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The Hills

Chapter Text

The second floor, the administration of the Hills. A big, echoey room, that you would expect to be painted greyly, but on the contrary, it featured four walls and each wall painted in a different designs, not matching it their shapes or colours. Each wall had been done by one of the original 4 groups of residents. Firstly there was an elegant part, painted in black and red, with very coordinated shapes in it’s bottom two sides. This was painted by the two oldest residents, both in age and time they had lived there. Ozzy and Sharon Osborne. This part mixed, slightly non harmonically with another, this one slightly more colourful, but elegantly coordinated despite it’s various colours and designs. The artists were the next door residents to the last, 903, a band called Queen. The next was even more colourful than the last, but this feature a huge drawing of Apollo in it, his figure painted not only with talent, but generosity in certain parts. This was painted by the two friends and talented artists in 902, Elton John and George Michael. The previous, served as a transition for the final wall and the most psychedelic and not coordinated, yet perfectly sync painting. The colours mixed in weird shapes that let the imagination wander a bit in some parts. Apartment 904 painted this, a band formed by four lads from Liverpool, that had moved to London to start recording and try to earn their deserved fame. The Beatles.

Still, these were just the original residents. Right now all the residents, well the ones that bothered to come, were sitting on the floor, which featured a bunch of multicoloured rugs as it’s cover. They chatted among themselves , throwing spiky looks around the room, between serious people, when with a clearing a her throat Sharon made the talking slowly mute it self.

Her husband mumbled a bunch of random curse words as he went quickly and without paying attention through the little bunch of papers in his wrinkled hands. -Everyone is here so, let's start-

-but the pe-

- shut the fuck up Bono.- he spoke without looking up as he tried to remember what the topic of the reunion were. -Sharon, luv, what... What were you gonna talk about here?

-The noise darling.- Sharon whispered to him affectionately.

-What noise? -Ozzy looked confused at her.

-Leave it to me, darling. -She gave him a little kiss on the cheek and rubbed his arm as she turned to the others that had started to talk again. -Everyone! We are here to take care if a little issue that has been complained about. The noise problem.

Sharon was suddenly interrupted by an old, American man that put his fat and wrinkled finger up in the air as he spoke. -Yes, baby, these little wannabes keep making an incredible, uhhh amount of noise and I ,uhhh, need my beauty sleep, alright?

-It’s not working. -Whispered Ozzy, not so quietly to Sharon, earning a very heated look from the old, fat, greased up Elvis. Coming into the conversation were the other part of the argument, the young residents of the 9th floor.

-It’s not our fault that your fat arse doesn’t know how to party anymore! -Said one of the auburn haired, hazel eyed and hawk nosed young man from 904, earning a nod from the slightly darker haired, light hazel eyed and puppy dog eyed young man that was lying in his lap, playing on his iphone.

-Yes, darling, John is spot on. I bet that fat queen is just jealous. -This time the one to speak was one of the men who lived on 903. The heavy moustached, dark eyed, carbon hairy indian man, the talented singer of the band and close friend to the previous speaker. Freddie.

-Look here young man! You should have uhh more respect! -Elvis grew red as another young man, this time the slightly ginger and thin hairy, buck-toothed man that shared the flat 901 with one of his closest friends. -Yeah Aretha thought so too.

Both Elton and his close friend and flatmate George Michael laughed along with the rest of the gang from the 9th floor, making Elvis, the owner of the whole floor above them grow redder and redder, looking as though he was just about to explode when Sharon spoke up. -Now, behave boys! How about we try to keep things quiet? Just after 2am, alright?.

- 2AM! but my-

-Shut up you fucking fat pig! My wife is fucking speaking you cunt! -Old Ozzy used his extensive vocabulary to shut the other old man, not failing to make him turn bright red, almost purple in anger.

-So, it’s settled then, after 2 am no more messing about. Okay lads?. -Sharon spoke in a motherly voice to her next door neighbours.

-What about my moon rituals? -Asked one of the residents of 701, a brunet with a ratter potato nose and big mouth called Roger Waters. -I need to sing to mother moon to keep my spirit aligned and creativity flowing.

Sharon thought for a bit as Elvis threw her a spiky look, soon clicking her tongue and speaking again. -oh you can do that, just try to keep it down, okay?

Elvis opened his mouth again in anger, but as everyone in the room threw him looks, wanting to leave one of their longest meetings yet already, he groaned and stood up -with difficulty, but never the less making a scene- and left angrily.

Ozzy smiled in his sleepy way. -Well I guess this fuckery is over. Time for a fucking cuppa.-   

Chapter Text

Tea time was sacred, the ritual started when they first moved in.

