Work Text:
The last song of the set (but more importantly, of the night ) faded away with the low thrum of the guitar dissolving into the mass of sweaty bodies and drunken speech that littered the floor of the Bambi Kino. The five young musicians who relentlessly supplied the Hamburg club with ear-shattering rock n’ roll for hours on end could now pack up their instruments and retire to their shoddy quarters. That is, until beckoned into the sleepless debauchery yet again by the club’s crooked finger. But the boys didn’t complain. Oh no, this was exactly the big break they’d been looking for.
“Another great fuckin’ set, Macca!” John clapped his younger friend on the shoulder, his voice cracking and borderline hoarse from the abuse it suffered over the night--past week, at that.
Paul turned to his friend at the first feeling of the firm grip on his shoulder. He noticed with amusement and slight adoration the flushed state of John’s cheeks and the sweat-drenched locks plastered to his forehead--but, above it all, the contagious, seemingly sewn-on smile gracing his lips. Paul assumed he wasn’t in a much better state physically himself. A mere hour into the show, he had to shed his leather jacket in an attempt to cool down, leaving him clad in a white t-shirt.
Out of the corner of his eye, Paul registered a red smear on his right shoulder that he could have sworn wasn’t there before. With prellies and a few pints swimming in his bloodstream, he thought it was a figment of his sleep-deprived imagination, or simply an illusion caused by the low lighting. Upon further inspection, however, he realized that this foreign stain was in fact blood...and it wasn’t his blood.
“‘Ey, Johnny, yer fingers are bleedin’, mate,” Paul said.
John frowned in confusion as he looked down at the palms of his hands, willing his myopic and blurry vision to focus long enough to examine said appendages. After a half-hearted once-over, John found--with wicked enjoyment--shimmery, crimson blood coating his fingertips.
Naturally adopting his reckless rocker attitude, John said, “That’s mine, then, is it? Thought I just fingered a bird at the wrong time o’ the month.” Sticking his tongue in his bottom lip, he grinned lecherously and waggled his eyebrows to drive that Lennon carelessness one step further.
“Yer sick, Lennon.” He playfully shoved his friend. “And yes , that’s your blood, so let’s go get you patched up,” Paul said, grabbing the guitarist’s forearm to haul him into the grotty restroom. John grunted in annoyance as if this were more of a burden to him than Nurse McCartney, but allowed himself to be dragged away like the good lad he was.
Paul was relieved to find the bathroom empty. Empty of people, that is; he was sure unknown diseases and infections ransacked the place. Nonetheless, he appreciated the brief moment of solace from obnoxious drunks as he hauled a ceaselessly bloody John to the row of sinks.
Immaturity obediently followed at the heels of John’s dragging boots. He released a weary sigh, but kept a flattered smirk tucked in the corner of his mouth.
“Ye know, mother , I don’t need ye washin’ me wounds fer me,” John teased, loving the way Paul squirmed at the hands of his own good nature. Ironic, that. John could never understand how Paul always managed to lay his own traps.
“Well if I don’t do it, no one else will.”
He’s certainly got a point there , John silently agreed. In lieu of actually voicing his thought, Lennon easily hopped onto the rim of one of the four sinks, seemingly unfazed by the fact that the blood now sought refuge under his blunt fingernails.
Now perched on the sink, John playfully swung his legs as he followed his friend’s movements around their makeshift doctor’s office. Paul took station at the sink beside John, turning the hot water tap (and the only tap, at that) to see a low stream pour from the faucet. He grabbed a handful of paper towels from the dispenser at the wall and dampened a few of them. With a small jolt of glee and self-consciousness, he noticed how John’s eyes were silently trained on his every move.
As if snapping out of a daze, John clicked his tongue and addressed his caretaker. “Alright, doctor man, patch me up!” He wiggled his wounded fingers at Paul.
Paul laughed breathlessly and gently grabbed John’s hands. “Lemme see ‘em,” he said softly. Starting on the left hand first--the one that relentlessly slid across the steel strings--Paul carefully dabbed at the blood-stained fingertips.
