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John feels it like the rest of them, the fizzing undercurrent of excitement none of them can keep out of their hushed tones. The dull roar that dogs their every step. The change in atmospheric pressure, the lightness that carries them from room to car to car to room to theater and back again. America, and all the associated thrills. Yes, John feels it just like the rest of them, trying as he might to chew on his lip and pretend he doesn’t.
Coca-cola. Chuck Berry. Driving on the other side of the road. Of course he’s fucking excited.
Even the tables and chairs feel different somehow, when they take their seats in front of the flashing cameras and prodding microphones. John folds his hands in his lap and prepares for a dozen questions about their hair. Jesus, couldn’t these woodlice come up with something original?
If he’s bored and restless, then Paul’s acting the proper fool. Grinning and bouncing around the hotel suites, Paul’s been unable to sit still since before they boarded the damned plane. He’s restless now, shifting his weight in his seat next to John, fingers tapping on his leg and surveying their audience. Composing, or perhaps eyeing the women in the crowd. Rolling the tension from his shoulders, John turns to look at Ringo on his other side. When he catches Ritch’s gaze, the other man quirks the side of his mouth in that way of theirs, the language they’ve created between the four of them: What can ya do?
The bright flash of a bulb blinds him momentarily, and he turns his head away from the light, and towards Paul. On the surface, the other man is the picture of professionalism, eager and patient. But under the table, John can see the bounce of Paul’s leg and the way his foot twists back and forth, a little nervous wiggle.
Of course Paul’s nervous, John realizes. Paul always knows what John’s feeling, and mirrors it.
Impulsively, John reaches out and puts a hand on Paul’s knee under the table. It’s a simple touch, a hand to steady him where the cameras can’t see, but Paul instantly stills. He doesn’t look at John, but his body angles towards him, a slight tilt of his posture that lets John know he’s listening.
All that with just one gesture. They’ve touched before, obviously, and this is hardly the first time one of them has used a steady hand to calm the other, backstage or during an interview or right before a performance. Paul’s hands and their mirrored calluses are almost as familiar as John’s own. He’s identified Paul by footsteps alone, late at night in dark hotel hallways, passing by to find his own room. But something about this touch, the heavy hand resting on the dark fabric an inch above Paul’s knee, generates such a reaction John is forced to consider it.
Paul’s attention is notoriously hard to get, for others. Even when it’s John, Paul is always someone else in front of the cameras. And yet here he is, totally and completely focused on John’s touch, with no one else the wiser.
All that with just one gesture.
John wonders how far he can push it.
Carefully, he moves his hand upwards a sly inch or so, towards Paul’s lap. His eyes dart up to Paul’s to see if there’s any change. Turned in George’s direction as he answers another inane question, Paul shows no visible reaction, continuing his mask of professionalism. The only indication he’s felt it at all is the tensing of his thigh muscle under John’s palm.
Well, if that’s not permission, he’s not sure what is. Resting his other arm on the table, John dares to inch his left hand further up Paul’s leg, tilting towards the inner slope of his thigh. It’s even warmer here, the fabric stretched tight over the muscle and bone. No reaction to this overstep either. This is more intimate than most, if not all, of their previous touches. John imagines the soft glide of skin, the texture of what he knows are some impressively hairy legs, the heat of the thin, sensitive skin of Paul’s inner thigh…John feels the slide of sweat down the back of his neck that has nothing to do with Paul’s warmth.
Now staunchly determined to get a rise out of the other, John moves his hand all the way up to solidly grasp the meat of Paul’s inner thigh. The back of his hand brushes Paul’s cock. Paul does react to this, shifting his weight. His eyes even dart to John, the quickest of glances. He does not move away from the touch. Emboldened, John squeezes once, then gentles, and leaves his hand there.
There’s something curiously possessive about the positioning, the taboo under the table that only the two of them know about. It’s like he’s got an invisible leash on Paul he can tug on. It’s like it’s the whole world versus them, and John’s got the winning hand tucked up his sleeve. The rush of it leaves John dizzy, wanting.
Above all this, the cameras flash. Ritchie makes a blunt little quip, nothing especially clever but it sends shockwaves of laughter through the reporters. It’s like they expect them to be dull, cardboard cutouts that shake their hair on cue, and headlines are made when they prove to be anything besides boorish louts. John’s thumb traces circles into Paul’s leg, absent movements into the taut softness of his inner thigh. Paul shoots him another loaded, momentary glance, and nothing more. Jesus, he’s practically manhandling the other man’s thighs apart, and he doesn’t even twitch?
For a handful of minutes, John keeps his hand there, not making any further movements. It’s become a battle of attrition: how long can John keep his hand on Paul’s crotch until the other man throws him off? He answers a question or two, scratches his nose, keeps his left hand under the table. God, are all interviews this long?
And then, just as John opens his mouth to answer the next prompt, Paul moves. He puts his elbows on the table and shifts his seat closer to the table. With the same motion, he pushes his hips forward, intentionally pressing into John’s hand. John freezes, hand held captive between Paul’s thighs. He could pull free if he wanted to, but that’s not the point. The point is winning, something to brag about, to hold over the other’s head. The point is…
He’s not sure what the point is anymore. But Paul has thrown down the gauntlet. And if Paul’s brave enough to put John’s hand on his dick, then John’s going to put his fucking hand on Paul’s dick.
Slowly, John moves his hand to fully cup Paul, keeping his touch light. No need for the fucker to actually go leaping out of his seat, worried for his family jewels. It doesn’t feel like a joke anymore. All of John’s focus is narrowed down to Paul’s minute shifts in expression and posture, and the outline of Paul through his trousers. Another bead of sweat rolls down his hairline and into his shirt collar. How much would Paul let him get away with? Would he let John stick his hand down his pants under this table, tease him like he’s seen birds tease their sailors in the corners of the worse establishments of the Reeperbahn?
