Chapter Text
John had his coat collar turned up against the wind; he could feel Mal pushing him along the pavement, hurrying the four of them into the hotel. There were barely any fans about, really, nothing compared to back home – still, John was looking forward to getting inside, winding down, having a fag and a G&T or two. The crescendo of endless shouts and the hissing of the wind were interchangeable, for a moment, so John breathed, waved a hand in their direction amiably, watched them crumble under it.
“Eeyar, John, would you look at that over there?”
John spun to the sound of George’s voice, broad and juvenile. He was pointing to the other side of the road where a gaggle of girls held a sign that must have weighed twice their body weight, written in bold black ink, citing, “WE LUV U JOHN,” and beneath it, smaller, “Nous aimons John!”
John laughed, shaking his head. “They’re fuckin’ bobbins,” he commented, and George chuckled dryly. He was waving like a mad man, shaking both of his hands manically in all directions. John blew the girls across the road a kiss, laughed as the screaming left an almost pleasant ringing in his ears. He felt George tapping him on the shoulder relentlessly, so he spun to see what was going on; he heard Mal sigh from beside him, and he had to suppress a laugh.
Paul was leaning over the fence at the entrance to the hotel, his coat flapping about happily – Neil could be seen trying to drag him away in the distance. Paul was grinning, his cheeks puffing out and blushing happily; his eyes were wrinkled around the edges, his eyebrows raised high behind his neat fringe of hair. John listened in.
“Merci, merci! Merci beaucoup!” Paul shouted. The girls – Paul girls, indisputably – lost their minds. John watched Paul laugh, basking in the limelight. He started waving with his free hand, Neil now having secured a tight grip on the other one. “Uh… Uh, bonne nuit! Bonne nuit!” He chanted, finally, before being detained and taken through to the hotel’s reception.
John laughed to himself, shaking his head. As he walked past the girls that Paul had been flirting with, frankly, John heckled, “Auf Wiedersehen,” watched as some laughed, and others frowned in confusion – his desired reaction, certainly.
Bare trees and glaring street lights, the rising intonations of buildings all around them, were the canvas within which they were framed; Paris was cold – not as cold as Liverpool, mind you, but not exactly Barcelona, either. John exhaled slowly, watched his own breath dance in front of him; he turned, one last time, to take in his surroundings. If he needed a cosmic sign that they had made it, once and for all, then perhaps this was it – a load of Parisians screaming out for them – more boys than girls, but plenty of noise to go around all the same. John smiled, waved one last time, and was then tumultuously pushed through the door by Mal.
“Jesus, Mal, take it easy, will you?” John criticised, rubbing his shoulder which, truthfully, didn’t hurt at all. “You’re damaging the goods, here.”
Mal just laughed. “Hurry yer’ arse up then,” he said. “Brian wants a word with you.”
John rolled his eyes, stomping his feet childishly. “But mam, I don’t want to have a word with Brian – let us off, yeah?”
Mal shook his head. John followed him towards the elevator that the other boys had already ascended. “By the sounds of it, you’ll want to be around for this one,” he said. John sighed, deflated – he wanted a breather, for once. They were all in need of a break already, and they were away to America in a few days. He needed one night off. Just one.
As the lift rose to their floor, John whistled to himself. He’d promised Paul they’d get some writing done that night, but it was becoming increasingly difficult. Back home, it was easy – they were doing it in the Asher’s house, emulating professionalism (or pretending to, anyway), aware that Paul’s literal girlfriend could walk in and catch John watching Paul, all heart eyes and lazy smiles – eye contact, usually, was kept to a depressing minimum, but they were more productive for it, somehow.
They hadn’t kissed again since that day – only joked about it, mentioned it in passing, John reassuring girls that Paul had his eye on that aye, he’s a great kisser, you know – he knocked the wind out of me good and proper, and they’d laugh, disbelieving, uncomfortable, and back the fuck off. Paul would glare at him with disdain – but never for long, that old boyish grin inevitably revealing itself in an explosion of fondness, and John would be lying if he said he didn’t live for those moments, now – didn’t feel anxious butterflies filling his gut when Paul looked at him for long enough, the way he used to when he was a kid. Sometimes John would watch Paul kiss Jane, or any other selection of women (of which, there were plenty), and try to remember what it felt like to be kissed by him, his lips full and warm – he had a bit of stubble now, and back then it had only really been peach fuzz (and very little, at that). He wondered how different it would be, if Paul would still fit, quite snug, inside his slightly larger coat. The noises he would make, lower, reverberating with sheer bass.
