Work Text:
July (1964), Australia
“What’s got him in such a mood then?”
Paul looked up at the sound of George’s voice, soft and a little hesitant-sounding as it floated along his way. He was sat on the floor of another nameless bland hotel room, his back pressed up against the edge of the couch and a fat, expertly rolled joint hanging between his lips. Through swimming vision, he leant his head backwards and looked up to George, curled into the corner of the sofa above him, long, thin legs tucked up and crossed tightly. He wasn’t smoking a joint- or at least, not anymore- and had instead swapped to a cigarette. His eyes were rimmed red as he blew a curl of musty smoke into the air, but he wasn’t as high as Paul- just comfortably mellow. Paul, on the other hand felt like he was floating. He laughed a little to himself, remembering Brian’s words the first time they’d smoked with Bob. I’m on the ceiling- their usually clean-cut manager had giggled like a child. I’m so high, I’m on the ceiling.
“Paul?”
Paul blinked slowly, following George’s eye to the person sprawled sideways in the armchair across from them, chin resting on the flat edge of his palm and a stern frown pulling at his clean face. Oh, he thought to himself. He remembered now.
John.
John had been in a foul mood since they’d left the studio, sweat clinging to the auburn tips of his hair and making it stick flat against his forehead. He’d all but ripped his guitar off his body and tossed it vaguely in Mal’s direction, unflinching when it clattered to the floor. George had winced as if he’d been thrown before immediately making a beeline to their waiting car, mumbling under his breath about how they all really needed to chill out- which was now a well-known code between them for smoking half an ounce of pot between the four of them.
Ringo had left some time ago- something about a wicked looking bird with no gag reflex waiting for him back in his and George’s shared room. Effectively blacklisted from his bed, George had stayed with them in the room Paul and John were supposed to be sharing- not a willing bird in sight- and helped Paul smoke his way through the rest of their stash. John had joined in initially, still dark and brooding but with a slightly softer edge once he got the end of a joint in his mouth, but after some initial mundane chit-chat about how they thought the session went and what they thought of the girl in the front row of the show last week who’d tried and failed to jump the barrier and thrust herself up on stage he’d retreated back into himself and refused to speak to either of them, instead grumbling to himself and staring blankly out the window where the last few straggling fans were waiting through the night in shallow hope of catching a glimpse.
Paul, in the back of his mind, had initially put himself on John-watch but in the cloud of strong weed and too much dark rum he hated to admit that he’d forgotten his duty as John’s fucking personal carer. More so- thinking deeper about it as he swam around the air above their heads- why should he be John’s fucking designated sounding board anyway? Why was it always up to him to coax John out of his foul, biting moods, traipsing behind him and making sweet apologies when John snapped at strangers and insulted reporters and made innocent birds feel intimidated?
Deep down, Paul knew the answers to all his own questions. It still didn’t make things fair.
“I’ll talk to him.” He promised George, reaching up to tap his friends knee in a way he hoped was reassuring, even if his reply came in at around five minutes too late.
“He can hear you, y’know.”
Both George and Paul’s eyes snapped forwards to John, who briefly looked round from where he’d been tucked in foetal position- his back to them and frowning face buried in the soft cushion, gaze lingering on the window in the corner of the room- to glare at them both. Paul was frozen; being such a natural charmer, he was usually the first person to spring into action in a pathetically awkward situation like this to effortlessly smooth things over. It was easy- all Paul had to do was mutter a few sweet words in a bird’s ear and soon she’d be putty in his hands, John’s acidic wit be damned. It was just a lot harder to do when the pissed off bird in question was John, and it was even worse when he was higher than a kite and barely able to string a coherent sentence together.
“I should… probably see where Ringo’s got to with that bird.” George muttered, awkwardly patting his knees and clambering to his feet, only a little unsteady. John barely glanced at him before setting his wicked glare back on Paul, who suddenly felt two foot small himself, down on the floor. His polo neck was clinging to his throat, making him sweat underneath his jacket and his eyes were stuck looking up into John’s, trapped in his sweet brown gaze. “Night lads.” George called from the hotel room door. John didn’t turn. Paul managed to drag his eyes away from John’s for a second long enough to give George a small nod.