The attention in the room swings to John with disorienting suddenness, and he finds himself staring down the barrel of a microphone.
"Tell me this,” the man asks. John’s hand stays on Paul’s cock. “Why do you think you're so popular all of a sudden?"
"I don't know. It must be the weather." John quirks an eyebrow, trying to convey his most sarcastic sincerity. To his surprise, Paul jumps in to answer as well.
He giggles, "We've no idea at all why. Really." To punctuate this, he presses harder into John’s hand, wiggling his hips forward. John’s breath catches in his throat, and he struggles to focus on the next question.
"Do you think it's your singing?" No shit it’s their singing. And their playing, and their looks, and their fucking hair and all the rest. John doesn’t have the patience to come up with a wisecrack, Paul is warm and only his under the table. Instead, he leans forward and warbles out a sarcastic impression of an opera singer. The reporter and the room laugh. Paul chuckles too, and John feels the movement of it under this hand.
Paul says, "I doubt it. It could be a lot of things and we don't know which it could be.” Under the table, he shifts his hips again. He’s half-hard, John realizes, and he goes both hot and cold and back to hot again. There is a pit in his stomach, widening with each slight movement of Paul in his chair. He wants to snatch his hand away before it cores him completely through. He wants to see how far Paul will let him go with this.
“That’s all the time we have!” Brian steps in front of George, a hand resting on the table blocking him from view. The cameras and the men behind them only get louder, and everyone begins to pack up rather quickly. John yanks his hand back into his own lap and stands. Without looking at John, Paul gets up and straightens his lapel, looking unruffled. His coat hides his erection, if it would have been visible at all. He turns his back and allows himself to be herded to the next room, waving at some of the journalists. He feels damp, chilled with old sweat and something unfulfilled.
“John.”
He startles. Ritchie is looking at him expectantly, George and Paul already several paces ahead with Brian.
“Sorry.” He quickly steps out from the table and chairs, and hurries to catch up to Paul’s retreating coat tails.
-
They don’t talk about it.
Foremost, there are people clamoring around them at every turn - in doorways, down backstage halls, on street corners, in the lobby of the hotel. There’s never a moment of privacy, and even when there is, the other two are there. When it’s finally the four of them, alone at last, Paul still doesn’t look at John. He’s busy loosening his tie and sorting through a stack of letters and papers left on the coffee table. George is just behind the bathroom door, and John can see him fixing his bangs in the sickly pale light from above the sink. Ritchie sinks onto the sofa with an exhausted huff.
“A riot, isn’t it?”
“Not all bad, you know.” Paul picks an arbitrary sheaf of papers and flops down in the armchair next to Ritchie’s couch. Even in their sparse moments of privacy, they all tend to flock together in the same rooms.
“It’s a circus, and we’re the dancing bears!” John turns to the window instead. He doesn’t want to sit down. He doesn’t want to look at Paul either, though he can’t think of anyone he’d rather look at, at the moment.
“Four clowns makes a poor show.” There’s the click of a light, and George joins them in the suite’s sitting room.
“More like four freaks in a side show,” John snipes, feeling rather cruel and delighting in the way George’s eyes flicker to Paul and Ringo, seeking safer harbor.
“When’s the car?” he asks.
“Half past.” Ritchie checks his watch. Looking over the top of the paper, Paul makes eye contact with John, then looks away. John feels the urge to throw himself through the glass pane of the window, or possibly to throttle Paul.
“Full gear?”
“Ties loose and boots scuffed.” Rich huffs a polite laugh. George mutters something inaudible and closes his eyes. John looks back at Paul, who is once again pretending to be absorbed in whatever he’s reading.
“Get me when it honks outside.” John stalks off to the bathroom, and shuts the door behind him, cutting off all sound from the other three.
-
They aren’t talking about it. It’s been a week, and Paul is still galavanting around, as if John never had his hand on his cock in front of god and the press. He assumes it must have been a fluke, a one-off of Paul egging him on like he’s always done, always pushing the boundaries between what’s a joke and what isn’t.
There are trains, and cars, and endless hallways, and the endless screams. Ritchie gets the sniffles, then gets better. John cuts a finger, and struggles to play around a bandage on his finger for two nights. Paul manages to lose his shoes between one city and the next, and is forced to walk around backstage in his socks until a replacement pair can be procured at the last minute.
It’s not like John forgets about it. Not like he can forget about something like that, when he wakes up to sweat-damp sheets and an erection most mornings, the phantom heat from Paul’s lap lingering on his hand like a permanent mark.
It’s yet another press conference, and they have the four of them standing clustered around a set of microphones. They all jostle for access to the microphones, leaning around one another and trying not to block anyone’s face, which Brian keeps reminding them not to do. John’s not even sure what city they’re in now, but the folks are all in rain coats and scarves; the west coast, perhaps?
“How long do you think your fame will last?” someone calls, and John leans over Paul’s shoulder to respond.
“Long enough to get rich, we hope!” he wisecracks. The crowd titters, and John moves to step back and away, to let someone else have a turn with the microphone, when Paul shifts his weight from one hip to another, and brushes against him. John pauses, and realizes he’s pressed himself rather closely to Paul’s backside.
“Where’s the next tour?” is the next question from the peanut gallery, and George opens his mouth to answer. John breathes swallowly, not daring to press any closer or move further away. He knows, from the angle of Paul’s chin, that Paul is equally aware of his positioning.
