Chapter Text
Paul gets competitive about it as soon as John lays the trap.
He should’ve known better, should’ve known he would quickly break his own heart if he goaded Paul into the game – and yet he couldn’t help himself.
Paul is not the most physically affectionate person in the world.
Normally this wouldn’t be worth mentioning, since Northern men are raised to keep everyone at an arm's length. Paul wasn’t ever like that with any of his girlfriends, at least not as far as John knows, not in public, where anyone could see.
Until about a month ago, John had no right to care about it. He still doesn’t, not really, since John is not Paul’s girlfriend or anything. He’s just the latest warm body in a neverending string of people Paul chooses to sleep with.
They’re not together. Or, at least not in any way that counts.
John wouldn’t even know what he was missing out on, of what Paul is capable of, if he’d never seen the way Paul is around babies or animals. Put either in front of him, and he becomes a playful, gooey mess. Petting them for hours on end – animal – reading and playing and drawing with them – child – or sneaking them treats – both.
However brief the moment is, watching Paul’s defences drop… it’s always a sight to behold, and John loves watching him.
It happens more than it used to, the rough edges caused by the circumstances of their upbringing slowly smoothing out like stone eroding under water. But the armour is still locked into place most days: in public, around the band, around John.
Wearing the face that he keeps in a jar by the door. Literally, unfortunately.
“Who’s a good girl?” Paul coos, snapping John out of his slowly spiralling thoughts. Martha responds eagerly by trying to climb into his lap and lick his face.
The walls are never in place around his fucking dog.
Maybe the two of them get on like a house on fire, maybe Martha adores him so much, because in many ways, Paul is like a sheepdog too: energetic, positive to a fault, excitable, herding them into the studio again and again and again. Stubborn. Likely to start gnawing on his own paw if forced to sit still.
“Yes, yes–”
Paul can’t help but laugh and lets her do as she pleases, scratching her behind the ears and playfully barking back at her. “Thank you for the kisses, my dear. You’re clearly not too big to be a lapdog.”
The only reason John hasn’t bolted, why hasn’t left with his tail stuck between his legs, is because a month ago.
Well.
Innocent songwriting suddenly turned into heavy touching, which turned into desperately jerking each other off on the floor. It's terrifying, and they have talked about none of it.
Do you like me? he wants to ask constantly. But the words never pass his lips.
Sometimes he can’t help but imagine what it would feel like if Paul’s hand lingers a second too long when they touch. Sometimes he wonders what it would feel like if Paul kisses him like they’re the only two people in the universe. On the worst days, John imagines the words I love you whispered into his skin.
“You’re staring,” Paul says, still busy with Martha.
John would’ve bristled at the words if Paul didn't send him a quick, teasing smile that immediately drains all the fight out of him. He tries to school his face into a less lovesick expression, though.
“Do you think Mister Grumpy Face would like to accompany us to the garden? Do you, Martha?”
John is met with Martha and Paul giving him equally devastating puppy eyes. Paul’s lower lip is pushed out, quivering slightly, and John wants. He wants to–
“I beg your pardon, that’s Sir Grumpy Face to you, son,” John snipes and intensifies his glare. His voice sounds hoarse, doesn’t it?
But Paul breaks into peals of laughter, simply brushing his foul mood aside. He’s so joyous when he’s around Martha. John’s gaze flicks back down to the curve of his smile, and he feels himself softening again. If only he could make him that happy too.
“Oh alright, good Sir. Do you fancy a promenade on the grounds then?” Paul quips in his most posh voice, unaware of what he’s putting John through.
“Aye, I reckon that can be arranged,” he replies in the broadest Liverpudlian he can, and rises to his feet.
It’s fine. John’s used to it.
They take turns throwing the ball for Martha.
Staring at Paul’s profile isn’t much better than looking at his pouting lips head on, despite the small pep talk he tries to give himself. It doesn’t help that Paul’s – and Martha’s – chipper mood seems to be unbreakable today.
It’s probably her, or perhaps it’s the weed they smoked earlier, but he’s in good spirits, and John’s foul mood must be dragging him down. As usual.
John sighs and closes his eyes to roll his neck – when his glasses fly off his face. He opens his eyes and furrows his eyebrows. When he glances over, he is immediately face to face with the blurry culprit.
“Excuse you.”
“No,” Paul smiles and pointedly pushes John’s glasses up his nose with his finger. John has to swallow. If he’d been John’s teacher, perhaps he’d been a better pupil.
“Give us me glasses back.”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Paul.”
“John.”
John smiles.
Paul starts grinning too before John even launches himself forward, making a grab for Paul’s face. Paul yelps, but doesn’t go down without a fight, slapping his hands away as best as he can and pulling him into a headlock.
He finally laughs too – he might’ve finally lost the weight he’d been dreading so much, but he still very much has the strength advantage. He lifts Paul off his feet with a grunt and topples them over.
John clears his throat to collect spit in his mouth as he struggles to sit on top of Paul’s chest – pinning down his wrists on both sides of his head.
Catching on, Paul’s eyes widen, and he starts squirming violently.
“John! Don’t you dare!”
“My glasses,” he demands, unrelenting, but making no move to take them off him. This is about the principle. He leans over Paul’s face, when–
“Ow! Fuck, Martha! She bit me!” John cries out. Paul, the bastard, immediately seizes the chance and rolls them over, reversing their positions.
John squints up at his face.
“Now – fancy seeing you here…” Paul smirks.
“Can’t say the same, since someone stole my specs,” John grumbles. When he tries to shift he suddenly and awfully becomes hyper aware of every single inch of Paul’s body touching his.
However, Paul really seems to be impervious to his bad mood today. He just leans closer, lifting John's glasses up into his hair and out of the way, and smirks.
He's so close John can feel him more than he can see him.
His eyelashes look even longer like this, his fringe hanging so low it’s almost touching John’s forehead. Even his smell surrounds him – weed, a bit of musky sweat, and something so distinctly Paul, John can’t help but associate it with Liverpool, with home.
He’s everywhere.
“Don’t be upset. Martha was just taking the right side in this.”
John doesn’t have the wherewithal to roll his eyes in response, which would be a normal reaction. Instead, they involuntarily flick down to Paul’s lips. He can’t help himself.
Paul notices and a cold flick of fear shoots through John at once.
They don’t do this.
They don’t kiss when they’re having sex, and they definitely don’t kiss any other time either. Paul doesn’t want to, has never made any indication that he has a desire to.
Just then, fingers slide into his hair. A second later, Paul’s lips are on his own.
John is frozen.
Paul’s weight on top of him is reassuring, heavy, and Paul’s hands on him are even more so.
It takes him a few moments until he can move again, which is when he starts to feel everything at once: Paul’s fingernails gently scratching his scalp, the heat of his body, his fast breaths between the kisses, the playful way his tongue nudges against John’s lips.
He feels himself unwind under Paul’s administrations, involuntarily moaning as his mouth opens by itself.
Which is exactly when Paul freezes and launches himself backwards, bringing several feet of distance between them in a millisecond. John’s eyes open, and he stares at Paul in disbelief.
“Shit, sorry… I. I don’t know what came over me. I–” Paul breathes, chest heaving.
John wants to scream, yell, to cry – but as he opens his mouth to say something, anything, he can see Paul’s walls coming up to shut out every emotion.
The silence between them permeates the air for too long.
“Here’s your glasses, sorry about that,” Paul smiles, and John hates him for a second.
Hates him because he can hear in the tone of his voice it hurts him to press the words through his teeth.
He silently takes back his glasses.
Who is it for indeed?
John wishes he was Paul's exception.