With a silent quirk of his magnificent, burning brows, George silently asked him: will you be okay, with him?
Paul gave a small nod and tried his best to smile. George was a bloody good friend like that, sometimes. None of them deserved him- except maybe Ringo- but certainly not John and Paul. Paul made mental note to pay more attention to their skinny lead guitarist. it was so easy to lose George in the suffocating Beatle bubble with his and John’s bubbling pot of song lyrics and always-burning candle wick of tension. Ringo, being so relaxed that if he got any more laid-back he’d fucking fall over, was content to melt into the madness and get by with some tropical pot, sweet liquor and a few nice-looking birds to tide him over. George was not so easily satisfied and certainly a lot less vocal in his discontent- and Paul felt that now, more than ever, he hardly knew what went on in the youngest Beatle’s head. Back in Liverpool, before the fame and the birds and even before John (a time that seemed so unimaginable now that John saturated every inch of him, he sometimes almost forgot it existed at all) he and George had been thick as thieves. It was not-so-funny how quickly things had changed for them all.
Not he and John though. The deal between them was the same as ever.
Looking at John, with his wispy brown fringe and his steely glare and the way his thin lips curled around the fresh cigarette Paul hadn’t seen him reach for, he remembered the first time. He’d always remember the first time.
They’d been young. Stupidly so- he’s pretty sure they were still The Quarrymen and John hadn’t yet let George in the band on the pretence that he looked ‘even younger than you do Paulie, and almost as queer!’ so he couldn’t have been older than sixteen. They’d played a half decent gig at a good-for-nothing pub on the outskirts of town for half a crowd of underage drinkers. John had blown all their pay-check on getting inordinatley drunk before, during and after their forty-five minute set and fuming, Colin had loaded his drums onto the back of Larry Doyle’s cousin’s uncle’s van and fucked off with Len and maybe Rod- (it seemed so long ago, sometimes it was hard to remember who was still in the band and who had long made themselves scarce) leaving them both behind. In truth, he’d offered Paul a spot clinging to the inside of the metal walls as they raced back to their neck of the woods, but Paul had respectfully declined. For one, he still didn’t feel like a solid part of the group quite yet (let alone solid enough to leave their leader lying in the lurch, alone) but also- more importantly- he didn’t want to leave John.
They’d staggered home back to Paul’s dad’s house- walked forty minutes through the half-formed, spitting rain and John transformed from the all-swinging all-shouting angry drunk Paul was used to seeing him as. Only an hour before, he’d seen John headbutt a guy in the pub toilets because he thought he was staring at him. Now, traipsing home drunk and dejected, John was a different kind of drunk.
He was quiet, which was odd. After a few thoughtful minutes watching, Paul realised there was a much worse truth. John was sad.
“If you’re going to start saying some soppy shite, get it over with.” John reclined in the armchair slightly, flicking his smoked-out fag off in no particular direction. Paul didn’t pay attention to where it landed, too mesmerised by John’s beautiful hands and the slight wobble in his voice.
“I was gonna say you’re a swine.” Paul teased, hoping to lighten the mood. John huffed an attempt at a laugh, but avoided Paul’s eye, looking away to nowhere in particular.
“The next film better be a bit less shite.” John mused, shifting around to sit properly in the chair, legs planted firmly on the floor. Then, he reached forwards to pick his forgotten scotch up off the table, and necked the rest of the glass.
“Might film some bits somewhere hot though, according to Brian. Maybe the Bahamas.”
“Might be nice, I suppose. Won't be any grass there though.”
“Better bring our own then.”
That at least brought the ghost of a smile back to John’s face, although it curled with something a little more acidic that made Paul shiver.
“Little James-Paul-McCartney,” he hummed. “-smuggling drugs across the Great British border? What would your mother think, ay son?”
At that, Paul instantly stiffened. John noticed, of course, but made a big show of pretending he didn’t- dropping his glass to the carpet and fishing in his jacket for another cigarette. Paul couldn’t stand to look at him anymore, instead focusing on how his hands were beginning to solidify again, skin tingling. It was hard to keep a dreamy, mellow high when John was insisting on being so fucking acerbic. It had been this way in 1959 too- walking home from the shithole gig. Only that time, it wasn’t Paul’s dead mother John wanted to make sly comments about.