Carefully, Paul shifts again, and now John can feel it: the press of his ass against the front of John’s pants. He almost chokes on his own spit. Once again, Paul is almost unusually warm against him, or maybe that’s just John, about to sweat through his starched shirt. Christ, these pants are tight. It’s almost like he can feel his cock wedged between…
“When’s the next hit single?” a journalist calls, and both Ritchie and George turn to look at him and Paul. Songwriting has always been their department, after all. Paul continues to stare forward, like he already knows what John will say.
“Whenever we have the time,” Paul says, and John has to lean over his shoulder once more to reach the microphone. It presses them even closer together, and John prays his voice doesn’t crack when he tries to speak.
“We’re due back in the studio after this run of shows.” The crowd murmurs again and a symphony of many pencils scribble in notebooks. John is practically breathing in Paul’s ear, chin hanging over his shoulder and close enough to smell the soap and musky-sweet aftershave of Paul's liking recently.
“At EMI in London again?”
“At EMI, yeah,” Paul confirms. His throat bobs when he talks. John watches the movement of it, feels the heat through Paul’s trousers. His heart is pounding like he’s about to go onstage, like he’s standing alone in a spotlight before an unhappy crowd. Like he’s back in school, and he’s been ratted out for one misdeed or another.
“Ee-aye, ee-aye, owh!” John mocks, and he feels Paul snort in laughter in front of him. Once again, Paul’s just letting him do this, touch so casually and lean into his space. John’s prick is practically resting on his arse and Paul hasn’t even looked at him.
Suddenly, John wants Paul to look at him.
John wants Paul to look at him, and only him, very, very badly.
He steps an inch closer. He’s never been this close to Paul, except for in sleep. It’s all rather daring, to be this close in front of so many eyes. He wonders if anyone can tell just how far he’s intruding into Paul’s space. He wonders if Paul can tell he’s sporting an erection.
“That’s all!” someone calls out, the director for this venue or something, John can’t remember. There’s the immediate and expected clamour as the vultures try and get in one last question. Just like last time, Paul steps away from John and doesn’t look back, leaving him chilled and half-hard with nothing to shield him from the world.
With nothing else to do, John can only hurriedly follow Paul off the stage and through the doorway, and into the next one.
-
They still aren’t talking about it.
Two nights later, they’re on another van ride overnight, the headlights barely illuminating the road in front of them. Ritchie’s in the front with Neil, their quiet voices barely distinguishable from the rumble of the engine. George is snoring, leaning against the window and tucked into himself like a pretzel, half a meter away from John. His eyes sticky with sleep and sweat, John’s head lolls against the seat. There’s another show in the next town, and there’s unlikely to be much sleep to be found beforehand.
On the other side of the bench seat next to him, Paul slumps in equal exhaustion and discomfort. He’s all awkward angles, eyes puffy from sleep and long legs folded in order to stretch out in the back row of the car. His shoulder and knee bumps into John’s, touching in the casual little vertices that wouldn’t have mattered once to John but now consumes his entire exhausted brain.
He doesn’t think he could write a single line of a song at the moment, not for all the money in the world. The lack of ongoing melody grates on him worse than the exhaustion or the bumpy highways.
“Can’t sleep?” Paul murmurs, and John looks down at him, surprised. His eyes are shut, but the edge of his mouth quirks up. The van jerks over a few bumps, and they both sway with the motion of it.
“Not like Kaiserkeller, though.”
“Paris then?” John doesn’t know why Paul is talking about Paris, now of all times. The freedom and luxury of Paris is nothing like the freezing, crammed backseat of this rickety van, both of them tacky with beer and sweat. But then again, the murmur of Paul’s voice, the perceived privacy of the night and the rumble of the engine.
“Almost like.” John tucks his chin, leans into Paul’s space. “What do you remember about Paris?”
“I remember the wallpaper in the hotel hall, and spending all night walking one night, me feet hurtin’.” Paul’s eyes are still closed. John smiles,
“And makin’ me shill for malts.”
“You were the one flush with cash, you know.” In the dark, Paul’s nose scrunches in such a familiar way that John knows exactly what he’s thinking.
“You liked I paid for all your shite,” John crows, and Paul huffs.
“I liked Paris.”
“Yeah,” John says. He’s still staring down at Paul, at the way his hair curls at the ends, unwashed and pushed out of his eyes. “Yeah, me too.”
The van jolts again, rolling unsteadily over a large bump in the road, and Ritchie says something that makes Neil laugh. George croaks and sniffles and goes promptly back to sleep, good lad. With John looming so far over, Paul is forced to lean heavily into his side, and doesn’t attempt to pull away once the van rights itself. They’re now pressed shoulder to hip, Paul’s head near to resting on John’s shoulder.
“Proper comfortable down there, are you?” John murmurs, like there’s something that has settled over them that he doesn’t want to disturb or interrupt. Paul is perpetually, frustratingly warm against him. There’s a sort of humming tension, like a string quartet rising and rising.
He could, right now, reach out and touch Paul like he’s been doing recently in those press conferences. To take liberties, see how far Paul would let him go. To reach out and rest two fingers on the line of his throat to find his pulse. To draw those two fingers up the line of his jaw to his mouth, and press two fingers into his tongue.
He almost does. His hand twitches at his side. This is leagues more private, by comparison, and Paul is already open and trusting against his side. And somehow, that’s what stills his hand from reaching out to touch Paul; the unspoken, easy intimacy they have away from the cameras. A little fooling around, a little button-pushing and teasing in front of strangers, is all a big laugh at the end of the day. This, this quiet moment with no eyes on them, feels too precious to shatter with a joke, even if Paul would let him.
