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Paul was perfect.
John had tried to write around it, joke around it, drink around it, scream around it. But the truth was steady in his chest. Paul was perfect. Not in the way of polished marble or some holy, unreachable statue, but in the way sun hits water, all shimmer and motion. He was real. Deep. Devastating. And the connection between them—God, it was a punishment. Something John hadn’t asked for, hadn’t prepared for. It wasn’t fair. It was too big, too sacred, and too fucking cruel.
Because he couldn’t have him.
God could’ve made it simple. Could’ve sent him a girl to feel this way about, someone he could hold in the daylight without a worry. But no, he sent him Paul. Paul, who made him want to be better and worse all at once.
The wanting hurt in a way that felt alive. It lived in his ribs, nested behind his throat. He wanted Paul entirely. To have him. Own him. Keep him like a secret too beautiful to tell. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t kiss all over his face, couldn’t pull him close and whisper things meant only for him. Couldn’t ask him to stay, not really.
There wasn’t anything he could do to stop the want. No switch to flip, no cord to cut. He’d tried running from it, but the idea of leaving— of killing the Beatles, of losing Paul entirely—was worse than anything. That would destroy him outright. And yet… staying was killing him too.
Maybe it already had.
All he could do was look. Look at Paul like he was the last thing on earth worth watching. With all the love he wasn’t allowed to show. He could stare as long as he liked. Until his eyes ached, until he knew every line and freckle. But he couldn’t touch. Not really. Not in the way that mattered. No matter how much he wanted to feel him, to reach across and press their skin together until the world went silent. He couldn’t.
And some nights, just looking wasn’t enough.
Some nights, he wanted the warmth of Paul’s body pressed to his own. The heat of him. The weight. The quiet intimacy of limbs tangled under a hotel blanket, of breath shared in the dark. He wanted pauls nearness. The proof that he was real.
But that was all out of the picture now.
Cynthia was pregnant.
And it should’ve meant something. Should’ve grounded him. But all it did was make the whole world feel further away. Like he was watching his own life from behind glass.
He found himself outside Paul’s door.
He didn’t remember how he got there—only that he was standing there, still. His hand hovered near the wood of the door, shaking. He didn’t want it to be real. Not the baby. Not the distance. Not the things he couldn’t change.
But even in stillness, his body betrayed him. It was like he couldn’t resist himself from reaching out to Paul. It was pathetic. His hand moved. Twitched. Knocked. Quiet and small.
And it didn’t matter how quietly he knocked.
Paul still heard. Still answered. He always did.
Paul opened the door like he always did—quietly, softly, like he already knew it was John on the other side.
And there he was.
Hair a little mussed, eyes tired but alert, like he hadn’t been sleeping even though it was late. Like maybe he’d been waiting, too.
John’s breath caught in his throat.
Sometimes Paul looked at him like he could see straight through, right to the core of him. And sometimes it made John feel safe. Other times it made him feel naked and pathetic, caught out in a kind of need he couldn’t explain without ruining everything.
John swallowed hard, but nothing went down. His throat felt dry, like it was closing up around the words he hadn’t even said yet.
“Can I come in?”
He didn’t recognize his own voice. It was too soft, too unlike him. Paul stepped back without saying a word. He didn’t need to.
John stepped into the room like he was crossing a line. Like something might break behind him if he turned around. The light was low, barely anything, just enough to catch Paul’s shape in the dark. John stood there a moment, letting the door shut behind him.
Paul didn’t speak. He just looked at him. That way he did sometimes, with his brow a little furrowed and his mouth pressed thin, like he was waiting for John to say something he already knew.
And John hated it.
He hated how well Paul knew him.
He hated how beautiful he looked in shadow.
He hated the silence, and the fact that it was always John who came knocking.
“Cyn’s pregnant.”
It landed in the room like a dropped glass. Paul blinked, like it physically hit him. He nodded slowly, barely, eyes flicking down to the carpet. “Right.”
“I’m gonna marry her.” That one stuck in his own throat. Bitter. “Have to.”
Paul nodded again. His jaw tightened. He continued to look away. “Congratulations,” he said, and it almost sounded like he meant it.
But John could hear it—what was beneath it. The ache. The edge. The shared knowing. “Do you remember Paris?”
It was almost satisfying watching the way Paul’s eyes snapped to his, finally meeting them. John stepped closer. “That night. In the hotel. When we were pissed. And you kissed me.”
“I remember,” Paul said, too fast. Too defensive. He looked down again.
“I think about it all the time.”
Paul’s lips parted like he was gonna say something, but nothing came out. He just stared at the floor like it had something important to say back.
John reached up, fingers dragging through his own hair like it would calm him down, but yet he could still feel himself shake. “Could we.. could we just have that night again?”
The words came out low and cracked. “Just one more time. I swear. I won’t ask again.”
Paul looked up slowly, and his eyes were glassy now, glinting in the dim light. “John…”
“I just need it,” John whispered. “I need you.”
It was messy. Ugly. Beautiful. It was everything John wasn’t allowed to feel. He didn’t care if it made him weak. Didn’t care if it made him wrong. He reached for Paul. Not fully, just a small movement—like if Paul said no, he could pretend he’d never moved at all. But Paul didn’t pull away. He didn’t move forward either. He just stood there, frozen.
And John wanted to touch him so badly. Wanted to press his lips against Paul’s neck, his shoulder, the place just behind his ear that made him shiver. He wanted to ruin this distance, just for a moment.
Paul still hadn’t spoken, but he stepped closer.