It was his own.
“Fuckin’ slut-” John grumbled, kicking a can across the street as they turned down Forthlin Road and Paul said a silent prayer in thanks that his dad was staying at his aunts after helping paint her dining room and Mike was sleeping over at a mate’s. It was the only reason he’d dragged John back home- knowing from experience how amused one Jim McCartney was with his new teddy-boy best friend and his frequently irresponsible, drunken behaviours.
“She just wasn’t into you mate.” Paul had laughed, remembering the little slip of a blonde who looked just enough like Cynthia to maybe ease some of the guilt John had tried his hand at chatting up after his fourth rum and black as his hand rested at the small of John’s back. It was just to lead him up the garden path- help him as he was swaying side to side, staggering all over the place. That was the only reason Paul had to touch him like that. That was the only reason.
“Still, I didn’t think she was that good-looking anyway. One of her front teeth was all crooked-”
“-not her, you fucking idiot.” John attempted to snarl, but it came out more as a bitter sob when they fell through the front door together. Only then, in the light of the hall with the front door safely closed behind them, did he notice the dark pink splotches covering John’s face and the tear-stains that tracked down his soft cheeks.
“If not her then who, John?” Paul asked, heart clenching with worry. John just turned his face away, aggressively wiping away at his eyes with the rough leather sleeve of his jacket. “John?” he tried again, chasing John round as he tried desperately to turn his face so Paul wouldn’t be able to see him. “Johnny, John- look at me.” without thinking, he reached up and grasped John’s face in-between his hands, holding him steady. “What is it?”
“Me fucking mam, Paul.” John cried, finally allowing the stubborn tears to fall from his eyes and drip down onto the front of his teddy-boy jacket, a tear glistening on one of his metal pins. “First she fucking left me on Mimi’s doorstep and fucked off and then she fucking died Paul. She left me twice. Where’s the fairness in that?”
“I’m so sorry John.” Paul whispered, because he didn’t know what else to say. It had barely been a year since Julia Lennon had passed away, struck down by a drunken policeman. Paul knew that devastatingly raw, bitter pain only too well, having lost his own mother just a few years previous. He knew saying sorry wouldn’t make things better. He knew all the things that John probably didn’t want to hear and most importantly, he knew why John spent so much time drinking himself into a stupor and picking fights with random strangers just to feel something. Paul had focused his sadness into other mediums: music and guitars and making sure his little brother had a reason to smile every once in a while. In all honesty, Mike was probably the only reason he hadn’t fallen down the same beaten path as John after his mother’s passing. Unlike John- Paul had someone he needed to be strong for. John had no-one.
Or. Well. Paul blushed even thinking it.
(He’s got me)
“You haven’t even realised the date, have you?” John said, eyeing Paul curiously. Neither of them had moved in minutes- Paul still sprawled on the floor with sweat making his palms clammy and John still above him, in the armchair, watching tensely on. Paul looked up at him, finally forcing himself to look John in the eyes and face their truth. When he locked eyes with John then, he suddenly felt stone cold sober. He remembered the date- now he fucking remembered it, of course. No wonder John had been in the foulest of foul moods all day. No wonder pot hadn’t even been enough to make him soften up.
15th July. 1964.
Six years since John’s mum had passed.
John was crying before he had a chance to blurt out I’m so fucking sorry, Johnny and Paul’s legs sprang to life on their own accord. He raced over to John, practically throwing himself into his lap and wrapping his arms around the back of John’s head, clutching him close to his chest. John didn’t hesitate before clinging onto Paul’s shirt with the hand that didn’t immediately dart out to wrap around the small of his back, pulling him as close as possible as he sobbed into the fabric. Paul wanted to cry along with him, but he held back. This was John’s moment, after all. This was the moment- so much like that moment so many years ago- that Paul had to be strong for John, not the other way around.