When the doors to the lift opened, John shook his head, bringing himself back to reality. He was pretty sure he’d missed his chance. He couldn’t remember when Paul had stopped looking at him all hopeful, doe-eyed and innocent, but he definitely didn’t notice it anymore – it was all about girls, all of a sudden: Dot, Jane and the hundreds in between.
Having said that, this whole thing had started out completely innocent on John’s part. He’d noticed Paul looking at him, is all, noticed how he’d push girls away if John was around, and it was just starting to get distracting.
It was only when Paul actually kissed him, pushed him up against the wall, aggressive and tender all at once, that he felt it – felt that it could go somewhere, maybe. He’d kissed Shotton before, when they were kids, but it was nothing like that – there was no ferocity, no lust, no anything – just a rushed peck and a chorus of ‘ew’s from the both of them in unison.
Kissing your mates was totally normal, John thought. He used to peck Stuart all the time, when he was alive – still would, too. He reveled in grabbing George’s face and mushing a great big wet one against his protesting cheek, howls of laughter all around. When it had happened, he couldn’t figure out why it wouldn’t be the same with Paul – platonic, natural, nothing out of the ordinary. The issue really lay in the way John had felt his heart racing as it happened – wanted Paul to keep going, take him where he was, his mouth opening completely willingly. After it had all happened, he’d realised that his mind had already started to change on the matter, that he needn’t postpone until Paul was older, because what a ridiculous, cowardly excuse that was. Paul was twice the man John would ever be – always had been.
“Alright, John?” Mal asked, nudging him as they strolled through the hallways, a maze with no windows, no escape. John felt claustrophobic.
“Aye,” he lied, nodding his head, swallowing down a lump in his throat.
When they reached their room, the others were sat, relaxed, chatting amongst themselves. Paul’s blazer was open, his fitted shirt unbuttoned, revealing the top of his vest underneath – for whatever reason, his coat was still on, the collar raised around his neck. His legs, seemingly endless, were sprawled out along the double sofa. George and Ringo sat on the singular armchair by the window; Ringo in the seat, George on the arm. Neil was fixing himself a drink by the glass cupboards on the other side of the generously spacious lounge.
John shook off his coat, hung it on the rack behind the door.
“Where is he, then?”
Ringo shrugged. He had a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. “I dunno’,” he answered.
Paul tutted. He was facing away from John, but John watched the back of his head shaking. “Unpunctual as ever,” Paul declared, his voice haughty. He sounded like Brian. “We’ll have to replace him for this one, you know – abysmal services.”
John laughed. “Can’t do that, Macca,” he argued. He sauntered over to the couch that was opposite Paul’s, sat down, placed his arm comfortably on the armrest. “We’ve got a holiday booked.”
Paul looked at him, glaring, pouting. John made a pointed effort to look away from his lips. “Ha ha,” Paul chided. He hated that, that John was off with Brian – knew it was a statement of authority. Brian had invited him. Not the others – not Paul.
John rolled his eyes. “I’m having you on, Paulie,” John said, an attempt at appeasement. Paul pulled a face at him, blew a raspberry, mature as ever, then lay his head back against the armrest, looking at the ceiling.
George chuckled from across the room. “Hey, do you think one of us is getting the sack, then?”
Paul laughed like that was out of the question – which it was, really. “God, I hope it’s me,” he said. “Am sick of the sight of you’s.”
“You chat shite,” John exclaimed. “If you ever left you’d only have our posters all over the walls anyway, watchin’ us on the telly.”
Ringo nodded, humming with authority. “Mhm, you’ve got the fever, Paul. Once you get a whiff of us from the outside you’ll be pullin’ your hair out and pelting knickers at us with the rest of ‘em.”
“Say, Paul, who’s your favourite Beatle?” George asked, leaning on his fist like an interviewer. John heard Paul sigh, exasperated, but could see the grin on his face anyway.