They were throwing away a few boxes when they walked pass this buck toothed fellow with a mustache that was talking to a ginger-ish man was big, pink, sparkling glasses. They sneaked a look as they went to the trash disposal in the hall, but soon they were called out. “Oi! You two live in 904, right?”

They walked back to their door, that was just across the hall from where the mustached and ginger-ish men stood and nodded. “Us and two of our mates. I'm Paul and this is my.... John.”

The opposite two exchanged a discreet look and smiled shaking hands with their newly met neighbors. “I’m Elton and this is Freddie. You are just moving in as well?” said the ginger man with an slightly too sparkly set of trousers.

“Yes, we just finished unpacking the last boxes. We were just popping out the throw this out before tea.” John commented motioning to the end of the hall (where the trash disposal was) with his head as he leaned slightly against the beje walls of the hall.

“Do you know any of the others?” Asked the heavily mustached man with a slightly posh accent.

“Just the owners of the building. Ozzy and Sharon Osbourne from 901.” George came into the conversation as he walked out of their apartment to the trash. “They are really gear, specially Sharon. She cooks really posh stuff.” He opened the door to the small closet where the trash disposal was to find a strange curly, dark haired man with red eyes moving the trash about as he mumbled gibberish that seemed to weirdly rhyme. “Ey, there’s a bloke in the trash place.”

“Stop calling attention, George.” Paul spoke in disregard, as Ringo came out of the apartment as well. “ey, it’s all out. How about tea?” He suggested with a smile.

“Wait, George is making a scene again.” John spoke annoyed.

“Am not, come and see.” All the man in the hall followed the suggestion and as they peeked into the small closet they were all shocked to see that George was actually telling the truth.

“Roger!” Freddie called out calmly.

“yeah?” Roger, a blond, skinny man that almost reached Paul’s level of female like features, peeked out after a few seconds, from the door of apartment 903 walking to where the others stood. “Isn’t that the lad from the 6th floor that was sitting in the front garden when we came in?"

"The one that was staring at his phone mumbling?" Roger completed.

"Yeah."

"I think so, he is a mate of the bloke. The one with the dark hair, thinks he is deep..."

"Waters?" Elton asked.

"Yes! Think we should call him?" Freddie questioned as the strange man kept mumbling rhyming gibberish.

"Hmmmm, meh he is probably writing a song." Roger concluded as John and Paul look back at each other with a very clear "WTF" expression.

“It’s a different way to explore your creativity.” Roger tried to justify the man’s weirdness.

“If you say so.” John shook his shoulders as he closed the door to the small closet. “Now, How about tea? At our flat.” John spoke as he lead the rest away from the previous scene.

“Thank you darling we’d love to, right Betty?” Freddie asked Roger with a shy smile. “That’s cool yeah.”

“How about you Elton?” Paul continued, liking how polite and not John, John was being.

“Well, I can’t refuse a good tea party, but only if I can bring over some scones and toast.” They all agreed and entered the Beatles’s flat. It was a medium flat. Once you walked into the door there was a small entering hall that had an opening on the left that went to the kitchen and in front it opened up to the living room, which at the moment featured just two old couches, a media centre with a TV, Paul’s upright piano (still wrapped up in bubble wrap) and a John’s Vinyl player with All the lad’s vinyls scattered around it. “Sorry about the mess, our stuff is still between bubble wrap and boxes.” Paul spoke as a good host as his new neighbors, with a few additions that weren’t present for the strange moment in the hall, all sat scattered around the living room and kitchen, but obviously John couldn’t resist, with the presence of a crowd, the opportunity for one of his twisted jokes. So as he walked passed Freddie and his curly haired, very soft voiced guitarist Brian and sat on one of the two stools on this side of the counter that separated the kitchen from the living room, he joked. “Well at least the dildos are all unpacked.”

The guests were taken back and Paul almost spit his drink as he widened his doe eyes, still soon laughter broke out Paul calmed down. Other jokes and private chats broke out after it, giving John the timing to walk discretely behind Paul and softly pinch his shoulder, relaxing the tense muscles. Leaning down he whispered: “Calm down, darling.”

“You just told a dildo joke John, how the fuck can I be calm?” Paul spat in a taut voice, still being careful to not let any of the others in the room notice the argument going on. Moving to the floor, John sat down on the ground next to the chair where Paul sat, looking up he lifted his brow. “Paul it’s 2015, there is no fucking shame in liking some butt action, also I think at least half of the people here are gay or at least bisexual.”

Paul looked down at John a little confused, making the one on the floor giggle slightly and smile. “You really need to fix your gay-dar, mate.”

“I don’t have a gay-dar, because I’m not gay.” Paul spat again, crossing his legs as he looked away from John. He laughed and getting up off the floor he whispered, “Bisexuals have it too.” He walked off to the kitchen.