“Jesus, Johnny, what’d you do?” Paul whispered, moreso to himself. It was a rhetorical question because the answer was obvious; hell, Paul had been right by John’s side the whole night.
Nonetheless, John replied, “I rock too hard, son.” He was equally as quiet, though, afraid to shatter this indescribable veil that draped itself over them. Once again, Lennon and McCartney were encased in their own little bubble. No space for intruders, because there was barely enough space for the two of them. They made sure of that.
John inched closer to the brim of the sink, craving more of the tentative touch from those hands cleansing his own. From his advantageous perch, he studied his bandmate...his best friend...his Paul . The furrow of his perfect eyebrows, drawn together in concentration as he wiped away the physical evidence of the music John created tonight. His pouty lips suffering a little nibble that John thought should be illegal for a beauty like Paul, because it certainly killed him every time.
Then those eyes met his, vast oceans of hazel, and that mouth started moving, and…. Oh yeah, we were having a conversation .
John abruptly snapped out of his gazing to recall that Paul wasn’t just an angelic figment of his imagination, but a real person standing in front of him, looking at him, talking to him.
“Well ease up, yeah? Can’t have a leader with nubs for fingers. Think about what that’d do for our image,” Paul said, momentarily stopping his work to softly smile at his friend. He couldn’t help but stare a little longer than necessary, hopelessly fawning over John’s towering position above himself. He seemed so ethereal in that moment, with Paul a mere ant at the bottom of the larger-than-life hill on which John sat. Those heavy-lidded eyes appeared even heavier when Paul had to gaze up to meet them.
God, that smile killed him. Double homicide , John thought mindlessly. It wouldn’t surprise him if he melted right then and there, turning to a puddle of saccharine goo to be washed down the rusty pipes of the sink on which he rested. Shit, he was hopeless. He let out an airy chuckle at Paul’s joke just to give some form of acknowledgement, never averting his eyes from the boy.
“Yeah,” John murmured uselessly; he hated when his wit failed him. He watched on as Paul lowered his eyes to continue his task, finally reaching the pinky of his left hand. That stupid smile stayed plastered on his face.
In the back of his mind, John wondered if there was still a world on the other side of that loo door. Surprisingly, no one had come in to interrupt this...this thing they had going. He didn’t know what to call it, and maybe he was overthinking it; it was just their bubble. All noise aside from their own breathing and hushed voices seemed nonexistent, as well. Were there still bandmates packing away instruments? Were there still rowdy drunks and jostling dancers? Had the club closed in the time they’d been here (John wasn’t sure how long that’d actually been either)?
A stinging sensation on his right index finger caused John to hiss and reflexively retract his hand from Paul’s hold. That finger was particularly cut from his brash strumming. Paul started at the abrupt movement and looked up with genuine concern.
“Sorry,” he said, his eyes a fraction wider than before.
“S’okay,” John murmured and slowly returned his hand to Paul’s warm, comforting grasp. He pleasantly noticed how Paul was bolder with his touches, firmly wrapping his hand around John’s and holding each finger as he rubbed the now dry blood.
Feeling bolder himself, John re-positioned his body on the edge of the sink so that his legs were on either side of Paul’s standing form, trapping him between them. Amidst the resettling, John’s legs clumsily bumped into Paul’s hips. He smirked and teasingly parroted Paul’s previous apology. The smirk remained at the sight of Paul blushing deeper by the second.
“S’okay,” Paul responded, not failing to notice the insincerity in John’s apology. No, he wasn’t sorry at all.
Paul dared to see how far this subtle flirting could go, and stepped forward until his waist was pressed to the porcelain below John’s bum. Refusing to meet John’s eye, for fear of rejection or questioning, Paul resumed cleaning a bit more shakily. That empty bathroom was twenty degrees hotter, and he hoped that the coloring of his cheeks hadn’t darkened; he silently cursed his fair skin. It relieved him, however, to see that the blood on John’s fingers did not reappear after being swept away. Focusing on the blood, as dreadful as it may sound, grounded Paul in a sense. It reminded him that John was only human, and there was nothing to be nervous about. It was just John.