“Hmm, well,” Paul started, his voice high-pitched, cracking at the edges with the strain. “I have to say, that Jim Lemons gives me a right good feeling. Oh, and Greg Harperson, hey? Those fingers. And the other one – what’s his name – oh, Pete Best! He’s my favourite, oh, marry me, Pete–!”
Ringo pelted a pillow at Paul, knocking the wind out of him. Paul just laughed and chucked it back, missing Ringo’s cigarette narrowly.
John shook his head. “We love you really, Stuart,” he said. Ringo laughed flatly.
Paul sang joyfully, “Pete forever, Ringo never–!”
“Careful, Paul,” John intervened. “Our George took a black eye defending our drummer’s honour, you know.”
George laughed. “Wish I bloody hadn’t,” he said. “He’s a right plonker.”
Ringo gasped loudly, pushed George off the armrest playfully – George managed to steady himself.
In the same instant, the door swung open and Brian marched into the room like it was a stage – his coat flew out behind him, a natural dramatist. He left a breeze behind him as he flew into the centre of the room.
“Boys, I have the most marvelous news–”
“Ringo’s sacked!” George heckled. He received another whack to the arm from Ringo.
Brian looked at the two of them with some level of distaste. “No, not quite…” he answered. Ringo pulled a tongue in George’s direction. John waited patiently – it must be important, this, for Brian to barge in there with such evident glee.
“Look–” he whipped out a piece of paper from his coat pocket, unfolded it, shook it around their faces for emphasis. “You’re number one in America! I Want To Hold Your Hand is number one!”
There was a moment of silence between all of them that lasted lifetimes. The four of them looked at each other. Ringo at John, George at Paul; Paul at Ringo, George at John; finally, John and Paul looked at each other for an everlasting moment, both of their mouths a little bit slack. In the distance, as if in a different room to them, John heard a muffled version of what was taking place around him – George and Ringo had jumped up from the arm chair, roaring loudly – were hugging Brian, practically tearing him apart. Mal and Neil were patting each other’s shoulders fondly.
John and Paul were sat still, as if the slightest movement might break the spell – might snatch the news away from them as quick as it had arrived. We did it, John thought, willing Paul to hear it. Our song. Our song. We did it. Paul blinked, and John spotted the curves of a smile beginning to illuminate his features. It happened in slow motion – the smile, the sound of Paul’s laugh ringing in his ears. He watched Paul rise up off the sofa, limbs flailing in animation, strands of hair flying out, breaking the structure, as he sped over to the other three. He clasped his hands against Brian’s shoulders – got sucked into the pandemonium by George’s arm flying around the back of Paul’s neck, Ringo’s doing the same, the four of them clasped against each other like lifelines.
“John!” Paul shouted, and the world sped up, finally. “John, come on – we’re fucking number one!”
John laughed, loud and elated, could barely feel himself move as he stormed over to them – he wrapped his arm securely around George and Ringo, his fingertips just about reaching Brian’s shoulder.
They broke apart, eventually – Ringo grabbed John in the tightest hug John thought he’d ever been enveloped in. George grabbed his shoulder, spun him around and out of Ringo’s grasp. John grinned manically at his younger friend, the sound of sheer elevation filling the whole apartment. He wrapped his arm around George’s waist, picked the scrawny bugger up off the floor like he weighed nothing. Usually, he’d have got a smack, but the guitarist just howled and patted John’s back, hard.
John put him back down pretty quick, spun to meet his next bandmate. Paul was stood in front of him, shaking his head in, presumably, disbelief. John gaped at him, lost.
“How–” he started.
“I know,” Paul said. “I don’t know.”
John laughed, ran a hand through his hair, scruffed it up.
“We…”
“Did it,” Paul continued. “I fucking know, Johnny,” he laughed, giddy in all the right ways, practically bouncing on the spot. John watched him, licked his lips, still chuckling at the sight.
Paul sprung towards him at full velocity, wrapped his arms around his neck. John stumbled back and, in turn, wrapped his arms easily around Paul’s waist, clasping his arms together in the embrace. He could hear Paul giggling in his ear, and John took the opportunity to breathe him in; closed his eyes in solace, pressed his cheek against Paul’s neck, the loose ends of his hair tickling his nose.