And isn’t that a thought? That Paul would be welcome to those teases like he is during those interviews, that it would please him.
John doesn’t please people, he pisses them off. The things he touches usually decay, and fall apart. The people he loves don’t stay. And Paul is…Paul is so good. Paul wakes up early because he likes the sunrise. He goes all red when he drinks too much, and pets stray dogs, and is unafraid to strike back at folks who talk down to John. He doesn’t need John to clean up after, or his mess of oscillating desires.
John watches Paul doze on his shoulder, hands of stone at his side and thoughts as bumpy as the road, until they reach the next town.
-
They’re all the way back in London when someone finally fucking talks about it.
“Has anyone seen my tie?”
“Have you checked your neck?”
“Har har,” George glares at John. “I thought I put it with my shoes.”
“Have you asked your loafers then?”
“Ringo!” George pounces on the man, who’s just reentered the dressing room from a brief smoke outside with the photographer’s assistant. “Have you seen my tie? They said ties for the photos.”
“The blue one?” Ritchie frowns. “Thought you packed it with your boots.”
“You old hens,” John scoffs, and is working on his shirt cuffs when Paul sidles up behind him.
“Feel like earning a coin?”
“Who’s the winning horse?” John doesn’t look up from his cuffs.
“You. Or the wrath of Eppy, if this shoot gets mucked.” Paul shifts his weight. There’s an undercurrent of mischief in his tone, but also hesitation; he would have told John the bet straight away otherwise.
“What trouble y’got in mind?”
“Trouble for you, son.” John glances up, and Paul has his hands in his pockets, chewing on the side of his lip. “Askin’ if you’re interested in a bit of a game.”
“Game?”
“Schoolboy stuff, y’know.” Paul shrugs. “The one we’ve been playin’ recently in interviews.”
John’s stomach drops.
“If it’s a game, I’m winning,” he claims, around the cold lump in his throat and the buzzing in his head. This is not how he thought it would come up. In his preferences, it would never be addressed at all. This was just…something he did with Paul, and only Paul. Something amongst the dozens of little habits and reliances they don’t bring up with one another. For Christ’s sake, Geo and Ritch are in the room with them.
“Let’s up the ante,” Paul shrugs again. “See how much you can get away with.”
“During the shoot? Immortalized forever?” Get away with? What does that mean? He wonders if Paul can hear how loud and fast his heart is beating behind his ribs.
“Didn’t think you were a sore loser.” And oh, Paul knows he’s hit a nerve. He continues, “And it’s not like I’m hurtin’ your efforts, right? I won’t cheat and avoid you, y’know.”
John swallows thickly. Behind them, people walk in and out of the dressing room. George is fixing his socks, Ritch is getting his hair combed by some stylist. Paul is still watching him, the side of his thumb still caught between his front teeth, with anticipation holding his posture hostage. He doesn’t like being forward with his feelings, John knows. This is as vulnerable as Paul is willing to get, at the moment.
But then again, a bet is a bet, and John won’t look this gift racehorse in the mouth.
“See that Brian won’t have my hide after this.” John turns to fully face Paul, keeping his chin high. Paul lets his thumb drop from his mouth, and grins.
“You’re on.”
To start, the photographer has them all stand in a row, then individually. Then they’re either too spaced out, or in too awkward of a position for John to feasibly reach out and innocuously touch Paul. For the first bit, it’s just another shoot like the many before: lots of bright lights and standing stiffly, wondering if one is holding their hands in the right position.
“Alright, let’s have the four of you now, like a family portrait,” the photographer directs. They dutifully group up, Paul sat on a provided chair while Ringo kneels at his left, John and George standing behind them. A nice little tableau. Heart pounding, John makes sure to stand just shy of “too close” to Paul’s stool, angling his body away from George. Just a hair’s breadth in front of him, Paul glances back at John, smiles, and scratches the side of his nose. Jesus, he’s cheeky one, always getting what he wants, huh?
“Okay, eyes up here!” the photographer calls again, and they all straighten to face the front. The camera flashes, and George blinks, clears his throat. The camera flashes again, and John makes sure his face is completely, professionally blank when he leans forward and rests a hand on Paul’s lower back. He keeps reminding himself, this is something Paul allows of him. This is something Paul asked for.
As the camera continues to click, John takes a half-step closer and puts his other hand on Paul’s shoulder. It’s innocent, a light touch of camaraderie, while the hand on Paul’s back trails down to the hem of Paul’s jacket. He carefully slips under the jacket, and grasps the waistband of Paul’s trousers.
He’s not sure what his plan is, what grand and outrageous gesture Paul is expecting with “upping the ante,” or whatever he meant by that. John’s not sure what he himself wants. But he’s been given blanket permission, and Paul makes him covetous. He always has. From that very first summer’s day, in that echoing church hall and that stupid carnation pinned to his jacket and huge eyes, John has had to resist the urge to touch, to grab, to possess.
Paul draws people into him in an inexorable orbit, and does so unconsciously. John’s just another sucker lost to the gravitational pull of his left-handed melodies and the shadows cast from his girlish fucking eyelashes.
But John’s not just anyone, no. Paul came to him, and asked to be touched. He puts words to John’s melodies. He puts melodies to John’s words. He felt John’s hand on his thigh, and pushed his hips upwards into John’s palm. Wanton and willing, just for John.
And that’s not something men do. Paul will risk his own ruin in the face of John’s own.
His hand gently slides beneath Paul’s belt and waistband. Through the thin cotton of his shirt, he’s as warm and inviting as before, under the table. He moves further, until his hand spans from Paul’s lower back to his tailbone, separated only by his shirt and pants.