John’s breathing went shallow at Paul’s closeness. He tightened his legs around the younger boy, creating a loose grip--afraid that if he didn’t hold onto him, Paul would vanish before his eyes. Unfortunately, John could never hold Paul back, so he gave his friend room in case he came to his senses. A swarm of adrenaline and anticipation festered in his gut--a battle of butterflies and hornets. Christ, it was more thrilling than being on stage.
“Almost done,” Paul breathed. It sounded more like disappointment than a simple fact, and if that were the case, John was in the same boat. He wondered if with enough brainpower, could he get John’s fingers to spontaneously bleed again? Paul absentmindedly ran his thumb along John’s upturned palm as the last finger was cleaned. He hoped that John didn’t notice the absence of blood on that digit.
“There, good as new.” Paul admired his work with a smile and looked up at John, suddenly realizing their close proximity. The subtle heaving of John’s chest in his peripheral, and the sweep of his tongue across his lips conjured something within Paul that he didn’t understand.
Before he lost himself in this foreign feeling, he awkwardly cleared his throat and averted his gaze to the knobs on the sink. One was missing; he was sure he was missing a knob, himself.
“So, um...yeah. We, um, might wanna disinfect ‘em n’such, y’know? These places--”
“Paul.”
“--are right grotty. Must be crawlin’ with infections, y’know--”
“ Paul. ”
“--an’ then there’s that whole bit about nubby fingers--”
“ Paul! ”
“Yeah?” he replied, casual as ever--as if he hadn’t been rambling off his head while staring at the sink like he expected more of a response out of it than John.
“Jesus Christ, mate, shurrup , yeah?” John said with more amusement than annoyance in his voice. Paul tended to go on tangents when he was nervous, which was a sign of hope for John as of right now. That and the fact Paul had yet to move from the limb-y leather cage in which John held him.
Using a clean side of the paper towel, Paul playfully tapped the tip of John’s nose. John grinned and wrinkled his nose.
“Is Dr. Macca gonna kiss ‘em better?” he asked with the faintest tilt of his eyebrow.
Paul glanced a look at the bathroom door, half expecting someone to come staggering through. You’d think more people would have to piss at a club.
Then it occurred to him that he need not have the paranoia of a guilty criminal. He and John weren’t doing anything to arouse suspicion. Sure, they were standing a little too close for comfort, but that could be rearranged with a pace to the left. Okay, well, maybe “a little too close for comfort” is a bit of an understatement considering the older lad’s legs were practically snaked around his hips, and they were only a porcelain sink away from being flush against one another. But other than that, it was nothing out of the ordinary.
Nonetheless, he chuckled and kissed John’s index finger like a good sport.
“Nuh-uh-uh, I counted ten cuts there, love,” John said, unsatisfied with the negligence his other fingers received.
Paul rolled his eyes before precisely moving his lips over each healed finger. Even though he assumed it was an innocent joke, the act felt oddly intimate. Not to mention his own sentiment he put behind it: kissing the source of the greatest passion in John’s life--music.
That swarm in John’s gut now scattered to every fiber of his nerves, leaving him buzzing more fervently than the string of a guitar. Paul ceased his lip work.
“Better?” he asked.
“Much better.” There was a moment of silence before John spoke again. “Y’know...when we were playin’, I bit my lip, as well. Still hurts a little.”
John mentally chastised himself for his utter lack of charisma. What the fuck, Lennon? Did ye really just say that? You should just drown in this fuckin’ sink right now, you miserable sod. Maybe ye could even get Paul to run the taps fer ye, speed the process up n’all.
In the midst of silently berating himself, John failed to notice that Paul had inched closer--was actually continuing to do so. Thankfully, the bassist held his gaze, leaving himself as an open book. Paul was his favorite book to read, and he knew all the cues, so John desperately searched those tell-all eyes for any sign of teasing or insincerity. Unless his myopic vision bested him yet again, he saw naught.
Subconsciously holding his breath, John leaned down as his mate leaned up. At the feeling of foreign eyelashes brushing his cheeks and warm breath on his face, John closed his eyes and the gap keeping him from the lips he craved.