He wondered how long they’d actually been stood there for, holding each other like that. It didn’t feel like long enough – not really, with the weight of all that was taking place around them, the significance of it.
Inevitably, Paul released his grip, and John sighed – he didn’t want to let go.
When Paul tried to pull away, he was yanked back towards John with abrupt force, and John let out a pathetic yelp as their chests collided, near enough knocking them both over. Their faces were inches apart, then, breathing against one another. Paul was looking at him from beneath his eyelashes, lips puckered completely naturally, a gentle pink blush littered against his cheekbones. John swallowed, licked his lips, cleared his throat when Paul frowned.
“Erm,” John started, coughed again. “Me watch – it’s caught on yer’ coat,” he realised. He tugged his wrist away, felt a snag pulling him back in. Paul laughed, shaking his head. “Sorry,” John chuckled.
“Oh, no, it’s fine,” he reassured. Paul shrugged his coat off easily, held it in his hands as he took the loose thread between his fingers and snapped it off, freeing John. John shook his wrist; Paul looked at him again, licking his lips. “It’s fine,” he repeated, softer, grinning, his eyes gentle and inviting. John had to fight to ignore it, but he managed; he distracted himself with the image of George behind Paul, jumping over the settee, preparing to pounce onto Mal’s back.
When he did, John laughed, near hysterically. George’s long limbs flew around the room as Mal sprinted, jumping over furniture; suddenly, Paul flew over to Neil, abandoning his coat at John’s feet.
“Neil, give us a go!” He called, laughter an ever-present undertone in his dialect. He hopped onto the coffee table, Neil positioning himself in front of him.
Brian had removed himself from the chaos taking place before him, stood, a little disheveled, by the drinks cabinet. “Gin, anybody?” He called, shaking a crystal bottle in their direction. Consenting cries of drawn out ‘Yeaaaah’s filled the room, and John smiled, swept up in it all.
And if he wondered, for the longest time, what that second it’s fine was all about, then he let himself. It was allowed, he decided, to feel like this, the way Paul had done once, too. John realised, in the same instant, that in his own conniving way, he had probably wanted to kiss Paul right from the start, and that this was now an ever-present feature of his character – he fell for Paul, really, the first time they wrote together, and for all the danger and suspicion surrounding it, look where it had got them; they were on top of the fucking world, and if Paul didn’t see that, John would be surprised.
He decided, then, that Paul had to remember the way it felt when they had kissed all those years ago. So good, he had promised. The best. You’re beautiful. And if the way Paul looked at John when Brian had told them that their song, their damn love song had gotten them to number one, wasn’t a distinct reflection on the way Paul used to gaze at John when they were just kids, knocking about aimlessly – well. All be damned.
It was later in the evening when Paul squeezed himself next to John on the sofa, between him and Ringo. They’d only had a few gin and tonics each, hardly enough to be drunk, but Paul had that familiar glow about him, his lips and cheeks red, his eyes a little bleary – was probably the intensity of it all, the exhilaration of the whole day – their whole lives.
John laughed. “Alright?” He asked.
Paul nodded, then shook his head, then nodded again. “Yes,” he settled on, eventually. “Bit gobsmacked, you know.”
John nodded. “Me too,” he admitted. “Can hardly be surprised though, can we? We were right little fuckin’ prodigies back in the day – now we’re just the masters.”
Paul laughed again, loud. They’d brought more people over to the apartment to celebrate – tour coordinators, security, merchandisers, technicians, people from endless teams and factions that John had never even heard of – Paul’s laugh got lost prettily to the sound of music flowing out of an old stereo, their music. Brian had brought Please Please Me along, like a good luck charm. Paul screeching about seeing her standing there filled John’s ears, and he was grateful for it, if anything.
“We were always the masters,” Paul interjected. John laughed when Paul leaned in closer, his eyebrows dark and furrowed, his expression stern. “We wrote some top tunes back in the day as well, did we not? All of them were alright at best. I mean, I’ll Get You for a start.”
John blinked, swallowed, remembered the day they wrote that. He nodded his head. “I know, I know – ease off,” he chuckled, pushing his revelation to the side.
They both looked out towards the sea of people socialising before them, watched Neil encouraging George to take a drink of some abomination that he had mixed himself.