His movements were slow, hesitant, like he was pulling himself through something thick and invisible. Like there was a weight in the room neither of them had the strength to name. John sat frozen at the edge of the bed, watching him. Every part of him was screaming, Don’t move. Don’t say the wrong thing. Don’t ruin this.
And then Paul was in front of him. Not saying yes. Not saying anything at all. Just looking at him in that soft, familiar way that killed John every time. Eyes rimmed with uncertainty, hurt, something close to longing.
John reached first. Gently—like Paul might vanish. His hand rose and hovered for a moment, before resting against Paul’s hip, fingers trembling. Paul didn’t pull away. His eyes flicked down to John’s mouth and lingered.
That was it.
They met in the middle, like a fault line cracking open. No gentle buildup, no sweet lead-in. Paul leaned in, and John’s mouth was already there—warm and shaking, pressing, giving, taking.
It wasn’t a kiss so much as a collapse. Into memory. Into ache. Into everything they’d kept beneath the skin for too long. John’s hand rose to Paul’s jaw, cupping it like he was afraid it’d slip through his fingers if he let go. Their mouths moved like they’d done this a thousand times in dreams. Hungry, clumsy, reverent. Desperate.
Paul’s hands tangled in the front of John’s shirt, pulling him closer, pressing them chest to chest. And John could feel it—Paul’s heart, thudding fast against his own. The shudder of breath between kisses. The low sound Paul made in the back of his throat when John’s tongue grazed his bottom lip.
It was wrong. It was blasphemy. And it was the most beautiful thing John had ever known.
And their mouths never parted. Paul leaned forward onto John, pushing him back onto the bed, both of them laughing softly through the kiss when they bumped into it. But it wasn’t funny. Not really. It was just too much. All of it. So big it spilled over, came out as little laughs and shaky hands and the frantic press of hips.
Paul was the first to pull back.
His breath was ragged, lips red and kiss-bruised, eyes wide with something halfway between fear and desire. He looked wrecked in the most beautiful way—flushed and panting, chest rising and falling in rhythm with John’s own.
“John..”
Christ, hearing his name like that—like it meant something, like it held weight—made John’s head spin.
His hands were already at his waistband, fumbling without grace, fingers trembling with the sheer pressure of what was happening. Of what this meant. His pants were taken off and thrown off to the side of the bed, forgotten on the floor. And when he looked up, Paul was doing the same.
This is real.
He leaned forward, helping Paul out of the last of his clothes, fingers brushing too softly over pale skin, wanting to memorize the feel of him—because this was the last time. Paul was already slick between his legs, and the sight of it hit John like a bullet—dirty, lovely, vulnerable.
God, he’s beautiful.
Too beautiful to touch.
Too beautiful not to.
John wanted to say something—wanted to whisper, You look like a painting. You look like something holy. But he bit back. He couldn’t risk spoiling this with words. Couldn’t risk pushing it too far.
So he just touched.
He let a finger trail down Paul’s length, slow and reverent, gathering the wetness and smoothing it along the shaft. Paul shuddered under the touch, hips twitching forward, and his eyes fluttered closed like he couldn’t bear to look at John while it happened.
“John..”
That name again. On Paul’s lips, it didn’t even sound like a word. It was a breath, a plea, a prayer. John wanted to keep hearing it until he died.
He slipped off the last of his clothes, breath catching as his cock sprang free, hard and aching. He hadn’t realized just how desperate he was until then—until the air hit him and it felt like both relief and grief, all tangled together.
Paul was staring now. Quietly. Like he was seeing something he shouldn’t want but couldn’t look away from.
“Are we gonna… like last time?”
John only nodded. Lips parted. Breath uneven. His whole body was screaming yes. Yes to the closeness. Yes to this moment.
God, he wanted to lose himself in Paul. Wanted to wreck him softly. Wanted to get his face in that delicate place between Paul’s shoulder and neck and just stay. Just be. No Beatles. No baby. No headlines. Just skin and sweat and breath.
But he couldn’t have that. Not truly.
He could never take Paul in the way he wanted. Couldn’t have him moaning beneath him, couldn’t fuck him open, couldn’t ruin him in all the ways he shamefully fantasized about.
Because to do that would make it real. Would make Paul cross a line that couldn’t be uncrossed. Would make him one of them. A bloody queer. Like John.
And John could never do that to him. Not even in his worst, most selfish moments.
He reached up instead, guiding Paul down onto him. It wasn’t the way he dreamed of, but close. Chest to chest, thigh slotted between thigh, cocks rubbing in a slow, desperate rhythm. There were other ways to feel him. Other ways to take what he needed without taking too much.
And Paul let it happen. Clung to him like he was drowning. Groaned softly into his neck, fingers digging into John’s shoulders. Their bodies found a rhythm that wasn’t graceful, wasn’t perfect—but it was honest. Honest in the way their mouths couldn’t be.
John’s hands gripped Paul’s hips, guiding him gently, encouraging that soft grind of friction, letting the heat build until it was unbearable.
It wasn’t sex. It wasn’t not sex. It was something else entirely. Something carved out of longing.
John pressed kisses everywhere he could reach—Paul’s collarbone, his jaw, the curve of his shoulder. Little murmured apologies between every one. I’m sorry. I love you. I’m sorry.
And maybe Paul heard them.
Maybe that’s why he pressed his forehead to John’s and whispered, “Don’t forget this.”
And John—God help him—wanted to cry.
But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t.
This was all he’d ever have.
And it would never, ever be enough.