If John thought he was buzzing before, he was certainly electrocuted now. This couldn’t be safe. He was sitting on a sink for Christ sake! The water was right behind him, and Paul’s kiss was sending such strong bolts of electricity through him that he just had to be fried.
Blitzkrieg kisses , he thought ecstatically. It could also have possibly short-wired his brain.
Yet here he was, and here Paul was, pouring years of tension into one perfect kiss. Glances shared over the body of a guitar, winter nights spent topping-and-tailing with stray limbs touching a foreign body, slurred whispering in the wee hours of the morning after a hefty bender. All of it leading up to one sacred, unsurpassed experience. It was slow, like how most things started between them--charting that unfamiliar territory until you feel comfortable enough to erase that line in the sand and draw the next one to be crossed. It was a give-and-take relationship; they built off of one another and grew stronger because of it. John tentatively wrapped his legs more fully around Paul, locking his ankles at the back of the younger boy’s thighs.
Thighs. Paul’s hands rested, unmoving on John’s thighs. They were solid and firm, but he didn’t have to move his fingers to figure that out. The black leather stuck to his sweaty palms, and the knowledge that they lay on tight trousers and not a lacy skirt sent a flash of heat whiter than the porcelain between them through his stomach.
Oh, how he longed to be so much more participative. But he knew how sensitive this was, so he decided to put all of his focus on the feeling of John’s lips moving with his. The strangeness of a stubble that wasn’t his own and a scent as manly as (if not manlier than) his ignited something something within Paul that he was chagrined to admit would have otherwise remained untouched. Seeking more of that indescribable feeling, he sighed blissfully into the mouth now parting for him.
John’s mouth. He had cleaned his blood, and now he claimed his mouth. John was his as he was John’s.
Tongues yearned for that forbidden taste. The minute Paul’s tongue sought out John’s, the latter thirsted after the touch as if he were drinking water from the tap that dug into his lower back. John brought one hand up to his friend’s cheek, confirming the reality of the moment before pulling away entirely with a final smack of their parting lips. The sound was his most recent favorite of Lennon/McCartney originals.
Slowly but surely, eyes started to reappear from beneath heavy lids. John licked his lips, cherishing and savoring Paul’s taste. Gazing at the bassist, he observed with an overwhelming possessiveness, the shine and swell of the boy’s lips--the expanse of his dilated pupils.
I did that , John thought proudly. He was certain that he couldn’t be in a much better state himself. Didn’t want to be, if he was being honest. He felt wicked pleasure in knowing there would be physical evidence of what that kiss did to him. The tingling sensation in his legs made him acutely aware of the fact that should he even try to stand, he’d fall flat on his arse.
Paul cleared his throat of huskiness he knew would be there before he spoke. “Better?” he asked, no hint of smugness--but, more so, insecurity.
“ Much fuckin’ better.” John said in all seriousness with a low, scratchy voice. Apparently, the kiss had more physical effects than he thought. His lips were still slightly parted as if leaving the invitation open at all times, and he gawked after Paul like he was Mimi’s Sunday roast.
Paul laughed and placed his hand atop John’s that was still cupping his cheek. “Good.” He cleared his throat once more to avoid any awkwardness, rather than to prepare himself to speak. “So, um...reckon we should get back to the others?”
“Wha’?” John furrowed his brows in confusion and stared at Paul like he’d grown a second head, before he finally understood what he was suggesting.
Oh yeah, the others . No matter how much he wished they were the only two people on earth, it was not so.John nodded and disentangled the cage of limbs encasing Paul.
“Yeah, can’t have them worryin’ their pretty lil ‘eads.”
Paul noted the bitter undertone of John’s words and couldn’t help but feel the same. The last thing he wanted to do was leave John’s side, let alone share him with a room full of other people. After a kiss like the one they shared, he didn’t care how selfish that made him. Nevertheless, they had “responsibilities,” so Paul begrudgingly backed away from John and busied himself with gathering the wad of paper towels on the adjacent sink.