To ease the discomfort of the position, Paul leans back on his stool, a slant in his posture that will go unnoticed in photographs. Not like this is the album cover, is it? Doesn’t matter if they’re silver screen worthy, in this one shoot among the dozens.
“Ringo, move your chin a little - yes. And John, try and smile,” the photographer directs, and John hears George’s faint huff under his breath. John smiles with his teeth, his head full of nothing but the heat of Paul’s skin and the tantalizing promise of blanket permission. He wonders if Paul is sweating like he is. He wonders if Paul would let him touch him like this without anyone else in the room.
In for a penny, out for a pound: John takes full advantage of what might be his only opportunity, and pushes his hand further into Paul’s trousers until he’s palming his entire ass. At this, Paul finally shifts, especially as John gropes him fully, but does not protest.
“Alright, Paul?” George asks, noticing the other’s movements. “Didn’t forget me sewing kit on the stool, did I?”
“I just remembered, I left a pack o’ tacks on there,” Ritch chimes in.
“They’re all trying for the funny movies, you know,” Paul remarks dryly to the room at large as everyone chuckles. “Real comedians, you know.”
“Movies? We’ve hardly been on television!” George protests. “We aren’t going to be in movies.”
“Don’t sound so certain, Georgie.” Even John has to join in, preoccupied as he is, with a lick of derision in his tone. “You’re a natural, I’m sure.” George bristles almost imperceptibly.
“With those eyes, son, we’ll get you on the silver screen in no time.” Ah, good ol’ Ritchie, with an easy little complement that smooths all ails. The room settles back down as the shoot carries on, John’s hand never leaving Paul’s ass.
Finally, as the photographer looks away from his camera and says, “Okay, just about done-” and as the room begins to pack up, John lurches forward and presses his front into Paul’s backside. He’s half-hard from the adrenaline and risk already, and Paul notices immediately, posture stiffening. John freezes too, suddenly unsure, thrown off-kilter by his own impulsive actions.
Fuck, what if Paul’s not getting off on this? What if he’s disgusted, or horrified? What if he never lets John near him again?
But Paul doesn’t throw himself off of his seat, or sneer insults, or even move away. After a push, he pushes back into John with a determined angling of his ass before the photographer looks back and says, “Okay boys, you’re free to-” and John immediately steps back a safe distance.
He’s not sure why he just thrust himself against Paul’s ass, humping like an animal in heat. He’s not sure why Paul reciprocated, pushing back against him for those burning handful of seconds before John moved back. Wasn’t this John’s bet to fulfill?
“Paul!” Someone calls, and Paul’s off his stool, talking to an assistant or publicist or whomever. The hem of his jacket is rucked up, and as he reaches down to straighten the hem, he looks at John from under his eyelashes. Jesus. John clears his throat and dries his sweaty palms on his trousers. It’s like he can still feel the soft give of Paul’s ass under his hand still.
Later, when they’re all in some club’s lounge, tucked into a booth large enough to fit them all and Mal and several girls, with the music loud and a sparkling field of half-empty glasses and cups litter the tabletop, when John’s halfway to drunk and halfway into the void he usually tiptoes around, some dark-haired young thing sighing and hiccuping into his elbow, Paul leans to mutter in his ear, “You can do better than that.”
“I’ve been drunker.”
“No, today. The shoot. I thought you could have gone further.”
“Thought I went pretty far, yeah?”
“What happened to wild and crazy scoundrel Lennon?”
“He retired to the countryside with an old steelworker and raised ten elephants, the lovely bunch.”
“Oh, don’t be daft.” Paul slumps back in his seat and takes a small packet from his jacket pocket. “Want a spliff?”
“Hazza and Ritchie were right there, you know.” The girl next to him plants both her hands on the table and says something about getting another drink, and something about a lost coat. From across the booth, George leans over someone to shout over the music to Mal. Paul’s face is suddenly aglow from his lighter, the tiniest spotlight throwing the angle of his nose into sharp orange and red shadows.
“You,” and John leans in closer, so that Paul and only Paul can hear him. Paul’s eyes flick to his, hands still raised and lighting his joint in his mouth. The club rages on without them. “I mean. I could go further right now. Plenty public, don’t you think?”
Paul takes a puff and exhales out of the corner of his mouth, his eyes never leaving John’s. The leather booth seat creaks under John as he shifts even closer, pulled inward once more by sheer anticipation.
“It’s not about how many people would see,” he says at last. “Or the risk of it. It’s whether you’d do it at all.”
“You’re doin’ a lot of asking here.”
“You’re doing a lot of looking.” Paul taps the edge of his joint against the rim of a glass full of melting ice. “I see you, in the car and between takes. You think I don’t see you.”
“Well.” Is it the music, or does everybody feel their heart beating in their throats? The void feels a little closer. Paul only takes another puff, and John resists the temptation to snatch it out of his hands and take a turn himself. “Just looking, isn’t it?”
“You liked it,” and Paul tosses the rest of the joint into the glass, and John kicks himself. He should have stolen it sooner. “You liked it when I pushed back. I could feel that you liked it.”
Well, fuck.
“You’re one to talk! Sticking your arse out like a proper whore, while I’m trying to focus!”
“You touched me first!” With a jolt, John realizes just how loud they’re probably being. Paul seems to come to the same realization at the same time, and scoffs, standing up. “I’m going to piss.”
“Are you sure you’ll be alright for the five bloody minutes without any attention? Don’t talk to another bloke at the urinal, you might beg him for a hug out of sheer desperation!” John realizes he’s taken it too far when he sees the look on Paul’s face. “Oh, come on, Paul-”
But Paul’s already sliding out of the booth, abnormally gracefully for having to step over and around 3-4 people.