John tuned out, briefly; smoke clouded the whole room, a second ceiling of tobacco residue dancing amongst head-tops, flowing between the diamante chandeliers. He wondered whether Paul was deliberately coming off as flirtatious, pushing his limits, mentioning a song like that – it had meant nothing, really, was just an innocent circumstance surrounding their first kiss – their only kiss. It had never put a rift between them before, and John did not want it to now – but that night, of all the nights, seemed important. Their song was number one. This was it.
John noticed that Paul, at some point, had taken his blazer off and had it folded scruffily over his lap. The sleeves of his shirt had been rolled up above his elbows, his collar a little skewed.
Paul’s arm was pressed against John’s – uselessly, and frustratingly, because the temperatures in the apartment were reaching unbearable, what with the voices and the bodies and the smoke pooling around them. Perhaps it was getting to John’s head, he considered, then ignored the douse of logic before he could stop himself. He was going to take Paul gradually, so as not to overwhelm him, as maybe he did the first time around – press his luck for a while, winning him over day after day, slowly and tumultuously.
He slid his hand off his own lap and into the very little space between his and Paul’s thighs, then waited in a moment of electricity for a reaction – none whatsoever came. He kept his vision straight as he could – the glasses had come off a while ago, now – looking out for anybody with wandering eyes.
He took a deep breath, and then, as if nothing had happened, he slid his hand beneath Paul’s blazer and onto the top of his thigh. He flinched when he heard Paul gasp, clenched his eyes shut in preparation for a slap, or something, but nothing came.
He kept his hand there for a while – nobody noticed, apparently. To the passerby, it looked as though John’s hand was on the sofa between the two of them, not resting comfortably on the thigh of his best friend.
Vera, one of the junior merchandisers, had wandered over and was talking to the two of them quite enthusiastically – rather, she was talking to Paul, less so to John – or to Ringo, for that matter.
Her blonde bob of hair, doused in lacquer beyond its limits, didn’t move an inch as she spoke animatedly about all of the Paul-centric merchandise they were releasing, and Paul nodded along, polite and calm. John could see the way Paul’s eyes could catch a girl off-guard, make her melt, whether that was his intention or not. It thrilled John beyond description to know that Paul knew that John’s hand was on his thigh in that moment, and yet hadn’t uttered a word of protest. Not even a glance.
John looked at Paul for a long time, and allowed a fiendish smirk to encompass his face.
As Vera posed a question at Paul, and Paul opening his mouth to speak, John slid his hand slowly further up Paul’s thigh, gripped the tender bit of skin tight, careful not to move the blazer so that anyone would clock on.
Chills ran up John’s spine, his mouth watering as if by some sort of divine command, when Paul let out a loud and obnoxious cough to stifle the yelp that very nearly escaped his lips.
John looked at Paul to see Paul looking back at him, eyes wide and calculating.
“Alright, Macca? Bit of a sore throat, have we?”
Paul blinked a few times. “Yeah…” he started. He looked confused – although, really, how could he be? Something was processing behind Paul’s eyes, and John faltered for a second under the weight of it. Paul snapped his head back towards Vera, who was waiting patiently. “After the shows, y’know.” He gestured towards his throat vaguely with one hand.
The other, hidden beneath the fabric, had found its way towards John’s, the edges of their fingertips grazing against one another lazily.
“Oh, my gosh,” Vera called. John jumped a little, just remembering that she was even there. “You’re not getting ill, are you?”
John laughed, covered his mouth with his free hand.
“Oh, no, you know, should probably just rest it, is all,” Paul said. John looked over to see him grinning, eyes alight. “I’ll probably head to bed soon.”
Vera nodded. “Good call,” she agreed. “Well, I’ll see you around anyway. I hope you feel better – before America!”
Paul laughed after her.
As soon as the feeling of Paul’s hand against John’s was there, it was gone in an instant. John’s palm fell, deflated, towards the sofa as Paul stood up, taking his jacket with him.
John watched after him, his eyes clouded over. “Night, then,” he shouted, feeling like he’d won. Victorious.
Paul looked down at him, a glint in his eye that John hadn’t seen in years. “Night,” he called back, calm, before he sauntered off into the small crowd and out into the hallway.