So Paul held John whilst he cried. They weren’t wearing cheap, tacky leathers and they weren’t holed up in Paul’s childhood bedroom with the creaky floorboards and drafty window but the set up was the same- Paul in John’s lap, John’s face in Paul’s chest, total silence in the room aside from the sound of John’s quiet tears. July was always a tough month for John- for obvious reasons. This wasn’t the first time they’d done this- held each other and cried- and it likely wouldn’t be the last time. Sometimes, Paul felt like joining in. Other times, like this, he just wanted to be the one steady constant John had.
When he was finished, John pulled away and looked up at Paul with eyes that weren’t rimmed red from smoking too much reefer. He let go of Paul’s damp shirt and instead snaked his arms around Paul’s slim waist and pulled him close. In return, Paul wrapped his arms around John’s broad shoulders and hugged him tightly for a few, quiet seconds, before- gut twisting with nerves- he bravely surged forwards and kissed John ever-so-softly on the cheek.
John froze then, pulling back to look up at him.
“We- uh… we can…” Paul spluttered, feeling the nerves of his fourteen-year-old self, stuttering at the concept of getting his first bit of tit around the back of the schoolyard after a shared cigarette and some wet, uncoordinated kissing. “-if… I mean only if you want and not because…”
“-stop talking.” John cut him off, still looking a little dazed but only for a second before his mouth spread into a slow grin. “I know I’m pretty irresistible, but you don’t have to sweet-talk me like a bird, Macca.”
“Come off it, Lennon- you’ve been feeling me up for five minutes!”
John bit his lip and jokingly batted his eyelashes in a way that shouldn’t have been as attractive as it was before squeezing Paul’s rear gently. Paul wasn’t lying. His hand had been settled there for a solid few minutes, even before Paul worked up the courage to so much as cuddle him.
“Guilty.” John’s eyes sparkled, but Paul could tell there was still the glimmer of sadness lurking behind them. “Seriously though, Macca. Thanks. For not being a prick about the whole Julia thing.”
“You lost your mam, John.” Paul sighed, brushing John’s fringe back and tucking the extra-long hairs behind the curve of his ears. “Of all people, I know how fucking awful that is. Plus…” he trailed off with a cheeky smile, leaning forwards so their foreheads touched gently. “… if I can get past the whole: I’m not queer, but you’ve got a lovely arse and I’m not opposed to having a go on it bit, I can get past anything.”
“You’re a swine, McCartney.”
Paul moved even closer, noses brushing along with brows, and laughed against John’s mouth. “I’m your swine, love. Now let me take your mind off all this sad mess before you lose your bottle.”
“Have I ever lost it before?” John gasped in mock-outrage, tilting his head up so their lips brushed, but not pursing his own close enough for them to kiss. Paul moved his hands up from John’s shoulders, closer to the back of his neck, curling his talented fingers through the auburn hair that rested there, thick and soft.
Paul shook his head. “Never ever.”
“Exactly.”
John kissed him then, firm and devoid of all nerves and hesitancy. There were plenty of reasons for them not to do this- John was married to Cyn and had little Jules to look after when he actually had a chance to be around, and Paul had sweet, beautiful Jane with her firecracker head of silken hair and wicked arse. There was also the small matter of the whole affair being, well, queer and most of all- illegal, but they both did their best not to think of that (even if it did sort of make it hotter). There were plenty of reasons for them not to be together in any way apart from kinship- nice, safe brotherly kinship. But then that was hard to remember in moments like these- when John’s strong arms pulled him close until Paul was fully seated in his lap, a knee over each side of his hips and two large, gifted hands splayed over the curve of his ass.
John had touched him like this, too, way back then. It had just taken a little more courage the first time around. Paul still couldn’t believe it to this day- that he’d been the one brave enough to make the first move. He didn’t have the excuse of being blind drunk like John always was. He was stone cold sober then, stone cold (mostly) sober now, and the impending deadly consequences suddenly didn’t seem so scary when his button nose was brushing against John’s hooked one, his teddy boy quiff tickling the edge of Paul’s forehead.
“What’re you doing, Macca?” John had whispered, eyes darting nervously to the wall Paul shared with his dad even though he knew full well they were alone in the house. They were sat opposite each other on the bed, John cross-legged in his leathers and Paul on his knees, leaning forwards, hands on John’s shoulders from where he’d been comforting him. He figured if he’d made it this far without John decking him, well, that must’ve counted for something. He’d certainly seen John go after people for less.
