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He avoids mirrors. He isn’t sure when he starts doing it, but he hasn’t seen himself naked for months. It’s something he’s acutely aware of, even as he tries to pretend it’s not there, a mutant crouching behind his navel. Gnawing.
He pursues every possible mode of punishing himself. There’s something satisfying in the control, the discipline. But even that is a certain kind of illusion; it is out of his hands. He can’t stop even if he wants to.
The blow helps, and he’s been doing a lot of it. But not as much as Paul. Was always a bit of a glutton, Paul. His unwavering, infuriating confidence expands tenfold when he’s high, which is as sexy to John as it is irritating. Especially considering Paul is happy to snort anything within arm’s reach but still refuses to drop acid with John.
None of the others have made any comments on John’s weight loss except Paul, in fact. Not that he has meant to lose weight. Or — not that he’s done it fully on purpose, like he’s set it as a grand goal. It’s just something that’s happened, a side effect of the Beatles machine. It’s just something that he’s let happen.
John loves food. And he’s never had such unmitigated access to it before. Anything he wants, anything he can think of, and it’s delivered to him in record time. He’s taken advantage of that the last couple years, and he’s paid for it. The Fat Beatle. So when he’s tempted by chocolate, or jelly babies, or steak and chips, he gets a bird instead. Sex and food — he can’t begin to explain the way they beget one another.
And sometimes, when he goes overboard, when he loses his carefully curated control and the shame becomes unbearable, he finds himself on his knees, like now, sticking his long fingers down his throat and gagging. It takes a couple tries, the cold porcelain hard against his kneecaps, before he’s actually heaving. Even this, he can’t seem to get quite right.
The sounds of the party outside drown out his retching. Tears escape the corners of his eyes, mixing with the saliva dripping from his chin. He leans for a moment, spitting into the toilet, gathering himself.
Someone bangs on the door. “Fuck off,” he snarls, standing, wobbling as he does. There’s shame in this, too. This new ritual.
He splashes water on his face. Doing this in public — well, semi-public — that’s a new low for him. He braces himself on the sink, trying to regulate his breathing.
Another bang on the door, this time with a familiar voice. “Alright?”
“Mind yer fuckin’ business,” John hollers back a little too quickly. Bile rises in his throat again, the fear of being found out, whatever this is. Paul laughs on the other side of the door, but he doesn’t say anything else, evidently moving back into the pulse of the party. Always the fucking center of attention. Everyone desperate to get their piece of him.
John splashes his face again. He fishes in the medicine cabinet for a bottle of Lavoris, shrugs his jacket back on, and flushes the toilet on his way to unlock the door. John Winston Lennon, securely back in his cage. Beatle John, slipping into his skin, easy as anything.
He doesn’t look in the mirror once.