It wasn’t until most of their guests had left that John finally made his way towards the room that he shared with Paul.
He opened the door, not knocking; Paul was sat on the single bed furthest from John, his guitar on his lap. The window was open, cold seeping into the room, that familiar smell of crisp wind surrounding them. Paul looked up towards John.
“Hi,” he said. His face was expressionless.
“Hello,” John replied, entering the room and shutting the door behind him. He walked slowly towards his own bed, by the wall, sat on the end of it.
“What happened to not standin’ me up, hey?”
John frowned. He looked towards the other man, lost in translation. “What?”
Paul laughed. “You said, when we were kids. You would never stand me up,” he stopped, looking at John. “You stood me up. We were supposed to write tonight.”
John stumbled over his words, then let out a grainy, single syllabled laugh. This wasn’t gradual, like he had planned. He wanted a build-up. Wanted to save it, till it was right. “To be fair, Paul, that was a solid six years before I knew we were gonna' be number one in the states. Cut us some slack.”
Paul shook his head, looking at the neck of his guitar. “I’m havin’ you on, daft lad,” he said, and John was shocked by the tenderness it held.
“I know,” John nodded. He felt cautious, all of a sudden, like he had to trod carefully around Paul; didn’t want to wind him up too much, hadn’t considered that maybe this was getting out of hand for him, too.
John took off his blazer, chucked it on the bed behind him; kicked off his shoes then pushed them around the side. When he stood up to start getting ready for sleep, Paul spoke again, and John actually flinched.
“I thought you’d forgotten,” he said. John turned to see that he’d placed his guitar against the wall, was pulling a cigarette out of the packet on the bedside table.
John frowned, disgruntled. “You can’t have,” John said, on the defensive. “It’s not like I never mentioned it.”
Paul shrugged. “That’s… not what I mean,” he said. “I mean, about it ever happening again.”
John rubbed the back of his neck, inherently awkward. He didn’t reply, just started removing his tie, undoing his shirt.
He heard Paul laugh, looked up to lock eyes with him. He could see Paul’s collar bones jutting out beneath his shirt, his shoulders broad, strong-looking. Dark hairs ran down his arms, trickled onto his hands. “Who was it?”
John spluttered, again. “Who was what?”
“Who do you know who likes both?”
John considered his response for a moment. “It was theoretical,” he said. “People in the world do exist who like blokes ‘nd birds – I don’t know any.”
“Right,” Paul nodded. A few breaths passed. “I do.”
John snapped his head up, away from his tie, looked at Paul with wide and startled eyes. “You do?”
Paul laughed at him, his mouth open, flummoxed. “I mean, yeah,” he said. “Bit obvious, wasn’t it?”
“No,” John answered, then backtracked. “I mean, a bit, with me, maybe, back then.”
“John,” Paul started. John could hear a tremor in Paul’s voice that he’d never really heard before – a hint of fear, or of anticipation, or both. He watched Paul light his cigarette, with ease; when they were younger, he used to splutter and cough with the first intake, every time, without fail. John had to teach him how to do it properly, in the end, had enjoyed watching Paul’s lips wrap around the butts of cigarette after cigarette, determination in his eyes. The flame withdrew from Paul’s face; smoke lifted up around him, framing him, lighting up his eyes. “You don’t fancy me, do you?”
In the intensity of it, John found it in him to laugh – it was cheeky, really, downright rude of Paul to spring that on him, barely a couple of hours after John had even decided that yes, he absolutely did fancy Paul McCartney, and yes, he had been completely and irreverently infatuated with him since they were kids. Paul just looked at him, waiting; took another drag, exhaled slowly.
John watched him, then sighed. His arms fell to his sides. “The fuck do you think, you arrogant sod?”
Paul smiled from his seat. “Okay,” he relented, like he was content with that response. Grin still present, he kicked his legs out and lay down, one arm beneath his head; the other, flitting his cigarette through the air, bringing it to his lips, blowing plumes up and up and up and up.