“I don’t know.” He answered, truthfully, and then their lips met; dry, shaking, electric.
“This- mhmm- is- fuck- great ‘n all, Johnny,” Paul panted through kisses that were quickly growing more and more heated, hips rocking forwards on their own accord to get some much-desired friction against John through the tightness of his suit trousers. “-really, fucking hell, John, really good.” He panted into his bandmate’s mouth as John pulled him closer somehow, until it felt like their bodies were melting together. Suddenly, Paul felt like he was on the ceiling all over again. But this time, it wasn’t from the marijuana. “-but do you think we could move on to the bedroom? get some of this lovely kit off.” He tugged at John’s dark green jacket with the black velvet lapels. It was silken and soft beneath his fingers. John always looked so cool- but with the edge of not trying that most people found impossible to carry off.
“Sounds like a plan to me, darling.”
Paul didn’t have a chance to be embarrassed when John gripped him by the hips and practically shoved him off his lap before steering him into the bedroom, wrestling his suit jacket off and guiding him forcefully towards the bed. When he felt the soft edge of the mattress press against the back of his knees, Paul fell back with a laugh, wriggling out of his turtleneck until he was shirtless. John was itching to join him, shucking out of his own clothes at record pace, tinged with desperation as Paul shifted up the bed, kicking his trousers off. He was hard now, achingly so and (as usual) it had all sprung up on him so fast he didn’t have a second to think about his game plan, like he would with a bird. That was part of what made this adventure with John so thrilling every time- it wasn’t like shagging some random bird or even making love to lovely Jane. With John, Paul didn’t have time to think, he just felt, and it seemed as if barely a few seconds had gone by before he was pressed down into the bed, head thrown back against the pillows and legs akimbo as John pushed his thighs back, making him more open and exposed than ever, shining, slick Vaseline coated fingers probing around his entrance with little more than a few mumbled expletives passed between them.
“Are you sure, Paul?” John asked, frozen and tender for a moment with uncertainty shining in his wet eyes as Paul desperately nodded, whining for more until John finally gave in and gave him what he always wanted so bad, despite how wrong and immoral and inexcusable they knew that it was supposed to be.
Buggery- that’s what John called it, for a laugh. It took the heat off slightly, didn’t carry the same overbearing weight as more clinical, serious words like anal or homosexual or sometimes even just sex. Just straight buggery, lad-loving, shagging, fucking. Despite all their clumsy, playful substitutions Paul loved the concept of having sex with John just as much as he did the act itself. He loved this- back arching up so high that his stomach was brushing the sparse hair of John’s chest, hands wrapped tightly in his soft, dark hair. He loved this even more now than he had back then- because in 1959 it was a little gross, getting his fingers covered in that gunk John shoved in his hair to make it stand up on end without shifting for hours. Now, with his shaggy, overgrown mop-top, Paul loved nothing more than running his fingers through John’s hair, feeling the silken edges tickle across his sensitive skin.
Every part of his body felt like it was on fire, burning so sweetly as it did every time John was inside him- lips peppering a smoking trail up the side of his neck, the subtle hint of teeth scraping across the skin of his jawline, making him flush red. Paul would definitely be wearing a series of dark turtlenecks for the next few days, but he wouldn’t let John get off that easy, and with a little defiance he gripped John’s hair incredibly tightly and pulled him down forcefully so that he more or less collapsed on top of Paul, hips still pumping furiously as Paul yanked his head at a sharp angle and with a sudden sense of primal urgency, sunk his teeth into the side of John’s neck with enough force to draw blood. John cried out with a frightening yell, and Paul froze, worrying for a second he’d gone too far and hurt his lover. However, he was greatly surprised when instead of a harsh smack across the upside of head as he was expecting, he was met with the all-too-familiar feeling of something wet and warm, seeping between them.
“Oh my God,” John panted, sounding a more than a little taken aback as he struggled to hold himself up above Paul on the arm that had been clutching the pillows by their heads, breath heaving and sweating gathering at his brow. “I’ve come. Fucking hell Paul- I’ve come!”