“Where are you going?” George calls, and Paul says something back that’s lost to the noise of the club. George waves him off, and Paul disappears into the crowd in a matter of seconds. John stews for another few, and then stands.
“Gotta piss!” he shouts to George, when he gives him a funny look.
“Right. I’ll see you at the hotel tomorrow.”
“I’m just goin’ to the bathroom,” John protests, and George rolls his eyes.
“Yeah, yeah. 9 o’clock, okay?”
“Whatever,” John pushes his way out of the booth with significantly less grace than Paul.
He catches Paul on his way out of the bathroom, fiddling with the button of his shift cuff. Grabbing hold of Paul’s sleeve, John steers the pair of them towards the door, pushing past clumps of loudly cackling socialites. Paul doesn’t protest, much, and makes the polite noises of farewell to those who call out to them.
Outside, the streets are dark and damp, and smell faintly of cigarettes and overripe fruit. Paul finally shakes John off his arm, running a hand through his hair. It’s just starting to rain.
“What’d you want, John?”
“What’d you mean, what do I want?” He wants another drink and maybe a sandwich. He wants more money than he’s ever seen in his life before. He wants to write songs like Dylan and Elvis. He wants Paul to look at him, and only him.
“I mean,” and Paul steps closer to John. “I think we’ve been writing the same song this whole time, but neither of us have realized it.”
“Get banned by the BBC for sure. Indecent, I’d think”
“I think it’s the same,” Paul says again. “I think maybe, you’d want what I want.”
“You’re a mind reader now, aye?” John looks down at his feet. Several cars rumble past, their headlights rolling over them in brief swaths of pale yellow. “I dunno what I want.”
“Yeah, you do.” Paul grins, cheeky as anything, even as rain dampens his hair and shoulders. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have been hard when you pressed up against me during the shoot.”
“It was you pressin’ onto me.” Tilting his head, John crosses his arms and tries to ignore the twisting, eager tangle in his chest screaming to reach out and snatch Paul away from the rest of the world. “Geo seems to think we aren’t comin’ back in there.”
“He was always a smart lad.” Paul crosses his arms in a mirror of John’s posture, and glances towards the road. “Taxi to yours?”
The house is empty, when the taxi wheels come to a crunching halt on the gravel. Paul’s already at the front door while John pays the driver, leaning against the frame and looking entirely comfortable in the space. John envies the act.
“Cyn?”
“Out with a friend. Took Jules along.”
Inside, Paul finds his own way to the kitchen and fills a glass from the tap. He’s been here enough to know his way around the kitchen cabinets, easily stepping around the moving boxes that are still stacked in odd corners and halls.
John takes his time toeing off his shoes, hanging up his jacket. His heart is strangely quiet in his chest, and he’s on pins and needles for when reality smacks him across the face. That, or when the other shoe drops. Nothing can be this promising for this long.
“Want to write something?” he says, when Paul doesn’t say anything.
“Maybe later.” Paul swirls the water in his glass, and pours the rest down the sink. John approaches him with slow, methodical steps until they’re only a few inches apart.
“Not many cameras here,” Paul remarks lowly. John breathes in, smells the rain and Paul’s cologne and the faint smog of pot that lingers on his jacket.
“It’s still good manners.” John reaches out, hand hovering in the air between them. “Can I?”
“Go on.” Paul’s voice is barely more than a whisper. Gently, John lays a hand on Paul’s upper arm. This feels different from all the rest, this touch. This feels like the first take of a new song in the studio, unscripted and messy and bursting with promise.
Without breaking eye contact, John’s hand moves up to Paul’s shoulder, then the curve of his neck, thumb resting on Paul’s pulse. Paul’s throat jumps, but he doesn’t move. Once again, John is struck by the enormity that Paul is letting him do this.
His hand slowly grasps the graceful bend of the back of his neck, feeling the top knob of his spine and pulling him closer to John. Paul’s mouth is open a tantalizing few centimeters, like he’s surprised by John’s attention even if the little mix orchestrated this whole affair.
“Can I?”
Paul doesn’t respond verbally, but his eyelids flutter and he leans forward, like he had been waiting for John to ask. And then they’re kissing, breathing in one another in great, gulping inhales and grasping hands. Paul’s lips are soft, the stubble on his cheeks a nice contrast, and he doesn’t crumple or wilt under John’s demanding touch. He pushes back, gets a fistful of John’s shirt and his lower lip between his teeth.
It’s not like with a bird at all. It’s better, because it’s Paul.
“Upstairs?” John manages to get out, when he and Paul finally separate for air. He’s got a hand under Paul’s shirt, untucked from his pants and the feel of bare skin has only made him greedy for more.
“Kitchen floor too good for you?” Paul quips, mouth all-kiss swollen and with his own possessive hand on John’s hip and now John is really waiting for the inevitable tragedy; this is straight out of a dream. The very essence of too good to be true.
But Paul doesn’t change his mind as they creep up the dark stairs, giggling like school boys sneaking out. His hand stays in John’s, a familiar weight. John takes them past the closed door to his and Cynthia’s room, and into a room that has always been his and Paul’s: the music room. It doesn’t have a proper bed, it has a couch littered with throw pillows and various bits of paper. Many a nap has been taken on this couch. Many a song has been started with one of them sat on this couch, the other sat at the piano or on the floor.
John busies himself clearing the scraps and torn sheets of paper from the cushions, dumping them in an unceremonious stack on the piano bench. Paul touches the strings on a guitar propped up on a stand, playing C - E - D. The sound wreathes around him as he turns to look at John, disheveled and beautiful and dangerous all at once in this room they’ve been in together a dozen times.