John stared at him, considering what to say. The lighting in the hotel room was dim, nostalgic and yellowing; he could hear a bit of traffic from outside, could see some of the lights from the surrounding buildings, white and red, peering into the room through the thin, veil-like curtains. The smoke from Paul’s mouth filled the room and his eyes, ever-luminescent, greens and browns mixing together in some intricate galaxy of endless possibilities, stared out into nothingness. His smile was there, though – sweet and pure, content, the way he should look, and John could remember that smile forced against his own, laughter their soundtrack, alive, and euphoric, and alive.
John walked over to the bed in long strides; watched himself with a certain degree of depersonalization as he placed one fist either side of Paul’s head, craning over him, watching.
Paul quirked an eyebrow, took the cigarette from his mouth and spun it, offering it to John.
He popped it between his lips. John inhaled, held it in, made an over-exaggerated attempt to blow it out towards the window instead of down into Paul’s face.
He heard Paul laugh from beneath him; his soul danced.
“I wanted to wait,” John announced. “I wanted to make you want me again, y’know, all natural like.”
Paul frowned at him, inhaling, again, the fire at the end of his cig burning bright between them.
“You’re beautiful,” he said.
Paul waited for a long moment. He turned his face to the side, and John was almost worried he’d push him off; his heart was pounding in his chest. He could still hear their record pooling in from the living room, the sounds of winter coming to a close outside their window. He watched Paul stamp out his cigarette in the ashtray on the table, then turn back towards him, nodding.
“Do you wanna’… you know, talk, first, or something?”
John laughed, pressed his forehead against Paul’s like it was the most natural thing in the world, like they’d been doing it all this time. “If you insist,” John agreed, stepping away from Paul’s bed and sitting down on his own.
John had barely found his way to his bed before Paul had risen, his hands pressing against John’s shoulders; he was now sat, looking up at Paul; felt small, but felt like this was all he’d ever need – the world a separate entity, somehow.
“Nevermind,” Paul said, shaking his head manically. “Quickly – I – I’ve loved you since… forever,” he laughed, and John felt his heart pounding, elated, against his ribcage. He felt like he was falling through the floor.
John raised a hand to Paul’s face – grazed his way down his jawline with his fingertip, watched Paul’s eyes dance over him like he was sacred. “It’s fine,” John shook his head. “I know.”
“Okay,” Paul nodded. He laughed again, seemingly nervous – to his own surprise, John had never felt more tranquil. “Hey, Johnny – I’m, um, I’m older – now.”
John laughed, nodded his head. “That you are,” he agreed. He stood up, lifted Paul’s hands off his shoulders and let them fell into the space between them. They were the same height, eyes level; John placed his hands, secure, around the back of Paul’s neck, and Paul’s fell naturally towards John waist, holding him in place.
“We don’t have to,” Paul said, gaze flitting over John’s features. “Not if you don’t want to.”
“Do you want to?”
“Don’t ask stupid questions, John,” Paul said, laughing against John’s face.
John smiled. He raised one hand into Paul’s hair, running his fingers through the short locks easily, pulling Paul towards him.
At some point, their noses brushed against each other, and John could hear Paul breathing loudly in between them. John closed his eyes, looking a little pained, suddenly.
“You’re the most important man in the world,” he whispered, his voice strained like he was crying, and then he kissed him.
He pressed their lips together firmly, didn’t move or open his mouth for a while, reveling in the sensation of Paul’s mouth against his after all this time – everything that had happened in between a distant and surreal memory. Paul breathed in harshly through his nose, raised one hand up towards John’s face, brought him in closer, if it were at all possible. John tilted his head, leaning into the warmth of Paul’s palm; finally, he opened his mouth a little, Paul’s lips, puckered expertly, falling in between John’s, slipping together like that’s where they were always supposed to be. John’s head was spinning, his breath disjointed and fanatical; the pace with which they were moving increased, and the potency with which Paul was moving his mouth against John’s, flicking his tongue, slamming their lips together then taking them away, then bringing them back with vigour and lust and everything John had ever dreamed of, everything he had ever wanted, not even known that he wanted, was encompassing him and lifting him up like there, in that moment, they were divinity itself.
At some point, Paul’s leg had found its way between John’s, thigh rubbing softly against John’s crotch, and John hissed at the contact, nearly pulled away.
“Okay?” Paul asked, breathless. John nodded.