“Jesus, that’s a party trick I’ll have to remember!” Paul laughed through the slight discomfort that was John sliding out of him, watching as his lover rolled off him and collapsed on his front, cheeks burning red and hot. He turned his face so that he could look at Paul- who was still flat on his back, legs spread and a little stunned- to be honest- as John could usually outpace him twice over. Even back in the Hamburg days when they’d be in bed, shagging birds side by side, close enough that their arms would brush- he’d been astounded at just how long John could shag for. He’d felt a little sorry for most of the birds John came home with- blissfully unaware of the rigorous workout they were about to be put through. The thought of the mighty John Lennon coming after fifteen minutes of shagging because of his clever mouth did make him pretty smug, and Paul found that he was unable to bite back his smirk. No wonder they called him a princess.
“D’ya want me to finish you off then?” John still sounded a little far-away, like he was waiting for his mind to catch back up with his body, but did regain the strength to nod vaguely at Paul’s erection which was still standing proud, weeping a little at the tip from where it had been woefully neglected. Paul looked down his own front, realising that somewhere in his triumphant internal gloating, he’d actually forgotten about himself.
Until now.
“Uh, duh.” He laughed, and John giggled along with him, shifting closer.
“Alright, alright. Don’t get smarmy with me, sunshine or I’ll leave you there all night.”
“Well then I’ll find Ringo’s bird with the no-gag reflex and have a jolly good time on my own.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
Paul winked. “Course I wouldn’t. C’mere.”
John finished him off with a simple hand job and a not-so-simple pair of thick, talented fingers up his arse and that did the trick more or less in ten minutes flat. Paul watched on happily as John worked with his hands tucked behind his head, loose and pliant. They’d certainly improved in tactics since the early days- rapid, sloppy tug-offs and shy, experimental kitten licks at the bottom of John’s balls had transformed into full on buggery of the highest, most criminal degree. Paul decided that he wouldn’t mind being chucked into a prison cell if it meant he got to share a bunk with John. At least there the act was a little more acceptable.
Afterwards, they laid together- John on his front with his head turned into Paul and Paul on his back, one hand reaching across between them to stroke through John’s hair tenderly and the other cradling the last joint he’d stumbled across in the inside pocket of his jacket. It was the perfect after-sex antidote, and that sleepy, high feeling was creeping over him again, making him giggle quietly over nothing at all. He looked across at John, trying to hand the near-finished joint back over and hoped to see the same stunted laughter mirrored on his partners face. Instead he was surprised to see John gazing at him silently, eyes a little watery, Paul’s bite still angry and red on the side of his neck.
“Are you alright love?” Paul asked, sidling over a little closer, reaching over to abandon the joint in the ceramic ashtray. John didn’t answer, so Paul leant closer, physically pulling John’s head towards his. “Johnny. You alright? Is it the bite? Does it hurt? I’m so sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking-”
“-No, Pud, it’s fine.” John shook his head, and although the familiar teasing nickname relaxed Paul a little it wasn’t enough to distract him from the way John winced slightly when he trailed his hand down from his hair to touch the lesion on his neck. “It’s fine, honest. It’s not that, just ignore me.”
“What’s wrong?” Paul whispered. He’d noticed John had been quiet but usually, after this, he was so fucked out and baked off the pot he forgot all about his aching heartbreak, albeit only for a short while. Then, he’d keep it bottled until it all boiled over and they’d end up in bed like this again, foreheads touching.
“You don’t have to do this you know.” John pulled away from Paul, rolling over so that he was laid on his back, shaking his hair out of his face and pushing it away with his hands, breaths becoming shorter and more unsettled. Paul could tell that John was trying his best not to cry, and he felt his heart break just listening to the quivering, hiccup sounds.
“Do what, Johnny?”