“Can I?” is all he asks, breaking the quiet ringing of the guitar strings, and Paul is drawn to him like an iron filing to a magnet. They’re touching again, and John has never wanted anything more than he wants every inch of Paul’s bare skin. He lets himself get lost in the desire and the enjoyment of it. If it is temporary, he’s going to soak in every possible second.
They find themselves on the couch, John sitting above Paul and pressing him down into the couch cushions. Paul’s shirt is unbuttoned, most of the way off his shoulders and bunched underneath him.
“Are you going to ask for every one?” With his hair splayed behind him on the arm of the couch, Paul looks like a debauched angel. Like someone cut his face out of one of those teen magazines and pasted it to the wall of some dingy alley.
“Well, I wasn’t goin’ to,” John smooths his thumb over Paul’s cheekbone. “But now that might be a game I’d like to bet on.”
“Gambling’s what got us into this mess.”
“All the more reason to play another round.” John moves his hand from Paul’s chest to his waist, the lightest of touches that rests on the edge of his hips.
“Here?”
“Yeah.” Paul twists beneath him, light catching off the bracelet on his wrist. John reaches out with his other hand and catches Paul’s arm, bringing it to his mouth. He brushes his lips across the thin veins at the joint of Paul’s wrist, where the silver bracelet usually dangles from.
“Here?”
“Not very amorous a spot,” Paul smiles, but his eyes are soft and he inhales sharply when John presses a reverent, open-mouth kiss to the wrist of Paul’s left hand. The wrist that leads to the hand and fingers that tumble onto bass strings and piano keys with inexplicable magnetism towards the unheard song in John’s own head - the hand that reaches for his own in moments of uncertainty before John can even voice his doubt - the wrist that bends and the veins that pulse under John’s mouth, and carry the impression of his kiss back to Paul’s heart.
Maybe he’s a little dopey. Sue him, he’s wanted this for…a long time. As long as he can remember. Further back than, perhaps. For as long as his own heart has flooded with blood.
“Not just feet fer you, then?” Paul jokes, and John is pulled back into the present. He lets go of Paul’s wrist and flicks Paul’s nose, who squawks in protest.
“What’s that mean?” He pulls off his own shirt as Paul swats at him in mock offense.
“Means I know you like stockings, and the birds pullin’ off their stockings backstage, barefoot and complainin’ that their feet hurt after a show.” He reaches up to trace the freckles on John’s shoulder. Flushed to the tips of his ears, John scoffs to cover his sudden shame.
“Yeah? And why were you looking at me when I was lookin’?”
“I’m always looking at you.”
“No, you’re not.” The hand on his shoulder pauses, then rises to cup the back of his neck.
“No,” Paul agrees, easy as he so rarely is with John. “But most of the time. Can’t help it. You’re just not lookin’ back.”
“I’m looking now.” In an attempt to be funny, John leans in close enough for the tips of their noses to touch, Paul’s hand on the back of his neck a natural weight guiding him down. Up close, Paul’s eyes are seaglass green, speckled with sand and silt. They widen and blink, but do not pull back from the sudden scrutiny.
“This a shag or an inspection?”
“I’m still looking.” John angles his head, looking through his lashes at all the pieces of Paul’s face, as familiar as his own. Paul purses his lips, hides an impatient little smile, and rolls his hips.
“You can’t be persuaded to look a little faster?”
“I could be.” John gives an experimental thrust of his own, and Paul’s breath catches in his chest. Unable to resist the tease, even now, John reaches down and places a hand where Paul’s hard in his pants. He palms the length of him, and Paul squeezes his eyes shut with a wonderful little noise. “Here?”
“Yes, you bastard.” Without warning, Paul pushes upwards and rolls them over. This puts them closer to the edge of the couch, John’s arm and shoulder dangling off precariously, and he grabs onto Paul instinctively. Sat atop his lap, Paul looks quite pleased with himself.
“See if I get you goin’ and then stop to ask to touch someplace, you know,” Paul huffs, starting to wiggle out of his pants. “Wind you up and see how you like it.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.” John reaches out to steady him as Paul strips with determination. Finally free of all his clothes, Paul sits back on John’s lap, breathing audibly from his exertions. He’s flushed down to his chest, and John’s eyes dart from one place to another, taking in the whole image as quickly as he can. Jesus, Paul’s a wet dream come to life, naked and willing on his lap, and actively frowning down at John’s own garments.
He plucks at John’s beltloops, “Can’t shag with these on, you know.”
“That what we’re doing?” John sits up, propped up on his elbows. Paul stops fiddling with his zipper, the temperature of the room cooling several noticeable degrees. “Shagging?”
“Or the like.” Paul’s eyes are like the Mersey at night, drowning John for the umpteenth time. “Haven’t done it all before.”
“What, and I have?”
“Haven’t you?” He means Barcelona, only a few months ago. But Paul doesn’t look upset, only curious, perhaps wary. It’s John’s turn to still, and adjust to the undercurrent in the conversation. He swallows around a dry throat.
“I’ve done a lot of thinking about it,” he offers, diplomatically. “Thinking about you, if I’m bein’ honest.”
“Hm, have you?” Paul studies him, but lets it go at the praise of himself. He basks in it, running a hand up John’s bare chest with the thoughtless arrogance of a prince, or a child’s inability to keep their hands off a window display in a store. John tries not to arch into the touch, even as it tickles his ribs.
“Always the big dreamer, me. Thinking about it all the time.” The temperature room shifts again, and Paul sighs, one hand on John’s chest and the other popping open the button of his trousers.
