1962, hamburg.

the boys had had a bunch of gigs last night, in some random clubs and pubs, and now you were all sitting in the bedroom of some kind-enough stranger, smoking and drinking any pills you guys could find in the house’s bathroom.

it was hot and stuffy this morning, and you all were barely wearing any clothes. you were all totally out of it, too. so early in the morning yet already so high.

john sat with his head against the wall, shirtless, strumming random melodies on his guitar as you mumbled gibberish lyrics to the tune, laying on your stomach on the cold floor.

george was asleep beside you, proper naked apart from his boxers, and he had a black eye from a fight he got in earlier today.

stu and astrid were cuddled up in the corner, kissing and giggling quietly.

pete smoked a cigarette on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

ringo was sat in the corner of the room, tapping drum beats mindlessly on his thighs and drinking a beer.

paul, ever the sensible one, was a little more sober than the rest. still high, but atleast he was conscious. he sat beside john, watching as you hummed your own sweet melodies.

“sing, baby..” john encouraged you, a tired smirk on his face. his eyes were totally glazed over and his mouth was agape, yet his fingers still strummed.

gosh, how that boy loved you.