“Let me… you know.” He huffed, forcing himself to look at Paul and nodding vaguely to his naked body, covered only just below the waist by the thin bed sheets. It was baking hot in the Australian summer, and across their trip Paul had taken to sleeping in nothing at all with half a sheet covering his crown jewels, just in case Brian or Mal or one of the nameless roadies (or even worse- a crazed fan disguised in an ill fitting maid-costume ready to cut a lock of his hair for a souvenir) busted in in the morning to rouse him from his inevitable heavy-slumber. “-bugger you.” John finally breathed. “Fuck you. Up the arse. Just because I’m sad and all that… you don’t have to let me… do that to you, I know you’re not a queer, Paul.”
“John” Paul laughed a little, but swallowed it back down immediately when he realised John was in no laughing mood. He pulled his bandmate back closer to him, shifting over to intertwine John’s naked body with his own, peppering desperate kisses over his face as John shook his head and tried to escape his intimate embrace. “John, stop. Look at me.” he took John’s face between his hands, the same way he had that fateful night in 1959 when he was brave enough to kiss him for that very first time and repeated- “Look at me”- a little more forcefully, and John stopped fighting him off. “I don’t tell you this often, John, but you’re wrong.”
“I’m not wrong.”
“You are.” He smiled. “This isn’t… me letting you bugger me because I feel sorry for ya. It isn’t even close to that. I let you bugger me because… well-” he blushed, suddenly realising the intensity of his position- him with John’s tearful face between his eyes and their naked bodies pressed together in a way so unsexual yet so intimate, making his heart race. “-I like it, for starters. You’re quite good at it, you know.”
The ghost of a smile curled on John’s lips. But Paul wasn’t done there.
“…and, well… you know,” he lowered his gaze, avoiding John’s eye. “I love ya, John. I do. You know that, don’t you?”
John didn’t say anything at all. Paul wasn’t even sure he was breathing- but then, that was understandable. He wasn’t breathing either. He didn’t dare breathe, not now. John had to make the next move. Paul had done enough making the move to last a fucking lifetime. He wasn’t sure he had it in him anymore.
“I like ya, John.” He’d whispered it back then, into John’s ear after they’d finished tugging each other off and settled, still half-dressed side by side in Paul’s tiny, single bed. Paul had never felt so alive with just a tiny edge of smugness, rubbing shoulders with John instead of being pressed uncomfortably against his shins when they topped and tailed as all frigid, frightened schoolboys did. There would be no topping and tailing anymore, and laying like this- John’s arm curling around him, urging him to roll onto his side and rest his head in the crook of John’s neck- so it seemed, was their future.
“I like you too, Macca.” John had yawned, turning his head to kiss Paul on the cheek. “I like you a fucking lot. Now feel free to admire me Adonis form as long as you’d like, but I’m going to sleep, I’ve got to skip out of here at an ungodly hour tomorrow morning if I’m gonna be home in time for breakfast or Mimi’ll have my arse.”
“Do you really have to go?” Paul didn’t care like how much of a pathetic bird he sounded, snuggling up to the John Lennon, pressing a kiss into his neck. “Me da’ won’t be home till the afternoon. Mike either, probably-”
“-oh, don’t tempt me.” John had laughed. “Paulie, if I had my way we’d spent every single day like this. Just me and you, in bed. Best fucking mates.”
“Best fucking mates.” Paul repeated, despite how loud his heart seemed to be singing in a way that felt decidedly unfriendly. “Goodnight, Johnny.”
“I love you, Paul.” John looked up at him with a wet tearful smile, before wrapping his arms around Paul’s middle and pulling him into a tight, sweaty hug, rolling them both over so that Paul was flat on his back with John between his legs again, lips trailing tenderly across the edge of his cheek. “I love you so fucking much, fucking hell, it’s been killing me since forever.”
“Forever, really?” Paul asked with a jilt of delight sending shivers through his body. “Am I that good a shag?”
“You’re the best, baby.” John growled and the reverb made Paul’s toes curl the way it always did, whether he was hearing it in a song, on stage, or directly into his ear whenever they were intertwined like this. John wriggled his way back between Paul’s thighs, hands trickling up and down his sides as he continued his kissing past Paul’s neck, down to his collarbone and breastplate. “Best I’ve ever had. Better than any bird.”
He giggled “John.”, trying to pull his partner back up to face level, but John seemed to have other ideas and made his way even lower, down to the soft dark hair dusting around Paul’s belly, stopping just above his half-hard cock which was now waking up at potential chance of a little more attention.