“Dreaming about what, exactly?”
“You. This. Your fucking - left-handed grip on my prick, in the studio, back home when you’d sneak over up the drain pipe-” John cuts himself off with a groan as Paul manages to open his zipper and pull him free, stroking hesitantly.
“Good?”
“Fucking hell!” With his lower lip between his teeth, John watches Paul stroke him off.
“May I touch you here?” Paul mutters in a funny accent, and John’s laugh is high in his throat, abdomen tensing under the pleasure of it.
“I’d kill you if you stopped.” So of course, Paul stops. John almost bucks him off of his lap.
“I haven’t got mine yet.”
“Finish what you started and we’ll get around to it.”
“You like being told no.” Infuriatingly, Paul has taken to absently stroking himself instead of touching John, looking down at him.
“I fuckin’ don’t!”
“Nah,” Paul agrees. “You just like tellin’ me yes.”
Well, John can’t argue with that. Or, rather, he’d love to argue that point, another time, when Paul hasn’t just slotted their hips together and taken both of their cocks in his hand. They both gasp, and Paul’s grip tightens.
“Fuck!”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” And Paul kisses him, breathless and hand sandwiched between their two bodies but still moving, and John lurches up into the kiss and into Paul, hurtling towards his own inevitable end.
The back of the couch rattles against the wall when John throws his head back. Jesus, how is Paul so good at this, if he’s never done it before? Wait, has he? John opens his mouth, but Paul takes his hand off and spits into his palm before returning to jerking them off, his hand making audibly slick sounds now that throw all other thoughts right out of John’s head.
“Hunhm-” he offers, rather intelligently. Paul, hair falling into his eyes and sweating in the low lamplight, laughs. The slide of his cock against John’s, the friction of his knee between John’s spread legs, is everything John didn’t know he was missing, what he was wanting when he grabbed Paul’s thigh in the middle of a press conference. This is the reaction he wanted out of Paul, he just hadn't known it yet.
“Imagine it’s one of those interviews again, with cameras and lots of people and the like,” Paul murmurs, low and filthy.
“Oh, yeah?”
“And I’m sitting there, minding my own business when you reach over like before, but this time it’s down my pants.”
“That’s a headline, ‘Beatles Grope for Glory’.”
“‘Fab Four Fornicate’.”
“‘McCartney’s Large Ego And Small Cock’.”
“John!” Yeah, that last one was lazy and John knows it. In revenge, Paul reaches up to tweak one of John’s nipples, causing him to yelp.
“Jesus, alright! You’re a vindictive bugger.”
“Imagine you’re tossing me off,” Paul continues, one hand resting flat on John’s chest (and threateningly near his nipple). “In front of all those people, I’m close to cumming and I have to keep a straight face. Pretend like I’m not about to come all over your hand.”
“Stop talking.”
“Or what?” Paul speeds up, and John twists and groans. “Are you close?”
“You and those - fuckin’ words.” Without much thought, John cups Paul’s face and shoves two fingers into Paul’s mouth. It’s a childish, instinctive move, but Paul’s response is much larger than anticipated. Paul moans, hips kicking, and clutches John’s wrist with his free hand, sucking on his fingers with something like desperation.
“Like that, do you?” John breathes, transfixed by the sight of Paul’s eyes fluttering shut, his mouth hot and wet around his fingers and his cock drooling onto John’s stomach. “Like something in your mouth, huh? Finally got you to stop talking.”
Paul glowers at him, but he begins to stroke them again. The slide of his hand, and the hot suction of his lips around John’s fingers, is sensory overload. His brain cannot compute this level of wish-fulfillment of desires he didn’t even know he had.
Wet-eyed and panting, Paul tries to say something around John’s hand, but it’s too garbled to understand.
“What?”
Paul tries again, and then pulls away from John’s hand. A line of spit drips down his chin, and his lips are swollen. John barely focuses on what comes out of Paul’s mouth.
“I said, I do.”
“Do what?”
“Like it.”
“Oh.” Paul’s rhythm changes, and John knows he isn’t going to last much longer. “Oh, shit.” Despite this, or maybe because of it, Paul bends down to kiss him, filthy and sloppy. He licks into John’s mouth, practically begging.
“Mhm. God, John, more, I want -”
“Oh, Paul, I’m - fuck!” John starts to come and, in a moment of desperation, shoves three fingers into Paul’s mouth. Paul jerks and drools and gags, as John shakes apart beneath him, and follows him down a second later with a final stroke and a plaintive whine of pleasure.
Dizzy from the rush of it, John lies back with his eyes closed, chest heaving. He feels Paul’s weight settle on top of him, and the tickle of his hair against John’s cheek. A moment later, he shakes with the movement of Paul’s laughter. He reaches up a hand to tug at Paul’s hair, still regaining feeling in the ends of his fingers.
“What’s so funny, eh?” His voice is more hoarse than he’d like to admit. Paul, face still buried in John’s neck, only chuckles wetly.
“Just thinkin’ about the pair of us. Daft, we are.”
“Proper idiots.” He runs his fingers through Paul’s hair, gently pulling on the strands. “A surprise we ended up here, though.”
“You think so?” Paul shifts and sits up, so he’s looking John in the eyes. “I don’t. I think it always ends up here.”
“Another miracle Macca prophecy professed to come true.” John feels loopy with the easy pleasure of Paul’s weight on his chest. He feels like he could write a song, write an album worth of songs. “What else do you see?”
“I think we get everything,” Paul whispers, and John can’t see the color of his eyes in the dark of the bedroom, but he’d bet all his shares in Northern Songs they’re as light as the summer sea. “I think we get everything, John.”