John eased himself off of the sink, keeping a vise grip on the edge of it for stability should he take that aforementioned plunge to the floor. His arse was numb from the unkind seat, and he was sure that the knobs digging in his back were now permanently part of him. But, overall, he couldn’t complain. His undying hard-on vouched enough for the night he had. He wasn’t going to pressure Paul into showing his southern friend some attention, though. He did have some shred of self-control. Whatever started tonight was too fragile to be rushed, and he wasn’t going to cock it up with his Lennon impulsivity. Paul meant too much for that.
After disposing of the blood-stained trash, Paul met John’s full-wattage grin with one of his own. Together, they strode out of the bathroom in step, shoulder-to-shoulder, and made their way to their sad excuse of a room. Upon entering the dump, the duo was greeted by a disgruntled George Harrison.
“Where the ‘ell ‘ave you two been, then?” he said, pouncing before they had even made it two steps through the door.
The sound of the Scouse accent on steroids was already grinding John’s gears. He didn’t intend to let a bitchy guitarist dampen what was arguably one of the best nights of his life.
“Oi, lay off there, mum . What the hell’s it to ye, anyroad?” John snapped, just as defensively. He casually draped his jacket over his arm so it covered his crotch, suspending any further interrogation from their youngest bandmate.
“Because I had to pack up the bloody equipment. By. Myself! Pete, the lazy sod, went straight to bed. Stu fucked off with ‘is German bird. And when I turn around, you two are nowhere to be found. It took three bloody trips to put that shit up.”
“Aww, Macca, someone’s getting cranky. I think it’s past little Georgie’s bedtime.” Paul fought off a grin as John walked over to ruffle the guitarist’s hair patronisingly.
George ducked away from the mocking touch, annoyed that his age was, once again , the butt of the joke. He turned on his heel to sulk within the confines of his bed; at least it’d be somewhat comfortable.
“Fuck off, Lennon. Next time, you lot can put it up,” he grumbled in the midst of his retreat.
“C’mon, Geo,” George hesitantly ceased his departure at the sound of Paul’s voice--he could speak to the sensible one, “Johnny, here, cut up his fingers playin’, and I helped ‘im out,” Paul, always the peace-keeper, tried to appease. He never liked when sour moods got in between the music they made and the bonds they shared.
“Well, I’m sure Johnny can take care of himself.” George narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest.
“Watch it, Harrison, or Paul’ll be patchin’ yer face up after I finish bashin’ it in,” John said with clenched fists and narrowed eyes.
Paul laid a calming hand on their leader’s shoulder, hoping to diffuse the situation before it escalated further.
“Alright, lads, we’re all just tired. Let’s just get some rest, and me n’ John’ll do all the packin’ up tomorrow, yeah?” he said.
John scoffed. Like hell he’d be taking orders from the baby of the band. George mumbled a “whatever” before leaving for his bed.
Paul sighed and ran a hand over his weary face, vainly attempting to scrub away some of the fatigue. Noticing the bassist’s heavy eyes and slouched posture, John gently wrapped his arms around his mate’s tired frame.
“Let’s call it a night, yeah?” he whispered in Paul’s ear and placed a light kiss on his cheek.
The softness of John’s voice made Paul believe he was already dreaming; the protective arms around him being the blanket covering him where he lay.
“M’kay,” came the sleepy reply.
In a dreamy haze, Paul reluctantly departed from John’s hold, gave him a final peck on the lips, and stalked off to his own bed.
John watched on with a small smile of adoration as his mate tucked himself beneath the covers.
“Night, love,” he whispered as he followed Paul’s lead and retired to his own bed. As much as he loved Hamburg and the freedom it provided, he fantasized about being back at Mendips with the feeling of Paul curled up at his side taking on a whole different connotation.
From his own bed, he faintly made out a muffled whisper from the one adjacent to him, “Maybe next time, I’ll give you a lolly, too.”
John only replied with a boisterous laugh and didn’t care who heard it. He didn’t even care if anyone had heard Paul’s suggestive comment, either. They wouldn’t understand anyway. But John did, and he’d make sure to press Paul on the matter later.