“Prettier than most of the birds too.”
“John!”
“Especially when you whine my name like that, fuckin’ hell-” John bit back a grin before diving head-first, literally, into Paul’s lap, brushing his lips against Paul’s cock which was now standing firm and pink. Paul wasn’t nearly shocked. They were both young, fertile blokes. It wasn’t as pathetic as when he was eighteen and just rubbing off against each other in their skivvies was enough to spurt once, even twice- but he was very capable of getting it up a few times in a relatively short amount of minutes.
So he decided to give in to John’s demands (and what a noble decision that is of me, he thought with a chuckle) laying back with his hands tucked behind his head as he let John go to town. There were many things John was good at- writing and composing and singing and playing guitar, keyboard, piano, mouth-organ but also dancing, telling jokes, slinging insults, throwing punches. One talent nobody knew about, however, besides Paul, was his talent for sucking cock.
He was almost as good at it as Paul was.
Puffing on the half-smoked joint he’d almost forgotten about in the panic of John’s emotional wobble with pretty thin lips wrapped around his prick. Paul was happy. This was one of the most content moments he’d had possibly in his entire life. He didn’t think about pretty Jane and what she might think of the whole, sinful ordeal. He didn’t think about lovely Cyn, or little baby Jules and the possibility of their lives being ripped apart if anyone so much as caught wind of the things he and John did together in the dark. He didn’t think of George or Ringo or Mal or Alf, nor their likely hankering disapproval of the songwriter’s closer-than-brother’s relationship. At least they’d have Brian on side, he did allow himself to think. Being queer didn’t have many perks, but he supposed solidarity with other, more confident queers was something to hold onto.
Actually, thinking about not-thinking about it as John stroked the underside of his balls with the back of his knuckles and Paul felt his hips uncontrollably snap upwards, choking John just slightly- Paul figured George would probably have his back. John, ever the professional just smirked, pulling off Paul’s dick and winking (“Easy there, Macca! I do want to be able to sing something other than twist and shout tomorrow!”) before diving back down- and Paul was swept up thinking of Ringo, and his everlasting chill. He probably wouldn’t take much convincing to come around to the idea. Really, the four of them were so close- practically family- there wasn’t a force on this earth that he could see being powerful enough to tear them apart. Maybe- hopefully- not even the very deciding factor of he and John engaging in acts of homosexuality on a (now) very regular basis.
Paul was dragged out of his clouded, hazy thoughts by the sudden feeling of pressure overcoming his body, smoke catching in his throat and flowing out through his nose. The effect of the pot seeping into his bloodstream only made his orgasm stronger, and it wasn’t long before Paul was curling his free hand in the bedsheets, a beaten whimper of Oh John- falling from his lips and then he was coming, harder than he had only an hour or so before, right into John’s perfect throat.
After that, Paul knew he could honestly sleep for seventeen hours straight. That was, if he ever had the opportunity to lounge in bed again because so far on this second trip around the world it seemed as if days off were even more few and fucking far between than they had been the first time ‘round. Likeliness was, they’d be up again at ten in the morning to head back into the studio and record more music, before a jetting to another country for another set of interviews and radio plays and public performances. Everywhere they went was more of the same, and it was all starting to merge together in one big, boring beatles blur.
Or maybe Paul was just high. He giggled at the idea, and John laughed back at him, crawling up his body to give him a kiss on the cheek before flopping down in the bed beside him. When John kissed his cheek, Paul hummed contently as he felt the same glowing ripple of happiness he had in 1959 with John warming his bed, snoring loudly, teddy-boy curls fluffy and deflated against his forehead. They didn’t even know what marijuana was back then. They didn’t need it either.
It was the same feeling- being high and being with John. Even as simple as this, his head on John’s chest, John’s arm around his slender back. Paul curled into John and felt as if he was born to fit there, melting into his warm skin, entire body tingling.
“I like you Johnny.” He mumbled against John’s nipple, and his bandmate chuckled, one finger running up and down the valley of his shoulder blades contentedly.
“I love you too, Macca. Now get some shut-eye. Brian’ll ring in the morning.”