After a few long chats and a bigger amount of tea cups and scones the doorbell rang. “I hope you all don’t mind, but I told one of my mates to come over when he got here.” Elton went to the door, opening it and after kissing the slightly weird looking man with a huge forehead on the cheek, he introduced him. “This is Bernie.”

The man stood slightly closed up into himself as the others smiled. “Sorry, to be a spoil sport, but Elton we need to work on those songs.” He added with a slightly dry look to his face as he crossed his arms in front of his body.

“oh yeah, be right over, darling.” Elton answered, letting the man walk away again as Elton stood and said his goodbyes.

“Who was that?” Asked George to Elton’s blond, puffy haired, one earing wearing, metrosexual looking flat mate.

“That is Bernie, I don’t know much about him apart from the fact that he is writes songs with Elton and is always around, even in our last flat.” Responded George Michael. “Also their is something a bit off about him, but I can never say what.”

“Probably gay.” John interrupted, revealing that he was listening in the whole time.

George Michael chuckled, “you are quite the nosey one.”

“Ey! That’s nosefobia! I don’t take that kind of prejudice in my flat! It’s the 21th century!” John went on, till George cut him off. “Lay off, George is not used to your shit.”

Well for now he wasn’t and a slightly awkward laugh escaped the blond man’s lips, but in the days and weeks to come this tea time ritual would repeat itself in their various flats and with each tea time that passed the bunch of rock star wannabes got closer and closer.

Chapter Text

John Winston Lennon, he is a constant pain in my arse, quite literally. If you think sharing a flat with family is hard, try sharing one with your three bandmates/ your boyfriend and best friends. He is constantly making me want to rip off my skin. Every morning I try to get up quickly and early to get the day started, but everyday it's the same thing, "come paulie, lie in" he says in his sweet sleepy voice as he takes he into his naked arms, I'm always late for work.

During the day the flat is a madhouse, John is never actually at work, so he pretty much just prances around in his red boxers all day, with the stereo on with his Spotify playlist playing. Try writing songs or doing anything for that matter while someone is singing "I will survive" in a high pitched voice in the highest volume possible!

Food, god how I roo the day I went to cooking class with John. He is always cooking now, making the most amazing meals ( while wearing close to nothing under his "kiss the cook" apron), I swear to god I've gone up almost 10 fucking kilos and he refuses to exercise or let me exercise! He always says "you're perfect, I like your fatty muscles" yeah fatty muscles, he drives me up the wall with what he calls "going to the gym". He does go there, to get massaged and go to the pool.

And the drawings, poems and doodles, he is constantly leaving these little things everywhere, not just at the flat, but at work, on my car, even on my bike! Once I had traveled with dad to see my aunty that was sick and John had to stay behind, because we had a show and he was gonna fill in, and when I came back I found the whole flat flooded with post notes, each and everyone of them with little notes, some had doodles and some had beautiful poems. He finds it clever.

 

Such a beautiful, quirky, cheeky, pain in my arse.




James Paul McCartney, fucking little tease he is. If you think some girls are teases, you have never dated Paul McCartney.

 

Every morning come six thirty he's up. First, he stretches, then he gets up and walks past our bed shaking his juicy little ass just for me. I ask him to just lie with me for a second but then he turns on those puppy eyes. Those fuckin puppy eyes. They work on everyone but me... Well most of the time. They drive me crazy, he turns them on for anything, from whose turn it is to do laundry to who's topping tonight.

Paul collects stamps. (Dork.) He nearly orgasms every time the postman arrives. You would think that a musician like him would spend his days off writing or practicing. But no. He cleans and works from dusk to dawn. The thing is I ALREADY CLEAN EVERY DAY. I swear, if I ever have to lift my feet for him to sweep the floor again, I'll kill him. When I cook for him, he prances around me worrying that I'll burn the bloody pot and he wipes the counter before I've even taken the food off it. It’s a wonder that I'm allowed in the house with shoes on.

Paul is a chubby rabbit. And love it, more cushion for the pushin' but the problem is he thinks he is a pink elefant. More than once I've found him standing on the scales in the bathroom, crying his eyes out, it broke my heart. They call him fattie at work and I think it’s really getting to him, but I still love him all the same.

I show him how much i love him every second of the day. I leave him notes around the house, I make him his lunch, I even make him his stupid rabbit food dinners when he's on another fat-free, food-free diet. The one thing that gets me the most is his obsession with Siri. I swear he loves her more than he loves me. Just this morning he asked her what he should wear. But the other day when i was in the bath I heard him ask her about the price of engagement rings. He can bugger off if he thinks I’m marrying him.

 

My little cleaning freak, gym rat teddy bear. He may tease me and drive me up the bloody wall but I love him and i will forever more.