“More than,” he answered, swallowed Paul’s laugh like it was medicine. Paul’s grip around his waist tightened, pulled him close; he felt Paul grind their crotches against one another, slowly, tantalising, tentative. John let his head roll back for a moment, groaning.
Paul was essentially holding him up, stopping him from colliding with the bed behind him. John could envisage the smirk on his face, unwinding John the way he was, grinding softly against him over and over. Paul lowered his head, kissed the skin around John’s neck, beneath his earlobe, left a trail of red as he nipped at it.
“I’ve wanted to do that since I was a kid,” Paul said, his voice low and grainy. “Used to watch you all the time,” he continued, stopping between words to kiss John’s neck, his jawline, his lips, then back down again. “So beautiful,” he whispered. “Fucking breathtaking.”
John sighed, shaking his head; he opened his eyes to look towards the ceiling. “You’re off your head,” he said. “Absolutely mad.”
He heard Paul laugh. “Yeah,” he said. “Are you complaining?”
John stood himself upright, brought his and Paul’s lips together again; Paul stumbled and fell onto his own bed, John stood between his legs, holding his face in his hands. “No,” he affirmed. “Absolutely fucking not.” Paul was looking up at him, his eyes hazed over like he was steaming. In a moment of courage, John lifted his knees onto the bed, either side of Paul, straddling him, pressed their lips together.
He felt Paul’s hands gravitate towards his hips, holding him in place; his shirt had untucked itself in the movement of it all, and Paul’s thumbs ran soft circles into his skin.
John sunk down against Paul’s crotch, felt Paul’s dick, hardening, against his thigh.
Paul hissed. “Fuck, John,” he gasped, shaking his head.
“We can stop,” John reassured, kissing Paul’s forehead. He didn’t want to stop, not really, but he’d be more than happy to just lie with Paul, or talk with him, or sleep next to him, if he was lucky. “Whenever you say so.”
Paul sighed, rolled his eyes. “I’m not that fragile,” he said, argumentative, as was his nature. This time, it was Paul who raised his hips towards John, rolled them so that John could feel every inch of Paul thrust against him.
John gasped, then chuckled. “You don’t have to tell me,” he said. “But by all means, continue provin’ your point, love.”
Paul laughed from beneath him, wrapped his arms around John’s back, flung him flat onto the bed beneath them; in an instant, Paul was nestled between John’s legs, hovering above him, smirking down at him, disheveled and scruffy, his smile crooked and John, in a swell of feeling, wondered whether home is a place, or a person.
Paul was breathless, still, and John shook his head. “This ain’t real,” he mused aloud.
Paul just frowned at him, like he was insane. “O–kay then,” he laughed, awkward, and John just watched him. “I mean, I hope it is. I dunno about you.”
John leaned up, caught Paul’s lips in his own, gentle and soft and all that was good in the world in those few seconds were Paul’s lips, Paul’s eyes, Paul’s very existence intermingling with John’s, an array of light and colour between them.
“I could kiss you for hours,” John whispered, the sound of his own voice startling to his ears.
“Well,” Paul started. “What do you reckon, y’know – we make this a regular thing?”
John blinked up at him, disbelief blurring his senses; he combed a hand through Paul’s fringe, moved the hair out of the way of his face. “I reckon I love you, you know.”
Paul smiled. “I love you,” he responded, then placed his head beside John’s on the pillow, their limbs knotting together.
Paul fell asleep next to him like that – fully dressed, kissed raw, face squished against John’s neck, John’s arm around Paul’s shoulder.
At some point, John lit a cigarette, turned off the lights, watched the smoke waltz gently around Paul’s head, encompassing them both; listened to the sound of Paul breathing, a quiet snore echoing between them. He welcomed the smell of winter outside their window, the wind bitter and crisp – remembered Paul McCartney, young and boisterous and in love looking at him like he held the key to the universe, riding his bike aimlessly around Liverpool in the middle of winter, kissing a boy in his back garden when his auntie wasn’t home, hopeful and excited and alive.
And John remembered falling, endlessly, gliding through the last six years like there was no ground beneath him – and now, it was the same; he was still falling, but he basked in it, because Paul was falling, too.
And falling together – that would be okay, John decided. That, he could live with, and live with it, he would, for as long as time allowed him.