John quipped, "I'm a wizard... with doors..."

"Yer a wizard with trouble, as well," Mal muttered, zeroing his gaze on the rhythm guitarist, "I should've known y'were the one behind this!"

John rolled his eyes. "'S'not me fault y'took so bloody long," he responded irritably, "We're bloody knackered and don't entirely fancy waiting around all day... Ask Geo."

Mal shook his head impatiently, his gaze moving towards the kitchen where quite the clatter could be heard. Both George and Ringo were what easily could've been estimated as waist-deep in grub. "Never mind. I'll deal with it later," the road manager mumbled, stepping further into the suite and moving to close the door behind him. "I'm afraid there are more pressing matters at hand."

"Like what?" Paul asked.

Mal sighed. "I got caught up speaking with hotel security which is actually what ended up delaying me. Turns out, there have been some reporters sniffing about the vicinity without proper permission."

"What?" both Paul and Ringo chorused, their voices coming together from opposite ends of the room.

John bristled visibly, the increased tension in his body catching Paul's peripheral vision. Alarmed, the bassist turned to him with questioning eyes, "All right?" he whispered.

John nodded with a bit of a grunt and turned away from him, his gaze resettling on the direction of his and George's shared bedroom.

Paul furrowed his brow in a bit of rising confusion but quickly brushed off the entire occurrence. "Well, where are they now?" he asked.

"They've been removed from the premises," Mal revealed, "Hotel security, however, has been elevated."

"Wonder what they wanted," George outwardly mused through a mouthful of scone.

"What do y'think, genius?" John snapped at him, "What does the press ever want? Cookies? Lemonade?"

"Now, John-" Mal started to reprimand.

His words immediately fell on deaf ears as the blatantly troubled rhythm guitarist once again, proceeded to turn away from all of them, clearly no longer in a state of listening. "'Quiet Beatle' in deed," he was busy muttering to himself, a permanent scowl planted firmly on his face as he started away en route to his room, "Clueless is more like it..."

Paul sighed as he allowed his eyes to follow his mate, wonderment regarding his recently acquired state of being, continuing to flood his mind. It was more than obvious now that the rhythm guitarist was in some kind of altered state of sulking. Playful prankster Lennon had been carelessly left behind somewhere only to be replaced with his cynical and low-spirited other half. It was possible he was just knackered and grumpy as the rest of them were. While there was probably truth in that, Paul, in one way or another, couldn't bring himself to the full certainty that it was entirely the case. With John being the way he was, he hated to think that something out of the ordinary could actually be wrong with him. Such mishaps when they occurred within that twisted mind of his would usually spiral quickly out of control before they'd even begin to show the slightest signs of fixing themselves. And Paul, he'd worry. He was always worried, though he could never quite figure out why. Perhaps, it was the state of mind Lennon had unwittingly succumbed to over the past several months. The bassist had been keeping tabs on the steady decline seemingly overcoming him for a good portion of time now. He'd been drinking more, smoking more, sleeping more, eating more, and overall he was by some means, much more subdued than Paul had ever seen him. He'd lost his fire... His spark... His fight. He was tired. Tired of a lot of things. Tired of the lifestyle that accompanied fame. And because of all of it combined, every little tribulation, no matter how small, was always quick to consume him; bringing him down to the dark depths of anger, frustration, and if powerful enough, self-destruction. Paul could count on several fingers how many times the rhythm guitarist had nearly succeeded on drinking himself to death over something going on in his life he wasn't in a state of handling. He solemnly hoped that whatever current problem that may or may not be bothering his mate, wasn't strong enough or significant enough to trigger the worries already fighting to work their way out from his heart.